What if Joffrey Died at The Battle of Blackwater

What if Joffrey died at the Blackwater? Let's explore the depths of it in the video. Green flame rolls across the Blackwater. A tide of wildfire splitting Stannis's fleet apart. Whole galleys erupt into pillars of flame. Their sails igniting in an instant. Their masts collapsing into glowing ash. Screams rise from the water as men flail, thrash, and sink beneath the burning surface of their full plate. The stench of pitch, salt, and roasting flesh clogs the air so thick that even the wind of the sea can't carry it away. King's Landing trembles with the chaos. Bells told in the city behind the walls, a mournful, frantic chorus. Drums beat from the enemy lines, steady as a heartbeat. Every sound mingles into a terrible cacophony that rattles the stone of the mudgate beneath Tyrion Lannister's booths. He only knows one thing. He must hold this gate or the city will fall and everyone he knows will be butchered. He stands upon the battlements, small against the towering walls, yet loud enough to be heard. His voice cuts through the noise as he commands men twice his size. His plan may have worked, and yet Stannis's forces have yet to lose heart, even with half of their fleet writhing in green fire. >> Archers, knock, draw, loose again. God damn you. Again. A volley of arrows and bolts from his forces answer him, darkening the sky as they fall upon the muddy shores of the black water. Fletching glints in the green fire light before vanishing into screaming men below. Men tumble back into the waves, some drowning, some burning. Still, Stannis's soldiers surge forward. They leap from the wreckage of the burning ships, shields and swords high and voices raised for rallying cry. Siege ladders slam against the walls of the mudgates with a hollowing clang. The clash of steel rises above the den as Lannister defenders meet them with spears, swords, dropped stones, and boiling pitch. >> They're climbing the walls, shields. Push them back. >> Tyrion's throat burns from shouting. His eyes watering from the smoke, but he does not allow himself to stop. He cannot stop. His father is not here yet. The city's defenses rests entirely on him right now. And Joffrey, the boy king, stands upon the wall in gleaming golden crimson. The flame's reflection dancing in his polished breastplate, his crown of branching golden antlers glittering upon his brow. But the sneer on his face is somehow even brighter in the fire light. >> See how they burn. Look. Stannis's curs howl like dogs. Let them come. Let them taste my steel. >> He waves his sword about in the air, though it trembles ever so slightly in his tight grip. He shouts down commands to men with the loud bravado of a conqueror. >> Fight for your king. Fight well and I shall remember each of you. >> The soldiers roar in reply, though whether from loyalty to the king or of the desperation of the situation, Tyrion cannot tell. He grits his teeth, sweat streaking the soot covering his face, and he reaches out towards Joffrey. Your grace, your safety lies within the Red Keep. The men will fight harder knowing you live. Get down from those battlements. >> Silence, imp. You would have me cower like some woman. I am their king. They must see me. Very well, but get down from there at least. Your grace, it is not safe. The words slip out sharper than he intends due to the distress of the situation, but Joffrey's answering scowl leaves no room for regret. The king's green eyes glitter with venom, his mouth curling to form a retort. Then the sound, a faint whistle, almost delicate and cutting through the cacophony of battle. The first bolt grazes harmlessly off the stone beside Joffrey's shoulder, bouncing to the floor after snapping. He turns to sneer. The second crossbow bolt finds flesh. It sinks into his throat with a wet, dreadful thunk. Blood sprays across his golden gorgot, dark and hot as it wells up beneath Joffrey's fingers as he reaches up to his throat. The boy king staggers, his sword clattering against the battlements, his mouth opening and closing like a beached fish. >> Your grace down. >> But it's too late. Joffrey collapses onto his back, clutching at the feathered shaft that now juts obscenely from his neck. Blood bubbles past his lips. His eyes are wide, terrified and now absent of all rage or will. Only the fear of a child whom Tyrion suddenly remembers with brutal clarity is so young. Tyrion moves before the thought can slow him. He throws himself to the boy king's side, hopelessly pressing his hands to the wound. The blood is hot, sticky, pouring too fast to stem. The wound is too large, the bolt too deep. His palms slip uselessly in the blood. No, no, no. Gods, no. Stay with me. Stay. Press here. Damn you. Press. >> Tyrion shouts at a soldier and the others hover over the dying king, useless in their panic. One kneels, hands trembling as he tries to help Tyrion. >> My dad. >> The word is pitiful, broken, almost sad, even coming from a boy as cruel as Joffrey. His death can't help but feel like some tragedy. His lips are flecked with bloody foam. Maester, fetch a maester now. No one moves quickly enough. The battle rages on around them. The screaming of men and roaring of the flames almost mocking the stillness of this moment. The boy convulses once, twice. His fingers clutch desperately at Tyrion's sleeve. Then fall limp. His crown tilts from his brow and clatters onto the stone. His eyes glaze, staring not at the victory he boasted of winning, but into a darkness he will never be able to name. Silence, sudden and heavy, falls around Tyrion. He lowers the boy gently onto the stone, his own chest heaving. The wildfire flecks in the blood now pooling around Joffrey's head and almost paints the corpse a sickly green. Tyrion's hands are soaked in sticky scarlet. He's dead. For a heartbeat, even the raging battle seems to become muted. Then the world surges back into brutality fast for Tyrion. The roars of men, the crash of ladders against stone, the clash of steel against itself. Suddenly, trumpets blare from the west. A thunder of hooves echo across the bay. Banners crest the rise just beyond the city. The golden line of Lannister upon red silk. Tywin Lannister's host charges down upon Stannis's men. And from the south, the golden Tyrell rose blooms upon a green field. Victory is won not by fire, but by steel. A cheer erupts from the defenders. Bells peel in a wild relief. The city is saved. A soldier, face stre with