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Chapter Text

Jon I

“For the watch,” Bowen Marsh whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks as he punched his dagger through Jon’s stomach. 

Jon’s fingers, stiff and uncooperative, fell away from his side, failing to grasp his sword as he fell down onto his knees. His hands drifted away from his sword to the dagger in his stomach and he wrenched it loose, gravity pulling it free and coating his hands in rivers of red. He looked up at the red faced Bowen Marsh- his head Steward… and he had betrayed himi.

Why? Jon tried to ask but his tongue also refused to cooperate either. The world swirled around him, but one thing was clear— his reflection in the murky green eyes of the Lord Steward. 

“For the Watch,” he heard once more as a dagger slipped between his shoulder blades and Jon fell forwards onto his face. “Ghost.” Jon whispered, his voice quieter than the wind itself. If only he hadn’t been so stupid and left Ghost behind in his chambers. If only he had trusted Ghost’s distrust of Whittlestick and Marsh. If only he had treated Melisandre’s warnings seriously… She had warned him of daggers in the dark… and told him to keep Ghost close… 

Jon’s eyes drifted shut. Stick them with the pointy end. Jon thought to himself. If he was still capable of forcing his lips to move he would have smiled or perhaps laughed. It was cold, Jon thought as he gave up his hold on life. 

Ghost rammed his head against the door of the armory in frustration. Jon Snow had died, killed by his brothers in a mutiny. And Ghost hadn’t been there to protect him. He had to get out there. He had to rip out the throats of the ones who had turned on his human. He had to protect those who were loyal to his human from suffering the same fate.

But he couldn’t.

Because he was locked in this room. Locked in here without the ability to defend his human.

And now he was dead. 

Ghost felt a pressure building in his head, but the wolf tried to shut it out. He needed to find a way to get out there. The ringing of steel sounded outside along with the panicked shouts of the humans. He looked up at the door in front of him. When he wore the flesh of a man, Ghost had been able to open the door using the knob…

I can’t do it , a small boy’s voice whispered from a far off place. It sounded familiar to his ears, the human tongue oddly discernible to the wolf for whatever reason. 

Ghost shook himself and walked to the far end of the room slowly, and then turned towards the door and charged at it full speed, claws outstretched. He crashed into the door and this time it worked. The door toppled over, unable to carry the entire weight of Ghost, and at last the wolf was free. 

The pain in his skull grew greater.

There’s someone else in there— is that Jon? Ghost’s ears perked up slightly at hearing the name of his human, but he couldn’t let that distract him from his hunt. 

The yard was in chaos in the wake of his human’s death. It was an all out war. The ones who had killed his human were already dead. Marsh and Whittlestick, an echo sounded in his mind. The giant hairy hornblower stood defensively in front of his human with a sword of black rippling steel swinging wildly at one of those in a black cloak.

Runnymudd he thought to himself, a thought that the wolf never could have possessed on his own. He would not leave the battle to the hairy giant alone though, he could smell the guilt on him. And he could smell the blood of his human on the traitor’s dagger. 

Ghost leapt into the fray, his teeth bared in a silent snarl as he pounced onto the murderer. It was over in an instant, his teeth ripping into the man’s throat and causing him to fall into the snow, dying it a deep red as more bodies continued to fall. He looked up at the hornblower who was trying to say something to him. Ghost was far from done though, there were more monsters to hunt tonight. 

There was a tension growing between his ears, swelling with every second, and Ghost stumbled due to the pain it was causing. His head drifted towards the corpse of his human without his willing it so. Jon… a smaller voice whispered in his ears. How could this have happened…? Ghost violently shook his head to the side, but it did nothing to cease the growing pain behind his eyes. Was he going to die again?

And then it popped. He could feel himself shrinking, it was like he was being forced to pass through the eye of a needle. His mind stretched and twisted as he was forced to walk. For a moment he was Jon Snow, and then he was Ghost again. His eyes squeezed shut to block out the growing anguish in his soul. He felt like he was submerged in ice, and then as if he was on fire. 

The world exploded for the second time, an experience more painful than his first death as he felt another presence invade his senses and steal all that he was— pushing him to the back of his mind and ripping him away from the other part of him— his human. He could feel his grasp on reality slipping and then he was Ghost no more. 

When the rider’s eyes opened again, it was to the feeling of a warm breeze blowing gently against his hardened scales. The night was dark, only illuminated by torchlights and the balls of fire thrown against the city walls. He could hear the ringing of steel still around him, and for a moment, the rider thought that if he closed his eyes again, he would be back on the wall, curled up next to the fireplace. 

Or perhaps in it. 

It was hot. The air was warm, but it was more than the temperature. It was as if his very blood was on fire. The fire permeated his senses, a warmth far greater than any he had ever felt before. That was what it was to be a dragon, he was fire made flesh. 

Wait, a dragon? 

The rider felt the dragon— Rhaegal lift his snout in the air, craning it’s head this way and that way as he felt the new presence settle in his mind. He was alone in the ruins of the pyramid of the perfumed ones who smelt far too strongly of berries and tasted rancid unlike the other humans. The surrounding stone was a rich black onyx that the rider could make out fine despite the lack of lightning surrounding him.

As one, the rider and the dragon lifted their head into the hair and roared loudly. A torrent of flames poured through their open maw, illuminating the skies and bathing the entire city that their mother presided over in an eerie crimson glow. The men in the streets stopped and looked up. They cowered back in fear, running away from the angry dragon. 

But the dragon wasn’t wrothful, but in mourning. His destined rider was gone- taken before he could ever sit on his back. Only a brief glimpse had been had— and no more would ever come. Now the two of them would sail amongst the stars as one instead of two— forevermore. 

A soft presence brushed against the rider’s brain, a strangely gentle probe. Fly? Rhaegal asked the rider. It wasn’t truly words— just a feeling offered to the rider— the two creatures bound together by blood and spirit. And one that the rider could return. 

Rhaegal roared again and the rider joined his song, before he flapped his wings and they were in the air. 

The world looked different from up there, the rider decided. He wasn’t sure if that was because he was so high up, or if it was because a dragon simply saw differently. The world was smaller, that was for sure, but it was a different smaller than when the man once known as Jon Snow had stood atop the wall and looked down on the people below. The people were like ants, but even from so high up, he could see every detail— the clothes they wore, and even the expressions on their faces. He could see a rat darting between the feet of one of the men in a gold plated mask. It was as if the rider was standing right next to them. 

The world was also more colorful, seeing new colors that the rider had never seen anywhere before now. An entirely new spectrum that illuminated things and the dragon’s eyesight made it apparent when something was even just a shade lighted in one spot on a banner. 

But more than his eyesight, it was the smells that made the former human gasp in awe. It was like the rider had a second set of eyes. He could track every person and animal in the city on their unique scent alone. 

It wasn’t like when the rider had been a wolf though. As a wolf, he had been able to smell things that his manflesh’s nose would never have detected, but that had been detecting falsehoods and danger. It had been smelling out poison and causing that wine jug to spill before he could have drunk it. 

As a dragon he wasn’t smelling emotions or intent, but blood. Every living thing’s blood carried something, some stronger than others, some more pleasing than others, but it called to Rhaegal and his rider. The desire to hunt burned in his belly like a hot iron, but they pushed it down for now. 

Right now, they would fly. The first flight the rider and dragon would ever have together, for they would never get the chance to carry one another on their back. 

Rhaegal let out another mournful cry. 

Jon Snow the human was dead, of that the rider was certain. He had gone on to live again as his wolf…

And then someone had forced him out. Another presence had tried to steal Ghost from him, and that one had overpowered him, crushing Jon Snow into nothingness and forcing his mind out in favor of their own. Who was that? They had known Jon Snow,  and even sounded aggrieved by his death… But they still chose to steal his wolf instead of letting that be his second life. 

Was it one of the Free Folk? But why would they have sounded surprised seeing his corpse? Who else could it be? How powerful would a skinchanger need to be to steal his wolf from afar if they hadn’t been at Castle Black during the mutiny? Everything that Jon Snow had known about skinchanging also suggested you needed a bond with the animal first… So how was someone else able to steal Ghost- he had no other bonds. Was what had happened even possible?

Their chest rumbled at the thought. Right, the rider supposed that him being here on the other side of the narrow sea as a dragon proved that both of those were indeed possible. 

That was a bigger mystery than even the theft of the wolf.

How could the rider have skinchanged a dragon on the other side of the world? One that he had never crossed paths with before… And dragons were supposed to be a Valyrian thing, he was pretty sure that none of the histories mentioned them bonding with the descendants of the first men. Fear seized his heart, could someone steal Rhaegal the same way as they had ripped the rider away from the wolf?

Rider, Rhaegal insisted wordlessly as if that explained everything. 

Perhaps it did. 

If Jon Snow had lived would he have eventually found Rhaegal? Would he have ridden him regardless of his blood if he had lived? Could the rider be with Rhaegal now because a dragon’s bonds transcended time? It sounded so mystical it was silly. 

Rider, Rhaegal insisted once more. 

A memory flashed before his eyes, a woman as naked as the day she was born, her skin covered in ash and soot, with one brother suckling at her breast, drinking milk like a newborn babe, and the other— the black one, resting on her scalp, draped across her skull like a living crown. Mother Rhaegal trilled as he scrambled up onto her shoulder. Rider , he trilled again. And there was another there seeing through the same eyes the rider realized... himself.

From the day that they were hatched, the rider had been with Rhaegal? 

It didn’t even begin to make sense— but Rhaegal knew it to be true so his rider did as well— even if he could only recall the scene as Rhaegal, not himself. And Jon Snow had not even known Rhaegal had existed until his third life. It must be a dragon thing, to be bound to a dragon since birth. Perhaps because Rhaegal’s rider had the blood of the first men it led to their weird circumstances where they always knew who their destined one was. 

But that did not change that all the dragonriders had the blood of Old Valyria… And that meant that the rider once known as Jon Snow had to also have that blood. 

Did that mean that Jon Snow’s mother was a dragonseed that Ned Stark had encountered during the rebellion? 

White hot rage seized the rider and they let off a gout of flames on the swordsmen below them. Liar. The thought bounced around his head like the pounding of a drum. Jon Snow’s father was nothing but a liar. 

Another face joined his father’s in the mind of the rider and his dragon. This one much prettier, pale and free of blemishes, with silver hair word in a braid and sparkling purple eyes. Mother. Liar. Rhaegal commiserated with his rider. 

The two of them dove down from the sky and his talons grabbed onto one of the men in plate, his claws effortlessly tearing the leather and biting into the flesh. He tossed the corpse aside and lunged for another one as fire spilled from betwixt his teeth. 

Burn. They thought as one. They are all liars. Burn. Burn. Burn them all. They took to the sky again, this was no hunt but a massacre. He just wanted the world to feel the pain that he was feeling— the rage at Jon Snow’s death before he could meet his destined one coupled with the rage that Ned Stark was nothing but a horrible liar.

It was a realization that cut deeper than swords. The true dagger in the dark that Jon Snow had been warned of perhaps. 

Ned Stark was not the father of the rider who had once been Jon Snow. He had to have been his uncle. 

Jon Snow’s father must have been Rhaegar Targaryen and his mother Lyanna Stark. The girl who had been kidnapped and raped by Jon Snow’s father… and he was the product of it. The man whose existence had led to a rebellion and ended the Targaryen dynasty. And his dragon was named for that monster.

All of those years of asking who Jon Snow’s mother was… and the answer was that. She assuredly did not want Jon Snow, and he had killed her when he was born. He was the product of rape— a product of tragedy. 

And yet the rider could not regret the birth of Jon Snow, for it had brought him to Rhaegal. And Jon Snow had already chosen to be Jon Snow— not Stark. If being that shame brought him to Rhaegal and gave him this third life with his bonded one, then it had to be worth it. Being a Targaryen had to be good— because only then could Jon Snow be a dragon now. Only then could he fly with Rhaegal until the stars grew cold.

The rider roared in pain and Rhaegal answered, his mind sliding against the rider’s in something akin to an embrace. 

He didn’t even really understand why he was so mad. It was obvious that Jon Snow’s father— uncle had lied to protect the boy. But… he had still died all the same. Jon Snow had died without ever meeting Rhaegal— forced away from the wolf… And maybe if Jon Snow had gotten to know the truth, he never would have gone to the Wall of Ice and he would still live. Maybe he would have gone to Essos and bonded with Rhaegal earlier. Maybe he could have actually ridden on dragonback like he was destined to do. 

But…

Instead, Jon Snow had died. 

They let out a puff of smoke, and took to the skies again. The rage fading away in favor of that dull melancholy that somehow hurt worse. 

They glided through the skies like that for a while, watching the men in the city panic as they looked up to the sky. They watched as the men in the city ran out to battle with the ones outside the gates, led by an old man on a silver mare. And they watched the harbor, where countless ships rested on the water, also part of this war for the city that neither of them knew the name of. 

And then they saw one of the ships— a warship that carried a pair of banners. One of them was the banner of Mother’s house— of Jon Snow’s secret house. A three headed dragon in red against a black backdrop. Rage boiled in his belly once more as Rhaegal picked up speed and charged towards the bay with a furious flap of his wings. 

He let out a roar in the direction of his brother, encouraging him to join in on the hunt and burn those ships and the men pouring out of them. 

For it was the second banner that they were flying that caught the attention of the rider. One that Jon Snow had been very familiar with, and one that Jon Snow had hated more than any other. 

A black banner with gold. 

And on it flew the Kraken.

Greyjoy. The rider growled. 

-

Tormund I

When the roar had shaken the castle followed by the sound of a man screaming, Tormund had been one of the hundreds to file out of the Shieldhall and into the courtyard in pursuit of the source of the noise. Had Bolton arrived to cut out Snow’s heart already? The Free Folk weren’t a people who sent words on a page, but surely, the point of a warning was to wait longer? Would this be a situation like Stannisi were they were caught completely unawares?

Then came the song of steel. Fear seized his heart for a moment, but Tormund was not a man but Giantsbane so he refused to let it rule him. 

Tormund blew on his horn, a long and dark sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle. “Free Folk to me!” His voice bellowed out when he lowered the horn, his words heard by all, even in the pandemonium. “Today we fight for Snow! Today we fight for Castle Black! Show those Crows that we are better killers than them!” 

His fellow Free Folk roared at their

“To battle!” Tormund shouted once more as they charged to join their brethren who were by Hardin’s Tower, where Val was confined at the precipice. 

Wun Wun thrashed a crow against the wall repeatedly, his head swollen beyond recognition. It resembled an overripe pomegranate now. Wun Wun was bleeding, Tormund remarked numbly. On the ground was one of those men in plate, his arm ripped off already— one of the Queen’s Men. 

Further to the right was a scattering of crows— Snow’s men, and all of them were bearing steel as they formed a half circle against the wall, trying to fence off both the Giant and the men forming a wall to the side.

And on the ground between the two groups was Leathers. He had been one of the Free Folk— marched alongside Tormund when Mance was King. He was one of the few Free Folk to choose to be a Crow… And the Crows had killed him despite him saying their vows… They had called him brother… And they had butchered him like the pig they were.

Had Snow betrayed them?

“Brothers, kill the Wildlings! Castle Black is ours!” One of the Crows snarled, steel clenched in his fist. Wick Whittlestick if Tormund was remembering his crows correctly. 

“Kill them first!” Tormund roared back. He was gong 

The two slides charged at each other, and when they did, it was far from an even battle. The free folk might have been a bit tipsy after all that ale, and they might not have been as well armed as the Black Brothers in that moment, but they still outnumbered them nearly two to one with how many were currently residing in the castle due to Snow calling them all there to discuss Hardhome and then that letter. Tormund had brought along 50 of his best. And that was assuming that every crow fought for Snow— even the Free Folk who had taken the Black. 

If it was a trap, then Snow was an idiot for planning it this way. 

Tormund didn’t have much time to think further as he engaged one of crows, his hammer swinging wildly at their unprotected breastplate. They deflected the first blow with their sword but the second from his other hammer crushed his ribs. 

The crow coughed up blood onto Tormund’s beard before collapsing in a boneless heap. 

Another crow stepped up in his place, this one carrying a black sword in his left hand that rippled as it reflected the sunlight off of the wall. It took Tormund a minute to place why the sword seemed familiar… It was Snow’s sword. 

He didn’t have time to process that revelation before the crow was on him, the sword swinging far faster than the other crows swung theirs. He barely had time to lift his hammer and deflect the first swing, and then it was back on him again, slashing out towards his exposed shoulder. 

Tormund grinned. Finally a challenge. 

He roared wordlessly and swung his hammer to the temple, but found it blocked again. The sword dashed out and nicked his thigh, and then again, cutting at his shoulder.

Tormund’s eyes tracked the blade as it swung down on his collarbone. This was his chance, he stepped forward into Lew’s reach and his hammer lashed out for his elbow, planning on breaking his good arm and dismantling the present threat. 

But in that moment, just as Tormund was about to cripple his foe, the crowd parted in just the right way, and Tormund’s breath was stolen from him. 

It was Snow, lying face down on the ground in a pool of blood. The standard daggers of the Night’s Watch that they all carried were buried deep between his shoulder blades, and another in his lower back. 

When awareness returned to Tormund, it was too late. The brief moment of distraction at the sight of Snow— killed by his own sworn brothers had cost him his opportunity. The sword bit into the flesh of his shoulder, and then stopped. 

Tormund watched wordlessly as a dagger pushed through the back of the crow’s throat. His hands reached up to try to cradle the wound, letting the steel clatter to the floor harmlessly, instead of cutting Tormund in half. The crow dropped to his knees, revealing the familiar face of Tormund’s savior. 

“Val,” Tormund greeted as he huffed for air. 

She stood where the crow had once been, her dirk stained red as she held it up. Her golden hair was done in a loose braid, but flecked with blood. Her blue eyes scanned the field behind him, not letting her guard down for a second. 

“Tormund,” Val’s voice carried no warmth, just weariness. “Stop standing around, and go back to killing crows. They mutinied and killed Jon from what I’ve gathered. Evidentially, they weren’t as willing to accept us here as he thought. All of our plans are in the wind now.” She frowned, and shook her head. “They’ll die for their foolishness.”

“Jon is it?” Tormund laughed in spite of the tension. “Did he finally realize he stole you?”

Val flushed and ducked her head. “Shut up Giantsbane, and get back to killing.”

“Aye Aye Your Majesty!” Tormund bantered as he bent over and picked up the sword that the crow had discarded— the one that had once belonged to Snow. 

“Fucking Wildling Princess,” Val murmured. “Dammed Southerners, I’m never going to live that down.” She shook herself lightly. “The Crows have hostages against us,” Val reminded Tormund. “They won’t be enough for them to leverage and stop an ongoing battle, but we need to secure whichever ones aren’t already out here before the crows kill them.” 

“Is Dryn…?” Tormund trailed off, unable to voice the thought. “Was he with Snow…?” When Snow had enacted his blood price, he had assigned Dryn to serve as his page— and he was rarely far from Snow’s side. 

“I haven’t seen him,” Val answered, her lips pursed. 

Tormund frowned and took a swing of Snow’s sword to distract himself. “Har har har,” he laughed, but he knew that his bluster wasn’t fooling her for a second. “I need to get me a sword like this!” It was certainly an impressive sword, lighter than any of the steel they stole from the crows, and sharper too. 

