There is a rot that festers within her, something deep and intangible, mingled with her very being. She's known of its presence since youth, grasping whatever fondness remains in its clutches and turning it to ash, akin to the walls that crumble around her prison. Harrenhal, with its might, charred and blackened, feeds the malice that threatens to engulf her along with its residents, tied to her through blood. Not many of them remain though, with all the men felled like trees in a night, their heads stacked up high in a sign of conquest of yet another dragon a century later.

He prowls the broken manor now, fury emanating from his being as the halls empty themselves at his whim. There's a sickness within him too. Madness claws at him, spilling out from the skies at daybreak only to relent and manifest in another form come night. She finds his eye roving with suspicion, eager to cast his doubts over a willing target unsuspecting of the terror that lies in its wake and there have been many. She's heard their screams of agony, when he leaves, piercing through her as she sits with the knowledge that she could have changed things. She's heard their pleas, in her ears, on their knees, in whatever form they're requested. She wishes to tell them she's blameless, that she cannot quell the drought, the anger of a man so unnaturally wronged that it consumes them all in its unjustifiable vengeance yet her lips remain sealed, dead to the day even as they come alive at night. She knows they hear them together, her ecstasy in the midst of their suffering. The thought ought to tempt her benevolence, the kind where she helped spare the life of the lone squire who strayed on their path yet the action doesn't spring forth like it did then. When she opens her eyes to gaze into one dead and the other alight all she can see is agony of her own, writhing with pleasure found in misery inflicted for so long.

It is what plagues her when she stands by and lets him blaze through all in his path, obliterating his foes in places she hardly finds them to be. His blade turns and twists in her palms drawing blood to blemish the guilt while he sets on a conquest of meaning that burns with the flames. Somewhere deep within she can hear the remnants of a word from another world, hopeful and one begetting joy. It shines through, coating her palms in crimson during the day and glistening with ardor at night, sharp as a blade that twists and cuts through whatever she wishes to hide. The rot remains still, tarnished yet transformed by the blossom of youth through cracks made by an equally broken man.

Rufus had looked so angry, almost bordering on hysterical. He’d had the same crazed look in his eye from the minute he charged into the room yelling and pointing his finger at her, Jiya right on his tail. Like he was wildfire and he’d burn her to the ground if he got the chance.

And Jiya, the poor girl, she looked so guilty. She was the one who had figured it out and told Rufus, who’d seen it in her visions. Jess thinks really should have seen that one coming. (She scoffs at herself, so not the time for bad puns Jessica.) There had been a thousand apologies in Jiya’s eyes and Jess had wanted to shake her. What the hell are you sorry for?!? I’m the one who’s a traitor!

Wyatt’s reaction had been the worst of all though; when she hadn’t been able to deny the accusations he’d looked at her with pure, anguished heartbreak written all over his face. She imagines it’s the same face he made when he found out that she was dead. Jess never wants to see that face again, and she won’t if she can help it.

She can hear Wyatt running down the hall calling her name. He had followed her because of course he had.

Why couldn’t you have just taken the damn divorce? she thinks for what must be the millionth time. She’d known he wouldn’t though; he would never just let her push him away, he would never just turn around and go. She’d tried, she really had; but she couldn’t push him too hard or they would know. It had been hard enough to convince them to let her ask for the divorce in the first place. They’d already been having problems in their marriage, she’d told them. It would have been even more suspicious for her to just act like everything was just normal wedded bliss. By the time he makes it to their room she has already pulled out her bag and is shoving clothes in it.

“Jess…” he sounds out of breath. She knows it’s not from chasing after her, he’s in too good of shape for that. “Jess. Wait… What are you doing?”

“What does it look like i’m doing?” she snaps. This isn’t his fault, he doesn’t deserve that. “I’m packing.”

“Jess you can’t leave the bunker. It’s the safest place for you. I can protect you here!”

“They aren’t going to come after me.”

“You don’t know that!”

“No Wyatt,” She huffs in frustration and spins on her heel to face him. “They aren’t going to come after me.”

He has that confused puppy look on his face; like he wants to do something, knows he’s supposed to do something but can’t quite figure out what, like he wants to make sure he gets it right. It’s a look she knows well.

“First, they’ll probably go after my parents,” she starts slowly. “And my sister and her family. Then they’ll come for everyone at the bar; maybe even the bar itself, just burn the whole damn thing to the ground with everyone inside it. Then, eventually, they’ll come for you. They’ll take you away from me. They’ll take it all away from me. They’ve already taken my life and my choices and my free will, and now they’ll come for everything I care about and everyone I love.”

By the end she’s almost yelling. She turns back around to finish packing her bag and force down the tears that are treating to spill over. “They’ll take and take and take from me until there’s nothing left.”

She takes a deep breath, “So I have to stop them.”

She feels Wyatt’s hands on her shoulders and he turns her back around to face him. “We.” He says, his voice calm and steady and leaving no room for argument. “We have to stop them.”

