8.Waking the Dragon

?303 AC

The Breaker of Chains, Mereen

Drogon had always been the most unruly of her children, and even now, mounted atop his thick, scaly neck, Daenerys struggled to rein in the black dragon. Even tying the makeshift saddle had ended up with two men with broken ribs, courtesy of Drogon’s lashing tail and wings.

Now, strapped with chains to the dragon’s neck, Daenerys had trouble steering him properly. His response to the reins was muted even when she pulled with all her strength, and using a whip only angered Drogon. Even commands in High Valyrian had to be repeated more than once because her eldest child seemed to continue with his stubborn streak.

It was a small wonder Drogon found his way back to her amidst the Dothraki Sea, but they shared a special connection, and a child would never spurn its mother, no matter how wilful. Mhysa, they called her. Chainbreaker, but the freedmen had turned their cloaks, rewarding Daenerys’ every attempt to aid them with betrayal.

No, her mercy and compassion were misplaced. She was a Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons, not some foolish girl lost in dreams of naivete. The love and adoration of the masses were worthless; they came and went like the wind. She now knew such things were but a trap; a strong ruler had to be feared and rule with an iron fist. Daenerys should have done away with all the Masters in Mereen from the start, sparing not even one.

‘No more,’ she thought to herself. ‘No more foolishly misplaced mercy.’

From above, the Ghiscari legions swarming the walls of her city were no different than ants. Stretching as far as the eye could see, the slaver army looked like an endless wave of flesh crashing against the sandstone ramparts. The bay was clogged with ships, and a ravenous fleet bearing golden krakens on their black sails engulsed the Ghiscari ships that blocked Mereen’s harbour.

With some struggle, Daenerys steered Drogon towards the sea of spears below.

“Dracarys!” A torrent of black flame streaked with red crashed into the soldiers. Even her child was eager and obedient for once, making her smile; no matter how unruly, Drogon loved burning things.

The son of Tywin Lannister was everything she expected from the whispered rumours. He was short and malformed, with an ugly, scarred face and mismatched eyes that looked like two soulless pits. Her foolish Bear Knight had brought him here. For good or for bad, Jorah Mormont had perished in a skirmish outside the walls of Mereen. She should have been glad at his demise, but there was no joy in her.

Why… why did she feel sad about a traitor’s death?

“Why should I keep you alive, Tyrion Lannister?”

“I want nothing more than to serve you, Your Grace,” he said, kneeling on his stubby legs, head bowed. “Nobody wants to see the Lannisters brought low more than I. My only request is that my sister be handed to me.”

The words were dripping with so much venom that Daenerys couldn’t help but believe. Kinslayer, demon, dwarf, imp, he might be, but he had gotten rid of Tywin Lannister. Revenge was a good reason as any.

“Tyrion Lannister proved himself useful,” Barristan added, somehow reluctantly. “He kept a tight run of the ledgers and helped me organise the Unsullied in suppressing the riots more than once.”

“I shall take your vows,” Daenerys decided. “And you shall be rewarded should your service prove satisfactory.”

Capable and loyal aides were hard to find, and she could not allow herself to waste any. The dwarf bowed even deeper and uttered oaths of obeisance, which she graciously accepted.

“My Lord Hand, what happened in my absence?” she asked, her gaze settling on the old knight.

“The city descended into chaos…” Daenerys’ face grew stormier the more she listened to Selmy as she ran her pale fingers through Drogon’s scaly snout, calming the dragon enough to allow the Unsullied to pull out the scorpion bolts and arrows stuck in his wings and scales. The army outside was repelled, not defeated; spewing dragonflame continuously had tired Drogon, and his scales and wings had yet to grow hard enough to repel the steel-tipped projectiles.

It didn’t help that she had great trouble steering the dragon. A few arrows almost skewered her, forcing Daenerys to retreat to the safety of the walls.

“I should have hanged them all when I took the city,” she murmured.

Ah, the price of indecision was high, and it was those most loyal to her who had paid it. The previously powerful knight was now reduced to using a crutch, bound to limp for the rest of his life, all because of some underhanded ambush.

“Your Grace, you showed yourself weak when you let the hostages live after the Sons of the Harpy continued giving you trouble.” The Lannister Imp cleared his throat. “Now they think your threats are all empty bluster.”

She looked at Barristan, but the old knight bowed his head in tacit agreement.

“You would counsel me to kill innocent children, is that it?”

“Threats only make you look weak when you never see them through, Your Grace,” Tyrion said dryly. “Otherwise, it wouldn’t have come to this.”

Closing her eyes, she fondly remembered her cupbearers. All of them were young and innocent. Or perhaps the Mereen nobles had sent their young and innocent because they knew she was soft, too weak to act on her own threats.

Mhysa!

They all cried for her, the traitors.

The dragons answered to neither gods nor men!

Why was Daenerys merciful when her foes were not? Why did she seek the adoration of the masses who spurned her? The scars of the Khal’s whips ached on her back still, reminding her of the price of mercy and the cost of hesitation. The feeling of powerlessness grated upon her very soul.

Never again.

“You are right,” Daenerys said, tongue heavy. “I have misplaced my mercy.”

“Your Grace?” Selmy inquired, wizened face turned into a grim mask.

“I should have pulled out the Masters root and stem when I took the city. It was folly to think they would change their ways,” she uttered slowly, tasting the words in her mouth. They felt right. “Next time there’s a riot, suppress it with force. Should one more of my men perish to the Sons of the Harpy, I shall have the Masters’ heads to the last.”

“Even the children?” The Bold shuffled uneasily, his face pained. He had begun teaching a few of the younger boys in the ways of Westerosi chivalry.

