55 The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

Atop the snow-capped peak, swirling winds engulfing the ground with a blinding white mist of snow and ice, fifteen silent figures watched their master. Below, thousands of feet at the base of the massive cliff, an army awaited. Tens of thousands completely shock still. All waiting for their mystical leader to emerge from his cave. To lead them to glory, not that they'd ever think of their mission in such terms - or any for that matter.

Seated cross-legged, eyes closed, visions ran through the master's head. Of a time long past, his soul free from the malevolent prison his new body kept him in. Unseeing, unfeeling, deprived of every emotion other than rage and sheer force of will. Of a time spent with the ones he loved, his sister and wife and son and best friend. Simpler times, before they took it away from him.

Before he broke free and moved to slaughter them all.

And now, he felt a spirit upon the world. A spirit not seen by him in millennia. Since the last great battle where they had clashed. The body that inhabited that spirit was long dead, but it had returned. 'He is familiar.'

'That boy, the one from Hardhome.'

'He is in the south, close to… her homeland.'

Eyes flying open, bright blue casting a shadow upon the walls of the cavern, the Night King stood. Grabbing his ice scepter, he felt the power of winter enter his spirit - bringing his abilities to the intensity of old, if only for now. Striking the tip hard into the rock, he began a chain reaction that would bring about the end of the spirit before it grew powerful once more.

His expression was unchanged, but inwardly the Night King smiled.

Thunder boomed as the beautiful malevolence of the glowing lightning bolt zigzagged into the undulating mass of water below. Rain pelting down from the grey-black clouds of the icy typhoon, Jon could barely see past Rhaegal's snout. "Fucking storm," he muttered under his breath. It had come out of nowhere, engulfing them out of what was once pure sunlight just as they passed the coastline of Old Valyria.

"I can barely see!" Arms wrapped around Rhaegal's spines, Ollie was shaking in fear.

Barristan had more steel in his spine, but concern welled inside him. A huge gust nearly stalling Rhaegal midair, he yelled at Jon. "Perhaps we should turn back to land… wait out the storm?!"

Feeling the rumblings within their connection, Jon could see that Rhaegal was feeling the fear as well. "Perhaps we can turn north and wait it out near Lys!" 'Storms never appear this time of year,' came the nagging voice in the back of his head, sounding a lot like Bran. He knew the weather patterns from Mossador's briefings before he left. Strange. 'Very strange.'

"Sire," shouted Ollie over the howling winds, eyes peering as he tried to see through the rain splashing his face. "What is that?" Jon barely had time to register what Ollie said before the world exploded around him.

Lowering the spyglass, the captain turned to his king. "Near direct hit, sire." Below him, the massive man-o-war ship Kraken rocked up as a wave slammed into it. The Drowned God was in a foul mood that night. "But the beast is still airborne."

Euron Greyjoy, hair matted to his forehead and eyes wild with a murderous intensity, stared at the swirling black clouds. "Prepare another volley!" he bellowed, the sky illuminated for a moment by the crackling lightning bolts. "All ships keep firing!" Obeying the order, his men dashed towards their positions, signal lamps blaring orders to the other five ships sailing in ragged formation around the Kraken - likely shot to hell by the storm. Snarling into the din of thunder, Euron would have the Dragonwolf and his beast added to his collection if he had to summon the entirety of the deep blue sea to do so.

The crews of all the ships scrambled into action, following the lead of their flagship. Tar drenched projectiles were loaded onto catapults while the delicate rockets were aimed on deck. The storm caught them unawares, but Ironborn sailors were born to fight in the typhoons and cyclones of open waters. Slowly, the gunnery officers began to triangulate the position of the great Dragon of the North. "FIRE!"

Sharp barbs of water peppered Jon's face, hair a mess and stinging his eyes. "Boy, bank left!" Feeling Rhaegal lurch, fiery projectiles rocketed through the powerful gales mere yards from Rhaegal's right wing. Somehow they had stumbled into the middle of a group of Ironborn ships. Their luck had to run out eventually.

