Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jon

The wind cut like a blade through Jon Snow’s cloak as they rode northward, harsher and keener than any chill he had known, even in grim Winterfell. Around them, the world lay draped in white and grey, an endless, lifeless sea beneath a pale and sullen sky. Snowflakes swirled in the air like ash from some long-dead fire, catching in the fur of Jon's collar and the mane of his horse.

At his side, astride a shaggy pony stunted by hard seasons, rode Tyrion Lannister, a dwarf bundled thick in furs, his breath streaming from his mouth like the smoke of some sluggish dragon. He rode with the ease of a man long accustomed to discomfort, his mismatched gloves clutched tightly around the reins.

Before them rode Benjen Stark, First Ranger of the Night’s Watch, his black cloak snapping in the biting wind, a banner of solemn war. His silence had a weight to it, as though every hoofbeat echoed with unspoken truths. Snow clung to his shoulders and hood, painting him in frost like some carved specter of the old North.

Jon tightened his grip upon the reins, the leather groaning beneath his gloved hands. Within his chest, his heart beat swift and uncertain, a storm caged in a boy’s breast. He had spoken little since crossing the Last River, his thoughts as bleak and tangled as the icy woods they passed through.

The Wall loomed ever nearer. The Night’s Watch. The dream that had carried him through a boyhood spent in shadow and silence.

He had long imagined this day: himself in a cloak of black wool, a sword at his hip, standing atop the Wall with the winds of the frozen world whipping about him. No longer Snow, no longer bastard. Only Jon. A brother of the Night's Watch — a shield that guards the realms of men.

He remembered Old Nan’s tales, half-whispered by firelight: of rangers who walked the haunted forests, who never returned, whose names lived on in shadow. He had believed them all. Needed to believe them. He needed this dream to be true. Because if it was not, what was left for a boy like him?

Tyrion gave a sharp snort as his pony stumbled on a patch of hidden ice. “You wear a face fit for a funeral, bastard," the dwarf said, his voice half mocking, half amused. "Dreaming of glory, are you?"

Jon stiffened at the word — bastard — but held his tongue. Tyrion tossed it out so lightly, as a man might remark upon the weather. No insult was meant. Or so Jon told himself.

"I was thinking," Jon said at length, voice low, "that there is honor yet in guarding the realm. That the Wall stands between the living and the dead."

Tyrion laughed — not cruelly, but not kindly either. "A noble fancy," he said. "Hold fast to it, Snow. You’ll find such thoughts precious when you’re freezing between a rapist and a thief."

Jon turned his gaze to the far horizon, where sky and earth became one — a vast white mystery. He wondered if Robb was looking up at the same sky, standing in Winterfell’s godswood beneath the bare branches, speaking his secrets to the heart tree.

Tyrion did not understand. Few south of the Neck ever did. The Night’s Watch was no band of broken men. It was an order of heroes. The sword in the darkness. The watcher on the walls. It had to be. Jon needed it to be.

The Wall rose before them, vast and cold and merciless, a mountain of ice reaching up into a sky of lead. Even in his most fervent imaginings, Jon had not conceived of anything so grand, so terrible. The wind howled louder here, like the cries of a thousand ghosts trapped within the ancient stone and ice.

It seemed to him that the Wall was alive — a slumbering titan of frost, breathing slow and cold through a thousand years. Its surface caught the pale light and threw it back in shards, jagged and cruel.

He reined in his horse and stared, wordless, as his heart soared and broke all at once.

"You see," Benjen said, drawing up beside him, his face grave. "It is no small thing."

Jon could only nod, too full for speech. The enormity of it all crushed the breath from him. Here was the proof. Proof that the Watch had not forgotten its ancient charge. Proof that Jon's dream was not hollow.

Tyrion squinted at the Wall and grunted. "Impressive," he said. "Though I'd sooner have a featherbed and a flagon of wine."

Down they rode, toward Castle Black — a scattering of squat stone keeps huddled like beggars at the Wall’s feet. Black Brothers moved through the muddy yard, some sparring poorly, others hauling firewood or sharpening rusted blades.

The great gate yawned open to receive them, a dark mouth in the frozen flesh of the Wall.

Jon's joy faltered as they crossed the threshold. Inside, the yard was a churned mess of mud and slush. Chickens pecked listlessly at the muck. The men of the Watch were not the knights of his boyhood tales; they were broken creatures, stooped and sour. One limped. One sneered with half a mouth of teeth. Another scratched himself with a filthy hand and spat at Jon’s feet.

He felt Tyrion's eyes upon him and flushed with shame. This was the brotherhood he had longed for?

Benjen dismounted without a word and tossed his reins to a boy no older than Bran. "Come," he said. "Maester Aemon will want to see you."

Jon slid from the saddle into the half-frozen filth. The Wall loomed behind him like the grave marker of some dead god. The dream he had clutched all his life cracked — and the pieces cut deep.

The days that followed blurred into a cold monotony. Meals were gruel and grease, the nights restless beneath thin blankets and rough laughter. Jon watched, listened, endured. Yet beneath the silence, something had begun to unravel in him — the dream, once shining, now hung tattered and thin.

On the third morning, they gave him a sword.

The training yard of Castle Black was a pit of churned snow and old blood, the air filled with the grunts of effort and the dull ring of wood on wood. Steam curled from Jon’s body as he moved, sweat rolling down his spine beneath his furs. The cold bit at his ears, but he hardly felt it. His wooden sword felt like a part of him.

Across the yard, Ser Alliser Thorne paced like a hungry crow, eyes sharp and mouth sour. “Faster, you wretches!” he barked. “If the wildlings ever come, they'll gut you before you finish pissing your breeches!”

Pypar — Pyp, the others called him — stumbled backward, his blade flailing. A wiry boy with a mouth too quick for his hands. Jon had heard he was a thief, sent to the Wall for stealing from some lesser lord.

“Seven hells,” Pyp gasped, lowering his sword. “You fight like you were suckled by a bloody direwolf.”

Jon said nothing. He turned to face the next opponent.

Grenn came next — a bull-shouldered farm boy with more brawn than sense, who'd once tried to claim he was strong enough to break a man's neck with his bare hands. Jon parried his first swing, sidestepped the second, and landed a blow to the side of his face. Grenn went down in a heap, blood streaming from his nose.

“Bastard,” Grenn muttered, pressing a hand to his face as he staggered to his feet.

Thorne sneered. “You bunch of mewling worms can’t even best a bastard. Lord Snow here was raised in a castle — trained by a master-at-arms. What were you? Pig boys and pickpockets? Gods help the realm.”

Jon looked away. The words stung more than they should have. Around him, eyes burned with resentment — Pyp’s, Grenn’s, the others. Not one of them would meet his gaze for long.

Then Thorne turned, his grin thin and cruel. “Come, piggy,” he called. “You grew up in a castle too, didn’t you? Let’s see if a trueborn can do what the rest could not.”

From the edge of the yard, Samwell Tarly shuffled forward. He gripped a sword in one hand and a round shield in the other, though it was clear neither belonged in his grasp. He moved like a man headed for the gallows.

Jon saw at once that the boy had no training. His stance was off, his footing unsure. His eyes were wide and wet.

Jon hesitated. He’s afraid, he thought. He’s terrified.

The bout was over before it began. Jon struck once — not hard, but enough — and Sam went down with a muffled grunt, shield clattering to the stones.

Thorne made a sound in his throat like a scoff and turned away.

The others had drifted to the common hall, Jon remained in the yard, sword slung across his shoulder, breath steaming.

“You fight well.”

The voice was quiet, uncertain. Jon turned to see Samwell standing behind him, cheeks flushed, his cloak haphazard over his shoulders.

“I can’t,” Sam said, hugging himself. “Fight, I mean. I’m not like the others.”

Jon regarded him in silence. The boy’s eyes were soft and sad — not unlike a hound kicked too many times.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” Jon said.

Sam nodded. “I know. That’s why you scare them.”

Jon raised a brow.

“You make it look easy,” Sam said. “And they hate you for it.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Ghost padded out of the shadows, white fur silvered with frost, and settled beside Jon.

“He’s beautiful,” Sam whispered.

“He’s mine,” Jon said. After a pause, he added, “You shouldn’t let Thorne break you.”

Sam gave a sad laugh. “He doesn't have to. I came broken.”

They parted there, wordless, the yard falling into shadow as the sun sank low behind the Wall. Jon walked slowly back to the hall, the cold biting deeper than before, not for want of fire — but for want of belonging.

The common hall of Castle Black was a cold and hollow place, warmed only by a single sullen fire. The air stank of old woodsmoke, wet wool, and boiled mutton. Shadows clung like cobwebs to the rafters, and the wind scratched at the shutters like some half-starved thing begging to be let in.

Jon sat hunched at a splintered table, staring into a bowl of cooling stew. Ghost dozed at his feet, his red eyes flickering open with each scrape of a chair or mutter of a voice.

Around them, black brothers huddled in clumps — thieves, poachers, rapers — laughing without joy, their mirth as bitter as the wind outside. There were no songs, no boasts of valor. Just the clatter of spoons and the smell of defeat.

The Watch was not a brotherhood of heroes. It was a graveyard for the unwanted.

A chair dragged across the stone. Tyrion Lannister settled opposite him, a steaming mug of ale cupped in his gloved hands.

“You’re not eating,” the dwarf observed, eyes flicking to the untouched stew. “Should I fetch the cook and have him apologize for not roasting a suckling pig?”

Jon didn’t smile. He only shrugged.

Tyrion took a sip of his ale. “The first cut is the deepest, they say. Seems today, the world drove its blade right through your dreams.”

Jon looked down at his hands. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“It never is,” Tyrion said.

For a time, the silence stretched between them, broken only by the hiss of fire and the low mutter of wind against stone.

“You dreamed a noble dream,” Tyrion said softly. “But the world has no mercy for such things.”

Jon gave no answer.

“Still,” Tyrion went on, “you came here of your own will. That makes you rare among your brothers. Most had their choices torn from them. You still have yours.”

Jon frowned. “You mean I could leave?”

“The Wall has stood for eight thousand years. I doubt one bastard will bring it down.” Tyrion took another sip, watching him. “You rode north seeking honor, purpose. Now you’ve seen what it is — piss and cold and filth. So ask yourself: does the Watch need you? Or does someone else?”

Jon closed his eyes. In the dark of his mind, he saw Winterfell — the godswood shrouded in snow, Grey Wind leaping at Robb’s heels, Arya’s fierce little grin, Bran perched high in the towers. And his father. Always his father. The weight of that name.

"And what am I supposed to do?” he said hoarsely. “Return to Winterfell and wait for Lady Stark to have me thrown out? Sit in Robb’s hall like a ghost, with no land, no name, nothing?”

Tyrion snorted. “Gods, boy. Is that all that troubles you? I won’t speak of Lady Stark — she’s colder than the Wall itself. But you... you don’t even see the blade in your own hand.”

“I’m just a bastard,” Jon muttered.

Tyrion leaned in. “Yes. But not any bastard. You are Ned Stark’s blood, and his son in all but name. He is the Hand of the King now. That carries weight — even for one born on the wrong side of the sheets.”

Jon stared into the fire.

“You’re not like these others,” Tyrion said, his voice low. “You trained with a knight’s sword. You ride like a noble. You carry yourself like a Stark.”

He sipped his ale, watching Jon over the rim. “You could be a sellsword, if you wished. A knight. Even a kingsguard.”

Jon looked up.

“I saw you in the yard,” Tyrion went on. “You’re good. Too good to waste here among rapers and runts. If you took the white instead of the black, you might find yourself in King’s Landing — guarding your sister. Guarding your father.”

Jon blinked. “I’m no follower of the Seven.”

Tyrion gave a crooked smile. “Neither are most knights, though they kneel well enough when honors are handed out. The gods are deaf, Snow — all of them. Knighthood is just a sweet wrapped in ceremony.”

Jon looked down, his fingers tightening around the bowl. The thought of it took shape in his mind, fragile but bright: a white cloak, a clean blade, standing beside Sansa in the Red Keep, standing between Eddard Stark and the court.

Then Tyrion leaned forward.

“Or perhaps,” he said, voice quieter still, “something rarer — the sword in your brother’s hand.”

Jon blinked again. The fire crackled. Ghost stirred beside his feet.

Tyrion grinned. “Robb is Lord of Winterfell now. He’ll need sharp steel beside him, steel he trusts. You could be that, if you wish. Or you could stay here and freeze to death for the honor of guarding thieves.”

Jon did not answer, but the ache inside him swelled like a tide. Ghost stirred and lifted his head, and Jon reached down, running a gloved hand along the direwolf’s back. The fire crackled softly.

“You’ve been watching too many heroes in the flames,” Tyrion said. “Be careful, Snow. They burn bright, and they burn fast.”

Days passed, grey and unremarkable. Snow fell in lazy sheets, softening the edges of stone and temper. Jon kept to his duties, but the ache beneath his ribs did not ease.

Then, in the yard — amid the stink of sweat, the ring of wood on wood, and Alliser Thorne’s venom — something shifted.

The snow had turned to sleet, thin and stinging. It slicked the training yard and turned the packed earth to icy slush. The recruits moved slower now, feet slipping beneath them, breath steaming in ragged bursts.

Jon watched Grenn square up against Pyp, wooden blades clacking. Pyp was fast, too fast sometimes — his sword darted like a weasel’s tail — but he left himself open after each swing. Grenn, all shoulders and elbows, had strength but no sense.

“Step back on the counter, not forward,” Jon called to Pyp. “You’re crowding your own reach.”

Pyp hesitated — then adjusted. His next swing missed, but he didn’t lose balance. Grenn cursed and nearly fell.

“And you,” Jon turned to Grenn, “lead with your shoulder, not your gut. You're a barrel with legs.”

“I ain’t no barrel,” Grenn muttered.

Jon raised a brow. “Then stop moving like one.”

For a moment, Grenn looked ready to swing at Jon instead. Then, with a grunt, he reset his stance.

Ser Alliser Thorne stood under the overhang, arms crossed, face twisted in disdain. “How noble,” he called. “Lord Snow, playing tutor to thieves. Teaching kittens how to claw.”

Jon ignored him. “Again,” he told the boys.

They went at it. Sloppy, but better.

By the fourth round, Pyp landed a tap on Grenn’s shoulder and crowed with delight — until Grenn knocked him down with a clumsy body blow. The two rolled in the slush, laughing and swearing.

Jon caught the faintest smile tugging at his lips — until Thorne’s voice cut the air again.

“Do you fancy yourself a lord commander already?” the master-at-arms sneered, stepping forward. “Or perhaps you mean to raise your own order — the Bastard's Watch.”

Jon met his eyes. “No, ser.”

Thorne’s mouth curled. “Remember your place, boy. These wretches might cheer you now, but they’ll be the first to gut you when the food runs low. Never mistake courtesy for loyalty.”

He turned and stalked away, black cloak flapping like wings behind him.

The boys watched him go.

“What crawled up his arse?” Pyp muttered.

“Nothing,” said Tyrion Lannister as he stepped from the shadows. “It’s always been up there.”

Jon hadn’t seen him arrive. The dwarf moved with quiet ease despite the muck, wrapped in furs and mischief.

“Ser Alliser served under Aerys Targaryen during the Rebellion,” Tyrion said, voice low. “He fought for the dragon… and lost. When Robert took the throne, Lord Stark offered him a choice — the Wall, or the headsman’s sword.”

Jon frowned. “And he chose the Wall.”

Tyrion nodded. “And here he remains. A bitter man frozen in time, nursing old wounds. It galls him to see a Stark’s blood walk free where he is chained.”

Jon looked out across the yard, where Pyp and Grenn were half-heartedly trading blows again, glancing toward him now and then like dogs testing a new master.

“He hates me for something I didn’t do,” Jon said.

“That,” Tyrion said, “is the way of the world.”

He patted Ghost once on the head, then turned to go. “Take care, Snow. Pride is a sword with no hilt.”

Tyrion left him with those words and a knowing look, swallowed by the fog rising off the yard. Jon lingered, his breath fogging, eyes fixed on the dark tower where his uncle’s chambers lay. This night they will talk.

The Wall loomed like a shadow cast by the gods. Pale moonlight struck the ice and fractured into silver shards that danced on the snow-packed stones of the courtyard.

Jon stood beside the well, wrapped in his cloak, Ghost at his heel. The air was bitter, the cold deep enough to crack bone. Yet he did not feel it.

Benjen Stark stepped from the shadows like a wraith of the old North, black cloak stirring behind him. “You sent for me.”

Jon nodded. “Thank you for coming, Uncle.”

Benjen studied him a long moment, then looked up at the Wall. “You’ve made your choice, then.”

Jon nodded again. “I ride with Lord Tyrion. Back to Winterfell.”

Benjen didn’t answer at once. His breath plumed in the cold, and when he spoke, his voice was low. “I’d hoped the Wall might grow on you.”

“I had hoped the same,” Jon said.

Benjen gave a quiet sound that might have been a laugh, or something close. “It takes a certain kind of man. You have too much heart, Jon. That’s no crime… but it’s a poor shield up here.”

“I thought this would make me strong,” Jon said. “Make me... whole. But it doesn’t. I can’t do it, not like this.”

Benjen’s face was carved from stone. “There’s no shame in knowing yourself.”

They stood in silence. Somewhere above, a crow cawed once, then fell still.

“I’m going ranging,” Benjen said at last. “In a few weeks, when the snows ease. East, into the haunted forest. There’s been no word from Ser Waymar or his men. Too many wildlings gone missing. Something’s wrong.”

Jon looked at him. “Will you come back?”

“I always have.” But the words were offered without weight, like a prayer that had gone unanswered too many times.

“I hope you do,” Jon said. “I need to ask something before I go.”

Benjen raised a brow.

“It’s about Sam.”

“The fat boy?”

“He’s frightened, but he’s not weak. Not truly. Grenn and Pyp have started talking to him more — joking, even. But Thorne hates him. If I leave…”

“You think Thorne will break him.”

Jon nodded. “He’ll try. I know he will. And the others might turn back without someone there.”

Benjen’s gaze was long and quiet. “And you’d see him protected?”

“I’d see him survive.”

Benjen folded his arms. “That’s more care than most brothers show. I’ll speak to Maester Aemon. Perhaps there’s something he can do.”

Jon exhaled, slow. “Thank you.”

“You’ve changed, Jon.”

Jon looked down. “I wanted to be a man. I thought a sword and a vow would make me one.”

Benjen’s hand fell on his shoulder, firm and brief. “A man is more than that. You’re beginning to understand.”

He turned and walked into the dark, his black cloak swallowed by the Wall’s shadow. Ghost stirred and whined softly. Jon looked up at the frozen titan of ice, and for a moment, he thought he heard it breathe.

Sleep did not come. Jon lay beneath his furs listening to the wind, Ghost curled tight beside him. He thought of his father, of the Wall, of his brothers — true and false. At dawn, he rose without a word.

The morning broke cruel and sharp as a blade drawn in frost. Pale sunlight spilled weakly across Castle Black, doing little to soften the cold that bit through wool and fur alike.

Jon saddled his horse with stiff, gloved hands. Ghost paced at his side, restless, his breath ghosting in the frigid air.

Benjen stood waiting, hood drawn low. “You’ve made your choice,” he said quietly.

Jon nodded. “A hard one.”

“You would have made a fine ranger,” Benjen said. “One of the best, I think. Your father would have been proud.”

The words struck deeper than Jon expected. He swallowed against the ache in his chest.

“The Watch needs men,” he said, his voice rough. “But Robb… Robb needs me more.”

Benjen’s eyes lingered on him. “Then go. Do your duty.”

Jon clasped his uncle’s forearm. “Come back from the woods,” he said. “I want to hear your stories next time.”

“If the trees let me,” Benjen said.

They stood in silence for a breath before parting.

Near the gate, Sam waited with Pyp and Grenn — the three of them out of place in the morning hush. Sam’s eyes were red, his cloak crooked, but he tried to smile.

“You’ll be warm, at least,” Sam said, forcing a laugh. “That’s something.”

Jon stepped close and clasped his shoulder. “You’re stronger than you know. Don’t let Thorne break you.”

Sam shook his head. “I won’t. Not if I can help it.”

Pyp scuffed his boot on the stones. “It won’t be the same without you knocking me down every day.”

“You’ll manage,” Jon said. “Just watch your left. You always leave it open.”

Grenn gave a grunt that might’ve passed for approval. “Tell your brother the Wall’s still standing. Even without you”

Jon chuckled “I will.”

From the stairs above, Ser Alliser Thorne looked on, arms folded, face sour with disdain. Beside him, Lord Commander Mormont watched too, leaning on his staff. His black cloak stirred in the wind, and his eyes followed Jon, unreadable.

Tyrion waited near the gate, bundled deep in fur, cheeks red from the cold. “Well, bastard,” he said, “you’ve made your dramatic exit. Shall we find a warm inn before the wall melts?”

Jon mounted his horse. “Lead on, Imp.”

The gates of Castle Black groaned open, ancient hinges crying out like old bones. The wind whistled through the breach, cold and hollow.

Jon turned to look back — once, just once. The Wall loomed behind him, vast and unmoving, the last shadow of a dream now fading in the light.

He turned his horse south. Ghost loped at his side. He did not look back again.

Chapter Text

Walder

The courtyard of Winterfell lay still beneath a grey and listless sky, the snow thin and crusted where it had half-melted and frozen again. Frost clung to the stone like old sorrow. A raven cawed once from the broken tower, then fell silent.

Walder stood at the edge of the training yard, arms crossed over his thick chest, a statue clad in wool and silence. His breath misted in the air, curling upward before vanishing — like memories, like vows.

Before him, boys sparred with blunted swords, their laughter sharp and too loud in the cold morning air. It grated against his ears, false as a mummer’s cheer. There was no mirth in the North now, not truly. Not when the land groaned beneath uneasy peace.

Home again, he thought. And yet no peace awaited him here.

The road from the Trident had been long and bitter, and every mile had laid a fresh weight on his shoulders. He had not spoken a word of what passed on the kingsroad — not to Maester Luwin, nor Ser Rodrik, nor even to Old Nan in her tower. Only the heart tree had heard his truth, its red eyes bleeding for the burdens he could no longer name aloud.

His dismissal had not been clean. No word from the king came clean, these days.

Robert had roared in drunken fury. Cersei had smiled her golden, serpent’s smile. And Ned… Ned had watched him with sorrow in his eyes and said, “Go north. For Arya’s sake. For Sansa’s. For the wolves.” So he had gone.

And now, like a shadow returned from a war long passed, he stood again at Winterfell’s gates, not as a hero, not as a knight, but as a reminder — of choices made, of blood shed, of truths buried under snow.

He shifted, feeling the old ache beneath his ribs — the wound he’d carried since the Tower of Joy. A souvenir of glory, paid in pain. Four men had survived that day, though only silence marked them. Four men, one secret, a dying girl, and a babe born screaming.

Walder exhaled slowly, breath blooming white in the cold. The boys laughed again as one fell to the snow, sprawling awkwardly, and another offered a hand to pull him up. A kind moment. Temporary.

They do not know the weight of it yet, Walder thought. They do not know what it means to fight, to bleed, to lose everything and carry the silence home.

But they would. Sooner than they wished. The world was turning.

He turned toward the gate as the sound of hooves echoed off stone. Visitors. Few came now without reason. He let his hand fall lightly to the pommel of his sword.

From the battlements came the sound of hooves — the slow, deliberate rhythm of riders entering under grey sky. Iron-shod boots struck frozen stone with a sharp echo that carried across the courtyard.

Walder turned, hand falling lightly to the hilt of his sword out of habit, not fear. Visitors no longer came lightly in these days of whispers and strained ravens. Few had good news. Fewer still came with none at all.

Two riders emerged through the pale mist — one tall and dark, the other short and swaddled in thick furs. The first rode like a man who had learned to bear a burden, the second like one who had never cared for the weight of others. He knew them both at once.

Jon Snow, lean and silent atop a rangy black gelding. Older than Walder remembered — the soft curves of boyhood carved down to flint. At his side, Tyrion Lannister, golden-haired and sharp-eyed, his pony shaggy and short-legged but sure-footed on the frost-slick flagstones.

Walder’s hand fell away from his sword. A different kind of tension gripped him. The boy and the dwarf. One born in silence, the other wrapped in shadow.

The great gate groaned as it opened, chains creaking like old bones. The riders passed beneath the portcullis as if swallowed by Winterfell itself. Their breath steamed white before them — one trailing fire, the other trailing ghosts.

Jon dismounted first, his black cloak swirling behind him like a crow’s wing. There was steel in his eyes now, something harder than the boy who had left for the Wall.

Tyrion swung from his saddle with a practiced ease. He landed lightly and dusted snow from his breeches with the air of a man arriving at a playhouse, not a fortress.

The direwolves came before any words. Grey Wind loped across the yard, sleek and silent. Shaggydog bounded behind him, all wild energy and flashing teeth. They came to Tyrion like judges from some older world, hackles raised, fangs bared. Ghost trailed behind, ghostly and soundless, his eyes the color of old embers.

Tyrion froze, hands raised in mock surrender. “Easy, friends,” he said lightly — though Walder saw the tightness in his mouth, the tension in his shoulders.

Grey Wind bared his teeth. Shaggydog snapped at the dwarf’s boots, missing by a hair’s breadth. Then came Ghost. He passed between his brothers and sat before the Lannister, eyes fixed on him — not hostile, not curious, but searching. The courtyard stilled. Even the boys in the yard stopped their drills to watch.

After a long moment, Grey Wind backed off with a low growl. Shaggydog gave one final snap at the air, then darted off to chase chickens through the mud.

Tyrion exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he’d held. “At least one of you remembers his courtesies,” he said to Ghost, whose pale tail stirred once like the sweep of a falling snowflake.

Walder watched from the side of the yard, arms crossed. The wolves knew things men did not. And Ghost — Ghost was unlike any beast he had ever known. There was something in his gaze that remembered. A boy and a wolf, both born out of place.

Across the yard, Maester Luwin emerged from the library tower, robes stirring in the wind. He raised a hand in welcome, measured and dignified.

Tyrion turned toward him with a wry smile and a slight bow, brushing snow from his shoulders as if clearing dust from silk.

Jon, meanwhile, caught Walder’s gaze — just for a moment — and gave a short, solemn nod. A soldier’s nod. A brother’s nod. Walder returned it without word. Some bonds, at least, endured.

The great hall of Winterfell smelled of woodsmoke, damp stone, and the faint iron tang of cold air dragged in from the yard. New rushes covered the flagstones, fresh laid but already trodden flat. The grey direwolf of House Stark hung above the dais, its faded cloth stirring in unseen drafts.

Walder stood by the door, a silent sentinel in the half-light, watching the old rhythms of home falter under new weight.

At the center of the hall, before the high seat where Eddard Stark once passed judgment, stood Robb — broad-shouldered, red of hair, and trying not to fidget in the fur-lined mantle that marked him Lord of Winterfell.

He looked like a boy playing a part he had not rehearsed, and trying hard not to glance at his mother’s empty chair.

Jon Snow crossed the hall, his boots echoing on the stones, Ghost at his heel like a shadow carved from snow. His eyes swept the room with the guarded caution of a man who had learned to look first, speak second.

At the sight of him, Robb's features lit up — all boyish joy breaking through the lordly mask.

“Jon!” he called, striding forward.

They met in the middle of the hall and clasped forearms, thumping each other’s shoulders with the rough affection of boys who had once sparred daily in the yard.

“It’s good to see you, Robb,” Jon said, voice rougher than Walder remembered. Worn at the edges.

“And you, brother,” Robb said. “Winterfell’s colder without you. I thought you’d be crow-black by now.”

Jon shook his head, the shadows gathering behind his eyes. “The Wall was not what I thought it would be.”

Robb’s smile faltered. “We’ll speak later,” he said, voice lowered. “There’s much you must hear.”

Behind them, the tap of smaller boots drew attention. Tyrion Lannister approached, gloves in hand, eyes sharp and unreadable. Snow clung to his shoulders, melting into wet gold. Robb’s expression cooled.

“Lord Tyrion,” he said formally. “Winterfell welcomes you.”

Tyrion swept into a bow more elegant than his stature suggested. “And I am honored by such hospitality. It’s rare to find warmth north of the Neck.”

Robb nodded, his tone iron-flat. “So long as you remain a guest, you shall be treated as one.”

Jon shifted beside him. “He was a good companion to me. He spoke truth.”

Robb said nothing at first. Then: “We remember our debts in the North.”

Tyrion smiled, thin and quick. “As do we all.”

Across the room, Walder’s hand drifted to the pommel of his sword again, though no threat had been voiced. He did not trust the Lannisters. He had seen their banners blaze in the south — red and gold and screaming pride. They burned bright, and they burned fast. But the fire they left behind turned kingdoms to ash.

A soft sound interrupted — the wheeling of Bran’s chair across the flagstones, pushed by a stablehand with careful steps. The boy was swaddled in wolfskins, his legs lost beneath the weight of cloth and memory.

Jon’s face changed. In three strides, he was kneeling before his brother, Ghost pressing close.

“Bran,” he said, voice soft as fresh snow.

Bran’s face lit up like dawn on a winter field. “Jon! You came back!”

“Aye, little brother. I came back.”

Jon ruffled his hair with a gentleness that didn’t suit the armor in his voice.

Walder felt something old and tight in his chest loosen. The boys had been children not so long ago, racing across courtyards and hiding from Septa Mordane behind the armory. And now — here they stood, changed and scarred, and still whole enough to smile.

Tyrion stepped forward, clearing his throat. “I see you’re mending well,” he said to Bran.

Bran’s expression clouded. “I can’t ride anymore.”

Tyrion gave a crooked smile. “Not yet.”

He drew a scroll from beneath his cloak and passed it to Robb with a flourish. “A small gift. Designs for a saddle fit for one who refuses to stay down.”

Robb unrolled the parchment warily. His brow furrowed, then smoothed.

Bran leaned forward in his seat. “I could ride again?”

“If you have the will,” Tyrion said.

Hope bloomed in Bran’s eyes like spring breaching winter.

Robb looked up at the dwarf. His voice, when it came, had thawed. “Thank you.”

Tyrion shrugged. “A Lannister always pays his debts.”

He turned then, and his gaze swept the room like a lantern’s beam — brushing over Robb, lingering a moment on Jon, and landing on Walder. There it paused.

There was no challenge in the look, only curiosity. But Walder met it with stone. Let the little lion wonder.

The godswood of Winterfell lay in hushed stillness beneath the boughs of red and green. Here, even the wind seemed to tread softly. Snow clung to the branches like old bones, and the air was thick with the smell of cold earth, moss, and the faint iron tang of weirwood sap.

The heart tree stood in the clearing’s center, its pale bark lined with deep red grooves, like old wounds that never healed. Its carved eyes wept silently into the black pool below, crimson tears falling without end.

Walder stood to the side, arms folded, his breath misting as he watched the boy kneel before the tree. No. Not a boy anymore.

Jon Snow bowed low, his hands resting on his thighs, his head bowed in the posture of prayer — though Walder knew few men truly prayed anymore. What words could reach gods so old they no longer listened?

Ghost lay at Jon’s feet, as still as carved stone. Only his ears moved, twitching at sounds no man could hear. The pool whispered in slow ripples, disturbed by nothing.

Walder said nothing. He knew the weight of silence beneath the trees. The gods here had no use for speeches. They remembered what men forgot — every broken oath, every buried truth.

Jon rose at last, the snow falling from his cloak like ash. His face was grave beneath the hood, and when he turned, Walder saw the shadow in his eyes.

“Robb told me,” Jon said quietly. “About Bran. The assassin. The Lannisters.”

Walder inclined his head, a simple soldier’s nod. “I thought he would.”

Jon’s hands opened and closed at his sides, like a swordsman measuring a draw. “He said you were there. On the kingsroad.”

“I was.” Walder shifted, the old wound beneath his ribs flaring again — a dull, familiar pain. A scar paid for in Targaryen steel and silent oaths.

“When the king’s party left Winterfell,” he said, voice low, “we rode south. It felt like a victory, then — the Wolf and the Stag, riding together beneath a sky that hadn’t yet soured.”

He saw it again, as if it were yesterday: Arya splashing in the river, the boy trailing behind her with that shy smile. Sansa with her hair brushed like a southron lady. Joffrey already wearing his cruelty like a crown.

“They found Arya and the butcher’s boy,” Walder said. “Words were exchanged. Then swords. Nymeria bit the prince. Clean. Quick.”

Jon’s face darkened. “He hurt her?”

“He tried,” Walder said grimly. “Nymeria saw to that.”

The wind stirred the leaves overhead, their rustle like whispers.

“The queen demanded blood. The Hound came for the wolves.” He paused. “But I would not see them die.”

Jon said nothing. His jaw was tight.

“I let Arya slip away,” Walder continued. “Told her to send the wolf running. Better lost in the woods than butchered in the yard.”

“And Lady?” Jon asked, though the answer sat like stone in his gut.

Walder’s voice dropped. “She was freed,” he said. “But it cost me. The king stripped me of my place. Sent me home like a dog chased from the feast.”

He looked away, toward the weirwood’s eyes. “Your father — Ned — he wanted to shield me. But there was only so much he could do. Even wolves must bend, sometimes, or break.”

Jon stepped closer, his voice rough. “You did the right thing.”

“I did what honor demanded,” Walder said. “But honor rarely leaves a man whole.”

The silence between them was thick, broken only by the wind in the leaves and Ghost’s slow breathing. Jon looked up at the red face carved in the tree.

“Robb says the realm is uneasy,” he said. “That war might come.”

“It may already be here,” Walder answered. “The realm is dry wood. One spark and it burns.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “You’ve seen war. What does it bring?”

Walder did not answer right away. He tasted the cold on his tongue. Remembered the screams at the Trident, the hush at the Tower of Joy, the silence that followed too many of Ned’s footsteps.

“Blood,” he said at last. “Fire and famine. Names carved on stones and songs sung by those who never knew the men. And when the songs fade, only the bones remain.”

Jon swallowed hard.

Walder stepped forward and laid a hand on his shoulder — heavy, solid, real.

“But remember this,” he said. “In war, the blade matters less than the will. You must hold when others fall. Stand when others run. Not because it’s easy. But because it is needed.”

Jon nodded, slow and solemn. Ghost leaned into his leg, silent and sure. The heart tree watched with bleeding eyes. Winter was coming. And with it, the hour when all oaths would be weighed.

Chapter Text

Robb

The sun had only begun to stretch pale fingers over the hills when Robb Stark rose, the breath from his mouth white in the half-lit chill of his chamber. The hearth had burned low, and the stones beneath his bare feet were colder than ice.

He dressed swiftly, muscles tight from sleep, heart tight from everything else. The heavy grey cloak of House Stark settled across his shoulders like a mantle of stone, the direwolf collar brushing against his throat.

He belted on his sword without thought. Of late, it clung to him like a shadow.

Beyond the walls, Winterfell loomed in the morning mist, its towers half-lost to fog, its banners limp and sodden with dew. The godswood trees whispered somewhere beyond, and the crows had not yet begun to caw.

Grey Wind padded at Robb’s side — larger now, leaner, a silver blur of silent menace. He no longer looked like a pup. He looked like a hunter.

There was an unease in Robb's chest that no steel could guard against.

Father gone. Bran broken. Mother vanished into the South like a storm cloud swallowed by the horizon.

The direwolf still flew above Winterfell, but some days, Robb feared it flew only to warn.

He crossed the yard and found Jon already in the mist — helping Bran into the new saddle. Jon moved with quiet efficiency, his hands steady as he cinched the straps. Bran looked small atop the pony, all bundled leather and determined scowl, a boy clutching a knight’s dream.

The sight of him stirred something sharp in Robb’s chest — pride and grief braided tight.

“You look a true Stark now,” Robb said as he approached.

Bran grinned, fierce and lopsided. “I feel like a knight.”

“You’ll ride like one soon enough,” Jon said, cinching a final strap with care.

Ghost lingered at his heel, red eyes glowing faint through the mist.

Nearby, Theon Greyjoy leaned against a stable post, arms crossed, the usual smirk twisting his lips. “If the boy doesn’t fall and crack his skull,” he said.

Robb shot him a glance sharp as the chill. Theon just shrugged, unconcerned.

Off to the side, Walder Snow stood with arms folded, carved from the same grey stone as Winterfell’s walls. His eyes missed nothing. Robb found a strange comfort in that.

“We ride to the edge of the Wolfswood,” Robb said, loud enough for the stablehands and guards to hear. “Bran needs the practice. And the rest of us could use a stretch.”

Theon grinned. “And maybe a sword dance, if fortune smiles.”

Jon gave Robb a look — steady, wordless. One that said: I’ll be there.

That was enough.

Robb mounted with practiced ease, the saddle taking his weight like an old friend. Jon followed, then Theon. Bran came last — stubborn to the last, refusing help. Ghost and Grey Wind bounded ahead, fur flashing through the morning gloom.

They rode out through the gatehouse, the world beyond Winterfell damp and muffled, the air thick with coming frost.

For a time, the sound of hooves and wolves and Bran’s quiet joy were enough to make Robb believe they could still find peace. For a time, it almost felt like the old days. Almost.

The Wolfswood opened its arms like an old friend with a hidden knife. The morning mist clung low to the ground, thickening as they rode. Trees loomed above, their gold-tinged leaves rustling faintly in a breeze that carried no warmth.

The trail wound narrow beneath the horses’ hooves, soft and damp from the recent rains. Bran rode between Robb and Jon, chin lifted, reins gripped tight in gloved hands. His pride was obvious, but so too was his concentration. Every step his pony took was a quiet victory.

Ahead, Grey Wind and Ghost loped in silence, ears high, tails straight, their bodies tense with instinct. Behind, Theon laughed at some jest Jon had muttered. Robb heard it but didn’t catch the words. Theon always laughed too loud.

Walder had ranged ahead without speaking — a shadow among shadows, his axe slung across his back. When he vanished into the undergrowth, no sound marked his going. Robb trusted him more than most of Winterfell’s swords.

A hare darted across the path.

Bran whooped with delight, startling the pony slightly, but he held steady. “Did you see that?”

Robb smiled. “You’ll be chasing them soon.”

For a moment — a heartbeat — it felt like something whole again. Then came the blur. A scream from the trees. A rush of hooves. The woods erupted.

Four men crashed from the underbrush — ragged, wild-eyed, clad in patchwork leathers and rusted steel. One wielded a spear, another a woodcutter’s axe. The rest had short blades stained with more than age.

Robb’s sword was out before he could think. “Bran!” he shouted.

But it was already chaos. Bran’s pony reared, screaming. A man seized the bridle, yanking Bran half from the saddle. Another lunged at Jon. The spear thrust — missed — and Jon was already moving, twisting, slamming his blade into the man’s belly with a wet crunch.

“Form up!” Robb bellowed. “Protect Bran!”

Grey Wind hit a third attacker mid-lunge, dragging him down in a whirl of fangs and blood. Theon spurred forward, whooping, sword flashing. He laughed as he fought, even as his blade opened a man’s throat like a wineskin.

Robb kicked his horse hard into the man grappling Bran. His sword arced in a two-handed blow that split flesh and bone. The man dropped screaming. Bran fell with him, gasping, fumbling at the reins.

And then — a knife. Pressed to Bran’s throat. The last man — lean, filthy, desperate — held the boy in front of him like a shield, the blade tight against pale skin.

“Stand down!” the man shrieked. “Drop your steel, or I gut him!”

Silence. Robb froze, sword up. Jon’s jaw clenched white. Ghost crept forward, a silent blur. Grey Wind snarled, teeth bared, but did not pounce. Bran whimpered. The blade pricked skin. And then — from the woods, a flicker of iron.

An axe spun through the air. It struck the man in the back with a sickening crunch. He jerked forward, the knife slipping, and fell hard. Bran tumbled free, sobbing. Walder emerged from the treeline, face grim, another axe already in hand.

Robb dropped to the ground, catching Bran and pulling him close, heart slamming in his chest. The world held still again. Just breath and blood and wet leaves. Then a rustle.

Another figure staggered from the woods — a woman this time, gaunt, wild-eyed, hands raised.

“Mercy,” she rasped. “M’lords... mercy...”

Walder stepped forward.

“Wait,” Robb said.

The woman collapsed to her knees, clutching her arms. “The Wall...” she gasped. “The Wall’s broken... dead things stirring... we had to get south... had to live...”

Robb stared down at her. Her face was filth and bone. Her voice cracked like dry bark. He should have ordered her slain. He didn’t. “Bind her,” he said.

Walder obeyed, silent as always. Jon lifted Bran gently into another mount. His face was tight with fury, but his hands were careful.

The wolves paced the bloodstained clearing, hackles still raised.

The ride back was slower than the one that had led them into the trees. Bran slumped against Jon, Theon rode ahead without speaking, and Walder followed with the prisoner walking behind his horse, wrists bound, steps faltering. No one spoke. Only the trees whispered now. And Winterfell, far ahead, waited.

They rode beneath Winterfell’s walls in silence. Blood crusted their cloaks. Bran swayed in the saddle, clinging to Jon like a child to a dream. Theon said nothing now. His grin was gone. Even the wolves padded quietly, as if they too felt the weight of what had passed in the trees.

Walder brought up the rear, the prisoner stumbling behind his horse. Her wrists were bound with a strip of boiled leather, her face hollow, her eyes like pits in a skull. She said nothing. No one asked her to.

The gates creaked open with a groan. Winterfell swallowed them. Stableboys ran forward, wide-eyed. One gasped at the blood. Maester Luwin hurried from the tower steps, his face going pale.

“My lord—” he began.

“Later,” Robb said.

He dismounted stiffly, his legs numb, his sword still sheathed but heavy with memory. He needed breath. He needed the gods. Robb turned and walked away, his boots leaving dark prints on the stone. Grey Wind followed — silent, close.

The godswood was cold and quiet, its stillness untouched by the blood on his hands. The heart tree waited, red tears staining its white bark. The pool lay black and unbroken, as it always had, as it always would.

Robb sank to his knees in the soft earth. His sword he placed before him, across his lap, and for a long time he simply breathed.

Grey Wind curled beside him, watchful but calm. The warmth of his fur did little to thaw the ice inside Robb’s chest. Footsteps came at last — slow, certain. Walder Snow. He did not speak.

Robb didn’t look up. “I killed a man today,” he said. His voice was flat. “He was trying to take Bran.”

Walder nodded once. “You’ll kill more.”

Robb watched the heart tree’s red sap drip into the water like blood into a grave. “It didn’t feel right,” he said. “It wasn’t like the stories, like the songs.”

“It never is,” Walder said. “The singers lie. They always have.”

Robb’s voice cracked. “Will it get easier?”

Walder’s silence was the kind that spoke. “No,” he said. “Not if you stay true.”

Robb turned to him then, eyes raw. “Then how do I bear it?”

“You remember who you are,” Walder said. “And who you fight for.”

Walder knelt beside him, his hand settling heavy on his shoulder.

“And when hope fails you, and fear gnaws at your bones, you endure. Because you are a Stark of Winterfell.” He squeezed once. “And wolves do not break.”

Robb closed his eyes. The words settled over him like snow. He wasn’t sure if they comforted him or buried him. The heart tree said nothing. It only watched. Above, a crow cawed once in the red branches.

Winter was coming. And Robb Stark would meet it standing.

Chapter Text

Walder

The Great Hall of Winterfell had never seemed so vast. Its ancient stones drank the firelight, casting long shadows across the floor. The banners of House Stark hung motionless in the rafters, the grey direwolf stitched in faded thread, watching from the gloom like a silent judge. Above the high seat, the air felt colder. Walder stood near a carved stone pillar, arms folded, his great frame swathed in wolfskin. He said nothing. He only watched.

The raven had come at dawn. Dark wings, dark words.

Now the black wax lay broken on the table before Robb Stark, the scroll unfurled like a blade. Five men stood in the hall — Robb, Jon Snow, Theon Greyjoy, Maester Luwin, and Walder himself. Five men, and the weight of the North pressed heavy upon all their shoulders.

Lord Eddard Stark — imprisoned. Stark men butchered in the streets. A summons to King’s Landing, signed in the name of a boy with a lion’s crown. Walder had read the message once. He had not needed to read it twice.

“Another wolf in chains,” he thought. “Another snare in the South.”

His hand rested near the hilt of his knife, not for threat, but memory. His mind drifted, unbidden, to younger days. Brighter ones, though no less perilous.

He had begged Lord Rickard to take him south, to stand beside him before the Iron Throne. “Let me ride with you,” he had said. “Sworn steel, not just words.”

Lord Rickard had placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “It’s politics, not war. You are too young Wylis. Too fierce. I need you here with Benjen.”

So Walder had stayed. And Lord Rickard had ridden alone, and burned in the Mad King’s pyre. Brandon had ridden before him  — fire in his veins, love in his heart, a sword in hand. He had died with a noose around his neck, strangling as he watched his father burn, fingers inches from the hilt that might have saved him.

Walder had ridden too late. Fought at the Trident beside Ned. Killed men with his hands. Buried friends by the dozens. And still — too late.

Too late again at the Tower of Joy, where the sun had risen on swords and ended on sobs. They had bested the kingsguard — Dayne, Whent, Hightower — legends all, and yet still, it had not been enough.

Lyanna had died in a bed of blood, her voice weak with fever and sorrow. Ned had held her hand. Walder had stood at the door, unable to move.

“Promise me,” she had said.

They had made that promise. Four men and a babe. Now Eddard sat in a cell, shackled and slandered. The lion's claws were deep again. The South was still a trap for wolves.

And Robb, young and unblooded, stood at the edge of it all. Walder’s heart ached, a scarred thing grown heavier with each passing year. So many oaths. So many graves. Too many ghosts.

Brandon. Lyanna. Rickard. Eddard. Let me not fail this one.

Walder stood still a useless oathkeeper with nothing but old wounds and older regrets.

Robb stood at the head of the table, his hands braced on the carved wood as if trying to hold the weight of the message down with his own strength. The parchment lay open before him, its edges curled slightly from the damp. Walder imagined it smelled of ash.

The air in the hall was leaden. No wind stirred the grey banners above.

“The crown summons me to King’s Landing,” Robb said, voice rough. “To bend the knee to the boy who holds my father in chains.”

His jaw clenched tight. In the torchlight, he looked more like a carved thing than a boy.

Jon stood at his right, pale and still. Ghost lay at his feet, unblinking, his ears pricked to a tension that hadn’t yet exploded.

Theon Greyjoy leaned forward from the shadows, his fingers drumming the table’s edge. “Then don’t go south to kneel,” he said. “Go to fight. Call the banners. The lords will ride. You’re your father’s son. They’ll follow.”

His voice carried bravado — but Walder heard the hunger beneath it, the thrill of war not yet tasted.

“War is no game,” Jon snapped. His voice was iron without ornament. “Men will die. Innocents will die. The price won’t be paid in gold, but blood. We should be certain before we spend it.”

Theon bristled. “So we do nothing? Sit on our hands while lions piss on the Stark name?”

Jon took a half-step forward, and Ghost stood too, silent and ready. “That’s not what I said.”

“Enough,” Robb said, voice raised — not loud, but firm.

The words settled the room. Even Ghost lowered his head.

Maester Luwin stepped into the quiet like a man walking thin ice. “My lord,” he said, voice cautious, “there are paths yet between sword and silence. A raven might carry words where steel would only spill blood. If Lord Eddard lives, let us not make his prison a grave by acting too swiftly.”

Robb turned toward him. “What words, Maester?” he asked. “What would you have me write to the men who butchered my father’s household? To the boy-king who wears a crown bought in treachery?”

Luwin’s hands fluttered together, uncertain. “Only that we remember. That we are not blind. That we are no more eager to lose sons than your lady mother is to lose her husband.”

A shadow flickered across Robb’s face at that. For a heartbeat, the boy he was surfaced — the son, the brother, the child raised in winter’s shadow. Then it was gone.

Theon stood. “The lions will not listen to birds, only blades. Let the North howl. It’s what they fear.”

Jon did not speak. But his gaze held Robb’s, and something passed between them — something cold and old and bound in blood.

From his place near the pillar, Walder watched all of it unfold like the breaking of a storm. He saw the cracks in the calm, the hunger in Theon’s voice, the pain buried beneath Jon’s quiet, the fire in Robb’s eyes.

He had seen this before — in another hall, another war, another boy standing before the weight of crownless power. The room smelled the same — smoke, sweat, fear. Only the names had changed.

The silence stretched. Then Robb straightened, shoulders drawn back, the parchment still trembling on the table beside him.

“I will not kneel,” he said, quiet and hard. “I will not call Joffrey Baratheon my king.”

The words dropped like an axe. Theon let out a sharp breath, half a laugh. “Then let’s ride.”

Jon said nothing. But Ghost rose to stand. Maester Luwin closed his eyes. And Walder — Walder watched, heart heavy with ghosts.

The fire cracked in the hearth, but it did not warm the room. Robb Stark stood tall now, jaw clenched, eyes fixed ahead as if he could already see the field where banners would rise and fall. His hand rested on the edge of the table, near the parchment, but he no longer looked at it. He didn’t need to. He had chosen.

Walder watched him from the shadows of the pillar, unmoving. In the boy’s stance, he saw echoes of another — Eddard Stark, younger and unblooded, standing tall in the godswood with a sword across his knees and the weight of the world settling on his shoulders.

He remembered Ned at the Trident, his face streaked with mud and grief, but unbowed. He remembered Ned before the Tower, blade in hand, honor in his voice. Even after all they had lost, he had not wavered.

But Robb… Robb was different. Less seasoned, less scarred — not yet shaped by loss, but standing in its shadow. And yet, he did not flinch.

“He wears the mantle well,” Walder thought. “Too well. Like it was always waiting for him.”

He thought then of Brandon — wild, proud, too quick with his blade and his temper. The songs made him a hero. But Walder had known the man. He had seen him laugh in the yard and scowl at court. He had loved too fiercely and died too young.

And Rickard? The old lord had ridden south with certainty. A Stark’s pride, unyielding as the Wall. He had left behind two sons, and a sword too young to follow.

“Stay, Walder. You have the North’s to guard.” So, he stayed. And they burned.

And Lyanna… little Lyanna, fierce as snow in a storm. Her laughter still echoed in the quiet halls sometimes. She had not asked to be part of the war. She had simply been caught in its teeth.

So many fallen. So many graves. And Walder still standing. He had carried swords and axes. Carried secrets. Carried Ned’s silence all these years. But he would not carry another grave. He would not bury Robb. He would not bury Jon.

He placed one hand on the stone pillar beside him, grounding himself in the chill.

“Not this time. Let the lions roar. Let the South bleed its honeyed lies. Let the storms come.”

“I will not fail those two.”

The hall was still as death. The fire burned low in the hearth now, casting long shadows that flickered across Robb Stark’s face as he turned to the others.

He looked first to Theon — who grinned like a man already hearing the horns of battle. Then to Jon — who said nothing, but whose silence spoke volumes. To Maester Luwin — whose eyes were weary with a thousand cautions. And last, to Walder. Their gazes met across the room.

Walder did not bow. Did not speak. He only looked, long and steady. “I see you,” that look said. “And I will stand with you.”

Robb nodded once, as if the whole weight of the realm had shifted to that quiet understanding. “Send the ravens,” he said.

The words rang louder than the voice that spoke them. Maester Luwin hesitated — just for a breath — and then turned, robes whispering across the flagstones.

Theon laughed low in his throat, already hungry for war. “Let the lions come.”

Jon stood unmoving. Ghost brushed against his leg, the only sign of his brother’s mood.

And Walder… Walder closed his eyes. He heard again Lyanna’s cry. Brandon’s laugh. The crackle of burning steel. The scream of a babe in a tower. The sound of Ned’s voice when he made them swear. All of it. “No more.” He thought.

Walder straightened, his hand resting lightly on the hilt at his side. “Let the ravens fly. Let the swords be drawn. Let the old ghosts rise.” This time, he would ride with them. Not as a silent watcher. Not as a mourner left behind. This time, he would guard the wolves. This time, he would keep the vow that mattered most. “Not Robb. Not Jon. Not this time.”

He bowed his head once — not to the boy who would lead the North, but to the gods who had given him this one last chance to stand.

Winter was coming. And Walder Snow would meet it with steel in hand.

Chapter Text

Catelyn

The road to Moat Cailin had swallowed them whole. What passed for a road in the Neck was little more than a twisting scar through bog and mire, half-lost to mist and age. Water pooled between the roots of trees older than memory, and the fog hung thick as grave-shroud linen, muffling hoofbeats, muting the world.

Catelyn Stark rode at the head of her escort, her grey cloak sodden and heavy on her shoulders, clinging like guilt. Beneath her hood, damp hair clung to her cheeks. She did not brush it away.

Beside her rode Brynden Tully — the Blackfish, her uncle, her shield. His eyes were sharp even in the fog, his armor streaked with the muck of the march. But even his grim presence could not drive the cold from her bones.

Too much rode with her. Too many shadows. Tyrion Lannister's smirk still haunted her. The moment she had seized him — bold, desperate — still echoed like a thrown stone. Justice, she had called it then. Justice for Bran. For Winterfell. But the storm she had stirred had broken far beyond her reckoning. And justice, she was learning, was a blade that cut in every direction.

The Neck groaned beneath their passing, the bog greedy for horses and memory alike. No birds called. No wind stirred. Even the trees seemed to lean inward, whispering things best left unheard.

“You are quiet, niece,” Brynden said at last, his voice like gravel in a dry well.

“I have much to think on.”

“Thinking won’t change what’s done,” he said.

“No,” she agreed, her gaze fixed forward. “But it may prepare me for what’s to come.”

Mist closed in around them like a closing hand. A crow cried once, somewhere in the gloom. A sound like mourning.

“I fear,” she said softly, “that I have set my son on a path he cannot leave.”

Brynden grunted, an old soldier’s sound. “Better a path with danger than no path at all. Better a sword drawn than a dagger in the dark.”

She glanced at him, lips pressed tight. “And if I was wrong? If Tyrion had no hand in Bran’s fall?”

He looked at her then, eyes unreadable beneath his helm. “Then we bleed,” he said. “But better an honest war than a peace bought with lies and silence.”

No more words passed between them. The land narrowed, the track rising toward old stones lost in fog. Trees gave way to standing towers — black, broken things, moss-veined and ancient. Moat Cailin rose like a corpse from the mire. Once a gate, now a grave. But still — the North had come. The Neck had buried countless southern kings. Now it would cradle the vengeance of wolves.

The banners of the North stirred faintly in the damp wind — scraps of color against a grey sky. The roaring giant of Umber. The silver fist of Glover. The black bear of Mormont. The merman of Manderly. The flayed man of House Bolton, red and cruel, hanging limp beside the rest.

Catelyn rode beneath them all. The mud sucked at her boots as she dismounted, the scent of wet earth and old stone clinging to everything. A stableboy no older than Bran ran to take her reins, eyes wide as he bowed. Brynden swung down beside her, his gaze already sweeping the half-ruined keep with the vigilance of a man who trusted nothing built on bogland.

“They’ve come,” he said simply. “Your son called, and the North answered.”

Catelyn nodded, though the words brought little comfort. Answering was not the same as following. And following was not the same as believing.

Moat Cailin loomed ahead, ancient and broken. Black moss streaked the towers like old blood. The air smelled of mildew, stone, and the iron tang of war not yet begun. Inside, the hall was cold — a hollow ribcage of a keep, its walls slick with seep and time. A single fire fought for life in the hearth, its sputter swallowed by shadows.

The lords of the North had gathered. Greatjon Umber loomed tall, wild-haired and bearded like a bear come to court, his voice loud even in silence. Galbart Glover stood stern as a blade. Halys Hornwood, lean and sharp-eyed, gave her a brief nod. Maege Mormont, squat and grim, inclined her head with warrior’s approval. Roose Bolton lingered near the edge of the firelight, pale and expressionless, his eyes catching the flames and reflecting nothing.

And then—two men by the hearth. One older, his cloak stitched with crossed longaxes. The other young, broad of shoulder, trying to hold still in his father’s armor.

Catelyn’s breath caught in her throat. “Lord Dustin,” she said.

William Dustin turned, and bowed his head. “Lady Stark.”

His voice had deepened, worn by war and waiting. The years showed in the set of his jaw and the greying at his temples. He had stood beside Ned at the Trident — and bled beside him against the three Kingsguard. One of the four who had lived.

Her eyes drifted to the younger man. “And your son?” she asked.

The boy bowed stiffly, the movement too quick, the armor too new.

“Brandon,” Lord Dustin said. His voice faltered on the name, just for a moment. “Named for a friend I lost long ago.”

Catelyn felt something hollow twist in her chest. Brandon Stark. Her first betrothed. Her first grief. His laugh, his fire, his doomed courage. We might have ruled together, she thought, then banished the thought. We might have died together.

Brandon Dustin met her eyes. “Winterfell’s honor is ours to defend,” he said, formal and eager.

So young, she thought. So proud. So doomed, perhaps.

Before she could answer, the Greatjon’s voice broke the hush. “We have questions, my lady. Hard ones.”

Galbart Glover stepped forward. “You took the Imp. That’s no small thing.”

Catelyn straightened. “I did.”

“And now?” said Halys Hornwood.

She hesitated. Only a moment. “He rides no longer with us,” she said. “Circumstances forced his release.”

A rumble moved through the room — mutters, suspicion, the sound of shields being raised not in defense, but doubt.

Roose Bolton’s voice came soft and cold. “Unfortunate,” he said. “Lions do not forget slights. And loose lions are rarely tame.”

The Greatjon’s massive hand clenched into a fist and slammed it into his palm. “We should’ve kept him. A lion cub’s teeth are sharp.”

Brynden stepped forward. “My niece acted with honor. We are not Lannisters. We do not murder prisoners in the dark.”

The fire popped. The lords quieted — but the tension did not ease. Catelyn stood tall despite the weight in her chest. She had made her choice. She would bear its weight. What else was left? From the far side of the hall came the scrape of boots on stone. Robb entered.

The hall stirred at the sound of mail and boot. Robb strode in, flanked by guards, though none could mistake who led. His shoulders were broader, his step faster, more assured. A sword rode his hip like it belonged there. The boy she remembered was still in him — but harder now, leaner. Steel had crept into the softness.

Catelyn felt the ache rise in her chest. He crossed the room in quick strides and gathered her into his arms, armor and all. For a moment she closed her eyes and held on, burying her face in his cloak.

“You grew a beard,” she murmured, brushing her fingers across his cheek.

He smiled — a flicker of boyhood surfacing before it sank again. “I thought it made me look older.”

“You are older,” she whispered. “Older than I would wish.”

There was no time to hold that truth. They turned together, the eyes of the North still on them. Then she saw him.

Jon Snow stood apart, near the edge of the firelight. His cloak was soaked at the hem, his dark hair damp with mist. Ghost sat beside him, silent, still, red eyes watching. Jon said nothing. He looked as he always had — calm, quiet, watching. The sight of him soured her warmth.

“What is he doing here?” she asked, the words sharper than she intended.

Jon stiffened but did not speak. His wolf did not move.

Robb’s voice cut across the hall — firm, unwavering. “He is my brother. He rides for Winterfell.”

Catelyn’s lips thinned. “He is not—”

“He is,” Robb said, and there was no room for argument in it. “He has ridden at my side. He has bled beside me. That is more than I can say for many who share our name.”

His words struck her like frost. Jon’s gaze met hers for one quiet heartbeat — not in defiance, not in challenge. Only silence. Only that look of a boy used to standing alone. It wounded her more than she’d admit. He turned away and knelt beside Ghost, his hand brushing the direwolf’s pale fur.

Catelyn swallowed the rest. There would be time for reckoning later. There must be. Not here. Not now.

Robb touched her arm gently. “My lady mother. Let us not quarrel now.”

“For now,” she said softly.

The war council began as thunderclouds gathered in the hearts of men. They came to the table — the lords of the North — their boots wet with mire, their hands calloused from war, their banners dripping in the mist beyond the broken walls.

Greatjon Umber’s voice boomed first, his words loud as a warhorn. “The boy-king summons us to kneel? Let him come north and try it. I’ll feed him his own golden crown.”

Maege Mormont thumped her gauntleted fist against the stone. “The North kneels to no lion cub. Not while bears still breathe.”

Halys Hornwood spoke softly but with steel. “This is no courtly quarrel. It’s blood. It’s treason.”

Galbart Glover leaned forward, voice low and urgent. “We must move quickly. Strike before the lions tighten their grip on the Trident.”

Roose Bolton said nothing for a long moment. Then, “Kill the head, and the lion dies. Cut through them at Harrenhal, let the rivers run red.”

The fire crackled in the silence that followed. No one asked what head he meant.

Young Brandon Dustin was next, chest puffed with purpose. “Let me lead the vanguard. We’ll ride through their lines like wolves through sheep.”

Some men chuckled. Daryn Hornwood clapped him on the back.

But Jon Snow only listened. And when he spoke, it was soft, steady, and without bluster. “Walder Frey will not yield the Twins lightly. And if we force a crossing, he’ll remember. The Freys play their own game. Always have.”

Catelyn’s eyes flicked toward him, surprised. Jon spoke like a man used to being ignored — but not like a fool. Maege Mormont gave him a small nod of approval, one warrior to another.

Then Robb stood. The room fell still. He looked no older than his years but something about him had hardened. The firelight caught in his hair and turned it copper, and the shadows cast by the brazier played across his face like war paint.

“We march to the Twins,” Robb said. “We will cross the river with Walder Frey’s leave, or without it. We ride south — for my father. For justice. For the North.”

No flourish. No poetry. Just truth, laid bare like a drawn sword. The lords rose to their feet.

“The North remembers!” they roared as one, fists raised, voices fierce.

“The North remembers!”

The sound echoed through the stone like a storm breaking. Catelyn looked at her son — the boy she had kissed beneath the snow, the child who had wept over broken toys and dead dogs. He stood now before roaring men, his back straight, his eyes bright and hard.

A Stark of Winterfell. A wolf with teeth.

They will follow him, she thought. And if he falls, they will fall with him.

The war had come. The old gods watched. And blood would follow.

Chapter Text

Catelyn

The Twins loomed through the mist like a threat made stone. Two squat towers of grey masonry, squatting on either side of the Green Fork, their hunched shoulders joined by a bridge of ancient timber and black iron. There was no beauty in the Twins. No elegance. Just purpose — grim and unyielding.

Catelyn Stark reined in atop a low rise of muddy earth and studied the crossing through a veil of rain. The towers had no banners flying today. No trumpets sounded. And yet the message was clear.

You do not pass unless we let you.

Behind her, the host of the North stretched into the mists — a dark tide of wet cloaks, snapping standards, and steel dulled by weather. Horses snorted in the cold air. Campfires smoked and sputtered. A thousand men shifting, waiting, watching.

Robb rode up beside her, the hood of his cloak tossed back despite the rain, auburn hair plastered to his brow. He said nothing at first, only looked. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.

“They block the way.”

“They always have,” Catelyn replied, never looking away. “It is their curse — and their power.”

There was no force in the riverlands more cunning than House Frey. No allies less trusted. No toll more bitter than the one paid to cross that bridge.

Brynden Tully urged his mount forward, water dripping from his helm and pauldrons. His voice was low and dry as old parchment.

“Old Walder never draws a sword unless he’s certain the other man has dropped his. He’s a weathervane in a storm.”

“And a miser in peace,” Theon Greyjoy added behind them, shaking water from his shoulders. “He’ll sell his bridge like a whore sells favors — one coin at a time.”

Robb frowned. “We have little to offer.”

“Only promises,” Brynden said.

“And sometimes,” Catelyn murmured, “promises are enough.”

And sometimes they are a noose.

She stared at the towers. Rain ran down the stones like tears. From one slit window, a torch flickered dimly. She counted men on the battlements. Forty. Perhaps more in the towers. Archers. And behind those walls — too many mouths, too many eyes.

To force a crossing here would be a bloodbath. Freys had no glory in them, but their arrows would fall like hail. Time was the greater enemy. Riverrun still stood, but for how long?

“I will go,” she said.

Robb turned to her. “Mother—”

“Walder Frey will not treat with you. You’re a boy to him. A boy with swords, but a boy all the same. He’ll think you eager. He’ll think you weak.”

Robb hesitated. There was resistance in him, but he was learning — fast, and with scars.

“I would not send you,” he said at last, “if there were another way.”

“I know.”

Jon Snow approached then, his cloak soaked to the knees, Ghost padding beside him — a pale ghost in the fog. He said nothing. He only stood at Robb’s side and looked at the Twins with the same quiet intensity that marked him since birth.

When Robb glanced at him, Jon gave a sharp nod — not as brother, but as soldier. No comfort. Only assent. Catelyn looked at him briefly. He had grown, but not enough for her to forget who he was. Or what. She turned her horse without another word and rode toward the river, the eyes of the North heavy on her back, and the weight of the realm growing heavier with each hoofbeat.

The gates of the Twins creaked open with grudging slowness, as if the fortress resented even that small surrender. Catelyn rode in alone.

The courtyard was narrow and mean, its stones slick with slime and standing water. Guards stood beneath dripping eaves, spears in hand, their eyes cold and pale — Frey eyes, all of them. They said nothing.

She was led through twisting corridors lined with mildew and ill-lit torches, the air thick with damp and disuse. The very walls seemed to lean inward, like old men whispering behind cupped hands. When she entered the great hall, it was worse.

The ceiling hung low, the beams black with smoke and age. The hearth sputtered halfheartedly, casting flickers across the packed room.

They were everywhere — Freys. Sons, grandsons, great-grandsons, bastards by the dozen. Pale, sharp-faced, narrow-shouldered men with sullen mouths and watching eyes. They did not speak. They stared.

Atop the high seat sat Walder Frey — gaunt and crumpled, thin as kindling and just as brittle. His skin sagged in folds from his neck, and his fingers drummed slowly on the carved arms of his chair. He looked like a corpse that hadn’t quite decided to stay dead.

Catelyn bowed low, careful and deliberate. “My lord.”

“Lady Stark,” he rasped. “I am no lord to you — not yet. You come as a beggar, eh?”

His voice gurgled in his throat, phlegmy and wet.

“I come to treat,” she said calmly.

“You come to plead,” Walder snorted. “You need my bridge. You need it bad. And old Walder never gives what he can sell, eh?”

A ripple of snickering moved through the watching Freys. It died quickly.

“My son marches south to answer the summons of your liege lord,” she said. “He would cross in peace, with your leave.”

Walder leaned forward, yellowed teeth bared. “And if I say no? Will your boy storm my gates and drown me in the river?”

“We would not,” Catelyn said — lying, and knowing he knew it. “But neither would we forget.”

Walder’s eyes gleamed at that. “Ah. Not forget. Like my sons don’t forget which lady of Riverrun was offered to the Tullys, and which was not, eh?”

She said nothing.

“You want something,” he rasped. “And I want something.”

He ticked off with his clawlike fingers. “Marriage. Alliance. Blood for blood. My name rising with the tide.”

She was ready. “Jon Snow—”

His hand struck the arm of the chair with a crack. “A bastard?” he hissed. “You offer me a mongrel pup? Am I a kennel master?”

The murmurs in the hall swelled, like bees disturbed.

Catelyn’s spine stiffened. “Jon Snow is of Stark blood,” she said. “A son of Eddard Stark.” She did not say not mine. She did not need to.

Walder sneered. “A true whore’s son. I’ll not have him. Think better, or beg elsewhere.”

The weight of a thousand watching eyes pressed down on her. Her breath was tight in her throat.

Then she said it. Bitter as ash. Bitter as loss. “My son Robb — Future Lord of Winterfell — will wed one of your daughters.”

The hall shifted. Walder leaned back in his chair, tapping a yellow tooth with one gnarled nail. “Now there’s a prize worth biting, eh?”

“In return,” Catelyn said, swallowing her pride, “you will grant us safe passage across the bridge, and keep faith.”

“Faith,” Walder muttered. “Honor. Promises. Wind and ash, those things.”

“And yet they bind,” she said. “They always have.”

He studied her — long and slow. Then “Done.”

The hall exhaled. “Bring parchment and ink before I forget why I agreed,” he croaked.

Behind her, the Freys murmured. A few grinned. One or two frowned. Catelyn bowed once more, lower this time, and turned to leave, the chill of the Twins clinging to her skin like cobwebs.

Dusk had fallen by the time Catelyn returned. Rain whispered across the camp in a fine, relentless veil. Fires sputtered low, their light casting twisted shadows on canvas and mud. The banners of the North — wet, limp, stained — clung to their poles like wounded things.

She passed rows of men sharpening blades, oiling mail, whispering prayers to old gods and new. All eyes turned toward her, then quickly away. They knew what she had gone to do. They did not yet know what she had paid.

Robb waited in the command tent, flanked by Brynden, Theon, Jon, and the captains of the host. Grey Wind paced behind him, uneasy, his pale eyes darting toward the tent flaps at every gust of wind.

The smell of leather and damp wool filled the air. No one spoke as she entered. She stripped off her soaked cloak and laid the scroll on the table between them, the Frey seal broken.

“Lord Walder grants us crossing,” she said. “And five thousand men besides. He will march under your banner.”

A breath passed — relief, surprise — until she added, “But there is a price.”

Robb’s shoulders stiffened. “What does he want?”

“A marriage,” she said. “When the war is done, you are to wed one of his daughters. Arya is to be betrothed as well.”

The words hung like smoke. Robb said nothing at first. He stared at the fire, lips pressed tight. Jon lowered his gaze. Theon cursed under his breath. Brynden’s face was stone.

“And if we do not?” Robb asked quietly.

“Then the gates will close behind us,” Catelyn said. “We lose the only road south. And your grandfather’s men will bleed alone while the lions close in.”

The words were cruel — because they were true. Robb bowed his head, his voice barely audible. “I will do what honor and duty require.”

He looked up, and for a moment she saw it — not the boy who used to chase Arya through the snow, but the lord. The Stark. The one who now bore the weight of all their names.

“Ready the men,” Robb said. “We cross at dawn.”

The captains moved to obey. Cloaks swirled. Commands were barked. Catelyn remained a moment longer. Jon was watching her. His expression held no anger, no judgment. Only distance — like a winter field, empty and quiet. He said nothing. Nor did she. She turned and walked back into the dark.

The war council was called beneath a canopy of grey. Robb’s command tent stood at the heart of the camp like a beast at bay — canvas walls sagging under rain, the mud around it churned by boots and hooves. Inside, the firepit smoked fitfully. Maps curled at the corners, ink smudged by damp hands and restless decisions.

One by one, the lords of the North entered. The Greatjon came first, laughter loud, shoulders broader than the tent poles. Robett Glover followed, stiff with blood still crusted at his temple. Halys Hornwood, mud-splashed and grim, brought his son Daryn and the smell of the march. Maege Mormont arrived in her bearskin cloak, her daughter Dacey close behind. Roose Bolton arrived last — silent, pale, his eyes unreadable, his maester trailing like a shadow that hadn’t earned the right to vanish.

And in their midst stood Jon Snow. He said little. He had said little for days. But his posture was straight, and the direwolf on his plain grey cloak was stitched as clean as any lord’s. Ghost sat behind him, watchful.

Robb sat at the table’s head. Catelyn to his left. Brynden to his right. No lord looked to her. They looked to Robb.

“My lords,” Robb said, voice steady. “The hour is on us. We march tomorrow, but not together.”

He placed a gloved hand flat on the map, where the river forked. “We face two armies. Lord Tywin camps south along the Green Fork. Ser Jaime still holds the siege at Riverrun.”

He moved a wooden direwolf toward the west. “If we strike at one, the other may strike at our backs. So we divide.”

A murmur of dissent rippled through the tent. The Greatjon scowled. Robett Glover’s jaw clenched.

“It must be done,” Robb said. “We split our strength — the cavalry rides west with me. Five thousand strong. We free Riverrun.”

“And the rest?” asked Galbart Glover.

Jon stepped forward. “The foot soldiers will march south,” he said. “Hold the river. Delay Tywin. Bleed him if we can.”

His voice was calm. Not loud, but clear. Even. Catelyn’s heart began to race.

William Dustin leaned in, suspicion hard in his face. “And who commands this host?”

Robb paused. For only a moment. “My brother,” he said. “Jon Snow.”

The tent fell to stillness. A bastard. A boy. A commander? The lords did not speak at once. Their faces moved like a tide of unease — skepticism, insult, cold calculation.

Roose Bolton’s expression did not change, but Catelyn saw the narrowing of his eyes. The Greatjon opened his mouth, then closed it again. Dacey Mormont tilted her head and glanced at her mother. Maege gave a slight nod.

It was William Dustin who finally broke the silence. “Blood will tell,” he said. “Stark blood runs strong. I will follow it.”

Others followed — slowly, some grudging, some defiant. But none spoke against Robb. Catelyn sat motionless, her nails biting into her palms beneath the table.

Not Stark blood, she thought. Not truly. A son of some nameless woman. A child born in shadow. Yet here he stood — called brother. Given command. Robb had chosen.

The council broke. Men left to rouse their banners. Horns would soon sound. Steel would be drawn.

Only Robb and Catelyn remained. He was rolling the maps now, his hands precise and steady.

“You would trust him?” she said, her voice quiet. “A bastard?”

Robb did not look at her. “He is my brother.”

“You think you know him.”

“I do.”

She rose. “Bastards are dangerous, Robb. They do not feel bound as trueborn sons do. They remember every slight.”

“And they remember every kindness,” Robb said, finally meeting her gaze. “Jon has never betrayed me.”

“Yet.”

Her voice was bitter as rain. Robb took the last map and placed it in his satchel. "He bled for Winterfell. He fought at my side in the Wolfswood. He is no lion’s cub nor crow’s chick. He is of the North."

"He is no Stark. Bastards are faithless by nature Robb. They are wolves without pack, serpents without loyalty."

"I know Jon," Robb said. "Better than you, my lady."

Her words cut, so did his. She flinched. "You think you know him," she said. "But blood will out. Given power, he will betray you."

“I have made my choice,” he said. “He rides for me.”

Then he left her there, alone in the dim tent, the fire sputtering low, her heart knotted with fear — not for Robb’s enemies, but for the shadow he had raised beside him.

Outside, the North stirred. Men sharpened blades, whispered to gods. Horns sounded in the distance. The wolves would cross. And blood would follow.

Chapter Text

Walder

The road south was a wound carved through the land — deep and festering. What had once been a king’s way was now little more than churned black mud and shattered stone, trampled by thousand boots and thousand hooves. The sky above hung like smoke-stained linen, heavy and dead, with clouds so low they kissed the standards as they passed. The North was on the move.

Walder rode near the van, his cloak drawn close, soaked through at the shoulders and stiff with frost at the hem. The haft of his axe jutted over one shoulder, its weight familiar as breath.

Around him stretched a tide of steel and wool and weathered skin: spearmen from White Harbor, their helms dented and dull; archers from Bear Island, faces hidden beneath furs; stout men from the barrow-lands with rust-flecked mail and eyes that had seen too many winters. Few spoke. Fewer smiled.

Above them flew the banners — the roaring giant of Umber, the green merman of Manderly, the flayed man of Bolton, the black bear of Mormont. And always — always — the direwolf led. Grey and wild, snapping in the wind, it seemed to howl with every gust. A wolf of cloth, but no less fierce for it. They marched not for gold, nor glory. They marched toward the lion’s teeth.

Walder turned his gaze ahead and saw Jon Snow riding among the captains. No golden spurs adorned him, no silver trim at his collar. His cloak was plain, black save for the direwolf stitched at the breast. He rode without speaking, his eyes fixed forward — pale, cold, and unreadable.

The boy wears his bastard’s birth like armor, Walder thought. And perhaps it will serve him better than steel.

There was something in Jon that pulled at him — not just the resemblance to Eddard Stark, though that alone was enough to stir old wounds. It was the way he sat a horse. The silence. The weight in his eyes.

Too young, the other lords whispered behind closed tent flaps.

Walder had seen boys younger die with blades in their bellies and names on their lips.

The blood tells, he thought, and let the old ache stir in his side — a throb from the Tower of Joy that never fully faded.

The army moved like a creature shaped from snow and steel — a sullen, starved beast crawling south toward fire. Behind them lay hearth and kin and the last scraps of peace. Ahead waited Lord Tywin Lannister and his golden host — twenty thousand strong, armored to the teeth, backed by coin enough to buy a second army if need be. They were outnumbered. Outmanned. Outplayed.

And the fate of the North now rested on the shoulders of a green boy with no name to call his own. Walder breathed out slowly, his breath misting in the air.

Old gods, he thought. Watch over him. Watch over us all.

The sound of marching men — boots in mud, leather creaking, mail clinking — rolled like distant thunder. No song accompanied them. Only the wind. Only the cold. Only the quiet dirge of Northern defiance.

By the time they made camp, night had swallowed the sky. Across the sodden plain, fires rose like fallen stars — flickering, fragile things in the dark. Rain hissed in the embers. The earth stank of wet leather, damp wool, and the sweat of too many men pressed too close for too long.

Walder found William Dustin sitting at one such fire, his broad frame hunched beneath a heavy fur cloak, his longaxe planted in the muck beside him like a banner. A skin of dark wine rested at his side.

William looked up and gestured with a grunt. “Sit. Before the years steal your knees and your pride.”

Walder sat slowly, his spine stiff with the ride. The old ache in his ribs flared as it always did — a ghost’s kiss from a sword that had nearly killed him at the Tower of Joy. They said nothing for a long while.

Only the crackle of flame, the distant snort of horses, and the low murmur of a thousand men dreaming of home.

Finally, William spoke. “You saw him.”

Not a question. Walder took the skin of wine and drank deep. The taste was bitter. Real. He passed it back without a word.

“A bold choice,” William said, watching the fire. “Robb giving him the host. Took stones larger than most lords carry.”

Walder grunted. “He’ll be hated for it.”

William smiled, slow and grim. “Aye. But that’s true of all lords worth their weight.”

He leaned back and looked to the stars — what few could be seen through the smoke.

“You think the boy can hold?” he asked.

Walder was quiet a moment, then: “If the blood runs true.”

William nodded. “If.”

Sparks jumped from the fire, danced in the air, then vanished.

“There are those who would see him fail,” Walder said. His voice was low, but not uncertain.

William’s mouth twisted. “Some wear direwolves,” he said. “Others chase scraps from the lion’s table.”

Walder’s hand went to the haft of his axe. He did not speak. The fire snapped between them.

“He must succeed,” Walder said finally. “For Winterfell. For Ned.”

William looked down into the flame. “And for her,” he said softly.

There was no need to say her name. She had been in their hearts for decades, since that last ride south. Since the scream in the tower. Since the gods had turned their faces away and left them with a silence they could not break. The fire cracked louder, as if it too remembered.

Walder passed the wine back. “We do our part.”

William drank, then wiped his mouth with the back of a scarred hand. “Always.”

They sat that way a while longer, two old wolves beneath a sky that no longer knew their names. Out beyond the ring of firelight, lions were sharpening their claws. And the wolves, at last, were beginning to bare their teeth.

The war council gathered beneath a tattered direwolf banner, snapping above the largest fire in the camp. There was no hall, no carved oaken chairs — only a circle of lords and commanders hunched against the cold, breath fogging in the dark.

Jon Snow stood at the center. Ghost sat beside him, still as snow, eyes glowing red in the flickering light. Jon’s cloak was damp at the hem, his gloves worn, his hair flattened by the mist — but he looked unbowed. Unmoving. His silence had weight. The lords surrounded him like the stones of an old cairn — cold, carved by weather, and not easily shifted.

Wylis Manderly spoke first, flushed with wine and firelight. “We hold the river,” he urged. “Palisades. Trenches. Let the lions dash themselves against us.”

Harrion Karstark was next. “Dig deep. Stand fast. Bleed them dry.”

Roose Bolton did not raise his voice, but when he spoke, the others fell quiet. “Patience is wise,” he said, smooth as a whetstone. “But too much patience can be death. If the lions outflank us — if Ser Gregor rides swift — we will be devoured, piece by piece.”

Some nodded. Some frowned. Robett Glover spoke of feints and baited traps. Jorelle Mormont warned against overextending supply lines. Lord Halys Hornwood snapped that none of it mattered if Frey’s loyalty snapped first. The talk rose like wind in a pinewood — voices clashing, strategies curling into one another, ambitions and grudges woven beneath every sentence.

Jon said nothing. He stood with hands folded, boots planted, eyes fixed on the flames. He did not nod. Did not blink. Offered no smiles, no gestures. Only silence. And it unsettled them.

Walder watched the unease ripple through the circle — muttered oaths, sideways glances. They had accepted him when it was Robb who named him. But now, here, without him at Jon’s side — doubts coiled like smoke. A boy, they said. A snow.

By the time the council broke, the air was colder than when it began. The lords wandered away by twos and threes, muttering, their words trailing like frost. Too young. Too soft. Unproven. Unnamed. Walder stood still. He heard every word. And he ignored them. He had heard worse.

As the fire dimmed, only two figures remained by the coals — the boy and the wolf. Jon crouched, gloved hand resting on Ghost’s white head. The direwolf sat motionless, eyes burning red, ears twitching at sounds only he could hear. Jon stared into the coals. He hadn’t moved in some time. Walder approached with slow, deliberate steps, his boots squelching in the cold mud. The air was thick with damp and silence.

Jon didn’t look up. But his voice came, low and sure. “They think I don’t have a plan.”

Ghost stirred slightly, but did not rise. “They think I’m a boy playing war.” He said it without anger. Without mockery. Just fact.

Walder stopped beside the fire. The heat barely touched the cold in his bones.

Jon’s fingers curled slightly on Ghost’s fur. “They’re not wrong,” he said. “I’ve never led men in battle. I’ve never faced lions. Never tasted the fear that lives behind a shieldwall.”

Walder said nothing. He waited.

“But I have a plan,” Jon continued.  He lifted his gaze. It met Walder’s across the dying flame.

“I need men,” Jon said. “Men who will strike when others balk. Men who know that victory sometimes comes after the line breaks — not before.”

Walder held his eyes. Jon’s were grey — Stark grey — but colder. Less Ned. More... something else. Something forged beyond Winterfell’s walls.

“Men who strike true,” Jon said. “Even if it means death.”

Walder studied him a moment longer. Then nodded once. The fire crackled between them. He said no words. There was no need. The boy was gone. Only the wolf remained.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The vanguard shivered beneath a sky the color of old ash. They stood in ranks along the muddy riverbank, a forest of spears, dripping helms, and restive horses. A cold wind gusted off the Green Fork, snapping crimson banners above their heads — lions rampant, defiant, but already damp with mist.

Tyrion Lannister shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. His armor chafed at the thighs — too tight in places, too loose in others — and it weighed far more than he remembered. The gelding beneath him twitched and stamped at the earth as if it shared his anxiety.

Gods, I hate horses, he thought. And armor. And war.

He hated the way his heart hammered, the way sweat stung his eyes despite the chill, the press of bodies and steel closing around him like a cage. But most of all, he hated the thought of dying here — in a field of churned mud and shattered bones, far from Casterly Rock’s golden halls and warm wine.

Around him, knights murmured prayers beneath their breath. Sellswords checked their blades with trembling fingers. Men who had claimed a dozen kills in campfire boasts now looked ready to piss themselves.

At their head loomed Ser Gregor Clegane. The Mountain sat his monstrous black charger like a god of death, all in blackened plate, helm fashioned like a snarling skull. His greatsword hung across his back — six feet of steel, wide as a butcher’s block. It wasn’t a weapon. It was a verdict.

Tyrion watched him and shivered. Behind them, the river ran fast and deep. Behind the river, somewhere beyond the low hills and the morning fog, Tywin Lannister's second host lay hidden. Fifteen thousand strong. Armored. Waiting.

The plan was simple. Cruel. Elegant. Tywin’s plans always were. Let the Northmen crash into the vanguard — cut them, bleed them, let them taste a little victory. Let them press their advantage. And then — crush them. Tywin’s second host would descend from the ridgeline, cutting off retreat, pressing them against the river. No room to maneuver. No room to flee. Just a killing field.

And Tyrion? He was the bait. He licked his dry lips and tried not to vomit. His hand rested on the small axe strapped to his saddle. He didn’t like swords. Swords were noble, precise, poetic. Axes were honest. Swing. Hack. Survive.

He spotted Bronn a few rows back, grinning like the half-mad sellsword he was, blade loose in its scabbard, already humming to himself.

The horn sounded once — long, low, like the groan of some dying god. Gregor bellowed wordless fury and raised his sword. The line surged forward. Tyrion followed — because to stay was death, and to go might be worse. He whispered a prayer to every god he could name. Not for glory. For survival.

The charge met like thunder. One moment, the North was a distant roar — banners waving, hooves pounding, war cries splitting the mist. The next, they were upon them. Steel screamed. The line buckled. The earth turned slick with blood.

Tyrion barely held his saddle as the first shock slammed into the vanguard. Horses reared and screamed. Men shouted and died. He saw a spear punch through a knight’s open visor — saw the blood spray in a perfect red arc before the body toppled.

A man lunged at him, wild-eyed, teeth bared. Tyrion hacked sideways with his axe. The blade caught the man’s throat with a wet crunch. Blood poured hot across Tyrion’s wrist.nHe gagged. Then another came — no time to think. Swing. Duck. Hack. His axe caught a shin. Another man fell beneath his horse, screaming. Tyrion lost count of the blows. The mud swallowed bodies. Horses trampled the fallen. Shields cracked. Swords rang off steel and bone.

