31 Euron Greyjoy

"THE GATE WON'T HOLD!" screamed Theon, firing an arrow through one of the firing slits. "Fucking rain!" Several snarls left the Dothraki bloodriders while the Unsullied remained silent, muscles straining to keep the heavy wooden doors shut against the relentless strain. It was this scene that Jon and Greyworm wandered into. "Jon! They've got a fucking battering ram to the gate!"

"How in Seven Hells did they get close enough to the gate?" Didn't the defenders have archers manning the walls?

One of the Dothraki archers collapsed with an unmanly shriek, an arrow embedded in his heart. Grabbing another Dothraki by the scruff of his leather jerkin, Yara shoved the bow into his hands and pushed him into position. "It's the rain, Lord Snow. Can't see your cunthair through the fucking storm." Another bang resonated from the door. "FUCK YOU!"

"The door won't hold much longer, Lord Snow," remarked Greyworm. Assessing the situation, Jon agreed. Whomever had attacked them, they picked the best night - though if Joffrey wanted to kill the queen or capture the castle he was using too many or two few men respectively. 'What is his angle?' The Ironborn would break through, so they had to prepare for it.

There was only one way to do that. "Fall back!" Jon yelled, taking charge of the situation. The Unsullied compiled while it took several moments for the Dothraki and Ironborn to get into good order. "Nock!" If the damn invaders were to get in, they'd meet withering fire. Arrows slid into position as hands drew bowstrings back.

A twang ran out as one arrow sailed and hit the door, the repetitive bang of the of the battering ram already cracking the jam. One Ironborn youth had the decency to look sheepish and embarrassed.

Jon grimaced. "Does nock mean loose?" He looked at the entire line. "DOES NOCK MEAN FUCKING LOOSE?"

"NO!" cried the men. The door was about to give way.

"Men, with me!" Jon raised Longclaw in the air, just as he had at Hardhome and Winterfell. Joffrey may have let others do his dirty work, but Jon Snow fought alongside his men. "Let's tear em the fuck apart!" Undulating Dothraki chants joining with the low Ironborn howls and Unsullied clattering their spears against their shields, the battering rams smashed through the gate. Ironborn rushing in, they were met with arrows and the charging defenders slamming into them.

Spurts of blood marred the muraled walls as the arrows hit home. Steel met steel as the Ironborn fought the Targaryen soldiers. Shrieks left the Dothraki, in their element with blood lust and carnage. The Unsullied stayed in formation, using their spears and shields not unlike the Bolton hoplites to keep none of the invaders from charging deeper into the complex. 'Why are they attacking here?' Jon still wondered even as Longclaw parried a wild stab before slashing through leather armor as if it were paper. One Ironborn screamed obscenities as he charged, Jon blocking the axe's downward swing before he kicked him in the groin.

'...to distract from their main objective,' he finished, driving his sword through the gap in the armor of the felled Ironborn. Jon's eyes widened in realization. "DAENERYS!" He didn't even hesitate to take off back to the royal chambers.

"Lord Snow!" Greyworm called out, slamming his shield to push back another soldier into the waiting blade of Yara Greyjoy.

"Go! Cockless cunt, we've got this!" Lashing out at another one of her comrades turned blood rivals, the salt throne pretender noticed the Unsullied commander following his future king through the corners of her eyes. "Come on fuckers, you gonna let a fucking girl show you up?!" With a guttural battle cry the Targaryen forces charged their attackers.

Thunder booming close to shore, Tyene involuntarily backed away from the window. There wasn't much that the combat-trained noblewoman had to fear, but for some reason thunderstorms were on that list. She flicked her hair with nervous energy. 'Why can't it just end?' Gods, how her sisters had teased her endlessly about it - thinking about her sisters just brought another bout of melancholy upon her. They deserved better ends. They deserved to be avenged.

'And how will you do that while you're locked up in this room?' she thought angrily. If she had been the queen, then this protective measure would make sense to her. Tyene, however, hated it nonetheless. She was given every comfort, but being restricted by guards wherever she went still constituted imprisonment in her eyes. 'If only I can make her understand my sincerity…'

Suddenly, a pair of grappling hooks scraped against the stone windowsill. Not long after two hulking men with leather armor emblazoned with the kraken hauled themselves in. Swords at the ready and hard scowls on their faces, when their eyes fell on Tyene the Ironborn soldiers' expressions morphed into lustful leers. Tyene wanted to spit in disgust - both at them and the fact the Unsullied had confiscated her twin blades. "Well well, what do we have here?"

