6.Of Doubts and Wildfire

5th Day of the 3rd Moon, 303 AC
Castle Black, Sansa

“Thank you, Ser Davos. I will let you know my decision on the morrow,” her brother dismissed the old knight.

As soon as the former smuggler left, Jon turned to her. “What do you think?”

“I would trust neither of them. While Ser Davos seems somewhat reliable, he wasn’t a capable Hand to Stannis.”

The old knight could barely read, let alone lead men into battle or govern a kingdom. Besides, Stannis had lost, and he lost badly. If Davos had been a good Hand, the flaming stag would be sitting in King’s Landing instead of perishing in the Northern wilderness.

“True, but he has humbleness, experience, and honesty in spades, all things gravely lacking in most men,” Jon said. “Ghost likes him, and direwolves have incredibly sharp senses. I probably wouldn’t have died if I trusted his wariness towards the traitors.”

It still irked her when her brother spoke in such a nonchalant manner about his death. Even worse was the pang of regret spearing through her chest each time a direwolf was mentioned; the loss of Lady still stung deeply after so long.

“Being humble and honest does not necessarily make him a good Hand. And Melisandre of Asshai…” Sansa tried to find words to describe the woman, but struggled to find any. The red-eyed woman gave her the chills.

“Is far more trouble than she’s worth,” her brother finished with a knowing sigh. “I would send her away in a heartbeat if it weren’t for Shireen Baratheon. Let’s see if the red priestess is successful, and then I shall consider what to do with her.”

“Jon, what is so important about Stannis’ daughter? Why go out of your way to aid her?”

“She’s kin.”

“How so?”

“A distant one, I believe. Through her great-grandmother, Betha Blackwood, sister to Melantha Blackwood, who married our ancestor Willam Stark, and that’s without considering the dragons.” Jon’s eyes softened. “And you did not see her, Sansa—Shireen’s a sweet and kind girl despite her scars. Now, her mother and father have perished, and she is alone, surrounded by foes on all sides. Reminds you of someone?”

“Yes,” Sansa admitted, sighing. The feeling of being against the whole world on your lonesome was all too familiar. “You’re right. In the end, House Baratheon has the same enemies we do, so her presence is a boon. The heir of Storm’s End is valuable, and her other claims are just as strong.”

Her brother looked like he wanted to say something, but in the end, he pinched the bridge of his nose and changed the topic. “What do you know of Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne?”

What happened to her sworn shield? Sansa suddenly remembered her companions. Why hasn’t she seen the Tarth maid even once?

Brienne had failed to protect Sansa in Winterfell, but she later saved her from a group of Bolton freeriders. Without her aid, Sansa would never have reached Castle Black.

“Where is Brienne?” she asked cautiously, folding her hands in her lap and suppressing her trepidation.

“I confined her and her squire to the guest chambers.”

“Jon—”

“I awoke amidst the flames, only to see you full of wounds and bruises, Sansa!” Her brother’s eyes hardened into steel, and his hands were balled into fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Tarth is in the Stormlands, and the Paynes hail from the Westerlands, both sworn to Tommen Baratheon. But forget the fealty of their Houses. Where was your sworn shield when you leapt into the pyre? Why were you harmed under her watch?”

Sansa deflated. Her brother was right to mistrust them; after all, when she first met Brienne and Podrick, she did not trust them either. They had not even come to her mind until Jon mentioned them.

“It’s not exactly their fault, Jon,” Sansa explained patiently. “My wounds are from before accepting Brienne’s allegiance, and she saved me from a group of Bolton outriders. But if you want to know more, we should ask them ourselves.”

“Let’s go, then. No time like the present.”

Jon got up, strapped his sword belt, and left.

Sansa hastily threw a fur cloak over her shoulders and followed. She couldn’t help but notice Jon was wearing only a simple linen tunic and trousers. The air in the hallways was frigid, yet he seemed unaffected by the chill.

“Jon, aren’t you cold dressed like this?” It wouldn’t do to get her brother back from the dead only to lose him to exposure or some fever.

“Ever since I died, frost and fire do not harm me,” her brother said. “Both only feel pleasant to the touch.”

He unceremoniously shoved his hand into the nearest burning brazier. Sansa shrieked, grabbing his elbow and tugging with all of her strength. Jon remained unmoved, like a statue. A few moments later, he pulled his hand out of the fire. It was… completely fine?!

“See? Unburnt.” Amusement danced in his eyes. “The cold doesn’t bite me either.”

Sansa’s heart thundered like a drum, and she took deep, slow breaths to regain her calm.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

She had grown skilled at reading others, but her brother continued to surprise her. His face was tightly controlled like an ice mask, but his purple eyes shone with a sliver of mischief and something else Sansa couldn’t put her finger on.

She gave him a half-hearted glare, and they continued walking; Jon acted nonchalantly as if nothing of note had happened.

Two wildling women, bronze-tipped spears in hand, guarded the door to the outside. They nodded reverently to Sansa and her brother. It felt strange to be treated with esteem again.

As they moved outside, she schooled her face and carefully observed the surrounding yard. The snow had chased most men inside, but a few men wandered about, and a score were drilling at the training yard. Respect could be seen in the eyes of both wildlings and watchmen whenever they gazed at Jon. Yet there was a small measure of wariness and fear along with it.

After a short walk, they arrived at a small wooden tower; a pair of watchmen guarded the entrance. At the sight of Jon, they instantly straightened up and saluted stiffly, receiving a nod from her brother. After a short flight of narrow stairs and two doors, they were face-to-face with Brienne. The Tarth maid threw a sharp glare at Jon before turning to her.

“My lady.” Brienne bowed deeply. “I would have been guarding you, but your half-brother imprisoned us here.”

Her brother snorted.

“You claimed to be the sworn shield of my sister, yet I found her in my funeral pyre, covered in wounds.” Brienne’s defiance wilted under Jon’s harsh words. “It seems that both of you are either incompetent fools or liars. And since my sister could not vouch for you, precautions were in order.”

