J—
I'm surprised to find myself in a boat with none other than your previous Lord Commander's son, Jorah Mormont. Such a small world it is, and especially when it comes to Northerners. And now here you are, acting as Lord Commander yourself. I am not surprised at such a progression, for truly, the men must understand your value—the sacrifices you have made for them far outnumber those they've made for you. And if they do not realize this, they are blind—you are strong and you are more deserving than any man I have ever known. Just don't expect me to bow to you.
I hope Stannis Baratheon is not so much a bore in his war-mongering nowadays than he was as a politician before the War of the Five Kings. He never really liked me, so I would avoid bringing my name up in any conversation you have with him. Stannis is one of those men who groups the flaws of a father with that of a daughter—and I am the biggest case of this, I'm afraid to say. Beware of the Red Woman—she may seem like merely a seductress but she managed to kill Renly with a cloud she birthed from her womb. Honestly, though, I cannot make this up.
I do not see myself coming North quite yet, but I shall let you know at the soonest opportunity. And as for Ghost—how could I, an innocent and helpless woman, have made your direwolf into a rebel? Honestly, Jon, that's as much a fantasy as the giants beyond the Wall.
Keep warm.
G
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"When you were an infant, the Dornish trailer landed on Dragonstone. His goods were junk except for one wooden doll. He'd even sewn a dress on it in the colors of our House. No doubt he'd heard of your birth, and assumed new fathers were easy targets. I still remember how you smiled when I put that doll in your cradle, and you pressed it to your cheek. By the time we burnt the doll, it was too late. I was told you would die. Or worse, the grayscale would go slow. Let you grow just enough to know the world before taking it away from you. Everyone advised me to send you to the ruins of Valyria to live out your short life with the Stone men, before the sickness spread to the castle. I told them all to go to hell. I called in every maester on this side of the world. Every healer, every apothecary. They stopped the disease and saved your life. Because you did not belong across the world with the bloody Stone men," Stannis reveals the love he's capable of, stepping forward and laying a soft hand on his daughter's shoulder. "You are the Princess Shireen of House Baratheon. And you are my daughter."
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Sansa's soft hands pass the candle from the warm palm of life to the statue of death depicting her aunt, the light sending off waves of recognition to the other tombs, although she is less adamant in visiting those than she is in visiting Lyanna's grave. Picking the feather from the ground--something her father was the last to touch--she places it back into the hand of her aunt, its suitable place for all eternity to see.
"I thought I might find you here," the voice of Petyr Baelish echoes towards her, following the sound of footsteps she'd easily recognize for whose they were. He steps up beside her and gazes at the large statue with a lovely face that cannot be mistaken for Lyanna Stark, "Your Aunt Lyanna."
"Father never talked about her. Sometimes I'd find him down here, lighting the candles," Sansa's warm voice parts for him, that homely smile taking root as she looks upon the dreary sight of death. "They say she was beautiful."
"I saw her once," Littlefinger replies, and Sansa cannot hide her curiosity as she turns to him with wondering blue eyes. "I was a boy, living with your mother's family. Lord Whent had a great tourney at Harrenhal. Everyone was there. The Mad King, your father, Robert Baratheon. And Lyanna, she was already promised to Robert."
"You can imagine what it was like for me, a boy from nowhere, with nothing to his name, watching these legendary men, tilting at the lists. The last two riders were Barristan Selmy and Rhaegar Targaryen. When Rhaegar won, everyone cheered for the prince. I remember the girls laughing when he took off his helmet and they saw that silver hair. How handsome he was."
"Until he rode right past his wife, Elia Martell, and all the smiles died. I've never seen so many people so quiet. He rode past his wife, and he lay a crown of winter roses in Lyanna's lap. Blue as frost. How many tens of thousands had to die because Rhaegar chose your aunt?"
