19 Sons of Harpy

Normally a boisterous cacophony of shouting and backslapping - comprised of essentially the dregs of the Seven Kingdoms, only during official duties would anyone expect the Brothers of the Night's Watch to act in any disciplined sort of manner - the communal hall was instead quiet. Devoid of any real life. Growing up among the boisterous Northerners of Winterfell, Jon normally enjoyed the lively rough and tumble. But with his brooding nature, he relished his solitude. His father was the same way.

The whole matter reminded him of the meeting Jon had partaken in before his long infiltration mission north of the wall. Instead, now he was seated at the head of the table, the youngest Lord Commander of the Night's Watch in three centuries. A great honor, but one he had never expected.

Glancing to his right, there was another eventuality he had never expected. Emotion surged through him at the sight of the brother he once thought dead. Any hit of protests by Thorne or his cronies had been silenced with a murderous glare, Robb being given immediate asylum among the brotherhood. Thanking all the gods for their grace in keeping his brother alive, Jon had no compunction including him in his own inner circle - having spent the last week locked up in the rooms Jon gave him, all felt he needed something to draw him out of what was haunting him. Joining them were Sam, Maester Aemon, and Tormund, the wily Wildling starting to grow on Jon. Much as he tried to deny it, it went both ways.

"I still can't come to accept this, Jon," Robb stated after a long silence. "White walkers and wights north of the wall, like the bedtime stories of our childhood? They're just myths." He then shrugged his shoulders. "Then again, I would have also thought one mad if he said my half-brother would end up having a tame dragon, so who am I to doubt the plausibility of this story."

A hearty chuckle leaving his lips, Jon rubbed Ghost's furry head, the direwolf resting beside him. "Believe me, brother, no one was more shocked than I… though Tormund nearly pissed himself." The wildling sent him a murderous look in response. "But the threat is serious. Mance Rayder and others north of the Wall basically told me that the entire Wildling host is seeking to fight their way south because of the threat of the dead."

Tormund nodded. "Aye, better to die trying to be free of them than end up part of the Army of the Dead."

"So are they planning their attack?" Robb didn't trust Tormund - no real Northerner would toward a wildling, too much bad blood. "With their numbers they could do it easily."

"Mance isn't stupid - King Crow over there," he pointed at Jon. "Knows all of our plans. Unless one of the fucking fools is now in charge, and they wouldn't because the Wildlings will only follow Mance, he's waiting at Hardhome for another chance."

"How far would they follow Mance?" Four pairs of eyes looked at Jon.

Meeting his eyes, Tormund shrugged. "Likely to their deaths if need be, though I can't say for sure. Ya' can't tame a Free Folk."

"Where are you going with this, Lord Commander?" asked Aemon, speaking up for the first time. No hostility was in his voice, only curiosity.

Sighing, Jon looked over all of them. "For 8,000 years the Night's Watch has sworn to guard the Realms of Men, and for 8,000 years we have failed in that oath. The Free Folk, all of them, are part of the Realms of Men."

Robb looked incredulous. "You can't possibly believe that Jon! You've seen the wildlings rape and kill south of the wall. You've fought them since coming here…"

"And I've fought with them, brother!" Jon snapped back. "I know what the threat is, north of the wall. And it isn't the Free Folk." He turned to Tormund. "You may not be walking around in chains, but you are a prisoner of us all the same. What if I free you. Can you convince Mance to accept my proposal?"

"What proposal?"

Taking over - as one of the stewards, it was Sam's job to go over logistics. "Essentially, we have enough land north of Last Hearth to settle thousands of people far away from any other northern domain. The ground is suitable for certain crops and is perfect for grazing… whatever you do graze"

"You will be allowed south of the wall, I will see to it. As long as the Free Folk agree to fight with us."

A laugh left the red-bearded wildling. "The day I ask my comrades to fight with a crow, is the day they cut my guts out of my belly and make me eat them. They'll never bend the knee to you."

"I'm not asking them to. As far as I'm concerned, Tormund… we are equals."

Leaning forward to stare at Jon, Robb exhaled deeply. "Jon, I know you. If whatever you saw north of the wall was enough to convince you of this, then even though I still can't fathom it I will stand behind you." Jon was grateful, eminently so. To have the great Young Wolf behind him, a brother's love, was greater than most else.

Interrupting them, the door opened and Ollie walked in. "For you, Lord Commander. From a dispatch rider." He handed Jon a sealed letter.