“Even the children,” the words felt foul on her tongue, but the price of mercy was too fresh in her mind and her body, and Daenerys did not want to pay it again. She would not grieve for traitors.

15th Day of the 3rd Moon, 303AC

Jon Snow

The first thing Jon tried to do when the Wall was out of sight was Apparition, the most basic and the least magically demanding form of teleportation he knew. He didn’t have enough power to make it to Winterfell in one jump, but enough to allow him to get in and out undetected.

Still, it would be good to practice first, lest he splinch himself in the worst moment possible.

Jon gathered all his magic, focused his mind to the limit, twisted, and pushed. The expected sensation of being stretched thin and shoved into a tight tube never came.

A choked gasp escaped his throat as his world suddenly filled with agony.

The air was knocked out of his lungs as a monstrous crushing feeling enveloped him as if something tried to squeeze him into a meat paste. The pressure was strong enough to turn a normal human into a pulp, but Jon was anything but after the rebirth. Even so, his hardy skin was being bruised, muscles torn, bones cracked, and organs crushed under the immense pressure. With a pained grimace, he halted his attempt, and the crushing force quickly dispersed, leaving Jon bleeding from all his orifices and spitting blood as he collapsed into the grass.

The air never felt so sweet as he greedily sucked in deep breaths.

Most of his bones were fractured, and his body was heavily bruised inside and outside. It took nearly an hour to heal himself, exhausting almost all of his magic, and even so, he felt as sore as sin.

Apparition was no longer an option.

It seemed he would have to do everything the Muggle way. Winter had already grown to the size of a horse, but he was still too small for flying. If Jon were a small child, he could mount the savage blue drake, but he was well over six feet and very heavy. The dragons themselves were still acting like small hatchlings occasionally and were awkward with their quickly increasing size. And while size mattered, it meant little without experience to back it up.

He mounted his horse and rode down the kingsroad. Ghost ran after him through the nearby woods, and Winter and Stormstrider lazily flew in circles above him. With a tug of his mind, they turned to the treeline, flying low to avoid being spotted from afar.

Riding was tedious, especially when his body felt tender from the earlier ordeal, but it left him plenty of time to contemplate his failed attempt at Apparition. During the evenings, his familiars hunted, while Jon experimented with magic in every possible way his mind could conceive, straining his magical perception to the limit.

In the end, he concluded that the ambient magic was volatile, but there was also a certain presence in the air. A will that was present everywhere, that resisted even the most basic of magic. It was incredibly subtle, and even after focusing on his perception, he only managed to feel it after a whole hour of deep meditation.

Whatever it was, it was strong, ancient, and overbearing despite being as fleeting as the wind. But when he tried folding space to Apparate, it lashed out.

Never had he encountered something that could affect magic on such a grand scale. Jon could think of a few possible reasons, each more fantastical than the last.

A sort of worldwide ward suppressing magic.

A curse on magic itself.

Some sort of deity or a very powerful being was interfering, twisting the very essence of magic.

Or someone committing a terrible taboo against magic, corrupting and twisting it into something unrecognisable. As magic was quasi-sentient, it definitely could be changed if a high enough price was paid.

Worse, it could be something else entirely outside of his scope of knowledge.

All of these possibilities were not anything Jon could deal with at this moment, so he suppressed the sour feeling of weakness and chucked the whole thing into a corner of his mind—he would make do with the tools at hand, one way or another.

22nd Day of the 3rd Moon, 303AC

Aegon VI Targaryen, outside of Bronzegate

At times, Aegon felt like the command tent would buckle over and smash him despite being the sturdiest one in the camp.

The Martell retinue had left two days earlier, and no agreement had been reached. It was a cruel blow to his confidence.

“You should have kept the princess as a guest,” Jon Connington groused as they looked over the map of Westeros strewn atop the table.

Only the two of them were here; the rest of the Captains were busy around the camp, while Harry Strickland was left as castellan of Storm’s End. The commander of the Golden Company was not a great warrior or a strategist, but a man skilled in logistics and training troops, so leaving him behind to hold the seat of the Stormlands was suitable.

“What is done is done,” Aegon bemoaned before taking a small gulp from the wineskin. The Dornish Red felt particularly bitter today. “Besides, I cannot keep my cousin hostage.”

Alas, it did pain him to see such a distrust, even if veiled, in the eyes of his cousin.

The much-awaited reunion turned into a game of suspicion. As soon as Aegon rebuffed Arianne’s thinly veiled attempts at seduction, she had grown distant and cold.

Connington chided him, “A king must be able to make hard choices. The Dornish have always been crafty, their prince more than others. Doran Martell is a greedy yet cautious man, and he would not have joined our cause unless we were near victory and could provide him with sizeable benefits.”

Aegon already knew all that from his lessons, but seeing and living it firsthand was like a blow to the gut.

“Twenty thousand spears from my uncle were not worth a queen.” Aegon rubbed his brow tiredly. Of course, the bold-faced claim Dorne could call upon fifty thousand spears was just that—never had more than twenty-five thousand been mustered, even during the Young Dragon’s conquest. “He was supposed to be on my side already.”

“Indeed. You must wed your Aunt Daenerys to bring the three dragons to your cause,” Jon repeated for the hundredth time. Aegon grimaced; he was so used to hearing those words that they echoed in his dreams. Yet they tasted like ash in his mouth.

“That’s all well and good, but what if she doesn’t want to wed me?” he challenged, his voice laden with frustration. “My Aunt seemed set on staying behind to rule Slaver’s Bay after marrying some Ghiscari slave master—Hizah Lorop.”

