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Chapter Text

The wind tore relentlessly through the fractured stones of Widow's Watch, carrying the bitter, biting cold from the frozen sea that stretched endlessly beyond the cliffs. The sky above was a vast slate-gray canvas, heavy with the threat of snow, and the howling gusts rattled loose shutters and sent flurries swirling down the narrow streets like restless spirits. Even the sea seemed to retreat from the ferocity of the storm, its waves pounding the jagged rocks below with relentless fury.

Inside the great hall of Widow's Watch, the warmth of the hearth was a thin veil against the cold that clung to every stone and timber. The flickering torchlight cast wavering shadows across the ancient banners and worn tapestries, their colors faded by centuries of wind, rain, and flame. The scent of smoke mingled with the faint tang of salt and damp stone, wrapping the room in a musty embrace.

Near the hearth sat a lone figure, small and silent, her frame wrapped in a threadbare cloak that did little to shield her from the chill. Her hair, a wild mane of tangled blonde waves, spilled like a flame down her back — a stark and unnatural brightness against the bleak gray of the castle walls. Many in the North whispered that such golden hair was a mark of foreign blood, something unnatural and cursed in these dark, shadowed lands. And Nella bore it as both a gift and a burden.

Her eyes were a vivid green, sharp and alert, reflecting the firelight with a fierce intelligence. They were eyes that seemed to see beyond the surface, harboring secrets and memories that no one else could touch. Around her, the servants went about their work in low voices, casting wary glances at the girl they called the Flint bastard.

Nella's name was known to none here. To the noble family whose keep she lived in, she was an inconvenience — a blemish on their proud lineage — born of a night none wished to remember. Her father, Lord Roderick Flint, was a man as cold and unforgiving as the winter winds. His gaze never softened for her, and his voice never bore the warmth of kinship. The servants whispered that she was the product of a violent night, a dark secret involving a Lyseni woman whose name was buried beneath layers of fear and shame.

Nella did not know the truth of her mother — only fragments of rumors and stolen whispers from the dark corners of the keep. But in the solitude of the godswood, beneath the watchful eyes of the ancient weirwoods, she sometimes dreamed of a woman with blonde silvery hair and eyes like the Narrow Sea, a woman whose beauty was whispered in forbidden tales and whose fate was tied to hers in ways she could not yet understand.

Her days were measured in toil and silence. At dawn, before the sun had risen above the frozen hills, she would pull on her worn boots and cloak and begin her endless chores. Fetching water from the frozen well was a task no one envied, the icy bucket biting at her fingers and sending shocks through her arms. She would tend the scrawny sheep and goats huddled in the bitter wind, feeding them what little scraps were left after the trueborn's animals were cared for. She scrubbed the cold stone floors until her hands were raw and cracked, and the aches in her shoulders were a constant reminder of her lowly place.

Yet none of this wearied her more than the constant, silent judgment of those around her. The lords and ladies of House Flint never looked her in the eye; the servants whispered cruel things behind cupped hands; even the children treated her as a ghost, their laughter sharp and biting. Still, Nella moved through it all with a quiet defiance, her chin held high and her green eyes steady. She knew that her beauty made her a target — a fragile flower no northern man dared touch, and many a jealous woman envied. But beneath the delicate exterior beat a will as hard and unyielding as the flint stones of her house.

When she could steal away from the cold stone corridors and prying eyes, she fled to the godswood — a sacred grove of ancient weirwoods whose twisted branches reached toward the sky like the fingers of forgotten gods. There, beneath the watchful faces carved in blood-red leaves, she felt a strange and ancient power stir in her blood. The wind in the branches whispered her name, and she heard voices in the rustling leaves — soft, distant, like a song half-remembered.

One night, as she sat beneath the great weirwood, her fingers tracing the jagged birthmark on her wrist shaped like a flint stone, she felt the first true pulse of power. A warmth bloomed beneath her skin, subtle but undeniable, as if the Old Gods themselves were reaching out to her.

It frightened her, yet also filled her with a fierce hope.

She longed to understand what it meant — to know why she, a bastard girl scorned and forgotten, was touched by forces beyond mortal ken.

Nella's father never spoke her name, but the mark on her wrist was a reminder of bloodlines tangled and broken. Sometimes she wondered if he truly was the monster whispered about, the man who had taken her mother by force and cast her aside like a broken blade. Other times, she imagined a gentler truth, a secret love hidden behind the cold mask of lordship.

But hope was a dangerous thing in the North, and she had learned to trust only herself.

The nights were the hardest. When the castle slept and the storm raged outside, Nella lay awake beneath her threadbare blankets, listening to the wind and the whispers of the weirwoods. She dreamed of wolves cloaked in mist, of crowns forged from ice and flame, and of shadows calling her name from distant lands.

Her heart ached with a hunger she could not name — a hunger for belonging, for truth, for power.

A sudden rustle in the shadows made Nella's breath hitch. She spun toward the sound, heart pounding like a war drum beneath her ribs. From the darkness stepped a boy—no older than she—his figure lean but assured, cloaked in the same harsh northern greys as the stone around them. His eyes, cold and grey as the winter sea, bore into her with the sharpness of a hawk's gaze.

Jory Flint. One of Lord Roderick's trueborn sons, and the living embodiment of everything she was not.

His lips curved into a mocking smile that did not reach those eyes. "You're always out here," he said, voice low and rough like gravel scraped across stone. "Skulking like a ghost. Why don't you stay inside where you belong?"

Nella's jaw tightened. The fire in her green eyes kindled, fierce and unyielding. "I belong where the wind blows and the trees whisper," she replied quietly, the words steady despite the cold shivering through her limbs. "Not in the halls where they look at me like I'm a stain on their honor."

Jory took a step closer, the torchlight catching the cruel edge in his face. "You're nothing but a bastard. A mistake best forgotten."

The word stung, but it did not break her. Instead, something rose inside her—not blind fury, but a calm, cold determination that settled over her like iron armor. "Mistakes can burn brighter than the brightest sword," she said, her voice steady, unwavering. "And sometimes, they change the course of kingdoms."

Her words hung between them, thick as the night air. For a moment, Jory's confident sneer faltered, confusion flickering in his eyes. His grip on the torch tightened, knuckles whitening. "You talk like you're something more," he spat, stepping back into the shadows, his voice dropping low. "But you'll always be less than us. Always."

Without waiting for a reply, Jory turned abruptly and vanished into the gloom, swallowed by the twisting paths between the trees.

Nella stood alone, the weight of the ancient weirwood looming behind her. The gnarled face carved into the white bark seemed to watch her, eyes deep and knowing beneath the blood-red leaves. The wind sighed through the branches, a soft susurrus like a secret shared only with her.

She let her fingers brush the jagged flint-shaped birthmark on her wrist, feeling the pulse beneath the skin—the promise of power, the curse of her bloodline. Jory's words echoed faintly in her mind, but they no longer held the sting they once had. Instead, they settled there like a dull ache, a familiar wound reopened but numbed by time. The coldness in his voice—the cruel certainty that she was nothing more than a mistake—was a bitter truth she'd carried since her first breath.

She sank down onto a low stone near the roots of the weirwood, wrapping her arms around her knees. The frozen earth pressed against her skin, harsh and unyielding, just like the world she lived in. The bitter wind tangled her golden hair, and she pulled her cloak tighter, as if she could shield herself from the chill that came not just from outside, but from within.

Nella's green eyes lowered to her hands, scarred and rough from years of toil, the jagged flint mark on her wrist half-hidden beneath the worn sleeve. That mark—her only link to a lineage she barely understood—felt heavier now, a weight she wasn't sure she could carry. Was she truly cursed? Or was there some spark deep inside, waiting to be kindled? She didn't know. The whispers in the godswood were faint, like voices carried on a distant wind, sometimes nearly lost in the howl of the storm.

Her father's face flashed in her mind—cold, distant, eyes that never saw her as anything but a stain. She'd never known her mother; all she had were rumors, half-truths whispered in the dark—tales of a Lyseni beauty stolen or abandoned, of a night soaked in violence and silence. Nella's throat tightened. If her father had truly wronged her mother, then what claim did she have on kindness or love? What right had she to hope for anything beyond this life of shadows?

She closed her eyes, willing the ache to subside, but it lingered—sharp and raw, like a wound refusing to heal.

The night pressed in around her, the ancient tree standing sentinel like a silent judge. Somewhere deep in her heart, a flicker of something stirred—not yet a flame, but a fragile ember of hope, tangled with fear and doubt.

For now, she was alone.

A child born of darkness and cold. But maybe, just maybe, the dawn would come.

The first pale light of dawn barely filtered through the narrow windows of the maester's chamber when Nella crept inside. Her breath came in soft, steady bursts, the cold stone floor cool beneath her worn boots. The heavy door groaned faintly as she closed it behind her, the sound swallowed quickly by the silence of Widow's Watch.

Dust motes floated in the faint morning light, settling on rows of leather-bound tomes and brittle scrolls stacked in crooked piles. This was forbidden ground for a bastard girl, a place meant for lords, scholars, and the maester alone. But Nella's curiosity gnawed at her like a hunger too fierce to ignore.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the books—old legends of the First Men, lore of the Old Gods, and scraps of the forgotten Old Tongue. Each page was brittle, edges worn smooth from centuries of turning, but the words inside whispered secrets she longed to understand. Cradling the fragile volumes beneath her cloak, she slipped out just as the castle began to stir—footsteps echoing faintly in distant halls, voices low with morning tasks. Heart pounding, she traced a familiar path to her secret place beyond the walls: a small clearing in the dense woods where ancient stones stood sentinel, and a clear stream whispered over smooth pebbles.

Here, shielded by the towering pines and tangled underbrush, Nella laid the books carefully on a flat rock warmed by the rising sun. The pages fluttered softly in the breeze, and she bent close, lips moving as she murmured the strange syllables she'd pieced together from fragmented tales and old songs. The language was foreign on her tongue—harsh and melodic all at once—but as she spoke, a faint pulse thrummed beneath her skin. She closed her eyes, imagining the weirwoods' red leaves, their silent watchfulness, and the ancient gods carved in bark.

Images bloomed behind her eyelids: flickering flames licking cold stone, shadows stretching across snowy hills, and a wolf's eyes glowing in the dark. When she opened her eyes, a rustle shattered the quiet—a sudden snapping of twigs nearby. Nella froze, every muscle coiled tight as a hunted animal's. Her green eyes darted toward the sound, searching the shadows for the intruder.

The woods held their breath. For a heartbeat, nothing stirred but the wind and the soft chatter of the stream. Then a figure emerged—a boy, no older than she, with dark eyes shadowed beneath a heavy brow. His gaze met hers, sharp and unreadable.

"Hey there," he said quietly, stepping closer, "What are you doing here, alone?"

She swallowed hard, clutching the books to her chest like a shield. The secret she guarded was fragile—too precious to risk sharing. "Just... reading," she said carefully, her voice low and cautious. She didn't trust him yet, not enough to speak the full truth. She tightened her hold on the books, her heart hammering. She had no reason to trust anyone—not here, not now.

"I'm Jaren," he said quietly, voice low like a secret meant only for the woods. "My mother's one of the cooks here. I fetch wood and help with the fires. Most days, I'm invisible in the halls."

Nella didn't answer. Her eyes drifted past him, fixating on a distant knot in the bark of a nearby weirwood tree. The rough texture, the ancient patterns carved into the white wood—it was familiar, like a silent language she had not yet learned to read.

Her breath was shallow, her thoughts tangled with a dread she could neither name nor fully understand.

Jaren's eyes softened, and a faint smile touched his lips, as if he saw through the walls she had built around herself—walls of mistrust, pain, and silence. "You don't have to hide it," he said gently, his voice barely more than the rustling of leaves. "I know why you come here. I know what you're trying to find."

Nella's breath caught, a sudden flutter of unease and curiosity clashing in her chest. She met his gaze, searching for deceit but finding only quiet understanding.

"You do?" she whispered, barely daring to hope.

He nodded slowly. "I see it too—the whispers of the Old Gods. The visions that twist and turn when you try to grasp them. The dreams that linger long after you wake, bleeding into the daylight. You're not the only one marked."

A flicker of disbelief passed through her green eyes. "How could you possibly know that? You're just a cook's son. What do you know of gods or visions?"

Jaren glanced around the quiet woods, as if the very trees might overhear their conversation. He lowered his voice to a reverent hush. "My mother told me when I was little—how the Old Gods choose some to carry their words, their warnings. She says it's a gift... or maybe a curse, because it's never easy."

He paused, his dark eyes reflecting the dim twilight. "I've seen things. Shadows that move without wind, whispers in the rustling leaves that no one else hears. Once, I saw a stag in the fire that wasn't there—its antlers glowing like the stars. It vanished before I could blink."

Nella's fingers loosened around the worn books she held, curiosity kindling despite her caution. She had always thought herself alone in the strange stirrings within her—alone and cursed. Slowly, Jaren reached out and took one of the battered tomes from her arms, his touch careful, almost reverent. He flipped it open to a passage written in the faded ink of Maester Harwin's careful hand.

"Here," he said softly, pointing to the text, "the Sight—the ability to see beyond the veil of this world. Those touched by the Old Gods are rare. They walk between the realms of the living and the spirits, the past and the future. Sometimes, they don't come back the same."

Nella leaned closer, her striking green eyes scanning the words over his shoulder. The air around them seemed to thicken with something ancient, a presence as old as the weirwoods themselves.

Jaren's voice lowered to a whisper again, as if afraid to break the spell. "The old tales say the weirwoods listen. They remember. They choose who may hear their secrets. But it's not just seeing—sometimes, it's feeling the threads of fate twist and pull. Sometimes, it's knowing something will happen before it does."

Nella's heart thudded unevenly. A strange warmth blossomed deep inside her—a flicker of belonging, a spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, she was not as alone as she had always believed. "Do you think the Old Gods... choose us for a reason?" she asked, her voice trembling between fear and wonder.

Jaren met her gaze steadily. "Maybe. Or maybe they test us—to see what we'll do with the knowledge. Some become prophets, some become monsters. Some... become legends."

The wind whispered through the branches overhead, carrying with it the scent of cold earth and ancient magic.

For a fleeting moment, the two outcasts stood together beneath the silent boughs, bound by a secret gift—and by the heavy burden of the sight that set them apart.

Chapter Text

The great hall of Widow's Watch was alive with the clatter of goblets and murmurs of lords and ladies gathered for the midwinter feast. Torches flickered along the stone walls, casting wavering light over the banners of House Flint. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced wine, and the uneasy tension that always followed when nobles gathered.

Nella stood near the edge of the hall, a shadow among the flickering flames. Her golden hair, a blaze against the somber tones of the North, caught the torchlight, drawing eyes that quickly turned away. Her green eyes scanned the crowd cautiously. She carried herself with a quiet dignity, but the whispered rumors clung to her like a second skin.

Suddenly, a harsh laugh cut through the din. "Look who dares to show her face among us," Jory Flint's voice rang out, cutting through the chatter like a blade. He lounged against a cold stone pillar, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "The bastard who thinks she belongs in the hall of true Flints."

Laughter burst from a cluster of Flint bannermen nearby—rough men with coarse grins and sharper tongues. Their jeers swelled like a tide ready to drown her. Nella's pulse hammered painfully, but she squared her shoulders, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing her falter.

Jory stepped forward, voice loud enough to carry over the crowd. "I found you yesterday, sneaking through the storeroom. Bread meant for the men at arms—gone. And where was our delicate little flower? Hiding in the shadows, stuffing her pockets, no doubt."

A ripple of cruel laughter followed.

One of the guards, a burly man with a crooked grin, called out mockingly, "Better not let her near the kitchens, or all the food'll disappear!"

The lords and ladies exchanged uneasy glances; some whispered behind their hands, others tried to hide smirks, savoring the spectacle. Nella's fingers clenched the edge of her cloak so tightly the fabric strained. She swallowed the bitter taste rising in her throat.

"I do not steal," she said carefully, her voice steady despite the sting of tears threatening. "Perhaps the bread was misplaced... or taken by one who wished to blame me."

Jory's eyes narrowed with malicious delight. "A likely tale, coming from the girl no one trusts. You're no Flint, Nella. You're a stain on our honor—a shadow creeping where light should fall."

He spat the word 'stain' like it burned his tongue. "The maester even says you carry the curse of the Old Gods," Jory sneered, "a blight on this house, and I say you bring nothing but trouble wherever you go."

The hall erupted in whispered agreement, and someone tossed a rotten apple from the gallery. It thudded near Nella's feet. Her face burned—not with shame, but with the deep, simmering ache of rejection that had been her constant companion. Her heart thundered loud enough to drown out the jeers, memories of cold nights and colder silences flooding her mind.

Suddenly, the torches lining the hall flickered violently, casting twisted shadows that danced on the stone walls. The great weirwood banner near the dais, its red leaves carved with ancient care, shuddered though no breeze stirred. A wave of heat rose beneath Nella's skin, pulsing like a heartbeat.

A flicker of vision seized her: spectral branches weaving through endless sky, whispering secrets in a language older than the North itself. The hall seemed to hold its breath.

Nella's green eyes ignited—not with anger, but with something deeper, something eternal.

"You speak of curses," she said softly, voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. "But the Old Gods do not curse without cause. They watch and judge. You fear what you do not understand."

Jory Flint's footsteps echoed sharply as he stormed toward his father's seat atop the dais, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a jagged blade.

"Father," Jory said, stepping forward, "that bastard girl—Nella—she skulks in the shadows, steals from the stores, and dares to speak against the honor of House Flint in front of the servants and soldiers alike!"

Lord Roderick Flint looked up slowly from his wine cup, eyes cold and hard like winter ice. He didn't bother to mask his impatience. "Hmph," he grunted, "I've little patience for childish complaints." His gaze flicked toward the crowded hall.

Jory spat the words out venomously, his grey eyes blazing with disdain. "She humiliates us all by merely breathing the same air."

Lord Roderick lifted his gaze lazily, swirling the wine in his goblet, as if weighing whether the boy's complaint warranted the effort of attention. His face was carved from stone, impassive. "Is that so?" His voice was low, roughened by years of cold northern winds and harder decisions. "And what proof have you of this... theft? Or is this another tale spun from jealousy or fear?"

Jory's mouth tightened, but he pressed on, desperation flashing behind his cruelty. "I saw her with my own eyes, skulking where she had no right to be. The storeroom's missing bread was found tossed behind the stables. Who else but the bastard would have the nerve?"

Lord Roderick's eyes flicked toward the assembled lords and bannermen, some shifting uneasily in their seats. His gaze settled back on Jory, tired and uninterested. "She's a bastard," Roderick said finally, voice like frost. "No more than a shadow cast by those who gave her birth. The North tolerates bastards, but it does not suffer fools, especially those who think themselves above their place."

Jory's chest heaved, his voice rising with frustration. "Then punish her! Make an example! We can't have her stirring unrest, mocking our house with her insolence and strange claims. Some say she's cursed, touched by the Old Gods. Others say she's unnatural—a product of some southern whore. The men whisper she brings ill luck. Let the people see she is nothing but dirt beneath our boots!"

Roderick's face remained unreadable for a long moment. The hall held its breath. Then, slowly, the lord's lips curled into a bitter smile—cruel and cold. "Very well."

He raised a hand, and the hall stilled like the frozen sea. "Bring her forth. Let her hear what her 'betters' think of her."

The guards moved quickly, their iron-clad boots thudding as they seized Nella from the shadows. Her heart thundered, eyes wide as she was dragged before the gathered court, the whispers sharpening to murmurs of condemnation and morbid curiosity.

Jory stepped forward, his voice dripping with venom and cruelty, echoing cold and hard in the great hall. "This wretched thing," he spat, eyes fixed on Nella like she was nothing more than carrion, "needs to be reminded of her place. A dozen lashes from the blackened whip will carve the lesson into her flesh—let the sound of the leather on her skin echo through these halls. Let her taste the sting of true Flint justice."

He leaned in closer, his breath sour with contempt. "And if she has the nerve to defy us, to raise her insolent voice again..." His eyes gleamed with a dark, dangerous promise. "Then we will sell her. Sell her like the filth she is to the nearest brothel, where the men pay well for cursed goods. She'll probably be the prized whore of White Harbor, or wherever they want her. A Flint bastard, shackled and owned, broken in body and spirit."

His words were a blade aimed straight at her heart. The great hall fell deathly silent, every pair of eyes burning into Nella with a mix of cruelty, curiosity, and cold calculation. Some nodded grimly, others looked away, unwilling or unable to intervene. The heavy weight of their judgment pressed down on her, crushing and suffocating. She could almost hear the crack of the whip already, the jeers of drunken men, the leers of those who would see her broken.

Her jaw clenched tight, muscles trembling. A bitter fire, fierce and unyielding, kindled deep within her chest. No matter the lash, no matter the sale to some filthy den of sin, she vowed then and there she would not break. Not here, not ever.

The guards seized her roughly, their iron grips like shackles on her wrists as they dragged her from the hall's fleeting warmth into the unforgiving night. The cold bit into her bare skin like jagged knives, the wind a cruel chorus that whipped through the shadowed courtyard of Widow's Watch. Her heart pounded not only with fear, but with the bitter weight of humiliation crushing down on her chest. Her wrists were bound tightly to a splintered wooden post, scarred and darkened from years of punishment, its rough surface digging into her skin. The coarse rope bit into her flesh, biting off circulation, sending tremors of numbness down her arms.

A harsh breath of cold air made her shiver violently as the executioner stepped forward, dragging from the shadows a blackened whip—its braided leather cracked and worn, strands stained a deep, dreadful red, proof of countless broken backs and bleeding bodies. The man's face was a mask of grim resolve, his eyes void of mercy. He raised the whip high, its terrible silhouette stark against the pale moonlight.

The first lash cracked like thunder—a wet, sickening sound as the leather tore through skin and muscle. Nella's scream shattered the silence, raw and ragged, a desperate sound swallowed by the cold night air. Her back ignited with a searing agony that clawed through her nerves like fire. Blood welled instantly, hot and thick, streaming down her torn flesh in rivulets that mingled with the dirt beneath her feet. The scent of copper and smoke filled her nostrils, bitter and suffocating.

Each strike came with brutal precision—slashes ripping open old scars, splitting new wounds, tearing her flesh apart in cruel repetition. The raw, pulsing agony consumed her, and with every lash, her body jerked violently against the bindings. Her knees trembled, threatening to give way beneath the unbearable pain. But she bit down on her cracked lips, tasting blood, and willed herself to remain standing—unyielding, a fragile pillar of defiance amid the storm of agony.

The cold night wrapped around her broken form like a shroud, the torchlight flickering wildly and casting monstrous shadows on the stone walls, as if the very darkness conspired against her. The guards counted the lashes with cold, indifferent voices—one... two... three—each number a sentence carved into her flesh, a brutal reminder of her place.

When the twelfth lash fell, it tore a deep, ragged groove across her shoulder blades. Nella gasped, trembling violently, the air forced from her lungs in a ragged gasp. Blood and tears mingled on her battered face, the rain beginning to fall like cold shards of ice, washing the blood into muddy stains on the cold stone. For a long moment, she hung there—barely conscious, trembling, broken, her spirit fraying at the edges but refusing to shatter completely.

Only then did the guards step back, their task done. A servant appeared silently, wrapping a rough, damp cloak around her trembling shoulders, the fabric coarse and cold against her raw, bleeding skin. She stumbled forward, each movement an agony that sliced through muscle and nerve. The cold stone corridors of Widow's Watch closed around her like a prison, every echo of her footsteps a reminder of the cruelty she endured, the exile she bore in her own blood.

Her body screamed in pain, but deeper than the physical torment was the crushing weight of loneliness, betrayal, and the harsh knowledge that, here, she was nothing more than a cursed shadow—discarded, despised, yet still breathing.