Somewhere to his right, Ser Gregor Clegane carved through the enemy like a god of war — his greatsword shearing through men as if they were straw. Tyrion saw him lift a man into the air with one swing, split another down the center with the next. Blood fountained. Screams filled the world. And for a heartbeat — it was working. The vanguard held.

Tyrion raised his axe again — another man came for him — he ducked, slammed the haft into a knee, swung low, felt the impact jolt up his arm. He was winning. They all were.

Until it happened. Tyrion saw the man come through the smoke — a giant of a Northerner, as tall as the Mountain, broad-shouldered, face streaked with blood and mud. His axe was dark with gore. His armor mismatched, dented — but he moved like death.

A shout: “Giantsblood!”

Gregor turned, roaring. The two men met in a crash of steel and fury. Tyrion watched, frozen. The Northern giant caught Gregor’s greatsword on the haft of his axe. The impact rang like a bell. Then he twisted, stepped inside the reach — and brought the axe down in a single brutal stroke.

Gregor’s helm split clean in two. Blood sprayed like rain. The Mountain That Rides reeled. Then he dropped like a felled tree, shaking the ground when he hit. Dead. For a heartbeat, the battlefield froze. Then it cracked. The Lannister line began to bend. Then it broke.

Tyrion’s horse danced sideways, panicked. He gripped the reins tight, eyes wide.

“All fall back!” someone was shouting. “Fall back!”

But there was nowhere to fall. The wolves came howling through the gaps — axes flashing, spears plunging. Tyrion turned his horse and fled.

The hill saved him. A low rise, just east of the killing field. Tyrion kicked his mount hard, spurring through broken brush and shallow mud, blood on his hands, his arms trembling from effort and fear.

He reached the ridge. Turned. Looked back. The vanguard was collapsing. Lannister men scattered across the plain like spilled grain. Pockets of resistance still fought — brave fools with nowhere to run. He saw men dragged from horses, saw a knight go down beneath a rain of axes, heard screaming — gods, so much screaming. But above it all, the North kept coming.

Still, Tyrion thought, still the plan might hold. They had drawn the North in deep. Bloodied them. Blinded them with victory. And now Tywin’s second host crested the ridge.

Heavy cavalry. Disciplined infantry. Cloaks rippling in silence. A wall of steel descended toward the field, banners high, swords drawn.

This is it, Tyrion thought. This is the hammer. They’ll crush them between river and steel.

Then — a horn. Low. Deep. Bone-rattling. Then another. And another. Tyrion turned his head. The forest beyond the Lannister rear split open. A second army poured from the trees — cloaked in mud and grey, faces painted, spears raised.

At their head rode Jon Snow. A black cloak flared behind him like wings. His sword shone in the light. Beside him ran a direwolf — white as snow, eyes red as butcher’s work. Ghost.

Tyrion watched in horror as the North’s second force crashed into Tywin’s rear. Ghost leapt into the melee, dragging men from saddles, jaws wet with blood. Arrows flew. Spears struck. Tywin’s men wheeled to meet the threat — too slow, too tight, too late.

The Lannister hammer had become a vice around its own neck. Tyrion saw Lord Marbrand fall — a Northern axe bursting through his side. He saw Uncle Kevan shouting for order, unheard beneath the roar. And then he saw Tywin himself — his golden cloak torn, face carved from stone as he hacked at the press. But even Tywin Lannister could not stop what had already begun. The lions were dying.

Bronn appeared, red to the elbows, eyes wild. “Ride,” he hissed. “Ride or die.”

Tyrion turned his mount and didn’t look back. Behind him, the riverbank drowned in steel and screams. Above it all, the direwolf rose. And the lion fell.

The road east was choked with smoke, mud, and silence. Tyrion rode without speaking, the reins slack in his hands, his axe still red at the blade. Bronn rode beside him, his cloak in tatters, one eye swollen, laughing to himself now and then like a man who had cheated death and didn’t care if he did it again tomorrow.

They were two among dozens — scattered survivors limping away from a battlefield that had become a butcher’s yard. Tyrion’s legs ached. His ribs throbbed. Blood crusted his gauntlets. He was alive. And he didn’t know why.

“How the fuck,” Bronn said at last, voice hoarse, “does a thousand Northmen cross behind us without a single raven, scout, or whisper getting wind?”

Tyrion didn’t answer immediately. He looked back once — just once — toward the smoke rising from the river valley. Red banners lay trampled. The Mountain was dead. The trap had sprung — and it was the lion who’d been caught.

“They knew we were coming,” Tyrion muttered. “They counted on our arrogance. On the plan. On Tywin.”

“Smart bastards,” Bronn said.

“Wolves,” Tyrion corrected. “Wolves in the trees, while we hunted their cubs.”

They rode on in silence for a few minutes, hooves sucking through wet earth, the sky still low and grey.

“What now?” Bronn asked. “Run to King’s Landing with our tails up?”

“No,” Tyrion said, shaking his head. “We’re too far, too slow, and too proud.”

“Then what?”

Tyrion looked eastward, where the great ruined shape of Harrenhal waited beyond the mists — a black carcass on the horizon.

“Harrenhal,” he said.

Bronn raised a brow. “That cursed heap?”

“It’s still ours,” Tyrion replied. “For now. And cursed or not, it has walls — thick ones. Better to shelter inside them than bleed in the open.”

“Unless they chase us,” Bronn said. “Siege us. Starve us.”

“They might,” Tyrion said. “But we won’t die in the mud today. That’s worth something.”

He reached into his saddlebag and pulled free a half-flask of wine. Most of it sloshed out with the cork. He drank anyway.

“To survival,” he muttered, then passed it to Bronn.

“To whatever comes next,” the sellsword said, and drank deep.

Behind them, the war raged on. Ahead, Harrenhal loomed.

Chapter Text

Jon

The battlefield steamed beneath the corpse-light of dawn. Smoke clung to the ground like a second skin, curling through black mud churned by boots, hooves, and the dying. The air stank — of blood and shit, of sweat turned sour, of burned flesh and butchered meat.

Jon moved among the dead. Ghost padded at his heel, silent as falling snow. The direwolf’s coat was red to the shoulders, his muzzle still dark with blood. Crows wheeled overhead, their cries ragged with hunger. Already they had begun their feast.

The bodies lay thick as autumn leaves — twisted and sprawled, armor torn, flesh opened. Some wore the direwolf. Others, the lion. Death cared little for banners.

Jon paused beside a boy no older than Bran. Fair-haired, slim, a Lannister squire perhaps — an arrow through his throat, his gilded armor still gleaming beneath a veil of blood. His mouth hung open, lips parted in a final cry. His eyes were wide, glassy, and still staring.

Jon knelt. There is no honor in this, he thought. No songs fit to sing.

Victory sat heavy in his gut. It tasted like ash. He could still hear Walder’s voice, low and rough “War is blood, hunger, treachery. Songs are for dead men whose bones rot in the mud.”

Now he understood. And he hated it. Ghost nudged his hip — warm, alive. Jon let his fingers trail along the direwolf’s skull before rising.

They had won. The field was theirs. The lion had been broken. And yet joy was nowhere to be found. By the time the sun was little more than a pale smear behind drifting mist, the others found him.

Brandon Dustin came first, helm tucked under one arm, his boots caked in river mud. Harrion Karstark followed — long dark hair damp with sweat and blood, his knuckles bruised, his sword still sheathed. Both bore the look of men who had passed through the eye of death and kept walking.

“My lord,” Brandon said with a salute — weary, but with a flicker of pride.

Jon nodded in return. He had not asked for their deference. He still didn’t know what to do with it.

“You fought like a captain thrice your years,” Harrion added. His voice was rough, edged with fatigue. But there was respect there too.

Jon only shrugged. “I did what needed doing.”

Brandon grinned through the grime and blood crusted on his cheek. “Don’t be modest, Snow. You cracked Tywin’s teeth today — and that’s no small feat. How did you see it coming? His trap. The encirclement.”

Jon hesitated. They weren’t accusing. Only asking. Still, his answer felt too thin.

“I didn’t know,” he said at last. “Not fully. I guessed there was a second force — the terrain made it likely. But I never knew how many, or when they’d come.”

He knelt beside a fallen knight, tugged free a crimson cloak — its hem sodden with mud and viscera. He folded it once, without knowing why.

“I planned the rear attack to break their rhythm,” Jon said. “Not to win — to delay. To buy Robb time.”

Brandon let out a long, low whistle. “You gambled.”

Jon nodded. “Aye.”

Harrion’s brow furrowed. “You could’ve been butchered. You and every man with you.”

Jon met his gaze without flinching. “Aye.”

He gripped the cloak tighter in his fist. “But a wounded lion limps slower than a proud one.”

The words hung a moment, then fell. Brandon clapped him on the shoulder. Ghost gave a low whine, but Jon raised a hand.

“You’ve got a wolf’s heart, Snow,” Brandon said. “And the luck of the old gods.”

Harrion gave a nod of agreement, then turned toward the campfire-lit ridgeline.

Jon watched them go — and thought “Next time, I’ll need more than luck.”

The fires burned low. Around the camp, shadows stretched long across the churned earth. The sounds of the wounded drifted like wind — low groans, the clink of mail, whispered prayers to gods who had answered none of them today.

Jon sat alone on a fallen log, sword across his knees, a whetstone in hand. Ghost lay curled at his feet, ears twitching at each distant sound, but otherwise still. Steel rasped against stone. The motion was steady, methodical. A ritual, more than preparation. Jon didn't expect to use the blade again tonight. He just didn’t want to sleep.

William Dustin appeared from the mist, quiet as old memory. His mail glinted dully in the firelight, cloak streaked with ash and blood. He carried no lantern, only the weariness of someone who had seen too many battles to mistake victory for peace.

He settled across from Jon with a low groan and rested his elbows on his knees. For a time, they said nothing. Only the whetstone. The crackle of dying coals. The wheeze of a nearby man who might not last till dawn.

“You did well today,” William said at last, voice low.

Jon didn’t look up. He kept working the edge.

“Better than well,” William went on, tone sharper now. “You broke Tywin’s line with fewer men than I’ve buried. Not many lords could say the same.”

Jon set the sword aside. The firelight slid along its length like water.

“I did what I had to.”

William snorted. “Aye. And risked every soul you brought with you.”

Jon’s jaw tightened. He looked away, not toward the field, but toward the dark — where the victory felt furthest. “We won.”

“This time.” William leaned forward, voice lowering to a growl. “But every decision you make now weighs more than your life, Snow. You gamble with the North’s hope. With Winterfell.”

Jon said nothing. The words hit harder than any blade.

Then — softly, almost carelessly “How did you know about the trail?”

Jon froze. The trail — the one that had allowed them to slip behind the Lannister rear. The move that had turned the battle.

He couldn’t say the truth. Couldn’t say he’d seen it in a dream — chasing hares through dark woods, watching ravens circle from above. Couldn’t speak of the shadowed visions that had begun to stir in him — voices in the dark, trees that whispered, wolves that weren’t Ghost. They’d call it madness. They’d call it something worse.

“I found it while scouting” he said. “Ghost found it, really.” Not a lie. Not entirely.

William didn’t move. “You’re telling me” he said slowly “that in one afternoon, you found a trail that Trident veterans and riverland scouts missed for twenty years?”

Jon met his eyes. “Aye. That’s how it went.”

William stared at him a long moment. Then nodded, just once.

“Fine. Keep your secrets, Jon. But know this — you can’t gamble on luck again. Next time, the gods may look away.”

Jon breathed out slowly. “I know.”

The fire crackled. Sparks leapt and died. William watched him a moment longer.

“You’ve more of your mother in you than you know,” he said, voice soft now.

Jon’s head snapped up. The words cut deeper than they should have. And yet — he didn’t speak. He couldn’t. William was already rising.

Jon opened his mouth. Who was she? But the words caught in his throat, lodged like a blade between the ribs.

William picked up his swordbelt, slung it over his shoulder, and vanished into the night. Jon sat beside the embers, sword across his lap, Ghost warm at his side. And the question hung in the smoke, unanswered.

The fire had burned low. Ash clung to the edges of the ringed stones. The last embers glowed like old wounds, pulsing faint beneath shifting coals.

Jon sat unmoving, Ghost curled at his side. The night was windless now. The battle long done. No songs rose. No speeches. Only the rustle of canvas, the distant groan of the dying, and the quiet whisper of blood drying on armor.

Ghost shifted, resting his head on Jon’s boot. His breath came slow and steady — the only sound that didn’t speak of pain. Jon reached down and let his hand rest lightly behind the wolf’s ear. The fur was coarse, warm, matted with blood not all his own.

The silence stretched. He did not sleep. Could not.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw them — the boy in gilded armor with an arrow in his throat, the fire dancing on William Dustin’s face, the giant who felled the Mountain with one swing. Tywin’s eyes as his lines fell apart. Brandon and Harrion calling him “my lord” without irony.

He had led men into fire — and pulled them through. He had killed. He had gambled with the fate of a kingdom. And he had won. But the victory left no joy in him.

He felt older than he was. Worn thin. Shaped not by triumph, but by grief. Ghost pressed closer. Jon looked into the embers. Who was she? The question hadn’t left him since William’s parting words. He didn’t know. But the shape of the truth was there — in the shadows. In the silence. In the blood that ran beneath his skin.

He would learn. One day. He would ask his father — when they got him back. And if Eddard Stark kept his silence, then he would turn to William Dustin. Someone knew. Someone had to. And when the answers came, he would be ready. He would know who she was.
The truth would not stay buried. Jon’s fingers tightened in Ghost’s fur. The camp slept. The fires died. And Jon Snow watched the dark. Quiet as the grave.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The blackened towers of Harrenhal clawed at the sky, jagged and broken — a monument to pride, and the fire that answered it.

Tyrion Lannister rode beneath them at the head of what remained of the proud host of the Rock. A hundred men, if that. Their banners hung in tatters, their cloaks crusted with blood and filth. Horses limped beneath them, armor clinked with dents that no smith would ever mend. They had fled like whipped curs, leaving behind brothers in the mud and a thousand swords in the hands of wolves.

Tyrion’s horse stumbled in the rutted path, jarring his spine and nearly unseating him. He swore and yanked at the reins. His thighs were raw from the saddle, his ribs a patchwork of bruises, and the weight of his mail pulled at his shoulders like chains.

Beside him, Bronn rode easily, grinning beneath a streak of dried blood.

“So,” the sellsword said, “was that part of the plan?”

Tyrion grimaced. “Oh, yes. March, die, run, hide in a burned ruin. All as Father intended.”

Bronn chuckled. “I always thought lions hunted better than sheep.”

“Apparently not in the rain,” Tyrion muttered. “Or when ambushed by wolves.”

He adjusted the strap of his axe, wincing. “Next time, remind me to fight on a hill, in dry boots, and with an escape route that doesn’t include wading through corpses.”

Bronn’s smile widened. “Next time, stay home.”

They passed beneath the shattered arch of Harrenhal’s outer wall. The stones still bore the scars of dragonflame — melted, fused, grotesque. They looked like bones blackened in a hearth.

The castle loomed around them — hollow towers, collapsed halls, empty windows like dead men’s eyes. Smoke clung to the broken masonry. The air smelled of damp, decay, and ghosts. It suited Tyrion’s mood perfectly.

The survivors filtered into the yard like shades — stiff-legged, hollow-eyed, silent. Their armor clinked like funeral bells. Some dismounted. Others simply slid from their saddles and lay where they fell.

Tyrion slid to the ground, legs nearly buckling. His boots squelched in wet ash.

He turned to Bronn. “Well,” he said, voice dry as dust. “We’ve survived the slaughter, the flight, and the curse of Harrenhal. All that’s left is poison wine or a dagger in the dark.”

Bronn gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

“You could be Lord Tywin.”

Tyrion barked a laugh, sharp and bitter, and clapped Bronn on the shoulder. They limped toward the keep, smoke in their cloaks, blood on their boots. They had nothing left. But they still breathed. For now.

Inside the walls, Harrenhal was worse. No torches lit their approach, no horn blew to greet them. Only the wind — whistling low through shattered stone — and the shuffling of men too exhausted to speak.

The inner yard looked more solemn than the surrounding ground. Wounded men slumped beneath torn banners. Some coughed, wet and ragged. Others simply lay still, their cloaks pulled up to the eyes. A few were being sewn closed — not with care, but like sacks. Fast, and quiet.

Tyrion passed a row of spearmen huddled near a smoking brazier. They didn’t rise. Didn’t even salute. One watched him with a single eye swollen shut. Another had no fingers left on his right hand — just bloodied bandages and a sword belted to his hip anyway. The survivors of the vanguard. What was left of the pride of the Rock.

The castle itself looked as if it had lost the will to stand. Great halls gutted by flame, towers melted and blackened, wooden roofs long since collapsed. The air tasted of ash and old blood. Moss crept through stone cracks like the dead trying to escape.

Men moved through the corridors like ghosts — dragging supplies, dragging wounded, dragging themselves. Tyrion stepped over a broken spar of timber and passed beneath the half-crumbled arch that once marked the great hall. It opened into ruin.

The high ceiling had collapsed long ago. The walls leaned in like tired old men. Rain pooled between the stones, and a single raven croaked from the shattered ledge where once banners of conquest had hung.

A place built by madness and brought low by fire.  Tyrion paused there a moment, letting it soak in. So this is what remains. A thousand years of ambition, and it ends in rot.

He glanced at Bronn. “I’d ask what gods were worshipped here, but I think I know.”

Bronn smirked. “The same who built it. The ones who like watching castles burn.”

Bootsteps echoed through the gloom. Then came the scent of steel oil and damp wool, the clatter of armor — not disorderly, but disciplined. And then, Kevan Lannister.

He stood tall beneath the fractured vault, breastplate dulled and scratched, cloak streaked with ash — but straight-backed still, his face stern, grey dust in his hair.

Tyrion felt something tighten in his chest. “Uncle,” he said.

Kevan turned — and, to Tyrion’s surprise, smiled. His Uncle crossed the ruined hall in long strides and clasped Tyrion’s shoulder with both hands — firm, sudden, almost fatherly.

“Seven save us,” Kevan said, voice rough with dust and fatigue. “We thought you dead.”

Tyrion gave a crooked smile. “Dead? No. Just bruised, filthy, half-starved and burdened with the memory of every man who died so I could crawl back to this charming ruin.”

Kevan’s mouth twitched. “Still sharp, I see.”

“Sharper than I look. But not as sharp as the axe that nearly took my head.”

Kevan led him toward the long shadow of a broken column, away from the wounded, from the whispers. Tyrion saw the fatigue in his uncle’s eyes now — and something else: disbelief that hadn’t fully passed.

“We lost ten thousand,” Kevan said quietly. “Dead or scattered.”

“It was a disaster,” Tyrion replied. “No banners left. Just blood in the water and wolves with red mouths.” Then — softly “How did the boy pass behind our line?”

Kevan’s silence was telling. He had surely asked himself the same question a hundred times and found no answer he liked.

Then “You saw him?”, Kevan asked “The boy.”

“What boy?”

Kevan’s jaw clenched. “Robb Stark. He led them.”

Tyrion shook his head. “No. I saw no lordling in silver plate. Only the bastard — black cloak, pale blade, a direwolf soaked to the bone.”

Kevan blinked. But not in surprise.

Tyrion narrowed his gaze. “You knew.”

Kevan looked away. “I suspected.”

Tyrion said nothing. “Later.” He thought, “Later there would be time for questions.”

Kevan led him to a side chamber — a narrow room with a low ceiling and a battered table sagging under the weight of soaked scrolls and broken wax seals. Three letters lay opened before them, their seals cracked.

“The ravens have been busy,” Kevan said.

Tyrion picked up the first scroll — the seal of the Golden Tooth. He skimmed.

“Lord Stafford is raising a new host,” he muttered. “Well, it’s about time someone did.”

He dropped it and reached for the second — the seal of House Tully. His eyes narrowed as he read. When he finished, the letter fell from his fingers. “Jaime.” He whispered.

Kevan’s face tightened. “Taken. The siege broken. Riverrun holds.”

Tyrion pressed his knuckles to his lips. Jaime — golden, reckless Jaime — caged like a beast by Robb Stark. While his brother chewed through our lines like a wolf in a butcher’s yard.

He said nothing. He reached for the last. The seal of King’s Landing. The wax was black. He opened it — read it twice — and the world tilted slightly beneath him. “Joffrey had Lord Stark executed.”

Kevan didn’t speak.

Tyrion let out a long, dry laugh. “And the boy wonders why the world wants his head.”

Kevan’s voice came flat. “It gets worse.”

Tyrion didn’t look up. “Worse?”

“Renly Baratheon marches. An army at his back. And a crown on his head.”

Tyrion rubbed at his face, suddenly exhausted to the bone.

“Seven bloody hells,” he muttered. “Is there anyone left we haven’t insulted?”

“Only the dead,” Kevan said.

“And we’re working on that too,” Tyrion replied.

A shout echoed from the yard “The council is summoned!”

Kevan straightened his armor. “Come. Your father awaits.”

Tyrion took one last look at the letters on the table. Jaime. Ned. Renly. The bastard. The board was shifting fast — and Tywin would not allow himself to lose again.

The council chamber stank of smoke, wet stone, and fear. It was no hall of banners — just a long chamber in the least-ruined tower, the ceiling patched with canvas, the windows blocked with wet hides. Rain tapped faintly on the walls, as if trying to remind them what world waited outside.

What remained of the West sat at the table — what hadn't bled out by the Green Fork or vanished on the road. Lords in dented mail. Knights with torn surcoats and bloodied hands. Faces pale, voices too loud.

Lord Lefford slammed a fist against the table. His knuckles were cracked, the left side of his face purple with bruises.

“We must sue for peace,” he barked. “Before we’re broken entirely!”

“Peace?” Ser Addam Marbrand spat. “With who? The wolf cub in the North? The stag playing king in Storm’s End? We yield now, we die slower.”

“I’d rather die on my feet—”

“—Than live on your knees? Easy to say when you’ve got two sons safe in Lannisport—”

The voices tangled like swords. Rage, blame, panic. They came from noble houses, but spoke now like cornered men.

Tyrion stood near the door, silent, arms folded, watching them fall apart. And at the head of the table sat Tywin Lannister — unmoving, unmoved. He let them howl. He let them show their fear. Then he stood. And silence fell like an axe.

When Tywin spoke, his voice was quiet. But every man leaned in to hear. “They have my son.”

Just that. And no one spoke again.

“They have Jaime,” Tywin repeated, as if saying it out loud would make it truer, colder. “And you speak to me of surrender?”

His golden eyes swept the table — one by one — and none met them.

“We do not yield,” Tywin said. “We do not kneel. The lion does not bend to wolves.”

He turned away from them, and in that moment, Tyrion could see the weight pressing on his father’s shoulders — not grief, not love. Pride. Control. And fury.

“Get out.”

The lords fled, their armor clinking like chains, boots scraping stone. Only Kevan remained. And Tyrion. Tywin sat down heavily — only for a moment. Then the mask returned.

“You are to ride to King’s Landing,” Tywin said.

Tyrion blinked. “To what end?”

“To rule,” he said. “You will leash the boy. Curb your sister. Hold the city.”

Tyrion snorted. “You mean to make me Hand?”

“In all but name,” Tywin said. “They will listen to you — or they will feel you.”

Tyrion considered that. The Iron Throne, mad with fire and pride. Joffrey. Cersei. Varys. Littlefinger.

“A viper’s nest,” he muttered.

Tywin’s mouth twitched — just slightly. “Then be the biggest viper.”

Tyrion nodded once. “As you command.”

Tywin reached for the last map on the table — marked with red ink, marked with wolves.

“I leave Ser Amory Lorch and three thousand men to hold Harrenhal.”

Tyrion raised a brow. “A cursed ruin, a broken gate, and a bottle of bad wine. Generous.”

“Enough to bloody Stark if he grows bold.”

“And you?”

“I ride west,” Tywin said. “We rebuild. We gather our teeth. Then we bite.”

Tyrion looked around the chamber — at the cracked walls, the war-map smeared with dirt, the shadows where a kingdom once stood. “You don’t mean to hold the castle.” He said.

“There are no castles in the grave,” Tywin said.

Tyrion gave a crooked bow. “Then best we bury the dead quickly. And find better ground.”

In the shattered heart of Harrenhal — where dragons once burned kings and lords bled for crowns — the lion of the Rock set his last pieces in play. The board had changed. But the game continued. And in King’s Landing, the storm was waiting.

Chapter Text

Robb

The sword bit deep into the heartwood with a dull, wet thunk. Again. And again.

Robb Stark swung like a man drowning. Each stroke came harder, less precise — a storm of steel and grief. The blade scored bloody wounds into the white bark, sap weeping from the gashes like milk-tinged blood.

The weirwood took the blows in silence. It did not speak. It did not judge. It did not wear his father’s face, bloodied and pale above a traitor’s spike. His arms burned. His breath rasped. Sweat ran cold down his ribs. Still, he struck.

He had ridden south with banners flying and songs half-sung. He had shattered the siege of Riverrun. He had taken the Kingslayer captive. And none of it had mattered. Eddard Stark was dead.

The sword slipped from his hands and clattered to the roots. He dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to the scarred bark. The tree did not offer comfort. A hand touched his shoulder. Light. Familiar. Steadying. His mother.

“Cry if you must,” she said softly. “There is no shame in grief.”

He didn’t cry. He wanted to scream. To rip the godswood apart with his bare hands. To bring the tower down on every lion from here to King’s Landing.

Instead, he leaned into her touch. For a breath, he was a boy again — just a boy beneath the snow-heavy branches of Winterfell’s godswood, holding his father’s hand, learning the names of the old gods.

“I should have saved him,” Robb whispered.

“There was no saving him,” Catelyn said, voice low but unshaking. “Not once they had him.”

He pulled back, wiping his face with a sleeve stiff from sweat and sap.

“They will pay,” he said. “All of them. The Kingslayer. Joffrey. The queen. Tywin.”

“They will,” she said. Her voice had iron in it now. “We will make them pay.”

The godswood whispered in the wind. The wolves of the North were watching. And they bared their teeth.

They found him still beneath the weirwood when the raven came. Olyvar Frey burst through the underbrush, boots thick with mud, cheeks flushed with wind and urgency. A scroll clutched in his hand like a sword.

“My lord,” the boy panted. “A raven — from the Green Fork.”

Robb took it with fingers he had to force into steadiness. The wax was unmarked — plain, and cold to the touch. He cracked the seal, unrolled the parchment, and read. Catelyn watched his face — a page turned in silence. Grief gave way to confusion. Confusion to disbelief. Then something sharper lit behind his eyes.

“What is it?” she asked.

Robb looked up. His voice steadied. “Jon,” he said. “Jon’s army met Lord Tywin at the Green Fork.”

Her breath caught. “And?”

“He broke them.” His words sharpened. “Gregor Clegane is dead. The lion’s host shattered.”

His mother blinked. “Jon Snow?”

Robb nodded. “I know his hand. I know his words.”

She took the scroll from him, eyes skimming.

“It speaks of a feint. A hidden path. He caught Tywin’s rear... But—” She hesitated. “Robb, Jon is no lord. No trained commander. How could he outmaneuver Tywin Lannister?”

Robb’s jaw tightened. “He did.”

“He could be mistaken. Or taking credit from others. Roose Bolton was with him, and Wylis Manderly, and—”

“You think Jon would lie?”

Catelyn looked away. She said nothing. But Robb heard the truth in her silence. Whatever his mother thought of Jon, Jon was their father’s son. And their father had not raised liars.

Robb rolled the parchment, fingers stiff.

“He turned the tide,” he said. “When the lion’s jaws closed, he opened a second wound.”

His shoulders rose. The boy receded again — and something colder took its place.

“We are not broken. We are not beaten. This victory — his victory — gives us the chance to strike harder. To strike true.”

His mother stepped forward, laying a hand on his arm. “You are your father’s son,” Catelyn said.

Robb gave a bitter smile. “Aye,” he said. “And so is he.”

He looked north, toward the smoke-blurred hills and far beyond. Toward the bastard who had outfoxed a lion.

“Tell the lords to gather,” Robb said. “The North must hear this.”

The great hall of Riverrun had been scoured clean and filled with fire. Smoke curled from the braziers lining the stone walls. Above, banners stirred gently in the rising warmth — Stark grey, Tully red-and-blue, the roaring giant of Umber, the merman of Manderly, the black bear, the silver trout. Old houses, fierce blood. The weight of history draped in cloth.

The air smelled of damp wool, scorched fat, and river mist. The lords of the North and the Riverlands filled the chamber, shoulders hunched from the road, some still with bandages beneath their cloaks. They bore the look of men who had bled — and now hungered for meaning in the bleeding.

Greatjon Umber stood like a tower of rage, arms folded, beard like fire. Galbart Glover sat beside grim Maege Mormont, stone-faced, her daughter Dacey sharpening a dagger without looking up. Wendel Manderly sweated through his silks, red-cheeked and restless. Jason Mallister and the riverlords flanked them, iron in their eyes and weariness carved deep.

Robb stood beneath the direwolf banner. Grey Wind lay silent at his feet, head on paws, watching the room with ember eyes.

In one hand, Robb held a scroll — the parchment still smudged from where he’d read it again and again. He let the silence grow. Let them lean in.

“A raven came,” he said. His voice did not tremble. “From the Green Fork. From my brother.”

A rustle passed through the hall, subtle but sharp — like a wind stirring tall grass.

“Jon Snow,” Robb said clearly, “has broken Lord Tywin Lannister’s host.”

The silence that followed was stunned. Disbelieving. Then — a roar. Fists struck wood. Shields rang with the hilts of swords. Men shouted until their voices cracked.

“He shattered the vanguard,” Robb said, voice cutting through the uproar. “Gregor Clegane is dead. Lord Tywin has fled the field.”

Another explosion of cheers — rougher this time, wild with triumph. Men who had lost fathers and brothers pounding the name into the stone.

“The North!” they cried. “The old gods!”, “Stark!” and “Snow!”

Robb’s hand tightened around the scroll. He felt it rising around him — something louder than pride. Bigger than vengeance.

“How?” bellowed the Greatjon, loud enough to rattle rafters. “Tell us, Robb!”

Robb stepped forward. “He feigned weakness. Let Tywin come forward. Then struck from the rear with hidden steel. Pinned them between blade and blade.”

The hall pulsed with awe — no longer just pride, but something deeper. Recognition.

“He has the wolf’s cunning,” Wendel Manderly breathed, red-faced but reverent.

“And the wolf’s bite,” Galbart Glover added.

Dacey Mormont barked a laugh. “He rode with Ghost, didn’t he?”

“Aye,” Robb said. “White fur. Red eyes. They say he was the first to strike.”

There were nods. Smiles. A kind of hush fell — not silence, but the reverence of men who’d witnessed a legend being born, even if they had not seen it with their own eyes.

Then came the voice again — the Greatjon, chest puffed, face wild. “The White Wolf!” he bellowed. “That’s what they’ll call him!”

And they took it up. “The White Wolf! The White Wolf!” Fists raised. Swords thumped shields. The name echoed off stone and fire. Robb stood in the center of it all — not cheering. Watching. Listening. And wondering if the name they chanted would echo longer than his own.

And then — the silence returned. A silence heavier than iron. It pressed on every chest, every throat, a silence that held one question beneath it. Who would they fight for?

Not Joffrey — who had murdered Eddard Stark and sent his bones north in a box.
Not Renly — who had crowned himself while his brother’s corpse still cooled.
Not Stannis — who wore duty like a sword, but had never once stepped foot beyond the Neck.

The Greatjon rose, broad and red-faced, his beard bristling like a storm tide. His voice cracked like thunder.

“My lords,” he said, “here is what I say to those two kings—” He spat on the stone.

“What do they know of the Wall? The wolfswood? The feel of snow in the blood?”

He swept his arm to the banners above — to Stark grey, flanked by river blue and Northern red.

“We bent the knee to dragons once — and the dragons are dead. What now? We bow to stags, southron lords who feast while lions tear our kin apart?”  The hall was breathless.

“But we remember,” he growled. “We remember the old gods. The old ways. The wolves who ruled the Winterlands before there were Targaryens or Baratheons.”

He turned — pointed. “To the boy who broke the siege. To the son of Eddard Stark. To the one the lions fear.” His voice rose to a roar. “We will have no king but the one who wears the crown of Winter!”

He dropped to one knee, drew his sword, and laid it bare. “My sword is yours, Robb Stark. From this day until my last.”

The hall erupted. Galbart Glover knelt next, grim and silent. Maege Mormont followed, then Wendel Manderly, Jason Mallister, Marq Piper, Theon Greyjoy. One by one. Knees struck stone. Swords flashed in firelight. Words rang like iron “King in the North!” “King in the North!” “King in the North!”

The great hall of Riverrun trembled beneath their voices. Grey Wind howled — not a bark, not a cry, but a deep and hollow sound that echoed like ice cracking deep beneath the snow. Robb stood beneath the direwolf banner.

A sword of vengeance in his hand. His father’s name behind him. His people before him. From the shadows, his mother watched. Her eyes twisted — with pride. With fear. With a mother’s certainty that what had been lost would never return.

Robb could not move. He heard their voices. Felt their eyes. Saw their swords. He thought of the first man he killed in the Wolfswood — how his hand had shaken, how he hadn’t slept for nights.

He thought of Daryn Hornwood. Eddard and Torrhen Karstark. Men who followed him. Men who died for him. He thought of his father, quiet and firm, standing in Winterfell’s godswood, teaching him to swing a sword without trembling. He thought of Jon — victorious, bloodied, distant.

A year ago, he had been a boy pretending to be a lord. Now they would call him king. Not only of the North — but of the riverlands, too.

Robb Stark looked out over the kneeling lords, their blades bare, their voices raised. The firelight caught the steel, turned it to flame. It lit his mother’s face, her eyes shining, her lips pressed tight. Theon stood among them, eyes bright, eager.

 He was not a boy anymore. And he could not afford to be. The war was not over. It had only changed. And winter was coming for the lions.

Chapter Text

Jon

The wind off the lake was a knife. It cut through wool and mail and skin alike, sliding under collars and behind cloaks, seeking out the blood beneath. It carried the voice, thin and cruel, from the shattered battlements of Harrenhal.

“Stark is dead!” It rang out once — high and hard — then again. “Ned Stark lost his head! King’s Landing sends its greetings!”

Laughter followed. Not joy, but something fouler. The sound of men who’d never faced him in battle, never seen his sword drawn — laughing now that his head adorned a spike. It echoed across the frost-hardened camp, over tents and firepits and watch-lines. It echoed in Jon’s chest.

Jon Snow stood still at the edge of the camp, his fists clenched in his gloves so tightly that his hands went numb. The cold was gone. The ache in his ribs vanished. All he felt was the hollow. Dead. His father was dead.

Dead not for treason — but for truth. Not for justice — but for honor. Dead because he had knelt to mercy. And mercy was not a coin the crown would accept.

He turned, throat raw. “Open the lines,” he told the guards flanking him. “I ride for King’s Landing.”

Ghost stirred beside him, fur bristling, red eyes narrowed in the dark. The direwolf growled low, as if sensing the storm Jon could no longer hold back. Jon seized his reins. His hands trembled.

Then steel blocked his path. Brandon Dustin stood there — boots caked in mud, face grey with winter. Beside him loomed Harrion Karstark, silent and strong, shadows beneath his eyes.

“Stop,” Brandon said.

“Think,” Harrion added, laying a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You ride alone, you die before you reach the gates. Or worse.”

Jon’s voice cracked. “They have Sansa. They have Arya.” His fingers dug into leather and flesh. “I have to—”

“You cannot help them dead,” Brandon said.

“They’ll use you,” Harrion said. “Break you.”

Jon snarled, shook off the hand, teeth bared in fury. His breath steamed in the cold, sharp and ragged. “Let me go!”

A third hand closed on his arm. Larger. Older. Steady. Walder. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. His grip was a memory of stone — the North before keeps, before words.

“Come,” Walder said at last. One word. Not request — command.

“You’ve got too much wolfsblood in you,” he added, voice low. “It’ll burn you hollow, boy.”

Jon struggled. Once. Twice. But Walder didn’t move. His grip held like ice in the bones of a tree. And slowly — with the rage still coiled inside him like a drawn bow — Jon let himself be pulled away. Away from the lines. Away from the wind. Away from the shouts on the walls and the cold laughter of southern men. Into Harrenhal’s shadows. Into ruin. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Ghost followed, fur brushing his leg. The cold returned all at once, biting deep. But it wasn’t what made Jon shiver.

The night stretched wide and cold around them. Wind slipped through the ruins like a thief, rattling scorched stones like old bones in a grave not yet sealed. Harrenhal loomed behind — broken, black, and watching.

Only Ghost followed. A white shadow, soundless. Steady. Walder let Jon go. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Jon stood there in the dark, chest heaving, fists trembling. Anger, shame, and sorrow twisted inside him — not one feeling, but a pack of wolves tearing at the same carcass.

Then the words came. “It’s not fair.” They broke from him in a whisper, splintering in his throat. “He was a good man. An honorable man. And they butchered him like a traitor.”

He paced, the stones hard beneath his boots. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—” He cut himself off, voice rising. “I should’ve saved him. Done something.”

Ghost whined low, nosing at his hand. Jon didn’t feel it. “They have Sansa,” he muttered. “Arya’s just a girl.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, half a sob in his breath. “And he—he said he’d tell me. About her. About my mother.” His throat closed.

“He promised,” he rasped. “He swore.” His voice rose, raw as a wound. “And now he’s dead! I’ll never know. I’ll never know who I am!”

His knees buckled. He dropped into the dirt, fists buried in the mud, his breath loud and broken.

“I hate them,” he said — not loud, not soft. Just true. “Joffrey. Cersei. I hate them for killing him. And I hate him for dying. For leaving me alone. For leaving me with nothing.”

The wind moved around him. Stones whispered. Walder said nothing. He stood like a cairn in the dark — solid, silent, and patient. A man who had buried too much to rush a boy’s grief.

And then, at last, his voice came — low, rough, shaped by frost and memory. “I know who your mother was.”

Jon froze. “What?” The word came out hoarse.

“I know,” Walder said again. “And I knew Lord Eddard better than most.”

Jon surged to his feet. “Then tell me—”

Walder raised one hand. Flat. Steady. Final. “Not here. Not now.”

Jon stood breathing hard, like he’d run miles. “Why?” he demanded. “Why not now?”

Walder stepped closer. His hand came down on Jon’s shoulder — heavy, grounding.

“Because truth is a blade,” he said. “And you’re already bleeding.”

Jon said nothing. His throat was full of fire. His eyes burned, but he would not cry. Not here. Not now.

“But know this,” Walder said. “She loved you. Fiercely. That, I swear on every name that’s burned into Winterfell’s stone.”

The words landed like steel in Jon’s chest. And then Walder turned, cloak catching the wind, and disappeared into the black bones of Harrenhal.

Ghost pressed close, warm and real. Jon reached down, fingers finding fur. He looked up — not to the stars, but to the ruin that loomed above them all. He did not know her name. But she had loved him.

The night passed slowly. Jon sat beside a dying fire, Ghost curled at his feet, the direwolf’s breath steady in the dark — a quiet rhythm that tethered him to the world.

Around them, the camp shifted and murmured in uneasy sleep. Somewhere, a man coughed. Somewhere else, a whetstone scraped across iron.

Jon stared into the embers. He thought of his father’s voice — never raised, never cruel. A voice that had shaped him not with praise, but with presence. With silence. With eyes that saw too much and said too little. He thought of Sansa — sweet, proper, dreaming of songs. Now held in a cage of lions. He thought of Arya — wild as Ghost, fierce as flame. Alone somewhere in a city of knives. He thought of the woman he had never known — his mother. A name never given. A face never described. Only the weight of love passed down in silence.

The river whispered somewhere beyond the camp. The frost bit at his cheeks. Jon felt the pain in his knuckles, the tightness in his chest. It wasn’t just grief. It was hunger. For answers. For justice. For something that would make sense of the blood he had spilled and the blood still waiting to be spilled.

He had come south as a second son with no name. Now men looked to him for commands. And wolves answered his call. He no longer had the luxury of doubt.

As dawn bled pale and silver across the sky, Jon Snow rose. He belted on his sword with steady hands. Pulled his cloak close. Ghost rose with him, silent and ready.

Jon walked through the sleeping camp, boots crunching frost. One by one, he roused his captains. Brandon Dustin — fire-eyed, restless, alive with fury. Harrion Karstark — stone-faced and solemn. Wylis Manderly — a mountain in mail. Roose Bolton — pale, distant, and watching, always watching.

They gathered beneath the first breath of day. No horns. No banners. No heralds. Only the cold. And the man they followed.

Jon stood before them, cloak snapping in the wind. He looked at each face. He saw the cost written in their eyes. The losses they carried. The men they had buried. He saw himself in all of them.

“We siege the castle,” he said.

That was all. No speech. No vow. Just the voice of winter, low and sure.

Brandon grinned. “About bloody time.”

Karstark nodded. Wylis grunted. Even Bolton inclined his head. Jon turned toward Harrenhal. Its towers rose like broken spears against the pale light.

“We cut them off,” Jon said. “No food. No water. No mercy.” His hand dropped to Ghost’s head — grounding him. “We bury their laughter in ash and blood.”

The Northmen roared. And Jon Snow stepped forward. He thought of his father’s voice. Of truth buried in stone and silence. He had been a boy. He could not be anymore. The White Wolf did not look back. He walked toward war.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The chamber of the Small Council stank of fear, sweat, and Arbor gold. Tyrion Lannister sat in his high seat like a cat among blind mice, cradling his goblet as Varys finished speaking in a voice soft as silk and twice as slippery.

“Lord Stannis has left Storm’s End,” said the Spider, his bald head gleaming like an egg beneath the torchlight. “His fleet sails west. Two thousand ships, perhaps more.”

The words fell into the silence like stones into deep water. The ripples spread. Pycelle wheezed, coughing into the graveyard of his beard. Ser Boros Blount shifted in his chair, white cloak bunched like a shroud he feared he’d soon wear.

At the far end of the table, Cersei sipped her wine with a bored elegance that fooled no one. Her eyes were rimmed with red; her hands trembled when she thought no one watching.

Tyrion drank. “And where, pray, is our gallant father?” he asked lightly. “Surely Lord Tywin rides to our rescue, sword blazing, songs prepared in his honor?”

Varys’s hands opened in mock apology. “Alas,” he sighed, “Lord Tywin was last seen near Deep Den. He had intended to join with Lord Stafford’s forces.”

He paused — a practiced pause. Varys enjoyed his theater. “But Lord Stafford is dead. Slain near Oxcross before the banners even met.”

Tyrion’s fingers tightened on his cup.

Varys went on. “The Young Wolf caught him unprepared — rode through his camp like fire through dry wheat. When the lions scattered, Robb Stark declared the Golden Tooth his by right of conquest.”

A hush followed. That kind of hush. The kind that settles in lungs and doesn't leave. Pycelle made a strangled sound, somewhere between a cough and a prayer. Ser Boros paled further, if such a thing was possible.

Tyrion raised his cup. “Charming,” he said. “Perhaps Father’s polishing his pride in the hills. Or waiting for the crows to finish feasting.”

He reached for a scroll, stained and crumpled. Tossed it on the table. “The Ironborn,” he said flatly. “Faircastle. The Crag. Even Lannisport. Taken or raided. They fly Kraken banners.”

No one spoke. Tyrion leaned forward, his voice cold. “There are no men left to stop them. The lions marched east. The wolves stalked south. We left the den open, and now the krakens fill it.”

Still silence. Then Cersei broke it with a sniff. “Fishing villages,” she said. “Let the squid have their rocks. It is Stannis we must concern ourselves with.”

Tyrion smiled. The kind of smile a man might wear before walking off a cliff. “And how, sweet sister, shall we greet him? With lullabies? Shall we arm the washerwomen with buckets and hope for the best?”

Her eyes flashed. Her goblet trembled. But she said nothing.

“The city has stores,” Varys offered. “If we close the gates, ration supplies...”

“And when the gates fall?” Tyrion asked. “Shall we pelt the Lord of Dragonstone with spoiled figs and prayers?”

Pycelle cleared his throat. “Perhaps... the King’s Grace might offer terms.”

Cersei’s voice was ice. “My son does not negotiate with traitors.”

Tyrion did not say what he thought: that her son didn’t negotiate with anyone. He simply burned, broke, or beat them. Baelish’s chair sat empty. Still wooing the Tyrells.  Tyrion hoped he returned with gold, grain, or men. If not, he might as well bring a rope.

Cersei break him from his thought “And what of Harrenhal?” she demanded.

Varys’s hands folded like a priest’s. “Harrenhal remains under siege. Jon Snow still holds it with his Northern host. The young wolf’s bastard brother — though ‘bastard’ matters less to the men who follow him.”

“Snow,” Cersei spat. “The wolf’s bastard. Can he be turned? Bastards often bend for coin.”

Ser Boros Blount gave a wet laugh. “Bend or break. Offer him lands. A name. A lordship. He is only Snow—”

“Snow,” Tyrion said, voice sharp as steel. “Yes, but Stark’s Snow. Stark’s blood. He will not be bought. Not by coin, not by a title. Not while his brother still breath.”

Varys inclined his head, spider-light. “Indeed, my lords. The boy is fiercely loyal — to the North, to his brother.” His tone was mild, but his eyes glittered. “And his men follow him like shadows.”

A hush settled.

Tyrion leaned back, eyes hooded. Any other bastard might have sold their sword for a lordship, a name to chase away the snows. But not Jon Snow. Not Eddard Stark’s son. Tyrion raised his cup to his lips. Seven hells. The Starks breed true.

The council dissolved like a corpse in rain. Pycelle mumbled himself away. Blount followed, cloak trailing like an afterthought. Only Tyrion remained. And Bronn.

They found refuge in Tyrion’s solar — what passed for comfort in a city choking on fear. The fire burned low. The wine burned slower. Bronn slouched in a chair by the hearth, his boots muddy, his leathers flecked with blood that wasn’t his. Tyrion stared into his cup.

“So,” the sellsword said, voice low, “that was quite the show.”

Tyrion didn’t answer.

“Stripped her,” Bronn continued. “Beat her. Court watched like it was mummers’ farce.”

Still silence.

“I don’t know which I liked better — Pycelle blinking like a sheep, or Ser Meryn swinging like he wanted applause.”

Tyrion reached for his goblet, drained it in a swallow, and poured another. “He could have killed her,” he said.

The words came quieter than he expected. Like something slipping from between his fingers. Bronn didn’t move. Just stared into the fire. “Aye,” he said at last.

That was all. But it hung in the air like smoke. And Tyrion hated that it was true. He pictured it — the raised hand, the crack of the blow, the girl crumpling like parchment under wine, the court frozen as blood pooled on marble. Pycelle blinking. Slynt smirking. Joffrey smiling.

It wouldn’t have taken much. One blow in the wrong place. One bad fall. One moment of boredom turned lethal. The King’s Justice, Ser Meryn called it.

Tyrion pressed his fingers to his temple and let the wine settle like lead in his belly.

“She’s a child,” he said again later. Not because Bronn hadn’t heard, but because Tyrion hadn’t stopped seeing it.

And somewhere in the pit of his gut, he knew: if he hadn’t shouted, if Bronn hadn’t drawn steel— The history of kings was full of broken girls no one ever named again.

He exhaled through his nose. “Joffrey thinks pain is power. He thinks cruelty is rule. And he thinks Sansa is just a name in a dress.”

Bronn looked into the fire. “She didn’t cry.”

“No,” Tyrion said. “She didn’t.”

He saw her still — shivering, barefoot, streaked with blood, lips set tight. The way she looked at Joffrey. The way she didn’t look at anyone else.

“I used to think she was soft,” Tyrion murmured. “A little bird singing songs she didn’t understand.”

“And now?”

“Now,” he said, “I think she’s learning to survive. Which is more than I can say for most in this city.”

He stood, restless, circling the room. “Joffrey doesn’t see what she is. What she’s worth. She’s not just a girl. She’s a Stark.”

Bronn shrugged. “One hostage.”

“One lever,” Tyrion corrected. “The last one we have.”

He turned, sharp now. “If Robb Stark marches on the capital, what do you think we’ll offer him? Pycelle’s beard? A Lannister’s head? No. We offer Sansa. Or we offer nothing.”

Bronn tilted his cup in a lazy toast. “To not offering nothing, then.”

Tyrion looked down at his hands. The firelight made his fingers seem red. “She’s a child,” he said quietly. “And we used her. But I’ll be damned if I let my nephew break her like a toy.”

Bronn’s voice was almost thoughtful. “Then maybe don’t let your nephew keep ruling like one.”

Tyrion didn’t reply. He just drank, and listened to the fire crackle as the night pulled its cloak across the city.

He thought of Renly — laughing, proud, handsome Renly — cut down in the dark by the very man who toasted his health. He thought of Stannis, cold and hard as a whetstone, marching west under banners sewn with fire. He thought of Joffrey, smiling as Sansa bled. Of Jaime rotting in a Tully dungeon. Of Tywin, somewhere in the west, chasing wolves through smoke and ruin.

And then — Robb Stark and Jon Snow. Two greenboys who weren’t supposed to win. Two boys who had beaten them in the field — again and again.

We’re trapped, Tyrion thought. The game’s playing us now.

He exhaled, the breath ragged. “How do you feel about the sea?” he asked.

Bronn blinked. “Don’t trust it,” he said. “Can’t stab it.”

Tyrion snorted. “I was thinking Pentos. Or Volantis. A change of climate. A change of name.” He lifted his goblet. “Tyrion the Tall has a certain ring, don’t you think?”

Bronn grinned. “And leave all this?” He gestured to the stone walls, the mold, the shadows. “Rats, bastards, and shit?”

“Tempting,” Tyrion said. He stared into his wine. “Very tempting.”

But his thoughts drifted again — to Sansa Stark, silent and sad-eyed, her songs worn thin by blood and silence. To the children who ran barefoot through Maegor’s holdfast and never came back. To the echo of Tywin’s voice, carved in stone “You are my son.”

And to the march of fire — Stannis, relentless, beneath a burning heart. Tyrion closed his eyes. “No,” he muttered. “Not yet.”

He drained his cup and rose. There was still time. There was still work. And gods help them all if he failed.

Later, atop the Tower of the Hand, Tyrion poured two goblets of wine. He shoved one across the table without looking. Varys took it with his usual delicacy, folding into the carved chair like a lady into velvet sheets.

Beyond the high window, King’s Landing brooded. A city of shadows and firelight, a thousand voices rising in the dark — hunger, fear, prayers unanswered. They drank for a while in silence.

“Tell me,” Tyrion said at last. “How long before Stannis hammers at the gate?”

Varys took a sip. “Less than a fortnight, my lord. His ships are swift. He meets no resistance between Storm’s End and the Blackwater.”

Tyrion grimaced. “And my father?”

Varys shook his head gently. “Still no word.”

Tyrion laughed. It was not a sound that warmed the room. “Lovely. We are surrounded by sea, silence, and squids.”

“There is still hope,” Varys said. “King’s Landing has seen worse storms. You, my lord, have a mind like no other.”

Tyrion studied his wine. “I would trade it for a thousand swords.”

“We must work with what we have.”

Tyrion set down his goblet. “Then listen well. We need time. Time to win the Reach. Time to ready the city. Time to drown Stannis before he climbs the walls.”

He leaned forward, tapping the table with a finger. “The alchemists. How many remain?”

Varys hesitated. “Fewer than of old. But dedicated.”

“And how much wildfire?”

“Enough to consume the city,” said Varys quietly. “Three times over, if spilled unwisely.”

“Let’s not spill it unwisely then.”

A flicker of something — doubt, perhaps — crossed the eunuch’s face.

“Have them prepare more. Quietly. Store it beneath the city, but not all in one place.”

“If Queen Cersei learns—”

“She must not. Tell her we’re melting candles. For the gods.”

Varys gave a slow nod.

“And the walls?”

“Strengthened. Boiling oil prepared. Murder holes cleared. The gate reinforced.”

“And the river?”

Varys raised a brow.

“We chain the mouth,” Tyrion said. “Let them sail in. And burn.”

Varys sat back. “You think like Aerys,” he said softly.

“No,” said Tyrion. “Aerys burned friends and foes alike. I’ll settle for burning my enemies.”

The eunuch nodded. “And the fleet?”

Tyrion sighed. “Redwyne’s ships remain at the Arbor, waiting for lord Tyrell commands. The royal fleet is splinters and memories. We hold with chains and fire. Or we do not hold at all.”

He stood, walking to the window. The city sprawled below, flickering in a thousand fires. Somewhere, Joffrey was probably tormenting a servant. Somewhere, Sansa Stark was weeping in silence.

And somewhere, Stannis Baratheon rowed west with the wind in his sails.

“If I win,” Tyrion said quietly, “what reward shall I earn?”

Varys stood as well. The candlelight painted long shadows across the stone. “Gratitude,” he said. “And fear.”

Tyrion smiled. “I can work with fear.” He turned. “Have the wildfire made. Have the smiths reforging chain. Tell the court the city stands proud.” He paused. “And tell them the Hand of the King does not intend to die quietly.”

Varys bowed low. “As you command, my lord Hand.”

He vanished like breath into cold air. Tyrion remained. Alone with his wine. Alone with his thoughts. And alone with the dread creeping in through the cracks in the stone.

He looked out across the dark city — the firelit maze of walls and alleys, domes and towers, secrets and blades.

“Just once,” he whispered, eyes closed. “Let me win.”

Chapter Text

Cersei

The night was thick with smoke and the heat of distant fire. Cersei Lannister stood upon the balcony of Maegor’s Holdfast, a goblet of red in her hand and the whole of King’s Landing sprawled beneath her — coughing, flickering, wilting like a rotting flower in the dark.

From the Sept of Baelor, the bells tolled slow and solemn, their sound dragging through the humid air like a funeral dirge. Each peal twisted in her skull, a mocking echo of her father’s silence and the realm’s slow unraveling.

Cersei hated bells. They spoke of endings. Of loss. Of mourning. And Cersei Lannister did not mourn.

She turned sharply, silk hissing over stone, her golden hair catching the wind like a banner — not of victory, but of desperation. Behind her, the solar was a shadowed mess. The only light came from a dying lamp on her writing desk, where her latest attempt at diplomacy lay torn and smeared with wine.

The parchment had once carried promises — to the Tyrells, to the lords of the Reach, to fools and flatterers in the Westerlands — all worthless. All lies. Her signature bled red beneath the spilt Arbor gold, a smear of crimson like a wound too deep to stitch.

Where is Father? Where is Kevan? Where is the host that was to come?

Gone, a voice whispered in her head. Or too far, too slow.

Her hand gripped the goblet tighter, knuckles white.

“Your Grace?” Lancel’s voice came behind her, tentative. “Shall I bring more wine?”

She turned, eyes narrowed, and saw him lingering in the shadows — pale and soft, hair like straw, eyes wide and uncertain. Not Jaime. He would never be Jaime. Jaime had moved like a lion, a sword’s grace in every step. Lancel was a mouse dressed in crimson.

“Leave it,” she snapped. “Or pour it. If you can manage that.”

He hastened to obey, hands trembling as he filled her cup. The wine splashed against her fingers. She didn’t flinch.

He lingered, cup in hand, eyes darting like a rabbit’s. “The bells are loud tonight,” he said. “They frighten the people.”

Cersei snorted. “Let them be frightened. Let them choke on their fear.”

She turned back to the night, her anger burning behind her eyes.

“I hate bells,” she said, her voice low. “They toll for endings. For dead kings. For traitors swinging from the walls.”

Lancel shifted. “My uncle—your father—he will come. He will bring the lions. We will be safe.”

She laughed. A sharp, brittle sound. “Safe? Safe from Stannis? Safe from the krakens? Safe from the wolves and the fires and the traitors in every hall?”

Lancel paled. “Your Grace—”

“Do not call me that unless you mean it,” she hissed. She stalked to the table, seized the ruined parchment, and hurled it at the wall. “My father is gone. My brother is gone. And you—” Her gaze swept him like a blade. “You are not Jaime.”

He flinched. “I—”

“You are a pale shadow,” she spat. “A boy playing at war. At love.”

His lips moved, but no words came.

She turned away, the city at her feet — burning, waiting. Her thoughts tangled with shadows.
She could feel the Red Keep trembling — in the stones, in the air, in the beat of her own heart.

Wildfire. Tyrion’s toy. If the gods were just, he would burn with it. Burn with his whore’s laughter and his father’s scorn.

She clenched her teeth. “Stannis comes,” she whispered. The words trembled with something she would not name.

Her thoughts skittered like rats on stone — from Stannis to Tyrion to Myrcella. Myrcella.

Her sweet girl, shipped off like a sack of grain — a bride to strangers in a sunburnt land. Tyrion had called it a gesture of goodwill. He’d wrapped it in honeyed words, promising Dorne’s loyalty, but it was her daughter he’d bartered. A lioness caged by a dwarf’s cunning.

Her hand curled tight around the goblet. “Lancel,” she said sharply. He flinched. “Myrcella — has there been word from Dorne? From Ser Arys ?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Only that the ship reached Sunspear safely, Your Grace. Ser Arys is at the princess’s side.”

Cersei’s lips thinned. A Kingsguard — her brother’s cloak — wasted on the sands. Oakheart was no Jaime, but he was loyal enough. At least Tyrion hadn’t sent a sellsword.

Her mind flashed back to the riot — the mud, the screams, the dung. Joffrey shrieking at the crowd like a child denied a toy. And Tyrion — the dwarf — stepping from the carriage and slapping him across the face. A lion should never be struck. Even by kin.

Her teeth clenched. “Tyrion laid hands on the king — his own nephew. In front of the mob. He has always been a traitor at heart.”

Lancel’s eyes darted nervously. “The smallfolk… they pulled Lollys Stokeworth from her horse. Used her like a whore. She lives, but—”

Cersei sneered. “Lollys is a sow, fit only for rutting. If she had any wit, she’d have stayed behind her walls. Let the bastards take her.”

Lancel blinked at her words, but hurried on. “Preston Greenfield was slain. His head spiked above the gates.”

A small smile curled her lips. Greenfield had been a fool — too slow, too soft. A knight should be iron, not pudding. Perhaps a Kettleblack would serve better. Their loyalty could be bought, and they had no illusions of honor.

She looked out at the city again, eyes cold. “Let the traitors see what loyalty earns,” she muttered.

Lancel hovered, uncertain. He shifted from foot to foot, like a boy awaiting a blow. The silence between them stretched, broken only by the wind rattling the banners on the tower.

Myrcella gone, Tywin lost, Tyrion in her father’s chair, and no Jaime to shield her. I am alone.

Lancel licked his lips. “What will you do, Your Grace?”

She turned back to him, her eyes hard as forged steel. “What I must,” she said. “I will not be taken. I will not be paraded. I will die a Lannister, not a sheep in a butcher’s cart.”

Lancel swallowed hard, his face white.

She hated the sight of him then — so weak, so wanting.

“Go,” she snapped. “Go wait for me in my chambers. At least you’re good for something.”

He fled like a beaten dog. Cersei closed her eyes. The wind carried the drums of war — ropes creaking, wheels turning, hammers on iron. They were building in the dark. She drank deeply, the wine bitter on her tongue.

Let them come, she thought. Let them choke on fire and blood.

But in the cold hollow beneath her ribs, something answered. It tasted of ashes. It tasted of fear.

Chapter Text

Jon

The sun hung low over Harrenhal, bleeding red across the jagged towers, painting ruin in firelight. Shadows stretched long across the trampled ground of the siege encampment, and the air stank of smoke, sweat, and horses. Beneath the largest of the command tents, Jon Snow sat at the war table — a rough slab of oak, its corners scorched, its surface littered with ink pots, half-rolled maps, and broken quills. Ghost lay beside him, still as snowdrift, his red eyes watching all.

Around the table stood the Northern lords. Wylis Manderly loomed like a wall, face ruddy and damp with sweat, his silks stained from the heat. Brandon Dustin leaned forward with barely disguised impatience, fingers tapping the hilt of his sword. Harrion Karstark brooded silently, arms folded tight across his chest, a scowl carved deep beneath his beard. William Dustin said nothing, his face like weathered granite.

And apart from them stood Roose Bolton, pale and unmoved. His maester, Benwick, hovered near with ink-stained hands folded neatly, as though they stood in a sept rather than a war camp.

Jon’s fingers drummed once on the side of a parchment ledger.

“Our siege lines hold. There’s been no sallying, no fire from the walls. But our stores…” He slid the parchment forward. “Three casks of lamp oil unaccounted. Five crates of salted pork from the Riverrun roads never arrived. Thirty bolts, missing from the western armory. Small things, perhaps — but the pattern grows.”

Manderly grunted. “Wagons break. Mules wander off or go lame. Happens in every siege.”

Karstark’s voice was sharper. “Or men barter food for coin. Smugglers. Fence-runners.”

Brandon gave a short snort. “Anyone slipping through our lines deserves a bolt between the ribs.”

Jon looked over the map, his voice even. “We’ve tightened the ring around the castle. No one should be moving unseen — inside or out.” He glanced to Roose Bolton, who stood with his hands folded in his sleeves.

“Your men keep separate fires,” Jon said, careful. “Their patrols return light on detail. And your advice has leaned toward caution, delay.”

Roose met his gaze with a face like blank parchment. “You mistake discipline for secrecy, my lord. And prudence for fear.”

“I mistake nothing,” Jon said. “I only note what is.”

There was a silence then. Tense as a drawn string. Ghost raised his head, ears twitching.

“We’re at siege,” Jon continued. “Tensions run high. No one moves between watches without my leave. Rations must be tallied daily. If this is mismanagement, we correct it. If it’s something else…” His hand settled on the table. “Then we root it out. Quietly.”

William Dustin nodded. Karstark’s mouth was a grim line. Benwick scribbled something on a parchment.

Jon dismissed them with a wordless look. They filed out, save for Bolton, who lingered a moment too long — then turned and vanished into the dusk. Jon stayed alone a moment, listening to the creak of the canvas in the wind. Then he rose.

That night, with the moon hanging half-dead above the towers of Harrenhal, he summoned William Dustin, Brandon Dustin, and Walder to the fire.

William came first, mail still on. Brandon arrived with windburned cheeks and a cocky grin half-formed. Walder entered last, silent as snowfall, his shadow swallowing half the tent.

Jon poured the wine himself, passing cups of dented tin. Ghost circled once, then settled beside Walder with a low sigh.

“I’ve concerns,” Jon said. “I’ll speak plain. Roose Bolton keeps too many silences. His men keep to themselves. Their scouts return light. Their words are fewer than the rest.”

Brandon leaned forward. “You’re not saying he’s turned.”

“I’m saying I don’t know what he’s doing,” Jon said. “And not knowing worries me more than anything.”

William drank deep, then set his cup down hard. “Never trusted that one. Cold as a corpse. I’d not have brought him at all.”

“I didn’t,” Jon said. “Robb did.”

They fell quiet for a time. Jon looked at the fire, its light dancing in his eyes. “I was raised at Winterfell a bastard. Trained for the Wall. Now Robb wears a crown, and I wear command. The Lord Commander of the Northern Host,” he said bitterly. “By Robb’s own decree. I never asked for that.”

Brandon smiled faintly. “Robb had his reasons.”

“Aye. And I’ll not dishonor them.” He stood, cloak shifting. “If Roose Bolton means no harm, so be it. But if there’s rot in the ranks, I’ll smell it before it spreads.”

Walder nodded once. “And if he turns?”

Jon looked him in the eye. “Then I’ll cut him down myself.”

They drank to that, then left him with the silence and Ghost. The night deepened. Then came the horns — not loud, but steady — one blast, then two. Shapes in the mist, black shapes moving through the fog.

Jon was already moving, sword at his side, Ghost pacing close. Torches were lit. The sentries formed lines. A rider approached, mud to the waist, her cloak heavy with road-filth. She dismounted with a grunt, and when she pulled back her hood, the fire caught her face. Jorelle Mormont.

“You bring word?” Jon asked.

“Aye. And men.”

Behind her, the black cloaks emerged — ragged, dirtied, but unmistakable. Brothers of the Night’s Watch.

Yoren stepped forward, limping. “Still breathing, Snow,” he said with a grin.

Jon clasped his arm. “Gods, I thought you were dead.”

“Lannisters tried,” Yoren said. “Would’ve succeeded too, if not for this bear’s claw of a woman.”

Jorelle gave a brief nod. Jon’s eyes scanned the group — until a small figure darted forward.

“Jon!”

She crashed into him, and for a moment, he could not move.

“Arya?” he breathed. His voice cracked like old ice.

She was thinner, her face lean and bruised with grief. Her hair had been hacked short, her cloak too large. But the eyes — gods, the eyes.

She clung to him as if she feared he would vanish. “They said you were here. I thought—” her voice caught. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Jon held her tight, arms wrapped fully around her, his face buried in her hair. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Ghost pressed close, sniffing her before licking her hand. Arya let out a half-sob, half-laugh. “I knew you’d come,” she said. “I knew it.”

Walder stepped close. Arya looked up and flung her arms around him too. “Did Nymeria come back?” she asked.

His face was dark. “No, little one. Nor Lady.”

Arya nodded, jaw set. “She’ll come back. She remembers.”

Yoren cleared his throat, awkward. “There’s more,” he said. “Three broke loose. Rorge. Biter. And one calls himself Jaqen H’ghar. Slipped out before we reached your lines.”

The names meant little — but Jon caught the tightness in Yoren’s voice. “We’ll speak inside,” he said.

He guided Arya with one arm, his other hand resting on Ghost’s back. Behind them, the mists thickened over Harrenhal. But a Stark girl had come home. And Jon Snow — Lord Commander of the Northern Host — would see no harm touch her again. Not while he still drew breath.

Chapter Text

Robb

The Golden Tooth stood battered but proud beneath new banners. The crimson lion had been torn from its perch and cast down into the dust. Now the grey direwolf of Stark flew high, snapping in the mountain wind — silver threads shining cold and sharp against the black field.

Smoke still curled from the keep’s towers. The scent of fire clung to stone, and blood had darkened the courtyard earth to rust. Lannister corpses lay where they fell — red cloaks twisted beneath shattered shields, their blood soaking the dust of their own gate. From the highest parapet, Robb Stark watched them.

The wind tugged at the heavy folds of his cloak, the black stitched with silver. Grey Wind paced beside him, silent but alert, yellow eyes shifting between shadows, tail twitching with unease.

The Golden Tooth, that ancient bulwark at the threshold of the Westerlands, was his now — taken by sword and fire, paid for in steel and breath. The gateway to his enemies' heart had been broken open.

Part of his kingdom now. Won by conquest. By blood. Below, the North’s lords had gathered in the hall strewn with war maps and soot-streaked banners. Their voices murmured through

“We’ll hold here,” said Lord Jason Mallister, stabbing a calloused finger at the parchment. His ring glinted red with garnet. “Fortify the pass. Raise towers on both banks.”

“And garrison strong,” added Galbart Glover, his voice like stone grinding on stone. “Leave no gap for lions to crawl through.”

Lord Rickard Karstark cleared his throat. “The lions have lost more than a tooth. At Oxcross, their pride was shattered like glass. Stafford’s host is ash now, his banners feeding crows. The Young Wolf broke them and took their gold — now the Rock stands hollow.” He let out a cold breath. “We’ve never been closer to Casterly Rock than we are now.”

The Greatjon Umber let out a booming laugh, loud as a warhorn. “With the lions bleeding at Harrenhal, the Golden Tooth cracked, and Oxcross burning in their bellies, they’ll have little stomach left for roaring.”

Robb allowed himself a smile — thin and tired. But his heart did not rise.

Maps and victories meant little so long as Joffrey Baratheon still ruled from the Iron Throne, draped in Lannister gold. So long as Sansa remained caged in their den. So long as the fate of the North was still a question asked in blood and fire, not yet answered.

He was about to speak when he heard the footsteps — too fast, too uneven — and turned. Olyvar Frey stumbled up the stair, face flushed, hair wild from wind and haste. His cloak was askew, and mud clung to his boots.

“My lord king,” he panted, bowing low, “Prince Theon Greyjoy has arrived.”

Robb’s breath caught. Theon. He turned sharply, his cloak billowing like a storm behind him. “Bring him to the hall,” he said. “I’ll see him there.”

The Great Hall of the Golden Tooth still stank of fire and ruin. Ash had drifted down from the rafters like snow. Black scorch-marks climbed the stone like ivy, and a broken goblet glinted in the rushes, blood drying at its rim.

Theon Greyjoy entered through the battered doors, dust in his hair and a grin on his lips. His armor was dented and travel-stained, his face lean and sun-browned, his wild hair tied back in a rough knot.

“Robb!” he called. “Or should I say… Your Grace?”

Robb rose from his chair. He stepped forward and clasped Theon’s forearm, grip firm. “You’re late.”

Theon shrugged with careless ease. “Had to ride through a few burning villages first. Your friends, the Ironborn, are making merry in the Westerlands.”

Robb’s jaw hardened. A muscle jumped at his temple. “I had hoped for alliance,” he said. “Brotherhood.” His eyes swept the ruined hall, scorched stone and shattered glass. “Perhaps even marriage. Sansa could have been a bridge between North and Isles.”

Theon’s smile withered like frost under sunlight. “My father doesn’t want bridges,” he said bitterly. “He wants crowns.” He kicked the goblet, sending it clattering across the hall like a tin echo of laughter. “I’m sorry, Robb. We may share enemies now… but Balon Greyjoy bends the knee to no man. Not even you.”

The words cut like old iron — dull, but deep. A chill passed through Robb — not anger, but something colder. The ache of knowing that Theon, once a brother in all but name, now stood as something else. Something less. He said nothing. Only turned his gaze upward to the blackened beams, to the quiet spaces where words could not go.

They spoke of raids. Of Greyjoy longships. Of burning coasts and drowned gods. Robb listened. He nodded. He spoke when he must. But his thoughts drifted. Northward. Eastward. To another brother. To Jon.

The raven came at dusk, silent as snow. It fluttered through a shattered window and landed on the table, scattering embers from a dying brazier. Grey Wind lunged from the shadows — but gently, teeth parting only to pluck the parchment from its leg. He dropped it at Robb’s feet.

Robb watched the direwolf move — a part of him, yet apart. The night before Oxcross, he’d dreamt of a black trail winding through the mountains — a secret path the lions never saw. He’d woken at dawn, sweat cold on his neck, and Grey Wind had been staring at him, ears laid flat. And when he’d led the scouts out, the goat trail was there — just as he’d seen.

He did not understand it. But he trusted it. Trusted the wolf as he trusted his own sword. The memory of that morning’s dream still lingered in the edges of his mind, cold as the dawn mist. He pushed it away as Grey Wind turned, expectant, his yellow eyes glinting.

The wax was black, the seal the direwolf of House Stark. Robb broke it with fingers that trembled, though none could see. He read. Once. Twice. And again. Arya was alive. With Jon. Safe. At Harrenhal. And the castle would fall.

He let out a breath he had not known he was holding — long and low and sharp as a blade drawn free of its scabbard. The weight did not leave him. But it shifted. Lessened. He folded the letter carefully, as if it were glass, and slid it inside his cloak.

From the dais, Theon watched him with narrowed eyes. “Good news?” he asked.

Robb nodded. “The best.”

That night, beneath a sky veiled in black clouds and heavy wind, Robb Stark stood once more before the gathered lords of the North and the Riverlands. No drums. No horns. No songs. Only words.

“We march,” he said. Nothing more. No flourish. No plea. “The Golden Tooth will hold. But we ride for Harrenhal. We ride to end this.”

The hall roared with sudden life. Swords beat against shields. Lords shouted and cheered. The banners of House Stark and Tully snapped in the firelight.

Grey Wind threw back his head and howled — a long, wild cry that echoed through the keep like the voice of winter itself.

The King in the North was on the move. And in the far distance, where lion banners still flew, the earth would tremble.

Chapter Text

Walder

The night before the assault, Walder Snow sat by the fire, sharpening his axe with the slow, deliberate care of a man who expected to use it soon. The stone rasped against the blade in steady rhythm — a whisper beneath the mutter of restless men and the low crackle of burning logs. Ghost lay stretched beside him, white fur limned in firelight, his red eyes gleaming like coals in the dark. Silent. Watchful.

Beyond the glow, Jon Snow paced like a shadow in motion, his voice low as he conferred with Brandon Dustin and Harrion Karstark — quiet talk of ladders and breaches, of flanking routes and timings, of the morrow’s blood.

Walder watched him — truly watched — and saw what war had carved into the boy from Winterfell. Jon stood leaner now, sterner, tempered by grief and hardened in battle. The wolfsblood burned within him, yes — wild and untamed — but there was something older in his marrow now. Something more than Northern ice. Something dangerous.

They whispered of dragon’s blood in hushed tones, the legacy of fire that once burned beneath the halls of Valyria. And Walder, though no maester, had seen enough to know the truth sometimes lived in whispers.

That fire made Jon bold. It made him sharp. It made him dangerous. And Walder felt the weight of it — pride, yes, but fear too. Fear for what Jon might become if the world kept wounding him.

He remembered Eddard Stark's face, the solemn silence in his eyes the day the boy had been placed in his arms. No explanation. No lies. Just the unspoken truth of blood and duty. Protect him, if I fall. Ned had never spoken the words. He hadn’t needed to. Walder had heard them all the same. He had failed before. Failed Brandon, failed Lyanna, failed Ned in the end. But he would not fail Jon.

Still, the rot of doubt gnawed at him, bitter and unrelenting. He thought of Roose Bolton, cold as the void and quiet as a corpse. The men from the Dreadfort spoke little, smiled less, and kept to themselves as if they already marched for another cause. If treason came, it would come softly. In silk. And with a knife. Walder tightened his grip on the whetstone. If Roose turned cloak, he would bury his axe in the leech-lord’s chest before the man spoke a word.

And then there was Arya. Gods. He had known her once — a wild spark, fierce and laughing, all tangled hair and skinned knees, more wolf than lady. Now she moved like a shadow with a sword for a spine. Her eyes were hollows — dark and deep and far too old.

When she clung to Jon the first night, trembling, she’d whispered names into his chest like prayers meant to summon death: Joffrey. Cersei. Ser Meryn. Ilyn Payne. The Hound. Her voice did not break. Her fury burned clean.

Walder had listened, his hands clenched until the blood ran. He had not been there at Eddard’s side, nor Arya’s, when they needed him. He had borne his shame, his exile. He would not fail now.

At first light, the horns blew. The Northern host surged forward like a wave of steel and frost. Walder ran at the front, axe in hand, Ghost pacing him like a specter. The black stones of Harrenhal rose before them — burnt and broken, the cursed bones of kings and fools.

The defenders met them in the breach. Arrows hissed down like rain. Fire blossomed across the ramparts. Steel screamed against steel. The first charge broke against the walls. Men screamed. Shields splintered. The mud ran red.

Walder swung his axe in great arcs, cleaving helm from skull, shield from arm. A Lannister knight lunged — Walder caught the blow, turned it aside, and split the man’s head in two.

To his left, Harrion Karstark fought grim and silent, his longblade singing. To his right, Brandon Dustin pushed forward, the wolf banner high behind him, now streaked with blood and ash.

The defenders fought with the desperation of men who knew they would not be spared. And still the North pushed forward. Foot by bloody foot. Until the gates groaned — iron shrieking in protest — and swung open.

A figure stumbled through the smoke. Armor of patchwork steel. A grotesque grin twisted his face. He flung something into the mire with a wet slap — a severed head, fat and familiar.  Ser Amory Lorch. Dead.

The man bowed low, his lisp cutting the air like a blade dulled by madness. "I bring you a prezzzent."

Vargo Hoat. The Goat of Qohor. Walder pushed forward, face like stone. Hoat grinned at them all.

"Thee cathtle ith yourth," he lisped, sweeping a ragged hand. "I am a man of thome honor, yeth?"

Jon rode forward through the broken gate, Ghost close behind. His voice was steel drawn from frost. "You yield?"

"I do," Hoat mewled. "I wizh only to return to Ethoth."

The lords growled in their throats. Victory had come — but it came from a mouth lined in rot. Walder said nothing. He only watched Jon. And saw the fire in his eyes.

That night, the pyres burned high beyond the walls. The courtyard stank of ash and old death. The Northern lords gathered: William Dustin, Brandon Dustin, Harrion Karstark, Wylis Manderly, Robett Glover, Jorelle Mormont. Even Arya, pale and silent, stood among them, her face hard as ice.

Vargo Hoat knelt in the center — bound, beaten. Still he would not stop talking.

"Plea-the, my lordth," he slurred. "I am a man of honor, yeth? I thurrendered your cathtle. I thpared your men. I—"

Jon Snow stood before him in the firelight, wrapped in black and silence. "You are no man of honor," he said. "You are no man at all."

Hoat whimpered. Jon's voice did not rise. It needed no force.

"In the name of Robb Stark, King in the North, King of the Trident, Lord of Winterfell, heir of Eddard Stark and of the First Men—" He drew his sword. "I, Jon Snow Lord Commander of the Northern Host, sentence you to die."

No one moved. Not even to nod. Justice was its own answer. Hoat tried to scream — the blade fell. His head tumbled into the dust. His body slumped beside it. Ghost growled low and deep. Jon wiped the blade clean and turned away. There were no cheers. Only silence. Only smoke.

That night, the fires burned lower. Harrenhal’s black towers loomed silent, their jagged teeth outlined in flickering orange. The last embers of the pyres drifted like dying stars on the wind.

Walder Snow sat sharpening his axe by the gate when the commotion began. A ripple in the quiet. Footsteps, the rattle of harness, voices raised in caution and challenge. He rose, axe in hand, and strode to the gate.

A small party stood in the torchlight: ten men-at-arms in battered mail, a handful of servants with tired eyes — and at their head, a woman draped in the black and yellow of House Whent. She stood straight despite the weariness in her shoulders, her dark eyes steady on Walder’s.

“I am Shella Whent,” she said. Her voice was low, unbowed. “I fled when the lions came, hid in the village of Wode’s Hollow. When word reached us of Tywin’s rout and the North’s banners at the gate, I made ready to return.” She paused, glancing at the axe in his hand. “I would speak with Jon Snow. I have kinship to Lady Stark.”

Walder watched her, wary. The night was no place for soft trust. But she had only ten men, and the wear of the road showed in every line of her face.

He jerked his head. “You’ll follow me, then.”

She nodded once. “Thank you.”

Walder led her through the black halls of Harrenhal, the stones echoing under their feet. Jon Snow waited by the hearth, grey eyes watching the flames as if they held the shape of days to come. Ghost lay at his side, red eyes bright in the gloom.

Shella Whent dipped her head. “Lord Snow.”

Jon inclined his head in return. “Lady Whent. You are far from your home.”

“This is my home,” she said. “Or was.” She looked around the ruined hall, and something flickered in her eyes. “The lions drove me out. When I heard of your victory, I thought it time to reclaim what little remains.”

Jon studied her, quiet as the wolf at his feet. “We hold the castle in the name of Robb Stark, King in the North. We will not linger. Once the war is ended, we will march north again.”

“And what of us?” she asked. “What of the folk who fled? Will the wolves leave when you go?”

Jon’s mouth tightened, but his voice was calm. “If it is your wish, we will leave no garrison. This hall is yours by blood and right. But for now, until the war is ended, it is ours to hold. You are welcome here — so long as you remember that the wolves do not bite without cause.”

Shella Whent smiled faintly, though her eyes were sad. “Better wolves in my hall than lions. Stay as you must, Lord Snow. Harrenhal has always been a place of ghosts.”

Jon inclined his head. “Then let the ghosts rest tonight. And let the North stand with you.”

Above them, Harrenhal’s towers stood broken and black, silhouetted against the burning sky. But for the first time in a generation, they flew the banners of the North. And the stones, old and bitter, trembled beneath the weight of new ghosts.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The world drifted in and out of focus for weeks. Pain was his constant companion — sharp at first, then dull and throbbing, always there, humming under his skin like a broken harp string. Tyrion Lannister lay in a small, dark room high in Maegor's Holdfast, far from the Tower of the Hand, far from the court, far from anything that mattered.

A leech clung to his face for days, a fat black thing feeding on him. Maester Ballabar — not Pycelle, never Pycelle — came and went, soft and sweating, muttering of fever and infection. They left him to rot in silence. No songs of victory for the dwarf who had saved the city. No golden laurels, no roaring crowds. Only the stink of his own sweat, and the slow, sinking certainty that he had been cast aside.

When at last he could rise, it took all his strength to stagger to the cracked mirror above a chipped basin. He stared. And flinched. His nose was gone. In its place a ruin of scar tissue, twisted and pink and raw. The wound curved down his face like a crack in old stone.

Tyrion touched it once — lightly — then dropped his hand. So much for Cersei’s pretty little monster. He remembered only fragments. The green fire devouring Stannis’ fleet. The Red Keep shaking under the hammer-blows of war. The Hound fleeing like a mad dog into the night. Joffrey running, shrieking like a child. Tyrion remembered the river gate — fighting in the mud, shouting orders until his throat bled raw, leading men who hated him because they feared death more. He had almost held them. Almost.

Until Ser Mandon Moore turned his blade in the chaos — white cloak, flash of steel — and darkness swallowed all. Betrayed. Not by enemies — by his own.

They told him later, in low, embarrassed voices. “It was Lord Tywin who saved the day, riding in with a thousand Tyrell knights.” Lord Tywin, hailed as savior. Lord Tywin, named Hand once more. And Tyrion? Tyrion was left to rot in a forgotten tower while others stole his victories.

The wildfire — his idea — was whispered into Tywin’s ear by Cersei, who claimed the credit for herself. The Tyrell alliance — his careful orchestration — now a song sung for Littlefinger’s glory. Tyrion Lannister, the dwarf, the kinslayer, the abomination, was being erased from history even as the ink was still wet.

He sat heavily on the narrow bed, scars throbbing, bitterness thick in his mouth. So this is gratitude. This is family.

When he could sit upright without retching, he sent for Bronn. It took the better part of a day before the sellsword — no, the knight now — appeared. Bronn swaggered into the sickroom without ceremony, tossing a new black cloak over one shoulder. A silver circlet pinned to his breast — a mocking crown of thorns.

"Ser Bronn of the Blackwater," he said with a grin. "At your service."

Tyrion arched an eyebrow. "Ser Bronn now? I must have slept through a very strange ceremony."

Bronn shrugged. "Lord Tywin’s been handing out knighthoods like sweets. Keeps the swords pointed the right way. Some poor fool had to be Ser Bronn. Here I am." He gave a mocking bow.

Tyrion smirked — though the motion tugged at the ruined flesh of his face. "And still loyal enough to come crawling when I croak for company?"

Bronn chuckled. "Don’t mistake me, dwarf. You have gold. I like gold." He leaned against the wall, peeling an apple with a dagger. "You stop having gold, I stop being your friend."

Tyrion snorted. "At least you're honest."

He reached painfully for the goblet beside the bed. The wine was thin and sour, but it dulled the ache behind his missing nose. "And what news does Ser Bronn bring me? What sweet lies does the world tell now?"

Bronn rattled them off between bites of apple Tywin Lannister, named Hand again, ruling the Red Keep with an iron fist.  Joffrey Baratheon, betrothed to Margaery Tyrell. Stannis Baratheon fled to Dragonstone with what remained of his army. Sansa Stark, still a "guest" of the crown, moved into Maegor’s Holdfast under closer watch.  Littlefinger, named Lord of Harrenhal — in name only. "A title and no land," Bronn said with a grin. "Seems Jon Snow holds the stone." The Ironborn, retreating mysteriously from the Westerlands after burning much of it.  Levies gathering fast Lannister, Tyrell, and Crown forces swelling into one massive host, eighty thousand strong, preparing to march north.

"And the Starks?" Tyrion asked softly.

Bronn’s grin faded. "They're still holding the Neck, the Trident, Riverrun, Harrenhal. Still biting."

Tyrion lay back, the walls pressing close around him. "Father means to break them before he turns to Stannis?"

Bronn shrugged. "That's what the banners say. Stannis can rot in Dragonstone a while longer. Better to gut the wolves while they’re proud."

Tyrion closed his eyes. The wheel turned. Robb Stark was winning battles — but winter would come. So would betrayal. So would fear. The Lannisters were wounded — but not dead. And a wounded lion was the most dangerous of all.

Bronn tossed the apple core into the fire and rose. "You gonna heal up and get back in the game, or rot in here like a bad cheese?"

Tyrion smiled thinly. "I plan to live, Ser Bronn. And to remember." He touched the ragged scar where his nose had once been. "They took my nose. I'll take something back."

Bronn laughed and clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Good lad. Just don’t take too long." He swaggered out, whistling.

Tyrion was left alone once more — alone with the fire, the stone walls, and the bitter taste in his mouth. He sipped his wine, staring into the flames. The wolves would fall, he told himself. The wolves would fall. And yet, deep inside — cold and certain — another voice whispered Not so easily as you hope.