"Thank you, Ollie, you're dismissed." Breaking the seal, Jon's face was impassive as he read the letter. "Hmmmm, looks like we have a new ally - and a new opportunity."

"What is it, Jon?" Sam asked.

"Seems like a small fleet of ships has anchored at Eastwatch, the Lady Olenna Tyrell and Lady Margaery Tyrell among them." An audible crack was heard through the room. Jon stared at Robb, who had snapped a metal spoon that he had been toying with in half from shock. From his reaction, Jon had his ideas about why. He couldn't help but smirk. "Something you're not telling me, brother?"

The cell was dark, yet the only one in the squalid prison that was made sure not to be damp and mold-ridden. It was a precaution that the Lannisters did not take – well ever. But Catelyn Stark viewed certain elements in the Red Keep as more partial to her survival than Cersei Lannister. The screams and smells of blood and piss from other rooms belied the manner that her goons usually treated the enemies of the King of Gold. None of the guards were allowed to beat her, but they were far from gentle, bruises often dotting her body. Stoic but using most of her Tully willpower to keep herself that way, most of the time she was curled in a ball in the corner of the cell. 'How did this happen? Why have the gods forsaken us?'

At that point the door to the cell opened, and she braced for the upcoming strong hands gripping her limbs for forced-feedings. It didn't seem like the time, but Catelyn had no sense of timing anymore. There was no sunlight, no clock, no sense of routine. But… none of that happened. There wasn't even a voice, only a shadow obscuring the low light of the hallway. Catelyn's lips curled in a growl, refusing to turn around. 'Why has he come back?'

She wrenched her gaze away as soon as she spotted him. "What are you doing here?" she spat. The one person she thought she could trust - thought that she could count on. He had fought against Ned, but that was likely Cersei's doing, and Joffrey had been the one to kill him. But there was no earthly reason how he couldn't have a hand in the Red Wedding.

For the first time in a long while, a sincere smile rested on Petyr Baelish's face. "I am here to see you, Catelyn. To tell you something important."

Catelyn turned away, putting her back to Littlefinger. "I have no interest in what your sadistic master has asked you to say to me."

"It is about Sansa." That did draw her attention.

The pain still infected her. Giving Sansa away to the Boltons - to the swine that betrayed them and could have very well tracked down and murdered her eldest son? And Littlefinger had the gall to request gratitude for his role in shepherding Sansa out of King's Landing - out of the skillet and into the roaring flames. She'd be much more of a threat in the north than here. 'Is this my punishment, dear gods above?' A tear fell down her cheek as more footsteps entered the cell. 'Was all of this retribution for my treatment of Jon?' Catelyn had given that boy a hellish childhood, all for nothing - for a reason that ended up meaning nothing.

"Mother?"

Shocked at the voice, Catelyn turned around to be confronted by her daughter. "Sansa!" The young redhead ran into her mother's embrace, the two of them sobbing. Despite being in the capitol for many months, this had been the first time she had seen Sansa since Ned departed with Robert those many years ago. "Thank the Gods that you're alright."

"We felt that you two should speak at least once before the time arrives." Looking behind them, she could see an odd collection - Varys, Brienne of Tarth, and the brothers Lannister.

Looking her over, Catelyn could see her daughter wasn't the same innocent, silly girl that left Winterfell. A hardness had been burned into her, adding untempered Valyrian steel to her gracefulness. She was inexperienced, but had all the tools to be a formidable political player.

It both made Catelyn proud and broke her heart.

"I will be sent back home, mother," Sansa said with resignation in her voice. "I have to do it, get away from… Joffrey," she hissed the last word. "At least I will be close to Castle Black. Do you think Jon could rescue me?" She seemed to have reasoned it, not immaturely hoped for it.

Catelyn managed a smile. "Yes, Sansa. Your brother would if he knows you're there." Sansa stared at her with wide eyes, hearing her mother refer to Jon this way. In the last years she had beat herself up inside for never accepting Jon as she did Robb, Bran, or Rickon. Sansa wished she could see him one more time, just to beg forgiveness - a tiny speck of emotion left in her otherwise hardened soul, and it seemed her mother felt the same way.

"We have to go, mi'lady," Brienne stated.

Hugging one more time, mother and daughter separated. "Lady Brienne, remember what you promised to me?" The lady knight bowed, her vow to protect the Stark girls still solid.

