Year 300 AC
Skagos
The Black Betha groaned as it dropped anchor beneath towering cliffs, the haze wrapping around Ser Davos Seaworth's brine-hardened mantle like an unwelcome embrace. At his side, Marlon Manderly peered at the stony inlet, his exhalations creating clouds in the biting cold.
"Peculiar waters, these," Davos commented, his fingers lingering on his knife's handle. "Noticed dark forms moving under the surface as we neared. No marine creature I've encountered before."
Marlon made a gruff sound. "Skagos harbors nothing so gentle as fish. Only remnants and monsters."
Before Davos could offer a response, shapes materialized from the mist—fifteen Skagosi tribesmen, their visages partially concealed under hoods made of tangled pelts. Davos noted that the tribesmen gripped weapons fashioned from dragonglass. What an unusual selection, he considered.
A Skagosi warrior broke from the formation, striding urgently toward them with his dragonglass spear held at the ready. His face, half-hidden beneath matted furs, bore the weathered lines of a man who had witnessed terrors.
"Get away from the water now!" he commanded in the Common Tongue, his accent thick but words unmistakable. "Dead things in the water, you drawn them to shore!"
"What are you speaking of?" Davos asked in bewilderment. Davos' confusion lasted only heartbeats. Behind him came a sound that raised the hairs on the back of his neck—water sloshing against the rocky beach, but with an unnatural rhythm that spoke of purpose rather than tide. The sloshing transformed into low, hollow groans that seemed to emanate from throats that should not be capable of sound.
When he turned, Davos beheld the most horrifying sight of his life. From the mist-shrouded waters, skeletal forms emerged—their bones gleaming wet and dark, scraps of rotted flesh still clinging to some while others were picked clean by sea creatures. Their eye sockets held an unnatural blue glow that pierced through the fog. The dead crawled from the shallows on broken limbs, water pouring from empty rib cages as they dragged themselves toward the living with single-minded purpose.
Davos gripped the hilt of his blade tightly as the soldiers surrounding him cried out in horror, frantically reaching for their weapons. His years at sea had prepared him for storms, pirates, and starvation—but nothing had readied him for the dead rising from the depths.
Before Davos could comprehend what was happening, the Skagosi tribesmen surged forward from the rear, hurling their extra dragonglass armaments toward him and the Manderly soldiers.
"Take these obsidian blades!" they bellowed, their voices harsh with urgency. "The steel won't save you! Only dragonglass will stop them! Fight with these if you want to live!"
The Skagosi warriors charged forward first, meeting the risen corpses with savage ferocity. Davos found his voice through the terror gripping his chest.
"Fight, damn you all!" he roared at the paralyzed Manderly men, who stood frozen in horror. His command finally broke their trance, and they lurched into action, clutching their unfamiliar dragonglass weapons with trembling hands.
The battle erupted around him, a chaotic dance of the living versus the dead. Though their enemy outnumbered them, the obsidian blades proved devastatingly effective. Davos managed to dispatch a single wight, his movements clumsy and desperate compared to the practiced efficiency of the others.
When the final corpse collapsed, Davos surveyed the aftermath with a smuggler's calculating eye. Two Manderly soldiers lay motionless among the truly dead. He sheathed his weapon with disgust, painfully aware of his inadequacy in combat. Years commanding ships hadn't prepared him for this kind of butchery. The sea had been his battlefield; on land, among warriors, he was little better than a novice.
When the last body fell, Davos wiped his blade and approached the Skagosi clansman who had shouted the warning about the water.
"Seven hells," Davos said, his voice hoarse. "What manner of nightmare was that? What were those... things?"
The wild-looking islander regarded him with dark, knowing eyes. "Wights. The walking dead. Foot soldiers of the Others who come to add more corpses to their army."
"The Others?" Davos repeated, the old northern tales suddenly feeling far too real. "I thought they were just stories to frighten children."
"No stories," the man said grimly. "I am Tharvor of Clan Crowbane. Now who are you outlanders, and what brings you to Skagos where you clearly don't belong?"
Davos straightened himself. "I am Davos Seaworth, Hand to King Stannis Baratheon. These men serve House Manderly of White Harbor." He saw no point in deception. "I've come for Rickon Stark, the youngest son of Lord Eddard. We know the boy lives and is here on Skagos."
