Introduction: SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT! This is my imaginings of what happened after the end of the TV series Game of Thrones. If you haven't watched the series, please take a few days/weeks, enjoy the show, then come back here to see what I believe happened after the show ended. Game of Thrones is amazing. It has clever plotting, unforgettable characters, witty dialogue, and blockbuster-movie cinematography. It is arguably the greatest TV series in history. I just started reading the books, and I love them, too. George Railroad Martin is now my favorite writer. So, read on, enjoy, but be advised that I am but a hack compared to George. Now, just a quick refresher as to what happened at the end of the series. Jon Snow kills Daenerys and is sent to the Wall. Bran Stark is made King, with Tyrion as his Hand, Sam Tarly as Maester, and Bronn as Master of Coin. Bronn is also Lord of Highgarden. Sansa is given the North, and independent entity, where she reigns as Queen. Arya intends to sail west to see what is west of Westeros. My story begins about six months after the series ends.

1

JON

Jon Snow-Targaryen shifted uncomfortably in his chair and stared at the missive in front of him, a letter from his sister, Sansa, Queen of the North.

Dearest Brother,

Where have the months gone? With my duties and responsibilities keeping me busy, time seems of no consequence, except to send me to bed at night and prompt me to rise in the morning. But throughout the day, I realize one surprising fact: I miss my family. It is still Winterfell but the scarcity of Starks—and that includes you—makes it seem not as familiar as it once was.

I know you are not only Lord Commander of the Night's Watch but also the Lord of Nightfold, the new kingdom created by our wise brother Bran. You are busy as well, refitting the wall, building cities, and establishing your House. But if there is a lull in your duties, could I suggest a visit to Winterfell so we can talk like old times?

I will expect you within the month.

Please send advisors ahead, so I may prepare Winterfell to receive you properly.

Your sister,

Sansa Stark, Queen of the North

Jon leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, contemplating the meaning behind the letter. What did Sansa want? It wasn't like her to be so tenderhearted. She needed something from him, but what could it be? Perhaps she wanted to renegotiate the settlement of land. As per the final agreement establishing Winterfell and the North as its own independent entity, the Wall and its surrounding land, hereafter to be known as Nightfold, would be a new kingdom still belonging to the South, even though it was isolated above the North. In establishing this new kingdom, a two-hundred mile swath of land south of the Wall would become part of Nightfold. This annexed some of the existing land from Sansa's kingdom, but not much. Perhaps that bothered her. It shouldn't, Jon surmised, because it was mostly uninhabited woods and hills, the whole tract of land layered in snow.

Another part of the agreement stated that the Kingsroad that ran through Winterfell be a shared route, so that people of Nightfold could travel to the southern kingdoms and southerners could ride north to visit Nightfold. Perhaps she had concerns about that.

No, Jon decided, after debating with himself. She would need to talk with Bran about those items.

So what did she want?

Advice?

It was all that made sense.

"Lord Snow!" His personal squire, Beckett Rivers, burst into the room, shaking snow off his long blonde hair and off his tunic. He paused to bow properly, then straightened and blurted, "He's back, my lord!"

Jon leaped from his desk and hurried out of his quarters, making his way to the courtyard, where he crossed the muddy ground and ducked through a passageway that led out into the snowy fields behind Castle Black. He ran past the scattered buildings, kicking up fresh snow, until he staggered to a stop in an opening. Ghost, Jon's direwolf fell in beside him, as did Beckett. From there, Jon could see the Kingsroad that led back to Winterfell, and also the field beside it, where his nemesis waited.

Drogon. The last dragon.

The creature stood about three hundred yards away, balancing himself upright on his legs and his wing-claws. Light snow was falling, but it never seemed to bother the beast. As Jon arrived, Drogon raised his magnificent head and roared loudly.

Ghost whined.

Night's Watch members streamed out of Castle Black to get a look at the monstrous dragon.

"I know what he wants," Beckett said.

"What's that?" Jon asked, beginning to be annoyed at the dragon, who'd done this thrice before . . . landing in the field behind Castle Black, roaring loudly for a while, then departing.

"You're the last Targaryen. You're blood. He's visiting family."

Jon gritted his teeth. According to Bran, who was also the three-eyed raven and who could see past events, this was true. Ned Stark, whom Jon had assumed was his father, had turned out to be his uncle. Ned's sister, Lyanna had secretly wed Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and conceived a baby. Lyanna had died giving birth, but Ned had taken the boy, swearing to her before she died that he would raise the child as his own. And Ned had been true to his word. He'd raised Jon Snow as his bastard son and never admitted, even to his beloved wife, that Jon Snow was anything else.

Jon Snow's true name would have been Aegon Targaryen. Aegon the Seventh of his Name. Jon preferred Jon Snow, even though Nightfold had been established with House Snow-Targaryen as the central family, and Jon Snow-Targaryen as its sole patriarch. Sigil: black dragon with black crow perched on its back, both positioned upon a white background. Words: A House built upon the Snow.

It was all done with Jon's blessing, even though he'd given it begrudgingly and detested it. The leaders of Nightfold, which consisted of his closest friends, were intent on establishing a dynasty here. The Night's Watch could not stand alone up here, they said, isolated and without support. The King's Watch needed a base around it, a kingdom, a proper House with bannermen to support it. Jon was the symbol they tendered to establish that lineage, and their argument was enough to persuade King Bran and his advisers to make it happen.

Of course, the details had been worked out after Grey Worm had departed for Naath, taking the Unsullied with him. Grey Worm's hatred of Jon Snow had been the reason Jon was sent back to the Wall and the King's Watch to begin with. It was acrimony so bitter that Jon kept expecting the eunuch to show up here at Castle Black, determined to kill Jon for murdering his beloved Queen, Daenerys Stormborn.

Jon regretted it too, but Daenerys had gone insane, trying to burn everyone to death, just like her father before her.

"Why don't you go talk to him?" Beckett said, still staring at the dragon.

"He doesn't speak the common tongue," Jon replied, "and I don't speak dragon."

Drogon craned his neck and roared again, the noise so fierce that it hurt Jon's ears. Damn dragon. What did he want?

"You could just talk to him, tell him you're sorry that you killed his mother."

Jon grunted. Perhaps Beckett was right. Jon was the last Targaryen, and that's why Drogon kept alighting here at Castle Black like a soldier reporting to his superior. It bothered Jon. What was he supposed to do? Pet the damn thing and tell it he loved it?

"Go talk to it, my lord."

"You go talk to it. Tell me what it says."

Beckett smiled humorlessly. "Monster dragon would eat Beckett, but monster dragon would not eat Jon Snow-Targaryen. Monster dragon would probably lick him and nestle him and make cute eyes at him."

Maester Seder walked up beside them and scratched his bald head. "My lord . . ."

"Don't say it," Jon said. "You think it's here for me and that I should walk out there and have a long heart-to-heart chat with it."

"On the contrary, my lord. I was wondering if we should be afraid. Thus far it's only stood in the field, but what if it decides to attack us. Should we be preparing to defend ourselves against it?"

"No." Jon stared at it. "I think Beckett's right. The stupid thing is here for me."

It gave one more blast from its gargantuan maw, then took three earth-shaking bounds, flapped its monstrous wings, leapt into the air, and became airborne. Beckett and Maester Seder ducked as it passed overhead, afraid an errant wingtip might skewer them. Jon remained erect, watching as the great dragon gained altitude and circled the area.

As it disappeared into the distance, Jon said, "Next time it comes, I will talk to it."

"Promise?" Beckett said.

"No." Jon grinned. "Bring me some tea, would you, Beckett?"

"Of course, my lord."

Jon headed back inside, intent on composing a letter to his sister, affirming that he'd visit her as soon as possible.

2

ARYA

Arya Stark stood beside Captain Haroll Ponde as he prepared to address the twenty-five-man crew of the cargo ship, Magnar Panimus.

Blue skies towered above them, white clouds flitting across, carefree, inspiring. The sky brimmed with optimism. Yet around them, the horizon was endless sea, the Shining Sea, as it had been since the voyage had begun, and it brought pessimism with every moment of every day. Only at night—on moonless nights especially—did that sense of hopelessness abate, when the horizon was gone from view, when Arya could imagine land waiting for them. Rich, fertile land.

Captain Ponde was about to request a vote on this important matter. Ordinarily, the captain of a ship made his decisions and the crew were honor-bound to obey him. However, this decision involved the possible death of every man aboard, and, in the same vein of fairness that Bran the Broken had instilled in Westeros since his ascension to the throne, Captain Ponde felt it only fitting to put the decision to a vote. If the majority of the crew wanted to turn back, then they would turn around and sail back to Westeros.

Arya fidgeted with her small rapier, Needle, as she waited. Patience had never been her strong suit. "Come on, Ponde," she whispered to herself.

The captain was a plodding, thoughtful man, very wise, but also very slow when considering options. At the moment, he stood still, as if waiting for the rest of the crew to appear, even though they were all there in front of him, lined up, scratching and muttering as they waited. Ponde's only movement was the nervous stroking of his horseshoe beard.

Arya cleared her throat very loudly, hoping to prompt the captain into action.

The crew glanced at her, almost as one, then returned their nervous eyes back to Ponde. Each one was shirtless, their bodies baked a deep bronze. Arya knew them intimately now after forty-five days together. Initially, they'd tried to be hands-on with her, which didn't last long. Dexter Brunner, the first one who'd gotten physical with her, just over a week into the voyage, had lost a finger in the ensuing altercation. He was one of the stockier sailors, his bulging muscles always on display. He bullied most of the other crew members who were built like typical sailors, thin but agile. They were monkeys of the sea, swarming up and down the ropes and masts, swinging here to there. Not Dexter. He was too heavy, even though his bulk was all muscle and sinew. During the second week, he caught her below decks one evening, clamped a sweaty hand on her mouth, and hissed in her ear, "Don't scream or I'll break your neck and throw you overboard. No one will ever know what happened to you." She'd sliced off his pinky disarming him of the worn dagger that he wielded, then flipped him onto his back and knelt atop his writhing form, her own knife pressed to his throat as he shrieked like a child. She was considering peeling off his face when Captain Ponde arrived, breathless, and beseeched her to let the sailor live, claiming that they needed everyone for the long voyage. She climbed to her feet, thinking that Dexter Brunner was a predator who deserved to die. She plucked his pale finger off the worn floor and carried it to the forward part of the ship. She nailed it to the bow of the ship as a warning to the other sailors. After that demonstration of her combative skills—another mate had witnessed the action—the sailors were extremely courteous and respectful to her. To her face, she was always Princess Stark. Behind her back, though, they had begun calling her the "Dexpert." She liked the moniker. After his humiliating defeat, Dexter Brunner spoke rarely to her, and when he did, it was with his head bowed and his eyes averted as he offered either, "Yes, m' lady," or "No, m' lady."

Arya sighed loudly in the afternoon sun. She wanted to prick the captain in his buttocks with Needle just to get him to react.

Finally, he removed his tri-corner hat, wiped sweat from his greasy forehead, and raked his long brown hair back. He stared off into the distance as he caressed his hat. Arya crossed her arms, getting frustrated with all this waiting.

Captain Ponde cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "We left Westeros with enough supplies to sail unimpeded for ninety days, but that included all the fish we could pull from the sea and the small amounts of water that we could distill. Today is the forty-fifth day of our voyage. Today, we still have enough supplies to turn back and sail back to Westeros and arrive healthy and sane."

He hung his hat on a nearby cleat and placed his hands on his narrow hips. "Our goal, our purpose for this excursion, was to see if another land existed west of Westeros. We've found nothing yet, but it could still be ahead of us, just over the horizon. The question before us today is this . . . Do we sail on? If we do, then we are betting our fortunes and our very lives that there is life-sustaining land ahead of us. Because if there isn't, if we are still situated in the middle of this boundless sea in another forty-five days, then we're all dead."

Jommer, a wiry, gray-bearded veteran of many ships, raised his hand. "If we return without finding land, what happens to us?"

Captain Ponde scrunched his face into a frown. "What do you mean?"

"Will King Bran consider us failures? Will we be executed?"

Ponde glanced at Arya, as if to say, Can you believe this idiot?

Arya spoke. "King Bran doesn't particularly care if we find land or not. He doesn't care if you return or die on the sea. This is myaffair. If we return to Westeros without finding land, then we document our voyage in the royal archives, having sailed westward forty-five days and encountered no land. You will be released from your contract with the throne, just as if you'd completed any other voyage." She wanted to add more to her spiel, to woo them with rumors of riches for the taking, as well as exotic women traipsing about naked. If that didn't succeed, she could explain how they'd return home as maritime failures.

Unfortunately for the voyage, Arya didn't have the heart to coerce them concerning this important decision. If they all were to perish out here in the middle of the Shining Sea, she didn't want to be the person who'd made that decision on day forty-five. They needed to arrive at that conclusion themselves.

Jommer's hand was still raised. "So if we vote to return, then there'll be no punishment, no executions?"

"None," Captain Ponde said.

Another sailor, Pollick, stepped forward. "Permission to speak, Captain?"

"Permission granted."

"I signed up for this voyage because I wanted to know if there is, indeed, land west of Westeros. And if there is, I want to see it with my own eyes. I want to put my bare feet on it and feel the foreign sand between my toes. I want to have my name writ in the history books as one of the brave sailors who discovered this new land." He gazed around at his fellow crew members, and finally turned his lantern-jawed face back to Arya. "If we turn the Panimus around and sail back to Westeros, then my life remains unchanged. I'm not Pollick the discoverer nor Pollick the adventurer. I can't walk into a tavern and woo people with my tales of other lands and other races. I'm still Pollick the sailor. Nothing special, just another monkey for hire. So I vote that we sail on, come death or storm or woe from the gods themselves. We sail on. If we die, then we die as true men, as heroes of Westeros." He stepped back into the ranks.

A squabble erupted among the crew members. Captain Ponde stood silent and allowed his men to argue. Most wanted to continue sailing into the unknown. Only a handful wanted to return home.

Arya listened to the arguing and realized it was the treasure aspect that concerned them most. If they found treasure, each crew member would receive one half of one percent of the bootie. The three officers would receive one percent, and the captain would get five percent. Arya would receive ten percent. But the treasure didn't concern her in the least. First of all, what were the chances that they'd alight on a shore where riches waited for the taking? Where jewels washed up on the rocky shores, where gold could be plucked from every stream? Very minimal. Second, Arya was a Stark, and since Starks pretty much ruled everything in Westeros now, she could travel anywhere and live in luxury. Arya might be the next queen of the north since Sansa had named her sister her "heiress-in-waiting." But kings and queens existed in a bubble of ambiguity. If Sansa were to conceive a child, then Arya's dramatic future would vanish with that one tiny splash of baby water as the new heir popped into the world. Besides, Arya detested the idea of being a queen. She felt just as comfortable on the road—killing her own food, skinning it, roasting it over an open fire—as she did in the finest houses. Sleeping on the bare ground was just as enjoyable as the softest feather-stuffed mattress of the realm.

The men continued to argue. It appeared to be the majority of the crew browbeating the lesser part. "If we find treasure, you'll not get your parts, you cowards."

Arya shook her head. If they did manage to secure even one jewel, it'd be a miracle. Of course, one of the reasons Bran's small council had agreed to the voyage so easily was because Ser Bronn, Master of Coin, had licked his lips at the idea of the Magnar Panimusreturning home laden with jewels and gold bullion. After paying Arya, captain and crew from the treasure, the crown would receive the rest of the prize, approximately seventy-two percent. It was the biggest reason they had been provided a cargo ship and not one of the sleeker, faster ships.

Arya whistled loudly, interrupting the bickering. "Let's vote, shall we?"

Captain Ponde nodded and said, "All sailors who want to continue sailing into the unknown, raise one hand."

A flurry of hands shot up. Captain Ponde said, "Please lower your hands. Let's do this an easier way . . . any sailor who wants to give up our quest and return to Westeros beginning today, please raise your hand."

Slowly, reluctantly, only four hands were hoisted, the respondees cowering beneath the indignant glares of the rest of the crew.

Arya smiled to herself.

Continue on.

Discover land west of Westeros.

Or die trying.

3

TYRION

Tyrion sat to the right of the King, as befitted the Hand of the King. The rest of the small council—four of them were present—occupied the remaining chairs around the small table. His chair was higher than the others, making him seem as tall as everyone else, even though he was a dwarf. He leaned forward. "As much as I hate to say it, Your Highness, as much as it pains me to say it, we need to execute this one. A public execution with all the bells and speeches. Maybe put his head on a spike and display it in the middle of Treefount Square."

King Bran glanced around the room at the others in his small council. "Are we now as crude and vulgar as our predecessors?"

Ser Bronn took a sip of tea. "This is the third one in two months, Your Highness. We can't let this continue. We need the respect of the people of King's Landing, but sometimes you've got to use force to gain that respect."

"Haven't they been through enough?" Bran said. "You can't look out a window without seeing the crippled and the maimed, the burnt and the scarred—all of them hobbling along. Daenerys and her dragon killed almost a hundred thousand people in King's Landing and injured another hundred thousand. This city has been devastated and needs to heal."

"Even though we didn't support Daenerys destroying this city," Tyrion said, "we were with her. We accompanied her. The people of this city won't stop hating us until time passes and wounds heal and memories are directed to the future and not to the past. Your Highness, you must live long enough for that to happen."

King Bran raised his chin and stared straight ahead. To an outsider, his gaze seemed to rest upon Ser Podrick Payne and Ser William Hayneswynn, members of the Kingsguard who stood at attention beside the entrance to the council room. But Tyrion had quickly learned that his new king often disappeared inside his own mind. Bran stared straight ahead as he accessed the memories of the three-eyed raven that he carried in his head. He had admitted once to Tyrion that they were a jumbled collection of memories, thousands of them, maybe millions, and so it was remarkable when he could reach inside and pull out a specific memory upon request.

Sometimes King Bran went zombie and stayed that way for hours, sometimes days. During those times, Tyrion shielded his king, taking on all duties and responsibilities. Today, thankfully, Bran was as normal as Tyrion had ever seen him.

Bran blinked back into the current time and said, "It won't be a citizen of King's Landing. It is a Faceless Man. He will impersonate one of the Kingsguard in order to get close to me, to kill me. I think he was hired by someone outside King's Landing. I can't see who. I can't follow the thread."

"At least it's not another cook trying to poison you," Grand Maester Samwell Tarly said. The last attempt on Bran's life had been prophesied early by Bran himself. They'd arrested the culprit, a young man whose wife had been burned to death by Drogon. He'd denied his crime when confronted, but when offered his own food—the sweetmeat stew he'd prepared for the king—he confessed that it was poisoned. Soldiers had forced him to eat it anyway, pulling his head back, prying his mouth open, pouring the stew into his open maw, and pounding the food down his gullet will a cudgel, knocking out several of his teeth in the process. It didn't matter. He never ate another bite. The poison claimed him within the hour.

It was never publicized, nor were the three previous attempts on the king's life. Tyrion realized that that was an error. They needed to let assassins and killers know that Bran could see the future. Attempting to kill him was futile, and only resulted in the assassin's own death.

"Is the killer in King's Landing now?" Tyrion asked.

"Unclear."

"When will he strike?"

"Unsure. But soon or I couldn't see it so clearly."

"Who will he impersonate?"

Bran glanced sharply at Tyrion, who realized he'd been badgering the King, so he added quickly, "Your Majesty."

"I'm not sure." Bran sighed. "I can't see everything or know everything. I only get slices of memories, often distorted. In this instance, I feel someone stab me in the back and in my mind, I know it is a Faceless Man—those assassins from Braavos—impersonating someone in the Kingsguard."

Tyrion glanced at Bronn and Samwell. "I wish Arya were here. She knows a lot about the Faceless Men."

Maester Tarly said, "We definitely need to consult with Brienne to discuss logistics and how to prevent this. As Commander of the Kingsguard, she's the one who will need to spearhead the effort to prevent anyone from impersonating her guards. Perhaps we could set up some kind of secret code to verify the guards' identities." Tarley cocked his head, thinking about it. Then said, "We also need to augment the Kingsguard with more guards, trusted ones."

"As Master of Coin," Ser Bronn said, "I have an elite group of guards who handle gold transfers and the like. We could use them to help out with protecting the King. At least until this Faceless Man assassin is captured."

"One thing," Tyrion said. "When we catch this man—or woman— we need to publicly execute him and let everyone know that King Bran can see the future. Attempts on his life are useless. Maybe that will dissuade anyone else from attempting it. Do you agree, my king?"

"Ask me again when we find him," Bran said.

Tyrion grimaced but remained quiet.

"Anything else on the agenda?" Bran asked.

Maester Tarly glanced up from the notes he was taking. "Have you located Drogon yet, Your Highness?"

Bran shook his head. "He still hasn't returned to Essos as we expected. He's up north somewhere. I can sense him up there but can't locate him. It's the distance probably. And the lack of people and animals. If he comes south, I'll know."

"What do we do when we find him?"

Bran shrugged. "He killed at Daenerys's direction. On his own, he is probably like any other wild animal. He kills to eat."

"So we leave him alone as long as he leaves us alone?" Maester Tarly said. "The people of King's Landing want the dragon destroyed, my king. They want his head mounted in the city."

"We don't kill him unless it becomes necessary." Bran glanced around the room. "Understood? I've seen glimpses of the future and I think dragons will be needed. I'm not sure why."

Bronn said, "More white walkers, Your Majesty?"

"No. Something else. Something that defies even me."

Tarly said, "What if someone else befriends Drogon and uses him to wage war against us?"

"Only a Targaryen can control a dragon. And Jon Snow is the last Targaryen. He has no ambition to conquer anyone. Besides, we've given him his own House, his own land. If I know my brother, he is bothered by even that amount of responsibility. And if he befriends Drogon, he will only use the dragon to protect the ones he loves."

Tarly nodded as he scribbled more notes.

"Can I make a suggestion?" Tyrion said. "Returning to this Faceless assassin. Until he—or she—is captured, one of us, one of the small council members, should be by your side at all times, Your Highness."

"Why? He would only kill you too."

"Not so fast, there," Bronn said, smiling.

Tyrion nodded, but said, "Although your pugilistic skills are highly regarded, Ser Bronn—by yourself mostly—they are, without question, the finest of the small council . . . unless you include Brienne's sword or Tarly's quill. However, I believe that I am one of the few people who could not be impersonated by a Faceless Man. And if he appears while I'm around, I can scream . . . vociferously. Which makes me more valuable as the king's escort."

"You can't be impersonated?" Bronn said.

Tyrion expected another mention that he was the small small council member, but Bronn said, "Because of your sarcastic wit?" He displayed a toothy grin. "Because that's often your weapon of choice."

Tyrion laughed. "Not exactly what I was thinking, but I'll take the compliment."

"It's not a laughing matter," Maester Tarly said. "The Faceless Men are the most accomplished assassins in history. They are ghosts with the skills of the finest warriors. When they put on someone's face, they use a magic liquid that makes the face come alive. It also changes the details of the assassin, including the hair and teeth, to match the face. That's why they're so adept."

"Could this magic liquid make the assassin as short as me?" Tyrion asked.

Tarly shrugged. "I don't know, my lord."

"But those assassins are expensive," Ser Bronn said.

"They are," Tarly said. "I've read that it costs something besides money to hire them, something very dear to the purchaser of their services."

"It's probably someone in one of the other houses," Tyrion said. "It's this damned system we decided on. If Bran dies, then the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms elect the new king. In the old days, if the king was assassinated, there was only one heir apparent, so the list of suspects was short." He shook his head, glancing over at Samwell Tarly who was the instigator of this insane set of rules. "In our current state of affairs, if a lord of one of the seven kingdoms has a good candidate to be king, all that's required is to murder the existing king and wait for the election. The suspect list will be as long as Westeros itself."

Maester Tarly cleared his throat. "Lord Hand, two of the seven lords who would select a new king are sitting in this room."

Tyrion smiled, knowing that he, himself, was one, and Ser Bronn of Highgarden was the other. "True. And another is the king's brother. So only half the kingdom is on the suspect list. Is that it?"

"It's a good system, my lord. It might need a few tweaks." Tarly shoved his quill into the inkwell in front of him. "Want to talk about the previous system where the oldest son automatically became king? I can explain how horrible that system was with just two words."

"King Joffrey," Tyrion said, sighing. "I know. But if every king is murdered in his first year, then your system is a failure."

"It's a work in progress," Tarly said. "Instead of criticizing it, my lord, perhaps you could suggest some rule changes that would make things better."

Bran said, "Enough arguing. We'll worry about succession and ascension later. For now, let's find this assassin before he finds me."

4

ARYA

Arya stood at the railing and stared at the stars decorating the night sky. Winds buffeted her, causing her to pull her tunic tight. High above, the half-moon, bright and orange, lorded over the Magnar Panimus.

On moonless nights, they dropped sail and sat, no questions asked, their intrepid captain afraid they'd crash the ship into land. But on those nights when the sea was illuminated by a partial moon, it was up to the duty officer whether they sailed or squatted. One of the three junior officers—First Mate, Sailing Master, or Boatswain—whoever had the duty that night—would climb the mast and observe the ocean from the crow's nest. It was a judgement call, and the officer on duty made the call. If he felt there was enough light to see land if it appeared, then they sailed. If not, they didn't.

In general, half-moon or better, they sailed. Less than that, they squatted. Tonight, they sailed.

Arya was willing to sacrifice the ship to find land, but didn't want to crash on some archipelago or tiny island nowhere near the shoreline, where they'd be stranded and probably die. But an actual shoreline? Bring it on, Arya thought, even though the Captain had often said, "I want to discover land, but I don't want to die upon it."

She was a member of Westeros and Northern royalty and should be endowed to make these decisions, but had been forced to sign an agreement before the voyage began, stating that the captain had the final say while they were at sea. Once they landed, however, she would become sovereign, and her word would become law.

Arya leaned heavily on the rail, staring out into the endless sea, wondering what was happening in Westeros. She thought about Bran being king. He was so odd now. On occasion, he'd smile and laugh and be normal, but most of the time, he'd stare into the distance, face frozen, ears unhearing, eyes unseeing. She wanted to shake him when he was like that. They said that he was somewhere else when that happened, perhaps inside the mind of some animal somewhere, observing the world. She prayed to the gods often about him.

And Sansa, now Queen of the North. She was undoubtedly enjoying herself. But what would come of her? Would she ever marry? And if she did, would her husband be king? And what about children? Sansa raising more Starks in Winterfell, that was a merry thought. It made Arya's heart flutter with happiness thinking about it.

Arya often thought of Jon. Even though he was now considered to be her cousin by the world at large, he would always be her brother. Arya had been closer to him than her real brothers, and she knew if she walked into Nightfold tonight, he would hug her and kiss her cheek and welcome her into his house like the sister that she was.

"LAND HO!" The word rang out from above. Arya nearly leaped over the railing in surprise. She spun around, heart pounding, and sprinted to the main mast. She grabbed ropes and climbed hastily up to the crow's nest, where Jommer craned his neck into the rushing wind. She crowded into the tiny space beside him.

"Where?"

He pointed dead ahead. She strained her eyes, studying the distant horizon, and thought she saw a couple of tiny dots of light in the darkness. Hard to focus on them because the crow's nest swayed in sync with the ship's pitch and roll. She snatched the spyglass from him and brought it to her eye.

"Lights," he whispered. "I saw lights."

Closer, it did appear to be a ship. She could vaguely make out the masts. One ship. They weren't sailing. They were sitting there, waiting out the darkness.

Smegger, the First Mate, had duty for the night, and he yelled up, "Somebody come back down. I'm coming up!"

Jommer glanced at Arya. She shook her head. He grunted, then climbed out of the crow's nest and slid down easily. Moments later, Smegger crawled into the cramped spot with her. She handed him the spyglass and pointed. He put it to his eye and hummed quietly as he surveyed the seascape.

"A ship," he said. "Sails down, just sitting there, over-nighting."

"What do we do?" she asked.

"Drop sails, douse all lights, and wait until morning so we can see what we're sailing into. Could be a fleet out there ahead of us."

She nodded.

He grabbed a rope and rode it down, dropping onto the deck like a cat. "Rig the ship for dead stop. Rig for all dark. Rig for silence. Now!"

As the crew carried out the orders of the First Mate, Arya scanned the sea around her, straining her eyes, attempting to pierce the darkness. But the only discernible object was the ship ahead of them. Smegger was right. Best to wait until tomorrow and see what the day brought. They might be fighting for their lives. She slid down one of the ropes, passing Jommer on the way as he hand-over-handed the rope to get back up to the crow's nest.

She dropped lightly on the deck and headed to her tiny cabin, determined to get a little sleep. Tomorrow might be a long day.

They'd found land. It had to be somewhere ahead. She grinned to herself, feeling euphoria sweep through her body.

Adventure awaited.

Finally.

5

JON

Jon reviewed everything with Maester Seder, who'd be in charge of Nightfold while Jon visited his sister. The old man scribbled down a few notes on the paper Jon had already prepared. They sat at Jon's desk while a fire roared behind them.

"Any idea when the South is going to send people and supplies to help with the Wall?" he asked.

Jon shrugged. "They're trying to rebuild King's Landing after the Drassacre."

"Drassacre. I wonder who came up with that?"

Jon smiled. "A stupid name, I agree. I suppose it stands for dragon massacre, which is exactly what it was."

"Better than the Doom," Maester Seder said.

"The Doom of Valyria. What was it that destroyed that place? An earthquake?"

"A catastrophe of some kind. No one knows."

Jon sighed. "How is the Nightfold castle coming?"

"It will take many years, but you know that. Right now, we're rounding up stones and dumping them at the site. Eventually we'll need a master builder from somewhere. Perhaps Winterfell will loan us one if they've completed their repairs."

"It seems like a lot of work that could be avoided. Why do we need something other than Castle Black?"

Seder shrugged. "Castle Black is a motley collection of towers and buildings. Its only wall built for defense is the monstrosity behind it. You need a true fortress, my lord. Something worthy of the Lord of Nightfold."

"Need I remind you that the Lord of Nightfold is also the Commander of the Night's Watch."

"Understood, my lord. But I would wager a guess that the lord of a kingdom merits more importance than the commander of a ragtag collection of misfits, even though their mission is of the utmost importance."

Jon Snow sighed loudly. "We are all misfits here, Maester Seder."

"Indeed, my lord."

"Often, I wonder how I allowed myself to be talked into this."

"Nightfold was established for the good of everyone here, my lord. Not just for the Night's Watch, but think of all the people who've become your vassals."

That was true. All the wildlings were now less wild and wanted to be part of Nightfold. The northerners who were annexed from Sansa's kingdom didn't mind the transition. Also, a large group of people had left King's Landing to follow Jon. During the Drassacre, they'd lost everything, including families. They wanted to start over somewhere, and Nightfold, even though it wasn't official at the time, gave them a chance to do that.

"Should we attempt to maintain the illusion that the Night's Watch is still needed, my lord?"

There were thirty-six surviving members of the Night's Watch. They were here in Castle Black, but they made no excursions above the Wall. It wasn't needed. Tormund had taken most of the wildlings there and started a village. He vowed to become House Snow-Targaryen's first and most prolific bannerman.

"Keep the watches going. Some of them know nothing else."

"I understand, my lord."

"And I won't be gone that long. Perhaps a month."

"Twelve days travel going down, four days there, and twelve days travel coming back? Is that about what you're planning?"

"It is. But that's pushing it, so if I'm late, don't let it worry you." Jon rubbed his face, weary. He was already tired of being Lord of Nightfold. Ruling was a never-ending attempt to mediate incorrigible people, irritating situations, and impossible circumstances. "And if that damn dragon returns, throw a stone at him."

Maester Seder smiled. "We will not be antagonizing the giant dragon, my lord."

Jon leaned over and rubbed the furry head of Ghost who lay beside his chair.

"Who are you taking with you, my lord?"

"Four watchmen and Beckett."

"Very good, my lord."

"It'll be good to get out on the road for a while. I hate staying cooped up in here. I need to get out more. Make the rounds."

"I'll work that into your schedule when you return, my lord."

It took thirteen days to get to Winterfell. Jon rode in the front, as was his custom, with Beckett beside him. The four watchmen led two pack horses loaded with supplies.

They camped every evening. Often, Jon and Beckett sparred as the four watchmen set up camp. Initially, Beckett had been young and unschooled in any martial arts, having come from a family of miners, all of whom had died in the Drassacre. When Jon had left King's Landing to go north, Beckett had requested to ride with them, determined to start a new life. "Do you blame us for this disaster?" Jon had asked him. "No," the man had said. "This was war. I know what happened. The mad queen followed in the footsteps of her father, the mad king. She went crazy and tried to burn everyone up."