"I can't hold on!" Ollie screamed, while Barristan gritted his teeth as the dragon lurched violently. "Mother of fuck! Mother of fuck!"

Blinking the water out of his eyes, Jon spotted where the catapults had fired from, flashes of yellow-orange lancing up as they fired an ill-aimed rocket volley. Sending the mental command to the dragon, Rhaegal roared and dove straight at the ship. "DRACARYS!" Stalling in the air with the beats of his massive wings, Rhaegal released the unholy inferno of dragonfire at the Ironborn ship. The stout wood of the Iron Island was tough, but dragonfire proved a far more stubborn tool. Screams filled the stormy air as snaps of wood popped into the night.

As the third rate split in two from the dragon's unrelenting jet of flame, the helmsmen of the other ships spun the wheels as far around as they could go. Hard turns nearly capsized one, two others barely managing to avoid colliding as the churning waves sent them into violent jinks and rolls. Any lesser sailor would have broken, but not the Ironborn. What is dead may never die.

Fire rising within him, Euron jerked his head back at the gunners. "Why aren't you pricks firing?!" Searching for his useless eunuch of a nephew had brought the prize of a lifetime into his grasp, and he would be damned if it would slip away.

"My King, the beast is in the direction of our other ships," the officer shouted back. "If we fire and miss…"

He was cut off as Euron stormed to the man and slugged him in the face, blood mixing with water as his nose broke. Heaving him up, the King of the Iron Islands tossed the screaming man overboard. Eyes wild in near madness, the blue-white glare of the lightning turning him into a near demon. "Any other helpful suggestions?" he asked, voice syrupy sweet. None were forthcoming. "Good. Now you cunts better hit that fucker or I'll give the crabs more than an appetizer!" Fiery jets lanced off the hull of the ship.

Feeling the heat from Rhaegal's tongue of flame fight the cold of the rain, a flash caught Jon's vision as he turned his head. His eyes widened as the twin streaks came closer. "Dīnagon…!"

It was too late. The two rockets detonated on Rhaegal's side, showering sparks and jets of fire across the scaly skin of the gigantic beast. Soft-skinned variants, the fire alone couldn't penetrate the fire made flesh, but the shockwave sent Rhaegal in a wild jink. The human passengers struggled to hold onto the spines at the sudden jolt. Ollie and Barristan were successful. Rain making the spines slippery to the touch, it was Jon that failed as his gloved hand refused to gain traction. The jolt sent him tumbling off the beast's back, a loud roar shaking the very heavens as the Targaryen Emperor hurtled further and further to the churning seas below.

Watching the tiny, dark shape tumble from the dragon's back in the blue-white light of the gods' fury, Euron bared his teeth in a terrifying leer. Those around him had long ago realized that there were several screws loose in his head, but the younger brother of the hated Balon Greyjoy was the true Drowned King they all dreamed of following. And now, their King had taken down the White Dragonwolf. "AND THE KRAKEN CLAIMS HIS PRIZE!" he whooped into the fury of the storm itself. "KEEP FIRING!"

Pain. Jon felt the pain first, like a whip slamming into his body parallel to the length of his spine. Water enveloping him as soon as he smashed onto the surface of the rolling sea, the cry of anguish sucked icy cold liquid down his throat, stabbing his insides with a thousand pricks. The saltwater stung at his eyes, and he blindly thrashed about in the pitch black around him. Lessons in the river with Robb and Sansa within the wolfswood as a child prepared him little for the stormy seas, unable to even see through his inflamed eyes for the surface. Gradually, the ocean blackness drew him deeper and deeper.

Suddenly, a flash of lightning sent shining rays of light piercing through the churning, murky depths. It lasted but an instant, but Jon saw the surface… closer than it seemed. Malevolent tendrils of death already beginning to envelop him, the Emperor summoned his fortitude and kicked with all his might. Arms threw him upward through the waves, batting the water aside as he ascended towards the surface. Away from death's door towards an uncertain future - he could work with those odds.

