All Quiet Under the Sea(ASoIaF)

[Mockingbird]

ALAYNE
​

"My Lady dances well," Ser Morton Waynwood stood across her in a cloak of green silk.

"You are so very kind," Alayne smiled at Ironoaks's heir. He was a broad man, with shoulders so wide that men doubted if he were truly of Lady Waynwood's blood.

"He had his mother's eyes, though," she thought, hazel specks that pierced her through.

Her father had been right to warn her against them. They were Harry's foster brothers, and each of Lady Waynwood's sons was close to her betrothed.

"Perhaps too close," her father had said,"too willing to see dear Harrold as Lord of the Vale."

"Too hasty," thought Alayne,"They would strike before the time was ripe, and ruin everything."

"I am sorry that I could not be there with Harrold to bring that brigand to justice," Ser Morton said,"You have my condolences. I swear that not all knights are as Ser Shadrich. I promise that the swords of the Vale will shield my lady from any harm for all the days to come."

He brought his lips to Alayne's ear,"My Lady Arryn."

"Thank you, Ser," Alayne answered as they stepped apart.

She had Lord Belmore next, and he was a fair dancer, but after she found herself before Ser Lyn. He was graceful and handsome, but she could not bear that smirk that looked so much like the mouse. Alayne had tried her best to forget the mouse and his smiles, but the knight of Heart's Home brought them alive again.

"Ser Lyn is my father's man," she thought, but he looked so much like Joffrey.

"It soothes my heart to see you well," Ser Lyn said,"But is it truly wise to have you amongst us, after what happened that night? Does it not unsettle you, my fair little maid."

It pained her sometimes, remembering the night, but it pained her more to look into Ser Lyn's lazy eyes,"My lord father wished to have me rest for the coming days, but I did not wish to languish in bed. I feel safer here anyways, in the company of good men, than in my chamber."

"You shall not have to worry," Ser Lyn replied,"I shall personally make sure that such ills shall never come to pass again. Lady Forlorn shall always be at your service."

"You are too kind, Ser," Alayne answered,"Evil knights shall never dare to risk your wrath. I can breathe easier in these times." "So long as my father pays you."

The corners of her lips were sore from how long she had to force a smile. Alayne was glad that she did not need to strain it any longer when she danced with Ser Lyn's brother Ser Lucas. He was shier, with a leaner face, but a thousand times more pleasant than his brother. He was not so handsome, not so flowing in her steps, but Alayne felt warmth each time he spoke.

She grew fond of him, and would have stayed to dance if her betrothed had not come to her.

Ser Lucas gave her into Harry's arms, and she twirled slowly in his embrace. "Ser Harrold," she said, gazing into his blue eyes. They gleamed as bright as Joffrey's, yet there was no malice in them.

"I hope you are well," she added.

"I am, Alayne," his touch was gentle as he swayed her to the song.

"Aunt Anya tells me that we are to wed within the moon," Harry said.

"My father tells me the same."

For a moment, they heard only the lone voice of the song, until Harry spoke again,"I want you to know something before our wedding. I remember the day Aunt Anya revealed to me that I was betrothed to Lord Baelish's daughter. His bastard daughter, I heard, and I will not pretend that I did not scoff at the match. I was told that it was a disgrace, and I admit that I acted like it all the way to the Eyrie. When I arrived, I arrived a fool. I saw you then. I beheld you with my own eyes. I beheld a maid with the beauty of her mother and the wit of her father. I beheld that I was wrong. Yet I was too craven to admit it then, even as we first spoke. I held onto my pride stubbornly. For that, I am sorry. I truly love you, and I thanked all the Seven for the fortune of this match. This tale I buried in my heart, for I was too craven to admit my wrong then. I will now. I want no secrets between us when we marry."

"I also want no secrets," Alayne thought,"but I cannot tell you mine."

"Thank you," she said,"I never thanked you properly that night. For everything."

"I have never been more thankful that I happened to be there."

Alayne knew that there were no perfect heroes. She knew that there were no true knights in shining armour. Yet Ser Harrold was as close as there could be.

She stood on her toes and kissed him.

"Alayne," Harry said as she pulled away,"Do you know why they want us to wed so soon?"

"War is coming to the Vale," he sighed,"and our riders will rally to Lord Robert's banner. The lords never told us, but I suspected as much when I saw the gathering of all the knights in Lord Robert's lands. They have gathered the banners to make war, and it will be my duty to ride with them. My brothers will all march, and I will not desert my post. They want us to marry before the host has to ride to war."

"I know," she answered,"My father told me about it."

"Did he?" Harry asked, incredulous.

Alayne gave him another peck on the cheek,"He did, and I know of the oath you swore to Lord Robert. Just promise to come back to me."

He nodded,"I promise that I will come back. I swear to win our children honour. I swear to win them glory. I swear to make you proud."

"Ride north," Alayne thought,"and slay the traitors. Win our children peace."

"Would he survive?" she worried,"The knights in the songs have no place in this world."

There they lingered for what seemed an eternity, until she heard her father.

"Ser Harrold," her father said,"May I steal my daughter for a dance?"

"He will," Alayne resolved ,"so long as my father watches over him. So long as I watch."

"Certainly, my lord," Harry answered, and stepped away.

Her father smiled warmly at her,"Do I dare to say that I've made a good match?"

"You did," she answered,"Thank you." A speck of silvery joy threatened to pierce through her heart. A taste to which she had prayed every night to savour once more

"That was a young girl's dream," she remembered,"Does she dare to dream again?"

"Then all is well," her father let out a breath,"I want you to be happy, my dear. Many such marriages are not. I was concerned that Ser Harrold would grow too pompous after he won his Winged Cloak."

Alayne remembered that Lord Robert's tourney had ended in the morning. She had slept through it all, and did not know any of the knights that won. There were some that sported glamorous cloaks and paraded themselves as kings, but Alayne did not think much of them.

"Harry did wear a cloak that was white as snow," she figured that the silk was the ornament of their victory.

"Do Winged Knights have to stay at the Eyrie, at Lord Robert's side at all times?"

"They act as the Kingsguard do," her father answered,"without the vows. They serve at Lord Robert's pleasure. Whatever a boy's pleasure is, anyway. Most times it is to stand at the lord's side and guard him from his foes. Since Lord Robert is a boy, he might command them to train him in arms. Yet if the lord were, say, to command them to lead his hosts in the field, they could leave Lord Robert's side to fight his battles for him."

Her father did not say any more, and Alayne found her tongue empty.

"I wish you well, my dear," her father gave her a kiss on the forehead, then left.

Alayne soon found herself face to face with Myranda. Her touch was rough, as she pulled Alayne along.

"What does she want?" Alayne wondered. She was certain that Myranda knew the truth. Though her father had told her not to worry, Alayne felt stiff wherever she felt the Royce girl's fingers.

"Oh, Alayne," she giggled,"If you are to be our lady, you cannot be this awkward."

She noticed how clumsy her steps were, and made to correct them.

Myranda laughed,"There we have it. The envy of the southern courts have returned."

Alayne could not stop herself from blushing, and it only made Myranda laugh harder.

"Myranda," she complained,"Have you anything more serious to talk about?"

Her smile died so quick that Alayne did not know if it had been truly been there.

"Oh, I do," she said,"Have you heard that Ser Lothor is dead?"

"My father's man?" she asked.

"Yes," Myranda replied,"He was in the patrol at noon, watching should Ser Shadrich come to try again at his prize. He disappeared from the eyes of his companions, and they found his mangled corpse hours later. Poor man. We think it may be the work of the mountain clans. The crown should have kept those beasts for themselves."

"Ser Lothor," Alayne thought,"He knew who I was. Is that why he died?"

"It is always your father's men that are falling like flies," Myranda said,"First Ser Oswell, then Ser Shadrich turned cloak, and Ser Lothor is now dead. I daresay that it is mightily unsafe for you under his wing. It would be better to have the swords of the Vale, truer swords, at your side."

"The swords of the Vale?" Alayne asked. Ser Morton had promised her that, but she had not dwelled on it.

"Do you know our words?" Myranda asked.

"To Stand True," Alayne answered.

"No," Myranda snorted,"I meant the words of House Royce of Runestone , of my house that goes back to the Age of Heroes and the days of the dawn, not that farce of my father when he took the Gates of the Moon."

She drew Alayne close and pressed her lips to her ear,"We remember."

Myranda pulled away,"Your father was a great man, and we will shield his daughter."

"Look," she suddenly called, her face bursting into a smile.

Alayne looked to where she pointed,"What's wrong?"

Myranda leaned in and giggled,"Melena's hairnet is loose."

"M'lady," a voice sounded behind her. Alayne let go of Myranda, turning to find one of Lord Robert's serving maids with a harried look on her face.

"What is it?" Alayne asked, thinking that it had better not be one of the knights.

"It's Lord Robert," the maid said,"He's having a fit."

Alayne nodded, and moved to detach herself from the throng of dancers.

She walked up to the high table, and saw the chaos that had come upon it. Below the great Arryn banner, Lord Robert was wailing. He was shaking horribly, and Alayne saw wet milk splattered across the floor from the pitchers he overturned. Plate and fork alike were likewise strewn off the table, half a dozen dishes lying abandoned on the stones.

None of the servants dared to approach the shivering boy. The lords still at the table stood dumbfounded by the sight.

When Alayne that none went to Lord Robert, she strode quickly to him. The spilled milk stained the hems of her dress, so she raised them.

Lord Robert's pale face poked up at her beneath a mop of scraggly brown hair. Dark stains pierced his rich sky blue doublet.

"Mother?" his fit stopped for a moment. His little hand grasped her wrist, pulling.

"No," Alayne shook her head,"I'm Alayne."

"Alayne," he pulled her even fiercer, wanting her to come into his seat.

Alayne dared not. It was the seat of the Arryns, meant only for the lord of that house. His fingers would not budge, though, and Alayne did not deny him.

Lord Robert had her take his seat, and she lifted the boy to sit on her lap. The chair was warm from Lord Robert's body, but to her the bronze was colder than a winter storm.

She felt the eyes of the lords upon her, but they said nothing as of yet. They sat back in their own places.

Alayne took her eyes off them and onto Lord Robert, gently stroking him. He fondled at her breast, but she pushed him away. Under her caress, Lord Robert began to calm. Soon, it seemed that he was sinking into sleep.

"Alayne," he mumbled,"I want to hear the tale of the Winged Knight."

"Sweetrobin," she answered,"You have your Winged Knights here. All around you. You watched them today, and pinned their white cloaks."

He stirred slightly, and Alayne's heart leapt into her throat. It was unfounded, though, for the boy then fell into a sound sleep.

"Mela," Alayne ordered,"Bring the lord to his chamber. The maid complied, and watched as the servants carried his limp form away. The boy's frail breaths was all the table could hear.

She remembered what her father told her.

"It would be a mercy," she thought,"It would be crueler to let him suffer."

Alayne looked down from the high table at Harry swiftly walking towards her,"and all the worse to let the Vale suffer a boy lord."

She felt the bronze beneath her, and realized in a sudden what her act spelled. When she turned her eyes to the hall, dread crept upon her. She had sat in Lord Robert's seat, the seat meant only for the Lord of the Vale. Lord Robert was gone, and she lingered alone on the throne's carved might.

Lord Nestor Royce was the first to stand and speak,"This is most improper."

"She's my lady," Harry's steady voice cut in. He tread up the steps to the high table and came before her. Her betrothed took her in his, and she rose. Alayne swept aside, confused by what Harry meant.

He smiled at her, and in the eyes of all the Vale, he lowered himself onto the falcon throne.

"Is he mad?" Alayne thought,"It is treason to assume the Lord's place."

Yet none of the lords at the table raised a protest. They eyed each other, none seeking to rise.

"My lady," Harry said,"Please come sit by me."

Alayne hesitated, then pulled another chair to take as her own besides the knight.

Ser Harrold sat well in the Arryn seat. It fit him gracefully, and the steel of his armour gleamed bright with the sheen of the throne.

"He was who the throne was meant for," Alayne thought. If someone put a crown on him, he might have looked a king.

"More than Joffrey ever did," she took one of Harry's hands in both of hers.

"Do you have any concerns, Lord Nestor?"

Lord Nestor stood resolute,"Yes, Ser Harrold. I felt that this is improper."

"Lord Robert is unwell," Harry replied,"and so I must conduct business on his behalf."

Bronze Yohn Royce slammed his hand onto the table, glaring at Lord Nestor. He was silent for a moment, then sat down.

Alayne gazed down the hall, and watched as all the knights and ladies kissed each other goodbye, taking their places upon the benches. Their voices faded, and the feast came to an end. The hall arrayed itself in order, with all its eyes staring at the jarring sight.

There was a tingle in the air, perhaps the flicker of the torches, that made butterflies grow in her tummy. There was a madness about how the flames danced in the eyes of the lords, as its scents filled the silence. They choked her, and she held tighter onto Harry's hand. She felt that her betrothed's hand was tense.

Alayne realized that her own was trembling. She felt a wetness upon it, a slick stain that made her feel hot and filthy.

"No," she thought,"My hands are clean."

She looked to Harry,"His were wet too."

Her betrothed broke the silence,"My lords, I believe that our Lord Protector has some tidings for us."

Her father rose from his seat, casting his eyes across the hall.

"It is the Lord Protector's duty," Lord Baelish said,"to guide Lord Robert until he is of age to rule. I profess that I have done my best to make good on this duty, and prepare the Vale on the eve of winter. The lords have kindly granted me a year to prove my ability, and I have attempted my best to secure Lord Robert's rule. However, recent tidings that arrived have presented a time that I cannot hope to make well. Ravens have brought urgent word from the south, calling the Vale to arms, as war has awakened again."

Alayne heard mutters break out in the hall, and her father continued,"I am a tried hand at ruling in peace, but war is another matter. I fear that I would be unworthy of the gracious trust my lords have placed in me. In the wake of this time, I have decided to resign my title as Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn. As my last act, I will entrust this duty to Lord Yohn Royce, who knows more of war than I do. I trust him to be worthier of leading us in these dreadful days."

It was half a moment before Alayne realized that she was gaping at her father.

"Why?" she tried to make sense of it all,"Why would he give up his power?"

All the lords that made any matter, all the knights that men knew, all the strength of the Vale were gathered in this very hall, their very ears having heard her father's words. No man would doubt that her father had given his place away.

"If he is no longer Lord Protector," she thought,"what of my war for the North? What of his promise to give me back my home?"

She stared at all the assembled, and froze when she felt the bloodlust in the air.

"They want to ride for Tommen," she thought,"in his war against this dragon king, and they have usurped my father."

A chill touched her own hand, but she felt that Harry's had relaxed.

"What of my wedding to him?" her father was leaving her to all these lords.

"Lord Yohn," Lord Baelish said, returning to his seat,"Or shall I say Lord Protector? Can you speak for us?"

The heavyset lord rose in his gleaming bronze armour,"My lords have granted me this honour of becoming regent in Lord Robert's rule, and I shall fail your trust. I shall perform to the best of my ability to serve as Lord Protector. As you all well know, war is upon our knights, and we deal in these matters. As Lord Robert is not of an age to rule, I thereby imbue the duty of Defender of the Vale to Ser Harrold, to be afforded all the authorities of the Warden of the East."

"The Defender of the Vale commands the hosts of its bannermen in times of war," Alayne remembered, and Harry's place became not so strange.

"He can act in the lord's name," she thought,"and can even sit the Arryn seat to make judgements on the lord's behalf if the lord cannot act on his own."

It was at most times an authority held by the Arryn lords themselves, but sometimes, very rarely, it was given to another man of the house if the lord could not take the mantle.

"Harrold is not an Arryn," but she looked at his face, who men said looked so alike to old Lord Jon in his youth ,"Is he?"

"They could not march to arms," Alayne thought,"when Lady Lysa held the might of the Vale. But now that my father has fallen, and Lord Robert is a boy…"

"The king appoints the Warden of the East," she thought,"Does he not? Joffrey restored it to Lord Robert after the fat king gave it to Jaime Lannister."

"Lord Baelish is right," Lord Yohn turned to face the hall,"Steel is sharpened again in the south. King Tommen has rallied his banners against another foe who has landed on the shores of the Seven Kingdoms. Aegon of the House Targaryen, the son of Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia, and the rightful heir to the kingdom. Tywin Lannister's hounds are said to have slaughtered him at King's Landing, but this Aegon has survived. He has returned to the Seven Kingdoms to reclaim the Iron Throne."

"How do we know the truth of this claim?" a knight shouted. Alayne figured it was Ser Jon Redfort, one of Lord Horton's sons.

"We received two letters calling for our aid in their war," Lord Yohn replied,"one from the Queen Regent Cersei Lannister. The other, written by Jon Connington, Hand of the King to Aegon Targaryen. I knew Connington at court. He was many things, but he was never a liar. The boy is true."

"Connington," Lord Lynderly questioned,"That Hand of Aerys who slew Ser Denys at the Battle of the Bells? The Griffin Lord, who would have put Stony Sept to the sword to find King Robert had Lord Hoster not arrived? If he is the ilk of this Aegon, then we should surely ride for King Tommen."

She felt Harry moving to stand. Alayne squeezed his hand, and he remained in his seat.

"Tommen?" Ser Mychel Redfort snorted,"To ride for Tommen, after what happened last night to our lady? I ask you, my lords, who could be capable of such debauchery?"

One word lay on all their tongues, Lannisters.

"I say that King Aegon is right," Lord Grafton rose,"He is the true heir to the Iron Throne. Sunspear will join him, and Highgarden was ever the servant of the dragons. He has both the right and the strength. We would be wise to choose his side. Tommen is both a bastard and an usurper."

A cacophony of voices answered the lord's declaration.

"Would you name Robert an usurper as well?" Lord Lynderly spat.

"The incest is lies," Ser Symond Templeton said,"spread by Stannis to make his own claim."

"We fought the dragons once," a cry went up,"and we can fight them again."

"You fought the Mad King," Ser Harrold spoke for the first time,"who burned Lord Rickard Stark, strangled his heir Brandon, and put Ser Elbert to the sword, betraying his oath of justice to his bannermen. You fought Prince Rhaegar, who dragged the realm into war for a beauty. Both of these men are rotting in their graves."

"We hear that dragons have been born again to Princess Daenerys in the east," Ser Edmund Waxley said,"Is Daenerys with this Aegon, and do those beasts accompany his hosts?"

Suddenly, Ser Lyn stood from amidst the crowd, and most fell silent at the sight of the knight.

His hand was on the hilt of Lady Forlorn,"Yes, and much more. This Aegon speaks of wedding Lord Robert to Princess Daenerys. To Daenerys, and her three dragons. The first of these beasts to be born in centuries. Are we to spit on his grace and turn on his friendship for the woes of dead men?"

He turned and cast his eyes on all the knights,"This is not the first time in the last year when war raged outside the Bloody Gate. I ask you, what did we do then?"

His voice grew as thick as steel,"We waited. When the Starks were murdered at the Red Wedding, we waited. When Winterfell was put to the sword, we waited. When the Lannisters ascended the Iron Throne with the blood of our kin on their hands, we waited. The lions were always our true foes, the foes Aegon now fights. Yet while others suffered and bled, we waited. We sharpened our steel, and sat by our hearths until our duty wilted and died."

"The gods have presented us with this chance," he said,"to win back our honour. Aegon has granted us the chance to fulfill the oaths we swore as knights and lords. To ride for wrath and justice, as the Knights of the Vale were meant to ride. To face the foes we were meant to fight."

He drew Lady Forlorn in a flash of blinding light,"Prove yourselves true men of our banners, to the true king." He raised the sword to the skies,"To the Young Dragon."

"He brings us vengeance," Ser Morton Waynwood rose,"He brings us justice. He brings us what is right, what made us dragon men for centuries."

He drew his own blade,"To the Young Conqueror."

His brother Ser Donnel, the Knight of the Bloody Gate, rose, and with him stood the Knight of Ninestars.

"To Aegon," they shouted,"To Aegon."

Alayne saw the thousand warriors in the hall sweep their cloaks and rouse themselves to this call, their steel singing in silver fury. Beneath the fires of the torches, they forged their oaths once again.

A kingdom of voices boomed in unison. Through the gates, through the skies, and into the Seven Kingdoms. They chanted all but one word:

"Aegon."

"Aegon."

"AEGON."

 

[Mockingbird]

MELISANDRE
​

The chamber was cold, but the fetters upon her wrists and ankles were colder.

It was more a cell, not unlike the frozen crevices beneath the halls.

She prayed to the Lord for warmth. The red choker remained as cold as ice, the Lord's flames unable to pierce the gloomy spell of the Great Other. She was not certain if she wanted what she asked. Melisandre did not know whether his pure light could visit and cleanse her broken form.

She had given her flame unrighteously.

"The Wall has already fallen," she thought,"The Great Other's curse has already taken root in the Watch's ranks."

Melisandre remembered that mad cackle, ringing raucously on the ice. There were three that took her, each one more vicious than the last. Each wore a black cloak. Each was sworn to be a man of honour.

The shadow of the bitterest north had consumed them, betraying their sense to embrace darkness.

The first was a thin, sneering man with a smirk as crooked as a weirwood. His eyes were two blue gems, having already joined death's cause when he had been the first to stab his Lord Commander.

The second was a young lanky man with pimples on his face. He was short, but his arms were strong.

It was his dry chuckle of the last man that she remembered, grotesque upon that donkey face. She felt still his roughshod hands.

They had tarnished the Lord's flame, but the servants of the Great Other have no remorse. They are already lost to the Halls of Darkness.

Melisandre sat frozen, huddling the red cloak that was once glamorous around her wretched breasts. All her powders lay splayed on the wooden floor, most joining their potency to its impurity. They would not be of any use in any case, even if Melisandre had the Lord's blessing to use them.

The red priestess could make no flame. She had lost the Lord's cause, and her king's. Lady Selyse and the young queen had been taken hostage by treasonous swords, ready to be given to the bastard of Winterfell.

She had been a fool to believe that she had the power to change the course of doom. King Stannis did. Lord Snow as well. King Stannis rotted beneath the ice of the lands outside Winterfell. Lord Snow was betrayed by his brothers, the corpse having bled out in the middle of the night.

There was naught to salvage. Their corpses were beyond her reach, in the house of the Lord.

Melisandre had not the Lord's favour. She was powerless to stop the Lord's chosen from meeting their ghastly end. Greater powers than her played dice on Westeros. It was her folly to think that she could do more than she was bid. Melisandre had failed even that. It is just that she be punished.

"Winter came," Melisandre thought,"and our efforts were as leaves in a storm."

She remembered the white wolf's grey eyes. They had turned the same sheen as his former master's after he fell. They had glared in sombre distaste amidst the falling snows. They knew that Melisandre had failed for the final time.

Melisandre saw the same now, as she sat unmoving, staring at the black orbs of a dying man.

Ser Narbert Grandison was old, elsewise King Stannis would not have left him at Eastwatch while his host assaulted the wildlings at Castle Black. House Grandison had sworn to the usurpers, yet Ser Narbert remained true. He was the steel of his house, the only man brave enough to fight for the Lord's chosen when it seemed that darkness would prevail. The knight had served loyally in the Blackwater, and The king judged that he had not the strength, so he left him to guard his queen. He did his duty to the last.

"He would have been better served to have died with his king upon the ice," she thought,"Facing a valiant end instead of a traitor's sword in the back."

Ser Narbert had been betrayed with the queen as the false knights rose in treason. One of Ser Axell's men brought a sword into the loyal knight's back, leaving a gaping wound to bleed out into the snow. He had fallen with one stroke, his age speaking their ill. She did not know why they had brought his dying body into her chamber instead of leaving it in the burning pile of corpses outside.


The old knight's calloused hand gripped hers with a strength she did not know he had. For the past hour, he lingered on the edge of the night. She patched his wound, but could not do much else. The Lord could heal him, but it is wise to let some pass. All men must die, and what is gone should not come back.

"Only the Great Other brings them back," she thought. It is not by chance that the ancient mages who held those arts were shunned by the order. Necromancy is true witchcraft. When the soul passes, it is gone. The only thing that returns is the mortal body. A wight, mindless and empty. Void of anything but cold.

The knight's grey beard had begun to turn white as the frost of the Wall set in, though soon all of him would join the everlasting snows of winter. His eyes were glassy as they stared not at her, but the sky beyond the ceiling. He had been murmuring incoherent phrases all her time with him.

"Hugh," he muttered,"Brother. I'm so sorry. I didn't know you fancied her, else I'd have been much more careful. I didn't mean to ruin her dress and sully your name. That Selmy bastard got her. He charmed her into his chamber, and left her when he was done, with her honour stained. She married his cousin for there was none other who would take her. But there was. A lord of Grandview. But she would not consider your name. I'm so sorry."

He turned his head, and his eyes found hers. He suddenly tried to sit up, but it was a futile effort. It only made the bloody bandage redder.

Melisandre steadied him. His eyes found focus again, this time upon her,"My lady? I'm so sorry. It was not my brother's fault. Don't think of one for the other's errors. Forgive this slight. I beg you. He loves you. More than that Selmy ever would. Please. I'm so sorry."

"He lingers in the past," she thought,"in the cold of regret and failures. He cannot, lest he be consumed by the Great Other's embrace. I must burn it away."

She pressed her palm to his and said a prayer. The only torch seemed to grow stronger, bathing them in the Lord's fire. For a moment, the cold was dispelled.

"Ser, awaken," she said,"I am not your ghost."

His eyes found their light,"Lady Melisandre."

"Ser," she replied.

"Are the queen and princess safe?" he asked.

"They have not been harmed," she replied,"but the traitors prepare to send them to the Bastard of Winterfell."

She had not heard of the queen or the princess ever since she entered her cell, but the loyal knight would need comfort in his last moments.

"I cannot help them," he gasped,"I could not be true to the Lord of Light."

"You've already done him the greatest service that you could," Melisandre replied,"Rest easy, for you have fought and served valiantly. You are one of the few true knights in this world. You can rest now. Let others bear the burden, and take the mantle of the wars to come. For you, the Hall of Light and eternal bliss awaits."

The old knight nodded, and closed his eyes.

At the break of evening later that day, the winds howled a mournful song. When the faint torch burned the last of its wax and the room fell into shadow, the dying knight drew his last breath.

The next morning, she was awakened by the crack of the lock upon her door.

As she heard a youthful grunt, her heart leapt into her throat. However, when the door opened, it was not him who entered. A black cloak walked into her cell. She shivered as she thought of why he would have come.

The last time they had come, it was to remove the body of the knight. Ever since, her only companion was the sighing breeze.

She dared not sleep in the bed, for it had borne a dead man. Her eyes did not close ever in the night, watching as her soul shriveled and her skin grew pasty white. She did not bother to tend the hearth, so it burned out. The Watch did not return to light it again. Melisandre froze into dull emptiness as the Lord's blessing left her veins to welcome the Great Other's curse.

The man who had come swept aside his hair to reveal the soft face of a boy. Dark curls ran down his face, forming ringlets that were graced by snow. His body was lean and leathery. He was not tall, and his shoulders not wide, but Melisandre was not to be fooled again by an ungainly appearance.

It was Lord Snow's personal steward, the boy they called Satin. A hint of stubble had begun to appear on the steward's chin, and his arms were strong from days of training on the bow

He carried a tray which bore a plate and a flask. Satin set it down before the Watch's prisoner.

Melisandre saw what was offered to her. A lone biscuit of bread accompanied a steaming cup of broth.

She stared transfixed at it, unmoving.

"What good would it do?" she thought,"Food gives life, yet what shall I live for? All the Lord's designs through me have failed. It cannot heal what I have lost."

As Satin made to leave, Melisandre flung forward and grasped his arm, her hood flying off.

"Who killed the Lord Commander?" she demanded.

"Names," she thought,"I need names. Names that the Lord will curse."

Satin revealed a startled face, and he took a quick glance at the door. She did not let go.

"M'lady," the steward said,"I must go."

"Please," she tried desperately,"for the love you bear him. Tell me."

"There were six," he whispered,"Wick Whittlestick was the first knife. The others followed. Bowen Marsh. Othell Yarwyck. Left Hand Lew. Alf of Runnymudd. And… "

He hesitated, but then spoke almost inaudibly,"And Eddison Tollett."

A voice suddenly rang from outside the cell,"Boy. Are you rutting with the whore? It's taking you bloody long."

"I have to go," Satin spoke, and his thin shadow left the cell.

Melisandre still ate her meal, leaving the empty plate and flask upon the wooden floor.

"I was a fool," she thought,"to ask for the petty names of those accursed. They are only the lowest of the Great Other's servants. To defeat them is nothing. The Lord wishes to defeat the night, unravelling the eternal curse upon the realm. I must dwell on greater matters. I must find the brightest fire, the Lord's chosen to lead us in this struggle. I must not dwell on darkness, but the light that shall vanquish it. I will find the truth of shadows and kings."

She dared again to venture near a torch. Melisandre has failed the Lord, but she will ask his forgiveness one last time. She would ask for the flames one last time, for the Lord to grant her a path of which she may tread. The red priestess prayed fervently that the Lord would give her this chance.

"I was certain it was King Stannis," she thought,"The fires told it to be, yet he was a man in the end. He was the same as all others that fell to darkness. Perhaps I was wrong. My sight was poor. The Lord shields only the pure. King Stannis was mortal, and succumbed to the shade of man the same as any other king. He cannot bring the pure future that the Lord made free of sin and night."

"Who is Azor Ahai?" she pondered yet again,"I saw snow. Only snow."

She thought again to the white wolf. His eyes had been red before, but they were gray now, as gray as the Blackwater's stones. The realization came unto her.

"Show me Azor Ahai," she prayed to the fires.

The Lord granted her a vision she had seen before. Snow, only snow.

But from the fog of white, she saw a figure emerge. It was someone she had also known before.The blue-eyed king rose again, this time mightier, his sword sharp enough to shear mountains in two. His blue eyes were shining orbs, and his hair became flame. The king smiled, and the snow blinded his form once more.

"I need not bring back a wight," she thought,"The snows tell the truth. Snow will slay the King of Night. And the man by that name never died."

Melisandre collapsed, relieved. The Lord had not forsaken her. Yet the times are even more dire. He showed her no hero, for there was none yet that still lived. The deathly darkness of the blue-eyed king would swallow all.

"This hero I must make," she thought,"Where is that white wolf?"

Satin returned that day to deliver another meal, but he sealed his tongue even as she asked.

It was the next day before the steward opened his mouth,"We can speak at length. Wick Whittlestick isn't at the door now. He tumbled off a balcony. Broke his arm and half his ribs. Clydas thinks he won't survive. It's Horse, my friend from the initiation, who's at the door today. He's trustworthy, and won't spill any secrets."

"Who holds command at the Wall?" Melisandre asked.

"Lord Bowen Marsh as of this moment. He has instructed Clydas to send ravens to all the other castles so that the election may be held. Though Yarwyck thinks that with winter on the horizon, the other Night's Watch lords would agree to forgo the election until the next spring. He thinks that only Lord Pyke and Lord Mallister's approval would be able to seal his position. Other castles may be commanded by Lord Snow's friends, but they think that their strength is too little to challenge the Watch if Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower stand with Castle Black. Word would still have to be sent, though, of Lord Snow's… treason. Bowen Marsh claims that they slew their Lord Commander for a just cause. He's promised peace to all the brothers, regardless of past loyalties, as he ascended to the post of Acting Lord Commander. He vows to lead us sensibly into the winter and right Lord Snow's wrongs."

"What of the wildlings?" Melisandre asked,"Have they really marched north and forsaken Lord Snow."

"Lord Snow is dead," Satin replied,"Chief Tormund said that there is no use fighting for a corpse. He cares more for the souls of Hardhome to risk another battle. He made peace with Marsh, and marched beyond the wall with the chief wildling force. Though Lord Marsh thinks that they mean to gather their strength so as to break Castle Black. Lord Marsh plans on sealing the gate to prevent the wildlings from returning. He says that we do not have enough rations to feed what mouths Hardhome has to offer if they ever return. He would have instructed the other castles to do the same, if Lord Yarwyck had not stayed his hand. Lord Yarwyck reminded him that it would be a travesty to waste good men who could otherwise serve on the Wall. He reminded him that other wildlings serve on the Wall, and will take kindly to the Lord Commander denying others passage. The new Lord Commander could treat with the Lord of Winterfell. If they could not secure supplies, then they could order Yarwyck to seal the gate. He shields the Lord of Winterfell's northern border, after all. Clydas had sent a raven to Winterfell last evening, with all of Lord Marsh's will."

"How did you come to know all this?" she pondered.

"I served as Lord Tollett's steward. He had been present at their meetings," Satin answered.

"What did Marsh say in the letter?" she asked.

"That he will meet the Lord of Winterfell's demands," Satin said," Lord Marsh believes that the wife Lord Bolton speaks of, as well as that Reek would arrive at Castle Black soon if Lord Bolton had demanded it of them. He means to send you, the princess, and the queen to Winterfell. Lady Val had fled in the chaos of Lord Snow's death. Black Bernarr saw her last, riding south upon a single steed. She took her nephew, the wildling prince. She means to join Sigorn at Mole's Town, who had prepared to march with his lady to claim Karhold. Lord Marsh has decided to cut the food to Mole's Town by half, threatening to starve them unless they deliver Lady Val and her babe. Lord Marsh judges that since King Stannis is dead, the Watch is the only bridge between the wildlings and the Lord of the North. If he is successful in procuring all of who the Lord of Winterfell wants and receives his aid, Lord Marsh will restore the supplies and allow the wildlings passage back south of the Wall. If he fails, then he said that he must do whatever it takes to preserve the Watch. The brothers respect him, and look to him as our leader."

"What of the traitors that were King Stannis's men?" she asked again,"Who else takes command in Castle Black?"

"Lord Axell and Ser Benethon stand with Lord Marsh. The queen and the princess are also confined to chambers in this tower. They wish to pass south to their homes, and hope that Lord Bolton would be generous enough to grant it if they prove their loyalty to the crown. They also would like to be in Castle Black when the Weeper attacks. Ser Alliser has been appointed First Ranger for his successful ranging, but Lord Marsh had no other man to pass it to. Lord Yarwyck is still First Builder. As Lord Marsh ascended to the position of Acting Lord Commander, Lord Tollett was named Lord Steward in his place in order to please the men that were loyal to Lord Snow to the new command. They have secured the Watch. The brothers believe in Lord Marsh's designs. Lord Thorne has their respect. Lord Yarwyck seniority. Lord Tollett their love. Castle Black was about to implode at Lord Snow's death, but now the kettle has cooled."

"This hope is lost," Melisandre thought,"Men forget too easily their true foe. Lord Snow saw it, and planned to march on Winterfell. The Wall is nothing without the North. The Boltons are usurpers, not to be trusted. Now, the last flame of the Watch has gone out. I was the greatest fool to trust in this order."

"Thank you, Satin," she said.

"Where is Lord Snow's wolf," she added in a whisper.

"Ghost?" he answered in the same tone, catching her meaning,"What of the wolf?"

"Can you bring him to me?" she asked.

Satin hesitated, then slowly shook his head,"It was my pleasure, m'lady, to attend to you. I really must go at once. Lord Marsh and Wick Whittlestick had been doubtful of my loyalty at first, for I had been Lord Snow's personal steward. It was Lord Tollett who vouched for me. He said that I did no wrong except serve under the wrong man, and saved me from the noose. I cannot give them reason to doubt Lord Tollett's word. Farewell."

"Farewell," she answered.

There was no window in her cell, the only light being the flicker of the torch. As Satin retreated, his shadow shortened until it became one with his lamplit form. A bright glimmer danced on his black cloak.

"A true man," she thought,"amidst a false host. Even the brightest stars hide their light in mud. What of a boy having scarcely grown a beard, cast in a battle far greater than him? He cannot prove a hero, but his deeds are still pleasing to the Lord's eyes. He still has a glimmer of hope, unlike the others."

"Unlike another," Melisandre thought,"Another boy, yet more foolish. Too alike his father. Too alike in the sins that will win him only doom."

That boy that had cast aside his loyalties for a petty wish. All had to sacrifice, and Melisandre had the most of all. She lost everything, even the gift that would make a woman. The boy had sight, yet that was only of the past. He had not the strength to claim his duty, to bathe in glory and honour. He had not the strength to be a hero, and be a part of the Lord's designs for the future.

He could not see past his burden to the greater light. When the final battle approached, he had deserted his post. The Great Other welcomed him into eternal doom.

The Great Other would embrace all of them. Those that only knew of their mortal squabbles, and not the winter that will soon engulf the realm.

"If the king be not Azor Ahai," Melisandre thought,"He was still true to his cause. A man need not be the greatest hero to march upon the side of light."

His blood is still the blood of the Lord's chosen.

"The traitors mean to give the queens to the usurpers," she thought,"They mean to give me as well."

Darkness had seemed to prevail. She had lost her faith in its dreadful coming.Yet that is where heroes emerge. King Stannis had been the least of the five kings, yet also the greatest. He had been the only worthy man of them all.

Melisandre could not fall into gloom meekly before the storm. She had done that once before, and it proved to be treacherous. She must see the Lord's will done, and she shall. The red priestess had her duty, and she shall see it done.

Satin's words had moved her. Castle Black was not firmly in Marsh's hands.

The wildlings had been savage northmen, learned in only the ways of lust and lechery. They were followers of the Old Gods, sons and daughters of the Great Other. They had been sinful, and could not see the light.

Yet all men could have the Lord's forgiveness if they prove true. Marsh had blundered, as the traitorous Watch was weak. The wildlings could prove the queen's ally, and break the strength of treason should they choose to march on the Wall. The wildlings that were at the castle were gone, yet many more manned the Wall. Mole's Town was only half a night's ride from the castle. Sigorn was Lord Snow's man. They would not give up the wildling princess and her nephew easily.

"Fire," she thought, as her choker warmed with heat for the first time in days. The Watch had lost its way, yet the night was always darkest before the dawn. She had been a fool to lose faith. The Lord had designs that mortals as she could not see, yet they were there. She must have faith, and she shall find her path. The red priestess will find the path to victory.

She felt her womb quicken. Melisandre had not yet forgotten her art. The watchman's lust would soon prove treacherous for their sakes.

Hers was the Lord's device, a cauldron of holy fire. It had been called a womb, yet that was of the princess that had come before.

"The princess that was gone," she thought,"Who died long ago, in those silken roads." She had forgotten that name, what her good mother called her as she was swaddled at her breast. Melisandre was the Lord's now, with all her body and her will.

Hers was the sconce that would bear no common torch. The brighter the flame, the darker the shadow. They shall taste what they have wrought.

As soon as she passed those enchanted wards, the Lord of Winterfell would find a holy blade pierce his cursed soul as he receives his prize. Though those wards ancient kings cast upon the castle would not serve him anyway, for there was no longer a Stark in Winterfell.

"Who will rule," she pondered,"when this Lord of Winterfell is slain?"

"Only the purest shall remain," Melisandre thought,"after the fires cleanse. When the Lord's hand burns the dark away."

She envied the priests of old, who could decipher prophecies as easily as they could conjure flame. Melisandre could not see her path. They had their fires, while she only her shadow.

That night, darkness sullied her dreams. Voices whispered in a harsh tongue that she did not know.

"To our King of Light," they mocked,"To our King of Night. I wish you the greatest fortune in the wars to come."

"The fish they come," she remembered the rambling,"from under the sea. Who is the Lord of Crows, and all those others?"

Melisandre dismissed the thoughts. They were pruned by the false visions sent by a servant of the Great Other, if not the Lord of Darkness himself. The fool had also drowned beneath the sea, having died beyond the reach of the Lord.

She would find her own path by his fires. She would find the true hero by true light.

The darkness dissolved into ashes, and the dream unraveled. Melisandre closed her eyes as many piercing pinpricks of crimson light lashed her bones.

"Labour all you wish," she heard a myriad of voices laugh,"But in the end, who can hide from a thousand eyes? And One."

One light shone out above all the rest, as crimson as blood and as bright as a star, burrowing into her pupils despite her closed lids. She felt pain, blinding agony as something else seized her mind. It was foreign and formless, yet a crushing boulder that she could not stop.

She let go of her torture, and screamed.

A sharp gasp greeted her awakening from her slumber.

She had fallen asleep unknowingly against the wooden wall. It was cold to her touch, as everything in her cell felt.

Melisandre realized what had woken her. The chain upon her door rattled again to herald the coming of a visitor. It was too early for Satin to come, if her judgement was right. It was still hours before dawn.

The door opened to reveal a black cloak. It was one of Castle Black's new lords, flanked by two guardsmen. She flinched as she saw which one it was. The door swung shut behind him.

"Calm yourself," Melisandre thought,"The Lord fears no one. Let his fire run through you." Her choker burned with the Lord's blessing, and she did as she was bid.

"My lady," Eddison Tollett took a sweeping bow.

"Lord Tollett," she replied, her voice weaker than she had thought to command,"What brings you here?"

"I've taken that Satin's told you everything," Tollett answered.

Melisandre did not answer. She glared at his easy smile. He may have heard that, but what she had asked of him had been told in a whisper. Melisandre saw one of the guardsmen give the other a glance, then a knowing look towards Tollett.

"It's better this way, perhaps," Tollett continued, waving his hand,"We never told him not to. Then again, we never told him not to do anything. I suppose we should count our fortunes that you and your queens are not halfway to join that wildling princess. It would be a great hassle to bring you back, when I'm loath to leave the warm hearths the gods have kindly granted me. Though never mind that. His words saved some time."

"You know of what Lord Marsh sent to Winterfell, do you not?" he asked.

She saw no profit in lying,"I do."

"We have received an answer from Lord Bolton," Tollett said,"He's agreed to the Watch's wishes. Our order will live another day, though I do not know how I may feel about that. One more day upon this good earth is one more day for me to suffer this Seven-cursed cold. I've always wondered why hell was a pit of flame. Sinners should be freezing their arses off instead of enjoying those joyous fires. I would give much to join them, damned my soul."

"You would," she thought,"You already have. The instant you decided to put a knife in your Lord Commander's back. The Seven are false. But no matter what you name, you shall receive what you wished to receive with your acts. What an unbeliever would deserve. What a traitor would deserve."

"Why did you betray Jon Snow?" she snapped.

Tollett froze in the midst of his speech. His smile faded,"Jon? Jon was my friend. The closest I've had perhaps since I've left the Vale. Our oath makes us all brothers, though little have borne witness to that vow. Yet Jon was as close a brother as I ever had at the edge of the world. He was who I drank and japed with, never at all saying that he was the son of Winterfell. He was a true friend in our merry band. He was who I fought alongside, and had been glad to fight under, braving the dangers of the Watch. He was a capable commander, who I judged to be worthy to lead Castle Black after the Old Bear. I put his name in the draw, though I regret that most soberly now. Jon should have never needed to become Lord Snow. It would have been better for all of us."

"A man once asked me how I would like to die," he continued,"It was a mountain clansman in the lands beside my home, and I remember his steel quite well. I was a noble, though I had no gold. Tollett is a name in the Vale, though the ones that get sent to the Wall are oft the ones without any value to keep. When he asked, I laughed, and answered as any common folk would,'I wouldn't want to die. I still have much to live for.' He chuckled, and his band let me go. I reckon it was because he saw a richer carriage to raid, and did not wish my scream to give them away. I still rode away as fast as I could."

"We don't have much liking for our lives here at the Wall," he said,"but we have much to live for in the realm. The Wall is the only thorn in the side of whoever these masters of the dead are. I wouldn't want them invading the south, with the minor inconvenience of ending all life. That is still my wish, though Lord Snow has made certain that we would fail. No wildling king has ever succeeded in marching against the North. Not Raymun Redbeard. Not this Joramun from ages past. Not Mance Rayder. Why should Lord Snow be any different? They had hosts tens of thousands strong, yet Lord Snow had barely enough to fill Castle Black's field. He was doomed to fail. The Lord of Winterfell would be sure to strike against us afterwards, whether we aided his folly or not. If we fell, so would the Wall, and all the realms to the south. It was not my friend Jon that I killed. It was Lord Snow, proud and cold. A fool too, the greatest, those that think themselves righteous. So tell me, red witch, if your King Stannis chose to let the Others through the Wall, would you stand by as he did?"

"I would," she thought,"if he proved untrue. Yet he proved pious and loyal. The Lord has his will, but it is still for men to choose. They are presented with a choice to remain as they are, to tread the path of comfort, or to strive for their own, and gain merits much greater. The righteous path is not the one of ease. The Wall cannot hold unless the realm unites under its rightful king. Azor Ahai. The Prince that was Promised. King Stannis chose the righteous path, and Lord Snow as well. They chose to strike their own rather than bow to usurpers, to win their claims with virtue and justice. The Lord will shield their claims in the end. They will see setbacks as they doubt their faith. As King Stannis had at the Blackwater. As Lord Snow that night. King Stannis proved ultimately not the Lord's chosen. But Lord Snow shall. He will prevail to win a greater future. He will prevail to break all evil, to break the everlasting night. Where is that wolf?"

"What did Bolton speak of in his letter?" she asked.

"He demanded much the same," Tollett said,"The wildling princess and Mance Rayder's son. I have no guess as to why he wants them. Why should a king's sister have use when the king is dead? He should have plenty o' teats of his own as a lord. I've always wished that mine, though the gods never smile on common men." She noticed the lord had one hand on a dagger hilt. It was beneath his cloak that hid it from the men to his back, but it was clear to her eye.

"He asked also for the queen and princess, though I understand that," Tollett almost reached his line of guardsmen,"He said that his wife and that man he named Reek are already in his custody, so we need not give him that. Though I would have not liked to find a man, I cannot place a face. The First Flint would know Eddard's daughter, but many men stink of shit. Most here do, in any case. Curiously, he never mentioned you in his second letter. I wonder what is his cause for that?"

As his words sunk in Melisandre's ears, she saw a flash of steel. Tollett drew his knife from its sheath and turned, cutting the throat of one of his guards in a single stroke. The man he killed collapsed with barely any noise but a gurgle and a thud.

"That's two out of five," she heard Tollett say,"Two for two days. If we keep this up, we'd be done before week's end. Satin, remove the lady's fetters."

The other guardsmen raised his hood, revealing the youthful face that she knew. Her heart sank, as she knew that he had failed. He produced a set of keys and strode before her, kneeling to unlock the fetters.

As they fell away, Tollett instructed,"Give her a cloak."

She had frozen from her shock, but now she regained her sense. Melisandre could not tell why this man had slain his own.

"I should not be surprised," she thought,"This man gave a knife to his Lord Commander. Why would he free me then?"

"I need no cloak," she answered.

"Your red cloak shimmers too brightly," Tollett answered,"Only black can hide in the night."

"You can hide nothing under the Great Other's eye," she thought,"He is blind in the light, but the night is his kingdom."

"The brighter the fire," she thought,"The darker the shadow. The Lord's grace will protect me from his foe's eye."

She accepted the black cloak, though the ruby at her throat still pulsed with life.

"What do you wish?" she asked.

"Here is not the place to speak," he said,"Marsh's ears may be lurking in these halls. We must go elsewhere. Come."

"Why would he fear Marsh," Melisandre thought,"He betrayed Lord Snow to gain his favour."

She knew,"A traitor would fear every man's ire, even that of his own kind, for he knows himself unrighteous."

"What does he wish to do with a red priestess," she thought,"to attempt the folly of his sworn brothers?"

Melisandre had no other choice, so she followed Tollett and Satin. They marched down the hall, past chambers that had two guards each stationed at them. She judged that it was where the two queens were held. One of the guards laid on his spear, eyes fluttering between sleep and duty. It was not uncommon for those that do not believe to feel the mortal strain. They did not give any indication of knowing that she walked away.

At the gate, they were greeted by a pair of guards.

"Lord Steward," they grunted.

"Ulmer," Tollett said,"Mully. The gods have granted us a most lovely night."

"Better than the last, at the very least," the orange-haired watchman said,"I am tired of shovelling corpses into those firepits."

"I heard Yarwyck's light on builders," Tollett replied,"Perhaps you should ask him to take on that duty, if you're tired of being under my command."

"And spend my days hauling about ice chunks for that crude man,' he answered,"I'd rather not."

"Where is Left-Hand Lew?" the other watchman asked.

"Jeren was falling asleep," Tollett said,"I did not wish to disturb his slumber in the wake of recent events, and a tired man does not do his duty well. I left Lew to guard the doors to the princess's chambers in his place."

"Why have you brought the red witch?" he questioned further.

"We've received a missive from Winterfell," Tollett replied,"Lord Marsh wishes her attendance. For what, I do not know."

The watchmen did not pose any further questions, and they sauntered into Castle Black's courtyard. Clouds had blinded the full moon above, so only the dim glow of the torchlight shone upon the grounds. They met some men, but none gave them a second glance. The black cloak worked, after all.

She had expected to be led to one of the halls, but she soon found herself before the ravenry. Their boots crunched onto the fallen snow.

They entered the empty hall, then trudged up a series of winding stars.

At last, they came to a chamber at the ravenry's rookery. An old man was waiting for them, and Melisandre entered a dimly lit room.

Beyond the window, Melisandre saw the night skies to the south. They betrayed no light save the glitter of a distant star.

"Clydas," Tollett greeted.

"Edd," the old man welcomed,"You've brought her."

"Why does he wish me here?" Melisandre thought,"What raven does he wish a red priestess to send?"

"Does she know?" Clydas asked.

"Only what the others do," Tollett replied,"I dared not tell her the truth lest Marsh's ears catch it."

"Very well," Clydas sighed, then started slowly,"M'lady would have heard that the Watch received a raven from Winterfell that bore Lord Bolton's will."

"I have heard," she answered, unknowing of his true intent.

"We did receive a raven from Winterfell," he said,"but it was not by Bolton's hand. It was signed and sealed by King Stannis of the House Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

"King Stannis," her heart leapt,"Is it so that His Grace lives? Could it be that the letter was a lie, and His Grace had won the North?"

"Stannis Baratheon won the Battle of Winterfell," Clydas continued,"He vanquished the Bastard's host upon the fields of snow. The Bastard's head now rots on a spike outside the Great Hall. The other letter was a lie, a conjuration by one of the Bastard's remaining men in an attempt to gain the Watch's loyalty. Unfortunately, they succeeded. The Watch betrayed its lord for an unjust cause that was already lost. Marsh and Yarwyck then ordered me to send a letter to Winterfell, boasting of our treason and asking for reward from our new master."

"King Stannis responded," Tollett said,"We burned the letter for fear that a traitor's hand would lay upon it, but here are his words. He condemned Castle Black for its treason against their chosen lord. He vows to march north and right what was wrong, bringing justice and order to the Wall. He demands that all true men of the Watch rise to overthrow the traitors. He demands also that his daughter and wife would not be harmed, nor the wildling princess and her nephew. Curiously, he did not mention you. If any harm is laid upon them, he vows that he will burn Castle Black to the ground if need be and make his own Watch. We did not wish to warn Marsh and the other mutineers of the coming storm lest he try to escape, so we made another letter. This we signed in the name of the Bastard, and told what Marsh wanted to hear. It will soothe him until Stannis arrives to bring justice to the traitors. We have not the strength to oppose him, but we shall in the end. There are true men in the Night's Watch, and we shall rise to avenge our lord."

"King Stannis lives," she thought in ecstasy,"Could it be that I was wrong? The Lord shielded him against all odds. He is Azor Ahai, who has the aid of the Lord to complete his will. Though if Stannis is the Lord's chosen, what is Lord Snow? Does he still live in that wolf?"

Her eyes fell on Clydas, for there was another matter that concerned her.

"How did he forge the Bastard's seal?" she wondered. She pushed that thought away, for other matters demanded her grace.

"What do you wish of me?" Melisandre asked the watchmen.

"Escape Castle Black, and act as a token of our loyalty," Tollett spoke,"King Stannis marches north, marching against Castle Black. Tell them that he has loyal men within the gates, willing to aid him."

"I also do not wish to be hanged alongside Marsh and the mutineers," Tollett continued,"When I came upon the Lord Commander, he was already beyond rescue, bleeding out upon the snows. Alf of Runnymudd was just pulling out his knife, his eyes streaked with remorseful tears. Though he felt little of that as he struck his lord. Jon was barely breathing when I came upon him. He was dead, but I could still do much to aid his remaining men as the new lord took charge. I had to gain the new lord's trust, damned my honour. Though my honour was already damned to the Seven Hells when I decided to don a black cloak. I couldn't save him even if I were not in full view of all the eyes of the Watch that were waiting for my move."

"I knew" Tollett stared at the fire," that I had to live another day in Marsh's good graces, so that I may save Jon's men, and also avenge him in the future. So I put Jon out of his misery. My hand had never felt so stained, but I had sworn to win no glory. All I sullied my honour I did as the future required, and I did as my oath bid. When King Stannis marches north, so I wish you to hear my words and bear witness to my truth."

"Our men hold the gate tonight,"Tollett looked at Melisandre again," and you may escape this castle and Marsh's grasp. We will provide you with garrons, and Satin and Horse will escort you as far as Mole's Town. The Lady Alys will shield you there. She would not give you to Marsh should his men arrive later, as she sees no gain in aiding the Boltons. The wildlings there are too numerous for the few of the Watch to attack in force. You should be safe there, until Stannis arrives on his march north."

"What of the princess and the queen?" Melisandre asked.

"Fox men guard their doors," Tollett shook his head,"who would cry the moment that they bleed. We would not save the princess and the queen without alerting half the castle."

Melisandre nodded,"They could save them another day. What mattered was that King Stannis is alive, and I am free."

"My lord," Clydas interjected,"My lady. We still have another matter we need to discuss."

"Satin," he said, pointing,"Bring me the letters on that table."

"Yes," the steward replied, and brought the old man what he asked.

"These letters we wrote to all the castles of along the Wall," Clydas said,"I was forced to send what Marsh asked of me, falsely accusing Lord Snow of treason and presenting the mutineers as righteous arisers dissatisfied with Lord Snow's ills. This second letter would tell them the truth."