"Yes, he chose her... and then he kidnapped her and raped her," Sansa responds with the story she's heard many times over, never from her father but from those of King's Landing. And yet, there was the singular exception on part of the truly honest woman--Littlefinger's daughter. Lyanna and Rhaegar loved each other. But even Sansa doubts that such a love could ever excuse the death of thousands in their folly.
As Sansa and Petyr stroll through the crypt with words exchanged, the whoremonger turns to her with those sly eyes of many plots playing in his favor. "Once Stannis liberates these lands from the Boltons he'll rally your father's bannermen to his cause. With the North behind him, Stannis can finally take the Iron Throne."
"You think he'll defeat the Boltons?" Sansa asks, yet highly doubts at the same time as Petyr always picks the winning side--and he'd never met with Stannis in the recent years. No, Littlefinger expects the Lannisters to win.
But Petyr does not see her suspicions, and he plays into her expectations, "He has a larger army. He's the finest military commander in Westeros. A betting man would put his money on Stannis. As it happens, I am a betting man."
"And if you're right?" Sansa asks, intent on being prepared for all outcomes, fair or false.
"Stannis takes Winterfell, he rescues you from the most despised family in the North. Grateful for your late father's courageous support for his claim, he names you Wardeness of the North," Littlefinger relates, and Sansa's struck not by the title but with a sudden realization of what Petyr intends. Marry her and become Warden of the North. She wants to beat him for using her, and scream at him for thinking she's ignorant enough to believe him.
But she does neither in her acting, instead stuttering with false surprise, "But I, I wouldn't... Wardeness of the North"
"You are the last surviving Stark," Baelish presses. "He needs you."
"What if you're wrong? What if Stannis never attacks Winterfell, or he does and the Boltons defeat him?" Sansa has to ask, knowing she'll need all the knowledge she can acquire to achieve revenge on both the Boltons and Petyr Baelish.
Petyr grins snakily at her, "Then you will take this Bolton boy, Ramsay, and make him yours."
"I don't know how to do that." Yes, she does.
"Of course you do," Petyr echoes her thoughts. "He's already fallen for you."
Sansa hardly thinks that's the truth from the acting she's seen Ramsey perform, though she is lost on what character the legitimized bastard is hiding beneath that crazed smile and blue eyes. But even now, she will not let Petyr use that as ammunition against her, instead relating what he believes, "His father frightens me."
"He should, he's a dangerous man. But even the most dangerous men can be outmaneuvered. And you've learnt to maneuver from the very best," Littlefinger relates and she cannot help agreeing, although they perceive her teacher to be entirely different characters. Resting one hand on her shoulder and another aback her head, Petyr Baelish promises, "I'll return before too long. You'll be strong without me." Sansa nods her head and the man pulls her into a deep kiss that she still shivers beneath, but he regales in. Letting it last a moment, Sansa pulls away to see his adamant grey eyes, "The North will be yours. Do you believe me?"
"I expect I'll be a married woman by the time you return," she simply responds with that smirk she's acquired through the many years. Petyr Baelish chuckles at her jibe and pats her shoulder before leaving the crypt and Sansa to Ramsay Bolton. Perhaps if he had known then of the future, Petyr Baelish would have killed Roose and Ramsay himself. But with the di cast...fate plays out in the most cruel of stories.
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Tyrion is strangely silent in the wake of the boat and their lingering troubles, still considering Gabrielle's overarching plot that allowed him to be kidnapped by a rather gruff Mormont. She'd finally snapped at his incessant staring a few hours earlier, explaining to Tyrion that they'd arrive faster to Meereen by boat than by wheelhouse, a proposition she could not deny given her logical mind. And she'd reminded him then--after seeing his snarling--that he had wanted to 'get out of the wheelhouse,' and that he was just receiving what he wished for.
Tyrion huffs at her rather logical mindset that he cannot deny, which is even more irritating. He turns to the Mormont steering the boat, asking stiffly, "Do you have wine?"
"No."
"I can't sleep without wine," Tyrion complains and pinpoints the company Jorah does not want--and the privacy he only gets when the other two patrons are sleeping.