Brienne looked like she wanted to retort, but Jon continued relentlessly, “How can I entrust my sister’s safety to you when I know nothing about you? You are the heiress of House Tarth, which is sworn to the Iron Throne. How did you even end up coming to Sansa’s service?”

The tall woman took a moment to compose herself. “Lady Catelyn Stark saved my life after a shadow wearing Stannis’ face slew King Renly,” Brienne bit back, voice full of defiance. “I swore myself into the service of Lady Stark, and we escaped. Later, she charged me with finding her daughters and bringing them home. I had some trouble in the Riverlands and the Crownlands, but I’ve been looking for Lady Sansa and Lady Arya ever since. I even managed to catch Lady Arya with the Hound in the Vale, but she ran away while I was fighting the Hound, possibly because of the lion pommel on my sword.”

Joy and hope blossomed in Sansa’s heart, and she exclaimed, “You were right, Jon, Arya lives!”

“Aye, now we know for sure. We’ll find our sister, one way or another.” Jon’s harsh gaze had not left Brienne for a moment, and Sansa had the feeling he was ready to cut down the armoured maiden in a heartbeat if she had made the wrong move. “Why were you wearing a blade with Lannister heraldry?”

“Jaime Lannister was going to be killed in Riverrun after trying to escape, so Lady Stark bid me to take him to the capital to exchange him for your sisters.” Her thick, bushy brows furrowed. “I wasn’t allowed near Lady Sansa. They claimed that after Eddard Stark’s execution, the greatsword Ice was remade into two new blades. One went to King Joffrey and the other to Jaime Lannister. But, when Lady Sansa escaped, Ser Jaime gave me his Valyrian steel sword, a full set of armour, Podrick Payne for squire, and sent me off to find and protect her.”

Sansa had not asked anything about Brienne’s choice of arms before. Yet now that she knew, the indignity burned—the ancestral sword of their House was stolen and destroyed by their enemies. It was blatantly done, and probably nobody even considered returning Ice to usurpers and traitors. Instead, everyone seemed to go to great lengths to attempt to kill every Stark out there. Sansa’s fury was bubbling, and she wanted to shout and scream at yet another injustice done to her family.

It took her some time to rein in her anger, and she finally asked the question gnawing at her from the inside: “Brienne, you sent me a message that you would help me escape should I light a candle in the abandoned tower. Do I remember truly?”

“Yes, My Lady.”

Sansa felt her fury return in full force and spoke slowly, trying to keep her voice even. “Then where were you when I risked my life to light a candle in the broken tower? WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I HAD TO JUMP FROM THE WALLS OF WINTERFELL IN THE SNOW TO ESCAPE?”

Brienne paled at her outburst, and her face looked genuinely remorseful for the first time.

Sansa was still heaving in fury; she had been very close to death many times that day. A strong hand settled on her shoulder and squeezed reassuringly, and her anger bled out, replaced by the feeling of emptiness and exhaustion.

“Please answer my sister, Brienne of Tarth,” Jon pressed, his voice full of steel.

The Stormlander woman hesitated briefly before muttering through a clenched jaw, “I heard that Stannis arrived with an army, so I left in search of him. After his battle with the Boltons, I found him in a small grove, tired and bleeding. He admitted to killing Renly with blood magic, and I executed him for kin and king slaying.”

Jon shrugged and whispered in her ear. “You decide, Sansa. She’s going to be guarding you, after all.”

Once again, Sansa was the second choice. She never came first. Anger and resentment bubbled in her gut again. She took deep breaths to calm herself and think while schooling her face. Yes, she came second, but Brienne’s previous obligation to Renly had been completely cleared. Her fealty was now hers and hers alone.

The Tarth heiress had no right to mete out justice, let alone enforce it, but Sansa cared little. She couldn’t afford to send someone as capable as Brienne away when they had enemies in every direction. With enormous effort, Sansa pushed down her surging indignity; she could no longer afford to make more mistakes.

“You swore to be my shield, Brienne, and I accepted your fealty. Do you still stand by your vows?” Sansa asked icily.

Brienne kneeled. “Yes, My Lady.”

“Arise, Brienne of Tarth, and serve by my side once more,” Sansa uttered, words bitter on her tongue.

Jon Snow

As he headed towards the armoury to continue his smithing experiments, Dolorous Edd accosted him by one of the empty timber keeps. The Valeman looked as if he had not slept for days, and his dourness was replaced by something grimmer.

“I was with you at Hardhome. We saw what’s out there. We know it’s coming here! How can you leave us now?” Edd pleaded, desperation leaking into his voice. “We need you, Jon. The Watch needs you more than ever!”

“I did everything I could as Lord Commander. You know that.”

“You swore a vow!”

“Aye. And now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. In case you missed it, I died,” Jon retorted.

To his credit, Dolorous Edd did not give up easily. “I pledge my life and honour to the Night’s Watch for this night and all the nights to come!”

Jon felt for his former brother, but the Night’s Watch was the last of his concerns now. Any good will he had felt about the order had evaporated with that betrayal.

“Edd, my brothers killed me, just like Lord Commander Mormont. I have no desire to stay here, not when death freed me from my vows.” The watchman sighed in resignation. “The strength of the Watch is dwindling, and it cannot handle the Night King alone. Less than six hundred men, half of them barely any good with a sword. The wildlings might be of some help, but they already ran from the Walkers once, and they might run a second time.”

“So, this is it then, you give up?” Edd’s shoulders sagged in defeat.

The truth was that the Night’s Watch would fall apart and die on its own. It had been in a steady decline ever since the Conquest. Jon Snow originally had a somewhat biased view towards the ancient and supposedly honourable order. Still, Harry Potter had the experience and wisdom of a very long life and could read between the lines.

The Watch almost wholly depended on the North, and after the Targaryens forged the kingdoms into one realm, they methodically chipped away at the wealth and power of Winterfell. Perhaps it was not the intention at the time, but the results could not be denied.

