9: At night, the two princes…

At night, the two princes…

The Prince of Whores

The bear knight's gaze never found him.Full novel: Dragons of Ice and Fire — read the rest free on N​o⁠v​e⁠l​C⁠o​d⁠e​x⁠.​o⁠r​g⁠

That was the gift of it. Whatever in all Seven fucking Hells this Westerosi knight was doing here, whoever he was - and the knight was very far from home indeed given that they were in fucking Selhorys on the Rhoyne - he was currently rather quite… magnificently distracted.

Just as Tyrion had come down the stairs from his own rather unsatisfying encounter with a local sweetling, somehow managing to avoid tripping in his drunkenness, he'd found right here in this random brothel's common room what had to be an actual knight from the Seven Kingdoms. Here, in a backwater river town halfway across Essos and however many thousands of leagues from home. An awful coincidence to the magnitude that it beggared all belief, really - a package of awfulness currently being counterweighted by the rather sweet package of whorish wiles enthusiastically dancing in the older man's lap.

Indeed, the Lyseni girl was a portrait of womanhood, if somewhat young for Tyrion's tastes. Still, Tyrion would have taken her himself if he'd known of her. But it was no doubt for the best: with that silver-gold hair wound round his fist, with those no-doubt quite colorfully attractive eyes staring into his own, Tyrion doubted this bear knight far from home could focus on anything else.

Tyrion didn't dare to take a closer look to try to figure out the bear knight's identity. All that was certain was the knight's eyes were fixed on the Lyseni whore's upturned face with a single-minded intensity that would brook no distraction, and in that intensity was Tyrion's salvation… such as it was.

He pressed himself back against the brothel's wall, let himself drop to the floor, and, dropping all pretense at dignity, scurried like the spider he'd rather ungenerously called Varys on many an occasion until he was safely ensconced under one of the common room's serving tables and veiled by the floor-draping tablecloth.

Now he was thoroughly out of the bear knight's line of sight. Out of the line of sight of everyone else in the room for that matter. The common room was just dark enough that he was fairly confident he'd avoided the attention's of the rooms two-dozen odd other inhabitants: it was sheer dumb luck he'd avoided the knight's attention up to now.

My sweet sister is hunting dwarves.

Their heads, specifically. Tyrion had not forgotten that unpleasant news. Cersei never let a grudge grow cold; it was perhaps the single most consistent thing about her, in a life otherwise defined by inconsistency and spectacular error. She had over the years killed (or otherwise ruined) many unfortunate souls who had somehow drawn her ire, and she had never wasted time with doing so.

In his case, given the fervor of the hatred Cersei had carried for him since the day he was born, and now that Father was dead at his hand, or his finger, to be precise, that one stubby finger, she had both the motive and the throne and the gold to go looking for his head in earnest.

…Come to think of it, she no doubt blamed him for Joffrey as well. Hah! I wish! He had no hand in that particular murder, alas, and only a smattering of ideas as to who the true culprit was.

Regardless, with all those factors in mind, he suspected that his sweet sister now wanted his head… very much indeed. Likely wanted it with a fervor that transcended mere desire for murder. He had never seen Cersei pray once in his life, but he suspected she was now praying to the Stranger very often indeed.

There were ways he could use that hate. But not now. Not until he was safe from… whomeverthefuck this bear knight was. He had no interest in joining what was likely a growing pile of dwarfish skulls somewhere or another in the Red Keep. He had to find a way to get to safety, quickly, quietly.

He peeked out from under his tablecloth: to get a better grip on his bearings, to get a better look at this sudden bearish obstacle.

A bear in wool, he thought, sweating through his surcoat at the edge of the known world. He did not know this knight. He did not wish to know this knight. But he did know the knight was a bloody madman. Seven fucking hells, who wears wool in this heat? What brings a man like that to Selhorys? Not the wine.Probably not the whores, either. Volantis and Lys and Pentos all have better.

The bear knight's surcoat was fine wool, and the bear rearing up on his chest was worked in thread of brown and solid black - fiercely standing in a field of some other slightly lighter color, it was hard to tell what in this damned light, but it might have been green. The surcoat as a whole was almost dark as coal in the meager light of the common room's oil lamps.

He didn't actually remember what House of Westeros this was, not offhand, but something was tickling at his currently wine-impaired memory. Some frigid backwater or another. What he could guess with some foggy degree of certainty was that this man came from an old family, with old honor. He wouldn't be one of Cersei's collected creatures, not like the Kettleblacks, or Lancel or Aurane Waters or any of the other upjumped scoundrels his sister surrounded herself with the way other women accumulated jewelry. This was a man of standing, of name. A man like this would not be here by accident.

He is looking for something. Or someone. Possibly me.

Tyrion put a bit more thought into it and amended himself. Bah. Who am even I kidding? It's very likely me.

There was no way to tell for certain. But the likelihood of this being a simple coincidence, of this being anything other than a buggered-up ambush beggared belief. The one time - the one fucking time - he had been alone without guard or escort since King's Landing, and this happens?

Again, there was no way to know for certain. It was perfectly possible this knight was just one of the many random Westerosi exiles wandering Essos, encountered here by most unfortunate happenstance. But it was certain this man could be a considerable threat, if he was inclined to be.

Even now, with a rather pretty whore dancing in his lap, he wore partial plate armor and mail - rarities in Essos: and the two-handed greatsword resting on the wall had not escaped his attention either. And to a bear knight that size - Tyrion could swear the man's shoulders were broad enough to seat two of him comfortably - just about every man around here would resemble a dwarf to some degree. His hands certainly looked large enough to encompass Tyrion's entire head and then some.

Even if Rolly Duckfield - Duck, the biggest knight in ostensible service to 'Griff' had been here, and he certainly wasn't here, Tyrion wouldn't have given him good odds against the bear knight.

Best not to test the theory. Or at all.

As Tyrion watched from under his crack in the tablecloth, the bear knight murmured something to the Lyseni girl in a voice too quiet to carry. She leaned in and kissed him in a way that reminded him of… it was the same sort of practiced enthusiasm Tyrion had seen in other whores before. It was too familiar. He'd been too much of an unspeakable… -you love-drunk fucking FOOL- to see it in Shae, but now he recognized it on sight in this whore as well.

She's playing him. The bear knight was likely more than twice her age, a hundred times more dangerous by any reckoning, and yet now he was her mark and target and prey.

She rose from the bear knight's lap, and he rose with her, letting the girl take him by the wrist. And it turned out he was very large indeed when vertical - taller than Duck by a finger and wider by considerably more. He grabbed his greatsword, and she led him up the stairs without either of them giving the room a backward glance.

Thank the fucking Seven. Tyrion could have cheered.

He waited thirty seconds. Then he waited another five minutes for good measure. He wasn't actually certain if he was counting the time properly, because he was drunk, and because drunkenness had a way of compressing time in a manner that was pleasant in most circumstances and potentially highly fatal in these, so he waited out the time anyway until he was certain that the bear knight was very unlikely to come back downstairs or outside, and was more than likely balls-deep inside that sweet Lyseni whore.

Whoever you are, bear knight, I hope she gives you your money's worth, Tyrion thought snidely.

Then, Tyrion emerged from his tablecloth - startling the hells out of another, far older, far uglier whore, this one carrying drinks - and waddled out into the night.

He put one street between him and the whorehouse, then another. He didn't dare to look back, but his steps turned lighter, and lighter, knowing the threat was safely to his back now, likely thoroughly ensconced within that Lyseni girl's sweaty, twisting limbs.

It was done. Whomever that Westerosi bear knight had been, Tyrion Lannister no longer cared, and he took further note of him at all. But did give the whorehouse itself one last lingering glance. "…So this wasn't where whores go," he muttered, turning away.

Alas. The search would continue. For a lifetime, if need be.

Tyrion worked his jaw as he stood in the street. "Where did Haldon say he would be again?" he muttered into this damnable drunken haze, then fortuitously remembered: "…right, that was it." The tavern by the river gate.

Tyrion waddled on, into Selhorys' winding streets.

It was an attractive enough city in its particular way, Tyrion supposed. At night, Selhorys' main road was lit by colored parchment lanterns, which gave the impression of a long line of near and distant stars, soft and shimmering and bright, in competition with the actual stars for the sheer variety of their colors. He saw many shades of orange and lavender, yellow and emerald, crimson and violet and blue and gold and shining silver, which in his currently inebriated state made the town's sights rather pleasantly vertigo-inducing.

It was still easy to forget that Selhorys wasn't a city, not as things were reckoned in Essos. Selhorys, Valysar, and Volon Therys - the three principal walled towns of this stretch of the Rhoyne - were so large they would be considered cities in the Seven Kingdoms, but by Essos' standards they only merited being called decent-sized towns, one of many falling under the broader demesne of Volantis.

Volantis, the First Daughter of the Freehold. One of the largest cities in the known world. Currently, the travel destination of himself and his brave river companions.

Also: the beating heart of the known world's slave trade.

He was uncomfortably reminded of that fact as he walked. Four of every five men and women in this town were slaves of some kind or another, and the uncomfortable thing was that - as far as he could tell - many of them took pride in it, pride in their privilege over the even lower classes of slave who scurried about the shadows like roaches wary of a boot. He could see the various tattoos demarcating the different trades, classes, and ranks of slave, speckling the faces of the great majority of the people like pretty decorations until one knew the darker truth.

The people had largely all retired by now, but still, he paid close attention to the slave's marks. Slavery was the very lifeblood of Volantis from all he had heard over the years, a social order that had been thoroughly systematized with all kinds of cultural particulars, and now that he was going in person it seemed wise to learn that system, quickly.

Firstly, he eyed a spice merchant's stall, somehow still open at this hour. The proprietors were a stout woman and her husband, and their faces both bore a small wheel of eight spokes inked below their left cheekbones - the mark of the tradesman's caste, he had gathered. No doubt managerial slaves to a real spice merchant. Her two assistants had simpler marks: a single horizontal bar across the chin, the mark of the laboring slave, the draft animal in human form. A rather most unfortunate mark to have.

He passed them by, and saw quite a few more marks of subjugation along the road. A physician's slave - he thought so, at any rate - who bore a coiled serpent on his temple. A scribe's slave went by with an open book inked across the right of his jaw. Craftsmen had their wheels or hammers or needles. Household slaves bore a small symbol surrounded by a ring of flame at the corner of the eye, marking them as property of this or that house.

The tiger guards were different. Their tiger stripes on their exposed chests were a source of fierce pride - he'd been told that much already - but what he hadn't noted until now was the additional slashes set along their cheeks, spaced like whisker marks, each one apparently corresponding to rank, the most decorated men in sight wearing four or five slashes and carrying themselves accordingly as commanders.

And the whores, don't forget the whores. All those women he'd left behind, all of them, had a single purple tear beneath the right eye. Just the one. He had seen no sign of a ranking system, no marks of seniority or distinction among them. In a better establishment, he supposed, there might be some gradation - in Volantis itself, perhaps, where the pillow houses were ancient institutions with their own elaborate hierarchies - but not here. Not in this backwater river town at the edge of Volantene reach. One tear, and that was all a whore of Selhorys could ever be. Here, all whores were the same.