He’s staring her right in the eye and she knows this look too. It’s the one he gets whenever her stubborn, bullheaded, sonofabitch, brave, big hearted, beautiful husband gets an idea in his head and has absolutely no intention of backing down. Usually it’s something like skydiving or spelunking with his war buddies, or insisting that he can hang the Christmas lights on the roof or fix the plumbing at the bar himself. Not going after a time traveling crime syndicate full of highly trained and expertly disguised assassins hellbent on world domination.

Still, she can’t help but feel the slightest flutter of selfish relief, knowing he’ll be by her side. She’s been alone in this war for so long; but her husband is a soldier to his core, and he takes care of his own. Never leave a man behind; it’s imprinted on his soul, she knows. Especially after the failed mission in Afghanistan.

“What have you seen?” he asks her bluntly in accordance with their arrangement these few moons, transactional with a tinge of trust.

She feels the air shift around her as she descends, flexing her fingers by her side with discomfort. The Tower of Dread looms behind her as she glides through the open sky, the moon greeting her as she makes her way forwards with purpose. She spots him at the entrance, staring into the giant hearth, still like the absence of the habitual winds haunting the land. It is the hour of ghosts in the Hall of Hundred Hearths, the giant chambers that gloat of the residence of thousands yet their shadows remain the ones that cling to the walls. He doesn't turn to acknowledge her presence, simply lifting his head to stare at the mantelpiece above, a myriad of swords crossed over each other in formation much like the throne he seems to covet yet despise all the same.

“Nothing of significance” she responds playfully, surprising them both.

He turns to her then, displeased before she sees his eye widen in shock. The flicker of emotions that pass through that otherwise unfeeling gaze makes her smile, for in his stare she sees something of her own. Appall and wonder shine through the mirror that dangles between them as she stands before him, suppressing her glee to twirl, turning to the fire for comfort instead.

“I was owed a debt” she finds herself admitting after a pause, vague yet hopeful.

“So it seems” is all he remarks, still gazing at the droplets that cling to her. Rivulets of red coat her skin from the tips of her lashes to the womb she's tormented far too many times, blazing maroon in the light as she regards him again.

“You shall need this in the days to come” he says, cocking his head as he takes in the sight before him without a hint of discomfort.

“My thirst for blood?” she smirks inching closer to the warmth he emits. She feels him bring his palm to her face, clammy yet certain as he runs his fingers along her cheek tracing a droplet all the way to the muck on her chin before bringing it to his lips.

“Your penchant for winning” he says before tasting her victory. Blood, she thinks, has never tasted sweeter than on lips that desire the same.

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When night comes, the scorched earth breathes a sigh of relief, a temporary reprieve from the all consuming fires since dawn. The rivers hiss, with smoke billowing through every brook, shrouding the clear sky in a cloudy haze. The sky is silent for a while, before a lone raven perched on the castle weirwood caws, alerting her of his arrival before she can hear the leathery flap of wings and the giant gust of accompanying wind rattling the windows. Vhagar is a mighty beast of a time long gone. Austere and ferocious with a fire lurking underneath, much like her rider. Clad in night black armour dusted with soot, the night seems to welcome him into her embrace, save for the silver strands of his braid which gives him away. His hair shines like the stars littered through the night sky though he’s much like the moon himself. With his waxing and waning temper, his sharp edges and imperfections, his presence feels ethereal. He’s like an eclipse, threatening to consume everything in his path. As he descends from his mount, the soldiers shrink away, parting like the clouds he glides through all day, as he makes his way to her. She has never been one to cower, however caught in the piercing gaze of his lone eye she feels a chill pass through her.

She’s always been told she has a piercing gaze. Whispers have followed her around Harrenhal, about her evasive and chilling demeanor, casting her as an eerie and sentient creature. She’d never understood what it truly meant till she saw him. He carries himself with a confidence known to her. She’s seen all kinds of men in the life she’s lived. Proud and miserly, angry yet cowardly men, confident yet craven beneath, but never before has she seen the likes of him, in possession of such surety in himself inspite of having an insight into his upcoming doom. It takes a different kind of person to know how their life will end and to live each day with a renewed purpose and vigor directed at achieving their destiny. She’d considered herself special for a time, having the ability to see and hear mysterious things, which had been with her as long as she could remember. The voices were a part of her very being, shrouding her in an embrace of darkness and detachment. She’d made her peace with the life she was supposed to live and the purpose she was yet to fulfil, however she didn’t always possess the same level of determination that she now had . Long ago, when she was first confronted with her reality, she had been scared and unsure. She’d sought out a friend, a lover who she’d bared herself to, body and mind which had ultimately turned out to be a mistake. Fear ended up clouding whatever he’d felt for her, leaving her with no choice but to take measures to ensure it wouldn’t take root. Harrenhal was known for its curses and strong emotions had a way of seeping into its walls. You could get struck at any moment and fear was an emotion ever round the corner, waiting to creep in and wreak havoc on the minds of simple men. The impact of her actions was lasting. He had been a pleasant fellow, well liked by some of the kitchen maids despite knocking up a scullery maid on the side during the time she’d spent with him. How she’d managed to miss that, given her keen powers of observation, was an insult still fresh after many years. Nevertheless he’d turned up at the back of the stables a week later, rotting and being picked at by the ravens she’d come to admire. She’d stuck to herself after that, mostly. Granted she had lovers at times, even a husband, droll and harmless as he was, but her soul had been locked and thrown into an abyss since that incident. She considered herself a part of the Widows tower for much of her time afterwards, having lost child after child followed by her husband, soon forgotten by the castle, drifting and endlessly alone.

