Paintings of the Soul

A/N: Well, it has been a long time, and for that I am sorry. Had a bit of a confluence of events that provided multiple setbacks in my life and in my financial situation ever since that overseas trip I told you about in the last chapter, starting with my laptop getting stolen. I won't bore you with the details, but suffice to say that I wasn't planning for it to take so long, but a lot happened in between, and all those factors, for various reasons, had to take priority and also ended up distracting me from finishing this chapter whenever I did get the chance to write.

Still, things have begun to ease on my end lately, and to start making it up to you all, here is my longest chapter yet. I should probably mention that while I did plan to include Ramsay's execution scene in this one initially, I was still about 4500+ words away from that climactic scene in my initial draft. So, as the chapter was already record-breaking (plus, it already included a couple of major scenes I have been planning to develop for a long time now that you may find surprising), and you already had to wait way too much as it was, I decided to move the rest of what didn't make the cut for this chapter to the next one. I already have a lot of it developed in advance, so the next update should definitely be ready much sooner this time around.

At any rate, I certainly hope you enjoy this one. If so, please let me know in the comments.

Well, without further ado, let's get started.

The Hightower: City of Oldtown.

Baelor Hightower, eldest son and heir of Lord Leython Hightower, quickened his pace as he approached the winch elevator of the colossal tower that his House had built so long ago. The massive structure, a testament to the Hightower legacy, loomed over the ancient city of Oldtown, casting long shadows over its bustling streets. As he neared the mechanism, Baelor reminded himself of the promise he had made to his dear wife, Rhonda, after turning five and forty. He had vowed to use the stairs more frequently to improve his fitness, given that the previous year had seen him consumed by administrative work. After all, his duties to House Hightower had left little time for riding, jousting, or the physical activities their favored maester had recommended for his health.

Still, the contents of Lady Olenna's letter had spurred him into action, and he could not afford to delay. He took a deep breath and ordered the large group of servants to activate the mechanisms that would raise the winch elevator with the strength of their backs. And as he ascended, Baelor's mind raced with thoughts of the news he was about to deliver to his father, since the journey upwards gave him time to ponder.

Because of this, Baelor soon frowned as his thoughts returned to his sister Malora and her intense dedication to the Higher Mysteries. Her personal chambers were situated at an altitude even higher than the top of the Wall itself, an insistence she had made for reasons he could only guess at. More intriguingly, their father had locked himself in his chambers at that level for the past month, assisting Malora with her research. Together, they had been delving into written sources requested from the Vault of the Higher Mysteries of the Citadel, examining tome after tome for references to old prophecies and various forms of spellcraft. However, they had refused to elaborate on their findings or even their reasoning behind their newfound scholarly task, leaving Baelor to manage the leadership of House Hightower in the meantime.

All the same, while it was his father's prerogative to pursue such interests, Baelor couldn't help but be curious about what had motivated them to throw themselves into such research—research that many septons would consider borderline heretical. His sister's interest, however, he understood. Malora had always possessed a rare and unusual gift for foresight, a gift that Baelor could no longer deny—not after what had happened with that bloody painting...

Baelor shivered involuntarily at the memory and shook his head, snapping out of his thoughts as the elevator came to a halt with a loud thump. The chains clicked into place, signaling that he had reached as high as the winch elevator could go. Gripping the handful of letters he carried more tightly, he stepped out and approached the large oak doors that led to his sister's chambers. He knew he would find his father there as well.

The guards posted at the entrance verified his presence with the Lord of the Hightower before standing aside to allow him entry. Baelor took a deep breath, steadied his nerves, and pushed open the doors.

The room was vast, filled with ancient tomes, scrolls, and artifacts scattered around over a dozen tables. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and burning candles. Malora, his sister, was hunched over yet another linen canvas, not even bothering to glance at him as she continued brushing her next painting with precise strokes; a look of utmost focus on her face. Lord Leython stood nearby, his once-strong frame now slightly stooped with age, but his eyes were still sharp and full of determination as he turned to look at him. Baelor shook his head and took a step forward.

"Father, Malora," Baelor greeted, his voice steady. "I have urgent news from Lady Olenna."

Leython stared back at him, his expression unreadable. "What is it, Baelor?"

"Well, first of all, the good news: despite what our spies said in their report about the destruction of the Sept of Baelor, Alerie's children and Lord Tyrell were not in fact killed in the blaze," He said, immensely relieved that he could actually say that his late sister's children had not actually been burned alive. "Apparently, Lady Olenna managed to convince the new King of the North and the Trident to rescue them by calling in a favor from a bunch of Faceless Men indebted to him to extract them and then take their place in Cersei Lannister's trial while they made their escape to White Harbor. I don't think they expected the wildfire plot that has shaken the Faith of the Seven either, but at least Margaery and Loras are still alive and currently outside the Lannister's reach."

Baelor paused to give his father a moment to think through the implications of his report but soon frowned when he realized his father only looked mildly surprised at most.

"Ah," He finally said, his tone echoing with dawning realization. "I guess that would explain the previous painting."

Baelor shivered slightly as his eyes shifted to the left corner of the room, where several new paintings were hanging from the Walls. "Which one this time?"

Lord Leython pointed to the third one on the right and the heir to House Hightower squinted his eyes as he observed. There was a large, beautiful-looking sept that was easy enough to recognize as the Sept of Baelor...especially with the green flames that were starting to surround it from the ground floor.