ash, kneels beside Tyrion. Lord Tywin has returned. The enemy flees. The city is saved, my lord. >> Tyrion does not answer at once. His gaze lingers on the boy sprawled lifelessly in front of him, his nephew. And as the victory cries rise around him, Tyrion can only laugh bitterly, confusedly. The throne room of the Red Keep is cloaked in heavy silence. Drapes of black and crimson fall over the stained glass windows, preventing most light from entering the room. Cersei Lannister sits upon the Iron Throne, a plush cushion in her lap. Placed upon it is Joffrey Baratheon's golden crown. Cersei holds it tightly, her body trembling, her face stre with tears. >> He was mine, my firstborn, my lion, and you you let him die." >> Her grief turns to anger, whipping her gaze toward Tyrion, who stands at the front of the throne. His clothing is still stained with soot and blood from the Blackwater. He looks smaller than ever in the cavernous hall, though his green eyes are still sharp and defiant. >> I was at his side when the bolt struck him, sister. I tried to save him. The gods know I tried. >> Do not speak of the gods to me. You wanted him gone. You. >> She stands from the throne, hand bleeding from where she cut herself from gripping it too tightly. She descends towards Tyrion, her fingers curling like claws as she points at him with accusation. You plotted this, didn't you, imp? You've hated him since the day he mocked you. And now my boy lies cold while you still draw breath. >> Tyrion's face hardens. If I wanted your son dead sister, I would have not stood with him on the battlements while fire and arrows rain down from the sky. I would have done it with a dagger in his back. Cersei's hand lashes out with a sharp crack across Tyrion's face. The sound echoes through the chamber of the throne room. Before Tyrion can respond, the great doors to the throne room open. Sir Kevin Lannister enters, grave and stiff. Behind him are heralds. Stannis has fled. Dragonstoneone shelters the pretender once more. The city stands victorious. Cersei gives a bitter laugh that curdles into a half- choked sob. >> Victorious? Yes. Tell that to my son. >> The bells of the great sept toll heavy. their echo rolling over the city in a loud durge. The air inside the sept is thick with incense, and sunlight streams through the mosaic glass in fractured scatterings of red, blue, and gold. King Joffrey lies cold now in his crypt below. And the city whispers still, some mourning what could have been, others relieved. Now all eyes turn to the boy who must next wear the crown. Tommen kneels before the altar, his little hands trembling as the high septum anoints his brows with seven sacred oils. The crown of golden antlers gleans in the hands of a solemn septum beside him. By the grace of the seven, by the wills of the gods and men alike. I anoint you, Tommen of House Baratheon, first of his name. May wisdom guide your hearts and peace temper your mind. >> The crown is lowered onto Tommen's head. His face, round and innocent, looks too soft for such a weight. He swallows hard, his eyes darting to his mother, Cersei, who watches from the front pew. Her face is pale, her mouth drawn tight. The Tyrells are a rage and respplendant silks across the pews. Marjorie radiant as the spring. Oena sharpeyed beside her. Loris grim and still sulking at the loss of Renley. Mace Tyrell beams as though it is his own son, not Tommen, who is being crowned. From the aisles and the balconies, murmurss stir louder than expected. Men in plain brown robes, barefoot and gaunt with the seven-pointed star carved into their foreheads, bow their heads low and chant in rough unison, "Peace, peace, peace." >> Their voices echo outside the sept, ragged yet insistent. The faithful, their first murmurss of the sparrow movement, have forced their way into this holy place. At first, it seems like a prayer, but the sound continues to swell defiantly. >> No more war. No more blood. The seven demand peace. >> The gold cloaks shift uneasily along the walls, unsure if they should act yet. Cersei's lips curl, fury simmering. Tywin studies the disruption with cold calculation, but makes no move to silence them. The high septum hesitates mid blessing, sweat beating from his forehead. Tommen looks terrified, glancing from the southing robed men to his mother. >> This mockery must be stopped. Silence them or I will. >> Do nothing. Let them speak their little chance. The city bleeds for peace as much as for bread. Better we listen to it now and quell it later when we can claim innocence in the matter. The chanting does not cease. It grows until the marble walls of the sept shake with it. A boy king is crowned beneath the echo of a mob's demand. At least the high septum's trembling voice rises above the sparrow's own. >> Long live King Tommen, protector of the realm. >> The lords reply in kind, though the cry feels strained, broken in two by the continued chanting for peace from the sparrows. Tommen rises, his knees stiff, his crown glinting in the colored light of the sept. For a heartbeat, he looks almost like a king. For many heartbeats more, he is only a frightened child. The feast hall of the Red Keep glitters with light and gold. Tapestries of dancing lions and stags are joined by new banners of roses. The Tyrell sigils stitched proudly in gold on green. Musicians pluck softly at their harps as Tommen, still stiff from his coronation, sits beside Marjorie Tyrell. Among them, in the halls of all lords and ladies of House Lannister and Tyrell are joined in festivity to celebrate the betroal of the two young nobles. Marjgery leans toward Tommen with practiced grace, whispering to him politely, >> "Your grace looks well in his crown. Is it heavy?" >> Tommen blushes, his fingers worrying at the rim of his goblet. >> "A little, my lady, but I am king now, and so I must bear it proudly," mother says. >> The lords chuckle warmly at the exchange. Cersei's mouth pressed thin as she watches the girl stroke her son's hand. Lord Mace raises his cup high. >> To the joining of Stag and Rose. To the dawn of a new peace. The word peace sends ripples across the hall, drawing nods from knights and murmurss from minor lords wary of the war. Cersei forces a smile, though her fingers clench around her wine cup until her knuckles turn pale. Later in the council chambers, Tywin presides, silent as stone, his new hands chain heavy across his chest. The privilege had been stripped away from Tyrion, and the