The mutineers had been successful, and the bastard lay bleeding out in the courtyard of Castle Black, his last breaths slowly fading out of earshot. They believed that the troubles caused by Jon Snow were ended at last. They could not have been more wrong.

The smuggler and the red witch carried the body into a room. He seemed smaller than he had barely minutes before, as if the man he'd become had slipped out with the last of his lifeblood, leaving the, carrying what seemed like the body of a child.

The Priestess began to chant.

The bodies open their eyes.

Lord Commander Snow had barely said three words in the hours he'd been risen, only staring blankly into the wall. Hunched as he was on the edge of the bed and with the crow's cape draped loosely over his shoulders, shaking ever so slightly, Davos wasn't sure if there was anyone truly in there or if the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch was just an empty shell—if the Seven couldn't even bring back life, why would the foreign Red God be able to? He'd heard about Lord Dondarrion, once one of King Robert's staunchest followers, now merely a broken façade following countless resurrections by that Myrish priest who followed him.

But then he spoke.

'N-north.'

Surprised by the sound, both Davos and Melisandre turned to Jon, hoping that he'd be able to elaborate more, but the fire in his eyes had gone out again. He had retreated back inside his own head and gave no other indication that he'd be coming out any time soon.

This had been another possibility: insanity. Like the fool at Dragonstone that Shireen had been so fond of, maybe the trauma of the wildlings, of Ygritte, of the deaths in his family, of the "terrors" that Melisandre believed in, of the betrayal of his brothers, and of his death had caused something to finally snap in his mind. As distressing as it may seem, Davos had realised, maybe Jon just wasn't there anymore.

Jon stood. Suddenly, deliberately, he threw off the cloak and marched over to the chest at the foot of his bed. He started to dress mechanically, all the while staring at the same wall as he had been before. It was at this point that Davos began to realise that he had not been looking specifically at the wall, bit rather in the direction it faced. North

'We have to go North of the Wall. That's where they are.'

Melisandre spoke for the first time. 'The White Walkers? Are they close, Lord Snow?'

'No'. His voice had lost the tremor it'd had before, and Davos knew that he was no longer hearing the bastard of Winterfell, but the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. 'Not them. The others you brought back, my lady.'

Now dressed, he picked up Longclaw and made his way to the door, only turning back to them once his hand was on the knob. 'I think they might be the only hope we have.'

The Storm Lord

Orys opened his eyes after what seemed like moments of closing them. He was confused—he was not in his tent, slowly dying in the baking heat of a Dornish hellhole, but rather lying in snow, a sword inches away from his outstretched arms. It's a fever dream. Soon it will end, and I'll be allowed to die in peace. He continued to lie, unmoving, confused but ultimately unconcerned by the snow he seemed to be lying in. He had two hands again, and his guts weren't only being held in by yellowing bandages, so he had no reason to complain—as final moments went, he could do far worse than these, and so he was content to continue lying there until the Stranger finally arrived.

And then he heard laughter.

The Storm Knight

He had no idea how it'd happened, but he knew that it could be said with absolute certainty that Lyonel Baratheon was alive, as was evidenced by his hearty laughter at the fact he wasn't choking on a trout bone in the great hall of Storm's End, but instead collapsed in the snow, becoming more and more numb by the second. That, he knew, was how men lost fingers, and he'd be a piss-poor knight of he couldn't hold a sword, so he intended to rectify that immediately. He rose, first to one knee, then to both, and slowly drew himself up to his full height. At least he was armed, Lyonel thought, feeling his longsword Bolt on his left hip, as well as dagger that his wife had given him on their wedding day.

Mark my words, husband, she'd said during the wedding feast, their hands touching ever so slightly as she handed him his gift. Look at any woman other than I, and I'll geld you myself. Hers certainly was the fury.

Lyonel glanced up and saw the Ice Dragon locked into position during its eternal flight through the sky. He was sure he'd landed in the North, so set off southbound with the dragon at his back, turning his head every so often to see that he was still on course, telling himself jokes (and laughing at said jokes) all the while to keep his mind active; if his mind began to wander, he knew, there was every chance he'd wander into a bear pit or grumpkin's den or whatever else there was to be afraid of in the North.

The knight was halfway through a particularly crass joke about a dwarf and a honeycomb when he heard the crunching of snow behind him, followed shortly by a voice shouting at him.

'You there,' the voice cried. 'Who are you, and where are we?'

Lyonel remained facing forward and said nothing, instead beginning to slowly reach for his sword.

'Answer my question, cur!' The stranger was now irate, with his voice growing louder and his footsteps growing louder. 'In the name of King Aegon, tell me who you are!'

'Listen here, you dolt.' Lyonel spoke at last, turning round to face his newfound rival with rage etched onto his face. 'You don't give me orders, okay? So, in the name of King Aegon, piss off back to whatever hole you came out of and leave me alone.' Lyonel didn't resume walking, but rather stood his ground, seeing the man for the first time. He was tall, which was high praise coming from Lyonel, who was widely regarded as the tallest man in the Stormlands. His hair was scraggly and unkempt, and his beard was full of icicles, but Lyonel was more concerned by his eyes.

They were the eyes of his father.

All prior defiance seemed to flood out of Lyonel; his hand left the hilt of his sword, his feet began to move out of the combative stance they'd adopted, and he removed his famed glare, known across the kingdoms as the look that had made Lord Connington piss himself after a particularly tense discussion regarding the tax collections of the Stormlands. He'd never been able to stand up to his father and seeing that same determined look in the eye of this man took the fight out of him.'

