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Preface
He has been called many names—the Prodigal Prince, the Lost Son, the Son of Ice and Fire. But to me, he was Jon: my first friend, and a found brother.
What follows is a compilation of firsthand accounts, letters, and recollections gathered from the great men and women of that fateful age. From these fragments, I have endeavoured to piece together the life and legacy of Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen.
—Lord Samwell Tarly

Chapter I – The Rebellion

The causes of the great rebellion are well known to most: Queen Lyanna Stark, youngest daughter of Lord Rickard Stark and beloved sister to Brandon and Eddard, was said to have been abducted by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Her father and eldest brother rode to King’s Landing in anger, only to perish by command of King Aerys II. The realm, already restive, teetered on the edge of war.

Yet history may hinge on the smallest of things—a raven delayed, a message misread, a storm over the Dornish Marches.

In this case, it was a storm. One which scattered the ravens and postponed the arrival of a single letter—Queen Lyanna’s letter, written in her hand and intended for her father. In it, she declared herself neither stolen nor unwilling, but wed and well, and carrying a child. By cruel chance, the missive never reached Winterfell in time.

It was Lord Eddard Stark who finally received the letter, but only three days before the infamous Battle of the Bells. By then, Robert Baratheon's rebellion had already begun.

Lord Robert had marched into the Riverlands, expecting the full strength of the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands to rise beside him. Instead, he found himself alone. The same storm that delayed the raven had also slowed the hosts of Stark, Tully, and Arryn.

The Baratheon host was outnumbered and awaiting reinforcements when they were swiftly met by the full force of the royalist armies, led by Lord Jon Connington and bolstered by the Reach and Crownlands. Robert was defeated and taken captive. The rebellion collapsed before it could truly begin.

Seizing the moment, Prince Rhaegar emerged from the shadows of his father’s reign. With the crown in crisis, he moved quickly. He secured the loyalty of Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jonothor Darry and assumed the title of Prince Regent.

At Sunspear, Prince Lewyn Martell received a sealed letter and command from Rhaegar himself, urging him to bring House Martell into the fold. Prince Doran, wise and cautious, bent the knee without resistance.

From there, Rhaegar rode to Harrenhal, where Lords Stark, Arryn, and Tully had gathered. Though they had yet to formally rebel, the presence of Robert in their cause had drawn them close to treason. With the queen’s letter in hand and Robert imprisoned, Rhaegar offered peace.

He spoke of reform, swore to curb his father’s excesses, and offered full pardons to all. In that ancient, broken hall, he won the loyalty of five of the great houses—Stark, Tully, Arryn, Tyrell, and Martell.

Only one house remained unaccounted for: the Lannisters.

Prince Rhaegar, mindful of Lord Tywin's ambitions and long silence during the conflict, kept him in the dark. Some say it was mistrust; others say it was wisdom. But it was all for nought. Before Rhaegar could march on King’s Landing, the Mad King was dead, slain by one of his own Kingsguard, his blood pooling at the foot of the Iron Throne.

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Chapter II – The Iron Throne

"Burn them. Burn them all."

These were the only words Ser Jaime Lannister heard for two days after being named sworn shield to King Aerys II.

There were no petitioners—war had emptied the court—and even if there had been, few would have dared approach the Iron Throne. The Mad King took offence at everything and nothing, and his punishments were always the same: wildfire.

The Red Keep had grown hollow. Only the King, Princess Elia, her children, and Ser Jaime remained.

Then came three men bearing grave tidings: Rossart the pyromancer, Varys the Spider, and Grand Maester Pycelle. Tywin Lannister had arrived at the gates of King’s Landing with twelve thousand men and declared for House Targaryen.

Ser Jaime, who knew his father better than most, understood at once what that meant. Lord Tywin did not declare for the losing side. He had come not to save Aerys, but to remove him.

Jaime opened his mouth to speak, but froze. Whether it was vision, dream, or madness, he never knew. When he came to himself again, his sword was wet with blood and his breath was ragged with rage.

The throne room was silent. Grand Maester Pycelle lay disembowelled, his entrails steaming on cold stone. Varys’s body had been hewn nearly in two, cloven from shoulder to hip. Rossart's head was missing entirely.

And King Aerys II slumped lifeless across its jagged seat. The blades had pierced his throat, his legs, his hands—he died impaled by the very symbol of his rule.

Jaime stood a long moment in silence. Then he laughed—a dry, bitter sound—as he tore the white cloak from his shoulders and wiped his sword clean upon it.

These events have been reconstructed from Ser Jaime Lannister’s own words, as well as accounts recorded by Queen Elia Martell and the surviving servants of the Red Keep.

The servants say that as Ser Jaime ran toward Maegor’s Holdfast—his golden armour shining, his lion helm blazing in the sun—he seemed the very image of the Warrior himself.

He reached Princess Elia’s chambers first. Barricading the door with an oaken dresser, he told her only: "Hold fast. I will come for you again."

Then he raised the drawbridge to the holdfast.

An hour passed before the beasts came—Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch.

They announced their intent: to kill the princess and her children. But Ser Jaime Lannister stood his ground, as Sandoq the Shadow had once done in ancient tales.

"Cross this bridge," he warned them, "and one of us dies."

Ser Amory Lorch charged first. Jaime struck him down with a single blow.

Then came the Mountain.

Jaime did not raise his blade. Instead, he spoke: "You know my father. Do you think he will spare the man who kills the pride of Casterly Rock?"

Ser Gregor hesitated. And then, without a word, he turned and walked away.

These events have been preserved through the testimony of Queen Elia and the chambermaids who survived the siege.

Ser Jaime held the bridge for another day, until the arrival of Prince Rhaegar with the combined armies of the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Crownlands.

The trial that followed was held in private, within the council chambers of the Red Keep. Prince Rhaegar, newly crowned, presided alongside Lord Eddard Stark, Lord Hoster Tully, and Lord Jon Arryn.

The records of that trial were sealed. No known document survives detailing the full account of why Ser Jaime Lannister slew King Aerys, Pycelle, Rossart, and Varys. When pressed, Ser Jaime would offer only one answer:

"The king swore me to silence."

The day after the trial, Ser Jaime Lannister rode south beside Lord Eddard Stark.

Their destination: the Tower of Joy.

Their purpose: to bring back the three remaining members of the Kingsguard—Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent, and Ser Arthur Dayne—and with them, Queen Lyanna Stark and the newborn prince or princess of House Targaryen.

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Chapter III – The King’s Justice

The Red Keep, near-abandoned only days before, now swelled with lords and banners from across the Seven Kingdoms. The halls of Aegon’s seat echoed with quiet tension—nobles whispering behind sleeves, septons muttering prayers, scribes readying ink and parchment. All had come to witness the birth of a new reign.

On the day of his coronation, His Grace, King Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, chose solemnity over splendour. There were no feasts, no tourneys, and no songs.

As recorded by the High Septon, the ceremony was brief. The King was anointed with seven oils and crowned with King Maekar’s Iron circlet. Then he held court.

His first decree was simple: the truth must be known. Justice would be done, and the realm would learn where all men stood.

The Trials

1. Ser Jaime Lannister, of the Kingsguard

Crimes:
Regicide (King Aerys II Targaryen)
Murder of the Hand of the King (Rossart, pyromancer)
Murder of the Grand Maester (Pycelle)
Murder of the Master of Whisperers (Varys)
Treason against the Crown (alleged collusion with Tywin Lannister)

Verdict: Pardoned (reasons undisclosed)

Judges: King Rhaegar Targaryen, Lord Hoster Tully, Lord Jon Arryn

2. Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch (Posthumous)

Crimes:
Attempted murder of Queen Elia Martell
Attempted murder of Princess Rhaenys Targaryen
Attempted murder of Prince Aegon Targaryen

Verdict: Guilty on all charges (eyewitness testimony: Ser Jaime Lannister)

Judges: King Rhaegar Targaryen, Lord Hoster Tully, Lord Jon Arryn

Punishment:
Ser Gregor Clegane – Beheaded by King Rhaegar himself, as four men held his bindings.
Ser Amory Lorch – Slain by Ser Jaime Lannister at Maegor’s Holdfast

3. Lord Tywin Lannister, of Casterly Rock

Crimes:
Treason against the Crown
Conspiracy to murder House Targaryen
War crimes (Sack of King’s Landing)

Verdict:
Not guilty on the first two charges (due to lack of evidence)
Guilty of the Sack of King’s Landing

Judges: King Rhaegar Targaryen, Lord Hoster Tully, Lord Jon Arryn

Punishment:
Permanent banishment from King’s Landing
Heavy fines to support the reconstruction of the capital
A thirty-per-cent increase in Lannister taxation for twenty years
His heir, Tyrion Lannister, was taken to court as a hostage.

4. Lord Robert Baratheon, of Storm’s End

Crimes:
Rebellion against the Crown (under the false belief that Lyanna Stark had been abducted)

Verdict: Guilty

Judges: King Rhaegar Targaryen, Lord Hoster Tully, Lord Jon Arryn

Punishment:
A pardon was offered if he bent the knee. Instead, Lord Robert broke free of his captors and charged the Iron Throne, roaring curses.
He was slain by Ser Barristan Selmy with a single clean stroke.
His baseborn daughter, Mya Stone, was taken to Dragonstone to be raised under royal protection.

King Rhaegar, having witnessed firsthand the horrors wrought by his father’s madness, proclaimed a new clause to the oath of the Kingsguard:
Henceforth, the Kingsguard shall be sworn not solely to the person of the King, but to the realm itself. Should a monarch command acts deemed morally abhorrent—especially harm toward women or children—the Kingsguard shall have the right to refuse.

This decree was met with murmurs of discomfort. Yet none dared voice dissent in the throne room that day.

To prevent further bloodshed, the King issued full pardons to all lords who had followed Robert Baratheon. He commanded Stannis Baratheon to present himself in King’s Landing and swear fealty, under royal protection and without fear of punishment.

As the court prepared to disperse, the great doors of the throne room swung open.

Through them came Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent, and Ser Arthur Dayne—three of the seven Kingsguard long absent from the city. At their side walked Ser Jaime Lannister, newly reinstated in white.

And with them came Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, solemn and grave, cradling a swaddled infant in his arms.

When asked of Lyanna Stark, Lord Eddard spoke simply:

"She died bringing her son into the world. Her final words were his name—Jaehaerys. Jaehaerys Targaryen."

The hall fell into stunned silence. Witnesses say the King’s face softened—just for a moment. A small, fleeting smile played at his lips before Lord Stark added:

"She is gone, Your Grace."

A cry of grief broke from the Iron Throne. The King’s anguish was so great that it is said he never smiled again.

Ser Jaime Lannister, restored to the Kingsguard, cast aside his golden armour. His lion helm was reforged in silver, and from that day forward, he was known to the realm as the White Lion.

Prince Jaehaerys, the newborn son of Rhaegar and Lyanna, was deemed too frail to remain at court. The King, unable to bear the sight of him, sent the child to Dragonstone to be raised away from court and memory.

He was entrusted to the care of three sworn brothers of the Kingsguard:
Ser Jaime Lannister – sworn to Prince Jaehaerys
Ser Barristan Selmy – sworn to Queen Rhaella Targaryen
Ser Jonothor Darry – sworn to Prince Viserys Targaryen

The remaining Kingsguard were reassigned thus:
Ser Gerold Hightower – to King Rhaegar
Ser Lewyn Martell – to Queen Elia Martell
Ser Arthur Dayne – to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen
Ser Oswell Whent – to Prince Aegon Targaryen

The King held his youngest son but once. He whispered, "He reminds me of her," and placed the child into the arms of a wet nurse.

Some claim Jaime's assignment was meant as a slight, a humiliation for a kingslayer. But if so, it was in this duty that Ser Jaime Lannister found honour—and perhaps redemption.

It is said Lord Stark once asked if the boy might be fostered in the North, but King Rhaegar refused.

Thus began the life of Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Forgotten Prince—sent away not for his safety, but because his father could not bear the shadow he cast.

Postscript:
Before the Kingsguard departed for Dragonstone, the Queen Mother, Rhaella Targaryen, gave birth to a daughter—a healthy girl born during a storm that scattered the royal fleet.
She was named Princess Daenerys Stormborn.

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Chapter IV – Aerys’s Seven

The Kingsguard of Aerys II Targaryen is often remembered as a paradox—an anomaly in the long history of Westeros.

While the Mad King’s Small Council was filled with sycophants, cowards, and flatterers who bowed to madness out of fear or ambition, his Kingsguard—Aerys’s Seven—were knights of unmatched skill and legendary honour. Such a storied brotherhood has served no monarch before or since.

And yet, for all their renown, they were bound by chains no sword could break. Sworn to obey, they bore silent witness to the cruelties of a madman. They protected a king unworthy of their protection and watched helplessly as he burned and butchered his realm.

Their white cloaks, meant to symbolise purity, became veils for a reign drenched in fire and blood.

But after the fall of Aerys and the rise of King Rhaegar, they found—if not redemption—then at least a measure of peace. Under a just and wise ruler, their vows became shields again, not shackles.

Here follows an account of how Aerys’s Seven fared in the early years of Rhaegar’s reign.

1. Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull
Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, sworn shield of King Rhaegar Targaryen

No knight among them experienced a greater transformation than Ser Gerold Hightower. Once bound to a tyrant, he now served a grieving king, one weighed down not by madness but by mourning.

King Rhaegar Targaryen, after the death of Queen Lyanna Stark, withdrew from the world. He appeared only for court and council, and even then, his eyes rarely lifted from the floor. Servants whispered of muffled sobs behind the doors of the royal apartments. Yet sorrow did not make him a poor king—only a distant one.

Every second day, without fail, he held court. He governed wisely, dispensing justice with a steady hand. Gone were the Mad King’s lickspittles; in their place, Rhaegar named men and women of proven merit:

Hand of the King: Lord Jon Connington
Master of Laws: Lord Stannis Baratheon
Master of Coin: Lord Wyman Manderly
Mistress of Whisperers: Queen Dowager Rhaella Targaryen (speaking through her husband, Ser Bonifer Hasty)
Master of Ships: Ser Davos Seaworth
Grand Maester: Gormon
Lord Commander of the Kingsguard: Ser Gerold Hightower

In the tenth year of his reign, the King established a new office—Master of City Works—to rebuild and modernise King’s Landing. To general surprise, he appointed Tyrion Lannister, still a hostage at court. Intended as an insult, it became his triumph.

Under Lord Tyrion’s guidance, the city saw the construction of aqueducts, underground plumbing, and new healing halls funded by Queen Elia Martell. Yet for all these achievements, the King remained alone. He ruled justly, but as a father, husband, and son, he was absent.

2. Prince Lewyn Martell
Sworn shield of Queen Elia Martell

Prince Lewyn found quiet contentment in the new reign. His niece, Queen Elia, lived in peace, raising her children and funding charity. But her marriage to King Rhaegar remained fractured.

She had never forgiven the second marriage. And Rhaegar, for all his wisdom, never tried to mend the rift. They lived in the same castle but walked different paths.

3. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning
Sworn shield of Princess Rhaenys Targaryen

Once the realm’s most feared swordsman, Ser Arthur Dayne, spent his days chasing after the whirlwind that was Princess Rhaenys.

The child was a prodigy—fearless, brilliant, and endlessly curious. At six, she vanished for three days, returning covered in dust, her cat Balerion in one hand and a torn parchment in the other. She had mapped the hidden tunnels beneath the castle. That map now rests in the royal vaults.

At eight, she stormed into the Small Council and demanded new maesters, claiming Grand Maester Gormon had nothing left to teach her. The King granted her request.

She came to be called “The Dragon Maester.”

4. Ser Jonothor Darry
Sworn shield of Prince Viserys, later reassigned to Prince Aegon Targaryen.

At nine, Prince Viserys was sent to Starfall as a ward. His pride, however, did not stay behind. By twelve, he had insulted Lady Ashara Dayne so severely that the King reassigned Ser Jonothor to Prince Aegon instead.

Prince Aegon, for his part, was a mystery. Charming and loved by his peers, he showed little interest in arms or statecraft. He preferred song, and it was said his voice echoed the beauty of his father’s in his youth.

5. Ser Oswell Whent, the Bat
Sworn shield of Prince Viserys Targaryen

Ser Oswell, who once trained Rhaegar in swordplay, now faced his most unruly pupil.

He disciplined the young prince without ever striking him. Each day began with Viserys running the training yard a hundred times. Misbehaviour added twenty more laps.

Within a year, the Bat had tamed the Dragon.

6. Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold
Sworn shield of Princess Daenerys Targaryen

The Queen Dowager, Rhaella, had long since escaped her torment. Six years after her husband’s death, she married Ser Bonifer Hasty in a quiet ceremony on Dragonstone.

While she rarely left the isle, her reach extended far. Her new “Holy Thousand”—an expansion of Bonifer’s Holy Hundred—acted as a hidden net of informants across the realm.

Her youngest daughter, Princess Daenerys, was a storm incarnate. She despised the septas, demanding lessons in strategy, warfare, and command.

At eight, she insisted that Ser Barristan train her. Under his tutelage, she became a skilled archer and swordswoman, though she never took to horses.

They began to call her “Visenya Reborn.”

7. Ser Jaime Lannister, the White Lion
Sworn shield of Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen

Ser Jaime’s early years at Dragonstone were filled with fear.

Prince Jaehaerys was born with weak lungs. His breath came shallow, and he suffered frequent fits. Maester Cressen doubted he would live past seven.

He rarely left his chambers. The King never visited him.

On his sixth nameday, a small celebration was held. Overexerted with excitement, the boy collapsed. He gasped for air, his lips turning blue. The hall fell silent.

Maester Cressen said only: “The boy will live if he sees the dawn.”

No one slept that night. Princess Daenerys and Mya Stone wept outside the Maester’s door. Queen Rhaella tried to comfort them.

Ser Jaime later told me: “If the boy had died, I would have thrown myself into the sea.”

But the dawn came. And with it, a breath—deep and full. The illness passed. Within months, Jaehaerys grew tall, his strength blooming with each sunrise.

By his seventh year, he trained daily with Jaime and Ser Barristan. He took to swordplay, archery, and riding like a Targaryen to dragonflame.

It was then that he chose his name. “Call me Jon,” he told his family. “That’s who I am.”

He and Mya Stone shared a love for mischief. Her dry wit made the solemn prince laugh. Some called her “the traitor’s bastard”, but Jon never cared for court whispers.

More interesting was his bond with Princess Daenerys. During his long illness, she alone visited him daily. When he recovered, he joined her in her training. Their friendship deepened, and Queen Rhaella called them “twin flames—destined to burn together.”

The three—Jon, Daenerys, and Mya—filled the gloomy halls of Dragonstone with light, laughter, and trouble. Together, they were the island’s heart.

Jon had never set foot in King’s Landing.

When I asked him why, he said only:

“The family I care for is already here. If the King wishes to see me, he knows where to find me.”

These were the lives of Aerys’s Seven in the early years of King Rhaegar’s reign.

All would change on the Prince’s tenth nameday—

The day the King summoned his entire family to court.

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Chapter V – The Feast

Jon once confided in me that when Princess Daenerys first laid eyes on the Red Keep, she frowned and said, "This? This is it?"

He told me he had felt the same.

It was his first time leaving Dragonstone, and though excitement stirred within him, so did unease. He would be meeting the other half of his family—those he had only heard about in murmurs and closed-door conversations.

As a child, he once mistook the Queen Dowager for his mother. But as he grew older and wiser, he learnt the truth. For a time, he believed his father did not even know he existed. That illusion shattered on his seventh nameday, when "Gamma"—as he still called Queen Rhaella—returned from court with a sword and a sealed letter.

The letter remained unread. The sword was all Jon needed. It gleamed with the King’s sigil, but to Jon, it was colder than Valyrian steel. Not a gift. A formality.

Proof that the King remembered him, but could not bring himself to look upon him.

The carriage wheels rattled across the stone as they passed the gates of the Red Keep. When Jon stepped out beside Princess Daenerys and Queen Rhaella, his eyes went first to the tower shadows, and then to the people waiting to greet them.

Among them stood a man with fine robes and silver hair swept back in courtly fashion—Prince Viserys Targaryen.

Gone was the petulant child Jon had heard stories of. Before him stood a man of seven and ten, composed and contrite.

Viserys bowed his head to his mother first. "I am sorry," he said, voice thick with something like shame.

He embraced Daenerys next, brushing a kiss to her brow. Then, finally, he turned to Jon.

"I remember you," Viserys said softly. "Before Rhaegar sent me to Starfall, I prayed for you. In the sept, before the weirwood, before the gods of old Valyria—I prayed that you would live." He looked at Daenerys. "And you, sister—I was the first to hold you when you were born. I named you Stormborn."

He exhaled, as though releasing ten years of silence. "I should have come sooner. I will be better. A brother, an uncle—you deserve that much."

Jon only nodded. He said nothing, but the words lodged behind his teeth: You had ten years.

The throne room was thronged with lords and courtiers. Jon walked between towering pillars and watchful eyes, his new cloak billowing behind him. He heard whispers—some curious, others scornful.

To them, he was not a prince. He was a question, a threat, an anomaly.

Then the herald’s voice rang out:

"The Queen Dowager, Rhaella Targaryen! Prince Viserys Targaryen! Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone!"

Jon stiffened. Dragonstone?

Viserys leaned in with a smirk. "Oh yes. Rhaegar has ordered the reconstruction of Summerhall. The Crown Prince should be closer to the court. That means you, dear nephew, are now Prince of Dragonstone."

Jon offered only a hum of acknowledgement, but his mind twisted. A title... or a cage? Another exile, cloaked in gold?

He ascended the stairs beneath the Iron Throne. Above him loomed the seat itself, a monument of blades and shadows. So many men had died to forge it. So many more to keep.

To the right of the throne sat a frail woman crowned in pearls and jet—Queen Elia Martell. Her eyes, dark as old wine, met Jon’s. Not anger. Not warmth. Something harder to place—caution, perhaps. Pity.

Beside her stood her daughter, Princess Rhaenys, tall, proud, and beautiful—but her frown was etched deep. Her gaze lingered on Jon just long enough to curl into quiet distaste.

Ahead stood Jon Connington, the King’s Hand, his arms folded like iron bars.

Then, the great doors opened.

King Rhaegar Targaryen entered, draped in black and crowned with Maekar’s crown—iron and red gold, severe as his stare. His face bore the lines of a man who had outlived joy.

His violet eyes paused briefly on Jon. No smile. No welcome. Then he climbed the steps of the throne and sat in silence.

"Welcome, lords and ladies of Westeros. I bid you joy on this feast celebrating ten years of peace. Eat, drink, and be merry."

His voice was solemn. Dutiful. He did not look at Jon again.

Then he rose and exited through the king’s passage, followed by Lord Commander Hightower.

Jon fled to the training yard. There, under a bleached sky, he found solace in the clash of steel. His blade met Ser Jaime’s in a sharp rhythm. The White Lion moved with ease, but Jon held his own.

A crowd gathered. Among them, a boy with silver hair and a cruel smile—Prince Aegon.

"By the gods," Aegon said, loud enough for all to hear. "The White Lion himself. Truly a pleasure, Ser Jaime."

Jaime inclined his head. "An honour, my prince. The last I saw you, you were but six moons old."

Aegon ignored the civility, his gaze sliding to Jon. "Though I must say, Ser, your skill is wasted on this wolf pup."

Jon, removing his helm, paused. His fingers clenched.

Jaime’s tone darkened. "Perhaps a match, then? My squire against Ser Jonothor’s?"

Aegon scoffed. "I am no one’s squire. I am the future King. I need no master."

He stepped closer. "So, I’ve finally met you. The miracle boy. The warrior born from death."

Jon’s stare was ice. "And you’re Aegon. When I hear ‘Crown Prince,’ I picture a dragon. All I see is a wyrm."

Aegon’s smile curdled. "Death would have been kinder to you. Life will not be."

Then, as he turned, he muttered: "Bloody bastard son of a wolf-whore, thinking he can threaten me."

Jon moved without thought.

He slammed into Aegon, driving him to the ground. Fists fell like hammers. He felt cartilage snap beneath his knuckles. Blood sprayed.

"Talk about my mother again—one more time!"

Strong arms yanked him back—Jaime’s, Jonothor’s.

Aegon lay stunned, gasping, blood flowing from his broken nose.

The courtyard was dead silent.

A single voice rose above it all. "The princes will attend His Grace. Now."

Ser Arthur Dayne stood at the steps, unreadable. Behind him, Princess Rhaenys stared, eyes shimmering—not with rage, but grief.

Jon never spoke of what passed in the King’s solar that day.

But the world remembers what came next.

That night, Jon was exiled to Winterfell.

Ser Jaime Lannister rode beside him in silence. Mya Stone, defiant and loyal, insisted on going with him. She left without hesitation, proclaiming, "If he’s cast out, then so am I." No one dared stop her.

Yet within the hour of their departure, Queen Dowager Rhaella stormed into the King’s chambers. What passed between mother and son is not written, but it is said her voice could be heard beyond the solar.

She reminded the King who the boy was.

Not just his son—her grandson. The last thing Lyanna Stark had ever given the realm.

By the time the King issued the command for Jon’s return, the moon had not yet reached its peak.

But the rider carrying that order would never leave on time.

Lord Jon Connington, still Hand of the King at that hour, intercepted it. He delayed it deliberately, claiming the need to "review the terms of the reversal.”

By the time the rider was loosed, Jon, Jaime, and Mya were already past Rosby, riding beneath a sky of pale grey.

That same night, Lord Jon Connington was dismissed from his position as Hand of the King. The order came swiftly and without ceremony.

In his place, Lord Stannis Baratheon was appointed—stern, incorruptible, and loyal only to the law.

When I once asked Jon why he had not returned after hearing of the King's change of heart, he said only this:

"I could not return. Not then. Not until I was strong enough—strong enough that the King could never order me again."

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Chapter VI – Winterfell

Winterfell was the closest Jon ever came to having a true family, aside from Dragonstone. But Winterfell was different. It was his mother’s world, her blood, her history.

He was awed the first time he laid eyes on it. The castle rose from the snow like a fortress from another age, its grey stone walls ancient and resolute, the First Keep looming like a sentinel. Steam drifted from the hot springs, and the quiet godswood stood serene beneath the weight of centuries.

Unlike his brief stay in King’s Landing, where eyes followed him with suspicion and whispers chased his heels, Winterfell greeted him not with fanfare, but with a quiet, honest welcome. His ‘Gamma’ had told him, long ago, that his uncle, Lord Eddard Stark, had once pleaded with King Rhaegar to raise the boy in the North—only to be refused.

That knowledge gave Jon comfort. Here, at least, he was not an outsider.

What Jon wanted more than anything was to see his mother’s tomb.

He had studied the Stark line before arriving, learning all he could about his uncles, his aunt, and his cousins. And it did not take long before he felt at home among them.

There was a complication regarding Mya Stone. She had, technically, been removed from Dragonstone without leave and was still considered a ward of the Crown. But Jon sent a letter to King’s Landing, written in a firm, princely hand, declaring that Mya was now in his service—and under his protection. The matter was quietly dropped.

Lady Catelyn Stark, however, was less accommodating. She offered Jon the courtesy his rank demanded, but her silence toward Mya spoke volumes. The baseborn girl was a thorn in her side—a symbol of rebellion and blood—and though she never said so outright, Jon saw it in her eyes. But no one in Winterfell challenged the prince. Mya remained by his side.

Jon and Lord Robb became fast friends, bound by shared blood and a love of the sword. With Ser Jaime Lannister overseeing their training, the two boys grew into formidable young warriors.

Lady Sansa quickly warmed to her princely cousin, delighted by the tales he read to her in the evenings—stories of gallant knights, noble kings, and enchanted forests.

And everywhere Jon turned, there was Arya—muddy-faced and wild-eyed, waving a stick like a sword, shouting challenges to invisible foes.

Jon joined his younger cousins in their daily studies with Maester Luwin, taking a keen interest in finance, High Valyrian, foreign cultures, and, to everyone's surprise, sailing and navigation.

Yet through it all, he never forgot his mother.

Every night, before bed, he walked alone into the crypts. Sometimes he carried a single blue winter rose. Other times he brought none. He would sit beneath her statue, often until the candles burned low, his shoulders still, his eyes red. Ser Jaime disapproved of these visits—“Nothing good comes from sleeping with ghosts,” he once said—but he never stopped them.

Later, Jon would tell me he never blamed Lyanna Stark for how his life turned out.

“The blame,” he said, “belongs to the King. A man with a crown and two children, who played songs and dreams while my mother bled to death. A man who never tried—not once—to speak to the son she died for.”

But he never stopped writing to Dragonstone. Every fortnight, he sent letters and small gifts—paintings, wood carvings, pressed flowers—to his Gamma, Princess Daenerys, and Ser Bon. Years later, I would learn that Daenerys had kept every single letter.

Three years passed.

By the time young Bran was old enough to join their daily lessons, Jon’s ambitions had begun to take shape.

He had received his royal stipend every year but had hardly touched it. Instead, he deposited nearly all of it with the Iron Bank of Braavos, letting it grow with interest.

He learned to swim in the White Knife and spent weeks in White Harbour, studying naval logistics, seamanship, and ship-to-ship combat. He bought his first vessel—a small galley—which he named The Winter Rose, in honour of his mother. But it wasn’t enough.

He wanted something more.

Two years later, he began the search for a heavy carrack—a vessel strong, swift, and built for battle. But no shipwright in the North had ever constructed such a thing. Jon sent out ravens across Westeros—to Gulltown, Seagard, Pyke, Lannisport, the Arbor, Driftmark, Oldtown, and even King’s Landing.

Only one reply came.

A shipwright from Lannisport, a man named Morys, claimed he had drawn plans for just such a vessel. He invited Jon to come and see them, promising to build a ship worthy of a Targaryen prince.

Jon began to prepare.

He, Ser Jaime, and Mya would ride to Sea Dragon Point, where The Winter Rose awaited them. From there, they would sail down the western coast toward Lannisport.

Before departing, Jon sent out invitations to every corner of the realm, calling for skilled sailors, warriors, artisans, and scholars, highborn or smallfolk, to gather in Lannisport within a moon’s time. He sought not just a crew, but a cause.

Robb and Arya begged to come along, but Jon refused—and Lord Stark agreed. The western shores were lawless, the seas unpredictable. He would not endanger them.

Jon did not yet know that, far to the west, Balon Greyjoy had declared himself King of the Iron Islands. His longships had already slipped their moorings, their sails bound for the golden ports of the Reach—and Lannisport itself.

And thus, the first voyage of Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen began.

The exile had become a sailor. The forgotten son had set out to carve a name for himself—not with a crown, but with a ship, a sword, and a fire that no one could extinguish.

Chapter Text

Chapter VII – Lannisport

After a long and arduous journey by road and sea, Jon and his companions found respite as they crossed the Neck. The waters of the Sunset Sea were warmer here, the salt air gentler than the cold bite of the North. They fished, swam, and trained. On the deck of The Winter Rose, Ser Jaime taught Jon how to fight aboard a moving ship—how to keep his footing when the ground beneath you swayed like a drunk.

Jon felt something shift in him during that voyage, a quiet deepening like a sword being drawn from its scabbard. Since arriving in Winterfell, he had been plagued by strange dreams—visions of hunting through the eyes of wolves, of flying high above forests and oceans on wings not his own.

He had taken to falconry with eerie ease, though no bird yet claimed him. And now, since they left the North, an eagle had followed them. A massive creature, black-plumed with golden eyes, soared over their ship like a silent guardian. The crew muttered about omens and cursed the bird, but Jon felt no fear.

Once, he climbed the rigging and held out his arm. The eagle did not flee. It only watched, unblinking, as if it knew him. And something inside Jon stirred in answer.

Lannisport was unlike anything Jon had ever seen. Not as vast as King’s Landing, but cleaner, richer, and better kept. The harbours teemed with merchant cogs and sleek war galleys, their sails bright with heraldry. Along the docks sat the Lannister fleet—rows of crimson banners stitched with golden lions.

And high above it all, carved into the very bones of the western cliffs, loomed Casterly Rock, massive and eternal.

Jon turned to Ser Jaime. “Will you visit your family?”

Jaime’s jaw clenched. His golden hair caught the sunlight, but his eyes were shadowed. “My duty is to you, Jon,” he said at last. “I won’t risk it for sentiment.”

Jon let the matter drop.

Instead, they headed into the city, seeking the shipwright who had promised to build a vessel unlike any other. Mya remained behind, preferring the rhythm of the sea to the press and noise of the streets.

It took the better part of the morning to locate the workshop. Inside, they haggled over hull curves and timber types, iron fastenings, and sailcloth quality. It was high noon when they finally shook hands on the design.

As they stepped into the street, a shadow blocked their path.

A massive figure stood waiting, clad in dark leather and soot-stained mail. His face, half-burned and grim, was unmistakable: Sandor Clegane.

Jaime stepped forward, shielding Jon instinctively. “Clegane. What, did your kennel break open?”

Sandor spat. “Fuck off, Kingslayer. Your father sent me. Said the boy might need a dog.”

Jon studied the man. The burned ruin of his cheek, the brooding presence—he looked like a monster, but his eyes were steady.

“Why should I trust you?” Jon asked.

“He’s a bitter bastard, but loyal,” Jaime muttered. “And I killed his brother, the one who ruined his face, so I already have his favour.”

Jon nodded. “Sandor Clegane, I welcome you into my service. But know this—if you harm the innocent, I’ll end you myself. Is that understood?”

The Hound grunted. “Clear as fucking crystal.”

Then the bells began to ring.

A harsh clang filled the city, frantic and sharp. Jon turned toward the harbour—and froze. Smoke.

He grabbed a passing sailor. “What’s happening?”

“Ironborn!” the man gasped. “They’re raiding the harbour!”

Jon’s breath caught.

Mya.

He ran. Behind him, Jaime and Sandor shouted for him to wait, but the world narrowed—only the ship, only her.

The harbour was in chaos.

Smoke rose in oily black plumes. Ships burned. Men screamed. Ironborn in reeking leathers fought dock guards and merchants alike. Jon pushed through the crowd, chest heaving,
vision wild.

Above it all circled the eagle, black wings cutting the sky like a blade.

And then—he was the eagle.

For a heartbeat, Jon soared. His vision sharpened. From above, he saw Mya on the deck of The Winter Rose, pale and terrified. And behind her, climbing silently over the stern—a man with dark hair, an eyepatch, and a cruel grin.

The vision snapped.

Jon stumbled, breath ragged, heart hammering. But he knew.

He sprinted faster.

Mya

She had been in the cabin when the first blast struck. The ship shook, throwing her from the cot. When she reached the deck, she saw the harbour ablaze.

She turned toward the gangplank—but a whistle stopped her.

A man stood there. Lean, salt-streaked, clad in black leather. His single visible eye glittered.

“I am the Crow’s Eye,” he purred. “Euron of House Greyjoy.”

Mya’s fingers closed around the whip at her side.

“What do you want?” she snapped.

Euron grinned. “I saw a dragon’s banner and thought—what prize hides beneath it? If not gold, then perhaps… a bastard stag.”

He lunged.

Mya struck. The whip cracked across his shoulder. Euron hissed, then laughed.

She dropped the whip and grabbed her sledgehammer. The blow hit his chestplate with a dull thud, staggering him.

He came back harder. A slash to her leg. She screamed, falling.

He loomed over her, boot pressing down on her hand. “Nasty girl,” he mused. “But I’ve broken worse.”

His sabre rose—

And then the eagle fell from the sky.

It struck with the fury of a storm. Talons raked his face. Blood sprayed. Euron howled.

Jon

Jon saw Euron stumble back, face torn, eye ruined. He stepped onto the deck, sword in hand.

“You wanted a dragon,” he said. “Here I am.”

Euron’s grin returned, ragged and red. “A wolf, too? Then I’ll have a fine cloak indeed.”

He lunged.

They clashed. Steel rang. Jon saw the dent in Euron’s breastplate and drove his blade into it.

The Greyjoy shuddered. And died.

Jon stared down at the body. His first kill. It did not feel like glory. It felt like thunder in his chest and blood on his hands.

A roar split the air.

Victarion Greyjoy, massive and armoured, charged across the deck.

Jaime tackled him mid-stride. They crashed, rolling. Victarion smashed his axe down—once, twice—Jaime barely blocking.

Then Sandor was there.

His sword flashed a brutal arc. Victarion’s throat opened in a crimson spray.

Clegane kicked the corpse aside. “Not even a fucking day, and already saving your soft arse,” he growled.

Jaime groaned, bloody and grinning. “You’re welcome, Clegane.”

He turned to Jon, voice steady. “You saved her, Jon. You did what had to be done.”

Jon said nothing.

Jaime exhaled. “Kneel, my prince.”

Jon dropped to one knee.

Jaime drew his blade, placing it on Jon’s shoulder. “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave…”

The words faded into the smoke and wind.

When Jon rose, he was no longer just a boy.

He was Ser Jaehaerys Targaryen.

A knight of the Seven Kingdoms. A wolf-dragon with fire in his heart, a ship at his back, and the taste of steel on his tongue.

Chapter Text

Chapter VIII – The Fall

The day Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen returned to Winterfell was the same day Lord Eddard Stark rode west to bring the Ironborn to heel.

By the war’s end, the Greyjoy line was shattered.

Lord Balon’s brothers, Euron and Victarion, were slain in Lannisport—Euron by Jon’s blade, and Victarion by Sandor Clegane. Aeron Greyjoy, the youngest, was taken alive and died in the dungeons of Casterly Rock. Balon’s sons—Rodrik, slain at Seagard, and Maron, killed in the defence of Pyke—left no heir to inherit the Seastone Chair.

To prevent any resurgence, the surviving Greyjoy scions were scattered.

Balon’s last son, Theon, was sent to Winterfell as Lord Stark’s ward. His daughter, Asha, was placed under the Queen Dowager’s protection at Dragonstone. Distant cousins—Quenton and Dagon Greyjoy—were quietly fostered at the Arbor and Seagard, respectively.

With his house broken and his dreams drowned, Balon Greyjoy bent the knee.

Yet despite the victory, the blood spilt at Lannisport left its mark. Jon, Mya, and Ser Jaime returned to Winterfell changed. None spoke of what had passed, but the shadows lingered.

From the ruins of war, something new took shape.

Construction of the Sea Dragon began shortly after Jon’s return.

Word of his ambitions spread across Westeros. Warriors, sailors, and wanderers came north to seek a place in his service—some arriving in Lannisport, others making their way to Winterfell.

Among the earliest arrivals was Aurane Waters, the bastard of Driftmark. Raised among the shipwrights of his homeland, he was an accomplished sailor with no place at House Velaryon’s court. He pledged his sword and sail to Jon.

The day he arrived, he left quite an impression on young Lady Sansa Stark, who turned as red as her hair under his silver-tongued charm. Her mother noticed immediately. Fearing something “inappropriate,” Lady Catelyn implored Jon to dismiss him.

Jon obliged—though not as a punishment. He named Aurane Captain of the Sea Dragon, sending him to Lannisport to oversee the ship’s construction. He was also tasked with refitting the captured Ironborn ships—The Silence and The Silent Sister.

Jon renamed them: The Stormborn and The Winter Wolf—a tribute to both sides of his blood.

Determined never to be caught unprepared again, Jon and Mya resumed their training with a new intensity.

Mya, inspired by tales of her father’s legendary hammer, cast aside her sledgehammer and began training with a true Warhammer. Her skill on horseback, her power in combat—it drew whispered comparisons to Robert Baratheon himself. Even Lord Stark and Ser Rodrik, men rarely given to flattery, did not deny the resemblance.

Jon had slain Euron Greyjoy, but one kill did not make him a warrior. Under Ser Jaime’s relentless tutelage, he honed his technique. When next he stood in battle, he meant not just to survive, but to triumph.

Jaime never spoke of Lannisport again. Mya no longer laughed in the yard. And Jon trained alone long after dusk, his sword ringing like thunder in the twilight.

At the same time, Arya Stark began training under Jon’s guidance. He did not push her as he did himself, but she learned quickly and fiercely. Lady Catelyn disapproved, but Ned allowed it, understanding that Arya needed a direction for her wild heart.

Bran Stark, meanwhile, had discovered climbing. The towers of Winterfell became his playground—and his mother’s constant source of worry.

Jon and Theon Greyjoy shared a tense beginning. Two of Theon’s uncles had died at Jon’s hand. But sweat and steel in the yard did much to burn away old grudges. Over time, their enmity cooled into something that might one day become respect.

Despite his growing duties in the North, Jon never forgot his family on Dragonstone.

He wrote often to Queen Rhaella, Princess Daenerys, and Prince Viserys. When word reached him of Viserys’s betrothal to Lady Allyria Dayne, Jon sent a Northern destrier as a gift—and a proposition: that Viserys become Castellan of Dragonstone.

Viserys accepted.

Under Jon’s direction, Dragonstone began mining dragonglass. Lucrative trade contracts were struck with Northern houses. Profits were split—half funding improvements on Dragonstone, the other half sent to the Iron Bank of Braavos.

When Daenerys wrote, pleading for his return, Jon sent only this:

“I swear on my mother’s grave—I will return. But only when I have power enough that no one, not even the King, can keep us apart.”

After Jon’s knighting, Ser Jaime required a new squire. The Crown named Edric Dayne, heir to Starfall, to the role. Court officials inquired if Jon himself wanted a squire, but Jaime advised patience—Jon was not yet ready.

Arya took to Edric at once. Unlike most boys, he did not mock her swordplay—he joined her. For the first time, Arya laughed in a boy’s presence. Her parents noticed but said nothing. Arya was not like other girls. This bond, fragile and rare, was something worth nurturing.

As the ships and warriors of the Forgotten Sons began to gather in White Harbor, Jon rode south to meet them.

His company numbered just fifty, but among them were names that would one day become legend:

Sandor Clegane, the Hound – Infantry commander, former lord of Clegane’s Keep

Aurane Waters – Captain of the Sea Dragon, marine commander

Larence Snow – Bastard of House Hornwood, Jon’s Northern representative

Donal Noye – Former Storm’s End blacksmith, now Quartermaster

Lucas Blackwood – Scout and hunter

Archmaester Marwyn – Former Archmaester of Higher Mysteries at the Citadel

Sarella Sand – Bastard of Dorne, Marwyn’s apprentice

Ser Hobber Redwyne – Captain of The Winter Wolf

Allard Seaworth – Captain of The Stormborn, frequently sailing to Dragonstone

Others soon followed: Ser Humfrey Hightower, Ser Waymar Royce, Ser Lyle Crakehall, Ser Archibald Yronwood, Ser Thoros of Myr, Domeric Bolton, Alysanne Mormont, Tyrek Lannister, Eddison Tollett, and Olyvar Frey.

They were misfits and second sons, bastards and broken knights.

But they were his.

One day, while riding near Winterfell, Lord Stark and his sons came upon a strange sight.

A direwolf, dead, impaled on the antlers of a stag. Her pups mewled beside her body, five in all.

Jon stepped forward.

“There is one for each of your children,” he said. “The gods sent them.”

Ned Stark relented.

But as they turned to leave, Jon heard a faint whine. There, hidden in the brush, was a sixth pup—an albino with red eyes. The runt. Forgotten. Unwanted.

Just like him.

He took it in his arms and named it Ghost.

Then came the fall.

Bran, scaling the broken tower, slipped. It was Robb’s quick hands that saved him, but Bran’s leg twisted beneath him, shattered.

From that moment on, the course of Jon’s life—and the destiny of the Forgotten Sons—began to change.

Chapter Text

Chapter IX – The Monster

The happiness and tranquillity that had settled over Winterfell vanished the day Bran fell.

Though his injury was not mortal, it left his right leg permanently twisted.

For three days, he slept, unmoving. Maester Luwin offered no comfort.

“Until the boy wakes,” he said grimly, “we can say nothing of his fate.”

During those long, uncertain days, his siblings and Jon rarely left his bedside. They read to him, sang to him, spoke to him as if he could still hear.

When Bran finally opened his eyes, the first words he uttered were:

“I have to go.”

Life at Winterfell resumed, but Bran had changed. He learned to walk again, slowly, with the help of a stick. The boy who once danced across rooftops now moved carefully, quietly. Yet even in his stillness, a glint of mischief remained.

Then came the dreams.

At first, they echoed Jon’s visions through the eyes of his direwolf, Summer, and the birds that nested in the godswood. But they deepened. One evening, he whispered to Jon:
“I know why you like Princess Daenerys so much.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

Bran’s gaze went distant. “She’s beautiful. And she looks just like Queen Visenya.”

Jon said nothing. Bran had never seen Daenerys.

One night, Jon found himself in the crypts, resting his head against the cold stone of his mother’s tomb, eyes swollen with grief.

Bran came to him in a whisper.

“We have to go.”

They walked together to the godswood, and Jon saw something there—something he would never remember clearly, but whose meaning burned into his soul. He had to leave. He had to go beyond the Wall. He had to bring Bran to a cave buried in Winter’s heart. He had to unite the scattered peoples beyond the Wall—and save them.

But first, he had to secure the Forgotten Sons. Without him, they would splinter and scatter. He needed a leader, someone respected, someone formidable.

After careful thought, he turned to Lady Catelyn. At her urging, Jon wrote to her uncle, Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish.

Brynden accepted at once. Jon arranged to meet him in White Harbor, where he would give his final orders before setting sail aboard The Winter Rose for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

Bran insisted they not tell Lord Eddard or Lady Catelyn of their true destination.

“If you tell them,” Bran said quietly, “they will never let us leave.”

So Jon lied.

Years later, he would say he made many dangerous choices—but none haunted him more than that one.

Mya Stone, predictably, refused to stay behind. Jon feared for her safety, but there was no stopping her.

Ser Jaime was another obstacle. He forbade the journey outright. So Jon challenged him to a duel.

“If I win, we go,” Jon said.

Jaime smirked. “And if you lose?”

“Then we go anyway.”

Jaime accepted. Neither ever revealed the outcome. Each man claimed to have lost.

On the morning of their departure, new riders arrived at Winterfell: Meera and Jojen Reed.

Jojen, pale-eyed and grave, spoke only one sentence:

“I have dreamed of this. We are meant to go beyond the Wall together.”

That same week, far to the south, I—Samwell Tarly—was sent to the Wall.

I was a fat, cowardly boy locked in the library of Horn Hill, a disgrace to my father.

Lord Randyll Tarly disowned me, stripped me of my inheritance, and sent me to the Night’s Watch so he could name my brother Dickon his heir.

I thought that was the end of my story.

But fate had other plans.

Our caravan was attacked near the shores of the White Knife. At first, I thought they were raiders.

But the Forgotten Sons fought monsters many times. And if you ask any of us, we’ll tell you—the worst were not in the far North. They were in that clearing. Just south of White Harbour.

It began with the direwolves. Ghost and Summer went rigid with alarm. Jon and his companions followed them into the forest.

Then came the dogs.

A pack of hunting hounds lunged from the shadows. Ghost and Summer met them head-on. Meera’s arrows struck true. Morghul, Jon’s black eagle, descended like death.

And then, we found the bodies.

Flayed. Burned. Mounted on stakes. Men of Hornwood, Manderly, and even the Watch.

And then we found Ramsay Snow and the Bastard’s Boys.

Jon sent terms: single combat. If Ramsay won, the Forgotten Sons would leave. If Jon won, Lady Hornwood and the other captives would go free.

Ramsay only smiled.

“Tempting, my prince. But I have a better offer. If I win, I get my dear half-brother, Domeric. I hear he serves you now. I’d like to… correct that mistake.”

Jon’s blood turned to ice.

“My father sends me to rot at the Dreadfort while he sends his precious trueborn to you. That’s betrayal. And I’ll fix it—with my knife. Nice and slow.”

Jon’s voice was ice and steel.

“I will face you.”

The ring was drawn in frozen dirt and trampled snow.

No heralds, no honour guard—just wind, and death, and sky.

Ramsay stood grinning, clad in pale pink mail, a weeping helm, and a cloak that stank of flayed flesh. He held a short, cruel blade, its edge pitted like a butcher’s cleaver.

Jon wore plain black leather, a longsword in hand. Ser Jaime’s gift. Balanced. Trustworthy.

“You look like a knight,” Ramsay sneered. “But I bet you scream like a pig.”

Jon said nothing.

The duel began without warning. Ramsay lunged like a starving dog. Jon parried, stepped aside, and let him burn himself out. He fought with grace and precision, training etched into the muscle from Jaime and Barristan Selmy.

Ramsay fought like he’d never been taught. He clawed, bit, cursed, and kicked. He fainted, tackled, and threw dirt into Jon’s eyes.

Jon endured.

A cut to the shoulder. Another to the thigh.

“You’re bleeding, princeling,” Ramsay hissed.

“So are you.”

Jon rammed his shoulder into Ramsay’s chest, sending him sprawling. He could have ended it. He didn’t.

Ramsay stood, howling. “That’s it! Show me your teeth!”

They clashed again. Jon parried a wild swing, then slammed the pommel into Ramsay’s nose. A crunch. Blood. Howling.

Jon struck again—gut, ribs. Ramsay fell to one knee.

Jon’s blade hovered at his throat.

“Yield.”

Ramsay spat blood on his boots. “Never.”

Jon’s hands trembled. Part of him—dark and furious—wanted to kill him. Not for the honour. Not for duty. But for Domeric. For Lady Hornwood. For the flayed men in the trees.

Then came Jaime’s voice.

“End this, my prince. You don’t have to give him what he wants.”

Jon blinked.

He saw Ramsay not as a man, but as a beast. A thing that wanted to die on his terms.

Jon stepped back.

Ramsay moved to rise.

Jon struck—one final blow. The pommel cracked against Ramsay’s skull. He dropped, twitching, unconscious.

The silence afterwards was deeper than any cheer.

Later, by the godswood fire, Meera found Jon.

“Why didn’t you kill him?”

Jon stared at the heart tree.

“Because that’s what he wanted. He wanted to die in the mud, in his filth, on his terms.”

“And what do you want?”

Jon looked down at his hands.

“To be better.”

Lady Donella was rescued. She named Larence Snow her heir.

I, Samwell Tarly, was spared. On Bran and Jojen’s urging, Jon brought me into his company.

He wrote to Lord Eddard Stark, detailing Ramsay’s crimes. And to Roose Bolton, making it clear that his bastard had tried to murder his trueborn son.

Ramsay Snow was executed in Winterfell.

Lord Roose did not object.

We departed for White Harbour. Jon left the Forgotten Sons in Ser Brynden’s care.

And so we set sail on The Winter Rose:

The Prince, The Knight, The Bastard, The Cripple, The Hunter, The Warg, The Bookworm, Two Direwolves and A black eagle.

And the frozen North ahead.

Chapter Text

Chapter X – Life in the South

I could have written about the journey. But it was mostly dull, cold, wet, and tiring—until we crossed a fair distance beyond the Wall.

Instead, I write now of what transpired in Westeros when the Crown Prince vanished into the far North.

Edric Dayne returned to Winterfell at the head of a retinue of the Forgotten Sons, bringing with him Ramsay Snow and his Bastard’s Boys in chains. They did not last long—their execution was swift, and no one mourned them.

Yet the sight of Edric arriving without Ser Jaime Lannister, Jon, or Bran caused confusion and alarm.

Jon had foreseen this.

He left behind a letter explaining his intentions, begging his uncle and aunt for forgiveness.

Lord Eddard Stark did not hesitate. Gathering a small retinue, he rode for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, hoping to intercept his son and ward.

But he was too late.

The ship had already sailed. Beyond the horizon, into the unknown.

Lady Catelyn Stark, upon hearing the news, fell into quiet grief. For days, she barely spoke—as though some part of her had vanished with them.

The Stark children each reacted in their own way.

Robb, still young and hungry for adventure, envied the journey—but worried for his brothers.

Sansa, ever confident, declared that Jon would bring Bran home.

“He is a gallant prince,” she said.

To the surprise of many, Arya agreed.

Arya, however, had known about Jon’s departure.

The night before he left, he gave her a slender blade, perfectly suited to her hands.

She named it Needle.

And in the days that followed, she trained ceaselessly, determined to master it.

Far to the south, the capital stirred.

The prince was gone. The court was restless.

Lord Stannis Baratheon was appointed Hand of the King after Jon Connington had tried—and failed—to prevent Jon’s departure.

Under Stannis’s guidance, Princess Rhaenys quickly took to the art of rule. She became the youngest Mistress of Laws in Westerosi history.

Her intelligence and skill in diplomacy earned her respect—even fear.

Prince Aegon, meanwhile, had grown withdrawn. As punishment for his altercation with Jon, the King stripped him of his comforts and named him squire to Ser Oswell Whent.

He lacked the makings of a warrior, but over time, the training reshaped him.

Whispers began to circulate.

Some murmured that King Rhaegar might follow the Dornish way, naming Rhaenys his heir. No one dared speak it to his face, but the court had ears, and rumours rarely stay buried.

Queen Elia Martell, her health waning, withdrew to the Water Gardens of Dorne.

The King grew more isolated. Marriage offers flooded the Red Keep, but the tragedies of the past made Rhaegar and Elia reluctant to make new matches.

Instead, they issued a radical decree:

The princes and princesses would choose their own spouses.

The noble houses were stunned.

Prince Viserys wasted no time. He courted and became betrothed to Lady Allyria Dayne.

The rest remained unattached.

Rhaenys, busy with governance, ignored the lords paraded before her.

Aegon withdrew into silence.

And Daenerys—now trained by Ser Barristan Selmy—turned herself into a warrior.

Suitors came to Dragonstone. She frightened them all away.

To most, she seemed disinterested in love. But those who knew her best understood:

Her heart belonged to Jon.

Daenerys was not alone.

She formed a fierce, unconventional circle of companions:

Lady Asha Greyjoy, proud and ironborn, now a ward of the Crown

Lady Shireen Baratheon, heir to Storm’s End, quiet and wise

Obella Sand, young and cutting, sharp with blade and tongue

Tyene Sand, venomous and watchful

Lady Wylla Manderly, bold, green-haired, and northern to her bones

They trained together, studied, and whispered futures that belonged to no man.

Some said Daenerys was building her court. Not one of silks and manners—but a court of fire-forged sisterhood.

Dragonstone flourished under Viserys’s rule.

The mining and trade of dragonglass made it a vital hub of commerce. Queen Rhaella, now Mistress of Whisperers, relocated to King’s Landing, leaving Viserys and Allyria to govern the island.

One man, however, refused to leave Dragonstone.

Ser Gerold Dayne, Darkstar, sought to win Daenerys’s heart—with words, with steel, with arrogance.

Then came the news from the North.

Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen had gone beyond the Wall.

Jon’s letter to Dragonstone instructed Viserys to continue dragonglass shipments to the North and the Night’s Watch.

But to Daenerys, he wrote separately:

“I will return.”

When Darkstar was found celebrating the prince’s departure, Daenerys challenged him.

She humiliated him.

She was faster. Sharper. Too precise.

He left Dragonstone soon after, his pride shattered.

Daenerys watched him go with neither pity nor regret.

In King’s Landing, the news brought Rhaegar to tears.

The courtiers had never seen their king weep. For days, he locked himself away, emerging only after speaking to Queen Rhaella in private.

Princess Rhaenys, who had barely known Jon, was troubled by his loss.

Aegon said nothing. He seemed to feel nothing at all.

Meanwhile, in the North…

Young ladies began arriving at Winterfell, hoping to win the prince’s hand.

They found only Theon Greyjoy, who took great joy in frightening them off.

Ser Brynden Tully, newly appointed commander of the Forgotten Sons, faced his first true test.

A faction of the company attempted a small mutiny, disillusioned by Jon’s absence.

The Blackfish crushed them swiftly.

The ringleaders were executed. From that day on, he and Sandor Clegane kept watch for any hint of treachery.

The Forgotten Sons remained loyal.

But enough of the South.

At last, we reached Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

From there, we travelled on foot into the unknown.

And that…

That is when the true story begins.

Chapter Text

Chapter XI – The Lands of Winter

It took us nearly two weeks by ship to reach Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, sailing through bitter winds and waters that bit like knives.

From there, we stepped beyond the end of the world.

To most in Westeros, the Wall marks the boundary of all that is known. But we know better now.

North of the Wall lies a land forgotten by time—towering mountains of ice and stone, frozen rivers like glass, and forests heavy with snow, where even the trees seem to whisper in dead tongues.

This is no land for men.

And yet, men still walk it.

This is the land of old magic.

Creatures long vanished from southern tales—snow bears, shadowcats, even monstrous owls—roam freely here.

Jon and Bran changed as we passed into this realm. The air itself seemed to awaken something in them—something deep, ancient, unseen.

Jon’s bond with Ghost and Morghul became seamless. He no longer blacked out when slipping into them. Once, while sparring with Ser Jaime, he had Ghost leap behind Jaime mid-duel, turning the fight with a grin and a flash of steel.

Bran’s gift was stranger still. He walked in more than one skin at a time.

His murder of crows served as our watchmen, guiding us through the snow and warning of unwanted eyes.

Sometimes he said things no boy should know. One morning, he whispered:

“Mother is well again.”

He spoke less with his tongue now and more through the trees.

His body was merely a vessel.

His soul wandered far.

The Freefolk, as they call themselves, were not the monsters we’d heard of in the South.

They were people.

Harsh, proud, and strange—yes. But people nonetheless.

Survivors of a world that would rather see them dead than kneeling.

We met them by chance at midday. Morghul saw them first: dozens in furs and leathers, crude weapons in hand, moving warily through the trees. Their leader was a giant of a man, with a beard like fire and mischief burning in his eyes—Tormund Giantsbane.

There was tension at first—blades drawn, bows taut, Ghost and Summer snarling.

They thought we were Night’s Watch, or slavers gone too far from shore. But the doubts were cleared, and no blood was spilt.

We shared tales instead of Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, who had united the clans not for conquest, but to flee death itself.

Jon offered them aid. Some were moved. Most were wary.

When he spoke of our true purpose—seeking the cave of the Three-Eyed Raven—their faces turned grim.

“You’ll find a cursed man in a cursed keep,” Tormund warned.

“Be wary of him. And if you live… come to Hardhome.”

Before they left, they gave us dragonglass daggers.

“You’ll need these more than bread,” one of them said.

At the time, we did not understand.

We do now.

The journey grew harder with every day.

The snow thickened. The light dimmed. Spirits frayed.

Ser Jaime had grown more open. He spoke of his family, the burden of his father’s name, the shadow of his sister, and the love he bore for Tyrion.

His beard grew wild, his golden hair dusted with frost.

He looked every bit his moniker: The White Lion.

Mya Stone softened in the cold. The sharp-tongued girl became something quieter, steadier.

She told me once, “I never knew my father, never got his name, but I suffered for his sins all the same.”

Then, with a small smile:

“If not for Jon, I’d be mucking stables. He gave me this hammer—a purpose.”

Jon himself grew quieter.

The weight of the Starks’ trust—and the lie he had wrapped around it—lay heavy on him.

“They gave me a home,” he said once, staring into the flames.

“And I paid them in secrets.”

Bran told him he would have come north alone if Jon had refused, but guilt is a heavy cloak, and Jon wore it daily.

Jojen Reed was dying.

He tried to hide it; his shivering passed as cold, his silence as thoughtfulness.

But Meera knew.

First, he stopped eating.

Then he lost his strength.

Then, worst of all, he lost his Greensight.

He trudged on quietly, every step a burden.

But he never once asked to stop.

Meera changed too; the girl of quiet strength became a sister wrought of steel and sorrow. Her world had shrunk to the space her brother occupied.

She barely spoke to us—only to ask for help carrying him, or for herbs to ease his pain.

As for me, Samwell Tarly—I struggled.

With the cold.

With my fear.

With my uselessness.

Everyone else had their gifts—Swords, Bows, Warhammers, and Magic.

I had only a sharp mind and a thick body, which was becoming less fat each day.

I found purpose in small things: tending to Jojen, helping Bran, and foraging for roots.

At night, I wrote everything down.

I feared no one would believe us.

And without a record, our tale would become snow—fallen and forgotten.

It was Tormund who warned us of Craster.

And Tormund was right.

We found Craster’s Keep crouched in the trees like a wound. The man was as vile as promised—father to his daughters, husband to them as well.

He gave his sons to the snow, leaving them as offerings to something in the dark.

Bran said they were taken by “Others.”

We still half-doubted him then.

Still, we could not let such evil stand.

Jon, Jaime, Mya, and Ghost went inside.

Bran, Meera, Summer, and I remained behind.

Craster greeted them with a crossbow bolt. Jaime dodged it and, in a flash, took his arm.

The warmth of the Keep was sickening.

Jaime demanded to know: who were the sons given to?

Craster confirmed it.

Before anyone could judge him, Mya ended it.

Her warhammer shattered his skull like rotten fruit.

“He doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as us,” she said.

At first, the women were wary of us. But when they saw we meant no harm, they relaxed.

Most chose to leave.

Gilly—young, gentle, and pregnant—stayed a few days longer. She gave birth to a boy.

She named him not in the old way.

When she was strong enough to walk, Jon sent Mya and me to Hardhome.

“You carry more than yourselves,” he told us.

“You carry the future.”

Morghul flew with us.

What follows now is drawn from the recollections of Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord Bran Stark, and Lady Meera Reed.

We burned Craster’s Keep to the ground, as Tormund had advised, and turned north once more.

Jojen was nearly too weak to carry.

The Antler River gleamed ahead, frozen in silence.

We stopped to make camp.

Then Jojen whispered:

“Run.”

A shriek rose—high, cold, endless. Not the cry of anything living, but something that should not be.

They came through the trees like smoke through a keyhole.

The Others.

Tall and deathly pale, with eyes like frozen stars.

Behind them came the wights—corpses from barrows and battlefields, bones crunching, jaws grinding.

Summer and Ghost leapt into action.

Bran’s crows screamed overhead.

We fled toward the river. The ice cracked and groaned beneath our feet.

And Jojen fell.

He knelt in the snow, barely breathing.

“Go,” he rasped to Bran.

“You still have a purpose.”

Meera tried to lift him, sobbing.

“No. Not now. Not like this.”

A wight charged—armour shattered, face half-missing—and Jaime struck it down with castle-forged steel.

The blow landed true.

The Wight rose again.

Normal steel was useless.

Only the dragonglass daggers worked.

They burned through one of the wights, turning it to smoke and ash.

Jojen looked at Meera one last time.

“I saw this,” he said. “This is how it ends. For me.”

And then he was still.

We could not carry him.

The dead were closing in.

That’s when the Earth rose.

The Children of the Forest emerged from the snow, hurling fire not made of torch or tinder, but conjured from the old magics.

It clung to the dead like hunger, wrapping them in flame.

The Others vanished like breath on a mirror.

One of the Children spoke to us in a tongue older than empires.

Then, in the Common Tongue:

“Come. We must not linger.”

They led us into the roots of the world—beneath weirwoods with faces like sorrow, through caverns laced with memory and bone.

At last, we came to a place where the air hummed with power—the heart of the old world.

“This is the place,” Bran said.

The Child turned to him.

“You have come far,” she said.

“The time of waiting is over.

Now begins the last journey.”

And so we entered the cave of the Three-Eyed Raven.

Chapter Text

Chapter XII – Hardhome

We left for Hardhome with doubt and fear in our hearts—

Or at least I did.

It was me, Samwell Tarly; Mya Stone; Gilly and her son; the other women from Craster’s Keep; and Morghul—the great black eagle that circled above us, the eye of Jon.

It took five days of hard travel—cold winds biting at our cloaks, eyes watching from behind the trees.

When Hardhome finally rose from the mist, we were met not with welcome but with suspicion.

The guards at the gate—fur-clad men and women with sharp eyes and cruder weapons—barred our entry.

“Southerners,” one spat. “And worse. Products of Craster.”

Then came a familiar bellow of laughter.

Tormund Giantsbane strode forward, red beard whipping in the wind.

“Well, bugger me with a stick! You lot made it.”

He cuffed the guard behind the ear, and we were allowed inside.

The camp was chaos and order wrapped in smoke—tents haphazard but fortified, fires burning, warriors sharpening blades, mothers nursing babes.

And all eyes turned toward us.

Morghul’s shadow passed overhead, and where once there had been derision, a flicker of respect crept into their stares.

The eagle changed the air around us.

A warg’s beast.

A prince’s bird.

The women from Craster’s Keep were given a tent near the edge of the camp, away from the others.

Shunned.

Tormund made no apologies.

“They’ll never see 'em as kin,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Mya and I were taken to the great tent, where Mance Rayder and the clan chiefs had gathered.

Inside, firelight danced across rough faces and rougher reputations.

At the head sat Mance, cloaked in black with a sash of red silk.

To his right, Val, pale as snow, beautiful as moonlight.

To his left, Tormund, his horn already half-emptied.

Beside them:

Styr, Magnar of Thenn—tall, hairless, earless, with eyes like blue ice.

Harma Dogshead, sharpening her axe, her pauldron a dog’s skull.

Rattleshirt, bristling like a cornered boar.

A hunched, hairy man near the fire—Varamyr Sixskins.

Behind them, the giant, Mag the Mighty, murmured low words in the Old Tongue.

We stood like children before a court.

Mance looked us over, unimpressed.

“I was expecting a prince. I get a fat boy and an angry girl. Speak.”

I opened my mouth—and promptly forgot every word I knew. Just air came out.

Thankfully, Mya stepped forward.

“He doesn’t expect anything from you,” she said.

“Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen has seen the dead. He wants to help you survive.

He can’t be here now—but he is with us, in spirit.”

Harma barked a laugh.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Right then, Morghul shrieked overhead and landed on a beam, wings wide.

Even the giant leaned forward. Varamyr’s eyes gleamed with greedy interest.

Mya went on.

“Prince Jaehaerys is a warg. So are Brandon Stark and Jojen Reed, both travelling with him.

I hear that’s a mark of honour here.”

Some nodded.

Mag the Mighty smiled, murmuring something.

“He says,” Tormund translated,

“The small girl is stronger than she looks.”

Mya looked straight at Mance.

“You mean to go south. The Wall stands in your way. You think of breaking it with blood.

But most of your people are not warriors.

If you attack, you will die. If you survive, the dead will take you.

Our prince offers another path.”

Rattleshirt snarled.

“They’re spies. Gut 'em and send their heads to the Crows.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Mya snapped, drawing her warhammer.

Tormund howled with laughter. Val smiled. Even Mance smirked.

“Ya hear that, Rattleshirt?” Val said. “Even the kneelers don’t fear you.”

Rattleshirt stood, jagged sword drawn.

“Let’s see what this kneeler bitch is made of.”

The duel was short, fierce, and brutal.

Mya bled from her arm and brow, but she fought like thunder.

When Rattleshirt lunged, she stepped inside his guard and drove her hammer into his ribs.

Bone cracked. Blood sprayed.

He fell, twitching in the dirt.

Silence.

Even Styr nodded—just slightly.

Mag murmured again.

Tormund translated:

“He likes your hammer.”

Styr said nothing, only watched.

I saw it then—he didn’t like what he saw.

But he’d wait. For Jon to pass judgment.

Varamyr’s gaze lingered on Morghul, like a thief sizing up a prize.

The meeting broke up.

Mya was too wounded to continue.

Tormund offered us a place in his corner of the camp.

He delivered Rattleshirt’s sword to Mya as a trophy.

That night, Mya was treated with what skill I had.

We were joined by Ygritte, who arrived with a mocking smile.

“Didn’t think the southern girl would best Rattleshirt,” she said.

“Guess you’ve got more bark than he did.”

“I bark, bite, and bash skulls,” Mya said, laughing through cracked lips.

Later came Jarl, arms folded.

“Don’t try stealing this one, Ygritte,” he said.

“She stole me!” Ygritte called.

“You remember when you tried to steal me, Jarl? You thought I’d come quietly. Ended up pissin’ blood for a week.”

They laughed.

Mya laughed too, not quite sure if she was laughing at them or with them.

There was a warmth there, unexpected.

In the nights that followed, Ygritte and Mya became fast friends.

And Jarl lingered longer each time he came.

As for me, I split my time between watching over Mya and being with Gilly and her babe.

We didn’t say much.

But in the quiet, something unspoken grew.

She held my hand when the wind howled.

I didn’t let go.

Three days later, Morghul returned.

He landed with a heavy beat of wings, a scroll tied to his claw.

Jon’s seal.

His hand.

Just one line:

“We’ve arrived at the cave. Jojen is dead. Wait. Be ready. Wait for our arrival. Plans are in motion. Trust.”