Giving away the fertile lands of the New Gift to the Watch had been a very insidious move. It significantly reduced the North’s ability to feed itself and resulted in the loss of valuable manpower over time. The Watch was burdened by too much land and too few men, stretching them thin, and could not work Alysanne’s Gift.

Now, the wilderness reclaimed the New Gift and most of the Old Gift, not to mention the practice started by King Jaehaerys. By sending the most common brigands and outlaws and the members of the disbanded Faith Militant to the Watch as a means of penance for over half a century, things changed, and not for the better. The Watch’s vision turned from that of an honourable order to that of a penal colony.

The loss of renown and prestige had been a slow but inevitable death knell.

Second and third sons who would join in seeking glory or success at the Watch considered taking the Black less and less. Without the lords’ protection, the smallfolk residing in the Gift slowly found themselves under increasing wildling raids, and the thinning Watch could do little to defend the enormous stretch of land alone.

And now, with the North spent after getting dragged into a southern war and subsequently invaded by the Ironborn, the Watch was on its last leg; they simply didn’t know it yet. Perhaps if Jon took back control of the North, he could divert some aid towards the Wall.

“I didn’t give up. I might be done here, but fret not.” Jon patted his friend’s shoulder. “I will take back Winterfell from the grasping hand of the Flayed Man. Hopefully, I’ll find obsidian, and when my dragons are grown, the Night King and his army will meet their end. But I cannot do this while stuck at the Wall.”

Edd sighed and nodded in resignation, yet a glimmer of hope still lingered in his dark eyes. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Jon.”

Jon smiled slyly. “Look on the bright side, Edd. You can delegate latrine duty to the others now that you’re the interim Lord Commander.”

The bastard of Winterfell continued towards the armoury with a chuckle on his lips, leaving his stunned friend behind.

9th Day of the 3rd Moon, 303 AC

“We can always do this another time.”

“No, I’ve had enough of the stifling rooms.” Sansa paused hesitantly but eventually followed him into the iron cage. Jon gave the bellrope three quick pulls, and a minute later, the cage shook and was being pulled up.

They slowly ascended in silence for half a minute, and then a gust of wind blew, shaking the cage.

Sansa instantly latched onto him like a drowning woman to a straw.

“Is this safe?” There was a fragile wariness to his sister’s trembling voice.

“Aye, it is.” He absentmindedly began running one hand in slow circles through her cloaked back while holding the cage’s iron bars with the other. “It’s made to bear the weight of ten men, so fear not. It’s only normal to shake when there’s wind.”

The cold gale only grew more vicious as the ground fell away beneath them, and the cage shook and swung more violently, yet it would not move him, with his feet planted like a sturdy tree and his iron grip easily holding him in place, as if he were nailed down. His right hand stopped circling Sansa’s back and pulled her in by the waist, lest she fall.

His sister became even more rigid, but did not move to push him away or voice any dissatisfaction. Slowly but surely, the tension finally started to leave her body, and Sansa cautiously looked around while still clinging to him. Another two minutes passed until she dared to speak up again.

“Gods, how many steps are there?” Sansa tilted her chin towards the great switchback stairs across them, where the staircase was anchored by huge wooden beams frozen into the wall.

“Two thousand three hundred and fifty-seven.”

“Wait, did someone climb all that, let alone count it? It’s too steep!”

“Many a time,” Jon chuckled at her bewildered face. “Not everyone likes to go up with the cage, and sometimes it’s used to load up supplies with it, so if the men are urgently needed atop the Wall, they must brave the stairs. Of course, nobody is eager to take the tiresome windy road up, but those sent upon it rarely have a choice.”

“I see,” Sansa mumbled, curiously peering behind the iron bars while still not letting go of his arm. “The men down in Castle Black look like… ants from here. What’s that village in the south?”

“Moletown, but it’s abandoned. The view atop the rampart is even better,” he promised.

Sansa just nodded as they continued to inch their way upward in the company of the howling winds, still glued to him.

Jon had noticed that his sister’s gaze warily tracked any man nearing her; there was even a slight flinch as if expecting an attack if one got too close. Sansa tried to hide it and pretend everything was fine, but he had seen such behaviour before and knew what it entailed.

It infuriated him, especially compared to the polite, joyful, and starstruck girl he remembered from Winterfell. Yet even his fury could not rage forever—it had turned from a furious flame into the most frigid ice.

He had spent the nights snoozing on a chair in her room to avoid a repeat of the previous evening; the discomfort didn’t bother him much, for he had had worse sleep before. His sister said nothing, but the relief was evident on her face when he came after sunset. And it worked; her sleep seemed far less troubled than before.

Besides the fact that he had grown up to be the bastard son of Eddard Stark, in truth, he was his nephew instead. It was an odd, confusing conundrum, and Jon still felt torn. The reasons why were easy to figure out in hindsight, yet his respect and love of the former Lord of Winterfell had not lessened in the slightest. Harry Potter knew what a terrible uncle was like, and Eddard Stark was worth a million Vernon Dursleys.

The only reason for his hesitance was his feelings towards Sansa, but he attributed that to Jon’s attraction to redheads, not that he minded the familial connection. Not too much. It could be the Blood of the Dragon within him; sister-fucking was in his blood whether he liked it or not.

Harry Potter had only found solace from his nightmares in the embrace of his wife, who had also been his third cousin.

Relationships were like kinslaying in Westeros—cousins didn’t count. While it might be frowned upon, it was still accepted, even with first cousins. The wizarding world was no different, and there were many arguments about how inbreeding had affected magical society, yet they often married their close and distant relatives. But on the other hand, in Westeros, all the nobility had been intermarrying for thousands of years, and Valyrians wed sister to brother for millennia without any trouble. Or, well, any visible trouble. The Gaunts had tried something similar for a few hundred years and looked grotesque despite their magic.

For whatever reason, that wasn’t the case here.