Small wonder that Lyseni girl had thrown herself at that old, ugly bear knight - perhaps she was hoping to be purchased and taken away from this place? Bah, who could even say, he shoved that maudlin thought away. He didn't want to start thinking of Shae.

Several minutes of waddling later, Tyrion found himself back where he'd started. In the main square of Selhorys. He could see the river gate in the distance. His current home, the Shy Maid, would be berthed on a pier along the wharfage a few minutes north of the gate. But for now his destination was nearer at hand.

The main square itself was considerably quieter than it had been mere hours ago. The nightfire before the red temple was dimmer now, and the priest was gone from his balcony along with the onlooking crowds.

The square was not empty, however. He noted actual Volantene soldiers haunting the square's shadows, the same ones he'd seen disgorging themselves from a military barge earlier in the day. More were assembling as he watched, and he saw their commanders casting dark glares towards the Red Temple.

I don't like this, he thought. Tyrion could smell trouble brewing here. Best to move along.

There was a sardonic tinge to the thought. I'd bet gold there won't be more sermons of fire and blood from this temple tomorrow, or ever again. But who to even bet with? Griff? Pah. That man wouldn't have known fun if it slapped him upside the face with Robert's own warhammer.

Tyrion remembered the red priest's shrieking, maddened sermon from earlier in the day: How did Haldon say it went? Ah, yes. 'The Lord of Light declares Daenerys Targaryen the Azor Ahai returned, and her triumph over darkness will bring a summer that will never end! Death itself will bend its knee, and all those who die fighting in her cause shall be reborn!'

Right, that had been more or less it. Grand words, to be sure, and hilarious besides: …but, best not to say them when Daenerys Targaryen was thousands of miles away, and the triarch's sharp, tigery fangs were oh so much nearer.

Alas. He had been so looking forward to dying in her cause and being reborn as someone with a nose. Though I suspect the red priest here could soon use some rebirthing himself, he thought, chortling to himself as he walked past.

Even in Westeros, the tales of the Volantene triarch's purges of rebellious slaves and dissidents had been a thing of dark rumor and distant horror. The triarchs were known to make sport of mass murder, had been known to kill tens of thousands out of hand for the treasons and disruptions of but a few. Of all Valyria's nine daughters, Volantis learned from the Freehold the most of all, he remembered Lomas Longstrider writing in his Wonders Made by Man.

He moved on from the troubled square before trouble could find him. Some of the tiger soldiers cast him curious glances, but that was all. Tyrion scurried away before one of them could rub his head for luck again. An undignified absurdity, that incident had been.

Fortunately the way was lit by the parchment lanterns, with two especially large ones swinging above a colorful set of doors. He had reached his destination.

The tavern by the river gate, with a helpful sign announcing to passerby what it was. Tyrion's Volantene was sadly all but nonexistent, but given that Volantene was a form of Low Valyrian and he knew enough High Valyrian to make do, he was more or less able to read the tavern's sign:

The… Illustrated Turtle? …No, that can't be right - that would be stupid. He tried reading again. The, ah, Smeared Turtle? Seriously?

Bah. I clearly need a refresher on my Valyrian. Especially if he meant to serve as an advisor (specifics pending/negotiable) to a potential Targaryen royal claimant. In any case: Haldon had called this place The Painted Turtle. Until correction from someone who could actually read this mongrelized japery of a dialect - namely Haldon - that was what it would be.

Besides, it seemed the proprietor had come upon the positively inspired idea to place a rather large actual turtleshell (painted, of course) on top of the tavern's roof, no doubt to help guide the vast majority of unfortunates in this town who couldn't read. Tyrion chortled at the sight, walked under the colored light of the parchment lanterns and pushed on through the door.

He immediately saw Haldon.

The 'Halfmaester' was where he'd said he would be, at a table near the back, with a pitcher of something amber-colored before him. But he wasn't alone. In the chair across from him sat Septa Lemore.

Of course, that's what she calls herself. Tyrion thought, looking at her. And of course, she was rather pleasant to look upon, despite likely being at least ten years older than himself. But that wasn't why he was looking.

What skullduggery has the 'septa' been up to, I wonder?

The Halfmaester was still wearing a vaguely maesterly robe, albeit one brown in thread rather than grey. The 'Septa', however, had exchanged her septa's white for a plain brown linen dress that could have been at home on any random merchant's wife. With her dark hair pinned simply at the nape of her neck, she looked at first glance entirely unremarkable, which was obviously the point.

He stood a moment in the doorway, looking at the two of them illuminated together by the tavern's wall sconces, and something tugged at the underside of his wine-soaked mind, like a flash of light amidst dark waters.

They resemble eachother.

It wasn't obvious, true. Their eyes were different. Hers were a warm dark brown, as liquid as a deer's, while his were a cool grey that would have seemed more at home on a Stark. Their hair was differently colored besides, even at the roots (it seemed like half of everyone on the Shy Maid dyed their hair some damned silly color or another) - but. But, he could see the resemblance now. It was in their physiognomy. The bones of the face, the particular line beneath the cheekbones, the set of the mouth. Most of all, a certain quality of fineness in features that reflected high birth and gentle breeding.

He had noted each of these qualities in them individually at one point or another. He had not, however - not until this moment, standing in a tavern doorway in Selhorys with a bellyful of terrible Volantene wine and the recent memory of vomiting all over a whorehouse's carpet still twisting in him - noted it in both of them at once, and seen the pattern.

A false septa of possibly five-and-thirty years, perhaps up to forty and some at most, looking quite fine for her age. Likely a beauty when she was younger. A false maester pushing lightly on sixty, handsome in an aged way, looking mayhaps ten years younger than he really is. Westerosi, and well-bred at that - both of them. Possibly father and daughter, or some other close relation. Serving as tutors and minders to Rhaegar Targaryen's supposed/possible son. Who in the hells are they?

This was an intriguing mystery, albeit one too uncertain to act on for now. What was the saying? Curiosity kills the cat. And Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock fancied himself as being… just so slightly above a common tabby.

He discarded all of those thoughts for now and waddled over to the table, making his presence known. There was no need to hide here.

"The yellow wanderer returns," said Haldon, giving him a passing glance. "Considerably less steady than when he left, unless I am mistaken."

"You are not mistaken." Tyrion hauled himself onto a stool with whatever drunken dignity he possessed. "Though I am pleased to report that my prick does, in fact, still have feeling." He raised his hands, and waggled his fingers. "Now that all twenty-and-one of my digits have been tested, may we say I am not infected?"

Haldon snorted. "I would call it likely, yes. Greyscale rarely delays overlong in showing its symptoms. Mind, these things are never certain. You swallowed half the water in the Sorrows. It could be that, even now, your lungs are turning grey. If so, there will be no saving you."

"Bah," Tyrion said, waving a hand flippantly. "Evil men never die. You won't be rid of me for a while yet, 'Halfmaester'."

Lemore gave Tyrion a look of mock scandal. "Scarcely a minute and you've already sinned thrice. You've professed to evil character before a septa, doubted a maester's vows, and committed fornication outside of marriage. I have told you before, Hugor Hill, that you are a wicked, wicked man." She smiled sweetly. "Might you consider changing your ways? The Mother always offers forgiveness to those lost lambs who can turn back from a sinful path."

"And I have told you before that I consider that an encouragement rather than a criticism." He helped himself to the Halfmaester's pitcher without being invited, pouring golden wine into an empty cup. "Besides, I killed my mother. What's the talk of the city? I assume you didn't spend the evening in genuine prayer."

Lemore gave him an amused look. She clearly enjoyed his provocations. Alas, he didn't have high hopes of getting this one into bed - he still hadn't seen a crack in her true composure, even in this septa's semblance that she was clearly wearing like a mummer would their theatre garb. "Oh, a few things. Most in the guildhall spoke of how the khalasars are moving, among other matters of note."

"They are always moving," Tyrion drolled. "In fact, many would say that motion is their defining quality."

"Moving in a particular direction," she smiled sweetly. "East, mainly. They're returning home."

Tyrion was far too drunk to process this. "Wait, what? Explain it to me like I'm a child. A slow child. I find myself somewhat inebriated tonight; happily inebriated, allow me to clarify."

The Halfmaester snorted. Lemora's eyes danced with amusement.

"The khalasars are going east, Hugor. Or would you prefer Yollo? Back toward the Mother of Mountains. Several have already turned, and the word is that all of the rest will soon follow. Something is drawing them home. Some great prophecy, they say, will be delivered soon."

A prophecy. Tyrion thought of that red priest on his balcony, shouting proclamations of bloody apocalypse to just about every chattel slave and baseborn manjack and whoreson in all of Selhorys. The world is drowning in prophecies. Azor Ahai reborn and the dragon queen from smoke and salt, death itself bending the knee, the long night, a summer that never ends. Everyone has a fucking prophecy nowadays. What the hells is going on in the world?

Deciding that he wasn't drunk enough for this conversation as it was shaping up, Tyrion took a long swig from his wine. "And beyond the khalasars?"

She shrugged. "Other sellsword companies. The Second Sons, the Stormcrows, the Windblown and the Company of the Cat and the Long Lances and half a hundred others are either in Slaver's Bay or headed there, to fight on one side or another of the dragon queen's war."

"Bah, who cares." Tyrion waved a hand. "That's too large and too far away a conflict for us to meaningfully intercede in. What else?"

"Don't underestimate the Golden Company," the Halfmaester frowned.

Lemore for her part just shrugged. "Apart from that, the Company of the Rose has had some successes up near Lorath and Ib, but I hear there have been some internal disputes in their company of late. Myr is upset over the Golden Company breaking contract, but they can't actually retaliate against us in any way that matters." She turned her cup between her palms. "But none of that is what frightens the smallfolk of this city. The stone men are mustering, the people are saying."

Tyrion blinked, uncertain if he'd heard correctly. "How is that possible? The stone men don't even think. Mad creatures, the lot of them. How can they be mustered?"

"Perhaps it is a strong word, but the smallfolk believe they're organizing," Lemore said, and she said it carefully now, seeming to disbelieve the words herself. "Fewer wanderers have been seen, so the triarch's quarantine is as in effect as ever. Indeed, the patrols - which never actually go within the mists - say the Sorrows have been quieter than usual. And yet, there are stories. Some boatmen who traverse the Sorrows claim to have experienced sudden, vicious attacks, like the one we ourselves survived. Others who work the upper Rhoyne claim to have seen… things."

Tyrion wasn't sure if it was even worth engaging in this - it sounded like more smallfolk's hedge tales and other such nonsense. "Such as?"

"They claim to have seen strange lights in the mists. That there is something… unusual happening deeper within. They claim to have seen stone men who, long ago, had truly turned to stone - victims who have been statues for centuries - moving again. That there are now stone men without any flesh left at all. And that they aren't shambling aimlessly about the mists like the rest of the afflicted, but that they're moving with…" she paused. "…Direction." Her tone turned lighter, now. "Hmm. It all does seem rather hard to believe, isn't it? And I listened to that poor captain so seriously."

