One Who is Many - [Worm / Game of Thrones]

AN: Well look who’s back with some nice stuff. Wyvern and the Warhawk, Team Scrimshaw presents to you all the monthly goodies of One Who is Many. Much quicker than last time. Then again, some of the scenes we included here were planned months ahead. Hope you guys enjoy it!

AtW: Hopefully our pace picks up. Just dealing with stuff atm and drama never helps the muse. Anyways, if you have questions feel free to ask.

Now then, onto the reading

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One Who is Many - Chapter 12​

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Ophelia​

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When she came to, the first thing Ophelia did was flex her fingers around the egg she could feel at her side - right under the fingers of the one hand she had under the covers and nestled up against her leg.

The second thing she did was wince.

‘Oww… everything hurts.’

Indeed, everything from top to bottom felt like someone had used her like a dummy to run warhammer drills on - from her calves to her stomach, even her forehead felt like someone had tried to stomp her down as deeply into the ground as possible.

Trying so much as to twitch did nothing but draw another wince from her as pain flared all over her skin, tender, sensitive, even a little warm. Almost like she’d gotten a mild burn over every inch of her body. It said something that the blankets she was sitting under seemed to be almost scraping against her skin, at least where the linen underclothes she wore weren’t actually starting to chafe.

“Finally awake, I see.”

Ophelia looked up, shaking off the last lingering dregs of sleep as her eyes slowly focused on the shape of her sister. Familiar flint eyes looking down at her with concern as the older girl’s hand pressed against her forehead.

“No fever, do you feel anything?”

Ophelia blinked.

“It hurts.”

Gods, even talking hurt. Like someone had bashed her face against the door and her voice was raspy. Almost as if she’d screamed herself bloody raw.

“Should we let the others know she’s up?”

Her sister, blessed be her heart, shot the squire down.

“She’s still recovering. Try and find Marwyn, or the other Maester. They should come see her first.”

The young man behind her sister, Lancel, shuffled awkwardly before murmuring in agreement, clearly uncomfortable with seeing the so far invincible witch of Dorne bound to a sick bed like a common girl.

He left the room silently, the fact that his sword was at his waist and that he was wearing his full armor too.

“Lancel… did….”

Lips twitching, her sister nodded.

“Sat up all night. Watching over you when I needed to use the restroom. I don’t think he moved from his post to so much as twitch, once he had his armor on.”

Frowning, the witch tried to shake her head.

“I won’t… let-”

Suddenly perking up, Sarella held a finger and then stood up. Ophelia tried to follow her as she walked around the bed, but her neck hurt too much to turn. Instead, she could only guess that her older sibling was pouring her a drink from the sound of scraping and liquid rushing.

“Here. Drink this.”

Pursing her lips, the witch did her best to swallow when the slightly dry wine hit her tongue. It was strong and good and, almost choking, she managed to take in a few small mouthfuls.

“Easy does it there.” Sitting the pitcher back down, the older teenager shook her head. “The drink is strong. Fortified enough to be considered medicinal.”

“That explains why my throat doesn’t hurt so much.”

It took a few tries for Ophelia to fully form the words, but the pleasant numbness in the drink made everything bearable for the moment.

“Lancel, the boy, I won’t let Robert punish him for my stupidity.”

“Aye.” Sarella had sat down again, slowly running her thumb over the witch’s hand. “I know you would never allow him to suffer that. He does too, I suspect. It’s why I think he likes you.”

Drawing a groan from the far, far too sore dream traveller, the younger sister replied the only way she could.

“Is that necessary?”

Sarella, curse her heart, rolled her eyes at her.

“Yes, it is very much necessary. Do you have any idea where I found you?”

“At the stables? I feel like a dozen horses stampeded all over me.”

“No, I found you in some weird secret chamber deep in the most cursed, haunted corner of this already cursed and haunted castle. How did you even get there?!”

Ophelia wanted to ask the same thing.

“I don’t know? One moment I was somewhere, and then the next… poof.”

Her sister blinked.

“Poof?”

Ophelia nodded sagely, no matter the twinges of pain in her neck.

“Poof. It felt like I was dragged somewhere, but I don’t know where or even when it was. The castle must have spat me out in whatever corner you found me.”

“You’re lucky I found you. Who knows what the spirits wanted from you down there.”

Ophelia shuffled, taking a deep breath as her chest complained in discomfort, the wine not enough to dull all the pain. And that was the way she liked it.

“Probably some kind of vessel. Lady Whent is getting up in years. They must have tried to get me to stay. Maybe take her place. I didn’t understand half of what they tried to show me. But it looked like an offering.”

Sarella looked disbelieving.

“So are you the new Lady of Harrenhal?”

“Clearly I refused. Which is why they took out their frustrations on me.”

The curse of Harrenhal clearly felt something in her that it disliked. Perhaps her connection to the curse back at King’s Landing. Those who died here probably didn’t like that she spent some time with the people who burned them alive.

“Given how someone left a gift, I doubt you made a bad first impression.”

More than a little confused, she responded as best she could.

“Huh?”

Pulling back the edge of the blanket, and it was only now that Ophelia started noticing that it really was warm in the room, the technically more adventurous of the duo indicated the prize.

“Congratulations, sister. You, little sister, are a mommy.”

It was Danelle’s egg.

“Perhaps.” Running her fingers across the speckled. “If I told you I had an idea that the creature inside this little thing was a genuinely terrifying monster, would you believe me?”

Slowly nodding her head, the dark skinned girl asked the obvious question.

“Is it worse than a dragon?”

Pausing, the witch considered her words and, ultimately, decided that honesty was the only real explanation.

“I don’t know.”

“My ladies, I have returned.” There was a firm rap at the door and Sarella threw the blanket back over the egg in question. “The Lady Whent and Healer Robert.”

“Please enter.”

Glancing over at Ophelia, the older sibling called out, somewhat worried but also unwilling to defy a noble in her own castle. At least without very, very significant back up. And, as dutiful as Lancel was, she doubted he would be able to project enough force to see the bastard girls granted their usual privileges.

Having an infamously violent father did have some privileges after all.

“Well, you lived.” The old woman walked in, her back only slightly bent by age. “They visited me too.” Lady Whent pursed her lips, walking over to Ophelia’s bedside. “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t think they’d be so… vicious.”

Bent fingers ran across a particularly ugly bruise that wrapped around the witch’s throat.

“Do you have to deal with that every night?”

Shaking her head, the old woman responded with a sense of pity.

“No. My magic never was strong enough to fuel them so. But you, well, I think you know better than I do what this place is.”

Knowing there was something very, very important she had to say, Ophelia stretched out with her powers. Ignoring the feeling of the castle, as now that she was aware of its gaze she couldn’t help but feel it all around her, she brushed up against the egg and then the animals around her and she pushed and pushed and pushed until she found what she needed.

“If it helps you sleep at night, the dragon doesn’t have your husband.”

“What… I… how could you….”

It was clear that the young bastard had struck a nerve. And Sarella visibly tensed when the healer approached, the old, grandfatherly man checking how much of the strong wine had been drunk.