"Then stay awake," Jorah refuses to play into the dwarf, letting silence and waves set about them with the rocking of their forms in the nice breeze of the sea. And though it's been days, Jorah only then finds it necessary to know of the two's intentions, asking Tyrion, "What business would you have with the Queen?"
"Gold and glory," Tyrion remarks pleasantly, his eyes sparking with deepset vengeance. "Oh, and hate. If you've ever met my sister, you'd understand. So now that it's clear we're on the same side will you stop the aggression?"
But Jorah's eyes no longer whittle onto Tyrion, then shifting to Gabrielle whose silence is appreciated as she combs Trident's hair. Not looking up and easily knowing his direct question, she answers, "I've been supporting her claim since you became her spy. I figured it was time to meet the Queen I support. And I needed to leave Westeros"
She adds the last piece with the intention to be upfront of her crimes, unlike Jorah who seems to be paying for his secrecy. Gazing up at him, she sees the pallor of his skin at the address of his transgressions, though his mind is focused on the latter part, "Why?"
"Because she's killed the last two kings and Jon Arryn," Tyrion laughs loudly at the girl's inherent trouble as Jorah stares at Gabrielle, suddenly overcome with a worry that she may do the same to Daenerys.
But Gabrielle just rolls her green eyes at the idiocracy, "Do not look at me that way. As far as your loyalties go, my actions helped our Queen."
The blue Mormont eyes glare at her for another moment before dropping down with a nod, a second silence crashing against them as all recognize the discomfort. And as sober as he is--with deep intent to question and revenge himself against Jorah--Tyrion sharply analyzes, "I have to ask how exactly were you serving your Queen in a whore house, half a world away? Is it possible, that you were running? Why would you be running ? And why would she have sent you away?"
"Oh, wait! You were spying on her! She found out, didn't she? Found out, and exiled you. And now you hope to win back her favor with a gift. A risky scheme. One might even say, desperate. Do you think Daenerys would execute me, and pardon you? I'd say the reverse is just as likely. Especially when Gabrielle is here to advocate for me."
Gabrielle rolls her eyes a second-time at the large mantle Tyrion seems to place her upon. However, that silly expression soon turns to suspicion as Jorah releases the steering mechanism and approaches Tyrion. The dwarf looks less suspicious than she does, smiling widely at the man, and misunderstanding Jorah's intention until he's hit about the head by an oar--knocked unconscious. Gabrielle huffs at the typicality of Mormonts, watching as Jorah then approaches her and again tries to smack a victim unconscious, only for Gabrielle to grab the swinging oar and hold it steady. Jorah's eyes widen in shock of her strength and hers narrow into a glare, releasing the oar once Jorah takes his seat on the other side of the boat, and then tucking the oar away at her side.
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Some hundred miles away, the throne room of Queen Daenerys Targaryen is dark in the stunned events of the prior day, lit only by a few candles and reflecting on three faces, equally beset by anger and guilt. The Dragon Queen herself stands beside Daario Naharis, although her hands are wrapped around the arm of a man who's come to be like a father to her--Ned Stark. The three gaze at the body of Barristan Selmy before them, carnage resulting from the attack on him, Grey Worm, and Ned Stark the day prior. And though Ned Stark was the least injured of the three, his body's half supported now by the cane in his hand.
So while he was saved from a handicap by Gabrielle Baelish many years prior, fate came around and took its toll in the end.
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Jon feels only slightly guilty as he watches Sam vacate the library, leaving Jon with Maester Aemon for advice he truly needs. Sighing tiredly as he takes his seat, Jon's eyes revolve to the blind figure of Aemon, asking with care, "How are you feeling?"
"Oh, like a hundred-year-old man slowly freezing to death," the man responds with sincerity, and Jon halfway grins at the ageless humour.