"I have spoken to Lady Selyse," Tollett spoke,"and I have her seal. We may send the letters tonight."

"You need not use this seal," Melisandre said,"It would serve better to use King Stannis's to convince the castles of the Wall of its truth. The king's would command better than a queen's."

She produced a seal from beneath the folds of her robe.

"Very well," Clydas spoke. The burning stag shone upon melting wax, and Clydas prepared the ravens.

"We have only three left that we trained for the new castles after we sent out the last flock," he told her,"but it shall be enough. As long as the ones to Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower succeed, the truth would be known."

As she watched the fields beyond the window, she saw the clouds suddenly part to reveal the full glory of the moon. Clydas released the ravens into the silent night. Naught stirred as their wings beat through the skies.

"We have to go," she heard Tollett say.

They rushed down the stairs, and ran from the keep into the courtyard.

"The stables," he heard Satin gasp,"Matthar has the gate tonight."

"I'll hold them," Tollett spoke as he ran off into the shadows.

They came upon the stables, and saw that a watchman had already prepared three steeds.

"Thank you, Horse," she heard Satin say.

"It is nothing," the watchman replied, mounting one of the steeds.

In the gloom between two buildings, she heard an unmistakable growl. It was soft, but there all the same. A white direwolf loped into view. Dirt and what she thought looked like dried blood stained the flanks of his fur.

It came before her, staring knowingly at her with his red eyes as he had that day in her tower. Yet the eyes that gazed at her that day had been the eyes of a man. These eyes now were the eyes of a beast

The wolf turned and bounded towards the direction of the gate, resting at Satin's side. "Curious."

"My lady, hurry," she heard Satin urge.

She mounted a chestnut garron, and looked to the courtyard. A horn had sounded, rallying the men to a disturbance.

Melisandre saw Satin mount another garron, and the three of them rode for the gate. The white wolf followed their trail.

When they approached the iron portcullis, they saw it open, a shadow above it. They rode on through, and the shadow fled as they turned their heads back.

They soon outdistanced the range of Castle Black's bows. The gate never opened behind them, and pursuers never emerged.

She prayed to the Lord, thanking him for his grace in allowing her escape.

Melisandre gazed at the white wolf loping at her side. Lord Snow no longer lived in that wolf. "So where," her eyes looked up, at the Night's Watch rider with those same black hair, long face, and skin of a boy. Yet his eyes were still green.

She looked ahead upon the road where her eyes should be. King Stannis had claimed victory, as Azor Ahai was fated to achieve. Her faith rekindled and her choker burned ever with heat, bading her faith to never waver beneath the Lord's eye again. All he asked became truth, all he intended became victory. The future lay beyond the road, where only fire light the path.

 

[Mockingbird]

DAENERYS
​

It seemed a life ago when Jhaqo's khalasar found Dany on the sodden grass. They had gaped then at her child towering above them, then at Dany in her tattered gown. She had looked at them, with the blood of the horse in her mouth.

There had been one question that lingered always on the lips of those Dothraki.

"What is that beast?" it was the first words that tumbled from the riders as they beheld Dany and her child.

Dany wanted to answer, trying to remember the Dothraki word for dragon, but she could not.

She knew that it was Jhaqo's riders, her husband's ko who had betrayed him.

"Khal Jhaqo. It seems now," Dany had thought,"No longer a servant."

She looked at them, at Jhaqo and his men, disgust rising as she remembered what they had done. The boldest amongst them dared to approach, but their steeds balked when Drogon merely hissed. They knew the silent word, that fire was waiting if they tried again.

Jhaqo gazed at her, his eyes wandering as if to grasp some distant thought. It was the same cold eyes that only dared to kill the girl Dany had saved, yet too craven to challenge her sun and stars.

"What is that beast?" the women had said as well when they rode here at Jhaqo's summons.

Drogon had allowed one to come near Dany, a thin woman with a pointed nose. She seemed to know that Dany spoke the Dothraki tongue.

Dany rose at her words and rode with them, knowing that there was no other path. The Dothraki had given her a mount, though she did not know where this path would lead. At least, Khal Jhaqo and his riders never sought to come near her after Drogon breathed a burst of flame that set the grasses afire.

"What is that beast?" the thin Dothraki woman had ridden beside Dany and pestered her with the same lone question. She never even thought to ask Dany's name. Dany seldom answered, and this ride was a silent one. None but this woman would dare come near her, and she spoke little of the khal's will.

All this silent ride, Dany had wondered of her city. She had wondered of her old knight, of her brave captain, even her perfumed king.

Drogon could not fly, and she could not go back. She looked at her child with pitying eyes, and it occurred to her that fate had brought her to the Dothraki for a reason. Her city was aflame, but Drogon had brought her here. Dragons were fire made flesh, the works of the gods. A dragon's course is the mark of fate, and she is marked by fate to ride amongst the Dothraki. Dany was marked to claim amongst these riders her victory.

The khalasar sailed across the Dothraki Sea. In the boundless plains, rolling currents swept about the riders. The grasses lapped the hooves of their horses like waves of silver and glass.

It made her remember an old tale, of valiant knights riding seahorses to battle the horrors of the seas. In those tales, the horrors were monsters. Wily serpents and great krakens, terrible leviathans with thousands of glistening eyes.

"And dragons," Dany recalled,"They always fought dragons in the end."

Above the ghostly turfs, the horses swam across these flowing waters. Her own saddle bucked and swayed as if on the deck of her beloved Balerion . Balerion , which she saw broken on her wartorn shores.

The winds were the same, always the same, whistling through the bells upon a warrior's braid.

The bells had chimed through the night, and she remembered when she had slept under a sea of stars. She remembered all the nights, cool in their caress, and she almost thought that she was back in Drogo's arms. Dany would have liked to pretend that the bells were his, the cascading braid of unbroken victories that had never frayed.

Her bells had never rung the same. With each battle she won, there was another she had lost. Her kingdom fell as her enemies grew. "It ended as it began, in fire and blood and ruin."

In the khalasar, she felt as though she was with him again, with his laughter and his warmth and his bells. He returned in the singing winds, yet just as soon he was gone again, stolen past the empty horizon. The night passed as that wind did, in a taste that felt like home.

Dany had broken the shackles of ancient cities and heard the joy of millions. They called her queen, called her liberator, and called her mother. Yet it seemed only now that she herself was truly free.

The bells on the riders danced to the flames of the torches they held. A red dawn shone before them, and some began to blow them out. Dany felt the rising sun kiss her cheeks with warmth, and the candles were growing ever dimmer.

"When the sun rises," Dany closed her eyes,"the candles die."

"It is known," she would have heard her handmaid say, if Irri were still by her side.

"It is known," Jhiqui would have echoed.

"It is known," Doreah was always the last.

When their voices faded, Dany's gaze opened to the dawn.

It was her dawn, alone. Her sun and stars will never rise again. He could never grace the ride with his might. Only these endless candles remained to rule these grasses, dim mirrors that bore only a flicker of her sun's light.

All the torches in the world would be nothing to the sun that would rise.

"Jhaqo's khalasar," Dany looked amongst the Dothraki she rode amongst now. He was his husband's rider, a lord of her husband's men, yet in the end her husband's servant.

His followers were many, but never the glory of Drogo's.

They were the ones that rose as her husband fell. Her husband had fought, had been betrayed, and had died, just as Rhaegar and her father had been.

It was a dragon they made of Dany, a dragon to bring fire to the world. The gods had blessed her with children that no mother had ever known, a kingdom of children she lived to protect.

"To break all the shackles," Dany remembered,"To set the world free. To be the queen I promised myself to be." It was a kingdom she would rule in justice, in the golden cities and the Seven Kingdoms. "A dragon always flies."

Yet her peace broke like ash, her hosts an empty shade. Her children were naught more than stars in a forbidden sky. The world shattered her reign, and cast her amongst the ones that remained. She lay now in the forgotten honour of a great khalasar's scattered piece.

A mother had wanted to set all her children free, and bring them a peace a queen would bring. Dany showed them fire and light, yet the world wished to remain in darkness.

Dany knew, though, that there was victory at the end of the road. She had failed in her husband's khalasar, but it had made her a queen. She had failed in Meereen, but it had made her a dragon. The hardships she bore in the Dothraki Sea had a purpose to serve. After all the suffering, there was a light at the end. There was victory.

Her battles led her here to the Dothraki, to these lands of her memory. It cast her to these men she had lost long ago, riding amongst them as Dany the princess did in the flower of her years. At long last, fate had led her to a place where she could claim her crown.

Fire was catching, the world was burning, and in the ashes she would rise.

"What are your words?" the winds seemed to ask her.

She knew the answer, certain now as she would be in all her days to come,"Fire and blood." Those words had been the path of all her house before her to their kingdom. It was her path as well.

"The last dragon," Dany remembered who she was,"The last. The last."

"A dragon withers when it cannot fly," she decided. There was naught left for her if she stood by meekly. She must fly, to take her kingdom. She must take this leap and fly, to have this final taste of triumph.

Far away, her kingdom was burning. There was her duty, mirrored in her shadows with the dragons amongst the stars.

She turned and watched the khalasar ride,"What makes a peace of dragons?"

"Fire and blood," she thought,"Blood and fire."

She knew naught but one thing,"If I look back, I am lost."

"I should answer," Dany tired of her own silence now. She was to win her victory here, and these people would be hers. What queen makes herself cold and distant that none would know to bow?

Dany knew that she must make herself a queen. A queen of a golden city, with fire in her hair. A queen who stood proud above all that lived, with a breathless beauty that her subjects would marvel to behold. Drogo would have liked that. Daario as well, with his penchant for the fairest and fiercest of lovers. Even Viserys, if she had been his queen. "And they could not build back a fallen kingdom, not as I would."

Dany fought the urge to call for Drogon, and hope beyond hope that her child could fly her past the distant sea, where there was sure to be a place of dreams. Yet Dany knew that she could run no more. After all her trials, she would make her victory here amongst the Dothraki. Her dream was truly here, and it was to raise her voice from silence. She heard those words again,"What is that beast?"

"His name is Drogon," Dany answered the Dothraki woman,"He's my child."

The woman looked at Dany, and her eyes mirrored her whisper,"Monster."

"Your khal is the monster here," Dany felt a boiling urge,"Drogon is the fire that burns the monsters away."

The khal had not shown himself to Dany yet, and she knew why. He was craven, as craven as the slavers who surrendered their cities on a whim. He feared fire. He feared the fire that burned within Drogon's maw. Even more, he feared the fire that shone from Dany's own soul. Dany supposed that she could speak with this woman until the khal dares to show himself.

"Drogon is my child," she said to the woman,"in the same way that a horse is a khal's. A swift steed is as dear as any son. It is known, is it not?"

"It is known," the woman agreed, and turned away.

"How far is the camp?" Dany asked,"Is that where your khal rides?"

"The camp is around us," the woman hesitantly met Dany's eyes again,"We had entered it before the darkness waned. All these plains are the places of our horses, and the places of our camp, though our tents lie only over that hill. This is where we rest, before we ride to war on the morrow."

"War?" Dany felt her tongue grow stiff.

"The khal seeks to raid the Golden Cities," the woman answered.

"The Golden Cities," Dany remembered. It was the Dothraki name for the slaver cities south of the Dothraki Sea. Astapor. Yunkai. Volantis. "And Meereen." It seemed that fate had prepared this host for her. She was brought here so that these riders could rally for her against all her slaver foes.

"Why?" she could not help but wonder.

"The cities are weak from the march of this silver woman," the woman replied,"The khal had long thought to ride for the south, but the tall walls and sharp spears of the Golden Cities would drive any khalasar away. Yet their might has faded, when this silver woman laid their cities to ash. The khal said that this is the dawn to ride, to claim all in their kingdoms for our own. It is a chance that the Mother of Mountains gave us, once in all our endless nights under the stars. Our khalasar rides to victory."

"They ride to me," Dany knew,"To my city." The woman seemed to not know who Dany was. Her silver hair had burned away in Drogon's fire. Did Jhaqo himself truly know? In any case, he would know soon enough. Dany was not the girl that he had abandoned so long ago. They were riding to her, after all, and they would soon know about her. They would soon know about the fire and blood in her path to her crown. There was a choice, to either follow her or face the doom. This khalasar was soon to be hers for her to claim her victory.

"Who will the khal ride against in the Golden Cities?" Dany asked, wondering if somehow fate forbid they march against her,"Does he seek to strike against the silver woman?"

"The silver woman is Khal Drogo's widow," the woman replied,"He is far from her foe, and seeks to make common cause with her. With her great beasts that the riders said drowned cities in fire. With the Unsullied and Westerosi steel that tremble the land. Together with this silver woman, he would conquer the Golden Cities as even Khal Drogo had never done. It is silken masters who are the silver woman's foe, and they would be his foe as well. She made us opportunity in the south, opportunity that no khal had known for centuries."

The cinders kindled in Dany's heart, and the grasses below seemed to rise ,"A dragon withers when it cannot fly. The last dragon will not wither. The last dragon will fly." The light was always there, and just now she saw it. It was the light of fire.

"Drogon," she called, her voice as sharp as the western wind ,"He will come this time." This khalasar would find more than a city waiting for them. Her children in Meereen would find more than a woman's return. They would find their queen. A gale was coursing through her soul, through her blood the tips of her fingers. Dany held onto her reins, and smiled. At long last, her suffering had brought her victory.

Dany's child answered with a screech that made the horses stumble in fear. She only felt warmth as she held firm onto the reins, calming her steed, her eyes fixed on Drogon. The breeze curled about her child's wings, and for the first time in days, Dany knew that his heart was one with hers. It was the first in days when she knew that she would ride. Drogon's fury came to her, and dust rose to greet his landing.

It was not only Drogon's shadow that emerged from the dust. Dany squinted, and there were the hooves that echoed beneath her child's wings. Upon those steeds sat the khal, men she supposed were his bloodriders, and a dozen other horsemen. An instant ago, Dany would have not let them approach. Yet it seemed now that they were who she wished to see.

The dragon loomed above, with scales that shone in the golden sun. That light's warm kiss fell on Dany's cheek, a glory that curled about her. Her child was at her side, and it sent all the steeds scurrying. All but her own, as she held her reins. She knew the look that ruled the faces of all the others in this host, whether woman or man or boy. Every rider urged their horses to turn to her.

Dany looked to her child, in the strength that he had grown to be. There was a beauty that she had never noticed before, not in the Red Waste and not in the slaver cities and not in Daznak's Pit. Drogon had grown into the glimmering marvel that stories told of the dragonlords. He would be the marvel that the songs this day would tell doubtless of the dragon queen and her victory. Like the thousand times Dany had before, she was proud that Drogon was her own.

It was a miracle that Drogon finally obeyed her, but it nevertheless a marvel to behold. It was an omen that her victory was to come.

Dany looked to the riders,"The khal and his own. They come now, when my dragon flies."

"Daenerys Targaryen," it was the khal who spoke. It settled that stone in her heart, that the khal knew her name,"We bear our greetings."

"I wished to speak to you, my khal," Dany answered,"but you always lingered away. If you seek to receive your khaleesi, it would not be with silence."

"And what have you wished to say?"Jhaqo asked.

"I am at odds with myself," Dany said,"on your worthiness. The bells upon your braid held little honour in all the days you rode under my husband. You forsook him, your khal, and turned your back on all your oaths. I heard that Ko Jhaqo made off with his horses to make his own khalasar, and made himself Khal. You abandoned me and my child to the wastes. So forgive me if I am vexed as to why you seek me now."

If Jhaqo was taken aback, he did not show it,"I had spat on your name, that is true, and left you when I saw no hope. I would not seek you nor the whims of Drogo's babe had not the Mother of Mountains brought us together again. Yet the past lies in the shadows, and has no worth. Days pass, and a foal becomes a stallion. The days we hold dear should be the days we now know. You have carved out your khalasar in the Golden Cities, and I mine in the Dothraki Sea. You have forged your strength, and I seek you for that. We should deal with the khalasars that we can see."

"I daresay that Uneah has told you why I rode south with my riders, and it is true. It is true that your power promised us the great riches of the masters, but the mighty's plunder is not all I ride for. We ride for you as well. For the silver woman who has brought the Golden Cities low, the strength of her whip unrivaled in the world. In you and your great beasts, we find a fire that can lead the Dothraki to glory once again, to our ancient conquests across every land under the stars. To you we will bow. To you I will bow. I offer you myself and my twenty thousand horsemen."

Dany did not expect it, but the riders began to dismount, striding before her. Each of them pulled out their daggers, raised them against their braids, and soon a mass of dark locks fell at the hooves beneath Dany.

Jhaqo himself dismounted, walking slowly, coming to her last. Dany watched him, her eyes as quiet as cinders. "And yours?" she asked.

The khal put his dagger to his hair, but cut off only a strand.

"I am at your service," the khal said as she looked at him in confusion,"yet I still have your khalasar to lead. A khal's braid never falls easy, and the horde will never follow a braidless rider. I still have to lead the khalasar in your name. I can only lay this at your feet, my khaleesi, and you will know, between you and me."

He bent his knee and placed the strand amidst the grass, alone from all the others.

Dany dismounted, and turned away from him. She walked to Drogon, and nuzzled his snout. He rubbed back against her palm, and she felt a touch of warmth. Victory was hers, the first steps of building her new kingdom.

"Arise," she turned,"my khal. My riders. Arise."

They did, standing before her.

"But I am no khaleesi,"she started.

"Queen." the khal answered in the Common Tongue.

"Yes," Dany agreed,"Queen."

Khal Jhaqo pointed at the distant hill, beyond which the morning mists were fading,"Your people are waiting in the camp."

Dany stroked the flowing scales on Drogon's snout, which seemed to soothe her child,"And their queen shall come."

Drogon's eyes, however, did not look back at her, glazing at the khal with a fearsome snarl.

Khal Jhaqo glanced at her uneasily,"My queen. That is the most magnificent of great beasts. It is a beast made for war, raining fire and dread and death. It is the mark of the mightiest khal, a might that can break all your foes under the stars. With the beast, the greatest khal is you. I have heard that battle still rages within your cities. Why is your greatest power not there to aid your hosts in war? Its formidable power is wasted languishing in the Dothraki Sea, and power should never go to waste. Send your dragon to lead the battle in Meereen, and our riders will follow."

"A dragon withers when it cannot fly," Dany thought, the words forming behind her lips,"and so do dragons here. My child withered, as he followed only me."

She did not need Drogon here, after all. A dragon's flame was only needed in war. The Dothraki had bent to her, and she had already won this battle. She had made her peace here, having claimed victory in the Dothraki Sea.

It was in Meereen where her child should be, as the city still burned in the flames of war. Meereen was where the dragon's flame could serve her realm, waging her battles with fire and blood.

In the Dothraki Sea, the dragon withered. Meereen was where the dragon could fly.

"Go, Drogon," she said gently to her child,"Go back to Meereen, and let them know that fate leads me back. I will return, with the mightiest of hosts that will break all my foes, whose bells will tear the morning asunder as they raise my banner high above all others."

Drogon did not move at first, his eyes fixed on the khal. At Dany's urging, he relented at last, taking one lingering look at the Dothraki lord. He swept his eyes to her, and there was a softening in the molten glow of his crimson pupils. Her child dipped his head ever so slightly. With an ear splitting thunderclap, he took to the skies. He never looked back as he flew towards the horizon. His wings glimmered gold in the light of dawn, but that lone shimmer grew distant, and soon faded into the clouds.

Shouts turned Dany's eyes from the skies. Far away, she saw a mound of dust arise over the distant hill. She watched as riders emerged from them, galloping towards her. As Dany remembered the woman's words, she knew it was the hill overlooking the khalasar's tents beyond.

"They ride here, to us," Jhaqo said, and held out his hand to her,"Shall we?"

Dany took his hand, and let him lift her onto her horse. He mounted beside her, and so did all the riders that bowed to her. Their horses seemed at peace now that Drogon had left.

"Jhaqo was right," Dany decided,"My child is the terror that they all fear, and they tremble and bow before his mother." She was certain now of her victory, borne of fire and blood.

The riders in the distance drew near, and joined them. They gave Jhaqo his honours, becoming part of his following. Dany was at the centre of the host with the khal and his bloodriders, and they gave her honours as well in greeting.

"My riders," Dany raised her head to look at the growing number of horses surrounding them,"My khalasar, that Jhaqo pledged to me. Their might will break all my foes. Those against me will tremble, now and always."

It had been a life since her heart had felt such fury, when victory was in her hands.

"A life ago," Dany tasted the memory,"when I was still the conqueror of cities."

An endless camp stretched beneath the hill. Jhaqo's khalasar had taken the strength of her husband's old host, and here they were, at her command again. There were winds flowing atop the hill as they looked beyond their perch. It was a gentle wind, a western wind. It was the wind of home. The echoes of bells were faintly ringing.

Dany's eyes wandered to the homely tents that dotted the landscape, cinders rising from the cookfires in their midst. It was this camp that was her true palace, one that devoured the earth in its ethereal beauty.

A cluster of Dothraki folk had assembled before their encampment, facing Dany's company. She knew that they did it for her.

Dany spurred her mount forward and descended the hill, feeling the soothing touch of the rushing winds.

There were all manners of folk that came before her, old men with greying beards and young boys as green as a leaf. Women with the easy smiles of summer maids in company with the glad smirks of wizened crones. There were children, boys and girls alike, restless as they stood silent before Dany. This crowd was here to greet her. They were here to greet their queen. "This is the mark of my triumph, the love of my people."

Dany was a dragon as much as Drogon was. Her people bowed not to her great child, but to her.

She heard the hooves of the other riders following in her wake, but she dismounted. She stowed her thoughts of them away for the moment, and faced her people.

They stared at her expectantly, waiting for her answer. Dany answered, and walked forward. She walked amongst them, feeling their hearts.

Their arms brushed hers, roughspun cloth against Dany's weathered skin, and the touch was the softest she had ever known. Their heads turned to follow her as she went, and she met all the eyes she could see.

It was a smile that she offered about her. Yet wherever she came and saw, the eyes she met became stone. All their smiles died.

All about her, the folk were moving. They were reaching into their cloaks. As they removed their hands, Dany saw the bright glitter of daggers.

The first bite was in her back, and made her breath come short.

A second followed, then a third, and then so many that their pain blurred into one. She could only feel the warmth of blood, each breath a burning that was dimmer than the last.

The earth graced her fall, and the lands below were soft. Lying upon it, Dany could see the world above, bright in the day. Behind it, the night would be filled with stars.

The earth below was warm. So was the grass.

 

[Mockingbird]

THE DESERTER
​

For so long, Satin had been the hunted. Tonight, he was the hunter.

He tasted the air, and tasted winter. The air was cold and musty beneath the shadows of the forest. In it, he tasted the winds from the north that tore relentlessly at his tongue. And there was snow. He tasted snow.

The flurries of snow were sweet and tender until they were cold and reeking of dirt. The land drowned in snow. Winter has come. Snow was an ill omen, and legend told that it was the reason northmen named their bastards Snow. But there were men like Jon Snow, and Satin doubted that legend.

"Satin," Satin heard Horse snap,"You're treading onto the snow. Come back."

"Yes," he thought. He shouldn't tread from his place. That was what a steward of the Night's Watch was bid to do. Yet he was no longer a steward, for his lord was dead.

A bite of cold swept beneath Satin's hood, and he bit his lip.

He did not feel pain as he remembered the cold of knives piercing flesh. And the cold of a brother's eyes. Of a servant. Of a ranger, Of a friend. Only the cold. That was how his lord had died. That was how a hero had died.

Yet there was a small way, where the fallen lord could live on.

He felt Ghost nudge his leg, the great white direwolf bounding beside him. He looked at the wolf. The wolf knows. He knew what Satin intended to do. Snow, the incessant voice echoed in his head, urging him on. Snow. Snow. Snow.

His legs touched the snowbank, and he found that he was still drifting off the path. Horse's warning burrowed deep into ear and memory, and he spurred his garron away from the snow. For the moment.

"Thank the Seven," Horse shouted at him,"Satin, I thought for a moment that you were possessed by the devil." Satin did not reply.

"You should thank the Lord," the Red Woman's voice was as sweet as wilk,"The heathen Seven of the south are the true devils that possess a man's soul. But you are free of them, are you, Satin?"

He was certain. There was one voice in his head, and that was his own. With all those men in Oldtown, he could only find one little solace. Whenever others entered, his mind was still his own.

"Suffering," the Red Woman said,"All around us, despair in the snow and its cold. The mark of the Old Gods of the North, heathen devils who bring ice and darkness. Yet our torches burn against the cold of heathen devils. Our fire burns against the cold, warming us. That fire is the fire of the Lord of Light."

Satin did not know what to answer, but that the fire was foreign to him. Fire was the power that burned Lord Snow away. He felt one with the snow. Snow. Snow. Jon Snow.

They were nearing their destination now, and Satin felt the duty well up in his bones. Ghost snarled, and Satin grasped his reins.

"Who goes there?" a spearwife of the Free Folk appeared with a bow in her hand.

She was alone, but Satin knew that somewhere in the undergrowth a dozen more Free Folk. All archers, with bows aimed at their hearts.

He pulled at his reins, and his garron reared onto a nearby snowdrift. He felt little fear, for he sensed that it was not the watchmen that the Free Folk feared. It was the Red Woman. Satin could do this duty well enough. Ghost did not bare his fangs.

The bows of the Free Folk aimed at him, yet he knew that it was much safer than it had been in Castle Black. At least Satin knew which in the Free Folk were true friends. And neither false nor true friends would slaughter watchmen and risk their friendship with the Watch. Marsh's riders were not here yet to tell them of the desertions. That was why Satin had come here first.

"Men of the Night's Watch," Horse shouted to answer the spearwife,"and Lady Melisandre of Asshai, here on business of the Watch."

"What business?" the spearwife asked.

Satin knew what Horse would answer. Sanctuary against the Watch's present lord. The princess Val had taken the Bastard's letter with her when she fled yesterday to the town with Mance Rayder's son. The Bastard wanted the skins of the Free Folk, and Marsh had made common cause with this Lord of Winterfell.

Ed has planned it all. He sent Tormund and the Free Folk at Castle Black north to gather their hosts from Hardhome. He sent Satin and his company to win the loyalty of the south, of the Magnar and all House Thenn in Mole's Town. Both the Free Folk from the north and the south would come upon Castle Black with Ed's watchmen within, and Marsh's Wall would fall. Yet Ed's plans only went so far.

That answer would gain Satin protection in Mole's Town, but it was not enough. There were duties beyond surviving past the next night.

Satin remembered what Princess Val told him that night. Ed's plans lacked a cause to rally behind. The cause against the Boltons and their men was only a headless snake. And all snakes need heads. The princess told Satin what to do.

"On the business of Lord Commander Jon Snow," Satin shouted.

All the folk about him retreated half a step. The bushes rustled, confirming his suspicions that there were indeed hunters hiding in them.

"I heard Lord Snow was dead," the first spearwife lowered her bow.

"Of course you think he is dead," Satin answered,"That's what Marsh and Yarwyck told you to keep up their farce of a rule. In truth, Jon Snow lives on."

"Where is King Crow if he lives?" a gnarly voice sounded from the bush, and a bearded man sporting a panther pelt emerged. Satin sensed that he was their leader, and that he was no friend of Lord Snow.

"Somewhere this side of the Wall," Satin answered,"Rallying men against Marsh and the mutineers."

"In hiding," Satin wanted to add, yet that was not true and the Free Folk despised cowardice.

The bearded man did not press further, a greedy light entering his eyes. He pursed his cracked lips,"What business does King Crow bid us?"

"Has Val shown you the parchment of the Lord of Winterfell?" Satin asked.

"Aye," the man answered,"Mance Rayder's sister arrived yestermorn, and the Magnar read us what was on that parchment in the square of Mole's Town."

"Then you will know," Satin said," that the Lord of Winterfell has vanquished Stannis Baratheon in the snows, has peeled the skins off the King-Beyond-the-Wall and his women, and threatens now to march north and finish the Free Folk. Marsh mutinied against Lord Snow to make common cause with this Lord of Winterfell. Lord Snow escaped his knives, rallying his men against these foes. He sent us to ask for the Magnar's aid."

Another rustle answered Satin, and he saw half a dozen hunters emerge from the bushes. One of them stepped forward, a black-eyed youth with his bow slung across his shoulder.

"My Lord of Drums," he approached the bearded man,"This is not for us to decide. We must take him to the Magnar who will wish to hear of it."

"Aye," the Lord of Drums said, and saved his hand. The Free Folk slung their bows over their shoulders and surrounded Satin.

The Lord of Drums turned to them,"If you would like to see the Magnar, then come." He walked off, vanishing into the snows. The Free Folk around Satin's company urged them forward.

Satin found that the first spearwife had sauntered to his garron, and it made him feel uneasy.

"Is it true," the spearwife opened her lips after a while,"that Lord Snow is gathering men against our foe?"

"Of course," Satin said,"He bid me, his steward, to tell the Magnar."

The spearwife nodded, and smiled,"It seems that there is still hope for us to pass the winter. Know that even if the Magnar says nay, my father the Lord of Drums will lend his band to Lord Snow's aid. My father might hate Lord Snow, but he hates this Lord of Winterfell even more."

"You have my thanks," Satin answered.

The spearwife's smile widened, and Satin wondered if the red on her cheeks was a blush or the cold.

"Satin," Satin heard Horse's voice, and turned to meet his companion. He noticed that the spearwife walked away, an older man replacing her.

"Satin," Horse repeated.

"What is it?" Satin asked.

"You and Lord Tollett should have told me that Lord Snow was alive," Horse said,"He was more than a lord to all of us. He was like an elder brother, stren and dutiful. Distant, but only distant as to teach us how to survive the winter. He was a lord that all of us loved. If I knew that he still lived, that he was still there to follow, I would have…"

"You could have done nothing," Satin said,"The knowledge would have done you no more than risking Marsh knowing. I'm sorry, but we could not take the risk.

Horse nodded,"It's alright. So that was Ed's plan. I always knew that the body was false, another of Marsh's farces. There is a man to follow again."

Satin smiled, but his smile wilted as his gaze fell upon the Red Woman. She was silent, so silent that Satin had forgotten that she was there. She looked at him, and Satin felt a burning fire within him devouring him whole. She suspected what the Princess Val had told him to do.

He turned away, and felt cold. The cold was numbing, comforting to the touch. All this time, he felt the eyes of the Red Woman upon him, but the cold cast her flame away.

Mole's Town was just like Castle Black, buried beneath a sea of snow. Endless white spread in all directions, covering roofs, streets, and even the grand square. It seemed that most of the Free Folk lay in the tunnels beneath the earth, for Satin saw almost none in the light of day.

He saw tracks leading every which way. North, east, west. The tracks he saw most often led south. Ghost turned around Satin, sniffing all the tracks.

Satin left his garron above the ground where the stables were, and the Lord of Drums led them below into the tunnels. Swift was the pungent odor which arose in the buried halls.

The caverns were bustling with activity, a host of Free Folk restless beneath the earth. The world was silent up above, but it was a roar beneath. Endless caverns pockmarked the tunnels, all in chaos. Men walked aimless through the hall in the same circles with no end in sight. Drinking, gambling, and fights were commonplace, but there seemed to be no pleasure in them. In each of the tunnels, there was at least one crouching silent. The Free Folk below were bored, restless, and wanted a course to set their mind to. There was no course beneath the earth except to wait for winter to pass, but there was a course above. There was war, and the Princess Val was right.

The Lord of Drums asked a wandering young man about the Magnar, and the young man answered in a spiteful voice,"The Magnar is out with a hunting party. He's a fool to not bring me."

Another man told them that the Magnar's wife was in the godswood and received all the Magnar's visitors, so that was where they set off.

There was a godswood beneath Mole's Town, and that surprised Satin. He had long heard rumors about the Old Gods who lived beneath the town, but none had truly seen the heart tree. Those that held to the Old Gods still had to go north to a heart tree beyond the Wall.

The Magnar's wife was in the godswood, kneeling before a heart tree that grew from the soil floor. A banner rose above her, a banner of a white sun on black. Satin heard the last of her prayer,"The North Remembers, and I thank you for your blessing. My father is home."

Lady Karstark heard them, turning as she rose from her prayers. She was a far cry from the thin girl who came alone to Castle Black all those days ago. Her face was plump and serene, framed by raven-black hair that fell free past her shoulders. A white fur cloak hugged her tall form, cascading like a waterfall down to the roots of the heart tree. She looked just like when Satin had last seen her, at her wedding to the Magnar when she became Lady Thenn.

Lady Thenn's eyes were warm as she turned to greet them. They fell on Satin, and her gaze turned in an instant icy cold.

"Snow," she hissed, her features twisting into hatred,"Where is Uncle Cregan? What did you do to him?"

Her ferocity stunned Satin, and he took one step back. Still, he held onto his courage and duty. He must do this, for Lord Snow.

Snow, the voice whispered within him, Snow, Snow.

"That's Sati…" Satin heard Horse begin, but Horse's mouth shut when the Red Woman shot him a glare.

For a moment, there was silence in the godswood. Then, Ghost howled. The wolf has never howled before in Satin's memory. It was a ringing sound, empty and hollow as it echoed in the walls.

"My lady," the Red Woman said,"We come in peace."

"Come in peace," Lady Thenn snarled,"With a direwolf to tear out my throat. Just like Robb Stark's wolf tore out my father's. But vengeance and justice had spoken true. The King in the North is dead. The entire wretched line of Eddard Stark is dead, ending with his bastard bleeding from a dozen knives as he deserved. The gods were true, and answered my prayers, until…"

"Oh," Satin thought. The princess played him for a fool. This entire journey was a fool's errand. He would still carry it out to the end.

"You came to us alone," Satin said,"seeking aid from Castle Black and Lord Snow."

"Where is Uncle Cregan?" Lady Thenn snarled,"What have you done to him?"

"Lord Snow did to him as you bid him to do," the Red Woman said,"but Lord Snow is not your foe. There are two men who cheered the loudest when the King in the North fell. One was King Stannis Baratheon, to whom Robb Stark was his most dangerous and vilest foe. The other was Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell to whom his trueborn brother was a barrier between him and Winterfell. When Robb Stark died, only then could Lord Snow rise. Did you know that King Stannis offered Jon Snow Winterfell? That was because all the trueborn siblings Lord Snow hated were dead. Lord Snow is not your foe."

Satin looked at the Red Woman, grateful. She knew this notion of the princess, and had saved him. She knew that Lord Snow must live to rally the Free Folk against his murderer and this Lord of Winterfell. For Lord Snow, whose name would live on. For the Red Woman's king. For Satin himself. The name would not be forgotten but would rise to soar across all the realm. That was the least Satin could do for Lord Snow.

"Has Princess Val shown you the letter?" Satin asked.

"Yes," Lady Thenn turned to him, her features composed,"We know the Bastard's words."

"Then you know that the Bastard means to march north and skin all your folk. And you are part of that folk now, my lady, the day you married the Magnar. Bowen Marsh of the Night's Watch has made common cause with the Bastard, and sought to murder Lord Snow at Castle Black. Yet Lord Snow has survived the mutiny. He gathers men now to rally against the Bastard and Marsh's traitors. Already he has won the loyalty of several chieftains who have gone beyond the Wall to gather him a host, as the Princess Val has no doubt told you. Lord Snow asks now for the Magnar's loyalty as well."

"Is that why you've come?" Lady Thenn said,"To win my husband to your cause."

"That's Satin," Horse shouted,"Lord Snow's steward."

"Clever," Lady Thenn said,"I would have donned a mummer's name as well if my name was as perilous as yours. But I know the truth."

She approached Satin and stroked his cheek,"Lord Snow would never have trusted an underling with such a vital mission to secure my husband's loyalty. And even if he did, there is still that white direwolf which never leaves Lord Snow's side. Lord Snow is not at Castle Black, or anywhere along or beyond the Wall. He is somewhere on this side of the ice, in this very town."

Satin knew that no other chance would present itself, yet there was no turning back if he took it. He did not want to look back.

"You're right," Satin said, doing as the Princess told him,"He's here. He's me."

 

[Mockingbird]

SAMWELL
​

As a boy, he had dreamed of studying at the Citadel and becoming a maester. The library of Horn Hill was not necessarily lacking in such matters, and he read up on the famed scholar guild whenever he could. His father had tolerated his behavior at first, not knowing his intents to become one of them, but then grew to realize that he had no interest in matters of war and leadership, qualities that Lord Randyll Tarly had hoped his heir would possess. Samwell had no interest in inheriting Horn Hill and he was glad to let his brother Dickon, whom Lord Tarly favored more, to inherit the title while he became one of the scholar's guild, thereby swearing an oath to forsake all claims to inheritance.

Lord Tarly was not pleased, and he presented him with the ultimatum of the Wall. Sam could still hear the echoes of his father's words,"No Tarly man would willingly wear a chain." He had hoped that Samwell would learn to become a warrior of the Night's watch or die for all he cared, as he would suffer no servants as harbingers of his legacy. He wondered what his father would think now, with Sam intending to become the maester of the Night's Watch, the very thing that Lord Tarly despised.

After all, he may need to meet his father again. Whilst he studied to become a maester, Gilly and the child would require a safe haven, with the only possibility being Horn Hill, his ancestral home.

Sam glanced around at the marble statues lining the halls of the Citadel's extensive library. It was a pity that he had to leave soon to escort Gilly and Mance's son. The sight of all these texts made him wish that he had sufficient time to sit down and devour them all.

Sam sighed. He had to keep his promise to Jon. The lord commander needed his knowledge. Though after Marwyn's words, he doubted that any texts pertaining to myths or legends would have survived. The cold had long deserted his mind, and he did not wish to revisit it anyway. But he forced himself to search. When he returned to Castle Black, he needed to be able to advise Jon as wisely as Maester Aemon had to countless Lord Commanders before. Sam had hoped to convince the maesters of the Citadel of the threat north, but after he heard the Mage's speech, it seemed far-fetched. The learned maesters in matters of proven fact would not take seriously a matter they regarded as children's fables for several millennia.

Sam turned around a corner, and up ahead he could see a ray of light shining through one of the library's many windows.

Panic seized him, as he realized that he had forgotten an important matter. He was supposed to meet Archmaester Theobald at the Seneschal's court at first light.

It had taken several stags to bribe the acolyte, as he had been annoyed by Sam's previous pestering. Though even Sam found the results instantaneous. Previously finding a thousand excuses to delay his meeting. the acolyte's mannerisms made a visible change. He was no longer sour as he had been. The acolyte had arranged a meeting for Samwell at the dawn of the next day, as the Court was closing the night when Sam bribed the gatekeeper.

"If it were not for that boy Pate," Sam thought,"I would have had this business done a day ago, and now we would be preparing for our journey."

After leaving briefly to check with Gilly and little Aemon on the Cinnamon Wind, he returned to the Citadel. To pass the time, he decided to begin his studies. Technically, he was not a student of the Citadel yet, and was not granted the privilege of accessing the library.

The Sphinx had laughed when he voiced his concern,"Maesters of the Citadel would oft go into town to visit brothels when they are sworn to a vow of celibacy. Who would care if you snuck in the library amongst the throng of other maesters?"

It appeared that in his fascination of the Citadel's books, he may have lost track of time and in all likelihood his appointment. He did not look forward to wasting any more gold on the acolyte. His remaining silver would be hard-pressed to buy a wagon, much less on bribes.

Due to his body and interests, he was never really proficient at running. The Night's Watch may have strengthened him some, but he was still as fat as a whale. He did not trouble to train on the boat rides, as he was sick enough just standing by the rolling waves, so the past months have caused his muscles to grow soft again. However, this time he managed to run faster than he ever did in his life, all thoughts of tiredness deserting his mind. He did not care for the Citadel residents that he barreled into and knocked over in his haste, muttering apologies as he ran. He could deal with those consequences later. As of now, the only thing on his mind was reaching the Archmaester's court before he decided to skip his appointment.

Fortunately, he was only slightly late. The Archmaester had not proceeded to his next arrangement.

"Samwell Tarly, "the archmaester said, without lifting his eyes from the scroll that he was writing on," May I inquire upon the reason of your tardiness?"

Realizing that his activities last night were not exactly permitted, coupled with his beating heart from the physical exertion, he panted and began to stutter,"I... I.."

"Speak," the archmaester snapped as he placed his quill in his inkpot. The Archmaester had looked up at Sam now, and his expression was hard and cold, his lips tightening into a frown.

"You faced an Other, Sam," he told himself,"They call you Sam the Slayer. Do you fear an old man?" Sam could not find comfort in that, for he feared to think of the frigid cold that had almost consumed Gilly and himself. He hardened his heart and spoke. He needed to tell the truth, damn the consequences. "I was reading in the Citadel library," he spoke, quickly and anxiously,"and lost track of time. I know that I am not permitted in there, and for that, I seek your pardon."

To his surprise, Theobald's face softened,"It is no matter. There is nothing of issue with you seeking knowledge in our archives. To be frank, I had opposed this particular law. The Citadel now guards it knowledge like a dog guards its meal. Knowledge should made known to all, not limited to us maesters. It is no great deed to lord over another because you are able to access knowledge that they are not. We used to pride ourselves on the fact that we study the workings of the world more deeply than others, and now we pride ourselves over repeating facts that our ancestors discovered long ago. Constant advancement was the norm in the days of old. as the right to arrogance was a fruit of countless innovation. Now, we have deteriorated and become stale. Forgive me for my brashness earlier. I had thought your hesitance to answer was for a deed that you knew I would not approve of. So many of my students, when they a free night, go off gallivanting in the city. I wish they were as studious as you, placing books over wine and women."

Theobald set the scroll that he was writing to the side, presumably to dry. "I apologize again," Theobald stated," for delaying you with such a long speech. I believe that you have business to discuss with me. What business would a black brother have at the Citadel?"

Sam let out a breath that he had not known he was holding, and he dared to avert his gaze to the archmaester. Only having snuck glances at the archmaester's expression after bracing himself for a flurry of lectures that was sure to follow his initial barb, he finally took stock of the archmaester's appearance. The archmaester was an old man, around sixty to seventy years in age. Not nearly as old as Maester Aemon, as his eyes still held the light of sight. His hair and beard were almost entirely white, but he still saw some brown lingering strands, a shadow of his youth. He wore the standard maester robe that he had seen on many of the maesters he had passed while at the Citadel, a monotonous grey garb bearing many pockets. It was alike in manner of design to his black cloak, only grey in color. His necklace, however, was a stark contrast to his unceremonious robe. He spied links of yellow gold, red gold, silver, iron, copper and brass. There were others hidden behind Theobald's neck. The links that Sam saw were dominated by the presence of multiple links of lead. Sam counted at least four, the most of other metals being two of gold and two of iron. He judged that Theobald was the archmaester of architecture due to overwhelming display of expertise in that area upon his neck.

The desk of the archmaester was especially splendid, made from solid yellow gold. He read that the table of the Seneschal's Court dated to the beginning of the order of maesters. The art of carving such designs on gold has long been lost, the only legacy of the carvers being this exquisite relic. Sam wondered how its crafters had managed to maintain structural integrity given gold's soft nature. He had always wished to witness this wonder. From the four corners rose four intricately carved candle-holders. Each sported a different animal head, their mouths opening to reveal a compartment to place a candle. A raven's head and serpent's head were the easily distinguishable ones, the heads closest to where Sam was standing. Further away, he could see that the third head was that of a wolf. The fourth, he could not tell. The candles themselves have exhausted most of their wax. It was clear that Theobald had been here awhile, working before meeting Sam.

Remembering what Alleras told him, he hesitantly replied,"As a child, becoming a maester was one of my dreams. When I arrived at the Wall to take the black, I was fascinated by the immense wisdom of Castle Black's Maester Aemon. I became his personal steward and had striven to learn from him."

"This," Sam thought,"at least was true. Everything after becomes lies." "Once," Sam continued," I ventured to ask him how he held such vast knowledge, and he laughed, saying that it was nothing. Maester Aemon often spoke highly of his colleagues at the Citadel, stating that his humble knowledge could only hold a candle to the vast bonfire of wisdom the archmaesters hold. If I were to seek true wisdom, I was to learn from the likes of those at the Citadel. Maester Aemon, unfortunately, was old and frail, and Lord Commander Snow feared that the Wall would lack a trained maester. His fears came into fruition one day when Maester Aemon was found dead in his bed. The Lord Commander sent me, as I have shown interest in becoming a maester, to study at the Citadel and replace Maester Aemon at Castle Black. Here is his letter containing his warrant."

He gave Archmaester Theobald Jon's letter. Jon had originally given him two letters, one confirming Sam's claim to go to the Citadel, the other a dreadful warning. Once, he had thought it unnecessary to include the confirmation, as he believed Maester Aemon would live to see him through with the archmaesters. Now, he saw Jon's wisdom. The other letter he carried was also addressed to the archmaesters, but it held a different tone, this one a warning of the threat of the Others. Jon, no, Lord Snow, had wished that the maesters could believe the truth, and they in turn would use their influence to make the realm heed the warnings of the Watch and look north. However, Marwyn's words suggested that it was not wise to reveal the second letter. Not yet, anyway.

Theobald took the letter and broke the seal. The seal of the watch, compared to the flowery pride of the Reach lords on the seals of many letters that his father received, was rather plain. It housed an uniformly black backdrop with the simple initials of the Night's Watch. Generations of Lord Commanders have used this same monotonous seal throughout all the years of the Watch, a sign of how the black brother would no longer bear individual arms or banners, and only that of the order.

He knew everything that Theobald said about the order of maesters when the Archmaester began to speak," So you seek to become a maester. Your letter seems to be in order, though I must inquire on how Lord Snow came into his power. Last I heard, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch was Jeor Mormont."

Sam then recounted the tale of the happenings at the Wall, from the mutiny at Craster's Keep to Jon's election, and Theobald nodded,"Very well. I grant you the admission to study at the Citadel as a novice. I have full confidence that you may succeed. If you are Aemon's chosen pupil, then you will have no issue here. I have not had the pleasure of meeting the old man before, but I know his wisdom. You know the Archmaester of the Ravenry, Archmaster Walgrave. When he was younger and stronger, decades ago, he was the archmaester of the leaden link. He studied with Maester Aemon in his youth, and in my tutorship he often spoke of how Aemon was the best of their year, and cheated of his rights. Aemon and Walgrave have more in common than you would think. Their birth names are both considered treason now. While Aemon's was Targaryen, Walgrave's was Reyne. He once had a fiery mane of red hair, but it turned grey as he aged. When Lord Tywin drowned Castamere, that was the final straw for Walgrave's already feeble mind of old age. Sometimes, I wonder how he has lived so long after, mad as he is. The Lord of Casterly Rock did not forget about a Reyne at the Citadel, but one look at Walgrave absolved him of any need to kill him. Perhaps it was because a stroke of misjudgment and pity that befell the young lord's mind when he saw the old man stumbling before him. Perhaps it was the fact that there were no need, as Lord Tywin's lesson had already sunk into his vassal's hearts, and there were no need to kill a maester, absolved already of inheritance."

"What I mean to tell you," Theobald continued," is that when a man joins the Citadel, he abandons any previous name, all rights to inheritance and lordship. It would not do for a noble lord to slay a man of the Citadel, for he has already forsaken his house. I, myself, was a Crakehall. I have heard that they call my nephew the 'Strongboar', and he made himself a hero in the War of the Five Kings, though I care little of those matters. I have seen my brother and his children perhaps thrice in twenty years. They are my family, and I love them, but my love for the Citadel, as should all maesters be, is greater. If you are to join our order and ascend to the rank of maester, you shall be addressed as Maester Samwell. You are to abandon your family name, Tarly, and all of who you were before. Is that clear, Novice Samwell?

Sam nodded, as the Night's Watch held similar vows, and Theobald again continued,"There is one more thing that needs to be addressed. It takes many years to forge a chain. Castle Black cannot be without a maester for that long.This is highly irregular. Under normal circumstances, we would send one of our order to take the black and serve the Watch when the Lord Commander or one of the commanders of the castles along the Wall sends for one of us, not to train a novice that has already been in the Watch. Until such time as you forge a chain, the Citadel shall send another maester to serve Castle Black in your place."

This took Sam by surprise again, as he had not thought of the fact that the Watch needed a maester when he and Maester Aemon were gone. He did not know what then to make of his own place at Castle Black. One castle cannot have two maesters, and once the other takes the black, he cannot be switched with Sam as the vows are for life.

Theobald looked consumed in thought. Finally, he spoke:"If you were any other man, I would not have taken the liberty to educate you on our ways and customs. I would have sent you directly back to Castle Black with a maester that we will appoint. However, for Aemon's sake, I shall accept your proposal to become a novice. I present to you a choice. When you forge your chain, you may serve at a castle of the council's choosing or, if you prove especially accomplished, serve as an archmaester to teach other novices. The Wall is where we send our most hopeless graduates, as it is a place of hardship and cold. Aemon was an exception, as the council despised his name. A maester in any other castle would have every comfort. The Citadel has many friends, and the council may appeal to your Lord Snow and the crown to have you pardoned from your vows of the Night's Watch. Your father serves as one of the king's marshals, and he is close to the king. You may study here without worry of the inevitable return to the cold, now that winter is coming. You may become a maester in your own right by conventional means, pardoned from your oath to the Night's Watch."

Much to Sam's displeasure, he was speechless once again. He found not the courage to decline outright. The pronouncement had exceeded his wildest expectations. His boyhood dream was to become a maester, a master of knowledge. He had long since accepted that the best he could achieve would be to serve as maester at the Wall. That wish was accompanied by both the endless winters and the everlasting fear of the Others. He partly relished the fact that he may escape the North, and go as south as south goes.

The archmaester opened a path that he had long thought closed, ever since that fateful day when his father learned that his son aspired to become one of that order. Now, he could pursue his passion without worry of facing the Others again. Deep inside, he knew that it was wrong, and he was still a craven at heart. Jon sent him with a duty, and he needed him to help him hold the Wall. The Others had shocked him to the core, though, and he would be of no use in that fight. The Wall was tall and strong, holding ancient magic that could defend against the dead, and it had strong men like Jon and Pyp and Grenn and Dolorous Edd to defend it. It would hold for many years. They are men of war, of battle, and it was their talent. It was never Sam's. His talents lay in the area of books and knowledge. His best contribution to the cause would be from the rear. Perhaps one day he could become a maester of great wisdom and renown, perhaps even an archmaester or the grand maester. He could do much more for Jon and the Watch, counselling lords and kings to direct their swords north.

He bit his tongue. "Does my duty mean nothing to me?," he scolded himself silently,"I am a man of the Night's Watch, sworn to be the watcher on the wall for all the nights to come. Would I cower in fear of my duty, my honor, when met with my own desires?"

"Yes, I would," he decided. He was not deserting for his cowardice. There was another matter that rooted Sam in the south.

Sam thought of Gilly, and the boy that could very well be her son, as the red witch would have killed her true child for king's blood. If he were to go north out of loyalty to his friends, reject Theobald's offer, he would be abandoning Gilly and her child to the wolves of the southern courts and cities. Thinking back, he saw the folly of his plans. His father would be likely to never accept his son's lover and his baseborn grandson into his castle. His mother might, his brother likewise, but not his father. He could not bring them back north either, as the wall would be no place for them.

He remembered a night on the Cinnamon Wind with Gilly and little Aemon beneath the stars. The baby had begun to speak. One of his first words was "Papa", and he said it whenever Sam came close.

Grinding his teeth, he made his choice. He needed to stay south, for Gilly and their Aemon. He will still make the journey to Horn Hill. His father was cruel, bur his father was just. If he gave his word, he would not renege on it. If his father rejects him, he could find them a place at Oldtown, where he will stay and study. He would be close at hand should anything happen, and he would not have to worry about leaving them alone should he have kept to his original plan.

A filthy turncloak and oathbreaker was what Sam had become, but he had to do it, for his family .

"Yes," he thought. He was not deserting for cowardice, but the noble burdens that weighed him down.

He realized Theobald's eyes were on him. "Yes," he said," I accept."

Sam could already hear Green and Pyp.

"Turncloak," they snarled,"Oathbreaker. You leave us to starve at the Wall while you eat pastries at some rich southern castle."

He could see Jon's disappointing gaze. Lord Snow did not say a word, but no word was needed.

But Sam knew that he was no craven. Not as his father thought him. Not as his friends who knew nothing of him could judge. He would stay.

It was to his surprise that Alleras was waiting outside the court for Sam, and beside him was that snarky Leo Tyrell. Sam looked out the high glass window, judging the sun's rise. He realized that it had barely crested the horizon, and he wondered how they were already awake.

"So," Alleras said,"Have you decided to rejoin the living? To stay with us in the south?"

Sam nodded, wondering if he was mocking him.

Leo chuckled,"It seems that Lord Randyll still has the right of you. You are a craven, Tarly. The Wall is no place for cravens. The Wall is for the brave, for the daring, for the fools. Tales tell that the Night's Watch turns its recruits into ice zombies by ancient sorcery to brace the endless cold, though I see now that it is perhaps true. No sensible man would bear the cold. It is not for me to deny that. It is not for me to condemn a man for being afraid of the Wall. Particularly not a Tarly, who will be a worthy friend whatever your father says."

He extended a hand to Sam,"Call me Leo. You will need many friends in the south, particularly in the trials of the Citadel. The favour of a Tyrell is a most promising prospect."

Sam considered if he were mocking him, but his good sense decided against it. He approached and grasped Tyrell's hand,"I accept your offer, Leo. Call me Sam."

 

[Mockingbird]

ASHA
​

"Dead, you say," King Stannis ground his teeth, "My Hand is dead?"

"I fear that it is so, your grace," Manderly growled. He touched a hand to his bandaged throat, "I sent him for his own safety to Eastwatch, but the ships were beset by a storm on the Shivering Sea."

"I know all of storms," the king's brow twisted under his crown.