Erupting out of the water, Jon sucked in a delicious breath of air before the winds and waves dragged him underwater once more. Kicking with all his might, the Emperor fought the hold of the Kraken. His entire reality melted into a swirling pot of water and rain-drenched sky. Arms lashing out at anything, at last they made contact with solid wood. A floating piece of debris from the Ironborn ship, Jon hauled his upper torso on it, gripping the soaked timbers with all his strength.

Above, the lances of flame hurled themselves at Rhaegal, the beast braving them to search for him. His cries were desperate, pained, bellowing for his rider.

Knowing they couldn't survive this, Jon made one of the hardest decisions of his life… in an instant. 'Go.'

Dodging a rocket, Rhaegal let out a tragic hoot. 'No! Never!'

'GOOO!' Jon mentally screamed.

Hovering in the air for what seemed like forever, a primal screech left Rhaegal, louder than the rockets. Louder than the churning seas. Louder than the angry heavens above. As it died, the beast's wings beat heavily as he turned and headed landward, away from the death and chaos.

Fist clenching in rage, Euron stared out at the dark sea - and the receding form of the dragon. "Well boys," he yelled, deciding to once take the wins he had. "Tonight we killed an Emperor!" Cheers rang out as he basked in the glory of it all.

'Good boy,' Jon thought, eyes fluttering shut as he clung to the debris. 'Good boy.'

"Get in there, fucking cunts!" Groups of men with crossbows offering cover, the overseers and Faith Militants shoved the last remaining slaves into the pens for the night. "You two, bitch. Get in there before I get out me prick!"

Sparing a single glare over her shoulder, Arya complied, losing her petite form in the mass of milling people caged like animals. The threat wasn't usually idle, but the overseers had already collected nearly two dozen young, pretty girls for their own use overnight. Arya did not want to be one of them - killing the guards would blow her cover, and the hope was that Joffrey simply would forget about her.

There was no chance Littlefinger ever would, though. Just the thought of him made her skin crawl.

'Joffrey, Cersei, Ilyn Payne, Littlefinger…'

Suddenly, she felt herself lifted up and over a shoulder as the gate shut with a loud clang, sealing them in for the night. "Let's go, girlie." Sandor Clegane's gruff voice was recognizable everywhere.

Arya was not amused. "Put me down!" she huffed, more annoyed than anything.

"Shut up." At her pounding of his back, the Hound chuckled dryly. "I may not have my armor, sweetheart, but all you're doin' is pissin' me the fuck off." With an angry sigh, Arya propped her head up by the elbow and went along for the ride.

"Don't mind him, sweet pea." Adorned with a cheery smile, Beric Dondarrion was less of a pain than the Hound. Most of the time anyway. "He just hates King's Landing."

"I hate everything and everywhere," came the grumble.

A laugh. "We know, Sandor, we know." Walking ahead of Arya and Clegane - Beric bringing up the rear - Thoros of Myr found his route rather open. The slaves gave them a wide berth, both respectful and fearful. No one ever ratted them out, but while the guards weren't looking… "Tell the girl."

Beric smiled wider, winking. "There's someone we want you to meet, little Wolf."

"I'm not included in that 'we,' in case you're wondering." Clegane was as direct as ever.

"I wasn't wondering, in case you were wondering," Arya shot back, amused at his likely reaction.

Apparently the former nobleman was as well. "I liked her before and I still do." All three shared a laugh at the Hound's expense.

Jovial attitudes began to fade away as they approached the far corner of the pen, one marked off by crude reed slats likely hand-woven. Arya noticed several burly Esossi guards, each with a dagger tattoo on their temples - Volantian slaves. One didn't reside in the King's Landing of today without being able to pick up on such things. Seated in the center, surrounded by candles, was a lone woman in the pose of deep meditation.

Clegane set Arya down and plopped onto the ground, completely disinterested. Arya ignored him. "Who is this?" she asked Beric.

"Someone of the highest importance." That was self-evident. Even with the segregation into castes as seen amongst the slaves, a private area with guards was unheard of.

Before any of them could say anything to her, the lady's voice preempted them. "Thoros, you smell like a distillery." She didn't even spare them a glance, her back to the Red Priest and former knight.