“He is a nobody,” Griff stated with iron surety. “The princess will discard him once she has tired of playing around in Slaver’s Bay.”

“What if she does not? What if Daenerys remains in the east? The Golden Company cannot fight the Seven Kingdoms alone, even if we controlled the Stormlands. What if she has quickened with the child of that slaver?”

Jon’s tired face twisted into a grimace, and a sigh rolled off his tongue. “We’ll deal with such troubles as they come. If you fear what could be, you’d never get anywhere, Aegon. Should the gods decide in their caprice against us, our cause would fail, no matter how righteous our struggle or cunning our plans are.”

Unable to disagree, Aegon fell back on his chair, feeling weary. Half the marcher lords had still not bent the knee, and Ralph Buckler, the Lord of Bronzegate, had proved to be a wily old fox, filling his garrison to the brim. The sieged castle held over a thousand seasoned defenders, and while their larders wouldn’t last long, they would be plenty enough for a relief force to arrive from King’s Landing.

They could storm Bronzegate and take it by force, but the cost would be crippling for their war effort.

While everything seemed to go smoothly initially, the harsh truth was beginning to emerge—the decision to attack Westeros was tragically hasty.

So what if they had taken Storm’s End and the Rainwood?

Yet retreat was no longer an option. The veil of secrecy protecting him had already been torn, and their current position was already better than they could have planned for. The fleet that had shipped them had been wrecked by the fierce autumn storms in the Narrow Sea, and retreat was now impossible.

Aegon’s gaze moved onto the map of Westeros before him, trying to find a solution to his problems. But his forces were just not enough—the Golden Company and the sellswords they had hired in the Free Cities were twelve thousand strong, with the wounded set to recuperate and garrison captured castles. The Stormlords could not provide more than another six thousand, and even that was not a trustworthy number. They had little reason to follow him into defeat, bar a few hostages.

No matter how much he planned, looked, and mulled over numbers, plots, schemes, and battles in his mind, there was no path to victory here.

“We still need to plan for the worst,” Aegon said at last. “You taught me this, Jon.”

“That I did.” Connington’s reddish beard bristled. “If Princess Daenerys does not come, there are other options. Margaery Tyrell, for once.”

“Twice widowed, thrice wed. Is she not married to Tommen?”

The Lord of Griffin’s Roost scoffed.

“A boy of barely two and ten? The ambitious Tyrells will marry the chit again if it lets her stay a queen. House Lannister is a spent force without the Roses, and Cersei seems foolishly trying to get rid of her good daughter—”

They both turned around at the loud cough, only to see Lysono Maar, his face deathly pale.

“Our plans would require a change, Your Grace, my Lord Hand,” he said softly. “It appears King’s Landing is no more.”

For a long, painful moment, the command tent was as quiet as a crypt while the unbelievable words set in. Yet, the Lyseni spymaster never jested, and his face was gravely serious.

“What do you mean no more?” Jon exploded. “A city of half a million souls can’t just disappear!”

23nd Day of the 3rd Moon, 303AC

The Bastard of Winterfell

Eight days. From Castle Black to Winterfell was seven hundred miles—easily over half a moon of hard riding, but Jon had taken the distance in eight days.

His two garrons, the only ones who could remain calm in Ghost and the drakes’ presence, died from exhaustion on the third day. Jon could not waste time or good meat on burying them—he feasted on horseflesh, and so did his familiars.

Jon took the rest of the way on foot. Running for days was a daunting task even for his inhuman capabilities, and by the time he arrived in the wolfswood near Winterfell, every inch of his body was sore with exhaustion. The brief respite for a nap every few hours was not enough rest, but every second was precious.

Skinchanging had shown further limits; his connection to Bloodfyre dimmed as he travelled further away, becoming harder to feel and tap into. As the distance between them increased, so did the strain on his mind and magic. Around five hundred miles, the link thinned and became so elusive that it became impossible to slip into Bloodfyre’s mind.

His sister would meet no trouble there; the crimson drakeling was intelligent and would follow and guard her, having grown used to Sansa.

Instead, he cleared his mind and focused on the task at hand just as the sun sank into the west, heralding the arrival of the night.

Now Jon was finally close enough, in one of his childhood haunts in the wolfswood, just a handful of miles from Winterfell. Winter and Stormstrider perched on a mighty ironwood tree nearby like two enormous omens of death, its thick branches groaning under their weight, while Ghost prowled around the leaf-covered ground quietly, looking out for foes.

It was hard to find a raven, but thankfully, one had been brave, or, more accurately, foolish enough to approach the drakes. Bending its mind to his will with skinchanging had proved even more daunting when tired, but Jon was no stranger to exhaustion.

His heart thundered with apprehension as he flew in the scrawny body of the corvid. Twenty minutes later, he found himself diving into the Winterfell dungeons. The doors had hatches and small grated openings, just wide enough for a bird to slip through.

A single guard was napping with his eyes closed, not that he could have noticed the black raven in the darkness. The foreboding feeling grew as he peered through the small grated opening on the thick oaken doors studded with black iron, finding cell after cell empty.

Yet just as he thought Rickon was not here, he peeked at the last cell and froze.

His body pulsed with fury, but the small bird could not handle it and only let out a pitiful, choked caw.

Rickon Stark’s body lay strapped on an X-shaped cross. His unblemished face helped Jon instantly recognise his brother. Yet it was on purpose…

Everything below the neck was mutilated, all nails missing, digits cut off, patches of skin flayed, entrails hanging loosely from the eviscerated belly—a grotesque picture as if some dark sorcerer had taken to testing his vilest curses on the body of Rickon.