The faces around the blaze looked shocked and terrified, while the partially bald man he had to assume was the High Sparrow turned High Septon due to his signet of authority contrasting with his more humble clothing simply seemed stunned; like he couldn't believe his eyes. But soon, he noticed what his father must have meant. There, near the High Septon, was the clear figure of a woman wearing a crown that seemed to mix the flowery designs of House Tyrell with the stag horn regalia of House Baratheon. And yet...her face was completely blurred, unlike that of most of the figures in the large painting.

Baelor swallowed but nodded. "That does sound like an answer that fits with that omen. Seven hells, sister, you knew this was going to happen?!"

Malora finally paused from her brushes to look at him, her mismatched green and brown eyes staring at him intently. Then she sighed.

"Not as such, brother," She said, sounding distressed. "The half-forgotten echoes from my dreams were made clearer the more I committed brush to canvas, yes, but this one especially barely qualified as a warning. By the time I finished, Father decided to send ravens to warn our spies in the Crownlands so they were on alert regarding the comings and goings of the Sept of Baelor, this stunning massacre was less than half a day away. So, the distance was too great for our men to do anything meaningful, I am afraid."

Baelor shook his head, and he couldn't help but wonder that if the gods meant to send a warning to the Hightowers through his sister that one of the two most cherished Septs their House was committed to protecting would soon burn, why could they not act more swiftly so that they could actually make a difference?

Then he sighed, knowing he was out of his depth when it came to answering such questions, so, he focused back on what he could more easily deal with. "Well, what's done, is done. At least those Faceless Men were able to help Margaery, Loras, and Mace escape. According to Olenna, they are all in the North now and will stay there for some time as they try to secure an important alliance with the new...dragon...riding...king," Baelor said, trailing off as his eyes latched onto another painting on the wall. "Seriously?! You knew that Ned Stark's son was going to claim an ice dragon in advance and didn't tell us?"

Malora huffed at that. "Of course not. What do you take me for, brother? The foresight reflected in this painting first came to mind AFTER we had already received news of Robb Stark's heir chasing the remaining Lannister forces from the Riverlands with his ice dragon. If you look more carefully, that dragon is breathing frost into an army below him while a boulder, probably fired from a catapult, heads towards them from behind. So, this point in time is clearly meant to represent a battle that had not yet happened by the time I turned the vision of my greensight into this colorful painting."

Baelor froze at that, realizing what that meant on the spot, especially after he saw the Forrester sigil on a corner of the painting. "Olenna did say in her second letter that last she saw King Jon, he was heading to Ironrath, to battle the Bolton usurpers with his dragon. This must be about that."

Malora raised an eyebrow at that while scratching her chin, her face thoughtful as she glanced back at said painting. Then she nodded slowly. "You're probably right."

And just like that, she went back to ignoring him by picking her brush back up and continuing to give form to her new piece of art.

Baelor shook his head and turned back to Lord Leython. "The board has changed, father. According to Lady Olenna's letter, House Tyrell is on the verge of securing a marriage pact with the new King of the North and the Trident with Margaery. And after what Cersei Lannister did to the Sept of Baelor, the High Septon, and all the highborn and Most Devout still in it, it's only a matter of time before what's left of the Faith's leadership reorganizes and cries out for justice. Not to mention the fact that, while you may not have heard it from his high up in the Hightower, the people of Oldtown have been restless all day. In fact, reports have been reaching my ears that septs and taverns alike are filled to the brim with people loudly expressing their outrage against the Iron Throne in general and the Lannisters in particular. It's only a matter of time before they gather outside the gates of the Hightower and demand to know what we intend to do about all of this."

He sighed. "So, whatever it is you are doing with all this research into the Higher Mysteries, Father, I either need answers and advice so that I can make informed decisions about your intentions while you remain here, or I need your presence in the lower levels before the remaining Most Devout and the Archmasters of the Conclave start asking too many questions."

The elderly Lord of the Hightower took a deep breath. "You are right, Baelor. I will join you at the lower levels soon. But first, I want you to send a letter to Lady Olenna at White Harbor, expressing our relief at their survival and assuring them that we will publicly repledge our allegiance to House Tyrell at the earliest opportunity. And that if our Lord Paramount bends the knee to the new Stark King of the North and the Trident due to their new marriage pact, so will we."

Baelor bit his bottom lip at that, not all that surprised at his lord father's response in and of itself. After all, Cersei Lannister had made the notion of House Hightower bending the knee to her political suicide, even if they wanted to, which they most certainly did not. He was, however, a little surprised at the speed at which he agreed to pledge their swords to the new king rising in the North.

"While I understand the feeling, father...are you sure?" He asked, hesitating. "What's left of the Faith's leadership in the Starry Sept may not take kindly to our House pledging itself to a king that follows the Old Gods."

Lord Leython nodded firmly, his eyes determined. "That horse has already left the stable. We cannot bend the knee to the Lannisters in the current political climate and Stannis Baratheon died in battle against the Boltons not that long ago. This means that right now, the acknowledged king of the North and the Trident is the best alternative we can follow, especially with the increasing calls of people of Oldtown clamoring for justice."

"Besides," He went on, "it's not like the High Septons of the past have not made concessions to kings ruling over us who believed in practices most Andals didn't, like ****, as long as the gods had deemed it fit for them to claim the supernatural might of dragons to back up their reign. King Jon will certainly benefit from that precedent. So, if we help the Tyrells guarantee a smooth transition of authority for the Reach from the Iron Throne to Stark leadership, I believe we will be able to find a way to quell the misgivings of the Most Devout about having an overlord from another religion, at least if we play our pieces on the board well enough. "

"And how exactly will we be able to play those pieces right, father?" Baelor pressed. "They respect our authority as mediators among the highborn, true, and I know they will be demanding justice against House Lannister over what the new usurper of the Iron Throne did to their ranks and the Faith Militant, but I can't imagine them not seeing us bending the knee to King Jon as an insult, if not at first, then after Cersei Lannister has been deposed. Besides...there are already enough rumors that have circulated out of the Hightower about Malora turning her back on the Seven and embracing the Old Gods due to the powers she inherited from our mother's side of the family and the rumors our servants have spread," He reminded them. "Seven hells, some even call her Malora the Mad Maid when they think we can't hear! Do you really want to add more kindling to those fires with this course of action?"