Regardless, Jon had no intention of acting on that feeling of attraction. While his body was at the peak of youth and hormones raged with lust, he could easily suppress such baser desires with his well-trained mind. Romantic entanglements were a messy thing, and he was unwilling even to contemplate mucking up his relationship with Sansa, who needed peace, calm, quiet, and her brother’s protection to recover from her brutal ordeals, not her cousin’s lusts.

In the end, Jon was content to keep the knowledge of his scandalous parentage to himself, letting anyone know would do more harm than good. After all, Eddard Stark had been a father to Jon Snow in all the ways that truly mattered, and he did not mind calling him such. Besides, it wasn’t like he could provide proof on the contrary without exposing his magic, could he?

Sure, the dragons and the now-purple eyes were probably suspicious, but the dragonlords had spread their seed far and wide, whether through dragonseeds or other bastards, for nearly four hundred years after the Doom.

“So.” Sansa’s voice broke him out of his musings, and he twisted his head to meet her blue eyes, which looked at him as if he were an odd yet interesting riddle. “I saw you spar with Brienne in the yard. How good is she?”

“Your sworn shield is very good at the basics and uses her superior height, reach, and strength to great effect,” he allowed. “She must have spent countless hours in the training yard.”

His sister rolled her eyes. “Jon, every time I see you spar with her, she eats the dirt on the ground in less than thirty exchanges. Come now, tell me truly, is she any good?”

“Any foe with superior strength or skill will challenge her, but wielding a Valyrian steel blade lends to her strengths. Brienne is far from bad and wins against most who deign to spar with her here.”

Most but him, Tormund, and Iron Emmett, although Jon had to admit she was quite stubborn—Brienne was willing to continue fighting as long as she could still lift her hands. Such determination was something he could respect.

“But you’re better?” Sansa gazed at his face curiously.

“I’m good enough with a sword.” And faster, stronger, and far more skilled in killing things than Brienne could ever be, but he wouldn’t say that out loud. “I have to be.”

“What about her squire?”

“Podrick Payne is as green as summer grass,” he drawled, eliciting a small chuckle from Sansa. “But he’s young and has guts and passion in spades—if he continues training hard and survives a battle or two, he’ll be formidable in a few years. I’m rather impressed and pleasantly surprised with the pair of them. It is hard to find swords so stubbornly loyal yet capable and willing to swear to an attainted House like ours in such tumultuous times.”

It seemed that her previous anger at the pair of Southerners had dwindled, as had his suspicions.

“Our bad luck is bound to end somewhere. That blade,” she said, motioning towards Longclaw. “You always carry it with you. It’s Valyrian steel, isn’t it?”

“Aye, Longclaw. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont gave it to me when I saved his life.” Jon sighed at the memory of the Old Bear. A great man killed by his subordinates—an end even more pitiful than his own, for those men had served Jeor Mormont for over a decade.

“Really?” Her eyes widened in surprise at his nod. “Jon, it’s unheard of for someone to pass an ancestral sword outside their family…”

“I know. But looking back, it was more a burden than an honour.” Jon shook his head. “Jeor Mormont was gambling on grooming me for command more than anything else—the Watch was a motley crew of sullen boys and old men too tired to fight. When I came, in the whole of Castle Black, there was barely a score of those who could read and even fewer who had any lordly training and the wits to use it. The Old Bear wasn’t getting any younger, and with Uncle Benjen gone, he chose me instead. Heir of Winterfell for a brother, Hand of the King for a father, and blood of the Kings of Winter. I rose high not for my merits but because of my connections more than anything else.”

“That’s not true,” Sansa vehemently denied, and he felt her fingers dig into his skin. “Your blood might have played a role, but would you have reached so far if you were inept?”

“Probably not, but I did get stabbed to death by my men.” A sharp, self-deprecating laugh escaped his lips. “Oh, what a fool I was. There’s little glory in command. I had to lie, kill, and even betray to get here. I had to manipulate, choose between bad and worse.”

“That might be true, but you’re still my brother.” There was a desperation in her as she clutched his limbs as if he would disappear. “The world is cruel and has little place for virtue and honour. I don’t care about right and wrong as long as I—I’m not alone anymore.”

“You have me.” He gently kissed her brow, suppressing the molten fury that bubbled up in his chest again. The sweet and kind sister, who loved gentle songs about gallant heroes and beautiful princesses, should never have been broken like this.

The cage suddenly jerked to a stop, and they were no longer ascending, just slowly swinging back and forth under the creaking ropes.

“Seven hells, it’s Lord Comm—” The black brother coughed, rubbing his nose sheepishly. “I mean Lord Snow and his sister.”

It was amusing. Lord Snow had been a mocking title, whispered behind his back and thrown at his face as an insult. The watchmen struggled to address him properly since his service was over, and he had shown a dislike for the former title. Jon would be too familiar, and Snow was too plain and unfitting, so they settled on Lord Snow once more. Yet the derision was gone, and it was worded with the greatest respect they could muster. All because of rebirth and hatching some dragons.

The ironwood gears creaked, and the cage swung sideways, stopping just above the Wall.

“Bernarr, Fulk,” Jon acknowledged the two rangers wrapped in fur cloaks and woollen scarves. “We’ll take a short walk, don’t mind us.”

“Whatever ye say, Lord… Snow. We’ll be inside if ye have need of us.” Bernarr bowed reverently, and the two men retreated to the warmth of the wooden shack beneath the crane.

As soon as the cage stopped swinging, Jon opened the iron door and carefully led Sansa out.

“Be mindful of your steps,” he cautioned as they slowly strode forward. There was little fear of falling; the top of the Wall was wide enough for a dozen knights to ride abreast, and the ramparts were covered with crushed gravel, but no less slippery when iced. And it was always iced with the cold winds.

“Is it always so windy?” Sansa asked, teeth clattering.

“Most of the time, here,” he removed the heavy black cloak from his back, clasped it over her shoulders, and secured the woollen scarf across her neck and jaw. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you, Jon,” she said, her voice thick. “I can’t imagine how the watchmen survive the vicious gales at night. Are you sure you aren’t cold?”