Yet there was no magic in place here, only the cruelty of man.

They dared. They dared to kill one of the last few family members Jon had left.

The world simmered in red, and the raven burst into flame, connection whiplashing at his mind as the bird died in agony. Yet even the backlash did nothing but feed his wrath—his blood was boiling in a fury, his ears were ringing, and the world around him was drowned in flames.

No, an angry man is quick to make mistakes. Uncontrolled anger was worthless, he knew.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Jon closed his eyes and tried to let the emotions bleed out. Yet for the first time, even Occlumency turned nearly useless; the burning hot rage coursing through his veins seared through his mind as if it were an open field instead of a fortress of mind and magic.

His inability to control his emotions only infuriated him further, feeding on his magic more than was proper.

Jon pulled every trick in the book he knew—visualisation, breathing, meditation, trying to calm his churning magic. With an iron will, he wrestled with the pure, unadulterated fury as time lost its meaning.

Eventually, he won, just before his body was wrung dry of magic.

Jon Snow opened his eyes, sweat pooling on his brow, and he found himself panting like a horse after a race. A gulp of air had him choking on the black plumes of smoke. Everything around him had turned into a charred, smouldering pit of cracked glass, with him at the centre. Even rocks had turned into slag. The two trees were gone, turned to ash in the wind. Flames flickered hungrily at the edge of the circular pit, trying to spread through the muddy grass, and with a sigh, Jon focused and snuffed them out.

His clothes had turned into cinders, his body only covered by a ringmail so heated it glowed orange into the night. Yet it only felt pleasantly warm to his skin.

This fury was like nothing he had experienced before. Sure, his current body was still young and lacked control, but that was not all—Harry Potter had been in a similar situation, yet he had never had problems on such a scale. Not only had it taken to his anger and magic like kindling to a flame, but it had also pulled from the surroundings. Jon would exhaust himself if he used a spell to replicate a tenth of the destruction around him.

Thankfully, Ghost, Winter, and Stormstrider stood two dozen yards away, unharmed from his loss of control, and observed him with interest.

A dark, raspy chuckle escaped his lips.

Ramsay Snow would rue the day he put his hands on Rickon.

It seemed like too many fools had forgotten that House Stark had ruled the North for eight thousand years, not with a velvet glove but an iron fist. The desire to simply sneak into Winterfell and rip the Bolton bastard apart with his bare hands burned through his mind.

But no, that would be too simple, quick, and merciful an end, even without considering the risk. Jon was not invulnerable; blades and arrows could kill him like any other man, leaving Sansa alone and helpless. Worse—even if he disposed of Ramsay with assassination, all the fools who dared support Bolton would bow without someone to rally them against House Stark or try to hold Winterfell for themselves.

But Jon was unwilling. He did not want uneasy peace. Every fibre of his being screamed for blood, for death, for violence!

Jon Snow knew the value of honour and duty, with their boons and pitfalls. No, the time of honour had passed now, and it seemed like the Seven Kingdoms needed a bloody reminder of why the direwolf was to be feared.

There is no good or evil, only power and those too afraid to seek it.

Voldemort, for all his follies, was not wrong. Evil, narrow-minded, petty, arrogant, power-hungry, misguided… but not wrong. Not in this, at least.

It would take at least two moons for wildlings to march to Winterfell from the Gift, so Jon had plenty of time to prepare. But first, he had to rest—every inch of his body was sore, even his blisters had blisters, and he was so tired that staying awake alone was a struggle.

26th Day of the 3rd Moon, 303 AC

Elric of Hollow Creek

Being a man-at-arms in the service of House Bolton always paid off. Lord Roose shied away from throwing them into the thickest of battle, and most of the time, they got to pillage around and tangle with scouts, sack keeps and towns, or loot defenceless villages. The other lords got most of the glory, at the cost of their men-at-arms.

The War of the Five Kings saw House Bolton rise as highlords of the North and enrich all those in its service. Elric had started this campaign as a poor man-at-arms, with an old byrnie, plain shield, spear, and a simple arming sword to his name.

Yet now, he had a brigandine, a good half-helmet, a shiny gorget, a pair of greaves, and braces—all made of fine steel instead of that rusty crap most of the village blacksmiths would give you. His longsword was castle-forged, taken from a Southron knight they had captured in Harrenhal, a man from the lesser Westerlander houses with some black crossbows for heraldry. Elric’s heater shield was heavy and studded with iron; the old grey direwolf was repainted with the pink Flayed Man instead.

Life was good.

He had even bedded more women in half a year during the campaign than since he became a man. Even his purse had two golden dragons and a few silver stags; Lord Roose had been more than generous after their victorious return from the campaign in the South.

For the hundredth time, Elric cursed the curs who had poisoned the good Lord Bolton. He only hoped Lord Ramsay was as fair and generous as his father.

“Bah, Arlon’s squad probably went too deep into the Wolfswood,” Jorel grumbled as their horses trodded deeper into the forest. There were five of them in this patrol, all well-armed.

“Aye,” Elric agreed with a snort. “The stupid louts probably smuggled some wine, got drunk and spent the night in some hovel, forgetting to tie down their horses.”

“Well, they will pay for it. I wouldn’t risk Steelshanks or Lord Ramsay’s ire.”

Jyk spat. “Could’a been makin’ that whore squeal instead o’ venturing into this damp forest. Arlon n’ the rest o’ the dumb lot deserves any punishment Lord Bolton metes out.”

“Could be they ran into some Baratheon deserters,” Jorel offered with a shrug.