Malora chuckled at his choice of words and stopped her careful strokes just enough to look back at him. "Why, brother, if I didn't know any better, I would say that you sound a little bit jealous that, for whatever reason, I ended up taking more after our ancestors from House Crane than Allerie or you. But I do know better, so no harm is done."

Baelor sighed in exasperation and waved a hand at her linen collection of omens drenched in colorful oils spread around the chambers. "How exactly do you manage to keep your wits about you with this ancient power pervading your every sleep, I will never know. It's hard enough to deal with the volatile present when you are stuck with it and only it. But living with one foot ahead of most and feeling the borders of time blur before you like mist in the sea? The thought alone makes me dizzy, and I really don't understand how you do it."

Malora shrugged at his response, but her expression had lost some of its amusement. "Just as one's gaze can adjust to the dark the more you spend in its shadow, so can your third eye adapt to the fog that is the uncertainty of the future if you are **** to deal with it for long enough."

He looked at his sister with a raised eyebrow, not just because of her explanation but because of the precise turn of phrase she had used. "Third eye?" He asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

His eldest sister pursued her lips, a bitter ember of disappointment illuminated in her gaze. "Forget it. It doesn't matter anymore, and I don't want to attract the attention of the wrong raven again by saying his name loudly while we are all standing in a chamber higher up into the sky than the Wall itself."

Baelor blinked rapidly at that before shaking his head, deciding on the spot that it might be better not to ask. But before he could open his mouth again later, his father motioned for him to come closer. Frowning ever so slightly, he did just that and walked toward his desk and stared at him. Leyton rubbed his eyes, looking more than a little exhausted, yet his gaze seemed resolute.

"I understand your concerns, son," The Lord of Oldtown said. "And I can see why, from your perspective, this course of action may seem perhaps useful in the short term but dangerously reckless in the long term. But you are right, given the circumstances, it is time you knew more about what your eldest sister and I have been trying to accomplish lately. Perhaps that will alleviate some of your fears."

Baelor took a deep breath. "Very well then; I am listening."

And so his father began. He told him that a little over a moon's turn past, Malora visions had suddenly started growing more vivid, frequent, and detailed than ever while she was sleeping in her chambers that were, as she liked to remind him, located higher than the height of the Wall itself. She wasn't entirely sure why this happened, but she was able to see a vision that led her to believe the source behind it was, in fact, all the way north in the Wall itself. More importantly, she had informed her father that she could practically feel as if an earthquake had shaken across the landscape of the future, reforming its geographical boundaries and the possibilities of everything in it.

In fact, she was also abruptly filled with a sense of conviction that the last few paintings she had made in response to less frequent visions of the past were no longer going to take place, implying that this major event, whatever it was, was so relevant that it had "altered the course of the river of time and its various tributaries" that the rare few sorcerers capable of glimpsing visions from its reflection, and with it, the future itself.

Baelor was wide-eyed as he listened to his father's explanations, trying to make sense of the esoteric language he was using while Malora kept using her brush out of the corner of his eye. Lord Leython went on, explaining that he had grown curious enough by all Malora had shared with him that he had decided to help her try to interpret her new succession of dreams of foresight translated into paintings. Moreover, he was able to use his special connections with the Citadel and the Archmaester Seneschal of the year, Theobald, to gather tomes and scrolls from their specialized vault of the Higher Mysteries so that he could compare notes with old records of perceived prophecies and perhaps gain some insight into the way Malora's magical talents worked in order to get a firmer understanding on her gifts, why was she being affected by this baffling "prophetic quake" so heavily, and what could that magical tremor even mean.

"And what were your conclusions?" The heir to House Hightower finally asked when his father paused for breath.

At that, his father was silent for a long moment and exchanged a glance with his sister, who had stopped her artistic pursuits enough to look at them.

"Among other things, that somehow, someway, this new king of the North and the Trident is at the center of this confluence of omens," He finally replied. "And that for the first time since the Doom of Valyria, the tides of magic are truly rising once again."

"And speaking of Old Valyria," Malora chimed in, her face abruptly shifting to amusement. "Why don't you look at the painting hanging on the wall behind me? The second one to the right facing that corner, that is."

Baelor raised an eyebrow but at his father's insistent nods, he did as asked, walking in the direction indicated. The heir blinked once, incomprehensibly. Then twice as his eyes centered on the sword itself.

And then he gasped when the implications sunk in.

Baelor took a step closer to the painting, his breath catching in his throat as he processed what he was seeing. The green blade of Vigilance—the long-lost ancestral Valyrian steel sword of House Hightower—gleamed brightly in the painting, its distinct emerald hue unmistakable. The hilt was decorated with the intricate design he had only read about in old texts: the large emerald at the pommel and the crossguard shaped like the Hightower itself, with Targaryen dragon claws clutching rubies added during the Dance of the Dragons. It was a sight he had never seen before but recognized instantly due to the specific changes made to it before it was lost during the Tumbleton chaos.

But that wasn't the most shocking part.