We gathered again in Mance’s tent.

The chair once held by Rattleshirt remained empty.

I read the message aloud.

The chiefs exchanged glances.

Val nodded.

“Then we wait.”

Tormund poured ale.

“And drink.”

Mag exhaled like thunder.

Styr remained silent. Watching. Judging.

Only Varamyr spoke.

“Southern wargs... I wonder what beasts they command.”

The meeting ended.

For now, the Freefolk would wait.

That night, around the fire, Mya and I spoke.

“Tormund is with us,” she said. “Val, too. Harma? Maybe. She likes strength.”

“Styr?” I asked.

“Not sure. He’s waiting. And Varamyr…”

“Has ambitions.”

Mya nodded.

“The giant, though—Mag the Mighty—he likes me.”

I laughed.

“He likes your hammer.”

She grinned, then winced.

“Still hurts.”

“Good. That means you’re still alive.”

I didn’t say it, but I think she knew:

I was proud of her.

And afraid.

Not for what we had done. But what came next?

Winter had not yet come.

But it would.

And death with it.

We just had to survive until then.

Chapter Text

Chapter XIII – The Cave

We crossed into the cave in silence, each step echoing off ancient stone. The Children of the Forest led us by torchlight, their eyes reflecting green and gold in the dark. The passageways carved through time by the roots wound like veins beneath the earth.

We passed beneath weirwood roots as thick as a man’s chest, through tunnels slick with moss and memory. The air grew colder as we went deeper, thick with something old. Older than the First Men. Older than the Wall.

The cave opened before us like a sept, hollowed by time. At its centre stood a single weirwood tree, its face carved deeper than any above, bleeding sap-like blood down its pale bark. Below it sat a man whose skin was pale as milk, stretched tight over a frame too thin to hold it, roots wrapped around him like a throne. One eye was clouded red, the other closed forever.

The Three-Eyed Raven.

He said nothing as we entered. Bran stepped forward first.

"You knew we were coming."

The old man nodded slowly. "I have waited for you, Brandon Stark."

His eye turned to Jon.

Meera stood silent at Bran’s side, her jaw tight. She had not cried when Jojen died. She had not spoken of it. But her hands had not stopped shaking since.

Bran looked to the Raven. "Jojen saw this place. He saw that he would die before reaching it. And still he came."

The Raven's face did not change. "He knew his purpose."

Meera's voice cracked. "And now what? You train Bran to be… what? Another you?"

"He will be more than me," said the Raven.

We stayed through many nights.

Bran's training began almost at once. Time grew strange in the cave, measured not by suns but by stories. While snow fell and melted again above, Bran vanished into roots and wings, sometimes forgetting to speak aloud. The boy who once scrambled up the towers of Winterfell now saw the world from every height and angle. Sometimes he spoke with eerie certainty. Other times, he was just a boy with a stick, quiet and solemn.

Meera barely spoke those first few days. She sat near Bran as he trained, silent but always alert, her bow across her knees. The fire in her eyes that had once crackled with quiet strength had dimmed to a cold, steady watchfulness.

One night, Jon found her alone by a shallow stream running through the cave, her face turned away from the torchlight. The water ran black in the dimness, murmuring over stone.

"You haven't slept," Jon said gently.

"I can't," Meera replied, her voice raw. "I close my eyes, and he's there—Jojen. Telling me it had to be this way. That it was always going to end like that, but I never said goodbye. Not properly."

Jon sat beside her. "I'm sorry."

Meera turned to him, eyes red-rimmed but dry. "You don't have to be. I should have been ready. I always thought I was stronger than this."

"You are," Jon said softly. "But strong doesn't mean unbreakable."

She looked away, blinking hard. "He was my little brother. I spent my whole life protecting him. And when it mattered most, I couldn't."

Jon didn’t try to offer empty reassurances. Instead, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

"He knew you’d get him here. He believed in that. In you. And because of you, we are still alive."

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the stream and the rustle of ancient roots above them.

"Thank you," Meera said at last, barely more than a whisper.

That night, for the first time since Jojen's death, Meera slept.

The Three-Eyed Raven rarely spoke, but when he did, his words weighed heavily. Bran listened. Meera watched. And Jon, restless in the shadows of prophecy, waited.

One day, the Raven beckoned Ser Jaime forward.

"You know why you killed your king?" he asked.

Ser Jaime's hand hovered near his sword. "Do you?"

"It was necessary," said the Raven. "You knew what was about to happen, what needed to happen. I just nudged you in the right direction."

"You did that to me," Ser Jaime whispered. "The rage. The madness. It was you."

The Raven inclined his head. "A trance. A seed I placed within you. A last resort. The realm needed saving. And you were the sword within reach."

Ser Jaime did not answer. He did not come near the weirwood again for many days.

One day, Jon saw through Morghul’s eyes: the flame-lit tents of Hardhome, a duel—Mya, battered but standing, her warhammer bloody, Rattleshirt crumpled at her feet. He saw Sam tending her wounds, saw the cautious respect in the Freefolk's stares. He smiled faintly.

"Mya has taken over the negotiations," he murmured. "As I expected. She is doing well. So is Sam. And she killed Rattleshirt."

Ser Jaime quipped, "The fuck's a Rattleshirt?"

Jon laughed. Meera chuckled. Even Bran seemed amused.

Two days later, Morghul flew into the cave and landed near Jon. He tied a scroll to its clawed foot and sent it back to Hardhome.

One night, when the wind outside howled like wolves mourning a moonless sky, Jon sat near the weirwood throne.

"Jaehaerys," the Raven said.

Jon replied as always. "Call me Jon."

The Raven studied him for a long moment. "You are Jaehaerys Targaryen."

Jon looked away. "I'm still Jon to them."

"No, Jaehaerys. Not this time. I have done much to make sure you are Jaehaerys, not Jon."

His voice softened.

"Names are masks. What matters is whether you accept the weight beneath them. The world needs the dragon and the wolf. If you cling only to one, the world will fail."

That conversation left Jon unsettled. Sometimes, in the quiet, he would murmur the name to himself: "Jaehaerys Targaryen."

One day, after Bran had slipped into a trance so deep even Meera could not rouse him, the Raven said softly, "Bran's training is nearly done. You must leave in a few days. Soon, He will come for me. Last time, we were late. Bran's training was incomplete. Many lives were lost to protect him. But this time... this time, he will find only an old man who has already completed his mission."

Jon's face darkened. "And what happens then?"

"You will know when he is here—when I am dead," the Raven said. "Bran will tell you."

They spoke no more that night.

When Bran's training ended, though what he had truly learned none could say, the Children of the Forest gathered at the cave mouth to send them off. They had lived here for centuries, hidden from a world that had forgotten them.

Jon asked them to come south. "There is only death here. Westeros was yours before man. It can be yours again."

Leaf, the eldest, shook her head. "This is our home. We have lived long enough. Our time has come to an end."

The Raven intervened.

"The world is different now. Perhaps your fates can be different as well. Go with them."

And so the Children of the Forest prepared to leave their final refuge.

As they made ready to depart, the Raven beckoned Jon and Meera one last time. He pointed to a narrow hollow in the cave floor. Jon knelt and dug with his bare hands. The earth gave way to a tightly wrapped bundle.

Inside was a sword and a bow. The sword was black Valyrian steel, sharp and slender. Its crossguard was shaped like dragon wings, its pommel like a dragon egg.

"Dark Sister," said the Raven. "She was mine once. Forged in Old Valyria. Tempered in war. Wielded by Visenya Targaryen, and then by me. She will serve you well, Jaehaerys... for a time."

The bow was long and powerful, made of weirwood, its grip marked with Bloodraven's sigil—a white dragon with red eyes on a black field.

"My longbow," the Raven said again. "Use it well, Meera. It ended the Black Dragon. Perhaps it will be useful against your enemies as well."

Jon turned the sword in his hand, feeling the balance, the chill. "Not mine?"

"No. It's meant for someone else," said the Raven. "Yours is still waiting."

Meera drew the bow and felt its weight and strength, a legendary weapon, not for its abilities, but for what it had accomplished.

The Raven leaned back in his throne of roots, eyelid half-shut as if drifting far beyond the cave. Then, in a whisper not meant for Jon, but perhaps for himself—or for the trees—he said:

"It's been so long... soon, Shiera. Soon I'll be with you."

Jon didn't speak. He only watched him—Brynden Rivers, the butcher of Blackfyres, the spymaster of Westeros, the ghost in the weirwoods. Now, just an old man dreaming of a woman long dead.

The thought stayed with him long after. That even here, at the end of the world, under roots older than names, something of the man remained.

And when he looked at Bran—half-asleep by the fireside, Summer curled beside him—Jon wondered if it would be the same. If somewhere, no matter how far he wandered into time and shadow, there would always be a boy who once loved to climb.

When the morning came, and the fire had died low, they left the cave.

Bran walked with a weirwood branch for a cane. Meera walked close, her bow in hand. Summer padded beside them. Ghost trotted ahead, eyes red in the pale light. The Children of the Forest glided through the trees in silence.

Behind them, the last greenseer whispered farewell to the roots and shadows.

The snow crunched beneath their boots as Jon and Jaime walked beyond the cave mouth. Ghost padded silently ahead, Summer behind.

The air outside was sharp, but cleaner. Wilder.

Jon walked with Dark Sister at his belt, the black blade flashing faintly beneath his cloak. The others noticed.

Meera had swapped her hunting bow for the weirwood longbow. Both Jon and Meera nodded at each other with quiet respect.

Bran said nothing, though Ghost moved closer to Jon as if recognising something new in him.

Ser Jaime stared longest.

"That's new," he said.

Jon looked down. "Dark Sister."

Ser Jaime's voice was low. "I know. Visenya's blade. The lost treasure of your house. Now yours."

He continued, "It's shorter than your old blade, and lighter too, I believe. You'll have to train with it. Become used to it."

He did not sound jealous.

Jon said nothing.

For a while, neither man spoke. Only the wind filled the silence, weaving through the skeletal branches.

Then Jon broke it.

"I miss home," he said quietly. "Both of them. Dragonstone and Winterfell."

Ser Jaime turned slightly toward him. "Both?"

Jon gave a faint smile. "Dragonstone raised me. Gamma, Ser Bonifer, Dany... They gave me my name, my sword, and my first lessons. But Winterfell—it's in my blood. The godswood, the cold stone, the sound of the wind through the towers. I miss it all."

Ser Jaime nodded slowly. "I know what you mean."

He kicked at the snow. "I was raised in Casterly Rock, trained to be proud of the lion on my chest. When I was young, I thought my family ruled the world. And now..."

He trailed off.

Jon waited.

Ser Jaime's voice dropped. "Now, my father's name lies in ruin. Cersei is... somewhere. And Tyrion..."

He drew a breath. "I still miss him. More than I let on."

Jon looked at him, solemn. "You still love them. Even when you know what they were."

"You don't stop loving people because they're broken," Ser Jaime said, almost too quickly. "Or because they made you bleed." Then, softer: "That's something Tyrion said."

They stood in silence again, side by side beneath the trees. Snow drifted lazily around them as if the world itself were holding its breath.

"Do you think you'll ever go back?" Jon asked.

Ser Jaime's eyes were on the horizon. "I go where you go if fate permits... maybe I'll go back. Maybe not."

Jon nodded. "Maybe not. But you still carry it with you. All of it. That has to mean something."

Ser Jaime looked at him, his mouth twitching in something like a smile.

"You're too young to sound that wise, you know."

Jon glanced skyward. "You're not that old."

Ser Jaime noticed it then: the faint dark shadow along Jon's jaw. A beard, just beginning to form.

"He wasn't a boy anymore," Ser Jaime thought.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. Then he glanced toward Bran, walking behind them with his weirwood cane.

"That boy... he won't be the same, will he?"

Jon was quiet for a long time. Then he said, "No. But I think part of him will always be Bran. The part that used to climb. The part that laughed."

He looked at the ground. "We all carry pieces of who we were. Even if the world tries to carve them out of us."

They walked on, lost in thoughts of homes they may never see again.

Chapter Text

Chapter XIV - The Reunion

They returned at sunset.

I saw them first from the edge of the camp, where I had been gathering driftwood for the fires.

A shape moving against the dying light—white fur, then grey, then shadow. Ghost came first, silent and alert, nose to the wind. Summer padded close behind, his breath misting in the cold.

Then came Meera, bowed but not broken, and Bran, walking with a cane of carved weirwood. His eyes were strange, distant, knowing.

But it was Jon who made me drop the bundle of wood.

He walked with calm purpose, the wind pulling at his cloak, Morghul circling in the copper-pink sky above like a herald of a storm. At his hip hung a sword I had only ever read about—Dark Sister. It gleamed black and silver in the last light of day, curved and deadly, an heirloom of a line thought lost.

They passed through the gates of Hardhome with no fanfare, no horns, only the creaking of old wood and the hiss of sea wind. Freefolk watched them pass with wary eyes, some spitting, some bowing their heads. Ghost’s red eyes met theirs, and they said nothing.

Meera reached us first. Mya stood beside me, tense, but Meera only nodded.

“You’re still breathing,” she said to Mya.

“So are you,” Mya answered, eyes flicking to Bran. “Barely.”

Jon—no, not Jon, not truly anymore—came up last. His face was thinner, harder. There was no smile, but when he met my gaze, I saw recognition. And grief.

“It’s good to see you, Sam,” he said.

“You too,” I breathed. “Though... I think I should be calling you something else now.”

He said nothing, just looked away.

Morghul landed on a rooftop behind him, his black wings folding like drapes of shadow.

My eyes fell to the blade at his hip, and the words left me before I could stop them. “Is that… Dark Sister?”

He nodded.

I swallowed. “Visenya’s blade. And Bloodraven’s. It vanished over a century ago.”

“She didn’t vanish,” said Jon. “She was waiting.”

Beside him, Meera shifted the longbow strapped across her back. I saw the grip, marked with the sigil of Lord Brynden Rivers—a weirwood bow, lacquered white, strung with sinew.

I knew that bow. I’d seen sketches. Read accounts.

“That was his,” I said. “Bloodraven’s.”

Meera only nodded.

I turned back to Jon, my throat suddenly dry. “Do you know what people would do for those weapons?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed slightly. “They’re just steel and string, Sam. It's what we do with them that matters.”

I wanted to argue, to tell him that they were history, legends made flesh. But then I looked at Bran—pale, unmoving, a shadow of a boy beneath the weight of time—and I understood. These weren’t trophies. They were burdens.

We set up a fire that evening, not far from the shoreline. The wind came off the sea in steady breaths, cold but not cruel. The sky had gone dark, a canopy of stars broken only by the flickering flames.

Mya fetched water. Meera cleaned her arrows. Ghost and Summer lay curled on either side of Bran, who sat motionless, staring into the coals.

It was only then that we spoke of Jojen.

No speeches. No songs.

Just silence.

Meera placed her bow across her lap and said, “He saw his death coming. And still, he walked toward it.”

No one answered. What could we say?

“He believed Bran would change the world,” she added, her voice low. “That his death would matter. I need that to be true.”

Jon placed a hand on her shoulder. “It is.”

I glanced at Gilly, who was cradling her child close, her eyes wet in the firelight. Mya looked away. Even Jaime, who had come to join us late, remained silent. No wit. No quip. Just a knight sitting beside ghosts.

Bran finally spoke. “He’s not gone. Not truly.”

Meera looked up, startled.

“He walks the paths I walk,” Bran said. “He stands in the past and watches the now. I feel him still when the roots run deep enough.”

Meera didn’t answer. She only reached out and gripped Bran’s hand.

For a time, none of us spoke. The fire crackled. The wolves stirred. And the night held its breath.

We had made it to the end of the world. But the world hadn’t ended. Not yet.

The next morning, smoke from peat fires curled through the seams of the great tent. The air was thick with anticipation and frost.

The council had gathered once more—Mance, Val, Tormund, Styr, Harma Dogshead, Varamyr Sixskins, and the giant, Mag the Mighty.

Mya and I had stood in this tent before. We knew these faces.

But today, Jon stood at the centre.

Or rather, Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen.

He wore the name openly now. Gone was the boy who hid behind shadows. In his place stood the man who had accepted his blood and rose into legend, with Dark Sister at his hip and Ghost close by, white as death. Even the great Morghul circled above once before vanishing into the fog.

This was the first time the rest of our company—Jaime, Bran and Meera stood before the full council. I could feel the weight of it in the way they all kept their hands near steel or bow, even if no one reached for weapons.

Mance Rayder sat at the head, craggy and calm. He studied Jon with a soldier’s eye.

Val stood at his side, pale and poised. She examined Jon with something more than scrutiny—interest, I thought. Her gaze lingered too long on the curve of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.

But Jon, ever unreadable, gave her nothing in return.

Just a polite nod.

Tormund beamed like a proud uncle. “He’s taller than I remember.”

Harma smirked. “All you kneelers look tall ‘til they bleed.”

Styr watched Jon like a wolf weighing his prey.

Beside him, Varamyr crouched half-shrouded, his sharp eyes flicking between Ghost and Jon like a man hungering for something he could not name.

But whenever Bran stepped into view—quiet, still, with that strange knowing behind his eyes—Varamyr stiffened, retreating deeper into his furs like a whipped dog.

Jon stood steady through it all.

He looked each of them in the eye.

“I am Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, of Houses Targaryen and Stark. I’ve denied that truth for long, but no longer.”

A murmur stirred through the tent. Val’s brows arched, and a small smile tugged at her lips. But again, Jon did not meet it. He kept his eyes on Mance.

Tormund clapped a hand on his thigh. “Finally. The lad owns it.”

Styr said nothing, but I saw his fingers tense around the haft of his spear. Harma muttered something under her breath. Mag the Mighty gave a low hum in the Old Tongue.

“We’ve heard your name,” said Val softly. “Dragonstone’s ghost prince. The Wolf of Flame. They say you walk with fire and snow. That you warg into beasts and men.”

Varamyr bristled faintly at that. He cast a glance toward Ghost—hungry, almost calculating. But Bran stepped a half-step forward then, and Varamyr flinched like he'd been slapped.

Jon nodded once. “Some of it is true. Enough, at least.”

Mance leaned forward. “Why are you here, then, Prince? Why now?”

“Because the dead march,” Jon said. “The Wall will fall. When it does, you’ll have nowhere to go.”

He glanced toward Bran, “Bran Stark is a greenseer. The most powerful living. He’s seen it all. And his visions have shown us the path.”

He paused.

“Not south. But east.”

A hush fell. Even the fires seemed to quiet.

“East?” Harma spat. “To where? The edge of the world?”

“To Braavos,” Jon replied. “To safety. To regroup. You cannot survive in the Seven Kingdoms. They'll hunt you. Call you raiders. But in the Free Cities, you’ll have a chance.”

Val narrowed her eyes. “And what would Braavos want with us?”

“Survivors,” Jon said. “A people. Not broken clans, but a united folk. That’s what you are now.”

Styr grunted, sceptical.

Mya stood up beside me. “We’ve seen what waits beyond the forest. We’ve fought it. And we’ve bled for this chance. You won’t get another.”

Tormund added, “It’s the best idea we’ve got. And it’s not his—” he pointed to Jon, “—it’s his.”

All eyes turned to Bran.

“I saw it,” Bran said quietly. “I saw what happens if we stay. And what happens if we go?”

Even Mag the Mighty muttered something low and reverent in his tongue. Tormund translated, “The trees have whispered the same.”

Mance didn’t speak for a long time. He looked from Jon to Bran to Meera, who had said nothing but stood with her bow at the ready, steady and unshaken.

At last, Mance gave the faintest nod. “Then we go east.”

The council disbanded slowly, like mist burning off under the sun.

They’d agreed to go east—but what that meant, how it would happen, and who would survive it, no one quite knew. Plans could be made, yes, but there were too many unknowns ahead.

And for now, the camp returned to its slow thrum of sharpening steel, crackling fires, and cautious eyes.

I spent the afternoon helping Gilly warm broth for the Craster women, and for the first time, she laughed—truly laughed—when Mya told her how she’d knocked Rattleshirt's helmet clean off with one swing.

Gilly’s son giggled at the noise and threw a bit of stale bread at Mya, who caught it mid-air and bowed like a court jester.

Later, I saw Ygritte and Mya sitting by the fire, talking in low voices. They didn’t appear to be women from different worlds.

Ygritte nudged her shoulder at something Mya had said, laughing hard enough to startle a nearby raven. Mya grinned, a little wary still, but I could tell—whatever had formed between them was settling into something real.

Jarl joined them a while later, pretending he’d just been passing by. He greeted Mya with a half-smile and a glint in his eye that even I recognised.

Ygritte elbowed him and said something about piss and pride that made Mya nearly snort ale through her nose.

Not far off, Val approached Jon.

She walked like a cat who knew it was being watched—slow, smooth, unafraid. Her hair caught the wind just so, and her voice was low but not demure when she spoke.

"You speak like a king, Jaehaerys," she said. "Do you have a queen?"

Jon looked at her, his expression unreadable. "I have a duty."

"That wasn’t an answer."

"It’s the only one you’re getting."

Val tilted her head, amused. “Your Southron manners are strange.”

Jon simply turned away.

I didn’t think he noticed the way Mya’s eyes flicked to Val, watching. She said nothing. But that evening, I heard her tell Ygritte, softly but clearly, “He already belongs to someone else.”

Ygritte raised her brows. “A girl in Winterfell?”

“No,” Mya said. “A Princess. The only one who ever called him Jaehaerys and meant it.”

Elsewhere, Tormund and Jaime had struck up a curious friendship, one built on insults and contests. I watched as the two men tried to out-drink each other, then arm-wrestled, and finally debated whose sword had slain more men. Tormund claimed to have bedded more, too.

“My sword’s seen more use than yours,” he bellowed, half-drunk, “and I don’t just mean for killing.”

Jaime smirked. “If I had to bed wildling women like you, I’d stick it in a tree instead.”

“Trees don’t scream my name!” Tormund roared, and the entire camp laughed.

Even Jon cracked a smile.

But not everyone was laughing.

I saw Varamyr more than once that day. Once, watching Jon from behind a tattered tent flap, eyes fixed not on the prince’s face, but on Ghost.

The way his gaze tracked the direwolf’s every movement made my skin prickle. But then Bran passed by, his wooden cane thudding softly against the frozen ground, and I swear Varamyr flinched.

Later, I passed him in the shadows, and I heard him muttering under his breath. “That boy… not just a warg. Something else. Something old.”

I didn’t stop to ask what he meant.

That night, as I sat beside Gilly and her boy by the fire, I felt her hand slip into mine. No words, just warmth. I squeezed it gently and looked at the flames. I didn’t feel afraid, not like I used to. Not with her beside me.

The camp that had once looked at us with suspicion now nodded as we passed. Some even smiled. We were no longer strangers. We were part of the story now.

The fire was nearly out. Only a few coals glowed red beneath the ash. Jon stood over the map, cloak drawn tight, face unreadable. Jaime circled the table like a restless lion, his boots scuffing softly against the stone.

“We’ll need more ships,” Jaime said. “Even with all four—Sea Dragon, Stormborn, Winter Wolf, Winter Rose—we’re short by half. And the Giants... Mag says nearly a hundred. One ship per giant, maybe.”

Jon nodded. “Then one ship is already gone. The rest won’t carry more than sixteen hundred, seventeen if we press them.”

“We’ll need more ships,” I said again, as much to myself as them. “And quickly.”

“That’s where you come in,” Jon said, turning to Jaime. “You’ll go south to White Harbour. Bring the Forgotten Sons to Hardhome. Charter other ships—merchantmen, fishing vessels, anything that floats.”

Jaime exhaled through his nose, arms crossed. “And the gold?”

Jon’s mouth twitched. “Tell them a Targaryen prince promises handsome pay. They’ll come. We have more than enough in the Iron Bank.”

A rustle in the shadows announced Leaf’s arrival. Her eyes shimmered with green light. “We will not go east,” she said. “Our strength lies here. Beyond the sea, we fade.”

Jon nodded. “Then go south instead. The Neck was once yours. It still remembers your song.”

Leaf bowed her head, slow and solemn.

He continued, “Ser Jaime, go with them till Castle Cerwyn, then you’ll go east and they’ll continue to the Neck.”

Before Jon could continue, I stepped forward. My heart was pounding, but I spoke anyway.

“Take me with you.”

Both men looked at me. Jaime raised an eyebrow. “You?”

I tried to square my shoulders. “I’ve studied, I can help negotiate- Gold, Ships. I can help convince them. And... I’m not a warrior, I know, but I can speak. I can explain what’s coming.”

Jaime frowned. “You’ll slow us down.”

“I’ll ride as fast as I must,” I said. “And it’s not just ships. We’ll need supplies. Food, Water, and a lot more.”

Jaime turned to Jon, clearly waiting.

Jon studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded. “He’s right. Sam goes.”

Jaime sighed. “Bloody stubborn, both of you.”

He turned toward me, and for a moment I thought he might refuse again. But then he clapped a hand on my shoulder.

“All right, Tarly. Try not to fall off your horse.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said, and I meant it.

Dawn broke pale and cold over Hardhome. The sky was streaked with grey and violet, the sun just a ghost behind the clouds. Snow crunched underfoot as we gathered at the edge of the camp.

The Freefolk stood watching from a distance—mothers with babes, hunters with spears, children clutching at furs. They were silent, save for the wind.

The party was assembled: Ser Jaime in his cloak and thick furs, sword at his side; the Children of the Forest, half a dozen of them, cloaked in leaves and shadow; and me, dressed in more layers than dignity.

Bran sat nearby, Summer pressed close, eyes half-closed. Meera stood beside him, her new longbow across her back. Jon stood opposite Jaime, the black blade of Dark Sister visible beneath his cloak.

“Are you sure?” Jaime asked him, his voice low.

Jon nodded. “You're the only one I trust to handle this. And you’ll be back before long. I’ll need you when the time comes.”

Jaime’s jaw worked for a moment. “You’re my ward. I’d rather not leave your side.”

Jon clasped his shoulder. “You’ll defend me better by doing this.”

From behind, I felt Gilly step closer. I turned. She held her babe bundled in furs, her cheeks red from the cold, and her eyes shining. We didn’t speak for a moment. We just looked at each other, as if words might ruin it.

“I’ll come back,” I said softly.

“I know,” she whispered. “But… be safe, Sam.”

She leaned in and kissed my cheek, light as falling snow.

“I’ll miss you,” I said, feeling suddenly fourteen years old again.

“I know,” she said again and smiled. “Now go. Before I change my mind and keep you here.”

Nearby, Mya punched my arm gently for her. “Try not to freeze. Or get eaten. Or fall off your horse. Or—”

“I get it, I get it,” I muttered. “I’ll be careful.”

Even Meera gave me a rare nod. “Good luck, Samwell Tarly.”

As Jaime adjusted his saddle, Jon approached him one last time. From within his cloak, he drew a leather pouch containing sealed letters, each bound with black wax and stamped with the sigil of House Targaryen: a three-headed dragon.

“Deliver these quietly,” Jon said, though I couldn’t hear their destinations.

Jaime glanced at him. “Should I know what’s in them?”

“You'll know soon enough.”

Jaime took the pouch and stowed it in his satchel. “Fine. I’ll play your raven.”

“You’re more than that,” Jon said.

The two men clasped arms, warrior to warrior.

Then Jaime mounted his horse, and so did I—awkwardly, of course. The Children glided past us without a sound, slipping between the trees like mist. As we turned south, I looked back one last time.

Jon stood still, the black blade at his hip and Ghost beside him. Bran sat as quiet as stone, eyes turned toward something only he could see. Meera watched the treeline. Mya lifted a hand. Gilly stood with the babe clutched close, lips pressed tight, eyes never leaving mine.

The sun finally broke over the cliffs of Hardhome, casting the icy sea in gold.

And we rode south—toward ships and cities, letters and lords, fate and flame.

Chapter Text

Chapter XV - Back to Civilisation

The Wall - Eastwatch-by-the-Sea

We reached Eastwatch just as the sun was dying in the sea.

Morghul circled above like a shadow on the sky. Arrows were already trained on us from the ramparts, black shapes watching from behind crenellations.

The sight of a great black eagle, a Lannister knight, and the Children of the Forest was enough to stir alarm, even this far north.

Ser Jaime rode forward under a white flag and called out his name. When the gates didn’t open, he produced a sealed letter and held it aloft.

Eventually, the gate groaned open just enough to let a few men pass through—Night’s Watch brothers in black cloaks, wary and half-frozen.
Commander Cotter Pyke was among them, squat and hard-eyed beneath a crust of salt and frost. He snatched the letter from Jaime’s hand with a grunt and looked it over, frowning. Then he growled, “Harmune!”

Maester Harmune stumbled out a moment later, red-nosed and reeking faintly of sourwine. He squinted at the seal and cracked it open with trembling fingers.

“From… Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen,” he read aloud, blinking owlishly. “By his hand. It bears his sigil.”

“Just read it,” Pyke snapped.

Harmune’s lips moved silently for a few moments, then aloud: “Ser Jaime Lannister, sworn sword to Prince Jaehaerys, travels south on royal business. Allow safe passage through the Wall for him, his companions, and their escorts—without delay.”

Cotter Pyke spat into the snow. “So ya survived, Bloody times we live in.”

His eyes passed over our strange party—Jaime in his White cloak, me huddled in mine, and the silent figures of the Children behind us, half-hidden in the gathering dark. His expression soured further.

“You can pass,” he said flatly. “But don’t ask for food or fire. I won’t have those tree-demons under my roof.”

The Children said nothing, but I saw Leaf watching him with eyes like molten gold. She wasn’t angry. Just… ancient.

“No trouble,” Jaime replied, his voice cool. “We’ll be through before the moon is high.”

The gate opened wider. The tunnel yawned like the mouth of something old and hungry.

We stepped into the Wall.

Inside, the cold was deeper—bone-deep, soul-deep. The stones groaned, and our footsteps echoed like ghosts. Even the Children faltered. I saw one stumble slightly. Their shoulders hunched, as if the Wall pressed down upon them with invisible hands.

Behind us, one of the black brothers muttered, “Let the freaks pass. Just keep 'em moving.”

I clenched my jaw. Jaime heard it too, but said nothing. Nor did the Children. Their silence was more pointed than any words.

And then we were through.

We emerged on the southern side of the Wall, into the starlit snow. The wind bit less sharply here, but the weight of the moment hung in the air.

We had crossed.

We were south again.

Back to civilisation—though I wasn’t sure it wanted us.

Jaime glanced back once, then said, “Let’s put as much distance between us and the Wall as we can before we make camp.”

That night, some distance from the Wall, we camped at the edge of a sparse pinewood, far enough from the Wall that its looming shadow no longer stretched over us.

The fire crackled softly, casting flickering light on the snow and the strange company we kept.

The Children of the Forest huddled in a silent circle beyond ours, whispering in a language older than the world, their glances wary and distant.

Jaime and I sat near the fire. Morghul circled somewhere overhead, a distant shadow on the moonlit sky.

He turned a stick in the flames absently, then said, “Do you think we’ll find enough ships?”

I blinked. “Enough to carry four thousand Freefolk, a hundred giants, and whatever supplies we can scrounge?” I shook my head slowly. “It’s a tall task. The Stormborn, Winter Wolf and Winter Rose weren’t built for this kind of haul. They’ll need to be reinforced, and we’ll need more vessels besides. Big ones.”

Jaime grunted. “Even if we promise gold?”

“Even then. White Harbour’s not the richest port in Westeros, and most captains will baulk at ferrying wildlings across the sea.” I hesitated, then added, “But... with the right message, the right promise, it might be possible.”

He looked at me sharply. “Is that Jon’s plan? Letters and promises?”

“Yes,” I said. “And yours too, now. You’re his hand in this.” I gave him a small smile. “That makes you his best hope.”

Jaime scoffed and tossed the stick aside. “Seven hells.”

We fell quiet for a time, the cold settling in. I rubbed my hands near the fire, not for the first time wondering how I’d ended up here, south of the Wall, surrounded by gods and ghosts.

Jaime seemed to read the thought on my face. “How does a boy like you end up in a place like this, anyway?”

I stared into the flames for a long time. “My father,” I said at last. “Randyll Tarly. Lord of Horn Hill. He thought I was soft. Fat. A disgrace to the Tarly name. He gave me a choice: take the black, or suffer an accident during a hunting trip.”

Jaime frowned. “Charming.”

“I chose the black.” My voice was quiet. “But in this world, nothing stays simple. I never reached Castle Black. Ramsay Snow found me before I got that far,” I shivered at that thought. “Then you rescued me, and Jon took me under his wing.”

“And now we’re here,” Jaime said. “With wargs and giants and ancient gods.”

I chuckled faintly. “Yes. I’m not sure how it happened. I was supposed to wear black and read books in the Shadow Tower until I died. Now I’m helping to lead the Freefolk east.”

He tilted his head. “And does that feel like a promotion?”

I thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Some days. Others… it just feels like survival.”

Jaime nodded, then looked over at the Children of the Forest, shadows curled around their small forms. “I still don’t understand them. Or this war we’re walking into.”

“Neither do I,” I admitted. “But Bran does. And Jon. That has to be enough.”

Jaime didn’t answer. He just drew his cloak tighter and leaned back against a tree, his breath misting in the cold.

We didn’t speak again that night. But as I watched the fire fade to embers and the stars wheel overhead, I found myself thinking of Horn Hill, of my father’s voice, of the boy I’d been.

And I wondered how he would see me now.

The Forests Near Castle Cerwyn

We came to the parting of the ways just after midday, where the pinewoods thinned into snowy hills.

To the south lay the Neck—green and wet and tangled, the place the First Men had once called the Children’s last refuge.

To the east, the road to White Harbour wound through the forests and frozen streams.

The Children gathered silently near a thicket of frost-covered brambles. Leaf stepped forward, her bark-pale skin catching the dappled light. Behind her, the others waited—small, old, unblinking.

Jaime sat straight in his saddle. His eyes, wary since the journey began, flicked from one gnarled face to another. He still wasn’t used to them. I couldn’t blame him.

I cleared my throat. “Will we ever meet again?”

Leaf turned to me. Her eyes, ancient and ageless, held mine. “When the great war begins,” she said softly, “the realms of men will need us. And we will come, as we did before. When ice and shadow fall across the land, man and Child will stand side by side again.”

I shivered, though the wind was mild here. “Soon?”

“Soon,” she said. “But not yet.”

We watched in silence as the Children vanished into the trees, their feet soundless on the snow.

The forest swallowed them without effort—no broken branches, no trail, just the wind and the trees and the weight of what had passed between us.

Jaime turned his horse without a word and nudged it east. I followed.

We rode quietly for a time. The woods grew thicker again, shadows slanting through bare branches. Then Jaime spoke.

“You believe her?” he asked.

I glanced at him. “Yes.”

He grunted. “That’s what frightens me.”

We kept riding, the sound of our horses the only company. Somewhere far behind, the Children made their way south to swamps and memories. And somewhere ahead, ships and cities awaited us—if we were lucky enough to find them.

But Leaf’s words clung to me, like snow that wouldn’t melt.

When ice and shadow fall… we will come.

And I wondered, as the sun dipped lower through the trees, how much time we had left before it began.

The Port of White Harbour

White Harbour was draped in fog when we arrived, the mists rolling in off the Bite like a great, ghostly tide. Tall ships rocked gently in the harbour, their banners snapping in the wind.

We rode down toward the docks, hooves clattering against cobbles still slick from last night’s rain.

A cluster of ships was moored at the eastern pier—Stormborn, Winter Wolf, Winter Rose… and at the centre, the Sea Dragon, its great black hull rising like a sleeping leviathan.

A gangplank led to the deck, where crates of dried meat, timber, and barrels of tar were being hauled aboard by sailors in mismatched armour.

And lounging near the pier on a low wooden chair was Sandor Clegane, shirt half-open, wine flask in hand, one boot off and the other dangling. A mangy grey dog dozed beside him.

When we approached, he didn’t even look up.

“We’re not takin’ any more recruits,” he muttered. “Piss off.”

Jaime coughed.

The Hound blinked, looked up, and squinted. “Bloody hell. Kingslayer. Thought a giant had eaten you.”

“I’m hard to digest,” Jaime said dryly.

The Hound scratched his beard. “And the fat one?” He nodded toward me. “Looks familiar.”

“I’m Samwell Tarly,” I offered, feeling awkward. “I knew Jon. I mean, I know Jon. Jaehaerys.”

Clegane grunted.

Jaime dismounted. “We need the Blackfish.”

“The old trout’s aboard Stormborn,” said the Hound, finally getting to his feet. He groaned as he stretched. “He’ll be thrilled, finally get to do something.”

The Stormborn’s cabin smelled of sea salt, wax, and damp parchment.

Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, stood at the table where maps were spread, his eyes flicking toward Jaime as we entered.

He looked older than I remembered, the lines on his face deeper, his salt-and-pepper hair almost white now—but he stood like a man still ready for battle.

“Ser Jaime,” he said coolly. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

Jaime gave him a quick nod. “We need ships. All of them.”

One by one, the commanders of the Forgotten Sons filed into the room:

– Sandor Clegane, still clutching his flask.

– Aurane Waters, with his sea-bright smile and a pearl-handled sabre at his hip.

– Maester Marwyn, eyes gleaming with strange knowledge, a weathered tome under one arm.

– Donal Noye, the one-armed smith, frowning already.

A few captains followed after—quiet, weathered men—but it was the five at the table who led the Sons.

Sam stood awkwardly near the door until Jaime beckoned him forward.

“The Freefolk are gathering,” Jaime said without preamble, “Over four thousand of them. Maybe more. Giants among them. Women, children, warriors. Jon—Prince Jaehaerys—means to lead them east, across the Narrow Sea. Braavos is the first stop. We’ll need every ship.”

A beat of silence.

Then the Hound snorted. “He’s gone bloody mad. But fine. If it’s him asking, I’ll sail to hell and back.”

The Blackfish frowned, arms folded. “You mean to bring the Wildlings across the sea? That’s no small ask. And dangerous.”

“They’re not Wildlings,” Sam interjected, a bit too quickly. “They’re Freefolk. And they follow Jon. He’s trying to save them.”

Aurane Waters leaned over the map, tapping Braavos with a long finger. “So we finally give the Sea Dragon her true voyage. Across the Narrow Sea… to Braavos, and maybe further. Hells, I’ve waited years for something worthy of her hull.”

Donal Noye shook his head slowly. “Four thousand mouths. Add in crew, the giants, gods know what else. We’ll need to double rations. Even that won’t be enough. You’d best start praying to every god for a smooth sea.”

“They’ll bring what stores they can,” Jaime said. “We’ll charter other vessels in White Harbour. We’ll pay well.”

Marwyn grinned. “Four thousand souls crossing the sea. Children of the Forest walking under moonlight again. Giants in the docks of Braavos. The world is turning strange again. Glorious.”

The Blackfish remained quiet a moment longer. Then he nodded.

“I serve the Prince,” he said to Jaime. “So we’ll do as he asks. But don’t expect it to be easy.”

“I never do,” Jaime replied.

I remained behind.

The docks were a chaotic rhythm, shouts echoing off stone walls as crates were loaded, sails mended, and timbers hammered back into place.

The Forgotten Sons moved like ants in armour—disciplined chaos. Sandor was cursing about rats in the hold; Aurane Waters barked orders from the Sea Dragon’s quarterdeck; Donal Noye hammered a bent spar back into shape with his only hand and a fire in his eyes.

Ser Jaime had ridden out early, bound for New Castle—the ancestral seat of House Manderly—to speak with Wylis Manderly and charter more ships. I offered to go, but Jaime shook his head. “Stay here, Sam. You know what we need. I trust you to see it done.”

So I remained. I tallied the cargo. I oversaw the loading. I did not sleep much.

Even so, there was something strangely steadying about it all—the sea air, the rising tide, the feeling that, after all the madness, I had a purpose I understood: make sure the ships were ready. Get our people east. Save who we could.

The following events were dramatised from the accounts of Ser Jaime Lannister.

New Castle

The New Castle looked like a smaller, whiter cousin of Winterfell—clean stone walls, proud banners, and the same air of long-settled purpose. Ser Jaime rode beneath its gates with his cloak still dusty from the road and his mood not much better.

He carried a letter sealed in black wax, bearing the sigil of House Targaryen. That alone would be enough to turn some heads—or sever them, depending on the company.

Inside the hall, Ser Wylis Manderly met him with a grunt and a handshake that nearly crushed his fingers. Thick of neck and thick of belly, Wylis looked more butcher than lordling, though Jaime doubted he'd ever wielded a cleaver.

“Prince Jaehaerys sends his regards,” Jaime said, offering the sealed letter.

Wylis cracked the seal and read, his lips moving slightly. Jaime watched him, saying nothing.

When Wylis finally looked up, he exhaled through his nose like a man who’d just been asked to fund a wedding and a war all at once.

“He wants our ships.”

“He needs them,” Jaime corrected. “So do thousands of people who’ll die without them.”

“Freefolk,” Wylis muttered. “Wildlings, if you want it plain. You know what most Northerners would say to that? Let them freeze.”

“I’ve heard worse,” Jaime said. “And better. You’ll be paid—well.”

“I don’t care about the coin. I care about the backlash.” Wylis leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming the table. “Half the guilds hate my father already for what he’s doing in King’s Landing. And now I’m supposed to give away half the fleet to ferry our enemies east?”

“They’re not your enemies anymore,” Jaime said. “They’re people. And the real enemy is coming.”

Wylis was quiet for a moment, then sighed.

“I’ll give you five ships. Sturdy ones. Good crews. But no more. I have to keep the port running.”

“Five?” Jaime’s brow creased. “That’s half what I hoped for.”

“And twice what I’ll be thanked for,” Wylis muttered. “Take it or leave it, Kingslayer.”

Jaime gave a curt nod. “I’ll take it.”

The stairs to the rookery were narrow, steep, and smelled like old parchment and Ink. Jaime climbed them alone, the letters Jon had given him resting in the leather pouch at his hip.

The maester’s apprentice—a thin, nervous boy with a raven feather tucked behind one ear—blinked at him as he entered.

“I have letters,” Jaime said. “They go to… many places. I’ll name the destinations. Send one raven per scroll. No delays.”

The boy nodded and scurried to prepare the birds.

Jaime laid the letters out on the wooden desk, their black wax unbroken. He didn’t know what they said. He hadn’t read them. That wasn’t his task.

He watched as the apprentice tied each scroll to a raven’s leg and released them one by one into the cold northern sky. Some flew south. Others west. One even to the east, where the sea waited.

By the time the last bird vanished over the horizon, the wind had picked up. Jaime stood there a while, staring out beyond the towers, watching the tide come in.

Whatever Jon’s plan was, it had begun now. And if it was to work, the letters had to reach the right eyes… before the Long Night reached them all.

White Harbour – The Docks

The smell of the sea was stronger here than at Eastwatch—less cold, more briny, full of fish guts, old wood, and something sour I couldn’t quite name.

Gulls wheeled overhead, shrieking like they’d caught sight of a massacre, and with Sandor Clegane looming behind me, perhaps they had.

Jaime was doing most of the talking. I was there to support him—just enough to look official, not enough to get in the way.

Ser Jaime had a commanding presence. You wouldn’t think so, not at first glance, but when he got serious, people listened. Even the old dockmaster was sweating under his fur-lined cloak, despite the chill.

“We’re not buying your gods-damned dolphins,” Jaime snapped. “We’re buying ships. And I’ve told you—we’ll pay twice the standard rate for every seaworthy vessel that can haul men and stores across the Narrow Sea.”

The dockmaster—Jorell, or maybe Torell?—mumbled something about the salt air and family expenses. I smiled in what I hoped was a calming way, even though my collar was damp with sweat.

Behind us, the Hound stood with his arms crossed, his burned face twisted into a permanent snarl. The sailors glanced his way often. One of them flinched when Sandor spat on the planks.

“I’ve seen men try to cheat us before,” the Hound growled, his voice low and casual, like he was discussing the weather, “Fed every one of them to the sea. You want to be next, old man?”

That was the end of the haggling.

Jaime pressed the advantage, leaning forward like a lion scenting weakness. “We don’t need perfection. Just hulls that don’t leak and sails that hold wind. Six ships. You have them.”

“And coin?” the dockmaster asked, quieter now.

Jaime tossed a velvet pouch onto the table. It landed with a clink, the unmistakable sound of real gold. The sort of sound that changed men’s minds.

“You’ll have your payment,” he said. “And a bonus if you sail within three days.”

Jorell—or Torell—nodded, hands twitching like he couldn’t wait to count the coins.

I cleared my throat. “You’ll be carrying people who’ve never seen the sea before,” I said, as gently as I could. “They’re... not used to the way things are done in cities. Be kind. Or at least not cruel.”

He stared at me like I’d spoken High Valyrian. Then his eyes flicked toward the Hound again, and he said nothing at all.

We moved on to the next group. I followed just behind Ser Jaime, trying not to trip over the thick ropes coiled along the piers. My boots were soaked through.

“I don’t like this,” the Hound muttered behind us. “Feels like we’re herding fishmongers.”

“Because we are,” Jaime replied.

I added, “Most of the city’s more reputable merchants refused us outright. The stories of us travelling with the Children didn’t help.” I glanced back toward the pine-cloaked hills. They’d refused to walk on the stone streets. Leaf had said the stones felt wrong. I wasn’t sure what that meant.

“Stones are never just stones,” the Hound said darkly. “Something always crawls beneath them.”

I made a note to ask Maester Marwyn what that was supposed to mean.

We had just two more crews left to convince. The last pair were lean, hard-eyed Rivermen—one with a feather tattoo on his neck, the other with a scar across his lip and the look of a man who’d once been rich and regretted it. They owned a bulk haulier called the Silverwake—ugly as sin, but exactly what we needed.

Jaime leaned in. “That’s our last real chance. Big cargo space. If we don’t land them, we’ll have to start begging.”

“I’ll try,” I said before I could lose my nerve.

He blinked at me, then gave a nod and stepped aside.

I took a breath. “My name is Samwell Tarly,” I said, trying to sound confident. “We’re looking to hire your ship for a crossing east. Three weeks’ hire, full pay in advance. Hazard bonus if you sail by dawn two days from now.”

The tattooed man squinted. “And why would we do that?”

I gestured behind me. First to Jaime Lannister, who gave a polite, dangerous smile. Then to Sandor Clegane, who looked like he’d rather be punching someone than standing still.

“Because we’re offering more gold than any merchant in the harbour,” I said, steady now. “And if you say no, the next people we ask might offer you less. Or nothing at all.”

The two men exchanged a long look, then nodded, “Deal.”

I exhaled so deeply I nearly swayed on my feet. The Hound gave a grunt that might have been approval. Jaime just looked smug.

“Well done, Maester,” Sandor said.

“I’m not—” I started, but let it go. It wasn’t worth correcting anymore.

The sun was low in the sky by the time we returned to the ships. Seven chartered vessels. Five promised by Wylis Manderly. The four ships of the Forgotten Sons. It wasn’t as good as I had hoped.

But it was something. The start of a fleet. The beginning of a plan.

And with any luck, the first step toward saving the Freefolk from the darkness to come.

By the fifth day, the chaos had settled, just enough to launch. Barely.

Our ragtag fleet cut through the grey waters of the Bite, sixteen ships in all, sails flapping like a quarrelsome flock of crows.

The four ships of the Forgotten Sons were sleek, deadly, and well-manned—especially the Sea Dragon, which moved like a predator among sheep.

Five ships flew the leaping merman of House Manderly, though not one of them as grand as I’d imagined.

The rest were... mismatched. Fat-bellied trading vessels, river-craft that had no business on salt water, and one caravel with bright orange sails and a name I couldn’t pronounce.

The decks were crowded with shouting sailors, crates of preserved meat and hardtack, barrels of fresh water lashed in bundles. Some argued over the sleeping space. Others tried to gamble. No one seemed to know who was truly in charge.

Except for Sandor Clegane, who shouted louder than any of them.

“Get your arse off that crate before I throw you overboard!” the Hound bellowed at a lanky deckhand who’d mistaken the supply chest for a seat. “This ain’t no pleasure cruise!”

He stormed up and down the docks like a one-man storm, growling at riggers, cursing at coxswains, and flinging a rope coil at a sailor too slow to tie off the stern. The man scurried like a kicked dog.

A few steps behind him, calm as still water, walked Ser Brynden Tully—the Blackfish. He said little, but the way men straightened their backs when he passed told me who truly kept order. Discipline had a quiet voice, but it carried.

At the prow of the Sea Dragon, Aurane Waters grinned like a man sailing to victory instead of near-certain madness. His cloak billowed in the sea breeze, and he stood tall, one hand on the polished rail, looking every inch the captain he dreamed of being.

“She sails like a beast,” he had said earlier, “but I’ve never had a proper storm to test her teeth. Gods willing, we’ll get one on the way.”

Gods willing, I had thought at the time, we won’t.

I stood with Jaime on the quarterdeck of one of the Manderly cogs, watching the fleet stretch ahead and behind. Sails flapped. Men shouted. Waves crashed.

“I wonder if it will be enough,” I said.

Jaime glanced sideways at me. “Enough to carry four thousand wildlings and a hundred bloody giants halfway across the world? Maybe.”

“We’ve done all we could.”

“Sometimes,” he muttered, “that’s not enough.”

I looked up at the sky, squinting into the sunlight. That was when I saw him.

“Morghul,” I whispered.

High above, wings spread wide, the great black eagle circled slowly in the blue-grey sky. He flew lazy loops above the fleet, a shadow flickering across sails and sea, watching us, guiding us.

Jaime followed my gaze. “He sees us,” he said. “Which means… they see us, too.”

I nodded, heart steadied somewhat by the thought. Jon. Gilly Bran. Meera. Mya. They were waiting at Hardhome. And we were coming.

Behind us, White Harbour faded into mist. Ahead lay wind, waves, and war.

But for the first time since we left, I dared to believe: We might just make it.

Chapter Text

Sub-Chapter: I - The Words from Beyond

They were words written by a prince, a greenseer, a daughter, a brother, and a friend.

Words borne southward by raven and rider. Words penned in the frostbitten wilds beyond the Wall, far from the marble halls and warm hearths of the south. Words meant to shake kingdoms awake.

Some letters were sealed with dragon wax, others with rough impressions of weirwood sigils or simple thread. They came not from lords in castles but from survivors in caves, exiles in snow. From those the realm had forgotten—or never known to begin with.

And yet, those words stirred war councils and broke quiet hearts.

They crossed mountains and seas, reached kings and scholars, bankers and exiles.

They were not declarations of war, nor oaths of fealty.

They were something rarer—truths.

I was not there to see the letters read. I did not see Lord Stark’s eyes as he read the handwriting of a nephew he thought long dead. Nor did I see the Sealord of Braavos furrow his brow as he read Jon’s plea. But I know what they must have felt—because I know the weight of those truths.

Jon—no, Jaehaerys Targaryen—had sent forth a message to the world:

The North is not silent.
The dead are not myths.
And the Wall was never meant to keep out men.

What follows are the words that went out into the world.
What follows is the beginning of the return.

The following events were recreated from official records and past recollections of witnesses.

Winterfell

Maester Luwin brought the scrolls before Lord Eddard Stark just before dawn. One bore the seal of a three-eyed raven in black wax, and the other, A Red dragon on a Black Field. The former chilled his hand. The latter made it tremble.

He opened the dragon-sealed letter first.

"To Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North—
I write this not as Jon, but as Jaehaerys Targaryen, though I remain your nephew, and I remain the boy who once ran through the halls of Winterfell, barefoot and breathless.
I have gone far, Uncle. To places even Maester Luwin would have called fables. I have seen things that should not exist, fought things that cannot die. I have not returned because I am building the means to return, for good.
I did not abandon you. I walked the path I had to.
I ask your forgiveness not for what I’ve done, but for not being able to explain it then.
The North is in danger. Not from factions of Men, but from death itself.
Prepare the Wall. Ready the Watch. And when the time comes, stand with me.
I am alive. Bran is alive. Jojen died for us to live.
I will return."
— Jaehaerys

Ned Stark did not read the second letter immediately. He sat for a long time with his face in his hands, the letter held loosely, his eyes wet with a relief he had not allowed himself to hope for.

When at last he broke the black seal of the second scroll, it felt like cracking old ice.

"To my father, Eddard Stark, from Bran, your son.
I live, but I am not the boy you remember. My left leg does not walk, but I have walked through time. My eyes are not only mine. I have seen the First Men make their pact, and I have seen the doom of Valyria. I am the Three-Eyed Raven now.
But I am still Bran. Somewhere, I am still Bran.
Jojen gave his life so I could reach the cave. Meera carried me when I could not move. Jon protected us, and he still does.
The Long Night is not just a tale told by old men. I have seen it coming.
There is only one chance to survive it. Let Jon lead. Let the North remember."

Maester Luwin said nothing after reading them aloud. He only removed his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve, though they were already clean.

When Lady Catelyn was shown the letters, she pressed her lips together. Her relief was sharp-edged, but it was real. "Bran is alive," she whispered.

Later that day, Ned called a council in the Great Hall of Winterfell. Robb sat at his side. Ser Rodrik, Hallis Mollen, and the lords sworn to House Stark crowded the benches.

"Send word to Castle Black," Ned said. "To Eastwatch. To every outpost along the Wall. We must speak with the Night’s Watch. Strengthen the defences."

He looked over the hall, face carved from stone. "The North will not wait for the rest of the realm to wake. If the dead are walking, the living must march."

"And Jon?" asked Robb.

Ned’s eyes lingered on the fire for a long moment. "He says he will return. When he does... we will be ready."

Greywater Watch

The letter arrived in Greywater Watch on a fog-choked morning, the kind where even the trees seemed to whisper of ghosts. It bore the black lizard-lion of House Reed on a grey-green field, sealed in dark wax, unbroken. The bog-men handed it to their lord with bowed heads and quiet glances.

Howland Reed stood barefoot in the wet earth, reeds brushing his knees, and opened the letter in silence. The wax cracked beneath his fingers. The parchment was folded with care, but the writing trembled in places, as if written through grief.

Father—
Jojen is dead.
He saw it before it happened, but he went anyway. He always knew. I didn’t. Or maybe I refused to. I carried him through the cold and snow and death, and now he’s gone.
Bran is no longer just Bran. He is the Three-Eyed Raven. He remembers everything. He sees things I cannot comprehend. But I trust him. What we found matters.
The last greenseer is dead. Bran remains. He will guide us now.
We are going east—to Braavos—for now. It’s the path Bran saw, and Jon believes in it.
I don’t know what awaits us. But I thought you should know.
Your daughter,
Meera

Howland read the words slowly, each one pressing into his heart like the tip of a spear. His hand lingered on Jojen’s name. For a long while, he said nothing. Then, he looked toward the trees—tall grey sentinels draped in moss—and to the water beyond, still as glass.

A second raven circled overhead and descended. This one bore the direwolf of House Stark—a message from Winterfell.

Howland read it in silence. When he finished, he closed his eyes.

Then, almost smiling, he said:

“Finally.”

Dragonstone

The wind sang against the towers of Dragonstone, heavy with salt and storm. Gulls circled the jagged cliffs like sentries of the sea, and the black stone of the castle drank in the morning chill.

Within the council chamber, its carved dragons looming in silence, Maester Cressen approached with a slight limp and two sealed letters in his hand. He offered them a short bow—one to Princess Daenerys Targaryen, and one to Prince Viserys, her elder brother. Both bore the same sigil: the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, but the seal was not the King’s.

It was Jon’s.

Cressen said nothing as they took the letters. He only watched, as he always did.

Daenerys broke the seal first, her fingers trembling before the wax had even cracked.

Dany,
I am alive. I wanted you to know that first.
We crossed the Wall. We found the cave. Jojen died. Bran is changed—he sees the world differently now, but I trust him.
The threat is real. The dead are coming, and if we fail, no throne will matter.
We are heading east—to Braavos—for now. It is not the end of the journey, only the beginning. I will return. I promise.
There are things I need to do first. I hope you understand. I hope you are safe.
Yours,
Jaehaerys

She read it again and again. Her lips parted in a breathless whisper:

“He’s alive.”

Viserys stood beside her, already reading his own.

Prince Viserys,
I write to inform you that I live. The expedition beyond the Wall succeeded, though not without loss. The Freefolk now follow us. We go east—to Braavos—for strength and ships.
I ask only one thing: halt the mining of dragonglass for now. The Forgotten Sons sail with us, and their ships are needed. They were forged for battle, not burden. Let the mountain rest for now.
We will return, and when we do, it must be with more than stories.
Jaehaerys

Viserys frowned as he finished, rolling the parchment tightly between his fingers. “He halted the dragonglass trade.”

Daenerys looked up from her letter, eyes soft. “Only for a time. The Forgotten Sons need their ships.”

“He’s halting our income,” Viserys snapped. “That coin keeps Dragonstone’s foundries burning and its walls repaired.”

“And he’s asking us to help save the realm,” Daenerys replied. “For that, I’d let the walls crumble.”

Viserys turned away. “He always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

But neither of them spoke of refusing the request. Neither questioned what he said. And in the shadowed keep of Dragonstone, something like hope stirred.

King’s Landing

The Red Keep sat high above the city, its red stones catching the sun like embers. Within the Tower of the Hand, the Small Council assembled at Rhaegar Targaryen’s command. The room was quiet, tense, as the Hand of the King broke the wax seal bearing the three-headed dragon.

Lord Stannis Baratheon, grim as ever, read the words aloud, his voice as cold and sharp as the winds beyond the Wall.

To His Grace, Rhaegar Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men—
The dead walk in the far north. The threat is not rumour, nor myth, but real. I have seen them with my own eyes. I have fought them.
The Freefolk have rallied at Hardhome under the shadow of what is coming. We lead them east, not in flight, but to gather strength, ships, allies. Then we return.
I ask not for aid, but for acknowledgement. The North is awakening. The wall alone cannot hold what is coming. Prepare.
– Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen

Rhaegar’s silvered hair was tied back in a simple knot, but his hands—those once famed for their harp, then for a sword—shook as he took the letter and reread it in silence.

He did not weep. But he bowed his head.

He had once turned away from the boy born of grief and prophecy, unable to bear the ghost of Lyanna Stark in his eyes. He had given him a name, then left him to others—to duty, to exile. And now, years later, the same boy had written not as a child craving love, but as a prince declaring war against death itself.

“He asks for nothing,” Rhaegar murmured, voice low. “No crown. No forgiveness. Only that we listen.”

Across the table, Rhaenys Targaryen sat stiffly, eyes fixed on the parchment. She had only seen her half-brother once—Jon, they had called him then. A shy boy of ten with dark curls and too-serious eyes. She had not spoken a word to him.

She whispered now, “He’s alive.” Then again, firmer. “He’s alive.”

Rhaella Targaryen said nothing at first. Her face, lined and regal, was unreadable—until she placed her hand over the parchment and whispered, “My brave boy.” She had nursed him when he was a babe, taught him to read when the maesters were too slow. When he vanished north without warning, it was she who refused to believe him dead.

The chamber held its silence until Lord Wyman Manderly, Master of Coin, cleared his throat. “If Prince Jaehaerys speaks truth—and I believe he does—then we must prepare the realm. This is not some wildling raid.”

Lord Davos Seaworth nodded gravely. “Hardhome is no place for lies. If the Freefolk are gathering behind him, then something worse must be coming. The last time they came together in such numbers… was before the Long Night.”

Grand Maester Gormon clutched the citadel parchment beside him. “The Citadel has dismissed such claims as superstition. Wights. Cold shadows. These are tales for children—”
“They were tales once,” Rhaegar said, his voice sharpening. “So was the Doom. So was the Dance.”

Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood tall in his white armour, silent as always. But when Rhaegar looked to him, he said simply, “I believe him.”

Stannis laid the letter flat against the table, jaw tight. “We need ravens sent to every major holdfast. The North must be reinforced. The Wall must be strengthened.”

“We have little to spare,” Wyman said. “The royal fleet’s stretched thin. The crown’s coffers are even thinner.”

“Then tighten the purse,” Rhaegar said, more firmly now. “My son went north to face death itself. I will not sit idle in warmth and wine while he fights in the cold.”

And there it was: My son.

He had never said it aloud before, not like this.

Not with pride.

“And what of the Freefolk?” asked Rhaenys. “He calls them allies.”

Stannis frowned. “They are not our allies. They are raiders, murderers, oathbreakers—”

“They are men,” said Rhaegar. “And we will need every sword.”

He looked down at the letter again, his gaze lingering on the name.

Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen.

Not Jon. A prince in truth.

Rhaegar rose. “Send word to Winterfell. We must begin making ready. And when the North calls… we will answer.”

No one argued.

The Citadel, Oldtown

The raven had come cloaked in royal wax and sealed in the name of Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen.

That alone had ensured it was read before the full Conclave of Archmaesters.

Seventeen men sat along the long crescent table in the highest hall of the Citadel, their chain links shimmering in the sunlight that poured through the domed glass above.

Each chain was forged from different metals—silver, gold, iron, lead—each link marking a field of mastery. Books were stacked in front of them like battlements. Scrolls lined the walls. Ravens croaked outside the tall windows.

Archmaester Vaellyn, a gaunt man with a Bronze mask, cleared his throat as he finished reading aloud. “Signed: Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone.”

A silence followed, filled only by the scratching of quills and the faint clinking of links as chains shifted.

“Preposterous,” muttered Archmaester Mollos of Geography. “Wights? Walkers? Children of the Forest? This is an old tale regurgitated in royal ink.”

“And yet,” said Walgrave of Ravencraft, rubbing his ink-stained fingers together, “the letter is not alone. Reports from Eastwatch mention sightings. Commander Cotter Pyke confirms the prince's party passed through, accompanied by strange beings.”

“Maester Harmune claimed to see Children of the Forest with his own eyes,” added Archmaester Ocley. “He described them in detail—short, bark-skinned, with eyes of gold and green.”

“Harmune?” Mollos scoffed. “He’s half in his cups even at sunrise. The man once wrote that a shadowcat taught him a song.”

There was scattered laughter around the table.

“And yet,” Ocley pressed, “he’s not the only one reporting strange happenings. Winterfell has begun reinforcing its watch. King’s Landing convened a full council over these letters. Even the Archmaester of Warcraft cannot ignore this much noise.”

“Still,” huffed Perestan of History, “the Others are myths, long since buried in snow and story. What proof is there? A letter? A fancy tale told by a boy raised in shadows?”

“Marwyn would have believed it,” said Walgrave dryly.

“Marwyn would believe a rock had feelings,” Mollos snapped.

“He is aboard the fleet heading north,” Ocley reminded them. “That itself is no small thing. Marwyn is not a man easily stirred from Oldtown.”

Vaellyn tapped the scroll with a long finger. “There is danger in overreaction. But more danger still in inaction. If this letter is true, then the realm is at risk. If it is false, the prince still believes it to be true, and he moves thousands of people to Braavos.”

“Why Braavos?” asked another, thin and sharp-eyed.

“To prepare, perhaps,” said Vaellyn. “To rally strength outside the reach of politics and suspicion.”

A silence settled again.

“We will not act upon it,” said Vaellyn finally, “not yet. The Citadel cannot chase shadows in the snow. But we will observe. Quietly. The eyes of the Conclave will turn northward. And if truth begins to show itself in more than ink and rumour—”

“Then we act,” Ocley finished.

Heads nodded, reluctantly.

The scroll was passed down the table, its words echoing still.

Darkness rises in the far north. The Wall is not enough. The dead walk again.

A warning from the edge of the world. Dismissed, but not forgotten.

Not entirely.

Braavos – The Sealord’s Palace

The Palace of the Sealord rose like a dark jewel above the canals of Braavos, its arched windows shimmering with blue glass. The sea lapped softly at its base, as it always had.

Within its highest chamber, the Sealord of Braavos, Ferrego Antaryon, sat upon a blackwood chair. He was an aged man, bald as a polished egg, with a voice like silk over steel.

He wore robes of deepest purple and rings on every finger—sapphires, garnets, onyx, and one curious piece of dragonglass.

The letter from Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen had been placed on a silver tray and delivered to him by a masked attendant. The wax bore the royal seal of Dragonstone: a three-headed dragon.

Ferrego read it once. Then again, slower. The flickering brazier near his side cast shadows across his lined face as his lips tightened thoughtfully.

“Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen,” he murmured, almost amused. “The forgotten dragon reaches eastward.”

He stood, cane in hand, and made his way to a long window overlooking the purple canal. Below, Braavosi ships bobbed on mooring ropes. Fishmongers and Water Dancers filled the square beyond. He tapped the scroll thoughtfully against his cane.

“Temporary amnesty for a people with no nation,” he said aloud. “Four thousand strong. Wildlings, they call them. Savages, the Westerosi claim.”

His master of whispers, a lean man named Ruvo Essayn, stood silently beside the hearth.

“Will you grant it?” Ruvo asked softly.

Ferrego’s smile was thin. “Yes.”

He turned back to the scroll.

“Braavos does not close its doors to the desperate. Not when coin and honour are offered in return. We will watch. If the Prince arrives, we shall meet him. He will be received as one who remembers old debts.”

The Iron Bank of Braavos

The Iron Bank was colder than the sea outside—its walls bare, its floors tiled with black and white squares like a game of cyvasse no man had ever won.

The clerk who received the letter bore it with reverence to Tycho Nestoris, senior representative of the Westerosi accounts.

Tycho, grey-bearded and sharp-eyed, read the letter without expression.

The scroll bore no royal command, only the seal of Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen and an attached ledger in precise Valyrian script: funds accrued from the dragonglass trade of Dragonstone and years of careful management.

“This is not a plea for aid,” Tycho said at last, his voice low and analytical. “It is a transaction.”

“A withdrawal?” asked the younger clerk beside him.

Tycho nodded. “Partial. Designated for payment of captains, shipmasters, food supplies, and passage fees. He plans a migration… or an exodus.”

“The freefolk?”

“So he claims. Four thousand. Giants, even.” Tycho raised one brow. “The letter is clear. He is not asking for loans. He asks for his gold.”

The clerk frowned. “Should we grant it?”

Tycho looked up sharply. “It is his. The Iron Bank holds it, but does not own it. The Iron Bank is not a jailor of coin—only its steward.”

He folded the scroll carefully. “Have the amount readied. And ensure a ship is prepared to meet him when he docks. We will keep watch on this Prince Jaehaerys. If he succeeds, we may have use of him. If he fails…” He shrugged lightly. “Too bad then.”

He turned back to the ledgers and scratched a line in the margins beside Jaehaerys's name:

Withdrawal scheduled.

They were just letters. Ink on parchment, wax and seals and words sent flying like ravens on the wind. But words have power. Jon knew that. Bran knew that. Maybe even I knew that, though I only realised it later.

I’d wondered then what the others would think when they read these letters, what they would feel.

Now I can imagine.

In Winterfell, I see Lord Stark clutching Jon’s letter in his fist—his eyes dark with pain and love, reading words from a boy who left without a goodbye.

In his hall, I see Bran’s letter opened with trembling fingers, the wax seal of a raven crumbling beneath the Stark direwolf. I can hear Lady Catelyn asking, “What does it mean that he is… not quite a boy anymore?”

In Greywater Watch, I see Howland Reed’s calloused hands unfolding the seal of his House—his daughter’s handwriting shaky but clear, telling him Jojen is gone. I wonder if he wept. I hope he did.

In Dragonstone, Daenerys must have smiled. I think of the way Jon said her name sometimes—quiet, private, like it was a secret he barely allowed himself. And Viserys—he must have sneered or sighed or both, but I bet he listened. He always listened, even when he pretended not to.

In King’s Landing, I imagine a king staring at a page he barely dares to read. Rhaegar Targaryen, once the greatest knight in the realm, is now a grieving father trying to become something more.

In Oldtown, the Archmaesters likely scoffed. They always do. Men of reason. Men of stone. But doubt, once planted, is hard to kill. Maybe they’ll talk more in private.

And in Braavos… I do not know what passed behind those iron-banded doors, but I imagine sharp minds reading Jon’s pleas, weighing them like coin. Maybe they think they can use him. Maybe they’re right. Or they’ll learn he’s not so easily weighed.

Still, the letters were sent.

Little things. Folded paper and hidden hope.

But words change things. They always have.

They build alliances and start wars. They open gates and close hearts.

And somewhere far away, in some cold stone hall or warm candlelit chamber, a king, a father, a sister, or an enemy read Jon’s words and wondered:

Is this the beginning of something greater? Or the last desperate call of a boy lost beyond the Wall?

