My favorite dreams of you still wash ashore

Scraping through my head 'til I don't want to sleep anymore

---

It was quieter atop the walls. More peaceful. In coming here, the queen had hoped to absorb some of that peace, had hoped the stillness would drape itself over her shoulders like a heavy cloak, or encase her like armor, buffeting the chaos and turmoil which plagued her. She'd wished to be wrapped in the calm that had evaded her since her aborted supper with the dragons.

The calm that had evaded her since Aegon had wrung from her a promise to wed.

It was not to be. Maddeningly, solace and serenity proved to be nothing more than elusive fantasies. Syrio would surely be disappointed in her. Arya sniffed at that thought before another chased on its heels, unbidden. So, too, would the Kindly Man.

This drew the girl up short. She could perfectly picture his gentle gaze, brows lowered, his small frown of sadness communicating his despondency over her inability to rule her face, rule her thoughts, rule her intentions.

False, false, false! There had been nothing 'kindly' in his instruction. If she was, indeed, a disappointment, he was to blame for it. His lessons hadn't been meant to make her Faceless and she would not berate herself for a failure to meet his ideal now!

Syrio Forel was one thing. She would gladly bear the weight of his expectations. But the principal elder? He and his machinations and manipulations could go straight to one of the seven hells for all she cared!

The queen shook her head, chiding herself for the errant image. After huffing out a breath, she continued on, drifting along the battlements, moving under the black of the midnight sky. Still restless. Still unsettled. Nymeria paced beside her, silent and close. Every so often, the fur of the direwolf's neck would tickle the girl's cheek. Trailing them both was Ser Gendry, even though his queen had earlier bidden him to find his bed.

"I'm in no danger within my own walls," she'd assured him, but the dark knight had merely shaken his head.

"Even so, your grace, it is my duty…" He'd shrugged, then given her a small, crooked smile. "Besides, I think Lady Nymeria enjoys my company." With that, he fell in behind wolf and girl, following them as they strolled.

Arya's steps had taken her across the length of the south wall. With a heavy sigh, she drew up to the corner but instead of turning and continuing along the west wall expanse, she leaned over and stared out, her eyes seeking Wintertown below. At this late hour, all she could make out were a few scattered windows, distantly glowing with the light of candles burned low or the dying flames in a hearth. Nymeria settled on her haunches next to the girl, but her golden eyes were trained to the west. Her lupine gaze swept over the shadowed tops of the sentinel pines, ironwoods, and black briers that made up the wolfswood.

The queen had no doubt the beast would rather be hunting there than plodding along the high interior wall of the castle while her mistress brooded. The idea of it curled her lip up into a sardonic smirk.

"We are both of us dutiful, are we not?" Arya murmured to the wolf.

Gendry cleared his throat. "Your grace?"

The girl turned, regarding her sworn shield. "I'm merely remarking on Nymeria's steadfastness," she replied after a moment.

"Is there a reason you sound so melancholy about it?"

The queen chuckled lightly, then narrowed her gaze. "Tell me, ser, when given the choice between love and duty, what should a good man do?"

The knight's expression became pensive, and he moved to stand next to the girl. "A good man, or a good queen?" He looked down at her as she gave a small grunt.

"Does it matter?"

He nodded. "It does. I do try to be a good man, and I think I can answer from that perspective, but as for the other… Well, I've never been a good queen."

"Neither have I," she murmured, her voice so low he had to strain to hear it. Hear it he did, though, and her assertion seemed to affront him.

"Oh, be serious," Gendry scoffed. "I can't imagine a better queen."

"Can't you?" Arya wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were still trained on the town below. "Someone… surer? Someone… more dignified? Can't you?"

There was finality in the knight's tone as he replied with a simple, "No." When she did not respond, he leaned down, resting his forearms on top of the cold stone of the crenellated wall. Turning to study her profile in the dim moonlight, he said, "Love and duty? Perhaps I'm not the man to answer your question after all."

"No? And why is that?" she murmured.

"Because it's not a choice I'd ever have to make." He swallowed, then continued softly, "I serve my love by doing my duty."

Arya closed her eyes as she dropped her head. "Oh, Gendry," she breathed, thin shoulders sagging.

"I require no pity, and crave no condolence, your grace." When she looked up at him and pursed her lips, he quickly added, "And neither do I wish to be scolded. You did ask, after all."

"I did," she agreed, her expression softening. "I'd thought you'd left all that behind, though."

"All that?" the dark knight echoed, his voice hoarse. "How do I leave all that? Unless you can tell me how to cut my own heart out of my chest and bury it beneath the snow, there's no leaving all that, Arya."

"Will you never allow yourself to be happy?"

His brows pinched together. "What makes you think I'm not happy?"

"I mean, will you not allow yourself a chance at a real future?"

"I have a real future. More of one than I could've imagined years ago, anyway. Do you think that boy you met following Yoren to the Wall would have ever guessed he'd end up here, living in a great castle, wearing fine armor, an anointed knight who converses with a queen?"

"You could have a wife," she argued. "Children. A family. You could leave a legacy."

"Is that so, your grace?" Gendry laughed. "Maybe you could tell me what I could offer a wife. Or what name I could give my children. What exactly is the legacy of a Flea Bottom bastard?"

"Is that all that holds you back? A name?"

He grimaced. "Spoken like someone who has always had one."

One? No, not one. Dozens! And, at times, none at all.

"It is in my power to give you a name, if that's what you require."

"What name is there for a man like me?"

"Your father's name! You are more than worthy of it. More worthy than he ever was."

"That is not in your power. My father's name is tied to the south, to lands far from here. To a different kingdom than the one we fight for. His name is not yours to give."

"True. It's Aegon's to bestow. And he will, if you wish."

"You mean if you wish."

Arya sighed. "Yes. He will do it if I ask him to."

The knight stiffened, muttering, "I nearly forgot. You hold such sway with the dragon king now, and all it cost you was your every hope and dream. Your every ambition."

Word of her betrothal, only just settled, had apparently made its way through the castle.

His words stung, but she did not snap at him. Instead, she turned to face her old friend, placing her hand over his heart. "I think you give me more credit than I'm due. My hopes and ambitions were not so very great." She gave him a sad smile. "I overshot my mark and ended up with a crown I never desired."

"And soon, you'll have another, even grander than the one you wear now." He sounded bitter.

"Grander? Perhaps. Heavier? Almost certainly."

Gendry scowled darkly, but Arya had the sense he was angry for her rather than at her. "Then why accept it, when the price is so steep?"

"What price is too great to safeguard the realm?"

The knight slipped his hand over hers, pressing her palm more firmly against his chest and frowning down at her. "Was there truly no other way?"

"I might've married Jon and hoped he could command Viserion," the girl shrugged, "but I could not know if that would be enough to guarantee our survival, and it would doom Jon to a life of misery besides."

Gendry looked aghast. "You wouldn't seriously consider…"

"No, of course not. But it was the other path left open to me. So, tell me, ser, with the threat of another Long Night to our north and a jealous and well-armed kingdom to our south, do you think my choice so terrible?"

"I'm not judging you."

The lift of her brow trumpeted her skepticism at his declaration. "Aren't you?"

"No. I just wish… I just wish you didn't have to do this. Marry him."

"He's not so bad."

The knight sneered. "You don't think?"

"Aegon isn't the problem. Not really. Anyone else would be thrilled with his suit."

"If you say so," Gendry said, his tone grudging.

She laughed mirthlessly. "Gods, I can't believe that everything I've survived, everything I've endured, has led me here, to exactly the place I told my father I didn't want to be when I was just a little girl."

"You told Lord Stark you didn't want to marry a king?" the knight chuckled.

"Believe it or not, I did. I couldn't have been but nine or ten, and I asked him if I could be a king's councilor or a High Septon when I was of age."

"A mere councilor? Or the High Septon?" he snorted. "Such subdued appetites for a young girl! You should have aspired to be king!"

"My father said I would marry a king and my sons would be princes…" Her voice trailed off as she remembered the conversation, remembered her father's expression as he'd made his fond pronouncement, remembered her own flippant repudiation. Shaking her head, she looped her arm through Gendry's and pulled him along with her as she resumed her walk atop the high wall. "I told him that was a life for Sansa, not for me. Yet, look where I am now."

"I suppose that little girl I met following Yoren to the Wall didn't imagine she'd end up here any more than the boy you met did."

They moved in silence for a while, lost to their own thoughts. After a time, Arya said, "You should consider my offer."

"Your offer for a name?" the dark knight shook his head. "You asked about making a choice between love and duty, but you'd give me a name only to see me abandon both."

Arya gave an irritated huff. "Why must you be so stubborn? Any debt you incurred to me was paid back ten-fold when my mother had you flogged. As for love, well, I'm sure you could find someone to suit you very well if you would only look. Dyanna Cray…"

"Lady Cray," he growled, "has no business being wooed by a bastard knight."

"But Lord Baratheon is more than a mere bastard knight!"

"And what shelter could I offer such a wife, hmm? You may convince the king to bestow the name, but I doubt very much that he'd include Storm's End in the bargain!"

"Why wouldn't he? No Baratheon heir remains to claim those lands."

"Have you forgotten Stannis, at the Wall?"

"Aegon would never award Storm's End to a usurper. Stannis vied for the Iron Throne and lost. Aegon intends to leave him at the Wall. And don't forget, there's Dragonstone besides. And even if he isn't keen to return those holdings to Baratheon hands, there's still the Twins. And Hornwood is without a master since Ramsay Bolton wreaked havoc there. Not to mention smaller holdfasts in the North and the Riverlands that are without lords. I hold the authority to award those to whomever I see fit."