“Danelle, she saved them.” With great difficulty, the young seeker of secrets raised her hand to the other. “Let me show you.”

At the tentative contact, Ophelia let the tiny, tiny bond that existed between her and the great monster bat solidify before passing over to the older woman.

“The castle, I think it’s taking their power, their… strength and will to exist. But Lady Lothston is taking their souls and letting them slip into her skins.”

There were a few long moments of silence, lights and colors shifting, pain dancing up the witch’s arm, and it was only when the old woman broke the contact did she realize that the reincarnated mortal hadn’t taken a breath in almost a minute.

“Shella, you may call me Shella.” Eventually, the Lady of Harrenhal replied. “I, well, words can never express what you have done for me.” Her voice was thick and heavy, unshed tears pricking at her eyes. “Every night I prayed to the Gods, the Old, the New, the ones of Valyria that my ancestors worshipped… I…. thank you.” Sniffling, it was clear that the old woman was totally overcome by emotion. “Healer, see that she is made well. I am sorry my dears, I must, well, I must pray I think. And then give thanks the right way too.”

As the woman who had born the burden of the ancient curse turned to walk away, a tired looking - and extremely confused - Lancel Lannister caught her by the arm and glanced as the two Sand Snakes. At a small nod, he gave the two sisters an unsteady smile and gently but firmly escorted the Lady of the Castle towards the kitchen.

“He’s a sensible boy.” Glancing up, the Dornishwomen finally paid attention to the erstwhile healer. “Tea and company will do good for her, then she can go pray. Besides, I do not think the gods would begrudge her a few moments of peace.”

“You knew what she was going through?”

Sarella’s question provoked a question from the older man.

“I could guess. But it was never my right to pry. After all, a place like this has no use for an old man like me. The most I could have done is ease her physical pains, never the true ones.”

Slowly, the archer nodded.

“Now, there is the matter of the healing.” Robert continued, smiling. “I approve of your restraint, my lady, in the administering of the strong wine. But do I have permission to inspect your body?”

Ophelia nodded and the blankets were pulled back.

Now, in the light of day it was obvious how much damage she’d taken, though the healer had taken care not to reveal more of her body than he had needed. The thick, purple-black lines more than made her state clear.

“Well, firstly, I must ask the obvious my lady. Please understand I mean no disrespect by this, but I am given to understand that you were found nude, on your own, in a secluded area of the castle. That, combined with what I can very clearly identify as strangulation marks-” Here, he indicated the lines of bruises on her neck. “Indicate one likely course of events. Should you need care in that way, I can contact a midwife or, perhaps, prepare a letter for your father….?”

Once more, Sarella’s tension was visibly increased and it took everything Ophelia had to reach over her free hand and take her sister’s.

“No, good sir, but I was not raped. What I experienced was somewhat different than any normal, physical assault.”

At this, he nodded.

“And you have no concerns with either myself or the boy hearing what you had to say to Lady Whent?”

This managed to draw a small smile out of Ophelia.

“I would ask what exactly, old man, would you say and to whom would you say it?” Even though it pained her, she managed a small chuckle. “That a young woman was viciously attacked and suffers delusions as a result of it? That I am a witch? That Harrenhal is cursed? That every last soul here is mad?”

Her small speech left the too tall girl sagging in the bed, clearly exhausted.

“No. I am not.”

Snorting, the old man gave her an almost indulgent grin.

“I knew I liked you. That is a rather fiery tongue you have there. And speaking of fire, I would say that it’s almost like all of your body has suffered some minimal burns. Other than that, there are the strangulation marks, what looks like injuries from being dropped, and, dare I say, almost something like the marks a bird of prey makes when it grabs its supper.”

Unfortunately, it turns out addressing magically inflicted injuries required a significant amount of time diagnosing things, with the egg only remaining hidden by the discrete positioning of the blankets and Sarella taking them and “moving the bundle aside” so that the healer could see to Ophelia’s legs. Something that moderately annoyed the witch when the man confirmed that he saw neither bruising nor other injuries he might expect of an intimate attack. After all, she had said it hadn’t happened!

She would be lying if she said she wasn’t a little happy at how worried her sister was for her though. It felt nice to have someone be so clearly protective.

‘Other than Tyene, I suppose.’

Yawning, before the young witch even noticed it, she had dozed off, the healer smiling and leaving a few things with the older sister of the two before excusing himself.

Sarella mostly just chuckled, content to remain with her sister and decided to use the daylight she had left to read a tome borrowed from Lady Whent’s library. Once the old surgeon had excused himself, she rearranged her sister’s body, placed the egg back with the sleeping witch, and ended up slipping back into sleep herself.

Young Lancel, however, would keep his vigil, eventually switching out with Ser Dayne and only departing to explain things as best he could to the somewhat irate Lord Dondarrion.

After all, the dashing knight had already gotten his cheeks pinched once for raising his voice to Lady Whent! It would be a travesty if it happened again and the Lannister wasn’t there to witness it.

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Cersei​

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Reclining in her tent, she gently sipped at her mulled wine as she wrote out the last of the three letters she’d finished today alone.

Aside from the normal scheming whores she had to put in her place, Cersei had absolutely no doubt about her loyalty to House Lannister. Her sons, after all, would need to be able to support each other. And if she wanted Tommen to inherit instead of the dwarf, she would have to ensure that the bannermen understood it would be in their best interests to support her son’s claim and cause.

‘Damn the mad king.’ Her quill scratched particularly deep. ‘But that wildfire, had it been even the most minutely bit more like Robert, the whole city would have burned.’ Even if she’d never admit it out loud, discovering exactly how little she knew had been a bit of a wake up call. ‘But at least with Pycelle gone my father now depends on me.’

A woman she may be, but no one else would rule her, not so long as she had her beauty and her mind.

“Sister, she’s on her way.”

Looking up, she noticed that her brother had stuck his head under the crook of the tent, locks of blond hair falling past his chiseled jaw, blue eyes still simmering with lust.

“Thank you. After this, would you check on Joff and Tommen? I think they wanted to spend the day with… the boy.” Her voice grew clipped, but thoughts of sneering vengeance were not allowed to make her visibly ugly. “And Myrcella is with the septa, I think. Make sure she the Snake is somewhere not close to her.” She paused, thinking for a moment. “Be a dear and tell the servants to bring tea and milk?”

He nodded, a less carnal type of love in the Brave Ser Jaimie’s eyes, and let the flap of the tent fall as his woman’s lips took on an amused quirk.

“Aye. And a little wine too, for the girl.”

Cersei’s smile faltered. Because of course word had reached the Queen that the Dornish witch girl had become entangled in some form of incident and came off worse for it. And that meant, as the responsible adult, she’d done the logical thing.

Politely inquire about it.

Of course, what she meant to do was test the emotional response from the girl’s companions. Lancel in particular had been an obvious source of possible information. So too had she asked Tyene about what had happened, trying to gauge their reactions so she could have an understanding of the witch’s actual condition and whether she was in any sort of danger or not.

