Game of Thrones Iron Stark

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CaveLeather

Varys still moved through the Red Keep like a ghost, even with Arianne's poison in his veins. He had no intention of staying leashed forever. He served the realm, not any one king or house. And right now the realm needed dragons.

He handed a sealed letter to one of his little birds. "Fly to Essos. Find Daenerys Targaryen. She needs to know what's coming."

The child disappeared into the crowd. Varys straightened his robes and started walking toward Arianne's chambers. Time to collect his next dose of antidote.

Myrcella was already there, laughing with Arianne over some game. The Red Viper was nowhere in sight.

"You really won't even consider my brother?" Arianne asked, squeezing Myrcella's hand. "Trystane is the heir to Dorne. He's a good match."

Myrcella shook her head, a dreamy look crossing her face. "There's someone better."

Arianne's eyes narrowed with interest. "Not the Knight of Flowers, surely. He's pretty enough, but—"

"No! Not him." Myrcella blushed and laughed when Arianne started tickling her for answers.

A maid knocked. "Princess, Lord Varys is here."

Arianne's smile cooled. "Send him in."

Littlefinger pushed open the door to his most expensive brothel room. Joffrey was already inside, half-dressed and surrounded by naked women. The prince looked up lazily.

"Lord Baelish. You're late."

Littlefinger's mouth twitched. He waved the girls out. They grabbed what clothes they could and fled.

When the door closed, Littlefinger sat. "Your Grace, the dead rising is an opportunity. If you march north and win glory against them, the throne becomes yours."

Joffrey snorted. "Me? Fight ice demons? You're joking."

Littlefinger smiled. "You don't have to swing the sword yourself. I hired two men for you. The best sellswords money can buy from the eastern companies. Mark's Company."

Two huge men stepped out of the shadows. One was bald and over seven feet tall. The other had a thick black beard and stood six-foot-three. Both looked like they could break a horse with their bare hands.

"Obadiah and Ivan," Littlefinger said. "They'll keep you alive. With them beside you, you can ride north and still come back breathing."

Joffrey studied the two giants. They looked meaner than most of the Kingsguard. He grinned. "Fine. I'll ask Father to let me go. He'll love the 'brave prince' story. And Myrcella sure as hell won't volunteer. She's just a girl."

At the Wall, the severed wight arm lay on a cold stone table in what used to be Grand Maester Pycelle's workroom. Tony and Coben stood over it.

Coben poked the gray flesh with a scalpel. "This isn't human anymore. Not really. It still wants to kill. Even without a brain. How the fuck is that possible?"

Tony crossed his arms. "Cold God's power. The Others made it. Fire kills them because the Lord of Light hates the Cold God. That's the only thing keeping it down."

Coben's eyes lit up with the same mad curiosity Tony remembered from their Citadel days. "Let me take it apart. Really study it. Maybe I can find what actually stops them for good."

Tony nodded. "It's yours. I'm taking the Stone Men north with me. They'll be a surprise the Others won't expect."

Coben laughed. "Knife-proof, stronger than Unsullied, and they follow orders. The dead are going to have a very bad day."

At Riverrun, Edmure Tully stood in the great hall while his father lay dying upstairs. Blackfish Brynden Tully listened without interrupting.

"We answer the king's call," Edmure said. "When the southern armies arrive we march north together. Someone has to lead the Riverlands men. Uncle, it has to be you."

Blackfish rose from his chair. Even with white hair he still looked hard as iron. "I'll teach these boys how to fight in real cold. For Riverrun."

In the Vale, Lysa Arryn read Littlefinger's letter twice. He wanted her to send troops north. For once the request made sense. The living against the dead wasn't politics. It was survival.

She called her lords together.

At Winterfell, Robb read his father's letter and rubbed his temples. Ten thousand men from every corner of Westeros were heading north. Feeding them, housing them, keeping them from killing each other would be a nightmare.

Still… he looked out at the snow-covered yard. "At least they'll finally see what real northerners can do. One of our men is worth ten of theirs in this cold."

He paused, thinking of Theon. Ten years since the Ironborn had seen their prince. Robb made his decision.

"It's time Theon went home. Even if it's only for a little while."