"Me, lord of a holdfast, or even the Twins, in the Riverlands? And what do you suppose the River lords will have to say about it? What will my sigil be, a starving boy with empty pockets? Shall I name my castle Bastard's Ridge? Or maybe Flea Bottom Hall?"

The girl's exasperation with her friend's obstinance spilled over and she stopped walking, yanking on his arm. "Your sigil? Isn't it obvious? A bull's head for your stubbornness! As for the castle, call it the Bloody Fucking Forge for all I care! Why do you resist your good fortune?"

"Why are you so hells-bent on driving me from your side? Do you tire of having someone near you who tells you the truth, no matter how unpleasant?"

"You forget yourself, ser," she spat coldly.

"And it seems you've just remembered yourself, your grace," he countered, "no matter how you protest your station."

"I could have you tossed into the dungeons until you come to your senses," the queen threatened.

"Does Winterfell even have dungeons?" her shield challenged.

Pulling away from him so she could cross her arms over her chest, she said, "Winterfell is a proper castle. Of course we have dungeons."

"Really? Because I've never seen them."

"Well, maybe not dungeons, exactly, but we have… very uncomfortable guest chambers. And the doors do lock from the outside."

"Uncomfortable guest chambers?" he smirked.

"The beds are narrow, and the mattresses are exceptionally lumpy."

They glared at each other for a moment before they both burst out laughing.

"I beg you, your grace, have mercy!" Gendry snorted.

"Don't jape," the girl laughed. "This is serious. One of those chambers is very drafty, as I recall. You could catch a chill."

He gave a comically horrified gasp. "A chill? Please, for the love of all the gods…"

They resumed their stroll. "Will you think on it, at least?" Arya prodded, suddenly sober.

"If it please you," he sighed.

"Good. And don't fret for my sake. Even if I never desired a royal marriage, Aegon does have a care for my comfort and, more importantly, he will protect the North with his full strength, should it come to that."

"I'll make you this bargain, your grace. I won't fret if you won't."

An image of bronze eyes and a pale forelock filled her head just then. Easier said than done, she thought, but she merely nodded her assent, and they made the turn to traverse the north wall of Winterfell.

---

"You've been out late," the Bear observed from a shadowed corner of Arya's chamber. She'd only just stepped across the threshold and closed her door behind her. The girl had sensed him there, had intercepted some thoughts pertaining to the royal marriage contract and possible reasons for her prolonged absence, so he did not startle her.

"Have you been waiting long?" she inquired blithely, dropping into a chair so she could pull her boots off.

"I came as soon as I heard, so… a couple of hours?"

"I'm sorry you were bored."

"I wasn't bored. I was worried."

Her one boot made a dull thud as it hit the floor. She looked at her brother for the first time since she'd entered the chamber. "Worried? Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because your heart is broken over your master, over Jon, and you've been sad and angry and adrift, then I hear you have agreed to marry the dragon king, and after all that, you disappear for hours."

"Did you think I'd hung myself from the rafters in the stables or leapt from the broken tower in despair?"

"No, but it wouldn't be unlike you to have ridden off for parts unknown."

Arya tilted her head, studying the assassin as she tugged off her other boot. "If you'd really thought that," she said, dropping it next to its mate on the ground, "you'd have ridden after me, not sulked in my chamber waiting for me to return."

"Help me to understand."

She shrugged. "He made it make sense to me."

The large man crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw ticking. "Name one thing about him that is actually important to you."

"He has dragons."

"Daenerys has dragons. You could have a claim to them through Jon, if that's so important!"

"She may be the mother of dragons, but Rhaegal obeys Aegon, and so does Daenerys, for that matter."

"You don't love him…"

"I'm very fond of Aegon," she protested.

"…and when your master comes back…"

The girl sprang from her seat. "When? When Jaqen comes back? Don't you mean if?"

The Bear unfolded his arms and approached her, placing his large hands on her shoulders and squeezing. "…when he comes back, if you've married this man, I fear you may not be able to live with it."

Arya groaned, shutting her eyes tightly as if taken with a sudden headache. She dropped her head backwards and blew out a breath. "I wish we were back in Braavos," she finally muttered. "Everything was so much simpler there."

"Yes," he agreed. "You were bound and tossed into the canal to be eaten by eels, I was forced to kill the woman I loved to save your life, and our brother was made to pretend to be your master, so you'd fail your trial then believe him dead… Simple."

Biting her lip, the girl wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning in to press her cheek against his chest. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"There was nothing simple about Braavos," he told her. "Only we were simple, because we were young and naïve. But Braavos… the powers there…" He breathed in deeply through his nose.

"The principal elder…"

He nodded. "And the Sealord. And the Iron Bank." He unwound her arms from his waist and guided her back to her chair. Taking the seat opposite hers, he leaned over the small table between them. "Your master, who you trust implicitly and who has always had a greater influence on you than anyone else in the Order, is nowhere to be found. The Rat's master is here, improbably positioned as the sworn shield to your little brother. You have a company of Bravos sent from the Sealord, and incredibly favorable trade deals brokered by the Iron Bank."

Arya eyed the Bear keenly. "That's a lot of Braavos in the North."

"It certainly is," he agreed. "I don't know exactly what it means, but I can feel the principal elder's hands all over this."

"Could it not be as simple as profit? A stable kingdom, with our resources, can only benefit Braavos so long as our trade persists unhindered."

"Gold? Sure. For the Iron Bank, even for the Sealord, that's a sufficient motivator, I'd think. But for the House of Black and White?" He shook his head.

The two stared at each other, trying to puzzle out the Kindly Man's aims.

"There's a partnership. There must be. A treaty, of sorts. The Iron Bank brought gold and the Sealord brought arms," the Bear mused. "But what did the Order bring?"

Arya leaned back in her seat, flicking her eyes to her brother's. "Me."

"You," he concurred.

"Perhaps it's as straightforward as the Kindly Man doing what he can to support the Sealord and the Iron Bank so they will be beholden to the Order," the queen suggested. "He housed an heir to the North in his temple. All he had to do was help install me in Winterfell, and that would be enough to open all our vast resources to Braavos."

"It's a sensible plan," the Lyseni said, "and not even truly sinister, as such schemes go. Everyone benefits, perhaps your kingdom most of all. But…"

"But that doesn't seem grand enough for a plot engineered by the principal elder."

The Bear nodded grimly. "No. It doesn't. Why deprive you of your master? Why go to the lengths he did to make you believe he'd been killed?"

"To unmoor me? To saddle me with guilt so I'd be easier to manipulate?"

"Maybe…" He didn't sound convinced.

"This may be stating the obvious, but it's difficult to thwart a plan when you don't know it's details."

Her brother laughed. "Just so."

"Marrying Aegon may be a good start, though."

The Bear squinted at his sister. "How can you be sure this marriage contract isn't part of the Braavosi plot?"

"It wouldn't make sense. Why would the Kindly Man introduce another variable into his schemes? If I become Aegon's queen, surely he would worry I'd cede most of my power to my husband. Where does that leave the Order?"

"Perhaps he knows you too well to believe you'd ever cede power to anyone," her brother chuckled.

Her gaze became unfocused as she considered what the principal elder might intend. "No, his grasp on me is tenuous. It only lessens if I have a strong husband by my side. A husband with dragons."

"Could he mean for Aegon to be only a temporary ally to you?"

The girl scoffed. "Well, there isn't much that's temporary about marriage."

"Unless you are widowed…"

Arya considered it, lips puckered as she mulled how such a plan would take shape. "If I marry Aegon and rule at his side, sharing in his power as he has agreed, then I shall be entrenched and…"

"And, if he should die before any of his heirs come of age, then you will rule as queen regent. Or, knowing your ability to win the people to your side, perhaps queen in your own right."

The girl shook her head. "No. It doesn't make sense. Why would the Kindly Man wish me to be so powerful, knowing that I hate him? He couldn't hope to control me."

"Couldn't he? One of his most faithful assassins stalks your brother's every step. And your master has vanished. Who is to say he hasn't been taken back to Braavos, to be kept as a hostage guaranteeing your cooperation?"

Arya had a hard time believing that Jaqen could have been subdued enough to be carried back to Braavos against his will. Lured, maybe… She considered it. It would explain his failure to reach Winterfell, and how she lost all connection to him. Nymeria's mind had been the only one she'd even been able to reach across the Narrow Sea. She could think of a thousand reasons for that. Yes, she would've lost her ability to find Jaqen in his dreams if he'd travelled as far away as Braavos.

There's another explanation for it, her little voice whispered. The most logical explanation of all.

No, she would not think on that. Jaqen could not be moldering in a grave somewhere.

Pushing that devastating thought aside, Arya looked at her brother. "And then there's you…" she breathed.

"Me?"

"The Kindly Man knows you own a share of my heart. Do you think he would hesitate to threaten you, if it made me more pliable when he did so?"

The Bear snorted. "I'm an assassin…"

"Whose every step is stalked by your own brother," she pointed out, using his earlier words.

He scoffed. "No."

"Can you be so certain?"

"The Rat would never forsake me."

"I think Jaqen might've once said that about the Rat's master." If the Lorathi had one fault, it was his belief in the honor of others, she thought.

"I'm Faceless," the large man objected. "I've taken my oath."

"So has Jaqen."

"And he betrayed it, by defying the principal elder at every turn when it came to you!"

"Are you so different, brother?" She reached across the table, wrapping her slender fingers around his wrist. They only reached partway. The girl could feel the thump of his pulse meet her fingertips with a steady rhythm.

Sighing, the Bear said, "You don't have to be concerned for me." There was a confidence to his tone. "But as for the rest, it feels… plausible."