"They were blown off course," Manderly divulged, his voice hesitant, "forced to beach on the isle of Skagos. They were attacked by the wildlings of that land, and many good men were slain, Lord Davos amongst them. They repelled the assault, but few were able to escape and return to the mainland."

Manderly lowered his head, "I should not have sent him North. I should have left at White Harbour, even if it would have risked my house."

Asha could not read Stannis, as his pallid blue eyes twinkled in the silence. Finally, he spoke, "When did he die?"

"A fortnight ago, I received the message," Manderly answered, "I hope that you may forgive that I did not tell you at once, for we had other matters to settle after your grace's capture of Winterfell. Since Bolton had held the castle and the ravenry, I had my messages delivered to a holdfast on the White Knife and sent to Winterfell by barge. It would have taken another fortnight in its travel, so I would say that he died a moon ago. I do not know how he fell, but I know that he would have made a valiant stand."

"Did you receive a raven from Eastwatch?" Stannis asked his maester, a heavyset man that the Cerwyns had brought to serve Roose Bolton. Maester Rhodry was the only man of the Citadel left in the castle of the three that had served at Bolton's court. The Bastard hanged Medrick for siding against him when Roose Bolton died. The other, Henly, had sided with the Bastard, and Dustin had hanged him after the battle.

"Yes, I believe so," the maester said, but requested one of Stannis's squires to fetch the scroll from the ravenry. It was the Flint boy, the most eager of Stannis's new lot, that ran to retrieve the letter.

The other squires, a Peasebury boy and a young Ryswell, were whispering to each other as the chamber fell into silence.

It was Eddard Stark's chamber, as Lady Arya Stark had said, one of the only rooms in the castle that was left largely intact after Theon burned the castle. They had offered it to Lady Arya first, but she had chosen the quarters that had been Sansa Stark's.

It was grand enough to serve Stannis's needs, and the king would have had thought it suitable to serve the true lord in Winterfell.

Her brother Theon had taken this room when Asha visited Winterfell, and Roose Bolton after. The folk in the castle said that there was a curse in the stones cast by the Kings of Winter that struck any man who stayed who was not a Stark, but Stannis paid them no heed.

The squire returned a moment later, to give the maester a scroll.

"Three ships from White Harbour made harbour in Eastwatch a moon ago," the maester reported, "Lord Manderly's words are true."

"Thank you, my lord," each of his words held a coat of steel, and Asha could see in his eyes a suspicion, "You are dismissed."

Stannis had wanted to know where his Hand was, but this was doubtless not the answer he wished to hear.

Manderly gave a small bow, as he could not kneel, and left the room supported by four of his servants. One of them, a lean youth, snuck a glance at Asha as they departed. He was the last to follow Manderly out the door, his cloak raising the dust on the stone.

When the door swung shut, Stannis turned to his maester, "Maester Rhodry. Go to the ravenry, and pick out seven ravens that must be ready at daybreak. They will be for Hornwood, Deepwood Motte, The Dreadfort, White Harbour, the Shadow Tower, Castle Black, and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Take Rowen Ryswell should you need any assistance."

The maester bowed, and the Ryswell squire knelt before the king. They rose and strode from the room.

"Robert," Stannis called, and the Peasebury boy swept to his knees, "Go to Ser Godry. He should be at the Guard's Hall, and if not, you will find him by the East Gate. I want a report on the garrison and the patrols." The boy rose and left.

"Gayl," the king commanded his last squire, and the Flint knelt before him, "I want you to go to Lord Hugo Wull, Lady Alysane Mormont, and Lord Othell Umber. Othell, remember, not Crowsfood or Whoresbane. Summon them to my quarters, but not until the hour of the wolf has passed. Until then, you may inspect their camps and give me a report."

When the final shadow passed beyond the doorway, only Stannis, Asha, and Ser Claymund remained in the chamber.

For a moment, only the winds outside howled between them, they tore at the walls, the herald of the silver storm.

"Why have you summoned me?" Asha asked, "Have they found my brother?"

She had still not fathomed in the two days since his escape who would wish to abduct Theon. It was certainly not the northmen, nor any of Euron's mongrels, for they would have killed her brother in his cell, and all would suspect Stannis, a man who had every reason to slay him.

"The wildling king disappeared as well," she reminded herself ,"Only his icy ilk would seek to save that skin." But if it were the wildlings, they had no use for Theon.

Winterfell had suspected Asha that day in the Great Hall, as Theon was her brother, but King Stannis had dismissed it. Asha knew his words to be true. If she were the one to rescue her brother, she would not decide to stay in Winterfell and risk her neck.

A small part of her wished to thank fate that her brother would live, being spared from Stannis's blade. But Asha knew that it was never that simple, for princes did not disappear by chance.

"No," Stannis answered, "Not of your brother, at least. The searchers are still riding for his trail, and none have returned as of yet. My own lords have taken it upon themselves to find the culprit. Lord Robin Peasebury thinks that it is you ironmen who rescued their kraken heir. The trails we found seem to have pointed northeast, and the searchers have followed in that path. Lord Robin thinks that Lord Theon is bound for Deepwood Motte or Sea Dragon Point, where your longships can land to receive your brother."

"Lord Harwood Fell, however," Stannis continued, "thinks that it is the last of Bolton's dogs that still remains to haunt these lands, a scoundrel by the name of Skinner, who was one of the Bastard's closest men. After the battle was lost, he scattered and became a bandit, and has since gathered a following of near a hundred men, made of Bolton soldiers and mine who broke from the battle. He has taken to callous thievery, raiding villages, and small holdfasts. Lord Fell seems to think that he would wish to bind himself to the king's peace, as banditry is not promising livelihood, and that he has taken your brother as a highborn hostage to perhaps ransom gold or a pardon."

"Lord Bar Emmon," Asha heard the winds roar, almost masking Stannis's voice, "proposes that it was Manderly, and that Lord-Too-Fat-To-Sit-A-Horse is plotting behind my back. I am inclined to believe that it is true, but not in the matter of Lord Theon. Bar Emmon is more practiced at words than counsel. Sharp Point and White Harbour had been foes for as far as memory could serve, ever since the trade in White Harbour had grown to the expense of the south. They had fought over the Narrow merchants to this day. I would trust Bar Emmon's words on this less than I would trust Robert to rule or Renly to command."

"What do you think of all these claims, Lady Asha?" Stannis asked, "To which of these guesses has your brother gone?"

"None of them," Asha replied, "You'd best call your men back. It would do you no good to continue the search. This happened for one reason, and one reason only, something that cannot be remedied by riders and hunting hounds. You have little power in the North, even as you are seen to have won Winterfell. It all hangs in the balance of Arya Stark, and even that is doubted. Men have cause to doubt your grace's authority, and would not hesitate to take the matters of Theon into their own hands."

"You are suggesting that it is the northmen," there was suspicion again in Stannis's voice.

Asha shook her head, "Any man who sees it more fit to pursue their own ends rather than your Grace's."

"So, every man on this earth," King Stannis answered.

"Yes," Asha answered, "But these men who took Theon would rather pursue it by their own side rather than by yours."

"What would you have me do?" Stannis asked.

"Make it for all the world to see that your command has strength. Show that the North is united and true under your banner. You will have Dustin when Jon Snow weds Shireen, and you can perhaps make him yours by raising him to Winterfell in place of the girl. Most of the northmen will stand at your side so long as you stand by the blood of the Starks. All you need now is Manderly and his eight thousand swords, and more importantly, the barges of grain and furs he sends to supply your hosts. If you have him, all the North will bow to you. Men have cause to suspect that he is not truly yours, as he has only been forced to surrender at your victory. So make him yours. Make him your Hand, now that there is a vacancy. Make him yours, and you will see a united North under the banner of the burning stag. No one would dare to challenge you then. It would solve most of these ills, not just the one of Theon."

King Stannis gazed at her, but his blue eyes only hardened further into ice, "My Hand's body is not yet cold, and the crows have begun to loot his corpse."

"That is the counsel I know," Asha replied, "Lord Davos is dead, and naught can bring him back. A king will need a Hand."

He looked at the wax of the candle, melting ever so slightly under the flame. Asha knew that it would burn out before the night was gone. The candle would always give way under the fire.

The king spoke, his lips pressing at every word, "The gods have left me so few. First, I had my father, Lord Steffon Baratheon. He was stern and mighty, and I looked up to him. He was all I wanted to be. Then, Shipbreaker Bay, the sea by which I lived and loved all my life, rose and took him away. I had never understood its name until that night. Then, I had Robert, my elder brother. I admired him, and knew that I would die for him and his heirs, until he became king, and the poison of the Iron Throne took him from me. I thought Renly would remain with me until the end of my days, the boy I had raised and loved like no other. If he had only been wiser, but the usurper took away the man I knew. The last time I saw Renly alive, he offered me a peach. I still dream of that peach, and I remember. I wonder, what would Davos have offered me as he lay dying? A sword, to urge me to strike down the usurpers and traitors, to bring justice to the realm, or would his sword be only to parry his foe? A handful of the sea, to remind me of the vast hardships I have to conquer, or would it be only to wash his hands? Would he offer the stumps of his broken fingers, to have me remember his service, to have me know to take care of his family, of Devan and Lady Marya and his sons at Cape Wrath. But I do not know. I will never know. I knew Davos Seaworth more than I did Renly, more than I ever did Robert or my father, yet he is still beyond me. The gods have taken him last, but they still did. Who is left in this world that I may trust?"

The king's eyes lingered on her, as if expecting an answer. She did not know how to respond to his grief. It was taxing to speak even to her own mother, never mind any others.

"He does not want pity," Asha saw,"He wants counsel."

That troubled Asha, though, why he would ask for hers.

"Are there truly so few," she thought,"that he would seek counsel from me? Is this some elaborate plot to have me bare my will?"

"All in Winterfell," she said, "They are your friends or at least want to be. Who does not wish to be close to a king? Give them more than what is your duty. Let them see promise in following your grace."

Even in the light, Stannis's eyes were as two dwindling pits of dying embers. He scoffed, "You do not make me regret summoning you, but it is much too late. My time in Winterfell is done."

Asha heard the winds whistle an eerie song yet again, and she saw Stannis's shadow on the table between them, little and dim.

"You did not summon me for Theon?" Asha figured.

"I know how Robert's rule turned to rubble," Stannis scowled, "I can feel the same storm coming upon my own. Have you seen this castle as of now? The battlements are lined with men that are not mine, most of whom would rather me dead. My own hosts have been spent grievously in this battle. In every corner of Winterfell, you either see the gold cloaks of Dustin or the green of Manderly. They have taken to calling themselves the Golds and the Greens. They put their own banners beside the direwolf of Stark, and raise men to their call. They plot against me from within, even though they swear to me as their king. I am still their foreign conqueror, and they seek to raise their own lords. It will be only days before their steel is sharp enough to strike at my power."

Asha remembered the arrival of Manderly's barges earlier in the day, delivering supplies from White Harbour.

"They delivered soldiers as well," Asha realized what they were truly for. Since Stannis took Winterfell, Manderly's barges had been sailing up the river, transferring their loads into the castle.

"To garrison Winterfell," Manderly had said,"under King Stannis's command."

They had lost many in the battle, and had taken thousands of Bolton men as prisoners. Stannis had meant to offer them pardon if they would join him, but not until he had taken the Dreadfort and all its lands in the east to be assured of their loyalty. They needed Manderly's men for Stannis's war.

There were less than three hundred mermen when Stannis first took the castle, but there were two thousand now, each hardened knights of steel and leather. There were a similar number of Dustins, and five hundred Ryswell horsemen who could very well be Lady Barbrey's own.

"And Manderly needs not to even spill a drop of blood if he means us ill," she realized as well. He could stay the barges from White Harbour, and they would starve within the moon.

"Umber stands with no one," Stannis said, "Crowsfood and Whoresbane are planning to return to Last Hearth on the morrow with all their men, as the Freys yet hold the Greatjon. The Flint of Flint's Finger would stand with Dustin if I had not taken his heir as my squire. Cley Cerwyn's cousin Farron had married Lady Jonelle, but he stood with the Bastard and was slain in the battle. Lady Jonelle has dozens of suitors at her door, and has asked me to allow her men to return to Castle Cerwyn. I am of a mind to send her men, but with my own, and she will wed Ser Ewis. Estermont is as noble a house as she could hope, and Ser Ewis is far removed from the inheritance of old Lord Eldon. Lady Sybelle has written from Deepwood Motte, asking to legitimize Hornwood's bastard to hold his lands. Neither Cerwyn nor Hornwood would be in any position to take sides, and that is a notion shared by many. Most would wait to see where the wind blows."

"You still have a thousand of your own," Asha said, "and three thousand mountain clansmen. The Lady of Winterfell is yours. Dustin, also, when her wolf weds the princess. Manderly is not fool enough to act alone."

She did not find any comfort in Stannis's deepened scowl, "Dustin has seen an opportunity, that is true, to wed her son to my daughter when I release Jon Snow from his vows and make him Jon Stark. That does not mean that she does not wish for my throat slit. The Tyrells wed their rose to the usurper Joffrey, and bound their house to the Lannisters. Within a year, the boy king was dead, Tywin Lannister rotting in his grave, and the Imp exiled. Even a lackwit can see who plotted their fall. All the Lannisters that made any matter were gone, leaving only the Kingslayer and Robert's fool of a queen, giving them the chance to sink their thorns into Tommen. Dustin does not want me in her way as she seeks to do the same with Shireen. Make no mistake, should Shireen ever wed Jon Stark, the groom's mother would see me dead ere the moon's turn."

Asha could sense something in his words, something strange beyond the scorn, but she could not tell what it was. Her eyes flickered across the table between them, empty except for a piece of parchment with a broken seal. The torches were not light enough for Asha to see its color in the shadows.

It was unsettling, that Winterfell was more perilous than she had thought. Asha knew that if Stannis fell, she would not be far behind.

The northmen did not love her people, and it was only the king that shielded them from their fury. Her brother would be the fortunate one, the one who escaped the net.

Winterfell was the heart of the North, deep within the green lands. She could not escape even if she wanted. There were no ships waiting for her, even if Asha would submit to her nuncle and Erik Ironmaker. Theon had been the greatest fool to reside so far from the shore, and she had not learned from his mistakes.

"Then so be it," Asha prompted, "Are you standing idle, your grace, while foes gather strength to oust your rule? What do they mean to do? Who will they raise in your place?"

As she saw Stannis's eyes again, she finally understood why every man far and wide had named him as harsh as iron.

"What king stands by?" he spoke, and the winds outside grew quiet, "as his kingdom falls."

"The traitors have cast their lot," Stannis's crown shone with crimson flame, "Do you remember that man at court, telling all the world that Arya Stark was false. We questioned him before I hanged him for speaking treason, but we discovered that he was paid a handsome sum to shout those words. There was no question that it was the work of those plotting against me. Half my army are northmen, many of which were those that followed me through the Wolfswood. The traitors have planted their seeds, waiting to spring their traps. They think that Arya Stark is my wolf, and my rule is tied to hers. They think that when she falls, all the North will turn their swords on me when they show the Starks of their own. Dustin thinks that the North will place their might behind the bastard she made her son. Manderly doubtless would show a boy he will say to be a Stark, and thinks that it will win him power. But the moment that they claim my strength to be false, the moment they claim Arya Stark is false to rally their own farce. They think that the greater part of my hosts will desert me, for most of my men are blood of the north. They are right, and some will turn their cloaks. But they are mistaken. From the Wall to the hills of the mountain clans, from Deepwood Motte to Bear Island, in the frozen Darkness of the Wolfswood, most did not march for a name. They heard the name of Arya when our hosts had already made their ways into the snow. For my cause. Jon Stark, Brandon, or Rickon, false names will not sway them. They swore their swords to me when they marched, and to Arya Stark when I won her Winterfell. They marched for Ned Stark, and the north that remembered. They remember the man who cast aside the Boltons, not the ones that sat within their castle while others fought. They marched for truth, for justice, for what is right to return to the North. They marched for me."

As she saw the fire gleam in his pupils, only one question pierced Asha's mind, "Did Manderly kill Lord Seaworth?"

Shadows formed beneath Stannis's cheek, "Will it matter now if he did?"

She heard the winds again, blowing their cacophony through the ancient courtyard of Winterfell. The same winds that will blow on the ridges and rocks of Pyke, when will take back her rights from her uncle.

"What are your commands, your Grace?" she asked.

Stannis cast his eyes on the rough parchment, lingering there for a heartbeat, and turned his gaze to her, "Wait."

None of her ironmen had slept during the time which she was gone.

"Asha," Tristifer Botley was the first to speak, "You spent the night in Stannis's chamber. There have been rumours…"

"False rumours," Asha cut him off, stepping briskly past them.

"Are you certain of that," she heard the slurred slobber of her cousin Dagon, "If the bastard has touched you, I swear…"

"I'll listen to your vows once you've cleaned your gop of vomit."

Neither Stannis's men nor the northerners had allowed him wine since they took Winterfell, and it was none too pleasant for Asha or her crew.

"Is this what you think of your captain?" she asked them, scoffing, "That she is some common whore?"

"I am to be their queen, damn all the tales to the dark depths," she cursed.

"What did his grace wish to speak of?" another voice pierced the stale air. It was a voice Asha scarce knew, silky and manicured. She turned to spot the well-mannered Braavosi.

"Asha," she heard Tris say, "Lord Nestoris has been here for near an hour. He has business with you."

She nodded to Tycho Nestoris, "My lord. I did not think to find you here. I must apologize for having kept you waiting amidst my unruly men."

"It is nothing," the Braavosi replied, and Asha caught the putrid gusts of perfume wifting off him, "The fault is mine for intruding."

His beard was coated in snow, "May I have a word with you, Lady Greyjoy?"

"Certainly," she replied, smiling and tucking her hand beneath her cloak.

It seemed that the Braavosi banker held some sway over Stannis's guards, as they had allowed them a moment on the balcony outside their hall. The guards kept a watch on them, and she could see them far along the rail.

Asha looked down at the castle before them.She could not say whether it was ruin or glory. Her brother had burned it to a husk, and his work was not undone, but a thousand banners streamed now from the countless turrets, amidst walls and halls that were being rebuilt, shaped and hewn each day when there was no snow.

"They do not know what is to come," she stared at the banners. The wolf of Stark flew the most from the battlements, more than even that of Stannis's burning stag. She remembered what Stannis had said. The storm was coming.

Everywhere, shimmering flurries fell about her, swirling and dancing about roofs that were raised in a shadow of war.

She hugged her cloak closer to her, feeling the cold kiss her cheeks, "Lord Nestoris. Are there any snows in Braavos?"

"There are," the banker replied, "though it is more likely to be rain that spills from the sky. We have it most a year, and it is quite a curse. You would not find any lemon trees in Braavos, nor that of apricots or oranges. We cannot grow many things as our brethren in the southern Free Cities can with their more hospitable weather."

"Not as the North," Asha observed. "Or the Iron Isles."

"No," the Braavosi agreed, "but from both the North and Braavos grows something far worthier. Honour. Loyalty. Duty. In the North, duty to his Grace King Stannis."

Asha weighed her words,"Aye, and they are good men. They have served his grace loyally. He has much to thank, and more to prove himself worthy of their leal service, to win the truth of their swords. He still has many battles to come, to win all Seven Kingdoms. I only pray that the righteous will prove the victor, and that Stannis will win the Iron Throne, bringing peace and an end to all these wars."

Tycho Nestoris smiled, and nodded, "Then I will pray that his course to the Iron Throne will be swift and true. Whatever paths he may tread, the Iron Bank will always follow as his loyal companion. Whatever choice he may make in the coming days, the Iron Bank will always be his friend. Will you let his Grace know?"

Asha almost wanted to laugh at his words, thinking of their ludicrousy.

"He thinks me close to Stannis," she sealed her lips to prevent amusement from showing.

She heard heavy footsteps behind her, and turned to find a shambling boy approaching them. It was the Flint that was Stannis's squire, with his spot-riddled face and bright red cheeks.

"Lady Greyjoy," he said, his voice bearing a slight quiver, "Lord Nestoris. His Grace sent me to find you. He decrees that come the morrow, we are to make ready for march. The host will depart Winterfell in five days."

"March?" Asha could not find the sense in that, "Where?"

"North," the boy replied, "to Castle Black. The Lord Commander, Lady Dustin's son, is dead, slain by mutineers. His Grace means to march north and subdue the traitors."

Asha looked at the Braavosi banker, watching as his face transformed from bewilderment to fury.

"This is deadly foolishness," Tycho Nestoris lost all sense of serenity, "He has won Winterfell and the North. Take me to the king right this instant."

Asha shared his thoughts,"Leave the Wall to their snarks and grumpkins, to their blood and chaos. The mutineers would make no matter, and Snow is not your man anyway. Your war is here, in the south."

The Night's Watch had no power to threaten Stannis, but the men in Winterfell did.

"If he marches north," she knew,"he would never march south again."

"Does he mean for us to accompany him to the Wall?" Asha asked the Flint squire.

"Lord Nestoris will," the boy replied, facing the seething banker.

Then, he turned to her, "But his grace has commanded that my lady will not."

His voice rang clear,"You will remain in Winterfell."

 

[Mockingbird]

THE SANDMAN'S BROTHER
​

"What do you pray for, my dear brother?" the Crow's Eye asked, his smiling eye unblinking.

Aeron would not answer. He could not answer. The Crow's Eye had made him one of the crew.

"I asked you a question, my dear brother," the Crow's Eye ran his hand down the railing of the Silence,"What do you pray for?"

"For the Drowned God to vanquish your horrors," Aeron thought,"For the winds to smite you into the depths of the sea, and a godly man to come upon the Seastone Chair."

"Let me tell you what I pray for," the Crow's Eye said,"To you, my brother I will be truthful."

"I pray," his eye was turning in its lid,"for a god who is not a stranger, who will give back all that you have sacrificed. I pray for a god who can vanquish all the pain in the world, and forge it anew in light. I pray for eternal peace, where all that mortal men know are s,o;es and laughter and hope. I pray that one day evil shall be broken; that one day, winter will end, and the dawn finds a new spring."

"Your world is broken from its beginning," Aeron thought,"for there is no hope. Men do not find hope in light. They find it in darkness." The Crow's Eye did not answer, for his smiling eye had already wandered away.

All around Aeron, there were strange sights. The land was strange. It was greener than bile with endless grass, and the river ran below to the Sunset Sea. The ships were stranger. They lay on land in the stead of tumbling seas. The scheme of the Crow's Eye was stranger still. The crew had carried the galleys across leagues of land, and two moons had lingered in their wake. They were now near the birth cradle of the Honeywind in the high hills of the Reach.

They were on higher ground still, much higher than the river. The ships they carried with them. To what end, Aeron could not say. He only knew that the end would come tonight.

"War would come tonight," Aeron knew. Those were the commands that the Crow's Eye gave to his captains. Aeron found a little solace in that the Crow's Eye was doomed to fail. When the Crow's Eye sailed down the Honeywine to meet the greenlanders in that city they call Oldtown, he would be broken. Cities were always the bane of Ironborn, and Balon had been wise to seek the North. The Crow's Eye should have learned his lesson at Lannisport. He burned the Lannister fleet, but the price was half his men as he sought to take the city. Oldtown barred itself to the Honeywine the same as it barred itself from the sea. The greenlanders knew that a great battle was coming in the city, and they had prepared. Euron was doomed to fail. His conquest would end as it began, in godlessness and defeat.

When night fell, the moon never rose. Darkness lay in the sky. The cold of the night did not soothe his parched tongue, starved from all the days upon the mast. Yet the ships were alive with light. "Pricks of light in the darkness, all marks of the Crow's Eye's host." He hoped the darkness would swallow it all, but he doubted it. The lights were too many, lighting up the night. Each light was one of the Crow's Eye's monsters. "His ships turned alive at night, to crawl upon the green lands, with tentacles as leaden as tar." That was how they truly crossed the fields.

Each of the sailors grew to be part of the ship. The ships became part of the crew. All of it, molding into one formless, monstrous void that consumed all in its path.

Aeron forsook his hope that the greenlanders could defeat the Crow's Eye. He saw how foolish he had been. He forgot in the day and held his hope, but he saw the truth as night fell. "The Ironborn were always the greater against the greenlanders. Only ironmen, those blessed by the Drowned, could slay the monster that was the Crow's Eye." He prayed to the Drowned God for a saviour, but the god did not answer. The god never answered as the past moons crawled above the Crow's Eye's banners. When Crow's Eye ruled, even the sea was distant.

Was it fear that possessed Aeron? Was it hate and spite? No, it was neither. It was an empty shell where once his god had been. In a last feeble struggle, Aeron reached out across the emptiness to his god. Only the winds answered.

"This madness would end," a whisper came in the night, as did a trickle of water that kissed Aeron's lips. His tongue was no longer dry with death.

"This madness would end," the whisper repeated,"The king is coming home. You need only to wait, my priest."

Three times he came, and three times he withdrew into the night. But Aeron knew that he was there, the water on his lips soaking with warmth. His god had answered

Rain was now falling, a blessing from beyond the sea. A blithering darkness had gathered about him. The Drowned God had heard his prayers, and now came to give him peace. The Crow's Eye had disappeared into the shadows from whence he came. There was no more of him. No voice, no touch, no hint of his presence having ever stained the world. He was in the bliss of the God's kingdom. At last, and at peace.

The rains still fell. He knew, no, he foresaw that when the darkness was lifted from his sight he would witness the Drowned God's magnificent halls under the sea. Godly men like him were the only ones who would feast for eternity.

The sight he saw choked the joy from him. It was not the Drowned God's halls that lay before him. It was a heart tree.

A weight fell on his heart, sinking it to the bottom of the sea. And there, in the center of the heathen grove, stood the Crow's Eye alone. His smiling eye looked to the skies, seeking to grasp a heaven that was not his. Rain fell, but only lone drops pierced the canopy. A drop landed on Euron's face, and he turned with the bead rolling down his cheek.

In the light of the fires, his face was pasty gray, his lips as blue as the deepest waters, and his smiling eye… empty. There was no pupil, no smile, only a blind white. Aeron felt his head tilt to the skies, and a stream of blue fluid entering his lips.

He recognized the taste, its rotten sweetness. Shade of the evening. As the hands let him free and the world began to turn, he held onto his last sight: the heathen heart tree.

And then he saw nothing. Nothing but the darkness. In gloom, there came steps. Quiet steps, but then they became more daring each stride. They shook the very boards that their souls lay upon when the steps reached the door. Aeron heard the creak of an iron hinger, and muttered a prayer as he buried his head in a pillow.

The song of battle roused him to an air ripe with steel and fire. Sails twisted and turned above him in the wind, all while warriors slew each other upon the deck of a golden ram. Corpses lay before him, Ironborn and greenlanders alike. And he ran. He ran and dove in the water, muttering a prayer.

As he surfaced, the bones of Nagga rose above him. He heard the ring of swords and shouts of men, all cheering one woeful name. Euron King. Euron King. Euron King. A weight pulled at him, dragging him downwards to the bottom of the sea where he would drown. Yet he prayed. He gave himself to his faith, to the seas about him. The weight disappeared and he rose as light as a leaf.

Aeron emerged in a cavern of trees. The smell of rot, of dead flesh, lingered in the air, and he wished that he had stayed under the sea. Looking closer at the trees, he knew the root of the reek. A boy sat amidst the roots of a tree, a piece of human flesh in his palm. His pearlescent teeth tore the flesh into pieces that disappeared beneath his dark maw. Blood stained his lips, shining crimson from a light beyond his sight.

He gathered sight of the corpse. The dead man was torn into pieces, each bit covered with a tattered strip of grey-green cloth. The blood was unmistakable, seeping into the earth. His gaze wandered to the monstrous boy, lingering so long that he did not sense the old man beside him.

The old man was no less a monster than the boy. His withering skin was a ghostly white, where black and red veins ran beneath in rivers. His face cracked into wrinkles, as dry and parched as a wooden sea.

Everywhere, there was light. Grey light, red light, and blue light, shimmering and dancing in the man's lidless eye.

"Eye," Aeron thought,"One eye, like the Crow's Eye." A root twisted its scaly branches into the place where the other eye should have lived. In every hollow and crevice and shadow, there came a silent whisper:"All hail the Lord. The Lord of Shadows. The Lord of Light. The Lord of a Thousand Eyes, and One."

Aeron knew that the cursed cavern was the spawn of the Storm God, the monstrous man and boy his devils. The curse froze Aeron in his place, and his soul could never be saved. Not a hair on the old man seemed to waken, and perhaps death had become of this man. Yet Aeron dreaded that, for what is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger.

The boy consumed the last of his meal, a tongue crawling forth to lick at the blood about his lips.

"I've finished the paste," the boy said,"When can we fly again?"

"Soon, my child," the one-eyed man replied,"Soon." The eye pored into Aeron's sacred soul, leeching away at his faith. Aeron knew where the smiling eye of the Crow's Eye had first found its host. Yet in the darkest of trials, Aeron searched within himself and found his god. What was gone had returned. What was lost was reclaimed. What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger.

"I'm Brandon," he sensed the boy's voice,"and who are you?"

Aeron tasted the sweetness of his voice again. His god had given it back. "A priest of the sea," he answered in defiance of their curse,"and who may you be?"

"Priests of the tree," the old man replied,"Priests of memory. Priests of the world that came to be." The echo of his words danced through the hall, spinning into a glimmering choir. The world that came to be.

Aeron felt the sea, and in it there was courage. "Priests of other gods," he spat at the monsters, holding true to his heart,"Priests of devil gods. And in the end, the sea will claim victory." His spittle melted into the skin of the devil, melting into the tree.

"Other gods," the monster replied,"It has been so long since they have called me by this name. I remember. Others. The Others. The Great Other." "The ghosts of the old world."

Aeron felt beneath the mask of the old man, and sensed that his words were true. There was naught but cold. And the twittering fall of snow. Deeper still, there were corpses. Corpses that lingered. Corpses that stirred. Corpses that rose.

"What is dead may never die," the monster mocked, his one eye turning a pure shining blue,"but rises again, harder and stronger."

"When can I fly again?" the other monster asked.

"Now," the old man said, and the boy's eyes grew white.

"I never flew as I willed," a familiar terrible voice pierced the cavern. The Crow's Eye emerged from the dark tunnels, his eye turning in its lid. Yet this time, his coming did not bring untold emptiness to Aeron's soul. His god was there. His faith brought forth an answer to this man. That in the end, the Crow's Eye was a godless man who saw no victory.

"Yet the times you flew," the old man said,"You saved the world's soul."

"Aye," the Crow's Eye held his hands to the light, and in his hands rested a bronze scythe. Aeron's god stood with him, and he was no empty shell.

"Crow," a shout came upon Aeron's ears,"We were to have nothing to do with that man again." In the shadows, Aeron glimpsed what seemed to be a little girl. The lights told that the girl's skin was green. The old man's cursed gaze fell upon her, and she began to scream. Aerong closed his eyes and the screams began to die. Peace seemed to find his soul, until the girl's whispers lit up the flame of fear. "Ghosts. Ghosts. I see ghosts."

The words echoed off the walls, forming another sinister choir that rang forever through the cavern. The old man was the one to give it end,"We all have our ghosts."

And Aeron glimpsed a cheering crowd as a dead man's head was raised to the sky. He glimpsed a woman's naked corpse thrown into a raging river, a red-haired boy standing alone in a pool of blood. Crawling roots grasped him, and he sank deeper into the abyss of the trees.

And Aeron saw a man in black armour pierced by a hundred arrows, falling to his knees beneath a black dragon. Aeron saw a greybeard standing over an endless desert, a golden spear in his hand as he muttered a vow of vengeance. He saw a silver-haired crone lying upon a garland of flowers, a black-cloaked man kissing her to then disappear into the snow.

Deeper still, more ghosts came before Aeron's soul. A man swallowed by the sea. A woman screaming in a bed. Another man. A child. On and on the ghosts went, in endless visions past the horizon. Forever.

"You are all the same," a gnarly voice broke the gloom, and the Crow's Eye shone,"The world's soul is all the same, except for me. I have no ghosts." Ghosts. Ghosts. The word found its home in Aeron's heart, knowing all that was now his soul. Ghosts of a god who had been alive, but was now dead.

A final gaze at the Crow's Eye's scythe sealed the darkness that had come upon him. He gave a last lingering look at the girl who had spoken of ghosts. Her open eyes were blinking between white and blue.

Shadows began to show themselves from the depths of the cavern. They were other girls, different green-skinned girls with eyes of hunger and hate. Their echoes shimmered across the walls, and soon flickering shades danced beneath the trees. They were pierced by the Crow's Eye's haunting laugh.

The green-skinned girls surrounded Aeron, baring their white teeth in bitter smiles. A smile which became a snarl as they leapt upon the frozen man, biting and tearing at his flesh. The pain was nothing, for all priests must know suffering. It was the emptiness that was his plague, that in the end the god was gone.

It was instead the Crow's Eye who loomed above him, bringing the scythe down in a flash of shimmering bronze.

Far away, he heard a crack of thunder, seeing the rains bring their greatest might. And another crack sounded upon the earth, and the river gave forth in flood.

 

[Mockingbird]

THEON
​

"The first wind is always false," the grizzled soldier beside him began,"That was what my mother always said, what I remembered as a child behind her skirts. It was all what the servants in my castle warned of each other while we awaited the first snows to fall."

"The first wind is always false," his lips were as grey as his age, his white hair peeking behind a helm of faded steel,"and you should trust more in the cries of lambs and dogs than you should your own eyes and skin. The first wind bears no true hint of the coming storm."

"It will come in one year,"his dark eyes bore a remnant of a distant past, of a proud and smiling man,"mayhaps five, but it will come. The children play amidst the winter winds, yet they would not linger happily as the lightest of the storms turns its eye. Memories of summer are like ghosts in fallen keep. Winter will only grow truer as the first wind fades in welcome to its liege. I try to taste the warm breeze each day, yet only the god that weaves our tales knows our fates as they unfold. It will be only doom that will see me spring.

The old warrior smiled a toothless smile, as if he meant Theon well. Yet Theon knew the games they played. He would not fall into the pit one more time.

He knew what this escape would end to be. Stannis's purpose was clear for all his eyes to see. Theon knew the game of this king and his bearded lord and all those men with golden shields and golden cloaks of axes and crowns. Even this withered greybeard with kind dimples and warm eyes.

"Mummers, all of them," Theon knew,"Mummers in Stannis's cruel trick." The Bastard had done this before, when Theon had been the foolish and arrogant man who had not known his place, raising his hopes only to crush it underfoot. Stannis should be much the same, only another lord.

He knew the games they played. He knew the heart of the wildling king who had pretended to be his friend, the very same of the old soldier who was pretending now. They were all in league with those men in the golden cloaks, all of whom tempted him with aid and warm words. They were all Stannis's men, in the end. All sent for a ploy, to play a game with a Theon.

They did not know that they could not break a broken man.

A harsh croak issued from his throat, and the old warrior beside him wrinkled his brow. Theon breathed a shivering breath onto the winter air. The soldier beside him rose, snows crunching as he stood and walked away.

"Let him," Theon watched the bright snowbanks in his wake. He was tired of Stannis's games. "Let the king show his true face."

"Get the turncloak," Theon heard someone say. He did not wait for men to grasp his arms, but rose of his own accord, the rising sun before him burning his eyes. He marched himself to where his saddled steed lay, a sturdy garron with a coat as brown as sodden soil.

As he climbed onto the saddle, he wondered how long Stannis's game would last. When would they turn tail, and head back for Winterfell? When would they pommel Theon to darkness to strangle the thin hope that dared to form in his mind.

Theon judged that it would be soon, for it had been three days since they left the castle, a night since they crossed the White Knife, apt time for Stannis and his men to reveal their farce.

Night had fallen again when they came to a rest. Theon hardly remembered the day's ride, only rhythmic crunches of their mounts that formed echoes that were all the same. Naught had changed in the landscape save Theon's growing hunger and a continued fear that the last of his fingers would grow numb. All became lost in the sullen plains bathed by Northern snows.

When shadows rose at dusk, they raised their camp, Theon having one to his own.

He knew their torches went about errands in the night, that there must be guards standing at his door despite the cold, but Theon liked to pretend that they were gone. That he were alone on the frozen grass upon the tender earth, so winter would slay him more gently than the colder blades of the northmen.

It was folly, that much he could see, and fate did not preserve him his restful peace.

Theon raised his eyes to meet the unwavering gaze of the wildling king.

"May I sit?" Mance Rayder asked softly, his voice barely above the howling winds outside.

He sat uninvited on the ground beside Theon, rubbing his hands before their fire, though Theon had given no consent save a weary stare.

"I quite enjoy the hospitality of our friends," Mance Rayder began, lowering his hood,"Much more than I enjoyed Stannis's."

Theon could not bear to look at his face, wanting to scream for the wildling king to reveal himself as he truly was.

"Why are you here?" he asked instead in a tired voice.

Mance Rayder gave a quick chuckle, then glanced at him with curious eyes,"Our kind escort has tasked me to find you. These men risked their lives to save you from Stannis's dungeon. Yet after all these days of travel, they have not heard even a word of thanks. They should like to be commended for their efforts and their service."

"Saved from Stannis prison," Theon suppressed a bitter cough. At least he would be dead by now if Stannis had decided to finish with him swiftly.

Theon stared at the earth before himself,"They would save the turncloak."

The wildling king laughed louder,"Whatever you are to these men, I am worse. The Free Folk do not fare well with these southerners, much less a wildling turncloak."

"Yes," Theon agreed ,"But do they know?"

"Then you would know," Theon turned to him,"what they would do to you. They are not here to save us."

The smile remained on Mance Rayder's face,"If I were to fall into the hands of the likes of Cotter Pyke, Qhorin Halfhand, or Stannis Baratheon, I would worry the same. But these men who shield us are a different sort, none of those men of honour. Whose banners do they bear?"

Theon remembered the golden silks rippling in the wind,"Dustin."

The wildling king nodded,"Mostly Dustin horse, and those of her vassals. There are two men from the Shieldbarrow sworn to House Grave. Another three from the Lorrents of Lorren's Stand. Amongst many others, all owing fealty to Lady Barbrey Dustin of Barrowton"

A memory from a life past washed unto his mind. Did he drink with these men once, winning his spurs with them on the fields of the Barrowlands. Mayhaps, and mayhaps he remembered wrong. None of these men were like to remember that man, only the turncloak.

"So?" he asked,"These are northmen. Men who despise us."

"Despise us, perhaps," Mance Rayder said,"but I'd much rather the hospitality of Barbrey Dustin as to that of Roose Bolton and our stag king. Some who followed to Winterfell tasted of Bolton's welcome, and I trust both you and I have heard the screams of the king's justice. In the stead of cold dungeons and colder hearts, she offered us warmth and protection. What are we to refuse such mercy from a lady with a kind heart in the middle of blood and war."

One question still pressed itself at Theon's lips, "Why?"

"We are still of much use to anyone who could see clearly,"half of the wildling king's face shone from the crackling fire,"Kings always have a use whatever their current station, or so I heard."

"The North remembers, does it not, however north this may seem to you southerners," his eyes glinted with an eerie light,"Bolton is vanquished, and his last hounds are being hunted down. I ask you, who will rule the North now that he is gone?"

Theon knew what he would answer. He would not betray her,"the Lady Arya Stark."

"You know as well as I the truth of that claim, and the true Arya is like to have died anyway."

It stung, but it did not shock him. Someone would have Jeyne for who she was sooner or later.

"Perhaps it is better this way," Theon bowed his head even more. The Bastard was dead, and Stannis was not like to harm a girl. She was not Theon.

"Sansa?" Theon tried.

"Lost, and men name her the Lannister's whore besides. You're loath to find any common sword willing to shield her claim, willing to see your North fall into the hands of the man named Imp, much less a lord or lady."

A final notion pricked the back of Theon's mind, but he dared not utter it.

"Why not?" he thought,"Bolton is dead, and my pride slain long before. Why not let the truth be known?" Mance Rayder was like to know regardless, if he were asking Theon this.

"Brandon Stark," Theon stated.

The wildling king's eyes narrowed,"Which Brandon do you mean?"

He paused, until a frightening gleam shone in his old eyes,"Did you not kill those boys?"

Theon felt a wave of cold sweep across them, and he hurriedly spoke,"Then who?"

Mance Rayder cast his eyes at the flaming hearth,"Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell."

Theon could not bear it any longer, and breathed mirthlessly,"The bastard of Lord Stark. What lord would put their sword behind his baseborn child."

Mance Rayder's smile died, "There seems to be many, powerful enough to rally against Bolton and his bastard as to topple them from Winterfell. Did you think it chance of Lord Roose dying, and his bastard sallying against Stannis in a brash blunder."

"How so?" his questions tore the cloud of his mind for a moment.

"What do you know of Jon Snow's mother?"

"That she was some southern whore who seduced the young lordling who became Lord Stark, so sweet as to make a wed and righteous man betray his honour."

"And he never spoke of her ever again,"the wildling king finished, "when he brought her babe to Winterfell."

Theon eyed him with caution, and ice laced his next words, "Have you ever lent time to ponder on why?"

Theon did, once, when he was still young and proud, when Winterfell was whole.

Robb and Jon were playing knights in the yard, laughing each time one hit the other with their blunt wooden swords.

Theon was running errands for Lord Stark, and overheard Old Nan speak to one her maids as they watched the boys. By some strange sense, he knew she was talking about Jon.

"He is Brandon come again," he heard her say.

At that time, Theon wondered if Jon was not truly Lord Stark's baseborn issue, for Theon had been told endlessly of his honour which was icier than his cold grey eyes.

Theon wondered if Jon was born instead of Lord Eddard's brother Brandon. He was known as the Wild Wolf, leaving his seed wherever he stayed and making many a little pup. Jon could very well be his bastard who Lord Eddard took as his own son to raise at Winterfell for the love he bore his brother. He did not tell Jon that Brandon was his father to spare him the pain of having parents that were dead or lost, giving him a father.

That notion died when Jon became ever more like Lord Eddard in manner and speech as he grew, and Theon had stopped caring as well. Lord Eddard insisted that Jon was his own blood, and Theon was inclined to believe that it was true.

"Have you never cause," the wildling king asked, "to doubt Lord Stark's tale? Have you ever wondered if Lord Eddard Stark was not in fact Jon Snow's true father?"

"Who else could it be?" Theon laid a trembling hand over the searing fire,"Who sired the bastard?"

Mance Rayder did not answer his question immediately,"I believe you once asked why Lady Dustin of Barrowton wished to help us."

The pieces set into place, yet Theon could not make any sense of them. He did not know if he should utter what he found.

"She once loved a Stark."

"Brandon," the wildling king agreed, "the elder brother of Eddard Stark. Before that southern tourney when your dragon prince croned your Rose of Winterfell queen, before that man Robert Baratheon made himself king, it is said that the young Lord Brandon was smitten by the maiden Barbrey of the Rills. It is even said that Lady Barbrey's father, the old lord, had the wolf marry his daughter beneath a heart tree when he took her maidenhood. Yet before the wedding could be made known, Brandon's father had betrothed him to another lady, so that short-lived tryst ended."

"When Lord Eddard," he continued,"returned from war with his southern bride and own son, he found that his brother had left own child in the hands of his wife. Fearful that his nephew would usurp Winterfell with his truer claim, Lord Eddard snatched the babe away from his mother to raise as his own bastard son. Then, Jon Snow would be raised as the bastard of Winterfell, with no chance of taking the place of his own heir he named Robb Stark."

Theon's hand froze, not caring tha flickering embers licked at his kin,"Jon has a truer claim than all the other Starks."

"A son comes before a brother, does it not?" Mance Rayder's face was stern as stone.

He stood, treading to the other side of the fire,"And the wheel has come about. There are no other Starks left in this world, it seems, and the men look north to the bastard at the Wall. Lady Barbrey looked north finally after all these years to her son, who she will see home to his place."

"What would she have him be?" Theon asked.

"The lord of Winterfell," the wildling king answered, "should Stannis prove amenable. If not, what rings prouder than the mother of a king?"

The hearth burned between them, the fires swirling high like a dragon's wings.

"Do you believe this tale?" Theon's voice was not his own.

"When there is no one else," Mance Rayder spoke, his words barely decipherable over the rising crackles,"even bastards can make themselves trueborn heirs. I'd much rather Jon Snow rule Winterfell, for he at least knows my people, turncloak though he may be."

Hearing no answer as Theon sank into silence, the wildling king turned to leave the tent, pulling his dark hood over his head.

"What does it matter," Theon's voice broke out, "What does Jon Snow wish of you and me, except mayhaps to kill me for his brothers?"

Mance Rayder turned one last time, and smiled again, "It has everything to do with you and me. As you said, you've slain Jon Snow's brothers, Brandon and Rickon Stark. Robb Stark's heirs. Count yourself fortunate to have not fallen into the hands of the fat lord."

A gust of silvery snow swept in as he opened the tent, and as he closed it, Theon felt the icy bite of one falling on his cheek.

It was another fortnight on the road before they saw the distant fog that covered the Saltspear at dawn, heralding their arrival to Barrowton.

They had only brought a week's worth of provisions on their saddles when they departed Winterfell.

The commander of the host, who Theon soon learned whose name was Ser Robin Brightdell, had not dared to chance the Rider's Road from Winterfell to the Barrowlands. They transverse instead in the shade of the rolling hills far from any inn or traveler.

Each day, one of the lieutenants, either Buck or Smiling Gent, would lead a foraging party with their best mounts, returning each day with fresh food. When they rode, they wore no gold and brown, but blue and green, bearing the sigil of a giant merman.

Each night, the lieutenant who had not led the day's forage would stand watch over their camp on the highest hill.

They reached Goldgrass, a keep that was a day's ride from Barrowton, at evenfall. They were half-starved, a third of their mounts having collapsed or been slaughtered for horsemeat. There were only so many villages to shine the mermen's colours and demand a part of their winter stores. Ser Robin had been adamant to avoid any holdfast.

It was only at Goldgrass that Ser Robin allowed them to reveal themselves to the garrison as Dustin men sent by the lady, and the men had been treated to a hero's welcome, being asked details of the victory at Winterfell which the people of the Barrowlands only heard by raven and rumour.

Ronnard Stout, the castellan of Goldgrass in his father Lord Harwood's absence, had offered them bread and salt and rooms to stay the night. Theon had not ventured out of his chambers during the hours in which his escort feasted. His escort had dressed him in golden mail anyways to avoid detection. This was not his victory to cheer.

From their parting at the fire to Goldgrass to Barrowton, Mance Rayder had spoken little to him. He japed with Ser Robin and the commanders, sang songs to the men during the meals to help warm them from the cold. To every common soldier, he was the unfortunate bard who was swept into the tide of war. Theon was the man they truly needed to guard.

A familiar form danced every day in the snows and every night in the tents through the corners of his eyes. It was a man he remembered, but could not tell who.

When Barrowton and its river came before his eyes, his pupils stung from the piercing sheen of the snowcaps. A brazen gust buffeted him that sent him swaying on his saddle. His stubborn steed, however, rode with a steady trot on the plains outside the city. As they neared the river, Theon knew that it led to the Sunset Sea. The Iron Islands rose from that sea. He felt home calling to him.

"Home," he thought,"but a home of rocks that I could never love and a father I could never be. Home of a throne I could never take."

Even if he did, no Greyjoy could ever come after him. Lord Balon fathered three sons, but in the end, none would survive to become the man he wanted them to be. Theon knew not how to meet him, or his mother Lady Alannys, and all the Ironborn lords should he return to Pyke.

Yet as his eyes cleared, as he saw the ships rising from the river fog, his arm stiffened and reined his steed to a sudden half, sending snow tumbling to his flanks.

Mance Rayder was the first to reach him, and with him two Dustin riders.

"What is it?" though Theon could tell from his eyes that he already knew.

"Ironborn ships," Theon whispered.

He recognized the silver scythe of Harlaw, greatest among them, the thousand fishes of Botley, the horn of Goodbrother, the bone hand of Drumm, and the drowned man of Sunderly. Several dozen others flapped in the wind, above countless ships and numberless oars, and that was only what he could see. The sails themselves blinded half the horizon.

"Lord Greyjoy," Mance Rayder began, "They come in peace.

"Whose peace?" his voice betrayed a crack, and one of the Dustin riders failed to suppress a snigger.

"Yours, of course. I told you that you and I would matter in everything."

"To take me as their hostage?" Theon's mind could not fathom any other reason to send such a large fleet.

"No," Mance Rayder's smile did not reach his eyes now, "They're giving you a much crueler fate. They're taking you as their king."

 

[Mockingbird]

SAMWELL
​

The storm was fiercer than it usually was, and Sam near jumped each time there was a crack of lightning. Of course, he did not, a man of the Watch and now a man of the Citadel.

"Could the thunder have learned," he thought,"to not jump at me all of a sudden?" Yet the Seven never gave him any respite. Sam would have to live with it. A storm, he remembered, particularly a summer storm like this, would be gone in a day. That was what Maester Koon had written in Summer Winds. When it was over and Sam stepped outside the halls, there would be no hint that the storm had ever occurred.

Another jolt of thunder shook his table, and he muttered a yelp as his knee hit wood. The cloak muffled the pain, though, the cloak that the maesters gave him. A gray one, one colour just like the black ones that he had worn for a year. The gray ones were rough and stringy, and any stain would show. Yet Sam knew that there would never be any stains again. The voice of his father's ridicule had grown distant, and the pig of Tarly was gone.

"It's just a storm,"Alleras smirked at Sam,"No need to jump each time thunder strikes. Dorne sees them every moon, and Oldtown every fortnight."

"But none quite so fierce," Leo observed,"The rains have been falling since the evening."

"We in Dorne have a saying," Alleras said,"that storms are when we feel the sun shine."

"We in the Reach also have a saying," Leo answered,"that storms are when we feel the snows fall. It is this season, and the first snows fell ere the last moon. It is unnatural that we still have rain."

"Unnatural?" Alleras sniggered,"Oldtown's as plain as it was. The garrisons watch the sea, the dam holds, and Lord Leyton remains in his tower. Tell me when one of those things change, and I'll say it's unnatural."

Sam flipped the page of the books he held, a treatise on Nytsa the Mummer Queen of the Shield Isles. The bickering words of his friends bounced off his friends.

"They should be thankful," Sam thought,"There are much worse things out there." The Others. Ironborn. His father. What's a storm to them?

Sam was reasonable, and he was safe. The Others were a thousand leagues north beyond the Wall and he was as south as south goes. The Ironborn were likewise out at sea, beyond the five thousand swords that guarded Oldtown with its curtain. Ser Garlan had set out from King's Landing with twenty thousand more to bolster their defense. Sam's father was still there, but Sam could deal with him when he met him later. The storm, and the little fear evaporated in a fire.

A piercing crack, louder than any of the thunderclaps Sam heard before, shuddered across the room. Sam flipped another page, unfettered by the disturbances that had become commonplace. His eyes wandered as he saw Alleras rise from his seat.

Sam looked to the window, a wide and clear crystal dimmed by the pouring rain. A novice had stood, peering out the glass. His mouth had frozen in a gape. Alleras was there in an instant, pushing the novice away to see. His face was lit by flashes of lightning. He was silent, and turned swiftly to join Sam's table again.

"The dam's broken," Alleras said,"It seems that this storm was not so harmless. The Honeywine's given itself to flood, coming for us."

He said this in a quiet voice, but the room seemed to have figured it out on its own. Glass was shattering as novices and maesters alike pushed at each other to get to the door. It was chaos all about, as shouts and grunts warred with each other as they fled. The only peace in the room seemed to be in Sam's table.

"A flood," Sam was speechless, frozen in place. The sea of fear he so often felt came trickling into place again. His hands felt cold on the book. Opposite him, Roone looked the same.

"Calm yourself," Sam heard a voice,"Listen to me." Only his table stopped to listen, the rest of the room roaring as they fled from ruin.

"If we are fortunate," Leo said,"the flood would take the other side of the city. If we are not, it will take both sides. Whatever the case, there is only one place that is guaranteed safe in Oldtown. The Hightower."

"You're a Tyrell and they'll let you in," Roone spat,"but what of the rest of us?"

"The rest of us would count ourselves grateful to be friends with a Tyrell," Alleras answered.

"Alleras," Leo commanded,"Get Pate from the ravenry. Roone, get Mollander from the Cobbler's Rook. Meet me at the Sparrow Gate. We have just enough time to reach the Hightower before the floodwater comes."

"Sam," he stood as the room began to empty,"You are coming with me. You do not know the Citadel enough to go off on your own."

Sam had just now begun to gather his sense. It was only supposed to be a quiet night before he ventured to Horn Hill, not… this.

"Ye… Yes," Sam muttered as he stood. He took one look at his books, and thought it best to leave them. It was when the room was completely empty and the doorway open that Leo stood and they followed. Alleras and Roone bade them farewell and ran off in separate directions. Sam followed Leo, turning corner after corner and walking down staircase after staircase. Sam's heart was pounding with such fury that he feared it may burst from his throat. It did not help that thunder clapped every now and then, jolting Sam to the still raging storm outside. He never wanted to know what caused the storm.

They emerged from the Citadel in endless rain. The watchfires that once lit the shores of the Honeywine had sputtered into heaps of ash. The rain soaked Sam to the bone, blinding him to the roads about him. Yet it did not blind him to the madness. The only lights he could see were the flashes of lightning that would light the dock alive. Sam saw through brief moments that the docks were full to the brim with men. They shouted and screamed into the storm, hailing the fury of the howling winds. Everywhere there were men running who Sam could not see, most of which pushed him to the side as they fled to the dock. One clubbed him in the head, and he rubbed the piercing. His eyes found the north, to the high hills which hid the flood behind it. He could not see it, but he knew the dread.

Sam's mouth did not close, catching drops of rainwater on his tongue,"We are going to die."

"I thought that you were no craven anymore, Tarly," he heard a voice behind him,"Do not make it all the harder for me to save your life."

