Stranger's Kiss

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

2nd Day of the 8th Moon, 299 AC

Kevan Lannister, the Red Keep

"Where's Pycelle?"

The pale handmaids trembled under his gaze, looking like deer stuck between a rock and a hard place, until one of them bowed her head.

"Gone to the Godswood, dragged by the white cloaks, m'lord regent…"

Cursing inwardly, Kevan made his way to the old grove, feeling apprehension rising in his chest. The only reason the kingsguard would demand Pycelle's presence in the Godswood was his royal grandnephew, and Joffrey was supposed to be abed, not cavorting around his castle while gravely ill. Seven days and seven nights, Pycelle and all the available maesters had toiled without respite, trying every trick, every obscure method they could think of to keep the king alive.

A small part of Kevan still hoped they would succeed, but his heart was filled with dread. 

The Red Keep was nearly empty; its pink walls did not deter the Black Death. Many had started to fall ill along with the king. They had been isolated in the Maidenvault on Tywin's order, and only the Silent Sisters, the Septons, and the maesters could enter and leave. The Maidenvault would have been filled within three days if free beds and rooms weren't emptied as quickly as they were filled. Despite the maester's efforts, seven out of ten who fell ill never recovered.

His own sons, Martyn and Willem, were already there, and Kevan never felt more helpless. How could one fight against the invisible hand of the Stranger?

Worse, a mere handful of maesters were left in the city, and they weren't impervious to the Black Death any more than everyone else. The city's remaining citizens were dying like flies, just like the Westerlander army. The Battle for King's Landing had been desperate and devastating, but the city saw even more dead from the plague than by sword and fire.

Tylon Lannett, the new Master of Coin, had already perished to the disease, along with Lords Marbrand, Serett, Jast, Kayce, Ruttiger, Heatherspoon, Brax, and many more second sons, brothers, and countless cousins. 

The Westerlands was laid low, and an entire generation of noblemen and knights was almost wholly culled. Out of over a thousand of highborn men who started this campaign with Tywin, fewer than a hundred survived. And most were laid low not by treachery or deceit, not by sword or lance or arrow, but the invisible hand of the Stranger. Even his own boys were faced with the dark, gruesome fate that befell almost all who fell ill by the Black Death, and his only hope was Pycelle.

The Grandmaester had no reliable cure, but he could stave off the affliction, and even a slight increase in chances of survival was better than nothing.

So, Kevan rushed to the Godswood as fast as his feet could carry him through empty hallways and dark courtyards, now bereft of the vigilant men-at-arms gossiping ladies and numerous courtiers. Everything was so quiet as of late; even the scant few men on patrol tried to avoid everyone else and not make any noise out of fear that the Black Death would come for them next. Gods, the Red Keep looked more like a tomb than a royal seat.

In contrast to everything else, the Godswood was guarded by a pair of grim-faced Northmen clad in heavy steel and wearing Karstark livery. It was probably looted from one of the many fallen Reach knights in the last battle, judging by the scratched-up apple engraving on their spaulders.

The two men crossed their halberds, barring Kevan's way.

"His Grace has forbidden anyone from entering the Godswood," one of them grunted unhelpfully. 

"His Grace is yet to come of age," Kevan reminded them, suppressing the sinking feeling of dread churning in his gut. Why would Joffrey order entry to the grove forbidden? "And I am his regent. Move aside, good men. Or do you believe I would harm my grandnephew?"

After sharing a hesitant glance, the two Northmen withdrew their halberds, letting him pass.

The Godswood looked particularly dark and dreadful today, the sunset turning the tree's shades into a long and twisted network of shadow that made his skin crawl.

Above everything towered the heart tree, even larger than Kevan remembered, its eerie red leaves like crimson hands grasping at the wind. How many poor souls had Joffrey sacrificed to feed the cruel gods of the First Men?

His worst fears were proven true as he approached its enormous trunk, almost as wide as six knights riding abreast.

A handful of solemn Northmen stood silent vigil along with the last remaining white cloaks - Bennard Slate and Ser Jonnel Serrett, while Pycelle's form was strung up on one of the branches, his guts hanging from his open belly, filling the air with the metallic stench of blood mingling with shit and piss. The grandmaester had voided his bowels before perishing…

And beneath the bloody, carved face stood a hunched-over Joffrey, looking like a spectre as he leaned on a polished staff. Like all the other victims of the Black Death, his hair had fallen off, black, thrumming pustules taking its place. They crept down his face, and even the ones on his neck pulsed angrily. The sclera of his remaining eye had turned malignantly dark, making Joffrey look more demon than man.

Usually, most who fell before the Black Death had a chance to progress this much and a rare few lived because the gods had decided the disease would not ripen, but it seemed that Pycelle was not utterly helpless before the dark ailment.

Yet Pycelle was dead, and the hopes of his boys, Willem and Martyn, drained with the blood dripping from the hanging corpse.

"Joffrey," Kevan's voice came out pained as he took a step forth. His mind barely registered the white cloaks who grasped him by the arms. "What have you done?"

"Just g-getting rid of another incompetent traitor, uncle," the young king wheezed weakly, coughing out globs of blood on the pale roots. Yet the crimson didn't seem to stick to the bone-like bark, sinking into the wood itself and making Kevan's spine crawl. "All the maesters are scheming against me, just like they tried to kill my good brother. Jeor, give me the bowl."

One of the Northern men-at-arms came over reverently, holding up a bowl with a crimson liquid. He held it under Pycelle's gutted corpse, collecting a few droplets of blood in the mix.

Kevan finally managed to shake off his stupor and disbelief and glared at the kingsguard, who would not let him go. "You must halt this madness. Surely you know weirwood sap is poisonous?"

The pair of white cloaks remained unmovable, like two statues.

"Only to the faithless, uncle," Joffrey was the one who coughed out an answer as his trembling hand accepted the bowl. Even his teeth had gone as black as tar, something that happened oft should the illness turn for the worst, and the victim died for days in slow agony. "The Old Gods are with me, and by their blessing, I shall conquer this pesky sickness. Do you not see their favour with the Heart Tree?"

Madness and stupidity. Joffrey had lost his wits for good. The thought terrified Kevan more than he could imagine.

"What if you perish?"

"I won't." In a typical Joffrey fashion, the words were filled with unyielding conviction.

"The favour of the gods is capricious," Kevan appealed again. "It comes and goes like the clouds and rain. Nephew, what of your wife? What of the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms?"

Joffrey halted, and for a second, Kevan thought his grandnephew had finally seen sense.

"Wife?" His splotched face was twisted in a sneer, the pulsing black pustules making him seem like a fiend crawled out of the Seventh Circle of Hell, and the green emerald in place of his missing eye glimmered with malice under the dying sunlight. "Legacy. You're right, uncle."

"Thank the Seven-"

"My mewling bitch of a wife curses me when I'm not looking, I'm sure. I've heard the whispers of her displeasure; the foolish thing needs to be shown her place again," Joffrey croaked out, choking with coughs and spittle, spilling more blood on the ground and roots below. "You are right. She is of the weak sort, unable to give birth to a real king. And I have a feeble lackwit for a brother. Bennard, hear my decree."

The Northern White cloak slammed his free fist in his enamelled breastplate.

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"Should I lose the gods' favour tonight, proclaim for all to hear. Shireen Baratheon shall be my heir. My dear cousin might be scarred, but she's the only one capable of dealing with all the weaklings and traitors in my kingdoms!"