“It’s been too long since we won that battle,” Elric murmured. The stag fuckers should’ve died from either hunger or cold. Those that escaped our outriders anyway.”

Regardless of the truth, that put all of them on alert, and they all started throwing cautious glances into the surrounding expanse of trees.

They went deeper and deeper into the wolfswood with thoughtful vigilance, and he couldn’t help but feel some concern—the thick canopy above blocked the scarce sunlight, and it felt like the forest was the belly of a gigantic beast they were walking into.

Suddenly, the horses began neighing with unease.

“A bear-“

All of their steeds went mad, trying to throw them off their saddle no matter what. It was too sudden, and Elric was caught off guard as he fell from the saddle. The world spun as he desperately wheeled his arms in an attempt to steady his fall, but all he knew was an explosion of pain as the world faded into darkness.

Pain.

Elric awoke to slivers of agony jolting through his numb mind—everything was cold, and his head throbbed as if a herd of aurochs had run him through. His vision was blurry, and he tried to move his arms and wipe away the haziness, but he couldn’t. He felt nothing down his neck as if his body was gone. The light was dwindling as if sunset approached.

Eventually, the world cleared before his eyes, and he froze.

“Oh, you have awakened,” a cold voice echoed through the chilly air, making his temple pulse painfully. Elric’s horror mounted more and more at the sight before.

It was a stark naked man, body covered in weird squiggles and symbols and lines; all inked in dark red… blood. He was over six feet of lean muscle, like a shadowcat. The flesh underneath was uneven and scarred with ugly lines, some of which were recent and some old. Seven, angry and foul, marred his chest, the most brutal one right over where the heart ought to be. And his eyes… his cold eyes glowed eerie purple.

This could only be a demon who had escaped the Seventh Circle of Hell.

He tried to move, but his limbs refused to listen, no matter how much Elric struggled. At most, only his neck would bend slightly, sending spikes of pain through his spine. A hoarse cry rasped out of his throat weakly; even his tongue refused to cooperate. The devil, however, completely ignored him.

Another blink, but the scene did not go away, his eyes taking more and more of the surroundings, to his mounting horror. They were on a rough stone platform in the middle of an enormous circle of glistening red… something? It was not blood, as his mind idly realised it lacked the metallic scent; no, the air tasted sweet.

Sickly crimson… weirwood sap.

There were twelve of them, Bolton men-at-arms Elric could recognise aside from himself, all out cold or dead, lying in the ominous inked circles. The demon moved with purpose, dipping his finger into a sinister-looking pot, using his digits as a brush to paint even more queer glyphs and runes on the stone. Each motion was graceful and unhurried. Slowly but surely, all sorts of lines, straight or broken, clustered around the symbols. Soon, everything was linked in an eerie crimson web that made Elric’s numb insides twist with dread.

One large, smooth circle encompassed them all before the devil stood in the middle, where everything converged in a twisted spiral.

Elric attempted to struggle once more, but his body was asleep. Even his tongue felt as if it was made from lead as meagre puffs of mist escaped from his mouth. With titanic effort, he managed to eke out a “W-Why?”

“Why did the Bolton Bastard sack Winterfell? Why did the Flayed Lord slit Robb Stark’s throat?” Each next question chilled Elric further and further. “Why did the Bolton men-at-arms kill the northern army while sharing bread and salt? Why did my brother, Rickon Stark, perish under the flaying knife?”

This was not a demon that crawled out from the seven hells. It was worse.

A living Stark!

The sun had hidden to the west, turning the world dark, and the crimson sap began to glow ominously as the air felt heavy, and even breathing became difficult. The Stark stood ramrod straight and started to chant in some queer, sing-song-like tongue. Only a weak, agonised gurgle left Elric’s lips as the world began to fade, the numbness replaced with the agony of thousands of sizzling knives sinking into every inch of his flesh.

? The Mother of Dragons, Mereen

The price of mercy was heavy. She had not known it back then, but now…

In the months Daenerys was gone, the riots, the plague, the Sons of the Harpy, and the siege blocking off food had whittled down her Unsullied to under seven thousand. Elite warriors trained from childhood, loyal to the bone, reduced by almost a third just because of her indecision. Her Unsullied.

Another riot had happened last night, and the order was given. The streets ran red with blood, but the ungrateful sods made problems no longer. There was not enough food to go around anyway, and the fewer traitorous mouths to feed, the better.

There was a numb relief of giving the order. ‘What I was doing is right,’ she told herself. ‘They did not deserve mercy twice.’

It had been easy to sentence people to death. It only took a single order—the masters and their families were gutted too. Even the children who had served as hostages. Through the whole purge, Daenerys remained in her chambers, afraid to watch the slaughter lest the sight make her falter.

The next day, she tried hard not to think of it. On the second day, all the bodies were removed, and Daenerys ventured into the city. It was cleaner than before. Emptier too, and more peaceful. Men and women looked at her with fear, but kept their heads low, and no longer dared to disobey.

This was how it should have been.

‘I should have done this from the start,’ she thought numbly.

Her woes did not stop there. Viserion and Rhaegal were distant, mostly flying over the city and roosting on the nearby mountains. They had not forgotten their imprisonment, nor how Daenerys was the one to order it. In the last three days, she had managed to coax them back into the city with much effort. Those were her true children, the only ones she would ever have, and it had been a grave mistake to punish them at the word of an ungrateful cur. Had that man truly lost his daughter?

Daenerys tried to remember. Her name was… her name… she couldn’t recall the child’s name. Anger and sadness warred within her mind.

Was it all truly a ruse, as Shavepate claimed…?