The sword was pointed down to the ground, held firmly in his hands as he knelt, bent knee touching the earth, in a gesture of submission and fealty before a black-haired young man mounted atop a towering ice dragon. The resemblance to King Jon Stark from the other painting and the resemblance of the young man himself to Ned Stark was unmistakable.

He gasped as the implications of the scene sank in. "Is this...what I think it is?" He asked, his voice low and trembling with disbelief.

"Yes," Leyton Hightower replied calmly from behind him. "That is you, my son, kneeling before the new King of the North and the Trident, laying our ancestral blade, Vigilance, at his feet."

Baelor turned around sharply, eyes wide, his mind reeling. "But how?! Vigilance was lost during the Dance of the Dragons! Lord Ormund died wielding it at the First Battle of Tumbleton, and no one has seen it since. Even the written records from that time suggested it was stolen or lost forever in the chaos. How could it...?"

"Appear again?" Malora finished for him, a slight smirk growing slowly on her lips as she laid her brush down. "Visions of the future are rarely clear, Baelor. But this one..." She gestured to the painting. "This one was unusually precise as if the hand of fate itself wanted me to see it."

Baelor stared at his sister, his disbelief palpable. "But if this is a vision of the future, it means we will recover Vigilance? It means...I will kneel to King Jon and offer our House loyalty in person?" His voice faltered at the enormity of the revelation.

Leyton stood, walking slowly toward his son, his expression serious. "Yes, it does, Baelor. And that is another why I believe supporting Jon Stark is the right course for our House. This vision, this omen, shows our path, one that has been obscured for generations." He paused, his voice gaining weight. "The return of Vigilance is more than just the recovery of a lost family heirloom. It is a symbol of something greater, forged by deed and fed by loyalty. Like I said, the tides of magic are rising again, and the gods, old and new, are stirring. It means something...more is afoot. And we must stand ready."

Baelor turned back to the painting, his hand instinctively reaching toward the blade depicted there. "But Vigilance," He whispered. "The sword was altered, changed by our House before it was lost. The dragon claws on the crossguard, the rubies...those were added by Lord Ormund during the Dance to symbolize our family's loyalty to the Green Faction of the Targaryens. It became a symbol of our House's ambition, our desire to stand alongside House Targaryen as equals...and look what it brought us."

Malora chuckled softly while shrugging, as she moved to stand beside him. "Ah, yes, Vigilance became a symbol of our hubris as much as our power. But the blade itself...it remains unchanged over time. It was forged by the greatest Valyrian smiths, and even though our ancestors altered its appearance, its core remains strong. Just as our House has endured, despite the mistakes of the past."

Baelor hesitated. "But if this vision is true, then our House will kneel to another king—this time, not a Targaryen, but a Stark that follows gods foreign to our own. Ice Dragon or not, what does that say about us, Malora, and our place in the world? And how will that be perceived by our bannermen and the Faith?"

His sister stared at him straight in the eyes.

"It says that we are survivors, brother," Malora said, her mismatched eyes glinting. "It says that we know when to rise and when to bend. We will regain our sword, and increase our power, our influence, but to get there, we must choose our alliances wisely. That is what the painting reveals, Baelor. I don't have all the answers even with the pieces that my dreams have revealed of what lies ahead, but I know in my bones that somehow, someway, King Jon is the key to a better future for our family, just as he is somehow the key to the steady rise of magic across the world."

Baelor shook his head, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of revelations. His father had always been a practical man, a leader more interested in trade and knowledge than in grand schemes of power. Yet now, here he was, relying on his sister's visions and aligning himself with a northern king—a man he had never met and did not know. Some Targaryen dragon riding kings had gone mad with power before. Could they be certain that this King Jon would not follow that same road if they knew little and less about the content of his character from first-hand experience?

And for what? The recovery of a blade that had been lost for over a century?

"What in the seven hells are we supposed to make of this?" Baelor muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

Leyton, however, placed a hand on his son's shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. "We are supposed to see this for what it is, Baelor. An opportunity. The realm is changing, and we must change with it. House Hightower has always been cautious, yes, but we have never shied away from making bold moves when necessary. The gods have shown us a new path, and we must be ready to walk it if our boldness is to be rewarded in time."

Baelor looked at his father, torn between his loyalty to his House and the fear that they were repeating the same mistakes that had nearly brought them to ruin over a century ago. He glanced back at the painting, at the image of himself kneeling before the new king, offering Vigilance.

"This is what you believe?" He felt the need to ask, his voice barely above a whisper. "That by supporting King Jon, we will regain our lost blade and secure our future?"

Malora’s voice was soft but resolute. "I do. I swear to all the Old Gods and the New that I do."

Baelor stared at her intently before swallowing hard, the weight of his family's legacy pressing down on him. The green-bladed sword, once a beacon of their power, had been lost in their ambition. Now, it seemed, it was calling to them once more.

"I just hope that, this time," He said softly, "we don't lose ourselves along the way."

At that response, his father took a deep breath but then he frowned, noticing the barest hints of a smirk at the corners of his lips.

"If it helps, my son," Lord Leyton said, "you do not have to worry all that much about how the Most Devout will respond to our future allegiance to House Stark because there is something else you do not know yet."

Baelor narrowed his eyes at that slightly. "And what would that be?"

"Well, your sister's painted visions this past month brought something to my attention as I decided to verify more records with our high-ranking contacts from the Citadel," He replied. "And once made public, it will completely change the game of thrones while making things so much easier for Jon Stark's relationship with the Most Devout of the Reach that he will certainly _want _to reward us for our diplomatic service."