Tyrion felt a slight chill. All over again, he remembered drowning. Remembered being pulled under the water by an arm of stone. And that strange, grey dream afterwards… "Smallfolk's hedge tales are generally to be discounted, yes," Tyrion agreed, with a levity he didn't quite feel. "I remember Varys a while past telling me that an actual kraken - not a Greyjoy, the actual animal - had pulled down an Ibbenese whaler off the Fingers. Absurd."

Haldon snorted dismissively. Malora's smile returned. "And yet, still," she said, "many of the smallfolk are telling the same stories, Hugor Hill. That the stone men are answering to something deep in the mists. That something is calling them." She looked at him with amusement now. "I've heard the name of the Shrouded Lord from several frightened tongues."

"Let the tongues waggle," Tyrion snorted. She's enjoying this. Wearing the mask. Still, he found himself curious. He had nearly died there, after all. And that grey dream… "I've heard of this supposed 'Lord' before, albeit briefly," Tyrion inquired. "I recall that Duck was frightened by hearing his name mentioned even in passing. Who is he again? Some backcountry tale around these parts?"

Haldon answered before Lemore could. "The Shrouded Lord has haunted the Sorrows since Garin's day - or so the stories say. Some hold that he is Garin. That the great prince of the Rhoyne never truly died, but was cursed instead, that he became the curse even as he cursed the conquerors who drowned beneath his Mother's waters. That he rose from the Rhoyne a changed thing, neither living nor dead, neither man nor stone, and has ruled the mists ever since."

"Hmm." How delightfully morbid. "I vaguely recall Yandry mentioning something similar, now that I think on it," Tyrion said. "I also recall you yourself saying there have been a score His Grey Graces." Tyrion grinned mockingly, sipping more of his wine. "I remember you saying that the current one is some Basilisk Islands corsair, slipping on the name his forbears like a used cloak."

"I said that, yes." Haldon took a sip of his wine as well, in pantomime of him. "And my mind has not changed. Every region of the world has some similar tall tale - the north of Westeros has the Night's King, for example, and their absurd tales of wargs and greenseers. Qarth has its House of the Undying, Volantis has its red priests, the bearded priests of Norvos have their dark god whose name is forbidden, who some claim still lives deep within the depths of their pyramidic temple in High Norvos. The lost city of Gogossos, the Smoking Sea and the lands north of the old Freehold, especially around Mantarys, the forests of the Ifequevron, to say nothing of Asshai by the Shadow… the lands further east abound with even stranger tales. I care not. We are men of Westeros, and the men of Westeros deal in certainties alone. My only wish is to see our expedition downriver to Volantis, and to relink with the Golden Company with haste. Leave Volantene fables of sorcery to the Volantenes." Haldon's tone was sardonic, now. "I wish them the best of it."

Tyrion almost agreed. Almost. But he had stood atop the Wall, once.

He had not seen anything. There had been naught to see up there, just a vast, forsaken infinity of white snow and black treeline and grey sky pressing down on everything, on and on until the world ended or ceased to matter. He had made a joke about it. He remembered making that pitiable boy Jon Snow smile, a boy of very few smiles indeed. A boy who had named him friend.

And yet, seeing the world from the top of the Wall… in that moment, the idea of there being unnatural forces in the far unknown beyond the world's edge hadn't seemed quite so impossible. The Wall truly had been that kind of place: seeing the end of the world had a way of making one reassess their beliefs about the world.

The silence stretched a little too long. Lemore filled it cheerfully. "The smallfolk of Selhorys are speaking of taking action," she elaborated. "Several of the upriver towns have petitioned the triarchs about it. They want an expedition sent into the Sorrows, to reduce the stone men's numbers." She spoke of mass murder of poor, diseased wretches with such a charmingly mild tone, as if discussing the weather. "As for whether the triarchs are inclined to listen—" she glanced toward the window, where the distant glow of the military barge's torches was still visible on the water, "…that would be another matter. They have other things on their minds tonight."

Tyrion came back to himself. "The smallfolk of Selhorys are not wrong to be frightened," he said. "I speak from recent personal experience. I wish this proposed expedition every success. Every sword they put into the Sorrows is one I will count as a gift."

"You could pray for them," Lemore offered sweetly.

"I could. I find, however, that my prayers tend to go unanswered, which suggests either that the gods are inattentive or that they have strong opinions about the source." He took yet another sip from his cup of wine, enjoying the restoration of the pleasant wooziness. If he could go the next decade running tipsy, that would suit him just fine. "I'll drink to their success instead. It seems more reliable."

Haldon had been watching him with those cool grey eyes for time time, and now he said, mildly: "Why did you go to the whorehouse, dwarf? Really, Qavo's intelligence was sufficient. We needed nothing more from Selhorys tonight. You can't tell me you simply meant to patronize this wretched backwater's meat markets."

Tyrion was almost impressed by the mixture of dismissal, elitism, arrogance, and contempt in the man's tone. Almost. Instead he found it positively risible. He looked up at the 'Halfmaester', grinning now, and not in a friendly manner. "In both Westeros and Essos, men say dwarves are lustful, capering creatures. And they aren't wrong, Halfmaester - I speak from personal experience in that. You don't believe all is simply as it appears?"

"Honestly," Haldon seemed to roll the tongue on his word, considering. "No. I'm aware of the particular circumstances of your exile from Westeros…" the Halfmaester glanced around the packed tavern's common room. "Hugor. And after such circumstances, I'd be surprised if a man of station would ever wish to see a whore again. Particularly so soon. What are you up to?"

A measure of Tyrion's happy inebriation faded, leaving an unwelcome cold flowing in his veins. Something of the grin enlarged, spreading across his face. His lips peeled back a little from his teeth, and he let a measure of his sudden rage show, and he smiled - a smile that showed all his teeth and reached none of the rest of his face.

It was a smile that had made Jaime avert his eyes, not so long ago.

"Because," Tyrion said, "I wanted to see where whores go."

Haldon Halfmaester was not, in Tyrion's estimation, a man easily unsettled. He had the controlled affectations of someone who had no business whatsoever being a mere maester. A composure Tyrion had mostly seen in men of quite high birth, men of station who had learned to tolerate most anything without flinching.

But now, Tyrion saw a certain discomfort blooming behind those grey eyes: not quite unease, but wariness where none had been deemed necessary before… and in the end, it was the Halfmaester looked away first.

Septa Lemore's smile had faded. She looked between them, and said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.

Haldon set down his cup. He stood, pulled his cloak around him. "We should be back. Griff will be irritable if we linger."

"Griff is always irritable," Tyrion said, climbing off his stool. "The man is a walking monument to irritability. He ought to be commemorated. A great stone statue in the center of some square, scowling down at everyone." Lemore giggled a little, and Haldon smirked. Tyrion waddled toward the door. "Come. Our merry little Shy Maid awaits."

Tyrion sallied forth to the boat without delay, though truth be told, there wasn't much to sally: the Shy Maid was berthed at a pier along the main wharf scarcely a few minute's walk away from the Painted Turtle.

There, he found Yandry and Ysilla at the gangplank. In contrast to the delightful dance of uncertainties and false identities he was still enjoying with the false maester and even falser septa, he was fairly certain that these two were no more than precisely the peasants they appeared to be - hells, they'd probably come with the boat when Griff had procured it from gods only knew where. He dimly recalled something about Yandry being the owner… bah. Irrelevant.

The pair, both of them, were still unloading supplies and supplies into the boat: Tyrion saw glimpses of salt and flour, fresh-churned butter, slabs of bacon wrapped in linen, sacks of oranges, apples, and pears. Larders and supplies of all manner stacked high in a few wheelbarrows still awaiting unpacking, and a few other wheelbarrows that lay emptied. Tyrion espied what he was fairly certain was a newly purchased cask of wine on deck, which put a merry bounce in his step. On deck, Duck was chopping up a fish that looked as large as Tyrion himself.

Unfortunately, the moment Ysilla saw him, or rather, him contemplating the boat's new foodstuffs, she practically hissed like a cat.

"You," she said, crossing three fingers across her chest in a surprisingly violent prayer sign. "You no look at food. You no even think of food. I feed you later. Alone." She pointed at him, and then at the far, far end of the Shy Maid's deck. "Food away. You no eat with others."

"Alas," Tyrion drolled. "My entire life has been characterized throughout by an unchosen, profound isolation. I suppose I shall have to persist a little longer."

Ysilla's unimpressed expression suggested she found his digression neither amusing nor relevant. In the face of her stubborn, squat-faced hostility, Tyrion felt the urge to defend his circumstances. And they did have to be clarified - she was the ship's cook after all. It simply wouldn't do if he allowed himself to be starved without mustering suitable complaints.

"Just to be clear, I didn't contract greyscale," he tried. "Look at me!" Tyrion thumped his chest like Bronn would have. "Pink as a - well." He rolled his eyes. "Pink as a nice fat pig? Let's go with that. I've still got feeling in all my fingers and toes and, ah, more than that too!" He doubted she would have appreciated knowing about the details of his 'testing.' "Haldon has been very thorough with his pins, you know!"

"The Halfmaester's toe pricks? They not mean you clean," Ysilla said, with a sort of peasants' womanly authority that likely would have brooked no argument even from a king. "It means you have many prickings yet to go. For days. For weeks. Only then you take your own food."

Many prickings yet to go, Tyrion thought, thoroughly annoyed now. What a cheery saying. She ought to put that on a banner and ride it into battle. Maybe I'd even get a nicer cook out of it after she loses her fat head.

"As you say," Tyrion told her with a beaming grin, stepping aboard.

Tyrion's mood soured further when he saw the commander of their erstwhile expedition staring down at him from the ship's tiller.

'Griff.' Jon Connington, former Hand of the King to Aerys Targaryen himself. Sworn brother or fellow squire or… something or another to Rhaegar Targaryen - Tyrion wasn't too sure on the specifics as yet, a blind spot which he meant to remedy forthwith.

Tyrion dipped his head. "Griff. Good evening." Some unironic respect was due here; Connington had genuinely saved his life by pulling his drowned self out of the Sorrows.

Connington didn't respond, not in words. Instead, his pale blue eyes moved across his dwarfish self with a particular sort of frigid glance that Tyrion had learned, over a lifetime, to instantly recognize - and despise. Someone who saw him more as a creature than a man, a temporarily useful asset and nothing more. Not unusual, coming from Connington. But positively galling all the same.

"Don't touch anything, dwarf," 'Griff' said after a pause - not unkindly, and not angrily either. Not anything, really. It was the tone a man used for stray animals and inconvenient furniture. "Don't get in the way of the lines. Don't lay a hand on the provisions." His eyes were already moving past Tyrion to Haldon. "Get back to your writing. Everything practical you know about dragons, and everything you know about our enemies in King's Landing. Names, alliances, leverage. All of it."

"A warm welcome as always, my—"

"Halfmaester." Connington spoke across him as if he had ceased acknowledging Tyrion's existence. "Report."

Father, Tyrion almost said, you've found a way to come back from the dead.

He beginning to quite thoroughly dislike Jon Connington, truth be told. Even despite the fact that the man had saved his life - if he had, it hadn't been out of any degree of affection, but simply because Tyrion was a potential asset to his supposed son's cause.

