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***
It was the eighth day since John had regained consciousness at the edge of the hole he had struggled to climb out of. How long he'd been there, Stark didn't know, but even this forced rest, strange as it might sound, had done him good. His body had recovered a little, but it was still recovering, and even the aching pain in his left hand was getting used to it, even though it occasionally seemed to him that it was not his hand that hurt, but his fingers, which he had lost. Stark could not understand how he had not collapsed to death.
Jon walked north. He didn't know why or wherefore, but he knew that his path lay not south to Winterfell, but to the lands of Eternal Winter. What was leading him there, Jon couldn't explain to himself, but it was the only thought that had kept him going since he'd climbed out of the pit. The White Walkers had come from the unknown lands of winter, where they had gathered their strength for millennia, and that was where Stark's path lay now. Perhaps only to die there. He had no clearer ideas.
Jon's first order of business was the White Tree, a wildling village, from which he intended to head for Craster's castle, if there was anything left of it. He hoped to get some food there, for otherwise the Enchanted Forest would be a long way off. Perhaps, if the gods had mercy on him, he might meet some of the local wildlife, but the hope of such luck was so slim that it was easier to forget about it. For the time being, his only sources of food were the melted snow he boiled in the bent helmet that served as a wok, and the strips of dried meat he'd had with him when the White Walkers came storming in.
Food had to be carefully spared, and so his stomach rumbled and hunger groped at his throat. But there was no stopping, so John walked on, wrapped up to his ears in his cloak and with his fur hat pulled up over his nose. The hat was old and shabby, but in the present circumstances only a fool would have been so nomadic as to disdain even such protection. John was more concerned about his mangled hand, for there was always the risk of blood poisoning, and primitive methods of treatment in the form of cauterised wounds and a few flaps of cloth were no guarantee. But there were no other options, either, so we had to make do with what we had.
He heard a low, bassy growl when he was just a short distance from the abandoned village, and it was not hard to guess who was in his way. The dusky cat, obviously hungry, had jumped down from a high branch and was now devouring John with its grey eyes. Its upper lip lifted, revealing strong, sharp teeth that could rip open Stark's throat in moments. How the cat had managed to survive in these parts, John could only guess, but he mentally praised the gods who had decided to take mercy on him and lend him a helping hand, albeit in such an unusual way.
The Long Claw slid out of its sheath with a rustling sound, its point pointed at the predator, but John was in no hurry to use it. He had a great chance to make things right, and he was foolish not to take it:
- Gaan! Lah! Haas!
The Shadowcat lunged at him, but it was too late. A purple haze enveloped the beast, and it fell to the snow, whimpering, and John breathed a sigh of relief, feeling his strength returning and the pain subsiding. As he peeled the bandage off his left hand, he saw the wounds healed with skin that was pink and not yet calloused. Yes, the fingers were beyond repair, but John was glad for that. Meanwhile, the predator was finally quiet, for the Creek had allowed Stark to drink his life away. Alas, in these harsh lands, only the first to strike could survive. If the cat had approached silently and attacked from behind, it would have been John lying in the snow, and the beast would have begun to devour his flesh.
- I'm sorry, mate,' John said aloud, 'but I don't want to be your dinner. But you'll be useful.
With the cat's carcass on his back, Stark strode towards the village, clearly realising that with such a prey he would have to stay here for some time, and though delay was fatal, in this case he had no choice. The dead cat would provide him with pelt and meat, and he could forget about proper processing, but he could still do the essentials.
It took him another couple of hours before the dark red leaves of the huge chard tree that overhung the village caught sight of the trees. It was the same as John remembered it, with an intimidating face and a mouth that looked more like a hollow with jagged edges. And in that hollow lay the bones and ashes of burned men. Even now John could feel the might of the huge tree. Dropping the carcass to the snow, Stark knelt before the monstrous face of the chartreuse.
- Thank you for your generous gift,' Jon said to his gods. - Can you tell me what to do? Where does the path you have shown me lead?
There was a rustle of leaves that sounded like a whisper, but no matter how much John listened, he couldn't make it out.
***
- Jon,' Bran breathed out, opening his eyes to see the face of the firewood in Winterfell's boghorn, whose eyes were bleeding tears of blood.
- What did you say! - Sansa was at her brother's side in a flash, gazing into his face.
- I saw Jon,' Bran answered without turning his head. - He's alive.
- Alive?! - she shouted, feeling the world spinning around her. - Where is he?!
Bran remained silent for a while, staring in front of him as if trying to see something beyond the reach of others. When the silence lengthened somewhat, and Sansa was about to remind herself, the young Stark finally spoke:
- Jon is on his way. But he's not going home.