Baelor raised an eyebrow at his choice of words but before he could ask what he meant, he saw Malora smile, obviously pleased with herself as she lowered her brush.

"And...it is finished," She said with conviction as she stared approvingly at the canvas before her.

His father was distracted by that and moved immediately to examine the new omens in the oil. So, he sighed and shrugged.

"When in Valyria, do as the Valyrians do," He thought to himself as he remembered the old saying before getting closer to the painting.

And that was when he started blinking rapidly.

"Are those...mammoths?" He asked slowly.

King Jon stepped into the dim, cold stone corridor of the Ironrath prison, his boots echoing softly against the hard floor. The torches on the walls flickered, casting elongated shadows that danced with the tension in the air. Sansa walked beside him, her expression a mask of controlled resolve, while Lady Barbrey Dustin moved to his left, her sharp gaze fixed ahead, a storm of emotions clearly swirling behind her steely composure as the steps took them closer and closer to their destination.

As they approached Ramsay’s cell, Jon’s thoughts lingered on the temptation of his powers. A simple touch of godly will when aligned with something regarding one of his relatives, and Ramsay would have **** but to bear the truth, confessing every dark deed he’d committed, down to the last twisted thought. It would be so easy, so swift.

Yet...something held him back. A bigger part of him wanted to see what Ramsay would do when pressed—not by the weight of godhood, but by the **** of his own guilt, fear, and pride. So, he decided to give him a chance to confess at first, though he kept the possibility of using his powers firmly in reserve. Ramsay Bolton deserved no mercy while he remained in their world but Jon would rather the answers come directly from him, uncoerced, if only to grant Lady Barbrey the satisfaction of seeing her nephew's alleged killer humbled by the weight of his own impotence as the consequences of his actions beset him from all sides.

And if any other god decided to grant him some measure of mercy as he stands judgment in an afterlife for whatever reason...well, that will be between whichever deity chooses to greet him and the sadistic murderer. But Jon already made the choice after their victory not to intervene with whatever may happen to Ramsay's soul after he passess the sentence on their mortal world. He simply hasn't been a god long enough or learned enough of the inner workings of the afterlife and how the other deities from his world and beyond may feel about him interfering on such matters as young divinity to feel like he could make an informed ruling on matters of eternity.

"And honestly," He thought to himself with a mild frown, "even after I come to learn more of it all eventually, I am not sure I will ever feel completely comfortable with it. Passing judgment to end the short lives of condemned men is hard enough as it is...as it should be."

As they reached the cell, the faint clinking of chains grew louder, and there he was: Ramsay Bolton, restrained to a chair with his wrists bound tightly in heavy iron shackles. The once-arrogant smirk he had worn through his reign of terror was gone, replaced with a flicker of unease as his pale blue eyes took in the trio before him. His gaze lingered briefly on Jon, then flickered to Sansa—her intense, unforgiving stare giving him pause as he ever so slightly flinched—and finally settled on Lady Barbrey. His brow furrowed, a shadow of concern creeping over his features.

“Well,” Barbrey said, her voice sharp, breaking the silence like a blade slicing through flesh while her lips curled into a smirk. “I had given up hope on getting to see the mighty Ramsay Bolton in chains...until recently, that is. I must say, it’s a rather satisfying sight.”

Ramsay’s expression hardened, but he didn’t retort. His jaw clenched as he glanced from Barbrey to Jon. “What brings you here? And what do you want?” He asked, his voice quiet but wary.

Barbrey’s eyes narrowed, and she took another step closer to the iron bars, her fists clenched at her sides. “You know damn well what I want,” She spat. “I want the truth. About Domeric.”

Jon stepped forward then, his presence looming over the defeated man. His voice was steady, and firm. “It occurs to me that it might do your soul some good to confess,” He said, the words laden with the authority that had been thrust upon him. “The judgment of the gods draws near, Ramsay and if I were you, I would like to do everything in my limited power to get a reduced sentence.”

The implication in Jon’s tone wasn’t lost on Ramsay, and his lips pressed into a thin line as he tried to hold Jon’s gaze. But then his attention shifted back to Sansa, who stood silent and still, her icy stare boring into him. Ramsay’s defiance faltered under her gaze, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of her presence and the memories of his actions made him think better of whatever he had been about to say.

He swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat as he hesitated. Then, with a sharp exhale, he sighed heavily. “Fine,” He muttered, his tone bitter. “I’ll confess.”

Barbrey stiffened, but she didn’t interrupt. Jon remained silent, his dark eyes locked on Ramsay, waiting.

“I poisoned Domeric,” Ramsay began, his voice flat, detached. “Widow’s Blood. A slow poison. It shuts down the bladder and bowels first, letting the body’s own toxins kill you over the next couple of days or so. It’s not quick, but it’s effective.”

Lady Barbrey inhaled sharply, her composure cracking for a brief moment as she took in his words. Jon could feel the tremor of restrained rage and grief radiating from her body's language, but she remained composed for the most part.

“Why?” She asked, her voice low, trembling with the weight of her emotions. “Why would you do that? Why become a kinslayer?”

Ramsay’s expression twisted into something almost ****, his lips curling in discomfort. He averted his eyes, staring at the damp stone floor. “You know why,” He muttered.

Barbrey’s voice sharpened. “Yes,” She hissed, “but for my late sister’s sake, I want to hear it from your own mouth.”

The room fell into a tense silence, the air thick with anticipation. Jon glanced at Sansa, considering for a fleeting moment whether to give Ramsay’s pride a little divine nudge. But before he could act, Ramsay sighed heavily, his defiance crumbling under the weight of Barbrey’s demand and the magnitude of his situation.