Chapter Text

Catelyn

The sept at Riverrun was cold and still. Light filtered through stained glass in pale shafts, painting colorless shapes on worn stone. The statues of the Seven loomed above her, cloaked in shadow. The Mother’s face seemed sorrowful in the gloom.

Catelyn knelt before her, hands clasped tightly, her lips brushing against silent prayers. She prayed for Robb — her firstborn, her king. She prayed for Sansa — her sweet girl, lost to the lions. She prayed for her father’s soul, now ash upon the river. But mostly, she prayed for strength. And the gods gave no answer. Only the sound of wind through the high arches, and the distant sigh of the river lapping against the castle walls.

Her thoughts would not still. They circled like crows, always returning to that cell beneath Riverrun — to Jaime Lannister’s smile, careless and cruel. "He saw too much... He saw me and Cersei..." Brother and sister. Lover and lover. And all of it hidden beneath a golden crown. Joffrey. Myrcella. Tommen. All bastards, all born of incest. Not Robert’s children. Not the realm’s heirs. A throne built on lies. The knowledge sat in her belly like a stone. No wonder the kingdoms bled. The rot was at the root.

She pressed her forehead against the cool altar stone. Jaime's laughter echoed in her skull, dry and mocking. She clenched her jaw against it. Then came the memory of another death — Renly, vibrant and laughing, cut down in silence by something cold and unseen. A shadow with Stannis’ face, the red woman watching from the fire.

Catelyn had seen it. She had seen it and still could not believe it. If shadows walked in the world again, what hope had her son? What hope had any man? The fear gripped her like frost. Was a shadow already creeping toward Robb? She dug her nails into her palms, as if pain might drive the thought away.

Her grief surged behind it. Her father — Hoster Tully — had died before she could sit beside him. Before she could hold his hand. Before she could hear his voice one last time. Edmure said he smiled at the end. Whispered of Robb. "The wolf beats the lion." That was something. A small comfort. A dying father’s pride. She clung to it.

And then — Arya. Jon Snow’s letter, its wax black, its hand careful but unadorned. A bastard’s script. But honest. Arya was alive. Safe. With Jon. At Harrenhal. Catelyn had read the words again and again, until the ink blurred in her tears.

She had little love for Jon Snow — she had tried, gods knew — but he was Eddard’s blood, and Arya’s brother. She did not doubt he would guard her. She whispered thanks for that, though her heart was raw with guilt. If she had been a better woman… But the time for that was long past.

Outside, the sky grew heavy. The Tyrells had turned to the lion — eighty thousand swords now bent to Lannister will. And Walder Frey’s letters came more insistent by the day, stained with wine and spite, demanding marriage, demanding promises, demanding.

The trap was closing. The wolves were being hemmed in. And Catelyn Stark, once of Riverrun, knelt in silence and whispered her last prayer to the Warrior. “Protect him,” she said. “Protect them all.” The candles flickered. No answer came. Only her own heartbeat, loud in her ears.

The horns sounded from the battlements — long, low, unmistakable. Catelyn rose, skirts brushing stone. She moved through the halls like smoke, Lady Brienne trailing behind. Her pace was steady, but her breath caught in her throat.

She thought of Brienne then — how the girl had come to her in the shadow of death at Bitterbridge, tall and awkward and earnest to a fault. She had seen the bruises on Brienne’s face, the fresh grief in her eyes. Some had called her monster or fool, but Catelyn had seen the hurt behind the strength. She had offered her a place by her side, not out of strategy but out of pity — and gratitude. Brienne had kept her safe then, and still did now.

The banners flapped high in the courtyard wind — Stark and Tully, side by side. And through the mist that clung to the Red Fork, they came. Grey Wind ran at the front, tongue lolling, his coat matted with river spray, howling to the sky.

Behind him rode Robb. Her son. Her king. There were no trumpets. No ceremony. He dismounted before her and she went to him — arms out, heart pounding. He smelled of saddle and steel and rain. He held her tightly, one arm strong around her shoulders, the other still clutching his sword belt.

Catelyn drew back, her hand resting on Robb’s arm. “This is Brienne of Tarth,” she said. “She is my sworn shield, my protector.” She glanced at Brienne, who stood silent and watchful at her shoulder, her blue eyes wary but unbowed. “She kept me safe when all else failed.”

Robb inclined his head toward Brienne, his tone measured but respectful. “You have my thanks, Lady Brienne. My mother’s life is worth more than any crown.”

Brienne met his gaze with steady eyes. “I swore an oath, my lord,” she said. “To your mother. And I will keep it. With my life, if need be.”

Robb nodded once, his jaw set. His gaze shifted back to Catelyn. “You look older,” she said softly.

Robb gave a short, rough laugh. “I needed to look older. Older than I feel.”

“You are older,” she replied. “In ways that break my heart.”

They sat together that night in the solar, the fire snapping low, wine between them, bread and salt untouched on the table. She told him first of Hoster Tully — how he passed quietly, whispering of Robb, speaking of pride, of wolves besting lions.

Robb bowed his head. “I wish I had been here,” he said. “To speak with him once more.”

“He understood,” Catelyn said. “He died believing in you.”

She told him then of Jaime. Of the fall. Of the incest. Of Joffrey’s claim.

Robb’s hands clenched around his cup. “He deserves death,” he muttered. “All of them.”

“And yet we must live with their lies,” she said. “Until we get Sansa back.”

Then the darkest news — Renly’s death. The shadow. The sorcery.

Robb sat still as stone. “She won’t have me,” he said at last. “That red woman. I’ll not die to smoke and whispers.”

Catelyn wanted to believe. But she had seen that shadow move.  They spoke of Walder Frey — his growing ire, his tightening demands.

Robb’s jaw set hard. “I’ll honor my word,” he said. “But not yet. The war must be won first.”

“And if he grows restless?”

“Then let him rattle his chains,” Robb said, pouring more wine. “I have no time for old men’s vanity.”

And finally, the alliance. Tyrell and Lannister. Eighty thousand swords.

Robb did not blink. “They can have a million,” he said. “They will not take the North.”

He stood then, tall before the firelight, casting a long shadow on the wall. “I ride soon,” he said. “Jon holds Harrenhal. Together, we strike before they close the trap.”

Catelyn rose with him. She took his hand in hers. “You are your father’s son.”

Robb looked out the window, toward the river, toward the hills and fields and the gathering dark. “No,” he said softly. “I am the North’s son now.” He turned. “And winter is coming for the lions.”

Chapter Text

Arya

She ran beneath a sky streaked with silver mist and burning ash, the wind pouring over her like a second pelt. The earth was alive beneath her paws cold, rich, thudding with the beat of her running and the forest unfurled ahead in endless green and gold. She was a wolf now. Not a girl, not a Stark. A queen of the wild. And the woods were hers.

Scents flooded her, sharp pine sap, the dank rot of leaf mold, the blood-warm tang of deer in the underbrush, and fainter still, the sour reek of men in iron. Lions. She did not need to see their crimson cloaks to know them. They stank of fire and arrogance. They did not belong.

The pack followed at her heels a tide of fur and muscle and fangs. Shadows gliding between trees, low snarls and panting breath like wind in a storm. She felt them as limbs of herself: the crippled mastiff with a torn ear, the three-legged bitch with eyes like amber flame, the lean hill wolves hardened by hunger. All of them hers. A hundred strong. Maybe more. And every moon, new ones came, drawn by something older than blood by instinct, by hunger.

At her side, silent as starlight, ran her sister. The yellow eyed wolf flowed over roots and snowdrifts, her coat shining like moonlight on still water, her grace colder and more regal than any throne. They ran together, breath for breath, stride for stride one wild heart split in two bodies.

Together they led the hunt. Together they ruled the night.

In the dream, Arya knew what it meant to be strong not with steel, but with speed, with silence, with teeth. She leapt a ravine, wind singing in her ears, and came down soft as snow. They found a stag in the glade, its eyes rolling in panic, and she brought it down with one swift, terrible grace. The blood was warm and copper-sweet on her tongue, thick and wild and good. She drank it in without shame.

Later, when men blundered into the woods iron-bound, torchlit, loud in their fear the pack fell upon them like night itself. Their cries were cut short by snarls and screams. She remembered the flash of red cloaks. The bite of steel. The tearing of flesh. The crack of bone between her jaws. And above all, that soaring, savage joy, not cruel, only clean. A reckoning. A justice older than thrones.

When the blood was cooled and the earth fed, she curled beneath a towering oak, her sister pressed warm against her side. The pack gathered close, a breathing circle of fur and strength and heartbeat. Somewhere far away, the moon rose, and her thoughts drifted like mist.

She dreamed within the dream.

Of another pack, not of wolves, but of pups cradled in trembling arms, soft and squirming, their eyes still clouded with sleep. The gray one, bold and headstrong, always first to snap, to chase, to lead. The white one, quiet and watchful, his red eyes seeing things beyond the firelight. The black one, wild and restless, howling to a sky that had yet to hear him.
And the littlest — nameless when she left, but not forgotten. Bright-eyed, curious, brave in a way only the smallest can be. Her brothers. Her blood. Scattered like leaves on the wind.

Arya whimpered low, nuzzling closer to her littermate’s flank. Her chest ached, and the joy inside her dulled to something quieter. A longing she did not know how to name. But the warmth of the pack was real. The night was hers. And she would not lose this family. Not again. Not ever.

Arya woke still with the taste of iron in her mouth. For a heartbeat, she was still running paws striking earth, wind howling in her ears. But the breath that filled her lungs was smoke-stale and still. The smells were wrong, sweat, damp stone, old blood. Harrenhal. She blinked up at the ceiling, watching a single beam of pale light slant through the cracked timbers. Her fingers twitched. They were hands again. Small, pink, scarred.

She hated waking. The weight of her body in this world felt wrong heavy and slow. The dream had been hers, truly hers: a place of blood and wind and command. She had been more than Arya Stark in that dream. She had been something fierce, and true. A wolf. A pack leader. But here… Here, she was just a little girl, a princess.

She sat up on the cot a pile of musty blankets and straw stuffed into a corner of the tower Jon had claimed for the wounded and the broken. The bruise on her ribs ached when she moved. The cut across her thigh itched where it scabbed. They were healing, she was healing, but sometimes she wondered if she had really come back at all. Or if she’d left something behind in that ruin where the Lannisters had tried to cut them down.

Jon had been pale when he found her, his voice thick, jaw clenched so hard she thought his teeth might crack. He had held her close for a long time and said nothing not even when she cried into his cloak.

Later, when she stood before him, arms crossed tight, chin jutted like a spearpoint, she had declared she was ready for war. She wasn’t a little girl. She had seen blood, she had fought, she had survived.

“I’m sending you to Riverrun,” he said. “With your mother.”

Arya’s eyes flashed. “You need me here!”

“I need you to be safe,” Jon said, more sharply. “And Lady Stark will have my head if I let you stay.”

“I’ll run,” Arya blurted. “I’ll slip my escort, I’ll steal a horse, I’ll come back, and you won’t even know I’m gone until I’m at your side again.”

She was trembling with the force of it, fists clenched at her sides. And for a moment, Jon just looked at her. His face softened. “I should have known better,” he muttered. “You can stay.”

Arya’s breath caught, half surprise, half triumph.

“But” Jon added, the word like a drawn sword, “you won’t take a step outside camp without a guard.”

Not just any guard. Giantsblood. Now Walder was never far, always trailing behind like a shadow made of armor and silence. Jon thought it was a kindness. Arya thought it was a cage.

She flung open the shuttered window and leaned out into the wind. Beyond the shattered walls of Harrenhal, the trees loomed like black teeth, the air sharp with frost and the promise of snow. The camp stirred below, men clanging pots, voices barking commands, fires blooming in the dim morning like sparks in the ashes of a dying hearth.

She wanted to be out there. Running. Moving. Living. Instead, she was penned in stone, with a giant following her everywhere. She had tried to sneak off, only to find Walder already waiting at the gate.

"You’re not as quiet as you think," he’d said.

She had glared up at him. "I’ve escaped worse men than you."

"Aye," he had said. "That’s why I’m here."

She didn’t know if she wanted to kick him or thank him. She still wasn’t sure.

Now, she grabbed her boots, laced them tight, and made for the door. She needed to breathe. Maybe she’d go to the edge of the wood again, not too far, just enough to smell pine and mud and the memory of her dreams.

Walder was already waiting in the yard, leaning on his axe like he’d grown roots.

Arya scowled. “You sleep standing?” she muttered.

“Sleep is for sheep,” he said, and fell in beside her without another word. And so, she walked with her shadow.

They walked beyond the walls of Harenhall, where the trees loomed tall and bare, their limbs skeletal against the pale gray sky. Arya kept ahead of Walder, boots crunching softly in the underbrush. She didn’t speak, and neither did he. Their silences had grown companionable, if not entirely comfortable.

Then the wind shifted. Arya stopped. A scent tugged at something deep in her, not memory, not thought. Instinct. Her skin prickled.

Walder’s axes were already in his hands. “Something moves,” he murmured. “Back.”

But Arya didn’t move. She stepped forward. From the shadows of the trees, something vast and silent emerged. She was more beast than wolf now, her body long and heavy with muscle, her paws silent on the ground. Her fur shimmered gray, mottled with streaks of darker ash, and her golden eyes glowed like twin lanterns in the dusk.

Arya gasped. “Nymeria,” she whispered.

The direwolf did not run. Did not leap. She only watched her, eyes locked on Arya’s as if weighing the years, the blood, the distance. Arya’s legs gave way. She fell to her knees in the frost, arms open.

“It’s me,” she said. “It’s me. You found me.”

Nymeria stepped forward. Slow. Silent. Then lowered her great head and touched her snout to Arya’s cheek, warm breath, the familiar musk of fur and forest. And with a low, guttural whine, she licked her.

Arya’s arms were around her before she could stop herself, buried in thick, wild fur, her face pressed to the shoulder of the wolf who had once been hers, who had never stopped being hers.

“You came back,” she choked. “You came back.”

Walder stood still as stone, axes forgotten at his side, breath misting in slow clouds. “By the old gods,” he murmured, voice thick with something between reverence and disbelief.

Nymeria was not alone. Another shape emerged, smaller, paler, every movement elegant and sure. Lady.

Arya let out a sob that became a laugh. “Lady. I knew you would come back. I knew it. I knew.”

Lady nosed her gently, then pressed close against her side, silver fur gleaming under the moonlight. She was different now, freer, wilder but her eyes held the same quiet grace.

Arya pressed her forehead to Lady’s. “I thought I dreamed you,” she said. “I thought you were just a memory.”

Around them, the forest stirred. Dozens, no, hundreds of wolves filled the trees. Great black shapes, sleek silver ones, brown-furred, red-eyed, scarred and broken and beautiful. All of them silent. Watching. Waiting.

At Nymeria’s side, Lady sat. And one by one, the pack followed. Walder fell to one knee, his axes grounded in the earth. He bowed his head, not to Arya, but to something greater that pulsed in the stillness around them.

Arya rose slowly. She stood between Nymeria and Lady, her hand resting on each. The breath in her lungs felt deeper now. Her heart steadier. The dreams were real.  She turned back toward Harrenhal, the wolves parting around her like river reeds.

Walder rose and followed, slower now. Quieter. Behind them, the forest watched.

Chapter Text

Samwell

They marched through the woods like ghosts, black shapes against a world gone pale. Snow crunched beneath hooves and boots, and the wind whispered through the bare trees, cold as any curse. The column stretched long behind them, ragged and silent. Black cloaks flapped like torn banners. Their numbers had thinned, and every gap in the line was a brother who would not return.

Sam marched near the middle, huddled under his cloak, too cold to shake and too ashamed to cry. He could still smell the blood, even now. It clung to his beard, his cloak, his dreams. Sometimes he thought it was in his bones.

They had gone out searching for Benjen Stark, the First Ranger, and Sam had believed they might find him. Foolish. He was always foolish. What they found instead was fear, and hunger, and death.

Not from Wildlings. From their own. The mutiny had started with whispers. Then it was knives.

Sam remembered Chett’s eyes, red-rimmed, wide, wild. The knife glinting in his hand. The breath freezing in Sam’s throat as he tried to scream and couldn’t. He remembered Grenn lunging, shouting, taking the blow that should have ended him. Grenn, with blood pouring down his arm, clubbing Chett down with a fire-hardened branch.

They’d fought brother against brother that night, steel flashing in the dark, the firelight making monsters of them all. By dawn, dozens were dead, and he did nothing. He’d just buried his face in the snow and wished to disappear.

In the morning, the Lord Commander stood tall before the survivors and had Rast dragged before the fire. “You took up arms against your brothers,” Mormont said, voice grave as stone. “You tried to turn us into animals. I will not see the Night’s Watch fall to chaos.”

Then he swung the sword himself. After that, no one questioned the retreat. They turned back toward Castle Black — what was left of them. Two hundred and forty-three brothers, most wounded in some way. Sam counted them nightly, to be sure. It helped keep the terror down.

But the road home was not empty. They found wildlings, scattered bands in the woods, armed and frightened, barely holding formation. The first few skirmishes were confused, bloody things. The Watch still had discipline. The wildlings did not. They fought like wolves fleeing fire. Some were captured. And that was when the stories began.

“They came in the snow,” a man had said, his lips blue and split. “They weren’t men. They took the fires first, then the children. Then us.”

“They burn blue,” whispered another. “Eyes like ice. They killed the dead last.”

At first, no one believed them. Madmen’s talk. Wildling tales to scare children. But Sam had seen enough to know a true fear when he heard it. The way their voices cracked. The way they flinched at the dark. The way they looked north. Something had shattered them. Still, Lord Commander Mormont pushed the march onward. South, always south.

Then they captured the next band, larger this time. Stragglers from a great host, they said. Thousands who had gathered under one name. One king. Mance Rayder. He was in chains now. A tall man, proud despite the grime and bruises. He gave his name plainly, met Mormont’s eyes without fear.

“I am Mance Rayder,” he said. “The King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

No one laughed. Two women followed him, both blonde, both Northern by look. One carried herself like a spear-maiden. The other carried a child in her belly.

Mormont said nothing for a long time. Then he gave a single order, “To Castle Black. Double the pace.”

Sam had expected questions. Accusations. A reckoning. But there had been none. Just the slow, grim march south. Sam huddled in the saddle, the dragonglass dagger at his side. It was a small comfort amid the confusion — a sharp piece of hope in a world gone cold. He whispered the number to himself again, a fragile shield against the dark. Two hundred and forty-three. And not one of them knew the true shape of the horror that had come out of the north.

The ravens croaked like restless ghosts above the rookery. Samwell Tarly shivered beneath his heavy cloak as he climbed the steps of the Tower of the King, breath fogging before him. Castle Black had never felt so hollow. The wind sang through broken shutters and cracked stone like some old spirit calling names only the dead remembered.

He had thought it would feel like coming home. Instead, it felt like something left behind. They had buried twenty more men since arriving, some from wounds, others from fever. Some from wounds of the mind. Those who had survived the mutiny still carried it with them in the hollows of their eyes.

Sam still woke some nights with Chett’s knife at his throat. Still saw Grenn’s face after it was over, blood smeared across his arm, saying softly, “I got him, Sam. You’re all right.” As if it were a question. A dozen dead men between the mutineers and those who tried to stop them. The Lord Commander said it was justice. Sam still thought it was madness.

And now the wildlings. They had found them in scattered bands, not raiding, not fighting, but fleeing. Gaunt, frost-bitten, eyes rolling in terror. Mormont had ordered them brought in, chained and silent, though not all stayed silent.

One man had bit through his tongue and spat blood on the snow. One had laughed until he choked. And one, a girl had clutched Sam’s wrist through the bars of her cell and whispered, “They burned. We all burned. And still they rose.”

Sam had not asked what they meant. He was afraid he already knew. He reached Maester Aemon’s solar with ink-stained fingers and a heart heavy with dread. Inside, the fire burned low. Maester Aemon sat wrapped in his robes, the milk-white orbs of his eyes turned toward the sound of the door.

“Is that you, Sam?”

“Yes, Maester.”

“Come. Sit. We’re not alone.”

Sam started. In the shadowed corner stood Lord Commander Mormont, heavy in his black furs, his face more lined than ever, hair thinner, beard grown wild.

He nodded at Sam. “I want him to hear this.”

Aemon turned his blind gaze toward the flames. “More wildlings talk?”

Mormont grunted. “If it were just talk, I wouldn’t care.” He dropped a bundle of parchment onto the table, weather-stained, marked with the black wax of Castle Black. “They’re all saying the same thing. The ones we caught last, the ones before. Men, women, children. All of them. ‘The dead walk.’ ‘The pale shadows came at night.’ ‘We ran, we ran, we ran.’”

Sam swallowed. “I counted,” he said softly. “Twenty-three wildlings taken in total. Six mention blue eyes. Twelve speak of the cold. All of them mention the dead.”

Maester Aemon nodded slowly. “Stories spread. Panic is a quick thing, faster than plague.”

“But they were separated,” Sam said. “Some taken weeks apart. Some from different bands entirely. And they speak the same words.” Silence filled the solar.

Jeor Mormont poured himself a cup of wine with shaking fingers. He did not offer it to Aemon. Nor to Sam. “I’ve lived long enough not to believe in children’s tales,” he said. “But I’ve also lived long enough to know when something dark is moving beyond the edge of the world.”

Aemon shifted in his seat, the firelight catching the pale ruin of his eyes. “You fear this is more than desertion. More than hunger.”

“I fear something is killing them in the dark,” Mormont said. “Something they cannot fight. And now they’re running, not south to raid, not west to hide, but through us. Because they’re afraid.”

He looked at Sam then. Not as a steward. Not even as a boy. As a witness. “You’ve a memory for details, Tarly. What else did they say?”

Sam hesitated. Then “One said fire didn’t stop them. That their wounds didn’t bleed. That a spear went through one and it didn’t even flinch.” Another silence.

Lord Commander Mormont drained the wine in one long pull. “I want ravens sent. One to Eastwatch. One to the Shadow Tower. One to the Citadel.”

“And the South?” asked Maester Aemon. “To Winterfell?”

“Winterfell has no lord,” Mormont said. “Robb Stark is off to war. Jon Snow never took the black. And Ned Stark is dead. There’s no help coming from the wolves.”

Sam thought of Jon — of that shy smile in Winterfell, of the boy who had ridden south with Lord Tyrion, and now fought in a war that had broken men twice his age. He had bested Tywin Lannister himself, they said — done what few dared even dream. But what had the war done to him? Sam wondered. Jon had found a name for himself in the south, a name of steel and fire. And what of Sam? What name had he earned? He gripped the dragonglass dagger tighter, as if it might lend him some of Jon’s courage.

“I’ll send them,” he said quietly.

Jeor grunted. “You’ll write the truth. No more, no less.”

Sam nodded. And in his chest, the cold took root, not the cold of the Wall, or the frost beneath his boots, but something deeper. Something that whispered If you do not speak, no one will. If you do not warn them, no one will believe.

Sam sat with the quill in his hand for a long time after. And when the ravens flew from Castle Black that night, the wind howled like a voice from the grave.

The old cells beneath Castle Black stank of damp and fear. Sam held the lantern close as he followed Lord Commander Mormont down the narrow steps, the stone slick beneath their boots. Maester Aemon had not come, too cold, too steep, too far so it was Sam who kept the ink and parchment tucked under his arm, heart thudding like a drum.

Three wildlings had been brought in separately. Two women, both blonde, both silent, and one man who refused to bow. The man was the one they would see first. They called him Mance Rayder.

He sat chained to the wall in the last cell, a deep hooded cloak pulled tight against his shoulders. His beard was streaked with white, but his eyes, dark and watchful, missed nothing. When the torchlight hit his face, he didn’t flinch. He only tilted his head and said, “So. The Old Bear finally comes to ask.”

Jeor Mormont grunted. “You talk like a crow, but you smell like a turncloak.”

Mance’s mouth twitched.

“I know your voice,” Mormont said, stepping closer. “You were one of mine.”

“I was a free man,” Mance said calmly. “Still am.”

“You were a brother of the Night’s Watch.”

“And you were a commander who once said a man must follow his conscience, even when the price is high.”

“Don’t you quote me,” Mormont growled.

They stared at each other through the bars. The torchlight flickered between them.

“I want the truth,” Mormont said at last. “Why are your people running? Why are they coming south now, like rabbits before a fire?”

Mance said nothing. Mormont stepped closer his voice low. “I’ve seen them. Thin as bones. Eyes hollow. Afraid of shadows. You know what did that.”

“They’re not my people,” Mance said. “Not anymore.”

“That so?” Jeor barked a laugh. “Then why lead them?”

“Because someone has to.”

Sam stepped forward before he realized what he was doing. “What are they running from?” he asked, the words rushing out in a breath.

Mance looked at him. And something in his gaze shifted. The way he might look at a boy just old enough to understand grief.

“They burned,” he said softly. “Whole camps. Children in the snow. Fires that didn’t give warmth. Dead that didn’t stay dead.”

Sam’s mouth went dry. “You saw them?” he whispered.

Mance nodded. “One. Once. That was enough. My spear went through its belly. It didn’t bleed. Didn’t slow. I watched a man it killed rise with eyes like blue glass.”

Mormont said nothing. But his fists clenched at his sides. “And you led them south,” Sam said. “To escape?”

“To survive,” Mance corrected. “I gave them a choice, fight the cold in the north, or take their chances with the crows and the wolves and the Wall. I chose life.”

“By invading,” Mormont said.

“By joining,” Mance said. “But you wouldn’t have seen that. Not you.”

Silence again. Then “You’ll be tried,” Mormont said. “When the time comes.”

“Of course.” He turned to leave. But Mance added, “If you let them through, the women, the children, the old, you’ll gain more than you lose.”

Jeor didn’t look back. “I’ll consider it. When the dead stop walking.”

Later, in the solar, they spoke again, this time of the women. The older one was pregnant, her hair falling in golden tangles over her eyes. The other stood at her side, calm and silent, her fingers never far from a knife hidden in her furs.

“Names?” Mormont asked.

“Val and Dalla,” Sam said. “Sisters. Dalla carries Mance’s child.”

“Figures,” Mormont muttered.

“They haven’t spoken of the walkers. But Val said one thing to me.”

“What?”

Sam looked up. “She said the dead hate fire.”

Mormont poured himself another cup of wine. “I’ll speak to the council soon,” he said. “We can’t face what’s coming with two hundred blades. Maybe the Wall’s been a wall too long.”

Sam didn’t answer. But in his mind, he heard it again, the way Mance had said it. They burned. And still they rose.

Chapter Text

Robb

Harrenhal loomed on the horizon, black and broken against a sky the color of old iron. The towers stood like the bones of giants, jagged and splintered, their tops lost in mist. From a low rise across the river, Robb Stark sat his horse in silence, Grey Wind at his side. The wind stirred his cloak, and the direwolf banners above the keep answered in kind, the direwolf of House Stark, flanked by the leaping trout of Tully. His house. His blood.

For now, they still held the rivers. But how long?

Robb’s eyes lingered on the ruin, the jagged crown of stone that was once a symbol of conquest, now half-devoured by fire and time. Harrenhal looked dead, a haunted shell, but the banners on its towers told another tale. They had taken the castle. They had held it. Yet something about it made his hackles rise. Grey Wind growled low, sensing what he could not name.

He thought of all that had come to pass since the Golden Tooth had fallen to Northern steel. News had flown like crows, and none bore good tidings.

His mother’s had been the first face smeared by sadness, but her words unshaken. Grief for her father. Warnings of shadows that killed kings. And Jaime Lannister's cold confession, given in the darkness of Riverrun’s dungeons, Bran’s fall had not been a fall at all. The Kingslayer had pushed him. Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen bastards born of incest. The throne built on lies and ruin.

Then came the tale of Renly’s death, no blade, no war cry. A shadow with a face. Stannis’s face. And wildfire at Blackwater. Stannis broken. His fleet ash and corpses. The Tyrells, who once wore the scent of stags and whispered pleasantries, now rode beneath lion banners. Eighty thousand swords. Too many.

And still, no raven from Pyke. Theon forces withdrew from the west. And total silence followed. They burned towns in the Westerlands and vanished. No word. No allegiance. No treaty. Only silence.

And Jon’s letter. Robb read it three times by firelight. The men of the Dreadfort kept to themselves. Their patrols were thin, and when they spoke, it was in whispers. Supplies vanished. Fires caught too near the granaries. Roose Bolton had said little, but Jon saw enough in his silence.

Robb trusted Jon’s eyes more than most men’s words. He shifted in the saddle, leather creaking. Grey Wind snarled low. The wind had turned colder. Ahead, Harrenhal’s gates creaked and yawned, wide enough for a giant to pass through.

“Your Grace,” said Ser Wendel Manderly, riding up beside him, “they await you.”

Robb said nothing. He touched Grey Wind’s flank once, then gave his horse the spur. The King in the North rode down the hill. And the ruins waited.

The gates groaned as they swung open, old wood and rusted iron shrieking like a dying beast. Robb Stark passed beneath them, Grey Wind pacing close at his horse’s side. Harrenhal swallowed him whole, stone walls rising high, scorched black, cracked like old bone. Shadows pooled in every corner. The yard within was wide and ruined, its flagstones uneven, littered with broken carts and firewood that looked like splintered spears.

Men moved among the rubble, sentries, scribes, smiths, all weary, all wary. The castle breathed like something wounded.

But Robb saw only one man. Broad-shouldered, bearded, with eyes like storm clouds and an axe slung across his back, Walder Snow. The man who had cracked Ser Gregor Clegane’s skull open at the Green Fork and never boasted of it. He stood by the steps of the keep, arms crossed, watching his king with that same quiet, granite stillness that made him seem more rock than man.

Robb swung down from the saddle and crossed the yard in long strides. Grey Wind trotted beside him, fur bristling, teeth bared to the air.

“Giantsblood,” Robb called. “Or should I name you Mountain-slayer now? You’ve made a habit of killing beasts.”

Walder’s grin was slow, the creaking of an old gate. “I’ll take a warm fire and an unpoisoned supper, if it pleases your Grace.”

Robb laughed, rough-edged but real. It had been too long since he’d laughed and meant it. He would have said more, but then.

“Robb!” The name cracked the air like thunder.

She hit him like a storm wind, arms around his middle, wild hair in his face. Robb stumbled back a half-step, then crushed her to him, clutching her as if she might vanish. Arya.

She smelled of horses and smoke, and her ribs pressed sharp beneath her tunic, but she was real. Gods, she was real.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, really look. Thinner than he remembered, face harder, eyes darker. But the wolf was still in her, fierce and unbowed.

“You’ve grown into a shadow,” he said, half laughing. “Where’s my little sister gone?”

Arya’s grin was all teeth. “She ran off and left me behind. I’m what’s left.”

Grey Wind circled them once, tail sweeping, ears twitching. But it was not him that set the yard to murmuring. Two more shadows emerged from the archway behind the gate.

Nymeria was first, monstrous, silver-gray, moving with the silence of falling snow. Her golden eyes scanned the courtyard like a queen surveying her realm. And beside her “Lady,” Robb whispered.

The pale she-wolf stepped into the light, regal and calm, her coat like moonlight on new snow. Gasps rippled through the men-at-arms. Some made signs against sorcery. Others simply stared.

Grey Wind lowered his head and padded forward. Nymeria bristled but held her ground. Lady stepped closer still. The three circled each other slowly, as if remembering. Then Grey Wind barked, a short, sharp sound. Nymeria answered with a low chuff. Lady pressed her nose to Grey Wind’s side. The wolves were silent after that. Together.

Robb knelt, one hand extended. Nymeria ignored him. But Lady came, slow, cautious, then sure. She pressed her snout into his palm, and Robb felt warmth flood his chest like spring returning after a long, cold night. He buried his fingers in her fur and closed his eyes. It felt, for a moment, like home.

He did not know how long he knelt there, but when he rose, Jon was standing a few paces away. Arms crossed, cloak stirring, half a smirk on his lips. “You’re late, my king.”

Robb straightened, laughing aloud this time, and strode to him in three long steps. They embraced, forearms clasped, then arms tight around each other.

“Lord Commander,” Robb said. “You’ve gone grayer than I remember.”

“You’ve gone crowned,” Jon replied. “I’d rather the gray.”

Arya snorted. Robb turned to look at them both, the three of them together at last. Half a family, perhaps. But whole enough to feel like something sacred. And behind them, three direwolves stood watch. The pack survived.

The great hall of Harrenhal was a ruined thing, high-vaulted and drafty, the windows cracked, the hearth cold, the air tasting of damp stone and charred wood. But it was large enough for all his lords, and so it served.

Maps covered the long table, weighed down with daggers, stones, and cups of half-finished ale. The banners of a dozen houses fluttered from the walls, wolf, trout, bear, merman, horse, and more faded in the dim light.

Robb Stark stood at the head, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other resting flat atop a map of the Riverlands. Jon stood to his right, his face shadowed beneath the flicker of torchlight, cloak damp from a ride through the mist. Ghost lay at his feet, silent, red eyes gleaming. Grey Wind watched from the shadows behind Robb.

Around them, the great and grim of the North and Riverlands had gathered. Brynden Tully, hard-eyed and flinty as ever, arms folded beneath the fish of his surcoat. Edmure beside him, more tired than defiant now. Marq Piper and Jason Mallister stood shoulder to shoulder, the younger man whispering some jest that earned only a glare from Mallister.

Maege Mormont’s bear cloak still dripped from the rain, her daughter Dacey beside her, stern and silent. Jorelle Mormont leaned against the wall near the window, one hand on the hilt of her curved blade.

Lord Rickard Karstark brooded near the hearth, his face carved from grief and shadow. Beside him stood Harrion, his last son, the line of House Karstark worn thin by war. The deaths of Eddard and Torrhen hung between them like smoke, unspoken but heavy. Not far off stood Brandon Dustin, grim and silent. His father, William, leaned over the table with both fists clenched, eyes locked on the markers as if he could will the war to end through sheer will alone.

Wylis Manderly had already sweated through his silks, while Wendel grinned through mouthfuls of dried meat. Lord Blackwood and Lord Bracken, placed deliberately apart, shot each other the occasional poisonous glance. Hosteen Frey scowled at them all. And Olyvar his squire, more tactful, remained quiet, eyes sharp and observant.

And then there was Roose Bolton, pale and poised, hands folded, his expression as bloodless as bone.

"The Tyrell host is on the move," Brynden Tully said, voice grave. He tapped the board. "Near eighty thousand swords. Marching north from Bitterbridge. They'll join with Lannister remnants at Kings Landing by week's end."

"They mean to crush us by sheer number," Lord Jason Mallister said. "We’ve cracked their tooth and broken their siege, but now they come with a new maw."

“We hold forty-five thousand,” Robb said. “And Harrenhal.”

“It won’t matter if they surround us,” grunted Rickard Karstark. “They have numbers and roads. We have ghosts and ruined stone.”

William Dustin grunted. “Then let’s give them ghosts. Make them chase shadows. Bleed them in the dark.”

Lord Blackwood spoke next, quiet but clear. “We strike before they are joined. Raids, traps, ambushes. Burn their grain stores, poison their wells. Make the rivers their enemy.”

“They outnumber us near two to one,” Jon said. “Outlast them and we still die. Better a quick fight than a slow suffocation.”

“We’d be fools to meet them in the field,” countered Maege Mormont. “Fools or Lannisters.”

Dacey nodded. “We need movement. Wolves don’t fight in ranks.”

“Wolves fight in packs,” added Jorelle. “Quick and bloody.”

“We’re not all wolves,” muttered Hosteen Frey.

“No,” said Lord Bracken. “Some are weasels.”

That earned a bark of laughter from Marq Piper. Edmure shot them both a glare.

“Enough,” Robb said. He spoke without raising his voice, but the room fell still.

He looked to Jon. “What would you do?”

Jon stepped forward, placing a gloved hand on the map. “Here,” he said, pointing to the Gold Road. “We draw them toward us with rumors. Let them believe we’re weakened. Then we strike in small bands, Dustin’s riders to their supply trains, the Mormonts to their rear lines, Mallister and Piper harrying the roads.”

“We bleed them thin,” Robb said. “And when they are stretched, we fall on them hard.”

Roose’s voice slipped like silk into the silence. “And if they do not take the bait?”

“Then we hold Harrenhal as long as we must,” Jon answered. “If they come, we burn the stores before they can reach them. Salt the wells. Leave them nothing but ruin.”

“Harrenhal has stood a hundred sieges,” said Edmure. “It can stand another.”

“And if not?” asked Wylis Manderly, wiping sweat from his brow. “We risk losing the Riverlands altogether.”

“We risk losing more if we break ranks,” Brynden Tully said.

Hosteen Frey snorted. “Easy to say when your banners hang above the gates.”

Olyvar cut in swiftly. “My uncle means no offense.”

“I mean exactly what I say,” Hosteen snapped. “You owe the Freys a wedding... My King”

“We owe them nothing but thanks for crossing the bridge,” Jon said coolly.

Laughter rippled. Even Robb allowed a tight smile. He looked around the table then, meeting every eye.

“I won’t ask any of you to follow me into madness,” he said. “But we can’t win by waiting. We strike. We move fast. And we do what wolves have always done, hunt.”

A long silence followed. Then William Dustin nodded. “I’ll ride.”

“So will we,” said Dacey.

“One war is as good as another,” Harrion Karstark muttered.

“I’ve lived through three,” Brynden Tully said. “This one smells like the worst. But I’ll fight it just the same.”

Bit by bit, the lords agreed. Robb gave one final glance to Jon. Jon said nothing. But he nodded. The council broke then, voices low, feet heavy, and the sound of the wolves waiting beyond the hall drifted in through the broken windows, howling their answer to the storm.

The tower room was quiet, save for the wind sighing through broken shutters and the low crackle of embers in the hearth. Jon and Robb stood by the narrow window slit, looking out over the darkened yard of Harrenhal, where torches flickered like dying stars.

Robb rested his hands on the cold stone, his shoulders taut with the weight of command. “You’ve changed, Jon,” he said at last, his voice low.

Jon smiled, faint and tired. “So have you.”

Silence stretched between them, comfortable and unspoken, until Robb broke it again.

“You warned me about Bolton,” he said. “I’ll not forget it.”

“Don’t trust him,” Jon replied. “But keep him close. And watched.”

Robb gave a sharp nod, then let out a long breath. “I keep thinking about Theon.”

Jon turned to him. “You still haven’t heard?”

Robb shook his head. “No raven. No message. The last time we talk was at the Golden Tooth, and since then... nothing. Only that the Ironborn pulled back.”

“Tywin’s power is growing now,” Jon said. “Perhaps they didn’t want to be caught in the storms.”

“Perhaps,” Robb said, but the word hung flat in his mouth. “Or perhaps Balon Greyjoy never meant to hold the west. Perhaps Theon never intended to return.”

Jon watched his brother’s face, the flicker of doubt, the hurt buried deep. “You trusted him.”

“I did,” Robb said quietly. “Still do, he was our brother, or near enough. Laughed with us. Trained with us. Slept beneath our roof.”

“Aye.”

Robb stared out at the dark again, then gave a bitter laugh.

“I should still thank him,” Robb said, voice tight. “If the Ironborn hadn’t come when they did, I’d have had no choice but to split the host to guard the border. We’d have been thinned out, exposed.” Jon said nothing. He only nodded.

He turned and looked Jon full in the face. “I named you Lord Commander of the Northern Host not because of our blood, but because you see the war plain. You don’t flinch from hard truths.”

Jon’s mouth twisted into something like a smile. “That’s just another way of saying I’m miserable company.”

Robb laughed, the sound rough and real. “Aye. But necessary.”

The two of them stood there for a while, the sons of Winterfell, one crowned, one cloaked bound not just by blood, but by the storm that threatened to drown them both. Outside, Grey Wind howled, and somewhere in the yard, Nymeria and Lady answered.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

Once, when he was young and foolish and full of wine-soaked dreams, Tyrion Lannister had imagined what it might be like to rule. To wield power. Lord of Casterly Rock, perhaps. Or Hand of the King, if the gods were feeling particularly mad. But he had never imagined this.

Shackled to a chair in a windowless chamber, surrounded by scrolls and inkpots, buried beneath ledgers that smelled of mildew and desperation. Drowning in debts that weren’t his, listening to silk-robed fools argue over coin that didn’t exist. He slammed the ledger shut, parchment fluttering like startled birds.

“Master of Coin,” he muttered, rising from his seat with the slow, deliberate grace of a man resisting the urge to throw something. “A title as fine as a noose.”

Across the room, Bronn reclined in a high-backed chair meant for nobler posteriors, one boot on the table, the other resting atop a stack of unpaid requisitions. He was picking his teeth with the tip of a dagger.

“You’re doing the realm’s work,” Bronn drawled, not bothering to look up. “Someone’s got to make sure the royal pissers get paid.”

Tyrion glared at him, then poured himself a cup of wine from a half-empty carafe. Sour, thin, and pretending to be Arbor red.

“And the butchers,” he said, lifting the cup. “And the bakers. And the cooper who claims six hundred barrels were lost when a Blackwater rat bit through his hull. And let’s not forget the silk merchant who wants triple the rate to clothe our dear queen-to-be.”

He drained half the cup in a swallow. The wine burned, but not enough. “The city was starving two moons ago. Now Joffrey wants fountains of wine, seventy courses for supper, and a troupe of fire-dancers from Myr.”

Bronn smirked. “What, no lion tamer?”

“Oh, he’s already here,” Tyrion said, rubbing his temples. “Unfortunately, he answers to the name Tywin and has a particular fondness for whipping his cubs.”

Bronn chuckled and flicked a bit of nail across the floor. “Maybe you should juggle for him. Take off your doublet, give the court a show.”

Tyrion tossed a quill at him. It missed, fluttering to the floor with the dignity of a dead leaf. “Wit wasted on a sellsword,” Tyrion sighed. “Still, you’re not wrong. All this pomp is meant to hide a stench even roses can’t smother.”

He sat back down, eyeing the pile of ledgers like a man eyeing an executioner’s block. Eighty thousand Tyrell swords to provision. A royal wedding to fund. A treasury that bled faster than a gutted pig. Half the city still picking cinders out of their teeth, while the other half sharpened theirs for the coming feast. If this was Lord Tywin’s idea of a reward for saving the city, he’d have rather been left to the wildfire.

The Small Council chamber stank of roses and sweat. Roses, because Lady Olenna had insisted on placing a great bowl of them in the center of the table — heavy blooms of pink and red and gold that looked like they belonged in a Maidenvault brothel. And sweat, because King’s Landing never forgot to remind you it was built on filth, even in the Red Keep.

Tyrion arrived last, as had become his custom. Let them whisper. Let them bristle. Let them feel, even for a heartbeat, what it was like to wait on the dwarf.

Cersei sat at the queen’s seat, back straight, eyes sharp as broken glass. Mace Tyrell, resplendent in brocade and pomp, puffed like a pastry at the table’s far end. Pycelle dozed with eyes half-lidded beside him, beard quivering with every shallow breath. Lord Redwyne was present too — in body, if not in spirit — picking at his fingernails with all the urgency of a man forced to attend his own wedding.

And then there was Olenna. Not a member of the Small Council. Not a sworn official of the Crown. And yet, there she was — seated neatly in a high-backed chair, hands folded over her cane, watching the chamber like a hawk waiting for something foolish to flap into view.

Tyrion hated how much he liked her. The Queen of Thorns had no title here, but she had more influence than half the table combined. She didn’t need a seat. She brought eighty thousand swords and the future queen of the realm on her crooked arm. That was enough. And that, Tyrion thought as he took his seat, is the real game. Not who sits where. But who speaks, and who gets heard.

“You’re late,” Cersei said, voice cold enough to freeze Arbor gold.

“And you’re early,” Tyrion replied, pouring himself wine with great ceremony. “A rare event indeed. Mark it in the ledgers.” A twitch of her mouth. Not quite a smile. Not quite.

Pycelle cleared his throat, the sound like dry parchment being torn in half. “Let us begin,” he wheezed, unrolling a scroll with fingers that shook like reeds in wind. “The levies continue to gather along the goldroad. Lord Tywin has driven off several bands of outlaws —”

“If the outlaws wear wolves and fish on their banners, I’d suggest we be more concerned,” Tyrion said, sipping his wine. Olenna let out a sharp little laugh. It sliced the air like a knife.

Mace Tyrell thumped the table with one meaty hand. “The wolves are cornered!” he declared. “My lord father has them pinned between the God’s Eye and Harrenhal. They’ve nowhere left to run.”

“Spoken with the confidence of a man who’s never fought a wolf,” Tyrion said. “Or walked within ten leagues of one.”

“You mock our allies,” Cersei said.

“No,” Tyrion said. “I mock our generals. It’s a very different thing.”

Mace’s face had turned the color of a cooked beet.

Joffrey, lounging beside his mother, stabbed his dagger into a map of the Riverlands. “I’d ride out myself and bring the Young Wolf’s head back to the city,” he said. “If I weren’t needed here to rule.”

Tyrion didn’t rise to the bait. He merely smiled. “A lion shouldn’t chase rats, is that it?” he said mildly.

“Yes,” Joffrey said with great pride. “Exactly.”

Tyrion raised his cup. “To rats, then. May they continue to gnaw at your walls.” That earned a sharp cackle from Lady Olenna and a poorly disguised smirk from Redwyne.

The rest of the session passed in the usual whirl of boasts and half-truths. Reports of Frey and Bolton movements — “Loyal, of course,” Pycelle said, eyes darting. Tales of Blackfish raids near Antlers. Projections on supply lines. Oaths of certain victory before the harvest moon.

Tyrion listened, and drank, and said little. It should have felt like triumph. The wolf was pinned. The Reach had bent the knee. The wedding approached, and with it, the flowering of a new alliance.

But all Tyrion could see was the shape of the Tyrells, spreading like ivy through stone. Loras in the Kingsguard. Margaery in the Queen’s chamber. Mace at this table, prattling. And Olenna — unsworn, unbowed — sitting where no one had invited her, and daring anyone to challenge it.

He swirled his cup. The Tyrells were roses, yes. But roses had thorns, and roots, and a habit of choking everything they touched when left to grow too wild. King’s Landing was beginning to smell like their garden. And no one noticed. But Tyrion did. And he would remember.

Pycelle droned on. “The grain stores in Hayford are nearly depleted. Lord Rosby requests additional wagons. The Queen’s cloakmakers complain of a shortage of Myrish thread—”

“Tell them to use hemp,” Tyrion muttered. “Joffrey won’t know the difference.”

Joffrey ignored him, too busy examining the polished edge of his dagger.

“The cost of the wedding grows steeper by the day,” Pycelle continued. “Feasts in the streets. Tournaments. Silk banners from Tyrosh. Forty barrels of Arbor gold—”

“Forty?” Tyrion interrupted. “Are we bathing in it or marrying it?”

“His Grace must appear magnanimous,” Cersei said primly. “The wedding will prove the realm is united.”

Tyrion sipped. “Or distracted.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “You see treason in everything.”

“I see the bill,” Tyrion replied, tapping the ledger. “And the bottom of the coin chest.”

Mace Tyrell bristled. “The Reach provides more than enough. We do not quibble over coin when glory is near.”

“Of course not,” Tyrion said. “You’re not the one counting it.”

The Tyrells were rich. The Tyrells were winning. And the Tyrells were everywhere. If the city were a table, they had seated themselves at every chair. Tyrion could feel the noose drawing tighter, not around his neck, but the realm’s. A golden one, soft as petals and twice as strangling. But no one else seemed to care.

They passed through the remainder of the meeting with false confidence and silk-lined delusion. When Pycelle finally wheezed the closing prayer, Tyrion stood first.

“I’ll be in the treasury,” he said. “Trying to invent gold.”

Lady Olenna’s cane clicked as she rose. “Do let us know when you succeed. Mace could use a new doublet.”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion said with a bow that mocked itself.

He left them there, mother and son, lion and rose, sword and dagger. The Queen of Thorns watched him go with eyes that missed nothing.

Later, Tyrion sat alone in his solar, the fire burned low, and the wine burned warm. He stared at the map again, at the wolves penned in the Riverlands, the lions closing from the south, the flowers blooming in every field.

It should have been over. They said Robb Stark was finished. Surrounded. Bleeding. Alone.

But Tyrion had heard that before. He had read the raven reports. Listened between the lines. A hundred skirmishes, and somehow, the Young Wolf still howled. Harrenhal held. The Blackfish raided supply lines like a ghost in the reeds. The Northmen did not shatter. They endured.

And worse still — Jon Snow. Not just a bastard now. Lord Commander of the Northern Host. A title whispered in smoky halls. A name beginning to stir fear in the South. They had thought Jon Snow just a bastard with no name and reserved to silence. But he stood in Harrenhal now, beside his brother, red sword in hand.

Tyrion remembered the boy with the sharp tongue and wary eyes. The bastard who had sat beside him on the Wall and spoken of honor with clenched fists. That boy was gone. In his place stood something colder. Something sharper. A wolf, perhaps. Or worse, a Stark who had learned to play the game.

Tyrion poured another cup of wine and held it to the light. “Two kings in the North,” he murmured. “And neither of them crowned in gold.”

He drank. And the taste was bitter. The game was not done. Not yet. And Tyrion Lannister, for all his titles, for all his wit, for all his ledgers and masks, had the distinct, gnawing feeling that he was no longer playing it. He was being played.

Chapter Text

William

The war tent reeked of sweat, oiled leather, and damp wool. Outside, the wind stirred the banners like restless ghosts, but within the canvas walls the air was heavy and close — thick with heat and tension and the weight of men who had seen too much death.

The lords of the North and Riverlands stood shoulder to shoulder, cloaked in steel and expectation. Some spoke in low voices, murmuring names of dead kin or wagers on glory, others merely watched, silent and grim, their eyes never far from the war table.

William Dustin stood just behind the ring of nobles, arms crossed, the hilt of his sword rising over his shoulder like a silent companion. He did not speak. He listened. Listened the way a man listens to the beat of distant drums before a storm.

At the center stood Robb Stark, no longer just a boy, no longer only Eddard Stark’s son. King Robb, crowned in war and blood, flanked by a battered map and a direwolf with eyes like smoke. Jon Snow stood half a step behind him, a shadow in black leather, silent, steady. The boy wore his sword easy now, as though it had grown into his side. Not a boy. Not anymore. A wolf cut lean on hardship and sharpened by winter.

Robb’s voice rose over the crackling of the brazier, calm and sure. “The battle will be fought along the eastern shore of the God's Eye.” His finger swept across the stained parchment, the rivers and roads traced like old scars. “They’ll come through the Kingsroad and march hard from Antlers. If we break them before they reach Harrenhal, the war tilts back to us.”

The plan, as he spoke it, was simple. Too simple. Roose Bolton and the Dreadfort men would hold the center. Galbart Glover and Maege Mormont the right. Greatjon Umber and Jason Mallister on the left. Robb Stark himself would lead the cavalry. Jon Snow would hold the rear.

A hammer and anvil, clean as a sword stroke. Advance. Engage. Break them. And pray the gods were listening. William’s eyes didn’t follow the plan. They followed Roose’s.

The pale lord nodded along, as he always did, attentive, agreeable, unreadable. His face never moved, but something in his stillness set William’s teeth on edge. The same with the Freys clustered at the rear, muttering among themselves with their wormy smiles and whispered promises. A nest of weasels wrapped in wolf cloaks.

Robb’s words ended. The map was marked. The plan, spoken aloud, became a living thing in the tent’s stale air. One by one, the lords offered stiff nods, hollow affirmations, brief salutes. The Freys slipped away first, quiet as carrion crows. Bolton not long after, his boots leaving no sound in the damp earth.

It was all going exactly as they wanted. And that was the problem. William Dustin said nothing as the war council broke. He only watched, and remembered how wolves do not show their teeth until it is far too late.

They came for him after moonrise. A Stark page, no older than twelve, pale-faced and silent, slipped into his tent with a single word. “My lord. The king requests you.”  Not the war council. Something else. Something real.

William strapped his sword across his back, not in ceremony, but out of old habit — the kind men learn when they’ve seen enough treachery to stop believing in peace. He followed the boy through the mist-wrapped camp. Fires flickered low. Voices murmured in sleep or prayer. Horses shifted in their lines, restless. The air smelled of wet leaves and cold steel.

Other figures emerged from the dark as they walked — summoned by other pages, other whispers. Galbart Glover, face tight with suspicion. Dacey Mormont and her mother, Maege, silent and watchful. Greatjon Umber, muttering curses under his breath like a prayer. Jason Mallister, frowning deeply, eyes bloodshot. Blackwood. Brynden Tully. Only the old hawk met William’s eyes and gave a small, grim nod.

They gathered in the solar of Harrenhal — not the great hall, but the high room at the tower’s heart. Here, the air smelled of old smoke, cracked stone, and wet ash. No feast. No wine. No pageantry. Only war.

The chamber was dimly lit. Lanterns flickered from iron hooks, casting long shadows. Grey Wind lay near Robb’s feet — still, watchful, his eyes gleaming like embers. At the far end, Nymeria, Lady, and Ghost flanked Jon Snow, silent and poised, as if they too were listening.

The men said nothing. It was not silence born of uncertainty. It was the silence before something broke.

Robb Stark stood near the broken window, crowned and shadowed, the wind stirring his cloak. He turned slowly, his eyes passing over each of them — one by one — weighing them. Measuring.

“You are here,” Robb said, his voice low and sure, “because I trust you.”

William felt those words strike something deep in him, something quiet and old. He hadn’t been called to trust in a long time.

“You are here because I would trust you with my life.”

There were no grand speeches. No appeals to honor or glory. Only the truth. William looked around. None of the men met the king’s gaze with doubt. Not one. He had seen this once before. Not in Robb’s eyes — but in his father’s. Eddard Stark, on the eve of rebellion. The quiet fury. The cold resolve.

And Jon Snow... there was something of the dead in him. Not the lifeless kind — the kind that refuses to die. Lyanna’s fire, cold and clear. William bowed his head, just slightly. They had his sword. And they had his death, if they asked it.

Jon stepped forward. His voice was even, measured, yet every word cut clean. “The plan you heard tonight was false.” Chairs scraped faintly as the lords shifted.

“The Boltons are no longer ours. If we march into battle as they expect, we march into a slaughter.”

William said nothing. But he saw the fire rise behind Dacey’s eyes. He heard Glover curse softly under his breath.

“The true plan,” Jon continued, “is one they will never see coming.”

He leaned over the war table, and with slow hands, began moving the markers again. Not the hammer. Not the anvil. Something sharper, dangerous, bold. Wolves do not charge into spears.  They circle. They bleed. They rip.

Robb placed a hand on Grey Wind’s head. William Dustin let out a long breath. This was war

By the end the room had grown still. The fire snapped low in the hearth. Shadows crawled across the walls, dancing over the scarred faces of men who had seen too many battles and buried too many brothers.

Robb Stark stood at the head of the table, his hand resting lightly on Grey Wind’s scruff. His crown glinted dully in the lanternlight, but it was his voice that held power now—quiet, firm, and cold as the snow-melt rivers of the North.

“We strike not for glory,” Robb said, “but because there is no other way. We are outnumbered. Out armed. And yet still we stand.” He looked to the map, then to each of them. “They believe us broken. They believe us predictable. Let them.”

A low murmur passed through the lords. Not questions—never that. Only resolve. The kind you find before winter storms.

“Ride light. Move fast. Hold your tongues, even with your men. What comes must come as thunder. Not rumor.”

Jon Snow stepped forward then, laying a single stone onto the map. He did not name the place. He did not need to. William Dustin felt something twist in his chest. It had the shape of hope, but the color of blood.

One by one, the lords nodded. Greatjon first, with a wolf’s grin and a growl of “Let them choke on the dark.” Maege Mormont followed, her nod curt, iron bound. Brynden Tully said nothing, only touched his fingers briefly to the hilt of his sword.

No oaths were sworn. No banners raised. But every man there knew, this was a pact. The kind that would be remembered in blood and fire. They drifted out in silence, cloaks brushing stone, steel jingling low like a dirge. The fire snapped behind them, the only sound left as the solar emptied.

William remained. He looked at Jon Snow across the room, Lyanna’s eyes in a man grown colder than any boy should be.

Jon met his gaze and said, “It will be quick.”

“No,” William said. “It will be clean. That’s different.” Jon didn’t argue.

Outside, Grey Wind paced the length of the yard. Somewhere in the night, Nymeria howled, and another wolf answered, long and low and lonely. William Dustin left the room with his sword on his shoulder and the weight of two wars on his back. The gods were watching. And soon, the lions would bleed.

Chapter Text

Walder

They would march at dawn. And this night was colder than most.

Walder Snow stood atop the blackened battlements of Harrenhal, arms folded tight against the wind. It bit through his cloak like teeth, tugging at the fabric with restless fingers. Below, the camp stirred with life — hammer clangs, snorting horses, the hiss of whetstones on steel. All of it dulled by fog, like sound remembered from a dream.

They were readying for war. Quietly. Like men preparing to die.

Two days past, the Freys had vanished. Four thousand men — gone into the night. No trumpets. No banners. No parting words. Just silence, oily and slick as blood on stone.

It had hit the camp like a punch in the chest. “Traitors,” some spat. “Cowards,” others muttered. Some wept. Most said nothing at all. They just tightened straps, checked saddles, sharpened blades. There was no time for fury — only resolve.

Walder had seen Robb’s face when the word came. No rage. No curses. Just a nod. One short breath. And a jaw clenched so tight it could’ve cracked stone.

Jon had stood beside him — pale, silent. The boy looked made of frost and stone that night. But it wasn’t fear in his eyes. It was something colder. And maybe lighter.

Because for all the sting of betrayal, for all the weight of it — there was a strange, quiet relief. At least now they knew. At least now the knife would not come in the dark. Now it would be war. Open and honest.

Forty-one thousand remained. Against eighty thousand. Walder thought of the numbers as he looked down at the campfires below. Tiny orange dots blinking in the dark. Little hearths of courage, or defiance, or simple stubbornness.

“A fair fight,” he muttered to himself.

Then spat over the wall. The Gods could judge fairness.

He stayed there a while, watching shadows stretch and flicker. Harrenhal loomed behind him like a burned god, its towers cracked and cursed. Some said the place was haunted. He believed it. Every step felt like walking on bones.

But ghosts didn’t frighten him. The living did. A sudden gust scattered ash from the brazier nearby. Somewhere below, a horse screamed. Then the hush returned.

No new banners had come. No last-minute saviors from the North. It would be the men already here. Starks. Mormonts. Karstarks. Glovers. Hornwoods. Hill clans. Riverlords. The wolves. No one was coming to save them. And yet — they sharpened swords anyway. That was something.

Later, by the fires, Walder passed rows of men huddled beneath patchwork tents. Some sang softly. Others carved charms, braided leather, kissed the pommels of old swords. Superstition and steel.

A few younger lads tried to joke, to laugh. They stopped when they saw the look in the older men’s eyes. You didn’t laugh the night before the world ended.

Walder sat by his tent long past moonrise, axe on his lap. He ran the stone along its edge, slow and steady, until the rhythm was all he could hear.

Scree. Scree. Scree.

There was comfort in the sound. In the weight of the blade. In the promise of it. Tomorrow, they would ride. Tomorrow, they would face the golden tide. And if the gods were watching, let them watch. Walder Snow would be there — axe in hand, voice ready, no songs in his throat, only steel. He would carve his mark into the day. And if he died, his Gods would find him standing.

The scrape of steel on stone stilled as a shadow fell across the firelight. Walder looked up to see William Dustin standing there, his helm tucked under his arm, his eyes dark beneath a heavy brow.

“You’re not sleeping,” Dustin said, his voice a low rumble.

Walder shook his head. “Never have the night before a battle. Bad luck to sleep when the gods might be listening.”

Dustin gave a short laugh — not bitter, just old. “You always were superstitious,” he said. He settled down beside Walder, the weight of his armor creaking. “Like old times.”

Walder let the memory wash over him. “Like the Trident,” he murmured.

Dustin nodded. “We were boys then. Boys in a man’s war. Thought we’d live forever.”

“We did,” Walder said. “Until we didn’t.”

They sat in silence a while, the fire crackling between them. The night wind carried the smell of horse sweat, steel, and distant rivers.

“Roose,” Dustin said at last. Just the name. Heavy as iron.

Walder’s jaw clenched. “Quiet as a corpse, that one. Smiles like he’s sharpening a knife.” He looked at Dustin. “He’ll be where the wind blows. Always has.”

Dustin didn’t argue. Didn’t need to. “He’s here,” he said finally. “And so are we.”

Walder ran the stone down the axe one last time. Scree. Scree. “We stand with Robb. With Jon. That’s the line.”

Dustin nodded, his hand tightening on the pommel of his sword. “Aye. And tomorrow, we find out who stands at the end of it.”

They clasped hands, strong and silent.

“Die with your boots on,” Walder said.

“Or stand and see the sun,” Dustin replied.

And with that, they parted — not with songs, but with steel.

Chapter Text

Bran

The weirwood watched him. Its red leaves whispered in the wind, and its carved face wept slow tears of sap, glistening like blood beneath the pale sun. Bran sat in the cart Maester Luwin had built for him, the wheels creaking softly as he shifted. The iron-rimmed chair was sturdy, practical — but it could not keep the cold from his legs. Nothing could, not anymore.

Behind him, Winterfell stood silent. Strong. Grey stone wrapped in ivy and snowmelt. The castle had known war, and fire, and ghosts. It knew stillness too.

Before him, the godswood rustled — deep and old. A sacred hush hung beneath the red canopy. The air tasted like iron and moss.

Bran folded his hands in his lap and listened. He could hear the faint ring of hammers in the yard. A raven’s distant call. Laughter from the kitchens, sharp and bright like bells. But under it all was silence. The kind that settles before snow. Or after death.

He thought of Robb. Of Jon. Of the war they fought so far from here. They kept winning. The Green Fork. Riverrun. Oxcross. The Golden Tooth. Harrenhal. Victories strung like beads on a sword. Even the Freys had bent the knee, though Bran didn’t trust them. He remembered how stiff their smiles were, how their words felt like cold water down his spine.

But the next battle was different. Eighty thousand men, Maester Luwin had said. A tide of lions and roses sweeping down from the south — armor shining, banners blazing. All marching toward Harrenhal. Toward Robb and Jon.

And only half that number to meet them. Bran tried to picture it — thousands of horses, the clash of steel, the roar of war horns. He tried to see Robb on the field, sword lifted high, Grey Wind at his side. He imagined Jon leading the charge, Ghost tearing out a man’s throat. He shivered. He was eight. He had never held a sword. Not since the fall. And now he never would.

The wind stirred the red leaves. And then came the dreams again — not in sleep, but memory. He saw wings. Black. Wide. Endless. He felt the sky in his bones. Cold and sharp. He heard the voice that whispered, Fly. Fly or fall. It was always the same. And always the same boy — green-cloaked, grey-eyed, moss in his hair and sadness in his mouth.

“You must go north,” Jojen had told him. “Before the snow swallows the world.”

Bran hadn’t understood. He still didn’t. Was he meant to go north? Or was the north coming to him? A rustle broke his thoughts. Osha stood a few feet away, watching him with her pale, wary eyes. A bundle of firewood lay across her back. Her axe hung at her hip like a promise.

“You’re brooding again, little lord,” she said.

Bran blinked. “I was thinking.”

“Dangerous pastime,” she said, kneeling to set the bundle down.

He looked at her, then at the tree. “What’s beyond the Wall?” he asked.

Osha tilted her head. “Ice. Mountains. Shadows.”

“People?”

“Not the kind you’d want to meet.”

“Do they have kings?”

“No. They have monsters.”

Bran turned back to the weirwood. “And what do they want?”

Osha was quiet for a long moment. The wind carried a raven’s cry overhead. “To come south,” she said. “Like they always do. When the dead forget how to lie still.”

Bran felt it then — not the cold of the air, but the cold beneath it. Older. Deeper. And it did not pass.

The stone chair was too big for him. It always had been. Even with cushions stacked beneath him, Bran’s legs dangled uselessly above the floor, and the carved direwolves on either side loomed like guardians in a forgotten tale. The fire burned low in the hearth, casting shadows across the hall. But Bran sat tall. Back straight. Eyes forward. Just as Robb had taught him. He was the Stark of Winterfell now, a prince of the north. And Winterfell must speak with a Stark voice.

The Great Hall echoed with the murmur of voices, the shuffle of boots, the crackle of torches in their iron sconces. The banners of House Stark hung above — grey on white — old and proud. Dust caught in the sunlight that streamed through the narrow windows. Maester Luwin stood by his side, parchment in hand. Ser Rodrik Cassel loomed at Bran’s right, white-whiskered and grim, hand on his sword hilt.

A man from Barrowton knelt before them. Mud on his boots. Worry in his eyes. He spoke of stolen sheep, of broken fences, of neighbors quarreling in the night. Bran listened. Asked questions. Tried to sound older than he was.

“Ser Rodrik will send men to look into it,” Bran said at last. “We’ll see it made right.” The man bowed low and shuffled out.

Another came. A merchant with a crooked back and a ledger full of complaints. A woman whose roof had fallen under a windstorm. A young boy who claimed his sister had been taken by a crow — Bran wasn’t sure if he meant the bird or the black brothers.

He answered as best he could. He had to. That’s what Robb would do. But his thoughts wandered. To the south. To Harrenhal. To eighty thousand men in shining armor, and half as many wolves to stop them.

He thought of the banners raised high in the sky —wolves of grey and white, mermen of green and silver, axes crowned in yellow, Bears and Giants. And at the last, the flayed man of Bolton, crimson on pink, a banner as cruel as any the south could raise.

They said the Bastard of Bolton had been slain — Ser Rodrik’s doing. Caught near the Weeping Water, along with the men who rode with him: killers, looters… one of them a reeking creature who spoke in whispers and stank of fear, now rotting in Winterfell’s dungeon.

They had wanted the Hornwood lands. Instead, they got steel and chains. Lady Hornwood had died alone — starved in her tower, her nails cracked from clawing at the door. Justice had come too late. Bran hoped it had come all the same.

He glanced across the hall. Big Walder and Little Walder sat whispering to each other on the benches. They were always whispering. Bran didn’t like them. They never smiled at the same time. And sometimes, when no one was looking, neither of them smiled at all.

The doors opened. A scout entered, armor dusty from the road, eyes drawn with haste.

He knelt. “My prince,” he said. “Raiders on the western shore. From the sea. Black sails.”

Bran felt his chest tighten. “How many?”

“A dozen longships. Maybe more. They burned two fishing villages. Took captives. No banners.”

“I thought the Ironborn were our allies,” Bran said suddenly, voice quiet.

Maester Luwin glanced at him. “They were... opportunists, my prince. No vows were sworn. No pacts signed. Now that the tide of war changes, so too do loyalties.”

Bran nodded slowly. Ser Rodrik stepped forward, face set like stone. “I’ll ride myself,” he said. “With twenty good men. Maybe thirty.”

Bran hesitated. His mouth was dry. “Take who you need,” he said. “But leave enough to hold the castle.”

Ser Rodrik nodded. “Aye, my prince.”

The scout rose and left. Maester Luwin made a mark in his ledger. Bran sat still. Outside, snow had begun to fall. Fat flakes drifting against the stained-glass windows. Winterfell was quiet. Too quiet. And the north — the true north — was quieter still.

Bran looked to the high window. To the pale sky beyond it. The weirwood whispered behind his thoughts. The wind spoke not in words, but in warnings. North. Always north.

Chapter Text

Tywin

The banners of House Lannister and House Tyrell unfurled in the morning wind — gold and green rippling like serpents over a sea of steel. Eighty thousand strong, the host stretched across the eastern fields of the God's Eye, the greatest force seen in a generation. Greater even than the Blackfyre Rebellions, some whispered.

To Tywin Lannister, they were numbers. Order. Instruments. Nothing more.

He sat atop his white courser like a statue wrought from ice and iron, crimson cloak unmoving even as the breeze shifted. His armor gleamed with obsessive polish, unmarred by battle. He had not come to fight. He had come to end.

His pale eyes swept the far horizon. There, across the shallow river, the Northmen waited. Black and grey banners lifting sluggishly. No showy array. No flourish. Just lines of steel and mud and weathered men.

Forty thousand, at most. Starved. Rags on their backs. Bone in their cheeks. And still they dared to meet him here. Still they dared to hold ground. Tywin’s lips did not move, but behind his eyes, something sharp stirred. Not pride. Not anger. The shape of vengeance coiled cold and patient.

Kevan drew his horse up beside him, helm beneath one arm. “They’re arrayed in full,” he said. “No sign of retreat.”

“Good,” Tywin said. “Let them stand. It will save us the trouble of chasing.”

He watched their line again — the direwolf, the trout, the flayed man, the crossed black battle-axes of House Dustin. He remembered how many banners flew at the Green Fork. And how many burned after.

A bastard had done that. A snow-born whelp from the North. Illegitimate. Unworthy. Unseated a lion with nothing but blood, dirt, and audacity.

Jon Snow.

The name tasted like ash in his mouth. That boy had shattered his vanguard. Led a false retreat. Crushed his center in a vice of ice and steel. Thousands lost. The prestige of House Lannister bloodied in the mud like some tavern brawler’s pride. No. Not bloodied.

Humiliated.

Today, Tywin would answer that insult in full. A column of horse moved down the hill to his left — bright helms, white cloaks, long lances. Tyrell knights in neat, clean rows. Further south, he could see Randyll Tarly barking orders, his soldiers shuffling into a tighter formation under the bark of that iron tongue.

Lord Hightower’s men, spears up like a field of silver thorns. Garlan and Loras riding the flanks, bright as songbook heroes. All of it falling into place. A hammer. Nothing clever. Nothing subtle. Just overwhelming force. It had taken time to build this. The wolves had cost him that — cost him dearly. And so had the Greyjoys.

Tywin’s eyes flicked westward, as if he might see the Iron Isles from here. He had offered Balon terms. Appeased him with silence. Let the squids have their scraps of rock and blood. Because war on two fronts would have broken his hold. But peace was not pardon. He would remember Balon Greyjoy. He remembered all debts.

Kevan shifted in the saddle. “A raven came from the Twins,” he said. “The Freys march home.”

“Let them,” Tywin said. He didn’t look. “Their part is played. Let them vanish before the blades start swinging.”

“Do you trust them not to warn Stark?”

Tywin’s mouth twitched. “They trust no one enough to warn anyone. Treachery is safest when no one knows it’s happened.”

The man who waits beside the lion does not sleep well, Tywin thought. Let them learn.

A rider approached — the Westerling captain. “The cavalry is prepared, my lord. The baggage train secure.”

Tywin gave him a brief nod. Everything in its place. He looked across the river one last time. There they were. Jon Snow, that cold-eyed mongrel of the North. The bastard who had bloodied his army and his pride. And beside him — the wolf pup. Robb Stark. Young. Unbroken. Wearing a crown too large for his head and wielding it like a sword.

Tywin would see them both fall. Not just beaten. Broken. Burned. Buried. He would raze Winterfell stone by stone. Plow salt into its fields. Mount direwolf heads on every gate from Moat Cailin to Dorne.

The North would not rise again. Not in his lifetime. Not in his son’s. He had ended House Reyne. He had ended House Tarbeck. He would end House Stark. He would remind the realm what it meant to challenge lions.

“A Lannister always pays his debts,” Tywin murmured. And today, the bill would come due. He raised a hand. “Sound the advance.”

Trumpets cried down the line. Hooves thundered. Blades rang like the bells of doom. The line moved. The lion had risen. And the wolves would drown in fire and steel.

Chapter Text

Robb

The air tasted of ash and iron.

From the saddle, Robb Stark watched the mists roll off the lake like unburied ghosts. The field stretched before them. The wind carried the scent of churned earth and cold steel. His horse shifted beneath him, sensing what was to come. Beside him, Grey Wind paced low, breath steaming, fur bristling with anticipation.

Forty thousand left.
All because the Freys had slunk away in the dark. Cowards. Worms.
But perhaps better now than mid-battle.

Still, he had counted them. Twice.

The banners flapped in the morning wind — the direwolf of Stark, the leaping trout of Tully, Mormont’s bear, Manderly’s merman. They stood against eighty thousand — Lannister gold and Tyrell green — the greatest host assembled since Maelys the Monstrous. But monsters bled. And so would lions.

To his left rode Dacey Mormont and the Smalljon, already sharpening their grins. Beyond them, Wendel Manderly’s riders sat stone-still.
Jon remained behind, out of sight, hidden in the mist and silence. He was the hinge on which the whole trap would swing.

And at the center, Roose Bolton waited — pale and perfect in black steel, as cold and still as winter's breath.

Robb turned his gaze east, to the sea of red and green. A golden tide, marching in perfect rhythm, helms shining like fire, pikes like a forest. He spotted them

Mace Tyrell, wheezing atop a horse too small for his weight.
Randyll Tarly barking, brutal and joyless.
Garlan Tyrell, composed and deadly, leading the right.
And Loras — arrogant and beautiful — pacing the left like a prize stag before the hunt.

But it was Tywin he searched for. And found.
Red cloak flowing from his shoulders like a butcher’s banner.
Still and still watching. Waiting. A lion on the edge of the kill.

Robb's hand settled on the pommel of his sword. Callused fingers traced the leather grip worn smooth by oaths and fury.
He said none aloud. Not today.

Dacey Mormont rode up beside him, grinning like a wolf.
“If we die today,” she said, “I want the song to get my nose right.”

He smirked. “I’ll have Jon write it himself.”

“Then I’ll die ugly and loud.”

Grey Wind gave a low growl, as if in agreement.

Robb’s eyes narrowed. “Loras rides for our left,” he said. “He’ll come fast, and he’ll come pretty.”
He raised his voice. “Kill the pretty ones first.”

Laughter rippled along the line — brief, bitter, welcome.

He raised his sword high.
“To the flank. Ride with the storm.”

And they moved.

Drums beat. Horses screamed. The earth trembled with the charge. Robb led them down the slope, his cloak snapping behind him, Grey Wind a streak of grey at his side. Iron rang against iron. Banners streamed like fire.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the center begin to move.
Bolton’s men marched with chilling discipline — shields locked, spears angled like a wall of bone. North met South in a great grinding scream of steel and thunder.

It had begun.

Loras came with sunlight flashing from silvered armor. Roses on his breastplate, petals painted in red and gold. His knights close as thorns. They smashed into Robb’s line with force enough to shatter trees. Robb met them head-on. His sword turned a lance, then found a neck. Grey Wind leapt, jaws clamping down on a screaming rider, tossing him like meat.

For a time, there was only blood. And hooves. And pain.

But Robb was watching.

Through the chaos, he watched the center thin.

Watched the Dreadfort banners sway. Watched them shift. Watched the traitors raise Lannister red.

And then Roose Bolton himself — the leech in man’s skin — turned and drove his blade through a Stark bannerman’s back.

A ripple. A crack.
Then came the roar — not of victory, but of treachery. Of horror.

Robb reeled in the saddle, heart pounding in his throat.
“Hold the flank!” he shouted. “Hold! With me!”

He caught sight of Loras again — charging forward like the battle was already won. Fool. Let him come.

Let them all come.

Robb sucked in a breath that seared like fire and wheeled his mount toward the tide.

“The wolves don’t run!” he bellowed. “RIDE!”

And they did.

Into the blood.
Into the fire.
Into the lie they had built — a lie of weakness, of collapse.

Let Roose betray.
Let the lions feast.

The jaws of the trap were waiting.

Jon

The horns had sounded.

From the ridge above the field, Jon waited like a statue carved of smoke and silence. The morning haze still clung low to the grass, but the sky had begun to pale — a thin line of gold peeling back the dark. Below, the storm had broken.

Lines of men crashed together in tides of steel. At the center, Bolton banners rose and fell, flanked by Mormont’s bear and Glover’s mailed fists. On the right, Dustin and Mallister pushed into the Tyrell line with methodical fury. On the left, Robb’s cavalry clashed with Loras Tyrell’s charge — a blur of hooves, lances, and shattered sigils.

It looked, from afar, like any other battle.

But Jon knew better.

He felt it — that tension coiled beneath the noise, tight as a drawn bowstring, stretched thin as the surface of a frozen lake. A single crack, and the whole would shatter.

He watched Roose Bolton.
Watched as the man turned not toward the enemy, but to them.
Watched his men peel back like a rotten scab, slow and serpentine.

The moment came like a whisper.
Then the scream.

Steel met flesh — Stark men cut from behind, their backs run through, their shields useless. The betrayal spread like fire on dry grass. A dozen men down in a heartbeat. Then two dozen. Then more.

Jon’s breath caught.

Below him, the line bent — not broken, but curving. Drifting inward. The center of the Northern host had not shattered; it was folding.

Shaping.
A crescent.
A jaw.

“Gods,” someone muttered beside him.

Jon turned.

“Signal Lord Dustin. Hold the right.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“And the left?”

“They’ll hold,” Jon said. “Or they’ll die.”

He paused, eyes flicking to the distant banners of the Dreadfort.

“And tell Walder to hold as long as he can.”

Walder stood at the hinge of it all now. If he broke too soon, the shape would collapse. If he held too long, the trap would snap too wide. It was butcher’s work he’d been given — not to win, not to lead, but to bleed. Jon had no better man for it. Steel in hand. Ice in his veins. Wolves didn’t flinch.

His voice sounded too calm in his own ears. He addressed his men gathered at his back, his voice rising like a cold wind.

“Do not break ranks. This was always coming.”

He said no more.

Let them think him heartless. Let them think him mad. It didn’t matter. Not now.

Across the field, golden lions and green roses surged forward, believing the moment theirs. The Lannister reserve galloped from the rear, red cloaks flying, armor bright as sunrise. Their banners gleamed as they crested the hill.

They were coming to crush the center.

Jon watched them rise.

He felt no fear. Not now.

A shadow stirred in the trees.

Movement. Shapes without banners. Low and fast.

A single howl broke the air.

Long and deep. Not a war horn. Not a call.

A warning.

Then the wolves came.

Lean shapes darting from the mist — a dozen at first, then dozens more. Half-starved and wild, they tore into rear lines and baggage trains like teeth through cloth. Horses shrieked. Men fell. Arrows flew blind into the woods, but the wolves didn’t stop.

And at the heart of them, two silver phantoms.

Nymeria and Lady.

They moved like shadows, like vengeance, like winter unchained.

The Lannister rear broke before the Northerners even reached them.

Jon’s breath came shallow, sharp.

Then another shape — larger, darker — streaked through the chaos.

Grey Wind.

And behind him — Robb.

The left had held.

And now the left rode again.

Steel crashed into disarray. Robb’s cavalry — outnumbered, bloodied, but not broken — slammed into the Lannister reserve with fury born of wolves. Tywin’s lines bent and groaned.

From the crest of the ridge, Jon saw it clearly now.

The field below, once straight and strong, now curved inward.

Like a mouth.

Like jaws.

Robb

The wind tore through his cloak as if trying to drag him from the saddle.

Five thousand riders, if that — what remained of the North’s mounted strength — thundered down the slope with him. Steel clashed. Hooves screamed. Robb Stark leaned into the charge, Grey Wind a blur at his side, the cries of men and horses rising like a storm around him.

And Loras Tyrell came to meet them.

Fifteen thousand knights in rose-gilt plate, banners snapping, armor polished to the color of morning flame. They swept forward like a tidal wave of gold and red — overwhelming, perfect, deadly.

Robb met it head-on.

The first impact felt like hitting a wall of stone. His sword caught a lance and shattered it. Grey Wind tore a knight from his horse. All around him, men died.

The lines clashed and ground together. One northern flank wavered, then rallied. The enemy pressed with weight and pride. Robb saw Smalljon pulled from the saddle, heard Manderly men shouting in the thick air. The Tyrells came hard, with numbers and songs on their lips.

But songs meant nothing in the snow.

Steel flashed. Robb’s horse took a spear to the flank but kept moving. He drove his blade into the throat of a knight bearing a crimson rose.

There were too many. Too fast. Too beautiful. They had the ground. They had the numbers. They had the sun behind them.

Then the screaming changed.

It came from the rear of the Tyrell column — high, panicked, full of confusion. Horses shrieked. Men turned in the saddle. Robb looked back and saw shapes — lean, fast, darting through the ranks like smoke.

Wolves.

Dozens.

No — hundreds.

Nymeria and Lady’s pack, come out of the mist like nightmares. They tore into the Tyrell rear with no banners, no warning, no mercy. Horses bolted. Men fell without ever drawing blades.

Robb saw a knight in gold-and-cream mail scream as a grey shadow leapt on him from behind.

The line broke.

Not completely, but the chaos was blooming. Wolves in the middle of cavalry. Panic rippling like a thrown stone.

Robb didn’t wait.

He raised his sword and bellowed, “RALLY TO ME!”

His riders followed — bloodied, tired, but still mounted. Still Northmen. They crashed into the Tyrells again, this time with fury behind their blades.

He saw Loras — helm off, face pale, sword raised — rallying knights, cutting down a Manderly with a single perfect stroke. He was calling for order, calling for the line to hold.

Robb didn’t give him the chance.

He turned his mount south — not to retreat, but to strike.

From his saddle, Robb saw the chaos blooming beyond the ridge.

Nymeria’s pack had split — half of it tearing through the Tyrell rear, the other surging like smoke and fang into the Lannister reserve. Red banners, once rigid with order, now wavered like flame in the wind. Knights turned in confusion. Formations buckled.

They hadn’t even been struck yet — but they had seen the wolves.

Robb’s heart surged. The moment was now.

He raised his sword toward the crimson line.

“Tywin!” he roared. “Ride!”

His riders turned with him — bloodied, battered, but still breathing. They rode hard, the wolves streaming beside them, cutting a path through broken lines and trailing screams.

Behind, Loras regrouped.

Robb heard his voice behind them — clear, commanding, still untouched by doubt. The Knight of Flowers was rallying what men he could, maybe fifty, maybe a hundred, urging them into pursuit.

Let him come, Robb thought, spurring his horse forward. Let him see how lions die.

We’ll break him on the lion’s bones.

Tywin

The line was breaking — but not the one he had expected.

At first, it had all gone according to plan.

Roose Bolton had done his duty, treachery executed with cold precision. Tywin had watched from the rise, stone-faced and certain, as the Northern center splintered like rotten ice. Stark men fell in droves, stabbed from behind by their own supposed allies. Horns blared. Banners fell. The wolves were in retreat — or so it seemed.

He had allowed himself a breath of satisfaction.

A well-laid trap. Sprung clean. Brutal. Final.

“Advance,” he commanded. “Send in the reserve. End it.”

Three thousand knights surged forth like a second tide — cloaks of crimson, armor bright as beaten gold. They moved as one, the flower of the Westerlands riding behind banners that shimmered in the wind. The war would end here, in fire and glory. The rebellion stamped out beneath Lannister steel.

Tywin Lannister did not doubt.

He had won.

Then came the howling.

At first it was faint — an echo from the trees. Distant. Animal. Then closer. Sharper. Rising. Dozens of throats, one voice.

And then they emerged.

Not men.

Wolves.

They poured from the woods like smoke — gray and brown and black, tongues lolling, eyes like fire in the morning light. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. It was hard to count in the chaos. They swarmed the supply lines, then the rear. Tywin heard the shriek of horses. The crack of broken bones. Screams.

“What—?” Ser Flement Brax wheeled his destrier beside him, mouth agape.

Tywin said nothing.

His courser shifted beneath him, muscles coiled. It could smell the fear. Even a trained warhorse knew when the gods had left the field.

Then a greater shadow moved among them.

A direwolf.

Massive. Silver-gray. Eyes gold and cruel.

She did not bound or bark — she advanced, step by step, a living omen. Where she passed, men fell. Arrows missed. Blades glanced off fur.

The wolves did not scatter. They hunted.

They circled. Drove. Killed.

Panic rippled through the reserve. Formations collapsed. Men broke ranks, some turning, others trampling their own. A knight screamed as his horse was dragged down. Tywin’s lips thinned.

Control was slipping.

Then — the hammer blow.

From the left, horns cried out.

Another charge.

Another wolf.

And Robb Stark at his side, a streak of steel and fury.

The King in the North came thundering down with a cry that split the field, and the shattered remains of his flank followed him like a wave follows storm. They smashed into the confused reserve with unrelenting force — spears splintered, shields shattered, men and horses buckled.

Tywin had a single heartbeat to react.

He turned in the saddle, voice rising. “Rally the right! Pull the—”

A riderless destrier slammed into his flank.

His horse reared.

The world tilted.

He fell.

The air rushed out of him as the ground rose up like a hammer. His breastplate caught the worst of it, but something in his ribs gave with a sickening pop. Then came the weight — his own horse, tumbling beside him, pinning his legs beneath half a ton of flesh and iron.

Agony. Bright. Blooming.

He gasped, tried to move. Couldn’t.

His vision tilted. Blood filled his mouth. Smoke stung his eyes.

Above him, red banners flailed. Men were running — not charging, not regrouping — fleeing.

Where was Ser Flement?

Where was Ser Addam?

The Tyrell cavalry had vanished into the smoke. Garlan — gone. Loras— was that screaming? Tywin blinked against the sun.

The air stank of horseblood, burning pitch, piss, and fear.

He reached for his sword.