When was the last time Drogon had left even charred bones from his prey? There was no shortage of dead children around Mereen even now. What stopped a cunning man from burning a corpse and appealing to her mercy for some meagre coin?

Daenerys had seen the ugliest of what men could offer already. They would not hesitate to deceive, kill, torture, rape, or even bite the hand that fed them if it suited them. Kindness was repaid with lies and scorn, and Daenerys would not make the same mistake. Not again.

She was the Mother of Dragons, but nothing else. She was a queen to rule her subjects and nothing else. No more playing her for a fool in her own court. No more Mhysa. Only the Imp and Ser Barristan held the petitions, making her days less tense, and her sour mood turned for the better.

It was not all bad.

The Greyjoy siblings had helped her crush the naval blockade, and after some negotiating, Daenerys found herself with a fleet willing to ferry her forces to Westeros. With the Volantene ships, it was just enough to ferry her forces.

Asha and Theon Greyjoy bent the knee, swearing fealty in exchange for assistance against their usurping uncle, usurping the Seastone Chair of Pyke. The Krakens were truly nothing but pirates if Selmy and the Imp were to be believed, but so what? Daenerys would have chafed a year ago in accepting them amongst her ranks, but now the naivete had been shed away. As long as they were her pirates and served her interests, she didn’t care.

Her advisors and most powerful subjects gathered in the councillor’s opulent chambers after court.

“Staying here for too long is folly,” Asha Greyjoy advised. Her attire was no different from a man’s—brown quilted tunic, breeches of green wool fastened by a studded belt, and she carried herself with a man’s swagger, too. “Wring the slavers for some coin and get your hostages back, if you wish, but do so with haste.”

Theon Greyjoy, on the other hand, remained silent. He was more wreck than man, missing digits and fingers, always hobbled over, with his face twisted in pain and his hair a brittle white. His eyes would avoid meeting another’s gaze, and he would not dare look even at the serving girls. His presence was a rarity, as he preferred to keep himself on the ships, where he would scream in terror at night.

“And what of the city, Your Grace?” Shavepate’s scarred face still unsettled her. “What would become of Mereen when your forces leave?”

“Perhaps some concessions with the Ghiscari?” The imp, as always, had a flask or a wine cup in hand and poured the bitter red liquid into his throat. Even his silken doublet was damp with sweat, and his ugly, dark beard was soaked with wine and grease as if he could not be bothered to clean himself. “We’re about to leave as they wanted, and we can spin it to our advantage. Make them fork out a hefty amount of coin, return your hostages, and leave Mereen unmolested in exchange for our departure. The city could be fortified to stand without us—Skahaz mo Kandaq and Ser Barristan have laid the groundwork.”

It was… suitably cunning. Even Ser Barristan remained silent while the rest of her councillors agreed.

“Make it happen, and you shall become my master of coin.” Daenerys straightened up from her throne, and Tyrion bowed deeply, a tinge of light creeping in his dull gaze. “Anything else before we adjourn?”

Her Hand spoke next. “What about Hizdahr zo Loroq, Your Grace?”

Hizdahr was the husband Daenerys would rather forget. The one she took for the peace of the masses. The same masses who spat in her face with cheers and adoration. “What of him?”

“He would make for a poor royal consort for the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” Selmy bowed his head. The knight had discarded most of his armour, leaving only greaves, an enamelled white breastplate, and a sword hanging on his hip. Without all the steel, he looked old and tired, and Daenerys couldn’t help but notice his cheeks were sunken, a sign of exhaustion and weight loss. “The Lords of Westeros would not bow to some Ghiscari Slaver as their prince consort.”

Daenerys rolled the idea in her mind. Her husband had been more of an obstacle than an aide despite his seeming cooperation. Looking back on it, any assistance he provided felt like a poisoned gift, doing nothing but making her rule more arduous.

“The man is in the dungeons, is he not?” Asha Greyjoy said with a sly grin. “Just get rid of him quietly. Halt his food and drink and he’ll be out of your hair in less than a sennight.”

Twice widowed… the idea held merit. Unlike her Sun and Stars, Hizdahr’s touch was cold and passionless, for it was a union bereft of love. Only duty, foolish duty, for people who were not even hers. It had been easier to forget this husband, conveniently clasped in irons in a dark cell below. Out of sight, out of mind.

“The man has done nothing wrong,” the old knight objected.

“Fool,” Shavepate’s scarred face twisted into a scoff. “The masters are all clad in sin and treason from head to toe. They have all done things you can not even begin to imagine. Give me one day, Your Grace, and I shall have him singing his darkest misdeeds.”

It would be easy to give the order, and Skahaz would surely find something incriminating.

“Or perhaps we can request the Green Grace to grant our Queen an annulment,” Tyrion proposed, a languid smile blooming on his misshapen face as he inhaled another gulp of wine from his flask. “No children were born from this union, and surely the Graces would not deny the Mother of Dragons?”

Worded as a proposal, it might have been, but the cruelty in his tone suggested otherwise.

It would not be merciful, fair, or just, and it made Daenerys sad. She steeled herself; the world was unfair, fools and traitors deserved no mercy, and all who were not with her were against her.

“Ser Barristan,” she began. “Halt any sustenance to my consort. Fasting is said to be an olden tradition of showing your devotion to the gods, a denial of self in its purest form. Let us test the strength of my husband’s piety.”

Let the cruel Harpy gods take back her Ghiscari husband; Daenerys had no desire to stay here much longer or play their petty games.

28th Day of the 3rd Moon, 303 AC

The Bastard of Winterfell

The cloudless night sky looked like a black carpet dotted with stars, throwing soft light on the small clearing.