He raised his gaze to meet hers, his pale blue eyes dull and exhausted. “Because I wanted no rivals,” He said bluntly. “I wanted the Dreadfort for myself. Domeric wanted a brother, but I didn’t. Not one who could take what was mine.”

Lady Barbrey’s jaw clenched, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, and nodded slowly. “You’ll answer for this,” She said, her voice shaking with barely restrained fury. “To me, to the North, and to the gods. Justice will be the last thing you see before the cold claims you.”

Ramsay said nothing, his gaze falling back to the floor as silence descended over the room once more. Jon took a steady breath, his gaze fixed on the slumped figure of Ramsay Bolton. The quiet between them was tense, broken only by the occasional clink of chains as Ramsay shifted uncomfortably in his bindings. Finally, the secret God-King stepped forward, his voice even and firm.

“In a quarter of an hour, the guards will come for you,” He said, stating facts and dictating terms. “You will be brought out to face justice before the people you’ve wronged, and the gods you’ve defied. Until then, I’ll leave you to make your peace with them...if they’ll hear you.”

Ramsay didn’t respond. His head remained bowed, and for a fleeting moment, Jon wondered if the man was even capable of grasping the magnitude of the crimes he had committed; all the pain and damage he had caused with a smile. But whatever thoughts lingered in Ramsay’s mind now, Jon no longer cared to delve deeper. His role as king was clear: justice must be done. Everything that comes to him after that will be another god's problem and responsibility.

Jon turned to Lady Barbrey, her posture still rigid with restrained fury and sorrow. “Lady Barbrey,” He said softly, his voice taking on a gentler edge. “I’m sorry for your loss. Now that we know the full truth, I hope it offers some measure of closure, even if it can't bring Domeric back.”

Barbrey’s lips pressed into a thin line, and her expression softened slightly. She inhaled deeply, nodding once in acknowledgment. “It does,” She murmured, her voice quieter than it had been moments ago.

Jon gestured toward the exit of the prison. “Walk with me,” He insisted, his voice soft but clear. “There’s something I wish to discuss with you—about Ramsay’s execution. You’ve supported me in securing Torrhen’s Square in my name, and I want to honor that by offering you a place of distinction during the proceedings. And if you’re so inclined, I’d like to make sure your thirst for justice is satisfied.”

Barbrey’s eyes widened at his words, a glimmer of surprise breaking through her otherwise composed exterior. But almost as quickly, a fierce smirk spread across her face. She inclined her head toward Jon and took a step forward, her movements purposeful. “It would be my honor, Your Grace,” She said, her voice laced with iron resolve. “Please, tell me more.”

Jon gave a faint smile at her response, sensing the fire of determination behind her words. But before he followed her, his gaze flickered to Sansa. She stood silent and unmoving, her blue eyes fixed unwaveringly on the defeated man chained before her. Jon immediately understood and this time, she didn’t need to say anything verbally or through their mental conversations; her presence alone carried the weight of her thoughts.

Jon felt a pang of sadness for the pain she’d endured at Ramsay’s hands, but also a swell of pride for the strength she now carried. She deserved this moment, a final memory of her triumph over her tormentor so that the fear she had experienced because of him for so long would have no chance to resurface...to remind her mind and her instincts that learned to reel while in his presence that he will never be able to hurt her again.

"Might as well indeed," Jon thought to himself as he gave her a small, solemn nod; a sad smile gracing his lips before turning to follow Lady Barbrey.

As the King in the North and the Trident stepped through the doorway, his footfalls echoing against the stone, he left the broken man behind to face the final private conversation of his life. And with him, he left Sansa Stark, the woman who had once been his victim—but now stood victorious, poised to look her tormentor in the eye one last time.

Margaery Tyrell jolted awake, her breath quickening as the remnants of her dream clung to her tightly. She blinked rapidly, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of the carriage. And as her heart raced, she recalled the vivid scenes that had unfolded during her tortured rest.

In her sleep, she had been soaring through the clouds atop Jon's Ice Dragon, Snowfyre. The exhilaration of flight had filled her, the cold wind whipping her hair as she gripped the dragon's icy scales. But as she looked down, the familiar landscape of the Reach unfolded beneath her, and she remembered where Snowfyre was taking her—to Oldtown, upon her urgent request to Jon. He had agreed, a testament to his trust and affection, and she had felt touched by his willingness to grant such a favor.

The dream shifted abruptly, like fog in the sea that was parting ways to uncover new sights, as she landed outside the gates of Oldtown. Her heart pounding, she disembarked from Snowfyre and ran towards the Hightower, the towering structure looming ever closer. The urgency was palpable, each step fueled by a mix of dread and determination.

Reaching the base of the Hightower, she found her uncle Baelor waiting, his expression a mix of surprise and concern. "Where is my mother?" She had asked breathlessly, her voice thick with worry.

Baelor's face had been a mask of sadness as he motioned for her to follow. Together, they descended the spiraling stairs to the lower levels of the Hightower. With each step-down, a sense of dread grew within her, a heavy stone settling in her stomach.

Finally, they reached the Hightower family crypt, a somber, sacred place that echoed with the whispers of the past. Baelor pointed silently towards a new tombstone, elegantly carved but unmistakably fresh. Margaery's breath caught in her throat as she read the name: Allerie Tyrell, née Hightower.

She had felt her knees buckle as the reality of her mother's passing crashed over her. Collapsing before the grave, tears streamed down her cheeks as she whispered apologies and regrets, her fingers tracing the cold, hard letters of her mother's name.