Sam gathered his senses, turning to Leo,"We need to flee right now. Where's your boat to the Hightower?"

"Wait," Leo said,"Wait for the others."

Sam didn't want to wait when safety was only a moment away. He knew that he could not wait. Beyond the high hills, he knew that the wall of water was growing greater.

"The boat," Sam pleaded to Leo,"The boat."

"Wait," Leo replied in an even tone,"Wait."

Roone and Mollander arrived a moment later, Roone dragging the other novice into the rain.

"Why?" the novice called Mollander was shouting,"It was probably nothing, and you woke me up to run all this way… Oh."

"That rose-reeking head of yours must have a plan, Tyrell," Roone said,"for me to have dragged this fool all the way here."

"Wait," Leo replied,"Wait for the others."

"Oh, so it seems that you're just another of those highborn fools with no idea where to go," Roone said to Leo, but his eyes fell on Sam as well.

Leo had already turned to greet the last of their company. Pate was panting as he pulled up after Alleras's sure strides. Alleras had a bow in his hands, striding past them to the street,"Well, Leo. We're all here. Do you want me to lead the way, or do you want the honour yourself?"

"You," Leo replied,"You have the better eye."

Alleras walked off into the darkness of the streets, and they followed. Sam felt a part of his heart come to east for he knew that they were at least making their way. The wall of water had still not crested the high hills. He knew, though, that it soon would. He swore a silent oath to never look back.

"Mother have mercy," he prayed, the words drowned out by the rain,"Warrior give me strength. Crone light the way." He made a plea to every one of the Seven, even the Stranger. His prayer to the Stranger was the most fervent, and Pate heard his voice and turned his head.

They came to a small empty pier hidden behind a wall of wet sandstone, bearing a single boat.

"This was your plan," Roone said,"Someone would have taken the boat long before we arrived."

"Leo, the key," Alleras ignored Roone. The jingle of Leo's key answered, and Sam saw an iron padlock tying the boat to the pier.

Alleras strode to the boat and unlocked it from the pier, and Mollander moved to help her push the boat into the water. Sam himself moved forward, hoping that they could reach the Hightower soon. A thin man burst forth from the shadows, came behind Mollander, and drew a red smile across his throat.

Only as Mollander's corpse was thrown into the Honeywine did Sam realize what had transpired. Sam was still moving forward, breaking forth into a run. All else escaped his mind except that he meant to steal Sam's hope away. He tackled the murderer to the ground. His face was cast in shadow, but Sam could see the reflection of his bloody knife.

Sam punched at the shadow that was his head. The Watch's training had done him good. He knew to never hesitate, never give him time to breathe. One punch, then two, then so many that he could not count. His fists were wet, but he knew that it was rain. The rain was soothing, and washed everything away. He ripped one of the boards off the pier and bashed it into what was left of the man's head. He beat it again and again until the head was a bloody pulp. He would not be a craven, never again. He screamed.

It was a long moment later when his eyes cleared. He saw what lay before him, and fell into silence.

He heard a laugh,"So the name Sam the Slayer is true." Sam turned to find Alleras staring at him, his lips curled into a cold smile.

Sam looked at Alleras's feet, and another dead man was there. His bowstring curled itself about the dead man's neck. The corpse seemed to have attacked Alleras, who choked him on his bowstring.

Sam heard a shriek, and a woman running out of the shadows. Her scream stopped in an instant when a knife found her throat. Sam did not see who threw the knife, but he heard a whisper,"Three lives have been taken tonight, and three must be given."

Sam did not stop to ponder those words as he remembered how much time they lingered here. Fear curdled his stomach as he realized how much closer the flood had become. He kept to his oath, though, and never looked north.

The others were already in the boat, and Sam turned to follow them. He was the last off the shore, landing with a heavy thump on the deck. He began to hear shouting.

"Tyrell, take him. Please. He's only a boy."

"A peasant boy."

"You're taking me."

"You are my friend. This boy is the son of the man who killed my friend."

Sam only knew that the boat was not moving.

"We have no time for this," he shouted through the storm,"The flood is coming."

His eyes found Leo, standing upon the rocking deck with a small boy before him.

"I will take him," he muttered.

"Row us away," they heard Alleras shout.

There were four pairs, and they took up all four. Leo sent the boy into the cabin, and Alleras guided the ship upfront.

The trip was silent save for the constant rumble of the rain. Rain that fell on Sam's hands, as sticky as blood. He felt an urge to look at the flood, but he suppressed it. Sam saw in his mind only the safety of the Hightower that he would reach.

It seemed an instant later, when they pulled up onto the shore. Sam held the flood behind him as he rushed forward to his salvation.

A roaring crowd had gathered at the Hightower's gates, their dreams louder than even the storm. Sam elbowed his way through them without hesitation. He saw Roone and Pate doing the same, clearing the way for the others. Twice he felt someone tear at his cloak, three times he heard a plea for help, and Sam surged forward with the Hightower in mind. He shoved aside others easily.

They reached the front of the crowd, before a gathering of Hightower guards before the gate.

"Ser Erin," Leo shouted behind Sam,"Ser Clans. Ser Anders. Anyone. This is Leo Tyrell."

One of the knights with a dark rain-soaked beard turned, and Leo pushed past Sam towards him. The knight let Leo and the boy he held into the circle of guards.

"Roone," Leo shouted, and the novice pushed his way forward to be let in by the guards.

"Pate," Leo shouted next, and the other novices followed.

"Sam," Leo's voice fell unto Sam's ears, and he walked forward. The guards opened their line for a moment, letting Sam in. Sam rushed for the gates, hearing Leo shout for Alleras after.

Two guards opened the gates, and Sam ran into the Hightower. He realized that he was tired. Yet he was dry, and out of the danger of the flood. At last, Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

Leo entered soon after, holding onto Alleras's arm.

"My lord Tyrell," a soft voice sounded,"May I know who all your companions may be?"

"Maester Hambun," Leo was panting,"My folk of the Citadel. Roone, Pate, Samwell, and Alleras."

The maester nodded,"and the boy."

"My bastard son," Leo said, and Roone gave Leo a look of surprise.

"Very well," Maester Hambun turned to one of his servants,"Arrange for Lord Tyrell and his folk a chamber in the Hightower, but not more than one chamber. We have many more good people to save tonight."

The chamber was dark save for several small candles, yet it was warm. There was a window in the room, and Sam judged his oath to be fulfilled and looked out. He saw the flood rise from the depth of the high hills, coming upon Oldtown. Buildings and streets alike drowned as the Honeywine flowed upon them. Only the tallest towers were spared. The crest of the Starry Sept. The ravenry of the Citadel. The Watchman's House, and the Hightower. The water came up to only the Hightower's lowest levels. Yet the crowd before it was buried beneath the waves. All the people of Oldtown were buried beneath the wall of water. Sam felt safe in his room.

The chamber was silent for a long time.

"Thank you," Roone was the one to break the silence,"Thank you, Leo."

"We're not dead," Alleras said,"so you have my thanks."

Pate was nodding as well.

Their eyes fell to Sam, and he found that he could not string out any words. He found his tongue after a moment of silence,"I know why my father hated cravens like me. Cravens could not have done what you did."

"You are a craven," Leo said,"but not as your father had claimed. There is the spark of courage when the moment calls for it the most."

"What good did courage do?" Roone was crying,"Mollander is still dead, even if his killer is dead as well. Death cannot pay for life."

Sam saw Pate look at Roone while flipping a coin, and saw it land tails on Pate's palm.

"You have Mollander's cain," Leo said.

"Yes," Roone replied,"Taken off his corpse."

"He always talked about his family of landed knights in Cider Hall," Leo said,"If we make it through tonight. Send the chain back to his family in his memory. The cost of the links would be able to feed his house for a year."

The room seemed to fall into silence again.

"It seemed that they were waiting for us," Alleras was the one to break the silence,"at the boat."

"Were… were they?" Sam asked.

"Of course," Alleras answered,"why else would they wait by a padlocked boat, if not for the key?"

"Fools," Leo said,"If they had only asked me, I would have let them on. There was enough space. Yet they chose to kill us. Lowborn filth will always be lowborn filth."

Sam saw Pate look at Leo and flip his coin another time. This time, it came up heads.

"Where's Papa?" a young voice asked. Sam looked to see that it was the boy they took in, curled by Leo on his bed.

"Seven Hells," Roone muttered and turned to the window. Sam felt… empty when he looked at the boy, but an urge compelled him to stay.

"I am your father now," Leo answered the boy,"and you are my son."

"No," the boy whined,"No. You're not. Take me back to Papa. Please."

"Your Papa's gone to a land far away," Alleras said. He pointed at Leo,"and he's left you with this man now. Papa said that he is Papa now."

"When will Papa come back?" the boy asked.

"When you grow up," Alleras's voice was soft.

"Sand, let me do this," Leo snapped.

"Hmph, Tyrell," Alleras grunted,"Look how well you've done."

"What's your name?" he asked the boy.

"Rock," the boy answered.

"Rock Flowers would be an odd name," Leo said,"It would not do."

"How about Quentyn," Alleras suggested,"after my favourite cousin?"

"I never knew you had a cousin," Leo said.

"There's so much you don't know about me that it would fill the Hightower. But this doesn't matter. Focus on the boy."

"Quentyn Flowers," Leo said,"That is an apt name."

"Mama," the boy said, bursting forward to hug Alleras and press a cheek to his chest.

Leo began to laugh, and Sam soon joined in. Roone's laughter added to their amusement as he turned. Only Pate did not laugh, his face showing bewilderment.

"That's the least we could do," Roone said,"give him a family."

Family, Sam's smile wilted at the sound of that word, and a familiar sense of dread gathered in his stomach. He wanted to vomit. Family. Family. Gilly. Little Aemon. He had forgotten all about them. He had forsaken them to the flood. He had left them in the Cinnamon Wind for his own safety.

"Mother have mercy," he rose, knocking his hand on a bedpost.

"What are you doing, Sam?" Roone asked.

"Gilly," the words tumbled out of his mouth,"My son. They were still in Oldtown."

"Then they're gone now," Leo said,"It's no use going to them" His words cut a wound into Sam, and he froze.

"May I inquire as to where they were?" Alleras asked, trying to shrug off the boy but failing,"It might happen that they were in a place where they might survive."

"On a ship, the Cinnamon Wind," Sam answered.

"Then it might just be that they survived," Alleras said,"Any good captain knows the signs of a flood, and would have left Oldtown long before the waters drowned it."

"But what if… what if the captain did not?" Sam pressed him.

"Don't you think that ships may be built to stand the seas?"

"Yes, but…" Sam paced about the room.

"Enough," Alleras snarled,"Don't you see that others might feel the same as you. The Citadel's drowned, generations of knowledge lost. Can you stop whining for just a moment?"

Sam froze, staring at him. His eyes averted and found Pate also looking at Alleras. He was still flipping a coin, and it landed tails.

Sam walked to his bed, and the room was quiet but for the sputtering of the rain.

"Gilly and little Aemon are safe." he assured himself,"They would survive this flood, just as we survived the Others."

"This Seven-cursed flood," Roone said,"Weren't Hightower men watching the dam?"

"Ser Baelor took five thousand of Oldtown's garrison to march for King Renly," Leo answered,"and ironmen appear at our shores. Lord Leyton called back the dam garrison to shore up the walls."

"Then it's no wonder that you have a flood on your hands," Alleras said, having calmed the boy who was now sleeping soundly. She was looking out the window,"Particularly if you've got ironman hacking away for moons."

"Ironmen?" Sam asked, incredulous,"They were out west in the Sunset Sea, and your men caught the ones who tried to sneak into Oldtown. They are still out at sea. It cannot be."

"Well," Alleras pointed out the window,"They're right there." He turned back and strung his bow.

Sam peered out the window, and his stomach gave way when he saw the Ironborn galley beneath the flicker of starlight. They came from the north where the flood began, sailing down the floodwater upon Oldtown. Dozens of banners adorned the hundreds of galleys that surrounded the remaining towers of the city, chief amongst them a great golden kraken on a flagship as large as an isle.

"Ready yourselves," Sam heard Alleras and the twang of his bow,"We may have to hold for months before help can arrive."

"No," Leo said,"We will not last."

When dawn came upon the horizon, a servant arrived. She told them that Lord Leyton had come down from the Hightower to yield Oldtown to Euron Greyjoy. Sam knew that it was the most sensible choice, as they would only be taken as highborn hostages. They would live.

When the servant left, Sam found that Pate had disappeared. He approached the place where the novice sat, and saw that he had left his coin. Pate had flipped the coin one last time. It had landed heads.

 

[Mockingbird]

ASHA
​

Asha was with child.

It was undeniable now. The moon had passed in Winterfell, yet no blood ever came on her thigh. She had explained the absence last moon by the cold of Stannis's march, the blood having frozen before she woke and passing by unknown. Yet she lay this moon in the warmth of Winterfell's walls, with nary a march nor a battle. Her time had passed with not a drop of warmth between her legs.

She had given it a day, two, and a dozen more, but naught appeared. When the nausea came in company, it became clear to see.

It would not have worried her in normal times, for a swish of tansy would have relieved the burden even if she forgot the moon tea. Yet there was none in her chamber, and Winterfell's maester gave nothing to her when she asked.

The father was certain to be Qarl the Maid, as he was the only man she bedded in the last few moons. He did not know, and Asha would not tell him. It would not do him any good to learn of a child that will never be truly his. A common sailor is no worthy father of krakens.

Asha sighed as she considered that she might have to whelp a kraken in Winterfell. Her father was rolling in his grave, knowing that another of his house would be born of the North. Never mind that it was a bastard. She prayed that it would be a daughter. A son, of the North no less, would have to die when she sired trueborn heirs on her throne.

Stannis and his host have left for well over a moon. Ever since, it was quiet in Winterfell. Much too quiet. The king's power had come as silent as a storm, and left with the same silence. He had left the Stark girl as Lady of Winterfell and Ser Ewis as castellan. The Stark girl was too young, and Ser Ewis too foreign. The Stark girl's regent Manderly had seized power the moment he had the chance. There was little certainty that he had ever been truly loyal, and he made his true loyalty clear when his knights stormed the castle.

There was no bloodshed, but the message was clear, he was Lady Stark's regent and the true Lord of Winterfell. Asha's little freedom had vanished as soon as Manderly banners rose above the castle. "For my lady's safety," Manderly had said as he shut her in the chamber alone,"Without His Grace's shield, there are many men who would wish to slay a kraken. We still have not found your brother." She did not know what had become of her fellow Ironborn.

Asha could do nothing but wait and watch from her chamber. Stannis had taken all his loyal men, the Umbers and the clansmen and all the Wolfswood folk. He was wise to leave this fight that he would lose, but he did not take her. Asha was left in the hands of the warring lords, in the middle of the storm.

In these days, there was not much to see from the small window. There was not much to hear the maester who brought her meals. The bandits formed of broken Boltons had been vanquished by sallies of Manderly and Dustin knights. The knights cornered the last group in the Wolfring ten leagues to the east, and the maester was eager to tell her that it was a ring of rocks that the First Men used as a fort in the days of the dawn. Asha saw the victorious riders return from the winter whie, bringing forth a captive that had been beheaded before Winterfell's Great Hall. "It was one of the Bastard's Boys," the maester had told her.

The last of the Boltons seemed to have been given their fates. "But what of Stannis's men. Am I the same enemy as the Boltons before me?" The burning stag still lay blazing upon every wall, though she knew that it was just for show. Stannis held little power in the castle, and Ser Ewis is like to be dead. The king always had little power in the North.

Asha saw the endless barges coming up the White Knife, bringing with them food, furs and soldiers. "As if Manderly needed them." There was no one left to contest him in Winterfell. Stannis was gone. Dustin had chastened when she heard that Jon Snow was dead. Cerwyn, Harper, and Hornwood were all Manderly's staunch allies. Reed's men from Greywater Watch had arrived three days ago to pay homage, followed soon by Winterwynd's men from Coldsbane. She did not know if they came to renew their vows with Lady Arya Stark or one of the Stark boys that Manderly produced to be Lord of Winterfell, only that in the end it was to Manderly.

The door slammed open. Asha jumped, startled but soon composing herself. She searched for the knife she hid from the northmen's eyes. If Manderly sought to kill her, her death would not come with silence.

"Sorry," a shrill voice cried,"I had no idea Winterfell's doors were so light."

Asha tucked the knife back in her cloak and turned to face her assailant. The intruder was a maid about eighteen years, with a pretty plump face framed by sea green curls. A white fur pelt hung about her soldiers, dragging beneath a light brown cloak which she hugged about her body.

"The doors were always so heavy back home," the maid was saying,"For our safety, Grandfather always said. I have found it difficult ever since to use these lighter doors. On the barge, it was not so bad since a little ruckus was commonplace, but slamming doors does not suit the quiet Winterfell. It is a quiet and peaceful place, the seat of a lord. I am sorry if I startled you, my lady."

"I need a little startling these days," Asha glanced at the maid, wondering why she had decided to speak with an ironman. It was clear that she was one of the mermen by the emblem emblazoned on the surcoats of her guards. "So it seems that Winterfell is so secure in Manderly's hold that he has decided to bring his kin here."

Wanderings aside, she still had to attend to her guest. She was still a prisoner in Winterfell.

"Who comes here today?" Asha would not smile, but a frown no longer masked her features.

"The lady Asha Greyjoy, I presume," the maid's eyes fell upon Asha,"I am Lord Wyman's least favourite granddaughter, Wynafyrd. You can call me Wyna."

Speaking to ladies was foreign to Asha. You could never find any upon an Ironborn ship lest one was taken captive. Most sailors were burly and loudmouthed, the mark of men who had spent long years as the crew of galleys. Of the few women amongst them, none bore the softness of a greenlander lady. The closest on the Black Winds was Tristifer Botley, and there was no chance to practise now. He had gone with Stannis to the Wall.

"Lady Wynafyrd," Asha said to the greenlander maid,"You should come in. It is awfully cold in the hall."

"Manderly,' Asha thought ,"She is a Manderly, of the blood of the south." Although it was never truly cold in Winterfell, the maid would surely feel the cruel stones that spoke of the Kings of Winter.

Fire was the greatest gift one could give in this time of winter. "Well, there's no fire. Warmth at least." Asha had moved her bed near the hearth the moment she moved into this chamber. There was no need for it as the rising of the springs filled the chamber with warmth. Yet Asha did not trust the springs, works of the old gods. She did not know when those gods would abandon the kraken to the cold. When that time came, Asha would still need to make the fire herself.

Not a cinder burned in the hearth as the Manderly girl sat beside Asha on her bed. The girl's guards had followed her, two dour soldiers with their hands pressed on their hilts. Asha judged that she could flick her knife into one's eyes if it came to it, but then the other would cut her down. She decided against battle for the moment.

Asha studied the girl beside her. Manderly seemed to no longer be planning war, if he had brought his granddaughter to Winterfell. There was something else the fat lord was plotting.

"Do you ever tend the fire?" the lady asked.

"Sometimes," Asha shrugged,"It is warm enough here, but what harm can a little more fire do in winter?"

"Winter nights are always the longest," the maid nodded,"but your heart is still warm when you tend the flames."

Lady Wynafyrd turned, brushing her braid against the arm of one of her guards. She looked up with a knotted expression,"By the navel of the Father. Leave us, you two. I am safe enough on my own here with Lady Asha."

"How wrong you are," Asha felt the comforting touch of her knife beneath her cloak. Yet there lay a burning fever within her eager to know what transpired outside in Winterfell. The greenlander maid was the first to visit her for a moon other than the maester. Asha put aside thoughts of the knife for the moment.

Lady Wynafyrd's guards left, and Asha sat alone with her. "Why did you come to Winterfell?" Asha inquired,"White Harbour is warmer, by the sea."

The maid laughed,"White Harbour is not cold, but there are other things. It is always dreary, where the sea is as grey as the ashen sky. There is little of the pretty snows you see in Winterfell. The Merman's court is always alive with some plot or other scheme."

"Like what?" Asha could not help but ask.

"Mostly captains complaining that other captains caught their fish," the maid answered with a smile,"This, though, is not so different here. I thought it would be peaceful after the Freys left, but it soon became the same old thing. I knew I had to escape to some other place if I were not to go insane."

Asha smiled,"Yet that is not the only cause as to your departure from your home."

The lady looked at her, and Asha spied in her eyes some disappointment.

"Certainly not," the maid said, fingering her green braid,"There is much greater cause than my own wishes. White Harbour erupted into a storm of celebration when King Stannis saved the North from the Bolton usurpers. The Starks rule in Winterfell again, the rightful lords of the North. Our house came to Winterfell to swear our fealty."

"To House Stark?" Asha wondered,"Or Stannis Baratheon?" Knowing Wyman Manderly, his power needs the North to forget Stannis in his entirety. He had brought his granddaughter to Winterfell for her hand to secure his own alliances. "Manderly's storm did not come with fire and steel. It came instead in something far more deadly, plots and poison."

"Have you met Lady Arya Stark?" Asha asked.

"She greeted us in the Great Hall," Lady Wynafyrd replied,"Me. My sister. All our attendants. Lady Arya was soft and gentle and sweet. Just like her sister Sansa, who I had the fortune of meeting years ago. Lady Arya hosted us with a vibrant feast, and we felt dearly the honour. Did I mention that the lady was beautiful. Very beautiful."

"I think not," Asha thought at her last words,"Not with her frost-bitten nose." It could be a harmless courtesy, or a lie to hide something. She knew that it was the latter when she heard the maid's next words,"Not at all like her brother."

"So Stannis had been right," Asha thought,"A Stark son survived in Manderly's hand."

"'Her brother," Asha asked,"I thought all her brothers were dead."

"Most of them are," Lady Wynafyrd sighed,"Traitors slew King Robb in the south. Your brother Theon failed to kill the boys, but Brandon was still lost to the wild. Only Rickon lived, but he did live. The lone wolf survived."

"Are you certain that he is truly Rickon Stark?" Asha asked.

"As certain as can be," Lady Wynafyrd answered,"There was a black direwolf with this boy we found, and each of the Stark children had a direwolf of their own. The boy called his wolf Shaggydog. We were as certain as we could be in the Stark lord we could bring home."

"Bring home," Asha thought,"To assume the Stark seat, of course." Wyman Manderly no longer had to deal with Lady Arya, the leavings of Stannis. He would soon have his own Lord of Winterfell. The last of Stannis's power was disappearing. There was only one bit left. Asha herself. She was certain that Manderly would come for her next. Yet she would not meekly turn over and die. A kraken fought until its last tentacle unraveled. She would see her Iron Isles again.

"Is the Lord Rickon in Winterfell?" Asha asked.

"He's in Winterfell as of now, with my sister Wylla," Lady Wynafyrd chuckled,"He's not lord yet. He certainly has the rightful claim, and Lady Arya has agreed to give him the sea, but that's not until tonight. It's only in the wedding when he becomes lord."

"The wedding?" Asha asked, oblivious.

"Of course," Lady Wynafyrd said,"You do not know. There's a wedding tonight. Between His Grace Stannis's castellan Ser Ewis Estermont and Lady Jorelle Cerwyn. We seek to unite the south and north, some joy we can have after the suffering of the recent war."

"Oh," the lady ruffled her dress,"I almost forgot to tell you something. Grandfather asked me to invite you to the wedding tonight. Are you willing to come?"

"Of course," Asha answered quickly. She could do nothing while confined to this chamber. At the wedding, there were sure to be many guests and many a chance to do something for her fate in Winterfell. It was Manderly's great blunder to let a kraken out of her chamber.

"Excellent," Lady Wynafyrd replied,"but do not get too excited. Not in your condition."

There was only one condition that she may have been referring to, and Asha touched her stomach. A pit of dread fell, but she knew that it would not do to hide. All the world would know anyway in four moons when her stomach bulged.

"A babe is always a joy to see," Lady Wynafyrd said,"Want some advice?"

She leaned to Asha's ear, and whispered,"You krakens are hated in the North. Count yourself fortunate that you carry King Stannis's child, and the father is the saviour of the North. If you did not, my lady would be dead ten times over. But we would never hurt King Stannis's babe."

Asha briefly thought to reach for her knife, but a thought stayed her hand,"They think Stannis the father of my child." There was much of danger in a king's child, but also much of use. She froze her hand as it reached for her knife, and thought to see wherever the wind blows.

Lady Wynafyrd withdrew, the smile still firmly plastered on her face,"At the wedding, we will need to find you a dress. A lady should not parade around the castle in those things."

Asha knew that it was not the worst deal. They could demand that she marry one of these northmen, and there would be no other choice.

"Why did you come here today?" Asha asked Lady Wynafyrd,"For the wedding?"

The lady shook her head,"It was just to speak with another lady. Winterfell is lacking those of late."

 

[Mockingbird]

QUENTYN
​

Quentyn woke to the smell of shit.

The scent made its mark all about him as his mind drifted awake. The reek swallowed his surroundings, and all the skies and earth seemed to lay in wretches. He did not know where his senses had gathered the smell. Quentyn could not know, as his eyes were closed.

It was warm in the darkness. There was the taste of the sun and the winds and home. Far away, he seemed to hear singing. The smell of shit followed. All around was the wafting of the scent, yet he did not dare open his eyes. He found himself staring at the darkness. An eerie darkness, with whispers of light blinking and fading.

At long last, he could no longer bear the smell. Quentyn opened his eyes, and beheld gold. A streak of light blinded him, and he forgot all else.

When his sight gathered again, he looked up to see a ceiling draped in silks and velvets, laid in cloth of a thousand colours. It was a warm chamber, and beneath him was something he had forgotten. It was a bed, as soft as the summer silks floating overhead. The soft threads of the blanket draped up to Quentyn's neck, curling about his throat. The pillow was sweet, calling for him to fall asleep. He could hardly believe what he found. It was something he had forgotten. He was home.

"No," his senses came back to him. He still smelled the stink all around, and he knew that he could not sleep. He was nowhere near home.

Quentyn could not sleep, so he thought to rise. He found that he could not do that either. He had not the strength to lift himself, the tender blankets weighing down his futile struggles. The stink lingered.

"What should a prince do?" Quentyn lay there, muttering to himself. He could not sleep, and he could not rise. He stared instead at the ceiling that hid the bright blue sky. He stared at the silks that ran in whorls above his strained eyes. They twisted to make a flower, to make a face, to make a sword. They were beautiful and mysterious and terrible all at the same time. He looked at the ceiling, decorated by circular patterns. Circles stood by circles, repeating themselves all across. "The wheels go ever round and round," the circles were all he could see above him.

He stared at the ceiling for what seemed like eternity, until a vague human face appeared above him to break the monotony. His eyes cleared, and he saw that it was an old woman's face streaked with wrinkles and sunken shadows.

The folds of her golden dress fell upon Quentyn, and her mouth opened in a gape.

"You," he heard her say. She said more, something about the stink or the war. Perhaps both. Quentyn realized that he must be a guest in this woman's home, at her mercy.

He waited for a moment for her to finish her words, and replied in a whisper,"Thank you." It was the only safe thing to say.

The wrinkles upon the old woman's eyes relaxed, and Quentyn pretended that her eyes softened. He blinked, and the tenderness was gone. She mumbled some words that he could not hear, and swept away. In just a short moment, the old woman was gone. He blinked again, but she did not reappear. He saw only the unreachable ceiling swaying above him in the air.

"Why did she leave me?" Quentyn wondered.

"It was the stink," he figured,"the damned stink."

Quentyn was now almost certain of where he was. He remembered that he was still in Meereen. In some Master's Pyramid, or a rich man's home. In the city, there were places for princes like him. Even for him, the powerless Prince of Dorne. He knew why the woman left him. Stink was unbecoming of a prince. Especially the prince who sought to wed the queen.

Another eternity later, the smell of perfume washed the stink away. Unconsciously, Quentyn wrinkled his nose. He had gotten used to the stink, and the perfume was even more sickening. The sweetness of the perfume hid unsettling secrets that made Quentyn's skin crawl with fear. There was nothing to hide when something reeked. There was everything to hide when something was sweet.

"Are you certain that he is awake, Qaza?" an unfamiliar voice said. It was a young maid's voice which Quentyn could not quite place. Was it a voice he heard one day at the dragon queen's court?

"Her Grace," the maid's voice continued,"commanded that you are not to disturb her until he is awake. It is bad enough that we had to pick up this stranger from the maze and care for him in the Temple. Her Grace does not wish to waste her time watching him sleep."

"Hush, my dear Hani," another unfamiliar voice said, this one an old woman's,"Nothing is a waste of time. The gods have arranged my fate so that I may meet this boy. You must learn, my dear, to treat guests with honour."

"Her Grace?" Quentyn wondered,"Has the queen returned?" His heart leapt at the prospect. The queen had commanded that he be cared for. Perhaps his father's pact may yet succeed.

He tilted his head a slight bit and saw the maid in a white dress speaking to two crones, one in a golden dress and the other in a green one with a veiled face.

"Your Grace, he's awake," the maid said, then swiftly bowed to the crone in the green dress and retreated from the chamber.

"Grace," Quentyn thought,"Grace." He was all too glad for a familiar word, far from the silken mysteries that Meereen desired to boast of. The word was one mark Quentyn brought from home. The queen was here.

The two crones came upon him. The one in the green dress sat at his bedside while the one in the golden dress stood back. Quentyn found himself staring at the eyes of the crone at his bedside. Her emerald eyes were all Quentyn could see of her, the rest hidden behind her veil.

"You are awake, my young prince," that crone said. Quentyn managed a smile and thought of what to say to this woman.

"I had long thought to meet you," that old woman continued,"A few days ago, I extended an invitation to my Temple just for you. May I know why you did not come?"

Quentyn did not know what she spoke of, but he thought it best to not offend her. There was always prudence in courtesy until one knew the other.

"I apologize," Quentyn said,"I never knew of this invitation. If I did, I am certain that I would have agreed."

"My Graces asked one of your men to relay the invite to you," the crone raised her eyebrows,"It was the handsome one with the straw hair. He was sure to have told my young prince."

"Ger," Quentyn thought,"When did he say anything like this?" Quentyn searched within the recesses of his memory, and found only the light-hearted jape of bedding a Red Grace to prepare for the dragon queen,"Was that it?"

"Who was the man?" the crone asked,"Has he failed in his duties?"

"I think that it was Ser Gerris," Quentyn answered. "My friend," he almost said, but found it unwise to reveal too much of himself. The crone was sweet, and her sweetness unsettled him.

"My guard," Quentyn said,"Mayhaps he had mentioned it, and it was my error to have overlooked it. We had more pressing worries to attend to."

Realizing that his words may offend as he said that he placed some other thing over the invitation, he quickly added: "It was chaos in the city after the disaster of the queen's wedding. We did not have time for merriment then, as we had more pressing matters of survival to attend to."

"Pressing matters of survival," the crone's voice was as still as stone,"such as taming a dragon."

The memories came rushing back to Quentyn. His arm burning. All of him, awash in fire and light. He heard again the screams. The rain as well.

"I am not dead," he assured himself.

"You are not dead," the crone shook her head,"You are a dragon, are you not? The queen always told me that fire cannot kill a dragon."

"Fire cannot kill a dragon," Quentyn pondered on those words. They were not true. He was a false dragon, hanging upon a lone century-old drop of dragon blood in his veins. He thought himself a true dragon at heart just like the queen's house of Targaryens, yet in truth his dragon was made of only cloth. Weak, burning at the slightest fire. Only worthy in a puppet show that wanted a likeness of the beast. Quentyn looked at the crone, wondering why she wanted Quentyn to be a dragon. She cared for him, giving him a chamber and a bed and she had doubtless healed him after… after what happened. Why did she care? Quentyn needed to know what she wanted of him.

"Who are you?" he asked. He made to ask other questions as well, but suddenly the fear of annoying her stayed his tongue. He bit back the other words that he held ready,"Where am I? What do you want with me?|

The crone looked at him with smiling eyes,"I thought my prince would have asked that sooner. I am a dear friend of the queen, Her Radiance Daenerys Targaryen. You may already have guessed I am a Grace serving the gods of Ghis at the Temple. All modesty aside, I am the Green Grace of this Temple that leads our service to the gods. I think you already know, though, and asking is a matter of courtesy."

"The head priestess of the Temple," Quentyn,"Why was she the one to take me from the maze?" A thousand notions zipped through his head as to why a septon would have wanted a prince, each more fantastical than the last. He knew that there was a much more profitable reason than merely saving a lost soul. Septons in the Seven Kingdoms married couples. Perhaps the dragon queen had returned and was due to marry him. The Temple would shield him until the day of the wedding when the Graces would perform the service. The Green Grace did mention the queen, so perhaps that was it. The dragon queen was the only person who could have gotten Quentyn out of that maze where he had tried to tame a dragon. It begged another question that Quentyn should have asked long ago. How exactly was he still alive?

"How did I come here?" Quentyn asked the Green Grace.

"We found my prince," the Green Grace answered,"after you tried and failed to tame a dragon. My prince was foolish to think that taming a dragon would bring you the chance to wed the queen. If you wished to wed her, you should have come to me. Why pursue that dangerous path when I could have offered you an easier road? But all that is in the past. It makes no matter now, for you are here with me."

"How was I alive?" Quentyn asked.

The Green Grace flicked an impatient hand,"It was raining."

"Fire cannot kill a dragon," she chuckled," I would say that fire cannot kill a wet dragon. I would venture a guess that you were soaked in rain when the dragon burned you. I would also guess that you quickest out of the maze, and the rains doused what remained of the flames. I had sent my men as soon as I heard of your folly, and they found you fainted on the stones outside the dragon maze. It is very well that you are alive. I would have a lot more trouble if my prince were dead."

"She wants me for something," Quentyn figured,"else she would have left me for dead."

"I give my most heartfelt thanks," Quentyn said,"Is there any way that I can repay you?"

"Speak not of debts," the Green Grace said,"I saved you by the will of the gods."

"There it is," Quentyn thought,"What she wants me for."

"What is the will of the gods?" Quentyn asked.

"Peace," the Green Grace's voice was soft and melodious,"My prince will bring Meereen peace."

"Oh," Quentyn had almost forgotten that they were at war and the city was besieged, but what the Green Grace wished perplexed him. He had the barest power to rule in this city, else he would not have gone to tame the dragon. How could he bring this city to peace when the queen, her greatest knight Barristan the Bold, and even that Meereenese master Hizdahr zo Loraq had all failed?

"How?" he asked, then refined his question to make it seem less harsh,"How can I help you bring Meereen to peace?"

The Green Grace's eyes saddened, and she caressed Quentyn's cheek with a wrinkled hand. Her skin felt as cold as a knife, and Quentyn thought the light in the chamber darkened by several fractions.

"The queen is dead," her statement came like a wash of cold water, and Quentyn stared blankly at her.

"The queen is dead," the Green Grace repeated, lifting her hand from Quentyn's cheek,"riding away to never return. The besieged city fell into the hands of Barristan the Bold and the Shavepate Skahaz mo Kandaq. Barristan fell soon after the queen when he led a sally against the besiegers. He slew many of the enemy, yet was defeated in the end. Barristan was lost upon the foe's hips, trying to capture them when the queen's dragon set them afire. Much of Barristan's sallying force was lost also in bloody battle, his lieutenant Grey Worm returning to Meereeen with only the barest remnants. The siege continues, with the masters outside renewing their lines and continuing to rain corpses on the city. Kandaq has become the sole ruler of Meereen, and he is set on defying the besiegers. The situation is so at this very moment. Kandaq does not care that he is fighting a losing battle. Deaths surge every day in the city from the pale mare, starvation, or the violence of the Shavepate's Brazen Beasts. Kandaq seeks to continue this hopeless war until Meereen is a ruin. He will bring this city a fate like Astapor or worse. Barristan was our last hope of victory through war, and he is gone now. We need peace."

"That peace," the Green Grace gazed long and hard at Quentyn,"is what you can give."

"For peace," she said,"Kandaq must be overthrown. My prince is the most powerful man in Meereen as of now. My prince is the man who has tamed two of the queen's beasts, riding upon them to salvage the battle from the worst. With your aid, Kandaq will be easily unseated and my prince could make peace with the besiegers. Peace shall come to Meereen."

"What?" Quentyn blurted,"I never tamed…"

"That does not matter," the Green Grace cut him off,"What matters is that all in Meereen know that you were the one who set the dragons free. You were the one to ride them into battle. You are the hero of Meereen."

"The gods let you live for a purpose," the Green Grace said while bringing Quentyn's hand from beneath the blanket,"and I hope you live up to it."

Quentyn gathered her words. His mind still reeled.

"The queen was not dead," he assured himself. It could not be the truth. He needed to wait for her return, and in the meantime he could make this peace.

"I shall live up to the will of the gods," Quentyn told the Green Grace,"I shall make our peace. He struggled to rise from the bed, but the Green Grace put him down with a gentle hand.

"Rest now, my prince," the Green Grace's eyes were warm,"Rest, and act when you have the strength. There are many battles to come."

Quentyn saw that the light in the chamber was growing brighter. Outside, the sun was shining above.

 

[Mockingbird]

ASHA
​

The dress was the worst part of the wedding.

A half dozen of Lady Wynafyrd's attendants had fawned upon her for hours. After so long alone in the chamber, she didn't think about what she may have looked like. It seemed that it mattered to the attending maids.

She waited for hours to bear the growing discomfort of a wooden seat and thereafter standing straight before a full-length mirror, only to be waiting for a snicker or a giggle or a call to redo everything.

The colourful dress they had set Asha in did nothing to lift her spirits. There were four colours shining through the gown's folks, and none of them her house's shades of black or gold. There were no pockets to hide anything in the gown, a fact that haunted her to no end.

"Manderly's granddaughter must have planned it like this," Asha thought again for the thousandth time ,"but her humiliation will meet its due in time." At least there was a plain black fur cloak to cover up this bright shame visited upon her. She had asked for it, and it seemed that Lady Wynafyrd did not deny her this.

Her head was already boiling when a girl entered the chamber to exclaim,"My lady looks fabulous. You look as though it is your nameday. Every lord shall wish you to grant him a dance tonight." Asha first thought that it was Lady Wynafyrd, but the voice did not seem quite right. It irritated her still.

"I wore leather and ringmail for my nameday," Asha thought,"and danced the finger dance with drunken sailors." She did not say anything in answer though, for she was biting her lip to resist the itch of the silk.

Asha saw the girl emerge in the reflection of the mirror. The girl had flaming red hair and bright blue eyes. She was slim, her limbs long and her hips thin and frail. Asha noticed that her bosom was scarce more than a boy.

"You look so lovely and sweet," the girl brushed an attendant aside to adjust Asha's hairnet,"You look so lovely and sweet, a perfect mother for the king's babe. Wyna knew that this gown would suit you."

"Lady Wynafyrd picked it out just for you," one of the attendants chirped in.

"Did she?" Asha thought ,"Mayhaps." She remembered the babe in her belly that the whole of Winterfell was certain to be Stannis's seed, the only shield she had between herself and the northman's blades. That must be why the lady had chosen this dress for her. Asha would need to play the part of a mother, of a greenlander lady. She shrugged off the black fur cloak.

"Send for a white one," she ordered one of the attendants. Lady Wynafyrd had been wise.

"Oh no," the red-haired girl cried, Asha feeling a tug on her hair,"Did I pull out anything? Your face looked to be in pain."

"No," Asha was vexed, but her face remained still as stone,"I was just thinking about how I could thank Lady Wynafyrd for this beauty."

"You don't need to," the lady answered,"It's always her delight to serve. I would say that she is desperate for a lady to call sister. Her sister Wylla's not privy to her charm, and me, well, Lord Manderly considers the daughter of his steward too lowly to be company for his daughter."

"Where is Lady Wynafyrd?" Asha inquired.

An uneasy expression came upon the girl's face,"Something's happened. Wyna is not leaving her room. When I visited her, she shouted at me to go away. I think that there were tears in her voice. She told me to come to you."

"I wonder what?" Asha made a note to discover the roots of the lady's pain later.

They were interrupted as a handmaid burst into the chamber.

"Lady Ismeni," she panted,"Lady Asha. The wedding is beginning now in the godswood. M'ladies should hurry and come."

Lady Ismeni gave the girl a nod.

"Is my lady ready?" she then asked Asha.

"Certainly," Asha said with her first smile that night. It might be the only time when she did not need to pretend.

The godswood was quiet. It was the only place in Winterfell that was not touched by war. All else was a burnt husk, the work of Stannis or her brother before. Even within the wood, she spotted beyond the walls ruins in every corner needing to be rebuilt. Some rubble and ash were yet to be cleared, and faint mists of conquest would descend as newcomers arrived at the wedding. The only common thing between the godswood and the rest of the Winterfell was that above everything lay ice and snow.

The weirwood trees stood tall and gloomy, as they did since the Age of Heroes when Winterfell was built if the tales be true. "They must be, if the krakens can trace their line back to the Grey King."

"Day's the first day that's not snowing," Asha heard a northman tell another,"Lords' waited so long for such a day. Else there'd be a cold marriage."

"A cold marriage is bloody unlikely," the other northman replied,"The lad's got the warm blood of the south."

Asha gazed to the heart tree where the groom stood alone as northmen tradition bid. The groom was expected to be able to shield the bride under his strength and his strength alone. No house could aid him, no friends nor fathers. Only himself.

Ser Ewis wore a golden doublet, covered by a green cloak patterned simply with the webbing of a tortoise's shell. There was clear to be no fire in his eyes, only a silent darkness that awaited his bride. Asha pitied him, for he was doomed to fall beneath the swords of the northmen.

His eyes flitted over to them, as if pleading. "To Manderly," Asha figured, who stood before him and took up the places of two men.

Manderly did not seem to care, as he was trying to console a sobbing Lady Wynafyrd. Asha did not know what had come upon her, as she had appeared with tears in her eyes at the godswood and had not stopped crying ever since.

"Why did you bring him?" Lady Wynafyrd muttered,"Why did you bring him?"

"He is our lord," Manderly said evenly,"I had to do it for our house. For Wylis. For you."

"You could have told me that he was mad," Lady Wynafyrd snarled,"Mad, madder than the Freys. Madder than that Bastard you spoke of."

"It is a tragedy," Manderly said,"But you have to understand. The boy suffered so much. He and his wolf are bound to be on guard all the time. He only ever allows that wildling woman near him. Wylla should have known…"

"Known what?" Lady Wynafyrd turned away, her tears still streaming,"Known that you brought a mad boy as our lord. She is dead now, is she not? That is why you have not let me see her. Show me. SHOW ME." She screamed the last words, and all of this side of the godswood looked at them.

Asha so wished to leave this place and the sobbing lady, but Manderly had posted guards about her. In the end, she decided that it was wiser remaining by safety of the guards' swords than the great number of vengeful northmen hearts.

"Send her to bed, Ser Mormund," Manderly ordered a burly guardsman to his side. The guardsman lifted the sobbing girl in his arms and walked away.

"Vincynt," he called to a tall black-haired man,"You know Wyna better than even Tryce. When she is calm enough, tell her the truth about Wylla."

"Yes, my lord," Vincynt said, then raised his brows,"Shall I show her? My lord knows that she will ask to see. If I may be so bold, it is my view that women should come to know these things. Lady Wynafyrd is a woman grown."

Manderly thought for a moment, then answered,"Yes, if it would put her heart to rest."

Vincynt bowed and left the godswood after the guardsman. The godswood seemed to calm after Lady Wynafyrd, and the wedding continued.

"The beast must be put down," a short man bearing the sigil of a broken trident said,"before it savages another." Asha knew that he was one of the crannogman, a bannerman of House Reed who came on behalf of Lord Howland to Winterfell.

"No," Manderly said,"The beast is what proves Rickon Stark true."

"It proves true that he is mad," Robett Glover said. His eyes, however, were fixed on a glare on Asha. She looked away.

Asha looked to the other side of the bride aisle, hoping to find some relief. She saw a forest of banners blazing in the sky, sigils of a golden seahorse, a prowling wildcat, a blanket in a field of blood. Dustin stood there beneath her twin crowned axes and beside her was a multitude of Ryswells all bearing the same horse with a flaming mane. She looked farther, and there stood the Winterwynds with their tears of snow, the Hornwoods with their moose antlers, and the Forresters with their iron tree. Beyond that was a hand with nine gold fingers, a castle with a broken door, and a hanging icicle. Mender, Crackstone, and Coldfinger.

The men on the Manderly side of the aisle seemed lonely in their forest of green mermen. Asha briefly wondered if it would be prudent to join the other side. "Perhaps later, but not now. Now is the wedding, and the show of Manderly's power."

She looked closer at her own side, and did figure out the lizard lion of House Reed, hovering faintly amidst the sea of green. Lord Howland had sent crannogmen north when he heard that the Starks reclaim Winterfell. The envoys swore their loyalty to Lady Arya, and then asked about the Reed heirs. Manderly could give nothing in answer save for tidings of Rickon Stark, and that he hoped to find the heirs with the wolf boy. "Though it seems that he has not." Asha wondered why Reed still stood with the fat lord. Asha herself stood on this side of the aisle, but it was not by choice.

In truth it was not the men there at the wedding that piqued her interest, but those who were not. Of the hundreds of banners that danced above Winterfell when Stannis conquered the castle, many were missing. Almost every house north between Winterfell and the Wall marched away with Stannis to Castle Black. The clansmen left no trace of their presence in the castle. Neither did the Umbers and their roaring giant, the Karstarks with their sun in darkness, even a dozen other northern houses which only joined Stannis once he entered the walls. The mailed fist had followed Stannis north, even though Robett Glover showed himself in Winterfell. The missing men were the men that followed Stannis north. Those were the men that were still loyal to the king. There was another chance for Asha.

Lady Wynafyrd had promised that the boy Rickon Stark was in Winterfell. He was lord, or at least will be soon. Though the boy did not seem to be fit from what Lady Wynafyrd's words to her grandfather revealed. It only confirmed her suspicions when the boy was not in the godswood. The absence of the lord would surely be noted.

Lady Jonelle came, and the answer came also to the lord's absence. As the bride entered the godswood, a boy strode at her side. The boy was tall, almost to the lady's waist. His red hair fell past his shoulders, and light gleamed in his bright blue eyes. It was a cold light, the light Asha knew gleamed in that of animals. The boy wore an easy smile, but she knew the smile of the addled. She had seen it so often on her father's face.

"Of course," Asha thought about why the boy was leading the bride. She had almost forgotten the custom of the greenlanders. The father was to give the bride away, but Lady Jonelle's father had fallen to the King in the North's war. The giver would fall to her brother, but the brother was killed by Theon in battle before he burned Winterfell. It seemed that the next man to give the bride went to the lord, Lord Rickon Stark of Winterfell.

Rickon Stark was not what Asha had imagined of a Stark. She had thought them all like Lord Eddard with his black hair, cold eyes, and heart of ice. Yet there was an eerie madness in Rickon Stark that she could not place with the blood of the wolf.

She was not the only one who shared those thoughts. "Are you mad?" Robett Glover demanded of Manderly, but the fat lord did not answer.

Asha gazed upon the bride's face, and noted that her muscles were tense and stretched. She was forcing a smile for the wedding's sake, trying to move quickly forward but was pulled behind by the boy who wished to look at everyone.

The crowd stiffened whenever the boy passed, and Asha soon saw why. A piercing howl cried across the land, striking shivers in all of the godswood. She had this howl before in recent days, but she had always assumed it to be the screams of wild beasts outside Winterfell.

The terrible beast bounded behind Rickon Stark on feet of darkness. The godswood was silent as it entered. The wolf sniffed the ground beside Rickon, and began to walk at the boy's side. It sniffed at all they passed, and every man who came close withdrew in terror. The wolf was as tall as a man, its gigantic form looming above all its surroundings.

Amidst her shock, Asha noticed how the wolf always circled about the boy. Asha knew that it was shielding him.

When the beast passed Asha, she swore that the beast was glaring at her. She unconsciously shrank into the crowd, and hoped that it could not see her. Asha gained a hold on her senses half a second later, and straightened. "A kraken has no fear of any beast, much less a wolf who can only walk the green lands." The wolf was fearsome, that was true, with yellow eyes that glinted out of black fur blending into the night. Yet Asha had seen monsters before, fought them, even. A kraken was always braver than its foes. She looked the wolf in the eye, then remembered that none of the kraken colours adorned her. She wished to look away, but she knew she could not and clenched her teeth. In the end, the wolf broke the glare and bounded off after its master.

The bride stopped before the heart tree and the groom, dropping abruptly the hand of Rickon Stark. She tiptoed in silence past the wolf, and shrieked when she touched the fur. The wolf only gave a snarl, and she ran the rest of the way to the groom. The boy smiled at her, but she did not look back.

It was only now that Asha caught a good glance at Lady Jonelle Cerwyn. She was a maid of twenty and pretty as a mirror, though Asha knew that she had already been widowed. She wore a white dress whose folds dappled in the moonlight, covered by a grey cloak that bore the Cerwyn battleaxe. She bore a maiden cloak, but Asha knew that she was no maiden. Her smile was unbecoming of the silence and the wolf she just faced, her warm eyes foreign to the winter cold. Perhaps she knew how to act in this farce of a wedding, or she was truly fool enough to feel joy.

The wolf had quieted when the bride made the last of her way to the groom.

"Why couldn't Lady Arya escort the bride instead of that monster?" Harper in his pale yellow cloak asked Manderly.

"Lady Arya is still scarred," Manderly answered,"from her wedding with the Bastard, and the sight of the heart tree makes her sick. Poor girl."

"Was Rickon Stark lord yet?" Asha wondered. She desperately wished for the lady to still hold onto power. Yet from what the northmen spoke of the boy, it seemed that her hope was false. The best hope was that Manderly would hold the boy in check for ten years until he comes of age, and perhaps even longer. Yet Manderly himself was a problem. He sought to overthrow Stannis, and there was no place in Winterfell for her in all the years to come. She was bound here, though, every tentacle rooted in a chain. She seemed doomed to die.

"What is dead may never die?" Asha thought,"but rises again, harder and stronger." She had survived under Manderly's thumb for three fortnights, and she could for longer. The boy was nothing, for she had dealt with madness before. She looked to the other side, beneath the banner of crowned axes,"Perhaps." A sudden dread came upon her,"if Lord Snow was not dead."

"Who comes here to be wed?" there was no priest in northmen weddings, so Ser Ewis's own thin voice appeared.

The bride's silent smile died, revealing this farce as she answered,"Jonelle of the House of Cerwyn, a maiden grown, fresh and flowered."

"And bedded," Asha thought in silence.

"Who comes to give the bride?" Ser Ewis asked.

It was Manderly who answered, apparently thinking it unwise to leave the words to the Stark boy,"Rickon of the House Stark, who is her liege lord."

Lady Jonelle quickly thrust her hand in Ser Ewis's grasp, and moved to stand beside him. Asha noticed that the groom stood between the bride and the boy.

Their hands intertwined, the couple turned to one another with frost in their eyes.

The groom said the words first,"In the eyes of the heart tree, do you, Jonelle Cerwyn, take me as your wedded husband?"

"I do," the lady answered.

"In the eyes of the heart tree," the bride then said her words,"Do you, Ewis Estermont, take me as your wedded wife."

"I do," the knight answered.

A shiver ran across the room, and Asha glimpsed snows began to fall again.

On the aisle, Asha saw a young northern squire approach Rickon Stark with a fur cloak.

"My lord," he said,"It is getting colder. You must keep warm."

The godswood was silent when the boy began to mutter,"I smell ironmen. Shaggy, I smell ironmen."

With a great shudder, the black wolf leaped onto the squire, his jaws closing about the squire's neck. The wolf's claws ripped and savaged, bringing forth torrents upon torrents of crimson blood that stained the white snow below. The man's screams pierced her bones, echoes upon echoes of them ringing through the trees.

"Rip his throat. Eat his heart," the boy cried in delight,"Rip his throat. Eat his heart."

The boy looked her way, the mad smile dancing upon his lips. The wolf's head emerged beside him, its lips ringed with blood.

 

[Mockingbird]

ARIANNE
​

"A dragon remembers, and he has known its vengeance. Neither sun nor spear has availed House Martell as they tasted the wrath of the true king. Even without the winged drakes of old, the Conquest that Aegon began is now complete. To lay Dorne low took a true dragon. A crowned dragon. A wingless dragon, but no less fierce. A young dragon, who they name Daeron Targaryen."

Arianne heard a groan from across the cabin, and she was sure that it was Elia. She was not so sure at whether her cousin groaned at the lurching of the ship or the sound of her voice.

"It's horrid enough," her cousin whined,"that I am stuck in this cabin for Seven knows how many moons, but need my dear princess make it worse?"

"My princess could have read anything Lady Toland gave you," Elia's face seemed green,"so why the fool king's tales?'

"I had wondered when Lady Lance would show herself," Arianne sighed, closing the leather cover,"We are to meet a young dragon king. Why not learn of the last?"

"I could bear you learning if I knew when this ship would reach Storm's End," her cousin hugged a pillow to her face, muffling her voice.

To be truthful, Arianne could not bear it any more than her cousin. She knew all she needed to know about young kings still green from boyhood. She would not for a thousand years have wanted to read Daeron Targaryen's words again if she had not already pored over every other tome in the cabin. She wondered if Lady Toland had left the Conquest of Dorne as a jape to see how it irritated her. "She probably knew that these pirates were roaming the seas near Storm's End."

Arianne cursed these pirates again, lingering so long near the castle and barring her own fleet passage. She had wasted half a moon lingering still upon the sea, but to her cousin it might have already seemed a winter.

"If this Aegon is so true," Elia whined again behind the pillow,"he should have a mighty fleet to vanquish these pirates."

"It is wide fields that Lady Lance knows, not this wooden prison," Arianne watched warily at her cousin's pillow,"Captain Charl would be furious if she spoils upon it again."

"Perhaps these pirates are his ships," Arianne japed,"and we are mistaken. The black Targaryen ones are oft mistook for the black ones of the pirates. When this is all over and the masks are lifted, we shall join as friends."