We know the answer now.

We sent more than letters that day.

We sent a warning. A promise. A breath of the truth on a wind grown still too long.

And the world stirred.

Chapter Text

Chapter XVI - The Exodus

The Shivering Sea lived up to its name. Even with fur-lined cloaks and gloves, the cold seemed to reach through the layers and gnaw at the bone.

I’d thought I’d grown used to the chill beyond the Wall, but the wind off the sea had a malice to it—sharper, wetter, more personal somehow.

We lost one of the chartered ships two nights before landfall. It struck a wall of ice in the dark, and within the hour, she was gone beneath the black waves, swallowed whole. No one had time to scream.

The captain and crew were Braavosi and strangers to us, but the loss hung heavy. I kept thinking of their faces—half-seen, half-forgotten—and wondering if we’d lose more before this was done.

Still, the fleet pressed on, sails taut and timbers creaking, sixteen ships strong.

The Sea Dragon led the way—sleek and swift and proud, just as Aurane Waters liked it. He stood at the helm wrapped in what might have once been a cloak, but now looked more like a challenge to taste and decency itself: fur dyed such a bright, eye-watering blue it could have guided ships through fog.

Jaime muttered that he looked like a Dornish peacock. I kept the thought to myself, but silently agreed.

Sandor Clegane stalked the decks wearing his hound-shaped helm, not out of vanity but to shield his face from the wind. The sight of it looming from the shadows, the snarling steel mask rimed with frost, gave some of the sailors a fright every time he passed.

The sea route to Hardhome gave me a strange sort of disquiet. I had stood on those cliffs before. I had walked among the broken bones of the old village. But approaching it from the water made it feel different—more remote, more ancient, like sailing into a dream half-remembered.

Jaime stood near the prow, eyes fixed ahead. We had both seen Hardhome before. But neither of us had arrived like this—with ships behind us, hope ahead, and the weight of thousands on our shoulders.

Behind us, the ragged fleet churned steadily forward—four ships of the Forgotten Sons, five from House Manderly, and seven assorted charters bearing all the strange colours and pennants of the Free Cities. It looked more like a trader’s convoy than a fleet of salvation, but it was ours.

I pulled my cloak tighter around me and looked to the skies.

Morghul circled high above, wings stretched wide and eyes gleaming in the grey. Watching. Waiting.

We were close.

The sea had calmed by the time we reached Hardhome. Snow still clung to the jagged cliffs above, but the skies had softened to a dull grey, and the wind no longer howled like a dying beast.

I stood near the prow of the Sea Dragon as we approached the ramshackle docks—little more than splintered logs and rough ropes lashed together, straining under the weight of too many feet.

Hardhome itself was a scar—blackened ruins, crooked tents, and firepits belching smoke that never seemed to rise.

But they were waiting for us.

Jon stood at the end of the dock, cloaked in thick black fur, Dark Sister strapped at his side. Morghul circled lazily above him, casting long-winged shadows across the frozen shore. Ghost stood at Jon’s heel, his white fur stained with dirt and dried blood, and Summer was beside Bran—larger than I remembered, his eyes ancient and calm.

Beside Jon stood Mya, with a hand resting lightly on the hilt of her warhammer. Meera was a step behind her, the weirwood longbow slung across her back.

Gilly waited near the rear of the group, her arms around her Baby. And beside her, Tormund Giantsbane, red-bearded and broad as ever, but his usual grin was gone.

They didn’t wave. No cheers, no cries. Just a wall of eyes.

“I thought they’d be happier to see us,” I muttered to Jaime as the ship pulled in.

“They’re not,” he replied.

When we disembarked, Jon stepped forward and clasped my arm first, then Jaime’s. His face was calm, but taut with something unspoken.

“We need to talk,” he said. “Now.”

We followed him up the beach, through a line of Freefolk who stared as if weighing our bones. No one smiled. No one spoke.

Once we reached the edge of the settlement, Jon turned.

“Things… haven’t been easy while you were gone.”

He explained it simply, his voice low, but I saw the fire beneath it.

“Styr grew doubtful,” he said. “Started whispering that the voyage east was a trap. Said we meant to weaken them, break them apart. Mance and I tried to talk him down. So did Val. But the Thenns follow strength.”

Jon’s jaw tightened. “And Varamyr Slithered into my tent one night. He meant to kill me and take Ghost.” His voice lowered. “Meera saw him first. Three arrows. One in the throat.”
“Gods,” I breathed.

“Tormund vouched for us,” Jon continued. “So did Mance. But Styr saw an opportunity. Claimed it was all planned. Said we Southerners meant to pick them off, one by one. That we’d sell their children to slavers once we were east.”

Jon nodded. “The lies spread fast. Styr challenged me. Said he’d prove I was unfit to lead.” He paused. “I accepted.”

He didn’t have to say the rest. I looked at the sword on his belt—Dark Sister, gleaming black and thinner than the one he’d carried before. Its Valyrian steel edge was still clean, but I could see the strain in Jon’s shoulders, the new way his hand rested on the hilt, uncertain.

“He fought like a bear. I fought like a man with a sword I barely knew,” Jon said. “But I won.”

“And the Thenns?” I asked.

“Gone,” Mya said. “Took their tents and their Bronze and went east through the snow. Sigorn leads them now. Styr’s son.”

“Will they come back?” Jaime asked.

Jon shook his head. “No. They’ll take their chances. Maybe south, maybe across the sea on their own.”

We stood there for a while, letting the silence settle.

“You still have the others?” I asked quietly.

“Mance, Tormund, Harma, Mag, Val,” Jon said. “Most of the clans. But fewer than before. We number a little over three thousand now.”

I glanced back at the fleet behind us. Sixteen ships, barely enough as it was. Now, even with the Thenns gone… it would still be close.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” I said.

He looked at me, his eyes as pale and cold as the sea. “You came back. That’s what matters.”

And for the first time since we landed, he smiled.

Beside me, Ser Jaime was frowning. “If Sigorn means to go south, he'll most likely attack Eastwatch, we ought to send word to the Wall,” he said. “Cotter Pyke won’t like three hundred Thenns knocking on his gate without warning.”

Jon nodded grimly. “You’re right.” He turned, already reaching for the pouch at his belt. “Bran’s ravens can reach Eastwatch in half a day. I’ll write to the Commander myself.”

As we walked together toward the main tent, I watched Jon withdraw a small strip of parchment and begin scribbling with a sure hand: another war, another warning, another uncertainty. And winter has not even truly started.

That night, the fires crackled low in the dark, smoke drifting upward into a sky heavy with stars. Beyond the glow of the flames, the Shivering Sea whispered to itself, its waters black and endless.

Most of the Forgotten Sons, Manderly men, and the other sailors had remained aboard their ships for the night—whether out of discipline or simple unease, I couldn’t say. Likely both.

The Freefolk had gathered in loose clusters. Small fires dotted the shoreline like the scattered lights of a distant village. This camp was quieter than before—less uncertain, but no less tense. Too many questions. Too few answers.

Across from me, Jon and Ser Jaime crouched beside a map weighed down with stones. They were speaking in low voices, their shadows long in the firelight.

“The docks won’t hold more than four ships at a time,” Jon said, gesturing to the uneven line of half-frozen piers jutting into the sea. “We’ll have to anchor most of the fleet further out and ferry the Freefolk across on longboats.”

Jaime nodded, grimacing. “We should keep the Hornfoots and the Ice River clans apart. They fought last spring—a petty feud, but they’ve got long memories. Put them together and we’ll have blood on the decks before Braavos.”

“And the Giants,” Jon added, tapping the ships one by one. “Only the Sea Dragon and Winter Wolf are strong enough to carry their weight. Aurane said the Winter Wolf’s hull is thickest—Noye reinforced it.”

Jaime scratched his jaw. “Mammoths?”

Jon exhaled. “They’ll have to be tethered on barges or left behind. We might not be able to take them all.”

I turned my eyes away. I didn’t want to see the look on Jon’s face as he said that. He would hate leaving anyone—or anything—behind.

Gilly sat beside me, cradling the babe in her arms. He was sleeping, tiny hands curled near his face. The firelight caught the strands of her hair, making them gleam like honey.

“Do you think they’ll let us live in Braavos?” she asked softly, as though speaking louder might wake the child or invite bad luck.

“They won’t be used to us,” I said, “but they’re used to strangers. That’s the whole idea of Braavos. It’s a city of ten thousand people who don’t belong anywhere else.”

She smiled a little. “Sounds strange. And beautiful.”

I nodded. “It is, Stone bridges and tall towers, and canals instead of streets. You’d like the markets. Spices from Yi Ti, fish that glow in the dark…”

She laughed under her breath. “I’d like to see that. Glowfish.”

“Not their real name,” I admitted. “I made that up.”

She looked down at her son. “We should name him soon.”

I blinked. “Oh.”

“We can’t keep calling him ‘the babe’ forever.”

“No, I suppose not.”

There was a quiet moment between us. The fire popped and cracked. I thought of names I’d read once in old books, of heroes and kings, but none of them fit. None of them were right. Not yet.

Near another fire, Meera sat with Bran. She had her knees drawn up and her hair down for once. Her bow lay beside her, forgotten for now.

Bran was speaking, animated and smiling even. I couldn’t hear what he said—but Meera laughed. Loudly. The sound startled a raven on a nearby post. I realised I hadn’t heard her laugh since Jojen died.

It made something ache in my chest.

Not far off, Mya, Ygritte, and Jarl shared a flask, passing it between them like old friends. Mya mimed some tale with wild gestures—Ygritte laughed and shoved her shoulder. Jarl raised his hands in surrender. For a moment, it was easy to forget that they’d only met a week ago and came from worlds apart.

And for a moment, the camp didn’t feel like a war camp or a caravan preparing to flee.

It felt like a gathering of people.

Survivors.

And perhaps, someday… a people.

We made our way to Mance Rayder’s tent, as the cold wind whipped down from the cliffs above Hardhome.

Around us, the Freefolk were already moving—packing their sparse belongings, binding supplies in hides and netting, dismantling tents and shelters. Children ran barefoot through the frost. Dogs barked. Giants loomed in the mist beyond the fires.

The exodus had begun.

The tent was larger than most, its poles braced with mammoth bones, its hide walls stitched by many clans. Inside, the fire smoked low in a central pit, casting shadows across the figures already gathered.

Mance Rayder, cloaked in a patchwork of Southern silks and Freefolk fur, sat cross-legged on a low stool, eyes sharp beneath a brow furrowed by too many nights without sleep.

Beside him stood Val, arms crossed, cool as ice and just as unyielding.

Tormund Giantsbane leaned against a pole, red beard twitching as he grinned at us.

Harma Dogshead sharpened a long, wicked blade, her mouth set in a scowl.

And in the back of the tent, hunched like a snow-covered hill, sat Mag the Mighty—the Giant's head nearly brushing the top of the tent.

“Jon,” Mance said with the faintest twitch of amusement. “Or is it Jaehaerys now?”

Jon gave a half-smile but didn’t rise to the bait. “Either will do.”

Mance nodded once. “Sit, then. Let's talk about moving a people.”

Jon and Ser Jaime stepped forward, their cloaks stiff with frost. I stayed near the back, quiet and watchful, trying not to get in anyone’s way.

“We’ll move the supplies first,” Jon began, laying out a rough parchment sketch of the coast, docks, and the anchored ships.

“Food, furs, tents—everything we can load without slowing the rest. Then the people, tribe by tribe. Finally, the Giants.”

At last, Mag stirred. The fire caught in his black eyes. He rumbled something in the old tongue—a deep, mournful sound like ice cracking on a lake.

Tormund translated. “He says if the Mammoths don’t come, neither will the Giants.”

Val raised an eyebrow. “They’re more than animals to them.”

Tormund nodded, serious now. “The big man’s right. The Mammoths are kin. They don’t carry much, aye, but they carry everything. Their past. Their dead. Their stories. You ask them to leave the Mammoths, you ask them to die.”

Jon was silent for a long moment, his jaw tight. Then he said, “I can’t make promises. The ships can’t carry everything. But I will try. That’s all I can do.”

Mag did not reply, but after a moment, he gave a slow, heavy nod that made the tent creak around him.

Jaime stepped in next, rolling out a second parchment. “We need to organise this. The clans have grudges. Old blood. We can’t risk fights mid-voyage.”

They began to assign:

The Ice River and Hornfoot clans were to be separated at all costs.

Tormund’s people would board the Stormborn.

The Frozen Shore tribes, scattered and smaller, would be grouped on the Winter Rose.

The Giants and Mammoths, as many as could be fit, were slated for the Sea Dragon and the Winter Wolf.

Harma’s warriors, the most disciplined of the Freefolk, would guard the supplies aboard the Iron Glory, a Manderly cargo ship.

People. Provisions. Weapons. Giants. There was a place for everything—on parchment at least. In practice, I feared chaos.

Jon tapped the final column on the list. “We’ll load by order. Mya will organise the loading onshore. Aurane will handle the decks. The Hound will keep the sailors in line.”
“And you?” asked Mance.

“I’ll be the last to board,” Jon said. “Someone has to see this through from shore.”

Val’s eyes flicked toward him at that, unreadable.

For hours, the discussion continued—heated, tactical, exhausting. But by the end, there was something that hadn’t been there before: structure. A path forward.

When we finally left the tent, the sky was still dark, but the stars were gone, clouds rolling in from the east.

Behind us, I heard Mag grunt again, low and almost wistful.

Tormund translated with a grin. “He says, ‘Better not sink your boat, little king.’”

Jon smiled faintly. “Tell him I’ll build another if we do.”

I was up early the next morning, breath fogging in the cold air, watching as the first rays of pale dawn spilt across the ice-laced waters of Hardhome.

The wind off the Shivering Sea carried the stink of salt and fish and wood smoke, but also the bite of something older—ancient cold, the kind that lived in bones.

Around me, figures moved in the half-light: sailors calling to each other, Freefolk shouting in thick accents, ropes being pulled taut, crates thudding onto icy planks.

It had begun. The first of many loads to come.

Near the makeshift docks, I saw Sandor Clegane stomping toward the ships, his massive form hunched against the cold, a dark fur cloak draped over steel, and his grotesque helm—the snarling dog's head—pulled down over his scarred face.

A fearsome sight in the morning light, if ever there was one. He barked orders at a group of Manderly sailors who nearly tripped over themselves trying to follow them.

Then came Tormund, red beard wild and crusted with frost, a grin already forming as he saw the Hound. He trudged across the frost-bitten pier, arms swinging like he meant to fight the wind itself.

They saw each other at the same moment and stopped a few paces apart.

“You’re the dog, then,” Tormund shouted, planting his boots and eyeing Sandor up and down. “Don’t look like much. I’ve eaten elk bigger than you.”

The Hound tilted his head slightly, the snarl of the helm gleaming in the sun. “You must be the walking pube they call Giantsbane.”

Tormund’s bark of laughter was like a bear’s cough. “Aye! And proud of it. Though I’ve never seen a dog brave enough to talk back to a bear.”

Sandor folded his arms, unimpressed. “That beard of yours looks like it crawled off a sick goat. You planning to fight with it or eat it?”

Tormund grinned broadly, clearly enjoying himself. “You’ve got piss in your fire, I’ll give you that.”

The Hound leaned in. “Try and boss my lads around, I’ll toss you overboard beard-first.”

Tormund’s eyes narrowed. Then, unexpectedly, he clapped a meaty hand on the Hound’s armoured shoulder. “Good. You’ve got bite. I was worried you’d turn out to be just another soft Southern mutt.”

Sandor grunted, but didn’t shake off the hand. “You bite me, I’ll break your teeth.”

The two of them stood there for a moment, not quite smiling, but not scowling either.

There was something in the air—understanding, or maybe just a mutual agreement that if it ever came to blows, it would be worth the bruises.

Then Tormund turned and bellowed at his clansmen to start moving crates of dried meats onto the Stormborn, while the Hound returned to glaring at sailors who weren’t moving fast enough.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.

“They’ll either kill each other,” Jaime said, appearing beside me, “or become drinking companions.”

I looked between them—Tormund growling orders in the Old tongue, and the Hound snarling back at sailors in the Common Tongue. “Why not both?”

Jaime smiled grimly. “That’s what worries me.”

The wind was sharper on the docks than it had been in the camp, whipping cloaks and rattling ropes against masts. Snow drifted in lazy spirals from a grey sky as Jon stepped forward, the sea churning behind him, Dark Sister at his hip.

He raised his voice—not shouting, but clear enough that even the Freefolk near the loading ramps could hear him. “You’ve lived your whole lives in these lands,” he said. “I know what it means to leave them. The trees. The mountains. The cold air in your lungs. But the world is changing, and we cannot stay where death comes in its shadow.”

A hush fell, save for the groaning of ships and the distant cry of gulls.

“You do not know ships. That’s fine. My men do. They will help you. These waters will not be kind, but the men and women guiding you are. Listen to them. And you’ll see the far side of the sea.”

He looked to the Freefolk, then to the sailors, then back again. “We are no longer wildlings and southerners. We are survivors. Help each other. That’s the only way forward.”

There was a pause—long enough for the wind to make itself known again. Then Tormund clapped, and others followed. It wasn’t raucous, but it was real.

The loading began slowly. Families moved in clusters, carrying crude bundles of furs and food, wide-eyed children clutching carved bone toys.

Harma led her warriors aboard the Winter Wolf, barking orders with a confidence that made even the Manderly sailors step aside.

Mag lumbered toward the Sea Dragon, the giant carrying nothing but a thick cloak of mammoth hide and an ancient war club the size of a tree trunk.

I watched it all from the pier, scribbling notes I barely remembered writing. It felt like history, not just movement, but transformation.

That’s when I saw them—Mance Rayder and Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish—standing face to face by the ramp to the Stormborn.

They were oddly alike. Both grey at the temples, both with eyes that had seen too much. They hadn’t planned to lead anyone. And yet, here they were.

Mance offered a hand first. “You must be the Blackfish.”

Brynden looked at the hand for a breath, then shook it. “And you’re the King-beyond-the-Wall.”

Mance smiled faintly. “Only for a little while longer.”

“I know how that feels,” Brynden said. His voice was dry as driftwood, but not unkind.

The two men stood watching the loading together in silence for a few moments. Nearby, Val handed a young girl up onto the gangplank. The girl looked terrified, her eyes darting from the waves to the sky.

“She’s not the only one afraid,” Mance said, voice low. “They’re leaving behind everything. I led them into this. And now I lead them into something even stranger.”

Brynden grunted. “Strange is better than dead. I’ve led men to worse odds than this, and none of them had giants.”

Mance chuckled. “I suppose you’re right.”

The Blackfish gave him a sidelong look. “You never expected to lead them?”

“Did you?” Mance asked.

Brynden shook his head slowly. “I was a second son with a sword and a sharp tongue. Never thought I'd be captain of the exiles. But someone had to be.”

“Someone always does,” Mance said, gaze following the line of Freefolk boarding the ships. “And if we’re lucky, it’ll be someone who remembers who they were, even when the crown or the name tries to make them forget.”

They parted then, with no more ceremony than a nod.

I swallowed, the chill creeping into my bones, not just from the sea air. It was strange—how the past and the future stood together on those docks.

Mance, once a deserter, turned king. The Blackfish, once a knight, turned Captain of a Free Company. And now both were part of something neither of them had planned. Something they still chose to see through.

And I… I was just trying to write it all down.

The docks of Hardhome had become a hive of frenzied motion—ropes slapping against piers, sailors shouting over the wind, Freefolk children darting between bundles of cargo.

And at the centre of it all stood Mya Stone, her hair tied back in a thick braid, sleeves rolled, jaw tight with focus.

“No, no, the Winter Wolf isn’t taking any more pelts!” she shouted over the din, waving a ledger at a confused wildling man carrying a massive fur sack on his back. “It’s overloaded already—take it to the Stormborn! Tell them Mya sent you!”

The man blinked, nodded, and shuffled off.

Not a heartbeat later, Ygritte appeared at her side, dragging a coiled rope and smirking like she’d just stolen something.

“Bossy little crow, aren’t you?” she said, bumping her shoulder against Mya’s. “You sure you weren’t born north of the Wall?”

Mya huffed. “If I were, you’d all be in better shape right now.”

Jarl snorted nearby, crouched beside a pile of spears being secured in crates. “She’s got a point, Red. I’ve seen lords half her size crumble under a siege of questions.”

“I like her,” Ygritte grinned. “She’s got fire.”

Mya rolled her eyes. “And you two have no idea how much longer this’ll take if you don’t stop distracting me.”

Before either could answer, Jaime Lannister strode across the docks toward them. Mya straightened as he approached.

“Lady Stone,” Jaime said with a nod. “Or are we just calling you ‘Dockmaster’ now?”

She didn’t smile, but her brow relaxed slightly. “What is it?”

He glanced around, lowering his voice. “I've been doing an inventory with some of the Forgotten Sons. Almost a third of the cargo is fur and leather—everything from snowbear cloaks to seal-hide blankets. But where we’re going… those’ll be as useful as a sword made of snow.”

Mya’s eyes narrowed. “So?”

“So, that space could be used for something else. Something heavier.” He tilted his head toward the edge of the docks, where a trio of Mammoths stood huddled behind a wooden barrier, their great, shaggy forms swaying slightly.

She followed his gaze. “You want to dump their lifework to make room for mammoths?”

“Not dump. But rethink priorities. These animals are sacred to the giants. You know that. If we leave too many behind, we risk more than a few grumbles. We risk losing them entirely.”

Mya sighed. “I get that. But those furs are for survival. Trade. Identity. You try telling a Hornfoot matriarch her clan’s heritage blanket’s being tossed overboard.”

“I’d never dream of it,” Jaime said dryly. “But perhaps… we compensate them. Gold. Promise of clothes and silks when we reach Braavos. Anything to sweeten the deal.”

“I’ll speak to Jon,” Mya said, rubbing her temple. “We’ll need his voice. And probably Meera’s bow, just in case.”

Ygritte laughed behind her. “Or mine. You’ve not seen how persuasive I get with an arrow aimed at someone’s groin.”

“You’re not helping,” Mya muttered.

“Wasn’t trying to,” Ygritte grinned.

Jarl chuckled. “Don’t worry, Mya. You’ll have them convinced before sundown. Just do that thing you do—glare until they feel stupid.”

I watched from the slope above, my hands aching from the cold and my quill tucked uselessly in my coat. The ships rocked below, the voices clashed and blended, but for a moment I saw it all come together—southern steel and northern fire, wild laughter and weary resolve.

The fleet was in chaos, yes. But it was also becoming something else—a beginning.

From my perch on the slope above the docks, I was scribbling down some rough numbers—tonnage, crates, casks—trying to make sense of what little I could contribute to this grand chaos. That’s when I saw Jaime returning, this time not alone.

He was flanked by Jon, Meera Reed with her bow strapped across her back and a quiver swaying at her back, and Val, walking tall and straight like she owned every plank of the dock beneath her. All of them moved with a sense of purpose.

They strode toward the central holding area, where the cargo masters, sailors, and wildling elders were gathered, their voices already raised in frustration.

From my distance, I couldn’t hear what was being said—only the blur of gesturing arms, the occasional pointing toward the ships or the mammoths.

Meera crossed her arms and said something sharp. Val jabbed a finger at a pile of pelts. Jon just stood there, still and silent like stone, until he wasn’t.

A few minutes passed—ten, maybe fifteen. Then Jon stepped out from the huddle and climbed atop a crate. His voice rang out over the wind, clear and commanding:

“Make an account of the owners of the furs and leathers—then dump them. The mammoths are coming!”

The reaction was immediate.

At the far end of the beach, the giants who had been watching anxiously let out a roaring cheer, a sound like boulders grinding together and thunder echoing through a canyon.

One of them, the tallest I’d ever seen—perhaps Mag’s younger cousin, or son—thumped his massive chest and bellowed toward the sky. The mammoths trumpeted in reply, stomping their feet and shaking the snow from their shaggy hides.

Around them, the Freefolk started muttering—some in approval, others in confusion or frustration. But no one argued. Not yet, at least.

I saw Jon hop down from the crate and walk back toward the tent with Jaime and Meera, his cloak flapping behind him.

Val lingered a moment longer, meeting the eyes of the wildlings around her, almost daring them to speak against the decision.

No one did.

Ygritte wandered over to stand next to me, watching the giants celebrate. “They’ll sing about this one day,” she said.

“Will they?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Depends on how many mammoths survive the crossing.”

She grinned at me, then walked away, leaving me with the roar of giants and the bitter scent of sea salt and wet fur.

And for the first time in weeks, I let myself smile, just a little.

By the time the last clans had been ferried aboard and the makeshift camps at Hardhome began to vanish—tents folded, cookfires doused, old hearths left to ash—the beach felt eerily hollow.

Only a handful of tattered banners still fluttered from poles stuck into frozen earth.

The Giants remained, standing solemn in a great half-circle facing the sea, their mammoths huddled close, snorting and stomping as if sensing the crossing ahead.

I stood at the edge of the docks beside Gilly, holding the baby wrapped tightly in old crow feathers and Freefolk wool. She said nothing, but I saw her eyes drift toward the giants again and again. I didn’t blame her. There was something sacred about them, like watching old gods in motion.

The mammoths weren’t taking kindly to the sea.

They bellowed and stamped, shaking their tusks and flaring their trunks. The closer the crew tried to lead them to the ships—especially the Winter Wolf and the Sea Dragon, the only vessels sturdy enough to bear their bulk—the more agitated the beasts grew.

One snapped a rope clean in two. Another nearly flattened a sailor trying to coax it up the gangplank with sweetgrass.

Just when it looked like we’d have to sedate them, or worse—leave them behind—Mag the Mighty stepped forward.

He turned and lifted one arm, massive and pale in the dusk. The other giants followed, assembling around the mammoths in a slow, purposeful circle. Then, they began to sing.
It wasn’t like any song I’d ever heard.

No melody. No rhythm. Just a deep, humming chant, low and endless, rising from throats like rolling thunder. The Old Tongue, I realised. I didn’t understand a word, but the sound of it stirred something in my spine. Like the earth itself was remembering something.

And the mammoths... calmed.

Slowly, one by one, the great beasts turned toward the ships, their eyes glassy and distant as if in a dream. Led by the giants, they began to step onto the gangplanks, the ice cracking beneath their sheer weight, but the Sea Dragon held fast. Aurane Waters, still wearing that absurd bright blue fur cloak, stood at the helm grinning like he was witnessing some long-lost magic—he probably was.

The Winter Wolf groaned under the load, but did not falter.

When the last mammoth was secured below deck—fed, soothed, and blanketed—the giants lumbered up after them. Mag was the last to go. Before he boarded, he turned and looked at the shore, then at the mountains beyond. He thumped his chest once, then stepped aboard.

And just like that, Hardhome was silent.

No drums. No songs. No laughter. Only the wind and the slow creaking of ropes and masts.

I looked at Jaime, standing beside Jon with arms crossed, and said softly, “That was… incredible.”

“Aye,” he replied, his voice low. “Now let’s hope the ships hold.”

Jon said nothing. He only stared at the empty shore, his face unreadable.

At long last, Mance Rayder stepped aboard.

He stood for a moment at the top of the gangplank, just behind Jon, and looked out over Hardhome one last time—the fading grey shore, the shattered huts, the remnants of a civilisation left behind. The salt wind tossed his black cloak like a banner behind him. He didn’t speak, but the look in his eyes said enough. A chapter had ended.

I was about to climb aboard the Stormborn when Bran’s voice stopped me.

“Sam,” he said, with a rare gleam of mischief in his eyes. “Come. I need your help with something.”

I blinked. “Now?”

He was already turning, his long cloak trailing behind him, Summer trotting silently at his heels. I cast one last glance at the ship—Gilly was already aboard, waving me on—and then followed.

Bran led me past the quiet campsites, past the stripped tents and broken fire-pits, to the northern curve of the beach, where the black sand met broken slate. There, tucked in the folds of his cloak, he pulled out a scrap of parchment and handed it to me.

It was a rough drawing: Three eyes placed in the heart of a spreading web of roots and wings.

“The Raven’s sigil?” I asked.

Bran nodded. “We’re going to make it. There. With stones.”

I stared at him. “Why?”

But he didn’t answer. He just grinned—a boy’s grin, for once, not the quiet, ageless stare of the Three-Eyed Raven—and began picking out stones from the edge of the cliffs. I sighed and knelt beside him.

We worked in silence. The sand was cold, and our fingers were numb. The image took shape slowly: wings made of driftwood, the eyes from polished black stones. Summer watched, ears twitching at the waves.

When we finished, the sigil stared out at the sea like a warding glyph, or a message.

As we turned to go, I finally asked, “What was that for?”

Bran looked back at the mark. Then, with that same glint in his eye, he said, “Last time, Hardhome was lost.”

I froze. “Last time?”

He nodded. “When Bloodraven found me… he showed me things. The last time, they reached Hardhome too late. The Others had already come and gone. They’d left a message—a sigil—made from dead bodies. This…” He gestured toward our creation, “This is my reply.”

My mouth went dry. “So you’re saying… all this has happened before?”

“In another time. Another thread of the great Weave. Bloodraven changed some strands. And I’m changing others.”

“But how do you know this won’t happen again?”

He looked up at me, and though he was still smiling, there was something unreadable in his voice.

“I don’t. But now they’ll know we remember. That we saw their game—and we played our own.”

I walked with him in silence back toward the docks. The sails were rising, the last lines being drawn up. The others were calling to us. The wind was sharp on my cheeks, but it wasn’t just the cold that made me shiver.

I helped Bran aboard the Stormborn, then turned once more to look back at the black sands. The sigil was barely visible now—just a shape etched in stone and driftwood.

But somehow, it felt like it watched me back.

The moment we stepped aboard, the ropes were already being pulled in.

Aurane Waters, flamboyant as ever in his bright blue fur cloak, was at the helm of the Sea Dragon, shouting orders with boyish enthusiasm.

The sails unfurled like great white wings, catching the wind that came down from the north like the breath of a dying god.

Then, with no warning, Sandor Clegane strode to the bow of the Sea Dragon, clad in his black furs and that fearsome dog-helm of his, glinting in the pale sunlight. He raised a great curved horn to his lips.

And blew.

The sound shattered the morning.

A deep, thunderous bellow echoed across the bay, louder than anything I had ever heard. It rolled across the water like the voice of the earth itself, rattling the bones in my chest. From the other ships, dozens of horns answered, high and low, strong and wavering, wild and solemn.

The Stormborn, the Winter Wolf, the Winter Rose.

The Manderly galleys, flying their silver merman banners.

The chartered ships, painted in a dozen colours, bearing no allegiance but to coin and sail.

All of them roared back.

And with those horns, the anchors came up—one by one, the great ships turned their prows away from the frozen coast. The sails snapped taut. The tide pulled with them. The frozen land of Hardhome grew smaller and smaller behind us.

So much left behind.

So much yet to face.

I stood beside Gilly, holding her hand, while Bran and Meera leaned quietly on the rail. Jon stood at the edge of the deck, his white cloak fluttering, Ghost at his side. Jaime crossed his arms and stared eastward. And high above us, Morghul wheeled in the sky, black wings cutting across the pale sun.

The Freefolk had left their home.

And we were sailing into the unknown.

Chapter Text

Chapter XVII – The Battle of the Wall

It was on the third day after the Thenns departed Hardhome that Commander Cotter Pyke of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea received a letter unlike any other.

The raven arrived in silence, its feathers black as soot and its eyes red as garnets.

It bore no sigil of the Night’s Watch, no colours of noble houses, yet it landed on the battlements with an eerie certainty, waiting only long enough for the scroll to be taken from its leg.

The instant the wax seal was broken, the bird launched itself into the wind and vanished over the sea.

Cotter Pyke, a weathered, salt-hardened man, snapped the seal with calloused fingers and shouted for Maester Harmune.

The maester, drunk as usual and blinking into the daylight, paled when he saw the seals. One bore a three-eyed raven pressed into white wax—the mark of Brandon Stark, who now named himself the Three-Eyed Raven. The other seal, red wax pressed with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, belonged to Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen. He read the contents with a deepening scowl.

Cotter Pyke was not one for ceremony. When the message was clear, he spat into the snow.

The letters were short but urgent.

They warned of Sigorn, son of Styr, who had broken with the Freefolk at Hardhome after a failed attempt on Jon’s life.

Now he led two hundred Thenns southward, fierce and bitter men armed for battle. The letters did not seek help, only warned the Watch to be wary.

Sigorn would not come as an ally.

Cotter Pyke summoned his senior men. Pyke did not waste time with debate. The gates would be manned. The tunnel would be closed. The Thenns would not pass without parley.

The news spread quickly.

Some muttered about a coming fight. Some questioned whether the Watch should even open their gates to Freefolk at all. But Cotter Pyke remembered all too well the day Jaime Lannister had passed south—followed by Children of the Forest, no less—and how he'd read a letter from the same prince now warning of the Thenns.

He’d allowed them through. And though he’d offered no food, no warmth, and no words of welcome, he had done his duty then. Now he would do it again.

Eastwatch braced for what was to come.

Cotter Pyke did what men of action do when the cold grew colder—he sent a raven.

The black-feathered bird flew swiftly and straight to Castle Black, carrying a terse letter addressed to Lord Commander Jeor Mormont.

The Old Bear had seen a thousand threats in his day—ghost stories and hard truths, and he had learned the difference.

The letter from Pyke made his scarred knuckles tighten.

He read it by the fire in the solar of Castle Black, flanked not only by the black-cloaked stewards and builders of the Night’s Watch, but also by Karstark and Umber bannermen of the North.

They had come at the command of Lord Eddard Stark, bringing arms, food, and grim men ready to die in defence of the Wall.

Mormont did not hesitate.

He summoned Cregan Karstark, second son of Lord Rickard Karstark, and Mors “Crowfood” Umber, an uncle of Greatjon Umber. Both men were hard-edged Northerners, unflinching even in the face of snow and shadow.

When Mormont handed them Cotter Pyke’s warning, they read it in silence and nodded as one.

By first light, two hundred Northmen were marching eastward.

Twenty brothers of the Watch joined them—rangers and archers chosen for their steadiness and speed—and together they became a line of steel between Eastwatch and the winds that howled from the Frostfangs.

From atop the battlements, Cotter Pyke watched the Karstark and Umber banners approach, black and grey against the snow. He allowed himself no relief. He simply ordered the gates opened and the men in.

The wall stood still. The sea beside it cracked and groaned like something alive. Eastwatch held its breath.

The Thenns were coming.

The Thenns came with fire in their blood and spears in their fists.

From the east they marched, lean and grim, armed with bronze and bone, expecting to find a crumbling gate and a handful of black-cloaked men too weak and starved to fight.

They found something else.

From atop the towers of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, Cotter Pyke watched them emerge from the snow-choked horizon—tall and broad, their warhorns echoing against the Wall like a beast calling for blood. Their leader bore the scars of harsh winds and harsher battles: Sigorn, son of Styr, Lord of the Thenns.

He had come south thinking to conquer with ease.

But Eastwatch had changed.

No longer just the haunted fortress at the sea’s edge, it now bristled with sharpened steel and men in thick northern furs, clad not only in black, but also the greys and browns of Houses Karstark and Umber.

Shields rimmed with iron, axes gleaming, helms forged in Winterfell's forges. Fires burned behind the battlements, and archers stood in tight formation along the walls.

Sigorn paused. His warriors spread across the snowy banks like a black tide—and yet, they hesitated.

Cotter Pyke himself rode to the outer wallwalk, flanked by two brothers of the Watch and Mors Umber, whose massive great-axe hung over his shoulder like a farmer’s scythe. No words were shouted. No horns were blown.

The show of strength was enough.

The Thenns had expected Ice to crack. They found iron instead.

But Thenns did not retreat.

Sigorn raised his weapon. Orders were barked in the Old Tongue. Drums began to beat.

From atop the walls, it was clear to any seasoned eye—the Thenns were outnumbered, outmatched, and out-positioned.

But Sigorn, young and burning with the pride of his father’s name, saw no choice but forward.

In his hubris, he believed the old blood of the mountains could still break the Wall.

The battle was coming.

They came in the black of night.

As the chill wind howled in from the Shivering Sea and the moon drifted behind a veil of cloud, the Thenns made their move.

Sigorn, true to the tales of his father's grim determination, split his warriors into two columns.

One would strike the gates of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea head-on, making noise and fire to draw the defenders out.

The second, quieter group would take to the freezing surf, crossing south under the cover of darkness to flank the castle from behind, where the defences were lighter.

It was a bold manoeuvre—one borne more of pride than prudence.

The gates shook first. Horns blared from the battlements. Flaming arrows lit the sky like falling stars.

The frontlines clashed with steel, Thenn warriors slamming into the outer defences with bronze axes and ice-cold fury. Their war cries echoed up the Wall, savage and unrelenting.

But Cotter Pyke was no fool. A sailor before he was a commander, he knew the sea as well as the Thenns knew the snow.

Watchers had been posted along the southern shore, and their warning came just in time.

As the first Thenn waded from the surf, dripping and snarling, they were met not by the soft underbelly of the Night’s Watch, but by the Umbers and Karstarks.

The trap was reversed.

The Thenns had no siege towers. No giants to batter down the gates. No mammoths to drag the walls to rubble.

Only fury, bronze, and frostbitten muscle. It was not enough.

Those who charged the gates of Eastwatch did so with guttural roars and crude shields lifted high, but the walls they faced were tall and stout, forged of Ice.

The gate itself, a reinforced slab of black iron, had stood for centuries against worse than this. And Cotter Pyke had prepared his garrison well.

Arrows rained down from the ramparts, their tips soaked in oil and set aflame.

Cries echoed as the first rank of Thenns fell beneath the blistering barrage.

Barrels of boiling pitch followed, hurled from above to burst across the snow-slick ground, turning the frozen beachhead into a pit of fire and screams.

The defenders were disciplined and precise—brothers of the Night's Watch side by side with grim men of House Umber and Karstark, their movements honed by days of watchful drills and hard-bitten readiness.

Every time a Thenn reached the gate with a hammer or axe, he was met with a rock hurled from above, flaming stones, as heavy as a man’s head, crushing bone and splitting skull.

By the time the first hour passed, the assault on the gate had become a massacre.

Sigorn had committed half his force to a frontal attack that was doomed from the first step.

And though the Thenns did not waver—they never wavered—it became a killing field. One-sided. Efficient. Brutal.

It was said that the black stones of Eastwatch were slick with blood by the time the moon crept behind the clouds again.

While blood soaked the northern approach to Eastwatch, a second wave of Thenns slipped across the frozen surf in longboats, rowing through the shadows beneath the rising moon.

They made landfall to the south of the castle, where the cliffs dipped and the wall's defences thinned. It was here that Eastwatch was most vulnerable—and Sigorn knew it.

The southern gate was no match for the massive iron portcullis on the northern face.

Old, narrow, and built more for trade and fishing skiffs than for war, it had not been meant to withstand an assault.

The defenders knew that if the Thenns breached it, the garrison would be caught between two blades.

They met the wildlings with steel already drawn.

The fighting was fast, hard, and brutal.

Thenn bronze clashed with northern steel in the dark.

The men of the Watch and the north fought back to back, holding a narrow line in the frozen shallows. Torches cast long shadows across the bloodied snow.

Spears shattered on shields. Blades flashed in the night. Cries of pain were torn away by the sea wind.

The Thenns fought like wolves cornered in a burning den—fierce, desperate, unrelenting. Their axes bit deep. Karstark men fell. An Umber captain was split from shoulder to hip.

But bronze would not outlast steel, not on that ground, not against men who had fought winter for generations.

And then Cotter Pyke struck.

He led a detachment of Watch brothers—silent and swift—up the bluff and around the slope.

While the battle raged at the gate, Pyke’s men crept down the strand and found the Thenn longboats drawn up on the beach. In a single motion, they set them ablaze.

The flames lit the dark waters, a wall of fire rising behind the Thenns.

Trapped, outnumbered, and encircled, the last of Sigorn’s warriors fought with wild abandon. But it was no longer a battle—it was a culling.

The defenders pressed them hard, cutting down the last pockets of resistance. Those who tried to flee found nothing but the sea and the burning wreckage of their vessels.

Sigorn himself—bloodied and furious—charged the southern gate in a final act of defiance, a bronze axe in each hand. He brought down two men before a mailed fist struck his temple. He fell without a sound.

When the sun rose over the Shivering Sea, Eastwatch still stood.

Of the Thenns who crossed the water, few survived. Their longboats were nothing more than scorched timber and blackened ribs on the beach. Their weapons lay scattered in the surf, already icing over.

The men of the Watch and their northern allies stood bloodied but victorious.

Sigorn, son of Styr, heir to the Thenns, awoke in chains. He had been struck down in the final moments of the southern fight, a savage blur of bronze and fury.

He was bound in silence and sent west beneath the Wall, escorted by Night’s Watch riders to Castle Black.

There, in the ancient ice cells carved into the heart of the Wall itself, he would await judgment—not from Cotter Pyke, nor from Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, but from Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North.

The wildlings had expected to overrun a broken ruin.

What they found was the North—prepared, united, and standing firm.

The news of the victory at Eastwatch did not arrive at Castle Black by raven nor by rider, but on horseback and foot, delivered by the bloodied and weary survivors of the Umber and Karstark contingents who had marched east to hold the Wall.

With them came their spoils and their prisoners. At the head of their grim procession was Sigorn of the Thenns, bound in heavy iron, his pride subdued beneath a thick cloak crusted with salt and blood.

He did not speak as he was escorted through the black gate of Castle Black, nor as he was led into the bowels of the Wall where the old ice cells still yawned cold and silent.

The men of the Watch received them in sombre respect. Jeor Mormont, the Old Bear, took the reports without celebration, only with grim satisfaction.

A letter was promptly drafted and sent to Winterfell to inform Lord Eddard Stark that his men had held the line, and that the Thennish threat had been broken—for now.

Aboard the Sea Dragon, Days Later

It was Bran who told us.

He did not speak it aloud at first. He only stared into the fire on the deck of the Sea Dragon, his pale eyes flickering with the reflection of flames and a thousand things unseen. Then, without turning, he said: “The battle is over. The Thenns have been defeated.”

I remember the silence that followed, broken only by the creaking of the ship and the low moan of the sea wind. Jaime looked over, unsure whether to believe him. Gilly drew her baby closer. I said nothing. I only watched Bran’s face.

He said no more on the matter. He did not need to.

Somewhere, far to the west, I knew the Wall still stood. And in that moment, it felt as though some invisible weight had lifted—just slightly—from all of us.

In the histories of the realm, the Battle of Eastwatch might seem like a small thing: A forgotten skirmish at the edge of the world.

But I know better. I was not there to witness the clash of steel in the snow, nor the roaring of torches from atop the Wall—but I know its weight. I know what it meant.
It was the first test.

Cotter Pyke, gruff and thankless though he may be, held the gate.

The men of House Umber and House Karstark—warriors hardened by the winds of the North—stood shoulder to shoulder with the Night’s Watch.

Together, they turned back an army that believed the Wall unguarded, the South too slow to rouse.

They proved them wrong.

The victory did more than defeat the Thenns.

It awoke the North. It brought steel to the spines of commanders and discipline to the men who manned the Wall. It reminded the Night’s Watch that they were not alone—that the realm, however fractured, still had those willing to stand.

But still, I fear we will look back on that night and call it merciful.

Because the true enemy has not yet come.

The dead march slowly—but they do march. And when they arrive, there will be no bronze or steel strong enough to hold them.

But perhaps—just perhaps—the fire that sparked at Eastwatch will be enough to keep the dark at bay. At least for a while.

Chapter Text

Chapter XVIII – Braavos

We left the ice behind, and for the first time in what felt like years, the sun began to warm our skin.

The crossing of the Shivering Sea had been a trial— sharp winds, groaning wood, vomiting children, and the ever-present scent of salt, sweat, and old fish.

But when we finally turned south, into the calmer waters of the Narrow Sea, everything changed. The air softened. The winds mellowed.

And for the Freefolk, the world turned strange again. The cold had been their constant companion — a cruel one, yes, but familiar.

Now, the sky was bright, the sea a soft grey-blue rather than steel, and the air no longer bit the skin but kissed it.

For the first few days, they didn’t trust it. By the fifth, they started shedding layers.

Jaime had been right about the furs.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man look more smug than Ser Jaime Lannister did that morning Val walked across the deck in her new attire, or lack thereof.

If it could be called a dress, it must have once belonged to a child. It was no thicker than gauze, dyed the soft pink of seashells, and it flowed behind her like mist.

Aurane Waters, draped in his ridiculous bright-blue fur cloak (which now served no purpose but vanity), nearly tripped over a coil of rope while watching her walk.

He said something in Low Valyrian, and Val laughed like wind chimes. The two of them had taken to flirting openly and shamelessly, much to the Hound’s increasing misery.

“Gods,” Sandor growled beside me, “if they start rutting on the damn prow, I’m jumping ship.”

“You’ve got to admire the confidence,” I said, which earned me a snort and a shove.

But the most wondrous sight came when Wun Wun — the largest of the Giants, who had barely fit on the Winter Wolf — stood up and leapt into the sea. It was not a dive so much as an avalanche. The waters thundered. Men screamed. One of the Braavosi galleys nearly capsized. For a moment, we thought we’d lost him.

Then he came up roaring with a whale gripped in both arms. Not a small one, either — grey, slick, and still thrashing. He dragged it to the hull of the Winter Rose like a child hauling a stubborn dog, and Tormund led a dozen Freefolk over the sides with knives drawn. The feast lasted two days.

“Best fish I’ve ever eaten,” Tormund declared with his mouth full. “And I once ate a man’s leg in Skagos.”

Nobody asked him to elaborate.

I’ve come to believe that long voyages don’t test men — they reveal them.

Take Mya Stone, for example. I assumed she’d be the sensible one, the sharp-eyed warrior who kept order. But it turns out that, when you place her on a gently rocking deck with too much sun and too little to do, she turns into a menace.

Ygritte and Jarl were no better. The three of them were thick as thieves, and twice as reckless. I’d catch them climbing the rigging barefoot, smuggling extra rations to a pair of skinny Freefolk children on the Winter Rose, or turning rope coils into makeshift slingshots to fire dried fruit at passing gulls.

One afternoon, I even saw them try to teach Wun Wun how to dance. That was a mistake. The deck still creaks from where he stepped.

And then there was Jon. Poor Jon.

He spent most of the voyage half-drenched in sweat and half-drowned in noise. He was everywhere — barking orders, settling fights, negotiating shifts at the water barrels, translating arguments between Manderly sailors and Frostfang clansmen.

There was one afternoon when two Forgotten Sons got into a shouting match with a Wildling spearwife over who’d pissed in a water cask. Jon didn’t raise his voice. He just looked at them until they all shut up.

“I see now why Uncle looked so tired all the time,” he muttered to me afterwards, wiping sea salt from his face. “Command is endless talking and endless listening, and you’re punished for both.”

But not everyone was quite so serious.

Tormund Giantsbane had fallen in love. Or perhaps lust. Or both — it was hard to tell with Tormund.

She was tall, broad-shouldered, with sun-browned skin and a laugh like breaking shields. Alysanne Mormont — the “She-Bear” of the Forgotten Sons, as he called her, loudly and repeatedly. She ignored him entirely, which only made it worse.

“She’s fierce,” he told me one evening. “I like that in a woman. Look at those arms! She could crush me with those arms. If she snaps my spine on our wedding night, I’ll die happy.”

“I don’t think she’s agreed to marry you,” I said.

“Not yet,” he grinned, “but she looked at me today. That’s halfway to bedding, in my experience.”

“Gods help her,” I muttered.

Even Bran had taken to the sea better than I expected. He kept mostly to himself, reading scrolls that somehow never got wet, and whispering to ravens that came and went from the rigging like they were old friends.

Something was unsettling and comforting in how calm he seemed. As if he already knew how it would all end.

Meera, on the other hand, was still finding her balance.

She rarely spoke of Jojen — not to me, not even to Bran. But I saw her eyes sometimes, when she thought no one was watching.

She looked like someone fighting to keep herself from drowning, not in water, but in silence.

Instead, she turned her grief into focus.

Bloodraven’s longbow, or maybe her Longbow now, rarely left her side.

It was far larger and heavier than her old hunting bow, built for war, not game.

Yet she practised with it daily, drawing and losing until her arms trembled and her fingers bled.

One morning, I watched her lose a shaft high into the sky. I lost sight of the arrow in the sun — I thought she’d missed. But a moment later, a speck fell from the clouds and splashed into the sea. A gull, hit clean through the breast from what must have been a hundred yards straight up.

Even Jon looked impressed.

Jon spent nearly every spare hour on the deck, training with Ser Jaime.

Compared to Jon’s old sword, Dark Sister was a very different creature. Lighter. Shorter. Narrower. Sharper. Jon fumbled at first, as anyone would after years spent with a heavier grip.

But with each passing day, his movements became swifter, more precise — like the blade was learning him as much as he was learning it.

I found myself recalling an old quote, one I’d read years ago, buried in a treatise on the Dance of the Dragons. Daemon Targaryen, speaking of Dark Sister: “Dark Sister was made for nobler tasks than slaughtering sheep. She has a thirst for blood.”

Watching Jon in the morning light — all silent intensity and Dark steel — I believed it.

Harma Dogshead, on the other hand, had no such noble illusions.

I was scribbling in my journal when I heard the most unholy shriek, like a goat being throttled.

I turned in time to see Harma running down the deck, nearly knocking over three sailors, her axe forgotten behind her. And behind her, with his usual grim scowl, walked Sandor Clegane — the Hound — his snarling dog's helm resting on his head like the very face of death.

No one had warned her. Or perhaps they had, and she'd refused to believe anyone could be ugly enough to wear such a thing by choice.

"What's her problem?" the Hound growled.

“She’s… not fond of dogs,” I offered.

“She’d better get used to this one,” he said, not taking off the helm.

I didn’t see Harma for the rest of the day.

Gilly and I shared a cabin on the Sea Dragon. Not a large one, and not quiet either — the wood creaked like an old man’s knees, and the sailors stomped around like mammoths above our heads — but it was ours. And more importantly, it was warm. That still felt like a miracle.

The baby slept between us in a small wicker basket lined with wool.

A tiny thing, always wriggling, always hungry. Gilly fed him, cleaned him, and hummed to him.

I helped as best I could, though she was always quicker to know what he needed.

I'd like to think he liked the sound of my voice — whenever I read from a book, he'd settle, listening with those wide eyes like he understood every word.

He hadn’t been named yet. Not properly.

“We can’t keep calling him ‘the babe,’” Gilly said one night, sleep in her eyes but a smile on her face. “Even the old men on the deck are starting to ask.”

I nodded. “It’s just… naming someone is a big thing.”

She tilted her head. “Did your father name you?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” she said with a gentle laugh, “we’ve already done better.”

We tossed names back and forth as the ship rocked beneath us — names from her old life, names from mine.

Some I’d read in dusty books at Horn Hill, some she remembered from Craster’s wives, though most of those were met with a wrinkled nose and a quick veto.

She didn’t want anything that smelled of the past.

“What about Dickon?” she asked once.

“My brother’s name?”

She shrugged. “More decent than most.”

“Maybe,” I said, stroking the baby’s soft brown hair. “But I think he deserves a name that’s… his. Not borrowed.”

Gilly looked down at him for a while, her fingers brushing his cheek. “He’s strong,” she said. “Stronger than me.”

“No,” I said, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. “He’ll be strong because of you.”

Elsewhere on the ship, strange friendships blossomed.

I caught sight of Mance Rayder and the Blackfish once, hunched over a Cyvasse board as if they’d been playing together for years.

Mance played with wild, reckless flair, sacrificing pieces with a grin and then springing traps the old knight never saw coming.

The Blackfish grumbled curses and accused him of cheating, which only made Mance laugh harder.

“War is just Cyvasse with blood,” Mance said once as he moved his dragon. “Difference is, no one resets the board.”

“You’ve clearly never fought a Lannister,” Blackfish muttered.

I would have watched them for hours if Bran hadn’t found me.

Archmaester Marwyn had taken to Bran like a smith takes to Valyrian steel.

I passed by their sessions a few times a day, always meaning just to glance — but I’d end up frozen there, listening. Marwyn bombarded Bran with questions: about the weirwoods, the greenseer dreams, the minds of ravens, even the smell of the cave beyond the Wall.

He asked questions the way most men breathe — rapidly, instinctively, and with growing excitement.

Sarella, his long-suffering assistant, sat beside them with a quill and parchment, furiously writing as the Archmaester barked orders.

“I didn’t come to sea to transcribe tree dreams,” she mumbled once, loud enough for me to hear.

“Write it down, girl,” Marwyn snapped without looking away from Bran. “These are truths older than Valyria.”

Bran didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he looked like he was enjoying himself.

“Do you think the trees speak with one voice?” Marwyn asked.

Bran smiled his odd, far-off smile. “No. The trees argue all the time. They just whisper, so most people don’t hear it.”

Above deck, the Sea Dragon cut through the sunlit waves, and the city of Braavos — the Titan, the domes, the shadowy canals — drew ever closer.

As we entered Braavosi sovereign waters, things changed.

The skies stayed bright and the seas calm, but now we were watched — sails on the horizon, sleek and distant.

The Braavosi navy did not let strange ships approach lightly.

From a distance, we must have looked like slaver galleys: ships groaning with people, strange flags, odd riggings, and a crowd of wild men and women who dressed like no sailors anyone in Essos had likely seen.

They boarded us twice, and hailed us thrice more from their swift patrol boats, demanding to know who we were and where we were going. Each time, our answers left them more confused.

One ship’s captain stared slack-jawed at the Sea Dragon before finally waving us through.

I don’t blame him.

What must he have thought, seeing Archmaester Marwyn on the main deck with a towering giant hunched awkwardly on a crate beside him, both of them shouting syllables of the Old Tongue at each other?

Marwyn had insisted on learning it firsthand — “phonetic intuition,” he called it — and poor Ygritte stood between the two, translating what she could; While Sarella scribbled notes with the weary air of a girl who would rather be stabbing something.

If I had seen it from the outside, I might’ve turned my ship around, too.

A few days after our last encounter with the Braavosi patrols, a sleek carrack with black sails and a plated hull appeared on the western horizon.

It cut through the sea like a knife through cheese, and unlike the navy ships, it bore no war flags — just a single iron coin emblazoned on a white field- The sigil of the Iron Bank.

The ship signalled us with a series of practised flags. Aurane studied them through his far-eye, then called out the translation: "Parley requested. Send your commander."

It was Jon who went, of course — Prince Jaehaerys — with Ser Jaime and me in tow. A small boat rowed us across to the Iron Bank’s vessel. It gleamed like a polished coin under the sun, a testament to wealth and precision. When we climbed aboard, we were met by Tycho Nestoris.

He greeted Jon with a stiff bow, formal but not unfriendly. “Prince Jaehaerys,” he said. “The Iron Bank is pleased to welcome you to Braavosi waters.”

Tycho led us to a cabin so pristine and cold it felt like it had never been used. There was no wine, no bread, no unnecessary courtesies. That was the Braavosi way — efficiency, calculation, and numbers. Always numbers.

“I will not take much of your time,” Tycho said, opening a thick leather-bound ledger. “This is your account. All deposits made in your name since your twelfth nameday. With interest accumulated over the years, and compounded biannually by Braavosi standards.”

He slid the book across the table. Jaime raised an eyebrow. I leaned in and glanced at the figures — and I must confess, my breath caught in my throat. The sum was staggering. More than enough to outfit an army. Perhaps even two.

Tycho continued, “This account, as you know, belongs to you personally. Not to the Iron Throne, and not to House Targaryen. The funds have always been in your name alone.”

Then he motioned toward a sealed chest, lacquered in dark wood and marked with both the sigil of House Targaryen and the Braavosi iron coin. “The ship you now stand on is called the Sovereign. It holds your full balance in gold. It is yours to command — the vessel, its crew, and its contents.”

Jon began to speak, perhaps to ask about repayment, but Tycho raised a hand.

“It is a gift,” he said. “The Iron Bank needs no coin for a ship already purchased with your wealth. But we hope you remember our generosity. If ever you need to store your gold again — or move it, or multiply it — you know where to find us.”

He smiled, just barely, then closed the ledger and bowed again.

Formal. Simple. Precise.

And just like that, we returned to the Sea Dragon, the Sovereign following close behind us — and Jon one ship wealthier than he had been that morning.

As we returned to the Sea Dragon, the Sovereign slipped into position beside us, its hull gleaming under the midday sun. Jon stood silently at the rail for a moment, eyes on the ship and the weight it carried — not just gold, but futures.

He turned to Sandor Clegane, who was gnawing on a strip of smoked pork like he’d rather be stabbing someone. “I want your best men aboard the Sovereign,” Jon said quietly, but firmly. “Men, you trust. Fighters you’d bleed beside. That gold isn’t just gold. It’s the key to our survival in Essos.”

The Hound snorted, spitting a bit of meat into the sea. “You want guards or dogs? I’ve got both.” But he gave a nod all the same. “Fine. I’ll send the good ones. If they’re drunk, they’ll sober up quickly.”

By sunset, a small detachment of the Forgotten Sons was transferring to the Sovereign under Clegane’s orders.

Among them was Alyssane Mormont, armoured in grey steel and glaring at everyone like they were already wasting her time.

Tormund took one look at her and slapped a hand on his chest. “If the She-Bear’s goin’, so am I,” he bellowed, puffing out his beard. “Can’t let a lady guard a prince’s treasure alone, eh? I’ll keep her safe. Or she’ll keep me safe. Either way, sounds fun.”

Alyssane didn’t respond. She just stalked up the gangplank, ignoring him entirely. Tormund followed after, grinning like a lovesick fool.

I couldn’t help but chuckle as I watched him go. Jon didn’t say anything, but there was a ghost of a smile on his lips — a rare thing, these days. And so, the gold had its guardians, and the voyage pressed on.

The Titan of Braavos loomed on the horizon by the time the sun dipped westward — his stern face carved into stone, his eyes lit with green flame as dusk fell. The great colossus stood watch over the narrow mouth of the lagoon, a silent sentinel with a sword raised to the sky. At the sight of him, our ships slowed, sails furled in deference. Even the wind seemed to hush.

Jon stood near the prow, gazing out at the statue, then back toward the fleet stretched behind us — a ramshackle armada of warships, fishing vessels, Braavosi charters and re-purposed cogs, each crowded with passengers.

But what caught his attention, more than the ships themselves, was their cargo.

The Freefolk were in a state of slow unravelling.

They had left Hardhome swaddled in layers of fur, leather, and wool, armour against the deathly cold of the Shivering Sea.

But the weather had turned warm in the temperate waters off Braavos, and now, bit by bit, those layers were being shed.

Shirts hung from railings to dry, trousers were knotted around waists, and cloaks became makeshift hammocks or blankets under the sun.

Even the Giants had begun tossing their massive, flea-ridden pelts into the sea.

One floated past us like a drowned bear.

Jon pressed his lips into a tight line. “This won’t do,” he muttered.

He turned and found Mya Stone helping a group of Freefolk children down from a stack of barrels. “Mya,” he called. She came over at once, brushing hair from her face and looking up with curiosity.

“I need a count. All the Freefolk. Men, women, children. Anyone without clothing suited to this weather.”

Mya raised a brow. “All of them? That’ll take hours.”

“Do what you can in half of one,” Jon said. “We’re almost at the lagoon. I don’t want the Braavosi greeting us with half our people looking like naked savages.”

Mya gave a sharp nod and disappeared into the chaos, shouting orders in half a dozen directions.

Within the hour, she was back with scribbled estimates and an arm full of complaints. Jon read the numbers, frowned, and then made his decision.

“Take a boat,” he told her. “You and Meera. Go ashore before the rest of us. Take an escort and enough gold. I want you to buy whatever clothing you can find — tunics, trousers, sandals, belts.

Hire tailors, especially for the Giants. And barbers — they’ll need shears strong enough to cut through bear pelts if we’re to do anything with some of those beards.”

Meera appeared beside her, longbow slung across her back, expression unreadable as always.

She didn’t argue, only nodded once.

Gold was gathered from the Sovereign, sealed in thick leather pouches, and handed to them by Jon himself.

“Go quickly,” he said. “We’ll follow.”

They departed not long after — a fast skiff carrying Mya, Meera, a pair of Forgotten Sons, and enough coin to outfit a small army. As they slipped past the shadow of the Titan and into the lagoons of Braavos, the rest of us prepared to make landfall, and Jon returned to the prow — watching, always watching, as the city of Braavos came into view beyond the mists.

It was just after Mya and Meera’s boat disappeared into the fog that Ser Jaime walked to Jon’s side, his cloak fluttering behind him like a silver banner.

Gone were the shaggy furs and worn leathers of the North. Now he wore the shining plate and polished white cloak of the Kingsguard, his armour gleaming like freshly forged silver beneath the dying sun.

His beard was gone too — his face clean-shaven, younger than I’d ever seen it. He looked almost like the man from the old songs and tapestries again, the knight who once jousted beside princes.

“The silver lion has returned,” I said aloud, before I could stop myself.

He gave me a look — half amused, half offended. “If you start reciting poems about me, I’m jumping overboard.”

Jon chuckled but said nothing.

Jaime turned serious again. “We’ll need a place to stay. Not just for a few, but for all of us — Freefolk, sailors, warriors, even the bloody mammoths if need be. Not a hostel or an inn. Something solid. Permanent.”

I nodded slowly. “That sounds like a manse,” I said. “A large one. With its own docks, if we’re lucky.”

“Manses like that belong to the Keyholders,” Jon said, frowning. “And I doubt they give those up easily.”

Bran, sitting nearby on a coil of rope, was watching a passing gull with vague disinterest. “We’ll take the one owned by Gero Rhesano,” he said offhandedly, as if speaking of the weather.

I blinked. “Who?”

“Gero Rhesano,” Bran repeated. “One of the Keyholders. He owns a Manse, out by the Outer Canal. It’s large enough for all of us and has old stables and sea access. It will be on the market soon.”

Jaime arched an eyebrow. “And you know this… how?”

Bran tilted his head, his eyes distant and unfocused. “Because Gero has been hiding a daughter he claimed had died of summer fever. But she’s alive, well, and living with a playwright named Vavero, which would be quite scandalous to the Iron Bank, given the pledges he made in his oaths of guardianship.” He smiled faintly. “He’ll be willing to sell.”
Jon glanced at me. I could only shrug.

“I don’t like it,” Jaime muttered. “Feels like blackmail.”

Bran gave him a faintly amused look. “Feels like prophecy, Ser Jaime.”

Jon exhaled through his nose. “Fine. When we dock, we’ll send word to this Gero Rhesano. Let’s hope he’s in a selling mood.”

“He will be,” Bran said softly, “once he hears who’s asking.”

And so, even as the city of Braavos emerged from the mist — with her domes of green copper, her arching bridges, her canals and towers and stone sentinels — the game was already in motion.

We were not just arriving as refugees.

We were arriving with a plan.

We sailed into Ragman’s Harbour at midday, a forest of masts rising before us like spears on a battlefield.

The domes and towers of Braavos gleamed in the haze beyond, each one casting long shadows across the slow-moving green canals.

No sooner had our anchors dropped than the inspection began again.

Braavosi navy ships approached from all directions — sleek, black-gilled things that moved with the precision of sharks.

Their officers wore lacquered purple-and-gold breastplates, their beards neatly oiled and trimmed. They came aboard with scrolls, scribes, and questions.

“Number of passengers? Cargo? Nationality? Trade intentions?”

It felt endless.

But then the inspection was brought to an abrupt halt when a pair of Bravos boarded the Sea Dragon with the air of men who answered to no one save gods.

Their doublets were striped with silks of blue and green, their long swords hung low on jewelled belts, and each had a feathered cap more ridiculous than the last.

One had a scar running from brow to cheek, the other wore a golden ring through his nose.

They bowed with theatrical grace — deep, sweeping, and entirely insincere.

“We come bearing an invitation from the Sealord of Braavos,” said the one with the nose ring. “To the noble Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen and his most... presentable companions.”

His tone made it perfectly clear: the Freefolk were not invited.

Jon stiffened. “I don’t go where they can’t follow,” he said. “They are my people.”

“Prince,” Ser Jaime said under his breath, stepping forward, “this is not a request. Refusing the Sealord’s invitation could insult him. We’re not in Westeros anymore.”

Jon looked from the Bravos to the decks behind us — to the crowds of Freefolk still shirtless, sunburnt, and suspicious. To the mammoths drinking seawater and roaring. To the Giants sitting on cargo crates. He sighed.

“Fine. Who’s coming with me?”

“The Blackfish,” Jaime said quickly. “And some of the Forgotten Sons. The ones who still know how to bathe.”

Bran, who had been watching this quietly, tilted his head and said, “Then I’ll handle the manse.”

Jon blinked. “Alone?”

“I won’t be alone,” Bran said, rising. “Sam will go with me. And Meera. Gilly, too. And the Hound.”

The Hound grunted like he’d been volunteered to wrestle a manticore. “Bloody wonderful.”

“Ressano lives on the Canal of Lanterns,” Bran continued. “It’s a quiet district. Old money. He won’t expect visitors.”

Jon looked between them, hesitating.

“Let us do our work,” I said softly. “We’ll secure the manse before nightfall.”

Jon nodded once. “Go.”

As Bran’s group descended onto a hired canal boat — the Hound grumbling all the while, Gilly soothing the baby with soft coos — Mya Stone stayed aboard the Sea Dragon.
She shouted orders to the deckhands and began organising the distribution of cloth and coin, measuring the giants with lengths of rope and arguing with tailors who kept trying to flee.

“Tell the Freefolk to be dressed and groomed,” Jon said, before stepping onto the Sealord’s barge. “We won’t be guests here. We’ll be judged.”

He left with Jaime and the Blackfish at his side, dressed in silver and black and looking more like Westerosi lords than they had in years. Behind them came a small group of the Forgotten Sons — clean-faced, upright, quiet.

Aurane Waters and Val followed at a lazy distance, utterly oblivious to the solemnity of the moment.

Aurane, in bright blue silks and a pearl-handled sword, looked more Braavosi than some of the locals.

Val, dressed as boldly as any Essosi noblewoman — all gold-threaded gauze and scandal — clung to his arm with a wicked smile.

The two of them flirted shamelessly as they walked, trading whispers and laughter that made even the Bravos raise their brows.

And so we parted once more — not for war or winter or prophecy, but for politics.

I didn’t like it much better.

The manse of Gero Rhesano stood tall on the banks of the Green Canal, just a few turns away from the House of the Red Hands.

It was built of polished red stone and lacquered teakwood, its windows trimmed in gold leaf and shuttered with painted glass.

Two lean Bravos guarded the entrance, dressed in silks so fine they looked more suited to a pleasure house than a stronghold.

Their curved blades glinted at their hips, untouched by blood or wear. They crossed them in front of us as we approached.

“No visitors. Be gone.”

“We’re expected,” Bran said. “Tell Ressano… his daughter still writes poetry in secret.”

That got their attention.

The two Bravos exchanged a glance — one of those swift, unreadable ones, thick with wordless meaning — and one turned to knock.

They let us in, but not without ceremony. Meera was asked to surrender her spear, and the Hound — well, they demanded he hand over his sword.

He let out a noise halfway between a growl and a laugh. “I don’t need a sword to put down these pompous cunts,” he said loudly enough for the entire courtyard to hear.

The Bravos bristled, but none of them made a move. It was the way he smiled when he said it, like he was daring them to try.

So Sandor followed us in, glowering like an angry dog leashed too tightly.

Inside, Gilly was already staring around the atrium with wide eyes, mouth slightly open.

It was all polished marble, tinkling fountains, domed ceilings with painted stars.

Nothing even that fine by Westerosi standards, but to her — a girl raised in Craster’s filth and ice — it must have looked like the Hall of the Gods.

She clutched the baby close and twirled once, just once, her eyes bright with joy. I smiled at that.

Meera, solemn as always, supported Bran on one arm while he limped ahead, his Weirwood Cane held in the other. The wooden cane clacked against the stone floor as we passed under the archway into the receiving chamber.

Gero Rhesano was waiting.

He was older than I’d imagined — stooped a bit, with hands that trembled faintly over a goblet of sweet wine — but still finely dressed and sharp of tongue. He didn’t rise when we entered.

Instead, he looked us over with a curl of disdain.