His fingers touched the hilt — and failed.

He tried to lift his head, to speak, to curse.

Only a whisper came.

“Damn... wolves...”

Then darkness.

Robb

The charge had shattered them.
What had been Tywin Lannister’s proud reserve now lay strewn across the field like butcher’s scraps — red cloaks torn and tangled, gilded helms crushed beneath hooves, banners shredded in the dirt.
Tywin was gone. Trampled beneath his own victory.

He turned in the saddle for a moment, breath still sharp in his throat, and cast his eyes back west. The field behind him was smoke and ruin, scattered with corpses and torn banners — but the Tyrell cavalry no longer surged. What had been a golden wave under Ser Loras now churned in disarray. Wolves tore through the rear, and riders broke and scattered like leaves before a storm. Some fled outright. Others wheeled aimlessly, unsure. Robb saw no sign of the Knight of Flowers. Perhaps dead. Perhaps fled. Either way, they would not rally quickly. The rear was safe.

But the battle was not yet won.

Robb reined in his steed atop a low rise, breath coming in ragged gasps. The sky above was a smear of smoke and sun, banners flailing in the wind. His sword was slick in his hand, the leather grip wet with blood and sweat. Grey Wind padded beside him, fur matted, lips peeled back in a snarl, a ghost of a beast among men.

Then he heard it — not horns, but steel. The steady grind of formation, of order.

To the east, the Tyrell right was pushing hard.
Their banners still flew high — golden roses on green fields, proud and unsullied. Garlan Tyrell was still mounted, helm off, sword in hand, cutting through dust and blood like a knight from a song.
But it was not a song.
It was slaughter.

William Dustin’s men were faltering. His flank buckled beneath the weight of southern steel. Stark riders reeled back, broke ranks. A single charge more, and the line would split. The whole right would unravel.
And with it — the trap.

Robb turned his horse without hesitation.
“To me!” he roared, voice raw. “With me! Now!”

His riders followed — battered, bloodied, but not broken. They wheeled like a storm, a tide of hooves and blades.

Nymeria’s pack joined them.
From the mist and trees, wolves poured forth — gaunt and relentless, their eyes burning. They wove between horses like shadows, tearing into the Tyrell rear. A knight’s horse screamed as its belly was opened. Another went down with fangs in his throat.

Ahead, William Dustin fought on foot now, armor cracked, helm gone. His hair was soaked, face smeared with ash. Robb saw him stagger back, parry a blow, take a shallow cut to the side.
He would not hold. Not alone.

Then Robb was there.
Steel met steel.

They crashed into the Tyrell flank like a thunderclap.
Robb’s blade bit deep into a rider’s neck. Grey Wind leapt, jaws closing on a screaming man. The wolves fell upon the green-cloaked knights without mercy sowing panic.

For a heartbeat, the Tyrell line held. Garlan Tyrell rode forward, eyes locked on Robb’s, sword raised. The two clashed — a fury of blades and hooves and shouted names. Garlan was fast, precise — but Robb struck with purpose. Fury drove him. The weight of the North was behind every blow.

They broke apart.
Then another rider slammed into Garlan’s side.
And a spear took him in the thigh.
He went down.
Knights tried to drag him away, but the press was too thick.

The Tyrell right faltered.
Then folded.

Robb wheeled beside Dustin, who leaned on his sword, bleeding and breathless.
They locked eyes.

“Still breathing?” Robb asked.

“Barely,” Dustin rasped. “But I’ll see this through.”

Robb nodded. He lifted his sword again, pointed across the plain — to the heart of the battle, to where Jon Snow’s banners crested the ridge like the coming storm.

“There,” Robb said. “That’s the last of it.”

The wolves were gathering.
The trap was closing.
And the killing had only just begun.

Jon

The center was folding, but the jaws had to hold.

Jon could see the full shape now — the curve, the snare, the promise of slaughter. It was not enough to close the trap. The teeth had to lock.

“Signal Dustin,” Jon said again. “Hold the right. Tighten the press.”

To the far right, William Dustin’s riders surged like a red tide, cutting low into the Tyrell flank. But pressure alone wouldn’t finish it. If the sides gave, all was lost. He turned west.

“Where’s the Greatjon?”

“Left line, still engaged,” the rider answered. “He’s holding against the Roses.”

Jon looked, and there — amid the crush of gold and green — the roaring giant of House Umber surged forward like a boulder flung by gods. The Greatjon’s men were shoulder-to-shoulder, massive, brutal, unyielding. They didn’t break. They shoved. Every step forward was a roar.

Beside them, Jason Mallister’s banners still flew — the silver eagle wheeling through storm-gray. His archers sent volleys not for glory, but to herd — to bend men inward, push them where they did not want to go. The Lannister and Tyrell forces funneled between them, tighter and tighter.

“Mallister’s keeping the air sharp,” Jon muttered. “And Umber keeps the ground bloody.”

Ghost ears twitch. Jon turned east.

The right had flinched earlier — but now Maege Mormont’s men fought like stone. Shields locked, axes falling in rhythm, cutting down every attempt to break outward. Galbart Glover’s line advanced beside them, tighter than most southron hosts could dream of. A wall of quiet, relentless fury.

Jon’s breath fogged before him.

“They’re holding,” he said. “All of them.”

If either flank had broken — if Glover had given ground, or Umber had rushed too fast, or Mallister’s volleys had thinned — the entire shape would’ve crumpled. But they hadn’t. They’d held.

And now...

Now the center began to choke.

Men trapped in gold and green were pressed inward like sheep in a burning pen. The banners that had once stood proud were tangled and torn. Knights wheeled without orders, fighting to escape, not to win.

Jon’s eyes flicked to the line of trees. The wolves had returned not just Grey Wind, but Nymeria and Lady’s pack, they moved like smoke through the rear. They didn’t hunt anymore. They herded.

Behind him, a man murmured, “They’ve no way out.”

“No,” Jon said. “Only through.”

And there was no through left.

He turned to Brandon and Harrion and the rest of his commanders.

“Advance in staggered waves,” Jon ordered. “Three ranks, moving slow. They’re boxed in. No need for haste. Just pressure.”

One of the men hesitated. “We’re just… closing it?”

Jon’s gaze returned to the chaos below. “We’re not fighting a battle anymore,” he said. “We’re finishing one.”

Walder

It wasn’t a battle anymore.
It was a slaughter.

Walder stood with his axe in hand and watched men die.

Thousands of them — packed so tightly in the center of the field they couldn’t move. Couldn’t lift a shield. Couldn’t drop their swords, even if they’d wanted to yield. Gold and green cloaks bled together in a choking mass. Some still shouted. Some whimpered. Others just stood there — shoulder to shoulder, chest to back — so tightly pressed they looked like grain in a hopper, waiting to be milled.

And all around them, the wolves.

The Northerners moved like ghosts — silent but for steel. Manderlys and Karstark cut through flesh as if harvesting. Riverlanders came roaring behind them, muddy and wild, swinging flails and rusted axes. Even the mountain clans jabbed their crude spears into joints and armpits with eerie calm.

It wasn’t a charge anymore. It was a circle.

It had begun with a backward step. Just one. Then another. Walder had given the order himself — "Hold, then bleed, then fall." He knew what Jon was shaping, what Robb needed. The center had to yield, not break. They opened slowly, deliberately, like drawing breath before the kill. Each retreat was measured, each line bent just enough to invite the hammer. Men died buying time. Buying shape.

A slow, crushing circle.

And the ones inside it — the proud knights of the Reach, the gold-cloaked lions of the Rock — they couldn’t even fight back. Walder saw them, pressed so close they could barely turn their heads, much less their blades. Elbow to elbow, jammed in by the thousands, some trying to climb over others just to breathe.

He saw a Reach knight scream as he tried to raise his sword — only for it to catch in the hilt of the man beside him. He never even finished the scream. A spear slid through his mouth.
Another knight was trampled beneath his own comrades. His helm caved inward by the weight of panicked boots.

They died standing.
Or crushed.
Or suffocating.
And then the steel came anyway.

Walder took a step forward. His boots sank deep into churned mud — slick with piss, blood, and broken men. He didn’t feel proud. Not even glad.

He had seen battles before.
The Trident. Pyke. The Green Fork.
He had never seen this.

This wasn’t war.
It was butcher’s work.

The Tyrells had come in as conquerors — eighty thousand strong. Their cloaks green, their banners high, their laughter loud. Lannister horns had blared, gold armor shining under the morning sun.

Now they squealed like penned hogs.

He saw them dying two at a time. Ten at a time. A whole rank falling because one man dropped, and none behind could step forward. Some tried to drop their swords — but there wasn’t room to lower a hand, let alone kneel. Surrender didn’t mean anything here.

He looked to the wolves.

Grey Wind paced the circle like a god of death, his muzzle black, eyes burning.
Nymeria and Lady flanked him — not hunting now, not even killing. Just walking. Watching. Even the beasts had tired of blood.

The air reeked of iron and crushed bodies. It buzzed with flies and the soft sound of men choking on blood. Walder saw a Lannister squire — no more than fifteen — shoulders hunched, sword long lost, piss steaming down his leg. The boy locked eyes with him.

Walder’s axe fell.

Clean. Quick.

He didn’t smile.
Didn’t spit.
Just stepped past.

He had stopped thinking about names or banners or sides.

All he knew was that the battle was long over.
And what came after wasn’t glory.
It was silence.

A lesson carved in flesh and bone:
Never corner wolves.

Chapter Text

William

The grass was red. It wasn’t grass anymore, not truly. Just torn roots and churned mud, soaked through with the dead.

William Dustin stood where the lines had broken — where Garlan Tyrell’s knights had driven them back, step by brutal step. He could still hear it: the clash of steel, the screaming of horses, the shouting of dying men. Now, only crows called. And the wind.

The fields by the lake were meant to be green. Gentle. Spring-soft. Instead, they were a mire of blood and trampled banners, a tangle of cracked spears, broken helms, and twisted limbs. The stench was thick — copper and piss, shit and smoke. His boots squelched as he walked, one foot sinking deeper than the other.

A man doesn’t rush through a graveyard.

Behind him, the work continued. Quiet, grim, relentless. Men stacked the dead in heaps, dragged the wounded to rows of tents where the moans never ceased. Maesters moved between the bodies like ghosts. Some prayed. Most just whispered.

He passed a corpse missing half a face. A Bolton banner pinned beneath a Tyrell shield. A horse with its belly split wide and eyes gone grey. He did not look away.

Ahead, the lake shimmered in the soft morning light, its calm surface mocking the chaos it had reflected just hours before. Blue as the banners of House Tully. But even it hadn’t escaped. Bodies floated near the shallows — green cloaks, red cloaks, grey cloaks. Fingers reached from the water like they still begged the gods for one more breath.

He stopped at the edge. A dead knight lay nearby, helm gone, throat split, his face still young. Blood ran from his ears. His hand, pale and delicate, had drifted into the lake. The waves lapped against his fingers gently. As if mourning.

Yes, William thought. We won.

The trap had held. The line had curved. The wolves had struck. Tywin’s pride and Mace’s pomp had meant nothing in the end.  Robb had planned it, Jon had sprung it, and the gods had let them close it. They had turned Roose’s treachery into a noose. Let the traitor carve the wound — they had stitched the trap from blood and bone.

The jaws had closed — left and right, hammer and anvil, fire and fang. Robb from the west. Dustin from the east. Walder had given the line space to collapse, and Jon had sealed it. What began with betrayal had ended in design. And death. But still.

His hand tightened on the haft of his sword. The leather was slick with blood. Some of it his. Most of it not. He looked at the water again. Was it worth it?

A voice carried on the breeze — muffled, tired, calling his name. He turned. One of the guards at the edge of camp was beckoning. The council. Of course. He took one last breath of the battlefield, then turned and walked back into history.  

It stood half-collapsed between a burned cart and a shattered scorpion, the canvas stained with soot and the North’s colors — mud, smoke, and iron. Inside, the air was thick — with sweat, with silence, with the knowledge of what they had done.

Robb Stark sat at the head, his torn cloak thrown over one shoulder. A line of blood had dried across his cheek, but his eyes were clear. Not cold. Just quiet. Jon Snow stood beside him, arms folded, sword at his hip. He had not spoken since the battle’s end. He hadn’t needed to.

Brynden Tully sat near the map table, eyes scanning the bloodied parchments like they might still move. Edmure stood close to the maester, fingers twitching. Brandon sat at the far end. His eyes tracked everything.

Around them stood the lords of the North Manderly, Glover, Cerwyn, Umber. Faces drawn. Armor still dented. None wore smiles.

The maester cleared his throat. “These figures are... preliminary, my lords. The counting continues still.” He unrolled a scroll. “For the host of the Kingdom of the North — Forty-one thousand strong at dawn — we estimate over height thousand dead. One thousand five hundred wounded.”  He paused. A few nods. No voices. “For the army of the Iron Throne — eighty thousand when they marched — we count fifty thousand dead. Near five thousand wounded. Ten thousand captives. Perhaps more.”

Silence. A few of the lords paled. Edmure sat back. Even Karstark said nothing. The maester continued, voice steadier now. “Among the prisoners: Baelor Hightower and his son. Garlan Tyrell. Humfrey Beesbury. Lords Redwyne, Rowan, Vyrwel, Fossoway, and more. We have not yet finished confirming all identities.”

 He looked at Robb. The King gave a small nod. “Mace Tyrell is alive. His leg is shattered. The bonesmiths say he may never ride again — if he lives. Loras Tyrell is dead. Torn open by a wolf.” The maester hesitated, then turned a page. “Lord Randyll Tarly — trampled in the chaos of the Tyrell rout. Addam Marbrand is unaccounted for. Ser Flement Brax — dead. Kevan Lannister lives. Wounded. Stable. Tywin...” He stopped. No one spoke. “Tywin Lannister is alive,” he finally said. “Both legs crushed. The maesters will attempt amputation this night. His odds of surviving are... not good.”

Stillness. No wine poured. No victory songs. Just the weight of what they’d wrought. William Dustin leaned against the pole near the entrance. He studied the lords again. Some looked proud. Some simply tired. But most — most just looked wary. Was it the slaughter? Or what came after?

Half the Reach’s banners were gone. The other half sat in chains. And across from them — the young wolf, blood drying on his cheek. And the silent one beside him, sword still at his side.

William understood then. This was not just a battle. Not just a victory. It was a reckoning. One the South would never forget. One the North would never need to. And long after the grass grew green again and the crows left for other feasts, they would still whisper of what happened here. Of the day the lions came to feast, and were eaten whole.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The wine was bitter. Everything tasted bitter these days.

Tyrion Lannister sat in the Hand’s chair, fingers drumming on the carved lion’s paw at its edge, and tried not to sigh. The council chamber stank of lavender and sweat. Summer heat crept through the shutters like a lazy predator. Even the breeze off Blackwater Bay brought no relief.

Across the table, Grand Maester Pycelle wheezed as he shuffled parchment. Littlefinger smiled without smiling. Varys fanned himself with slow, deliberate strokes. Cersei sipped Arbor red like it was milk. Joffrey hadn’t arrived — not that it mattered. And Olenna Tyrell sat where Mace once had, her mouth a tight line, fingers wrapped around her cane like it might bite.

Tyrion broke the silence. “Well? You’ve all heard the birds. Which of you wants to pluck them first?”

Pycelle cleared his throat — which took several seconds. “There is... unsettling news from the Riverlands.”

“No,” said Tyrion. “Really? And here I thought the piles of charred ravens were for decoration.”

Varys’ fan fluttered. “My little birds bring whispers from the edge of the God’s Eye,” he said softly. “The trap was real. Bolton betrayed the Starks — struck them from within the center line.”

Tyrion frowned. “Roose turned on Robb? He actually, did it?”

Varys inclined his head. “At the worst moment. Stark men were cut down mid-charge. But... it wasn’t enough. The flanks held. The wolves struck from the mist. And then the jaws closed.”

Tyrion blinked. “You mean they still won.”

“Not just won,” said Varys. “They broke the South’s greatest host. Despite the betrayal.”

Cersei set her cup down too hard. “Impossible. You said Tywin had the numbers. Tarly had the charge. Garlan the flank—”

“And now Garlan is in chains,” Varys said, still calm. “Tarly is dead. Tywin’s legs are gone. Mace is a prisoner. And Loras—” he hesitated, “—was torn apart by a wolf. They say it was Lord Robb’s.” Silence. Thick and suffocating.

Littlefinger spoke at last, voice light. “Rumor travels fast. Faster than truth. Are we sure it wasn’t a play performed in Riverrun?”

Olenna Tyrell looked at him with the fury of ten gods. “Your tongue may jest, Lord Baelish, but my grandson is bones in the mud. And my son rots in a Northern cage.”

Pycelle wrung his hands. “We must verify. Confirm—”

Varys slid a parchment across the table. “A raven from Harrenhal. Kevan Lannister’s seal. He is alive. Tywin is not expected to live. The Reach is shattered. Half its banners lost. The rest... fled.”

Cersei stood. “You’re lying.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “He’s not. I’ve seen the seal myself.”

She turned to him, face tight. “This is your fault.”

“Oh, lovely. Let’s start that chorus again.” He drained his cup. “I begged father not to trust Bolton. I begged him not to split the reserve. But he did. Because he always knew best.”

Olenna’s cane thunked against the stone. “And now my house is broken.”

Cersei rounded on her. “Your house followed a fool and sent boys to die. You are no queen here.”

“No,” Olenna said. “But I remember what queens used to be.”

No one spoke after Varys’s whispered report. Not even Olenna. Then the doors slammed open. Joffrey stormed in, flanked by two Kingsguard who looked as if they regretted every step.

“They lost?!” he spat before anyone could rise. “We lost?! To wolves and bastard?!” He pointed at Pycelle, at Littlefinger, at Tyrion — flinging blame like a child flings mud. “This is your fault!” he screamed. “You said they were starving! That the Freys would break them! That Grandfather would crush them!”

Pycelle stammered. “My king, the strength of the—”

“Shut up!” Joffrey shrieked. “I want her punished. That Stark bitch. Sansa.” Tyrion tensed.

“She knew!” Joffrey shouted. “She must have known, she smiled when the raven came! I want her flayed. Whipped. Hung from the gates!”

“No,” Tyrion said.

The word dropped like a blade. Everyone turned. Joffrey blinked. “What did you say?”

“No,” Tyrion repeated. Firm. Cold. No humor now. “The girl stays unharmed.”

“I am your king!”

“And she is our only key to peace,” Tyrion said. “The North holds half the South’s lords in chains. They are wounded, but they are not broken. Hurt Sansa, and you lose your only leverage. Then see how long your crown lasts.”

“She’s a traitor’s daughter!”

“She is a political hostage,” Tyrion said sharply. “And the only one we still hold.”

Joffrey shook with fury, lips twitching. “I’ll go myself,” he growled. “I’ll drag her out of that tower—”

“You can try, your grace” said Pycelle, interrupting with unusual firmness. “But you won’t reach her.”

Joffrey froze. “What?”

“By Lord Tywin’s decree,” Pycelle explained, “Lady Sansa is under guard. Her tower sealed. No one enters but her septa. One. By name. Her meals are tasted. Her letters burned. It was... a precaution.”

“He gave orders without telling me?” Joffrey hissed.

“He anticipated you might act rashly,” Varys said, voice silky.

“You mean wisely,” Tyrion corrected.

Olenna sipped her tea. “Oh, do stop shouting, child. You’ve lost a battle, not your throne. Not Yet.”

Joffrey stared at them — all of them — and saw not subjects, but snakes.

The city did not sleep. Not truly. Not anymore. The bells had gone quiet, but the whispers had only grown louder. From his balcony atop the Tower of the Hand, Tyrion Lannister watched the moon shimmer over the Blackwater, silver bleeding across black waves. The torches of the Red Keep burned below him. So did the rumors. He didn’t turn when Varys stepped into the room. He only poured another cup of wine.

“They say the King smashed a vase,” Tyrion said. “Then threatened to throw Ser Boros out the window.”

Varys closed the door behind him with soft fingers. “Better a vase than a girl.”

“Not better for Boros,” Tyrion muttered, sipping. “He may recover. The vase didn’t.”

Silence stretched between them. Below, in the city, a woman screamed. A child cried. Then only the river. “You knew,” Tyrion said, voice low. “Didn’t you?”

“Knew what?” Varys asked.

“That Roose would turn. That the North would bleed. That the trap would still spring.”

“I suspected,” Varys admitted. “Roose Bolton was never loyal — not to wolves, not to lions. Only to himself. He waited for his moment… and chose wrong.”

Tyrion finally turned. “He gutted Robb’s center. Slaughtered his own allies. And still they won.”

“The wolves were not so easily broken,” Varys said. “The betrayal opened the jaws. It did not close them.”

Tyrion drained his cup. “Your riddles are exhausting.”

Varys smiled — a faint, tired thing. “They’re already calling it the Jaws of the Gods Eye. A legend born in blood. In the Free Cities, merchants whisper that the lion has fallen, and the wolf now watches the south. Peace envoys are being drafted in Lys. The Goldcloaks have doubled the watch. And even the Septons speak softer.” Varys lowered his voice, eyes catching the light.  “And they say… there were wolves. Hundreds. They came from the woods at the hour of betrayal. Fell on the rear like smoke and fang. The direwolves led them.”

Tyrion stared at him. “And did they howl Robb’s name while they lapped up Lannister blood?”

Varys didn’t smile. “Perhaps.”

Tyrion snorted. “Of course they did. Why not? Wolves from the trees, dragons on the wind, and shadows on the wall. The South bleeds, the Reach burns, and the gods themselves join the North.” Varys was quiet. And for a moment silence fell between them. “They’ll want terms,” Tyrion finally said. “Freedom. A crown for the wolf.”

“They may ask,” Varys said. “And after what they did, who would dare deny them?”

Tyrion sat down, heavy. “We need her,” he said. “Sansa. She’s all we have left.”

“She is no longer a hostage,” Varys said quietly. “She is your only hope for a bridge.”

“And if Joffrey burns that bridge?”

“Then we all burn with it.”

The wine had gone warm in Tyrion’s hand. The air pressed in from all sides — silk curtains, thick stone, silent halls. “You always said power is a shadow on the wall.”

“It is,” said Varys.

Tyrion looked again at the moonlit city, where rumors moved faster than banners.

“Then let’s pray the shadow doesn’t shift.”

Chapter Text

Sansa

The bells had not rung in days. Not since the raven came. The silence in the Red Keep was a thing with teeth now — it did not merely sit; it stalked, slithered, whispered through the halls like breath through a crypt. It curled around her chambers and pressed against the windows, thick and stifling.

Sansa sat by the narrow slit of glass, where morning crept in like a trespasser. She watched the pale sun bleed across stone and shadow, casting light too bright for mourning, too clean for dread. The iron lattice that veiled the window looked delicate, like lace spun from soot and sorrow — but it held firm. Like everything else in this place.

No one came anymore. Not Tyrion. Not the septa. Not even the soft-footed servants who once brought watered wine and apologies with their honeyed lies. Only guards now — impassive, helmeted, faceless. Red cloaks that rustled like dried leaves. They muttered just outside the door, thinking her deaf, or too broken to listen.

“She smiled,” one had said.

“When the raven came. Smiled like a wolf.”

“She knew.”

Sansa had not smiled. Not even a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Her face had stayed still — too still — as if carved in wax. She hadn’t even known what the raven said, but she had known what it meant. The crash of glass, the bark of Joffrey’s fury, the thunder of footsteps. Then the sudden, aching hush that followed. It wasn’t the sound of victory. It was the sound of a crown cracking.

She pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders. The cold wasn’t in the stone — it was in her bones. In her breath. In the blood that no longer quickened. They had gone. Eighty thousand swords. The realm’s fury, mailed in gold and rose-red. Gone to Harrenhal. Gone to break her brothers. Robb. Jon.

She had no letters. No ravens. No songs. The bards did not sing of wolves in King’s Landing. But she imagined them — cloaked in steel, cloaked in snow, outnumbered and outshouted but not outwilled. She prayed they would live. She prayed they would win. Or if not that — if the gods were cruel — that they would die quickly. That they would not die screaming.

Her fingers curled into her skirts. They were shaking again. She remembered the first time Joffrey had struck her. A single blow. Quick. Almost shy. A prince’s lesson. It was the day they learned Jon had shattered Tywin’s vanguard at the Green Fork. Joffrey had looked at her and seen the wolf beneath the silk.

The second time had been worse. Public. Deliberate. Humiliation as spectacle. They tore her dress before the court as Robb took the Golden Tooth. Her body became coin for her brother’s victories. That day, she learned how it felt to be currency.

Tyrion had stopped it that time. Cloak in hand. Voice like drawn steel. He had not touched her. Had not looked at her like a thing. He even allowed a small soft kind smile. Sometimes, when the pain bit too deep and she could not breathe, she remembered that.

But not all smiles were kind. She had once thought Queen Cersei beautiful — radiant, regal, clever. She had thought herself clever too, basking in that warmth. Listening to soft words and sweeter lies. Speaking secrets in exchange for compliments. She had believed it meant something — that to be noticed was to be safe.

She had learned otherwise. Cersei’s flattery was honey poured over poison. Every touch, every smile, every promise — all of it had teeth behind the lips. And when Sansa was no longer useful, the queen had shown those teeth. She had watched with painted eyes while Joffrey hurt her. Had nodded. Had smiled. And Sansa had smiled back. Once. She still woke with that taste in her mouth.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she whispered sometimes into her pillow, where no one could hear.

“I’m so sorry I told her.”

Tyrion no longer came. Not since the Blackwater. She had prayed for Stannis — not because she loved him, but because he was not Joffrey. She had lit candles until her fingers blistered. Whispered prayers until her throat cracked. Promised the gods anything. Everything.

They had answered with fire. Wild. Green. Unforgiving. Did the gods laugh, she wondered? Did they count the dead and call it balance? She did not know what she believed now. She still prayed. But softly. Without expectation. Like a ghost pressing lips to the memory of a name.

Only her dreams remained. Dreams where she was no longer Sansa of House Stark, Lady of Nothing, daughter of a traitor. In her dreams, she was Lady.

She ran with Nymeria beneath moonlight, through ashwood and icegrass. The stars blinked above her like the eyes of old gods, and she howled not for sorrow, but for joy. Her paws flew, her heart soared, her fear forgotten. They hunted through wild hills and snowfields, past the bones of forgotten things.

No cages. No collars. No thrones. Only the wind. Only the pack. Only freedom.

In those dreams, she did not beg. She did not weep. She did not wear silk like armor or smile like a lie. She ruled. She ran. She was fangs and fur and memory. And sometimes — just sometimes — she woke smiling.

But never for long. The walls were still there. The guards still muttered. And the sun still rose on a world that had no use for girls who dreamed of being wolves.

The door creaked open. Sansa turned from her needlework, expecting the usual sound — a guard’s boots, a tray of bread gone cold, silence in armor. But what entered instead was black.

Lady Olenna moved first — a shadow in mourning, cane tapping the stone like a clock tolling its final hours. Behind her came Margaery Tyrell, draped in onyx lace and jet-silk, her golden hair dimmed beneath a veil. Gone were the green and gold, the smiles like sunlight. Now she looked like a flower pressed too long in frost. Wilted. Still. Grieving.

Sansa rose out of habit. Her hands folded before her skirts. She remembered Margaery from a season ago — laughter in the halls of the Red Keep, soft pleasantries spun like lace. That had been before the Blackwater. Before Lord Tywin’s decree. Before the stone silence of this tower.

Margaery did not smile the same way anymore. And Sansa did not curtsy as deeply. For a moment, the room held its breath.

Then Sansa broke the stillness. “Lord Tywin said no one is to come here.”

Lady Olenna’s voice cut like glass across stone. “Lord Tywin is not in charge of anything these days.”

The words struck like thunder. Something stirred in Sansa’s chest — a flutter of hope, or dread, she could not yet name.

Margaery’s voice was softer. “We came to look for you, Lady Sansa. To know how you fare.”

The courtesy was familiar. The tone measured. But Sansa had learned what smiles could hide, and she no longer cared to unmask them. She said nothing. Merely looked at them both.

Lady Olenna sighed, impatience sharpening her voice. “Spare us the pleasantries. The girl is not a fool.”

She stepped forward. Her cane struck the floor once, sharply. “We want to know if your brothers can be reasoned with.”

That startled her. “My... brothers?”

A thousand thoughts raced behind her eyes. Robb, red cloak rippling atop his horse. Jon, sword drawn in the field. She imagined banners unfurling like thunder, swords drawn in the mist. Eighty thousand. That was the number. Eighty thousand meant to end them. And yet—

“I don’t understand.”

“No, you don’t,” said Margaery, stepping closer. Her voice was gentle, but there was iron beneath the velvet. “You’ve been kept from everything. You’ve been buried in silence. But the world did not stop spinning, Sansa.”

Olenna’s eyes gleamed like sharpened stone. “Your brothers have broken the Iron Throne’s host at the Gods Eye. Tywin lies dying. My son crippled. My grandson —” her voice cracked “— torn apart.”

Silence fell. Margaery gave a soft sob, hand trembling near her mouth. Sansa felt the world slow around her. So that was why they wore black. Why the halls had gone so quiet. Why even the guards muttered like children lost in a storm.

Robb had won. Jon had won.

The thought was too vast to hold, too bright to grasp. She had prayed. Oh, how she had prayed. In secret, in silence. She had knelt on cold stone and whispered until her voice cracked. And now...

A sound slipped out — soft at first, like a breath escaping. Then another. A chuckle. A laugh.

Laughter rose from her in great gulps, like the sea rushing in. Ragged, fierce, uncontrollable. She laughed until her sides ached, and tears burned her eyes, until she could not breathe and didn’t care. It came not from joy, but from somewhere deeper — a place where pain and release held hands.

They stared at her, stunned. They think I’m mad, Sansa thought. Perhaps I am.

She pressed her hands to her skirts, smoothing the wrinkles. Straightened her back. Found stillness again. When she spoke, her voice was calm. Measured. A lady’s voice. But behind it was iron. “I am sorry for your loss,” she said. “But I do not know what Robb wants.”

Olenna studied her, sharp as a hawk. “He wants the return of your father’s sword. Your safe return. Independence for the North and the Riverlands. And…” — her voice dipped into frost — “the head of King Joffrey.”

Silence fell again, heavy as snow. Sansa did not blink. She did not look away. She only said, “Then you have your terms. My brother is a man of honor.”

A long pause. Olenna tilted her head, eyes narrowed. “One of those terms will be... difficult.”

Sansa met her gaze without flinching. Her voice dropped lower, steadier. A blade sliding from its sheath. “Then the wolves will come and take it themselves.”

She turned her eyes back to her embroidery. Her needle slipped through the cloth with precision — sharp, steady. She began to hum. An old song. A lullaby from Winterfell, from before. One Old Nan used to sing when the wind howled through the halls and the snow curled against the glass.

Lady Olenna and Margaery left without a word. Sansa did not watch them go. She was alone again. But she did not feel alone. She was not a bird in a cage. She was not a pawn on anyone’s board. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell. She was the blood of wolves. And her pack was coming.

She let the silence settle around her like a cloak. Then, into that stillness, she whispered — not for others, not for gods, but for herself.

“He will bring me his head.”

And this time, her smile held no fear.

Chapter Text

Oberyn

The sun was high over the sand, white and pitiless. Oberyn Martell walked the path to the Water Gardens alone, boots crunching on sunbaked stone, the hem of his robes fluttering behind him like a flame too stubborn to die. The breeze was warm, heavy with the scent of salt and orange blossom, yet it could not cool the fire twisting through his chest.

From beyond the marble walls, he heard children laughing, splashing in fountains shaped like seahorses and suns. The Water Gardens, as always, played at peace. But Oberyn carried war in his blood — war, and the past. He thought of it all.

The Mountain was dead. Not long ago, the words had reached them across ravens’ wings — Gregor Clegane, crushed beneath the fury of a northern charge at the Green Fork. Slain by some Stark bannerman, his massive body trampled in the mud like any other brute.

Oberyn should have rejoiced. Instead, his teeth clenched. He was mine. Mine to break. Mine to flay, nerve by nerve. To bleed beneath my blade for what he did to Elia. For her screams. For the silence that followed. For the way they wrapped her son in a crimson cloak before hurling him against the wall. He did not deserve the mercy of a soldier’s death. No. He should have died screaming, skull open to the sun, a death that lingered like poison in the bloodline that spawned him. Instead, he had vanished into the muck of a battlefield. Gone. Too fast. Oberyn spat into the dust.

Then came the letter. A lion’s head in crimson wax. Tywin Lannister’s seal. An invitation dressed up in courtesy and blood a wedding in King’s Landing, Joffrey and Margaery Tyrell. A seat on the small council. A voice in court. A role in the game. He had read it twice. Then set it alight.

Doran had merely nodded. “The lions are not yet caged,” he’d said. “And the wolves still bite. Let us not rush. Let others bleed first.”

Always patience. Always waiting. Doran and his still waters, still enough to drown in. But Oberyn did not forget. And he did not forgive. He remembered how the sun set that evening — molten and heavy on the horizon, like a coin of gold stamped with the face of his sister’s killer. We should have acted, he thought then. Now we have only ashes and ghosts.

And then came the second letter. It trembled in his hands the first time he read it. Not from fear, but something worse. Something delicious. Tywin Lannister — broken. Shattered at the Gods Eye. The Young Wolf and the White Wolf had done what dragons once feared to try. They cracked the lion’s back. His host butchered, or scattered, his own legs crushed beneath his horse. One gone, the other blackening. Maesters whispered he might not last the moon. The Jaws of the Gods Eye, they called it. A legend already. Oberyn had read every line of that letter like scripture.

He drank that night. And drank again. Laughed so hard wine shot from his nose. Slammed his goblet against the stone until it cracked. He roared with laughter when he read that the old lion could no longer ride, could no longer walk. That he lay helpless in some makeshift litter, drooling bile and groaning in pain. That his men wept. That his legacy burned. He had waited for that day for half his life. It had come not by Dornish hand — but it had come. He raised his cup again. “To the wolves,” he had toasted. “May they never hunger.”

Now, as he walked beneath the carved archways of the Water Gardens, Oberyn carried that same heat inside him. It pulsed like a second heart. He would not wait any longer. Doran could sit in his quiet towers, counting ravens and watching shadows dance on the water.

But Oberyn would ride north. To the wolves who had broken the lion. To the place where the world had changed. Perhaps he would take one of them to bed, or both. Perhaps he would fight beside them. Perhaps he would even bleed. He grinned.

But most of all — above desire, above glory, above even the name of vengeance — he would stand at Tywin Lannister’s bedside, and watch. He would see the moment the light left those cold, calculating eyes. And when it did, he would whisper Elia’s name. That, at least, he would not be denied.

The air within the Water Gardens was cooler, the wind softened by pillars of marble and the shimmer of still pools. Doran Martell sat beneath the orange trees in his wheeled chair, hands folded atop a carved cane, a bowl of figs untouched beside him. His robe was pale yellow, but the shadows around his eyes were darker than they had been last moon.

He did not rise when Oberyn entered. He never did. “You’ve come early,” Doran said.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Oberyn replied. “Too much wine. Too many dreams.”

Doran gestured to the bench across from him. Oberyn did not sit. For a moment, neither spoke. The fountain behind them whispered. Then Oberyn said, “He’s dying.” Doran said nothing. “Tywin Lannister lies crippled in Harrenhal, gasping in a bed soaked in his own piss. His army is ashes. His sons disgraced. The wolves broke him — utterly. And I wasn’t there to see it.”

Doran's gaze drifted to the water. “So, the ravens say.”

“They say more,” Oberyn said, voice low. “They say Robb Stark holds half the south in chains. That the Tyrells weep. That the Riverlords ride again. That the Reach burns and the Vale turns in on itself. The lions bleed. The game has changed.” Still Doran was quiet.

Oberyn stepped forward, voice rising. “We waited when Aerys died. We waited when Elia was murdered. We waited through Robert’s reign and Joffrey’s crowning and Stannis’s siege. Waited while the North howled for vengeance. You told me we would know the right moment.”

Doran nodded slowly. “This is not yet the right moment.”

Oberyn’s fingers curled into fists. “I am not asking your leave,” he said. “I ride north. I will look the wolf-king in the eye. I will see the lion die. If the North is now a kingdom reborn, we must speak to it — not watch from behind our walls like children at play.”

“You are quick to act.”

“You are too slow to breathe.”

The words fell hard between them. Doran closed his eyes. “I have never denied your grief, brother,” he said, quiet now. “But vengeance is not a blade — it is a chain. If we reach too soon, we risk binding Dorne to war with no allies.”

“Then we reach smartly,” Oberyn said. “With eyes open. With words before swords.”

Doran opened his eyes again. “You will go, then.”

“I will.”

“To treat with Robb Stark? Or his bastard brother?”

“To see what kind of men broke Tywin Lannister. To see if they are wolves worth running with — or children wearing fangs.”

Doran was silent a long time. Then, “You will not speak for Dorne.”

“I never do.”

“But you may listen for it.”

At that, Oberyn smiled. “So, the sun begins to rise, at last.”

Doran leaned back, wincing. “Not yet. But the night grows thin.”

Oberyn gave a mock bow, all flair and fire. “I’ll take your leave, then.”

“Tell them we remember,” Doran said, voice a breath. “Tell them we bleed. And we do not forget.”

Oberyn turned away, his footsteps light as sand on wind. He would ride north. And Dorne would no longer be silent.

The horses were saddled before the first sun touched the towers of Sunspear.

Oberyn fastened his belt with a grin on his lips and fire in his blood. Behind him, Ellaria adjusted her cloak, dark hair braided with red coral, while Nymeria checked the straps on her spear. Tyene sat cross-legged atop a chest, polishing a dagger that did not need polishing.

“North,” she said, twirling the blade. “Where girls are pale and wolves wear crowns.”

“They say the Stark can change their skins,” Nymeria muttered. “Slip into beast-shapes. Vanish into snow. Steal into tents and slit throats before dawn.”

“I heard they howl before they kill,” Ellaria added, smoothing her skirts. “To let the gods know they’re coming.”

“I heard they steal maidens,” Tyene said with mock solemnity. “And take them in the woods, hard and wild, with fangs in their smiles.”

Oberyn raised an eyebrow as he swung into the saddle. “And is that what you want, sweet daughter? To be carried off by a wolf?”

Tyene smiled like a blade. “I want to see if the stories are true.”

“And what stories are those?”

“That Northern men are hung like hounds.”

Ellaria laughed, full and loud. Even Nymeria cracked a grin.

Oberyn leaned in the saddle and kissed Tyene’s forehead. “If we find one worth the trouble, I’ll ask him to show you. For science.”

Tyene winked. “For Dorne.”

The gate creaked open. The sand waited. The wind rose. And Oberyn Martell rode north — with laughter at his back and vengeance in his heart.

Chapter Text

Catelyn

Harrenhal loomed like a black memory from a world that had never known warmth. The towers rose before her — jagged, melted, ruined things clawing at a gray sky. The gates yawned open, flanked by shattered statues and scorched stone. Wind blew through its high halls like breath through a broken flute, thin and mournful.

Catelyn Stark pulled her cloak tighter and rode through the arch with her escort behind her — ten men only, Riverrun men, their armor dull with dust. Even the horses were quiet, as if the castle itself demanded silence.

It was not her first time seeing Harrenhal, but it still unsettled her. Nothing so massive should feel so empty. But even full of men — blacksmiths, healers, soldiers in their thousands — it still felt hollow. As though something had been ripped from it long ago and never returned.

Brienne rode at her side, sword at her hip, eyes watchful beneath the steel of her helm. The maiden knight had followed her from Bitterbridge to Riverrun, her loyalty unwavering.

“They say it was a miracle,” Brienne murmured, her voice low beneath the creak of saddles. “That the Young Wolf’s host stood against the might of the Rock and the Reach—and won.” She paused, thoughtful. “But it wasn’t chance. He drew them in, let them think they had the victory — and then closed the jaws around them. A trap, well-sprung.”

Catelyn gave a thin smile. “A miracle paid for in blood. And with more to come.”

Brienne inclined her head. “Even so, my lady. No one expected it.”

“No,” Catelyn agreed. “Not even the gods, I think.”

She looked back to the black towers rising ahead of them. Victory had come—but at a price they would carry for generations.

Victory hung over the castle like smoke. And so did death. Every courtyard she passed bore signs of it. Hastily-dug trenches filled with the fallen. Broken siege carts stacked like bones. Banners dragged in the mud, some half-burned, others soaked red. A dead horse lay by the well, bloated and stiff.

Men moved everywhere. Bandaged. Limping. Blood-slick and sleep-starved. Boys sharpened rusted swords with hands that trembled. A knight with no arm leaned against a wall, staring at nothing. One man dragged another in a litter with eyes so hollow he might have been carved of wax.

They had won. The North had won. But it had cost them pieces of their flesh. Their strength. Their sons. She saw the fear, even now — behind the pride, behind the songs beginning to stir. The fear that the price paid was not yet enough. That more still might be asked.

Catelyn kept riding. Through the black gate and into the hall of broken kings. To find her son. To find what the gods had left of him.

The hall within Harrenhal’s keep was colder than the wind outside. Black stone absorbed no warmth, and though fires blazed in braziers and torches lined the walls, they gave no comfort. Only light — sharp, flickering, casting long shadows across the chamber where half a dozen lords stood hunched over a massive war table.

None of them noticed her at first. She stood in the archway, her boots silent on the stone. And for a moment, she watched — listened — unseen.

"Strike now, while they bleed!" thundered Rickard Karstark, fist slamming into the table. His thick gray beard bristled like a hedge of iron nails. “We ride to King’s Landing and rip the boy king from his throne.”

"With what men?" asked Wylis Manderly, his voice sonorous and weary. "Half our strength are still recovering from the battle. The ironborn have struck the western coast — Tallhart’s ravaged, Deepwood fallen. We are needed at home."

“We should burn the Dreadfort to ash,” growled Galbart Glover. “Let no man ever speak the name Bolton without spitting after it.”

“They will expect vengeance,” said Ser Marq Piper. “Better we offer peace now, while we hold the cards. Force the crown to kneel — not crush them.”

“And let them recover while we limp back north?” Karstark snapped. “We crushed the lion. Now we gut it.”

Catelyn stepped forward. The torches caught her hair and for a moment none of them spoke. Then Robb turned. He had been quiet at the table, head bent, hand resting near Grey Wind’s fur. But now he looked up — and the weight in his eyes cracked.

“Mother,” he breathed.

She saw him rise from the maps and the bloodstains and the firelight. His face looked older, sharper. Not just with war, but with grief. And yet the boy in him was still there — buried, but not gone.

He crossed the room in three long strides and took her in his arms, and for the first time in moons, she felt the heartbeat of her son.

“My lady,” came the murmured greetings, the shifting of feet. But the lords gave them space.

When he pulled back, there was something raw in his face. Relief. Fear. Resolve. “You came,” he said.

She nodded, her throat tight. “I heard what you did,” she said softly. “What you won. What you lost.”

Robb only looked down at the table. At the map, still stained with wine and soot and blood. “We’re not done losing yet,” he said.

The chamber was warm. That alone felt strange after days of cold stone and colder wind. The hearth crackled gently, logs popping, casting soft firelight across the walls. The great wolfskins that lined the bed rustled faintly — not from breeze, but breath.

Arya lay curled between Lady and Nymeria. Both were quiet now, their flanks rising slow, steady. They did not snarl. Did not bare teeth. They watched her with golden eyes, alert but calm.

Catelyn stood in the doorway a long moment before stepping inside. She had never thought she’d see those wolves again. Not after what happened. And yet here they were — stretched across a blanket, paws twitching as Arya whispered nonsense in her sleep. A faint smile tugged at Catelyn’s mouth.

“She never let them go,” Robb said softly behind her. “Not even in the camp. I thought someone would get mauled. But they seem to understand her better than anyone.”

Catelyn stepped aside to let him pass. He wore no armor now — only a woolen tunic, sleeves rolled, hands still red at the knuckles. He looked younger in firelight. “They’re all that’s left of her pack,” she murmured.

Robb nodded once, then sat by the fire. “The North bleeds.” The words were quiet. Tired. Heavy.

Catelyn moved to sit across from him. “Winterfell still stands,” she said. “Ser Rodrik raised the banners. Drove the ironborn back from the hills.”

Robb’s mouth was a line. “Moat Cailin has fallen,” he said. “Lord Reed is trying to take it back. But the swamps slows him, and the stones hold strong. The ironborn are digging in.”

“We should go help them,” Arya mumbled, voice drowsy but fierce. She sat up between the wolves, hair a wild halo, her cheeks flushed with sleep.

“Aye,” Robb said, offering her a fond look. “And we will.”

Catelyn met his eyes. “What of Sansa?”

He exhaled through his nose. “I plan to make peace. With Lord Tyrion. Or with whoever’s left in the capital. They’ll want peace now — they have to. We’ll use that to bring her home.”

Catelyn nodded, though her hands tightened in her lap.

Robb leaned back, gaze on the flames. “Once Sansa is safe,” he said, “we ride for the Twins. Walder Frey broke his oath — left us to die in silence. That won’t go unanswered.” His tone was flat. Measured. Terrible in its calm. “After that, we retake Moat Cailin. Burn every longship on the shore. The krakens won’t crawl back to sea this time.” He turned his head slightly. “I’ve sent Jon to Seagard with a warband. He’ll prepare the siege. Dig the trenches. We’ll take the Twins together.”

Catelyn said nothing. Her thoughts lingered on Jon — not as the bastard in Winterfell’s shadows, but as a commander now. A brother in truth. Perhaps a son in all but name. She had hated him for things he hadn’t done. Perhaps it was time to let that go. She swallowed. “And the Dreadfort?”

“Roose is dead,” Robb said, voice unreadable. “Killed during the last charge. Roose tried to swing wide. Got caught in the trap. Grey Wind finished what the spears started.”

Catelyn’s brows knit. “No sons.”

“None left. Not that I’ll mourn. I plan to name a new lord. Someone loyal. Someone I trust.”

She almost spoke. Almost told him not to. But the words stuck like thorns in her throat. She already knew who he meant. Knew it before he opened his mouth. And the grief still hanging over the Gods Eye was too thick for fresh fights. So she only nodded.

Robb stood. So did Arya, eyes gleaming. “I’ll take back the North,” he said. “Every stone. Every sword. Every name.”

Catelyn rose slowly, looking from one child to the other. “No,” she said softly. “We’ll take it back together.”

And somewhere behind them, the wolves stirred — not with growls, but with breath.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The field smelled of damp grass, horse piss, and the kind of silence that came before kingdoms shifted. Tyrion Lannister shifted in his saddle and tried not to think about how badly his back hurt. The courser beneath him — squat, steady, with a patch of white above one eye — had been chosen for calm, not elegance. He didn’t need a destrier. He wasn’t here for a tourney or a tilt. This wasn’t that kind of war. Not anymore. He was here to witness its end. Or its next beginning.

The hills around Antlers were green and rolling, but they felt like teeth to him — too many places to hide a blade. They’d picked the spot for neutrality, for absence of banners, but Tyrion had learned long ago that peace was just war with fewer archers.

The white tent atop the ridge fluttered in the breeze. Small. Plain. No sigils, no pride. That, Catelyn Stark had insisted on. No colors. No trumpets. No provocations. Just signatures. Just silence. Gods help us all.

Tyrion glanced over his shoulder. Bronn sat with one leg slung over a saddle, chewing what might have once been food. His sword hung loose at his hip, one hand draped lazily across the hilt — a sellsword’s rest, but not a careless one. Around them, twenty-four gold cloaks kept their formation. Too few to win a fight. Too many to die quiet.

And behind them rolled the heart of it all. A covered cart, oak and ironbound, drawn by a matched pair of sand-colored mules. It creaked beneath the weight of bones. Ned Stark and the men who died with him. Eddard’s shattered retinue pieced together bone by bone, wrapped in silk and ash. There were no songs for them. Just quiet. Just a road.

And a sword — Ice — reforged in memory and spite, now returned to its family. Not sharpened. Not blooded. Just… returned.

Sansa rode near the rear, her face hidden behind a veil, her back straighter than the trees. She hadn’t spoken a word since they left Kings Landing. Not when she saw Jeyne Poole. Not when she learned where they’d found her — in one of Littlefinger’s softer prisons. Not when the treaty was read aloud. Tyrion hadn’t pushed. There was nothing to say. Some truths did not need telling twice.

The maesters rode beside the cart, swaying with the slow rhythm of the road. Ink-stained fingers, gray robes, faces lined like scrolls. Witnesses. Seal-bearers. They’d put their names beside his. History required it. He felt the weight of the parchment in his saddlebag like it was lead. The king’s decree.

King Joffrey Baratheon — First of His Name, Anointed of the Faith, et cetera, et cetera — had signed it in shaking hand, his signature jagged like a wound. A gift. A curse. An end to war. Recognition of the independence of the Kingdom of the North and the Trident.

Tyrion remembered how red Joffrey’s face had turned. How his voice had cracked as he shouted, “They should die! They should all die screaming! Bring me their heads!” He’d thrown a goblet. Struck Ser Boros. Ordered Pycelle to draw up new warrants of execution. Tyrion had watched with a cup of wine in hand and a growing headache. When the king paused to breathe, he had simply said, “You still have your head, don’t you, Your Grace? Let’s not wager it on a second war we cannot win.” A reluctant peace, then. But peace, nonetheless. Until the next war.

A rider galloped over the hill. A scout. He raised his hand. Tyrion squinted into the distance. And there they were. The North had come. Grey direwolves rippling in the wind. Trout banners snapping beside them, the river running red in silk. Stark and Tully, side by side. No southern allies. No borrowed swords. Just vengeance. Just legacy.

Robb Stark rode at the front, and gods, he looked older than the boy Tyrion had last seen at Winterfell. Taller, broader, crowned not just in iron but in grief and fire. His cloak stirred behind him like a stormcloud. His eyes were fixed forward, unreadable. To his left — Catelyn Stark. Her hair streaked with silver, her face carved thinner. But there was steel in her shoulders. This was a woman who had crossed half the realm on hope alone. To his right, Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, old but unbowed. His armor dark, his helm beneath his arm. His gaze swept the land like a hawk’s.

Tyrion felt something tighten behind his ribs. This was no parade. This was not submission. This was a reckoning in wolfskin. He exhaled slowly, his breath a ghost in the summer air. “Gods,” he muttered. “It’s going to be a long day.”

The wolves dismounted in silence. Robb Stark strode forward first — no herald, no trumpet, no fanfare. Just boots on grass and a face carved from stone. The crown upon his brow gleamed dully in the overcast light — iron and antler, simple, heavy. He wore no armor, only a black leather doublet trimmed with grey, but Tyrion saw the sword at his side and the way his hand hovered near the hilt. He didn’t look like a boy anymore. He looked like a king.

Behind him came Catelyn, her hood thrown back now, red hair braided and coiled like a banner lowered in warning. She gave Tyrion a single curt nod — not a greeting, an acknowledgement perhaps. The Blackfish followed close, his gaze flitting over every gold cloak and guard like he was counting exits.

Tyrion slid from the saddle with a grunt. The courser huffed in mild protest, but Bronn caught the reins. Tyrion dusted off his doublet — dark green silk, silver lion embroidery, tastefully modest. For once.

Robb stopped a few paces away. “Tyrion,” he said. Just the name. Nothing more.

Tyrion gave a half-bow. “Your Grace. You’ve grown.”

“I’ve had cause.”

Catelyn stepped forward, her eyes shifting past Tyrion to the cart. “Did you bring them?”

“I did.”

He waved to the guards. Two gold cloaks lifted the cart’s cover. Ice lay across the bones — stark and massive, Valyrian steel dulled by soot and time. A white cloth covered the skeletal remains beneath, but even veiled, they carried weight. Eddard Stark. Hallis Mollen. Others.

Robb’s jaw clenched. “My lord father deserves better than a cart and dirt roads.”

“I agree. But this is Westeros. We seldom get what we deserve.” Robb looked at him sharply. Tyrion met his gaze, steady. “I’m not here to gloat,” Tyrion added. “Nor to beg.”

“You’re here to trade.”

“To conclude,” Tyrion said, and reached into his saddlebag.

The decree was heavier than it should have been — parchment, wax, and centuries of blood. He passed it to Maester Ballabar, who unrolled it with solemn hands and began to read. “In the name of King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name...” The words came slow and formal. Tyrion already knew them by heart.

Catelyn’s eyes flicked toward Sansa, who stood veiled behind Bronn. Her gaze softened — only for a moment — before returning to stone. Robb took the scroll from Ballabar, read it. Then turned to his mother. She nodded once.

Robb looked back to Tyrion. “You spoke for this?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Tyrion hesitated. “Because you and your brother broke the back of the lion. And because your sister deserves to come home.”

Robb said nothing for a long breath. Then, “The crown is accepted. The North and the Riverlands will hold no allegiance to the Iron Throne.”

“And in return,” Tyrion said, “you and your children will press no claim upon the Iron Throne and the south. You will release Ser Jaime at the end of the next year. You will ransom the Reach lords with clemency and good faith.”

“And the Iron Throne will not raise steel against my kingdom for a hundred years,” Robb said. Tyrion inclined his head. Robb glanced toward the cart. “You brought Ice?”

“We did.”

“And the bones?”

“All we could recover.”

“The Gold?”

“The first cart will reach Riverrun in a fortnight”

“And my sister?”

Tyrion turned slightly. “She is yours. And unharmed.” He let the last word hang, a silent acknowledgment of all that had happened before it.

The Blackfish stepped forward. “And Joffrey?”

Tyrion’s lips twitched. “Alive. For now. The demand for his head was... inconvenient.”

Robb’s jaw tightened. “I needed to go north,” he said simply. “The war is not over. The ironborn still hold our shores. Winterfell still bleeds.”

“A wise king knows which battles to leave behind,” Tyrion murmured. Robb did not smile. Then Tyrion asked, “And... my father?”

Robb’s eyes cooled. “If he lives, he will be released. After Ser Jaime.”

Tyrion swallowed. “And if not?”

“Then he dies. A cripple. Alone. That was not my doing.”

The silence that followed was long and brittle. The maesters stepped forward with ink and seal. One scroll passed to Tyrion. Another to Robb. Both men signed. And just like that, three hundred years of fealty ended in ink and silence.

Catelyn stepped toward Sansa, arms open. The girl hesitated — only for a moment — then rushed into them. Tyrion saw the flicker in Robb’s eyes — a long-held breath exhaled. He would not forget. But he would let it lie. For now.

“Bronn,” Tyrion said, without turning, “we’re done here.”

“Aye,” Bronn replied.

As they turned to leave, Tyrion looked once more at the hilltop beyond. The direwolf still flew. The trout still leapt. The wolf had its kingdom now — and the realm would learn to live with that. Or bleed trying.

Chapter Text

Jon

The towers of the Twins loomed across the green fork, squat and spiteful, their stones still wet from last night’s rain. Jon Snow sat astride a dark courser, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other on his thigh. The horse shifted beneath him, impatient, but Jon’s eyes never left the castle walls.

He hated sieges. Hated the waiting, the quiet, the itch of blood that never came. Give him the charge, the clash, the clean draw of steel. Not this—this slow war of attrition and hunger and rot.

The western keep stood resolute, arrow slits watching like suspicious eyes. Smoke curled from the chimneys, faint and oily. Inside, the Freys watched too, counting days, rations, and exits. But they would find no escape now. Because Robb had come from the east.

Brandon Dustin rode up beside him, helm under one arm, horse foaming at the bit. “They’ll yield by sunset,” he said, spitting to the grass. “No point holding one gate when your own blood opens the other.”

“They’re Freys,” Harrion Karstark muttered behind them. “They’ll wait ‘til the last moment. Then they’ll try to bargain for clemency and coin.”

Jon said nothing. He’d learned that in war, silence was often sharper than speech. He’d also learned that men who betrayed once would do it again if you let them. He looked at the stone bridge between the towers — the lifeline. No movement. No flags. Just wind and shadow.

He remembered how they’d gotten here. The Green Fork — his first battle, blood and mud and fire. Tywin Lannister’s host shattered across the river like so many brittle bones. Harrenhal — its halls thick with smoke and lies. The Gods Eye — the Jaws of the Gods Eye, they called it now. Forty thousand wolves against eighty thousand lions and roses. And still, they had won. But not without cost.

Roose Bolton had died on that field. Cut down during Tarly’s desperate last charge, a black banner trampled in the mud. The Freys had fled in the night, four thousand strong, leaving their oaths in the dust. They had not struck from within, as some feared. But betrayal didn’t always need daggers. Sometimes silence was enough.

Jon’s horse shifted again. He patted its neck absently and turned toward the river. The siege had dragged for ten days now. Too long. One tower alone could hold for weeks. But now that Robb had taken the eastern keep — riding hard down the kingsroad while Jon pinned them from the west — the noose had closed. The Twins had always been formidable when whole. Split in half, they were nothing but two broken teeth.

A rider approached — grey cloak, white flag. Jon tensed, but Brandon raised a hand. The envoy stopped ten paces from Jon and bowed low. “My lord Snow,” he said carefully, “Lord Stevron and Ser Perwyn beg safe conduct. They yield the western tower. The King in the North awaits you in the hall.”

Jon nodded once. He turned to the others. “We ride.”

The gates of the western keep groaned open. Jon rode through at a steady pace, Ghost loping beside him, silent as usual. The courtyard was crowded — Northern soldiers thick on the walls and stairs, helms cradled in elbows, swords peace-bound but close to hand. There was no cheer, no banners fluttering in victory. Only watchful eyes, worn boots, and the quiet weight of judgment.

They knew who he was now. Not just Ned Stark’s bastard. Not merely Robb’s brother. But the Lord Commander of the Northern Host. A wolf in truth. Ghost slipped ahead, his padded steps soundless even on stone. He passed beneath the archway and vanished into the long shadows of the hall. Jon dismounted, handed the reins to a waiting boy, and followed.

The hall of the western keep was less grand than its twin, but the weight of the moment made the air thick. Banners hung heavy from the beams — not the lion of Lannister, not the golden twins of House Frey, but stark cloth stitched with direwolf and trout. There were no torches lit, only the filtered gray light of an overcast sky pressing through narrow windows like the breath of winter.

At the dais, Robb sat the high seat — not a throne, but a place of judgment, and it suited him. His cloak of black and gray fur fell heavy from his shoulders, and his face bore the iron stillness of command. Beside him, Grey Wind sprawled like a shadow, eyes half-lidded, ears twitching at every sound. Ghost reached him and stopped. The two direwolves touched noses — wordless and wary — before settling at the foot of the dais like twin sentries of bone and breath.

Jon stepped into the hall and felt the hush take hold. The benches were filled. Lords from every corner of the North and Riverlands sat shoulder to shoulder: Blackwood, Bracken, Mallister, Piper, Karstark, Glover, and more. Ser Brynden stood at Catelyn Stark’s side, his hand never far from his sword.

And at the center — shackled between two grim guards — knelt Walder Frey. The old man looked more vulture than lord. His eyes were sunken, his beard thinned to a brittle yellow that clung to his jaw like frostbitten moss. His lips twisted into something too bitter to be a smile and too proud to be a sneer. On either side of him stood Stevron and Perwyn Frey, stripped of sigils, their hands clasped like sons at a funeral.

Jon stepped beside Brandon Dustin and nodded once to Harrion Karstark. No one whispered. No one moved.

Robb's voice was calm and cold. “You left us.”

Walder’s mouth curled. “I preserved my House.”

“You abandoned your oath.”

“I made no move against you.”

“No,” Robb agreed, his voice steady as a blade unsheathed. “You simply vanished. With four thousand men.” A murmur rippled through the lords. Some spat. Others folded their arms. A few looked away, unwilling to meet the truth head-on.

Perwyn Frey stepped forward, holding a small stack of parchment tied with twine and sealed in black wax. “These were found in our father’s solar,” he said, his voice quiet but clear. “Messages. From Casterly Rock. From King’s Landing.”

Robb took the letters without ceremony. He broke the seals and glanced through them. The lion of House Lannister gleamed faintly beneath his thumb. He passed them to his mother, then to the Blackfish, then to the other lords. Jon caught a glimpse — promises of gold, titles, safety, things men bartered for when their honor was already gone.

Brandon Dustin muttered beside him, “Treachery in ink. He haggled our lives like saltfish.”

The silence held until Walder Frey, ever proud, ever petty, spoke. “What would you have done?” he snapped. “Eighty thousand lions marching for your throat. Your boy king would have lost. Should have lost.”

Jon felt his jaw tighten. Around him, voices bristled — curses, scorn, rising heat. Robb raised a hand. Quiet returned.

“Yet here I sit,” Robb said softly. “Crowned and breathing. And you kneel, in chains.”

“You don’t know what it’s like to rule a house,” Walder hissed. “To weigh sons like coin, to keep your line alive when the whole realm burns!”

“I know what it is to lead men into battle,” Robb said, louder now. “And to bury them after. I know what it means to keep an oath. And to break one.”

Walder scoffed. “You were a boy with banners. You thought songs would save you.”

“I had men who believed in something more than coin.”

The old weasel twisted in his chains to glare at his sons. “Not in me! Not even my own blood!”

Stevron flinched but said nothing. Perwyn stepped forward, his voice clearer now. “We did not agree, Your Grace. But we could not stop him — not then. We tried to hold our swords. That much, at least.”

“You chose,” Robb said. “And your father chose wrong.”

Walder Frey lunged up, his chains clattering like a bell tolling doom. “I did what any lord would do! I did what was necessary! You think you’d be so high and mighty if you were staring down death and ruin?”

“You did what no Stark would do,” Robb said, and his voice cut through the chamber like a cleaver. Silence. Then, Robb stood. Slowly. With the calm of snow falling on a grave. “I name Walder Frey a traitor. And sentence him to death for oath-breaking, treason, and conspiracy with the enemies of the North.”

Gasps. Nods. Wylis Manderly whispered a prayer beneath his breath.

But Robb raised a hand again before the guards moved. “I made a promise,” he said. “A marriage pact. And I will keep it. I will not wear a broken word like a crown.”

Even Jon, who knew his brother well, felt something stir. Wylis Manderly wheezed. “You’d still wed a Frey, Your Grace?”

Robb nodded. “Oaths are not weapons to be discarded when they turn dull. They are chains — and we wear them willingly.”

Walder Frey gave a dry, bitter laugh. “You’re a fool.”

“I am a Stark,” Robb replied.

Perwyn stepped forward again. “Then let me offer my sister Roslin. She’s kind. Loyal. And innocent in all this.”

Robb looked at him, then nodded once. He turned to Stevron. “You stayed when it mattered. I name you Lord of the Crossing, Guardient of the Bridge, you will be the bond between our realms.” Stevron bowed low, grief and pride warring in his eyes.

Walder Frey sagged. The weight of it all seemed to crush what little remained of the man. He said nothing more as the guards took him by the arms and led him from the hall. Jon watched him go. Ghost rose at his side, breath silent and low. Oaths, Jon thought. They do not just bind the dead. They shape the living. And in this hall of old stone and older scars, a new bridge had been built. Blood had soaked its foundations. But at least it stood.

The sun dipped low over the Green Fork, staining the river red as old blood. Robb Stark stood on a stone balcony high atop the eastern tower of the Twins, his cloak caught in the breeze, hair tousled, gaze far and quiet. Below, the river whispered, and on the other side of the bridge, torches were beginning to bloom like stars.

Jon stepped beside him without a word. Ghost padded ahead and lay down by Grey Wind, the two wolves curled near one another like shadow and snow, their bodies still but their eyes alert.

“It’s done,” Jon said at last.

Robb nodded. “Aye.”

They stood together a while, the silence between them filled with the soft sounds of water, wind, and wolves. Then Jon said, “Roslin, was it?”

Robb turned, gave him a sideways look. “Don’t.”

Jon grinned. “I only meant to ask if you plan to smile at your bride before or after you wed her.”

“She’s kind,” Robb muttered.

“And that’s enough to wed?” Jon arched a brow. “You sound like Septon Chayle.”

“She’s kind,” Robb repeated, “and not her father.”

Jon leaned on the stone, the old warmth between them coming back like the edge of spring beneath the snow. “I remember,” he said, “when you swore you’d never marry a girl with a shrill voice or a hooked nose.”

Robb smirked. “And you swore you'd never take a bath if Theon dared you.”

“I was ten.”

“You were always stubborn.”

“So were you.”

They fell quiet again. The wind shifted. A gull cried overhead, wheeling in the pink dusk. Then Robb reached into his cloak. “I meant to give you this before,” he said, and handed Jon a scroll.

Jon hesitated. “What is it?”

“A name.”

Jon took it and unrolled the parchment. He saw the seal first — wax pressed with the direwolf of House Stark. Then the words. Written in the formal, firm hand of Maester Vyman. Witnessed by Galbart Glover, Jon Umber and Maege Mormont. All legal. All binding.

By decree of the King in the North…

He stopped reading. Looked up. Robb’s face was solemn.

“I don’t know if I’ll live to see peace,” he said. “But if I fall, the North must not fall with me. You’re my brother, Jon. In name, in blood, in every way that matters. I want the realm to know it too.”

Jon swallowed. “Robb…”

“It’s yours. If you want it.”

Jon looked down at the parchment again, fingers tightening slightly at the edge. “Jon Stark,” he whispered.

“Of Winterfell,” Robb added. “By name. By right. By choice.”

Jon didn’t speak. But the wind rose again, tugging at their cloaks, and in the dying light of day, two wolves watched the river flow. And the world, ever so slightly, shifted.

Chapter Text

Catelyn

The solar still bore the scars of war. Smoke-darkened beams sagged above the hearth, and a cold draft slipped through the cracks in the stone, ghosting over the tapestries too torn to muffle it. A fire burned low in the grate, but it gave little warmth. Shadows gathered in the corners like forgotten oaths, and everything smelled of damp wool and old ash.

Catelyn sat in the high-backed chair once carved for warmth, now stiff with silence. The room was quiet but for the crackle of flame and the soft, rhythmic sound of fingers on fur.

Sansa sat near the fire, Lady’s grey head cradled in her lap. Her hand moved slowly along the direwolf’s ears, not with affection but with habit. Her eyes were fixed somewhere just beyond the hearth, the way her father's had been when his mind drifted to war.

Across the room, Arya lay half-curled on a cushion, Nymeria stretched beside her like a black-furred shadow. The younger girl looked asleep, but Catelyn knew better. Arya hadn’t slept easily in months.

Robb stood by the narrow window slit, arms crossed, his breath fogging faintly in the chill. Snow had begun to fall again, soft and sparse, just enough to dust the glass and whisper of what was coming.

Catelyn watched them — three of her children in one room, living and breathing, and it felt like standing in a memory she had no right to. It should have been joy. But joy had long since soured into something sharper. Ned should have been here.

Instead, his crown weighed on Robb’s head like a millstone, even when it wasn’t there. Sansa’s eyes no longer held their softness. Arya’s shoulders had learned to carry silence like armor. And she — Catelyn Stark, Lady of Winterfell, daughter of the Riverlands, and mother of a King — had learned what it meant to watch the gods take and take and never give back.

“I suppose he’ll need a new name,” Arya said suddenly, her voice breaking the quiet. “Jon Snow won’t suit him now.”

Robb turned his head slightly, one brow arched.

Arya grinned. “Jon Stark sounds better anyway.”

Catelyn’s hands stilled on her lap. She looked at Sansa, expecting a flicker of disapproval, or even discomfort. But the girl — no, the young woman — kept petting he wolf, her expression unchanged.

So it was Catelyn who answered. “He is Eddard’s blood,” she said softly. “I only wish… the decision had been shared.”

Robb turned fully now, walking toward the center of the room. “I didn’t do it to wound you, Mother.”

“I know,” she said. And that, more than anything, startled her.

She had hated Jon once — not because of who he was, but because of what he reminded her of. But war had changed all of them. Grief had sharpened them. And she had come to understand that love and resentment could live in the same heart without consuming it whole.

“I know,” she repeated. “We’ve all changed.”

Arya scoffed. “Jon earned it. More than half the lords, he won us Harrenhal and the Gods Eye. He is my brother.”

“He’s our brother,” Sansa murmured, voice soft as ash. “He always was.” Lady let out a low sound as if the direwolf felt the weight of the words.

Catelyn folded her hands in her lap. There was no place for bitterness here. Her daughters had grown hard, and her son had grown into a crown. And yet… she had never felt more distant from them. Outside, wind rattled the shutters. Inside, the fire popped.

Robb stepped away from the hearth and pulled a half-frozen map from the table’s edge. “We ride for Moat Cailin within the week. Lord Reed is holding the swamps, but the ironborn are dug in. If they dig deeper, we lose the south.”

“We should go now,” Arya said. “Ride at night. Cut their throats while they snore.”

Robb almost smiled. “Not quite that simple. Moat Cailin’s been holding back armies since before the Andals. It’s a fortress in the mud.”

“They don’t have me,” Arya muttered, she gave a quick glance at Nymeria, “Or a ghost wolf.”

Catelyn smiled and turned toward her daughter. “And what would you do, little one? Slay them in their sleep?”

“If I knew where they were,” she said softly, “Nymeria might show me.” Nymeria stirred beside her, ears twitching.

The door opened then. A courier in black and grey stepped in, face flushed. He held out a sealed scroll without a word. Robb took it. Broke the seal. Read. Catelyn watched his face, and her stomach twisted. His jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened. He folded the parchment slowly, too precisely.

“What is it?” Arya asked.

“Theon,” Robb said. Just the one word, and it rang through the room like a dropped sword.

“What about him?” Sansa asked, her voice tight.

“He’s taken Winterfell.”

The silence that followed felt like it would never end.

“He what?” Arya shouted, springing to her feet.

Robb’s voice was stone. “Rodrik’s letter says he took the castle by treachery. Slit the captain’s throat. Bran and Rickon are hostages.”

Catelyn’s heart clenched. She thought of Bran’s soft voice, Rickon’s wild laughter. Prisoners now — in their own home. They just got Sansa back and now two wolves were prisoners again.

“I’ll kill him,” Arya snarled. “I’ll cut his tongue out.”

“You’ll stand in line,” Robb said darkly. “He dies screaming. That I swear.”

Sansa looked down at her hands. “Winterfell has strong walls. And Theon knows them.”

“Then we tear them down,” Arya said. “Stone by stone.”

Robb turned to her. And in his eyes, she saw the boy he used to be — frightened, furious, lost. She crossed to him, placed her hand on his shoulder.

“We will take it back,” she said.

The direwolves stirred. Wind howled past the shuttered windows. The North remembered. And the pack would not be broken.

Chapter Text

Theon

The wind scraped across the battlements like a knife. Cold. Relentless. It howled through the burned holes in the gatehouse and whistled past the charred remains of the stables, as if mocking him.

Theon Greyjoy stood above the godswood, wrapped in a cloak too fine for the man he had become, too stained for the boy he once was. Below, Winterfell sagged beneath grey skies, its towers blackened by smoke, its courtyards filled with men who no longer trusted him. Or feared him. He should have never come back.

He thought of the day his father summoned them home from the western shores. Pyke had stunk of salt and wet stone, and Theon had returned victorious, or so he thought — with silver in his holds and flames rising behind him. There were still castles to burn, towns to sack, gold to reap from the soft-bellied south.

But Balon had not cared. “The true reaving begins now,” his father had said. “The North is ours.”

Theon had protested. He had pleaded, even. “We’ve taken more in weeks than you did in your last campaign. There’s still glory to be won.” But his words had fallen on cold, barnacled ears.

“You talk like a greenlander,” Balon had spat. “You wear the kraken, but you stink of wolf. You want to please your dead lord with southern tactics and stolen glory? Then go crawl back to his grave.”

And Asha — gods damn her — had only watched, silent as stone.

Later, Balon had barked his prophecy, the wolf boy would lose. “Eighty thousand swords,” he said, “against a pup and his broken bannermen. He cannot win.”

But Robb had won. Robb had shattered Tywin at the Gods Eye, marched south like a storm, and now he was returning — returning with ten thousand howling wolves at his back, and Theon’s head in his sights.

What am I now? A prince? A traitor? A Greyjoy? A Stark?

He had wanted so badly to be something. To belong. In the halls of Winterfell, he had dreamed of being Ned Stark’s son — riding beside Robb, teasing Jon in the yard, guarding Bran from danger. But he had never been a Stark. He’d only worn their colors. And now, in kraken black, he wasn’t Greyjoy either.

He looked down at the soot-streaked stones of the castle. This was his now. His prize. His shame. The boys were gone. Bran and Rickon — vanished in the night, slipping like ghosts through cracks he hadn’t seen. He had hunted them, turned the woods inside out. And when Reek came — that stinking, smiling man — with his whispering voice and eyes too wide, he had given Theon a plan.

“Fake it,” Reek had said. “Kill two peasants, burn them good. Say they’re the wolves. Say you did it. Say you’re strong.”

So he did. He burned their bodies, tarred their small limbs, nailed them to the gates like trophies. And still he hadn’t slept since.

“They’ll believe it,” Reek had said, grinning. “You’ll be feared. You’ll be prince.”

Prince of ash, Theon thought bitterly. Prince of soot and lies.

He had named himself Prince of Winterfell. Declared it with fire and steel. Sent letters, sharpened words into blades. And Asha had come. Not with reinforcements, but with laughter. “You should leave,” she said after a glance at the walls. “Before the wolves come.”

He had laughed in her face. He couldn't leave. Not now. Not after the boys. Not after the banners. Not after he had claimed something. Even if it was only this dying castle and the ghosts in its halls.

Moat Cailin still holds, he reminded himself. The chokepoint was theirs. The North was vast. Time was on his side. But now Ser Rodrik was outside the gates. Theon could see the tents from the walls — banners rippling, men gathering. The siege had begun.

Reek had offered to ride. To gather men. “My friends will come,” he’d said, eyes glinting. “Strong men. Cutthroats. Reavers. They’ll fight for you.”

And Theon had let him go. Now his fate rested on a man who stank of death and secrets. Theon pressed his hands to the cold stone, watching the ravens circle above the keep. One feathered spiral after another, like omens carved into the sky. He had wanted to be a Stark. He had wanted to be a Greyjoy. He had wanted to be someone. But now he was only Theon. And Theon was alone.

The sky was dull iron when Maester Luwin came to him. The old man climbed the steps with effort, his robes heavy with the weight of years and ash. He stood in the broken solar doorway, quiet as snow, and watched Theon as he brooded beside the empty hearth.

“They’re coming,” Luwin said.

“I know.”

“I mean your reckoning.”

Theon didn’t look at him. “I held Winterfell.”

“You burned two boys and nailed them to the gates. You held fear. Not the castle.”

“They believed it.”

“They pitied it.”

That made Theon turn. “You think I should have done nothing?”

“I think you had a choice,” Luwin said, stepping inside. “And you still do.”

Theon scoffed. “A choice? What choice? To crawl back to the Iron Islands and beg for scraps from the father who sent me to die here? Or stay and be hanged when Robb breaks through the walls?”

Luwin’s face was unreadable. “There is the Wall.” That silenced him.

“The Wall?” Theon said after a moment. “You’d have me wear black?”

“I would have you live.” Luwin's voice was soft. “If you go now — alone, unarmed, ask for the Wall — Ser Rodrik might grant it. I’ve known him long enough. He’s stern, but not cruel.”

“And Robb?” Theon asked, bitter. “Will he spare me?”

Luwin hesitated. “He is his father’s son. He might spare you. Once. If you ask.”

Theon stood and paced. His fingers twitched at his side. “They’re wolves, Maester. Jon and Robb. They broke Tywin Lannister — crushed him like a beetle at the Gods eye. I saw the bones on the banks of the red fork at Riverrun. And now they’re marching home.”

“Then you know how this ends,” Luwin said. “Moat Cailin cannot stop them forever. They will find a way. They always do.”

Theon ran a hand through his hair. “I did what I had to. I proved I was a Greyjoy.”

“You proved you were afraid.” The words struck like a slap. Luwin rarely raised his voice. He didn’t now. But the words landed harder than steel. “I raised you here,” he said, gentler. “Not as a Stark, perhaps. But not as this. You don’t have to die this way.”

Theon sat again. He didn’t speak. When the horns blew, it was Reek they announced. The gates creaked open as Theon stood atop the battlements. Below, the twisted little man rode in at the head of two dozen mounted riders — hard-eyed men in rusted mail, carrying spears and cudgels. Behind them came a wagon of supplies and a black banner that bore no sigil.

Reek grinned as he dismounted. “They’re with me. Cutthroats, aye. But loyal. To you.”

Theon felt something twist in his gut. He wanted to believe it. Gods, he needed to. He turned to the gate captain. “Open it.”

The gates groaned wide. The riders filed in. Reek was the last through — grinning, bowing low.

And then came Ser Rodrik.

He stepped from the wagon’s side, armor clinking, his beard unbraided and silver as snow. Behind him poured Northmen — a score, then two, weapons drawn.

Theon's voice caught in his throat. He reached for his sword — too late. Steel rang. Screams echoed. His men fell fast. Two turned to run. An arrow dropped one. Reek stood beside Rodrik now, wiping a dagger clean.

“You—” Theon breathed.

“I lied,” Reek said, too brightly. “It’s what bastards do.”

Theon staggered back. Guards seized him. Rodrik’s hand closed over his shoulder like a vice. “By order of the King in the North, I take you into custody. For treason, murder... and for your soul, I hope.”

Theon looked to Luwin at the steps — but the old man had turned his face away. No one spoke for him now. And as they dragged him through Winterfell’s gates, past the burnt bones of the boys he’d claimed as wolves, Theon Greyjoy thought only of one thing.

He should have gone to the Wall.

Chapter Text

Jon

The road to Winterfell was quiet. Too quiet. Snow had begun to fall again — thin and sparse, like the North was holding its breath. Jon rode at the head of his column, Ghost padding beside him, white fur nearly blending with the frost. The direwolf’s ears twitched now and then, catching sounds Jon couldn’t hear, but otherwise, he was still. So much had happened. And too fast.

He remembered the fall of Moat Cailin. The way the marshes bled Ironborn for days, their bodies washing up like driftwood, torn by reeds and poisoned by bogs. The Crannogmen had been relentless — spears in the mist, traps beneath still water, frog-skin ghosts who never spoke but always killed. By the time Robb’s host emerged from the south and Ser Rodrik’s banners crested the northern ridge, the ironborn had begun waving their shirts in surrender. Not one wanted to die for a lost cause. They had asked only one thing, “Let us go home.”

And Robb had let them. Lord of war though he was, Robb Stark kept his word — even to beaten foes. Jon remembered standing beside him as the last of the krakens marched out, heads lowered, backs straight.

“What of your prince?” Robb had asked one grizzled sergeant.

The man spat in the dirt. “He’s no prince of ours.”

They left without looking back. Jon wasn’t sure what Theon had expected — a crown, perhaps. Loyalty. Love. He had found none of it.

A few leagues later, they had met Ser Rodrik’s host, old men and green boys, battered shields, proud eyes. And with them — the news that made Lady Stark drop to her knees in relief.

“Bran and Rickon are safe,” Ser Rodrik had said, voice thick with dust and weariness. “They hid in the crypts with the Reed children. Maester Luwin kept them fed. The wildling girl, too.”

Arya had clutched her mother’s hand tight. Sansa had turned her face to the side, silent, blinking fast. Jon had only nodded. Relief sat heavy in his chest, like a weight too long carried being slowly let down.

Now, as they neared Winterfell’s gates, the tension returned. He had seen Lord Reed speak in hushed tones with William Dustin and Walder Snow. Always quiet, always watching. There was something unreadable in his gaze, like he knew things no one else did. He walked like a man used to moving through secrets — and Jon didn’t like it.

Ghost bared his teeth. Jon placed a hand on his head, calming him. The blackened roofs of Winterfell loomed ahead now, half-ruined, half-frozen, but still standing. Home. And within, Theon Greyjoy waited for judgment. Jon closed his eyes a moment and let the snow touch his lashes. The pack was home. And wolves remembered.

The hall was cold despite the fire. Theon Greyjoy stood in chains before the high seat of Winterfell, gaunt and pale, his hair tangled, lips dry. He looked nothing like the proud boy who had laughed too loud and smiled too wide. Just a man now. A broken one.

And Robb — Robb had not spoken. He sat on the seat where Lord Stark once ruled, where his father had given justice with a word. But this was different. This was not justice handed down to a stranger or a traitor. This was Theon. Theon who had sparred with Robb in the yard. Who had hunted with them in the Wolfswood. Theon who had drunk sour wine at Riverrun and shouted Robb’s name when he gain his crown.

And now...

Jon could see the crack in his brother’s mask — just behind the calm, just beneath the crown. The hurt was there. Not fury. Not rage. Hurt.

“Theon of House Greyjoy,” Robb said at last. His voice rang clear. “You stand accused of treason, murder, and false kingship. You took Winterfell by force. You burned children in the yard and claimed yourself Prince of the North. Do you deny it?” Theon said nothing.

Robb stood. “You betrayed the North.” Still silence. “You betrayed me.” He took a step down from the dais, then another, until he was just above the stone floor. “We could have been brothers,” Robb said, voice low now. “Real brothers. Did you know that? You could have truly been one of us. My brother. Not in name only.”

Theon’s head lifted. “We were never brothers,” he said. Jon stiffened. Theon's voice was raw, scraped thin from cold and guilt. “I was a hostage, Robb. A prince in a wolf’s den. You all smiled, but your banners were not mine. My songs were not yours. Your gods weren’t mine. You think I had a choice?” He barked a bitter laugh. “My father spat when he looked at me. Called me greenlander. Said I smelled of wolves. Said I was soft.” He looked at his own hands. They were trembling. “I took Winterfell to prove something. To show him I was still ironborn. Still his son.”

“And what did it earn you?” Robb asked. His voice was harder now. “What did it bring you, Theon?” Theon didn’t answer.

Then quietly he said, “My real father lost his head in King’s Landing.”

Silence rippled through the hall. Even Ghost stood still. Robb looked at him. For a long, long time. Then he turned back to the dais. He climbed each step with the weight of a king.

“I should have you hanged,” he said. “Flayed. Cut apart. There are lords here who would beg me for the honor.” Theon bowed his head. “But I won’t,” Robb said. “You will go to the Wall.” A murmur ran through the chamber. “To serve in black. Where your name means nothing. Where your past means less. Let the old gods judge you there, if they still watch at all.”

He looked to Jon. Jon gave a slight nod. Not of approval. Not forgiveness. But understanding. Theon dropped to his knees, not in supplication — just collapsed. Like something in him had broken that was holding him upright.

Robb turned his back on him. “Take him,” he said. And the guards did.

Jon stood to the right of Robb’s high seat now, Ghost at his side, silent as the snow outside. The great hall was cold despite the firelight. Justice had been served today — Theon had been judged, and now this... this man.

Reek, he called himself.

He stood before the court like a damp rag come to life, hunched in patched leathers and boots too large for his feet. He kept his hands folded and his eyes downcast, but there was something slippery about him — the way his shoulders twitched, the way he smiled without his eyes.

Jon had seen men lie before. But this man reeked of something worse than falsehood.

“I did what I had to,” Reek said, his voice scratchy and thin. “The bastard — Ramsay Snow — he made me serve him. Made us all. I had no say. No will. I was just Reek.”

Ghost stirred beside Jon, ears up. Jon’s eyes narrowed.

Robb leaned forward. “And yet you helped us,” he said. “Opened the gates. Betrayed your master.”

“I freed the castle,” Reek said quickly. “Turned on the usurper. I brought you your traitor.”

“You stood by while Lady Hornwood was taken. While she starved,” said Robb, voice low. “You helped Ramsay seize her lands.”

Reek shook his head, fast and jerky. “I was only a servant. Just a rat in the walls. You don’t understand — the bastard was mad. Skinning men alive. Feeding dogs. He’d have done worse to me if I’d said no.”

“And what do you want, then?” Robb asked after a long silence. “A reward?”

Reek bowed. “Only coins. And freedom. No titles. No name. Let Reek be free, Your Grace.”

Jon watched him carefully. The words were right. But the eyes... Those were not the eyes of a frightened servant. They were cold. Alert. Calculating. He thought of Lord Reed — the way he’d gone still when Reek entered the room. The way William Dustin had muttered something and gone quiet.

“Very well,” Robb said at last. “You will have your coins. You will be given your freedom. But if ever you raise arms against the North again or are found within a hundred leagues of House Hornwood’s land, I will send for you myself.”

Reek bowed low. “I am grateful, Your Grace.” But Jon did not believe him.

When they released him, Reek left without looking back. Some said he took a horse. Others swore he vanished into the woods on foot before the sun rose. No one followed. Jon stood there long after the hall emptied, his hand resting on Ghost’s fur.

The wolf was on alert, teeth just barely bared. “I know,” Jon murmured. “There’s something wrong about him.” He looked to the doors Reek had walked through. “But he’s gone now.”

Gone. And that was almost worse than knowing where he’d gone at all.

Snow fell soft and slow through the still air, drifting down like ash. The godswood was quiet, the old heart tree standing sentinel with its red eyes weeping sap into the frozen earth. Jon stood beneath it, Ghost at his side, the direwolf’s head resting on his paws, eyes half-closed but alert.

