Their daggers plunging deep into the corruption of King's Landing, the little birds do not sing like they once did but twist with their own corruption as the blood of Grand Maester Pycelle slips across the floor and leaves nothing behind but another slab of death.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
As her call to leave echoes about the room and the nobles stir into a frenzy, Margaery races to the broken-Loras on the side, grabbing her brother in her arms as his blue eyes meet her own as she commands of him what she needs, "Loras. Stay with me."
The Queen begins moving the two of them up the steps and through the people, pressing forward and to the exit at the height above them, only to be tightly constrained by the widened arms of the Faith Militant as they prevent the exit of all patrons to this hearing. Without constraint but self-preservation, Margaery commands them, "Let me through. Let me through. Get out of my way."
She begins to shove against their arms and call louder as the High Sparrow eyes the men and women from the center of court, confused by the spectacle. And though her screaming continues and there is no hourglass to reduce the seconds to none, Margaery turns in those last moments to lock eyes on the remorseful High Sparrow just as the floor blows out beneath them and they are eaten in the green flame of wildfire.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
It's just a whisper in his bodily ear, but Tommen hears the messenger's words clearly and sees out that window—the proof of her death. Staring silently and without feeling, he then turns from the portal as his hands reach up and remove his crown, stepping to the corner of his room where the table of his youth still sits with paint marks from Myrcella and his games. Placing it down on the old red wood, he turns back and moves with thought, stepping up and into the sill of his window before letting the winds take him as he finally feels the impact of the crown no longer.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
"When we had feasts, our family would sit up here," Jon reminisces as he lets his hands trace down the side of his father's chair before rising to point at the exit, "...and I'd sit down there."
"Could have been worse, Jon Snow. You had a family. You had feasts," the Red Witch reminds him of all that he had—even as the lesser of the bunch.
Chuckling, he responds, "Aye, you're right. I was luckier than most."
The doors creak open at Davos's entrance, Jon's eyes rising before Melisandre's, and yet she manages to catch the piece of wood that he tosses at her—recognizing it, all at once. Her skin blanches in realization, and Jon steps forward to look at the lump of wood, "What is that?"
"Tell him," Davos shouts for the first time before Jon's eye. "Tell him who it belonged to."
"The Princess Shireen," Melisandre says, Jon's eyes flickering to her and then to Stannis as he stands firm at the back of the room, although his eyes are pained.
"Step forward you bastard!" Davos screams at the Red Witch, "Tell him what you did to her. Tell him!"
Melisandre's fingers trace the stag up to Jon before dropping completely to the ground at the look of brown. "We burned her at the stake."
"Why?" Davos cries.
"The army was trapped," Melisandre pleads with Jon to understand, his eyes revealing nothing but the burn of horror singeing his veins. "The horses were dying. It was the only way."
"You burned a little girl alive!"
But she shouts back at him, "I only do what my Lord commands!"
"If he commands you to burn children, your Lord is evil!" Davos rightly accuses.
"We are standing here because of him," the Red Witch reminds the adviser. "Jon Snow is alive because the Lord willed it."
"I loved that girl like she was my own. She was good. She was kind," the man sobs with a rage Jon did not know that Davos possessed. "And you killed her!"
"So did her father," Jon's eyes shift to the cringing Stannis aback the room. "So did her mother. Her own blood knew it was the only way."
The doors creak open again, and certainly it is someone who heard the fight, revealing Gabrielle as she walks in with the direwolves behind her and the room instantly chills. Eyes adamant on Melisandre—knowing this is the choice she must make—Gabrielle's firm as she accuses, "No, you seduced Stannis into believing in your god. You seduced him into believing it was the only way. You put his daughter up against the country—he would have been a good king because he chose his country. But that wasn't the only choice. This is entirely your sin."
"You told everyone Stannis was the one," Davos echoes, "You had him believing it, all of them fooled. And you lied."
But she shakes her head, "I didn't lie. I was wrong."
"Aye, you were wrong. How many died because you were wrong?" Davos pinpoints, and their eyes lock in a fierce battle between grief and magic that finally ends as the man turns to Jon. "I ask your leave to execute this woman for murder. She admits to the crime."
Jon's eyes flicker to the Red Witch's as the others watch in stiff silence, "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
"I've been ready to die for many years. If the Lord was done with me, so be it, but he's not," she emphasizes with deep sorrow. "You've seen the Night King, Jon Snow. You know the great war is still to come. You know the Army of the Dead will be upon us soon. And you know I can help you win that war."
Jon stares at her before stepping forward and closer to her, his voice gruff in its delivery as he orders her, "Ride south today. If you return to the North, I'll have you hanged as a murderer."