For entirely tactical reasons, of course.

She couldn’t just come out and ask to see her. By the Seven, no. As the queen she had been compelled to wait until the conversation had taken a natural turn towards the girl’s recent absence and whether the events of the past few days would leave any permanent marks on her health. As someone obviously valuable to the Game, she was a very important piece to keep track of.

Yes, that’s why she was taking a moment to adjust her hair and smooth out her dress now that she was finally getting to speak to the child. After being denied access to Ophelia’s room by Harrenhal’s physician - the nerve of which had almost seen him horse whipped - Cersei had been left to content herself with the words of others.

She was Queen and could very well visit a bedridden girl if she so wanted. Only she hadn’t forced the issue as she normally would. Why, if a rumor started about her visiting the Dornish witch by her lonesome… Cersei couldn’t think of anything worse.

“It’s obviously bothering you. So why not go see her?”

Cersei pinned her brother with an unimpressed glare, both at the fact he was still standing at the front of the tent instead of checking on their children and that he would question her.

Trust Jamie to just go out and suggest the simplest solution to an issue with no regard for how it reflected on her.

“I already told you. I need to wait-”

“For an opportunity. Yes. You said that, many times. In fact, you told me last night how uncouth it would be if you forced your attentions on a young woman in her sick bed.”

“I can’t just barge into her room unannounced.”

“The King certainly can. I heard he was euphoric at hearing her recovery was moving along quickly enough that he’d be getting those potions again. Gods forbid that he has to be sober for a day.”

Cersei’s nose wrinkled in distaste.

Robert and his wine.

Having had to spend just a few days without being able to recklessly imbibe had left him near in tears from the collective hangover. Because, quite frankly, the queen had almost laughed at her husband when he was left bedridden with a ringing migraine. It was almost enough to convince her that there was justice in the world.

Almost.

“There is a difference and you know it. Robert doesn’t care what others think of his relationship with the Dornish. He would just as easily run them out of King’s Landing as he would welcome them and none would bat an eye.”

“And you, Queen Cersei, care about what others think of your friendship with the witch girl.”

She pushed him, irate as she looked through the opening of her tent.

“Would you stop calling it that?”

“Well, what should I call it? You’re obviously getting nothing out of the witch besides company. Unless I’m missing something….”

“No, Jamie, I did not bed the girl.”

“Oh, good. I already have to drink until I pass out until Robert visits you, lest I run him through like I did the Mad King.” His grin grew rakish for a moment. “Though I would have to applaud your taste if you wanted to acquaint yourself with the Snakes. Assuming they deign not to bite your breast. After all, I think Tyene, that is her name, yes? Yes. I think she might want to take my place in that respect.”

Cersei dearly wished she had something to throw at her brother.

Then she realized that might have been what he wanted.

“Are you trying to get me angry?”

His charming smile held no deceit.

“Not at all, dear sister! I’m only saying that… should you need an excuse to go see the witch whom you feel nothing but ambivalence for, one of the best ways to do so would be to find an excuse to be there that did not sound like you got caught while trying to sneak past Mother to watch me train with the squires.”

Her cheeks colored in embarrassment.

“That was one time, and you know it.”

“Once was enough for her.”

“Do you want me to injure you or not?”

“Well, if you don’t want to do it I can go ask Oberyn.”

She twitched.

“Since when have you gotten so close to the girl’s father?” Cersei stared at her brother. “If any of them is likely to murder us it would be him. Unless, of course, you are thinking of another spear. One that might not always be in his hand….”

“Whatever you are thinking - drop it.”

Her smile was a demure picture of innocence.

“I have no idea what you mean by that, brother dear.”

“Cersei, I mean it.”

“Though now that I think about it, you have been spending an awful lot of time around the man. Hoping to stab him with something other than your sword, hmm?”

“My queen, Ser Jaimie.” And just like that, perhaps the worst possible person that could choose that moment to appear, did. “I must ask that if you wish to indulge with my father, that you do so somewhere my senses can not perceive.” Here, the very witch the Lady of Lannister had been… well, not fretting over, she would never fret, but the point stood that the witch in question was standing at the entrance to her tent and smirking. “After all, he’s rather taken with his newest paramour. Perhaps he even has another daughter on the way.”

Here, the smirking Dornishwoman paused again. It was also an excellent opportunity to take in her new appearance. Mostly, she was clad in green - dark, if of a light cloth - with a dress, a cloak, and a veil. Her dress was full body, going from her ankles up to, presumably, her throat. It covered the whole of her body except for her hands - which were the only part of her left uncovered. The cloak was of a slightly darker color and of wool with a fur ruff, which was bound at her waist by a gold chain, and left only the front of her dress visible.

Tellingly, her ensemble was finished by a Dornish veil, something the young woman had never worn before, and that left only her face visible.

“But I do think it would be a lie to say he would not appreciate a form such as yours, Ser Knight.”

Jaimie opened his mouth to reply, nothing coming out. Ultimately, once he had finished stuttering, he tried to sputter out a defense.

“My lady, I have no idea what you mean! Truthfully, please, I….” His face crumpled slightly. “I do not need to give the king any further reasons to accuse me of such things. Wait a moment-” The knight’s eyes widened when Ophelia slowly lowered the veil she was wearing, seeing the yellow-purple bruises on her face. “Child, what happened, are you ok, who did this to-”

Reaching out, Cersei put her hand on Jaimie’s shoulder.

“Love, check on the children.”

This time the words were no request.

And, realizing what the hate already twisting his sister’s face meant, he simply sighed and nodded. Pausing only to squeeze her hand and give the witch an uncertain nod, the Kingslayer withdrew.

“Who did this to you?” Stalking over to the wounded girl before her, the queen’s fingers cupped her companion’s cheek. “Tell me and I will make them scream.”

Now, in full force, the anger and rage that so easily came to her made itself known.

Her teeth were grinding, her lips curled in sneer, fire practically burning in her eyes.

Somehow, it only made the girl smile.

“They are long since dead.” Ophelia paused, shaking her head slightly. “It was my own folly that invited them back.” Cersei’s fingers pushed a little harder, enough to draw a wince but not to push deeply enough to truly hurt. “If it helps, I intend to go back there one day and finish what it started.”

Emotions washed through the queen. A great many emotions in fact, mostly things she refused to consider at the moment. But the final thing she chose to focus on was… exasperation.

“The next time you choose to injure yourself most severely, you will be injured by someone I can torture.”

Throwing her head back, the Dornishwoman laughed, showing the top of the strangulation marks just visible above her high collar line.

“I shall endeavor to keep that in mind, your grace.”

Taking the young woman by the hand, the royal blonde decided the least foolish thing was to sit with the newly arrived hunter of secrets and talk. If only to find out the exact details of what had happened, perhaps even talking the young woman out of something similarly foolish in the future.

Cersei wasn’t going to hold out much hope for that one.