"Volantis stirs," said Haldon. "The political situation is more complex than Illyrio's reports suggested. The city's elephants grow stripes. Doniphos is likely to lose his reelection. Nyessos may have been bought but buying a man and keeping him bought are different arts, and the Yunkish are better at the second than Illyrio is. There are other matters. On Malaquo, specifically. We should speak of them on the river."

Meaning, privately. Tyrion could hear that unsaid implication so clearly. This merry group of brave companions still doesn't trust me. Alas. He would just have to find entrepreneurial ways to prove himself later. Who was Malaquo again? Elephants growing stripes? Did that mean what he thought it meant? I don't know enough about Volantene politics, Tyrion cursed to himself. He would have to find a way to learn, and quickly at that.

Connington's pale blue eyes held the Halfmaester's gaze for a moment longer. "Write down your findings. Lemore's as well. We're sailing past Valysar, and making no other stops until Volon Therys. We leave within the hour."

The Halfmaester nodded. "Understood."

Griff's cold gaze flicked over to Yandry, who was just finishing with unloading the last of the bulk larders onto the poleboat. "Captain, we're leaving tonight," Griff's tone was authoritative. "I have no mind to linger at port with Selhorys so likely to see violence by the morn."

Ysilla hesitated - Tyrion knew she hated moving the poleboat by night, owing to the risk of foundering. But Yandry nodded. "The moon is fat tonight. It will be done. To Volantis?"

Griff nodded. "To Volantis."

Those cold blue eyes inspected Tyrion, one last time, then dismissed him. Without another word, Connington turned away and stepped down into the Shy Maid's underdecks, albeit a bit stiffly in his right arm and hand.

I truly do dislike that man, Tyrion thought. But he had worked many times before with men who disliked him. This situation wasn't terrible - he could work with this.

Later. For now, he had no plans to do anything at all. He found a coil of rope at the poleboat's prow and lowered himself beside it, reclining on it like it was a chair. The one bright side about his situation was that no one asked him to help with the ship's upkeeping chores, and generally wanted him to keep out from underfoot.

Left to himself, even as the others worked to see to their swift departure, he looked out at the moonlit river and contemplated what was coming.

To Volantis, and to the sea beyond, and to whatever the sea brings, Tyrion ruminated on the thread of thought. I am going home. And somewhere between here and there, I am presented with the small problem of convincing Jon Connington, who would as soon throw me overboard as hear me out, that the plan he has organized his entire life in exile around requires significant revision, with implications for the Golden Company in its entirety.

Tyrion sighed, kicking his legs out into the empty air over the poleboat's prow.

Nothing to worry about. I have talked my way out of death before. I can manage an exiled lord and some sellswords.

Probably.

Tyrion's thoughts grew maudlin after that. Time passed. Mostly, he thought about Tysha, and the stone man's grip, that strange grey dream, and where whores go.

Eventually, Yandry pushed the poleboat off the pier. The Shy Maid quickly found the Rhoyne's current and settled into it, moving south and east through the dark. Yandry and Ysilla would have normally refused to set sail and risk their poleboat at night, but this night offered them a full, bright moon, and Tyrion had to agree with Connington's judgement that it was best to leave Selhorys now rather than wait for the coming crackdown on the Temple of R'hllor, which was all but certain to start a riot in parts of the town quite near and concerning to them (and that was the best case scenario, he figured).

Connington had ordered him to write more, but it would have to wait until morning. Writing under candlelight was a finicky affair, best to wait for proper daylight. And yet, despite the tinge of drunkenness that remained in him, Tyrion couldn't sleep for some reason. Instead he stayed there, at the ship's prow, lost in the memories of better days. For several hours, even as the Shy Maid finally set loose its roped and disembarked, his thoughts flowed as languidly as the river.

Sleep wasn't coming to him for whatever reason. He just passed the time by, as the moonlit river flowed around them, its surface so calm and quiet under the moon it oft looked like a plane of beaten silver.

At one point, another poleboat passed by them in the night, this one going upriver rather than down. The poleboats that plied the Mother Rhoyne and its many daughter rivers were often brightly painted and exquisitely carved, and the other poleboat didn't disappoint in those aspects. By comparison, this Shy Maid he'd found himself on was a humble affair, with old paintwork of muddy greyish brown, mottled and flaking. She looked like dirt, truth be told, but that was undoubtedly the point. Connington was not one to overlook such details on a river oft beset by river pirates.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Unfortunately, there were no pirates this night. Only a silent, moonlit river, a lonely quietude. On the other end of the boat, Yandry and Connington were taking shifts at the tiller, but Tyrion had little and less interest in socializing with either, albeit for entirely different reasons in each case - and it was more than likely mutual.

More hours passed. He passed some of the time stargazing, and easily found the yellow wanderer tracking across the sky. That had been a rather generous comparison from Haldon, hadn't it? The green and blue ones were also easily found, while the white and orange were nowhere to be seen tonight. The red wanderer was so far to the north he could scarcely see it, and the southern Rhoyne was so far to the south he couldn't and wouldn't have been able to see the dark wanderer at all, alas.

In time, Tyrion's drunkenness sadly faded. There was nothing for it but to tolerate the damnable sobriety. He was banned from drinking wine and liquor of any stripe aboard this little maid: he had drunk himself blind his first night aboard, waking up with such a hangover that he'd retched over the side of the poleboat for hours. In the aftermath, 'Griff' had declared, "you are done with drink aboard ship." And the look in Connington's eyes when he'd made that declaration had been so dangerous that Tyrion didn't care to test it.

It was a lonely night, truly.

And yet, at some unknown time, well after the last scatter of Selhorys's pretty parchment lanterns had faded away in the distant, moonlit north, company found him.

It was Young Griff.

The wretchedly handsome boy came forward along the port rail with his hands in his sleeves. His dyed blue hair, which hung down to his shoulders, was loose in the river wind. He stopped a few feet from Tyrion and seemed to try to speak, opened his mouth, gave up, tried again.

Still he didn't speak. It might have been awkward, but it wasn't. Instead they both looked out at the dark water and said nothing together. It was almost companionable, and Tyrion recognized from personal experience what the boy was struggling with, in general if not in specific: something, some deep thought was working its way to the surface through the various layers of pride and youth and trained caution that the boy wore like armor. It was almost nostalgic.

He wants something important, Tyrion thought. Or he wants to say something important, either of which could be dangerous. Interesting, at least.

Still, there were limits to Tyrion's patience. After a while he said: "Has a cat got your tongue, my prince?"

Young Griff startled - a genuine, startled laugh. "Gods," he said. "Do you ever simply—" the boy stopped, turned quiet again. Shook his head. "Did you ever have a cat, Tyrion?"

"Alas, no," Tyrion said. Father wouldn't have approved. "Though I was greatly entertained by one during my time in King's Landing." Tyrion shifted on his coil of rope and settled himself more comfortably. "There was an old black tom in the Red Keep, with one ear missing - an ugly pit fighter of a tom, with an even worse disposition. Which had presumably not been charming to begin with. The terror of the castle's servants. Some of them swore he had been there since even before Robert was crowned. I'm not sure what that tom lived on to get through the years, but it was likely some concoction of pure hatred and highly concentrated malice. He spent his years defeating and embarrassing every attempt to catch him: that cat was the bane of every ratter, catcher, and mouser ever sent after him, and in fact turned their lives into a sustained exercise in humiliation after he stole a roast quail directly out of my father's fingers at court. I hear he also made sport of Grand Maester Pycelle's ravens on several occasions."

Aegon leaned in, clearly fascinated. "Is the cat still alive?"

Tyrion shrugged. "I believe so, yes. The ratters and catters eventually just gave up and left the castle to him. It seemed the wisest course." Tyrion grinned. "That cat there is the true ruler of the Red Keep, not any so-called king or queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

Young Griff was smiling now, truly. But then the smile shifted in a way Tyrion had been watching for, that moment when the young prince decided to lay bare whatever more serious concerns had drawn him here.

"…I've been thinking," Aegon said, more quietly, "about what you told me. During the game."

"I say a great deal during cyvasse," Tyrion said lightly. "Some of it I even mean."

"About going west." The boy's dark blue, almost purple eyes were on the dark water unrolling ahead of them. "About Dorne. About - not sailing east to wait for my aunt. About going west, first. Making my claim to the Iron Throne." He paused again. "I've been thinking about it all day."

"And what conclusion have you arrived at?" Tyrion asked mildly.

"That you're right." Young Griff turned to face him then, and Tyrion had to admit, the young man's face greatly resembled that of the portraits and daguerreotypes he'd seen of Rhaegar Targaryen - it didn't seem impossible that he truly was the son of the former crown prince. "Sailing to my aunt to beg for her favor, like a… that's not how the Conqueror did it. Aegon the Conqueror didn't go to anyone asking for a throne. He came as he willed, conquered as he willed, and made his own throne. He didn't beg for anyone's favor." Something settled in the boy's shoulders. "I think I have to go west first. I think I have to make my stand, on my own terms, and let her come to me."

Careful, Tyrion told himself. Don't be too eager. Eager is suspicious. Eager suggests an agenda, which you most certainly have, but he doesn't need to know how far it goes.

"And when she comes," Tyrion said mildly, betraying none of his thoughts, "she will come to a kinsman in arms, she won't be bestowing favor on some supplicant in a hall. She cannot abandon her nephew, Rhaegar's son, to bleed alone for a throne that carries her name as much as yours. I don't know her, but I know this. That is the nature of kings, and though she may be a queen, not a king, she will come." Tyrion nodded. "I believe that, truly. I would bet my nonexistent nose on it."

That earned a little laugh from the boy. "You said she might refuse me," he said. He wasn't accusing, Tyrion could see - it was a question the boy was genuinely thinking through.

"I said she might refuse to be told what she must do, which is different," Tyrion clarified. "Mind, I do not know her. But I do know she grows wary of Illyrio's manipulations: he has given her aid on countless occasions, she even owes him the presence of her finest bodyguards, last I heard - Barristan Selmy, the former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, a living legend. And a competent pit fighter going by "Strong Belwas." I know not the pit fighter, but I do know that sending Ser Barristan to the young dragon queen was… most fortuitous. A great boon." Now, why did he send Selmy to her, and not to young Aegon here? "I can scarcely imagine a finer means by which she could have shored up her credibility among the realm's lords prior to landing on Westeros. And yet, in defiance of all our shared cheesemonger's generosities, still she has not sailed west."

"Why do you think that is?" Young Griff asked. "I've wondered much on it."

Tyrion shrugged. "There could be any number of reasons. Perhaps she's waiting for her dragons to grow bigger, which, to be fair, would be as good a reason as any - the books I've read all agree that feeding the beasts is a hellacious task, far beyond the resources of most lords. And a queen of Meereen would have many resources indeed."

The blue-haired boy nodded. "But you don't believe that."

"No," Tyrion grinned. He's sharp, this boy. "Again, I do not know Daenerys Targaryen. But, judge the dragon queen by her actions: she freed Astapor and Meereen's slaves, struck a dire blow to the heart of the slave trade. The foundations of economies of the Free Cities of Essos are trembling, as slaves north and south, east and west sharpen their knives and contemplate what a world without slavery might look like. None of these are the actions of a ruler who cares about resources, per se. She strikes me as an idealist more than a schemer."