They left her there, trembling and bleeding, the cold night air gnawing at her ragged breath and slick, broken skin. For what felt like hours, she hung suspended between pain and numbness, until finally, a servant—an older woman with worn hands and eyes that had seen too much cruelty—appeared. Without a word, she cut the ropes binding Nella's wrists and slipped a rough, woolen cloak around her trembling shoulders. The coarse fabric bit into her raw flesh, but it was warmth nonetheless.

Nella stumbled forward, each step a fresh torment. The once familiar stone corridors of Widow's Watch now felt like a frozen tomb, their chill seeping deep into her bones. Every movement sent sharp jolts through her broken back, each breath was a struggle, and every heartbeat hammered with bitter reminder: here, in this place, cruelty ruled with iron and fire.

Days passed, slow and gray as winter skies. The household shifted around her like a dark tide—indifferent, watchful, and merciless. Whispers curled through the shadowed corners of the kitchens and servant quarters. Some spoke of her with pity, a soft hush between sympathetic voices. Others murmured with fear, eyes darting away as if her presence alone might bring a curse. And still others sneered in disdain, calling her a stain not just on the family name, but on the very stones of Widow's Watch.

The bannermen and guards moved around her like wary predators, their gazes sharp and cold. No one spoke aloud, but invisible chains of suspicion and disdain wrapped tightly around her. Eyes followed her like shadows—measuring, judging, waiting for her to break. Her father, Lord Roderick Flint, remained a distant, unmoved figure atop his frozen throne of stone and power. His silence was colder than any blade, and his indifference cut deeper than the whip's lash. To him, her suffering was no more than a footnote in the brutal ledger of his rule—a necessary cruelty in a world ruled by strength and fear.

Jory Flint—emboldened by the spectacle—strutted through the halls with renewed arrogance, his smirks sharper, his words crueler when their paths crossed. His presence was a dark shadow on her days, a constant reminder of her place beneath the trueborn sons.

Yet even in the depths of this despair, a single presence offered a fragile sliver of mercy.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the distant mountains and the household settled into uneasy quiet, Jaren—the cook's son—appeared outside her chamber. In his hands, he carried a bowl of steaming broth and a damp cloth. His movements were careful, quiet, respectful of the space carved out by pain and humiliation.

"Your back," he said softly, voice barely more than a whisper as he knelt beside her, carefully pressing the damp cloth against the raw, angry flesh. The faint steam of the broth mingled with the cold night air, a fragile warmth in the harsh shadows. "It will heal. You're stronger than they think."

Nella's green eyes lifted slowly, meeting his gaze—not with trust, but with a cautious, flickering defiance. There was something in those dark eyes that both unsettled and intrigued her. She said nothing. Words were dangerous. Trust was a luxury she could not afford—not here, not where every kindness could mask a dagger, and every smile hide a snare.

The cloth was cool against her wounds, soothing yet a cruel reminder of the pain beneath her skin. She swallowed hard, muscles trembling as the weight of her scars settled heavy on her soul.

Still, beneath the searing agony and crushing shame, beneath the bruises and whispered curses that clung to her like a second skin, something deeper stirred—quiet but relentless. A slow-burning ember of defiance, smoldering with a power she barely understood but felt pulsing in her veins. It was a hunger for more than survival—a yearning to rise, to break free from the chains of scorn and silence.

Outside her window, the wind stirred the ancient weirwood leaves, their red whispers threading through the cold night air like voices from another world. The Old Gods murmured secrets only she could hear—ancient echoes that spoke of judgment, of justice, and of destiny yet unwritten.

And in the dark, in the stillness between breath and heartbeat, Nella's eyes burned with a quiet fire—small but fierce—ready to ignite a reckoning.

Chapter Text

The castle buzzed with restless energy long before dawn. Torches sputtered against the chill as servants hurried through stone corridors, voices clipped and urgent. Nella clutched her worn basket of linens, her small frame weaving through the sudden flurry like a leaf caught in a storm.

She frowned, her brows knitting in confusion. Usually, the mornings were quieter, marked only by the soft clatter of dishes and the occasional bark of a guard. But now, pots were scrubbed with frantic haste, tapestries brushed free of dust, and armor laid out polished until it gleamed like ice.

Nella approached a pair of older maids, hoping for answers. One glanced at her with narrowed eyes and said nothing, hurried past. The other stopped, rolling her eyes.

"You don't know?" the woman snapped, voice sharp and cold. "Lord Stark's coming. The wolf himself. You better learn to move faster if you want to keep your fingers."

Bella's heart stumbled. "Lord Stark?" she repeated, barely above a whisper. "But... why here?"

The woman's lip curled. "Because Flint's folk need reminding who rules the North." She shoved past, leaving Bella blinking after her.

The words echoed in Nella's mind like a warning bell. The great Lord of Winterfell, a man whose name alone could silence a hall, was coming to Widow's Watch. The thought stirred a strange mixture of fear and awe inside the girl's chest. Nella glanced around the busy servants' quarters, feeling suddenly very small in a world moving too fast, a world where even whispers could carry the weight of kings.

She watched as the cooks scrambled to prepare large pots of stew and piles of bread—meager rations stretched to fill the grand hall. The maester's apprentice rushed past, clutching a stack of parchments tightly, his face pale beneath soot-streaked cheeks. Even the guards moved with unusual briskness, their faces set and stern beneath heavy fur cloaks.

Everywhere she looked, there was the unmistakable scent of tension, thick as the smoke from the kitchens. The castle itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting.

Nella's gaze drifted toward the great hall. Heavy tapestries had been unfurled, their faded colors brightened by fresh oil and care. Tables were scrubbed spotless, chairs dragged into neat rows. But beneath all this preparation, Bella felt the undercurrent of something else—fear. Not just of the lord, but of what his visit might bring.

Whispers floated through the corridors like shadows—talk of new alliances, old grudges, and the fragile balance of power that the Flint household struggled to maintain. Servants hurried past her, their voices low but urgent, mentioning Winterfell, the wolf banner, and the weight of the North's gaze.

Nella's eyes lingered on the flurry of movement around her, her mind swirling with unease. She barely noticed when a rough hand grabbed her arm, pulling her sharply from her thoughts.

"Stop standing there like a daft girl!" snapped a woman's voice, sharp and impatient. It was Magda, one of the older kitchen maids, her face lined with years of hard work and little mercy.

"We don't have time for dawdling, Nella," Magda hissed, dragging her toward the kitchen. "If you don't help with the preparations, you'll find yourself back at that whipping post before nightfall."

Nella swallowed hard, the memory of her punishment fresh in her mind. The threat wasn't empty. There was no room for weakness here—no time to watch and wonder.

Trembling, she moved stiffly among the frantic servants, her hands shaking as she wiped down tables and arranged simple flowers brought from the cold, barren gardens outside. The air inside Widow's Watch was thick with tension — the usual quiet gloom replaced by hurried footsteps, hushed orders, and the clatter of armor and dishes.

Everywhere she looked, faces were drawn tight with anxiety or barely concealed annoyance. The cook barked orders, slapping a scullery boy for dropping a pot, while the stable hands rushed to groom horses and clean saddles. The usual rhythm of daily life was broken, replaced by the electric urgency of a lord's visit.

Nella tried to keep her head down, but her green eyes darted nervously as she caught snippets of whispered conversations.

"The Stark's coming... Cregan Stark himself," one maid muttered, glancing nervously toward the great hall.

"They say he's fierce as a direwolf and sharp as Valyrian steel. Not the sort to tolerate fools."

Nella's heart tightened. The Stark name carried weight, even here, even to her—a bastard of House Flint, forgotten and scorned. What would the great lord think of her? Would he see her as a threat, or worse, as nothing at all?

Her thoughts were interrupted once again by a sudden crash. A servant had stumbled, spilling a tray of wine across the stone floor. Heads turned, and a sharp voice cut through the noise.

"Get it cleaned up!" Magda snapped. "No mistakes, or you'll regret it."

Nella bent to help, the cold stone biting through her thin gloves. Her breath came out in shallow puffs. The looming arrival of Cregan Stark was a shadow over everything, and she could feel the invisible eyes of the household boring into her — waiting for her to falter.

The heavy drums echoed through the cold morning air, a slow, steady beat that heralded the arrival of a lord. Nella stood near the edge of the courtyard, her gaze fixed on the gates of Widow's Watch. She was wrapped tightly in a rough wool cloak, the bruises beneath it still raw, her green eyes sharp beneath the hood. Beside her, Jaren stood quietly, his presence a small comfort in the cold sea of noble faces and whispered gossip.

The gates swung open with a creak, and a long line of riders appeared, banners snapping in the wind—the direwolf of House Stark leading the way. At their head was Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, a man spoken of in harsh, reverent tones across the realm. His dark cloak bore the white wolf's sigil, and his eyes scanned the courtyard with the weight of a thousand winters.

Nella's breath caught. She was not allowed to stand among the lords and ladies gathered near the great hall, no place for a bastard girl marked by scandal and shadow. Instead, she and Jaren watched from the shadows near the weirwood grove, their sanctuary from the court's cold gaze.

As Cregan dismounted, the Flint lord and his family stepped forward to greet him, their polished armor gleaming in the pale sunlight. Lord Roderick Flint's posture was rigid, his face unreadable, but his eyes flickered with cautious calculation. Nella's gaze drifted to the children—Jory with his cruel smirk, and the rest, all polished and poised. His smile was hollow, practiced.

Jaren whispered, "The lord looks like the winter itself—cold, unforgiving, but with fire beneath."

Nella nodded, her thoughts tangled. She longed to be among the lords, to stand tall and claim her place, but the weight of her blood and her scars chained her to the shadows. The courtyard buzzed with the measured dance of politics—voices exchanged in careful tones, alliances whispered, loyalties tested.

But Nella and Jaren remained unseen, observers to a world where power meant everything, and where she was little more than a forgotten echo.

Yet, even from the sidelines, the Old Gods whispered in the rustling leaves—watching, waiting.

Nella's green eyes never left the gathering before her. The bright banners fluttering in the wind, the sharp glint of steel armor, the smooth, polished voices of lords and ladies—everything was a world apart, a world she could never truly enter. She felt the cold stone beneath her feet, the rough wool of her cloak pressing against bruised skin, and the bitter sting of her place in all this.

Her father, Lord Roderick Flint, stood tall beside Cregan Stark, exchanging words heavy with meaning. The Flint children laughed and whispered, their smiles sharp and false, like knives cloaked in silk. Jory's eyes caught hers once—mocking, triumphant—and she looked away quickly, hiding the flicker of pain that threatened to show.

They see me as nothing, she thought bitterly. A stain, a shadow. A curse born from lies and whispered rumors.

Her fingers tightened on the rough cloth wrapped around her waist. The memory of the whip's bite, the red marks searing into her back flared painfully, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her heart—the ache of rejection, the weight of isolation. But the Old Gods whispered still. Their voices stirred in the wind, threading through the ancient weirwood's blood-red leaves just beyond the courtyard's edge. She closed her eyes briefly, drawing strength from their presence.

They watch. They judge. And I will not be forgotten.

A subtle heat blossomed beneath her ribs, a flicker of power she barely understood but instinctively trusted. The visions had begun again—fleeting glimpses of things unseen by others, of paths tangled in shadow and light. It terrified her, but it also gave her purpose.

Jaren shifted beside her, his voice low but steady. "You're stronger than you think, Nella. They don't see what lies beneath that skin, but I do."

She met his gaze, faint surprise softening her wary expression. "Why do you say that?" she whispered, voice barely more than a breath.

"Because I've felt the same—the cold eyes, the whispers," he said, glancing around the courtyard. "But the Old Gods... they don't choose just anyone. They choose those who will change the world, whether they want to or not."

The lords spoke of alliances and fealty, of debts owed and favors to be granted. But Nella's mind was elsewhere—plotting, dreaming, waiting. She traced the intricate patterns carved into the wooden beams above, imagining them as maps—paths she could follow, hidden routes to power and escape. Each word spoken by the lords was like a move on a great gameboard she wasn't meant to play, but she vowed to learn the rules all the same.

Beside her, Jaren's voice broke once again through the hum of conversation. "Nella do you ever wonder if they know what it's like? To be watched, whispered about... like you're already gone, even though you're here?"

Nella's eyes flicked toward him. "They fear what they cannot control. They fear me because I don't fit. I'm neither their kin nor their pawn."

He nodded slowly. "That's why they watch you. And why you have to be careful."

She swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking deep. "Careful... or what?"

"Or they'll break you. Like they almost did the other day."

A cold gust swept through the courtyard, lifting stray leaves in a dance of shadows. Nella shivered—not just from the chill, but from the memory of pain, humiliation, and the unyielding harshness of the world she was trapped in. But beneath the fear, the ember of defiance glowed brighter. The Old Gods had marked her for something greater. She could feel it in the tremor beneath her skin, in the whispers that filled her dreams.

Nella's gaze never wavered from Lord Cregan Stark as he moved through the hall, commanding presence rippling from every measured step. Unlike the coarse, brutish men of Widow's Watch—men like her father or Jory Flint—Cregan held himself with an unspoken authority, forged not from fear, but from something far older and deeper.

His posture was straight but never rigid, relaxed yet alert—like a wolf listening to the wind. There was a quiet strength in the way his dark eyes swept the room, taking in every detail without haste, without arrogance. He didn't need to shout to be heard; his voice, when he spoke, was calm but carried a weight that demanded attention.

Nella thought of the men she knew here, how they barked orders, how their laughter was harsh and cruel, their tempers quick to ignite like dry tinder. Yet here was a man whose power was not measured in threats or lashings, but in the certainty of his command and the respect it bred.

There was something almost regal in the way he listened to Lord Roderick, not with blind obedience, but with an air of expectation—as if he weighed every word and knew exactly what to do next. It made Nella's chest ache with a strange yearning, a longing for something she could barely name.

Her eyes traced the sharp lines of Cregan's face—the weathered skin, the scars that told stories no one spoke aloud, the way his dark hair caught the light with streaks of silver like the first frost of winter. She thought of her own reflection in the cold, cracked mirror of her chamber—the haunted eyes, the strange birthmark that some whispered was a curse. Here stood a man who bore his marks like badges of honor, not shame.

Nella's heart thrummed with a strange mixture of awe and defiance. In a world ruled by cruelty and fear, Lord Cregan Stark was a reminder that power could be something else—something that demanded respect, not submission.

A sudden breeze stirred the tapestries along the wall, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and frost. Nella felt the Old Gods' whisper brush against her skin, as if encouraging her to listen, to learn. She clenched her fists, the ache in her back dull but persistent—a reminder of the punishment she'd endured. Yet here, in the presence of a man who embodied strength without cruelty, a fragile hope began to kindle.

She thought of all the men she'd known—her father's cold indifference, Jory's spiteful sneers—and she realized how rare it was to see a man who wielded power not as a weapon, but as a shield.

The hall buzzed with murmurs as Lord Cregan's attention shifted to the assembled lords and bannermen, yet to Nella, the noise faded into nothingness. She saw only him, a figure carved from the harsh northern winters, standing tall against the dark tides that threatened to consume them all.

Chapter Text

The great hall of Widow's Watch gleamed with torchlight, the long tables groaning under platters of roasted meats, fresh bread, and fine wine. The air was thick with the scents of spiced meat and burning pine, mingling with the murmur of low voices and hearty laughter. It was a world alive with warmth, light, and belonging—a world that was not hers.

Nella moved silently through the cold kitchen corridors, her hands raw and blistered from hours of chopping, stirring, and carrying heavy dishes. Here, in the shadows and behind the scenes, she was invisible as always—just another servant, bound to the dirt beneath the polished boots of nobles and knights. The coarse linen in her hands felt like chains, reminding her of the role she was forced to play.

The feast had been announced weeks ago, whispered from mouth to mouth among the servants like a distant dream. Lords and ladies from neighboring holds would come to Widow's Watch to meet Lord Cregan Stark, to speak of alliances and power in a language only the highborn fully understood. But Nella? She was barred from the great hall, barred from the heat of the fires and the clinking of goblets. She was not one of them. Never would be. Not by birth, not by blood.

Pausing in the dim corner just beyond the heavy velvet curtains, she stole a glance into the hall beyond. The nobles were radiant in silks and furs, their laughter like bells ringing from a faraway place, clear and bright and utterly unreachable. She recognized the faces—lords who walked past her like she was nothing but a ghost, ladies adorned in jewels that caught the firelight and cast fleeting rainbows across the polished stone floor.

Her throat tightened with a familiar ache. The carved edges of the wooden tables, rich with the scars of generations, seemed to whisper secrets to her—secrets about belonging, about power, about places she would never claim. She traced the lines with her eyes, imagining what it would be like to sit there, to be counted, to be seen.

Her fingers curled tightly around the rough linen cloth, her knuckles whitening with the effort. The weight of her illegitimacy pressed on her chest heavier than any tray she had borne tonight. She felt it settle like a stone, cold and unforgiving—an invisible brand marking her as less, as other, as unwanted.

Loneliness wrapped around her like a winter's chill, gnawing at the edges of her resolve. The world beyond the curtains was alive and warm, but she stood outside it, always outside it. No laughter reached her ears; no hand was ever offered. Just cold silence and the distant echo of a life denied.

And yet, beneath that crushing solitude, a tiny ember burned—a fragile, stubborn spark of hope. The glimmer in the eyes she had glimpsed tonight, the faint flicker of recognition from a lord who saw beyond the surface, whispered to her of possibilities. Of a future where she might rise, not by the grace of others, but by the strength she carried within.

The world may have marked her as a shadow, a stain on the Flint name, but somewhere deep inside, Nella knew that shadows could stretch long and dark—and sometimes, they could even hide the fiercest fires.

Her breath caught as she let that thought settle, fragile but alive, in her heart. For the first time in a long while, she dared to imagine what it might feel like to belong.

Then—suddenly—she felt it. A pair of eyes on her.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze.

Across the hall, near the high table where Lord Cregan Stark sat, his grey eyes found hers. They held no mockery, no contempt. Instead, there was something strange—curious, almost searching. A flicker of recognition that pierced beyond the grime on her hands, beyond the blood drying on her bruised skin, beyond the whispered rumors and harsh judgments.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to slow. The clatter of dishes, the low hum of voices, even the roaring hearth—all faded into a quiet hush. Nella's green eyes locked with his, wide and startled.

Her breath caught. The firelight in his gaze was steady, calm, like the first steady beat of a drum in a chaotic storm. For a fleeting moment, she dared to imagine she was something more than a shadow lurking just beyond the feast's warmth.

Then, a sharp pang of shame struck her. She remembered every cruel word, every harsh glance, every reminder that she was not meant to be seen—certainly not by a lord of Winterfell. Her cheeks burned, hot as the torches that lined the hall. She averted her eyes quickly, bowing her head, and slipped back into the shadowed corridor, her heart hammering as if to break free.

As she vanished from sight, Lord Cregan's gaze lingered a moment longer, drawn inexplicably to the long, silvery strands of hair—so unusual here in the North—falling untamed down her back.

A glimpse of curiosity crossed his face, subtle but undeniable. The flickering torchlight cast shadows across his stern face, but there was a softness in his gaze—a silent question, an unspoken invitation. The blonde silvery hair, so unlike the thick, dark locks common in the North, and the defiant glint in her eyes stirred something he could not name.

His mind wandered to the stories whispered in Winterfell's halls—tales of bastards and shadows, of whispered curses and secret bloodlines. Yet here was a girl who carried herself with a quiet strength that unsettled the old notions of power and place. The feast continued, voices rising and falling in the great hall, but for Lord Cregan, the weight of his duties seemed to fade for a moment, eclipsed by the mystery of the girl who dared to look back.

As for Nella, she didn't wait to see if the gaze would return. Her cheeks burned with the heat of exposure and forbidden curiosity. With hurried steps, she had slipped through the heavy curtains and out into the biting cold night.

Snowflakes swirled around her like silent witnesses as she ran through the courtyard, the sharp air filling her lungs. Her heart was a tangled knot of fear and wonder — embraced by the weight of loneliness, yet pulled irresistibly by the spark of something new, something uncertain.

The cold bit at her skin, but inside, a fire flickered — a fierce, fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't as invisible as she'd believed.

As the feast wound down and the great hall of Widow's Watch grew quieter, Lord Cregan Stark stepped out into the sharp night air. The cold bit deep, the kind that clawed through furs and prickled the skin, but it was a welcome relief from the stifling heat and reek of roasted meat, wine, and sweat inside.

His bannermen followed in a staggered line, cloaks loose, boots crunching over snow. They were loud with drink, their voices carrying over the courtyard—boasts of past victories, bawdy tales of serving girls and tavern maids told in the kind of bold, unashamed language only men deep in their cups dared. Laughter boomed, crude jests flew, and the air was thick with the scent of pine, torch smoke, and spilt ale clinging to their breath.

“A gods-damned shame they keep the best meat off the lord’s table,” laughed Harlen, his beard wet with ale foam. “The mutton’s fine, but I’m speaking of the kind with hips.”

A roar of laughter followed, and Rowley, already swaying on his feet, jabbed him in the ribs. “Aye, and I saw one worth more than any feast. Black hair, down to here—” He gestured past his shoulders, grinning through crooked teeth. “And a chest like she could smother a man without trying. Caught a glimpse in the hall. Don’t know whose she is, but I’ll be finding her before the week’s done.”

“Before the night’s done, you mean,” Harlen jeered, earning another wave of coarse laughter.

The others laughed and traded more lewd boasts, but Cregan’s thoughts had already drifted elsewhere. He remembered another face from the hall—blonde hair catching the firelight, eyes locking with his for the briefest of moments before she slipped away, swallowed by the crowd. No bold smile, no coy glance—only that quick, almost startled meeting of eyes. And then she was gone.

He let their noise fade behind him, drifting from the main path toward the skeletal trees, their bare branches clawing at the star-pocked sky.

“Not much rest for the wicked,” he muttered, the faint curl of a grin on his lips.

“Aye, and less for the Lord of Winterfell!” Harlen called after him, earning another chorus of jests and promises about women to warm the bed.

Cregan only shook his head, letting them revel.

Then, from the darkness ahead, something caught his attention—a faint flicker of light beyond the treeline. Small, wavering. Like a lone candle where none should be.

The grin faded. Stillness settled over him. “Go on without me,” he said, his voice quiet but edged with command. “You’ve had your fill for the night. Keep to the path—and no foolishness.”

The men, still grinning and muttering to each other, obeyed, their raucous voices fading into the night.

His men grumbled, heavy with wine and weariness, but the weight of his authority was clear. Reluctantly, they turned back toward the castle, their footsteps fading into the crunching snow.

Alone now, Cregan stepped forward, boots pressing softly but decisively into the thick blanket of white. The forest around him was still—branches stripped bare, creaking faintly in the bitter wind, and the sky a muted expanse of ink and stars. The faint glow ahead flickered again—an ember swallowed and reborn, perhaps a single candle flame or a small lantern swaying gently in the breath of the night.

He moved cautiously, every instinct alert. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, a silent promise of swift response. The forest floor beneath him was uneven, the snow disturbed in faint trails as if others had passed this way, but not recently.

As he drew near the source of the light, the figure revealed itself: cloaked, hood drawn low, sitting with their back to him beneath the gnarled limbs of ancient trees. The posture was tense, as if guarding secrets or burdened by fear.

Cregan's gaze fixed on the figure cloaked in shadow, the faint shimmer of silvery hair catching the moonlight. There was something familiar in the stance, the way she held herself—an echo from the feast, a fleeting glance that lingered too long in his memory.

"Who's there?" His voice was low, calm but firm, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

The girl stiffened, fear flashing in her green eyes as she pulled her dark hood tighter. Without hesitation, she moved to disappear into the woods, swift and silent like a hunted creature.

"Wait," Cregan said, stepping forward, voice gentle but commanding. "Don't run."