“It feels like a cool, pleasant gust to me.” And it did—the chilling winds that cut into your skin like a knife now felt like an enjoyable summer breeze. Truth be told, Jon no longer needed to wear clothes to ward off the cold; he was still doing it only because of propriety and habit.

The winds quieted as they arrived at the battlements facing northwards, and Sansa gasped and grabbed him again. Jon didn’t mind—it was quite slippery, even with the gravel, so he hooked his arm beneath hers, linking their elbows.

Before them lay the haunted forest, with its primaeval hills and dark valleys, covered by a magnificent veil of snow, stretching further than the eye could see. It was humbling to see how the grandeur of nature could make you feel small. To the northwest, the imposing Frostfangs with their sharp peaks, where ice and snow glittered like diamonds under the sun. It was a primal, breathtaking visage of green and black, white and red, flowing seamlessly from one another.

“Magnificent,” Sansa uttered with unmistakable awe as her eyes drank in the view. “I thought the sights from the Eyrie were grand, but the Giant’s Lance and the Mountains of the Moon can barely compare…”

“Alas, the vicious winds rarely give the watchmen a moment of respite to enjoy the view,” Jon explained, remembering his patrols along the cold ramparts. “It’s quite hard to appreciate the beauty of nature when you’re trying not to freeze.”

“Thank you for accompanying me here.” She squeezed his elbow, her gaze wandering around the vast landscape one final time before carefully stepping away from the battlements. “Where are the hatchlings? It’s rare to see you without Winter following you like a duck.”

“They’ve gone out to hunt.”

“Aren’t they too young?” Sansa’s face clouded with worry. “What if they get hurt, or worse, someone spirits them away?”

“Fret not; the drakelings have more than doubled in size and are quite dangerous in their own right.” Jon chuckled. “The sky is calling to the three of them. It’s hard to keep them cooped up in the dark rooms all day now that they’ve learned to fly. Besides, I have no fear, with Ghost shadowing after them from below.”

The hatchlings were bigger than any other birds soaring through the skies, and they knew to stay away from humans. They disliked them and anything that tried to approach them besides Jon and Ghost—of course, the drakelings were willing to tolerate his sister.

“I didn’t think they could grow so quickly,” she noted curiously, and rightly so; Winter was already approaching the size of a small pony, and Stormstrider and Bloodfyre were nearly as big as a wolfhound.

“Me neither,” the lie was easy on his tongue, “but I won’t complain.”

Jon was not ready to show, let alone explain, his sudden ability to do magic. It was an ace in his sleeve that he was unwilling to reveal unless circumstances called for it. Practitioners of the arcane were regarded with mistrust, if not outright hate and hostility, so it was more of a burden than anything else. Despite his persistent practice, he could do laughably little with the scarce amount of magic he had.

Though the changes in the hatchlings had nothing to do with him, Jon was also surprised at their frankly ludicrous growth speed, and it took him some meditation and extending his senses to find out the reason. And what a reason it was! The drakelings were feasting on the magic of the Wall itself. This odd link was quite possibly created by the almost butchered ritual, where the ancient, cold, and bloody magic of the gigantic structure had intertwined in the chaotic whirlpool.

Jon could spot no adverse effects for both the Wall and the drakelings, but it would be dangerous in the long run—while their bodies grew quickly, their minds did not. A gigantic dragon with the mind of a new hatchling was risky and foolish. Still, their stay at the Wall would not be too long, and Jon encouraged their desire to hunt, as it would get them away from the Wall, thus delaying the rapid growth while giving them time to mature and gain some experience out in the open.

Jon shook his head and focused on Sansa, now gazing southward.

“How long shall we stay here, Jon? Not that I dislike Castle Black—”

“There’s no need to mince your words,” he interrupted with a snort. “Castle Black is barely better than a hovel.” She sputtered at his crude words but did not disagree. “To answer your question, we’ll sadly be here for a while, as it will take the chieftains about a sennight to finish arriving from the corners of the Gift. And it will take even more time for those who agree to follow us to muster their forces.”

And she needed at least another sennight of proper rest and hearty food so no ailments lingered, according to Arna.

Sansa went as stiff as a board and turned to face him, fear heavy in her eyes. “Jon, what if we just run away somewhere to the far east? There’s no need to take back Winterfell. House Stark… has too many, too strong foes, how…” her trembling voice was nary a whisper, “how can we fight them all and win? Robb and Father failed, and our House has nothing left but a disgraced daughter and…”

“A bastard son,” he wryly finished for her, causing her eyes to widen even further. “I’ve made my peace with what I am.”

“That does not make you inferior!” Sansa shook her head furiously, her eyes glistening with tears. “I’m so tired, Jon. I’m tired of fighting and losing, of my hopes crumbling like a snow castle amidst the raging storm. I don’t want to lose you, either. I don’t want to go back to Winterfell, to Ramsay…”

“No.” Jon exhaled slowly, trying to suppress the raging fury coursing through his veins.

“No?” Sansa croaked out, confused.

“No running,” he said firmly. “No looking back over our shoulders for foes or fearing every shadow and every corner for enemies or catspaws. No more losing, and no more dying.”

“B-but how can you be so sure?”

“I’m tired too, Sansa.” He gave her a wan smile, reached up, and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Life on the run is scarcely a life at all; it makes you no better than an empty, skittering shell.” The memory of his broken godfather was still vivid in his mind. “No, I’d rather die on my feet, fighting for something meaningful. It wouldn’t hurt to take a few of our wretched foes down. Who knows, maybe I’ll manage to kill enough, and victory would be in our grasp.”

Hope, fear, and grief warred in his sister’s blue eyes.

“D-Do you think we can w-win?”

Gods, they had made a wreck out of his sister. Hoping to placate the very upset Sansa, he pulled her into a hug. Unwilling to ply her with empty platitudes, he settled for the cold but honest truth: “I’m very good at killing, and three dragons are not to be underestimated, no matter their size.”

Oddly enough, those words reassured her more than anything else, and she melted into his embrace.