Thoros grinned weakly. "We all have our ways of worshipping the Lord… and it helps with the aches and pains."

"Sobriety is good for the soul, dear Thoros." Cracking her neck with a groan, the woman stood, turning to face them. She was a beauty, noted Arya. Tanned skin, blue eyes, raven hair. Obviously of the Free Cities, a woman sure of herself but without any arrogant flair that a noblewoman would have. "Who is this?"

Bowing, Beric grabbed Arya's shoulders. "This is the connection we have to the resurrected Lord, priestess." He patted her arm. "Arya Stark, sister to the White Wolf."

"Arya Stark?" Stepping closer to her, the lady looked Arya over with peak curiosity and wonder. "Valar morghulis, young Stark."

"Valar dohaeris," came the instinctive reply. The look she was getting was… discomforting to Arya. She couldn't place it. "I'm not sure what is going on, to be honest."

The lady smiled. "I doubt you would, for I can see you are quite practical even considering the history of your House and your individual experiences." Reaching out, she ran a finger over her cheek and forehead. "Where are my manners. I am Kinvara, priestess of this particular slice of the earth."

"A pretty shitty slice," Clegane spat, scarfing down a piece of stale bread.

"It is pretty shitty," Arya shrugged. He wasn't wrong there.

Kinvara giggled slightly. "Perhaps… you have a point there. But if the Lord of Light wills me to be here, then there is a reason - for I and for you." Eyebrow raised, she could tell the young girl felt her slightly crazy. "Come, Arya of House Stark. All will be explained, but for now sleep." Kinvara gestured to a collection of cots close by. "Any family of the reborn in fire Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen deserves the finest hospitality I may offer."

The fatigue of the day's labor - if crippling for her, she shuddered to think how hauling the massive stones up the pyramid day after day was affecting Beric, Thoros, the Hound, or all the others - Arya simply collapsed onto her cot. No one dared touch it, reserved for her and her only thanks to the reputation of the Brotherhood among the slaves. Though, Clegane's muscles and hard attitude didn't hurt, she thought with a snort. Before sleep took hold, she looked up at the open air, wall penning her in just low enough to make out the tops of the Red Keep. Where the little bitch that called himself the Chimera slept in pampered luxury.

"Rest up Joffrey," she murmured softly. Almost a hiss. "A girl always completes her list."

Gazing down at the city, the throbbing heart of his great empire, Joffrey shuddered. As if some malevolent force tipped off a sixth sense within him. "Enough of this shit!" he yelled to no one in particular. "You're just making up things." He was the eternal ruler - the divine Chimera. No one would dare harm him in his crown jewel.

"Did you say something, your Grace?" Petyr Baelish kept his eyes trained on the small stack of parchment in front of him, outwardly the epitome of a respectful supplicant and trusted confidant. Few could grace the Chimera's inner sanctum, and he was one.

Joffrey waved him off. "Shut up, shut up and let me think!" Head pulsing, he tossed an apple from a plate of fruit decorating the fine oaken table and threw it at Dontos Hollard - but the eerie feeling from before had not only interrupted his train of thought, but taken away all pleasure from torturing the fallen knight and watching him squirm. Snarling, he stormed to his grooming pedestal.

Clearing his throat, Qyburn interjected. "All Highest, if I may, I believe you were worried about the failure of the corrupted blood slavers to neutralize the Stark Bastard."

"Unfortunate but not surprising." The High Sparrow, ratty burlap shift causing his skin to itch, was always welcome in the quarters of the King. The devoted pseudo-religious figure flattered his ego. "Those that trade human souls into bondage for something as trifling as profit…" The Sparrow's voice took a somber quality, not comprehending the irony. "Being a mere bartering chip saps the innate zeal to work and provide for the gods and their anointed one."

Littlefinger eyed him carefully. "Quite." Covering his face with his fingers, he looked up at Joffrey. "All Highest, with your Grandfather and Uncle in the field, the High Admiral at sea, and your mother… indisposed, the three of us need your skilled mind to solve the pressing concern."