Nodding slowly as her head drops, Melisandre places the burnt stag on the high table and turns to leave when Davos blocks her path, growling, "If you ever come back this way, I will execute you myself."
Her blue eyes flicker to his and then back to the ground before she vacates the hall and leaves the four to the other perpetrator, even if he was seduced. Turning his eyes on the stiffened Stannis Baratheon at the other end of the hall, his eyes flicker in that fiery rage, "You killed her, you killed your own daughter. Did you even love her?"
"I loved Shireen!" Stannis calls from across the hall with the tone of voice Gabrielle thought she'd long-past seen—the voice of a commander and a leader of men. He steps closer to the rest of them, "Don't think I don't regret what I did. Her screams for me, for her father, will haunt me to my last day."
"You should be dead," Davos spats across the hall.
"I should be!" the man shouts as a tear suddenly lifts from his eye—a tear that no man or woman had seen Stannis express before. "But Lady Baelish saved me because I needed to do good for Shireen. What I did to my daughter is one of the worst crimes a man can commit, but would she want me to die for it? No, she would want me to fight for those who deserved to be fought for—for people like her. My daughter was a good person, and I killed her. But I will not defy her living memory."
Stepping firmly from the room, Stannis leaves the other to their thoughts, Jon sending a look at Gabrielle, recognizing she knew of Stannis's sin and said nothing. Davos just stares ahead of himself, his tears drying before looking at Jon—and hesitantly at the Baelish—before nodding at both and vacating the room. She avoids Jon's glance as they are left alone, picking up her skirts and following after Stannis, intent to return him to the man he was and just revealed.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Sansa watches stiffly as the Red Priestess rides slowly from the gates of Winterfell and in the direction of the South, the red of her cloak like a beacon upon the landscape where none possess such a rich crimson. And she knows why the woman now flees, having heard the fight herself and the lingering debates between her brother and Davos—as well as Gabrielle and Stannis as she'd built a fire beneath his character and forced him to accept 'the man—the king's blood—that he once owned.' Sansa cannot deny the humour that she derived from the fierce shouting between the two—but all the same, it was a welcome change to see Stannis Baratheon as the commander he is—not silent in the corner but a man with a firm opinion and confidence in his wide shoulders.
She knows it's Jon from where she stands gazing into the treeline as Melisandre disappears, the sound of his feet in snow well known to her and not so different from when they were kids. Standing at the break in the ramparts nearest her, Sansa watches from the corner of her eye as snow falls gently about him, catching in the dark of his hair like it does in her own as he turns to face her with that facade much like her father's.
"I'm having the lord's chamber prepared for you," Jon tells her and her eyebrows quiver in question of her brother's intent.
"Mother and Father's room?" Sansa's soft voice asks him, looking sharp and unsure on his slightly smaller form. "You should take it."
But Jon just shakes his head with a stubborn sorrow, "I'm not a Stark."
"You are to me."
"You're the Lady of Winterfell." Jon lets a smile curl at his lip with her insistent words that warm his heart despite the facts that keep them separated. "You deserve it. We're standing here because of you. The battle was lost until the Knights of the Vale rode in. They came because of you...You told me Lord Baelish sold you to the Boltons."
She nods without stiffness but the composure of the cool winds, "He did."
"And you trust him?" Jon asks, his eyebrows cowering in question at the man he wants to hate entirely for what he did to Sansa and Gabrielle. It had not taken long—the day after the battle—for Jon to hear of their savior's identity, and when he did, Jon could not hide his hint of shock at Gabrielle's stiff form beside him, glaring at the man she called father. It was the first time he'd seen the man for himself and all his slyness from beneath the stiff smirk he wore on his facade. And though the look was much like Gabrielle's in her moments of wickedness, there was nothing else similar between the two—their coloring wrong and her overpowering demeanor nothing like the man who slinked in the darkness.
Sansa scoffs at Jon's question, "Only a fool would trust Littlefinger." She shakes her head at the knowledge she knows Jon to possess of Gabrielle's past relationship with her father, wondering how Jon could think Sansa this stupid. But she shoves that bitterness from her heart, letting her eyes sink with softness and apology, "I should have told you about him, about the Knights of the Vale. I'm sorry."
Jon's breath brushes past his lip as he steps forward and directly in front of her, pleading for her alliance, "We need to trust each other. We can't fight a war amongst ourselves. We have so many enemies now."
She nods and his eyes crinkle softly into a smile, leaning to press a kiss to Sansa's forehead before he turns to walk away. And yet, Gabrielle appears from the depths of their old fortress, her dress swaying against her leans legs as she raises her voice to call after them both, "Jon, Sansa."