- And where is he going, may I ask? - Brienne asked, standing beside Sansa as usual. She was accompanied by Podrick Payne, Ser Davos and, much to Sansa's surprise, Gendry Baratheon, who had come to the castle with the Imp and whom she had never heard of before. But, as it turned out, he was well known to the Onion Knight, in connection with which they and spent a lot of time together.
- Jon is going north, I don't know what's taking him there,' Bran replied. - He cries out to the gods, asking them to show him the way.
- But why is he going north? - Davos asked. - The dead come this way, south.
- I don't know,' Stark repeated.
- But he belongs here with us! - Sansa exclaimed. - He must come home!
- He has chosen a different path,' Bran replied.
Unable to utter a word, Sansa turned and headed for the exit, while the rest of us could only stare at her back. With a short sigh, Brienne followed the Lady of Winterfell, and Podrick followed, leaving Bran alone with Davos and Gendry.
- She didn't like it,' Gendry said.
- Was she supposed to like it? - Davos wondered. - I'm not thrilled with such news either, but I believe Jon Stark is going north for a reason. He has a purpose he intends to fulfil.
- But he's the King of the North,' the boy said. - Isn't his place here, ruling his people and preparing for battle? Even I know the dead have been spotted near the Last Hearth. A couple of weeks at most and they'll be approaching the Dreadfort and Winterfell itself.
- And we know there aren't as many of them as there were at the Wall,' the knight replied. - Jon Stark has managed to thin them out, which will help us hold out a lot longer than we thought. And the cargo of dragon glass that came from the Dreadfort yesterday will do us good.
- When do you and Lord Tyrion leave the North? - Bran's sudden question took Gendry by surprise.
- I-I don't know,' the newly minted Baratheon replied. - He is in no hurry to tell me his plans.
- But when does the queen expect you back? - Stark finally deigned to turn his head, and Gendry, who was much older, suddenly felt like a small child answering to an elder.
- Queen Daenerys told us to negotiate an alliance with Jon Stark,' Baratheon answered. - Now I don't know how we will get back to her or what we will say. There's an army of the dead marching across Westeros, the King of the North is her nephew, and he's somewhere far to the north. And the Northerners themselves are in no hurry to call the Mother of Dragons their queen.
- I suggest you hurry,' Bran said, turning away and closing his eyes. - Soon you will not be able to leave our lands if you wish. I suggest you inform Lord Tyrion as soon as possible.
Bran Stark's advice to Tyrion Lannister was not to his liking, but he had to accept that his diplomatic mission was effectively a failure. The Northerners, against all laws of logic, were in no hurry to conclude a treaty with a strong ally who could give them protection in exchange for loyalty. Their behaviour was foolish, shortsighted, but the Northerners were stubborn as sheep, believing that Daenerys Targaryen's army was more likely to be an addition to the Night King's army than a real help to themselves. They may have been right about something.
On top of everything else, Tyrion now needed to inform the queen that she had a nephew who had far more claim to the throne than she did. According to the Targaryens' own rules, Daenerys could only inherit the crown if all the men of the dynasty died out, and since Jon Stark was her older brother's son, he was the first candidate for the throne. Even though the news from Gendry that the King of the North had survived pleased the Lord Hand, it did not make him feel any better.
The Imp had scrutinised the records Samwell Tarly had brought with him from Staromest, read every line in the thick book, but he had to admit that they were authentic. True, there was no record of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen having a son, but there was no reason for the Northmen to lie. Moreover, it was possible to make an alliance with the Northmen through blood ties, but there was a problem - Jon Stark himself, who by some miracle was alive, had been carried further north for some reason, and there was no guarantee that he would survive his unusual journey.
- Pack your things, Gendry,' Tyrion finally decided. - We should be getting back. We may learn by the time we return that King's Landing has fallen, which would be a good thing. The fewer men we lose now, the better. Something tells me we'll need all the troops we can get.
- Intuition does not fail you, my lord,' Podrick entered without knocking, but Tyrion did not think to rebuke him. He was glad to see his former squire.
- Come in, Podrick, sit down,' the Imp pointed Payne to a chair, then handed him a glass of wine. - Here, Gendry, the man to whom I owe my life. He was one of the few who remained loyal to me in my hour of need. And all the whores of King's Harbour dreamed of being in bed with him, to experience heavenly bliss.
When Gendry heard this, he stared at the boy, who did not look like a ladies' man. Podrick blushed like a poppy when he heard Tyrion's words, which made the Imp laugh.
- It's a shame we never got to talk properly,' Lannister sighed. - And I have a feeling we won't for some time to come. But it's good to see you.
- It's good to see you too, My Lord,' Podrick replied. - But I came for a reason.
