The Red Wedding

Biting cold seeped through the thick cloth and furs, but Jon continued to inch ever forward. He slowly turned his head, making eye contact with Tormund Giantsbane. The redheaded wildling nodded, the dozen or so hunters hunkering down completely prone. A loud trumpet twenty or so feet to their front almost made Jon freeze, but the Night's Watchman turned Free Folk hunter kept his cool. One must never spook a herd of mammoth - until the right moment. Each of the lumbering beasts fed off the sparse grassland west of Hardhome, enjoying the last crop before they migrated south - at least it was what they normally did. Furs covered in straw and face painted with dried mud, Jon and the others blended into the grass.

Through the stalks of grass, he could see Mance Rayner crawling in between the tree-like limbs of the mammoth herd. The former Night's Watchman had gone fully Wildling, adapting to the position as the King north of the wall. In hunts, the Wildling clan chief always took point. As King, the role was only magnified.

It had been several months since Jon was allowed into the wildling camp as something greater than a prisoner. He had not wanted it to end up this way - for Halfhand to die while only Aemon, Sam, and Lord Commander Mormont thinking he was anything but a traitor, but it had worked. Mance had eventually deemed his sincerity genuine. 'Which it is, to an extent.' No information was forthcoming about the so-called white walkers, but the sheer size of the wildling - or Free Folk, as they preferred to call themselves - host at Hardhome stunned and terrified him. If a host that sized broke through the wall… Tormund and the other companion Jon had… come to know constantly bragged about the eventual march on the wall, but not much more than they would do it.

The warbling bird call began to pick up, Jon slowly looking upward at the crow - warging still confused the hells out of him. 'Mance is in position.' Time seemed to still, as it always did before the sword was about to fall. A fly taking off from a blade of grass, soft snow blowing in the breeze, a wisp of hair falling atop his eye. All were noticed in the mere seconds before it happened.

Each herd was led by a large bull, the lead bull. Fur usually grey with age, he had won the mantle of leadership through years of constant fighting and struggle against pretenders and the elements. Where he went, the others went. When he panicked, the herd panicked. Erupting from where he had crawled slowly and stealthily, Mance immediately went after the lead bull. It didn't take much to enrage it, guttural cries and swipes with the spear. Quick on his feet to avoid the long tusks, Mance nicked the trunk with the spearpoint, causing the mammoth to let out a pained trumpet.

"HAAAAGGGGGHHHH!" Mance raised the spear, yelling at the top of his lungs as the massive bull rose atop its hind legs. The bull's feet slammed on the ground, breaking into a gallop - joined by the entire herd, following their leader in a stampede. Quickly rolling out of the way, Mance blew on his whistle.

Leaping from his hiding spot, Jon let out a war whoop of his own, joining the other wildling hunters in their broken charge.

The chase brought the herd to a large gorge, chosen specifically to isolate the herd's stragglers. In the van, the lead bull took the bait, Jon pumping his legs through the freezing air to keep up with the more experienced wildling hunters. Spotting the flickering flames of the campfire and flaming arrow - which fit perfectly with the fiery thatch of red hair on the archer's head - Jon slowed to a trot as Ygritte released her projectile. It slammed into the old bull forming the rear, the pain distracting it and slowing it long enough for the wildling hunters to catch up.

With the rest of the herd disappearing from view, the ragged wings of the semicircle converged around the mammoth.

"Tormund! Make your throw!" The wildling hurled his spear with all his might at the beast's heart, but it merely struck a glancing blow on the shoulder. Jinking and weaving with an agility not imagined for something with such a bulk, trying to take down the mammoth by spearthrow was likely impossible in Jon's calculations. 'There has to be another way.' His mind quickly settled on a tactic by northern pikemen used at the Battle of the Trident against Targaryen heavy cavalry.

"HEEEYYYYY!" Charging directly in front of the mammoth to the bewildered shock of the other hunters, Jon thrust the spear until it smacked into flesh, drawing it back with a splatter of blood impacting on the snow. Sleek footed, he had darted back a respectable distance before the beast spotted him. A roar bellowing from its trumpet, the mammoth charged - instead of running, Jon held his ground. It was soon upon him, and he quickly jumped out of the way.