"This is madness," Kevan moved to yank his hands off the kingsguard grip, but he received a gauntleted fist in his belly for the trouble, knocking the air out of his lungs. Ignoring the jolts of pain rushing through his innards, he groaned, trying to gather himself. "You… you cannot… let a m-mere girl inherit before your unborn child… or living brother!" 

"You f-fret t-too m-much," blood and dark pus had begun to seep from Joffrey's mouth as his body began to twitch, making his replies feebler with every word. "My b-brother is useless, just l-like my w-wife, I k-know it. M-My c-cousin h-has already p-proven h-herself again in T-Tyrosh and w-won't d-disappoint." 

The young king lifted the bowl with shaking limbs and poured the content into his blotched mouth, drinking like a thirsty man in the desert. For a heartbeat, Joffrey remained still, and Kevan almost began to hope… and then he screamed, the agonised shriek sounding nothing like a human could produce.

It felt like a thousand ants were crawling down his spine, and Kevan's blood chilled as Joffrey writhed and trashed amidst the pale roots, his limbs twisting unnaturally before growing still. Blood hammered in his ears, and terror gripped his heart as he stared at the unmoving body of his grandnephew, along with Pycelle's carcass, which looked desiccated as if something had sucked out all the juices from it.

The old gods were not feeling merciful today, Kevan realised, fear creeping deep into his mind as he prayed the Seven would find lenience for his boys.

"The king is dead," Bennard Slate announced gruffly. "Long live the Queen!"

Kevan's headache returned threefold. 

***

"Madness and stupidity," Tywin hissed out, his face a cold mask of bubbling rage. "Did we get all of Joffrey's Northmen?"

"All of the fools are in the Black Cells, but Cregan is livid," Kevan said weakly; the bruise on his torso had turned purple earlier, making each movement a pain. While no maesters were left alive in the city after Joffrey, he could guess his ribs were bruised, if not cracked. But the pain could hardly compare with the knowledge his sons struggled for their lives, and there was nought to do to aid them. "We cannot keep them jailed for long or risk losing the Northmen's support. Cregan Karstark has already made sure that word of Joffrey's last decree spread through the Red Keep."

For once, the white cloaks and Joffrey's retinue of Northmen had been subdued without bloodshed. Only one arm was lost in the process, yet many other Northmen were still in the Red Keep. It was almost as if the Old Gods favoured them, for not many were afflicted by the plague.

"Damned Northmen, loyal to a fault in the worst possible manner, and it doesn't help that Lord Stark has Tommen. Thankfully, the solution is plain and straightforward," his brother sagged, looking a decade older. The war had taken a lot out of Tywin. "Clearly, Joffrey had lost his wits due to the disease because what he did couldn't have been done if he was sound of mind and Pycelle's… the traitor's remedies scrambled his wits. A betrothal shall be arranged between Shireen and Tommen. Still, our situation has turned precarious."

"Renly has lost, running away with his tail between his legs like a beaten dog. Even his leal bannermen had begun abandoning him in droves. Surely there's nothing to fear with a few upstart pretenders like Greyjoy and Hightower?"

"That fool Hightower is playing a dangerous game by rearming the Faith Militant," Tywin's face darkened further. 

"Surely nobody shall take him seriously outside Oldtown and the Honeywine?"

"An ambitious Hightower is not a new tale. Besides, with Renly losing, the Rose Septon has every reason to support the Reachmen in the North, for only death by fire awaits heretics such as him."

"There's not much we can do in the North but pray the Stark bastard is half as good as the rumours claim," Kevan muttered, tiredly rubbing his brow. His grandniece would have to weather Hightower until winter came. Truth be told, there was barely anything they could do, even here, in King's Landing while controlling the Iron Throne. The slow massing of the Dornish banners along the Red Mountains was just as troublesome. But they would be Renly's trouble for once, not theirs.

His brother took a languid sip from his goblet of wine. 

"Jon Snow was raised by Lord Stark the same way as his trueborn brother," Tywin said simply as if it were a foregone conclusion.

"Aye, if Jon Snow is even a fraction as good as Robb Stark, things won't be too grim. Yet Maegor spent six years struggling against zealots and had a dragon, but now we have none."

"It is out of our hands now. Our main concern lies here. So long as the Iron Throne remains empty and three more grasping traitors claim a crown, our grip on the Seven Kingdoms is shaky," Tywin's voice thickened with disdain. "Worse, what if Tommen comes here only to catch the disease like his brother? This plague has left us crippled, and the word is one of Renly's archmaesters of healing has found a cure… but my spies expired before they could deliver the information, struck down by the very same plague. And that fool, Ryam Florent, moved too early and failed to remove Renly. Must the gods curse me so to be surrounded by madness and incompetence till the day I die?"

"Renly's demise is just a matter of time," Kevan assuaged weakly. "His overly grand moves ruffled many feathers, and Tully alone has four times as many men as he does."

"The Black Death has turned the Riverlanders cautious. Lord Tully writes that he plans to avoid the city by a large margin and burn every corpse and beast on the way, which will slow him further as Renly slips away. He fears not a clash of swords but the Stranger's Hand, and wisely so. I myself have fallen ill."

The words were so simple, said with such nonchalance, that it took half a minute for them to sink in.

"What?" Kevan croaked out.

"The tips of my feet have begun to turn black," his brother said with the same plain tone one would use to say the sky was blue. "With Pycelle… gone, I have decided to have one of the surviving acolytes chop them off rather than put my hope in some cure that might or might not come."

Something clanked, but it was a distant sound as if the world was breaking. In truth, the cup in his hand had simply fallen to the floor. Kevan had lost so much; could he bear to lose his last brother, too? While nearly nine out of ten died from the eerie disease if untreated, four out of ten survived should the cleaver chop off the disease before it could spread. Some of them died from shock and blood loss later anyway, and without a maester in the city, Kevan feared his brother's chances even more. 

Yet, if the prospect of death scared Tywin, it did not show on his face, for Kevan failed to find even a single trace of hesitation or apprehension. Even while faced with the Stranger, he showed no fear, but his only concern was for the Lannister legacy. 

"Naturally, I have decided to finalise my will, just in case," the Lord of Casterly Rock continued. "It has already been sent to the Citadel, Casterly Rock, and Winterfell, of course. I cannot let my legacy fall into the hands of that misshapen, lusty creature to be squandered. Should I perish, Myrcella shall inherit Casterly Rock, and her husband shall be Warden of the West until such a time one of my great grandsons from her line grows up enough to take on the mantle, but any Lord of Casterly Rock must take up the name of Lannister."

While it was an odd thing to give the title of Warden of the West to a Northerner, the Young Wolf was already fulfilling the duties that came with the title. Of course, Tyrion got sidelined one last time–especially since word of his survival and predicament had reached the city. This was the only time his brother had even mentioned his son since his disappearance, but even then, it was not by name.

Kevan's heart was too weighted by grief to even object. 

"What am I to do should the worst come to pass?" He asked, his voice coming out jagged like a shard of broken glass.

"Keep the city closed until the plague passes and spare no expense while searching for a cure."

***

4th Day of the 8th moon, 299 AC

Myrcella, Winterfell

Arthor Karstark looked the furthest from a warrior compared to the typical features of gruff Northmen that Myrcella had gotten used to. With his rotund, barrel-like body and soft, puffy face. Myrcella could easily imagine the man in the mud, naked and pink-skinned, just like all the other pigs in a sty.

