The turn of the year from 293 to 294 happened while Maerros' pleasure barge travelled up the Rhoyne toward Qohor, in which they also celebrated Arya's twentieth nameday (which was odd for Robb, who was also twenty, but a few moons older than Arya in this new timeline), as well as Jon's six-and-twentieth nameday.
The celebrations were muted, with the Starks and Jon feeling a bit unsure about Maerros' involvement in their journey – Jon Connington could be trusted to some degree, through Rhaegar's memory and loyalty toward the Targaryens, and Loras was only three-and-ten and still in the dark about Jon's parentage – but Maerros was an unknown. It meant that they were cautious and took care of what they said around the newcomer.
But it wasn't just Maerros who made them cautious; there was something in the air, in the silence, as their ship slipped up the Rhoyne, passing ruins covered in green moss and creeping vines, half- crumbled or nothing more than misshapen lumps of the building that had once stood in the lush tropical forests that lined the river.
Selhorys was the last major settlement they passed, two weeks into their journey upstream. The city was larger than King's Landing but had a charm to it that was uniquely Essosi with pretty- patterned tiles and smooth yellow or red buildings with colourful glass lanterns that hung outside the doors of the inns, brothels, and merchant houses. Maerros had wanted to linger there longer, showing off the Volantene city to his new friends, but Jon and Bran (backed up by Connington) had insisted on moving on after only a night and a resupply.
After they passed the neck of the Selhoru, there would be no other places to stop until their arrival in Qohor – a rather dangerous river journey, regardless. South of the Sorrows, Maerros' ship had the benefit of sharing the waters with Tiger-patrolled ships, many attached to merchant ships from Qohor to sell their lumber; few Volantene ships made the journey northward, much more interested in passing their wares off to Qohoran merchants instead to sell on their behalf. It made many take a second and third look at The Black Diamond.
It was while they were passing through the Sorrows, all the Starks plus Connington, Loras, and Jon taking point around the deck with Maerros and his deckhands, keeping sharp eyes out for any stone men, when Maerros asked, his voice carrying, "Why Qohor?"
Robb gave him a sharp glance for breaking the silence, and Maerros continued, false joviality in his voice: "It is not much of a tourist destination, my friends!"
Jon answered him, instead, despite facing in the opposite direction with eyes on the lush, high banks of trees and ruins on either side of the narrow pass their ship navigated through. "We're not going to be tourists, Maegyr. We're going to the City of Sorcerers."
"I..." Maerros stared at Jon, although he couldn't see it. In High Valyrian, he continued, with a stuttered (though only Arya and Connington seemed to know what he said), "I-I beg your pardon?"
Jon turned. "The City of Sorcerers. They might know something about the Long Night."
"The... Long Night?" echoed Maerros, dumbfounded.
Robb grimaced and muttered, loud enough for the Volantene man to hear, "Don't ask."
But Maerros stared at Jon. "You do realize that Qohor is a city of dark arts, Snow? That they practice blood magic? And necromancy?"
He looked ill, eyes flitting between one Stark to the next, noting that unlike Jon's fervent expression, the rest seemed rather resigned. Shrilly, Maerros said, "You remember that you are all products of necromancy—"
"We are not," argued Bran hotly, turning toward Maerros from his chair, near the entrance to the cabins, roped in place to keep from rolling away. "The Old Gods themselves brought us back—"
Maerros rolled his eyes. "The Gods care naught for us, boy – we are their toys and not much else."
Bran sent him a scathing look in return and proceeded to ignore everyone.
"It's imperative that we learn as much about the Long Night as possible, Maerros," explained Jon, finally glancing at him from over his shoulder. "It's the most important thing."
Maerros stared at Jon like he thought he said he could fish the stars from the sky, but kept his mouth shut, returning to his position, and turning his gaze out toward the tropical forest. There was a tense undercurrent that ran through those on deck – especially those who heard the conversation – that went beyond the unease of potential stone men or the thought of what awaited them in Qohor.
Eventually, Sansa slipped from her spot in a sail's shade to Jon's side, keeping her face forward despite the corner of her eyes focusing on Jon's profile. Finally, with her voice a low murmur, she asked, "Why Qohor, Jon? We're three years away from when Lord Arryn died. We should be heading North, to Winterfell, to prepare, instead of chasing maybes."
Jon sent her a dark look. "Are you doubting me, too, Sansa?"