They stayed like that for what felt like ages when Sansa finally let go. Despite the red rims around her eyes, her gaze shone with renewed resolve.

“It’s getting cold. Let’s go back,” Jon urged, noticing her fatigued demeanour.

12th Day of the 3rd Moon, 303 AC

King’s Landing

Two older boys, not quite men yet, were weaving their way up the noisy Street of Steel, idly inspecting the shining arms and armour displayed in front of the numerous smithies. The song of hammers striking upon steel mingled with the commotion of the busy street. The younger boy had a burgundy winegrape on his surcoat, while the older had a proud huntsman stitched with red thread on his green tabard.

“Your father sure knows how to maintain order,” Denys Redwyne said while looking at the bustling street.

The freckled red-haired boy was barely three and ten and a squire to a Mallendore knight who served first Renly, then Stannis, then Joffrey after getting captured in the Battle for the Blackwater. A Redwyne from the main branch would have easily found a far more important man to squire under, but Denys was from a lesser vine, a landless branch that was barely better than rich hedge-knights.

“It’s not too hard with twenty thousand swords under his command in the city and just as many outside the gates,” Dickon Tarly said, shaking his head. The Tarly heir was tall and vigorous, with sharp blue eyes and a confident smile. He was almost a head taller than his companion and two years older. “I still can’t believe so many were zealous enough to carve the seven-pointed star upon their flesh.”

“It’s those sparrows,” Denys snorted. “Ser Mark says years of war and hunger have made a beggar of many a man, and when the High Sparrow offered them food and a purpose, they flocked to him like thirsty men to a well amidst the desert. We wouldn’t be in this mess if our adulterous Queen hadn’t overturned Maegor’s laws.”

“Have you lost your wits?!” The Tarly heir hissed, looking around warily. Thankfully, nobody seemed to pay them any attention, bar a few poor fellows. “Did your mind get scrambled after taking a few blows too many to the head in the yard, Denys?! Speaking ill of the dowager queen in broad daylight? If your words ever reach her, you’ll live the rest of your short life in the Black Cells, never to see the sun again!”

“Pah, she lost her power after the walk of shame,” the Redwyne boy retorted, albeit quieter. “Hard to command respect when half a million souls have seen your saggy teats. I’ve seen better-looking whores than her.”

“Walk of shame or not, she’s still the king’s mother,” Dickon warned. “And the Lady of Casterly Rock besides—she commands the Westerlands.”

“Aye, that’s true. Yet the Young Wolf broke the Lannister forces—they have less than half remaining. The Kingslayer, the tall one, is chasing shadows and bandits across the Riverlands, and there are fewer than three hundred red cloaks in the Red Keep. No, the only power in King’s Landing is your father, Lord Tyrell, and the High Sparrow with his newly reformed Faith Militant. As justiciar, Lord Tarly commands all of the City Watch, too.”

The two squires fell into silence as they slowly climbed up the steep Street of Steel. The bustling crowd dwindled almost to nought as they approached the better and far more expensive smithies. The wares displayed here were all inlaid with gold or silver and so well polished that you could see your reflection as if looking at a bucket of clean water.

“Father above, a single gorget costs three hundred stags?” Dickon recoiled at the price displayed on one of the stands, manned by a stout yet weathered old man.

“My young lords, this is cheap,” the proprietor’s voice was crotchety. “A well-made gorget will save your neck in battle. This is some of the finest steel in the realm, not some cheap, brittle scrap hastily made from crude iron. Gold can be earned again, but once your head is chopped off, what use do you have for coin?”

“Maybe in a few years when I stop growing,” Dickon wryly deflected and promptly turned around; the heir of Horn Hill lacked neither arms nor armour.

“Prices have always been high towards the top of the Street of Steel, even more so towards the war,” Denys said. “But it’s worth it—some of the smithies at the crest of the hill have better quality steel than anything else in Westeros. Especially master Mott. It is said that his work is only inferior to Valyrian steel.”

“Another pearl of wisdom from Ser Mark Mullendore?” the older boy snorted.

“Aye.” The Redwyne squire shamelessly bobbed his head like a squirrel. “Ser Mullendore is a well-travelled man and has seen the world. One day, I’ll clad myself from head to toe in heavy plate forged by Master Mott, and I will be invincible.”

“And how much coin would it cost you?” At the question, the younger boy mumbled something as his expression crumbled. “Speak up now. I can’t possibly hear if you mutter under your nose.”

“I said a thousand dragons!”

“That’s enough to equip nearly thirty knights in good armour and well-bred warhorses even in tumultuous times such as these,” Dickon clicked his tongue. “There’s only so much that a single man can do, and no matter how skilled he is, he’d never rival a score of knights.”

“And what about the Mountain that Rides?”

“The Mountain that Rode, you mean.” The tall boy waved dismissively. “The man is just a big brigand, attacking smallfolk and empty holdfasts and avoiding fights with warriors of skill and renown. A single Dornishman was enough to bring him low despite his impressive stature. Besides, I doubt you’ll grow as much as a Clegane—your father was how tall again?”

“A squire can dream,” Denys huffed while scratching his scarred cheek, a badge he had won at the battle of Blackwater Bay. His father was a tad short of six feet—far away from Gregor Clegane’s titanic figure, which towered with at least two and a half heads over ordinary folk.

“Songs and dreams are for young maidens; we must live here and now. Come, let’s leave. I’ve had enough of the stench of smoke and coal.”

“Missing the stink of shit and piss already?” the younger squire snarked. “Or maybe you’re in a hurry to return to your fair wife?”

Dickon was about to retort to the jibe when a young boy slammed into him and ran away.

“Seven hells!” The Tarly heir looked surprised more than anything else. “What had that lad in such a rush?”

“Your purse, methinks,” Denys said, pointing to the empty spot on Dickon’s belt where his coin pouch usually resided. “Starving gutter rats know little fear.”

Dickon dashed after the young thief, swearing up a storm and following him into a small alleyway.

