The old woman moves through the dense Forrest surrounding Crakehall with surprising swiftness. There is no one around to notice. These woods are eerily empty; some say haunted by those who died during the Batlle of Crakehall. When the Dothraki horde chased the last Lannister forces out of the Westerlands, an entire generation died. At the local tavern, villagers in their cups still talked about how the smoke of the funeral pyres blocked out the Sun. House Crakehall sided with the Lannisters and died or fled. No amount of scrubbing or scouring could get the blood of poor Lady Crakehall and her loyal servants from Crakehall’s ancient stone floors. Eventually, the Castle was abandoned. Some villagers claim to still hear the dying screams of Lady Crakehall and her children when they wander too close to the Castle. Most try to stay far away from such angry ghosts.
But this old woman does not fear ghosts.
Dany and Yara cuddle in the overstuffed, dreadfully comfortable, extremely difficult to leave Royal featherbed. Dany prods her sleepy wife awake.
“The sun has risen.”
“Yes, it does that.”
“And it’s time to wake up.”
“I am awake.”
“You don’t look awake.”
“I’m not conversating in my sleep, am I?”
Yara opens her left eye ever so slightly and peers at her lovely, perpetually motivated wife with affectionate irritation. “I’m up, I’m up.”
Dany can’t help but laugh at Yara’s expression.“Now you look like Drogon.”
“I’m about to act like Drogon,” Yara threatens, laughing along. She pulls Dany into a mock headlock that deepens into a kiss. All thoughts of leaving their makeshift dragon nest are forgotten for an hour when the Queens’ servants began knocking rather insistently at the door.