"I agree. A Faceless puppet sitting the Iron Throne, bound to the will of the House of Black and White for fear of losing those she loves most? That is a plot worthy of the principal elder."

"So, how do you thwart it?"

The Cat's face became a mask of determination. "I protect Aegon's life with my own. And then I kill the Kindly Man."

---

The castellan of Winterfell had been poring over reports from the builders regarding masonry repairs and an estimate of the time and expense required to restore the broken tower. He threw himself into these tedious duties at such an hour as a distraction from the unpleasantness of the supper earlier. Secluding himself in the empty library for the task, Jon had expected that no one would search for him there. He'd hoped to avoid further confrontation with the king until he'd had a chance to consider what Aegon's actions meant for him.

A prince of the blood.

Dragon blood.

With a claim to the Iron Throne.

The sadness in Arya's eyes haunted him. And her voice, so soft when she'd asked him about his name. "Will you adopt the name Vhaelor, as your father desired?"

Gods! His father.

Jon still had difficulty reconciling the truth of his parentage with his life up until the moment he'd learned of it. He understood why Lord Stark had never told him, comprehended that there was honor in the lie, but it still embittered him. He was now saddled with the grief for having lost him twice—firstly, to death, and now, to the truth.

But he had gained, too. Legitimacy, which could win him the hand of the woman he loved, and a brother. The guilt he felt over not being more grateful about it was only surpassed by the guilt he felt over the hurt that had been inflicted on Arya.

The only person in his life who had ever openly accepted him without question or judgement or expectation.

Daenerys had chased after him when he fled the supper, wanting to comfort him, to reassure him that she and Aegon only desired his happiness and security, but he'd dismissed her. He hadn't been particularly gentle about it either, snapping at her to leave him to his thoughts. Jon felt some guilt over that, too.

He dropped the paper he was reading, realizing he'd been looking at the same column of numbers without seeing them for several minutes. Slumping over the table, he blew out a breath, adding the guilt he felt over not being able to accomplish this most basic task of his office to the growing mass of it he'd been collecting all evening. His thoughts were interrupted by the soft scuff of boot leather across the stone floor.

"Jon." Aegon spoke his name soberly.

"Your grace," his brother replied, rising from his seat.

"You are a hard man to find."

"That was by design."

"Then I should apologize for disrupting your solitude."

"Don't. I could use the distraction."

"Do your thoughts encumber you?"

"Always, but never more so than tonight."

The king looked contrite. "I am sorry for my part in that. As much as I think myself grounded and mindful of others, I suppose there are times when the privilege of my rank insulates me from… dissenting viewpoints." He indicated that they should both sit, so Jon took his chair while his brother settled himself on the other side of the table.

"Thinking you know what's best for everyone around you without regard to their wishes? I suppose you were meant to be a big brother all along," the castellan japed. "Gods, now I know how Arya must've felt her whole life."

"Actually, she's the reason I sought you out. I mean, aside from my wish to apologize to you."

"Oh? Did she threaten to run you through after I left?" Jon's brow creased as he found himself dreading his brother's answer. "She didn't stab you with that little finger knife from her comb, did she?" His eyes travelled over Aegon's person as though inspecting him for injuries. There was some relief when he spied no visible blood. "You know, she killed Ramsay Bolton with that knife. The blade can't be more than the length of her little finger," he confided. "A man might see it and laugh, but it would be the last thing he ever did."

The king shook his head. "No, it was nothing like that. Quite the opposite, in fact. She's agreed to marry me."

Jon blanched. "What?"

Aegon's grin was wide, his laugh joyful as his eyes danced. "You shall gain a good-sister!"

"I… I don't know what to say."

The king's look was a little befuddled. "Felicitations or congratulations are always acceptable," the king replied after a pause. "Alternatively, you could tell me how happy you are for us both or wish us joy."

"I can't… I don't…" Jon swiped his hand down his face then leaned over the table, staring hard at his brother. "How did she seem?"

"How did she…" Aegon sat back, a look of incredulity replacing his smile. "She seemed convinced, Jon. How should she seem?"

"It doesn't make any sense." The dark lord was talking more to himself than to the king.

Aegon was frowning now. "It doesn't make sense that your beloved little sister would agree to marry me? Why not?"

"I… meant no insult. But…"

"But what?" The king's words were slow and measured.

Jon shook his head. "Just like that? She was convinced? What could possibly explain it?" His look was suspicious, as though he believed his brother might've threatened the girl in some way.

Amethyst eyes hardened at the question. "Her power will grow almost unfathomably. She secures Rickon's future, and yours…"

"Mine?" the dark lord interrupted. He did not like to be made a bargaining chip in his brother's press to reunite the seven kingdoms. Especially not when that leverage was being used to influence Arya.

"Yes. Yours. She wanted to know that you would not be made to enter a political marriage. You're free to follow your heart."

"Well, that is good of you to allow, brother," Jon intoned bitterly.

The king drew in an irritated breath, giving a harsh exhale through the nose before saying, "It's more freedom than I was afforded. It is fortunate for me that what is politically expedient is also what my own heart wants." Aegon's hard expression softened after a moment and his eyes pleaded with his brother to understand. "The match favors her heavily."

"I would say nearly doubling the size of your kingdom favors you." The words were spat icily.

"She wins dragons and the might of my army to protect her people from the threat beyond the Wall."

"Your people," Jon corrected. "If you mean to reunite all the kingdoms of Westeros, they are your people."

"Yes, Jon. They will be… they are my people," the king conceded, and it was clear he was working to maintain his calm demeanor. After a moment, he resumed his justifications. "With this marriage, Arya's wealth will increase several-fold. Her children will be dragon lords. She guarantees a large degree of independence and security for her family. And aside from all that, I love her!"

The castellan eyed his brother dubiously. "You love her." He stated it with all the skepticism he could muster. "Not her land, or her trade agreements, or her influence across the Narrow Sea. Not the respect she commands as the daughter of Eddard Stark, the immense loyalty she commands in the Riverlands and the North. Her."

Aegon's jaw clenched, and he turned his head aside, an act that suggested he was gathering all his capacity to enact extreme forbearance. After a moment, he turned to face his brother, tipping his chin down and leaning across the table. "Yes, Jon. I love her. I won't pretend that all the rest will be of no benefit to me when we marry. But knowing her as I do now… I'm not sure I could turn away from her, even if she commanded nothing beyond her own heart and mind. Even if my duty demanded it."

The dark lord looked troubled. "Brother…"

Aegon leaned back in his chair, brows raising as he asked, "Perhaps you know of some impediment not obvious to me?"

"She doesn't love you!"

The king barked a laugh. "That's your objection? I thought you more practical, and more pessimistic." Aegon chuckled darkly. "Who knew you were such a heart-sick romantic? You must've inherited that from our father." There was a mocking twist to his lips as he said it. "Tell me, do you know all the words to the songs of Florian and Jonquil?"

Jon ignored the provocation. "You can't think I'd allow her to sell herself to you." He was shaking his head. "Not if she felt forced."

The king's expression became cold. "It's bold of you to assume you have any say in the matter. I made my case to her, and she accepted my offer. Your approval is not needed. I had hoped for it, fool that I am." He stood then, squaring his shoulders, and looking down at his brother, the newly made Targaryen prince. "Did you stop to consider that this may be exactly why she accepted me?"

"What do you mean?" Jon asked miserably.

"I laid out all the reasons we should marry. I told her of my feelings for her. I offered to share my power. But I didn't tell her what I would and would not allow her to do. I imagine she found that refreshing."

The castellan shook his head. "I am not trying to control her. I am trying to protect her!"

"From me?" Aegon's look was thunderous.

"From the world, and anything in it that may harm her!"

"She may not see it that way." With that, the king swept from the table, heading for the door. Before he pushed through, however, he paused, looking back over his shoulder at his brother. "And Jon, she may not love me yet, but it's a close thing. And she will."

---

Jon has been strange since he learned of her betrothal. Distant and even more brooding than usual. If Arya had to guess, she'd say he felt some guilt over it, as though he is somehow responsible for the realities of the world which make her impending marriage the most sensible choice.

Her councilors are of varying opinions, though none dispute that she has managed to secure a contract more favorable to the interests of her kingdom and her lords than they were able to negotiate themselves. For his part, Ser Jaime watches her with a look that borders on concerned. The girl thinks he is plagued by his less pleasant memories from his time at court, when Aerys lived still and conspired with pyromancers.

Perhaps the golden knight's memory will always be too long and too burdened to ever trust a Targaryen.

Aside from those among the dragon retinue, the only person who seems truly pleased with her arrangement is Bran. She learns this as she prays in the godswood alone, a week later. She presses her forehead to the white bark of the heart tree, then hears his voice.

"You have taken another step down the dark path that will lead us into the light," he tells her. "Have courage, and do not doubt yourself now."

Arya sighs, rising from her knees and turning to look at the weirwood throne. She is surprised to see her brother has abandoned it and is standing less than an arm's reach away from her.

"You know, it might've been simpler if you'd just told me I was meant to marry Aegon."

"I did."

"I mean with words, Bran. Not with a thousand disjointed scenes of potential futures, all meshed into one confusing dream. Gods! Talking to you is like reading a tale that someone created by tearing up a hundred different story books, then pasting all the pieces back together randomly."

His Tully blue eyes pierce her. "You can't imagine what it's like inside my head. Infinite story books, torn into infinite pieces, stitched together in every possible configuration, all being read at once."

She believes the corner of his mouth twitches slightly when he is done speaking, but the motion is so small and so quick, she isn't certain.