A sickening shriek left the beast's mouth as it ran right on the spear embedded in the ground, stone tip following the path of least resistance into the heart. Ambling forward several steps, it collapsed on the ground dead.

"Son of a bitch." Such was the least profane sentiment of surprise from of the hunters. Exhaustion seeping into him with a vengeance, Jon tried to rise but was unable to.

Tormund's face contorted in a grudging yet warm respect. "You're a crazy cunt, crow." Laughing, he drew Jon up from the ground and smacked his back. Soon the other hunters joined him, gushing over the "Crazy Crow" and his insane bravery.

Taking a swig from his waterskin, Jon wiped some of the straw from his furs. "So what are we gonna do about the herd? Think they'll leave the area?"

Tormund laughed. "You gotta wisen up, Crow. When we need em, the giants'll take care of it." As if controlled by the warrior's words, the two massive humanoids arrived and began ripping chunks of the mammoth, ready to take them back to Hardhome. "You'd think those big ass cunts would help us here, but no… hunting's too dirty for them." He spat in the direction of the lumbering giants. Luckily, neither noticed him.

Beginning to catch his breath, muscles sore all over, Jon looked over to lock eyes with Ygritte. She smiled at him, warm and inviting. He smiled back.

"Robb!" In an instant, what was a happy occasion to celebrate an impending marriage descended into pure hell.

A thick arm wrapped around her waist, rough with ill intentions rather than gentle with passion. Acting on instinct, Catelyn forced her elbow straight into the unnamed man's gut. A satisfactory groan was heard. Her eyes never left her numb, grieving son, kneeling alone among the bloodbath developing around him. "Wendel! Get Robb out of here!"

Suddenly, cold steel pressed against her throat. "The Lannisters send their regards." Catelyn's blood turned to ice. 'Bolton.'

Hauling Robb up, away from the still form of his murdered wife, Wendel Manderly gripped the Young Wolf in a tight arm lock while brandishing a carving knife menacingly in the other hand. "I did this," Robb murmured, mind in shock. "She's dead."

"Snap out of it, Young Wolf!" yelled the Manderly heir, hurling the knife at a charging Frey cutthroat. All the exits were cut off… except one. Snarling from a swinging sword that sliced a deep gash in his belly and a shallower one in Robb's side, he barrelled past another - barging into the latrine annex, door left open by a careless Frey. "Swim!" Punching Robb in the face, watching as the King in the North snapped out of his torpor. "Hold your nose and swim!" Wendel just managed to shove his king down the shit-smeared tunnel before an arrow pierced his heart.

Pushing Catelyn Stark into the grip of two burly Frey men, Roose Bolton shoved through milling men and stepped over puddles of blood to reach the latrine. Two men fired crossbow bolts down the hole, a futile gesture if he had ever seen one. Wrenching himself between them, Bolton stared down the offending, reeking hole. Nothing. "DAMN!" he screamed, slamming his fist against the stone wall. It would leave nasty cuts, but he didn't care less.

"You've lost, traitor." Bolton turned to see Catelyn Stark, face bruised and lip cut, but eyes shining with defiance. "As long as the Starks live, your masters will never rule the north."

Seized by an uncharacteristic anger, he stormed across the hall and gripped her by the neck. "I will rule the north, no one else." Her defiance remained. "You are lucky that Lord Baelish demanded you be taken alive. Otherwise, I would have made a real version of the Bolton sigil." That of a flayed criminal, hanging on an Andrew's cross. "Take her away."

Already, the two crossbowmen were summoned before Walder Frey. "He's dead," one declared.

"Then show me his body," rasped the aged Lord of the Twins.

The soldier gulped. "But my Lord, you can't expect someone to survive down there…"

Snarling, Frey stuck a knife deep in the offending soldier's heart. "Seven hells, are there any fools under my command that wouldn't botch the simplest job!" Bolton watched him rant and fume with a dispassionate calm. Tywin Lannister entrusted them with three tasks: to kill Robb Stark, capture Catelyn (at the insistence of Lord Baelish), and the destruction of the bulk of the Stark bannermen. Execute all three, and the threat in the north would wither without a King for the lords to rally around, leaving everything ripe for Bolton to take over - and Robb Stark just escaped.

If the Freys were too decrepit and narrowly ambitious to deal with the situation - many people were when their carefully laid plans went awry - then Bolton would deal with it himself. "The wolf is dead, at least even your men couldn't botch that."