Along the way to the Wall, his enthusiasm and intelligence impressed Jon. And once they were settled at the wall, Jon asked him to be his squire.

Since then, Jon had been training the young lad at combat. Jon still thought of him as young, even though he wasn't that much younger than Jon.

War ages you beyond your years, Jon decided.

Beckett had been talented with a pick, having worked in the mines since he was twelve, and that dexterity crossed over into combat. His skill with a sword was developing quickly.

They arrived in Winterfell one pleasant afternoon with the sun still sitting warmly in the western sky. Winter seemed to be ebbing. Jon wondered if the death of the white walker king had caused it. Winters often lasted for years, but this one—if it was truly over—had been abnormally quick.

A few more months and Winterfell might lose some of its wintry coating and reveal the sparse greens and browns that Jon remembered growing up.

As they approached the compound, Jon reined his horse to a stop, just to take a long look at the fortress. Winterfell was still damaged from the war with the night king. The outer wall, broken in several locations, had fresh stone stacked nearby in preparation for repairs. Most of the towers were damaged.

Jon understood the delay in repairing the fortress. The war had depleted everything, livestock, horses, supplies, gold, but especially people, and that included craftsmen. Rebuilding would take a while.

The main gate stood open with two guards manning the entrance. They stood aside as Jon and his retinue approached.

Jon recognized neither of them, but it had been several years since he'd called this place his home. And many northerners had died, including servants and guards.

They crossed the moat and entered the inner wall. Sansa waited, dressed in a fuzzy red cloak that looked especially warm. Surrounded by a throng of people, she seemed to embody the essence of a queen. Sansa had always had that regal aura about her.

Jon dismounted, feeling a rush of affection at seeing his sister again. She stepped into his arms and hugged him.

"You should visit more often, Jon."

He grinned. "Two weeks it took me to ride down here."

She waved a hand. "I'm not worth fourteen days?"

"I don't know. We'll wait and see how good your food is."

She laughed. "We have none of the old cooks left, and very few of the original servants. The wars were costly." She glanced around, her eyes rising, sweeping the parapets and walls. "We're slowly repairing this place, but it takes time. Everything takes time."

"Same for us," Jon said. He turned behind him. "This is my squire, Beckett, and these four men are members of the Night's Watch."

"Is that still a thing?" she said.

"For the time being. Eventually, the Night's Watch will be required again, but we're not sure how long it'll be."

"Hundreds of years . . . or thousands of years? Are those the two options?"

Jon grinned. "Seems to be. But I don't want to disband the Night's Watch because our traditions are sacred, and I don't want them to be lost in the intermission."

"Have your Maester start a book."

Cocking his head, thinking about it, Jon said, "That's an idea worth pursuing."

"Not that my opinion matters since you're a part of the south and not the north, but I think you should keep the Watch operational. Nobles need a place to send their children who are failures and disappointments."

"And bastards," Jon added.

"Always a healthy supply of those," Sansa said.

"I like the idea of a book, maybe several books. One on regulations, one on traditions, one on the Watch's stalwart history." Jon wondered how Maester Seder would feel about working on those. There were already history scrolls, but Jon was thinking they needed a book of regulations and traditions.

"You're right, Sansa. There needs to be a place in the kingdom where the lost, the unwanted, and the banished can go. If it has to be the Night's Watch, then so be it."

"Now," Sansa said, smiling, "this visit can never be considered a wasted trip, right?"

"Spending time with my sister could never be considered meaningless. Especially now that we're older and burdened with our own affairs."

Sansa turned to introduce the man and woman who stood close to her. "My Hand, Cedric Colton, and my Chief Attendant, Lissa Marcel."

Jon nodded to each. Cedric Colton was a lanky man, clean shaven, with nervous eyes. Lissa Marcel was a brunette, slightly shorter than Sansa; she reminded Jon of Arya. Maybe Sansa was lonesome for family.

Inside, Jon took his men to get washed up and dressed for dinner. They met in the great hall. Sansa had her people prepare a feast, a celebration, and everyone stood when Jon entered. Sansa, sitting at the head table, raised a wine cup and said, "To Lord Jon Snow-Targaryen, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Lord of Nightfold, but much more importantly, my brother."

Polite applause and some cheering ensued. Jon settled down at the table with his sister, saw the piles of food, including a large roasted turkey, and suddenly realized how hungry he was.

Food was always a concern in Nightfold. One of Jon's initiatives was to build food sources before castles. Game tended to be plentiful because the population of Nightfold was still meager, but there were winter vegetables to be raised and greenhouses to be built so they could increase the variety of vegetables and fruits available. Trade out of Eastwatch was picking up, but King's Landing was sending very little help, so it was up to Nightfold to supply money or commodities for trading, and Nightfold had very little at the moment. Jon's goals concerning Nightfold were aggravatingly complex. Time would provide, he was sure. If everyone continued to work hard, they could build a kingdom. He knew it wasn't for him. Every time he rode through Nightfold, he saw so many people only wanting to be happy, to raise a family, and to create a life. Building a kingdom was for them.

As he ate, he chatted with those around him, including Sansa, but she kept the subject matter trivial. She was saving her important matters for later. Scattered across the room, some of Sansa's bannermen headed tables. Lord Cley Cerwyn, sitting nearby, whose entire family had been flayed alive by the Boltons during the War of the Five Kings, raised a cup. Jon knew him from the old days before the wars. Jon raised his cup also, and said just loud enough for Cley to hear, "To the Starks and the Cerwyns who died standing up for the principles they believed in." The two men drank in remembrance.

The meal ran long, as do most reunions like this. After it was over, Sansa escorted Jon to her suite of rooms. Memories wafted through Jon as he entered. This was where Ned Stark and Catelyn had lived, rooms that he'd rarely visited. Catelyn Stark had always resented her husband's bastard son, Jon Snow, who walked around with Catelyn's own children as if he were one of them. Perhaps if Ned Stark had whispered the truth to her, that Jon Snow was actually their nephew, things might have been different. Maybe not. Targaryen blood was anathema in Westeros in those days.

The fire was roaring in the fireplace. Jon stood near it, warming his hands. "It's strange being in this room."

Sansa eased into the wingback chair near the fireplace. "This is now my favorite place in all of Winterfell. I sit here in the evenings and contemplate tomorrow . . . and next week . . . and next year."

"How do you like being a queen and being responsible for the lives of an entire land?"

"It's better than being under the thumb of a despot. That was the only reason I wanted the North to be independent."

"But Bran is not a despot."

"Bran could be dead tomorrow and another king crowned. Then where would we be?"

"Depends on the king."

"Exactly."

Jon nodded. "I see your point."

"Luckily, Jon, you're so far north, the south is not going to interfere much with your lives. Have they even called for taxes yet?"

"No. We have none to give at the moment. Maybe in a few years."

"I hope Bran lives that long," Sansa said.

Jon did too. Bran saw the future so why wouldn't he live a long life?

Silence reigned for a few minutes. Jon enjoyed the silence and the warmth of the fire.

Sansa said, "I have a question."

"What's that?"

"Are you ever going to marry?"

Jan laughed quietly. He did not like sharing things about himself, but this was his sister. He sighed loudly. "I have terrible, tragic luck with women, Sansa, as you well know. I've only loved two women—romantically—and both of them died in my arms."

"To be fair, you killed one of them."

"Valid point. But it doesn't erase the fact that they did."

"So, is that a no?"

Jon hadn't even thought about women or marriage since Daenerys. Why bother? Just considering his life thus far, he was destined to die a violent death. He'd died once, to be technical, but death would eventually find him again. Should a woman share in the misery that was—and always would be—his life? No. Definitely not. "What about you, Your Highness? Planning to get married soon?"

A servant had placed two steaming cups of coffee on the table beside Sansa's chair. She took a small sip from one, taking her time, and finally said, "Winterfell needs Starks. As of this moment, Arya is the heiress-in-waiting, but she might never return from the Shining Sea. If not her, then you are the last Stark, even if you are only half-Stark."

"So you plan to marry and have lots of little Stark children?"

"I'm thinking about it."

"What about Lord Cley Cerwyn? I saw him there for the dinner."

"I need someone who's not the Lord of a family." She glanced up at him, eyes reflecting the flames of the fireplace. "If I marry, my spouse will never be a king but only a consort, with no kingly duties or responsibilities. He'll be a figurehead, and that's it. Therefore, I don't want anyone who needs more power, but I do need someone with a name."

"So you need to marry a bannerman's nephew or cousin? A name but not a title?"

"Yes."

"Sounds like you have it all figured out. Do you have someone in mind?"

"Yes, but I wanted to get your input before I made it public."

Jon shrugged. "As long as the groom knows what's expected of him, that he will never become king, and that he's there to produce Stark children, and that's all. Not welcome news if you're a male looking to leave your mark upon the world, and by mark, I mean progeny."

"But his son or daughter would someday be king or queen. Wouldn't that make it better for him?"

Jon pulled a short stool over and sat near her. "Men put much importance on surnames, Sansa. A surname represents family and lineage and history, and for a man to produce children, his progeny, and not be able to bestow upon them a piece of his family? It will be denigrating to him, even if he claims it won't be."

"But what about the woman? Should her family's heritage always be set aside to appease the man?"

"No." Jon smiled weakly. "I'm just trying to explain the way the world is, not the way the world should be."

"It's not fair."

"I know." Jon took a sip of his cup of coffee. "Have you discussed this with the intended yet?"

"Not yet."

"Give him the opportunity to decline gracefully. If he says no, it's not a rejection of his queen, but a confession that he couldn't overcome the deep-seated fear of losing his manhood."

"Would you allow your children to be named a different surname than yours? If you would've married Daenerys, for instance."

"Not a valid point. I'm half Targaryen, so my children could easily be named Targaryen. Besides, I think that part of me is dominant now."

"You're more Targaryen than Stark?"

He took in a deep breath. "Can I show you something? Just to keep between us?"

"Of course."

After shrugging off his tunic and then shoving the long sleeve of his shirt up to his elbow, he stepped to the roaring fireplace, knelt, and shoved his hand into the fire.

Sansa leaped to her feet, blurting, "Jon?"

He gave her a look that said, Trust me. She remained standing near him, horrified, her own hand clasped over her mouth.

He retrieved his hand, pulling it from the fire and turning it over to display a red glowing ember in the palm. He was grimacing the entire time—it burned just like normal—but when he tossed the ember back into the fireplace and opened his hand, smoke drifted from it, but there were no burns. "Since Daenerys died, I've become the unburnt, just like she was. Fire doesn't harm me."

Sansa tottered backward and collapsed into her chair. "That's . . . dragonblood. You have dragonblood, Jon. You are definitely a Targaryen."

"I didn't believe it initially—that I was a Targaryen. But now, there's no denying it."

Jon returned to his stool and they sat there together, staring into the flames of the hearth.

"I have another problem," Sansa said.

Jon smiled to himself. "What's that?"

"Since the small council of King's Landing has publicized their plan that the next king will be selected by the houses of Westeros, my bannermen have been asking me for the same thing." Lowering her voice to a raspy growl, she said, "'Why can't the next queen or king be a Cerwyn or a Forrester or a Mormont?'" She shook her head. "How do I get it through their thick skulls that only a Stark can rule Winterfell? That's the way it's been and that's the way it will always be."

Jon nodded, seeing her dilemma. She was a woman, struggling to be an equal in a man's world. But a thousand years of traditions cannot be broken overnight. He glanced at her and saw the determination in her face. Well, somebody had to take that first step in changing the status quo. It might as well be my sister, Jon thought. "I'm not going to tell you what you should do, Sansa, because I don't know. But I will remind you of this. If Ned Stark were still here, would he do what he felt was right and proper, or would he let his bannermen convince him otherwise?"

She smiled. "Ned Stark was never afraid to take the proper path, the road paved in honor. If he believed it, he lived it."

"Then maybe you have your answer. Be bold, be courageous, but treat everyone the way your father would have. And make sure your future husband is aware that his kids will be named Stark."

She took another sip of coffee, face crinkled in concentration as she stared into the fire. Finally, "Thank you, Jon."

"I did nothing, Sansa, except whisper the sacred name, Ned Stark."

She smiled.

Their conversation lightened after that, and they talked about Bran and Arya. Sansa related every rumor she'd heard about the new king of the Seven Kingdoms.

"How is Nightfold coming?" she asked, after another lull in the conversation.

"As well as can be expected, considering that three-quarters of my realm are former and current wildlings."

"How is Tormund?"

"Tormund Giantsbane is now Lord Giantsbane. He has started a village north of the wall, and swears he will be my most ardent bannerman."

She laughed out loud.

"And," Jon said, "he's taken a bride. One of the southern women who returned with us."

"Is she tall? You know he was always interested in Brienne, and I can't understand that attraction for the life of me."

"For a woman, his bride is tall, I suppose."

"I wish him all the happiness being north of the wall can offer."

Jon smiled. "I have others who are starting their own houses, too, and planning to be bannermen. Nightfold might one day become a real kingdom."

"What are you saying, Jon? That Lord Snow-Targaryen will one day worry about children, too?" Her eyes crinkled with a sly smile.

"A bastard never worries about heritage and progeny, Sansa, because so many other people do it for us."

"You're not a bastard anymore, cousin Jon."

He laughed at that.

They talked a little while longer, but when servants came to chock the fire for the night, Jon bowed out and went to the guest room they'd readied for him.

6

JON

The next morning, Jon and his men met in the dining hall. Servants brought out platters of scrambled eggs floating in butter, spicy sausage, baskets of biscuits, trenchers of gravy, and fresh jam.

"Don't get used to this," Jon told his men, smiling, as they wolfed down the food.

Becket grinned. "One day, we'll all be eating like this."

"Please the gods," Jon said, "but I hope not. I'd be fat as a pig within a month."

After breakfast, Sansa took Jon on a tour of the grounds, showing him how much they'd accomplished in the few months since returning from King's Landing.

"Do you have any extra stone masons? Or glass masters? I want to make greenhouses."

"We have three stone masons, but only one knows what he's doing. Can you get any from the south?"

"I've tried, but everyone available has been sent to King's Landing. There wasn't a single stone structure left undamaged."

"Daenerys was especially thorough," Sansa said. "I'm glad we only faced the white walkers and not her dragon."

"It wasn't the dragon, it was the person who sat on him."

"Whatever you say." Sansa paused beside a tower to show him how atrocious the temporary repairs were.

"You're right," Jon said. "That is terrible work. Might as well smash that and start over."

From the distance, a loud gong began reverberating through the compound. Jon remembered it. It was a warning of imminent attack.

Before he could grab Sansa, her guards appeared from around a corner, led by her Hand, Cedric Colton. "My lady, we must get you inside and protected."

"What is it? Who is attacking?"

"A dragon," he said, his voice cracking.

"Drogon?" Jon said. He released a deep sigh. "Is he just sitting outside the walls?"

"He is, my lord," Cedric said. "I think he plans to attack. We have archers on the walls, but I don't think they can stop him."

"Leave him be," Jon said. "He's here for me." He hurried off, took several turns, and arrived at the southern gate. Soldiers were scampering here and there, some of them armed with only swords, and a few bearing bows and looking for a tower or parapet to inhabit.

"Let me pass," Jon said.

"For what?" one of the guards said.

Jon pushed the guards aside and continued on, crossing the moat and arriving at the outer wall. He unbolted the doors, pushed them open and stepped through. Behind him, guards pulled the giant doors closed.

In the distance, Drogon waited, the reds of his scales glinting in the morning sun. No wonder he was so terrifying to people. He was immense.

The gate behind him unlatched and Sansa stumbled through, pushing the grasping hands of her men aside.

"Jon! What are you doing?"

"He's here for me, Sansa. He's been coming to Nightfold, four times now. And he sits in a field for a few minutes, bellowing like a broken-hearted lover, then flies off. Only to return the next week."

"What does he want?"

"Beckett says he wants to talk to me."

"Dragons don't talk."

"My point exactly," Jon said. "I am the last Targaryen, Sansa. Maybe there's a bond. Maybe he feels it."

"Jon, he killed more people in one day than the War of the Five Kings killed in a year."

"Sansa, he was doing the bidding of his mother."

"So he's a good dragon? Doesn't want to kill humans? But Daenerys forced him to do it? That sounds insane, Jon. He's a dragon. They kill whatever they want."

"They have to eat, Sansa."

She huffed.

Cedric stepped through the gate, Beckett behind him.

"Please come inside, my lady," Cedric said.

Beckett walked out and stood beside Jon. "Looks like your friend came for another visit, my lord."

"And I said I'd talk to him." Jon glanced around. "Sansa. I'm going out there. But no matter what happens, don't attack him. He has no conflict with Winterfell. Only me. Apparently, he plans to keep confronting me until we resolve our unfinished business."

"So if he burns you up, what do I tell King Bran?"

"Drogon has had the opportunity to kill me several times, Sansa, including the day I killed his mother."

"You've always got to be the hero, don't you?" Sansa huffed again.

"Beckett, if he kills me, then you, Maester Seder, and the three Lords of Nightfold meet and choose a new lord of the kingdom, okay?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Sansa. Go inside."

"And do what?"

"Don't die."

She crossed her arms.

Just as stubborn as always, Jon thought. Groaning, he turned back to the dragon. Jon took a step in that direction, and Drogon lifted his immense head and gave one of his shattering roars that made the ground tremble. Jon shook his head. Damned dragon. He marched in that direction, sloughing through the snow, concentrating on his steps, wondering what would happen when he finally stood face-to-toenail with Daenerys's favorite dragon.

Jon glanced behind him only once. He saw faces everywhere, lining parapets and peeking over walls. Sansa, Cedric, and Beckett remained outside the wall, watching the spectacle.

As Jon neared the dragon, Drogon lowered his immense head. Jon approached warily, stomping up to that spiked face, trying to stare the dragon down, but having no luck. Dragons were fearsome. Their faces, especially their colossal, reptilian eyes, seemed to emanate evil, even though Jon knew that they weren't.

Jon felt like he should be fearful, since he was close enough to reach out and touch Drogon's scaled nose, but he wasn't. The dragon snorted lightly and Jon lost his breath in the swirl of sulfur and burnt meat.

What should I say? Jon thought. Did dragons understand human language? They always seemed to understand Daenerys.

Hesitantly, Jon reached out and touched the dragon, saying, "First, let me get this out of the way. I'm sorry I killed your mother. She went crazy. She murdered thousands of innocent people, people who had done nothing to her or to you."

Drogon turned his head so that one of his reptilian eyes got a chance to observe Jon up close. Jon felt a shiver of fear race through him for the first time. That eye was unnerving.

"I have no idea what you want. I know I'm the last Targaryen and you're the last dragon, and maybe there's a connection between us . . ."

Drogon leaned forward and nudged him with his nose.

Jon stumbled backward slightly. "Do you want us to be friends? Is that it? Do you want a place to live in Nightfold? It's cold up there, always. I thought dragons didn't like cold that much."

Another nudge.

Jon sighed. What did this stupid dragon want?

Abruptly, Drogon lifted his head and roared. Jon clapped both hands to his ears, but the noise was deafening. He staggered from the assault, not just on his ears, but his inner organs. The whole world vibrated painfully.

When it stopped, Drogon gave a powerful flap of his wings and rose off the ground, taking off. Jon ducked, afraid one of those huge wings would smack him accidentally and knock him over the highest tower of Winterfell.

Head down, he saw only a glimpse of Drogon's left foot as it reached out, talons spread, and plucked him off the ground. He was aloft before he knew it. For a long moment, he thought he was dying. He couldn't breathe, and the pressure on his chest felt like it was breaking his ribs. Just before he passed out, Drogon eased up, but not enough that Jon might fall. He was still trapped completely inside the fist of the dragon's foot.

Jon groaned when he realized the reason for this. Drogon had wanted him to go for a ride all along. He kept landing near Castle Black, thinking that Jon would eventually climb onto his back and Drogon could take him somewhere. Moment's ago, Drogon had nudged Jon with his nose, once again trying to get him to ride.

Stupid dragon, Jon thought. But even more stupid . . . Me.

7

TYRION

The Hand of the King was once provided his own tower, but that tower was greatly damaged during the Drassacre, so the hand was given a suite of rooms near the king's quarters, beautifully furnished, with six servants assigned to him. Tyrion thought it was too much, but declined moving or reassigning the rooms. He decided to embrace the largesse, and converted the three offset rooms into a library with very comfortable chairs and two small tables, perfect for entertaining, if he saw fit. This was in addition to the main sitting room.

Unfortunately, he was not into entertaining. He'd been celibate for quite a while. Also, his consumption of alcohol was remarkably feeble compared to the Tyrion of yesteryear when he had no responsibilities, other than to embarrass his family as often as possible.

His library was still in the rudimentary stages and consisted of one bookshelf and one scroll embrasure. But still, Tyrion liked to walk into the rooms and imagine them well-stocked with books and maps and curios.

A loud knock at his door pulled him from his reveries. At that moment, he was sitting in his library sipping coffee while he browsed a book on Braavos, searching for information about the Faceless Men.

Tyrion detested having servants inside, hovering over him, waiting for a command. It was a complete waste of a servant's time. So he rose from his comfortable chair, walked to his entrance door himself, and pulled his front door open. One of his two guards stood beside a tall man, scraggly face with a spotty beard, leaning heavily on a gnarled, well-shined cane.

The guard said, "Please excuse the interruption, Lord Tyrion, but this man is begging an audience with you."

The visitor bowed awkwardly, then said, "My lord, I don't know if you remember me, but my name is Almont Lefford of House Lefford."

Tyrion nodded, having met the man several times. "Lord Almont Lefford, one of House Lannister's greatest bannermen. Of course I remember you." Tyrion almost invited the man inside immediately, but thoughts of the Faceless assassin entered his mind. "I also remember you had a passel of kids. But what were their names? They're on the tip of my tongue."

"My oldest sons, Charl and Gorly, died in the war. Alan, my youngest is still at home. My two girls are Renelle and Tessa."

"Your brother, Leo, was killed, and you were injured in the war yourself, almost died, as I remember."

"Indeed." Almont sighed. "It was a long convalescence, my lord. This is the first trip outside my house since recovering."

"Please come inside," Tyrion said. Looking at the guard, he added, "Could you send Zelda in with wine, coffee, tea, and refreshments?"

The guard nodded and walked away. Another guard stepped into position as Tyrion shut the door.

Almont hobbled along, leaning heavily on his cane. Once Tyrion and his guest were seated, Almont placed his cane against the side of his chair.

Tyrion said, "Is this about Keiron Lannister? He was one of the last Lannister's alive; it seemed prudent to leave him in charge of Casterly Rock."

"No, my lord. Lord Keiron is very understanding about the taxes. We're trying to get our house back to prime running condition, those of the pre-war days, but we lost many people in that despicable war."

"As expected," Tyrion said. "I've cautioned Keiron that war is a horrible business, especially the aftermath, and to make allowances."

Almont nodded. "Thank you, my lord. Also, I never got to offer my condolences concerning your brother and sister. I am deeply sorry for your loss, my lord."

"As I am for yours," Tyrion said. "Losing siblings doesn't equate to losing children, which is the ultimate sacrifice a man can make. You have my deepest condolences as well, Lord Almont."

Zelda, Tyrion's chief servant, interrupted momentarily, arriving with two coffees, two teas, two glasses of white wine, and two biscuits, sprinkled with sugar.

"Will that be all, my lord?" she asked.

"Thank you, Zelda. That's all I require."

She disappeared.

Almont took a cup of coffee and sat back, coddling the cup, blowing gently into the steam rising from the syrupy black liquid that Tyrion preferred. After a moment, Almont said, "My children are the reason I am here, my lord."

Tyrion leaned forward.

"Well, not all of them," Almont said. "Specifically, I am here about Tessa, my youngest daughter."

"I don't remember her that well. Apparently she was not of age the last time I saw her. How old is she now? Is she well?"

"Nineteen and still unmarried, a disgrace in itself. But yes, she is healthy and well. Except . . ."

Tyrion took a sip of coffee. "Except?"

"Let's just say that she's forsaken my rules—more than once—and I am searching for an answer to her behavior."

"Ahhh," Tyrion said. "Children often disappoint their parents, Almont. I can't remember a time when I was anything other than a disappointment to my father, Tywin Lannister, may his cantankerous soul rest in whatever hell the gods have provided for him."

"You have acquitted yourself well, my lord. Maybe he would be proud of you for the first time."

"Proud that I am Hand of the King? He held that position twice. And the last time, he rode his horse into the affirmation ceremony and forced it to drop shit in front of the iron throne, just to demonstrate his lack of respect for the position."

Almont smiled but said nothing.

"Do you have a suitor in mind for your daughter?"

"Not at present, my lord." Almont took a sip of coffee. "I had this idea that relocating her might help. Get her out of House Lefford and into a more populous area so that her list of potential suitors might be more . . . varied."

"I see." Tyrion smiled. "You wish to move her to King's Landing with the hope that she will find someone here, perhaps someone noteworthy, or at the very least, acceptable."

"Exactly, my lord. And I know you have many responsibilities and duties and you are quite busy, but I was hoping that you'd sponsor her." Almont provided an apologetic face, his mouth downturned but his eyes hopeful.

Tyrion didn't respond immediately because he was turning over the idea, wondering how hard it would be to annex one of the suites near him and locate the girl there. How long would it take to get her accommodated with a proper groom? How long would he, Tyrion, be responsible for her?

"I know what you're thinking," Almont said. "How long will it take to marry her off? Let me begin by saying that she is no virgin." He sighed with weariness. "Not by a long shot. However, she is remarkable in her own right, very smart, very charismatic, and a delight to be around. She will be no trouble, my lord. No trouble at all. I was only hoping that you might oversee her security, and—if you have the time—provide honorable suitors for her to meet."

Tyrion leaned back, deep in thought. There was so much going on at the moment. Not only rebuilding every chink and chunk of King's Landing, but dealing with a faceless assassin, intent upon murdering King Bran. Did he have time to see to the needs of a young lady? And—more importantly—was it proper for him to do so?

Almont placed his coffee on the table beside him. "I would get down on my knees and beg, my lord, but there's not much left down there to get down on."

Tyrion took in a deep breath. Presenting yourself to your liege lord and asking a favor when you couldn't even pay your taxes took much courage. Also, Almont had lost two of his sons fighting a war at the behest of the Lannisters. Perhaps it was time the Lannisters gave back something in return, as insignificant as this was. "Very well. Is she here in King's Landing? Can you bring her tomorrow and introduce her? And I'll find a room for her here in the keep. She doesn't need a full retinue. Perhaps only a maidservant to attend her. I will appoint some of my servants and guards to serve her."

"Thank you, my lord. My wife thanks you and my family thanks you."

"I just hope I can find someone suitable for her."

"You are the Hand of the King, my lord. Anyone you select will be celebrated, and your name will be even more exalted in our house."

Tyrion smiled. "I'm glad we have that settled. Is there anything else you wish to discuss?"

"That is all, my lord."

"Good. Have you ever tried these biscuits? They're delightful. Please have one. I feel as if my servants are determined to make me the fattest imp in the whole kingdom."

8

ARYA

The morning revealed nothing. From the crow's nest, Arya peered in every direction for even the faint smudge of a sail or mast and saw nothing. The ship they'd seen had disappeared. Clouds had moved through during the night with a low-hanging fog. It passed after several hours, but when the skies had cleared, no lights could be seen.

The question of the hour was this: had the distant ship spotted the Magnar Panimus?

Arya slid down to face the captain, who stood stalwart upon the bridge, back straight, jaw thrust forward. He said, "Our only choice is to continue due west and hope the what we saw last night wasn't an illusion."

First Mate Smegger, who'd walked the decks all night and should be in his bunk by now, said, "I saw it with my own eyes, Captain. There was another ship. We should arm the men and be prepared to defend the ship."

"Very well," Ponde said. "Pass the word."

Arya walked up and stood beside him, crossing her hands behind her back to mimic his stature. "I have a question, captain. If ships arrive and confront us, and demand that we surrender, do we surrender or do we fight?"

He grinned sardonically. "Neither. We negotiate."

"I hope that works," Arya said.

9

JON

After deciding that the dragon didn't want to crush him, Jon wriggled around until he could see the terrain passing below him. They were still close to Winterfell, so he recognized many landmarks. Drogon was flying northward. Jon wanted to memorize their journey, in case the dragon left him stranded somewhere.

They crossed the Kingsroad, and continued northward, but just eastward enough to reach . . . Eastwatch, perhaps?

But then they veered left again, and eventually found Long Lake, and continued along its edge as they sped north.

Past the lake, they skirted the shadow mountains, land occupied by various mountain clans.

Minutes turned into hours. Jon curled into a tight ball, trying to conserve heat. Luckily, the talons of Drogon blocked most of the air flow and emitted some heat, or he would've been frozen inside the first hour.

Several hours passed. Jon lost track of time, but saw more landmarks, a vast circle of rocks that was called Ring-Wrong, and a field of grass with three great oaks in the center. Jon had camped there once.

Were they heading to Shadow Tower on the Wall? It was no longer occupied, but it would be a perfect place for a dragon to make a home, even though it was cold.

They forked left and entered the Shadow mountains. Drogon seemed to know exactly where he was going as he stayed just above the treetops. He entered valleys and vales, dipping low. Jon was lost now, and only had a general idea where he was.

Drogon avoided the tiny villages that dotted the shadow mountains like stars in the sky.

At last, Jon saw the ruins of an old castle from eons ago. If his memory was correct, the ruins were located about fifty miles east of Shadow Tower and about a hundred miles south of the Wall. They were now inside Nightfold territory.

They flew on, until eventually reaching a particular valley. Drogon circled three times. Jon saw only snow and trees in the vale, and no sign of humans.

The great dragon came down easily in a opening just barely large enough to contain his fiercely-flapping wings. He alit lopsided, balancing on his right foot, and as he did, he opened his left foot and tossed Jon into the snow. His wings gave a hard push, driving flurries of snow everywhere, and Drogon was airborne again, leaving Jon behind. The big dragon circled once and disappeared from the sky.

Jon crawled to his feet, shivering, and began moving his arms and legs, trying to restore mobility and blood circulation. Behind him a woman's voice, clean and pure in the silent vale, said, "Well, well, well. Look what my dragon brought today."

10

TYRION

Tessa Lefford was nothing like Tyrion expected. She was pretty enough—raven hair, dark eyes, high cheek bones, and rosy lips—but her demeanor was stiff and unapproachable. She sat beside her father in Tyrion's sitting room and barely spoke a word as Almont and Tyrion rambled through conversations about her. She only smiled once, and that was when Tyrion spilled his coffee.

She had two moles on her right cheek. One mole is a beauty mark, two is a distraction, or so Tyrion had previously defined things in his mind. She saw him staring at the moles and placed a hand against her cheek, covering the distraction.

Arranging a room for her had ended up being a simple matter. He held the power to take any room that he wanted, but didn't want to start a feud with Tarly or Brienne, who held smaller rooms in the keep that befitted their stations. His last resort was give up the extra suite attached to his and have the books and scrolls he'd selected returned to the royal library. Those three rooms were once a separate suite, so it was a simple matter to unseal the outer door and then have the entrance to Tyrion's main suite re-bolted shut. She'd be right next door to him, which would allow him to keep a close eye on her. Of course, she couldn't be autonomous. Since she was in such close proximity to the king, no visitors could be allowed to her suite without Tyrion's prior authorization.

He explained the situation to Almont, who agreed and had no objections.

"Very well." Tyrion smiled to them both. "Give me a couple of days and I should have everything organized here. Tessa can move in as soon as her rooms are prepared. Did she bring clothes and personal items?"

"She did," Tessa said, not smiling.

Before Tyrion could apologize for talking around the girl, Almont said, "We weren't being presumptuous, my lord, only optimistic."

Tyrion smiled. "No offense taken, Almont." Turning pointedly toward the quiet girl, Tyrion asked, "Is this okay with you, Tessa?"

"Of course," she said. "I bow to the wishes of my father."

The comment could be construed as sarcasm, but Tyrion held his tongue, and Almont only glanced sharply at Tessa.

"Then I will expect to see you in two days."

Once the details were arranged, Tyrion politely escorted Almont and Tessa from the keep. As Tyrion walked back upstairs, he contemplated the girl. She was much more complex than just being a rebellious child. It was probably the reason Almont was having trouble with her. She was not only smart, but undoubtedly headstrong, perhaps even wild. In a couple of days, she would be Tyrion's responsibility. How could he steward her if she wouldn't follow his orders?

He'd have to recruit Zelda to help. She was a tough old bird who probably knew every trick in the book that a young girl might use to escape supervision.

The small council meeting went on without King Bran this time because he was in one of those unresponsive fugue states that plagued him from time to time. They pulled his wheeled-chair into the room and parked him at the head of the table, but he remained glassy-eyed and mute.

