67 The Storm Approaches

Stepping to the side, the massive bulk of the fully armored Ser Gregor Clegane stared down at Daario Naharis with a certain blankness - an uncaring suspicion. It made Daario's skin crawl. The tale of Tywin Lannister's mad dog was one familiar across the known world, how he butchered the Targaryen children and Stannis Baratheon for his Lannister masters. Now though, it was as if the brutality and bloodlust had been subsumed in favor of an almost unwavering loyalty. As if the Mountains' free will had been taken away, leaving nothing but a drone. Once the door opened, Daario quickly darted in. No sense in staying longer with the creature.

Most receptions with the Chimera were done in the official throne room or unofficial audience room, a level of formality always present. However, for the most trusted of advisors, Joffrey often preferred the use of his personal quarters. As the King's new enforcer, Daario had quickly earned this honor. Immediately, the fell to his knees. "All Highest. You have summoned me?"

Joffrey turned from where he stared at a tapestry, one of him slaying the forces of Renly Baratheon during the Battle of Blackwater Bay - the official line, though all rumors pointed to such being a lie. "Captain Naharis, I am glad you are here."

"I am in his Highest's noble service." Just let him say his piece, then leave. To Daario, it was easier carrying out Joffrey's will than presenting himself before the King. People were known to have their heads crushed by the Mountain who erred in protocol.

"That is most welcome." A blind servant brought a plate of fruit for the King. Joffrey's fingerclawed digits took a small apple slice and brought it to his mouth, underneath the veil. "You are familiar with the Imperial Army, are you not?"

Daario blinked, but kept his eyes on the floor. "I have fought among the Dragon Queen's armies, yes."

Laughing, the King smacked one of his servants, sending him into a deeper laugh. "It is my destiny to rid the world of those that would pollute the faith of my mother the Maiden, and my fool of a grandfather shouldn't get the right to do that." He stared at the sellsword from under his veil. "I have an assignment for you."

Hands drifting to cup her midsection, Daenerys winced as her fingers ghosted over the dark, purplish bruise on her stomach. While the sellsword's fist hadn't been chainmailed as a Westerosi knight's undoubtedly would have been, that did not comfort her. It still hurt like all seven hells. She stared at the mirror. 'If it had been several inches lower…'

Dany wrapped her arms around her naked body, the thought wracking her with pain. Early labor with the twins had nearly killed her, Arya, and Rhaegar so long ago. One blow to her lower abdomen would have undoubtedly killed the unborn child now growing inside her. Another dragonwolf, a mix of her and Jon.

"The baby is still there, your Highness?" asked Missandei, seated several feet behind her. Her faithful handmaiden and the ladies of her family were the only ones who knew. The only ones she had told so far.

Eyes closed, Dany swore she could feel the very spirit of the unborn dragon within her. "Yes. There was no miscarriage." The maester at the Stoney Sept had examined her almost immediately after the fight and found nothing but the bruise - after being rescued at Blackwater Rush by the northern cavalry, the mere throbbing ache in her stomach told Dany that the little one was fine. "But it was such a close run thing."

Margaery felt her Empress' worry and pain. "Perhaps the smiths here at Highgarden can make you a set of plate armor, like Visenya wore during the conquest?" The stain upon Dany's alabaster skin made her cup her own swollen belly, calming herself with her unborn child's presence. Seeing how Daenerys was just torturing herself, she locked eyes with Missandei. The handmaiden nodded, fetching the black battledress resting upon the bed. "Balerion had his scales, and even he felt the pain of the enemy rockets and scorpions. You need all the protection you can - as does the baby."

Looking once more at the bruise, Dany allowed and helped Missandei to dress her. "Is there any chance to avoid the battle?"

"I sent my mother to parlay with Tywin, but I doubt it." Sansa's tone was cold - she had as personal a slight with Joffrey as anyone else, moreso even. "Ser Bronn supposedly has an inside source. That source is adamant that Tywin is going to attack and take Highgarden back by any means necessary. He is concerned with food riots in the capitol."

"Do we believe him?"

Sansa shrugged. "Bronn is a sellsword, but Lady Tyene seems to vouch for him - something about saving her when he didn't need to while in Dorne. Eh… I don't think he's lying. The source is probably some opportunist in court trying to defect."

"I think it's Jaime Lannister." Three sets of eyes turned to Margaery. "Most in Joffrey's Council are shameless toadies, only interested in pushing their own self-interest at the cost of the realm. They know of your and Jon's desire to break the wheel, and that would dry up all their efforts to enrich themselves on the backs of the smallfolk. They'll stay with Joffrey. Ser Jaime… he's the only one who's self interest, protecting his nephew from being murdered as his niece was, lines up with our cause."