Aegon considered that. "Why do you think she would come west for my sake, then?"

"Because her plan won't work," Tyrion said bluntly. Aegon blinked. "I don't say this because I disagree with her: ending slavery is a most commendable goal. Truly, slavery is a wretched institution, corrupting not just slaves but the slavers as well, and ending it is perhaps the most commendable goal of our time. We have it banned on Westeros for a reason. She is a hero for even trying it in the sprawling pit of vipers that is Essos. But Daenerys Targaryen is only one dragonlord, with only three dragons. And Essos is a vast continent indeed. One with no shortage of enemies who would gladly see her dead for her dreams. She will see that sooner or later, if she hasn't already."

"And that's why you think she'll come?"

"Yes, I think so - strongly." Tyrion said, emphasizing it. "Right now, she hesitates at the threshold of an impossible dream, even as her homeland calls to her. The fact that she has stayed in Meereen rather than marching on to the nearby Yunkai to free more slaves indicates as much - hesitation. And if something were to break that balance… if she were to hear of Rhaegar's son making a heroic claim to the Iron Throne, before her…" Tyrion shrugged. "I may have - dramatized certain aspects of her potential recalcitrance when I was trying to make the cyvasse point. The substance holds. The method of your arrival to her attentions matters enormously. A supplicant can be ignored. A kinsman, her last kinsman, waging a war that she should be there fighting? That cannot be ignored so easily."

Young Griff was quiet for a moment. "You really think we can win? That I can take the Iron Throne, without the dragons?"

"Oh yes," Tyrion chortled, "This is not sycophancy, by the way: this is my actual assessment of the state of the realm. The Seven Kingdoms are exhausted by war. The realm has been bleeding like a stuck pig ever since Robert Baratheon's death, and everyone who might have managed to staunch the bleeding is either dead or compromised or incompetent or my sister, who is her own special kind of incompetence. Consider the state of the claimants: a boy king on the throne that no one believes in. A queen regent who has made more enemies in two years than most rulers manage in a lifetime. Her strongest allies, the Tyrells, are fairweather windsocks whose own bannermen would throw them off a bridge if they smelled but half a heartbeat of weakness. And she hates them. The Dornish, with all their grievances and hatreds against House Lannister are an all but certain ally to us. The Vale is led by a man who…"

Tyrion frowned. The matter of Petyr Baelish was a rather thorny one, wasn't it? "We can work with him, as long as he's promised some greater reward. Though I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him." I would quite prefer to kill Littlefinger, actually, for his numerous betrayals at my expense. But that wasn't a matter the young prince needed to know as yet. "As for the rest of the realms: the North is in chaos, the riverlands are a ruin. The Iron Islands are led by a madman who wages war on all of your enemies more or less equally and without discrimination, and as for the Stormlands, last I heard Stannis Baratheon had sailed up in the direction of the Wall, thus helpfully removing himself from the game entirely. I wish him the best of luck with… whatever irrelevant nonsense he plans to do up there. And lastly, the crownlands." Tyrion smiled viciously. "Don't worry about the crownlands, my prince. That, I can handle. I defended King's Landing from Stannis Baratheon's siege, no one knows better than me how to defeat it. I have allies in the crownlands, even now." Though they might require some… convincing, Tyrion thought privately.

Aegon listened on, quietly. A part of Tyrion wondered if the boy truly was who he claimed to be. Does it even matter, another part answered for him.

"In short," Tyrion went on. "There will never be a better chance, my prince. And you do not need to win in any case: you just need to arrive and to hold, and to be visible - a Targaryen in Westeros with a Targaryen banner, in these circumstances - the realm itself will do the rest. Dorne will flock to you first. The Martells desire nothing more than vengeance and the end of Lannister power over the Iron Throne, and will sell their swords to whoever can help them manage it. More will follow after."

"You think it would be so easy?" Aegon said quietly. "I've read on the Blackfyre Rebellions. How could I not? All of them had promise at the time, and yet still, they all failed in the end. Why would my cause be different than theirs?"

A good question. "You aren't wrong to point that out," Tyrion nodded. "In truth," Tyrion added, after a moment, "our greatest asset here may not be Daenerys Targaryen or her dragons, or even the Golden Company, but my sweet sister, the Queen Regent herself." Aegon's eyes narrowed now, focusing on him closely. "This is a limited window of opportunity, in which the Seven Kingdoms truly have the worst ruler imaginable. Give Cersei enough time, maybe a helpful prod or two - and believe me, I can provide that prodding - she will happily undo every alliance my father ever built, even as enemies - you, namely - are converging on her doorstep."

Aegon was clearly intrigued, despite his frown. "Still, she's the Queen Regent. A Lannister of Casterly Rock. The richest woman in the Seven Kingdoms. Yet you make her sound so predictable."

Tyrion let out a bark of laughter. "It's because I've known her for decades that I know she's predictable. I've found that the constancy of her hatred and paranoia is the one thing about her I can always rely on. She cannot help herself. She is a deeply, deeply paranoid woman, my sweet sister. She accepts no form of service but for prostrated necks that she can stomp on, and trusts no one but her own reflection in a mirror. She fancies herself as Tywin Lannister with teats, but she's really just a profoundly self-confident, profoundly stupid woman who never should have been entrusted with the faintest whiff of real power."

Young Griff absorbed this in silence. Then, carefully: "Let's say that's all true. How do we convince my fath… Lord Connington?"

Tyrion caught that slip. "He can be moved," Tyrion nodded. He could already see the path opening up for them. "But not by me. He is correct not to trust me, historically and generally speaking." I wouldn't trust me either, if I was in Connington's shoes. "The argument will land harder from you than from a Lannister he has every reason to suspect of undue self-interest." …Which, to be fair, was entirely correct on Connington's part. Tyrion cared far, far more about this glorious chance to kill his brother and sister and undo every scrap of his father's legacy than he did young Aegon's cause. But that didn't mean their goals had to conflict, oh no. He glanced up at the boy. "When you speak to him - and you should speak to him, soon, while the conviction is still fresh in you - speak to him about your father. Not about strategy. About Rhaegar Targaryen, about what he would have done in your shoes. Connington will hear you out far more seriously than he would a dwarf who killed his own sire on a privy."

He had meant that last part as a jape, but Young Griff didn't laugh. The devilishly handsome boy, who no small part of Tyrion hated on sight for that alone, was just watching him with those strangely dark blue eyes. In the moonlight, sometimes they looked the legendary purple of the dragonlords of old. There was a wariness in the boy's eyes, but also a hunger: the hunger of hope, of wanting to believe in something.

"Why are you doing this?" Aegon asked simply, genuinely. As if he simply wanted to understand.

Tyrion was quiet for a moment. The Shy Maid moved beneath them. Selhorys was gone entirely now, swallowed by the dark and the distance, and ahead there was only the quiet, moonlit river… and the great city the river led to, hundreds of miles southwards.

Why am I doing this, he thought. There's a question. I killed my father and my lover both. I watched my nephew choke to death without feeling much of a thing, and I don't feel very much regret over any of it, really, except that I waited so long to get on with the kinslaying. But why am I doing any of it? I have been wading through my own self-loathing for so long now that I feel like I've lost myself, sometimes, and now I find myself on a poleboat on the Rhoyne with a boy who may or may not be the rightful heir to the throne. Why am I doing this?

"…Because someone has to," Tyrion said slowly, as much in answer to himself as to this boy. "Because my sister is stupid, and evil, and because she will ruin the Seven Kingdoms, and quite possibly doom House Lannister in the process. Because watching the realm suffer for her particular combination of idiocies is a torture I find I cannot endure indefinitely. Because I want her gone from the throne and I want someone better there, and you might—" he weighed it— "you might have the makings of actually succeeding, and being a good king after." Tyrion grinned. "With sufficient guidance, of course. Given that you are still young. Plus time to grow and a good bit of luck. There's the matter of your aunt and her dragons as well, a matter which we shall hope resolves itself in our favor and with haste." He paused. "And also, I do this for one last reason: because you are not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"A puppet." Tyrion said it without cruelty. "A boy shaped entirely by other people's necessities, a hollow projection of their desires. Illyrio's instrument. Connington's vengeance. Varys' gambit. A tool by which greater men would play the game of thrones." He looked at the boy steadily. "You are, to my great surprise, contrary to my every expectation, contrary to what even an appropriately cynical common sense might dictate… not a puppet. I do believe the men around you are actually trying to make a real king of you. Someone who listens to his advisors, yes, but who isn't controlled by them. And believe me, listening is a rarer trait in princes than it ought to be. In contrast to my sweet sister, you… might not be entirely incompetent if you were someday to hold real power." Tyrion nodded his head, saying the last part graciously.

Young Griff said nothing. His eyes had gone distant. The moonlit Mother Rhoyne flowed ever past them, silent and languid.

"It might be hard to believe, but I do intend to keep faith with you," Tyrion said, and he said it honestly, finding that this itself was one of his more unexpected discoveries of the evening. "For every step of the way, for every league of river and sea and whatever else lies between here and King's Landing, I will keep faith with you. I will tell you the truth of every mystery that comes before us. I will show you how to spot the difference between false friends and the merely uncertain. How to make new alliances, and how to defeat your enemies. In short: everything I tried to do for Joffrey when I served as his Hand. Even though he was a little shit and betrayed me in the end, this time, I find I mean it."

Tyrion scratched at the stump of his nose. "I am not a good man, my prince. I'll admit to that. I have betrayed just about everyone who has ever trusted me - mostly because they tried to kill first me and thoroughly deserved a good round of betrayal, but still. As your fake septa loves to remind me, I am a selfish and bitter man, and I have a list of sins that would take longer to confess than either of us has patience for. And yet." He shrugged. "And yet I find I do intend to do this thing."

Young Griff was quiet for a long moment after that. The Rhoyne moved past them, dark and patient and indifferent to the plans of princes and dwarves alike.

Then the boy said, simply: "All right."

Tyrion glanced up at him.

"All right," Aegon said again, and Tyrion saw something settle in the boy, some final resolution solidifying into place behind those dark blue eyes. "We'll do it. I'll speak to my father." He paused. "To Jon Connington." He actually corrected himself, which told Tyrion something - the boy was still trying to resolve the difference between the father he knew, and the father he'd been told he had, and was trying to keep the two things separate. "In the morning."

"Strike while the iron is hot, yes," Tyrion nodded amiably.

"Yes, precisely." Aegon was looking at him directly now, with an expression Tyrion couldn't quite categorize.

"Tyrion," the boy said.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "My prince."

"I want you to know." Aegon seemed to weigh it one last time, then committed. "Whatever else this becomes - I consider you my friend."

Tyrion opened his mouth. Closed it. He was, for perhaps the third or fourth time in his entire adult life, genuinely without a ready response.

He settled on grinning. "Don't let Connington hear you say that."

Aegon laughed. Tyrion laughed as well. They shared that little laugh between them, in the dark. "We'll do this together.," the boy said. "That is my vow."