He looked even softer than the Merman Lord but not nearly as fat–he could still ride a horse. Although his poor steed looked particularly tortured, despite its significant size. 

"We can take them on the field," Arthor loudly proclaimed. Even his voice was squeaky, almost effeminate. Myrcella wanted to scoff in his face, but he had brought the most swords today after House Stark, nearly three thousand of them.

Most of the Northern foot from the Eastern bannermen had finally arrived, and a little over fifteen thousand swords were camped around Winterfell. Umber, Karstark, Ironsmith, Hornwood, Cerwyn, Lake, Wells, Whitehills, Overton, and many more banners flew outside the castle walls, led by uncles, cousins, young boys, or third or fourth sons that had not been taken to war by Robb. 

Greenboys, greybeards, and softhands, as Ser Rodrik called them in private. Yet his own hair had turned white long ago, and what was he but another greybeard?

And with the army gathered, the war council had been called in the Great Hall. 

Mors Umber, the castellan of Last Hearth, loomed over the large table, his huge frame the same as his nephew, Greatjon Umber, but weatherworn, dipped in white from the onset of age and missing an eye. It had been pecked out by a crow while he had been asleep by the road, according to the tales.

"They have the numbers," Mors Crowsfood rumbled out. Catelyn called him a hoary old brigand in private, and Myrcella could now see it. With his shaggy white beard, unkempt byrnie that looked like it hadn't been oiled or cleaned for years, the crude snowbear pelt he used for cloak, his ruddy face and the stench of ale, he certainly looked the part. Maybe he could also be as cunning as a brigand against the Reachmen? Myrcella did not hold her breath in hope. "Did you not claim that this Hightower has actually repealed Maegor's laws in a bid to draw even more swords to his cause?"

"Madness," Catelyn said, her usually calm face twisted into a fierce frown. Word had arrived earlier of her lord husband's survival in Essos, and she had discarded the black gown for grey and blue wool. "But then again, too many have lost their minds as of late. Doubtlessly, Hightower thinks he can earn more legitimacy with the Faith Militant behind his back. He's no fool, and it's clear he's making haste for Winterfell."

Mors laughed coldly, but there was no mirth in his eyes.

"Ambitious, trying to swallow the heart of the North."

"Two moons before the cold sets in," Luwin added nervously. "Hightower doesn't lack for learned men, so he should know this."

"He knows this and doubtlessly hopes we meet him on the field and marches our way with all haste." Catelyn mused. "A victory will see his supplies restocked and our fighting spirit diminished greatly, while the Swords and Stars would be able to boast their first victory in centuries." 

With her husband alive if stranded afar, Catelyn Stark was the Lady of Winterfell again, but she still looked to Myrcella as if expecting her to make the decision. It was yet another test…

Subsequently, everyone else turned to her.

The princess swallowed, trying to ignore the lump forming at the back of her throat.

"Hightower and Redwyne boast twenty thousand swords," Myrcella slowly began. "And only the gods know how many more zealots."

Jarod Ironsmith scoffed. "Pah, religious zeal won't help the fools learn how to hold a line or swing a sword. These southrons don't know the lay of the land and are only good for pillaging villages and ambushing green boys. I say we face 'em on the field and crush them once and for all."

A chorus of 'ayes' echoed around the table, making Myrcella's heart sink.

"The risk is too much," she said.

"Pardon, my Princess," Arthor bowed his head apologetically. "But you're a woman. You don't understand matters of fighting and warfare-"

"Why fight when the cold can kill Hightower's ambitions before the year's turn?" Myrcella asked, trying to suppress her rising irritation. "Five thousand men should remain behind Winterfell's walls as garrison, and another thousand will settle at Cerwyn."

"What of the other nine thousand?" Crowsfood asked gruffly.

"Since Lord Arthor wants to see battle so badly, he can lead a thousand swords to delay Hightower as much as he can," her lips curled. The man's face reddened, alternating between fear and rage. "Do you have objections, my lord?"

Whatever he wanted to say, Karstark hastily swallowed under the expectant gazes of the rest of the Northmen. If he declined here, he would forever be branded as a coward after his boasts.

"...No." An overproud, gluttonous fop, but not a warrior or a wise man, she decided.

"We shouldn't keep everyone in Winterfell," Rodrik added. "Hightower is not a foolish man. If we turtle up with fourteen thousand swords behind the walls, he will simply turn his attention elsewhere, and we'll have to chase him while braving the possibility of ambush. White Harbour would be the next best target. Worse, it's nearly empty of fighting men now–Lord Manderly took everything with him to dislodge the siege at the Moat."

Catelyn frowned. "And if he retreats to White Harbour, the Moat might fall, blocking us from any coming reinforcements from the Riverlands."

"If we hide in Winterfell, he can just storm Cerwyn, fortify the Cerwyn bridge and keep us blocked on this side of the White Knife," Mors grunted, face unhappy. "Hightower can't even retreat now that his alliance with the Ironmen are gone. A cornered rat is most dangerous, let alone a skilled commander with tens of thousands of men."

Everyone grimly looked at the map. Even the boastful Arthor looked worried, judging by the rivulets of sweat running down his brow.

They were waiting for her decision, Myrcella realised.

"Very well," she hid her hands in her lap, clasped together to stop them from shivering–now was not the time to show weakness. "The plan remains the same. Lord Arthor shall delay with a thousand swords, Castle Cerwyn will be fully garrisoned, and five thousand more shall remain in Winterfell to defend it. Lords Mors and Jarod shall lead the remaining men, clear the nearby lands of all food and supplies, and help evacuate the smallfolk. Stay nearby, but avoid engaging Hightower until Lord Jon Snow arrives."

"So, Ned's bastard boy has finally had enough of playing with wildlings and hunting shadows," Mors clicked his tongue, tone derisive.

"Indeed," Catelyn nodded, her face unreadable. "A raven arrived from the Shadow Tower last morn. Snow has crossed the Wall and should be making his way through the mountains now."

"Pah," Gryff Whitehill spat. "What good is one more man?"

"He does bring a thousand swords," Myrcella added. And some giants, supposedly, though she didn't believe it. They called Umbers the Giants of Last Hearth, so why would those from Beyond the Wall be any different, just men of large build?

"Wildlings might be fierce warriors, but they're poor soldiers," Mors Umber's voice thickened with disdain. "I still don't know how the Old Eagle let him pass uncontested."

"A trial of the Seven," the Lady of Winterfell said, begrudging respect seeping into her words. Myrcella knew it pained her to acknowledge it outloud, for Jon Snow was the symbol of her husband's infidelity, one she had had to face daily for sixteen years. "Commander Mallister writes Snow alone won against seven of his best, besting them all without slaying even one."

That had assuaged some of Myrcella's worries. Robb's half-brother was indeed capable, and now the earlier pressure had lessened. With Eddard Stark alive and reinforcements coming from the Riverlands, things didn't look as grim, especially now that Jon Snow had also answered the call.

The fighting could never be decided before swords were crossed in the field, but Myrcella now knew the way. Hold out in Winterfell until help arrived. Or until cold or winter itself came first–Luwin speculated the autumn wouldn't continue for long, for the days were growing shorter and shorter.