“So… this is the party that comes from the Prince of Dragonstone?” he said in thickly accented Common. “A crippled child. A fat boy. A frog hunter. A simple girl. And a mad dog. What is this? A Braavosi farce?”

The Hound stepped forward. Just one step. That was all it took.

Meera gently laid a hand on his chest.

“No,” Bran said softly. “This is no farce.”

Then he began to speak.

Not like a child. Not even like a prince. He spoke like a banker, a spymaster, a man who knew things that Ressano did not want spoken aloud.

He dropped names — real names — not titles. He described shadowy deals, payments hidden in shipping manifests, threats bought off with gold. He mentioned letters. Ledgers. Lovers. One of them, presumably, Rhesano’s daughter’s poet friend.

The old Keyholder turned ashen. He tried to laugh. Then to protest. Then to bargain.

By the end of it, he was signing a sealed contract with hands that shook worse than before.

A manse fit for a hundred souls, a garden, a private dock, six gondolas, three granaries and a full deed of ownership. All for a sum so low it made even the Hound snort.

Meera helped Bran back into his chair as Ressano left the room in a daze.

“That went well,” she said.

“It went exactly as it was supposed to,” Bran replied, his voice cool.

Gilly was still looking around the hall, wide-eyed.

I wasn’t.

I was watching Bran. His eyes — so old now, and sharp. That voice — calm, measured, cold. It wasn’t just him anymore.

I’d read of Lord Brynden Rivers in the old accounts. Bloodraven — Hand of the King, Master of Whisperers, and the blackest shadow to ever wear a crown without a throne.
I was beginning to think that somewhere deep inside, the boy who’d once been Bran Stark carried more of Bloodraven than just his memories.

We returned to Ragman’s Harbour just as the sun was dipping low behind the masts, the sky a golden haze above the rooftops of Braavos. I expected chaos. Instead, I found… order.

Of a sort.

The Freefolk — the same people who had danced half-naked under the sun on deck, who had nearly started a brawl over dried fish two days prior — were now seated in rows.

Actual, neat rows. Men, women, even a few sullen teenagers, each one slouched on a stool while nervous Braavosi barbers with scissors and razors and far too many colognes tried to tame their wild manes.

It looked less like a grooming session and more like the prelude to an execution.

And there, seated among them like a great ginger bear being reluctantly defanged, was Tormund Giantsbane.

I blinked. Then blinked again.

His massive beard — that wild, tangled forest of fire — was being trimmed. Trimmed. Not hacked off with an axe in the middle of a drunken bet, but shaped. Properly.

I turned to look at Mya Stone, half expecting to see her standing behind him with a dagger at his throat. But no — she was laughing with one of the tailors, arms crossed, giving instructions.

The reason became clear a moment later. Standing just behind her, watching the whole thing with what might have been amusement or mild annoyance, was Alysanne Mormont. Full armour, silent stare. Tormund must have seen her too — he kept sneaking glances her way, and every time she so much as shifted, he sat up a little straighter and puffed his now semi-tamed chest.

“That explains that,” I muttered.

Further along the harbour, a more surreal sight awaited me.

The giants — yes, giants—were being dressed.

It must have taken six tailors and a half-dozen gondoliers just to help them into their new clothes. Great swathes of cotton had been sewn into what looked like enormous shirts and trousers, dyed in sky blue and sandy brown, with sleeves wide enough to double as sails. One giant bent low as a young Braavosi woman climbed a step ladder to adjust the buttons on his shirt. He waited, grinning like a child, while she did.

Nearby, Freefolk children were shrieking with delight, running between clothing racks and shouting over each other in Old Tongue and broken Common, clutching dyed shirts of green and red and purple like prized treasure.

I watched them for a moment — the laughter, the light, the slow miracle of transformation — and for the first time since we left Hardhome, I started to believe that this might work.

That we could survive here.

Even if only for a while.

It wasn’t long before we heard the sound of boots on stone and the low clatter of armour. Jon had returned.

He came striding down the dock beside Ser Jaime and Lord Tully, the Blackfish looking as unimpressed as ever. The rest of the Forgotten Sons followed — sharp-eyed, clean-armed, presentable for once.

I noticed Aurane Waters and Val trailing behind, still arm in arm, still flirting like lovers in a Braavosi play. Jaime was shaking his head at them.

Jon looked around the harbour — at the barber's mid-trim, at the giants half-dressed in linen, at the Freefolk children still chasing one another with scraps of colourful cloth — and for just a moment, he smiled.

“The Sealord has given us permission to stay,” he said as he reached us. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried. “So long as the Freefolk follow the laws of Braavos, and refrain from criminal activity, they are welcome here.”

I wasn’t sure if the Freefolk fully understood what he meant — most of them hadn’t heard the words directly — but Mya must’ve explained it to enough of them ahead of time, because a ripple of something like cautious relief passed through the rows.

Bran was beside me. He didn’t say anything at first — just held out a large brass key in his gloved hand. Jon took it with a nod.

“A gift?” he asked.

“A purchase,” Bran replied. “Rhesano was… eager to sell.”

I could still hear Ressano’s insult in my head — a crippled child, a fat boy, a frog hunter, a simple girl and a mad dog. I glanced sideways at Bran, who looked as serene as ever, and shivered slightly.

That ruthlessness — that calm, analytical cold — I knew it didn’t come from childhood. That was Bloodraven’s shadow moving behind his eyes.

Jon turned the key over in his hand as if it were a relic.

Then, at his signal, the Freefolk began to rise.

Neat rows became moving columns as they were led inland, past Braavosi bystanders who stared wide-eyed at warriors with freshly trimmed beards, and laughing children in bright, foreign colours.

Though not all were led through the streets.

Jon, ever practical, didn’t want to cause a panic by marching a hundred giants through the alleys of Braavos. So the Sea Dragon and the Winter Wolf were readied once again. The giants, with their new garb and awkward, oversized sandals, were directed aboard in twos and threes, and taken by sea directly to the private dock at the back of the manse.

The other ships — the Stormborn, the Winter Rose, and the smaller vessels — remained in Ragman’s Harbour with their skeleton crews, under orders to offload supplies and stand ready.

The chartered ships that had carried parts of the Freefolk from Hardhome, their contracts fulfilled, were paid and politely dismissed. Some captains stayed for the gold. Others fled the city the moment they were unburdened of giants and wildlings.

From wildling to refugee, from enemy to guest — in the space of one afternoon.

And at their head, walked Jon — the forgotten prince, now the shepherd of a people without a land, bearing the key to their future in a city of masks and mirrors.

The manse itself was as grand as anything I’d seen in Oldtown — maybe grander. Wide white marble steps led up to a pair of towering oaken doors, banded with black iron and polished to a mirror sheen.

Behind them, the halls yawned wide, full of coloured glass and Braavosi luxury: velvet curtains, mosaics of ships, stags and strange gods, and frescos on the high ceiling depicting every sea under the sun. Gilly couldn’t stop staring. I think even the Hound was impressed, though he’d never admit it.

But the manse wasn’t built for thousands.

Once everyone had arrived — the giants trudging up from the rear garden dock, the Freefolk marching in with their new clothes itching and their hair still damp from the barbers’ scissors — Jon and Mya pulled aside to speak in the courtyard. I followed quietly behind.

“We can’t fit them all in here,” Mya was saying, glancing up at the nearest tower window. “Not unless you want Freefolk sleeping stacked like books in a Maester’s cell.”

Jon nodded. “The giants will have to stay in the gardens. We’ll set up tents — as many as we can, large enough for them to stand in. We’ll build fires, keep them warm.”

“There’s enough room,” Mya said, squinting toward the back hedges. “We’ll need canvas, rope, maybe some poles from the ship. But it’s doable.”

“And inside?”

“Families, elders, wounded,” Mya replied without hesitation. “The Freefolk chiefs, too. And the leaders of the Forgotten Sons. We can make do with what we have. There are four floors, a cellar, and a servant wing.”

Jon turned to me then. “And you, Sam? Where would you keep them?”

I swallowed. “The sick and the children indoors, if we can. They’re not used to warmth or cities. It will be a shock. Those who can’t read or write — they’ll need guidance just to use a chamber pot properly, let alone share a Braavosi dining hall.”

That made Mya grin. “And the rest?”

“We have the old barracks in the western wing,” she said. “Once meant for Ressano’s guards. There’s room for maybe fifty there, tightly packed. The rest, we house in camps around the garden — north lawn, under the wall, behind the stables. At least until we can build more permanent shelters.”

Jon nodded again. “Do it.”

Orders were given, supplies offloaded. Tents were pitched under the citrus trees and along the rear wall. By sundown, the manse grounds were alive with movement — children running between hedges, warriors stacking crates of salted meat, and a giant snoring softly beside a bubbling fountain.

It wasn’t a home.

But it was the closest thing the Freefolk had seen to one in a very long time.

Just as we turned to head back inside, a squat Freefolk man trudged past, shirt half-unbuttoned, his hair matted with sea salt and beard crusted with gods-know-what. A reek followed him like a loyal hound — sweat, salt, smoke, and something that might have once been fish.

Mya wrinkled her nose and turned away. Even Jon, who had faced worse smells north of the Wall, winced slightly. He looked over at me.

“Sam,” he said carefully, “please tell me there’s a bathhouse in this place.”

I nodded. “There’s one in the eastern wing. Marble floors, three deep tubs, piped water. Heated, even — the Braavosi don’t do cold baths.”

Jon exhaled in relief. “Good. Mya, make sure every Freefolk man, woman, and child finds their way there. We’ve dealt with enough rot beyond the Wall — let’s not bring it into Braavos.”

Mya smirked. “I’ll start with the chiefs, make an example of them. If Tormund can be shaved, he can be scrubbed.”

We all shared a weary laugh as another breeze brought a wave of unwashed wildlings through the gardens. The battle for Braavos had already begun — not with swords or steel, but with soap, water, and stubborn pride.

As the last of the Freefolk were herded toward the bathhouse under Mya’s iron glare, a slender Braavosi boy in crisp green livery approached the Manse gates, his sandals slapping lightly against the stone path. He bowed low before Jon, eyes bright with well-trained courtesy.

“My lord,” the boy said in the Common Tongue, heavily accented but clear, “I come from the Iron Bank of Braavos, on behalf of Magister Tycho Nestoris. The Magister wishes to extend an invitation to you for a meeting at the Bank.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Another accounting?”

The boy shook his head. “No, my lord. He says it is not an audit, nor an obligation — but an opportunity—a proposal, of sorts. If you decline, it will not be held against you. But if you accept…” He shrugged lightly. “The Magister believes it will be to your benefit.”

Jon exchanged a glance with me, then with Jaime, who had just begun polishing the scabbard of his sword. Jaime gave a half-smile, the kind that always meant trouble.

Jon gave the boy a short nod. “Tell Magister Tycho I’ll attend.”

The boy bowed once more. “He will be most pleased, my lord.”

As the page turned and slipped away through the garden gate, Jaime muttered, “The Braavosi never make threats. Just opportunities that happen to ruin you if you say no.”

Jon snorted softly. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve already got nothing to lose.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. But I kept the thought to myself.

The next morning, word was sent back to the Iron Bank that Jon would attend. As he stood before the looking glass in one of the upstairs chambers of the manse, fumbling with the collar of his best doublet, Ser Jaime walked in with that insufferable smirk on his clean-shaven face.

“You look like a northman playing dress-up,” Jaime said. “Both of you do. Shave.”

Jon frowned. “Is that truly necessary?”

“If you want to look like farm boys who’ve wandered into the richest vault in the world, by all means, go as you are. But if we’re to speak with Tycho Nestoris about ‘business opportunities’”—he made a mocking gesture with his fingers—“we ought to look the part of nobles. Not hedge knights and scholars who’ve spent too long at sea.”

So Jon shaved, though he grumbled about it. And I did too, though I’d already been planning to. My beard had never grown in right, patchy as a snowdrift in spring. Gilly said she liked it, but even she hadn’t protested much when I took out the razor.

By the time we were done, Jon looked… younger. Sharper, somehow. The high collar of his black doublet stood crisply against the clean lines of his jaw. The Valyrian steel of Dark Sister hung at his hip like it belonged there—sleek, dangerous, ancient.

I wore a deep green doublet stitched with silver thread, the finest one I owned.

Not that it made much difference, standing next to Ser Jaime Lannister, now gleaming in his full Kingsguard armour as if he’d stepped out of a tapestry.

Together, the three of us boarded a narrow Braavosi rowboat just outside the manse’s private dock. Two oarsmen in crimson cloaks rowed us down the canal, the city rising around us like a painting in motion—arched bridges of polished stone, slender towers leaning out over water, singing minstrels, flower sellers, the faint clamour of bells echoing from the domes. The scent of the sea mixed with perfume, pastry and hot iron.

“I still feel like a farm boy,” Jon muttered, eyeing a group of masked nobles gliding past on a pleasure barge.

Jaime chuckled. “Smile, Prince. You’re about to walk into the greatest vault of gold and secrets the world has ever known.”

“And what do I do once I’m inside?”

“Don’t blink too hard. They’ll charge you for the air.”

We continued down the canal in silence after that, the looming marble spires of the Iron Bank drawing closer with every stroke of the oars.

The Iron Bank was not what I expected. From the outside, it looked more like a temple than a treasury—arched domes of white stone, thick with gold filigree and Braavosi runes.

But once we stepped past the high bronze doors and into the long shadowed halls within, it felt like walking into the belly of a beast that devoured coin and exhaled contracts.

They led us to a chamber lit only by a pair of glass-shuttered lanterns and a narrow shaft of light from above, where dust motes danced like ghosts. The walls were lined with ledgers and black-bound books stretching from floor to ceiling.

The air smelled of old paper, cold ink, and something faintly metallic—like blood that had long since dried.

Tycho Nestoris entered quietly, cloaked in simple grey robes with the badge of the Iron Bank pinned to his breast. He clasped his hands before him, gave a short nod, and spoke without ceremony.

“I won’t twist words around you, Prince Jaehaerys,” he said, voice calm as still water. “I am a banker, not a courtier. So let me be quick and clear.”

Jon inclined his head. “Please.”

“There are two powers in this world that stand openly against slavery: the Iron Throne of Westeros and the Free City of Braavos. Of those two, only one has ever tried to enforce that principle beyond its borders.” Nestoris’s eyes glinted like coins in the lantern light.

“Braavos forced Pentos to abolish slavery a century past, and still they twist their words—calling their slaves by other names. Indentured. Bound servants. Lifelong contracts.” His mouth tightened. “But these are just masks. The chains remain.”

I felt the weight in the room shift. Jon’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

“We’ve tried to hold them accountable. But Pentosi lords are clever with their language, and bribes flow faster than truth. We have never been able to prove the charges in court.”

He paused. “Until now.”

That got Jon’s attention. “You’ve found someone?”

Nestoris nodded. “Magister Tychano Hestare. He doesn’t hide it. He flaunts it—parades his slaves through Pentos as if mocking us. He no longer fears reprisal. Because he has the Golden Company behind him.”

Jaime made a sound in his throat. “If it’s justice you want, why not send your Faceless Men?”

Tycho shook his head. “The Faceless are for silence. For whispers. For work that leaves no blood on the floor. But this—” He stepped closer, voice sharp now. “—this must be loud. This must be a message. One that echoes from Pentos to Volantis.”

Jon folded his arms. “What exactly do you want from us?”

“Go to Pentos. Deal with Tychano Hestare. By the laws of your land and ours, slavery is punishable by death. Remind him of that. Remind everyone.”

There was silence for a moment. Jaime was watching Nestoris with a curious look, as if weighing gold against steel. I was just trying to keep my hands from sweating.

Jon finally said, “Why us? Why not mercenaries? Or the Sealord’s soldiers?”

“Because you succeeded where others failed,” Tycho replied. “You brought thousands of men, women, and children across the Shivering Sea. You humbled nature, outwitted monsters, and crossed from myth into history. You led an exodus. That is no small thing.”

He turned to Jon and lowered his voice. “You are not just a prince. You are a symbol. If you stand against slavery in Pentos, the world will take notice.”

Jon frowned, thoughtful. “And if I agree… what guarantees do I have for those I leave behind? The freefolk. My people. They are no threat to Braavos, but they may be seen as one.”

Tycho gave a small smile. “If you accept, I will ensure the safety of your nonfighters in the Manse. They will be under the Iron Bank’s protection for the duration of your absence.”

That settled something inside Jon. He nodded once.

“I’ll consider it. You’ll have my answer before nightfall.”

“Very good,” Nestoris said, with the air of a man who already knew the answer. “My page will return by sunset.”

And with that, he turned and vanished into the dark once more, leaving behind only the smell of ink and gold and old, patient vengeance.

The solar in the Manse of Rhesano was nothing like the Maester’s tower at Horn Hill, but the light was just as golden, streaming through the tall windows and pooling on the polished wood floor.

The wide chamber smelled of old ink, citrus oil, and the faint tang of salt that clung to everything in Braavos. A long Braavosi table carved from dark cedarwood was now surrounded by a mismatched company that no sane man would’ve thought could sit in council together.

Jon was at the head, Dark Sister at his side. Jaime stood behind him in full white armour, leaning against the wall with arms crossed.

Mya and Meera were seated to his left, quiet but watchful.

Sam took a seat near the end, beside the Archmaester, who had already produced a sheaf of parchment and a freshly inked quill.
The Blackfish nursed a goblet of wine beside Donal Noye, who never drank but always listened.

Across from them sat Tormund Giantsbane and Harma Dog’shead—both freshly bathed, though their clothes were already half-wrinkled again.

Mance Rayder leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, strumming the edge of a Braavosi lyre someone had gifted him.

Val sat beside him, proud and still and dressed in silks once meant for some Pentoshi noble’s daughter.

Ygritte stood near the fireplace, arms folded, a little too close to the Hound, who was growling at the occasional flicker of flame.

Aurane Waters had dressed again in blue, bright as a summer sky. His hand never seemed to stray far from Val’s. That fact hadn’t gone unnoticed by anyone.

Ghost and Summer wrestled lazily on the balcony beyond the solar, tangled in gentle growls and fur.

Above them, Morghul sat perched in a window niche, watching everything with eyes like red coals.

Mag the Mighty did not fit through the solar door, but he attended nonetheless—his massive face peeking over the balcony wall like a smile carved into a mountain.

Jon cleared his throat. “The Iron Bank wants us to send a message,” he began, summarising Tycho’s words as Sam and Jaime had heard them.

It wasn’t the first time a strange proposal had landed on their table, but this one brought a silence that even Tormund dared not fill with jest.

“It’s slavery,” Sam added. “That’s the heart of it. They want us to deal with a man who owns slaves openly and defies Braavos’s laws, protected by the Golden Company.”

At that, Bran’s face darkened. “Then we go,” he said, simply and without hesitation.

All eyes turned to him.

Bran’s voice was calm, but there was iron underneath. “The Golden Company has old debts. Debts paid in blood and betrayal. Bloodraven once crossed Bittersteel. Now the sons of Bittersteel guard slavers.”

Sam remembered old passages in old books, the way the tale of the Blackfyre Rebellion still lingered like smoke centuries after the fire.

Bloodraven and Bittersteel had been brothers, both bastards of House Targaryen. One became the King’s spymaster. Another, a traitor who founded a sellsword army across the sea. The Golden Company.

Some debts never truly die.

“The plan was always to win respect and power here in Essos,” Jon said. “To build something before we return. This could be our first step.”

They nodded one by one.

“The Forgotten Sons will march,” Jaime said, his voice steady.

“Our best warriors,” Jon agreed. “The sailors will remain to maintain the fleet.”

Harma gave a feral grin. “The slavers took many of ours, back when we were scattered. I’d give an ear to cut down one of those bastards.”

Tormund pounded his chest. “We’ll bring the fire they lit and burn it right back. I’ll bring my best. Maybe not my prettiest, but they’ll kill prettier than your gold-knobbed knights.”

Mag the Mighty let out a thunderous chuckle that shook the shutters. When Jon turned toward him, the giant nodded.

“All of them?” Sam asked, blinking.

Mag grunted something in the Old Tongue. Ygritte translated: “All the giants. And the mammoths, too. They remember chains.”

That settled it.

Then came the question of who would stay behind. Jon frowned for a moment, but before he could speak, Bran said quietly, “Aurane and Val.”

That caused a stir.

Even Jaime looked sceptical. “Those two?”

“They’ve proved themselves… adaptable,” Bran said, with the faintest smirk.

“Aye,” the Hound muttered. “They’re very adaptable. Can they lead an army if they’re too busy rutting in a closet?”

Tormund howled with laughter. Val only raised a cool eyebrow, as if the Hound were a barking dog outside her window.

Still, no one objected. Not truly.

Plans were made—supplies arranged, weapons checked, ships selected.

Messengers would be sent to Braavosi allies, requesting open passage for their mission. The Iron Bank’s answer would be sent before nightfall. They would depart within the week.

As the room began to thin and the talk turned to tactical minutiae, Sam sat back and looked out at the city stretching beyond the canal.

A boy from Horn Hill, once too fat and frightened to hold a sword, now sat in a manse in Braavos beside giants and legends. They were making plans of war beneath a foreign sky. They were still half a world away from Westeros.

And yet…

We had already begun to make a name for ourselves.

Chapter Text

Chapter XIX – Beneath the Gold

The sun rose slowly over the city of Braavos, casting pale golden light through the sea mist. In the walled gardens of the Manse, beneath bloodied banners and broken tiles, the army gathered.

The Freefolk also called themselves the Forgotten Sons now.

The name had begun as a jest, muttered by a drunken Freefolk spearwife. But the jest had taken root. It was easier than “the Wildlings and the Southerners,” and in some strange way, it fit. They were the sons and daughters of broken houses and broken oaths, of forgotten kings and forgotten gods.

Freefolk who had never bowed to anyone, and Southerners who had nothing left to kneel for. Northmen, riverlords, sellswords, giants, former Night’s Watch, and even a Hound. Sons and daughters of the snows, the stones, and the fires that came after.

Now they stood together in the garden of a magister’s manse, shoulder to shoulder. And Sam realised — it no longer looked unnatural. It looked like an army.

Donal Noye had seen to that.

The smith, scarred and gruff, had taken the Freefolk’s wild, desperate energy and hammered it into iron. Quite literally. Half the warriors wore leather or chain mail.

Noye’s forges had worked through the nights. Shields were painted with crude but recognisable devices — mammoths, weirwoods, ravens, wolves. Axes had been reforged, notched blades replaced, and hilts tightened.

I saw Tormund Giantsbane, striding between his kinsfolk, a wide grin beneath his freshly trimmed red beard. A newly forged battleaxe hung at his side, its steel head gleaming, the haft carved with runes Sam did not know.

Beside him marched Harma Dogshead, her helm shaped like the snarling muzzle of her namesake. Her axe was broader, heavier, meant for cleaving shields and bone alike. Both wore Plate Armour, solid, protective, and well-made.

And then, of course, there were the Giants.

They towered above the men, thirty feet tall or more. Each bore a weapon the size of a small tree — clubs reinforced with iron spikes, massive hammers carved from stone and bound with chain. One of them had taken a ship’s mast and turned it into a spear. I could scarcely imagine what that would do to a man.

And behind the giants lumbered their beasts — the mammoths.

They were larger than any horse, larger than any cart team I had ever seen. Their thick coats were shaggy with sweat. But now they wore harnesses — crude but effective — and wooden saddles lashed to their backs. Each could carry half a ton of food, firewood or armour. And they would be needed.

If this army meant to march through the flat and open lands of Andalos and beyond, we would need everything these creatures could carry — and more.

I could feel the change in the air as I walked among them. This wasn’t a war band anymore. It was becoming a host.

I paused beside a tall Freefolk woman fitting a spearhead to its shaft. A Direwolf skull had been painted on her shield in black tar. Beside her, a beardless youth was helping tighten the girth strap of a saddled mammoth. They barely looked at me — and that was telling.

There was no hesitation, no mockery, no mistrust in their eyes. I was simply another face among the Forgotten Sons now—scholar, steward, scribe — and one of them.

I allowed myself a small smile. The world truly had turned upside down.

The warriors were not the only ones transformed.

Even we, who once looked like misfits gathered from a thousand broken causes, now stood like a force of purpose.

The Freefolk might have joined our banner out of necessity, but there was pride in how they bore themselves now — and I daresay we Southerners were proud to stand beside them.

I saw Jon first, near the gangway of the Sea Dragon, and for a moment, I barely recognised him. He wore black plate armour, polished and sharp, with red accents lining the vambraces and breast. It was regal but not gaudy — austere, like him.

On the chestplate, a subtle filigree of blooming roses caught the light — a quiet remembrance of the mother he’d never known. At his side hung Dark Sister, and over his shoulders was slung a grey cloak, finely embroidered with direwolves in motion, stitched by hand from the looks of it—ice and fire, woven into the very threads of him.

Beside him, Mya Stone adjusted the weight of her massive warhammer, the weapon slung casually over her back like a sack of grain. She wore blue-stained leather armour, reinforced with steel studs. Even amidst giants and mammoths, people stepped out of her path. There was something about the way she walked — not aggressive, just… inevitable.

Meera Reed followed shortly after, as silent as her bowstring. Her armour was light bronze-scale, with green accents that shimmered like reeds in summer sun.

She moved with ease, though she carried both her longbow and quiver, and an old, curved bronze dagger at her belt — not decorative, but ancient, with the kind of weight history gives to even the smallest of blades.

And then there was Bran.

His light leather armour bore the Stark colours, clean and plain. His weirwood staff — once crude and splintered — had been lovingly polished, and now bore a short iron spike at its end.

I could see the gleam in his pale eyes — he saw more than just this harbour and these soldiers.

And as for me… well. I was not quite a knight, nor a wizard, nor a warrior. But Jon had insisted I wear the chain mail Marwyn had made for me. Over it, he’d gifted me a green-and-red tabard, the colours of House Tarly.

“I’m not meant to wear this,” I’d protested when he gave it to me.

“You are,” Jon said. “Even if your father won’t have you, the realm will.”

And so I wore it, even if it felt heavy with meaning. A sword hung at my belt, too, which I prayed I wouldn’t have to use. But something told me the days ahead would not let even the meekest man remain untouched.

And then, of course, there was Jaime Lannister.

He stood tall at the edge of the quay, already speaking to the captains and marshals with that effortless command of his — no bluster, just authority.

He wore his full Kingsguard armour again: pale silver plate that gleamed beneath the Braavosi sun, etched with faint lions along the edges, and accents of gold that caught the light like a halo around him. His sword and shield were slung at his side, not for ceremony, but ready for use.

But what caught my breath — and made a few of the Freefolk stare openly — was the helmet under his arm. Silver, wrought in the shape of a lion’s snarling head, with eyes of polished amber glass that reflected the sky.

He hadn’t changed, not really. For all the chaos and loss and madness that had swallowed the world these past years, Jaime Lannister was still the same. Proud, relentless… and yet, somehow, better than he once was. A rock in a sea of shifting tides. Where others had broken or drifted or burned, the Silver Lion remained.

I think — though I didn’t say it aloud — that Jon felt the same. He never said it, never leaned on Jaime the way I’d seen lords lean on their sworn swords. But in quiet moments, in the way Jon’s shoulders eased ever so slightly when Jaime rode beside him… You could tell.

The fleet did not sail for Pentos.

Though most of the Forgotten Sons were well-accustomed to ships by now — and the Braavosi captains had offered to carry them swiftly to the southern shore — a decision had been made to march.

“Steel travels faster by sea,” Aurane Waters had argued, half-joking. “But mammoths don’t.”

And so we turned away from the sea and began a great, slow crawl across the rolling plains of Andalos, heading south along the spine of the continent.

It was a decision made with care, and one I agreed with. The sea did not love the Freefolk, nor they it.

Even among the veterans of Hardhome, seasickness had struck half the men and all the giants during the voyage to Braavos — one of the younger mammoths had nearly thrown itself off the deck in a panic.

But there was another reason, perhaps more important still: Andalos was old, fertile country, once the heart of a kingdom that had died before Aegon’s Conquest. Grasses stretched for miles, yellow-green under the high sun, and trees grew thick along the rivers.

The giants could graze, and the mammoths grew stronger by the hour, no longer swaying from salt and sickness but trumpeting in delight as they stomped over fresh grass. The oldest Freefolk among us said it reminded them of the Frostfang valleys in spring, back when spring still came.

We passed abandoned watchtowers, crumbling septs, and long-dead villages swallowed by grass, their gods and kings forgotten. The Andals had once ruled here, and then they’d left for Westeros.

We moved faster than any Westerosi army I had ever read of.

Not because we had more horses — though we did — or finer roads — though some of the old Andal stones still held beneath our feet. It was because we marched like no army Westeros had ever seen.

Giants bore our burdens. What a dozen ox-carts would carry, one mammoth could haul with ease, and we had two dozen of them. Supplies, tents, spare arms and armour, even cookpots and feed for the horses — all lashed in great bundles across their massive backs.

And the Freefolk didn’t need carts or carriages for themselves. They were born wanderers, used to hunting their food and finding water in places that would seem barren to a knight of the Reach. They travelled light and lived off the land.

Where most armies carried bread and grain for weeks, ours caught fresh hares and dug up wild onions from Andalos’ forgotten fields.

But the greatest advantage of all came from the skies.

Bran’s crows were always ahead of us, flitting silently through the air, watching the ridges, roads, and ruined towers. Sometimes I’d see them circling above the next hill, and then Bran would murmur something soft to Meera or Jon before we reached it — a fallen tree to avoid, a band of riders to steer clear of, a broken bridge better not crossed.

And farther ahead still flew Morghul. He scouted by day and circled by night, roosting on stone outcroppings or the burnt remnants of old towers.
With wings above and giants below, we moved as if the land itself opened to let us pass.

It struck me then — and many times afterwards — that we were no longer merely a band of survivors.

We were an army.

And more than that: a people.

It wasn’t all grim and grindstone. Even as we marched with purpose, there was laughter, and sometimes even absurdity.

Tormund Giantsbane, already sweltering in his bright-polished new breastplate — a thing that gleamed like a bloody mirror in the sun — was doing his best to impress Alyssane Mormont, walking beside her with his chest puffed out like a rooster.

“Strong armour for a strong man,” he boasted, slapping a broad palm against his belly, where his axe was slung low. “What say you, she-bear? Fancy a look at my other weapon when we make camp?”

Alyssane didn’t so much as glance his way. “The only weapon you’ll be showing tonight is that blunt tongue of yours,” she said, not breaking stride. “Keep it in your mouth before I use it to polish my hammer.”

The warriors nearby howled with laughter, and Tormund, undeterred, grinned like a boy caught peeking into the bathhouse.

I chuckled with them, until my eyes landed on someone who never looked new, polished, or different — but who now did.

Sandor Clegane, the Hound, had traded in his old armour.

For as long as I’d known him, he'd worn the same battered, blackened plate — scored, dented, cracked at the collar and stinking of old blood. It was part of him. Like the burned face, the growl in his voice, the way he spat when he was annoyed — which was often.

But now he strode along the rear flank in a fresh suit of mail and new plate, dark grey with black dog sigils stamped crudely on the pauldrons. His helm, though he held it at his side, had been scrubbed clean and refitted. It gleamed.

I blinked. “You… got new armour?” I asked him, honestly startled.

He snorted. “If that ginger cunt’s gonna be stomping about in fresh steel like a wedding knight, you think I’m letting him show me up?”

I was too shocked to respond at first.

“Donal had it made for me,” he added after a moment, scratching his scarred cheek. “Said I was starting to rust. Bloody Smith’s got a sharp tongue. And a Heavy hammer.”

“Looks good,” I said awkwardly.

He grunted. “Better not look too good. I don’t want that bear girl starting to flirt with me next.”

That earned a louder laugh than anything Tormund had managed all morning.

There were moments, as we marched across Andalos, when I felt I was walking through a dream from some old Valyrian book.

Giants clad in spiked columns, mammoths laden with supplies instead of snow, and warriors from the far North marching side by side with knights and sellswords.

But none of it was stranger — or more baffling — than Archmaester Marwyn striding in the column like he’d been a war veteran all his life.

I spotted him atop a mule — a shaggy brown creature with a foul temper and surprisingly steady hooves.

Sarella Sand walked just ahead of him, hood thrown back and smiling, as she whispered to passing Freefolk children in their guttural tongue.

It was the Archmaester who drew my eye. His chain clanked with every step of the mule, and he was grinning, like he was marching to a feast rather than a war.

I couldn't help myself. “Archmaester… should you be here? I mean—” I hesitated. “This is… going to be a battlefield.”

He turned his head with a look of boyish excitement. “Exactly, lad! You think I’d pass up a chance to see mammoths in a battle not waged from atop a Wall of ice?”

He threw up a hand dramatically, nearly losing his balance. “Imagine it! No snow, no cold, no blasted wind turning your piss to frost midstream. Just grass, steel, blood, and the old songs brought roaring to life.”

I opened my mouth to ask another question, but he was already lost in his musings.

“Of course,” he continued, “the real curiosity lies in comparative anatomy. A Freefolk mammoth versus a Golden Company elephant—that’s a contest I’d wager on. No one has written properly on the difference. Are their tusks longer? Are mammoth bones denser? Could one crush the other with a sidestep, or would the elephant’s agility—”

He paused, squinting into the distance like he could already see the theoretical duel playing out in the hills.

“Weight-to-limb ratio… joint articulation… possibly even temperamental disposition! What if the mammoth’s war cries spook the elephants? Or what if the Essosi elephants have been trained to fear giants? I must start a ledger, yes…”

He began muttering calculations to himself, pulling out a thick piece of parchment from his satchel and scribbling with a quill that had likely never seen a battlefield in its life.

I took a quiet step backwards. Then another.

By the time he began to ponder whether mammoths felt remorse after a kill, I had slipped back into the marching column beside Meera and left him behind, still talking to himself, his mule plodding along dutifully.

We made our final halt as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in molten red and bruised purple. Fires were lit, tents raised, sentries posted.

The mammoths settled down with deep, rumbling groans, and the Giants huddled in quiet clusters, their huge shapes like hillocks against the dying light.

As for us, we gathered in the largest tent — the war tent — and I couldn’t help but think that this might be the strangest war council ever assembled in the known world.

There was no need for scouts or spies. Bran was everywhere. His crows flew far ahead, over every ridge and plain, their eyes his eyes, their wings his reach.

He sat at the head of the tent, pale and quiet, with that same distant look he always wore before speaking of things none of us could see. I sometimes wondered if he truly belonged to our world anymore.

Around him sat Jon and Ser Jaime. Jon leaned forward over the war map, the firelight catching on the black and red of his armour. Dark Sister lay beside him, as much a part of the council as any of us.

Jaime, gleaming in his Kingsguard plate, seemed carved of pale steel and purpose. I noticed he'd brought his silver lion helm but laid it to the side. It glinted beside The Blackfish, who stood as sharp and silent as ever, arms crossed, his grey hair damp from a quick wash and a tighter expression than usual.

Mya sat nearby, her warhammer propped against the tentpole, one boot resting on a stool like she was daring the war itself to step forward. Meera, calm and watchful as ever, stood near Bran, fingers wrapped around her bronze dagger, longbow slung across her shoulder.

I was there, too. Me — Samwell Tarly — wearing chainmail and sweat, hoping I wouldn’t be asked to pick a spot on the map or deliver bad news. But they had asked for me. They always did now.

Tormund Giantsbane sat cross-legged, looking half asleep and half amused, his hair still damp from a river-wash (or maybe that was wishful thinking).

Harma Dogshead, sharper in her new plate than any southern knight, leaned over the map with narrowed eyes, whispering something to Mance Rayder, who nodded slowly as if already hearing the horns of battle in the wind.

And then there was Mag the Mighty, peeking into the tent from outside, his huge shadow flickering against the canvas, his eyes glimmering like lanterns in the dusk. We didn’t have a tent big enough for a giant, but he was a part of this, more than most.

Near the fire outside, Ghost and Summer lounged together, their fur ruffled by the evening breeze, occasionally lifting their heads as if in silent agreement with whatever plans we made.

No ravens called. No couriers ran in. Bran was already telling us what lay ahead, even before the questions were asked.

We had no lord’s banners. No maesters. No highborn general in silks.

Just a crippled greenseer, a bastard prince, a disgraced knight, a wildling king, a handful of misfits, and a giant listening in through the flap of the tent.

And yet… we were an army.

Jon was the first to speak, his voice steady and low, cutting through the crackle of the campfire outside and the quiet breath of the tent.

“The Braavosi want us to send a message,” he said. “One clear enough to be heard across all of Essos.”

He didn’t raise his voice, but there was a cold finality in his tone that drew everyone’s attention. “Magister Hestare has flouted the Sealord’s will. He keeps slaves under other names—servants, bonded labour, lifelong oaths—but slaves all the same. And he flaunts them openly. Braavos wants him dealt with, not whispered away. Executed. Publicly.”

A few heads nodded. A few others turned to the table, where a freshly inked map had been laid out by Meera and one of Bran’s scribes. It was a detailed map of Pentos, not one of the sort you'd find in a maester’s book, but drawn from Bran’s own eyes—narrow streets, twisted alleys, high walls and tiled rooftops.

The Hestare manse was circled in red. A clean route through the city had been marked in charcoal — wide enough for the mammoths and giants, narrow enough to avoid the main squares.

Bran lifted a pale hand and reached out for a small chalkstone. He touched the edges of the manse carefully, placing markers with delicate precision.

“Guards on the western wall. Crossbows. Two sentries atop the watchtower. The inner courtyard has dogs. There’s a kill zone between the outer gate and the main hall. Half a company of the Golden Company is stationed inside — fifty men. Spears and bows.”

He reached out and marked a few more spots.

“A dozen more patrolling the quarter, disguised as Pentosi house guards. But they wear the sun-and-sword on their inner cloaks. I saw it.”

The Blackfish let out a grunt. “A manse isn’t a castle. It's a glorified palace. Tall walls, no proper moat, no battlements. It won’t take siege engines. It won’t need them.”

Jaime nodded, arms folded. “We shouldn’t be laying siege anyway. The longer this takes, the worse it gets. Hestare’s not the only magister with a coin and guards. If word spreads too quickly, the other nobles might band together — and we’re not here to fight Pentos.”

There were nods around the table.

Tormund shrugged. “So we go in, smash through the gates, and chop off the fucker’s head?”

“No,” Jon said. “We march straight to the manse, under moonlight. No looting. No skirmishes. We avoid the squares, stick to Bran’s path, and when we reach the manse, we surround it. Quickly. No time for them to call for help.”

“And then?” Harma asked, drumming her fingers on the hilt of her axe.

“Then we break through. Fast and hard.”

Meera leaned forward. “And what about a parley? Will they yield?”

I found myself asking the same question. And I was the one to say it aloud.

“Will there be a parley?”

Jon met my eyes. He looked tired, but calm. “There’s no need. Hestare won’t surrender. And the Golden Company… they take pride in never breaking a contract. No matter who they fight. Even if they know they’ll lose.”

There was a silence in the tent, filled only by the low growl of Ghost and the distant hoot of an owl.

Then Mya cracked her knuckles. “Good. I hate when they beg first.”

A few chuckles rolled around the council, but I didn’t join in.

Because I remembered what the Golden Company was. Exiles, swords for hire, but once… once they were dragons too.

And some debts, I thought, glancing at Bran, don’t die easily.

Suddenly, a deep rumble shook the tent walls. Not thunder, not mammoth feet — but a booming sound, like a drum in a cavern.

It came from Mag the Mighty, still peering in through the flap of the tent, his massive face haloed by the firelight outside.

Everyone turned.

Tormund grinned, arms crossed over his chest. “He’s asking about the elephants,” he said. “Says if we’re going up against the famed beasts of Essos, we’d best know where they stand… and where he’ll stand to crush them.”

There was a brief moment of silence. Then Bran spoke, his voice dry.

“The elephants are stationed at the main gate of the Hestare manse. Four of them, by his stables and inner yard. That’s their strongest line of defence — they’ll want to stop any breach there.”

He touched the edge of the map with a thin finger. “So that’s where we send the Giants. And the Mammoths. Straight down the wide road, under cover of night. We can’t use stealth with them — but we can use force. They’ll break the gate.”

Mag let out a low rumble again, a pleased one, by the sound of it.

Jaime glanced at Jon. “Then we strike in waves?”

Jon nodded. “Exactly. Mammoths and Giants will take the vanguard and push through the gate. The Freefolk axemen follow — Harma and Tormund, your fighters will strike next. The bulk of the Forgotten Sons comes in behind them.”

Mya leaned over the table, tapping a side street with her gauntlet. “I’ll take the Heavy Infantry down the eastern alley. If the gate is slow to fall, we’ll strike from the side. Meera’s bowmen will cover us from the rooftops — I’ve marked three good vantage points.”

Bran added, “I’ll keep watch through the crows. If anything changes — reinforcements, fires, traps — I’ll signal with the ravens.”

“And the elephants?” the Hound grunted.

“Let the Giants deal with them,” Tormund said, chuckling. “You’ve never seen a mammoth angry at a tusk-rival. It’s a thing of beauty.”

There were murmurs of grim approval, and even I found myself nodding. I had never seen elephants fight, nor mammoths in battle — only drawings in old books. But now I would see it with my own eyes.

Jon turned to Jaime. “You’ll ride with the rearguard and the standard — if we’re flanked, we’ll need your command. Sam, you’ll stay behind with the supply train and record what you can. Bran needs someone watching from above. And I’d rather not lose both of you.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but stopped. I wasn’t a knight. I wasn’t a warrior. And truth be told… I was relieved. Not for my safety — but because someone needed to write this. Someone needed to remember what we did.

Because after tonight, the world would know who we were.

The Forgotten Sons were about to remind the world they had not been forgotten at all.

Jon leaned over the map again, eyes narrowing at the route marked in charcoal.

He said, turning to the Blackfish, "I want you to lead the cavalry with the Giants and Mammoths in the vanguard. The charge needs discipline and weight both, and no one commands horsemen better."

Ser Brynden Tully nodded once, the candlelight glinting off his weathered features. "Aye. I'll ride with them." His tone was calm, practical — as though he were agreeing to oversee a river crossing, not charge alongside monsters out of legend.

Jon glanced across the table at Sandor Clegane.

"That leaves you in command of the main host, Sandor. You’ll bring in the rest of the Forgotten Sons after the breach. Keep them moving, keep them ruthless."

The Hound gave a grunt that might have been assent — or just indigestion — and drained half his waterskin.

Then Bran raised his hand.

"There’s one more thing."

He reached across the table, his leather-wrapped fingers dragging the map slightly, until he pointed to a small, faintly drawn tunnel etched near the port. "Here. The manse is connected to the city sewers. There's a gutter that empties into the harbour just past the fish market. It's narrow, but not too narrow for one man... or a small boat."

"An escape route," Jaime said, frowning.

Bran nodded. "If Hestare sees the tide turning, he may try to slip out through there. It would be wise to guard it — both to stop him, and to prevent any mess the Golden Company might try from the sea."

Jon looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked,

"Will you handle it?"

Bran’s pale eyes turned toward me, then back to Jon. "Yes. I’ll take Sam, Ghost, and Summer. We'll be waiting at the gutter's mouth. If Hestare tries to run... he won’t get far."
I blinked. "Me?" I asked, voice rising slightly. I could still hear the clash of steel from earlier drills and see the glint of fresh-forged axes. "Why me?"

Bran answered calmly. "Because you’ll know what to look for. And I’ll need your sword if things go wrong."

I wasn't sure whether to feel honoured or terrified. Possibly both.

Ghost, sprawled near the fire, raised his head at the sound of his name and yawned, flashing fangs as long as carving knives. Summer flicked his ears lazily, but I could sense the tension in both direwolves.

The fire crackled between us, casting long shadows against the canvas walls. Outside, the camp was settling — sharpening weapons, whispering prayers, braiding hair, oiling saddles. But here in the tent, everything felt still. Decided.

Jon placed both hands flat on the table.

"Then it’s settled. We strike at midnight."

As the council began to break apart, I found myself looking at the map once more — the manse, the alleyways, the port. I thought of the Braavosi page who said this was only an opportunity, not an order.

But the Forgotten Sons had never needed orders.

They only needed a cause.

And tonight, we were about to show the world that even those cast aside by fate… could turn the tide of history.

The Forgotten Sons stood in formation beneath a pale sky, just outside the eastern walls of Pentos. The city shimmered in the moonlight like a jewel about to be broken open — its towers and domes silent, unaware of what approached in the darkness.

The air was tense, quiet.

"If I hear a single fucking battle cry before we reach the manse," the Hound growled from atop his destrier, "I'll find the man and shove my whole fist down his throat. Then I’ll make him swallow it."

Some of the Freefolk chuckled. No one doubted he meant it.

I walked among the ranks, trying to stay out of the way but failing miserably at calming my nerves. The Blackfish rode slowly past the cavalry lines, his sharp eyes taking in every buckle and strap, checking every flank.

The cavalry was made up of a motley host — some veterans, some green recruits, and many former knights whose banners had long since been torn down or burned. I spotted a knight in silver-and-green — a Hightower, by the sigil on his tabard. Another wore bronze discs across his chest: a Royce. And one, pale-faced and sweating under his helm, bore the twin blue towers of House Frey.

It struck me that whatever they once were, these men were Forgotten Sons now — another patch sewn into the quilt of this strange army.

Nearby, the giants stood in a solemn row, adjusting their great tree-trunk weapons wrapped in steel bands. Mammoths huffed and shifted beside them, snorting clouds of hot air. All the supplies tied to their backs had been removed. They were here for war, not burden. Armour and leather straps creaked as the giants made last checks — as serious and methodical as smiths at their forge.

Mance and Jon moved through the Freefolk ranks, exchanging words with Tormund and Harma. Tormund was grinning, confident, axe slung across his shoulder. Harma looked like a she-bear ready to tear through stone. Jon pointed to the manse’s position on a drawn map, his voice low and firm as he explained their marching order, their route, their moment to strike.

On the other side of the lines, Meera Reed stood surrounded by archers, a map unfurled across a supply crate. Her finger tapped points of elevation: rooftops, balconies, bell towers. Sam noticed a man in black and red among them — a Blackwood, by the weirwood tree stitched into his cloak. He was adjusting the fletching on a long ashwood bow.

Mya Stone sat with the Heavy Infantry, a towering presence in her studded blue armour, her warhammer across her lap. She was speaking to a cluster of burly Freefolk and heavily armoured Westerosi — men wielding axes the size of dinner tables and hammers that cracked bones with a glance. She showed them a rough sketch of the eastern wall of the Hestare Manse, pointing out a gate they were to batter down on her signal.

And at the rear, Ser Jaime Lannister stood like a statue of silver and gold, calmly checking his horse’s reins, his helm hooked to his saddle. Sam watched him for a long moment. Calm, unshaken, half-listening as a Forgotten Sons officer asked for final orders. It was as if he were simply returning to court after a hunt.

"He’s like a rock," I thought. "Everything else has changed — even me — but Ser Jaime is always Ser Jaime. Always the Silver Lion."

Finally, as the last preparations were checked and double-checked, I found Bran sitting on a low stool beside the fire, his hands resting on the polished weirwood of his walking stick. Around him, Ghost and Summer rolled in the grass like pups, swiping at each other’s tails.

I stood beside him for a moment in silence.

"Ready?" I asked.

Bran didn’t smile, but his voice was steady. "The crows are watching. We’ll be ready."

I exhaled slowly. Tonight, we were forgotten — all of us. But tomorrow… the world might remember.

The attack began without horns, without cries, without thunder. No banners were raised. No drums beat.

The gates of Pentos, still manned by Braavosi sentries, opened without question. To the guards, it was simply a company of Braavosi allies returning from a march. The city slumbered on, oblivious.

The Forgotten Sons passed through in silence. No metal clanged, no hooves rang. The giants walked barefoot, their steps soft as falling snow. The mammoths made no sound but breath.

As we reached the city streets, narrow and twisting under the moonlight, Bran I and the two direwolves slipped away, diverging through a shaded alley toward the harbour.

“You’re going to miss it,” I whispered.

“No,” Bran replied softly, hand resting on Summer’s flank. “I’ll see everything. The crows are with them. So am I.”

And then we were gone, melted into the shadows, Ghost and Summer padding behind us.

The following was compiled from various accounts of the Battle of the Manse.

The columns moved like a shadow down the cobbled avenues. Pentos was beautiful at night — domes glinting under starlight, lanterns swaying from balconies, laughter drifting from high-windowed villas. But beneath it, the city was a tangle of secrets.

The Golden Company had taken root here like a weed with golden petals, and the man they guarded — Magister Hestare — was a thorn the Braavosi wanted plucked.

As we neared the Hestare Manse, the air grew taut.

Narrow streets. Richer houses. Fewer lights.

A patrol of four Golden Company men appeared — bright gold cloaks, tiger-striped surcoats — rounding a corner with careless ease. They had no time to react.

From the rooftops, silent arrows flew. Each man collapsed without a sound — Meera’s archers vanishing into the shadows above as quickly as they had appeared.

Not one soul in Pentos cried out.

Moments later, the Hestare Manse came into view- Tall black marble walls. Gold and green glass windows. Brazen doors hammered with a pentagram of seven coins. Elephants — grand beasts clad in ornate leather barding — stood guard at the front gate.

Mya Stone’s warhammer rose in the moonlight. She turned to her heavy infantry, nodded once, then diverged right, leading the charge toward the eastern gate.

The battle had not yet begun. But the storm had entered the city, quiet as breath.

The Forgotten Sons encircled the Hestare Manse like a noose of shadow and steel. From alley to rooftop, from elephant-flanked gate to eastern wall, they took their positions in total silence. No one sounded a horn. No one raised a banner.

Jon stood at the centre of it all, Dark Sister at his hip, his grey cloak stirring lightly in the wind. He raised a Braavosi looking glass to his eye, peering into the Manse courtyard. The high walls blocked much, but the light from its great windows betrayed them.

The Golden Company was feasting.

Dozens of men sat at long tables, golden cloaks and polished helms glinting. Roasted fowl, jugs of wine, plates piled high. The false peace of men who believed themselves untouchable.

Jon lowered the glass, reached for the warhorn slung at his side, and brought it to his lips. His lungs filled. He was a breath away from declaring war—

“Aegon!”

The name rose from the laughter within, clear as steel on stone.

Jon froze.

He remembered another Aegon — not this one. Prince Aegon Targaryen, his half-brother. Son of King Rhaegar and Princess Elia. A boy groomed in pride, cloaked in entitlement, skilled with a harp and cruel with words. He remembered that face — that smug, princely sneer. He remembered the Training Grounds at King’s Landing. The insult Aegon had thrown at Lyanna Stark’s name.

He remembered the sound his fist had made against his half-brother’s face.

The crack. The blood.

The crunch of cartilage.

The warhorn trembled in his hand.

He raised the glass again.

This was not the same Aegon.

The man standing in the centre of the feast was different from how he remembered Aegon — his age, perhaps a year older. Hair like moonlight. Eyes like molten amethyst. A Valyrian face, sharp and haughty.

But not a Targaryen.

Not the son of Rhaegar.

Jon’s gaze drifted lower — to the armour. Golden like the rest, but the chestplate was different.

A Black Dragon had been worked into its centre, wings outstretched in defiance.

And then he saw the sword.

Longer than most. A bastard sword, forged of Valyrian steel. The hilt was golden, the pommel a blood-red ruby, the crossguard flared into dragon heads.

The blade was a legend.

Blackfyre.

And the man who carried it, who bore the sigil and wore the sword like birthright—

He was Blackfyre.

Heir of Daemon Blackfyre, the old pretender. The Black Dragon come again.

Jon lowered the glass. The wind brushed his hair back. His heart beat once, twice — loud in the stillness.

He turned to Jaime and whispered, “We’re going to announce ourselves. Ask for a parley.”

Jaime blinked. “What?” His voice was low but sharp. “Why the fuck would we do that?”

Jon didn’t answer right away. He looked again at the golden light spilling from the Manse windows, at the elephant shapes in shadow, at the swords waiting to be drawn.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice like stone. “But it seems like the right thing to do.”

Jon stepped forward with his hands raised, palms open in the firelight, Dark Sister still sheathed at his hip. Jaime followed a pace behind, silver armour glinting under the moons, white cloak trailing like a shadow of old vows.

The rest of the Forgotten Sons remained hidden in the alleys and rooftops, crossbows drawn and hearts pounding, waiting.

As Jon and Jaime emerged into the torch-lit courtyard, the camp erupted into shouts. Golden Company guards leapt to their feet, crossbows raised, blades drawn, startled men scrambling from their benches and chairs.

“We come to parley!” Jon called, his voice clear.

“With Aegon Blackfyre.”

The words hit like a thunderclap.

For a heartbeat, the courtyard froze. Then—

“Stand down!” came a voice from within the tented pavilion.

Reluctantly, the crossbows lowered. Tension bled from drawn strings into tight grips and wary glances. An older man strode from the shadows — pale beard, golden armour, a sword sheathed in a lion-embossed scabbard.

“That is Prince Aegon Blackfyre to you,” the old knight said, voice heavy with disdain.

Jon didn’t blink.

“As long as the Red Dragon flies over King’s Landing,” he said, “he’s no prince.”

That earned him narrowed eyes and muttered curses. But another figure now emerged from the pavilion — the man with silver hair and violet eyes, gold and black armour tight to his frame, the Black Dragon sigil spread across his chest like wings ready to strike.

Aegon Blackfyre.

He looked at Jon with something between curiosity and calculation. But when his eyes landed on Jaime, his calm expression cracked. His lips twisted. His hand clenched.

“What do you want?” he asked coldly.

Jon didn’t hesitate. “Magister Hestare. If you hand him over, we’ll leave in peace.”

The Golden Company erupted with laughter, harsh and mocking.

“You’ll leave in pieces,” one man barked.

But Aegon didn’t laugh. His eyes still burned on Jaime.

“You want Hestare?” he said.

“Give me him—” he pointed straight at Jaime — “and I’ll hand him over.”

Jon frowned. “Why?”

Aegon’s eyes flashed.

“Because he killed my uncle.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow, more confused than concerned.

“I’ve killed many,” he said lightly. “But I don’t recall killing a Blackfyre.”

Aegon’s voice rose. “Varys! His name was Varys Blackfyre! You tore him from hip to shoulder!”

Jaime blinked. Then barked a laugh.

“That cockless rat was your uncle? Gods. I’ve done you a favour, boy. That eunuch was nothing but trouble.”

The camp went silent.

Aegon’s face darkened. His hand went to the hilt of Blackfyre, and he drew the blade in a smooth motion. Valyrian steel shimmered darkly in the firelight, a shadow that drank the glow.
“You dare disrespect my uncle to my face?” he hissed.

“I’ll kill you where you stand.”

The old knight moved to intervene, but Aegon raised a hand to halt him.

“I want a duel.” He turned his eyes on Jon. “Let your knight fight me. Win or lose, I’ll give you Hestare.”

Jaime stepped forward, already loosening his cloak, fingers brushing his sword hilt.

“Gladly,” he said, grinning. “It’s been a while since I shut a boy’s mouth.”

“No,” Jon said sharply.

Jaime turned, startled.

“What?”

“No.” Jon looked to Aegon. “You want a duel? You’ll fight me.”

Jaime’s expression darkened.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?”

Jon didn’t look away from Aegon.

“You’re Kingsguard, Ser Jaime. Only the King can command you to fight. And he’s not your king.”

Aegon’s lips curled.

“And who are you, then?”

“Jaehaerys Targaryen,” Jon said softly.

“I accept your challenge.”

Aegon considered him for a moment — this boy cloaked in grey, with Stark in his blood and Dark Sister at his belt.

He nodded.

“If I win, I take both of you. If you win... You get Hestare. And we part ways.”

Jon drew Dark Sister.

The blade hissed free, long and slender and deadly, Valyrian steel like black water in the moonlight.

A circle formed around them — Golden Company men pressing in, torches raised, armour clinking, laughter and wine forgotten.

Black Dragon faced Red. Blackfyre met Dark Sister.

And somewhere beneath the laughter, beneath the golden armour and polished steel...

Old blood began to stir.

The following is taken from the accounts of Ser Jaime Lannister:

Ser Jaime watched Jon take his place in the circle and thought:

He’s lost his fucking mind.

First, he halts the assault for a parley. Then he challenges a swordsman trained to wield Blackfyre like it was forged for his hand.

And now here he was, standing in a torch-lit circle of sellswords and exiles, facing down a prince of a dead dynasty.

Did the boy get kicked in the head this morning?

Jon stepped lightly, Dark Sister gleaming in his grip.

Jaime knew the blade — he’d studied it long ago, marvelled at its legacy, and felt the shadow of its edge every time a bard sang of Visenya Targaryen. It was a sword that wanted speed, grace, and cold calculation.

Jon had two of the three.

Good, he thought. But not great. Not yet.

He watched Jon circle Aegon Blackfyre. Jon’s grip was firm but not fluid, the balance still slightly off. He moved like a knight who had learned to fight with heavier swords — not the whisper-thin bite of Valyrian steel like this. It didn’t move with him yet. It obeyed, but it didn’t sing.

Aegon’s sword sang.

Blackfyre rested in his hands like it belonged there — like it had always belonged there. The boy moved like a dancer, not a soldier.

Every turn of his wrist, every slide of his feet, had been taught long ago and drilled into muscle and bone. He had grown up with that sword. You could tell.

And that worried him more than he cared to admit.

Why did he do this? He thought my knuckles were whitening on my sword hilt. Why risk himself for me? I don’t need his saving, I don’t deserve his saving.

But the duel had begun.

Aegon struck first — quick, sharp blows that rang off Dark Sister’s edge. Jon parried, barely. His footwork was steady, but every time he looked to counter, Aegon was already two moves ahead. The Blackfyre boy pressed him harder and harder, carving angles with the sword like a calligrapher with a quill.

Jon didn’t land a single clean hit.

It was all he could do to keep standing.

Jaime muttered under his breath.

He’s going to lose.

Aegon’s next blow knocked Jon’s guard wide. Another sliced across Jon’s arm — a clean red line, the next across his thigh. Then a brutal kick to the chest, and Jon was flat on his back, Dark Sister half-loose in his grip, breath gone.

Aegon raised Blackfyre above his head, two hands on the hilt. The firelight glinted on the ruby pommel, like a second red sun.

Jaime stepped forward.

“No—!”

But it was too late.

Aegon brought the sword down.

And then—

Thunk.

Not the sound of Valyrian steel biting into flesh.

It was the sound of wood and steel sinking into flesh from afar. Followed by a choking, wet wheeze.

The courtyard went still.

Aegon Blackfyre’s arms trembled. The sword slipped from his hands and fell near Jon’s head with a dull clatter.

An arrow was lodged in his throat.

He clutched at it, fingers slick with blood, eyes wide in disbelief. He staggered, tried to say something, and only gurgled blood instead.

Then he collapsed, face-first, unmoving.

For a moment, no one breathed.

Jaime’s eyes darted upward. On a rooftop across the courtyard, I saw a slim figure lowering a bow. Notched with red fletching, unmistakable.

Meera Reed.

And that was no ordinary arrow. That was Bloodraven’s bow.

My lip curled in a crooked smile.

The bow that felled the first Blackfyre… has now felled the last.

The Golden Company was still frozen, stunned.

I turned, his sword already in hand, voice rising above the stillness.

“What are you waiting for?” he roared to the shadows, to the soldiers hidden in alleys and windows.

“Gut the Golden sons of bitches!”

And with a deafening howl, the Forgotten Sons poured out of the dark — swords flashing, war cries thundering, ghosts and giants and Freefolk crashing down like a storm on gold-clad prey.

The battle had begun.

The Golden Company never saw it coming.

Steel boots burst from alleys, axes smashed down doors, and arrows flew from windows and rooftops.

The Forgotten Sons poured out of the city’s shadows like ghosts from the grave — Freefolk screaming war cries in the Old Tongue, Westerosi knights bellowing in common, and behind them came the thunder of mammoths and the roar of giants.

All plans were forgotten.

There was no vanguard, no precise flanking manoeuvre, no midnight silence, only steel, blood, and rage.

Jaime knelt beside Jon, shaking him once by the shoulders, then again. Jon blinked like a man waking from a dream.

“Jon!”

Nothing.

Jaime slapped him.

That did it.

Jon gasped, sucking in a breath like he’d just surfaced from drowning. His eyes darted around — to Aegon’s body, to Blackfyre lying cold beside it, and then to Dark Sister, gleaming beside his hand.

“Fight,” Jaime growled, pressing the slender blade into Jon’s palm. “You want to die, do it later. Right now, we need to kill some golden bastards.”

Jon stood, nodding stiffly. He held Dark Sister once more.

Jaime sheathed Blackfyre on his belt — for safekeeping, not sentiment — and drew his old sword, still sharp, still true. Together, the silver lion and the wolf-turned-dragon ran back into the fire.

All across Pentos, the city shook.

A giant roared as he brought down his tree-trunk club, and a dozen Golden Company men vanished beneath it, crushed into the stone like wine grapes underfoot.

Not far off, a mammoth thundered into an armoured elephant, tusks splintering wood and iron. The elephant squealed, goring the mammoth’s side, but a second giant came from behind and punched the beast straight in the jaw. The elephant collapsed, twitching.

The Hound bellowed curses as he hacked through enemy ranks with a long sword, blood running down one side of his face.

“Come on, you golden pricks!” he screamed. “Come die!”

Every time he swung, a man died.

The Blackfish’s cavalry came crashing through the southern streets, mounted knights in Westerosi colours, their banners swallowed in the smoke.

They rode as one, hooves pounding, crashing into the Golden Company’s shield wall, spears breaking, lances impaling, horses leaping over bodies. The veterans of exile tried to hold their line, but the thunder of hooves shattered it like rotten wood.

Somewhere in the chaos, Meera Reed and her archers rained death from rooftops, their vantage points chosen with precision.

Mya Stone fought at the head of the Heavy Infantry, a Warhammer in her hand, Freefolk warriors and armoured men behind her, breaking through the eastern gate of the Hestare manse. They tore down the gilded doors like paper and stormed into the inner halls.

Mance Rayder, blade flashing, weaved through street skirmishes with a grace that didn’t match his age. Tormund fought like a wild bull, laughing and roaring beside him, his red beard soaked in blood.

The manse had become a slaughterhouse.

The Golden Company’s resistance faltered at the gates, broke in the halls, and collapsed in the marble courtyards. Their famed discipline had crumbled once Aegon Blackfyre fell.

Mya Stone and the Heavy Infantry took the eastern wing first, battering down doors with hammers and axes, fighting room by room. Meera’s archers had joined them now, switching to short blades and daggers, stalking the hallways like ghosts.

But Magister Hestare was not there.

They found his chambers — luxurious, grotesque in their wealth. The air still smelled of spiced wine and burnt cinnamonwood. The sheets on his wide bed were rumpled, still warm to the touch. The fire had not gone cold.

“He was here,” said Mya grimly, wiping blood from her brow. “Moments ago.”

Tormund cursed in the Old Tongue. “Cowards always run,” he spat.

The hunt began — room to room, cellar to cellar — but there was no sign of the Magister.

Down at the harbour, the wind had shifted.

I, Sam, stood beside Bran, who still sat pale and still beneath the broken arch of the sewer outlet. Ghost and Summer lay at his feet, ears perked, eyes bright.

I clutched my sword, though I knew it wouldn’t do much good. The smell of the harbour was rank — salt, sewage, and blood. Fires crackled somewhere far behind us in the city.

Bran stirred.

“He’s coming,” he said.

I blinked. “Hestare?”

Bran didn’t answer — his voice was distant, the voice of someone half-dreaming. He tilted his head to one side, lips barely moving.

“He’s in the tunnel. He’s running. He’s afraid.”

Ghost growled softly. Summer stood.

My heart hammered as I stepped forward, peering into the darkness of the sewer gate.

Footsteps. Splashing. Ragged breath. A glint of silk in the gloom.

And then — a man emerged.

Cloaked in black, heavy with sweat, his silken robes torn and muddied. Magister Tychano Hestare — once the pride of Pentos, now a rat flushed from his den.

He saw the direwolves first — and froze.

Then he saw me.

Then he saw Bran.

And then he ran.

But not far.

Summer came first. The great grey direwolf moved like a shadow with teeth. He leapt clean over the Magister’s head and landed before him, teeth bared, hackles high, a low growl rumbling in his throat.

Hestare froze.

Then came Ghost. White as snow, silent as death, he sailed over the Magister from behind and landed atop him with a thud that knocked the air from his lungs.

Hestare collapsed into the wet mud, face-first, choking on filth and fear. He rolled over, gasping, and found himself staring up into two sets of red and gold eyes. Summer snarled. Ghost bared his fangs.

He didn’t scream. He didn’t move. He dared not.

Bran hobbled forward from the shadows, slow but sure, leaning heavily on his staff.

“Magister,” he said, voice calm as cool water. “It’s best if you don’t make any sudden moves.”

He paused, letting the words hang in the fog.

“The direwolves,” Bran added, “don’t listen much to reason.”

I had been holding his sword so tightly, my hand had gone numb. I looked at the shining blade, then back at the man curled at the wolves’ feet, caked in muck and terror.

“It seems you didn’t need that sword after all, Sam,” Bran murmured, glancing at him. “Would you be kind enough to shackle this man, so we can take him back to his manse?”

I blinked, then fumbled with the iron manacles we had brought. My hands shook as I knelt and fastened them around Hestare’s wrists. The Magister didn’t resist. He only breathed heavily, eyes wide and locked on the direwolves.

Ghost licked his chops. Summer growled again, low and menacing.

“Up you get,” I said, standing. “Time to go home.”

Hestare said nothing.

Ghost and Summer flanked me as we began the slow walk back into Pentos — back to a city on fire, and a reckoning waiting behind golden walls.

The manse looked like it had been swallowed and spat out by a giant.

It's great bronze gates hung open and twisted. The marble courtyard was slick with blood and strewn with broken weapons, splintered shields, and limbs—some armoured, some not.

The stone walls were scorched in places, and arrows still jutted from the balconies and upper walkways like ugly iron thorns.

Sam blinked, stunned. This had been a place of wealth and power and pride. Now it was a ruin.

He walked slowly through the wreckage.

Freefolk warriors — some wounded, some cheering, others looting — were pulling the golden armbands from the dead Golden Company soldiers. Some weren’t even dead yet, just unconscious or moaning, but the armbands came off all the same.

Near the edge of the square, two giants crouched over a mammoth, murmuring to it in their booming tongue while they pulled a broken javelin from its flank. The mammoth grunted in pain, then pressed its massive head against one of the giants like a child seeking comfort.

My eyes darted past them to the stairs, and there I saw Jon sitting on a shattered wooden crate, his shirt torn and bloodied, his hair damp with sweat. Archmaester Marwyn stood beside him, grumbling and muttering as he dabbed ointment on Jon’s shoulder.

And nearby, leaning against the balustrade like he was out for an afternoon stroll, was Jaime Lannister.

In his hand, glinting black and red in the blood-soaked light, was a sword.

I froze.

It was not just any sword.

“Is that…?” he started, stepping forward, blinking. “What the hell happened here? And where did you get that?” he pointed directly at the Valyrian steel in Jaime’s hand.

Jaime turned, tossed a blood-streaked cloth onto the balustrade, and gave Sam a tired smirk. “Oh, this? We met Aegon Blackfyre.” He tossed the sword up slightly and caught it by the hilt. “Charming boy. Wanted my head.”

“He nearly got Jon’s instead,” Marwyn muttered, without looking up from his work.

Sam’s jaw fell open. “Aegon Blackfyre? The Aegon Blackfyre?”

“One and the same,” Jaime replied, then nodded to Jon. “Would’ve cleaved him in two if someone hadn’t—”

“And then I killed him,” came Meera’s voice behind them. She was still in her battle leathers, her bow slung over her shoulder, a smear of blood across one cheek and no remorse in her eyes. “Arrow in his throat.”

Jon looked up and gave her the barest nod.

Then, to Sam’s surprise, Bran laughed.

It wasn’t a cruel laugh. Not quite. But it wasn’t warm, either. It was the sound of something old and satisfied.

“So the usurper’s line is done for,” Bran said, his strange eyes shining. “Good.”

I stared at him. It wasn’t what Bran said that startled me, but the certainty. The ease. I wondered if Bran had known all along. If he’d seen it in a dream, or the fire, or the ravens.
Bran turned and walked toward one of the tents that had once been the Golden Company’s command post. He returned carrying a long iron spear, nearly his height, the shaft blackened with age. Skulls hung from it, gold-plated and grinning—dozens of them—mounted like grim trophies. At the top, there was one larger than the rest, polished and gleaming.