Arya thinks she should express some remorse over her brother's obvious torment, but she suspects he would not welcome it. He's only doing his duty, and the best way to honor that is to do her own, she decides. Besides, if she understands how all this works, somewhere in Bran's infinite confusing story books is the tale of her sympathy for him, so he already knows how she feels.

"Jon is miserable," she says, changing the subject.

"Jon's curse is to bear the weight of everyone else's sins," he explains, "just as yours is to do what's right for your people even if it conflicts with the desires of your heart."

The girl hesitates, then says, "Maybe someday, what I have, and the desires of my heart will be the same."

"It is nice to think so," is his cryptic reply.

Her conversation with Bran is cut short by her other brother. Rickon places a hand on her shoulder, grounding her and drawing her back to the godswood.

"You should have care when you congress with the gods, Sinelvargg," the little chieftain warns as she blinks up at him. "They think only on their ends and concern themselves little with the means they use to get them."

The girl stands, shaking off her haze, then focuses on the auburn-haired boy, smiling at the bits of bone and feathers he still sports in his long braids. "How much care should I have when I congress with our brother, hmm?" She picks up the end of one braid, using it to tickle his ear. The boy does not smile or flinch away.

"With ravens, I think you should take the most care of all. They squawk and chatter, but they only say what they've been taught to repeat."

She looks at him strangely, but before she can ask what he means, a raven quorks from an overhead branch, drawing their attention. Rickon glares at the bird and mutters something in the old tongue that his sister doesn't quite catch, other than the mention of 'three eyes.'

Later, Aegon finds his betrothed as she's leaving a council meeting, asking her to fly with him on Rhaegal's back. She tries not to sound too eager as she accepts the invitation, but that task is made more difficult when he reveals that both Jon and Daenerys will be flying as well. She has never seen all three dragons circle the skies together with riders on their backs, and she has certainly never been a part of such a spectacle.

Also, she relishes the thought that the endeavor might prove healing in some way for Jon and her. Maybe if he sees how natural she is on dragonback, he will brood less over the idea of her marriage to his brother. At any rate, it should soothe him to witness the king's regard for her up close, and perhaps he will be less pained by her choice then.

Even if she is not.

All thoughts of pain, all the uncertainty and the grief she carries, dissolve in the first thrilling swoop of Rhaegal's wings. The king sits behind her, his arms reaching around her sides to hold the dragon's reins. For his part, the great beast races along the treetops of the wolfswood, green scales glinting in the afternoon sun like alchemists' wildfire. The frigid air turns the queen's alabaster cheeks to a bright crimson. Aegon yanks on the reins and she is thrown back firmly into his chest as they climb and climb and climb, the king shouting encouragement to his dragon while the queen laughs with startled glee.

Finally, Rhaegal levels out and the girl glances down at the world far below them. After a moment, she spies Jon on Viserion's back, rushing up toward them. When he is close enough that she can read the jubilant expression on his face, she grins at him. Aegon settles his chin on her shoulder, then turns so that his lips brush against her ear.

"Are you happy, my love?"

She glances again toward the ground below, and it seems to her that all her worries have been left down there, so far away. If she were a dragon rider, she is not sure she could be convinced to ever set foot upon the ground again.

"So happy," Arya finally says, and the king presses a kiss to her temple. As he does, she is filled with a sense of the familiar, as if this has all happened before. She only has a spare second to contemplate that before Aegon is shouting to Rhaegal in High Valyrian, and then they are dropping straight down, driving toward the ground like a spear thrown from one of the seven heavens, with Jon and Viserion swirling behind them in their wake.

Her heart in her throat, Aegon's arms press tightly around her as the treetops rush up to meet them. The queen wonders if she can always feel this free.

Later, they sup in her father's solar, and Arya does not even bother to straighten the tangles the wind has left in her hair. If the way his eyes caress her face is any indication, the king does not mind. Jon joins them and he seems more at ease than he has been since they last supped in this chamber. Daenerys is there, too, and she teases them all over how Drogon's aerial maneuvers sent them scattering, lest his tail knock one of the dragon lords from his seat. Aegon pretends to be cross over it, but Arya can tell he is simply giddy that they are all in good humor and together again.

Jon, who has been genial but quiet to this point, suddenly jests with his brother, and his grin, so rare and so missed, fills the queen's heart. Aegon is exceedingly amused. He throws his head back and laughs, and when he does, Arya can feel it in her skin.

Later, when the silver princess and her castellan have departed, the king slides his fingers along the queen's jaw, his thumb finding her cheek and stroking gently over the wind burnt skin there. Her teeth pinch at her bottom lip and she nestles into his touch.

"My pretty winter wolf," he murmurs, gliding his nose along the pink flesh over her cheekbone and then placing a kiss near her ear. She sighs softly at the sensation.

And for the first time, she wonders if it is possible to love two men.

---

Lord Hoster Blackwood and Queen Arya had their heads together, whispering over a book in the library, when Tyrion spied them. The dwarf thought the two of them seemed to keep a lot of secrets, even for a queen and her Hand. He wondered at that, and not for the first time.

"Good afternoon, your grace," the misshapen lion said, bowing his head to her in respect. Turning his attention to young Hos, he added, "My lord."

"Lord Tyrion," the man greeted, glancing at Arya. He cleared his throat and stood. "I'll, uh, take my leave now, your grace, so long as you're certain I don't need to explore the matter further." He closed the book they'd been reading together, tucking it under his arm as though he meant to take it with him.

Tyrion wondered what matter the Hand meant. The front cover of the book was pressed against the lord's ribs while its spine was nestled nearly in his armpit, so the dwarf could not glean the title.

"Yes," the queen agreed. "Leave it for now."

The Blackwood boy bowed, then left the dwarf with the girl. She smiled at him, all aloof graciousness. "Shall I send for the maester, my lord? I know the library a bit but am less expert at it than he is. Since the fire, anyway."

"No, thank you, your grace. I was merely returning this book." He slipped Hoster's work detailing Arya's life from beneath his arm and placed the thick volume on the table at which the queen sat. "Fascinating read, I must say."

"I suppose you are now an expert on me," the girl quipped.

"Oh, somehow, I doubt it, your grace. I sense there are parts of your life for which we have been given only the barest outlines."

She chuckled. "You cannot begrudge a woman a few secrets."

"I would never," the dwarf replied, placing a hand over his heart. He eyed the chair across from her. "Do you mind?"

The queen shrugged. "Be my guest."

Tyrion perched himself on the edge of the chair, placing his palms against the smooth oak planks of the tabletop, and dropped his voice low. "I wish to say how sorry I am for what you endured at Harrenhal. Reading of it was terrible enough. I can't imagine what it must have been like for a young girl to be exposed to such violence and abuse."

She swallowed, giving him a slight bow of her head in gratitude for his sincerity.

"In truth, I had heard the tale before I ever read it here." He tapped the cover of the volume lightly with a finger. "I had believed it to be embellished, to garner sympathy."

One corner of her mouth quirked up at that, just a bit.

"Of course, having become reacquainted with you, I understand how ungenerous my initial impression was."

"Well, stories have a tendency to grow once they've been told," she allowed, and there was no censure in her tone.

He scrutinized her with his mismatched eyes. "I think in your case, you've told rather less than you could have. Your reserved nature would not allow embellishment." Her reserved nature, and perhaps her desire to keep some details close. But that, he did not posit aloud. "I know something of a slave's life, your grace," he revealed, thinking back on his time with Ser Jorah in Essos. "I am sorry that is an experience you were forced to share."

"Life is full of pain and hardship, my lord. I do not think mine any worse than another's. In fact, it was somewhat better than it might've been. At least, based on my own observations."

"How so?"

"Though many did not, I survived my time in Harrenhal."

"Indeed. And facilitated a successful prisoner revolt as a girl of one and ten." If he'd had a cup of wine, he would have taken a swallow just then. "Remarkable."

"I only played a small role in that," Arya demurred.

"Hmm." Tyrion worked to hide his skepticism. Though Lord Hoster's work was thin on the details of the 'weasel soup incident', tales abounded. Between the various story tellers, there were many details which did not line up, either with each other, or with the Hand's official telling, but there was one detail the dwarf had heard which he tended to believe. It involved a strange sellsword and his inexplicable alliance with a young servant girl.

"Still, to be held by the Mountain, and at such a tender age…" he said.

"Truth be told, we had no interactions. I only saw him in passing, and he took no notice of me."

"Praise be to the gods for that," Tyrion replied. "Still, what you must've been made to witness, and the fear you surely felt… It's a scourge on the honor of Westeros."

"Do you believe Westeros has any honor, my lord?"

"It did once. And I believe it will again, once the young king is firmly settled on his throne. And with you by his side, your grace, well…" He tilted his head, regarding her for a moment. "I think Westeros will enter its golden age."

"That's surprising to hear, Lord Tyrion." The pronouncement was delivered in the mildest of tones.

He smiled. "Oh? Why is that?"

"Because I had not taken you for a dreamer."

The dwarf barked out a laugh in genuine merriment. He covered his mouth with his hand for a moment, gathering his composure before he responded. "Nor am I, your grace. One cannot be a maimed, kinslaying, whoremongering dwarf and still be a dreamer."

Arya gave a surprised chuckle, finding his lack of ego disarming. "Just so, my lord. Just so."

---

The Darkcharm weaved swiftly through the trees, her step silent and light. She moved like a ghost in eventide, just as she'd been trained. The moon was nearly full in a cloudless sky, but Daenla was shielded from most of the light it cast, blocked as it was by the high, thick wall which separated the godswood from Maegor's holdfast. At the appointed time, she stepped away from the wall and found the gnarled old oak which served as the heart tree of this place.