She pursed her lips, turning to look at him, too. "We all know that Rhaegar never went to Essos, Jon. There's no reason for us to remain here, either. Whatever knowledge he learned of the Long Night, of the Prince Who Was Promised, it didn't come from here."
And we could learn it all the better from others in the past back in Westeros, went unsaid by Sansa. Jon exhaled, a harsh sound. "I'm trying to learn more about the Long Night. There's information
here in Essos that we don't know about, being from Westeros." Sansa quirked her eyebrows at him, and he sighed, again.
"They had a Long Night, too, Sansa," he said quietly. "Maybe there's information here that we don't know about that will help us."
"And maybe there's isn't," stressed Sansa quietly, forcefully.
Jon startled, staring at his sister like the idea had never crossed his mind. The idea completely
baffled Jon, his mouth dropping open.
"What – San – no, there has to be—" he sputtered, eyes blinking furiously. He licked his lips nervously, face pale. His words were frantic, low. "Sansa. No – don't say that. There has to be new information in Qohor, in Pentos, anywhere we can get to in time."
"Jon—"
He leaned forward, into her space. His breath was hot. "Sansa, we failed once before! We can't fail again, don't you see? Don't you understand? What happened to us was luck, Old Gods or New, or R'hllor or the Drowned God – I don't know – but seven years is not much time to change things and prepare. Else we'll repeat our mistakes and—"
Die.
Sansa gazed levelly at Jon, watching as something unravelled in him. Slowly, she reached out and placed a calming hand on his arm, stopping him. His mouth snapped shut.
"We failed," she began carefully, "Or you failed, Jon?" There was something knowing in her eyes when she met his. "This isn't all on you."
"Aye, Sansa," said Jon quietly. "It is."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, Jon. No one is expecting you to be the Prince Who Was Promised, prophecy or not. We won't find anything in Qohor."
"We might—"
"Are we to base our entire lives on maybes now, brother?" asked Sansa, archly. "Maerros thinks it's a stupid idea—"
"Well, what does he know—"
"Bran's made his thoughts clear—"
"Bran doesn't make his thoughts clear at all, Sansa—"
"Arya certainly doesn't think this is a good idea—"
Wounded, Jon asked, "When did she say that?"
Blithely, Sansa continued: "I'm sure Griff also thinks it's silly but won't tell you because he knows it would hurt your feelings—"
"My feelings aren't hurt," he sniffed, mouth pulled downward in an indication of an oncoming sulk.
Sansa sighed. "I hope you know what you're doing, Jon. What you're leading us toward."
She then turned and left him at his spot on the deck, letting her words linger between them, for however long it would take to sink in.
The boat slid into Qohor's dock during a heavy rainstorm, blanketing everything grey and black. There were pinpricks of light – hanging lanterns – around the dock, but the light flickered weakly in the breeze, and it was only when lightning crackled across the sky that they were able to see the empty dock, made of dark, damp wood and thick, shiny black stone.
There was a mustiness to the air, a kind of humidity that was different to that found in Volantis, which was heady and swampy. Qohor was surrounded by woods, like the North and where the Starks grew up in Winterfell, making the musty scent more like rotted wood and leaves, a woodsy smell that they knew well.
But there was a tang to the air, one that made Sansa's face go blank and Rickon warily look around as they slowly stepped off the boat, down the boarding ramp, and onto the dock. He huddled near his eldest sister, stuck at her elbow and a hand hovered over his dagger belted at his waist.
"What's that smell?" asked Loras, lifting his chin the tiniest, miserable rivets of water streaming down his face and plastering his blond hair against his head. "It smells – metallic."
No one spoke, inching their way forward as they nervously peered down the dock, both Robb and Connington gripping their sword's hilts tightly.
"It's blood," said Jon grimly, stopping from where he was leading the group.
"What?" asked Loras, coming up to him, only to stop and stare.
Ahead, the dock opened to a wide avenue. Lining either side of the path were large metal spikes driven into the ground at an angle. Men – and some women and children – hung upside-down on the spikes, naked. Rainwater mixed with the blood that seeped out from their slashed necks and slit wrists, as well as their thighs and groins, pooling into the shallow basins of thick, dark liquid below each spike.
Quietly, Maerros said, "On holy days, the Black Goat demands a blood sacrifice of condemned criminals."