“That’s…” Sam swallowed. “Is that Bittersteel’s skull?”

Bran nodded. “They carried this into every battle. The skulls of every captain who came before. I’m taking it with me.” He gave the spear a final look. “A memento.” I didn’t ask of what.

Behind me, a trumpet of another kind echoed across the courtyard.

I turned to see three elephants, bloodied but alive, being led by Freefolk and Giants toward the old stables, which had been cleared and hastily turned into makeshift enclosures.

I raised an eyebrow. “What are we going to do with those?”

“Keep ’em,” came Tormund’s voice, striding past him with a grin. “The giants’ve taken a fancy to the big grey beasts. Say they’re like hairy brothers with longer noses. Never seen Mag look so smitten.”

One of the elephants let out a loud, trumpeting snort. The nearby giant laughed and gave it a pat that would have flattened a man.

I shook my head. This war, I thought, had a strange sense of humour.

As the courtyard began to still, the groans of the wounded fading into silence, Jon rose from the crate, his face pale, jaw clenched.

“We need to decide what to do next,” he said, glancing at Jaime, who had just sheathed his old longsword and still had Blackfyre strapped across his belt.

“We’ve taken the manse,” Jaime said. “Hestare is shackled, the Golden Company’s scattered, and the Braavosi will be here by sunset, tomorrow. I say we take the day to lick our wounds, then march out before we start stinking like the dead.”

Jon didn’t smile. “We can’t leave just yet.”

But before he could say more, Bran’s voice cut in from the steps of the ruined balcony.

“There’s one more place we need to go.”

They all turned to look at him.

Bran was leaning heavily on his carved staff, his eyes as calm as glassy ice.

“Where?” Jon asked.

Bran turned his gaze toward the north wing of the estate — the one untouched by fire or battle, its walls still clean and curtains unruffled.

“The offices of the Golden Company,” Bran said. “The late Aegon Blackfyre kept something there. Something close to his heart.”

Jaime scoffed. “What? A diary?”

Bran didn’t blink. “I don’t know exactly what it is. Might be treasure. Might be a letter. Might be something else. But it’s not gold or jewels—it’s more important than that.”

“More important than gold?” I muttered, glancing from Bran to Jon. “That’s not something men like him usually care about.”

Bran ignored the remark. “The manse is abandoned now. The Golden Company remnants ran when their commander fell. We won’t get another chance to look.”

Jon nodded slowly. He looked tired—older than he had that morning—but his eyes still held that grim steel. “Then we look.”

Jaime shook his head, muttering something about ghost-chasing, but he fell into step all the same.

As they turned to go, I followed close behind, glancing once at Ghost and Summer, who padded silently after Bran like twin white shadows.

Behind us, the broken manse whispered in the wind, and the Golden Banner of Skulls swayed above, no longer a symbol of fear, but of something finished.

Whatever waited in that office, I thought, it wasn’t just paper and ink. Not if Bran was leading the way.

The offices of the Golden Company were a cold disappointment at first.

They moved quietly through Aegon Blackfyre’s chambers, a place that looked more like the cell of a monk than the den of a warlord. A narrow bed, perfectly made. Shelves of ledgers and half-burned scrolls. A few silken cloaks hanging from iron hooks. Gold coins scattered in a box, likely bribes or stipends from across the Free Cities.

There was a dagger in a jewelled scabbard on the desk — fine Dornish steel by Sam’s guess, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Jaime cursed under his breath. “We came here for a pile of parchment and a vanity knife?”

Bran said nothing, but his face was drawn. Even Ghost, lounging at the door, looked underwhelmed.

They turned to leave.

But then Jon stopped, his eyes narrowing at the empty fireplace.

“There,” he said softly, pointing upward, a few feet above the blackened mantle. “Behind that stone.”

“What?” Jaime asked, squinting. “There’s nothing—”

“Mya,” Jon said, “hit the wall.”

Mya cracked her knuckles, grinning. “You don’t have to tell me twice to hit something.”

She hefted her great warhammer, braced herself, and swung with a crash that shook the chimney. The wall split with a groan of stone, and something heavy thudded behind the soot-caked grate.

A metallic chest, long and narrow, tumbled down the chimney into the cold hearth. It was caked in ash, its lock blackened by fire.

Jon stepped forward, knelt, and without a word smashed the lock off with the pommel of Dark Sister. The latch broke free with a sharp snap.

He opened the lid.

A hush fell.

Inside were three large, scaled objects, each roughly the size of a human head, their surfaces ridged like old armour.

One was black as obsidian, streaked with deep red swirls. Another was green, with bronze glints curling along its shell like veins of fire. The third was pale cream, dusted with pearlescent white.

They weren’t shaped like weapons. Nor gold. Nor gems.

But they were alive. I could feel it. Or maybe he just imagined it.

“What is that?” Jon asked, voice low.

Suddenly, Marwyn elbowed past Sam, nearly knocking him over.

“Move, boy. Let me look at those.” His eyes were wide, gleaming. He crouched over the chest, trembling with excitement.

He reached out one heavy, callused hand and stroked the shell of the black one reverently.

“Dragon eggs,” Marwyn whispered, breath catching. “By all the hells and heavens… these are dragon eggs.”

I gasped.

“Dragon eggs?” Jon repeated, more to himself than anyone.

“Those are definitely more important than gold,” Sam muttered.

Jaime let out a low whistle. “One of those could buy a city,” he said.

Jon didn’t laugh. He stared at the eggs, and then, quietly, he said:

“I can feel them.”

They all looked at him.

“Like Ghost,” Jon said. “Not a voice, not a mind… but a weight. A pull.” He placed his hand lightly on the black-and-red egg. “They're not dead.”

Bran’s expression was unreadable. For a moment, Sam could almost swear he looked relieved.

Marwyn stood slowly, his hands still shaking.

“The blood remembers,” he said, more to himself than anyone. “Blackfyre kept these close because he knew what they were. He just didn’t know how to wake them.”

“Do you?” Jaime asked.

Marwyn grinned. “No one knows for sure. But if there’s anyone who might… It’s standing right here.”

His eyes flicked meaningfully to Jon.

And Sam, staring into the chest, could feel the weight of history stirring.

The awe didn’t fade when the chest of dragon eggs was closed. If anything, it deepened.

Jon didn’t speak, not right away. He simply stared at the sealed chest, as if trying to decide whether what he had just seen was a blessing, a burden, or both.

Jaime broke the silence.

He unhooked Blackfyre from his belt, holding it out by the scabbard.

The sword gleamed despite the soot and blood on his armour — Valyrian steel, thick-bladed and powerful, with a golden hilt shaped into twin dragon heads, and a large red ruby glowing like a captured fire in the pommel.

“This belongs to you,” Jaime said. “The sword of House Targaryen doesn’t belong with a Lannister.”

Jon looked at the weapon but hesitated.

His hand went instead to his belt, drawing Dark Sister, the sword he had carried through snowstorms, dead cities and wildling camps. The slender Valyrian blade shimmered in the low firelight.

He looked at it — not with pride, but with something more like regret.

Then, quietly, he spoke:

“The sword will serve you well, for a time. Yours is still waiting.”

I blinked. I’d heard those words before — or maybe I hadn’t, but Jon had. They came with weight, as if spoken long ago by someone who saw farther than they had any right to.

“Bloodraven?” I asked.

Jon nodded, still looking at Dark Sister.

“I was never meant for this one,” he murmured. “It always felt… not wrong, but not quite right. Too light. Too narrow.”

Then he reached out and took Blackfyre from Jaime’s outstretched hands.

The moment he did, I saw the change.

Blackfyre was not like Dark Sister. It was longer, heavier, broader, a bastard sword — neither light nor unwieldy, but exactly the kind of weapon that fit Jon's strength and form.

When he held it, his shoulders shifted, his grip natural, his balance more confident.

It looked as though the sword had been forged for him.

Or maybe, Sam thought, he had been forged for the sword.

“It suits you,” I said.

“Perfect length,” added Mya from behind him.

“And width,” muttered Tormund, stepping in to take a closer look.

“And weight,” I said. “It’s yours.”

Jon looked at Dark Sister one last time, as if bidding it farewell. Then, gently, he wrapped it in cloth and placed it beside the sealed dragon egg chest.

“Maybe,” he said, “I’ll find someone who is actually meant for it.”

I found myself hoping so. Dark Sister had never seemed like Jon’s sword — but it deserved a worthy hand. Someone fast, graceful, sharp-eyed. Someone with the right blood.
Someone with a destiny of their own.

Bran watched all of it silently, as if he’d seen this moment before in a thousand futures, and this one had gone exactly to plan.

The dragon eggs were packed carefully and carried out under a cloak among Jon’s personal effects — nothing ostentatious, no one would guess what lay inside.

But I knew.

And the weight of what we had just recovered hung heavy in the air, like a storm building far to the east.

By nightfall, the Hestare Manse had become the stronghold of the Forgotten Sons. Where once gold-laced courtiers and silk-robed merchants drank sweetwine and plotted coin-laden treachery, now wounded Freefolk lay on rugs, being tended by Maesters, Wildling wives, and even former sellswords, their battle cries traded for groans and murmured prayers.

The remnants of the Golden Company—those who had surrendered or been captured—were treated with a wary form of mercy. They were fed, clothed, and their wounds bound, but placed under strict watch. Pardoned, but not trusted. They were to remain confined until the Forgotten Sons departed from Pentos.

Magister Hestare had not spoken much since his capture. He sat now behind thick bars in a private cell, stripped of all pretence, guarded day and night by Sandor Clegane, who cared little for gold, titles, or silver tongues. He could not be bribed with dragons or diamonds—but offer him a good cup of ale, and he might let you live another day.

The victory, though bloody, had done more than win us a fortress. It had earned us respect. Fear. Power.

The Forgotten Sons were no longer whispers in Essosi taverns. We were legend now, etched into the streets of Pentos with elephant tusks and giant-hewn clubs.

But still, I wondered.

Why had Jon refused the advantage of surprise when we had it?

Why risk a parley with a foe we could have struck down in the dark?

And when it came to the duel—why take Jaime’s place, when even I knew that Jaime Lannister would’ve stood a better chance?

Jon had always been brave. But bravery wasn't the only thing that made a good commander. Sometimes, it was restraint. Sometimes, calculation.

And sometimes… perhaps something else entirely.

He had looked at Aegon Blackfyre and seen something we hadn’t.

Another prince. Another past. Another echo of all the roads that might have been.

The duel had ended in chaos, but also in poetry. The last of the Blackfyres, a false king carrying the blade of his forefathers, was slain by a single arrow loosed from the bow of Meera Reed.

A bow once held by Bloodraven himself—the same bow that ended the first Blackfyre, long ago at the Redgrass Field.

And now again.

The line began and ended with that cursed shaft of ash and weirwood.

I looked at Bran and wondered. There had been no sorrow in him when Aegon fell. No pity. Only something cold and distant. I could not say what exactly stirred behind those glassy eyes, but for the first time, I wondered how much of Brynden Rivers still lived in the boy who had once played in the godswood at Winterfell.

And then there were the elephants.

Great, lumbering beasts, now chewing hay in old merchant yards, their flanks bandaged by Freefolk hunters and guided by Giants who treated them like brothers.

They had taken a liking to each other, strange kin from another time. No one had thought to ask the elephants what they wanted. But they had stayed.

And the dragon eggs.

We had found them in fire and ash. In a secret place, hidden by the last Blackfyre, guarded as if they were treasure beyond all reckoning.

And they were.

Three eggs. Black with red swirls. Green with bronze. Cream with veins of white.

I’d seen pictures. Read the accounts. But nothing prepared you for the weight of magic, quiet and burning, like a heart barely beating beneath stone.

Jon had held them. He hadn’t flinched. He hadn’t trembled. He had simply said:

“I can feel them.”

And that, more than anything else, had chilled me.

These weren’t coins or heirlooms or trinkets of old Valyria. These were dragons, waiting to be born.

And if they hatched...

The world would change.

Magic was returning. Real magic. Not tricks or glamours, but the old power, wild and deep.

Direwolves had crossed the Wall.

The Children of the Forest stirred in the Neck.

Giants and Mammoths now walked in Essos.

The Dead gathered in the north once more.

And somewhere—perhaps not yet, but soon—dragons would rise again.

I thought of what Archmaester Marwyn had once said, when asked whether such omens truly meant anything.

"When the old powers stir, the world doesn't sleep through it. It wakes. And it dreams strange dreams."

I wondered how strange our dreams would become.

And whether the world we woke up to… would still be ours at all.

Chapter Text

Chapter XX – Power of Our Own

It was still early when I woke, though I suspected most in the Manse hadn’t yet gone to sleep.

A day like yesterday didn’t let go of a man so easily. Not when there’d been blood on the streets and fire in the skies. Not when you’d seen dragon eggs with your own eyes.

I pulled on my robes and stepped into the corridor, the stone floors warm beneath my feet — not from sunlight, but from the braziers the cooks had already lit below.

The scents came first: hot oil, bread baking, a hint of spiced meat. Even in a place as strange as this, the morning still smelled like breakfast.

The halls were quieter than I’d ever known them — not the silence of death, but the quiet of exhaustion. The Forgotten Sons were sleeping off battle-glory and bruises alike, wherever they could find space.

I passed a Freefolk girl curled up beside a window seat, a pair of Dornishmen snoring gently against opposite sides of a pillar, and a giant fur cloak draped over what I suspect was someone trying to sleep standing up.

Down in the yard, the Giants were already awake — I could see them through the arches, half-naked and scrubbing down their mammoths. One of the beasts trumpeted in protest as a bucket of cold water was dumped over it.

Nearby, two elephants stood watching with apparent indignation, as if wondering why they’d ended up among this wild northern rabble.

I wandered further. The cooks were beginning their noisy routines, shouting about salt and onions and who'd stolen whose pan. I nodded to a young girl piling bread onto a tray — she looked too young to be handling hot trays, but then, so did I when I was first handed a sword.

That’s when I saw a figure slipping out of one of the side rooms — a young man, moving with the cautious quiet of someone who didn’t want to be noticed. I recognised him by his gait first: Lucas Blackwood, the pride of Raventree Hall. He looked around once, then ducked his head and hurried away, cradling something in his arms.

My first thought was that he’d raided the kitchens, but then I saw his face — red, sheepish, a little too smug to be simply full. It struck me all at once, and I nearly choked on my amusement.

He wasn’t sneaking away from a meal. He was sneaking away from her room: Sarella Sand.

I chuckled aloud. The son of a Blackwood and the daughter of Oberyn Martell — I couldn't decide if that was a disaster waiting to happen or a song waiting to be sung.

Further down the hall, another door stood slightly ajar. From within came a sound loud enough to rattle the hinges.

“Seven bleeding Hells, woman!” roared a voice I knew too well. “Are you trying to kill me or marry me?”

I nearly turned around — out of decency, or cowardice — but curiosity won. I paused, listening just long enough to hear a feminine laugh in response, throaty and wicked.

“Perhaps both,” came the reply.

I didn’t need to hear more to know who it was. I smiled, shaking my head.

“Perhaps,” I murmured, “Tormund finally got his she-bear. Or maybe… she got him.”

I moved on before I heard anything I’d regret. The sun had begun to rise now, turning the narrow windows to slivers of gold and casting long, warm beams through the dusty halls of the Rogare Manse.

In the courtyard, I found a sight both familiar and absurd — Sandor Clegane slumped in a wooden chair, arms crossed, chin resting on his chest, snoring softly like a growling dog dreaming of better days.

For a moment, I wondered why he was out here at all. As a commander of the Forgotten Sons, he could’ve had any number of rooms.

Before I could ask, one of his eyes cracked open and fixed me with a bleary, bloodshot stare.

“They gave me the room next to that ginger,” he muttered.

“Sorry?” I blinked.

“That ginger wildling. He and his she-bear,” the Hound growled. “They’ve been going at it all bloody night. All night.” He rubbed his face and yawned. “Walls are thick, but not thick enough.”

“I’m—” I started to apologise again, though I wasn’t sure why, but he waved me off with a grunt and closed his eyes again.

I left him to his well-earned misery and followed the sound of swords clashing beyond the archway.

In the training yard behind the stables, Jon was practising. His hair was damp with sweat, his chest rising and falling steadily, but his movements were measured, precise. He was sparring with a young Freefolk warrior — no one I recognised — and giving ground with slow, confident steps, letting the lad come at him with all he had.

But it was Jon’s sword that held my gaze.

Blackfyre.

The fabled blade of House Targaryen, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror and Daemon Blackfyre — gleaming dark steel with veins of smoke-black damask and a grip wrapped in dragonbone. It looked right in his hands.

I’d seen him fight with Dark Sister many times now. He was skilled with it. But even then, there had always been something slightly… off. Like a harp played just out of tune, he’d gripped it too tightly, moved with too much caution. But this…

This was different.

Jon moved like the blade belonged to him. Like it had been waiting for him all along. Blackfyre cut through the air with ease, as if the sword itself wanted to strike, wanted to be wielded. Every parry, every counter, every feint flowed smoother than I’d ever seen before, not forced, not learned, natural.

It was like watching Ghost on the hunt — silent, certain, deadly.

When the sparring ended, Jon lowered the blade and offered his partner a hand. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something lighter in his eyes. A burden lessened, if not lifted.

I stood there a moment longer, watching him catch his breath in the golden morning light, sword still in hand.

A sword forged for kings, I thought, and he wields it like he was born with it in his grip.

I left Jon to his practice and wandered further along the covered walkway, the morning sounds of the Manse swelling around me — steel ringing on steel, the thud of boots on dirt, and the occasional thwack that sounded nothing like swordplay.

In the shade of the courtyard’s far end, I found the source. Mya Stone, hair pulled back and eyes alight, was swinging her warhammer in wide arcs at a row of thick wooden posts. If she is supposed to be practising precision, the poor trees would’ve begged to differ — splinters and bark flew with every strike, and each blow landed with such force that the posts rattled in their sockets.

Beyond her, Meera Reed stood cool and still, bowstring drawn back to her cheek. A clay pigeon arced high into the air — snap — her arrow split it cleanly before it could even begin to fall. She didn’t smile at the shot, simply nocked another arrow, already sighting the next target.

I passed into another section of the yard and found Ser Jaime Lannister holding his own against four men at once. His golden head turned this way and that as the circle closed around him — parry high, sweep low, a pivot, a sidestep, and the flat of his blade smacked one man’s helm hard enough to ring it like a bell. The rest fell back, catching their breath. Jaime didn’t even look winded.

In the shade by the barracks wall, Ser Brynden Tully was drilling a knot of young Freefolk warriors, Jarl and Ygritte among them. The Blackfish spoke with clipped precision, his voice carrying over the yard as he gestured at drawn lines in the dirt — shield walls, flank movements, retreats and feints. Ygritte wore a dubious expression, but she was listening all the same. Jarl, on the other hand, seemed determined to memorise every word.

The whole scene struck me as strange and yet oddly fitting — Horn Hill’s training yards had been filled with such sounds when I was a boy, but this was different. Not polished, not courtly. Wilder. And perhaps, for that very reason… stronger.

I left the clamour of the yard behind, wandering into the small grove at the Manse’s edge where the air was cooler and the sounds of training faded to a dull murmur. The ground was soft underfoot, and the dappled sunlight flickered through the leaves.

That’s where I found him.

Bran Stark sat cross-legged at the base of an old olive tree, his face still and pale, his eyes rolled back until only the whites showed. I froze for a moment — no matter how many times I’d seen it, the sight never failed to chill me.

Then, like a man waking from a dream, his eyes cleared and focused on me.

“Sam,” he said simply, as if I’d been expected.

I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “What were you… Looking for?”

“Ways to awaken the dragon eggs,” Bran replied, his tone matter-of-fact, as if the words weren’t the most impossible thing I’d heard that morning. “But I haven’t found anything yet. Not here. My sight… It’s weaker in Essos.”

I blinked at him, uncertain whether I should feel relief or unease at the fact that he was even trying. “Weaker? Why?”

Bran tilted his head slightly, his gaze drifting toward the sun-dappled canopy above. “Some roots don’t grow as deep here.” He didn’t explain further, and I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.

Bran’s eyes settled back on me, steady and unblinking. “It’s not just the eggs,” he said quietly. “I’m searching for something that’s been lost to history for almost three hundred years.”

I frowned. “What could be lost that long and still matter now?”

“The way to wake them,” Bran answered. “No Targaryen after the Conquest knew how to revive dragon eggs. Not truly. Not even Maegor, or Jaehaerys the Conciliator, or any of the others. Maybe… maybe Aegon the Conqueror himself knew, and his sister-wives. But after them, the knowledge was gone.”

There was a weight in his voice that made the hairs on my arms stand on end.

“Then… you’ll keep looking?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what he’d find.

“I’ll have to look much further back,” Bran said. “Beyond the Conquest. Beyond the Doom. For that, I’ll need to be in Westeros… beneath the shade of a true weirwood.”

He said it as if it were already decided, a thing written in stone. I thought of the white-barked trees back home, their red leaves whispering in the wind, and felt a strange shiver at the thought of him sitting under one, peering into the past as if the centuries were nothing more than pages in a book.

Bran and I made our way back through the trees toward the Manse. By the time we stepped into the courtyard, the air had shifted—less the lazy stillness of morning, more the taut stillness of men on guard.

The Braavosi had come.

Two parties stood at the gates, their silks and fur-lined cloaks cutting sharply against the grey stone. One bore the deep blue and black of the Sealord’s household, the other the sober, severe black-and-white of the Iron Bank. They moved with the kind of quiet confidence that comes from knowing their city’s will is law far beyond its walls.

Hestare was brought out between them, wrists bound in heavy manacles, his fine clothes torn and stained from the night before. He still managed a sneer, though it faltered when the Iron Bank’s man looked his way.

Jon met them in the yard, calm as a winter pond. The Sealord’s representative inclined his head just enough to be polite.

“The Sealord sends his regards, Prince Jaehaerys,” he said in a thick Braavosi accent. “Your work here has been noted. The non-combatants in Braavos remain safe and will continue to be so under the Iron Bank’s protection. As agreed, the Forgotten Sons are welcome in Braavos—and perhaps… even more welcome now than before.”

Then they gestured, and a pair of guards rolled forward a small iron-bound carriage, its weight evident by the way the wheels groaned. One of the Braavosi produced a thick iron key and handed it to Jon. “Payment,” he said simply, “for services rendered.”

The Sealord’s men took Rogare by the arms. Jon stepped forward. “What will happen to him?”

The Braavosi’s lips curled in a humourless smile. “He will be made an example,” he said, “of what becomes of those who defy Braavos.”

As they turned to leave, the Iron Bank’s man looked back over his shoulder. “We hope to do business with the Forgotten Sons again, Prince Jaehaerys. Profitable business.”

They left without another word, Hestare in tow, the iron carriage creaking behind them.

I watched the Braavosi file out of the courtyard, their boots clicking smartly on the cobbles, and felt the faintest chill that had nothing to do with the wind.

It struck me then—perhaps harder than it should have—that the Forgotten Sons were no longer merely a company of wandering swords, a mercenary tale told in taverns and forgotten by the next harvest.

We had stood beside a prince and brought down one of the most storied sellsword hosts in the Free Cities. We had humbled the Golden Company—the very name that could sway city councils and frighten merchant princes—scattered them like chaff in a storm.

And now, the Sealord of Braavos himself was sending men not with threats, but with gold and talk of “partnership.”

In the Free Cities, power is as much about perception as coin or steel. The Golden Company had been more than an army; they were an institution, a network of debts and loyalties woven across Essos like the rigging of a ship. Their word could shift trade routes, settle disputes, even change the fate of thrones.

Now they were gone, and in the vacuum they left… well, vacuums do not last long in this world.

I looked at Jon, I reminded myself, and wondered if he realised just how large a shadow we now cast. The Forgotten Sons could fill that gap. We had the ships, the men, the reputation, and—Seven help us—the Giants, Mammoths and Elephants.

I wasn’t sure whether the thought thrilled me or frightened me more.

By midday, the Manse’s great hall was alive with noise and warmth, though it bore little resemblance to any feast I had ever attended in Westeros.

There was no high table for the lords and commanders, no pecking order that dictated where a man might sit.

Here, the benches were crowded and uneven, Northerners shoulder-to-shoulder with Dornishmen, Freefolk laughing beside Reachmen, bastards and knights drinking from the same pitchers.

There was no clear division between noble and common, man and woman—now there were only Forgotten Sons.

The air smelled of roasted boar and spiced wine, mingling with the sharper scent of sea salt clinging to the sailors’ cloaks.

Giants ducked their heads to pass through the doorways, then sat cross-legged on the floor to share trenchers with mammoth-handlers.

A wildling girl with hair like copper kissed a kneeler boy full on the mouth after winning a wager on how much ale he could drink before falling over.

It was loud, chaotic, and utterly lacking in the stiff decorum of the Seven Kingdoms.

In the Red Keep, feasts had been power stages—carefully arranged, every gesture a signal, every smile calculated. Here, laughter rang out without permission, and the only rule seemed to be that no one left hungry.

And strangely, I found myself smiling.

The clamour of the hall had reached a comfortable roar by the time Lucas Blackwood slipped in from the courtyard. His dark hair was wind-tossed, and there was a look in his eyes that told me he’d been moving with purpose. He made straight for Jon, leaned down, and murmured something in his ear.

Jon’s face didn’t change much—just the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth—but he nodded once. Lucas gave a brief incline of his head before melting back into the crowd, soon lost among the ale cups and laughter.

Jon rose from his bench, the motion enough to draw a few glances from nearby tables. He stepped around the trestle to where I sat, Jaime beside me with a half-eaten joint of lamb in his hand.

“Come,” Jon said quietly.

We followed him out into the cooler air of the corridor. “What is it?” Jaime asked, wiping his fingers on a scrap of cloth.

“Someone came asking for the Golden Company,” Jon replied. “Said they had a contract for them.”

“Bit late for that,” I said, thinking of the manse we had taken only yesterday.

Jon’s mouth twitched—whether in amusement or something else, I couldn’t say. “When he learned the Golden Company was gone, he offered it to us instead.”

Jaime arched a brow. “What are we now? A mercenary company?”

“Perhaps,” Jon said, “but we should at least hear what the man wants.”

The former Magister’s solar still smelled faintly of scented oils and the bitter tang of old ink. Sunlight poured through tall, thin windows, painting long bars of gold across the mosaic floor.

An old man waited there. He was slender to the point of frailty, his silver hair combed back from a lined face, and his eyes—startlingly blue—studied us with quiet intensity.

There was something Lyseni about him; not just the pale hair and eyes, but the faint perfume clinging to his clothes. Those clothes were rich once, fine brocade and silk, but the threads were worn at the cuffs, and a button was hanging loose, as if time had been unkind to both man and wardrobe.

Jon crossed the room without haste and took the Magister’s seat, as though it had always been his. I settled into a plain chair a few steps off, quill and parchment in hand, more from habit than expectation. Jaime remained standing, one hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword, the perfect image of a sworn shield.

It was then that I noticed the great white direwolf sprawled beneath the high window, sunlight catching in his fur so he looked almost carved from snow. Ghost was watching the old man with those red, unblinking eyes.

I could have sworn he hadn’t been in the room when we entered—at least, I hadn’t seen him come in or heard the faintest sound of his paws. Yet there he was, as if he’d been waiting all along.

The old man rose to greet us, bowing just enough to show respect without grovelling.

“I am Archon Draqos Hartyr,” he said, his Lyseni accent giving each word a languid lilt.

“Once, one of the oldest noble houses in Lys, though now…” He let the sentence trail off, his gaze dropping to the frayed embroidery at his cuffs.

“The last few years have been… cruel to me. Unfortunate dealings—bad ships, worse friends—losses upon losses, until almost all my wealth and standing were gone.”

He gave a bitter little smile. “When the gold thins, the household thins with it. I was forced to let many of my guards go. A choice I have come to regret.”

His hands tightened on the head of his cane. “A few nights past, my manse was set upon by a company of brigands. They stole little of value—save for my son.

At first, I did not know who they were, but one of my guards struck one down and tore away his banner. The black goat, with red horns.”

Jaime shifted slightly behind Jon. I felt my stomach clench.

“The Brave Companions,” Jon said quietly.

Archon Hartyr inclined his head. “Led, as you may know, by Vargo Hoat. My guard tells me they ride for Qohor. There, my son will be sacrificed to the Black Goat.”

His voice wavered on the last words, but he did not look away from Jon. “I have lost almost everything. I will not lose my son.”

He drew a slow breath. “Bring him back to me—alive and unharmed—and what remains in my coffers will be yours. All of it. If you are too late…” His eyes hardened. “Then bring me Vargo Hoat’s head.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the quiet rustle of Ghost shifting in the sunlight.

Jon leaned forward, his fingers drumming lightly on the arm of the chair. “We will think on your proposal,” he said. “You will have your answer by evening. Until then, you are an honoured guest of the Forgotten Sons.”

Archon Hartyr bowed again, though there was a shadow of desperation in the movement.

Archon Hartyr bowed once more, then allowed himself to be led out by one of the house servants. The moment the door shut, Jon straightened in his chair.

“Send for the commanders,” he told Lucas Blackwood, who had been waiting by the door.

Within minutes, the solar was crowded.

Meera Reed came first, still with a smudge of clay dust on her cheek.

Mya Stone followed, sleeves rolled up and hair tied back, her warhammer nowhere to be seen.

Bran limped in, his Weirwood cane clacking against the stones, eyes sharp and watchful.

The Blackfish stepped through with his usual briskness.

Sandor Clegane lounged into the room as if half-asleep.

Mance Rayder, Tormund Giantsbane, and Harma Dogshead filled in the rest of the space, their size and voices making the room feel suddenly smaller.

And then Mag the Mighty’s great face appeared, peering in through one of the high windows like a child spying on a supper he wasn’t invited to.

I couldn’t help noticing—not a one of them wore armour, nor carried a blade or spear. Whatever this was, it had caught them all off guard.

Jon stood. “We’ve been offered a contract,” he began, explaining Archon Hartyr’s plight in short, clipped sentences—his son, the brigands, the banner of the black goat with red horns, Vargo Hoat, and the threat of sacrifice in Qohor.

When Jon finished, Jaime was the first to speak. “You know the kind of monsters we’d be dealing with,” he said, voice low but cutting. “The Brave Companions don’t fight fair. They don’t even fight like men—they butcher, they maim, they take trophies. If you march against them, be ready to see the worst the world can make of people.”

The Blackfish crossed his arms. “And if Hoat’s still tied to Qohor—formally or otherwise—then this isn’t just a hunt for one sellsword band. A fight against the city itself would be an entirely different matter, and a dangerous one. Qohor’s a Free City. Crossing them could bring more trouble than gold can pay for.”

Around the room, the commanders exchanged glances. Even Tormund’s grin was smaller than usual.

Mya was the first to answer. “If it’s a boy’s life at stake, I’ll ride tomorrow. Gold or no gold. But if we’re talking about fighting Qohor itself…” She glanced toward the Blackfish. “We’d be fools to meet them in the open.”

“I’ve no love for sellswords,” Harma said, leaning forward. “Especially not ones who flay and burn for sport. But I like my odds better when I can see the enemy coming. Sneaking in and out of a city ain’t my style.”

Mance tapped a finger against the arm of his chair. “Every band has a weakness. A friend to bribe, a door left unguarded, a guard captain with debts. Maybe we can use their greed against them. But walk in swinging swords, and the whole city will turn on us.”

“Pah,” Tormund snorted. “Let me take a hundred men, and I’ll bring back the boy and Hoat’s head besides. No skulking about like mice.”

“That’s exactly what would get the boy killed,” the Blackfish replied sharply. “We need precision, not chaos.”

Sandor gave a low grunt. “Don’t matter if it’s ten or a hundred—if Hoat knows we’re coming, he’ll have that boy’s throat slit before we’re through the gate. If we do it, we do it quietly. Quick.”

Meera, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. “I can go quiet. I can kill from a distance if need be. But this needs to be decided before Hoat leaves Qohor. Once he’s on the road, we’ll lose the advantage.”

Jon’s gaze turned to Bran, who had been watching them all with an unreadable expression.

Bran’s voice was calm when he spoke, yet it carried over the room. “This will not be a battle,” he said. “Nor an invasion. It will be an infiltration.”

His pale eyes seemed almost distant. “I will send my birds ahead to find a hidden way into the city. Once it is found, a few sure-footed, silent fighters will go in. They will rescue the boy—if he still lives. If not…” He paused, his tone colder.

“Then they will take Hoat’s head and leave before the alarm is raised. No armies. No banners. Only shadows.”

A silence settled over the room at that. Even Tormund didn’t argue.

Jon’s eyes swept over the room once more before settling on me. “You’ve been silent all this time, Sam. What do you think?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, feeling the weight of every gaze. “I… I think Bran’s logic leaves no room for error. And defeating someone like Vargo Hoat would only add to the Forgotten Sons’ reputation. After you slew Euron Greyjoy, Sandor cut down Victarion Greyjoy, you ended Ramsay Snow’s reign of terror, and Mya killed Craster—”

At the name, Harma let out a low, guttural growl, but said nothing.

Sam continued, voice firmer now. “Ending another monster would be another tale told of the Forgotten Sons. And more than that… we’d be fighting for an innocent life. That’s reason enough.”

Jon nodded slowly, letting the words hang in the air. “Anyone here against taking the contract?”

No one spoke. The silence was answer enough.

Jon’s mouth curved into the faintest of smiles. “To Qohor, then.”

The sound of wings drew my attention to the open window. A great black eagle swept in, its talons scraping against the stone as it landed on the back of Jon’s chair. Morghul.

The Targaryen prince reached up without hesitation, untying a small scroll from the bird’s leg. He stroked the eagle’s neck once, murmuring something too soft for anyone to hear, and the bird launched itself back into the sky.

Jon’s eyes moved over the parchment, and slowly, a smile crept onto his face — the rare, quiet smile Sam had seen only a few times before. A smile he knew belonged to just one person. In that moment, Sam understood why Morghul had been gone for days.

Jon read on, oblivious to the room, the corners of his mouth still curved in that unguarded way. Then, as if suddenly remembering he was not alone, he folded the letter with deliberate care and tucked it into his belt. His face settled back into its usual composure, but the faintest trace of that smile lingered.

Sam glanced around the table. Most of the commanders wore puzzled expressions, wondering what could make their leader grin like an idiot in the middle of a serious war council.

But Jaime and Mya were both smiling faintly as well — the knowing kind of smile that told Sam they had seen this before. Of course, they had; they had been with Jon since boyhood. They knew exactly who had sent that letter.

Only Bran said nothing. But Sam caught the faintest turn of his head toward Jon, the way his pale eyes seemed to hold a private knowledge. Whatever Bran had seen — through ravens or roots — he kept to himself.

Jon cleared his throat, leaned back in the chair, glancing around the gathered faces. “The question now is—who will be in the infiltrating party?”

The response was immediate—voices overlapping, every commander offering themselves without hesitation.

“I’ll go,” said Tormund.

“You’ll need me,” said the Hound.

“Best tracker you’ve got,” Mya added at the same time as Meera stepped forward.

Even Harma raised her hand with a wolfish grin.

Jon raised both palms, cutting through the din. “No. This isn’t a raid or a charge—it’s quiet work. A small group. Myself, Jaime, Meera, Mya, and Mance.”

He turned to Meera. “Bring two of your best archers.”

“Ygritte,” Meera replied without pause, “and Lucas Blackwood.”

Sam caught the brief smirk on Lucas’s face from the corner of the room.

Jon gave a single nod. “That’s the team. Ghost will come as well.”

The direwolf lifted his head from where he lounged by the window, as if he understood the summons.

“As for the rest of you,” Jon continued, “if things go wrong and we need a distraction, I’ll send word. Then the Forgotten Sons will hit Qohor’s gates with everything we have—Giants, mammoths, elephants. We’ll make so much noise they’ll forget their own names.”

That drew a few grim smiles.

As the conversation moved to routes, I quietly drifted to the shelves at the corner of the room. I picked up a rolled bundle of parchment, unrolled it, and ran my finger along the twisting inked lines marking the lands between Pentos and Qohor.

After a moment of thought, I stepped into the middle of the table and spread the map out before them.

“The best route for entering Qohor undetected comes through the Dothraki Sea,” I said.

The room went silent at once.

The Blackfish leaned forward, frowning. “Then we’ll place the Giants and mammoths at the edges. Scouts ahead and on the flanks. Whatever it takes to avoid crossing paths with the Dothraki.”

Jon gave a slow nod. “Good. We’ll make it work.”

Already, the conversation shifted to supply lists, contingency plans, and the dangers of crossing the wild grasslands. Maps were marked, scouts named, and for the rest of the afternoon, the Solar became a war room.

The hours that followed were a blur of motion. Runners carried messages through the halls of the Hestare Manse, quartermasters opened crates of supplies, and farriers worked in the courtyard to shoe horses for the long ride ahead.

Meera inspected bows, choosing arrows with razor-sharp heads; Lucas and Ygritte tested their strings by the light of the setting sun.

Mance Rayder, ever the smuggler, checked and re-checked the small satchels of tools for scaling walls and picking locks.

Outside, the brazen calls of giants echoed as they were moved to the periphery of camp, their handlers speaking in low voices about avoiding the “horse lords.”

Ghost padded silently at Jon’s side, the two of them a constant presence in the rush of preparation.

I watched it all from the doorway to the courtyard, parchment still in my hands.

It struck me then—how far we had come.

Not so long ago, we were exiles and wanderers, a mismatched host of the unwanted and the desperate, huddled in Braavos for warmth and safety.

Now we planned the infiltration of Qohor itself. Our commanders gathered like the leaders of a kingdom in their own right.

We had no crown, no castle, no banners recognised in any court—but the Forgotten Sons were something more dangerous than that. We were becoming a power of our own.

And now, that power was riding east—into the Dothraki Sea, toward the black gates of Qohor.

Chapter Text

Chapter XXI – Beneath the Black Goat

The account that follows is not my own. I was not there to see it, nor to hear the clash of steel, nor to smell the blood in the streets of Qohor. These words are drawn from the memories of those who went: Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, Ser Jaime Lannister, Mya Stone, Meera Reed, Mance Rayder, Ygritte, and Lucas Blackwood. Each told their tale differently, yet in all the retellings the shape of the deed remains the same. I have bound them together as best I could. Should there be any errors, they are mine alone.
— Lord Samwell Tarly

The night was damp and close, and the city of Qohor crouched beneath its walls of black stone.

At the edge of the Dothraki Sea, the Forgotten Sons waited in silence, giants hunched low, mammoths restless, the ground itself trembling with their weight. No horns. No banners. Only breath and heartbeat.

Seven shadows and a great white wolf slipped into the dark. Above them circled a darker shadow still — Morghul, the great black eagle, wings whispering through the night. His cry was never heard, yet his red-glinting eyes swept the roads, the gates, and the walls from the sky. Nothing entered or left Qohor without passing beneath his gaze.

Bran’s ravens had found the way: a forgotten culvert beneath the eastern wall, its mouth half-choked with weeds and muck. Ghost padded ahead, his red eyes gleaming, while Jon followed close behind with Blackfyre strapped across his back. Jaime Lannister kept pace, silent despite the lack of armour. Mya Stone’s warhammer rested across her shoulder, and Meera Reed nocked an arrow as she walked. Ygritte’s bow was strung, her gaze sharp as a hawk’s, while Lucas Blackwood brought up the rear, the youngest of them, his jaw set, a boy among legends.

And at their heart moved Mance Rayder, the man who had once crept into Winterfell during a harvest feast only to prove he could. No man alive knew infiltration better. He whispered cautions where the water pooled deepest, pointed to stones less likely to shift beneath a careless step, and smiled like he was born to crawl through culverts.

The water rose to their knees as they pressed into the tunnel, the only sounds the steady drip of stone and the splash of their boots.

Ahead lay the forges of Qohor, the smell of smoke and iron already in the air. And deeper still, within the city walls, waited the Brave Companions.

The culvert spilt them out into the backstreets of Qohor, where the cobbles shone wet with rain, and torchlight flickered far off, never near. Morghul wheeled above, a black star against the moon.

They moved in silence, each step measured and deliberate.

Mance led, pausing at corners to listen, every sense sharpened. Twice he raised a hand, and the company froze, pressed against stone walls while patrols clattered past. The Black Goat’s sentries wore chainmail and carried cruel spears, but they never saw the shadows that slipped behind them.

When the streets narrowed, Meera’s arrows whispered death. A sentry slumped against the wall, an arrow sprouting from his throat. Ygritte dragged the body aside without a sound, her grin quick and fierce. Lucas Blackwood’s bow followed, his shot taking a torch-bearer clean through the eye before the man could cry out.

Jon’s eagle gave a sharp beat of wings above. Jaime tilted his head, listening. “A patrol’s coming.” Ghost was already gone, and moments later came the muffled sound of snarls and a strangled cry, then silence again.

Every step brought the smell of iron thicker, the glow of forges brighter. Qohor was a city that never slept, and the songs of hammer and anvil echoed through its bones. The Brave Companions’ manse loomed at last — an old stone Manse marked with the red-horned goat daubed in fresh paint, its gates guarded by men half-drunk on cruelty.

Mance whispered, “That’s the place.”

Jon gave a single nod. The Forgotten Sons moved out, each to their role. Meera and Ygritte scaled the walls like cats, bows ready. Lucas nocked an arrow and took position at the street’s end. Jaime and Mya waited at the gate, silent fury barely held in check. Ghost crouched low, hackles bristling.

And then—

The door of the manse creaked open. A pair of Brave Companions stumbled out, laughing, dragging something between them — a boy, bound and gagged, his face bruised.

The sight shattered the silence.

Jon drew Blackfyre in one fluid motion, the Valyrian steel whispering death. Jaime’s sword followed, bright in the dark. Mya’s hammer rose high, and with a scream of rage, she charged.

The gate guard barely had time to gasp before Ghost was on him, tearing out his throat. Arrows hissed from the walls, cutting down the men inside the courtyard. Meera and Ygritte rained death from above, while Lucas’s arrow took a man through the chest as he tried to run.

The Brave Companions howled, chaos breaking loose. Steel clanged, men screamed, and blood slicked the stones. Subtlety was gone. The Forgotten Sons had come like shadows, but now they struck like thunder.

The gates of the manse groaned open under Mya’s hammer, and the Brave Companions surged to meet them.

Jon, Jaime, and Mya fell upon them with a fury that was anything but reckless. They had been together since Jon and Mya were babes, and Jaime was little more than a boy of nineteen — training, sparring, learning each other’s rhythms until their movements flowed as one.

Ghost darted between them, white as winter’s teeth, his jaws closing on throats as steel flashed above him.

Jon’s sword sang as it cut through mail and bone, every strike sure, no motion wasted.

Jaime fought beside him, shield high, golden hair damp with sweat, his blade turning aside axe and spear alike.

Mya’s hammer broke men apart, smashing breastplates, cracking skulls, leaving nothing but ruin.

Together they carved through the courtyard, a storm given flesh, scattering the Brave Companions who had thought themselves predators.

Inside, silence reigned but for the soft tread of boots.

Meera, Mance, Ygritte, and Lucas slipped through shadowed corridors, where the stench of blood and worse grew thick.

The Brave Companions they found were not ready warriors at arms, but beasts at play.

A scarred Dothraki raised his head from his cruelty, a leer twisting his face — and Meera’s arrow took his eye, pinning him to the wall before the smile could fade.

Further on, a man in robes worked his knife into a bound victim, whispering to himself as he carved. Ygritte came on him like a storm, her axe cleaving down, splitting skull and silence alike.

Lucas fought the hardest. In a chamber thick with smoke, an ugly Dornishman with a whip coiled it about his arm, dragging him forward. The lash cracked, flesh tore, and Lucas fell to one knee.

But Morghul crashed through the window in a rush of black wings, his talons tearing at the man’s face, his eyes blinded in an instant. Lucas rose, driving steel into the Dornishman’s chest, twisting until the body fell still.

Mance lingered at the doorway, watching it all with hard, hooded eyes. “Depravity dressed as men,” he muttered, before driving his blade into another Companion who hadn’t even reached for his weapon yet.

The hallways were filled with death. No shouts, no hesitation. Only the quiet, merciless work of ending monsters.

While the others worked their grim craft, Mance Rayder slipped down a quieter passage, following the muffled sounds of struggle. His boots made no sound on the stone.

At the end of the corridor, he found a door that was half ajar.

Inside, a fat old man in the tattered robes of a septon was dragging a boy by the wrist. The boy’s hair shone pale silver in the candlelight — the unmistakable mark of Lysene blood. His face was streaked with tears, but he fought, kicking and clawing at his captor.

The “septon” only chuckled, leering as he shoved the child toward a pallet bed. “The Black Goat is ever hungry,” he wheezed.

Mance whistled, low and sharp.

The man turned, startled, his jowls shaking. That was all the opening Mance needed. His blade flashed across the fat throat, cutting words to gurgles. As the body fell, Mance murmured with a wolf’s grin,

“Never trust a singer in a septon’s robes.”

Blood spread across the floor as the boy backed away, wide-eyed. Mance crouched, lowering his voice. “Easy now. I’m no friend of that one. You’re I am Archon Hartyr’s son, aye?”

The boy nodded quickly, still trembling. His lips quivered, then he whispered: “There are more… like me. In the cellar. Locked away. Please, ser, don’t leave them.”

Mance’s jaw tightened. He sheathed his blade, gripping the boy’s shoulder with a surprising gentleness. “Then we’ll see them freed.”

He led the child from the room, the corpse bleeding out behind them, and moved to rejoin the others — with the knowledge that their task was far from done.

In the torchlit courtyard of the Manse, blood and screams echoed.

Mya Stone met her foe first — a gaudy jester in motley plate, green and red diamonds clashing against the night. Shagwell swung a spiked morningstar in wild, whistling arcs, laughing madly all the while.

“Pretty thing, I’ll smash your knees and drag you by your hair,” he cackled. “We’ll have such fun, you and I!”

Mya bared her teeth, hefting her warhammer. He came at her like a whirlwind of iron and madness, but where his swings were wild, hers were measured. His morningstar slammed against her shield, jarring her arm, but she did not falter.

Step by step, she pressed him back, strength and height giving her the edge. When he overextended with a laugh that turned into a shriek, Mya caught him square in the chest with her hammer.

The impact was thunderous. Shagwell flew back like a broken doll, his motley armour crumpling as ribs shattered beneath the blow. He coughed blood, still grinning even as his chest collapsed.

Nearby, Ser Jaime Lannister faced Zollo — a grotesquely fat Dothraki clad in scavenged bronze, swinging a heavy scythe. He bellowed in Dothraki as he charged, but Jaime met him with precise golden strokes.

The Silver Lion slipped past the first swing, hacked down hard, and sheared Zollo’s arm from his shoulder. The fat man’s scream turned to a gurgle as Jaime’s return cut took his head from his shoulders.

But the true storm broke where Jon faced Vargo Hoat.

The Goat rode forth on booted feet, his body wrapped in mail and leather, his helm shaped into a monstrous goat’s head, horns curling. A chain of coins from every corner of Essos jangled across his chest. In his hands gleamed a fearsome longaxe, which he spun with practised ease.

“I thonth neeth the pollutheth Lytheni anymore!” Hoat hissed through his lisp, each word sprayed with spittle. “The Black Goath will be mosth pleathed with a Thargaryen’th blooth!”

His longaxe whirled, fast as a storm, forcing Jon back. The clash of steel rang out — axe biting against sword, Blackfyre’s black steel sparking as it turned aside strike after strike.

Jon braced, sweat stinging his eyes. The longaxe carved a shallow cut across his pauldron, nearly tearing through, but he held his ground. Hoat pressed harder, frothing, laughter echoing inside his goat-helm.

Then Jon stepped inside the arc of the next swing. With a twist of his wrists, he caught the longaxe’s shaft on Blackfyre’s guard and snapped it with a sharp crack. The weapon fell in two, useless.

Before Hoat could draw breath to curse, Jon drove Blackfyre forward, black steel punching through coin, mail, and flesh. The blade burst from the Goat’s back, splitting the chain of coins, and Hoat choked on his own blood.

“The Black Goat will take no Targaryen tonight,” Jon whispered.

He tore the sword free. Hoat fell to his knees, clutching at his shattered chest, and toppled to the stones with a final, wet rattle.

Jon staggered back, Blackfyre heavy in his hand, and dropped to sit beside the corpse of Vargo Hoat. His breath came ragged, his arms burning from the fight, sweat running cold down his temples. The broken chain of coins clinked faintly as Hoat’s body twitched its last.

From the shadows of a side passage came the sound of boots — hurried, clumsy. A sickly man in rusted mail burst into the courtyard, face twisted, sword raised above his head. His eyes were wild, fever-bright, spittle hanging from his lips.

“Urswyck,” Jon murmured, recognising the brute.

The man screamed and charged, his blade high—

—but before Jon could even think to rise, a pale streak flashed from the side. Ghost hit Urswyck like a thunderbolt, the man’s scream turning shrill as the direwolf bore him down. Steel clattered against stone, followed by the wet tearing of flesh.

Jon leaned back, laughing breathlessly, his body sinking against the cold wall. Urswyck shrieked and gurgled as Ghost tore him apart, blood spraying across the stones.

Jon closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds wash over him. How many men, women, and children had this one heard screaming before their end? The thought brought a strange, weary chuckle to his lips.

He lay there on the stones beside Hoat’s corpse, too tired to rise, Ghost’s snarls and Urswyck’s dying cries echoing through the night.

Jon must have closed his eyes for longer than he thought, because the next thing he felt was a boot nudging his ribs.

He blinked up at Mya standing over him, her warhammer slick with blood and her cheeks streaked with sweat and grime.

“Had a fun nap?” she asked with a crooked grin, lightly kicking him again for good measure.

Jon groaned, sitting up and brushing damp hair from his eyes. “More restful than Hoat, I imagine.”

She laughed, offering him a hand, and together they turned toward the gaping doors of the manse, ready to go deeper in search of the others.

But before they could move, a line of figures emerged from the darkness within. Mance Rayder strode at their head, his blade still wet, with Meera, Ygritte, and Lucas Blackwood close behind. And with them came the captives.

They spilt out into the courtyard like ghosts dragged back to flesh — a motley host of the broken and the spared. Men and women, old and young, a few clad still in torn silks, others in rags or chains.

Some bore fresh wounds or the brands of torment; others, by some fortune, looked untouched. All of them carried hollow eyes that lit, for a moment, when they beheld the slaughter around them.

Their gazes lingered on the blood-slick stones, on the twisted corpses of the Brave Companions, and most of all on the pale direwolf crouched among the dead.

Ghost’s muzzle was drenched red, his fur clotted with gore, his jaws still working over what remained of Urswyck’s arm.

A ripple of grim satisfaction passed through the captives — no one screamed, no one recoiled. Some smiled.

And then, a curious thing: several children, their clothes ragged and their faces pinched with hunger, broke free from the group. Barefoot, they darted across the bloody stones and ran straight to the direwolf.

Ghost looked up, eyes like embers catching theirs, but he did not move as the little hands pressed against his matted fur. The children laughed — actual laughter, high and small — as they buried their fingers in his bloodied coat.

Jon blinked in astonishment, but Jaime only smiled faintly. “These children have seen monsters,” he said, voice soft, almost reverent. “To them, the direwolf is a saint.”

Mya gave a short snort, hefting her warhammer against her shoulder. “Ain’t that a thought—Saint Ghost the direwolf, eater of monsters.”

That broke the tension. Jon laughed, low and weary, and even Jaime chuckled, shaking his head.

Ghost, oblivious, only tore another strip of flesh from the corpse beneath his paws, crimson dripping down his pale muzzle as the children stroked his matted fur without fear.

Mance stepped forward, his face grim beneath the torchlight. “There’s more,” he said. “The boy told me of a vault—hidden behind Hoat’s… sacrifice chamber.”

At the word, a collective wince rippled through the group. Even hardened fighters shifted uneasily, as though the walls themselves still whispered of what had been done inside.

Without another word, Mance crouched beside Hoat’s sprawled corpse, rifling through the dead man’s chain of coins and heavy belt. At last, with a grunt of satisfaction, he pulled free a thick iron key crusted in dried blood.

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Meera—take the archers, sweep the manse for stragglers. Quiet and quick.”

Meera gave a short nod, already signalling Ygritte and Lucas to follow.

“Mya,” Jon continued, his voice lower but commanding, “get the captives moving. Find carriages, wagons, anything that rolls. They’ll not walk far in their state.”

She set her warhammer against her shoulder and turned to the crowd, her booming voice already cutting through their dazed murmurs as she began organising them for retreat.

Jon glanced at Jaime and Mance. “Come. Let’s see what secrets the Goat kept.”

The three of them descended into the bowels of the manse, torches throwing long shadows across damp stone. First came the cells, narrow and rank, where iron doors hung open and the stench of rot lingered. Chains rattled softly in the stale air.

Then, deeper still, they came to a chamber that made even Ghost growl low in his throat. Implements of torment lay scattered on blood-blackened tables.

Strange glyphs daubed in dried red covered the walls, and channels in the floor ran to a cracked basin at the centre of the room.

“A sacrifice chamber, right enough,” Jaime muttered, jaw tight.

Mance led them past it, torch raised high, until they came before a broad shelf lined with jars. Within each floated severed hands, eyes, tongues, things unidentifiable, suspended in cloudy liquid.

Jon’s stomach clenched, but Mance only spat. He shoved the shelf aside with a grunt of effort, revealing behind it an iron-banded door set deep into the wall. The key slid into the lock with a dull scrape. A turn, a heavy click, and the vault yawned open.

Inside were chests stacked two high, their lids brimming with gold coins, silver bars, and jewel-studded ornaments. Gems winked in the flickering light like eyes.

Jaime gave a low whistle. “Well. Looks like we’ve got our payment after all. No need to bankrupt that poor Lyseni now.”

Jon exhaled, some of the tension in his shoulders loosening. He nodded once. “We’ll need a carriage.”

From the vault, they moved swiftly. Gold and jewels were hauled into stout carriages taken from the manse’s stables, the wheels creaking beneath the sudden weight of wealth.

Horses were harnessed, though it was Mance who lingered longest in the stables, eyes gleaming as he stroked the striped flanks of a pair of strange, broad-shouldered beasts.

“Zorses,” he said with a grin, running a hand through the coarse mane of one. “Stronger than a horse, clever as a mule, and damned hard to break. A rare prize. I’ll be taking these.”

No one argued.

Mya, meanwhile, emerged from the manse’s shadows with a new burden in her hand: Vargo Hoat’s goat-helmed headpiece, its horns blackened with soot and gore. She slung it across her shoulder as though it were no heavier than a sack of grain.

“A memento,” she said simply when she caught Jon’s questioning look.

Author’s Note:
Here I must pause, I, Samwell Tarly, set down in these pages. For Lady Mya had a habit of collecting such relics from the foes she struck down—each one a reminder, or perhaps a warning, of what she and the Forgotten Sons had endured.

From Euron Greyjoy’s ruby-encrusted sabre, to Ramsay Snow’s weeping-face helm, to Craster’s crossbow, to Rattleshirt’s skull mask, to the Golden Company’s captured standard, and now Vargo Hoat’s goat helm—each she kept. Today, all these trophies rest in Dragonstone’s vaults, silent and watchful, a testament to battles hard-won.

By the time the torches guttered low, the last chest was lashed down, and the rescued captives set upon wagons. Ghost, blood still caked across his fur, loped easily beside the column.

And when Jon gave the word, the Forgotten Sons moved out into the night, leaving the shattered manse of the Brave Companions smouldering behind them.

The wagons rolled softly under the cover of night, their wheels muffled by straw and care. The captives sat huddled in the carts, eyes still wide with the weight of freedom and the horror of what they had left behind.

Ghost padded silently at their flank, his pale fur streaked with dried crimson.

As they wound their way through the winding streets toward the hidden culvert, Jaime fell into step beside Jon.

“And what of them?” he asked quietly, nodding toward the rescued men, women, and children. “Some may have families—nobles with coin enough to ransom them home. But not all. Some of them… have nothing.”

Jon’s eyes lingered on a gaunt woman clutching a boy with hair as silver as his own, then on a scarred girl no older than ten. His jaw tightened.

“Those who wish to leave,” he said at last, “I’ll see they’re given coin and safe passage to wherever they wish to go. And those with nowhere to turn… they’ll have a choice. They can go to Braavos, live among our own. With food, shelter, and work. A home, if they want it.”

Jaime gave a short laugh, though there was no mockery in it. “The Forgotten Sons. Orphanage of the world. We take those with no one, and nothing.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and no one argued.

They pressed on until at last the looming shadow of Qohor’s black walls rose before them. The hidden exit lay just ahead.

Then came the sound. Clack. Clack. Clack. A steady tapping on stone, drawing closer. Instantly, Meera bent her bow, the string drawn taut, an arrow kissed to the cheek. Ygritte’s axe slid free, and Lucas nocked a shaft of his own.

From the dark came a boy—no, not a boy any longer, though young he seemed. Bran Stark, limping on his weirwood cane, each strike of its tip against the cobbles was the source of the sound. Summer prowled at his side, yellow eyes gleaming like banked coals.

Meera’s bow dropped, her mouth falling open. “Bran? Seven hells—what the fuck are you doing here?”

Mya barked a laugh, echoed by Ygritte. “Didn’t know Lady Reed had such a sharp tongue,” Mya teased, grinning.

But Jon’s voice cut through the mirth, sharp with concern. “Bran. Why are you here? You were meant to stay outside the city, with the others.”

Bran’s eyes, cool and deep as still water, fixed on him. “Qohor is a city of magic, Jon. Too much for me to ignore. I was studying.”

Jaime stepped closer, scowling. “Studying? You risked your neck for books? What knowledge is worth being caught here, when the Black Goat’s eyes are everywhere?”

Bran tightened his grip on the cane. When he spoke, it was quiet, but it fell over them like a hammer-blow.

“Dragons,” he said. “I’ve found a way to awaken them.”

The night itself seemed to still at his words, and the company stood frozen at the threshold of Qohor’s walls, the world poised on the edge of something vast and terrible.

Chapter Text

Sub-Chapter: II - Words in the Wind

"What follows are accounts pieced together from the whispers that drifted across taverns and keeps, from the letters of lords and the mutterings of maesters, from the streets of King’s Landing to the halls of Winterfell. I set them down not for their certainty, but for their persistence; for when so many speak of fire, even smoke may bear truth."
Lord Samwell Tarly

The Great Hall, Winterfell

The Great Hall of Winterfell was quiet after supper, only the crackle of the fire and the faint patter of rain against the shutters breaking the stillness.

Lord Eddard Stark sat with Lady Catelyn beside him, their children gathered close: Robb with his elbows on the table, Sansa stitching idly, Arya restless and fidgeting, her slim sword Needle lying across her lap.

A courier from White Harbour had ridden hard with a packet of letters, and now one lay open in Ned’s hand, the seal of House Manderly broken.

“It seems,” Ned said slowly, his grey eyes scanning the parchment, “that word of Jon has reached even White Harbour.”

At the name, the children leaned in.

“What do they say, Father?” Sansa asked, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“That he leads the Freefolk across the sea, thousands of them, now sworn in service to Braavos,” Ned read. “That giants and mammoths march with his host, and that elephants have been seen in their company as well.”

Arya gasped, gripping Needle tighter. “Giants? Mammoths? Truly?”

“Or so the letter claims,” Ned said. “There are darker tales, too — that the Brave Companions of Qohor are no more, their manse left a charnel house. And that Jon himself carries not one Valyrian blade, but two — Blackfyre and Dark Sister both.”

Robb leaned forward, sceptical. “That cannot be true. How could he come by such swords?”

Arya smirked. “Because he’s Jon. I’ll wager he slew fifty men for them.”

Sansa shook her head, dreamily. “He must have won them in some noble duel. Perhaps he fights like the knights of the songs.”

Ned’s mouth tightened, though there was no rebuke. “Songs rarely tell the truth of blood.”

Before he could continue, Catelyn’s sharp voice cut across the hall. “Arya. Weapons do not belong at the supper table.”

Arya flushed red but did not move to put it away. “Jon gave her to me. I don’t go anywhere without her.”

Catelyn sighed, her sternness softening with resignation. “No one asks you to. But swords do not belong beside trenchers and cups. Set it aside until we are done.”

With a reluctant huff, Arya slid Needle to her chair’s side. Robb hid a grin, while Sansa muttered something about unladylike habits. Ned merely raised a brow, silently reminding them all that this was neither the time nor the quarrel.

He turned back to the letter, his eyes catching on a passage further down. “It is said he is ever followed by a great direwolf white as snow, a saint of death to his foes. At his side is a girl of prodigious strength, a warrior who wields a warhammer, said to be his shield and companion. Some name her Stone, though she is no knight. And there is a boy, sage-like, who walks with a weirwood cane, strange and secretive, whispering of things unseen.”

At that, Ned gave a quiet laugh, the first sound of mirth the children had heard from him all evening.

“What is it, my lord?” Catelyn asked softly.

“The hammer-woman,” Ned said, smiling faintly. “Mya Stone. Robert’s strength may be gone from the world, but it seems it lives on in his daughter.” His smile faded into thought. “And the boy… the cane of weirwood, the talk of visions… Bran.” He shook his head slowly. “Strange tidings indeed.”

Arya’s eyes were wide. “Then the rumours must be true!”

Robb frowned. “Even if some are true, how do we tell them from the lies? Some say Jon has married the Sealord’s daughter, others that he commands the dead with sorcery. Which are we to believe?”

Sansa’s lips curved in that dreamy way of hers. “The Sealord’s daughter is nonsense. Jon was always speaking of Daenerys when we were children — his silver Princess. He’d never think of another.”

Arya snorted. “Oh, here we go again. Sansa thinks everything’s a song.”

Robb chuckled, though he looked thoughtful.

Ned’s eyes lingered on Sansa. Foolish though her words seemed, they stirred something in him — a memory of Jon as a boy, pale and quiet, his eyes lighting only when his silver-haired aunt was mentioned. Perhaps, in her own way, Sansa was closer to the truth than she knew.

He set down his cup and spoke before the squabble grew sharper. “It matters little what songs and rumours say. Your brother and Bran are alive and well. That is enough for me.”

The words settled over the table like a calm. Even Arya lowered her eyes, though her fingers still traced the hilt of Needle at her side.

The Small Council Chambers, The Red Keep, King’s Landing

The Red Keep’s Small Council chamber was filled with the murmur of shifting parchments and the scratch of quills when King Rhaegar Targaryen raised a hand. The table quieted.

“The matter of the Forgotten Sons,” he said, his voice calm but carrying. “Their name grows louder with every ship that sails into Blackwater Bay. It is time we spoke plainly of them.”

Stannis, dour in his chair at the king’s right, leaned forward. “Plainly? Then let us begin with the truth. They are sellswords — nothing more. Vagabonds who’ve made a spectacle of themselves across Essos. The realm should not waste its breath on rumours.”

Princess Rhaenys arched an elegant brow. “Spectacle or not, Uncle, they are spoken of in every free city. Word reaches me that they fought the Golden Company outside Pentos — and won.”

“That is not possible,” growled Lord Commander Gerold Hightower. His white cloak gleamed in the torchlight. “The Golden Company does not break.”

“Yet some say it has broken for the first time,” answered Queen Dowager Rhaella, Mistress of Whisperers. Her voice was soft, but carried a trace of warmth. “And that its last Blackfyre pretender lies dead at their hands. Dead with Blackfyre itself taken for a trophy. I would not put it past Jaehaerys… He beat death as a babe, a what’s a pretender.”

At that, Rhaegar’s lips tightened ever so slightly. He looked down at his hands, long fingers clasped atop the polished wood of the council table. He had sent the boy away once — for duty, for safety, for fear.

And yet, here was the fruit of that exile: a son who fought slavers, broke companies, carried legends in each hand. Pride burned in him, sharp as a blade, but beneath it stirred an older wound, a father’s guilt that time had not dulled.

Rhaella’s eyes softened as she watched him. She did not need words to read her son. She had seen that look before — in his youth, whenever he played harp while Lyanna’s shadow hovered over him.

Now it was for the boy he had cast out. She reached across the table, her aged fingers brushing his knuckles ever so slightly, a silent comfort that said: You are not the only one who loved him.

Wyman Manderly let out a booming laugh. “If that were true, it would save the Crown a fair deal of worry! One fewer sellsword horde to trouble us.”

His heavy rings clinked as he drummed his fingers on the table. “Though I also hear he rides mammoths and keeps giants in his host. Shall we believe that, too?”

Davos Seaworth cleared his throat. “There’s more, my lords. Word reached me of a great black eagle — a monstrous thing — spotted over Dragonstone. They call it Morghul. If it is his… then perhaps he’s been in correspondence with the Princess Daenerys.”

All eyes flicked to Rhaella. She smiled faintly, shaking her head. “And if he was? Daenerys would not tell me. She is young, and there is a strange love in youth that makes secrets sweet. I do not begrudge her that.”

Rhaenys smirked. “And he is followed, they say, by a warhammer-wielding girl. Mya Stone. Fierce as any knight, they say.”

For the first time, a faint tug pulled at Stannis’ lips, the ghost of a smile. “Like my brother,” he said under his breath, though none at the table failed to hear.

Grand Maester Gormon cleared his throat. “And a boy. Bran Stark, or so the whispers claim. Walks with a cane carved of Weirwood, strange and secretive. Some say he is half-sorcerer, half-priest.”

“Or half-mad,” Hightower muttered darkly.

“Perhaps,” said Rhaella softly, her eyes lingering on the candle flames. “But Jaehaerys never walked alone, not since the day I first held him. He draws companions to him as fire draws the moth.”

Stannis’ jaw worked, stiff as iron. “Be that as it may, we cannot govern the realm by rumour. What we must decide is whether he and his brood are a threat—”

“No.”

The single word, sharp and commanding, cut Stannis short. All eyes turned to the king. Rhaegar’s violet gaze, so often distant, burned now with something fierce and unyielding.

“He is no threat,” Rhaegar said, voice rising. “He is my son. Mine. The son of Houses Targaryen and Stark, and he has been pushed away long enough. No longer will we villainise him to soothe our fears. He has carved his legend without us, yet he remains one of us. And I will not hear him spoken of as an enemy again.”

Silence held the chamber. Even Stannis bowed his head, though his jaw remained clenched. Rhaella’s lips curved in the faintest smile, pride softening her lined face.

Silence hung heavy after the king’s words, broken only by the crackle of torches. Then Wyman Manderly shifted in his chair, his great belly shaking as he leaned forward, his rings catching the light.

“Not to forget, Your Grace,” he said, voice smooth but firm, “the matter is not only of father and son. There is the Stark-Tully-Arryn alliance to consider. Lord Eddard Stark accepted his nephew’s place being… set aside, aye, for the sake of peace and crown. But should this court turn and call the boy a traitor, a threat, a villain? Stark will not tolerate it. Nor will Tully. Nor the Eyrie.”

His words fell like stones into still water, rippling outward with unspoken weight. Even Stannis’ stony face tightened.

Before tension could swell again, Rhaenys leaned forward, her dark eyes sweeping the table, her voice cool and commanding. “Then let us speak with care, my lords. The House of the Dragon can only stand united. We will not set the realm for a second Dance. The first nearly ended us.”

A hush followed, but this time it was not strained. The councillors exchanged glances — uneasy, thoughtful, resigned. The matter of the Forgotten Sons was ended for the day.

The Solar of the Archmaesters, The Citadel, Oldtown

The Solar of the Archmaesters smelled of parchment, dust, and lamp oil. High above Oldtown, the conclave of Archmaesters gathered, their chains glinting in the lamplight.

Archmaester Vaellyn, the Bronze mask covering his pox-scarred face, opened the discussion. “The ravens from Essos grow more absurd by the day. Giants and mammoths walking the streets of Braavos, sellswords kneeling to a boy who claims both Targaryen and Stark blood, and a direwolf so large it devours horses? I will not waste this conclave’s time on Braavosi exaggerations.”

Archmaester Perestan gave a thin smile. “And yet you already are, Vaellyn. Exaggerations are often rooted in truth. The Iron Bank does not entrust its coin to phantoms.”