“Then use it to kill the crows who murdered him,” Val told him. “I’ll go try to find Dryn and the other hostages.”

Tormund nodded gratefully and turned back to the battle. The Free Folk were not holding up as well as Tormund would have hoped. For every 2 dead crows, there were 3 dead Free Folk. And the snow was running red all around, even as more freshly fell to cover the stained ones. To call this a battle was a misnomer— it was a massacre. Centuries of hatred on both sides, boiled over by the betrayal of the Lord Commander— and both sides would not accept an ending other than every single person dead— complete eradication. 

Tormund laughed uproariously. “Kill the crows!” He bellowed again before charging at one of the remaining crows. 

He cut through one crow quickly with his new sword, and then another rose to take his place. There might have been twenty of the black brothers against them before the combat had reached a fever pitch, but they were multiplying. It wasn’t hard to figure out why— not every crow here knew that Snow had been betrayed and the Free Folk were fighting for him. They just knew that their brothers were being killed by the Free Folk and assumed the treachery was on them. 

Such was the nature of war. 

And as such they would die, not that Tormund would shed any tears for a crow. 

Tormund lashed out wildly with his sword at a crow, having it deflected, and then swung out again without any hesitation— he really liked this sword. No wonder Snow had refused to share it. 

He swung out again, but his sword just cut through the air as his opponent vanished. He blinked and then he saw, it was Snow. 

“You stole my kill,” Tormund complained half-heartedly.

Now in the form of his wolf, he had leapt through the air and ripped out the throat of one of the men who had mutinied against him. Snow looked up at him, blood dripping from his jaws, before turning away. He ran off without giving Tormund a second thought.

Tormund laughed without purpose. Snow could handle himself, they had more crows to kill. 

- 

Theon I

Theon could no longer feel his arms. 

Or his legs for that matter. At first his shoulders had burned and his wrists had chaffed, but now it was just a dull sensation of weightlessness. His legs had once tingled at the lack of use, but now, they had just lost all feeling altogether. Theon was just drifting, waiting for his death. 

 Every breath was painful, his chest compressing on itself. He could no longer lift himself up at all to make breathing come slightly easier. He would die soon. 

It’s not so bad , Theon thought to himself. Far better than what he had endured under Ramsay. He still had just as many fingers and toes as he did when Stannis captured him. He wasn’t missing more teeth either. Stannis hadn’t tortured him at all— just let him hang there, and pretended he wasn’t there most of the time. Even the hunger of only being fed the dregs on occasion was nothing compared to what Ramsay had put him through.

If Stannis did not hurry up and give him to his Red God then Theon would die before he could be sacrificed. If he did, then Stannis might use Asha instead. 

That was why Theon hadn’t let himself give up. Why he kept on fighting just for oxygen to enter his lungs. He had killed Bran and Rickon— not them, just miller’s boys… But Bran and Rickon were on their own because of him— and likely dead.

Kinslayer, the wind whispered in his ear. 

“Twice over,” Theon mumbled, his lips dry and his voice so hoarse that he wasn’t sure he had even said the words aloud. 

But he wouldn’t make it thrice. 

Perhaps, Stannis would have mercy and give him to the tree as Asha had requested— to the gods of Eddard Stark. To the gods of Robb Stark. To the gods of Bran and Rickon. Who else had a right to judge him other than them?

Stannis might have been a devout follower of the Lord of Light, but most of his men were not. His host was made up of Northerners who fought for Stannis to avenge the Starks and for Jeyne Pool who they believed to be Arya. His army was made of men who worshiped the trees— and would look to the trees to end the storms raging outside the walls of Winterfell that threatened to bury Stannis. 

“Greyjoy,” he heard a grunt, and lifted his head weakly. There stood the King, arms folded over his chest, and jaw clenched. The winter had not treated him well, his face gaunt enough that he already looked like a skull, flesh peeling away to reveal bone. The golden crown with the tongues of fire that rested on his head would slide down his brow when he tilted his head, having lost all fullness in his face. 

“You will die on the morrow,” there was no ceremony in the King’s speech— no attempts to soften to blow. It was a truth delivered like a hard stone. Blunt and abrasive. 

Theon licked his cracked lips. “How am I to die?”

“Theon,” a raven chittered from in it’s cage, them all rattling as one once more. “The Tree,” another cried. Their voices echoed around the chambers as they had for days. 

It wasn’t contained to the tent either. Two ravens separate from these ones had flown in circles above the camp until they were shot down. One declared the name of Theon, and the other “The Tree”. 

Stannis hadn’t looked in Theon’s direction since that day. Nor had Asha been in to plead with Stannis again. 

Stannis grit his teeth. “The ravens have the right of it, you’ll be given to the blood soaked tree.”

Theon blinked slowly, not believing his words at first. The weirwood tree, Theon closed his eyes and pictured it’s weeping face. And he pictured Eddard Stark, crouched next to it, greatsword laid across his lap as he cleaned the blade. A good death, more than I deserve. 

“Thank you,” Theon rasped.

“I’m not doing it for you,” Stannis’s gaze pinned him down. “Whichever northerner trained those damned birds to circle the camp saved you from the flames. They have taken to calling it an omen from the Old Gods that you need to be sacrificed to the tree for the storm to abate. Foolishness.”

Stannis turned his back on Theon. “But if I were to offer you up to R’hllor and the storm didn’t abate, I would face mass desertion at best, and more likely a mutiny from the Northerners in my ranks. At least if I offer you to the heart tree, then I can burn your sister next without being decried as a heretic for ignoring the voice of false gods.”

Theon swallowed painfully. Please, Theon prayed. Please to the gods of the Starks, accept my life as payment. Don’t let Asha die for my sins. Theon begged— perhaps the gods would listen because he knew this King wouldn’t. 

“Report,” Stannis ordered, his voice curt. 

Theon blinked painfully, he had drifted off again. It was becoming harder and harder to stay awake now. Stannis was sitting on the other side of the room, talking with one of the knights— Horpe if Theon wasn’t mistaken. 

“We’ve proceeded with carving the holes in the ice as you ordered—”

“But?”

“It’s too cold, Your Grace,” Horpe ducked his head. “The holes we carved yesterday are already frozen over enough to hold a man’s weight without armor.”

“You’ve covered them in snow?”

“We have, but by the time that we’ve covered them, the bottom layer is already frozen again. 

“My Northerners claim that the snow should stop the lake from freezing so quickly so the spot can be reused for fishing,” Stannis muttered. 

“Perhaps it’s the case normally, but it’s too cold right now, Your Grace,’ Horpe informed him dutifully. 

Stannis frowned and leaned back in his chair. “So we will need better scouts then.”

“It appears that way. Cut away as much of the ice as we can as close to the battle as possible, and hope that it proves brittle enough for our ambush.”

Stannis exhaled, his breath coagulating into frost in front of him. “I should have never given Snow those Wildlings. 300 men who know nothing but fighting in such heavy snows might do me more good than the 3,000 boisterous fools that he gave me.” 

“What about—” 

“I do not believe in planning on what-ifs. That is something only a fool would do, and I am not my brother.” Stannis stood from his chair, the legs scraping against the hard floor. “Alas, it appears that it might be our best hope of winning this battle.”

“Your Grace—,”

“But we will proceed as planned,” Stanniis forestalled his protests. “Test the catapults on the ice. I need to know how deep they can crack in order to proceed from here.” He paused and looked over towards Theon for a moment, before focusing on Horpe again. “And try to talk to the Wull, express curiosity in how he catches so many fish— do not let him know of our plans— but we have to know if there is something we are missing in how to use this terrain.”

“It will be done, Your Grace.” Richard Horpe bowed once more for the King. 

“Then get to it and leave me be.”

“As you command,” He bowed again and swept out of the tent. 

The day went on as Theon watched, drifting in and out of consciousness as Stannis met with all of his varying officers to discuss the battle plans. Even if Roose had blundered by sending out the Freys and Manderlys to fight Stannis instead of starving him out— Stannis still couldn’t win. Not like this, at least. 

And Theon knew Ramsay— if his father was at all like the son then he had sent out those two groups because he wanted them dead and removed from Winterfell. It had nothing to do with Stannis and everything to do with removing the enemy at his back. 

“Your Grace,” Theon looked up and blinked the drowsiness from his eyes. Asha . 

“Why are you here?” Stannis spoke calmly, but there was an undercut of agitation in his tone. “I did not call for you.”

“I wanted to thank you, Your Grace,” She didn’t rise from her bent knee for even a second. A female guard stood behind her, her eyes on Theon’s bound form, her gaze clouded as she nibbled on her lip. 

“What for?” Stannis grunted. 

“You offered mercy to Theon and will kill him in the Northern fashion instead of giving him to the flames.”

“Mercy?” Stannis asked. “Is that what you call it? He will die— I merely chose to please my army instead of my God.”

“All the same, it’s a much kinder fate, so I thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the words sounded like they pained the King to say. “Now if that is all— leave.”

“I was hoping for the chance to say farewell to my brother before his execution,” Asha spoke softly, and Theon’s heart wrenched. She still hadn’t risen from that kneel, the picture of true submission in that moment— and for him.

He didn’t deserve it. 

Any of it.

The world would be better off tomorrow when he was dead. 

If the snows stopped… 

“Say your piece and get out,” Stannis resolved. 

Asha finally rose and took a step towards Theon. Stannis held up a hand. “No closer— I will not suffer a foolish escape attempt.”

Asha glared at him for a moment, but didn’t take a step closer to his stink. “Theon…” her voice cracked painfully. “I… I’m sorry that you went through so much without me being there beside you. I would have enjoyed serving at your side when you were crowned as Lord of the Iron islands. I’ll give your best to mother when I next see her.” 

“What is dead may never die,” Asha intoned softly, her words carrying a certain proud confidence.

Theon swallowed painfully, blinking away tears that stubbornly proceeded to fall. He sniffled loudly. Gods, he was pathetic. “B-but rises again, harder and stronger.” His voice was clearer than it had been in a few days. 

“You’ve said your piece,” Stannis sneered at them. “Now get out.”

Asha looked Theon in the eyes and offered a salute. Theon wished that he could return it, as poor as his form would be, but he couldn’t when chained like this. “Asha,” the words escaped his lips unbidden.

“T-thank you. I should have been a better brother to you— I should have not been so foolish. But thank y-you for looking out for me. G-g-goodbye sister.”

Asha smiled at him, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Have no fear brother, for soon you shall feast on your enemies in the watery halls of the Drowned God with a crown of driftwood on your brow.”

She turned around and walked out of the tent without giving Theon another glance. Theon clung to her words like they were the sustenance he had been denied for the last few days— like it was a rat in Lord Ramsay’s kennels. Was that the first good conversation they had with each other? It was fitting that their last would be the first time she had been proud to call him brother— and for him to call her sister. He replayed the words over and over in his head until he drifted off again. 

Theon jolted awake as cold water splashed over his face. His chains rattled as he flinched back. 

Standing in front of Theon was a man dressed in full plate, a key in his hand as he worked on his hand. “Stay quiet,” the knight warned him. 

“No,” Theon protested as one arm came free and he fell to hang from just the one shoulder. “Stop!” Reek bellowed. “Please, mercy— Ramsay will kill me if I escape.”

“Shut up, or you'll get us all killed,” the knight growled. “We’re getting you out of here.”

“We?” Theon asked in a rare moment of lucidity. “Why?”

The knight scowled through his half-helm. Something about his face looked familiar. “Not sure, you don’t seem to be worth it. But my Lady demanded your safe return as we venture North, so she will have it.”

Jeyne, warmth bloomed in his chest, but he shook his head. “Go without me, I’ll only get you caught.”

“You’re coming Greyjoy, you don’t get to choose here. My lady ordered that you come with us for her to fill her end of the bargain, and I won’t fail or else I’ll lose everything I ever earned.”

His expression unclouded as the second manacle slipped off his wrist and he fell into the knight’s arms, a boneless heap. 

Theon studied his face for a moment from so up close. “I know you— you’re Ser Justin Massey.”

“Indeed,” the knight muttered. Theon’s head hurt. He was certain that the knight had gone with the banker back to the Wall. So how was he still here? 

“Now get up and let’s get out of here,” Massey snapped at him. 

Theon tried to stand, but just collapsed in a heap on the floor after not using his muscles for so long as he hung there. His knees slammed against the floor painfully.

“Fine I guess, I’ll carry you then.” And with that, Ser Justin threw Theon over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. 

-

Barristan I

“They are on our side!” Barristan’s voice rang out, the deep baritone doing nothing to hide his glee. A grin stretched across his face, hidden beneath his winged helm. “Crush them between our armies!”

Barristan stirred his horse in the saddle and charged forth into the fray, an army surging behind him. All they had to do was buy time for the Unsullied to form their spear wall, but perhaps he could do more than that with the help of the Ironborn. 

Barristan had never been a friend to the Greyjoys— he had been one of the chief officers in their defeat during the last rebellion, fighting by Robert Baratheon’s side and smashing their army on the land. 

But right now, Barristan only could have been more grateful if it was the Queen that had shown up on her dragon to defend the city. House Greyjoy was the first house from Westeros to declare for Daenerys— second maybe, if you counted Quentyn Martell, although that alliance was likely gone with his suicidal endeavor to free the dragons. 

By the looks of it they had brought the entirety of the Iron Fleet, and thousands of men to man them. The numbers advantage was now in their favor, and they had the Yunkai’i sellswords trapped between their attacking force led by Barristan and consisting of the Stormcrows, twenty dothraki, and a rag tag bunch of pit fighters and the Ironborn at their backs. A classic pincer formation that would lead to their army getting crushed between the two walls closing in on them. 

And with their support they could defend Meereen— and with their ships, they could sail their army back to Westeros when Daenerys returned. “For the Queen! For the Breaker of Chains!” Barristan’s voice rang out in the bastard valyrian dialect of the free cities as he charged, his cry a rallying point for the armies.

The army roared in approval, echoing his declaration as they followed behind him. 

His sword tasted blood immediately as he broke the front line of the Yunkai’i and stabbed one man protected by only boiled leather straight through the chest. The lighter armor of the Essosi sellswords due to the more arid climate would be their demise in this battle. Give Barristan fifty armored knights with any skill, and they could cut through a thousand lightly armored sellswords on their own. Give him the Kingsguard he served alongside before Rhaegar fell, and they might have only needed the seven. 

Instead, Barristan had one and three promising squires. That would have to be enough. 

An arakh crashed against Barristan’s breastplate, rattling him, but it failed to break past the thick breastplate of castle forged steel, and Barristan swiftly thrust his sword through the attacker’s mouth, ending their life in an instance. 

“Forward!” Barristan bellowed giving a sound of his warhorn. “Drive them back into the sea!”

A spear thrust out for Barristan’s neck, him only just barely catching the blow on his sword and causing it to bounce harmlessly off the chainmail covering his Adam's apple. If I had been a decade younger, it would not have gotten that close. Barristan couldn’t help but doubt as he wrapped a gauntleted fist around the shaft and pulled the sellsword to him, thrusting his sword down through his opponents neck once they were in range. 

The battle raged on, men blurring together as they always did in war. All that Barristan could really focus on was cutting down whoever was in front of him. He hopes that his squires were doing okay, but he was hardly afforded the opportunity to check on them. A few thrusts had snuck past his guard and plate. His left arm was bleeding profusely from the elbow where one thrust had managed to find the mail and slice through it, but Barristan could hold his shield so he couldn’t worry about it. He would keep fighting until he died— that was the only option for a Knight of the Kingsguard. He wouldn’t make the same mistake that he had with Robert again.

A horn sounded out, and Barristan jolted. His head was ringing like a bell after taking a hit to his helm from a soldier wielding a greatsword. II took him a second to place  what that was what the signal was for. But when he did, he grinned. They were going to win. 

 Barristan fell back, wheeling his horse around to sweep out to the sides, cutting through any soldiers who stood in their way.

The unsullied advanced, moving in lockstep, and pressing down on the enemy as Barristan’s cavalry quickly moved to press down on the sides. The Yunkai’i army tried to retreat, but found themselves running back into the Greyjoy’s who were pressing at their rear, even if their formation was lacking. Men fell like flies as the unsullied advanced. It didn’t matter what the Yunkai’i did now. The battle was theirs.

A roar split the sky, and then the world was aflame. A sudden sweltering heat that threatened to consume him. Dragons , Barristan laughed silently. They had come to defend Daenerys’ city— the day was won. 

Then Barristan watched in horror as the gout of flames cut through not just the armies of Yunkai’i but stretched beyond that— the green one spewing flame on their Ironborn allies.

And then again.

And again.

The Yunkai’i almost entirely ignored in favor of taking out their own men. 

“Gods,” Barristan muttered watching the devastation as the Ironborn’s ranks crumbled in the onslaught of dragonfire— some were retreating back to their ships now, any intent to aid the Queen forgotten. Others were trying to throw their axes into the sky and bring down the dragon that was ruining them. Some just ran in any direction in fear of their lives. The stormcrows stopped pressing down on the flank, rearing back and away from the dragon’s fire that threatened to consume them. 

The unsullied remained undaunted, pressing down on the Yunkai’i, the wall unbroken even when a dragon loomed ahead, but it hardly mattered when the sides were crumbling and offering a chance for the Yunkai’i to flee. The dragon showed no interest in the fleeing prey, instead content to simply slaughter the Ironborn.

“Rhaegal,” Barristan whispered in horror. It didn’t really make sense— the dragons had shown no interest in massacring the people without their mother’s command once Martell had freed them. They had made some of the pyramids into lairs and mostly ignored people. Even the ever so unruly Drogon had only hunted people who were defenseless and easy prey— and that was so he could eat. Rhaegal showed no interest in eating the Ironborn— he just wanted to see them burn. 

The very miracle that had brought Daenerys her crown was now going to be the one that took it away. 

The battle was lost, the Yunkai’i were scattered, but both sides would live to fight another day. The path to retreat had been opened, and Barristan alone could not stem the tide. The Ironborn were decimated, but his priority had to be Meereen right now, not Westeros. 

Barristan lifted the warhorn to his lips and blew once, a long drawn out sound, and then a second time, a much shorter blast. “Retreat!” he called out. “Fall back to the city walls!”

-

Victarion I

Victarion could not contain his glee as they landed on the coast of Meereen. His bride awaited him. They said she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and he would be hers— not Euron’s. His fool of a brother had handed him the Iron Throne, believing his brother to be a weakling who would not pay the Iron Price to take what should have been his. 

But first, Victarion would prove his worth to his rock wife. He would drive out the slavers who threatened her, as any good husband would. He would win her hand by paying the Iron Price to it. He didn’t need the horn of Euron’s to claim her— the Drowned God had given him the chance to woo her the old way. The horn would merely be his wedding gift to her, a dragon for him to ride and defeat her enemies from astride.

“Ironborn!” Victarion bellowed, his words carrying across the sea with a rumble. “Today we free Meereen and take Daenerys Targaryen! Today I become a King! Kill all the Slavers and free the slaves! Take them as your thralls and teach them what it means to be Ironborn!” He shouted into the clouds. Not even the Storm God could stop him now. He was sure that the other captains were giving similar speeches on their own vessels. “What is dead may never die!”

“What is dead may never die!” They roared back.