position now fell onto Tywin. Beside him, Mace Tyrell beams as though he already wears the chain himself. My lord Hand, the time has come to end this bloodletting. With Tommen now king, Stark has no more cause to avenge his father. Let us offer terms. Let us make peace. Bread is short in the city and the faith continues. That's clamoring louder each day. The whispers agree, my lord. The streets swell with sparrows, pilgrims, beggars, zealots. They call for peace, yes, and for justice. If we do not answer them, they may answer us with blood and fire. Cersei snaps, her voice sharp. >> Peace. My son lies in his tomb, slain while his uncle played at being handed. And you would reward these traitors with peace. >> Better wolves at a distance than sparrows on our gates. Sister, give a chance to peace. Peace is the realm's need. My daughter stands ready to be Tommen's queen. Let us give the small folk their bread, the faith their promise, and the realm an end to this needless slaughter. >> Tywin raises one hand, and silence falls. His gaze sweeps over the table. The Tyrells have brought us victory, coin, and bread. Your council will be heard. We will consider terms, but no king of my line shall beg. If Stark wishes peace, he will come to us with open hands and bent knees. Mace bows, satisfied enough for now. Outside the red keep, the city sethes. In the cobbled squares of Flea Bottom, the high sparrow stands barefoot upon a crate, his robe plain, and his beardless face ragged. His voice is not loud, and yet it carries clear and sharp as a bell. How many must die before the sevens cries for peace are heeded? How many daughters and wives must weep at the loss of their fathers and husbands and brothers and sons? The lords grow fat upon their wars while we starve. The gods cry out for peace. They demand it. The crowd answers, fists raised. They cry for bread, peace in an end to the war. Gold cloaks try to shove their way through, but the crowd surges against them. The sparrows number too many, and the small folk are radicalized with them. A rock clatters against a helm, then a breastplate. It nearly spirals into a full-scale mob before it is quelled. Above in the red keep, Tywin listens to the rumble of the distant chance and protests. His eyes harden as he does not flinch. >> Then peace it is. But on my terms. >> The sun sinks low, bleeding golden crimson across the rolling hills outside of King's Landing. At the western gate, two riders approach. The gold cloaks lower their spears as the riders draw near. And at the head rides a tall woman in male and plate, her face pale with exhaustion, yet stern. Beside her, mounted awkwardly in his exhaustion and one-handedness, is Jaime Lannister. His golden hair has been dulled by weeks of road dust, heavy bags under his eyes from sleepless nights. The stump of his right wrist is wrapped in linen, darkened by old blood. The captain of the gate gapes, then drops to one knee. Lord Commander, Sir Jamie, you've returned. A hand lighter, but yes, best open the gates before I fall from my saddle. The poor cullis clatters upwards as it is raised. Brienne and Jaime enter, and whispers spread like wildfire. The king's slayer has returned, and the Slayer of Renley Baratheon beside him. They are not led to their own chambers, but directly to the throne room itself. The court assembles swiftly, lords, courtesier, and the small council itself. Tywin sits at the foot of the iron throne on a simpler gold and carved wooden throne. Cold and still as if carved from granite. Cersei bursts forward upon seeing her brother. >> Jamie, your hand. Gods. What have they done to you? >> A gift from the brave companions. Not Rob Stark, surprisingly enough. Cersei's hands shake as they run over the stump where Jaime's sword hand once was. Then they curl back into fists. Meanwhile, Tyrion studies him quietly with mismatched eyes that soon flickers to the towering armored woman at Jaime's side. And who is your formidable looking companion? Brienne drops to a knee before Tywin, her voice steady despite all of the stars she draws. >> Brienne of Tarth, sworn sword to Lady Catelyn Stark. I have brought Sir Jaime safely as I swore I would, and with him words from my lady. >> Speak them then. Lady Catelyn bids me to have you restore her daughter Sansa and Arya Stark to their rightful places at her side. She sends Sir Jaime as proof of her honor and asks for peace to be made. This war has taken fathers, sons, and now even a king. It need not take more. >> Silence grips the hall. Cersei's lips curl with fury. >> Peace. What a joke. Throw this curr in the dungeons. >> Enough, Cersei. I gave my word to Lady Catelan. I told her I'd see her daughters home safely, and I mean to keep that promise. For once, we Lannisters will pay a debt with more than just coin or steel. The chamber rustles with murmurss. Even Mace Tyrell looks uncertain now, though hopeful as his great bulk shifts in his seat. Tywin remains motionless, his gaze fixed on his maimed son. Finally, he speaks again, voice cold still. >> You presume much, said Jaime. one handle lighter and you still would bind this family with promises made in captivity. >> Jaime meets his father's cold gaze. >> Call a presumption if you like, but Stark blood and Lannister blood both stain this realm. If I am to be the one who has to end it, then so be it. The high septum adds his voice, his words thin but carrying. The gods themselves are crying out for peace. The people beg for it in the streets. Perhaps this return is a sign from the seven that the war must come to an end. The words ripple outward and cause the murmurss of the court to swell louder. Peace. Peace. Peace. Tywin drums his fingers on the armrest of his throne, stone-faced. But for the first time, he does not dismiss the idea out of hand. Outside the bells toll in the dusk, and the sound mingles with the rising chance from the city below. The realm teeters on a knife's edge, and at the center of it is Jaime Lannister. handless, wary, and bound by a promise to the Starks. In the following day, Loris Tyrell demands justice for the death of Renley Baratheon. The Tyrell camp backs him as though their alliances have shifted to the Lannisters, they have not forgotten their previous oaths. Brienne is believed to have murdered Renley, and the death of a king must be paid for in blood. Tywin relents, but only to First Blood, as he intends for Brienne to act as a messenger for the Starks. Either way, when the trial