The girl's breath came in shallow gasps, the cold air mingling with the sharp edge of panic that gripped her. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the lantern closer, casting fleeting shadows across her pale face. The snow beneath her feet crunched softly, betraying the quiet desperation to disappear into the darkness.

Cregan held his ground, voice steady but full of something gentler than command — patience. "I'm not your enemy," he said, voice low enough to soothe without pressing too hard. "Out here, this late, it's dangerous. You shouldn't be alone."

Her green eyes, wide and wary, flickered like a hunted bird caught in the sudden stillness. She shifted slightly, the tension in her shoulders betraying the urge to bolt. But the calm in his gaze, the absence of malice, anchored her just long enough to hesitate.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice softer now, a quiet invitation rather than a demand.

Still, she said nothing.

Cregan took a careful step closer, hands open and empty, showing no threat. "I saw you at the feast," he admitted quietly, "but I didn't get your name. You stood apart... watching."

She said nothing at first, only shifting slightly, shrinking away from the space he was gently closing.

After a long pause, her voice came—soft, hesitant, barely above a whisper. "I'm the lord's bastard."

Her words hung in the air, fragile and raw. Cregan's eyes softened, but he waited patiently, giving her space.

She looked away, gaze fixed on the snow-dusted ground. No more words came, but the weight behind her confession was clear—she was used to silence, to being invisible.

Finally, she muttered, almost to herself, "Bastards don't sit at feasts. They don't belong in the halls."

Her green eyes flicked up briefly, wary, then dropped again.

Cregan's voice was gentle, careful not to push. "You watched from the edges at the feast."

She nodded slightly but said nothing more.

His tone was steady, not unkind but formal, as if weighing each word carefully against the cold night air. "You're not from away, then?"

Her eyes didn't meet his. Instead, she stared into the dark woods beyond, voice low and guarded. "I was born here." The words fell quietly, almost reluctantly. "This place is all I know."

He nodded slowly, sensing her wariness. "Never left the castle?" His question came with evenness—a probing curiosity without pressure.

"No." The single word was flat, almost clipped, like a door closing softly but firmly.

For a long moment, Cregan studied her silhouette against the snow-laden trees. The flicker of candlelight caught in the pale strands of her hair, but her face remained mostly shadowed beneath the hood. "It must be... difficult," he said thoughtfully, "to live on the edges."

Her shoulders stiffened, a subtle but unmistakable barrier rising. Still, she said nothing, the silence stretching between them like a fragile thread. "People see you," Cregan continued, voice steady, "but they don't look."

She gave a faint nod, so slight it could have been missed—a whisper of acknowledgment without invitation.

"Your name?" he asked finally, the question more a formality than a demand.

She hesitated, lips barely parting. "Nella," she said quietly, the name slipping out like a secret.

Cregan's gaze softened just enough to betray a touch of respect. "Then Nella," he said slowly, as if testing the weight of the name in the air, "if you're to live here, you should know—not all eyes are so blind."

Her green eyes flicked up for a brief, careful measurement, then dropped again, as if reluctant to trust that truth. "Some notice," he added, his voice low but sure.

Without another word, he stepped back, creating distance between them. The snow crunched beneath his boots, the only sound besides the distant call of a night bird.

She tightened her cloak around her shoulders, voice barely more than a breath on the wind: "I don't need anyone's notice."

Cregan inclined his head in acknowledgment, the faintest hint of a knowing smile touching his lips. "Perhaps. But it's not always a burden."

Her figure turned slowly, retreating into the shadows of the forest. No farewell, no backward glance—just the soft, swift disappearance of a girl who belonged nowhere, yet held a world within.

Chapter Text

The first pale light of dawn crept slowly through the narrow windows of Widow's Watch, casting long, cold shadows across the cold stone floors. The castle was still, but Nella moved with quiet purpose, her footsteps barely more than whispers against the worn flagstones.

Her cloak was drawn tight against the chill, but it could not guard her heart from the storm within. Each step took her further from the forest, from the small lantern's flicker, and from the memory of Lord Cregan's steady gaze—calm, reserved, and unlike any man she had ever seen in these halls. The servants' quarters were just beginning to stir, the faint clatter of waking lives reaching her ears. Nella kept her head low, avoiding the few pairs of eyes already searching for signs of mischief or weakness. She was a shadow here, as she always was, a presence felt but never truly seen.

Her mind circled back to his voice—the gentleness under the authority, the hint of something more than duty. Was it pity? Curiosity? Or something sharper, more dangerous? The thought made her chest tighten.

By the kitchen door, Jaren waited silently. His usual cheerful energy was tempered by dawn's somber light. Without a word, he held out a rough cloak and a small loaf of bread wrapped in cloth. His green eyes met hers with an unspoken message: here, something for you, something small but real.

Nella accepted the gifts with trembling hands, the weight of the cloak heavier than the bread. The quiet gesture was an island in a sea of coldness. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to steady her breath. Trust was scarce, and kindness rarer still, but perhaps—just perhaps—this fragile moment could be the first ripple of something different.

With a silent nod to Jaren, she pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders, the fabric rough but warm against her skin.

The castle was nearly silent at this hour, the usual clatter of servants long since faded into the walls. Nella's footsteps were careful and measured, barely more than whispers on the cold stone floor. In the dim corridor outside the maester's chamber, she paused, pressing her back against the wall as faint voices drifted from the great hall. The feast had long ended, but a few late stragglers lingered, laughter echoing down the passages.

Her heart thudded unevenly beneath her ribs, equal parts fear and excitement. The knowledge hidden behind that door was worth any risk—if only she could find the right book. Unbeknownst to her, footsteps approached from the opposite direction. Heavy, certain, with a steady rhythm that cut through the quiet.

She glanced nervously toward the heavy wooden door, heart pounding in her chest like a trapped bird. The cold stone walls seemed to close in around her, the flicker of torchlight casting long, restless shadows. She knew she shouldn't be here—alone, after hours, without any permission—but the hunger for knowledge was sharper than any blade, gnawing at her from inside.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she clutched the fragile parchment scroll and a thin, leather-bound book pressed to her chest, the brittle pages worn from years of handling. Quiet footsteps echoed faintly from the distant hall, but for now, the castle's deep silence was hers alone.

Then, a shadow fell across the doorway—solid and sudden. A deep voice broke the hush, low and amused.

"Caught red-handed, are we?"

Nella froze instantly, the book held so tightly it bent between her fingers. Slowly, cautiously, she turned to face the intruder.

There, leaning against the doorframe, was Lord Cregan Stark. His figure was broad and sure, framed by the dim glow of the corridor torches, and on his lips was a faint, knowing smirk.

"You know," he said with a teasing edge, "most would expect a Flint to be stealing swords, or maybe ale—not scrolls and dusty histories."

Her cheeks burned hot, a mix of shame and stubborn defiance rising within her. "I... I just wanted to read," she whispered, barely meeting his eyes.

Cregan pushed himself off the doorframe and stepped inside the cramped chamber, the scent of old parchment and candlewax thick in the air. The smirk softened, losing its sharpness, almost folding into something like genuine amusement.

"Well," he said, scanning the cluttered shelves with a practiced eye, "if you're going to break the rules, you might as well read something worth your trouble."

He reached for a thick, leather-bound volume resting on a dusty table—its cover cracked and faded, the spine creased from age. "Here," he offered, handing it to her with careful respect, "something old. Something useful. But be careful—knowledge can be as sharp as any sword."

Nella's breath caught, surprise flickering in her green eyes. This simple act—a gift from a lord—was more than she had dared to hope for.

"Thank you," she murmured, voice soft and uncertain, fingers brushing briefly over the worn leather.

Cregan, instead of leaving, stepped closer. His shadow stretched across the page, and his eyes narrowed as they scanned the lines she'd begun to read.

The script was dense and curling, the ink faded to brown. The title—half-lost to time—spoke of "The Sight and the Old Powers of the North." Beneath it, diagrams of trees, constellations, and carved faces in wood seemed to watch from the parchment.

"Old magic," Cregan murmured, the faintest crease forming between his brows. "This is no light tale for a winter's night."

Nella's fingers stilled on the edge of the page.

"Why this?" he asked, his tone neither mocking nor accusing, but weighted with curiosity. "Most in these halls avoid such things."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but then she glanced up at him, the candlelight catching in her green eyes. "Because I..." She faltered, as if the words themselves might betray her. "I've had... visions."

Cregan didn't speak at first, his gaze sharpening. "Visions," he repeated slowly, as though tasting the word.

She nodded once, small but firm. "Dreams, sometimes. Waking dreams. They feel... older than me. Like they belong to someone else. But they're mine, too."

He studied her in silence, the hall beyond them quiet as a grave. Finally, he said, "And you think this—" he tapped the page lightly with two fingers, "—will tell you what they mean?"

"I think," she said, her voice steadying, "that the Sight isn't just a story to frighten children. And if it's real, I want to understand it."

For a long moment, his eyes lingered on her, as though weighing whether she was speaking truth—or madness. Then, with the faintest ghost of a smirk, he said, "Careful, Nella. Some doors, once opened, don't close again."

Nella's fingers traced the edge of the page, but she could feel his gaze more than the parchment beneath her touch.

"You've read this before?" she asked carefully, unsure if she wanted the answer.

Cregan shook his head once. "No. My father thought it best to keep his children's minds on steel and snow, not shadows." He glanced again at the diagrams, his voice lower now. "But the maesters... they keep these things for a reason. Even the ones they don't believe in."

Nella tilted her head. "Why keep what you don't believe?"

His mouth curved faintly, but it wasn't quite a smile. "Because sometimes belief has nothing to do with whether something is true."

The candle sputtered between them, throwing shapes on the wall that looked like moving branches. Nella glanced toward them, then back to him.

"Do you believe?" she asked.

Cregan's eyes met hers directly for the first time since stepping into the room. "I believe the North remembers. And remembering has power."

There was weight in his tone she didn't know how to name. She looked back down at the open page, at the inked faces carved into ancient trees. "Then maybe... the North remembers more than we think."

A silence stretched between them—not hostile, but thick with the things neither of them was ready to say.

Finally, he leaned a little closer, resting his knuckles lightly on the table. "If you mean to keep reading these things, Nella, do it with your eyes open. They're not just words. They can take root in you, and grow in ways you don't expect."

Her lips pressed together, but she didn't close the book. "And if they already have?" she asked softly.

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer, then he straightened, stepping back toward the door. "Then I suppose," he said, "it's too late to tell you to be careful."

For a heartbeat, he seemed about to leave. But instead, he glanced back over his shoulder, his voice lighter now, almost teasing.

"Still... if you're going to steal from the maester, you might as well aim for something rarer. The shelves in Winterfell could hold whatever it is you're looking for."

Nella blinked, unsure if she'd heard him right. "Winterfell?" she echoed quietly.

He shrugged, the faintest trace of a smile touching his mouth. "If you're going to chase secrets, chase the right ones. Widow's Watch is a shallow pool. Winterfell's library is the deep water."

Her fingers tightened around the book in her lap. "And you'd... let me see them?"

Cregan didn't answer directly. "That depends," he said, turning slightly toward the corridor, "on whether you plan to keep reading in the shadows... or step into the open."

The words lingered between them, heavy with a meaning she couldn't quite name. Then he was gone, his boots carrying him down the hall, the echo of his steps fading into the castle's cold silence. Nella sat motionless for a long moment, the candlelight flickering over the inked faces of heart trees on the open page. She traced the lines absently, wondering if he was taunting her... or opening a door she hadn't known existed.

Outside, the wind rose, rattling the shutters like whispered warnings. She closed the book slowly, pressing it to her chest. Winterfell. The thought alone made her pulse quicken—half with excitement, half with dread.

And somewhere in her mind, unbidden, came the image of Cregan Stark's steady eyes and the way he'd said deep water.

The trees stood close together in the winter woods, their skeletal branches rattling faintly under the weight of fresh snow. Nella moved between them with careful steps, the cold seeping through the worn leather of her boots. A woven basket hung from her arm, already half-full of split logs and dry sticks scavenged from under drifts.

Each time she bent to gather a piece, the muffled quiet of the forest pressed in deeper. She could hear the faint crackle of ice shifting on the stream beyond the ridge, the occasional groan of a tree adjusting under snow's weight. Somewhere far off, a crow called once, then fell silent.

The air was heavy, thick with the scent of pine and the sharp bite of frost. Her breath plumed white before her as she worked, snapping a brittle branch from a fallen trunk. She brushed away the snow, tucking it under her arm. Without thinking, she began to hum under her breath—a tune she half-remembered from the kitchens, something one of the older washerwomen used to sing when the fire burned low.

"The maiden was fair, her smile was bright,
Her heart was swift, her step was light..."

Her voice was soft, barely above the whisper of snow drifting from the boughs, and she let the song wind through the trees as she worked. It was the stillness that changed first.

The way the forest seemed to hold its breath.

Her humming faltered. She straightened slowly, a log still cradled in her arm. The sound that replaced her song was low and deep—a growl that seemed to come from the ground itself.

From between two frost-laden pines, a shape emerged. Huge, silent but for the rumble in its chest. A direwolf, its fur the color of winter stone, eyes bright and unblinking. The wolf's gaze locked on her, and the song that had just been on her lips seemed to linger in the air between them, as though the forest itself was holding on to the last note.

Her basket nearly slipped from her hands, the brittle wood threatening to spill with the sudden tremor that seized her. The growl deepened—not loud, but resonant, vibrating through the brittle winter air and sinking into her chest like a cold weight.

Nella's breath caught, ragged and shallow. She had seen hunting hounds, fierce and sharp-toothed, even the lean grey wolfhounds kept by lords for sport. But this—this was no kennel beast. The direwolf loomed immense, its head nearly reaching her ribs, muscles rippling beneath a thick winter coat that shimmered like frost in the fading light. Its presence felt like a force of nature, an echo of the old tales whispered to children to keep them close to hearth and home.

She took a careful step back, the snow crunching sharply beneath her boot. The wolf's ears flicked, the deep growl cutting off mid-note as its golden eyes—bright and ancient—fixed on her. For a long, breathless moment, they simply stared.

Nella, clutching her basket as if it might shield her from the raw power before her.
The wolf, head low, eyes unblinking, locked onto hers with an intensity that seemed to pierce far beyond the surface. The cold around her faded, the wind's whispering dulled, until all that remained was the silent pulse of those burning amber eyes holding her in place.

It was no mere animal's gaze—it carried something deeper. Something old and searching, as though the wolf was weighing her soul, seeing beyond the grime and fear, reaching into a part of her she barely understood herself. The rigid line of the wolf's spine softened; the thick fur along its neck lay flat as it inhaled a long, slow breath. It sniffed the air deliberately, measuring whether she was foe or something else entirely.

Nella dared not move. She barely dared to breathe, caught in the thrall of that ancient scrutiny.

Then, as if deciding, the wolf stepped forward—one slow, silent paw, then another—until it was close enough that she could see frost clinging to its whiskers, the vapor of its breath misting between them like a fragile veil. A low chuff, almost curious, escaped its throat.

And in that moment, a strange flicker crossed her mind—like a pulse from somewhere beyond herself. Snow-drifted moonlight, the scent of pine and earth, the stirring of something wild and forgotten. Her fingers loosened slightly on the basket's handle.

"I... I'm not here to harm you," she whispered, voice trembling, though she knew the wolf could not understand.

The beast's ears flicked once more as it leaned in, nose hovering just above the wood she carried, as if the scent spoke a secret language. Its eyes never left hers, deep and unyielding. Time stretched between them, measured only by the soft mingling of breath in the cold air and the whisper of snow settling.

And then, as quietly as it had come, the wolf turned away.  Its heavy paws pressed into the snow with slow, deliberate grace as it vanished into the skeletal trees, pausing once to glance back—those fierce amber eyes briefly meeting hers again—before melting into the white silence of the woods.

Nella stood motionless, the snow crunching faintly beneath her boots as the cold slowly seeped back into her skin. Her breath came in shallow puffs, but inside her chest, a strange warmth flickered—something unfamiliar and unsettling. She lowered her basket carefully to the ground, eyes still fixed on the spot where the direwolf had disappeared. The forest around her felt different now, as if the trees themselves held their breath, waiting.

Her mind raced, trying to untangle the feelings that stirred within her. Fear, yes, but also something else—curiosity, wonder, and a flicker of something she couldn't name. The wolf's gaze, so intense and knowing, haunted her thoughts. It was as if it had seen past the dirt and scars, past the bastard's place she so often felt confined to, and touched something deeper inside her.

Could it be just an animal? Or was there more, something ancient and wild that whispered through the snow and pine? She knelt beside the scattered firewood, her fingers brushing the rough bark, but her thoughts were far away, tangled with the wolf's amber eyes and the strange pulse that had echoed in her mind.

"Why did it not run?" she whispered to the empty woods, voice trembling. "Why did it stay?"

No answer came, only the soft rustle of branches and the fading echo of a heartbeat that was not quite her own.

For the first time, the stories she had heard—the old magic, the Sight, the bond between Stark and wolf—felt less like fairy tales and more like a thread she might be able to grasp. Nella rose slowly, pulling her cloak tighter around her. The firewood forgotten for a moment, she took one last look into the silent forest before turning back toward the castle, the weight of the moment settling deep in her bones.

She would carry this secret with her—wild, mysterious, and quietly alive—long after the snow had melted.

Chapter Text

The dawn was pale and heavy, the sun a faint glow behind thick, iron-gray clouds that promised snow before the day was done. Widow's Watch lay cloaked in silence, the usual bustle of the castle subdued by the cold and the gravity of the morning. Snowflakes drifted in lazy spirals, settling like fragile lace on the battlements, the ancient stones, and the bare branches of winter-stripped trees.

The courtyard was wide and austere, ringed by weathered walls scarred with the marks of countless winters. Snow softened the edges of the worn flagstones, each step muffled underfoot. A thin frost coated the exposed iron of weapons and the leather of saddles, glinting like faint stars caught in the dull light.

Lord Cregan Stark stood near the gate, his tall frame wrapped in heavy furs dyed a somber gray, the direwolf sigil embroidered in silver thread on his cloak catching the dim morning light. His face was grave but composed, eyes dark and thoughtful beneath his heavy brows. Around him, the air was thick with unspoken words, the tension of impending departure mingling with the lingering chill.

The bannermen of the North gathered in tight knots, faces set and guarded. Their armor and cloaks were heavy, their breaths shallow puffs against the cold. Some spoke in low murmurs, voices rough and measured; others cast cautious glances toward Cregan, weighing the meaning behind his silence.

The men and women of Widow's Watch, from the highest lord to the lowliest servant, seemed caught in a shared breath of waiting. Outside, the world lay frozen beneath a blanket of snow, the forests silent but watchful beyond the walls. In the shadow of a nearby archway, a figure stood still — barely more than a flicker of movement. Nella, wrapped in her worn cloak, leaned against the cold stone, the roughness grounding her in the moment.

Her breath came in small, white clouds, dissipating into the quiet morning air. Her heart hammered, a strange mixture of anxiety and something more fragile — hope, perhaps? Or curiosity. She wasn't sure.

The courtyard was a stage for power, for alliances forged and broken in whispered deals and glinting steel. Yet she, a bastard child, stood at the edge of that stage, unseen and unheard. She watched Lord Cregan Stark, the man who had twice acknowledged her existence with nothing but a glance — once in the great hall and once in the maester's chamber. Neither had spoken her name aloud, yet those brief moments had left an imprint she couldn't forget.

Her mind wandered to the quietness between words, the cautious kindness behind his smirks and the patience in his voice when he caught her reading forbidden books. It was almost like... understanding. But what did it mean? A lord's notice was a dangerous thing for someone like her — a bastard without title or name. Would his departure strip away the fragile protection that presence brought?

Nella's fingers tightened around the edge of her cloak, drawing it close to her body. She pulled the hood higher, hiding more of her face, the shadow her only shield against prying eyes. The trumpet's blast shattered the stillness, sharp and clear, echoing against the stone walls. It was a call to arms — or in this case, a call to travel.

Cregan's riders shifted in place, hooves scraping the snow as horses stamped, restless. The heavy breaths of men and beasts mingled in the cold air, creating a fog that hovered near the ground. One by one, the bannermen stepped forward to exchange final words and gestures. Cregan offered no speeches, no promises. His role was a duty bound by honor and necessity — the quiet backbone of the North's strength.

As the last saddles were secured and the reins tightened, a hush fell across the courtyard. The heavy wooden gates, reinforced by iron bands, creaked slowly open, revealing the pale, snow-covered road beyond. Nella's heart quickened, though she remained hidden. She could see the lord's form, tall and unyielding, atop his great black horse, the cloak billowing slightly with the movement.

She wanted to call out, to say something — anything — but the words tangled in her throat. Instead, she watched.

The narrow stone corridor outside the kitchens was warm but smelled faintly of soot and herbs, a sharp contrast to the cold silence of the courtyard she had left behind. The low hum of cooking fires and muffled clatter of pots and pans seeped through the thick wooden door, a reminder of life continuing despite the heaviness settling over Widow's Watch.

Nella moved quietly, her boots echoing softly against the flagstones, her basket still empty now after the morning's work gathering firewood in the frozen woods. She wrapped her fingers tighter around the worn leather strap of her cloak, hoping it might shield her from more than just the cold.

Her thoughts were tangled — fragments of the morning's farewell to Lord Cregan drifting like pale ghosts in her mind. The lord's departure had left a hollow ache, but beneath it, something else stirred — a fragile thread of hope she wasn't yet ready to fully grasp or admit.

As she rounded a corner, the flickering glow of a torch caught the edges of the passageway, and a familiar figure stepped into view.

Jaren.

The servant, with his salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a loose knot  moved with a quiet steadiness that seemed to anchor the castle itself. His eyes, sharp beneath bushy brows, softened when they met hers.

"Nella," he said in a low voice, nodding slightly, careful not to draw attention.

She managed a small, tired smile. "Jaren."

He glanced around the empty hallway, as if expecting shadows to listen. Then, stepping closer, his voice dropped even further, barely more than a breath. "The lord's gone. You heard?"

"Yes." Her voice was flat, but the truth was heavier than she let on.

Jaren's gaze flicked toward the kitchen door, then back to her. "These walls aren't kind to those like you when the strong ones leave. You'll need to keep your wits sharper than ever."

Nella's pulse quickened. The warning wasn't new, but coming from him, it cut deeper.

"I'm careful," she whispered, though even she wasn't sure if it was true.

He gave a faint, sad shake of his head. "Careful won't always be enough. Not here, not now."

She swallowed hard, the basket's empty weight like a mirror for her hollow certainty. "What should I do?"

Jaren hesitated. The shadows from the torchlight flickered across his face, revealing lines of worry etched deep beneath his eyes. "Trust no one you don't know by sight. And even then, watch for what's left unsaid."

The words hung between them — simple, but loaded. Nella felt a rush of frustration, of helplessness. She wanted to scream that she was more than a secret whispered in dark halls, more than a bastard bound to the margins. Instead, she folded herself into silence.

"I'll be alright," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

Jaren's eyes searched hers, as if weighing the truth. "Just... be careful, Nella. The lord's leaving isn't just a journey. It's a shift. The castle changes when he rides out."

She nodded, fingers tightening once more around the cloak.

The great hall, once alive with the noisy bustle of Cregan Stark's retinue and the sharp clatter of armored boots, now lay subdued. Heavy beams above bore the weight of endless snow, their shadows stretching longer beneath the muted afternoon light. The roaring hearth that had cracked with life seemed smaller, its flames flickering weakly as if reluctant to burn without the lord who commanded its warmth.

Nella moved along the worn stone floor, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet runners laid down for winter's chill. The echo of her passage was swallowed quickly by the vast chamber's coldness. She paused briefly near one of the wide windows, frost tracing delicate patterns along the glass. Outside, the snow drifted soft and endless — a quiet world untouched by the storm gathering within these walls.