Tyto Arturis was already waiting for her.

He turned, hands clasped behind his back, and studied her with keen eyes the color of umber. "Sister," he finally greeted.

"Brother," she returned, bowing her head respectfully.

"What word?"

"It is as you believed."

"The king was not dissuaded by your report?"

"Quite the opposite, as you suspected," the mistress of whisperers replied. It was likely that Tyto more than simply suspected. It was as if he knew. Just like he always knew. "It's as though he wishes to be ensnared by her. He has excused her every flaw, every rightful concern of his advisors, and his pursuit has been single-minded."

The principal elder allowed himself a smile. He looked satisfied, and not at all surprised. "She is now unimpeachable. Any attempt by the Lord Hand to interfere is rendered fruitless."

That the griffin had been weakening in his support of their long-standing agreement had been… disappointing.

"That is no longer a concern. I've received word that he is now advising the king to marry the young queen as quickly as possible." In doing so, Jon Connington had likely saved his own life, even if he didn't realize it.

"Oh?" The elder's eyebrows rose in mild surprise. "What has inspired such a reversal of course? Has something happened to the khaleesi?"

Daenla pursed her lips, shaking her head. "No. It's something… quite unexpected."

"Tell me."

And so, she did. Everything she'd learned (from communications with Aegon's Hand, from the letters the half-maester had written to her, from the ravens she'd received from her handsome brother), she related to the principal elder. When she'd finished, Tyto's expression was unreadable as he mulled it all.

A hidden prince. One who had been raised as a brother to the little wolf and had the queen's trust. One who had entered the nightlands and returned to walk among the living by R'hllor's favor.

The principal elder's eyes narrowed as he considered what it all meant.

She did not think he could be displeased. The development had benefited the Order, if it was the reason the king's Hand was now firmly on the side of fulfilling the marriage contract that had been agreed upon so long ago. It had perhaps even accelerated their timeline.

But still, they would need to keep a close watch on Rhaegar's youngest son. The blood flowing through the man's veins was akin to what the principal elder had been seeking to obtain. Indeed, she believed it was his desire for it that had set this whole plan in motion. Still, Daenla had received no reports of any special gifts possessed by this new Targaryen. The little wolf was still the surest means to Tyto's coveted end.

He gave the false-Pentoshi a hard look, his gaze assessing her face. She knew he would find no fault with it. The eyes were always the most difficult, and yet he would see no trace of her wide, saucer gaze, the one that fooled so many into believing she was a young child. No matter how carefully he scrutinized her, he would see nothing familiar to him. "You've done well," he finally said, "and you are sorely missed in the temple."

Such sentiments, delivered in his sincere, gentle tone, made it plain why Arya Stark had taken to calling him the Kindly Man. But today, his face was wrong for that. Today, he wore a face decidedly less kindly, but even more beloved by the little wolf.

It would shock her to see it, though, the Darkcharm thought. It was fortunate she was tucked away behind Winterfell's high castle walls and not here, now, to witness a man she revered speaking the words of a man she hated.

"Thank you, brother," Daenla murmured.

"I shall return at the half-moon. You will tell me more of this flame wolf then." Tyto reached out as though he meant to touch her face, but his fingertips did not quite connect. "Valar morghulis, little one."

"Valar dohaeris, brother."

Before the woman was even done speaking, the elder's form had flickered and then winked out of existence, leaving a dark patch in the spot he'd just been standing. A trace of sorcery. It looked as though a block of obsidian had been set before her. After a moment, the effect faded and the godswood was as it was before.

---

Gemstone eyes watched the little wolf argue with her castellan as their swords clashed in the training yard. It was a rare sight. Not the arguing, she did that with nearly everyone, but the sparring. Of all her training partners, her brother-turned-cousin was her least favorite.

The Faceless Skagosi assumed she did not like to damage his pride or hurt his reputation. Such was her regard for the man. Still, Jon Snow, or, Jon Targaryen, rather, possessed a considerable amount of skill with his blade. His style was mostly Westerosi, but it was shaded by that bit of slyness he must've brought back with him from his time north of the Wall, in the company of the wildlings.

Augen Heldere had reason to be in the yard. He was standing watch over his young charge, Prince Rickon, as the false-Dornish knight undertook the boy's training. Drilling alongside him was that annoyingly boisterous child the little wolf had taken on as her squire.

The handsome assassin had little use for children. It was surprising he tolerated the Stark lad as well as he did. But that boy was more deadly savage than child, which was something Gaelon could respect.

"It's bad enough I must do without you," the girl was saying as she raised her thin stiletto over her head and charged the castellan. He leapt aside just in time to avoid its point coming to rest against the apple of his throat. "I don't see why Rickon should go as well. The Wall isn't a place for wild young boys."

Jon snickered. "When I arrived there as a lad of ten and four, almost every new recruit was a wild young boy."

"You were never wild," Arya retorted, rolling her eyes, "and I'm not sure you were ever young. I think you were born an old man."

They were locked in a disagreement about the impending journey to speak with the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. They sought to gain more intelligence about the growing threat north of the Wall. Jon had insisted on going, despite the queen's protestations, and Aegon was keen to join him. Now, he was pressing her to allow Rickon to go as well.

"How different might my disposition have been if my parents had lived?" he mused quietly. "My mother was wild, by all accounts. Perhaps she would've encouraged that in me."

"Well, you'd have lived in the Red Keep, not Winterfell, and been raised as a princeling. That might've stifled any wildness you would've inherited from Lyanna. It's much more difficult to get into mischief when you are balancing a crown atop your head."

"It hasn't seemed to hinder you any," he smirked, parrying her thrust.

"If only that were true," she retorted, sidestepping his answering blow before pointing out, "and you wouldn't have been brought up alongside me." The girl ducked his next attack, then caught him on his flank with the edge of Grey Daughter. "Dead man," she added for effect.

"And that would have been an unimaginable tragedy," he replied, placing a quick kiss on her cheek as she lowered her sword. "Now, you must allow Rickon to go. If you truly mean to marry Aegon, Rickon will be lord of this castle one day and he must understand the Wall. Fostering an accord with the Night's Watch now can only help him in the future."

The little magnar, hearing Jon make his case, stopped his training to join the conversation. "I want to go. I want to see what's on the other side of the Wall."

The queen glared at her castellan and then at her little brother. "You are not to step one toe past the Wall. Do you understand me?"

"I will not," the boy vowed, "so long as it stands." His tone as he said those last words caught the Myrish assassin's attention. The girl, however, did not seem troubled by it. Neither did she seem particularly convinced by his promise.

"I'm sending Ser Kyle to keep an eye on you."

Rickon frowned. "I don't need a Winter knight. I have Augen."

Arya flinched at the mention of the false-Skagosi's name. It was subtle, but the assassin noted it, nonetheless. "I prefer Kyle Condon," she said. "You are no longer just a magnar or a lord's youngest son. You are a prince, and heir to Winterfell. You'll take one of my guards, or you'll stay here."

The boy wrinkled his nose. "Fine. Send Ser Kyle," he acquiesced, then added in the old tongue, "and if Lillikaskoer bites his hand off, he'll have you to thank for it." When his sister gave him a censuring look, Rickon simply shrugged. "I can't help it if he prefers Augen."

"Can't you?" Her tone was dubious, as if she suspected her little brother of influencing the great direwolf.

"He makes up his own mind."

The false-Skagosi wasn't sure that was the case, but it was true that he and the beast seemed to have a mutual regard. At least, he'd never been menaced by the thing. He wondered if the wolf recognized him as kindred, one predator acknowledging another.

"Fine, take your painted warrior, too," the girl acquiesced, and her eyes slid to Gaelon's, just for a moment. He could read the warning in her look. Or, rather, the promise in it. The quicksilver of her gaze said she would be sure he breathed his last if any harm came to the brash prince.

The assassin's countenance betrayed no opinion, nor should it have. Augen Heldere's duty was to guard the magnar and the queen's capitulation simply meant she supported his aim. Internally, however, he was vexed. He'd counted on the little wolf's distrust of him to keep him from the Wall. His proximity to her brother was a threat, and he'd expected her to do what she could to separate them. Instead, she was giving him free reign over the boy's safety, however reluctantly. Now, rather than placing a great distance between Rickon and his Faceless shadow, she was removing that shadow from the orbit of her Lorathi master, even if she didn't realize it.

He would have to speak to his apprentice.

The warrior grimaced at the thought. The Westerosi assassin had no experience with blood magic. At least, nothing beyond the bit of it required to maintain a face. That was little more than understanding it was the power of the sacrifices they made to Him of Many Faces which enabled them to project their false countenances to the world or seal the flesh of another to their own.

His contemplations were disrupted by Young Brax's voice, wheedling his mistress.

"Your grace, might I go too? Might I travel with the prince to see the Wall?"

Before Arya could answer, Ser Willem intervened. "You'd leave her grace without her squire, boy?" He did a passable job of sounding stern, but Gaelon could detect the amusement in his tone.

"I, uh, didn't think…" The little squire's voice faltered, and he had the good sense to look ashamed.

"Do you believe this is some pleasure jaunt, full of merriment?" the false-Dornishman continued. "This is a diplomatic mission, business of the Winter Kingdom. Are you of such import that the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch should meet with you?"

"No, Ser Willem," Young Brax replied meekly. "I… just wanted to see it, is all. The Wall."

"Alright, Ser Willem," the little wolf interjected softly, "you've made your point." To the crestfallen squire, she said, "Someday, you will see the Wall, don't fret. But this mission is not for that."

"I'm sorry, your grace," the squire replied softly. "I… I just wanted to see it. Before it falls."