by combat begins, the Red Keep's yard is crowded from wall to wall. Cortier is pressed shoulderto-shoulder with soldiers and servants. Word has spread like wildfire. The king's slayer's giant woman fights Sir Loris Tyrell. The air is thick with excitement and tension. A scent of dust, sweat, and anticipation hanging over everyone. Torches flicker, casting long shadows across the walls while the late afternoon sun glints off polished armor. Garland Tyrell steps forward into the circle. Armored but unarmed, his voice even carrying over the murmur of the crowd. He has been chosen to mediate this bout, so he speaks clearly to announce its purpose. By Lord Tywin's decree, this contest shall be to first blood. Both combatants will lay down arms when the blow is struck. Do either yield before combat is begun? Brienne shakes her head, the leather of her gloves creaking as she grips her sword tighter, her jaw set. Across from her, Loris Tyrell removes his helm, revealing a boyish face tightened by controlled anger and barely restrained fury and framed by long honey brown curls. She murdered my king, and I shall not yield until the truth is bled out of her. >> I did not kill Remley. I loved him. >> A ripple of whispers run through the crowd. Then cheers explode as swords are drawn. Loris's bright steel gleams in the sunlight while the red ripples of Oathkeeper shimmer darkly as Brienne draws it. The spectators jostle for better views. The gold cloaks trying hopelessly to maintain order. The first clash of swords comes quickly. Loris darts forward, light and fast on his feet. Each thrust probing and testing Brienne for weakness. Brienne blocks with Oathkeeper. The blood red Valyrian steel ringing with each clash. Sparks leap whenever the swords meet. Brienne's height gives her reach. her strength allowing her to absorb each blow easily and contend with Loris's speed. >> If she falls, it's no less than she deserves. >> And if she wins, sister, perhaps that means the gods are tired of you. Loris continues to press hard, raining down a storm of thrusts and cuts, and striking at gaps Brienne can only barely cover. She pivots, her legs steady and shoulders square, countering with heavy and deliberate swings. Sparks fly and metal screeches. Oathkeeper biting into the softer steel of Loris's castle forged blade. >> You'll answer for Renley's death wench. >> I already have before the gods. Before my own heart. I did not kill him. Loris. >> Sparks shower down as Loris slips past Brienne's guard. His blade slicing at her puldron. The crowd looking on gasps, but no blood is drawn yet. Brienne pivots again, shoving Loris back and swinging Oathkeeper in a heavy arc. >> Stand son. Strike her down. Sweat streams down both fighters' faces, mixing with the dust kicked up by their feet. Brienne's breath comes in controlled pulls. Oathkeeper starts to feel heavy in her hands. Loris faints left, drives right, caught. Brienne twists, disarming him. The tip of Oathkeeper brushes his cheek, and a thin line of red appears instantly. A hush falls over the yard. >> First blood. The combat is ended. >> Brienne lowers her blade, panting as Loris freezes. His wide brown eyes betray shock and reluctant respect. >> I swore to Renley. I never broke that vow. I would have died for him had I been given the chance. >> Loris swallows hard, then nods once, barely perceptible. Cersei sees. Mace is clearly irritated, and Alena is sharpeyed and calculating as always. Brienne she Oathkeeper in a quick deliberate motion. >> If you would have peace, let me bring terms to Rob Stark. He will hear me. Let me bring Sansa Stark to him. >> A tense pause follows. Tywin finally rises, his gaze calculating. >> Very well. You shall carry our words north, but Sansa shall remain in our care. >> Brienne reluctantly concedes. As she steps from the yard, she surveys the faces around her. Tommen's wide eyes, Marjgery's calm curiosity, and Loris's reluctant respect. She is no longer just a knight with no title. She carries the fate of a kingdom in her hands, a bridge between two houses torn by war. Peace talks are arranged between Rob Stark and Tywin Lannister, brokered in part by Brienne of Tarth. Harrenhal is chosen as the neutral meeting ground lying at the crossroads of the Riverlands in the Crownlands. Among Tywin's retinue is Sansa Stark, brought so that her return to her family may be bargained for in the negotiations. The twisted half-melted towers of Harrenhal loom like the bones of a dead giant. Black and stone curling as if in agony. It is here in the ruins forged by dragonfire that peace is to be forged a new. Two hosts face one another across the hall of 100 hearths. To one side, Lord Tywin Lannister, seated beneath the lion banners of his house and flanked by Kevin and a line of crimson cloaked Lannister soldiers. On the other side, King Rob Stark, young but grave. Great John Umber, Black Tully, and his sworn men stand proudly with him beneath the gray on white direwolf of House Stark. Between them, long tables rest empty, dividing the neutral ground. We have come to discuss peace. If the right terms are met, we may be willing to consider an end to hostilities. I did not ride here for merely empty words. My sisters were promised. A ripple stirs between both assembled sides of the discussion. At Tywin's gesture, Sansa Stark is brought forth, pale and shaken, yet whole and unarmed. She rushes to Rob's side, and the Northmen erupt in relieved murmurss. Rob embraces her briefly, his eyes never leaving Tywins. Sansa is taken to her mother's arms and steadied by her side. And Tywin's expression hardens, the faintest shadow crossing over his face. The young girl is no longer in my care. She escaped my household. Months passed and her trail ran cold. She is not mine to return. The words strike like a hammer blow. Rob's hand clenches the pommel of his sword and the northern lords begin to mutter their outrage. Great Jon curses aloud, but before their anger can boil over, the hall doors cak open. Boots echo on stone. A massive man in scarred black armor strides forward. A snarling dog's head helm tucked under one arm. His burned face catches the torch light in its dark divots and hideous scars. He pulls behind him a small figure. Arya Stark, dirt smudged yet unmistakable. Gasps ripple through the chamber and Rob's eyes widen in relief. >> Rob. >> She runs to her brother and he seizes her in a fierce hug. Relief breaks through his steely composure. The Hound remains