Inside, the castle was changing.

The courtiers' voices no longer carried the easy cadence of alliance and kinship. Instead, they spoke in clipped tones, their words guarded and cautious, as if weighed down by secrets too dangerous to share. Nella caught fragments as she passed—a whispered name, a sharp glance exchanged over goblets of dark wine. The web of politics, once distant and almost invisible, was tightening like a noose around the castle's heart.

The nobles, who had barely spared her more than a glance during Cregan's visit, now seemed colder, more distant. Their eyes slid past her like she were nothing more than a shadow cast by the stone walls—an inconvenient truth to be ignored. Servants too moved with a new edge to their manner, hurried steps and lowered voices suggesting unspoken fears and shifting loyalties. The small kindnesses she had glimpsed before seemed to retreat into the growing winter darkness.

Nella's chest tightened.

The fragile thread of connection she'd dared to hope for—the brief flicker of recognition in Lord Cregan's eyes—felt like it was slipping through her fingers, dissolving into the cold air.

Yet, somewhere beneath the weight of doubt, a small, stubborn ember burned. She would not vanish. Not yet.

With slow, deliberate steps, Nella continued down the hall, weaving through the tapestry of shadows and suspicion. Her fingers brushed the rough stone wall, grounding her in the present. She pulled her cloak tighter as she stepped away from the cold stone corridors of Widow's Watch, the late afternoon light fading fast behind the battlements. The castle's walls, once echoing with voices and footsteps, now seemed to close in around her—a silent weight pressing at her ribs.

She didn't know why, but her feet carried her toward the forest, toward the place where the direwolf had paused—where something strange had brushed against her senses. The trees rose dark and still, their skeletal branches etched stark against the bruised purple sky. Snowflakes drifted down slow and silent, dusting the world in fragile white.

At the edge of the woods, Nella stopped. She let the quiet wrap around her, the cold air filling her lungs like a balm. The forest held its breath with her. The same hush that had fallen when the wolf's golden eyes had locked with hers seemed to linger here still, as if the earth itself remembered. She knelt, touching the snow, trying to summon that flicker of connection again—the sense of something older and wilder, watching.

But then the air shifted. Her vision fractured.

Suddenly, a rush of burning heat tore through her chest. Pain exploded along her skin, like flames licking at her bones. She staggered back, clutching her side as dark shapes swirled before her eyes. She found herself inside a vast, shadowed hall. Torches sputtered along the stone walls, casting flickering light that danced like restless spirits. The floor was slick with dark stains—fresh blood that glistened cruelly beneath the wavering flames.

The voices rose, harsh and desperate—a cacophony of anger and fear, sharp as the clash of steel. Shapes twisted and turned in a storm of motion, cloaks ripped, faces contorted with raw, unchecked emotion. Men shouted, their voices tangled with rage and accusation, but the words were lost beneath the surge, an unintelligible tide crashing over her senses. Her eyes locked on a figure rigid in the center of the chaos—her father. His face was carved from stone, jaw clenched so tightly it seemed to hold back some terrible truth. His eyes burned with fierce resolve, but beneath the fire was something colder, a shadow of regret or bitter judgment that made her heart ache.

A flash—sharp, sudden—caught her eye. A dagger, raised high, its wicked gleam flickering in the torchlight. The blade descended in a swift, brutal arc. The air exploded with the sounds of struggle: desperate cries, the harsh rasp of flesh torn, the sickening thud of flesh meeting steel. Blood spilled, dark and vivid, splattering across stone cold and unyielding. 

Before she could turn away, the vision twisted, darkening and shifting like smoke caught in a storm. Now she was somewhere else, a place heavy with despair and dark secrets. The low ceiling pressed down like a weight, the walls slick with dampness and smeared with grime, dulling the flickering light of a single guttering candle. The air was thick and stifling—an oppressive blend of sweat, salt, and something far fouler, like the residue of broken promises and silenced cries.

Naked bodies pressed close together in cramped, shadowed corners. They trembled, shivering not from cold alone but from a deeper, gnawing fear. Skin pale and bruised, limbs entwined like fragile branches caught in a storm. Faces turned downward or buried in trembling hands, eyes wide but empty—vacant as if the soul had long since fled.

Soft whispers and stifled sobs rose and fell in a mournful rhythm, a quiet chorus of pain and loss that seeped into Nella's bones, freezing the breath in her lungs. The sounds clawed at her heart, pulling at something raw and tender she thought she had buried deep. Then one face broke through the haze of suffering—a pale, fragile girl, lips quivering as if on the verge of a scream or a plea. Her eyes met Nella's, dark and hollow, shimmering with silent desperation and unbearable loneliness. There was no comfort there, no hope—only the cold weight of endless night.

Nella felt the room spin around her, the walls seeming to close in tighter. A cold sweat broke across her skin, slick and clammy. Her body ached deeply, as though charred from within, burning with a fire that left no mark but pain. Her own hands trembled, clutching at nothing, trying to grasp a fleeting thread of sanity in a world unmoored. She realized, with a quiet horror, that she was among them — a naked girl pressed into the crowd, stripped of name, voice, and refuge. No one saw her, no one held her; she was just another lost soul swallowed by the shadows.

And yet beneath the crushing loneliness, a faint ember stirred—a stubborn flicker of resistance buried deep beneath the sorrow. Even here, even in this forsaken place, she felt something wild and untamed, waiting, watching, aching to break free.

Then the vision shattered like glass, fragments scattering back into the night air.

Nella gasped, collapsing onto the frozen earth, the snow melting beneath her fingertips as icy tears slipped down her cheeks. She pressed trembling hands against her burning temples, fighting to hold onto the shards of reality. Her legs trembled beneath her, threatening to give way, but she forced herself to stand. The bitter wind bit into her skin, sharp and real, reminding her that she was here—alone, in the forest's cold embrace.

A shudder wracked her body, but it was more than the chill. It was the weight of what she had glimpsed—a darkness wrapped in shadow, a secret too terrible to speak aloud. Confusion and fear tangled in her mind like thorns. Had it been real? A warning? A curse? She didn't know. But the loneliness in that vision, the silent cries of the girls, echoed in her soul with a hollow ache. Nella swallowed hard, the bitter taste of fear lingering on her tongue. She wiped numb fingers across her face, trying to chase away the trembling. Her gaze lifted to the gathering dusk, where the pale sky bled into the dark woods.

The forest no longer felt like a refuge—it felt like a veil, thin and fragile, barely keeping back the shadows pressing in from every side.

Yet somewhere deep inside, beneath the fear and confusion, a stubborn flame flickered. She did not understand the meaning of what she'd seen, but she knew this was no ordinary nightmare. Whatever lay ahead, it would not be quiet. 

And she would have to be ready.

Chapter Text

The castle corridors were cold and gray, but the eyes that followed Nella burned hot and foul. Her footsteps echoed lightly as she moved from room to room, carrying a basket weighed down with wet linens and scraps. The morning sun barely cut through the narrow windows, but the men's gazes were sharp and unmistakable.

She kept her head down, but it didn't stop the coarse voices from crawling after her.

"Oi, bastard girl," one guard called out, spitting on the floor near her feet. His breath smelled of sour ale and sweat. "Come here and let me see if you're as soft as you look."

A wolfish grin spread across his face as he licked his lips. "Bet you'd hide that pretty mouth from us, wouldn't you?"

Nella's stomach twisted. She didn't answer. She kept moving, clutching the basket like a shield.

Another man — a servant with dirt caked under his nails — leaned from a doorframe, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Hey, bastard, your arse's lookin' ripe for the taking. What's the price? Maybe a lick or two for a crust of bread?"

A snort and a burst of laughter followed, thick with crude delight. Nella's jaw clenched, but her voice stayed silent. She'd learned long ago that speaking back only made things worse.

"Don't be so quick to hide that pretty face," a third man said, stepping closer, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab. "I bet you're used to a cock in your mouth, huh? That's what bastards like you are good for."

Her heart slammed against her ribs, but she forced herself to keep walking, each step measured and slow. They spat words after her, filthy and vicious, taunts coated in lust and cruelty.

"Too good for us, huh?" one sneered. "We'll make you learn your place."

"Best watch your back, little firewood girl," another muttered. "The cold's got nothing on the chill you'll feel when they come for you."

The laughter rose, ugly and raw, as they exchanged leers and crude jokes. Nella's hands trembled, the basket nearly slipping, but she gritted her teeth and swallowed the bile rising in her throat. This was the world she moved through—the shadows where fear and disgust blended, where her body was never her own.

And yet... somehow, it was becoming less sharp. Less like a knife slicing her open every time.

The men's voices faded behind her as she slipped into the servants' quarters, the heavy wooden door closing with a dull thud that felt like a small shield between her and the world outside. The air inside was thick with the smell of damp straw and smoke from the kitchens, but it was quieter—safer—than the cold halls where lust and cruelty hung like a stench.

Nella set down the basket with a shaky sigh and leaned against the rough stone wall. Her breath came in shallow, trembling gasps. The weight of their words pressed down on her chest, each insult carving its mark deeper than she let on. She pressed her fingers to her lips, biting back the bitter taste that threatened to spill—the tears, the shame, the rage. None of it belonged here. None of it was hers to own.

But still, it was.

She had come to understand the look in those men's eyes—the hungry glint that stripped her bare before a word was spoken. The way they measured her like livestock, trading their crude fantasies like currency. The castle was no refuge. It was a cage, with invisible bars woven from spite and lust.

The narrow corridor near the kitchens was dim and stale, thick with the mingled scents of salt, smoke, and damp stone. Flickering candlelight threw long, restless shadows on the cold walls as Nella moved slowly, her hands wrapped tightly around the worn wooden bucket she carried. The weight of it felt heavier than usual, dragging at her fingers, as if carrying more than just water.

A quiet step behind her made her pause. She glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly. Maela, the kitchen maid, approached cautiously, her face drawn and serious. Dark circles framed her eyes, shadows born of sleepless nights and worry. The usual warmth in her expression was replaced by something sharper — urgency, maybe even fear.

"I saw what happened," Maela said quietly, her voice barely more than a breath. She glanced around nervously, lips pressed into a thin line. "Those men... they don't just talk like that for no reason. It'll get worse if you don't watch yourself."

Nella stiffened, the bucket suddenly feeling like a shield she wanted to hide behind. She didn't deny it. Couldn't deny it. The words—the leers—the sickening weight of their lust—had settled in her mind like poison. Maela took a small step closer, lowering her voice even further, the candlelight catching the lines of worry etched deep into her face. She hesitated, then pulled back the collar of her coarse linen shirt just enough to reveal a faded, jagged scar tracing her collarbone.

"This," she said, voice trembling but edged with fierce honesty, "this is from one of them." Her fingers brushed the scar as if it still ached beneath her touch. "A man from the lord's retinue." Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard before continuing. "He's raped me three times this month. Three times. And each time I told myself it would be the last — that it was just that one, just that moment. But it didn't stop. It never stops."

Her eyes glistened, moisture threatening to spill over, but she blinked stubbornly, refusing to let tears fall. "I don't want that for you, Nella. I don't want you to be broken like I am — to carry those shadows in your bones and never be free. Not when there's still a chance to get away."

The words hung in the heavy air, pressing down on Nella's chest like a stone. Her fingers clenched tighter around the bucket's rim, knuckles whitening. A cold ache settled deep inside her, a fracture in the fragile shell she'd so carefully built around herself, threatening to splinter it open.

"Where would I go? I don't belong anywhere else," Nella said, voice taut, barely above a whisper but firm as steel. "This castle, these halls... it's all I've ever known. It's the only world I have."

Maela's gaze softened, the hardness around her eyes giving way to something gentler — but her tone remained unyielding, insistent. "You're more than what this place lets you be. Beyond these walls — out there — there's a life waiting for you. A life where you don't have to live in fear, where men don't leer at you like you're some possession to be claimed or broken. You deserve that."

Nella's jaw tightened, the bitter taste of truth settling like ash in her mouth. "I'm nobody out there," she said quietly, almost defeated. "Just a bastard with no family, no name, no place to go."

Maela's voice dropped lower, urgent now, her eyes darting toward the narrow window where slivers of fading daylight struggled through grime and wood. "The lord's men will hunt tonight," she whispered, barely audible but fierce as a blade's edge. "They'll be drunk on the chase, heads filled with ale and cruel thoughts. It might be the only chance you get. When they're distracted, you slip away. I'll be waiting by the edge of the woods — ready to guide you."

Nella's heart slammed painfully against her ribs, cold dread swirling with a flicker of desperate hope. The thought of leaving, of disappearing into the darkness, felt both terrifying and strangely freeing.

She nodded, voice barely steady. "Tonight, then."

Later, as dusk bled into night, Nella moved through the quiet stone corridors with careful steps, her breath shallow and her senses sharp to every creak and whisper. She gathered a small bundle — a coarse cloak to ward off the cold, a piece of stale bread Maela had slipped her, and a small leather pouch with a few coins she'd hidden away over time. She didn't dare take more.

Her hands trembled as she tied the cloak tighter around her shoulders, the weight of what she was doing settling on her like a stone. Every noise made her freeze: the distant clang of armor, the murmur of voices beyond closed doors, the soft thud of footsteps too close behind.

The castle, so familiar, now felt like a trap closing in — cold, watchful, merciless.

Outside, the wind was sharp and bitter, whipping snowflakes through the darkening woods like restless spirits. The skeletal branches clawed at the heavy gray sky, shedding brittle flakes that swirled around Nella like whispered warnings. Her heart hammered in her chest, a frantic drumbeat echoing the storm of fear and hope inside her.

She slipped between the skeletal trees with careful, hurried steps, each crunch of snow beneath her boots a sharp reminder of how far she was from safety. The basket she'd carried was gone — abandoned in the shadows of the castle, a small but decisive severing from the life she was leaving behind. Her breath came out in short, ragged bursts, white clouds dissolving quickly into the cold air, mingling with the soft, mournful whisper of the pines.

In this frozen wilderness, the world felt vast and merciless — a sprawling unknown that stretched beyond the walls she had known all her life. Yet, beneath the icy bite of the wind, a flicker of something else stirred — a fragile thread of possibility.

What could be ahead of her? The thought pulled at her, both terrifying and strangely alluring. A life unshackled from the castle's shadow, where she wasn't just the unwanted bastard, the whispered shame behind closed doors. A life where she could walk without fear in her eyes, where men didn't leer and threaten, where she wasn't marked by scars and stolen moments of stolen kindness.

But what if the world beyond was colder still? What if hunger, loneliness, and cruelty awaited her in lands unfamiliar and unforgiving? The snow beneath her feet was like a blank page, waiting — but what words would be written there? Would she be strong enough to carve a place for herself, or would she vanish like the frost under the morning sun?

Nella's breath hitched as she stepped deeper into the dark woods, heart pounding with a mix of hope and dread. Suddenly, the crunch of hooves broke the silence. Ahead, a shadow detached itself from the gloom—a horseman, riding slowly.

Her chest tightened as recognition struck. Jory, the lord's son, dismounted with deliberate ease. Panic surged through her veins. She turned to run, but before she could move far, a heavy hand caught her wrist.

"Going somewhere, bastard?" Jory's voice was low and hard, eyes cold with cruel certainty.

Nella struggled, twisting her body, but his grip was like iron. He pressed forward, pinning her against the rough bark of a tree. The cold bit through her clothes, but the heat of fear burned hotter.

"You don't leave this place," he sneered. "You belong here — like it or not. You serve until you die."

Jory's fingers moved to unbuckle his belt, the cold metal catching the fading light. Nella's panic surged—desperate, raw. She kicked out wildly, her foot striking his chest, but he only grunted and shoved her roughly to the ground. Nella's body writhed beneath Jory's weight, each desperate movement met with cruel force. She kicked, shoved, clawed—anything to break free—but he tightened his grip, his hands like iron shackles holding her down.

"Stop fighting," he snarled, his breath harsh against her face.

Nella's panic flared hotter than the cold biting at her skin. She felt his rough hand sliding beneath her skirts, invading her space. Desperation surged through her like wildfire, and with every ounce of strength left, she bit down hard on the hand pressing her shoulders to the ground. A sharp cry escaped him, and he jerked back, clutching his bitten hand, his face twisting with surprise and anger.

He yelped, momentarily stunned, eyes blazing with fury. "You little bitch," he snarled, his voice thick with rage. Without hesitation, he struck her hard across the face. The blow blurred the world, pain exploding through her cheek.

Then came a sudden, searing pain—sharp and overwhelming, like a fire flaring deep inside her. It stole the air from her lungs, leaving her breathless and trembling. The shock of it coursed through her body, spreading a cold numbness that clashed with the burning ache. Tears welled up, spilling silently down her cheeks as her hands clenched the frozen earth beneath her.

A quiet, broken sound escaped her lips—less a cry and more a raw expression of helplessness and despair that words could never capture. The world seemed to tilt and blur around her, the cold biting at her skin while inside, a storm of confusion, fear, and pain raged fiercely, folding her into itself.

The pain seared through her like wildfire, stealing her breath and shattering her will. Between gritted teeth, he spat venomous words, low and filthy. "You think you're some highborn princess? You're nothing but a bastard whore for the true borns to fuck whenever they please." His hands gripped her like she was dirt beneath his nails, forcing himself on her with brutal weight. "You're mine now—your body's just used and tossed aside. No one gives a damn about you."

Her muffled cries only made him laugh—a harsh, bitter sound—and he pressed down harder, his cruel words slicing through her like a blade. Each thrust tore through her like a fresh wave of fire, her body trembling beneath him, every breath a ragged gasp. Her vision blurred, tears stinging her eyes as pain and humiliation mingled into a suffocating haze.

He sneered down at her, voice dripping with contempt. "You scream like it's the first time, little bastard. You'll learn to take it, whether you like it or not. This is your place now." His words hammered into her, crushing any flicker of resistance. 

Nella's body shook with pain, her spirit sinking toward surrender. Each wave of torment was crushing, and for a terrifying moment, she thought she might give in.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, something caught her attention—the glint of a dagger lying on the ground, just beyond his right hip. A surge of desperate resolve flared inside her. Summoning every ounce of strength, she shoved him hard, throwing off his balance. She rolled swiftly to the side, gasping, and her fingers closed around the hilt of the dagger.

Before he could recover, she lashed out with fierce precision, slicing two of his fingers as he lunged to grab her. A sharp scream tore from his throat, blood spilling hot and dark onto the snow.

Nella didn't hesitate. She scrambled to her feet, heart hammering, and ran—pushing through the biting cold, ignoring the pain in her body and the burning shame.

Behind her, she heard the ragged cries of Jory, bleeding and furious.

Nella's legs pumped wildly, each step uneven on the slippery snow-covered earth. Her breath came out in sharp, desperate gasps, fogging the cold air in front of her like pale ghosts. Panic clawed at her throat, tightening with every snap of twig and crunch of frozen leaves beneath her boots. Her heart thundered in her chest, pounding against her ribs like a caged animal desperate for escape.

Branches whipped against her face and tore at her cloak, but she didn't dare slow down to brush them away. Every instinct screamed to run faster, farther—anywhere but back to him. She stumbled forward blindly, eyes scanning the dark shapes of the forest for refuge. Shadows deepened between the skeletal trunks, but nowhere felt safe. Every path seemed to fold back on itself, trapping her in a maze of cold and fear.

Then, as her lungs burned and her legs faltered, she saw them—horses and hunting hounds bursting through the trees, crashing toward her like thunder on the frozen ground. Her blood ran cold. She skidded to a halt, terror rooting her to the spot as the snarling dogs closed in, their eyes bright and wild.

Ahead, men on horseback rode hard, faces grim and eyes fixed on her trembling figure.

Nella's eyes widened as the horses drew nearer—through the snow-flecked gloom, she recognized the sigils on their banners: her father's men. And there, atop a tall black steed, sat her father himself, his face set hard and cold as winter stone. Relief and dread tangled inside her like bitter ice.

Before she could move, a rough hand seized her arm, yanking her from the spot with a force that sent a jolt through her whole body. She struggled, but the man's grip was iron.

"Easy now," a gruff voice said. "We've got her."

Nella's breath hitched. Her father's eyes burned with a terrifying intensity, the weight of his wrath pressing down on her like the cold stone beneath her feet. His voice was low but fierce, each word a sharp blade cutting through the silence. "Where is Jory? What have you done to my son, you worthless—" His words caught in his throat, but the venom lingered, raw and threatening. "Speak! Where is he?"

Nella's lips remained sealed, stubborn as iron. The cold ropes bit into her wrists, but she held her silence, the refusal to answer a fragile shield against the storm of his fury. Her jaw was tight, teeth clenched beneath her pale skin. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of her voice.

The tense stillness between them stretched unbearably long, her father's breath visible in the frosty air, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. The only sound was the faint crunch of snow beneath horses' hooves and the whisper of the wind through the skeletal trees.

Suddenly, with a harsh curse, her father's hand shot out, striking her sharply across the cheek. Nella stumbled, pain blossoming hot and stinging where his rough palm connected, and she fell heavily onto the cold ground. The snow pressed into her face, biting through her clothes, but still, she said nothing.

Then, breaking through the charged silence, came a distant, raw cry — Jory's voice, ragged and desperate, slicing through the chill. Her father's head snapped up, eyes wide and wild, nostrils flaring as he caught the sound.

"There!" he shouted, spurring his horse into a gallop. "Find him! Now!"

The men tightened the ropes around Nella's wrists, dragging her roughly back to her feet, but her legs felt like lead, and her heart pounded with a dreadful certainty. She stood there, frozen and trembling, the biting cold wrapping around her like a shroud as she watched her father vanish into the trees, chasing the sound of his son's cries.

And in that heavy silence left behind, Nella knew with terrifying clarity what awaited her once the hunt was over.

Chapter Text

Nella was dragged through the great doors, her bloodied clothes clinging to her trembling body. The rough ropes bit cruelly into her wrists, pulling her arms behind her back. Her skin was pale beneath the grime and dried blood, and her eyes, wide and raw, darted nervously around the vast chamber.

The gathered lords and retainers turned their heads as she was brought forward, whispers slicing through the silence like knives. At the center of the hall stood her father, tall and stern, flanked by his men. Near him was Jory—his lordship's son—his face twisted with pain and fury, two of his fingers tightly bandaged.

Jory's voice rang out sharp and accusing, breaking the murmurs. "Father, she's ruined me! How can I ever wield a sword now? Two fingers gone because of that bastard witch!" He spat the last word with venom, pacing before the assembly.

Her father's gaze shifted from Jory to Nella, cold and unyielding. "You defied your blood," he said, voice low but heavy with judgment. "You brought shame and injury upon my heir. That cannot go unpunished."

Jory paced in front of the gathered lords and retainers, the bandages on his two severed fingers stark against his pale skin. His face was flushed with pain and rage, voice dripping with venom as he spat his accusations.

"Father, you must understand what happened!" Jory began, voice loud enough to fill the hall, eyes blazing with fury. "I caught her trying to run—this bastard—thinking she could escape. I was right to stop her. She's always been a thorn, sneaking through the halls like a rat."

He sneered, "I took what was mine—what any true born Flint has the right to take." His voice lowered, cruel and bitter. "I raped her, just like those men who think they can have their way with her."

Jory's fists clenched, shaking with anger. "But that witch had the audacity to fight back. When I tried to claim her, she bit me, cursed me—and then, she cut off two of my fingers. Two! Can you imagine? How am I to fight now? What kind of monster does that?"

Her father's gaze bore into her like a hammer. The hall was cold, but his voice was colder still as he stepped forward. "You have nothing to say for yourself?" he demanded, voice low but heavy with command. "Do you not understand the gravity of your crime? To harm the son of a lord—my son—is treason and sacrilege both. The punishment for such an act will be severe."