"Together," Tyrion agreed, "I vow it as well." And it shocked Tyrion to realize, even as he said it, that there was no lie in any of his words.

The boy eventually pushed off the rail and went below decks, and Tyrion was left alone again. He contemplated the moonlit river for a while, not looking at anything in particular.

Friend, Tyrion thought. Well. I didn't expect that. He turned the word over like a coin of uncertain provenance, testing how meaningful it truly felt to him. Friend…

He had called Bronn a friend once. He had called Shae rather more than that. He had called Pod a squire, which was perhaps the most honest friendship he'd ever managed, and the boy had served him faithfully. All three had either betrayed him to some degree or another, or been forced away from him as a consequence of his near-execution and exile. Then there was the matter of that poor bastard freezing up on the Wall, who was simply too far away to either betray or be betrayed by him. He had a rather poor record with friends, all told. It was, arguably, irresponsible to make new ones.

And yet.

The possibly-rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms just called me his friend. Tyrion thought.

He could picture his father's face with wonderful clarity. Those cold, pale green eyes, filled with absolute, unending, undying contempt.

What would Lord Tywin Lannister make of this, Tyrion wondered. His monstrous, whoreson dwarf of a son, the stain upon the family name, the patricide and regicide, planning to bring down everything he ever built, being called friend by the possible next King of the Seven Kingdoms?

Tyrion smiled cruelly. Hate animated him more than anything else nowadays.

He would be horrified, Tyrion thought, savoring it. His ugly smile stretched wider still. He would be absolutely, perfectly, magnificently horrified.

Good.

The Prince of the Nightfort

It was a cold night.

In the distance, past the walls of the Nightfort, they could hear the rumbling of storms coming from the north. When the stormy winds buffeted against the Wall, sometimes it felt like the earth itself was trembling. Huddling in the dark for shelter, they could hear the wind howling over the Wall: an almost whisper-soft shriek passing in the distance above them, but a shriek that never ended.

Sometimes, when the wind picked up, it sounded like screaming. The sound made Bran shiver when that happened.

"You should eat your stew, Bran," said Jojen.

"I'm not hungry," Bran replied.

"You're lying," Jojen said. "We might not have rabbit again for a while. You should eat."

Bran stared at the bowl of rabbit stew. Bran had watched Jojen cook it. After they stripped the good meat off the bones, everything that was leftover went into a stew. Everything from bones to brain to organs, all mushed into the same stew with a few wild winter turnips and a sprinkling of herbs. A beggar's stew, Meera called it - for the times when food was so scarce that absolutely nothing could go to waste.

They were all worn thin. The days and nights trapped at the Nightfort had not been kind. Bran had spent three days solid on the same patch of cold stone, staring upwards at the weirwood tree above him.

Meera kept busy hunting and scouting. Jojen meditated, or cooked. Even Hodor helped to clear the abandoned buildings, searching for old chunks of metal that could make ice picks, or stripping hemp that could be woven into rope. Meera had been talking for a while about crafting enough rope and a cradle to carry Bran up the Wall, and carry him down. Like he was some sort of infant that needed a crib.

Everyone kept busy, except for Bran - the useless little prince lying on the floor.

And, slowly, the thought that had turned from an idle curiosity began to loom larger and larger in his mind. He was obsessing over it, and he couldn't stop. Maybe I don't have to be Bran Stark anymore…

Jojen looked at him, as if he was reading his mind. "You can't take another body, Bran," he said.

"Why not?" Bran demanded. "I take Summer's."

"You borrow Summer's body. What you're talking about is stealing."

Bran didn't reply. "…I've been practicing, you know," he said slowly. "On rats and crows. It's getting easier. It takes a while, but…"

"You think you could cross the Wall if you had another body."

Bran nodded.

"And what about your current body?"

"It's broken, isn't it?" he snapped. He remembered how Sansa used to throw out her old dolls when they cracked.

"If you take a new body," Jojen said slowly. "Then you wouldn't be Bran Stark anymore."

Maybe I don't want to be Bran Stark anymore, he almost said.

"Please Bran," Jojen continued. "You are a Stark, and that's important. You are important. Leave these thoughts behind."

Bran never did leave them behind. They just kept growing stronger, and stronger.

The storm lasted for two more days. The rain scattered over the Wall, leaking through the broken roof of the Nightfort. The weather was so treacherous that they all huddled together in their corner of the Nightfort's vast, dark kitchens, taking what little shelter the cracked ceiling offered.

In a way, Bran was the only one who was free. Bran could move into Summer whenever he wanted. He could even manage the rats or birds, if he really focused; but only to an extent. Those animals were difficult - they had to be forced. Squeezing himself into a rat's skin felt almost like crushing the animal in his palm.

One night, Bran found a rat - an old grey rat that lingered by his feet long enough for him to grab its skin. For the next day and a half, almost continuously, Bran skittered around rubble and dark passages of the ruined castle. He stared through the rat's beady, half-blind eyes, from a perspective so tiny that he wouldn't have ever been able to imagine it without seeing it himself. It made him wonder what it was like to be a bug.

By the time Bran finally pulled himself out of the rat, he felt the creature just keel over as soon as he left. The rat gasped for breath, twitched, and then died. It was like whatever mind it had had been crushed when Bran entered it, and when Bran left its body died too. Bran might as well have stepped on that rat when he pushed himself into its body.

Bran didn't stop thinking about what that might be like. Whenever he went into a new body, there was always that link to his old one - the connection that pulled him back to his original skin, like a ship's anchor. He didn't truly become a creature; he was just partway squeezing his head and shoulders into its skin, while his feet remained grounded. What would it be like to leave my body completely behind, to dive entirely into another skin?

It made him think of what the three-eyed crow had said about flying. Was that what it meant to fly? Bran supposed it would be like being reborn. It would be like dying and coming back to life again.

Some days, Bran wondered what else he might be able to do. One day, he spent twelve hours continuously staring at a spider creeping over the stones, wondering if he might be able to take the spider's body too. He couldn't sense the spider in his third eye, but then again, he hadn't been able to sense the rats and the birds at first either.

Jojen noticed him, and frowned. "…I think it might be best if you try to avoid skinchanging for a while, Bran. Try to avoid using it," Jojen said carefully, as if expecting an argument. "Until we find the three-eyed crow."

Bran didn't reply.

Later that day, Meera came to him, with a soft smile. "How are you, Bran?" Meera said in a low voice. "…I know things haven't been comfortable lately, but…"

Her voice trailed off slowly. Had Jojen told her to check on him?

"We've reached a decision," Meera said. "Jojen doesn't want to stay here any longer, he thinks this place might have a bad influence. We've decided to head east, to Castle Black."

Bran's eyes widened. "Jon…"

Meera nodded. "Yes, your brother. We're going to try and reach him. Just Jon, though - we can't trust the other rangers, Jojen thinks Castle Black might also be dangerous." Of course, she would follow Jojen. "But we can try to draw out Jon individually. We're going to try and convince Jon to escort us north to the three-eyed crow."

Bran took a deep breath. "When?" Bran asked. The thought of seeing Jon again…

"As soon as the storm clears," Meera promised, clutching his hand with a smile. "Couple of days."

His skin felt warm where she touched. Bran felt his heart flutter, staring into her eyes. She was older than he was, but so pretty with brown hair and green eyes. He hadn't thought she was that pretty at first, but she was…

… Maybe if I had legs, he thought suddenly. I could stand up and kiss her.

His eyes drooped down towards the floor.

Even after dusk, when everyone else went to sleep for the night, sheltered from the scattering rain, Bran was wide awake and thinking about how he might take a new body. A body that could stand up, that could climb. To take a brand new body… it would have to be human. Bran could borrow other skins for a time, but he couldn't imagine living fully as anything else but human.

Not for the first time, Bran found himself staring at Hodor, and wondering.

Just like the rat, Bran strongly suspected that if he went all the way in, he would have to kill the current occupant. Hodor doesn't deserve that, Bran thought. Hodor was kind, gentle and innocent - he protected Bran, carried him…

Still, at night, sometimes, Bran dreamt about being a large knight, standing tall and armored in black on a battlefield…

In the distance, Bran heard the thunder roll from the north.

Everyone else was asleep, huddled by the wall against the rain. Hodor sat by the opposite side, snoring against the wall. Meera slept coiled next to him. Jojen lay in the center, shifting and muttering restlessly in his sleep, like he was having a bad dream.

Bran was wide awake. He closed his eyes and concentrated reaching out around. In the lower floors, he found a rat - a young rat picking apart one of the rotted wooden beams of the old keep. Its body trembled and convulsed as Bran caught it. Despite the rat's struggles, he didn't let go. He pushed his way in furiously, squeezing forcefully into the rat's skin.

Rats were worse than birds. They would constantly try to slip and struggle away from Bran, like it thought it could escape his grip. Bran had to hold tightly, so tightly the rat might strangle itself by struggling.

As soon as the rat's resistance shattered, Bran was skittering down the beam on tiny, fast paws. The rat's vision was blurry and nearly useless, but its nose was so sharp and sensitive. Bran wanted to keep on searching the deep vaults, the places so buried that only a rat could really reach them.

He spent hours crawling in the rat's skin, through buried passageways so black that there was no light at all. The rat's whiskers twitched, paws tracing across a chunk of metal buried in a half-collapsed tunnel.

There was no warning. Suddenly, sharp teeth bit into the rat's hide, tearing through skin.

The rat squealed. Bran screamed - gasping upwards as the pain hit him.

The rat died. The warg shattered. Bran jumped awake, yanking himself back to his own body as he felt the rat's life extinguish. Bran was left gasping for breath, clutching his waist and half-expecting to feel bite marks.

Around him, the others still slept soundly. Jojen squirmed restlessly in his sleep.

It was another rat, Bran thought, replaying that brief moment. Another rat - a larger, older rat - had ambushed his rat from behind. Then it tore the younger rat apart and ate it. He hadn't been able to see it, but Bran wondered if that cannibal rat might have had white fur, like the Rat Cook that Old Nan always used to tell him about.

Perhaps that is all the Rat Cook was, Bran wondered, maybe he was just a man that died and warged a second life in the body of a rat? What would it be like to totally become another creature? Could the Rat Cook have then warged into another rat when the first one died? Maybe the Rat Cook became immortal, constantly switching and possessing the body of the biggest rat in the castle for five hundred years, until nothing remained of the man, just the rat, and a desire for cannibalism… ?

Around him, the weirwood tree rippled in the wind and rain. The sound of the rain and the distant howl of the storm was a constant drone in the backdrop. The night was restless, and Bran's eyes were heavy, right up until the moment he heard a voice echo in the distance.

Bran's heart skipped. His whole body jerked. At first, he thought the shadows were speaking to him.

And then he heard a second voice. It was distant, indistinct, like the first, but it was getting closer. For a moment, there was nothing but pure panic. And then slowly, the rational part of his brain took over. There are people in the Nightfort.

He saw ravens burst into the sky from a nearby tower. They bird had been disturbed, by figures moving closer through the keep, from the north. From the direction of the Wall.

Who? How? Are they after me, how could they find us, why are they here… ?