where he stands, glaring across the hall at the Lannister host before fixing his gaze at Rob. The wolf girls were the king's ransom. A bag of gold and I'll call it even. Name your price, I'll sword. The hounds lips twist as though considering his own greed. He opens his mouth to demand something obscene enough to begger even a king like Rob Stark. But his eyes fall to Arya, standing behind Rob now and peering at him with something between defiance and pity. For the first time in years, his heart seems to falter. The silence stretches. >> Keep your gold. Give me a place under your service. Let me fight for House Stark. The hall erupts into shouts of protest, disbelief and fury. A Lannister dog and a butcher in stark colors. Yet Rob does not follow the indignation. He studies the scarred man as if judging his worth, weighing his character. Finally, Rob nods once. Then rise, send a clegane. If it is loyalty you offer me, you shall have my banner to fight and bleed beneath. The hound bows his head, something unspoken passing between him and Arya before he steps back into the northern host. The storm of voices takes time to settle. Tywin watches it all with his coldly appraising stare. Finally, he speaks. Two daughters return to House Stark. The realm may breathe easier now. Yet, we are not here for hostages alone. The Iron Throne demands peace. Name your terms. Your banners are to be lowered and your crown set aside. You will swear faltty to Tommen of House Baratheon, the first of his name. King by every law and right. A hiss runs through the northern lords and the great Jon is ready to roar in protest. But Rob lifts a hand to demand silence. He looks back at his sisters alive and at his side. He thinks of Winterfell, taken and burned, his people scattered, his bannerman growing wary of war. The choice lies heavy on him, but Sansa speaks up, stepping forward to her brother. >> Rob Tobin isn't like Joffrey. He's gentle, and I know he truly desires peace with us. You can trust him. It was Joffrey who killed father, and now he's dead. >> Rob considers his sister's words for several heartbeats. He trusts her, and if what she's saying is true, then Tommen is likely genuine in his plea for peace, unlike Joffrey would have been, or even Tywin alone. Then I, Rob Stark, king of the north, lay down my crown in favor of peace. I swear feelalty to Tom and Baratheon, and I will hold the North as his loyal vassel. He kneels. One by one, his lords follow. Tywin inclines his head, victory glinting faintly in his eyes. Then our war is at an end. As a mark of good aid, the crown will grant you what aid it can. A host of men will march with you northward to retake your seat and tear the great joy welp from your walls. After that is done, together we will march on the Iron Islands to root the Greyjoys out from where they roost. The accord is sealed beneath Harrenhal's twisting spires. The lion and the wolf have bound themselves together in a weary piece. Snow drives hard against the banners of House Stark as their host pushes through the wolf's wood. Passage through the neck had been easy with how weakened the Greyjoy forces left behind had it become and the assistance of the chronic men. Rob rides at the head of the column, Grey Wind at his side. Beside him march, a mingling of his own men and the Lannister soldiers granted to him by Tywin, making for unlikely allies. No, I never thought I'd see the day we sided with Lions. My sisters have returned to me, and soon Winterfell will be ours again, too. I will not complain. The company rides on, snow crunching under hoof and boots until the ruined walls of Winterfell rise ahead, jagged and burned against the white snow. The towers have been gutted, timber seared and charred from Theon sacking. Rob clenches his fists tightly, still remembering the dead boys he thinks to be his brothers. He will avenge them. Rob halts to stare at his home. For the first time since the war has begun, his composure cracks. They burned they burned our home. The army spreads out in silence. No songs nor cheers accompany them. Inside the broken castle, Theon Greyjoy paces, his face drawn and ragged. The few Ironborn left to him mutter among themselves. Supplies are running low and their morale is gone. They cannot hold. We should have sailed away from this damn place while we still had a chance. And leave our prize to the wolves. I am the prince of the Iron Islands, and Winterfell is mine. A horn blows from outside, signifying the wolves have come home. Rob's army crashes against the gates. Ladders rise against the burned walls. Stark men and Lannister men climbing up side by side. Arrows whistle by them, and Grey Wind leaps among the first wave of attackers. A blur of fur and blood. On the battlements, Theon fights like a madman, cutting down to men and screaming in desperation as a third cuts him across the chest. The tide is against him, and Rob himself surges across the walls towards him. sword flashing and direwolf beside him. >> For Winterfell, for the North. >> The cry is taken up by hundreds, echoing throughout the snow-covered ruins of Winterfell. The fighting soon dwindles down into pockets of Ironborn resistance until the last Ironborn throw down their arms, but Theon refuses. He backs toward the Godswood, sword shaking in his hand. Rob confronts him beneath the heart tree. I I was your brother once, Rob. I was the Stark of Winterfell, almost. You were never my brother, and you will answer for what you've done. >> Theon lunges, but Grey Wind tears him down in a blur of teeth and red fur. His screams echo, then fade until a silence falls over Winterfell. Grey Wind drags the mald Theon before Rob, and Rob raises his sword to deliver the sentence. Your brothers. >> The sword swings down and Theon's head rolls. The Stark banners rise again over Winterfell. gray direwolf banner snapping in the wind. Rob walks the yard, the weight of his victory heavy on his shoulders. >> Winterfell is ours once more, boy. Cheer up. >> But Rob does not smile. He looks again at the broken stones and burned halls. The ghosts of the fallen remind him in every corner. Grey Wind presses close against him, and in the ruins of their home, Rob Stark swears that the North will rise strong again. The Stark banners snap in the wind over Winterfell once more, though the scars of the castle battle still remain visible. Charred stone, shattered towers, and the lingering smells of smoke and blood act as the lingering ghosts