"But if left unopposed, Hightower will destroy everything in his wake," the young Cerwyn heir stated, voice filled with despair, and rightly so. If the Hightower king was aiming at Winterfell, he would pass through the Cerwyn lands–and castle, if he could. "Word is his zealots even eat the captured prisoners to not waste any food. His presence alone will exhaust our stores and make the coming winter far harder."

Cannibalism was a gruesome yet familiar tale; Myrcella had heard many whispers about it, and most pointed at Skags and wildlings. When the cold lingered for too long, and not even roots were left to eat, men turned to men for sustenance.

It was an ugly, sinful thing, but Seven forgive her; she could imagine the hungry Reachmen resorting to the vile practice after a long struggle. How far had the pious fallen?

Cley Cerwyn was only a year younger than Myrcella, but he looked almost as frightened as she felt. Frightened for his castle, for his sister, for his lands, and understandably so. Myrcella was only better at hiding her fear. 

"There's time yet, boy," Mors clicked his tongue. "Foes are to be fought one by one. At worst, you'll butcher your horses, cats, and dogs for meat and be forced to boil the leather bootstraps for food, but the damned zealots will eat each other alive before they can reach you."

Yet the callous words only made the Cerwyn heir turn queasy.

"Septon Chayle, I'm afraid I must ask you and your flock to move to the Snowy Sept temporarily," Myrcella looked apologetically at the pious and kindly man. While worded as a polite request, it was an order, and the man understood it as such and hastily nodded.

"I shall leave by the coming dawn," he said, face sad.

"Why are you dismissing your Septon?" Wylla Manderly asked neutrally, but she failed to hide the displeasure in her voice.

"It's for his safety," the princess responded. "Lady Dustin looks at the man as if he killed her son, and so does most of her retinue. Hatred and reason don't mix well, it seems, even when the Reachmen target the heretical faithful here as much as the heathens." Despite hailing from the Neck, the petite Arra Dustin was a spitfire, angry and bitter at the loss of her youngest. Only her daughter's presence seemed to soothe her, and Branda didn't leave her mother's side.

More Northmen would easily find reasons to hate the Seven when Hightower arrived, and Myrcella would rather not see problems or division behind Winterfell's walls. It was why she intentionally ensured Manderly was busy in Moat Cailin; bless his soul, the too-fat-to-sit-a-horse Lord had even taken to the field. Alas, the Reachmen had turned especially cruel, and the reinstatement of the Faith Militant would only deepen the problem.

"Will you not allow the Stark smallfolk into the walls for protection?" Lyanna Mormont asked, her face pensive. Ever since word of Bear Isle's fall into Ironborn hands and her sister's demise, the young maiden had turned sullen. 

Even her silent bastard cousin, Joy Hill, had looked particularly scared as of late. 

"While Winterfell's stores are big and fully stocked, they are far from infinite," Myrcella sighed. "Each additional mouth to feed that can't wield a sword or fight is useless and will only make the coming winter harder. Only those whose kin fight for House Stark will be allowed in."

Which was a significant number. 

For every man fighting for Robb had younger brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles and cousins–all of them toiling in service to House Stark one way or another. Myrcella knew that by the end of the week, nearly all the smallfolk and minor masterly houses within five leagues of Winterfell would be inside its walls. More than twelve thousand additional mouths to feed would deplete the food in Winterfell far quicker. She had already ordered all the courtyards behind the walls to be turned into farms for cabbages, lettuce, leek, and onions, and the godswood was filled with all the grazing cattle she could fit.

It was the price of service and power of such a numerous muster, of the unwritten promise between the common man and his liege, but not one she would be willing to ignore. The Stark men would fight harder, knowing that their kin were safe. A small mercy that the tradition of military service followed from one generation to the next, and thus, many families saw two, three, or even four of their men fighting for House Stark, reducing the mouths now needed to be fed. Even now, Winterfell's granaries would not hold out for more than a year at this rate.

"More than half the smallfolk simply pay their yearly due in grain, cattle, and crafts. They don't participate in the training at arms or are simply far away from Winterfell," Serena Umber noted quietly. "You could still send troops to help them evacuate here. Arthor Karstark is better served to–"

"Their destiny is in their own hands for now," the reply felt bitter on her tongue. Oh, how she wished there was a simple way to solve all of her woes. The tall Umber daughter was not wrong; the move would diminish House Stark's strength and influence in the coming years, but as long as Winterfell stood, it could be recovered. "They can flee to wolfswood, the mountains, or up the kingsroad, or pick up a spear or a bow and fight. Karstark's forces are needed to delay the Reachmen as much as possible. Even a single day of delay would be a victory, and we cannot afford any distractions. I have given the order that everyone buries every morsel of food they have and burn any they can't. Homes can be rebuilt, but lives lost are gone, and Hightower cannot be allowed to gain a single grain."

"Many of those might turn to banditry," Lysara Liddle cautioned. The young maiden looked quite happy as of late in contrast to everyone else, doubtlessly expecting a meeting with her 'hero' Jon Snow, the man who saved her from that monstrous bear.

The Stark lands were vast, as large as a kingdom, some would say, and many of the smallfolk would still have to be on their own. Not that Myrcella could feed even a quarter of them should they appear before the gates.

"And they would do so at their own peril." In truth, Myrcella hated it. No, she loathed the feeling of being cornered and having to choose between bad and worse.

She wanted to pray to the Seven for guidance, but would the gods listen when the High Septon in King's Landing had fallen to the plague, and the man propping up Hightower claimed to be the avatar of the Seven? How many men had perished for her Uncle Renly's ambition? How many had died for Mace Tyrell's greed?

Even now, Renly was defeated, and the Rose Lord was dead, yet the trouble they had started only grew instead of diminishing.

Hightower, Redwyne, the Faith Militant, the rest of the Reach's coastal Houses, the Ironmen – all troublesome foes, and all of them on her doorstep, plaguing the North. A part of her feared that the coming cold would not be enough to vanquish them–the reavers had solid footholds in the North with Bear Isle and Flint's Fingers, while Hightower had Torrhen's Square and Barrowton.

Worse, Balon Greyjoy and Baelor Hightower had yet to enter into open conflict doubtlessly because the first had Redwyne's sole daughter in his grasp, and the self-proclaimed "King of the Faithful" held Asha Greyjoy.

If Myrcella was to wager a guess, the cunning Lord Reaper of Pyke was simply waiting for the cold to kill the Reachmen or greatly diminish their forces. They would have to brave Ironman Bay or the Iron Isles if they wanted to retreat to the Reach or bring more forces. Thus, Hightower needed Winterfell with even more urgency than before.

While Winterfell's foes were no longer united, the ambitious yet foolhardy marriage alliance was still a thorn in House Stark's side. In her side.

At least the Ironborn were finally halted outside the walls of Deepwood Motte. A small mercy was that Arya was safe up the hills, and Rickon was safely tucked away in Last Hearth.

Feeling drained, both physically and emotionally, Myrcella dismissed her ladies and retreated to the Lord's Solar. It was one of the few places that brought her a brief moment of respite. Robb and Lord Stark had inked down plenty of plans – just in case. Keeping the larders and the granaries filled, Winterfell always garrisoned with skilled and leal swords no matter what - was prudent, but it could hardly address their current woes. 

Yet just like the last dozen times she had read through her husband's notes, she found no salvation, no magical solution for the current trouble. She had one of the maidservants bring over Edwyn and his young twin cousins, and Lady's lazy form trailed after the three curious babes that were quickly placed in the cradles by the desk.