Tyrion led the meeting. Their primary purpose was to discuss more plans on how to catch the faceless assassin, or at the very least, thwart him.

Bronn's cache of high-level guards had been brought in to augment the kingsguard. Brienne was working out the schedules for them all.

Also, Tyrion—with Tarly's help—had developed a score of verbal catechisms and the like that would expose the assassin. All guards would need to memorize the answers to several prearranged questions such as this one that one guard should ask another: "Is King Bran in one of his disappearing moods again?" The proper answer was, "We ought not talk about the raven like that." Any other answer would reveal the killer. They had other questions that council members could ask each other.

Once that primary reason of the meeting had been fulfilled, Tyrion sat back, satisfied that they'd done all they could do. Perhaps when Bran returned from whatever world or creature he was inhabiting at the moment, he'd have more information for them.

"Do you know what worries me," Tarly said.

"Everything?" Bronn answered, smiling.

Tarly rolled his eyes. "The Faceless Men. They're a guild of assassins. If this one fails, will they send another? And then another? Stopping this one might just be prolonging the inevitable."

"We do what we can," Tyrion said.

Tarly said, "I've been reading about them, my lord. They worship a god of death, and they think that all the other gods are only faces of their god, the one true god." He tapped his finger against the papers lying in front of him. "They also think that death is a gift. So murdering someone is, in essence, freeing them."

"So they won't stop until they murder Bran?" Tyrion asked. "Have you found anything about how to stop them completely?"

"No, my lord."

Tyrion sighed. "What are we supposed to do? Find Drogon and fly him to Braavos and burn the city down and hope that we kill all of the Faceless Men?"

Bronn laughed. "Find the dragon and I'll ride it myself. Hell, I'll bet I'm as much of a Targaryen as Jon Snow."

"You're a natural at riding things, aren't you, Bronn," Tyrion said, tired of the man bragging so much.

"Oh!" Bronn grinned. "So that's where we're going. Let me just let you in on a little secret, Tyrion. Women are easier to ride when you're the same size as they are."

Tyrion shook his head. He and Bronn often got into these verbal sparring matches. "I noticed your wife was sent back to Highgarden. You rode her too much, I take it."

"It's all part of the plan," Bronn said. "Once she has the baby and recuperates, she comes back here for baby number two."

"That woman must be special," Tyrion said. "Did you tell her your new name? Since you're starting House Bronn?"

"There is nothing wrong with the name, Engus Bronn."

"Can I call you Engus from now on?" Tyrion said, smiling. "Engus Bronn, the professional rider. Highgarden will never be the same after all those little Bronns show up. I admire your plan, Engus."

Bronn rolled his eyes. "Coming from a man who's ridden half the whores in Westeros, that's high praise."

Voice loud, Tarly said, "There is a woman present."

Brienne laughed out loud. "Please. I find the bristling bickering of men to be entertaining. They're like bandy roosters strutting about the farmyard, each one thinking he's cockier than the next."

Smiling, Bronn said, "Your sword appears to be the largest you could find in the seven kingdoms, Brienne. Welcome to the bandy rooster club."

Groaning, Tarly said, "Do we have anything official left on the agenda? Are we done?"

"Why?" Bronn asked. "All this talk making you anxious to get home to Gilly? A woman who's not pregnant is a woman in need of servicing. Am I right, my good maester?"

Tarly only shook his head.

"When King Bran returns from the clouds," Tyrion said, "we'll convene again. If we're lucky, he'll have more information concerning the assassin."

"I do have one good idea," Tarly said. "But I'm still chewing on it, and I'm not sure if it'll work."

"Chew it up and spit it out at the next meeting," Bronn said. "We're done for the day. Right, Big Little Boss Man?"

Tyrion sighed. "Small council meeting adjourned."

11

JON

Jon had the intense feeling that he'd met the woman before. She wore clothes made from animal hides, but they were so thick and overlapping that at first glance, he couldn't decide if she was a man or a woman. The voice, however, was definitely feminine. And the mane of blonde hair billowing about her pretty face made it pinpoint clear.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But who are you?"

She held a bow in her hand with an arrow notched. "My land, so I get to ask the questions. Who are you?"

Jon raised his eyebrows in surprise. It'd been a while since someone had talked to him without deference. My lord this, and my lord that.

"My name is Jon."

He realized why she was familiar. She seemed to be a combination of the two women he'd once loved. With her long blond hair and pretty face, she looked a lot like Daenerys Stormborn. But the feral fierceness made him think of Ygritte.

"My dragon often drops off food for me," she said. "A dead deer, an elk, a wild boar. I feel like I should kill you and eat you so I don't hurt her feelings."

Jon laughed. "So many things wrong with that sentence. But first, your dragon?"

"She's been coming around for about three months. She's my friend. I pet her sometimes. Also, she brings me food, not that I can't find my own."

"Whoa." Jon took a breath. "Next thing, it's a he, not a she. And his name is Drogon. He belonged to a woman who looked a lot like you, and that's probably why he showed up here. He saw you out hunting and thought you looked like her, or maybe even was her."

She laughed out loud and it had a musical quality. "Jon, whoever you are, wherever you're from. You don't know a damned thing about that dragon. And because of that, I'm thinking I can't listen to anything you say. Where did you come from, anyway?"

"Believe it or not, but Drogon has been hounding me for a month, landing nearby and watching me. So today, I finally walked out there to see what he wanted, and he snatched me up and flew me here."

"From where?"

"Winterfell. Have you heard of that?"

"Of course. They own this land."

"Not anymore. It's been passed to a new kingdom called Nightfold. It contains the Wall."

"The Wall? I've heard of that. My mom knew much more than I did about the outside world. I would love for someone to tell me the latest news, but you're so full of dung, I don't know whether to trust you or not."

Jon didn't know what to say. The woman would not stop insulting him. "Do you know about the War of the Five Kings, and the war with the white walkers?"

"My mom died about a month ago. And she knew about the war. She went into the villages occasionally and listened to the gossip while she got her supplies."

How did she buy supplies? Jon wondered. Then it struck him. "Trading pelts?"

"Yes."

"What did she say about the war?"

"That the north was waging a war against the people above the wall and also fighting a war against the people in the south. Which made me think that the northerners were a bunch of asses if they were fighting everybody."

Jon grinned. She was funny. But annoying. "The bad things above the wall were called white walkers. They were dead people, some of them skeletons, yet they ran around killing real, flesh-and-blood people. The Wall was built thousands of years ago to stop them. But they made it past and tried to invade the rest of Westeros. We fought a great battle at Winterfell. Arya Stark killed their leader, the Night King, and the moment he died, they all perished." He realized that he'd said too much, and perhaps he did sound insane.

She burst out laughing again. "See how crazy you talk? Can you tell me something believable, Jon?"

Jon realized that the woman was making him nervous. He rattled on, knowing he was only adding to her distrust of him. "Want to hear about the war with the south? The War of the Five Kings, they called it? Daenerys Stormborn, the leader of the people fighting the south, flew Drogon into their biggest city, King's Landing, and destroyed it. Drogon burned thousands and thousands of people to death. That ended the war. Daenerys died later and Drogon flew away. Everyone has been looking for him. If they find out he's up here, they'll send scouts to look around. Men will be all over these hills, hoping to find him."

"Oh my garsh. Are you just making things up? Whatever rambles through your head, you just spit out at me, just to see how much you can get past the dumb forest girl?"

"Can we build a fire. I can't feel my feet."

She shook her head with disgust. "What kind of sissy boy are you? Do you even know how to live in the north?"

"I grew up in Winterfell. I now live at the Wall in a place called Castle Black. I know how to live in the north, but I am unbelievably cold because Drogon flew me here, and he flew fast, and I did not have my thickest furs on because I wasn't expecting to be kidnapped. It's a wonder I'm not frozen stiff."

She regarded him for a long moment with her cold dark eyes. Finally, "I have a small shelter. I will let you in but just a word of warning. I am an expert with a bow and a knife. Want a demonstration?" She glanced upward. "See that crow?" She raised her bow.

"NO!" Jon leaped forward and grabbed her bow, jerking it downward. When he stopped moving, he felt cold steel against his neck.

She whispered, "I know you aren't completely right in the head, a little on the stupid side maybe, but if you touch me again, I will slice your throat. Do you understand me?"

He had imagined her shooting the crow out of the sky, and potentially killing his brother, Bran Stark, the three-eyed raven, but he didn't want to tell her that. She'd think he was even crazier than her initial estimation. Instead, he said, "The crow is part of our sigil, our crest. They're sacred to us. Please don't ever shoot them."

She stepped back and regarded him coolly. She sheathed her knife. "No touching."

Staring at her, he realized he was tired of dealing with this woman, even though he'd known her less than five minutes. Also, he was unbelievably cold and tired. And especially angry at that stupid dragon for bringing him out here. "I believe you, forest girl. Your skills are impressive." He shook his head, trying to decide what to do. Finally, "Just forget the fire, okay? Enjoy your dragon."

"Wait. What? Where are you going?"

"To the Wall, to find my people."

"You're going to walk?"

"Unless Drogon returns. Then I plan to crawl on his back and see if he'll fly me there."

"Funny."

He took a look at the sun to see which direction he needed to go, then began slogging through the snow.

"Wait," she said.

He paused and glanced over his shoulder.

"Lucella," she said. "My name is Lucella Bearsong."

He shrugged. "Good luck with your life, Lucella Bearsong. If you ever get to civilization, maybe we'll meet again."

The snow was thick, but he trudged forward, knowing that exertion would warm his body up, and that included his feet. He didn't plan to stop until dusk arrived. Then he'd build a fire. He had his sword and his own knife. He'd be fine. South of the Wall was definitely better than north of the Wall. Surviving in the snowy north was just as much his world as it was hers.

"Wait," she said.

He sighed loudly and paused. Was she all alone here? Was she lonely? Was that her problem? He turned to face her once again. "What do you want?"

"You'll die if you head north. There's nothing in that direction for a hundred miles."

"Maybe Drogon will give me a ride."

She smiled as if to humor him. "Come back, and eat dinner with me and warm up, okay? I don't want your death on my conscience."

"How far is your camp?"

"Just right over the hill there." She pointed.

He put his hands on his hips as he considered it. She had that same fierceness as Ygritte, as if she could conquer the world if it stood up to her. His mind whispered, Stop comparing her to Ygritte.

"Okay. No more threatening me, though."

"Deal."

"And no more calling me an idiot."

She blew out a long breath of frosty air. "A girl can't have any fun?"

He shook his head, wanting to smile, but holding it back. "Okay. Lead the way."

12

ARYA

"Ship!"

The yell sounded from the crow's nest. Arya dropped her fork and bowl of gruel and ran to the bow, climbing atop the forecastle, which placed her a little higher than the deck but not as high as the crow's nest. She scanned the horizon ahead. She couldn't see anything. She waited, knowing that anything seen from above would quickly be seen from below.

The ship's bell was being rung with enthusiasm. Sailors appeared from below, everyone heading to preassigned stations.

Arya calmed herself. As her heart slowed and the tension in her stomach lightened, she took another look ahead, making a slow, meticulous sweep across the horizon.

There. A mast, barely visible.

"Another ship!" came from the crow's nest. "Two ships!"

She glanced in that direction, thinking she should climb up there. But several men were already clambering to the small cavity.

Captain Ponde screamed, "Steady, everyone!"

As wind streamed over her face and through her hair, Arya realized she now felt a wild exhilaration. This was it. This was the day they would meet people from the world west of Westeros.

The Magnar Panimus plowed ahead, sails flapping and snapping in the stiff wind. Arya continued to stare forward. Five ships came into view, sails at standby. They were spread out, a blockade perhaps. But behind the ships, Arya spotted a city. Beige-colored buildings and towers, with one large visible flag, black with a red spot in the center.

They sailed closer.

"Furl the main sail," the captain yelled. "Slow us down. Head for the middle ship. I want to get within hailing distance."

The entire crew was awake for this, most of them manning booms, jibs, and cleats. The main sail came down, as did the top sail.

Their speed abated.

The ship they were meandering toward began turning in the water, being propelled by oars; Arya saw them near the water line and wished that they'd brought a ship with oars.

More sails came down as they neared the foreign ship, and Arya realized that Ponde intended to stop and let the foreign ship use its oars to bring the two ships close. Ponde stood at the railing, hands crossed behind him, watching the foreign ship draw nigh.

"Negotiation," Arya said. "That's the plan, right?"

Ponde continued to stare over the railing. He raised a hand and it shook violently.

"Ponde?" Arya touched his arm and could feel him vibrating like a guitar string. "What's wrong?"

"I am captain. Captain of the Shining Sea. Captain Ponde, at your sea service. I am . . ."

"Ponde!" She tugged on his arm.

"Oh," he said, still facing asea. "I understand. I do, I do. Understand. It's for the better good of the better butter." A line of drool ran from his mouth.

"I under, under, understand," the captain whispered, voice shaking. "World is wonder, round yon mast. I concur. Bowing, now."

Arya glanced over at the First Mate, who seemed just as befuddled as the captain. Blood oozed from the nose of the First Mate, trekked around his lips, and down his clean chin. Arya spun Ponde around and saw that his mustache was red with blood.

The tremors wracking his body came to an abrupt stop. Slowly, he turned to her face her. His face looked blank and his eyes dead. "It's okay, Princess Stark."

"What's happening, Ponde?"

"Destiny."

The ship pulled close. Across the way, the crew of the other ship were coiling ropes and making a long plank ready. The moment they met, broadside to broadside, sailors from the other ship tossed lines across, caught cleats with some of them, and pulled the two ships into lockstep. They were humans and they looked normal, even though they were outfitted in identical tunics. They were all alike, no beards, no tattoos, no long hair, each one clad in dark-gray trousers, light-gray tunic. This was wrong. Death was about to board the Magnar Panimus.

"Cut those ropes!" Arya screamed.

"Belay that!" Ponde yelled. He glanced around at his men. "These are peaceful people. They will board our boat. They're going to take us to see their city."

Murmuring erupted behind them. Arya grabbed Ponde's arm and spun him around. "No."

Blood dripped from his heavy mustache and spotted the deck at Arya's feet. Something was wrong here. Something insidious, but she couldn't figure out what.

"They'll be very kind to us," Ponde said in a soft voice. "They told me so. Very kind."

The draw plank fell across the gap between the ships, slamming onto the railing in front of Ponde, who was now smiling.

Arya drew her sword and knife, meaning to cut the ropes attaching the ships, then kill the first pirate who walked across that drawbridge. Before she could make her move, something struck her in the back of the head. She stumbled forward, hit the deck, and rolled over onto her back, staring up at Ponde, who was blurry and indistinct, as was everything. Her skull felt as if someone had crushed it. Dexter Brunner floated into the picture above her, that nine-fingered bastard. She should've killed him long ago.

"Hello, sweetheart," he whispered. "Sorry for hitting you so hard but I've been saving that up for a while."

He glanced up for a moment and a drop of blood fell from his nose and landed on Arya's cheek. "Looks like Starks might not rule this world," he said, smiling.

Darkness fell upon her, covered her, consumed her. Somehow the pain in her head softened.

She closed her eyes and felt the shadows take her.

13

ARYA

Arya awakened on a ship. Her hands were shackled to her feet, and she'd been stowed in a dirty corner of the hold. It wasn't the hold of the Magnar Panimus. She'd been in that rat-infested hellhole several times and it looked nothing like this. The wood itself was different, the grain here had streaks of black in it. And the wooden crates in front of her were nothing like the supply containers of the Panimus.

Taking a deep breath, she began twisting and turning her head, the motion causing pain to flare again.

Dexter. She wouldn't just kill him, she'd torture him to death this time. He'd done this.

Wait. The captain wasn't himself. It was the nosebleed. Those drops of blood coming from the captain, the first mate, and Dexter. What did it signify?

And where was everyone else? Was she the only one taken captive?

Enough light shined into the hold from the hatch in the corner, enough for her to examine the crate in front of her. The wood nailed to the edges of the container was rough. She inched forward to get close to the box, then she began picking at the wood with her fingernail.

Finally, a splinter came off. She closed her eyes as she maneuvered it into the hole of her manacles where a key would normally be inserted. She could almost feel the splinter inside the shackle, searching for the lever that would unlock it.

—Stop—

She froze. "Who said that?"

—Stop trying to unlock yourself or we'll come down there with a club and knock you out again—

The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. She twisted her head around again, searching for someone—anyone—nearby. But no one was around. She was alone.

She closed her eyes and began wiggling the splinter again.

—You don't listen so well, do you, princess?—

She heard the noise before she saw it. Someone was coming down the ladder into the hold. A burly man, dark-gray trousers, light-gray tunic, tall. He approached her, hunched over, carrying a club.

Arya groaned out loud.

"Sorry, princess," he said in the common tongue. He whacked her once in the temple and she toppled over.

The next time Arya awakened, she felt groggy and sick. Her head ached fiercely. Her vision was dark, even with her eyes closed. But after a moment, her surroundings shimmered into existence.

She was in a small room with a table and chair in front of her. She lay on the hard ground.

Closing her eyes, she concentrated on one thing . . . motion. She needed to know where she was. After a long minute, she realized that she was no longer on a ship. She knew about land legs, that feeling of movement that stayed with you for a day or two after you got off a ship, but there was no movement now. She was in the city somewhere.

She studied her situation. Her hands were still shackled together but no longer to her feet. That was an improvement.

—Ah, you're awake—

Another voice in her head, slightly different from the last. This was why the captain had surrendered the ship. They'd invaded his mind, probably with more force than they were currently doing with her.

The one door of the room swung open, and a tall stranger in a brilliant blue cloak swept inside and took a seat in the one chair. His long brown hair looked cleaner than she'd ever seen hair, falling gracefully around his cleanshaven face. He looked young—his face was unwrinkled—but had to be middle-aged; the arrogant way he carried himself couldn't be acquired by one so young.

But his eyes. You noticed them immediately. The sclera of his eyes were vivid orange instead of white. They were sparkling gold ingots that dazzled you, that locked your interest and held it.

"No yellow eyes in your land, I take it?"

She'd been staring. She looked away, ashamed that he'd caught her. "You can talk?" she said, looking away.

"Of course I can talk."

—But I can also whisper directly into that feeble brain of yours—

Arya leaned back, suddenly more scared than she'd been in a long time. She was alone here. Well, almost.

"Where are Captain Ponde and the crew of the Magnar Panimus?"

He shrugged. "Some of them died during interrogation. They can be unhealthy, our techniques for questioning invaders."

"Invaders? We came in peace."

"No one comes in peace, child. Everyone wants something. Treasure, culture, knowledge. Or perhaps another land to conquer."

"Are you the king here?"

"King? We have no kings. We have eight leaders called preons. Each one has his own portion of the kingdom to lord over. This is mine. I am Preon Zorick."

"If you're the boss, then can I leave?"

"And go where? You invaded our land. You will undoubtedly be imprisoned here the rest of your life, but I'm guessing it'll be a short prison sentence. You seem frail."

"I'm assuming that you questioned the crew about Westeros. So you have all the information you need. What do you want with me, then?"

"Verification." He snapped his fingers. She noticed that he had four fingers on each hand. His pinkies had been removed. That was odd.

"Yes," he said. "I have eight fingers. Giot's rules. We noticed that Dexter had one of his removed—by you, as it turns out. We decided to let him live, just on principle." He smiled magnanimously.

The door opened, and another worker, dressed in the same outfit as the sailors—dark-gray trousers, light-gray tunic—hurried into the room and spread a scroll onto the desk and placed a quill and ink bottle beside it. He stepped out of the room.

Preon Zorick said, "Please get up here and take a look at this. I need your opinions on it, too."

She wanted to kill him. The desire rose inside her, unstoppable, like her urge to breathe. But first, she needed more leverage. "If you're so strong, why am I still in shackles?" She held them up.

He shook his head and rolled his yellow eyes. His forefinger made a circular motion and then her shackles clicked and dropped off her wrists onto the floor, all by themselves.

She crawled to her feet, trying to get him to believe that she was feeble, but the moment she was at the table, she flung herself across, one of the shackles in her raised fist.

But something caught her in the air. She felt many hands on her, but couldn't see them. They slammed her against the stone wall behind her. She hung there for a moment, gasping, and then the many invisible hands turned her whole body until she was upside down but still plastered to the wall. Blood rushed to her head, and everything looked odd from her strange perspective.

He stared at her, smirking. "Did you actually think you could strike me, Princess? Oh, you have so much to learn. Not only do I read minds, but I can move things. If there were a window present, I could fly you out the window, high up into the air, and eventually release you. Your body would smash onto the ground and burst open, like the smelly bag of manure that you are."

"You're a magician?"

"Magician? Wizard? No, you ignorant princess. I am a prophet of Giot."

He stood and walked around the small table. Because she was plastered to the wall upside down, her mouth was almost at the same height as his crotch. If he tried to put anything in her mouth, she'd bite it off.

Chuckling, he said, "Bite it off?" He unbuttoned his trousers, pulled his member out, and dangled it in front of her. Then a stream of urine shot out of it and landed right on her mouth. She tried to move a hand to block the flow, but her hands were glued to the walls. She forced her lips tightly together, but she was upside down, so the nasty liquid poured straight into her nose. She began snorting and screaming and coughing, trying not to drown on his piss. All while he hummed quietly to himself.

Finally finished, he tucked his weapon away and buttoned his trousers. "Next time, I won't be so nice. Okay, Princess? You're an insect compared to me. A bug that I can squash anytime I want. Do you understand? Say it. Say, I understand."

Gagging and choking, she finally managed to spit everything out without swallowing much of it, but the urine still burned her nasal passages and her throat. Voice croaking, she said, "I understand."

"Good." He took his seat again. "I'm going to stand you back up, and I want you to take a look at this map and tell me if there are any errors."

Slowly, the hundred invisible hands pulled her off the wall and spun her around until her feet rested on the hard dirt. The hands released her. She hocked and spit and blew her nose onto the floor on her side of the table. Zorick watched silently.

She took one glance at the map and knew what it was.

Westeros.

What were they planning? Were they going to sail there and invade? Or was it only for reference, for the royal archives?

She turned away. "It's correct."

"You haven't looked."

"I did. It looks right to me."

She heard the sound before she felt the pain. A soft snap. And then a fireball of agony raced from her left hand up her arm and into her shoulder. She lost her breath for a second. Staring down at her finger, she felt numb with horror because the pinky finger on her left hand was folded to the rear and lay against the back of her hand.

Holding it up, staring at it, she couldn't stop the tears that welled in her eyes.

"Well, that was one," he said, smirking. "You've got nine more. Want me to continue?"

She gazed at him over her ruined hand. Slowly, she whispered, "I will . . . kill you . . . one day."

Snap.

Pain exploded again, even worse. She stared at her hand again, at the ring finger, which now also lay on the back of her hand beside the pinky. Her knees went weak and she staggered slightly but grabbed the table with her right hand to keep from falling.

"Two down, eight to go," he said, grinning. "I enjoy this, princess. It makes my heart sing." His smile fell away. "Now look at the damned map."

Her breaths were coming in ragged gasps now. Still, she hesitated. She wanted to kill him so bad. Ached to do it.

Snap. Snap.

Third and fourth finger, the middle and the pointer, now in line with the rest of them. She collapsed onto the floor, whimpering, sobbing, and holding her injured hand against her chest.

"Can I let you in on a little secret," he said, leaning forward. "And I don't know this personally, but this is what people have told me. The thumb is the worst. Makes the rest of them feel good by comparison."

Arya took a deep breath, clenched her teeth, and pulled herself upright with her good hand. She swayed on her feet as she leaned forward to inspect the map.

"Giot's freckle!" Zorick swore. He yanked a kerchief from his pocket and tossed it in front of her. "You're dripping snot and tears all over my map. Wipe yourself."

She released the table and picked up the kerchief, hand shaking, and wiped her nose and eyes, even though she was still sobbing.

Through tears and her swirling emotions, she stared down at the map, trying to concentrate. It was of Westeros. And Essos, which she wasn't entirely sure about. She'd traveled Essos, but seen few maps of the place. Westeros was correct. She saw all the main cities and castles notated. Winterfell in the north, and above that, the Wall, with Castle Black in the center. Down south, the six kingdoms were roughly sketched out. It was a superior map, and she wondered if there had been a cartographer aboard.

"The boatswain had a good memory," Zorick said. "He's the one who gave us most of this. The captain didn't last long enough to help. Too much coercion, I guess. His brain couldn't take it."

Arya wiped at her nose again.

"Keep looking, princess."

She continued to stare at the map. Voice breaking, she asked, "Why didn't you just go into my head like you did the captain? You could force me to do anything you want."

"I hate going into the heads of women. It's revolting and nasty. They're always worried about the most mundane of things, and their sensitivity is so aggravating, you end up ripping their faces off. Besides, this is fun. I'm enjoying it."

She didn't comment, afraid she would upset him again and he'd snap her thumb.

"Just a few questions," he said. "Who is the king?"

In her mind, fleetingly, her brother, Bran Stark, sitting in his wheeled-chair.

"Your brother. And he is unable to walk. Hmm. Odd that he would be king. Your society is already broken. Our arrival could only help."

She said nothing.

"And his closest advisors?"

"Ser Bronn, Tarley, Tyrion, Davos. Two others that I don't know."

"Tyrion is a dwarf? Your kingdom is ruled by an invalid who can't walk, and his closest advisor is an imp?"

"Yes."

He burst out laughing and slapped his hand on the table. "Oh, how the council is going to enjoy this." He gazed at her with a great, gloating smile on his face. "But back to business. Your king resides at King's Landing, and rarely leaves the city?"

She nodded.

Her gaze never strayed from the map. She didn't want to look at her hand. It was a horrible sight.

"This little section here is called The North. Your sister rules that. What is she like?"

An image of Sansa appeared in Arya's mind.

"You see her as courageous and unbreakable. But one day she will kiss my hand and beg for mercy, and I'm not sure I will give it." He dropped his gaze back to the map. "Would it be better to land here, at Lannisport, or perhaps down here, on the coast. We could enter unmolested and make our way to Highgarden and gain control of it first. What say you, girl?"

"Depends on where your ship lands. Take whatever's closer." She couldn't imagine him taking either under normal considerations, but with his powers, she didn't know.

"Which is better defended?"

"The Lannisters always have more troops and guards. They're an officious lot."

Zorick smiled. "They're also more arrogant. I saw that in your mind." He made some scratches on the corner of the map. "Who are the Lords of Lannisport and Highgarden?"

"The Lord of Casterly Rock is Tyrion Lannister."

"The dwarf? The oddities just keep coming, don't they? What about Highgarden?"

"Ser Bronn. The Master of Coin."

"But they both reside at King's Landing as advisors to the king?"

"Yes."

Zorick scribbled on the map some more, the quill making scratching noises in the quiet room. He paused, quill poised. "I heard tales of a dragon."

"Drogon," she whispered. "He flew away after the war. No one knows where. Probably back to Essos where he came from."

"Explain the war. In your mind."

She saw the Drassacre; fire, smoke, destruction. She sniffled again as Zorick added to his notes.

Finally, he raised his head, smiling. "That might be enough. Some of my disciples think you should escort us to the new world as an advisor, but I don't think we'll need you. Once we're in Lannisport or Highgarden, I'm sure the leaders there will know everything that's going on."

He leaned back into his chair, staring at her. "What to do with you now? That's the question of the moment."

The door opened and the previous attendant stepped into the doorway. "Sire? Preon Bendolay will arrive in one hour."

"Very good. I suppose I should greet him properly. Any word from the rest?"

"All contacted but it may take a while for everyone to get here. Two of Bendolay's octons are already here and are asking why we didn't meet in Central, as usual?"

"Because this is my affair. These foreigners sailed into my province. Ergo, my meeting." He cocked his head slightly. "Right now, I'm debating about what to do with the princess, here."

"Should I take her to the dungeons? Or to the pile?"

Zorick didn't answer for a long moment. Finally he said, "I have an idea. Put her in the cell beside Arabesk. He's been bored for a long while. It's about time we gave him a new toy to chew on. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Indeed, Sire."

"And if the council approves my mission, then Princess Stark will still be alive, perhaps a little broken, but available if any last-minute questions arise." Zorick rolled up the scroll, gave one kindly smile to Arya, and walked out.

Shivering from the pain coursing through her, Arya finally stopped staring at the table and took an unflinching look at her ruined hand.

Immediately she vomited.

14

JON

Jon searched overhead as they traipsed through the snow, hoping to spot Drogon, but had no luck. Too many trees towering above them. Was Drogon's lair nearby? A cave, perhaps, like Lucella said she inhabited? It would take a monstrous cavern to accommodate the huge dragon.

They marched down another valley, through fresh snow, finally stumbling from the trees onto a path, somewhat muddy from use.

She pointed ahead. "There. See the door?"

He did. It was a cave in the hillside, but someone had boarded up the front and added a door. It was camouflaged with drifting snow broken branches and blended in well. If she hadn't pointed it out, Jon might have rambled on past it.

Standing in front of the door, she pushed a latch with her foot and the door swung inward. "Let me go inside and light some lamps, okay?"

He nodded, moving close to the door to get a peek inside.

"Get away from the door!" she yelled from inside. "You're blocking the light."

Shaking his head, he stepped to the side and stared into the forest. Up ahead, he saw a deer gliding through the woods like a ghost. Game was plentiful here. People could settle here, he realized. But how many people would want to live here? The mountains made it as cold as it was north of the Wall.

"Okay, come inside," she said from the doorway.

He entered hesitantly. Even with four lamps burning, it was gloomy in the cave. But it was larger than he had imagined.

"Give me a minute," she said, "and I'll get a fire going."

A fireplace was dug into one of the walls, which was rocky and stable.

"Gethin made this fireplace. He found a natural flue in the rocks. Smoke goes up and exit through several vent holes up top, so there's no defined smoke plume to give away our location. Any melting water passes through a passage in the wall and goes underground. Ingenious, right?"

"Fire," someone said in a high voice.

Jon glanced around, trying to discover the source of the spoken word.

"Shut up, Pebble," Lucella said. "I'm building a fire, okay?"

"F-f-f-fire," the voice said again.

Jon walked in that direction and discovered a crow perched on a short branch that was jammed into the wall.

"F-f-f-f-fire," the bird said.

The rookeries of most houses had a crow or a raven who could talk. Even the rookery at Castle Black. It always amazed Jon to hear something so small and nonhuman sound so human.

Years ago, the bird master at Winterfell, Carwin Yonsin, had taught one of his birds to talk. Jon still remembered the raven, whose favorite expression had been, "Hello, shit-face."

Jon smiled, thinking about it.

Lucella used a spark stone to start the fire. Once the kindling was going, she stood back. "We'll get you thawed out in no time, okay?"

"Thank you."

She shrugged. "Sorry I was hard on you. If I can be honest, you took me by surprise."

"As you did me."

She walked over and stood beside him, staring at the crow. "It's lonely here. I found Pebble one day lying in the snow, just a chick. He'd fallen out of the nest, I think. I brought him in and fed him. He's been with me since my mom died. He keeps me from being lonely."

"Is Pebble a boy or a girl crow?"

She laughed. "I don't think it matters."

Jon glanced around, observing the furnishings of this mountain woman. Near the fireplace, three chairs sat empty. They were made from stripped branches, carved into the proper shapes and nailed together. They looked comfortable, considering what they were. Several walls held shelves loaded down with supplies, including one with rolls of furs. Several glass jars held water. One of them was full of snow, and Jon supposed that she filled them with snow and brought them inside. Easier than trekking to a stream nearby, he supposed.

Two wooden tables occupied the back corner. The tops were scarred and greasy. At the very rear of the cave, a small natural doorway in the rocky wall led even deeper into the cavern.

"Food cellar?" Jon asked, pointing at the door.

She nodded. "Are you hungry? Want to eat?"

"Not yet. Let me get thawed out."

"I'll get it ready."

Jon positioned himself in front of the fire and tarried there, feeling warmer already, even though the fire was still meager flames. Lucella picked up one of the lamps and disappeared into the back room. She returned without the lamp but carried a cabbage, a side of meat, and a handful of spices. She dropped everything on the closest table, then began cutting and whacking. Jon stayed near the fire. The woman was entirely too proficient with a knife.

Outside, squawking noises caught Jon's attention. He pricked his ears, trying to determine the species of the animal. He knew the songs and sounds of many birds, and the calls of most animals in the north, but he couldn't place these. They were odd.

He glanced at Lucella, who was wiping her hands on a cloth. She pointed at him as she walked to the door. "Stay there by the fire, okay? They won't hurt you. At least I hope they won't."

She pulled open the door. Jon waited, wondering what other kind of pets the woman had adopted.