of Theon's betrayal. Yet, for the first time in months, hope stirs in the hearts of the Northmen and the Starks. Rob Stark is enjoying the feeling of being in his home again alongside a surviving family when a herald informs him of the arrival of Wayman Manderly. The great lord of White Harbor is wheeled forth, sitting on a cart, as his vast girth is too much for a horse to bear. Behind he and his men is a ragged but cleaned up and cared for boy with shaggy red hair and fierce blue eyes. Rob's breath catches as he can't mistake the boy for anyone other than his youngest brother. Though older, his face is still recognizable. Rick. The boy slipped down from his horse with the wild gracelessness of one who had been on the savage islands of Skagos for so long. But there was no mistaking those Tully blue eyes and that smile Rob remembered so well. The one that had haunted him when he thought his little brother dead for good. Rickon Stark is alive. Rob drops to one knee, not as a king, but as an older brother. His hands close on Rickon's shoulders as if he fears the boy might vanish like smoke again. By the gods, Rickon. I thought you were dead, Theon. He said I Rickon only stares at him, stubborn and unblinking. Then he throws his arms around Rob's neck and clings to him with a fierce desperation of a child who has seen far too much loss. Rob holds him close, but over Rickon's shoulder, he sees Theon's face again in memory, broken and bloody, trying to scream words as Rob had chosen not to hear. I did not kill your brothers. Rob had taken his head too soon. He wonders if it was still justice. A bitter taste lingering like ash in his mouth. Lord Wyman's booming voice cuts through his thoughts. Your grace. By the mercy of the gods, we found the boy on Skagos. Wild as a wolf near Pharaoh, but whole. I dared not speak of it until I was sure he could be safely returned home to you. You have done my house of service beyond price, Lord Wyman. The Starks will never forget your loyalty. The fat lord inclines his head, a smile tugging at his lips. >> "The North remembers you, Grace, always." >> Rickon suddenly pulls back enough to look his brother in the eyes, his face fierce with a blunt honesty only a child could have. >> Bran's not dead either. He went north to the wall. He said he had to meet a wizard. >> Rob stiffens, another brother alive, another who had mourned and given himself to Jane Westerling over. He still loved her, but now he feels like a fool. the weight of months of war pressing heavier on the once king's shoulders. But now resolve flickered in him. Only one member of his family remained astray now. He had been reunited with his sisters and then Rickon. Now Brun at the wall. Rickon nods vigorously. >> Meera, Jojan, and Hodor went with him. He said he had to go north to fulfill them. >> Dreams ominous like words out of some forgotten northern legend. Rob did not understand it, but that scarcely matters. His brother was alive, and that was enough. He rises fully, straightening his back, but his hand never leaves Rickon's shoulder. He turns to his lords now, assembled in the courtyard. Then we march to the wall. We bring Bran back home, and I will see my brother Jon Snow again. For now, he had his brother back. Tomorrow he would ride for another. The march north is swift and relentless. From winterfell, the direwolf banners streamed across the frost hardened ground, their shadows long against the snow. At their head rides Rob Stark, his face set in grim determination. Rickon riding beside him upon a shaggy little Garin. The boy refuses to be left behind. The closer they come to the wall, the colder the air seems to grow, heavy with the weight of ancient stone and ice. When at last the icy monolith rises against the horizon, even the seasoned warriors of the north fall silent. At Castle Black, the gates grown open. The men of the Night's Watch stand in their ragged blacks, wary yet respectful for the former king of the north. The Starks had been a friend of the wall for centuries, and so he's welcome with curious yet open arms. Among them, now taller with broad shoulders is Jon Snow. For a heartbeat, both young men simply stare. Rob from horseback. Jon standing before the gate. Brothers sundered by war and vows now reunited beneath the shadow of the wall. Rob dismounts slowly and Rickon is the first to break the silence. >> John, it's you. >> Jon bends to catch him up in his arms. His usual grim face breaks into a rare smile as he lifts his littlest brother up high before setting him back down gently. His eyes never leave Robs, though. At last, Rob steps forward and the two clasp forearms. Then they pull each other into a tight embrace. >> It's good to see your face again and yours. No matter the distance, you'll always be my brother, Rob, >> and you are always mine. Then Rob's smile fades as he studies him, noting the new steel presence in Jon's bearing. The command in his posture, no longer the boy who left Winterfell behind. Come home with me, Jon. Winterfell is yours as much as it is mine. You'll have a place, a family, land, all that was denied to you. I would see you be the lord of something more than just ice and shadows. Slowly, Jon shakes his head. No, my place is here. I swore an oath, throb. The ball needs me and Winterfell was always yours. Never mind. Then hear me, John. If you ever tire of oaths and shadows, you will find hearth and kin waiting eagerly for you in Winterfell. Always. Jon grips Rob's shoulder. That I will remember. The reunion is cut short. Messengers come breathless to the gate. Stannis Baratheon marches south, his banners black and red against the snow, demanding the loyalty of the Nights Watch and the North alike. His fleet harasses White Harbor. His men forage hard upon the gift. Now he comes for the wall itself, seeking to root himself there. Rob and Jon exchange a single look. They might be separated by vows, but the threat before them brings them together again. The battle comes swift and hard upon the frost. Stannis's knights charge with the fury of men hardened by defeat. Their banners snapping in the wind. Yet they do not reckon with the wolves of the north, nor the steely resolve of the watch. Rob fights from horseback, his sword flashing in the pale light, his direwolf, Greywin, tearing through the ranks with savage fury. Beside him, Jon commands his brothers in black, turning their discipline against Stannis's advance. >> Stand fast for Winterfell, for the