Nella's eyes met his briefly, defiance burning quietly beneath the surface. Then, with deliberate spite, she spat on the cold stone floor before him. A ripple of shock and disgust passed through the crowd.

Jory's face twisted with rage, his voice rising in a harsh sneer. "Look at her, Father! She has the gall to mock us even now. The whip will not teach her respect. If you do not act soon, her insolence will only grow."

He spat again, louder this time. "She should be broken, made an example of. Not just whipped—but worse. If you mean to keep the Flint's name untarnished, you will make sure she never defies us again."

Her father turned sharply toward Jory, his eyes narrowing as he studied the lord's son's furious expression. "And what punishment do you think would be fitting, Jory?" His voice was calm, but carried the unmistakable weight of command. "What would make you feel this—this grievance—avenged?"

Jory stepped forward, chest heaving, face flushed with anger. "Sell her off," he spat, voice bitter. "She's a bastard. Doesn't belong here or anywhere near noble blood. She's nothing but dirt beneath our feet. The nearest brothel will take her, I'm sure—men will pay good coin just to have her."

A murmur spread through the hall. The word bastard hung heavy, a final condemnation.

"She's no daughter of this house," Jory continued, voice rising. "Let her rot where she belongs, a whore for strangers. It's the only justice that fits."

Her father's face was hard and unreadable for a long moment before he nodded slowly, the chill in his voice cutting sharper than any blade. "So be it. You are no longer Nella bastard of house Flint. You belong to no one here. We will send you away where you cannot disgrace us further."

He paused, eyes lingering on her bloodied, bruised form. "May the gods have mercy on your soul."

Nella's voice broke through the heavy silence, low but fierce. "No. You have no right. You can't—"

Her words hung in the air like a challenge, raw defiance burning behind her bruised eyes.

Her father's eyes snapped to her, rage flaring like wildfire. "You dare speak back to me? To me, who gave you life?" His voice was cold, sharp as ice. "You think you're more than the bastard filth you are?"

He took a step forward, his gaze darkening with cruel certainty. "You are nothing but a stain on this family's name. Just like your mother—" His words spat venom, the weight of history and scorn. "A Lyseni whore who brought shame upon us all. And like her, you will be cast out to rot. A whore to the end, and you will die like her."

Her father's words hung heavy in the air, sharp and unforgiving, carving deep wounds not only in her flesh but in her very soul. The room was silent except for the distant echoes of the castle—footsteps, murmurs, the cold breath of winter pressing against the stone walls. Nella's lips trembled, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg. Instead, her eyes burned with a quiet, smoldering fire. The sting of his cruelty only fed the fierce ember of rebellion inside her.

She lifted her chin, voice barely more than a whisper but laced with icy resolve. "You may cast me out, call me what you will... but you will never break me."

Her father sneered, stepping closer, the scent of ale and authority heavy on him. "Break you? No, bastard. We will dispose of you. Sold to the lowest brothel, stripped of everything but your shame. You will be forgotten... except by the men who pay to have their way with you."

The flicker of fear that had once threatened to consume her was swallowed by something sharper—defiance, raw and unyielding.

He spat on the floor near her feet, a final act of contempt. "And when you die," he said darkly, "it will be with that filth on your hands and soul. Just like her before you."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence, but Nella's heart refused to yield. Even as the ropes bit into her wrists, even as her body ached from the wounds inflicted that day, she made a silent vow:

She would survive. No matter what hell awaited her, she would survive.

The heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind her, the echoes swallowed quickly by the cold, unyielding stone walls. Nella stood frozen for a moment in the courtyard, her breath catching in her throat as she watched the castle—the only home she had ever known, yet also her prison—shrink into the distance. The towering spires, once so sharp and defined against the sky, blurred in the biting mist and winter's unforgiving breath, their jagged edges softening like the fragile threads of a fading dream.

A sharp ache pressed deep in her chest—an unexpected weight that squeezed her heart. She thought of Jaren, the quiet servant whose kindness had been a rare light in the shadows. She would never get to say goodbye, never feel the warmth of that fleeting friendship again. And the maester's chamber, with its dusty tomes and secret knowledge—the stolen scraps of magic and history she had clung to like lifelines—were now forever out of reach. Those small acts of rebellion, her quiet escape into the world of the unseen and the unknown, were lost to her like whispers on the wind.

Her fingers brushed the rough fabric of her tattered cloak as the carriage lurched forward, the worn wheels groaning and crunching over the frozen earth. The wagon was as broken and weary as the future she was being dragged toward—a place unknown, filled with strangers who would see only what she was: a bastard, a castoff, an unwanted shadow.

Nella's gaze stretched out beyond the bleak landscape, where the horizon melted into the heavy gray skies. She was Nella, but she belonged nowhere—not here, not there, not anywhere. A solitary figure caught between worlds, invisible and unclaimed.

Nella's voice was barely more than a whisper, carried on the cold air inside the cramped carriage. "Where... where are you taking me?" Her fingers clenched tighter around the worn edge of the wooden carriage, knuckles pale with tension. "What place is this? Give me a name."

The men riding alongside the carriage exchanged cruel, amused glances. One, a burly man with a scar cutting across his cheek, let out a low, mocking chuckle. "What does it matter to you, bastard? You won't be anywhere you'd want to be."

Another spat on the frozen ground near her feet. "Aye, she doesn't belong anywhere but where whores and broken things end up.  The city's rough enough for a bastard like you."

Nella's heart hammered painfully, but she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to let them see the flicker of desperation inside. "I deserve to know," she said, voice shaking but steady. "Even if you think I'm nothing, I want a name. A place."

The first man sneered, voice dripping with contempt. "You're going to White Harbor. A port city full of thieves, sailors, and worse. There's no place for a bastard girl like you but the shadows."

The words fell like ice on her skin. White Harbor—a sprawling, harsh city where anonymity swallowed people whole, and survival was never guaranteed. The name held no comfort, only the bitter sting of exile.

Instinctively, her hand moved to the faint, crescent-shaped birthmark just on her arm—a secret she had kept hidden even from herself. She traced its delicate curve with trembling fingers, seeking in its quiet presence a talisman against the darkness closing around her. It was a small, stubborn hope—a fragile promise that maybe, beyond the cold stones and harsh fate, there was something greater waiting for her.

But as the chill wind pressed against the carriage window and her breath fogged the glass, the cruel truth settled over her like a shroud. The future stretched ahead—barren, relentless, unforgiving—much like the frozen land rushing past. That mark, once a secret source of comfort, now felt like a silent reminder that she was marked for something more, yet utterly alone in the cold reality of her fate.

The carriage rolled on, carrying her away from all she had ever known—and into the shadows of everything she feared.

Outside, the world blurred into streaks of gray and white as snow began to fall again, soft flakes swirling against the darkening sky. Inside the cramped, rattling wagon, the cold seeped through the thin wood and threadbare blankets, biting at Nella's skin and chilling her bones. She curled inward on the narrow bench, trying to make herself smaller, less visible—to disappear beneath the weight of her own dread.

Her eyes stared past the cracked window, where leafless trees reached like skeletal fingers toward the heavy clouds. The silence around her was suffocating, broken only by the creak of the wheels and the dull thud of hooves on frozen earth. The men talked in low voices, their rough laughter and harsh words muffled but unmistakably cruel.

The carriage jolted suddenly as it crossed a frozen brook, and Nella's breath caught in her throat. Outside, the path wound steadily downward toward the sprawling shadows of White Harbor, a city she had only heard whispers of—foul and unforgiving, a place where lost souls were swallowed whole.

She swallowed her fear, biting her lip against the bitter tears threatening to spill. Somewhere deep inside, beneath the bruises and broken hopes, a flicker of something fragile stirred—hope, or maybe stubborn defiance.

She was Nella. Bastard, castoff, exile.

But she was still here. Still breathing. And somehow, she would survive.

Chapter Text

The wagon creaked and groaned as it rumbled into the outskirts of White Harbor. The city rose from the snow like a jagged beast—walls high and weathered, towers scraping the leaden sky. Chimneys puffed smoke that mingled with the cold air, carrying the scent of burning wood, salt, and the distant sea. Despite the biting frost, a faint warmth seemed to pulse from the clustered buildings, flickering from windows and hearths tucked deep within stone walls.

Nella's breath fogged the window as they rolled closer, the narrow streets winding tight between timbered houses and market stalls draped in frost. The sound of life drifted through the cold: the clatter of hooves, the murmur of voices, the faint laughter of a tavern spilling into the dusk.

They stopped before a stout building, its dark wood beams etched with worn carvings and frost-glazed windows that glimmered with light. From within came the unmistakable sound of laughter—sharp, breathy, and layered with something sly and secretive. The snow around the doorstep was trampled and dirty, a sharp contrast to the fresh powder blanketing the rest of the city.

The door swung open, and a woman stepped out—tall and poised, with hair like burnished copper that caught the fading light, and eyes sharp and glinting with a mix of curiosity and cold calculation. Her lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile, the kind that promised pleasures wrapped in danger. She stepped closer, her gaze lingering on Nella's bruised and bound form as if already appraising the worth hidden beneath the ragged edges.

"Well, what have we here?" she purred, her voice smooth, low, and dripping with a practiced seduction. "A special delivery, perhaps? A fresh face for the men of the North to enjoy." She circled the wagon with a predator's grace, voice lilting like a song meant to tempt and ensnare. 

Nella's breath caught, a cold shiver running through her despite the warmth spilling from the open door. The woman's words twisted in her gut like a warning—this was no kindness, no hope. It was a promise of a cruel, grinding fate where her body would be traded like coin, tamed and used until there was nothing left.

One of the men answered gruffly, "She's a bastard from House Flint. Not worth the stones she stands on, but she'll do well enough for the mistress's establishment."

The woman's eyes flicked over Nella again, sharp and calculating, but lingering longer on her features—her dark, fierce eyes, the curve of her jaw, the wildness in her stance. A slow smile curved her lips, one part appraisal, one part something almost like admiration.

"Well, well," she murmured, voice low and smooth, almost tender in its mockery. "She's beautiful... an exotic kind of beauty. Not the usual fare we see here. That wild blood might just make her more valuable than they reckon. She'll do very well indeed."

Her gaze caught the flicker of hope—or was it fear?—in Nella's eyes, and she leaned in slightly, as if sharing a secret. "The men around here will pay handsomely for a girl who stands out. You, my dear, might be their new favorite."

The warmth in her voice was chilling.

The man shrugged, a rough sneer tugging at his lips. "How much you reckon for her? What's the coin for a bastard like this?"

The woman's eyes glinted with sharp cunning, the kind that had seen countless deals struck in whispered shadows. She stepped closer to the wagon, tilting her head as if sizing up a rare and unpredictable prize.

"She's young, fierce... and, as I said, that wild blood will make her worth far more than you think." Her voice dropped, smooth and confident, almost a purr. "A girl like this—exotic, untamed—she'll fetch a good price from the men who crave something different, something dangerous. And she'll bring them back, again and again."

She glanced back at the men, her smile widening with the certainty of her calculation. "I'll give you fifty silver stags for her. Maybe more, once I see what she's truly worth. She'll make me a fortune."

The men exchanged looks, surprise flashing in their eyes at the unexpected offer. The woman's confidence was unsettling, but there was no denying the promise of coin. One of them grunted, "Fifty's more than I expected, but she's not just any girl. If you think she's worth it..."

The woman's gaze sharpened. "I don't think. I know." She gave a slow nod, sealing the bargain with the weight of her certainty. "She's a rare one, and rare things bring gold."

The man's knife sliced through the rough ropes binding Nella's wrists with a sharp snap. Freed, she rubbed her sore skin, but before she could fully gather herself, rough hands gripped her arms and pulled her forward.

Inside, the heavy door shut behind them with a dull thud, cutting off the cold air. The scent that greeted her was unexpected—less foul than she'd feared, yet far from comforting. It was a strange mix of sweat, spiced oils, and something floral and exotic that clung to the heavy curtains and polished wood. The aroma unsettled her, unfamiliar and thick in the close air.

Behind her, the men chuckled and jostled one another, their laughter filling the room as they turned toward a stout, heavily made-up woman sitting nearby. They leaned in, voices low and crude, ready to buy their own pleasures for the night. Nella's eyes darted to the door just as it swung shut behind the men, leaving her alone with the woman who had bought her.

The woman's smile returned, softer now but still edged with something sharp. "Come," she said, extending a hand. "You'll want to meet the others before the evening begins."

With a cautious hesitation, Nella followed her down dimly lit corridors, the muted sounds of the house — quiet footsteps, low murmurs, faint music — wrapping around them like a strange new world. The woman's voice was calm, almost soothing as she spoke. "We take care of our own here. You'll find the others waiting, and then you'll understand. This place... it's a home in its own way."

The door to the room opened wider, and several women stepped forward to greet Nella. Their eyes roamed over her with a mixture of curiosity and appraisal. The air was thick with a scent of spices and musk—strange and unfamiliar to her.

A tall woman with raven-black hair named Lysa approached first. Her fingers brushed lightly against Nella's shoulder, firm but not unkind. "You're beautiful," Lysa said softly, a teasing smile playing at her lips. "Exotic, even. The men will pay well for that."

Another, smaller but confident woman called Rena stepped forward, her eyes glittering. She reached out and gently cupped one of Nella's breasts, her touch both bold and practiced. "You'll learn quickly," Rena murmured, "how to use what you've been given."

Nella flinched slightly, unused to such familiarity, but something in their touch was strangely comforting. Not warm, but knowing. Their hands lingered for a moment before retreating.

A third woman, Mira, older and quieter, nodded at Nella with a knowing glance. "Don't be afraid," she said gently. "This place may take pieces of you, but it gives you strength in return. You'll find your way."

Their voices mingled, some calling her "beautiful," others whispering encouragement. Nella felt a flush rise to her cheeks, the feeling strange and confusing—a mix of fear, curiosity, and something dangerously close to hope.

The woman who had bought her—the mistress of the house—stepped forward again, voice smooth and commanding. "Come with me."

Nella hesitated for a moment, then, with a soft pressure of a hand against her back, she was guided forward. They moved through a narrow corridor where the walls hummed faintly with muffled sounds: laughter, whispered promises, and the low murmur of men's voices.

As they neared an open doorway, Nella caught a glimpse inside.

The room was dimly lit by flickering lanterns, casting warm amber pools of light over bodies moving with fluid grace. Naked girls swayed and danced, their skin glistening with sweat as they pressed against the men seated around them. Some rocked gently, their movements slow and deliberate, others laughed softly, their eyes alight with a mixture of exhaustion and something deeper—captivation, or perhaps a kind of resigned acceptance.

The sight caught Nella off guard. It was intoxicating in a way she hadn't expected—an unfamiliar world of raw desire and power, all wrapped in silk and shadow. Her heart quickened, a knot tightening in her stomach. The sensuality in the air was heavy, almost suffocating, and yet there was an undeniable allure in the way the women commanded attention, their bodies both weapon and shield.

For a moment, Nella simply stood there, watching, torn between fascination and a quiet, growing fear of what her own place in this world might be.

The mistress's voice cut through the haze. "This is your new life, Nella. It's not what you've known, but it's real. And here, you will learn how to survive—and maybe even thrive." Her eyes gleamed, sharp and knowing.

They stepped through another heavy door and entered a room that took Nella's breath away. It was richly decorated—far more lavish than anything she had seen in the North. Velvet drapes in deep crimsons and golds hung from dark wooden beams overhead. Plush cushions and low tables dotted the room, and intricate tapestries embroidered with exotic patterns adorned the walls, telling stories of distant lands and foreign gods. The scent of sandalwood and rare spices mingled with the faintest hint of jasmine, an intoxicating contrast to the cold, pine-scented air outside.

It resembled a great hall in its size and warmth but carried an unfamiliar opulence and softness that set it worlds apart from the stark stone castles she knew. Flickering candlelight danced across the gilded edges of carved furniture, throwing playful shadows that seemed to pulse with life.

The mistress gestured gracefully toward a low, embroidered settee. "Sit, love," she said in a voice now warm, almost motherly. "There's much we must discuss."

Nella lowered herself onto the cushions, feeling the plush fabric beneath her like a foreign luxury.

The woman's eyes softened with curiosity. "Tell me about your life before this—your family, your home. What did you know of the world beyond these walls?"

Nella’s fingers tightened in her lap, her eyes darting down. She shifted, as though the weight of the question pressed too heavily. “I… there isn’t much to say,” she began softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I was… only a bastard. No one important.”

Her cheeks warmed as she spoke, the words halting. “Most days I worked in the kitchens… carrying buckets, scrubbing floors until my hands cracked. Sometimes I had to fetch water from the lake… or gather food for the fires. I smelled of smoke more often than not.” She gave a nervous laugh, though it quickly faded.

For a long moment she was quiet, her eyes fixed on her hands. “That was all I knew. Work. Silence. Being… unseen.”

Then, almost shyly, she lifted her gaze again, as though confessing something small but precious. “But… it made me strong, I think. I learned to endure. To find joy in little things. To dream, even if I didn’t speak of it.”

The mistress nodded slowly, absorbing every word. Then her gaze sharpened, and her tone shifted, more direct now. "And tell me... have you any familiarity with the work of the body? Have you ever been inside a house like mine? Do you know what it means to serve—not just with your hands, but with everything you have?"

Nella said nothing at first, her eyes fixed on the intricate patterns woven into the cushions beneath her. The weight of the question pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating. Her fingers unconsciously moved to the faint crescent-shaped birthmark just beneath her collarbone, tracing its delicate curve with trembling touch.

A sudden sting rose behind her eyes, and she blinked hard as tears welled up, blurring the room's rich colors into a hazy swirl. The mistress watched her quietly, her gaze softening with understanding. After a long pause, she leaned in slightly and asked gently, "Has anyone ever touched you, Nella?"

Nella's voice was barely a whisper, trembling with the weight of the memory. "The lord's son... my own half-brother. The day I tried to run away." She swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the worn floorboards. "He caught me...I fought, but..." Her voice cracked, the words choking off. "I had to cut his fingers to get away."

The room fell silent except for the faint crackle of the hearth fire. Then, slowly, the mistress stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Nella in a gentle, unexpected embrace. It was warm and steady—maternal, something Nella had never known or allowed herself to hope for.

The mistress held her for a moment longer before pulling back slightly, her eyes soft but resolute. "You'll find a home here, Nella. These girls," she gestured toward the room where laughter and whispers drifted in, "they're broken in their own ways, scarred by lives that tried to break them. But here... they fight to get free from that cycle."

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a quiet, deliberate whisper that felt like a secret shared in the dark. "You'll learn to overcome your past, Nella—not by forgetting it, but by bending it to your will. The pain, the fear... they can be tools, if you know how to wield them. You won't always be the helpless one."

Her eyes locked onto Nella's with fierce certainty. "Men like your half brother," she said, her tone sharpening, "they strut around thinking they own the world, thinking their strength makes them unstoppable. But strength without cunning is weakness. They're predictable, driven by lust and pride. Easy to twist, to break their wills and make them beg for what you offer."

She straightened, the warmth in her voice blending with steel. "Here, you'll learn how to turn their power against them. How to use your body, your mind, your pain as weapons. This place will teach you control, survival, and when the time is right, revenge. You won't be a victim anymore. You'll be something far more dangerous."

Nella swallowed hard, the weight of those words settling deep inside her. For a long moment, she said nothing, her fingers unconsciously tracing the crescent mark on her arm.

Finally, her voice was low, hesitant but fierce all the same. "I don't want to be weak anymore. I'm tired of being scared—tired of feeling like I'm nothing." She looked up, eyes searching the mistress's face. "If this is what it takes... if I have to become something dangerous... then I'll learn. I have to."

The mistress gave her a small, approving smile, a flicker of pride in her eyes. "Good. Because strength isn't given. It's taken. And here, you'll learn to take everything you deserve—and more."

Chapter Text

The next morning, pale light filtered through the narrow window as Nella was led by Lysa into a smaller, more intimate chamber. The walls were lined with heavy tapestries in deep reds and golds, muffling sound and lending the room a warmth that contrasted sharply with the cold outside. A faint scent of rosewater lingered in the air, mingling with the musky undertones of worn velvet and candles.

Lysa's steps were sure and measured, her presence calm yet commanding. She glanced at Nella with a knowing smile, her eyes dark and sparkling with experience, as if they had seen every whispered secret and broken heart within these walls. When she closed the door softly behind them, the slight click echoed like a threshold crossing—a boundary Nella was about to step beyond.

Turning back, Lysa's teasing grin broke through the quiet. "Well, little one, time to learn how to please a man. Don't worry, it's not as terrifying as it sounds."

Nella's stomach twisted. She shifted awkwardly, feeling the weight of her ragged clothes and the ropes recently cut from her wrists as heat flushed her cheeks. "I... I don't know where to start," she admitted in a small voice, barely steady.

Lysa chuckled softly, the sound rich and warm, like the flicker of a hearth fire. She brushed a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear, her gaze never leaving Nella's face. "Most don't. That's why you're here—to learn. First rule: men aren't monsters. They respond to confidence—whether it's real or just well-played. The trick is learning to sell it."

Nella's eyes widened, confusion mixing with curiosity. "Sell it?" she echoed, voice uncertain.

"Your body, your voice, your touch," Lysa said, stepping closer with a measured grace, her tone gentle but unwavering. "It's not just what you do, but how you make them feel. You're not just an object to be used — you're a force to be reckoned with."

Nella swallowed hard, biting her lip as the weight of Lysa's words settled deep inside her. She felt exposed, fragile, but also strangely alive.

Lysa reached out, letting her fingertips trail lightly along Nella's arm, slow and deliberate. "It's all in the details," she whispered. "How you hold yourself, the tilt of your head, the way your eyes catch the light... it speaks louder than any words."

Nella blinked, uncertain, and Lysa smiled softly. "I'll show you. Watch me."

With fluid motion, Lysa began to sway gently, her hips rolling in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. She let her fingers brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear, then traced a delicate path down her collarbone. Her gaze was steady, sultry, yet inviting—an unspoken promise that stirred something fierce inside Nella.

"See?" Lysa said softly. "Confidence is a dance. It's a language. You learn it step by step."

Nella bit her lip nervously, eyes downcast. "I've never... been with anyone. It's all new."

Lysa's smile softened, warm and steady. "Then you'll start here. Watch, listen, and learn. Awkward is just the beginning."

She moved once again, slow and deliberate. Lysa's steps were graceful, almost like a dance — hips swaying gently, shoulders relaxed, eyes half-lidded as if inviting a secret. She turned her body just so, letting the light catch the curve of her neck and the swell of her chest. "Men respond to how you carry yourself," she said, voice low. "Confidence is in your stance — don't shrink away or stiffen like a stone."

Nella tried to mimic the movements, stiff and unsure. Her shoulders hunched, feet awkwardly placed, the fluidity completely absent. She stumbled over the simplicity of tilting her head or letting her fingers brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Nella took a shaky breath, trying to steady the flutter of nerves in her chest. Lysa's calm presence felt like an anchor, so she forced herself to straighten her back, even if it felt unnatural.

Slowly, hesitantly, she lifted one foot, then the other, attempting to sway her hips as Lysa had shown her. Her movements were still awkward, like a fledgling bird learning to fly — too stiff, too careful. She tried tilting her head, but it came out stiff, almost like a question rather than an invitation. Her fingers brushed a stray lock of hair, but instead of a casual flick, it felt forced and deliberate.

"Like this?" Nella asked quietly, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Lysa smiled warmly and stepped closer, adjusting Nella's stance gently. "Not bad. But don't think — feel. Let your body move because you want to, not because you're trying to get it right."

Encouraged, Nella tried again. This time, she let her shoulders drop, just a little, and relaxed the tension in her neck. Her hips found a slightly looser rhythm, and she dared a slow blink with her eyes. It wasn't perfect, but it was hers. 