Tharvor's expression hardened. "Bold claims from a stranger who reeks of the south."
"I'm no southron lord," Davos said. "I was a smuggler before I was a knight. I mean the boy no harm. Quite the opposite."
"Perhaps," Tharvor said, studying him. "If you wish to state your purpose, you may do so before our council of Chiefs. But you and your men must surrender your weapons first. Otherwise, return to your ship and leave our shores."
Davos glanced at the Manderly men, then at the dead creatures on the ground. The thought of being unarmed with those things about made his missing fingertips itch.
"We'll need those weapons if more of... those come," he said, gesturing to the fallen wights.
"Inside our halls, you'll be safe enough," Tharvor replied. "Those are our terms."
Davos sighed. He had come too far to turn back now. "Very well. We'll surrender our weapons and make our case to your chiefs."
With a heavy heart, Davos and his crew relinquished their blades and bows to the Skagosi. As Tharvor collected their weapons, he warned, "We best move swiftly from the shore. Linger too long by the waves, and more of those fell things will surely come."
Davos had no choice but to trail after the clansmen as they made their way inland. His mind churned with misgivings. Seven hells, what sort of mess have I landed in? he thought bitterly. I never should've accepted Lord Manderly's proposition. This fool's errand may be the death of me yet.
But it was too late for regrets. He was here now, on this godsforsaken isle, at the mercy of these wild Skagosi and whatever unholy horrors lurked in the shadows. All he could do was pray to the Seven that somehow, he would find a way to survive this ordeal and return to his king's side.
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Outskirts of Meereen
Tyrion squinted against the harsh sunlight as they approached the Second Sons' camp. The mercenaries' eyes followed them with the practiced wariness of men who'd survived by suspecting everyone. Guards flanked them on both sides, hands resting on sword hilts—not drawn, but ready.
"Charming reception," Tyrion muttered to Jorah.
The knight said nothing, his weathered face set in grim determination.
They were led to a large tent at the center of the encampment. Inside, Brown Ben Plumm lounged in a camp chair, his salt-and-pepper beard neatly trimmed, his dark eyes sharp despite his relaxed posture. Two men flanked him—one thin with a pointed beard who must be Gorys Edoryen, and a stout man with ink-stained fingers who could only be the aptly named Inkpots.
Tyrion took their measure in an instant, taking the measure of Brown Ben Plumm and his lieutenants. These weren't just fighters—they were businessmen, shrewd and calculating beneath their sellsword veneer. Just like me, Tyrion thought wryly. He might be a Lannister, but he was also a man who'd learned to survive by any means necessary.
As he stepped forward to speak, a fleeting memory of Shae's lifeless eyes flashed in his mind, a bitter reminder of his capacity for violence and betrayal. Everyone I love turns to ash in my hands, he thought grimly, pushing the memory away.
"Ser Jorah Mormont," Ben Plumm drawled, "back from exile. And you've brought a... small friend."
"Tyrion Lannister, formerly of Casterly Rock." Tyrion stepped forward with a flourish. "Though I suspect my family would prefer I drop the surname these days."
Ben's eyebrows rose. "A Lannister? Now there's a surprise. Last I heard, your family was rather at odds with our former employer."
"Former being the operative word," Tyrion replied, noting the careful phrasing. "I understand you've had a change of heart regarding Queen Daenerys."
"Business decision." Ben shrugged. "Nothing personal."
"Of course not. Business is business." Tyrion smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "And I'm here to discuss a particularly profitable venture."
Ben gestured to a stool. "Sit. Speak. I enjoy a good pitch."
Tyrion settled himself on the proffered stool, his mind racing as he organized his thoughts. This wasn't just about convincing a mercenary captain to join their cause—this was about survival. For all of them. For Daenerys, for her dragons, for the dream of a better world that she represented. And, though he was loath to admit it, for himself as well. He needed this victory, needed to prove his worth, not just to the dragon queen but to himself. After all he had endured, all he had lost, he refused to let it be for naught. He would find a way to persuade Brown Ben Plumm, even if he had to bargain with the last shreds of his tattered pride to do it.