"Where in the Seven Hells have you taken us, Jon?" muttered Robb, eyes cutting back and forth across the avenue, peering into the rain at the misshapen and lumpy figures that meandered from one inn or pub to the next, skirting underneath overhangs as they hunched over or flipped up collars to protect themselves from the rain.
Jon himself pursed his lips tight, a hard expression on his face. "We'll find an inn for the night."
The group, all the Starks with their longer than normal faces, and Connington, Loras, and Maerros kept closer than normal as they cut their way to the nearest, brightest inn, warm light and noise spilling from its doors. It was always a challenge finding a place that could offer four to five rooms for them, but the weather and Qohor's own calendar worked their favour, even as suspicious and curious eyes followed them.
"The Black Goat is the main God here," Maerros was explaining as they converged in the largest of the rooms, even as a serving girl brought them ale and bread. "But there are followers of R'hllor here, and some others. Nothing like in Braavos, though."
"And the Sorcerers? Where could we find them?" quizzed Jon, ignoring Connington's deep scowl of displeasure.
Maerros frowned, himself. "I do not see why you need to speak to them—" "It's important."
"So you say," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "You Starks carry more secrets than a woman carries jewels, and yet I know much of your secrets—"
"Not all," interrupted Jon darkly, cutting a glare at Robb, "Unless someone spoke out of turn."
"I haven't," replied Robb evenly, although he did shrug. "I told Maerros my part of the story – that's all."
"So, there is more!" crowed Maerros, eyes alight in triumph. "I had thought so...!" It was Jon's turn to scowl.
Both Sansa and Arya held a glimmer of amusement at Jon's discomfort, which improved the mood of the room. "Come," said Sansa, tugging on Arya, "Let's leave Jon to sulk. Hopefully, his mood will improve by the morning."
It started a chorus round of goodnights, as everyone slipped away in groups of two, except for Bran who remained with Jon and Connington in the largest room. Bran wheeled himself to his bed and lifted himself onto it, bringing his legs afterward.
"You think I'm doing the right thing, don't you, Bran?" asked Jon as they all settled in their beds. The room was already dark, with only a flicker of the candle by Connington's bedside.
Bran turned to face the ceiling. "I don't know, Jon." "What do you mean?"
"I can't see anything here," he explained, tiredly. "There's no weirwood for me to connect to – not like I've been doing so elsewhere and leaving saplings behind. The past is murky and..."
"And?" asked Connington, a curious tilt to his voice, despite the gruffness.
"And things feel strange," murmured Bran, closing his eyes. "Magic here is different. I am not sure if I like it all that much."
Jon was silent for a moment or two, and then muttered, "You'll still go with me tomorrow to the Sorcerer's Temple, though?"
"Aye, Jon," sighed Bran, wearily. "Although I don't think you'll find what you're looking for here."
Jon did not reply, and the three fell into an uneasy sleep.
Even in the light of the next morning, free of rain and low-hanging grey clouds, Qohor was a dark place. This was mostly due to the dark timber that made their longhouses, or the black stone used for their grander buildings, including the Sorcerer's Temple, located all the way across the city, closer to the outskirts and the mouth of the Forest of Qohor, closer to the Vaes Dothraki.
The city itself was large but easy to navigate with everything was laid out in blocks, and the Qhoyne splitting the city in two – a northern side and southern side to the city. The entire city itself was enclosed by thick stone walls, mingled with timber watchtowers, and elevated bridges. The bridges linked up with sawmills and lumber mills, all built along the banks of the river, so it was easier for the cut timber to be floated downstream.
Despite the constant rasp of saws biting into wood, there was a muffled blanket that covered the city, creating an eerie stillness even in the morning as bakeries opened, butchers prepared their cuts, and – outnumbering all other industries other than lumber – the ringing of steel from talented blacksmiths, metalsmiths, and jewellers began their work.
Jon, Bran, Connington, and Sansa cut their way across town, a mist swirling around their ankles and the damp morning dew sticking to their skin and clothing, wetting down their furs and cloaks; beads of water clung to Jon's curls and Sansa's eyelashes. They could see their breath, despite the pale sunlight punching through the cloud cover; Maerros had warned them that by midday when the sun was fully out, the temperature would greatly increase from the chilly morning.
The Sorcerer's Temple rose above the low timber buildings near the Forest of Qohor, a walled entity that kept itself separate from the rest of Qohor. There were no guards as they approached, Bran's wheelchair creaking as they passed through the open gate of thick black stone.