Victarion turned to Ragnor Pyke. “You have command of our forces on Land.”

“I’ll break the slavers on my axe and deliver the Dragon Queen to you,” Pyke swore to him.

Victarion nodded. “Then go and pay the Iron Price.” 

Victarion watched with a morose silence as he watched his men file off the ship and charge onto land. It felt wrong sending them to fight and die for him— to claim glory while remaining behind. But the dragonbinder was more important. If it could truly bind a dragon as his thrall, he couldn’t let it out of his sight. So he would be a coward and remain on the ship in order to protect it— he didn’t trust Moqorro or his Red God enough to possibly leave him with something so powerful. 

He headed back into his cabin, after ordering the three hornblowers to wait outside. His black hand, how hard like glass cracked as he flexed it. “Bleed me,” he ordered the dusky woman. “Stay here priest,” he ordered as Moqorro made to leave them. 

The dusky woman hissed at the priest, and if it wasn’t for the jubilance he was feeling towards what was to come, then Victarion might have smacked her for that. Instead, he merely glared. She took the dirk off his desk. 

Victarion held out his palm and she slashed across it. He didn’t even wince as it tore through skin and blood gushed out. 

“You want to fill the base of the horn,” Moqorro provided helpfully. 

Victarion looked over at him. “When I have conquered the world with my dragon, I will give your god a landlocked kingdom for your service.” The Drowned God was known to only care about the people on the sea— men on land were heathens who turned their back on their God and refused to live by the Old Ways. Giving them to the Red God in exchange for every inch of the coast was more than fair trade. 

“Are we done?” Victarion asked after a few minutes of letting his blood run inside of the horn. 

“Far from it,” Moqorro apologized. “Your blood is a very powerful sacrifice— the Blood of Kings— but it will still take a lot of it to enslave a dragon. This is ancient and very powerful blood magic.”

So Victarion sat there in his quarters, his hand bleeding into the dragonhorn as the sounds of battle echoed around his ears. He wanted to be out there. Wanted to see their blood spill upon the sands, and earn all of the glory for himself. His head was spinning, just thinking about it. 

A roar sounded out, louder than the loudest shouts from the Storm God. Soon that would be his— he would be the one scaring off the Storm God with his dragon. It would be glorious and every man would have no choice but to forget about his failures. Every man would bow down when they saw him and declare him as King. 

“Captain!” One of the thralls who would blow the horn burst in through the door without knocking. 

Victarion glared at him. He was lucky that he was currently being bled, or he would have knocked out all of his teeth. The boy didn’t need those to blow the horn. 

“The dragon…!” He panted, his face red and strained, eyes frantically scanning the room. 

“I’ve heard it,” Victarion laughed. “Magnificent beast, isn’t it? Soon it will be mine.”

The thrall shook his head vehemently. “Captain— that’s not it— it’s- it’s…” 

“Just say it already,” Victarion ordered, his voice rumbling. 

“It’s attacking the Iron Fleet! Our ships are burning!” 

“What!?” Victarion roared, leaping to his feet, a strom rising within him. “How dare she?” Victarioin came to aid her— to name her as his rockwife and give her the Iron Throne that her father had sat on. And she… “She burns my ships! My men!” 

He would still take her— he would have Euron’s bride as his own— the most beautiful woman in the world to replace the one that Euron had stolen from him. But, Victarion would not give her the honor of being a rock wife— her treason would be met with blood. He would kill her retinue and take her as his salt wife and claim her throne as she watched in awe and regretted ever daring to strike her husband and King. 

“Have no fear,” Moqorro counseled him. “I have seen it in the flames— you will not die here in Meereen. Finish bleeding into the horn, and the dragon will belong to your house. It won’t be much longer now.”

“Fine!” Victarion growled, falling back into the chair with a loud thud. “Gather your fellows and get in here, we will blow the horn the moment that this is done.” He tightened his hand into a fist and squeezed hard to pop any clots and will the blood to come faster. He would not let pain deter him now. The dragons would be his, and then the entire world. 

“It is done,” Moqorro intoned after a long moment. “Dragonbinder is now bound to you— the dragon will be your thrall when it is sounded three times.”

Victarion laughed and staggered to his feet. He stumbled as he strode towards the door, horn carried in his arms. Moqorro and the dusky woman followed behind him. “Boys!” He roared at the thralls. “Gather up and blow this horn because your life depends on it.”

The sight that he saw when he stepped outside was nothing short of horrifying. The Iron Fleet was on fire. Half their ships were sinking— more even. The Ironborn on the land fared no better— men running around aflame, screaming loudly. Men on both sides of the battle ran into the ocean, voluntarily giving themselves to the Drowned God to escape the flames. 

The green beast flew over the oceans, setting fire to all of the ships that were in the bay— torching the Iron Fleet like it was a bunch of greenlanders. The mightiest armada in the world and it was brought low in the time it took to fill the horn. Of the 54 ships that they had arrived in Meereen with, just sixteen remained. 

The cream scaled dragon was not absent either— flying in circles over the men on land and burning them all as fire fell from the clouds like it was rain. Rain that burned through their armor and sentenced men to a slow and painful death— their only salvation being to deliver themselves to the Drowned God. 

Victarion couldn’t contain his laughter.

It was glorious. 

Euron and his fleets stood no chance when this was the kind of power that Victarion would wield. A dragon—- truly a magnificent beast. The world would be his— not even the Ironborn would be able to beat this creature at sea, and Halleck Hoare had proven how unbeatable these beasts were on land. 

The world was his. 

King Victarion. 

He thrust the horn into the hands of the first thrall— the boy who had backtalked him and feared death. “Blow.”

The boy lifted his shaking hands to his lips and blew. The sound was even more horrible than Victarion had remembered from the Kingsmoot. 

aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

It pierced the sky itself, a high ringing that made him feel like his bones were on fire. A ring that shook the land itself. The hornblower’s eyes turned a milky white as he blew as long and hard as he could, and the glyphs on the horn glowed. 

As pained as Victarion was by the sound, it did not compare to the anguish that the dragons flying overhead seemed to feel. The green dragon shook in the air, his head thrashing in every direction as gouts of fire were unleashed at random. Another one of their ships went down— along with three of the slavers ships. A wall of fire carpeted the gates of Meereen as the cream colored one found himself responding in the same fashion. 

It was working. Victarion laughed as the sound died out. 

“Pass the horn down the line and blow,” Victarion ordered quickly. 

The boy said nothing, his eyes still glassy and hollow, but instead lifted the horn to his lips again and blew. 

aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

-

Chapter Text

Asha I

Theon was going to die. 

It was a reality that Asha was struggling to accept. She hardly knew her brother— and he was a fool. He had been raised by the greenlanders as one of them, and his attempts to be an Ironborn had only caused trouble. 

He had suffered so much— and while he deserved some of it, he certainly didn’t deserve to be the shell that he was now. She hadn’t even recognized him when he rode into camp with the Braavosi and was dumped at her feet. 

Whatever crimes Theon had committed, he barely qualified as human now. He had aged three decades in the last year, an old man by all accounts. His face was but a skull with skin stretched across his features, hair whiter than her so called husbands. Most of his teeth were gone and the half that remained were just fragments. His right hand was also missing three fingers and he could barely walk— she didn’t want to know what had caused that one. 

And the smell… 

If Asha was in his place, she would choose to die rather than cling to life. Even if his death were to come by burning, it would still be a mercy she welcomed. And beheading would almost be peaceful if she got her way. 

Her mother would be most aggrieved when she heard of Theon’s death, but she would be even more aggrieved to see Theon as he was now, so perhaps that would be for the best. 

Assuming she was still alive, of course. 

But, that wasn’t why Asha needed to save Theon. It had nothing to do with her mother or what Theon deserved. It was a selfish desire— but she needed him. Theon was the key to removing Euron from the Seastone Chair. 

Tristifer’s recanting of Torgon Greyiron’s tale had made that much clear to her. She would never sit on the throne of her father, and she had to make peace with that. But Theon could— he had been absent from the Kingsmoot, and as such could call Euron’s occupation of the throne unlawful and demand his birthright.

He had also never lost in battle, despite his captivity. He had taken Winterfell with a band of twenty men, and only was defeated by treachery. That might be his only battle, but it was one they could make songs of— as foolish as it had been. 

His disfigurement would likely strip him of any right to the crown in any other Kingdom, but on the Iron islands it would only make him more popular.

Assuming, of course, that Theon could find his spine and still fight for himself. His scars were proof that he had paid the Iron Price, and her people would love Balon’s only living son for it. 

After they got rid of his stench.

But for any of her plans to matter, she had to stop Stannis from executing her brother, and the King was not exactly willing to listen to any plea she made. 

That led to where Asha was now, sitting beside Aly Mormont in a tent with Arya Stark and Ser Justin Massey. 

“You said you wanted to speak with us before we leave for Castle Black, Lady Asha?” Massey asked. The only reason she had been given this opportunity— why she knew that Massey was going back to Castle Black and then to Bravos, was because Alysane Mormont was her chief gaoler and Stannis had ordered that Mormont accompany Massey back to the Wall. That lead to her overhearing that plan, and getting the chance to interfere.

Asha nodded and looked over at Arya. “I want your help to save my brother. Stannis is going to kill him.”

“Well deserved,” Aly muttered from her seat next to Asha. 

“We need to save him,” Arya Stark agreed immediately. “He saved me. He can’t kill him!” She was on the verge of a breakdown, her breaths coming heavy as she looked towards Asha with wide doe-like eyes. 

“I will not be a part of your conspiracy,” Massey stood up from the table. “I understand your desire to save him, my ladies, but I will not betray my King for a turncloak.” 

“I’m not asking you to save him because Theon deserves it,” Asha scoffed. “I’m asking to save him from a meaningless death… for me. ” Goosebumps ran along the length of her arms.

“I will not deny that I had hoped to wed you, but my affection for you does not equate to treason— and it is no longer your life in danger.”

“Tell me something Ser Justin, do you believe that the sacrifice will cause the storms to stop? That by giving my brother to the flames you will stop His Grace from freezing to death?” Asha demanded. 

“R’hllor is the one true god,” Massey answered after a long pause, his conviction clearly wavering. 

“He might be,” Asha conceded. “But that doesn’t mean that he is a kind god. My brother is going to die— and for what exactly?”

“Vengeance,” Aly muttered, but Asha ignored her companion. 

“Do you have that much faith in the God of Your King? To command the storms themselves and expect them to listen? Your King is an arrogant fool if he thinks that the winds care for mere men.”

“You have not seen what I have,” Massey denied. “The miracles that Melisandre has done in the name of the Lord…” 

“But his witch is not here,” Arya interjected quietly, but her words carried the weight of a warhorn.

“She’s not,” Justin Massey conceded as he retook his seat. “I do not doubt that her sorcery could have ended this storm— but for whatever reason, the King thought it prudent to leave her behind at Castle Black. And I…”

“You don’t believe in the Red God, but the seven, anyone with eyes can see that Ser,” Asha rolled her eyes at the knight.

He winced but nodded. “Regardless, I will not commit treason— certainly not to save a kinslayer.”

“Aye, you’re too craven for that,” Asha agreed. 

A flush crept up his neck. “I am loyal, not a craven. And your brother is not worth the risk, regardless of what love you bear for him. He is dead— let him stay dead.” What is dead may never die.

“Tell me Ser,” Asha leaned in. “When my brother’s sacrifice fails to appease Red R’hllor, who do you think your King will burn next?” She placed a hand on his thigh. “Do you value my life so little?”

He flushed at her attention. Some men were too easy. “If you wish for me to take you with me— I asked His Grace if I could take you and wed you, but he refused me. I apologize, my lady, but I can not—.”

“We do not need a King’s permission to get married, and not even a King has the power to annul our marriage once it is consummated," Asha cut him off. “Save my brother, and I will wed you.” 

Ser Justin squirmed at the intensity of her gaze. “While I would be honored to take you to wife, you are already married.” 

“It was a proxy marriage arranged by a rebel who has not had his authority as a Lord Paramount or the head of House Greyjoy recognized by the King of the Seven Kingdoms— regardless, of which you follow. That means that he lacks the authority to force me to wed. The only one who can do that is the King or my brother,” Asha explained patiently. “In the eyes of both gods and men, I am free and unattached.” As long as she never went home again, but one problem at a time.

Ser Justin tugged at his collar. “The King—”

“You can marry without a monarch’s consent—” Asha forestalled his argument. “All we need is the head of our houses, and I know my brother will approve of me wedding the man who saved his life.”

Ser Justin looked away. “I can not—” He was cracking, it was just a matter of time. Ser Justin Massey was one of the many knights who followed Stannis and had lost faith in the King on this doomed March to Winterfell. He was being sent to Bravos, in large part because Stannis did not trust him to not desert if he was left here. 

“You said so yourself that you don’t think the sacrifice will do anything,” Asha reminded him. “And that is all that the King intends to use Theon for. Stannis will win or lose independent of your decision here— and he will forgive whatever crime you commit here when you return to Westeros with 20,000 loyal swords ready to serve him.”  

Ser Justin frowned. “His Grace already promised me your hand, should I prove successful. You offer me nothing that is not already mine. For a price that is not treason at that.”

Asha faltered for a moment. She had not known that. “That is only if King Stannis wins,” Asha improved. “If he loses then you get nothing, and I wind up wed to some Lannister or Bolton cunt. I will wed you tonight. If we wed now, then even in the event that the King falls, the Lannisters will still want to dispose of my uncle, given his attempt to claim the throne. And in the aftermath, there will be lands for us to hold— and you could possibly even be a Lord Paramount.”

“There are no septons here,” Massey stated plainly. 

“We’ll wed in the fashion of the Old Gods— neither of us hold them, but there is a Heart Tree near the camp— and all we would need for the wedding is a single witness and it would be legally binding once consummated.” Her stomach rolled at the thought, but she clamped down any disgust she might have. 

Ser Just stroked his beard slowly. “We would be wedded and bedded tonight?”

“Aye,” Asha grunted. She chanced a glance at Arya Stark who had her head bowed, a slight frown on her face. 

“How do you plan on getting your brother away from Stannis?” 

Asha grinned at his acceptance, even as she tasted bile at the back of her throat. Look at what you’ve made me into, uncle. A whore.

“Tell me Lady Greyjoy,” Alysane snarled, her voice lacking any of the warmth she had grown used to in their conversations. “Why should I not go tell the King of your treason right now?”

“You swore a vow,” Arya was as quiet as a mouse. “You swore a vow,” she repeated, a bit louder this time. “You swore to serve House Stark in perpetuity. As the— the last S-Stark, you are bound to serve me. And as your l-liege, I am commanding you to assist me in saving Theon.”

Finally, her co-conspirator spoke up. Despite Theon killing her brothers, Arya Stark was the sole person other than her that wanted to save Theon. The girl was quiet as a mouse, but Asha couldn’t doubt her dedication to Theon. Asha was half-convinced that the heir to the North was in love with the creature her brother had been made into.

Aly glared at Arya. “Fine,” she grumbled after a long moment. “I won’t say a word. I’ll bring the turncloak to Castle Black and Jon Snow can take his head himself— far more deserved than giving him to the flames.”

Arya paled at her statement. Asha wasn’t exactly thrilled about heading to the wall either, but it was the only place they had to turn— and it was where Massey was already heading. She did not trust Jon Snow— and was sure that he would try to harm her brother. Their hope was in Arya talking her brother down— they had been close before all the wars from what she had heard. 

And if not, Asha would be in a position to use Arya Stark as a hostage against Snow. 

-

Asha was a married woman now, for better or for worse. Last night, she had married Ser Justin under a Heart Tree with Arya Stark of all people being the person to give her to her new husband. A queer ceremony to be certain, but one 

Today, she had seen her secret husband off to Castle Black. Ser Justin Massey was weak filled and a fool, but at least he had known where to put it. It had certainly been more pleasurable than her nights would have been with Erik Ironmaker, if her uncle had his way. 

That would not stop her from putting an axe through his skull when the opportunity arose. Nor would it stop her from bedding Qarl even now that she was wed and bedded like a proper greenlander. 

Her husband would be back in three days to get her and her brother. And then it was to Castle Black… where they would be at a bastard’s mercy. Arya Stark would fight tooth and nail for her savior though, and it was better to face a possible death than a certain one which was what awaited them if they stayed with Stannis.

“Tristifer,” Asha greeted him on the edge of camp. Her new gaoler to replace Aly Mormont was nowhere near as stuck up as the bear had been. Some girl from the mountain clans— a Harclay who heard that Asha wanted to sneak off for a role in the hay with her lover and had gladly let her go. 

“Asha,” he greeted her with flushed cheeks despite the cold. His teeth chattered just standing there, but he still did his best to look pretty and unafraid for her. He also had severe frostbite, and could barely stand— it was possible that his foot would need to be amputated according to Aly, but she was no maester and probably just said that because he was Ironborn.

“We need to finish mapping out the distraction to get my brother and get out of here when my husband returns,” she sneered at the title she had bestowed him with. Tristifer still flinched at the reminder that she was now wed.

“I’ll remain behind to light the fires,” Tristifer reminded her as if she had forgotten about his valiant sacrifice. She knew what he was really after in reminding her so often. 

He wasn’t staying behind because he didn’t want to come with, or because Asha wouldn’t let him. But because of his poorly timed frostbite. He would only slow them down— and rather than get them all killed, he had volunteered to die in a blaze of glory as any true Ironborn would. 

“It will no doubt anger my husband, but I lied earlier when I said we wanted to strike the vacant broken tower on the east wing,” Asha whispered, her voice low to avoid any possible eavesdropping. 

Tristifer’s eyes widened slightly. “Where do you want me to hit then?”

“The supply tower,” Asha spoke softly. “We need to hit somewhere that will actually force Stannis out of his tower to deal with the problem— somewhere it will hurt him to lose. Otherwise, we will never be able to get Theon without guards in the way.”

Tristifer bit his lip. “If we do so…”

“Men will die,” Asha agreed. “But they are all dead anyways. This King will lead them to their graves because he is too stubborn to retreat. The Boltons or the cold, it will not change their fate.”

The supply tower was not stocked with food, despite what the name might suggest— they had none of that aside from eating their dead horses that had once made up a calvary. But what the supply tower did contain was the supplies that the King needed to pretend they had a chance. Fishing gear, and the tools to construct the catapults that Stannis had his men building at a rather high rate. 

The things that he needed to pretend that things were winnable. 

By burning them, Asha was essentially sentencing the entire army to death. They’re dead anyways. Asha tried to shut out whatever lingering guilt there was. Theon was more important than them— getting rid of Euron was far more important than them living a week longer.

“I’ll do it,” Tristifer agreed after a moment. “I’ll do anything for you, My Queen.”

“I know you will,” Asha agreed sadly. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. “I will not forget your service.”

-

Asha sat astride her horse in the woods, their company currently numbered 10. Her, the Braavosi, Arya Stark, Aly Mormont, Qarl, Fingers, Grimtongue, Rustbeard, Rook, and Ser Justin’s bastard brother Brandon Storm. 

They were just waiting for the final two so they could leave. 

And they were supposed to have been here a while ago— what was taking her oaf of a husband so long? Had they run into Stannis? Had her husband had second thoughts when he realized the depth of the treason she had made him commit? Had Stannis seen through the trap?

All Asha could do was wait.