Pain clung to his skin as the power dwindled from the chilly air. As the magic receded, the runic script and symbols turned to dust in the wind. A rush of agony and fiery joy mingled through his veins, fighting for dominance as the deed was finally finished. Winter spewed a streak of fire, dark like cobalt with swirls of black, turning the mummified husks to ash. The ritual took everything, leaving nought but an empty, brittle shell.

Thirteen souls perished in complete agony, allowing Jon Snow to unlock the full potential of his body. A second one nurtured his control and affinity with fire, and a third followed, allowing him to thicken his connection with magic. There were other rituals, but he had chosen ones that would allow his potential to bloom instead of offering him a quick but ultimately limiting increase of strength.

Yet it seemed that three was the limit to rituals. Jon felt a premonition; he had reached a precarious precipice, and further tampering with his body, mind, or magic would lead to an irreversible change in a terrible way.

It would probably turn him into a twisted monstrosity worse than Voldemort if not outright perish in the backlash.

Rituals were tricky, dangerous, and taxing, especially on the soul and mind, the viler one even more so. It was a type of magic Jon would usually avoid, but… needs must. Even now, he could feel minuscule cracks on his soul, for such a wicked act as an unwilling live sacrifice always had consequences. A younger, weaker soul and mind would have already been driven insane with the sheer foulness of a deed so dark, like snuffing out thirty-nine lives, but Jon remained steadfast.

Yet, while his body had reached the limit, his lust for blood and vengeance had been stoked instead of lessened by the dark magic, and this part of the wolfswood was swarming with Bolton outriders and patrols.

But he was not afraid.

Bloodlust or not, his task remained unchanged. Kill Bolton men, deliver a blow to their morale, and deny them scouting through the wolfswood. It was far easier now that he had grown stronger, and it would grow easier still once he grew used to his new power. Even after Jon had killed over three score, there were plenty more Bolton outriders and scouts going around.

“What say you, Ghost, Winter?” He turned to his familiars. His companions were always nearby, always watching his work. “Do you want to follow in my footsteps?”

The direwolf tilted his head, his shaggy tail swaying slowly while the dark blue drakeling rumbled out a puff of smoke. The hesitation was short-lived, and he could feel their eagerness to grow stronger with him leak through the bond.

28th Day of the 3rd Moon,

Jaime Lannister, Near King’s Landing.

The hunt for the bold outlaws styling themselves the Brotherhood Without Banners had proven a gruelling task, one that brought to Jaime Lannister’s mind the half-forgotten days of his youth, when he had earned his spurs cutting down the Kingswood Brotherhood in the name of King Aerys.

These new rebels, though not so well-hidden nor so loved by the smallfolk, were no less cunning.

Yet they lacked an enormous woodland to hide in. With eighteen thousand swords under his command, Jaime turned each small barrow, each grove and forest in the Riverlands until he found their lairs. He hanged them all—the men, and even the women and the children who had aided them. Even the sinister Mother Merciless herself, the walking corpse that carried the face of Catelyn Stark with her slit throat, was cast upon a pyre.

There was no honour in it, merely necessity. The Brotherhood had grown bold, too bold, striking at scouts and freeriders, even minor lords. While nobody would miss a Frey or three, those who broke Tommen’s peace had to be culled.

The joy of success was short-lived.

A terrified runner met him on the way back to King’s Landing. “The city is gone, Lord Commander,” he had said, all shivering with fear. “Everything was scorched in the green fire, and His Grace and the queen dowager barely escaped.”

Unwilling to meet Cersei and hear her lies, he had sent her off and Tommen with a thousand more horsemen down the Gold Road and rode hard with half a hundred knights to the city.

The kingsroad was ominously deserted, not a single soul in sight. These days, everyone hid at the sight of horsemen, wary of raiding parties, outlaws, and other enemies. Many deserters, knights, and men-at-arms differed little from brigands; that much was painfully clear in the Riverlands. Even the nearby fields lay empty; the Tyrell army had eaten clean any grain in the vicinity like a swarm of locusts.

Three miles from the Dragon Gate, the horses refused to move any further, no matter what. Coaxing, leading by the reins, using a whip—nothing worked as the steeds neighed, digging their hoofs in the gravel with terror, preferring the pain of the whip to even moving an inch further.

Leaving a handful of squires to take care of the horses, Jaime and his retinue continued on foot, trepidation mounting as they slowly approached King’s Landing. No crows were streaking through the air, looking for corn, no squirrels were looking for nuts, and no barking hounds could be heard. There was only deathly quiet.

Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

Even the choking reek the city was so infamous for was gone. The further they moved, the heavier the air became, and breathing grew harder. Soon, all he could hear was the panting of his knights.

Nothing truly prepared Jaime, not even Captain Vylarr’s terror-stricken words. The sight before him defied all reason, but it did not go away like a bad dream, no matter how hard he rubbed his eyes or pinched his side.

“Seven above…” a breathless, choked-out mutter came from his men.

A thick veil of poisonous-looking green mist hid where King’s Landing was supposed to be; only vague misshapen ruins loomed through the dense fog, reminding him of Harrenhal’s ominous silhouette at a distance.

It sent chills crawling up his spine and then through the rest of his body. The sight reeked of wrongness…

There was a whisper in his ear, and Jaime kept looking around, only to see the grim-faced men, who were not uttering a word.

With great difficulty, they approached just fifteen yards outside the wicked fog, the city somewhat clearer. The walls… were all charred, either covered with cracks or half-melted into slag spilling like a misshapen grotesque. The Dragon Gate was completely… gone, replaced by a wide, uneven crater, the bottom filled with a thicker veil of acrid green.