The second they passed through, the noise of Qohor faded into a terse hush. Everything was muted. Sansa shivered, reminded of when she was younger and felt uncomfortable in the Godswood in Winterfell. She felt thousands of eyes on her and the others as they continued forward, following a stone path that meandered in a loose zigzag around monstrous stone carvings with grotesque faces and through long arbours grown thick with thorny vines.
They eventually emerged from a final arbour to the main entrance, a tall door made of the same black stone with etchings and designs incorporated into it. Sansa pursed her lips as her eyes roved over the images: animals of all kinds being brutally dissected; men, women, and children in various states of dismemberment; and at the top, bisected, the forward-face visage of the black goat, horns extending long and out, sweeping down to create the door handles.
It creaked open by unseen hands.
"Well, that isn't frightening at all," muttered Connington, eyeing the darkness within.
Jon swallowed thickly and then strode forward. Connington cursed and stepped after him, leaving Sansa to sigh and help wheel Bran across the grass and bump the wheelchair over the lip of the doorframe.
Jon and Connington had stopped just on the inside of the door, with the weak sunlight filtering in behind Sansa and Bran. The entrance hall – from what they could see – was a tiny, square space. It was dark though – the kind of inky darkness that came from being out in the pitch dark and because of that, none of them could see or sense the edges of the walls. It felt like the entire entrance was an endless abyss that stretched out in all directions – especially when the door slammed shut behind them, enveloping in that solid blackness.
Then, there was a hiss and the sound of a flint striking; a single blue flame burst into existence before them, illuminating the figure who held the glowing ball of flames.
The man's face was long, an equally long, jagged scar bisecting one milky eye, the other a vibrant, glowing yellow. He had a septum piercing – a half-ring between his nostrils – and hair brushed high and back off his forehead, revealing a widow's peak. He was clean-shaven and his clothes – a long overcoat that swept the floor in a heavy brocade – were mostly unadorned. The buttons on the overcoat, Jon noted was a wary gaze, were made of bone.
"Greetings," he said in a wispy, paper-thin voice in Common Tongue, "to the City of Sorcerers." Connington gave a dismissive sniff and looked around. He muttered, "Not much of a city, is it?" The man's answering smile was thin. "This is merely the entrance, my Lord."
Connington sneered.
"Our apologies, my... er..." Sansa trailed off, eyeing the man.
"I am Warlock Curwen," the man said in the same mild, whispery voice that made Bolton seem like he shouted.
Warily, Jon spoke next. "Warlock Curwen, I am here to ask the Sorcerers for information about—"
Curwen held the hand not holding the blue flame up to halt Jon. "We do not give freely. We ask for something in return."
Bran's eyes narrowed. "What do you request for information?"
Curwen's remaining eye gleamed. "Why, blood of course. The Black Goat demands it."
Jon thought he should feel grateful that he wasn't being hung upside-down and drained of his blood. Curwen had him lying on a stone slab though, and it was cold in the cavern-like room. He
shivered.
Connington and Sansa hovered by his head; Connington's frown was very pronounced, and his hand kept twitching at his side like he wanted to draw his sword. His blue eyes trailed on Curwen and his silent, robed companions as they prepped Jon.
They kept his shirt and trousers on, but he was barefoot. Cold, wet paint of some kind was used to draw shapes and lines on his face and hands. When he asked, Sansa said, "They look like Old Tongue runes, but it's not the Old Tongue."
Eventually, Curwen led the robed men to a circle around the slab with Connington, Sansa and Bran left outside of it, struggling to see over their shoulders and between their bodies as the one-eyed man led them through a series of chants and hums, their bodies swaying.
A long dagger appeared in Curwen's hand, and he approached Jon, who watched him warily. He wasn't strapped down – so if the man tried anything, he would leap up and hope the robed Sorcerers around him didn't have any concealed weapons, too – and could freely move, but he also did promise to give the man blood for information.
Curwen approached and made two careful incisions on Jon's forearms, where his sleeves had been rolled up, and the blood oozed out and drained into a recess of the stone slab, angled until it pooled in a chalice at his feet on either side. Once the two chalices were half full, one of the robed Sorcerers came and tended the wounds. They were both stitched up and slathered with a sweet- smelling poultice.
Then, the Sorcerers were gone, and Connington was at Jon's side, carefully helping him sit up. Jon pressed a hand against his head and tilted into Connington.