Rickon was there in a blink, gripping his friend's shoulder and muttering to him in that strange language of theirs they'd concocted, the mix between the old tongue and the phrasing heard only in the Great Swamp. While he did, the girl looked at Young Brax in confusion, as though she couldn't be sure she'd heard him correctly. She watched with narrowed eyes as the two boys whispered hotly back and forth.

"What does he mean, Rickon?" she demanded after a moment of trying to unravel their rapid-fire exchanges.

The young prince shook his head. "He is being foolhardy. I told him of a dream I had, and he has it in his head it will come to be."

"A dream," Arya repeated, fixing her brother with a hard stare.

"Your dreams are not dreams," the squire insisted, "and the gods say…"

"There are many gods," Rickon said, forceful in a way that was rare to see. His accent had become pure Skagosi, and he glared at his friend in much the same way his sister had glared at the painted warrior earlier. "They do not always agree."

"I wish to go with you," Young Brax pouted.

"But I need you to stay here and watch over Sinelvargg," the magnar insisted. "I cannot be here to protect her myself." His back was turned to his sister, so he did not catch the small smile that shaped her lips at his words.

The squire straightened, his little face becoming serious and alert. "What threatens her?" As he asked it, Gaelon held his breath.

Rickon replied in the old tongue. "Lies and sorcery."

The words were startling, but vague enough to allow the Myrish assassin to breathe freely for a moment.

The little squire bowed his head, vowing to do his duty, for his queen's sake, and for the prince's. The youngest Stark gripped the back of Jon Brax's neck and pulled him in, pressing their two foreheads together and muttering instructions to him in their unique language. Even if Gaelon had been able to understand their words, he was too far away to hear more than just a hint of what was being said. Judging by the expressions of the little wolf and her castellan, they were also left to guess at the content of the boys' exchange.

"Alright, you two," came Osha's voice, ringing out from above them where she stood watching from the second story gallery, "time to get cleaned up for your lessons. The maester is waiting for you in the library." The wildling woman watched Arya as she turned to glance up and made her a crude curtsey from her high perch. The boys handed off their weapons and dashed to the keep, elbowing each other, and laughing as they ran.

With one last glance at the little wolf, Augen turned on his heel, making for the chamber his apprentice shared with the Bear.

---

Drogon flew ahead of Viserion and Rhaegal. The dragons were hidden from any watchers on the ground by the low, grey clouds which had been ever-present since their crossing into the New Gift that morning. The cover was so thick, Daenerys had earlier guided Drogon into a dive, signaling to Aegon and Jon that they should follow her. She'd hoped they might spy the landmarks which would help them gauge their progress and expressed concern that the weather might cause them to miss their destination. Missing it would mean flying straight over the Wall and into the wild, dangerous land beyond it. She needn't have worried. When they finally approached the icy structure, the dragons all performed a dramatic and unprompted bank, swerving so that they flew rapidly along the Wall's edge before turning to race away from it.

It was as if they were loath to fly across the Wall and into the land of the wildlings and the Others.

The beasts glided back south, separating themselves from the Wall by three hundred yards before descending to the ground.

The royal party dismounted and gathered their small number before walking toward Castle Black to their north. They'd made it less than a hundred yards when a contingent of Night's Watchmen rode up to greet them, a long-faced man with a dour expression at their center. He was obviously their leader. Aegon eyed the black-clad men warily, as did Duck by his side, but his brother stepped forward, a frown on his face as he gazed up at his former comrades.

"I heard they made you Lord Commander," Jon said, eyebrows drawn together as he appraised the glum-looking man with something akin to disbelief.

"Aye, and I heard they made you a dragon prince," the man retorted, and he spoke the words like a lament. He looked down his nose at the castellan of Winterfell as though he'd just announced he were a thief or a murderer rather than royalty.

"Has there been a lack of rations here? I can only assume starvation has addled the brains of the black brothers if they've chosen you."

The man on the horse stiffened, then slid down from his mount, approaching Jon with a disdainful curl of his lip. "Seems to me a man whose birth resulted from centuries of incest shouldn't judge the wits of others." By the time he was done speaking, he and Jon were nose to nose, staring at each other with hard eyes. Aegon rested his hand on his sword pommel and both Duck and Ser Kyle followed suit.

After a tense moment, a grin split Jon's face and a second later, the Lord Commander was barking a laugh. The two men embraced, Jon pounding the commander on his back and the commander returning the gesture.

"It's good to see you again, Edd."

"Aye," the Lord Commander replied, "it's good to see you too." He took Jon by his shoulders and studied his face. "You look a sight better than you did the last time we were together. I'd say being highborn agrees with you."

"Could be that," the dark prince replied amiably, "or maybe it's the not being recently stabbed a dozen times by my own men."

"That would do it too, I guess."

The men laughed again, and then Jon introduced everyone. Edd Tollett bowed his head respectfully when he was introduced to the silver king and his aunt.

"Your graces," he intoned. "The Night's Watch welcomes you to Castle Black."

"Edd, this is Rickon, the Winter's Prince." Jon urged the boy forward.

The Lord Commander cocked up one eyebrow, taking in the bones, teeth, and feathers which decorated the boy's lustrous auburn braids. "A prince, is he?" Edd's tone was skeptical. "He looks more like a Skagosi terror."

Rickon's mouth shaped itself into a wicked grin with that. "Here, they pay me honor because I'm the queen's brother, but on Skagos, I'm a magnar," he confided. In the old tongue, he added, "I took that title, by will and by blood. And…" He tugged the double strand of his pearly necklace from beneath his cloak, running his thumb along the irregularly shaped ornaments strung there, "by these teeth." The little chieftain looked as proud as a man being presented a ribbon for his feats of strength at a village fair, or a knight awarded a prize purse after winning a tournament melee.

The expression on Dolorous Edd's face indicated that he understood the boy well enough. "Now that, I believe. You'd give any Thenn a proper fright, I'd wager."

Jon gave the red head a look that implored him to behave like the prince he was meant to be. "As the queen's younger brother, he'll be Lord of Winterfell one day, so I thought it best to bring him along."

"A shrewd plan," the Lord Commander agreed. Then, looking around at the royal party, asked, "Shall I have my steward show you to your chambers? We have more than two hours before the supper is ready."

"Perhaps that would be wise for the Princess," Aegon said, "but I'd like to see your castle and try to better understand what it is your men do here, Lord Commander."

The man's eyes flicked to Jon's, but he answered, "Of course, your grace. It would be my honor to show you the castle and to answer your questions. But perhaps you'd like to start off atop the Wall, while we still have daylight?"

Aegon nodded, and with that, they were off, the king and his brother flanking the commander.

"So, Prince Jon," Edd began with a twist of his mouth when pronouncing the title, "might I inquire when you'll send my maester back to me? Seems a bit selfish to keep him when you have your own."

"Sam is winding up the kingsroad as we speak." As if patiently lecturing a child, he added, "Horses travel slower than dragons, as it turns out. But I expect he'll be here in a week or so."

"Well, we've done without him for this long, I suppose another week is tolerable."

They'd reached the winch cage and Edd indicated they should step in. Rickon shook his head, declaring magnars could not be caged. He dashed for the wooden staircase which crawled up the Wall instead, its switchbacks rising one atop the other with dizzying precision. Eying their impending climb, Ser Kyle and Augen Heldere followed reluctantly in his wake.

"It's too bad that boy has no living brothers to rule his father's castle," the Lord Commander commented as the cage began to lift them. "Time was, a younger son of a great Northern family would pledge his oath to the Black. Prince Rickon could've taken my place one day, if he hadn't risen so high."

Jon chuckled a bit at that, but said, "He may yet consider it, if the Wall seduces him. He does not seem to assign the comforts of Winterfell any importance."

"Still, I'm sure he ranks his duty as a Stark son highly."

"Certainly, but Bran Stark lives."

Edd's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Does he now?"

"Oh, aye," the dark prince answered as the king looked on with interest, "though I am losing faith that he will ever return to us."

"And where has he gotten himself to, then?"

Jon shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

The commander's lips thinned before he said, "When you hear the sort of tales my brothers bring back to me after ranging, and what the wildlings have to say when they pass through our gate, you find there's very little you wouldn't believe anymore."

"Hmm," the prince nodded. "I suppose it's true. Seeing a wight attack Commander Mormont diminished my own capacity for doubt." Flexing his one scarred hand unconsciously, he offered no further hint as to Bran Stark's whereabouts. Instead, he asked after the manning of the castles along the Wall.

"Most of them are fully garrisoned now, with the addition of war orphans to our ranks and the numbers of wildlings who learned to prefer a solid roof over their head. The Nightfort remains a challenge, though."

"How so?" Aegon asked as he peered through the bars of the winch cage, surveying the ground below. They'd risen nearly three hundred feet above Castle Black and were still ascending.

"Ah." Edd cleared his throat. "It was to be the northern seat of Stannis Baratheon, your grace, where he consolidated his strength and plotted the downfall of his brother's widow and her bastard children."

The king smirked a little. "I suppose our capture of King's Landing thwarted his plans."

"When he learned of the return of dragons and bent the knee, half his forces abandoned him. Just the queen's men, though." When Aegon gave him a confused look, the Lord Commander went on to explain. "His wife had become a devotee of R'hllor and had convinced Lord Stannis to place his faith in a red priestess. When her promises of a glorious future failed, many of the men loyal to her lost heart and returned to their homes."

"Surely Stannis still commands enough men to adequately garrison the castle, though," Jon said. "Why should the Nightfort be a challenge?"

"It's not their numbers, it's their aim," Edd revealed. "With nothing to entice him south, and your sister enthroned at Winterfell, the lord turns his eyes northward."