Currently screaming at his bastard, Frey turned violently, eyes angry. "My men are…"

"The most loutish, parasite-ridden incompetents in the entire Seven Kingdoms," Bolton sneered. "But as your son-in-law, I have a duty to protect your hide as well as mine, so listen to what I have to say."

Silence reigned in the hall, the smell of blood adding its metallic aroma to the air. Black Walder spoke up. "Perhaps we should listen to…"

"Shut up." Frey narrowed his eyes. "So what do you propose we do?"

Bolton smiled. "Take one of these random corpses and slice off the head, one that someone stabbed a knife through the face. Then sew the head of the Young Wolf's beast to it and parade it through your camp. No one, and especially Tywin Lannister, will know the difference." The story would then be heralded far and wide that Robb Stark was dead, and Bolton wagered that no one would think a shit-smeared boy would be the King of the North. If he approached Winterfell, Bolton's men would put an arrow in his heart, and everyone who knew his face were either dead or elsewhere. "Meanwhile, send the best and most discreet bounty hunters to find him and kill him."

A sickly, twisted grin formed on Walder Frey's face.

Light streamed in through the skylights, casting the cavernous throne room of the Meereen pyramid in a rather uneven illumination - part light part dark. Resisting the urge to demand a chair in the ironically throneless room, Daenerys stood regal as the next visitor was brought in. While in Westeros all Lords were seated when receiving anyone, finding it as a measure of control and domination, the opposite was true in the far lands of Essos. Atop her raised platform, one had to stand to be truly superior to the subjects below.

"Please state your business," she announced, letting Missandei translate into High Valyrian. Dany could understand the language fluently, but her dealings with the slavers of Astapor proved the wisdom of having an interpreter. Unsullied guard flanked the room - there to protect her regardless of whether Jorah, Barristan, or Grey Worm were also present. Not that she really needed it. Strapped to her hip was Saracen, and Dany knew exactly how to use it.

The man before her was a mere peasant, and he reached into his cloak to pull out a charred lamb skull. "He says that he was tending his flock when a great winged beast appeared out of nowhere and devoured it all." Missandei, who essentially was always at Daenerys' side since she freed her from slavery, had concern in her eyes. Both knew what the man was talking about.

'Oh Balerion, my sweet. Not again.' Sighing, Dany clasped her hands together. "Was this beast black with red stripes?" Best to confirm.

After an exchange, the shepherd babbling fearfully in a very thick accent, Missandei's eyes widened. "No, he says that it was mostly green in color."

Careful to not show surprise, Dany was still shocked. "Tell... " she cleared her throat. "Tell him he will be paid three times what his flock is worth, and see that he gets the money in gold." Professing his thanks, an Unsullied guard escorted him out. Deflating, Dany allowed her mask to drop. "I thought for sure it would be Balerion, but Rhaegal?" Sure, the green dragon was often moody and sullen, but he and Edderon were usually well behaved compared to their black brother.

"I have heard that his handlers often find it hard for him to eat anything," Missandei added, walking down from the raised dias. "I'm not sure about dragons, but I've seen humans and mammoth grow this way when they're lonely."

'Lonely?' The dragons had their brothers, and her. When she took the twins to visit them, the dragons cared for them as much as she did. But then, dragons were very spiritual, social creatures. The old Valyrians would always bond with one dragon for life - did Rhaegal seek a rider? Dany had a feeling that Balerion was destined to be her rider, but Eddaron wasn't as moody as Rhaegal. 'I hope that my brother isn't Rhaegal's destined rider…'

Two running feet along the stone floor brought her out of her musing. "Issa!"

A wide smile spread on her face. "Sweetlings. Come here!" With a warm tone only reserved for them, Daenerys allowed the twins to run straight into her arms. A little over two, they were already precocious and natural prodigies - a fitting mix of their parents. She looked up at Jorah, who was behind them. "Where is Doreah?"

Jorah chuckled. "No idea."

Rolling her eyes with a smirk, she kissed their brows. "You shouldn't be running in the hallways alone."

"But it's fun," Rhaegar said, looking at her with his father's expression.