A dragon waddled into the room. A small one, with a hare dangling from its bloody mouth. Jon blinked and felt the world tilt a little and then return to normal. Baby dragons. But how?

Another one came in behind the first, a hare in his mouth, too. They spit them out onto the ground in front of Lucella, and squawked up at her. She petted them on their heads like they were dogs, but said, "I need some snow pigs, too, okay?" She put her fingers to her mouth like tusks, and then made snorting noises. The dragons chattered and nodded. "Snow pigs." More chattering from the dragons.

"Go back out and wash your mouths in the snow." Lucella mimed wiping her mouth. She pointed outside. They yapped at her in protest but she continued to point. Eventually, they walked back out. She waited at the door. Moments later, they came back, snow caked on their faces.

She wiped the snow off.

"I normally wouldn't let anyone see them, Jon, but since their mother seems to like you, then I figure they might, too." She stared at him for a moment. "Come over hear and let them smell you."

"Smell me? They're not dogs," Jon said.

"Dogs are like wolves, right?"

"You've never seen a dog?"

"No."

The two dragons eyeballed Jon for a long moment, then approached him. Their expressions seemed to be only curiosity. They came close and sniffed him. He knelt so they could look into his face.

"Ever seen a baby dragon before?" Lucella asked.

"No. Daenerys hatched three dragons at once and raised them as their mother. But they were grown when I met them."

"They bring me food and pelts," she said. "So I let them stay here."

Jon nodded.

Each was about the size of a large dog. One had black streaks intermixed with the dark brown. The other had pink highlights.

"I gave them names," Lucella said. "The one with the black? He's Frackle. And the one with the pink? She's Francella. She's got to be a girl, right?"

"I feel stupid. Now I understand why you argued that Drogon was a female." He glanced at her. "How is this possible?"

Lucella chuckled. "A male dragon gets with a female dragon . . ."

"No. Daenerys was sure they were all male." Frackle and Francella came close enough for him to touch. He stroked their faces as he thought about dragons. "I've heard that some lizards can change their genders. Maybe dragons can, too. Out of necessity, Drogon became a female, just so he could continue the species."

Lucella said, "Does this mean you're not a complete idiot? Because I was enjoying calling you one."

"Oh, I am a complete idiot," Jon said, looking up at her and grinning. "But not about this."

He continued to stroke the two dragons. Ordinarily, baby beasts of all kinds were adorable, but these dragons had already lost their innocence, even though they didn't frighten Jon. He'd been around enough beasts to know that they weren't evil like the men, but only followed their own instincts. They killed to eat and to protect their young ones and their territory.

"So dragons are rare?" Lucella asked, sitting in a nearby chair. Frackle squawked at her. She leaned over and scratched the dragon's jaw.

"These three might be the last three in the world."

"The big one, Drogon, is a little scary," she said, "but these two aren't. Of course, one day, they'll be gigantic, too."

"Do you plan to stay here with them? Your mother died, right? And your father?"

"Gethin? He wasn't my father. He was a man that my mother met and convinced to stay with us. They loved each other. Mother was broken-hearted when that wolf got him."

"Direwolf?"

"What's that?"

"Huge wolf?"

"No, a pack of regular wolves. My mother was there. They were after her and he dived in to save her. And paid for it."

Jon glanced up at her. "I'm sorry."

"It was awful, but when mom died, it was much worse."

"Wolves?"

Lucella shook her head. "She fell out of a tree and broke her back. Trying to get eggs, of all things. She had one in her hand when I found her. I got her back here, but she never recovered. She died a few days later." Her shoulders slumped as she thought about it. "You ever lost anyone close to you?"

Jon thought back on just the last few years. He'd lost almost everyone important to him, with only a few exceptions. "Yes," he said, looking over at her.

Frackle and Francella got close to the fire and curled up, effectively pushing Jon away from the heat. It was okay because he was toasty now, especially since he was fully dressed.

"You're sweating," she said. "Take that fur off and have a seat. I'll throw together some stew and get it on the fire."

She went back to the table and began chopping the cabbage.

Jon removed his outercoat and laid it on Francella, who glanced up at him and made a chirping sound. Jon wandered over and watched Lucella wield her butcher knife. "How did your mother end up here?"

Lucella smiled. "Long story, that one."

"We have a while. I might be here a few days before Drogon returns to get me."

"And you think he'll ride you back to Winterfell?"

"Maybe."

She tossed all the cabbage into the black metal pot on the table using the width of the knife blade to get it off the table. That task completed, she slid the slab of venison in front of her. "Want me to summarize it before I begin?"

He stared at her, but didn't speak.

Smiling, she said, "Not that it matters much in the forest, but you are looking at the bastard daughter of a bastard daughter of a bastard daughter."

Without thinking, he laughed out loud.

She flipped the knife around and pointed the blade at him. "Do you find that funny?"

"I'm sorry. I've know bastards my whole life, and there's no disgrace in being one. You are not responsible for the sins of your father or your mother."

She squinted at him, her face turning red.

She flipped the knife around and began carving the meat. "Well, I hate being a bastard daughter. I hate having no family and no heritage."

Jon remembered his conversation with Sansa. Heritage was important. He was raised by Ned Stark, and would always consider the man to be his father. And that often made him straighten his back, square his shoulders, and face his difficulties with courage. How would he feel if there were no Ned Stark in his past? No one at all to guide him through those early years? It would be horrible.

"I understand. But the heart that beats inside you is yours to direct. It is the foundation you build your life upon. Not your name. Not your heritage. You can be proud and strong and honorable without your ancestors saying it should be so."

She glanced up at him. "Do you have a place in this world, Jon? Friends, a house, an occupation?"

"I do."

"I have nothing except this little hovel in the woods that doesn't belong to me. We never paid any rent because Winterfell once gave us a widow's exception, and it's been in effect for years. But my mother was the widow, not me. It doesn't even apply anymore. So I have nothing, Jon."

"You have dragons."

She smiled ruefully. "They will forget me as soon as they're too big to come inside my cave."

Jon didn't disagree. Everything she'd said made sense.

"Winterfell no longer owns this land, Lucella. You are in the Nightfold kingdom. And that place is just beginning to be built. They need stalwart and sturdy people to come, to help them populate their kingdom. Maybe you could go there."

Her skill with the knife was amazing to Jon. She'd diced the entire slab of meat quickly and neatly. She placed it into the pot and then laid the knife down as she stared ahead, musing about his comments.

"What would I do? Are you sure they'd welcome me into the community?"

"I do. I happen to know Lord Snow-Targaryen. He could arrange for you to do anything that you wanted."

"He's a personal friend, is he?"

"Kind of."

She smiled. "Targaryen. There's a name I haven't heard in ages. They were the kings of old, right? Before the usurper king took over?"

"Yes. The last Targaryen king went crazy. He was burning everyone. They killed him to stop the madness."

"To stop the madness? And then they took the throne, did they not? It wasn't just stopping a mad king, it was overthrowing a family and gaining a kingdom."

Jon nodded. She was sharper than he imagined. "Would you like to hear the whole story? I'm not a maester or anything, but I know the tales just as well as the next man. Perhaps more."

"Are you going to tell me about the dead people who came back to life? I still don't know if I can believe corpses were chasing you around. Did they have swords? Bows?" She laughed. "But tell me about it anyway. And I promise not to laugh too much."

Jon smiled. "The Wall was built thousands of years ago by one of my ancestors named Brandon the Builder. And its purpose was to keep out the white walkers from the rest of the kingdom."

"And the white walkers are these dead people?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever been to the Wall?"

He smiled again, thinking about it.

"Why are you smiling?"

"I went to the Wall when I was fourteen years old. I joined the Night's Watch, the military garrison that mans the Wall, because I wanted to be part of the Night's Watch like my uncle."

She glanced up. "The same Wall that's north of here. And if you walked due north, you'd eventually run into it?"

"Yes. There are forts along the Wall, but there's only three of them manned now, and with only a few people. Due north of here is probably Stonedoor or Hoarfrost Hill. Neither is manned. I'd have to head east to find Castle Black."

"If Drogon doesn't come back, you plan to walk north to the Wall to find your people?"

"Maybe. Do you want to come with me?"

"Hah!" She laughed. "You just need me to help you, right?"

He shook his head, smiling. He wondered how much he should tell her. The whole story would take days. She wouldn't believe it, anyway. He stared at her, deciding that part of him didn't want to like her, and didn't want to grow close to her. She was too much like the two women who'd come before.

She glanced up at him. "Well?"

"If I decide to walk, will you come with me? It doesn't matter why."

"Maybe."

She dumped the sprigs and spices into the pot, then poured a jug of water in with it. After stirring it up, she carried the heavy container to the fire and hooked it on a curve of metal made into the fireplace. The black pot hung above the flickering flames. She was careful not to step on the dragons, who were still sprawled in front of the fire.

Jon didn't speak as Lucella cleaned the table and then her hands. Once she'd finished, she crossed her arms.

"Can we start?" she said. "Just tell me whatever you want. Truth or lie. You decide."

"What part?"

She shrugged. "We have a while. So why not tell me the whole story. I have nothing else to do Jon, except shoot crows." She grinned at him sardonically.

They settled into the chairs in front of the fireplace.

Jon wasn't a speaker, and he detested telling long, arduous stories, but this was a woman who wanted to hear about things that had affected her life, and still were doing it in the form of the two dragons lying at her hearth. She needed to know. And he liked her, even if she had called him an idiot several times.

He took a breath and began. "Aegon Targaryen conquered Westeros with three dragons . . ."

She grabbed his arm. "Three dragons can conquer a world?"

"Daenerys Targaryen did it basically with one."

She stared at the two dragons on the floor. "Please continue."

15

TYRION

The adjacent suite to Tyrion's had been cleaned out and then refurnished. Zelda oversaw the operation, picking out the furniture and decorations. Tessa's personal items had been delivered, then Tessa herself had arrived, all under Zelda's watchful eye. Tyrion had requested that Tessa bring only one maidservant, and that young girl had moved into the extra room so as to be close to Tessa and readily available.

Tonight was Tessa's first night in her new room, and Tyrion had arranged to have dinner with the girl in his suite. He adjusted his tunic, not sure why he was nervous. She was one of his vassals, and this was purely a supervisory duty, yet something about the girl unnerved him. She seemed much smarter than those wayward eyes let on.

A knock sounded at his door. Zelda, on duty for tonight's affair, moved silently through the living room and answered the door. She escorted Tessa to the sitting room and quickly returned to the dining room, where she was getting the table ready.

"Tessa," Tyrion said, approaching the girl. "Have you settled in? Is everything to your satisfaction?"

She did a quick bow. "Everything is wonderful, my lord."

"Well, come sit. Tell me about your day. Zelda will give us a call when everything is ready."

Head down, Tessa found a seat and crossed her hands in her lap. Her dark hair was pulled into a clasp at the base of her neck. She wore a white blouse with long sleeves and a high neck. Her black skirt covered her ankles. No cleavage showing, no legs visible. Tyrion approved. Almont Lefford would approve. Very lady-like. Could he tell her he found her attire acceptable without creating an awkward moment? Maybe. But what was life without awkward moments? Sometimes the most enjoyable moments in life were awkward moments.

"You look lovely tonight," he said, smiling. "If that skirt was any longer, you could sweep my floors with it." Her head flew up in alarm, and she gazed at him, face furled in horror. But then Tyrion grinned and she realized he was attempting to be funny, and she grinned back. The moment passed. She said, "My father picked it out before he left."

Tyrion nodded. "Every father pictures his daughter as a septa, at least until she marries. After that, the torch is passed and some other man must manage her. Fathers worry about their children, Tessa. And he'll finally stop worrying the day they lower him into the ground. Just remember that, okay?"

She smiled. "Yes, my lord."

"I'm sorry your father had to return so quickly. I had expected him to dine with us tonight."

"His legs, my lord, they pain him very much. I saw him when they first brought him home and I'm surprised he can even walk. Coming here took a lot out of him."

"I'm sure it did," Tyrion said.

Zelda appeared. "Dinner is served, my lord."

Tyrion arose and gracefully guided Tessa into the dining room. White porcelain bowls and dishes covered the table, each filled with succulent meats, steaming vegetables, and savory sauces. A platter of breads and cheeses completed the dinner layout.

"Do you always dine in such opulence?" Tessa asked.

Tyrion shook his head. "I prefer a snack at night followed by coffee. But Zelda wanted to impress you."

Tessa smiled and glanced at Zelda, who stood at rigid attention in the corner.

After pulling Tessa's chair and getting her situated, Tyrion sat himself. Zelda arrived, prompt as a sunrise, and poured their drinks.

"You don't have to stick around," Tyrion said. "Come back later."

Zelda bowed gracefully. "Yes, my lord."

As they began eating, Tyrion asked, "Does it bother you when servants hover nearby, waiting to fulfill your every wish?"

Tessa, who'd daintily nibbled on a piece of bread, said, "You become accustomed to it."

"It seems that I've become unaccustomed to it since I've attained status as Hand of the King. Lately, it's begun to annoy me, and I'm not sure why."

She gazed at him, drilled into him with those poignant eyes, and said, "Perhaps as people age, their center leaves its initial placement and drifts outward, and they find that they're more empathetic than they once were, and not so self-centered."

Tyrion blinked, expecting only a murmur of assent. He didn't reply for a long moment, and she gushed, "I'm sorry, my lord. I was not thinking of you in my reflections but of others in my house."

He smiled pleasantly. "Tessa, can I let you in on a little secret? I've always been a dwarf, the little man, the half-bastard. And I've borne the insults of princes and paupers alike, often on a daily basis. My skin is as thick as the elephants of Essos. Therefore, never be afraid to speak the truth to me for fear of offending me. The truth never offends me. Sometimes it's painful, sometimes it's amusing, and sometimes it's a mirror, showing me a facet of myself that I'd forgotten was there. But no matter, I will only respect you more for doing it."

She studied him for a long moment. "Can I ask the same of you, my lord?"

He chuckled. "Of course. You and I will from this point forward be honest with each other in our dealings. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Can I then propose a truce?" Tyrion asked.

"A truce?"

"I will not push hoary, unattractive men on you, or interminable bores hell-bent on telling you their latest nonadventure, or cocky aristocrats with bloated egos. In exchange, you will not consort with any men that I have not approved of beforehand. That way, our friendship will be less-stressful."

She laughed out loud.

"What's so funny?" Tyrion asked, smiling.

"I was terrified to come here, did you know that? I was afraid I'd be married off to the first idiot who looked at me."

"And now?"

"I think you will consider my feelings in all matters."

"I promise to do that."

"Good!" She sighed deeply. "Truce accepted. Can we eat now? I'm starving. Papa is afraid that I might gain a pound and not find a man because of that. Last night, I took three actual bites of food, and then Papa pulled my plate away and said I was making a pig of myself." She tore a roll in half, slathered butter on it, and shoved it into her mouth. She paused, mouth full. "You're not eating," she said, around the bread.

"Sorry." Tyrion delved into the food.

"Have you ever noticed," she said, as she held up a nugget of venison on her fork, "that the first bite of some tasty morsel is usually sublime and full-flavored and savory? But after that first bite or two, your taste buds become inured to the sensation, and future bites are basically just you shoving food down your gullet. Not even tasting it, really. Sometimes I feel like I should wait several minutes between bites, until my taste buds get equipped again, so I can enjoy myself more thoroughly." She grinned. "But not today. I'm too damned hungry!"

Tyrion smiled to himself, thinking that it had been a while since a woman had exhibited such candor around him. He found it quite enjoyable.

16

THE FACELESS MAN

People are puppets, the Faceless Man thought as he limped down one of the many alleys of King's Landing. Marionettes who think they're in control of themselves, but high above, out of their realm of awareness, strings are tugged and released, controlling them.

And who is the puppeteer? Not some ambivalent god sitting in heaven, pulling strings. No, the puppeteer, the puller of strings, is only their emotions, each one a string, each one connected to a heart, a leg, an arm, pulling the person this way or that way. Happiness, depression, anger, fear, pain. Each one is a motivator, an instigator.

And he, the Faceless Man, with just one swipe of his sharp dagger, could cut all the cords at once, and allow that person to float free of the bonds of this life.

Death releases us from all burdens.

He paused near a dirty wall and dropped to his knees. "An alm?" he said, voice croaking, as a rich woman strolled by, dress shimmering, hair piled atop her poised head and pinned in place by a dazzling blue hat with feathers protruding. The woman veered from his path, giving him that look of disgust as if he were a dung tree about to drop fruit upon her.

There goes someone who would benefit substantially from my knife. She could be freed of her desire to impress others.

He shoved himself to his feet, using the wall as leverage. Once erect, he gimped along the alley, eyes downcast. His limp was fake, as was the scar he'd spread across his cheek, an illusion he'd created from print shop glue. He'd smeared it on and let it dry, and it had camouflaged his face as well as distort it.

No one looked at the scarred and ugly. They did, but only for a quick moment, a furtive glance, and then they turned away, embarrassed, afraid the hideous thing might speak or touch them. Just as that woman had done. They hurried on with their lives, wishing that deformities were kept hidden, and that such monsters didn't exist in the world. Yet, this place was full of the crippled and disfigured. King's Landing had become a bastion of flaws and disfigurements. The Drassacre they called it. It was the God of Death finally taking a long and pointed look at King's Landing.

Up ahead, he saw two men ambling along, deep in conversation. One of them carried a scrap of paper and kept glancing at it. The other talked into his partner's ear, explaining something related to the paper, because he kept gesturing toward it.

Interesting.

The Faceless Man had been in town for several weeks and had narrowed his targets down to one of these two guards. Ser Podrick Payne or Ser William Hayneswynn. They were built similarly and seemed to be equally vigilant. The only issue would be getting one of them alone.

He followed discreetly, blending in. He was a master of seeing things with his peripheral vision. Hayneswynn was trying to memorize what was on the paper.

A passing man held out a coin. The faceless man snatched it, smiling, and slipped it into the pocket of his tattered tunic. "May the peace of the gods be upon you," he said, his words slurring slightly, making it sound like the piss of the gods be upon you.

In the distance, the two men parted ways and Hayneswynn ducked into the darkened entry of a brothel. Hayneswynn's strings were being tugged on by the puppeteer known as lust, the Faceless Man thought.

Squatting at the edge of the thoroughfare beside a beggar, the Faceless Man began counting. He chatted with the beggar beside him, who'd had an arm destroyed in the Drassacre. But the Faceless Man never lost track of the time. Sixteen minutes later, Hayneswynn stepped back into the street, adjusting his clothing and glancing up and down the street with hooded, nervous eyes.

Every other day, the Faceless Man thought. Every other day, Hayneswynn visits the same brothel. And probably services the same girl. Standing appointment, maybe?

Was this luck or stupidity?

The Faceless Man scrounged in his pocket and removed the coins he'd collected during the day. Without a word, he dropped them into the small wooden bowl in front of the beggar, who looked over and said, "Thank you, kind stranger."

Kind stranger? The Faceless Man shrugged and walked on. How fitting.

17

SANSA

Sansa Stark paced in front of her fireplace as her Hand, Cedric Colton, sat in her chair.

"Really, my lady. You need to calm down. Beckett assures me that Lord Snow won't be harmed by the dragon. Drogon has been visiting them and seemingly wanted to take Lord Snow somewhere."

Sansa paused and gazed at him. "Do you hear what you're saying? Drogon invited Jon to afternoon tea? Is that the consensus of the greatest minds of Winterfell and Nightfold?"

"Beckett believes . . ."

"Beckett is not my hand."

Cedric flinched. "Of course, my lady. But what is the alternative? The North is far too large to search for one man, even if he is being escorted by a dragon the size of a house."

"Do you realize how this will look to King Bran and the council? Lord Jon Snow-Targaryen, Lord of Nightfold and Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, disappeared while visiting me in Winterfell. This makes me look inept and not in control of my own sanctuary."

"It was a dragon, my lady! A monstrous one that an entire army couldn't stop."

"It makes me look complicit," she said. "They'll believe that it wasn't a dragon, that perhaps we had a disagreement, and we did away with him, and the idea that a dragon picked him up in its claw and whisked him away is just an excuse."

"Your highness, Jon Snow is your brother. No one in their right mind would believe that you held any part in this."

She sighed and stopped pacing. He was right, she knew. But she was worried not just about Jon, but the whole situation. A giant dragon had picked him up in its claws and carried him away. That seemed incomprehensible to her.

"Have you sent a raven?" she said.

"Beckett advised us to wait. He's sure Jon will return within a fortnight."

"A fortnight?" She rolled her eyes wildly. "I know he's Jon Snow, who fought the Others north of the wall, who befriended the wildlings, and who killed the Mother of Dragons, but will he survive a fortnight north of Winterfell with no horse, no supplies, and no extra furs?"

"I believe he will, my lady."

She began pacing again. "What is the advantage of having an all-knowing, all-seeing three-eyed raven of a brother if he can't see things like this? Why didn't he send a raven with a simple note . . . Do not let Jon Snow approach the dragon. Is that asking too much of him?"

"Not at all, my queen."

She shook a fist. "When I see him again, I will punch him in his face, just like the old days. A little brother is never too old to get his ass beaten by his big sister."

"Very good, my queen."

A knock sounded at the door.

"ENTER!" Sansa called out.

Beckett pushed open the door and stuck his head in. "My lady? The latest scouts have returned, and they say no sign of man nor dragon."

Sansa sighed. "Beckett, do you really want to wait two weeks before sending ravens to Nightfold or King's Landing?"

"Your Highness, Jon Snow assured me that the dragon meant him no harm. He was taking him somewhere, I am sure of it."

"Where?"

Beckett made a face. "To be completely honest, Your Highness, I have no idea. I've racked my brain, trying to think of a place they might go, but the only thing that comes to my mind is Daenerys. Perhaps Drogon was taking him to wherever he took Daenerys. Maybe the dragon buried her or created a monument or perhaps she's still lying in the snow and Drogon wants Jon to bury her."

She crossed her arms and stared at him as she considered the situation. "If he ends up back at Castle Black . . ."

"They will send a raven, Your Highness," Beckett said. "I can assure you of that. He will know we are worried. If he ends up anywherewith a raven, he will send it."

"He'd better." Sansa waved a hand. "Out, everyone. I need to meditate about which brother I want to hurt more."

18

ARYA

Four guards escorted Arya to the dungeons. One in front, unarmed, leading the way, one behind Arya wielding a dagger, and two more about fifteen feet behind those, both armed with crossbows—strings cocked and bolts notched. The man ahead was thin and had advised Arya, "If you try to twist me around and use me as a shield, they have orders to kill us immediately. The crossbows are high tension and the arrows extra sharp. They will shoot through me and hit you. As you can see, I wear no chain mail or shielding." He'd raised his arms to show her. "I'm just here to lead the way. Please don't get me killed."

Her only guess was that Dexter's memories concerning her combat expertise had impressed Zorick enough that he added extra guards to her detail. Of course, she didn't know if they were taking into account her ruined hand, the pain from which brought her to near paralysis every time she bumped it against her chest.

Jaime Lannister. She would be like him. If she survived this, if she somehow managed to get back to Westeros, Bran would have the royal craftsmen forge her a gold hand. She would be the one-handed Stark, the Jaime Lannister of Starks. How depressing was that? On an optimistic note, she was ambidextrous with her sword, so she could still fight and protect herself.

They passed through the regular dungeon—many naked men shivering inside metal cages, all of them too tired or too cowed to even yell out an obscenity at her. Her retinue, as it were, continued on, trudging deeper into the dank castle. The smelly passageways were sparsely lit by lamps hanging from the lichen-covered walls.

How much farther and deeper were they going?

Eventually, they were met by four different guards. These wore the same gray outfits as earlier but each one wore a black half-helmet that shimmered and glinted in the murky darkness. It looked like dragonbone. Did they have dragons here? Zorick had been curious about dragons but had never revealed why.

The new guards were armed the same as the old ones, with the two in the back wielding crossbows. They made several turns and then came to a black door that shined with the same sparkling darkness as the helmets on their heads. A dragonbone door?

They shoved a skeleton key into the hole beside the handle and unlocked it. They kept Arya between them as they entered, then locked the door behind them.

She felt it immediately. A presence in her mind. No talking, but it was there, tiptoeing around on mouse feet.

"Get out of my head," she hissed.

The guard in front of her glanced over his shoulder. "That didn't take long." All of the guards chuckled.

Arabesk. This was his private cell. She thought about the dragonbone door and the dragonbone headgear of the guards. It made sense to her. Dragonbone was very dense and must be used to keep Arabesk's mind from escaping this cell and influencing the prisoners above. The dragonbone helmets prevented Arabesk from reaching into the minds of his direct guards. If he could do that, he could make them open his cell.

—You're hurt—

"I said get out of my head!"

The guards opened one of the cells and shoved her inside. She stumbled over the ridge at the threshold and fell. The horror of smashing her hand into anything—including the ground—caused her to twist around and land on her back while keeping her hand tucked protectively against her chest.

They slammed the door shut, and locked it from the outside. The head guard peeped through the small window in the door and ogled her one last time. His face disappeared. Arya lay still for a long moment, ears pricked, but unable to hear much except her own troubled breathing. She couldn't hear their footsteps, but their low, grumbling conversation faded. One solitary lamp burned outside, its meager flame casting just enough light into her cell that she wasn't completely in the dark. Her cell was a rough cubicle about twenty feet square with one long stone bench—barely large enough to sleep on—occupying one wall. And that was all.

Wait. The other wall held a hole in the floor. She could barely make it out in the murky darkness. Her privy, she assumed.

Arya crawled to the bench and dragged herself off the floor. She sat there, shivering. Not from the damp chill but from the pain radiating from her mangled hand.

Inside her mind, that alien presence swelled.

"Stop!" she yelled.

—You need to lie down and relax and let me discover you—

"What?"

—Discover you. Uncover you. Take your memories, consume them, but then give them back—

"You're asking me to just lie here in silence while you mind-rape me?"

—Yes—

"Why?"

—It's been several years since I've touched someone. I need this. I need it so deeply that I can't stop myself. It's like I am underwater, dying, and you're the breath of air that I need—

"Why can't we just talk? Why can't you learn things about me that way?"

—You're offering tidbits and crumbs to a hungry, starving man—

She felt his voice rise and turn gruff, almost malevolent. It was like he was panting, too. She felt the urgency. It was coming off him in waves. "What happens if I don't give in?"

—To use your rape metaphor . . . I spread you out and force myself into you and it is very painful and bloody and you won't be the same after it is over with. And I detest doing it that way—

Arya groaned. She would probably die here, so what difference did it make? Besides, what was that saying? The enemy of my enemy is my friend? If Arabesk was locked in the dungeon, then he was the enemy of Zorick, that was certain.

"Can you give me a few minutes?" she asked, thinking about what she needed to do. A deep horror swirled inside her as she contemplated straightening her fingers. The idea of it was more frightening that that thing in the other cell. But her agonizing pain would never lessen until she returned her fingers to a somewhat normal position.

—I see what you plan to do. It will be excruciating. Let me uncover you, and then afterward, I can help ease the pain while you do it—

The idea of stretching out tendons and ligaments and putting bone back against bone made her stomach crawl to her throat.

But the pain was wearing her down, breaking her will. She could feel it, like the ragged edge of insanity waiting somewhere in her near future. Eventually, she wouldn't be able to fight. She'd lie here and hope to die. "Okay. You can't hurt me any worse."

—Hurt you?—

She threw her feet onto the stone bench and lay back, hand planted firmly on her chest. She tried to relax, to open her mind, and to welcome him in. Immediately, she felt his presence enter her. It wasn't the irritating ghosts of earlier, it felt like an elephant had appeared in her head. She groaned out loud. The pressure made it all the way to her throat. She couldn't breathe.

—Relax—

I am relaxing!

—You're not. Let go of your identity, of your memories. I'm not going to take them, only borrow them for a little while—

Spots appeared before her eyes. She was blacking out. She sat up, struggling, and finally forced a croaking wheeze of air through her throat.

—Don't think about the pressure in your head. Think about your childhood. That's what I'm looking for first—

Winterfell. She saw it in her mind. Not the broken and chipped towers like it had been the last time she saw it, but homely and well-tended as it had been when she was a child.

She remembered running through the hallways, hands dirty, feet filthy, giggling as she carried a toad in her fist. She was taking it to show Sansa, her older sister, who abhorred dirt and frogs and especially annoying little sisters. Sansa had always been lady-like and regal, even when she was just a girl.

Arya remembered little Rickon, who followed his older brothers around from the time he could walk, and Bran, who loved to climb. She saw them again as small children, their trusting faces smiling at her, knowing that she would play with them even when their older brothers wouldn't. Robb and Jon, always trying to out master each other with sword or bow.

What a magical time that had been.

Until the day King Robert Baratheon arrived and asked Arya's father, Ned Stark, to be the new Hand of the King.

Everything had fallen apart after that.

The pressure in her head lulled while she escaped into her memories. But it was building again. She cried out into the squalid darkness.

—Accept the pain, Arya. Want the pain. Need the pain—

Whimpering, she tried to do as Arabesk said. The pressure in her throat lessened and she took in a deep breath.

More memories poured out of her. Heartbreaking memories. Her time in King's Landing with her father and Sansa. How foreign that world had been. And then that horrible moment arrived. She sobbed quietly as she remembered the day they'd beheaded her father.

Her shoulders shook as she wailed and sobbed.

It didn't get any better from there. All the running, all the hiding, traveling with Sandor Clegane, and even her time with the Faceless Men. All of the memories swam out of her consciousness and into the open maw of the beast inside her.

And then Winterfell. The attack of the white walkers. Soon after, the Drassacre. Daenerys riding Drogon over King's Landing, burning everything and everyone. So much fire, so much destruction. She'd hated that city before that day, but standing amid the havoc, smoke burning her throat, flames licking at her, debris raining down upon her, and so many screaming, burning children running through the streets? It was too much. The anger in her heart was pushed out by pity and sadness.

And then the good times arrived. The War of the Five Kings was over. Bran became king. But how could they be good times? Her mother and father, two of her brothers, and many friends—all dead.

She relived her time aboard the Magnar Panimus, all those days crossing the Shining Sea. And last, she had to survive another meeting with Zorick, even though it was still fresh and vivid in her mind.

And then it ended. She gasped out loud. One moment Arabesk was inside her, that bloated, gigantic beast gorging on her memories, and then he was gone. It felt like a balloon had burst. How much time had passed? she wondered. Several hours, at least.

The pain in her head began to ease. But then the cauldron of fire that was her hand blazed up and spread. Her entire arm felt like it was being burned alive, Drogon-style.

—I need to sleep, Arya. I am swollen with your emotions. They are lying heavy upon me. I want to close my eyes and disappear for a while. My inner self will process everything while I am sleeping. But before I rest, I need to help you—

"How?"

—We need to straighten your fingers—

It was as she feared. The pain had worn her down. She had no strength left. She was empty and tired and just wanted to die.

—Your fingers are broken—

"I know." She began sobbing at the thought of even touching her fingers.

—Stop crying. You are Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Ned Stark, the strongest, most courageous man you've ever known. You're strong and courageous, too, Arya. You've killed lords and ladies, knights, and assassins. You, Arya Stark, slew the Night King and saved the world from his wrath. Say it, Arya. I am strong—

Arya swallowed loudly. In a shaky voice, she whispered, "I am strong. I am Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell."

—Broken fingers cannot defeat me. Zorick cannot defeat me. I will kill him one day, and he will deserve it—

She took a deep breath, allowing the swelling anger to push aside the self-pity. She wiped away tears with her good hand. "I can do this. I am Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell."

—Roll up a corner of your sleeve. You will need it to bite on. Get that kerchief ready. You will wrap your hand in it when we finish—

Arya did as she was instructed to do. Already fear was bubbling inside her, making everything jittery and fragmented.

—Squash the fear, Arya. I'm going to help you—

She nodded, but realized he couldn't see her, so she said, Yes, in her mind.

—I'm going inside of you again, but it'll be different this time. I need to seize parts of your brain—

Okay.

She felt him enter. The feeling was completely different. The swelling was there, but her eyes and nose begin to tingle painfully, then the rest of her body followed. She felt as if she'd been poisoned, and the toxin was burning her from the inside.

—Look at your hand. The fingers need to be pulled, straightened, and then released so that the bones line up. Do it. Stop procrastinating—

She realized the pain in her hand was subdued and nothing like before. She placed two fingers on her broken forefinger.

—Not like that. Wrap your whole hand around the finger. You've got to pull hard—

Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her hand around her left forefinger, then pulled upward and outward, keeping pressure on it while she moved it into position. Once it was in line with her hand, she let it settle into place. The pain had been marginal.