Fastening the straps of her dress with help from Missandei, Dany pursed her lips. "Astute observations, and ones I hope are true. In any case, Ser Bronn is staying in the castle under lock and key… as a guest, but a guarded one."

"No sense in trusting him until his information pans out," Sansa mused. "While I have trust in Tyrion's judgement… I trust very few." All present had learned that lesson the hard way.

Several minutes later, Ser Barristan bowed to her as she entered Jon's study. He had his back turned to the door, scribbling various orders for ravens to take to the various commands. Smiling, Dany crept behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Relax, my dragonwolf, it is I." She leaned down and kissed his neck.

Pushing the chair back and rising, Jon wasted no time pulling his wife into an embrace. Dany sighed happily, resting her face in the crook of his neck. "This is nice."

"It is," Jon replied, kissing her forehead.

It seemed like years since Dany had watched Jon look weak at the Dragonpit. Confidence now exuded both of them, though the stress and strain remained. "Now all we have to do is wait."

Jon sighed. "Aye, wait." He pulled her closer, needing to have her warm body flush against him. "Is Balerion healing?"

"Yes, but not quickly enough." A sad, mournful quality filled Dany's voice. A dragon was not a slave, yet they were urging them on into greater and greater danger as the Masters had once done with the Unsullied. It hurt both of them, despite their children doing it willingly. "I will have to ride Edderon into battle when the time comes." 'While with child.' She gulped. "I will need a suit of plate armor.

Pulling back, Jon looked at her with a smirk. "Didn't you once tell me that you hated armor?"

Time to tell him. "I do, but I have something important that I cannot risk." Hesitating no longer, she took Jon's hand and guided it to her abdomen.

Furrowing his brows, it took a few moments for the Emperor to realize what she was saying - or rather, not saying. Dany saw his eyes widen in recognition, then flash in joy… only for the joy to mute slightly in brooding worry.

Wordlessly, he held her even tighter. "They will all be safe, my love," she whispered - hoping that she could believe it.

The columns of troops stretched out for dozens of miles, a single centipede of marching men, trotting horses, and groaning carts filled to the brim with supplies and munitions on the journey down the Roseroad towards the ancestral home of House Tyrell - once again in the possession of its former masters. A development Lord Tywin Lannister was determined to correct.

Listening to the arguments coming from his son, currently sparring with Trystane Martell and Randyll Tarly over the soundness of their strategy, Tywin's head felt like a smith was slamming a hammer against his skull from the inside. 'It is her, it has to be her.' The Red Witch plagued his thoughts, visions of her dancing in ever fireplace like a malevolent demon attempting to devour him whole. With the food stores captured in the desperate attempt by the Dragon Queen, it was as if her curses upon him were coming to fruition.

He would wipe her and the Targaryens off the face of the earth. He had done so before and would do so again.

"We have to look at it with open eyes!" Jaime yelled, hoping against all hope to stop the coming slaughter. "Capturing the only means to feed the masses of the capitol, and remaining there far away from their base of operations in the North? It has to be a trap…"

"That's enough!" Slamming his mailed fist on the table, Tywin glared at his son. "I'm relieving you of your command of our Bannermen. Your uncle Kevan will take your place." Before Jaime could speak up, Tywin silenced him with a raised palm. "I do not want to hear it. Be gone to the capitol at once. Even in defeat, your uncle has more initiative and confidence in his right hand than you do at all. You are dismissed."

Teeth gritted, Jaime fought not to sock his father in the face at the glaring reference to his lost hand - a hand lost by men who had turned out to be under the command of a man pledged to his father. Without another word, he bowed and left the tent.

Harry Strickland kept silent as Tywin began further discussions on the disposition of his army, the conversation soon being taken over by him, Randyll Tarly, and Gilwood Hunter while the others watched in various states of interest - and disinterest. It just seemed too… perfect. The Dragon Queen convincing her weakling of a husband to go on some wild flanking attempt leaving the northern lands defenseless, and just happening to capture the breadbasket of the Realm? No, anyone with the battlefield prowess of Jon Snow, which put Aegon the Conqueror to shame, couldn't make this only a coincidence.

Locking eyes with Alesander Staedmon, the Lord Commander of the Stormlands forces, Strickland saw the same worry. Neither of their commands were fully committed. Despite the Iron Bank's money in their pockets, being the descendants of Targaryen bastards made the Golden Company less enthusiastic to take on Rhaegar's son and sister in combat. Pledged to House Baratheon, the Stormlanders felt less kinship to their golden Lord Tommen when a pretender - a bastard son said to be the splitting image of a young Robert or Stannis - existed that had earned the loyalty of their brothers fighting for the Dragon Queen.