As usual, Edwyn was energetic, giggling happily, unaware of the woes that befell everything.

"In the shadow of the mountains, where the black pines grow,

Where the sun rarely shines, and the cold winds blow,

There's a silence that speaks of secrets untold,

Of battles long past, of warriors bold…"

Myrcella continued to sing her son's favourite song, Black Pines. Like everything else about the Northern Mountains, it had wild, rousing and sad moments in equal measure and did lull Edwyn and his cousins to sleep. Midway, she felt wetness creep on her cheeks and abruptly stopped. Tears.

Yet the three babes were already asleep.

"Gods," her voice came out shaky. How she wished she was a child again and that someone could sing away her own woes.

Wagging a tail, Lady approached her and slowly deposited a small glistening bronze key before her.

"What is this, girl?"

The direwolf nudged at the lord's desk. At the locked compartment where Robb and his father's notes resided, which also housed a small but heavy ironwood box for which Myrcella never found the key. 

Feeling an explicit surge of apprehension, the princess picked up the key, wiped the direwolf drool off, and cautiously inserted it in the miniature keyhole. It was a perfect fit, and with a twist of her wrist, the lock clicked, and the lid was unsealed, revealing an inconspicuous roll of parchment nestled in soft Myrish velvet.

The feeling of guilt crept up her spine; this was clearly a secret, one that Robb didn't want her to know. In the end, her curiosity won out, and she unfurled the letter.

Dear Uncle…

The handwriting was neat and decisive, even if the rusty ink seemed to be crumbling, but the words were still legible. Yet with each next word, the hairs on the back of her neck arose. 

I hope I'm mad… this all be a bad dream and be your bastard son instead of Rhaegar's, but one rarely gets what one wishes for…

Stannis… Cersei… claims of incest… the truth lost meaning because… beheaded by Joffrey…

Arya and Sansa lost in King's Landing…

War of the Five Kings…

Winterfell sacked by Theon the Turncloak, Rickon and Bran killed…

Red Wedding… Robb betrayed by Frey and Bolton at the Crossing…

Bolton Bastard… Littlefinger, Lord Protector of the Eyrie…

Daenerys…Dragons…Aegon…Son of Elia…Golden Company…

Everyone dead…stabbed by my brothers…red witch…madness… a crown on my brow… struggling alone against the darkness…

Watch unable to hold the Others…no aid from the South…too many dead in wars… too late… not enough dragonglass… fire…

…be warned. I will do what I can.

Jon Snow

Myrcella did not know for how long she stood there, reading the letter again and again, trying to wrap her head around the words. It painted a sad, sorrowful story as if the gods were trying to punish House Stark and succeeded.

Yet things were different, jarringly so. Myrcella had not been mentioned. She knew Elia Martell had perished before she could bear any sons. There were no dragons, for once, and Daenerys Targaryen was far away in Vaes Dothrak, forgotten after birthing daughters and losing the favour of her husband. Bran had died before her father had even arrived in Winterfell… Stannis had not perished and made plenty of trouble, and Renly had somehow fallen to an assassin despite being guarded by the whole might of the Reach's chivalry. Robb had won himself a crown but didn't live long enough to enjoy it–and everything was different. There was no Bolton bastard making trouble here, either.

Yet the more things seemed different, the more they were the same. King of Rock and Salt. Faith Militant; Renly the Pretender, the accusation of incest, the Others…

Madness. Madness and treason. It should have been impossible. She must have missed the sound of the door opening because a familiar voice awoke her from her stupor.

"Oh," Catelyn Stark looked more cautious than ever as she gazed at the letter in Myrcella's grasp. No, it wasn't caution. It was trepidation mixed with no small measure of fear. "You have read it, then."

"...Yes."

The usually level-headed woman surged forth with surprising speed, plucked the letter from her grasp, and tossed it into the roaring hearth.

The spell was suddenly broken, and Myrcella took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Is it true?"

The red-haired woman looked at her apprisingly.

"My Lord Husband believed it is… because Jon Snow couldn't have known of his parentage. Everyone else who knew was dead or sworn to silence." Bitterness crept into Catelyn's voice. "I myself feared some woman held my husband's affection, for him to raise a bastard along with his trueborn children. I feared this unknown woman for sixteen years, but she was here all along, in the Crypts below. But can I fault him for loving his sister as he did? A most cruel ruse, but I cannot deny its results."

"So Jon Snow was either speaking the truth, or he was a madman," Myrcella said weakly. "But things inked down were different. They seem wrong. It doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't, indeed. Yet are his actions those of a madman?" Catelyn asked, her smile brittle. "I thought I knew Jon Snow. I watched him like a hawk as he grew and grew for sixteen years, you see. Looking to confirm my worst fears."

"Most women wouldn't suffer her husband's bastard," the Princess noted neutrally.

Her good mother grimaced and made her way to the nearby chair and sat down, clasping her hands together.

"I came to Winterfell, feeling proud of the Stark heir I birthed. I had lain with Ned only one time at the bedding, but it had been enough. Robb was a strong, healthy babe, everything a man would want in a newborn heir. Then I arrived at Winterfell, only to find Jon Snow already there, with his own wetnurse. I hated it, but how could I go against my husband's will?"

Myrcella didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.

"That has rarely stopped many." Especially her royal mother. Everyone knew how Cersei had threatened to kill any of Robert's bastards should they appear near court. Of course, it wasn't as crudely worded. They would encounter an unfortunate and sadly fatal mishap.

"I thought the fault lay with me," Catelyn whispered, her blue eyes gazing in the distance. "I ignored the boy–despite him looking painfully like Ned the more he grew. Worse, all of mine took but Arya took after me. I thought if I gave my husband enough children, he would see I was better than whatever woman held his love and finally send the boy away to one of his many bannermen. Perhaps the clansmen up the hills."

She laughed then, the sound hoarse and dripping with bitterness. "But how could a wife compete with a dead sister for affection?" 

And neither had been from the House of the Dragon. Eddard Stark had always struck Myrcella as an honest and honourable man, yet even he had his faults. Yet it only made her hold him in greater esteem.

"I watched the boy," she continued, voice shaky. "I watched with trepidation how my husband taught him everything he taught our firstborn. Robb and Jon were side by side at almost every lesson and one could easily mistake them for twins when younger the way they were joined by the hip, even if they looked nothing alike. Many still did, but I couldn't, I knew I didn't give birth to that boy, and that it was his only sin. And I knew everything he was capable of. He was a solemn boy and loved to keep to himself. As good as Robb in almost everything and even better at a few things like swordplay, even if he avoided showing off as if it would kill him. Yet for all of his skill, he was still a boy, even at six and ten. Green and young, untested and unbloodied. The Jon Snow I knew could not have done what he did."

Everything was wrong. The rusty, hastily scrawled words, the letter painting a dire picture. It was wrong. But why did it make so much sense?

It all clicked in Myrcella's mind, then—the pieces of the puzzle that eluded her, the reason why Jon Snow had disappeared when he did, why Lord Stark had made so many moves to bolster the Watch, and so much more. 

Gods, it was pure madness. Tales of sorcery, Gods, and impossible things–but Myrcella had her fill of each of them. A year prior, she would struggle to believe, but now?

Could a green boy do what Jon Snow had done?