Robb approached in silence. They didn’t speak at first. No king, no commander — just brothers standing where their father once prayed.

“I forget how quiet this place is,” Robb said.

“It listens more than it speaks.”

The snow drifted. Somewhere deeper in the wood, a raven croaked.

“Bran hardly speaks,” Robb murmured, not looking at him. “He listens. Watches. But it’s like half of him isn’t with us.”

Jon nodded. “He asked me about dreams. Not boy’s dreams, but... things no boy should know. Places he's never been. People he’s never met.”

“He said the roots of the weirwood run deep,” Robb whispered. “And that he can feel them. Feel... things.”

Jon looked down. “He’s changed.”

“We all have.”

The silence held for a long time. Robb gave a tired sigh, then looked toward the weirwood face. “Maester Galbart says Tywin crossed the Neck two days ago. They keep him sedated — the pain’s too much otherwise.”

“He still doesn’t speak?”

“No. Not a word. Just stares. They say he hasn’t blinked in a day.” Robb’s voice lowered. “He’s not a man anymore. Just the memory of one.”

Jon said nothing. There was nothing to say. “And Jaime?”

“In chains. But not like before.” Robb turned, looking out at the snowswept yard beyond the tree branches. “He jokes. Makes light of it. But he watches everything. Every guard. Every shadow. Like he’s waiting for a chance.”

“Will you release him?”

Robb hesitated. “At the end of the year, as agreed. I’ll not break my word. Even if it curdles my gut.”

Jon gave a slow nod. “Honor is the North’s burden.”

“It is.”

Jon glanced toward the carved face of the weirwood. “Have you decided what to do with the Hornwood lands?”

Robb exhaled. “I have.” He rubbed his jaw. “Halys fell at the Green Fork. Daryn was killed before we even reached the Red Fork. The main line’s gone.”

“He fought well,” Jon said quietly. “Halys. Always looked tired. But he never once looked down on me.”

Robb nodded. “He gave everything to the North. That should mean something. I’ll not let his house fade.” Jon looked at him.  “I will legitimize Larence Snow,” Robb said. “He’s Halys’s blood. The boy’s young, but sharp. And loyal. Better a Hornwood in name than another lord swallowing their lands.”

Jon gave a small, approving nod. “It’s the right choice.”

“I hope so,” Robb muttered.

The wind stirred the branches. Ghost lifted his head briefly, ears flicking.

“A raven came from the Twin this morning,” Robb added. “From Lord Stevron.”

Jon turned. “What news?”

“Oberyn Martell is crossing the neck. Three hundred men with him. Sand Snakes among them.”

Jon blinked. “He’s coming here?”

“So it seems.” Robb gave a dry chuckle. “Martells never do anything quietly.”

“What does he want?”

“To look a lion in the eyes, I imagine. Or piss on his grave.”

Jon’s expression darkened. “He’s not the only one.”

A pause. Then Robb’s voice dropped further. “And there’s more. From the Wall.”

Jon stiffened. “From Mormont?”

Robb nodded. “He says their ranging never returned. That wildlings flee from something worse than hunger. Dead things, he wrote. Dead things in the snow.”

Jon felt his breath catch. “He sent a raven to King’s Landing?”

“So he says. But he doubts they’ll listen.”

“Then he’s not wrong.”

They stood in silence, the old gods watching.

“I thought the war was over,” Robb muttered. “But now I wonder... if this was only the beginning.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “The swords sleep, but the dead don’t.”

The snow kept falling. Slowly. Softly. A world turning white.

“Whatever comes,” Robb said, turning to him, “we face it together. Wolves don’t run alone.”

“No,” Jon agreed. “We don’t.”

And they stood, side by side beneath the heart tree, as the wind sighed through Winterfell. The North was theirs. But peace was a brittle thing. And Winter was coming.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The Red Keep was too quiet.

Tyrion Lannister stood by the arched window of the Tower of the Hand, a goblet in one hand, the other resting on the sill. Below him, King’s Landing sprawled like a wounded beast — bloated, sluggish, half-starved. The smoke from a thousand cookfires curled into the sky like dying prayers. The bells had not rung in days, and even the brothels had grown quiet.

Peace had come. So they said. But the city looked more corpse than queen.

He sipped his wine — Arbor red, watered down by necessity. The casks were running low, the Reach wagons fewer every week. Mace Tyrell had limped back to Highgarden, one leg lighter and ten thousand men poorer. He left Garlan in the capital to watch the roses grow — and the lion wither.

“There’s no one left to levy,” Tyrion muttered aloud.

The Lannister host was broken. What men remained were either in the North, bleeding in chains, or too young to hold a spear. Even the Gold Cloaks looked tired — half recruits, half cripples, all bitter.

“If Stannis marches again...” He shook the thought away.

The wedding coffers had been slashed, too — whatever ransom the Tyrells had paid for their highborn lords had clearly not come cheap. Tyrion hadn’t dared to ask. He’d only seen the accounts afterward, columns of red ink and excuses. It left them with barely enough coin for bread, let alone silk and singers.

And Joffrey — gods help them — was growing bolder by the hour. Petty cruelties, sharp laughter, eyes too bright. He struck his cupbearer last night. No one had even gasped.

Tyrion drained the rest of his cup and poured another. “No more levies. No more gold. No more honor,” he said, voice flat. “And still we call it victory.”

He turned from the window. It was going to be a long winter.

The solar smelled of old parchment, bitter wine, and ash. Tyrion sat slouched in a high-backed chair, boots kicked up on a low table, a half-empty goblet in hand. Across from him, Bronn leaned with both feet on the windowsill, chewing something that looked suspiciously like stale gingerbread.

Podrick stood to the side, quiet as ever, ink stains blotting his cuffs, a roll of parchment clutched in one hand.

“The levies are gone,” Tyrion said, swirling his cup. “The gold’s gone. The food’s... well, it’s thinking about leaving.”

“Could always eat the ravens,” Bronn offered, mouth half full. “There’s enough of them flapping about.”

Tyrion gave him a flat look. “Charming. And what will we eat after that? Parchment? We’re flush with decrees these days. Maybe a feast of signatures and failed promises.”

Bronn shrugged. “Better salted than most of the meat in Flea Bottom.”

Tyrion drained his cup and gestured to Podrick. “Tell him.”

Podrick cleared his throat. “The outer garrisons are under-manned. Lord Hallyne says the alchemists are stretched thin — they can’t replenish wildfire stocks without funding. And the grain barges from the Reach... well... they’re fewer.”

“Because we ransomed their lords,” Tyrion said. “Gods know what the old crone had to pay for her son. He’s back in Highgarden now, licking his wounds and counting his losses.”

“And his son’s here,” Bronn said. “The pretty one.”

“Garlan,” Tyrion muttered. “He looks harmless. That’s what worries me.”

The fire crackled.

“And Stannis?” Bronn asked.

“Gone,” Tyrion replied. “Some whisper he’s in Essos, hiring swords. Others say he’s dead. I’m not fool enough to believe either.”

Bronn leaned back. “And your boy king?”

Tyrion sighed. “Joffrey thinks he’s a god now. Screams at his servants. Had two boys flogged for stepping in his shadow. I fear we’re a single poorly-cooked dinner away from regicide.”

“You planning to be the cook?”

Tyrion didn’t smile. “No. But someone is. And sooner or later, the pot will boil over.”

Podrick shuffled. “There was also a raven, my lord. From the Wall. From Lord Commander Mormont.”

Tyrion waved his hand. “Let me guess — dead things in the woods. Corpses walking. Snow falling in summer. Nobody here gives a rat’s arse.”

Bronn snorted, but Tyrion didn’t laugh. He stared at the fire. “And my father?” He finally asked.

Podrick hesitated. “Alive. But... he hasn’t spoken. They say he just stares. The maesters thinks the wound took to his mind.”

Tyrion said nothing.

For a moment, the world seemed to hush — even the fire in the hearth crackled quieter.

So that’s what remained of Tywin Lannister.

The man who ruled Westeros like a storm behind a golden mask. The man who saw men as pieces and houses as towers of stone and pride. The man who burned his enemies and broke his children — all for legacy.

All to carve his name into the bones of history. And now?

He sat in a cold chair behind the walls of Winterfell, blank-eyed and silent, two stumps where once were legs. His great mind — the cold blade that cut kingdoms — dulled, rusted, ruined.

Tyrion imagined him there, breathing but not living. No commands, no judgments, no words left to wound.

Legacy. Tywin had spilled oceans for it. Had built it on cruelty and silence and fear. But what remained now? A grandson so mad he’d choke on his own arrogance. A city on the brink. A daughter bound in a crown of thorns. And a son he never wanted, holding the strings of a dying realm. Was this the legacy?

Tyrion felt a bitter taste rise in the back of his throat. He drank again. It didn’t help.

“I suppose,” he said at last, voice low, “some victories are just quieter than others.”

Bronn raised a brow. “Was that a toast?”

Tyrion didn’t answer. He only stared at the fire and thought of his father — silent, broken, and finally powerless. And in that silence, Tyrion Lannister almost pitied him. Almost

The wine was Dornish, dark and heady, but it tasted like ash on his tongue. Shae lay tangled in the sheets beside him, one bare leg draped over his, her breath soft against his neck. Her fingers idly traced the scar across his brow — the one the Blackwater had gifted him — and for a moment, it was almost easy to believe this room was a world apart. Almost.

"You’re thinking again," she murmured.

"I try not to make a habit of it," Tyrion said. "It’s done me little good."

Shae smiled, that catlike smile she wore when she thought he was being foolish. "You always think when the candles are low. Say something funny. Tell me about the time you made a fool of a Frey."

"I’ve made fools of many Freys," he said. "Though they seem quite capable of doing that on their own."

She laughed softly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Not tonight. There was something brittle in the air, like frost waiting to settle.

"You don't trust me," she said, after a beat.

He looked at her. She was young. Too young. Her laughter too easy. Her arms too soft to hold the weight of what he carried. But she was the only warmth left to him in a city built on cold.

"It’s not that I don’t trust you," he said. "It’s that I trust no one."

"Not even your brother?"

"My brother is in chains, likely praying I don’t bungle things too badly before his return." He sighed. "And my sister? Gods. She smiles like a cat and sharpens her claws on the council table. She’d gut me before breakfast if she thought it might bring her power or peace."

"And your father?"

That made him pause. "My father," Tyrion said slowly, "spent a lifetime building a legacy so vast and heavy it crushed everyone beneath it — including himself. And now he sits in a bed, staring at walls he no longer understands. No legs. No voice. Just... stillness."

Shae said nothing. He hadn’t expected her to.

"He told me once that a Lannister is measured by what he leaves behind," Tyrion murmured. "I wonder, then, what I’ll leave. A burned city? A broken realm? The memory of a fool with a cup in his hand and nothing in his grasp?"

He felt Shae’s hand on his chest, warm and steady. “You have me,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes. He wanted to believe that. Desperately. But even now, part of him wondered, how long until Varys turned her? Or Littlefinger? Or the Tyrells, or the gods, or the wind?

Outside, the bells of the Great Sept tolled the hour. The city breathed, restless and bloated. Tyrion turned his face to Shae’s shoulder and whispered, not to her, but to himself.

"I am not my father. I am not my sister. I am not my house."

He didn’t know if it was a promise. Or a prayer. Just that it was all he had left.

Chapter Text

Stannis

The wind off the Narrow Sea was bitter, sharp as memory. It howled against the jagged cliffs like a beast denied, flaying the stone with salt and chill. Stannis Baratheon stood at the edge, a dark silhouette against the gray horizon, his cloak snapping behind him like the standard of a fallen host. His crownless head was bare. He did not flinch.

Below, the waves clawed at Dragonstone’s teeth — black rock worn smooth by centuries of fury. The sea never stopped. Neither did Stannis.

Behind him, the castle loomed. Towers like talons. Walls like old scars. Dragonstone was a place built by dragons, not men, and it had never learned to forget. It brooded over the shore like a wounded beast — wounded, but not yet dead. Nor was he.

He had tasted war. He had marched beneath the burning heart, sword unsheathed for justice, for vengeance, for claim. He had sailed through smoke and flame and watched half his army die screaming in green fire — wildfire, the Lannisters’ abomination. The Battle of Blackwater had not broken him. But it had peeled the skin from his cause and left only raw, righteous bone.

They said defeat taught more than victory. If so, he was the wisest man in Westeros. But wisdom was ash in the mouth when unheeded. And still — still — he would not bend.

The war had changed. That much was plain. Word had come days ago, borne on salt-crusted parchment and carried by ravens with red wax seals and quills stained with fear.

The battle at the Gods Eye, they called it. Others named it the Jaws. Robb Stark, the boy-king, and his bastard brother, the White Wolf — Jon Snow, now Stark in truth — had torn Tywin Lannister’s grand alliance apart like butchers at a wedding feast. The lion’s host scattered. The lion himself maimed — crushed beneath his own horse, broken and speechless. A husk. His name, once iron, now rusting in the northern rain.

Even wolves had teeth, it seemed. Teeth sharp enough to bite through gold. Stannis turned from the sea. His eyes swept back toward the castle’s ancient stones, but his thoughts were far from them.

The realm was cracking. The Iron Throne sat crooked, held by a mad boy with no armies and no will. Joffrey still wore the crown, but it perched on his head like a borrowed helm — ill-fitting and heavy. The Reach propped him up with silks and honeyed words, but even roses rot when winter comes. The coffers were hollow. The streets restless. The lords were hedging bets again. The true king must act.

Others spoke of ravens from the Wall — warnings of wildlings strange behavior, of cold things stirring in the snow. Monsters out of old tales. Stannis had dismissed them as fever-dreams from the edge of the world.

No birds had reached Dragonstone. No true message. Only smoke. But the silence now gnawed at him. Better men than he had mocked omens before they burned.

The truth stood before him like a sword too heavy to lift: the war for the throne had turned. And he had not won it. Not yet.

His hand curled into a fist. There would be a second war — not of banners and songs, but of survival and reckoning. This time, he would not ride with arrogance or pride. No more wildfire. No more blind faith. No sellsword fleets from across the sea. The gods had proven themselves poor allies.

He would gather strength again, quietly. If he must sail east to find coin, he would. If he must gut Dragonstone to its foundations for iron, he would. If men needed gold, he would pay it. If they needed blood, he would give it. He would find a way. He always did. And when the time came, when the wolves and the lions and the roses were done bleeding each other in their temples and courts, he would return. And burn the throne from beneath them.

He turned from the cliff and walked back toward the keep, his boots cracking salt crusts on the path. The wind followed him like a whip. His footsteps echoed through the stone corridors like war drums in a cave of bones. Behind him, the sea raged. Ahead, the fires waited.

He stood alone at the edge of the war table, fingers curled on the rim like claws. The Painted Table stretched before him like a battlefield frozen in blood. Under flickering candlelight, Westeros gleamed — hills and rivers carved by long-dead hands, mountains cracked with age, coasts worn smooth by time and war.

The wood bore the scars of it. Knife-scores from Robert’s rebellion. Burns from Aegon’s fires, or so the maesters claimed. His own marks ran shallow — not from triumph, but from retreat. The war had not yet written his name deep enough to be remembered.

He stared at the capital. King’s Landing. A red blotch on the belly of the map, more scar than jewel. Even now it mocked him.

“They’re weakened,” said Ser Richard Horpe. His voice was clipped, brisk, like swordplay before dawn. “The lions and roses bled each other dry. They lost most of their levies at the Gods Eye. No Tywin. No shield.”

“And no garrison,” Davos added. The Onion Knight stood across from him, hands clasped behind his back, eyes shadowed with too many truths. “Reports from Gulltown say the capital’s begun hiring sellswords just to keep peace in the streets. Their gold won’t last.”

Stannis did not move. “What of the Reach?”

“Fractured,” Davos said. “The Tarly are finished. Their pride trampled with Randyll Tarly. Highgarden still stands, but Mace Tyrell lost a leg at the Gods Eye. His bannermen whisper. They say the roses are wilting.”

Stannis’s jaw clenched. “And the lion cub?”

“The imp holds the city,” Ser Richard said. “But barely.”

“With smoke and spit,” Stannis muttered. “His father is broken. His king is mad. And his banners are unraveling like old thread.”

“He is still crowned,” Ser Axell Florent said from the shadows. “So long as he wears it—”

“He wears it like a jester’s cap,” Stannis snapped. “The Iron Throne is not won by children or clowns.”

He could feel the silence tighten. None spoke. Then came the whisper of silk. Melisandre moved to his side, her red robes brushing stone like fire kissing flesh. She did not shiver in the cold, nor did her eyes waver.

“Now is the time,” she said. “The lion staggers. The wolf turns north. Only you remain. Only you were chosen.”

Stannis did not look at her. “We failed.”

“You were betrayed,” Melisandre said, voice low as coals in ash. “By wind, by kin, by doubt. But the night is long, and the fire waits. The Lord of Light does not grant second chances lightly—but he grants them.”

The fire in the brazier crackled behind her, casting dancing shadows across the table. Davos said nothing, but Stannis saw his jaw move — grinding thought between the teeth of duty.

Stannis breathed once, deep and steady. “We sail again.”

Ser Axell straightened. “To Storm’s End?”

Stannis’s eyes narrowed to slits. “To King’s Landing.”

Gasps were swallowed, not spoken.

“The city will fall,” he said. “The imp rules a corpse. The boy king sits a throne of dust. I will not be Robert. I will not drink and hunt and leave the realm to rot beneath my name. I will take what is mine. The Iron Throne. Justice. Order.”

Melisandre bowed her head. “As it was written.”

“Send word to the loyal houses,” Stannis told Davos. “Gather what remains. Ships, swords, supplies. Quietly.”

“Stormlords?” Davos asked.

“And the Vale,” Stannis said. “The lions have no claws left. The wolf cubs are licking their wounds. The Reach is scattered. And Dorne will not stop the tide.”

“The Watch?” Davos pressed. “You still mean to answer their call?”

Stannis was quiet a moment. He thought of the ravens that never came. Of cold winds and whispers of cold things waking.

“They called,” he said at last. “And no answer came. I’ve not forgotten.”

“But the throne comes first.”

Melisandre’s eyes gleamed in the firelight. “Then let it burn bright.”

The flames behind her rose high, snapping like banners in the wind. For an instant, they danced in the shape of a crown. Stannis said nothing. His eyes returned to the map. And there — just below his fingers — King’s Landing waited. Silent. Unguarded.

A crown atop a corpse.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The Small Council chamber was colder than it should have been. No fire crackled in the hearth. No wine had been poured. Just cold stone, stale air, and the sour scent of dust, parchment, and barely-contained panic. Morning light spilled through the narrow windows, thin and brittle, casting long shadows across the table — seven chairs, and none truly held.

Tyrion sat in his, fingers steepled beneath his chin, watching the madness unfurl like a bad play in its second act. The players postured. The script had frayed. No one had noticed.

“They’ve landed in the Stormlands,” Varys said smoothly, his voice calm as ever. Hands folded within his voluminous sleeves, expression unreadable. “Sellsails, if the rumors hold true. No banners. No declaration. Just steel... and siege ladders.”

Joffrey scoffed from the Iron Chair’s lesser twin, his legs swinging too fast for a king. “Let them come,” he said. “I’ll flay them and feed them to Ser Ilyn.”

Cersei smiled tightly, lips pulled taut over wine-stained teeth. “Perhaps we should learn who they are first, darling,” she said, like a mother humoring a child.

“They’ve taken Rain House,” rasped Pycelle. His beard trembled as he leaned forward on one elbow, blinking rheumy eyes at a parchment scroll. “And march on Storm’s End. The ravens are sparse, but the tone... there is panic.”

Of course there is, Tyrion thought. There’s always panic when the wolves are too far to bite and the lions too proud to run.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Storm’s End falls, and then what? You’d send riders? Ships? We can barely hold the capital if Stannis returns with fire in his eyes. You want to go ghost-hunting in the south now?”

“They are not phantoms,” said Varys. “If Storm’s End is truly besieged, the Stormlands will rise. They remember their oaths — to Robert, to Renly, even to the Bastard. They will not kneel lightly to foreign swords.”

“We need more than ravens and rumors,” Tyrion snapped. “We need names. Numbers. Proof. If they’ve taken Storm’s End, it was no small force. And it’s not coin they want.”

“They could be Targaryens,” Cersei muttered.

Joffrey blinked. “They’re dead.”

“Some of them,” said Littlefinger, with the faintest smile. “But dragons are hard to kill. And harder to forget.”

Tyrion turned his head. “You sound far too calm for someone who just lost one of the oldest keeps in the realm.”

“I’ve made preparations,” Littlefinger replied, hands spreading like a merchant laying out wares. “If this is a Targaryen remnant, we’ll need allies. The Vale, perhaps.”

“The Vale won’t fight for you,” said Olenna Tyrell from the corner, seated in her high-backed chair, wrapped in green and silver. “They don’t even fight for themselves.”

“Not yet,” Littlefinger said. “But gold flows uphill. Offer them charters, titles, control of their own levies... and young Lord Robert might enjoy being called Protector in truth.”

“You’d bribe them with autonomy?” Tyrion asked, dry.

“It worked for your father.”

Olenna snorted. “And taught every scheming lordling that crowns come cheap, if you’ve a sharp tongue and a deep purse.”

Joffrey had stopped listening. “Let them come,” he said again, petulant. “They’ll kneel, or they’ll burn.”

“And if they call themselves dragons?” Tyrion muttered.

The room fell quiet. Even Cersei’s lips ceased their movement.

For a heartbeat, there was only the creak of old stone and the whisper of flames guttering in the cold hearth.

Varys was the one who broke the silence. “The winds are shifting, my lords,” he said. “And some of us have yet to pick a side.”

Tyrion leaned back, watching the candlelight flicker in his untouched cup of wine. His father was a ruin. His sister ruled with flattery and fear. His enemies were multiplying. His allies vanishing. And his kingdom bled from a hundred cuts — too shallow to kill, but deep enough to scar.

They were losing the realm by inches. And no one seemed to notice but him.

The council had dispersed. One by one, they had filed out, leaving behind only the echoes of their raised voices and the lingering stink of dust, perfume, and tension. Even Pycelle’s robes still seemed to rustle in the air after he’d gone, like the fading smell of rot in a closed room.

Now the chamber was quiet again. Tyrion remained seated at the foot of the table, fingers wrapped around the stem of his goblet, wine swirling like blood at the bottom. The candles were burning low. Shadows danced up the carved walls like wraiths. No one had lit the hearth.

He didn’t move. Just sat there, listening to the silence. It was louder than the argument.

“You’ve gone quiet,” said a voice from the shadows.

Tyrion didn’t look up. “Trying to decide whether to drink the rest of this or dash it against the wall.”

Varys stepped forward, silent as always. “If it’s Dornish red, I’d drink it. Waste not.”

“It’s not,” Tyrion said. “It’s Arbor gold. From the Reach.” He drained it anyway. “Tastes like betrayal.”

Varys smiled faintly and took the seat beside him, hands folded neatly in his lap. “A taxing session.”

“That’s a generous word,” Tyrion said. “I’d call it a parade of peacocks squawking over a burning barn.”

“Poetic.”

“Pity it won’t save us.”

They sat in silence a moment, the weight of the realm pressing down around them. Outside the tower windows, bells tolled for a dying hour — not for war, not yet. But something was coming. Tyrion could feel it.

He set the cup down with a dull thud.

“These rumors,” he said. “Foreign banners in the Stormlands. Ships with no name. Siege ladders. Storm’s End fallen.”

“They are not rumors,” Varys said. “Not anymore. The ravens are late, not absent. And my little birds... they sing in fearful tones. They speak of men with old names and older claims.”

“Do they have dragons?”

“No,” said Varys. “But they don’t need them. Not yet. Not when the kingdom’s held together by moldy parchment and bad wine.”

Tyrion rubbed his temple. “I should’ve expected it. My father always said: ‘When you tear down a house, be sure there’s no dragon sleeping in the cellar.’”

“A wise man.”

“He was crushed by his horse,” Tyrion said flatly. “Wisdom didn’t help him there.”

Varys said nothing.

Tyrion studied him. “You’ve kept quiet in these meetings lately.”

“I speak when I am heard,” said Varys. “And when it matters.”

“And now?”

“Now, it matters.”

Tyrion leaned back, eyes on the flickering candlelight. “What’s your vision, then? What does your web want, Spider?”

Varys folded his hands again. “A realm not ruled by madness, greed, or fire. A realm of peace.”

Tyrion snorted. “Then you’re in the wrong city.”

“I often feel that way.”

They sat again in silence.

“Do you believe it’s them?” Tyrion asked quietly. “The Targaryens?”

Varys’s eyes glittered like wet silk. “No. The girl remains in Essos, chasing peace among corpses and pyramids.”

“And if it isn’t her?”

Varys gave a slight shrug. “Then it is someone else. A sellsword captain, perhaps. A broken lord looking for glory. Westeros breeds rebels the way Dorne breeds sand.”

Tyrion rose, slowly. The wine made his legs ache. “We’re losing the realm, Varys. Not by battles. By inches. By rot. And no one sees it.”

“I see it.”

Tyrion looked at him. “Do you?”

Varys inclined his head.

Tyrion turned for the door. “Then I hope you’re better at sewing than we are at ruling. Because someone will need to stitch the pieces back together.”

“And you?”

Tyrion paused at the threshold.

“I’m just trying to make sure I’m not under the table when it collapses.”

Then he left, cloak swaying behind him like a trailing shadow.

Chapter Text

Aegon

The rains had not stopped in days. They came with the wind off Shipbreaker Bay — hard, relentless, uncaring — and turned the roads to soup and the earth to blood-dark mire. Horses sank fetlock-deep with every step, and boots squelched like dying things. The Stormlands earned their name anew each day.

Mud clung to every hoof and every heel. It caked banners and bent spears, turned tents into sodden graves, and wrapped itself around every man like a second skin. The air stank of wet leather, damp wool, rusting mail, and the slow decay of half-buried things.

The banners hung limp in the rain. Golden. A red griffin on silver. A sunburst drowned in soot. Sigils faded and rain-run, their colors blurred, their majesty dulled. They did not flutter. They hung like ghosts — tired, sagging, familiar with death.

Still, Aegon rode ahead. He wore no crown. No gilded cloak. No silver to mark him. His hood was drawn low, his gloves stiff with old damp, his cloak clinging to his back like a dead thing. He refused the comfort of canvas and velvet. His tent stood behind him, dry and waiting — and empty. He would not be a prince coddled by warmth while men marched through misery.

“Cold?” Ser Rolly Duckfield asked beside him, voice muffled by the downpour. The knight’s grin was half-hidden beneath a mustache that glistened with rain.

“No,” Aegon lied.

He was cold. Bitterly so. But he welcomed it. Cold meant pain, and pain meant truth. Cold reminded him he was alive — not some ghost conjured by whispers, not a story smuggled into men’s minds like contraband. He was flesh. Blood. Bone.

Griffin’s Roost had fallen quickly. No siege. No blood. Just silence, and a gate that creaked open like a sigh. Then came Felwood, and Rain House — each surrender softer than the last. Their banners lowered with trembling hands. Connington had watched it all with quiet triumph, like a man peeling scabs from a long-festering wound.

“They remember Rhaegar,” the old knight had said, not to Aegon, but to the rain. “They’ll follow his son.”

But Aegon was not Rhaegar. Rhaegar had been tall, silver-haired, eyes like dusk, voice like prophecy. He had ridden in white and sung in shadows, loved too deeply and died too soon. The realm remembered him in silken tones — always singing, always sad.

Aegon wore black and blue. His hair had been darkened with ashleaf root and lies. His armor bore no crest. His name remained hidden, even among those who cheered him.

“Not until we have Storm’s End,” Jon Connington had said. Again and again.

“Why not now?” Aegon had asked — once, twice, a dozen times. “Let them see me. Let them know the truth. Let them choose.”

But the answer never changed.

“You cannot claim the crown with empty hands,” Connington said. “Let them see a conqueror first. Not a boy.”

But I am a boy, Aegon thought bitterly. And I am already their king.

He felt the weight of the rain pressing down like the crown he was not yet allowed to wear.

By midday, Storm’s End rose from the horizon like a promise — or a threat. A black colossus crouched above the sea, veiled in mist and salt spray, its towers like the ribs of some ancient beast too proud to die. It did not gleam. It endured. Wind howled past its stone, and still it stood, unbent and unslain.

Even from a league off, Aegon felt its presence. The sight of it pulled at him — like a name half-remembered, or a blade half-drawn. His breath caught in his throat. The rain stung his face.

Jon Connington rode up alongside him, rain slapping off the old knight’s breastplate, cloak trailing like a wound. “We’ll make camp here,” he said. “Out of range of their scorpions. Let the men rest.”

Aegon frowned. “We waste time.”

“We survive,” Connington replied. “That’s strategy.”

There was no humor in his voice. Only weariness. It was always there now — in his voice, in his gait, in the tremor he tried to hide when the chill cut deep. The sickness was behind him, mostly, but not all the way. It clung to him like regret. His eyes were hollow things. Not empty. Haunted.

“I should be at the front,” Aegon said. “With the men.”

“You will be,” Connington answered. “Once it’s time. Not before.”

“You sound like Varys.”

The words left his mouth sharper than he intended. Connington flinched — barely, but Aegon saw it. He turned away without answering, water dripping from his hood.

That night, the storm worsened. Rain fell in sheets, hammering canvas, turning the earth beneath to soup. Thunder cracked like the world splitting open. Men cursed and shifted in their tents, gear rusting in its sheaths. Fires sputtered. Horses screamed into the wind.

Aegon sat alone in his own tent, hunched over a battered wooden table, staring at his hands. They looked strong in the lamplight. Calloused. Scarred. Real. He had led men. Killed. Taken castles. Tasted terror and kept moving. He had buried friends and never cried. He had worn a sword like it meant something. He had lived the life of a soldier. But still he waited. Still he was hidden. Still he was Griff.

He ran a hand through his hair. The roots were pale now — streaks of silver showing beneath the black. The dye wore thin with every storm. Sooner or later, the truth would show. Whether they wanted it to or not.

He rose and crossed the tent. Outside, the rain came down like knives. He pushed back the flap and stepped into it, letting the cold tear through his cloak and wet his skin. Across the field, Storm’s End loomed. Lights danced on the walls — torches, signals, desperate prayers to old gods or new. Aegon tilted his face to the sky.

Let the storm test me, he thought. Let the gods look and see: I am not Rhaegar’s ghost. I am not Varys’s puppet. I am not Jon Connington’s penance.

I am Aegon Targaryen. The wind howled. The rain did not stop. This storm is mine.

Chapter Text

Stannis

Storms gathered over Dragonstone like hounds awaiting command. Black clouds gnawed at the crags above the bay, and the wind howled through broken battlements like the voice of some forgotten god. Outside, the sea crashed and foamed against the stone teeth of the island, a ceaseless roar that matched the war inside Stannis Baratheon’s skull.

The chamber stank of smoke, salt, and old anger. He stood before the Painted Table — the map of Westeros carved in oak and legend — lit only by flickering candles and the hearthfire clawing at the darkness behind him. The light danced on the jagged coastline, the rivers and ridges and mountain spines. Shadows ran like cracks through the land. His land.

His hands were clasped behind his back, rigid as iron bolts. His jaw worked. His mouth was a grim line. He had meant to sail for King’s Landing. He had meant to finish what he began on Blackwater Bay. The city was weak. Its gold was spent. Its men scattered, its Reach allies bleeding. The lion limped. The rose wilted. The Iron Throne lay ripe for the taking, and he had sharpened his will like a blade for it.

And now this. A foreign host, risen from the mist. Ten thousand strong, if the whispers were true. Disciplined ranks. A siege laid without fanfare, without warning. No heralds. No demands. Just silence and steel. Storm’s End, his birthright, stood under siege.

“How many?” he asked, voice flat as slate.

“At least ten thousand,” came Davos’s voice behind him — honest, weather-worn, edged with concern. “No crown banners. No known lords.”

Stannis’s lips curled. “Traitors, then. Or worse.”

“Worse,” said Melisandre.

He turned. She stood near the fire, motionless. A shadow among shadows, wrapped in scarlet silk and flame. Her red hair gleamed like embers. Her eyes were full of smoke and certainty.

“They are not of this realm,” she said. “Not in heart. Not in fire. But they mean to claim it all the same.”

“For whom?” His voice was low, dangerous.

“I do not know,” she said. “But I saw the flames. I saw a storm swallowing a keep. I saw darkness clothed in gold. And I saw you, Stannis Baratheon, standing at its heart.”

Davos cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace... but we can’t let them hold Storm’s End. If we lose it, we lose the storm lords. We lose half the kingdom.”

Stannis said nothing for a moment. He studied the Painted Table. His fingers tapped the coastline — soft, deliberate. He found the carved tower of Storm’s End, jutting from the coast like a defiant jaw. A place that had never fallen, not by siege, not by fire, not even to dragons.

“I am Lord of Storm’s End,” he said. “It was mine before the crown. Mine by right, not by favor. Robert held it for glory. Renly for vanity. But I bled for it. I starved for it. I built it again in fire and stone. I will not see it taken by exiles and sellswords.”

Davos shifted. “So we march?”

Stannis turned, his stare like iron drawn from a forge. “Would you advise otherwise?”

The Onion Knight shook his head. “No, Your Grace. Only... the men are few. I thought the city would be our next move.”

“I did too.”

The fire popped. Shadows swirled behind Melisandre. “There is no victory for you at the Red Keep,” she said. “Not yet. The fire shows only smoke and ruin. But at Storm’s End... there is light.”

Stannis’s voice was low. “You once saw victory at Blackwater.”

“I saw the flames,” she said. “And I read them wrong.”

There was no apology in her. No shame. Only certainty. Stannis stared at her a long moment. Then back to the table. To Storm’s End. To the gold banners flying on his walls.

“And the boy in the capital?” he muttered. “The so-called king?”

Davos gave a bitter chuckle. “He does nothing. No raven. No reply. The crown pretends not to see. Either they think the storm will pass... or they hope it swallows us both.”

“So be it,” Stannis said. “We march to Storm’s End.”

Davos gave a crisp nod. “I’ll send word to the ships. We can sail within three days.”

“No,” Stannis said. “We ride. The fleet stays and guards Dragonstone. If the city falls while we reclaim what’s ours... then let it burn.”

He turned, his cloak snapping like a banner in the wind, and strode for the stair. Behind him, Melisandre whispered into the rising fire, “The night is dark and full of terrors.”

Stannis did not look back. “But so are we,” he said.

Chapter Text

Jon

Winterfell was full again. Not with peace — never that — but with people. Lords and prisoners, maesters and strangers, knights from the Reach and warriors from Dorne. The fires burned through the night and still the halls felt crowded. Jon Stark walked its stone corridors with Ghost at his side, the direwolf’s silent presence more comforting now than ever before.

It should have felt like victory. But all Jon felt was... weight. Tywin Lannister had arrived a fortnight ago. Or what was left of him. He sat in a wheeled chair now, pushed by a silent servant. He spoke no words. Ate only when fed. Maester Luwin had examined him twice and told Robb the truth in the quiet of the solar.

“The wound saved his life,” Luwin had said. “But took his legs. And, I think, his mind.”

Sometimes Tywin stared at nothing. Sometimes he stared at the fire and flinched. Sometimes he simply wept, silently, with no one to see but himself. Jon had watched him once through a cracked door. He’d felt nothing. No joy. No pity. Just... nothing.

Jaime was another story. The Kingslayer came in chains, but smiled like a man in silk. He joked with the guards, winked at the washerwomen, and when Ghost snarled at him once, only laughed.

“Still prettier than your brother,” he said.

He didn’t seem to care about his father’s state. Or if he did, he buried it beneath that same lion’s grin. Jon didn’t know what unnerved him more — Tywin’s silence, or Jaime’s indifference.

And then there was Bran. His little brother was stranger now than he’d ever been — eyes too old, voice too calm, always slipping off with the Reeds. He muttered things in his sleep. Talked about wolves that flew and trees that spoke and a three-eyed crow who waited in the dark. When he’d asked to go north — beyond the Wall — Lady Stark had near shouted her refusal. Robb had been calmer, but no less firm. And still Bran asked. Every day.

Jon wasn’t sure what scared him more — the words, or the feeling that Bran already knew the answer. He pushed the thought aside. Winterfell had other visitors now. More vivid. More alive.

Prince Oberyn Martell had arrived with twenty riders, two wagons of wine, and a tongue sharper than any sword.

He toasted Robb the first night. Then toasted the mountain’s death the second. Then toasted Tywin’s suffering on the third. By the fourth day, he was drinking before the horn blew at sunrise. He thanked Jon personally for Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane.

“I dreamed of strangling them myself,” Oberyn had said, wine-stained and smiling. “But sometimes, fate leaves the knife in better hands.”

Robb had forbidden him from entering Tywin’s chambers. Oberyn entered anyway. Every day. He said nothing. Did nothing. Just stood at the threshold and watched the lion in his chair. And each day, he smiled a little more. It was... unsettling.

Not as unsettling as Tyene. She was bold. Daring. Dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with daggers. At the second feast, she asked him — loud enough for four tables to hear — if “northern men had parts as long as their winters.”

Jon had choked on his wine. Arya had cackled. Sansa had nearly dropped her cup. Since then, Tyene found excuses to find him. In the yard. At the stables. Once in the rookery, where she’d leaned in close enough for Jon to see her breast. He wasn’t sure if she was testing him, or teasing him, or something else entirely. He only knew that she unnerved him more than a blade to the throat.

Arya, at least, adored her. Adored all of them — Obara, Tyene, and Nymeria Sand. She followed them like a shadow, sparred with them each morning and returned to the Great Hall bruised, grinning, and covered in sweat. Nymeria, her direwolf, never left her side. The others called her the “Wild Pup,” though Arya insisted she’d outrun half of them by spring.

Lady Stark tried to stop it. But even she had learned — Arya did what Arya wanted. Jon half suspected the Dornish encouraged it just to see how far they could push propriety. And Arya — well. She had no love for courtesy these days.

Then there was the wedding. Preparations filled every corridor. Maids carried bolts of cloth. Bakers tested new cakes. Ravens flew daily. The Great Hall had been scrubbed twice already, and snow cleared from the godswood path. The bannermen were arriving — Karstark and Glover, Dustin and Mormont, Manderly and Tallhart.

And three days past, the Freys had come. Roslin was not what Jon expected. Quiet. Gentle. Eyes like melted snow and a voice that never rose above a whisper. Not like the rest of them. Not like Walder Frey.

She looked at Robb once and blushed. Looked at Sansa and smiled. Jon had caught Arya watching her, curious and catlike. She said nothing. But she did not snarl either. That, from Arya, was high praise.

And Robb... Robb smiled. Not the tight smile he wore for banners or lords. A true smile. The kind Jon hadn’t seen since the Gods Eye. Winter was not over. But it had paused, if only for a breath. Jon stood in the yard that evening, watching Ghost nose at the snow, and wondered how long it would last.

The godswood of Winterfell had not changed. Snow clung to the ancient branches. The weirwood's red leaves stirred in the wind like bloodied hands, and its face — carved in ages past — wept sap that gleamed like old wounds.

Jon stood among the gathered, cloaked in black and grey, Ghost at his side. Around him, nobles and bannermen watched in stillness. Robb Stark stood beneath the heart tree, crown upon his brow, cloak folded over one arm. Beside him, Roslin Frey — robed in white and pale blue, her cheeks flushed with cold and nerves. She looked smaller beneath the trees, but she did not shake.

Ser Perwyn Frey stepped forward, solemn. “I bring my sister,” he said, voice steady, “to wed beneath the eyes of gods and men.”

Jon had never much cared for ceremony. But something in the stillness made him straighten. Made him listen.

“Who comes before the Old Gods?” asked the voice of Bryden Tully, standing in place of a septon, in place of a maester.

“Robb,” came the answer. “Of House Stark. King in the North and the Trident.”

“And what do you seek?”

“Her hand. Her heart. Her life beside mine.”

“And do you swear, before gods and kin, to hold her, protect her, honor her?”

“I do.”

“And do you swear, before gods and kin, to take him, stand by him, and bear his name?”

Roslin’s voice came next — soft but clear. “I do.”

No kiss. No bells. Just silence, snow, and a wind through the branches.

It was done. They walked back to the hall with banners fluttering behind them and wolves pacing at their sides. Jon glanced at Ghost, who trotted silently beside Nymeria now. Even the direwolves seemed calmer today.

The feast was grand — larger than any since the war began. Long tables overflowed with meat and mead. Bards sang of old heroes and brave wolves. Children danced between the benches while bannermen clapped and shouted toasts. Roslin smiled. Robb laughed. Brandon Dustin challenged Obara Sand to a drinking contest and lost, then insisted on a rematch with spears. Sansa sat beside Lady Stark, dressed in soft grey and blue, laughing quietly with Jeyne Poole and Meera Reed.

Even Jeyne smiled — and Jon could not remember the last time he'd seen that. He looked at her — pale, thin, her wrists still bandaged beneath her sleeves — and remembered how she had come back to them from Baelish’s brothel. Bruised. Quiet.

Lady Stark had not spoken of it much, but the look in her eyes when she saw the girl again had been enough. Jon remembered thinking, maybe we should’ve gone to King’s Landing after all. But war chose its own paths.

At the high table, Oberyn Martell laughed heartily, one hand raised in mid-toast. The sand snakes surrounded him like painted shadows — Tyene and Nymeria whispering into each other’s ears, Obara drinking from a Dornish flagon of her own making.

They listened eagerly as Ser Wendel Manderly described the Jaws of the Gods Eye — how the Northern host split the Lannister forces like firewood, how Robb rode through Tarly’s flank like a storm on horseback. Even the Dornish raised their cups.

“Not bad,” Oberyn said. “For wolves.”

Jon chuckled to himself. That was as close to praise as the Dornish gave.

He was halfway through a cup of mulled wine when she found him. Tyene Sand found him after the third course, when the roast duck had gone cold and the harpists were halfway through a mournful love song. She sat beside him without invitation, skirts rustling like silk in the wind. Her hair was a cascade of pale gold down her back, her smile sly and unhurried.

“You look like a man sentenced to be wed,” she said, plucking a grape from his plate and popping it between her lips.

Jon Stark arched a brow. “I’m not the one who got married today.”

“No,” she agreed. “But you look like someone mourning something. Your virtue, perhaps?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Do all Dornish women speak this way?”

“Only the interesting ones.”

He turned slightly, eyes scanning the hall. Oberyn was deep in laughter, wine in hand, while Nymeria Sand demonstrated a knife trick to Arya under the disapproving eye of Lady Stark. Sansa sat beside Jeyne Poole, their heads close in quiet conversation.

Tyene followed his gaze. “Your sisters,” she said. “I like the wild one. She asked me how many men I’ve killed.”

Jon blinked. “What did you tell her?”

“Only the ones who tried to lie to me.” She grinned. “I think she approved.”

He shook his head and sipped his wine. “You came all this way to flirt with wolves?”

“I came for wine and celebration,” she said. “And perhaps for a wolf.” She leaned closer. “So serious, Lord Stark.”

He looked at her sidelong. “I’m not in the mood for games.”

“Oh, I don’t play games,” she murmured. “I win them.”

That drew the smallest smirk from him. She pounced on it. “There it is. The famous Stark smile. So rare, so fleeting. Like summer in the North.”

“I smile,” he protested.

“When you think no one’s looking,” she countered. “Like joy is something dangerous. Like it might break if you touch it.”

Jon looked away. “You don’t know me.”

“Not yet.” Her voice was soft now, not teasing. “But I’d like to.”

A beat passed. The hall buzzed with cheer, but between them, the air was still.

“Tell me something, Jon Stark,” she said suddenly. “Have you ever bedded a woman?”

He choked on his wine. “That’s not—”

“Oh, gods, it’s a no, isn’t it?” she said, delighted. “You poor, brooding thing.”

“I never said—”

She laughed, low and warm. “What stopped you? Vows? Honor? Cold feet?”

“I don’t want bastards,” he said. Blunt. Quiet.

Tyene’s smile dimmed. She tilted her head, studying him. “So that’s what you think of us.”

He frowned. “I didn’t mean—”

“I was born a bastard,” she said, calm now. “Daughter of a prince and a mother he never married. In Dorne, we do not hide in the shadows. We bear no stain. We are blood, same as any child.”

He didn’t reply.

“We are sand,” she continued, “but we burn just the same. Fire born without crowns.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said at last.

“You rarely do,” she said, and for the first time her voice held no teasing. “That’s your trouble. You try so hard not to offend, you forget to live.”

He met her eyes — not dark grey like his own, but pale as desert skies. There was no mockery in them now. Just heat. Curiosity. A strange, disarming softness.

“I am Jon Stark,” he said, slowly. “Lord Commander of the Northern army. Not some... boy in a brothel.”

“No,” she agreed. “You’re a man. But that doesn’t mean you have to live like a ghost.”

She stood then, her hand brushing his sleeve. “Find me before the music dies,” she said, and walked away with a sway of hips that would have made lesser men chase her on instinct alone.

Jon sat in silence for a long while, the wine forgotten in his hand. Ghost, curled beneath the table, let out a soft whine knowing.

Jon looked down at the direwolf and sighed. “She’s trouble,” he murmured.

Ghost blinked slowly.

“But maybe,” Jon said, standing at last, “we could all use a little trouble.”

And with that, he followed her into the warmth and noise of the feast — into something he didn’t fully understand, but no longer wished to resist.

The morning light slanted through the shutters, pale gold and far too eager. It touched the stone floor first, then the edge of the fur-covered bed, then Jon Stark’s bare shoulder as he stirred. Something warm shifted beside him. He blinked.

Tyene Sand lay sprawled on her stomach, hair tumbling across the pillows, one arm draped lazily across his chest. The sheet barely covered the curve of her hips. She was smiling — not asleep. Just waiting.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said, without opening her eyes.

Jon groaned and sank back into the pillows. “You’re still here.”

“And wounded,” she said, mock-pouting. “I offer you warmth, beauty, and highly skilled affection... and you sound like I stole your horse.”

“You did ride something hard enough,” he muttered.

She opened one eye. “There’s that northern wit.”

He turned to face her properly. “You’re not cold?”

“I’m Dornish,” she said, stretching like a cat. “We burn from within.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “Last night—”

“—Was delightful,” she finished. “Though I confess I’m still curious about something.”

“Oh?”

She propped her chin on his chest. “Where in seven hells did you learn that trick with your tongue, Lord Stark? Because that was not the work of a man untouched by female company.”

He flushed redder than the firelight had ever made him. “I—uh—I didn’t learn it. It just... happened.”

Tyene laughed, low and musical. “Instinct, is it? The direwolf’s true gift.”

“It felt right in the moment,” he mumbled.

“Then may the Old Gods bless your instincts.” She leaned in, brushing her lips over his. “And may they guide your hands next time too.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“You’re learning.”

He chuckled, and this time when she kissed him, he didn’t hesitate. The morning could wait. The war, the crown, the North — all of it could wait. For now, there was only her, warm and wicked and very real in his arms. And for the first time in longer than he could name, Jon Stark didn’t feel alone.

Chapter Text

Walder

The godswood of Winterfell was quiet, save for the wind whispering through the leaves. Snow still clung to the shaded roots, and the weirwood’s red eyes watched without blinking, as if it remembered everything.

Walder stood beneath it with his hands clasped before him. The old scar on his side itched — the one Ser Arthur Dayne had given him at the Tower of Joy. A gift for a life spared. He rubbed it absently when he heard the crunch of boots behind him.

William Dustin came first, broad as ever, his cloak pulled tight against the chill. Lord Reed followed, silent as shadow, his boots barely disturbing the snow. They said nothing at first. No one did, not before the heart tree.

“I still see it,” William said finally, his voice low. “That day. The Dornish steel. The dust in the air. You tackling me out of Dayne’s path like a madman.”

Walder grunted. “Foolish, maybe. But you’re still breathing.”

“He would’ve gutted me,” Dustin admitted. “I know it. I saw the angle of his blade. You took that wound for me.”

Walder shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Didn’t hurt as much as seeing Ned cradling Lyanna.”

Howland Reed bowed his head, the lines around his mouth deepening. “None of us were ready for what waited at the top of that tower. We thought we were there to rescue a sister. Not... witness the end of something ancient.”

“And the beginning of something else,” William said.

Walder nodded slowly. “Brandon. Lyanna. Ned. We failed them all, in different ways. I swore to protect them, and I couldn’t. Not truly.”

“You stood,” William said, setting a hand on his shoulder. “That’s more than most can say.”

“I lived,” Walder said. “But I carried that silence longer than I carried a sword. Some nights I wondered if that was cowardice.”

“No,” Howland said, firm for the first time. “It was duty. Ned asked it of us. We swore to protect the boy, not just from blades, but from crowns.”

Walder turned to face them both, his eyes pale and clear. “And now?”

“Now the realm is broken,” William said. “The dragon queen stirs in the East. The lions are muzzled. Stannis broods in his storms. But Robb...” His voice softened. “Robb is king. And Jon... Jon is more than we ever imagined.”

Walder’s jaw tensed. “He’s my lord. He’s Eddard’s blood. That’s all I’ve ever needed to know.”

“But he deserves more,” Howland said quietly. “He deserves the truth.”

Walder shook his head. “And if it unmoors him? If it turns pride to doubt, loyalty to loss?”

“He’s not a boy anymore,” William said. “You saw him at the Gods Eye. You saw what he did to Tywin’s host.”

“I saw,” Walder said. “I followed him through fire and ruin. I would again. But you’re not talking about swords or battles. You’re talking about names. About crowns. That’s where the poison lies.”

“And still,” Howland murmured, “it is his name. His blood. His burden. And it should be his choice.”

Walder stepped forward, boots crunching snow. “You’ve never spoken of what you saw in that tower, Reed. Not once in sixteen years. Why now?”

Howland met his gaze. “Because I see her in him. Lyanna. In the way he watches before he speaks. In the fire he hides behind those eyes. I see the child she died to save.”

William crossed his arms. “Do you think he’ll believe us?”

“He’ll listen,” Walder said. “Because we’ve never lied to him. And because we’ll tell him together.”

A pause. A gust of wind stirred the red leaves like embers.

Walder looked up at the weirwood. “And if he asks about Rhaegar?”

Howland’s voice was even. “We tell him what we saw. A brother kneeling by a bloodied bed. A sword laid at the foot of a dead woman. And a child born in silence, crying only when Ned took him in his arms.”

“And what we believe?” William asked.

Walder exhaled. “That’s harder. I saw no crown. I saw no love. Only death.”

Howland closed his eyes. “I saw her smile. Just once. Before she gave him to Ned. It was not a smile of fear.”

Walder turned back to the tree. “Then let the old gods bear witness. We swore once, to guard the secret. Now we swear to pass it to him — the son of Lyanna Stark.”

“And Rhaegar Targaryen,” Howland said, low.

“Aye,” William added. “Whether he wants it or not.”

Walder laid his palm on the weirwood’s gnarled trunk, rough and bleeding. The red sap stained his skin like paint.

“Then we do this together. No riddles. No half-truths. When the Dornish leave, we tell him.”

He looked at each of them in turn. “And whatever he becomes after... we follow him still.”

And in the silence that followed, the wind seemed to whisper her name.

Lyanna.

Chapter Text

Jon

The steam curled low over the stones, veiling the hot spring in ghostly tendrils. The cavern walls shimmered with the reflected light of torches, but the warmth came not from fire — it rose from the earth itself, slow and constant, as if Winterfell’s very bones breathed heat.

Jon leaned back against the smooth edge of the pool, arms draped over the stone, his hair damp and curling at the edges. Ghost lay somewhere outside, unwilling to brave the heat. For once, Jon didn’t blame him.

Across from him, Tyene Sand slid into the water like a shadow turned flesh. Her hair was loose, gold turned molten in the steam, her body barely rippling the surface. She moved with that same effortless grace that made her deadly — and utterly unreadable.

“You Northerners,” she said, voice like silk over steel. “Always brooding in caves and crypts. Do you ever warm up?”

Jon arched a brow. “You’re the one who insisted we come here.”

“I was told it was the only place in Winterfell that didn't feel like a tomb,” she said, stretching languidly, the water lapping at her collarbones. “They didn’t mention it was haunted by the ghost of Jon Snow’s sulking.”

He smirked. “I don’t sulk.”

She hummed, unconvinced. “You think too much. About honor. About duty. About blood.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, he let the silence linger a moment, only the soft drip of water echoing off the stone. “Do you ever think about it?” he asked, voice low. “What it meant? Being a bastard?”

Her teasing faded, just a little. “Every day,” she said. “Not because it shamed me. But because it shaped me.”

Jon nodded. “When I was younger, I used to imagine what it would feel like. Having a name. A real one. Not Snow.”

“And now you do.” She glided closer through the steam, eyes fixed on him. “Jon Stark. Lord Commander of the Northern Host. Right hand of a king.”

His mouth twitched. “You make it sound grander than it is.”

“It is grand,” she said, half-laughing. “You are a Stark now. A wolf with a name and a seat at the table. And, I might add, rather fetching when you don’t look like you’ve swallowed a dagger.”

Jon chuckled. “Is that your way of saying I frown too much?”

She tilted her head. “It’s my way of saying I like you better when you smile.”

He looked at her then — really looked. Tyene in the torchlight, her lips damp, eyes bright, every line of her posture lazy and sure. She belonged to sun-drenched sands and warm desert winds, but here she was, burning like a flame beneath the North’s stone skin.

“You smile enough for both of us,” he said, quieter now.

“That’s because I was raised to take what I want before the world can steal it.”

“And what do you want now?” he asked, not quite meaning to.

Her answer was a slow smile, almost wicked, but touched with something gentler. “You.”

She was close enough now that her hand brushed his arm, fingertips trailing water. The steam curled between them like a veil, but he saw the way her gaze dipped to his lips. She reached up, brushed a lock of damp hair from his brow.

“You’re not a bastard anymore,” she murmured. “You’re more than that. More than honor and wolves and war.”

Jon’s breath caught. “I’m still me.”

“Good,” she said. “Because I like that man. The one who stares too long. Who doesn’t know how to flirt but tries anyway. Who fought a lion and didn’t roar about it.”

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t, really. So he kissed her. It was soft at first — uncertain, testing. Her lips were warm, tasted faintly of mint and heat. Then her fingers curled into his hair, and the kiss deepened, and the world fell quiet.

When they parted, she was breathless. “Not bad for a Northern ghost.”

He smirked. “You bring out the worst in me.”

“Hopefully the best too,” she said, and kissed him again, harder this time.

The water steamed around them, forgotten. The stones held their warmth. Her body pressed into his, legs brushing beneath the surface, arms looping around his neck. And for a time, there was nothing but skin and breath and the rustle of water against stone.

When they finally broke apart, limbs tangled beneath the surface, she rested her head against his shoulder, her voice a soft hum. “Tell me something true, Jon Stark.”

He closed his eyes. “I’m happy.”

She laughed — low, genuine, surprised. “Gods,” she said. “You sound almost shocked.”

“I am.”

“Well,” she said, running a hand down his chest, “let’s see if we can make that last a little longer.”

And in the warmth of the hot spring, with her body against his and the ghosts of Winterfell held at bay, Jon let himself believe they could.

The snow had begun to fall again by the time they left the hot springs. Thin flurries danced on the wind, settling like lace along the stone paths. Tyene’s hair clung damp to her shoulders, her cloak wrapped loosely around her as she walked beside Jon through the godswood’s edge, past the steaming vents that gave Winterfell its warmth. Their hands brushed, not quite held. Not quite apart.

“You’ll freeze,” she murmured, glancing sideways.

“I’m used to it,” Jon said. “You’d be colder if you stayed longer.”

“I’ve endured worse,” she replied with a soft smile. “Once, I crossed the Scorchstone barefoot on a dare. My sisters thought I’d blister and cry.”

“Did you?”

“Of course not,” she said, mock-offended. “I only cried after — in the tub, where no one could see.”

Jon huffed a laugh. “You’re braver than I am.”

“I’m prettier too.”

He didn’t deny it. They walked in silence a while, boots crunching snow, breath fogging between them. “Robb means to give me the Dreadfort,” Jon said suddenly.

Tyene blinked, thrown. “The Bolton seat?”

He nodded. “It must have a lord. The land, the bannermen... the people. They need someone they’ll follow. Someone who won’t flay them.”

“You don’t sound thrilled.”

“I’m not,” Jon admitted. “But Robb trusts me. And someone has to rebuild it.”

Tyene tilted her head. “So, you’ll be Lord of the Dreadfort. That’s very grim of you.”

He smiled faintly. “It’s a grim place.”

“Then it suits you.”

They turned past a frost-covered statue, two ravens taking flight at their approach. Jon hesitated, then spoke low. “I want you to come with me.”

Tyene stopped. He didn’t look at her — just kept watching the trees. “To the Dreadfort. To help me... hold it. Make something better of it.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then, gently, “Is that a proposal, Jon Stark?”

He turned. “Maybe.”

She laughed — not mocking, not cruel. A soft, surprised sound that fogged the air between them. “Oh, wolf,” she said, stepping closer. She kissed him, slow and lingering, before pressing her brow to his. “You know I care for you, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t,” he said.

She sighed. “But my place is in Dorne. In the sun. Among snakes and sand, not snow and stone.”

Jon frowned. “You don’t have to—”

She touched his lips, silencing him. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t make this harder.”

He caught her hand, fingers tightening. “Why not? Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because you’re not Jon Snow anymore,” she said, eyes soft and sad. “You’re Jon Stark. That name carries weight now. Walls. Oaths. Alliances.” He said nothing. “If you were still a Snow,” she whispered, “maybe. Maybe we could run east to the Free Cities. Sleep beneath stars, drink firewine, chase pirates on the Summer Sea. But now?” She pulled away, her voice steady but thick. “Now you have a seat. A future. A crown to serve, and a name to live up to.”

“And you don’t want to be part of it?” he asked, too sharp.

Tyene blinked at that, hurt flashing behind her calm. “I’m not a lady, Jon. I’d be a poor mistress of a great house. I’d scandalize your bannermen before the first feast.”

“I don’t care what they—”

“But I do,” she said. “I won’t be a dagger hidden in your furs. Or a chain around your name.”

He looked away. The wind tugged at his cloak. “When do you leave?”

“A week’s time,” she said. “We ride south with my father. Back to the heat. Back to home.”

He swallowed. “So that’s it.”

She reached for him again, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “That’s it.”

He leaned into her hand. Just a moment. Just enough to remember it.

“I’ll miss you,” she whispered.

He nodded. “I’ll try not to.”

She smiled sadly. “Liar.”

They stood like that until the cold began to bite again. Until the godswood loomed nearer and footsteps echoed from beyond.

As she turned to go, she touched his hand once more. “Find someone who fits your world, Jon Stark. Someone who wears furs and speaks soft and knows what fork to use at supper.”

“That’s not you?”

“I’d use the dagger,” she said, grinning faintly. “For the meat and the guests.”

He watched her walk away, gold against white, warmth fading with each step. And for the first time since Robb named him, since the banners bowed and the titles settled on his shoulders, Jon Stark felt the weight of his name not as a gift — but a burden.

Chapter Text

Walder

The Dornish left at dawn. Snow had begun to fall in the grey hour before light, soft and slow, dusting the yard in silence. The banners of House Martell snapped once in the wind, then folded like petals as the last of their company rode out the gates.

Oberyn Martell had been all smiles that morning — wine on his breath, silk on his back, a jest for the guards and a kiss on the hand for Lady Stark. But before he mounted his golden courser, he’d made one final stop. To the crippled lion.

Walder had seen him do it every day. Every gods-damned day. One hour, like clockwork. Oberyn would enter Tywin Lannister’s room without a word, say nothing, do nothing — just watch the man in his chair.

The old lion didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only ate when fed, only shifted when touched. His eyes stared at nothing, his mouth closed, sometimes slightly open, as if halfway through a scream that never came. At night, passing his chamber, you could sometimes hear it — faint sobbing, soft and high, like a child weeping into blankets. That, more than anything, made Oberyn smile.

“The wound had taken his mind,” Maester Luwin said. Left the body, spared the name, hollowed out everything else. With time, Luwin hoped, there might be healing. Walder wasn’t so sure. The lion had been a terror in life — a beast of gold and fire and cold-eyed cruelty. Now, he was a husk in a chair, weeping at shadows.

Walder pitied him. That surprised him more than anything. There’d been a time — not so long ago — when the name Tywin Lannister made even hardened men shift in their saddles. Now, he was the ghost of his own legend. And Oberyn Martell had watched that ghost diminish, day by day, like a man savoring the slow burn of justice.

He’d tipped his head to Walder as he passed that final morning. Said nothing. Just smiled, sharp and satisfied, and rode out into the snow.

Arya had cried. Not loudly. Not childishly. But fiercely — in the tight, furious way of someone who did not know how to say goodbye. She had grown attached to the Sand Snakes, more than anyone expected. Obara’s gruff approval. Nymeria’s sly grins. Tyene’s wicked whispers. They had taken to her like older sisters — sparring with her in the yard, sharing meals in the hall, letting her curl up beside them when Lady Stark was distracted. Now they were gone, and Arya was hollow-eyed, red-nosed, furious.

“I want to go with them,” she’d snapped. “You said I could fight. I fought. Why can’t I go?”

Oberyn had only crouched to her eye level, cupped her cheek, and said, “Maybe. One day.” Then he looked to Robb. “A fosterling, perhaps.”

Walder had to admit — it wasn’t a bad idea. Arya would do well under Dornish suns. They had less use for silk and more for steel. But it wasn’t his decision to make.

Then there was Jon. Tyene Sand had said her farewells with far less fire. No parting speech. No promises. Just a soft stroke down Ghost’s fur, a small smile, a quick kiss on Jon’s cheek. Jon hadn’t moved. Not a word. He just stood there, frozen in more than snow, as the Dornish rode out.

But Walder had seen the ache behind his eyes. The boy might have been a Stark in name now, but in that moment, he looked like Snow again — alone, left behind, a ghost among the living. For a breath, Walder had almost called it off. Maybe tomorrow, he thought. Give the lad a night to grieve. Heal the bruise before pressing the blade.

But the oath had been made. The day the Dornish left, we tell him. And so, it would be tonight. Walder clenched his gloved hand, the old scar beneath the leather twitching like it always did in the cold.

“Tonight,” he muttered, to no one at all.

And the weirwood beyond the yard swayed in the wind, its red leaves whispering like voices buried deep.

The godswood of Winterfell was still. No wind stirred the red leaves tonight. No birds sang. Only the soft hush of snow settling on snow, and the slow creak of age-old boughs bowing beneath their weight. The weirwood loomed ahead, its face carved in sorrow, the eyes weeping red.

Walder stood before it with William Dustin to his right and Howland Reed just behind. All three wore their cloaks, hoods drawn back, their faces bare to the cold and whatever truths would follow.

Footsteps came, steady and measured, boots crunching through the snow. Jon Stark emerged from the trees, his cloak streaked with frost, Ghost a white shadow trailing behind him. His eyes were wary. Tired. Older than a man his age had any right to be.

“You summoned me,” he said, gaze flicking between them.

Walder nodded. “Aye. And we’re sorry for it.”

Jon arched a brow. “That’s a strange way to start.”

“It’s a strange thing we’re about to do,” William said, folding his hands behind his back.

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Is this about the Dreadfort?”

“No,” Walder said. “This is about you.”

Jon’s mouth tensed. “What do you mean?”

Howland Reed stepped forward, silent until now. He held a leather-wrapped satchel in his hands — small, worn with time, tied in dark cord. He set it carefully at the base of the weirwood, like an offering.

“I told you once,” Walder said, voice low, “that I knew your mother.”

Jon’s jaw clenched.

“And I told you,” William added, “that you carried more of her in you than you know.”

Jon said nothing.

“We didn’t speak then because the war still raged,” Walder continued. “You were leading men. Winning battles. The weight of the North rested on your shoulders. It still does.”

“I don’t understand,” Jon said, though his voice was quieter now.

Walder stepped forward, eyes on the boy — no, the man — he’d guarded, fought beside, watched grow. “You were born in Dorne.”

Jon blinked. “What?”

“Not to a camp follower, or a maid in the kitchens, or a tavern girl,” William said gently. “That was a tale your father let the world believe.”

Jon stared at them like they were strangers. “Why would he...?”

“Because the truth was dangerous,” Howland said, his voice like the wind through reeds. “And because Robert Baratheon would have killed you.”

The words fell like snow — soft, but heavy. Jon took a step back. “What truth?”

Walder swallowed. “Your mother’s name... was Lyanna Stark.”

Jon’s breath caught. “No,” he said. “That can’t—”

“She died giving birth to you,” Howland said. “In the Tower of Joy.”

Jon shook his head. “That was my aunt. My father—”

“Your father,” Walder said quietly, “was Rhaegar Targaryen.”

The name struck like thunder. Jon stared at them, face pale, breath steaming in the air. “You’re lying,” he said. “Why would you—why now?”

“We’ve lied before,” William said. “By silence. Not words. And we hated it. Every time we saw you lead. Every time you doubted yourself.”

Walder stepped forward. “We saw it. All of it. We were there, Jon. We climbed that tower with your father. We found Lyanna in a bed soaked with blood, clutching you to her chest. And Rhaegar—”

“—married her,” Howland finished, kneeling now. He opened the satchel. Inside was a scroll, wrapped in oilskin. He unrolled it slowly, reverently.  “The marriage was secret. But witnessed by three men of the Kingsguard: Ser Gerold Hightower. Ser Oswell Whent. Ser Arthur Dayne. They signed this.”

He held it out. Jon didn’t take it. He was breathing harder now, chest rising and falling. “Why would she—why would he—?”

“They loved each other,” Walder said, gently. “Or they believed they did. That’s not for us to judge. But she chose him, Jon. She chose to go. She chose to wed him. She chose to have you.”

“No,” Jon whispered. “No, Eddard Stark was my father.”

“Aye, he was your father — not by blood, but by bond. And he loved you more fiercely than any man ever could.” Howland said

“He lied.”

“He protected,” William said. “For her. For you. For the realm.”

Jon finally took the scroll. His hands trembled as he unrolled it. Three names, scrawled in noble hands. A seal half-faded. A name at the top

Prince Daeron of House Targaryen, of the blood of the dragon and the wolf.

Jon dropped the scroll. The snow took it like a grave. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then: “I’m not a Stark.”

“You are,” Walder said, stepping close. “By blood and by choice. You were raised as one. Named as one. You were Robb’s brother before the name was ever made law. And you are still that.”

“But I’m also...” He couldn’t say it. Not yet.

Howland bent to pick up the scroll, brushing the snow away with a careful hand.

Walder placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “I know it hurts,” he said. “I know it feels like losing yourself. But this was never meant to break you, Jon. Only to free you. From lies. From doubt. From the shadows of a name not yours.”

Jon looked up at the weirwood. At the face carved in pain. At the red sap like blood frozen in tears. “They all lied,” he whispered.

“No,” Walder said. “They loved.”

And for a moment, none of them spoke. He backed away a step, then another. His breath came sharp, uneven. Ghost rose at his side, ears flattening with unease.

“All this time,” Jon said. “You knew. You all knew.” Walder opened his mouth, but Jon’s voice rose — brittle and raw. “And no one thought to tell me until now? After everything? After the war, after Tywin, after—” He choked. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

William Dustin stepped forward. “You’re supposed to live.”

Jon rounded on him. “As what? A dragon? A prince? A mistake? You tell me I’m the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, of the blood of the dragon — but I’ve never seen a dragon. Never spoken Valyrian. I don’t know their gods. Their songs. I don’t know them.”  He clenched his fists. “All my life, I was a Snow. A bastard. And I made peace with that. I earned my place. I bled for it. And now—” His voice cracked. “Now I’m nothing. Not a Stark. Not a Snow. Just... a ghost in someone else’s name.”

His knees buckled slightly, and he sank against the base of the weirwood, snow catching in his hair. “All my blood’s dead,” he said. “Rhaegar. Lyanna. Even Aerys. Dead and burned. And I—” He couldn’t finish. Ghost pressed close, whining low.

William looked away, jaw tight. “There are rumors,” he said after a moment, voice gruff. “From beyond the sea. About a girl.”

Jon looked up, blinking. “What girl?”

William shrugged. “A princess. Last of the line. Daenerys Targaryen. They say she crossed the red wastes with dragons at her back. Fire made flesh. They say she burned slave cities to the ground and walks unburnt through flame.”

Jon stared. “So that’s it?” he said. “You tell me my bloodline is ash and legend, and now I have to cross the whole of Essos just to meet kin I’ve never known?”

“No,” Howland said gently. “You don’t have to do anything.” Jon didn’t answer. The snow fell heavier now. It dusted the shoulders of his cloak, the crown of Ghost’s head, the folds of the weirwood’s face. “There is another,” Howland said after a pause. Jon looked up. “Maester Aemon,” the crannogman said. “At Castle Black. You met him, right?”

Jon didn’t answer, didn’t speak for a long time. He stared at the scroll in his hands as if it might vanish. Snow clung to his lashes. Ghost stood silent beside him, muscles tight, tail low. Even the direwolf seemed uncertain now.

Walder had seen men break before. In battle. In grief. But this was different. Not a shattering — a hollowing. Like the truth had scooped something clean from Jon’s chest and left the rest standing. He turned away from them then — from the weirwood, from the truth, from all of it. His steps were heavy in the snow. Slow.

“We should’ve told him sooner,” William said, voice rough.

“He wasn’t ready,” Walder murmured. “Maybe he still isn’t.”

Jon stopped a few paces off, staring into the white stillness of the godswood. His shoulders rose and fell with shallow breaths. Not shaking. Just... quiet. Walder stepped toward him but didn’t speak.

Then Jon asked — not to them, not even aloud, really. Just to the trees. “What am I now?” Walder didn’t answer. Neither did the gods.

Chapter Text

Arya

The Dornish were gone. They’d ridden out at sunrise, banners furled tight, laughter on the wind. The scent of their passage clung to the stones — spiced wine, warm leather, orange blossom oil. Arya had watched from the highest tower, the cold biting through her cloak. She didn’t feel it. Not then.

Obara had saluted her with her spear across her back — the farewell of warriors. Nymeria Sand had flipped her a coin, bold and grinning. “For the next man who underestimates you, Little Fang.” Tyene had kissed her cheek, her breath warm and sweet with honeyed wine. “Be fierce, wild pup,” she whispered. Then they were gone. Even Nymeria and Lady had watched, ears twitching. Nymeria’s tail thumped once. Lady only blinked, solemn and still.

Arya stayed long after the last hoot of a Dornish horn faded through the trees. She waited until snow covered the hoofprints in the yard and the smell of sun and citrus was drowned by ash and pine. She didn’t cry. Not there. Not where anyone could see.

She went to the godswood and screamed. It wasn’t just that they had left. It was what they left behind. For three moons, she had belonged. Obara taught her to fight dirty — to bite and roll and aim for soft spots. Nymeria Sand showed her how to read a lie by the twitch of a lip. Tyene... Tyene made her laugh like Sansa never could. She ate at their fire, trained with their blades, curled beside them when the nights got cold and the great hall felt too big.

They had called her sister. Not Princess. Not Lady Stark. Just Arya. She kicked at the snow-crusted roots beneath the weirwood, teeth clenched. “I should’ve gone with them,” she muttered. She knew what Jon would say — “Don’t be foolish.” Or “Your mother would never allow it.” But Jon didn’t speak much anymore. Not to her. Not to anyone, really.

He had changed since they returned. Since the Dornish arrived. Since Tyene left. Colder now. Like wind off the Wall, sharp and hollow. He walked with a purpose that didn’t reach his eyes. Sometimes he looked at Ghost like the wolf might answer some question no one else could hear.

She’d asked him once if he missed Tyene. He hadn’t answered. Just stared at the edge of the woods like he could see something through the trees. Something not meant for her. “You’re not the only one who lost people,” she snapped, her voice breaking before she could stop it.

He had turned then, slow and tired, and for the first time in moons she saw something in his face that scared her more than fury ever could. He looked... haunted. And then he walked away. She hadn't followed.

Bran was stranger still. He lingered in the library now, or near the ravens. He spoke less, and when he did it was in half-words, murmured riddles Arya couldn’t quite catch. He talked to Jojen in whispers, to Meera in stares, and at night she heard him mumbling through the walls. Not in sleep. Not in dreams. Names. Rivers. Trees. Stars. He’d told their mother he wanted to go North.

“You’re not strong enough,” Lady Stark said, hands trembling as she poured the tea.

“I’m not a boy anymore,” Bran had replied. “I see things.”

When Arya had asked what things, he only smiled. “Wolves,” he said. “And wings.”

Wolves. She could see wolves too.

Arya didn’t tell anyone her secret. She could do it now. Slip into Nymeria like stepping through smoke.

It was easier than before. Almost natural. She only had to close her eyes, breathe slow, and let go. Sometimes it started with a scent — the pull of rabbit blood on snow. Sometimes it started with sound — wind on the pines, a distant howl. But when it happened, it was like waking up from the wrong life into the right one.

She felt the earth with her paws. The cold didn’t bite; it kissed. The dark wasn’t frightening; it belonged to her. Her nose told stories: of deer bedding down, of foxes circling, of men passing by with fear in their sweat. And the pack. Her pack.

The old scarred male with the torn ear. The three-legged bitch who hunted like wind. The silent, shadow-furred twins who always flanked her in the chase. Dozens more — lean, hungry, fierce. And all of them hers.

They watched her. Followed her. Obeyed her. She could feel them even now, faint in the back of her mind like embers under ash. Waiting. Every night she ran with them. Hunted with them. Ruled them.

And when she slipped back — into her bed, her skin, her too-small life — her heart thundered with the echo of a howl. She never told anyone. Not even Jon. It was her secret. Her strength.

Sansa wouldn’t understand. Sansa still wore gloves indoors and brushed her hair a hundred times before bed. Sansa smelled like soap and patience. Sansa asked her once if she missed embroidery. Embroidery. Sansa had never killed. Had never bled for anything. Sansa was silk. Arya was fang.

Jon, maybe. He was quieter now. Wilder. There were days she thought he might know. But he never looked at her quite the right way. He had his own ghosts.

Bran, maybe. With his dreams and riddles and crow-eyed stares. He might be like her too. Might be something more.

But Rickon was still too small. And Robb... Robb had Grey Wind, but Arya knew he couldn’t see through him not like her with Nymeria.

Only she could do it like this. And she was proud of it. When the keep slept and the fires died low, Arya Stark closed her eyes and vanished.

Chapter Text

Robb

The snows had thickened over Winterfell. Each morning the paths grew slower to clear, each breath of wind colder in the bones. The fires burned longer in the halls now, and smoke hung low in the rafters like ghosts refusing to leave. Robb Stark walked through it all with a crown on his head and silence trailing behind him.

Three days since the Dornish rode south. Three days since Jon changed. He still rose before the sun, still oversaw the drills, still nodded to the guards and sparred in the yard. But something in him was missing — not lost like a blade misplaced in the snow, but deliberately put away, tucked somewhere deep and out of reach. He’d always been the quiet one. That was no surprise. But this quiet was heavier. Not patience or thoughtfulness — absence.

Even Arya had noticed. “He’s broken,” she’d said the day before, sitting cross-legged on a table in the great hall, Nymeria sprawled at her feet. “Like a wheel with no spoke.”

“He’s grieving,” Robb had replied.

Arya had just looked at him. “But for what?”

Now, Robb sat by the fire in the solar, boots still dusted with snow, a cup of wine in his hand and Roslin curled beside him on the couch. Her head rested against his shoulder, warm and still damp from her bath, strands of pale hair curling at her neck. Her fingers traced idle lines over the back of his hand as the fire cracked and sighed.

“He smiled once,” she said softly, breaking the silence. “When Arya dropped that bowl yesterday and blamed it on Ghost.”

Robb snorted. “It was Ghost.”

“Still,” she said. “It was faint. Like smiling hurt more than staying quiet.”

Robb looked into the fire. “He eats less. Sleeps less. I found him in the godswood past midnight two nights ago. Didn’t even turn when I called his name.”

“He’s grieving too,” Roslin said gently. “But not just for the Dornish girl.”

Robb turned toward her. “You think it’s Tyene?”

“She was... radiant,” she said carefully. “The way fire is radiant, or a blade drawn too quickly. I don’t know what they were. But I think she saw him — truly. That matters, for someone like Jon.”

“He’s been seen before.”

Roslin looked up at him. “Has he? Fully?”

He didn’t answer that. Outside, a wind howled past the shutters, and snow brushed the stone like ash shaken from the sky. In the corner, a hound thumped its tail in its sleep. Somewhere beneath them, a bard played a slow, sorrowful tune on a lute — almost drowned out by the creak of timbers and Winterfell’s sighing bones.

“He’s been quiet with me too,” Robb said finally. “He nodded when we passed in the yard. But didn’t speak.”

“He’s not angry?”

“No. Not cold either. Just... elsewhere.”

Roslin tucked her feet beneath her. “Arya asked Meera if she thought Jon had been cursed. Like some crannog sickness.”

Robb smiled faintly. “Did Meera answer?”

“She said no. Then Arya asked me, and I told her heartbreak doesn’t show on the skin.”

“She looked satisfied with that?”

“She told me I wasn’t as soft as I looked. Then ran off with Nymeria.”

Robb chuckled, then leaned his head against Roslin’s, breathing in the faint scent of lavender and soap. “You’ve grown comfortable here,” he murmured. “In the North.”

“It's colder than the Twins,” she said, “but warmer where it matters.”

He turned to look at her — truly look — and in the flicker of firelight, with her wrapped in a fur-lined robe and worry in her eyes for his brother, Robb Stark realized he was no longer waiting for happiness. He was in it.

“I’m glad I married you,” he said.

Roslin blinked, then blushed, her lips quirking. “I’m glad too.”

“You didn’t seem so certain at the wedding.”

“I thought you’d bolt.”

“I thought you would.”

“I was terrified,” she confessed. “But you held my hand.”

“I didn’t let go.”

She smiled, then grew serious. “You’re worried about him.” He nodded. “I think,” she said, choosing her words slowly, “that he feels like the world changed and no one told him how.”

Robb exhaled. “He’s not alone in that.”

“True. But you have the crown, and a queen, and a war you’ve already won. What does Jon have, Robb? A new name, perhaps. But maybe... that’s what made it worse.”

“He never asked to be legitimized,” Robb said. “I gave him what I thought was his due.”

Roslin squeezed his hand. “And he honors that. But now the name he longed for doesn’t fit. Like it was sewn for someone else.”

Robb didn’t respond. The fire whispered along the logs. His wine had gone cold in his cup. “He needs something,” he murmured.

“Maybe not a king,” she said. “Maybe just his brother.” He stood slowly, brushing snow and ash from his cloak. Roslin looked up at him, eyes shining. “Be gentle,” she said. “He’s walking wounded, that one.”

Robb nodded, leaned down, and kissed her brow. “I’ll find him in the crypt.”

The crypts were colder than the snow above. Robb moved carefully through the dark, the torch in his hand casting long shadows on the stone walls. He passed the statues of old kings, old wolves — iron swords rusting across their knees, stone direwolves crumbling at their feet. The dead watched without judgment.

He found Jon where he expected — before her. Lyanna’s likeness sat in its alcove, face carved in youthful beauty, eyes soft, mouth solemn. Snow clung to her lashes like tears that had frozen and stayed. Ghost sat beside Jon, silent and still. When Robb stepped closer, Grey Wind padded forward from the shadows, ears twitching, and bumped noses with Ghost before settling beside him — a mirror in grey and white.

Jon didn’t turn. Robb didn’t speak, not at first. He stood beside him, letting the silence sit between them like smoke from an old fire.  Finally, he spoke, “You always did like the gloomy corners.” Jon gave a faint snort. “And here I thought you’d be brooding in the godswood, pining for your sun-kissed viper.”

Jon glanced at him then, the barest tug at the corner of his mouth. “She wasn’t mine to pine for.”

“Didn’t stop her from wrapping you up like a Dornish cloak.”

Jon shook his head, the ghost of a smile vanishing. “She’s part of it.”

“Part of what?”

“The reason I’m... like this.”

Robb studied his brother — the way his shoulders hunched slightly forward, the way his eyes stayed on the statue, not meeting his. “You’ve been acting strange,” Robb said gently. “Not just sad. Distant. Like your shadow got longer.”

Jon didn’t answer at first. Then “What would you do,” he said slowly, “if everything you believed about yourself turned out to be a lie?”

Robb frowned. “Is this about Tyene’s tongue again? Because if she—” Jon looked at him. Sharp. Hollow. Robb’s smile faded. “All right. No jesting.”

Jon inhaled. Then exhaled. Then spoke, voice low. “I know who my mother was.” That silenced everything. Even the flame of the torch seemed to pause.

Robb blinked. “You do?”

Jon nodded, eyes fixed on Lyanna’s face. “She died giving birth to me. In a tower in Dorne. Not some maid in the kitchens. Not a shameful secret. Her name was Lyanna Stark.”

Robb took a half-step back. “That’s not—”

“It is,” Jon said, quiet and fierce. “Howland Reed was there. William Dustin. Walder. They climbed that tower with your father. They found her. And me.”

Robb’s mouth opened. Closed. “But... she was your aunt.”

Jon turned to him, finally meeting his eyes. “She was my mother. And Rhaegar Targaryen was my father.”

The words hit like warhorns. Robb reeled. “No. That... that can’t be right. That’s... treason. That’s madness.”

Jon held out a scroll. Robb didn’t take it at first. When he did, he unrolled it with hands that trembled slightly. Old ink. Targaryen seal. Three names beneath a line of script — Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, Lord Commander Gerold Hightower. And one name at the top: Daeron.

He read it again. “Daeron?” Robb whispered. “Like the Young Dragon?”

“It’s the name my Mother chose. Not Jon. Never Jon.”

Robb looked at him, jaw tense. “And yet you wear Stark colors. You fought for the North. Led Northern men. Slept under our roof. Bled on our soil.”

“I never wanted the dragon,” Jon said. “Never asked for it.”

“You never had to.” Robb reached forward and clapped a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Snow. Targaryen. Gods help us, even Lannister — you’d still be my brother.”

Jon looked down, and when he looked up again, his eyes were shining. “I didn’t tell anyone.” He said. “Not even Arya. I needed time to—”

“To breathe,” Robb finished. Jon nodded. They stood in silence again. The torch hissed faintly.

“I’m going to the Wall,” Jon said.

Robb blinked. “To take the black?”

“No,” Jon said. “Not this time.” He allowed himself the briefest smirk. “I’ve already turned them down once, remember?”

Robb laughed under his breath. “Tyrion told me. He said the look on Lord Commander Mormont’s face could’ve cracked the Wall.”

“I’m going to speak to Maester Aemon,” Jon said. “If anyone can make sense of this... it’s him.”

Robb nodded. “You’ll have my fastest riders.”

Jon hesitated. “Thank you.”

They stood together a moment longer, before Robb nudged him with an elbow. “So... Daeron, is it?”

Jon groaned. “Don’t start.”

“I could make it official, you know. Swift of a pen. A few words. By royal decree, Jon Stark shall henceforth be known as Daeron, First of His Name—”

“I will kill you in your sleep.”

“—Prince of Sulking, King of Brooding, and Lord of the Long Faces.”

Jon elbowed him back, and Robb laughed. “Seven hells,” Jon muttered, but his voice was lighter now. “It’s good to see you smile again.”

“Likewise,” Robb said. “And for what it’s worth... I still think you’re more Stark than dragon.”

Jon looked again at Lyanna’s face. Then down at the wolves beside them — Grey Wind and Ghost, still sitting like sentinels.  “So do I,” he said.

Chapter Text

Stannis

The wind off Shipbreaker Bay still howled like a wounded beast. Stannis Baratheon stood atop the battlements of Storm’s End, his hands clasped behind his back, his shadow long in the dying light. Below, the beach was strewn with wreckage — broken siege towers, splintered shields, the corpses of men from both sides. Smoke rose from smoldering pyres, curling into the gray sky like a prayer no god would answer.

The battle was won. And it tasted of ash. He did not smile. Victory brought no warmth. Only wind and bone-deep weariness. His shoulders ached beneath his armor. His fingers were stiff from gripping the pommel too long. But he stood straight, the way a king must.

Storm’s End was his again. His by birth. His by siege. His by blood. The walls had held, as they always had. The gate breached, then sealed again with fire and steel. His men had poured through the breach like waves, and he had led them himself, Blackheart burning in his grip, the flames licking up enemy banners.

They had broken the siege on the third dawn. Burned the siege towers. Cut down the mercenaries. Pushed the foreign spears back to the rocks. He had ordered no quarter for sellswords. Let the wind take their last words.

But even now, the flames still licked at the bones of the dead. He watched as Ser Clayton Suggs drove a torch into the pyre, murmuring a prayer to R'hllor as the bodies caught. The red priests had demanded the burnings. For purity, they said. For the Lord of Light. Stannis said nothing. He had let them burn. He had not looked away.

Behind him, the banners of House Baratheon fluttered once more — the crowned stag, golden on black, stitched with Melisandre’s flaming heart in the center. A compromise. A blasphemy. A necessity.