"I feel woozy," muttered Jon.
"You lost a lot of blood," replied Connington darkly, shooting a glare at Curwen who remained.
Sansa and Bran slowly approached, the wheels of Bran's chair creaking as they did so. Bran was the one who demanded, "You'll give us the information we want – now."
Curwen inclined his head. "You wanted to know about the Long Night, as it's called in Westeros."
"Aye," rumbled Jon, slowly sitting up properly. He still kept close to Connington, who helped him off the raised slab.
"I do believe the information that you are seeking is one you do not know the question to," began Curwen carefully. He hid his hands in his robes' sleeves and watched them carefully through his singular eye, although it often drifted back to Jon. "The Priests and Priestess of Ashaii believe in a Promised Prince – a hero or champion of their R'hllor who will fight a great darkness. They call this darkness the 'Great Other.'"
"I am aware of Azor Ahai," said Jon darkly.
"So you are." Curwen's thin lips curled up. "But there are layers you do not know."
"I do hope you're getting to your point soon," warned Sansa primly, eyes narrowing on the Sorcerer.
He inclined his head to her. "When it comes to the beings called 'the Others' in your land – they were created by the Children of the Forest."
Bran audibly gasped, shock across his face. "No—"
"Yes," Curwen bit back. "The Others were created by magic. They would take prisoners of the First Men during their war with your ancestors and experiment on them. Mutate them, change them into unimaginable beings and monsters. Most died during the experiments. Others went insane. And then, one day, they perfected their magic by answering the question: what can destroy life?"
Curwen waited patiently, like a teacher speaking to his pupils. Finally, it was Connington who said, "Death."
The answering smile on Curwen's face was mocking. "Exactly, Ser. Death. Now, back then, they were the Children's puppets, beings able to raise the dead and strike down all living things."
"Creating the wights," breathed Sansa, eyes wide.
"Of course, your ancestors fought the Children for years upon years – entire generations – before the Pact was made, correct?"
Jon, feeling sick, merely nodded.
"What many do not understand, is that magic demands payment," sighed Curwen, turning away from the Westerosi to trail around the stone slab, his fingers dipping into the dregs of Jon's blood where it clung to the rivets. "Magic is not controllable. My fellow Sorcerers might argue differently – but I know the truth. One cannot control magic. It grows, changes, takes over in ways outside our understanding and scope."
Jon frowned, thinking back to Melissandre, reading the fire, and constantly getting the wrong answer – the magic was there, but her interpretation as a human was the error. And Daenerys and her dragons – could she truly control Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal? They were animals, beasts, and had several times gone off and done things she didn't want them to. Even Ghost went off and did his own things, despite the connection Jon had with him.
"The Others eventually broke free from their masters – the Children – who then realized what they had created. They turned to your ancestors and together they fought them, drove them back into the darkness," continued Curwen, his voice silky and loud in the very silent chamber. "There, in the darkness, the Others found a new Master. They themselves are not the Great Other and never have been despite what the Ashaii would have you think, although they do serve the Great Other now."
Bran looked sick, green in the face. As the one who had spent the most time around the Children, he was under no illusions that they were perfect representatives of peace and goodness – but to hear the calculated tones from Curwen explain each step that led them to what had, thousands upon thousands of years later, been their deaths...
"How does one fight death?" asked Curwen, drawing the attention back to him and away from the bleak realizations the Starks had. "The Ashaii think it comes with Azor Ahai, the Prince Who Was Promised."
"Promised again and again," trailed off Jon.
"Exactly, Ser. Exactly. A champion against the Great Other's minions, immortal, reincarnated time after time with the ability to fight against Death and potentially defeat Him – through life itself."
The Starks stared at Curwen, but it was Connington who spat (as he certainly didn't believe in the prophecy nonsense), "What does that mean, wizard?"
Curwen shrugged. "I do not know. I have knowledge but my area of interest and study is not in the Great Other. Ask yourself, Westerosi: what is the life that is used to defeat the Great Other? It is the Promised Prince, time and time again – a man who represents life through fire to defeat death through ice."
Curwen paused.
"But, then again, perhaps that is wrong," he said liltingly, partially turning as a robed and masked figure hurried into the room from a hidden door in the darkness, bowing and eager to speak to him. "After all, the Promised Prince has never defeated the Others and their master, has he? They're still here."