With a groan, Denys Redwyne followed the older boy into the maze of narrow backstreets. It took him half a minute to find anyone among the dark labyrinth of trash and refuse. As soon as he turned around the next corner, he froze.

Cries and moans of pain filled the air as half a dozen men, garbed in roughspun robes, were ganging up with staves and clubs over a curled figure on the dirty cobblestones that Denys recognised as Dickon.

The men paused, looked at him, and the young squire turned tail and ran away.

Randyll Tarly, the Lord of Horn Hill, Justiciar of the Crown, and one of the head commanders of the Reach armies, stood still as a statue as the black shroud unfurled, revealing a battered and bloody corpse. His fingers were all twisted and bent in unnatural angles, and his body was clearly gelded—an insult. Yet, the face was relatively intact. Alyn Hunt easily recognised Dickon Tarly after seeing the lad grow up since he could walk.

The knight was stunned silent; the other three dozen men-at-arms accompanying their liege were as silent as a graveyard. The thought that someone would dare attack, let alone kill the heir of such a powerful man like the Lord Justiciar in broad daylight, was unbelievable.

But the corpse before them was unmistakable.

“Who?!” Randyll Tarly’s angry bellow surprised them all.

The Lord of Horn Hill was famed for his iron composure that could never be broken… until now. Randyll’s face and shaven head had gone red, and Alyn saw a big, angry vein pulsing at the right side of his temple as he glared at the man who had brought the body.

“M-m’-lord, it was those p-p-p-poor f-fellows.” The pale gold cloak shivered like a leaf amidst a storm.

“I see.” The Justiciar’s voice was cold like death had come over, but his eyes had gone red as he roamed the small square angrily.

“What happens now?” whispered one of the men-at-arms.

“Wouldn’t Sam be heir again now?” Another muttered, but the Lord of Horn Hill heard him, judging by the deepening shade of puce that his face was turning to. “I heard he’s studying in the Citadel.”

That seemed to be the final straw for the marcher lord.

“I WILL HAVE ALL OF THEIR HEADS!”

Randyll Tarly unsheathed Hearstbane and paused, staring at it as if seeing it for the first time, as the rippled greatsword glinted ominously under the sun. Everyone there stood uneasily, unsure how to follow that order. Did he mean to arrest those who had killed his son or… all of the Faith Militant? As the men-at-arms were hesitantly shuffling from one foot the other, the Lord of Horn Hill let out a guttural roar and charged towards the nearest gathering of poor fellows down the Street of the Sisters.

If Randyll had summoned every sword under his command, he could have swept through all the Sparrows, Swords and Stars without much trouble. Yet all reason had fled the Lord of Horn Hill, and he had already charged at the nearest sparrows, followed by less than two scores of his men.

A dozen men barely garbed in rags with staves couldn’t put up any resistance against the furious Randyll Tarly and his well-trained men-at-arms. Yet, a band of Warrior’s Sons nearby and many more sparrows saw the butchery and joined in the fighting. Tarly was about to be overwhelmed, but plenty of Tyrell men at a nearby tavern saw their commander under attack and threw themselves into the fray. The gold cloaks saw a riot was brewing and attempted to join in and stop the fighting, but they did not try too eagerly.

A word quickly reached the High Sparrow that the crown intended to put the Faith Militant to the sword. He hesitated, but his mind was quickly made up when he noticed that sparrows were being butchered before the Great Sept of Baelor and ordered his men to fight.

Soon, complete chaos and fighting enveloped the streets of King’s Landing. Aside from Randyll Tarly and his men, most people did not even know what the fighting was about, but joined the fray at the sight of their comrades fighting. Many hedge knights, sellswords, and local crooks took advantage of the chaos and started looting corpses or attacking well-off houses, inns, and wealthy shops. Life had been hard for the citizens of King’s Landing during the last years; life had been harsh during the war, and many simply went out of their homes and joined the chaos to vent their frustration.

The streets ran red with blood. At some point, someone had set a shack on fire in Flea Bottom, which quickly spread to the nearby buildings. A chilling gale blew from the sea, spreading the flames even faster…

Myrcella Baratheon, earlier that day

A knock on her door startled her.

“Princess, we’re approaching the capital,” Lyna’s voice came from outside.

Myrcella groaned and finally left her bed, beginning to get dressed. Rosamund was still seasick and could barely get out of her bed without spilling her lunch, so she settled for dressing up on her own; the Seven Hells would freeze over before Myrcella asked any of the Dornish for anything. Trust was an odd thing—once it was free, it was impossible to hide again.

Are you the Sword of the Morning now?

Men call me Darkstar, and I am of the night.

Worse, by the time Myrcella awoke in a bed in Sunspear with her face numb with pain, Arys Oakheart had been slain, and Septa Eglantine had supposedly slipped down the stairs and broken her neck. But Myrcella knew better now.

With a sad, self-deprecating chuckle, the princess ran her hand through her scarred flesh. Gone was the smooth skin, replaced with rough, uneven flesh. If not for Rosie, her lovely mare, moving at the last second, Myrcella would have already been in the embrace of the Stranger, just like the naive little girl she had been.

The worst thing was that Myrcella had nobody to blame but herself. She had trusted those people, thinking that she was safe with them. Had Sansa Stark felt like that until Joffrey ordered her beaten before the court?

Myrcella shook her head and left her cabin, entering the broad deck. Nymeria Sand stood there, garbed in her usual purple gown, and her retinue of dozens of Martell men-at-arms were getting ready. None of them paid her much heed besides the cold look from the Sand Snake.

They would never see her broken or cowed, so with her head held high, the princess silently approached the railing. Sure enough, King’s Landing could be seen in the distance. It could also be smelled all the way from here; the unpleasant stink of privy wafted heavily in the wind.

Her thoughts drifted as the ship crawled towards the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. Her brother was dead, yet she did not feel particularly sad. It was quite the opposite—there was a sliver of relief deep in her heart. Joffrey had always been arrogant, annoying, and sometimes outright cruel.

Would her mother pay attention to her now that Joffrey was dead? But deep down, Myrcella suspected that Cersei simply didn’t care half as much about her or Tommen as she cared about Joffrey.