The wind pulled at his cloak, salt and smoke thick in the air. He did not mourn the dead. Not truly. Mourning was for the weak, the sentimental, the singers who never tasted blood. He had counted the cost. Forty-three knights. One hundred and ninety foot. Two siege engineers he could not easily replace. More than he liked. Less than he feared.

And yet... As he looked down at a fallen knight — half-buried in ash, sword still clutched in scorched fingers — he felt something twist behind his ribs. Not guilt. Something colder. A question that had no name.

The knight's surcoat had burned away, but a scrap of cloth clung to his pauldron. A gold wyvern, half-melted, curled on a field of black. Not a lizard. Not a lion. Not a griffon. A dragon. No. Not quite.

He knelt, stiffly, and pried the shoulderplate free. It bore the sigil of the Golden Company — faint, but unmistakable. A chain encircling the wyvern. An old device.

He frowned. “They were meant to be in Essos,” he muttered.

The sellsword company sworn to exile. The sword of old pretenders. The dream of House Blackfyre, broken a century past. Bittersteel. Daemon. Aegor Rivers. Ghosts all. And yet... they had come.

Stannis stood again, face drawn. He had not seen elephants, but the discipline, the gold-armored archers, the tight ranks — it had been no Stormlands rabble. Mercenaries, yes. But not the usual filth. Too clean. Too precise. Too organized.

The Golden Company. His lips pressed into a hard line. Why now? Why cross the sea now, when Westeros boiled and buckled? Who had summoned them? Who had the coin? The claim?

“Blackfyres are dust,” he said aloud, voice clipped and hard. “All slain. Chased down. Extinct.”

But he did not believe it. He stared out across the waters, where the remnants of their force had slipped back east — toward Griffin’s Roost. Where banners no man recognized flew over half-shattered towers. A lion would roar. A wolf would howl. A kraken would drown the shore in salt. But a dragon... a dragon would burn.

He turned from the wall and descended the steps in silence, his boots echoing on stone. Let them call themselves what they wished. Let them claim blood and prophecy and thrones in shadowed tongues. He was Stannis Baratheon. And he would burn them down.

The great hall of Storm’s End had not changed. Not in stone. Not in shadow. The banners had shifted — Renly’s bright stag gone, replaced with his own sigil crowned in fire — but the bones of the place were the same. It still smelled of sea salt and damp stone, of roasted meat and old smoke. The storm outside lashed against the towers like an angry god.

They gathered beneath the vaults: his commanders, his priests, his few lords. Davos Seaworth stood near the hearth, cloak damp from the rain, fingers tapping against the hilt of his dagger. Ser Axell Florent loomed at the long table, red-faced and pompous in a too-tight surcoat. Ser Richard Horpe leaned in the corner, pale-eyed and quiet. Melisandre of Asshai sat near the fire, her red robes glowing, hands folded like a prayer.

They waited for him in silence. Stannis did not sit. He moved to the head of the table and laid the burned pauldron down with a thud that echoed in the hall. “Golden Company,” he said.

Florent blinked. “Beg pardon?”

Stannis tapped the sigil. “We faced their men on the eastern slope. Formations too tight for sellswords. Discipline too clean. And this—” he tapped again, “—proves it.”

Richard Horpe frowned. “But... the Golden Company serves in Essos.”

“Not anymore.” A hush fell over the room. Outside, thunder cracked. “They came ashore by ship,” Stannis said. “Siege towers ready. They knew the land. This was planned, not whim. And they hold Griffin’s Roost.”

Davos cleared his throat. “And... their commander?”

“No name,” Horpe said. “The men we captured gave little. But one mentioned a knight in black and red. Silver hair. Fought like a storm.”

Axell scoffed. “A Targaryen play-actor, then. Some Blackfyre remnant too cowardly to die proper.”

Stannis’s jaw twitched. “The Blackfyres are extinct,” he said.

Melisandre tilted her head, eyes half-lidded. “Not all fire dies in ash.” All eyes turned. “In the flames,” she said softly, “I saw a dragon. But its wings were tangled in strings — pulled by hidden hands. It moved like a king, but danced like a puppet.”

Stannis’s frown deepened. “And what does that mean?”

“It means he is not the fire reborn,” Melisandre said. “He is false flame. Hollow. A shadow of light.”

“And me?” Stannis asked.

She looked at him with something close to reverence. “You are the sword in the flames,” she said. “The fire that must burn the false away.”

Davos shifted uneasily. “If he is what they claim...”

Stannis’s voice cut across the room. “Then he is another pretender.”

“A dragon reborn—” Axell began, but Stannis cut him off.

“I was Robert’s heir. I am the rightful king by law and by line.”

Melisandre inclined her head. “And by fire.”

Richard Horpe cleared his throat. “What now, Your Grace? Do we press Griffin’s Roost?”

“No,” Stannis said. “Not yet.”

Florent bristled. “We have momentum, men, siege engines. We can drive them into the sea—”

“No.” Stannis’s voice cracked like a whip. He stepped closer to the table, knuckles white on the wood. “We will not rush into shadow. We gather. We scout. We draw out the truth.”

He looked to Davos. “Send riders north and west. I want to know who still bends the knee to a crown, and who bends it to a name.” Then to Horpe, “You’ll lead the scouts. No fewer than fifty. I want eyes on Griffin’s Roost. Watch the banners. Watch the walls. Watch the knight with silver hair.” He turned last to Melisandre. “And you... tell me what your flames see. No riddles. No poetry. I want names.”

She bowed her head. “The fire will speak.”

Stannis looked over them all — his few loyal men, his bastard-born knight, his fire-eyed priestess. “They call him a dragon,” he said. “Let him burn.”

Chapter Text

Aegon

They pulled the last of the wounded inside just before nightfall. The gates of Griffin’s Roost groaned shut, the portcullis lowering like the jaws of a weary beast. Rain misted the air, clinging to stone and steel, and the courtyard echoed with the low moans of pain and the soft curses of dying men.

Aegon stood on the ramparts above, cloak sodden and boots streaked with mud and blood. The sea stretched out beyond the cliffs, gray and endless. To the west, the sky still glowed faintly with the last of the fires — the pyres of the fallen, lit by Stannis’s men where the siege towers had burned.

He had watched them burn. He had not looked away. His knuckles were white on the stone. His armor, still dusted with ash, pinched at the shoulder where he’d taken a glancing blow. It would bruise. He barely felt it.

The battle had not gone how it was meant to go. They had come ashore with gold banners gleaming, elephants in the hold, left behind, thank the gods, the strength of old exile dreams wrapped in black and red. The Golden Company moved like a blade honed over generations — precise, ruthless, loyal.

And for three days, it had worked. They had encircled Storm’s End. Cut off the supply lines. Their siege towers had kissed the outer wall. Their trebuchets had shaken the very foundation of the gate. Men whispered of Daemon Blackfyre again, of Bittersteel, of how history was turning.

And then Stannis came. Aegon had not expected him. No one had. The storm broke not from the sea, but from the land — a hard-driving host with banners like thunder and fire in their eyes. Baratheon men, veterans of the Blackwater, lords of the Marches, even traitors who’d once sworn for Renly. They struck the rear lines first, cracked the formation, and when the Golden Company wheeled to meet them, Stannis himself rode through the flank like iron through parchment.

Aegon had fought. Gods help him, he had fought. Blade drawn, commands shouted, armor slick with the blood of men he did not know. But it hadn’t been enough. Jon Connington had called the retreat. Organized, clean. No rout. The Golden Company was too proud for chaos. They pulled back in good order, reclaimed Griffin’s Roost, set fire to what they could not carry. But Aegon had felt it just the same — the shame, the sting.

He was not Daenerys, stormborn in blood and fire. He had not burned a city or broken a slaver’s chain. He was Aegon — son of Rhaegar, heir to Westeros, raised across the sea with dreams for armor and stories for a sword.

And now he had lost his first siege. The storm wind tugged at his cloak. Below, the wounded moaned. He turned away from the edge and descended the steps slowly, each footfall echoing in the stone. History remembered the victors. He would not be forgotten.

The chamber beneath the tower still smelled of salt and old parchment. It had once belonged to a castellan, or so they said — the walls bore faded banners, long since eaten by damp and moths. Now it held maps, raven scrolls, and the weight of a hundred years of exile.

Aegon sat beside the hearth, flames crackling low. His tunic clung to him, damp from the storm outside, and a cut on his hand ached dully beneath the wrappings. Across from him, Jon Connington stood in half-armor, pale and grim as ever. His red hair was touched with gray now, and his eyes had sunk deeper into their sockets. He looked more like a ghost than a general.

Septa Lemore poured wine into three cups. She moved softly, her robes brushing the stone, her face hidden behind the soft veil she always wore. A gentle shadow in a room built on silence.

“We lost twenty-three men,” Aegon said, staring at the flames. “Thirty-five wounded. One knight dead from the rot already.”

“Stannis lost more,” Connington replied. “But he holds the field.”

Aegon’s jaw clenched. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Connington said nothing. “We were to take Storm’s End,” Aegon continued. “Like my ancestors before me. Like Orys Baratheon did for Aegon the Conqueror. Raise the banner. Declare the realm reborn.”

“You would have died,” Connington said flatly. “And with you, the war.”

Aegon looked up. “I still have not shown my face. We hide in ruins and half-truths. We fight in shadows. When do I become more than a whisper?”

“When you are ready,” Connington said. “When the realm is ready.”

“I am ready.”

Connington frowned. “Are you? One siege lost and already you seek a crown? The lords of Westeros are not children to be charmed by a name. They will follow power. Victory. Not blood alone.”

“You said yourself they remembered my father.”

“They remembered what they wanted of him,” the older man snapped. “They made a prince into a song. They’ll do the same to you — if you fail.”

Silence fell, heavy as stone. Lemore broke it gently. “You are both right,” she said, voice low and warm. “The boy has fire. And the fire must be seen. But Jon is not wrong. The fire must also survive.”

A knock interrupted them. A squire entered, soaked to the bone, a scroll clutched in his hand. “From the Narrow Sea, my prince. The black bird carried the seal of the spider.”

Aegon rose and took the scroll. The wax bore the familiar mark — a spider woven in gold thread, small and perfect. He broke it and read. The firelight flickered across his face. His expression did not change, but his eyes sharpened with every line.

“Well?” Connington asked.

“Tywin Lannister is crippled. He cannot speak. Tyrion rules in his name. King’s Landing is silent, fractured. The Tyrell host is broken, rebuilding. The wedding of Joffrey Baratheon is days away — a distraction. A chance.” He looked up. “Now is the time.”

Connington crossed his arms. “They’ll expect us to rest, to bleed, to withdraw.”

“Good,” Aegon said. “Let them. And then we strike.”

Lemore stepped forward. “Where?”

Aegon’s fingers curled around the parchment. “Storm’s End.”

He moved to the window, rain slanting through the cracks. The sky was dark with thunderclouds, but to the east, the horizon glowed faintly with the first whisper of dawn.

“I will not be a shadow on a wall,” he said. “I will not be a name buried in ash. I am the heir of dragons, and I will take what is mine.”

He felt their eyes behind him. Connington’s hesitation. Lemore’s fear. But the silence that followed felt like assent. Outside, the storm gathered again.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The wedding had been delayed three times. Officially, it was for mourning, or planning, or the sudden bout of snowmelt that muddied the Roseroad and held up half the wedding gifts. But Tyrion knew better. Nothing in King’s Landing was ever late without someone’s design behind it. The Tyrells had chosen their moment carefully. That alone made him nervous.

He sipped his wine, standing just beneath the painted windows of the throne room. They'd transformed it for the occasion — silken banners, golden roses twined with red lions, crystal chandeliers straining against the ceiling beams. But the illusion didn’t hold.

Too many nobles wore the same cloaks they had at the Blackwater. Too many goblets clinked without cheer. The wine was Dornish, the food rich, but the laughter shallow. The war had bled the realm dry, and the court feasted on performance. Even the musicians seemed tired.

He scanned the hall. Lord Rowan. Paxter Redwyne. Old Lord Merryweather, half-asleep in his chair. No Tullys. No Arryns. A single raven from Dorne — no snake among the roses this time. Smart of Doran, or maybe too proud. Robb Stark had not sent a word.

No need, Tyrion thought. He already has a queen and a crown.

Kevan had arrived three days before. Not in triumph, nor grief, but something in between — riding slow, his face drawn as if he'd aged ten years between the Gods Eye and the gates of the capital.

“Your father is… not well,” he’d said in the Tower of the Hand. His voice had cracked on the word.

Tywin Lannister — once the Lion of the West, Warden of the Rock, Hand of the King — now sat in silence, his mind a tangle of empty stares and old pain. He had not spoken since Harrenhal. Kevan had visited him once before he was released.

“He cries, sometimes,” Kevan said. “Quietly. When he thinks no one sees.” Tyrion had said nothing. There was nothing to say. He had asked instead about Jaime. “He lives,” Kevan replied. “A prisoner. He’s healing. Still too proud for his own good.”

“And the North?”

“Little word. Robb married his Frey girl. Holds the Riverlands still.”

“And Jon Snow?”

Kevan had nodded. “Now Jon Stark. Named true. The wolves are not so scattered as we hoped.”

Tyrion remembered the raven that had brought the news — short, formal, signed with the direwolf seal. Robb had written as king. There had been no threat in the letter, but no warmth either. No mention of Sansa. He drained his cup and signaled for another.

The wedding itself was... fine. Joffrey sat smug on his dais, crown crooked on his curls, grinning like a boy who’d kicked a dog and wanted another. Margaery was a vision — pale and perfect and impossibly poised — and Tyrion couldn’t decide if she looked more like a queen or a sacrifice.

Olenna moved through the crowd like a spider in silk, smiling with her teeth, her eyes always calculating. Tyrion had caught her watching him twice already. Once when he’d been speaking to Kevan. Once when he wasn’t speaking at all. He did not trust her. He trusted Mace Tyrell even less — but not for his cunning. The man was wheeled into the hall now, broad and flushed, nodding and waving like a bloated lord of summerfruit.

He could have used crutches, Tyrion thought, had he not been so fat or so fond of being pushed like a cart of cabbages.

The leg lost at the Gods Eye had humbled the Reach more than a thousand northern blades.

“Mace drinks twice as much now,” Kevan had said privately. “And speaks half as wisely.” Not that he’d ever been wise to begin with.

The musicians struck up a march. Joffrey rose to speak. The room quieted. Tyrion lifted his goblet again, eyes narrowed. Something was off tonight. The feast had been planned to dazzle. But it felt... small. Not in size — the hall was full — but in spirit. Like a play where the actors no longer believed their lines. And as always, the Spider was nowhere to be seen. Tyrion touched the pommel of his dagger beneath the table. Weddings are dangerous places.

The hall buzzed with the weight of too much wine and too little courage. Joffrey was standing again. His crown tilted sideways on his golden curls, cheeks flushed with drink and something meaner. He was laughing. That sharp, boyish cackle that sounded more like a piglet being strangled than a prince celebrating his wedding.

“Dance, fool!” he barked.

Ser Dontos Hollard stumbled forward on jittering legs, wearing a patched motley too tight at the collar. His bell-topped hat drooped over one eye. One of the guests — a Florent knight, Tyrion thought — was already trying very hard to look away.

“Faster!” Joffrey shouted, slamming his goblet down. “That’s not dancing. That’s dying in slow motion.”

Laughter broke out, thin and forced. The kind nobles learned early — polite, false, and laced with fear. The fool twirled once, nearly tripped on the hem of his own breeches, and yelped when a crust of bread struck his cheek. Joffrey had thrown it.

Margaery looked down at her plate, face pale, lips pressed tight. Olenna shook her head once, almost imperceptibly, and sipped her wine. Cersei, at the king’s side, watched it all with idle amusement — like a cat watching a fly twitch its wings. Tyrion watched too, but without amusement.

Dontos was red-faced and wheezing now, soaked in sweat. One of his shoes had come off and slid beneath a table. A boy of ten tossed it back and laughed. Joffrey demanded a second round — a song this time — and when the fool began to sing, voice cracking, Joffrey interrupted him with a thrown grape and roared at the hall.

“Who taught you music? A dying goat?”

More laughter. Some of it real this time. Tyrion stood. The laughter died quick. He stepped out from his seat, wine in hand, and looked up at the boy-king with all the calm he could muster.

“That’s enough.”

Joffrey blinked. “What?”

“I said that’s enough. The fool is drunk, exhausted, and very nearly wetting himself. You’ve made your point, Your Grace.”

Joffrey’s smile twisted. “Is this your wedding, Uncle?”

“No,” Tyrion said lightly. “But I thought I’d pretend for a moment it was a feast and not a flogging.”

A few guests coughed. One chuckled before realizing no one else was laughing. Tyrion held Joffrey’s gaze. The boy’s lips curled, but he said nothing. Not with so many eyes watching. Not with Tyrion standing tall — and more importantly, still necessary. For now.

That was the thought that soured the wine in Tyrion’s throat. They still need me. But what happens when they don’t?

Joffrey had grown crueler since the peace — as if the Lannisters’ agreement with the North had been a wound to his pride. The gods had robbed him of war. Robb Stark still lived. Tyrion still ruled in his father’s name. And that left Joffrey only the court — only the small, the weak, the helpless — to crush beneath his golden heel.

Dontos bowed awkwardly, tears glinting in his beard, and fled from the center of the hall, limping and gasping. The music stuttered back to life. Conversation resumed like nothing had happened. But Tyrion sat down with his wine untouched. And he was still watching.

It began with laughter. Joffrey’s, of course — high-pitched, over-loud, desperate for attention. He had just finished butchering a roast swan with Widow’s Wail, his new castle-forged toy, carving it with all the grace of a butcher in a blindfold. The blade hacked through bone and sinew as the courtiers chuckled on command.

Tyrion watched from his seat near the high table, resisting the urge to drink again. The air was thick with spice and sweat and the sour musk of too many people pretending not to hate one another.

The fool was gone. The music was playing again. Joffrey called for wine. It was Ser Dontos who brought it. He came forward with shaking hands, offering the king the golden goblet, his bells jingling with every step. Joffrey sneered at him, snatched the cup, and waved him off like a dog who'd overstayed his trick.

Tyrion’s eyes lingered on the goblet. For no reason at all. Or so he told himself.

Joffrey took a long swallow, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and turned to Margaery. “Did you see that swan, my sweet? I’ll have the cooks teach you. So you can do it for me one day.”

Margaery smiled, and Tyrion knew it was painted on. “Of course, Your Grace,” she said.

He raised the goblet again. “To my queen! May she be as silent as she is lovely.”

The laughter was louder this time. Real, even. Enough wine had flowed. Joffrey drank deep. And then he choked.

It began with a cough — wet and sharp. Then another. He slammed the goblet down and clutched his throat. For a heartbeat, Tyrion thought it was more performance. A lark. A jest. Then the boy bent forward and vomited a stream of red wine and roast swan across the table.

Silence cracked through the hall. Joffrey gasped. He clawed at his neck, his face turning pink, then red, then a deep, choking purple. His eyes bulged. Margaery rose from her seat, knocking over her chair. Cersei screamed.

He fell to his knees. The goblet clattered to the floor. Men surged forward. The Kingsguard hesitated — no enemy to cut. Just a boy, convulsing on the floor, limbs jerking like a puppet with tangled strings.

Tyrion stood slowly. His eyes found the goblet again. He moved toward it before he could think why. It lay near the edge of the table, overturned, wine pooling in its base. Ser Dontos was nowhere to be seen.

Joffrey gave a wet, rattling sound — half breath, half scream — and his hand reached upward. Toward Cersei. Toward no one. Then he was still. The hall held its breath.

And Cersei broke it. She threw herself on his body, sobbing, shrieking, her voice raw with rage and disbelief. The Queen’s screams echoed from pillar to pillar. Margaery backed away, white as snow. Olenna sat still, expression unreadable, her hands folded in her lap.

Tyrion turned slowly, wine forgotten. He looked around the gathered panicked lords searching, with only one question in his mind.

“Who?”

Chapter Text

Cersei

The sept stank of incense and old stone and wilted roses. Cersei stood beside her son’s bier and stared at his face, willing it to change. It did not. His lips, once so quick with laughter and venom, were pale and still. His skin, waxen and dry. His golden curls had darkened in death, and no amount of brushing could make them gleam again.

He looked smaller than she remembered. The scent of rot hid beneath the perfumed oils they had used to anoint him. A boy. That’s all they would see now. Not a king. Not a lion. Just a dead boy with a crown too big for his brow.

Her nails bit into her palms. They had taken him from her. She had carved him from her own body, nursed him at her breast, sung to him when the wet nurses slept. She had whispered into his ear before every feast, every court, every judgment: Be strong. Be proud. Show them your teeth. And now he lay still. Voiceless. Defenseless.

He had choked before them all. On wine. On laughter. On poison. His eyes had bulged, his mouth had frothed, and no one—no one—had stopped it. They had just watched. Even Margaery, standing there in her silks and smiles, too dainty to cry, too perfect to scream.

Only she, his mother, had moved. She had clawed at the table, at his throat, trying to clear the froth, to reach the breath that would not come. Her hands had come away stained with wine and spit and blood. And now they expected her to sit in the royal sept and mourn. She would mourn in fire.

She turned from the bier. Her dress of black silk rustled like a dying whisper. In the silence, even that sounded too loud. Tommen stood beside her, his hand lost in hers. He was crying quietly. He had Joffrey’s mouth. Myrcella’s eyes. He smelled like fear.

“He looks like he’s sleeping,” he said.

Cersei looked down at him. “No,” she said. “He looks dead.” He flinched. She didn’t care.

They wanted her to comfort him, to drape herself in a widow’s mask and coo like some mother from a mummer’s play. But the lioness had lost her cub. What comfort was left? She kissed Joffrey’s cold brow once, lips stiff, and turned without waiting for Tommen to follow.

The halls of the Red Keep were too bright. Too full of hushed voices and eyes that slid away when they met hers. Servants bowed too low. Guards did not meet her gaze. Even the banners above the throne room seemed to sag under the weight of silence.

Ser Dontos was already dead. That had been the only mercy of the day. He had been dragged from his cell at dawn, half-sobbing, claiming innocence with every step. A swine in silk, fat with secrets. She had watched from the shadows of the Great Hall as his head came free from his shoulders, and felt nothing.

But it was not enough. He had not acted alone. No one believed that a fool with wine breath and half a brain had poisoned a king in the middle of his own wedding feast. Not without help. Not without gold. Not without a snake’s whisper in his ear. She wanted blood. All of it. And she wanted him most of all. Tyrion.

He had stood too still that night. Had held the cup too long. Had watched Joffrey die with eyes too calm, too calculating. The goblet had passed through his hands. The wine had come from his jug. He did this. Her brother. Her monster.

But she had no proof. Not yet. Not enough to satisfy Kevan. Or the Tyrells. Or that blind old goat Pycelle, who could barely remember where he had placed his own leeches. She had screamed it in the council chamber “He killed my son!” And they had looked at her with pity.

She wanted to burn their pity. She wanted to drag Tyrion in chains through the streets. Wanted Margaery’s tears to fall for real. Wanted Varys to squawk. Wanted the truth. But all she had was a corpse, and a hundred lies dancing in its shadow.

The chamber was too warm. Sweat clung beneath her sleeves as Cersei sat beneath the painted lion carved into her high-backed chair. A fire burned low in the hearth. Pycelle had insisted it was for Tommen’s health. But Tommen wasn’t here.

They always claimed things were for her children. For the crown. For the realm. She had stopped believing that years ago.

Kevan sat at her left, stiff in black and gold, eyes shadowed with weeks of wear. He looked older since returning from the North — since he had seen what remained of Tywin.

Tyrion sat across from her, one hand curled around a goblet of watered wine. The other tapped against the table in slow, deliberate rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Lord Mace Tyrell filled the space beside him like a stuffed peacock, his face flushed and shiny with sweat. Pycelle dozed at the end of the table, only half-listening. Lord Varys watched them all with that oily calm that made her skin crawl.

It had been three days since the wedding. Three days since her son died choking on laughter and wine and blood. Three days, and still no answers.

Cersei’s voice broke the quiet. “You expect me to believe it was all Ser Dontos?”

Kevan exhaled through his nose. “He confessed.”

“He confessed,” she repeated, mockingly. “After hours in the black cells. Half his teeth were gone when they dragged him up for the trial.”

“He named no accomplices,” Tyrion said. “Perhaps because there were none.”

“Or perhaps,” she said coldly, “because the accomplices were cleverer than him. And still alive.”

Tyrion’s mouth twitched. “You may as well say it, Cersei.”

“I have said it. You murdered Joffrey.”

“And yet I’m still seated at this table. Strange justice.”

Kevan raised a hand. “Enough. We grieve, but we must govern.”

Cersei rose from her seat. “He was poisoned at his wedding. At his wedding. And you would ask me to sit quietly while you prattle about grain stores and ravens?”

“No one said you must be quiet,” Tyrion said. “Only reasonable.” She slammed her palm against the table. Pycelle jolted awake.

Mace cleared his throat. “This is all very tragic, yes, but we mustn’t forget the greater danger. The realm is weak. Our alliance fragile. We cannot afford accusations without proof.”

Cersei’s glare cut toward him like a blade. “You’d have your daughter wed a snake?”

Mace said stiffly. “The alliance between House Tyrell and House Baratheon must hold—for the good of the realm.”

“Baratheon?” Cersei sneered. “There are no Baratheons left but bastards. And my son—” Her voice caught. Just for a moment. “My son was murdered by traitors wearing silk and smiles.”

Varys folded his hands. “Then, Your Grace, we must be clever. Grief is a fire that consumes quickly. But quiet suspicion lasts far longer—and leaves fewer bones behind.”

“Do you counsel silence?” she hissed.

“I counsel caution,” Varys said. “There is still peace to preserve. For now.”

Kevan rose then, slow and steady. “Ser Dontos confessed. He is dead. The queen is widowed. The boy—” His voice faltered. “Tommen is crowned. The dragon’s tail must be bound before it coils.”

Cersei narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Kevan said, “you should speak to your son. Soon. Calmly.”

Her lip curled. “And what would you have me say? Smile for the Tyrells? Let Margaery cradle him while my son still lies in the sept?”

“You can mourn and still be wise.”

“I am wise,” she said. “And I see vultures where you see doves.”

Tyrion drained his goblet. “If we’re finished, I have a realm to help govern.”

He stood and left without waiting for dismissal. Kevan followed a moment later, leaving only the rustle of Mace’s silks and Pycelle’s wheezing breath. Cersei remained at the table, her hands clenched into fists against the polished wood. No one dared speak again.

Outside, the bells of the sept tolled for the fallen king. Inside, the queen began to plan.

The hall was dark now. The torches had burned low, the air heavy with ash and rosewater. Beyond the tower windows, the moon was a dull smear behind a veil of cloud. Even the stars refused to shine.

Cersei sat alone in her solar, the silence pressing in. The only sound was the ticking of the ornate Braavosi water clock, each slow drop louder than the last.

She had changed from her mourning dress. The black had begun to feel like a shroud — too heavy, too much like surrender. Now she wore gold, soft and warm, as if armor could be woven from silk and defiance.

A cup of strongwine sat untouched beside her. The fire in the hearth had died to coals, but she did not rise to stir it. Let it die. Let it all burn down. Her son was cold beneath stone, and her enemies whispered behind every pillar.

She thought of the Small Council. Kevan, always steady, always loyal — but never to her. Mace, puffed up like a rooster in a borrowed cage. Pycelle, addled and useless. Varys… Varys had eyes in the walls and secrets on his tongue. And Tyrion.

Her teeth clenched. She could still see him at the feast, smirking, half-drunk, holding the cup. And then again today, calm as a cat in a room of startled birds. They didn’t believe her. They never had. She turned her head slightly at the faint creak of the door. The man who entered did not knock.

Qyburn moved like smoke — quiet, low, and dangerous in his stillness. He wore no chain. No robes of office. Just plain black and grey, like a crow that had lost its sky. Cersei watched him.

“You served the wounded well after the battle,” she said at last. “Men said you saved those the other healers had already named dead.”

Qyburn gave a small bow. “The others do not always understand what healing requires.”

“Nor what vengeance requires,” she said. His eyes glinted. “I’ve no love for the Tyrells,” she said. “Or for fools who think a widow’s grief makes her weak. Tell me, Qyburn — do you know what a lioness does when her cub is taken?”

He smiled. “She sharpens her claws.”

Cersei looked toward the fire. “They’ve already taken Joffrey,” she said. “They circle Tommen now. Margaery feeds him honeyed words. Kevan speaks of caution. Even my uncle treats me like I am glass — fragile. Inconvenient.”

“And the Hand?” Qyburn asked.

“Tyrion wears a crown of smiles,” she spat. “But I see the dagger beneath it.”

She rose and crossed to the table where a rolled parchment lay — a letter from the High Septon, full of pious condolences and empty promises. She tapped it once.

“The Faith has grown loud again. The streets are full of ragged septons and barefoot preachers. The people listen.”

Qyburn said nothing. She turned to him. “If someone were to give them swords… what do you think they would do?”

“Protect their own,” Qyburn said. “And burn the rest.”

She studied him, long and hard. “Pycelle says you’re a disgrace,” she said. “That you were cast out for unclean practices. Necromancy. Forbidden arts.”

Qyburn did not flinch. “Pycelle fears anything that does not stink of mold and tradition. I do not fear knowledge.”

“And loyalty?”

“I serve those who see truth,” he said softly. “And power. And what lies beneath both.”

The fire spat a coal. Cersei stepped closer. “There are things I cannot say in council. Paths I cannot walk. But if I had… someone… who could listen. And act. Quietly.”

“You do,” he said.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Then we begin,” she said. “The queen is done weeping.”

Qyburn bowed again, deeper this time. When he left, the shadows closed behind him like a velvet curtain.

Cersei turned back to the fire, her reflection dancing in the glass of the wine cup — gold and red and dark.

“They took my son,” she whispered. “Let them choke on what comes next.”

Chapter Text

Jon

The Wall was smaller than he remembered. Not in size — the ice still loomed above the clouds, and the cold bit just as sharp. But Castle Black… Castle Black looked like it had shrunk. Weeds climbed the sides of half-rotted buildings. Two watchtowers leaned with the weight of time. The yard was muddy with old snow and the ashes of long-dead fires.

Jon sat atop his horse, flanked by a hundred sworn swords in Stark colors, with Walder Snow riding silent at his side. And still, for a moment, he felt like a boy again. Not a lord. Not a commander. Just a boy with too many ghosts and a name he wasn’t born with.

If I’d stayed, he thought. If I’d taken the black like I meant to… would Father still live? Would Robb still have a crown? The thought lingered bitter on his tongue. He pushed it down.

His breath steamed in the air as they passed through the gates. The brothers of the Watch watched them from the ramparts with wary eyes. Not many of them — barely a few dozen visible — and none of them in matching mail. A few wore boiled leather, others black cloaks faded to gray, some barely armed at all.

Jon looked once, slowly, and thought We could take this place in an hour. He hated that he thought it.

They dismounted. Walder moved first, helping dislodge a stiff rider whose knee had locked in the cold. The horses were taken. The guards fanned out, some grumbling already. A few muttered how the Wall looked more like a ruin than a fortress.

Then the door opened. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont stood there, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak, his face weathered like old oak. He looked tired — more than Jon remembered — but the same sharpness burned in his eyes.

He took one look at Jon and said, “So. Taking the black after all?”

Jon smiled faintly. “Not quite.”

“Pity. We’ve got room.”

“I doubt I’d be allowed now. Starks don’t kneel easy.”

Jeor snorted. “Aye. And being a Stark’s a burden on its own.”

Jon only nodded. He understood now, more than he ever had.

They exchanged no pleasantries. Mormont turned and gestured for him to follow. “Come. You said your raven claimed this was business. Let’s speak like men.”

Jon glanced once over his shoulder. His men were already being offered stale bread and poor wine by a pair of recruits too green to stand straight. Walder stood unmoving beside Ghost, who was already sniffing the snow-covered yard.

Jon followed Mormont into the keep, steps echoing in the cold halls of Castle Black. The shadows inside felt heavier than he remembered.

The steps to the rookery still groaned underfoot. They wound through cold stone and thinner air, up toward the solar above the tower. Ghost padded behind him in silence, his breath misting in the chill. Walder waited below with the guards. Jon had asked him to stay — not out of mistrust, but because some ghosts were best faced alone.

Jeor Mormont led the way, his black cloak heavy with snowmelt, his breath labored on the stairs. Jon had offered to carry the wine cask. The Old Bear refused. When they reached the door, Mormont knocked once and pushed it open.

Inside, the solar was dim, lit only by the hearth and one flickering lantern. Samwell Tarly sat at the table, half-buried in parchment, his hands ink-stained and nervous. He looked up and his eyes lit up when he saw Jon.

“Oh,” he said. “Jon , I… I didn’t expect…I hope…”

“It’s good to see you well Sam,” Jon said.

Sam nodded, and smiled. “Yes. You too.”

He hadn’t changed much. Still broad, still soft around the edges, but the way he held himself was different now. Straighter. Worn, but not broken. Jeor poured three cups of thin wine and handed one to each of them. He gestured for Jon to sit.

“I’m guessing this isn’t a courtesy call.”

Jon nodded. “We received your ravens. I thought it best to come myself.”

“With a hundred men?”

“With eyes, and ears, and steel.”

Jeor grunted. “Then listen close. You asked for the truth. Here it is.”

He sat heavily, hands splayed on the table. “We marched north half a year past. We followed the track of the first ranger. Found little. Empty woods. Signs of old camps. Then came the mutiny.”

Jon stiffened. “Mutiny?”

“Aye. At the Fist of the First Men. Men broke, turned on their brothers. Chett and his lot. Killed more than a dozen before dawn.”

Sam’s eyes were distant. “It wasn’t just blood. It was madness.”

“Grenn stopped the worst of it,” Mormont said. “Good man. Took a knife meant for this one.” He nodded to Sam.

Jon looked at Sam. “You survived.”

“Barely.”

Jeor went on. “After that, we turned back south. Found wildlings instead of answers. Not raiders — refugees. Scattered, gaunt, near mad with fear. They fought like cornered beasts. And when they talked…”

Jon leaned in.

“They spoke of death,” Sam said. “Of something following them. Blue eyes. Fire that gave no warmth. Men who didn’t die right.”

Jon said nothing. The fire crackled behind them.

“You don’t believe it,” Mormont said.

“I don’t know what to believe. But I know fear when I see it.”

Jeor nodded once. “Then believe that. Because whatever they ran from… it turned them wild.”

Jon looked to Sam. “How many prisoners?”

“Twenty-three,” he said. “Women, children, one self-named king. Mance Rayder. He’s in chains below.”

Jon frowned. “You captured him?”

“He surrendered,” Mormont said. “Tall, calm, proud. Speaks like a crow. Thinks like one, too. He says he came to survive.”

“And the rest?”

“Some won’t speak. Some speak only of the dead. One girl… said they burned. And still rose.”

Jon looked away. The cold was deeper now. Not wind. Not frost. Something else.

He took a breath. “My uncle Benjen. Do you think he’s alive?”

Mormont was quiet. Then “No. I’m sorry.”

Jon nodded, face hard. “I’ll send word to Robb,” he said. “The North should know. And we’ll send men — rangers of our own. We won’t leave you blind.”

Sam blinked. “You’d do that?”

“If the dead walk, it’s not just the Watch at risk. It’s all of us.”

Mormont sat back. “We’ll accept the help. Even if I don’t believe in ghosts.”

Jon stood. “The prisoners — the women and children. I’ll speak with them before I leave.”

“Why?”

“Because if what you’re saying is true, we’re going to need each other,” Jon said.

Mormont watched him. “You sound more like your father than you know.”

Jon said nothing. He only looked at the flames and thought of winter.

The fire in the maester’s chamber crackled low, casting long shadows on the walls of stone. The ravens above stirred softly, feathers rustling in their perches, never quite asleep. Their black eyes glittered in the gloom like little embers watching him.

Jon stood at the doorway, his cloak heavy with frost, damp at the hem. For the first time in weeks—months, maybe—he hesitated.

He had crossed battlefields. Had killed. Had held dying men in his arms and looked kings in the eye. But now, at the threshold of an old man’s chamber, he found his breath tight, his feet reluctant. The truth he carried was a sword he had not yet learned how to draw.

Inside, Maester Aemon sat hunched near the fire in a chair too large for him, wrapped in old robes that smelled of parchment and lavender and smoke. His blind eyes turned toward the sound of boots on stone.

“You walk like your father,” he said, voice rough with age, but not unkind.

Jon blinked. “You knew him?”

“I heard him once,” Aemon said. “Years ago. When he rode to the Wall. The way he spoke… it stayed with me. You speak with less certainty, but more weight.”

He turned his sightless gaze forward again. “Come closer, Lord Stark. What can an old man do for the King’s Hand?”

Jon stepped in slowly, loosening his cloak. The air smelled of ink and ash, and the warmth of the fire was thin, more light than heat. Ghost padded softly in behind him, lying down at the threshold, silent and watchful.

“I came to assess the Wall,” Jon said, folding his hands behind his back. “The ravens you sent—Robb means to answer. He’ll send scouts. Supplies. Whatever’s needed.”

Aemon inclined his head. “It is needed. Desperately. You are the first lord in years to say so aloud.”

Jon hesitated. His fingers curled into fists behind his back. “That’s not the only reason I came.”

The words fell into the firelight like stones into deep water. Aemon turned his head again. “No?”

Jon sat down across from him. He felt the cold in his bones still, as if no hearth could reach him fully anymore. Ghost’s red eyes watched from the dark. For a long moment, Jon said nothing. He watched the flames instead—the way they moved, always devouring, always dancing, always flickering toward something higher.

Then the words came. “After the war… after the battle at the Gods Eye… I learned something. About my mother.”

The fire crackled. Aemon did not move. “My mother was Lyanna Stark,” Jon said.  “She died at the Tower of Joy,” Jon said. “Giving birth to me. And my father…” He hesitated, then pushed forward. “Was Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Aemon sat still. Only the fire moved. Then slowly, he leaned forward and raised one hand. It trembled faintly in the air. “May I?”

Jon got closer. Aemon’s fingers touched his face — brow, cheek, jaw. His skin was dry and paper-thin, but steady. He traced the line of Jon’s nose, lingered at the bridge.

“You have his nose,” Aemon whispered. “Egg.” He smiled faintly. “That curve — our mother used to call it the crown’s hook.” He drew back with a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep. “I feared this once. Then I mourned it. I knew Lyanna was with child, but when no word came… I thought you’d died with her.”

Jon’s breath caught. “You knew?”

“Not clearly,” Aemon said. “Just whispers. A raven never sent. A line in a letter that vanished in flame. But I wondered, all these years. If Rhaegar had defied his fate for love. If the child had survived. I never thought it would be you.”

Jon said nothing.

“You are not what I expected,” Aemon added gently. “You are better.”

Jon sat in stillness. Ghost stirred at his feet. “I only learned the truth recently,” Jon said. “Ned Stark took me. Raised me. Lied to everyone. Lied to me.”

“He protected you,” Aemon said. “Even from your name.”

Jon gave a bitter laugh. “Some protection. I don’t know who I am anymore. Not a Snow. Not  a Stark. And not a dragon.”

“You are all,” Aemon said. “You have always been all. And now, you are not alone.” Jon looked up. “A Targaryen alone in the world,” Aemon murmured, “is a terrible thing.” He turned slightly, the firelight catching on the pale folds of his face. “But now we are two.”

Jon’s voice came quiet. “I’m not sure I want to be.”

Aemon did not flinch. “And yet here you are.”

Jon looked at the fire again. “There’s another. A girl. Across the sea. I’ve heard the whispers. Her name is Daenerys.”

“Yes,” Aemon said. “My brother’s granddaughter. Rhaegar’s sister. She was born in the storm, beneath Dragonstone. I hear tales. She walks through fire. She frees slaves. She has dragons.”

“She’s alone,” Jon said.

“As you were,” Aemon replied. “Until now.”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t know if I want to meet her. I don’t know what I would say.”

“You need not say anything,” Aemon said. “The blood speaks for itself. Time will bring you together, or not. The world is wide, but blood calls blood.” He leaned back, the weight of years folding around him like a second cloak. “You do not need to choose,” he said. “Not today. Not ever. You are not just Rhaegar’s son, or Lyanna’s, or Eddard’s. You are not just a prince, or a wolf. You are what the world made you. And what you choose to be, despite it.”

Jon stood. The firelight flickered along his cloak, catching the Stark grey, the black of his boots, the pale edge of his blade. “I don’t know what that is yet,” he said.

“You will,” Aemon said. “And until then, you are not alone.”

Jon looked at the old man, blind and burning with quiet truth. “Thank you,” he said.

Aemon smiled, and this time, it was warm. Full of years. “Thank you,” he said. “For surviving.”

Chapter Text

Sansa

The hall was warm with firelight and the scent of roasted root vegetables, venison stew, and pine. The great hearths of Winterfell burned steadily, though not as fiercely as in the days of Lord Eddard. Robb did not favor excess. He said it dulled a man’s edge, and Winterfell had known too much dullness in his absence.

Still, the table was full. Robb sat at its head, his new crown tucked away for the night, hair damp from snowmelt. Catelyn was to his right, her hands folded neatly over her lap, a quiet weariness behind her eyes. Arya slouched beside Bran, chewing too fast, and Rickon bounced his heels beneath the bench, slipping strips of meat to Shaggydog, who waited panting beneath the table.

Sansa watched it all from her seat, flanked by Jeyne Poole and Meera Reed, who had both grown comfortable enough in the castle to speak freely now and then. It felt strange, to be surrounded by all her family again. Stranger still that they had grown into people she did not entirely recognize.

Bran’s eyes were older. Arya’s voice was sharper. Robb no longer asked for counsel — he gave it. Even Rickon, though still wild, no longer seemed untouched by loss.

And me? she wondered. Who have I become?

The hall doors opened with a groan. Maester Luwin entered, scroll in hand, a faint frown carved into the wrinkles of his brow. “A raven from the capital,” he announced.

Conversation ceased. Her straightened. Robb wiped his fingers and took the scroll. The wax was black and cracked from the cold.

He read quickly. Then slowly. Then once more, aloud. “King Joffrey Baratheon is dead.” Silence.

Rickon looked up. “Good.”

Arya didn’t hide her grin. “What did he choke on? His own voice?”

“A poisoned cup,” Robb said. “At his wedding feast.”

Sansa did not move. She kept her face smooth as ice, her hands folded in her lap. Her breath trembled once. She silenced it. Poison. So fitting. He had killed innocence with his smile, slaughtered trust with his crown. That he should die so helplessly — gagging like a drunk child — almost seemed too kind.

“I hope it hurt,” Arya muttered.

“Arya,” Catelyn said sharply.

“What? He was a monster. You didn’t see what he—” She bit her lip. “He was no king.”

Sansa remained silent. She thought of Joffrey’s hands. His voice. His arrows. The bruise on her arm he had given her for speaking too slowly. The bruise in her chest he had left behind just by living.

“He’s gone,” Robb said quietly. “But the game is not.”

He folded the letter and passed it to their mother. “The wedding will proceed, despite the death. Margaery is still becoming queen. Tommen was crowned the day after.”

“They didn’t even wait for the body to cool,” Catelyn said.

Robb shook his head. “The city needs stability. That’s what they’ll say. But I call it fear.”

“Stannis,” said Bran, lifting his head. “They fear Stannis.”

Robb nodded. “He’s moved south again. Not toward King’s Landing. To Storm’s End. And someone else is there.”

“Who?” Arya asked.

“Some call him a foreign prince. Some call him Griff. No one says the same thing twice. But whatever’s true, he came with swords — and Stannis went to meet him.”

Sansa’s heart quickened. She remembered the dragons of old songs. Rhaegar’s eyes in her dreams. A foreign prince. A Targaryen? A sellsword king?

“Will they fight?” Bran asked.

“They already have,” Robb said. “Storm’s End held, for now. But the south is bleeding.”

Arya crossed her arms. “Let them bleed. We have our own kingdom now.”

Robb raised an eyebrow. “Which is why I’ve reinforced the southern border.”

“But you made peace,” Arya said. “The treaty said no war for a hundred years.”

“I made peace with Tyrion,” Robb said. “Not with Stannis. And not with whoever else thinks to carve the realm from within.” No one argued.

The fire crackled louder now, as if trying to fill the space left by silence. Robb leaned back in his seat, the shadows beneath his eyes deepening. “If Storm’s End falls, the whole southern coast opens up. The Tyrells and Lannisters are still licking their wounds. If a new claimant rises—gods help us if he’s a Targaryen—there may be more than one king marching before summer ends.”

Catelyn folded the letter in her hands. “And where does that leave us?”

“In between. Again,” Robb said. “So we hold the Neck. Fortify Moat Cailin. Keep an eye on the sea. Lord Wyman is raising ships at White Harbor. The Manderlys won’t be caught napping again.”

Arya frowned. “So it’s war again?”

“No.” Robb’s voice was firmer now. “It’s peace, defended with teeth.”

“You sound like Jon,” Bran said.

Robb smiled faintly. “Speaking of…” He reached for another scroll, this one smaller, the wax seal broken and re-pressed. “A raven came from Castle Black this morning. Jon sent word of unrest in the far North. Wildlings strange behaviors. Scouts gone missing. Strange talk in the snow.”

Catelyn’s mouth tightened. “I thought we had peace at the Wall.”

“We do,” Robb said. “But peace means watching the shadows. I’m sending a thousand men. Brandon Dustin will command them.”

Sansa’s gaze drifted to the mention of Brandon Dustin. She remembered his smile on the road from the Twins to Winterfell — a smile different from Joffrey’s, warmer, without the sharp edge of cruelty. He was younger than Robb by a year, yet he bore the same eyes, having seen war and death and carried the weight of a sword that had killed. But he had treated her kindly. Joked with her. Asked her questions no one else had. He was no prince, yet perhaps that was worth more than any crown. Kindness, she thought, was better than royalty. A small smile touched her lips.

Sansa looked up. “You trust him?”

“With my life,” Robb said. “His father rode with ours. He fought at the Gods Eye. And he follows Jon without hesitation.”

Arya’s eyes gleamed. “So Jon’s staying north?”

“For a time,” Robb nodded. “To help with the rangings. He’ll return. I’ve already told him.”

“Why not send more?” Bran asked.

“Because we still have to guard the realm we have,” Robb said. “And because the Wall isn’t ours to rule. It’s theirs. Jon goes as an ally, not a conqueror.”

“Then let me go too,” Bran said, sitting straighter. “I can help. I can see things—”

“No.” The word was soft but sharp. Robb’s eyes met Bran’s. “Not yet.”

Bran’s mouth pressed into a line. “I’ll go one day,” he said. “With or without your blessing.”

Arya grinned. “You will.”

Her mother looked between them, worry clear in her face, but she said nothing.

Rickon looked confused. “Why do they need Jon? Don’t they have a hundred swords?”

“They need more than swords,” Robb said. “They need wolves. And men who know the dark.”

Rickon blinked. “Ghost is the best wolf.”

“Not better than Grey Wind,” Robb said.

“Ghost is quieter,” Arya offered.

Sansa found herself smiling. Just faintly. For a heartbeat, they were children again. Arguing over wolves and wind and who could out-climb the godswood trees. But that time was ash now. The memory of something warmer than the present.

She looked to Robb and saw the tired king beneath the crown. Looked to Arya and saw the wildness growing sharper. To Bran, whose stillness unnerved her. To Rickon, whose laughter was the loudest but whose dreams were always broken.

To herself, sitting in quiet clothes, smiling when expected. Nodding when safe. The hall rang with soft voices and low firelight. And yet something cold pressed behind her ribs. It was peace, yes. But only for now.

The moonlight crept across the stone floor like a ghost. Sansa sat at the edge of her bed, brushing her hair in slow, silent strokes. Outside, the wind whispered through the towers, tugging at the shutters like a child begging entry. In the hearth, only embers glowed. The fire had died with the hour, and she had not called for more wood. She was not cold. Not truly. Not anymore.

She had not spoken much after supper. Only enough to be polite. She had listened instead — to Bran’s quiet questions, to Arya’s barbs, to Rickon’s laughter. And to Robb’s voice, low and steady, heavier now than ever before. They had felt like a family again, for a little while. But even the warmth of stew and firelight couldn’t hide the shadow curling behind each word: the war had not ended. It had only... paused.

And Joffrey was dead. Sansa had not allowed herself joy. That would be unseemly. Unworthy of a lady. But she had allowed herself silence. And in that silence, she had remembered the way he smiled when he hurt her. The way his hand closed around her wrist like a shackle. The way his words bruised deeper than his rings. Now he was gone. And she did not feel sorrow.

She lay back against her pillows, the brush falling from her fingers. Ghosts moved in the beams of moonlight — old dreams, old prayers, old scars. When sleep came, it came swiftly. And she was not in her bed anymore.

She ran through the snow with the wind in her fur. The forest sang beneath her paws, each crack of twig and crunch of frost like a note in a forgotten song. Her breath steamed in the night air. Her heart beat strong and wild. Lady. That was her name in the dream. Not Sansa. Not daughter. Not princess. Just Lady.

She felt the earth in her bones. The trees knew her. The wind welcomed her. She saw Summer at her flank — golden eyes and silent grace. Shaggydog darted between the trees, a black shadow all tooth and laughter. They were whole. The world was simple. Chase. Leap. Live. No courtiers. No lies. No thrones. Just the snow beneath her and the stars above.

She chased a rabbit through the brush, caught its scent before it even knew it was prey. She didn’t kill it — not tonight. Tonight was for running. For remembering. For feeling like something more than a girl in borrowed silks. She howled once, short and low. The other wolves answered.

When she woke, her face was wet with tears she hadn’t felt fall. She stared at the ceiling, heart still racing, breath shallow in her chest. The scent of snow clung to her like perfume. Her fingers were curled against the quilt, as if they’d been claws.

She did not understand it.

Chapter Text

Walder

The wind on the Wall had teeth. It bit through fur and boiled leather, sank into the bones like regret, and stayed there. Walder Snow stood watch beneath a sky of dull iron, the white haze of dawn spilling slow and thick over the frost-rimed stones of Castle Black. The night’s snow had stopped sometime before the crows stirred, but the cold remained, heavy and close, like breath on a mirror.

He leaned on the haft of his axe, his left side aching where Arthur Dayne had once cut him open. The scar pulled more these days, like a rope wound too tight around old sinew. Winter did that. Pulled at old wounds, same as old memories. He looked eastward, toward the frost-glittering woods and the long grey serpent of the Wall winding off into haze. Beyond that, shadow or worse.

Brandon Dustin had not yet arrived.

They were meant to be here three days past, but the snow slowed even the North’s best riders. The letter had come on a tired raven yesterday — still two days out, slowed by wind near queen’s crown. That meant another night of waiting. Another night for the dread to creep in.

Behind him, the brothers of the Watch moved like phantoms in the yard below. Drills in the snow. Practice with dulled blades and cracked shields. He watched them for a time. Too many of them limped. Too many looked away when spoken to. The mutiny had left its mark.

“Castle Black’s lost something,” Walder muttered to himself. “Not just men. Something deeper.”

A ghost of laughter rose from the yard. A boy no older than Bran had dropped his sword in the snow. Another kicked it toward him. A jest passed between them. A moment of warmth. Walder didn’t smile. He remembered when the Watch had held pride. When even bastards and thieves stood straighter in black. When Ned Stark had said the Wall was a place to earn honor, not flee justice. But that Wall was long gone.

Now they stood at the edge of something no one wanted to name. He turned his gaze back to the forest. His hand drifted to his side, fingers pressing against the tight ridge of old scar tissue. Dayne should have killed me. The thought came unbidden, like it always did.

But he hadn’t. And Walder Snow — bastard of the North, called Giantsblood — had lived long enough to see the realm unravel. Long enough to bleed for three wars. Long enough to walk with wolves again. A gust lifted the hem of his cloak, snapping it like a banner in the wind. He did not shiver. He only watched the woods, and waited.

The Lord Commander’s solar smelled of damp fur, sour wine, and dust long settled. A fire burned in the hearth, but its heat seemed to sit heavy in the air rather than spread. A great map was unrolled across the table — faded, flaking at the edges, ink bleeding from the cold. It showed the lands beyond the Wall, the Milkwater, the Frostfangs, the Haunted Forest stretching vast and pale into myth.

Jeor Mormont stood over it like a bear guarding its last kill. He wore black layered over black, a thick crow feather cloak hanging from his shoulders like armor.

Jon stood to his right, hands behind his back. Ghost lay curled in the corner, still as fresh snowfall, his red eyes flicking between every movement in the room. He looked more beast than hound now — larger than most deerhounds, broad of chest and silent as smoke.

A man stood near the far wall, half-shadowed by the hanging banners, his face turned just enough to hide the lines. Tall, straight-backed, arms folded tight across his chest — a silhouette carved from disdain. He hadn't spoken since Walder entered, but his silence carried a weight of judgment.

Walder entered with a grunt, brushing snow from his shoulders. Mormont didn’t look up.

“Took your time,” the Old Bear muttered.

“I walk slower than I used to,” Walder replied. “The snow walks faster.”

Jon offered a nod. “We were just reviewing the last ranging reports. The east is quiet. Too quiet.”

“Aye,” Mormont said. “Eastwatch’s last scout came back with frostbitten fingers and eyes wide as a child’s. Saw tracks near the Gorge — twelve men, no fire, no sound. Disappeared on the ice like smoke.”

“Wildlings?” Walder asked.

“Maybe,” Mormont said. “But wildlings leave shit and bones. These left nothing.”

They stood in silence for a beat too long. Then Jon reached for the map, dragging a charcoal stub over the parchment.

“We’ll divide into three ranging parties,” he said. “One west following the Milkwater. One east deep inside the Haunted Forest. The main body will head north, toward Whitetree and beyond. That’s where the wildlings last gathered, before they scattered.”

“Three groups,” Walder muttered. “With half-trained boys and frostbitten blades.”

“We’ll have Brandon’s men within the day,” Jon said. “They’re seasoned. Quiet riders. We’ll split them between the flanks.”

Mormont scowled. “And you think that’s enough?”

Jon’s jaw worked, but he didn’t speak.

Walder stepped forward. “You don’t need more men,” he said. “You need fewer corpses.” Mormont raised a brow. Walder tapped the map, jabbing one scarred finger into the forest north of the Shadow Tower. “Here. You remember this place?”

Mormont squinted. “Crooked Hollow.”

“Shelter,” Walder said. “Still has old watch caches. If we’re cut off, it buys time.” He moved to another point. “And here — Grey Grove. South of it’s a valley where ravens still fly, even in snow. If anything goes wrong, send a bird from there.”

“Ravens don’t fly in storms,” Mormont said.

Walder grunted. “Then pray for clear skies.”

Jon looked between them, eyes narrowed in thought. He wasn’t the boy Walder remembered from Winterfell. There was something older in his face now, something brittle and forged. He wore a Stark’s calm like armor, but the bastard still flickered beneath the surface.

“Have you considered sending no one?” Walder asked. “Holding the Wall until you’re sure of what you’re facing?”

Jon answered before Mormont could. “And if what we’re facing is already inside the woods? Already watching?” Silence.

“Then we’ll ride,” Walder said. “But you make the plan to survive, not just to fight.”

A voice like gravel ground under boot cut through the room. “And since when did the Night’s Watch need help from wolf pups and northern strays?” The man near the wall, arms crossed, his mouth twisted in disdain. “We’ve held this Wall for ten thousand years without Starks whispering in our ears.”

Jon’s gaze didn’t move. Mormont’s did. “If you’ve something worth saying, say it, Ser Alliser,” the Old Bear said.

“I’ve said it,” Alliser replied. “We don’t need their help. Just steel and spine.”

Walder remembered him — Alliser Thorne, a Targaryen loyalist sent to the Wall by Ned at the end of the rebellion.

Mormont growled low in his throat. “Enough. The Watch needs brothers, not barking. You’re not here to bicker, Thorne. You’re here to listen.” Thorne said nothing more, but his scowl deepened like a shadow taking root. Mormont nodded, grudgingly. “I’ll issue the orders tonight. We move when Dustin arrives.”

Jon rolled the map gently, tying it with black twine. “We’ll be careful.” Walder watched him.

The rookery atop the Tower of the King was quiet, save for the flutter of wings and the creak of weathered wood beneath the ice. Snow gathered in the corners where the wind slipped through the slats, and the ravens stared down from their perches like dark-eyed watchers of some older truth.

Walder found Maester Aemon seated on a bench near the coals, a thick blanket tucked around his thin frame, his sightless eyes turned toward the open sky.

“You’ll catch your death up here,” Walder said.

Aemon’s pale lips curved faintly. “She’s already trying. I simply wish to feel her breath on my skin before she wins.”

Walder stepped closer, boots crunching. “You’re colder than any crow I’ve met. Even Mormont doesn’t come up this high without six layers.”

“I remember warmth,” Aemon said. “That is enough.”

They sat in silence a moment. Below them, the Watch moved like ants through the snow-packed yard — black against white, shadows upon shadows.

“He told you,” Walder said, voice quiet.

“Yes,” Aemon replied. “He was perturbed, torn between dragon and wolf.”

“And Now?” Walder murmured.

The ravens shifted above, croaking softly. “Better, I think” Aemon said. “He carries the cold like a sword,” the old man said. “I heard it in his voice. But there’s something else. A fire beneath the frost.”

Walder folded his arms, watching the slow puff of the maester’s breath vanish into the air. “He doesn’t speak of it,” Walder said. “But I’ve known him since he could walk. I see it in his eyes now — like he’s staring at something the rest of us can’t see.”

Aemon’s hands trembled slightly as he folded them in his lap. “That’s the curse of those touched by both blood and shadow. They are never allowed to look away.”

Walder grunted. “He’s not Rhaegar. And he’s not Ned either.”

“No,” Aemon said. “He’s something in between. Or beyond.”

They were quiet again. A raven clacked its beak above them. Another fluttered its wings but did not fly.

“When Egg was young,” Aemon said after a moment, “he used to ask me what it meant to be a king. Not a ruler — a king. I told him it meant choosing every day to hold back your own desires for the good of others. He didn’t understand it then. I’m not sure he ever did.”

Walder tilted his head. “Do you think Jon will?”

“I think he already has,” Aemon said. “That’s why it hurts him.”

Walder’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “And the dragon in him?”

“He doesn’t want the fire,” Aemon whispered. “But fire doesn’t ask.”

Walder looked out across the Wall’s white reach, the treetops stretching like spears beyond the shadow of the stronghold. He could feel the cold seeping into the cracks of his joints, the old pain burning where Dayne’s blade had kissed him.

“You think he’s meant for more?” Walder asked, voice low.

“I think he was never meant to be just a Stark,” Aemon said. “And never free to be only a Targaryen. I think that is why he suffers.”

Walder exhaled, heavy as falling snow. “Then let’s hope suffering makes him sharp.”

“It often does,” Aemon murmured. “But only if it doesn’t make him small.” Another gust swept through the rookery, scattering flakes in a swirl. The ravens above them croaked softly, restless. “Old blood always returns in strange ways,” Aemon said, almost to himself.

Walder looked down at the yard — at Jon standing with Ghost near the kennels, still as a carved figure.

The yard was quieter in the hour before supper, the air heavy with stillness. The clang of training swords had faded, and only the crows remained — those perched on the rookery and those walking the grounds with tired feet and wary eyes. Walder crossed the yard without hurry, his boots crunching through old snow. The wind had died, but its memory clung to the stones.

He saw them near the armory — two shadows against the cold-black wall. Jon stood with his arms crossed, Ghost seated beside him like a pale wraith. Across from him, hands fidgeting, eyes flicking to the wolf, was Theon Greyjoy.

Walder didn’t approach. He simply leaned against a post near the training rack, half-shadowed, half-forgotten. Listening.

“…I can fight,” Theon was saying, voice tight. “I’ve fought before. More than most of these boys. You know it.”

Jon didn’t answer right away. His gaze was steady, cold. But not cruel. “That was before,” Jon said.

Theon took a step closer. “You think I forgot Winterfell? I remember every damn stone of it. Every fire I let die. Every scream. I’m not asking for forgiveness.”

“No,” Jon said. “You’re asking for permission.”

“To die,” Theon snapped. “Fighting something worth it. Not wasting away in black with ghosts and mutineers. You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know they whisper when I pass? ‘That’s the turncloak. That’s the traitor’s ward.’”

Jon looked at him for a long moment. “You think I don’t remember the boys you hanged?” he asked, quiet now.

Theon flinched. “I do. Every night. I remember the fear. The heat. The way they begged.”

“And what?” Jon said. “You think dying beyond the Wall will make it right?”

“No,” Theon whispered. “But it might make it end.”

Silence stretched between them. Ghost let out a low, growling breath but didn’t rise. Walder saw the way Jon’s shoulders tensed — not with anger, but something heavier. Grief worn like armor.

“You’re not a brother of the Watch,” Jon said at last. “Not yet.”

Theon’s face twisted. “So you'd rather I rot behind the Wall while better men die in the woods?”

“No,” Jon said. “I'd rather you prove you’ve got some honor left.”

Theon stared at him, jaw tight.  “If I take the vows tonight…, will you let me come?”

Jon looked at him. A long beat passed. Then he nodded. Theon turned without another word, his boots crunching through the snow as he made for the gate. Ghost watched him go, silent, unmoving. Jon stayed where he was, arms folded tight across his chest.

Walder stepped forward, his steps slow and heavy. “He’s broken,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Jon murmured, still staring at the snow. “So was I, once.”

Walder grunted. “Difference is, someone put you back together.”

Jon nodded. “And now I’m trying to do the same for him.”

The wind shifted, sharp and cold. “Will you really take him?” Walder asked.

Jon didn’t answer at first. Then, “If Lord Mormont lets him take his vows… he’ll ride with the rear. No command. No blade. Just the road.” Walder nodded.

Jon turned to him then, and something passed between them — not agreement, not trust, but understanding. A silence only the North could make.

Chapter Text

Brandon

The Lord Commander’s solar smelled like smoke, old sweat, and damp crow feathers. Brandon Dustin leaned against the stone windowframe, snow melting on his shoulders, hands warming around a tin cup of something that was pretending to be wine. Outside, the wind howled against the Wall like it had teeth. Inside, the mood wasn’t much warmer.

Lord Commander Mormont stood hunched over the great map, gloved hands planted on either side of it. Jon Stark stood across from him, all hard lines and colder eyes, his cloak dark with wet. Walder Snow stood in the shadows, a statue made of scar and silence. Samwell Tarly and a few of the black-cloaks clustered near the door. Brandon took another sip. Gods, it was foul.

“Three hundred each,” Mormont said. “Mixed. Northmen and black brothers. The rest hold Castle Black. If things go to shit, we need a place to crawl back to.”

“Three hundred,” Brandon repeated. “Could be worse. Could be two hundred and fifty.” He smiled. No one else did. Tough crowd.

Mormont grunted. “Jon takes the north road. Whitetree and beyond. The wildlings were last seen in that region.”

Jon nodded. “Walder will ride with me. Theon, too. And Val.”

“The wildling girl?” Brandon asked.

“She knows the land. If we find any of them still breathing, she’ll get them talking.”

“And if they don’t like her face?”

Jon gave a tight smile. “Then Ghost shows them his.”

Brandon chuckled. “Fair enough.”

“Dustin,” Mormont said, “you’ll go east. Deep in the forest. Could have survivors.”

Brandon tipped his cup. “I’ll take the good lads. Samwell, Pypar, and Grenn. And the wildling girl you just caught. Fiery hair, sharper tongue.”

“Ygritte,” Jon supplied.

“Aye. If she stops talking long enough to guide us, I’ll count it as a blessing.”

“Mormont,” Jon said, “you’ll lead the western sweep?”

“We’ll follow the Milkwater,” the Old Bear confirmed. “I’ll take veterans. We know those lands. But even they feel wrong now.” He looked to Jon, then to him. “If any of us don’t return in ten days, the rest pull back. No hero’s charges. No pride. Just living men who can fight another day.”

Brandon nodded. “You’ll get no songs from me. I plan to come back ugly and loud.” Another moment of quiet. Then Brandon cleared his throat. “And Mance Rayder?” he asked.

The silence turned heavier. “Not yet,” Mormont said. “Not until we know why they ran. Once we have that, I’ll swing the blade myself.”

Brandon raised his brow. “Mercy, or curiosity?”

“Both.”

Jon didn’t speak. He just looked at the map. And Brandon, watching him, felt a strange sort of calm settle in his chest. He’d fought beside a lot of men. Proud men. Loud ones. But Jon Stark had never needed to shout. He led like winter led, quiet, cold, and unrelenting.

And when Jon was there, things tended to go right. Brandon smirked into his cup. Let the Wall howl. Let the snow come. If Jon was leading, they'd get through it. Or die somewhere that mattered.

He set the cup down and rolled his shoulders. “When do we ride?”

The yard of Castle Black stank of old snow and fresh nerves. Men were gathering in loose clusters — tightening bootstraps, sharpening blades, murmuring too loud about the cold and too quiet about what waited beyond the Wall. Brandon stood near the armory door, chewing a sliver of dried apple, and watching them like a farmer sizing up pigs before slaughter. He wasn’t worried.

Pyp and Grenn argued over who’d packed more arrows. Sam tried to stay out of it and failed magnificently.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam said, tugging his cloak tighter. “We’re supposed to carry rations, not stock a siege.”

Pyp shot him a look. “You ever try to kill something with dried beans, Sam?”

Grenn grinned. “I bet he has. Probably threw ‘em at a bear.”

“I—” Sam began, then sighed.

Brandon chuckled. “If we’re fighting bears with beans, we’ve already lost.”

The boys snapped to attention as he approached. Pyp actually saluted, then clearly regretted it.

“Easy,” Brandon said. “I’m not your commander. Just the lucky bastard who gets to freeze beside you.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Still, you’re Lord Dustin.”

Brandon wrinkled his nose. “That’s my father. And unless his ghost snuck past the Wall, I’m just Brandon.”

“Yes, ser—I mean, Brandon.”

Brandon clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to make Sam wobble. “Much better.”

Behind them, chains clinked. Ygritte leaned against the fence post where two black brothers kept a loose watch. Her arms were bound in front of her, but she looked more like a cat sunning herself than a prisoner. Her hair was a tangle of red and smoke, her eyes sharp as flint.

“Well, well,” she said. “If it isn’t Lord Dustpile himself.”

Brandon turned. “That the best you’ve got?”

“I’ve only just met you,” she said. “Give me time. Bet there’s worse under all that Stark armor polish.”

He smirked. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t take insult from a woman in chains.”

“I’ll forgive you nothing,” she said, baring her teeth. “But I might laugh when the woods swallow your nice little march whole.”

Brandon tilted his head. “You planning to help us get swallowed, or keep us from it?”

“That depends,” Ygritte said. “On whether you listen better than you smell.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably. “She’s… not wrong about the woods. The wildlings say the eastern paths twist. Old gods. Cursed trees.”

“I know,” Brandon said. “We Northerners call it ‘Tuesday.’” Pyp snorted. Even Grenn cracked a grin. Brandon turned to the brothers guarding Ygritte. “She rides with me. Not chained. Not muzzled. If she runs, I’ll shoot her. If she helps, she eats.”

One of the guards frowned. “Orders said—”

“Orders said bring her as a guide,” Brandon interrupted. “Hard to guide anyone with a broken leg and a gag in her mouth.”

Ygritte raised a brow. “Not bad, Dustpile.”

He smiled. “We’re going to be best friends.” She spat at his feet.  He laughed, turned back to his men. “We leave at first light. Three hundred men, four days’ march. We reach the abandon watchtower by dusk on the fifth, or I start kicking horses.”

“What happens if we’re late?” Grenn asked.

“Then the Wall’s not the only thing with cracks,” Brandon said.

He looked at them all — Sam pale, Pyp eager, Grenn trying not to look nervous, Ygritte smirking. Jon’s going north, he thought. Into the deep frost. The true black. Whatever’s waiting in those woods, it’ll meet him first. And if he falls, we’re next.

Brandon flexed his fingers, already stiff with cold. “Get your rest,” he said. “Tomorrow, we walk into stories.”

They rode out at first light. Snow crunched under boot and hoof, the morning wind slicing down from the heights like a jealous ghost. Three hundred strong, cloaked in black and grey, moved through Castle Black’s gate in slow columns. The Wall loomed behind them, pale and eternal.

Brandon adjusted the reins on his horse, taking one last look at the keep. It already looked smaller. Quieter.

Jon approached on foot, Ghost pacing silently beside him. Brandon raised a brow. “Come to see me off, or to make sure I don’t steal the map?”

Jon gave a faint smile. “Just don’t get yourself killed. We’re short on decent company up here.”

Brandon chuckled. “You’re the one riding north with a silent giant and a wolf that doesn’t blink. I’ll take my odds.”

They clasped forearms, the grip brief but firm. “If we don’t return in ten days,” Brandon said, “don’t send a search party.”

Jon met his eyes. “If you don’t return in ten days,” he said, “I’ll come myself.”

Brandon snorted. “Well, that’s something to dread. Go on, then. Try not to get eaten by snow.” He mounted, gave Ghost a respectful nod, and kicked his horse into motion.

Ygritte shifted in her saddle beside him, glancing once toward the Wall. “Could be worse,” she said. “Could be riding with the warg.”

Brandon cocked an eyebrow. “The what?”

She smirked. “The Stark with his wolf. You’d see it, if you weren’t half blind in your head.”

Brandon said nothing.  He just watched her a moment longer, then turned back to the road.  The wind picked up. The eastern road awaited. And the woods beyond it held answers they might not want to find.

Chapter Text

Cersei

The night cloaked her like a second skin. Cersei Lannister moved through the narrow alleys behind the Sept of Baelor, her black cloak pulled low, the hem damp with filth. Moonlight caught the wet cobbles in glints of silver, but she walked without hesitation. The Kettleblack brothers flanked her, silent and watchful, their boots thudding softly behind her own. Ahead, Qyburn waited at the mouth of a side passage, one hand resting on a shuttered lantern.

The city stank after dark. Smoke, sweat, and the sweet rot of spilled wine and decay. Even in the heights of the Hill of Rhaenys, the stink clung to the stones like guilt. But Cersei welcomed it tonight. It reminded her that power lived in shadows, not marble halls.

Joffrey was dead. That thought came as cold as the wind down her spine. She could still see his face, blue-lipped and clawing. Hear his choking. Feel the blood under her nails. Her son. Her golden boy.

They had stolen him. Poisoned him. Laughed in silence as he died. And then they had crowned Tommen and wed him to that Tyrell whore before the body had even cooled. As if Joffrey had never been king at all. As if her grief were an inconvenience.

Kevan had spoken of unity. Tyrion had watched with smug calm. Mace Tyrell had beamed like a fool. Varys whispered, Pycelle dozed, and Baelish slithered between them all with his fox’s smile.

They think I am weak, she thought. They think I am broken. But I will break them.

She would kill them all. Every whisperer. Every schemer. Every soft-eyed traitor who thought a queen must beg for scraps. Joffrey had been a lion. They would learn that his mother still had claws.

Ahead, Qyburn inclined his head. "They're waiting," he murmured.

Cersei adjusted her cloak and stepped into the dark, toward the place where the fire was being lit. The night cloaked her like a second skin.

The room smelled of wax and stone. Old bones, too — beneath the incense, beneath the torch smoke, something older lingered in the cracks of the crypt beneath the Sept.

Five men stood waiting. All in simple robes. Brown and grey. Feet bare, hands clasped. Their faces were sunken, tired. The sort of men who had once begged outside the gates of the Red Keep. Now they waited like lords.

Cersei stepped forward, Qyburn at her shoulder. Her boots echoed sharply against the stones. The one in the center was lean, white-haired, eyes shadowed with wisdom or madness. He bowed his head, but did not kneel.

“Your Grace,” he said.

“You know why I’m here,” Cersei said.

“We know what you bring,” he replied. “And what you hope to take.”

She let the words hang. Then reached into her cloak and produced a small pouch. Gold clinked softly.

“You want to feed the poor,” she said. “Clothe the needy. But the Seven help those who help themselves. What you truly lack is strength. Steel. Discipline.”

“We are men of peace,” one said.

“And peace must be protected,” Cersei snapped. “The streets are restless. The wolves gather. The king is young, the realm unstable. I would see the Faith strong again. Respected. Obeyed.” The white-haired man said nothing. She stepped closer. “If arms find their way into the hands of the righteous, if coin fills your coffers... all I ask is that when the time comes, the Faith remember who kept its flame alive.”

A long silence followed. Then, “You do not have the power to restore what was lost. The Faith Militant is outlawed.”

“Laws are wind,” Cersei said. “The king may yet blow in the right direction.”

The man studied her. “The poor are angry. The hungry desperate. The nobles blind. You offer gold, but not belief. Yet...” He looked at the pouch. “If weapons appear in our hands, we will use them to defend the weak. If coin appears in our bowls, it will go to the hungry. That is all.”

“That is enough,” Cersei said.

They did not bow as she turned. They simply watched. But as she stepped into the night again, the cold air biting, she smiled beneath her hood. They were hers now. Fools in robes. Lions in sheep’s skin. She would give them weapons, and they would call it divine will. She would give them enemies, and they would burn them in the name of the Seven. They thought her desperate. But the queen was not weeping.

She returned to Maegor’s Holdfast with the night in her hair and a smile hidden beneath her hood. The torchlight flickered against the cold stone, and shadows shifted in the corners like half-remembered threats. The Kettleblacks peeled away at the door, their boots leaving damp prints on the flagged floor.

In the solar, Taena of Myr waited — hair like molten wine, eyes bright with cunning. She rose as Cersei entered, curtseying low. “Your Grace,” she purred.

Cersei waved her closer. “What news from the Tyrell bitch’s court?”

Taena’s lips curved like a dagger’s edge. “She plays the queen to perfection, my lady — all smiles and soft hands. But beneath the honeyed words, she stings.” She leaned in, voice dropping. “She visits the Sept daily, draped in virtue, but the singers tell a different tale. They say she brings the Bard to her chambers, teaches him songs to please the king.”

A slow flame of satisfaction warmed Cersei’s chest. The Faith had taken her gold, and now she would give them sin. “A singer?” she mused, fingers tapping on the table’s edge. “Such pretty voices are easily turned to uglier songs. And once the Faith learns of her unchaste amusements—”

Taena’s eyes gleamed. “They will come like crows to carrion, my queen.”

Cersei smiled, thin and sharp. “See to it the Bard knows his lines — and that he sings them well, even in confession.”

Taena bowed low. “As you command.”

The candles guttered, shadows dancing. Outside, the city lay restless in the dark, but inside Maegor’s Holdfast, Cersei Lannister turned her face to the night. Margaery would fall. Tyrion would cower. And when the dawn came, it would bring the smell of roses — trampled beneath a lion’s paw.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The bells rang far too cheerfully for a funeral city. Tyrion Lannister stood beneath the vaulted ceilings of the Great Sept of Baelor and tried not to grimace at the sound. Gold and white banners fluttered in the wind, meant for celebration, not grief. Perfumed air masked the rot of too many candles. And at the altar, hand in hand, stood his youngest nephew and the girl who had once called herself queen.

Tommen Baratheon. nine years of age. Crown heavy on his brow. Margaery Tyrell. Cloaked in green and silver, her veil already lifted.

“So much for mourning,” Tyrion muttered.

The ceremony was quick. The High Septon, swollen with robes and importance, blessed them with trembling hands. He spoke of unity, of healing, of crowns reforged and kingdoms made whole. No one spoke of Joffrey. No one dared.

Cersei had refused to attend. She had screamed when the council suggested it. Thrown a goblet. Called it sacrilege, madness, treason. But she had been overruled. Quietly. Completely.

“A wedding for stability,” Kevan had said. “The realm must see strength.”

“The Tyrells demand it,” Mace had said, too proud to hide his eagerness.

“Tommen needs someone,” Pycelle had croaked. “He is but a boy.”

Tyrion had said nothing. He had simply raised his cup and drank. Now he watched from the second row, flanked by silent lords and stiffer courtiers, as Tommen kissed Margaery’s cheek with all the confidence of a kitten licking milk from a blade. The crowd offered polite applause. No cheers. Not today.

And yet...

It was done. A new king and queen. A show of unity. A fresh start, painted in gold leaf over a rotting wall. Tyrion’s eyes flicked to the Tyrells. Mace beamed like a groom himself. Olenna, veiled and still, watched with the calm of someone who had already buried the past. Garlan, beside her, stood stiff, his face unreadable.

Tyrion sipped his wine and wondered which of them had killed Joffrey. Ser Dontos had taken the fall. Convenient. Too convenient. A fool, drunk and pliable. Easy to coax. Easy to hang. But he hadn’t planned it. That had taken cunning. Coin. A name the court still dared not say aloud.

His sister was right about that but she was wrong about one thing. It hadn’t been him. But it had been someone. And they were winning.

The sept doors opened, and the new royal couple began their slow walk down the aisle, flanked by a thin honor guard of gold cloaks and Reach knights. Tommen looked pale. Margaery, radiant. The city would eat it up.

Tyrion stepped back into the shadows of the columned hall and let them pass. Cersei was not the only one mourning. But only she was foolish enough to mourn in public. He turned and left the sept as the bells rang on. Far too cheerfully. And far too soon.

The bells of the wedding had barely faded before the council met again. The Small Hall stank of damp velvet and strained patience. Morning sun bled through stained glass in long stripes, casting half the table in gold and the other half in blood. Tyrion sat at the end, fingers drumming against the polished wood, wine untouched.

“Nineteen thousand,” said Ser Addam Marbrand, voice clipped. “That’s all we can muster between the Reach and the Westerlands. Ten thousand Tyrell, perhaps nine from the west. And most of them scattered.”

“Better trained than fed,” Tyrion said dryly. “And better armored than inspired.”

Mace Tyrell shifted, puffed up like a red-faced rooster. “We have strength enough to hold the Crownlands. And the Queen of Thorns is seeing to fresh grain from Bitterbridge.”

“Until the Stormlands rise again,” Tyrion murmured. The words drew silence.

“Speaking of which,” Varys said smoothly, “our little birds bring news. Stannis Baratheon has defeated an invading host near Storm’s End.”

“What invading host?” Kevan asked, frowning.

“That,” said Varys, “is the question. No banners flown. No declaration made. But it was not bandits. An army. Disciplined. Golden, some say.”

Tyrion glanced sideways. “Golden Company?”

Varys’ lips twitched. “Old sellswords. But someone has gold enough to raise them.”

Kevan leaned forward. “Stannis repelled them?”

“Thoroughly,” said Varys. “And now holds the Stormlands with grim resolve.”

Tyrion sighed. “Thank the gods he didn’t come to King’s Landing instead.”

“He still might,” Kevan said. “If he rallies the marcher lords.”

Pycelle coughed and blinked. “The Faith has grown... uneasy. The streets are full of whispers. Preachers. Some speak of dragons. Others of judgment.”

“And some,” Tyrion said, “just want bread.”

“The Septons complain of too much noise,” Kevan muttered. “Perhaps they should listen for once.”

Then the door creaked. Petyr Baelish stepped inside, smiling like a man who had never heard of funerals. “Am I late?”

“Only fashionably,” Tyrion said.

Baelish bowed. “My apologies. Lady Olenna had thoughts on port tariffs. They required... massaging.” Mace looked pleased. Tyrion didn’t miss it. “I come with an offer,” Littlefinger said. “The Vale remains... hesitant. But if I were to travel north, speak with Lady Waynwood, and a few of the Lords, I might secure their loyalty. Perhaps even some swords.”

Kevan nodded. “That could be useful.”

Tyrion swirled his wine. “And in exchange?”

Baelish smiled wider. “Only trust, my lord. And a modest stipend to grease the right wheels.”

Tyrion met his eyes. Calm. Amused. Opaque. Too close to the Tyrells. Too quiet during Joffrey’s death. Too clever by half.

“I’ll consider it,” Tyrion said.

Littlefinger bowed again. And Tyrion drank. Better to drown the rot than let it fester. And rot was all around him.

Later, Tyrion sat across from Kevan in the Tower of the Hand, the old maps of Westeros stretched before them like battle wounds left to scar. The windows let in the last breath of daylight falling over Tywin Lannister’s legacy, drawn in ink and lost blood.

“Twenty thousand men,” Tyrion muttered. “If we stretch the lines, dig deep into the coffers, and pray no one tests us... still not enough to threaten Riverrun, let alone hold the kingdoms together.”

Kevan exhaled through his nose. “We’re lucky Lysa Arryn stayed cloistered in her mountain. If she’d ridden to join her nephew and his bastard brother, we'd be in a worse position.”

Tyrion swirled the wine in his goblet. “Not a bastard anymore,” he said, voice dry as old parchment. “A Stark now. Signed and sealed by Robb the Wolf-King, Lord of Victory, Breaker of Lions.”

Kevan shot him a glance. “That’s enough.”

“I meant it,” Tyrion said, setting the goblet down. “Truly. It takes a special kind of madness to beat Tywin Lannister on open ground. I don’t know if I should curse him or compose a song.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and familiar.

Kevan reached for the edge of the map. Straightened it with fingers that had seen too many battlefields. “You could hand it off,” he said at last.

Tyrion blinked. “What?”

“The office. The Handship. If it’s too much, you could pass it to me. I’d carry it. For a time.”

Tyrion looked at him, long and quiet. “Would you take it?”

Kevan didn’t answer right away. Then said, “No.”

Tyrion gave a half-laugh. “Then don’t offer.”

Kevan leaned forward. “You’re the only one who can hold this together. Not because you want it. Not because the gods blessed you. But because there’s no one else left with the wit to keep the pieces from falling apart.”

Tyrion’s smile was bitter. “You mean I’m the last Lannister who hasn’t lost his mind.”

Kevan’s eyes were steady. “You’re your father’s son.”

That landed heavier than it should have. Tyrion reached for the wine again, found the cup already empty.

He stared at it, then looked back to the map. “He never wanted to see that,” he said. “Not once. He saw a dwarf with a sharp tongue and a cup too full. Never the part of him that bled into me.” Kevan didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. Tyrion stood slowly, the weight of the office pressing harder than the gold of the chain around his neck. “Well. The knives won’t twist themselves. And someone has to keep the boy king from choking on roses.”

Kevan gave a faint nod.  There was work to do. And no one else to do it.

Chapter Text

Samwell

The Haunted Forest was too quiet. Snow clung to every branch, muffling sound and weighing down the trees like white-robed sentries. The wind didn’t howl here. It whispered. Low and steady, as if the woods themselves were breathing.

Samwell Tarly trudged through the snow with his shoulders hunched and his eyes fixed on the path ahead. His cloak was stiff with frost at the hem. His legs ached. His fingers had long since gone numb. The leather straps of his pack chafed at his shoulders, but he didn’t complain. He didn’t dare.

They were four days out from Castle Black. East of Whitetree. Far enough now that even the ravens flew less often. The forest pressed close around them, dense and ancient. Every so often, Sam glanced behind them, half-expecting to see shadows moving where none should be. But there was only snow, and men, and the weary shuffle of boots.

Pyp trudged beside him, grumbling under his breath. “This is madness. Trees shouldn’t grow this thick. Even the air feels wrong.”

Grenn chuckled behind them. “That’s because you’re soft. The trees are just trees. They don’t care about your whining.”

“I’m not whining,” Pyp said. “I’m offering valid, well-reasoned complaints.” Sam managed a weak laugh.

Ahead of them, Brandon Dustin rode with two Stark riders, his dark red cloak snapping behind him like a banner. He turned in the saddle and slowed to match their pace, eyes scanning the trees before drifting toward Sam.

“Tarly,” he called. “What’s that you’re hiding under that fat cloak of yours?”

Sam flushed. “N-nothing, my lord.”

“He’s not a lord,” Pyp offered, cheerful as ever. “That’s what he keeps telling everyone.”

“Aye,” Grenn added. “It’s the dagger, isn’t it?”

Brandon’s brow lifted. “Dagger?”

Sam sighed and reached beneath his cloak, fingers brushing against the coarse fabric wrapped around the hilt. Slowly, he withdrew the small bundle and unwrapped it just enough to reveal the blade beneath. The dragonglass caught the weak daylight. Black. Jagged. Strange.

“Found it at the Fist,” Grenn said. “Before the mutiny. It was buried in snow under a black cloak. Looked like someone had wrapped it and hidden it. Sam claimed it.”

“Didn’t claim it,” Sam muttered. “Just... didn’t leave it.”

Brandon dismounted with surprising ease and walked over. He didn’t touch the dagger. Just looked at it. “Obsidian,” he said. “That’s what the maesters call it. Fancy word for something sharp and dark.”

“They call it dragonglass,” Sam said quietly.

Brandon studied him. “Cursed?”

“No,” Sam said. “Just... strange. It feels wrong in my hand. Cold, but not like metal.”

Brandon nodded once. “Keep it close. A blade’s a blade, cursed or not. And this forest doesn’t feel right.” He turned and swung back onto his horse. “No wildlings. No smoke. Not even bones. We should’ve seen something by now.”