"Drowned god, I fucking love this job," hooted another, literally drooling. "So what'll it be, cunt? Gonna make it easy on yourself, cause one way or the other you're gonna get the fuck of your life." Dropping his sword, he began loosening his trousers.

'And these are supposed to be the top naval fighters in the world?' Not when they thought with their little head, Tyene supposed. Well, it worked to her advantage. 'Like momma taught us…' "I don't think big men like you have ever sampled Dornish pussy." Her voice dripped seduction, accent pronounced and deep.

"Ah, a Dornish cunt. I heard they were the best… ulgh…" Distracted by his lust, he hadn't noticed Tyene managing to dart forward and take his knife. One quick series of moves and blood poured from the cut in his throat, sprinkling the surviving Sand Snake with crimson specks of blood. The other raised his sword but Tyene was quicker. Aim true, the knife shot forth and embedded itself in the Ironborn's heart. Eyes widening, he collapsed in a boneless heap.

Racing to the door, Tyene pulled it open to find the two Dothraki guards dead on the floor, chests sliced open. An Ironborn corpse joined them, slit throat pooling blood all over the floor. Screams and clanging metal echoed through the hallway. Instinctively, she grabbed a second knife from one of the corpses and darted through the cavernous corridor to the heart of the action.

Ser Jorah, after all that had humbled him in his life, wasn't often gripped with rage. Having your wife betray you after causing you to commit acts that brought either exile or death did that to a person. Eyes white hot as he brought his sword down at the Ironborn brute that threatened the innocent children of his Queen, the suppressed anger of years and years erupted in an inferno. To his left an Unsullied fell, head sliced clean off by an attacker while the two remaining formed a protective screen around the Prince and Princess - who were huddling under the latter's bed in pure fear. To his right a brute jumped upon Doreah, who was clawing at him in terror. With another howl he brought the sword down to slice off the Ironborn's hand.

Far from felling him, the berserker only grew angrier and charged right into Jorah's chest, slamming them both against the nursery door. The flimsy wood caved and sent the Bear Island knight to the ground. Shoulder twinging with stabbing pain, cloudy eyes noticed the one handed berserker grab a knife from his belt to finish the job. Jorah waited for the inevitable. "Forgive me Khaleesi…"

A gurgling sound then escaped from the Ironborn's mouth, knife protruding from his throat. A lithe figure stood behind. "Ser Jorah," the figure said in accented common tongue.

"Lady Tyene." A pained grunt left his lips as he hauled himself up. Movement behind her caught his eye. "Watch out!" He raised his sword to take on the attacker who had kicked Tyene in the chest.

Quick on her feet and nimble, the Sand Snake wiggled her body and leapt back upright, lashing out with a round kick to the Ironborn's temple. Crying out in pain, he stumbled back, allowing her the opening to charge back into the nursery. Sword in hand, Jorah charged right behind her.

Blade slicing downward, Euron chopped the spearpoint off the Unsullied trooper's weapon before grabbing the broken staff. "AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!" he snarled, running his enemy through with his sword. A grin crossed his bloodlusted face. "Looks like it's just you and me, gorgeous." Tossing his blade from hand to hand, he spread his arms, taunthing the Dragon Queen.

Sweat ran down Dany's brow. Bruises covered her body from Euron's blows, dress sliced and splotched with her own blood. Nevertheless, she raised Saracen, not backing down.

His grin widened. "It's gonna be fun making such a strong cunt my slave."

"A dragon is no slave," she roared, darting forward. Daario Naharis had taught her the nimble fighting styles of Essosi sellswords. Sidestepping the brute strength-heavy downward blows Euron sent against her, Dany sliced across Euron's chest.

"ARGGGGG! Fucking bitch!" Snarling, he backhanded her hard against the cheek, sending Dany to slam against the stone wall. She cried in pain, stone bruising her already battered body. Grimy fingers wiped blood from the edge of his chin. "Not bad for a lady," Euron chuckled darkly. He hovered over her like a demon, Dany backing herself against the wall - no blade, no dragons, she felt naked and defenseless.