"We were playing dragon." Arya's grey eyes joined him. Their looks made Dany melt. The Targaryen blood was strong in them, but Jon's Stark blood was sturdy itself. Had she still been living amongst the Dothraki, there would have been some uncomfortable questions - but the horse warriors were back in the great grass sea, a contingent of ten thousand cavalry still attached to her in the city stables.

At that moment Doreah rushed in, wild eyed and panicking. "Mi'Lady, I cannot find…" Eyes settling on the two young Targaryens buried in their mother's skirts, she visibly deflated. "Oh… there they are." Giggles left the twins' throats at their handmaid's disheveled state.

While Dany found it quite amusing as well, this behavior couldn't be rewarded. "Stop it, sweetlings. You know better than to worry Doreah. Her heart could have stopped."

At least this time, they looked ashamed - normally they had a mischievousness Dany was certain came from their father, in Arya more so than Rhaegar. Such was how Jon described his sister and brothers. "Sorry, Issa." Both Valyrian and the common tongue came easy to them.

She could never stay mad at them for too long. Hugging them too her once more, Dany motioned for her personal handmaid. "Missandei, please help Doreah escort these two to their chambers." Smirking at her, the Naathi motioned for the twins to follow her - which they thankfully did.

Turning to Jorah, Dany couldn't help but huff. "Sometimes I think they have too much of their father in them."

"Knowing the Stark clan, they can be quite adventurous. Ned Stark's late sister was famous for it, Khaleesi." Dany's smile fell. 'The one my brother kidnapped.' The girl that started the entire rebellion. She decided to change the subject. "Did the Sons of the Harpy strike again?"

Jorah winced. "One of our supply convoys of beef from the grass see was ambushed, five men slaughtered, including two Dothraki riders. Your cavalry commanders want blood."

An old Valyrian saying came to Dany's mind. 'A hand for a hand leaves the whole world burned.' "Double the guards on the convoys, and randomly schedule them. Have the Second Sons patrol the outskirts of the city for any raiders."

"If my Queen commands it, then it shall be done." Two sets of eyes swiveled to see the confident, arrogant form of Daario Naharis. Since defecting to her and bringing 2,000 Second Sons with him, Dany had kept him around and in her circle of advisors - she had noticed his admiration and loyalty to her manifested themselves in other ways, furtive and appraising looks cast her way in as inconspicuous a manner as could be. Daenerys usually ignored it, but sometimes loneliness and an increasing hopelessness in ever seeing Jon again weakened her resolve.

"Good, I am glad that my authority isn't challenged among those underneath me," Dany replied, to a smirk from Daario. Jorah just scowled, no love lost between him and the sellsword - Dany reasoned it was parental overprotectiveness, though he knew she could handle herself.

Laughing, Daario sauntered up to her. "I shall see you later, my Queen." Wiggling his brows, he left. Dany rolled her eyes, but found it somewhat charming in a brutish sort of way. 'Compose yourself. You are a Queen.'

Hours later, Dany found herself on the balcony of her quarters. Even in the equatorial heat of the south, the sheer height of the pyramid brought an intense chilling breeze out from the sea. Dany tightened her light wool cloak around her. Setting her hands down on the cool stone, the vast expanse of the great city spread below her. For the first time in months Dany felt free, removed from the toil and agony of ruling. Free to be herself, to be the person that her long lost love adored.

A bellowing screech ripped her eyes from Meereen below to the tip of the pyramid above. Stretching his growing wings, now the same width as a small ship, Rhaegal's green scales were instantly recognizable. Footclaws gripping on the stone, he let out yet another screech that echoed through the wind.

Smiling, Dany met his eyes. "Rhaegal, my sweetling." Sniffing about, he crawled along the stone to the overhang - closer to her. Dany reached her hand out, palm open to rest against his scaly snout. Snorting, the green dragon's eyes shut and he nuzzled her palm, for an instant. Lids flicking back, the yellow-black eyes shocked her. Dany's bond with her son said it all.

Sadness. Loneliness. Lack of purpose.

"Sweetling…"

Bellowing a cry the loudest Daenerys had ever heard from him, Rhaegal ascended into the heavens. Gripping the stone, eyes trained on him, she watched as his green form disappeared into the clouds to the north. A gnawing pain tugged at her heart, as if this was the last time she'd ever see her son again.

"Your Grace," Missandei called out from inside. "Is everything alright?"