—I'm in your brain, blocking the pain from hurting you. Now, let's do the rest—

She straightened her middle finger, then her ring finger, and finally her pinky. Once she was through, she spit out the section of tunic that she'd bitten on. She hadn't needed it.

—Keep the tunic in your mouth. Now, wrap your hand with the kerchief—

She bit on the tunic again, then wrapped her damaged hand with the kerchief and tied it as well as she could.

—Goodnight, Arya. Be strong—

He withdrew. Immediately, pain exploded in her hand and shot up her arm. She bit down on her tunic. For the next hour, she sat on the stone bench, rocking back and forth, cursing and crying. The pain ebbed eventually and became a dull throb that encompassed half of her body.

Exhausted, she finally closed her eyes and fell into a fitful, sweaty sleep.

19

JON

Jon spent an hour telling Lucella all the stories he could remember concerning the formation of Westeros as it was before the modern age. She sat quietly and absorbed the tales with only occasional questions.

Frackle and Francella arose together, squawking and chirping. She gave them water from one of the jugs, then opened the front door and let them out.

"They'll frolic until long after dark, and then they'll come back and sleep until the afternoon tomorrow."

"Do they ever sleep with their mother?"

"Do you mean the large dragon?" Lucella asked, smiling. "The one who is both male and female?"

"Yes, that one."

"Sometimes. I don't think Drogon has a lair, so she sleeps wherever she decides."

Jon nodded.

"Are you happy?" Lucella asked. "I decided to compromise. I'm using your name for the dragon but my sexual preference."

"I think, at this point, we call Drogon whatever we want."

She removed the pot of stew off the fire, placing it on the hearth. The pleasant aroma wafted under Jon's nose. "That smells delicious,"he said.

Her shelves held a small collection of kitchenware. She pulled two wooden bowls off the shelf and two metal spoons, as well as a ladle for the stew. She dipped a steaming bowlful and handed it to Jon, then dipped another for herself.

They settled in together to eat.

"Do you get lonely here?" Jon asked as he sipped the steaming soup.

"It's been horrible since mother died. If it wasn't for my few pets, I'd probably go crazy."

"Have you made any treks to the village yet to sell your pelts?"

"I don't even know where it is." She blew on a spoonful of stew. "My mother always made the trip. I know the general direction and how long it takes to walk there and back, but other than that, I'm lost."

"All the more reason to go to Nightfold."

"But will I fit in? Gethin taught me to read and write, but I'm not talented at it. And as you've seen, I do not mix well with people."

"You're doing very well at the moment."

She glanced at him. "Am I? Your two options were to walk several hundred miles in the snow or to stay with me, and I barely talked you into staying."

"You did threaten me several times."

She laughed, a throaty but melodious offering that Jon enjoyed.

"I feel safe here," she said. "I rarely worry, although I am becoming nervous about trying to locate that village. But even still, I have all the answers to my life at the moment."

Jon understood. "When you add people to your life, they bring their own unique problems and complications." Jon thought about Sansa. What was she thinking? Was she worried? Maybe Beckett was keeping things from escalating. It would be horrible to return to civilization to find Winterfell at war with King's Landing.

Jon held up his empty bowl. "Another?"

She gazed at him for a long moment. "Do I look like your servant?"

The comment struck him full in the face and his mouth dropped open.

"I'm jesting!" she said, and she slapped him on the leg. Smiling, she took his bowl and filled it.

As he took the fresh bowl of soup from her, he said, "I'm sorry. That was rather rude of me. I just assumed that I was a guest."

"Guest sounds better than intruder. So, yes. You are my guest. Now eat up."

After the second bowl of stew, Jon decided to continue his story, starting with Aegon the First.

"The Targaryens were a family of the Valyrian empire of the eastern continent of Essos. Many years ago, the empire died in what is described as The Doom. The Targaryens had been given an island near Westeros before that, an island called Dragonstone, and after the end of their civilization, Aegon and his two sisters . . ."

"What were their names?"

Jon paused. "I can't remember."

"Everybody knows Aegon, but no one remembers his sisters?"

"People do, but I don't. I'm sorry."

She sighed. "I didn't mean to interrupt. Keep going."

He continued on, telling how Aegon and his two sisters and three dragons conquered Westeros.

An hour passed, maybe longer. Jon wasn't sure about the time. He could judge time while walking or riding, but this endless storytelling that he was doing now was foreign to him.

Jon finished the horrifying tale of the Mad King and sat back, resting his voice.

Lucella said, "So Jaime Lannister, sworn member of the kingsguard, was the one who actually killed King Aerys? Stabbed him in the back?"

"Yes."

"That seems so . . . dishonorable? But it was war, right? Where everything is acceptable."

"Yes."

"But he swore an oath to protect the king with his life, and then murdered him?"

"Yes."

"But King Aerys had no dragons, right? Because if he'd had one dragon, everything would've turned out differently."

"I agree."

She sighed loudly in the dark room. The firelight danced across her face. "The world marches on, doesn't it?" she said. "With us or without us. I know the outside world is real, but I never imagined wars between great houses, and everyone killing each other just so the person of their choice can sit on that iron throne."

Jon understood war. It made sense to him. He hated it, loathed the unnecessary killing of people, whether soldiers or common people who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But he understood men, so he understood war.

"How much longer?" she asked. "Before you get to the end?"

"I don't know. I'm just getting to the heart of the story. Should we stop for the day? It's dark out." There were no windows in the wooden wall that boarded up the cave, but sunlight had peeked through many cracks. Now, everything was dark.

"Another hour? Two?" Lucella asked.

"I'm not sure. Several hours. But we're getting to the parts that I know firsthand. It'll be more detailed, so it will take longer."

She leaned back in her chair. "I can't believe there's such a world out there."

"You have a dragon. Nothing should surprise you."

She smiled. "True."

"Is it okay if I sleep inside your cave?" he asked, not wanting to take anything for granted with her.

"Of course."

Jon gazed at her. "Can you remind me about that thing again?"

She blinked. "What thing? Oh!" Grinning, she said, "I'm an expert with a knife and I sleep with it?"

"That's better."

She stood and stretched. Jon watched out of the corner of his eye, even though she was still dressed thickly. She walked to her shelves and returned with several furs and pelts and spread them on the floor near the hearth.

"Do Frackle and Francella get the hearth itself?"

"They do," she said. "And if you're there, they'll wallow on top of you. They've done it to me."

She brought water for him, since they'd had none at supper, and he drank greedily. Afterward, Jon removed his boots and curled up on his pallet. She crawled into her bed, covering herself from head to foot.

"Are you going to chock the fire?" Jon asked.

Through a gap in her covers, she said, "I rarely do. Not enough wood to burn it every night. If you plan to cut more wood tomorrow, then I'll load it up tonight."

"Do you have a bow saw or an axe?"

"Both."

"I'll work on your wood tomorrow, but I'm comfortable under these furs. You?"

"Great."

He stared into the darkness, feeling somewhat awkward, considering the situation.

"My mother worried about me," Lucella said.

He glanced in her direction, confused by her comment. "What? Why?"

"My mother worried that I would die here without ever having met a man other than Gethin."

"Men are overrated," Jon said.

"She had a man picked out for me. The fur trader's son, a burly, black-haired boy named Feddicus. I never saw him, of course, but she said he was hardworking and very courteous, and was looking for a bride."

"Were you betrothed?"

"No. I don't even know if Feddicus actually exists. From my mother's view, her daughter had very little to look forward to except hunting and skinning and cutting wood and cooking. I think my mother dreamed up Feddicus, thinking that the promise of a man in my future might give me hope."

"Would you like to go find the village and see if there is a Feddicus?"

"Maybe. If I stay here in my little hole in the ground, I've got to locate that village, anyhow. I need supplies. My lamp oil is running low, and I need some spices."

Jon said, "Do you know if they have a rookery? I need to send a raven to Winterfell."

"A raven? I've heard of that. They ferry messages back and forth. Could we use my crow?"

"No. They have to be trained."

She didn't comment for a long moment, then asked, "Will they miss you at Winterfell? Did anyone see Drogon take you?"

"Yes. They saw me being snatched, so I'm sure they're worried about me. Probably think he ate me."

She laughed quietly.

After a few minutes, silence ensued. Jon lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how strange it was that Drogon had brought him here. It was almost like the dragon was trying to show him his new mother. Or his kids.

Lucella broke the silence by saying, "What if you finish your tale tomorrow, and then the next day, we go find that village?"

"Good plan." Jon said.

"Don't worry about the dragons, okay? When they scratch at the door, I'll get up and let them in."

"Thank you."

"Goodnight, Jon."

"Lucella? Can you say that thing just one more time?"

She laughed out loud in the quiet room. "I like you Jon. You're funny. Okay, one more time. I am an expert with a knife and I sleep with it."

"Thank you, Lucella. And goodnight."

He heard her rustling around under her furs. After a long moment, he heard a swish of air and a thump as her knife stuck into a gourd on the closest shelf to the fireplace. The gourd toppled over and fell to the ground.

Jon smiled to himself. As rocky as their initial meeting had been, he was now beginning to like Lucella Bearsong.

20

TYRION

Two days after their initial dinner, Tyrion invited Tessa over for another dinner.

According to Zelda, Tessa had accepted with glee, and Tyrion surmised that the girl must be bored beyond tears if that was her reaction. She should be. She'd been cooped up in her room the entire time. Tyrion realized that he'd need to make allowances for her entertainment as well as arranging her romantic liaisons.

Part of Tyrion felt he was just too busy for such unofficial tasks. Of course, Clerys, his scribe and first assistant, would certainly help, but Tyrion was beginning to feel a connection to the girl, and didn't want her responsibility to be passed off as if she were unworthy of his consideration.

But he was busy.

Just this morning, he'd met again with Samwell and Brienne to discuss their latest stratagems meant to thwart the Faceless Man. It was no longer conjecture, because two beggars had been discovered with their faces removed, each one sliced off with careful precision and great skill. The city watch had written down the details and delivered them to Tyrion.

Tyrion sat sipping wine as he waited for Tessa. His mind whirled with ideas these days, more than it ever had in the past.

"My lord?" Zelda appeared, Tessa trailing behind her.

He stood. "Tessa! It's so good to see you again."

She bowed politely. "My lord. Thank you for inviting me to supper again. I was afraid that after my last spectacle, you were concerned you'd be injured by my tragic manners if we partook of another feast."

Tyrion laughed. "It was not that at all. I enjoyed our last meal very much, my lady, but the duties of the hand are more than a handful, to use a sad pun."

She smiled. "Puns are sly flattery, my lord. An attempt to entertain the person you're speaking with. So I always enjoy a pun, whether sad or happy."

Tyrion grinned. Lord Almont was correct. Tessa was a very special girl. Tyrion enjoyed talking to her, but he liked looking at her, just as much. She'd combed her hair into a dark wave that fell to the front and lay atop her left breast. Her blouse was frilly, and her skirt stopped at her knees to reveal her shapely legs and sandaled feet. Somewhat different than before. She saw him looking and said, "It's another outfit my father favored, but I shorted the skirt and hemmed it. Do you approve, Lord Hand?"

"I couldn't mistake you for a septa if I tried."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"I approve. You have the official seal of the Hand of the King."

She grinned. "Thank you, my lord."

During their dinner—another sumptuous feast—Tessa talked about her visits to Casterly Rock. Tyrion enjoyed hearing her stories about his homeland, and especially from her perspective—discerning but unsuspicious.

After dinner, they moved to the sitting room. Tessa said, "Do you like chess? I notice that you have two boards, one of them with an open game."

"Sometimes, when I'm bored, I play against myself."

"And when you beat yourself, do you gloat or sulk?"

"Both. First, I congratulate myself on being the best player in the room, and then berate myself for being the worst."

"I play chess," she said, with a coy smile.

"You do?" Tyrion could already see himself toying with her. "Would you like to try a game?"

"I would enjoy that very much."

Tyrion brought the portable chessboard from a shelf and situated it on a table between them. They placed the pieces on the board.

"Might I make a suggestion, my lord?"

"Of course."

"Could we make this game a little more interesting?"

Tyrion's first thought was strip chess, but he squashed that idea because the young woman with him was a noble lady, the daughter of one of his staunchest bannermen. It was the only thought in his mind, however, so he clamped his mouth shut and said nothing.

She said, "I can tell by the grin on your face what your first thought was, but I'm thinking of something even more revealing."

He felt a blush creep into his face, which wasn't like him at all. "More revealing? What do you suggest, Lady Lefford?"

"If I capture one of your pieces, I get to ask you a personal question. If you capture one of mine, then you get to ask me one. And the depth of the question is determined by the size of the piece."

Tyrion thought it was a brilliant idea because it would allow him to quiz the girl on her preferences as far as suitors were concerned. He might get her married off quicker than he thought, which saddened him somewhat because he had begun to look forward to her company.

"I love it," he said. "Is there anything off limits?"

"Of course." She pointed to his pin. "All things related to your official duty as Hand of the King."

"Other than that?"

"No." She smiled at him. "I plan to be so honest, you might send me back to Casterly Rock."

"Really?"

"Of course. There's no sense playing the game if you lie your way through it."

"You're correct. We will speak the truth, as loathsome as it may be."

She nodded. "I only ask one thing of you."

"And that is?"

"That any secrets or dark thoughts that we might reveal are to be kept strictly between us. Also, I beg that don't use your power as the hand or as the Lord of Casterly Rock to try to punish anyone in my past who may have demeaned me—on purpose or by accident."

"Only with your permission, kind lady."

She smiled. "Thank you, my lord."

Tyrion grinned and rubbed his hands together. "I must admit, Tessa. You add much excitement to an otherwise drab life. I am excited by this game you've suggested."

"I can already see the wheels turning in your devious mind."

"Devious?" Tyrion said. "Sometimes."

She laughed in that throaty manner of hers. Then leaned against the table, placed a hand on a pawn, and pushed it forward.

The battle began. She brought both knights out quickly, and seemed to know what she was doing.

Tyrion tried to follow his regular logic processes, but was itching to ask her a question, any question, just to see how she would respond. Finally, he captured a pawn.

"Question?" she said.

He took a deep breath. "Who was your first love?"

"Oh!" Her eyes lit up. "You took no time in jumping into the deep water, my lord."

"I may lose quickly," he said, smiling. "Best to get the important questions out of the way first."

She stared at him for a long moment, her face turning a deep shade of red, making her look even more desirable than before. She took a breath, eyes drifting as if she were afraid to look at him. "Truth, right? That's the agreement. Just promise me that you won't give up on me and send me back to Casterly Rock with a wicked note to my father."

"Tessa, you have my word."

Her eyes continued to stare at the chessboard instead of the person across from her. But she answered. "A singer."

"A singer?"

She nodded.

The news took Tyrion by surprise. "Surely you don't mean one of those traveling singers who dance and yodel and sometimes put on the jester clothes?"

"Yes, my lord. He performed for my father. This was before the War of the Five Kings, when life was normal. Bertrys, his name was. He sang, he told jokes, he was brilliant. I sat with my siblings and watched and I couldn't believe one man could have such a repertoire of song and sunshine." She finally lifted her eyes. "After his first performance, I met him in the halls and gushed over his beautiful voice and his talent. I offered him money, but he refused. He said that my praise was the most valuable thing he'd received all year."

"You knew this could go nowhere."

"I did." She sighed. "He stayed around for two weeks, entertaining my family several times during that interval. I saw him every evening. I would sneak out and meet him just outside his camp, a lover's tryst that left both of us breathless. When it was time for him to move on, I couldn't bear the thought of it. I loved him by then, so I told him that I'd travel with him. I could help him write songs and poetry and jokes. I would earn my keep, if you wanted to call it that."

"Oh, no," Tyrion said softly. He knew where this tale was going.

"Two months later, we were still together. We had traveled to Highgarden to stay clear of House Lefford, and by association, House Lannister. We were in an inn, one of those grand ones with a common room suitable for performances. Bertrys sang and danced for the crowd. It was a special night. I still remember the glow on his face as he bowed to the applause, it was like happiness so pure and rich that nothing in the world could compare to. Afterward, as we left the inn to walk to our camp we'd made in the stables, two men grabbed us. Ser Cassien Rale, my father's master-at-arms, and three of his men stepped from the shadows. They dragged Betrys into the middle of the road and beat him." She wiped a tear from her cheek. "It was awful. They held me and made me watch. They pulled his wooden leg off and hit him with it, over and over. They left him lying there, all bloody and broken. They tied my hands and feet and transported me back to my father. He welcomed me home, but he was grim-faced and taciturn, and that night, he beat me with a belt. Then he cried over me with such wretched sorrow that I wondered if things would ever be the same. I felt so ashamed, like I'd done something so horrible and disgusting that he would never love me again."

"The heart does that. It makes the strong people weak. It makes smart people dumb. It connects kindred souls, even though they come from opposite sides of society." He shook his head. "You have nothing to be ashamed of, Tessa. In another world, you might have married Bertrys and given him many children. But you were born a Lefford, and a Lefford is what you must be."

"And Leffords do not marry jesters."

"That is so," Tyrion said. "What happened after that? Did you ever see Bertrys again? Did you meet someone else?"

Tessa smiled demurely. "Capture another piece and I'll tell you."

Tyrion's burst of laughter was punctuated by thigh slapping. He said, "You are a treasure, Tessa Lefford. By the way, I see your strategy. You think that I'll be dying to ask you more questions, so I'll rush my moves and capture pieces prematurely, and you'll win easily."

"Is it working, my lord?"

"Definitely."

They made two more moves, and then Tessa captured a pawn. "Turn about is fair of play, right, my lord? My question to you is the same: who was your first love?"

Tyrion shrugged. It was a tale that he'd told before but disliked telling. For Tessa, for tonight, he told it again. "Her name was Tysha. I should stop there. You really don't want to hear the story, Tessa. It's impossibly tragic."

She cocked her head. "Should we reserve that story until I capture your queen?"

Tyrion took a deep breath and dropped his gaze to the chessboard. He didn't want to look at Tessa while he spoke. The story was that heinous. "When I was young, my brother and I saved a girl from brigands. While my brother chased after them, I took care of the girl. One thing led to another and we made love. Later, we found a drunken septon and I convinced him to marry us. We lived for two weeks as man and wife. I was the happiest that I'd ever been. And then my father found out. He confronted my brother, Jaime, who'd confessed that he'd set the whole thing up, and that the girl was a prostitute. He had no idea I'd be dumb enough to marry the girl. My father, Tywin—may the gods tread upon his despicable soul every day—decided that she wasn't good enough for a Lannister. He brought us both back to Casterly Rock. There, he had his guards rape her repeatedly while I watched. At the end, I had to take my turn. Afterward, he had the marriage annulled and the annulment wiped from the records. I was married, but then I wasn't married."

"What a heartless bastard," Tessa said. "I thought my father was bad."

Tyrion took a sip of wine. "It's sad to say, Tessa, but that horrifying episode tainted my love life forever. Since then, I've stuck to prostitutes, and not really anyone for a while."

"So it is only rumor that you were once married to Sansa Stark?"

He grinned. "New question, correct?"

Her very next move, she took a pawn with her knight. "Is it true, Lord Hand, that you were once wedded to Sansa Stark?"

"Yes, but no," he said. "We were wed, an arranged marriage meant to appease the north and prevent war, but it didn't work. It was annulled quickly."

"Did you consummate the marriage?"

Tyrion sighed, thinking about that awkward time. "Not even close."

"Always a groom, never a husband," Tessa said. "You deserve better, my lord."

"As do you, especially since you're about to lose a knight." He took her knight with a bishop. "Next question, my lady. Who was your second love?"

She leaned forward in her chair. "Everyone and no one. Want to hear the long version?"

"Of course. Your knight paid dearly so that I might savor your answer."

She tugged absent-mindedly at her earring. "My father, determined to marry me off so I wouldn't embarrass him further, introduced me to an endless supply of suitors. About one every couple of months. This went on for several years."

"None of them were a fit? Because usually that doesn't matter."

"No. My father pushed, but I made it clear that I'd leave home and become a singer before I'd marry a man who made me miserable."

"Many suitors," Tyrion said. "Did you like any of them? Did you love any of them?"

"Are you borrowing against your next captured piece, my lord?"

Tyrion laughed. "I think so."

"Keep track of our captures and questions, please?"

Tyrion pointed to his head. "They're all up here."

"Good. The only one I cared about at all was a distant cousin named Armando, who lived in Dorne. He came to visit one summer and brought his small entourage—his servants, a guard, and his best friend, Reynond—with him. He was witty—Armando, not the best friend— and intelligent, and great fun to be around. I thought to myself, This is it. This is the man I mustmarry. And that lasted until I walked into his room one day, intent on surprising him. I discovered him rear-guarding—to use a polite phrase—his best friend. He swore me to secrecy that night, and I haven't mentioned it to another soul. Until now. And the only reason I'm telling you is because he died during the war."

Tyrion thought about his own needs when it came to sex, and asked, "Did you sleep with any of your suitors?"

"Is that two borrowed questions, my lord?"

"It is."

"Very well." She sighed. She picked at a fingernail. Finally, she blurted, "I can't tell you, my lord! I'm ashamed to say." Her hands fell to her lap, as did her gaze. Without looking up, she whispered, "I'm afraid that you will think unkindly of me."

Tyrion felt such empathy for the girl, he was momentarily speechless. "Lady Tessa, nothing you say will surprise me. My own sexual escapades are beyond anything you could possibly dream up. Yet, I feel that my past is my past. The new Tyrion is not the old Tyrion. And I would hope that you feel the same."

"Promise you won't think ill of me?"

"I promise."

She nodded. "I slept with two of them, and I can't remember if I did it to satisfy them or me."

"Two of them?"

A look of horror crossed her face. "Not at one time, my lord!"

Tyrion chuckled. "Just teasing you, my lady. And just remember, your secrets are safe with me."

The game continued on. Tessa won the next piece and asked, "What is your deepest fear?"

Tyrion cocked his head. "My deepest fear?" He thought about it for only a moment and said, "That King Bran will die on my watch."

"Isn't that what the kingsguard is for, my lord?"

"The kingsguard fights the battles, the hand fights the war."

"I pray you are successful at protecting him, my lord."

Tyrion nodded.

"I've heard my father mention that the next king will be elected by the seven lords. Is this true?"

Tyrion nodded again. "It is. We're trying to establish a fairer system of governance, where a wise and honest person is asked to be king and then voted into the throne."

"My lord, I don't want to seem like I am smarter than even your most lowly advisor, but I see so many flaws in your system that I can't sit here and nod my head like a good guest. Can I speak my mind without offending you, my lord? Because I am enjoying your company very much and don't want to do anything to upset our chemistry."

Tyrion smiled. "Maester Tarley praises the system. He would be interested in your comments. I will pass them on but infer that they were from one of my most valued advisors."

"Thank you, my lord. First, how long will the system last? One new king. That's the extent of it. The new king will take his seat upon the throne, then he will dismiss the existing small council and place his own men there. He will negate the existing laws regarding ascension because he will prefer that his son become king after him. Once that's tended to, he will begin transferring the royal treasury to his own house, to his castle. And he will use the gold to prepare for war. Because eventually, he will die and his son will become king, and if the lords of Westeros try to prevent it, then there will be war."

She was absolutely correct, Tyrion thought. But punching holes in the plans of other people was easy. What was harder was figuring out how to repair those holes. "So how do we stop that from happening, Tessa?"

She shrugged. "You need something stronger than the king, my lord. Some council, some commission, some piece of paper, that establishes the basic laws of the kingdom, and no lord, no lady, no king can be given the power to change them. Only the combined will of all the lords of Westeros should be able to effect changes to this device, whatever it is."

Tyrion sat back. The biggest question on his mind was now this: how the hell was this woman so humble? She was brilliant.

"Human nature is such an enigmatic beast," she continued. "We all have unending selfishness in our hearts, but it is balanced out by honor and courage and kindness. All laws should be made to reflect both aspects of human frailty, the evil as well as the good. And if you create this great law that is so powerful that a king can't change it, then it must obey the laws of man as well."

Tyrion leaned back in his chair. "Tessa, I am flabbergasted."

"My lord, I apologize deeply. I try to watch what I say—usually I keep my mouth shut around men—but you've been so kind and understanding, but perhaps too comfortable. I felt like I could say what I wanted, but I think I've said too much."

"You forget one thing, Tessa. Before this, I was the Hand of Queen Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen. And she was not afraid to say what she thought. Neither should you. Especially to me."

She sighed. "Thank you, my lord. You have a way of making me feel blessed. And contented." She glanced at the board. "Should we continue?"

"My move, right?"

"It is."

More moves were made; more questions were asked. When Tyrion took a rook, he decided to spring the question he'd been contemplating since they started. "What kind of man are you looking for, Tessa? Whom shall I offer the opportunity to bathe in your golden grace?"

"Golden grace? Is that sarcasm, my lord?"

"Good heavens, no!" Tyrion shook his head, smiling. "The longer I am with you, Tessa, the more convinced I am that you would be a blessing to any marriage. The biggest problem I now face is finding a man worthy of you."

Her face turned pink and she looked away. When she turned back, she asked, "Have you ever heard the term, sapiosexual?"

"Of course. People who screw trees, right? Begging my lady's pardon."

Laughing, she said, "Good guess, my lord, but no."

"Sapiosexual," he said. "Someone who is attracted to intelligence in other people. They find it stimulating and enticing."

"Correct. I think that's what I am." She fingered the chess pieces in front of her. "Can I tell you a story, my lord?"

"Please."

"After supplying suitor after suitor for several years, my father gave up and left me to my own devices. By then, I was tired of worrying about men and swore them off. Happenstance, one dreary evening, I stumbled upon Maester Gealen hovering above his chessboard. No one else was around. He explained that he sometimes played himself because he had no one else. I asked him to teach me. Do you know what he said?"

"Only if we ask each other personal questions while we do it?"

She burst out laughing. "No, my lord. He did not say that. He said, 'Chess is a man's game, Tessa. It's only logic. No fun at all.' So I said, 'Teach me to play, good maester, and I'll beat you within a month.'"

"Did you?"

"I beat him within a week. I impressed him so much that I began meeting him in the evenings sometimes in his small room. We'd play chess or talk about history or the war or even military strategy. I enjoyed it very much. But I noticed that he had begun to stare at me during meals, and he'd go out of his way to accost me in some remote hallway or porch. Finally, one evening in his room, he got down on his knees and asked me to marry him."

Tyrion leaned forward. "Did you love him?"

"No. I was attracted to him, but I never let love be an option. He had been in my father's house as long as I remember. He had sworn the oath of academia. My father would have destroyed him. And he was—is—a good man, Tyrion. I couldn't let him shatter everything he'd worked for to be with me."

"So what did you do?"

"I told him I couldn't marry him, that I would be dooming us both to poverty and ostracization. But from that moment on, every time he looked at me, I saw anguish in his eyes. I realized that I needed to leave. So I went to my mother and I whispered in her ear a few puzzling questions. Why was it that sons were often sent to other lords, to other castles, to serve, to train, and to grow? Why couldn't daughters? Wouldn't it be amazing if I, Tessa Lefford, could be sent to King's Landing, to live under the guidance of our leige lord, Tyrion Lannister? And perhaps Lord Lannister could find an acceptable suitor for me. Soon, my mother was whispering it to my father. And before you know it, he believed it was his own idea."

"A chess move, but with people instead of wooden pieces. I like you more and more, Tessa."

"Thank you, my lord."

"You called me Tyrion during that story."

"A slip, my lord."

"In here, when we're in private, please call me Tyrion. That's not a suggestion, it's an order."

"I will . . . Tyrion."

"I loved your story, but you failed to answer my question completely. I know we're looking for someone smart, but what else?"

"Instead of muddying up the waters with needless descriptions of nonexistent suitors, may I make a suggestion? Can we procrastinate? To be honest, I'm enjoying spending time with you, and I don't want that ruined by the trivialities of courting. When you tire of my company, then we'll look for a suitor."

Tyrion nodded, feeling a wave of relief flow over him. The sensation surprised him. It took him a moment to sort through his feelings and discover the true meaning behind them. He didn't want Tessa to date anyone. He wanted her to eat dinner with him every night, to sit here in this room with him and play chess or talk or make witty conversation.

Tyrion said, "I agree. And by the way"—he moved his queen to pressure her king—"check."

Tessa said, "Please don't hate me." Then she moved her own queen and said, "Checkmate, my lord Tyrion."

"Well, boogers," Tyrion said. "Could I ply you with wine before our next game?"

She laughed out loud in the quiet room and Tyrion joined her.

21

JON

Jon began with Winterfell. What better way to explain everything than to start with King Robert asking Ned Stark to be his hand? Unfortunately he would need to include himself in the story, because—like it or not—he was a part of it.

But he liked his relationship with Lucella, such as it was. If he revealed to her that he was Jon Snow, Lord of Nightfold, then everything would change. She might start bowing and mumbling and apologizing, and that would ruin everything. So he decided to lie. A simple lie, really, not meant to harm Lucella, but perhaps protect her.

"Ned and Catelyn Stark ruled Winterfell and were wardens of the north. They had five children. From oldest to youngest, Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. Also, Ned had a bastard son that he brought home from the war, intent on raising him as his own."

"What did Catelyn think of that?"

"She hated it. But what could she do except obey her husband."

Lucella rolled her eyes in disbelief. "Strange ways, you people have. Okay. A bastard like me, right? What was his name?"

"Drack. Drack Snow." Jon cringed inside as he actually voiced the terrible lie. I'm going to visit all seven hells, he told himself.

"Snow?"

"Bastards in the north are given the surname Snow. In Dorne, bastards are named Sand. In the Reach, they bear the name Flowers. And so on."

She nodded. "Drack. I like that name."

"Anyway," Jon said, wondering how much the gods would punish him for this lie, "when Robb was fifteen and Drack was fourteen, King Robert Baratheon came to visit Winterfell, and his purpose was to ask Ned Stark, his close friend, to become his hand."

"Hand? That's his highest advisor, correct?"

"It is. Well, Ned took some of his children with him, but left the others in Winterfell with his wife."

"And Drack? The bastard?"

"A bastard who is the son of the hand would not fare well in King's Landing. Also, Catelyn Stark did not want the bastard hanging around Winterfell. So he did the only thing available to him. He joined the Night's Watch like his uncle."

"That's where you met him, right? At Castle Black."

Jon nodded.

"Continue, please."

Hours passed as Jon regaled her with the story. Soon, they took a break and ate. Jon needed the relief. His throat had begun to ache. He wasn't accustomed to speaking for so long.

Nonetheless, later, when she requested it, he began the tale once more.

More hours passed. Lucella never tired of listening. She kept close to him, absorbing every word with rapt attention, interrupting often with questions, as she did now.

"Wait! Drack Snow discovered that he was actually the son of Rheagar Targaryen and Ned's sister? He was the true heir to the throne. Daenerys might have dragons, but he was the legitimate male heir."

"True," Jon said. "But he didn't want the throne and she did, desperately. Besides, he needed her to fight the white walkers."

"The dead who walk. Hmm. I want to hear it even if I find it hard to believe."

He continued on.

The Battle of Winterfell. The white walkers, an army of them. So many people died there. He told it as he remembered it.

When he finished, Lucella sat back, arms crossed. "So Drack's sister, Arya Stark, killed the Night King. I would like to meet her one day. She survived so much tragedy and strife and came out of it, still strong and proud. Daenerys, too. They're both women that I admire and envy. Unlike Cersei Lannister, who was weak and conniving."

Jon nodded, agreeing completely. He hadn't mentioned the demise of Daenerys Targaryen. It would come soon, though, and he wondered how Lucella would feel about the vile act.

He began talking once again.

Frackle and Francella went in and out several times during the storytelling. They entered once with a gift, a snow pig so fat that it took both of them to drag it in. Lucella laughed with delight. She knelt and hugged each one. She took a break from story time to butcher the hog, a task that should've taken many hours, but her skill with the knife—and Jon's minimal help—allowed her to complete the job quickly.

After dinner—pork roast with beans and wild potatoes—they settled into their chairs once again.

Jon continued his story. When he finished telling about the Drassacre, Lucella slapped him on the leg. She'd moved their chairs so that they were side-by-side, both facing the fire.

"So the queen surrendered, the city surrendered and she still burned the place down?"

"She did."

Lucella shook her head. "Do you know what I think? That the madness took her, just as it did her father. The dragon blood boiled inside her."

"Maybe."

"So what happened after that?"

Jon sighed, knowing what was coming. He explained the ending of the Mother of Dragons.

Lucella said, "So, Drack Snow killed the woman he fought beside and the woman he fought for. What a horrible decision for a man to make." She sat back in her chair and stared ahead, lost in thought.

Jon said nothing. He waited.