Behind a sheer curtain, shape, shadow, and profile visible but all other features muddled by the gossamer fabric, the blind servants began attending to the gaunt, slight form of the Chimera. Freed of his veil and cumbersome silks, Joffrey indulged in the finely prepared meats, fruits, and breads that his sensitive palate could handle. The servants gently removed his clothes and cleaned the pale skin with oil-infused rags. "I want the Stark bastard dead. It does not concern me any longer as to where, only that it is done!"

There was an odd resignation in his voice. A desperation borne for once not out of anger. "My little birds have found a possible contract out on his life," said Qyburn. "The Faceless Men, all Highest."

"Blasphemers of the worst sort," scoffed the High Sparrow. "The Seven wince at their chosen representatives allying with such filth."

"We can beg for their forgiveness after the fact, High Sparrow," Littlefinger replied. "In the here and now, all that matters is defeating our mutual enemies. At least Euron Greyjoy is trying." His last raven had him on the trail of his nephew, his niece already chained in the bilge of his flagship. "Although…" The unctuous aristocrat's lips curled in a tight smile. "Perhaps we could resort to… alternate means."

There was silence. "What kind of means?" Joffrey asked. "Spit it out!"

"There is something that would bring the untimely death of Jon Snow, all Highest." Unlike all but Lord Tywin and possibly Qyburn, Littlefinger knew who Snow was - it… complicated matters. "Something that someone we have once known was proficient in. Means from the occult."

Mouth agape, the High Sparrow tried to speak but the words found it hard to escape his throat. "That…" he finally stammered. "That is black magic. An affront to the gods themselves!"

"It would not be an affront to them if their chosen representative on this earth oversees it," Littlefinger shot back. "It would be highly effective, I believe. I have it on good authority that black magic such as this caused the death of the traitor Renly."

"My traitorous scum of an uncle was killed by his sworn sword." Joffrey sneered behind the curtains. "Teaches him to trust a woman."

"A woman did kill him, all Highest. Just not that woman - the red witch." The King fell silent.

Breaking that silence, Qyburn felt intrigued on top of the on-edge fear that anyone granted access to Joffrey for even a single meeting or audience. "This might work, but for the type of ceremony to be effective... to take out someone of royal blood…"

"Royal blood?"

"Jon Snow has the blood of the Starks, and therefore the Kings of Winter. And Daenerys is of royal blood as well. It requires a ceremony involving the same type of blood. Targaryen… or Baratheon blood." Old scrolls in the Citadel told of these types of rituals.

The High Sparrow seemed resigned. "Viserys Targaryen would work… or any of the Starks…"

"No." Qyburn shook his head. "The power of the ritual leads not with the blood of the victim… but with the blood of the conjuror. That would mean the blood of His Highest - Baratheon blood." Wincing, the topic of discussion was unsettling even for him, the man known for such black experiments that had seen him booted out of the Citadel. "You have to realize this is magic of the darkest order that even the Red Woman would be hesitant to…"

"Tell me, and we will do it." There was no hesitance in Joffrey's voice.

"You can't be seriously considering this?" Falling into step beside the wheelchair, she looked at her younger brother incredulously. "It's madness."

"I have to do it, Sansa," came the reply, barely any emotion behind it. They pushed into the courtyard, an oddly cloudless sky above them, stars shining down. It was as if the entirety of the storms and blizzards had left the north for places elsewhere.

Halting on the cobblestones, the redhead couldn't make heads or tails of what had happened to her normally carefree brother. Joy had filled her and Rickon as Edderon brought Bran back to Winterfell for the first time since Theon betrayed them. With Howland Reed there, it had been happy reunions all around - not to mention meeting the newly healed Hodor, which was quite a shock - but it had all been turned to chaos once Bran announced he was headed for North of the Wall. It was completely out of the blue and no one could talk him out of it.

"Are you sure about this, Meera?" Howland looked resigned to the fact, always a far more spiritual man than even the average northerner. He was taking the impending journey to the hells of the Land of Always Winter better than the more level-headed Sansa, but still worried.