"Wake up!" Bran hissed, at Jojen and Meera. "Wake up, there's someone here…"

None of them even twitched. It was late, the Nightfort had been deserted for so long, Meera and Jojen had long since stopped keeping a watch at night. Bran dared not raise his voice. If he had legs, he would have stood up to reach Jojen, to shake him awake. Instead, Bran had to crawl over the ground awkwardly to reach the boy. Bran shook his shoulder.

Jojen mumbled incoherently. Bran practically had to clutch his mouth shut - which did cause the little crannogman to jolt awake. Bran could suddenly hear footsteps, behind the shrieking of the storm. Summer shot up suddenly. The direwolf would have instantly pounced and attacked, if Bran hadn't held him back.

Jojen's eyes were wide. Meera looked awake too now, while Hodor was still sleeping. None dared to make a noise. Meera slowly reached for her three-pronged frog spear by her bags. Bran could hear footsteps just outside of the kitchens, splashing through the puddles on the broken stones outside the threshold.

"…This place is a ruin," a voice growled from outside.

"It's a big ruin," another replied with a snort. "The crows won't search it. Even if they do, we can just go deeper. We can hide here for a good while."

"Fuck hidin'," a man snapped, stepping closer. The shadows looked like he was struggling to light a torch through in the faint rain. "We should have stuck to Mance's old plan. Kill every fuckin' crow in their castle and open the gates for all the rest of the folk."

Wildlings, Bran thought with a gasp. They are actual wildlings… !

There was an annoyed tsk from someone as the wildling's torch finally doused, sizzling to nothing in the rain coming through the hole in the kitchen's roof. "Oh aye? Tough guy with an ice-pick, ain't you Sven?" A hoarse voice laughed. A woman's voice. "You reckon you can take on a hundred crows all by yourself?"

"We lost thirty men climbing that bloody Wall," the man snapped. His voice was closer now. He sounded like a big man. "If you had only waited for better weather—"

"We climbed during the storm because then we're sure there won't be any crows on the Wall, during the storm!" Another snapped. "Any other time, and maybe we would have been spotted, and then none of us would have made it at all."

Bran tried to count the footsteps. At least a dozen. He saw more torches being lit and relit, staying away from the weirwood in the center of the huge kitchens and the hole it had made in the roof. A dozen men and women strong enough to climb the Wall, he thought. "I still say it was stupid, you know how few crows there are nowadays, you bloody… !"

"Enough!" a man snapped. He stepped into the flickering light. Jojen pulled Bran further into the shadows of their hearth in the kitchens. Bran caught a glimpse of the wildling - tall, lean, with dark hair and fierce eyes. He wore boiled leather and sheepskin furs. "You say another bloody word Sven, I gut you. I don't give a damn for your whining."

There was a pause. "We stick to the plan," the big man continued. He was wearing black chain armor. Armor a Night's Watchman should have had. "We hide out here. We lower ropes for the others when they come. Maybe if we get the men we assault Castle Black, but if not we just go south ourselves."

"If we want to get more, then we need to send people back north to fetch them, Alvar," another complained, a woman. She clutched a spear.

"Bugger that," the large man who seemed to be their leader, Alvar, cursed. "I ain't ever stepping north of that Wall again. I'll face the sword before I face the dead again. We southerners, now."

Bran's heart was pounding madly. In the shadows, behind the wall, Meera had her frog spear and net, Summer's teeth were bared, but Bran counted thirteen figures in the torch light. His lungs froze, but slowly the footsteps started to move away. They were walking away from the kitchens, towards the keep. Probably looking for shelter.

Meera met Jojen's eyes, and then shook her head. Nobody dared make a noise, instead just listening to the free folk bicker. They are walking away, Bran realized. Maybe just a bit further, and we could slip out without them noticing.

In the clouds, the lightning cracked. Moments later, he heard the thunder rumble loudly. Suddenly, Hodor shot awake. Meera couldn't restrain him in time.

"Hodor!" The stable boy cried, jolting awake in fear. "Hodor!"

The room instantly turned silent as a grave.

The wildling's bickering all stopped. The footsteps stopped. Their breathing stopped. Even the rain seemed to hold its breath for a moment, hissing faintly against the stones outside.

"What the hell was that?" One of the wildlings muttered.

Bran couldn't breathe. He could feel his own heartbeat racing in his ears. Beside him, Meera had gone perfectly still, her hand on her frog spear, not yet raising it - just holding it, like she was afraid even that motion might make a sound. Jojen's eyes were open and fixed on the doorway. Hodor made a small confused noise, and Meera's hand shot out and covered his mouth. Hodor blinked at her, bewildered.

In the corridor, none of the wildlings moved either.

Maybe they think it was the storm, Bran thought. Maybe they think it was a bird, the thunder maybe, maybe they—

Lightning crashed down again, somewhere close. Far too close. "Hodor!" Hodor shouted in panic. Meera couldn't stop him, she wasn't even close to strong enough to stop him. "Hodor, hodor!"

Pure horror surged into Bran. He heard feet racing. A torch swung into the doorway. The light found them immediately.

For one long, strange moment, neither side did anything. Bran saw the wildling's face — the lean one, Jarl — his torch raised, his eyes moving across the room. Taking count. A crippled boy on the ground. A girl with a spear. A large simple man. A pale boy with green eyes. A direwolf, hackles raised, lips pulled back from its teeth without making a sound.

Bran saw the exact moment the man decided to just kill them without asking questions.

Summer leapt out, snarling, biting the man's arm.

"Move!" Meera hissed, half-dragging Bran across the ground. "Quickly, run, move… !"

Summer was fighting. That wildling was screaming as Summer tore out his throat. Many wildling's feet were stomping across the stones.

"Grab Bran!" Meera cursed, as Bran tried weakly to crawl. Meera had her hunting trident and net, even Jojen clutched a dagger, but Bran had never felt as useless as when Hodor frantically hoisted him upwards from the arms. In an instant, Bran was thrown over Hodor's shoulders like a sack of potatoes.

There was shouting. Bran saw Summer dash back to Hodor's side, his snout and maw covered with the first wildling's blood. He felt Hodor beneath him, scrabbling across the ground, carrying Bran easily, while Jojen ran next to him. With barely a conscience thought, Bran felt himself slip away into Summer's skin.

The direwolf was snarling, angry, feeling the danger in the air. Bran could smell the danger, enemies clutching torches and spears running towards them. He saw flickering shadows and weapons being drawn through the light drizzle of the rain.

Another wildling barreled through the doorway, but Meera's frog spear was ready and waiting for him. He was big man, but Meera jabbed upwards, catching him off-guard and her three-pronged spear plunged straight into his neck. The man tried to catch the lunge instinctively, but he was too slow and blood spurted everywhere. He thrashed in pain sharply, slamming physically into Meera. Even with a spear half-jutting out of his throat, however, the wildling didn't fall down, and instead twisted around and tried desperately to yank the spear out of Meera's hands.

Meera was skilled and fast, but the wildling was much bigger, tougher and stronger.

She shouted, half in pain and half in anger, as the man grabbed her, but Meera reacted fluidly. With her other hand, her hunting net swung forward, tangling into the next wildling through the doorway and sending him crashing to the ground. Then, Meera twisted out with both hands on the spear, trying to wrestle the man down and plunge the spear deep into his throat. He was gargling in pain, but even as he choked on his own blood he still wrestled against Meera.

More men were charging through the doorway. The chaos was immediate. Meera forced the man's thrashing body backwards with her spear, trying to block the doorway, but then he managed to rip the weapon out of her grasp. Meera swiftly drew her hunting knife, abandoning the trident without a second thought, and screamed wordlessly as she plunged the knife into the man's chest repeatedly. The narrow blade cut through leather and into flesh with a horrible sound of metal on bone.

The wildlings behind him slammed forward. A wildling woman plunged at Meera with a spear, ready to skewer her like a boar, but at that moment Summer lunged into the fray of thrashing bodies.

"Direwolf!" A wildling screamed, clutching his bronze sword. Everything dissolved into tooth and claw, panic and chaos. "It's a bloody direwolf!"

The first man fell quickly under Summer's teeth. The spearwife clattered to the ground with the wolf's claws scraped across her shoulder. The man Meera wrestled with was still thrashing, but weakly as he fell to the ground and dragged her with him. Meera panted, smeared in blood, clutching her hunting knife with trembling hands.

Two down, one injured, and one trying to disentangle himself from a net. Still, there were nine more wildlings, all ready and armed, and the element of surprise had vanished.

"Kill the bloody wolf!" The wildling leader - Alvar - snapped, stabbing forward with his spear. They were big men, experienced, they all knew how to hold their weapons. "Kill it!"

The first spear nearly gutted Summer. The direwolf barely managed to lunge beside the thrust, his jaws snapping, but the spears kept him back. Meera gasped as another wildling slammed forward at her, swinging a bronze sword. She barely ducked under the blow and managed to graze his shoulder with her knife, but then the man's other arm twisted and smashed her to the ground. The blow hit Meera squarely on the nose. Bran, through Summer's eyes, saw her blood spurt as she dropped to the floor.

Bran howled in shock. He barely avoided the lunge of another spear. Ten against two, Bran thought. Too many, even for Summer. We need Hodor.

Bran dropped himself out of Summer, and back into his own body. Hodor was carrying him over his shoulder as they ran through the ruined keep, towards the old library. Bran saw Jojen cry out, "Bran, don't— !"

He did it anyway. He reached out for Hodor and pushed.

The stable boy's mind wasn't like a rat's - it didn't struggle and thrash and try to flee. It was worse than that. Hodor's mind was open, unguarded, warm, and when Bran pressed himself in he felt Hodor's confusion immediately, the wordless animal terror of something vast and wrong happening inside of him.

No no no no— not a thought, not even in his own mind did Hodor have proper thoughts or words, that was just the feeling: the feeling of a large gentle creature recoiling from something it couldn't understand. Bran felt the rejection so vividly, like a hand made of solid horror pressed flat against his chest.

It's me, Bran thought desperately. Hodor, it's me, it's Bran—

But Hodor couldn't hear that. He never could. Bran's presence felt nothing like Bran to Hodor - it felt like a wound, like something being pried open and then something huge and terrible forcing its way inside. He felt the stable boy's mind scrabbling away from him, felt him trying to press himself into the corners of his own skull.

I'm sorry, Bran thought, and then he stopped being sorry and just pushed.

Bran crushed all resistance and seized control. He felt the horrible wrongness of it, the way Hodor was still in there somewhere, small and frightened and confused in the dark of his own body, and then Bran was wearing him like a suit.

Bran's own body fell out of Hodor's arms, splashing limply onto the wet stone, and he didn't even feel himself fall. He didn't even care. Suddenly, Bran felt big and strong. He was already standing up on Hodor's long and strong legs, balling Hodor's big hands into fists.

Gods. He'd forgotten what it felt like to stand.

Hodor growled as he turned and stamped back towards the vast kitchens.

"Hodor!" he shouted. That had come out wrong: he had tried to shout 'Meera!'