"I am sorry," She had cried into the stillness of the crypt. "I wanted to come to Oldtown as fast as I could when I heard of the complications with your pregnancy. But I was assured that, with you back home, the maesters would ensure your well-being. So, I stayed put on Highgarden, continuing with my lessons with grandmother...and...and..." She trailed off, her throat swelling with thick layers of emotion.

As Margaery's tears fell to the floor, she suddenly felt the clattering of wings enter the crypt and a raven perched itself atop her mother's statue. Her first instinct was to shoo the bird away, but as she looked up, the winged creature drew her attention to an object she hadn't noticed before—a large, ornate mirror placed conspicuously behind the statue of her mother. Despite her grief, the Rose of Highgarden slowly rose to her feet, feeling the sudden urge to approach it.

And, as she did so, Margaery blinked once, then twice, and soon realized that the reflection that greeted her was not just her own but also a poignant reminder of her past self. She saw a younger form of herself, from the time shortly after her mother's ****, when grief had first carved deep lines of sorrow into her youthful face.

And back in the days when her highest ambition was not just to become a queen, but THE queen...

The sight was disorienting, blurring the lines between her past and present. But more than that, she could not help but hear a voice whispering from deep inside her mind, now that she was older and had become more familiar with the cost of overreaching ambition. "Was it worth it?" The words asked, reverberating inside herself and across the crypt.

As she stared, transfixed by the image of her younger self, she felt a hand gently rest upon her shoulder; with the rest of their figure out of sight of the mirror. Expecting to see Baelor beside her, Margaery turned, only to freeze at the sight of her aunt Malora standing there instead. Malora’s presence was as sudden as it was unsettling, not just by her unexpected appearance but by the third eye vividly open on her forehead...a gape-worthy sight if there ever was one that reminded her of the rumors she had heard that painted her aunt as a witch of some sort, thereby making her swallow on reflex.

"Hmm...the seed within you is larger than in Baelor or that it ever was within your mother but it also has not yet germinated," She mused. "A more direct approach will be needed to nurture your potential," Malora mused, her gaze intense and probing as if she could see beyond the mirror and the walls behind it.

Margaery's heart raced, her mind reeling from the cryptic message. The third eye blinked rapidly, and Malora continued, her voice gaining a contemplative depth, "And yet I see a powerful influence taking note of that, somewhere in the North. I will have to make another painting to better make sense of the details, but for now, take heed, niece. The closer you intertwine your path with this new King in the North, the harder it will be to walk away from your first steps into a larger world. For better...and for worse."

Before Margaery could respond, a sharp, distinct sound—a raven's caw—echoed through the crypt. And yet she was able to tell that, somehow, the squeaking, bestial sound did not come from the raven behind her but from Malora's own mouth, causing her to startle herself awake.

Taking a deep breath, Margaery rubbed her temples, trying to dispel the lingering images of the dream. She glanced out the window, noting the landscape passing by as they neared their destination with each passing minute. She had dreamed about her mother's **** before, true, but never like this. And never had her dreams been so vivid and terrifying at the same time...or felt like omens of something more.

Her first instinct was to dismiss the ridiculous notions that her mind was suddenly coming up with, but after being exposed to magic and wonder these past few days, it was harder than she expected. She also remembered her recent prayers, hoping for signs after her faith was shaken in the aftermath of Cersei's wildfire massacre of those inside the Sept of Baelor. And so, she couldn't help but ponder on the mysterious words of her aunt, the implications of the various details in her dream...and the enigmatic new king in the North that Margaery was growing to believe she could learn to love deeply.

And through it all, she could not quiet the words that had emerged from the depths of her mind after she had noticed the window into her past that was that mirror of her dreams.

"Was. It. Worth. It?" The insistent echo had asked.

Margaery bit her lips as she considered the words again in reflective silence. And now, as the carriage took her closer and closer to Jon and Sansa, the deposed queen felt that she had an answer—if she was honest with herself.

And if she was also honest with what she wanted now, out of life.

S

Sansa stared at Ramsay as the footsteps faded, thinking back on his confession of fratricide, and scowled, shaking her head in the process. "You know, if a witch or something had shown me a vision before I first left for King's Landing that convinced me that I would have found myself married to such a bloodstained piece of treacherous filth...and that this would be AFTER I had to endure a betrothal with that vicious, usurping "Lannister", I probably would have sworn off all hopes and attempts of romance right then and there; fearing the possibilities of what might go wrong a lot more than I would have been willing to trust in my hopes of what could go right." She admitted.

Then she inhaled deeply and shook her head. "And yet...now I know in my heart that if that had been my reaction, I would have come to regret it in time because that would also mean that I would never have given Jon the chance to earn my love."

Ramsay stared at her intently but unlike the last time she professed her love for her wonderful half-brother, he didn't fly into a jealous rage or showered her with insults that would have done nothing but shrug off of her.

It was as she expected. He hadn't bothered to vex them by trying to say anything in front of Lady Barbrey either, so he was either too resigned to care or the sadist had simply determined that offending the god that was going to execute him any further might not be in his soul's best interest. After all, Jon had used his powers to open his eyes to the truth, and that must have made him worry like mad as never before, even if he didn't want to admit it.

Sansa almost scoffed at the thought. It was all too little, too late as far as she was concerned but in the end, it wasn't her call to make. So, she settled for finishing her train of thought.