"Meereen stands at a crossroads," Tyrion began, his mismatched eyes surveying the assembled sellswords. "The queen offers something no one else in Slaver's Bay can—stability. Not just for now, but for years to come. Dragons tend to have that effect." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "With Daenerys Targaryen on the throne, peace and prosperity will follow. The slave trade will crumble, and a new era will dawn."
"Dragons can burn friend and foe alike," Inkpots interjected, his voice laced with skepticism.
"True," Tyrion acknowledged, inclining his head. "But friends typically stand behind them, not in front." He fixed his gaze on Brown Ben Plumm, the man whose allegiance could tip the scales. "The Targaryens rewarded loyalty generously for centuries. Humble houses became great ones by backing the right dragon. Those who stood with them reaped the benefits of their rule. Those who stood against them... well, the flames of their downfall lit up the pages of history."
Tyrion leaned back, studying Brown Ben's weathered face. The sellsword was shrewd, no doubt weighing the odds and angles. "And how's the queen's position now?" Ben asked, leaning forward, his dark eyes glinting with curiosity. "Last I saw, her control was... tenuous."
The dwarf smiled, a sardonic twist of his scarred lips. "Which makes this the perfect moment to rejoin her cause," he countered smoothly. "Daenerys has faced trials and tribulations that would break lesser rulers. Yet she endures, as she always has." He spread his hands, his mismatched eyes holding Ben's gaze. "When victory comes—and it will, as surely as the sun rises—those who stood with her in these darkest times will shine brightest in the dawn of her reign. Their loyalty will be remembered and rewarded."
Tyrion watched Jorah shift uncomfortably beside him. The knight's jaw clenched, his weathered face betraying his skepticism. Mercenaries were fickle creatures—something Jorah knew better than most.
"With respect," Jorah cut in, his voice gruff, "we don't have time for flowery promises of future glory. Meereen teeters on the edge of collapse." He leaned forward, the scars of his slave brand visible beneath his collar. "The city will implode without immediate intervention. Every day we delay, Yunkai and its allies grow stronger while the queen's position weakens."
Tyrion nodded appreciatively. Jorah's bluntness complemented his own subtler approach. "Ser Jorah speaks truly. The immediate crisis demands immediate action."
Brown Ben's eyes narrowed. "And why should I trust either of you? A disgraced knight and a kinslaying dwarf?"
"Because we understand what it means to fall from grace," Tyrion replied, his mismatched eyes holding Ben's gaze. "My own father wanted me dead. My sister still does. I've lost everything that once defined me—wealth, position, family name." He gave a bitter smile. "Much like Queen Daenerys lost her birthright, her home, even her brother. Yet she rose from nothing, with only her name and her dragons."
Tyrion gestured expansively. "History remembers those who seized their moment. When Aegon the Conqueror rewarded Orys Baratheon, did anyone recall he was a bastard? No—they remembered only that he stood beside the dragon when it mattered." He fixed his gaze on Ben. "The Second Sons could be footnotes—or they could be legends. The choice is yours."
Ben stroked his beard, eyes calculating. "Pretty words. But I've heard pretty words before."
"Then allow me to offer something more concrete," Tyrion countered. "I'll personally serve as your advocate with the queen. Your interests, your concerns—voiced directly to Daenerys Targaryen through me."
Ben's lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Well now, that might be worth something." He extended his hand. "The Second Sons stand with Daenerys Targaryen—provided her forces make the first move. We won't be left hanging in the wind."
As they exited the tent, Jorah grabbed Tyrion's arm, his grip tight. "You promised much in there. Mercenaries have long memories when it comes to broken promises."
"In war, we play the hand we're dealt," Tyrion replied, shaking free. And if that means discarding a few pawns along the way, so be it, he added silently. "Daenerys needs every sword and every mind at her disposal. The game has only just begun."
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Gates of the Moon, The Vale
Sansa watched the knights parade across the tourney grounds, their armor glinting in the winter sun. The Gates of the Moon bustled with activity—lords laughing, ladies whispering behind painted fans, servants scurrying between pavilions. She stood tall, her dark hair falling in waves down her back, the very picture of Alayne Stone, bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish.
"Look, Sweetrobin," she said, pointing to the knights preparing for the joust. "See how they carry themselves? That's how a lord should stand."
Robert Arryn slouched beside her, picking at the embroidery on his sleeve. "I don't care. When will they fight? I want to see someone fall."