Trying her best to calm the raging tempest in her soul, Dany knew that no one here could truly understand her. Wouldn't truly care about her feelings and internal emptiness. Only one could, and he was halfway across the world. Perhaps she did need some mindless pleasure, if only to distract her. She knew her resolve weakened by the day. "No, I am alright."

'Oh Jon, I wish it was you here.' Sighing, she turned and headed back into her chambers.

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"

It took several seconds for her brain to comprehend it, but Arya quickly caught on. There was Robb, her brother, paraded as a corpse through the Frey camp. A direwolf head was sewn on the neck - mouth opening in a strangled scream, nothing came out. The loving and devastated sister warred with the hardened woman, each pulling her in different directions.

Leading their mounts, Gendry covered her eyes with his palm. Clegane, someone with far less sentimentality or empathy, snorted. "Well, that's it then. Have to deal with you brats for a while longer."

Arya heard nothing but the raucous cheers from the Frey men. "THREE CHEERS FOR THE YOUNG WOLF IN ALL HIS GLORY!"

Images flashing in Arya's mind, there every time she closed her eyes or nodded off to sleep. Even Gendry couldn't calm her down or banish the painful thoughts, and he had been with her since the beginning - since they fled King's Landing. Clegane couldn't care less about either of them, but his muscle and skill with a sword were why she didn't just slit his throat and force Gendry to run away. They'd need him in case of danger…

Which she was walking right into. Common sense was ignored, all Arya hearing being their jeers about gutting Robb and his wife - her sister-in-law whom she never met. Sauntering right up to them before Gendry or Clegane could stop her, the innocent expression on her face, it took several moments before they all noticed her. "What do you want?"

"Can I have some food?"

"Fuck off."

"But I'm hungry." Childlike innocence could be a great asset.

"Which didn't you understand, girl. The 'Fuck,' or the 'Off?'" Spitting at her, the Frey cutthroat - Lord Walder wasn't one who cared about having actual soldiers under his command - turned back to his meal. The last decision he ever made.

Her small knife coming out from the sheath, Arya used surprise to draw the man back by his hair. Down thrust the blade over and over again into the cutthroat's chest and neck, his screams filling the forest. Up went his companions, one managing to grab at Arya.

"Oy, Suzie!" Turning around, letting go of Arya's collar, the cutthroat's last sight was Gendry's enraged face. The hammer smashed into his side, shattering his ribs and sending one through the heart like a stake. Forgetting about their comrade under Arya's knife, the other two charged at Gendry only for Clegane to run his sword through the slob's gut. Blood gushing on the dried leaves and moss, the Hound easily batted away the other's blade with a metallic clang and beheaded him. Barely breaking a sweat, his eyes turned to where Gendry was pulling a shrieking Arya off the first man's corpse, face and chest a gaping mess from the knife blows.

"And what in seven hells was that?" The Hound's voice dripped with a bored annoyance. Arya did not respond. Not paying either of them any attention, she wiped her knife on one of the corpses and put it back in her sheath. Rolling his eyes, Clegane sheathed his sword. "I ain't gonna hit ya. Boy, do it."

Gendry smacked Arya upside the head. The girl jerked her head up at him, jaw dropped in shock. Nothing was hurt - well, perhaps her own ego. "You just slapped me!"

"Cause that was stupid! And you could have died!" Gendry didn't back down. "You're too important to me."

Arya huffed. "I'm not some sissy maiden who can't think for herself."

"Would you have done the same to me, had I done something insane?" The look on his face belied how right he was.

Unable to respond with more than a groan, Arya conceded the point. "Fine, whatever." Something came to her mind. "Hey, Hound. Why did he have to do your dirty work?"

The Hound didn't even look back, busy putting the Frey bannermen's rations on his horse. "Cause you actually like him, wee Stark. Won't be likely to stick a knife in his gut if he pisses you off."

A moment's silence passed before it was punctuated by a roaring laughter from the apprentice blacksmith. Arya glared at him, but Gendry didn't even look remotely guilty.

"Why don't you just go fuck already? Then you'd stop being a pain in my ass." Gendry laughed harder, while Arya flushed red and turned away.