"Beyond the Wall?" Aegon scoffed. "Does he not know of the danger which lurks there?"

"He knows."

"What could he possibly be thinking?" Jon wondered.

Edd shrugged. "I don't think that man will be content until he's ruling something. And that priestess and his wife have him convinced R'hllor has appointed him to save us all from the coming darkness. 'The New Night', they call it." The winch cage finally came to a stop at the top of the Wall. While they waited for a Night's Watch brother to unlatch the door and free them from their confines, the commander turned to look at the two Targaryens. "I don't know if having all the old castles fully fitted and manned is worth the trouble of one highborn lord with a holy mission."

"So long as he keeps to his own walls with his plots, he shouldn't give you too much trouble," Jon murmured.

"If only I were so lucky," Edd grunted. "He's demanding backing from each of the castles along the Wall, and from the wildlings who have established villages in the Gift."

The door opened and one after another, the men left their cage behind to stand atop the highest structure in all of Westeros.

"Backing?" Aegon's brow wrinkled. "For what?"

"For a push further north, to meet the creatures who drove the wildlings from their homes and through our gates, and to establish himself as a king in that land." Edd shook his head. "He calls it Godsgrief, after the first Storm King."

Jon frowned. "Is he mad?"

"Might be," the commander shrugged, "or might be, he so craves a crown, he hasn't thought it through."

As they moved forward to the northern edge of the Wall and peered over it at the vast land spread out before them, all talk of Stannis Baratheon died. After several moments punctuated only by their quiet, frozen breaths puffing out like small clouds, Aegon turned to his brother.

"This place… it was always just an idea," he said in a hushed voice. "An idea from books, and things Haldon taught me."

"No," Jon disagreed. "It's always been real, since long before you or I were born. And it will still be real, long after you and I are gone."

The king trained his gaze on the boundless expanse stretching northward as far as the eye could see, the frozen land and the haunted forest, and spoke without looking at his brother. "You're right. These wild lands do not require my acknowledgement to exist. They have been here, all along, and will continue to be, until time ends, with no consideration for what happens to us. When I ponder it, I'm filled with awe," he admitted, "but the thought is rather dreadful, too."

"Dread and awe," Jon mused. "I can think of no way more apt to describe what I felt as I rode through the lands beyond the Wall many years ago."

"Oh," Edd tutted, "not so very many years. We aren't that old."

"Perhaps I'm not." The prince gazed sidelong at his old friend. "As for you, though…"

It was a jape, of course, but the Lord Commander seemed to contemplate it in seriousness. "It's the office," the man intoned after a time. "The responsibility has aged me."

Jon clapped his hand on one of Edd's shoulders. "It's a heavy burden," he acknowledged.

Edd nodded. "Well, I can always tell myself that no matter how difficult things get, at least my own men haven't tried to murder me yet."

"I'll remember that," Jon vowed with false solemnity, "when I'm sitting near a crackling fire after a hot bath, eating lemon cakes from the kitchens at Winterfell."

The man frowned. "Lemon cakes were always too sweet for me."

"Aye. You could never abide anything which might make you a little less sour."

Edd snorted at that. "It really is good to see you back here."

"Despite how it all ended, it's good to be back. To see that you are all holding steady."

"Did you worry we might falter in your absence, Lord Snow?" the commander chuckled.

Jon shook his head. "The Watch has survived worse than coups and commanders with abbreviated tenures."

An exclamation from Rickon as he topped the stairs and came rushing toward them caught their attention. He was shouting in the old tongue, causing several of the guards patrolling the top of the Wall to stop and stare.

"Careful, young magnar," the Lord Commander warned. "Princes may slip and topple over the edge as easily as lowborn recruits, and they bleed just the same on the ground below."

"I'm not meant to die here," the boy replied smugly. "The gods have other plans for me."

"Tell you that, did they?"

"Yes," Rickon replied simply, then sauntered off to take in the view from a place further along the Wall, Ser Kyle and Augen cautiously striding behind him.

"Well, he's a confident lad, I'll give him that." Edd looked at the king and then at Jon. "Shall we walk a length of Wall before heading back down? The sun will set soon."

The brothers agreed and listened as the Lord Commander described improvements that had been made to the defenses over the past few years.

---

He is floating in a warm sea, the sun kissing the tip of his nose as gentle waves lap at his cheeks. Gulls laugh overhead. He hears them even though his ears are below the surface and the salty water muffles the sound. He could open his eyes, could count their numbers as they circle (his mother has taught him to count, and he has been employing the new skill anywhere he can, counting the steps from the blue door of his home to its courtyard, counting the kisses with which his mother peppers his face at bedtime, counting the candied dates he begs from the cook before supper, counting the ships in the harbor as he looks for the green sails that tell him his father has returned). He could, but he doesn't.

If he opens his eyes, he will see the sheer cliff face rising from the beach, stretching toward the sky. He will see the mouth of the bay in the distance and perhaps a ship sailing past. He will see the gulls, yes, and his mother standing watch over him, less than an arm's length away as he floats, her soaked tunic clinging to her as she smiles down at him. He will see the familiar and the comforting and the beloved and know that he is home and safe. But he likes to pretend.

Pretend he is adrift in dangerous waters off the Summer Isles, a shipwrecked sailor who will wash ashore and have adventures. Pretend he is a warrior, weary from battle and resting before he must take up his sword against his enemies once again. Pretend he is a feather, caught in a great wind that will lift him to the heavens where he will glide around the stars until he finds the gods.

If he opens his eyes and sees that he is home, he cannot have his escapades.

Sometimes he thinks if he concentrates hard enough, if he colors his imaginings in with enough detail and precision, the gods may reward him for it and carry him off to the places he has created in his head. He decides he would like that, so long as they bring him home in time to charm the cook out of more dates before supper.

He supposes soon he won't have to hope for the favor of the gods to seek adventure. His father has said he will be old enough next season to join him on his ship. His time is fast approaching, and he shall experience the excitement of distant ports in foreign lands and all the thrilling turmoil and danger that travelling across the seas can offer. Then again, it is no sure thing. His mother does not support the plan. She thinks he is too young and besides that, she wants something different than a life on the treacherous waters for her only son. His parents have had cross words about it, but he believes his father will win his mother over. Maybe she will even join them. It makes him happy to think it.

When he hears his mother's voice call to him, he pretends once again, pretends not to hear her, trying hard to keep the mischievous little smile from his lips. His plump cheeks cannot help but to tighten into a grin, though, and he gives himself away. She calls him a 'little rogue' and splashes at him playfully. He blinks away the salty water from his lashes and rolls from back to belly so he may paddle into her arms. He has drifted further away from her than he'd realized, but still, three strokes have her lifting him from the water to hold him against her chest as she moves toward the beach.

His small hand reaches for her hair, chubby fingers curling around the ends of the ashen streak of her forelock. It settles him to do so, because those pale strands mirror his own and remind him where he belongs.

"Mama," he murmurs, pressing his cheek to her ear.

"A boy is weary," she tells him softly as she gazes at him with her bronze eyes. "We shall return home so you may have your nap."

"Sailors don't nap, Mama," he yawns in protest. The woman chuckles lightly at that.

"You are not a sailor yet, Jaqen H'ghar, and if your mother has her way, you never will be."

Blue eyes snapped open in a dark chamber. For a moment, Daario was not sure where he was, or even who he was. When the answer came to him, his identity, it was like dressing in a garment he'd outgrown. There was the relief of not being naked and exposed, but the cost was being made to wear something tight and ill-fitting. He sat up in his bed, rolling his neck and pushing back to lean against the wall behind him. The sellsword sighed, scrubbing at his face with his fingertips. His odd dream lingered, as did the feeling it left him with, a sort of deep ache made from loss and yearning and nostalgia.

But over what? A nonsense dream? Or over the things it teased him with?

Family. Home. Another life altogether.

Or, the start of a life, something he'd been unable to conjure for himself until now.

His head swam with it, and he wondered if he'd taken ill and become insensible, confined to his bed, or if he'd had a blow to the skull. He was strangely addled. Running his hands through his hair, he detected no injury. He took inventory of his body. Nothing hurt, at least not in a way that was out of the ordinary for him. His limbs seemed to work, and he was not particularly thirsty. That only left the dream to blame for his state.

He found that confusing. It was as though the dream did not belong to him, like the dream of another had been mistakenly gifted to him. Still, there was something familiar about it all, or so he thought, even as the wisps of it drifted away. The colors and images faded quickly as he snatched futilely at their edges and tried to keep the pieces together to make them form a coherent picture.

He was a boy, it must've been him, and he was with his mother.

Daario could not recall his mother, could not even recall if he'd ever known his mother, and so the dream seemed to be an assortment of absurdities stitched together with a thin thread of insupportable longing. He told himself that. It was just an unconscious attempt to provide himself with something he'd never had. Love. Safety. A blithe existence, unshackled and unbothered.

Why, then, did it feel so much like memory?

Something niggled in the back of his mind, piercing through his explanation. Something that filled him with dread. It told him to be cautious. To beware. Of whom or of what, he could not say, but his skin prickled with his apprehension. He could not hold the dream in his head, not entirely, for that was the way with dreams. But he could hold that feeling it gave him. Instinctively, he knew he should, and so he made a vow that he would.

He closed his eyes, letting the feel of it sink into him, letting it become a part of him.

As he did, his skin seemed to become just a little bit tighter, and his discomfort in it grew.

---

"A raven scroll from Maester Samwell," Lord Hoster said as he teased it open with his fingers and proceeded to explain its contents to the council. "The riders reached the Wall safely and delivered the new recruits for training…"

"May the gods help the Night's Watch in that endeavor," the Greatjon chortled.