Elia gave a weak laugh, and turned away in her bed. The wait had gotten so horrid that Arianne had begun allowing her cousin brief wanderings outside their cabin. She had thought that first a mistake, but there had been no other choice other than bearing Elia's jabs herself. Yet now, her cousin did not think to do even that.

"Find out the truth about this Aegon," Arianne mouthed her father's words sourly, pondering upon how with each day that passed this dragon seemed further and further away. He would be her cousin, the same in blood as the Sand Snakes. Arianne wondered if he looked like Princess Elia. Yet by the way the journey was looking, she would never find out.

Arianne hoped that he was true, that all her pains had not been for nothing. Her father's efforts would not have been in vain. She hoped that it was a king coming from across the sea, to bring to the Lannisters vengeance and justice and fire and blood.

It was quiet on the ship, and the bucking was light. The ship swayed like a gentle cradle as she lay on her bed. Not quite so outside the ship, where she could see through the windows the darkness of rain. It was commonplace in Shipbreaker Bay, and she had not gone half a day without a storm. For the first time in days, something flashed in Elia's eyes and she leapt to her feet. Her cousin said nothing to her as she ran outside, slamming the door behind her. Arianne never thought to follow, as she had her own storm to tend.

"Prince Doran commanded to see if this dragon king be false or true," Arianne picked at the leather cover of the book,"yet he is beyond my wisdom."

She looked down and saw, inscribed there in golden letters, the title Conquest of Dorne.

"We are to meet a young dragon king," she pondered,"Why not learn of the last?" She thought about what Daeron the Young Dragon was remembered for. For conquering Dorne even though he lost it scarce a moment later. He was remembered for his victories, more so than he was for his blood of the dragon.

Arianne suddenly realized why her father had sent her here. The reason would be lost on any other proud Dornishman who knew only of how the sun and spear were unbowed, unbent, and unbroken. Yet it would not be lost on her father. Her father's veiled words would not be lost on her. She knew to study their defeats.

Her father did not send her here to see if Aegon's blood was true or false. "No," she figured Prince Doran out finally. She was here to see whether Aegon was capable of taking the Iron Throne. "Find out the truth about this Aegon," Arianne was here to find the truth of whether Aegon could claim victory.

"Whether his crown is worth Prince Doran's Dornish spears," Arianne figured,"Whether he is worth to be Aunt Elia's blood."

"Of course," she scoffed. That was her father. Whether this Aegon was her aunt's true child did not matter to him. It only mattered that this dragon king rose against the Lannister boy, and played into Prince Doran's hands. Prince Doran was poised to raise his banners for this Aegon, for the vengeance that the king would bring. So he sent Arianne to see whether it was truly wise to do so.

She was disgusted by Prince Doran's scheme, but had begun to see its sense. Sending Arianne served more than the purpose of finding the truth about this Aegon. If he proved worthy, there will be power to be claimed at his side,"The power of a queen." She needed to claim that power for Dorne when Aegon sits the Iron Throne. Her father's desire to wed her to a dragon king did not die.

"Quentyn will have Dorne when he returns with Daenerys," Arianne knew,"But what is one kingdom to Seven?"

There was folly, though, in her father's plot. He wanted her to wait until she found out if this Aegon was worthy of victory. "That would be too late," Arianne knew,"as others will also see his promise as a groom." The wait weighed on her again, knowing that she had waited too long upon this damned sea hearing nothing but the song of storms. Another could snatching Dorne's prize away at this very instant, and she wished the ship to rush in.

Yet Arianne had rushed half her life in Dorne, only to find that she was wrong. She opened the book again, and looked at Daeron's bold words. She could wait a little longer. "If this Aegon is Rhaegar come again," she figured,"he would know to wait for Dorne." She found a little solace in the fact that should he be the son of the prince of songs, he would be handsome. It was always easier with comely men, as Darkstar had proven.

She pored over the Young Dragon's words, thinking about how the boy king had drowned in scorpions.

It was quiet in the cabin as she read the words in black script. As Arianne had expected, the Young Dragon's ramblings about glory bored her to the point of sleep. The leather felt ever heavier in her hands while the words swam in a sea of white. She was already beginning to think this a foolish venture when a pillow hit her in the face and broke her focus for good.

Arianne rubbed the stinging spot where the pillow had hit, the Conquest of Dorne slipping from her hands and tumbling across the wooden floor into one of the shadowy crevices where she would never will herself to reach. She looked quickly around the room, trying to spot her assailant. She was there in the doorway with a smile on her face.

Arianne shook her head and turned away from Elia. The pain in her cheek was not harsh, but it still still stung. She glanced at her cousin who had somehow slipped into the cabin without her notice, silently swearing to keep an eye on her from now on. Thinking back on Elia's past acts on this voyage, Arianne should never have left Elia out of her sight at all. Her cousin could spell disaster in a meeting with this dragon king.

"My apologies, my princess," Elia wore an exaggerated mask of guilt, then burst into laughter. Arianne found her own mouth twisting into a smile even while she tried to glare daggers at her cousin. It was a pity that her parents never gave her any sisters. Myrcella was the closest she had, but less so when Darkstar left the girl with half an ear. Now, no longer at all when the princess Myrcella returned to King's Landing and the royal house of Baratheon upon the Sunspeaker, soon to be on the other side of the war. King Tommen would certainly break Myrcella's betrothal to Trystane,"Not that he would find any other takers for a one-eared girl." Arianne wondered if it would have been wiser to have kept princess Myrcella in Dorne. Myrcella would be a valuable hostage when her father turns against the Lannisters. It might even be a kindness in the coming war, when Myrcella could play cyvasse with Arianne's brother in Sunspear's peace. "Not that she mattered anymore. The Sand Snakes are closer than sisters."

Arianne realized that Nymeria was also aboard the Sunspeaker which her father sent to King's Landing. She wondered why he would send her cousin into enemy lands when he meant to go to war. "Unless he meant for Nymeria to act as a spy."

"Annie?" she heard Elia's voice,"Annie? Can you hear me?"

Elia's voice wakened Arianne's senses, and she took a look at her cousin's worried face.

"Yes," she answered,"Elia, I can hear you. I was just recovering from your blow."

"Good," Elia said,"I was worried that you were swooning over Daeron Targaryen in that book you were reading. How horrid it would be for a Princess of Dorne to love a dragon."

"Of course, looking at your namesake," Arianne thought, yet that was what she must do.

"But that's not important," Elia continued,"What's important is that I've just been on the deck. I hid from the storm for a while, and after it was over I met Gawen. Apparently, Gawen has seen Captain Charl and he told me which I will tell you the pirate ships are gone. The coast to Storm's End is clear as the scouts say, and we set sail for this dragon king on the morrow."

"The storm is over," Arianne did not notice it at first, but the ship did seem to sway more gently,"Never mind that. At least the storm blew the pirates away, and the road to this dragon king is clear."

A persistent knock disturbed her newfound peace. "What is it?" she demanded, irritated.

"It's Master Gawen, my princess," Joss's voice called out,"If he is disturbing you, then I will send him away."

"Yes," Arianne hissed,"Send him away."

"I'm going to see what more he has to say," Elia said, hopping to her feet. Before Arianne could stop her, she was already out the door and trailing after the sailor.

"That would not do at all," Arianne thought. She knew that she must put an end to Elia's wildness before they entered the dragon's lair. It would at least keep her from harm.

"Joss," she called, and heard an answer in an instant,"Call Ser Daemon. Gary can stand guard while you are gone." Arianne walked to the window, peeking out to the sea. The clouds had cleared, and over the sundering waves she saw rocks and the shore.

"Will my princess be needing anything of me?" Ser Daemon arrived a moment later, disgruntled but no less sweet.

"Have you seen Elia lately?" Arianne turned and saw his black eyes twinkling in the firelight.

"I have seen the lady prance about the deck of the ship in the rain," Ser Daemon answered,"and I worry about her. She is bound to catch a chill and spend the rest of the trip in her bed."

"So can you watch from now on?" Arianne asked,"Can you keep an eye on her for me?"

Ser Daemon laughed and shook his head,"Me, keeping an eye on a Sand Snake? You'd have better luck hatching a dragon from stone."

"That is exactly what we are doing," Arianne thought,"Making a false dragon true." Still, he was right that watching a Sand Snake was an impossible task.

"If my lady has no further need of me," Ser Daemon said,"Then I beg my leave."

"Curse him," Arianne thought. Ser Daemon has been this distant ever since he had asked her father for her hand,"It was a fool's quest, and he could still make love without a wedding band." Yet it is as if he became a eunuch.

"No," Arianne denied his wish,"Your princess does not grant you leave." She was to meet this dragon king, and she would best have a taste of home first.

Ser Daemon approached her, and Arianne stroked his cheek.

"Never mind Elia," she said,"I would never put a leash on any of my cousins."

Ser Daemon smiled,"All right to me. I would rather spend the day with you."

He grabbed Arianne's head and kissed her, his lips dry but warm. Arianne's hands were busy, tearing off his surcoat and shirt to lift them over his head as he pulled away. He answered by lifting her nightgown over her head. Wriggling free of it, she saw beneath Ser Daemon's bare chest a bulge in his trousers.

No clothes warmed her, but Arianne's skin was on fire. She tore his trousers down, revealing a manhood as bulbous as a club. He pressed his lips to hers again, his supple chest against her breasts. Down under, he entered her and released himself. Her spasms of pleasure swayed the gentle rocking of the boat, blurring her sight so that she saw only him.

When they were done, Arianne felt cold. She rose from their bed, picking up her fallen dress and shrugging it on. She found a vial of moon tea, downing it in one swallow.

"Will it be the same with the dragon king?" she heard Ser Daemon ask.

"He suspects my father's mission," Arianne turned back to him,"Not as well as you. He is a prince, pampered from birth to manhood and is like to have never touched a woman in his life."

"Said the wanton princess," Ser Daemon said,"sister to the pander prince."

"The Dornish are different," Arianne answered as she touched the vial away with the last bits lingering in its bottom. She walked over to the window, where wisps of empty cloud were the last ghosts of the storm. The sunlight was shining bright. She looked to Ser Daemon again,"and Quentyn's no pander."

"Really," Ser Daemon said,"That was not what I heard the last time you spoke of him."

"That was a different woman," Arianne thought,"One who thought her brother an usurper."

Arianne did not answer, her gaze drawn by something outside. She began to see what lay hidden behind the veil of the storm. Great ships with sails as black as the night, at the center of their benners a great red dragon with three heads.

"Such a banner adorned each ship of the fleet," Ser Daemon said quietly,"They are so large that they must be dromonds."

"You knew," Arianne accused.

"I was going to tell you later," Ser Daemon said quickly,"I was not certain."

"Curious," Arianne said, shaking her head,"Was the captain certain that the pirates they saw were not indeed dragon men?"

She grew ever more doubtful of Captain Charl's words,"Why would he bar us from this dragon king?" The captain being a Lannister man was the most obvious answer, but the ship was full of Dornishmen and Golden Company swords from Griffin's Roost. He would be a fool to keep to any Lannister promises of gold when any hint of treachery would have burned in steel. Perhaps he had some old quarrel with the dragons from Robert's Rebellion, and feared to face them again. That was not the truth either, as the Golden Company would have forced him to comply.

"Ser Daemon," she said,"Get dressed, and fetch the captain. I want a word with him."

"As you will, my princess," Ser Daemon pulled on his clothes and left the chamber with the swiftness of a hare.

Captain Charl seemed just as flustered as Arianne when he arrived at her chamber, but Arianne was certain that it was an act. He tore at his whiskers as he bowed to Arianne,"My princess wishes to know something, and I will answer."

"The ships you spoke of," Arianne said,"You said were pirates. Were the ships truly pirates of dragon men?"

"Why, both, my princess," Captain Charl blinked his beady eyes,"They are both pirate ships and dragon ships. In the beginning, I could not tell. The fleet sailed in the manner of the Narrow Sea corsairs, but flew dragon banners. I was careful to find out the truth of whether they were pirates or dragons, so I had us wait. I just now found that it turned out that they were both. Just yesterday, my scouts returned with the tidings. A pirate known as the Lord of the Waters has sworn himself to the banner of Aegon Targaryen. He seems to have been a bastard born from the Crownlands, but now men name him Lord Aurane Velaryon."

"He was a Lannister man," Ser Daemon whispered in Arianne's ear,"and it seems that he has defected to this dragon king."

That could mean many things. It was either a trick to plant spies within Aegon's camp or the Lannister cause was so hopeless that men were abandoning them left and right. Arianne was inclined to believe that he had abandoned the Lannisters, as the Dornish were prepared to rise and the death knell of the Lannisters had tolled.

"Thank you," Arianne told the captain,"Your services will be well-rewarded once we make landfall."

Captain Charl bowed again,"I am always at your service."

Arianne heard her guards announce someone else. It was one of the Golden Company's sergeants on their ship that had come from Griffin's Roost.

"Princess Arianne," he panted after she sent him in,"A dinghy from His Grace's flagship The Proud Tart came upon our bow, and its envoy has instructed me to bring a message to my princess. Lord Edric Baratheon of Storm's End has invited you to attend the king in Storm's End. King Aegon of the House Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, bears his greetings from Storm's End."

"So Aegon Targaryen has taken Storm's End," Arianne thought,"The castle of a kingdom." Perhaps he is worthy of a king. She wondered who Lord Edric Baratheon was, probably one of the offshoots of the Baratheon line that Aegon made lord after he declared Tommen and Stannis Baratheon's claims false.

"Tell the envoys," Arianne said,"that I consent to King Aegon's invitation."

"Prepare my retinue," Arianne told Ser Daemon,"We shall prepare to meet a king."

 

[Mockingbird]

MELISANDRE
​

Dawn rose when the king came.

Melisandre saw the banners first, banners bore that unmistakable golden stag encased in holy fire. She thought it an illusion, trickery and temptation by the Great Other when her eyes glimpsed the sight. Yet deep down in her heart of hearts she held on everlasting faith to the Lord, and he told her that her sight was true. Hope raged like a raging firestorm, for the king had returned.

Southern knights formed the king's vanguard, riding at the head of a great host. Ser Meyton rode at their head with his grim face of steel that broke into a smile once he saw her. Ser Lyonel Tidet followed him in a nest of sordid scales that shone in the sun, beside him Ser Godry raising the stag banner high. A dozen southron knights trampled the snows, paving the path as heralds of Azor Ahai reborn.

The knights were the first to pass through the gate of the town, greeted by the Magnar and the wildling princess, then by Lord Snow. They disappeared into the snows, and again Melisandre wondered if it had been an illusion. Again the Lord proved her wrong and his light right as another row of Stannis Baratheon's holy host emerged in her sight as she turned. Even the Great Other could not conjure so many ghosts of fallen men, much less the ghosts of the warriors of light. The darkness that had settled had bit by bit, burned away.

Streams of men came upon streams of men, bearing a mass of banners and steel. They trampled the lands before them in a storm, a great host that trickled endless across the earth. All beneath the banner of a mighty golden stag.

Suddenly, the fires at the gate sparkled and came alive, rising higher and higher in tongues of flame that breached the skies. She touched her choker, and felt the Lord's fire warm her. There was only one man who could awaken such fury.

King Stannis rode forth upon a tall red stallion, his eyes fierce as fire beneath a crown of red-gold flame. His eyes bore many lines, all of bearing all the Seven Kingdoms into salvation. So many had defied him, and even lied to conceal his victory. The Bastard and his dogs had won for a moment, blinding them with the king's fall. "Yet in the end, the Light of the Lord shines through."

A multitude of men accompanied the king, northmen with fur cloaks besides southrons in wool ones. They rode behind him and formed his host, yet the king seemed alone. Melisandre knew that he was of another world, that the chosen could always be distinguished from common men.

"Your Grace," Lord Snow was the first to bend the knee when King Stannis arrived.

Melisandre watched the black-cloaked lord, still curious as to the truth of him. Lord Snow had skinchanged into the young steward, one of those foul heathen arts that she had best left unspoken. "Yet who had won?" She prayed for the lord to shine his light upon the truth.

"Lord Snow," the Lord answered with the truth. The boy was the bastard of Winterfell in so many ways. Careful yet ambitious. Craven yet greedy. He wanted to hold the North, and she had helped him in his first steps. Melisandre had wished dearly for Lord Snow to be alive, and her prayers had been answered. She knew in the end that he was true.

The white wolf beside the boy howled. "If that is not the mark of truth, only the Lord knows what is."

Lord Snow was never dead and gone, and knelt now in his mortal form before the true king.

"Your Grace," the Magnar echoed Lord Snow, and swept as well to his knees before the king.

A forest of clamour and shouts could be heard as the entire wildling host behind the Magnar followed their leader, falling to their news upon the frozen soil. Silence claimed the crowd as they waited for the king to speak.

"The wildlings are men, in the end," Melisandre knew,"and there lies in all men the urge to follow Azor Ahai." Some men were fools, and denied that urge for thrones or gold or petty conquests. Yet in the end, all men would come home to fight the true fight. The only one besides Melisandre to not kneel was the wildling princess, whatever folly claimed that woman's mind.

"Victory," that had been the word that spread through the town when they heard that the king had claimed victory over the hated Boltons. More cheers had roused when the messengers came north telling of the march that would cleanse the Wall of the last Bolton dogs.

"My king," Melisandre strode above all the kneeling men to the king's steed.

"My lady," King Stannis dismounted. The torches were dancing, their lights shimmering in Stannis's eyes. The king gave a lingering glance her way, and Melisandre again thanked the Lord's blessing. The king had returned to fight the darkness, and she must do whatever the Lord asks of her to give him victory. Evil will no longer stand.

"Where is my wife and daughter, Lady Melisandre?" Stannis asked,"I placed them in your charge."

"Even the light of the Lord cannot see all ends," Melisandre answered,"We were betrayed by those that were faint of heart."

"Where are they?" Stannis asked again.

"Imprisoned," Melisandre admitted,"By traitors."

"Yet you stand here, free," Stannis said.

"Saved," Melisandre said,"by those whose hearts still burn true."

Stannis stepped past her and left her amidst the swirling snows.

"Madness," Melisandre thought as his steps faded away,"That is what has consumed him in the march to Winterfell amidst all the northern snows." her king needed to be brought back to the light. She saw in the king's company faces still as stone, a plague of winter settling upon the whole of his host. The foremost man, a northman in a bearskin cloak, gave her an icy glance above his beard with his hand gripping his hilt. Melisandre turned away. Some were false and some were true. All lay beneath a mummer's cloak, a farce that they could survive without the Lord of Light. She needed to remove that cloak. First, she needed to do it for the king, to reveal the hero that he always was and always will be.

Melisandre followed the king as he came before the kneeling men, laying a hand on his arm. The fabric was rough and cold, but the flesh beneath was healthy and warm. Stannis never moved a muscle as she touched him, as he knew the grace of the Lord's priestess. It would be simple to lift this shadow from him.

"Arise," Stannis commanded the dozens of men before him. Only three dared to. One was the Magnar, the second a woman with one blind, and the third a boy with dusty blond hair. Lord Snow did not rise. The wildling princess still stood resilient, locking eyes with the king.

"Arise," Stannis said again, his voice steely, and this time all the wildlings came to their feet.

"I am vexed, Magnar Sigorn," Stannis turned to the Magnar,"When I ask your folk to kneel, they do not kneel. When I ask them to rise, they do not rise."

"You had better know the nature of those beyond the Wall," the Magnar replied, speaking in the Common Tongue,"One wastes his life moving about in winter, so it's best to stay in one place."

"I trust that I have your hospitality," Stannis said.

"My house is yours," the Magnar bowed,"Any foe to the Bastard's dogs is our friend. Any chief to vanquish them is our king."

Stannis nodded, a flurry of snow landing upon his brow.

"You may worry that I have brought four thousand swords with me," Stannis said,"and four thousand mouths to feed. You need not fret. Lord Manderly has provided us with ample provisions all the march, so we would not be requiring any of your stocks."

"In fact," Stannis gestured behind him, and the foremost riders parted to reveal wagon upon full wagon of wooden barrels and crates that stretched forever into the whiteness beyond. They were doubtless all to be full of goods.

"When I left the Nightfort," Stannis said,"I heard from Lord Snow that the provisions here were running low. We have food, furs, and medicine for all your folk. Winter is coming, and this is my duty to my people."

Excited words began to rise amongst the wildlings, but a swift bark from the Magnar ended it.

"My thanks to you, Yer Grace," the Magnar said, his voice becoming soft,"You have my sword, always."

"You bunch of bloody fools," a stout woman cried,"I told you all that the king would return."

"Witch," another voice sounded,"The king has no use of you, but for me who will give twenty sons in service of him."

"My king," the calls grew, and soon none of the voices became distinguishable over the others.

A horn broke the clamour, Melisandre certain that it had been one of Stannis's men. Stannis looked back as the wildlings fell into silence.

Stannis turned then to Lord Snow, greeting the black-cloaked boy whose eyes shone with emeralds.

"The rumours were not true," Stannis said,"Your death was Marsh's farce to plead mercy to the Bolton usurpers."

"Yes, Your Grace," Lord Snow lowered his head, his voice calm and confident,"I survived, but Marsh still came to power. Castle Black has fallen to him."

"You have given my wife and daughter to them as you fled," Stannis said.

"The Watch takes no part," there was no fear in Lord Snow's voice,"They were attacked by their own men. I could shield them from the Watch, but not from traitors amongst themselves."

King Stannis took one lingering look at Lord Snow, but he turned away. The Lord told Melisandre that he had more pressing matters to attend to. The Lord was proven right again when Stannis turned to the wildling princess.

"Lady Val," he said.

"Your Grace," her voice plain,"Where is my brother?"

"Your brother is alive," Stannis said,"I found him at Winterfell, in a northman's cage,"

The wildling princess's face was blank and unreadable, but she nodded,"I thank you, Your Grace. I feared that he was gone when the traitors took Castle Black. Ramsay Bolton's letter was dear to us, his threats uniting the Free Folk against him. I have not seen the Free Folk in this like since my brother marched against the Wall. All of them, waiting for Your Grace to finish the last of Ramsay Bolton's servants in Castle Black."

The wildling princess never knelt, her eyes bearing into Stannis's own. In the end, it was she who turned and swept away in her white fur cloak.

Stannis turned back to the Magnar, who bore an irritated expression on his face,"Has my lord arranged my lodgings?"

"Tis' the first thing we dealt with when we heard Yer Grace was coming," the Magnar replied,"Yer Grace shall have the Arcove, where I stayed before, the only place in this Mole's Town fit for a king."

"Very well," Stannis said,"I have held up my host long enough. Lord Snow, attend me to the Arcove. I have more matters to deal with you."

"Certainly, Your Grace," Lord Snow answered quickly.

"What do you know of your mother?" King Stannis asked Lord Snow amidst the Arcove's dim glow. Melisandre felt the flame with her fingers, and it was warm. She foresaw that the Lord had blessed this meeting, and it would go well. It must go well, if the Lord's designs were to be realized. The servants of light must band together in alliance.

Lord Snow froze for a moment, then spoke in a measured tone,"She died when I was born."

Melisandre gazed at him, and there was silence. "Lord Stark never spoke of her," he added.

"The tales Eddard Stark told you are not true," Stannis said,"He was never your father, nor some southern whore your mother. Your parents were northmen. Your father was Brandon Stark, eldest brother of Eddard Stark and heir to Winterfell. Your mother was Barbrey Ryswell of the Rills, when her husband rode south on the eve of Robert's Rebellion to never return. You are the true heir to Winterfell, by the laws of gods and men."

The face Lord Snow bore was dumbfounded, the boy reeling as such a revelation.

"In the end," Melisandre thought,"The light of the Lord shines through all."

"Truly?" Lord Snow managed after a long moment.

"It is the only tale I know that is not the spawn of old wives," Stannis said,"I discovered many truths on the march to Winterfell, many truths I should have known when I first claimed the throne. Many truths that I know too late. Yet the hour is never too late to learn of them. That was what the gods made us to be."

The king turned to her, but Melisandre's eyes kept watching Lord Snow. The boy made no answer, and there was an eerie calmness to his shadow that made her cold.

"Lord Snow," Stannis said,"I once offered you the seat of Winterfell and the hand of the wildling princess. You refused me. Yet you are still the lawful heir to Winterfell, and I come back to you. I offer this again, to pardon you from the vows of the Night's Watch. This time, I offer you the North and the hand of my daughter Shireen the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. What is your answer?"

"I would be honoured, Your Grace," Lord Snow bowed,"I am always at your service, and I apologize for the dishonour I gave Your Grace before."

"An alliance of the light," Melisandre watched the boy with interest,"the will of the Lord sealed in holy matrimony."

"Very well," Stannis said,"You will swear your sword to me on the dawn of the morrow in the town square, where I will give you your pardon. We will march for Castle Black two days henceforth."

"I will," Lord Snow replied.

"You are dismissed," Stannis said, and Lord Snow left the Arcove.

"There is something amiss in Lord Snow," Stannis said once he was alone with Melisandre.

"The mutiny has tempered the fire in him," Melisandre said,"Marsh's betrayal has made him wary, more careful and calm in his judgment. He knows now that he needs Your Grace's light to guide him. Since the last Your Grace has seen of him, he has become a new man."

"I must need your ruby bands," Stannis said,"I remember that you made three with the three souls of my stillborn children. One is in my possession. Another perished with the mummer in the fire. The third one you must have given Mance Rayder. I must see it."

"The king did not know of this," Melisandre thought,"But he must have if he found Mance Rayder in Winterfell."

"Yes, Your Grace," Melisandre offered up hers from her cloak. Stannis received it, twisting it in his hands and speaking no words.

Melisandre looked beside Stannis within the Arcove's brazier, divining what the Lord had revealed. There was only blinding white. Snow. Only snow.

"Your Grace," Melisandre said,"I have seen in the fires only snow. Your will was true. This is Lord Snow's destiny."

"I give to the Lord all he asks for," Stannis said,"and he gives to me only snow."

"There must be more," Melisandre looked deeper into the flames, summoning every bit of her power to glimpse the truth of the Lord's will. There it was, hidden amongst the snow. Two glowing blue eyes. Their lights were dim, but Melisandre was certain what it was. Dread with its slow tune crawled upon her soul. Her heart sank into the deepest abyss. All these days, the Lord had not been showing her the power of Lord Snow. The Lord was warning her about the greater foe that was to come, the foe they had neglected as they fought amongst themselves. Bowen Marsh and Castle Black were nothing to these darkest evils that walked the earth again. The dead were coming.

"We must leave on the morrow," Melisandre said.

"The men are tired," Stannis said,"They must rest before they face the traitors."

"The dead will not wait," Melisandre said,"and the Lord has shown to me that they march on the Wall at this moment. We must secure the Wall before they pass, else the Great Other will claim us all."

"Aye," Stannis decided,"If that is the Lord's will, then you will declare it to the host on the morrow. I will make the necessary preparations."

Melisandre studied the king for a long moment, then spoke,"A darkness is troubling Your Grace. Is it still the shadow of your brother or Ser Cortnay?"

Stannis shook his head,"My memories of them still linger but do not sting. It is all I have done these last moons, starved of my duty in these cold northern snows. I have condemned a woman to a life of misery. I have shook with a king that I know to be false. Did you know that Ser Davos is dead?"

"Yes," Melisandre answered,"Ser Davos died by Lord Manderly's hand."

"You have seen the truth," Stannis said,"yet I must thank the hand that killed him."

"My king," Melisandre said,"Do you wish for me to comfort you, as I did those days after Lord Renly's death. Command it, and I will obey."

"No," Stannis said,"This darkness no pleasure can lift."

"The Lord's pleasure could," Melisandre pitied the king, but did not press him. Pain is what a king should bear, so that his people may be free.

Too long amongst the northmen and their heathen gods have laid a sinister spell on the king. Melisandre must lift it before they face the darkness where the dead were coming. Where, as the Starks said, winter is coming. They needed all their strength to face the Others and the great evil that gave them power.

Her faith had been tested once, when it seemed that Stannis had lost. Yet the Lord's blessings had proved true in the end, and the king returned. She knew that she must no again lose faith, for the Lord will win victory.

The king has risen again to face the darkness, yet the Lord had long told her that his power needs a tread a path to truly vanquish the enemy. Melisandre remembered the first war when men won victory over the Others to end the Long Night. Azor Ahai had led the battle with sacrifice, with the tempered steel that he drove into the heart of his love. The dead are coming again, and Stannis Baratheon is Azor Ahai Reborn. He would marshal all his mortal strength against the Others, but what will bring him his greatest power will be sacrifice. The hero needed to give away who he held most dear. That is a hero's tale, to defeat the ancient enemy once and for all. She held it to her heart, as it was the Lord's will and forever true.

Melisandre looked at Stannis again with more pity in her eyes,"I shall need see who that may be."

"Leave me," Stannis said, his voice as sharp as steel.

"As my king commands," Melisandre said, her eyes never leaving him as she withdrew. Her cloak left a thin trail upon the dusty floor, its stretching the only voice in the silent room. In the dim light, the cloak was all that shone, turning different colours beneath the firelight.

She looked into Stannis's fiery eyes and felt the flame burn into her.

"He knows," Melisandre realized as Stannis fingered a golden band between his hand,"He knows the price he must pay for our salvation."

 

[Mockingbird]

QUENTYN
​

"My prince, the king is waiting," the seneschal's words echoed between the walls.

Quentyn bit his lip to steady himself. "With grace and honour and dignity," he remembered Lord Anders's words,"That was how a Prince of Dorne should act." He knew that he certainly looked a prince for the first time in seven moons beneath the smooth orange silks, but he knew also that the prince within must follow the prince outside.

He did not. He was afraid. Just as afraid as he had been when the corsairs slew Ser Cletus and all the others on the Adventure. Just as afraid as when the Windblown marched through the blood-soaked streets of Astapor. Just as afraid as when he had run from the dragonfire burning the maze.

Quentyn was afraid, yet that was what he feared to say. His adventures had come to an end in the Temple, in the sunny beautiful halls of the Graces. He promised himself that he would not fail them. If it was to be their prince, he welcomed it. Yet he feared that he would fail the Green Grace just like he had failed his father. All the time, he prayed that the queen would return and relieve him from the burden of a prince. He had enough of being this hero.

"Master Reznak," he hoped that his voice had not come out trembling,"Truly?"

"The prince is tired," the Golden Grace beside him said,"This is the first time he could stand recent days, Must he attend to business?"

"I offer my own most sincere apologies," Reznak mo Reznak said,"But tonight is a blessed night. Tonight Meereen liberates itself from the darkness. The prince must be there."

"I will," Quentyn did not see it wise to decline,"I hope that my lateness will not displeasure His Radiance."

"Not at all," Lord Reznak said,"We would be glad to wait an eternity for the grace of Meereen's hero."

Quentyn clenched his fingers beneath the folds of his cloak and stood. The White Graces were on him in an instant to steady him, but he stiffened at their touch. "Please," he told the Graces,"I can manage myself. The hands of the maids withdrew, and he felt his chest relax. The Green Grace had insisted that they stay at his side. To care for him, and serve him while he was still weak. He was duly grateful, yet the presence of maidens, pretty maidens at that dampered all in white, made him feel ever so stiff.

Reznak and his guards led the way outside, and Quentyn followed with the Golden Grace closely beside him. At least the White Graces had known to leave him be. The hall was dim except a few bars of torches, yet those few fires warmed the whole of the hall. He felt a thin spark of joy at this air.

Was it wise for him to wish himself out of this lonely chamber? It was safe there, yet the dread of what lay outside gnawed on him every living moment. He never knew what might happen next, the dread, giving him dreams of fires dancing across the walls only to awaken at their touch. He supposed it fortunate that the Green Grace had just deemed him fit to walk, and the king invited him. That did not dim the fear in him of what lay outside.

Quentyn did not feel fit for this. He never felt fit since the day his father's letter had arrived in Yronwood. Not ever the true sense of the word, capable and ready. He was never truly ready to face the dragon queen. The orange silks he now wore could not change the fact that he would never be ready to face what lay outside. How he wished that the dragon queen would return, for she was fit for this.

"She was not dead," he figured. The Green Grace would have no way of the truth of Daenerys Targaryen, and her words were an honest error. The Grace would be glad to see the queen return and make the peace which he could never do.

"My prince, how does the day find Your Worship?" Reznak asked, and Quentyn felt the warm air become cold.

"The day is tiring," Quentyn replied, trying to find the right words,"The war weighs upon us all."

"Your Worship's efforts are unmatched in Meereen," Reznak said,"When all else was lost, Your Worship's dragons vanquished the Yunkish foe. Your Worship deserves every comfort. May I introduce Your Worship to my niece Galazza, a lovely maid of fifteen, supple and flowered."

"The prince has no time for marriage in these times of war," the Golden Grace said.

"The prince is Meereen's hero," Reznak answered,"deserving of every comfort. The house of whores should have remembered that."

He turned to Quentyn again,"I promise, Your Worship, that Meereen's war would come to end this night."

Quentyn wished to put an end to it, but he could not find the right words. Lord Anders had spoken of marriage, and he knew that he had to take a bride in due time. Yet it would be a Dornish bride to bound House Martell with one of its vassal houses. Not a bride in Meereen, where he had no place.

The Golden Grace spoke for him, her grey brows knitted in frustration,"The prince should like to see young Galazza sometime."

The seneschal nodded, and Quentyn saw that one of the seneschal's guards was eyeing his charge.

He was grateful when his party crossed the threshold of a great theatre.

A statue of a horned hare stood carved in stone at the center of the chamber, its horned holding up the spiraling ceiling above. All colours of silken draperies coated all the walls, some crested with shining jewels. Several crystal chandeliers looming above gave light in the night. The chamber only had three walls, the last opening to Meereen's night air.

The chamber could house a hundred men, and it was full to the brim. All were gathered at that great window, watching something outside.All of them were the Great Masters of Meereen. Quentyn knew Grazor mo Zhak and Krazdan mo Raddaq at first glance, the great booming voice of Morghaz of the House of Loraq filled half the chamber. Others he knew from Daenerys Targaryen's court, but he could not name at first glance. Slaves rushed to and fro, serving whatever the masters demanded. None of the slaves spoke.

He wondered why they were all here,"Sheltering from the war, perhaps, which the Green Grace said were sure to be beyond the Temple."

"My prince Quentyn," a boy Quentyn's age with light brown hair came to him and bowed,"We are glad that you could join us. The man before you is Modast, the thirtieth of that Noble Name, of the Noble House of Pahl."

"Prince Quentyn of the House of Martell," Quentyn bowed in answer.

"How fares the dragons?" the boy asked.

"Well," Quentyn did not have time to think.

"That is well," Modest Pahl nodded,"You are much more fit to hold the dragons than a hot-tempered woman. My family has suffered enough under her."

"Though she was not all horrible" he turned away and the words spilled from the corner of his lips,"If old Master Pahl does not die, how could young Master Pahl rise?"

"The prince Quentyn," a portly man in a crimson robe shouted, and the hall fell silent as they watched his entry.

"My prince," Reznak said,"The king hopes that you may grace him with your presence." The men before Quentyn parted like a windstorm, and he wondered why. "What do they fear in me?" The shining of fires in their eyes gave Quentyn his answer. "Dragons." He dreaded the fact that he knew not what to do when they discovered he did not tame the beasts. He closed his eyes, and prayed for the dragon queen to return. She could truly tame the beasts, and she had much to back up fear of her.

Quentyn passed men in blue cloaks and silks of midnight-black, even one with red gems studded into his folds. Dozens of masters watched him, all wearing the same odd expressions on their faces. It was fear, mixed in with curiosity and wonder. He also saw the faces of the slaves who served them who all wore the same leather collar, yet in their eyes he saw only indifference.

King Hizdahr sat in the forefront of the window, a wide space cleared out for him. There was a steel rail before them that saved them from tumbling out of the theatre. The king sat upon a plush seat with a fur cloak wrapped about his shoulders, his eyes fixed on the empty night. A man sat by him with copious amounts of gold in his thick hair and beard, his eyes black specks amidst all the yellow. No slaves attended his seat, which was the reason his place was so empty. There were two empty seats beside him.

"Prince Quentyn," King Hizdahr only now turned to Quentyn,"I am glad that you could join me."

Quentyn felt the cold of the night winds. He looked at King Hizdahr, and saw how wise it was to bring a fur cloak.

"I would like to introduce my prince," he gestured to the golden-coated man beside him,"to Master Horman, the First of that Name, of the House of Anlanq, Chief Envoy of the Noble Masters of New Ghis."

"My prince," Anlanq stroked his beard of gold,"The Green Grace has told us much about your glory."

"I do not know how I have earned such praise," Quentyn found his words at last.

"It was only for you that we agreed to Ser Barristan's peace," Anlanq said,"But then, Ser Barristan assailed us and made his own ruin. We think you wiser than him."

"Ser Barristan was not the wisest warrior," King Hizdahr said,"but he was the noblest. He died fighting for Meereen against its enemies, and it was his final act that won the war. He would be remembered amongst the likes of Elberon the Eyeless and Mazhdan the Magnificent. The war will end soon because of him, and we only need now to right the final pieces."

"Prince Quentyn," he gestured to an empty silken seat beside him,"Please, sit."

Quentyn lowered himself slowly onto the soft cushion, watching Reznak do the same in the other empty chair. The seneschal's guards turned to stand behind King Hizdahr.

"What business do you have here?" Quentyn tried to ignore the cold as he asked Anlanq.

"The business of peace," Anlanq answered,"Tonight, King Hizdahr has promised New Ghis that the last of the dog Skahaz mo Kandaq will be vanquished. Meereen and New Ghis could then broker a settlement that profit both our cities."

"What of Yunkai?" Quentyn asked.

"Of those cushion men, I must thank you, my prince," Anlanq answered,"There is almost nothing left after my prince's dragon finished its work on them. What little left fled back south with their tails between their legs."

King Hizdahr looked at Quentyn as he spoke with Anlanq. His expression was plain, but Quentyn spied anger beneath his relaxed eyes.

A slave came to them bearing a tray full of drinks. King Hizdahr looked irritated,"I never commanded you to come."

"Stay," Reznak said, looking at Quentyn,"Perhaps the prince would like a drink."

"Wine," was Quentyn's first thought as he shivered. He decided that he needed his wits about him more than warmth,"Water."

The slave handed him a golden goblet filled with a clear liquid. Quentyn was not certain if it was water or wine, so he never took any sip.

"Wine," King Hizdahr demanded, his voice smooth yet laced with iron.

The seneschal echoed Quentyn's choice. Anlanq hesitated, then chose wine.

"Thank you," Quentyn said to the slave, and was vexed when she did not answer.

"A mute," King Hizdahr said,"Necessary for this council. I had not wanted the masters to bring any slaves, but even my tongue cannot sway those iron-willed. If we were to spill our secrets to slaves, it is best if they could not speak it in turn."

The slave turned away, and Quentyn felt cold. He was sure that this cold was not that of the winter winds. This place was not his place to be, and he was in no way the prince they wanted. He looked away, to the west where his home lay.

What he saw instead was the vast darkness where the sun had long since set.

The night was pleasant enough in the company of the moonlight gusts. He gripped the cool rail in front of him, taking in a city of darkness. Several spots of flame glimmered beneath the sky. The light of the torches on the balcony gave them enough to see one another, but little else. He looked above him beyond the shadows of the chamber, and he seemed alone under the stars.

It was sombre and quiet, as if the night knew to mourn the blood that was shed in recent days.

"Or to act as a guise for more knives," he dreaded how the slaying still stood even when the battle ended.

"What am I audience to?" Quentyn asked the king.

"The last of the war," King Hizdahr's eyes turned back to the horizon, twinkling beneath the starlight,"We strike at the heart of the Shavepate's plague."

"Four thousand of my own prepare to turn from within the Kandaq's ranks," Anlanq said,"Both the Windblown and the Horned Legions. They will aid King Hizdahr's men on the streets as they assail tonight the Great Pyramid where Kandaq's makes his nest. The warmonger will fall today."

Quentyn looked into the night, and saw lights begin to appear. As rocks tumble from a mountain, the shimmer of lights grew ever fiercer with each pulse of flame to illuminate a path into the streets of shadow.

A horn sounded in the distance amidst the sea of flames. Armies gathered at gates and crossroads, a hold seizing them as torches halted. Silence grew, and the fires began to flicker. A bitter wind carrying a taste of blood landed on Tyrion's tongue, and he swallowed. The lights shimmered and.danced in the night.

Quentyn looked about him, and it seemed that all the Great Masters fixed themselves upon the distant spectacle. The only one who did not look was Anlanq and King Hizdahr, whose eyes remained on Quentyn.

"Shall we raise a cup to the queen?" Quentyn said, knowing that the queen would return after they win victory over the Shavepate and the traitors.

"To the last dragon," Quentyn said, raising the goblet to his lips but not drinking.

"To the last dragon," the others echoed him, yet their drinks also flowed down their chins undrunk.

"It is a pity that we do not have dragons to aid us," King Hizdahr,"So much blood that did not need to be spilt."

"He knows," Quentyn froze in his seat, suspecting the worst. "Well, perhaps it could end now."

"My king probably does not wish the prince to burn the city to the ground." Anlanq said,"There is much that you do not know."

The night winds were howling, and Quentyn observed that the only ones who could hear them were themselves.

"You do not know," Anlanq glared at King Hizdahr,"that a mummer's dragon is still a dragon, and burns men all the same. You, a threat to him, will fall. By the beast or by the blade, it does not matter when you are dead. He will kill you, and I do not know why the prince has not yet. He is merciful, I suppose, but do not stretch his mercy. Forsake this folly to court the queen, and give her to the prince. I do not want to see you dead. You seem a kind boy, unworthy of that fate. I warn you about him, but he is not the only one who wishes to see you in your grave."

"That was for me to hear as well," Quentyn thought as King Hizdahr stared blankly at him,"Perhaps to declare his loyalty." It seemed all the more dangerous now that they thought a true prince. He was not ready to play this game, not here in Meereen. This was the queen's game, and he looked to the horizon in vain again. There was no sign of dragon wings.

"That does not matter," Quentyn remembered the Green Grace's words,"You are Meereen's hero." He realized the truth of it. There will always be ones to believe the lie, if they see gain in following it. Anlanq was one of them, and who knew how many others in this chamber of the horned hare. He wondered if he should take it. "Not yet," he would need to wait and see.

King Hizdahr rose from his plush seat, turning his back on the flickering lights,"I shall need attend to the battle. Any master who keeps true to Meereen should come."

Anlanq shook his head, and watched as King Hizdahr left the chamber with only a dozen masters following him, Reznak amongst them. Most stayed behind as Quentyn did, watching the lights unfold on the distant streets. Anlanq's eyes were distant, until suddenly they came to light.

"My prince," he said urgently,"Follow King Hizdahr. The Unsullied stand right now in the Temple of the Graces. If he wins them, I fear that your dragons would not save you here."

"It is wise to do so," the Golden Grace's voice appeared, whispering into his ear.

Quentyn thought about it, pressing the matters into his mind. He feared it, knowing that caution always hangs about the edges of his senses. There would be no repeat of the maze. He could go in the end, as the Unsullied were loyal more to the dragon than the Harpy. The mummer's dragon must make itself true. He looked again across the horizon, hoping for the last time that a true winged dragon may appear. Naught answered him.

The Unsullied lay in the Hall of the Mighty. The smell assaulted Quentyn before he even came close. He knew the scent, the scent of the dead and dying that were so common in the army camp. The Unsullied had just come home from battle.

King Hizdahr blocked his nose with a sleeve of his cloak as he walked through the wounded with his fellow masters handing back. Quentyn did not, as he was used to the smell. Some of the masters had followed him from the theatre, and he timely looked back. Most stood beyond the corpses, with only Pahl and young Oberon mo Hazkar daring to follow Quentyn and the Golden Grace into the depths of the hall.

When Quentyn looked at the wounded, he realized that the smell was only a small fraction of the pain. Screams, moans, and croaked wishes were the least of what lay in the hall. Each step he took landed in a puddle of blood, pus, and sometimes even the release of a man's bowels. Splayed amongst them were the endless number of cauterized bodies. He could not tell which ones were truly dead. Someone had started a fire in the corner, and those which were sure to corpses were thrown in. There was an endless supply of those.

"It was much worse three days ago," Hazkar said,"when the wounded were brought in fresh from the battle. Grandfather's been in arms for sixty years, and he says this were some of the worst he had seen."

"The Temple is a place of healing," Quentyn considered,"Even though the Unsullied would not aid King Hizdahr, the Graces still allowed them in." Perhaps after they were healed, the grey soldiers would be inclined to aid their healers. He remembered that the Temple was supposed to be a place of sanctuary where none were to harm each other. He also remembered how the New Ghiscari legions had burned Astapor's Temple. He knew that Meereen has turned it into a place of war. He also knew that the golden men of New Ghis, Anlanq and all, would turn on him if once fortune does not favour Quentyn's side.

A group of men stood at the head of the hall, led by a tall man with three iron spikes on his helm. They were speaking to a White Grace who ran off into the Temple's halls. King Hizdahr steeped carefully about each of the bodies, hugging his sleeve to his nose as he approached that group of men.

"Grey Worm," he called to one of them, and the man with the three-spiked helm turned,"My king. I had told the first three times you came. You are not welcome here."

"I only wish all of you and your well," King Hizdahr said,"I come only to see that you and your men will do as we agreed."

"We will," Grey Worm spat,"Our men are spent. We will honour our promise to have no part in the Shavepate's war. We wait here for the queen's return."

King Hizdahr walked out of the row of bodies, his face twisted in anger as he uncovered his sleeve. "Send a messenger to the Red Pyramid," he ordered Reznak,"I want my best healers here, the ones that attend to me and the House of Loraq. Whoever their lord is, these brave warriors who fought for Meereen do not deserve to die."

"Please," Quentyn heard a moan beneath him, and he looked down to see a wounded man. He had lost a hand with the stump wrapped in stained bandages, and a Blue Grace sought to raise a cup of water to his lips.

"Pleading for someone," he thought,"It is best if that be me." He fell to his knees, holding the man up while the Blue Grace poured the water through his parched lips.

"You," Quentyn heard a shout and truend. The man with the three-spiked helm was approaching him.

"You," his voice echoed the same steely tone as he came closer,"Are you Prince Quentyn Martell?"

"Yes," Quentyn replied, thinking this a misjudgment.

"The suitor of the queen?"

"Yes."

"The one who tamed her dragons?"

Quentyn hesitated, then answered,"Yes. I tried to."

"Here," the man said, shoving Quentyn aside,"Let me take Iron Pig. He gives you thanks, and so I give you thanks."

"Prince Quentyn," a voice called. He rose to see a burly sellsword sergeant call him,"We have caught some of Skahaz mo Kandaq's men attempting to sneak into the Temple. We think that they were here to slay you, and they await your judgment."

"It would be wise to take them in," Hazkar said,"They would be loyal men as you are the one to save them from certain death."

"It would be wiser to kill them," Pahl said,"My prince cannot sour the hearts of our own men by sparing the enemy. You cannot trust their swords either."

Quentyn looked up at King Hizdahr, who nodded to him and swept away with his retinue. The prince gestured to the sergeant to bring the captives in. He noticed also that almost all of the masters from the theatre had gathered down here in the hall with their retinues of slaves. All of them, except Anlanq and old Hazkar.

"We need your aid, Prince Quentyn," the lead man of the captives stood before Quentyn in a secluded hall where he held court,"The queen fought for freedom, and we thought the Shavepate continued her battle. We were wrong, and his cause is only for his own power. We see the light now, and I ask that we be given another chance beneath your banner."

"Hmph," Pahl snorted,"You were foolish enough to follow the enemy, and now you ask for mercy? No, the justice for that is only death."

"Ser Barristan taught me," the lead man pleaded,"and he said that all knights must fight with honour else they are no knights at all, so fight for use with honour. Show us who you must be."

Quentyn looked at him, a boy with a beard just beginning to grow who was only a little older than Quentyn himself. He looked again at the dozen men behind him, all looking back at him ith pleading eyes.

"I am a prince before a knight," Quentyn answered, and the lead man's face fell,"And the rules are different. A prince must have more honour."

"Live," Quentyn said,"Live as you follow me. You were right that the Shavepate's cause is doomed, and you are right to come to me. Follow me, obey me, and return with me to the deserts of Dorne. Deserts much like Meereen, but there you will be free."

The first man began to kneel, as did the man behind, and soon all the others knelt before him.

Quentyn heard faintly a roar, and he thought it first an illusion. Yet another roar followed, a black shadow blossoming across the torches of the halls. He could not deny it.

Warmth returned to him again as he found his way to a great glass opening onto the night skies. "The curse of being a prince will end, as the queen comes home." She could take hold of everything and make it right.

The first lights of the dawn began to rise in the east, and Quentyn's heart began to fall. As the light touched the dragon that spiraled again and again above Meereen, he saw at last that there was no rider.

The dragon seemed to turn to Quentyn, then broke its circle and flew into the west.

 

[Mockingbird]

THEON
​

"By salt and iron," the priest poured a cool stream on Theon's brow,"by rock and steel. The crown is yours to take, as it had been for all your fathers since the Grey King. You have paid the iron price, and here is your reward. I crown you, Theon of the House Greyjoy, King of the Iron Isles. May the Drowned God bless your sails for this day, and all the days to come."

The water flowed from a polished urn, cool and cold. It lapped about Theon's lips like the kiss of a maiden, though he knew that he would never know it in the water. The water was only cold, just like all the grim-faced captains who gathered about him in this circle of rock. He did not know why they had bothered with this farce. He knew just as well as them that he was never worthy to be their king. The only cause for them here was to kill him.

Still, he savoured the sweet feeling, how little and false it may be. If the worst was what the captains wished, the broken man would die in peace. He welcomed it, for he felt like Robb. All the eyes were watching him.

"No," he answered himself,"Robb was never surrounded by such." There were turncloaks like Theon in his midst, but they still believed in him as their king in the beginning. They truly put their faith in him as they placed an iron crown upon his brow. The driftwood crown looked to cut splinters into Theon's skull, and the captains said to be his men would never believe in him. They saw him as nothing, and they were right. He had already resigned himself to do whatever they willed, a piece in their game just as he was in the games of Roose Bolton, of Stannis Baratheon, and of Barbrey Dustin. It was always safer this way. They wanted Reek, and they would have him. Yet Theon also knew that Theon was alive again.

"Do you accept this crown we offer, with our hearts, our axes, and our banners," the drowned priest asked, and Theon looked up to see the hideous driftwood crown. Gnarled wood curled about its edges, dripping lone filthy beads of water. He heard steps behind him, a voice bellowing,"He does. Do you need to ask, priest? This is Theon Greyjoy, last trueborn son of Balon Greyjoy. The crown is his rights. Crown him. Now."

Theon felt wood touch his brow, and there was only a faint ache. He rose to greet the priest. Theon was taller than him, but thinner. He did not understand why the priest looked so pale.

"My king," he fell to his knees,"Forgive me."

"It must be the man behind me," Theon thought. There was nothing within himself for the priest to fear. Theon turned around, and there was nothing behind him. Only his shadow. What he found was the kneeling forms of men, dozens of Ironborn lords with their steel sheathed and their heads bowed.

"Hail to the king," the priest declared beneath him in a wobbling tone,"Hail to Theon of the House Greyjoy, the Fourth of His Name since the Grey King, King of the Iron Isles, King of Salt and Rock, Son of the Sea Wind, Conqueror of Winterfell, and Lord Reaper of Pyke."

"Theon King," the Ironborn captains muttered,"Theon King. Theon King. Theon King."

Theon's skin burned, an unmistakable taste coming upon him again. This place was his place of doom, the throne never his to grasp. He knew that it must be a dream, a nightmare that would soon turn dark and burn him through. He felt empty, and fell to his knees. The waters splashed beneath him, bringing forth a great ripple that brushed the stumps of his fallen fingers.

"Get up," that same voice called, and he looked up to see the man, a grizzled northern soldier with a face as stern as winter. Theon knew him, and the soldier held out his hand. Theon grasped it, knowing the skin that felt so whole, and felt himself rise. The echoes continued about him,"Theon King. Theon King. Theon King.

Theon saw Norne Goodbrother raise his hand to a horn and blow. A low screech emerged, and the rocks shivered. The driftwood crown lay heavy on Theon's brow, but he felt no splinters. There was only an emptiness that would accompany his death that was sure to come. He turned around, all around in the water.

"Was this horn the herald of their assault?" Theon thought. He knew that this would come at any moment. He felt relieved that it did. He was relieved that the Ironborn would drop their masks of courtesy and reveal their hidden knives. At least in this way, he would no longer feel fear. He had no longer felt fear.

Theon saw himself already, facedown in the water. Blood spilled from countless bloody wounds, flowing slowly into the Sunset Sea. Beyond the distant horizon, where he would drown under the ocean.

"That is enough, Lord Goodbrother," the northern soldier shouted beside Theon,"One call is enough for Theon Greyjoy's crown."

"My king," Goodbrother strode forward with three servants in tow. He knelt before Theon,"Her is my gift to the king. The finest horn in all the Iron Isles, taken off Addam Velaryon's steed during the Dance by the great Oberon Goodbrother. May it please in all your battles to come, and bring you the same victories you won in Winterfell."

"My king," Germund Botley in a cloak of a white whale came forward with a jewel-pommelled dagger that he swore was dragonsteel. Then came Waldon Wynch with a woolen cloak, Dunstan Drumm's son Alfer with a necklace of iron beads, Eustace Sunderly with a copper carving of a kraken bestowed upon him by Theon's father that the new Prince of Saltcliffe wished to return.

"Men of my own?" Theon gave a bitter laugh, for he knew the truth,"These were the men truest to Uncle Euron."

Each captain was swiftly replaced by the next, and Theon felt empty as they pressed on their gifts. Gold and jewelry. Prizes won from ancient foes. Weapons beyond count. Theon wondered why they had thrown their steel in such waste, giving away the sharp end of the blade. There was nothing of use in any of them, except the woolen cloak which he hugged about himself. At least it was warm. He wondered when death would come.