The tiny girl open to her brother's abuse. "Please," she heard herself say, voice the same as the frightened girl. Before her crown. Before her dragons. Before Jon. "Please don't hurt me."

Smirk darkening, Euron stepped closer. "Trust me, all bitches love it." His hand moved to loosen his trousers.

A loud thump then echoed through the room. What followed was even louder, bringing down the door with a resounding crash. In dashed a cloaked figure, Valyrian Steel sword glinting in the firelight. 'Jon.' Behind him was the leather-armored form of Greyworm.

Gazing upon the scene, it didn't take long for Jon to put two and two together. A cry escaped his throat - one only describable as a combination of a dragon's roar and a wolf's snarl. Setting upon the Ironborn King, Euron only just deflected the blade before it could split his skull in half. He hissed from the pain of Greyworm's spear grazing his abdomen. Eyes blazing with Targaryen fire, Jon brought Longclaw down again and again with righteous fury. A lucky blow sliced the Ironborn sword in half, a kick to the chest knocking the wind out of Euron and sending him to the ground.

"You dare to harm my family?" Jon growled, pointing his sword downward at the Ironborn's stomach. "Winter has come for you, Euron Greyjoy." He readied to pierce the swine's heart.

Rage blinding him, Jon failed to notice Euron's legs until one had swept across his legs, felling him. Euron grabbed a sword from a fallen comrade but found Greyworm on him with short sword drawn. It was easily parried, his bulk managing to push greyworm back as Jon scrambled back to his feet.

Eyes locking with his tormentor, Jon registered a hyena-like grin being sent his way. The grin of a man that had nearly stabbed his betrothed through the middle and abducted his children. Snarling, every inch the White Wolf and Grey Dragon, Jon charged. He swung Longclaw with murderous force, but Euron was far too nimble. Out he leapt into the void - the Valyrian steel smacked against the stone, chipping it. Jon peered out into the darkness, fierce rain soaking his hair and matting the strands on his forehead in the few seconds prior to withdrawing back in. One of the Unsullied wordlessly handed him a cloth. "Thank you," Jon offered, using it to dry off as best he could. Euron had to have died from the fall… probably, but he had the look of a survivor. The dragons would be of no use, not in this weather. Rhaegal had enough trouble in snow, let along this. "Greyworm, get a patrol and kill any Ironborn or find any corpses," he ordered, sheathing Longclaw. "Now!" Slamming his fist against his open palm, Greyworm immediately complied - respecting Jon far more after the northerner proved himself in defending his Queen.

Looking at Daenerys, the couple wordlessly walked into the other's embrace, the Queen burying her face in his neck and he kissing her brow. They held each other desperately, squeezing tight - all that could pry them apart were two soft voices. "Poppa." Breaking the embrace, Jon stormed with a look of panic into the nursery with Dany hot on his heels. His gaze immediately found the twins. Neither he nor Dany cared about anything else as they rushed to embrace them. Tears fell from the Targaryen heirs, proud royals but children nonetheless. It took all of Jon's strength not to join them in sobs - although these were of horrified relief.

"Hush, sweetlings," Dany cooed, remaining strong for their sake. "Let's get you out of here." Allowing Jon to heft them up, one in each hand, Dany watched as they buried their faces into his leather tunic. She soon thanked the Gods for that. Ironborn and Unsullied corpses littered the floor, grisly wounds still spilling blood on the stone and one head severed off its body. Poor Doreah lay slumped on the wall, face still frozen in fear in the paleness of blood loss. A long cut across her throat explained why. 'Oh Doreah." Only she and Ser Jorah had been with her through it all.

The lone figures remaining were Jorah and Lady Tyene. Both's blades were drenched in crimson liquid, clothes and armor ripped. Two pairs of eyes, one grey and one violet, met them in a silent, desperate expression. 'Thank you.'

Joffrey Baratheon may have brought the stench of death to Dragonstone to finish off the last of Rhaella's brood, but the heirs were safe. The Dragon Queen was safe. The Dragonwolf was safe. And filled with a terrible resolve.