"That's why," She went on, her red mane caressing her shoulders as she tilted her head, "when I first considered the idea of asking my beloved brother to use his new godly powers to send a warning to my younger self in the past, I ended up discarding it. True, from what he told me after there were other complicated problems with that that also made him wary to mess with time but all the same, I came to realize something important: for all that I suffered at your hands and those of others, my past has made me who I am today. And who I am today is someone I can be happy to be proud of, compared to when I think back on who I used to be."

Ramsay gave a long, suffering sigh and bit his bottom lip at that. "Would you believe me if I said I am sorry for what I did you?"

She actually rolled her eyes at that. "I would believe that even now you are hoping to lessen the suffering that surely lies ahead of you. But no, I wouldn't believe you truly mean it."

Ramsay actually looked fearful at last, and he in fact swallowed. "What will your godly brother do to me?" He asked, the suspense apparently becoming unbearable.

"He will end your life with an execution method of my choosing, I already told you that," She spat.

"Oh for the love of..." Ramsay trailed off with a wince and then opened his mouth again. "I mean, what will he do to my soul after my body is dead? What sort of creative vengeance does he have in store for me to make me suffer for eternity after everything I put you all through? Come on, just put me out of his misery and just get it over with!"

Sansa took a step forward and once she got closer to the cell, she locked her gaze with him, making sure he could see her blue eyes clearly before she responded.

"Jon. Will. Do. Nothing. To. Your. Soul." She said, stressing her words for emphasis. "A new god he may be, but he decided not to interfere with the natural journey of your spirit will take after ****. Whatever happens to you next and wherever it is you end up...that will be up to whoever ends up judging you on the other side."

Ramsay gaped at her in disbelief. "Are you kidding me? He has a golden opportunity and the means to **** himself against me however he wants and he will do nothing?" He asked, sounding beyond scandalized. "Argh, how the hell did the North end up gaining a Stark god that defeated me, and yet he is still incredibly weak? It's infuriating and insulting and..."

Sansa clenched her lower jaw at his words, glaring at him for a long moment. But by the time he stopped rambling, she had composed herself and actually smiled.

After all, she had finally realized this was the perfect moment to get something really important off her chest.

"Before you die and leave our lives forever, Ramsay Bolton, I am going to tell you a secret," Sansa remarked. "A secret I hold in the highest esteem."

He frowned at her, his eyes suddenly wary. She supposed that was to be expected. After all, the last time she told him she was going to tell him a major secret, he ended up learning one of his enemies was a hidden god. But it wasn't like he was in any position to go anywhere to avoid her so, she simply pressed on.

"There is another reason I discarded the idea of asking my brother to alter the past somehow in order to avoid the pain I went through since I first left my home," She recognized. "A realization I made weeks ago that did wonders to soothe me in every way that mattered. And that was the growing realization that the road I have walked and endured since then also led me to the place I find myself delighted to be: in the loving arms of an honorable man who, despite the immense power he could plausibly have over me, I know in my heart I can trust implicitly."

At that, Ramsay blinked rapidly, as if he was trying to forcibly remove the confusion from his eyes. Sansa chuckled at that, amused at being able to besiege him with sheer disbelief through such a rare and powerful truth.

So, she nodded. "Yes, you heard me correctly. He may have become my family's god for reasons outside his control and he may have powers I cannot truly fathom. And yes, if he wanted to, he could easily make it so I would be far more defenseless against him than even you were ever able to manage," Sansa acknowledged, her smile never waning. "Yet, I have come to know him, both before and after his ascension. And by now, I understand with perfect clarity that I will never, ever, have to fear anything like that from him. "

Sansa allowed herself to sigh in contentment before her old tormentor. "My mind and my body will always be my own the entire time I am with my honorable beloved. And to have every reason to believe that...despite all the power he has over me and the world around us if he were so inclined...is the most priceless gift I have ever been blessed with," She admitted, chocking up a bit as she finally allowed herself to say the words she had been holding for so long. "I know he loves me deeply but more than that, he respects me as my own person. He beams at me with pride as my successes mount and holds me in his arms to comfort me when I have reason to weep and come undone. To be loved and trusted by such a powerful man and feel in the very depths of my soul that I can trust him with everything that makes me me...it has filled me with hope like never before for what the rest of my path might hold."

She allowed herself to shed some tears of joy but before long, she lifted her gaze and looked at him with real pity for...the first time, really. "And all of that, Ramsay Bolton, makes Jon the strongest man I have ever known. The fact you mistake him as weak says more about your own failings than of his."

Ramsay held her gaze but it was clear that he did not know how to respond to that. He opened his mouth more than once as if to retort but every time, he seemed to think better of his response and his voice died his throat. So, Sansa simply shook her head and turned her back.

"Wait...wait!" Ramsay suddenly shouted as she walked away.

She ignored every one of his calls. For now that she had said her piece, she had nothing left to say to him. She had won and he knew it.

And to the victor goes the spoils..

A/N: Well, this was definitely my longest chapter yet, so I hope that makes up a bit for the long wait since the last one. As I said, part of the next one is already done, and I am really excited to get the final lap of this arc over with now that I have finished with all the build-up leading to this moment, so I will be sure to continue at the earliest opportunity.

Still, if that doesn't convince you, feel free to yell at me in the comments if I don't have the next one ready by this time next week. While I had a lot working against me in the last few months leading to this unplanned hiatus, I did leave you hanging after saying it shouldn't take more than a couple of weeks to get back at it in my last update, so I will understand if you are a bit skeptical.

Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this. As always, if you have any questions about the chapter you wish to ask of me, just let me know and I will provide an answer.

Thank you for the continued support, everyone. Again, sorry for the unplanned delay, and until next time, see ya!