Sansa suppressed a sigh. Patience. Remember what Father—what Petyr taught you. Guide, don't force. "My lord, a tourney isn't just about the fighting. It's where alliances form, where marriages are arranged." She leaned closer. "Where the game is played."
"Sounds boring," Robert muttered, but his eyes followed her gesture toward the gathering nobles.
"The man who understands the game never loses," she said, echoing Littlefinger's words. "Wouldn't you like to always win, Sweetrobin?"
Before he could answer, a shadow fell across them. Harrold Hardyng stood before them, flushed with exertion and pride.
"Lady Alayne," he said with a flourishing bow. "Did you see me in the yard this morning? Three opponents, and I bested them all."
"Most impressive, Ser Harrold." Sansa dipped into a perfect curtsy, offering a demure smile that never reached her eyes. So eager to boast, so blind to the currents around him. "Your skill with a lance is becoming legendary."
Harry preened. "I'd be honored to wear your favor in the tilt tomorrow."
"The honor would be mine," she replied, noting how Robert's face darkened with jealousy. Another piece on the board, moving exactly where it should.
"Alayne! There you are, you wicked thing."
Myranda Royce approached, her smile wide and her eyes sharp and sat behind them.
"Harry, you mustn't monopolize our lovely Alayne. Half the Vale is desperate for her attention." Myranda's laugh tinkled like breaking glass.
"You're too kind, Randa," Sansa said, matching her sweetness. "Your gown is exquisite—the color brings out your eyes beautifully." And draws attention from your waistline, which you've been so concerned about since Harry started looking my way.
Here is the expanded text from Sansa Stark's point of view in the third person:
Myranda's smile tightened, a hint of venom behind her honeyed words. "Sweet Alayne, always so proper. We must find you a husband who appreciates such... refinement."
The tension between them hummed like a plucked string, a discordant note amidst the merriment of the yard. But Sansa merely smiled, her mask of courtesy firmly in place, even as she cataloged every envious glance Myranda cast toward Harry. The game of courtly intrigue was one she had learned to play well, thanks in no small part to Petyr's tutelage.
A hush fell over their corner of the yard, conversations fading to murmurs as heads turned. Petyr Baelish approached, his steps measured, his smile calculating. He moved like a shadow, slipping between the revelers with a cat's silent grace, yet his presence seemed to fill the space. Sansa straightened, steeling herself for whatever machinations he had in store, even as a part of her thrilled at the prospect of matching wits with the master manipulator once more.
"My dear," he said, kissing Sansa's cheek. "A word, if you please."
Sansa's heart soared at Petyr's words, scarcely daring to believe them. Arya, alive? Found after all these years? A thousand questions raced through her mind. Where had her little sister been? What trials had she endured?
Petyr's voice dropped even lower, his breath tickling her ear. "She's to wed Ramsay Bolton at Winterfell. A marriage to secure the North."
Sansa's elation turned to icy dread. Ramsay Bolton. The name was poison on her tongue. Son of the man who had betrayed and murdered her brother Robb. And now Arya was to be delivered into his clutches, a lamb to the slaughter. Sansa knew all too well the cruelties that awaited her sister in such a union.
She met Petyr's calculating gaze, seeing the wheels turning behind those gray-green eyes. This was no rescue, but another move in the game of thrones, with Arya as the hapless pawn. Sansa's hands clenched in the folds of her skirts. She could not let this come to pass. Would not. Somehow, she had to find a way to save her sister, no matter the cost.
The world tilted beneath her feet. Arya in Winterfell, with the Boltons? The monsters who betrayed Robb?
"That's not possible," she whispered. "Arya would never—"
"Whether it's truly her or not, the marriage solidifies Bolton control of the North." Petyr's eyes glittered. "Bronze Yohn watches us. He's crucial to our plans. Win him, Alayne—not with your beauty, but with your mind. Make him see Sweetrobin's need for strong counsel."
Sansa nodded, her thoughts racing. If I secure Yohn Royce, if I wed Harry, I could rally the Vale. For the North. For Arya. For Jon. The pieces of Petyr's plan were falling into place, but doubt gnawed at her. His words were honeyed, his information always serving some hidden purpose. Could she truly trust that Arya was in Winterfell? That this wasn't some ploy to further his own ends?