Soon, it was just Catelyn and the three men. She purposefully ignored Jamie Lannister, who didn't blame her. After making sure Tyrion could escape the Red Keep unseen, his job was done - Joffrey was about to have Tyrion purged and he couldn't let his brother die. "Well then. I should be off before Cersei worries. Take care brother."

"You as well, brother," Tyrion called to his retreating form. "Lady Stark, we have to get you out of here at once." The dwarf - the same dwarf she once tried to have killed - strode up to her. His face standing came to the same height as her sitting. "It isn't a shock to know that my father and sister want you dead. He feels insulted that you cheated him out of killing the Young Wolf and that Littlefinger prevented your death."

"And for some reason, Cersei wishes that all Starks die," stated Varys in his flat tone. "Now that Baelish is escorting Sansa Stark north, any day now you are likely to receive a knife slashing through your throat. We would like to prevent that from happening."

"I take it that this isn't out of the goodness of your hearts," Catelyn sneered.

Chuckling, Tyrion sat next to her. "I don't know about him, but I had rather interesting travel with you the last time. What better company?" For all that she hated the Lannisters, Tyrion had a sort of drunkard-like charm about him.

"Somehow I expected the Night's Watch's domain to be decrepit and run down." Olenna Tyrell ran her hand along the rotting beams of Eastwatch Castle. "Comforting to see they outdid my expectations."

Chuckling, Margaery shook her head. "Well grandmother, not all of it failed to impress me." The veritable matriarch of the Tyrell family followed her granddaughter's eyes to the Wall, ice and stone towering above all but the clouds in immense glory.

"Built of magic long ago, dear granddaughter. The Night's Watch had nothing to do with it." On her own, she shifted her gaze to the anchored ships. Eastwatch Harbor - sparse as it was - gave the barks and grain transports a safe home with the choppy northern waves. With Essos either allied with Joffrey or too dangerous for them, and the Iron Islands essentially at war with everyone, the Wall was their only option. They had sent a messenger to Castle Black asking for asylum, and Olenna prayed to every god she knew to grant them salvation.

"Mi'Lady." One of their most loyal bannermen, risen high in the ranks due to numerous losses on the battlefield but earning every single promotion, had approached them. "A rider from Castle Black has arrived, bearing a dispatch from Lord Commander Jon Snow."

Margaery's eyebrow rose. "Ned Stark's bastard boy?" A sharp mind like hers remembered plenty on matters of state. 'And Robb Stark's half-brother.' Along with other, less pure reasons for remembering - though a pallor of sadness clouded her upon thinking of the deceased Young Wolf.

"Hmmm, not surprising," Olenna mused. "The Brotherhood in Black makes no distinction there, and if he has even a fraction of Ned Stark's brains and courage, he'd go far. What does the dispatch say?"

"It is addressed to the Lady Margaery, Mi'Lady." Two perfectly manicured eyebrows rose. "It requests a parlay in exchange for control of your fleet of ships, and…" he seemed confused. "Lord Commander Snow wishes that it be as productive as the 'Meeting at the coves,' though he wouldn't partake in the 'same manner of diplomacy.'" The suggestions dripped with knowing innuendo.

Eyes widening till they almost covered the entire socket, there was no disguising what the innuendo meant. 'Only two people in the world knew of that. One was here with her, and the other... ' He was alive, then.

Oleanna thought along the same lines, but was more circumspect. "We will parlay, but I want to hear his terms before we give him our ships." Seemed that House Tyrell could still make it out of this hard time with something after all.

After what had to be days of jostling, ocean waves, and subsisting on dried beef and sour wine, the sound of a crowbar groaning against a wooden lid was music to Tyrion's ears. Light soon poured in, temporarily blinding him. "Good morning," Varys said in a cheery mood - or as close to a cheery mood as the emotionless eunuch could. He moved to the second crate, freeing Catelyn Stark.

Crawling out, Tyrion blinked rapidly until his eyes adjusted. "Given that we're alive in Essos and not being decapitated by the Mountain, our great escape was a stirring success." Shae, unrecognizable enough to escape having to be smuggled out, helped him up.

"Well, we managed to evade loyalist patrols, and Pentos guards - I have a friend that made sure of that."

"Why am I not surprised," Tyrion groaned, stretching. Even at his height, the crate was cramped - gods only knew how bad it was for Catelyn Stark. "The Master of Whisperers has little birds everywhere." It was nice to breathe air that wasn't reeking of stale wood. "On to Meereen, and the Targaryen queen."