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Nymeria​

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“And that was when Gandalf roared, slamming the butt of his staff downwards and onto the stone path. You shall not pass, he said! A spark of magic illuminating the caverns, piercing through the smoke and shadows cast by the Balrog…”

Nymeria watched as her younger sister rapped a cane against the bottom of the wheelhouse.

“Our heroes, beset by the heat of Durin’s Bane, could do nothing but watch as the mighty beast reared backwards, its whip of dark fire ready to lash out… when…”

“Wheeeeen?”

Her captive audience, composed of very excitable children, plus a certain adventurer, leaned forward, eyes shining with interest as they hungered for details, hungered to know what would happen to the fellowship of heroes who embarked on a journey to prevent the rise of an evil king and his minions.

“The bridge shuddered, mortar and stone crumbling under the weight of the Balrog’s next step!”

Chuckling at the appropriate “oohs” and “aahs”, it was clear that Ophelia practically vibrated with satisfaction.

Truly, her sister remained a master of her craft, even in another kingdom.

“Did the Balrog fall?”

“Is Gandalf alright?”

The queen’s youngest, Tommen and Myrcella, seemed enraptured by the tale.

Though they were not the only ones listening intently. As the second eldest Sand Snake could tell that her younger sisters were also listening in as the middle child spoke. Sarella, of course, listened with unabashed glee, genuinely loving these kinds of stories with an immense amount of passion. In fact, it was she who had helped Ophelia refine her ability to tell her tales by being a willing audience.

Who cares if this was the sixth time she heard the story? The little scholar still seemed to enjoy each time as it was the first.

Even if Ophelia had to convince her that, no, Middle Earth was not a cleverly disguised retelling of Westerosi history and that the witch wasn’t trying to give her clues about where to find treasures like the One Ring or the Arkenstone. At this point, the last thing Nymeria needed was for her foolish sisters to get it into their thick heads that dragons kept hoards of gold and stolen treasure.

As it stood, there was a not unrealistic fear that they’d simply disappear in the night and wake up on a boat to Old Valyria the very next day.

Of course, Nymeria smiled when the children cried out as Gandalf’s “dying” message was delivered, the wizard then falling to his certain doom alongside the demon of flame and shadow.

They seemed utterly insistent to Ophelia that the heroes should rescue him and save the day. Unfortunately, the witch shook her head and continued the tale with the remaining group making their escape. But the point was made that Gandalf had bought the Fellowship a chance at ultimate victory.

Let it not be said that Nymeria didn’t recognize the sacrifice of a valiant man, even if her interests sway the other direction. Though she did think the idea of many genuinely heroic people in so many positions of power was a tiny bit silly.

It was a nice thought though.

Tyene, the last of the Snakes in the wheelhouse, whispered something into the queen’s ear. Something that made Nymeria frown.

“It’s impolite to talk during a show, little sister.”

Cersei, the queen ,glanced between the two sisters. Nymeria gave her the same look she did to the twins when they were naughty. It actually made the older woman pale.

“Now, now, it was nothing but a little comment, big sister.” The blonde demurred, but it was obvious how Ophelia had to glance at her first. “I mean nothing by it.”

That actually earned a small frown from her.

“Of course not. I would hope that you would never think me suspicious of your intentions. But I must say that there is always a longing in me for warmer climates.”

Nymeria’s words caused a visible stiffening in her sister, doubly so when she pulled her fur cloak tighter about her shoulders. Neither the queen nor Tyene missed the fact that it was very, very impressively made. Underscoring her point, the second eldest of the Snakes pulled one of the corners down a little bit to the coat of arms done on the collar.

Small, discrete, and obviously a gift from a lord.

The message needed no more saying so, after taking a long look at the others in the room, Tyene dipped her head.

“Then allow me to apologize, especially to the dear children, for spoiling their fun.”

Nodding her acknowledgement of the situation, the more discreet of the family’s political operatives was glad that things might be less… overly dramatic in the future.

“Now, sister, tell them about Darth Vader.” Turning to Ophelia, who jumped slightly as her eyes had gone milky white, the Dornishwoman was glad to see that the bruises were starting to fade. “I think they’ll absolutely adore hearing about such a dark and mysterious knight.”

“I was half considering the Lion King.”

Even Cersei had a small chuckle at that, though she certainly hadn’t heard the story yet.

“While I appreciate the gesture, I think my husband and his party have returned, yes?” Turning to the witch, the queen’s eyes changed in a way that meant Nymeria was going to be able to tease her sister for a long, long time. “That is what you were checking on, yes?”

“The crown prince is safe, Robert is practically glowing with pride too.”

Smirking, Nymeria could only pray that the boy’s ego continued to shrink instead of inflate.

“How many prongs on the stag?”

“Four or five.”

This time it was Sarella who caught on.

“Managed to finally bring something down with that crossbow of his?”

Ophelia only shrugged at this, letting the potential insult pass without comment. It was telling that Cersei’s only response was to sigh and shake her head. The Snakes certainly didn’t hear her mutter under breath the phrase “thank the gods it wasn’t another cat”.

“You were going to tell us about the greatest dark knight.” Tyene interjected, pointedly. “Because you truly have done the children a disservice if you have yet to communicate that particular hero in his full glory.”

Sarella snickered a little at just how sweetly her older sister acted and Nymeria leaned back into her seat. Things were safe when her sisters were like this. They were… stable.

Which was no small thing for their family.

Of course, their sister jumped back into her tale, more than willing to indulge Tyene’ request.

“She is speaking of a dangerous man. A tragic man known as Darth Vader whose breath could freeze the heart of the bravest men and whose presence was like the night itself. You would be forgiven to think of him as nothing but a monster of cold iron and burning hatred whose blade killed many knights.”

Nymeria settled down, watching with fondness as the children, plus her sisters, huddled closer to listen to a tale that was as wondrous as it was tragic.

Only her sister could imagine something as ludicrous as a city in the sky ruled by an Emperor drunk on power and the might of his magical terror. A clear reference to the Mad King, if nothing else. Having the heroes ride dragons to destroy it went a bit against the usual narratives, but copious use of duels as opposed to larger battles wasn’t so different from the usual stories.

She was very fond of the tale, herself. And of the princess who took fate into her own hands to lead the resistance against the evil emperor.

‘The empire should have won, my left foot. And by the gods did it ever give Tyene ideas.’

Ophelia was not helping her sister become Empress of the Galaxy.

And Nymeria would like to keep it that way.

As uneventful as the journey had proven to be at first, the second eldest of the Sand Snakes knew it was only a matter of time until one of the youngest, namely the magically gifted of the bunch, would get into some kind of trouble. There was no avoiding it, and they were all somewhat used to it.

She didn’t have to like it, however.

And she liked the hastily covered bruises on her sister’s skin even less so.

Because of all places to get into trouble, Ophelia had somehow been dragged to the depths of Harrenhal by what she had to assume was some kind of vengeful ghost from eight hundred years ago. Why? Because her sister had been cavorting with ancient Targaryen spirits in King’s Landing of all places.