Glancing at Trystane Martell, the young Lord - having sworn fealty to Joffrey in perpetuity, ending his Principality - was one of those listening to Tywin's every word. 'Fool,' Strickland thought. Hearing from his men, the Dornish thought Trystane a puppet of the hated Lannisters. Morale among the Sunspear levies was the lowest in the entire army, yet he didn't seem to care. Seventh hell, morale was low in general.

If he were Tywin, Strickland figured, he better hope for a decisive victory. 'Anything less could see the entire shitshow unravel.'

"There is no going back, is there?"

"No," Bronn replied curtly, dispelling any hope for his friend the Imp to not face his father. "Tywin is bullheaded. He'll be so scared of losing the food stores at the Reach that he'll throw everything in a single, decisive battle to end all battles." The entire war council was crowded in the massive map room of Highgarden. Sansa had seen plenty during this war, and this was by far the most ornate - high arches, stained glass windows, whitewashed walls inlaid with gold. Beautiful, but she vastly preferred the spartan accommodations of Winterfell though.

"He said as much to me during our parlay," Sansa heard her mother say. "In any case, battle it is."

Nods went around the table. "We have the advantage of choosing the battleground, even if we are outnumbered," Daenerys stated.

"Are we sure further reinforcement isn't forthcoming?" asked a worried Yezzan zo Qaggaz, personally leading the united forces of New Valyria. "I mean, the peasants of Dorne rallied to our cause as we marched from Oldtown…"

A very loud clearing of the throat silenced him. Leaning on the table with splayed hands, Tyene Martell scoffed. "We were lucky to get those men. Dore is tapped out, I'm afraid. Many would fight Tywin but do not want to fight other Dornishmen, even puppets."

"The Lady is right," Daenerys said. "Unless we can get defections from Joffrey's army, then we are at the largest we can be."

"Even if the reinforcements from Essos do not equalize the numbers, our line of defense at Highgarden will prevent Tywin from enveloping us," Caryn added. "We just have too many men for him to try that. I feel he'll try to punch through."

Robb pointed to a position about two miles north of the castle. "This is the most important part of the battlefield. The Heights of Luthor. Good, bad, or indifferent, the heights will determine who wins and who loses." He, Caryn, and Jon had detailed their plan for using the heights, and it made many uncomfortable - Sansa included. The Empress was fully in support, and that quelled dissent. Everyone knew their orders.

"Well," the Emperor cut through all thoughts and chatter. "It is time for rest. Study this ground carefully, my Lords. It is going to be a battlefield. In the epics and histories of the future, it will be written that you all will have had a part to play upon it." Taking the Empress' hand in his, the other waved the meeting to a close.

Stepping along the rather expansive corridor, Sansa heard footsteps behind her and immediately tensed up. "My Lady!"

The tension dissipated… for the most part. 'Podrick.' A smile danced at Sansa's lips. "Ser Payne," she said, turning to see him. While he had returned to Westeros many weeks before, the harried days had left this moment as the first time she could converse with him since that night outside her quarters long before. At his bow, she curtseyed respectfully. "I have yet to commend you for your bravery overseas."

Podrick smiled bashfully, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. "Than… thank you my Lady," he said slowly, trying to remain composed. "It was a difficult ordeal, but faith in our cause and your correspondence kept me in high spirits." It was true, more than most knew.

"I… I am glad." Sansa felt a blush creeping to her cheeks in spite of herself.

Peeking around the corners, Podrick placed his hand on Sansa's shoulder and guided her to an alcove. Away from prying eyes and ears. "Lady Sansa, forgive me for being so blunt, but…" He took in a deep breath. Jon had given him his blessing, and he had been steeling his spine ever since. "I presume you can infer what my intentions are. Intentions towards you, specifically."

"Yes. I believe I can." While… his intentions hadn't been completely disguised in their letters, Sansa hadn't expected him to broach it this quickly. The awkward boy that had rode with Brienne was gone, replaced with a hardened man of war. 'A handsome man of war…'

"The Emperor informed me that your previous experiences with this sort of thing have been rather… distasteful." He paused as Sansa shut her eyes. "But I am not one of these swine. It may be soon, and I am not asking for immediacy…"

"...Please, Podrick…" Sansa wanted him to say it. She also didn't. She also wished he would just go away, while much of her so desired to take him in the passionate embrace of lovers.