'Peace, friend. I apologise for my poor manners I showed only moments ago. You see, I awoke here hours ago, having last been at a feast in Storm's En-'

'Storm's End?' The stranger had a desperate look in his eyes, as one would after seeing the coast after a long voyage at sea. 'You hail from Storm's End?'

'Hail from there?' Lyonel fought the urge to laugh, and instead choice to pity the poor bastard, who clearly had no idea who he was talking to. 'My name is Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, in service of his majesty Aegon, fourth of his name.'

'Horseshit!'

'I'm Sorry?'

'That's horseshit. You have the look, to be sure, and if you'd said that to anyone else there's a chance that they'd have fallen for it. But you made one mistake.'

Lyonel's patience was growing thin. 'And what,' he asked, 'would that be'

'I'm the Lord of Storms End. And as far as I'm aware, there's just the one Aegon.'

Both men reached for their swords in the same instant and began circling one another. Lyonel was about to attack, intending to do so before the imposter could.

'Stop!'

A voice rang out in the distance, booming from the midst of the bare trees that surrounded them. A figure emerged, running at breakneck speed despite his plate armour, a war hammer clasped in his hand, before beginning to shout again.

'In the name of the seven, you daft bastards, stop this nonsense at once. Your king commands it!'

All Lyonel could do was laugh as both he, and the stranger he'd been facing only moments ago, both pointed their weapons toward the figure who'd just arrived, his identity still obscured by the antlered helmet he wore.

'Now,' the stranger began. 'Just who the fuck do you think you are?'

The Storm King

As far as he was aware, Ned had just left the room, and Pycelle had given him more milk of the poppy so he could finally just get on with it and die. Everything hurt, his mind felt hazy, and he even felt a small twinge of guilt about the fact that his kingdoms would be left in the hands of that son of his. He'd never been a good father—he had no doubt about that—but he still believed that no amount of fathering could've helped that boy. Still, Tommen and Myrcella were decent enough, and he felt sad that he'd not get to see them grow older.

With that in mind, Robert Baratheon died.

But then he blinked, and everything had changed. No longer in the spacious rooms of King's Landing, where the everyday bustling of city life could be heard even in the finest rooms of the Red Keep, but rather in the gloomy silence of a snowy forest. Gods, it was cold.

This must be my punishment—I was a shit husband, a shit father, a shit king. I condoned the deaths of innocents and was going to murder another and couldn't even save my betrothed.

He wasn't fat anymore, Robert realised as he started to walk south. The years of running a kingdom into the ground had taken their toll, with all the feasts and all the restrictions on what a king could do gradually turning his body into a little more than bulbous lump. But that was all gone. He was the god he'd been as a youth, the true physical specimen that had had the energy to sow his seeds all over the seven kingdoms. His beard was gone, as was the slight bend to the to his right ring-finger, a parting gift from Rhaegar. His still had the scar from his vengeance of Denys Arryn at the Battle of the Bells, however, leading him to deduce that this body was from some point in the rebellion. A deduction he found surprisingly easy, since he wasn't drunk for the first time since the Greyjoy rebellion. If only Cersei could see him now—the Demon of the Trident, rather than the whoremonger she went to bed with every night. Sure, he admitted to himself, he could've been a better husband, but it wasn't his fault that he was still in love with Lyanna. Still, at least they'd soon be reunited.

That was when it hit him. If he was in the seven hells—and he sincerely doubted that he'd have made it to the heavens—that meant he'd never see his Lyanna again. She'd be off with her family, with Brandon and Rickard, and-

What had Ned's mother been called? Arya? Barbrey?

Lyarra. That was it. It didn't matter either way—she was there, and he was here, condemned to suffer the colds that he'd laughed at Ned for staying in all those years. Here with all the reprobates and murders and rapi-

If this was where all the scum of the seven kingdoms had ended up, Robert realised, then he had an inkling that he might soon be in the presence of a certain silver-haired rapist.

In my dreams, I kill him every night, he'd once told Ned. A thousand deaths would be less than he deserves. And now, a thousand deaths were within the realms of possibility. Robert wasn't sure exactly how death worked since they were already dead, but he didn't much care. All he knew was that Rhaegar would soon regret ever having touched his Lya.

'Horseshit!'

Robert realised he wasn't alone and heard the unmistakeable sound of steel being drawn. He may have had no desire to make any new friends, but he also knew the advantages of alliances—especially in places as dangerous as this—and knew that if any of the party he was currently running toward became killed someone the chances of alliance were close to none.

'In the name of the seven, you daft bastards, stop this nonsense at once. Your king commands it!' he shouted as he plughed his way through the snow, despitehis full suit of plate armour. In hindsight, the immediate insult of large, armed men wasn't the brightest idea, but Robert Baratheon had never been known for having particularly bright ideas. Anyhow, even if this young body of his was not yet king, there was always the chance neither of those people would know that, and he'd be able to impose his authority much more easily.

The men aimed their swords at him.

No such luck.

'Now,' the taller one began. 'Just who the fuck do you think you are?'

Robert swallowed. The man seemed familiar, somehow, and not in any kin of way that suggested Robert could easily defeat him.

'My name is Robert,' he started hesitantly. 'Of house Baratheon, king of-'

'Enough!' The other stranger shouted at Robert with a voice that strangely echoed Stannis'. 'I've had enough of you fake fucking Baratheons! I'm the only one! Now tell me, both of you, just who you think you are!'

'Orys!'

The man who had been screaming at Robert a moment before practically span at the sound of the voice that had just entered the clearing.

'Aegon?'