"The king would shield you as thanks," the soldier said to each captain as they presented their gifts. Other men in black cloaks and golden thread came and stored the gifts in great chests that sank into the water. The chests vanished into the swirling depths.

"O Drowned God," the priest declared,"The king asks for your blessings in all his winds to come, and gives this most humble sacrifice."

Theon stripped the cloak from his shoulders, feeling the cold pierce his skin. He walked before the dark depths where the chests had been a moment before. He dropped the cloak into the water, watching it flow down into the stream and into the Sunset Sea. He was cold.

"My king," a voice declared, coming from a burly man as old as Theon's father,"My father's gift you would not sink." Theon knew him, Craghorn Ironmaker with his booming voice.

"My father the great and deathless Erik Ironmaker has bid me to give this gift on his behalf," Craghorn gestured to the horizon upon the sea where the Ironborn warships lay at anchor,"He gives you the fit most worthy of the King of Salt and Rock, the Captain of the Iron Isles. The might of a new ship, whose sails and oars will be my king's to command from this day until your dying day. What shall its name be, my king?"

"A name that I can choose?" Theon almost laughed again,"This kingship was not mine to choose." Like Robb, there had been no choice. He felt closer to his brother than he had ever been, so foolish and so young. So near to doom. He felt the northern soldier step closer.

"The Young Kraken," Theon muttered. "The Young Kraken," the northern soldier shouted.

"Yes, my king," Craghorn said,"If that is your will, then the new flagship of the Iron Fleet shall be named the Young Kraken."

"Your father married Theon Greyjoy's sister," the northern soldier said,"Does that make you his nephew?"

"I may call my king uncle if my king should wish so," Craghorn answered.

"How about brother?"Theon said,"The king's thanks is all yours this day."

Craghorn wrapped him in an embrace, which Theon did not feel,"Brother, my sword is yours." Theon knew that it may as well be a farce. The galley must be a lie. He was numb to it all. He did not hear the northern soldier's voice.

"My king," Craghorn said as broke the embrace,"Shall my king like to step aboard the Young Kraken."

"That's an apt name, my king," Sunderly and his men laughed,"We've had enough of old krakens. Balon was mad, Victarion is madder, and Euron the maddest of them all." His words gave light to an even greater storm of laughter.

"I tell my captains," Craghorn stifled his laughter for a moment,"Euron is being unseated by a woman, a woman who lost at the kingsmoot no less." Another storm of lighter accompanied the man's words. His words blew into Theon's ears, he wondered what ills he meant with them. The northern soldier's voice returned,"Save the squabbles for the feast tonight. The king should kile to see his ship."

"Have you already enough of our hospitality, my Lord Greyjoy," Barrowton's head steward said.

"King," Drumm shouted,"He is no common lord, but King of Salt and Rock."

"He is lord in the eyes of Lord Forest," the head steward ignored Drumm, his eyes pinned on Theon,"Has Lord Forest's welcome been inadequate? Lady Dustin commanded her castellan to treat his guests with respect, but I doubt Lord Forest has obeyed his commands well. I heard him say that the sooner the iron scum departed barrowton, the sooner he would be sated. I pray you do depart, for I hope that you do not come to blows. Lord Greyjoy's very presence insults our castellan."

Silence fell upon the waters, until a furious cry broke out.

"The Dustin traitor," a great man in an iron helm declared, snarling in fury,"We gave her all she asked for, and now her castellan gives us this?"

"My king," Botley shouted to Theon,"To arms. We will vanquish these greenlander dogs."

"To arms," the cry began,"To arms. To arms."

Theon was inclined to give them what they wished for, to let them unleash their fury upon Barrowton. At least then, they would not attack Theon himself. Then, Theon saw the small smile playing at the corners of the steward's mouth, and Theon turned away.

"This is madness," he shouted above the Ironborn, and they quieted,"You are all mad. You came here to bring the king to reign in the Iron Isles, not to start another war. What treasure can we take if our home is on fire?"

Theon saw in the distance that the steward's smile died, and he rushed off with the guards. Theon paid him no mind, for he knew that Mance Rayder was already at the castle to tell Lord Forest of the betrayal.

"What then, my king, is your command?" Goodbrother asked.

"Give the king some time alone, then show him to his ship," the northern soldier answered.

"He needs time with the Drowned God," the priest declared,"who will give him guidance."

The crowd dispersed as quick as falling water, with Theon alone upon the stones with a driftwood crown upon his brow. Almost alone, the northern soldier still standing beside him. Theon turned to look the northern soldier in the eye. He did not know why the northern soldier had helped him so very much. He was the only way that Theon had survived. Theon was not worthy of that aid, nor did he have a way to thank him. "Did Theon know him at least?" Theon wondered,"Is that why he has lended his aid?"

"Did Theon Greyjoy know you in Robb Stark's war?" Theon asked.

"Aye, you used to fight with me. You fought beside me in the Whispering Wood, yet I was taken prisoner a day after Robb was crowned king. I have been silent ever since, but now I am home."

"Home?" Theon echoed.

"Home. The North, which was all I knew and loved as I grew. The place where my family lived, where I would have liked to live until my dying day. It is good to see you again, Theon Greyjoy."

"Theon, which rhymes with nothing," Theon closed his eyes, thankful. There was naught to dread around this man, not any of the dread he felt so keenly as he spoke with Barbrey Dustin, with Mance Rayder, with Craghorn Ironmaker and all these terrible Ironborn captains. The northern soldier was the only man who was safe to confide in, a man that was his own. The man became quiet, and Theon heard the seas lap about his feet.

He opened his eyes. He could not see the northern soldier, but Theon knew that the man was with him. Theon stepped forth from the ring of rocks where he was crowned into the throng of Ironborn men. He felt his tongue begin to unravel, speaking the words of the northern soldier,"Lead the way to the king's ship, my captains."

"Of course, my king," the captains one another as they shouted orders to the hundreds of sailors gathering about the rock ring. Some went to clean the rocks of the bits of gold that were left, others riding upon steeds in the distance. Most stood by their captains who stood by the king. The northern soldier watched them all.

It was a foggy day, yet the Young Kraken's deck looked to be riding amongst clouds. Theon's hand fell unto the railing beyond which was the sea, feeling the cold run in swirls beneath him.

There were only three captains that attended Theon on the ship, the others having been commanded to return to their own galleys. This was Craghorn's ship, so he certainly had to attend. The others were Sunderly and Harbourfore, both clear to be Craghorn's foes. "Let them fight one another, and the victor would throw Theon into the sea." They could be counted on for that. Counted on, perhaps even trusted. He knew that they would turn on him as soon as one had the power.

Theon placed himself on the far end from Craghorn, with the sea close at hand. He felt the northern soldier's presence. He always remained. He was the only man Theon could trust on the ship. "The only man I could trust in the North," Theon realized,"The only man I could trust in the world."

The king craned his head up towards the skies, watching the winds blow the grand sails astray. The Young Kraken was glorious, doubtless what Erik Ironmaker had thought would impress a young man. A ship that would draw the young man in so that he could be used and played.

"What do you think of my father's gift?" Craghorn asked Theon.

The northern soldier made to answer, but Theon spoke before him,"Honoured, my captain, very honoured. Theon Greyjoy is all too grateful. Lord Erik knows all that he wishes for."

"Indeed," Sunderly said, his eyes falling upon Theon,"My father's ship is also named the Young Kraken, but it was never the glory of my king. My father sails under Lord Euron, and would be honoured to meet my king when he comes home with all the plunder of the Reach.

"Perhaps I shall match him," Theon said before the northern soldier could speak,"Ship to ship."

"Bah," Craghorn laughed bitterly,"Urrigon Sunderly's driftwood wreck is much too weak to match a ship of Arman's make, particularly one blessed by my father and the Drowned God himself."

"Are you threatening my house's honour, Ironmaker?" Sunderly asked, his voice laced with iron.

"I speak only the truth," Craghorn said,"Your father's Young Kraken cannot match one captained by a great king."

"My king," Craghorn turned to Theon, one leg in the swirling mist,"I wish to show you the captain's chamber."

"There it is," Theon thought,"the time when he would invite Theon into the chamber and reveal the hidden knives that would slay him."

Theon nodded, breathing out a sigh of relief now that the truth was known. He turned to Sunderly and Harbourfore,"You are dismissed. Return to your ships and do as you see fit."

"My king," Harbourfore said as he knelt,"Worry not, for we shall tell the fleet that you are upon the ship. There is no way that Ironmaker can lay a finger upon you if the whole fleet will know that it was him."

Theon felt the northern soldier smile.

The captain's cabin was vast, large enough for twenty men to sit in. A bed lay in one corner, a tarp covering a table in another. All shone under the flickering firelight of four great braziers. The only men in the room were Craghorn, Theon, and the northern soldier.

"How may I repay your father?" Theon asked, his eyes wandering across the chamber.

"By being our king," Craghorn said,"Do you know what doom fell on the Iron Isles while you conquered Winterfell?"

"No," Theon answered, that one word a silent echo.

"Your father died," Craghorn said brutishly, and Theon reeled from that one revelation,"and we made your uncle Euron king. But he is weak, and usurpers are rising left, right, and center. The maddest of them all is the Reader, who sought to rouse the ironmen for your sister. Worse yet, old fools like Gorne Goodbrother, Halton Trunswick, Chello Tawney and who knows how many others have followed him. The three greatest isles, Orkmont, Harlaw, and Great Wyk, have risen for a woman. The Iron Isles are on the brink of civil war. My father does not wish to see ironman fight ironman , and needs a peacemaker. He needs the true heir to the Seastone Chair. He needs you, Theon Greyjoy, to be our king."

An urge bade Theon to step back, but he did not. He froze, but his blood was warm. A hot rush washed through him, and he felt something fall in place again. He felt suddenly empty. He felt suddenly whole.

"Then my captain shall have your king," Theon said.

He looked to the northern soldier, to see if he had done it right. There was nothing beneath the firelight. Only his own shadow.

 

[Mockingbird]

JON
​

The south wind was blowing today, warm winds from the deserts of Dorne that spoke of the last of summer. It seemed almost apt that this was the day to receive a Dornish princess.

The winds reminded Jon of warmer days, of better days when his silver prince still walked the earth. Before winter came for him. The warm winds danced about Aegon's banners, but for him winter would never come. Not as long as Jon still lived and breathed the air.

"And how long would that be," his hand reminded him,"Long enough to see Aegon on his throne." At that time, even if winter comes, Aegon would best it.

Jon watched the Dornish sun and spear blossom against the risen dawn in the east. The Sunspeaker's oars lapped Shipbreaker Bay's waters, stirring up glistening salt sprays. The Dornishman's galley stood lone and great, accompanied only afar by the massive dromonds that were now Aegon's Royal Fleet.

He felt the kiss of the sun upon his skin, and he culled his greying hand into a fist to feel the stiff muscles of his palm. At least he could still feel his palm. He even thought that the fingers that were grey to the brim were no longer numb. He dismissed it, knowing that it was folly. The gods only gave him this little time to see Aegon on his throne, and it would not do to pretend otherwise. There had been victories, yes, but the long war still lay before him. He knew that he must finish before he fell to death or worse. He pretended that this Dornish princess was not another Lyanna Stark, and she would not weigh Aegon down.

"Debts will be paid," Jon thought,"but not upon those innocent of them." Aegon's men were not like the Usurper and his dogs. The Usurper was sentenced to death by all that was just in the realm, and his brothers and all those who rose in rebellion would share the same fate. The Usurper was dead, Robert Baratheon rotting as he deserved. Most of his dogs were already dead. Eddard Stark. Jon Arryn. Hoster Tully. Tywin Lannister. Most were dead, with only their lost children left.

"You must slay your enemies," Jon knew,"but you must help their sons back on their feet." That had been true for Edric Baratheon, for Aurane Velaryon and Robert Arryn. Aegon's banners teemed with those whose fathers were traitors, and it made no matter. They were dragon men now. "And the Dornishmen were not at all like them. They had always been loyal to the king."

"A princess," Lord Aurane had said when the man reported to the king that the Royal Fleet had taken in the Sunspeaker,"The Dornish have given Your Grace a worthy gift." Whoever Lord Aurane was now, Jon still saw the time when he was still Garin Truewaters with his silver-gold stubble and shining eyes.

The king had pleased Jon when he wished to take charge of the situation. Jon knew that eventually the king would have to arrange for the guests himself their guards, accommodations, and all their servants- feasts and contests that needed to be prepared. Yet Jon had also known that the king was still not ready. He still needed to watch and learn. It was still the Hand's duty to do all he could for the king. Rivers had applauded Jon before he was sent to Bronzegate,"A young king is certain to need a guiding hand." Even Strickland had acknowledged that it was wise for the Hand to make the right judgments for the king.

A horn blew two short blasts, heralding the Sunspeaker coming at anchor at Storm's End's dock. Aegon had wished to receive the princess there as befitting the welcome of a king, but Jon bade him choose the wiser course. They had won the victory at Storm's End, and poised to rest their swords on the Iron Throne. Dorne is coming to him, not him to Dorne. It would not do to break Aegon's hard-won majesty with a boy's courtesy. His silver prince's son still had much to learn before he could come unto his power.

"At least he knows to be humble and follow the right counsel," Jon glanced at Aegon, who had listened and waited for the princess to come to him on this high hill outside Storm's End's gates. He was seated, conversing with Edric Baratheon beside him. Ser Rolly in his white cloak stood at guard behind the king. Jon was a few steps beneath him, with all the company captains deemed worthy of this company and a select few lords and knights of the Seven Kingdoms. He could see the sea from here.

He thought to hear another long horn sound, which would herald the landing of the princess and her company.

"Lord Hand," Jon looked back to see Lord Aurane riding through the Golden Company spears, the golden banners parting to allow his company of twenty to pass.

"Your man Gogollas and my Captains Claud and Clint have charge of the princess at the deck," Lord Aurane dismounted before Jon and bowed,"Does the king wish to meet his guest?"

Gogollas was one of Pease's men who had been stationed with the garrison at Griffin's Roost, doubtless someone who had sought to escort the princess's ship as she passed through Shipbreaker Bay. His loyalty was uncertain just like his captain. He did not know Captains Claud or Clint, but they must be true if they won the trust of Lord Aurane.

"Balaq's archers are standing at ready," Strickland informed Jon,"I have moved three legions of spears that will coat the fields as the princess lands upon Elenei's Rest. Maar and Flowers have organized twenty patrols that ride five at a time to make certain that the fields are safe.

"Ever so careful," Jon was grateful this time.

"If it is still my Hand's will to have this princess be His Grace's bride," Lord Aurane said with a confident smile,"then you might want me to accompany her as she comes. She is already fond of me, and would take more kindly to the king if I whisper some sweet words in her ear."

"Certainly not," it would be foolish to the man any closer to the princess than he already was. Gods forbid that he had already been in her company all throughout Shipbreaker Bay. She was to wed the king.

He wondered again whether it had been wise to marry Aegon to this Dornish princess. It was a rash notion, conceived when he heard from Ser Daemon that Quentyn Martell was due to wed Daenerys Targaryen. Yet Jon had already promised Daenerys to another, and the Dornish were expecting a dragon. Jon must please them by offering them another in place of Daenerys. Ser Daemon had said that Prince Doran would agree to wed Aegon to Arianne, which Jon agreed to swiftly. They had signed the pact on two pieces of parchment, one of which Jon held and the other in Ser Daemon's possession. The envoy told Jon of Princess Arianne's coming before Lord Aurane's ships had even seen the Sunspeaker. He had given Jon more tidings of Dorne in an hour than both the eunuch and Maar with their webs of birds had in two moons. It was rash, but it was wise. That was all that mattered, that it would aid Aegon in the end.

"The king will see the princess," Aegon's voice pierced the air like the shrill squeak of a bird. Jon turned to see Aegon just as he walked before Jon and pushed him aside to stand in the center of the golden cloaks,"but she would not need to journey all the way here. I shall see her at the dock."

"The welcome has been prepared here," Jon said.

"I thank you, Lord Connington," Aegon said,"for your efforts to arrange this welcome, but in the end the duty is the king's. You were right that a king must show his power, but he must also show his love for those beneath him. I shall meet Princess Arianne personally on the docks."

He walked away, calling for his squire Elton Meadows to saddle his white steed. Meadows looked at Jon, who was too vexed to respond. The squire did not move.

"Anyone willing to serve their king," Aegon called again, his voice fiercer and shriller. All looked to Jon, who twisted his mouth in disapproval.

"Enough, Your Grace," Jon shouted,"of this childishness. You are to learn to think before you venture. There are matters to deal with before meeting the princess."

Aegon stared back at him, his face indignant and stubborn. After a long moment, Edric Baratheon stepped forward, took the saddle from the square, and saddled Aegon's horse. He then bent down on his knees, giving the king a step to mount.

"Thank you, Lord Baratheon," Aegon said upon his steed as Edric Baratheon rose,"House Targaryen thanks you." The king spurred his horse and rode away to the dock. Ser Rolly quickly mounted another steed and followed to guard his king.

"What has it come to," Jon thought,"that a Targaryen thanks a Baratheon in the stead of a loyal Connington for his service."

"My Lord Hand," Edric Baratheon patted off the dirt from his black and gold cloak, looking Jon in the eye,"My uncle always said to give a man what he wishes. His Grace is stubborn, and I plead with you to just let him have his way just this one time."

"Your Baratheon uncle," Jon wondered,"or your Florent one?" It must be the Florent, for the Usurper and his brothers were naught but harbingers of tyranny. Jon looked at Edric Baratheon, thinking that he looked more like Imry Florent than the Usurper. More like that kind and steadfast youngster who had ridden with Jon beside his silver prince. Jon wondered what had become of Ser Imry, certain that he would be true when he knew of Aegon's return. Ser Imry would have treated Aegon with gentleness had he been charged with Aegon in the stead of Jon, and Jon saw that man in Lord Edric.

"You are as noble as your uncle," Jon said to Lord Edric,"but that does not mean your course is wise. A king must not act on his whims." A sour taste crawled through his arm, and he remembered what lay at his fingers. He had so little time to forge Aegon into the king he was destined to be.

"Why must he refuse his duty?" Jon felt the warm southern wind grow stifling,"It is still summer and he can act like a boy, but summer boys have no place when winter comes."

"Lord Aurane," Jon commanded,"Your men are already mounted, so fetch the king and bring him back here to me."

"He may very well refuse," Lord Aurane said.

"Then draw your swords and tell him again to come back," Jon gritted his teeth,"I would not have his folly seen through."

Lord Aurane nodded silently, mounting his steed and riding to the shore with his men.

"That is most unwise, my lord," Strickland said,"It is sensible, but… even a Hand cannot draw steel upon the king."

"A father can against his son," Jon stated.

"I stand with the Hand," a black-haired boy stepped forward,"The king must learn his lesson."

Jon looked at the boy, recognizing that he was Morros Slynt. He had arrived at Storm's End a fortnight ago to swear his hundred swords to Aegon's cause. His father had been Captain of the City Watch of King's Landing, but was sent to the Wall by the Lannisters for having the courage to speak against their ill deeds.

"The Hand is no craven lickspittle," Morros Slynt declared,"and can tell the king honestly what must do to be a worthy king."

"Not like Doglord here," Lord Morros pointed to Lord Edric,"only knowing to praise His Grace, turning a blind eye to his faults."

"You will not insult Lord Baratheon," Ser Antony Crane stepped forward. He had been one of the surrendered Stormlander lords, and put a hand on the hilt of his sword,"Lord Hand, this man speaks against the king. He must be arrested."

Lord Morros turned to Jon and knelt,"I would be honoured to be arrested for honesty like my father had been, but I trust that my Lord Hand is no Tyrion Lannister."

A singing of steel interrupted him, and Jon turned to find Ser Antony raising his sword at Lord Morros. Lord Morros rose and drew his sword in response, pointing it at the Stormlander lord. Jon's hand went to his hilt, and he saw many do the same.

"Choose," Ser Antony boomed as he ripped off his blue cloak.

"The Hand," he pointed his sword to Jon. "Or the king," he raised his sword to the sky. In the corner of Jon's eye, he saw Andrew Estermont mount a steed alone and ride off to the shore. Jon did not draw his sword, though several did. He wondered who they meant to side with should battle join.

"Sheathe your swords," Jon looked Ser Antony in the eye, knowing that he was out of the reach of the blade at the moment,"I am not His Grace's foe. The foe is north, sitting in the walls of King's Landing beneath the lion banner that burned your home. You turn your sword upon your own men."

The man did not answer, nor did he lower his steel. More drew their blades, and Jon's fingers tightened about his hilt. Lord Edric's hand was the only one to have not touched his sword.

"Give the command," Lord Morros said,"and we will slay the traitors."

"Stay your blades," a shout shattered the air about them,"I have a command from the king."

Jon turned to find Lord Aurane returning alone on his blood-red stallion.

"We never caught up to His Grace," Lord Aurane reported,"The king may very well have already received Princess Arianne- I received a messenger summoning you, my Lord Hand."

"Where are your men?" Jon asked.

"I sent them to guard the king," Lord Aurane replied.

"Sheathe your swords," Jon turned to the host of men on the brink of war,"The king has commanded it." This time, they did.

He turned to Lord Aurane,"Tell the king that I will come."

"I am sorry," Aegon said once Jon arrived at the dock. The Sunspeaker lay at anchor, its Martell banners swaying in the warm winds. At the king's side was a beautiful woman with chocolate-brown skin. Ser Rolly and Andrew Estermont stood behind them. Ser Rolly's hand lay still on his hilt as he watched all the golden ranks about them.

"Could this be the princess," Jon looked at the Dornishwoman who was clad in a thin orange shift,"Where is her retinue?" The princess looked young for her supposed age of twenty-five, her face as sharp as that of a girl. Jon wondered again why she had no retinue and had ventured onto the docks alone. A Dornish princess was supposed to have a host of servants doting on her to show her power.

"I apologize," Aegon said to Jon,"for departing so suddenly. It was improper for a king to do so."

"Why this sudden turn of tone?" Jon's eyes narrowed at the princess who smiled back at him.

"Never mind," Jon thought,"If she can tame his wild side then that is all the better." Not at all like that whore Lyanna Stark, who turned his silver prince's daring into his doom.

"The Hand lives to serve the king's will," Jon dismounted and knelt before Aegon,"and it was fortunate that your command arrived when it did. The host was about to collapse in strife."

"What?" Aegon was taken aback.

"Men drew steel on the Hand," Lord Aurane said behind Jon.

"What did I tell you, Your Grace," the princess said,"Lord Connington is not the man to blame. His was the best and cleverest plan to conceive Storm's End's fall. How could he be a traitor?"

"Who drew steel on the King's Hand?" Aegon demanded. Jon looked back and saw Ser Antony dismount. "Lord Antony of the House Crane, Lord of Fallenswood," Ser Antony declared,"sworn to House Connington of Griffin's Roost. I drew steel on Lord Connington as he was plotting against Your Grace."

"Lies," a cry rose,"He's a liar."

"Your evidence?" Aegon asked Ser Antony.

"Lord Connington," Antony Crane said,"commanded that Lord Aurane and his men fetch you, and to draw steel upon you should you refuse."

"I received no such order," Lord Aurane said, and the host murmured in agreement.

"You know no such thing?" Crane's eyes flashed in fury and leapt forward to grab Lord Aurane by the throat. He pinned him to the ground, snarling,"This vermin sent his men away. Go to the Proud Tart, Your Grace, and find your answer."

"I will send my men in due time," Aegon said,"but you still stand accused of treason both against the Hand and your liege lord. Seize him."

Two Golden Company men rushed forward and wrenched Crane from Lord Aurane, who lay sputtering in the dirt.

"Take him away until my notice," Aegon commanded, and the golden cloaks carried the shouting man away.

Jon looked at Aegon, who looked so much like his silver prince at that moment. Perhaps Aegon had grown and he would become a true king before Jon passed on. His little time left was enough. He needed to thank this Dornish princess.

"I am sorry, my lady," Aegon turned to the princess,"for such a brutish display, but it must be done."

"Think nothing of it," the princess replied,"My cousin may have wilted at such a sight, but Lady Lance is calm and strong."

"Lady Lance?" Jon wondered,"What princess names herself Lady Lance?"

"Is this the princess of Dorne?" Jone asked Aegon.

"Seven Hells, no," the Dornishwoman replied,"My cousin's still in the ship preparing her retinue of pretty knights and handsome ladies. I snuck earlier because I didn't want to wait to get a look at the king."

"This is Elia," Aegon smiled,"daughter of Prince Oberyn."

"Sand," Jon knew of Prince Oberyn's daughters,"A bastard." She could not be seen with the king. She was like Lyanna Stark, swaying the king off his true course. "No, worse." Lyanna Stark had been the trueborn daughter of a lord. This woman was a baseborn get, a good man's mistake. She was walking so close to Aegon, and the thought filled him with dread. He steeled himself, knowing that the tragedy of his silver prince must never happen again. The bastard was a shame to Princess Elia's name. The princess had been frail and sickly, but at the very least she had been true.

"Your Grace," Jon stood, taller than Aegon by half a head,"The blood of the dragon is due to wed a princess, not a bastard."

Aegon opened his mouth to answer, but the Dornishwoman stood in front of him.

"Lord Connington?" the Dornishwoman looked stricken,"What?"

"Whores like you are the reason his father fell," Jon stated.

A horn blew, long and hard, as Jon heard sails rustle and looked towards the Sunspeaker. The true princess was coming, and the gangplank began to lower. Jon felt about his neck the gust of warm summer winds, this time spiced with searing fire.

Ser Daemon climbed first from the ship, helping a woman behind him do the same. As the woman strode down the gangplank, Jon noticed that this woman had the same chocolate-brown skin as the bastard. Except that she was older, much older, with wise eyes and pursed lips. She wore a flowing silken gown that shone red and orange and white in the sunlight. Ser Daemon helped her onto the dock, then lent his hand to the blond-haired lady behind her. Jon figured that she must be the princess that Aegon was waiting for.

Another Dornish knight descended the gangplank, then another after him. It was only after the sixth Dornishman that Golden Company swords began to emerge. The princess paid no mind to those behind her, striding forward with a furious glint in her eyes.

"Elia," the princess snarled,"I told you a hundred times to stop with your games. Come back here right this instant."

The bastard had a wildness in her eye that Jon had last seen in Lyanna Stark, and he dreaded the worst before it happened.

"My king of love and beauty," the bastard pushed Aegon unto the white steed beside him, and climbed up in front of him. Before anyone could speak, she spurred her steed and rode off into the wind.

 

[Mockingbird]

BRIENNE
​

Brienne woke screaming from her dream.

The gods had cursed her with the very same dream every night since the forest. Since that day when the rope swayed beneath the tree. The gods were just.

Mayhaps it had been right that she had never been anointed a true knight. She had betrayed all that they stood for. To defend those who cannot defend themselves- she had stood by as the helpless man was dragged to his death. To fight bravely- she had hid from her fights. To protect all women and children- how many had Lady Catelyn taken for her vengeance as Brienne followed her. How many had died because she had allowed their defender to hang? The only oath she kept was to obey her lady, to obey her commands and break every other vow.

The dream assaulted Brienne again, its image fresh with blood. She saw the man with his golden-blond hair, with one hand and stiffness in his lips. "How far is the Hound?" he would ask every time,"Dogs should bark when their masters are close." The first word would leave Brienne's lips as the ground erupted with hissing and screams. The world reared, the smooth earth rising up to catch the golden man as he fell and taking him beneath. She would look at the earth, and see a thousand faces that all whispered one word that slowly drowned out,"Kingslayer. Kingslayer. Kingslayer." She would reach out to the golden man, and each time she would take back only the stiff golden hand. There she stood alone against the tree against the ghosts that rose around. Men she knew, men she did not know, and the skies teemed with crows whose cries spun the forest asunder.

"Is it Ser Jaime again?" a soft voice called out,"The servants heard your scream, but I sent them away." The voice was warm and kind, like Brienne's mother who she could not remember.

Brienne stood as tall as she could and turned to the lady in her bed. "I am sorry, my lady," she said hurriedly,"I should not have fallen asleep while on guard."

"It is tiring to stand all night," the lady smiled,"If you wish, I can send for another guard, and you can rest."

"No," shielding the lady was the only thing that made her sword still feel right in her hands. Brienne did not know why Lady Catelyn picked her out of all her men to be the lady's sworn sword, but she relished it. She did not want to let this task fall into another hands.

"I swear that I will never fall asleep again," Brienne sputtered.

The lady looked at Brienne for a moment with pitying eyes, and Brienne feared that she still meant to send her away.

"Come here," the lady patted the side of her bed,"Speak with me. You are less like to fall asleep if you are thinking about what I say."

"You need to rest, my lady," Brienne said,"The babe…"

"I cannot," the lady shook her head, her smile wilting into a frown,"Not in this place."

"Please come here," the lady pleaded, and Brienne obliged. The candle lit up the lady's cheek, as pale and white as milk. They were plump, hiding the shadows beneath her eyes.

"Was your nightmare about Ser Jaime?" the lady asked again when Brienne was at her bedside,"You told me that nothing ever scares you but him."

There were many other ghosts who Brienne feared. Renly. Lady Catelyn. Vargo Hoat and all his Bloody Mummers. Yet she had to put on a brave face for the lady. She had to be this courageous knight that she never was. There was nothing to fear in a dead man, or so she had thought then.

"Yes," Brienne admitted,"My dreams are of Ser Jaime."

"I know that taste," the lady looked down,"This place is where Robb died. I can still smell his blood in these halls. Lord Brynden did not mince any words when he told me of the Red Wedding. Said it was what a queen ought to know. Each time my head hits the pillow, I see standing there in a pool of blood, bolts sprouting from his chest. A black-cloaked man came forward, and put a knife in him. I also scream, Ser, but mine lie only in my dreams. I cannot sleep."

Brienne did not know what to say. "The Freys are dead," she managed,"They can no longer hurt you or your babe."

"How could I forget?" the lady's eyes were downcast,"That… that monster had me watch the sack. The only thing I saw before I fainted was one of her soldiers raping a girl and then slitting her throat. I do not know how much more I did not see after I was gone with the girl's wails echoing in my ears. I knew then that it was not my mother anymore. There was nothing left of Lady Catelyn in Lady Stoneheart."

"The Freys brought it upon themselves," Brienne tried to comfort her,"They slew King Robb at the Red Wedding."

"And only the gods know how many other honest northmen died in that massacre," the lady answered,"It seemed that all the honourable ones died at the wedding, leaving only the cruel ones to take their vengeance."

"The Freys were the ones to turn upon themselves," Brienne said,"After Old Walder died in his sleep, his sons and grandsons squabbled against each other to spill the blood of the Twins. Ser Perwyn opened its gates for us to save the castle from ruin."

"Is that what you believe?" the lady laughed bitterly.

"No," Brienne bit her lip,"but I want to." She wanted to believe that she was a girl again, when what she saw in the looking glass did not matter. She wanted to believe that she still wore that blue cloak in Renly's Rainbow Guard, that her sword had something right to fight for. She wanted to believe that Ser Jaime lived again, that a man of honour would see justice.

"No," the lady echoed,"Ser Perwyn was not made the Lord of the Twins because he was the most honourable of the lot. He was made lord because he betrayed all his kin and people, abandoning them beneath the knives of my mother. He has won a worthy prize for his price."

"Those were not her words," Brienne drew in a sharp breath,"Those were Lord Brynden's words, who was the only man who had dared speak them." He had spoken them to Lord Blackwood at the council two days ago. Brienne had heard as she guarded Lady Jeyne at the council. Lady Catelyn had heard as well.

"Your Grace," Brienne looked side to side,"You must sleep. The babe needs…"

"The babe," Lady Jeyne grimaced,"The babe is restless when I sleep. She feels the ghost of her father in these halls just as I do."

"It is a girl?" Brienne asked.

"I want it to be a girl," Lady Jeyne's brows tightened as she grimaced again,"I want this war to end. I do not want another king to kill ourselves over. Lord Brynden had already decided that it would be a boy, and named him Hoster after his brother. But I know better. I know the babe would be a girl. Catelyn. A living woman for the dead I lost."

She agreed with Lady Jeyne. The name would please Lady Catelyn. "It would please her," Brienne looked down at the bedsheets. Everything they did had been to please her. The hanged men and sacked castles, put knives to the throats of children for their father's swords. That had pleased Lady Catelyn. The name would doubtless please her. Not so when she discovers that her son had sired a daughter. Her wrath would be what Brienne feared. The girl would be the price to pay, as would the mother.

"Lady Catelyn is not my lady anymore," Brienne decided,"She is dead and gone." Her lady was Lady Jeyne now, to serve with all her heart and all her strength. She tightened her hold on her hilt.

"I will stand with Your Grace," Brienne said, then looked up when she noticed that Queen Jeyne did not answer. The queen's face was stretched, her lips pressed tight against each other as her forehead folded into wrinkles. She was dimly shuddering, and beads of sweat ran down her cheek.

"What is it, Your Grace?" Brienne looked up and around for any intruder.

"No," she heard the queen gasp. Brieene looked down at her, and saw her pointing at her swollen belly.

"She needs the privy," Brienne remembered what she had done a hundred times before, and helped the queen to her feet. She took a quick glance at the bedsheets and saw pink specks mixed in some sort of clear goo. She bit her lip and took her eyes away, hearing the queen pant on her shoulder.

"It is only a few steps away," Brienne assured Queen Jeyne, thanking Lord Brynden again for placing the queen's bed so close to the outhouse.

Queen Jeyne shook her head. "Not stiff," she sputtered,"I am good."

"No, Your Grace is not," Brienne said,"Do not speak. You will waste your energy."

Brienne felt her boot step on something wet, and looked down to see a trickle of water run from beneath Queen Jeyne's nightgown. She opened her mouth to shout for a servant, and heard the queen scream.

Brienne could only remember faint remnants of the moments after. There was screaming, at times broken by the queen moaning Lord Brynden's name. A host of servants rushed in, taking the queen from Brienne's hands and laying her on the bed. She saw Thoros of Myr exchanging shouts with a woman she did not know, saying something about maesters.

"I've delivered children before," Thoros suddenly appeared at Brienne's side and whispered in her ear,"Her Grace is safe with me." Then, he pushed her out.

There was no silence beyond the door. She heard behind her the screams of the queen that shuddered the timbers. The whispering in the halls grew louder by the moment, as lords began to arrive in the hall.

"Her Grace should have called upon the maester I brought her from Raventree Hall," Tytos Blackwood said to his son Hoster,"and not that fool from the Free Cities."

"A maester whose master had surrendered to the Lannisters?" Jonos Bracken shot Tytos Blackwood a hostile glance, one hand around his daughter Jayne,"I think not."

"Quiet," Jason Mallister stood silent at the wall with two of his guards, sipping something from a satchel which Brienne guessed was wine.

She could already hear the Greatjon's booming laughter coming around the corner. A sullen voice replied, who she supposed was Marq Piper.

A force slammed into her, shocking her before she could reach for her sword. Brienne gained her senses quickly, and drew her sword as she found herself in a dim room.

"You can put that away," Lord Brynden's voice rang out before her,"Save it for when you would use it."

The flickering torchlight shined upon Lord Brynden's tight bearded face, and sheathed her sword. She noticed that she was alone with him in the room, and did not let go of her hilt.

"What do you want me here for?" Brienne demanded,"Take me to the queen."

"Her Grace is well attended to at the moment," Lord Brynden said,"Your place is not with her."

"Where is it then?" Brienne pressed.

Lord Brynden took a step back, breathing as he put a hand on the closed doorway. "Hoster would have crawled out of his grace if he learned that chose his daughter's line over his son's, but I did not do that for nothing. I did not bring Her Grace to the Brotherhood for nothing. I did not abandon Lady Eleyna for nothing. King Robb's queen was our last hope."

Brienne knew the tale as well as any other. While Ser Jaime captured Riverrun, Lord Brynden and Queen Jeyne had escaped. Lord Edmure had stayed to not arouse suspicion with Her Grace's sister Eleyna being the queen's mummer. Brienne knew that the truth was most like to be that Ser Jaime was not fooled. He had simply let them go.

"That is a debt I owe him," Brieene thought,"He gave a lady to me again."

"She is more than a hope," Brienne said,"She is Her Grace Jeyne of the House Westerling, the Queen in the North and the Trident. Lords have rallied left and right to her banners, and her host grows each day. She has already taken back half the Riverlands."

"Half," Lord Brynden said,"The other half hates her for being the spawn of Stoneheart. A man calling himself the Lord of the Land has risen against us with many in his banners, claiming vengeance for some Lord Goldenhand who I do not know. Some lord Stoneheart hanged, no doubt."

"Queen Jeyne is still the queen we all know and see," Brienne said.

"Aye," Lord Brynden said,"I would serve her and the king's heir until my last breath. Yet I do not wish my service to be in vain. I wish to see Her Grace in her rightful place."

He stepped away from the door, treading deep within the chamber.

"Her place sways in the wind as we speak," Lord Brynden said,"Hosts have rallied against us because of Stoneheart, and there is the matter of King Robb's heir. When Queen Jeyne gives birth to that child, make no mistake, knives will descend on the babe. It is certain to be a boy, King Robb's heir. A king all the Riverlords and northmen have been waiting so long for. Stoneheart would never allow that. She wants a daughter, not a son that could topple her power."

Brienne believed that. She had seen Stannis Baratheon slay King Renly before her eyes. Ser Jaime hanged for an oath he kept. Stoneheart had taken so many that Brienne could not count, innocent or otherwise, that Brienne was certain that kinslaying was not above her. Brienne reminded herself that Stoneheart was no longer the kind Lady Catelyn, but the cruel Mother Merciless that they all said her to be.

"It could be a daughter," Brienne thought,"and not the son Lord Brynden feared." She remembered then what Queen Jeyne told her. Catelyn. A living woman for the dead I lost. Whoever the child was, they would not live long beneath the shadow of that ghost. That monster sent back to plague the world.

"What would my lord have me do?" Brienne already knew the answer.

"Stoneheart must die," Lord Brynden said,"She is not Cat. This will be no kinslaying on my part. Or oathbreaking on yours."

"The oath," Brienne assured herself,"My oath is to the queen now, freed from her dead mother." She stepped towards the doorway, knowing what she must do.

"You slew Renly Baratheon," Lord Brynden said,"This would not feel so different."

Brienne spun on her heel and faced him again, a fiery urge rising within her.

"Why me?" she demanded, knowing that she would draw her sword if he answered Renly.

"You are Stoneheart's sworn sword just as much as you are the queen's," Lord Brynden answered, his face in the shadows,"You can get close to her. My lady is our only hope."

Brienne turned away from him once again, leaving the chamber with the door slammed shut behind her. She saw one side of the hall where the lords stood waiting for the queen, and she walked the other way. Her heart hammering in her chest, Brienne did not know where Stoneheart was. She decided that she might as well start looking in the Great Hall of the Twins. That was where Stoneheart held court every day. Held hangings.

Brienne's eyes fell to the stones as she walked, she did not notice the man until he slammed into her.

"Lady Brienne," she found Lem Lemoncloak staring at her with a host of men,"My apologies."

He put a satchel of sorts in her arms, and strode away with his men.

"The Kingslayer's whore," Brienne heard one of them snigger.

"It's Lord Goldenhand's whore now," another answered,"Show her some respect."

Brienne's breath came in short as she thought about what happened. One moment she was ready to draw her sword against Stoneheart's most loyal man- another moment he was gone. She looked down at the satchel in her arms. It was long and heavy. She unwrapped it, and found two swords. One was Oathkeeper, the sword they had taken from her. The other was the lion-pommeled sword they had taken from Ser Jaime when he died. She dropped Oathkeeper onto the ground, and drew Ser Jaime's blade. Its steel shone grey and gold beneath the torchlight, and Brienne knew that it would do. She left Oathkeeper in the dust behind her, for whatever poor soul would find it next.

"My lady," a voice hissed suddenly beside Brienne, and she turned to find Podrick with Oathkeeper in his arms.

"Why are you here?" Brienne demanded.

"I was in the armoury refitting my shield as Ser Lymond wished," Podrick said,"when I heard Lem and his men come in picking out weapons. I heard them say that they were looking for you. I worried that they were going to kill you, so I followed them."

"Go away," Brienne said,"This is not your fight."

Podrick did not budge,"I saw Lem carrying a satchel with him as he came in."

He raised Oathkeeper in his arms,"This was in it, was it?"

"Yes," Brienne gritted her teeth.

"Then why did you leave it," Podrick said,"He gave it to you for something."

"He gave me Oathkeeper to break an oath," Brienne walked away without answering.

"My lady," Podrick called behind Brienne, and she heard his hurried steps,"You are going to do something, and I will follow you."

"You will not," Brienne hissed,"You will die if you follow me."

"Then I will die beside you," Podrick said.

Brienne shook her head, giving up. They were not like to kill a squire anyways. At least if she died, she would have someone to take her ashes back to Evenfall Hall and her father. She trusted Podrick to do so.

She remembered Ser Hyle, who had asked to be one of the scouts the day after they had taken the Twins.

"I will have no more part in this," Ser Hyle had told her when he left,"One day, that evil woman will fall. I am not of the courage to face her, but someone braver than me would do that good for every soul in this land."

Brienne had hoped all these days for someone braver than her to take on the task. Someone as brave as Ser Jaime who knew what was right and what was wrong, doing all the good they could see.

"His soul guides me in what is right," Brienne thought,"The oath to the queen is what is right.'

"You have three swords," Podrick said,"I could carry one of them for you if my lady would like."

"Keep Oathkeeper," Brienne instructed Podrick,"I will never use that sword again, but keep it. Give it to Lady Sansa or Lady Arya when we find them."

"When you find them," Brienne thought, but she did not wish to burden him so.

"My lady," she heard Podrick say,"I heard Lem tell one of his soldiers that Lady Catelyn is on the Western Tower."

That was where Brienne found her, looking into the calm Trident flowing below. THe river was green, twisting beneath the great stone walls that still stood tall. Wolf banners lined the battlements, and Stoneheart stood beneath the largest of them.

There were two guards about Stoneheart, and Brienne slew both easily with two swipes of Ser Jaime's blade. Blood spurted from their throats as they fell to their knees.

Stoneheart turned, an iron crown in her fingers. Her grey lips twisted into a grotesque smile above the crimson scar on her throat. Brienne looked into her glassy eyes, and shoved Ser Jaime's bloody blade into her chest. She stumbled back, and Brienne let go of Ser Jaime's sword. It buried deep within Stoneheart, yet saw no blood. The empty light left the ghost's eyes as she tumbled over the parapet, the iron crown flying from her fingers. Brienne rushed to the ledge, seeing the specks disappear below into the river. There was soon no hint of the monster, nor that of her crown.

Brienne closed her eyes, breathing in the cool morning air. Her duty was done, and she wondered whether she should go after her. A lean forward, a brief fall, and she would not remember.

"My lady," Brienne felt Podrick's arms wrap around her and pull her away,"Do not do that."

Brienne gained her sense back, looking about her for any foes that still remained.

"I still have an oath to Queen Jeyne," Brienne thought, and drew the sword she had originally in the night. It was not Oathkeeper, but it shimmered before the rising sun in the east. She saw Podrick hug Oathkeeper to his chest, and smile.

The sudden crash of the tower door wakened her, and she pointed Oathkeeper there.

"Put those away," a gruff voice called from the darkness,"and place them on the ground." Brienne did not, raising her sword higher.

Lord Brynden stepped from the tower door, followed closely by Lem Lemoncloak and a northman in a sheepskin coat. Soldiers emerged after them, Brotherhood men and rivermen and northmen alike.

The soldiers surrounded Brienne and Podrick slowly, and she soon found her back against Podrick's.

"Put down your swords," Lord Brynden said as he stepped about the corpses of Stoneheart's two guardsmen,"In the name of the queen, my lady stands accused of the murder of Lady Catelyn Stark. Put down your swords."

"Oh," Brienne dropped her sword, the steel clattering on the stones. That was why they wanted her to kill Stoneheart. It was Renly all over again.

The Blackfish approached her, and she opened her lips,"The queen gave the order."

"No," Lord Brynden drew up close to her,"I did as her Regent. The queen is still a babe."

"A babe?" Brienne asked.

"Queen Jeyne gave birth to a girl," the Blackfish said,"Catelyn, of the House Stark, the Queen in the North and Trident."

He added in a whisper,"My thanks is to you."

 

[Mockingbird]

QUENTYN
​

Skahaz mo Kandaq's head lay on a plate of gold, finely dressed with jewels and gems.

"Too rich for a traitor," Master Zhak said,"My prince should have decreed that his head be fed to the dogs. Have the traitor suffer a traitor's end, and my prince shall show all Meereen your strength and justice."

"The dogs are already full from one," Modast zo Pahl said, his grey eyes glinting in the shadows of his burnt brown hair,"My master would not want to spoil them."

"Give them too much," Quentyn agreed,"and they will think it the norm."

"Right you are, Modast," Morghaz zo Loraq's booming shook his entire half of the procession,"Belwas was a good enough feast for them. It was the Tattered Prince that ran him through, and only a sellsword's prize is worth the dogs. Meanwhile, it was Arslan of the Noble House of Loraq that slew the terrible Kandaq, and a master's prize should be crowned in gold."

Quentyn listened, but did not speak. The Great Masters had been jovial ever since the fall of the Shavepate, yet he was not. They laid him in honours and named him the leader of the battle, but there was something missing. Something that told Quentyn that while he was called the valiant prince, the war was not over.

"It was the queen," Quentyn knew. The crown was nothing without her. The crown would be nothing if she returned and did not wish him there. He consoled himself in the fact that the dragon was an illusion, or perhaps even sent by the queen to scout Meereen before she returns at the head of a great host.

He shifted in the place he stood, at the top of the steps above all the Meereenese masters. It never felt very comfortable. The sun baked him overhead as he faced the open Harpy's Gate, waiting for what would be certain to be another flame that would sear his skin.

"The battle is not over," he reminded himself yet again even as he heard the marveling of the Great Masters over their victory,"This is the last part." In a few moments, the New Ghiscari would march through the gates, and soon after the queen.

"My prince," Harloz informed him,"The Noble Masters are coming."

"You have my thanks," Quentyn said to his guard and tried to look for the New Ghiscari beyond the gate.

Quentyn noticed old Master Hazkar giving him a glare, doubtless slighted that Quentyn did not employ the guards he offered. Given another chance, Quentyn still would not. They were too deep in another man's pockets, so he would need to use his own. Especially as Ser Gerris and Ser Archibald were still lost after the battle. The ones who defected from the Shavepate were a start, those that needed his protection. Yet those he knew not to trust fully, and he had also chosen guards from select Pyramids as well. "Almost all of them except the Red Pyramid." If worse came to worst, they would fight for the right to kill him until he escaped. It was the best course.

"One from the Pyramid of Swords was not enough to Lord Hazkar," Quentyn thought. It was either he needed to satisfy him in some other way, or… Lord Anders had warned him what to do if he could not please them with what he could give. Quentyn noticed Hazkar's son at the old master's side, wondering if he would be more pliable.

He put his thoughts to rest as he heard the first horn on the horizon and the whispers grow ever frantic. Banners began to emerge from the rising dawn in the east. Afterwards came the riders, in pairs of three coming down from the high hills and before Meereen's plain. There seemed to be an endless stream of them, each carrying a distinct banner common only in the gold.

By the second horn, great moving pavilions began to stir from the hills after the riders. "The masters," Quentyn knew. He counted two and three score by the time the third horn sounded and the greatest of the pavilions rose into view.

The first riders reached the gates when the sun could be seen in full on the eastern sky, their tall banners soaring above in all their glory. In the hands of the first three men there flew a great glyph framed by two griffins.

"Those damned griffins," Modast zo Pahl sniggered as he watched the riders pass down the open path before them,"The New Ghiscari cannot seem to get enough of them."

New Ghis's banners rode straight towards Quentyn and the procession of Great Masters, past the rows upon rows of Meereen's spears standing at ready. There were the garrisons of some of the larger Pyramids which some masters saw fit to spare, but most were the Windblown… and the Unsullied. The Unsullied captain had approached Quentyn the morning after the Shavepate's fall, pledging the command of the spears to him.

"Until the queen returns," the man said that his name was Grey Worm, and Quentyn knew then that all depended on the queen. The Unsullied spears stood along the path, frozen as the riders went past. A contingent of the spears, Grey Worm and his best, stood below Quentyn to act as his guard. They gave him some measure of comfort, if not for the knowledge that they might turn against him as soon as the queen returns.

As the first New Ghiscari riders approached the end of the path before Quentyn and the Great Masters, they bowed their heads, parted, and withdrew to the sides. The next row of riders came before him, these ones carrying the griffin banners but with a different glyph shining between them. Likewise, they parted, withdrew to the sides, and the next ones came forward. Quentyn counted two and three score rows of riders,"The same number as those great moving pavilions."

The first pavilion, drawn by eight horses, passed the gate by the time the second-to-last row of riders came before Quentyn. The folds of the pavilion spread like a sunflower after it passed beneath the Harpy's wings. They revealed a fat man on a throne of onyx. Two slave soldiers stood behind him bearing shining spears with a white-robed herald. A dozen more serving slaves with leather collars scraped and attended to him. Two lines of horsemen followed the pavilion, their spears all bearing the same swirling banner that flew like phoenix's wings. "No," Quentyn observed,"They are in truth more like raven's."

Quentyn caught a whiff of the New Ghiscari's scented perfume when the last of the first riders drew away, as sour as an unripe lemon.

"To the Prince Quentyn of the Noble House of Martell," a white-robed herald declared,"Prince of Meereen. The Noble Master Grazar of the Noble House of Antigonius bears his greetings."

"The prince expresses deepest gratitude," Quentyn's herald Reznak mo Reznak answered,"that my master Antigonius may attend him in his city."

The fat man gave Quentyn a weary glance, which he gave back. It was clear that the fat man was sweating beneath the sun, and Quentyn nodded. Grateful, the fat man smiled and commanded his charioteer to pull the pavilion away from the path and into the shade.

Quentyn stood still in the sun, awaiting the next in line. The sun was scorching, but it was wiser to stand in the light than in the shadows. At least here, he could see the swords bared. He knew that it would be only when the queen returned could he truly pass from his doom. His skin now crawled with scorpions each time he spoke. Yet it always did well to speak, to measure every word. The seneschal speaking for him was irritating.

"I would rather not someone else hold the words I speak," though Quentyn knew better than to strike out any complaint in this moment of victory.

The victory march continued, with pavilion upon pavilion of New Ghiscari masters riding beneath the Harpy's crest and coming upon the paths of gold with lines of horsemen trailing behind. In the end, all stopped before Quentyn to greet the prince.

They exchanged many greetings. Some sought to inquire about the dragons. Others where King Hizdahr was, as last they heard Hizdahr zo Loraq was King of Meereen. Most held a curious stare at Quentyn, wondering how another Westerosi had risen above all of the Great Masters of Meereen. They never did ask openly, though, of why the Great Masters were willing to stand at Quentyn's feet.

There was only one answer that Reznak gave the lot of them, to all the questions spoken and unspoken, and Quentyn admitted that it was not too much a risk,"See Meereen, and my master shall know."

Time and again, Quentyn glanced to the skies hoping that the queen would follow the New Ghiscari host on that dragon of hers. He hoped that at least the dragon had returned from the west, and the queen was marching to Meereen at this very moment. He wanted her to relieve him of this duty where each moment felt like a knife hovering above him. He understood at last why his father was the way he always was, measured and wise and slow. There was no room in this world for rash princes.

"A prince, the gods have promised," Quentyn watched the twenty-ninth pavilion depart his sight,"In truth, the gods break the prince so that naught but destiny remains." Was it still his destiny to tame the dragons? Mayhaps, and in this case he never needed her. If the gods bade him be their hero, then had had no choice but to be their hero. If they did not, then he was not. Whatever their will, he was certain that he must plot it through like his father would have done. He could be a true prince, born of sun and spears and not just the false dragon the Green Grace wanted.

"No," he shot away those wanderings and looked to the skies where the sun boiled his skin ,"I must not seek danger and death, not again." Ser Gerris and Ser Archibald, the last of his men, chose the wrong side in their courage to save them. They had been lost for so long that Quentyn thought them as good as dead. Quentyn would not die, not like them.

A dozen trumpets blared as the last and greatest of the golden pavilions entered the city. Pulled forward by twelve horses, the tent itself was as wide as the gate. Only when beneath the Harpy did four lines of riders be able to emerge behind it.

The rider leading the first line was a bald man with a scar on his cheek, in his hand a spear bearing one of the banners not crested in gold. Quentyn counted himself not surprised that the banner was black, bearing a three-headed dragon that shone red,"Everything is done in the name of the queen."

As Quentyn's eyes fell upon the second line, he almost choked. Above a boy Quentyn's own age who bore heavy golden steel, there flew a field of blood on which stood a prancing golden lion.

"Lannisters," Quentyn remembered how they had murdered Aunt Elia and her babes in King's Landing,"Why are they here?"

"For the queen's dragons," he figured as the carriage slowly drew closer. The Lannisters sought to hold the power of the queen to further their rule in the Seven Kingdoms. He did not know if they knew of his father's pact, but he would not take the chance that they did not. For all he knew, they came to prevent him from winning the queen for Dorne as they knew the dragons would be used against them.

"Mayhaps," he considered,"They may even succeed in swaying her with the promise of the Iron Throne."

Quentyn grimaced within the heat,"How may I deal with a lion?"

He knew that he needed to rise above the Lannisters if there was any chance of winning the dragon queen when she returns. This was no longer a mummer's careful plot, but the game of kings his father and Lord Anders warned so often about. "In the end," Quentyn remembered,"all that matters is wisdom. The wise man knows not to play, but he knows still how to play." He knew what path this time called for. The dragon must come to Dorne.