Pyp shivered. “Maybe they turned into trees.”

Brandon glanced back with a grin. “You’ll be the first to join them if you keep talking.”

Laughter rolled down the column of men, brief and brittle. Sam tucked the dagger back beneath his cloak and felt its weight like a secret. The trees watched. And said nothing.

That night, they camped beneath a half-fallen ridge crowned with crooked trees. The fire was small, its light swallowed quickly by the woods, but it burned. That was enough. Sam sat close to the flames, wrapped in his cloak, his breath curling in the air.

Pyp was roasting something skewered on a stick. It smelled like rabbit. Maybe. Grenn sat with his back to a stump, sharpening a dull blade with a stone that barely sparked.

Brandon Dustin crouched near the fire, gloved hands outstretched. His face was flushed from cold, but he still wore that crooked smirk Sam had started to associate with his voice.

Across the circle, Ygritte sat with her wrists loosely bound. Her red hair looked like flame in the firelight. She hadn’t tried to run once since they’d taken her. She hadn’t stopped mocking them, either.

"So, Lord Not-A-Lord," she said, eyeing Brandon, "did you kill a hundred lions at that Eye of the God, or just the fifty in songs?"

Brandon chuckled. "The God’s Eye, it’s a lake. Only forty-seven. But three of those were drunk. I count that as half each."

Pyp grinned. "Is it true Tywin fell from his horse into his own men?"

"Crushed by his courser," Grenn said. "I heard it was a wolf who started the stampede."

Sam looked at Brandon. "You were there, weren’t you? At the Gods Eye?"

The smirk faded. Brandon stared into the fire a moment. When he spoke, his voice was lower. "I was," he said. "The battle wasn’t a song. It was a butcher’s pen. We lured them in, let Bolton turn his cloak, made it look like we were breaking. And when the trap shut... we didn’t stop." He rubbed his jaw with one gloved hand. "The wolves came. Hundreds. Real ones, not men. They tore through the Lannister rear like fire through dry leaves. And then Robb—King Robb—hit their flank with what was left of the left. We closed the jaws."

Ygritte scoffed. "Sounds like a slaughter."

"It was. We didn’t fight. We bled them. They had nowhere to run. They died standing."

Silence followed. Pyp swallowed. Grenn looked at the flames, blade forgotten. Sam pulled his cloak tighter around him.

Brandon looked at none of them. "War isn't noble. It just ends. And when it ends, if you're lucky, you still know your own name."

Ygritte tilted her head. "And do you?"

Brandon smiled thinly. "Some days."

A gust of wind stirred the fire. Sparks danced into the trees. Sam stared into the flames, letting the silence stretch. Randyll Tarly had died at the God's Eye. The words came back to him like a whisper — not from a letter, not from the Citadel, not even from Jon or Brandon. But from rumor, from quiet talk passed between black brothers who didn’t think he was listening.

Lord Tarly. Slayer of maesters and rebels both. One of the South’s great butchers. Sam didn’t know how to feel. He should have felt something. Pride. Relief. Grief, maybe. But instead there was only that old weight in his chest, cold and familiar.

He remembered his father’s voice, "You're no son of mine. You're soft. You're useless. You’ll die with piss down your leg."

And now the man who'd said it was dead. Killed in the war. Died standing. Maybe trampled. Maybe torn apart. Sam wrapped his arms around himself tighter. He had dreamed, once or twice, of proving him wrong. Of coming back taller. Braver. But Randyll was dead now. And there would be no proving anything.

A part of him — small, quiet, ashamed — wished he'd gotten to see it. Another part — the boy inside — wished he'd never had to. His eyes burned. Not from smoke. He blinked hard, then looked away. The wind shifted. In the trees beyond the firelight, something creaked. And still the forest waited.

Chapter Text

Jon

The wind howled through the trees like a wounded animal — sharp and raw, full of teeth. It keened through branches thick with frost, stirred the snow into ghosts, and hissed beneath the seams of fur-lined cloaks. The Haunted Forest was cold he knew it. But this... this was something else.

Jon knelt beside the frozen stream, gloved fingers brushing the blackened scar in the snow. The mark was burned into the earth, a wound with edges crisped to glass. The snow around it had hardened, not melted — as if scorched by something that didn’t give heat, only hunger.

Val stood behind him, still as a carved figure, her white furs blending with the trees. Her pale eyes narrowed. “That’s no Free Folk fire,” she said. “And the cold doesn’t burn like that either.”

Jon rose slowly. His breath came out white and steady, but every part of him felt tight — pulled like a bowstring. The air was wrong. The trees too still. Even the silence had changed, as if listening back.

They had been north of Whitetree for four days. No wildlings. No tracks. No game. Only cold. And quiet. And now this. He turned back. Walder stood beside the column of riders, axe resting across his back, shoulders hunched like a mountain at rest. Ghost was at his side, low and alert, ears twitching. Neither moved.

“You’ll stay with the main body,” Jon said.

Walder’s brow lifted slightly. “You want me to stay here while you walk into the woods chasing ghosts?”

“I want you to keep them safe,” Jon said firmly. “That’s an order.” His voice was steady—the same voice he’d used in war, the voice that had led men into battle.

Walder’s mouth worked around the start of a protest — then closed. He looked once toward the trees, then toward Jon. “You find something worse than ghosts,” he muttered, “don’t die trying to name it.”

Jon gave a tight nod. “I’ll try.”

Theon stepped forward, his cloak slung tight around his shoulders. His cheeks were raw with cold, hair lank with frost. “If we’re riding into shadows,” he said, “I want a blade in my hand.”

Jon met his eyes. “You have a bow.”

“A bow won’t help if we’re up close.” His voice was calm, but there was something behind it — urgency, maybe. Or shame. “I can fight.”

“You’ll fight if it comes to that,” Jon said. “But no sword.”

Theon bristled. “You don’t trust me.”

“I do,” Jon said quietly. “That’s why you’re coming. But trust isn’t steel, Theon.” Theon’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Just pulled his cloak tighter and turned toward his mount.

Jon turned to the others. “Val, you know these woods. You ride with me. Edd, Theon. Six more — light kit. No fire, no talking. I want silence like your lives depend on it.”

Dolorous Edd sighed, already mounting. “A silent death in the woods. Just what I always wanted.”

Jon stepped to Walder once more and lowered his voice. “If we’re not back by dawn, ride south. Mormont needs to know. Tell him... tell him it wasn’t wildlings.”

Walder studied him for a beat, then offered a nod. “Come back. I’ll not have to explain to Arya why I let you vanish.”

Jon smirked faintly. “If I vanish, you’re the one who’ll have to lead.”

“Then don’t,” Walder grunted.

Ghost moved first — silent and pale, slipping into the trees. Jon mounted. The forest ahead loomed tall and dark, trees like frozen pillars. No birdsong. No wind. Just a silence that felt like waiting.

“I don’t know what we’re walking into,” Jon said, glancing once more at the scorched earth. “But it’s watching.”

Then he spurred his horse. The trees swallowed them whole.

They moved like shadows beneath ancient pine, every step swallowed by snow.

Jon rode at the head of the small column, his cloak drawn tight, eyes forward. They had left the main host an hour past. Behind them, the trail had vanished into drifts and silence. The forest pressed in close, boughs heavy with snow and secrets. There was no sky, only branches overhead like broken spears. No birds. No sound but breath and boots.

Ghost padded silently beside him, his white fur stark even against the snow. His ears twitched with every shift of air. Jon kept one hand on his sword’s pommel. The sword felt warm despite the cold. Or maybe that was only memory.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Val muttered, her voice low but steady. She walked at his side, hood up, hand still bounded. “The woods are wrong here. The air tastes like metal. Even the trees feel like they’re listening.”

Jon didn’t argue. He felt it too — that low pull at the back of the neck, like someone watching.

Behind them, Edd cursed softly. “If I’m going to freeze to death, I’d rather do it somewhere with a view. Maybe near a hot spring. Or in my sleep.”

Theon snorted. “You always say that.”

“I mean it this time.”

“Could be worse,” Theon said. “Could be frostbite on both toes. Or ghosts. Or those shadows you see when you piss too long in the snow.”

“Shadows don’t bother me,” Edd muttered. “It’s the things that don’t cast them that worry me.”

They dismounted near a narrow gully where the woods thickened to the point that no horse could pass without breaking a leg. Jon gave a quiet whistle, and the column halted. Ghost has stopped. The direwolf’s fur bristled. He lifted is nose, then turned sharply to the east, ears pricked.

Jon drew his sword. “Stop,” he said. “Something’s here.”

Everyone froze. The wind had died completely. Even the snow seemed to fall more slowly. And somewhere beyond the trees, the silence breathed.

Theon muttered. “Tell me that’s just a deer.”

Val’s hands curled into fists. “It’s not a deer.”

Ghost bared his teeth. And Jon whispered, “Ready yourselves.”

At first, it was only a glimmer between the trees. A flicker of motion where there should have been none. Then it stepped into view.

Pale as moonlight, tall and gaunt, it moved like a shadow of ice — smooth, soundless, not disturbing even the snow beneath its feet. Its eyes burned with a blue so bright it seemed to hum, and in its hands, it carried a sword long and thin, clear as frozen glass. Jon's breath caught in his throat. His grip tightened.

Theon swore aloud. “Seven hells. What is that thing?”

Val stepped closer to him, her voice sharp with fear. “You need fire. Fire, now!”

Jon didn’t move. “Form up,” he said, raising his voice.

The Monster didn’t move. It stayed in place, silent, its sword trailing cold mist. And behind it the snow broke.

Pale fingers burst from beneath the surface, and then a face — blue-eyed, mottled, half-rotted. Then another. And another. Dead things crawling up from beneath the frost like worms from a corpse. A dozen at least, maybe more.

One of Jon’s men screamed and tried to flee. He made it three steps before something unseen slammed into him. His body hit the snow with a sickening crack. When they looked again, only blood marked the place he had stood.

Jon turned, blade flashing. “They’re in the snow!” he shouted. “Cut them down!”

Steel met bone. Jon cleaved through an arm, then a head, and it still moved. Crawling. Reaching.

 Edd swung his torch like a club, flame hissing in the cold. It caught one of the wights full in the face. The thing shrieked — not with pain, but with fury. The smell was worse than rot.

Theon fired — one arrow then another. One struck the White Monster through the chest. The shaft cracked in half and fell. The creature didn’t blink.

A black brother fell screaming as a wight fell on him. His sword didn’t even rise before he was swallowed by death. He fell his blood steaming on the snow.

Val was closest. Her fingers found the grip of the dead man sword. She ripped the sword from the snow — still half-tangled in the leather binding her wrists — and lunged. The blade struck low, just above the knee. The wight’s leg came free with a crunch of frozen sinew. It fell — and crawled still. Val twisted the sword in both hands, leather cords now slick with blood. She brought it down again, hard, cleaving the skull in half with a snarl of rage.

Jon saw her and shouted, “Val—back to the line!” She didn’t answer. She only turned toward the next wight, lips peeled in a snarl.

Then the Monster moved, blade low, without sound. A man tried to face it — a bearded stark man in grey — and was cut down before he swung. Another died with his blade still in its scabbard.

Jon took a breath., His heart hammering in his ribs. “Stay tight!” he shouted. “Don’t let them surround us!”

The clearing had become a circle of screams. Steel clanged. Arrows hissed. Snow churned with blood. Edd’s torch flared like a dying star as he swung it wide, forcing two wights back with flame and fear alone.

But Jon saw none of it. He only saw the Pale Thing moving slowly towards him. It moved through the chaos untouched — a whisper of frost and hate, pale and perfect, carved from winter itself. Snow did not cling to it. Blood did not stain it. The air around it shimmered faintly, as if the world itself recoiled from its presence.

It locked eyes with him. Not with rage. Not even malice. Jon moved. He stepped forward, blade raised.  One breath. Two. Then the Pale Thing came.

They met in the center of the storm. Jon struck first — a downward blow, full of fear and fury — but the Monster was faster. It parried with a twist of its crystal blade, and his sword screamed. The steel shattered.

Jon staggered backward as shards of steel exploded in his grip. The blade was gone. Only the hilt remained, torn and useless. The Thing stepped forward, slow and sure, its blade gleaming. Jon froze.

And Theon hit him from the side. Jon went sprawling, breath knocked from his lungs. Theon landed hard beside him, face grim. “I told you not to be a hero,” Theon gasped.

They scrambled up just as Edd hurled himself at the creature, torch in one hand, short sword in the other. “Come on, then,” Edd barked. “Let’s see if your kind bleeds.” He slashed. Steel met crystal. And shattered. Edd staggered back, blinking at the hilt in his hand, lips parting in disbelief. “Gods save me,” he muttered.

The Pale Thing turned toward Jon and Theon again. Its sword hung at its side, tip barely touching the snow. Its eyes locked with Jon’s. It didn’t raise its sword. It watched him. Not like a hunter watches prey. Like a man watches a mirror. Time slowed.

The clearing steamed with blood and breath. The dead pressed in on every side, blue-eyed and silent. Somewhere to the left, a man gurgled on his own tongue. A horse shrieked before it was dragged down. Snow turned red.

But the creature did not strike. It stood still, sword lowered, staring. Its eyes fixed on Jon — not as prey, not as threat, but as something else. Curious. Measuring. The wind moved around it but never touched it. Its head tilted, just slightly.

Jon stood his ground, breathing hard. He held nothing but air. His hands were bleeding — he hadn’t realized the shards of his sword had cut him. His chest heaved, and still he did not move. Could not.

Val’s scream rang out behind him. “Jon!”

Theon was on his knees, his bow lost, his hands red and shaking. Edd leaned against a tree, gripping the hilt of his broken sword like it might still save him.

The Blue-eyed Monster took one step forward.

Then—

A sound split the woods. A high, shrill whistle — not made by lips, not made by wind. It pierced the clearing like a knife. The Thing turned its head sharply toward the trees. And fire rained from the branches.

Arrows streaked from the shadows — fire-tipped and fast. They struck the snow around the wights, bursting into sudden flame. Circles of fire sprang up, hemming the dead in, searing flesh, lighting the snow. The wights shrieked.

The Monster stepped back once — twice — its face still as water. Its eyes flicked toward the trees, then to Jon again. And then it vanished. No sound. No motion. Just gone — as if the snow itself had swallowed it whole.

The fire crackled. Shapes moved from the shadows. Figures — cloaked in black, silent as ghosts — stepped into the clearing. At their head was a man with a face half-hidden by frost-stiffened furs. His beard was crusted with ice. His eyes were shadowed.

He crossed the burning snow in long strides, stepping over the charred corpse of a wights. In one hand, he held a strange smoked blade, not steel. Valyrian Steel.

He looked to Jon and said, flatly, “You’re late.”

Jon blinked. His legs nearly gave out. Theon let out a ragged breath, half a laugh, half a sob. Edd slid down the tree he’d leaned against and slumped to the ground.

Behind the man came others — smaller, slighter, eyes glowing in the dark like stars. Their skin was the color of ash and bark. They moved without sound, their bows still raised, their hands quick.

Val knelt in the snow, both hands clutched around a borrowed sword. Her arms were still bound, her cheek split and bleeding. She stared at the newcomers with wide, unreadable eyes.

The clearing was a grave. Only four stood now — him, Theon, Edd, and Val. The fire crackled and hissed. Snow began to fall again — soft, gentle, and clean, trying to bury what had just happened.

Chapter Text

Theon

The snow hadn’t stopped falling. It drifted through the trees like ash, clinging to cloaks and skin, whispering over the blood they left behind. No one spoke. The only sound was the crunch of boots and the soft jingle of gear as they followed the cloaked man ahead.

The beast at his side — elk or stag or something stranger — moved without sound, hooves barely disturbing the snow. Its breath misted faintly, but the man beside it gave off none at all. He moved like he wasn’t alive. Or like the cold itself had carved him out of old bone and shadow.

Jon march at the front, one hand clutched tight around the ruined hilt of his broken sword. Blood soaked the wrappings on his palm. He hadn’t said much since they fled the clearing. His face was pale, drawn. The pain sat behind his eyes, quiet and deep.

Val walked behind him, one arm bound with cloth. Her furs were torn at the shoulder, and dried blood crusted down her side, but she didn’t limp. Didn’t flinch. Just stared at the woods like they owed her a debt.

Edd moved stiffly, his cloak singed from fire, his eyes blank. He’d dropped his broken blade somewhere in the snow and hadn’t asked for it back. He kept muttering to himself — prayers, maybe. Or jokes without the laughter.

Theon walked last. He kept glancing behind them. Not because he thought something was following — he knew better than to hope the dead were done — but because some part of him still couldn’t believe they had walked away at all.

What was that thing? Theon kept thinking. He could still see it — tall, pale, silent. Eyes like blue flame. It had looked at Jon like a smith judging iron.  A shiver rolled down his back.

Ahead, the strange man — Coldhands he calls himself — slowed. His cloak, ragged and dark, shifted as he raised a hand. The beast stopped. Around them, the woods thickened. The trees bent low, branches twisting in ways that looked wrong, almost shaped.

From the shadows, others emerged. Small figures — smaller than children, with eyes that glowed like moss under moonlight. Their skin was bark and earth, their hair like fallen leaves. They said nothing.

Jon approached slowly. He winced, favoring his side, and staggered before Ghost was suddenly there, nosing at his arm. Val was already off her feet, adjusting the binding on her wound. Edd just slumped to the ground and sat in the snow like a man who wasn’t sure he’d ever stand again.

Jon turned to the figures. “Are you… the Children?” he asked.

One stepped forward — a girl, maybe, though her voice was old. “That is what the loud ones call us.”

Jon bowed his head. “You saved us.”

The creature didn’t nod. “We did what the crow asked.”

That made Theon blink. “Crow?” No answer.

Jon frowned. “You mean the Night’s Watch?” The figure only tilted her head.

The silence stretched until Theon broke it. “That thing — the tall one. Blue eyes. Sword like ice. What was it?”

Another of the children stirred. “A memory. A doom. Death that learned to walk.”

Val hissed under her breath. “A White Walker.”

Jon shook his head. “No. That can’t be. They’re… they’re myths.” Edd gave a broken laugh. “I struck it with steel,” Jon muttered. “And the steel broke.”

“Mine too,” Edd said, his voice flat.

Theon looked at his hands. “I shot it. Twice. Didn’t even blink.”

“They can’t be killed,” Val said. “Not with fire. Not with steel. Not with any blade I’ve ever held.”

Theon muttered, “They didn’t come for us”, He looked toward Jon, “They came for you.”  Jon said nothing. The Children watched them in silence, their eyes glimmering.

The strange man at their head — still hooded, still quiet — finally turned. “We should move,” he said. His voice was rough stone. “The night’s not done.”

Jon nodded once. “Where are we going?”

“South. There’s someone who waits in the cave.” The man turned again. “He’ll explain what you saw.”

Theon didn’t want to know. But he followed. The snow kept falling. And the forest whispered still.

The cave opened like a mouth beneath the hill — wide, dark, and sharp around the edges. No torches marked its entrance, no lanterns hung from the stone. The path simply ended in blackness, as if the world itself had cracked open to swallow them. They followed the cloaked man in silence.

Ghost padded ahead without fear, but Theon’s steps slowed. The air grew colder near the cave’s mouth, not with the sting of snow, but a deeper cold — damp, still, and old. The sort of chill that clung to stone and stories both. He had known castles, keeps, dungeons. None had ever felt like this.

Within, roots hung low from the ceiling, thick and knotted, glistening faintly with moisture. They looked more like veins than vines — as if the land itself bled from above. The walls narrowed the deeper they went, until even Ghost's white fur seemed to dim in the gloom.

No torches burned. And yet, somehow, they could see. The roots glowed. It was not light as a torch gives it — not gold or flame or warmth. This was soft. Pale. A dull phosphorescence that pooled in the knots and cracks of the stone. It danced in the water dripping from above. It painted every shape with shadow.

The path bent twice, then opened into a cavern so wide Theon couldn’t see its end. The ceiling vanished into darkness. The air here was thick — not foul, not stale, just… deep. As though sound would fall and never rise again.

And in the center of the cavern, half-swallowed by the roots of a weirwood tree that had grown sideways through the rock, was a man. Or what had once been a man.

He sat in a throne of gnarled wood and woven root. His robes were black, old, moth-eaten. His skin, where it was visible, clung to his bones like damp parchment, grey and pale. One eye gleamed — red as a dying ember. The other was a pit of shadow. His hair was long, white as snow, and it spilled down his shoulders like a river of cobwebs. Half his skull was bare. The other half had merged with the tree.

He did not move. He did not need to. Theon stopped breathing.

Jon stepped forward first, still cradling the broken hilt in his hand, his voice rough. “Are you… the one the Children serve?”

The figure did not blink. When he spoke, the sound came not from his lips but from around them — like the roots had learned his voice and now spoke it in his stead.

“I have been waiting for you.” The words crawled through the air, soft and slow.

Theon felt a chill tighten around his spine. He opened his mouth to speak and found he had no words. No one did.

The roots pulsed faintly. Somewhere behind them, a deeper part of the cave whispered with dripping water or breath or something neither. The Children moved to the edges of the chamber, silent as leaves falling in winter. The man in the tree — if man he still was — lifted his head a fraction.

Jon’s jaw tightened. “Who are you?”

The red eye opened wider. The cavern seemed to breathe. “I was Lord Commander,” the voice said. “I was Hand of the King. I was the last to kneel at the root of the world.” He smiled. It was not a kind smile. “I was Brynden Rivers. I was Bloodraven.” The words echoed in the stone like a tolling bell, soft but final.

Theon stared at the thing in the roots — the corpse that spoke. His mouth twisted before he could stop it. “Bloodraven is dead,” he said. “That’s impossible.”

The figure did not so much as flinch. The one red eye merely watched him. Not angry. Not amused. Just… watching.

“You have questions,” Bloodraven said. Not an answer. The air in the cave tightened. No one moved.

Jon stepped forward, stiff despite the wound beneath his furs. He still held the broken hilt of his sword, fingers wrapped around it like a prayer. “That thing,” he said. “The one with the ice sword. The pale one.” Theon could hear it in his voice — the rasp behind the words, like he was saying them just to believe they were real. “What is it?” Jon asked.

“What do they want?” Edd added, his voice hoarse. “Why did it look at us like it knew us?”

“They want what comes after life,” Bloodraven replied. “They want the silence beneath the snow.”

“That’s not an answer,” Theon snapped. “Where do they come from? Who leads them?”

Bloodraven’s head turned toward him — slowly, as though the roots resisted even that much.

“They come from farther north than north,” he said. “Where even the dead cannot walk. I do not know who leads them. Perhaps no one. Or perhaps something worse.”

“You’re saying we can’t stop them?” Theon asked.

“I did not say that.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “Steel breaks. Fire hurts them. But fire burns out.”

“There is more than fire,” Bloodraven said. “There is obsidian. Dragonglass. And there is Valyrian steel.”

Coldhands stepped forward. His breath curled in the cave’s chill like ghost-smoke, and in his gloved hands he carried something wrapped in dark cloth. “I carried it long enough,” he said. “It was not mine to keep.”,He set it down before Jon. The cloth unfurled.

The blade within gleamed — long, thin, elegant. Valyrian steel, dark as smoke and just as fluid. The hilt was simple, unadorned. A sword for war, not for ceremony.

Theon’s breath caught. Even he knew the name. “Dark Sister,” he said.

Jon looked from the blade to the man in the roots. “Your sword.”

Bloodraven’s red eye flickered. “Once. When I was whole. When I still bled. I lent it to the crow you met, for the work he was given. He has no need of it now. You do.”

Jon hesitated. “Why?”

“Because you fought the cold with broken steel,” Coldhands said. “This one won’t break.”

Bloodraven nodded. “It was forged for a woman of fire. Carried by princes and spymasters. Slain dragons and kin. Let it be carried now by one who walks between.”

Theon watched as Jon reached for the hilt. His fingers wrapped around it. It felt... right.

“There is both frost and flame in you,” Bloodraven said. “That blade has tasted both. See that it drinks again.”

Theon swallowed. “What does that mean? Frost and flame?” But no one answered.

Instead, the roots shivered. “You do not have time for all the truths,” Bloodraven said. “Only the ones that keep you breathing. The dead march, and the cold behind them grows bolder. You have seen one. There are many.”

Edd let out a shaky breath. “We barely lived through one.”

“Then next time,” Bloodraven said, “don’t fight alone.”

Val, who had said nothing until now, spoke. “You knew we were coming.”

Bloodraven inclined his head. “I did.”

“You sent him,” she said, glancing to Coldhands.

“I did,” Bloodraven said. “And he brought you.”

“There is one more thing,” Bloodraven said looking straight to Jon

Jon looked up. “What?”

“The boy must come. Your brother.”

Jon’s jaw clenched. “No.”

“You would keep him safe,” Bloodraven said. “So would I. But there is no safety left in the world. Not for what’s coming.”

“He’s a boy,” Jon snapped. “He’s broken. You want to drag him beyond the Wall—?”

“I want him to stand where no one else can,” Bloodraven interrupted. “The world remembers heroes. But songs are not born from swords alone. Bran is not the blade. He is the hand that guides it.”

Jon stepped forward. “He’s my brother. I’ll not throw him to the dark.”

Bloodraven’s eye — the red one, the living one — fixed Jon. Cold. Patient. “You are the song,” he said. “But he is the singer. If he does not come, the song will die in your throat. And we all fall.”

Jon didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Only the silence replied, deep and still. Outside, the darkness began to pale. It was dawn.

Bloodraven’s voice dropped. “Go. While there is still a sun to chase.”

They left in silence, stepping back into the frost — four of them alive, all changed. The blade hung from Jon’s hip now. The cave was behind them. The trees parted like old ghosts, and the camp came into view beneath a pallid dawn.

They had expected alarm. Horns. Questions. Shouts from sentries or Walder bellowing at the front. Instead, there was only silence. Snow fell soft and steady, muting the world. Shapes moved in the distance — men with drawn hoods, half-seen in the pale morning. No one ran to greet them. No one called out.

They looked like survivors of a storm no one else had felt.

Jon rode ahead, jaw tight, one hand wrapped around the reins like a tether. Val was beside him, her wounds scabbed, her knuckles white on the hilt of a borrowed sword. Edd followed with his head bowed, his cloak stained dark in places Theon didn’t want to count.

And Theon… Theon just rode.

He could still hear the screech of dead things burning. Could still feel the cold blade in the air, like it had carved the world in half. His legs ached, and something inside his chest hadn’t stopped shaking since the Monster looked at them — looked at Jon.

They passed between black tents and curious eyes. A few men stood. One muttered a prayer. Another crossed himself. Someone whispered Jon’s name like it was a question and a curse.

Walder appeared, as if pulled from the frost. His axe was slung on his back, but his shoulders were squared, eyes sharp. “You’re late,” he said. “What—”

Jon didn’t slow. “Not now,” he said. His voice was low. Final.

Walder opened his mouth, then closed it again. He stepped aside.

Jon walked past him to the center of camp, mounted his horse, and turned to face them all.

His voice cut through the cold. “We ride for Castle Black.” No one asked why.

The wind moaned through the trees like it remembered something.

And Theon rode into it, one more ghost beneath the snow.

Chapter Text

Brandon

The sky above the Haunted Forest was a dull, sullen gray, the kind of sky that promised snow but offered none — only cold. Cold that crept under furs and through leather, cold that settled in the bones and refused to leave.

Brandon Dustin rode at the head of his column, cloak snapping behind him, the yellow of House Dustin dulled with frost. Behind him, the black and gray line of his company wound through the trees like a river of crows. Three hundred strong, Northmen and black brothers together — not a host, but more than a raiding party. Enough to make the trees think twice.

They had seen no sign of life for days. No deer, no rabbit. Not even crows. Only frostbitten silence and snow too clean to trust.

“You’d think the woods would have the decency to fart after all this silence,” Pyp muttered somewhere behind him.

Brandon didn’t turn. “If it does, we’ll know it by the smell of blood.”

“That’s comforting,” Grenn grumbled. “Truly.”

Samwell Tarly rode just behind the forward scouts, face red with the cold, eyes wary. His cheeks had gone thin since their departure, but there was a new set to his jaw that hadn’t been there before. Brandon had seen it once before — in green boys who survived their first real fight. Sam had bled at the Fist, and whatever fear remained in him now had edges.

Ygritte rode on a shaggy brown garron, hands bound loosely, furs pulled high around her mouth. Her hair was a fire in the snow — untamed and bright, a flare of life in a colorless world. She had stopped spitting curses three days past. Now, she simply rode with a smirk that made the men uncomfortable and made Brandon uneasy.

When he caught her watching him — again — he raised an eyebrow. “Something amusing, wildling?”

“You ride like a Southron,” she said through her furs. “All stiff. Like there’s a stick where your sword should be.”

Brandon let out a snort. “Better stiff than sloppy.”

“Oh, I’ve seen you sloppy,” she shot back. “Last night, trying to light your fire with a frozen boot and a prayer.”

There was laughter behind him — Pyp, maybe. Or one of the Manderly boys. Even Grenn cracked a crooked grin.

Brandon didn’t smile. “Keep it up and I’ll put you on foot.”

“I’d go further than you lot,” she said. “And I wouldn’t get my balls frozen off trying.”

“You don’t have balls.”

“That’s why I’ll keep mine warm.”

Even Sam let out a breath of a laugh, and that made Brandon shake his head. He should have gagged her days ago. But something about her jabs made the cold sit lighter. Still, the forest was wrong. He felt it — that hum beneath the silence, the wrongness in the wind. The trees leaned inward here, as if eavesdropping. And the snow, when it fell, made no sound at all.

“Grenn,” he called back. “How far to the Watchtower ravine?”

“Half a day, maybe less.”

“Good. We camp there tonight. I want the fire watch doubled. Sam?”

The steward blinked up at him. “Y-yes, ser?”

“You still have that little knife of yours?”

Sam flushed. “The... dragonglass?” Brandon nodded. “Yes. It’s wrapped in oilcloth. In my saddlebag.”

“Good. Keep it close. I’ve got a gut feeling we’ll need something sharp before long.”

Ygritte caught that. “You Southrons always get gut feelings right before you die.”

Brandon looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. “If that’s a threat—”

“No,” she said, grinning. “Just a guess.”

Brandon raised his voice. “We’ll make camp at the next clearing. Rotate watches. No fire until full dark.”

A chorus of “Aye”s rumbled behind him. Saddles creaked. Hooves crunched snow. The riders began to ease — just slightly. The long ride had dulled their nerves, and the promise of rest, however cold, felt like a balm.

The clearing opened like a wound in the trees. A basin of frost-ringed earth, quiet and sunken. Too quiet. Brandon pulled up short.

The hush came all at once — a silence that didn’t settle, but pressed. Not peace. Not rest. Omission. The wind dropped. The trees stood still. No bird called. No branch creaked. The kind of silence that makes a man forget what breathing sounds like.

The horses felt it first. One tossed its head. Another stamped and whinnied, eyes rolling white. Sam’s mount sidestepped, nearly throwing him.

Brandon opened his mouth to call a halt — but it was already too late.

The snow exploded. A gout of white burst upward like a geyser as a thing erupted from beneath it — skin blue and split, mouth stretched wide. The scream of a horse followed, high and awful, then the crash of bodies as something dragged a man from the saddle and into the drifts.

“Shields!” Brandon bellowed. “FORM UP!”

But they were everywhere. The ground split open, and they came climbing from beneath it. Corpses. Hands, pale and rotten, busted from beneath the drifts. Blue eyes blazing like cold fire. Rusted blades swung with jerky strength. A dead man’s face split open in a grin too wide, and it lunged.

“Spears!” Brandon roared. “Shields! To the front!”

Steel rang. Men shouted. The line tried to form, but it was already too late. A rider was torn from the saddle, screaming — his throat vanishing beneath blackened fingers. Another went down with a spear through the gut, blood hissing in the snow. The ground cracked open with death.

Ygritte kicked free of her garron in one smooth twist. Even with her wrists bound, she moved like fire, disappearing into the chaos.

Brandon’s blade cleared its scabbard with a hiss. He hacked down a wight — took its arm off at the elbow, then its face. It fell — and twitched. Still moving. Still crawling.

“They don’t die!” someone shouted.

Then the cold deepened. A silence fell over the din — sharp, sudden, unnatural. It came like the breath before an avalanche. Brandon turned. And saw it.

Not a man. Not a beast. Not a corpse.

A figure stepped through the snow like it had been carved from it — tall, lean, pale as frostbitten moonlight. Its eyes burned blue — not like the others, but deeper. Brighter. Colder. A sword hung in its hands — long, curved, shimmering like crystal ice.

The Thing moved. One of the black brothers raised a shield. The shield cracked in half. So did the man behind it.

“Back!” Brandon shouted. “Fall back! REGROUP!” But the forest was already madness.

The men screamed as the Thing moved through them like a god of winter — its blade cut through leather, mail, and bone without slowing. Another ranger died with steel still sheathed. One ran — only to be dragged screaming into the trees by clawed hands.

Grenn was on his knees, fending off three wights with a broken spear haft. Pyp was bleeding from a gash along his temple, swinging wildly. A northerner tried to light a torch and caught a blade through the spine.

And Sam— Sam stood frozen. His breath steamed before him, ragged. His eyes wide. One hand on his chest, the other shaking at his belt.

“Sam!” Brandon bellowed. “Move, damn you!”  But the Thing turned. Its blade gleamed as it stepped toward Sam.

The cold thickened. Then Sam moved. Not fast. Not brave. Not strong. But he moved. He reached into his belt and pulled his dagger with trembling hands. The monster raised its sword — one motion, clean, final.

Sam lunged. There was no shout. No battle cry. Just a desperate thrust upward. The blade punched through the Thing’s chest — a crackling sound like ice shattering on stone.

The creature froze. Its mouth opened, but no sound came — only frost. Then it screamed. A sound like ice caps splitting, like winter’s heart breaking.

The body twisted, then crumbled — collapsing inward as if it had never been whole to begin with. Gone. And all at once, the wights fell. They dropped where they stood — twitching, then still. The blue faded from their eyes. The sound of their death was silence.

The Haunted Forest breathed again. Snow fell, soft and slow, as if to hide the carnage.

Sam stood at the center of it all, the dagger still clutched in his shaking hand. His lips were parted, but no words came — only breath, fast and shallow. His eyes were wide, too wide, as he stared down at the broken ice where the monster had been.

Then the tears came. Not loud, not heaving. Just quiet — hot against his freezing cheeks, running down like shame. Or relief. He wiped at them with the back of his glove, but they kept coming.

“I—” Sam choked. “I didn’t mean— I just—”

Brandon reached him, slow and steady, blade still drawn in one hand. He stopped in front of the steward and looked him over — fat, shivering Sam Tarly, crying in the middle of a graveyard of monsters. And then he did something unexpected.

He laid one hand gently on Sam’s shoulder. “You did good,” Brandon said, voice low and firm. “You stood. You saved us.” Sam shook his head, mouthing something, but Brandon squeezed his shoulder. “Crying means you’re still alive,” he said. “We’ll need some of those before the end.”

Pyp stood nearby, still breathing hard, face pale beneath streaks of blood. Grenn rose from one knee, eyes darting to the scattered wights around them.

Brandon turned to the survivors. “Form up!” he shouted. “Get the wounded mounted. Strip anything we can use from the dead and leave the rest. We ride west.”

“Castle Black?” Grenn asked.

“Aye.”

He turned back to Sam, who had managed to sheath the dagger with fumbling fingers. “You’re riding with me,” Brandon said. “You don’t leave my sight.” Sam sniffled and nodded.

Brandon looked once more at the battlefield — the corpses, the fading blue eyes, the place where a blade of night had shattered. Then he mounted and led them home.

Chapter Text

Jon

The Wall rose out of the snow like a god’s grave, vast and pale and silent. Jon rode at the head of the column — three hundred men behind him, black and grey against the white. They moved slowly now, horses worn thin, faces half-hidden beneath ice-stiffened hoods. The wind bit at them as it always had, but the cold behind his ribs came from something older.

He hadn’t slept since the cave. He could still see it — the pale thing gliding across the snow, sword like ice and eyes like fire, and the way his blade had shattered on its parry. Just one strike. Steel gone like glass. Edd’s sword too — snapped like straw in the Thing’s path.

His hand dropped to the hilt at his side. Dark Sister. It felt light for a weapon with so much weight. Bloodraven’s gift. Coldhands’ burden. His responsibility now. Would it work? Would it break too? He didn’t know

Jon glanced behind him. Theon rode silent, jaw tight, hood low. He hadn’t spoken since the cave. Edd rode beside him, pale and hunched, the torch-scars on his cloak still blackened. Val rode alone. Her bandaged arm was tight across her side, her eyes on the horizon, her mouth a flat line. She hadn’t spoken either. Not even in the tongue he couldn’t understand.

Ghost trotted alongside his mount — silent, red-eyed, and watchful. Jon felt it again — that quiet stare, not just from the past days, but now, here. Walder, somewhere among the rear ranks, the old warrior was watching. Jon didn’t need to see his face to feel it. Later. He thought, I’ll speak with him later.

The gates of Castle Black creaked open before them, black against the white. Smoke rose in thin lines from the chimneys, and figures moved along the wallwalks — crows in their roost, watching. The men at the gate stood straighter when they saw Jon approach.

He saw Brandon before they called out. The Dustin heir stood in the yard like the cold itself had carved him — cloak dark with travel, hair wind-tossed, lips tugged in something between relief and disbelief. Brandon stepped forward as Jon dismounted, Ghost padding at his heels.

“Well,” Brandon said, looking him over. “You’re alive. That alone is a tale worth telling.” Jon gave a quiet nod. He didn’t feel alive. Not fully. “I have a story to tell you,” Brandon went on. “And you won’t believe a word of it.”

Jon looked up. “Try me.”

Brandon’s gaze flicked to the hilt at Jon’s hip. “New blade?”

Jon touched the pommel, briefly. “I have a story too.”

Brandon’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course you do.” There was a beat of silence. Then Brandon nodded toward the tower. “Mormont waits.”

Jon blinked. “He’s back?”

“Rode in yesterday,” Brandon said. “With two more prisoners.”

Jon frowned. “We should’ve been first.”

“You weren’t.”

Jon exhaled, sharp in the cold. “Then let’s not keep the Old Bear waiting.”

They turned together toward the stairs, snow crunching under their boots. Behind them, the gate closed again, shutting out the wild. But not what followed them.

The solar smelled of smoke, ink, and old wool. Firelight flickered against stone walls, casting Mormont’s shadow tall and crooked behind the great table. Sam sat near the hearth, quill in hand, blank parchment laid flat. Maester Aemon sat with his hands folded in his lap, the firelight pooling in the hollows of his cheeks. He looked half-asleep — or half-listening.

Brandon stood to Jon’s right, cloak unfastened, still damp from the ride. His hand twitched now and then, like it wanted to reach for something. A sword, maybe. Or a memory.

Mormont poured thin wine and waved them to their seats. “Let’s begin,” he said. “Tarly, you ready to scratch it down?”

“Yes, my lord,” Sam said. His voice wavered, but his grip on the quill didn’t.

Jeor leaned forward, the lines in his face deepening. “We reached the Milkwater on the third day. No sign of wildlings, no fresh camps. Just old tracks, half-swallowed by snow. North of the gorge, we found two women. They were trying to find a pass — thought they might slip through into the Gift.”

Brandon made a noise low in his throat. Jon stayed quiet.

“They weren’t fighters. Just tired. Starved near to death. But they talked,” Mormont went on. “Said the wildling host had been broken. Scattered after a great fire in the night. Some regrouped near the shore, where the Antler River meets the sea. But Mance was gone. They looked for him and didn’t find him. After that, they split again. Most followed a wood witch.” Mormont’s brow furrowed. “She said salvation would come at Hardhome.”

Silence settled. Brandon shifted. “Hardhome?” he asked. “Why there?”

“I asked,” Mormont said. “They didn’t know. Just that she promised safety. A ship, maybe. Or something worse. The women didn’t believe her. They turned west.”

Jon watched Brandon’s face. The way his jaw clenched. The quick glance at Sam.

There’s a story there, Jon thought. One he hasn’t told yet.

Then Maester Aemon stirred. “Hardhome,” he said softly, like tasting an old wound. “Once it was a settlement. Large. Thriving. Traders from Skagos to Eastwatch called it the jewel of the coast. But it burned. Hundreds died. Others simply vanished. Some say slavers. Others say worse. Now it’s a name whispered, not spoken.”

No one spoke for a moment. Then Brandon drew breath and began. “We rode east. Five days. No tracks. No signs. Then we turned back.” He hesitated, which surprised Jon. Brandon Dustin never hesitated. But he looked down now.  His voice low. “They came out of the snow. Two dozen, maybe more. Pale. Frozen. Dead. They didn’t bleed. Didn’t fall. We hacked at them, slashed them to bits. They still came.”

Aemon’s hand tightened in his lap.

“There was a figure,” Brandon continued. “Taller. Paler. Sword like ice. It cut through us like we were made of straw.” He paused, then “A White Walker.”

Jon’s fingers curled around the edge of the table. “Did you kill it?” Jon asked.

Brandon shook his head. “Not me.” He turned slightly, nodding toward Sam.

The steward jumped, as if he’d forgotten he was there. “I—” Sam blinked. “It was coming. Toward me. I didn’t think. I just— I had the dagger. From the Fist. I— I stabbed it. In the chest.”

“And it died?” Jon said.

Sam nodded. “Shattered. Like ice dropped from a tower.”

Jon leaned forward. “Valyrian steel?”

Sam shook his head. “No. Dragonglass.”

Brandon looked at Jon. “Why Valyrian steel?”

Jon hesitated. Then he stood, slowly, and drew the sword from his hip. The blade shimmered in the firelight, black and thin, like smoke turned to metal. It made the fire look colder.

Brandon blinked. “That’s no castle-forged blade.”

“No,” Jon said. “It’s Dark Sister.”

Even Aemon sucked in a breath. Then Jon spoke — quietly, steadily — and told them what he hadn’t told anyone yet. Of the camp. The fire. The dead. The one that did not burn. Of Coldhands. Of the Children. Of the cave in the hill and the tree that whispered. Of the man in the roots who wore an old name.

“Brynden Rivers,” Jon said.

Aemon whispered the name back like a prayer. “Bloodraven.”

Jon nodded. “He told us they’re coming. That they come from beyond the lands we know. That they are many. And they do not die easy.”

He looked down at the blade. “He gave me this. Said I would need it.” Silence. Jon let the blade rest on the table.

“What do we do?” Brandon asked

It was Maester Aemon who answered. His voice was steady. “Now we prepare. Ravens to every lords. Every keep. Let them know: the dead walk, and the Wall must stand.”

Mormont nodded. “The Watch has fewer men than stories these days. But we’ll do what we must. I’ll send a raven to Eastwatch. Have them sail to Hardhome. See if the wildlings are truly there.”

“And if they are?” Brandon asked.

Mormont gave a slow shrug. “Then we count how many still draw breath… and how many still matters.”

Brandon’s gaze lingered. “You believe us.”

The Old Bear snorted. “I knew Eddard Stark. I know your father, too. Hard men. Honest men. Their sons wouldn’t spin ghost stories, not here. Not now. I’d be a damned fool not to believe you.”

Brandon nodded once, solemn.

Jon looked up from the blade still resting on the table, voice quiet but firm.  “I’ll ride south. To Winterfell. Robb needs to hear this from me.”

 “What of me?” said Brandon.

“You stay here,” Jon said. “With the men. Help the Watch prepare. If the Lord Commander agrees.”

Mormont chuckled. “Any man willing to fight beside black brothers is welcome. Though my men answer to me alone.”

Brandon smirked. “They wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The fire crackled. The snow pressed soft against the windows. And the new war was brewing.

The rookery was still. High above Castle Black, the wind scraped against the stone like a whisper too old to name. Snow sifted through the slats in the walls, soft and slow.

Maester Aemon sat near the coals, wrapped in layers of black and grey, the firelight painting deep shadows across the creases of his face. He did not turn when Jon entered — only lifted his head slightly, as if he had been waiting.

“You walked far beyond where any of us should have.” the old man said.

Jon stepped closer. “I walked where I was led.”

Aemon nodded, blind eyes blinking. “Brynden Rivers… He vanished north of the Wall when I was still young. A brother of the Watch. A spymaster. A sorcerer, some whispered. He should be long dead.”

“He is,” Jon said. “Whatever we met in that cave… it wasn’t a man anymore.”

Silence settled for a long beat. Then Aemon lifted one trembling hand. “May I touch the blade?”

Jon hesitated — just a moment — then unbuckled Dark Sister from his side and knelt. He laid the sword across the old man’s knees.

Aemon’s fingers brushed the hilt first, then traced the edge of the fuller, reverent and slow. “Valyrian steel,” he whispered. “And more than that. This sword has slain dragons, crossed kingdoms, changed kings.” His hand tightened slightly. “It waited. It passed through many hands, but it waited. And now it’s come to you.”

Jon said nothing.

Aemon smiled faintly. “It will carry you to great things… and heavy ones.”

Jon stood and took the blade back, fastening it without a word. The silence was gentler now.

“You leave at dawn,” Aemon said.

“I do.”

“Then let me give you what I can,” the maester said, voice thin. “One last truth from a dying man.”

Jon looked at him.

“Keep your fire,” Aemon said. “Not just the steel, or the sword. The fire in you. They’ll try to take it. The cold will press it down. But don’t let it die. That’s how they win.” Jon nodded. Aemon raised a hand, and Jon clasped it — worn bone and parchment skin. “Farewell, Lord Stark,” the old man said. “May your road be long… and your enemies short.”

Jon let go, turned, and stepped into the snow without looking back. Behind him, the ravens rustled once — as if they too were watching something depart.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The Small Council chamber smelled of incense and dust — the kind of smell that tried to pass itself off as sanctified but only reminded Tyrion of funerals. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, painting the stone table in patches of rose and gold, and for a moment, the room almost looked beautiful. But rot, Tyrion thought, always starts beneath polish.

He sat at the end of the table, legs crossed, a goblet of watered wine in one hand, and regarded the other men present like a maester reading a ledger gone wrong. Kevan sat stiff-backed near the center, fingers folded. Mace Tyrell filled the chair beside him like a man trying to grow into his own importance. Ser Addam Marbrand stood near the hearth, arms crossed. Pycelle wheezed in the corner like an ill-kept bellows.

Varys, of course, was not here. Only his whispers were.

Maester Gormon — Pycelle’s protégé, conveniently plump and precisely groomed — cleared his throat. “Reports continue to arrive from the Crownlands and further west. Incidents increasing. Preachers claiming visions. Starving men wearing seven-pointed stars carved into their skin.”

“Charming,” Tyrion muttered. “And I suppose they’re handing out cakes and prayer books?”

“No,” said Ser Addam. “Swords.” That earned silence.

Kevan frowned. “The Goldcloaks were attacked three days past outside Cobbler’s Square. Four dead. Dozens wounded. The assailants fled into the alleys. Poorly armed, but fanatical.”

“They call themselves Sparrows,” Gormon said, voice low. “And their numbers grow.”

Tyrion drained his goblet and poured another. “First rats, now birds. King’s Landing has become a menagerie.”

Mace shifted. “Smallfolk can always be stirred to mischief. Once we restore order, these... sparrows will return to the dirt.”

Pycelle wheezed. “It is not just the city. From Oldtown to Maidenpool, septons speak of the Seven’s judgment. Some say dragons return to punish us for sin. Others say the dead rise in the North.”

“They always say that,” Tyrion said. “Winter makes madmen of poets.”

Kevan leaned forward. “They’re fleeing to the Riverlands. And the North. Entire villages. Peasants, craftsmen, former soldiers. Abandoning homes. Seeking ‘true justice’ under Stark rule. That’s the phrase.”

Tyrion tapped his goblet with one finger. “And what justice are they finding?”

“Food,” Addam said. “Laws written plainly. Coin for honest work. Letters from White Harbor speak of merchant ships returning with goods from Braavos, even Volantis. Paid for, apparently, with Reach gold.”

“Ransom makes strange coin,” Tyrion said. “And stranger kings.”

Gormon looked troubled. “The Faith grows nervous. The Crown owes over a hundred thousand dragons in tithes and loans to the High Sept. And the Iron Bank grows colder. They sent a note two weeks ago. No reply yet.”

Mace blustered. “Let them wait. We have a new king. A new queen. Unity—”

“We have illusion,” Tyrion snapped. “And debts sharper than any blade in your House’s arsenal.” He stood, paced slowly around the table. “We hold the throne, yes. But the people look North. The bankers look East. And the gods…” he paused, glancing toward the window, “—seem content to let it all burn.”

Kevan said nothing. Pycelle shifted uncomfortably.

Tyrion turned to Gormon. “Who controls the Faith now?”

The maester blinked. “I... I’m not sure. The High Septon has grown reclusive. Decisions are made through intermediaries.”

“Then we are ruled,” Tyrion said, “by ghosts.” He turned, staring down at the maps splayed across the council table — lines drawn in ink that now bled into wine stains. “If the commoners are arming themselves and calling us sinners, if the gods are deaf and the banks impatient…” He looked up. “What does that make us?” No one answered.

Outside, the bells of Baelor tolled. Not for worship. Not for war. But the sound felt like a warning. And Tyrion drank.

The light in the Tower of the Hand was dim by design. Tyrion preferred it that way — shadows made better company than courtiers. Kevan Lannister stood near the hearth, stiff-backed, his cloak tugged tight. The fire crackled but offered little comfort.

Tyrion poured wine into two cups. Arbor red. He handed one to his uncle without ceremony and took his own seat by the window.

“The Faith is stirring,” Tyrion said.

Kevan didn’t drink. “The city stirs more. There were five dead in Flea Bottom yesterday. Goldcloaks killed two. The others wore roughspun and broken chains.”

“Sparrows,” Tyrion muttered. “They multiply faster than fleas.”

Kevan finally drank. “We ignored them too long. Let them gather. Let them preach. Now they act.”

“Not yet. Not in truth,” Tyrion said. “But they will. Poor men don’t stay poor forever. Sooner or later, they ask why.”

“And when the answer is gold,” Kevan said, “they sharpen stones.”

Tyrion gestured toward the ledgers on the table. “The Faith wants power again. Real power. We made them soft with gold. Now that gold is gone.”

“And the Iron Bank?” Kevan asked.

“Still knocking,” Tyrion said. “Louder. If we default again, they’ll do more than knock. They’ll fund anyone with a crown and a grudge.”

Kevan frowned. “Then what’s your plan?”

Tyrion drained his cup, then stood and crossed to the table. He laid a finger on the western edge of the map. “Casterly Rock.”

Kevan blinked. “The Rock?”

“Our vaults are untouched,” Tyrion said. “My father made sure of that. Gold hoarded for generations. Enough to pay the Bank.”

“You want to borrow from the Rock?”

“I want to borrow for the realm,” Tyrion said. “In the crown’s name. We settle our debt. Restore some confidence. Let the Bank focus elsewhere.”

Kevan’s mouth tightened. “And what happens when the Rock realizes it’s been... borrowed?”

“We tell them the truth,” Tyrion said. “That the realm’s survival demands sacrifice. Or we lie. Say the gold was moved for security. Tywin taught me both paths.”

Kevan looked down at his cup. “Your father never would have—”

“My father is dead,” Tyrion said. “And his name won’t save us from Braavos.”

A moment passed. Then Kevan nodded once. “You’ll need a signature.”

Tyrion smirked. “Already forged.”

Kevan sighed, drained his cup, and set it down. “And the Faith?” he asked.

“I’ll handle that, too.”

“How?”

Tyrion crossed to the desk, plucked a small scroll, and passed it over. “This is for Bronn. Quiet work. He’s to find their leader. This ‘High Sparrow’ they whisper about.”

Kevan raised an eyebrow. “You think he’ll talk?”

“No,” Tyrion said. “But everyone has a price. Even those who say they don’t.”

Kevan studied him a long moment. “You’re your father’s son,” he said again, quieter.

Tyrion returned to the window. “Let’s just hope I don’t have to become him.”

Outside, the bells of the sept rang the hour. Inside, the realm held its breath.

Chapter Text

Robb

The sun filtered through the tall windows of the Great Hall, pale and cold despite the hearths burning at either end. Winterfell still smelled of ash and damp stone, but the scent of horses and boiling wool was back, and that meant something. Life returned slowly to ruins, like grass to scorched earth.

Robb stood at the high table, papers scattered before him — maps, ledgers, tallies. His crown rested beside a bowl of half-eaten stew. He hadn’t touched it in an hour.

“Your Grace,” said Galbart Glover, “Braavos sent word. The ships are three weeks out. Grain, oats, preserved meat, wool, and tools. All paid in advance.”

Robb nodded. “Good.”

“And the stonemasons from Pentos have agreed to a second contract. They’ll send another dozen by the moons end. Enough to keep the rebuilding at Deepwood going.”

Another nod.

He didn’t look up as he signed his name across a purchase order. His hand cramped less now, though the scarring across his knuckles from the Gods Eye still ached when the ink ran dry.

“They grumble about the coin,” said Lady Maege Mormont, seated farther down the hall, “but they don’t refuse it.”

“They won’t,” Robb said. “Gold speaks louder than banners.”

The ransom from the Reach had been more than he’d dared hope. Not just coin, but favors, oaths, hostages. Some lords had paid in grain. Others in rights of passage. The rest bled silver and sons to buy their way home.

He had distributed it carefully — some to each house that had stood beside him, enough to mend keeps and feed halls, but not so much as to breed arrogance. The rest had gone east. Food from the Free Cities. Timber from Norvos. Ships.

Not warships. Not yet. But fishing boats. Traders. Builders. The Ironborn had taken more than salt when they raided — they’d burned docks, broken nets, salted fishyards. Now the coast would rise again. One mast at a time.

He finally looked up. “They say more refugees come each week,” he said. “From the Crownlands. The Stormlands. Some even from the Westernlands.”

“Aye,” said Lord Cerwyn. “The Faith’s growing teeth down there. The ones who don’t kneel flee. And the ones who flee… come here.”

“They’re not just mouths to feed,” Robb said. “They’re hands. We have land. They have need. That’s how kingdoms are built.”

A few lords exchanged glances. Not everyone liked his new laws — freer movement for smallfolk, trial protections, rights to build and trade. But no one argued. Not now. Not with harvests returning and the grain stores fuller than they’d been in years.

“Your Grace,” said Wyman Manderly, folding his thick hands across his stomach, “some whisper that you give too much to the common folk. That kings rule lords, not butchers.”

Robb smiled faintly. “A king who feeds only his lords will find himself feasting alone.” That silenced the chamber.  He turned to a newer map — one showing the stretch of land south of the Wall. The New Gift. Sparse. Wild. Technically under the watch’s charge, but poorly manned, less used. “We’ll speak to Mormont soon,” he said. “About the New Gift. The Night’s Watch has no men to farm it. We do.”

“You mean to claim it?” Lady Mormont asked.

“To settle it,” Robb said. “Farmers. Traders. Even old soldiers. If the Watch needs food and arms, let us give it freely. But let the land serve both.”

“And if they refuse?”

“They won’t,” Robb said. “They can’t afford to.” Another pause. “We’ll build roads,” he continued. “And towers to watch them. Refugees need homes. The North has space. Let’s fill it.” It was bold. Dangerous, some would say. But so was everything that mattered.

He stepped back from the table, glancing out through the high window where snow danced in the wind. Winter was coming. But the North was moving. And he would make sure it moved forward.

That night, the fire crackled low in the hearth, throwing long, golden shadows across the stone walls of the King’s chambers. The snow whispered against the windows, soft as a lullaby. Winterfell had gone quiet. Outside, the halls murmured with distant voices and the shuffle of guards, but in here, it was still.

Robb Stark sat by the fire, his doublet half-unlaced, boots stretched before him, a goblet of dark wine warming in his hand. His wolfskin cloak hung from a peg beside the door, heavy with melted snow. He looked older than his years tonight, tired in the firelight.

Roslin sat across from him, curled into the corner of the fur-piled couch, feet tucked beneath her. Her hair, still damp from the bath, clung in dark ribbons around her cheeks. She watched him with a quiet smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You didn’t eat much,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “I wasn’t hungry.”

“That’s unlike you,” Robb said, brow furrowing just a little. “You’re usually the one stealing bread from the kitchen when I turn my back.”

Roslin looked down, fingers brushing the hem of her sleeve. “I spoke with Maester Luwin today.”

Robb straightened, his grip tightening slightly on the goblet. “Is something wrong?”

She hesitated, then stood and walked toward him, taking the cup gently from his hand before sitting on the armrest of his chair. “No,” she said, voice soft. “Not wrong.” She took his hand and pressed it to her stomach, guiding it gently. “I’m with child.”

Robb blinked. For a moment, the silence was complete. Even the fire seemed to still.

“Say it again,” he said, his voice low.

“I’m pregnant,” Roslin said. “Luwin confirmed it this morning. He says it’s early still, but… it’s certain.”

Robb looked down at his hand, still resting against the warmth of her belly. A strange weight settled in his chest — not heavy, but deep. A pressure like snow before it falls.

“I didn’t want to tell you like this,” Roslin whispered. “I thought I should wait. But I saw your face tonight. You’ve had too many burdens lately. I wanted to give you something less to carry.”

His lips curled into a small, stunned smile. “This… this is the one I’ll carry gladly.”

Roslin’s smile wavered, then broke. She leaned into him, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

“Does my mother know?” he asked after a while.

“Not yet. I wanted to tell you first.”

Robb nodded slowly. “Then we’ll tell her tomorrow.”

He kissed the side of her head, eyes on the fire. A child. His child. In a world of war and snow, something warm. Something new. He didn’t say it aloud, but he thought it Hope.

The hearth was still glowing from the night’s fire, throwing soft light across the sitting room where they had gathered. The snow outside had quieted, blanketing the courtyard in stillness. Within, however, the warmth of the fire was matched by the warmth of the smiles around him.

Catelyn stood by the tall window, arms wrapped loosely around herself. She turned when Robb entered, Roslin at his side, and her face softened.

“You’re up early,” his mother said.

Roslin smiled faintly. “We couldn’t wait.”

Arya sat cross-legged near the fire, tossing a carved wooden direwolf from one hand to the other. Sansa stood with Rickon near the shelves, pointing out old volumes of Winterfell’s histories. Bran sat closest to the flames, Osha beside him.

“We have news,” Robb said, his hand brushing Roslin’s.

Catelyn’s brows lifted. “Good news, I hope.”

Robb nodded. Roslin’s fingers tightened slightly. “I spoke to Maester Luwin yesterday,” she said softly. “He confirmed what I… already guessed.” Sansa turned, her mouth parting. Arya blinked.

“I’m with child,” Roslin said. The room went still.

Then— “A babe?” Sansa said, stepping forward.

Arya grinned. “You’re going to be a father?”

Rickon whooped and sprinted over to hug Robb’s leg. Even Bran’s smile reached his eyes, a rare, gentle curve that warmed Robb more than the fire. Catelyn crossed the room slowly. She looked at Roslin, then Robb, and when she embraced them both, there were tears in her eyes.

“You’ll be a better father than most ever get to know,” she whispered.

A knock interrupted them. A guard stepped in, cloak still dusted with snow. He bowed low.

“Your Grace. Lord Jon Stark—commander of the Northern army—has returned. He rides through the gate as we speak.”

Robb’s heart lifted. Jon. He looked to his mother, then to his sisters, then finally to Roslin.

“Bring him in,” he said. “And ready the hall.”

Outside, the snow had begun to fall again. But inside Winterfell, spring had come early.

Chapter Text

Jon

The gates of Winterfell rose from the snow-dusted ground like the spine of some ancient beast — broad and grey, ironwood and ice. Jon passed beneath them in silence, Ghost padding at his side, the direwolf’s red eyes scanning every movement in the yard. Behind him rode a small escort of Northmen — few in number, but steady.

Winterfell’s courtyard bustled with activity. Smiths hammered steel. Stableboys ran between wagons. And above it all, the banners of the great houses stirred in the wind — Manderly’s white merman, Glover’s mailed fist, the bear of House Mormont, the Umber giant, Dustin’s crown axes, bright against the slate sky.

Jon frowned. They were here. Even some from the Riverlands. Not just bannermen — lords. Why had Robb called them? He thought. Still, it would make things easier. No need for ravens. No need for delay. Jon swung down from his horse and gave Ghost a quiet gesture. The direwolf stalked ahead without a sound.

Then he saw Robb. He stood at the top of the steps, tall and lean in black and grey leathers, a sword at his hip and Grey Wind flanking him like a shadow. The King in the North did not wear a crown, but he didn’t need one.

“Jon,” Robb said, descending the stairs.

They met halfway.

“Robb.” Jon clasped his brother’s arm. Their grip was firm — not warm, but real. The way northern men showed feeling.

“You made good time.”

“There wasn’t time to waste,” Jon replied. His gaze flicked toward the banners. “You called the lords?”

Robb nodded. “Aye. They're here to speak of new roads. New towns. Gold from the Reach and what to do with it. Ships out of White Harbor. Settlements for the southlanders who’ve come north.”

Jon raised a brow. “Building kingdoms while the world freezes?”

Robb’s expression didn’t change. “The kingdom won’t wait. And if winter comes, I’d rather meet it with stone walls and full granaries.”

Jon nodded once. “Then you should hear what we found beyond the Wall.”

Robb’s eyes narrowed. “Trouble?”

Jon’s jaw tightened. “Worse.”

Robb exhaled slowly. “Good. Then you can tell them all at once. The lords are gathering now.”

Jon followed him without another word. Ghost and Grey Wind fell in behind. The wind whispered low against the walls of Winterfell. The banners stirred. And the snow began to fall.

Jon stood beneath the ancient beam of Winterfell’s great hall, cloaked in wolf-grey. Ghost sat at his feet like carved snow, silent but watchful. Around him, banners hung heavy: the white merman of Manderly, the golden hand of Glover, the roaring Umber giant. Dustins. Karstarks. Blackwoods and Brackens, even in uneasy proximity. The hall was full — steel on every hip, suspicion in every eye.

He saw Sansa first, seated beside Lady Stark. Rickon leaned against her shoulder, eyes wide and darting. Arya sat forward with arms folded tight across her chest, a storm bottled behind her stare. Bran, pale and still, studied him from his chair as if reading his face like a page. Jon’s throat felt dry.

At the high seat, Robb sat with Roslin beside Grey Wind. The direwolf’s yellow eyes glinted beneath the flickering sconces. Robb’s face was carved in ice — not cold, but still. Listening. Measuring.

The noise of the hall swelled around him — murmurs, grumbling, doubt. Then Robb stood. His voice was firm, echoing across the stone.

“You all know my brother Jon Stark,” he said. “He has returned from the Wall, where he rode to speak with Lord Commander Mormont. He brings us word. And we will listen.” Silence fell.

Jon stepped forward, the firelight catching on the edge of his cloak. He could feel their eyes on him — men who had marched beside him in the south, who’d seen him swing steel, who’d fought beneath his banner and bled in the mud for Robb’s crown.

He took a breath. “We rode north to investigate the wildlings,” he said. “Ravens spoke of disappearances. Empty camps. No trace left behind.” Lord Cerwyn leaned forward. Lord Glover muttered something under his breath. Jon went on. “Three parties were sent. Lord Commander Mormont followed the Milkwater. Brandon Dustin rode east into the forest. I took the northern road, past Whitetree.” He paused. “We didn’t find wildlings,” Jon said, voice low. “We found something worse.” A breathless pause “White Walkers” Jon finally said. The hall stilled again, then the eruption came hard.

A chorus of disbelief rolled like thunder. Lord Wyman laughed — a low, uneasy sound. “With all due respect, Lord Stark, we’re not boys to be frightened by campfire fables.”

Jason Mallister scowled. “You expect us to believe in ice demons when we’ve just begun to rebuild?”

Others shouted — anger, skepticism, mockery. Steel scraped across the stone as a man stood in the back, demanding proof. Through it all, Robb did not speak. He watched Jon with something unreadable in his face — not doubt, but something colder. Shock, maybe. Or dread. Then Robb nodded. Just once.

Jon reached for the mug at his side and slammed it against the table. The thud echoed loud as a drum. The room fell silent.

“You know me,” Jon said, voice firm. “We fought together. We bled together. I swear on my name — on my father’s name — that what I say is true.” He let the weight of it hang. “We found them,” Jon said. “The Walkers. With eyes like blue flame. Swords like ice. And they do not come alone. They bring the dead. And the dead do not die. You hack them down, they rise again. You burn them, they scream. Steel melt against them.” No one spoke.

Then Lord Dustin rose slowly to his feet, pale under his salt-and-ash beard. “My son,” he said. “What of Brandon?”

“He lives,” Jon said without hesitation. “He stayed at Castle Black. To help Lord Mormont prepare the defenses.”

The old man nodded, face unreadable, and sat again with a creak of leather.

Then Harrion Karstark stood. “You said steel melt,” he said. “So how are you alive?” All eyes turned again.

Jon reached slowly to his belt. “We were saved,” he said. “By a ranger who called himself Coldhands.” He said no more on that — the cave, Bloodraven, Bran — that was for Robb not them.

Instead, he drew Dark Sister. Gasps rippled across the room. The long, narrow Valyrian blade caught the firelight and drank it, shadows licking along the ripples of the black steel. He could hear murmur of Valyrian Steel from some of them.

Jon laid it across the table. “He gave me this,” he said. “Valyrian Steel. He said it would not break. Said it would kill the cold.” He reached again and drew a second object — a small, wrapped bundle. He unwrapped it to reveal the dragonglass dagger, black and gleaming like obsidian fire. “This,” he said, “was used by Brandon’s party. Dragonglass. They managed to kill a White Walker with it, and when it died the dead died with it.”

Gasps again. Then silence — not the uncertain kind, but the kind that comes when men realize the ground beneath them is shifting. The crackling hearth, the distant rustle of cloaks, the sound of breath itself seemed to recede. Even the banners hanging above felt stiller.

Lord Blackwood leaned forward, his fingers laced, eyes steady. “What do we do?”

His voice was low, but it carried, and all heads turned back to Jon.

Jon met his gaze. “We prepare.” He let the words hang. “We strengthen the Watch. We find more dragonglass. We send for steel — the kind that doesn’t break. We ready the Wall and the lands beyond it, and we stand together. North, Riverlands, Mountains, Shore — it won’t matter where you were born when the dead come. Only where you stand.” He looked out over the room. No jest in his voice. No song in it either. “We still have time. But not much.”

And just for a moment, even the oldest men in the hall looked younger — like boys listening to the end of an old tale, when the shadows creep longest.

The fire in the solar burned low, casting a warm, flickering glow over stone and fur. Outside, snow whispered against the shutters. Inside, the silence was heavier. Robb poured the wine himself. No servants, no guards, no ears but their own. Ghost lay at the threshold like a white shadow, silent and still. Jon stood near the hearth, cup in hand, untouched. The warmth didn’t reach his hands.

“You spoke well,” Robb said, settling opposite him. “You had them quiet by the end.”

“I’d rather have them ready,” Jon murmured.

“They will be. Some already are.” Robb said.

“You believe me?”

Robb frowned “Of course I believe you, you’re my brother”

Jon felt a weight drop he didn’t know he had on his shoulder

Robb studied him “You didn’t ask to meet me alone for that.”

Jon exhaled slowly. “No.” He stared into the flames for a long moment, as if trying to find words within them. “There’s something I didn’t say in the hall.” Robb waited. “At the Wall, after… after what we saw, we were taken to someone,” Jon said. “Someone old. Older than any man I’ve known. He called himself Bloodraven.”

Robb’s brow furrowed. “A name from old stories.”

“He wasn’t a story,” Jon said. “He was rooted into a tree. A weirwood. He spoke with the Children of the Forest. He knew things. About me. About the Walkers.”

Robb shook his head slowly. “The Children of the Forest,” he said. “I thought they were stories. Myths Old Nan told to scare Rickon.”

Jon nodded once. “So did I.”

“And now they walk beside dead men and talk through trees?”

“Not talk,” Jon said. “Whisper. Watch. And sometimes guide.”

Robb’s voice was low. “What did he want?”

Jon turned fully now, met his brother’s eyes. “Bran.” Silence. “He said Bran must come north. Beyond the Wall. That he’s important.” Jon looked down at his hands. “More than a boy. More than we understand.”

Robb rose. “You said yourself — Bran is still healing. He’s young. He’s suffered.”

“I know.” Jon’s voice cracked a little. “Gods, I know.” He paced away from the fire. “When Bloodraven said it, I almost laughed. I told him no. Still want to. I’ve seen too much death, Robb. Too many we couldn’t protect. Bran is my brother.”

“He’s mine too,” Robb said. “So why are you even telling me this, if your answer is no?”

“Because…” Jon hesitated, then turned back. “Because some part of me fears it’s true. That he’s meant for something. And if that’s true, if we keep him here... maybe we’re the ones keeping him from doing it.” Robb said nothing. “I don’t want to send him,” Jon said. “I’ll fight it with every breath. But if it must be done — I won’t let anyone else take him.”

Robb studied him. “Even if it breaks you?”

Jon’s voice was almost a whisper. “Especially if it breaks me.” The fire crackled. “I won’t speak to him yet,” Jon said. “Or Lady Catelyn. Let them have this peace. A few days more.”

Robb nodded. “A few days more.”

They stood in quiet, the fire between them. Snow fell outside the window. Soon, Jon knew, the words would have to come. And then the road. But not yet.

Chapter Text

Catelyn

The fire in the solar burned low, casting long shadows across the floor. Outside, the snow fell in steady silence, muffling the world, but Catelyn Stark’s mind was anything but quiet. She stood at the window, hands clasped in front of her, watching the flakes gather along the sill. The snow was deepening. And so, it seemed, was her fear.

Bran was going beyond the Wall. She closed her eyes, remembering the conversation as clearly as if it had happened an hour ago. It had been just the four of them — Robb, Jon, Bran, and her — gathered in the smaller council room behind the hall, where the air always smelled faintly of old stone and ink. Walder Snow had stood at the door, silent as the frost, he hadn’t spoken. He never did, only listened and obeyed as he did with Ned. And Now, she remember thinking, He does the same with Robb.

Jon had begun it, his voice steady but laced with something taut. Not quite sorrow. Not quite fear. "There’s something beyond the Wall that calls to him," he’d said. "Something the rest of us can’t hear. But he can."

Robb sat beside her, lips pressed tight. He hadn’t spoken until Jon finished explaining what the... what the man in the cave had said. Bloodraven. The name still sat ill in her ears.

“He said Bran has a part to play,” Jon said. “Something no one else can do.”

Robb’s knuckles were white on the table. “And you believe this? This... creature grown from a tree?”

“I don’t know what he was,” Jon admitted. “But he was old. And true. And he knew things he shouldn’t. Things about me. About Father. About Bran.”

That was when Bran spoke. And it silenced them all.

“He’s right,” the boy had said — or the boy who used to be a boy. His voice had been calm, cold as the roots he now dreamed of. “I need to go north. There’s something there. Someone. I can feel it.”

“Bran, you don’t know what’s out there—”

“I do,” he’d said, meeting her eyes for the first time. “I’ve seen it. In the snow. In the dark. I saw it long before the ravens came.” It had felt like the gods themselves had stolen the breath from the room.

They argued — she argued. Of course she did. She had lost Ned. Almost lost Sansa and Arya. Watched Rickon grow wild with grief. She would not lose Bran. But every time she turned to him, Bran only sat straighter, his eyes distant, voice sure. He was not pleading. He was stating. He would go.

And Robb — Robb, gods forgive him — had nodded. “If this is true,” he had said at last, his voice quiet, “then we can’t stop it. Only help him. I’ll send Walder with him. My best. And some black brothers too.”

That was when she knew the choice had been made. Not by her. Not even by Robb. By Bran.

Now, in the stillness of the solar, Catelyn pressed a hand to her chest, where the ache settled. She had nodded in the end. Said nothing. Just nodded. Because her son was already halfway gone. And the rest of her — the mother, the woman — would follow, one small part at a time.

The great hall of Winterfell had always seemed large, but never so wide, so cold, so heavy as now. Catelyn entered through the side door, her steps quiet on the stone. The brazier fires burned, but the warmth did not reach her fingers. Around the high table, familiar faces sat with shoulders squared and brows drawn. Glover. Manderly. Karstark. Mallister. Bracken and Blackwood both. Men who had once gathered to fight Lannisters now gathered for something colder.

Jon sat beside Robb, straight-backed, his face sharper somehow, harder. Not the boy she had once watched with quiet bitterness in the halls of Winterfell — no longer a bastard in the shadows, but a commander in the firelight. Ghost lay behind his chair, still as ever.

Winter, she thought, was no longer a season. It was an enemy.

The council was already in motion.

“The south trail is too exposed,” Lord Glover said. “But the old pass through the Wolfswood — that we can clear again. We’ll need to post outriders, cut back the deadfall.”

Maege Mormont nodded. “We can spare twenty. And more from Bear Island, if we’ve got the steel.”

Lord Wyman Manderly’s voice followed, thick but steady. “White Harbor has timber and grain enough to feed a garrison. I’ll send my ships to carry the rest from Gulltown and Sisterton if need be.”

“Trade routes?” asked Lord Bracken. “Will they hold?”

“For now,” said Robb. “But if the rivers freeze, we’ll need wagons. We’ll need roads.”

“We’ll need time,” Jon added.

Then Maester Luwin cleared his throat — a soft sound, but the room fell still. “In the records of Maegor’s reign, and again under Jaehaerys, we have accounts of obsidian being mined and shaped at Dragonstone. Dragonglass. In great quantity.”

The silence turned colder.

Jason Mallister frowned. “That’s Stannis’s seat.”

Rickard Karstark’s lip curled. “And he won’t part with it for kind words.”

Catelyn said nothing, but her mind turned. Stannis, the man who had burned his own in the name of his god. Who had broken Renly beneath shadows and marched beneath banners of fire. What would he ask in return?

Robb looked to Jon, then back to the room. “We will send ravens. One to Dragonstone. One to Storm’s End. If the dead walk, the living must speak.”

No one challenged him.

Jon rose then, unbuckling the sword at his hip. When he drew Dark Sister, the firelight ran down the ripples of black steel. Catelyn saw lords lean forward.

“We need to count the blades that matter,” Jon said. “Valyrian steel kills them. Not steel. Not fire.”

Lord Blackwood murmured, “There are only three blades left, aren’t there?”

Robb nodded. “House Stark — Jon’s sword, and my father’s. Ice is heavy. I’ll need to learn its weight.” He didn’t say it, but the truth sat in the silence, if the old sword must be reforged again, it would not be for show.

“Tully had one once,” Brynden Tully said. “But it was lost long ago. No records of its fate. Only songs.”

“Mormont,” Jon asked.

Maege Mormont nodded. “Still in my brother’s hands. I believe it still bites.”

Robb steepled his fingers. “Steel will not be enough. We’ll need hands to wield it. Roads to carry it. And food to keep the hands alive.”

Then the Vale was raised. A muttered concern from Ser Karyl Vance: “There are rumors from the Vale — swords gathering. Some say they march for the boy king. For the lions.”

Catelyn felt her heart quicken. Lysa. Sweet Lysa, gone distant in her letters, strange in her grief. “She will not send knights to King’s Landing,” she said aloud. “She… she knows what the lions do to daughters.”

“Let’s pray she remembers it,” Robb said.

The talk turned practical again. Stores. Garrisons. Trade. Ravens. But Catelyn’s thoughts wandered. How many more winters can the North survive?

She watched Robb speak, strong-voiced and sure. She saw Ned’s shoulders in him. And she saw the cost of it too — the line between crown and son. She had not lost Robb. But something in her mourned still. The boy who used to smile over lessons. The boy who had chased Bran through corridors. That boy was gone.

And Bran… she closed her eyes briefly. He would go north soon. To face something older than kings. And she could do nothing but watch the wind change.

She told herself it was only a walk — just steps across the yard, just one more breath in the cold. But each step toward the godswood weighed heavier than the last. The snow was shallow now, but the wind had teeth, and the quiet between the walls of Winterfell seemed to press in with meaning. She nearly turned back at the archway. Let him be, she thought. Let the silence hold. But something deeper urged her on — not duty, not guilt, not even grief. Just the need to speak. To reach across the gulf that had lingered for years. She pulled her cloak tighter and passed beneath the old stone gate.

Catelyn found him in the godswood. The snow had stopped falling. The branches of the heart tree dripped slowly, red leaves trembling with melt. Jon stood beneath it, Ghost at his side, unmoving as stone. The wind stirred his cloak but not his posture. He did not look when she approached.

For a time, she said nothing. The bark of the weirwood was white as bone, its face carved with lines that wept red sap like blood that never froze. She remembered sitting here with Robb and Bran, years ago, their hands in hers. Back when Jon had watched from the edge of the clearing, apart but near, always apart.

“It’s strange,” she said softly. “How quiet it is, even now.”

Jon turned his head, just slightly. His face was thinner, older. There was no trace of the boy she had once known. Or feared. Or wronged.

“I come here to listen,” he said. “Even if I don’t know what for.”

She stepped closer. The snow crunched beneath her boots. Ghost flicked an ear but did not rise.

“Robb told me,” she said. “About Bran. About the path he must walk.”

Jon nodded, but said nothing.

“I don’t pretend to understand it,” she admitted. “Children of the Forest. White Walkers. The North has always had old stories. I just never expected to live in one.”

He glanced at her. “None of us did.”

A pause stretched between them.

“I wanted to hate you,” she said.

Jon didn’t flinch. “I know.”

She met his eyes. “And I did. For a time. Not because of you. Because you were a wound I didn’t know how to stop picking. You were Ned’s kindness. And I mistook that for betrayal.” He looked away. “I don’t say this to make peace with myself,” she continued. “I say it because I owe you. You could have let that hate fester. You didn’t.”

Jon’s voice was low. “I didn’t want to carry it. I had enough of my own.”

She stepped to the base of the heart tree. “Bran said he has to go. That it must be him. And I watched you and Robb agree, even though I know you hate the thought.”

“I do,” Jon said quietly.

“Then why?” she asked.

“Because he was sure,” Jon said. “And because if we don’t trust each other now, we never will.”

Catelyn looked at the red face carved into the tree. It seemed older than time, older than the walls of Winterfell.

“Will you protect him?” she asked.

Jon didn’t hesitate. “Always.”

That was the only answer that mattered.

Catelyn nodded once, slow. Her eyes were not wet, not yet. She was tired of crying. It hadn’t saved her husband. It wouldn’t save her sons.

She laid her hand against the trunk of the tree. “We can’t stop winter,” she said. “But maybe we can meet it without shame.”

Jon bowed his head. “That’s the hope.”

She stepped back, her breath a pale cloud. She met his eyes once more. “You’re not Ned,” she said. “But you are his son.”

Then she turned and left him there — beneath the weeping tree, with his silence, and his wolf, and the weight of all they had yet to face.

Chapter Text

Brandon

The Wall creaked like an old man’s knees above them. Wind screamed past the ice face, and snow drifted down in lazy spirals, too soft to belong to war — but war was what they were preparing for.

Brandon Dustin stood by the training yard, cloak pulled tight, watching the men move through their morning drills. Grenn swung an axe through a straw dummy with both hands, sweat already freezing on his brow. Dolorous Edd leaned against a spear like it might carry him instead of the other way around.

“They keep cutting at the chest,” Brandon muttered. “Like they think the dead care where their hearts used to be.”

“They don’t,” Edd said, deadpan. “I asked one. He grunted and tried to eat my face.”

Brandon snorted. “Tell them again. Limbs. Necks. Hips. If it moves, make it stop moving. If it doesn’t stop, stab it with dragonglass.”

“Aye,” said Grenn, panting. “And if we run out of that?”

“Then we die properly,” Brandon said. “With our boots on and our blade bloody.”

Behind them, a voice snapped sharp as a whip. “You’ve no right to command here.”

Brandon turned. Janos Slynt, wrapped in too much fur for a man who claimed to be brave, stood near the yard’s edge, his lip curled. Beside him, Alliser Thorne crossed his arms, face unreadable as ever.

“This is the Night’s Watch,” Janos said. “Not some Northern war camp. You’re a guest, Lord Dustin. And not even a welcome one.”

Brandon didn’t blink. “Then take it up with Lord Commander Mormont. I’m here on his order. He told me to prepare this stretch of the Wall. And that’s what I’m doing.”

“I don’t recall Mormont putting a crown on your head,” Janos sneered. “Or naming you First Ranger.”

“No,” Brandon said calmly. “But he did name me the man who’d keep you alive if things go cold.” He stepped closer. “And that’s getting harder the longer you talk.”

Alliser’s gaze flicked toward the men still training. “The Wall’s been here longer than any of us. It doesn’t need your reforms.”

“No?” Brandon tilted his head. “Tell that to the dead men who climb it.”

Silence.

Brandon let it sit before adding, “You train these lads to duel. Parry, riposte, honor. That won’t help when they’re swarmed by things that don’t bleed or flinch. We need to teach them how to hack. How to break bones. How to burn.”

Slynt scoffed. “Still chasing snow stories? You Northerners are all the same. Barking about monsters to cover up your own madness. Or your own crimes.”

Brandon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t care if you believe me. I care that your men don’t die screaming.” He stepped closer to Janos, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Say I’m a traitor again. Loud enough for all to hear. And I’ll take off your tongue and offer it to the Wall as a sacrifice.”

Janos paled. Alliser did not move — but his jaw clenched.

Brandon turned back to the yard. “Grenn,” he called, loud again. “Go fetch the stockpile. We start torch-and-spear drills by midday.” Grenn moved without hesitation.

Brandon didn’t glance back at the two black brothers as he walked toward the line of watchmen gathering spears.

“I don’t need their loyalty,” he muttered. “Just their backs pointed the right way when the dead come.”

The solar was dim, lit by the dull glow of a fire licking at damp logs. Smoke curled up into the rafters, thick with the scent of pine and old wool. Lord Commander Mormont stood by the window slit, hunched in his heavy cloak, hands clasped behind his back. Maester Aemon sat to one side of the long table, blind eyes tilted slightly toward the heat of the hearth. Samwell Tarly scribbled furiously on a half-used scroll, the quill scratching as if it feared being left behind.

Brandon stood opposite the Lord Commander, hands resting on the edge of the table, his breath visible in the cold.

“Five thousand,” Mormont said, voice low but firm. “Northmen and Riverlanders, a mix of light cavalry and spearmen. Robb Stark plans to send them by month's end.”

Brandon nodded. “Enough to man the Wall and more. If we house them in waves.”

Maester Aemon spoke, voice like wind over snow. “And roads? Supply lines?”

“Already in the works,” Mormont replied. “Stark’s building supply depots along the kingsroad. Wagons coming from White Harbor. Manderly grain. Glover axes. Even the Blackwoods have pledged lumber and pitch.”

Sam blinked. “The Wall hasn’t been this full in... years.”

Mormont nodded

“It’ll need to be,” Brandon muttered. “The dead don’t need roads.”

Mormont turned to Sam. “Write this clearly. We acknowledge the reinforcements and will distribute them between Castle Black and Eastwatch. I’ll send men to reopen Long Barrow and Oakenshield.”

“Ghost castles,” Brandon said. “Barely stone and prayer left standing.”

“Stone is stone,” Mormont growled. “A wall of men is better than none. We’ll need every hand we can get if the dead try a siege.”

Maester Aemon stirred. “And what of the raven to Dragonstone?”

Brandon answered. “Sent. Along with one to Storm’s End and Kings Landing. The boy king will answer if Stannis doesn’t.”

“We’re not betting on kings,” Mormont said. “We’re betting on rock. Obsidian. If what King Robb says is true, Dragonstone’s cliffs hold a fortune in black glass.”

Brandon nodded. “If he responds.”

Sam coughed lightly. “Should I include... the possibility of trade routes? By sea, from Dragonstone?”

“We’ll burn that boat when we board it,” Brandon said. “Let’s find out if Stannis means to fight ice before we chart his harbors.”

Mormont turned to Brandon. “And here?”

Brandon exhaled. “The men train. But not how they should. They still aim for hearts and heads. Still think like knights.”

“You said as much in the yard,” Mormont muttered.

Brandon leaned in. “We need drills for hacking limbs. Breaking knees. Disabling, not dueling. And dragonglass, or what we have won’t last a week when the snows turn red.”

Maester Aemon tilted his head. “And what of the ships sent to Hardhome?”

“No word yet,” Mormont said grimly. “They may have turned back. Or worse.”

Brandon’s jaw tightened. “We need those wildlings. Every one alive is one the dead can’t claim.”

“Aye,” Mormont said. “We’ll send more rangings. Small bands. Quiet ones.”

“Quiet gets killed,” Brandon said.

“And loud gets followed,” Mormont shot back.

They stared at one another for a moment. Then both nodded.

Sam dipped his quill. “Shall I write that down?”

Brandon grinned faintly. “Mark it as a debate. No winner.”

Mormont reached for a fresh cup of tea, his voice dropped, rough and quiet. “Mance Rayder will die before the sun sets.”

Brandon looked up sharply. “Today?”

“Aye.” The Old Bear didn’t flinch. “We’ve wrung what we can from him. The Watch has a short memory for kings.”