Venture into the land he ought to have never visited and fight a foe nobody ought to have known how to fight? Not only that, but win? Some might claim Jon Snow won nothing, but sometimes not dying was its own victory. Why did he succeed when veteran rangers of the Watch failed?

If this was madness… perhaps Myrcella was mad, for she was beginning to believe.

Catelyn Stark was not afraid of Jon Snow because he was her husband's bastard. Not entirely. She was afraid because he was a seasoned warrior, a Commander of the Night's Watch, and a King in the North. A King of Winter. And Rhaegar's bastard son besides. How was something so… momentous so easy to ignore? Housing and raising him was treason–by Lord Stark and House Stark. Treason to House Baratheon and treason to her late father.

A part of her could appreciate the irony of her royal father enfeoffing Rhaegar's bastard son by Lyanna. Robert Baratheon loathed everything to do with the House of the Dragon to the point of madness, which was doubly so amusing, considering his own dragonblood lineage. Mother above, her father would be turning in his grave if he knew what he had truly done. Yet the deed was done, and it could not be undone, just as she had already summoned Jon Snow to the defense of the North. 

A thousand questions swam through her head while the words still replayed in her mind. She could feel the bitterness and a profound sense of loss oozing from the words when addressing the dead members of House Stark. Yet it was wise to fear a king, especially one who had ruled Winterfell. 

A thousand more questions swam through her mind. Yet if there was one thing she had learned while growing up in the Red Keep, it was to focus on what was important. Many courtiers tried to distract or mislead you with minor matters, lied, deceived, and boasted, trying to say whatever it was you wanted to hear.

What was important?

"So this is why you're confident Jon Snow can deal with the reavers," Myrcella noted neutrally. "He has fought them before. He had seen battle and death aplenty before." Not a young, untested man but a veteran of many battles. 

"Yes." Catelyn Stark studied her carefully as if seeing her for the first time. Her face betrayed nothing, and even her breathing was even. She remained silent and unmoving, and the Princess could have mistaken her for a statue of the Mother and just as impossible to read. Yet her actions spoke far louder. Catelyn knew of the treasonous secret, yet no word had gotten out. The reason was clear. Family, Duty, Honour: the Tullys were the weakest of the great lords, yet they put family first before everything.

Myrcella's mind raced.

Judging by how the Others were already dealt with and not considered a threat, it was clear that Jon Snow rarely made the same mistake twice, which is the mark of a skilled commander. In the end, the decision was not hard. She would rather deal with Rhaegar's bastard than Hightower, hordes of zealots, and the Reavers.

Yet if House Stark were committing treason by hiding Rhaegar's bastard, Myrcella would be a traitor, too. She was a Stark now; the grey direwolf was clasped around her shoulders, and the vows were said before the gods. Her son was the next Stark, and skilled commanders were direly needed. She feared future trouble far less than the one knocking on her doorstep; after all, claims could be merged.

"I won't tell of this to anyone," she promised, and Catelyn Stark gave her a stiff nod.

***

The Stark Guard, the Northern Mountains

It was chilly up the hills; the wind's bite could be felt even through fur and wool. The rain did not help either, soaking the furs and making their trek miserable.

"Lord Rickon," Wayn cautioned, carefully leading his garron through the tricky path. "Are you sure your brother is here?"

Being the minder of Rickon Stark was not an easy thing. Even more so when the stubborn young boy had convinced his new friend, Edwyle Umber, that they must make their way to the Northern Mountains. Like all men hailing from the line of the Last Hearth, Lord Umber's second son looked to be nearly twelve despite being only eight.

Rickon had escaped twice on his own and a third time with Edwyle Umber, and Wayn had reluctantly decided to simply accompany the young lord lest he foolishly ventured into the wilderness alone. 

"Last we heard, Lord Snow was still Beyond the Wall," Dayn, the Umber Captain accompanying them and his distant half-brother, warned. There were a dozen Stark guardsmen and double that Umber men on this folly. "The Ironmen have warbands raiding across the Bay of Ice, and the more daring ones probably try their luck up the hills."

"My brother is here," Rickon stubbornly insisted. "I know it. I dreamed he came."

And thus, they were here on a childish whim. The only solace Wayn had was that none of the Clansmen would make trouble for a group under the direwolf banner. Not that they met any of them; most villages in the lower hills had been either abandoned or only had women, crones, and young children.

"The men have gone off to fight the reavers," an old woodswitch told them. "Or they answered Winterfell's call. Each one that could still wield a bow or a spear has left."

A part of him was glad that Winterfell would be well-defended. His sister and mother served in the Stark household, too, and if the Stark seat fell, Wayn held no delusions as to what happened to women in a sack.

After the young lord had enough of wandering around the hills and chasing childish follies, the guardsman planned to wheel around and make his way to Breakstone Hill to visit Lady Arya before returning to Last Hearth. He suspected Lady Stark would have his hide for putting Lord Rickon at risk, but Wayn consoled himself with the fact that the Northern Mountains were one of the safest places for a Stark.

"Here," Rickon pointed at the thick shrubbery. The men tensed, putting their mailed fists on their spears and swords when the bushes shook, but it was just Shaggydog, the horse-sized wolf happily padding around with a wagging tail. Their steeds, however, seemed uneasy and started neighing; Wayn had to rein in his garron to calm it down.

Then, Wayn blinked because Shaggydog doubled.

No, the beast didn't double, but another black direwolf came beside him, this one with amber eyes. A third–this time with coat of grey, a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth followed; the handful turned into a dozen, and the dozen turned into a small sea of shaggy fur, some with a coat of dark fur, some grey, some brown, some even russet like fallen leaves.

Yet all of them were of a height and size with their horses.

"Others take me," one of his men yelped.

"You can always join the Watch and try your luck Beyond the Wall," another jested, but his voice quivered, betraying his nervousness.

Rickon, however, hopped off his pony and flung himself into the pack of wolves, straight into the most gargantuan of the beasts. It was a snowy-furred direwolf that towered over his brethren by over a foot and a half, its head easily reaching a rider's own when standing still.The beast could easily be mistaken for an enormous snow bear if not for his muscular yet lean, elongated frame and red eyes.

Wayn's heart leapt into his throat when the enormous shaggy beast opened its maw, but Rickon's brave charge was met with a wet pink tongue on his childish face.

"Ghoooost," the young lord half-whined, half-giggled. "You've grown so much! I see you've found many friends. I told everyone Jon is here, but they wouldn't believe me!"

All the direwolves acted like horse-sized puppies around Rickon of Winterfell as if he was one of theirs, and the young lord was quickly licked clean by the pack. And perhaps he was one of theirs–Wayn now remembered that small, silent, snowy ball with red eyes that Jon Snow had picked for himself. The colouring was unmistakable, even if the size had drastically changed. 

Was… was Rickon right all along with his dreams?

"I never thought I could see so many direwolves in one place," Arold, one of the Umber guardsmen, said carefully. "Usually, the rangers steer clear of any direwolf Beyond the Wall, and those who run afoul of one of them in the woodland rarely live to tell the tale… Let alone a pack of them!"

It was a struggle to get the horses to follow, but they had no choice but to trail after Rickon and the small army of direwolves. Ghost had even let Rickon climb on his neck like an enormous shaggy steed, making the boy even happier, much to the chagrin of his own direwolf, who whined sadly about not being his master's steed. 