Polished silver mail adorned the armour of the two other lines on the pavilion's flank, their reflections burning Quentyn's eyes as he looked to them. One bore in his hand the rearing form of a great black stallion, its mouth open in a whinny. The other was the griffin again, except this one bore a glyph within its open beak.

"The Hall of the Griffin King will be sated tonight," Modast's sneering voice sounded blow,"What with all these birds the New Ghiscari have brought in."

"Do you think there were griffins in the days of old?" Arslan zo Loraq shifted his tall form as turned to ask Modast.

"There are dragons in our world, even dragons that we can see," Modast pointed at Quentyn,"so I doubt that griffins are mere tales."

"The Hall of the Griffin King," Quentyn pondered upon those words,"Why did they mention it?" The hall lay in the Red Pyramid, the seat of the House of Loraq. King Hizdahr had refused to come, not wishing to be seen standing as equals with a foreign prince. Yet Hizdahr's cousin Morghaz and Morghaz's sons Arslan and Medit were in Quentyn's company. Quentyn figured that Morghaz hoped to stand with the prince and eventually supplant Hizdahr as Master of the Red Pyramid. Quentyn would have no part in this battle, as it was not his fight. His fight lay with the golden lion that swayed now in the skies above Meereen.

His brow burned ever fiercer beneath the scorch of the sun above, and he felt sweat gather in his palm as he clenched it tight. He looked up to see that it was noon, and his eyes burned. He dared not let his eyes linger for long. There was no solace in the sun, and he turned his gaze to the golden lion whom he saw upon the earth. This was the fight he was meant to give, so that in the end he would win his bidden place by the queen's.

He knew his father's will. He knew own will,"For the queen and her dragons."

One of the drivers of the great pavilion put a horn to his lips and blew two long blasts. Quentyn braced himself for the storm of sound, and found that it was not as painful as he had feared.

"In the name of the Lord Magistrate and the Noble Council of New Ghis," a herald emerged from within the pavilion to declare,"The Noble Masters are proud to present the flower of their spears, Lord Commander Crion of the most venerable House of Flinias from the line of Junipas Who Raised the Isle, Lord Commander of the Ninety Golden Legions, Grand Captain of the Wander's Fleet, Captain of Guards at the Pyramid of Steel, and Shield of the Gods of Ghis who are Most Eminent."

The herald paused to allow for the storm of cheers that erupted amongst the Great Masters that accompanied the thumping of spears of the soldiers below. Quentyn was silent, his hands tightening further than he ever thought possible. "Should I join them?" he wondered, then forgoed the thought in an instant. It was always wise to stand and watch, to know what was happening. "No one is like to remember," he reasoned,"who cheered and who did not." No one even looked at him.

"The Noble Masters of New Ghis are also proud to present," the herald declared,"from the Sunset Kingdoms, Lord Tyrion of the most illustrious House of Lannister from the line of Lann the Clever, Lord of Casterly Rock and the Westerlands, Shield of Lannisport, and Light of the West."

"Tyrion Lannister," Quentyn considered ,"The second son and heir of Lord Tywin Lannister." Lord Tywin had made an apt choice in the man he sent to the queen. The Old Lion very clearly could not come himself. His daughter Cersei was the Queen Mother of Joffrey Baratheon. His eldest son Jaime lay in Robb Stark's dungeon, and it would have been an ill choice to send the Kingslayer to the daughter of the king he slew. All the other Lannisters, Lord Tywin's brother and cousins and nephews, would be too removed in the line for the Old Lion to trust them in this immense task. His son and heir Tyrion would be the only choice.

"The lion has gained New Ghis's ear," Quentyn observed,"Lord Tywin's choice was proven right."

He wondered what it bade for him. Dorne and the Lannisters were still at peace for all the world to see, and his brother Trystane was due to marry the princess Myrcella. Yet he knew that his father had been plotting in the shadows, the peace a thin veil that was sure to shatter. The lion in the pavilion was sure to be thinking the same as Quentyn, how best to oust the other and place himself in the favoured place by the dragon queen. The lion had gained a lead in the New Ghiscari, and that was worrying. There must be some way to amed it. Fear threatened to consume him as he could not quite figure out how in the moment. He calmed himself, as he would find a way. He needed to watch, to listen, and he would see.

When the pavilion stopped before Quentyn, two silver-collared slaves stepped slowly outside to draw open the gold-threaded blinds. They revealed two men in the pavilion sitting upon jeweled oaken seats. One was an old man in a grey robe and piercing eyes, listening to the whispers of the other man.

Quentyn looked at the other man, unsure if he was truly a man. An impish face with no nose and a long jagged scar beneath a mop of hair so blond it looked almost white. His body was no larger than a child, and short, stubby limbs danged in front of his seat. Quentyn had heard that Tyrion Lannister was a dwarf, but he did not expect this sort.

"A monster," he heard men whisper below them,"New Ghis has struck with the demons of hell."

"It is not his face that is dangerous," Quentyn took a step forward,"It is the words that he whispers in Lord Crion's ear."

"The Great Masters of Meereen wish to present," Quentyn heard Reznak's voice declare,"Prince Quentyn of the Noble House of Martell, the Eleventh of that Noble Name, Prince Regent in Meereen who rules in the name of Queen Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, and Mother of Dragons."

"Your Grace," Tyrion Lannister smiled a grotesque smile at Quentyn,"How does it feel to be husband to the dragon queen?"

"King Hizdahr is Her Radiance's husband," Quentyn answered in a voice he tried to keep steade,"I only rule in her name."

"Where is Hizdahr zo Loraq?" the lion scoffed,"The truth is plain to see."

"My lord of Lannister," Quentyn searched carefully for the right words,"If I wished to be king, I would be."

"Peace, Prince Quentyn," Lord Crion said,"We are here as friends, to celebrate our victory."

"I have a gift for New Ghis," Quentyn plastered on a smile,"as a token of our friendship." He gestured for a slave to bring forward the plate bearing the Shavepate's head.

"The head of Shahaz mo Kandaq," Quentyn said,"The warmongering criminal who was the cause of enmity between New Ghis and the queen. He has paid the the price of treachery, and I give his head for justice to be seen."

"You have our thanks," Lord Crion answered,"and we also have a gift for my prince as per the Ghiscari custom. Three, in fact. Could my prince come to the pavilion?"

Quentyn wondered what the Lord Crion had to show in private, but he did not wish to place himself at his mercy. Particularly if a lion also sat within that pavilion, whispering in the Lord Commander's ear.

"I fear that the pavilion would not be able to hold so many men," Quentyn said, seeing the lion's smile widen,"If it is possible, could my master show it to me under the sun?"

"Ah," Lord Crion said,"Of course, Prince Quentyn. Keep in mind that your eyes will be the first after mine to see it." He waved his hand, and three slaves descended the carriage. After a moment's hesitation, the lion wobbled behind them. Quentyn could hear the Great Masters laugh at the dwarf, but Quentyn's eyes were fixed on the three exquisite boxes that the three slaves carried. The first two slaves wore iron collars, but the collar of the last was that of gold.

The slaves and Tyrion Lannister passed the Unsullied, weaving through the masters as they ascended the steps to Quentyn.

"Send all but your most trusted of guards away," Quentyn heard Lord Crion.

"They are here, under the sun," Quentyn thought,"and there is little chance that they could draw their swords before my men killed them, even if they were a foot below." He sent all his guards to join the masters below until at last he was alone at the heights.

"It is in truth a gift from the Dothraki," Lord Crion said, and the slaves stepped before Quentyn. The first two slaves opened their boxes to reveal the severed heads of two copper-skinned men, their braids lying at their sides.

"Jhogo and Rakharo," Quentyn knew ,"bloodriders of the queen." He wondered if that was Lord Crion's gift, of eliminating others who contest his place by the queen. "Yet there is one more," Quentyn looked at Tyrion Lannister ,"that he did not kill."

There was one more, and the gold-collared slave brought the third box up the steps. Tyrion Lannister saw it first, his face contorting. "Is this your work, my Prince of Martell?" Lannister demanded,"That was how you gained the queen's dragons."

Quentyn looked inside the box, to see an unmistakable, beautiful, half-rotted head. All he could feel was the thousands of eyes upon him, who followed him because he was the herald of the queen. He was grateful for being alone at the height. "They must not know."

"I must thank the Dothraki for slaying the Drunken Conqueror," Quentyn flipped the lid closed.

 

[Mockingbird]

MELISANDRE
​

A push sent Melisandre stumbling to the ground, her bound hands with little way to hinder her fall. She was blessed to have landed in a snowdrift, the soft flurries cushioning her. The snow was cold as it dug into her cloak, but her choker burned warm. The Lord was with her.

She raised her head to see the leering faces of Bowen Marsh and all the evil men who turned to treachery. Othell Yarwyck was there, as was Eddison Tollett, Axell Florent, and Benethon Scales. She found herself before the host of watchmen and knights, all having turned their cloaks to darkness. All having bared their swords and bows at the true king. At the Lord.

Melisandre heard another snowdrift give way beside her, and turned to see the wildling princess. She had been thrown to the ground before Marsh, just like Melisandre. Horse followed, though he did not have the mercy of landing in the snow. He lay there, dazed, from his embrace of the hard earth. His nose seemed to have broken, and he tried to stifle it with his bound hands. Melisandre was calm, for the fire within her burned fiercer than ever.

Florent winced as he touched Melisandre's face, raising her chin to see. "That is the red witch, all right," the traitor said,"Lord Bolton, You have caught the right woman."

The traitor returned to Marsh's side, as did the two black brothers that checked the wildling princess and Horse.

"I am glad," a slimy voice sounded behind Melisandre,"Mummers are easy to find in the snow."

"Yet none can hide from my lord's wise eye," Marsh said. He bent his knee, and those in his host followed,"Lord Bolton, Castle Black is yours."

"False men," Melisandre said,"even as they kneel before the true king."

She turned and saw the Bastard. A long mane of greasy black hair ran to the Bastard's shoulder beneath a fur-lined helm. His face was plump and ugly, with wormy lips and beady grey eyes that were like chips of ice. A red ruby glistened on his wrist, his armour hammered steel and boiled leather.

Beyond him was a sea of banners, rising above a great host of men. All northmen.

The Bastard dismounted, grounding his teeth as he pursed his lips. "A true king."

A grey-cloaked man took the Bastard's spur and led his steed behind him. The Bastard approached the kneeling men.

"Arise, Lord Tollett," the Bastard said to one of the kneeling men. Marsh raised his eyes, as if daring to object. He cast his eyes down before he could speak. Tollett rose, of equal height with the Bastard.

"You received my letter," the Bastard said,"yet I see before me only the Red Woman and the wildling princess. In Winterfell, I had myself only returned my bride and that creature she had with him. Where is Stannis Barathone's queen? Where is Stannis Baratheon's princess?"

Melisandre looked at the traitors, and saw their brows unknit. They were relieved that they had all the rest they needed to offer the Bastard. They knew not that it was their last chance before the horrible fates befell false men.

"Aye," Tollett's face betrayed the same gladness,"We have them safe in the castle."

"Bring them to me," the Bastard commanded. "The rest of you," he continued,"I will pass judgment in Castle Black's courtyard. Set up the gallows and know that all Castle Black must come and watch. There is much to judge this day."

"Thank you, my lord," Marsh blurted,"The wildlings beyond the Wall are unruly again, and our stocks are low to the point of starvation. We give my lord our deepest gratitudes for coming to our aid when no one else could. You saved all the Watch."

"Save yer thanks for when his lordship's judgment is done," the Magnar stepped up behind the Bastard,"Now, off with all of ye. His lordship expects to see all of the Watch in the yard."

Melisandre gathered herself to her feet, feeling firelight touch her. A cold sun hung above Castle Black, the dim dawn a herald of the days that were certain to follow in winter. The Bastard glared at her, and her choker burned warm.

Black shadows gathered about the edges of the yard, the castle's sin all in one place. Black cloaks and turncloaks alike awaited the fates of traitors. It was the Bastard's men who manned the battlements and the gates, watching the yard below. Melisandre knelt in the snow, watching the light shine upon the gallows. The Bastard's men manned that too. She knew that behind her was the Bastard, but she did not need to turn.

A black cloak dropped by her and whispered,"It will be painless. My prayers are with you."

"It is you who needs prayers," Melisandre did not remember his face,"The Lord shall judge right from wrong today, and the Lord hears only the prayers of the righteous."

Tollett and five black cloaks emerged last with the princess and the queen. The queen looked bedraggled, her clothing filthy with black holes growing beneath her eyes. The princess was disheveled as well, but there was a redness in her face that spoke of hope. "That hope you shall have, my princess," Melisandre prayed for Shireen,"The Lord of Light comes now with flame."

When Queen Selyse's eyes fell on the yard, she gave a shrill shriek and brought her arms around Shireen. She hugged the princess away,"No, you monster. You will never have us." Melisandre looked back and saw the Bastard gaze at the women with eyes of steel and fire.

"Up with you," Tollett wrenched Shireen from her mother. Two of his men took Queen Selyse by the arms. They then threw them before the Bastard.

"Lord Bolton," Tollett declared,"I give you the princess and the queen."

Melisandre saw Shireen dare to raise her eyes at the Bastard, something flashing in her pupils, and Melisandre knew that the girl has sight.

"Please, Lord Bolton," Queen Selyse begged, her eyes cast to the earth,"Shireen's only a girl. Hang me, but spare her. Please." Her tears stained the snow about her knees.

"Quiet, woman," Tollett shouted,"The lord shall pass his judgment as he sees fit."

"The king," the Magnar said at the Bastard's side,"Ye shall address him proper."

"King," Marsh said from the head of the black cloaks,"Has my lord seen fit to style yourself King in the North."

"No," the Bastard rose from his seat and took off his ruby pendant. His true form lay bare, for all the world to see.

Melisandre rose,"hail, to King Stannis of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, King of Westeros, Lord of Dragonstone, and Azor Ahai Reborn." "The Lord today shall judge right from wrong," Melisandre thought ,"In the end, the Lord shall always see justice done." The Lord had blessed King Stannis with victory. After victory, there was judgement.

She marveled at the swiftness in which those of evil hearts betrayed one another. Scales and Florent were pushed to the front of the crowd, each with a knife to his throat.

"Your Grace," the man who held the knife at Florent's throat said, a stiff-legged knight who Melisandre recognized as one of Florent's household swords,"I always knew you would come back. Here are the traitors." Florent's eyes were shite with terror, and he was muttering something beneath his breath. A man-at-arms with a white boar on his surcoat held a knife to Scales's throat. A third man stumbled forward in the hands of Ser Dorden's dour face. "Smuggler's blood," Ser Dorden said,"Bound to show itself sooner or later."

"Devan?" King Stannis asked, walking before the third man. Ser Dorden turned him over, Melisandre saw that it was indeed the boy.

"Why?" King Stannis demanded, his voice full of iron. Devan only closed his eyes and did not speak.

"Your father died for me," King Stannis said,"and now I must kill his son."

He strode back and looked to his family,"They are the guilty, correct?" Both the princess and the queen nodded silently.

The king turned to Melisandre,"It is true?"

"Yes," she knew the truth.

"Set three ropes on the gallows," the king commanded.

"Even the boy," the Magnar asked.

"Even the boy," the king ground his teeth. Melisandre closed her eyes, praying for their souls. They were forever cursed, not having been cleansed by fire.

"Shall we do it by noon?" the Magnar asked,"The sun helps lessen the woes of the dead."

"Wait," the king held up a hand,"We are not done yet.

The Night's Watch had been silent all throughout the sentences of the turncloaks, but now they stirred in earnest.

"Lord Snow's murderers are already dead," Marsh said,"Wick Whittlestick. Alf of Runnymudd. Left-Hand Lew. They are all dead. The guilty have been sentenced."

"The Night's Watch takes no part in the affairs of the realm," the king answered,"and the realm takes no part in the affairs of the Watch. The mutiny is the Watch's own judgment to make. The judgment that is rightfully mine is your meddling with the realm, your loyalty to the traitor Ramsay Bolton. I hereby sentence all that stood with Bolton and emerged the lords of the Night's Watch to death by hanging. Bowen Marsh, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Eddiston Tollett, Lord Steward of the Night's Watch. Othell Yarwyck, Master Builder of the Night's Watch. Alliser Thorne, First Ranger of the Night's Watch."

"You're mad," Tollett shouted as two of his own brothers seized him,"When Noye told me about the Mad King, I never took him serious. Yet it seems now that kings really are mad. Tell him, my lady."

Melisandre held her tongue. He was that third man, the man with the donkey face. There was a shadow brewing inside her that was of his making.

"I bade it go to the Lord of Winterfell when it is born," Melisandre remembered. Yet that Lord of Winterfell was dead, and she wondered where it may go. To the Great Other, perhaps, but she did not know his place. She buried that within her heart, and watched as the Lord judged Tollett false or true.

"Satin," Tollett turned to the grey-cloaked man once Melisandre did not answer,"Tell them.

Lord Snow slowly removed his hood, and his voice came out dry and proud,"You thought that you let go a whore, but I am truly Lord Snow."

"And I'm Robb Stark, back from the dead," Tollett snorted,"Lies! Can you not tell that he is lying?"

Melisandre heard a harsh laugh across the yard. "Save your breath, Tollett," Alliser Thorne said, himself held by two of his brothers,"Our fates are already sealed.

He shook aside his brothers,"I can face death without your help. Get it over with quickly, Your Grace. Your brother should have done that to me twenty years ago."

"Ser Alliser had no part of it," Marsh shouted.

"He accepted the rank of First Ranger under a traitor," the king said,"and would have risen had the Bastard of Bolton won. He is equally as guilty as you, Marsh."

There were seven in total, serven ropes dangling from the crossbeam. Melisandre knew that seven was the number of the Andal's false gods. They never knew that seven was the number of death. There is only one true Lord.

After King Stannis's men fastened the nooses about each man's neck, he came before them before they would hang. He looked each in the eye and asked their last words.

"I did what I had to do for the Watch," Marsh said.

Yarwyck said nothing.

"I always thought I would die sword in hand," Tollett said,"Rope in hand just doesn't sound as glorious."

"I bid good fortune to Lord Snow," Thorne said,"Not every man can be lord."

Florent did not answer King Stannis, but called for Queen Selyse,"Sely. Niece. Please. Save me." The queen did not answer as she hugged the princess to her breast, and King Stannis turned away.

Scales spat in King Stannis's face,"That's for my brother and everyone at the Blackwater."

Stannis did not wipe away the spittle, only turned to the last man. "Boy," Melisandre thought,"yet a boy who has given himself to evil." Devan stared at Stannis with an empty face and glassy eyes, his lips open but not managing even one word. After a long moment, the king left the last man. The levers crunched, and seven bodies lowered toward the ground. A brief struggle ensued, parting in the end to silence.

"One realm. One God. One king," her eyes found one man whose sword sang slowly from his sheath. He raised it, lone amidst the shivering stillness of the warriors,"One realm. One God. One King." His words echoed into nothingness.

Melisandre wondered if this was all the courage they could muster, and her heart grew cold. Yet the Lord proved her dread false.

Two more followed the first man, their gauntlets gripping frozen hilts to draw forth shimmering blades. They raised their swords into the air as the first man did,"One realm. One God. One King."

"A king worthy of the Ned's girl," a clansman with three acorns on his banner shouted,"the King in the North."

"The King in the True North," the wildling princess cried.

Melisandre's choker burned with fire as she watched five become nine, which became twenty, which became a hundred. They cast aside their cloaks of fear, whether former turncloak of watchman or northman, united in common cause beneath the Lord's banner. The air rang with the song of steel and fire:

"One Realm."

"King in the North."

"One God."

"King in the North."

"ONE KING!"

"KING IN THE NORTH!"

Melisandre looked northward into the snows and the Great Other's thousand eyes ,"The night is dark and full of terrors, yet the day is bright with holy men."

The king was silent amidst the surging cries, not looking back as he marched towards his wife and daughter.

"Lord Snow," Stannis gave a horn to the grey-cloaked man at the side of the princess,"I give you charge of Castle Black in my absence. Dispose of the bodies and prepare the garrison."

"Flint, Norrey," he commanded two of the clansmen,"Send out scouts and command Ser Godry to lead the remainder of my men into Castle Black. He is to obey the commands of Lord Snow."

With these words, King Stannis lifted his daughter into his arms and disappeared into the Lord Commander's Tower. Queen Selyse followed, timely stopping to glance back at Melisandre.

"Free me," Melisandre commanded a brutish northman beside her, and he did so. Melisandre followed the king into the tower, hearing Lord Snow's commands echo in the yard.

She said a prayer to the Lord, thanking him for all his blessings. The day was soaked in darkness, but now there was light. The Great Other's curses have claimed many, but Azor Ahai has at last claimed victory.

"Day has not yet come again," Melisandre knew, and the Lord warned her deep in her heart that the war was not over. The Great Other would still rise in the biter north with all his icy hosts, and the hero has many battles to come. Especially now, when his light burns the brightest, this is the day when he shall strike back against the darkness. How well the light would fare depended upon the price that true men were willing to pay. "A sacrifice, and the Hero will be truly Reborn."

Melisandre found the king in a chamber, speaking with his daughter.

"Why would Lord Manderly," she heard Shireen ask,"put such a kind man to death?"

"Because he was a traitor," King Stannis replied,"and traitors hold no duty to justice. Innocent men like Ser Davos fall victim to their hands."

"Then what about Devan," the princess's eyes were bleary,"He was Ser Davos's son and my friend. Why did you kill him?"

"Because he was a traitor as well," King Stannis said,"no matter who his father is. Ser Davos chose the path of duty, and I will honour him in all the days to come. Devan chose the path of treachery, and I must put him to death. One day, when you sit the Iron Throne and rule the Seven Kingdoms that is your birthright, you will know your duty. What is right must be rewarded and what is wrong must be punished, no matter who the man is."

Melisandre watched from the door as the princess turned away and did not speak.

"I do not want to be the queen," she croaked at last,"The Red Woman made me queen, and everyone died. Is this why you have come north?"

"No," Stannis said,"I came north because you are my daughter. My only child, and I will see you home."

For a moment, there was silence in the chamber save for the flickering hearth. Then, the princess turned and wrapped her arms around her father. She whispered something in her father's ear that Melisandre could not hear. For the first time ever, Melisandre saw Stannis Baratheon smile.

"If there is anyone he loves," Melisandre thought,"It is here."

She steeled herself, as she knew the Lord's will. Azor Ahai must make the dearest sacrifice.

"Shireen," Queen Selyse took a look at Melisandre and curled a hand about her daughter's shoulder. The princess withdrew from her embrace and looked up at her mother.

"Come," Queen Selyse said,"We must leave. Lady Melisandre has business with your father."

The princess cast a fearful eye at Melisandre, and nodded. Melisandre stepped aside to let them pass, watching their cloaks disappear into the shadows. She let the door fall into place behind her as she stepped within the brightly lit chamber. She walked before the hearth and gazed within it. As she dreaded, snows watershed over the flames with the faint glow of dim blue eyes.

"What does my lady see?" Stannis asked.

"Death," Melisandre said,"The Others. Winter is coming, and the night will be dark and full of terrors."

"You are the hero that may curb this tide," she approached the king,"You are the steward of mankind's power. You will vanquish the ancient enemy once and for all, if you would do one thing for the Lord of Light."

"What?" Stannis asked.

"The princess," Melisandre said,"You must give her to the Lord."

She was now so close to him to see the blood-streaked whites of Stannis's eyes, shadows gathering beneath a burning flame.

"The Lord is just," Melisandre said,"and victory must come at a price."

A horn echoed throughout the chamber. Three blasts, as Melisandre foresaw.

"Decide," Melisandre said,"Live or die."

Stannis's eyes shone no longer with fire,"I will."

 

[Mockingbird]

THE ORPHAN
​

"Three Braavosi Irons," she counted, watching dusk set on the Titan beyond,"A buckle with the face of a bull. A wool glove. A bowl with the lace of a flower. Three slips of parchment. A ring of silver serpents."

The last one was the orphan's prize, the last present her mother gave her before the plague took both her parents and her home.

The orphan counted everything each night, so she would know what she had when she slept. Braavos's alleys were no stranger to thieves, even this one that the orphan figured was deserted. She always counted, so she would know in the morning if she had been robbed.

She tucked her ring beneath the pillow of her arms as she curled on the sodden stones. The thieves could take all else, but not that. They would have to wake her to discover it, and they would have to kill her to take it. That treasure was only hers.

As her eyelids drooped into shadow, her count fell into another rhythm. A rhythm foreign to the orphan's ears.

"Dunsen," she thought,"Ser Gregor. Ser Ilyn. Ser Meryn. Queen Cersei." She chanted them as a prayer, though she never knew why.

"Who was Ser Meryn?" she wondered,"Who was Dunsen?" She knew Queen Cersei was the queen of the Sunset Kingdoms, the most beautiful woman to have ever graced that realm. She heard it from the breaths of sailors as they rattled on about the west, not knowing that the orphan picked their pockets.

She shook her head. The orphan had her own worries, and a long day ahead of her on the morrow. She rolled to her side, her back to the sunset, and sank into slumber.

The orphan dreamt the dream that had plagued her all these last moons. The smell of dying grass filled her snout. Wetness surrounded her, as did cold and moonlight. Her pack knew that winter was coming, as the leaves were changing and their prey hid.

Winter is coming. The words felt familiar, yet they were another's. This was not her home, yet she felt that it was.

Winter is coming, she snarled, glancing at the wilting plants. She glanced to her sides, making certain that she was alone.

Her pack wanted to march south when they sensed the snows coming, and they did not know why she lingered.

She sniffed the air again, and knew she was here. She smelled blood. She smelled torches. She smelled men.

Her strides melted into the songs of the forest. There were no more songbirds as they all flew to the south, the only voices being the crackle of broken twigs and fallen leaves. The winds blew, and the sun was setting in the west.

A mourning came upon her. She knew her pack was growing smaller. Not of the pack she led now, as they were as great as ever before, but the pack with which she was born and bred. Their numbers were dwindling. She had lost two siblings, and all the rest were dying. The white one was fading in a soul she did not know. The golden one was melting into a tree that reeked of rot. The black one tore at itself as one of the shadows around it drew ever closer. They were joining their lost, the grey one with the fierceness of a storm and the silver one with the grace of a rose.

Her paws only stalked swifter, and clenched her fangs. The others were leaving her, abandoning her. She was becoming ever alone.

She howled, high onto the rising moon. A thousand others answered, and she knew all her siblings would be among them, even from the dead.

When the forest gave way, she saw the golden man. His hair shone in the dying light, and upon his torso the same glow echoed, blinding her. He was bright gold from his head to the tips of his feet, and even one of his hands shared that gleam.

The rancid scents of other men surrounded him, wrangling him forth with shoves and kicks and shouts. She almost turned away, for the wars of men were not her fight.

That was until she saw the ghost, and her paws dug into the damp earth. A woman stood there, a ghost from a memory, grey and dead.

He would cower, she thought as the golden man was dragged before the ghost. Prey only cowered, when they could not run.

The man was a fighter, she figured as she looked at him. She saw death in his unwavering eyes, death that she rarely saw. It was more commonly fear she saw, but there was none in the golden man's eyes.

This man did not shake as he faced her charge, but barrelled towards her.

This was no prey, she bared her gangs and snarled silently as the ghost's own men beat him into the dirt with one of their wooden pieces. The woods echoed a tremulous song.

"Enough," she heard a voice tremble the leaves.

It was the Lady, she could tell, and her men obeyed her command. This man was the pack leader's to slay.

"Let your beasts loose," the golden man urged,"I did not yield."

The Lady did not respond, and he hissed,"Whose men are these even? Your headless son's, or…my lady Stark has made cause with common bandits?" He tumbled onto the mud as a man struck his face.

"Kingslayer," the Lady said when they brought the golden man upright,"the gods have judged you guilty of breaking your oath. For that you are condemned to die. Do you have any last words?"

Blood spewed from the man's mouth as he laughed,"I came here for her. Your daughter. I pray you find peace, Lady Stark."

The wolf looked at him, honing her fangs. He was wounded, a great beast fallen. It was his shame to be so pitiful, so weak. It would be a mercy, to save his grace.

Yet a voice rose within herself, reminding her. This death was not her gift to give.

The wolf retreated into the trees, knowing that the pack was waiting for her. They had a hunt tonight.

She raised her head again, and stared at all their glares. Shadows lay on every face that spoke of hate. The wolf could smell death, and they came forward. The blood trickled from the golden man's wound, as she slowly backed away.

Afar, she saw a corpse hanging from a tree, swaying in the wind. It was a burly warrior, and its neck was slick with blood.

The Lady nodded, and all the bandits turned their eyes on the fallen man.

Two of them hauled him upward.

"Kingslayer," one of them spat in his face,"You know me? Your men, lion men, burned my village, killed our cows, and raped my daughter half a hundred times before slitting her throat. You escaped, but now you're here. Justice is here."

They dragged him to the tree where the corpse hanged.

A third man, one with a yellow cloak, had a noose in his hands, and threw it over his head, the other two binding his hands behind his back.

The man with the yellow cloak tightened the cord.

The wolf heard another in tattered red robes lower his head, muttering something under his breath.

She saw the rope stretch, carving in the golden man's neck. It lifted him into the air, pressing until gargled gasps sputtered from his broken lips.

Amidst the crowd, she heard a cheer, waking someone within her.

Deep down, she knew he deserved it. Deep down, she knew his crimes were beyond count. She knew it was justice, vengeance.

"Winter came," she thought,"Winter came for the Kingslayer."

She turned away, and never looked back.

The orphan woke with a gasp, feeling blood on her tongue. She was to hunt that night, and she could feel her hunger.

Then, she realized that it was her own. It was her own self, her own body, and her belly was empty.

Watching the sun rise, she realized that it was not the eve of night, but morning. The street's musty scents washed upon her nose, washing away the taste of the wood. She was herself again.

"The Kingslayer," she remembered from her dream. The orphan knew that the Kingslayer was an infamous knight from the west, known for breaking his sacred oath. Rumour also has it that the Kingslayer slept with his sister the queen, and that all of King Robert's children were in truth his.

She shook her head, dispelling the thoughts of sunset knights. The orphan had much to do in the day, and no time to dwell on distant tales.

"Just a dream," she felt the bare stones under her body, how much her limbs were sore from the night. The dream was unsettling, foreign to the orphan. She feared it, knowing that it was another's haven. She wanted to get it away, but it kept coming back every night.

It was a dream, she assured herself, no more true than the sweet meals she conjured some nights. She rose, blinking away the clouds.

She saw the morning mists descend on Braavos. The orphan peeked about the alley, and was pleased to find no men there. She counted her own things, and found also that none were amiss.

"Luck," she kissed the ring, still firmly in her palm. For luck, her mother had always said. She did it at the beginning of each new day. Sometimes, she pretended that the silver serpents were alive, and that they liked the touch of her lips.

The orphan looked east again, and saw the Sun grace the edge of the horizon, shining a bright red.

She sprang quickly to her feet, knowing that she would have to make her way to the man soon. He was always there at the crack of dawn, and she would need to be there as well.

The orphan tugged her cloak about her, a covering made of faded green cloth. It had once been a bravo's shroud before she stole it off his corpse.

She snuck to the edge of the alley, taking a quick look outside, making certain that there was none there. The orphan was pleased to find that none were. Taking a deep breath, she stepped from the shadow into Braavos. She did not want rat to break her fast again.

The man lived along the Green Canal, in a house of dull brown upon a street that reeked. He was not rich in any sense, but he was not poor either. He was a portly man with a square jaw, old with wrinkling skin and a black beard that had started to turn grey. They said that he was once a merchant, but he had long since forsaken his trade.

No one knew his name, but the children called him the Grandfather.

His house was that of any Braavosi, having none of the glimmering colours of the Sealord's Palace or a courtesan's House of Smiles. It was a dull brown, in a street that reeked. It was nothing extravagant, nothing great. Yet to her, and all the other children, it was everything.

Already, two dozen children, the oldest two years her elder and the youngest half her age, gathered at the man's house.

They were there for a full belly to break their fast, as the Grandfather was the only man that was generous.. He was the only one in half a city to care for the forsaken.

She was there most mornings, and she always left with a full belly. He might have an errand or two for most of them, but it was always worth it. The Grandfather always kept his promises in the end.

The orphan had never known her own grandsire, but this man was what she pretended to be. He had her mother's smile and her father's eyes.

The children stood silently in the line, waiting for the Grandfather to receive them. The orphan heard them speak, and there was never a need for it. The Grandfather always knew what they wanted. He was as wise as the wizened sages, as pleasant as the radiant seas, as knowing as the birds under the stars. His beard and his robes held the wisp of the home she had known.

She walked through the crumbling roof and the cracked door frame, and felt the Grandfather's hearth warm her.

As she smelled the parchment and silks, she touched the iron coin in her pocket. She felt its chill run through her as a jagged knife, and she remembered why she was there.

As each approached the Grandfather, each handed him something in their hands. The orphan could see that it was a piece of paper, a slip of crusted scrap. The Grandfather then had his servants give them a steaming bowl of stew. They retreated to the side to eat their meal, and the orphan caught its soothing scent.

The ones before her passed as wind, until she came before the man.

She held out a Braavosi coin.

The Grandfather frowned,"I do not want your coin, little one. Let this meal be a gift from me."

She did not withdraw her hand, but flipped the coin. It no longer showed Sealord Antaros the Fair, but a print of the House of Black and White.

"Ah," the Grandfather realized. He took a bowl, had a servant fill it with hot stew, and presented it to her.

She took it, feeling the slip of paper beneath it. The orphan handed the Grandfather her own piece, to give for the one he gave.

"All men must serve," he said,"Tell them that the Bird wants a song."

"Why does the Bird want another's song," she wondered,"when it can sing one on its own?"

She held the coin up to her brow, and smiled. Her mission was done.

On her return, the orphan passed by the Palace of Truth. She saw there a gathering of men, huddled before the marble columns.

A finely dressed man loomed above them, the crimson light of dawn upon him.

"A red dawn," the orphan thought, stopping to listen. She hid in the shadows beneath a pillar, eyes locked upon them.

"A dragon dawn," she heard the man above them shout,"A dragon dawn rises."

Looking amongst them, the orphan saw that most were of the Seven Kingdoms to the West.

"Twenty years ago," the man above them spoke,"They told me the dragons were gone. Prince Rhaegar was slain by Robert Baratheon at the Trident. Tywin Lannister and his dogs butchered Princess Elia and her babes. The Kingsguard Jaime Lannister put a sword through the old king's heart. They won their kingdom through their blood and steel. They proved themselves stronger, mightier, looking to be worthier of the Iron Throne. And what has become of the realm they have taken with their kingdom. What has become of Robert Baratheon's conquest?"

"Ruin," his voice rang across the square,"Crows have fallen upon the Seven Kingdoms, picking apart its corpse. From Robert Baratheon's fall rose five kings, and the ruin of Westeros. Only death and tyrants have emerged the victor. The victor of blackened fields and rotting corpses. The victor of this war that vile men started. A war that sees no end. Naught rose of these wars, of these kings, but the suffering of their people who listened to them. Who believed in them. Who worshiped them. Lords marched their banners across barren fields, as thousands burned and bled for false claims and falser crowns. Unworthy boys sat the Iron Throne, raised by lickspittles, murderers, and all the crimes in the eyes of the gods. They call themselves lions, though it would be more fitting to call them rats, a plague upon the realm. Frey men, Lannisters through and through, swore a vow to protect their guests, and murdered them beneath their roof. The woman who murdered Renly, the only good king of the bunch, took to service and to bed the Kingslayer and his band of lion men, who led the burning of the Riverlands. The queen and her sycophants whisper in each other's ears, devising schemes to grasp at power, forsaking even the common decency of man. They are not men, but monsters, petty kings who tore the realm apart in their greed. Justice is nothing to the Lannisters who kill at their pleasure, consorting with turncloaks and oathbreakers. Honour is nothing to the Krakens who reave and rape across the western shores. Wisdom is nothing to the likes of Stannis Baratheon, cruel, spiteful men with hosts as black as their heart. These are the likes of whom hold the swords in the Seven Kingdoms, playing at their game of thrones and destroying everything in their path. The people have lost their shield. The realm has lost its protector. The Seven Kingdoms have lost its king."

He let his words hang in the air. Silence grasped the listeners, and the orphan slid her way closer to the square.

Behind another pillar, she saw another child watching the man. The orphan recognized him, as he was there with her at the Grandfather's house. She was certain that he did not see her, as the orphan was as silent as a shadow.

The orphan turned her eyes away from the boy, and looked to the man, seeing what his words would bring.

"The Seven Kingdoms have had enough of kings who make war; enough of claimants who seek only their greed. Enough of tyrants that cared naught of the lives of their people."

He raised his arm towards the rising sun,"I want a king who cares. A king that can bring us peace - and that king has arrived. At long last, the king has returned. A dragon king. A true king! Aegon, Prince Rhaegar's lost son. He has survived. He has come home."

"Aegon," the orphan heard the crowd break into muttering.

"Aegon," she thought. The name felt strange.

"A dragon may die," the man declared,"but a dragon does not fade. A dragon has landed on the shores of the Stormlands, on the shores of Westeros. Amidst their squabbles, he is there to make their peace. Amidst their blood, he is there to sew their wounds. Amidst their wrongs, he is there to deal their justice. The banners of the dragon fly above Storm's End. They fly above the Rainwood, the Kingswood, and soon they will soar above King's Landing once again, as they had for centuries before. Not only is he a king that can do battle, not only is he a king that can rule, he is a king that can heal."

The orphan left as she heard their cheers.

The kindly man found her at the pool, staring at her reflection in the dark water. The face she saw was square-jawed, with a thick nose and bright blue eyes. She twisted a staff in the pool, watching the ripples distort her image. No matter how she stirred, it was still a face she did not know.

"What did he give the orphan?" the kindly man asked, and the orphan stared at him.

She did not speak. She could not speak.

The orphan closed her eyes as she heard the kindly man step before her. She felt her head spin, pain dancing across her skin and tearing out her eyes. The orphan felt a shadow lift from her soul.

When the girl opened her eyes, a strange name passed her lips. She was Arya again. Arya Stark of Winterfell.

"Was she? " she muttered, staring at her image in the water, staring at the face she thought she would know.

The orphan had left her. Of that she was certain. She was certain of who she was supposed to be, of who Arya was supposed to be.

"Gone," she thought. She couldn't remember.

She touched the damp stones, feeling a trickle of water. She ran it between her fingers.

It felt like blood, though she did not know how she knew that feeling. Arya let it drop, letting it join the murky water. She heard its ripples fade, listening to her own heart. A heart that had no name. A lone voice amidst the music of silence.

"Was she?" she wondered again,"Was she Arya?"

She looked back into the water, and saw a face that she did not know. She heard a cacophony of whispers, echoing through the hall. It was a girl's name.

They were murmuring, chanting, singing,"Arya. Arya. Arya."

"Who is Arya?"

A voice sounded from the depths,"Who are you?"

"No one."

The swift answer never came, the curt truth of "You lie."

Instead, she heard only the faintest brush of a cloak as the kindly man sat beside her.

"What has the orphan heard?" the kindly man asked.

"An investigation is underway," she heard herself say,"for the murder of one of the Westerosi envoys. Lord Swyft has halted all negotiations with the Iron Bank until the murderer is found, hiding away in his quarters and fearing that the knife was meant for him. He fears half the city, and has written to King's Landing, requesting that King Tommen allow him to return."

"The girl has learned her lesson," the kindly man said.

She nodded. "Mercy," she remembered,"Mercy." She had known that name, when it had been hers. She had known its taste, which the House gave to her as they righted her wrong.

"What else has the orphan learned?" he asked again.

"A fleet of ships have set sail for Sunspear," her words were dry,"The passengers include a host of Norvoshi noblemen, one among them a princess."

The kindly man's eyes were devoid of expression,"What else?"

"This," she took out the slip of paper the Grandfather gave the orphan,"He says that the Bird wants a song."

The kindly man took the paper, and swept his eyes across it.

"He wants us to do his killing," Arya scoffed. For a moment, someone took hold of her thoughts, but a second later, she was mercifully gone.

"The gift is not given freely," the kindly man said,"He has named his name, but we have not named our price."

He tucked the scroll beneath his robe, and looked her in the eyes,"Did the orphan chance by the theatre?"

She shook her head,"The orphan thought Izembaro's had been shut down, the troupe arrested."

"It is so," the kindly man replied,"The Gate has closed, courtesy of dear Mercy, but there are others. Has the orphan heard of the play one performed today? I heard it pleased the pit greatly."

She shook her head again.

"It was The Young Wolf. Shall I recite some of its verses? Proud am I, the blood of the north, my brood is made of the cold. Winter is the sword I forge, hate the mark of my soul. Does the orphan truly not know?"

He was watching her, seeing.

Somewhere far away, long ago, an ancient call stirred. She tasted it, savoured it, and felt its warm glow. A silver tear streaked down her cheek, until it dropped into the gloom below.

Then, she felt the kiss of the black stones, feeling the House she was meant to serve. The grand hall loomed great, beyond any memory.

She looked into the kindly man's eyes. He knew she did not lie.

"It made little matter," she replied,"to the orphan or her duty."

The mummer's show was naught to her. She barely knew its name.

 

[Arimai]

Poor Arya. The Starks are worse off. Burn it all down.

 

[Mockingbird]

THE KING'S STEWARD
​

The taste of the horn was sweet on Satin's lips.

"Three blasts," he heard their echoes shiver through Castle Black. He knew that eyes were falling upon him, eyes seeing the black-cloaked figure that stood out from the snow. They would soon see the watchman that would rise above them all.

King Stannis had been right to give him command, he tossed the horn to the Flint boy who stood beside him. He would be the king's truest man, just as the true Lord Snow would have been.

"Lord Snow," the Free Folk princess approached him,"Are you certain that the Others have come?" Silence reigned when she spoke, and deathly whispers emerged all through the yard.

"Aye, my princess," he answered,"The watchers on the Wall have just come to me with these dark tidings. I fear the worst may be true."

"My princess," Satin indicated the black brother beside him,"Donnel had the watch today alongside Bearded Ben. When I was still in command, I knew to command the Watch to patrol in pairs in case of an enemy when one could hold the enemy and the other warns the castle. It proved true today."

"Are the Others on the Wall?" the princess asked."

Satin knew that Donnel knew what to say. The black brother shook his head,"They're still beneath the Wall, m'lady, but I fear that will be for not much longer. Snows at first. Nothing but white. Mist descended at the base. Black specks wandered out of the storm."

"The dead," the princess said, turning on her heel and striding swiftly into the courtyard. The Magnar gave her a fearful look, and the confused mutterings grew louder into a storm. Satin watched, knowing that what Stannis bade him do was spreading as intended.

"You may rest," Satin bade Donnel dismissal,"I will have Mully take your place."

"Of course, you have my deepest gratitude, m'lord," Donnel began to back away,"If Lord Snow does not need anything else from me."

"I do not," Satin answered in a whisper. Donnel nodded, fear in his eyes, and ran away. Satin knew that fear, the fear that this new Lord Snow would make him pay for all his crimes. Satin knew much of what Lord Snow did not.

But Satin did not bid Lord Snow his vengeance. It was enough to thank him by preserving his name. He would earn the glory that was cut short from Lord Snow. All of it, for Lord Snow.

"Myself," Satin might even have to thank Lord Snow's murderers for giving him this chance.

Mully was none too eager to go up the Wall and face the dead, but Satin insisted,"Winter friends are friends forever. Trust me, for I would never allow you to die."

At last, Mully stumbled to the loading deck and sailed up the Wall.

Satin looked down at all the hosts of Castle Black, united only in frenzy as the tidings came to them. Free Folk and watchmen alike began to surge and shout and scream, the men like a raging sea of which he could see no end. The only place where there was not chaos was the place where Stannis's former men stood, the stag banner rising high as one of their knights had put those men in line after the deaths of Lord Axell and Ser Benethon.

There seemed to be another place of peace upon the bridge where Satin stood looking down upon the endless yard. The Magnar's men held the ends of the bridge where steps led below. Lady Karstark had asked her husband for them to obey and guard Satin at all times. He himself, though, was not quite so at peace. He wondered endlessly when Stannis would emerge from the tower and bring them all to heel. Satin had done his part, and waited for the king to do his.

You must wait until they make their choice, Stannis's words resonated in his mind. He wondered if the men below would make the glorious one. They must, for they had come too far in the king's cause to look back. Just like Satin. When the snows had finished gathering about Satin's feet, his heart racing, the men made their choice below.

The Magnar had shouted down most of the men, accompanied by his chieftains. Wulf Orangeskin walked at his side, as did the Lord of Drums, the Daring Man, and half a dozen others. A man rushed at them in the chaos, but the Lord Drums drew his great clubs that he called his Drumsticks and battered the man's brains out. Satin did not see if the man wore a black cloak or some other-coloured one, only that the snows stained red. The others listened to the Magnar then.

"If the Wall falls," he shouted,"It will not matter how far south we flee. If King Stannis stands at the Wall, then I will stand by him. If Lord Snow stands at the Wall, then I will stand with him."

"The Thenns have never cowered," the Magnar turned in a circle, his tall form looming above every man,"Never, even before the likes of Thellus the Drake and Theon Stark, and not these icy-faced bastards who rise from the northern wastes."

A shout became a call, which became a storm that engulfed the vast yard and even the battlements where the clansmen stood at guard. All raised their steel towards the north in defiance.

"Remember that man who is relaying the Magnar's orders," Princess Val's voice emerged suddenly beside Satin,"Wulf is just as high in Sigorn Magnar's favour as you are in Stannis's. He's certainly remembered you. If you were not due to wed the daughter of the king, then I daresay he would have any of his five daughters do you in."

"My princess," Satin ground his teeth,"The dead are coming." The Lord of Drums had offered that he steal his daughter, that spearwife Satin met on the road to Mole's Town, as soon as he found out that Lord Snow had been pardoned from the Watch. Satin had received several dozen more offers like such, and he wagered that they had been all waiting to come into Lord Snow's power. He had told them all that the king had betrothed him to his daughter. They did not understand making matches so long before the wedding. The White Woman had spat on him, telling him that a girl would not give him strong sons.

"The dead are coming," the Princess said,"but have my Lord Snow given thought to what may befall you after we win our victory."

"I will wed King Stannis's daughter," Satin said, staring with eyes empty into the swirling snows that rang in a chorus,"and then I will march south with the king to claim his throne."

"His Iron Throne," the Princess said,"though why should Lord Snow subject yourself to the thrones of others. Why not make your own, and not serve at the whims of some other line? We Free Folk make our own kings."

"And it would not be me," Satin thought,"not some whore from an Oldtown brothel." They would choose men like Lord Snow, and Satin was not his master. Stannis's princess was his only chance, the royal line that has the rightful claim to the Seven Kingdoms. The wolf howled in answer to him, its voice echoing throughout the balcony. He looked below, and saw his long shadow soar above Castle Black. The only chance for him to rise. He thanked Lord Snow again.

"You reap what you sow," he remembered these words, given to him by a man he had long since forgotten. He gave Lord Snow the kindness of preserving his legacy, and Lord Snow has blessed him. Lord Snow's white wolf has followed him. It was not as silent as it always was before, yet it was clear who its master was. He looked beside himself at the princess. He became the mummer she wanted, and she gave him the blessing of the Free Folk swords.

"Yet," Satin ground his teeth again,"If she chooses to betray her vow, she will know the worst to come."

He would not suffer the place he had worked so tirelessly to gain to be snuffed out by a treacherous princess.

"If she betrays me," he looked down again,"how far will her poison lie?"

There were men in the Free Folk host that were doubtless loyal to her. Traitors always had a following that he would need to destroy.

"Think about it, Lord Snow," the Princess's voice did nothing to calm Stain's racing heart,"When the Battle for the Dawn is over, only the Others will know who dies and who lives. We shall need to gather the ashes."

She stepped away from him, yet she was not where Satin looked. His eyes lingered in the yard, where the Night's watchmen had joined the call. Led by a man with a thick beard of whom Satin did not know the name, the night's watchmen joined their voices to the Free Folk. Satin's men, the ones who had betrayed Lord Snow that long night before, gave their hearts again to his cause. It was bronze and bone that the Free Folk drew, rusted steel that made the weapons of the Watch and the clansmen, yet what mattered is that they made their choice. They followed him. The wolf howled.

Satin glanced at the horn in his hand, knowing that King Stannis must soon be coming. The king had trusted him with this power for a reason. He knew that Satin could do what he wished. The Bastard was dead, his hounds swinging in their nooses. There was no longer a foe that they all hated, no longer a foe to unify all in Castle Black beneath the burning stag. Except the dead.

"They will never find out," Satin thought,"that it is only other Free Folk beyond the Wall, and the snarks and grumkins are little more than dreams."

Yet it was useful, and even the thought could bring every man to serve King Stannis loyally. To serve Satin who was King Stannis's son-in-law and most leal man. The future king who would sit the seat of seats above all. All he needed to do now was wait for King Stannis to emerge and rouse his banners for the future.

"Prepare a pyre," a shout shattered the cheers within Castle Black. The Flint boy tapped Satin's shoulder, and he turned to see one of Stannis's knights, the one in the golden cloak.

Silence met his call, and so he shouted again,"Prepare a pyre. It is the king's command."

None answered at first, but soon a host of turncloak soldiers strode into the Shieldhall and emerged with armfuls of wood. The others were silent as they watched, none daring to move a muscle. Satin himself was frozen in place.

What seemed like eternity passed when the stack of wood grew taller and wider until at last it was a sprawling mass of twisted timbers. The turncloak knight who led them stepped carefully amidst the smallest twigs, planting a wooden pole in the center of the pyre.

"No," Stannis's squire in a chestnut surcoat whispered at Satin's side,"Tha…That's an altar. The wi… she's going to burn more men to her god. My father is dead because of her. My uncle's as well. It's probably me now. Probably me."

"No," Satin put an arm on his shoulder to steady him,"It isn't. War is coming. Lady Melisandre knows better than to wound our strength."

"She is a witch," the boy burst forth at last,"but my lord can put a stop to it. You are to wed his daughter, as good as his prince and heir. You can rid the king of her. Save us."

Satin turned away, shaking his head. It was unwise to do so. If a prince was what he was, then it would not do to insult the woman that was as good as a queen. The dour-faced turncloak approached the knight who called for the pyre,"Ser Claymund, the pyre is ready. Whom does Lady Melisandre wish to give to the Lord of Light this day?"

"A sacrifice,"Ser Claymund answered, his eyes scanning the whole of Castle Black,"before our war with the dead. A sacrifice, so that in the end His Grace will claim victory. Only death can pay for life, for the night is dark and full of terrors."

"The night is dark and full of terrors," the dour-faced turncloak said, as did his men. Their voices rang throughout the now silent yard, ending in a dreary echo.

The door to the Lord Commander's Tower opened with a scream. It was a woman's scream, high and shrill. King Stannis emerged with steely ice in his eyes, his face as pale as snow. His lips pressed together into a knot as his brows sagged beneath the weight of a teetering crown. An icy finger gripped Satin's heart as he saw the grim-faced king emerge.

Lady Melisandre was clinging to the king's right arm, her cheek pressed against his furs. She met Satin's gaze for a moment, but her eyes quickly dipped down.

Queen Selyse was pulling on King Stannis's other arm, and she was the one that screamed. She pulled at King Stannis with all her strength, but the king did not budge. At last, she collapsed, staring blankly forward in the snow.

Satin looked past King Stannis, and saw behind him the girl. Princess Shireen was held at her arms by guards, but her limbs were limp and her eyes empty. The guards had to drag her through the snow. Ser Claymund and all the turncloaks stepped aside, revealing the pyre. Satin realized what Ser Claymund had meant.

"When did King Stannis become mad?" Satin thought,"His heir. His hold to the throne. My hold to the throne."

He leapt down from the bridge, not caring how it hurt as he ran towards King Stannis. Two of Ser Claymund's guards grabbed Satin before he could reach the king.

"Your Grace," Satin shouted as the guards wrenched him back,"It's your daughter. "

The king looked at him with hardened eyes,"Take no part in this, Lord Snow. It is what I must do."

The Red Woman shrank away behind King Stannis, and Satin shouted at her,"Witch. You've betwetch the king and made him as mad as your Lord. I know it now. The Lord's mad, if he wants children."

Princess Shireen looked at him, but Satin could not return her gaze.

The dead are false, Satin wanted to say, but could not gather the strength to speak the words. It would make him a liar in the eyes of all the world. He heard sobbing, and turned to see Queen Selyse's tears drip and melt the snow. Satin turned away, keeping his lips locked tight.

He tried not to look as the guards dragged the princess forward. He hoped beyond all hope that someone else not as burdened as him could stand and challenge King Stannis and cure him of this madness. But none did. Not the Princess Val, not the Magnar and his chiefs, and not the black cloaks and clansmen with their heads already bowed in mourning. All were silent, and Satin was silent too. They watched as Princess Shireen was dragged across the empty path. The heckling of crows accompanied the last of her road to the pyre. The bird kind, for the human crows stood silent.

The guards tied the princess to the pole above all the timbers, the princess unmoving to their touch. Ser Claymund handed his torch to King Stannis, who gave it to the Red Woman whose face still lay half-buried in Stannis's cloak. She grasped it with trembling fingers, then suddenly dropped it as her hand flew back to hug King Stannis's arm.

Stannis gently set her down and picked up the fallen torch.

"Do not look away," Ser Claymund said behind Satin,"The king will know."

King Stannis walked slowly towards the pyre, the flames of the torch seeming to lick his hand. He reached it soon, meeting his daughter's eyes. He dropped the torch, and the twigs burst into flame. Satin did not look away.