Lysa stepped closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Your eyes, Nella—they're your secret weapon. Not everyone's eyes catch like yours do. They're deep, a little wild, like you've got fire hiding just beneath the surface." She reached up gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from Nella's forehead, then let her fingers linger near her temple. "Use them. Don't just look—connect. Make them feel like they're the only person in the world."

Nella swallowed hard and tried again. She blinked slowly, holding her gaze a little longer than felt natural, her lashes fluttering like hesitant wings. It felt strange, almost like pretending to be someone else. But when her eyes met Lysa's steady, encouraging look, something flickered inside her—a hint of that power Lysa spoke of.

"Better," Lysa smiled, her voice soft but certain. "Men don't just want to see you—they want to feel seen. Your eyes can promise pleasure, mystery, even danger. You don't have to say a word to hold their attention."

Nella's breath hitched. It was strange—frightening—but exhilarating. For the first time, she glimpsed what it meant to turn her pain and her story into strength. Her gaze softened, but burned with quiet defiance, a silent message: I am here. Notice me.

Lysa's eyes softened with a knowing glint as she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper. "Nella, have you ever been kissed? Really kissed—the way it makes your heart race, your breath catch?"

Nella shook her head, cheeks flushing. "No, never."

Lysa smiled gently, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from Nella's face. "A kiss is one of the most powerful tools you have. It's not just lips meeting—it's a dance of promises, of desire, a language older than words. It draws a man in, makes him ache for more."

She lowered her voice further, "Let me teach you."

Lysa closed the small distance between them with careful grace, tilting Nella's chin up. Their lips met softly at first—tentative, shy. Nella's breath hitched; everything felt new and uncertain. Her hands trembled, her body stiffened, and she pulled back slightly, unsure if she was doing it right.

"Relax," Lysa murmured, her hand moving to cradle Nella's cheek. "A kiss isn't a battle; it's a gentle invitation. Let your lips be soft, not forceful. Feel the warmth, the rhythm—don't rush."

Encouraged, Nella tried again, this time letting her lips linger longer, barely brushing Lysa's. She felt the warmth spreading, the subtle pressure, the delicate pull—like two halves of a secret meeting.

Lysa's fingers traced the line of Nella's jaw, guiding her slowly. "Use your breath. Exhale softly, close your eyes sometimes, let yourself feel. A kiss is as much about what you don't say as what you do."

Nella's confidence grew with each hesitant touch. She started to mirror Lysa's movements—slow, teasing, purposeful. Their lips parted slightly, tongues brushing lightly in a dance of give and take. The awkwardness melted away, replaced by a pulsing awareness of connection and control.

"You're learning," Lysa whispered against her lips, voice husky. "A kiss is a promise you make without words, a way to say 'I want you' and 'I'm yours' all at once."

Nella felt something stir inside her—a flicker of power, a seed of command over her own body and desire. She deepened the kiss, her hands slowly finding their way to Lysa's waist, matching the rhythm, exploring the sensual language Lysa was teaching her. For the first time, Nella tasted confidence, sweet and intoxicating, and it was hers to wield.

Lysa's fingers curled gently around Nella's wrist, guiding her hand with deliberate care. "Feel the skin, the warmth. Not just with your fingers, but with your whole hand—like you're telling a story without words." Her voice was soft but insistent. "A light touch can say more than a shout. It's about teasing, tempting—letting him crave what you haven't given yet."

Nella's breath caught as she traced a hesitant line down her own forearm, imagining it on another's skin. The memory of rough hands, of violence, twisted inside her—but here, the touch was different. Deliberate. Tender. Almost sacred.

Lysa smiled, sensing her struggle. "Don't rush. Let your fingers linger. The pause is what makes them want more." She demonstrated—a slow, featherlike brush along her own shoulder, a gentle caress that seemed to hum with promise.

Nella tried again, the tips of her fingers trembling as they grazed the air near her shoulder. She pictured a man's skin, warm beneath her touch, waiting—not demanding, but inviting. With each attempt, the tension in her body eased, replaced by a growing sense of power in this slow, sensual language she was beginning to understand.

Lysa's eyes glinted with approval as Nella's fingers brushed again, this time with more confidence. "See? That hesitation? That's the moment they lean in, wanting to close the distance. It's not about giving yourself away—it's about making them earn your attention."

Nella's cheeks flushed hotter, but she met Lysa's gaze. "It feels... different. Like I'm not just being touched, but I'm the one holding the thread."

"Exactly." Lysa's voice softened. "This is your power. When you control the touch, you control the desire. You decide who gets close—and when. Men forget that. They think it's all about force, about grabbing and taking. But true power? It's in the restraint."

Nella's hand moved more deliberately now, fingers tracing a slow, teasing line down her own arm, imagining the heat beneath her skin. "So I'm not just... a thing?"

"No," Lysa said firmly, stepping closer. "You're a promise of something worth waiting for. That gives you strength—strength to walk away if you choose, or to bend them to your will."

Nella swallowed hard, a spark of something fierce lighting in her chest. "I... I want that. To be in control."

Lysa smiled wider, a flicker of pride in her eyes. "Then you're already on your way. Remember this: your body isn't just flesh. It's your language, your weapon, your shield. And once you learn to speak it well, nothing can hold you back."

Nella hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper. "Lysa... Will... will I have to do it with a man soon? When will the first one come?"

Lysa's smile softened, though there was a weight behind her eyes. "That depends. Sometimes they come quickly, sometimes not. But when the time comes, it's important you're ready—at least as ready as you can be."

Nella swallowed, the knot in her stomach tightening. "What if I'm not ready?"

The older woman's gaze held hers steady. "Then we wait. We don't force you into something you can't face. But be warned—once you begin, once you cross that line, it's not easy to stop. The men who come will expect more each time. You have to be sure, because this place will own you in ways you don't expect."

Nella nodded slowly, the weight of Lysa's words settling deep within her. The room seemed to close in around her, the soft glow of the candles casting flickering shadows on the walls.

"I don't want to be owned," she whispered, voice barely audible. "Not like before."

Lysa's expression softened, a flicker of something almost maternal in her eyes. She reached out, taking Nella's hand gently. "That's why we teach you to own yourself first. To know your power before you give it away. This world... it can be cruel, but it's also yours to command. You choose how much of yourself to give, and when."

She squeezed Nella's hand reassuringly. "We'll take it slow. You'll have time to learn, to build strength. And when the time comes, you'll know. You'll be ready."

Nella swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to the floor. The road ahead was dark and uncertain, but for the first time in a long while, there was a flicker of something like hope—fragile, yes, but alive.

The door creaked open, its hinges protesting against the quiet of the chamber. A tall woman stepped inside, her presence immediately filling the room with cold authority. Her eyes, sharp and glinting like polished flint, scanned Nella with a piercing gaze that seemed to cut straight through her defenses. Her black hair was pulled back tight, exposing high cheekbones and a jaw set with unyielding resolve. A small, almost cruel smile tugged at the corner of her lips — a promise of hard lessons to come.

"Lysa says you're ready for the next step," the woman said, voice low, steady, and without a hint of softness. "I'm Mira. I don't sugarcoat things. You're going to learn how to keep men in line—without breaking a sweat."

Nella swallowed hard, a sudden tightness curling in her stomach. Her pulse quickened, thudding loud in her ears, a mix of fear and stubborn determination fueling her every breath. This was different from Lysa's gentle guidance—this was something harder, sharper, necessary.

Mira wasted no time.

"Sit." Her command was like a whip crack, slicing through hesitation. She gestured toward a rough wooden chair set against the stone wall.

Nella's legs trembled slightly as she crossed the room, eyes locked on Mira's unwavering stare. Every step felt heavy, each heartbeat echoing in the stillness. She lowered herself onto the chair, the wood creaking beneath her. The chamber's dim light flickered, casting shadows that danced like ghosts along the cold stone walls.

"Close your eyes," Mira ordered. The tone was firm, but not cruel—more like a challenge. "Breathe deep. Now, listen."

Nella obeyed, shutting her eyes against the sudden quiet, her breath deepening as she struggled to quell the storm of nerves raging inside her. The air felt thick and heavy, yet her senses sharpened. Her heart slowed, her mind reaching out to grasp the smallest details. The rhythm of the footsteps, the soft sighs, even the sharp intake of breath from the hallway—all became a lesson in presence, in awareness.

Mira's voice cut through the darkness behind her eyelids.

"Men listen to the silence just as much as the words. Learn what hides beneath their voices, and you will never be caught off guard. Now, open your eyes," Mira ordered.

Nella blinked rapidly, the sudden shift from darkness to the dim candlelight momentarily blurring her vision. She adjusted, letting her eyes roam the chamber with new awareness.

"Look around," Mira said, voice sharp as flint. "Everyone here is watching you. Waiting for a sign of weakness. That sign can be a glance — a twitch — a breath too loud." Her gaze locked onto Nella's, unwavering and intense. "You will not give it."

Nella's throat tightened as the weight of those words settled deep in her chest. Her limbs felt heavy, but she straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. No one would see her falter. Not here. Not now.

"Good." Mira's voice was steady, commanding. "Now, I want you to try something. Stand."

Her legs shook as she rose from the chair, but Nella swallowed the tremor and forced herself upright. Mira stepped closer, so near that Nella could feel the dry heat radiating from her body like a silent warning.

"Walk to that door," Mira said, nodding toward the heavy oak entrance, worn smooth by countless hands. "But walk like you own it."

Nella hesitated, then took a tentative step forward.

"More," Mira's tone sharpened, cutting through the doubt like a blade. "Confidence isn't something you wait for. You force it out. Again."

Nella's second step was steadier, her hips shifting with a little more purpose.

"Again."

Step by step, Mira's presence pressed on her like an invisible weight—expectations, judgment, challenge—all converging into a crucible of fire. But Nella forced herself to hold her gaze steady, not lowering her eyes, not shrinking back. Her chin lifted higher.

At last, Mira gave a curt nod. "Better. Now, last test."

She gestured to a small table where a heavy candle burned low, its flickering flame dancing and wavering in the dim room.

"Look at that flame," Mira said softly. "Imagine it's the fire inside you. You control it. Not the other way around."

Nella's eyes locked on the flame's delicate movements, the fragile glow that refused to die despite the chill air. A strange calm seeped into her bones, a quiet power awakening beneath the fear.

Mira's voice softened just enough to feel like a promise. "When a man tries to cross your line, you don't flinch. You don't plead. You burn."

Nella met Mira's gaze without blinking, her own eyes alight with newfound steel.

"How do I do that without breaking?" she asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

"Practice," Mira said simply. "And remember, you are not alone."

The lesson hung in the thick air—hard and clear, like the edge of a blade poised to cut through the darkness. After Mira's lesson, Nella sat alone in the quiet chamber, the flickering candle casting restless shadows on the walls. Her hands clenched in her lap as her thoughts twisted like a storm.

She didn't want to be controlled. Not again. The memory of Jory's brutal grip, the sting of his cruelty—it was a brand burned deep into her flesh and soul.

No man would own her. No man would command her. She wanted the power to break, to humiliate. To take what had been stolen and twist it into something they'd never forget.

The thought sent a bitter smile curling at the edge of her lips. She imagined standing tall, the flicker of fear in a lord's eyes when she toyed with him, stripped of his pride and left begging on his knees—not for her body, but for mercy.

Control was the only currency she would trade in now. Not surrender.

Her fingers brushed the crescent-shaped birthmark on her arm, a silent reminder that this path—dark and dangerous—was hers alone to walk.

Chapter Text

Weeks had slipped by like shadows through the halls of the brothel—each day a quiet battle, each lesson a step away from the frightened girl who'd arrived in chains and disgrace. Under Lysa's patient guidance, Nella had learned to wield her body not as a victim, but as a weapon: the subtle arch of a brow, the slow curl of a smile, the promise behind a lingering glance. Seduction was no longer just a helpless surrender; it was power shaped by confidence.

Then Mira had arrived—sharp and unyielding—a storm breaking over the fragile calm Lysa had nurtured. Mira's lessons cut deeper. She taught Nella how to stand tall when all eyes were waiting to see her break; how to command a room with nothing but the weight of her gaze. She forced Nella to confront her fear, to burn with a fire so fierce no man could dare cross her line without trembling.

And now, after weeks cloaked in whispers, practice, and silent prayers, the moment had come.

The heavy wooden door creaked open, and a hush swept over the room like a sudden cold wind. Nella's breath caught, but she forced herself to step forward with steady grace, muscles taught, every step deliberate. She carried the lessons of Lysa's subtlety and Mira's iron resolve woven tightly beneath her skin.

The mistress of the house, with her sharp eyes and no-nonsense demeanor, led the way.

"This is Nella," the mistress announced, voice loud and clear enough to silence the murmurs. "New to us, but already a great prized beauty of White Harbor."

Across the room, a young soldier looked up from his ale, rough hands still curled around the cup. His gaze locked on Nella's as if struck by something raw and magnetic—something that held both danger and allure.

His eyes lingered, wide and mesmerized. Nella met his stare without flinching, feeling the fire Mira had spoken of burning low and steady inside her.

The mistress smiled thinly. "He's a loyal northerner, fresh from the Wall. No doubt he's never seen someone like you before."

The soldier reached into his pouch and tossed a heavy purse onto the table. The coins spilled like silver rain — a full pouch, filled to its brim. The mistress's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Nella's gaze lingered on the coins for only a heartbeat before lifting to meet the soldier's. His eyes held the same hunger she had seen in countless glances from the common room—hungry, searching, thinking they had already bought her.

She stepped closer, the air between them tightening, thick with something unspoken.

"Come," she said softly, her voice low and steady, every syllable a deliberate choice. She didn't wait to see if he would obey; she turned and began to walk toward the nearest chamber, the measured sway of her hips calculated, controlled.

Her steps were silent but purposeful, each one echoing the lessons drilled into her: Never rush. Make him follow. Make him want to.

She could hear him behind her, his boots striking the floor in an eager rhythm. By the time they reached the small chamber, the warmth of the firelight spilling over the bed and polished table, she had already decided how this would go. She closed the door slowly, the latch clicking into place.

The soldier's mouth parted as if to speak, but before the first word left him, she stepped in close—close enough to see the faint scar along his jaw, to smell the leather and cold air clinging to him.

When his hand moved toward her hip, she caught his wrist mid-motion, fingers curling like a vice.

Her eyes locked on his. "No," she said, voice sharp enough to cut. "You don't touch unless I say so."

He blinked, startled, caught between confusion and intrigue.

Nella let a slow, deliberate smile form. "Tonight, you follow. I lead. And if you try to take control from me..." Her grip tightened slightly. "You'll regret it."

The soldier swallowed, his earlier confidence faltering under the weight of her words. And in that moment, Nella felt it—that rush of power Lysa had hinted at, and the burning steel Mira had taught her to wield. Her grip loosened, but only just enough to let his wrist fall back to his side.

Nella circled him slowly, each step deliberate, eyes never leaving his face. The soldier's breathing had changed — quicker now, shallow, like a man preparing for battle but uncertain of his footing.

"You thought," she said softly, her voice almost a whisper, "that your coin bought you the right to command me." She let the words hang in the air, then leaned in close, her lips grazing the shell of his ear. "It didn't. It bought you the privilege of obeying me." She stepped away before he could react, letting silence settle between them.

The soldier shifted, clearly unsure whether to speak. Then, as if gathering courage, he reached for her again — slower this time, but still trying to bridge the gap on his terms.

Her hand came up, pressing against his chest with just enough force to halt him. She looked up at him through her lashes, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. "You'll move when I tell you to."

He hesitated, jaw tightening, his pride wrestling with his desire. Nella moved to the table, picking up a goblet of wine. She took a slow sip, letting her eyes travel over him as if he were the one being displayed. She didn't rush, didn't fill the silence — she made him sit in it, squirm in it.

When she finally returned to him, she ran her fingers lightly along the edge of his jaw, her touch maddeningly slow. "Stand still," she murmured. "Don't think. Just follow."

He tried again to close the gap, this time leaning down as though to kiss her. She angled her head slightly, denying him without stepping away. His breath hitched, the denial cutting deeper than any harsh word.

"Patience," she said, her tone laced with quiet authority.

She moved behind him, fingers trailing along his shoulders, tracing the line of muscle beneath his tunic. He shivered involuntarily, and she smiled to herself. He was caught in the rhythm she set — every pause, every touch, every look measured to keep him unsteady. Once more, he began to turn toward her, frustration edging into his movements.

Her hand shot up to his chin, tilting his face toward hers — but she stopped just shy of his lips. "You don't lead here," she said, her voice low and certain. "You don't even breathe without my leave."

He stared at her, breathing ragged now, all trace of his earlier bravado stripped away. Nella held his gaze for a long, deliberate moment. She could feel the balance between them — his will tested, his pride bent, his need for her attention now outweighing his need for control butthen, without warning, she closed the final gap.

Her lips brushed his, soft at first, testing the edges of a promise. The soldier's breath hitched sharply, eyes widening in shock and sudden, fierce need. She deepened the kiss, slow and deliberate, letting the heat build like a rising storm. Her mouth moved against his with a tantalizing mixture of control and invitation—command and seduction intertwined so tightly it left no room for resistance.

His hands trembled, clutching at her waist as if trying to anchor himself, but she slipped from his grasp like water, pressing closer, her body burning with the power she had cultivated. The desperation in him was raw and palpable—he was undone by the simple contact, every muscle taut, every nerve screaming for more. His lips parted against hers, ragged breaths mingling, as though the kiss was pulling something ancient and fierce from deep inside.

Nella pulled back just enough to let her teeth graze his lower lip, the slight sting igniting a wildfire beneath his skin. His eyes darkened with need, losing their earlier hesitation, showing her how fragile the line between control and surrender really was. She let her hands roam with deliberate slowness—down his shoulders, tracing the strong lines of his arms, feeling the pulse beneath his skin quicken.

His voice was rough, thick with disbelief and awe as he whispered, "You're... you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Before she could reply, he pressed himself against her again, lips crushing hers with a desperate hunger. His hands roamed, brushing over her curves, and for a moment she gasped into the kiss, her own desire igniting at his need. Every touch, every press of his body against hers, spoke of longing months in the making, of a passion that would not be denied.

"Gods," he murmured against her mouth, breath ragged, "I'm mad for you... mad."

The desperation in him was raw and palpable—he was undone by the simple contact, every muscle taut, every nerve screaming for more. His lips parted against hers, ragged breaths mingling, as though the kiss pulled something ancient and fierce from deep inside. Nella pulled back just enough to let her teeth graze his lower lip, the slight sting igniting a wildfire beneath his skin. His eyes darkened with need, losing their earlier hesitation, showing her how fragile the line between control and surrender really was.

She let her hands roam with deliberate slowness—down his shoulders, tracing the strong lines of his arms, feeling the pulse beneath his skin quicken.

"You see," she murmured against his mouth, voice husky and low, "how easily men are undone by desire."

He swallowed hard, caught between awe and craving, desperate for more yet utterly at her mercy.

Nella's kiss deepened again—urgent now, fierce—yet she held herself back just enough to keep the balance. She was the storm, the flame, the force that bent him without breaking. Then, her lips brushed his ear, her breath warm as she murmured, "Lie down."

The soldier obeyed instantly, his body sinking back onto the bed as though her words carried the weight of a command he could not resist. His eyes followed her every movement, dark and wide, chest rising and falling with quick, hungry breaths.

Nella paused for a heartbeat, letting him drink in her presence, then slowly lifted the top of her gown. The delicate lace fell away under her fingers, revealing the curve of her chest, bare and unashamed, bathed in the soft glow of the candles. She let the fabric slip from her shoulders, letting it pool around her waist, giving him the full sight she intended him to have.

With a deliberate, commanding grace, she climbed onto the bed, straddling him. Her knees pressed into the mattress on either side of his hips, her spine straight, her chin lifted — a queen surveying her conquered prize. Every movement was measured, a slow, intoxicating rhythm, a silent promise that she held control yet offered herself willingly, igniting a fire in him that no words could match.

She began to rock her hips, the motion unhurried, controlled, every shift sending a tremor through him. His hands rose tentatively to her waist, fingers curling against her as though he needed to hold on just to keep from drowning. His gaze never left her. It was glazed now, fevered, as if he were seeing something unreal, a vision he could neither comprehend nor resist.

"Gods..." he breathed, the word breaking apart in his throat. "You're... you're unreal... I—"

Nella silenced him with a single, slow grind of her hips, her eyes locking on his with a predatory focus. "You'll speak when I want you to," she said softly, though the steel in her tone left no doubt it was a command.

He nodded, swallowing hard, his lips parted as if he were almost drooling from the sight of her — the sway of her body, the fire in her eyes, the untouchable power she exuded with every movement.

"Please..." he finally breathed, the word shaky, unsteady. "Let me... take you."

Nella stilled, her hips pausing mid-motion as she regarded him with a slow, knowing smile. She leaned down until her lips hovered just above his, letting him feel her breath without granting him the kiss he craved.

"The next time you come back," she murmured, each word dripping with deliberate control, "you might have that privilege."

His brows drew together in desperate disbelief. "Might—?"

"But as for now," she interrupted smoothly, resuming her slow, intoxicating rhythm atop him, "this is all you'll ever get."

He groaned, his body tensing under her as though the thought was almost unbearable. She let the sound linger in the air, the silence between them taut and delicious, before lowering her voice further.

"And if that's not enough for you..." Her lips curved into something almost cruel, "...then you will never touch me again."

The poor soldier's eyes went wide, panic flickering in them like a cornered animal's. "No—no, I'll come back. I'll wait. I swear it."

Nella tilted her head, studying him like one might a puppy begging for scraps. "Mm. You swear it?" she teased, drawing the words out as her hips made one slow, deliberate roll. His mouth fell open in a strangled gasp.

"Yes!" he blurted, far too loud, before lowering his voice in a clumsy attempt to regain dignity. "Yes... my lady."

She couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at her lips. My lady. He had no idea how much she enjoyed that.

"Well," she said, voice dripping with mock-consideration, "since you've been so nice, I might let you... imagine what it would be like, until next time."

He groaned again — and this time, Nella almost laughed. It was too easy. Here was this young, broad-shouldered soldier, probably thought he'd seen battle and blood and hard nights... and she had him squirming like a fish on a hook without even letting him get what he'd paid for.

She leaned down one last time, her mouth near his ear. "Now... be a dear, and remember exactly who's in charge when you dream tonight."

When she slid off him and rose, she didn't bother looking back. The sound of his frustrated, reverent sigh was all the proof she needed that he'd be back — and next time, he'd walk through that door a smile on his face.

The moment she stepped into the hall, the girls were already waiting. Silk skirts rustled, curious faces peered around the doorway.

"Well?" one of them whispered, eyes sparkling. "How was it? First time's always the strangest."

Nella didn't answer right away. Instead, she loosened the drawstrings of her bodice just enough to fish out the heavy pouch and tossed it onto the nearest table. It landed with a satisfying thunk, silver coins spilling out across the wood.

"That," she said with a grin, "is how much he paid."

The girls leaned in, gasping softly at the sight. "And you know what?" Nella added, crossing her arms in mock-casual pride. "He didn't even get it."

The room erupted in laughter — some sharp and knowing, others bubbling with pure amusement. One girl nearly choked on her wine.

"Oh, gods," another said, wiping a tear from her eye. "You've been here weeks and already you're making them pay for nothing?"

Nella smirked, tucking the pouch away again. "It's too easy to toy with men when you know where to look. You just... give them enough to keep them starving for more."

They laughed again, the sound warm and wicked, echoing down the hall like a secret victory.

For the first time since she'd been dragged to White Harbor, Nella didn't feel powerless. She felt like a queen holding court — and every man who crossed her path was nothing more than a subject waiting to kneel.