Looking up at her father as Willas and the other servants loaded Bran onto the dragon's back, Meera nodded. "The same force that helped us out of Qarth is calling him to somewhere in the vast wilderness." Sansa racing to join the others clustered around Edderon, Meera began climbing onto his back. "I don't like it but I'm not going to quibble about the meaning of Bran's visions."

"But…" Huffing in frustration, Sansa looked at the young Reed. "Meera, talk some sense into him, for gods' sake! He'll get himself killed!"

Sighing, Meera met the eyes of the older redhead. "I'm sorry, Lady Stark. I long ago had to accept that Bran has a gift that I cannot truly understand. If he says he must travel north of the Wall, then I must believe him."

Looking down on his family - nay, all the people of Winterfell gathered around - Bran smiled softly as Edderon readied his wings. "I shall return, do not worry for me." With a roar, the dragon ascended into the sky, flying ever higher towards the stars of the heavens above.

They stared as the grey-white beast disappeared into the darkness of night. "What are you gonna do, sister?" Rickon asked.

Pursing her lips together, she waved for Maester Wolkan. "Prepare a raven for Riverrun. I need to warn my sister about this."

Mind a delirious haze, Jon barely registered the rope being wrapped around his weak, parched, and drenched body and hauling him up. His shoulders smacked against something hard several times, the pain registering somewhat but too little to matter much considering what he went through. Grunting, he was hauled over the side of the ship - probably a ship. No, it was a ship.

"Looks like there was a survivor," a voice said, accent of the Iron Islands. In the back of Jon's tired mind, it didn't seem hostile. His hand drifted to his belt, Longclaw still on its scabbard - thank the Gods.

Canteen thrust at him, Jon resisted the urge to gulp it all down like a parched oaf. Remembering boyhood lessons, he gently took the bottle of magical elixir and sipped slowly - savoring the quenching liquid as if it were the nectar of the gods themselves. After draining nearly all of it, taking several minutes to do so, he finally looked up at his rescuers. A familiar face stood out. "Theon," he croaked, throat still impossibly dry.

The Prince of the Iron Islands, Admiral of the Imperial Navy, and former ward to House Stark nodded back. "Jon," he said awkwardly. The tension from their first reunion didn't seem to have dissipated.

Around them, the Ironborn men were taken aback. "Dis the Emperor?" one asked, incredulously.

"Ooks ik im," another remarked.

Theon bowed, settling the matter. "Your Majesty, welcome to the Sea Bitch." Eyes widening, the crewmen all bowed as well.

Pushing up onto shaky feet, Jon nearly stumbled but was caught by Theon. "What are you doing out here?" he said, confused. "Shouldn't you be at White Harbor?" That's what the dispatches had said, plus it was the only remaining defensible port. Gulltown was closer to the action but was a sitting duck for an attack.

Letting his surrogate brother lean on him for support, Theon guided him towards his cabin. "Gave the order to scatter the ships at Dragonstone after Yara was captured and we broke out. Seems Euron is on my tail, so we sailed south to protect the rest of the fleet."

"Storm saved our asses… your Majesty," the captain stated. "Cuntface was right on us before the gales threw em all out of whack."

Digesting this new info, Jon knew they must have been farther out to sea than he hoped - if they had been closer then Rhaegal would have sensed him out. 'But he sensed me out from all across the world… why can't he now?' Something deeper was afoot, one he couldn't get a bearing on. "Do you know where we are?"

"Sly, did you get a reading before sunrise?" Theon asked his navigator.

"Aye. About six/seven hundred miles south/southeast of Lys, give or take." He wasn't as sure as Jon would have liked, but it would do for now. "The winds are blowing eastward."

Jon nodded weakly. "Good, set course for old Valyria."

Blinking, Theon looked at him as they reached the door to the rear cabin. "We need to get you around the enemy screen to Seaguard. You can take a horse to Riverrun…"

He was silenced by an intense glance. The frown on Jon's face curled into a smirk. "Trust me."