"Hear me out. I wish to ask for permission to court you, for hope of a betrothal after this war is over." He looked at her with a soft expression. One of hope and love. "I can go slowly if you would want, but I want to make this work, my Lady."

"I'm not sure if I can," Sansa murmured, biting her lip - hating that she felt this vulnerable, this conflicted between what she wanted and what she felt she could tolerate.

Concealing the swirl of emotions at her likely rejection, Podrick withdrew into his shy nobility. He bowed shallowly. "Whatever you shall decide, my Lady. I shall pressure you not." As much as he wanted her, desired her greatly, he would never seek to cause her pain. He cared for her, not just because the Emperor would disembowel him if he hurt his sister in any way.

'Seven Hells.' Sansa hated feeling like a weak woman. She was the Hand in the North. She was one of the most powerful women in Westeros. The ghost of a footnote in the historical record did not get to ruin her. "Fuck it," she breathed, grabbing the straps of Podrick's Cuirass. Before he even registered it, her lips were on his.

Her forceful passion in the face of her earlier reluctance surprised Podrick. The young knight rapidly recovered, however, hands slinking around her waist as he kissed her back. Chaste, the kiss nevertheless felt wonderful - the northerner's lips soft and warm against his. While gentle, Podrick took control and tugged her flush against him.

Sansa moaned despite herself. This was not the awkward boy that had taken her to Castle Black after her escape from Winterfell. Fighting in Essos had hardened him, toned the muscles she was now feeling through their clothes so pleasurably. Not the dashing prince she had fantasized about in her youth, but a powerful warrior nonetheless. Pushing herself, Sansa pushed on his lips with her tongue to deepen the kiss.

It was so easy to be lost in the kiss. Sansa Stark had more passion in this one kiss than all the whores Bronn and Tyrion secured for Podrick without payment - kissed by fire, as Tormund had opined once. Tongue dancing with hers, Podrick took a chance and trailed his hand down the pleats of her dress to cup her ass…

Eyes flying open, Sansa was vaulted into a memory. A memory locked deep in the recesses of her mind, shoved there long ago. It played out vividly before her. Highgarden became Winterfell. Tyrell roses became Bolton flayed men. And the sweet, loving Podrick Payne became the cold, sadistic Ramsay Bolton. Clutching his sword and preparing to bring the flat of it down on her bare asscheeks, hands bound tight enough to cut into her skin and powerless to resist…

Her reaction was explosive. "Get off!" Slender arms drew an almost superhuman strength as she shoved Podrick away, nearly causing him to slip onto the floor. "Do not touch me."

Stunned, after a moment Podrick took in the woman before him. She had changed from the passionate goddess from before. Her eyes were wide in alarm, sheen of sweat covering her forehead. Thoughts of that monster must have been going through her head. "Sansa."

Breathing rapidly, the memory began to fade, but not completely. Sansa nevertheless saw Podrick, in a moment of clarity between Ramsay's malevolent grin. "Podrick, please… just leave me." Half for herself, half to spare him pain.

Undaunted, choosing to do away with his hesitancy, Podrick took her hand in his. "Please, Lady Sansa, I am not him…"

The slap echoed in the empty hallway with a crack. Rubbing at her hand, palm stinging and heart beating ever faster, the image of Ramsay in Sansa's mind morphed back into Podrick. Two completely different people. Complete opposites, both in their character and in her feelings towards them. Guilt filled her at the red handprint on his cheek, but it was all too overwhelming. Her past, her feelings, her place as Jon's Hand on the eve of the battle that would decide the throne.

All forced out Sansa's inevitable response. "Just… just don't. Leave me in peace." With that, she turned, leaving the stunned and heartbroken knight to stew by himself.

Rain pounded against the walls of the castle, an endless sheet of water punctuated by flashes of lighting and cracks of thunder that illuminated and shook the foundations of the jewel of the Reach. Jon walked briskly through the empty hallways, lips pursed in a brooding line. Worry clouded him. Tywin's army had long passed the former battlefield at Blackwater Rush and was marching double time along the Roseroad. Soon they'd be upon the Imperial Army, but the rain would only serve to disrupt Jon's finely crafted strategy.

'Please, end this deluge,' he thought in silent prayer. Yet… the rain did provide some comfort. Stuck in the embrace of snow and ice for so long, Jon appreciated the comparative warmth of the falling liquid. But it was small comfort as he headed towards the guest quarters.