She heard them before she saw them. A heave of grunts and pained gasps. Heavy breathing and muttered curses.

The snow that fell all around them and the sharp winds made it impossible to see even twenty feet away from her. A heavy trudge of footsteps as he tried to run without falling down to his waist with how deep the snow was. 

“Have your weapons ready,” Asha instructed her men. “If it’s not Ser Justin or Theon, be prepared to cut them to pieces. Baratheon or Bolton, we won’t get caught.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Rustbeard saluted her. “Anyone but the Prince or the Horned Lord and we gut them.” 

“Be careful of how you speak about the ladies husband, Roggon,” Qarl reprimanded him. “He is our Lord Paramount now, not one to be mocked like the rest of the greenlanders.”

“The Horned Lord is a complimentary title. Merely admiring his helm’s spikes,” Rustbeard argued back.

“Enough,” Asha hissed, cutting off their banter as her husband lumbered into the clearing. Draped over his shoulder was Theon. She smiled in spite of herself.

“Brother,” Asha’s smile was warm as she looked over at him. “Can you stand?”

Theon groaned. “What are you doing here?” Massey set him down on the ground, Theon leaning against his side as the bigger knight supported his weight. 

“No thanks?” Qarl grunted. “She just saved your life.”

“You should have let me die.”

“I wasn’t going to let that happen,” Arya whispered. “You saved me.” 

Theon smiled at her, his cheeks dusted. “J-Arya, you should be at Castle Black. Far away from Ramsay.” 

“Not without you,” she insisted stubbornly. “You saved me.”

“I’m just going to slow you down,” Theon protested.

“I don’t care,” Asha scowled at him. “We’re either all going to live or we’re all going to die, so man up and get on the horse.”

“I can’t r-ride,” Theon stuttered weakly. “It’ll be too slow if you take me.”

Asha glared at him. “You are Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon. Stop acting like a cripple and show off that courage you boasted of. Show me that you are Balon’s heir.”

“You should be…” Theon whispered into the wind. 

Asha pressed her lips together and turned her back on the husk. She had offered far too much to both her husband and the banker in order to get everyone on board. She would just have to teach her brother how to be Ironborn. “Theon can ride side saddle with you until he remembers that he has legs, husband. Let’s go, we can’t afford to wait any longer.”

“H-husband?” Theon gasped, but Asha ignored him. She would only give him answers once he remembered how to speak properly.

-

Jon II

Another torrent of flames poured from the maw of the dragon as the Rider’s hatred ignited the spark and unleashed fiery destruction on their enemies. 

Bran. Rickon. They had been Jon Snow’s brothers once— back when he had just been a bastard and not a dragon. And it was Greyjoy who had killed them. And now here was Greyjoy again, threatening his nest. Daring to march up to his home and try to take what belonged to Rhaegal and his rider. 

Burn . They whispered together as their flames baptized the Greyjoy army and everyone who tried to stand between them. Men fell to the ground, screaming as the fire scorched their skin, their flesh boiling and bursting. Some of the men did not appear to be Kraken’s — dressed differently in their older steel, but the rider could not bring himself to care. All that mattered was burning Greyjoy and his kin. 

The dragon roared in triumph as one of the Ironborn tried to flee, only to get caught in a torrent of flames.

Something tickled against their scales and when the rider tilted their massive scaled head in the direction of the contact, they found a score of men holding bows on the brow of a ship and launching arrows at the mighty dragon. The rider let out something akin to a laugh before unleashing his fiery breath on the fools who dare to assault a dragon. 

Fire. That was how the ones that Jon Snow had called brothers were said to have died. Burned beyond recognition by Theon Turncloak, the one that had once lived in the same castle as Jon Snow. Fitting that his kin all suffered the same fate. 

A sharp pinch in their wing cause Rhaegal to hiss. They spun around to view another ship, a harpoon loaded and aimed for the dragon. The rider did not give them a chance to make a second shot before lunging for the ship. 

Their claws tore through flesh and bone as if they were parchment, crushing his ribcage in an instant and causing one man to burst. Their teeth lunged out to snag another Ironborn had tried to flee, teeth encircling his shoulders and then they bit down. 

The taste of the flesh and blood of an Ironborn was bitter, the rider’s stomach rolling, but the dragon swallowed anyway. He did not linger on the taste— they were hungry, but they would feast  later— right now, they just wanted to see the traitors burn. 

Rhaegal roared defiantly as they retook the sky and burned what remained of that galley to ashes. They soared over the Ironfleet, raining fire down on their enemies. 

His brother finally joined them after a moment. Viserion hardly understood why they hated the Greyjoys so much, but he could feel his brother’s rage and would gladly indulge with them in it. Viserion didn’t care to only burn those from the Iron Islands at all— he just wanted to roast the men in their wooden ships and the men who had tried to keep him in a cage. 

Rhaegal roared in agreement and lunged for another warship, their flames burning it to pieces as they dove down. He snagged a soldier out of the air with their jaws as he tried to dive into the sea below to escape the flames. Rhaegal bit down and severed his legs from his body, letting the rest of him crash into the waves as they enjoyed a light snack. 

Another ship fell.

And then another.

And another. 

As they went, more and more men died. They dove and breathed fire at point blank on a pirate trying to man a ballista. Rhaegal chomped down on his ribs for the offense, and the rider thought that he almost tasted sweet, as charred as the flesh was. 

Then it was back to the skies. There was nothing like flying as they rained fire down from the heavens. It was not hard for the rider to recognize that and just what Rhaegal’s mother had robbed them of by imprisoning him. It was even easier for them to recognize just what Wick Whittlestick, Bowen Marsh, Alf of Runnymudd and the others had stolen from Jon Snow. This was where a dragon like him belonged— in the skies bringing fire and blood to their enemies. 

Bran and Rickon… The rider swore vengeance in their name as he watched the mast of one of the Ironfleet caught aflame. 

Arya… 

She was still back in Winterfell…  The revelation settled on the rider like a ton of bricks. She was still the prisoner of the Boltons. The traitors who had murdered Jon Snow still lived too. Ramsay Bolton and his cruel pink letter still lived. He would go North and burn them all. They will burn , Rhaegal’s mind was the same as the rider’s. 

And the Others while he was at it.

But first, he would finish up here and murder every single Greyjoy as payment for the lives of Bran and Rickon Stark. 

aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Their body began to convulse painfully without warning. Every nerve ending was aflame, his very bones rattling against the flesh and trying to break free. Something unknown and foreboding pressed down on the rider’s skull, threatening to crack it like an egg.

Rhaegal thrashed about wildly in the sky, flames pouring from his lips at random as he screamed himself hoarse in an effort to make it stop.

Jon wanted to die again. It was the worst pain that he had ever experienced. His brain was tearing itself apart as each note of that horribly symphony was like swinging a war hammer against his skull. His head pounded.

It was what he had felt with Ghost at the end there almost, but dialed up by a multiplier of over a million. Fear gripped him as the pain pushed him down, shrinking him into a tiny ball. Was he going to lose Rhaegal too?

His eyes rolled and for a moment, Jon Snow was no longer Rhaegal. He flew above Rhaegal in the sky, as if he was seated on his back as his rider. But Jon Snow was no dragon and he fell from the skies, rapidly catapulting towards the depths of the sea. 

Then things shifted again and his red eyes peered at the snow covered corpse that was Jon Snow. A scream was torn from his lips and then he was in a cave looking at a man fused to a tree, roots growing where an eye should be, the other the color of blood.

Now Daryn stood there, his lungs straining as fire emblazoned his insides. Blow a voice demanded of him, and so he did. He kept blowing as his insides turned to ash. Interesting… It was almost peaceful compared to what the dragon was experiencing, Daryn thought as his lips boiled around the end of the horn— he could no longer taste the blood it was coated in. The horn was nearly as big as he was with glowing white glyphs. 

STOP!

The command seared through his mind like a scalpel, cutting Jon Snow away from Daryn with surgical precision. Run, promised prince. The voice of a god commanded him, and then he was Rhaegal again, his eyes looking down from the sky above. 

The sound had abated, and Rhaegal’s mind coiled against the riders in a mix of fear and protectiveness. The rider sunk into his embrace, hiding in the scales of the dragon to not feel so vulnerable again. 

We’re together, the rider offered the dragon a hollow comfort.

Flee? Rhaegal’s question pulled at the rider’s mind. 

Flee . The rider agreed immediately. His rage at the Ironborn was entirely forgotten. He just knew that they could not stay here any longer. He couldn’t go through that all again. He couldn’t lose Rhaegal like he had lost Ghost— they were one now. And he wanted it to stay that way.

Northwest , the rider declared. They would rather face down the White Walkers then deal with that sound again.

Then lose each other.

They flapped their wings frantically, moving as swiftly away from the city— away from the dragon’s mother and brothers as possible. 

aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

The sound split the sky again like thunder as they left the city in the distance. The pain was significantly less intense the second time as they got further from the sound. It was still the second most painful experience of Jon Snow and Rhaegal’s combined lives. It had their blood boiling as their bones sung in protest to the sound. His head thrashed painfully as the brain of Jon Snow was once again squashed, pulled apart from Rhaegal and then back together again. 

Rhaegal faltered at the pain, his wings seizing up and they began to fall. 

Keep flying. Keep flying. We have to get away. Run. Run. Run. 

Rhaegal flapped his wings harder, doing everything in their power to escape the sound. For the first time in centuries, a dragon wept, blood streaming from their eyes as they fought to get free. As they fought to hold onto each other. They would not lose each other after their first time together since Rhaegal had been born. 

The pain dulled as they got further from the city, the sound merely a whimper as it faded. 

aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

When the horn sounded a third time after a short pause, it failed to cause them to even stumble, merely pinching them like a crab as Arya Stark had once done to Jon Snow when they were children. 

They didn’t dare look back though.

Both rider and dragon were exhausted. They wanted nothing more than to nap in the grass sea, or to hunt for more food— but they didn’t dare land. They didn’t know if the hornblower would pursue them— so they would not rest. Not until they were a thousand leagues from the city they had called home for so long. 

Not until they were back in the lands of Jon Snow. 

Maybe then they could stay together forever.

-

Tormund II

Despite how the Free Folk had outnumbered the Crows, the battle had been incredibly bloody on both ends. Tormund hefted Snow’s sword over his shoulder, the blood dripping from it further staining his furs. 

“Take any crows still alive to the barracks and throw them in fetters,” Tormund decided. He pointed his sword vaguely towards the southern exit. “Except for the pretty one.”

“Giantsbane,” the boy ducked his head to Tormund.

Tormund laughed in reply. “We’re not like you prissy southerners. Speak like a man, boy.”

“Is he…” His curly ringlets hung over his eyes as he hung his head. 

“Aye,” Tormund grunted. “Your brothers butchered him.”

“Why would they..?”

“Because they hate us and want us dead,” Val’s voice was curt as she walked up to them. “They had no mercy for any of us Free Folk, especially those who dressed in black.”

“Can I see him?” the boy asked softly, dark eyes brimmed with tears. 

“You’re the one who ended the battle,” Tormund reminded him. “I have no right to keep you from your Lord Commander. He’s by the entrance to Hardin’s Tower still, the wolf is with him.”

It had been the boy, a crow who had the sense during the battle to ride out of Castle Black and tell the rest of the Free Folk gathered in the gift what his brothers had done. He was the one who had marched back to Castle Black during the mutiny with a hundred more swords to back them up— and that had ended the battle.

“Thank you m’lord,” the boy bowed his head in turn. 

“Tormund,” his voice was firm as he corrected him. “And it’s you who saved us har har…”

“Satin… I was the Lord Commander’s squire.” He didn’t wait for Tormund’s reply before walking briskly towards the location of Jon Snow. 

Tormund turned to Val, all hardness gone in an instant. “Dryn is he…?”

“He’s fine,” Val was quick to assure him. “I found him holding a pair of dirks in hand as he defended a few of his fellows in the Lance. A dead crow lay at his feet.” 

Tormund barked out a laugh. “That’s my boy, killing crows before he even reaches ten hahaha. I taught him so well.”

“You?” Val laughed in turn. “We both know you couldn’t teach him to walk straight— it was Jon who taught him to butcher traitors.”

“Shame he didn’t learn that himself,” Tormund muttered quietly and they fell into an uncomfortable silence.

Val tucked her braid back over her shoulder. “As tragic as it is, Jon Snow is dead, and we must make preparations if we want to survive the winter— especially with Jon’s king lost in the south.”

“I know,” Tormund sighed. “We’re never going to let another Crow command us again. We have to take the rest of the Wall as well.”

Val pursed her lips and shook her head slightly. “Make peace with them, Tormund. I don’t like it any more than you do, but they still have other hostages at the other Castles— and those who serve willingly that Jon assigned to those overrun with Crows. We need to get them back.”

“And we’re reliant on them for food,” Tormund admitted reluctantly. 

“Aye, and that. Snow had trade deals with those from the East to bring food,” Val explained. “None of us know how to write or facilitate those. While I will never trust another crow, we do need them.”

Tormund huffed, but he could see the reasoning behind her words, as much as he disliked them. “Do what you need to do, I’ll support it,” he decided. 

‘I wasn’t asking for permission,” Val scowled in reply. “Merely informing you of what I have decided.”

Tormund laughed but it quickly turned back to somber. “What are we to do about the Bolton? If those words are to be believed, they are marching North with an army.”

“The same thing we always do, Tormund,” Val turned her shoulder to him. “We fight until we are all dead. He is no ally of ours, and we need to be in the South to survive the Winter. I’ll put my spear through his neck and give him to the wolf for dinner.”

“I’m sure Snow will enjoy that,” Tormund laughed at the image, even if his stomach recoiled slightly. “Do you think he actually has Mance?” Tormund asked after a long pause. “You saw him burn before Snow had an arrow put through his heart. He’s dead twice over.”

“He likely does,” Val confirmed but made no move to elaborate. 

Tormund didn’t press her despite his curiosity. There would be a time for that later. “We have a lot of dead to burn,” Tormund sighed. “I’m going to go take an account of our numbers and gather up the dead.”

Val started to walk off before turning back. “Tormund… We’ll burn Jon separate from the rest.”

“Aye,” Tormund agreed immediately. “We’ll give him a burning befitting your King.”

“He was our King,” Val insisted softly but not quietly. “He was the one who delivered on everything Mance promised. We just never got the chance to tell him the choice we made.”

-

Mance I

“Shit,” the former King beyond the Wall cursed as he raced through the crypts. The plan to rescue Arya Stark and deliver the kinslayer to Jon Snow had not quite gone as planned. He could only hope that they were successful in getting her over the walls— he knew that Rowan had been caught when doubling back for him, and Ramsay had likely caught up to Willow as well. 

He had never even seen Myrtle, Frenya, Holly, or Squirrel— so he could only hope that their end had brought more success and they were over the walls with Arya and the kinslayer. 

If it was Arya, then Jon Snow would be sorely disappointed. His sister was broken compared to the girl he had seen in Winterfell, prettier perhaps, but hollow. She had no spirit— no fight left in her. None of the wildness that had made her endearing last time. Just a plain girl broken by a cruel bastard.

He supposed that the witch would be happy with that— it would certainly motivate Jon Snow to abandon the watch and take back Winterfell when he saw what had happened to his favorite sister under her husband’s loving care. Still, Mance couldn’t help but wonder if it would have been easier to do that by simply making it seem like Ramsay Bolton had murdered her. Snow would certainly be enraged enough to come off that Wall and avenge his sister if she was murdered. And it would remove the risk of it just being a mummer dressed in Arya’s clothes. Regardless, Mance would follow the witch’s instructions for as long as he was Abel.

And in return, she would honor her agreement made on behalf of her King to give the Free Folk all of the lands of the gift in perpetuity— bringing all of them south of the Wall so that they could survive. He would never be their King again, for Mance Rayder had to remain dead, but he would fulfill all of the promises that he had made to his people. They might have to pay lip service to the King on the Iron Throne, but they would be alive and not demanded to fight in any more wars aside from the Great War.

Mance tossed a handful of sausages from his pocket down one path as he ran past, and then turned another corner and hid behind a statue for a moment to catch his breath as the dogs raced past him. 

The crypts were dark, and while Mance had counted his steps carefully in all of his prior explorations of the Stark crypts, if he missed a single step then he might easily get lost in this labyrinth. 

When Ramsay Bolton’s guard Grunt had lumbered into the Great Hall shaking in fear, Mance had picked up a new song abruptly to distract them. And as he belted his rendition of the Northman’s Daughter for all to hear, Mance had changed the lyrics once again, springing up from the table and waltzing towards the exit as he danced this time. At first, Ramsay had found it amusing that the bard was playing the part of the fool as well. 

“But what does it matter, for all men must die, and I've tasted Arya Stark!” 

The line was crude and unsubtle, it didn’t even rhyme. As a bard, it shamed him, but it had certainly done the job he wanted it to. As Mance gave one last mocking bow before dashing out of the messhall, he heard the bastard order for someone to bring him the singer’s tongue.

Mance stood up and raced around a corner and then another, stopping at the top of the staircase as he held a sword he had taken from the crypts. This one had belonged to Rickard Stark, the son of Bael. It was only fitting that it be their sword he used here when recreating the legend.

Or well, almost recreating it. He had known Ramsay would chase him to the crypts because it was the obvious conclusion. He was a bard who had fashioned his name from Bael. He had even sung of the Winter’s Rose every time they called on him to sing to ensure that they all knew the tale of Bael. All Stannis would need to draw out the Bolton forces was make it look like Arya had disappeared and they would be forced to pursue— and hiding her in the crypts would be easier than escaping through the gates. 

Mance fingered the cuff in his pocket. He wondered if this fate was kinder than living as Rattleshirt. 

“Got you Bael,” a voice whispered in his ear. 

Mance froze in shock as a knife pressed against the hollow of his throat. 

“Now, where is my wife?” He demanded. A dog barked from behind him. 

“You’ve caught my m’lord,” Mance replied smoothly. “I thought that you might enjoy a recreation of your favorite song.” The dogs had not been fed for days— that was the point in filching the sausage at breakfast when he sat on the high table. That was their favorite food, and he knew hounds enough to know they would follow it into the trap instead of following him in their hunger. 

Ramsay was meant to descend the stairs as the dogs raced into the pitfall, in pursuit of the morsel. Then Ramsay would have no choice but to turn back when faced with a dead end. Even if Ramsay had been a better fighter than Jon Snow, he would have to be far past his level to stand a chance against Mance while Mance held the high ground.

“Enough playing games wildling,” Ramsay roared, spittle flying. “I know you took my bride! Tell me where she is!”

Mance laughed uproariously as he flung the cuff from his fingers. “Do you think I'm such a fool that I would have told you where to find her if I actually had her?” 

His other hand slipped a dagger into his lower back, and Mance groaned in pain as he slumped into Ramsay’s arms. “I am going to flay that answer and a thousand others out of you. Then I will take our armies after we crush Stannis and kill every Wildling that Jon Snow let past the wall.”

Wildlings past the wall? Snow… Mance’s vision was fading fast as he struggled to hold onto consciousness, but he was defeated. “Why… Aren’t the dogs hungry?” He slurred as he lost blood quickly. 

Ramsay laughed at that, his eyes as cold as the wall, a pale gray in the torchlight. “Foolish wildling, did you think wargs only existed North of the Wall?”