At that, Archmaester Theomore snorted. “Phantoms, yes. You forget who has attached himself to this boy. Marwyn. Our rogue. He left without permission, taking with him the Citadel’s knowledge of higher mysteries, and he has not sent a single raven in report since. And now—” his lips curled, “his so-called ‘Alleras,’ revealed to be no clever novice, but a girl. One of Prince Oberyn’s brood, no less. And still Marwyn keeps her at his side. As if the Citadel were some hedge school for wildlings and women.”

Murmurs and chain-clinking rippled through the conclave at that, anger rising like heat from stone.

Archmaester Walgrave, master of the ravens, cleared his throat. “Whether you like it or not, the reports are consistent. This company of exiles is no longer a rumour. They have freed slaves in Pentos, broken the Golden Company, and — if the Braavosi tongues are to be believed — ended the Blackfyre pretenders once and for all. Even Marwyn’s silence speaks. If he writes us nothing, it is because he does not wish us to know what he teaches the boy.”

Archmaester Ryam, the oldest of them, let out a rasping cough before speaking. “It is not the first time the Citadel has turned its back on knowledge it dislikes. We dismissed dragonfire until Summerhall burned. We dismissed prophecy until Rhaegar nearly remade the realm with it. If Marwyn fosters Jaehaerys Targaryen, then it may be we are watching the seed of another Summerhall — or another Conquest.”

“Conquest?” Vaellyn hissed behind his mask. “The boy is nothing more than a sellsword playing king. Do you not hear the lies? That he crowned himself in Braavos, a circlet of black iron on his brow, dragons at his back? Madness. One does not crown oneself with Freefolk and cutthroats.”

“And yet,” Perestan said smoothly, “every raven calls him prince, and whispers he carries both Blackfyre and Dark Sister. Even lies gain power when repeated often enough.”

“Some lies,” Walgrave interjected, “are not so easily dismissed. This pale beast they write of — a direwolf taller than a warhorse, white as snow, red-eyed, and ravenous. Seven years the boy spent in Winterfell, and each of Lord Stark’s children had wolves of their own. None so monstrous, aye, but still — it is no stretch to think the boy’s pup grew with him. Truth wrapped in myth, perhaps.”

Archmaester Theomore sniffed. “Direwolves are curiosities. I never expected any of them to grow beyond pups. But the Starks… they’ve always been wedded to northern fancies.”

For a moment, only the scratching of quills filled the room as lesser maesters recorded the debate. Then Walgrave spoke again, softer this time.

“We should have bound Marwyn tighter. Instead, he has loosed himself into the world — and now the world is changing around him.”

The Archmaesters fell silent at that, each caught between anger and unease.

Finally, Ryam spoke, voice trembling but clear: “Mark my words. This company of exiles is no rumour. They are a storm. And storms do not ask for permission.”

Archmaester Theomore sniffed. “And these tales of mammoths? Foolery. The Essosi see a lumbering elephant and call it a beast of legend. What difference does a Pentoshi fishmonger know between tusks and trunks?”

Archmaester Perestan gave a dry laugh. “And what then of the giants, Theomore? A man ten feet tall, swinging a tree branch as a club — is that also an elephant mistaken in the dark?”

Theomore’s lips tightened, but he said nothing.

Archmaester Walgrave leaned forward, voice sharp. “That is the trouble. Even if half these tales are exaggerations, the other half remain uncomfortably real. Ignore them if you wish, but someone out there is mustering beasts and legends beneath a dragon banner.”

The debate about giants trailed into silence until Archmaester Vaellyn cleared his throat. “There are other reports, too. Travellers in the swamps of the Neck whisper of small, childlike figures with skin dark as bark and eyes that glowed like embers. They say the Children of the Forest still walk there.”

Archmaester Ebrose sighed, rolling his eyes. “Old wives’ tales, nothing more. Marsh-folk are half-mad already; they see spirits in every reed and mist.”

“Perhaps,” said Archmaester Walgrave, “but every tale has a root. And if the Forgotten Sons consort with freefolk, giants, and gods-turned-men, why not the Children as well?”

“Stranger still,” Archmaester Ocley interjected, “are the rumours of the Stark boy — the crippled one. They say he walks with a weirwood staff and speaks as though he were thrice his age. Some claim he knows things no child of ten should know. Prophecies, secrets, histories buried long before his birth.”

A murmur rippled through the conclave — half derisive chuckles, half uneasy muttering.

Finally, Archmaester Perestan rapped his chain against the table. “Enough. We will waste no more breath on fairy stories. Until Marwyn sends us a true report, all of this is smoke.”

“If he sends a report,” Archmaester Theomore muttered darkly. “What if he has gone truly rogue? He left against our counsel, he hides his movements, and now he keeps a girl for his assistant in defiance of every rule of the Citadel. If he has cast his lot in with Jaehaerys Targaryen, then what becomes of our order’s knowledge? What becomes of the Citadel itself?”

The words hung heavy in the air, the chains of office clinking faintly as the Archmaesters shifted in their seats. None dared answer.

Theomore’s question lingered like smoke, drawing a silence across the conclave. Finally, Archmaester Ryam leaned forward, his copper mask catching the lantern-light.

“When and if Marwyn returns to us,” he said in his steady, measured tone, “he will be given a chance to explain his actions. If he cannot justify them…” Ryam let the pause linger, his dark eyes sweeping across the table. “Necessary action will be taken. The Citadel does not forget its oaths, nor those who break them.”

The scrape of quills ceased, and the matter was ended. The Archmaesters moved on to other concerns, but the air in the hall remained heavy with unease.

The Lord’s Solar, Horn Hill

The news reached Horn Hill by way of a trader from Oldtown, who swore he had seen it himself:

A fat boy in Tarly colours, blundering about Essos with a retinue of wildlings, giants, and other abominations.

Randyll Tarly sat stiff as iron in his solar, fists clenched on the arms of his chair. His maester read the words again, faltering at Randyll’s darkening scowl.

“Giants,” Randyll spat, rising to his feet. “Wildling scum. Some monstrous wolf-beast. And at the centre of it, my son.”

His wife, Melessa, tried timidly, “It may not be Samwell, my lord. Rumours travel far and change in the telling—”

Randyll whirled on her, fury blazing. “Do you think I do not know my own disgrace? My orders were clear. The boy was to go to the Wall, take the black, and bring no further shame upon House Tarly. Instead, he—” His lip curled. “—he runs east, playing at sellsword with whoresons, cripples, and beasts. Wearing my colours, no less. That fat fool mocks me from across the world.”

His younger son Dickon, watching with wide eyes, asked, “Father… if he is alive…?”

Randyll cut him off. “He is no son of mine. I cast him from this house, and still he haunts me like a carrion crow. May the Stranger take him, and soon.”

He turned back to the window, jaw set, his voice low with seething disgust.

“If Samwell Tarly thinks to make a name in Essos, let him choke on it. He will not bring his ruin back to Horn Hill.”

Randyll’s rant quieted into a cold, measured tone — the kind that chilled his household more than his shouts ever could.

He stared at the ancestral blade mounted above the hearth, the great Heartsbane, dark ripples running along its Valyrian steel length.

“If the boy dares set foot in Horn Hill again,” Randyll said at last, voice like iron scraping stone,

“Then I shall stain Heartsbane with his blood. I’ll wear the name of kinslayer, and drag him screaming to the Seven Hells myself, ere I suffer his shame to sit beneath my roof once more.”

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

Greywater Watch, The Neck

At Greywater Watch, word travelled on reed-rafts and through the mist, carried by crannogmen scouts returning from far-flung roads.

This time the tidings spoke of Essos, of the strange company known as the Forgotten Sons, and of a girl with a longbow of pale weirwood, loosing shafts as swift and sure as if the Old Gods themselves guided her hand.

Howland Reed sat cross-legged upon a woven mat, the parchment in his hand trembling not from age but from pride. His green eyes lingered on the line that told of Meera Reed felling Aegon Blackfyre, last pretender of that cursed line, with a shaft through the heart.

“My little frog-hopper,” he murmured, half to himself, “grown into a huntress worthy of the legends.”

Howland’s lips curved, rare and soft. “She bears Bloodraven’s bow, commands their archers, and walks among giants and direwolves. The girl I once led frog-spearing now stands at the side of princes. The crannogmen shall sing of her deeds for a hundred years.”

He rose and went to the window slit, gazing out at the endless, shifting mists of the Neck. “Let the lords of the South sneer at crannogmen if they wish. A daughter of Greywater has carved her name in blood and song across the wide world, and I… I could not be prouder.”

The Princess’s Solar, Dragonstone

The sea winds howled outside the black walls of Dragonstone, rattling shutters and stirring salt into the air.

Within the solar, laughter rang as Princess Daenerys Targaryen sat with her companions — Shireen Baratheon, bright-eyed with a book in hand; Asha Greyjoy, lounging like a cat with one boot propped on the table; the Dornish cousins Obella and Tyene Sand, whispering sharp jokes between them; and the green-haired Wylla Manderly, forever twirling a quill as if plotting a new mischief.

The merriment ended in shrieks when a great black eagle swept through the high window, its wings thundering like sails in a storm. Books toppled, goblets spilt. Wylla yelped, diving under the table, while Tyene clutched her cousin’s arm and squealed.

Only Daenerys stood firm. She raised her hand, palm steady, and the bird’s amber eyes fixed on her. “Quiet,” she told the others, her voice sharp, commanding. “He won’t harm me.”

With a slow grace, the eagle extended one taloned leg. From it dangled a scroll bound with dark wax. Daenerys untied it, heart hammering, and as the eagle preened its feathers, she slipped a reply of her own into the bindings. “Take it back,” she whispered.

Morghul’s wings beat once, twice, and he was gone, vanishing into the grey sky like a shadow of war.

Her eyes darted across the parchment. Whatever words she read set a flush on her pale cheeks. She pressed the scroll quickly to her chest, too swift for the others to glimpse more than a line.

“Oho,” Asha Greyjoy drawled, her grin wicked. “That can only be from your pretty boy across the sea. What does the dragon wolf write to you, hmm?”

“Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen,” Tyene teased, her voice sing-song. “The forgotten son for the Forgotten Sons. Tell us, cousin, is he still writing poetry to you?”

Wylla Manderly snorted, green hair bouncing as she leaned forward. “Look at her face! Gods, Dany, you’re redder than a cooked lobster. It’s him, isn’t it? The Prince of Ice and Fire himself!”

“None of your business!” Daenerys cried, laughter and panic tangling in her voice as she clutched the letter tighter. The Dornish girls lunged to snatch it, while Shireen shook her head with a knowing, quiet smile.

Daenerys dodged them all, darting to the door. “Leave off!” she laughed, scarlet blooming across her face. Before Asha could trip her or Tyene could pounce again, she bolted from the chamber, silver hair streaming behind her like a comet’s tail.

Behind her, the room erupted in laughter, teasing, and whispered talk of the wolf prince in Essos. But Daenerys was already gone, the letter clutched close, her heart racing with secrets only the sea winds could hear.

Daenerys did not stop running until the laughter of her friends faded behind her and the cool, drafty corridors of Dragonstone swallowed her whole. She pressed her back to the stone wall, chest rising and falling as she uncurled the letter with trembling hands.

Jon’s words spilt across the page in that familiar, sharp, sure hand — lines of news, veiled jokes, and at the end, something softer, something that made her lips curl into an unbidden smile. Her face burned hot as the sea-wind through the windows, and she bit her lip, rereading the last line again and again.

It was then she saw him — Ser Barristan Selmy, white cloak flowing, pacing down the passage with the steady dignity of a man who had seen too much and endured more. He slowed as his eyes fell on her, the scroll half-hidden behind her back, her cheeks aflame.

The old knight’s lips twitched, almost into a smile. “Prince Jaehaerys, I assume?”

Daenerys froze, caught like a child with a stolen sweet. Her blush deepened, and she tried to stammer out a denial, but Barristan raised a hand gently.

“Oh, please,” he said, tone as dry as old parchment, though there was no unkindness in it. “Continue. Don’t let an old man come between young romance.”

He turned to walk past her, the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eye. After a pause, he added over his shoulder:

“But do be on time for the training grounds. A sword does not wait on blushing cheeks.”

Daenerys exhaled, half-laughing, half-mortified, and glanced once more at the words Jon had written. Her heart still raced, but now another thought joined it — the clatter of steel, the weight of the blade, and Ser Barristan’s patient voice drilling her form.

A princess could dream of love. But she would not be helpless. Not anymore.

The Gardens of the Red Keep, King’s Landing

The gardens of the Red Keep basked in the warmth of late afternoon, the scent of lemon and myrtle thick in the air.

Prince Aegon Targaryen reclined on a marble bench, his silver-gilt harp resting idly against his knee as he sipped deep from a goblet of Arbour red.

Around him lounged his companions — Renly Baratheon, laughing too loudly at some jest of his own, Loras Tyrell, poised and sharp as a drawn blade, Trystane Martell, mellow and indulgent, and one of the Redwyne twins, already flushed with wine.

“Seven save me,” Renly chuckled, tossing a grape into his mouth, “but the tales grow wilder each passing day. Giants, mammoths, even a direwolf the size of a warhorse. And all led by your half-brother, Aegon.”

Aegon rolled his eyes, plucking a half-hearted note from the harp. “Half-brother or no, I scarcely believe it. Jaehaerys always was dramatic. Brooding, dour, with all his Stark blood.”

Loras leaned forward, resting a hand on his knee, his expression serious where the others mocked. “Dramatic, perhaps, but there is no mistaking the reports from Pentos. The Golden Company shattered. The Blackfyre pretender was slain. And your brother wielding both Blackfyre and Dark Sister — that, my prince, is no tale.”

The wine soured on Aegon’s tongue. He strummed another note, sharp and dissonant. “And what of it? A sellsword band squabbling in Essos means little here. Westeros is no place for free companies, no matter what they call themselves.”

Trystane’s dark eyes glittered. “And yet, they say Braavos has welcomed them as honoured guests. The Iron Bank itself has sung their praises. That is more than most Westerosi princes can claim.”

Renly snorted into his cup. “And they say he is followed by my niece- a hammer-swinging brute of a maid, strong enough to crush men like crabs in her grip. Gods, Aegon, perhaps she’ll make you a match if you won’t find a proper bride.”

Laughter rang around the table, but Aegon’s smile faltered. His nose, still bearing the faint crookedness of that long-healed break, tingled with remembered shame.

He set the harp aside. “They call him prince, do they not? ‘Prince Jaehaerys,’ they whisper. But I am heir to the Iron Throne. I carry the weight of House Targaryen, not he. My father may speak fondly of him, my grandmother may coddle him, but he is not the realm’s concern.”

Trystane sipped from his goblet before replying, his voice slow and deliberate. “And what of Rhaenys, cousin? You are half Dornish, as she is. What if His Grace has a completely different heir in mind? She is sharp, learned, and already the first Mistress of Laws the realm has ever known. What if the next heir is a Princess?”

The words struck like a thrown dagger, the laughter dying into silence.

Before Aegon could reply, Renly leaned forward, his tone suddenly sharp beneath the easy charm. “Careful, Trystane. Wine and whispers make for treasonous talk. Best we speak of fairer things — like the next tourney, or who among us will take the crown of love and beauty.”

The tension broke, scattered with uneasy chuckles. Yet the thought lingered with Aegon like a bitter taste on the tongue.

Somewhere above, a bird trilled in the branches — sharp, shrill, mocking.

Aegon rubbed the bridge of his nose without thinking, a nervous habit he had never outgrown. There was no scar, no ache — the Grand Maester had seen to that years ago. Yet in moments of tension, he still heard it: the crack of cartilage, the flash of blinding pain, and Jon’s cold grey eyes staring down at him, fist clenched and bloody.

It had been almost eight years, but the memory clung like a shadow. The sting of humiliation, the shame of Rhaegar’s punishment, the years of Ser Oswell’s relentless training that followed. All of it, born from that single moment.

“Prince Aegon.”

The voice was stern, steady, and cut through the garden chatter like a sword drawn from its scabbard. Ser Oswell Whent stood on the path, black plate gleaming even in the dappled shade, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.

The prince straightened instinctively, as if caught idling.

“You’ve dallied enough,” Ser Oswell said, stepping into the garden’s shade, his cloak stirring like a shadow behind him. His eyes swept over the goblets, the harp, the soft laughter. “Drink your fill, play your songs — but remember, my prince, when steel kisses your belly, no melody nor vintage will sing you back to life.”

His gaze slid to Renly and Loras, lounging far too close on the bench. “As for you two — keep your games behind closed doors, else one day a bard will write a song sharp enough to geld you both.”

Trystane Martell flushed as Oswell’s stare found him next. “And you, little viper, take care how you wag that tongue of yours. A careless word of crowns and succession, and it will be your nose that gets broken.”

The laughter of the young lords faltered into uneasy silence. Only Aegon shifted, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as though he could still hear the crack of cartilage when Jon’s fist had smashed it all those years ago.

With that, Ser Oswell turned on his heel and strode away, dark cloak trailing like a shadow across the stones. Aegon let out a long, bored sigh, pushed his goblet aside, and rose to follow after his sworn shield.

The harp lay abandoned on the bench.

Conclusion

And so the rumours spread, from the frozen halls of Winterfell to the gilded chambers of the Red Keep, from the marble libraries of the Citadel to the smoky hearths of lesser lords.

Each tale grew in the telling — a monstrous wolf, giants and mammoths marching with men, a boy-sage wielding a staff of weirwood, a wild archer-girl felling kings and captains, and Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen himself astride both sword and rumour alike.

But, I must confess, I was not there to see these things unfold. The words I set to parchment now are gathered from those who lived them, or who whispered them, or, in some cases, from the visions of my dearest friend, Bran Stark, who peers farther than any man through wings and weirwood roots.

Truth and falsehood, rumour and memory — in such times, they are threads so tightly woven that even the most diligent chronicler cannot always tell them apart. Yet still I write, for though I did not witness them with my own eyes, the world was shaped by them all the same.

And I have since learned this much at least: among the wild tales and fearful whispers, more than one rumour proved far nearer to the truth than the lords of Westeros would ever have believed.

If the tales of Braavos, Pentos, and Qohor seemed unbelievable to them, then Seven save us all — what would they have thought of everything that came after?

Chapter Text

Chapter XXII – Demons in the Grass

The grass stretched farther than the sea itself, or so it seemed to me. Waves of green and gold, whispering against the wind, rolled endlessly as the eye could see.

The Dothraki Sea, they called it. I had read of it in dusty tomes, but no ink on a page could prepare me for the immensity of it, or for the way it made one feel—small, exposed, and terribly mortal.

We rode slowly that morning, the Forgotten Sons spread out in a long, ragged column across the plain. The air smelled of horses, sweat, and the faint tang of ash that still clung to us from Qohor. I kept close to Jon, Ser Jaime, and Meera.

It was then that the talk turned to what Bran Stark had said in Qohor. I had not been there when he returned pale and silent, speaking of secrets older than the Wall itself. All I knew was what the others had whispered: that he had discovered a way to wake dragons.

I remember Jon’s face as he asked Bran, his voice low and careful, “What did you find? What did you see in that darkness?”

Bran leaned upon his pale weirwood staff, his blind white eyes seeming to look through us rather than at us. His answer chilled me more than the coldest wind beyond the Wall.

“We do not yet have all that we need,” he said, his voice soft, yet heavy with certainty. “Not here. Not now. Someday, perhaps. Someplace. But not today.”

“Someday?” Jaime pressed, his golden hair catching the sun, his tone carrying both disbelief and frustration. “That’s no answer. Either you’ve found the key or you haven’t.”

Bran only tilted his head. “Would you open a door when the lock has only half its tumblers? It would not open. Or if it did, you would not like what came through.”

That was all he gave us.

No more, no less. I could feel the silence settling heavily upon the company, like a cloak no one wished to wear.

Meera frowned. “You speak in riddles, Bran. What use are half-answers to us? We deserve more.”

“More will come,” Bran said, and his lips curved in a way that was neither smile nor frown. “But for now, trust that the way is real, even if the road is long.”

I confess, his words left me more bewildered than his silence had. I had read of riddlers and madmen in my books, but here before me stood a boy who spoke like an old sage and a prophet of doom. The others looked to one another, uneasy, but none pressed him further.

And so the matter of dragons was left to wither in the grass, unspoken but never forgotten, while the wind carried our doubts eastward with the endless sea of green.

The march through the grasses was long and oftentimes dreary, yet there were moments where the weight of war seemed to lift, if only for a breath. One such moment came in the form of Ghost.

The great white direwolf—terrible and beautiful when he leapt at the Brave Companions in Qohor, his coat slick with their blood—was now stretched out on his side, tongue lolling, while a half dozen children scrubbed and combed his fur with whatever rags and brushes they could find.

They had gathered buckets of water from a stream and worked at him as though he were some great hound from a noble’s kennel rather than the beast that had struck terror into hardened killers.

Ghost accepted it all with a patient stillness, save for the occasional huff or a twitch of his ear. At times, he even rolled, paws in the air, to the squeals of the little ones who laughed and tugged at his matted coat.

I could not help but marvel at them. These were children who had been captives, children who had seen horrors I dared not dwell upon. Yet here they were—laughing, splashing water, bickering over who would hold the brush next. For all they had suffered, they remained children still. And somehow, Ghost of all creatures had given them that gift.

Jon stood watching, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He tried to bite me when I wanted to clean him,” he said dryly. “Look at him now.”

I laughed despite myself. The others around us chuckled as well, and the children only redoubled their efforts, determined to make Ghost shine white once more.

Not far off, Bran came walking, leaning upon his staff, Summer padding at his side. The brown direwolf’s golden eyes swept over the scene, and if wolves could sneer, I’d swear Summer did then. He walked with a measured pride, tail high, as if to say he was far beyond such indignities as water and soap.

The contrast was so plain that even Jaime Lannister gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Seven hells,” he said, shaking his head, “one wolf’s a king on parade, the other’s a spoiled pup.”

When the laughter at Ghost’s expense had quieted, I noticed Jon and Ser Jaime standing a little apart, their heads bent close in quiet talk. I edged nearer, as I oft did, curiosity outweighing caution.

“We came to Qohor for one Lyseni noble’s son, didn’t we?” Ser Jaime asked, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword as though he could not bear to be parted from it. “To rescue one child—and instead we brought out half a score more.”

Jon nodded. “The boy is safe. I’ve already written to his father. He’ll meet us in Pentos.”

Jaime raised a brow. “And the payment? The coin’s the part I always listen for.”

I blurted before Jon could answer, “Yes, what of the payment?”

Jon’s gaze lingered on Ghost, still surrounded by laughing children, before turning back to us. “Forgiven.”

Jaime let out a short laugh, as sharp as the scrape of steel. “Well, look at that. Only our second contract, and already we’re forgiving payments. At this rate, we’ll be running a charity instead of a company.”

Jon’s mouth twitched, though it was not quite a smile. “The man has already lost nearly everything. And besides, what we found in the Brave Companions’ vaults will more than suffice. Gold and gems, enough to buy us three contracts’ worth.”

“Ah,” Jaime said, “so you balance the books with plunder. That at least sounds like the sellsword company I thought I’d joined.”

His jest earned a chuckle, but Jon’s face grew grave when Jaime gestured toward the rest of the children. “And them? You’ve no noble in Lys to hand them back to.”

Jon’s eyes softened as he watched a little girl attempt to braid Ghost’s tail, much to the wolf’s long-suffering patience. “Meera has spoken with them. Most are street orphans. Others… were sold by their own blood.”

He fell silent for a moment, as if the words had weighed too heavily. “I’ve written to Aurane. He’ll sail the Winter Rose to Pentos. The children will go to our manse there. With the Freefolk women and elders, they’ll have a place to belong.”

Jaime gave him a sidelong look. “So we are a charity after all.”

But there was no bite in his voice this time.

Mance Rayder had claimed the striped beasts the Brave Companions left behind—zorses, half-horse and half… something else. Their hides gleamed in bands of black and white, and they whickered in shrill tones that set even the mammoths to grumbling.

The Freefolk laughed at them at first, but Mance rode one proudly, as though the creature’s strangeness suited him well.

It struck me, watching them march together, how strange a company we must seem to any eyes that might spy us from afar. A ragged host of Westerosi knights, shoulder to shoulder with Freefolk raiders; giants towering twice the height of men, swinging great tree-branches as cudgels; mammoths that shook the earth beneath their feet; elephants lumbering behind, their ears flapping in the hot wind; and now these zorses with their wild, unnatural stripes.

And among them all, two direwolves—the pale ghost and Summer, proud and watchful—padding silently as shadows. Above, the black eagle- Morghul circled, its wings wide enough to shame a kite, its cry cutting sharp through the vastness of the Sea.

A sight to make even the Dothraki halt in their saddles, I thought. And a stranger sight still: that I, Samwell Tarly, should be riding among them.

I could not keep the thought from gnawing at me, so at last I gave it voice.

“What if the Dothraki come?” I asked as we rode. “They could fall upon us out of nowhere, swift as a storm. Their khalasars are said to number in the tens of thousands. What hope have we, even with our giants and mammoths, against such a horde?”

Jon turned in his saddle, his dark hair tugged by the wind. “They will not come,” he said simply.

Jaime, lounging on his destrier as if he were out for a hunt rather than crossing a wild sea of grass, added, “Even if they did, they’d think twice. We look like something out of a septon’s worst dream. A khal may boast of his riders, but how would they fare against giants, mammoths, and the rest of our lot?”

Jon’s gaze sharpened then, his tone quiet but steady. “Besides, Bran would see them long before they saw us. And Ghost would smell them.” He said it with such calm certainty that I almost believed him.

I wished I had his confidence.

As we rode, I noticed Bran not far ahead, swaying atop his little shaggy pony. Archmaester Marwyn rode beside him upon that vile-tempered donkey of his, the beast braying and snapping at anyone who came too near. It was not the first time I had seen them together—Marwyn often pestered Bran with questions about what lay beyond the Wall, or beyond death itself. But this seemed different.

Bran spoke with a kind of curious intensity, his head cocked slightly, while Marwyn peered through a long looking glass, scanning the horizon with the calm of a man gazing upon the sea. Every so often, he muttered some curt, dismissive answer, as though whatever Bran said scarcely surprised him.

I urged my mule closer. “Bran,” I said gently, “what is it? What has he been asking you now?”

Bran turned toward me, his eyes too old for his years. “Not him, Sam. Me. I told him what I’ve seen through my birds. The Citadel has declared him a fugitive.”

I felt my throat tighten. “A fugitive?” I looked at Marwyn, but the archmaester gave no sign of concern, his one good eye fixed firmly on the distance.

Bran went on, his voice as plain as if he were describing the weather. “They named him rogue. They fear he has abandoned his vows, turned away from them.”

Still, Marwyn did not look at me. Only when I thought he might never answer did he speak, his tone as flat as the plains around us.

“I expected as much,” he said. “The day I set foot on the Winter Rose, I knew the grey sheep would bleat. What surprises me is that it took them so long to bleat at all.”

He did not sound angry or even troubled. If anything, there was a trace of amusement in his voice, as though being declared a traitor by the Citadel were no more than the expected end of some long, tedious game.

I swallowed, then pressed him, though every instinct told me not to. “Archmaester… why would the Citadel brand you a fugitive? You’ve done nothing worse than ask questions they are too afraid to ask.”

At last, he lowered the glass, though only for a moment. His thick brows shadowed his eyes, and he grunted something that sounded like a laugh.

“They never forgave me for Alleras,” he said. “Or should I say Sarella Sand. I knew who she was from the first day she sat before me. I knew it, and chose her anyway. That truth pricked them like a thorn they could never pluck out. A woman in the Citadel—”

He cut himself off abruptly, as if realising he had already spoken too much. His head turned sharply, the looking glass raised again, angled toward the eastern horizon.

I followed his gaze but saw only endless grass. “What is it? Dothraki?” I asked, heart quickening.

Marwyn gave a curt nod.

“How many?” My voice cracked.

“One,” he said simply.

“One?” I echoed, bewildered. “What do you mean, one?”

He was already turning his donkey toward the distance, the beast braying at the tug of its reins. His voice was low, yet carried the weight of command.

“Follow me, boy. And you too, Sarella—bring my bag.”

I glanced back, startled, and realised Sarella Sand was indeed there amongst us, quiet and watchful as always, her bow slung across her back. She gave no protest, only nudged her horse forward, a faint smile ghosting her lips at being addressed so openly by her true name.

At Marwyn’s signal, a small knot of riders broke from the column—myself, Sarella, and a handful of Freefolk spearmen— followed him across the sea of grass. The rest of the company reined up, confused but obedient, waiting to see what mystery “one Dothraki” could possibly mean.

The wind carried no sound but the rustle of the plains. My heart thudded in my chest, and I could not help but think: better a khalasar of thousands than some nameless thing that even Marwyn found worthy of pursuit.

As we rode farther, the endless green gave way to something that should not have been there. A tree. A lone, stunted thing, half-wild and twisted, standing stubborn in the middle of the grasslands.

I had not seen many trees since we left Qohor; here they were as rare as castles.

Marwyn’s donkey plodded straight for it, braying with each step as if it, too, disliked the direction. I squinted, raising a hand to shield my eyes from the glare of the sun. There was something beneath the tree’s shade, something slumped and still.

At first, I thought it was a carcass, a dead horse left to rot. But as we drew nearer, I saw the outline of limbs, the shape of a man. My stomach clenched tight.

By the time we reined in a few paces away, I knew what I was seeing: a man half-dead, sprawled like a discarded doll, his lips cracked and red with blood. His chest moved only faintly, a shallow rise and fall. He was taller than most men I had ever seen, though now shrunken by hunger and thirst, his skin clinging to bone.

Marwyn was already off his donkey, bag swinging from Sarella’s shoulder into his hand. “Boy, water,” he barked, and I stumbled to obey, fumbling with my flask.

I knelt, and as I bent closer, my breath caught. His hair was long, matted, but in it jingled tiny things—bells. Many of them, tangled into braids, dull but still glinting under the sun.

Bells. I had read of them in tomes. Every bell meant a victory, a triumph in battle, a rider never defeated. No khal cut his hair, no khal surrendered his bells.

The thought hit me so hard I nearly dropped the flask. This was no common rider. This man was a khal.

Marwyn did not hesitate. He pulled a clay jar from his satchel, thrust it into Sarella’s hands, and barked orders as if we were his apprentices back in Oldtown.

She poured a dark, bitter-smelling salve into her palm, while I tried to trickle water between the dying man’s lips. He gagged, coughed, then swallowed.

Marwyn grunted, pleased. “He still clings. Good. Hold his head, boy. Careful, or you’ll drown him faster than the sea.”

The khal’s eyes fluttered open for a moment—dark, burning, full of hate and despair—and I flinched under their weight. Then they closed again, and his body sagged limp in my arms as Marwyn began his work.

By the time the sun bent low and red upon the horizon, the Forgotten Sons had made their camp around the lone tree. Tents rose like squat shadows against the dying light, fires hissed and crackled, and the smell of roasting meat carried across the grasslands.

Marwyn had taken one of the tents for himself, or rather for the half-dead khal, and for hours I heard little but the sound of him muttering within. Sarella slipped in and out, hands red with herbs and oils.

When at last the flap opened, it was with Marwyn’s bulk filling the frame, sweat darkening his robes. Sarella followed behind him, face smudged and tired.

Jon was not far off, in a ring of laughing children, a stick clutched in each of their grubby fists. He barked mock commands as he sparred three of them at once, ducking their wild swings with ease, tapping their shoulders and legs until they collapsed into giggles. Ghost lounged nearby, one eye open, a great white guardian at play.

The sight ended as soon as Jon caught Marwyn’s expression. He tossed his stick aside, clapped a boy on the shoulder, and strode over. “Well?”

Marwyn wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and his dark eyes settled on Jon. “Poison. A fruit from the east. Common. Every healer in the Reach knows the cure, and even little Sarella here could have managed it.” He jerked a thumb at her, and she gave a small, proud smirk despite her exhaustion. “But the Dothraki…bah. Their healing is a thousand years behind. They left him to rot in the grass.”

Jon frowned. “So he’ll be alright?”

Marwyn let out a grunt that could’ve meant anything. “I cannot guarantee. The poison had time to seep deep, too long before we began. He may wake by morning. Or he may never wake at all. We will know when the sun rises.”

His eyes, sharp as knives, turned to me. “Boy. You’ll sit with him tonight. Watch his breath, his colour. If he stirs, you fetch me. If he dies, you fetch me quicker.”

My mouth went dry. I managed a nod, though my legs already ached at the thought of sitting awake through the night, alone with a dying khal.

Marwyn gave no comfort, only waved his hand as though brushing the matter away, and lumbered off toward the fires. Sarella lingered long enough to press a skin of water into my hand before she too was gone.

And just like that, it was me and the shadow of the tent, and the sound of the grass whispering as the night crept in.

The tent smelled of sweat and herbs, sharp and cloying. The Khal lay on a mat of furs, chest rising and falling with uneven rhythm, lips cracked, skin pale and clammy.

Bells still clung to his braids, little trophies of victories won, though they jingled faintly only when he shuddered in his fever.

I sat beside him, knees pulled to my chest, a candle sputtering between us. The night outside was full of voices and laughter, fires crackling, steel ringing from boys still at play. In here, it was only breath and silence.

It struck me, watching him, how different the world was. In Westeros, even the meanest hedge lord would be tended with all the skill a maester could muster, with milk of the poppy and cool cloths, prayers whispered over his bed until his last breath.

Here, this man had been a khal — a king among the horse-lords — yet his riders had abandoned him to rot in the grass, as if he were worth no more than a broken spear.

Strange, cruel folk, I thought, and yet… not so odd. For was I not abandoned too? My father had cast me off, sent me to freeze on the Wall, to die a coward’s death where no shame could stain the Tarly name.

And yet here I was, in the middle of the Dothraki Sea, watching over a khal, a sword at my hip, the weight of chains of knowledge at my belt. If Lord Randyll could see me now, what would he think? Would he spit and call me a fool still? Or curse me for surviving, when he had so long prayed me dead?

The Khal groaned, and my hand jerked toward the water skin, but his lips stayed closed. Only another ragged breath escaped him.

I leaned back, staring at the canvas above. My thoughts wandered where they always did — to Gilly. Her smile, soft and shy, was the way she would hum to her boy.

Her boy, not mine… though he had clutched my finger with his tiny hand, and I had let myself believe, if only for a little while. I wondered what they were doing now, in Braavos. Safe, I prayed. Happy. Did the boy remember me? Did Gilly?

I wanted nothing more than to return, to see them once again, to walk the streets of that city where I had felt, for the first time, like more than my father’s castoff.

My eyelids grew heavy. The candle burned lower. The Khal wheezed softly, and the bells gave a faint chime, as though mocking sleep. I told myself I would only rest them for a moment — just a moment — but the warmth and the silence wrapped around me like a cloak, and I drifted, my thoughts sliding away into dreams.

I woke with a start to the sound of a groan, louder this time, heavy and raw. My head snapped up, and the candle had burned almost to nothing.

The Khal’s eyes were half-open, glazed but alive, his lips moving faintly in words I could not understand. Dothraki, soft and slurred, like prayers or curses whispered into the dark.

“Seven save us,” I muttered, fumbling for the water skin. I lifted his head as gently as I could and trickled a few drops past his cracked lips. He swallowed greedily, then coughed, the sound rattling through his chest, but he did not turn away.

“Marwyn!” I called out, voice carrying into the camp. My heart hammered in my chest. “Marwyn, he’s awake!”

The tent flap shifted, and in came the Archmaester, his beard tangled, eyes bleary, as if I had dragged him from his bed. He knelt beside the Khal with none of the haste or awe I felt, pressing fingers to the man’s throat, prying open an eyelid, listening to the mumbling as though it were nothing more than idle chatter.

“Well, I’ll be,” Marwyn said at last, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “He’ll live. Good work, boy.”

Relief rushed through me, though I wasn’t sure what good work I had done beyond sitting and keeping watch. “What do I do now?” I asked, still clutching the water skin.

“Feed him,” Marwyn grunted, scratching his beard. “Nothing solid yet, broth if we’ve any, maybe mash up some grain thin with water. After that, poultices for strength.” He gave the Khal one last look, then turned to me.

“But don’t you fret. I’ll have Sarella tend to him. You’ve done your part. Go find yourself a tent and sleep, boy, before you fall over in the dirt.”

I nodded, exhaustion suddenly weighing me down heavier than any chain. The Khal’s eyes flickered shut again, his breath rasping but steady now. I left the tent, blinking against the dawn light, and wandered into the camp, searching for a place to lay my head.

When next I opened my eyes, the world was awash with daylight.

For a heartbeat, I thought myself back in Horn Hill, late to my lessons, but then the scent of grass and beasts filled my nose, and I remembered the Dothraki Sea.

I pushed myself up from the cot and stumbled out of the tent, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The camp was already alive around me. Giants stood at the edge of the clearing, guiding their great mammoths and the smaller, ill-tempered elephants as they grazed. Their laughter boomed across the fields, so loud it nearly rattled my teeth.

Not far off, Mance Rayder bent over the striped hides of the Zorses with Donal Noye, the smith-turned-Quartermaster, the two of them bickering as men do who respect each other more than they admit. Steel clanged from another corner, where the Blackfish barked orders sharp as arrows, drilling young Freefolk boys into something resembling a shield wall.

I caught sight of Mya Stone, Ygritte, and Jarl up to their mischief again, splashing water at one another from a skin. On the other side of the camp, Meera Reed stood, patient as a saint, guiding the rescued children in loosing their first arrows. Their bows were small, their strings weak, but their laughter carried far.

Nearer the centre, Jon and Ser Jaime circled each other with blunted blades, sweat shining on their brows. Children and freedmen crowded about, cheering every clash of steel as though they were watching Ser Arthur Dayne himself.

Ghost lay sprawled lazily beside Summer, both wolves content to let the noise wash over them, their tails twitching in time with the crowd’s excitement.

Beneath the shade of the solitary tree, Bran sat cross-legged, his eyes distant, his face calm, dreaming of gods-knew-what, while his ravens perched above him like a sentinel.

Elsewhere, the Hound snored loudly on a chair far too small for him, his head lolling forward. Tormund, meanwhile, trailed after Alyssane Mormont, booming out some boast or other, while the Lady of Bear Island ignored him with a scowl that promised she’d break his nose if he pressed too far.

I smiled faintly at the life of it all. Strange company, stranger still to feel at home among them. At last, I made my way across the camp, past the laughter and the clash of sticks and swords, until the great canvas of the medical tent loomed ahead. I pushed aside the flap, heart tightening as I stepped back into the place where death and life had wrestled through the night.

The air inside the tent was thick with herbs and sweat, but brighter than I expected. Sunlight streamed through the thin canvas, falling across the figure seated on the cot.

The Khal.

He was upright now, propped against a mound of furs, his skin still pale but no longer the deathly grey it had been. His chest rose and fell with a steadier rhythm, and though his lips were cracked, there was strength in the way his dark eyes tracked me as I entered.

“Good, you’re awake,” Sarella said, rising from a stool at his side. She brushed her hands against her skirts, exasperated. “You deal with him. He’s been flirting since he could speak clearly, and I’ve had my fill. I’m out of here.”

“F–flirting?” I blinked at her, certain I had misheard. “Do you even know the Dothraki tongue?”

“No,” she answered easily, flashing me that half-smile of hers.

“Then… does he know the Common Tongue?” I asked, gesturing helplessly at the Khal, who gave a crooked grin as if he understood the word helpless.

“No,” she said again, already striding toward the tent flap.

“Then how in the Seven Hells do you know he’s flirting?” I demanded.

Sarella glanced over her shoulder, the grin widening. “I’m from Dorne. We know flirting.” And with that, she ducked outside, leaving me alone with the half-dead Khal, who now looked at me like I was the evening’s entertainment.

I stood there for a long, awkward heartbeat, the Khal’s eyes fixed on me, dark and unblinking. Sarella’s words echoed in my ears—flirting—but I shoved them aside. If I were to be left alone with him, I might as well try… talking.

I cleared my throat. “H–hello,” I said, the words sounding clumsy and too soft. “I am Samwell Tarly.”

The Khal tilted his head, then repeated, his tongue thick on the syllables. “Sam… well.”

I nodded quickly, encouraged. “Yes. Samwell. Call me Sam.”

His lips curved faintly, the ghost of a grin. “Sam?”

“Yes,” I said again, a little more firmly. “That’s what everyone calls me.” I hesitated, then pressed on. “And… who are you?”

His chest rose with a deeper breath, and in a voice still rough with weakness, he said, “Anha am Drogo. Khal Drogo.”

“Khal… Drogo,” I repeated, testing the sound of it, heavy and strange in my mouth.

He gave a slow nod, as though sealing an understanding between us.

“Well then,” I mumbled, fumbling for what to do next. “I… I’ll let you rest.”

With that, I excused myself, nearly tripping over the edge of the furs as I backed away, and ducked out of the tent into the bright morning air, my heart thudding harder than it should after a simple exchange of names.

I found Jon and Ser Jaime sparring with blunted blades, circling each other like wolves testing for weakness. A half-dozen children cheered every feint and parry, Ghost lounging in the shade like he’d seen it all before. I raised my voice a little too loud.

“Jon!”

Both swords froze mid-clash. Jaime arched a golden brow, lowering his blade. Jon let out a breath and smirked at me as they walked over. “Just when I was winning,” he said.

Jaime snorted. “You weren’t winning, you were surviving.”

I didn’t bother to correct either of them. My heart was still hammering from the tent. “The man… the one we rescued,” I said. “I know who he is. His name is Khal Drogo.”

Jon frowned, puzzled. “And am I supposed to know who that is?”

“I heard about him in Pentos,” I explained quickly. “He’s not just some rider. He’s the Khal of the largest khalasar in the Dothraki Sea. Forty… maybe forty thousand strong.”

Jaime blinked, then let out a sharp laugh that wasn’t quite humour. “Forty thousand? What in the seven hells is he doing here, half-dead under a tree?”

Jon’s frown only deepened. “And what are we supposed to do with him?”

“I… I don’t know,” I admitted, shifting my weight. “I just thought you should know who he is.”

Jaime sheathed his sword with a flourish. “A Khal, is he? That’s almost like a Lord, no?”

“Or a King,” I said quietly.

Jaime clapped Jon on the shoulder. “Then you’d better meet him, Prince. Leader to leader, so to speak.”

Jon shook his head. “What am I supposed to say? I don’t know the Dothraki tongue.”

Before I could stammer out a reply, a voice answered from just behind us. “I do.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. Bran stood there, pale and calm as ever, Summer padding silently at his side. His eyes were far too old for a boy’s.

“You know Dothraki?” I asked, my voice higher than I’d meant.

Bran’s gaze lingered on me, unreadable. “I’ve… learned much,” was all he said.

Jon exchanged a glance with Jaime, who only shrugged. Then together we turned toward the tent where Khal Drogo waited.

We had just started toward the tent when Ser Jaime raised a hand. “Hold a moment.”

Jon turned back, brows drawn. “What is it?”

“My Prince,” Jaime said smoothly, slipping into that teasing formality he used when he wanted to make a point, “you’ve no idea about speaking with a… noble. And make no mistake, a Khal sounds close enough to one. You look like a squire right now, all sweat and dust from our spar.”

His eyes flicked over Jon’s tunic with mock dismay. “Wash up. Quickly. I’ll fetch Blackfyre.”

Jon groaned, muttering something under his breath, but he did as he was told. He ducked into his tent, splashing his face and combing back his dark hair with wet fingers.

A few minutes later, Jaime returned, carrying a long, black leather scabbard with the reverence of a septon bearing relics. Blackfyre’s grip, wrapped in deep red and dragonstone black, gleamed even in the dimming light.

“Here,” Jaime said, presenting it with a faint smile. “No sense meeting a king without looking like one yourself.”

Jon hesitated, then took the sword. He fastened the black belt around his waist, the weight of the blade dragging at him as if to remind him of its history. He shifted uncomfortably, then looked at Jaime. “Well? Do I look princely enough, Ser Jaime?”

Jaime’s lips curved into a smirk. “Not enough. I’d have asked you to wear your armour, but there’s no time for that.” He clapped Jon’s shoulder once, then gestured toward the tent. “Come. Best not to keep royalty waiting, even if he was found half-dead under a tree.”

Bran was already walking ahead, Summer padding by his side like a shadow, and Sam followed nervously, feeling the weight of what was about to unfold.

Together, they moved toward the Khal’s tent.

The tent smelled of herbs and bitter smoke. Marwyn had left jars and bandages scattered on a low table, and Khal Drogo sat propped on cushions, his skin still pale but his eyes bright and watchful. He looked like a lion recovering from a wound — weakened, but dangerous all the same.

We arranged ourselves around him in a circle. Bran, sitting tall upon a stool as though it were a throne, began the introductions with a voice oddly steady for one so young.

“This is Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen,” Bran said in Dothraki first, then again in the Common Tongue, “Prince of Dragonstone, son of King Rhaegar Targaryen and Queen Lyanna Stark, Commander of the Forgotten Sons.”

Drogo’s eyes flicked to Jon, lingering on Blackfyre at his hip.

Bran went on. “Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, called the Silver Lion, son of Lord Tywin Lannister.”

Jaime dipped his head slightly, golden hair catching the lamplight.

“Lord Samwell Tarly, heir to Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill.”

I chuckled awkwardly, the words sounding absurd in a Dothraki tent in the middle of the grasslands.

“And I am Brandon Stark of Winterfell,” Bran finished, his tone shifting slightly, “the Three-Eyed Raven.”

Drogo gave a faint tilt of his head at that, as if weighing the meaning. Then he spoke in low, rough Dothraki, his voice carrying a strength that belied his wounds. Bran translated:

“I am Drogo, Khal of the Great Khalasar. Bells in my hair are the song of my victories. The sky is my tent, the world my hearth.”

Before more could be said, a Freefolk spearwife entered with a skin of wine. She poured it into carved cups, setting them before us. Drogo’s hand shot out, bold as ever, brushing her hip.

Steel whispered.

In a blink, her knife was at his throat. “You want to try that again, bells?” she hissed.

Drogo laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender, amusement dancing in his dark eyes.

Jon leaned forward, voice even but sharp. Bran translated each word as he spoke. “The people in my camp are not slaves or servants. They are warriors. It would be wise to treat them with respect.”

Drogo’s smile broadened. He spoke swiftly in Dothraki, and Bran gave the sense of it: “Warriors? Are they sellswords then?”

“Something like that,” Jon said. “We fight for gold… but only when the cause is worthy.”

Drogo barked a laugh at that, a sound like gravel. But when Jon pressed the question, his mirth drained away.

“How does a mighty Khal end up half-dead beneath a tree?”

Drogo’s gaze grew dark. He spoke low, each word heavy. Bran translated: “One of my ko, Jhaqo, urged me to eat the fruit of the red tree. It soured my blood. Day by day, I weakened. When I fell from my horse, Jhaqo slew my bloodriders and took my Khalasar for his own.”

The tent was silent for a moment, the weight of betrayal settling over us.

“And now?” Jon asked.

Drogo’s jaw clenched, then he spoke with grim certainty. “Now I ride to Vaes Dothrak. I will find Jhaqo. I will rip out his heart and take back what is mine. And you—” he gestured broadly to us, “—will come as my guests. For saving Drogo’s life, you will feast in my home.”

Jon inclined his head, solemn. “We thank you for your invitation.”

They clasped hands — prince and Khal, dragon and horse-lord.

Drogo’s gaze slid once more to Blackfyre, the Valyrian steel glinting at Jon’s belt. He grinned, teeth white against his dark beard. “When I am strong again… you will fight me. Steel against steel.”

Jon allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “Only when you’re strong enough.”

Drogo’s laughter followed us out of the tent like a promise. I cleared my throat, still uneasy after that handshake. “When we found him beneath the tree… he had no weapons on him. Not even a dagger.”

Bran turned his head, translated it smoothly into the rolling syllables of the Dothraki.

The change in Drogo’s face was immediate. His mirth vanished, his jaw hardened, and for a heartbeat, he looked as though he might rise and storm out then and there. Even weakened, the fury in his eyes was enough to make me want to shrink back into the cushions.

He growled a reply, low and harsh. Bran’s expression flickered, then he spoke in the Common Tongue.

“Not to worry. Jhaqo would have taken my weapons. I will pry them from his corpse.”

His gaze shifted back to Jon, and a dangerous smile crept onto his lips. Another sentence of Dothraki rolled out, half a challenge, half a jest.

Bran translated with a wry twist of his mouth. “And you, Prince… I hope you can wrestle.”

The tent went quiet for a beat. Drogo’s grin widened, testing, waiting to see if Jon would flinch.

Jon didn’t. He only adjusted Blackfyre at his hip and said evenly, “If it comes to wrestling, Khal, we’ll see which of us leaves the ground first.”

Drogo let out a booming laugh, full of approval this time rather than mockery.

The tent grew tense for a heartbeat after Drogo’s challenge, but Jaime, ever unwilling to let silence hang too long, clapped Jon on the shoulder with a grin.

“Well,” he said lightly, “if you do wrestle, try not to break your nose. That’s your brother’s speciality.”

Drogo rumbled something low, eyes narrowing with amusement as he looked the group over. Bran gave a half-smile before translating.

“A pretty golden-haired man, a fat man, and a lame child. You have strange bloodriders, Prince.”

I felt my cheeks burn, though Jaime only threw back his head and laughed, unfazed, and Bran seemed to take no offence at all.

Jon’s lips curved in the faintest smile as he replied, “You have no idea how strange my… bloodriders are, Khal. If you think they’re strange, you must meet Sandor… or better yet, Mag.”

Bran translated, and Drogo barked out a laugh that shook his chest, slapping his thigh with approval. For a moment, the tension broke, and it was just two leaders trading jests across the gulf of language and blood.

The four of us stepped out into the fading light, the flap falling shut behind us. The air felt cooler after the heat of the tent, though the tension between us hung heavier than before.

Jaime was the first to speak, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Best thing to do? Give him a horse, a pouch of gold, and send him on his way. Let the Dothraki handle their own.”

Sam shook his head, looking troubled. “He wouldn’t survive alone. Not out here. He’s weak still—he’d last a day, maybe less, before another khalasar found him. And then he’d die slowly, and horribly.”

Jaime snorted. “So what? He is Dothraki. Khal of forty thousand, wasn’t it? Do you think men rise to such power without blood? He’s raped, murdered, and burned his way across half this land. Why should we care if he lives or dies?”

Bran, quiet until now, spoke in his calm, strange tone. “Vaes Dothrak allows no steel within its gates. If we go there, we’ll be safe enough from blades. And whether Drogo wins or Jhaqo, one of them will command forty thousand riders. That’s an ally we may need… or an enemy we cannot afford.”

That silenced Jaime for a moment, though his jaw tightened.

Jon exhaled, eyes fixed on the horizon where the grass bent in waves of gold. “Sam, how long until Drogo can travel?”

Sam fidgeted, thinking carefully. “If he rests tonight, by tomorrow, he should be strong enough to ride again. Not far, but enough.”

Jon gave a slow nod. “Then tomorrow, we’ll decide his fate.”

The words settled over us like a quiet verdict. None spoke after that. We only walked back toward the campfires, each lost in our own thoughts about the Khal who lay breathing behind us, and the storm he might yet bring.

That evening, as the Forgotten Sons gathered around their fires, Khal Drogo emerged from his tent. He walked slowly, his strength not yet returned, but he carried himself with the same proud air of command that marked every lord I had ever seen—and more besides.

Bran rode beside him upon his shaggy pony, Summer shadowing close behind. I kept to the other side, watching the two of them as we moved through the camp.

It struck me that Drogo looked more unsettled by Bran than by any of the giants, mammoths, or sellswords staring at him. His dark eyes kept cutting toward the boy, as though measuring him.

They began to speak in low voices, their words a stream of Dothraki I could not hope to understand. Yet I did not need the tongue to sense the shape of the exchange.

Drogo’s tone was probing, testing, while Bran’s replies came soft and calm, his pale eyes never leaving the fire ahead. The Khal was trying to unravel him, and finding only more knots.

Bran, for his part, seemed almost amused by Drogo’s scrutiny. His mouth curved once into a faint, knowing smile, the kind that made me shiver even in the heat of the flames. Summer padded closer, as if to remind the Khal that whatever this crippled boy was, he was not without teeth of his own.

We reached the fire where Jon, Jaime, and the others waited. Giants and freefolk, knights and children all watched as Drogo lowered himself onto the ground with a grunt. Bran settled beside him, and I across the way, the air heavy with the scent of roasting meat and the unspoken thought that the man beside us could command forty thousand spears—if he lived long enough to claim them again.

And still, he kept glancing at Bran, as if the boy was the greater puzzle than all of us together.

The feast was no feast by the standards of King’s Landing, or even Winterfell, yet by the standards of the grasslands, it was a banquet. The freefolk roasted venison on open spits, giants boiled whole sheep in cauldrons, and children ran between the fires with bread and fruit stolen from the captured Brave Companions’ wagons.

Into this chaos strode Khal Drogo, guided by Bran’s pony and shadowed by Summer’s unblinking eyes.

Everywhere he went, the camp fell quiet, watching. A man abandoned to die beneath a tree one day, now seated at the table of their commander the next.

Jon made room for him, and soon enough, the introductions began. Bran translated each exchange, his tone steady, as though he were a maester rather than a boy of ten.

First came Mya Stone, sitting cross-legged with a wooden bowl in her hand. She looked Drogo over boldly.

“What are you staring at, horse lord? Never seen a bastard before?” she asked, her mouth full.

Drogo raised a brow at the sharpness of her tone. He said something short, guttural, and Bran gave the ghost of a smile as he translated:

“He says you remind him of his wives. Fierce eyes. He likes it.”

Mya snorted. “Tell him I’m no man’s wife. Nor do I plan to be.”

Bran translated, and Drogo laughed, shaking his head.

Next came Meera Reed, slender and quiet at first. She held her great weirwood bow slung at her back. Drogo gestured toward it, his voice sharp with surprise. Bran translated: “He asks if you stole that from a god.”

Meera smirked. “Not stolen. Gifted.”

The Khal tilted his head, studying her as though she were another riddle he could not solve.

The Hound sat glowering on his stool, tearing at a hunk of meat with his teeth. Drogo’s stare lingered on the burned side of his face.

“Tell him to keep staring,” Sandor growled, “and I’ll take those bells from his braid and stuff them down his throat.”

Bran, expression unreadable, translated the threat. Drogo tilted his head—and then laughed. He said something else, gesturing toward Sandor’s face.

Bran: “He says he has seen men die of fire before, but none sit to drink after. He respects that.”

The Blackfish was next. Ser Brynden Tully inclined his head politely, offering no warmth. Drogo asked him something sharp, and Bran’s brows furrowed.

“He asks if you are the sire of these children,” Bran translated, meaning the rescued ones huddled nearby.

Brynden’s jaw tightened. “No. But I’ll raise them better than their sires did.”

Bran translated, and Drogo gave a small grunt, not quite approval, not quite dismissal.

Mance Rayder sat across from Drogo with his easy half-smile, strumming at a harp. He sang a line in the Common Tongue, then plucked the same notes again in the Old Tongue. Drogo watched him with narrowed eyes and asked a question.

Bran said, “He wants to know why the one who wears no crown sings as though he were a king.”

Mance only chuckled. “Because sometimes songs command better than crowns.”

Finally, Tormund Giantsbane arrived, cheeks already red from too much ale. He squinted at Drogo, then gave a booming laugh. “Bells in your hair? Ha! In the North, we keep bells for sheep. I like you already, though. You look like you could drink.”

Drogo muttered something quick, sharp-edged, and Bran smirked as he translated: “He says he’ll drink you under the table.”

The whole camp roared with laughter as Tormund seized a skin of fermented mare’s milk and thrust it toward Drogo. The Khal did not hesitate, drinking deep.

I watched all of this with quiet wonder. A day ago, Drogo had been left to rot in the grass. Now he was laughing with wildlings, sparring in words with bastards, and eyeing Bran as if the boy were some spirit stepped out of the weirwoods.

It was chaos, yes—but a strange kind of harmony as well.

Later, when the fires had burned lower and much of the camp was roaring at the sight of Tormund and Drogo in their lopsided drinking contest, I found Archmaester Marwyn apart from it all. He stood on a rise outside the ring of tents, head tipped back, studying the night sky with a polished bronze tube in his hands.

I approached, clearing my throat. “Archmaester… you saved the man. Don’t you want to meet him properly?”

Marwyn did not lower the tube. His squat frame was outlined against the stars, his voice gruff. “Ah, he’s alive, isn’t he? That was the point. Why do I need to speak to him now?”

“You don’t even want to know what he thinks, what he’ll do?” I asked, baffled.

At last, Marwyn lowered the tube, his eyes glinting with that half-mad spark I had come to recognise. “Boy, I am an Archmaester of the higher mysteries. I care for things older than this grassland, vaster than a horselord’s Khalasar. Let the prince have his politics, let the wildlings have their drinking games. I’ll not waste my tongue on some savage king of saddles and bells.”

He gave a small shrug, returning the tube to the stars. “The heavens whisper truths no Khal ever will.”

I stood there awkwardly for a moment, listening to the distant cheers as Tormund toppled backwards into the dirt, defeated at last.

I lingered a moment longer, watching him with the stars, before the words slipped out of me. “Former. Former Archmaester of the Higher Mysteries. The Citadel declared you a fugitive, didn’t they?”

Marwyn gave a throaty chuckle, deep as gravel. “So they did, boy. So they did. But here I stand, still carrying the Ring, the Rod, and the mask of Valyrian steel. Those grey sheep in Oldtown can bleat whatever they like — it changes nothing.”

He jabbed a thick finger at the campfires below. “Look about you, Samwell. We sit amidst a child wizard who wears the Weirwood’s sight like a second skin, among giants, mammoths, and direwolves that would’ve been dismissed as fairy tales in the Citadel’s vaults. And you still doubt?”

His gaze shifted, pointing toward where Jon sat at the edge of the firelight, Ghost at his side, children huddled around him like ducklings. “Soon enough that prince will fly upon the back of a dragon, and when he does, the grey sheep will learn the truth of their irrelevance — as they did once before, in ages past.”

The firelight caught the steel links on his chain, and for an instant they gleamed like dragonfire.

I left Marwyn with his stars and his certainty, the words gnawing at me like worms in old wood. Could the Citadel truly lose its power?

For centuries, they had been the keepers of knowledge, the shapers of thought in every hall and holdfast of the realm. Could all that be swept aside by fire and shadow, by things they had scorned as children’s tales?

Marwyn claimed the grey sheep had clipped the wings of magic before, that the death of the dragons had been no accident but the fruit of their quiet work. Could they do the same again?

I frowned as I trudged back through the camp. It was not just dragons this time. It was giants, walking openly in the Dothraki Sea.

Mammoths trumpeting beside elephants. The children of the forest haunt their swamps again. Death itself is stirring in the farthest snows. And Bran… whatever Bran had become.

It felt too large, too vast to smother with chains and quills. Magic was not a single fire this time, but a storm sweeping the world.

For the first time in my life, I wondered if the age of maesters was waning… and if the age of wizards was dawning.

For a moment, fear nipped at me like a cold wind — fear of what would come, of powers far beyond my understanding. But then another thought crept in, soft and foolish, the kind of thought I used to have when I was a boy hiding in the library at Horn Hill.

In my childhood, I always wanted to be a wizard, like the ones in the stories. I know now that I’ll never be one — not with my clumsy hands and my quill-smeared chains — but perhaps I don’t need to be.

Even if I can’t become one myself, I am watching the rise of one.

I turned my eyes to Bran, just as he was leaving the supper table where Drogo slumped, drunk and defeated by wine rather than steel. Bran limped away on his weirwood cane, Summer shadowing him step for step, and for an instant, he looked every inch the wizard of the tales I once dreamed of.

Come morning, I found myself in Jon’s tent. When I pushed aside the flap, Ghost was the first to greet me, sprawled near the entrance with a raw bone clenched between his teeth, his red eyes watching me with lazy suspicion. Inside, Jon was strapping on his cuirass, the polished steel catching the early sun.

“You’ve decided,” I said, though I already knew the answer from the bustle outside.

Jon gave a small nod. “We’re going to Vaes Dothrak.”

I swallowed. The name still sounded like something out of a fable, not a place a company of Westerosi knights, wildlings, giants, and mammoths should march toward. “Why?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.

He fastened the last buckle on his armour, then straightened to face me. “Because we must. Donal Noye’s been muttering for days about our dwindling stores. Even with the elephants and mammoths carrying weight, we’re stretched thin. Marwyn complains more loudly than Donal, though I think it’s less about supplies and more about wanting a fire-warmed bed.”

He gave the ghost of a smile before continuing, more serious. “We’ve been on the road since Braavos. No rest, no respite. Men grow weary when they have no place to call their own, even for a short while. If Vaes Dothrak is the heart of the Dothraki, then it may serve us well to rest in its shadow. To show the Forgotten Sons they are not just wanderers. And…” He hesitated, his hand brushing the pommel of Blackfyre. “…it will do us good to spend time among others, even if they are not Westerosi. To remind us what we are fighting for.”

I shifted awkwardly, watching him cinch the last strap on his armour. “But Jon… is it wise? Vaes Dothrak is the seat of all the Horselords. If Drogo has enemies—and he does—won’t they see us as his allies? We’d be walking into a nest of snakes.”

Jon pulled his cloak over his shoulders, his expression calm, as if he had already weighed these doubts. “I’ve thought about it. The Dothraki forbid bloodshed in their sacred city. Not steel, not blades—nothing. So whatever nest we’re walking into, its fangs will be blunted.”

That did not ease my worry. “And what if they break their own laws? What if we’re surrounded?”

Jon’s eyes flicked toward the camp outside, where the morning sun glinted off the banners of the Blackfish’s cavalry. “Only some of our company will enter. The Freefolk, the giants, the mammoths, the elephants, and Ser Brynden’s riders will remain outside. If anyone inside dares to threaten us, then…” He paused, his voice low and certain. “Then Blackfish will have the giants tear Vaes Dothrak down stone by stone. Horde or no horde.”

The matter-of-fact way he said it made me shiver more than the threat itself.

“And Drogo?” I asked. “You’d gamble the safety of us all on him?”

Jon’s hand brushed the pommel of Blackfyre, and for a moment, he looked more like a Targaryen prince than he ever had. “Bran gave his word. He trusts Drogo, and I trust Bran. That’s enough for me.”

I nodded, though my heart still hammered in my chest. Jon’s words carried certainty, the kind of certainty that makes other men follow without question. Perhaps that was why I found myself agreeing, though my doubts still whispered at the back of my mind.

“All right,” I said softly. “If you trust Bran… then I’ll trust you.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips, and for a moment, he was only Jon again. But then my thoughts returned to what he had said so calmly—that if threatened, he would have the giants raze Vaes Dothrak to the ground.

I had always thought of him as more Stark than Targaryen, more quiet honour than dragonfire. Yet in that moment, I saw the other side of him, the dangerous inheritance of his father’s line. Not cruelty, no—but a fierce, almost rageful protectiveness that would see a city burned to ash before he let harm come to his own.

And strangely… I found hope in that.

If Jon carried both wolf and dragon inside him, perhaps that is what we needed- A leader who could lead us with honour, and defend us with fire.

When I stepped from Jon’s tent, the morning sun already blazed down upon the grasslands, turning the sea of green into a rippling ocean of gold.

The camp bustled with its usual order—soldiers rolling tents, Freefolk shouting, mammoths bellowing—but my eyes were drawn to a curious sight near the edge of the lines.

Khal Drogo stood beside the Zorses. Mance Rayder was with him, arms folded, smirking as if he expected some wager to be placed, while Bran sat calmly nearby, the words flowing from his mouth as he bridged the gulf between the horselord and the King-beyond-the-Wall.

Drogo’s dark eyes traced the striped beasts with something between wonder and contempt. His hand hovered in the air as if he wanted to touch them, yet did not dare. The Zorses shifted restlessly under his gaze, their striped coats gleaming strange and otherworldly in the sunlight.

I knew enough of the Dothraki to feel the weight of that moment. For them, the horse was everything—god, weapon, food, and measure of a man’s worth. What then was a Zorse, bred of horse and zebra, bearing the shape of one yet the wild stripes of the other? A marvel, or a mockery?

Drogo murmured something low and guttural, his tone tinged with what sounded like disbelief. Bran’s translation came smoothly and even: “A horse that wears the pelt of a tiger. I do not know whether to honour it or to fear it.”

Mance only laughed, clapping the Khal on the shoulder. “Best not to fear it, bells.”

Drogo’s answering smile was sharp, but his eyes never left the beasts. And as I watched, I could not shake the thought: to a people who worshipped horses, these Zorses must be nothing less than heresy made flesh.

Mance’s laughter carried like a drumbeat, and then—on a whim, as was ever his way—he snapped his fingers at the nearest Freefolk lad tending the reins. “Bring me the striped one, the mean-eyed beast.”

The boy obeyed, tugging forward a black-and-white brute with a mane that flared like a war banner. Mance took the reins and, with a flourish, offered them out to Drogo.

“Here,” he said, grin wide, “a gift from the King-beyond-the-Wall. Ride it, break it, or eat it if you must. But I’d wager it carries you better than any of your horses.”

Bran translated with a steady tongue. Drogo’s brows rose, and for a heartbeat, the Khal looked at Mance as though he could not tell whether he was being mocked or honoured.

Then, slowly, he reached for the reins, his dark hand closing around the leather. The Zorse tossed its head and stamped, but Drogo held firm, his lips curling in something almost like respect.

I felt a cold shiver in my belly. The Dothraki did not trade in coin or contracts as we did. For them, all dealings were gifts. A gift was sacred, never repaid with coin, but with another gift—equal or greater. The return did not need to come today or tomorrow, but it always came, in its time.

Did Mance know what he had done? No, of course not. He was grinning, arms folded, enjoying his jest, while Drogo weighed him with eyes that promised a debt had been forged.

I wondered then—what gift would a Khal offer in return? What coin could a horselord of forty thousand pay to a ragged king of Freefolk?

And when it came due, would Mance be glad of it—or crushed beneath the weight of his own generosity?

When the march began, the morning sun burned gold upon the grasses, and our host stretched long and proud across the Dothraki Sea.

At the head rode Jon, clad in his red-and-black armour, Blackfyre resting easy at his hip. His grey destrier carried him with the steady grace of the North, and Ghost padded behind like a silent shadow.

To his right rode Ser Jaime, gleaming in his Kingsguard plate, the silver lion of his helm flashing in the light. His courser, long-maned and white as snow, seemed to prance with every step, as though it too knew the worth of the rider astride it.

Behind them thundered Mya Stone, blue leather armour catching the sun, her mighty warhammer strapped across her back. She sat her black destrier like she had been born for the saddle.

Beside her came Meera Reed, bronze scales rippling with each stride of her light grey courser, her weirwood bow slung close at hand.

Then came I—Samwell Tarly—less than splendid among such company. My mule plodded stubbornly as ever beneath my Tarly surcoat, ears twitching as though it alone found offence at this grand procession.

Bran rode near me on his shaggy little pony, his eyes far away as though seeing things none of us could, while Marwyn hunched gruffly atop his rude donkey, muttering to himself as though the very earth beneath us were a book to be read. Summer padded loyally at Bran’s side, every step silent and proud.

Behind us loomed the Hound, his black warhorse Stranger stamping impatiently, the man himself dark and grim in his dog-faced helm.

Then came Mance Rayder, grinning atop his freshly tamed zorse, striped hide flashing strange against the sea of grass.

And just beside him, riding with a grim grace that none could deny, was Drogo. The Khal’s hair swung in its long black braid, the bells within it chiming faintly with each step of his striped mount. Though the beast moved differently from any horse he had ever known, Drogo seemed to be mastering it quickly, his body flowing with the animal’s strange rhythm.

I could not help but note the arakh slung across his back. I knew it by the curve of the blade and the weight of its hilt—it was the very weapon Ser Jaime had claimed after slaying that fat brute, Zollo, in Qohor.

Now it rode with a Khal, reborn in Drogo’s grasp.

It struck me then how strange our company must look to any eyes watching from afar: a Targaryen prince in dragon’s armour, a lion knight, bastards, wildlings, direwolves, giants, mammoths—and now even a horselord of the Dothraki.

The Forgotten Sons, Jon called us. Yet as I looked upon the host arrayed before me, I thought: who in all the world could forget us now?