- I suspected as much,' the Imp grinned into his beard. - Speak, I'm listening.
Paine hesitated, mentally searching for the right words. He had to be careful not to say something stupid, which some might consider a mortal insult.
- I realise I am only a squire, and my opinion is of little interest to anyone,' Podrick began, but Tyrion interrupted him:
- You are mistaken, my friend. I am very much interested in your opinion.
- Thank you, my lord,' Podrick sighed deeply and continued. - The Northmen will never admit it in front of outsiders, but they need help badly. They realise that they will probably die, but they will stand to the last man and not rely on anyone else.
- I cannot help those who will not accept help, Podrick,' Tyrion said.
- Yes, you can,' Paine countered. - Convince Daenerys Targaryen to help the Northmen without asking for anything in return. If she's as fair and noble as they say she is, then let her help the North without asking the lords for loyalty oaths. That is the only way she can prove to the others that she is truly who she says she is. Perhaps then the North itself will bow to her and recognise her as its queen. Otherwise, she will be no different from your sister in the eyes of the North.
- Believe me, Podrick, if it were that simple, I would have done it already,' Lannister replied. - But the queen is stubborn, and it's hard to change her mind. I realise that if the North falls, everyone else will be worse off, but it's not easy to persuade a ruler to help those who don't think he's their king. Or in this case, a queen. I'll try to get your words to Daenerys, but I can't promise she'll agree. I'll try to push the idea of her kinship with the King of the North, but you can't predict her reaction when she finds out she's effectively forfeited her claim to the Iron Throne.
- Then tell Daenerys Targaryen that if she doesn't help us,' Podrick said the last word, which, to the Imp's great regret, finally sealed his fate with the North, 'she will be queen of a graveyard where there will be no room for the living. And it wouldn't matter whether she had a right to the throne or not. The Night King would sit on it himself, killing everyone.
Podrick stood up and left the room, leaving Tyrion and Gendry alone. The latter was afraid to open his mouth during the whole conversation, sensing the tension in the air. Tyrion himself, glass in hand, walked silently to the window, watching the falling snow. Payne's words, matured and matured, did not leave him indifferent, but feelings alone would not be enough to convince the queen of their validity.
- Learn, Gendry, how to present your thoughts properly,' the Imp said at last, turning to Baratheon. - Eloquence is sometimes more effective than swords, spears, and arrows combined. If we are to survive future events, you will have to know how to negotiate properly. I seem to be completely inept at it, when even my former squire has achieved far greater results with words than I have.
- What are we going to do? - Gendry asked.
- What Podrick asked us to do. Go back to Dragonstone and try to persuade the queen to give up one of her kingdoms and, moreover, help those who don't even think she's queen.
***
- So you've come from Tyrosh,' Daenerys concluded, eyeing the guests. - Strange. Your city is famous for its slave traders, and I'm famous for freeing slaves.
- That is why we are here,' a man with a neat green beard bowed to the queen, while his hair was dyed dark blue. He himself introduced himself as Mos Daangal. - I represent the people who hope to end the horrible traditions of our city with your help.
- That's how...' the queen said thoughtfully. - And who are these people?
- I am not at liberty to name them,' Moise shook his head. - Not yet. I can only say that they are closely connected with Braavos, who despises and hates slavery and everything connected with it.
- And when will you give us their names? - Daenerys wondered, not liking this sort of intrigue at all. It was more Lord Varys' business.
- When the time comes, which is not mine,' the guest replied, gesturing to the girl, almost a girl, who held a long casket in her outstretched arms. - But my employers are sending you this gift as a token of their sincere intentions.
Daangal opened the casket and with both hands carefully extracted a one and a half sword of steel, which on close inspection appeared to be Vallirian. The sword's guard was in the shape of grinning dragons. The Tyroshian held out the blade to the queen, dropping to one knee.
- What is this? - Targaryen asked, while the Unsullied around her grew wary.
- The Black Flame, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror,' Moys answered. - It also comes with assurances of friendship and ten thousand swords. Golden swords.
With a shudder, Daenerys gingerly took the sword of her ancestors in her hands, noting its heaviness and the fact that it was unlikely she would ever learn to use it herself. The Black Flame was forged under a man's hand, strong and sure.
- I accept the gift of your retainers,' the queen replied, and Mios bowed again. Then Daenerys finally paid closer attention to the Tyrishoi's companion. She was a short girl with slicked-back hair, an open face, and grey eyes. She looked solely at herself, and as she walked towards the throne, her movements resembled those of a dancer rather than a maid.
- Who is this girl? - The queen asked.
- A girl? - Mios asked, smiling strangely. - She's nobody.