- 

Tyrion I

The breastplate he had tried to claim from the Yunkishman did not fit. What a pity that was, it was far nicer than the dented and rusted armor that Tyrion was wearing. It was also far more likely to stop a sword from taking his life. 

Now he was saddled on a horse, riding in the calvary of the Second Sons. That was a first for the dwarf with his stubby little legs. His last two battles had been fought on foot, and both of them he had been nearly slain. Once he was trampled by his own men, and the other he had been nearly killed by his own ally. 

Despite swearing away half of Casterly Rock to the Second Sons, Tyrion would have to be careful this time. As they say, the third time is the charm. Or perhaps that meant that he was destined to finally come out of a battle unscathed. Wouldn’t that be lovely.

He needed a drink. 

Unfortunately, there was no drinks to be had while on the march. They passed by war tents as they crossed through the Yunkai’i’ camp but gave them no mind. They were searching for one thing alone.

The hostages. 

“Where are you heading?” One of the guardsmen outside of a rich blue tent halted them, his hand on his axe.

“The Wicked Sisters,” Inkpots declared without missing a beat. “The Great Gorzhak zo Eraz commanded us to go there and defend them from the whore’s sellswords.”

“Gorzhak is dead,” the guard replied curtly. 

“So I’ve heard,” Inkpots replied. “But we are still following his orders until the puissant Morghar zo Zherzyn gives us a new command.”

The guard scrutinized them for a minute, the three hundred of them chosen for this, marching through a lightly defended camp that would struggle to repel them if they turned their cloak. “Carry on then,” he conceded.

The man was lucky that they would not be turning their cloak today. They had always been the Queen’s men, rejoining the Yunkai’i was naught but a crafty plot. One they had not seen fit to inform the Queen of, but a plot nevertheless. 

“If I were them, that is where I would have the hostages,” Tyrion spoke up, gesturing slightly to a plain but large beige tent. 

“There are no guards,” Snatch pointed out.

“See, that’s just what they want you to think. There are no guards on the tent itself, but there are an irregular amount on the surrounding tents to protect it if it comes under fire. That is how I would hide the hostages.”

Brown Ben nodded slowly. “I will take Lannister, Uhlan and Bokkoko to go check. If you hear the horn, charge in to defend our position.” He started to move in to the left where the indicated tent was. “And Lannister, if you are wrong, it will be your companion who pays the price.”

Penny . Tyrion swallowed painfully in spite of himself. “I’m not wrong,” he replied, his voice full of bluster. 

They rode into the tent as casually as they could after dismounting, only slightly concerned when no guards moved to stop them immediately. 

Squelch . His boot became soaked in an instant, and Tyrion looked down. Blood. And a lot of it at that. Also corpses. Sellswords from the look of it, dressed in varying garbs just like them and carrying cheap steel. 

There were four sets of chains, stakes driven into the ground, but the cuff was broken on all of them. “Well, this was our place,” Tyrion declared glumly. “Someone appears to have had the same idea and gotten to the hostages before us.”

“What now Captain?” Bokkoko asked unsurely. 

Brown Ben stroked the folds of his chin a moment before responding. “We are still the Queen’s Men. She will still win this battle, and we will reap the rewards for our loyalty. We will prove ourselves loyal by destroying the Harpy’s Daughter.”

It wasn’t the worst plan— the hostages would have worked better in any scenario, but taking out one of the six great trebuchets assailing the city and dismantling the ability of the Yunkai’i to put the city under siege would certainly curry some favor.

But enough to earn forgiveness for bearing the name of Lannister? Enough to forgive Jorah Mormont’s betrayal and banishment? Not that he really cared about the latter, but he was oddly attached to his own head. 

But was it a plan that his father would have made before Tyrion put an arrow in his belly? Was it a plan worthy of his legacy? Was it a plan that surpassed his father? And it wasn’t his plan— and Tyrion needed it to be a plan that would prove to Daenerys Targaryen that he should sit at her hand and advise her in all matters. 

“We serve the Dragon Queen,” Tyrion argued. “Fire and blood are her words and weapons, should we not follow her lead?”

“Speak plainly Lannister, we don’t have the time for your witticisms.”

aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

The sound reverberated around the room like it was thunder. As a cacophony of roars and screeches echoed its song. It rattled his very bones and made him feel feverish for as long as it sounded. 

“I need to get myself a warhorn like that,” Brown Ben muttered when the noise subsided. Tyrion couldn’t help but nod in agreement. Was that all it was though? An incredibly impressive warhorn? There was nothing comparable to that— and it had felt like more than noise. Like iit was his soul or something?

Was that magic?

Was it the dragon’s crying out? Or was the Dragon Queen also a witch who sacrificed virgins and fucked dragons and horses alike as some of the rumors claimed? Was that her magic?

“Your plan, dwarf?” Brown Ben prodded him.

Tyrion shook himself. “Right, as I was saying— we should take our inspiration from the Queen we serve and fight with fire. Take torches and ride through the camps of the wise masters. Destroy their supplies and destroy the possessions of the nobles who command the siege. Plunder their wealth and leave the armies without funding or the supplies for a prolonged siege. Force the Yunkai’i’ to either retreat or break against the great walls of the Queen’s city.”

For as important as the trebuchet and under siegecraft might be to assaulting Meereen— even as important as the thousands of men that the Yunkai’i’ commanded were— the most important thing in a siege would always be food. Mace Tyrell had held Stannis Baratheon in Storm’s End under siege for an entire year by maintaining an effective supply line. Cutting that off would end this siege one way or another within a week. Especially when the armies were sellswords who would not fight without food.

Brown Ben pondered him for a moment before shaking his head slightly. “We don’t have the men to take the entire camp.” 

“We aren’t trying to battle anyone. We have horses. Ride swift and set things aflame. Let the fire do the work and get out.”

“Still,” Brown Ben frowned in response. “We will lose a lot of men.”

Tyrion certainly hoped so. He had beggared himself to get into this company, but his promises were already writ. They were made out to the current officers, not any future ones. If a good twenty or so happened to die then Tyrion would be much richer for it. “That just means more rewards for the rest of us then.”

aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

That awful sound pierced the heavens again, and his bones quaked in defiance. He half wondered that if when they stepped out of the tent, they would find the army already ashes from this magic horn that seemed to go on for far too long.

When the sound subsided, Brown Ben rubbed the top of Tyrion’s head for luck. “I like this plan. We are the Queen’s men, and that means we fight with fire.”

aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Tyrion would have grinned in response if it wasn’t for that blasted noise. 

Chapter Text

Stannis I

Stannis grit his teeth together as he glared at the map resting in front of him. The original map hadn’t even had this village marked, so Stannis had drawn it and the surrounding areas on himself. The chips were scattered over the table, meant to mark the positioning of both his and the Bolton forces.

The problem was that Stannis was losing men, despite how much he tried to maintain rigid discipline. Some of the softer summer knights from the south couldn’t tolerate the winter or starvation and took the opportunity to try to flee to Castle Black. The Knotts— one of the mountain clans had abandoned him as well, having only marched for the Ned’s daughter and now that she was on her way to Castle Black, they apparently saw no reason to stay. Maybe they would go home and just pretend that the Boltons were not their problems. Maybe they would actually try to protect the Ned’s daughter they marched for and go serve Jon Snow at Castle Black. 

Starvation was far from easy on his men, Stannis knew that better than anyone. The siege on Storm’s End had been worse than this, but unlike in the siege, there was an alternative available to being starved out. Men could just try to go home— there were no walls or armies standing between them and a retreat. 

Especially, when Stannis had to let most of his men believe they were just waiting here without much of a plan. He had plans upon plans to deal with the Frey and Manderly forces that were headed their way, but not ones that he could share with even the majority of his commanding officers, let alone the foot soldiers with wavering confidence. At Storm’s End, every man knew what they were fighting for and what their odds of success were. Every man had been united in holding out and repelling the Targaryens in his brother’s name. 

And even then, Stannis would have faced a mutiny without Ser Davos before the end there. And now his loyal hand was dead, butchered by the Manderly’s to prove their fealty to the Lannisters and Boltons. “Traitors,” Stannis muttered. 

He would still crush the Freys without any struggle, but that would only be doing Roose Bolton a favor. That was undoubtedly why the Lord of the Dreadfort had sent the men out. The North would be more willing to fight for their Lord when it meant not standing alongside the Freys. And  beyond the battle, Stannis was sure that Lord Roose wanted less Freys trying to exert control over his kingdom. The Lannisiters had given them far too much control of the North as the reward for their treachery, and even the Boltons, their greatest ally, wanted their influence curbed. 

He would defeat the Manderly’s that trailed behind as well, even if they had thrice the force that his scouts reported. But then the battle would be lost after.

They could not take Winterfell in this weather, not while at a number’s disadvantage. 

Melisandre had given him a gift and a promise before he had departed the wall. Jon Snow would leave the wall and with an army of Wildlings, at that. She had seen a man with the head of a wolf sitting at the high table in Winterfell in the flames. She had told him not to worry about it, and assured him that she would handle everything.

Yet, days before the Freys arrived, he was still without his Warden of the North.

Stannis had sent Arya Stark to Castle Black as part of his own scheme, but it was likely to be fruitless now. If Snow hadn’t marched yet, then they would be hard pressed to survive long enough for him to make a difference.

“Ironborn,” Stannis’ lips curled into a snarl. They had burnt the supply tower to cover their escape— to lure him away from Theon Turncloak. And in doing so, they had hampered his ability to feed his men. Fishing was the primary source of food for their camp, with the rest subsidized by their dying horses. 

And now most of their fishing rods had been burnt to ashes. Some of the chisels they carried for carving holes in the ice, had been misshapen beyond use as well. Their nets were all gone. They still had axes, swords, spears, and the sort, but they were hardly efficient, and would be less suited for battle, the more they used them to fish. Not that they had much of a choice at this point. 

Stannis had, of course, sent a dozen men in pursuit of them, but he had low expectations that he would find them. They had seemingly run on foot— not one of their horses was missing aside from one scouting party that hadn’t returned a few days ago. Yet, it felt off. There had to be something he was missing that had aided in their escape— it was far too clean to have bene spur of the moment from the Ironborn alone. It didn’t matter now, they were gone, and the North was at his throat because of it. 

Stannis should have never promised to sacrifice Theon. The boy’s death was inevitable, but he hadn’t expected the Ironborn to actually result to such desperate means to save him. He could have delayed the calls for execution by insisting that only a Stark had the right to take his head. He could have found some other way to keep the North from deserting. He did not care for the snow, but he didn’t need it to stop yet, not when it would always play to the defender’s advantage. 

Stannis shook his head slightly, there was no value in these what-ifs. He had blundered, and he would just have to live or die with the consequences of that mistake. 

That consequence just happened to be one that Stannis had very much hoped to avoid. He would have to ally with Wyman Manderly. The man who had killed his most leal man, and his hand, Ser Davos Seaworth. It was either flip him to serve Stannis— or his men would starve to death in the snow after crushing the fat lord in battle. 

And Jon Snow should be the key to persuading him… But Snow was still not here, and he could not promise what he did not have. 

Stannis had always refused to bend. Despite the promises of the Wildlings to serve faithfully if he spared Mance Rayder, Stannis had executed the deserter for his crime. In spite of the fact that Ser Davos had saved the life of him and all of his men— that he was the reason they endured the siege, Stannis had refused to let his crimes go unpunished and had taken his fingers. That was who Stannis Baratheon was, a man committed to justice.

That was why he would claim the throne— because the law stated that he must. That it was his. It did not matter what the odds were, he would be forced to fight until his last breath. He could not betray his brother and his name by seeing a bastard inherit what belonged to the Baratheon’s.

Wyman Manderly had murdered a man who was there as an envoy. He had murdered a good and honest man. One that Stannisi actually trusted above the rest. But Wyman Manderly had murdered him to get his son back. 

And Stannis would have to pardon him of that crime or else all of his men would die. It rankled Stanniis, every part of him wanted to kill Wyman Manderly and send his head back to Winterfell… but he couldn’t.

They needed him to have a chance at winning this. He would have to reward them for their treachery— probably give Arya Stark to one of the traitor’s sons.

“King Stanns!” A large man, burly but strong, stood at the doorway. His voice was thick, obstructed by his icy whiskers. “You wished to speak with me?”

“The Freys will be on us in three days,” Stannis confessed. “I would like to consult you on our battle plans against them.”

“I would be honored to assist,” Hugo Wull vowed. “We will crush them in the field.”

Stannis refrained from rolling his eyes. “The Freys march with 2,000 men, over half of them mounted.”

“Fools,” Hugo Wull scoffed. “They would be better off abandoning their horse and proceeding on foot. The southerners no doubt were as ill prepared for the weather as your lot and will find their horses useless because of it.”

Stannis frowned slightly at the reminder but nodded in agreement. “They are,” he confirmed. “Their progress has been slow, and they’ve lost men long before they’ve reached us.” He pointed to a place on the map. “I want to engage them here.”

Hugo Wull patted his belly and let out a boisterous laugh. “That would work, if you can draw them there well enough. On the frozen surface, their men and horses will tire fast, make little progress, and they will be easy pickings for our archers.”

Stannis nodded slightly. “Assume I can draw them there, what would you recommend for our offensive?”

“Patience,” Wull suggested after a long moment, his thoughts echoing those of the king he was sitting across from. “Let them tire themselves out before sending any of our men in. Harry them with arrows from the woods surrounding the lake until they start to break, only then should you send in the footmen to cut them down as they stumble.”

“I mean to give us the highground— shovel snow into drifts, that we can seat our bowmen atop. Hide our men behind those drifts,” the King explained. “When the men tire, we will strike them from the sides as my men burst through the walls of snow to converge on them swiftly.”

Wull grinned at him. “The Stannis has a good northern plan,” he cheered. 

“I am glad to have your approval. I would like you to command the left flank,” Stannis offered. “A man of your discipline is sure to hold our side.”

“I am honored, King Stannis,” Wull bowed slightly. “I will give you a mountain of Frey heads when we achieve victory and glory.”

“Just hold the line,” Stannis answered with a scowl. “Do not advance until you hear my horn blow thrice in quick succession. If you hold your position, I will reward you generously once Winterfell is back in the hands of the Starks. If you break formation, I will have your head.”

“I won’t break,” Wull swore.

Stannis knew that to be the truth— that was why he had chosen to give Wull command of the left, and Richard Horpe command of the right side. He knew that it would anger some— the political decision would have been to give command to Ser Godry Farring, Ser Harys Cobb, or Ser William Foxglove, knights of some renown who had the titles to demand command.

But Stannis was done bestowing honors on status alone, not when they were essential to victory. He had learned better than that after giving Ser Axell Florent command of the navy on the Blackwater. If he had just given command to Davos as he wished, then they might still have a navy. Hugo Wull knew the terrain and commanded the respect of the Northern Men. His loyalty to House Stark, and because of that the cause of defeating the Boltons was unquestionable. 

He would hold the line, and the Freys would be crushed.

And then he would have to face Wyman Manderly and choose between victory and his duty. 

-

Arya I

Jeyne Poole was not one for riding, yet another way she was not like the real Arya Stark. Arya had been called horseface, both for her long features, and her love of riding. Arya Stark wanted to play with swords and would fight fiercely for herself. Jeyne Poole wanted to hide and wait for a good man like Theon to save her. She still didn’t understand how anyone had ever believed that she was the real Arya Stark.

She shook herself lightly, she was the real Arya Stark now, she had to be Arya Stark. That was what would keep her alive— and away from Ramsay. Men would die to protect Arya Stark, men would step aside instead of protecting a steward’s daughter. That was her name— Arya, not Jeyne. She had to behave as Arya was and bring honor to the Starks.

But her lie was going to fall apart. 

Today, they would arrive at Castle Black so that Massey could deliver her to her so-called brother. The bastard, Jon Snow. She had grown up alongside him in Winterfell, back when she had been the vapid fool Jeyne Poole.

When she was ten she had dreamed of kissing Jon Snow, before she realized what him being a bastard meant. Before her and Sansa had become best friends. Then her fantasies had shifted to the trueborn and equally handsome brother, Robb. If she had kissed Jon Snow back then would he be more likely to welcome her in his castle?

Instead, Jeyne had been mean to him and his favorite sister, Arya Horseface. She had taken pleasure in calling him a bastard and demeaned him for being lesser. When Jon Snow had shown no interest in bedding any of the women interested in him in Winterfell, or even in the whores that Theon had once bought for him. So Jeyne had spread a nasty rumor that he was a sword swallower, eager to rot on the block of ice because of his perversions against the seven… 

And now he would decide if she lived or died… or was given back to the Boltons.

Why would Jon Snow risk his own neck for a girl pretending to be his favorite sister? When her husband demanded her return. What reason would 

And not just her, but Theon too. The plan that his sister, Asha, had constructed was for Theon to hide in plain sight. He was not Theon Greyjoy, but Rodrik Pyke. If Asha had been incapable of recognizing Theon, as broken as he was by Ramsay, then perhaps Jon Snow would be as well.

There was just one flaw in that plan. 

Aly Mormont.

Jeyne’s self designated protector, the one that Stanns had sent to escort Arya Stark to her brother. The one who had committed treason because Jeyne had ordered her to. Out of loyalty to Arya Stark. 

She had sworn to keep Theon’s name secret, and Jeyne wanted to believe her. She liked Aly, she was kind and fierce. She was as valiant of a sworn sword as she could ask for, and expected nothing of her, aside from being Arya Stark. 

But she knew that warmth would turn to ice when her true name was revealed. And at that point, what would stop Aly from telling Jon Snow that Rodrik Pyke was actually Theon, the same one who had murdered his brothers? 

Perhaps, she should have asked Asha to kill Aly, she liked her fine, but she wasn’t Theon. She wasn’t the one to save her from Ramsay’s loving touch. She shook at the thought of him— at the thought of how they spent their nights. At how he had made Theon participate… Those were the only bright spots of her time in his bed. His touch had not been wanted, but it had at least not been cruel. 

Perhaps, in another context, she might have even enjoyed the things Theon had done with his mouth…. Perhaps, she still wanted to explore that context… Even if Theon would not want her— not when he was the reminder of Ramsay and the suffering they had endured. Not when she now only had half a nose and her once pretty body was marred by scars thanks to both Ramsay and her training. How could anyone has gallant as Theon desire her? Still she wanted him… To be held in his arms and be safe… 

If only Jon would let him live and be free…

But why would he? 

“Theon,” Jeyne whispered under her breath, and her savior wheeled his horse over to her, at her command, riding by her side.

“Arya,” he greeted her warmly. Her hand grasped out desperately for his arm, seeking some insurance that he was still there. Still real. 

“You should run,” she pleaded for the umpteenth time. “Take your horse and head east… Far away from here… from me…”

“I can’t,” Theon whispered softly. “I need to face him. I need to look him in the eye— a Stark in the eye… and tell them what I’ve done… If he wishes to take my head for it, then so be it.” 

“I can’t— just run…” Jeyne begged. “I don’t want to lose you, Theon… you saved me.”

“Jon will protect you,” Theon swore. “He and I might not have ever gotten along, but he is a Stark… Good… He was just the only one who saw what I really was… He won’t let you go back to Ramsay.” She doubted that— it wasn’t that she didn’t trust Theon, but Jon Snow was looking for Arya… and she knew men now… They were not good like in the songs. The only good ones were the ones who hurt as bad as she did— Theon. Jon didn’t know her pain, so how could he protect her? 