Tormund, who had recently joined the council in an effort to give the free folk a voice in their governance, laughed along with him. The bulk of the prospects were wildlings who found village life and toiling in trades less palatable than their previous time spent fighting in Mance Rayder's army. Many who had failed to find suitable wives and settle into the routine of domesticity were willing to trudge back northward and help garrison the castles along the Wall, especially since several of the structures were under the command of their former tribal and clan leaders.

Not everyone was so happy to beat their swords into ploughshares, Arya thought. Still, it was good. They would need willing men to stave off the threats from beyond the Wall, if the stories brought by travelers passing through were to be believed. She supposed they would know that soon enough, once Jon and Aegon returned with their reports.

That she didn't know the answers already was a source of consternation. The queen had received short missives from all three of the dragons, but none were filled with the sort of information she sought. Daenerys had mostly commented on her impressions of the Wall and revealed that the dragons could not be coaxed to cross the damn thing. Jon had written to assure her he was well received and did not feel any distaste for his old home, despite his history there. And Aegon… he'd mostly lamented that none of the wild beauty of the lands beyond the Wall could compare to her own and that it was all made to feel more desolate for her absence.

Each had promised to write more when they had more to report, but since then, she'd received nothing.

"…and because the accounts were confused and inconsistent, they elected to go ranging and investigate further," the Hand was saying.

Arya blinked. She'd obviously missed something important, so lost was she to her musings. "What?"

"The king and the prince, your grace," Hoster clarified. "The Targaryen prince, that is, not Prince Rickon. Maester Samwell assures me he is keeping your brother occupied at Castle Black so he will not be tempted to sneak off after the ranging party."

"What?"

The queen kept her impatience bridled. Her confusion was not the Blackwood man's fault. She should've been paying closer attention. He looked at her, his expression one of dread as he realized she had not been impassively listening all this time.

"The, uh, king, your grace, and Prince Jon have… uh… joined a party of rangers and ridden toward Whitetree after a group of wildlings…" He was interrupted by Tormund's growl. Looking quickly at the bearded man, he gave him a contrite nod, "Apologies, free folk, I should say…"

"You should," the man agreed.

"Yes, well, a group of free folk who had migrated from a settlement on the Antler River were waylaid near Whitetree and their numbers decimated. They knew enough to avoid Hardhome and travelled more inland instead, but they were attacked in the night."

"By what?" the girl pressed.

"That is up for debate, your grace. The survivors told many different tales. Some said they were set upon by shadowcats missing fur and muscle. Others say it was walking dead men. A few claimed it was the old gods who had taken form as ice knights using frozen blades."

"Ice knights?" Arya repeated, her brows pinching together.

"White Walkers," Tormund grunted. "They've nothing to do with the old gods, except to destroy what they created."

"And my brother…" The girl stopped herself, swallowing and taking a breath. "Prince Jon, and the king, have decided to seek out these White Walkers?" Her temples began to ache, and she pressed her palms against them, making small circles there to drive the pain away so she could concentrate.

"It seems they wished to determine the actual threat for themselves. Maester Samwell writes that they are armed with their Valyrian steel blades as well as weapons tipped in dragon glass."

"But not their dragons," she said slowly, a frown marring her mouth. She dropped her palms to the tabletop, giving up on soothing her headache. "When did they leave?"

Hoster's eyes scanned the scroll. "Four or five days ago, it appears."

Too soon to expect them to have returned, safely or otherwise. Arya slumped in her chair.

"According to the scroll, they have come to believe the creatures may be led by a general or a king of sorts," the Hand continued cautiously. "Prince Jon hopes to discover if this is true, and if so, to slay their leader and end their push south before they can breach the Wall."

"What makes him think they could breach the Wall? In all this time, they haven't done it, so why risk himself in this way to stop such an unlikely threat?"

Hoster shook his head. "Maester Samwell does not say, your grace."

As her advisors took up the discussion, a thousand plans formed and were discarded in Arya's head. She simply could not devise a feasible way to force Jon and Aegon back behind the protection of the Wall and she could not fathom how she could keep them safe as they ranged into the haunted forest. Her eyes locked with Howland Reed's, her look imploring him to tell her his green dreams had shown the men to him, returning home hale and whole. He merely gazed back sadly and shook his head.

"I cannot say, your grace," he murmured in answer to her unasked question. The queen stood abruptly, the movement silencing the men of the council.

"Everyone out," she said, her tone brooking no objection, then glared at Thoros in his usual corner. "Everyone except the red priest."

---

"I am merely a humble servant of R'hllor," Thoros was saying. "An imperfect man who came to my true faith late. He reveals to me what he wishes, not what I ask of him."

"You must try." Her quiet insistence is not imperious, but it is resolute.

"Your grace, I think it might be better if you try."

"I am not a priestess of your god."

"No, but you are one of his chosen. He has shown me that much. And what's more, you know it yourself." Thoros reaches for the iron poker and prods the logs in the hearth, causing embers to jump and the flames to dance higher. "You will try, and I will pray."

The girl lifts her chin and stares into the red priest's eyes. After a moment, she nods and he drags her chair from the council table, placing it before the hearth. She sits, straightening her shoulders as she faces the fire. Thoros stands behind her and places his hands on her shoulders. After a moment, she hears him begin to mutter softly, imploring the lord of light for his favor. Her eyes dart to the tongues of fire and she stares.

Her jaw is clamped tight, and tension stiffens her neck and her chest. Her shoulders are as immobile as the stone floor beneath her boots. And the flames are just… flames. She huffs her frustration.

"R'hllor will not be moved by your anger," the priest chides softly. He presses down on her shoulders, an instruction to relax. "Breathe, your grace, and listen."

The girl sighs and refocuses. This time, she tunes her ear to the crackle of the fire and the popping of the embers. The sounds lull her, and her shoulders slowly drop. She closes her eyes for a moment as Thoros resumes his low entreaties and when she opens them, she simply rests her gaze in the center of the flames. They twist and slither, orange and yellow dancing like the courtesans in Braavos. Seduction. Enticement. Her tongue traces the seam between her lips, and she leans forward, sliding her palms lightly along the arms of her chair until her fingers drape over the ends.

There it is.

Horses. Riders. Trees crowding them on either side.

"Jon," she breathes, and, flicking her gaze slightly to the left, added, "Aegon."

They pull up on their reins and jump down to the ground, their boots sinking into the snow. Arya gives a small gasp, watching them walk shoulder to shoulder, approaching something together.

"What do you see, your grace?"

"I don't… I don't know." She stares, lids dropping lower as she surrenders to the pull of the fire. "Wait… a girl. A young girl. They… want to help her, I think."

"A survivor of the massacre?" Thoros muses.

Creeping dread crawls up the queen's arms, settling around her heart. "Maybe…" Her tone is tinged with doubt, and then, she gasps in earnest.

"What is it?" The red priest's words are delivered in a taut whisper.

Arya shakes her head, staring. The little girl's eyes are wrong and as she watches, her face contorts, revealing black teeth behind her rabid snarl. She crouches, the pose unnatural, then springs for Jon, knocking him into the snow and lunging for him, jaw spread wide as she snaps at his neck. Aegon reacts, drawing his blade and running her through. The attack, which should have killed her, only slows her for a moment, and then she is snapping at Jon again, even as the king jerks his sword from between her shoulder blades. Jon has managed to grasp a dagger and plunges it into the girl's eye. She jerks back, scrabbling to grip the hilt and yank it out. Jon uses her distraction to lift himself from the ground, his one hand pressing against his neck wound. He is breathing hard, but he is breathing, and watches as Aegon swings, parting the monster's head from her body with Blackfyre.

The girl gives a shuddering breath of relief, but the feeling is short lived. With a cry, she jumps from her seat, knocking the priest's hands from her shoulders as she falls to her knees. She crawls toward the fire as though it can somehow transport her to the dragons so that she might help them.

"Queen Arya!" Thoros calls out in alarm, and he manages to jerk her back just before she reaches her hand into the flame, insensible to the harm she could cause herself. He pulls her up by her arms, steadying her and staring into her eyes, demanding to know what she's seen, but she just shakes her head.

She is loath to give it voice.

For when the gruesome girl's head had hit the ground and rolled, it came to rest at the feet of a creature so menacing, Arya's heart had filled with a terrible awe to see it. It was shaped like a man, but seemed to be made entirely of dark ice, standing a head taller than the king, who was himself nearly half a head taller than Jon. The creature's countenance was formed from pure hatred and as he advanced on the dragons, a wicked blade of hoarfrost formed in his hand as though drawn from the air itself. Strange blue eyes glittered with malice as he lifted his blade to strike Jon.

"Your grace!" the red priest barks when he sees her dazed look. His voice somehow releases the grip of terror from around her throat and she looks at him.

"They were attacked… or, they're being attacked now," she rasps desperately. "What can I do? What can I do?" She snatches the priest's robes, drawing herself up until her nose nearly brushes that of the kneeling man. "Implore your god to…"

She gets no further. Her words are lost to a great, sucking wheeze and she pales, unable to do more than stiffen, then fall back. Thoros manages to catch her before her head strikes the floor. A pain pierces her side unlike anything she has ever felt before, as though she has been run through with a pike. It is sharp, and hard, and so, so cold. The feeling robs her of her breath. She does not even have the control to blink, and her eyes begin to burn. Moisture gathers there and a tear forms, then breaks free, trekking down her cheek as Thoros blanches.

He turns his head toward the door of the chamber and shouts for help.

---

Something I Can Never Have—Nine Inch Nails