Reaching out to brush another crinkly page in the decades-old transcription of a centuries-old text, Samwell Tarly suddenly found himself engulfed in darkness. A quick check found that the candle had burned out without him even noticing. "Damn it," he murmured, reaching into his Night's Watch cloak - nothing was better to keep out the cold, and the drafts that blew through the stout walls of Winterfell could barely compare to the massive gusts from atop the Wall - for the spare he always carried.

The heir to Hornhill turned brother of the Night's Watch turned ametuer Maester felt naturally at home within the dusty walls of the Winterfell library. Ignored by the Ironborn when they burned most of the castle and subsequently ignored by the Boltons - Roose hadn't run the castle for long and Ramsay had no use for books - the arrival of Sam finally found the dust wiped from the texts and the words within perused for the good of the Stark cause. It was at least three times as big as the library at Castle Black. Sam hoped that it would shed more light on the issue he had nearly figured out. The fight against the Dead was still running into a stone wall despite six dragons at Jon and Daenerys' disposal, but perhaps what he found could help keep the disparate factions and Lords in line.

Fishing out the spare candle, he peered around for the holder and match when his arm accidently spilled melted wax all over his cloak and notes. "Seven Hells," Sam cursed, the coarseness of the Night's Watch still tempered by his gentle nature. Scribbled with countless ideas and thoughts about pressing problems, he moved to furiously wipe the wax off. Books and papers fell to the floor from his clumsy efforts.

A low orange light suddenly appeared. "Here he is. You were right." Sam turned his face to find Lady Sansa, placing a lantern on the table and kneeling to help pick up his papers.

"No need for that, mi'Lady," he stammered, scrambling to do it himself.

Sansa waved him off. "It's fine, Samwell." Jon had never left work to his subordinates out of expectation. It appeared that it was a Stark trait, humble even with their noble birth.

Gilly, however, had annoyance written all over her face. "There you are, dumb git." One hand gripping Little Sam tightly, she extended the other to smack the back of his head. "Our son wakes up in the middle of the night missing his daddy, and I find the other side of our bed cold and you in the damn library." She was clad in a rumpled northern-style dress, likely hastily thrown on. They were plain compared to the elaborate silk or cotton gowns his mother or sister wore, but Sam still thought she looked breathtaking in them. "If it wasn't for Lady Sansa, then I would be completely lost."

"Oh…" Sam felt his… paramour for lack of a better word, place his adopted son in his arms. The two-year old sleepily smiled at him, snuggling into his warm cloak. It warmed Sam's heart, the former heir never thinking that someone so disgraceful or hated by his father would ever attract anyone not by coin. But here Gilly was, with a child that was essentially his no less. "I'm sorry, Gilly." Sam watched her soften. "And forgive me, my Lady. It was not my intention to deprive you of sleep."

The redhead waved him off. "Nonsense. I… wasn't sleeping anyway." Aside from that first night at Castle Black following her escape, Sansa couldn't remember a night in recent years when she had truly slept soundlessly. Too many nightmares. Ramsay, Joffrey, her father's death… they all rushed back vividly following her flashback a week before. And that was due to Squire Payne's great kindness.

"Been there," Sam replied with sympathy. By now Little Sam had fallen asleep in his arms and Gilly was helping him clean up the wax. "I've been trying to solve Jon and Queen Daenerys' budding problem with stubborn groups such as the Northern Lords or potentially Dorne." The North never enjoyed being under the southern yoke, and the Martell words were 'Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.' Such sentiment would likely be found all over the territory that Jon and Daenerys would claim together. "There's something I've confirmed in ancient history that may work."

"Please elaborate." Sansa slid into the bench seat next to Sam, peering at the texts. Officially in Jon's absence, though he held no title apart from the respect he won on the battlefield as the liberator of the North from Viserys Targaryen, Robb as Lord of Winterfell was in charge. However, the weight of his past had crashed down upon him. Her brother sullen and increasingly isolated, it was Sansa that took up the mantle of Lady of Winterfell alongside her rank as Jon's unofficial Hand.

Leafing through the book in front of him, Sam found the passage that illuminated it all for him. "Alright, Maester Aemon kept a decent collection of items on Valyrian history - given his ancestry, not surprising."

"Valyrian…" On Gilly's tongue, wilding accent and all, the word sounded quite foreign. "Isn't that where the Queen is from?"