The embers were small at first as they crawled across the kindling, but they began to grow. They grew greater with each passing breath, soon reaching the princess's feet. As the flames climbed her dress, they burnt it into ashes and the skin below melted into the fire. He saw her raise her head to the skies and open her mouth, yet he heard no scream. A flash from the ruby band upon her wrist blinded Satin, yet he found his sight soon and did not look away. The fires roared even as the last of the princess crumbled into ash. A great howl shook the earth, and a shadow rose from the fire. It soared high into the sky, until the winds carried it south.

Satin cast his eyes to King Stannis who had returned, wondering what purpose this madness would serve.

"I do not do this for the Lord," Stannis said,"I do this for us. For all of us." He heard a shriek, and saw a snow-strewn Queen Selyse run towards the fire only to be held back by Ser Claymund. He pulled her back, whispering in her ear.

King Stannis's eyes remained fixed on Satin, then commanded his guards,"Take him with me."

The king helped the Red Woman to her feet, and they walked towards the winch. The masses parted silently before them, and the guards forced Satin the same way. The winch had returned since Mully went up the Wall, and its iron doors opened to greet them. The king and the Red Woman walked in, the guards releasing Satin onto the hard deck. He pushed himself to his feet, watching the doors close and the castle become small beneath him. The fire soon became a pinprick of light.

When they reached the Wall's height, Satin found that it was clear. The Wall rose above the clouds, and he saw the bright blue sky stretch forever in every direction. They could not see the Seven Kingdoms from here, only the mist of beautiful clouds. Mully and Ben were nowhere to be seen, and they were alone.

"Why?" Satin turned to King Stannis.

"You know why," King Stannis took off his crown and threw it at Satin's feet,"You know what to do." Without the crown, he seemed younger by half a life. The lines upon his face smoothed as the snows fell off his crows. His icy eyes turned a piercing blue.

"Take care of her for me," Stannis turned, and there was no shadow behind him. He walked to the edge of the Wall, and he did not stop. He walked, and fell into the clouds, his form a thin silhouette against the white. The clouds flickered, and the king melded into them. He began to shrink and fade until there was nothing left.

Satin looked down at the crown before him. He still wondered why.

"Your Grace," a timid voice rose. Satin turned to see the Red Woman. He pursed his lips and ground his teeth, disgust coursing through his veins. He did not step back as the Red Woman strode towards him. He grew uneasy as he saw her pleading eyes which he never saw before in the Red Woman.

"Father said that you would help," the Red Woman slipped a ruby band from her wrist and flung herself at him. Satin looked down, to see a sobbing girl in his chest. He knew what Stannis meant.

He pushed Shireen gently off him and put the band back on,"You still need it." Satin saw how she changed back into that beautiful yet frightening form. He picked up Stannis's crown.

"We need to go back down," Satin told the princess, and she nodded in agreement. The ride down was slow, descending into the clouds until they could see the Seven Kingdoms again.

The men were still in their places, and the pyre was no longer burning.

"Where is King Stannis?" the Free Folk princess was the first to ask.

Satin looked up at the stag banners, seeing that the north wind still blew. By chance it was warm now, and he knew that the men below would also know.

"The Others came," Satin looked down at Stannis's crown,"and King Stannis was the champion of the living. He met the Great Other alone atop the Wall, in one last battle that sealed our fates. The king had given away all he loved in service of the light, and in that last moment his will was hardened, his sword was sharp, and his fire was bright. He cast Lightbringer into the Great Other, and in that one stroke he has ended our war."

"And the king?" Princess Val asked.

"The Great Other fell," Satin said,"but he took the king with him. All that is left of the king is his crown."

"The dead are gone," a voice whispered, lone at first. Soon, another voice whispered the same,"The dead are gone."

"The dead are gone."

"Winter has been conquered."

"All because of King Stannis."

"Stannis."

"Stannis."

"STANNIS."

Satin thought the gods were favouring him, as only now did he see the sun break through the clouds.

The dead were never there, Satin looked at Stannis's crown. He dropped it, falling to his knees. A slender white hand picked up the fallen crown, Satin's eyes following it to the Princess Val standing above him.

"Lord Commander Mormont," she said,"deemed you worthy of being his heir. My brother Mance deemed you worthy of being his heir. King Stannis deemed you worthy of being his heir. You will accept this crown, Lord Snow."

Satin closed his eyes, and felt cold steel grace his brow. It was heavy, and he stood.

"My King," he opened his eyes to the princess kneeling before him. "My king," the Magnar echoed, bending his knee as well. One by one, the men in the yard bent their knees before Satin until he was the last one standing. Their chant was echoed by the crows, a name that would forever be his:

"Jon."

"Jon."

"JON."

 

[Mockingbird]

ALAYNE
​

Out of all Alayne's bride gifts, she was wary most of the ring.

It was a beautiful thing, perhaps even the most beautiful she had ever seen. The ring was shining silver with not a scratch no scraps, with elegant arches carved in the shape of wings. Its jeweler was doubtless one of the best at his craft, a rustle of emerald leaves sprouting on top of the crest to show a glowing amber citrine stone. From a certain glance, Alayne could even have once believed that the stone had been enchanted to float above its leaves, so fine were the threads that connected them. She was not so certain that they connected them at all.

"It was the wedding ring that my mother wore," Lady Anya had been the one to gift it,"as did her mother before her. My lady Alayne is due to marry my dear Harry, so I think it fitting that my lady should have it."

"It is beyond what I could ever hope for," Alayne had answered to Lady Anya's smile,"I will most certainly wear it."

She was wearing it, seeing it shine upon her finger in the looking glass. She wondered why Lady Anya had given such a precious thing to her of all people, the maiden she thought unfit to wed Harry.

"To pay her debts to my father," Alayne supposed,"A groom must come with everything." The lady knew that in due time the bride would return the favour in her dowry. If that was so, then Alayne welcomed the fit.

She held it up to her eye, and heard a giggle behind her,"It shines as bright as you, my lady."

A slap sounded behind her, and a yelp,"Do not get distracted by the lady's beauty. That is Harry's job tonight."

Alayne bit her lip, trying to suppress a light. She failed in the end, and burst forward laughing.

She looked back to see Lady Imelda cross her arms,"My lady ruined all my work." Alayne touched her hair, suddenly guilty.

"I was about to ruin it anyway," Lady Lyra replied,"when my dear lady Imi slapped me."

"I daresay it is fine as it is," Lady Myranda looked Alayne up and down,"The wedding is about to begin soon anyway. I hear from the maids that my lady is already the envy of the night."

Alayne shook her head, smiling. Randa had told her that she was the envy of the castle for all of the past moon as wedding arrangements were made.

"Is Lady Alayne finished here?" a steward in a plain-white fleeced coat emerged from the doorway,"Your gown is ready."

"I would be delighted to try it," of all the wedding arrangements, the gown was the only one she did not know. She knew who would escort her down the hall and when, everyone's place at the feast and what courses would be served, even who were the men allowed at the bedding ceremony. Yet the only answer she received from the seamstresses when she inquired about the gown was that it was not ready.

"Your father had it specially made for you," they had said,"he made us promise not to show you until the wedding."

When the time finally came and the steward showed her to the dress, she was awestruck. All of it had been weaved from a simple white lace that was as pure as snow. Lines of crystal gems glittered down the thin hems as snowdrifts do in moonlight. At its back, a garden of silver threads wound together in the shape of wings just like the one on her ring. The gown would make her look like the Maiden come down from the Seven Heavens. Floating. No, flying. Her heart sank as she realized what her father meant by this gown.

"It is a bird," Lady Imelda exclaimed. "A mockingbird," Alayne said, trying to keep a high spirit in her voice.

Yet she could not hide from the fact that the moment Yohn Royce took power, her hope as a Stark was gone. Only her father cared enough to give her backWinterfell, and now that hope vanished just like his place as Lord Protector. In this world, she could never be the wolf at her wedding. Her father gifted her this dress as a warning that she could not be Sansa Stark within their power. She had to be Lord Baelish's bastard daughter, a songbird to sing them songs. That was most like to be the reason why her father would not attend her wedding.

He said that he sought to return to the Fingers and call his banners now that the Vale is at war. She even thought that he had been exiled away from his seat in Harrenhal, but she began to piece together the truth. He was p-laying his part, just as Alayne was playing hers. The wolf's song could not be sung, and so the mockingbird's must be seen to its end. The marriage of Ser Harrold Hardyng, Lord Harrold Arryn of the Vale in time, to Lady Alayne Stone, bastard daughter of Lord Petyr Baelish of the Fingers and the Riverlands. So shall it be forever, and she would have no taste of that dreaded Northern name again. A much humbler offer, but Alayne wondered if it was better. A quiet life as Lady Arryn did not seem so terrible.

If only Lord Robert would succumb to his illness, Alayne sprung suddenly straight, realizing the last piece that would see his song through. It was another reason for why her father was gone. He would not be suspected of any intent if he were not here. She remembered his last words to her, accompanied by a kiss beneath a canopy of crimson leaves,"I am so sorry that I could not give you away. I have asked Lord Yohn to do it in my stead."

"My lady is beautiful,"Alayne just realized that the servants had set her in the gown, and she shone in the pearl-created looking glass.

"Heavenly," another voice agreed.

"Pure," a third voice chimed in.

Alayne curled her finger about Lady Anya's ring, feeling its cool silver soothe her skin.

"The girl dares to dream again," she looked down on the citrine stone,"for dreams are our efforts come true."

A knock on the doorway rang throughout the room.

"Is my lady Alayne finished?" a rough voice called. For a moment, there was no answer, and they heard the steward bark:"Please wait a moment longer my lords."

"You need not," Randa laughed," Come on in. You men are not fortunate enough to have an early taste of the bedding."

A host of smiling faces waited beyond the door.

"Lady Imelda," the steward said,"You are with Ser Arnold."

"Lady Lyra," he gestured to a dashing knight behind him,"You are with Ser Harlan."

"And Lady Myranda," he pointed to another man,"Ser Lyn has requested the honour of escorting you."

"And my Lady Alayne," the steward began, but a broad man in a bronze suit of armour pushed him aside.

"Baelish is not here," Lord Yohn Royce said,"and as Lord Protector I am obligated to give you to Ser Harrold in his stead."

"I cannot be more grateful that my lord will stand in for my father," Alayne gave the lord her hand to kiss,"I am certain my father is too."

"My lady knows the custom," Lord Yohn said to her in the hall,"As the third gong sounds, we go forth."

"The father walks out with the bride in hand," Alayne agreed,"and gives her to the groom."

She giggled, knowing that she must put up the front of a blushing bride before this lord. Yet though how much she wanted to feel like her mother did, her spirits fell as she realized how her father had never known what Harry would know. Forbidden from the love of his life by Stark's cold eyes.

Stark, she had to force herself to smile. There was something she must know from Lord Yohn.

"Hurry, my lady," Lord Yohn said,"We must be in the sept before the first gong."

There was a stretch in the hall when Alayne was alone with Lord Yohn, the coattails of Randa having disappeared around the corridor.

"Alone," Alayne did not smile at that,"There were still Lord Yohn's guards, whatever spider's ears hidden within the walls." That made no matter, for she wondered if it was best for others to know and spread it.

"Were you at my mother's wedding, my lord?" Alayne stopped walking, turning to meet Lord Yohn in the eye.

"Your mother?" Lord Yohn looked bewildered,"I must confess that I thought Baelish never married your mother."

"My father never married my mother," Alayne knew,"That was true, but Lady Catelyn still had a wedding."

"My mother's wedding," she echoed softly.

The light dawned on Lord Yohn's eyes, and he stammered quickly,"Yes, yes, I have."

"You knew," Alayne stepped backward,"then why not let them know? There were so many chances. At the feast, at Lord Robert's tourney ceremony, at the arrival of the first knights when all were fathered at the gates. I plead with my lord tell me, what can hold the strength of my lord back? Why not tell the others my true name?"

Lord Yohn's eyes softened, and he stroked her chin,"I am so very sorry, my dear child. None should suffer as you and your house did."

"Littlefinger," his tone grew icy,"It is all because of that vile whoremonger that my lady cannot claim the truth. I wished to reveal who my lady was then and there that day when we threw Littlefinger off his seat, but Ser Lyn bade me the wiser course. If we revealed my lady when I had wished, all would see Littlefinger as the one who brought my lady safety and he might still rule as Lord Protector. But by waiting, by letting him do what little he could do with a bastard, his curse has been banished to the Fingers where it belongs. In due time, the king's decree would arrive stripping him of all his titles except his father's, returning your mother's house to its rightful place. Soon, my lady shall also be returned to your rightful place. Trust me when I say, my lady, that at this farce's end you will be who you were always meant to be."

"Stark," Alayne saw in Lord Yohn's cold eyes the same frost she saw in that man whose face she never wanted to see again, that man who had taken her mother from her father. Did she want to be a Stark, and feel so very cold? Her dress ruffled as she felt the warmth of the torches that banished the winter cold away. The dress felt less like snow. More a feathercoat.

"Stupid," she chided herself. She wanted to be her father's daughter for all the world to see, and she was stupid enough to ask about that other woman who she did not want to be. Lord Yohn's guards would spread the rumours, as would whatever spider's ears hidden within the walls. She forgot her father's warning that she still must be the mockingbird's daughter, and butterflies fluttered in her tummy as she dreaded what would happen now that they would know.

When the third gong rang, Lord Yohn escorted Alayne into the Sept of the Sky. Despite her dread, she gathered that it was a hall etched straight from the songs. Lord Nestor had organized the wedding with the war on the Vale's doorstep, and it was truly a wonder how he had replicated the splendour of Joffrey's wedding.

The sept had been transformed utterly into a place of fantasy where love was pure. She walked by the seven shades of tinted glass behind marble pillars that rose high above. The deep blue ceiling had been enchanted by its builders to look like a starless sky. Every place there wafted the soothing scent of incense, so sweet that she could have forgotten all her troubles.

And there was song. A lone harp played its haunting song, a forgotten tale sang by a young man with long nose and raven-black hair. It would be a long time before the Vale trusted singers again after Marillion, and so there were two guards standing at the man's sides. Yet Alayne only heard the song. An uneasy mix of all things. Pain and joy. Darkness and light. Death and life. Entwined on a string that would either pull back or push forward. All she knew was when she heard it, her life became a dream.

"My wedding needed no pomp," Alayne looked down the aisle,"Not like Joffrey's." There were no gold-plated shields or elegant tapestries hanging from the walls, no jewels decorating the banners, cloaks, and silken draperies. The gold had all been needed for the war.

The crowd had watched her as she arrived, two hundred in the hall alone that were all the chivalry and fairness of the Vale. She was still center of their eyes as she walked past.

Banners lined the walls, growing in number until they reached the forefront of the hall, where the Hardyng checkerboard met the Baelish titan beneath the seven-starred glass looking out into the night. She wondered why she warranted the titan sigil, for she was still a bastard. Her eyes soon flew elsewhere, where above them all loomed the numerous cloths bearing some falcon and moon of the House of Arryn.

Alayne looked for Lord Robert, and found him at last when she passed the front of the crowd. He was nestled in Gretchel's chest, not having the strength to even stand on his own. The Lord of the Vale was bid to lead the attendants into the hall when the first gong sounded, and she was unsure of how he did so. Perhaps he led them upon the breast of his maid.

The other lord found Alayne's eyes, the dashing Young Falcon. A line of knights streaming by his lift, a line of ladies at his right. The groom and his party arrived when the second gong sounded, just before Alayne arrived. Harry stood at the head of the sept in a fastened crimson doublet threaded by silver, his white cloak streaming behind him. His golden hair shone in the firelight, like a hero who was rare in this world. His lines of knights and ladies branched out in a majestic sprawl, like wings.

Lord Yohn walked her up the steps and let go of her hand as she came before Harry. She felt her shoulders lighten, and then realized it was Lord Yohn removing a cloak that she did not know she wore.

"A titan?" Alayne broke the silence, nodding to the banners beside them.

"Aunt Anya was still troubled over having me to wed a bastard," Harry answered,"so I petitioned the king. The letter of legitimization arrived two nights ago."

"Does she approve now?" Alayne asked.

"Of course," Harry answered,"She's given you her ring."

"A gift from her," Alayne agreed.

Harry took her hand, and for a moment Alayne thought that he would kiss it. Yet he folded his hand down upon the ring, covering her left hand with his own. His right hand found her left, entwining them together.

"Ahem," the septon cleared his throat, and whispered,"Ser Harrold. Lady Alayne. Please take your positions."

Alayne stood where she was bid, her hands joined by Harry's.

"We gather here today," the septon declared,"to witness the holy union of man and woman beneath the light of the Seven who are One." He paused for a moment,"and the crown of the one true king, though King Aegon sends his regrets that he could not attend us tonight.

The septon turned to her and Harry, and said the words he was bid to say. Alayne fell into the depths of Harry's eyes, but she heard the septon's words all the way to his last.

"You may cloak the bride," the septon finally concluded his speech. Alayne turned, banishing away that dismal memory of the Imp and all his abhorrent antics. Harry's cloak was warm, a soft weight resting upon her shoulders. She knew it would be red on white. Blood snow, or a rose in the sunlight. Alayne turned, and knew that it was the rose she would see.

"With this kiss I pledge my love," Alayne said,"and take you for my lord and husband."

"With this kiss I pledge my love," Harry said his words a moment after,"and take you for my lady and wife."

She stepped forward and kissed him, feeling his lips as warm as summer. The septon's words were ringing in the distance,"there they are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

Alayne held onto Harry's cloak,"Now and forever."

The feast was a pale echo of the delight upon the pedestal when she and Harry kissed above all the Vale.

The courses were, of course, fair with salmon and salted pork and dozens of other delicacies hailing from the mountains. There lay in the center a great plate of venison cooked from a stag that the hunters said was shot by Harry himself. She thanked every servant and offering lord as she was bid to do, but her gaze and words were drawn to her lord husband beside her.

Lord Robert sat the high Arryn seat attended by a host of maids, but Harry sat the closest to his right as Defender of the Vale. Lords and ladies would timely come forth to hail Lord Robert, but their words sang congratulations to Harry and his lady wife. Knights came striding forth in their shining armour attended by squires, yet as they swore their swords to the service of Lord Robert their eyes were on the wedding couple.

Harry looked and acted every bit as she expected, the lord from her dreams whom her father had given her. Her father knew who was true and who was not, unlike all the others. Alayne wondered when the other part of his scheme would come to fruition. Her father was long gone, and the guilt would not fall unto him. His hands were clean, and could raise Harry to his deserved seat.

"Poor boy," she glanced over her shoulder to the ailing Lord Robert,"It would be a mercy."

It was two courses later when a serving girl whispered into her ear as she passed out her dish,"Don't drink from the golden cup."

"Now?" she lay stunned there for a moment, then reminded herself to compose her features and not look at the serving girl as she disappeared. She decided that it was sensible now, as his daughter had just wed the future lord and as the new Lord Arryn rose, so would she.

A horrible thought suddenly seized her stomach. For all his efforts, her father had chosen the wrong time. Right after her wedding to Harry was the worst time. The others would suspect her father and her, for they were the ones to now rise as Lord Robert fell.

"Harry," she hissed in the knight's ear,"Drink from the golden cup." She would never let suspicion fall on Harry. Lord Robert was already weak, so her father would be only using a weak poison. It would be enough to kill a sickly boy, but not near enough for a grown man. Only enough to give him a minor illness and draw suspicion off Alayne and her father.

"I know, my lady," Harry whispered back to her,"Worry not."

"Lord Nestor," he reached over and picked up the golden cup,"What is in here? Wine?"

"Honeyed milk, Ser," Lord Nestor answered,"It was meant for Lord Robert."

"Since Ser Eustace," he looked at Lord Robert's cupbearer who lay drunk on the table,"cannot fulfill his duties, I propose that I serve as Lord Robert's new cupbearer."

A laugh shook the table, Ser Morton shaking so hard that he tumbled out of his chair.

"You are fortunate, Harry," Ser Harlan said,"to know the taste of a mother again."

"Though," he turned to Alayne,"He would know that taste tonight anyway."

Alayne turned away, her cheeks burning red. She was glad that they would not reach the bedding.

"Ser Harrold," Ser Arnold's harsh voice rose,"Let me do this duty. I am Lord Robert's kin just as much as you are, an Arryn from a far-off line, but still an Arryn."

Alayne looked at him, his face flustered and pale. Dimly, she thought that he was the only one at the table who was not drunk. Lady Lyra had stormed off when he had continuously refused her offers of wine.

Harry raised no answer, only holding the golden cup to his mouth, his lips brimming the milk. Alayne prayed that she was right about her father. The poison would kill Lord Robert, but not him.

He lowered the cup without even a slight twinge to his face, and Alayne wondered for a moment if she was wrong about the poison at all. He gave the cup to a maid who raised it to Lord Robert's lips, and there she saw his hand begin to twitch. As sudden as a star shower, he bent forward, and began to hack and cough.

Lord Yohn rose, his hand knocking over Lord Robert's cup. The boy lord began to cry, but the rest were silent.

"Someone help the boy," Lord Nestor roared.

"Do not dare touch him," Ser Morton rose from his seat, eyeing anyone who dared to come close to him.

A violent spasm seized Harry, and he shivered until he at last collapsed.

"I was wrong," Alayne thought that she would scream, but she was silent. She pushed herself out of the chair and swept down to where Harry lay. Ser Morton allowed her through even as he barred all the others who dared to come. Her hand landed in the puddle of spilled milk, and her ring came away glistening white. She heard the hall in uproar as she grasped Harry's hand, expecting it cold and empty. He squeezed.

"Oh," Alayne realized, and knew to scream.

Harry lay in his bed far into the night. Alayne sat at his bedside, looking over him seemingly frozen in time. The others had thought her mad, dwelling so long upon a dead man. Yet they were wrong. They thought he was a dead man, but she knew better. They saw the silken tears upon her cheek and believed her, and she was only playing her part.

Alayne had commanded Ser Morton and his brother to carry Harry to his bed, not letting anyone else know that his skin was still warm. The other lords and knights were too fixated on whether Lord Robert had been poisoned to care enough about Ser Harrold, and the Waynwood guards dissuaded anyone else who dared to come close.

The Waynwood brothers stood guard outside the chamber, alongside Ser Arnold who wished to stand vigil over his friend's supposed corpse. Alayne hoped that Harry did not reveal his secret to too many. The Waynwood brothers were his kin, who stood to rise as he did, but Arnold Arryn could supplant Harry if he were not careful. Alayne had bid Ser Wallace watch the other knight at all times.

She wondered throughout the night the reason for this false death, and she began to reach the truth. The messenger did not come from her father, who was very like to have nothing to do with it, but from Harry. The golden cup was not poisoned at all, and the message was only so Alayne would not soil it. It was all a scheme to have them lose sight of him for a moment, fessing over their Lord Robert who was already so frail and could not survive any poison.

This whole farce chilled Alayne to the bone. When before she thought that the Vale loved their Young Falcon much more than the sickly boy, she learned better. Little to no one sought to care for Harry after he supposedly died, but everyone sought to care for Lord Jon's son. If she or her father had even tried to oust Lord Robert in favour of Harry, the Vale would spell their doom in an instant.

Maester Colemon had dropped by their chamber only once to be turned away at the door.

"In their absence," Alayne looked at the sleeping Harry,"He could do what he could not do when they were here."

A choir of voices began to rise in the hall, and at the same time she felt Harry begin to stir.

"No," she squeezed his hand, telling him to not show himself,"They must not know."

Just as her heart began to rest, she heard the steps grow ever louder. She held onto hope yet again that Ser Morton and Ser Wallace's voices would ring against the coming men, yet she only heard a gruff welcome. Alayne squeezed Harry's hand again, reminding him that the men beyond must be men of import if Harry's knights could not stop them. They must be Lord Yohn or any other of the Lords Declarant. He must remain dead.

To his horror, Harry did not venture back into that false sleep. Instead, he rose to face the door, his face as hale as any young man.

"Aunt Anya," his voice rang out in greeting, and Alayne glimpsed the door open.

Her heart fluttered as she clutched at Harry's arm. A whole host of men entered, armour flashing beneath the firelight. Not the dress armour they wore in the wedding, but battle armour suited for war. Alayne recognized Lady Anya in her sable cloak, speaking with Ser Donnel who clenched his gauntlet tight about his hilt.

"Aunt Anya," Harry echoed, his voice ringing again through the chamber. Lady Anya stepped forward, knelt before Harry's bed, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Her smile was as warm as summer,"I knew the tales to be false."

"Pity," Harry returned her smile,"I needed them to be true."

"Royce believed it, at least," Lady Anya said,"And fearing to reveal himself, he would not dare another attempt to poison Lord Robert. Our lord has escaped him."

Harry placed a hand on Alayne's shoulder, struggling to stand. It appeared as though he had to press down Alayne, yet she only felt a gentle touch.

Ser Arnold moved quickly to help Harry, and her husband nodded to the knight bust brushed him off. He resolved at last to lean upon his bedpost, but he stood.

"Once Royce learns that his poison did not succeed," Harry said,"he is certain to try again. The next time, I might not be there to save Lord Robert."

'Lord Yohn?" a knight in a red cloak came forward,"Did he put the poison in the golden cup?"

"Not him directly," Lady Anya said,"We interrogated the cooks, and they tell me that it is most like to be Lady Myranda who put the poison in the milk. Poison is a woman's weapon, after all. But if my lady is inquiring whether Bronze Yohn gave the order, then the answer is as sure as sunrise."

"Lord Yohn only spoke of ridding the Vale of Lord Baelish," Harry sank into his seat, and then rose again,"I believed him once, that it was the right course. I followed his counsel to go to war; he said to march against Littlefinger's Lannisters. I let him declare me Defender of the Vale, ousting Lord Baelish from his seat as Lord Protector. I turned a blind eye to what he said was cleansing the last of Littlefinger's poisons: the boy. The thought of it plagued me all through my wedding, and I hope that my wife could forgive my distance. I could not forgive myself, and in the end I decided that I could not do it. I drank out of Lord Robert's cup in penance."

Alayne wanted to smile as she knew that with Harry's words, Royce was doomed to fall. Her father's plan had been wise.

"That is not true penance, my lord," the red-cloaked knight snapped,"True penance would be to catch the murderer."

"That is what we plan to do," Lady Anya said,"That is what we are here for."

Alayne looked at the knight, and recognized him as Ser Dylan Hart, one of Lord Belmore's household guard,"Not just a mere member, but their captain." She looked about herself, and found herself surrounded by a gilded hulk who was the companion of the Knight of Ninestars, a green-cloaked knight who swore himself to the Hunters, and a beardless man tall and thin as a spear. She did not know who the last man was and he wore no sigil, but she supposed that he was a trusted man of one of the major Vale houses to warrant Harry's invitation.

"I have just been to the Moongate," she said,"and instructed Lord Royce of our situation. He raised the swords of the Gates at Ser Harrold's call."

"Why did he obey?" Alayne asked,"His daughter is the one who put in the poison?"

"His daughter may be guilty," Lady Anya answered,"but I trust that his heart is loyal and true. He swayed, but I reminded him of the oath he gave to Lord Baelish when he was sworn in as Knight of the Gate. To Stand True."

"Ser Dylan," Harry turned to the red-cloaked knight,"Inform Lord Belmore that he should keep his swords ready in the case that Bronze Yohn lashes out. I will send two of my men to aid in your guard."

"You have my thanks," Ser Harrold," Ser Dylan replied as he left, Harry's two men watching him as they followed.

"Ser Cregan," Harry bade the gilded hulk next,"Inform Ser Symond that Lady Lyra's safety will be paramount as we oust Bronze Yohn, and that she shall be secured first before the struggle."

"The Ser's thanks are to you," Ser Cregan grunted as he swept alone from the chamber, none of Harry's men following.

Harry turned to the green-cloaked knight last,"Ser Harpen. I fear that Lord Gilwood is too deep in Bronze Yohn's pockets, but his brother Ser Harlan is a true man. Go to him. Two of my men will shield you." Ser Harpen glanced at the guards beside him, then nodded as well.

"Ser Wallace," Harry instructed his foster brother,"Go with Ser Ilan to the walls and check the patrols. I will not have us ambushed by mountain savages while we deal with treason. Ser Wallace made no answer but grasped the tall beardless man by the arm and led him outside.

"The rest of you," Harry said at last,"I can only ask that you come with me. This is the most dangerous duty, and so I myself must tread it. Bronze Yohn appointed Ser Lyn the First Marshal of the Knights, placing most of his men under his command. I must go to Ser Lyn and convince him of the truth. The last of the Royce's hope will be gone if Ser Lyn stays his swords. I cannot promise that Ser Lyn will not kill us on sight, but I will do my duty to the Vale. I cannot command you to do the same, only ask. I only ask that you prove yourselves not the traitor's slaves, but the falcon's men."

The drawing of a sword was the answer, joined by another, then another, then all of them. They echoed what the knights forged that day beneath the fires when they all cried Aegon's name, yet time their swords chanted something truer.

"They will love their Young Falcon," Alayne knew the truth at last from the singing in the chamber. How wise her father had been. It had looked to her that when the Vale declared for Aegon Targaryen and raised Harry to his seat that they had abandoned her father, forsaking the man who could lead them through winter. Yet Harry and Lord Yohn in their seats of strength could do more for him than he ever could as Lord Protector. He would return as a hero, the hero who would shield Harry's rule and bring Alayne home. Home not to Winterfell and those chambers of ice and cold, but a true home. The nest where the mockingbird can sleep warm, where a daughter has a father.

"Alayne Baelish," that was as sweet a name as she could ever hope to know.

"What of your new bride?" Lady Anya's words suddenly pierced Alayne's dream, and she put a finger on her ring,"You do not need him, not as you come unto your own."

"I do," Harry answered,"He is still the Lord of Harrenhal and the Riverlands no matter how much we pretend otherwise. I am still a boy, or have you not noticed? I need him, just as I need you."

"Fine," Lady Anya snarled. She strode suddenly to Alayne, grasped her hand, and broke the ring off her finger. When Alayne spotted black specks run across the silver, she realized why Lady Anya had done so.

"She originally sought to blame it on me and my father," Alayne knew what sort of danger they were still in. She could not let her guard down.

"When Bronze Yohn is captured," Alayne said,"what do you intend to do with him?"

"A swift and fair trial," Harry said as he pulled on his gauntlets,"and we have him take the black. His power will be gone overnight."

"It will be foolish to do so," Alayne said,"for he is still alive. On the road to the Wall, who can say if he would call his banners against you? Runestone holds the most swords in the Vale, and his foul scheme may very well succeed."

Alayne stepped to Lady Anya and folded her hand over the stained ring,"He must die, and I trust that you know how to make it so."

It was later that night in the Moongate Hall that Ser Lyn and Ser Symond dragged Lord Yohn before Harry.

"Lord Robert is dead," Harry was Harrold Arryn the lord now, his voice as sharp as steel,"I shielded him from your poison at the feast, but your poison still found him in his bed. Your kin Lady Myranda has admitted that she was the one to pour the sweetsleep in the milk. She has also admitted who gave the order."

The guards dragged forward a bruised and beaten woman whose dress was in tatters. It took Alayne a moment to realize that it was Randa, and the court seemed to only then truly waken.

"Did you put something in Lord Robert's milk?" Harry asked. Randa nodded almost imperceptibly. Lord Yohn opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

"My lord Arryn" Lord Belmore said to Harry,"What is your judgment?"

"There is only one just punishment for murdering one's liege lord," Gawen Hunter said. It should have been his uncle Ser Harlan in his place, but the knight had been found drunk with Lady Imelda in bed.

Silence fell upon the hall, until Lord Nestor rushed forward to fall to his knees before Harry.

"Please, my lord," he pleaded,"Myranda knew nothing of it. Yohn told her that it was a tonic to help Lord Robert's illnesses. She could not refuse the head of House Royce."

Alayne bit her lip and caught Lord Yohn looking at her with pleading eyes. She turned away, striding out of the hall through the side door. It would be an ugly business that Harry could see to its end. Two guards accompanied Alayne as she found her way to a window that looked out into the night air. The Vale beyond was a grey and ethereal emptiness. A beauty. Hers.

She took out the ring which Lady Anya had given back to her. The citrine stone was unstained, shining ever so bright in the moonlight. She fingered the ring, turning it round and round. Her fingers found the wretched lumps of the black stains on the silver, but her eyes saw only the orange gem.

"My lady," a voice wakened her to her side where a tall knight stood.

"Ser Arnold," Alayne said,"Forgive me. I did not think to find you here."

"I did not either," Ser Arnold said,"It was an ugly business back there."

"It is done?" Alayne said.

"Ser Arnold nodded,"Lord Harrold had Ser Lyn do the deed with Lady Forlorn."

"Both of them?" Alayne's voice came out fearful.

"Only the lord," Ser Arnold stated,"Lord Harrold spared the girl, but she will join the Silent Sisters in penance."

Alayne nodded, her eyes glumly drawn back to her fingers,"I had spared no one." Her vision began to blur, and she could scarce make out her own hands.

"My lady," Alayne felt Ser Arnold's hand brush her cheek.

"Lord Robert," she sputtered, her tears muffling her voice.

"I know," he drew her into an embrace,"Your father would be proud."

Alayne felt the ring slip from her fingers into the darkness below. Her hands were clean.

 

[Mockingbird]

ASHA
​

It was the first warm day in a moon.

Asha knew the winds better than any other, and it seemed so queer that the north wind was warm. As any capable captain knew, the north wind was the strongest wind. Sailing south was always the easiest. From the distant ice castles where only ancient ironmen heroes had once dared to explore, the Drowned God gifted every worthy sailor a boon from the north.

The north wind was also cold. Ice cold, like knives that bit deep into one's skin. It tore one's blood, breath, and life all out of one's body and left only a shivering husk. That is, if the husk did not grow still before the north wind ended.

She never sailed with the north wind. Others would, those more daring, impatient, and foolish, but not her. The Drowned God's gifts were all the same, a curse far surpassing any little boon it might give. A fleeting chance of glory before all came crashing down. She would rather avoid any of it. There was no easy way to sail in the treacherous seas. Sailing south was a time for oars, and whenever the north wind came she would make shore. It was only when she sailed north did she dare use the wind. The south wind was weaker, but warm.

In all her years upon the sea, the north wind was never warm. Not until this day.

The wolf had spun in the sky, hailed by gusts from beyond the wastes. With how faded the wolf looked on that field of snow, she expected the wind to tear it right off its pole. She expected the wind to be cold. Yet it did neither. The wolf lingered in the greying sky, and as the wind blew through the window it was warmth that touched Asha. Warmth as tender as a shroud before it was burned. She was not so much a fool to believe this warm wind any less crueler than the cold. It came still from the north, from lands whose gales she did not know. And a captain who sails into uncharted waters is a dead captain.

Asha was not so much a fool to believe that the woman sitting beside her was any less crueler than the fat lord. Both came from the North, a land whose hearts she did not know.

She knew, though, that it was better her or the fat lord than the mad boy and his wolf. The only solace Asha could find was that the boy was kept leashed in his chamber, the wolf chained up with him so that even its howls were only distant whimperings in the night. The fat lord had ordered the wolf slain then and there at the wedding, but none dared tread close to it. Asha knew that it was less a matter of the wolf's fangs and more the fear of being seen acting against the Starks of Winterfell. Even a mad wolf, in the end, is a wolf.

It was Lady Arya who came and calmed the wolves, both the one on two legs and the one on four. If there was any lingering doubt amongst the northerners that this woman was Arya Stark, those doubts were banished then. Rickon Stark and his beast knew her as their long-lost sister.

Asha had sought Arya Stark as that night waned into anarchy. Manderly had retreated into his chamber and had not been seen ever since the wedding. She heard that he was watching over his granddaughter, and Asha was not certain as to what he was plotting. Ser Mormund had all the castle know that Manderly sought to return to White Harbour, but Asha knew that he was not so much a fool to leave his Stark, decrepit though the Stark may be. It would be safer by Arya Stark than by Manderly's banners which lay now swaying by the wind. And as she sought refuge by Lady Stark's hearth, she ended up here. Though she supposed that even at the end of the long, winding, and treacherous route, she would have ended up here anyway.

"Wine, my dear?" Dustin asked, a servant placing two goblets on the table.

Asha shook her head, for she was warm enough already.

"A pity," Dustin said, sipping hers. The servant picked up the other goblet and Dustin waved him away,"A little fire would be good for the babe."

"A little," Asha agreed,"but too much and you'd burn yourself." She would rather not take the risk.

"You never know how much is too much," Dustin nodded,"Even a spark can light a cinder brighter than the furnace of a dragon. I certainly know of it. I burned myself with the fire I began."

"Brandon Stark," Asha figured,"Her son Jon Snow who is now dead."

"Lord Snow died sword in hand for his king," Asha said,"His fire is not a burn my lady should fear, but a light my lady should cherish."

Dustin smiled,"But does my dear lady know why he died?"

Asha did not,"There were spies lurking within his men loyal to the Boltons, and he was a true man of King Stannis. The spies murdered him for their Bolton lords."

"I feel cold in this chair," Dustin rose from her seat, beckoning Asha to follow,"Let us go to the window. The winds are warm there."

The winds were not only warm, but howling. They carried their voices away.

"Why did Lord Snow's false men choose at that very moment," Dustin said,"to kill? Why not earlier, when he was weaker? When he just rose as Lord Commander, or even in those fateful days of Stannis Baratheon's march?"

"They killed him the day they learned of King Stannis's victory," Asha realized.

"Precisely, Dustin withdrew a letter from her cloak,"I had the wildling king make another, if the first was along the way. I was about to send it when the tidings of my son's death reached me."

Asha took the letter and read it beneath the glow of the noonborn sun.

Bastard, it read ,

I would have liked to cut out your bastard heart and eat it, but other matters stay my hand. Traitor, you have won more honour than you ever deserve. Come south and see, black crow. Come and see, for your home needs your aid. Come and see your sister and her Reek. Come and see my cage that is your Winterfell, where my six spearwives died for you. Come and see your mother who loves you. Come and see your crown. The northern lords love not a Bolton. They love not the Bastard who has claimed Winterfell that was your father's rightful seat. But they will love a Stark, whatever else you may be. Your brother named you king over all your siblings. Come and see the lords and ladies of your kingdom who will rise for you and strike down your foes. The south needs their king, the strong man to lead them into winter. A man who has already proven himself a lord of men. Your friends wait for you on Winterfell's walls.

Your mother sends her love,

Mance Rayder

"I had the snowmen taken down the day I heard of my son's death," Dustin said.

"Why tell me this?" Asha was vexed.

"My dear lady must learn the truth," Dustin said,"if you are to be our Queen Mother. You must also learn that little sparks can light a fire. My little letter caused my son to die. You must be ever more careful as the mother of the king. Coming out to the wedding was beyond foolish, and it was a wonder that the mad boy or some vengeful northman did not tear you apart, babe and all. The world will not forgive you a second time.

"Queen Mother," now Asha was truly vexed. Dustin could not possibly mean this.

"It's a bastard," Asha said,"and an Ironborn bastard at that."

"The North's lords know, but there is no one else left," Dustin said,"They followed Ramsay Snow when Lord Roose had not an heir and would have followed my son as Brandon's only child."

"Ramsay Snow was legitimized Ramsay Bolton," Asha answered,"and my lady wed Lord Brandon before he gave you your son. It was Eddard Stark that made him Jon Snow."

"Whatever cloaks they wear, they are always bastards in our eyes," Dustin said,"just as however forbidding Stannis Baratheon seems, he is still the saviour of the North."

"Oh," the warm wind was more stifling than ever before. She should have known that when she set sail beneath a burning stag that the wind would never bring her back. The king's babe held more power than all the swords in Winterfell. Dustin had blown away her chance with Brandon Stark's son, but Asha would not. Any could do what Asha could do if they had the chance, but they did not. Asha did, and she would not let any others have hers. The northern wind was her wind.

"Shireen Baratheon will be dead long before Stannis Baratheon reaches the walls of Castle Black," Dustin said,"The Night's Watch has naught left to lose when Baratheon sent north that foolish letter. I know men at their worst. Eddard Stark ever lingers in my memories, that vile man who stole my son and deprived him of his rights. All so he and his children can sit on the throne of Winterfell."

"They sit there still," Asha said.

Dustin nodded,"When I met Lady Arya, I was bewildered. I never expected the daughter of Eddard Stark to be so unlike her sire. She was ever so sweet; gentle and warm besides, so unlike my dear cold brother. But I see him aplenty in his son Rickon Stark."

"Our new Lord Stark was just as his father had been," Dustin began walking away from the window and the winds,"The whole castle, even Lord Wyman admits, that our new Lord Stark is mad, his father's cruelty shown in its truest form. Only that Rickon Stark knew not to hide it well like his father behind a face of frost."

Asha retreated as well from the window and the winds to the seat beside Dustin,"I would like to thank Lady Arya for her hospitality. I regret to have not done so ever since I arrived at Winterfell."

"You should first thank Lord Manderly," Dustin answered,"Without his food, furs, and men, Winterfell would be our husk."

"Of course," Asha knew that Dustin was reminding her that even while she was poised to rise, there was still Manderly and Rickon Stark who remained to block her way.

"I would be certain, though," Dustin said,"that Lady Arya will be pleased to meet you once her business is done."

"What business?" Asha asked.

"Affairs of the North that should in normal times be attended to by Lord Stark," Dustin said,"but since Lord Stark is incapable, the Lady in Winterfell must attend it. She is quite adept, so adept that I daresay she looked more a steward's daughter than a lord's."

"Is not Lord Manderly the Regent who should attend to it on Lord Stark's behalf?" Asha wondered if Manderly had truly withdrawn himself.

"Lord Wyman has remained in his chambers," Dustin said,"and there are rumours that he plans to return to White Harbour. It is clear that he cannot perform his duties as Regent anymore. Lord Torwald Harper has offered Lady Arya his assistance as Regent, as has Lord Howard Marsh and a half dozen other lords. Even Lady Wynafyrd, who I think has taken over House Manderly's mantle from her grandfather. Lady Arya rejected them all with polite words. She said that she was already Regent for her brother."

"Where has Lady Arya the swords to back up her words?" Asha realized the answer in the woman sitting beside her.

"I pray that Lady Arya rules wise and well," Asha said,"She is a blessing to us all."

"It is not my lady who needs Lady Arya's blessing," Dustin laid her hand on Asha's arm,"but Lady Arya who needs yours."

"What can plague the lady?" she wished that Dustin could shake off all these empty courtesies and get to what mattered. If it had something to do with Stannis's child, Asha wished that Dustin would say it outright.

"The North is still at war," Asha expected this,"Lady Stark has sent two thousand of the Winterfell garrison east to reclaim the Dreadfort and Hornwood, the host commanded by my cousin. Roger found the Dreadfort taken already, their battlements flying wolf banners and manned by Umber men. Lord Othell feasted my cousin for a day, telling Roger that one of the young Umbers had captured Hornwood and that he could only feed Roger for a day. My other cousin Rickard returned to Winterfell with the tidings, Roger three days following with the host. The way Rickard told it, he was the one who marched in the vanguard alongside Whoresbane and Crowsfood, becoming the first to plant the Stark flag above the home of the Boltons, but I found the truth from Roger's men."

"Who will rule the Dreadfort?"Asha asked.

"Perhaps one of the Greatjon's sons," Dustin's voice was nonchalant,"or one of the offshoots of the Boltons, distant cousins that rule holdfasts along the Weeping Water. More than likely it will be my father, who lays claim to the Dreadfort through my sister who was Lord Roose's wife."

" No," Asha knew why Lady Arya had sent so many to a surrendering castle. Asha would only do the same for Pyke. Ramsay Bolton had claimed Winterfell through Arya Stark. Arya Stark could claim the Dreadfort through Ramsay Bolton. Dustin was a living example of that, having claimed Barrowton after her husband's death. Lady Arya had found her lands claimed in her name.

"It was a victory, though," Asha said,"Why would it plague Lady Arya?"

"Lady Arya sent another thousand under the command of Robett Glover to take back Torrhen's Square from my lady's ironmen. The messengers arrived two days ago. Lord Robett had stormed the wall relentlessly for seven days and seven nights. At last, he broke the garrison in two dozen places and placed the wolf banner upon the walls. He lost two hundred while your ironmen lost only twenty. An ironman captain slew their commander once he saw the mermen knights streaming from the wales, and surrendered the rest to Lord Robett, even Lady Eddara whom they held hostage. Lord Robett had the ironment strip off their clothes and throw themselves naked into the Dead Lake. He said that the ironmen could swim back to their God."

"It was a victory, though," Asha bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, trying not to think of Glover's children in Harlaw,"Why would it plague Lady Arya?"

Dustin nodded, then continued,"Lady Arya sent to Moat Cailin twenty riders armed with a letter. The letter was written in Lady Arya's own hand and sealed with Lord Roose's seal. She promised them that she knew Moat Cailin held not winter stores of its own .The Boltons were defeated, so they could either open their gates or starve. They kept their gates closed, but soon men began to desert. The twenty riders had linked with the crannogmen, relaying Lady Arya's commands that any surrendering Bolton man was not to be harmed. The castle opened its gates three days later. The crannogmen were the first there like vultures, but they still raised the wolf banner above their walls."

" It is Lady Arya's victory, though," Asha thought,"Why would it plague her?"

"It plagues her," Asha suddenly realized,"because it is Lady Arya's victory."

The whole of the North had once thought her weak, subject to the will of the Bastard and Stannis and all those after. Sweet, as Lady Wynafyrd said, but tender and soft. That was why they turned to Rickon Stark, not just his claim but thinking he is their Young Wolf reborn. They were looking in the wrong place. The Stark boy was mad beyond even the Storm God's hellpool. The one who was capable to be Robb Stark's heir was his sister, just like the only one capable to be Balon Greyjoy's heir was Asha herself.That was probably why Dustin had chosen this very day to invite her. It was this day that she needed Stannis's child, for she was to do what she must.

Asha locked eyes with Dustin, mouthing,"When?"

Dustin tapped Asha's arm one time.

"I know why her victories would plague her," Asha said,"Suitors."

Dustin laughed,"That is certainly true. Lady Arya's suitors have been unceasing ever since she rose as Regent of Winterfell. There was a fat lord from the Last River who danced on his fingers to impress her. She laughed, and that was it. Lord Harper brought in glassmen from Timberhall to restore Winterfell's glass gardens, and then asked Lady Arya to walk in the gardens with each of his sons. Lady Arya admired the new flowers, not so much the sons. One of the knights that Lord Robett sent back to Winterfell, one of those Winterwynds, tried to serenade the lady with a song at their welcome feast. He sang to her the 'Seasons of My Love'. The lady seemed interested, and he made the mistake of singing another. It was 'the Bear and the Maiden Fair'."

The winds had been ever warm until this moment, when Asha suddenly felt a hint of cold. She heard a faint hustle emanate from the north. She shook off Dustin's hand and rushed to the window, looking out with her breach catching in her throat. From the north, a black spot grew larger and larger. It soon was large enough for Asha to see that it was some sort of dark cloud, with wisps of vapour casting off in thin tendrils. She watched with her heart frozen as it descended upon Winterfell, soaring around the towers to enter at last into the Great Keep. Asha gathered her senses swiftly, and saw madness begin to reign.

Across the yard, the doors of the Great Keep slammed open to a host of men. They were shouting as they ran across the bridge to the armoury. Asha could scarce make out their words, only fragments of "dead" and "lady". The bells began to toll in the west as hosts of men now armed assembled in the yard below flying Stark banners. She knew what bells meant. In Pyke, it meant either death or war. Since they were already at war, the bells could only mean one thing.

Yet Asha was vexed,"Why the lady?"

Her question was answered when Rune Stout burst into the chamber with two dozen armed guards.

"I apologize, my ladies," the knight declared,"but this is for your protection. There has been a murder in the Great Keep. Lord Rickon is dead. He was alone in his room with that wildling. She has been captured, and claims that Lord Rickon was slain by a shadow."

"A shadow," Dustin sniggered,"I thought the wildling would have crafted a better tale to mask her own guilt."

"The wildling was right," Asha's eyes would never lie. She held her tongue, knowing the truth now. Dustin had arranged some way for Rickon Stark to die so her Lady Arya would emerge the heir to Winterfell. In this the northmen were like her ironmen, as they would always prefer the capable lady to her mad brother. Asha would prefer her as well. Her child would need a Lord of Winterfell. Rickon Stark was not worthy. Arya Stark was. She could make more with this wolf more than anything she could with Manderly's Stark.

"You have my thanks, Lord Stout," Dustin said,"but I would rather your men stand guard outside my chamber."

"Of course, my lady," Rune Stout knelt and kissed Lady Dustin's hand. He rose, and Asha detected the hint of a glare her way.

She walked up to him, steeling her eyes,"King Stannis was not wrong in judging your father, but he trusts you to be better, to be worthy of the seat you have inherited."

"I will be, Your Grace," Stout whispered stiffly, then retreated from the chamber with his men.

Dustin rose, to stride to the window and winds, Asha following without her needing to beckon. She still reeled from Stout's words.

"I honestly thought that my men would think of a better tale than a shadow," Dustin said,"Lord Harwood certainly did when Lord Roose fell, though I admit that even that was far-fetched. Nightlock. Did he not remember that Lord Roose had a cupbearer taste every drink before he drank it? The castle believed that tale, but they will not believe this. The shadow is the fantastical rambling of a murderous wildling seeking to hide her guilt."

"Lady Arya is Lady of Winterfell now," Asha said.

"Lady Arya is Lady of Winterfell now," Dustin echoed,"and she should arrive at any moment."

A knock soon sounded on the door, and they heard Rune Stout's voice,"Lady Arya Stark requests an audience with Lady Dustin and the queen."

"Send her in," Dustin commanded, and the door opened. Lady Arya emerged from the doorway with four of her lady companions. There was Lady Wynafyrd who frowned at Asha, the newlywed Lady Jonelle, one of those Mormont girls who had arrived at Winterfell with the crannogmen, and another whose face Asha did not know. Two of their guards followed them into the chamber, one Asha knew as Ser Mormund and the other one of the soldiers who had fought under Rodrik Cassel.

Asha looked at the lady, seeing the remnants of tearstreaks that have only just dried. Her brown hair was matted in melted snow and pine needles, its curls going off in every direction. Behind her, Asha suddenly heard a whimpering, and stepped back when she saw the wolf.

"Sit, Shaggy," Lady Arya said, and the wolf sat down,"You are frightening Her Grace."

"Is my lady alright?" Asha stepped forward again.

The lady shook her head,"Rickon is dead."

"How did the wolf survive?" Asha asked.

"Shaggy threw himself between Rickon and the shadow," Lady Arya answered,"but the shadow was never meant for the wolf. It stepped around Shaggy who was bound by his chains and stabbed Rickon in the chest."

"My lady believes the wildling's words that it was a shadow," Asha said quietly.

"I was in the godswood when the wind turned cold," Lady Arya said,"As I prayed to the Old Gods and my father, I saw a black shadow flying in the north beyond the canopy. It soared above the towers and flew into the Great Keep. I believe what Osha said about the shadow."

"What did she say it looked like?" Asha asked.

"It was a man, with the face of a donkey, whose lips curled into a smirk as he plunged his knife in and dissipated."

"A curse of the Old Gods?" the Mormont girl asked,"I heard in Greywater Watch that the accursed Freys were all slain in their castle by Lady Catelyn's ghost. Perhaps the same happened to the mad boy."

"He was not mad," Lady Arya snapped,"He was… my brother."

"A brother that the Old Gods have seen fit to take before his time," Asha said, stroking Lady Arya's cheek,"I hope my lady can release the wildling woman now that you know that she is innocent."

"That is only mine to decide," Lady Arya said,"if I have Your Grace's blessing to be Lady of Winterfell."

"Show her," Dustin said with contempt in her voice,"She does not yet know."

"One of the clansmen, Theo Norrey," Lady Arya said,"came to me with two of the king's decrees. He burned each seal off and read them to me. One was a wedding proposal, pardoning my cousin Jon of the Night's Watch and legitimizing him as Jon Stark, where he would marry the princess Shireen. The other was another marriage parchment, of King Stannis's wedding to Lady Asha held by the red priestess Melisandre of Asshai. Those who follow the Lord of Light can take more than one wife."

"It is only for the hero that the Old Gods can allow such abomination," the Mormont girl muttered.

"Oh," Asha realized at last what Stannis had meant to do. In one hand he would abide by Dustin and give her his princess, but in the other he would fashion another prince of his own. Asha hoped now that the child growing in her womb was a son.

"You have my blessing," Asha said to Lady Arya,"as Lady Stark of Winterfell."

"You have my thanks, Your Grace," Lady Arya replied and knelt. Following her was her lady companions and her guards, the host of men standing in the halls. Last of all was Dustin with a sour look on her face, but in the end she knelt also before Asha.

"The Seastone Chair is not worth the dirt beneath my boots," Asha decided, for there will be no peace for the Ironborn if she held only one kingdom. In this, the Crow's Eye was right. It was the Iron Throne that mattered. Why have one kingdom when one can have Seven? It was safer this way.

There was one more thing she sought to see. Stannis's prince was not just against Dustin, but Manderly as well as his Stark. The Stark is dead, and Manderly remained by his granddaughter's bed, but Asha was not so certain that he had truly retreated.

"How is Lady Wylla?" she turned her voice abruptly to Lady Wynafyrd.

"Better," Lady Wynafyrd answered, raising her head,"but I never imagined that Rickon Stark would do such a thing. I never wanted Grandfather to go to Winterfell, but he insisted. He knows now that there is no place for us here, so we are returning to White Harbour."

"Truly?" Asha asked.

"In White Harbour," Lady Wynafyrd answered,"squabbles over fish oft lead into duels to the death. I do not want that here. Some fish are not worth dying for."

Stannis's scheme had worked beyond Asha's wildest dreams. Both Rickon and Jon Stark were dead, their kennelmasters humbled to her prince. There was only her prince left, and the Stark that would soon be hers.

Asha closed her eyes, and let the king's wind blow her away.