Aemon inclined his head. “The sentence of death weighs heavier when the world itself is dying.”

Sam’s hand trembled faintly as he made the note.

The fire popped. The wind howled outside.

The yard of Castle Black stank of sweat, woodsmoke, and the dull stink of fear poorly masked. Brandon walked its length with slow steps, his cloak trailing ash and frost behind him, the scar on his shoulder aching in the cold. Men were drilling at the post rings. Some too young. Some too soft. But they moved now with urgency. Fear sharpened more than steel ever did.

He spotted them by the cart: two women, unbound but surrounded by black brothers. Ygritte leaned against a stack of old firewood, boots muddy, arms crossed. Val stood beside her, pale as frost but sharper than most steel. Even in furs, her presence was a blade unsheathed. Brandon walked over.

Ygritte saw him first. “Look what the snow blew in,” she said with a lopsided grin. “Dustpile himself.”

He snorted. “Still calling me that?”

“Until you get a better name,” she said. “And maybe a cleaner cloak.”

Val said nothing at first. She watched him with cool eyes.

Brandon gestured to the tools around them. “Helping rebuild the Wall now? That wasn’t in the list of crimes.”

“It’s this or the noose,” Ygritte said. “And the food’s better out here.”

Brandon turned to Val. “You were at the cave. With Jon. With the... thing in the tree.”

Val’s face was unreadable. “We found gods and ghosts both. Ask your master. He saw more than most.”

“He’s not my master,” Brandon said. “He’s my friend.”

Ygritte smirked. “You sound like a crow saying that.”

“I’m not a crow either.”

“Could’ve fooled me, Dustpile.”

Brandon let her jab slide. He looked to Val again. “The man in the roots — the one who called himself Brynden. Bloodraven. Was he truly what he said?”

Val gave a faint shrug. “He was old as mountains and colder than ice. But he knew things. Things he shouldn’t. Things Jon didn’t even ask out loud.”

Brandon frowned, uneasy. “And you trust him?”

Val’s answer was quiet. “Trust doesn’t matter. He’s part of the war now.”

Before Brandon could speak, he caught movement across the yard — a black brother hauling timber past the armory. The lad moved like a soldier, broad of shoulder, callused hands wrapped around the handles of his load. Something about his gait snagged Brandon’s memory.

He stepped forward. “You.”

The man stopped, blinking. “M’lord?”

Brandon squinted. “I’ve seen you before. Harrenhal. With Yoren. You were just a smith’s boy then.”

The man nodded, awkward. “Aye. I was. Name’s Gendry.”

Recognition clicked. “You were with Lady Jorelle when she broke out Yoren’s crew. Gods, you were barely grown.”

“I grew,” Gendry said simply.

Brandon smiled. “And now?”

“I work the forge. Builder’s chain. No vows yet, but I made it to the Wall.”

Brandon nodded. “You swing a hammer like a knight. Ever think of ranging?”

“I’d rather fix the sword than carry it,” Gendry said. “But I’ll fight if I have to.”

Brandon clapped a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll see you in the yard anyway. Good steel needs to know what it’s striking.”

Gendry hesitated. “Is... is Princess Arya well?”

Brandon blinked, surprised. “You know Arya?”

“She traveled with us. Yoren’s lot. She... helped me. Back then.”

“She’s safe,” Brandon said. “At Winterfell. More dangerous now than ever.”

Gendry exhaled. “Good.” He returned to his work.

Ygritte watched him go. “That one’s not bad. But I’d still bet on me in a fight.”

“You’d cheat,” Brandon muttered.

“Aye,” she grinned. “But I’d win.”

Brandon shook his head and looked out past the yard, toward the Wall’s shadow creeping long into the afternoon. They had work yet to do. But for once, there were hands to help. And winter didn’t wait for permission.

The courtyard of Castle Black was full.

Black brothers lined the yard in silent rows. Wildlings too — unarmed, shackled, uncertain. They stood apart, clustered like wolves kept from meat, their eyes wary. Brandon Dustin watched from the stone steps, the wind cold against his collar. No one spoke.

Lord Commander Jeor Mormont stood before them all, a massive figure wrapped in crow-black furs, Longclaw bare in his hands. The sword gleamed in the thin sunlight, the bear’s pommel pale as bone. No flames. No torches. This would be done with steel, not fire.

Mance Rayder knelt in the snow. He wore no crown. No cloak. Just plain black and a rope around his wrists. His hair hung loose to his shoulders, threaded with grey. He looked thinner. But not afraid.

Val stood to one side, her jaw clenched, lips pressed white. Her sister Dalla held her baby close. Ygritte was behind them, head high despite the guards. None of them looked away.

“Do you have any last words?” Mormont asked.

Mance raised his head. His voice was low but steady. “I was born in a black cell. I’ll die at a black wall. But I walked freer than any man south of it. I led my people because no one else would. And I die knowing they still breathe.”

He turned slightly, catching Val’s gaze for a moment — not long, but long enough. Then he looked to Mormont. “Do it clean.”

The Old Bear nodded. He did not raise Longclaw with ceremony. He did not offer comfort. He only moved, slow and sure, like a man chopping wood before a storm.

The blade came down with a hiss. It ended in one stroke. The courtyard remained silent. Blood steamed in the snow.

Mormont stepped back. His face gave nothing. “May the gods judge him,” he said.

The wind carried the words away. The gathered wildlings did not cheer. The crows did not clap. Some bowed their heads. Some stared. Val wiped her eyes once, fiercely, but said nothing. Dalla turned away, holding her babe tighter.

Brandon looked down at the red patch on the white snow and thought Justice, maybe. But not peace.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The Small Council had grown quieter in recent moons — not in peace, but in restraint. The kind that comes before storms. Tommen’s court was young, unsure, and too easily steered. Too many voices pulled at his ears — the Tyrells with soft smiles and honeyed praise, Cersei with her iron temper veiled in motherly devotion. And Tyrion, trying to hold the center with wit and wine and increasingly fewer allies.

He watched them all as he sipped watered red in the Tower of the Hand. Ser Garlan Tyrell rarely spoke, but when he did, Mace beamed and the other Reachmen leaned in. Pycelle coughed less these days and listened more. Even Ser Addam, once dependable, now answered half his questions with a glance toward his Reach companions. The tide, Tyrion thought, was shifting. Too many things were. He could feel the grip loosening from his fingers.

The Faith stirred in the streets. Tommen's crown gleamed too brightly on too small a head. The Tyrells smiled too often. And Cersei had been too quiet. When Cersei was quiet, things burned.

Tyrion leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the carved arms. “The city listens for a strong voice,” he murmured to no one. “And hears too many whispers.”

He’d read Maester Balabar’s latest report, half a dozen violent skirmishes in the alleys beyond Flea Bottom, led by men with stars carved into their flesh and fire in their mouths. Sparrows, they called themselves now. A name once meant for humility. Now it was a warning.

He was Hand of the King in name, yes — but the kingdom had begun to hum in ways he could no longer predict. Power was leaking, like blood beneath the bandages. And the stench of rot was beginning to reach the tower. Something had to be done.

Tyrion Lannister stood at the window of the Tower, staring out over the Red Keep’s courtyards — once proud, now restless. The bells were quiet, but the city was not. A knock came at the door. Podrick entered, scroll in hand, face paler than usual.

“More ravens?” Tyrion asked, already knowing.

Pod nodded. “From the Wall. And from Winterfell.”

Tyrion took the scroll. The seal was black wax — the direwolf of Stark. He cracked it open with his thumb, letting his wine go warm on the table as his eyes darted line by line.

Silence.

Then he sighed. “Dead things in the snow.”

Podrick blinked. “My lord?”

Tyrion passed the letter to the desk. “Jeor Mormont claims the wildlings are fleeing something worse than winter. And Robb Stark is mobilizing — five thousand men headed north. No raiding banners. No skirmishes. Just steel and grain moving toward the Wall.”

He crossed to the wine table. The bottle was Dornish. Too sweet.

“Send a copy to Grand Maester Pycelle,” Tyrion said. “And alert Ser Kevan. He’ll want to see this.”

Pod hesitated. “There’s also… something else.” Tyrion raised a brow. “There was a riot last night. In the Market of the Moon. Some goldcloaks are dead.”

Tyrion stilled. “How many?”

“Four. Two more wounded.”

“Who led the crowd?”

“No one’s certain,” Pod said. “But the survivors say it wasn’t looters. It was... organized. Poorfolk. Chanting. They had crude spears. And a banner — a seven-pointed star, burned into old cloth.”

Tyrion’s eyes narrowed.

“They call themselves sparrows,” Podrick continued, almost in a whisper. “Preachers moving from sept to sept. Feeding crowds. Talking of fire, judgment, the fall of kings. They carry cudgels and knives. And now, spears.”

Tyrion drained his cup. “Oh, lovely. Armed piety.”

Outside, the bells remained silent. But he could hear them anyway — in the tremble of the streets, in the chant behind every shadowed alley.

He turned to Podrick again. “Send word to Bronn. We ride to the Sept of the Seven. It’s time we met this High Sparrow.”

The Sept of the Seven smelled of incense and damp stone. Tyrion stood beneath its towering dome, Bronn at his side, both cloaked in shadow as the light from a hundred candles bled gold across the floor. They waited in silence until the soft sound of sandals on stone announced the arrival of their host.

The High Sparrow looked like nothing — just another grey man in a grey robe, thin of hair and bent with quiet purpose. His eyes were clear, though. That was what Tyrion noticed. Clear and unafraid.

He bowed, but not deeply. “My lord Hand,” the Sparrow said. “You come to our house.”

“It’s still the crown’s sept, last I checked,” Tyrion said, managing a half-smile. “But yes. I thought it time we spoke plainly.”

Bronn shifted behind him, silent as ever but always watching.

“We hear rumors,” Tyrion continued, “about sparrows preaching on street corners. About swords in holy hands. About justice for the meek, dispensed without trial.”

“We only seek to serve,” the Sparrow said softly. “To feed the hungry. To give the forgotten a voice. If a few have taken up arms, it is only because the world no longer listens to quiet tongues.”

“Mm.” Tyrion scratched his chin. “And yet quiet tongues are often fed by loud coin. Where did your sparrows get their steel?”

The Sparrow tilted his head. “Some was donated. Some repurposed from thieves and traitors. The gods provide, Lord Tyrion.”

Tyrion smiled thinly. “How divine of them.”

He took a slow breath, eyes scanning the icons behind the altar — the Father, the Mother, the Smith. All carved with the same patience that men seemed to forget.

“I’m not here to threaten you,” Tyrion said. “The Faith is… vital. For order. For hope. But the city stirs, and it stirs rough. I can’t have mobs breaking the cobblestones while the King’s name is chanted like a curse.”

The High Sparrow said nothing, only folded his hands before him.

“So,” Tyrion said, “let’s make a deal.”

That got a flicker of interest.

“We grant you legitimacy,” Tyrion went on. “Official protection. More food for the poor, more beds for the sick. Gold from the royal treasury — not much, but enough to quiet a city. In return, your flock puts down their blades. The King has guards enough. He doesn’t need more.”

The silence that followed felt longer than it was.

“Gold,” the High Sparrow said at last. “And silence.”

“No,” Tyrion said. “Peace. It’s not the same.”

The Sparrow looked down at his hands. “And if our work continues?”

“Preach, by all means,” Tyrion said. “Feed the poor, clothe the naked. Just don’t start building altars with corpses.”

Another pause. Then the High Sparrow smiled — a soft, calm smile. “Very well, Lord Hand. We accept.”

Tyrion blinked. “That’s it?”

“You offer support. Shelter. And respect. You do not mock our gods.” He turned slightly, looking toward the altar. “Perhaps you are wiser than some believe.”

Tyrion inclined his head. “Perhaps I am.”

They parted with pleasantries and hollow courtesies, and Bronn didn’t say a word until they were halfway down the steps into the street. “That was too easy,” he muttered.

Tyrion didn’t answer at first. He felt it too — a nagging sensation behind his eyes, like a wine too sweet to trust. “Something’s wrong,” he said quietly. “I just can’t see it yet.”

And somewhere, in the maze of King’s Landing’s gutters and prayers, the Faith watched them leave — its face serene, its hands already busy.

Night had fallen over the Red Keep, and in the Tower of the Hand, Tyrion sat at the long table beneath the flickering candlelight, fingers drumming against a half-unrolled map of Westeros. Around him were scattered ravens’ messages — black script on white parchment, bound in broken seals of wax. Most were dry records: grain tallies, troop positions, coin drafts. A few were worse.

Uncle Kevan stood near the window, squinting at the city below. He’d removed his breastplate, but not his sword belt. These days, even sleep came armed.

“They’re mobilizing,” Kevan said. “Stark and Tully both.”

Tyrion looked up from a dispatch marked with the Blackfish’s seal. “Five thousand heading north. Grain stores tripled. Timber moving along the White Knife. And now ravens from Mormont too.” He tapped one scroll with two fingers. “Dead things in the snow. Again.”

Kevan exhaled, folding his arms. “Are we to believe them?”

“I don’t think they care what we believe.” Tyrion leaned back. “If they’re lying, it’s a clever one. Coordinated. Fabricated across leagues and months. But if they’re not...”

Kevan turned from the window. “Then the North prepares for a war no one in the South wants to name.”

“Aye.” Tyrion’s voice was soft. “And they’ll fight it alone.”

They were quiet a moment.

Kevan moved to the table, lifting another scroll — this one from Gulltown. “Still nothing from Baelish?”

“Not a word,” Tyrion said. “No ravens. No riders. Only whispers.”

“What kind?”

Tyrion frowned. “A gathering of lords in the Vale. Secret, careful. A few blades. A few banners. Enough for a council — or a quiet rebellion.”

Kevan grunted. “He’s too clever to vanish without purpose. If he’s not dead, he’s waiting. And if he’s waiting...”

“Then he’s playing a longer game,” Tyrion finished.

Another silence. The fire crackled in the hearth. Outside, bells rang distantly over the rooftops of King’s Landing — some funeral, or sermon, or wedding none of them had time to attend.

“And Stannis?” Kevan asked.

“Still holding the Stormlands,” Tyrion replied. “Still bleeding this foreign foe one skirmish at a time.”

“Good , at least we don’t have to worry about that one” Kevan said “For now.”

Tyrion poured another cup of wine, held it up to the candlelight, and watched it catch the gold. “We’re surrounded by knives, uncle. Blades in the Reach, in the Vale, in the street preachers, even in the snow. I’m not sure which will cut first.”

“You met with the High Sparrow,” Kevan said, shifting topics without warning.

“I did.” Tyrion took a long sip. “Bronn was there. In case words failed.”

“And?”

“And it was too easy.”

Kevan blinked. “Easy?”

Tyrion set his cup down. “No posturing. No threats. No begging bowls. He asked for food, for shelter, for parchment and ink. And for a seat at court.”

“He wants legitimacy.”

“No,” Tyrion said slowly. “He wants footholds. And I just gave him two.”

Kevan frowned. “Do you think he’s lying?”

“I think he’s hiding.” Tyrion’s voice dropped. “And hiding well. I thought I saw his hand once — during Joffrey’s funeral. That look he gave Cersei. Not pity. Not hatred. Something colder.”

Kevan said nothing.

Tyrion picked up the wine again but didn’t drink. “He accepted too much too quickly. I gave him power — and he smiled.”

Kevan said, “That’s what we do, Tyrion. In court.”

“Not like this,” Tyrion murmured. “Not when your enemy’s mouth is full of honey and your cup tastes like vinegar.”

He stood, walking to the window. The city stretched beneath them, all towers and smoke and noise.

“He wants something,” Tyrion said. “Something more than gold or food. And when we learn what it is... it’ll be too late.”

Kevan watched him in silence. The bells rang again. Louder this time. Somewhere in the city, a new sermon had begun.

Chapter Text

Stannis

The field stank of blood, mud, and rotting dreams. Crows circled low over the dead, fat and lazy in the dawnlight. Stannis Baratheon stood alone atop the rise, jaw clenched, cloak stiff with dried blood at the hem. His mailed fingers gripped the pommel of his sword, but he had not drawn it since last night.

There had been another battle. Another scrape in the dirt. Another skirmish that left too many of his men dead and too few answers. The Golden Company had withdrawn again. Not broken. Not routed. Just gone — like smoke in the trees. They struck like mercenaries but retreated like ghosts.

And this time, they had taken two hundred of his best. Ser Richard Horpe was gone. Others still lingered in the healer’s tents, screaming or silent. Too many named. Too many not. He hated that. Numbers he could count. Names, he remembered.

Behind him, the camp stirred like a kicked wasps’ nest — quiet, bitter, hollow. The standard of the crowned stag flapped limply in the cold wind. No cheers. No horns. Just the soft shuffle of men too tired to speak.

Melisandre found him at the crest of the hill, her red robes dragging trails through the wet grass. “You lost men,” she said softly.

“I lost soldiers,” Stannis corrected.

“They died for a cause.”

“They died for orders,” he snapped.

She was silent for a moment. The wind pulled at her hair, copper-gold in the light. “We have seen worse days.”

“We’ve had better,” he muttered. “They come with gold, discipline, and fewer mouths to feed. We’ve got fire, ash, and tired bones.”

“You have me.”

He turned to her, slowly. “You said they were shadows. That the fires showed you victory.”

“I saw a man with a crown of snow,” she said. “I saw light against darkness. I saw the Wall.”

“And what do you see now?”

She looked away, toward the pale horizon. “Smoke,” she admitted. “And snow.”

He turned back to the field. “Then your god sees as clearly as my ravens.”

From the valley below came the low chant of the dying. A soldier begged for water. Another for mercy. Stannis shut his eyes. Just for a moment. When he opened them again, Ser Axell Florent had appeared behind him.

“Your Grace,” Axell said. “We have messages. From the North.” Stannis raised a brow. “From Robb Stark. And another from the Wall. Castle Black.”

He took the scrolls without a word. The seals were intact — the direwolf, and the black wax of the Night’s Watch. He broke them both. His eyes scanned the pages in silence. Then, without looking up: “Get me Ser Davos.”

“My lord?” Axell asked.

“Now. We need to talk about the Wall.”

Melisandre’s eyes gleamed.

The war room at Storm’s End smelled of damp stone, sea-salt, and smoldering wax. Maps lay unrolled across the table, corners held by rusted daggers and cracked cups of wine gone sour. The flickering torchlight danced across the grim faces of those gathered — knights, lords, sailors, priests — none looked victorious.

They had won skirmishes. A few. But they were bleeding. Men, supplies, horses. Bit by bit. The Golden Company did not break like green sellswords — they bent, then struck back harder. Too many banners had fallen in the last fortnight. Too many pyres lit along the coast.

Ser Axell Florent stood nearest the table, his jaw clenched. “We must rally at King’s Landing,” he said. “If the Tyrells have lost control, the time to strike is now. The people still speak your name—”

“No,” said Davos. The room turned. The smuggler’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the torchlight like a dagger. “We’re bleeding. We’ve held the coast, yes, but barely. If we move inland, we’ll lose more — and gain nothing. We hold Storm’s End. That must be enough.”

Axell sneered. “Enough? This is war, not some trade route.”

“It’s survival,” Davos said, unmoved. “Your own men know it. We don’t have the strength for a new siege. Not yet.”

Stannis did not speak. He stood with one hand resting on the edge of the table, his eyes tracing the path of the kingsroad northward. Not toward the Throne. Toward Winterfell.

Melisandre’s voice was soft. “The boy has drawn his sword.”

All turned to her. The red woman stood with her hands folded in her sleeves, the firelight making her shadow dance on the far wall like something with wings.

“The wolf king marches,” she said. “Not south, but north. He prepares for a war he cannot yet see. The false dead rise in the snow. I have seen them. And in the flames... I see frost.” Her eyes fixed on Stannis. “I see snow.” The room fell quiet.

Ser Rolland Storm coughed. “Snow? As in... winter?”

Melisandre said nothing she just kept looking at him.

Stannis stared at her a long moment. “And the fire tells you I should go north?”

“The fire tells me the true war has not yet begun,” she said. “And that the blade of light has not yet been forged. Not fully.”

“My blade burned,” Stannis said, voice hard. “And broke.”

Melisandre did not deny it. “Then perhaps we must find where it may burn again.”

Davos cleared his throat. “We’ve had ravens,” he said, pulling a small scroll from his belt. “From the North. From the Wall. From Winterfell. They speak of dead things rising. Of a need for obsidian. Dragonglass.” He passed it across the table. Stannis took it, skimmed the lines. “The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch confirms it,” Davos continued. “And Robb Stark corroborates it. He’s sending five thousand north to hold the Wall. They ask for help. For weapons. For glass.”

Axell made a noise of disbelief. “And you believe it? Ghost stories?”

Stannis didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to Davos. “What of Dragonstone?”

“The mines are still viable,” Davos said. “If the maesters are right, there’s more obsidian in those cliffs than all the Free Cities combined.”

“And the fleet?”

“Fifty ships remain in harbor. Not battle-hardened, but they can carry men and supplies.”

Melisandre stepped forward. “The time comes. The wall will burn. One side or the other. You must be ready.”

Stannis looked to her, then to Davos, then back to the map. “No,” he said finally. “We stay. For now. We hold the Stormlands. We bleed them until they break. But—” He tapped the scroll. “—we send ravens. One to Dragonstone. One to the Wall. If what they say is true, the war we fight now is only dust.”

“And the Northmen?” Davos asked.

“We will send an envoy,” Stannis said. “They may be wolves, but they are not fools. If the dead walk, they will know the value of fire.” He rolled the scroll up and passed it back. “Let them know Stannis Baratheon does not forget the realm. And when the storm breaks, I will stand at the Wall if no other will.”

A silence fell again. Outside, the sea beat against the cliff walls. And in the firelight, Melisandre smiled.

The war room was empty now. The maps had been rolled and the banners stilled, but the weight of choices lingered like smoke in the stones. Stannis Baratheon stood alone before the narrow window of Storm’s End, watching the sea bruise under a grey sky.

Davos would be gone by sundown. He had given the order himself — his voice rougher than he liked, but steady. “Sail for White Harbor. Carry word to the King in the North.”

The Onion Knight had not argued. He rarely did when the stakes were this high. He had only bowed — grave, loyal — and accepted the sealed letter bearing Stannis’s own hand and wax.

The message was simple, direct: “The Wall will not stand alone. If you are gathering dragonglass, then we share a purpose. If your Watch speaks truth, then the dead are coming. If your swords are sharp, let them be raised — not at us, but at the darkness.”

The wind pressed against the windowpane with a low, restless moan. Far below in the yard, the last of the provisions were being loaded onto the Black Betha. Men moved like shadows, wordless and efficient. The sea called to them — and Davos would answer.

Stannis turned, eyes falling on the red woman in the doorway. Melisandre did not speak. She only watched him, her gaze distant, as if she stood in two worlds at once.

“He’s not the one,” Stannis said.

“No,” she agreed, her voice soft.

A silence passed between them, long and brittle.

“If you see fire in your visions,” Stannis said coldly, “see this, too — I will not abandon Storm’s End. I am not a Tyrell, to run from shadows. I will fight them here.”

Melisandre’s lips curved — not a smile, something smaller. “You are the fire that clears the way.”

“Then let me burn,” Stannis muttered.

He turned back to the window. Out on the sea, the sails unfurled. The Black Betha slid into the waves like a blade into silk, Davos’s banner snapping once in farewell before the ship vanished into the mist. Stannis did not blink. Did not move. Only watched. Until the sea swallowed his last good man. And the storm rolled in.

Chapter Text

Oberyn

The Dornish sun was a hammer. It beat down on the red sands of the south with merciless rhythm, gilding the spires of Sunspear in bronze fire and making every breath taste of heat and salt. Oberyn Martell rode beneath its weight, his black cloak bleached to dust on the shoulders, his stallion lathered with sweat, and yet he did not slow. He had ridden from the Narrow Sea across half a continent with little more than salt, fire, and fury for company, and it had sharpened him, not worn him down.

He passed beneath the gates of Sunspear without fanfare. The guards recognized him, of course, but they offered no questions. Only nods. The Red Viper needed no herald. His presence spoke for itself.

The Water Gardens shimmered in the distance like a dream remembered too late. Oberyn did not turn. He dismounted in the courtyard and handed the reins to a servant with a grunt, his eyes already climbing the tower ahead. The heat clung to him like armor. He wore it well.

Inside, the air was cooler but no less heavy. Myrrh and oranges perfumed the hallways, and the tile beneath his boots was freshly washed. Dornish efficiency — quiet, clean, unseen. The way Doran liked it.

He found his brother in the solar. Doran Martell sat behind the great window, half-shadowed by a lattice of carved stone, the sea glimmering behind him. His hands were folded atop a letter, his face as still as the tide before a storm.

“You took your time,” Doran said without looking up.

“I took theirs first,” Oberyn replied.

He poured himself wine without asking and sat. His boots left prints of salt and blood on the floor. No one commented.

“You were in the North,” Doran said. “And now you’re back.”

“I was,” Oberyn said. “And I am. And I’ve seen things you would not believe.”

Doran finally looked up. “Tell me.”

They sat in the Tower of Winds, where the breeze from the sea wound through carved marble archways and stirred the silken curtains with soft sighs. Doran reclined beneath a pale orange canopy, a glass of chilled wine in hand, his legs shrouded in wool and velvet. Oberyn, by contrast, stood — always moving, always restless — one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his dagger, the other cradling a golden fig.

“So,” Doran said at last, his voice slow as the tide. “What do you make of the North?”

Oberyn grinned. “Cold. Honest. And far more dangerous than we’ve given it credit for.”

Doran’s brow lifted slightly. “Robb Stark?”

“The Wolf King,” Oberyn said, dropping into a carved chair opposite. “And his brother, the White Wolf. They are what the songs once promised of House Stark — not soft, not scattered. Steel in their spines. And honor… real honor. Not the courtly kind, not the kind you wear like a mask. The kind you bleed for.”

Doran sipped his wine. “And Tywin?”

“Broken.” Oberyn leaned back, tilting his head toward the ceiling. “A shell in a chair. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink, some say. Only breathes. It’s not justice, but it’s close.”

Doran nodded. “And the rumors?”

Oberyn raised a brow. “Which ones?”

“The dead walking. The ravens from Mormont. The Starks gathering steel and stone at the Wall.”

Oberyn grew quiet. “I thought it nonsense. Another Stark myth to stir the blood of green boys.”

He poured himself a glass of wine. “But Robb Stark doesn’t speak lightly. And Jon Stark — well, I watched him. He never once sought glory. He has the look of a man with a weight he hasn’t named.”

“Even Obara asked if he was truly Ned Stark’s get,” Oberyn added, almost amused. “That one doesn’t ask questions lightly.”

Doran’s eyes narrowed. “Jon Stark.” There was something in his tone — quiet, curious, measured.

Oberyn noticed. “Why do you say it like that?”

“You spent time with him?”

“Some,” Oberyn said. “Mostly in passing. He spent more time with Tyene than me.”

“Ah,” Doran said, with a faint, knowing smile.

Oberyn gave a dismissive gesture. “Don’t look so pleased. She liked him. Called him… melancholic. And terribly polite. She said it was strange. The man who broke Tywin Lannister... gentle.”

Doran stared into his wine, thoughtful.

“Why the sudden interest in the brother and not the king?” Oberyn asked.

Doran said nothing for a time. Then, quietly: “Because I didn’t think about it before. Not truly.”

He looked out toward the sea. “Jon was born during Robert’s Rebellion. A war where Eddard Stark rode south for his sister. He returned with a bastard boy and her bones. And… there were letters.” Oberyn sat forward. “Elia’s letters,” Doran continued. “Just before the war. She said her position was secure. That Rhaegar had spoken to her. That she gave her blessing — not just permission. She said Lyanna was young, but kind. Sweet. That things would be fine.”

Oberyn’s mouth opened. Then closed. “You don’t mean—”

“I mean,” Doran said, “there is a possibility.”

“Rhaegar and Lyanna…” Oberyn whispered. “You think Jon…”

Doran nodded. “We cannot know. But it is there, in shadow. A shape behind the tapestry.”

Oberyn’s eyes flickered. “And if it’s true?”

Doran said nothing for a moment. Then: “Then we must watch him. Even if we do not move yet.”

“Do you still have the letters?”

“No,” Doran said. “I burned them. After Elia died. After Rhaegar died. After Lyanna. There was no point in keeping ghosts.”

Oberyn said nothing for a long time.

The wind moved through the tower like a breath drawn deep in thought.

“There are whispers of another dragon,” Oberyn murmured. “In the Stormlands. A boy with gold banners and Blackfyre eyes.”

Doran did not react — only folded his hands more tightly.

Finally, the Red Viper looked toward the horizon, where the sun dipped low behind the Boneway. “We may all have ghosts soon,” he said.

 Doran turned to the window. “Some of us already do.”

Chapter Text

Tyrion

Tyrion stood by the open window of the Tower of the Hand, watching the city simmer under the sun. The bells were silent, but the stillness wasn’t peace. It was something else—coiled, humming, like a harp string stretched too tight.

For weeks, King’s Landing had been oddly quiet. The Sparrow mobs had thinned. The violent street sermons had dulled to murmurs. And yet, Tyrion could feel it in his bones: the danger hadn’t passed. It had taken root.

He sipped wine—too warm, not enough to mask the unease—and stared across the rooftops. Preachers still chanted at street corners. Now they wore cleaner robes. Now they didn’t shout—they whispered. Their flocks followed in silence. Too many eyes. Too many knives.

Behind him, the table was covered in open letters. Reports from the Crownlands. Grain ledgers. Whispered accounts of sparrows drilling in old sept ruins. Even the Goldcloaks kept their distance now. As if the Faith carried plague.

And there were the northern ravens.

He turned from the window and reached for the newest scroll. The seal was cracked already—Kevan had read it first. A wolf pressed into dark wax.

King Robb Stark has reinforced the Wall with five thousand men. Timber shipments and grain convoys are being sent north. The Tullys move too. Raventree Hill reports blacksmiths working day and night. Eastwatch reports no further sightings of wildlings. Castle Black quiet.

He read it twice. Then again. The North didn’t do anything lightly. Not these Starks.

“And now the Vale,” he muttered.

Whispers from Gulltown. A gathering of lords, envoys sent north. But no word from Baelish. That was the part that itched. Tyrion poured another cup of wine and barely tasted it. Something was shifting. Too many pieces in motion. The Vale, the North, the Wall, the Faith...

A knock. Podrick entered, breathless. “My lord—it’s the Queen.”

Tyrion frowned. “Which one?”

“Margaery. She’s been taken.”

The cup hit the table with a dull thud. “Taken?”

“By the Faith. By the sparrows. This morning. She was feeding beggars at the Sept of the Seven. They came with torches. Said it was for… for impurity.”

Tyrion didn’t speak for a heartbeat. Then: “Gather the council,” he said. “Now. Everyone. And gods help us, bring Cersei too.”

The chamber was full, and yet it felt like a noose tightening around Tyrion’s throat. They’d gathered at his summons — the full Small Council and more besides. Kevan sat rigid near the hearth, a frown etched deep into his brow. Pycelle wheezed beside him, thumbing the edge of his sleeve as if polishing invisible dust. Gormon stood further down the table, hands folded with a novice’s humility and a courtier’s smile — a quiet reminder that the Tyrells played for more than one throne.

Tommen’s throne sat empty. For now.

Across from Tyrion, Mace Tyrell had planted himself like a red-faced boulder in his wheeled chair. Ser Garlan stood at his back, all courtesy and iron. Beside him, Lady Olenna sipped tea and said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her silence felt sharper than steel.

Cersei sat near the window, golden hair unbound, her expression unreadable. She hadn’t spoken since entering.

Tyrion broke the silence first. “She’s in the Sept?” he asked. “The Great Sept?”

Gormon inclined his head. “Taken this morning. Before dawn. With no formal writ, no word to the crown. They called it… divine necessity.”

“Impurity,” Pycelle added, his voice dry as old parchment. “Fornication. Unchaste conduct. A violation of the maiden’s vows.”

Mace Tyrell turned purple. “She’s the Queen! My daughter—your Queen—was dragged from the street like a common whore!”

“The Faith did not consult us,” Kevan said quietly. “Not the crown. Not the council.”

Bronn stood by the door, arms crossed, eyes like knives. Tyrion could feel his tension like static.

“And now?” Tyrion asked. “She’s imprisoned?”

“They say she awaits judgment,” Gormon said, not quite meeting his eyes. “By trial. A trial of the Faith.”

“And if she refuses?”

“Refusal is… admission.”

Tyrion’s hands curled around the edge of the table. “So the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms is now subject to street sermons and septon whisperings. We blink, and the Faith has grown teeth.”

Lady Olenna stirred. “And steel,” she said coldly. “Let’s not forget that. Your Goldcloaks have done nothing.”

Tyrion looked to Kevan. Kevan nodded. “They were outnumbered. Twice. No orders were given to engage.”

“Because they’d lose,” Bronn said bluntly.

The room chilled.

“And where is the High Septon in all this?” Tyrion asked. “Surely he’s not been dragged from his altar.”

Gormon shifted. “He still holds his post. But the sparrows… they answer to another.”

Tyrion’s eyes narrowed. “The High Sparrow.”

Silence answered him. And silence was confirmation.

Mace Tyrell slammed his hand down. “Then find this… this barefoot preacher and drag him here in chains.”

Pycelle coughed. “The Faith has grown rapidly. Sparrows now walk the streets in organized patrols. They are... not a rabble. Not anymore.”

“They have Lancel,” Kevan added softly. “He’s taken vows. Wears a star now.”

Tyrion felt his stomach turn. “And you only mention this now?”

“He insisted it was penance,” Kevan said. “I thought it foolish. Not treason.”

Tyrion turned to Cersei. She had not moved. Not spoken.

“Your Grace?” Tyrion asked.

Her eyes were half-lidded. Her lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach them. “You summoned the council, little brother. Do go on.”

Olenna Tyrell looked at her as if she’d found something foul in her wine.

Tyrion spoke slowly. “We cannot let this stand. If the Faith can take a queen — a crowned queen — they can take anyone. Trial or not, this is power wrested from the throne. We are watching a coup in slow motion.”

“We are watching our Queen imprisoned,” Garlan said. “Will you free her, Lord Hand?”

Tyrion looked at him. “I will try.”

“Try harder,” Olenna snapped. “Before they hang her and call it justice.”

Tyrion nodded, slow and grim. “Then I will speak to the High Sparrow myself.”

Kevan looked uncertain. “Is that wise?”

“Probably not,” Tyrion said. “But when was wisdom ever part of this game?”

Varys found him in the hallway outside the council chamber, quiet as a shadow in silk. Tyrion had just dismissed Podrick to fetch his cloak when the eunuch appeared at his elbow like a trick of light.

“Another long day for the Hand,” Varys said, folding his hands into his sleeves.

“Longer every week,” Tyrion muttered, still annoyed from the council’s circling arguments. “Did you come to tell me the kitchen rats have declared for the Tyrells too?”

Varys offered a soft smile. “No, my lord. Only a whisper. A soft one. But troubling.”

Tyrion paused. “You have my attention.”

“There are movements,” Varys said, “in places even I have trouble watching. The Faith grows faster than gold can buy. And the High Septon does not seem to be the one leading them.”

Tyrion narrowed his eyes. “The High Sparrow.”

Varys nodded slowly. “He preaches peace and carries fire. The kind that doesn’t need torches to burn.”

Tyrion studied him. “Do you know something I don’t?”

“I always do,” Varys said. “But this time, I wish I didn’t.”

There was silence. A breeze stirred the torches in the hall.

“I’m going to the Sept,” Tyrion said finally. “To speak with the man directly.”

Varys bowed his head. “Then wear thick boots, my lord. Ashes burn hotter than snow.”

The Sept of Baelor loomed over the city like a silent judge. Its steps were worn smooth by centuries of pilgrim feet, its marble façade veined with time and soot. Once a place of worship, it had become something else — a fortress of the spirit, a monument to judgment.

Tyrion’s boots clicked on the stone as he ascended, Bronn close behind. The wind tugged at his cloak, sharp with the scent of incense and smoke. Bells rang from somewhere within — low, slow, funereal.

“They’re always ringing,” Bronn muttered. “Makes a man think someone died. Or’s about to.”

Tyrion didn’t answer.

Sparrows lined the entrance — a dozen of them, armed not with staves but with iron-tipped spears. Their robes were patched and plain, but their faces were hard. Not zealots. Not anymore. Soldiers.

“Careful,” Tyrion said quietly. “They’re not thugs anymore. They’re uniforms with prayers.”

As they neared the doors, one of the sparrows stepped forward. A tall man, gaunt as famine, with a seven-pointed star carved into his brow. Lancel Lannister.

Tyrion slowed, studying him. Gone were the silks and perfumes. He wore wool and rough linen, a plain belt and sandals. His hair had been shaved close, and his face was leaner. Sharper.

“Lord Tyrion,” Lancel said, voice level. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“I’m the Hand of the King,” Tyrion replied. “I go where I’m needed.”

“This is not a place for politics.”

“No?” Tyrion tilted his head. “Funny, it smells like one.”

Lancel’s jaw tensed. “The High Sparrow will not receive you today.”

“He’ll want to make an exception. Queen Margaery sits in one of his cells. And the city sits on the edge of a sword.”

“She sits in prayer,” Lancel said. “And her soul will be weighed like any other.”

Bronn shifted behind Tyrion. “Careful what you weigh. You might not like what tips the scale.”

Lancel’s eyes flicked to him. Then back to Tyrion. “The Faith is not yours to command,” he said. “Not anymore.”

“Was it ever?” Tyrion asked. “All I see are swords and sermons.”

“We were weak once,” Lancel said. “Now we are strong.”

“And yet still blind,” Tyrion murmured. “Tell me, cousin — do you enjoy the scar?”

Lancel didn’t flinch. “Each line is a promise.”

“Then I hope you enjoy keeping them.”

Lancel stepped forward, barring the door with his body. “Go home, Tyrion. The gods see you. And they remember your sins.”

Tyrion’s mouth twisted. “Do they now?”

“They remember the wine. The whores. The lies. The things you did while wearing the lion’s name.”

“I’m sure they do,” Tyrion said softly. “But I wonder... do they remember who gave you that name? Who raised you in silk while the smallfolk starved?” He turned, cloak swirling. “Keep your gods, Lancel. Just remember — no wall is tall enough to keep out fire and gold.”

Bronn followed as they descended. The doors remained shut behind them. The bells kept tolling. At the foot of the steps, Tyrion paused. Bronn glanced sideways.

“Well?” the sellsword asked.

Tyrion looked back at the Sept. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “I don’t know what yet. But it’s there.”

“You think they’re planning something?”

“I think they already have.” He turned his eyes north, where the Red Keep rose against the sky. “And we’re too late.”

Chapter Text

Cersei

The wine was Dornish — red and sweet as blood, clinging to the rim of her cup like a lover’s kiss. Cersei Lannister drank deep and let it warm her from the inside. Outside, the bells of the Sept of Baelor tolled for evening prayer. She laughed softly. Let them pray.

Margaery Tyrell was rotting in a cell beneath the Sept, her fine silks stripped away, her perfume drowned in filth. The girl had shrieked at first, raged like a viper caught in a net. But even flowers wilt without sunlight. Soon, she would be broken — and convicted. Not by force. Not by the crown. By the gods.

Cersei smiled, lips red with wine. Osney Kettleblack had been quite convincing. He had confessed to his liaisons with the little queen with just the right amount of shame. Bribed septas whispered of late-night trysts. Maids remembered moans behind locked doors. It was all so… elegant. So clean.

Let the Tyrells rage. Let Garlan gnash his teeth and Mace sputter in his wheeled chair. Let Tyrion fret and pace and wonder how it had all slipped from his fingers. The Faith was no longer his to control — nor the city, nor the king.

Tommen was hers now. Gentle, pliable, eager to please. No more queen beside him whispering of gardens and honeycakes. Just his mother — and the Seven.

Robb Stark and his northern wolves had shattered the armies of the South, but in doing so, they’d broken the only shields the Reach had left. No Tywin. No Kevan worth the name. Jaime, her golden fool, was rotting in chains far to the north, his name little more than a curse. All of them — men — had failed her. It would be her triumph.

She could already taste it. Tyrion would be next. A knife in the back, a fall down the steps, a riot at the wrong hour. Varys could vanish. Gormon might suffer a fall from his tower. The council would shift again, and she — Cersei of House Lannister, Queen Mother — would rule not beside the throne, but upon it in all but name.

And Osney... oh, brave Osney. He would take the black, ride to the Wall with solemn vows, find Jaime, and kill the Wolf King. One blade, one crown toppling. She would have everything.

A knock disturbed her thoughts. She turned slowly.

Qyburn entered, cloaked in grey, the ever-gentle smile on his lips. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing. “The Septa and the brothers are ready to speak.”

Cersei set her cup down, carefully. Her fingers were steady now.

“Then let us make history,” she said. And rose to meet her allies.

The Sept of the Seven was dark at night, the stained-glass saints above dimmed by moonlight and dust. Cersei walked the nave like a queen in procession, her steps echoing between the pillars. Qyburn trailed behind her in silence. The guards at the door were not goldcloaks. They bore no sigils, no armor polished for show. These were sparrows — barefoot, scarred, silent. And yet, they moved aside for her.

Inside the sept’s chapter house, the air smelled of old stone and burning tallow. A single brazier glowed at the center of the room, casting long shadows against the walls. Around it stood men in grey and brown, robes patched and plain, hands calloused from labor and war. No courtiers. No knights. No lords. Only fire. And faith.

At their head stood the High Sparrow. His eyes were pale, his smile mild. He looked like a man who should be sweeping temple steps or begging at a market stall. Yet all the room bowed their heads when he spoke.

“Your Grace,” he said softly, inclining his head. “We are honored.”

Cersei smiled. “The honor is mine. The Seven have long awaited a crown worthy of their trust.”

There were murmurs — quiet prayers, nods, soft ‘amens’.

“You have delivered a queen into our hands,” the Sparrow continued. “And in doing so, shown the realm that the gods do not sleep.”

Cersei’s voice was smooth as silk. “The gods work through faithful servants. We both know what Margaery was — the false piety, the silk smiles. She corrupted my son. Played at virtue. But the truth cannot be hidden from the light.”

“She will be judged,” the Sparrow said. “By the Seven. With the same rites granted to any sinner.”

“Of course,” Cersei said. “Justice is for all.”

“And yet justice,” he continued, “needs teeth.”

She inclined her head slightly. “That is why I came.” The room grew still.

“The city is restless,” Cersei said. “The goldcloaks are thin. The lords squabble. My son is too young to command — and the wolves still howl in the north. But the Faith is strong. Your people are loyal. Pure. And growing.” She looked him in the eye. “Raise them. Arm them. Let the Seven’s justice wear steel again.”

The High Sparrow did not smile. He did not blink. “The Faith Militant was broken by kings. Burned, scattered. Their swords melted. Their altars torn down.”

“And now,” Cersei said, “they rise again. With the blessing of the crown.”

A pause. Then — “And what does the Queen Mother ask in return?”

Cersei moved closer to the fire, the brazier’s glow painting her face in red and gold. “Loyalty. Vigilance. And silence.”

The Sparrow considered her. “The lion and the star, then. Side by side.”

“Until the stars fall,” she said.

There were nods among the gathered sparrows. One murmured a prayer. Another lifted a blackened blade — an old relic, reforged in fire.

“The kettle has boiled long enough,” the Sparrow said at last. “We will strike when the city sleeps.”

“And Tyrion?” Cersei asked, almost too casually.

“He will be judged. But he will not rule.”

“And the Tyrells?”

“They will remain,” he said. “As guests. Let the garden wither in its own silence.”

Cersei exhaled, slow and content. She felt it at last — the coil unwinding, the serpent striking. This was her city now.

“Then it is done,” she said.

And the Faith bowed to the Queen Mother.

Chapter Text

Tyrion

The Red Keep was too quiet.

Tyrion Lannister sat alone in the Tower of the Hand, his chamber steeped in shadow and wine and memory. The only light came from a single guttering candle on the table beside him, flame twitching like a dying thing, casting long fingers across the floor. The dregs of wine in his goblet had gone tepid, but he drank anyway. Better warm wine than cold truth.

Outside, the breeze stirred the great crimson banners that bore the lion of House Lannister, their edges whispering against the stone as if sharing secrets he could not hear. Inside, nothing moved. Not even the shadows dared to dance. The silence pressed against his ears until it had weight, like a hand around the throat.

He had not slept. Not truly. When he closed his eyes, sleep came in fragments — feverish and false — and always brought with it the same faces. Joffrey’s face, purple and bulging. Tywin’s, still as stone in his final silence. Shae’s, whispering I am yours in the voice full of lie. Sometimes he heard the crowds chanting. Sometimes he heard nothing.

Tonight, he heard nothing.

And that worried him more than screams.

He rose, his joints stiff, bare feet finding the cold flagstones beneath. A half-finished letter lay curled near the edge of his desk — too many words, none of them clever. He left it there and crossed the chamber to the window.

King’s Landing lay below, cloaked in darkness.

From this high perch, the city usually breathed. You could hear the hiss of wheels, the clatter of horseshoes on cobble, the bark of dockside sellers too drunk to sleep, the distant, rhythmic hammering from the forges. But tonight, there was nothing. No riots, no horns, no steel clashing in alley shadows. No music. No prayer.

Only silence.

The streets were too still. The torches burned too cleanly. The Blackwater flowed like oil in the moonlight, and even the gulls were quiet. It was as if the city itself had drawn a long, shallow breath... and was waiting to exhale.

Tyrion sipped again from his cup. It tasted of dust and regret.

It had been three days since Margaery had been taken.

Three days of Small Council meetings where nothing was decided, and everything was argued. Mace Tyrell had bellowed threats and stomped like a bull in silk. Olenna had sliced through the room with her tongue, quick and sharp as a barber’s razor. Pycelle had wheezed platitudes, his breath sourer than the wine.

And Cersei had smiled.

The Queen Regent had hardly spoken, except to dismiss suggestions, wave away concerns, and remind the Tyrells that the Faith was independent of the Crown. Tyrion watched her through it all. She had been too still. Too composed. That frightened him most.

They could not storm the Sept. He knew that now. The Faith held more than scripture. They held numbers. Even if Ser Addam remained loyal — even if the Goldcloaks could be rallied, and that was a question growing harder to answer by the hour, — it would not be enough. Not with Lancel among the Sparrows. Not with half the city drinking Sept oil and calling it righteousness.

The High Septon was a puppet. The High Sparrow — the ragged, barefoot nothing who now sat like a king of bones and ash — was the true power in the city. And he had believers. Tyrion understood how dangerous that was.

You could bribe a man who wanted gold. You could blackmail a man who wanted power. But a man who wanted salvation? That was a problem.

And Cersei...

Cersei had been quiet as rot beneath the floorboards. No screaming fits. No broken goblets. No talk of wildfire. She no longer cursed Margaery aloud. She no longer railed against Pycelle’s incompetence or demanded Varys’s head on a plate.

Only smiles. Only stillness.

Like a lioness in tall grass, watching the flock edge closer to the snare.

Was she behind it? Perhaps. Perhaps not. With Cersei, there was never smoke — only embers, waiting for air.

She never needed to light the fire, he thought. Only lay the kindling. And wait.

A knock at the door pulled him from the dark.

“Enter,” he said.

The door creaked open, and Podrick stepped inside — pale beneath his dark hair, his eyes wide and darting like a boy who had heard ghosts in the hallway. He closed the door behind him with a hand that trembled.

“My lord...” Pod began, then stopped, swallowing once. “Men are asking after you.”

Tyrion arched an eyebrow. “Men?”

“Not Goldcloaks,” Podrick said, barely above a whisper. “Sparrows. Dressed plain, but... watching. The Blackwater Gate. The docks. Even the Sept. Bronn saw three of them near the stables, talking to the stablemaster.”

Tyrion’s fingers tightened around his cup.

“How many?”

The answer came not from Podrick, but from the shadows.

“Enough,” said a second voice — smooth, precise, soft as silk drawn over a blade.

Varys stepped into the light like a shade given flesh, dressed in the drab grey of a monk or a merchant’s servant. No perfume today. No powdered wig. No rings. Only silence and stillness.

“It has begun,” the Spider said.

Tyrion studied him. “You’re certain?”

Varys inclined his head. “I rarely speak when I’m not.”

He moved across the chamber with the quiet grace of a dancer, feet barely whispering on stone. He did not sit. He did not need to.

“The Faith moves swiftly now,” he said. “Swifter than even I anticipated. The High Sparrow is no fool — and no patient man. He smells blood, and like all fanatics, he believes it a blessing.”

Tyrion poured the last of his wine. “How bad?”

Varys gave a ghost of a smile. “Your name is near the top of their lists. Alongside Bronn. Podrick. Even Shae.”

Tyrion exhaled slowly. “And yours?”

“I have many names,” Varys said, folding his hands within his sleeves. “None the Faith has learned. Not yet.”

He glanced to the shuttered window. “There’s a ship waiting. Tyroshi-flagged. Light, fast, manned by loyal hands. It leaves with the tide.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “Destination?”

“White Harbor.”

“The North.” He grimaced. “Gods, how far I’ve fallen.”

Varys’s smile didn’t change. “Better the frost than the flames, my lord.”

Podrick shifted beside the desk. “I’ll go,” he said quickly.

Tyrion turned his gaze on the boy. He looked older now — leaner, his cheeks less soft, his eyes shadowed. Loyalty sat ill on most men. Podrick wore it like armor.

He nodded. “Good lad.” Then, quieter “Shae?”

“She’s aboard already,” Varys said. “Under another name, with enough coin to keep her quiet. For now.”

Tyrion said nothing. He looked to the fire instead, watching the last log split and crumble into coals. His hand clenched the goblet so tightly his knuckles whitened.

The door opened again. Bronn strolled in from the terrace, already armed — leather jerkin, sword belt, that insolent half-smile in place.

“You lot planning to wait for the septon’s bell?” he asked. “Or shall we go while the streets are still cold and quiet?”

Tyrion drained his cup in one long swallow. It tasted of bitterness now — not from the wine.

He looked around the chamber one last time.

The desk where he had written decrees and pardons. The chair his father once sat in. The map of Westeros on the far wall, curling at the edges. And the shadows — the ever-watchful shadows.

This had been power. Or the illusion of it.

“Let’s go,” he said.

And they did.

The city was burning.

Not in fire. But Tyrion Lannister could taste it — in the air, acrid and dry. It clung to the back of his throat like old secrets and worse wine. Smoke curled behind chimneys that had no reason to burn, and bells rang too fast, too sharp, too high. They shrieked across the rooftops like gulls fighting over bones. Not for weddings. Not for mourning. These were warning bells.

And they did not stop.

The streets of King’s Landing twisted below him like veins — old and clogged. The silence down there was wrong, brittle, the kind of silence that begged to be broken. You could hear it — the tension — in the shuttered windows, the distant gallop of hooves that never slowed, the way dogs barked and didn’t stop. Even the rats had fled the alleys.

From the bluff above the Blackwater, Tyrion watched the docks through the curling mist. Ships rocked on oily water, sails half-furled, crews scrambling like ants across decks. One barge already smoldered — fire or sabotage, it hardly mattered now. The city was cracking. Not from war, but from rot.

He stood with Bronn at his shoulder, sword naked at his hip, eyes sharp and restless. Podrick beside him, still clutching the satchel like a babe clutches a doll. And Varys, wrapped in dull grey, hands tucked neatly into his sleeves like a courtier at prayer. The wind tugged at their cloaks.

“Last chance to turn back,” Bronn muttered, squinting toward the Red Keep. “Could still try your luck.”

“Back to what?” Tyrion asked. “A confession and a clean beheading? Or a crown of thorns and holy ash?”

Bronn shrugged. “Your call.”

A bell rang again — deeper this time, closer. Not the Sept. The Iron Gate.

Varys turned his head slightly. “They’re closing the city,” he said. “Not to keep people out. To keep the story in.”

Tyrion grunted.

He looked again to the city — to the towers of the Keep, sharp and cruel in the moonlight. The place where he had ruled. Where he had bled. Where he had tried, gods forgive him, to make something work.

It all felt distant now. Like a bad play he’d once performed in and then forgotten the lines.

He turned to Varys. “Why?” he asked. “Why help me? I’ve insulted you, questioned you, threatened you…”

“You’ve also listened,” Varys said. “You saw the game. Even when you hated it.”

“I drank through most of it.”

“You drank because you understood it,” Varys replied. “And because you were alone. That’s what makes men dangerous.”

Tyrion looked away. The bells rang again — faster now, frantic. Like laughter from a dying man.

“You think this ends the game?” he asked.

“No,” said Varys. “But it moves the board.”

Tyrion’s gaze drifted to the far spire of the Great Sept. A shadow moved near the dome — birds, maybe. Or something else.

“Is it Cersei?” he asked. “Tell me it’s her. Tell me she’s finally paid for it all.”

Varys was quiet a long moment. “She is not on the list.”

Tyrion felt it then — not rage, not sorrow. Something colder. Knowing.

“She’ll ruin it,” he said softly. “All of it. Everything my father built. Everything I tried to fix. She’ll light the match and watch the kingdom burn, and call it justice.”

Varys’s face was unreadable. “And the Faith will bless her for it.”

Tyrion said nothing.

Varys looked out over the city a moment longer, as if memorizing its bones.

“There will come a man,” he said quietly, “Soon. A man who might heal what’s been broken. Bring salvation. Unification. Stability. Not with fire, or prayer, or the sword—but with something rarer.”

Tyrion’s brow furrowed. “And what would that be?”

Varys almost smiled. “Restraint.”

The word hung between them, thin and sharp as a knife.

Tyrion followed his gaze for a beat, then looked away.

Below, a single ship rocked in the tide — narrow-hulled, Tyroshi-flagged, sails furled like wings folded in prayer. Fast. Unassuming. No banners. No honor.

Just escape.

Tyrion turned from the city.

“I’ll not miss the bells,” he muttered.

“No one ever does,” Varys said.

They descended the bluff in silence, cloaks drawn tight against the cold. The wind carried the bells behind them — higher now, shriller, desperate.

Behind them, King’s Landing screamed beneath holy steel.

And ahead, the North waited.

Chapter Text

Sansa

The castle was asleep. Not just quiet, but deeply, dreamlessly asleep — the way a beast sleeps when winter thickens its blood and snow hushes its heart. Sansa ran.

She felt her paws beat the frozen stones of the yard. She felt her ribs expand with cold breath, the crunch of frost beneath her pads, the wind rushing through her fur.

Ghost ran ahead of her, white as a snow wraith. Grey Wind loped behind, a shadow flickering through the torchlight. They moved together, a ghost-pack, threading between guards who did not see them.

But when the others turned toward the Wolfswood, chasing the scent of deer and dark secrets, Sansa did not follow. She turned toward the godswood.

The red leaves whispered her name as she stepped through them, and the snow was soft beneath her paws. She moved to the still pond, cold as moonlight, and lowered her head to drink. The water shimmered — clear, ancient. Her reflection blinked back at her, golden eyes beneath silver fur. She licked her lips. It tasted like memory.

Then she left the godswood and padded silently through Winterfell’s silent halls. She passed a guard asleep at his post, snoring gently. She watched him for a long moment, ears twitching. Then moved on. Through kitchens, where the scent of bread lingered faintly. She nosed at a single boiled potato left forgotten on a table, then took it whole in her mouth and ate it without sound.

The castle did not wake. She moved through the courtyard — past the forges, the kennels, the great iron bell. Then to the Great Keep, through doors left just slightly ajar. Up stone steps, past flickering torches and the hush of breath behind doors.

She reached the right door. She always knew the way. It opened without sound. Inside, the fire had burned low. Shadows danced along stone walls. And there — Sansa.

Curled beneath furs, lashes dark against pale cheeks, her breath soft and steady. Her hair spilled over the pillow like autumn leaves. She padded closer. She stepped softly, her claws silent on the stone. She sat beside the bed, and watched. Sansa didn’t stir. She just slept.

She didn’t move for a long time. There was no fear. No threat. Only the quiet breath of a Stark girl beneath a Northern roof. She laid her head down. Listened to the girl’s breathing. Matched it. And slept.

Sansa awoke to pale morning light streaming through frost-glazed windows. Her bed was warm. The fire was dead. Her limbs were stiff with cold, and her eyes dry. She blinked. Lady lay curled at the foot of her bed, exactly where she always slept.

Sansa stared at her. And remembered the dream. The running. The wind. The pond. The firelit corridors. Watching herself sleep.

She sat up slowly, the memory still thick in her limbs — like she hadn’t dreamed it at all, only… borrowed something. Worn it for a night. Lady opened her golden eyes. Met hers.

Sansa whispered, “What are we, you and I?” Lady did not answer.

Winterfell was quieter at night. The courtyards no longer rang with hammer and shout. The lords had left — many of the riverlords, at least — riding back to reinforce the borders, build defenses, dig earthworks in mud and ice. Those who remained spoke in lower voices now. Plans had been made. Now came the work.

From her chamber window, Sansa watched carts being loaded, ledgers tallied, hay bundled for winter travel. She recognized Ser Perwyn Frey speaking with Wendel Manderly. Another man gestured over maps with Lord Bracken. Their voices didn’t carry. Only the cold did.

The air had changed since Jon’s return. It was heavier, sharper, like a breath taken before something fell. The whispers of White Walkers haunted every corridor, clung to the hems of cloaks. And yet life moved on — quieter, but not halted.

Lady stirred behind her. Sansa glanced down at the direwolf, sprawled near the fire. She still wasn’t used to the size of her — large enough to shadow a hound, but quiet, watchful, as if listening to thoughts Sansa couldn’t hear.

A dream tugged at the edge of her mind. A dream where she had padded through Winterfell’s halls, silent as breath, where the castle bowed to her senses. Where she had been more than Sansa. Where she had been Lady.

She shook herself. "Come," she said to the wolf.

They slipped from the room together. The godswood was silver and shadow in the moonlight. The heart tree stood still, red leaves drifting onto frost-covered moss. The pond shimmered like glass — the same pond from her dream. The same hush.

Sansa knelt beside it. “Was it real?” she asked aloud. Lady said nothing. Only sat. Sansa frowned. "I must be going mad."

Snow crunched behind her. "You're usually in the sept," Arya said. “What are you doing here?”

Sansa stood slowly. “It’s quiet here. I like the quiet.”

Arya shrugged. “You’re strange.”

Nymeria padded out of the trees, tail flicking. The wolves touched noses — not as strangers, but kin.

Arya sat on a root. “They say the White Walkers are real. You think it’s true?”

“If Jon says it is,” Sansa replied. “Then it is.”

Arya grinned. “Good. Because Nymeria and I will eat them.”

Sansa gave her a look. “You can’t go north.”

“Why not?” Arya asked. “They’ll need me. Me and Nymeria. Only we can see at night.”

Sansa’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Arya hesitated. “Nymeria and I… we’re special. You wouldn’t understand.”

Sansa’s spine stiffened. “Lady and I are special too. More than you know.”

Arya raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Lady is not just my wolf,” Sansa said. “She is me. And I am her.”

Arya leaned forward, interested now. “Can you go inside her?”

Sansa’s lips parted. She remembered watching herself sleep. The heavy furs. The stillness.

Arya’s eyes narrowed. “You can.”

“I don’t know what it was,” Sansa said. “A dream.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I said I don’t know.”

Arya smiled. “Watch.” Her eyes rolled white.

Nymeria stood straighter, tail stiff, ears twitching. She turned to Sansa and whined, pawing at the ground, then nudged Lady.

Sansa stepped back. “Arya?” Nymeria barked once, quick and sharp.

A moment later, Arya blinked — herself again. “I thought I was the only one,” she said, breathless. “But you — you dreamed it. That’s how it starts.”

Sansa didn’t answer.

Arya stepped closer. “I can teach you.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It was just a dream.”

Arya stared at her, then looked away. “Fine.”

The silence returned, cold and long. Lady nosed her hand again, warm breath against chilled fingers. Nymeria only watched.

Sansa said at last. “I should go,” though she wasn’t certain to whom.

Arya didn’t answer. She sat cross-legged beneath the heart tree, eyes half-shuttered, wolf at her side, a shadow folded into winter bark. Sansa turned and left, her boots brushing frost from the roots.

The great hall of Winterfell was filled with breath and banner, warm despite the winter wind pressing at the stone. Fires roared in the braziers, casting shifting shadows along the vaulted beams, and the smell of pine smoke and wool lingered beneath the scent of polished steel. The lords of the North had gathered again — but fewer than before. The banners of the Trident were sparse now. Many of the riverlords had returned south.

Only Lord Bracken and Jason Mallister remained, seated near the high table. Ser Perwyn sat further down, speaking quietly with his brother Olyvar — still Robb’s squire, though Robb wore no knight’s spurs. At his side stood Jon, tall and still, the black-and-silver pommel of Dark Sister gleaming faintly at his hip. Sansa watched them both and thought, He stands to Robb’s right, like a shadow or a shield. Like a king’s hand, though no such title has been named.

Lady brushed her ankle under the table. Outside, the snow was falling soft and slow.

Then the herald stepped forward and raised his voice. “Your Grace, lords and ladies, I give you the delegation of the Vale of Arryn: Lord Yohn Royce, Lady Anya Waynwood, Lord Horton Redfort, Ser Lothor Brune, and Lord Petyr Baelish.”

A murmur rippled through the hall like wind over snow.

The Vale lords entered in cloaks of blue and grey, the bronze discs of House Royce catching the firelight. Behind them, Baelish moved with his familiar soft-footed grace, a smile too measured to be warm. He wore a finely cut doublet of charcoal and silver, and a mockingbird clasp at his throat. Sansa’s breath caught. Her fingers curled against the fur-lined bench.

They knelt. Lord Yohn bowed low. “Your Grace,” he said, voice deep. “We thank you for your hospitality.”

Robb rose, his crown a glint of iron and ice. “Bread and salt are yours,” he said, gesturing. “Be welcome in Winterfell.” They sat.

Robb did not delay. “You’ve crossed a kingdom to be here, Lord Royce. To what do we owe the honor?”

Royce inclined his head. “We come not only in courtesy, but with regret. The North bled while the Vale stood still. Lord Eddard Stark was a good man — just, loyal. He was your father. He deserved our swords.”

“He did,” Robb said. His voice was even. “And yet they never came.”

A flicker passed over Royce’s face. “There were… voices against it. Caution. Politics. But not all of us agreed.” Robb said nothing. The silence stretched.

Then Baelish leaned forward, ever smooth. “The Eyrie is high, Your Grace, but not blind. And the winds do not always obey the falcon. What is done is done. But it need not remain so.”

Catelyn Stark shifted beside Robb. Her voice was cool. “Is that what you said about the dagger, Lord Baelish?”

His smile faltered for just a breath. “A misunderstanding. A tangled affair. I had no wish to bring harm to House Stark—”

“But you did,” Catelyn said. “You named Tyrion Lannister. Lied to my face.”

“I thought it was him—”

“You thought it was convenient,” she said sharply.  “And what of Jeyne Poole?” Catelyn’s voice cooled further. “A girl of Winterfell, found in one of your houses. Broken. Used. Forgotten.”

Baelish opened his hands as if in appeal, voice smooth. “A child thrown into the lion’s den my lady. That was not my doing. That was the queen’s court — Cersei and Joffrey. You know how they played with those beneath them.”

Sansa stiffened. Jeyne. Her friend. Her shadow from childhood. Curtsies and stitches and stolen sweetcakes. She had followed them away from Winterfell to Kings Landing. And when they found her again — when the pieces were uncovered through whispers and wounds — she had been in Baelish’s brothel. Hurt. Used. Traded like coin. Sansa looked down at Lady, her fingers brushing the wolf’s thick fur.

Baelish's voice was still smooth. “I took her in when no one else would. I saved her from worse.”

Liar, Sansa thought. But her face was still. Her voice did not rise.

Then her mother said, “And yet she was still in your house.”

Baelish gave a wounded smile. “Because there was nowhere else to go.”

Robb’s voice cut across the hall. “Enough.”

Robb raised a hand. “Enough.” He repeated softer now. He looked at Baelish with steel in his eyes. “What’s done is done. My father is dead. Joffrey is dead. Tywin Lannister is broken. And winter is coming. Speak your purpose.”

Baelish bowed his head, lips tight.

It was Yohn Royce who spoke again. “The Vale comes not only with apology, but with a pledge. The threat you name — the one beyond the Wall — it concerns us all. The Vale will stand with the North and the Trident.”

Murmurs again. Bracken frowned. Lady Anya lifted her chin.

“But not as vassals,” Royce continued. “The Eyrie is strong, and proud. We would join your kingdom, yes — but as a realm with its own laws. Its own voice. Not unlike the Trident, yet apart.”

Jon leaned close and whispered something in Robb’s ear. Robb listened, then rose.

“Autonomy,” he said. “You would keep your courts, your titles, your knights. Yet bend the knee to the Northern Crown.”

“We would fly under it,” Baelish said smoothly. “As brothers, not banners.”

Silence followed. Catelyn looked from Robb to the Vale lords, her face unreadable.

Lord Mallister spoke. “They did not come when we bled. And now they want protection. Honor should not be so easily bartered.”

Jason Bracken disagreed. “More swords mean fewer dead. And the mountains guard the East.”

Voices rose. Robb listened. Then he stood. “The dead do not care for borders. If we are to stand, it must be together. Let it be done.” He turned toward the high table. “I name Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Prince of the Vale, and Guardian of the Eastern Peaks. And I ask that the Vale send a voice to Winterfell — a lord or knight, to sit in counsel beside Lord Mallister, and speak for the high places.”

Lord Yohn Royce bowed deeply. “The Vale hears and answers.” And Sansa, watching from her place, felt the wheel shift once again.

The hall was full of warmth and firelight. But outside, snow kept falling. The warmth of the great hall could almost convince her it was peace.

Sansa sat high at the dais beside her mother, with Lady curled beneath the table and her goblet full of watered wine. The smell of spiced beef and honeyed carrots drifted from the lower tables where the men of the North ate and drank, laughter echoing like hammers.

Jon sat beside Robb at the high table, speaking in low tones to Lord Yohn Royce. Sansa couldn’t hear the words, but the looks they traded — sharp, measured — made it clear. War again. Always war.

Her mother had barely glanced at Jon all evening. That, more than anything, unsettled her. Catelyn Stark had once watched Jon as if he might set fire to the stone with a single step. Now, she only nodded when he spoke, listened when he offered comment. She hadn’t even flinched when he’d reached for the bread first.

Something had shifted between them. Time, perhaps. Or the cold.

She glanced at the empty chair at the lower end of the hall, near the shadow of the pillar. Jaime Lannister had not come to supper. He rarely did, anymore. Though he was still a prisoner, Robb had not confined him to the dungeons. There were guards — always two, sometimes three — but Jaime had been granted his dignity. A cot, a clean tunic, books from the library if he asked. Sometimes he ate in the hall when it was quiet, early or late, when only the servants remained and the hearths were dim. But never when the court gathered. Never when Bran was present.

Sansa remembered the day Jaime had arrived, chained and mud-spattered. How Arya had stood with her hand on Needle’s hilt. How silence had filled the courtyard when Bran — calm, pale, unmoving — had looked Jaime in the eye and said: “I remember the fall, Ser.” And then, “I forgive you.”

Even now, it made no sense. Not to her mother. Not to Robb. Not to Arya. Not to her. Not to anyone. But Bran had said the words, and since then, Jaime had kept his distance. From Bran, from the family, from the keep itself. He walked only at dusk, when few were about. And he had not visited Lord Tywin again — not since that first time, when he’d spent an hour alone at his father’s bedside, and left without speaking a word.

Sansa watched the shadows lengthen around the hearth. Forgiveness, she thought, could be stranger than hate.

Lady shift at her side and she sipped her wine and tried not to think of dreams, or wolves, or what it meant to see through Lady’s eyes.

“Your Grace.” came a voice.

Maester Luwin stood by the dais, scroll in hand, a touch of snow still clinging to his shoulder. Robb looked up.

“A raven from White Harbor,” Luwin said. “Lord Manderly sends word. A man has arrived. A knight — or a smuggler, depending on the source. He calls himself Davos Seaworth, and bears the seal of Stannis Baratheon.”

The hall quieted. Even the laughter at the lower tables faded to whispers.

“Stannis?” said Lord Bracken. “He still draws breath?”

“He does more than that,” said Jason Mallister. “Holds Storm’s End and Dragonstone both.”

Jon leaned forward. “The ravens we received from Mormont — they reached Dragonstone. He’ll have seen them.”

Robb said nothing at first. He studied the wax seal on the scroll, brow furrowed. Sansa saw the way his fingers curled over the arm of his chair — not tightly, not with anger, but with weight.

“He comes as envoy?” Robb asked.

Luwin nodded. “Peacefully. Or so Lord Manderly says.”

Lady shifted beneath the table, and Sansa laid a hand on her back. The wolf’s breath was warm.

“What would he want?” muttered Ser Perwyn. “An alliance? Terms? Dragonglass?”

“Truth,” said Jon quietly. “Or warning.”

Robb exhaled. “Send word. He may come. With escort, and eyes upon him. But he may come.” Luwin bowed and withdrew.

Conversation resumed slowly, like a wheel grinding back into motion. The fire cracked in the hearth. Outside, the wind howled against the towers.

Sansa looked again at Jon, at Robb, at the lords still gathered and the empty seats of those who had left. So many pieces. So many shadows. But Winterfell still stood. And soon, someone else would ride through its gates.

Chapter Text

Jon

The clang of steel rang through the courtyard like a hammer on an anvil. Snow crunched beneath their boots, churned into slush by the rhythm of sparring. Jon moved in a slow circle, blade low, breath steady. He wasn’t using Dark Sister — Valyrian steel had its place, but not here, not for training. Still, he wielded the longsword as if it were hers, learning the weight, the flow, the balance. Across from him, Robb gripped a greatsword in both hands — too big for him still, but necessary. If he was to carry Ice, he needed to feel its shadow in his palms.

They moved like dancers, not boys anymore, not play-fighters. Robb struck first, swinging in a wide arc meant to force distance, but Jon caught the blow on his blade, twisted, and spun off the force. The clash echoed off the stone, drawing murmurs from those gathered at the edge.

Sansa stood at the rampart with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, wrapped in grey and blue, Lady sitting at her feet. Arya leaned against a post beside Ser Rodrik, who watched with folded arms and a faint smile. Meera Reed stood further back, half-shadowed, arms crossed. Rickon sat on a barrel, legs swinging above Shaggydog. Above, from one of the towers, the wind carried the sound of distant hammers. Winterfell lived again.

Robb came at him hard, shoulders braced, power behind the swing. The Greatsword crashed down — Jon slid under and to the side, knocking the sword away with a quick parry and driving his shoulder into Robb’s chest. They both stumbled. Robb recovered faster.

“You’re quicker,” Robb grunted, regaining his stance.

“You’re stronger,” Jon replied, breathing hard. “But you still telegraph your swings.”

“That’s why I need to learn.” Robb lifted the greatsword again. “If I’m to carry Ice, I’ll carry it right.”

They clashed again — steel on steel, sweat despite the cold. Jon ducked a wide sweep and stepped in close, driving his pommel against Robb’s wrist. The sword clattered to the ground.

“I yield,” Robb said, breathless but grinning.

Jon stepped back. “You’re getting better.”

Robb picked up his training sword, resting its flat against his shoulder. “I’ll need to be.”

There was pride in his eyes, but weight too. The crowd clapped politely, then began to disperse. Arya trotted over, grinning wide. “You should use wooden swords next time. Might save some pride.”

“Your concern is touching,” Jon said dryly.

“It’s not for you,” she shot back. “It’s for the spectators.”

Chuckles followed her. Robb just shook his head, smiling.

That was when the rider came — a dusty man in Stark livery, cloak wet with melting frost. He dismounted near the stables and approached with a scroll in hand.

“Your Grace,” he said, bowing slightly. “A rider from White Harbor. Lord Manderly sends word. A man claiming to be Davos Seaworth has arrived. He bears a letter from Stannis Baratheon.”

Robb’s smile vanished. “Seaworth.”

Jon frowned. “Stannis envoy is here.”

Robb nodded, his tone sharpening. “Bring him to Winterfell. Escort, guards. Give him a room and food, but keep eyes on him.”

“Aye, my lord.”

As the rider turned, Jon stepped closer to Robb. “If he’s come about the ravens... then he may know more than we thought.”

Robb gave a single nod. “Then we’ll hear him. Whatever Stannis wants... we need what’s on that island.”

They began to walk, the yard thinning around them. Arya chased Rickon toward the kennels, Sansa already vanished into the keep. Meera lingered at the edge of the yard before following.

Then a voice called out. “Lord Jon.”

Jon turned. One of the guards — thick-bearded, face red from cold — approached with a cloth-wrapped bundle in his hand.

“This was left at the gatehouse. Man at the Smoking Log tavern said to give it to you.” The guard looked mildly confused. “Said you’d know what it meant.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Did he give a name?”

“No, my lord. Just said to give it to you.’”

Jon frown and took the bundle of cloth and open it. Inside was a single black glove — finely made, lined with fur — and a slip of parchment bearing only a single phrase

‘Wear it like armor.’

He stared at the glove for a long breath, as if the warmth of a different fire still clung to it. The handwriting was neat, deliberate. The words simple. And yet the weight behind them — the weight of an old road, a cold camp, and a man who knew too much — struck deep.

“Tyrion,” he whispered.

He glanced toward the gates.

“Something wrong?” Robb asked behind him.

Jon closed the bundle slowly. “No,” he said. “Just... a memory.”

The snow kept falling. And the wolf knew another had home.

The great hall of Winterfell held a quiet gravity tonight. No laughter from the lower tables. No clatter of cups. The hearths burned hot, but the warmth could not melt the weight in the air.

The lords had gathered early. Jason Mallister spoke in low tones with Lord Nestor Royce near the fire, while Lady Anya Waynwood sat straight-backed, silent, watching. Lord Yohn Royce, in his heavy bronze, stood like a wall behind them, arms folded, eyes on the high table.

Jon took his place at Robb’s right. Ghost settled at his feet like a pale shadow, eyes red as fresh-forged steel. Grey Wind lay on the other side of the dais, head low on his paws but alert, always.

Sansa sat further down the table, poised in wool and silver, with Arya beside her, fidgeting as ever. She had her elbows on the table until Lady Catelyn gave her that look. She didn’t drop them, but she stopped bouncing her heels.

“Is he late?” Arya whispered to Sansa.

“He’s from the South,” Sansa replied. “They’re always late.”

Then the doors opened.

The man who entered was not tall, but he moved with the caution of someone who’d walked through fire and come out the other side. Grey in his beard, salt on his shoulders, and the posture of a man who had bent the knee to worse kings than the one before him.

Davos Seaworth stopped before the dais. He bowed.

“Your Grace,” he said, voice worn and calm. “I am Davos of House Seaworth, knight of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord of the Rainwood and Admiral of the Narrow Sea. I come as envoy of King Stannis Baratheon — the rightful king of Westeros.”

Jon saw the flicker on Robb’s face — not insult, not anger. Something closer to steel. He remembered that face from the camps before the Neck. Before the Riverlands burned.

“You may rise, Lord Davos,” Robb said.

Davos straightened. “My king sent me to seek the truth. He has read the ravens. He wishes to know, is this threat real?”

Jon leaned forward. “It is.”

Davos looked at him. “You are Jon Stark.”

“I am.” He rested a hand on the table. “I have seen them. The White Walkers. And the dead that follow. I’ve fought them. They can be killed — but only by fire, dragonglass, or Valyrian steel.”

The lords shifted at that. Even Royce furrowed his brow.

“We’ve confirmed it in battle,” Jon continued. “Two parties sent ranging from Castle Black encountered them. The dragonglass shattered one. The rest fell like cord cut from a puppet.”

“You’ve proof of this?” Davos asked, voice calm but not dismissive.

Jon nodded. “You’re looking at it.”

Robb gestured to a bundle beside his seat. A black dagger, obsidian-edged. “Recovered by the men who returned. We believe there’s more beneath Dragonstone.”

At the word, Davos’s jaw tensed. “You want the glass.”

“We need the glass,” Jon said. “If what’s coming breaches the Wall... it will not stop at the North.”

Davos turned to Robb. “And yet you style yourself a king.”

“I do,” Robb said. “I was crowned by my bannermen, after the murder of my father and the betrayal of the crown. I won my throne in the field. I broke Tywin Lannister. And I’ll defend my realm the same way.”

“You stand apart,” Davos said.

“I stand where the South left me,” Robb replied. “Stannis held Storm’s End. I held the Neck. Neither of us bent. Neither of us broke.”

Davos said nothing for a long moment. Then: “Stannis will not kneel.”

“Nor will I,” Robb said.

The silence that followed was longer than it should’ve been.

Then Jon said, “But we can still work together.” Davos glanced at him. “We don’t need crowns to fight the dead. Just men. Ships. Blades.”

Davos studied the room, the wolves, the wariness. He nodded, slowly. “I’ll bring the message back. No promises. But I’ve seen enough to know you believe it.”

“You haven’t seen the worst,” Jon said.

Robb stood. “Escort Lord Davos to guest quarters. Let him eat, rest. Tomorrow we’ll speak again.”

The guards bowed. Davos inclined his head again. “I thank you, Your Grace. My lord.” And then he was gone.

Jon looked at Robb. “Do you think he’ll carry our words true?”

Robb’s hand rested lightly on the hilt of Ice. “I think,” he said, “that he’s a man who knows what it means to lose. And what it means to try again.”

Outside, the wind howled against Winterfell’s walls. The long night pressed closer. And the table held no peace — only the promise of what might come next.

The snow had crusted over by the time Jon slipped through the gates of Winterfell. Ghost padded beside him, silent as frost, and the streets of Wintertown whispered with wind and shuttered windows. It was late — deep into the wolf’s hour — when the lights of the Smoking Log came into view.

Inside, it was warmth and noise. Firewood snapped in the hearth, mugs clinked, and the stink of ale, sweat, and roast pork hung thick as fog. Merchants and blacksmiths clustered at the long tables. A bard strummed a broken lute in the corner. A pair of whores danced by the fire, giggling at some soldier’s boast.

Jon stepped through the doorway with his cloak pulled high and Dark Sister hidden beneath it. Only Ghost at his heel gave him away. The room stilled for half a breath, then returned to its rhythm. Even the curious had learned not to linger long on the wolf’s shadow.

He took a table near the hearth. A barmaid — too young for paint, too tired for pretense — brought him a drink without asking. He paid her with silence and a silver.

Time passed. He watched. No Lannister red. No clever smirk. Only Northerners, far-travelers, and a few southerners in merchant green. If Tyrion was here, he was keeping well out of sight.

A woman slid into the chair beside him — full-hipped, with eyes too sharp for innocence and a dress half a size too small. “Didn’t expect the Lord Stark here this late,” she said, voice purring. “Or is it Commander now?”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Neither, tonight.”

Another woman joined her, older, with dark hair and a wicked smile. “We could warm your night, M’lord,” she said. “One of us. Both. On the house, if you tell a good tale.”

“I don’t want your bed,” Jon said, “just my drink.”

The first woman leaned in, grinning. “Then tell us a tale. The Jaws of the Gods Eye — you were there, weren’t you?”

Jon hesitated. The room had shifted. Heads were turning. Voices had dropped.

“Yes,” he said at last. “I was. It’s no song, though. No knight’s tale.”

The dark-haired woman smiled, lips curling like she already knew the answer. “Good,” she said. “I never liked songs.”

The other woman leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Then tell us, Lord Stark. Tell us what happens when the gods bare their teeth.”

Jon exhaled through his nose. His drink sat untouched. Ghost watched from the fire’s edge, still as stone.

“All right,” he said, voice low. “But you asked.”

He leaned forward into the flickering firelight, and the room held its breath.

The tale spilled slowly at first — halting, like a wound reopened. He spoke of the storm over the lake, of fire and mist and the howling of wolves in the dark. He told of betrayal and the closing jaws, of Robb’s charge through the reeds and how the South’s greatest host shattered like ice on stone. By the end, a hush had fallen over the room. No bard strummed. No one drank.

Then someone — a girl near the back — whispered, “Did you forget who you were?”

Jon turned toward her. The speaker was olive-skinned, slight of frame, with black hair tucked under a hood. She sat beside a tall man with broad shoulders and wary eyes.

A sellsword, Jon thought.

The girl herself looked... plain, at first glance. Until you met her eyes. Then nothing about her was plain.

“No,” Jon said. “I didn’t forget.”

The girl smiled faintly. “Good,” she said. “The world won’t let you. That is your strength. And it will never be your weakness.”

Jon’s blood went cold. He knew that phrase. He’d heard it long ago, on the Kingsroad, from a man too clever by half.

He opened his mouth — but the woman stood. “Not here,” she said quietly. “Upstairs. Chamber three.”

She walked away. The man followed.

Jon looked once at Ghost. The direwolf gave no sound. Only watched, ears twitching.Then  Jon rose, left coin on the table, and followed the shadows upstairs. The night behind him deepened. But answers, perhaps, lay ahead.

The chamber smelled of old ale, wax smoke, and secrets. The fire in the hearth hissed low, barely a flame — more ember than warmth. Jon closed the door behind him, Dark Sister slung at his hip and Ghost’s red eyes gleaming in the shadows beyond.

Four figures stood inside.

The first was the woman from the tavern — dark-haired, eyes sharp with laughter and something harder underneath. She leaned casually against a table, like this was her home and he the guest. The man beside her, stocky, with the swagger of a sellsword, gave Jon a long, appraising look — the kind that measured bones and blade alike.

The third was younger. He kept near the wall, cloak drawn up as if the stones might try to remember him.

And the last…

The small figure stepped from shadow into firelight. Hood lowered.

“Still brooding, Stark?” Tyrion Lannister asked, with the same crooked smile Jon remembered from a long, strange road south. “It’s good to see you haven’t let the crown freeze off your sense of humor.”

Jon’s hand didn’t leave the hilt of his sword. “Tyrion,” he said. Not cold. Not warm either.

Tyrion spread his arms. “The one and only. Though I fear I’m worth slightly less than last time we met. The price of treason is terribly unpredictable.”

He looked around the room. “This is Bronn — my shield, my wine-taster, and occasional assassin. The charming one beside him is Shae. And Pod, of course. Loyal as ever.”

Shae gave Jon a curious once-over but said nothing.

Jon glanced at them, then back at Tyrion. “What are you doing in the North?”

“I was thinking of warmer shores,” Tyrion said, tugging off his gloves. “But unfortunately, there’s no warmth left in King’s Landing. Just ash and saints with swords.”

Jon frowned. “The coup.”

They hadn’t spoken of it openly in the great hall but the news had come some days ago. Cersei’s coup. The Faith with swords. That’s one of the reason Robb sent some of his lords home, to strengthen the border.

“Ah. So the birds sing even this far north.” Tyrion limped to the table and poured himself a drink. “Yes. The coup. The queen has finally unseated her Hand, and crowned herself in silence. Kevan is dead. The Faith Militant marches under stars, and Tommen smiles for both his mother and his captors.”

“And you ran,” Jon said.

“I walked very briskly,” Tyrion corrected. “With assistance. I’m not a fool. Not anymore.”

Jon remained still. The fire cracked. Ghost didn’t growl, but he was watching — every movement, every shift.

“I didn’t come for wine and old jokes,” Tyrion said. “I came to speak with your king. I have information.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Information?”

“The kind that sets kingdoms to rot if ignored. The Faith is no longer a beggar’s movement. They’ve taken the Sept, the streets, and soon the Stormlands, perhaps the Crownlands themselves. They will not stop with Lannisters and Tyrells. They hate the old gods. They whisper of northern heresies. And their swords are many.”

Jon said nothing. He stepped closer to the fire.

“Robb has his war,” he said at last. “We’re preparing for it.”

“Against the dead, yes. A fine enemy. Clean. Mythical. But real, I believe you.” Tyrion sipped his cup. “And yet the south burns in its own fashion. The Faith will come north eventually. Not this moon, not next. But soon.”

“And what do you want?”

“To live,” Tyrion said. “And perhaps… to be useful.”

He placed a sealed scroll on the table. “A summary of events. Varys helped compile it. He sends his regards. Or would, if he were less cautious.”

Jon glanced down. “And you want to speak to the king.”

“I’ve come as no threat. I want nothing from Robb Stark but an audience. Let me speak to him. Let him judge me. If he finds value, good. If not…” Tyrion spread his hands. “There are always more ships.”

Jon was quiet. He watched the flames dance in the hearth, let the silence stretch.

Finally, he nodded. “I’ll speak to him,” he said. “No promises.”

Tyrion inclined his head. “Wouldn’t trust them if you gave them.”

Jon turned toward the door.

“Lord Snow,” Tyrion called after him, “do wear the glove. It suits you.”

Jon paused at the door. “It’s Stark now.”

“Of course,” Tyrion said, lifting his cup. “But ‘Lord Snow’ as a better ring.”

He raised the glove. “Do wear it. It suits you.”

Jon didn’t look back. Ghost padded behind him in silence. The fire crackled one last time. And below the snow, the south kept burning.