Yet the possibility of Arya in the clutches of the Boltons filled her with icy dread. Sansa thought of Jon too, her half-brother alone at the Wall. Her last living brother, as far as she knew. A fierce longing seized her - to see him again, to have family once more. She needed to find a way to win over Bronze Yohn and Harry the Heir. With the Knights of the Vale beside her, perhaps she could take back the North. For her home, for her siblings, for all that had been lost.
Sansa lifted her chin and met Petyr's calculating gaze. "I understand...Father." The word tasted like bile, but she let none of it show on her face. Let him think her the dutiful daughter for now. She would play her role, but her mind raced ahead, already plotting, already scheming. The game was not over yet.
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Shield Hall, Castle Black
Val stood rigid among the huddled masses, her white furs stark against the dark timber walls of the Shield Hall. The room stank of fear and sweat—the mingled scents of crows, Free Folk, and southron knights packed too tightly together. Outside, men shouted and women wailed, but in here, silence hung like a blade.
She studied the faces around her. The crows looked pale as milk, their black cloaks drawn tight as if to shield them from truths too terrible to face. The kneeler king's men clustered together, hands never straying far from sword hilts. And her own people—the Free Folk—their eyes were wide, some with terror, others with something that looked almost like reverence.
I have seen wights rise with blue eyes and giants astride mammoths, Val thought, but this...
The silence pressed against her ears until she could bear it no longer.
"Was that..." Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard before continuing. "Was that truly what I think it was? A dragon?" She looked around the hall, meeting wary eyes. "And where is Jon Snow?"
Val watched as Alys Karstark's face paled, the young woman's eyes wide with disbelief. "Am I dreaming?" Alys asked, her voice trembling. "Did that dragon just...speak?"
Beside her, Sigorn shook his head, his own expression one of seriousness. "Nah, Alys. This ain't no dream. The dragon's words were true."
The spearwife surveyed the chamber, observing the stunned and frightened expressions worn by the assembled folk. Not one appeared to recognize who commanded the great beast, yet Val harbored a growing certainty as single person had been absent since the creature's appearance.
Jon Snow. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. But how could this be possible?
For a heartbeat, no one answered. Then Tormund stepped forward, his beard still singed at the edges, his face etched with wonder rather than fear.
Val listened intently as Tormund's voice boomed through the hall, his words painting a vivid picture of the incredible sight he had witnessed. "Har! That were no mere trick, no fevered imaginin'. 'Twas a dragon, vast as the Fist, with scales glintin' like a thousand swords and eyes burnin' bright as the sun."
The wildling leader thumped his broad chest, his gaze sweeping over the assembled crowd. "Aye, 'twas Jon Snow, sure as snow's cold. The same crow what got stabbed by his own brothers, left bleedin' in the snow. But he rose, like the wrath o' the old gods, and now he dons the skin o' the winged fury bringin' the vengeance from the skies!"
Can it truly be? Val mused, her mind racing with the implications. Jon Snow, a skin-changing into a dragon itself?
Tormund's voice dropped low, eyes wide with wonder. "Never thought I'd see the like, not in all my days. A man, dead and gone, flyin' through the sky on wings of fire. If that ain't the world turnin' on its head, I don't know what is."
From the corner where the mountain clansmen stood, Torghen Flint pushed forward, his weathered face etched with reverence. "The old gods have spoken!" His voice, though aged, carried the strength of the northern mountains. "My father's father told tales of skinchangers who could wear the skins of birds, of bears, of wolves—but a dragon?" He shook his head in wonder. "Jon Snow has the blood of the First Men, the blood of Winterfell. The old gods have blessed him with power not seen since the Age of Heroes."
The hall erupted. Voices crashed against each other like waves in a storm.
"Witchcraft!" shouted one of Stannis's knights.
"The red woman's doing!" cried another.
"The King-Beyond-the-Wall returns!" called out a spearwife, her voice thick with awe.
Val watched the chaos unfold, her heart torn between wonder and worry. Jon Snow—a dragon. The man who'd walked among them, who'd opened the gates to her people when for millennium Lord Commanders had kept them out. The crow who'd become more, who'd somehow bridged the ancient divide between those who knelt and those who didn't.