Finally, she said, "What if Drogon took Daenerys to where there was a sorceress like the one who had brought Drack back to life, so that she could bring Daenerys back to life. What if Daenerys is out there now, somewhere, healing, and biding her time."

Jon blanched as that possibility swept through his mind. "Please don't talk like that, Lucella. You scare me."

"The idea of Daenerys coming back frightens you?"

"It does."

"Do I look like Daenerys? You said that once."

"You do."

She sighed contentedly then leaned her head on his shoulder. "Okay. Finish up. We're close to the end, right?"

"We are." He continued the story. Bran Stark is made king, with Tyrion Lannister as his hand. Drack Snow is sent to the Wall. His secret gets out and soon everyone in the kingdom knows that he is a Targaryen. They propose the new seventh kingdom, Nightfold. And Drack is made the new Lord.

When he finished completely, she said, "I've decided something, Jon. I would like to travel to Castle Black and meet Drack Snow-Targaryen. He is a true hero of Westeros. A man worthy to be king but so humble that he stands aside and bows to lesser men and women who would sit on the throne."

Jon blinked, feeling a sense of unease shoot through him. How would she feel when she found out that he'd lied to her? But then he decided that confessing to Lucella was a task for another day. Her head was on his shoulder, her hand gripping his arm, and it reminded him that although she was fearless and headstrong, there was a side of her that was tender and sensitive. He liked her. Drogon had actually done a good thing, bringing him here.

That night, she placed her pallet close to his. He ached to move closer to her, perhaps have her in the pallet with him, but trust takes time. As they lay in the darkness, Jon whispered, "You're dreaming about Drack Snow, aren't you?"

She giggled in the darkness. "You know it. I plan to have his baby some day. Little Drack Snow-Targaryen." She burst out laughing at that, and Jon could only smile, wondering if it might be so.

The question he pondered was this: how would she feel when she found out Jon had lied to her from the beginning of that tale to the end?

He closed his eyes, thinking that the longer he could put off telling her the truth, the better for both of them.

22

ARYA

Clanging awakened Arya. Someone beating on the walls. As she blinked awake, she realized that the semi-darkness would never end. No more sunlight. A splintery pain shot up her arm, like her fingers were made of needles. Her stomach did a queasy flop as the pain assailed her, and she felt the urge to vomit again.

"Get up!" a guard yelled through the small square hole in the door. "Stand up. Put your face against the back wall. We're going to open the door, but don't try anything. We have a crossbow."

She stood and tottered to the wall, feeling shaky inside.

"Face the wall," the guard said.

She obeyed. The door swung open with a loud groan. The guard said, "Every day you'll get a bucket of water and a bowl of gruck. If you spill it, or kick it over, or shit in it, then that's on you. We'll pick these containers up tomorrow when we bring the next ones."

She glanced over her shoulder to watch him slide a bucket and a bowl inside. Another guard stood behind the first, crossbow ready. Behind the two of them, another bucket and bowl waited. Must be Arabesk's, she thought.

He slammed the door and she heard the key grind inside the lock.

"Arabesk?" she said, almost afraid to utter the name with any loudness. Maybe he was still sleeping.

—Good morning, Winterflower—

"Winterflower?"

—My new nickname for you. Since you're from Winterfell, I thought it fitting—

"Are you going to torture me again today?"

—Princess Arya? Torture? Have I not earned some forgiveness for my violation of you?—

"None."

—I could heal you. If I could physically touch you. I need to taste the essence of you, the tiny unseeable particles that make up your being—

She wished he could heal her. But since he couldn't, it was up to her body to do it for her. Time to see what her hand looked like. She sat on the bench and, with infinite tenderness, unwrapped the makeshift bandage.

Her hand looked horrible, she decided. Everything was swollen and everything was varying colors of green and blue. Coat all of that with splattered blood and dirt and you got something that would scare little children.

She wrapped the filthy kerchief back around her hand simply because she couldn't stand to look at it.

—I would like to stay awake and talk to you but I'm still sleepy. Can we talk tomorrow?—

What a stupid question, Arya thought. What else did she have to do? Where else could she go? Nowhere. Arabesk might as well be inside the cell with her.

—Sorry, Arya. This is life on Giot's freckle—

"Zorick said something about that. What does it mean?"

—Some people say this world is only a freckle on Giot's ass. But others say that Giot has eight eyes and that he watches his eight prophets, one eye per prophet. How can it be both? That's my question. Either his ass is on his belly or his eyes are on the back of his head—

"Do you believe that Giot exists? That he is the God of everything?"

—Of course. Where else could my gifts come from?—

He had a point, Arya realized. "Go to sleep, Arabesk. Let me know when you want to talk about your wanton violation of me."

—Maybe one day you will forgive me—

She sighed. Maybe one day I will kill you andZorick.

— Yes, it was a violation, but you saved me from my slide into insanity. If I had needed blood, would you have given me blood? I know what you're thinking. You've made it years without contacting anyone, so why did it have to be so immediate. Why couldn't you wait?Because you weren't there for those years. The moment they put you in that cell, my . . . instability? . . . it blew through the roof. If I hadn't taken you, I would probably be a driveling, broken beast by now. I thank you, Arya, for saving me—

She knew he could read her mind, so she didn't even think of a reply. Instead, she began singing a song in her head, but couldn't remember the lyrics, so she began counting, just to see if she could count to a hundred thousand. That's how many people died at King's Landing. She would count them all.

—Thank you, Winterflower. That mindless drone will definitely put me to sleep—

When she reached a thousand, she stretched out on the stone bench and closed her eyes. There was no daylight here, and no way to tell what time it was. She could sleep when she felt like sleeping and wake when the urge struck her.

Soon, she lost track of her numbers and drifted into a hazy, half-sleep that was interrupted frequently by the stinging pain from her hand.

23

THE FACELESS MAN

The Faceless Man had procured money. It wasn't something he liked to do, robbing merchants, but the necessity of his job often overrode his personal feelings.

He strutted into the brothel with all the arrogance of a proper lord. His new tunic shined in the intentional murkiness of the place, and the new scar he'd planted on his cheek hid his identity.

The proprietor of the establishment materialized almost immediately. He was blond-haired and clean-shaven, but was older, maybe in his forties. "Welcome to our house of pleasure," he said, smiling, eyes glittering. He had a lisp so he had to be a eunuch. "What are you in the mood for, kind gentleman? First, may I ask, boy or girl?"

"Woman."

The proprietor grinned. "You've come to the right place. Could you be more specific? What sort of girl are you wanting?"

"I'm not sure," the Faceless Man said. "Could I have a look at your girls to see if any particular one strikes my libido?"

The proprietor smiled. "Of course." He spun around and snapped his fingers. "Annya? Have all the available girls come down. Let's have a small parade for our new guest, best girls in the front."

The Faceless Man watched as over a dozen young ladies gathered in front of him. They didn't form a parade, but they spread out for his perusal. Some of the girls were nude, some scantily clad, and some disrobed in front of him, tossing garments at his feet.

"Very nice," he said. "Could you have all of them turn around and face away?"

"A butt man?" the proprietor said grinning. "Aren't we all." He snapped his fingers again. "Everyone turn away and show our guest your rear assets."

The women did as instructed. The Faceless Man stood musing. Before he could make his selection, Ser William Hayneswynn of the kingsguard entered. Immediately, one of the women ran from her position in line, giggling, and grabbed Hayneswynn's hand. They rushed upstairs as if Hayneswynn would die if he didn't plant himself inside her immediately.

"That's depressing," the Faceless Man said. "I had it narrowed down to her and one more."

"The day is young," the proprietor said. "Why not enjoy an hour with one of our other ladies, and when Cheeka is available, I will send her to your room."

"No need. I already have another picked out. I shall return in a day or two and spend time with Cheeka." He chose another lady, a pretty brunette with jutting buttocks. After a difficult price negotiation, he escorted her upstairs. As he walked to her room, he took mental notes of the layout of the building, including doorways and windows and minutiae such as piss pots and towel supplies and potted plants.

Notice everything; that was a requirement for his job.

Once the curtain to her room was drawn shut, Jess, his escort, stripped off the see-through gown. She wiped some of the garish lipstick onto her forearm, then came close and kissed him on the mouth. She seemed unaffected by the fake scar that marred his cheek.

As she deftly removed his clothes, he relaxed, intent on enjoying himself. Sometimes the job had its perks.

24

JON

The next day, Jon arose early, knowing that they planned to walk to the village, even though neither of them knew where it was located.

Lucella's mother had left her daughter woefully unprepared, Jon thought. She should've taken her daughter with her at least once, just so the girl would know not just the name of the village, but the path to get to it.

Her mother's reticence to reveal information was probably founded on the same paranoia that had guided the family for three generations. Jon understood completely. Ned Stark had harbored his secret concerning his nephew with stoic precision. No hint of Jon's ancestry had ever leaked. Ned had gone to his death still honoring the promise he'd made to his sister.

"Your mother said it was due east," Jon said. "Right?"

"For the hundredth time," Lucella said. "Three days due east. That's all I know. If we find a village, then we find a village. If we don't, then perhaps we'll chance upon another traveller, and he will direct us in the true direction. That is our plan, agree?"

"Yes."

They loaded up extra pelts and prepared to leave.

"I don't know whether to leave the door open or shut," Lucella said, gazing at her front door. They were outside. The snow was melting, and the dark, wet leaves were showing themselves everywhere.

"Do you think Frackle and Francella will be okay if I shut them out?"

Jon shrugged. "I would guess so. They can generate their own warmth if they get too cold."

She smiled. "They can. But I worry about them."

"Do you ever see anyone wandering by?"

"Never. We're in that odd position between coast and country, I guess."

"Then leave it open."

She nodded. "I'll feel better." Without waiting, she found two stones and propped the door open. She glanced around. The dragons were nowhere to be seen.

They set out on their journey. Jon, with a large roll of pelts strapped to his back, and Lucella with a small pack. She also carried her bow and a quiver of arrows. Jon felt like a pack mule, but didn't mind it. His sword was on his hip and his dagger at his waist. Lucella was determined to take her bow and she couldn't do it with a roll on her back. Besides, they needed to trade for very little, so one roll of pelts should cover the cost of supplies plus a raven to send a message to Winterfell.

As they headed toward the rising sun, Jon said, "Why trade at all if you plan to go to Castle Black?"

"I haven't decided yet. I like my home. I'm comfortable here. What if they don't like me in Nightfold."

"You could go to Winterfell."

"And what if they don't like me there?"

"You will make friends wherever you go, Lucella."

"And you know this how?"

Jon sighed. "Because I know."

She laughed in the morning air. Jon smiled, enjoying her. Once she'd settled down, she asked, "Do you have a woman back in Nightfold, Jon? Someone you care about? Someone you plan to marry one day?"

"No one."

"Pets? A dog, perhaps?"

"No."

"You should get a direwolf, like Drack. What was his name? Ghost?"

"Yes."

"If I came to Castle Black, could you help me find a place to stay?"

"Yes." For a long moment, Jon almost broke down and told her who he was, but he was still enjoying his anonymity.

Once the sun was high above them, they rested. Jon didn't want to walk on, knowing they might be going in the wrong direction. A couple of hours later, the sun was past its noontime peak and starting its fall into the west. They stood, donned their loads, and marched forward, this time away from the sun.

As darkness drew near, Jon found a small shelter inside a ring of trees. They made camp.

Sitting around the fire, Jon ate jerky that Lucella had brought. No sense worrying about finding game until they had to. Gazing across the fire, he watched the yellow light flicker on her pretty face and wondered what she was thinking. Before he could ask her, a noise jarred her from her thoughts. Jon leaped to his feet, knife drawn.

Flapping wings. He sighed as Francella alit nearby, and then Frackle beside her. They jabbered as they waddled over to the fire, and Jon wondered if they were fussing at Lucella for leaving them.

"I know, I know," she said, hugging each. "I didn't mean to leave you but we're going to the village to get supplies."

Once the niceties were out of the way, the two dragons blew fire onto a spot in the ground nearby. As the billowing embers rose from the small ring of exposed earth, the two dragons rushed into the still-smoking ring and stomped around. Jon watched, curious. Eventually, they lay down in the smoldering earth, their wings and limbs entangled with each other.

"How did they find us?" Jon asked.

"Dragons are smart," Lucella said, staring at them. "They probably followed our tracks for a while, then saw the fire from above."

"Do you think Drogon is around?"

"Wouldn't surprise me." She leaned back. "She found you in Winterfell, didn't she?"

Jon nodded.

After a moment, Lucella asked, "Would you be offended if I put my pallet beside yours, just so we could be close and conserve heat?"

Jon thought that they could conserve more heat if they were nestled inside the same fur blanket, but he kept his mouth shut. "Yes, please do."

Standing, she removed some of the furs off Jon's roll and spread them over the two dragons. Jon watched, silent, thinking it was exactly like a mother caring for her kids.

Lucella stood, staring pensively at the dragons, hands on hips. Satisfied, she brought her fur and placed it beside his.

As they lay down for the evening, she said, "You talked about returning to Nightfold, but there is another alternative."

"What's that?"

She sighed. "You could stay in the cave with me."

Hearing her say those words put a strange sadness in his chest. She was lonely. Why else make such an offer? "I've thought about it,"he said, but didn't explain further. He hadn't really thought about it, but as he lay there, staring at the stars, he let the idea flutter through his mind, and he found it quite satisfying.

25

THE FACELESS MAN

Two days later, the Faceless Man made another visit to Hayneswynn's favorite brothel. The proprietor recognized him immediately—he was wearing the same outfit and bore the same disfiguring scar on his cheek— and said, "You're back for Cheeka. Am I right?"

The Faceless Man grinned, feeling the fake scar pull at his face. "Is she available?"

"Only for the next forty minutes. She has a standing appointment, you see. A favored customer."

"Forty minutes is more than enough time. Especially if she's as good as Jess."

The proprietor laughed politely. They discussed the price. Not enough time for proper haggling, so the Faceless Man paid full price, stuffing the coins into the proprietor's hand just as Cheeka arrived. She was one of those rare girls who always seemed to be breathless with pleasure and excitement. She ran up, gushing, flouncing, trying to seduce him even before she even took her clothes off. She led him upstairs to her own room, which was two doors down from Jess's. Once inside, she pulled the curtain closed and began undressing.

The Faceless Man did his part, humping her with enthusiasm while his mind observed his surroundings. She had a tiny closet in the corner. It had no door, so he could see inside. It was full of outfits. Dress up clothes for clients, he supposed. A closet was the perfect place to hide, especially hers with those long dresses that reached the floor.

After they finished bumping as Cheeka called it, she curled up beside him in the bed. "Give me a breather, and we'll go again, okay love?"

Smiling, he said, "Of course." While she lay curled up on his bed, he walked to his clothes which were piled beside the bed. He looked through his pockets and retrieved a small vial of powder. He came back to the bed and inspected the maiden splayed naked upon it. Her eyes were closed. Carefully, he poured white dust into the palm of his hand and held it close to her face. He gave a soft blow and the powder dispersed at her nose. She breathed it in without knowing. Two minutes later, he shoved her shoulder and she rolled groggily but didn't wake. She was sound asleep, and would be for at least thirty minutes.

The Faceless Man carried his clothes into the tiny closet and hid.

Thirty minutes later, someone yanked the curtain open and yelled into Cheeka's room. "You've got a john, Sally Cheek. Sally? Cheeka?" Inside the closet, the Faceless Man waited.

"Cheeka! Wake up."

Finally, Cheeka's sharp voice blurted, "What? No. I fell asleep. We didn't even get that second bump. What? William's here already?"

Moments later, the gruff voice of Hayneswynn entered the room. The sounds of sex came next. Hayneswynn grunting like he was carrying a thousand-pound chest up a staircase, and Cheeka moaning in those squeaky tones of high pleasure. He called her Chi-chi and she called him Willie-man.

Eventually it ended. The Faceless Man peeked from the closet. Cheeka lay curled up, face to the wall, her round posterior shining. Probably asleep. The sleeping power had potent aftereffects. Hayneswynn stood at the small window, staring out, his back to the room.

The Faceless Man strode across the room and punched Hayneswynn in the back of his head, collapsing him like a rag doll. The Faceless Man caught him on the way down and rolled him over. Hayneswynn stiffened, legs extended. His eyes were open, but he was concussed. The Faceless Man capped a hand on Hayneswynn's half-open mouth, then plunged his dagger into the guard's chest, giving it that extra twist to cleave open the heart. He withdrew his blade, allowing blood to pump through the hole. He made several cuts on the arms and legs of his victim. With a scarf from the closet, he wiped blood all over the guard's body. Nothing like blood to disguise a human being.

Once satisfied that Hayneswynn was dead, he carefully peeled the dead guard's face off with his razor-sharp dagger. Face-peeling was an art in itself, one he loathed but was very good at. As he worked, he kept a close eye on the tantalizing posterior of Cheeka, hoping that the woman didn't move. He had a fondness in his heart for whores, probably because his mother had been one. If Cheeka awakened prematurely, he'd be forced to kill her, and he didn't want that.

Once he had the face in his hands, he dried it thoroughly with a towel beside the bed, then whispered the sacred words over it. He brought out his elixir and covered the raw side of the face, whispering yet more words as he performed this ritual. Once he'd finished spreading the magic goop, he placed Hayneswynn's mask over his own face. He felt the face tighten and adjust. His body trembled as the transformation began. His teeth ached. That was always the worst.

His last order of business was to remove another face from his tunic, dip it in fresh blood, and then place it on the body in front of him, carefully lining it up so that the eye holes, nose, and mouth were in the proper places.

Five minutes later, he stood tall, dressed in the uniform of Hayneswynn. On the floor, the mangled corpse was unidentifiable. Perfect. His last order of business was to shove his sword into the existing hole in Hayneswynn's chest.

He yelled, "Chi-chi!"

She rolled over and sat up, groggy, and croaked. "What?" Then she saw what was on the floor and released a piercing scream. Almost immediately, the curtain was thrown open, and two whores stood there, snarling and brandishing knives.

"He came out of the closet," New Hayneswynn said.

Moments later, the proprietor arrived, backed up by his own guard, a burly man with bulging bronze muscles criss-crossed with the white lines of many scars.

"He came out of the closet like that," New Hayneswynn said. "He charged me, a bloody mess like that, so I stabbed him in surprise."

The proprietor stood motionless, chin resting in his fist as he thought about what to do.

"Please don't call the City Watch," New Hayneswynn begged. "I'll be punished. You know what I do."

The proprietor nodded. "I have friends. I could get the body disposed of without fuss or delay but it would be expensive."

New Hayneswynn pulled coins from his pocket and shoved them into the hand of the eunuch. "If this isn't enough, just let me know when I return."

"Very good, Ser. We will take care of everything. Don't worry. You've been a valued guest here far too long to have something like this disrupt our relationship."

New Hayneswynn nodded. "Thank you. And could you see to Chi-chi? Cheeka, I mean. Make sure she's taken care of."

"She's downstairs sipping wine. We shall give her as much rest as she desires. Besides, we need to clean her room."

"Thank you." New Hayneswynn glanced down at the body. "I think he was crazy."

"I agree." The proprietor gripped New Hayneswynn's shoulder. "Go about your day, kind Ser. Don't worry about this. We will take care of everything." He turned to his guard and whispered, "Bring a sheet. Roll him up. You know where to take him."

New Hayneswynn departed the establishment. As he ambled down the street, he removed the sheets of paper from his pocket and read them. It was just as he thought. They were catechisms for members of the kingsguard to quiz each other and verify their identities. Odd questions followed by strange answers.

This discovery gave the Faceless Man a touch of worry. It meant only one thing: they were aware that a Faceless Man was stalking the king, and they were afraid that he'd impersonate one of the kingsguard.

Interesting.

Well, this idea, a catechism, was not a good one, he thought as he began to memorize the words. He just hoped they didn't have others.

26

ARYA

Arya brought the bucket and bowl to the stone bench and sat down. Hours had passed since they'd brought it, and she was afraid they'd bring the next one before she ate this one.

The water was murky and had a bitter taste, but she drank some anyway. She wasn't able to lift the bucket with one hand, so she scooped it up with her good hand and drank it from her palm.

She stuck her finger in the gruck and licked it off.

It tasted rotten, like spoiled meat.

Part of her thought she needed to eat whatever they brought, just to keep her strength up. But the pessimistic side of her felt like the situation was hopeless. Why eat? Why not starve to death? It might be the only way out of this hellhole.

The sharp agonizing pain in her hand had settled into a burning, aggravating throb of agony. She couldn't do anything with that hand. It was as if she were one-handed, which she would be one day if she somehow managed to survive this.

After considering the future, she decided that the only possibility of getting out of here was only if Zorick decided that they needed her expertise in the "new world." Other than that, she would die here while Arabesk whispered sweet condolences from the other cell.

—Winterflower, have you lost hope already? You've been here only one day—

Every time he didn't communicate for a while, she thought him sleeping or occupied with his own thoughts. But she needed to realize that he was listening to her musings, always. "I'm not as strong as you."

—I beg to be contrary, my lady. Your strength is incredible. I am only stronger than you because my holy bloodline bolsters my vitality—

She didn't comment, but sat staring at the bucket of water and the bowl of slop.

—Drink up, Arya. Eat the gruck. Don't make me come over there and spank you—

Was that an actual jest from the monster in the next cell? She sighed. He was right, though. She should eat.

The bowl weighed much less than the bucket. She lifted it with her one good hand and poured the smelly gruel into her mouth. It was awful, and had chunks of grisly meat in it, but there were also a few nuggets of vegetables, potatoes and carrots and turnips. She kept chowing until it was gone.

—Good girl. Now, was that so bad?—

"Awful."

—You don't have to talk, you know. I hear your thoughts, all of them. So if you want to conserve energy, just think your thoughts—

"Think my thoughts? Do you know how stupid that sounds?"

—Not as stupid as you getting ready to throw up that nourishing stew. Breathe, Arya. Don't throw it up. Breathe—

She took a few deep breaths, hoping the roil of uncertainty in her stomach would settled.

—Talk to me, Arya. Let's get your focus off your stomach—

Leaning back against the wall, she thought, Tell me about this place. What's it called? Who runs it? Why are you locked up in here if you're one of the holy prophets of Giot?

—The official name of this place is Ninerlands. Which seems odd since everything is based on the number eight. But Giot is included in the count of holy persons, hence the name Ninerlands—

Why the eight?

—Giot has eight fingers. And by tradition, eight is the holiest of numbers. It is why there are eight preons, with each preon able to bolster himself with eight disciples, which are called octons. I must confess that I've never had the full complement of eight octons. Even when I was in charge of my province, I only had five—

So there are eight provinces and each preon administers his province?

—Exactly—

So who administers yours?

—Do you want to hear my sordid tale? Of course you do, why am I asking? You've got nothing to do except pick your toes and finger your nose. Okay. Tradition dictates that the preon is the leader of his province. His octons assist him. But there are many other traditions. One is that on Giot's name day, each province must sacrifice an innocent, and his or her blood be poured into Giot's mouth. Each province has a statue of Giot, mouth open, as if he's roaring—

Is he a man?

—Mostly. Except his head and hands are gargantuan—

And he has eight fingers?

—Yes. Technically six fingers and two thumbs. Giant fingers, like sausages. Anyway. I finally decided that I could no longer sacrifice an innocent to Giot. I chose a murderer in one of my prisons. I brought him out, cut his head off, and poured his blood into Giot's mouth. The other preons didn't like this, and became hostile. The Council of Eight passed resolutions that I would follow the edicts of the realm or suffer the consequences. I pulled another murderer from prison and repeated the act, proclaiming that two wicked lives surely equaled one innocent one. How did they respond? They killed my disciples, all five of them. This was devastating. It crippled me, emotionally and mentally. Zorick and his octons did it, that heartless bastard. I responded by killing some of his. Also, I healed his anus—

"What? You healed his anus?"

—I'm a healer, so I healed his anus. I made the hole grow together. They had to operate on him and cut it open again before his intestines ruptured—

Arya burst out laughing in the dank cell. "You healed his anus? Bless the gods, that is funny!"

—The Council of Eight convened once again and passed another edict. They voted that I be imprisoned for a hundred years. So I'm just getting started—

"A hundred years?" Arya shook her head. "How long do prophets normally live?"

—Somewhere between five hundred and six hundred years. Want to hear how it works? When a prophet reaches his five hundredth name day, he chooses ten women and he impregnates them. When the children are born, all girls are disposed of. The remaining boys are considered progeny. The pinky fingers of their left hands are removed within the first month of life. As they grow, the prophet keeps a close watch on them to determine their character and leadership skills. When they turn seven years old, he decides which one should inherit his gifts. He murders the rest. When that one child turns eight, his other pinky finger is removed. From that moment on, he is considered the heir to that particular prophet, and within ten or fifteen years, will inherit his father's gifts, including the glowing eyes. The prophet will be dead, his soul resting with Giot—

Arya thought it was a lot like the son of a king being handed the royal scepter and the throne, upon the death of the king.

—The new prophet is anointed and given control of his province—

"So what happened to your province? Who's been running it since you've been in prison?"

—No one. They divvied it up between them to make it very small. It's about ten miles per side. And there's no one on it. They dump trash and rubbish there. And corpses—

For the first time, Arya felt pity for Arabesk.

—Don't pity me, Winterflower. I've done my share of foul deeds. I'm a hundred and thirty years old. Which means that I murdered a hundred innocent souls for Giot's name day before I decided that I wouldn't do it anymore. Besides, the rule of the prophet is one of tyranny. Always has been, and always will be. Thousands of innocents are murdered every day, all at the whim of prophet or octon—

"You make it seem so horrible here in this land."

—The caste system in the Ninerlands is simple, Arya. You're either a prophet, a disciple, or a slave. Of course, the slaves vary from the very rich to the very poor. But a prophet can murder, rape, or assault anyone in his province with impunity. He can do the same to people in other provinces as long as he has the blessing of that prophet—

Arya leaned back, letting the information soak into her mind. "Question? What happens if a prophet dies? Let's say someone accidentally shoots him with an arrow?"

—One of his octons would get Giot's Blessing. His eyes would turn yellow, and he'd be declared the prophet by fell-fault, which means that it simply fell upon him as the most worthy—

"Are your eyes yellow, even now?"

—They are—

"What if you died tonight? What would happen?"

—Someone in the kingdom, someone who used to be in my province, probably, would awaken tomorrow with yellow eyes, and they'd be brought before the council, and they would be deemed prophet by fell-fault. And I'm sure the council would give back part of my land and people so that the new prophet would have his own true province—

What a kingdom, Arya thought. As insane as hers was, this one was even worse. It was more structured, but the heel of oppression stamped heavy on the people of Ninerland.

—Indeed it does, Winterflower. And it is one of the reasons we haven't progressed as a country. Innovation is stifled because no one wants to take a chance on anything. Farmers work their land the way their fathers did, blacksmiths make the same trinkets, and clothiers create nothing new, only the same designs their ancestors liked. No one wants to gamble on anything. No one wants to take risks. Everyone just wants to please the prophet and the only way they know to do that is to continue the status quo. Do things the way they've been done for a thousand years. That's the name of the game here. Fit in and survive—

All the talk about the economy brought a nagging thought from the back of Arya's mind to the front. "Do you think Zorick would sail to Westeros and try to conquer the country?"

—Try? He is a prophet of Giot, Arya. We believe that we should rule the entire world, not just our small part of it—

"So you agree with him?"

—I don't, but I am only oneprophet. The problem I see with Zorick's plan is that they'll be isolated. I'm not sure if one prophet with eight disciples could conquer Westeros. If fourprophets sail there, leaving four here, then yes. Four prophets with thirty-two octons? They could conquer your kingdom easily—

Arya sat back, deep in thought. This was her fault. She was the idiot who had stood proudly in front of the small council and proclaimed, "We need to know what lies west of Westeros. Give me a ship and a crew and I will find out." Well, she knew what was west of Westeros now. Its demise.

—It's not your fault, Lady Arya. It was Giot, leading you here. Maybe he wanted a new land to rule. Or maybe he wanted to get rid of Zorick and this was an interesting way to do it—

"Will you help me get out of here?"

—And go where?—

"To my ship. I know how to sail it. I could sail back to Westeros, and maybe get there before Zorick. Get them to prepare. Dragonbone helmets for everyone."

—And what about me?—

"If you escape, can't you hide out?"

—Forever?—

Arya knew what he was asking. She could feel the gentle nudge in her brain. "Do you want to go to Westeros with me? Not to conquer it but to live in peace?"

—I have hundreds of years left, can you guarantee my peace for that long?—

"You've seen my memories, Arabesk. You know what Westeros is like. I couldn't guarantee your safety for one minute. Someone else could be king by the time I return, someone who hates Starks. I can only give you my word that I will do everything I can to protect you."

Mirth emanated from him, waves of it. She felt it as if she could hear him laughing out loud. "What's so funny?"

—Arya, I am a prophet of Giot. I need no one to protect me. Especially in a land with no equals. It is I who would protect you. Besides, there is only one way we get out of this alive and make our way back to Westeros, and you know what that is—

She sighed softly. She knew exactly what it would take, and she wondered what it would be like. "I didn't think women could be octons."

—Women are never chosen, but there's no rule that prohibits it, other than tradition. You would be the first one for as long as our written history goes back. Can you imagine that, Arya? You will be the first female disciple of Giot—

She could imagine it, but only because she had no idea what the consequences would be. "Question? Is it reversible? Once you adopt me, or whatever it is you need to do, can we disconnect ourselves when we're safe in Westeros?"

—Ahhh. Now we get to the cocklebur in the saddle blanket. Unfortunately, Winterflower, it is a bond that will last forever, or until one of us dies. But let me remind you of the perks. You will stop aging, and you will develop gifts comparable to mine. As far as the drawbacks, you will be my slave for hundreds of years . . . technically speaking—

A random thought flashed through her mind, something she didn't want to confess, but he already knew that she'd considered it, so she said it out loud. "And what if I wait until you make me an octon, then I kill you so that the yellow eyes come to me?"

More laughter followed, strong laughter. She could imagine him slapping his thigh as he bellowed.

—Arya, my child, if it were that easy, octons would be killing their masters every day. But it's not. You see, our souls will bond. Killing me would be tantamount to murdering your entire family. No, Winterflower, once we are bound, you will worship me. And the fortunate opposite of that is that I will love you with the same desperation—

"It sounds like we're getting married."

—If only brides and grooms could love each other with the depth that prophets and disciples do, Arya, then the world would be a much better place—

"Is there a ceremony? Is it painful?"

—We mix fluids, then I go into your mind and allow you into mine. It takes a day or two before it coalesces. But we're getting ahead of ourselves, correct? First we need to escape this prison—

"I've been thinking about that. Let me show you what I have in mind. Can you see pictures?"

—Tell me your plan and show it to me as you explain it—

So she did.

27

JON

Jon thought they were making good progress. Lucella was as stalwart as he was, able to walk all day without many breaks. Of course, she'd seen the reverse of this and had commented at the end of the second day, "You're holding out pretty well. I guess you really are a northerner."

"I was thinking the same thing about you."

"Ha!" she said, smiling.

They chatted very little while traversing the woody terrain. During breaks, she commented on various things, pointing out the spoor left by a random animal or offering her knowledge about the edibility of a particular nut or berry. She said Gethin had been a maester before falling in love with her mom. He had a wide range of knowledge concerning plants and animals. It had been his specialty. He wasn't much with history, which explained why she was so ignorant about current events in the kingdom.

On the second night when they'd camped, the kid-dragons hadn't appeared, and Jon wondered if they had decided to return home to the cave.

"I hope they're okay," Lucella said as she peered into the fire.

"I'm sure they're fine," Jon said. "Dragons are a pretty durable breed. They skin is tough enough to deflect a plain arrow. It would take a metal-tipped arrow launched form a longbow to break through their natural armor."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're not making me feel better, Jon."

"Sorry."

Later, lying in their furs, Lucella said, "Jon, can I tell you what the most surprising thing about you was?"

"That Francella and Frackle liked me?"

"No. I kind of expected that after Drogon carried you here in his claws." She paused, seeming to gather her thoughts. "The way my mom and Gethin talked, most men were . . . Um. How do I put this? Frisky?"

Jon almost laughed out loud. "Frisky?"

"I thought by now, you'd try to have your way with me, but you've remained an utter gentleman. You haven't even tried to kiss me. I'm beginning to wonder if it's me. Am I ugly?"

Jon stared into the darkness, wondering how this conversation had veered into such a dangerous path. "You are not ugly, Lucella, not by a long shot."

"I'm not?"

"No. You are quite attractive." He didn't want to say beautiful, even though she was.

She seemed to digest this for a moment. Then she blurted, "Oh!"

"Oh?"