And Jon Snow had let savages into the North… Men who raped and ate human flesh… How could he be good? How could he be the boy she remembered? The Stark that Theon claimed? 

“Promise me Theon,” her nails raked against his sleeve. “You won’t just let him kill you… Beg to take the Black… Just please don’t die on me… I need you to live…”

“I’ll ask,” Theon swore again. She had extracted that promise from him days ago, and multiple times every day since. Surely, that would be enough for Snow… Surely. It was a paper shield at best, but it gave her some hope. Better to have him guarding the Wall from Wildlings, far apart from her… then dead…

Although if she was to find refuge at the Wall, under the protection of Jon Snow, then perhaps she wouldn’t be apart from Theon if he was allowed to take the Black. He would always be near to protect her…. She clung to that dream with all she had, for it was the only thing that she had left. 

“Halt,” a gruff older man demanded. He stood nearly seven feet tall, with a beard as white as the snow that hung down to his belly. He was dressed in heavy brown furs and had a large battle axe cradled in both hands. “State your business,” he demanded. 

Jeyne stared at him with no small amount of trepidation. Was that a Wildling... She shook slightly in her saddle, and it was only Theon’s hand ghosting over her leg that kept her steady. 

“We are here to see the Lord Commander,” Ser Justin Massey declared, his voice booming. “I’ve brought him his sister, the Lady Arya Stark.” He gestured in her direction, and Jeyne forced her horse to advance towards him. 

They had made it to Castle Black— far quicker than they had intended. The bear claws that the Mountain Clans had given their horses made all the difference. And they had given them to protect her— the Ned's daughter. The heavy snows had also finally stopped falling yesterday, even if it was still freezing cold so the terrain was no more friendly.

The old man frowned at that. “Drit! Brogg!” He snapped out orders. “Go fetch Sigorn and his Lady! Hara! Go send word to Val at the Castle!” He approached her slowly as the two boys and one girl, all around her age, went off to do as he had commanded, his axe dropped gently on the snow as he approached her. 

“I don’t know how to tell you this… but your brother is dead.”

Jeyne stared at him for a long moment, then raised her fist to cover her mouth. Her face was damp with tears before she knew it. Her teeth bit down on her cowhide glove, pinching the fabric between her teeth as she let out of a wordless scream. 

Jon Snow was dead… 

Dead…

The only person who could have exposed her secret… That she was not Arya Stark… and he was dead… She could be Arya and have protection… She could have Theon with her now that Jon Snow couldn’t try to take his head for Sansa’s siblings…

It was all she could do to stop herself from laughing. So instead, she screamed, biting down on her fist to hide her smile. 

Arya Stark… That was her name now… Arya Stark… The girl who men would die to protect when they would normally willingly give up or even rape Jeyne Poole themselves. She would never go back to Ramsay… and she no longer had to fear Jon Snow giving her back.

And nobody could tell Arya Stark what to do with Theon. She was the only one who had the right to decide his fate as the sister of the Stark boys that he had murdered. As the rightful heir to Winterfell, the Castle he had plundered… 

“J…Jon is dead?” That was Theon speaking, his voice choked out in the cold winter air.

Jeyne wondered what Sansa would think of her if they were to meet again. Would Sansa be furious that she was pretending to be her sister? Would she be furious that she was celebrating the bastard’s death? Or would she understand? They said that Sansa and her husband the imp had murdered both King Joffrey and Tywin Lannister— surely, that meant that she would understand. That she was no longer the naive girl— that she knew something of her suffering.

It hardly mattered what Sansa thought in the end, she wasn’t here though, and Jeyne wasn’t going to suffer to not offend the girl who had once been her friend.

Not that had cared about her the way that Jeyne had anyways, she had never tried to save Jeyne from the cruel fate she had suffered at the hands of Petyr Baelish. She had never tried to find her— never done anything. Had Sansa even thought of her friend once in the years apart? Jeyne had spent much time thinking of Sansa, and Robb, and Arya, and Theon, and even Jon Snow. Begging for someone— any of them to save her— to do their duty as the family she served.

But she was the only one still able to bear the Stark name now, not any of them. She was Arya Stark, not Jeyne Poole now, and would be until the day she died. She might be the last one to ever call themselves a Stark, and she wasn’t even one. 

It was ridiculous, and she wanted to laugh…

But Arya Stark wouldn’t laugh at the death of her brother, she would mourn— so Jeyne had to do the same. So she mourned for her own suffering— for Ramsay and out of fear of what he would do if he caught her. 

“Lady Stark,” a soft voice called out, and then a hand covered her calf. Small, and feminine, but a bit rugged. Jeyne lowered her trembling hand from her mouth and looked down at the source of contact.

Pale blue orbs met her own plain brown ones, and Jeyne flinched away. They were like chips of ice, pale and glowing with flecks of silver in them. For a moment, Jeyne thought they were Ramsay’s eyes— cruel and teasing.

But these weren’t his eyes she realized after a moment. He wasn’t here— he couldn’t hurt her. Her eyes were larger and less sunken— they were a bit richer around the pupil too. And the fact they were attached too had hard and angular features, but pretty. And it was a woman with thin lips. 

The woman with those eyes curtsied towards her. “My name is Alys Karstark, it’s—”

Jeyne shrieked in terror and her horse kicked up, Jeyne desperately clinging to the reins. “She- she’s working w-with Ramsay!” She looked at Aly, her whole body shrinking in on itself. “Kill her!” she demanded desperately. 

Jeyne was not involved in war councils or anything of the sort, but Ramsay had taken pleasure in gloating to her. In making it clear that he was going to crush Stannis— and later Jon Snow. How he was going to flay them and give her a new cloak made of her purported saviors skin. And part of that plan had been the Karstarks— had been them betraying Stannis… 

And while Stanns had caught the Karstark’s in his camp, that did not mean that they were not still Ramsay’s men… And now one was waiting for her here. To drag her and Theon back to Ramsay… 

The man standing next to her, dressed in a mix of furs and armor, drew his sword. A sun emblazoned on his breastplate. The screeching of steel was heard as he pulled the bronze blade from it’s scabbard and stepped defensively in front of Alys Karstark. A bunch of other wildlings around them also pulled out their own blades.

“Stand down, husband,” Alys’ voice was firm. “Her fear is more than justified. My uncle is a traitor, and her brother died here under our watch. But she is an ally— our liege.” 

Alys took a step forwards, stepping away from the man she proclaimed as her husband when he lowered his sword. “I came here for the same reason as you, my Lady. My uncle sought to marry me to my cousin so that he could claim my home. I ran to hide with the Lord Commander Jon Snow, out of reach of my cousin and uncle. He offered me a home, and arranged a better marriage for me that kept them from using me to exercise a claim to my father’s lands. My cousin rots in the dungeons of Castle Black now.”

Jeyne faltered… Could she really be the same… Just another person used for a name they had— be it their real one or not? But she had escaped… before wedding her evil cousin… A part of Jeyne hated her for that… That she never had to suffer when Jeyne did… But… Maybe she wasn’t like her evil kin serving Ramsay? 

“H-how can I trust you?”

Alys smiled gently at her and tugged on the arm of the man who had been threatening them with his sword, just moments ago. “This is my husband, Sigorn Thenn… a Wildling.”

Jeyne’s cheeks flushed… “Okay,” she conceded, her voice small and barely a whisper. “I-I’ll trust you…” Not that she had much of a choice, surrounded by Wildlings who were clearly loyal to their lady. But still… Jeyne did trust her— at least more than any of the Wildling savages. She was still a Northern lady, one who had at least been threatened with something similar and ran… Surely, she would be sympathetic enough to not give her back to Ramsay. 

even if she wasn’t arya stark

Alys smiled at her, but it almost looked like a grimace. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll escort you and your party to Castle Black. Val will find quarters for you, probably in the Kings tower but things are a bit in flux right now. For the time being, you’ll be rooming with Queen Selyse’s party, but they should be leaving soon and then you’ll have it to yourself.”

Jeyne nodded mutely as their horses followed Alys towards the Wall. She didn’t know who any of these people were, or if she would be safe here. She did not know how Stannis’s Queen would react to seeing them. Had Stannis given her word about them absconding with Theon? Would that priestess his men talked about in such reverent terms know? Would they still try to burn him? 

“While it’s obviously not what you would prefer, it’s still good that you arrived today,” Alys admitted. “We planned on having the Lord Commander’s funeral rites done tonight. It’s good that you will be here for them.”

Jeyne said nothing, just bit her lip and nodded again. She was sure that Arya Stark would have appreciated the opportunity to be there for his funeral, but Jeyne wished they had stopped a day when Rook twisted his ankle. How was she supposed to stand there and look at his body dressed all pretty and pretend he was her brother? How was she supposed to mourn? Would she be expected to say words at his funeral? She would, wouldn’t she? What would Arya Stark say? 

Perhaps, she could tell the story of when Jon Snow had covered himself in flour and pretended to be a ghost in the crypts? Arya had punched him for that— and Jeyne knew the story from Sansa retelling it. That was probably a memory with Jon that was important to Arya, wasn’t it? Should she ask Theon for something about Jon to share that would make her sound like Arya? But Jon and Theon weren’t that friendly either, so would he really know? 

Badump.

Badump.

Her heart raced painfully as she thought about the funeral, her breathing accelerating. It would have been one thing to be exposed as Jeyne Poole in the midst of Stannis’ camp where there were at least men pretending to have some honor. But here she would be surrounded by Wildling savages. She would be with rapists and bastards and criminals who had been sentenced to take the Black. If she was exposed… She hoped they killed her. 

As they rode through the gates, a blond woman dressed in heavy furs approached, her blonde braid draped over her shoulder, and a spear in her left hand, point dragging against the snow. She looked up at Jeyne, her blue eyes rich like the dresses that Sansa once favored, a royal color. There were flecks of a lighter pale blue in them, but they were blemished by the red rings running through her eyes. 

“You are Jon’s sister?” She asked, her voice wavering slightly. 

Who was she? Was she Jon Snow’s Wildling lover? She had clearly been crying, and seemed happy to see Arya… Was she going to be expected to grieve with her? Treat this Wildling as a sister? She felt a stab of guilt. Here she was mourning… and Jeyne was going to lie— to make her grief more painful. It wasn’t fair. 

She felt a hand on the small of her back. Theon. “She is,” Theon replied for her. “This is Arya Stark.”

“Jon Snow was one of us,” the woman declared, her voice ringing through the courtyard. “For as long as we are alive, I swear that his sister will be under the protection of the Free Folk. That she will have a seat at our table, and our swords will defend her life. We will not let Ramsay Bolton have her when he comes to deliver on his threat. Jon Snow gave his life for us— for our cause. He was killed for us. The least we can do in return is protect his sister from any who would do her harm.”

A cheer rose up in agreement. Was that the loyalty that Jon Snow had inspired from savages? That just being under the name of his sister was enough that they were willing to fight to save her? As long as she was Arya Stark…

She was a monster. 

Using their affection for a bastard that she had ridiculed… She had to do it— she couldn’t go back to Ramsay… but… it coiled as something rotten in her stomach. 

“Threat? R-Ramsay threatened you…” Theon stuttered. 

Jeyne froze in place, her blood turning to ice. 

The woman who appeared to be their Queen nodded slightly, a scowl affixed on her face. Her eyes locked onto Jeyne’s and only Jeyne’s. “Ramsay Bolton sent a letter to Castle Black before the mutiny that claimed Jon’s life. He threatened to come and cut out Jon’s heart because Jon had you Arya, amongst a number of other reasons. He called on us to march down to Winterfell and kill him, but before we could, he was murdered by the crows. We will not let him have you, I give you my word.”

Jeyne closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. That was how much Jon Snow loved Arya— to break his vows and go fight Ramsay— to go die… Just because he had his sister… And now he was dead— in an attempt to protect her, because he believed she was someone else. She didn’t know what these crows were— probably some group of Wildlings, but… Jon Snow had died for her. 

And she was a liar. One who would have to pretend to mourn the fool that she had bullied when they were children. What a monster she was. 

maybe she belonged with ramsay

“If you’ll come with me, Arya, I can take you to pay your respects,” the lady offered. 

A part of Jeyne bristled at the informality— the presumptuousness. Arya Stark was a Lady— the head of House Stark with the death of all other members but her and possibly Sansa. To refer to her as just Arya should have been an honor reserved only for her closest friends…

…but Arya Stark when they had grown up in Winterfell had hated being a lady. She hated sowing, she hated pretty dresses, she hated the songs, and tales of romance. And most of all, she had hated being treated as a lady. So Jeyne bit her tongue. She had no way of knowing about much Jon Snow had told the Wildlings of his sister. 

She dismounted from her horse and trailed after her in silence as they entered the largest tower in the settlement and began to climb the stairs. After a long moment, Jeyne could no longer hold her tongue. “Who are you exactly?” 

“Val,” she answered simply. 

“And…” Jeyne tried to find her voice, she had to act like Arya Stark now— not Jeyne Poole. She was Arya Stark— and never again, would she be someone else. “What were you to Jon— my brother?” 

Val stopped and turned to look at her. “I was his,” she answered. She spun back around and continued to climb the stairs as if that had explained everything. 

Perhaps it did— they were clearly lovers of some sort, vows of the Night’s Watch be damned. Perhaps, she was the one who had seduced him into letting the Wildlings move into the North. 

“He’s just through here,” Val declared as they stood in front of a brightly lit room, the light shining through the cracks under the door, even with it closed. She pushed the door open without warning. 

Inside was a woman with crimson hair, a choker around her neck, and contained within it was an amethyst. She wore a light southern dress, with plenty of exposed flesh, despite the fact that it was while below freezing outside. She stood up when they entered, the brazier that had been roaring a moment ago, dimming with the movement. 

Her unsettling red eyes locked onto Jeyne and seemed to peer into the depths of her soul. “Lady Stark,” she smiled as the flames danced across his irises. “I am pleased to see you arrive at Castle Black alive and well. I’ll give the two of you a moment alone with him.” Val glared at her as she swept out of the room.

Sitting by the fireplace was a very large white wolf, the size of a horse. His fur thick as he laid there lazily, soaking in the warmth. His red eyes were as empty as the woman’s, his gaze lazily following her. Jeyne hadn’t even remembered that Jon Snow also had a direwolf until now. She had remembered Lady— Sansa’s sweet little pup that had been beheaded when Arya’s Nymeria had seen the wickedness of the Prince before they had and attacked him for it. 

For a moment, she stared at the wolf, and it stared back. She was terrified that it would get up and rip her to pieces— expose her as not being a true Stark. Expose her as simple Jeyne Poole, a liar who rejoiced in his master’s death.

But the wolf did nothing of the sort. It rolled it’s eyes and then turned it’s head away, not giving her another glance. And so Jeyne turned away as well, instead looking for the person she was there to see. 

“I don’t trust her, but the witch offered to prepare him to be burnt, and given that none of us have experience with anything that fancy, I entrusted him to her case.” Jeyne barely heard her, her eyes staring at the corpse of Jon Snow. 

He was laid out on a table, dressed in just his breeches. The dark brown curls that Arya Stark was also supposed to have cascaded around his face. His deep gray eyes that had burned like molten steel were hollow and glassy now, shimmering a more vibrant color from the right angle in the flames flickering light. His face was almost handsome, clean shaven and slightly damp, his angular features striking. There was no stench or anything, if it wasn’t for the marks on his skin, she might have thought he was only sleeping.

But his head could only hold her attention for so long. Across his body there were angry red marks— stab wounds. One line bisected his neck, cutting along the hollow of his throat. The skin inflamed along the edges of all of them. Another was in his stomach, just to the right of his belly button. A third was just visible in his side, cutting into the ribcage right below the elbow. There was a smaller incision in his collarbone, between the shoulder blades— if she hadn’t looked closely, she might have thought it was a birthmark. A blade to the back that had been pushed all the way through.

Her face went green at the sight. She wanted to vomit. 

A hand brushed against her arm, Val’s fingers clasping her own, fingers intertwining. “I know that it’s no comfort to you, but he was a hero. One who died doing what was right. Jon Snow was the best of us.”

“Jon Stark,” Jeyne corrected. Her words surprising even herself. “He wasn’t my half brother, but my brother.” That was something that Arya Stark would say— something that she had repeatedly insisted. He was her brother— no lesser. And she was Arya Stark now, she had to say what Arya Stark would say. Arya Stark would want her brother to bear the name Stark, even in death… 

Val was silent for a moment. “Jon Stark then,” she resolved. “He was a hero and the fire to celebrate his life will be the greatest the North has ever seen.” She pulled on their conjoined hands. “I was planning to lead the celebration, but if you would like too— the role is yours. He was yours before he was mine— and he loved you more than anyone.”

Her heart constricted painfully. “Fire?” she asked weakly.

“We burn our dead North of the Wall so that they stay dead,” Val explained, her voice scratchy. “So do the crows, not that they have any right to decide what happens with him after what they did. Jon Snow— Jon Stark was one of us, I won’t have him disrespected.”

“The North doesn’t burn their dead— we bury them,” Jeyne whispered.

“They would if they knew what was North of the Wall,” Val muttered. “Burning him is for the best, trust me on that, Arya. It’s what he would want.”

“He belongs in the crypts below Winterfell— with the rest of the Starks,” Jeyne insisted. That was what Arya would demand, wasn’t it? “I won’t let his body be destroyed instead of honored. He was a Stark so he will be entombed in the crypts. That is my decision.” 

Was she really arguing it just because Arya would?

No…

Lord Eddard Stark had six children. Five of them trueborn. Bran and Rickon had been killed by Theon— the man she was adamantly protecting for saving her. Their bones were lost when Ramsay had taken Winterfell. Arya Stark was dead somewhere, nobody knew where but she hadn’t been spotted since before Lord Stark was executed. Robb Stark had been killed at the Red Wedding, his bones lost in a sea of them tossed into the Trident. Sansa Stark might still be alive, but she would never be able to return to Winterfell, or be entombed in the crypts. She had participated in the murder of both the King and his Hand. She might be able to live in Essos, but never again as a Stark of Winterfell. 

Even Lord Stark’s bones had never made their way north and were likely lost somewhere during all of the wars that had unfolded.

The only son left was Jon Snow— killed by whatever those crows were. But his body was here— it was real, and it was intact. 

She wasn’t doing it because she needed to act like Arya Stark… but because she felt guilty that she was going to be Arya Stark. 

Jeyne Poole would have to be Arya Stark now. It would be her who carried on the name, not anyone with actual Stark blood. Not anyone who knew the old Lord. It would be her bones that were entombed in the crypts under the name of Stark. It would be her that was the family’s legacy— willing or not… 

And she wanted to do right by that family… By the family she had grown up alongside… And the one she was usurping. She had to pay her respects to them, for they were gone. She didn’t know Jon Snow, she hadn’t liked him, or treated him kindly. She was even glad that he was dead, as cruel as it was… but he still deserved better than this. All of the Starks did if she was going to steal their place. Let the crypts have the last of the real Starks before she usurped them.

Especially when his army was going to fight for her freedom.

And if they lost… Then they had bigger problems then Ramsay desecrating all of their corpses. 