Upon capture of Highgarden, Margaery and Robb had taken the quarters reserved for the Lord, as befitting her status as the true heir to the Tyrell name. The rest of the Imperial hierarchy - including the Emperor and Empress - took the suite of guest chambers. He was itching to see Daenerys, to kiss his children goodnight, cuddle with the mother of his new child, and then seek comfort in her arms. But first, Jon had one stop to make.

It was naturally yet unsettlingly quiet in his brother's room. Catelyn and Robb had argued for leaving him in Winterfell, but it had been Daenerys that argued to bring him along with the Red Witch. She had seen his powers in action more than anyone other than Meera, and with the experience of a healthy respect for the mystical, Jon agreed. Bran had mostly kept to himself since then. Saying little and spending most of his time staring at the stars or the fireplace - exactly where he was at the present time.

"Good evening, Jon," Bran stated. Not even turning.

Jon entered, closing the door behind him. "Good evening." Did he just greensee? "How did you know it was me?"

His brother looked over his shoulder. "Your footsteps are distinctive." He kept his eyes on Jon as the Emperor walked closer to the hearth. "The battle will be joined soon. Tywin and his main commanders have fallen for your trap."

Eying his brother wearily, Jon allowed himself to truly take in what the young boy with a fondness for climbing and riding had become. Bran was cold, emotionless - often lost in a world unfamiliar to the Emperor, one that others could not reach. There was little warmth to him, hard to smile yet also hard to anger or insult. Just a quiet melancholy, pensive for the sake of pensiveness.

If people were right, then he was in possession of a knowledge deeper than any other. "Bran, what do you see?"

The Three-Eyed Raven closed his eyes. "I see all things."

As they opened, Jon could see a slight twinkle in Bran's eyes - a single spark grounding the greenseer as Brandon Stark. It heartened him. "Does that include the future?"

Shifting his hands to clasp each other, Bran enjoyed the warmth coming from the hearth. "For what reason do you ask, Jon?"

"Any advice for me, brother? About the coming battle."

Turning his head away from the fire, Bran's eyes bored into Jon's with a detached intensity. "Don't lose."

In spite of the seriousness of the topic, Jon laughed. "You're the second person who's told me that in this context." Pulling out a chair, he took a seat next to Bran. The fire warmed the unseasonable chill over the Reach that night, his fingers closer to the flames than all others. 'Winter is Coming.' "Do you see the future? Any sign of what is to come?" 'That my unborn child will be unharmed…'

The twinkle left, Bran retreating to the depths of his new soul. "It doesn't work quite like that. I don't presume to be a soothsayer."

"Anything would do at this moment." It had all been discussed and planned to death. He, Caryn, and Robb made sure all commanders knew their orders for when the battle was joined. Dany. Tyrion, Sansa, Davos, and Catelyn had all gone over with him whatever political fallout the battle would create either way. Sam was already at Oldtown among the Maesters. All the pieces were in place, but the Fog of War continued to consume him. Deny him the peace that certainty gave. Perhaps Bran could give it to him.

Taking the fireplace poker that had been propped up against his wheelchair, Bran nudged around the charred logs within the hearth. "Lady Melisandre believes that the flames show manifestations of the Lord of Light's will upon proper showing of faith." One thin sliver of wood crumbled into a pile of ash as the metal poked it. "The Warlocks of Qarth thought the future could be seen through use of alchemy. For a spiritual person to ingest shade of the evening. Leaf, on the other hand, believes that predicting the future is pointless. We can only look at the past and use it as a lesson for our future conduct." There was silence for a moment. "I think there is truth and falsity in all of it."

"Everyone I talk to assumes some sort of prophecy, be it that of the Lord of Light or that which Joffrey's propagandists drone on about. It is both freeing and painful to know I have no real hand to play in my destiny."

Bran turned, looking Jon straight in the eye. "There is an intersection between all of us, Jon, whether preordained by fate or by the actions and half-measures of people long dead. We cannot stop it, but were are not merely pawns of some greater being." Reaching over, he clasped his brother's hand. "We all have the ability to shape our destiny. Whatever god or gods or spirits out there have given us that blessing and curse." His eyes shone with the most emotion Jon had seen in Bran since before the fateful accident that had him lose use of his legs. "For better or ill, it is in your hands to take. I cannot predict it but in hindsight, but I do believe you will realize the choice before you when the time comes."

His own eyes staring at the flickering flames, Jon believed he could see a vision within it. Or perhaps it was his own imagination. Letting out a wary breath, he leaned back in the chair. "Study this land carefully," the Emperor said to no one in particular, echoing what he said before. Only on a grander scale. "It will quite soon be a battlefield, and we will all have a part to play upon it."