The march itself was unlike anything I had ever known. There was no stiff order to our columns, no harsh barked commands or lash of the whip.

The Freefolk sang as they walked, bawdy tunes that made the Westerosi among us shake their heads or laugh despite themselves. Children darted between mammoth legs and giants’ strides, chasing one another in games that would have made septas faint. The zorses nickered strangely, their striped hides catching the sun, while the elephants plodded on with their heavy, solemn dignity.

And yet, for all the strangeness, it worked.

Jon had once told Drogo, in that first tense meeting, “The people in my camp are not slaves or servants. They are warriors. It would be wise to treat them with respect.” Those words lingered with me now as I watched our host stretch across the grass.

How rare, I thought, that such a company should exist. No man or woman marched with us because they were bound by oaths or shackles. All of them were here by choice. Freefolk or knight, giant or bastard, prince or sellsword—none of it seemed to matter. Rank came not from birth, but from deed, from what each man or woman could give to the company.

There rode Mya Stone, swinging her hammer with as much pride as any knight bore his sword. A woman. A traitor’s bastard. And yet, she rode beside a Prince of the Blood and a knight of the Kingsguard, neither looking down on her for what she was called at birth. That would never have happened at Horn Hill. My father would have called it chaos, folly, an insult to all the laws of gods and men.

But I… I could not see it so.

This was something different, something freer. A fellowship not bound by chains of fealty and birth, but woven by choice and respect. I wondered if perhaps, in years to come, men might speak of it as the seed of a new way of life.

And then, as so often happened when I least wished it, my thoughts turned to my father.

Did he know I had sailed with giants and mammoths from Hardhome to Braavos, that I had fought in the streets of Pentos, that now I rode through the endless grass of the Dothraki Sea in the company of princes, knights, bastards, wildlings, and things he would have called monsters?

Did he know that I was in love with a Freefolk girl—Gilly, sweet Gilly—born of incest, mother to a child, though I had never once confessed my feelings to her? I would have written to her, like Jon does so easily, if only she could read. Instead, I carried her in silence, in memory, in every thought when I closed my eyes.

If Lord Randyll Tarly could see me now—me, his disappointment of a son—what would he say? Would he curse me for dishonour? For cowardice still? Would he laugh at the thought of me, Samwell, marching armed among warriors, though my knees still quaked at the sight of blood?

Or… would even he be forced to admit that I had lived, that I had seen and done things he himself could scarcely imagine?

No. I knew the answer as soon as I thought it. He would hate me all the more for surviving without his leave, for proving that I could stand in the world despite him.

And then I stopped myself. What did it matter what my father thought? What did it matter if he cursed my name or never spoke it again? I was not the Lord of Horn Hill, and I no longer cared to be.

I had become something else, something far stranger and far more interesting than Randyll Tarly’s heir.

I had a family now. Not one of blood and duty, but of choice. Jon and Bran—my brothers. Mya and Meera—my sisters. Jaime, with his sly grin and sharp tongue, was like an uncle who looked out for us whether he admitted it or not. Marwyn, a rambling, half-mad grandfather with the stars in his eyes. And so many others besides.

And Gilly… Gilly was something different, something I had never known before, something unnamed yet, fragile and precious.

Yes. I had a family. A strange, ragged one, stitched together from the forgotten and the unwanted, but my family nonetheless. One that did not demand I change, one that did not see me as a disappointment, one that accepted me as I was.

I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding and raised my eyes to the Company around me. Giants grazing their great beasts. Freefolk laughing and bickering over fires. Children chasing Ghost’s white tail through the grass.

Jon was at the head of it all, the weight of command on his shoulders, but still smiling faintly as he spoke with Jaime.

This was my family.

My gaze drifted to Sandor Clegane, hunched on a rock with his helm at his feet, muttering curses at the sun, the flies, and whatever else dared cross his path. He saw me looking and scowled before turning away.

I smiled despite myself. Even the Hound, I supposed, had a place in this strange, stubborn family that called itself the Forgotten Sons.

By the time the sun stood high, the shadow of Vaes Dothrak came into view across the rolling plain.

It was called a city, but to my eyes it was nothing of the sort. No stone walls, no towering keeps, no citadel spires reaching for the sky.

In Westeros, folk would call it a war camp—a camp that had simply never thought to move, and so grew wider and wider until it spread like a sea of hide and timber, great horse idols rising from the earth like crooked trees.

It was vast, yes, but it lacked the permanence of stone. It was a city of tents, of fires, of horses, of dust.

Our Company slowed, and soon enough, the order was given to halt. Those chosen to go into the city dismounted and began unbuckling steel. By law of the horse-lords, no blade was to be carried past their sacred gates.

I watched as steel whispered from scabbards, axes, knives and longswords handed down into waiting hands. Even Ser Jaime, ever bristling with polished plate, surrendered his sword with obvious reluctance.

Jon was the last. He drew Blackfyre from his hip, the black scabbard catching the light, and turned to Ser Brynden.

“Ser Brynden,” Jon said evenly, “Bran—or I through Morghul—will keep you informed every few hours. If we don’t—”

The Blackfish cut him off with a shrug. “Then we’ll raze Vaes Dothrak and make us a song fit to stand beside The Rains of Castamere.”

A few of the Westerosi nearby laughed, others spat, and Mya gave a crooked grin. Jon’s face remained grim, but he said nothing.

And me—I could not help but think how casual it all was. They spoke of their own probable deaths, and of burning a city of thousands to ash, with the same tone other men used to discuss weather or wine.

The company gathered in a loose circle, steel already passed to those staying behind. The question now was who would ride into the city, and who would wait.

The Hound spat into the dirt before Jon had even finished speaking.

“Not me. I’m not stepping foot into a nest of horse-fuckers without steel on my hip. You want to walk into their sacred city unarmed, you do it. I’ll be waiting out here, drinking.”

A few of the Freefolk growled in agreement, voices rising with his. “Aye, no bloody chance,” said Harma Dogshead, shaking her axe. “What sort of fools walk into a city without weapons? That’s madness.”

More followed—men and women both. To them, the thought of being disarmed was like being flayed of their skin. They would rather face death with steel in hand than bow to Dothraki law.

And it wasn’t just the Freefolk. Several of the Westerosi in our ranks stepped back as well, muttering excuses. “It’s not our place.” “We’ve fought enough horse-lords already.” “Best let the highborn deal with them.”

At last, only a smaller band remained.

Jon, calm as ever, announced the names. “I will go. Ser Jaime with me. Mya, Meera. Bran. Sam.” My stomach dropped when my name left his lips, though I had half-expected it.

“Mance, I’ll need you,” Jon continued, “and Donal Noye with his men, to speak of our needs. Archmaester Marwyn and Sarella as well.”

“And him,” Jaime said, jerking his chin toward Drogo, who stood tall and silent beside his striped zorse, his arakh strapped to his back.

Drogo grinned at the mention, as if it were a foregone conclusion.

That made us twelve. Twelve unarmed souls walking into the heart of the Dothraki.

Jon turned to Ser Brynden, who stood grim and steady with the Forgotten Sons at his back. “The company is yours until I return.”

The Blackfish gave a sharp nod. “You’ve my word, Prince. If things turn, we’ll be at the city’s throat before the horse-lords know it.”

And with that, the matter was settled.

We mounted once more—Jon at the front, black and red armour gleaming, Ghost padding silently behind. The rest of us followed in a line, the camp behind us a restless sea of steel and beasts.

The Blackfish raised a hand in salute as we rode toward the distant gates of Vaes Dothrak, and I wondered if we would ever see him again.

The Horse Gates of Vaes Dothrak loomed before us, vast bronze stallions rearing to either side, their hooves poised as if to crush all who passed beneath.

They were the only gates the city possessed, and even those bore no doors—for the Dothraki feared no siege.

I had read of them once, but seeing them in truth made my throat dry. They were not a city’s walls in the Westerosi sense, only a marker, a boundary where one world ended and another began. Beyond lay the Dothraki’s holy ground, where no blood might be spilt. Or so the stories said.

We drew closer, hooves crunching dry earth. I noticed Ser Jaime beside me, armoured and radiant, though his hand twitched toward his empty hip again and again, reaching for a hilt that wasn’t there. His fingers brushed at the air before falling back to his thigh, restless, frustrated. I thought of the irony—one of the greatest swordsmen in all the Seven Kingdoms, disarmed before a thousand horse-lords.

At first, the riders at the gates paid us little mind. To them, we were only another band of traders or wanderers, strangers come to peddle steel and silk and stories. They looked ready to wave us through, no more interest in us than in the dust that rose behind our horses.

But then their eyes found the man at our side.

Drogo sat tall upon his striped steed, his braid brushing against his back, his arakh glinting in the sun. For a heartbeat, the Dothraki only stared, as if sight betrayed them. And then the murmurs began—low, sharp, disbelieving. Their faces shifted from boredom to awe, fear, and something like reverence.

To them, he was a man risen from the dead.

And in truth, I thought, perhaps he was.

The murmurs at the gate spread like fire through dry grass. One rider galloped off, then two, and before long, I saw a dust cloud rising from the east, a band of horsemen coming fast.

Drogo leaned a little toward Bran and spoke in the harsh syllables of the Dothraki. Bran’s pale eyes flicked toward us. “They are mine,” he said flatly, “young blood of my khalasar.”

I studied them as they drew near. They were lean, hard-faced youths, their braids short, some barely past their shoulders. The Dothraki cut a man’s braid when he was shamed, but these had never yet had the years to grow them long. Boys, I thought, not yet men—but boys bred to kill from horseback.

Drogo sat his striped steed as if on a throne, calm as still water. His composure was what eased me—if the Khal himself felt no danger, perhaps we were safe for now.

The riders slowed, fanning before us in a crescent. Their dark eyes moved over Jon and Jaime and the rest of us, dismissive, before fastening on Drogo. I could almost feel the weight of their stares, the disbelief, the question: Could it be him?

For a long moment, none moved. Then, as if the doubt had been burned away by some invisible fire, they slid from their saddles and went to one knee in the dust. Their heads bowed, their braids falling forward.

Drogo’s smile was like steel bared. He spoke swiftly, his voice deep and commanding. Bran translated in his calm, hollow way.

“They ask how he lived when Jhaqo spoke of him as dead. He tells them the truth—that the poison ate me, but I did not yield. That we—” here Bran’s eyes swept across us, “—found him beneath the tree, fed him, gave him water, and brought him strength again. We are his honoured guests.”

The young riders lifted their heads then, and when they looked at us their eyes held something new—not suspicion now, but wary respect.

The horse-gates swallowed us whole, and suddenly we were in Vaes Dothrak.

To call it a city seemed wrong to me—no walls, no keeps, no market squares like Oldtown or King’s Landing. Just a sprawl of endless tents and timber halls, smoke curling from cookfires, the smell of horseflesh and dung heavy in the air. To the Dothraki, this was home. To my eyes, it was an enormous camp that had simply never moved.

Drogo rode ahead with the same easy pride as though he had never fallen, his braid swinging with every stride of the striped beast beneath him. The young riders flanked us like a living guard of honour, their gazes fierce, their pride rekindled.

Jon leaned forward in his saddle, voice low but steady. “How will you take them back, Khal?”

Bran’s eyes went blank for a heartbeat as he listened to Drogo’s reply, then his voice came out flat, without inflexion, though I swear a shiver ran down my spine at the words:

“Before the Dosh Khaleen,” Bran translated, “I will name Jhaqo usurper. He will have no choice but to meet me in single combat, or yield my khalasar into my hands. If he yields, the shame will poison him more deeply than fruit. And if he fights—”

Here Drogo’s lips curved in that cruel smile I had already learned to dread.

“—then I will split him open for all to see. Under the eyes of the mothers of Khals, the truth cannot be denied. I am Drogo, and I will not be stolen from.”

Jon said nothing, only gave the faintest nod, but I noticed his hand brush the empty place where Blackfyre should have hung. Jaime, too, flexed his fingers uneasily on reins that held no sword.

For my part, I only wondered what it meant to fight a duel in this land of horselords. In Westeros, it was steel and shields and a septon’s prayers. Here, it would be arakhs and pride, and a man’s whole people hanging in the balance.

As we followed Drogo deeper into the city, I tried to think of the right word for Vaes Dothrak. City did not fit, nor did village or camp. It was all of these things and none of them.

The sprawled marketplace looked as though a thousand fairs had been crammed together without order. Stalls laden with silks from Yi Ti, carpets from Qarth, furs from Ib, and weapons with strange hooks and edges that no maester’s text had ever shown me. Spices perfumed the air—so strong they stung my nose—mingled with the less pleasant stink of dung, sweat, and roasting horseflesh.

The traders themselves were as varied as their wares: pale-skinned Ibbenese beside dusky Summer Islanders, a copper-skinned merchant of Qarth haggling with a Lyseni sailor, even a pair of shy-faced Qhathi who stared at Bran as though he were some omen.

To the right loomed monuments dragged from across the world, trophies of conquest set down without care for order or harmony. A carved sphinx that might have stood once in Old Ghis leaned drunkenly beside the broken head of some Valyrian statue. A golden idol of a four-armed god from Yi Ti gleamed dully beside a weathered Andal carving of the Warrior—I blinked, for a moment swearing it was true, though the face on it was crude and shallow.

The Dothraki halls themselves were built of wood and grass, towering like giant huts. They smelled of smoke and horsehair, their doors wide enough to let an entire rider and horse pass through together.

Children ran barefoot through the dust, laughing, while women carried baskets of fruit and jars of fermented mare’s milk.

Mya Stone let out a low whistle beside me. “Seven hells. I thought Gulltown was busy, but this…”

Meera’s eyes darted from merchant to merchant, curiosity in every glance. “It’s like half the world is camped here.”

Even Jaime seemed struck, though he hid it poorly. He kept his chin high, as if trying to convince the city itself that he had seen more interesting things before.

And Bran, well… Bran only looked. His gaze went not at the stalls or the monuments, but higher, further, as though his eyes were not for the city but for something it was hiding.

Ghost padded silently at Jon’s heel, but Summer’s ears twitched at every new sound. I thought of how far we had come—from the snows of the Wall to this place where the whole world seemed gathered beneath the hooves of horses.

And in the heart of it all rode Drogo, smiling faintly, as though he had never been gone.

I could see it in their eyes.

The others wanted to scatter like children at a fair—Mya craning her neck toward the weapon stalls, Meera watching trays of strange fruits and roasted meats with hungry curiosity, even Marwyn leaning forward on his donkey as though half-tempted to dive headfirst into a merchant’s tent and argue about charms and glass candles.

But before any of them could slip off, Jon reined in his destrier. Ghost stopped with him, ears pricked. Jon’s voice was low, careful, meant for us alone.

“Bran,” he said. “Don’t translate this part.”

Bran’s pale eyes flicked up to his cousin, and he gave the faintest nod.

Jon let out a slow breath. “Drogo has named us his honoured guests, but don’t fool yourselves. Until he has his horde back, even he is walking a knife’s edge. If Jhaqo or another Khal takes offence to our presence, we’ll be nothing more than outlanders to be butchered. So—no wandering. No splitting off. Hold your curiosities until Drogo’s challenge is done. If he wins, you’ll have your fill of markets and monuments. If he doesn’t…” His mouth tightened. “Then we’ll need to be ready to flee this city before the dust settles.”

Mya made a sound somewhere between a snort and a groan. “Seven bloody hells, Jon. You bring me to a place like this and tell me not to look around?”

Marwyn chuckled, tugging at his chain. “Boy, you tempt me with Qartheen scrolls and YiTish talismans and then tell me to keep still? Cruel, cruel.”

“Not boy,” Jaime said dryly, turning Honour’s head closer to Jon’s. His Kingsguard armour caught the fading sun. “Prince. And he’s right.” He dipped his head toward Jon—an acknowledgement, almost like agreement from a sworn shield to his commander.

Meera said nothing, though I noticed her hand brush the empty quiver at her hip, restless.

As for myself, I only nodded, though I felt the weight of it. Jon’s words were steady, but beneath them I could hear the Targaryen fire he had inherited—ready to burn the whole of Vaes Dothrak if it came to that.

And for once, none of us argued further.

The closer we rode to the great mountain at the heart of Vaes Dothrak, the more the crowd thickened around us. Word of Drogo’s return had flown faster than any raven, carried on the shouts of riders and the pounding of hooves.

But it wasn’t just the Khal they were staring at.

I saw it in the faces of the Dothraki: eyes going wide, mouths tightening, some pointing, others whispering hurriedly to one another as though their tongues might burn if they said it aloud.

Ghost padded at Jon’s stirrup, pale as snow and silent as death, his red eyes gleaming in the light. Summer kept pace behind Bran’s pony, his golden-brown coat bristling whenever a horse drew too near.

And the Dothraki saw them.

Two wolves, as tall as horses. Not mere beasts, but monsters out of nightmares, their paws heavy enough to churn the earth, their teeth longer than daggers.

I had read that to the horselords, their mounts were not only companions but gods. They prayed to them, lived with them, fed on their flesh and drank fermented mare’s milk as if it were holy wine. Their whole world was shaped around the horse.

So what must they think now, looking upon wolves as large—or larger—than their gods?

Demons. That’s how their eyes read to me. Demons striding casually beside us, their presence tolerated by the pale boy on the shaggy pony and the dark prince with the sword of Aegon the Conqueror on his hip.

The whispers chased us all the way toward the Mother of Mountains, rippling through the crowd like grass in the wind.

We were nearing the Mother of Mountains, its black peak rising over the grasslands like the spine of some ancient god, when a murmur ran through the crowd ahead.

Another host was approaching.

I turned in the saddle and saw them: a knot of riders, braids swinging, hooves thundering in rhythm. At their head rode a man larger than most, his chest broad, his face ugly and pocked, his shoulders scored with long, half-healed scars. His braid was thick but shorter than Drogo’s, its bells fewer, its weight less.

If Drogo was a shadowcat—sleek, deadly, moving with the grace of a predator—then this man was a wild boar. Still dangerous, yes, but cumbersome, heavy, made for charging and trampling, not for dancing on the edge of a blade.

“That is Jhaqo,” Drogo said in his own tongue, his voice low but his eyes hard as steel. Bran, riding just ahead of me, translated in a flat, calm voice: “His blood is foul, his braid short, and yet he calls himself Khal.”

The men flanking Jhaqo spurred closer, riding tight about him like hounds at their master’s heel. Their eyes were cruel, their braids well-tended, their arakhs shining in the sun.

“My Ko,” Drogo said, and this time he spat into the dirt.

Bran spoke his words again, his young face unreadable. “He names them traitors. He says the Khalasar will not follow until a Khal is proven before the Dosh Khaleen. For now, they wait. Neither his, nor Jhaqo’s.”

Drogo’s gaze never left Jhaqo as he added more in his harsh tongue. Bran gave the translation after a pause, his voice quieter, heavier. “He always suspected these men. They swore their lives to him once. Now they sit in a traitor’s saddle. When it is done, he will cut the truth from their bellies.”

I swallowed hard, the weight of what was to come pressing heavily in the air.

We reached the foot of the Mother of Mountains, where the great slope of stone rose like the back of a god. There the riders drew up, dismounting in a single motion, their horses left pawing and snorting behind them. Even Ghost stilled, hackles half-raised, as though he too felt the air tighten like a bowstring.

Drogo swung down from his zorse without a sound, the bells in his braid chiming sharply in the silence. Jhaqo lumbered forward from the opposite side, heavy on his feet, his braid swaying like a club behind him.

The two Khals stopped paces apart. The Khalasar, or what parts of it had gathered, watched in heavy silence.

Drogo’s voice was like gravel and fire. Bran translated evenly, his young voice steady though his hands tightened on his pony’s reins:

“He calls Jhaqo a pig. An ugly, stinking pig. A traitor who fed on his Khal’s blood.”

Jhaqo’s eyes narrowed. He bared his teeth and snapped back in Dothraki, the words harsh and guttural. Bran glanced once at Drogo, then to us.

“He says no man who falls from his horse is fit to lead. The horse is god, the horse is strength. Drogo fell. Drogo is weak.”

Drogo’s laugh was sudden, sharp as a strike. He spat in the dirt and barked words like steel against steel.

Bran said, his voice dropping with the weight of the words, “He says that he will show his strength when he rips Jhaqo’s heart from his chest and feeds it to the dogs.”

A murmur rippled through the watching Dothraki, braids swaying as heads turned from one to the other.

Jhaqo sneered and looked past Drogo—to us. To Jon in his red and black, Jaime with his lion helm under his arm, Mya and Meera, Marwyn and Sarella, the wolves pacing at the edge. His lip curled. His words spat like venom.

Bran’s face twisted briefly, but he gave the words true:

“He asks if Drogo crawled out of hell… and if the strangers-us-are demons come to walk beside him.”

Drogo threw back his head and laughed. His bells sang with the sound, a terrible music in the hush. He stepped forward, eyes blazing.

Bran’s voice carried the fire:

“He asks Jhaqo to look well at the demons. If they are from hell, then Jhaqo should burn their faces into his memory—because after he cuts him down, he will see them again, forever.”

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the stamping of horses and the low growl rumbling in Ghost’s throat.

Not a word was spoken among us. Even Mya, who could laugh at blood and steel, held her tongue. The air was thick and heavy, as though the mountain itself leaned down to listen.

I have stared into the eyes of men who meant to kill me. I have stood beyond the Wall with death itself at my heels. Yet I realised, standing there at the foot of the Mother of Mountains, that I had never felt fear quite like this.

For all my other brushes with death, there was always something I could do—run, hide, plead, pray. Here, there was nothing. Our fates did not rest in our own hands, or even Jon’s, but in Drogo’s—his strength, his speed, his skill with that cruel, curved blade. One man’s arms would decide if we lived or died.

I looked at Jhaqo then, fat and scarred, his braid shorter than it ought to be, his belly straining against his leathers. He sneered and postured like a boar rooting in the mud. And for the first time since this madness began, I felt a sliver of hope cut through the fear.

If Drogo was truly the shadowcat he seemed—swift, silent, dangerous—then perhaps the boar would not last long in the hunt.

Drogo halted before the great doors and turned, Bran giving voice to his words in that strange, flat way of his: “Wait here. The wisdom of the Dosh Khaleen is for Khals, not for their guests.”

He stripped the arakh from his back without hesitation, laying it down at the threshold like an offering.

Jhaqo followed, though he was slower about it, unbuckling blade after blade, until the steps gleamed with steel and gold. Some of them caught my eye—ornate hilts, inlaid with bone and bronze. I realised, with a chill, that they were not Jhaqo’s by right. They had once been Drogo’s and his bloodriders’.

We remained outside. Waiting. Watching. The silence of the city pressed on us like a weight.

Jaime sat his courser stiffly, hand sliding again and again through Honour’s long braided mane. It struck me as strange that such a man, famed as one of the greatest swordsmen in the realm, now sought comfort in the touch of a horse’s hair. But then again, with no sword to hold, perhaps he needed something else beneath his fingers.

Jon, too, seemed restless, though his eyes were closed. One hand buried itself deep in Ghost’s white fur, smoothing it, gripping it, as though drawing strength from the great beast’s steady heartbeat.

I tilted my head back, squinting at the sky. A shadow wheeled above, black against the blue—Morghul, sharp-winged and sharp-eyed. A grim thought settled in my chest. At least if we die, our deaths will not go unavenged. The raven will fly, Ser Brynden will know, and this city will burn.

It was not much comfort.

I glanced then at Bran. He alone looked calm. He stood with his hand resting lightly on his pony’s mane, Summer padding at his side, and his pale eyes were far away, as though seeing something the rest of us could not. He looked as though he already knew what would come to pass, every turn of the duel, every breath before the end.

And perhaps he did.

The minutes stretched like hours. No sound came from within the Mother of Mountains, only the muttering of the wind and the occasional clop of a horse shifting its weight.

Jaime’s fingers never left Honour’s mane. Mya fidgeted with the strap of her Harness, glancing again and again at the doors. Meera kept her Bow across her lap, though she had no arrow strung. Even Marwyn, who usually scoffed at danger, tapped the butt of his staff restlessly against the ground.

For my part, I could not still my hands. They clenched and unclenched around the reins of my mule until my palms were slick. I had faced wights, Others, and wildlings. Yet this waiting, when our fates were sealed in another man’s trial, gnawed at my belly worse than any of them.

At last, the doors opened.

Drogo stepped into the light, his stride unbroken, his grin as sharp and wide as when he’d gone in. The braids in his hair caught the sun like black fire. He looked every bit the Khal he claimed to be.

A few heartbeats later, Jhaqo emerged. He was slower, shoulders sagging, face drawn tight as old leather. The pride was gone from him, replaced with something like dread. He said something sharp in Dothraki, his voice carrying across the stones, and swung into his saddle. His men followed, and without another glance at us, they rode away, their braids bouncing, dust rising in their wake.

Bran spoke for Drogo, his voice cool and distant: “At sunset, beyond the city limits, he and Jhaqo will fight. One will live, one will not. Until then, he asks for your company… and your sword-arm, Prince. He wishes to spar, to know the weight of his new arakh in his hand.”

Jon inclined his head, though I caught the flicker of excitement in his eyes.

And so we turned from the Mother of Mountains, riding back through the crowded markets. Drogo’s young followers—barely men, their braids short and their eyes shining—galloped at our flanks, eager as pups at their master’s heel.

The city receded behind us, but the unease did not. Sunset would come soon enough.

As we passed through the Horse Gates once more, I braced myself for the sight of chaos. Instead, what I saw nearly made me forget how to breathe.

The Forgotten Sons were arrayed in full battle formation.

At the fore stood the elephants, massive and restless, tusks capped in bronze, Freefolk astride their backs with spears ready. Behind them loomed the giants and mammoths, towering, shifting, their shadows stretching long across the grass. Then came the Freefolk skirmishers, lean and eager, bows strung and axes gleaming. And at the rear, tight and disciplined, the Blackfish’s riders—lances levelled, shields ready, horses stamping in rhythm like one great beast waiting to be loosed.

It was an army prepared to end a city.

The moment our small band rode into view, the Blackfish’s voice carried across the plain like a warhorn:

“Disperse! They are alive!”

At once, the tension snapped. The mammoths groaned and shifted back, the elephants turned, the cavalry reined in their mounts, and the skirmishers lowered their weapons. The Sons began to scatter, not defeated but simply released, their fury dissolving into grins, curses, and loud boasts.

The Hound was the first to ride up to us, Stranger snorting smoke like a dragon. His helm caught the light as he growled, “You know how hard it is to get fucking elephants into formation without every Dothraki in sight shitting themselves? And then you lot come strolling out unharmed.”

Before Jon or Jaime could answer, Mya leaned forward in her saddle with a grin. “Ah, we know you were worried for us, Clegane. Stop pretending.”

Sandor spat a curse that made the Freefolk nearby laugh, turned his horse, and stormed off muttering.

And just like that, I felt it—the air loosened, the great invisible weight lifted from our shoulders. For the first time since stepping inside the Mother of Mountains, I could breathe again.

The Blackfish broke from his riders and came thundering up, his face stone as always, though I thought I caught the faintest crack of relief in his eyes. He reined in sharply before us, looking each of us over in turn—Jon, Jaime, Bran, even me.

“It’s good you’re alive,” he said flatly, though his tone carried more weight than the words.

“None of your fathers are men I’d care to give condolences to. Even you, Mya—” his sharp eyes flicked toward her “—though you never met your father, he’d crawl out of the Seven Hells with his warhammer if he heard his only child was dead.”

Mya shifted in her saddle, lips twitching between a grin and a grimace. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said at last.

The Blackfish gave a grunt that might have been approval, then turned his horse back toward the dispersing lines.

For a heartbeat, none of us spoke. The words hung heavy in the air, like the aftertaste of strongwine—blunt, a little bitter, but warming all the same.

For a while, the Blackfish’s words clung to us like morning mist. No one seemed eager to speak first, until Jaime gave a short, bitter laugh.

“My father,” he said, tugging at the reins of Honour, “wouldn’t shed a tear. Not for me. But for the ‘Golden Lion’ that he polished and paraded all my life? Oh, yes, he’d care for that loss. Another crack in his perfect statue.”

Jon’s face tightened. “The King.” He shook his head. “Seven hells, I don’t know what he’d do. Likely call it an inconvenience. One less piece to move on his board.”

I felt a heaviness in my chest and forced myself to speak. “My father would be glad. My death would mean one less disappointment for him to bear. He’d raise a toast and call it mercy.”

Meera’s voice was quieter, softer than I’d ever heard it. “My father would break. Jojen is gone, my mother too. I’m all he has left. If I died here, so far from him…” She looked down at her horse’s mane, blinking hard. “It would ruin him.”

For a moment, no one answered. The silence pressed in again, darker than before.

Then Mya broke it, her crooked smile flashing. “Well, I think we can all agree Meera here’s got the most normal family of the lot of us.”

That earned a laugh—even from Bran, who rarely laughed at all. The weight lifted, if only a little, was enough for us to breathe again.

The Forgotten Sons gathered in a rough circle, the ground stamped flat by boots and hooves. Word had spread quickly, and soon everyone had drifted out of their tents to see the duel that wasn’t a duel.

The Blackfish handed Blackfyre to Jon as if he were giving him a piece of himself. The great sword seemed to drink in the light of the dying sun, its rippled steel shining with a strange, dark beauty.

Across the circle, Khal Drogo stripped down to the waist, scars lacing his chest like old warpaint. He twirled his borrowed arakh once in his hand, testing its balance.

Children gathered at the edge of the ring, the same way they had when Jon and Jaime sparred with sticks. Their wide eyes followed every move, but beside them, Drogo’s young riders stared with a very different expression—half shock, half reverence—at the strange company and its leaders.

What seemed strange to them had become ordinary to me. Giants and mammoths, zorses and direwolves, a Targaryen prince with the sword of kings, facing down a Horselord beneath the open sky—it was our normal now.

Jaime leaned toward Jon before he stepped into the circle, his voice low but sharp. “Remember—you’ve got Valyrian steel in your hand. This isn’t play-acting with a blunted tourney blade. Be careful.”

Jon gave a small nod, his face calm as still water. He slid Blackfyre free of its black scabbard, the blade catching fire-red in the sunset, and stepped into the circle.

Across from him, Drogo grinned, the arakh spinning lazily in his hand, his dark eyes fixed on Jon with the hunger of a predator testing new prey.

The circle held its breath as Jon and Drogo squared off. The Khal struck first, his arakh slicing down with a speed that belied the days he had spent half-dead in a tent.

But Jon moved like flowing water, Blackfyre rising with effortless precision to catch and turn aside each blow. Sparks flickered where the blades met, steel against steel.

For a time, Drogo looked uncertain—testing the curve of the arakh in his hand, finding his rhythm again after sickness had stolen so much of his strength. But soon the smile crept back onto his face. His strikes grew sharper, faster, heavier, until the air itself seemed to crack with every swing.

Jon matched him all the while, calm as a still pond, his footwork measured, his blade always where it needed to be.

The children gasped and cheered, some shouting for Drogo, others for Jon, while Ghost prowled the circle’s edge with wary eyes. Drogo’s riders muttered to one another, perhaps in disbelief that their Khal was being matched blow for blow by a boy who looked scarcely older than they were.

It went on long enough for me to forget to breathe, until at last Ser Jaime raised his voice, sharp as a command in battle.

“That’s enough.”

Jon stepped back at once, Blackfyre lowering. Drogo, chest gleaming with sweat, stood for a moment longer, breathing hard but grinning still. When Bran translated Jaime’s words—that he should not waste his strength before the true fight—Drogo threw back his head and laughed, the sound booming like a drum across the camp.

He barked something quick and sharp in Dothraki. Bran smirked faintly as he gave the words in the common tongue:

“He says Jhaqo is not half as skilled as you, Jon. This fight tomorrow… it will end quickly.”

The spar ended to groans and disappointed whistles from the camp’s younger mouths.

Jon wiped his brow, Drogo laughed once, and then the adults drifted off, the fight dismissed as little more than practice.

Only Drogo lingered in the circle, staring at Bran as if the boy had grown horns in front of him.

They spoke then, voices low, Bran’s calm against Drogo’s rising growl. Drogo spat once at the ground, his shoulders tense, but Bran never flinched.

In the end, Bran hobbled away on his twisted legs, Summer padding close, while Drogo stood frozen as though the earth itself had betrayed him.

Curiosity gnawed at me, so I found Bran not far off, near the tents. “What did you say to him?” I asked.

Bran’s gaze flicked toward Drogo, still brooding by the circle, then back to me. “He didn’t take us seriously,” he said flatly. “To him, we were a curiosity—a band of fools with strange morals. Fighting slavery when it profits us nothing. Refusing coin from those too poor to pay. Treating Freefolk, Westerosi, giants, and even the Children as equals.” He shook his head. “To a man raised Dothraki, such things make us weak, laughable.”

“And you told him otherwise?”

Bran’s mouth curved, not into a smile but into something colder. “I showed him. I told him what I am, where I’ve been, and what I’ve seen. I told him of the cave, and Bloodraven, and of the dead who march beyond the Wall. A foe that cannot be bought, cannot be cowed, cannot be slain by numbers or strength. A foe that cares nothing for horses or braids. The kind of enemy he cannot even dream of.”

I shivered. “And how did he take that?”

Bran glanced over his shoulder. Drogo still hadn’t moved, his face shadowed, his grip tight around the arakh. “Like a man who has just been told that everything he knows of strength and weakness is ash,” Bran said. Then he turned away, leaving me staring after him, wondering which of them had unsettled the other more.

By the time the sun hung low, painting the plains in copper and fire, the people of Vaes Dothrak were spilling from the gates.

They came on horseback and on foot, braids swaying, bells chiming, voices rising in eager chatter. A sea of dark eyes turned toward the Mother of Mountains, all hungry to watch blood spilt for power.

The Forgotten Sons had wasted no time. Where the Dothraki would have been content with a circle scratched into the dirt, Donal Noye barked orders, his hammer-hand pointing this way and that.

Planks were dragged from wagons, stones hoisted into place, and soon an elevated ring took shape, wide enough that a thousand could look on without crowding.

I lingered at the edge, watching with no small bewilderment. “Why go to all this trouble?” I asked when Donal strode by, sweat streaking down his face.

He spared me a glance, half amused. “Distraction, lad. What else? In Westeros, we’ve got tourneys—knights strutting for crowns of flowers. In the Free Cities, they’ve pits, men and beasts fighting for coin. Here, this is all we’ve got.”

His grin showed through the grime. “The boys’ve gone without sport since White Harbour. Already, some have wagers running, so let ’em have their fun. Relax, Tarly—enjoy someone else doing the bleeding today.”

I nodded dumbly, though my stomach was tight.

As Donal moved on, shouting at a pair of Freefolk struggling with a beam twice their size, I turned away. If I were to “enjoy” this spectacle, as he said, I’d need company that could make me forget, even for a little while, the stakes beneath the show.

I drifted through the camp as dusk bled across the sky, searching for laughter, or at least a kind word to take the edge off the waiting.

A pack of Westerosi boys roamed ahead of me, voices pitched in practised cadence: “Bets! Place your bets! Right here!” One of them I knew as a Frey, though I couldn’t recall which of the countless brood. Their shouts reminded me of market criers back in Oldtown. If Father had ever let me keep a copper to my own name, perhaps I’d have tried my luck, staked a coin on Drogo. But Randyll Tarly had never believed in giving his son coin for foolishness.

Further down, I caught sight of Sarella Sand and Lucas Blackwood slipping into a tent together, their movements hurried, conspiratorial. “That’s one form of distraction,” I muttered under my breath, “best not disturb them.”

Not far off, Marwyn sat cross-legged in a clearing, eyes turned skyward, lips moving in some low chant. His hands traced patterns in the dirt, sigils or numbers I could not read. I shook my head; that was not the sort of company I needed tonight.

In another corner, Sandor Clegane sat hunched over a skin of wine, helm discarded beside him, his face as sour as the drink. Miserable company was the last thing I wanted.

A roar of laughter pulled my gaze to where Tormund Giantsbane and Lady Alyssane Mormont were hurling axes at a shield nailed to a tree, each throw louder and wilder than the last. I smiled despite myself, but quickly turned away. That was far too much fun for me.

By a lantern’s glow, I spied Jon, seated apart from the others, a parchment in hand, Morghul perched like a shadow on his shoulder. His face was all thought, all weight. I would not disturb him; those were his private burdens.

A little farther on, Ghost bounded among the rescued children, great jaws snapping playfully at the air as the little ones squealed and fled, only to return for another chase. Once, not so long ago, I might have joined them gladly. But not tonight.

At last, near a low fire, I found Mya Stone, Meera Reed, Ygritte, and Jarl sitting together. That was an odd gathering—two mischief-makers I knew too well, one wildling with fire in her tongue, and Meera, so serious she always seemed out of place among pranksters. Yet there they were, smiling, talking softly. For the first time all evening, I felt the knot in my chest ease.

Perhaps this, at last, was the company I was looking for.

I lingered a few steps away from the fire, debating whether to intrude or retreat. Mya was laughing at something Ygritte had said, Jarl grinning like he’d been the one to say it. Meera sat straighter than the others, her bow propped against her knee, though even she wore a faint smile.

Before I could turn away, her eyes flicked up and found me. Archer’s eyes, I thought with a start—sharp enough to catch me in the shadows.

“Sam,” she called, her voice carrying easily over the crackle of the fire. “Come here. I need some sensible company to balance these Jesters out.”

Mya made an exaggerated gasp of offence, Ygritte barked a laugh, and Jarl only shrugged as though to agree with her.

I felt my cheeks warm, but I couldn’t help smiling. Whatever nerves I’d had fell away. I stepped forward and lowered myself onto the ground beside them, the heat of the fire and the warmth of their welcome easing something inside me.

The fire crackled, sparks lifting into the evening air.

“You should’ve seen Jarl today,” Ygritte said, jabbing her thumb at him. “Tried to charm one of Drogo’s young riders with his Dothraki. Except it wasn’t Dothraki. Just him growling like a dog choking on a bone.”

Mya nearly choked on her own laughter. “Oh, I believe it. He probably convinced the poor boy he was dying.”

“Better than you,” Jarl shot back. “You spent half the march swearing at your destrier because he stepped in a puddle.”

“That was Storm’s fault,” Mya said, grinning widely. “He kicked mud all over my boots! Boots I cleaned just yesterday, mind you.”

Meera shook her head with mock solemnity. “Truly, the world trembles at your struggles, Lady Stone.”

Their laughter rose again, and I found myself joining in. For a moment, I just listened, smiling, and remembered how Mya had once snapped at me the first day we’d met—calling me soft, doubting why Jon kept me at all. I’d thought she would never see me as more than baggage.

But then Hardhome came back to me—the way my words had failed before Mance Rayder and his council, when only air escaped my throat, and it was Mya who had stepped forward, fierce and sure, where I faltered.

Later, I’d seen her defeat Rattleshirt in single combat, bloody but unbroken. I’d helped bind those wounds with trembling hands, and she’d let me. Somewhere along the way, the sharpness between us had turned to trust.

“Sam’s smiling to himself,” Ygritte teased suddenly, tugging me back to the firelight. “What’re you thinking, Tarly?”

“That maybe you’re all…better company than I deserve,” I admitted awkwardly, pushing my hair from my eyes.

“Aye, you’ve got that right,” Mya smirked, then gave me a light shove with her shoulder. “But you’ll do.”

Before I could muster a reply, a shadow fell across the fire. Jaime stood there, silver lion helm tucked under his arm, his white cloak trailing faintly in the dust. He glanced at us—at me, mostly—and said dryly, “Well? Are you just going to sit here and chatter, or are you going to watch the fight? It’s sunset already.”

The laughter around the fire stilled at once, a ripple of anticipation replacing it.

Mya was the first to rise, brushing ash from her blue leathers and grabbing her warhammer with a grin.

“Come on then, let’s move quick. I’ve placed a shiny Gold Dragon on Bells.”

“Bells?” Meera frowned as she stood, slinging her bow over her shoulder. “Both Drogo and Jhaqo have bells in their braids, Mya.”

“Of course it’s Drogo,” Mya shot back without missing a beat. “Have you seen Jhaqo? Rattleshirt’s crushed face looks better company than him.”

That sent Ygritte snorting, though she stood as well, tightening her fur cloak against the evening chill. “Enough talk. Firstly, I don’t understand these bets of yours—and secondly, let’s go watch two idiots kill each other.”

Jarl chuckled low, falling into step beside her. “That’s the spirit.”

I rose last, brushing crumbs of ash from my surcoat, my mule shifting lazily behind me. Their banter carried into the dusk as we followed the growing noise toward the circle, a strange warmth still lingering in my chest despite the grimness of what waited ahead.

The crowd was split near even, Forgotten Sons on one side, Dothraki on the other, but their mood was the same—restless, eager, hungry for spectacle. I understood our men well enough. To them, this was little more than a trial by combat, Westerosi as could be, except neither knight wore sigils nor armour. The outcome mattered little to us: whoever bled his last on the sand, the Company would move on.

But the Dothraki—this fight was their world. The victor would hold the whip hand over forty thousand riders, yet they cheered as if it were nothing more than a tavern brawl. No anxious whispers, no fearful prayers, only a fever for blood. I felt a shiver down my spine as I realised how differently they saw death.

Jhaqo was first to mount the circle. He moved with the weight of a boar, his body thick with bulk, his braid short but straggling with bells, his shoulders crisscrossed with ugly scars.

Across his waist gleamed the heavy medallion belt that had once marked Drogo’s power, and in his hands and across his back he carried weapons that were not his—Drogo’s gilded whip, Drogo’s jewel-handled arakh, plundered when their rightful master lay poisoned and broken. He wore them like trophies, a thief crowing over stolen gold.

Then Drogo came. No glittering medallions at his waist, no ornaments to proclaim him Khal. He wore only plain trousers, leather sandals, and the scarred skin of a man who had lived in battle and near death.

In his hand, he carried not the ornate arakh that had been his once, but a plainer blade—gifted to him by the Forgotten Sons, forged not in vanity but in steel.

Where Jhaqo swaggered beneath the weight of stolen glory, Drogo strode light, stripped to nothing but strength, will, and the grin on his face—sharp and cruel as the edge of his blade.

The crowd swelled closer, a wall of sound pressing against the circle. In Westeros, a duel to the death would have been marked by ceremony. A herald’s cry, a lord’s decree, the words of a septon to ask the Seven to bear witness.

Here, there was none of that. No pomp, no blessing, no prayer. Just sand beneath their feet, steel in their hands, and death in the air.

Drogo and Jhaqo faced each other across the circle. Jhaqo hefted the weight of his stolen arakh, turning the blade so the fading sun caught its ornate edge, as if to remind every watcher that it was his now.

Drogo did not answer the boast. He rolled his shoulders once, loosening them, his plain blade resting easily in his grip, his grin as sharp as ever.

They began to circle, each measuring the other’s stance. Jhaqo’s bulk made him heavy, but not slow; his steps were wide, deliberate, like a bull waiting for the moment to charge.

Drogo moved lightly, barefoot in the dust, his braid swinging against his back. The crowd hushed, their earlier roars dying into breathless silence, every eye fixed on the sand.

There was no horn to sound, no word to start the match. As soon as both men were in the circle, the fight had already begun.

Jhaqo struck first, just as Sam had expected. The usurper came forward like a charging boar, heavy and furious, swinging the stolen arakh in wide, punishing arcs meant to batter his foe into submission.

Drogo, by contrast, was a shadowcat—quick, light on his feet, slipping aside with an ease that seemed almost mocking.

The plain steel arakh flashed as Drogo parried, deflecting each blow with sharp, precise turns of his wrist. Where Jhaqo bellowed, Drogo grinned. Where Jhaqo’s strength lay in his shoulders and bulk, Drogo’s was in his speed, his every motion flowing as if he were dancing across the sand.

The crowd roared with each clash of steel, but Sam barely heard it. His eyes fixed on the rhythm of the fight—the boar charging, the shadowcat darting aside, quick strikes scoring shallow cuts on Jhaqo’s arms and shoulders.

The more the blood welled, the more desperate Jhaqo’s movements became. His swings grew heavier, slower, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Drogo, unburdened by armour or ornament, seemed only to grow quicker.

Then, at last, the moment came. Jhaqo overextended, his stolen arakh whistling past Drogo’s head, burying itself in the packed earth. Before the usurper could wrench it free, Drogo was already upon him.

The Khal’s hand shot forward, not with his blade, but with his grip—plunging into Jhaqo’s chest with the speed of a striking viper. For one horrible instant, the crowd went silent.

Then Drogo ripped his arm back, and in his fist was Jhaqo’s heart, steaming and red, torn clean from his chest.

Jhaqo staggered once, twice, before collapsing lifeless to the sand. Drogo held the heart aloft for all to see, his grin wide, his chest heaving, his arm and face slick with blood.

The Forgotten Sons and Dothraki alike erupted in a thunderous roar, but I found myself shuddering, unable to look away. It was as if Drogo had turned into both shadowcat and predator all at once, and in that vicious victory, the outcome of the Khalasar was sealed.

The crowd erupted like thunder. The Dothraki stamped their feet, howled to the sky, and clashed weapons together in exultation, their joy near frenzied.

To them, this was no horror but glory—the stuff of songs, proof that their Khal had returned to them fiercer than ever. Only the men who had cast their lot with Jhaqo stood silent, faces pale, already knowing the doom that awaited them.

Among the Forgotten Sons, the reaction was split. Tormund roared with laughter, clapping his massive hands together, shouting over the din, “That’s a fight worth drinking to!” Harma Dog’shead was no quieter, raising her axe and hollering in approval.

The Hound barked a bitter laugh, muttering something about “a proper end for a pig like that,” before draining his skin of wine. Even Mya clapped, wide-eyed, saying, “Gods, I’d pay good coin to see that again.”

But not all shared the thrill. I saw the Blackfish shake his head slowly, his mouth set in a grim line. “That was a bit much,” he muttered, voice low but carrying to those near him. “He could’ve ended it clean, quick. But no—he had to make a spectacle.”

Mance Rayder, standing with arms folded, nodded once in agreement. “Blood’s meant to prove a point, not drown the ground. He wanted fear as much as victory.”

On the circle, Drogo paid no mind to the debate. His grin never faltered as he bent over Jhaqo’s corpse, prying away what had been stolen from him—the gilded medallion belt, the gold-handled whip, the ornate arakh he once called his own.

Piece by piece, he reclaimed them, fastening the belt about his waist, slinging the whip across his hip, and sliding the arakh into his grip.

Dressed once more in the trappings of a Khal, Drogo turned his back on the corpse without so much as a glance.

True to the promise he had made, he tore free Jhaqo’s heart and tossed it to the lean dogs held on leashes by the young riders. The beasts snapped and snarled over the bloody prize, and the sight only made the crowd’s roar swell higher, the Dothraki exalting their returned Khal with savage delight.

Drogo walked from the circle, his stride unhurried, as if this was nothing more than the ending he had always known.

I shuddered, for it seemed more spectacle than justice, feeding a man’s heart to hounds as though it were no more than supper scraps.

The words slipped from me before I could stop them: “Seven hells, I don’t even remember the bloody dogs being here.” Dark, bitter—like something Sandor Clegane himself might have growled.

The thought made me flinch, realising I had borrowed the Hound’s tongue, if only for a moment.

When the blood was still fresh on the sand, Drogo stood tall upon the circle, his chest bare and gleaming with sweat, his face split by a savage grin. With his medallion belt glittering once more at his waist, he lifted the arakh high.

The Dothraki roared in answer, a hundred voices swelling to thousands as the sound rolled across the plain like thunder.

One by one, riders dismounted, knelt, and pressed the butts of their arakhs to the earth in fealty. Others approached the circle with offerings—ornaments of gold, braids shorn from conquered foes, skins of fermented mare’s milk.

The air was alive with devotion and the crackling heat of victory, the largest Khalasar in the world bending itself once more beneath a single man.

Drogo mounted his horse in a single fluid motion, not bothering to wipe the blood from his hands. He raised the whip reclaimed from Jhaqo’s corpse and lashed it skyward, the crack echoing like a cannon’s report.

At that signal, the Khalasar surged around him, voices booming his name as they rode with him, back toward the wooden streets of Vaes Dothrak.

Only a handful of the youngest riders remained behind, Drogo’s chosen, to serve as guides for the strange company he still only half understood. They lingered uneasily at the edge of the Forgotten Sons’ camp, staring with wide eyes at Giants and direwolves, at armoured Westerosi knights and Freefolk warriors gathered as kin.

I felt my breath finally ease as the sound of the Khalasar’s hooves diminished in the distance. I turned and found Ser Jaime in the dispersing crowd, the knight’s hand resting with familiar ease on the hilt at his hip.

“What do we do now?” I asked, my voice still a little hushed, as though the roar of the Dothraki might return at any moment.

Jaime glanced at me, then at the camp beyond. “Now?” He gave a small, lopsided smile. “Now we’ll have supper and sleep. Tomorrow, anyone who wishes to wander that city can do so, though I’d advise keeping your wits about you.”

He paused, his eyes flicking to the young Dothraki left behind, who looked about as uncomfortable as squires in a Sept. “And tomorrow night, we’re invited to feast in Drogo’s wooden hall. Best polish your courtesies, Samwell. The Dothraki don’t stand much on them, but I’d wager he’ll want to see how Westerosi manners taste.”

I swallowed and nodded, though my mind was already spinning at the thought of feasting beneath the Mother of Mountains.

And so it ended, as swiftly and savagely as it had begun. Khal Drogo stood once more at the head of his Khalasar, the plains thundered with his name, and the Forgotten Sons—foreigners, outlanders, strangers all—had tied themselves to the fate of a people none of us had truly understood.

I thought, as the last echoes of the Dothraki cheers faded and the campfires of the Sons sprang up in answer, that we had made history again. Not the sort they teach at the Citadel, neat and ordered in ink and vellum, but the kind carved in blood and chance, where lives turned on a blade’s edge.

We had set foot where no Westerosi banners had flown, tangled ourselves in the struggles of a horse-lord returned from death, and for one night at least, fortune had smiled on us.

Yet I could not help but wonder—as I watched my companions laugh, grumble, or brood in their own fashions—how long our luck would hold. The world was wide, and we were but one small company in it.

And if this was the shape of our days to come, I feared what stranger deeds still lay ahead, and whether we would always walk away with our lives intact.

Chapter Text

Chapter XXIII - Liberty

I woke to sunlight pouring through the thin fabric of my tent, hot and harsh, and the smell of smoke and horse-sweat clinging to the air.

The camp was already stirring—more than stirring, half-emptied. Tents had been abandoned for the day, their owners striding off towards the Mother of Mountains. Vaes Dothrak pulled at them like some great magnet, and many of the Forgotten Sons were eager to see its famed markets with their own eyes.

Not all had gone. The Freefolk lingered about their fires, distrustful of the Dothraki, spitting into the grass and muttering that no good came from cities built of wood.

The giants, mammoths, and even the elephants were kept tethered, massive shapes hulking in the morning mist, their sheer presence too impossible to drag into the Dothraki’s sacred streets. The camp felt quieter for it, though the ground still trembled beneath the shifting weight of so many titans.

I stretched, still sore from sleeping on the hard earth, and nearly stumbled over a passing mule-cart. Donal Noye strode beside it, broad-shouldered and grim as ever, his iron hand glinting as he pointed his assistants onward. Behind him rattled a convoy of wagons, creaking under the weight of empty barrels and crates.

“Where are you headed, Donal?” I called, pulling on my surcoat as I hurried to catch up.

“To fill these carts, lad,” he said without slowing. “Ale, salt, meat, oats—everything we’ve been bleeding through since Braavos. Half the boys have already wasted coin on trinkets, but supplies come first.” His voice carried the finality of a blacksmith’s hammer, and his assistants—two squat, serious-faced men—nodded in quiet agreement.

I fell into step beside them, the thought of markets tugging at me too. My purse was light—lighter than I’d like—but curiosity was heavier, and I had no taste for sitting in camp while half the company disappeared into the city.

So I followed Donal Noye and his rattling carts, watching the last wisps of campfire smoke fade behind us, and wondering what awaited in the city of horse-lords.

Entering Vaes Dothrak in the full blaze of day felt nothing like the tense march of yesterday. Then, every eye had been on us, the air thick with the weight of Drogo’s return.

Today, though the braids and bells of the Dothraki glittered in the sun all around us, most barely spared us a glance. To them, we were no longer strangers to gape at, nor threats to guard against—we were simply another group of outsiders, tolerated for trade, ignored like buzzing flies.

It was almost disappointing, if I’m honest. After all the blood and terror that had brought us here, after the spectacle of Drogo ripping out Jhaqo’s heart with his bare hands, I half expected the city to tremble when we walked its streets. Instead, they walked past us with their heads high, speaking their strange tongue, as if the Forgotten Sons and our giant wolves and stranger company were nothing at all.

When we reached the markets, I began to understand why. There was no end to the oddities here. Men and women of every colour, selling every kind of trinket, food, or beast I could imagine. Gold and silk from Yi Ti, bronze blades from the Summer Isles, spices that made me sneeze and choke just walking past the stalls.

It was in that chaos that I spotted familiar faces.

Archmaester Marwyn was in the Eastern Market, red-faced and booming, haggling furiously with a merchant over a twisted piece of bone carved with runes. The poor trader looked ready to throw the thing at his head just to be rid of him.

Mya Stone, Jarl, and Ygritte were gathered around a food stall piled high with bowls of steaming broth. They laughed and shoved at each other as they tasted everything the vendor thrust their way.

My stomach turned when I saw Mya’s face go pale as the man proudly told her the soup was beetles boiled in their own juices. She spat it back into the bowl, gagging, while Jarl nearly fell over laughing. Ygritte, of course, only muttered something about “soft southron stomachs” and kept eating.

A little further along, I nearly walked into Meera Reed as she loosed an arrow from a compact, recurved bow, the kind clearly meant for shooting from horseback.

The arrow split the straw target neatly in half. She smiled faintly, proud but quiet as always, while the Dothraki man running the stall looked on in amazement.

And then—Seven save me—even Bran was there, his shaggy pony tied to a post, Summer sprawled protectively in the shade behind him. He wasn’t brooding or speaking in riddles, not even staring off into some vision I couldn’t see. He was simply holding a carved bone charm a merchant had pressed into his hands, turning it over in the light like any other boy might do. For the first time in what felt like years, he looked his age.

And I found myself smiling.

I lingered longer than I meant to, letting the flow of the market pull me from one stall to the next. Somewhere between a spice-seller who nearly burned my nose off with a pinch of bright red powder and a stand draped in YiTish silks that shimmered like water, I found myself before a clothing stall.

It was almost embarrassing, the way I stopped and stared. My old surcoat was fraying at the seams, and the green-and-black of House Tarly clung uncomfortably after weeks of riding and sweat. Yet as I tried on a loose robe of pale blue linen—cut wider at the waist than I expected—I realised it actually fit. Not because the robe was large, but because I was smaller.

I caught my reflection in a polished bronze shield hanging nearby. My cheeks were still round, yes, and my stomach still heavy, but not as they once were. All those marches, all those long rides… they’d worn me down more than I’d noticed. I muttered something to myself about “less of a burden on a mule at last,” and paid for the robe.

Next, I surprised myself. At a corner stall, I picked out a simple dress of soft green cloth, its stitching neat if plain. I had no business buying it, really, but I imagined Gilly in it—free of furs and tatters, with fabric that would make her look more a lady than the daughter of Craster ever was. She deserved that much, even if I’d never be brave enough to tell her what I felt.

Besides the dresses, a craftsman had laid out rows of wooden toys. Horses, mostly, some a little more than sticks with legs, others more carefully carved. I bought one without thinking, a small brown horse with a painted mane. When I held it in my hand, I thought of Gilly’s babe and how he might laugh when he dragged it through the dirt.

It wasn’t half as fine as the carved horse I’d had in Horn Hill, the one I’d kept hidden from Dickon so he wouldn’t break it. That toy had been smooth and polished, with reins of silver thread. This one was rough, splintered at the tail, but somehow it felt truer.

That may be fitting.

I nearly made it out of the market without incident, clutching my little bundle under my arm like a thief, when a familiar voice rang out.

“Well, well, look at you, Sam the Gallant.”

I stopped dead. Mya Stone stood there with a skewer of something charred and steaming in her hand, Jarl and Ygritte at her side. Jarl was laughing about something, and Ygritte had that sharp glint in her eyes that always made me uneasy.

“What’s that you’ve got tucked under there?” Mya asked, narrowing her eyes at the cloth parcel. Before I could hide it, she plucked it right from my hands. Gods, she was quick.

She unfolded the green dress, holding it up to the sunlight. “Hah! Not for yourself, I hope. This is far too fine for a Tarly belly. So—who’s the lucky lady?”

Heat flooded my cheeks. “It’s—it’s nothing, really. Just… I thought Gilly might like—”

“Gilly,” Mya repeated with a grin, tossing the name like a stone in a pond. “The same Gilly you’ve been mooning over since Hardhome? The one you stitched together twenty excuses to talk to every time she passed by?”

“I don’t—moon,” I stammered, though my voice cracked halfway through.

Mya only laughed, folding the dress neatly and tucking it back into my arms. “Seven hells, Sam, you’ve fought wights and ridden through snowstorms, but you can’t bring yourself to say one word to the girl? You buy her dresses, you buy her boy toys, and still you hide behind ‘just thought she might like it.’”

Before I could manage a defence, Ygritte barked a laugh. “You want her? Take her. That’s how it’s done north o’ the Wall. All this mooning and mumbling, it’s like watching a goat court a sheep.”

Jarl groaned. “Don’t start that tale again, Ygritte—”

But she already had that mischievous glint, lips curling into a smirk. “Aye, ask him what happened when he tried to ‘take’ me. Thought he’d prove himself strong. Didn’t get further than grabbing my wrist before I put an axe to his head. The look on his face—” she cackled, nudging Jarl hard in the ribs, “—like a boy caught with his hand in the milk pail.”

Mya roared with laughter, and even Jarl cracked a smile despite the flush in his cheeks. I clutched the parcel tighter, wishing the ground might open beneath me.

Still… somewhere under the embarrassment, I felt the warmth of it—the teasing, the laughter, the way it was all done with a sort of rough affection. For a moment, even in the heart of Vaes Dothrak, I almost felt at home.

The four of us drifted together after that, weaving through the press of stalls and shouting merchants. The air was thick with smells—roasted meats, spiced wines, strange herbs I couldn’t name.

I was still clutching my bundle when Mya suddenly stopped short, jabbing her finger toward a shaded stall draped with silken banners.

“Seven save us,” she muttered.

There, among jars of colored glass and casks stacked three high, sat Sandor Clegane—The Hound himself—slouched like a lord at a feast. Beside him, of all people, was Mance Rayder. The two of them leaned over a low table littered with cups, the merchant pouring out measure after measure of rich red and golden brown.

The Hound tossed one back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and smacked his lips like a Lord judging a vintage. “Not bad,” he growled. “Better than that horse-piss you poured me two cups ago.”

Mance chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve got a sharper tongue than palate, I think. That one was worth more than your sword.”

We must’ve stared too long, because Mya blurted, “What in the Seven Hells is this? The Hound, sipping wine like some perfumed lord?”

Clegane lifted his head, squinting at us. “Don’t get ideas, Stone. I’m no lord. He’s the one paying.” He jerked a thumb at Mance. “I’m just here to drink the bastard dry.”

Mya snorted, covering her mouth with her hand. Ygritte’s laugh rang out sharp and mocking. “Look at you, southron. Sat like a king’s pet with your cup and your fancy wines. Next thing we’ll see, you’ll be sniffing flowers and singing songs.”

The Hound only grunted and reached for another cup, muttering, “So long as he keeps paying, I’ll drink the whole stall. Then we’ll see who’s singing.”

Even Jarl chuckled at that, though I wasn’t sure if it was from amusement or disbelief.

As for me, I couldn’t help but marvel: in all the oddities I’d seen since leaving the Wall, this was perhaps the strangest—Sandor Clegane, sampling wines like some Braavosi gourmand.

We’d not gone much further when my eye caught something gleaming in the corner of a weapons stall. It wasn’t a sword or dagger, nothing so grand as the curved arakhs or gilded spears hung for show. It was a staff—simple but solid, hewn of redwood, its surface dark and smooth, capped at both ends with steel bands set with cruel spikes.

I reached out and lifted it. The weight settled into my palms with surprising balance. Not too heavy, not too light. A weapon, yes, but also something that could steady me in long marches, a walking stick with teeth.

I thought of all the times I had flailed with a sword and felt the sting of failure. A staff might suit me better. Something honest.

I was turning it in my hands, wondering if I looked foolish, when a roar split the air. The sound made my bones rattle.

I looked up, startled, and saw smoke rising in the distance where the crowd was thickest. Cages loomed there, wooden and iron, filled with movement.

The others were already breaking into a run—Mya’s hair flying behind her, Ygritte tugging Jarl along, even Meera, bow already in hand as if she meant to face whatever beast made that sound.

“Sam!” Mya shouted over her shoulder, her voice sharp. “Stop thinking and just buy the bloody stick!”

I fumbled for my coin purse, slapped the necessary copper into the merchant’s palm, and hurried after them, the staff clutched tight in my grip. The weight of it felt right, more right than steel ever had.

The cages were a wonder and a terror, both. Great bears from the Frostfangs roared and pawed at the iron bars, lean shadowcats paced like restless spirits, and birds with plumage brighter than any paint shrieked and rattled their wings. One cage even held a squat wooden chest pierced with air holes; I heard the angry hiss of something within, and the merchant whispering of manticores to a wide-eyed Dothraki youth.

I lingered at the rear, staff in hand, not eager to get too close, until I spotted a familiar golden head standing still amidst the chaos.

Jaime was before a row of cages where lions prowled—four of them, lean and sun-burnished, their golden eyes unblinking. He was watching them as if they had bewitched him.

Curiosity overcame my hesitation. I edged closer. “What are you thinking, Ser Jaime?”

He did not look away from the lions. “Did you know, Samwell, that there are no lions left in Westeros? None at all. Our banners are lies, pretty pictures of beasts no man has seen in centuries.”

I blinked. “Truly?”

He nodded. “The last of the Lannister lions were wasted, thanks to Jason Lannister’s vanity. During the Dance, he thought a pride of great cats might make some difference on the battlefield—against dragons.” Jaime’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Imagine that. Lions against fire. He carted them south to war, and there they burned, every last one.”

The nearest lion growled, deep and resonant, and Jaime’s eyes flicked to it. “If I bought these, sent them home to Casterly Rock… perhaps I could start the line anew. Give truth back to my House’s sigil.”

He was quiet for a moment, then added, almost too softly, “And perhaps… perhaps my father would see it as a mending of the rift between us. The Rock has no lions now. Only pride.”

He finally turned, meeting my gaze with a half-smile that did not reach his eyes.

I shifted the staff in my hands, feeling its weight. “If you think it can mend the rift, ser… then you should buy them.”

Jaime’s brow lifted, just slightly.

I pressed on, the words spilling out before my courage failed. “I spent half my life trying to impress my own father. No matter how hard I tried, it was never enough. Every triumph, he found fault. Every failure, he… well, he never let me forget them. In the end, he sent me away, stripped me of Horn Hill, and with that, any chance I ever had of mending things between us.”

The lions prowled behind the bars, restless shadows. I swallowed. “If you still think there’s hope with your father, if there’s something that might bridge that gap, then you should try. Because once the chance is gone, it’s gone forever.”

Jaime’s eyes lingered on me longer than was comfortable.

So I tried to lighten it, fumbling for humour. “And besides… you’re a Lannister. The cost of cages and ships and lion feed won’t trouble you overmuch, will it?”

For the first time, he laughed—softly, but it was laughter all the same. The lions roared again, but I fancied it sounded less like hunger and more like a growl of agreement.

Jaime’s chuckle faded into something quieter, his eyes narrowing at me with a strange sort of amusement. “You’ve grown sharper than you look, Tarly. I can’t decide if that’s wisdom… or just a boy still trying to make sense of fathers.”

I flushed, clutching my new staff a little tighter.

He turned back toward the cages, where the lions paced and prowled, restless and regal. Then, without another word, he strode to the vendor, tossing a heavy purse of coins that clinked louder than the beasts’ growls.

“All of them,” he said simply.

The merchant blinked in shock, then began bowing and babbling in broken Common, already rushing to tally up his sudden fortune.

I stood watching, half in awe, half in disbelief. Jaime Lannister had just bought an entire pride of lions.

As the merchant’s boys rushed to prepare the cages for transport, Jaime’s gaze shifted. Off to the side, half-hidden by the shadow of a pavilion, another cage stood. Inside paced a lion unlike the rest.

Its coat was pale as fresh-fallen snow, its mane silvered in the light, its eyes a softer gold than the others. Unlike its kin, it did not roar or claw at the bars—it merely watched, calm and steady, like a lord in chains.

The merchant noticed Jaime’s attention and hurried over. “Hrakkar, great ser! Silver lion of the Sea. Rare, most rare! Caught as a cub, tamed by Volantenes, trained to ride in war chariots. I bought him at great cost.”

I couldn’t help the little laugh that slipped out of me.

Jaime’s head turned sharply. “Something funny, Tarly?”

I bit my lip, but the words came anyway. “A silver lion for the Silver Lion.”

For a heartbeat, he only stared at me. Then that familiar sly grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Cleverer than you look.” He turned back to the merchant. “I’ll take him too.”

The man nearly collapsed in delight as Jaime tossed yet another purse.

Jaime’s eyes glinted as he watched the pale beast pace its cage. “Jon and Bran parade their direwolves, their eagle, their damned talking raven. Mance flaunts his striped horses. Well, now I’ll parade my own Silver Lion. Let’s see how that looks when I walk it through Vaes Dothrak.”

The image alone made me smile. For once, Jaime Lannister seemed more like a boy daring the world to laugh at him—and daring it to try.

I turned away from Jaime and his new lion, shaking my head with a smile. A Silver Lion for the Silver Lion, and he looked as pleased as a boy with a new toy.

Our strange company grew stranger by the day—wolves the size of horses, a black eagle, a raven that spoke, striped zorses, and now lions marching with us through the Dothraki Sea.

What were we? A band of sellswords, or some travelling menagerie?

That thought had barely crossed my mind when I caught sight of Sarella Sand at a nearby stall. She was haggling fiercely with a merchant who looked pale with nerves. At her feet sat a wicker crate, and inside I glimpsed the segmented tail of a Manticore curling lazily, its stinger glinting in the sun.

I blinked. “Seven hells…”

Sarella looked up and grinned at me as if I’d simply caught her buying figs. “My father is Oberyn Martell,” she reminded me, her eyes gleaming. “He will be most pleased when his daughter brings him fresh Manticore venom straight from its source.”

I rubbed my eyes and muttered to myself, “Direwolves, lions, manticores… at this rate, by the time we reach Braavos, we’ll look more like a travelling circus than an army.”

I spotted Jon across the market, Ghost padding beside him, the great white wolf making the crowds part like water. The rescued children trailed behind him, their little arms laden with parcels—cloth, trinkets, food, and gods know what else. It looked as if he were a merchant lord with his own train of servants.

Beside me, Jaime had the animal vendor scribbling frantically on a slate, promising the lion cages would be dragged out to our camp by sundown. “Make sure none are starved or struck,” he warned, his voice carrying the weight of steel despite his lack of it. “If one dies, so will you.” The vendor bowed until his forehead almost scraped the earth.

When we reached Jon, Jaime let out a laugh. “Tell me, my prince, do you mean to buy the entire market?”

Jon glanced at the children carrying his burdens, then at the pile growing higher with every stall. He shook his head. “I left Winterfell in the middle of the night, Ser Jaime. I’ve family to placate—uncles, aunts, cousins… my grandmother. Better to arrive with gifts than empty-handed.”

Jaime arched a golden brow. “And a princess too, I assume?”

Jon’s lips twitched into the smallest of smiles. “Yes, especially her. As you might recall, Ser Jaime. The Stormborn has the temper of her namesake.”

That earned a sharp bark of laughter from the Kingslayer. He clapped Jon’s shoulder once. “Yes, well, good luck to you then, my prince. Your most dangerous undertaking yet.” With that, he turned on his heel, striding away with the easy grace of a man who had never known self-doubt.

Before Jon could say more, the creak of heavy wheels and the groan of straining axles cut through the market noise. Donal Noye’s carts, piled high with grain, meat, and casks of water, began their slow roll back toward camp, Donal himself limping alongside like a blacksmith guarding his forge.