"Yes, although centuries removed that is." Sam pointed to a particular passage. "What I didn't know was that before the Valyrian Freehold there was an entity called the Valyrian Empire. Quite short-lived."

"Empire?" Sansa furrowed her brows. "I've never heard of such a word."

"Neither did I, and the books at Castle Black didn't contain any explanation of how it was founded, only of how it collapsed." He patted the text below him in triumph. "This explains it, and the key to how it will help the royal couple lies in how the Valyrian King dealt with the constant rebellions of the Ghiscari people…"

Arya Stark felt annoyance course through her icy veins. Here she was, a daughter of the North, shivering and huddling close to the fire she was supposed to stoke like a King's Landing maiden. 'Northerners are supposed to be used to the cold. Firm up, Arya.' The former faceless man hated that she had to keep her palms right at the edge of the flames to keep the frostbite away - or at least the sensation of impending frostbite away. The fact that the nineteen year-old girl probably never experienced a true winter in her memory did not register through her annoyance.

Her shivering body may have kept her focus on the fire, but Arya's honed senses weren't dulled one bit - especially not enough to miss the slight crunch of booted feet on soft snow. "You're lucky that I love you and know your footsteps, Gendry Waters," she said flatly, but with an amused smirk. "Or else it wouldn't end pretty, sneaking up on me like that."

The smirk grew wider as two arms circled around her waist. "One day I'll sneak up on you, Arry." His Flea Bottom accent contrasted plainly with her Northern lilt.

Lips pressed against the skin of her neck, coaxing a low moan from Arya. "Mmmm, keep telling yourself that." With so much hell in her life, she lived for these small moments of affection with the one person that had been by her side for all of it.

"AAHHHHHHH!" Keen as their senses were to danger - though even a deaf man would likely have heard the screaming - Arya drew needle and Gendry grabbed his hammer, both tensing in fighting stance.

"Hot Pie?" Arya called out.

Twigs snapping and leaves crackling, the aforementioned cook came sprinting out through the woods. Brambles smacked into him but he did not seem to notice, face contorted in fear as he lumbered swiftly towards his comapanions. "MONSTER!"

Arya's eyes widened when out from the brambles bounded a large grey-white beast. Almost as tall as her, its fangs were bared and ears pulled back in anger. A low, snarl-like growl left its mouth. 'Direwolf.' The fierce creature native to the North and the sigil of House Stark. But there were no direwolves in the Riverlands. "Motherfucker," she heard Gendry murmur, readying his hammer to take the beast down while Hot Pie hid behind them. She had seen the move before, a quick strike to the top of the skull…

Recognition flashed in her eyes. 'Is that?' Gendry moved to strike the snarling beast. "WAIT!" The direwolf quieted while Gendry faltered, gazing at Arya as if she sprouted two heads. Setting Needle upon the ground, Arya softly approached. 'There is only one Direwolf in the Riverlands.' A small smile of hope crossed her face. "Nymeria?"

"Arya, what are you doing?!" Gendry hissed, horror over his face as the woman he loved got on her knees before the beast. "You'll get yourself killed!"

Pushing him out of her mind for the moment, Arya's eyes locked on the direwolf's. "I know we had to part, girl, but I'm back. I am heading back home… to Winterfell. My brother is there, and your brother is probably with him." Slowly, taking note of the direwolf's bared teeth though it wasn't growling anymore, she raised her upturned palm. "Come with us. Come home, girl."

Growling once more, Nymeria stepped slowly to Arya. Her head met hers, yellow-rimmed eyes dark and menacing. Trying to keep her breath even, Arya didn't say a word as the large snout took several large sniffs. Then the direwolf seemed to deflate all of her tension. Tongue darting out, Nymeria began happily licking her long lost owner. But no proper direwolf ever forgot a scent.

Joyful laughs left Arya's lips. "Stop it girl… that tickles." Grabbing Nymeria's fur, she began tickling her neck as the licks kept coming.

"Well I'll be damned." Gendry snorted, a ghost of a grin on his face. 'That girl continues to surprise me,' the apprentice blacksmith thought. A thud behind him showed the different reaction from Hot Pie. Luckily, the snow managed to soften his fall, fainting from the fear rapidly leaving his body. Gendry's grin only widened. "Hell of a life."