It was a surreal sight. But the direwolves set a pace just fast enough that Wayn and the rest could follow, and none made trouble for his men or looked twice at the horses. Such discipline ought to have been impossible for wild beasts, yet…

Noon passed, the hours rolled by, and the sky started to darken as they journeyed over ten leagues westward over forests, hills, lakes, rivers, creeks, and valleys before they finally slowed down. The riders and the horses had begun to grow tired of the long journey and would require plenty of rest soon, and Wayn prayed they would reach their destination before that moment arrived.

"Did the direwolves double again?" Edwyle Umber asked, his voice higher-pitched than usual.

"Looks like it," one of the guardsmen muttered. "Madness."

"We're being watched," Wayn warned the Umber captain.

"Aye, I noticed too. At least for a quarter-hour now, up the trees. Yet I can't see a trace of them." 

They just went over the crest of the hill, revealing a valley swarming with men. Thousands of them had gathered around a forked stream.

The first thing Wayn saw was the enormous Stark banner flying in the sky, halved with a white direwolf head and red eyes that suspiciously looked like Ghost. If there was any doubt of Jon Snow's presence, it was now gone.

"Seven hells, is that a giant?"

The hairy behemoths stood out like a sore thumb between the tents, all shaggy like oversized bears, with furs in brown, black, white, and grey and twice as tall and wide as an Umber.

"There's a bunch o' them!"

The more surprising thing was the orderly rows in which the tents were encamped, reminding him of how Lord Stark organised his camp. Sure, some of the rows weren't as even, but the clansmen were never famed for their exceptional discipline. 

A patrol approached them while they stared, led by a balding yet burly clansman clad in a bronze scale shirt with a silvery ringmail underneath, his face painted with blue runes of the First Men.

"Don't go too close," he warned. "Their sight is awful and might step on you if they're not careful."

"So this must be Rickon's brother's doing," Edwyle Umber muttered, his face filled with awe. "I thought he'd lead wildlings, not the Mountain Clansmen."

Surely enough, the direwolf banner did not stand alone. Irondam, Claycreek, Norrey, Liddle, Knott, Burley, and many more, big and small, could be seen. Only the First Flints and the Wulls were missing, but probably because Stonegate Keep was afar, and their men were fighting the Ironmen while Old Flint was slow to stir and preferred to keep Lady Arya well protected. 

"There are plenty of your clansmen here, but we are of the Free Folk," the warrior with blue runes grunted. "I am Sigorn of the Thenn."

Edwyle's mouth opened and closed like a gaping fish, but no words left his mouth. Wayn was feeling just as confused; the man before him clearly looked like a clansman, one who cared not for heraldry, not some savage from Beyond the Wall… 

Yet there was no time for questions or confusion, as Rickon and his shaggy guard were already going ahead, everyone making way for them.

The Stark guardsmen hastily followed, unwilling to leave their charge out of sight. Wayn glanced around the camp and the many tents littering the valley but couldn't make up wildlings from clansmen if it weren't for the flying banners above. There had to be thousands of men here, for the camp continued over the nearby hill. Yet, after the long journey and too many surprises, his mind was too numb to care. 

Eventually, they stopped at a small clearing before a tall fancy tent that Wayn had seen a hundred times with Lord Stark, and most of the direwolves dispersed lazily through the surroundings, leaving only Ghost's towering form and Shaggydog from the pack. No, they did not truly disperse, Wayn realised, but they arranged themselves in a loose circle and growled in warning at anyone who came near.

Rickon uneasily climbed off the snowy direwolf and rushed to hug a man who looked suspiciously like a younger Lord Stark, if far more scarred and clad in some queer icy armour. It took Wayn a few moments to recognise him, but this was undoubtedly Jon Snow if looking far older and… more dangerous. 

"Ow-ow-ow-ow," Rickon's pained cries echoed as the man grabbed him by the ear and twisted.

"Don't 'ow' at me, brother," the man snorted and let the boy off. "You shouldn't be here. I doubt your Lady Mother would let you travel through the North in times such as these."

For the first time, the young lord had the decency to blush and stopped rubbing his now-red ear. There was a wildling beauty that could easily be mistaken for a dragonseed beside Jon Snow, observing the exchange with mirth. Wayn would easily admit she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, even better looking than the dowager queen and Lady Stark. Yet such women did not settle for lowly men-at-arms like him. His gaze settled on the fussing bundle strapped to her chest. Was the rumours of Lord Snow stealing a spearwife true?

"Uh…"

"Just today, we fought a band of foolish Ironmen," Jon pointed out evenly. It was clear who was the victor, even more so when Lord Eddard's natural son pointed to four pikes set in the ground nearby, crowned by tarred heads. "Lord Netley and his sons, thinking they can earn plenty of thralls and plunder by braving the hills. From here, over a hundred and twenty miles along the coast all the way to the Stonegate Keep, it's all swarming with reavers."

Wayn knew of the Netleys; they were reavers, if somewhat new. Still, they were not a small house and had dozens of captains and a significant number of longships under their command. And now it was gone.

"So," he continued. Jon Snow threw Wayn and the rest of the Stark guardsmen a cold look saying 'I'll deal with you later', before turning to his brother. "Why are you here? Speak louder, brother."

"Err, nobody would listen to me," Rickon whinged. "They all think I'm stupid, but Arya is in trouble-"

"Say what?"

"Arya is in trouble. Theon caught her, and I know you can fix things!"

The childish statement was met with a moment of dreadful silence as Jon looked at a witch with mismatched eyes garbed in a revealing red dress, looking utterly unbothered by the cold and out of place in this camp.

"Your brother seems to be talented," she mused slowly, the young lord shrinking under her curious gaze. "Not in the ways of the Green, but something else, just as obscure. I think it's an instinctive connection to his siblings or at least their direwolves, all of the same litter."

Jon Snow straightened up, and the Stark guardsmen were faced with the full brunt of his harsh grey eyes, making them all uneasy.

"Why would my sister be with Greyjoy?" The question was icy, sending Wayn shivering and tugging on his heavy cloak to ward off the chill. There was not an ounce of hesitation in Jon's words, as if he fully believed the witch and his brother. Perhaps rightly so.

"Arya was supposed to be high up the hills, safely sitting behind the walls of Breakstone Hill," Wayn noted fearfully. "Not anywhere near Ironmen."

"My brother was not supposed to be anywhere near the Ironmen either," Jon Snow retorted, making all of the Stark guardsmen shuffle uneasily. 

The wildling beauty walked over, placing a hand over Jon Snow's stiff shoulder before smiling gently at Rickon. The previous pressure melted away as if it was never there. 

"I'm Val," she said, her voice soothing and kind. Clad in white leather with a shadowskin cloak draped over her shoulders, two long daggers strapped on her belt and a spear in her hand, the woman was undoubtedly a wildling, but even the rough garments sat beautifully on her. "Jon's wife. And this is our daughter, Calla."

"Oh," Rickon's face instantly lit up as he looked at the bundle in her arms before wilting quickly. "I'm already an uncle, though. But Mother and Myrcella don't let me play with Edwyn, Artos, and Lyarra yet."

"You can play with my daughter later, I promise," she ruffled Rickon's hair affectionately before crouching down to face him. "Why don't you tell us first what happened with your sister Arya?"

"Wait," Jon ordered coldly, and all the direwolves tensed as their master turned his head towards the hill to the southwest. A scrawny-looking silvery direwolf with a handful of wounds and many missing patches of fur cautiously pawed towards Jon, sniffing the air, and this one was far more familiar to Wayn than Ghost was.