Not even a sound escaped from the formerly bustling city. Only the dull wheezing of his men echoed here.

The air was thick and heavy, tasting like iron and brimstone. Every breath was a painful struggle. Even the angry gale blowing from the Blackwater Bay did nothing to affect the queer, unmoving fog.

Burn. The whisper was too familiar, and Jaime tried to ignore it.

“Garrett,” The word came out raspy and was not only a struggle to say, but it sent sharp spikes of pain down his throat and straight into his lungs. “Go check it.”

The lad hesitated, but there were fifty knights behind him and half as many squires, and he did not wish to be shamed. He stepped forward slowly, sword drawn, eyes wide with terror. He stepped into the green fog. His steps were slow and careful, as if the ground were made of glass.

Ten paces in, and Jaime had not dared to blink. Yet Garrett inched deeper and deeper.

And then he crumpled like a doll with its strings cut.

Even his fall produced no sound.

Garrett’s body began to melt, flesh sloughing from bone in black, oozing ribbons. His cloak and tunic disintegrated to ash, his boots slumped to mush. As if alive, the poisonous mist latched onto even the bones like a foul blanket, and not even half a minute later, it dispersed, leaving nought behind. Not even dust…

All of that had transpired in eerie silence.

Behind him, someone retched. Another knight fell to his knees, whispering a prayer to the Warrior. A third, young Foote, soiled himself.

Jaime did not blame them. His own throat was clenched tight, and his heart was filled with terror.

Burn! Burn them all!

Jaime staggered back, clutching at his gold-wrought stump. It was not just Aerys, this time.

‘Half a million souls,’ he thought. Half a million voices screaming at once. Half a million souls lost to folly and wildfire.

“Retreat,” Jaime eked out hoarsely and turned around, the word alone almost squeezing him dry.

His men needed not to be told twice and fled the accursed place as fast as their legs could carry them, none even sparing the fallen Foote squire a glance.

28th Day of the 3d Moon, 303 AC

Sansa Stark

Thousands of wildlings had gathered at Jon’s call, and today, they were finally departing. They were rowdy, all raring for a fight as if they were not outnumbered nearly three to one.

Brienne and Podrick were here too, but Sansa never felt so alone. Jon was gone, and it was as if the world was darker for it. Every day, she felt more and more helpless as grief and desperation crept up in her mind yet again. Not knowing if her last brother was dead or alive was devastating, even more so after she had just gotten him back.

Sansa Stark had started praying again before the heart tree and even the dingy shack they called a sept, despite knowing the gods were cruel and cared not. Fel promises and vows of piety were whispered if only Jon could return to her. She prayed for Rickon’s soul, too, knowing Ramsay would never spare him. The gods would never be gracious enough to return both of her brothers, but one was more than enough. Sansa just wanted Jon back.

There was nothing else she could do, and the wait was maddening. Without her brother’s infectious confidence, everything looked… dull.

“Mother’s teats!”

The watchmen’s curses echoed through the clearing, but the crass words were the least of Sansa’s concerns.

Shivers crawled down her skin as half a dozen black brothers dragged on that thing.

The air stank of rot and decay, making her guts rebel and bile threatened to choke her throat. Flesh like curdled milk, with arms and legs bloated black and a slackened face into a rabid snarl, the corpse struggled. Angry, deep marks from a hangman’s noose glared from the dead man’s throat as he tried to wrestle in vain against the heavy irons. All that struggling tore through its flesh, causing dark, congealed blood to seep out through the mangled skin. Thick, hefty chains and manacles bound its every limb and went around it like a blanket of black metal as the Watchmen forced the dead thing into an enormous iron-studded chest and shoved pieces of ice in it. Quickly, the heavy box was locked and bound by even more chains. It took four burly black brothers to lift it on one of the carts.

The wildling chieftains and Dolorous Edd all looked grim, and the usual tension between the Watchmen and the self-styled free folk had melted before the foreboding sight. The chest rattled eerily, making her blood run cold again.

Jon had not lied; he never did. The Others had… returned. And yet another foe to join the ranks of the already plentiful enemies of House Stark. The eerie glow of the corpse’s cold blue eyes would forever be seared in her mind.

Sansa felt so small and insignificant in the face of such daunting odds.

The flap of wings and a heavy thud heralded the arrival of Bloodfyre, who directly landed beside her. The drakeling had grown as big as a horse, and her scales had gotten too sharp around the edges. Sansa could no longer run her hand through the majestic sanguine scales without drawing blood.

As Jon promised, the drakeling listened to her command as much as a beast could—Bloodfyre was no less obedient than Lady had been…

Tears threatened to drown her eyes, but Sansa quickly wiped them away with the heavy black sleeve. Her knees almost buckled under her weight, but she managed to steady herself, finding herself leaning on Bloodfyre’s bony neck. The drake’s presence gave Sansa some much-needed strength.

Jon… Jon would be fine. He had to be fine! He had two such companions with him, along with Ghost, and surely, he would return to her; it was just a matter of time.

Sansa Stark steeled herself; her brother would not do everything alone. She was no longer a helpless hostage to be tossed around the dogs like a bone to play with. The march to Winterfell was long, and there was far too much to be done. The sheer amount of legwork required for an army to move was daunting, but she had to help sort out all such problems, big or small.

While the Onion Knight would help and Tormund would lead the chieftains, the wildlings did not know the North, the lords or the old smuggler. But Sansa Stark did, and now, she had to ensure any rising problems were smoothed over.