watch, for the wall. >> The brothers voices carry together like two wolves howling as one. The clash is brutal. The Baratheon lions surge again and again, only to break on the combined forces of blackcloaked knights watchmen and greycloaked Stark men. Fires burn along the frozen field beyond the wall. Men scream and steel clangs against steel. Slowly, inexraably, the tide begins to turn against Stannis. Stannis himself presses the field, grim and unflinching as he cuts down foes. But when the watch turns fully against him, when Rob's riders cut his flank and Greywin scatters his vanguard, even the wouldbe king sees the futility. At last, the Baratheon trumpets call their retreat. Stannis's men fall back, bloodied and wary, their banners streaming towards the coast. Rob does not pursue. He watches from horseback, his sword dripping red as the last of Stannis' forces vanish into the snow. Let him go. I hold no quarrel with the Baratheonss. Not now. Let him be the Lannister's pest. Jon nods, dark eyes following the line of retreats with an uneasy glare. That night, beneath the wall, the brothers share their last meal together. Rickon sleeps curled by the fire, Grey Wind at his side. Rob and Jon sit across from each other, silent for long moments. I only want to bring my family home to keep us all safe. Then hold fast to that. Not to crowns or thrones. To us, just our family. They clasp hands one final time. In the morning, as Rob prepares to march beyond the wall, three travelers spring up from the black gate. It is Bran with Meera and towering Hodor carrying the Stark boy upon his back. Rob is overjoyed to see him as are Rickon and Jon. Though Bran is near emotionless and bears a grim message for them. I have seen them. Two forces against the wolves and lions. Krakens to darken the sea and dragons to darken the sky. The Stark family is fully reunited, but left with an ominous warning. The winters turn colder and the rumors of dragons stir from the east. The Ironborn hail a new king in the west, whispering of krakens and blood. It seems less and less likely every day that the fragile peace King Tommen has built can truly last. Down in Oldtown, the streets choke with smoke as bells toll through the night from the high tower. Fisher scream of shapes beneath the waves. Do hands swear they've seen tentacles longer than masts sliding beneath the water. Most laugh it off as sailors talk until the sea surrounding Oldtown boils with blood. On the horizon, ironborn long ships appear. Black sails bearing golden krakens cut through the dawn's haze. Their war horns sound deep and mournful and rolling over the city like a clap of thunder. The first volley of fire arrows arc towards the shore. Lord Ma Tyrell rides hard with his forces to the defense of the city. Beside him, Lord Tywin Lannister's voice carries over the panic. >> To the walls, to the harbor. Drive these reavers back into the sea. >> Old Town had sent for aid, but the combined forces of the Reach and Crownlands had arrived late. The city is vast and its defenses are strong. Its fleets are numerous. Old Town should hold out, but the sea moves strangely. The tide surges against the Keys and silence descends over the defenders. The water erupts and tentacles thicker than any tower lash upward and seize a galley of the Redwin fleet hole. Wood splinters like twigs. Men scream as they are flung into the blood blackened sea. Another tentacle slams against the foundation of High Tower itself, sending cracks, spider webbing through the stone of the ancient seat. Tyrell knights pull back in horror. >> Seven save us. >> And then before all the gathered eyes of Oldtown, the sea claims its prize. A shape vast, monstrous, and unholy wraps itself around the ancient lighthouse. Its beacons burn, defiant for a heartbeat longer. Fire blazing across the bay. The foundation groans, stone tearing and the walls buckling. The great beacon of Oldtown, the flame that had burned for centuries topples and is swallowed whole by the sea. The fire beacon's flame extinguished beneath the blood soaked waves. The harbor explodes with screams. Old town breaks and even soldiers scatter in fear and disbelief. Mace Tyrell shouts for them to rally, but the men's faith is died with the light of the high tower. The Kraken drags the last of the rubble beneath the foaming waves. Tywin does not flinch, though even he grips the reigns of his horse more tightly. His eyes remain fixed on the Ironborn ships, now retreating into the horizon. They do not press the city or loot Oldtown. Instead, they vanish back into the sea like phantoms, slipping westward. The rock. What? They are not here for Oldtown. They only struck it to break us, to try and show us their might. Their true prize is to be cattley rock. That is where they flee. The realization spreads through the soldiers like a sickness. If the Ironborn sees the rock, all of the western coast and the Westerlands itself will fall under their control. Tywin wastes no time. He orders riders dispatched at once, carrying summons to every bannerman they can muster on the way west. A raven flies to the north, meant for Rob Stark. At Winterfell, Rob Stark reads the letter by torch light. His men, wary from over a year of marching, already prepare for another campaign. Grey Wind paces at his side, hackles bristling as if the direwolf senses the sea itself moving against them. Rickon clutches his brother's hand, fear and exhaustion plain in his young eyes. >> Another fight, Rob. Will it never end? >> Rob kneels and places a hand on the boy's shoulder. If we do not stop the Ironborn, war will come to every hearth in the Westerlands, and then they will turn their gaze north once more. We fight because we must. Catelyn, watching silently from the corner of the hall, sees the toll this endless war has taken on her children. Rob is older now, harder, his duty weighing heavier on him every day. >> "Do as you must, Rob. Honor your word, and we will be waiting for you when you return home to us." Rob nods to his mother and rises, voice carrying to his lords and captains. We ride south. The Ironborn want the rock, then let them come. They won't find easy prey, but wolves waiting for them with open jaws. The banners of the direwolf are raised once more and the north rides for the west. Weeks later, the land converges. Tywin Lannister marches from the reach, his disciplined columns moving with mechanical precision. Mace Tyrell brings sheer numbers. A host that blackens