Nymeria suspected some kind of scent had stuck on her ,which ended up with her getting beaten black and blue. It was the only explanation that made sense. How else could such truly improbable events occur to place her little sister so squarely in the path of danger?

It had been a week before she had calmed down enough to merely be livid.

Of course, the second eldest blamed herself - she had taken her eyes off the girl for a couple of nights. Only a handful. And by now everyone knew that was all it took for Ophelia to somehow be spirited away by unknown forces for what was the second time this year. What made it worse was that Nymeria had only heard of her sister’s… spelunking in the godswood because Elia didn’t know it was supposed to be kept a secret.

And after a stern talking to, so had Ophelia.

‘By the old gods and the new, she did not get into this much trouble back home.’

At least there she stayed in her personal study, working and developing medicines. Away from trouble and surrounded by her many exotic pets. Even if she ended up becoming a hermit in all but name, Nymeria was sure she would not get early gray hairs out of it.

But ever since leaving home, she’d heard nothing but trouble out of their young witch.

Digging around King’s Landing for ancient swords. Dragging a great bastard into plain view of the entire court. Getting shown hidden paths by what she could only guess must have been a possessed cat. And then roping their father into ritualisticly sacrificing a man to the spirit possessing said cat.

Nymeria was not one prone to senseless punishments, but perhaps she should have a stern-er talk with Ophelia.

After she was done having an even sterner talk with her other troublemaker of a sister.

---

Ophelia​

---

“So this is Moat Cailan.”

Another ruined castle stood in front of her, this one even more ancient than that of Harrenhal and just as ruined. Thankfully less magical.

“I hope you’re not considering adopting a lizard lion, dear child of mine.”

Oberyn chuckled as he directed his horse over next to Ophelia’s, the man smirking as he did so. In fact, he seemed almost inordinately proud for reasons that the witch somewhat feared to guess. That didn’t mean her curiosity would go unsated though.

“While I am glad you’re happy Father, but what has you so suddenly pleased?”

His grin spread and that was when she knew her mistake.

“Because I thought I would have a few more years before I would become a grandfather!”

Groaning, Ophelia turned her horse away and trotted off, ignoring the laughter that followed her, as she rubbed her stomach. There, bundled at her waist, was Danelle’s egg. It was in contact with her skin as much as she could without overly risking the thing, because it was very much alive.

Inside the shell, itself as hard as stone, was a life.

A strange, different kind of life she’d never felt before, but life nonetheless. And it was growing. The only problem was that it was growing very, very slowly, something she knew she was supposed to remedy.

‘But that can keep, I suppose.’

Turning her horse wide, she took in the causeway and the three towers and the rotten keep.

What had long, long ago been a mighty fortress was now sinking into the very earth it had been raised out of. Pillars of basalt, like weathered teeth, stuck out of the swamp of the Neck. This left access to the towers, such as they were, open. Mismatched, no two alike, three of the twenty were still mostly complete. Positioned over and around the patch of good ground, any attempt to pass along it would see a force ride under the towers and be subject to bombardment - at best.

In truth, it was obvious that just dragging a few pieces of the ruined wall over would be enough to block the road and moreover assault would be impossible.

Even now she was reaching out with her powers and calming the teams of horses the procession was using to ferry their supplies across. Remnants of a half filled in moat held the lairs of a great number of lizard lions and, even with her power keeping them away from the column, their musk and smell bothered the other animals.

All of this was made necessary by the clinging, sucking mud.

There was a swamp to their East, marshy and filled with brackish, green water that came up to the waist or neck of a man. Filled with leeches, lizard lions, and biting insects approach for any kind of a force was impossible, doubly so since the landing at Moat Cailin would be on jagged, broken ground where parts of the crumbled wall once stood.

Off to the West it was worse.

Seemingly normal, with thick grasses that stretched for leagues, the illusion was a lethal trap. Instead of firm earth any who walked into that field would find quicksand and boggy ground sucking them as they walked along. Oh, it wasn’t all a death trap. But there was no straight line through it, nor any kind of cover, and the grasses were such that any attempt at passing through them would be made immediately obvious.

Not that the builders of the defenses trusted merely this. Not only did the Moat of the North still have part of its actual moat still intact, these deep grooves sat under a raised hill where she thought stakes might have been driven into raised earth.

This would have been an outerwork where troops could pour flanking fire onto the main causeway and command the vast field of death traps off to the western flank of the once castle. As she moved further up and along the road, she even saw that a tower once sate there too, one that would have been all too defensible.

Now though there were merely three, clustered together more or less, right around the causeway itself.

“Still, it is impregnable you know?”

Her father had caught up.

“Those towers alone make of the North a fortress.”

Shaking her head, Ophelia couldn’t help but marvel at the scene.

“Until the stone itself rots away this area is truly impossible to take. If only Dorne had so absolute guarantee we would be safe for ever and ever.” Reaching out with her magic, she had to stop a horse from kicking out and bolting away from its owner. “I shudder to think how many bones rest in the earth around us.”

“As many as it took to keep the North free.”

Once more, the reincarnated had to shake her head at the audacity of her sire.

“Truly, you wish for the king to take your tongue.”

Chuckling, the prince shook his head.

“And miss out on my wit and good taste? I think not.”

Looking back over to the main group of men, far enough away and swearing loudly enough that none could possibly overhear them, Ophelia continued.

“You know that some whisper.”

“Oh?” Raising one eyebrow, her dashing father asked the obvious question. “What do they whisper about?”

“About how we control the king, how I seduced him. Or his wife. Or the kingsguard. Or all three.” Here she turned to face the man more fully. “They whisper how our contingent has displaced the traditional Players. More importantly, they whisper how things are changing.”

“By that you mean how everyone around us seems less desirous of murdering each other?” Laughing, the Dornishman’s ire came out. “Every night, I dream of Elia. I see my sister and her children bloody and burnt and broken.” And just as suddenly it left him, weariness replacing it. “My child, I am tired of pretending. I am tired of dining with my enemy and drinking his wine.”

Leaning over, she pressed her lips to her tired father’s brow.

“For Dorne and for Uncle, you will endure.” Ophelia wasn’t sure if she believed her own words, but she knew it would comfort the man who had so loved her. “Besides, imagine the Old Lion’s surprise when you’ve seduced both his daughter and his good son.”

That restored his good humor, even if Oberyn’s eyes still flashed with a hint of the lingering frustration and, dare she say, exhaustion.

“Robert might be worth seducing if he keeps up his training. Why, he almost looks ten years younger. The Demon of the Trident may yet be worth skewering if he truly manages to restore himself.”

“So long as your attentions do not see us viewed with even more suspicion.” Sighing, the witch was compelled to admit a few lingering fears. “I think I acted too hastily. Perhaps treating this whole thing like a joke was… too much, too soon. But I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do.”

“Have you considered finding a nice young man and making him very, very happy?”

Turning to look at her father, the young woman repeated his earlier gesture and raised an eyebrow.

“Peace, child, my words are only half serious. I do wonder though, if that it is boredom or consequence that now has you faltering.”