The howling wind could be heard even from deep within the crypts. Keeping her fur cloak tight over her body, Margaery Tyrell at least drew comfort in being out of the sleet outside. 'Damn northern blizzards.' Growing up her entire life in the sunny plains of Highgarden, it amazed her how people like her lover could even stand a week in these conditions.

Speaking of her lover… "I knew I could find you here." After bringing up the courage to ask Sansa where he had been disappearing in the middle of the night, she had told her.

Turning his head slightly to signify he registered her presence, Robb Stark turned back to the specific crypt. "I'm sorry. I'll be up soon, you didn't have to come."

"It's alright." Striding to right beside him, Margaery took a moment to study the enigmatic former King of the North. His looks hadn't changed a bit from their… indiscretion at Renly's camp at Storm's End. Shaggy brown hair, chiseled jaw, muscular body - he was a very attractive man, combining the brooding Stark charm with fairer Tully beauty. Reaching out to trace a finger along his jaw, watching as he closed his eyes at her touch, she could sense the changes. Before he had been innocent, brash, inexperienced to the greater games of the world. In all fairness, so had she. But it weighed on him far more. Looking at the crypt, she realized why. "I didn't know she was buried here."

A sad smile formed on Robb's face. He stared at the inscription. Talisa Stark, Queen of the North. There was no statue yet, but the sarcophagus was only a week old. "Some surviving Stark bannermen found her in the river and took her to Wintertown. I made sure she had the burial of a queen."

"She must have been lovely." Some would have been jealous, but with the loss of many in her family, Margaery understood. Seeing a tear fall from Robb's cheek, she drew him into a hug. "Don't cry, Robb."

"It was my fault." With the threat of the Bolton's gone, his guilt had returned full force. "She needed me to protect her. My people needed me to protect them, and I failed."

Margaery softly stroked his back. "You were betrayed, Robb. We all miscalculate, but in the end it was treachery and not stupidity that caused this." Cupping his cheeks, she kissed him. "Would Talisa want you to destroy yourself?"

He sighed. "No." Gazing into her eyes, he brought their lips back together. "Thank you, Margaery. I love you."

She couldn't help but smile widely. "And I you." Hugging him close, she thanked the Seven for the second chance.

Fingers curling around the golden goblet resting on the table, Tywin Lannister poured himself another cup. The wine was watered while the bottles serving his guests weren't - it was a shame to dilute the fine Dornish red, but the political advantage of the family came before personal comforts. "I trust your sea voyage was uneventful."

"It was," replied Razdal mo Eraz, sipping at the wine. "Luckily, most of the Dragon whore's fleet is anchored at Dragonstone or White Harbor."

Belicho Paenymion, dressed in the colors of Volantis, was slightly drunk. "The Ironborn did an excellent job of screening, though I do warn you that eleven transports managed to slip through the blockade and are heading to Slaver's Bay as we speak." Blunt in the way only an inebriated mind would be in diplomatic parlay.

"Oh?" Tywin smiled. "So she is sending Westerosi forces to Meereen I would assume. That would mean the alliance with the North has been established." Glancing out at the gardens around him, Tywin had to admire the late Doran Martell's taste. They truly were beautiful. Hating the Martells that he did, Tywin was the bigger man to admit it. "The harbors in Westeros are very active, both her moving troops to the North and our forces heading back to King's Landing. I'm afraid we won't have the manpower to spare."

Unlike his more 'cultured' colleagues, the low born slave trader Yezzan zo Qaggaz hadn't drank a drop. Tywin admired that. "It is not manpower we seek, but mere… assistance." He handed a scroll to the Lannister Lord. "This is our formal offer to the great King. We both have a dragon infestation, and are in need of proper slaves."

"You have slaves." The practice personally didn't bother Tywin, even though his grandson's… efforts made no sense to him.

Eraz frowned. "Uppity slaves, as we call them. However, the construction projects of King's Landing are perfect for them."

"We can take care of an important part of the Dragon whore's empire for you, and provide a profitable alliance." Qaggaz gestured to the scroll.

Tywin skimmed through it, liking what he read. He raised his cup. "A toast, to the Reign of the Dragon Queen. Short as it will be." A toast that was shared by the three guests.