Hodor picked up a large stone, heaving it upwards in both hands like a club. Gods, Bran had almost forgotten what it felt like to have legs, to feel so strong…

Both Meera and Summer were running. Meera was gasping for breath, clutching her nose as she fled while Summer turned to try and lead them away from her, to split their forces. Three men chased after Meera, four men and a spearwife tried to corner Summer at the far end of the kitchens. That left another two wildlings running after Bran and Jojen.

Both of them had spears and swords. Hodor would have cowered and whimpered, but Bran ran straight through.

"Who the fuck are you people?!" One of the wildlings shouted at Hodor, raising his spear.

"Hodor!" Hodor bellowed, swinging the stone like a hammer. "Hodor!"

The bronze speartip plunged into Hodor's shoulder. Bran felt the pain cut through him, but his arms were still swinging.

The rock collided against the wildling's head. Bran felt his skull crack like an egg.

Bran had never a killed a man before, but in Hodor's body it was just so… easy.

The other man swung his sword. Hodor barrelled into him, but his sword still scraped against Hodor's thigh. They both tumbled to the ground, Hodor roared in pain. Bran hadn't felt pain like it; he felt the skin tear under the blunt metal edge, taking out Hodor's leg from underneath him.

The raider tried to clamber upwards. Hodor's arms seemed to work on pure instinct. Hodor grabbed the man by the collar, and dragged him to the ground with him. He thrashed and he kicked, but Hodor barely even felt the pain. Then, Hodor's big, strong hands were wrapping around the man's throat and choking the life out of him. Hodor had such strong hands.

Bran felt Hodor's fear and adrenaline tear through him, making him even stronger. He watched the man's face turned bloated purple. He heard the man gagging, felt him thrashing, but slowly becoming weaker and weaker as his face steadily turned past purple into black.

At the far side of the room, Summer tore off a man's arm with his teeth. Still the other four wildlings plunged forward, fighting the feral wolf back desperately. Bran could see the plumes of blood scattered across Summer's hide from where the spears had caught him. The direwolf was limping on its left hind leg, weakening with every blow. Summer was strong and vicious, but teeth and claws couldn't compete with spears.

They're going to kill Summer, he realized with shock. They're going to kill Summer, and Jojen, and Meera….

Hodor dropped the now-lifeless wildling. He tried to move, but the stable boy couldn't stand. Hodor's leg was cut, dripping blood.

I've got to protect Summer.

Suddenly, Bran pushed himself outwards again, even further this time. He wasn't quite sure if he'd be able to bring himself back into himself again, but he didn't care anymore. He could feel the ravens flocking in the sky, the rats skittering on the ground.

The desperation forced him forward. Through his third eye, he focused on a raven and he pushed with all of his might. The raven's will folded like paper as Bran powered through, seizing control of its body…

In an instant, there was a squawking bundle of feathers and claws bursting through a hole in the ceiling, straight for the raider's eyes. Bran felt sharp talons and beak tearing through screaming flesh…

Bran gasped, struggling to process it. The distraction was enough for Summer to snap forward between the spears, throwing the wildlings back.

Another, Bran thought. Without even pausing, Bran reached out to grab another bird.

Can I control two bodies at once? He hadn't even realized he might be able to, but in that moment he just was. He could feel both the birds pecking and squealing madly under his grip, but Bran just threw them both to attack in a suicidal charge.

The thought made him tremble. One of the birds died as a raider snapped its neck. Bran felt the crack as the bird's life was snuffed out. It hurt - he could feel the spike of pain as its neck jolted - but there was no time to focus on it.

More. He needed more, so many more. Bran was already grabbing a third bird, and then a fourth, and then a fifth. But it still wasn't enough. He still couldn't feel a limit to what he could control.

He reached out all across the entire castle, he reached out even further. He couldn't even feel how far he was reaching out now. It felt like entire miles. Give me more, Bran thought. I need to save them. I need to save them!

And then, in an instant, it felt like he was controlling thousands.

Scarcely moments later, the roof exploded with flapping bodies, pouring through the weirwood's hole in the roof. The kitchens were roaring with black, flapping, scratching shapes…

The feeling was incredible. It felt indescribable. It felt like Bran was everywhere. He was in hundreds of bodies at once, driving them all to attack as one.

He could feel the wildling men screaming and bleeding. He could feel their eyeballs popping under so many talons. He could feel their ankles being devoured by rats. He could feel the weirwood tree rippling, drinking of the death in the air, and the rain pounding against its pale bark.

And then he felt Summer's teeth tear through the men one by one. The birds scratched out their eyes, and then the direwolf tore out their throats. The men were sent flailing in panic, and then Summer's jaws lunged onto them. The wildlings in the kitchen were falling quickly. They died screaming and thrashing, devoured by rats, picked apart by crows.

Meera, Bran thought. I need to save Meera.

Meera had ran off further into the castle, chased by four men. The swarm of birds twisted, flapping after them. Bran felt at least a hundred flapping bodies under his control in that one thread of his mind alone, but they moved so fluidly it was like he only controlling one, and it didn't stop him from controlling the others either.

Then something hit his real body. A small stone, kicked up by someone fighting. It wasn't much, but it was enough: it sent a sharp pain through him. Bran fell back into his own body with a gasp.

Suddenly, he could smell smoke. He could hear the sound of fighting, and rain hissing against flames. The countless birds fell out of his control and flapped around confusedly.

No! Bran thought, cursing. He tried to reach out past his own body again to gain control again, but he couldn't, his head was spinning. Like a muscle he'd just overused. He heard screaming, and squawking in the distance. His body was stuck uselessly on the ground again, with Jojen stood over him protectively clutching a dagger.

"No, no, no… !"

Meera, Bran realized. Meera is screaming. He had never heard Meera scream before.

Meera must have tried to circle back around to Bran and Jojen, but then the wildlings had chased her down. They were in the old library, across from the keep, surrounded by rotten wood and dust. The wildlings dragged Meera into the corner of the room, kicked and forced her to the ground….

"Leave her alone!" Jojen bellowed, clutching his dagger with both hands. "Leave her—"

A backhanded slap took him to the ground. Bran gasped, trying desperately to concentrate as his head swam with panic.

Four wildlings. There are four wildlings left, Bran thought, while Summer tore through the last of the group back in the kitchens. Meera must have knocked a torch out of a man's hand, sending one of the wooden rafters up in flames. Even despite the rain, the rotten wood was burning and crackling around them, gushing smoke and hissing sparks. Bran could feel the thick smoke sting in his throat and eyes, his head rushing madly, so madly he could barely think…

The moment froze. Bran could see Meera screaming, the ruined library burning, the black sky still spattering rain.

"The girl has fight in her!" A raider laughed, grabbing Meera's wrists as he pinned her to the ground. "I like the fighters!"

"The boys do not," another growled. Bran could barely gasp as suddenly the raider's foot crunched into his chest. His head swam, struggling to concentrate. "What do you reckon? Orphans squatting out?"

Bran saw Jojen try to clamber up, but then the big man downwards smacked him. Bran wheezed weakly, struggling for breath, staring upwards the billows of smoke, the birds cawing madly…

"That little bitch killed Sven!" A wildling growled, glaring at Meera.

"Sven was a fool," the wildling growled, still wrestling with Meera. She was a good fighter, but he was still just so much bigger and stronger than her. Bran saw her eyes wide and pale. "…But this girl is mine! I'm taking her."

Bran could barely breathe as he watched the man tear open Meera's tunic with his bare hands. He saw pale skin, turned red from where he gripped her. Meera tried to struggle, but the man was on top of her, pinning her to the ground while his hands…

He's going to rape her. He's going to rape her right here and now, in the pouring rain with half the building on fire.

Bran's heart pounded. He felt something snap. It sounded like a chain breaking in his mind.

He heard the fire crackling. He heard screaming.

And he heard Summer snarling furiously, like some monster out of Old Nan's tales, as the wolf lunged out of the darkness straight at the wildling standing over Bran. The raider went down quickly under the massive direwolf's snapping jaws.

Two wildlings tried to raise axes, but then there were ravens and crows squawking madly down through the smoke, clawing at eyes. Tearing their faces off. Bran couldn't even remember consciously giving the order, but the birds just followed his unconscious commands almost instinctively…

And the burning library dissolved into pure panic. All sanity disappeared and the world seemed consumed by tooth and claw, smoke and screaming, and so, so much blood.

The wildlings fell quickly. Bran had never felt Summer so bloodthirsty before.

He could hear Meera screaming. The sound was like fire in Bran's blood.

The wildling clutching Meera was the last one standing. Meera's shirt was torn and hanging off, revealing pale delicate flesh, skinny ribs and a flat exposed breast, her entire chest was covered in bruises and painful whelps. The wildling's breeches were half off, but he clutched a dagger to Meera's throat.

His eyes were wide, horrified. The birds cawed while the direwolf tore through his colleagues in an instant. His face turned pale, staring at the snarling giant wolf with blood dripping from its maw…

"Stay back!" the wildling screamed, clutching his dagger. His words were barely audible over the burning and the cawing. "Get that wolf away from me or I tear open the girl's throat."

Summer approached, one paw in front of the other slowly. The direwolf's eyes shone in the darkness. The raider was screaming something, but Bran couldn't hear it. The sound of Meera's screams echoed in his head.

And then their eyes met. There was no thought involved, just pure rage and panic. Bran lunged. He lunged outwards like a wolf.

Bran concentrated on the raider and he pushed. He pushed harder than he had ever pushed before, with anger he hadn't even imagined…

Bran felt the man's mind. He felt the pain, the fear, so thick it was like smoke, but Bran didn't care. He wrapped his power around the wildling and he squeezed.

He felt the man convulse, scream and thrash. It hurt, but Bran didn't stop. Gods, Bran felt so strong. Like he was tearing the life out of him. It felt like he was smothering the man's mind, crushing him in his grip…

The wildling was screaming as he dropped backwards, convulsing and shaking, fingers tearing at his own face. Bran refused to stop, he forced himself harder and further, tighter and tighter…

He felt the man's mind scream in horror, and then Bran closed the fist of his mind. He felt the raider's mind snuff out beneath his grip. The man's spirit had burned like a raging flame, but then Bran had… extinguished him, like squeezing a candle's flame in his hands. Instantly, all resistance disappeared, and then Bran felt himself falling inwards….

The world blurred.

Everything changed.

All around him, the birds were cawing and flapping madly. The smoke was hissing.

Meera was gasping as she clambered to her feet, her hands clutching a broken brick from the ground. Her clothes were still torn, half her chest bare. Her face was bloody. There were tears in her eyes.

"You bastard!" Meera shrieked, smashing the stone downwards onto the wildling's head. The man gaped in shock. "… You bastard! You bastard!"

The first blow sent the wildling's head spinning. The second caused his vision to blur. By the third, he barely managed to raise his arms to block Meera, while the girl pushed herself on top of him, kicking and slamming into the wildling with berserk strength.

"… No… don't…" the man gasped, struggling to stand. His legs trembled.

"You bastard!" Meera roared, trying to crack him again. "You… !"

"… No… Meera…" The wildling wheezed, collapsing to the ground, as blood dripped down from his cheeks. "… Don't… It's me… Bran…"