Actually giving her father a small glare, Ophelia couldn’t quite keep the heat out of her voice.

“Do you think that I’m unaware of the costs of what I have done? That I was not willing to pay those debts? Or perhaps did you think that I would come running to you or Obara or Nymeria or Tyene and ask you to simply make the bad things go away.”

Smirking, her father responded in the way only a parent could.

“And was this not the first time you have truly been beaten?” Holding up his hand, he forestalled any further objections. “In Dorne, men died for daring to look too hard at you. Here, you are a witch and a bastard and my daughter all in one.” His words turned soft and a bit melancholic. “You have not been denied in a long, long time, but when beaten for the first time in a decade you come out the other side. I am not complaining that you go to your sisters for comfort, it is good you trust them, only that you hide your wounds.” Reaching up, he tugged at her veil, freeing her face. “Do not hide them, for they do not mar your beauty.”

And with that, he left, turning to join Obara - who had arrived atop her own horse - and rode to the front of the column.

Looking through the eyes of a low flying bird, the witch saw that there was some commotion.

But also something even more curious.

Because as thoughts of her parent’s gentle rebuke cast her actions since Harrenhal in a new light,Ophelia noticed Gerold Dayne of all people with a camp follower. And as much as he might agitate her, the man was not the kind to tarry with a whore.

Eventually, her instincts were proven right.

Having shadowed the duo for a while, just keeping them within her ever shrinking range, she saw something far more important than scandal or gossip. After rebuffing the advances of the woman, the elder Dayne handed her a letter and turned to stalk off. Subtly maneuvering off the muddy path and just into the nearby swamp where she knew the ground was safe by the beasts which had crawled along it, she waited until he was past and chose to follow the woman instead.

This investigation turned out to be both boring and disgusting, as the prostitute did her job as well as could be expected - something that the reincarnated woman was growing ever more tired of having to observe. Ultimately, it wasn’t until it started to grow dark that the woman took the letter to a mummer dressed in bright, garish clothes.

He in turn handed it to a tall, thin, somewhat ugly horsemen who, without so much as a glance at the woman, set off at a steady trot.

Neither particularly shocked, though still a little disappointed, Ophelia turned her horse back.

The details of that letter were lost to her, but now she knew to keep an eye on the young man. It also occurred to her that this might even be a bit of an opportunity.

“Tyene has been itching to stretch her legs ever since Nymeria started drawing lines in the sand.” With a mirthless chuckle the Sand Snake decided that this is what her sister needed. “Just a little project for her and her friends. Perhaps the Darkstar might even outlast their… attentions.”

No matter what, the point was moot.

Either he was an enemy, and so would die, or he was an ally. In which case he would merely be annoyed into working the stick out of his ass.

Suffice to say, it would be amusing and Tyene would be free to blow off some steam, she could use it to brew some potions, and perhaps address the fact she’s felt the need to lick her wounds. After all, Westeros wasn’t Brockton Bay or Chicago and Ophelia could trust her sisters in ways she hadn’t been able to trust even the Undersiders.

‘And they didn’t spend nearly as much time in my bed as the new bunch do.’ Chuckling, she couldn’t help but find it touching her siblings had decided that the nocturnally mobile amongst the group, as they put it, no longer got to sleep alone. ‘It is nice having someone there though. I really did need to get out of my lab more if I’d forgotten how nice it felt to just be around people.’

Of course, Ophelia had one skill she had truly excelled at in this life and the last.

Rank denial.

Because she had yet to mention once, to anyone, that since that night in Harrenhal she had been nothing but pleasantly warm or pleasantly cool no matter how much or how little she had on or where she was or whether there was a fire roaring just an inch away from her face.

Stroking the egg held close to her belly, she practiced that skill just as deftly as she maneuvered her horse over next to Marwyn’s, calling out to the man as she approached.

---

Cletus Yronwood​

---

“All good. How are the straps? Too tight?”

“No… no. They’re fine.”

Reaching out, Cletus put his hand on Quentyn’s shoulder.

“I have your back, m’lord, the only scars your cousin needs to see will be on your front.”

The Yronwood heir’s best friend and future Prince glared at him. Quentyn Martell was suffering from nerves, as might well be expected from such a young man, but his brother in all but blood was a knight. Neither of them would shame themselves today.

“M’lord, our final approach is beginning now. The pirate ships herding us towards the beach have fallen back and are driving us into the cove. We have also confirmed with signalling mirrors and the Myrish lens that the encirclement is complete. When we run up the battle flag of Dorne, they will pounce.”

“E-excellent. That will be all.”

Frowning, the blonde Dornishman, even if his blood was actually that of the First Men, glared at the captain and even put his hand on his sword. The threat clear, the uncertain idiot scurried away to resume command of the hulk.

“Your father’s plan is excellent and you will lead us to victory. Trust me, I know you. Once the fighting starts and your blood is up, the shakes will stop. I promise.”

Once more, he privately cursed the Prince of Dorne.

Quite simply, Quentyn was not his father’s son. He was gentle and kind and not at all bold or audacious. Not to say he was a coward, his best friend was excellent with the spear and axe and Cletus would gladly mock anyone who wanted to challenge the Martell heir to a sparring match, but that, put simply, his friend was a bit of a worrier. Prone to seeing how a plan could go wrong and then dwelling on those aspects of presumed failure.

At least where it came to himself.

In truth, sometimes, it seemed silly that a lad who had been practically born in the saddle would fret over the state of his tack and bridle - as if he needed them.

But that was simply how he was.

“You say that.” The prince to be’s eyes were slightly crooked, his face almost hilariously small under his arming cap. “But what if I fall? What if I catch a crossbow bolt through the slit in my helmet? What if my spear breaks?”

“Then you will stand back up, then you will lose an eye, then you will drive the haft of your weapon into the soft bellied gut of the nearest pirate rapist that dares to challenge you.” The taller, older blonde gave his friend a lopsided smile. “You will do your duty, my prince.”

And just like that, with a single word everything had changed.

Oh, there was still fear in his lord’s eyes, but there was a set to his jaw and a stiffening of his spine. Because nothing would ever be allowed to shame House Nymeros Martell so long as there was yet blood in the young knight’s veins. Something the Yronwood would be taking great care to ensure remained in place.

“Run the colors! All hands, prepare for impact!”

The time for action was upon them. Fumbling for a moment, Cletus made sure his lord’s helm was secured and tied and then lowered his own visor. Grunting, he shuffled forward as the contingent of Dornish fighting men gathered near their lord and took their places at the top of the ramp. Mentally preparing for the coming fight, the eighteen year old knight went over the composition of the vanguard.

Leading the operation would be Ser Quentyn Martell, who would be first off the boat, followed by himself, Ser Daemon Sand, Ser Garlan Tyrell, and Lord Arstan Selmy.

They were Quentyn’s bodyguard and would also serve as the first wave in the attack.