The two turn at the sound of honey, looking at the woman whose demeanor's as cold as this coming Winter and the smirk that reminds Sansa of Littlefinger in its entirety. But on her arm is a rather startling—but expected—presence: a raven not black like night, but white as the snow's falling about them. Her voice sings, "It came from the Citadel."
"Winter is here," Sansa sighs, and the words of Ned Stark echo in all their ears as the flurries pick up and then slow with each breath of Nature.
Jon's eyes crinkle as his head tilts back to eye the darkening sky above their heads, waiting for its downward call. And then his gaze returns to Sansa and he shrugs with mirth, "Well, Father always promised, didn't he?"
Sansa's composure slightly crumples at she smiles at his words, turning from him to gaze at the nature south of the Wall as the other two part in opposite directions—different tasks ahead of them but with similar intentions to do well for Winterfell—a place that Gabrielle's beginning to call 'home.'
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Oberyn Martell smirks at the woman before him as he kicks his legs up on the table between them, the warmth of Sunspear not so different from Meereen but still very welcome as it presses into his skin. Adorned in his yellow and red, the Lady Olenna of House Tyrell is juxtaposed sharply against him in the black of her mourning—something Oberyn remembers from long ago. Her sharp eyes gaze upon the man she'd only met once—his eyes playful and mouth smirking as if this is a game. Feeling the need to remind him, she remarks bluntly, "The last time a Tyrell came to Dorne, he was assassinated. A hundred red scorpions, was it?"
"You have nothing to fear from us, Lady Olenna," his thick absence resounds in her ear, burning with Dornish passion and individuality.
"Your paramour murdered your own prince," she reminds the man, "but you expect me to trust you?"
Oberyn drops his legs from the table, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he grows minutely closer, but more adamant. "Ellaria has been executed for her crimes. I pardoned my girls because...well, we don't hurt little girls here. Ellaria didn't listen. We invited you to Dorne because we needed your help. You came to Dorne because you needed our help?"
Reminded of the pain, Olenna's eyes shift to stare nastily at the collection of Sand Snakes littered about the area, watching as all stiffly meet her eyes in a display of their own father's potent mischief. Chuckling at the sight, Oberyn pushes on and drags Olenna's attention back with him: "The Lannisters have declared war on House Tyrell. They have declared war on Dorne. We must be allies now if we wish to survive."
"Cersei stole the future from me. She killed my son. She killed my grandson. She killed my granddaughter," Olenna's rough voice recalls what they all know, but promptly resounds in a growl. "Survival is not what I'm after now."
"You're absolutely right. I chose the wrong words. It is not survival I offer. It is your heart's desire," Oberyn grins before leaning back into his seat and clapping his hands together.
Olenna's eyes dart to him questioningly, "And what is my heart's desire?"
"Vengeance. Justice," Oberyn hisses promisingly, just as Varys appears with sharp eyes that know much.
"Fire and blood."
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Daenerys stands and stares at the dwarf before her, heightened almost to her own stance by the stairs in the throneroom of Meereen. From the light of the high windows, his golden hair's illuminated from beard to crown, and his green eyes bore into her own with a reminder of his family—but also a stark recall to his loyalty, despite all callings. Eyes insistent, she reminds him, "It's your counsel I need."
"It's yours. Now and always," he responds and she shuffles at bit, not unsure but almost mischievous.
"Good. I, um...I had something made for you. I'm not sure if it's right," Daenerys responds, pulling a pin from the drapes of her dress and twisting it about to reveal the gleaming silver of a Hand's broach, never touched by another but starting a new dynasty of rulers. Reaching out, she pins it above his heart, her blue eyes only then meeting his with a certainty in her actions, "Tyrion Lannister, I name you Hand of the Queen."
"Not Ned Stark?" Tyrion stutters in his heartfelt shock.
But she just shakes her head slowly and with a smile, "He never wanted to be Hand. I think the most fitting is a man who found himself loving the position."
As Tyrion kneels and tears prick his eyes, he knows he's made the right decision to declare his loyalty to the Dragon Queen—and thanks his two dear friends for forcing him onto this path.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Before the eyes of Walder Frey, the attractive servant of House Lannister grasps below her chin, grabbing something—a mask—before pulling it away to reveal another woman of remarkable similarity, but enough difference in her grey eyes. Looking at him with her mouth quirked upward, her voice is a harsh whisper in his ear, a promise : "My name is Arya Stark. I want you to know that. The last thing you're ever going to see is a Stark smiling down at you as you die."