"However," Varys allowed a... confused look to cross his face. Something had to be rather unexpected to rankle the Realm's chief spymaster. "I did run into someone that… I didn't think would have been found in Essos…" Varys trailed off as a group of four people, and one large wolf, stepped inside the warehouse.

Coughing from the remnants of the wooden stank, Catelyn looked up only for her eyes to widen. Could it be? Joy bubbled up inside her, but it was all too unforeseen. "Bran?"

The crippled young boy heard his long lost mother's voice. "Mother."

Sandals smacked against the dusty cobblestones as a surprised excitement dawned on the children's faces. "Mhysa! Mhysa!" Both born into bondage, their delight at coming face to face with the silver-haired western queen that gave them freedom was unmatched.

Two Unsullied moved to block off the children, potential security risks as the Sons of the Harpy were known to use innocents as auxiliaries in their terrorist attacks. They caught them, breaking their runs. "Stand down, troopers," Daenerys announced, mindful both of her image to the people and her need for security. A smile on her face, she reached between the guards and handed the younger child a single flower that had once decorated her hair. The beaming smiles of the children, before they scampered off, were priceless.

"I don't see why you must do this," Daario Naharis flippantly remarked as they continued walking along the street, hand on the sheathed hilt of his sickle. "There's too much of a security risk for not staying in the Pyramid."

Snorting, Dany shifted her eyes to the sellsword. "So narrowly focused, Commander. The only reason that I am the Queen is through consent of the governed. Had the former slaves not risen up, we wouldn't have taken Meereen - they must know that their Queen loves them all, master and freedman." With a beaming smile, she waved at a group of middle-class shopkeepers, apparently Targaryen loyalists from their reaction.

Daario allowed himself a scoff. "Royal power grows out of the blade of a sword, Daenerys. It is that simple." He was loyal and proved his loyalty as a close confidant - still, Daario's informal conversation did skirt the line. It implied to Dany that he considered them closer than they were. Saying nothing, Grey Worm appeared to think the same.

"You told me once that I could never survive fighting enemies within and without." She gingerly stepped over a flattened piece of cattle dung - Dany made a mental note to order the creation of a sanitation department, creating jobs for freedmen and former master alike. A clean city was a calmer city. "When my enemies from without come knocking, I need Meereen behind me."

Daario nodded, a wistful smile on his face. "I did say that, didn't I? I was in the most… pleasant of places."

Cheeks burning red, Dany finally remembered when he said it - the night they shared together. "Yes, it was. But it cannot happen again."

"You say that now, but just wait." Turning her head, Dany scowled at his cheeky grin - but the sound of sudden screams in the streets prevented her from saying anything about it.

A harried runner - clad in the generally slapdash uniform of the Second Sons - sprinted to Daario's side and whispered something in his ear. The sellsword's perpetual smirk morphed into a angered frown. "We're heading back!" he yelled, pushing Dany back the way they came. Around them, Grey Worm and the Unsullied readied their spears.

"What's going on?" Dany shouted, trying not to collapse over her feet as her one-time companion and loyal lieutenant was essentially shoving her forward. Panicked throngs of people were fleeing in the opposite direction - away from the Pyramid and Royal Quarter.

"Double time march!" The Unsullied formed into a two man wide column as they marched through a connecting tunnel, the Queen in the middle. "Sons of the Harpy." Dany's blood ran to ice - they'd been quiet lately, but it was too good to be true. "They slaughtered some of my men close to here. Reinforcements are on their way, but we need to get to…"

About a third of their light was cut off as the entrance and exit to the tunnel were suddenly blocked by the clang of doors slamming shut. From hidden alcoves they appeared. Flowing robes of nobility, golden masks shrouding their faces with an image of godly terror, two dozen knife-wielding foot soldiers of the Sons of the Harpy emerged into the void - their ultimate target, the Targaryen Queen, was tantalizingly in reach. And standing in their way were Daario and a mere seven Unsullied.