Behind them would come fifty other knights, led by Sers Blackmont and Fell from Dorne and the Stormlands respectively. Amusingly the two had both been minor, unlanded tourney knights, both had been cousins of the current lords of their houses, and both had experience commanding amphibious landings in Essos.

It had been the duo, whom had become fast friends, that had suggested the change in standard equipment for this operation.

Instead of being clad in plate, the force of fifty five knights wore chainmail and gambesons, carried shields and spears, and had been drilled relentlessly in quickly stripping off their helmets and armor. After all, even a small puddle of water could drown an emperor, at least according to a story the duo had recounted different, and consistently escalating, versions of.

“Hey, remember how the first time Blackmont told the story the Emperor had gotten stuck in mud and drowned in a small river.”

“Yeah.” Quentyn cautiously responded and Cletus took that as an excellent sign.

“Well, Fell told the story to the lads just a bit ago. This time he drowned because he slipped in horse shit and a donkey drowned him with its urine. The emperor also sounded suspiciously like Tywin Lannister.”

Snorting, then chuckling, then shaking his head, the younger of the two men eventually gave his friend a single, small smile.

“Gods damn those two if the Lannisters take that as an affront.”

Suddenly, there was a loud crunching noise and the whole of the boat shook.

“Though I know it was much, much cheaper, I do think I might resent the fact Father chose to purchase refurbished merchant ships.”

And just as the young knight finished speaking, there was another shuddering lurch and the crew aboard went into a frenzy of action as they either started securing every last scrap of cloth or taking up javelins and cutlasses and bows.

Marines they might not be, but any weapons would be better than none.

“Impact imminent, we’re over the sandbar, coming up the beach now!”

Ahead of them, there was a wide, sandy beach broken up by oddly placed large grey rocks. Mostly thought it was totally clear and free of any kind of defenders. Something the contingent was more than happy to exploit which, as about a dozen large, brawny men took up large wooden ramps, the whole of the crew and contingent braced for the final arrival.

First came a grinding noise.

Then a crunching sound.

Finally the front of the deck began to lean forward, the ship having been under full sail at the time had ground its way up the shore as far as possible and beached itself totally on the rock line.

Suffice to say, the men had been tossed around but there was a reason that it was a company of knights being sent on this mission.

They still needed a moment to collect themselves, reorder their force, and for Quentyn to cry out.

“For Dorne!”

Leading the way, he actually leapt over the side of the railing before the ramp was all the way down. It meant he stumbled and almost fell off, before just barely managing a recovery. Cletus wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his previously jittery, nervous friend rushing off on his own. Instead, he cursed his slowness in reacting and climbed onto the ramp to try and catch up with his idiot little brother.

There were pirates to kill, but that didn’t mean immediately breaking ranks and running off was a good idea!

And all it took was a minute of a somewhat awkward dismount and the knights were assembled, not that the heir of House Yronwood knew, as he was more concerned with trying to catch up to his friend.

A friend who was being verbally accosted by what looked like a half drunk sentry.

All it took was a vaguely threatening gesture with a spear and Quentyn had zeroed in on the man - and it took all of fifteen seconds for the lad to finish his charge, let the pirate’s spear thrust glance off his shield, and bury the point of his own weapon in the man’s throat.

It was a movement straight out of a fighting manual, with a perfectly aligned extension of the arm and a full step into the strike.

Not a sound made it past the pirate’s ruined throat, nothing but a bloody bubble of spit made it past his lips.

Unfortunately for the people the men of Dorne sought to destroy, this was their only guard. And now with him bleeding out on the sound this left the settlement, if it deserved such a term, wide and open for the now rapidly advancing body of men. Though, curiously, the lack of any other signs of life seemed almost impossible.

Like an ambush just waiting to happen.

“You idiot!”

Making sure to announce his approach, Cletus immediately moved to cover his friend’s right flank.

“What were you thinking, running off like that!”

“Where are they?”

The response he got was not what he expected.

“It doesn’t matter, we need to get back to the formation. Now.”

Suddenly, the wail of a lone woman called out from the distance and the Dornish knights fully took in the town.

Firstly, it was a double row of buildings - back to back - with the town forming a long curved line along the side of a hill, Well enough constructed, it was clear where things like the tavern and the blacksmith and the cobbler were, but most of all it made the path of advance very, very clear too.

Swiftly falling into rank, first the other three knights of Quentyn’s bodyguard, then the main force of knights, then some of the sailors fell in line. And, while it was clear from their looks that both Ser Garlan and Ser Daemon would have words for the young lordling, such disagreements would not happen in front of the others. Instead, the whole of the group quickly ordered the sailors and marines to form into loose bands and sweep behind the group and to the sides and behind the buildings while the knights advanced forward.

What they came to was genuinely.

There, at the end of the row, was the whole of the town gathered - perhaps three or four hundred people in all - at the foot of a hanging gallows. In it, an Essosi swung from a noose, shirtless, clad only in faded trousers of some kind, while a sobbing woman knelt at the foot of the feet of the hung man.

Strangely enough, Cletus felt that he almost recognized the dead man’s face.

Unfortunately, the good fortune of the Westerosi warriors lasted no longer, as the men in the crowd and some of the women turned and shouted in alarm.

Every person there drew a weapon of some kind, either knives or axes or swords, and a few in the crowd had on armor and even fewer were carrying spears. On the whole, it seemed like the pirate settlement had gathered to hang a criminal amongst their own number.

“Surrender now, or die!”

Ser Sand had stepped forward, his longsword flashing in the afternoon light as the whole of the fifty man group of knights formed a line.

“Surrender, so you can hang us later? Damn you all! Fight my boyos, fight for you women and your lives! Don’t let these blue blooded bastards rape your children and burn your homes!”

The oldest man in the crowd, perhaps only in his fiftieth year, roared and the crowd, shaking off its shock, roared back.

“Archers!”

Of the fifty or so sailors that had come with them, about twenty carried bows of various fashions. And, upon the order, they too shook off their shock.

“Get ‘em!”

Of the whole of the crowd, about two hundred of them surged forward and rushed the defensive line formed by the knights.

Each of the archers took aim and fired, even as the first of the fallen were trampled under foot, even as the points of fifty spears were shown to them, still, the crowd surged.

What happened was a bloody scrum, with Cletus lashing out and doing his best to cover his friend’s spear arm. Having formed up a line, three deep and filling the whole of the road, the knights fought in formation as they held their ground against the frenzied, screaming, crying, desperate tide of humanity.

However, their chances of mounting a defense died with their guard.

Utterly out of time to organize, the mob was stopped in their tracks by the line of mailed and shielded knights, then promptly flanked by the sailor’s who had been sent around the houses.

Focusing solely on protecting his friend, the young knight did what all knights were trained to do.

He killed.

Cletus found that battle had quickly become rote, his arm punching out again and again, using the same motion to skewer man after woman after man. Even their blows were poorly aimed, trapped by the press of the bodies and out of formation the pirates tried to rain attacks down on the line and died for it. And ultimately the fighting ended quite quickly, cut down by arrows, surrounded, and unable to so much as land more than a glancing blow the fight went out of them soon too.