Chapter Text

Weeks turned into months, and Nella was no longer the poor, shivering bastard girl from House Flint. That girl had been left behind in the snows of her childhood, along with her hunger and fear. What remained was a woman who ruled her world with a steady hand and a sharpened smile.

The tales spread first through the docks, then to the markets, and finally far beyond the walls of White Harbor. Sailors spoke of her in low, reverent tones as they unloaded cargo; merchants carried her name to other ports as if it were a rare spice. They called her the Silver Lady — a woman whose beauty could halt a room mid-breath and whose voice could bend even the proudest man to his knees.

Her hair, a cascade of silvery-blonde, caught the light in such a way that it seemed spun from the very frost of the North. Her eyes, sharp and watchful, held the glint of someone who knew exactly how much power she had — and exactly how to wield it. Men swore her beauty rivaled that of the Targaryen queens of old, and in certain taverns, drunk and dreaming, they argued she might be the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros.

A pirate, grizzled and wild-eyed, had once offered to sell his entire ship for the price of one full night with her. A night she refused without so much as a flicker of hesitation.

Ships came in from far ports — Braavos, Lys, and even the steaming southern coasts — bearing men eager to test their will against hers. Not one succeeded. Even the pirate who swore he would trade his ship for a night left with his gold still heavy in his pouch, his pride in tatters. She never gave everything. Not to anyone.

She had control now — more than she had ever dreamed possible — and she guarded it with the ferocity of someone who had once been stripped of it entirely. Yet, there was one shadow she could not shake.

The only complaints she'd ever received came not from her refusal, but from the moments when she went still — when a sudden, burning flash of vision gripped her mid-breath. They came without warning: fleeting images of places she'd never been, faces she did not know, voices speaking words she could not quite grasp. They left her shaken, her heart pounding as if she'd just run through the winter woods.

She had wanted to bury that part of herself — the strange gift that had always set her apart, the thing that had marked her as different even before she'd learned to wield her beauty as a weapon. But the visions refused to be buried. And no matter how much she wrapped herself in silk and silver, no matter how much the world changed, she could never quite escape the truth:
Inside, the girl from House Flint still carried secrets the world was not ready to hear.

It was on a rain-slicked evening when the man arrived — a merchant prince from Lys, draped in silks so rich they seemed to drink the candlelight. The mistress herself welcomed him, smiling like a cat about to drink cream. Men like him paid in more than coin; they brought influence, protection, and whispers from the far corners of the world.

Nella greeted him with the same composed grace she gave all men who thought they were important. Her beauty struck him instantly, as it always did. He reached for her hand with the certainty of a man who believed the night would bend to his will. Nella began her practiced dance of control — slow steps forward, calculated touches, eyes like a net drawing him in. He smiled lazily, already lost.

She stopped just out of his reach, tilting her head as if weighing whether he was worthy of more. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, her hands went to the clasp of her silk wrap. The prince's eyes sharpened, hungry, but she took her time — letting her fingers linger on the knot, drawing the moment out until the tension in the room was as thick as the perfume in the air.

Only then did she let the fabric slide from her shoulders. It whispered down her arms and pooled at her feet, leaving her bathed in firelight. The glow turned her skin to warm gold and made her silvery hair shimmer like molten moonlight. His gaze swept over her with the desperation of a starving man seeing food, his breath catching in his throat. She smiled faintly, as if his reaction were both expected and entirely under her command.

When she climbed onto the bed, it was with the unhurried elegance of a queen taking her place on a throne. His eyes tracked every sway of her hips, every curve revealed in the fire's flicker. She straddled him with practiced grace, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips.

Nella rolled her hips slowly, deliberately. Her palms glided over his chest, mapping him in slow sweeps as if memorizing her territory. He looked utterly compelled, lips parted, gaze locked on her as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist. She let her fingertips wander — the strong line of his throat, the curve of his shoulder, the back of his neck where his pulse beat fast. Every touch made him shiver, his hands flexing at his sides before daring to rest lightly at her waist, tentative and reverent.

It was too easy. She moved with the quiet certainty of a woman who decided every moment of this exchange — and that he would follow her pace, no matter how desperate he became.

And then— It hit her.

A sudden, blinding heat bloomed behind her eyes, sharp and consuming, as if the fire in the hearth had leapt into her skull and set her mind alight. The air in her lungs turned to smoke. Her breath hitched, and the room — the man, the bed, the perfume — fell away like torn silk.

Flashes.

A sky ripped open by vast, black silhouettes. Wings, endless and terrible, beat the air with the force of storms. Shadows of dragons cut across the heavens, their roars shattering the very bones of the earth. Cities burned beneath them, fire racing along rooftops until stone itself wept molten tears. Armored men clashed in the streets, steel screaming against steel while blood pooled black and thick underfoot.

Above it all, a river of flame twisted through the air, writhing like a living thing, splitting the night in two. The stench filled her nostrils — ash, blood, and something older, heavier, a scent that whispered of endings.

And then she saw them.

Figures tall and impossibly thin, draped in frost that shimmered like cracked glass. Their eyes burned with a cold so absolute it seemed to draw the heat from her own blood. Their hands — skeletal, clawed, and pale as bone — reached out, brushing the air as if it hungered for life itself. Each step they took left the ground frozen, blackened, and lifeless, a whisper of ice snuffing out flame, warmth, and motion alike.

They moved without sound, yet the air around them screamed with the absence of it. Nella felt the pulse of death beneath their feet, a rhythm older than fire, older than war. And in that instant, she understood: these were the first of what comes when the world forgets the warmth of life, creatures born from nothing but the cold, relentless hunger of the end.

The dragons above roared, the flames of their battle clawing at the sky, but she knew, deep in her chest, that no fire would reach them. Nothing could.

The vision shattered like glass.

She was back in the chamber. The fire crackled, the perfume clung to the air, but the warmth felt distant, almost unreal. She was cold now, her palms damp, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs.

The merchant lay before her, his face pinched with irritation, his hand still outstretched from where she had stopped.

"What is this?" he barked, his voice sharp with insult. "You stop in the middle of pleasing a man? Is this your idea of a game?" His tone carried the petulant outrage of one who had never been refused.

Nella blinked, forcing the vision from her mind as she leaned back down toward him. She began to move again, slow and deliberate, tracing the familiar rhythms she had perfected over weeks of practice. Her hands glided along his chest and arms, her hips swayed with measured grace—everything about her told a story of control and command.

Yet, beneath the surface, the echoes of fire and blood lingered, tugging at her focus like a persistent shadow. Every glance, every touch, was tempered by the terrible weight of the vision she could not shake. The man's breathing grew uneven. His eyes, once full of eager hunger, narrowed with confusion and growing irritation.

"You're not... right," he muttered, voice rough with frustration. "Not like before."

Nella's heart twisted at the words. She had always known how to please a man. Had always held the reins. Yet now, tangled in the ghost of dragons and flames, she felt her certainty slipping. She tried to push harder, to drown out the visions with touch and tease, but the man's patience was gone.

"Enough," he spat, pulling himself away with a harsh grunt. "I don't pay for this."

Before she could say a word, he was gone—leaving the heavy door to slam behind him, the finality echoing through the silent room. Nella sank back onto the bed, breath trembling, anger and helplessness clashing inside her. Not at the man — at the vision, at the fire burning in her mind, and at the fragile control she feared might be slipping through her fingers.

The heavy door slammed open before Nella could even steady her breath. The mistress strode in, eyes sharp and searching, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

"What happened here?" she demanded, folding her arms. "I heard the man left in a foul mood. Tell me—how does a man walk away from you unsatisfied? That's not like you."

Nella sat up slowly, still flushed with the sting of failure. She swallowed the lump in her throat, hesitating as the weight of the vision pressed heavily in her mind.

"I don't know," Nella admitted quietly, voice tight. "Something... distracted me. I saw—something. It wasn't just a flicker. It was clear, fierce. Fire, Ice, Death... blood."

The mistress's eyes narrowed, the hard lines of her face softening just a fraction. She stepped closer, voice lowering. "You've always been in control, Nella. Nothing's broken you yet. But these... visions—" she said the word as if it were both a curse and a danger "—you can't let them rule you. Not if you want to survive here."

Nella clenched her fists, a flicker of defiance lighting in her eyes. "I don't intend to be ruled by anything."

The mistress's gaze held hers steady, respect mingling with warning. Then she leaned in just enough for her voice to drop to a razor's edge.

"Then listen well. These visions of yours—they have no place here. Men come to you to forget their troubles, not to watch you get lost in your own. If you let whatever strange fire burns in your head slip into your work again, you won't just lose a client—you'll lose your reputation. And in this house, that's the only thing between you and the gutter."

Nella's jaw tightened, the words hitting harder than she wanted to admit.

"You keep your composure," the mistress continued, her tone unyielding. "No matter what's clawing at your mind, you smile, you breathe, and you make them believe they are the only thing in the world that matters. Because if you don't... you won't last long enough to learn why these visions are haunting you."

Then, with a last hard look, she turned and left, the echo of her heels sharp against the floor. Nella stayed where she was, the firelight dancing over her silvery hair, the warning burning in her ears almost as hot as the memory of what she had seen. She told herself she'd heed the mistress's advice—yet she already knew she couldn't ignore the vision. Not this time.

When the mistress's footsteps faded, silence settled heavy over the chamber. Nella remained on the bed, the silk sheets twisted beneath her hands, her breath finally slowing.

Dragons.

The word pulsed in her mind, a strange mix of awe and dread. She had never seen one — not in truth, not even in her wildest imagining — and yet in the vision, every scale, every shadowed wing had been real. She could still hear the guttural roars, still feel the tremor of the earth beneath their fury.

Her brow furrowed.

Only the Targaryens had dragons. The silver-haired kings and queens of the south, their bloodline twined with fire itself. She'd heard tales of their great beasts in whispered songs and drunken boasts — dragons that had crushed armies, razed cities, and cast their shadows over half the known world.

But dragons fighting dragons? That was no children's tale.

She remembered an old story, told once by a half-soused Braavosi trader on a stormy night. A time when the dragons of House Targaryen had turned on each other, rider against rider, sky against sky. He had spoken of King Maegor the Cruel — a man so feared that even his kin plotted to see him dead — locked in battle against Prince Aegon, called the Uncrowned. The Braavosi's voice had lowered to a hush as he described Balerion the Black Dread, wings like midnight stretched over the Red Keep, clashing in the air with Quicksilver, whose scales shone like a moonlit sea.

It was said the city shook as their roars split the heavens. That their fire had rained down in such torrents, stone walls had run molten. And when it was over, the realm itself had been ripped apart, each side bled dry by a war no one could truly win.

Her hands tightened on the sheets.

Why would I see such a thing?

She was no Targaryen princess, no highborn lady with a claim to a dragon. She was Nella, the bastard girl of House Flint, a worker in a brothel. And yet... The vision hadn't felt like a story from another life. It had felt like a warning, as if the very fire that burned in those skies had reached across years to sear its mark into her.

Her jaw set. She needed to push it away, lock it deep where it couldn't reach her.

Visions were for the girl she used to be — the half-starved bastard of House Flint, wrapped in rags and whispers, staring too long into the snow as if she could see the future there. That girl had no coin, no name worth speaking, no control over her own fate. But she wasn't that girl anymore. She was Nella of White Harbor now, the woman men crossed seas to see, whose beauty could loosen purses and bend wills. In this house, she was known for her composure, for her ability to keep the upper hand no matter who stood before her.

And she would not let some phantom of fire and blood ruin that.

She leaned forward, stoking the flames in the hearth until they roared. The heat licked her skin, reminding her of where she was, of who she'd become.

Let the bastard girl keep her visions. Nella of White Harbor had work to do.

Chapter Text

The heavy oak door creaked opened, spilling a thin line of lamplight from the corridor. Conversations faltered, hands stilled on hairpins and clasps, and the soft rustle of silk ceased as if the room itself were holding its breath. A dozen pairs of eyes lifted, glimmering with curiosity and unease, and a faint tremor ran through the gathered girls.

The mistress’s sharp voice carried down the hall before she even crossed the threshold. "Listen well, girls. Tonight’s guests are unlike any we’ve seen before."

Her footsteps were measured but quick, the kind that made the floorboards give the slightest groan under her weight. By the time she stepped into the dressing chamber, the scent of her perfume—amber and something sharper, like crushed cloves—had already preceded her.

Every girl turned toward her, the fluttering laughter from before now replaced with the prickle of anticipation. Even the confident ones—like Lysa, leaning lazily against the wall with her lips still stained red from fresh paint—straightened under the mistress's gaze.

Nella's eyes flicked to the older woman's face, noting the faint curve of her mouth that was neither smile nor frown. It was her calculating look, the one she wore when coin and opportunity were on the line.

"I do not know their names," the mistress continued, closing the door behind her with a deliberate click. "It is better that way—fewer nerves, fewer daydreams." Her eyes swept across the room like a merchant inspecting fine wares, pausing on the fall of a gown here, the sparkle of a necklace there. "But hear me well: these men have the gold to drown a town, and the kind of power that makes lords bow their heads. You will be perfect for them. No stammering, no fumbling, no petty squabbles. If one of them so much as lifts his cup, you'll be there to fill it before it touches the table again."

Her gaze lingered on Nella for a heartbeat too long—just enough to make the other girls glance in her direction, curious.

The mistress took another step into the room, voice dropping lower, silkier but edged in steel. "Tonight, this house will be the brightest jewel in White Harbor. And each of you will shine for them like you've been waiting your whole lives to do so."

The chambers were a flurry of silk and laughter. Gowns of deep crimson, midnight blue, and shimmering gold were laid out across the beds, jewels spilling from small carved boxes. The girls darted between mirrors, pinning up hair, dabbing perfume, and teasing one another with the easy chatter that always came before a night's work.

"I heard it's some lords from the Westerlands, maybe some Lannister lords," one of the younger girls, Cerys, whispered as she struggled with the clasp of her necklace. "Richer than the Velaryons, they say."

"Pah," snorted Lysa, brushing a comb through her dark curls. "The Lannisters wouldn't waste their coin here. Probably just some bloated merchant with too much gold and not enough sense."

"I bet they're knights," another chimed in, fastening an earring. "Knights from King's Landing. One of the girls in the kitchens swears she overheard their manservant saying they came north on royal business."

That got a murmur going—low, eager, and just a touch breathless.

"Imagine if it's a Targaryen," Maris whispered, her dark eyes going wide with mischief. She twisted a strand of her hair around one finger as though curling it just for the thought. "Can you picture it? That silver hair, those violet eyes. Gods, I'd pay to see it just once, even if I never got to touch him."

Lysa snorted from her spot near the mirror, dusting her collarbone with a shimmer of powder. "You'd do more than pay, Maris. You'd fall to your knees before he even opened his mouth."

"Oh, and you wouldn't?" Maris shot back with a grin. "I've heard the songs about Prince Daemon in the south—beautiful as the dawn and twice as dangerous. I'd let him ruin me and thank him after."

Nella, quiet as she adjusted the fall of her gown in the mirror, caught her own reflection watching the exchange. Silver hair. Targaryens. The very thought stirred something she didn't want to name, not after the vision that still haunted the edges of her mind. She pushed the memory down with practiced force. Tonight was about coin, not dragons.

Maris sighed dreamily, adjusting the pearl earring in her lobe. "One night with a Targaryen prince... I swear, I'd never work again. I'd live off that memory till I was old and wrinkled."

Nella sat at her small dressing table, fastening a string of pale pearls around her neck. Her gown was a deep shade of green that set off her pale hair, the sleeves edged with soft lace. Beside her, Mira adjusted the fall of her gown, smirking. "Whatever they are, they'll fall over themselves for you. Just remember, the richer they are, the easier they are to bleed dry."

That drew a round of knowing laughter. "I'll wager a full pouch one of them tries to marry me," Cerys said with a wink.

"Save the wedding vows for after you've counted the coin," Mira replied dryly.

One of the younger girls, Alayne, leaned over with a sly grin as she fastened the clasp of her necklace. "And what about you, Nella? What kind of man do you hope they'll be?"

Nella glanced up from adjusting the drape of silk over her shoulder, her expression calm, almost indifferent. "I don't really mind," she said, smoothing the fabric like it was the most important thing in the room. "Rich is what matters. If they're rich, I can get a good pouch of coins out of one of them. That's all I need."

Maris chuckled, shaking her head. "Gods, you're cold."

"I'm honest," Nella replied evenly, meeting her gaze in the mirror. "They're all the same in the end. Doesn't matter if it's a fisherman with a week's wages or a lord with a chest of gold—they all want the same thing. And they'll pay for it if you make them want it bad enough."

The room went quiet for a beat, some of the girls smirking, others looking faintly impressed.

She turned back to the mirror, letting the chatter fade into the background. Her reflection met her with a strange mix of familiarity and surprise. She had grown into herself—no longer the thin, sharp-boned girl who had first come to White Harbor, but a woman with curves that drew eyes the moment she entered a room. Her hair, once cropped unevenly by rough hands, now spilled in long, silvery-blonde waves down her back, catching the lamplight in soft glints.

She traced a fingertip along the curve of her cheek, down to the line of her neck, watching the way her skin gleamed against the fine Lysene silk draped across her shoulders.

A thought crept in, unbidden. If she had been born true—no stain of bastard on her name, no cold and hungry winters in some draughty Flint hall—what would her life have been? Perhaps she'd have worn velvets in her own solar, attended feasts at Winterfell or even in King's Landing. Perhaps lords would have knelt with gifts, and Targaryen princes might have written her name in their songs.

But that was not her world. She was beautiful—so beautiful she could make men's voices break and their coin purses open without a second thought—but beauty here was currency, not birthright. And currency could be spent, wasted, stolen.

She adjusted the fall of her gown, the slit showing just enough leg to spark hunger, then turned away from the mirror. Whatever she might have been didn't matter. She was Nella of White Harbor now, and tonight she would be worth more than any lord's daughter.

The girls stood in a line, every one of them dressed in their finest silks and satins, jewels glittering in their hair and at their throats. The air in the waiting room was heavy with perfume, candlelight catching on painted lips and kohl-lined eyes. Nella sat with one leg crossed over the other, absently twirling the end of her hair, listening to the distant sound of men's voices spilling up from the main hall.

They were laughing, deep and loud, the sound of men who had already emptied more than one cup of wine. The words were muffled through the thick walls, but she caught the cadence of drunken camaraderie—boasts about hunts, about battles fought, about women they'd had and the ones they intended to have tonight.

Then the laughter broke for a moment, replaced by the mistress's smooth voice. "Well, my lords, we can accommodate all your desires tonight. Tell me—shall I send for one girl each, or will you want more?"

The responses came in a chorus—some shouting out their preferences, others naming hair colors, accents, or skills they'd heard rumors about. Nella smirked faintly. Men were predictable.

And then... there was a pause. A shift in tone. "My lord," the mistress said, her voice softer now, edged with respect, "and for you? Shall I send one of my best?"

A deep voice answered, steady and almost curt. "No. I have no need for—"

"Ah, but you are our honored guest," the mistress interrupted smoothly. "Even if it is only to sit and talk, I insist you see the girls. For my sake, my lord."

A low sigh. "...Very well."

Moments later, the door to their waiting room swung open, and the mistress's sharp eyes swept over them. "All of you—now. Make yourselves worth their coin."

Silks rustled, bracelets chimed softly as the girls rose, falling into step behind the mistress. They followed her down the hall, one by one stepping into the main hall where the men waited. And then Nella saw him.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with the unmistakable bearing of the North in every line of his frame. His hair was dark as ravens' wings, his jaw strong, his eyes the pale gray of a winter sky. Even from across the room, there was something different about him—he stood apart from the raucous laughter of his companions, his gaze sweeping the room with quiet control.

Her heart skipped.

The room seemed to narrow to a single point, the noise around her fading into something muffled and distant. Nella's steps slowed without meaning to, her silk skirts whispering over the polished floor. The firelight from the great hearth caught on the silver of her hair, turning it almost white, and it was in that exact moment that his eyes found hers.

Gray—clear, unyielding, as cold and sharp as the frost on a winter morning. But there was heat there too, buried deep beneath the ice, a spark that caught at her chest before she could breathe. He didn't look away. Not when politeness would have demanded it, not when the mistress continued speaking to the other men. His gaze was a tether, holding her in place, as though he was trying to place her... or remember her.

She didn't blink. Couldn't. She'd faced hundreds of men—drunk ones, cruel ones, desperate ones—but never one who looked at her as if he could see past every layer she had learned to wear. Past the rouge and kohl, past the carefully practiced smiles, past Nella the whore.

Her pulse quickened in her throat. And just for an instant, the flicker of her earlier visions threatened to rise again—those same gray eyes, shadowed by firelight, standing against a backdrop of snow and blood.

The mistress's voice broke the moment like a stone through glass. "Ahh," she said brightly, striding toward the man with a smile that carried no warmth, "this is Nella. I know a lord like you will love an exotic beauty such as her."

The words landed like a hand on her back, pushing her forward into the space between them. Nella tilted her head slightly, the curve of her lips measured, almost challenging, though inside she was still caught on that first look. His gaze hadn't wavered.

She stopped a single step in front of him, close enough to see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the line of his mouth firm but not unfriendly. Up close, the air between them felt heavy, thick with something she couldn't name.

"My lord," she said smoothly, her voice a low purr, the one she used when she wanted a man to think he was the one choosing her.

His eyes flicked briefly over her face—her eyes, her lips, the pale gleam of her hair—before returning to meet her gaze. "My lady," he said. His voice was deep, deliberate, each syllable weighted.

The mistress laughed lightly. "She's one of my finest. Knows exactly how to make a man feel..." Her smile sharpened. "...welcome."

But the lord—he still hadn't looked away from her. There was no idle curiosity in his gaze, no casual appraisal like other men. It was sharper, more deliberate, as though he was piecing together a memory.

"I know you're not from here," he said quietly, not as a question but as a statement, his tone threaded with something heavier than idle interest.

Nella let the faintest smile play on her lips. "Perhaps, my lord, I'm from wherever you wish me to be tonight." It was the sort of answer that usually made men grin and loosen their purse strings.

But he didn't grin. His eyes stayed fixed on her, and for a fleeting instant, she saw the recognition there—subtle but undeniable. He had seen her before, years ago, in the shadowed halls of Flint's stronghold. Back then she'd been the bastard girl with threadbare skirts and wind-burned cheeks, avoiding the gaze of highborn men. He had been younger too, though no less certain in his bearing.

If he meant to speak on it, he didn't. Instead, his expression smoothed, and with the faintest incline of his head, he let her take the lead. The other girls behind her exchanged little giggles, muffled behind their jeweled hands. They thought it was the usual game—a lord taken with the pretty one.

Nella didn't correct them. She only turned, her hips swaying as she led him away, though the weight of his gaze at her back felt far heavier than lust alone.

Chapter Text

The door shut behind them with a soft thud, muting the distant laughter and music from the main hall. The air in the chamber was heavy with the scent of myrrh and warmed wine, the fire casting long, flickering shadows across the walls.

Nella turned on him before he'd taken more than two steps inside. "What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice low but edged with steel. Not the lilting, teasing tone she gave her usual clients—this was sharp, demanding.

Cregan Stark didn't flinch. His eyes held hers, steady and unblinking, as though he had expected the question. "I might ask you the same," he replied evenly, his voice deep enough to seem at odds with the gentleness of his posture. "But I think I already know the answer."

Her fingers curled into her skirts, the silks suddenly feeling too thin between her hands. "This is no place for the Lord of Winterfell," she said, the title sharp on her tongue. "You don't belong here."

"And you do?" His words were quiet, but the weight of them settled heavily between them.

For a heartbeat, she considered lying, pretending not to know him. But the look in his eyes told her it would be wasted breath—he remembered Flint's Keep, remembered her, just as she remembered the boy who had carried a lord's name with an almost frightening certainty.

Nella's mouth set in a thin line. "If you've come here to lecture me, my lord, save your breath. You'll pay for your time like any other man... or you can leave."