the roads with men and horse. And from the riverlands, Rob Stark rides hard. His smaller force leaner, hungrier, tempered by years of blood and hardship. The three hosts meet before the looming cliffs of Castly Rock. We cannot hold the coast if we allow him free reign. He will use the Kraken to break the rock as he broke High Tower. Then we shall drown him in spears and arrows before he ever reaches land. Rob studies the sea and how strangely it churns. Steel won't matter if that beast comes for us. If it's as big as you say. Tywin glances at him, his eyes sharp and calculating. He nods once. I have had wildfire stores transported from King's Landing here for that exact reason. My young son showed some sense once at the Battle of the Blackwater. We will repeat that here and burn the sea. Wildfire madness. It will kill us surely as it will then. No, we will stand against the flames and turn it on them. The rock must not fall. If it does, the Ironborn will pour into the land and drown us all. Then it is decided we burn the sea. >> Euron Greyjoy comes with black sails blotting the horizon. The iron fleet stretches further than the eye can follow. Their prows carved into beasts and monsters. Their decks bristling with reavers eager for blood. At the center rides the silence, crimson sails contrasting sharply against the gray sea. Warhorns blare. The rock answers with its own drums. The sound rolling across the cliffs like thunder. Lannister scorpions are rolled to heights. Ballista aimed downward. Tyrell knights stand in glittering ranks. Shields interlocked, spears leveled. Rob Stark's men hold the western approaches. Grim northerners with axes in hand. Their direwolf banners snapping in the sea wind. Tywin rides the battlements, voice cutting, sharp and clear. >> Hold until the sea itself breaks upon us. Do not give ground. >> Greywin snarls at the waves as though he smells something foul beneath. Rob's knuckles whiten around his sword. Oathkeeper given to him by Brienne of Tarth, who stands beside him amongst the northern faces. Also amongst them is the Hound, his face grim and burned. Jaime Lannister has joined him in his white armor. The other half of ice, widow's whale, clutched in his remaining hand. The water begins to churn. The sea froths as if boiling, and a vast shadow passes beneath the Ironborn fleet, so large it blotss out the entire seabed. The first tentacle erupts upward, slick and glistening and wrapped around a Lannister galley anchored to the shore. Men scream as the ship is torn in half and dragged under. >> Seven, save us. Hold. Do not break. >> Listen to the sheenite. We will not break. Loris thrusts his blade skyward and Tyrell men answer his call with gritty cheers. Brienne gives him a faint smile and the two ready themselves for the battle to come. Ironborn men pour ashore as their ships slam into the beaches to either side of the rock. Bells toll from nearby Lannisport as forces stationed there muster their own grit and bravery for the defense. The raiders charge. Twin Valyrian steel swords slash as Jaime and Rob draw their blades. Two halves of ice are joined in battle once more as the two once enemies now battle side by side. The hound bellows as he hacks down Ironborn after Ironborn. Grey Wind's muzzle is already red and frothing with blood. Tywin's voice does not waver as it carries above the chaos. >> Signal the trap. >> Torches flare across the battlements. Below, hidden in the surf. Barrels are loosed into the tide. Casks sealed with pitch, each filled with wildfire. Silent, unseen, they drift toward the Ironborn ships. On the silence, Euron Greyjoy laughs. He wears armor of Valyrian steel, and his eye patch has been torn from his black and crows eye, leaving the gruesome sight on full display. In his socket is a gleaming chunk of oily blood stone. >> Sing with me, brothers. Sing as the sea takes them all. The mutes of the silence are unspeaking and unmoving as their captain begins to sing a mocking song, dancing across the deck. And then the wildfire ignites. A single flaming arrow arcs from the heights of the rock. It strikes one of the drifting barrels. For an instant, nothing. Then the sea itself explodes into an emerald inferno. Green fire blossoms across the waves, brighter than the sun, hotter than dragon flame. Ships vanish in pillars of emerald light. Their masts snapping, their crews shrieking as the fire clings and devours. The water burns and the kraken with it. A roar low and terrible shakes the air. Tentacles thrash wildly, some a light with unnatural flame. One smashes against the cliffs. Another coils blindly through the surf, seizing ships at random, dragging them screaming into the blaze. But the wildfire does not spare it. The beast writhes, trapped in the fire that will not drown. Men cheer, disbelieving. >> Gods, look how it burns. >> The hound averts his eyes from the horrid sight that reminds him of his own scars. Yet victory does not come easy. The Kraken's death throws terror through the bay. The tentacle crashes into the shoreline, scattering Stark men like leaves. Grey wind darts aside, snapping at the air. A second strike smashes into the battlements, sending stone raining down. Soldiers tumble, screaming into the inferno below. Then through the smoke, the silence cuts forward. Prow splitting fire and wreckage alike. At its helm stands Euron, untouched, his blood stone crow's eye gleaming, his smile wide as madness. The kraken burns, but the crow's eye remains. The flames look harmlessly off his Valyrian steel armor as priests in the hall of his ship chant magical hymns. Rob sees him clearly. Their gazes meet across the blaze. This will not end with fire, but blood and steel. The silence runs ground in the chaos. Its prow wedged against black and stone. Fire elicks the sea around it, green and furious, casting every shadow and sickly light. The kraken thrashes once more and then sinks, leaving only boiling waves and burning wrecks. Further in the sea, the kraken begins to drown as it flails back into the dark waves. It vanishes beneath and never surfaces again. Rob does not wait. He wades through the surf and flame. Grey Wind at his side, cutting down the Ironborn who leap ashore. His men follow, but he has only one target. Euron stands at the prowl, waiting. His blue lips curl into a savage grin as Rob climbs the splinter deck. The young wolf. I had hoped for a dragon, but a wolf will do. This ends here. Everything ends here, boy. They clash.