Roaring out, Ser Garlan in particular noticed the flagging morale of the crowd and forced his way to the captain, cutting the older man down with a brutal blow.

Finally, the fight went out of the rest.

Finding himself climbing over entrails and having to ignore the cries of the wounded, the young Yronwood was confused when he noticed Quentyn charge off.

Ignoring both the defeated enemy and the group which did not fight, the princeling instead climbed up the gallows and cut the man down well before his bodyguard could even catch up. Coming to a stop behind him, stinking like death, and smelling nothing but blood and shit the group of knights shared a single question.

“Who is he?”

The words were gentle, but forceful, and Ser Garlan knelt down to examine the corpse.

“My cousin. One of the ones Father sent out as spies. Tomas… he used to let me ride on his back as he showed me about the walls of the Shadow City.”

Cletus put his hand on his friend’s shoulder while the older men simply sighed, turning to see the work done. And, knowing that appearances had to be maintained, the knight did what he thought was best.

“Go with them. I shall keep vigil over his body.”

A jerk of the head was all the acknowledgement he got for a long moment before, pausing at the foot of the gallows, the newly blooded knight lifted his visor and spoke in a voice that was a mixture of pain and anger and pure exhaustion.

“Thank you.”

---

Brandon Stark​

---

Bran loved climbing.

Loved the feeling of the breeze running over him, whipping his hair from one side to the other. Loved the feeling of absolute focus as he looked after the next stone to grab onto, the next ledge to balance on as the sun warmed his back. Feeling the slippery ice and smooth rock and dry moss and rough wood and every other texture in the world as he kept moving upwards.

He’d been told, many times, by his parents that it was not safe for him to play on the old keep.

That it was dangerous and falling apart.

He didn’t see it that way.

It was a challenge. Something to prove himself to. A task he could dedicate his mind and body to, it was a test he could excel at and feel proud of accomplishing every time he reached the top of the tower successfully. Sometimes taking an entire afternoon to finish because he’d enjoyed the climb so much, enjoying the breeze and the sun and the pleasant burn in his muscles.

Today was different.

Today he spent a little bit too much time enjoying himself and when he’d blinked, the sun was seemingly already close to setting and the sky was a beautiful shade of orange. Still, he was closer to the top than the bottom and the stairs were a safer way down than scaling the side in the dark, so Bran did his best to climb the rest of the way up.

Even if his hands felt tired.

Even if it felt like he’d been climbing for hours already.

Frustratingly, no matter how high he got, it was like he hadn’t moved from where he was. Even worse, as the abandoned tower seemingly went on forever it was steadily getting darker and colder and he was starting to lose feeling in his fingers. At this point, he wondered if he should start calling for help, even if mother would get mad and scold him again for climbing somewhere he was told not to go.

Truthfully, Bran was now starting to understand why.

“No, no!” Crying out, the young Stark was so close he refused to stop.

There was no way he wouldn’t get to the top by the time the sun was set. In fact, Bran welcomed the challenge as he pushed himself upwards, sweat running down his brow and freezing on his cheeks as he looked towards the end goal.

The window into the top floor.

Not a challenge.

Bran already lost count of the number of times he reached it, this time would be no different!

And now he was finally nearing it. Inch by painful inch. Each step was painfully slow as his breath had grown fast. The air felt light and cold at the same time. No wind attempted to push him off the tower, but at the same time, he felt as if someone had tightly gripped his chest.

Even so, he continued no matter how much his body might have ached and his lungs burned and head pounded.

Then, right when his hand gripped the edge of the window, Bran screamed as something pulled him off the wall, up into the air, and then dragged him into the tower - the world swimming in his vision, misty as it was with sweat and tears.

Kicking, he was shaken about before being thrown into a mound of hay.

Not that it did much to cushion his fall as he hit the ground, back screaming at the impact, breath knocked out of his chest as he coughed and tried to keep from fainting. HIs vision grew dim before he could pull himself off the floor.

Looking up, suddenly the world came into focus, so sharp and clear it was almost hyper real.

Standing before him, likely the one who pulled him off the tower, was a… person?

He couldn’t tell.

The sun had set and lack of any light meant he could barely see the shape of the being as they stepped closer, the sound of something clicking against the floor with each step. Like metal tapping stone. Bran tried to stand, tried to run away, but with his back to the wall and this stranger coming closer it was all he could do to scoot along the freezing wall and try to look for a way out.

Something that didn’t involve jumping off the window.

He inched to the side and flinched as the figure pounced, wild untamed black hair covering a face so pale it was as if it was dead. Juking, he tried to dodge the tackle before his arms weres seized and claw like fingers snatched up the front of his clothes in a hard vice grip. Reacting, his own hands flew out to grab at the wrist, only to feel the cold of metal as whoever was there pulled him back towards them.

Holding him off the ground.

Yellow-green eyes stared out at him from a face that was seemingly stretched in terror. There were scars, many scars, that formed a spider web of damage across the lips and cheek and across one brow of the woman who held him. More than that there was a hole in her head - as if something had forced its way out from inside her skull. Where something unnatural twisted in the void formed by that terrible injury. A black chitined monster with a thousand, thousand eyes and legs and mouths, gnawing and stretching and sinking its hooks into the flesh beneath.

Frozen, seized by fear,, staring into the maw of an abomination beyond the wildest tails of the Far North and the Others, Bran finally screamed.

With every fiber of his being he cried out as pure, utter terror washed through him.

And then, at the very climax of this moment, he felt a single, impossibly pure thought press into his mind.

[QUERY?]

Bran’s head rang in pain, staring in shock at the thing. Feeling like he was being peeled back layer by layer as it stared him down. The single word etched inside his head, repeating itself over and over again and pressed against his skull as if it was trying to shove information and context and meaning into spaces that weren’t meant to hold such things.

He tried to say something.

Anything.

Only for the thing to speak again.

[DESTINATION?]

For a final time Bran screamed, his throat raw and sore, as if a nail had been driven into his head. Yet still the thought repeated itself over and over, countless meanings he couldn’t even begin to understand forcing themselves through him as it peered at him. Eyes searching for something.

What for? He couldn’t even guess.

Only hanging limp from its metal arms as it turned around, walking back towards the window as darkness claimed his vision.

“Bran, Bran, wake up! You’re having a nightmare!”

Screaming, kicking out, he only stopped lashing out when he realized his mother was besides him with his father holding him down to keep him from hitting them or himself.

Heart thundering inside his chest as he took deep calming breaths.

His parents calmed him, soothing him, and even his siblings gathered in his room. It took a long, long time before the household calmed down and even longer for Bran to be able to force himself to try and unwind.

But, even once he’d washed the sweat from his body he still spent the next few hours doing everything he could to convince himself that it was a nightmare, just a silly dream he had because he asked the Septa for scary stories again. Though he would not say anything about the dream itself.

Rather….

He found he couldn’t.

Not to his parents, not to his brother or sisters, not even to the walls around.

That monster simply would not let him speak.