She’d realised later on that it wasn’t death that had come for her soul, as punishment for her revenge, rather she’d been asleep, resting and lying in wait for the fulfilment of her future. The first sign had arrived in the form of a red beast with the shrillest roar which almost shook the castle walls. A vision in black and red, this stranger of the night, a veteran of many a battle fought had sought refuge with her, not in the way she had preferred, but she’d had his ear for a time, to know it was time for her soul to wake.

“Blood calls to blood”. An old saying she’d read eons ago, upon which she’d pondered over time, seeking the answer out in places any normal person would be unwilling to. Summoning and enchanting, men, women and creatures of all kinds, trying to find the key to what lay ahead along with a moment of solitude, reprieve from the screams of the night she’d become used to, but to no avail.

The Rogue’s presence had been a welcome balm to her inner turmoil. He was as unpredictable as the wind, like a demon waiting to strike from the shadows, chaotic but calculated, enough to unnerve even her. She was glad in the end, when he took his leave. As much as he was a part of her future, she’d grown to miss the voices of warning in her head and his was not the blood which called to her.

Her soul singed nearly a year later. Wreckage. Carnage. The screams and horror did nothing but excite her that fateful night. The rivers of blood that flowed through the hallways, the terror that seized the castle made her more feel alive than she’d ever felt.

“When the weirwood weeps rivers of blood,

Burning flames shall lick the barren,

Till the eye which brings the flood,

A new strength to lift the famine.”

She felt as if she’d seen the light that night, illuminating the walls with swatches of white intermixed with red. She stood at the side as women wailed and cursed, silently observing the vision before her with a hidden smile. He’d noticed her shortly, regarding her with a raised brow and had asked that she brought to him. She’d fought the urge to cower, not out of fear but out of what was to come. He was a man of few words, her dragon, both then as he was now. He didn’t like delays and meaningless placation and her pleas were often left verbally unanswered. Touch had always been enough for them to fill each other’s presence, glances and grasps through the night, threatening to consume the fire which burned within both of them. The voices never hushed after him, much unlike she’d anticipated. She could feel their pull, even more so, whenever she lay with him, distorted screams chanting the same thing over and over again. In the aftermath of their own carnage she’d tell him all that she’d seen and heard and he’d hum is approval as he traced patterns onto her bare arms. In the night they could bask in the pull of the unknown, in the relishment of flesh with the hanging knowledge of their fates. Dawn as it broke again, would bring fire and unrelenting fury. The famine would not be quenched till the flames threatened to burst through her.

“When night comes, hold your dragon close.

As debt comes due,

Enemies shall arise anew.

And cursed azure shall guard the shadows.”

Harrenhal would have a new dragon soon.

He’s sitting by her side, Lyanna’s, holding her tiny son in his arms. He never knew that anything could be so small. It seems impossible, that something could feel so small and so big at the same time.

“Ned? Ned are you listening to me?” her voice breaks him out of his reverie and bring him back to the present. This bloody, awful, broken, sorrowful present.

“Please Ned, if Robert finds out, he'll kill him. You know he will. You have to protect him,” his little sister is pleading with him. He wants to answer, he knows he should answer. But somehow he cannot find his voice.

“I trust you with his life Ned, there is no one else I would trust. I know you'll raise him to be brave like Brandon, and gentle like Benjen, and strong like you... Promise me Ned."

Lyanna’s heart aches with longing to think of them now. Her boys, her beautiful brothers, the greatest men she ever knew. She couldn’t help but think she would be homesick for them, even in heaven.

Brave Brandon, who had the kind of reckless courage only a young knight of summer could. Who went riding after her in Kingslanding with out a second thought. Her eldest brother who protected her from all her nightmares and taught her to jump her horse and was her hero.

And gentle Benjen, her baby brother, who always loved her songs and listened to her stories and kept all her secrets. Who never raised his voice and never got too big to sit on her lap. Who was as kind to animals as he was to people and who had the sweetest soul she had ever known.

And strong Ned, their fortitude, their fortress, their rock. Who was stalwart in his silence, and honorable in his intentions, and who was there when no one else was. Who had been holding everyone together and no one even knew, until there was no one else left.

“I promise Lya,” she hears him say over the baby’s cries. “I promise.”