Val scrutinized her for a moment, her gaze flickering back and forth between Jon and her. “Is this what you would want…” she mumbled. Ït looked as if she was about to cry. She sniffed loudly. “We do need them… and you died to give us a chance…” Jeyne was fairly certain that she was not meant to hear that, but Jeyne had been forced to become a good listener to know when Ramsay was coming and recognize the different sounds of footsteps. 

“If that is what you wish, we will honor your wish, Arya,” Val sounded resigned and horribly pained as she conceded to allow her to carry out the Stark funeral rights. “I’ll have him moved to the abandoned Lord Commander’s tower for the time being.”

Jeyne nodded mutely, and cast her gaze back to Jon Snow. She had no idea what she was doing. She just wanted to curl into a ball or go find Theon. She missed when life was easy— when she wasn’t expected to be the last Stark but just Jeyne Poole. The days before Lord Stark had become the King’s hand. The days when they had dreamed of princes without realizing they were monsters.

Val squeezed her hand and then let go. “I’ll give you a few moments alone with him,” she offered. “I’m sorry…” Jeyne wasn’t sure what Val was apologizing for as she left, but was happy to be alone. 

Her hand reached up and clasped the hand of Jon Snow, clinging tightly to it as if they were really family. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed uncontrollably. “I was so cruel to you,” her voice was faint, scared of Val returning and exposing her lie if she spoke too loudly. 

“I should have treated you better, I should have…” she trailed off. “I.. The Starks are all gone. I’m sorry that I’m not her… I’m sorry for stealing your name… For rejoicing in your death… I’m sorry…”

“But I swear… I’ll try to do right by you… By Lord Stark and Sansa and the real Arya… I’ll try to wear your name with pride… and treat the real Starks right. I swear by all of the Seven. I won’t— I won’t let Ramsay win… Even if it means stealing your name to do so…”

“It should have been you who lived… not me…”

—

Jaime I

“The Hound has Sansa Stark?” Jaime repeated incredulously as they rode in pursuit of him. “And you’re certain that it’s her?” 

“As certain as I can be,” Brienne insisted, avoiding looking at him to hide the ugly scar that marred her cheek now. “She looks just like Lady Stark.”

“Any idea why he demanded I come?” Jaime asked again. Things didn’t add up, he might not be Tyrion but he could recognize that much. “If he wanted a ransom, why insist that I come alone? Why not name a price first?” And why not take the Valyrian Steel sword first?

“I do not know, my lord,” Brienne repeated dutifully. “Merely that I was told I must bring you or they would die. If you wish to run, I understand, and will not stop you. I can try to fulfill my oath on my own.”

Jaime shook his head lightly. “I’ll go with you. I swore an oath too.” That was the condition behind Lady Stark’s foolish decision to release him. A decision that had cost her the life of her son as well as her own. Ser Jaime had broken a lot of oaths in his life, but he wanted to honor this one. “I swore to bring her daughters home. I will do that, even if it means facing down the Hound.”

Not that they were at all likely to win. Jaime for all his practice with Ser Illyn was far from his prime with his left hand. Brienne was an incredible warrior, one who he would have loved to fight for real with both of his hands, but she was outclassed by Sandor Clegane.

It wasn’t Sandor Clegane’s style either to demand that Jaime come alone. He would have sold Sansa to the highest bidder that he could. Be it his whore of a sister, Roose Bolton, or Walder Frey. He wouldn’t have demanded Jaime come alone if it was just for gold— not without naming a price for the ransom. 

Not unless his goal was something else— something more than just gold in exchange for Sansa Stark. Revenge perhaps. His brother’s skull, perhaps, if he wanted to wrestle Doran Martell for it. Maybe he just hated the Lannister’s enough to leverage Sanasa to get Jaime to a place where he could kill him. Maybe he still was nursing a grudge over when Jaime had put him on his ass at the tourney of Lannisport all those years ago. 

He knew that whatever the reason was, he would have Brienne fighting alongside him. And that together they would foil this trap and rescue Sansa… Although, what he would do with her when they succeeded was another question… Not turning Sansa over to the crown would make him guilty of treason again— fit to be stripped of his White Cloak… 

But he had sworn a vow and he was tired of breaking them without a second thought. Brienne believed in his honor, so he wanted to do the same. Perhaps, he could secretly shuttle her across the narrow sea with Brienne and enough gold to live comfortably away from the wars of Westeros. Whatever, the solution was, he would find it after they saved her from the Hound.

And Jaime knew that Brienne of all people would never be leading him into a trap voluntarily. His brother might kill his father, his sister might fuck his cousin and fucking Moonboy,  but he knew Brienne. She was the type of fool who believed in honor. Who believed in knighthood being sacred, a higher calling. Who would follow an oath to the ends of the world, no matter what it meant for her. She would defend the innocent at the cost of her own life. Ser Gerold would have loved her. 

“That scar—” Jaime asked to fill the silence. “Did you get it from your first encounter with the Hound?” 

Brienne flinched at the question. “No… I got it when I ran into Rorge and Biter at the crossroads.”

Jaime sneered. “Those two? Please tell me you killed them this time.”

Brienne nodded. “They are dead.”

“You took both of them down on your own?” Jaime pressed. “Surely, there’s a good story behind that battle.”

“There’s not,” Brienne’s reply was abrupt. “We’re almost there. Just over that hill, there is a farm where my Lady is awaiting us.”

Jaime nodded grimly, all levity gone. “We shouldn’t have to worry about the Hound killing Sansa when we assault him,” Jaime advised. “The hostage holds him back as much as it does us in a situation like this— more so even. If he lets her die then he loses all leverage, but he also has to keep her within an arm’s reach. He should just demand a ransom and we won’t even need to draw our swords.”

Brienne swallowed and pressed her horse to move faster. Jaime urged Honor to catch up to her. “You have no reason to be so nervous,” Jaime tried to reassure her. They had every reason to be nervous, but her panic and inability to focus would not do them any favors— and she would have to be the one to kill the Hound… So they really needed her at her best. “I’ve heard a rumor that you beat Ser Loras in single combat while in Renly’s camp? 

“I did,” Brienne’s reply was curt, if anything she became more tense. “With that victory, Renly gave me a Cloak and made me a part of his Rainbow Guard.” She shuddered.

Jaime resisted the urge to snort at the mockery of the White Cloaks that Renly had formed. Rainbow. Of all the things. A symbol of the Faith of the Seven, supposedly. It was a mockery of all of his sworn brothers to ask them to dress so garishly and half of them hadn’t even been knights. One of them was even a Lord with lands and a wife. But at least one of his Rainbow Guard had been worthy of a real White Cloak. 

“Stop for a moment,” Jaime decided on a lark. If they were going to die, he might as well do something right for once first. 

“Lady Stark is just over the hill,” Brienne insisted. “We can’t stop now.”

“I need to take a piss,” Jaime insisted. “So stop and let me do so. I don’t want to soil myself while fighting with the Hound.” He pulled hard on the reins and his horse came to a stop. He dismounted without a backwards glance. 

When he returned from doing his business, Brienne was standing beside her horse, hand on Oathkeeper, and her head bowed in some prayer he couldn’t hear. Fuck it.

“Kneel. Brienne of Tarth,” Jaime ordered. 

“Ser Jaime…” She trailed off looking at him with wide eyes like a deer who had just seen the arrow about to enter their eye. 

“Kneel,” Jaime insisted, rolling his eyes.

“I can’t… We don’t have the time for this…” she protested weakly. She almost looked faint. 

“I’m not getting back on that horse until we get this over with, so save us both the trouble and kneel,” Jaime repeated. 

“I’m not worthy—” she stammered. 

“You’re not a knight, so your opinion doesn’t matter here,” Jaime scoffed. “I am and I say you are worthy. So kneel. Quickly, we don’t want to leave Lady Sansa in the hands of Clegane any longer than we have too.” 

“If-if,” her lip was quavering as she tried to speak, and slowly sunk to a knee but remained half upright. “If you only knew…” 

“Oh?” Jaime raised an eyebrow as he pulled out his sword, the Valyrian Steel shining as the sun reflected off of it. “Brienne the beauty has a dark side now?” He threw back his head and laughed. “No matter what you have done, it does not compare to the sins that I and countless others have committed as Knights. You are more worthy than any of them.” 

“You can’t know—”

“I killed my King,” Jaime reminded her. “I cuckolded another King. I broke a vow to the Prince I served. I pushed a ten year old boy out the window in hopes of killing him. I helped my brother kill my father. Gregor Clegane was a knight and he murdered the Crown Prince while raping and then murdering Elia Martell. Kettleblack is a knight and he is fucking my sweet sister. Need I go on?” He drawled. “Now, kneel.” 

Finally, she did as bidded. Jaime rested his sword on her shoulder. “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” His sword moved to the other shoulder. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Smith, I charge you to serve the realm. In the name of the Crone, I charge you to lead children into the light.”

He moved his sword between her shoulders for the final time, and rested it against her pauldron. “Do you Brienne of House Tarth swear to uphold these vows until the day where you meet the Stranger?”

“Jaime—” Brienne protested once more. She was crying. Jaime noted. That was probably a first, but this was also the first woman to be knighted, so he supposed it made sense.

“That’s not an answer,” Jaime scolded her. He technically should restart the ceremony after the interruption, but he really did not want to go through this again, and there was no witnesses aside from them anyways. “Yes or no? Do you want to be a knight?” 

She looked down at her feet, refusing to meet his eyes. “I-I swear it. I will uphold these vows and serve in the Light of Seven from this day until my last.” 

Jaime grinned. “Then arise, Ser Brienne of Tarth, a knight of the seven kingdoms.” Brienne did not rise at his command. She stayed knelt, her head bowed as tears dripped down onto the ground. Was this why no one had knighted a woman before? No matter how capable of a fighter they were, they were just too damn emotional for the ceremony? 

“Ser Brienne,” Jaime shook her shoulder. “Get up, and pull yourself together, we need to go after Sansa, remember? The Hound has her and demanded we go alone?” 

Brienne rose slowly, furiously swiping tears away. “Why did you do that, Ser Jaime?” she asked softly as they pulled themselves back onto their horses.

“You’re worthy of knighthood,” Jaime answered honestly. “The only reason you weren’t already one is because you are a wench and there are no Lady Knights. I decided that was a dumb reason if you can put Ser Loras on his ass and have served as Kingsguard already.”

Brienne was silent, shifting in her saddle as they crested over the top of the hill and the indicated farm came into view. “How do you decide, Ser Jame?” she asked softly. “Which oaths to keep? Which innocent person to defend? Which woman you should protect? Which vows are worth more than others when they contradict?”

Jame turned to her, his brow furrowed slightly. “I can’t answer that for you Brienne,” he answered after a moment. “As a knight, you will inevitably be required to break one of your oaths at some point— maybe all of them. There is no correct decision— just the one you choose to make. I might have saved thousands by killing Aerys, but I know that even knowing what I chose and why, Ser Jonothor Darry still would have judged me to be in the wrong for not prioritizing the oath to the King over the innocent. There’s no right, just the oaths you choose to uphold… Just don’t be like me and let one broken oath cause you to break more.” 

Brienne didn’t respond, as their horses grew closer to the upcoming battle. “Fair warning Ser Brienne,” Jaime called out, a smirk on his face. “In order to go down in history as the first female knight, the two of us both have to survive this battle with the Hound. If we die, there will be no legends told of you.” 

Ser Brienne swallowed painfully. “The Hound is not waiting for us—”

As she was speaking, Jaime saw a glint of silver and on instinct, threw himself from the saddle of his horse, rolling across the dirt road as an arrow flew through the space where he had previously been seated. Jaime rose to his feet and pulled his sword into his left hand. 

His action was enough to draw a swarm of bandits from the woods. Although calling them bandits was probably inaccurate, they were far too numerous for that. There was what… Twenty of them? They were also far too well armored for bandits— one of them even wore the helm of the Hound… 

But it couldn’t be Sandor Clegane. He was a full foot shorter than the Mountain’s younger brother, and wore a garish yellow cloak that Sandor Clegane wouldn’t have been caught dead in. 

Jaime looked at Brienne, praying that this was some sort of mistake— that she had honestly thought that the Hound was of average size and dressed in yellow. But the newly anointed knight’s sword remained in it’s sheath. Her face was downcast as she avoided his gaze. 

“Traitor,” Jaime muttered. “It appears that you are already living up to the title, Ser Brienne,” his words were scathing. “Just as honorless as the rest of us knights.” 

She flinched at his words, and Jaime took vindictive pleasure in that. “Set down your sword, and come peacefully Ser Jaime,” she pleaded. “I have no wish to hurt you.”

“You led me to my death,” Jaime hissed. “I think that more than qualifies as wanting to hurt me.”

Brienne had nothing to say in reply, she didn’t even attempt to mount a defense, just hung her head in shame. Pathetic. “Try to show some conviction, Ser,” Jaime sneered. “You are a knight now! Draw your fucking steel and kill me yourself!”

Brienne refused to rise to his taunts and that only made it hurt all the more. He wanted the battle. The fight to live or die with her that would erase the sting of betrayal until she took his head. And he needed it to be her. He needed her to be haunted by her choice. By the oath she had broken the same day she swore it. By the friend she had killed.

“She actually brought him,” the imposter Hound laughed as he approached. “I was sure that she would run for the hills, scared for her life.”

“The lady is a fool, but she has courage,” a tall fat man with a bald head declared. “She was always going to return to us with or without the Kingslayer.” 

That one Jaime recognized. “Thoros,” he greeted, doing his best to keep his calm. “Twenty men to ambush me, doesn’t that seem like a bit much? I’m flattered, but I do only have one hand these days.” The Brotherhood without Banners. Brienne had joined up with them, going around the Riverlands and hanging Freys while robbing the smallfolk blind— she really was a knight now.

“My Lady was taking no chances with you escaping,” Thoros answered him. “She has wanted your head since the moment she came to lead us.” 

“Tell me, is her husband around as well? I have been missing my brother— ever since he murdered my father. I helped him do that, you know? Did he tell you that?” Brienne had insisted that Lady Stark was here with the Hound— and while that man was no Clegane, her words could have still been true. And Tyrion did very much want Jaime dead, after learning about Tysha. And Sansa would want him dead just to hurt Cersei. It’s a shame that the lying whore would only cry over him for a fortnight before finding someone else to warm her bed. 

“The only kin of yours that you will find here, Lannister, are being fed to the crows,” Thoros rebuked him.

“Do I at least get a trial? If so, I demand a trial by combat. Your Red God does those, I believe. Let me face Ser Brienne in single combat, the winner is innocent in the eyes of all of the Gods, and men too, I suppose.” 

“Ser Brienne?” A man that Jaime didn’t recognize laughed, his eyes cruel. His hair was so greasy that it looked like he had dumped a bottle of oil over his head. “What fool would knight her?”

“Me,” Jaime snarled, glaring at the first lady knight who shied away from him once more. “I thought that she was just as honorless as the rest of us, so she might as well bear the same worthless title.” I had thought you were better, different. The most worthy knight I knew.

“Perhaps they really are lovers,” a man with one eye barked. “I wonder if he mumbles her name in his sleep as often as she moans his.” Something in Jaime’s gut tensed at that declaration, but now wasn’t the time to process that. 

“My Lady has already declared your guilt,” Thoros declared in that same genial tone. The drunken lout. “You will be beheaded, but you will get your wish, Ser. The Lady has declared that it will be the newly dubbed Ser Brienne who takes your head, oathbreaker.” 

In spite of himself, Jaime grinned and looked at the trembling Brienne. He supposed that was the best that he would get here. Jaime dropped his sword without a fight. “Very well then, lead on Thoros. Let’s go meet your Lady.” The last thing he wanted was to get killed in the fighting here, and spare Brienne the fate of killing him herself. 

—

Victarion II

aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

The horn sounded again, and Victarion couldn’t contain his laughter. No longer was he just a man, but more. He could see his blood extending like tentacles in his mind, reaching out to the dragons in the sky. Red chains intertwined with strands of black. It wrapped around them and dragged them down to him. He was no longer seeing through the eyes of man, but seeing the magic unveiled to only gods. The horn no longer stung the same— not when it was his blood singing— his blood that was doing the conquering. 

The green one fought his fate, trying desperately to shake free of his horn’s song as the boy blew again, but it was in vain. No matter how furiously the dragon flapped it’s wings, no matter how far it tried to run, the thin red lines extended from the end of the horn and chained the dragon down. 

More than that, black lines crossed with white around the base of the dragon’s skull, fighting for dominance. The white lines tried to push away the red, but they were losing. The white lines flickered out, then reappeared as the black lines pushed away. Then out to nip at the red chains Victarion had brought forth.

Victarion tore his gaze from his green dragon, the one that had started slaughtering his men without cause. The one that the Dragon Queen had foolishly sent against him, and instead looked to the other. 

The dragon of white and gold, his scales the color of old bones. He thrashed about in pain, just as the other did, but he did not have the spirit of an Ironborn like the other. The other was the mount of a King. This one shot gouts of fire to burn the fleet, but he made no moves to escape— he did not try to run out of range— he just wailed in pain and accepted his fate.

There were no white lines trying to push away the red chains summoned by the horn. There was just the black swirling, pressing down on the dragon’s mind, far more voluminous than the red chains. The deep black that flooded into the dragon’s eyes. The dragon let out a shrill cry weakly, but that was all the fight it had left.

Victarion turned away in search of his more interesting quarry. The green dragon would be his mount, he liked their spirit far more than the other. They fought like an Ironborn and fought to kill Ironborn, so now they would serve their master. He had paid the Iron Price for that dragon. He would give the white one to one of his most loyal— perhaps Asha when she proclaimed him as King of the Iron Isles. 

The green dragon was further now, the black scribbles expanding away from the head and flowing back down the red chains. The white lines thrashed hard as well, swatting away all of the red now that it was untangled from the black. 

The sound cut off abruptly and the red chains thinned, the white lines growing brighter, before fading from sight as Victarion’s vision returned to normal. The green dragon flew faster away from him and the city, in the vague direction of northwest. “Blow the fucking horn again!” Victarion barked, casting his gaze towards the hornblower.

The boy was doubled over, wheezing for breath as he pulled the horn away from his lips. They were already badly blistered and charred black. “Pass the horn to the next person!” Victarion ordered impatiently, his gaze drifting back to his mount that was fading into the horizon. “Quickly!”

He chanced a look towards his other dragon, it flapped it’s wings almost lazily above them, shaking it’s head, but making no move to fight the call to Victarion, even after the sound had abated. It would be his soon— he could feel it— a tie between them— it just would take a little bit more to fully claim him. “Boy!” he snapped at the thrall’s son standing next to the hornblower, shifting in place nervously. “Rip the horn from him and blow it yourself! Now!”

The boy clutching the horn stood up straight at his command to his peer, his irises completely gone in a sea of white, and shook his head slightly, a grin stretching across his burnt lips. Then he lifted the horn to his lips and blew again. 

aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Victarion laughed boisterously as he once again saw what ordinary mortals could not. The chains were back, and reeling in the gold dragon to him.  They wrapped around it completely, thousands of them now, cloaking it and covering it in his blood. The dragon was his. 