Curwen turned to the aide and listened to a hushed whisper. The Starks shifted uneasily, lost in their thoughts. Jon and Sansa caught each other's eyes; Jon was pale and haggard like he had just told he was doomed to fail again – the exact worry he was trying to hide and desperately overcome by seeking answers.
"My, my," said Curwen, making them turn back to him. His eye was glinting off the torches in the room. "You've been keeping secrets."
"I beg your pardon?" asked Jon, trying to stand straight.
Curwen fixated on him. "Your blood, Lord. It was... illuminating."
Connington heard a threat and immediately reached for his sword, withdrawing it and standing protectively in front of Jon.
Curwen tsked. "Put the sword down; it will do you no good. Besides, I do not want to hurt the man."
"What do you want with Jon?" asked Bran carefully, eyes narrowing on the sorcerer.
"I wish to study the man – who appears to have died and been revived and is standing before me, not a wight or mindless beast," enthused Curwen, eye wide. He had a flush to his pale skin and a breathless quality to his voice.
"Not a chance," bit off Connington. "It's hardly up to you," sniffed Curwen.
"We're leaving," announced Jon, pushing his shoulders back. "I provided you with blood as payment for information. That was the deal."
"Deals can change." Curwen's smile was all teeth.
"No," snarled Jon.
"You'll see things differently, soon, I'm sure," promised Curwen. "What—"
With a burst of speed, the sorcerer lunged forward, his hand and fingers hitting Connington's sword arm first; the man cursed loudly as his hand spasmed and arm flopped, limp, with his sword crashing to the stone floor. Then, Curwen was behind him, his hand at Connington's neck, and the man's eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he fell to the floor, unconscious.
Sansa screamed.
Curwen was then in front of Jon, his index and middle finger extended.
"What are you—" Jon leaned back to avoid the man's fingers but was still woozy from blood loss and his reaction time was dulled.
Curwen's fingers tapped the center of Jon's forehead. To Jon, it was like someone dropping a rock in the middle of a still lake, ripples extending out and bouncing back against the walls of the chamber, and then he, too, dropped, unconscious.
"Jon!" screamed Sansa. She turned to Curwen, murder in her eyes. "What did you do?"
"Sent the man on a trip to make him more amenable to being saved later," the sorcerer replied idly, uncaring of revealing any information. He seemed secure in his ability to stop a woman and crippled man.
As it was, Bran swore. "He's done what I do! But I don't know where Jon went!"
"What you do?" echoed Curwen, looking at Bran anew. "My, you Westerosi are quite the find. Are
all of you so talented?"
His eye trailed to a dark corner, and Sansa heard the stone door grind as it opened and shut; an unspoken command had been given and now their other siblings were in danger. Sansa turned to Bran and found him already looking at her.
"Do it," she said.
Bran's returning smile was a grim, dark thing. "Gladly."
"Do what?" asked Curwen.
Bran stared at the sorcerer, and then blinked; his eyes had gone from dark to fully white. Curwen's own eye widened in delight.
"What is this? What is this?" he crowed. "Amazing! An utter delig—"
He squawked, blinked, and then went rigid. With slow, jerky steps, he walked toward Connington and knelt, picking through the man's clothes until he found his dagger. When he rose, he turned to Bran and Sansa and then, stilted, roughly slit his own throat.
At the same time, Bran blinked, and his eyes returned to their normal pupils. Both Sansa and Bran watched impassively as Curwen realized what had happened – the loss of control of his own body under Bran's direction – and choked, bringing his hands up to his neck to stem the flow even as it spilled past and down his fine robes.
Eventually, he fell to his knees and then back, his good eye as wide and vacant as the other.
Sansa waited a moment and then went to Jon, kneeling at his side. "Is there a way to bring him back?"
Bran scowled. "I'd have to go in and try to find him. But that bastard could have sent him anywhere, anywhen, Sansa. It could take hours or even days."
"Do what you must, Bran," ordered Sansa, turning from Jon to him. "I'll attempt to rouse Connington. We need to leave this place." She turned back to Jon, brushing loose curls from his
forehead. "Oh, you utter fool, Jon Snow. Why did you insist we come here? We all told you this was a bad idea."
When she looked back at Bran, his eyes were white and he was sitting boneless in his chair, indicating he had already left his body behind. With a sigh, she turned to Connington. She needed the men – they were the line of defence, and however annoyed she might be with Jon, he was family... and she wouldn't let anything happen to him or Bran.