Jon followed the motion with his eyes, then turned to me. “We’d best be ready. Drogo holds his feast tonight.”

At that, Ghost huffed as though he already disapproved, and one of the children nearly toppled forward under a sack of dried fruit. I nodded, though my stomach turned at the thought.

A Dothraki feast—what sights and sounds would meet us there? Would it be like a Westerosi hall, with laughter and music, or more like a Freefolk moot, loud and raw and on the edge of violence?

As we made our way back toward the city gates, I found myself fretting over it all—what Drogo would serve, what songs might be sung, what dangers might lurk beneath the wine and roasted meats.

Feasts had never been places of ease for me, and this one seemed less a celebration than another trial, one where I could not guess the rules.

By the time we returned to camp, the air was alive with chatter and boasting. A few of the Forgotten Sons strutted about, eager to show off the spoils they’d carried back from Vaes Dothrak—bright silks that caught the firelight, strange blades curved and jagged, bottles of liquor whose scents alone made me dizzy. Not all flaunted their treasures, though.

Jon had left his goods tucked away in his tent, and I, for my part, kept mine wrapped in cloth. Some things were better left unremarked.

Yet no purchase drew half so many eyes as Jaime Lannister’s. In the very heart of the camp stood the lion cages, their bars casting long shadows across the packed earth. The beasts inside paced restlessly, golden eyes glowing in the dusk. Donal Noye cursed loud enough for the whole camp to hear when he saw them.

“Seven bloody hells! Which halfwit thought it wise to plant a pack of lions in the middle of camp?” He barked at his assistants, already dragging timbers toward the site. “Build barricades. Stout ones, before someone gets eaten.”

But the true marvel was the white lion. The Hrakkar. It sat calmly in its cage, far more still than its kin, its pale coat glimmering like silver in the dying light. Jaime stood near, helm tucked under one arm, the other hand hovering uncertainly toward the bars.

“Go on,” Bran’s small voice carried from behind. The boy’s eyes were distant, his tone certain. “It is tame. It will not harm you.”

Jaime glanced at him, half frowning, half wary, but after a pause, he spread his arms as if in surrender. “Alright then. Now, cat, do not bite my hand.” Slowly, carefully, he touched its head through the bars. To my amazement, the beast leaned into his palm like some overgrown housecat.

Bran’s lips curved faintly. “It is tame to follow. If you wish, you can let it out. It will stay with you.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “I don’t even want to know how you know that, Stark. But stay out of my lion’s head.”

Bran only nodded, turning away as though the matter were settled.

The rest of us, though, were far from settled. I felt the air go taut. Mya had her hand tight around her warhammer’s haft, ready to swing at a moment’s notice. Meera stood with an arrow already nocked, her bow bent and hungry. Jon’s fingers rested on Blackfyre’s hilt, Ghost at his heel with fur bristling like frost in moonlight. The whole camp seemed to hold its breath.

Then the Hrakkar gave a soft rumble, stepped forward, and pressed its great head against Jaime’s armoured leg, no claws, no fangs, no blood. Just a nuzzle, before it sank back onto its haunches, calm as ever.

A sigh rippled through the camp, though whether from relief or disappointment I could not say. The Freefolk broke first, their voices rising in raucous laughter.

“Bloody Hells,” Tormund roared, clapping Harma Hardhand on the back so hard she nearly stumbled. “The Kingslayer’s gone and made himself a bloody cat-lord!”

Harma spat in the dirt. “Not a cat. A beast. That thing’ll eat him before the moon’s turned twice.”

Some of the Forgotten Sons laughed with the Freefolk, though most kept their distance, eyes fixed on the pale lion as if it might burst from the cage at any moment.

Even the Hound, usually unmoved by most sights, tilted his head and muttered, “Seven hells. That’ll make a fine mess when it decides it doesn’t like him.”

Jaime ignored them all. He kept one hand resting lightly on the bars while the Hrakkar nuzzled his leg again, calm as a gelding in a stable. There was the smallest smile on his lips—half pride, half challenge—as though daring the camp to doubt him.

I felt the tension in my own chest ease, though my hands still clutched the quarterstaff I’d bought in Vaes Dothrak. I wasn’t sure what unsettled me more: the beast itself, or the sight of Jaime Lannister standing with a wild lion at his heel like some hero out of a bard’s song.

Ghost gave a low rumble, his red eyes never leaving the Hrakkar. Jon rested a hand on the direwolf’s scruff, murmuring something soft, and for a heartbeat, it seemed as though the whole camp held its breath—two predators measuring one another, lion and wolf.

The Hrakkar yawned, showing teeth like polished ivory, and settled back down at Jaime’s feet.

And just like that, the spell broke. The camp stirred again—men shouting, women laughing nervously, wagers being made on how long Jaime would keep all his limbs.

But I found myself watching the pale lion still, and I could not shake the feeling that this night had planted something dangerous in our midst.

The camp seemed to hum with unease, every man and woman waiting for the Hrakkar to snap, to roar, to bare its fangs. But it did none of those things.

It sat like a great pale shadow at Jaime’s side, watching the chaos of the camp with the same lazy disdain I’d seen in lords seated in high halls.

Then Ghost moved.

The direwolf padded forward, silent as snowfall, his white coat shining in the dusk. He was larger than the lion, broader through the chest, with teeth no less fearsome.

The air seemed to tighten again as the wolf drew closer, every bowstring half-pulled, every sword half-drawn.

Ghost circled the cage, nose low, sniffing. The Hrakkar’s ears twitched, but it did not bare its teeth. Instead, it watched, calm, unblinking, as if the direwolf was no more than another passing curiosity.

Ghost pressed close enough to touch nose to bars, his red eyes burning like coals.

For a long moment, I thought blood would fly.

But then Ghost turned away, slow and deliberate, as if satisfied. He padded back to Jon’s side and sat, his tongue lolling. The Hrakkar only flicked its tail and settled its head against the bars.

The camp exhaled in one breath. Men laughed nervously. Mya muttered something about “the Seven testing our luck,” and Meera lowered her bow at last.

Jon glanced at Jaime, his hand still resting on Ghost’s scruff. “Are you going to name it?”

Jaime leaned against the bars, eyes narrowing slightly as though testing the weight of the question. He let the silence draw a little too long, then said, “Silver.”

The name lingered in the air, sharp and simple.

Jon gave him a slow nod of approval. “Fitting.” Then he turned, calling Ghost to heel, and left without another word.

The crowd thinned soon after, men and women drifting back to their tents, still stealing glances at the lion in the cage. Donal Noye and his workers were hammering together the last of the barricades, cursing under their breath. From the cookfires, the first smells of roasting meat began to drift, thick with spice and smoke.

The feast awaited.

And as I followed the scent through camp, clutching my new staff in both hands, I could not help but wonder if this night would end in celebration… or in something else entirely.
Then I was in Jon’s tent, getting a shave for the feast.
The Braavosi barber’s hands were quick and practised, his little razor whispering along my jaw. He had a sharp tongue too, though tonight he kept it tucked away, humming some tune from across the Narrow Sea as he scraped away what little hair I’d managed to grow.

Beside me, Jon sat in the other chair, his face half-lathered, his expression still and unreadable as always.

It struck me as almost absurd that men who had fought wights and monsters, that a prince of the blood and a coward of Horn Hill, should spend the eve of a Dothraki feast sitting meekly while a barber fussed over our sparse beards. But there it was, and I found a strange comfort in it.

When Jon was done, he rose and shrugged into a fine doublet, black with red stitching. He had just drawn the last lace tight when the tent flap lifted. Jaime entered, golden hair bright in the torchlight, and behind him padded Silver, quiet as any shadowcat.

The great lion walked at his side with the meekness of a house cat, its pale coat shimmering like moonlight.

“Seven save me,” I muttered, shifting back as the beast padded inside.

Jaime ignored me, his eyes on Jon. “Armour.”

Jon frowned, hands still on his doublet’s laces. “It’s only a feast.”

“It’s only a feast,” Jaime echoed, dry as sand. “And yesterday a man ripped another’s heart from his chest and fed it to his dogs—for sport. You’re a prince of the blood, Jon. Princes of the blood don’t gamble with formality when sitting at a table with men like that. Wear your armour.”

Jon studied him for a moment, then nodded. Without a word, he tugged the doublet back off and turned to the stand where his armour gleamed, newly polished and still carrying the scent of oil. One by one, he began fastening the plates back on, his face calm, resigned.

Silver sat down in the corner, watching him, its great head tilted in something that looked dangerously like curiosity.

Satisfied, Jaime turned and headed for the flap. But before leaving, he tossed over his shoulder, “And use perfume, Jon. You’re a prince. You can’t smell like oil.”

The flap fell closed behind him, and I heard Jon sigh as he tightened another strap. I swallowed a chuckle.

Between Jaime’s sharp tongue and the barber’s humming, it felt like we’d both been groomed not just for a feast, but for some grand court.

And perhaps that’s exactly what tonight was.

When I stepped out of Jon’s tent, I half-expected to see a line of lords and ladies dressed for a hall in King’s Landing—silk, velvet, bright colours, the sort of finery one imagines when the word feast is spoken.

Instead, I was met with the same sight as every evening in camp: men in their worn leathers, patched wool, plain shirts. A few had polished breastplates or slipped on a mail shirt, but most looked ready for a march, not a supper.

The Hound, of course, was still in his armour, helm tucked under his arm. I was beginning to think the man slept in the stuff.

Jon emerged not long after, clad in his dark armour, Blackfyre at his hip. He paused to speak with the Blackfish, leaving him in command of the camp. I saw the old knight nod once, grim and steady as stone.

It seemed most of the Freefolk had decided to stay behind. Some muttered distrust of feasting under a khal’s roof, others simply preferred their own fires and skins of sour wine.

All the giants remained in camp too, their mammoths and the elephants tethered close. Their absence alone would make the company entering the city seem… smaller.

Still, enough of us mounted up to form a sight worth seeing. Knights in mixed mail and plate, Adventurers with their bright cloaks—it was a strange company, and yet I had grown so used to it I no longer thought it odd.

I tightened my grip on the reins of my mule as we set out, following Jon and Jaime at the head. The sun was low, its light spilling gold over the endless grass, and Vaes Dothrak waited ahead, smoke rising like banners above its roofs.

Tonight, we would sit in Drogo’s wooden hall as honoured guests. And for all my nerves, I could not help but wonder what strange turn awaited us next.

We rode in loose formation, the clatter of hooves and creak of leather filling the silence. Behind Jaime, the great white lion padded along as if it belonged there, head high, its pale coat catching the last light of the day.

A sight fit for a bard’s song—though most bards would faint before daring to ride so close.

“Poor Ser Jaime,” Mya called from her saddle, grin wide enough for the both of them. “Can’t bear to be parted from his cat for even a few hours.”

A few chuckles rippled through the riders, but Jaime only glanced over his shoulder at the lion and said, softer than I expected, “I took him to his cage. He looked so wretched behind the bars, I couldn’t stomach leaving him there. So here we are.”

For a moment, I swore I saw something unguarded in his face, almost tender. Then the smile crept back in, and he added, “Besides, with your company, Lady Stone, Silver will seem positively well-behaved.”

Mya laughed outright, tossing her braid. “I won’t deny that, good ser. You’ve a sharp eye.”

Ygritte, riding just behind them, snorted loud enough to turn a few heads. “Listen to you two coo like doves. Next, you’ll be feeding the beast from your hand. Careful, Lannister, else he’ll start sleeping in your tent.”

The company laughed, and even Jaime smirked.

“Maybe I ought to get myself an animal,” Ygritte went on, her eyes glinting with mischief. “A big, nasty bear. One with claws the size of swords.” She let the pause hang, then added sweetly, “Like the one Tormund’s in love with.”

The laughter doubled, loud enough to turn heads in the streets ahead.

Tormund, red-faced but grinning, bellowed, “Aye, I like my she-bear! More than like her! But keep your mitts off her, girl—she’s mine!”

Ygritte cackled, slapping her knee. “Don’t worry, Tormund. I’ve no taste for thieving, least of all a bear-woman who’d snap me in two.”

Mya was nearly doubled over in her saddle, and even Jon’s lips twitched in the corner of my eye. I only shook my head, thinking that if this was what passed for levity before a Dothraki feast, perhaps it was the best armour we had.

The laughter lingered a little longer, rolling with the clatter of hooves and the lion’s steady padding. Then Jon’s voice cut through it, calm but carrying, like the wind shifting before a storm.

“Enjoy the moment,” he said, “but remember what we walk into tonight. You all saw yesterday—the Dothraki are not the sort of people who’ll laugh along with us. Grim men, raised on war and cruelty.”

His eyes, half-shadowed by his helm, scanned the group as he spoke. “They are slavers, and they will treat their slaves harshly. You’ll want to act. I’ll want to act. But we cannot. We are guests. To intervene would dishonour Drogo and all the protection he has promised us.”

Silence fell heavier than any of us liked.

“But,” Jon went on, and there was a change in his voice—a hardening, like steel in a forge. “We are not common merchants. We are the Forgotten Sons. If we are not shown respect as guests of honour, then we will remind them who we are. And what we are capable of.”

The words sat in my chest, hot as brandy. Yet I caught something beneath them, too. A sadness. As though the truth—that we could not raise a hand to shield the beaten and the chained—gnawed at him worse than any wound.

His face betrayed nothing, but I knew Jon well enough now. That truth hurt him. He had chosen to accept it, but it burned him all the same.

Still, when he spoke of his people, of us, there was no sadness. Only fire. Fire like a true Targaryen.

The silence clung after Jon spoke, each of us riding in our own thoughts. The Mother of Mountains loomed closer, and with it the great wooden hall Drogo claimed as his seat.

Jaime’s voice broke the quiet. Firm, level, but laced with that edge of command he slipped on like a second skin.

“Remember—this may be called a feast, but don’t lose your wits. This isn’t Westeros. These people don’t know what Guest Right means, and they won’t care if you forget yourself. Best not to drink at all. And if you must, keep your head clear.”

The Hound let out a bark of a laugh, sour and sharp. “I’m always drunk, Lannister. That’s when I kill the best.”

For a moment, the tension cracked like a dry twig underfoot. Jaime even allowed himself the faintest smile. “Then do what you do best, Clegane. Just don’t get so drunk you forget which side you’re on.”

The Hound spat into the dust, muttering, but said no more.

We rode on, the torches of Drogo’s wooden hall flickering in the distance, and the weight of what awaited us pressed closer with every step of hooves and every rumble of Silver’s padded gait.

The ride through Vaes Dothrak grew quieter the closer we came to Drogo’s hall. The streets widened, the press of riders and slaves giving way to an open space before the great wooden structure that served as the Khal’s seat.

I will confess, I expected more. It was larger and grander than the other buildings in the city, yes, carved pillars thick as oaks and a roof that rose above all others like a king among lesser men.

But compared to the stone keeps of Westeros—Winterfell, Riverrun, or the Red Keep itself—it was little more than timber and paint, no high towers, no strong walls. Just a house, raised high enough for its owner to be seen.

And yet, something was unsettling in that simplicity. The strength here was not in walls or stone, but in the thousands of riders whose eyes followed us from the shadows, as if daring us to forget where we stood.

Our guides beckoned us forward. “Ride inside,” one said, a smile half-smirk curling his lips.

At first, I thought I had misheard. But then I saw the doors, towering slabs of wood reinforced with bronze bands, made not for men on foot but wide and tall enough for a rider to pass through astride his horse. A hall meant not for lords, but for warriors who never dismounted.

We followed their gesture, hooves clattering as we pressed forward. The smell of smoke, horse, and spiced meat spilt from within, mingling with the deep-throated beat of drums.

Then he appeared—Drogo himself. He stepped from the shadows of the hall, tall as any knight, his braid heavy with golden bells that chimed softly in the stillness.

His eyes passed over us, lingering on Jon, on Jaime, and even on Silver padding behind like some ghost out of a tale.

When he spoke, it was not a roar but a low thunder, rolling and sure. “Be welcome in my hall.”

One by one, we swung down from our saddles. The hooves of our mounts rang hollow on the planks beneath, and I could feel the weight of the hall pressing in before we’d even crossed its threshold.

Khal Drogo’s grin—wolfish, proud—flickered when his gaze landed on Bran Stark. For just a heartbeat, something unreadable passed over his dark eyes.

I reminded myself, as I had to, that Bran had spoken to him. He had told Drogo everything—of the dead that walked, of his strange gifts, of visions that stretched beyond the sight of any man.

Would that knowledge make Drogo more wary of us? Or more dangerous still?

The thought gnawed at me as we followed Jon into the hall. Ghost padded at his master’s heel, Summer loped in behind Bran, and Silver padded softly beside Jaime, the Hrakkar’s pale coat shining even in the dim firelight.

Overhead, I spotted Morghul. The black eagle clung to a pillar high above, wings half-spread, eyes glinting sharp as knives in the smoke.

The feast began in a storm of sound—drums, stamping feet, laughter, the bray of pipes that jarred against my ears. Slaves hurried in and out, their tattered cloth barely clinging to their bodies, arms laden with bowls of stewed meat and trays of pale bread.

They moved like shadows, silent and swift, and I could not help but think every pair of eyes in the hall pretended not to see them at all.

The Dothraki roared their approval at each dish, tearing into the fare with greasy hands and wet mouths. By contrast, our company sat stiff and still.

The Forgotten Sons did not refuse the food—for that would have been an insult—but they ate sparingly, drank just enough to appear courteous.

Even Mance, who had never in his life looked out of place in any hall I had seen him, seemed to weigh every bite, every sip, as though they might be poisoned.

All, save one.

The Hound tipped back his wineskin as though he were in some common tavern in King’s Landing, not a hall where a hundred swords could be drawn at the twitch of a brow.

“Not touchin’ that shit-smellin' horse piss,” he muttered, jerking his head at the bowls of fermented mare’s milk being passed around. “Got my own.” He gave his skin a hearty shake and drank deep, ale dribbling from his beard as if to spite the whole company.

The hall felt heavy with smoke and noise, the air hot as a forge. Laughter cracked like whips, and the smell of meat—half-burnt, half-blood—coated the back of my throat until I wanted to gag.

At one moment, a rider—broad as an ox, eyes wild with kohl—struck a slave across the face for spilling a drop of wine. The girl crumpled, blood trickling from her lip, and no one so much as blinked.

No one, save Mya. Her hands clenched so tightly upon the table, her knuckles turned white. She looked ready to leap across the hall, warhammer or no.

I caught her eye, shaking my head just a fraction, and pressed my lips into a thin line. She was right to be angry. Gods help me, she was right. But we were far from home, and these were not our laws. All I could offer was a look—solidarity in silence.

The drums beat louder then, calling for attention. Drogo rose from his seat, the firelight gilding the bronze of his skin, his braid heavy with bells.

A hush fell across the hall, though it was the hush of wolves readying for a howl. He spoke in Dothraki, his voice rolling deep, every word sharp as the edge of a blade.

Bran’s voice carried the meaning for us, steady, almost solemn:

“The Khal says he wishes to repay the men of the Forgotten Sons—for saving his life, and for the gifts given to him.”

My breath caught as Drogo turned. From behind his seat, an ornate arakh was brought forth. It gleamed in the firelight, its blade wrapped in silk, its grip bound in gold. A weapon fit for a king, though there was no king in this hall, only a khal.

Drogo held it out. “For the lion-man,” Bran translated, “who placed a blade in his hand when he was without.”

Jaime rose, slow and measured, every eye in the hall upon him. He took the arakh with a knight’s courtesy, though I saw the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, perhaps at the irony—a Westerosi knight, honoured for an act with a Dothraki blade.

Then came the thunder of hooves on wood. Riders drove a red stallion into the hall, the beast fighting the reins, its hide gleaming like fresh blood. Drogo motioned toward Mance, words rumbling in his chest.

Bran again gave them to us: “For the crow-king, who gave him a mount when he was without.”

Mance rose with a half-grin, half-grimace. He took the reins with a nod that was both mocking and sincere, his eyes dancing as though the hall itself were a jest only he understood.

Drogo was not done. From behind his seat, another weapon was brought forth, cradled in cloth as if it were a holy relic. When the wrappings fell away, my breath caught.

A bow—smaller than the longbows of the North, curved for swift firing from horseback. Its sheen was black, but not like lacquer or paint. No, deeper. Older. I had read of such things in dusty tomes in Horn Hill.

Dragonbone.

It was said to be the finest material for a bow—flexible, strong, unyielding. Arrows loosed from such a weapon could pierce armour where steel might glance away.

Drogo’s words rumbled again, and Bran’s clear voice carried over the hush:

“For the serpent’s daughter, who gave him healing when he was broken.”

Sarella rose, eyes wide and bright. She took the bow in her hands, running her fingers along the bone with a reverence that told me she knew its worth.

She inclined her head in gratitude, though I caught the quick flash of a smile—half-pride, half mischief—that was hers alone.

But Drogo was not finished. Another rider came forward, leading a tall grey horse, strong-limbed and sleek of hide, its mane braided in the Dothraki way.

The Khal’s words thundered, and this time they struck like a blow to my chest.

“For the fat scholar,” Bran translated, though the words were softened, “who gave him water when he was dying, and who he will not see shamed upon a mule. Only eunuchs ride mules, and he will not have a whole man made to look like one.”

The hall erupted in laughter, but I could not laugh. My face burned as I stood, stumbling a little, my mouth dry. A gift. A horse. A true horse, tall and proud and nothing like the poor mule I had bounced upon since leaving Horn Hill.

The reins were thrust into my hands. I muttered something—I scarcely knew what—but my heart thumped in my chest. I could feel eyes on me, too many, and I prayed to all the Seven that I would not make a fool of myself.

The grey stamped its hoof and tossed its mane. I stroked its neck with a trembling hand, still not believing this was real. A mule no longer.

Drogo’s gifts did not end with horseflesh or steel.

At his command, two young women were brought into the hall. They had the colouring of the Dothraki—the same deep skin, the same dark eyes, their long hair bound in braids.

They were not older than I, nor Jon, nor Meera, nor any of us who were just beginning to learn what it meant to be grown. And yet their eyes had the hollowness of those who had never truly lived free.

Around their throats gleamed iron collars, polished bright for this occasion. Their dresses were finer than those of the serving slaves, silks and dyed cloth, but the finery did not hide what they were. They were a gift, like a horse, like a bow.

The hall grew hushed as Drogo’s voice rolled out, Bran translating in calm tones, though I could see his hands trembling slightly on his cup.

“For the prince,” Bran said, “who took me in when I was broken, who rode with me to Vaes Dothrak, and who fought with me as brother in arms. I give him these to be his own. He may do with them as he pleases.”

One of Drogo’s riders pressed a whip into Jon’s hand, a slaver’s whip.

The moment the leather touched Jon’s palm, I saw it—the dragon behind his eyes. Fire coiled there, straining at its chains, begging to be unleashed in this very hall. He could have torn through them all, I thought. For one heartbeat, I believed he might.

He hated this. He hated Drogo for it, and hated that every man and woman here knew of his hatred, and smiled still, as though it were a jest.

My stomach turned, my heart thudding. I understood why Drogo had done it. He knew—he must have known—that Jon and all of us despised slavery.

And yet he had offered this gift anyway. Not in ignorance. In defiance. A test. A taunt. A reminder that in his hall, it was he who decided what honour meant, what gifts were worth, what lives belonged to whom.

Jon’s knuckles whitened around the whip. His jaw clenched, every muscle in his body coiled tight.

And then, Jaime moved.

He did not speak. He did not draw steel. He simply placed one gauntleted hand upon Jon’s shoulder—light, but heavy enough to remind him of all that hung in the balance.

I held my breath. Jon’s chest rose and fell once, twice, and I saw him master himself. He swallowed the fire, choked down his fury, and when at last he lifted his face to Drogo, it was not a dragon’s snarl but a prince’s mask.

Jon inclined his head, accepted the whip, and turned back to his seat. The girls followed him, silent, their eyes cast down.

The hall cheered and laughed, the way they had at every gift before, but I could not join them. My hands felt clammy, my tongue dry. I feared what might yet come of this night.

The feast dragged on, though none of us seemed to care for the food or the drink, save for the Hound, who made a performance of emptying his wineskin to the last drop.

Laughter and song rose around us, the clatter of cups and the crack of whips against slaves who stumbled. But for our company, the air was heavier than steel, every gift a chain we could not shake off.

At last, Drogo gave his final toast, and the hall roared its approval. That was our moment. We rose as one, gave the Khal our thanks, and took our leave.

The night air outside was cooler, but no lighter. Our mounts waited by the torches, stamping the earth impatiently. Jon stopped short beside them and turned to me, his voice low but firm.

“Ride your new horse, Sam,” he said. His hand brushed Blackfyre’s pommel as he spoke. Then he turned to the girls Drogo had pressed upon him. “You—take the mule.”

The two slaves stared at him as though he had spoken madness. “We… we do not ride,” one said, her Common broken, halting. “Slaves do not ride.”

Jon’s jaw tightened. His voice cut like a blade when he answered.

“I am not Dothraki,” he said. “You will ride.”

They obeyed, hesitantly mounting the mule, while I clambered into the saddle of the tall grey stallion Drogo had given me. The horse moved beneath me with a grace I was not used to—far from the stubborn plod of my old mule.

We set out together into the night, our company’s torchlight flickering against the grass. Ghost padded along at Jon’s heel, white fur gleaming. Summer loped close behind, Silver trotting beside Jaime like a shadow given form.

Then a cry split the air overhead. Morghul came winging out of the hall, black wings slicing the starlight. The eagle circled once, then swooped down, talons scraping the air before it settled upon Jon’s shoulder.

I looked at him then—really looked. His face was dark with fury still, his mouth a hard line, his eyes smouldering with something barely contained. He wore his black and red armour, polished to a cruel gleam, Blackfyre at his side, the whip of a slaver coiled in his hand, and Morghul perched like a shadow of death above him.

In that moment, with the torches casting him in firelight, Jon looked every inch a Targaryen prince. Not the boy who had once doubted his heritage, but the son of fire and blood, born to wear a crown and to make the world tremble.

I shivered, though the night was warm.

The ride back to camp was made in silence. Even the Hound, who never could hold his tongue for long, kept to his wineskin and muttered nothing. The torches of the city dwindled behind us until only the stars lit our path across the grass.

When we dismounted at last, Jon wasted no time. He slid down from his stallion, Blackfyre clinking faintly at his hip, and dropped the whip Drogo had given him into the dirt as though it burned his hand. The snap of leather on earth echoed louder in my ears than the whole feast had.

He turned to the two young women. They stood awkwardly, still atop the mule, eyes wide as if expecting a blow. Jon’s voice was calm but carried the weight of command.

“What are your names?”

They glanced at one another before the taller of the two spoke in halting Common. She touched her chest lightly.

“This one is called Rhaeza.”

The second bowed her head.

“This one is called Veyri.”

Jon’s gaze softened just slightly. “Rhaeza. Veyri. You are no longer slaves.”

The words seemed to freeze the air. Even Ghost stilled at his side, ears pricked. Jon looked to Mya. “Take off their collars.”

“Aye, gladly,” Mya said, stepping forward. She tugged her dagger free and, with a grunt of satisfaction, snapped the first collar open, then the second. The metal fell into the dirt with a heavy clink.

She spat beside them, muttering, “Chains don’t suit free folk.”

Jon nodded once in thanks before turning back to the girls. His tone was steady, resolute. “You are free to go wherever you will. If you wish to leave for Braavos, or Qarth, or anywhere across the seas, I will see you given the means to do so. If you wish to remain here, in my camp, you will be welcome.”

The girls’ hands went to their throats, touching the bare skin where iron had pressed moments ago. Their eyes darted between Jon and Mya, then down to the collars lying in the dust. They said nothing, too stunned for words.

I thought of the way Drogo had presented them in that hall, all dressed like trinkets, offered with a whip in hand. I looked now at Jon, casting the whip aside, unbinding their chains, the same gifts, but made into something else entirely.

At first, neither spoke. Their hands lingered at their throats, rubbing the red, raw skin where the iron had bitten them for gods knew how long.

The sight made my stomach twist. Ghost padded closer, his pale eyes fixed on them, but the lion’s stare in Jaime’s cage had seemed gentler.

At last, Rhaeza raised her chin. “If we go… we are taken again,” she said, her Common broken but clear enough. “Two women, no wealth, no men. Easy prey. Better to stay… here.”

Veyri nodded fiercely, echoing her companion. “With you. Safer.”

Jon’s hard expression eased into something warmer, and he gave them the faintest of smiles. “Then stay. You are welcome among us, not as slaves, but as free companions.” He extended his hand toward them. “This is how we greet friends.”

The girls stared at his hand as though it were some strange weapon. They glanced at one another, unsure, their brows furrowed.

“For Seven’s sake,” Mya muttered, striding forward. She caught Rhaeza’s hand gently, pressed it into Jon’s, and moved their hands up and down in an exaggerated shake. “There. That’s all it is. A greeting.”

Jon’s smile widened, almost boyish for a moment.

Mya turned to Veyri, repeating the motion with a little more care, then dropped their joined hands. “See? There, we’re all friends now.”

The two girls looked at their hands as if they’d been part of a ritual, then glanced up at Jon again—less fearful this time, though no less bewildered.

I couldn’t help but think it was the first true gift they’d been given in their lives—choice.

Jon turned from them, striding toward his tent with the whip still lying in the dirt behind him. The girls, uncertain, took a step after him—then froze.

Ghost had padded silently into their path, tongue lolling, his eyes bright as cold moons. He made no sound, but he didn’t need to. The great direwolf blocked the way as though he’d read Jon’s mind.

The girls looked at one another in sudden fright, then back to Jon.

“Why are you following me?” Jon asked, turning with a puzzled frown.

Rhaeza’s answer came first, halting and quiet. “We thought… the Prince… might require our service.”

Her words struck me like a slap. Jon exhaled, long and weary, running a hand through his dark hair.

“This is a company of free men and free women,” he said firmly, though his voice was gentler than his eyes. “No one here provides ‘service’ to another. Not you, not anyone.”

They blinked, confused, as if he’d spoken some tongue they had no knowledge of.

Jon softened then, his shoulders easing. He turned to me. “Sam. Take them to the healer’s tent. Have their necks looked at. The collars have bitten deep.”

He glanced toward Sarella, who was already stepping forward with quiet assurance. “See to them,” Jon added.

Sarella nodded briskly. “I’ll salve the sores.”

Jon gave one last look at the girls—more thoughtful than stern this time—before turning away. Ghost fell into step at his side, brushing the girls as he passed. The direwolf’s white shadow slipped inside the tent after his master, and the flap closed behind them.

The camp was quiet around us, but I could feel the weight of the moment pressing heavily in the night air. For the first time, perhaps, the girls were learning what freedom truly meant.

The healer’s tent smelled of herbs and boiled linen, sharp and clean against the smoky air of the camp. Sarella had laid out her jars and cloths in neat order, as was her way.

The girls lingered at the flap, glancing at me, at her, at the salves with the same wariness one might show a coiled viper.

“We should start with introductions,” Sarella said, her voice calm and smooth. “I am Sarella Sand. This is Samwell Tarly.”

I fumbled a bow, though seated as I was, it came off more like a nervous dip of the head. “Sam, if you prefer.”

Sarella tilted her head toward the stools. “Will you permit us to tend your necks?”

For a moment, I thought they might bolt, but at last Rhaeza—her voice barely above a whisper—nodded. “You may.” Oshael followed with a tiny nod of her own.

Sarella beckoned them forward, and I held the salve jar ready. Their skin was raw where the collars had bitten deep, red welts circling their throats.

I winced just looking at it. Carefully, I spread the cool balm across the angry flesh, while Sarella pressed linen gently against it.

They sat still as statues, only the faintest flinch when the salve touched their sores.

“Do you suffer anywhere else?” Sarella asked when we had finished, her dark eyes searching theirs.

Both shook their heads. Then Rhaeza murmured, “We were kept… untouched. The khal wished to gift us unspoiled.”

The words made my stomach twist. Sarella’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing, only capped her jar with deliberate care.

It was Oshael who broke the silence, speaking suddenly, like a child blurting out what she’d held too long. “The… thing that follows the prince. What is it?”

“Ah.” Sarella’s mouth curved in a sly little smile. “That you should ask Sam. He is our official storyteller.”

Heat rushed to my face. “Oh—I… well—Ghost is his name. He’s a direwolf. One of the only six south of the Wall that I know of. He’s not a thing, truly, but a beast with his own heart and mind. Fierce in battle, yes, but gentle when there’s no need for claws or teeth.”

The girls looked at one another, whispering in their own tongue, then back to me with wide eyes.

“Will he… eat us?” Oshael asked, half serious, half childlike.

I managed a smile. “Not unless you steal his supper. And even then, I suspect Ghost would only growl.”

For the first time since they’d arrived, I heard the faintest sound of laughter from them—thin and uncertain, but laughter all the same.

Their laughter faded into shy smiles, and I found myself smiling back before I even realised it. The tent felt lighter for a moment, though the air was still thick with the smell of herbs.

Rhaeza tilted her head, studying me with eyes that seemed far older than her years. “Are you… A sellsword company? Men with swords for hire?”

The question startled me. I suppose to them, that was the simplest way to explain a host of armed Westerosi marching with banners and beasts.

“No,” I said, perhaps too quickly. My fingers worried at the jar lid before I stilled them. “Not sellswords. At least… not like the companies you’ve seen.”

They leaned forward, both curious now. Even Sarella gave me a small nod, as though to say Go on, tell them.

“The Forgotten Sons fight, yes—but not for coin. We fight for a cause. For what’s right.” I glanced between them, trying to find words that would make sense across the gulf between our worlds. “We fight against slavery. Against cruelty. Most of us are… outcasts, you could say. Nobles who had no place in their houses. Bastards, broken men, women ignored or forgotten by their lords. That’s why we call ourselves the Forgotten Sons.”

Rhaeza and Oshael exchanged a long look. Their hands drifted to their throats again, fingers brushing the tender skin where collars had bitten deep.

“Forgotten,” Oshael whispered, as though testing the word.

“Yes,” I said softly. “But not lost. Not anymore. Here, everyone has a place. And if you choose it, you may as well.”

They were quiet after that, but the kind of quiet where thought was working beneath the surface, not fear.

Sarella busied herself with binding the jars, but I caught the corner of her smile. She had heard it too—that small shift, from frightened slaves to young women who could imagine being something more.

It was Rhaeza who broke the silence first. Her voice was hesitant, but the words carried a strange awe.

“The prince… how does the white shadow follow him so? And the great eagle—” she gestured upward, as though she could still see Morghul circling the sky. “It sits on his shoulder as if it were… his pet.”

Oshael nodded quickly, her sore neck forgotten for the moment. “No man commands beasts like that. Not unless he is… something more.”

I chuckled, though softly. “Aye, you could say he is something more.” I settled back on the stool, knowing I’d been cornered into the role Sarella teased me with—the storyteller.

“Prince Jaehaerys of House Targaryen—though most here still call him Jon—was born of dragon’s blood, the son of King Rhaegar himself. But he was fostered far away, in Winterfell, under the care of Lord Stark. That is where he grew into the man you see.”

Their eyes widened, the weight of a name like Targaryen clearly not lost on them.

“And the beasts?” Rhaeza pressed.

“Jon is a warg,” I explained. “A man who walks in the skin of animals, as some of the Freefolk north of the Wall can do. Ghost was found by his hand when he was but a pup—one of a litter of direwolves, thought long gone from the world. The others went to Lord Stark’s children, but Ghost… Ghost was always his. Silent, red-eyed, white as snow. He has never left Jon’s side.”

They drew close, listening like children before a hearthfire.

“As for Morghul,” I went on, “that is no ordinary eagle, but a great black shadow of a bird, bonded to him in the far North. Jon has fought with both at his side, and I’ve seen with my own eyes that they are no mere beasts—they are bound to him by blood and spirit.”

Sarella gave me an approving glance, though she rolled her eyes at my tone. She could never resist needling me, but I pressed on.

“Jon has walked farther than most princes ever dreamed. We went beyond the Wall into the frozen wilderness, where we made allies of the Freefolk—the wild men of the North, even their chieftain, Mance Rayder. We led an exodus across the deadly sea to Braavos, saving thousands. From there, we crossed Essos together. In Pentos, we fought against the Golden Company—the finest sellswords in the world. In Qohor, we clashed with the Brave Companions, who thought themselves wolves but proved little more than dogs. And now, here in the heart of the Dothraki Sea, we have earned the respect of Khal Drogo himself.”

The girls stared at me, wide-eyed, mouths parted.

“So you see,” I finished, voice low and warm, “Ghost and Morghul follow him not because he commands them, but because they are a part of him. Just as he is a part of us, the Forgotten Sons. Together, we are stronger than we were alone.”

Rhaeza whispered something in Dothraki I could not catch. Oshael leaned toward her, then looked back at me. “He sounds like a hero from the old tales,” she said, voice hushed.

I felt my cheeks heat. “Aye,” I admitted, though I knew Jon himself would bristle at the word. “But even heroes don’t think themselves heroes.”

It was Oshael who asked the next question, her voice carrying that same cautious awe as before.

“The strong woman… the one who took the collars from our necks. Who is she?”

I smiled faintly. “That would be Mya Stone.”

The girls exchanged a quick look, clearly unfamiliar with the name, so I took a breath and began. “Mya is what we in Westeros call a bastard. That means she was born outside of marriage. Some high lords look down on bastards—say they’re lesser somehow, unworthy of the names of their fathers. But I tell you, there’s no one lesser about Mya.”

“What of her father?” Rhaeza asked.

I hesitated a moment, then answered plainly. “Her father was Lord Robert Baratheon. But Robert fought against King Rhaegar, Jon’s father, and for that he is remembered as a usurper, even a traitor. Mya herself was taken as a hostage of the Crown when she was young, sent to Dragonstone. That was where Jon lived until he was ten. The two of them met there—and became fast friends.”

I could almost see it in my mind: the boy prince with his storm-born shadow, inseparable even when they drove each other to madness.

“She’s followed him ever since,” I continued, “through castles, wilds, and battlefields. Even when Jon tried to send her away, she always found her way back to him. She’s as stubborn as the mountains she was born in.”

Oshael’s lips curled upward, amused. “And she broke our collars like snapping twigs.”

“Aye,” I agreed, chuckling. “That’s Mya. Brave, headstrong, mischievous, a bit rude, if I’m honest—but always honourable. There’s no one you’d rather have guarding your back in a fight. With that warhammer of hers, she’s a nightmare to face. She’s sent armoured knights crashing down like they were nothing more than fence posts.”

The girls gasped, then broke into quiet laughter, as though the image was too outrageous not to be true.

“And yet,” I added, my tone softening, “beneath all that steel and stubbornness, she’s as loyal a friend as one could hope for. Jon trusts her like he trusts his own blood. And so do I.”

It was Rhaeza this time who spoke, her voice low but tinged with a girlish kind of wonder.

“The lion knight,” she said, the words heavy with awe. “He walks with such grace… and his silver armour—so bright, so strong. He looks as though no blade could ever pierce it. Is he… truly as handsome and brave as he seems?”

I smiled despite myself. “Handsome, aye. Brave, certainly. Gallant…” I let the word hang a moment, then shrugged. “That depends on who you ask.”

Both girls giggled softly, their eyes wide as I went on.

“His name is Ser Jaime Lannister, son of House Lannister of Casterly Rock—the wealthiest house in all the Seven Kingdoms. And he’s no mere knight. Many call him the finest swordsman of his age. When he was younger, he was named to the Kingsguard, sworn to protect the King with his life. Only the best are chosen for that honour.”

The two exchanged another glance, clearly impressed. “And yet,” I continued, lowering my voice, “he is also known for one infamous deed. He killed the king he had sworn to protect—King Aerys, Jon’s grandfather.”

Their eyes widened in shock. “Why?” Oshael asked.

I shook my head slowly. “That… is a question few know the answer to. Some whisper he betrayed his vows. Others say he acted for a reason only King Rhaegar himself understood. Whatever the truth, the deed earned him the name Kingslayer—a name he carries still.”

The girls frowned at the weight of it, but I pressed on, softening my tone. “After that, he was set to guard Jon. He’s been with him ever since—first at Dragonstone, then at Winterfell, and through every trial that followed. Wherever Jon goes, Jaime follows.”

I paused, reflecting on the man I’d come to know. “He keeps a cool, smirking face most days, pretending nothing troubles him. But to us—to Jon and to Mya especially—he is more than a knight, more than a guard. He’s… a father figure. The one who teaches, who steadies, who scolds when needed, and stands beside them when it matters most. In many ways, more a father than their own fathers ever were.”

For a moment, the tent was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the lamps. The girls seemed to drink in every word, their eyes bright, their collars gone, but their throats still raw.

It was Oshael who spoke next, hesitant, almost whispering as though afraid the boy himself might hear through the tent walls.

“The limping boy… is he a wizard?”

I froze for a moment, the word hanging heavy in the air. Wizard. It wasn’t one I liked—too simple, too clumsy for what Bran Stark truly was. Yet how else could I explain it to them?

“He is Jon’s cousin,” I began carefully, “a Stark of Winterfell. He fell, years ago, and twisted his foot so badly that he’s never walked the same since. Most men would’ve been broken by that… but Bran gained something else in return. Abilities beyond anyone’s comprehension.”

Their eyes widened, but I pressed on. “When Jon and the others went north of the Wall, they followed him into a cave—an ancient place where a man called Bloodraven lived. He trained Bran, taught him how to use those abilities.”

I shifted uneasily, still never certain how much to tell and how much to leave shrouded. “Like Jon, he can enter the minds of animals. But unlike Jon, he can do so with many at once. Ravens, wolves, even beasts you couldn’t imagine—he can make them see through his eyes, or act at his will. He can also… see things. Everything, everywhere, from anywhere. The past, the present—and perhaps even the future.”

The girls shivered at that, one clutching her hands to her chest.

I sighed, trying to steady my own voice. “It sounds terrifying, I know. And at times, Bran does seem… more than human. Sometimes he is still a child, laughing, eager, stubborn as any boy. But other times—other times, it feels as though he carries centuries inside him. As if he remembers the anger and grief of those who came before him. When we fought the Golden Company in Pentos, it wasn’t just Bran who wanted vengeance. It was Bloodraven too, burning through him.”

They exchanged nervous glances, and I quickly added, “But you must understand this: for all his strangeness, for all his coldness at times, he is protective of us. Fiercely so. Bran may see too much, know too much, but he has never once turned his back on his friends. Whatever he has become… he is still Bran Stark.”

For a heartbeat, the girls seemed unsure whether to be comforted or more unsettled by my words. Truth be told, I felt the same.

Sarella stretched her arms with a groggy yawn, her braids falling across her shoulders. “You’re still going on, Sam,” she said, voice half-amused, half-reproachful. “We march for Pentos tomorrow. Go to sleep. I’ll take the girls to Meera’s tent—she has space, I think.”

I blinked, realising only then how dry my throat had gone from talking, and how heavy my eyes felt. “Seven hells,” I muttered, rubbing at them. “I must’ve been babbling for hours. I’m sorry.”

The girls gave me small smiles, the kind people give when they don’t want to offend, but I thought there was a glimmer of real warmth there, too. “Tomorrow,” I promised them. “On the march, I’ll explain the rest. There’s still so much to tell.”

I stood, ducking out of the healer’s tent into the cool night air. Behind me, I heard Sarella’s brisk, practical voice guiding them—herding them really—towards Meera’s tent.

The thought made me pause. Meera Reed was a solitary sort—always had been. She carried herself with the stillness of the Neck’s swamps, quiet, watchful, but never inviting company for long.

Would she take kindly to two freed girls pressed into her space? Would she scowl, or simply sigh and accept it as another burden she had not asked for?

I didn’t know. But I suspected she would do what she always did—bear it without complaint, as though every inconvenience were just another reed-basket to carry.

Still, as I walked toward my own tent, I couldn’t help but wonder if solitude, once broken, ever truly stitched itself back together again.

I trudged across the camp, the torches burning low, the night air crisp against my cheeks. My feet felt like lead, dragging me toward my tent and the thin promise of sleep.

Then the roar came. A deep, thunderous bellow that rattled the very earth beneath me and sent my heart leaping into my throat.

“Seven hells!” I yelped, clutching at my chest like an old man about to keel over.

The sound echoed again, longer this time, a shiver of wild fury rolling over the camp. From the corner of my eye, I saw shadows stir where the cages stood, great golden shapes pacing back and forth. Jaime’s lions—his lions—reminding us all they were there.

For a moment, I stood frozen, my ears ringing, my thoughts darting like startled rabbits. Then, slowly, I let out a shaky breath and muttered, “As if it’s the most normal thing in the world—cages of lions in the middle of camp.”

Shaking my head, I pulled my cloak tighter around me and trudged the last stretch to my tent. The flap closed behind me with a blessed hush. At last, I lay down, and the camp’s murmurs faded into the distance, swallowed by dreams before I could think another thought.

The sun rose bright and merciless, the kind that made the earth itself shimmer in the distance. Dust clung to everything—the men, the beasts, the banners—and it wasn’t long before my mouth tasted of grit.

I glanced back at the mule, or what had been my mule. Now it was the girls’ mount, the two of them perched awkwardly atop it, still unused to riding. I found myself smiling despite the heat. At least something good had come from our visit to Vaes Dothrak.

Their wide eyes roved everywhere, drinking in the march with the awe of children staring into a festival for the first time. When the giants lumbered into view, their great shaggy forms towering above men and horses alike, I thought the girls might fall clean off the mule.

Their jaws dropped further when they saw the mammoths, their tusks glinting pale in the sunlight, each step shaking the ground. And when the elephants trudged by—huge, grey mountains with trunks swaying like banners in the breeze—they clutched at each other in silence, their astonishment plain as day.

The lions’ cages rolled ahead on heavy carts, wood groaning beneath the golden beasts. A crowd of children scampered nearby, daring each other closer with every rumble of a roar.

But Ghost and Summer padded at either side of the cages, watchful shadows, their very presence enough to keep the boldest child from pressing too close. The direwolves moved with quiet purpose, guardians of beast and boy alike.

I shook my head in wonder. Giants, mammoths, elephants, lions, and direwolves—all marching together in one column, as though the whole of creation had been gathered up and sent trotting toward Pentos.

Sometimes I thought I must be dreaming still, and that when I woke, I’d be back at Horn Hill with parchment and quills instead of this living legend around me.

The mule plodded along faithfully, its ears twitching now and then, while the two girls swayed in their borrowed saddles. I noticed, not for the first time that morning, how different they looked already.

Gone were the scraps of silk and iron collars. Meera’s clothes hung on them now—plain leather jerkin and cotton tunics, boots that were a size too large but still sturdy. Simple garb, aye, but honest. Respectable. They carried themselves straighter because of it, I thought.

They laughed softly with Meera as they rode, pointing at things and asking her questions in their halting Common Tongue. She had given up her solitude for them, it seemed, though knowing Meera, it was less a surrender than a silent acceptance. The girls reminded me of sparrows that had been caged too long—skittish at every shadow, yet desperate to stretch their wings.

When the giants lumbered past again, their steps shaking dust from the air, the girls leaned toward me with wide eyes.
“Maegi?” one asked, the word thick with fear. “Born of magic?”

I shook my head quickly, smiling despite myself. “No, no magic. They are flesh and bone like you and me. They’ve lived in the lands north of the Wall since the First Men crossed from Essos. The giants, and the mammoths they herd, are as natural as horses or goats—though you wouldn’t know it, looking at them.”

The girls blinked at one another, whispering in Dothraki before nodding, relief loosening their features. Their awe did not fade, but fear gave way to fascination.

Later, as we passed the cages of rescued children riding in wagons—some sleeping, some clinging to the older men and women who cared for them—the girls grew quiet. One finally asked, “These little ones… why do they follow the white prince?”

I cleared my throat. “They were not always with us. In Qohor, we took a contract to rescue a boy—one boy. But when we found the Brave Companions’ camp, there were not just one, but dozens. Children from all corners, stolen, caged, forgotten. Jon would not leave them behind, nor would any of us. So we freed them all. And now…” I glanced back at the wagons, where a small boy peeked at us from under a blanket, “…now they are under our protection.”

The girls stared for a long while, then one pressed her hand to her chest, the other wiped at her eyes. I could not tell if it was sorrow or gratitude in them—perhaps both.

The cages rattled along on their carts, the lions inside pacing restlessly. Their low growls carried on the wind, setting the hairs prickling on the back of my neck. The girls shrank at the sound, clutching the mule’s rough mane for comfort. Silver padded at Jaime’s side, calm as you please, tail swishing, golden eyes watchful.

One of the girls leaned close to me, whispering as if afraid the beasts might hear her. “They… they fight for you? In battle? You open the cages, and the lions eat your foes?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle, though I quickly softened it when I saw their worried faces. “No, nothing of the sort. Those lions stay caged, for everyone’s safety. They are dangerous, aye, but they are not war-beasts like the mammoths. Their presence here has another meaning.”

Their brows knit together, so I went on. “The lion was once the pride of House Lannister, Jaime’s family. Long ago, lions prowled the hills of the Westerlands, wild and fierce, but they were hunted to extinction. The sigil remains, but the beasts themselves were lost. For Jaime… the lions are a way of mending what was broken. A way of reminding himself—and perhaps his father, Lord Tywin—that not all pride is dead.”

They exchanged a glance, murmuring the word Lannister with careful tongues.

“And Silver?” one asked, nodding toward the great cat beside Jaime, padding like some overgrown housecat.

“Silver is… different,” I said. “He chose Jaime, in a way. He is proud, aloof, strong—yet he walks beside his chosen man, not behind him. Much like Jaime himself. Some of us joke he is the Silver Lion, the living emblem of what Jaime is.”

The girls looked to Silver again, their fear now laced with awe. The beast licked his paw lazily, utterly unconcerned with the eyes upon him.

Their gazes shifted away from Silver when the sound of an irritated grumble drifted across the march. Marwyn, riding his Donkey that seemed just as cantankerous as he was, snapped at a boy who had walked too close to his saddle. His heavy chain glinted in the sun, clanking with each jolt of the horse.

One of the girls leaned close again, lowering her voice like she had with the lions. “The angry old man… is he a warlock?”

I nearly laughed aloud but bit it back, managing only a small shake of my head. “No, not a warlock—though I’ve no doubt he’d like people to think so. His name is Marwyn, and he is a Maester, one of the learned men trained at the Citadel in Oldtown.”

The girls’ brows furrowed. One of them mouthed the word Maester as though tasting it.

“He studies what most of his order shuns,” I explained, “things they call ‘higher mysteries’—dragons, prophecy, sorcery. He’s eccentric, yes, and more than a little gruff. But don’t let his temper frighten you. He’s as skilled as any healer I’ve ever known, and unlike many men of the chain, he sees people for who they are.”

The girls blinked at me, puzzled, so I added softly, “Sarella—our clever healer—you’ve met her. When she went to the Citadel, she wore a boy’s name. Alleras, she called herself. Others would have cast her out if they’d guessed her secret. But Marwyn knew the truth and made her his apprentice all the same. He saw her talent, not her disguise. That is the kind of man he is.”

The two exchanged another glance, their expressions softening. “Not a warlock,” one whispered, almost to herself.

“No,” I said with a small smile. “A Maester. A prickly one, but not without a heart.”

The creak of carts and shuffle of hooves filled the morning air, broken now and then by the calls of riders keeping the column steady. I looked up when I heard the slow, deliberate clop of a destrier from behind.

Ser Brynden Tully—our Blackfish—rode past, his sharp eyes sweeping over every mule, horse, and wagon as though he were born to find fault. Which, in truth, he was.

He slowed as he drew alongside me. “Tarly,” he said, curt as ever, with only the faintest nod. Then his gaze shifted to the girls. He gave them the same nod, not a whit warmer but no less respectful. “I see our company grows larger every day,” he said.

His gravelly voice carried a dry edge, though not unkind. “I’ll see you children later.” With that, he pressed his heels to his mount and moved on, already shouting an order at a drover further ahead.

The girls watched him ride off, wide-eyed. One whispered, “Who is he?”

I smiled faintly. “That is Ser Brynden Tully, called the Blackfish. One of the most respected knights in all of Westeros. If you asked me, there’s no one better to keep a march together.”

They leaned closer, eager for more, so I obliged. “Even though Jon is our commander—the Prince—it is the Blackfish who tends to the company’s bones, if you’ll forgive the phrase. He sees to the discipline, the order, the small things that let us move as one. Without him, we’d be little more than a rabble. It’s his eye and his discipline that keep the Forgotten Sons moving forward, fighting together instead of falling apart.”

The girls exchanged glances, impressed. One murmured, “He looks like an old man.”

I chuckled softly. “He is. And there’s not a man in this camp who wouldn’t follow him into battle. Old or not, the Blackfish is iron through and through.”

The steady rhythm of the column was broken by the clatter of heavy hooves as Sandor Clegane rode up alongside us on Stranger. The Hound squinted down at me, then at the girls, his burned face twisted in its usual half-scowl.

“I swear,” he muttered, his voice rough as gravel, “every day I see new faces with this lot.”

I opened my mouth, but the words came out almost defensively. “You were there in Vaes Dothrak when they joined us, Sandor.”

He barked a short, humourless laugh. “I was drunk out o’ my bloody mind that night. Don’t remember a thing.” His horse snorted, and with a flick of the reins, he rode off, already muttering to himself about fools and strays.

The girls stared after him, half in awe, half in unease. One whispered, “His face…”

I sighed, choosing my words carefully. “When Sandor was a boy, his brother shoved his face into a fire. That’s how he got those scars.” Their eyes widened, but I pressed on gently. “Don’t mistake his cruelty of tongue for cruelty of heart. He’s our infantry commander—no man alive fights better on foot—and though he curses, growls, and drinks more than most, he is very protective of this company. Crude though he seems, there are few men I would rather have beside me when blades are drawn.”

The girls nodded slowly, still unsettled but clearly intrigued. One whispered again, softer this time, “Dangerous… but kind?”

I smiled faintly. “That’s Sandor Clegane. The Hound. Dangerous enough to frighten whole armies, yet one of the reasons we are all still breathing.”

The questions didn’t stop with Sandor. They came one after another, tumbling out of the girls with the eagerness of children starved of stories. And I answered—about warriors and wargs, about kingslayers and giants, about bastards and freefolk. I tried to be as honest as I could, though I sometimes softened the edges of harsher truths.

When their curiosity was finally sated, the girls rode quietly for a while on the mule, their dark eyes darting from one member of our strange host to another.

I caught myself wondering what they must think of us—this band of lions and wolves, giants and sorcerers, outcasts and kings’ sons, bound together by chance and choice alike. To two freed slaves of Vaes Dothrak, we must have seemed like some wandering troupe of half-legend, half-madness.

A company of the forgotten, indeed.

It was near midday when the sprawl of Pentos came into view, its pale walls shimmering faintly against the haze that rose from the sea. My heart clenched at the sight.

The last time we had come here, it had been in darkness—our entry hidden by night, our purpose sharp as a blade. That was when we had struck at the Golden Company, leaving blood and ruin in our wake. Now, we returned in daylight, openly, with no need for subterfuge.

The banners of Braavos hung over Pentos’s gates and towers, the purple-and-silver seashell snapping in the wind. The occupation had been swift and thorough, and the city bore the quiet mark of it still: foreign guards on the walls, Braavosi officials at the gates. But where once we might have been barred, questioned, or delayed, the name of the Forgotten Sons carried weight. Allies of the Sealord, recognised by the Iron Bank, our company was granted free passage.

We had earned entry to Braavos through steel and sacrifice, and now—by extension—we walked freely into Pentos as well.

As the sprawl of Pentos drew nearer, the girls rode beside me, their eyes wide at the sight of the white walls catching the afternoon sun. One of them leaned close and asked in halting Common, “The Forgotten Sons… have their home in the white city?”

I shook my head. “No. We have no home on this side of the Narrow Sea. A manse in Pentos, yes, and one in Braavos, but no home. Not as you think of it. We are guests wherever we go—and only so long as we remain useful.”

They frowned at that, so I explained further, “We are here now because of our Lyseni contract. The father of the boy we rescued—the one taken by the Brave Companions—will collect his son from us here. We’ve held him safe this whole march, and soon he’ll be home where he belongs.”

The other girl tilted her head. “And the coin? Slavers… always pay coin.”

I smiled faintly. “Jon refused it. The nobleman was near-ruined by the loss of his heir. And besides, when we put down the Brave Companions, we found three times the promised sum locked away in their vaults. More than enough to call it even.”

They fell silent, considering this, before one whispered, “And after? Where do you go when the boy is gone?”

I let out a soft sigh and looked ahead to the city’s looming gates. “That, I cannot tell you. With the Sons, plans rarely last more than a few days. We are like the tide—we go where the world pulls us. Tomorrow, it may be west, or south, or back into the deep grass. You’ll find that with us, nothing is ever certain.”

The girls were quiet for a time, watching the road ahead and the pale shimmer of Pentos’ walls. I thought perhaps their questions had run out, but then one of them glanced at me again, hesitant. I decided to fill the silence before the worry in their eyes grew too heavy.

“You should know,” I said, “that not all of us march. The Freefolk—those who cannot fight, the women and children and the old—they stay in Braavos, safe under the Sealord’s protection. Our fleet is moored there as well, save for one ship.”

Their brows knit together, and I went on, “Aurane Waters, our admiral, is already sailing to Pentos with our smallest ship, the Winter Rose. When he arrives, he’ll take the rescued children back to Braavos. Safer there than on the roads or seas with us, always marching into danger.”

The girls exchanged a look, their hands tightening on the mule’s reins.

I gave them as gentle a smile as I could manage. “If you wish, you may go with them. With the children. Braavos is a hard city, aye, but not as cruel as the Dothraki, nor as desperate as some others. You would be safer there, and free still.”

Their eyes widened at that—astonishment first, then something softer, like hope. For a long while, neither spoke, and I did not press them.

As the sun dipped lower, turning the sea ahead into bronze and flame, the walls of Pentos came into view. The sight stirred a strange relief in me—this time, we were not creeping to its gates in the dead of night, but riding openly, with no enemy barring our way.

Up ahead, I caught Jon and Bran riding side by side, their mounts moving at an easy pace. Bran’s face—usually solemn beyond his years—wore a look of mischief I had not seen in what felt like forever. It made him look like a boy again, instead of the cold-eyed greenseer who peered into past and future alike.

“You’re certain Aurane has already arrived?” Jon asked, his voice even, though I could hear the undercurrent of urgency.

Bran nodded. “He has. The Winter Rose is already in the harbour.”

Jon studied him for a moment, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not telling me something.”

Bran only tilted his head, lips curling faintly, as though savouring some private jest.

Jon leaned a little closer, his voice low but edged with steel. “Will I like this surprise you’re keeping from me?”

“Maybe you will,” Bran replied lightly, eyes glittering with that strange mixture of child and oracle, “maybe you won’t.” Then he flicked the reins of his pony and rode off, leaving Jon frowning after him.

I almost laughed at the sight—Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, slayer of sellswords and breaker of brave companies, left glowering like a boy denied sweets, while Bran rode away with all the composure of a man thrice his age.

The harbour of Pentos was alive with noise—the creak of masts, the call of gulls, the slap of waves against hulls. Dockworkers and Braavosi soldiers moved among the piers, but all faded from my mind when I saw the boy run ahead.

His father stood before a ship too fine for war, a Lyseni vessel of carved wood and silken banners. At the sight of his son, the man broke into a sprint.

They met in the middle of the pier, boy and father colliding with such force that they nearly toppled into the water. The man held the child against his chest, sobbing, words tumbling from him in a tongue I only half understood.

I looked at Jon, at Jaime, at Mya, and at myself—four children of fathers who had given us little but coldness, shame, or silence. And here we were, delivering back to a man the very thing each of us had longed for. The irony cut deep.

The Lyseni noble turned at last, his face wet with tears. “My prince,” he said, bowing low, “you have returned to me that which gold could never buy.” He reached into his robes, drawing forth a heavy pouch. “Please—take the payment I promised.”

Jon shook his head. “Keep it. We took enough from the Brave Companions’ vaults to pay this debt thrice over. I will not take coin from a man who nearly lost everything.”

The noble pleaded, but Jon remained unmoved. Finally, with a sigh, the man drew a dagger from his belt. Its pommel was wrought as a golden dragon’s head, and the sheath was black leather stitched with golden thread. “Then at least take this,” he said firmly. “I will not let you leave empty-handed.”

Jon frowned, but took the dagger, drawing it halfway from its sheath—and the air seemed to still. The blade shimmered dark as smoke and bright as starlight. Valyrian steel.

“Take it back,” Jon said, his voice tightening. “This is worth more than ten purses of gold.”

The noble shook his head, resolute. “It would be a grave insult to return a gift freely given. My house has no greater treasure, and no man is more worthy of it than you.”

Jon’s jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, I thought he would press it back into the man’s hands—but at last, he slid the blade home and bowed his head in acceptance.

The boy hugged Jon’s legs, then turned and wrapped his arms around Ghost’s great white neck. The direwolf endured it with quiet dignity, though his red eyes darted to Jon as though asking if he was truly meant to allow such liberties.

When the boy finally let go, father and son boarded the Lyseni ship together, their figures growing smaller as they vanished down into the cabin.

I stood a long while staring after them, my heart heavy and strangely light all at once. Was this what it felt like to be a hero? Not slaying sellswords or fighting Golden Companies, but reuniting a father and son with tears and embraces. Perhaps this was the truest victory we had won.

Jon held the dagger in his hands longer than he ought to have, his thumb brushing the golden dragon’s head at the pommel, the black leather grip glinting faintly in the harbour light. The blade itself, dark ripples of Valyrian steel, seemed to drink in the air.

Beside him, Jaime tilted his head, that sly smirk playing at his lips. “Are you going to give it a name?” he asked, as though it were the most casual thing in the world.

Jon’s eyes stayed fixed on the steel. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly, as though the word had chosen him more than he chose it, he answered:

“Liberty.”

No more explanation came. He sheathed the dagger again, fastening it at his hip beside Blackfyre, and turned away from the ship.

Sam followed behind with Ghost at his side, but in his heart, he understood. Jon did not need to say it aloud: the slaver in Pentos, the children in Qohor, the slaves in the Dothraki Sea. Every time, Jon had chosen to break chains rather than bind them. The name wasn’t for the steel—it was for what Jon had already made of himself.

And as they walked away from the harbour, the boy’s laughter still echoing faintly behind them, Sam thought that perhaps this was the truest kind of Valyrian blade: not forged for kingship or conquest, but for freedom.

Jon glanced once more at the sheathed dagger at his hip before turning toward the harbour road. “If we are already here,” he said, his voice even but purposeful, “let’s go and see Aurane before we head to the Manse.”

The Winter Rose lay sleek and graceful at her mooring, the pale wood gleaming under the sun, sails furled but ready for the next tide. The crew bustled across the decks, calling to one another in sharp Braavosi, hauling ropes and polishing fittings with a pride that marked the vessel as Aurane’s.

Jon hailed one of the sailors, a wiry man with salt-stiff hair and a gap in his teeth. “Where is the admiral?”

The sailor paused in his work and scratched the back of his neck. “The admiral and the…guests have already left for the Manse.”

“Guests?” Jon’s brow furrowed. “Who are they?”

The sailor shifted his weight, unease plain in his eyes. “Beg pardon, my prince, but the admiral ordered us not to reveal their identity to you.”

Jon’s expression flickered between disbelief and irritation. “I am your commander, not Aurane.”

“Aye,” the sailor admitted, rubbing his palms on his breeches, “but Aurane is the one who assigns posts on the ships. If I told you, he’d have me sweeping decks for the next year.”

For a heartbeat, Jon looked as though he might press the point, but then he exhaled sharply and waved it away. “Fine. Keep your admiral’s secrets.”

As they turned toward the city streets, Jaime gave a low chuckle. “Any other noble would’ve had the man flogged for refusing their order.” His golden hair caught the light, his smirk curling.

Jon shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “Then it’s fortunate for him I’m not any other noble.”

The streets of Pentos spread before us, narrow alleys giving way to broad avenues lined with shuttered villas. The sea breeze carried with it the tang of salt and spice, the cries of gulls overhead.

We walked at an easy pace, our boots clicking against the cobblestones, the Winter Rose shrinking behind us in the harbour.

Jon was muttering to himself as we went, his brow furrowed in thought. “Bran’s surprise…and Aurane’s ‘guests.’ Must be the same thing. What else could it be? The timing’s too neat.”

I glanced at him sidelong, curious, but held my tongue.

Jon’s voice carried louder than he seemed to realise. “Guests who must remain secret. A new contract, perhaps? Someone from the Iron Bank, here to hand us another impossible task. Yes, that fits. Or did the Sealord send someone? No—why would Aurane play it close if it was only a Braavosi envoy? Unless…”

Jaime smirked, arms folded loosely, letting the words wash over him. He looked for all the world like a cat toying with a mouse.

Jon stopped for half a heartbeat, scowled at nothing, then resumed, “No, Bran wouldn’t smirk like that over the Iron Bank. He doesn’t care for coin. He said I might like it, might not. Gods, what does that mean? Something dangerous? Someone I’d rather not see?”

Behind him, Mya’s chuckles finally burst free. She covered her mouth at first, then let the laughter spill openly, shaking her head at him.

Jon turned to her, exasperated, his hands spreading in irritation. “And what’s so amusing?”

She grinned at him, her eyes dancing. “Please continue, this is way too much fun.”

Jon’s frown deepened as we walked the cobbled street toward the Manse. “It could be someone from Westeros,” he muttered. “Perhaps His Grace sent a messenger. Or maybe Viserys. No… Aurane wouldn’t dare keep that from me. Unless it was meant as some sort of lesson.”

Mya smirked, moving forward so she could hear better. “Go on, I’m enjoying this.”

Jon ignored her. “It could be Uncle Ned. Or Uncle Benjen. But no, Bran wouldn’t call that a surprise. Aegon, then? Seven hells, if it’s Aegon…” His mouth tightened, and he muttered the last part under his breath.

Jaime’s smirk curved wider. “Now that would be a surprise. I’d keep my sword ready, if I were you.”

I coughed into my hand, trying not to laugh.

Jon shot us both a glare but kept spiralling. “Or perhaps someone from the Iron Bank—a new contract. Or the Starks. Robb, perhaps, or Arya. But why would Bran hide that? Unless…” He stopped, narrowing his eyes. “No. Not her.”

Mya leaned closer, grin widening. “Her?” she asked sweetly. “Now this is very interesting.”

Jon rubbed at his temple. “What if it’s Daenerys? But no, she’s in Dragonstone—or she should be. And yet… Bran’s tone…”

Mya laughed aloud, nearly doubling over on the floor. “Please don’t stop, Jon. You’re better than a troupe of mummers.”

Jon gave her his darkest look yet, but his muttering didn’t stop, carrying with them all the way down the street.

Jon’s mutterings had carried us all the way to the carved gates of the Manse.

“…or perhaps it’s Uncle Ned,” he went on, half to himself. “No, Bran would have smiled wider if it were Uncle Ned. Benjen then? Or mayhaps—”

“Keep going,” Mya urged between chuckles. “I’ve not had this much fun since you tried to wrestle Ghost into a bath.”

Jon shot her a look but pressed on, brow furrowed. “Could be some envoy of the Iron Bank. Or the Sealord. Or—Seven save me—Aegon himself, come to annoy me. Or—”

The gates creaked open.

The carved gates of the Manse swung open just as we reached them.

A figure strode out to meet us—a young woman, slim and certain of her step, clad not in gowns or jewels but in a black and red tunic, leather trousers, and boots, with a sword-belt riding her hip as if it belonged there. The make of her clothing was fine, finer than anything I had ever worn, but her bearing was plainer still: bold, purposeful, almost boyish.

For a heartbeat, I wondered who she might be—one of the Lyseni nobles, perhaps, or some envoy of Braavos. But then I saw Jon stop dead in his tracks. His lips parted as though all the air had left him.

I looked from him to her, confused.

She was staring at him with an intensity that made even Jaime straighten in surprise. Her violet eyes burned bright in the sunlight, her silver hair stirred in the sea breeze. She stood with arms folded, a storm bottled into a girl’s shape, her jaw clenched as if she had been waiting years for this very moment.

And then Jon spoke, in a voice I had never heard from him before—soft, almost breaking.

“Dany…”