"I understand. I get it. I've heard about men like you."

"Men like me?"

"Men who like other men instead of women. Gethin said it was rather common in the big cities, and that he'd seen grown men, sometimes hairy, robust men, kissing each other."

Jon sighed deeply. These things—romantic things—were just supposed to happen. You didn't debate them and discuss them and make appointments. I plan to kiss you next week, in the evening, by the oak tree at the corner.

"Lucella, can we talk about this later?"

"And when will that be?"

"I don't know."

"So what happens if I want to kiss you?"

"Then you just do it."

"But how do I know if you will want me to."

"You don't. You just do it."

She thought about it long and hard and finally said, "Good luck with that happening. I'll take an arrow to the ass before I lower myself to kiss you."

Her voice had an edge to it as if she were suddenly upset. He lay there, trying to figure out what had happened. Things were fine and then they weren't. He finally decided that the words of women were like arrows on a dark night. You never saw them coming until the pain flared.

"Goodnight, Lucella."

She grunted noncommittally.

Day three, they'd walked half a day. Jon was beginning to wonder about the village. What if they didn't find it on day three? Should they continue east and hope they run into it on day four? Or should they go north of south?

Walking along, he should be contemplating the village, but instead, was thinking about Lucella. She'd been rather snippy this morning, and he was wondered what he could do to make her happy.

Up ahead, he heard a voice.

He came to an abrupt halt, and Lucella did the same.

"Hear that?" she said.

He nodded. He couldn't see far ahead. The forest was thicker here with lots of evergreens, and besides that, they were in a slight indention. He crept forward, staying behind trees, until he passed the slight rise in front of him.

A clearing loomed ahead with men marching past, perhaps thirty. All wore various skins and pelts, made into garments. No uniforms. Some wore swords, some carried long poles. They were all walking, but he heard a neigh up ahead, somewhere near the front of the line perhaps. A few horses up there.

"Who is it?" Lucella whispered. She'd crept up behind him and stood at his shoulder, peering ahead.

"One of the clans, I would guess. They're armed, but it's a motley collection of armaments."

"Where are they headed?"

"Just guessing, I would say to the village."

"What do we do?"

He took a breath, wondering the same thing himself. "How about we follow them, just to see."

She nodded.

After the line of men passed, Jon waited. If they were experienced, they'd have a rear guard, at least one man to make sure they didn't get surprised from the rear.

Moments later, two men came into view, walking side-by-side, talking quietly to each other.

Once they'd passed, Jon stepped out into the path. The ground was stomped down here. The snow had turned into black mud under the passing feet.

The group moved slowly, and the trail was broad and easily followed. Periodically, Jon jogged ahead until he found the rearguard, then fell back. The two men ambled along, seemingly unconcerned that they might be followed.

An hour later, smoke appeared above the trees. Jon pointed it out to Lucella, who shrugged.

Smoke.

Civilization hopefully, and not warfare.

The outskirts of the village appeared. A few tents, trash piled in a clearing, and a dog tied to a tree, barking as they approached. Ahead, the mass of men was stalled at the rest of the village, a small collection of wooden buildings.

The two men who had composed the rear guard stood vigilant at the rear of the mass of men. They drew swords as Jon approached, but he and Lucella circled around to get to the front of the small army where Jon could hear men shouting.

Fifteen or twenty villagers, most of them men, stood aligned against the interlopers with twenty feet separating the two groups.

Jon stepped up at the edge, Lucella behind him. She'd notched an arrow but had it pointed at the ground.

"What's going on?" Jon asked.

Both groups turned to him, their faces hostile. He had no friends here, but this was a part of Nightfold, and he was the Warden or the True North.

A villager started to speak, but the leader of the marchers stepped out and proclaimed, "I am Kostick, son of Korbun the Wise. We claim this village in the name of the Wild Eye Clan. Everyone in this village will bend his knee and swear fealty to the Wild Eye Clan. Or die."

"This land is part of Nightfold," Jon said, trying to control his anger. "The Wild Eye Clan has made no pact with the Lord of Nightfold."

Kostick of the Wild Eye clan scoffed. "The Lord of Nightfold? He has his own problems at the wall. He cares not for this place. We rule ourselves."

Several of the men behind him blurted out, "YES!"

Jon considered the situation. His land had few people if you compared it to the kingdoms of the south. He didn't need the precious few men in Nightfold needlessly killing each other. Maybe he could diffuse the situation with some diplomacy.

"I am Lord of Nightfold and Lord Commander of the Night's Watch." He lifted a hand toward Lucella. "This is Lucella Bearsong Targaryen, the new Mother of Dragons."

She glanced at him and grinned.

Loudly, Kostick said, "Hah." He glanced around at his men. "The Lord of Nightfold is just wandering around the countryside now, is that it?"

"I lost my dragon," Jon said.

A raucous round of laughter followed the comment. Once the noise settled, Kostick, who'd been laughing himself, said, "There is a dragon in these parts, people have seen him. We, the Wild Eye Clan, have already claimed him. He belongs to us. Do you want to try something else? Perhaps you're Bran the Broken. There's as much chance of him being here as the Lord of Nightfold."

Lucella raised her bow. "Let me shoot him," she said.

"No." Jon put a hand on her arm.

Kostick said, "Point that bow somewhere else, sweetheart, or my men will wrap it around your neck."

"The first one goes in your balls," Lucella said. "The next one in your face."

He grinned. "You've got balls, yourself, lady. I'll give you that. But since you're here, you and your friend will need to bow down and swear fealty to the Wild Eye Clan."

"Let me kill him," Lucella whispered. "Please?"

A loud screeching filled the air above them. Most of the men ducked instinctively. Jon glanced into the skies, wondering how Frackle and Francella had found them.

Francella arrived first, wings spread wide as she swooped into the open area behind them. After landing and tucking her wings, she waddled up to Lucella, chattering.

The villagers and the Wild Eye clan had all gone silent. Jon wondered what was going through their minds.

Kostick raised an arm and pointed. "Is that a dragon?"

"It is," Jon said. "Are they yours, too?"

No reply from the man, whose arm was grabbed by another of his group, and soon the whole clan was chattering, too.

Lucella had released the tension from her bow and now held it with one hand, arrow still notched. She knelt beside Francella and touched her face. "Go find your momma, okay, Francella? Momma dragon? Drogon?"

Francella bobbed her head as if she understood, and Jon thought maybe the dragon did. With a loud squawk, she turned, took two tottering steps, flapped her long wings, and went airborne.

"Where . . . Where is she going?" Kostick asked, his voice shaking slightly.

"To get her momma," Lucella said. "The big dragon."

The clan erupted into loud voices, as did the villagers. The clan's voices were worried, while the villagers' voices were tinged with excitement.

Jon glanced into the empty sky. "DROGON!"

"Wait just a minute," Kostick said. "What are you doing?"

"Calling Drogon," Jon said. "He's your dragon, right? He'll bolster your position. These villagers will bow before your dragon. DROGON!"

"Stop doing that!" Kostick, glanced around, eyes wild. "He burned King's Landing. Don't call him here. This whole village wouldn't even provide him with a decent dinner."

Frackle rose out of the trees and swooped down, dropping onto the group with a frump. The small dragon waddled over to Jon and stood beside him as if to face down everyone else. Jon knelt and scratched the head of the dragon, who gave Jon a quick chattering response, which Jon didn't understand in the slightest. How smart were dragons? Jon wondered. Maybe they understood the common tongue, most of it, anyway.

The southern sky was partially blocked by tall conifers, and when Drogon appeared from that direction, low in the sky, his enormous body seemed to block out the sky, and the entire area darkened. A startling moan accompanied the movement as the villagers and clan alike dropped to the ground and covered themselves.

Jon waved, feeling like an idiot. Days ago, he was cursing the dragon, now he was asking it for help.

That mind-numbing roar came out of Drogon, making Jon wince from the pain in his ears. Several of the villagers whimpered with fright. The big dragon made one circle in the sky, then dropped down into the field behind Jon. The ground jarred as Drogon alit. Lucella walked over and stroked Drogon's massive jaw.

Jon breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he could get to Winterfell now. Thoughts of war still lingered in his mind, and he needed to squash that possibility as soon as he could.

The Wild Eye clan looked as scared as the villagers. Jon said, "Kostick, son of Korbun the Wise, I think you and your father need to come to Castle Black to discuss your ambitions. I am the Warden of the True North, and I need good bannermen, and if you plan to become a house proper, then we need to talk."

"Castle Black?"

"Head east until you get to the kingsroad, then go north until you hit the big wall. Can't miss it."

Kostick dropped to his knees, and clan and villagers alike followed suit. "My lord, please forgive me for my insolence," Kostick said. "I was not expecting the Lord of Nightfold to come walking up with no advisors or attendants."

A logical statement, Jon thought. "For the moment, stop trying to take over this place until we decide who gets what area. There are other clans in these mountains. I don't want continuous war between them. I want people to grow and prosper."

Kostick nodded. "We are the largest . . . my lord."

Jon gave him one last glare. "I will expect you and your father at Castle Black in one month."

"As you wish," Kostick said.

As Jon approached, Drogon rolled his big eyes toward him. The dragon's breath frosted in the cold air.

"I need to go back to Winterfell," Jon said, staring intently at the dragon. "Winterfell, okay?"

Jon stepped up on Drogon's foreleg. He turned back to Lucella, who looked uncertain. "Come on," he said, holding out a hand. She took it and followed him as he stepped gently on Drogon's scales, working his way up to the dragon's long neck.

Once they were seated and situated, Lucella took the roll of pelts off Jon's back and placed it on hers. "If we get cold," she said, "we can use these."

Drogon rose up on his back legs. Lucella hugged Jon fiercely as Jon clung to Drogon's spikes. Drogon turned away from the groups of people and took two long bounds then gave one giant swish of his wings that lifted them into the blue sky.

Once they were airborne, the wind wasn't as cold as he imagined because Drogon's head blocked most of it. Jon grinned to himself, feeling a wild exhilaration rush through him.

"That was amazing," Lucella yelled over the roar of wind. "You called me Lucella Bearsong Targaryen, Queen of Dragons, like that was a real thing. And you said you were the Lord of Nightfold." She laughed out loud.

Jon laughed with her, knowing he should tell her the truth, but still afraid to. When they got to Winterfell, he'd tell her. Maybe she'd take it without being upset. Maybe she'd even laugh about it like she was doing now.

"This is unbelievable," she said, and he could hear the wonder in her voice. "Thank you." She laid her head on his back.

Jon sighed, still worried.

28

THE FACELESS MAN

The Faceless Man loved dependable and timely people. They made his work much easier. And the members of the kingsguard were no exceptions. Hayneswynn and Payne followed their lives as if their minds were shackled to routine and their feet were trudging through well-worn ruts. It made it almost effortless to step into Hayneswynn's life for that one day without worrying about taking an errant step.

The two men met up, exchanged pleasantries, and made their way to the king's quarters, following the castle corridors, passing multiple guards, arriving at the door where Sutton and Wickerson stood.

"Good morning," Podrick Payne said. "How is the good king today?"

Wickerson rolled his eyes, grunted, and said, "The king is soaring high today."

Payne replied, "Up in the clouds with two crows and a raven."

Turning to Hayneswynn, Wickerson said, "Bless me if today is not the day we catch a sly killer."

Hayeswynn said the required answer, "Sly as a fox but not quite as tasty." He shook his head. How stupid were these people? A five-year-old butcher's boy could come up with catechisms better than these.

Wickerson opened the door and entered. Sutton said, "He's been gone since we got here, eyes rolled back, head lolling. Hasn't eaten either. Maybe he'll awaken soon. He's got to be getting hungry."

"We'll keep an eye on him," Payne said. The four of them gazed into he room where King Bran sat in his wheeled chair, facing away from them. His head lolled downward. He was asleep or absent.

"Do you need anything, your grace?" Payne said.

No reply. No movement.

All four men walked back out. Hayneswynn pulled the door shut. Sutton and Wickerson departed, leaving Payne and Hayneswynn at the king's door.

Payne groped himself. "Hey, can I take two minutes and make water? Sorry it's so soon but I drank too much last night." He screwed up his face. "I'll use that plant in the corner below us." He grinned. "Who will know, right?"

Hayneswynn smiled. "Go do it, buddy. Go kill that plant."

Still squeezing his crotch, Payne rushed off. As soon as he turned the corner, Hayneswynn pulled open the door and stepped into the king's solar room. He pulled two items from his uniform, a dagger and a hook with thirty feet of thin cord attached to it.

"Sorry, Your Highness," he whispered. "My apologies, ahead of time."

He stood behind the wheeled chair, raised his dagger, and brought it down, stabbing just to the side of the king's breastbone, angling the sharp knife into the boy's heart. It gave him no pleasure, only a sense of helplessness at what he was forced to do in this world. He gave the dagger a twist, knowing it would rip open his fragile heart and seal the fate of the king.

"Hayneswynn?"

He jerked his head around to see Payne standing in the door. The Faceless Man took two bounding steps and dove through the open window, setting his rappelling hook on the ledge as he went through. The thin cord was wrapped around his arm and he felt it slide through the creases of his thick leather sleeve. He slid down the smooth wall with graceful dexterity. His rope ran out ten feet before the ground, but he released the cord and dropped to the paving stones below, tucking and rolling as he hit to keep from breaking an ankle. He finished the roll and leapt to his feet, just as the city watch rounded the corner of a nearby alley. He ran in the opposite direction, turned a corner, and slammed into two more city watch guards who had their backs turned. His momentum carried him past the guards and out into the crowded thoroughfare of Binner Street.

He ducked in the first alley he encountered and shrugged off his jacket, revealing white silk, which he yanked from his trousers, allowing it to fall to his feet, a white cloak. He ripped off the face that he wore and wiped away the elixir with the discarded jacket. Last, he slid on a floppy hat. He stepped back into the crowded street and strutted along with two merchants, smiling, even as city watch bounded past, their own cloaks flapping in the wind as they elbowed people aside.

Eventually, he ducked into another alley, where he sprinted to the end and bounded over the far wall. Five minutes later, he was in Flea Bottom, striding past the squalid denizens and smelly walkways. Flea Bottom, what the scourge of King's Landing called home. He felt at home here, too.

Hours later, he'd successfully evaded the city watch, and now stood at a small cove on Blackwater Bay. He'd previously hired a local smuggler to get him back to Essos, and the man, Haleem Malley, was waiting.

They departed promptly, Haleem rowing. The Faceless Man leaned back and relaxed, knowing there was a larger ship out in the bay, where he'd be slipped into the hold for transport. So many times he'd done these things. It felt almost natural now.

Another successful job under his belt, he thought, as he sighed. He tried to recall how many that made now, but he'd lost count. It didn't really matter. Eventually he'd be killed or captured. In the meantime, he'd continue to serve the great God, the god of death, sacrificing victim after victim as the House directed.

Silently, he fingered the scar on his cheek that he'd created.

"It's a beautiful night," he said.

Haleem smiled between grunts as he worked the oars. "It is a beautiful night, Mr. Chopman."

Another alias. The Faceless Man couldn't even remember his own name anymore. With a sigh, he tilted his head back far enough to look at the stars. He studied them for a moment, then closed his eyes and saw the top of the king's head. He heard the king's small gasp of surprise as the knife entered his royal chest.

A king dies just as easily as a beggar, he thought.

He opened his eyes and studied the stars again.

29

ARYA

Arya examined her hand one last time. Her fingers still looked terrible, except her pinky, which looked absolutely horrible. It was black. Somehow the arteries or veins or whatever hadn't lined up. It was dying or perhaps even dead by now.

—Should be any minute—

She walked to the door and listened through the small opening. Sure enough, the sound of metal scraping against metal came to her. Then more noises as the door at the end of the hall was opened.

She heard muttering. Guards talking.

They were bringing water and food. She had slid the empty bucket and bowl to the door, and now she stood in the middle of her room, heart pounding.

She had one chance at this, and one chance only. If she blew it, then she was done for. She knew this, and Arabesk knew this as well. But he didn't comment. He'd wanted to help, but she was afraid she'd screw things up with him inside her, distracting her.

No, this would be brutally painful, but she needed to do it on her own.

The guards neared her door.

She took a deep breath, blew it out, then bit into her pinky, chomping on it right at the break. She clamped down hard and tore at it, jerking the finger all the way off her hand. Body shaking with pain, she wrapped the dirty cloth around her hand then palmed her severed pinky.

The guard opened the door. "Back against the wall!"

"He won't leave me alone," she bellowed, letting out a loud wail. "Make him stop!"

The guard glanced at the one beside him and the two passed grins to each other.

"STOP IT!" she wailed as loudly as she could. Then she pointed at the wall with her bad hand. "He's coming through! He's boring though the wall!" She pointed at the dirty stones and released a long, piercing wail that carried on and on.

That was enough to shock the guards. Their mouths dropped open, and they both turned their attention to the wall, eyes bulging in horror, scared beyond belief that Arabesk was somehow worming his way through the wall. She used the distraction for one deft movement. She flipped her severed pinky toward the guards, keeping it low, watching out of her peripheral vision. She kept her eyes pointed toward the wall, which helped the guards keep their attention glued to the wall. Her pinky made a perfect arc and dropped gracefully into the bucket of dirty water behind the guards with a small plop, which might have been heard but for her extended shriek.

She fell down on her butt, catching herself with her good hand. She scooted back against the far wall, sobbing. The guards swapped out the buckets and bowls, both of them smirking at her.

—Let them smirk, Winterflower. Their day is coming—

They closed her door and locked it. She waited, holding her hand. She heard the clanks as they opened the door of Arabesk and swapped out his bucket and bowl. Eventually, they headed away.

"How is it? Any life left?" Her voice was soft in the small cell, but she knew he was reading her mind.

—I'm examining it now. Very black. You are beautiful inside, Arya, but this pinky just looks horrible. It's hard to believe it actually came from you—

She sighed and shook her head.

—Okay, I'm gnawing into it. I'll need to go to the bone. Hmm—

"Anything? Please let me know. I don't know if that ploy will work again with another finger."

—I think there's some life left. Give me a few minutes, okay?—

She nodded but said nothing. Instead, she unwrapped her hand to examine the wound. It was bleeding more than she thought. She tightened the nasty kerchief around it, just to stop the bleeding. Once that was taken care of, she moved to the bench.

—I can feel your life here, Arya. I had to crack open the bone and touch the marrow. It was still alive with your spirit—

"So you can heal me?"

—I can. I'm absorbing your essence—

"Will you? Please?"

—You don't have to beg, Winterflower—

She took a deep breath. "Will it hurt? Do you need to come into my mind again?"

—Yes—

She relaxed as she felt him enter. It wasn't as painful as before. Either she was getting used to it or he was being gentle.

—I'm being gentle, Arya. Now, close your eyes. Try to sleep. This will take a while—

She relaxed. But her hand began to tingle.

—Try not to move your hand. It will tingle and itch, but just ignore it—

Ignore it? How? She had nothing to distract her.

—Except your mind—

She began to plan how to get out of here. Once they were free of the prison, they'd need to get back to the port and hope that their ship was still there. With a partial crew, they might have enough food and water left on the ship to get back home. But it would depend on how big the crew was. Concerning that question, how many crew members would it take to get them back home? Five? Ten?

She began to roll the jobs through her mind, seeing the crew members scurry about. She couldn't do it by herself, that was for certain. She'd need at least five other members. And they would all need to work their asses off.

Soon, she fell asleep, still counting sails and ropes of the Magnar Panimus.

She awoke later, feeling groggy. "Arabesk?"

No answer.

Was he asleep?

Her hand. How was it coming? She took a deep breath and slowly held it up. As she did, she realized one amazing fact . . . She felt no pain. None. Not one tinge.

With her heart in her throat, she unwrapped the kerchief and looked at her hand. It wasn't swollen a bit. Her fingers looked normal. Her pinky was still gone, and there was a slight bump at her knuckle, but the area was closed and healthy. Feeling a knot of pleasure inside her, she slowly curled her hand into a fist and it obeyed. No pain. She clasped her hands together and put pressure on her fingers and they responded just like the old days.

"Arabesk?"

Still no answer.

As she clenched her fist together again, she felt tears flowing down her cheeks. She wiped them away, suddenly optimistic and feeling like anything was possible again. She was healthy. She'd get out of this place now. Nothing could stop her.

She picked up the bucket and bowl and brought them to her bench. She held the heavy bucket with her bad hand and it responded just like normal. Arabesk had healed her hand completely. It wasn't even weak. The bones seemed to be as strong as they were before Zorick broke them.

"Bless you, Arabesk."

She gobbled the gruck and forced it down without complaining. She needed strength now.

And Arabesk.

Together, no one could stop them.

30

JON

The return trip to Winterfell was shorter than the first one, simply because Jon was warmer and had Lucella snuggled to his back. Also, he didn't feel imprisoned.

Part of him was amazed about Drogon. Apparently, Jon's Targaryen blood drew the dragon to him. Jon could find no other reason for the dragon's actions and demeanor. He suspected that Lucella's past also involved Targaryens. She was the bastard daughter of a bastard, but somewhere up that chain, someone had slept with a Targaryen. Nothing else would explain the attraction of the dragons to her. She was blonde and beautiful, looking enough like Daenerys to draw Drogon to her, but Frackle and Francella had never known the Mother of Dragons. They had to be drawn to Lucella because of her Targaryen blood.

As they passed over landmarks and natural features, Lucella pointed them out, her excitement and laughter ringing in his ears. There was an excitement about her that Jon liked. She was strong but her life didn't contain enough burdens to dampen her enthusiasm of life.

Jon expected Frackle and Francella to show up during the trip, to come flying up, eyes flashing, but they didn't. Jon hoped they were back at the cave and not terrorizing the small village or the Wild Eye clan.

Winterfell came into view. It's majestic towers, even though they were damaged, brought up nostalgia in Jon, and Lucella whispered, "Is that Winterfell?" He could hear the awe in her voice.

"It is."

Drogon didn't land immediately, but circled the fortification. Perhaps he felt Lucella's awe and wanted to give her a better view. Men pointed at them, including archers on the wall. Jon hoped everything was okay and war was not imminent.

Drogon swooped down into the same opening as before, drawing up with several flaps of his enormous wings. Jon held on for dear life. Once stable, he lowered his body close to the ground and extended his left foreleg, giving Jon and Lucella a ramp to climb down.

Once they were safely standing on the hard, rocky soil of the north, Jon felt a swale of relief. He glanced to the outer wall of Winterfell and saw Sansa push past the group of people at the gate, her frilly blue dress standing out amid the neutral grays and browns of the men around her.

Jon turned to explain things to Lucella, but she marched forward, her head held high. Jon groaned out loud. "Lucella?"

She glanced back but didn't stop; he hurried to catch up with her, and the two of them approached Sansa.

"Thank the gods you're okay, Jon," Sansa said as they drew up to her. "I've been worried to death. You couldn't send a raven?"

"I couldn't," Jon said. "Drogon dropped me off in the wilderness. And this young lady saved my life." He turned to Lucella, who stepped forward with a smile on her face.

"I am Lucella Bearsong." She held out her hand as if to shake.

Sansa blinked. "I am Sansa Stark, Queen of the North."

This time, Lucella blinked, and her mouth dropped open. She bowed quickly and said, "Begging your pardon, Your Highness. I didn't expect Queen Sansa . . . You . . . To greet us. I thought you were simply Jon's friend."

"Friend? I'm his sister. He didn't mention this?"

"Sister?"

Sansa cut her eyes suspiciously. "Jon is Jon Snow-Targaryen, Lord of Nightfold and Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

"I thought Drack Snow was Lord of Nightfold."

Sansa's face curled into a huge grin. "Drack Snow? I've never heard that name. What in the world has my brother been telling you?"

Lucella said, "Please forgive me for what I'm about to do, Your Highness." She spun around, eyes blazing.

"I was going to tell . . ." Jon began, but didn't finish because Lucella's fist came out of nowhere and struck him in the jaw. He staggered backward and then fell on his bottom in the snow.

Lucella stomped past him, heading back toward Drogon.

Jon stood. "Lucella? Lucella?"

She marched forward, oblivious to his pleas.

"My goodness, Jon," Sansa said, smirking. "You have such a way with the ladies."

He groaned out loud and trotted after Lucella, who climbed onto Drogon without even a backward glance. The dragon gazed at Jon as he neared, that big eyeball seeming to look into Jon's soul.

"Lucella, I'm sorry. I know I lied to you, but I didn't want to change our relationship. I liked the way you treated me. I didn't want you to feel differently toward me, and if I'd told you who I was, it would've changed everything."

She gazed down at him. "So you really are Jon Snow? The man who died and then came back to life? The man who led the fight against the Others? The man who killed Daenerys Targaryen?"

"Yes."

"You were a bastard for most of your life, but it turns out, you were never a bastard. But I am, Jon, and I always will be. I'm a nobody, a commoner. And you're the highest nobility in Westeros, the son of Rheagar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. I'm not even worthy to call you my friend."

"See, this is what I was afraid of."

She shook her head. "It was an honor meeting you, Jon Snow."

"Lucella!"

Drogon raised himself off the ground, preparing to leave.

"Lucella, you know where I live. If you don't come see me, then I will come find you."

Drogon turned, his giant tail barely missing Jon, who fell on his face to avoid getting knocked aside. Drogon took a short run, then went airborne. Jon crawled to his feet, watching them, feeling anger at both himself and Lucella. The dragon didn't circle or linger. He turned northeast, and flew straight and true until he disappeared above the tree line.

Sansa walked up alone, her retinue still lingering at the outer wall. "Well, Jon, I'm not entirely sure what just happened, but I have to be honest. When she crawled onto Drogon, upset and angry, my heart drew up into a tiny ball."

"Why?"

"An angry blonde on a dragon? Must I be more specific, Jon?"

"She's nothing like Daenerys."

"And Daenerys was nothing like her father. Until she was exactly like her father."

"Drogon is as much my dragon as hers."

"Right." Sansa stared at the empty sky. "Dragons worry me, Jon. The people of King's Landing want Drogon located and destroyed. And sometimes I think they have a point."

Jon shook his head but said nothing.

"Did she really save your life, Jon?"

"She lives in a cave east of Queenscrown."

"North or Nightfold?"

"Nightfold. Drogon dropped me off and she took me in and fed me. I slept in her cave every night."

"I'm glad you returned."

"Me, too." He glanced around. "I was afraid a war would start in my absence."

"Beckett convinced us that you were okay. I didn't send any ravens. So King's Landing and Nightfold have no idea you were carried off by a dragon."

"Good."

"How about we go inside and eat. And if you're up for it, perhaps you can tell me about the further adventures of Jon Snow, as if all the ones before weren't enough."

He grinned. "Adventures, huh?"

As they walked inside, Jon wondered if he should tell her about Frackle and Francella. She was already worried about dragons. How would she feel about the idea of even more dragons?

.

31

ARYA

Arabesk slept so long that Ayra became worried. She wandered about the small cell for hours, waiting for him to arise, for his melodious voice to appear in her head, but nothing happened. Eventually, she lay on the stone slab and slept, too.

Even after that long nap, he didn't contact her. So she sat on the slab, worry nagging at her, replacing the nagging pain of her hand that had quieted.

Periodically, she would whisper, "Arabesk?" And wait to see if he'd reply.

More hours passed. Finally,

—Winterflower?—

"Arabesk? Thank the gods. I was so worried. Are you okay?"

—I am. Healing puts a lot of stress on me. I slept. How is your hand? Feel better? I didn't know about your pinky. I could've regrown it, but it would've taken longer. And I kind of like it that way—

"My hand is completely healed. I think I could punch someone with it, and nothing would break."

—You are right. The bones are re-knitted together, and the ligaments and tendons are all attached and strong. So you are as good as new—

"I can't believe you did that. Thank you, Arabesk. I take back all the terrible things I thought about you."

—We still have a ways to go. Are you ready for the next step?—

"I am."

—How long has it been? How long was I out?—

"At least half a day. Should we try it on their next visit?"

—Yes—

"Good. I'm anxious. Do you think there are any crew members left?"

—I hope so. We need at least ten, is that right?—

"Yes. We could get away with five, if we had to, but ten would make it easier. Are you sure you can feed us and provide water if we run out?"

—You and I both will be doing it, Arya. Between the two of us, there should be no problems—

She nodded, settling back. They discussed the voyage for a bit, and then settled down into silence. Arya took the moment to ask a question. "What is it about dragonbone? I know it isn't just the density, because if it were, you could go around those tiny helmets the guards wear and dive into their brains."

—No. Dragons are our natural enemies. Their bone is repellent to us. The guards just need one of two tiny morsels near their brains to keep us out. Our wandering thoughts can't get near the stuff, and if it touches us, then it neuters us, to use a strange term—

"So you couldn't control a dragon?"

—Definitely not—

"That also means that Zorick or any other prophets that accompany him couldn't either."

—True. What are you thinking? That dragons will defeat them?—

"There are dragon skulls in King's Landing. We could break them up and use them as needed."

—A bridge to cross in the far distance. Let's focus on getting out of here, first. Okay, Winterflower?—

"I'm ready. If those guards would get here." Arya cracked her knuckles. Both hands. "Did you hear that, Arabesk? That was the sound of my fists warming up to punch someone in the face."

—I'm laughing, Arya. If you break a hand punching them, I will gladly heal you again. Deal?—

Arya grinned. She was beginning to like Arabesk more than she'd ever imagined. He might murder her later, once they were free of this prison, but for the moment, he was her only friend. "Can I be honest about something, Arabesk?"

—Of course. Honesty is the preferred method of communication. Especially since I can read your mind—

Arya wiggled her fingers, still amazed at how beautiful the healing was. "I look forward to being your disciple."

—It will be magic, Arya. Pure magic. You will see—

She started to reply, but heard the sound of metal scraping. "I hear guards coming. Are you ready?"

—Standing by, Captain Stark—

Arya re-wrapped her hand with the dirty kerchief and moved to the center of the cell. She squatted, then leaned forward until her knees were on the floor, so as to look more subservient. She closed her eyes and waited. Her sense of hearing had already adjusted to the acoustics and sound distortions of the cell.

The guard inserted the key into her door and gave it a twist. The sounds of metal scraping metal, of internal parts moving, was unbelievably loud to her.

The guard pushed open the door but paused. "Back against the wall, princess."

Arya raised her hand, and in a weak, feeble voice said, "My hand is turning black. Can you help me?"

"It'll rot off eventually," the guard said. He stepped into the room, dropped the full bucket of water and picked up the empty. He turned to grab the bowl of gruck, and in that moment of distraction, Arya came out of her crouch, took one leap, and snatched the full bucket off the floor. She was already tossing it as the guard turned, eyes wide. He ducked the bucket, but it wasn't the bucket she was throwing, it was the water. It shot over his head and splashed against the oil lamp.

The entire area blinked into darkness.

Arya continued driving forward, plowing into the guard and pushing him out into the hallway, keeping his body between her and guard number two, who held the crossbow. The first guard was shaped like a gorilla, and he grabbed Arya with his burly arms, hugging her to himself, thinking she was trying to escape. But that wasn't her goal, at least for the moment. She snatched his mini-helmet for his head and tossed it aside. Almost instantly he went stiff. She felt his arms jerk and then release her.

Guard number two, armed with a crossbow, turned and ran. His sounds betrayed him. In the darkness, he scraped his left arm against the wall to keep track of where he was in the hallway. The abrasive sound almost screamed at Arya as she flew after him, feet pattering silently on the stone flooring. She caught him just before he reached the next door and snatched the helmet from his head, too.

He fell forward, clawing at his head because he knew what it meant.

Arya stood, gasping slightly. "Arabesk? Do you have them?"

—Both of them are in my control. The first guard has the keys. Get them and open my cell. I'll turn up my lamps—

A blazing yellow light came out of the small hole in his cell door, illuminating the hallway. The burly guard stood frozen. Arya ran back to him and snatched the key ring hanging from his belt. She went to the door of Arabesk, feeling a swell of emotion. She would finally get to meet the voice in her head.

"Turn them down a little. I'm here at your door."

The yellow light faded into a faint glow.

—It is time for you to see Arabesk, Prophet of Giot, in all his glory, huh, Winterflower?—

Arya didn't comment. She unlocked the door and threw it open.

And then gasped out loud.

Arabesk was almost a skeleton. He sat on the floor, back leaning against the wall. No clothes covered his frail body. He seemed to be dirt, hair, and jutting bones. His shaggy hair and beard covered his face so thoroughly that she couldn't get a clear image of his face. All she saw was his yellow eyes, blaring into the darkness. He didn't look human. He looked like some wild beast that had been trapped and left to die. She felt such a swell of anger and pity that she remained frozen for a moment.