However, Joffrey and her mother were not the only reasons she felt unhappy about returning. Besides the terrible stench, the Red Keep was full of memories of quarrels, cold looks, and Joffrey’s cruelty, both veiled and open. Looking back, neither the queen nor the king truly cared about her. No, Cersei’s attention was forever focused on Joffrey. As for her father… the less said about Robert Baratheon, the better.

Or did those rumours about her parentage have a grain of truth in them, and she was the daughter of the Kingslayer instead? A quiet snort escaped her mouth—Jaime Lannister scarcely cared about her beyond his duties as a kingsguard, uncle or not. If he were her father, he’d be a poor replacement for Robert Baratheon.

There was a tinge of envy in her; couldn’t she have a loving family like Ellaria Sand and her young daughters? Or what Lord and Lady Stark had; back then, Myrcella had been too young to realise that warm feeling in Winterfell between the Warden of the North and his wife, but now she knew—it was love and respect.

Myrcella ran a finger through her red, angry-looking scar again and grimaced when she reached the missing ear. Her pretty face was no longer, now forever marred with the Darkstar’s gift. Would her mother even care about this? Trystane Martell, her intended, had come to see her only once after the attack, and even then, his words felt cold and distant.

It stung for a while, but the anger had long since faded, replaced by sadness. After all, who would prefer ugliness to beauty?

Would Tommen even remember her?

The princess had been feeling like a foolish little girl lately. As she was lost in thought, they neared the docks of King’s Landing. Nymeria Sand was to take her father’s place in the Small Council and also serve as Myrcella’s escort. She snorted inwardly at the thought.

Knowing Cersei, she would never return to Dorne after getting almost grievously wounded there. Her mother might not love her, but she would never let a slight like this pass. And the Baratheon princess hoped she would escape Nymeria as soon as possible. The cold anger in her purple eyes made Myrcella’s skin crawl.

As soon as the ship docked, the princess followed the Red Viper’s daughter and her small retinue of Martell men-at-arms.

Aside from a few hurried peddlers and dock hands, nobody was here.

“Did we arrive too early?” The Sand Snake murmured as she rubbed her chin. There was nobody to receive them. “I guess we shall make our way to the Red Keep on our own.”

Nymeria cautiously led her retinue through the River Gate. Without an escort with horses or a wheelhouse, they had to continue on foot. The gate was wide open, the portcullis raised, and the city watch guarding it was absent. Myrcella couldn’t help but feel uneasy. The road to the Red Keep was mostly empty, although they could hear a commotion nearby, and smoke was coming from the direction of the Dragon Pit. Or was that Fleabottom?

Nymeria tensed and drew a hidden dagger from underneath her lilac robes.

“On your guard!” she shouted.

The sound of fighting quickly approached. The road forward was then blocked as men rushed onto the street.

Smallfolk, dressed in ragged clothes, were armed with spears, swords and even spiked clubs. Most of them had the seven-pointed star carved on their forehead or chest. There were a scant few hedge knights, sellswords and gold cloaks, even the odd man with Reacher heraldry. There were no sides here; everyone was fighting each other in a brutal, chaotic slog with mad fervour. The small alleys were also filled with the sounds of clashing steel and the cries of pain and death.

“Back to the ships, quickly!” Nymeria cried out, turned around, and ran back without any hesitation. The Martell guards dashed after the Sand Snake, and Myrcella was knocked to the ground by one of the running men-at-arms.

As she fell to the ground, the princess felt a sharp pain in her elbows and tears started swimming in her eyes.

But the sounds of fighting drew closer, and dread filled her heart.

She didn’t want to stay here.

Gritting her teeth, Myrcella stood up, pulled up her skirts so she wouldn’t trip in them, and started running back towards the docks as fast as her legs could carry her. She could see the Martell retinue far in the distance, and they were only getting further away. Barely four and ten, and as a princess, Myrcella was never allowed after she grew. She never needed to either. It was a small miracle that she only slipped and fell once more, bruising her knees and hands.

Running felt like forever; her lungs were on fire, and her legs felt made of lead, but the River Gate was close. Myrcella slowed down drastically, but she stubbornly persevered and kept on. A minute later, she was at the docks, heavily gasping for air. Her eyes were stinging from her dried tears, but to her horror, the ship with the Martell banners had already sailed away and could only be seen in the distance.

She stood breathlessly in a daze for a few painfully long heartbeats, unsure what to do, until the approaching sounds of fighting jolted her back into reality. Her gaze desperately looked around the docks as the fight spilt out of the River Gate.

There was only one ship at the harbour. Myrcella covered her head with her hood, mustered the last vestiges of her strength, and hurriedly ran towards it. Her throat felt like fire with every breath, and her legs wobbled. It was a miracle she could still move, let alone run. As the ship prepared to depart, she desperately jumped on the deck.

Relief flooded her as soon as she landed on the ship, and she barely avoided collapsing as she leaned onto a barrel. Myrcella found herself face to face with a burly man with dirty brown hair and a long, unkempt beard.

The man sized her up, and Myrcella knew her fate was being weighed in his mind. A single question or the wrong demand would see her in deep trouble here.

“A cabin costs twenty stags,” he muttered at last, his voice deep and with a familiar accent she couldn’t pinpoint.

Relief flooded her, and she almost collapsed.

Thankfully, her money pouch was still on her belt. She wordlessly counted twenty silver coins with a stag etched on them.

The burly man nodded and motioned for a short cabin boy to guide her towards a small room. Myrcella felt extremely tired; with every step she took, her legs became heavier, and it was harder to keep her eyelids open. The princess quickly locked the door, uncaringly crashed on the dirty bedding, and fell asleep, ignoring her wounds and bruises.

As Myrcella drifted into the dreamland, the quickly spreading fire in King’s Landing reached one of Aerys’s forgotten caches of wildfire.

The plumes of hungry green flames expanded rapidly like a poisonous jade beast trying to devour the city.