But the green one was escaping. He had flown hard and was nearly gone, the red chains intertwined with black lunged out for the dragon, but the white flared and they were rebuffed, bouncing off his hardened emerald scales. The chains extended again, but they were at their max length and still came short of reaching the dragon. 

Victarion screamed in frustration as the dragon disappeared from sight. “You should have blown faster!” He roared spittle flying everywhere. His black hand throbbed and demanded blood. 

The hornblower showed no sign of having heard him as the horn’s song continued to sound in the sky. 

Victarion cast his gaze back towards the sky directly above him. The gold dragon was submerged in the chains of red, a protective cocoon that covered him completely and hide it entirely from his sight. 

But Victarion knew it was there.

He could feel it. He could feel the dragon— his thrall now, bound to him by blood. It would obey him as any thrall obeyed their captain. 

The black lines that had been mixed with the red oozed out from the cocoon of chains, bleeding a messy black ichor. It multiplied rapidly, spreading and turning every chain that it touched to as black as night. For a minute, his vision flickered and he could no longer feel the dragon, but it was back again just as quickly, their contract pressing even closer than before. 

He felt like a god.

Soon every chain that had once been red was now a molted black, the same black oily color that the Seastone chair was made up of. The same color as the throne that would soon be his. 

The world was quiet, and the chains faded from view. All that remained was his dragon. It’s scales the color of his enemies bones. It’s eyes as golden as the kraken on his sails. His dragon. 

One of his dragon’s at least. He still wanted the green one. 

The hornblower collapsed onto the ground, the horn clattering to the floor beside him. His face was swollen and blistered. His blood boiled in his veins and burst forth, tearing through the skin. His hands were half melted, the skin disfigured in the most hideous ways. His eyes had color again, a pale black as he muttered incoherently and flopped onto the deck. 

Victarion peered down at him, grinning ear from ear. “What is your name, boy!?” He demanded. “The world will sing songs of your courage when I sit upon the Seastone Chair and conquer the world! For it was here that I won the first of my dragons!”

“Blóþorn… Blóþorn… Blóþorn… Blóþorn… Blóþorn…” The boy repeated endlessly, staring up into the sky and waiting for death. 

“I proclaim you Blóþorn Hornblower!” Victarion decided. “May you feast in the watery halls of the Drowned God for your service! For you are no longer a thrall, but an Ironborn!” 

“Prepare to make land,” Victarion ordered after a brief moment of silence for the fallen hero who had given him a dragon. “We take Meereen and the Dragon Queen now. I will have her for my bride and claim her other dragons as my thralls!”

“Your bride is no longer in the city, Lord Captain,” the red priest warned him. “And the other dragons are lost to you as well.”

Victarion turned on him, his black hand grasping his robes and pulling him close. “I will have them. All of them. They are mine. And I will make her pay for attacking the Iron Fleet!”

“If you do that Lord Captain, then you will lose,” he warned. “You have already lost too much of your fleet, and you have a dragon, but she has two. You will not be able to catch them off guard with the horn again. Return to the West and take what is yours. Have an army at your back when you take her and the rest of the world.”

The Seastone Chair. “I will pay the Iron Price, I am no craven!” Victarion growled. In spite of that, he did push him away and look around. He swallowed painfully as he took in the wreckage around them. 

The Iron Fleet was in ashes. Their ships were burning, and most of them had been given as an offering to the Drowned God. The forces on land were not faring any better. They had been massacred. “Burton!” Victarion snapped. “Report!”

“It’s not good, Captain,” his head was hung slightly, but he stared at Victarion and the creature flying above them as if he commanded the seas themselves. “We appear to be down to just four and ten ships now, and while the Meereeneese and Yunkai have both fled from the field, very few of ours have returned to the ships. The dragons decimated us.”

Four and ten ships. That was all that remained of the Iron Fleet. It had been nine and ninety when they set sail, but now there was just four and ten. They still had eight and fifty when they made to attack Meereen. But the dragon had ruined them.

The dragon in the hands of a greenlander had done that to them. It had broken the Iron Fleet— a feat that had taken all of the armies of Westeros. A fear that the North had not even been capable of. And yet, the dragon had burned it to ash.

And that power was now his. 

Come brother, bring me my dragon. The voice of Euron taunted him. Telling him to tuck his tail between his legs and run. To hand the most powerful weapon to his godless brother, to the one who had stolen his wife and forced Victarion to get rid of her. 

As if. 

Daenerys Targaryen could wait for him. His brother would die first and he would sit the Seastone Chair, and later the Iron Chair. Then, would he give her the chance to crawl to him and beg him to take her as his salt wife. But first, he would have his brother’s head. 

“It’s time we head home,” Victarion declared. “The Iron Islands and the greatest conquest the world has ever known awaits us!”

Even in the hands of a greenlander, dragons had been enough to conquer all of Westeros. Even in the hands of weak men who paid the gold price, they had been unstoppable. They had uprooted the King Harren Hoare even in the hands of a fool. What could a dragon do in the hands of a worthy master? Finally, as the thrall of an Ironborn? The world would be his. 

“Priest,” Victarion laughed. “You have done me a great service. You are free to leave and serve your God in these eastern lands.”

“I came here to serve Azor Ahai, Lord Captain. Now I have seen him, and the flames have shown me that my place remains by your side.”

“It’s King Captain,” Victarion corrected him. “Join me then, and I will bring you glory beyond measure.”

“I look forward to seeing your flames, King Captain,” Moqorro replied with a slight smile dancing across his dark features.

“I have tamed Stormbreaker and the Stormed God himself will be forced to bow at his might!” Victarion roared. “Stormbreaker, burn every ship in the bay aside from ours!”

The dragon didn’t think for a moment, it just obeyed. And fire rained down.

But this time, it was in service of the Ironborn. 

—

Alayne I

“Is this your first tourney?” Myranda asked her as they sat amongst the crowd. Alayne was just a bastard so it wouldn’t be appropriate for her to sit in the high box with Sweetrobin, despite his insistence that she do so. 

Petyr had left the decision on if she did up to her, and of course, Alayne had been eager to sit apart from Sweetrobin and instead with her friends. Sweetrobin had thrown a fit at that, ordering her to sit with him, but a pinch of sweetsleep in his milk, three lemoncakes, and a promise to read him four stories before bed had gotten him to accept it. 

And the fact that she had not given her favor to Harry the Heir, Lord Robert had been very pleased to hear that. 

“I’ve been to just one before,” Alayne replied after a moment. 

“Which one?” Myranda asked, her eyes glinting.

The Tourney of the Hand where Ser Loras had given her a flower and unseated Ser Gregor Clegane. But, it was Sandor who had been given victory that day when he had saved Ser Loras. 

But Alayne had not been there, so she could not say that. “When my father first took me in, he wanted to show me the sights that I had missed out on when with my mother. I saw the first day of one before we left Gulltown.” There had been a tourney in Gulltown around that time, although Alayne couldn’t have told her who won if pressed on it. 

“So you’ve never seen the crowning of the Queen of Love and Beauty?” Myranda gasped. She was aghast at the very thought, no doubt having been to at least a dozen tourneys herself. “I suppose it’s for the best though,” Myranda sighed overdramatically. “If you had stayed until the end, you would have no doubt been crowned. Every knight can’t seem to stop themselves from loving you.”

Alayne ducked her head and said nothing. 

“Maybe I should be asking you for advice on how to attract a husband, suitors are swarming you like a ravenous pack of wolves, even after you are already promised to sweet Harry!” 

Alayne flushed. “The arrangement was my Lord Father’s,” she explained once more. “Although, I will be very grateful if Ser Harry agrees to wed me.”

“I just tease, Lady Alayne,” Myranda swatted her shoulder playfully. 

Alayne smiled in reply and this time it reached her eyes. “I know.”

The next two knights rode out to the field for their turn to joust. This match would be between Ser Andrew Tollett and Ser Ossifer Lipps. She had danced with Ser Andrew, and he had even been so bold as to ask her favor once he saw that Harrold did not have it. She had denied him, of course. 

“Who do you think will win?” Myranda whispered in her ear. Her breath tickled the soft flesh and Alayne resisted the urge to shudder. 

“Ser Andrew,” Alayne answered after a moment. “I’ve heard that he broke two lances against Ser Mychel last time they faced each other.”

Myranda pulled back and rolled her eyes fondly. “Obvously, I meant who do you think will win the whole thing?”

Alayne bit her lip. “They say that Ser Mychel is one of the most skilled knights in the Vale.”

“They say correctly,” Myranda answered her. “My good cousin is better with the lance than the sword, but he is exceptional at both. He’ll be a good sworn sword to you, my sweet Alayne. Although, I will admit that he is a bit of an ass, even if not as much of one as Harry. He broke Mya’s heart, and I cannot forgive him for that, no matter how much my cousin pleads.”

“He will be Lord Robert’s winged knight, not mine if he wins,” Alayne corrected her, smiling softly. “I will be lucky if my Lord deems me worthy of having one guard me though.” She knew that Robin would insist on exactly that— there were very few things that he cared for more than Alayne. He would also get jealous though and send the knight away if Alayne spoke too him too frequently or too softly. 

“Of course,” Myranda laughed, her eyes twinkling. “I merely meant that when you married Harry, he would be yours as well.” If Sweetrobin died. She hadn’t needed to finish the statement, it was an inevitable fact that few in the Vale had yet to accept would happen during the Winter. And when he did, Harry would be the Lord.

And she would be his wife. 

She wondered if that fate was like to drive her as mad as her aunt had become when she was named Lady of the Vale through her husband. Harry was a bit of an arse, even if he looked charming. Would she also poison her husband in a few years time and then get pushed through the moon door by the man she really loved who was only using her? 

Those were dangerous thoughts that Alayne was not allowed to have, so she tried not to think of them. She watched quietly as Ser Andrew unseated his opponent on the first tilt. And when the rest of the audience clapped, she clapped politely along with him. 

Ser Ben Coldwater did his lap around the track, pausing in front of Alayne to smile at her, his golden teeth sparkling as the sun struck them. “Ser Ben seems very interested in you,” Myranda teased again. “He was the first to dance with you last night, wasn’t he?”

Alayne shifted in her seat. “I’m not sure why,” she muttered under her breath. She was the Lord Protector’s daughter, and she knew she was pretty— everyone said so— especially Petyr; but she was also a bastard. Jon Snow had been pretty in Winterfell, but he hadn’t had maidens begging for a piece of him.

She wasn’t as quiet as she thought, or perhaps Myranda was just that shrewd. “You are the Lord Protector’s only daughter and he is one of the wealthiest men in the Vale,” she answered. “Littlefinger also has no other known children, no siblings, only a few distant cousins— and you hold his favor despite being proclaimed as a bastard. Many believe that you will be the one to inherit all of his wealth when he passes.”

And Petyr had a lot of enemies, it would not be hard to have him conveniently disappear once she was wed to some Lord, Alayne realized. Was that the real reason that Anya Waynwood had agreed to wed Harry to her? It wasn’t just about the dowry, or the leverage that Petyr had. It was because they believed they could absorb all of his wealth— especially when the Lord of the Vale could rule her as his inheritor— and through her they would not have to worry about debts again. 

Her lips twitched. Their plan would never come to fruition though, she was not his daughter— but Sansa Stark. A grander prize, perhaps, but not the one that she was seeking. 

“You are also quite pretty, even if small,” Myranda continued, oblivious to her thoughts. “Your hair is a bit plain, but you have the face of a queen, and the most striking eyes I’ve seen since Lady Arryn. I could just drown in their depths. I don’t suppose that you have an equally handsome bastard brother that I could wed, do you? I’m still searching for a husband.”

Sansa inhaled sharply. Tully eyes. She had the Tully eyes. She folded her hands together to stop them from shaking. It was just an innocent compliment between friends. If Myranda knew… She would not be sitting here gossiping about knights. She would not have suggested that she was Petyr’s heir. 

“His opponent— he’s your brother, isn’t he?” Alayne asked. She was proud of how steady her voice was. She pushed away all thoughts of Myranda’s previous comment and focused just on the tourney in front of her. She was Alayne Stone, not Sansa Stark. She had no connection to Sansa other than that she was her good mother’s niece. She had no secrets that Myranda could expose. She breathed deeply to steady herself. 

“Hmm,” Myranda hummed, looking over at the knights again. “Oh yes, he is.”

“How do you think Ser Gunthor will do?” Alayne asked, trying to refocus on the tournament and not on her marriage prospects. Or her beautiful eyes.

“He could win,” Myranda shrugged her shoulders. “He’ll likely lose if he draws Corbray or Mychel, but the rest of them he’s better than.” She narrowed her eyes at Alayne. “Why? Hoping that he wins so you can be crowned the Queen of love and beauty?”

“I merely wish for Lord Robert to be protected by the best,” Alayne replied evenly. “And I’m sure that like his father, Gunthor is a man of honor.” He was also a third son, one with no lands to inherit, even after Nestor Royce had been named Keeper of the Gates of the Moon. In other words, he was the perfect candidate to be made a Winged Knight.

The tourney would continue, even after the eight who would earn the title had been chosen. The final eight competitors from the field of four and sixty would be given their wings, but the champion would still get to crown the Queen of Love and Beauty. He would also be given the honor of serving as the Lord Commander of the Wings. 

“That’s a shame,” Myranda sighed. “My brother is totally smitten with you. He was too shy to ask you for a dance yesterday, but he did not take his eyes off of you all night.”

“Surely, you exaggerate.” Alayne replied, her cheeks flush. Myranda was fun— so very like the proper friends that she had in Winterfell, or her jailers in King’s Landing. She just wanted to talk about boys and tease Alayne about them. Even after Alayne stole her desired husband, she still just wanted to be friends. If anything, she was more friendly and flattering now. 

“I’m understating his affections, if anything,” Myranda waved her hand. “He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you while you were in that dress. If you weren’t already promised to dear Harry, then he would have begged my father to arrange a betrothal to you.”

Myranda grinned, a wicked thing as her eyes danced with mirth and she placed her hand over Alayne’s. “There’s a thought Alayne— what if we trade? You can wed my brother, and I can wed Harry! My brother is just as handsome as your dear husband to be, and he’s not quite the ass that the heir is.”

Alayne pulled her hand away and looked at Myranda coldly. “I’m afraid that I am not willing to give up my husband after my father went through the trouble of arranging the match. I’m sure that your brother and you will both find a proper match in time.”

Myranda giggled and leaned her head on Alayne’s shoulder. “A jest, my lady. No need to be so uptight.” She leaned in to whisper in Alayne’s ear. “Besides, between the two of us, my brother is a bit on the smaller end.”

Alayne turned to look at her, and then back at Ser Gunthor as the Coldwater knight hit the ground. “He doesn’t look small?” He was perhaps a few inches shorter than Lord Nestor, but he was no small man. He stood at well over six feet, and was barrel chested. What could Myranda possibly mean by he was on the smaller end? 

Myranda cackled and wrapped her arm around Alayne’s shoulder, pulling her into a half hug. “You are too innocent, my dear. It’s delightful. I am glad that we became friends.”

“Oh,” Alayne gasped, her entire face aflame as the meaning of the jape dawned on her. “Do not be crude, Randa.”

They watched as various knights jousted together, and soon the opening round was almost over. Just four matches remained and eight knights who had yet to joust. Among them was the knight she had given her favor to, and her husband to be— Harry the arse. 

It was his name that was called next, he came sauntering out, his helm held under his arm. He was seated on a great black stallion, it’s coat as black as coal. His armor was of the pursest silver, looking exactly like one of those knights from the songs that she had loved as a girl. That girl would have swooned at the thought of being wed to the arse. He rode around the track, all smiles and waves for the crowd. That was until he came to their box. His smile died, and he lifted his lance in the air proudly. 

Showing off the ribbon tied to his wrist proudly. It was the color of bronze, striking against his silver armor to draw attention to it. As she stared at it, she noted the black accents on it. Harold Hardyng met her eyes and smirked. She could see the challenge smouldering in his cold blue eyes. If you’ll give your favor to someone else, then I will receive another’s. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Myranda’s voice was in her ear again. “I figured that since you weren’t inclined to give him your favor, it wouldn’t be right for him to go without so I offered mine.”

Alayne very much did mind. “I— I wanted him to earn it,” she stammered.

“I love you dear, but I am very much rooting for your marriage to fall through,” Myranda warned her, her fingers dancing over her exposed forearm. “You didn’t think I would give up that easily, did you?”

Alayne was ashamed to admit that she had. She had thought that the japes and slight hurt would be all there was to it. But her marriage to Harry was conditional on Harry wanting it— and Myranda knew that… Of course, she would try to make him not want it. 

How was she supposed to out charm Myranda in the eyes of Harry? Myranda was buxom and beautiful, clever and funny. And she was a bastard daughter of the Lord Protector who did not know men at all. Petyr thought she could do it, but how could she? 

“When I asked if he would kill my suitors for me, this was not who I had in mind.” Myranda was pale, her fingers squeezing Alayne’s bicep and pulling her from her musings as she took in the other knight riding out to the yard. 

Ser Lyn Corbray.

He was dead. There was no other reason for Harry to be expected to face Petyr’s man. Just yesterday, he had nearly killed Ser Owen when sparring— with blunted weapons. At the Tower of the Hand, she had watched as Ser Gregor killed a knight on accident. 

Had she failed in seducing him and so Petyr was moving on? Was this an attempt to murder Harry the Heir out in the open? But to what end, he had been clear about what the plan was? Seduce and wed Harry and then at her wedding declare her as Sansa Stark and rally the Knights of the Vale to take back her home? What could possibly have changed? Was it him wearing Myranda’s favor that angered her father so?

Her fingers intertwined with Myranda’s, almost without meaning too as they watched the tilt. Harry is an ass, but I don’t want him dead. Even if he marries Myranda— don’t let him die. She wasn’t sure who she was praying too — the Father? The Warrior? The Old Gods? 

When their lances crashed into each other’s shields on the first tilt, both remained seated. 

On the second tilt, both lances broke, and both remained seated.

And on the third someone finally fell from their horse…

Ser Lyn Corbray.

The crowd rose to their feet, clapping furiously to congratulate him. Harry the Heir— the future Lord of the Vale. Alayne was amongst them, rejoicing in his victory over the cruel Ser Lyn, but that joy was tarnished. 

“I don’t believe it,” Myranda whispered to her. “I love our Harry, but Ser Lyn is far beyond him most days. I guess having the favor of a beautiful lady really can motivate a man to fight their best.”

The only way that Ser Lyn would lose there was if he intended to. Alayne knew that— and there was only one man that could possibly command him to do so. Her own father, Petyr Baelish. But why did he want her husband to win? Was there some plot that she was not seeing? Was his intention for Harry the Heir to be made a Winged Knight? 

The whole reason that Lady Waynwood had let him enter was because he had no chance of winning— that was what everyone had said. And he was to be her husband and Lord of the Vale, not an offbrand Kingsguard. So why would Petyr want him to win? What value was there in him facing Ser Lyn and winning if it wasn’t to win all of it? But then again, could Petyr truly fix enough matches to get him to the top eight?

Her eyes involuntarily drifted to her Lord Father and when he saw her gaze on him, he winked at her before turning away. 

As they settled into their seats again, Myranda once more turned to Alayne. “I think this means that my Harry will face your man in the next round.”

For riding out onto the field for the next tilt was the man she had given her favor to. 

Roland Waynwood, the cousin of her betrothed.