Val's hand drifted to the bone knife at her belt. He brought us together, she thought, remembering how Jon had faced down arrows from his own men to let the Free Folk pass. And now he's something else entirely.
Suddenly, a sing-song voice rose above the din, startling the room into silence.
"Under the sea, the old fish sing," chanted Patchface, his face painted in bright red and green squares. "Jon Snow was dead, but now he's king. Under the sea, no dragons fly. He'll burn us all, and none will die."
The eerie rhyme sent shivers down Val's spine. She glanced at the fool, his eyes vacant yet somehow knowing. The room remained hushed, the weight of his cryptic words hanging heavy in the air.
The silence broke as the red woman stepped forward, her ruby pulsing at her throat like a living heart. She raised her hands, and a hush fell across the room.
"What you witnessed was no accident, no curse," Melisandre proclaimed, her voice carrying unnatural power. "This miracle is the work of R'hllor, the Lord of Light. Jon Snow is the champion who will lead us against the darkness."
Val's skin prickled. The red woman had always made her uneasy, with her talk of burning gods and fiery hearts.
Selyse Baratheon moved to stand beside Melisandre, her gaunt face alight with fervor despite the coldness in her eyes. "The Lord of Light has blessed our cause. With Jon Snow by our side, Stannis will reclaim the Iron Throne."
Ser Axell Florent seized the moment to step forward, his voice dripping with zeal. "Jon Snow will take back Winterfell and help King Stannis reclaim the Iron Throne! The Lord of Light has chosen them both to lead us through the long night. We must have faith and follow where they guide."
"Horseshit!" The voice cut through the murmurs—Toregg, son of Tormund. "The crow didn't change his skin to help your kneeler king sit on some chair made o' swords. Our people are dyin' at Hardhome! The dead are comin' for 'em, and they're comin' for us all. If Jon Snow's got wings now, he should be flyin' to save them what can't save themselves."
The hall erupted again. Free Folk shouted support for Toregg while Stannis's men defended their king's claim. Val tensed, seeing hands drift toward weapons.
"Everyone shut up!"
The voice wasn't loud, but something in its dry, commanding tone cut through the noise. Eddison Tollett stepped forward, his face as gloomy as ever.
"Jon said he'd be back," Edd continued as the room fell silent. "Until then, we hold the peace. Any more brawling, and when Jon returns, I'll be sure he knows which camps couldn't hold their tempers."
Val almost smiled. Clever crow. No one wanted to face Jon's disappointment—especially not now that disappointment might come with dragonfire.
She glanced around the hall, her pale blue-grey eyes taking in the tense faces of the Free Folk and Stannis's men. The air was thick with unspoken threats and simmering resentment, but Eddison Tollett's words had struck a chord. The black brother stood firm, his gaunt face set in a determined expression that brooked no argument.
Aye, we gotta put our trust in Jon Snow," Val growled, her voice cuttin' through the tense quiet. "He ain't just some bloody crow no more. He's somethin' else, somethin' that might keep us breathin' when them cold winds howl."
She stepped up, her honey-blonde hair blazin' in the torchlight. "Free Folk and them black-cloaked kneelers, we've been spittin' at each other for ages. But now there's a foe don't give a damn 'bout our scraps. The dead are walkin', and they'll have us all if we don't stand as one."
Val's eyes raked over the crowd, lingerin' on them what lost kin to the Others. "Jon Snow's seen the real enemy. He knows what we're facin'."
Her words stirred grunts of agreement from the Free Folk, and even some o' Stannis's lot looked like they was chewin' it over. Val turned to Edd, a sly grin tuggin' at her lips.
"The crow speaks true," she said, givin' Edd a sharp nod. "Jon Snow'll come back. And when he does, he better find us shoulder to shoulder, not rippin' each other's throats out."
As the tension in the room began to ease, Val couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. Jon Snow had already achieved the impossible by bringing the Free Folk and the Night's Watch together. If anyone could lead them through the long night ahead, it was him.
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A/N: Just wanted to say I really enjoy reading the comments so keep them coming but I can't give out plot points when I reply. I'll try and get out another chapter out within the next few days as I want make the most out of this extended weekend. Also, I am working on the next chapter for Look To The Stars so also expect it in the next few days. Hope you enjoy the read and please leave a comment with your review! :)
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