Butterflies darting from flower to flower, wings fluttering through the warm air of the capitol, the gardens of the Red Keep were a beautiful and tranquil sight. One of the few of those within King's Landing, a city that fit the common trope of 'Disease-filled cesspool.' The last set of Kings from the weak and mad last Targaryens to Robert Baratheon, who allowed Petyr Baelish to spend the Realm's fortune away to dazzle the masses with plays, festivals, jousts, and cheap grain while the city stagnated into filth. It wasn't a problem for the elite, who ensconced themselves within the Red Keep, multi-story homes on hills guarded by cutthroats, or in villas dotting the rivers and coasts of the Crownlands. Meanwhile, the smallfolk had to endure the filth and disease.

Looking out at the city itself from the beauty of the garden, Tyrion Lannister couldn't help but recall how things had gotten far, far worse. The Battle of Blackwater Bay had been a year ago, and the resentment the populace felt for the Boy King had changed to unadulterated joy once the siege was lifted and the food poured in again. Joffrey was hailed as a hero, Tyrion's father - as the new Hand of the King - made sure the story spread of how Joffrey defeated Loras Tyrell in single combat, driving the Baratheon forces into the sea. The rumors that Renly died from… black magic were hushed up in the gauntlet of street celebrations.

This had died rather quickly. After weeks of hushed meetings between Tywin, Littlefinger, and the Great King - in which, in his capacity as Master of Coin, Tyrion had to submit various reports on the cost of what had to be a massive construction project - the royal directives had gone out. Taxes were increased, every treasure and all property held by the rebels that sided with Renly and Robb Stark seized. Thousands of tons of stone were ordered from every quarry in the known world, unloaded from the ships by conscripted urban poor. Initially they were promised wages and food, but it increasingly looked like slavery. Obscure laws were cited by Baelish declaring the King as 'Ruler of all, the master of the people in the Kingdom,' but the slavery comparisons stuck. Something big was being planned for the edge of the city, and barrels of wildfire were positioned in a line from the Red Keep to the building site for a massive avenue through the city.

And now all that stood in Joffrey's way were gone.

"Tell me, Lady Melisandre," Tyrion asked of his companion. "What do you make of the rumors that Robb Stark is not dead?"

Smirking slightly, the Red Woman glanced down at Tyrion. He suppressed a shiver. For a lover of beautiful women, this one turned his blood to ice. "If it is the will of the Lord of Light, then he shall live."

While Tyrion would never have authorized such a despicable move - though it wasn't shocking to know that the vile Walder Frey agreed to it - it wasn't up to him. The King may have spent more time with Littlefinger than his own Hand or mother, but they still held sway over most policy that didn't involve the special project in the capitol. 'Whatever that is.' Both Frey and Bolton insisted that Robb Stark was dead and hundreds saw his body sewn to a wolf's head, but the head had not been confirmed by those on the Small Council. It was… a confusing situation. King Joffrey was happy though, celebrating by executing several 'traitors.' "Catelyn Stark hasn't said anything, even after I brought young Sansa to her cell. Either she knew we were watching, or Robb is likely dead."

"The fucker's alive." Both turned to Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, another unlikely hero to emerge from the fray. "I saw his momma. Looked strong, like the Queen. Mommas who lose kids always cry like babies."

A chortle left Tyrion's lips. "You have a way with words, Ser Bronn. A regular poet." His illustrious companion snorted. "I do have another question for you," he said to the Red Woman. "The Lord of Light. When he was last alive, his given name was Azor Ahai, no?"

"That he was," Melisandre answered, heeled boots clicking on the stone.

"I have heard my nephew scream in his sleep on occasion." The garden was deserted, Tyrion had made sure of that beforehand, but kept his voice low regardless. Little birds flew everywhere. "His rants vary, but always involve either 'The mark,' 'Son of my predecessor,' or 'Azor Ahai.' The second one explains why he ordered all of his father's bastards murdered, but if he's afraid of Azor Ahai, why do you serve him?"

A booming thunderclap, and the shockwave that followed, nearly sent Tyrion to his knees - resting his small form against a column to keep from toppling. Gripping the stalk of an orange tree with long fingers, a ghost of a smile rested on Melisandre's face - no answer was forthcoming. In the distance, a gout of green-white flame cut across the great city. The planning and preparations were over. Construction had begun, a fitting symbol to the now unfettered absolute power that their King held over the realm.

'Seven protect us.'