—Arya?—

She took a deep breath. Concentrate, she whispered to herself.

Both hands were in shackles, but each shackle was connected to a short chain that led to the wall behind him, one chain on his left and one on his right. He couldn't even get up. He'd been forced to sit in the floor in that position for years. She felt her throat close up with rage.

—Arya?—

She took a deep breath then stepped inside, refusing to dwell on Arabesk or his squalid conditions. She knelt near him to examine the shackles.

The chains were black metal, and some of the links looked thin. Maybe they were weak.

—There are no key holes for the shackles. They were put on my wrists and beaten together—

"I guess it's time to test my hands," she said, sitting down beside him. She took one of the shackles in her hands, placed her feet on the wall, and then pulled with everything inside her. Nothing. The black metal of the chain looked small and puny, but apparently it was stronger than she thought.

She moved to the other side, took the manacle in her hand, put her feet on the wall and pulled with everything. This time there was an audible snap, and she fell backward.

"Way to go, Winterflower," he said. His voice was weak and hoarse. Nothing like the resonant whisper that he generated inside her head.

She held the shackle close to her face to see how sturdy it was. "Lights," she whispered. And he turned them up, his eyes blazing again.

He was right. The shackles had the glittering dragonbone made into them, and they were beaten into their needed shape around his wrist. No gaps, no hinges. But they seemed to be same black metal underneath the dragon bone.

She jumped up, went to the hallway, and grabbed the empty water bucket. Both guards were still frozen in place. She wondered about them. They were probably due back at an office somewhere. How long before someone sounded an alarm? No time to think about it, though. She had to get them out of here.

The bucket was heavy and solid, and she dropped it on the floor beside Arabesk's bony leg. She stood the manacle on the floor sideways, then picked up the bucket, raised it above her head, then brought it down on the manacle. Nothing. She did it again, several times, but the manacle was sturdier than she thought. She moved to the other manacle, the one that was still attached to the chain. Arabesk had more freedom with the loose hand, so he held the manacle on edge, allowing her to raise the bucket high and drive it down. The manacle broke on the first hit.

Arabesk moaned out loud. "Ahhh. One down, one to go." He held up his left hand, bereft of the manacle, and Arya realized his left hand was swollen. He was missing the pinky, but the other three fingers were black and blue. Her hand looked just like hers used to before he healed her. That was weird.

"Can you heal yourself?" she asked. "If we get the other manacle off?"

"I can."

"Read my mind."

She was thinking that she needed to break his hand to get the manacle off. Dislocate his thumb. Then maybe the manacle could be pulled off. Perhaps with some blood as lubricant.

"Do it," he said.

He was all bones. She stared at his hand for a moment. Maybe she could slide it off if she had enough lubrication. She held up the key that she'd brought in. It was worn smooth with use. No good. She glanced around the floor and located the broken link from the chain. It had a sharp end, so she used it to tear a line down her forearm. As the blood flowed out, she let it run onto the hand of Arabesk. After slathering the coppery liquid around the heel of his hand, she said, "This is going to hurt." She placed a foot on his chest and grabbed the manacle with both hands and gave it a vicious yank. It popped off but she heard the distinct snap of bone to accompany it.

"That was fun," he whispered, voice shaking. "Can you pop my thumb back into place?"

He explained to her where to grab it and where to pull, and she gave the thumb a quick tug and it popped into place and looked normal when she released it.

"Before I get up, we need to start the transformation."

"Into me being your disciple?"

"Yes," he said. "Lie down beside me with your head close. I need to drip my blood into your eyes."

Arya had been contemplating it and had decided that she wanted this. She would be his disciple. She might regret it one day, but for the moment, it was the only way to get out of this prison and out of this wretched kingdom. Without hesitating, she lay on her back beside him, head beside his thigh, her hair lying in the smelly filth that had built up under him.

—One day, Arya, we will be clean, and I will smell your hair and it will remind me of flowers and sunshine. But for today, we must wallow in this filth—

"Just do it," she whispered, the emotional turmoil hurt more than any physical pain might.

He picked up the broken chain link and used it to tear a wound in his arm, just the way Arya had done. She groaned inside when he did it because she couldn't imagine him doing it without scraping bone.

—Pull your eyelids apart—

"Which eye?"

—Do the left one first—

She pulled it apart and stared up into the murky darkness of the ceiling. The view was replaced by his skeletal arm hovering above her. She felt a plop on her eye and tried to blink but her fingers prevented it. "Is that it? Is that all for that eye?"

—It is—

They repeated the procedure for the right eye. Arya sat up, blinking, as both eyes began to burn.

"Now help me up," he said.

Arya stood beside him. He crawled to his feet, using Arya as a crutch. Once erect, he clung to her for long moment, testing his thin legs, getting used to walking again. When he released her, his legs trembled like a leaves in a strong wind, but he didn't fall.

"Can you walk?" she asked.

—I'm pulling strength from the two guards. It's the only thing keeping me erect—

"Okay, lean on me."

He shook his head. "I'll make it, Winterflower."

She stepped out into hall. One of the guards was gone and her heart leaped in alarm.

—The skinny guard is inside your old cell. Can you lock the door? Yes, those are his clothes in the floor. Can you carry them? We're going to the office just ahead. I need to clean up and put on those clothes—

He was reading Arya's mind and answering the questions as they occurred to her. She locked the cell door, snatched up the clothes, then turned to look at the burly guard, who stood immobile. Then she noticed a small trail of blood under his nose.

—He's coming with us—

The big guard trudged down the short corridor; Arya and Arabesk followed. They passed through the door at the end of the hall and turned left down another corridor. They ended up in collection of rooms with one guard who sat behind a wooden desk, sipping coffee. He froze as they entered and slowly placed the cup on the desk. He stared straight ahead. Arya knew Arabesk had taken control of him, too.

Arya stuck her head into one small room and discovered a privy, which should've been obvious by the smell. But just outside stood a table with a large basin and several jugs of water. Towels and soap were located on the shelf underneath.

—I need to wash myself, Arya. Out in public, people will be concerned if I have yellow eyes but look like a beggar—

Arya poured water from one of the jugs into the large basin. "Dunk your head," she said. She washed his hair then worked her way down his body, using lots of lye soap. His entire backside was covered with sores and he moaned pitifully when she scrubbed them.

She dug through a box on the lower shelf and found a sharp razor and a comb. After shaving him, brushing his hair and pulling it back into a ponytail, he looked handsome and prophet-worthy. Already, his face had lost some of the angularity of before, but his dark eyebrows still stood out.

She helped him don the guard's uniform they'd brought from the hall.

—Thank you, Winterflower—

"For what?"

—For thinking that I am handsome—

She grinned. "Okay, what now?"

—We eat, quickly, then we go find your crew—

"Eat?"

—There's food. Right around the corner—

He was right. In another of the small rooms jutting off the office area, Arya found bread, cheese, jerky, and wine. They gobbled up as much as they could in the three minutes Arabesk had allowed for the task.

A bolt of fear shot through her when she noticed that the guard behind the desk had disappeared.

—I sent him to the other cell. I locked it myself and hid the key—

She imagined the guard walking down the corridor with the key floating behind him. Then the guard entering the cell and the key locking him in, all by itself, as if a ghost were wielding it. "So this guard will accompany us?" she asked, looking at the one who'd first walked into her cell. He'd wiped the blood off his nose and looked normal.

—Yes. I've conformed him. His name is Kerk. He obeys me now, without question—

They exited the offices and followed more dank corridors, eventually passing through the common prisoner area.

—Your people are in a separate area. Kerk is taking us there—

As they passed other guards, Arya put her wrists together to look like she was still shackled. But with Kerk leading, no one stopped them. No one asked any questions.

They took more turns and ended up in another part of the dungeon. Just inside the main entrance, one guard stood duty, but went stiff the moment Arabesk entered. Arya saw only one large cell with several men inside. She rushed over to them and squinted in the dim light.

"Princess Stark!" Jommer said, rushing over. He grasped the bars and grinned at her. "Thank the gods, you're alive!" The other members crowded in behind him. Otto, Shyck, Erlick, Puck, Thulsie, and Ryder.

"We're getting out of here," Arya whispered. "This is Arabesk. He's one of the prophets, but he's a good one. Not only is he going to help us escape, he's going back to Westeros with us. We've got to warn them. The other prophets are going to invade Westeros."

"Can you get us out?" Jommer asked.

Kerk, stoic and clumsy, pushed past everyone and unlocked the doors. All of the remaining crew of the Magnar Panimus poured out, all except for one in the corner. Arya recognized him, even in the dim light. Dexter Brunner.

"He's gone," Jommer said. "They broke his head somehow. He just sits and hums to himself. Won't talk. Won't even look at us when we shake him."

Arya yelled, "Brunner!"

No reaction from the man.

Jommer said, "Let's just leave him."

Arya nodded.

The lone guard who had been watching over the crew was now under the control of Arabesk. He marched himself into the cell and took a seat beside Brunner, who didn't notice. Kerk pushed everyone aside and re-locked the cell door.

"Where now?" Arya asked.

—I'm still in Kerk's mind. He's going to lead us out of the city and to the wharf, taking the fastest, safest route. Just follow along. It's not far—

Kerk took the lead, followed by Arya, then her crew. Arabesk fell to the rear of the pack so that it looked like a guard led the ragged prisoners and another guard followed behind.

They passed several checkpoints. Kerk gave a curt nod to his fellow security members, and Arya's group marched on without stopping. Arya glanced back several times to check on Arabesk, afraid he'd lag behind or collapse, but he seemed steady. At the checkpoints, he kept his head down and his eyes dim.

Out in the streets, the common citizens were nothing like the people of Westeros. There weren't many out this late at night, but the night hawks were dressed nondescript and hurried from place to place, eyes downcast, their body language suggesting great fearfulness. No one showed interest in Arya's group, mostly likely for fear of being singled out. Paranoia ruled here, Arya thought.

—Hold up—

Arya threw up a hand and the parade ground to a halt. She glanced back at Arabesk, who was staring toward one of the businesses on their right. A merchant. Men's clothier. He continued to stare.

What are you doing?

—Shopping, my dear lady. Shopping—

A thick chain locking the front door fell away and clinked onto the ground. The door swung open.

—Wait here. I'll return in a flea's tickle—

He walked inside. The men glanced around at Arya. She could feel the fear rolling off them in waves. The lead guard looked unconcerned, content to stare into nothing until the end of time.

Moments later, Arabesk walked out of the store and smiled at Ayra. He'd ditched the guard uniform and now wore a red shirt with brown trousers. A flowery silk vest added even more color to the ensemble, and a gold chain with a giant emerald pendant completed the picture.

—Now I look like a prophet, right?—

I guess. Are you ready to go on?

He glanced at the door, and it slammed shut. The chain draped itself around the handles and the padlock folded together.

—I'm ready. Let's continue on, shall we?—

It wasn't far to the seafront. Once they hit the area, they topped a small ridge, a frontage road, that overlooked the wharf. Several piers jutted out into the sea, all of them lined with boats. Some were galleys, almost as large as the Panimus, but most were smaller vessels.

At the corner of the wharf stood a three-story building with many windows at the top.

—The harbormaster stays there. I'm inside now, finding his presence in case I need him. I think we can work with the dock hands here, but if I need backup, I'll wake him and get him involved—

A fire burned at one corner, and several men stood around, talking.

—Head to them—

Arya's crew walked up to the men, who turned away from the fire and lined up as if ready for a confrontation. A gangly sailor stood in front. Arya could recognize the type now.

"The harbor is closed at night," he said, voice low and commanding. He had a tattoo on his neck that looked like a snake. A snake?

Arabesk pushed past Arya and her men and stepped forward. "We're here to take this new alien ship out for a voyage to see how she handles."

The dock hand smiled without humor. "I'm Dinton Hamm, assistant to the assistant harbormaster. I've heard nothing about this."

"I am Dalton, Prophet of Giot."

Hamm cocked his head. "Dalton? You're on the other coast. How did you get here so fast?"

The yellow eyes of Arabesk came to life, blaring brightly into the night. Arabesk said, "I flew."

Under the daunting yellow glare, Hamm drew back, but not fast enough. Something grabbed him around the neck and lifted him off the ground. He floated closer to Arabesk, who said, "Do you dare question a prophet of Giot?"

Hamm tried to talk, but he was being strangled and couldn't get a word out. He flailed weakly, hands clawing at his neck. Arya glanced at Arabesk, afraid he would kill the man, but he finally released him, flinging him backward. Hamm landed with a soft thud on the smooth stones. He rolled quickly to his knees, gasping, "No, your benevolence. I am sorry. I wasn't aware you were in town yet."

All the men behind Hamm had fallen to their knees, too. All eyes were pointed toward the ground; no one dared look into the yellow eyes of Arabesk, whose strong voice finally came out. "Rumors are that this foreign ship is better designed than even my most expensive yachts, and I need to see for myself. I want you and your men to load her with supplies so we can see how she takes a wave with a swollen belly. I dare to venture that she will wallow in the sea like a fat whore on a soft bed."

Arabesk snapped his fingers. "Up, workers. Get the ship loaded. I don't have all night. I need to be back by tomorrow mid-day for our meeting."

The group of workers leapt to their feet with alacrity and ran down to the end of the pier, all except Hamm, who paused and said, "Your grace? We have no supplies specifically for the ship. What do you want on it?"

Arabesk groaned out loud, and Hamm grimaced, expecting to be hurt. But Arabesk said, "What do you have?"

In the yellow light, Hamm blinked. "Um. We have a load of food ready to ship north to Barnwell. Fruits, vegetables, jerky, cheese, bread . . ."

"Load it. We'll bring it back tomorrow and you can unload it. Do you have water? Put some water on there, too. Water is heavy and shifts. Perfect to test the stability."

"Yes, Your Highness."

He ran off.

"Should we help load?" Arya asked.

The yellow light dimmed. Arabesk said, "Yes. It'll be quicker. Your men can get on the boat and take it from there. Once you think we have enough supplies to sail, then let me know." He glanced at Arya's crew. "Tell your crew members to keep their mouths shut as much as possible."

"Will do."

Lights blinked on in the harbormaster building. Third floor. Arya gazed up at it, wondering if it was important.

—It's the harbormaster. I'm in his head now. Everything is good. Go get us loaded, Arya. We need to be out of here as soon as possible—

She turned to her crew. "Let's go, men. We need to be gone by first light."

32

TYRION

Ser Podrick Payne stood erect in front of the small council. "I met Ser Hayneswynn outside the tower, my lords, as was our custom when we were reporting for duty together. I did a quick examination like we've been doing lately, and I noticed he was missing that small clip on his boot string. He knew the catechism lines, all of them, which wasn't surprising because he was having trouble memorizing them, so he had written them down and carried them in his pocket—I told him that was a bad idea, but he did it anyway. So when we met, he answered correctly, but he was missing that damned clip on his boot . . ."

"Did he seem like Ser Hayneswynn?" Tyrion asked.

"Exactly, my lord. His speech, the way he curls his lip when he smiles. All of it. I would've never guessed it wasn't Ser Hayneswynn."

Tyrion nodded. "So you thought he could be the Faceless Man?"

"I didn't, not really. But that missing clip, it stood out in my mind, and kept nagging at me. Do you know what I mean? So I did like we'd rehearsed. I acted like I needed to piss, just to give him a minute alone with the fake king."

"And he went for the king?"

"I walked to the end of the hall, then turned around and came back, and he was in there with the king, knife raised high. I couldn't have stopped him if I tried. After the deed, he leaped through that window like he could fly. It was only after I ran to the window that I saw the rappelling hook. I think he hooked it as he jumped out the window."

Tyrion nodded.

"I couldn't believe it," Podrick said. "He was everything you said he'd be."

Brienne asked, "Do you have any idea when he changed places with Ser Hayneswynn?"

Podrick shook his head. "No, Lord Commander. Hayneswynn was my friend, but we didn't socialize much after work."

"Ser Hayneswynn was a valiant knight," Brienne said. "He will be missed. But King Bran had prophesied that one of the seven knights of the kingsguard would be replaced by the Faceless man. Hayneswynn spoke to me three days ago about it. He said that if his death saved the king, then he would go to the next life contented that this life had been meaningful. It was an honor having him in the kingsguard. He was an exceptional knight."

Podrick bowed. "Thank you, Lord Commander, for those kind words. He always admired you."

"Any more questions for Ser Podrick?" Tyrion asked, glancing around the table. "No? Very well. Ser Podrick, you did well. If you hadn't stepped out like we planned, his only course of action would've been to murder you first."

"I know, my lord."

"You may go," Tyrion said.

After Ser Podrick departed, Tyrion looked around the room at the small council members. "Well, that went as well as could be expected."

King Bran groaned. "A boy died in my place, Tyrion."

"In all fairness, Your Highness, he volunteered for the mission."

Bran sighed. "I still feel terrible."

Tyrion had found the boy in Flea Bottom. He was paralyzed, another victim of the Drassacre, and he looked so much like Bran that Tyrion had stopped in his tracks the moment he saw him. The boy's name was Ludlow, and his mother propped him up on a street corner every day with a bowl beside him. He collected five or ten coppers a day, providing someone didn't steal it. He had two sisters and two brothers, and the family barely survived. For his part in the Faceless Man scheme, Tyrion promised the family five hundred gold dragons, which was enough for them to live comfortably the rest of their lives.

"I was in his mind," Bran said, "when he died. It was relief for him, such a relief. All he could see was how much of a burden he was on his mother, on his family, and with his death, they would all be taken care of." A tear ran down Bran's cheek, and he wiped it away.

Brienne said, "Good thing we used extra precautions. That small clip on the boot laces allowed Podrick to discover that Hayneswynn had been compromised."

Tyrion sighed. "Compromised? If you mean murdered and the body disposed of, then compromised works for me."

"We knew someone would die," Maester Tarly said. "I'm just glad it wasn't our king. But the question before us today is this . . . Did it work? Has the Faceless Man departed? Will they give up or will they come back?"

"Only our king will know for sure," Tyrion said, glancing at Bran.

Tarly asked, "Do we still play this scenario like we planned, Lord Hand?"

"We've no choice," Tyrion said. "We need to know who is behind this. We need to know the person who hired the faceless assassins."

"So we keep the king hidden," Bronn said. "And we never release information about the attempt?"

Tyrion nodded. "If you were the one who hired them, and you received word from the Faceless Men that the king was dead, what would you do? I'd wait, for a bit. Wait for word from King's Landing that King Bran had been murdered by an assassin. But after a while, if no raven arrived bearing the ill news, I'd try to verify it somehow, even if I had to travel to King's Landing and seek an audience with His Grace."

"Seek an audience? About what?" Bronn said.

Tyrion cocked his head, still thinking. "I would imagine that it would be something legitimate, but not a matter worthy of a trip to King's Landing. Something a few ravens shuffling messages back and forth could have settled. But he—or she—will arrive in person, determined to see the king."

"I like it," Bronn said. "Good plan, Lord Hand."

"Your Grace?" Tyrion said, turning to get Bran's okay, but the king had fallen under the faraway grace, as Tyrion liked to call it. The king was dreaming again.

Tarly said, "I vote yes, that we hide the news."

Brienne nodded. "I concur."

Two members of the small council were missing. Lord Kemper, Master of War, was in Lannisport, examining new weaponry, and Lord Hasp, Master of Laws, was in Riverrun, discussing ascension rules with Edmure Tully. Tyrion debated contacting them but decided that it was too risky sending ravens. Better to wait and tell them in person when they returned.

"Then we keep it a secret," Tyrion said, "and see who comes calling, determined to see the king."

"How long do we wait?" Tarly asked.

"Two months? Three?" Tyrion shrugged. "It'll take time for them to receive word from the guild, then they'll spend some time gloating, waiting for word to arrive that the king is dead. Next, they'll think we're covering it up, that the hand and the small council are hiding the death of the king. Eventually, they'll come here, which might take several weeks, depending on where they are in the kingdom."

Bronn looked up. "Since the emergency is over, can I have my guards back now? My crews are slim. I'm surprised I haven't been robbed."

"Can we give it a few days?" Tyrion said. "I want to see if Bran has any more revelations before we decide that the peril is past us."

Bronn chuckled. "Do you ever want to wake him up when he's like that? Just shake him until he comes back to King's Landing?"

"Shaking the king is frowned upon," Brienne said. "Especially in front of the kingsguard, and that includes me."

"Brienne, for a woman, you're no fun," Bronn said, smiling.

Brienne refrained from continuing the conversation, even though Bronn had left her with a natural opening. Tyrion prayed that those two never came together for anything other than small council meetings. Bronn claimed to be a stallion under the sheets and Brienne could easily be described as insurmountable. Thus, it would be a physical example of that old quandary . . . if an unstoppable object hit an immovable object, what would happen? Bedlam, Tyrion thought. No pun intended.

"Anything else to talk about?" he asked, glancing around the room.

No one spoke.

"Then we'll meet again tomorrow, and maybe King Bran will have news from the dream world."

33

LUGO

Lugo Martell had been in Essos during the War of the Five Kings. He'd only heard tales of the goings on in Westeros concerning Dorne, especially how Oberyn, his cousin, had surely defeated The Mountain, Gregor Clegane, in combat, but only lost the battle due to his arrogance. Once home, Lugo had discovered the rest of the drama; how Ellaria Sand and the sand snakes, so adamant for revenge against the Lannisters, had not only murdered Myrcella, Cersei Lannister's daughter, but Ellaria had also murdered the Prince of Dorne, Doran Martell and his son, Trystane. Eventually, Cersei Lannister captured Ellaria, and she'd died during the Drassacre.

Dorne was struggling when Lugo returned. It was a simple matter for Lugo to wrest control of Sunspear, and by extension, all of Dorne, with just a few killings. Of course, he'd had help. He'd returned with a mystic named Wickens, who had warned Lugo about the weak leadership at Dorne, and also helped him take command upon his arrival.

Lugo stood at the railing behind his solar, enjoying the garden and the crisp air. Wickens stood beside him. It was a marvelous evening. Lugo held in his hand a communique sent by raven.

It read, Deed is done. Payment expected. FM

The short missive caused much excitement in Lugo as well as much horror. It meant that the Faceless Men had succeeded in their endeavor, and now their blood payment was due. He hated that part of the deal, but he'd agreed to it, and now there was no turning back. Else they'd come for him.

Wickens said, "How long before we heard word from King's Landing?" The man was short, with wavy, brown hair and a ferret face. He was highly forgettable, and could stroll through crowded streets for days without a single person denoting his existence in their minds. He was so short, he came to Lugo's shoulder, but then Lugo was six foot three, dark-haired, dark-skinned, and possessing that aristocratic Martell nose. They were an odd couple when seen side-by-side, but Lugo made sure people never saw them together in public.

"Nothing yet from King's Landing," Lugo said. "I would think they'd take a few days to sort things out and discuss how to handle the assassination. They've got a lot to think about. This election was their idea, now they'll have to implement it."

"Yes," Wickens said. A smile flitted across his face. "When you become king, will I be your hand, or perhaps Master of Spies?"

"As my hand, you would be thrust into the public life. Is that what you want?"

He shrugged. "I'm not sure, my prince. I've always lived in the shadows."

"I could appoint a hand, but make it clear that he answers to you first, and then me. With that arrangement, you could continue to move in the shadows, my personal wraith."

"Good idea." Wickens cocked his head. "Maybe a great idea. Let me think about it."

"We have a month or two. They'll need to call this election, then the rulers of the nine realms, not just the seven, will travel to King's Landing for this ritual that they've dreamed up. Every realm gets one vote. Nine realms, nine votes. All we need is five."

"I can't wait," Wickens said, with a hint of glee in his voice.

Lugo glanced at his advisor. He didn't know if Wickens used hypnosis or some other form of compulsion, but the man could crawl into people's heads and make them do his bidding.

"I don't know if you can persuade Tyrion Lannister or Jon Snow-Targaryen to change their votes," Lugo said, "but the rest of them are weak enough. Especially that child from The Eyrie, Jon Arryn's boy. He'll be my first supporter."

"Children are easy to influence," Wickens said. He picked up wine from the table behind them and took a long drink. "How does their system work, anyway? If all nine realms supply a candidate, then the first round will result in nine votes, one for each candidate. How do they resolve a nine-way tie?"

"I think you're not allowed to vote for your own candidate, which is an odd way of doing things, if you ask me."

"It's insane," Wickens said. "But if it gets you into the iron throne, or what passes for it these days, then I like it."

They stared into the garden for several minutes, until Wickens said, "It's a shame about the girl."

Lugo groaned. They couldn't be late on the payment. It had to be delivered to Pentos within a fortnight. Lugo had a boat waiting, ready to deliver a sealed package to a specific address in Pentos.

Their payment for assassinating the king? The head of Lugo's niece, Lida Martell, a sweet girl of nine, who made you think of flowers and silk every time you saw her.

Lugo, his heart feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds, said, "Go get Sidigo. Tell him it's time to enact our plan. And let's pray everything goes smoothly."

"It will," Wickens said. "He has two beggars and a thief already lined up for the crime. Your niece will disappear, but Sidigo will quickly present their heads to you, and perhaps the last dress she was last wearing—just to satisfy your sister. Never fear, my prince. We have the details worked out perfectly. And once it's done, we already have a man ready to deliver it to Pentos."

Lugo nodded. "Why did they have to have my niece? Why couldn't they take money?"

"They worship the god of death, my prince. To them, killing Lida isn't a bad thing."

"Once I'm king, I plan to send men to Pentos to root out their man there and punish him, and then continue on to Braavos to destroy their entire organization. The Faceless Men?" He shook his head. "Bastards. Soon, they'll be lifeless men. Just wait until I become king."

"Good idea," Wickens said. "You'll have me, my lord, and together, no one can stop us. We might even cross the Narrow Sea and conquer Essos."

Lugo smiled. "We could rule the world, my friend. The entire world, and not just Westeros."

"It is a dream only worthy of you, my prince."

The two men stood a long moment, gazing into the serene garden, before Wickens scampered off to set about that most terrible payment.

Lugo forced himself to shed at least one tear. He wiped it from his cheek and then smiled, satisfied.

A king must have a heart.

34

ARYA

Two hours later, Arya thought they had enough supplies to make it to Westeros. The crates weren't all below, most were still stacked topside, but Arabesk had made the crew of pier workers man one of the rope boats and pull the Magnar Panimus out into the channel.

Arabesk stood on the bow, looking firm and resolute, but Arya could feel waves of exhaustion coming off him, a tremulous, sputtering feeling. She stood beside him, offering as much mental support as she could.

Once they crossed that point where the winds weren't coming in directly from sea, the crew hoisted the sails, and a stiff wind caught them. With sails billowing, the Panimus picked up speed. They couldn't sail directly away from Ninerland, but angled south. As the lights from the harbor disappeared, and land receded, Arabesk collapsed onto the deck and didn't move.

The nearby crew members gathered around.

"We should kill him," Blake said. "He's one of them."

Arya glanced up, fire in her eyes. "There's seven more of them, just like him, with fifty-six others, almost like him. And they plan to sail to Westeros. He's the only good one, and he's going to help us defend ourselves."

Their eyes bored into her. They were afraid of Arabesk. They'd seen only a fraction of what he could do, and fear came off them. Arya could feel it.

"He was in the prison with me." She held up her hand. "Zorick, the bad one, the one who runs this province, broke my fingers. Folded them back until the touched the back of my hand. Arabesk healed me. That's his specialty. He's a healer. And that's one of the reasons I'm taking him back."

Jommer blinked. "Oh! I understand."

Glancing up, Arya asked, "What?"

"He's a healer. This is about King Bran. You think he can heal our king?"

"I hope so. More importantly, he can save us from the other prophets who plan to sail to Westeros. He will help us defeat them. So no one bothers him. He is my guest."

"What else can he do?" Jommer asked.

"He can read minds. So if you're walking around, thinking that you should stick a knife in his back, you're probably going to get thrown overboard. Understand?"

"What's he worth?" Erlick asked, licking his lips. "Is he worth a lot? Because he's the only treasure we're bringing back."

Arya smiled. "Everyone here will get paid handsomely when we get back. I'll see to that."

Erlick nodded.

"Help me get him to the captain's quarters," Arya said. "Then we need to get all our supplies down below. We wouldn't want a storm to blow everything overboard."

Arya squatted and took Arabesk under the arms. Erlick took his feet, and they stood.

"He's as light as a feather," Erlick whispered.

"They starved him," Arya said, feeling that knot of sympathy swell inside her. "Put him back down."

They lowered him back to the floor and Arya moved to his side and lifted Arabesk by herself. He probably didn't weigh seventy pounds. "Go fix the captain's bed."

Erlick ran in that direction. As Arya carried her mentor down below, taking her time on the narrow steps, Arabesk awoke and put his arms around Arya's neck.

—Thank you, Winterflower—

"Shhh. You need to rest."

—I just wanted to tell you that I put holes in the hulls of their warships. They're all sinking now. No one will be coming after us tomorrow. Just wanted to let you know—

"Good. Now, rest."

His head fell back on her shoulder, and he buried his face in her neck. She felt like a mother carrying her young son to bed.

Arabesk might seem like a child now, but Erlick was right. Arabesk was the treasure they were taking back. But he was her treasure.

Or, at least, she hoped.

35

JON

Jon spent his first two days back at Castle Black studying maps with Maester Seder. Jon wanted to see not only where Lucella's cave was located, but the position of the village and the Wild Eye Clan as well. That area was not well-documented, even in the library of the Night's Watch, which had hundreds of maps. Some had been drawn within the last ten years, but most were very old, with some of them hundreds of years old.

After examining all the maps, Jon still wasn't sure exactly where Lucella's cave was located.

The Nightfold Manifest, which had created the region and marked the boundaries, stated that the southwest point for the territory would be Pontus Point, a known landmark in the Bay of Ice. The southeast point would be Morgen's Hill, the ruins of an ancient castle on the east coast. Jon had seen the place, and it was two crumbling stone walls with a castle's worth of stones scattered around it.

The line between the two points ran parallel to the wall and was roughly two hundred miles south of the wall. This area included Lucella's cave, the small village they'd found, and the land claimed by the Wild Eye Clan.

Jon wanted to get all the boundaries resolved before the leader of the Wild Eye Clan arrived. That way, he could negotiate fairly and properly. Jon already had other ideas that the Clan wouldn't like but would have to deal with it. Jon had decided to give Lucella her own region, which consisted of the entire southwest corner.

Jon glanced up at Maester Seder, who sipped coffee while tracing lines on the map spread before them. "Can you take all these maps and combine them into one detailed map?" Jon asked.

"Of course, my lord."

"I need it done before the Wild Eye Clan shows up. They're trying to claim this entire area, I think," Jon said, circling it with his finger. "And that's not going to work."

"One strong clan can stabilize a region," Maester Seder said. "As long as they swear fealty to Nightfold."

"I'm not sure how strong they are. When their lord gets here, I'll find out, providing he's honest with me."

Beckett burst into the room, huffing. "It's Drogon, my lord. He's back."

"Is he alone?"

Beckett blinked. "Alone?"

"Never mind." Jon stood. "Get my furs, my seal boots, my sword, and that bag beside my desk. Meet me outside."

While Beckett gathered supplies, Jon quickly explained his thoughts to the maester on how much land the Wild Eye Clan might get. Maester Seder took notes in his worn notebook.

"No promises," Jon said. "But hear them out. If they ask where I am, tell them I'm riding dragons, and I'll look at their request when I return."

"Very good, my lord."

"And don't get antsy if I'm gone for longer than a day. It might take me a while to get back. Several weeks, even."

Maester Seder nodded. "We'll hold things down here, my lord."

Jon hurried outside, afraid the dragon would leave, but Drogon waited in the same field as before. Beckett stumbled into view, loaded down. He dropped everything at Jon's feet, then helped his lord get dressed.

Satisfied that the furs would keep him warm and the seal boots would keep his feet dry, Jon slung the bag onto his shoulder. "Thanks, Beckett."

Jon marched across the field, feeling like he'd actually enjoy the trip this time.

"Take care, my lord!" Beckett yelled. "Don't let him eat you!"

Drogon lowered his head as Jon approached, that large eye rolling around to observe. What was the dragon thinking? Jon wondered. Respect? Loyalty? Malice? Was he doing this for Lucella? Jon touched the dragon's face. Drogon snorted lightly and that burnt sulfur smell enveloped Jon.

The dragon lowered a shoulder and Jon clambered upon the rough scales, settling at the base of Drogon's immense neck.

"Okay, boy, girl, whatever you are. Let's go find, Lucella, okay?" Drogon rose to his full height, took a few thundering steps, and launched them both into the air.

Jon felt that wild exhilaration of freedom blossom in his chest. He smiled into the rush of wind. He was beginning to love this.