Blood gushed from wounds as spears pierced through unarmored cloth, but being trapped in close quarters took their toll on the Unsullied. Long and with its blade resting at the tip of the seven foot pole, a spear did not have the useful advantages of proximate flexibility that the short swords and daggers of the Harpies. The Unsullied troopers were elite in the use of their weapons, but the sheer swarming of Harpies smashed through the formation. Blades flew through the air, spears impacting with flesh as one by one the Unsullied fell. Grey Worm, the strongest warrior of all of them, impaled and slashed throats of countless enemies, but succumbed to the sheer numbers with a knife through the abdomen. Daario had better luck with his sickle, perfect for close quarter combat and fighting to keep a protective distance between the savage partisans and his Queen, but even he fell to superior numbers. Slashed across the chest, a sharp kick sent him head first into a stone column.

Heart beating out of her chest, mind retreating into a protective shell, Dany closed her eyes for a split second. Daario was down, her Unsullied soldiers dead, Grey Worm fighting for his life and losing. It was her and the Sons of the Harpy, golden-tunic clad noble youths salivating at killing her while her honored commander watched, helpless to do anything.

Reinforcements weren't coming in time. Her children wouldn't come in time. She was alone.

You are the Blood of the Dragon.

'Blood of the dragon.' Face like stone, but expression roaring like the Black Dread. Calmly and smoothly, she withdrew Saracen from her scabbard, the curved Valyrian steel glinting from the sparse rays of sunlight streaming in. Gripping the sharkskin hilt with both hands, she raised it, daring the hesitating line of expressionless gold masks to attack her.

Screeching a harpy-like war cry, one obviously young and brash guerilla fighter charged at her. Knife over his head, it was child's play for Dany to sidestep him. Saracen slashed down, separating head from body. The line of the guerillas staggered a few inches, recalculating their approach. The diminutive, feminine queen had the heart of a dragon inside her - roaring with a fury without even opening her mouth.

Reigniting the war cry of the Harpy, the line surged forward in one swarm attack - but hemmed in by the narrow alcove, it negated any real advantage the swarming could give them. Dany quickly gutted one in the midsection, swirling around to catch another in the gut. Blood spurted onto her, sweat drenching her brow. Bells ringing all around them, the unarmored torsos under their golden tunics gave little protection to the honed metal of her ancestral homeland. Petite figure an asset rather than a liability, Dany jinked and weaved between two hulking guerillas, Saracen tasting blood as it sliced through a thigh as if it was butter. A quick spin brought a gurgling cry of anguish as the blade severed a spinal column.

Quickly noticing his Queen fighting for her life, Grey Worm rallied his will to fight for his. A surge of energy entering him once more, his spearpoint sliced through a Harpy's unprotected neck. The four others surrounding him pulled back at the ferocity. One lunged but ran right into the spear. "ZA TARGARYANA!"

A dull sword - caked in grime but blade still plenty sharp - sliced across her abdomen. Dany cried out, a snarl following as Saracen cut up through the belly of a Harpy. Red tinting her vision, but sheer force of will propelling her forward, she impaled the steel into another. The thrashing body went limp as blood spurted out around the embedded hilt, almost superhuman strength maneuvering the body to take two sword slashes. An impromptu human shield.

Shrieks, guttural screams leaving the previously silent Harpies, suicidal courage and zeal brought them charging at the Dragon Queen once more. Only this time the fatigue and blood loss was starting to overpower her. Her blade sliced through cloth, flesh, and intestine once more before a knife slammed into her shoulder. Daenerys cried, another sword cutting across one of her legs. She collapsed onto her knees, grip on Saracen failing. Three menacing Harpies stood over her, knives at the ready. From the faint sounds of Grey Worm behind her, he was just now dispatching his last attacker.

Not enough time. Her children flashed before her eyes, now set to rule themselves. Resigned to her fate, Dany's eyes slid shut as the Harpies raised their swords. The last image was of her love, handsome features bringing some comfort. 'I'm sorry, Jon.' She tried to survive for him.

And then the world exploded. Sent back nearly five feet from a sheer explosive force - almost dragonfire with bits of black smoke that crumbled the stone wall barely away from her - Dany's ears rang. Cuts covered the length of her arm and legs, the wind knocked out of her. Shouts that seemed like whispers registered, dark, shadowy forms fanning out from the hole. One looked like Theodosius in his Targaryen battle armor, a cloak of his family billowing behind him.

"Kill any left alive!" he seemed to hollar, stabbing a wounded Harpy on the ground through the chest with his sword. Behind him, through the blinding light streaming in from the outside, rested a contraption Dany had never yet seen - mounted on a carriage like a small catapult, it was a tube of metal, glinting in the sun.

"MY QUEEN!" was the last thing she heard before slipping into unconsciousness.