***

5th Day of the 8th Moon, 299 AC

Arya Stark, outside of Stonegate Keep

Her head pulsed with pain again; while the phantom feeling of coldness in her chest had receded, it had not gone away, and she could no longer remember her dreams. Her mind still felt muddled after Ava's death, if slightly less so.

Once, she hoped that Nymeria would save her, but she had heard the angry storm of barks; Theon had brought dozens of wolfhounds and a kennel master to deal with her companion.

Yet today, her head hurt for a different reason.

The Ironmen were celebrating. Yet this time, it was not the Turncloak becoming a prince, but a victory. She had heard the yells and distant clash of steel, yet just as hope arose in her heart, the fighting halted as quickly as it had begun, and nothing changed for her. 

The clansmen had come down from the hills last night in a desperate bid for a surprise attack, but it had been repelled. Desmera Redwyne no longer visited her; only the old crones came around to bring her food, scrub her clean, change her garments, and empty her chamber pot. Yet her feet and hands always remained shackled to the heavy iron pole in the middle of the tent, denying her any chance of escape.

Even Theon only visited once more.

"This is Torghen Flint's head," he had looked at her with pity as he presented a decapitated head of the chieftain of the First Flints to her on the morrow. "He came here to save you despite being outnumbered more than twelve to one. The bugger still managed to kill a lot of Drumm's men, regardless. You should have stayed away from trouble, Arya."

Arya just looked down at her feet. When Theon left, she cried, for the traitor had not lied. She wept quietly so the Ironmen didn't think they could break her.

The Old Flint was safe up the hills, and the only reason she could think of for him to attack the Ironmen was to save her hide. She was supposed to be in Breakstone Hill, and with her captured, it would be his duty to…

She sobbed quietly, praying for the pain to go away and for someone to help her. To save her. She missed her mother, Sansa, Myrcella's tittering ladies, and even the quarrelsome Septa Mordane, and she wanted to go home. Arya wanted to close her eyes and wake up in Winterfell again, but she only saw this cursed tent, no matter how many times she did it. 

The daylight outside faded, yet the feast outside continued, only making her weep more.

"Tsk," a cold, mocking voice made her veins freeze. It was an ugly, sneering reaver, if better dressed than most. Arya instantly knew who he was by his suit of lobstered plate with a surcoat atop it, depicting Drumm's sinister bone hand. "So you're the little bitch who killed my father? How disappointing–I expected… more."

"Help!" She cried out weakly, hoping for the guards outside to hear her. 

"Nobody will hear a pathetic whelp like you," Drumm scoffed, drawing a crimson sword with dark, smoky ripples. Valyrian Steel. "Had one of my men offer your guards a round at the Northern whores we captured, along with some wine. It was laughably easy. Not so mighty without your bow while hiding from afar and without Theon to guard you?"

"I'm a hostage," she croaked out, the blood in her ears hammering as if trying to break out of her skull. "Theon's hostage. You can't touch me."

"Ah, but Prince Theon is a weak fool," came the chilling reply. "I know King Balon favours his daughter, and it's only a matter of time before she escapes those flowery Greenlanders. Theon cannot afford to lose my support, you see. Besides, no one needs to know I was here if I don't linger for long. I considered tasting you, but gods, there's nothing womanly in an ugly thing like you."

Arya spat in his face, and then she saw stars as her world exploded in pain. The sound of a sword cleaving through the air followed, and the world spun around as the pain quickly drained away. 

Suddenly, she found herself with Nymeria again, feeling strangely distant from everything while howling mournfully along with many more.

***

With the Iron Throne empty and Tywin Lannister perished to a heavy infection, things turned murky in the Sunset lands. While ravens were sent out of King's Landing proclaiming Tommen Baratheon as king, Tommen Baratheon was far away, on the other side of the Narrow Sea, and nobody knew if he would return.

The long-delayed trial of the Seven was finally held in the Vale, and Lady Waynwood's side emerged victorious–if only because Bronze Yohn had fallen ill due to the Black Death, and it was decided that the Seven had decided the Lords of the Vale were to sit out the bloody conflict. 

Joffrey's demise saw many of the wavering Reachmen, and Stormlords continue supporting Renly. It also gave his cause a much-needed breathing room, even if his legitimacy had taken a heavy blow after Hightower and Greyjoy had declared themselves kings. Archmaester Ebrose and his horde of assistants and acolytes finally produced a proper cure for the Black Death, an odd concoction of sage, garlic, turmeric, red clove, and poplar bark. 

Renly promised to make the man his grandmaester if he kept the cure a secret for another two or three moons. Yet when the cure's recipe spread, Ebrose the Merciful, as he became known, lost his head for treason, but it was too late. The concoction proved effective, even if it took two to three days and a skilled herbalist to brew.

With many of these herbs and extracts becoming more valuable than gold, only the rich and the lucky had a better chance at surviving and acquiring the cure, whilst many a common man continued to fall to the illness. 

"To be poor is to die," the saying quickly became popular, especially in the canals. In Braavos alone, a clove of garlic and leaves of red clover were worth thrice its weight in gold. Countless duels were fought over the services of skilled herbalists or a batch of medicine–two of mine own brothers perished for such. One from the Black Death because he couldn't find a healer, and the other to a duel, trying to secure the services of one. Theft became rampant, but the city watch managed to suppress the surge of crime and disorder without inciting a riot.

Yet, despite the plague, the flames of war did not abate.

In the Far East, Khal Drogo blew an enormous runic horn, the terrifying sound breaking the magic of the deathbringers of K'dath and leading an awe-inspiring charge into the enemy lines, crushing the invasion from the Grey Wastes in a decisive manner.

Yet it was said that the storied Khal perished from his wounds after the battle, but his bloodriders turned their arakhs to the Yiti-sh, claiming that Red King had bribed the eunuchs to poison Drogo, for he lusted after his magical horn after seeing its wondrous effects in battle. 

A great victory had turned into a bloody slog as allies turned their blades on each other, and in the end, only a third of Drogo's Khalasar managed to flee, and it lessened even further on their way back to Vaes Dothrak. Qotho, one of his faithful bloodriders, managed to bring the pregnant twin Pearls of Janqi back to the Womb of the World before taking his life as per Dothraki tradition. The Yi-Tish princesses joined the Dosh Khaleen, the widows of Khals, of which Drogo's first wife, Daenerys Targaryen, was already a member. 

The conflict between Lorath and Ibb only turned bloodier with no victor in sight. Qohor's armies seemed to have the upper hand over Norvos, especially as they managed to get Khal Bolo with his seven thousand screamers on their side.

Braavos and Pentos were heavily struck by the Black Death, and the cities' elite focused more on lessening the damage from the plague than on politics.

Yet the situation at Myr did not look good for the Conclave of the Magisters; after a bloody battle at the Sea of Myrth, Shireen Baratheon once again proved victorious, and barely a fifth of the Myrish fleet managed to retreat to the city. Myr was now besieged by Lady Scars by sea and the Bloody Blade by land.

Edmure Tully saw the distance of half a moon between him and Renly quickly widen, for Renly's forces were far lesser in number and had the advantage of speed. At the same time, the marcher lords from the Stormlands and the Reach gathered behind the well-respected and capable Randyll Tarly to face the imminent Dornish invasion and the Golden Company…

Excerpt from 'Lazyro Zelyne's thoughts on the Sunset War'