"I need your advice," Jon sighs as he sinks into his seat and tries not to fall asleep for the first time in nearly a day. "There's something I want to do, something I have to do. But it'll divide the Night's Watch. Bitterly. Half the men will hate me the moment I give the order."
"Half the men hate you already, Lord Commander," Aemon reminds him, pressing, "Do it."
"But you don't know what it is."
"That doesn't matter. You do. You will find little joy in your command. But with luck, you will find the strength to do what needs to be done," Aemon foretells the massive struggles Jon will overcome by himself and with the help of others. "Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy, and let the man be born."
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"You were at the Fist of the First Men," Jon reminds Edd later that night through the raging brothers of the Night's Watch and looks of betrayal in their eyes. "If we abandon them, you know what they become. We can learn to live with the wildlings or we can add them to the army of the dead. Whatever they are now, they're better than that."
And though it is the correct decision to be made, the men are not as intelligent as Jon Snow and did not live with wildlings like the Lord Commander once did. And so--while Jon does best for the Free Folk and the Night's Watch--few others can remove themselves from that itching need for vengeance, even before the deed is done.
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Rather unexpectedly, a day later, Stannis Baratheon's confident footsteps press upon the stairs as his lean figure turns into the room, Sam looking up and scuttling to his feet. His head bows deep in forgetfulness of Gilly, offering, "Your Grace."
The wildling girl scuttles around Stannis and out of the room, although the man pays her no mind as Stannis stares at the uncomfortable Sam--finally asking after a few moments, "You're Samwell Tarly?"
"I am, Your Grace," Sam nods without stuttering.
"Your father is Randyll Tarly," Stannis recalls and Sam nods again. "He defeated my brother at the Battle of Ashford. Only battle Robert ever lost. I told him he shouldn't go so far west so soon, but he never listened. Fine soldier, your father. You don't look like a soldier. But I'm told you killed a White Walker."
Sam's grown accustomed to the comments, and his great intelligence keeps him from feeling rather inferior in the presence of Stannis Baratheon, a praised strategist. Almost like a tick, he nods once more as he acquiesces, "I did, Your Grace."
"How?" Stannis firmly presses.
Sam's eyes narrow with the firm question, although he still answers strongly, "With a dagger made of dragonglass."
"Dragonglass?" Stannis's eyebrows quiver in the first surprise he's expressed here in Castle Black, eyes darting to the floor as he thinks deeply and reminiscent.
"What the maesters call obsidian--"
"I know what it is," Stannis interrupts him, "We have it in Dragonstone. Why would obsidian kill a walker?"
"I don't know," Sam shakes his head, the conversation leading him into comfort as he remarks upon his own intelligence. "I've been going through all the old manuscripts hoping to find something, but it was only the book Gab—Lady Baelish sent that detailed anything. Apparently, the Children of the Forest used to hunt with dragonglass."
Stannis's eyebrows narrow with the question, "Why did Lady Baelish send you that?"
"Well, according to Jon, she's a very superstitious person to begin with. Believing there to be truth behind folklore and all," Sam almost mumbles, the words ringing loud in Stannis's ears as he recognizes the tendencies of the female Baelish for truth. "Anyway, she trusts Jon, so when he told her of the White Walkers, she was quick to help. I think she convinced some men down south of them and did most of the research we've gathered on them. I think I have the sheet here—"
Sam begins ruffling through his papers, but Stannis just swats his hand through the air. "Forget it. The Lady Melisandre told me that death marches on the Wall."
"I've seen it, Your Grace," Sam acknowledges the truth in the Red Priestess's judgement, even as he's disinclined to trust or even like the woman.
"Seen what?"
"The army of the dead," Sam answers. "And when they come—"
"We have to know how to fight them," Stannis nods, his eyes resounding with silent thought for a moment before sweeping over Sam--once again, and commanding the boy, "Keep reading, Samwell Tarly, and have the Lord Commander letter Lady Baelish. She's proven her worth once again."
Sam wants to ask what he means, but Stannis is gone before he can even think to breath.