Swiping her knife from her belt, the man makes to bolt, but she grabs him by the back of his tunic and pulls her into her gut, brandishing the glinting knife as she grabs his forehead and slits his throat from 'ear to ear.' Her gut does not flinch as he convulses against it, nor does her hand sway as blood splatters between her fingers—the man's groans lighting her ears in jubilation as the stiff smirk of Stark vengeance casts across her face, the first in a line of deaths to come.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
"What do you want?" Sansa presses of the mischievous man as she steps closer to him, her bright eyes stiff in their intent as he grins wormishly at her, the first time he'd seen her alone in all the past weeks.
"I thought you knew what I wanted."
She shrugs, "I was wrong."
"No, you weren't," the man steps forward and effortlessly close to her with eyes that see into her soul, only to find false intentions every time—not that he knows. "Every time I'm faced with a decision, I close my eyes and see the same picture. Whenever I consider an action, I ask myself will this action help to make this picture a reality? Pull it out of my mind and into the world? And I only act if the answer is yes. A picture of me on the Iron Throne... and you by my side."
As if entranced in his own words, Petyr Baelish leans in to capture Sansa's lips with his own, only for the girl to press her hand against his chest, denying it outright without the flinch of her composure. She smiles softly—unfeelingly—"It's a pretty picture"—before turning to walk away.
"News of this battle will spread quickly through the Seven Kingdoms," he calls after her before she can so much as move two feet, "I've declared for House Stark for all to hear."
She does not turn, but Sansa does shout back, "You've declared for other houses before, Lord Baelish. It's never stopped you from serving yourself."
"The past is gone for good. You can sit here mourning its departure or you can prepare for the future. You, my love, are the future of House Stark," Petyr bides, stepping up before her again as she lets the emotion he wants to see cast in the depths of blue. "Who should the North rally behind? A trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark born here at Winterfell or a motherless bastard born in the South?"
Sansa does not answer him or let the man see her dilemma, taking a step around his pesky form before passing back and towards the Keep, her step quickly being echoed by another as Gabrielle follows at her side. Not questioning that this woman was eavesdropping—rather grateful actually—Sansa just gazes at the woman beside her, slightly shorter but taller with the confidence she radiates. Her hair brushes against the cloth adorning her shoulders, its rich white blonde covered in snow, but barely seen at the lacking contrast in color.
"Do not believe him, Sansa. That mouth is the same that sold you to Ramsay with a promise of safety," Gabrielle reminds the fierce woman at her side as they pass back into the Keep from the outlying area of the weirwood.
But Sansa does not need the woman to recall what Littlefinger's done, quipping, "I know."
"But you agree with him," Gabrielle reads easily as she stops and Sansa follows, turning to meet each other's eyes as all reservations are lost and the Baelish opens a silent pack of truthfulness. "So do I. I promised to be honest with you, so I must predict that the men will rally behind Jon as their leader. Not you, because you are a woman."
A moment of silence passes between them as a silent rage surges against Sansa's eyes at the injustice of it all—a rage Gabrielle knows well from her own unique experiences. Hearing nothing from the redhead's lips, Gabrielle steps forward and lays a hand on Sansa's shoulder, whispering a promise: "It's not something to be scoffed at. You still have the power. Women understand this world in a wider way that men cannot see. Just look at how many men have died in this war while us women endure. We understand all genders: the mindlessness of men and passions of women. We are the ones to direct governments because we understand and experience law. Knowledge is power. Just look at Jon. He has near no experience with women and obviously cannot read men, even his own brothers. You may not be set to rule them, but you will have the power."
"And just how long will that last?" Sansa almost spits as they gaze at the ignorant Jon across the courtyard, speaking to Davos in low tones. "I will be replaced by whomever Jon takes as a spouse."
Gabrielle lets herself laugh at the irony of that as Sansa's eyes turn back to her with the sharpness of their expression, "That will not be the case, I promise you. Jon is still a bastard, Sansa. And I think he's sworn off women after the redhead." Despite her words, Sansa still looks rather discontented by the premise of Jon's rising, so Gabrielle presses on, "But moreover, no matter which side you take—the North or Littlefinger—you will never be the ruler. You will always be the puppeteer, not the puppet, but less so with Littlefinger. It's just up to you to decide between family and home or the South and enemies."
Turning on her heel, Sansa watches the winds pick Gabrielle's skirts up as she moves closer to the men across the court, feeling a sense of ease overcome her at the rather bright realization Gabrielle's shown, hidden behind layers of deceit.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
"The Wall is not just ice and stone. Ancient spells were carved into its foundations. Strong magic to protect men from what lies beyond. And while it stands, the dead cannot pass," Benjen shakes his head at the rather disappointed Bran. "I cannot pass."