She turned as if to busy herself with the wine on the table, but she felt his gaze still fixed on her back—heavy, searching, unshakable. It was the kind of look that made the skin between her shoulder blades prickle, as though he could peel back the years and see the girl she had been. Her eyes locked onto his without flinching, the air between them taut with unspoken history. Cregan's gaze sharpened, as if trying to pierce through the walls she'd built around herself.

"Why are you here, Nella?" His voice was softer now, almost curious, but the edge of command lingered beneath it.

She held his look, steady and unwavering. "That's none of your business, my lord."

A flicker of amusement—or was it surprise?—crossed his face. The corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. "None of my business?" he echoed, slow and deliberate, savoring the defiance. "Careful. A lord could have your tongue for saying that to him."

Her lips twitched, not with humor but with a hard-earned resilience. "Then I'd learn to speak with my eyes, my lord."

The moment stretched, charged and electric. Cregan took a step closer, his presence growing heavier, almost a physical force pressing into her space. The warmth of him was sharp against the coolness she kept wrapped around herself.

"And what would they say to me now?" he asked, voice low.

Nella's chin lifted higher, every inch the woman who refused to be diminished. "That you're wasting coin and breath both."

She didn't turn to face him, busying herself with the silver flagon, pouring wine into two cups with a measured steadiness she didn't feel.

"Tell me, really, what are you doing here?" he asked again, slower this time, as though the question itself might coax her into softening.

She finally glanced at him over her shoulder, eyes cool. "And if I told you, my lord, would it change a single thing?"

His brow furrowed, and for the first time that night, he looked less like a lord and more like a man genuinely unsettled. "I remember you," he said quietly. "A girl in the Flint halls, barefoot in the library when she thought no one was watching. Always reaching for the oldest books... the ones on gods, magic, histories everyone else had forgotten. You'd vanish for hours with a candle and a stack taller than yourself."

Nella set the wine down harder than she meant to, the liquid sloshing in the cups. "That girl is gone."

His gaze sharpened. "Gone? Or buried under all this?" He gestured to the silks, the gold thread, the perfume that hung thick in the air. "You, here, doing this? What happened, Nella?"

She turned fully then, chin lifting. "I said... What happened is none of your concern."

Something in his expression shifted—part disbelief, part frustration. "You seemed to have a mind sharper than most maesters I've met, a hunger for things no one else cared to learn. And now... you sell yourself to drunk merchants?"

Her lips curved, though there was no humor in it. "Better to sell myself on my own terms than to have the world take me for free."

A slow, disbelieving breath escaped him. "You are bold," he said, almost to himself. "Bold enough to bite at the hand that could crush you."

"I bite at whatever hand tries to grab me," she replied evenly.

For a long moment, he just studied her, his gaze heavy, searching. Then—softly, almost like a trap being set—he said, "Do you remember what I told you in the Flint library? That if you wanted real books—books with truths older than the Wall itself—you'd find them in the shelves of Winterfell."

Her stomach tightened, but she held her face still.

"I told you I'd show them to you someday," he continued. "Tell me, Nella... in your life now, is there still a place for that? For knowledge?"

"No." The answer came fast, hard, like a blade she wanted to keep between them.

His brows drew together, as if he didn't believe her—or perhaps he simply refused to. "Pity," he said, voice low. "The girl I remember would've sold her soul for the right words on the right page."

"The girl you remember," she said, turning away, "is dead."

A heavy silence settled between them, thick enough to drown the fading echoes of their conversation. The crackle of the hearth was the only sound filling the room. Nella's breath caught, the words hanging between them like a challenge—and something more, something unexpected. The firelight flickered across his face, revealing an intensity she hadn't anticipated.

She didn't look back. "If it's pleasure you came for, my lord, there are plenty of others who'd be glad to see you. Go find one of them."

She swallowed hard, then let her gaze drift over the chamber as if searching for an escape. "There's Marra — she's quick and eager, never tires. Lysa, she knows just how to soften a man's mood. And then there's Mira, with the laugh that can warm even the coldest nights." She let each name linger, as if listing wares in a market.

But he didn't flinch. His eyes never wavered from hers. "None of them."

The weight of his refusal pressed down on her chest. For a heartbeat, the confident mask she wore faltered, replaced by a flicker of something raw—curiosity? Hesitation? Nella stood still for a moment, her back to him, the flickering firelight casting shifting shadows across her shoulders and the curve of her blonde hair then her fingers slid the cloak from his shoulders, but she didn't move closer beyond that. 

Her voice dropped cold. "You don't need to pay for this, my lord. Consider it a meeting between old ghosts. Now leave before you cause trouble for me."

He raised an eyebrow, a slow smile creeping at the corner of his mouth. "I don't want to cause trouble for you, Nella. But I will pay for your company, if only to keep things clean. You know as well as I do how rumors spread."

She scoffed, a humorless sound that barely hid the bitterness beneath. "You think I care what rumors say?" Her eyes glinted with a cold fire. "I'm already the girl they whisper about —" 

She sneered, voice rougher now. "They say I'm a prize, exotic and untouchable—a fantasy wrapped in silk and sweet perfume. But in the end, I'm just a whore for sale in a goddamn brothel. A name to be whispered behind closed doors, a quick fuck bought with coin and spit."

He leaned forward slightly, eyes steady. "Then let me at least give you the courtesy of a coin. It's not about what others think. It's about respect."

Nella's lips pressed into a thin line. "I said, you don't need to pay me. This—" she gestured between them "—is not the sort of thing you buy or sell."

He chuckled softly, a low, steady sound that somehow held both amusement and resolve. His eyes never left hers, calm and unyielding like the northern winter. "Maybe not to you. But to me, it's the only way to keep the peace. I'm not here to stir trouble or cause you pain. I am still here because I wanted to see you — not the stories or the whispers."

She fought the urge to look away, to deny the pull of those words. Her jaw twitched, a flicker of frustration passing through her like a spark against dry tinder. "You think it's that simple?" she shot back, voice sharp. "That you can just stroll in here with your coin and your titles and expect me to forget everything? That I'm some girl waiting to be saved or claimed?"

He stepped closer, undeterred by her fire. "No," he said softly. "I'm not here to save you. But I am here because I'm sure you matter. More than the tales they spin, more than the walls you hide behind."

Nella's lips curled, reluctant but not quite defeated. "You're persistent, I'll give you that," she said, voice rough but edged with a strange kind of respect. "Most men don't last more than a night, let alone stand their ground like you do."

He gave a small smile. "And you're stubborn. A combination that doesn't come along often."

She crossed her arms, weighing him silently, then with a reluctant sigh said, "Fine. But don't mistake this for kindness. It's business."

He nodded, reaching into his pouch to drop a heavy purse onto the table. The coins spilled with a soft clatter that sounded final. Her fingers closed around the heavy pouch, the cool weight a sharp reminder of the price she commanded tonight — and every night. She tucked it carefully beneath her skirts, the coins jingling softly like a promise and a chain all at once.

This isn't charity, she thought bitterly. Nor a gift.

She didn't want his pity, or his understanding. She didn't want to be saved — not by him, not by anyone. But the money... it meant power. Options. A flicker of freedom in a life fenced in by others' rules.

Still, beneath that flicker, an old ache stirred — the girl from Flint, the girl who had once dreamed of more than this, of knowledge and castles and names spoken with respect, not whispered behind veiled hands. She shoved the memory down, harder than she thought she would.

No, she told herself fiercely. That life is over. This is now. Nella of White Harbor, not the bastard girl they left behind.

No sooner had the lord's footsteps faded down the corridor than the door burst open again. A flurry of whispers and bright eyes spilled into the room as the girls crowded around her, their faces alight with curiosity and mischief.

"So? Was he gentle with you?" Mira asked, her voice a breathy mix of excitement and envy. "Did he touch you the way a lord should?"

"Did you make him beg?" Elenna pressed closer, her fingers nervously twisting the edge of her dress.

"Was he as handsome in bed as they say? The lord of Winterfell, no less!" Lysa's tone was teasing, but the question held an edge of genuine wonder.

Nella met their eager gazes, a small, tight smile playing on her lips. She could feel their hunger for tales, for whispers of a night spent with a lord—something none of them had yet claimed.

"I did my work," she said carefully, voice steady but unreadable. "Like I always do."

The girls exchanged looks, sensing the weight behind her words but choosing not to pry further.

"But did you... enjoy it?" Mira's eyes sparkled, searching for a crack in her calm.

Nella's smile sharpened, a flicker of steel in her silver eyes. "Pleasure isn't always about desire," she said softly, "sometimes it's just survival."

As the last of the girls' footsteps faded, Nella sank onto the edge of the bed, the weight of the evening settling heavily on her shoulders. The room, once filled with laughter and whispered questions, now felt oppressively silent. Her fingers brushed absently over the worn fabric of the sheets, but her thoughts were elsewhere—trapped in a tangled web of memory and longing.

The lord of Winterfell. The words echoed like a distant bell tolling through her mind. How many times had she imagined what it would be like to stand before someone of such power, to claim a place beyond the shadows of her bastard birth?

But tonight wasn't that dream. Tonight was something far more complicated.

She thought of his eyes — sharp, searching, filled with something that seemed to recognize the girl she once was. The eager child who stole books from Winterfell's shelves, chasing knowledge of old gods and lost magic, hungry to grasp something more than what her name and bloodline offered.

But that girl was gone. Burned away like ash on the wind. Nella swallowed hard, the bitter truth settling in her chest.

I'm no lord's daughter. No scholar. No savior.

She was a woman forged in pain and survival, in the cold laughter of courtyards and the harsh truths of this place. Beautiful, yes, but shackled by the choices she'd made—and the ones she'd had no choice but to accept. And yet... part of her ached for something different. For the life that might have been, had fate chosen otherwise.

She shook her head, trying to cast away the flicker of regret.

These visions, she thought, the dragons, the dead—they aren't for me. They belong to another life, another Nella. Not the one who answers to the mistress and sells her body to strangers.

Her blonde hair caught the firelight, shimmering like threads of moonlight tangled in darkness. It was a crown of sorts—a reminder that even in this world of shadows, she held a power of her own.

But power came with a price. And tomorrow, she would rise and wear her mask once again, hiding the girl who longed for something more beneath layers of silk and practiced smiles.

Because here, in this world, strength meant survival. And survival meant never letting them see the cracks.

Chapter Text

The morning light spilled in pale streams across the worn wooden floorboards as Nella sat by the window, absently tracing patterns on the table with her finger. The usual sounds of the brothel—soft laughter, murmured deals, and the occasional sharp bark of a laugh—floated up from the corridors below. She had grown accustomed to the rhythm of this place, the business of pleasure and coin.

Her thoughts drifted—visions from the night before lingering just beneath the surface—when the door to her room burst open, and the mistress strode in with an urgency that immediately pulled Nella to full attention.

"Nella," she said, voice low but commanding, eyes sharp as ever. "You've got a special client coming tonight."

Nella blinked, her brow arching in surprise. "Special? How special?"

The mistress closed the door behind her and stepped closer, lowering her voice to a near whisper. "He's already paid well—enough gold to make the other girls green with envy. A full pouch of coins, no less. More than enough to buy peace and silence for a season." She tapped the edge of a small pouch on the table.

Nella reached out, eyes narrowing. "Who is he?"

The mistress shook her head slowly, a rare flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. "That's the strange part. He won't give his name, and no one knows who he is. Not even the guards who brought him. He said it's better you meet him yourself."

A shiver ran down Nella's spine—not from fear, but from curiosity and something deeper, a pulse of anticipation she hadn't felt in a long time.

"A client who wants me by name and hides behind silence?" Nella's voice was incredulous, but a sly grin tugged at her lips. "That's new."

The mistress's expression hardened, her gaze locking onto Nella's. "Prepare yourself. This night won't be like the others. Whoever he is, he's dangerous in more ways than one."

Nella's fingers tightened around the cup on the table. Her mind flickered with the fire and blood from her visions, and the whispers of the past she tried to bury. "Fine," she said at last, voice steady but laced with steel. "Let him come. I'll be ready."

As the mistress left, closing the door behind her, Nella stared into the fading light, the weight of the unknown pressing down on her chest, she pulled the silk cloth tighter around her waist, smoothing the delicate fabric of her gown as she moved through the dim corridors of the brothel. 

The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and sweat, whispers and secrets clinging to every corner. Her mind was focused on the evening ahead—the mysterious client, the heavy pouch of coins—but a soft, stifled sob pulled her attention away. She turned a corner and spotted Mira, one of the older girls, sitting on a wooden bench near the servant's staircase. Mira's shoulders shook with silent tears, her hands clenched tight in her lap. The flickering candlelight caught in her eyes, rimmed red with exhaustion and fear.

Nella hesitated a moment, then stepped closer, her voice soft, almost hesitant. "Mira?" she said gently, sensing the weight behind the tears. "What's wrong?"

Mira's eyes darted nervously toward the hallway as if the shadows themselves might be listening. She swallowed hard, fingers trembling as she wiped at her cheeks roughly, desperate to hide the vulnerability. "N—nothing," she whispered quickly, voice brittle with fear. 

Nella hesitated a moment, then stepped closer, her voice soft and steady. "Mira?" she asked again, gently, "You can tell me anything."

Mira's eyes flickered up, searching Nella's face as if weighing whether to trust her. She bit her lip, then looked away, voice barely above a whisper. "Please... don't tell the mistress. Promise me." Her hands trembled as she wiped away more tears.

Nella's gaze softened, steady and sure. "I won't say a word, Mira. You have my word."

Mira swallowed hard, the weight of her secret pressing down on her. She took a shaky breath, then let the truth spill out in a hurried whisper. "I'm with child... but here, that means nothing good. The Mistress... she'll take the babe away or worse if she finds out. There's no place for a mother in this place—no family, no kindness. Just cold rules and cruelty."

Mira's body trembled violently as she confessed, the fear and exhaustion etched deep in every shaking breath. Nella instinctively stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Mira in a firm, protective embrace. The other girl clung to her as if Nella's strength could shield her from the cold, unforgiving world beyond these walls.

Gods, what a cruel place this is, Nella thought, her heart tightening. How can they punish a mother for something so natural, so pure?

She held Mira close, feeling the ragged quivers beneath her own steady heartbeat. "You're not alone," Nella murmured, voice low but fierce. 

Mira pulled back just enough to look into Nella's eyes, still trembling but searching for hope. "But what can we do? If the Mistress finds out—"

"Then we keep it secret," Nella said firmly. "We'll watch out for you. You won't have to hide alone."

For a long moment, silence hung between them, broken only by Mira's uneven breathing. Slowly, Mira's trembling lessened, replaced by a fragile resolve.

Nella's gaze hardened with quiet determination as she tightened her hold on Mira's shoulders. "Listen to me," she said, voice steady, filled with a fierce protectiveness. "I'll take any client you have to refuse. Every last one. I'll bear their weight, their demands—whatever it takes—until your child is born safe."

Mira's eyes widened, the tremble returning for a moment as disbelief and gratitude warred within her. "Nella, you don't have to—"

But Nella cut her off with a gentle shake of her head. "I do. You need time to carry this child without the weight of this place crushing you. And once the babe is born, we'll find a way. There's always a way."

She searched Mira's face, trying to anchor the flicker of hope there. "You won't be alone in this. Not ever."

Mira swallowed hard, a fragile smile breaking through the fear. "Thank you... truly. I don't know what I'd do."

Nella stepped back, resolute. "Then rest. I'll handle the rest."

Before Mira could say more, the heavy knock came at the door, sharp and insistent. The mistress's voice followed quickly, brisk and commanding.

"Nella! There's no time to waste. Your client will be here any moment. Get ready."

Nella reluctantly pulled away from Mira's trembling frame, her mind still swirling with the weight of the promise she'd just made. She gave Mira one last, fierce look—silent reassurance—and turned toward the door.

Duty called. The child, the brothel, her own survival—all tangled in a fragile balance she had no choice but to keep. Nella stepped out of the small room where Mira had been resting, her mind still heavy with the older woman's secret. The quiet weight of it lingered, but there was no time to dwell—her next client was waiting.

Nella's breath caught as she rounded the corner—and froze. There, standing in the shadows of the corridor, was Cregan Stark. The last person she expected to see again. Her heart jolted, a sudden shock tightening in her chest.

Beside her, the mistress's lips curved into a knowing smirk. "Work well tonight, Nella," she whispered, her voice low but sharp, filled with amusement. Nella's eyes flicked from the mistress to Cregan, then back again. The room felt smaller, the air heavier. For a moment, the world tilted—everything she had been preparing for shattered by the weight of his unexpected presence.

Summoning every ounce of composure, Nella's voice dropped, firm but edged with irritation. "Why are you here again? You paid last time—that should've been enough."

He did not answer, all he did was standing there, looking at her.

Nella's eyes narrowed, her voice sharp and clipped as the irritation rose in her chest like a flame she couldn't quite smother.
"Enough. I'm not here for your games, my lord. If you've nothing else to say, then leave. I won't waste another word on you, nor welcome you back."

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her posture rigid with defiance. The years of hard-won control, the armor she wore like second skin, bristled in that tense moment. She wasn't about to let him—any man—breach the walls she had built around herself so easily. But then her gaze shifted—just for a flicker—and caught the edge of something unfamiliar in his grasp. Books. A small, carefully held stack, edges worn and soft, like they had traveled far.

Her voice faltered for a moment, curiosity cutting through her anger. "Books?" She scoffed, but there was a catch in her throat. "What trick is this? You bring me books now?"

Cregan's eyes met hers calmly, no trace of mockery, only something steady and genuine. "These are the ones I told you about. The shelves of Winterfell... the knowledge you once craved."

Nella's breath hitched, a swirl of memories crashing against her resolve. But impulse took hold, fierce and raw. "No," she snapped, voice rough, almost desperate. "I don't want your books. I don't want your pity. I'm not that girl anymore. Those days are dead."

She shook her head sharply, stepping back as if to put distance between herself and the ghosts of her past. "Don't think I'll be tempted by your words or your coins. This is my life now—whether you like it or not."

Nella's temper snapped like a drawn bowstring. With a sharp shove, she pushed Cregan back, hard enough to stagger him. When he didn't retreat, she shoved him again—this time with more force, her voice rising. "Go! Disappear from my sight!"

He stayed rooted, and she pushed a third time, fury crackling through her veins. "I said—GO!"

Only then did Cregan raise a hand, his voice calm but firm. "I'm not here to fight you, Nella. 

Her breath hitched, irritation mixing with something raw and confusing. "Then why won't you just go? You paid last time. That should be enough."

He let out a soft, almost rueful chuckle. "This isn't about coin. I brought these for you." He lifted the books slightly, a silent offering. "A reminder, Nella. Of who you are. The gods' gift, whether you want it or not."

She scoffed, but the sharp edge in his words dug beneath her stubborn exterior. "The Sight will always mark you. You can't run from it."

Nella's lips pressed into a thin line, eyes flickering with something between defiance and fear. "I don't need reminders. I don't want to be that girl."

Cregan's gaze softened, steady and unyielding. "You are marked, Nella. Whether you accept it or not. These books... maybe they'll help you understand. When you're ready."

The tension hung thick in the air, stubborn wills clashing silently. Nella's arms tightened across her chest, but something in her stirred—uneasy, reluctant. She watched Cregan's broad shoulders retreat through the doorway, the heavy footsteps fading into the corridor beyond.

Her breath came fast, chest rising and falling like the flames in the hearth. Slowly, reluctantly, her eyes dropped to the books he'd left behind, lying there like silent sentinels of a past she tried so hard to bury. Her fingers itched to close them, to shove them away with everything she had — but she didn't. Instead, she reached out, trembling, and touched the worn leather cover. The gods' gift, the Sight—it was a chain she'd never break, no matter how fiercely she fought.

She muttered under her breath, a sharp edge of frustration biting into her words. "Stubborn as a mountain, that one..., always dragging the past back when I'm trying to drown it."

Her fingers curled around the spine and she opened the book carefully, the brittle pages whispering secrets long forgotten. The script was faded, written in an ancient hand—old gods' language, old gods' ways.

For a moment, she was no longer Nella the whore, no longer the bastard of House Flint, but the girl she once was, hidden in the forest's shadow, clutching stolen books like treasures. She traced the words with her eyes, reading passages about the gifts the old gods bestowed—sight beyond sight, whispers carried on the wind, power buried deep in blood and bone. Her eyes skimmed the fragile pages, the ancient words unfolding like a forgotten prayer:

"The Sight is a gift born from the roots of the world tree, a thread woven by the Old Gods themselves. It grants glimpses beyond the veil—visions that shimmer in fire and shadow, the whispers of the forest, and the silent language of the stars."

Her breath caught as she read on:

"Those marked by the Sight walk a narrow path, forever caught between two worlds. They bear the burden of knowing what should not be known, carrying warnings carved in blood and bone. To resist is to invite chaos; to embrace is to bind oneself to a fate entwined with the fate of all."

Nella's fingers trembled, the words echoing the firestorm that had burned behind her eyes. Another passage drew her in deeper:

"The gods do not choose lightly. Their chosen are both blessed and cursed—seers, prophets, dreamers whose visions can build kingdoms or raze them to ash. The true test lies not in the seeing, but in the strength to bear the truth without losing oneself."

She closed the book slowly, her heart pounding. These weren't just old tales; they were a mirror to her own restless mind — the gift she thought she could bury, now laid bare in ink and parchment.

That night, as the candles flickered low and the world outside grew quiet, Nella lay awake beneath the heavy blankets. Her thoughts tangled like the threads of fate themselves — tangled with memories of Cregan, of the brief flicker of something like hope she'd dared to feel when he brought the books. And beneath it all, the weight of the Sight pressed on her chest, a fire she hated but couldn't help being drawn to.

She hated it — the visions, the torment, the way it marked her like a scar no one else could see. Yet, a small, reluctant spark of curiosity gnawed at her. What if this gift wasn't just a curse? What if it held the key to something greater, something beyond the walls of the brothel and the whispers of her past?

Sleep came slow, haunted by shadows of dragons and flames, by promises and warnings wrapped in dreams. And somewhere deep inside, a question lingered — was she truly the girl who had died in the woods, or was she something new, shaped by fire, fate, and the gods themselves?

Chapter Text

Weeks had slipped by like the quiet breath of winter fog settling over White Harbor, persistent and chilling. The rhythm of the brothel remained unchanged in many ways — the steady stream of clients, the soft laughter and sighs behind closed doors, the clink of coins exchanged for fleeting warmth and company. But for Nella, each day felt heavier, as though she carried more than the usual weight of tired limbs and worn silk. The air seemed thicker now, as if the walls themselves bore witness to the tightening coil of tension she could neither unravel nor escape.

The lord from Winterfell's visits, once rare and puzzling, had become a steady, unshakable presence—an unbidden shadow threading through her days and nights. He arrived without fanfare, silent as a wolf, calm and composed, quietly observing every detail with eyes that weighed her down more than any chain. Each time his footsteps echoed in the chamber, the sharp prickle of irritation tightened Nella's jaw, curling like frostbite beneath her skin. It wasn't anger she felt—he was not a cruel man, nor a tormentor. It was the fragile peace she'd fought so hard to build, now fractured by his quiet persistence, that unsettled her most.

She learned quickly to avoid his gaze whenever possible, lowering her eyes or turning away just so, burying herself in the careful tasks that had become her refuge: smoothing the fine linens, arranging the pillows with precision, brushing out her long, silver-gold hair until it shimmered in the firelight like woven moonbeams. She paid attention to the delicate curves of her neck and shoulders, catching the way the flames kissed her skin, reminding her of the beauty she still possessed even here, in this place that demanded she trade it for coin.

Yet, no matter how she tried to hide, he never failed to meet her gaze. His eyes were steady, unyielding—cold as the northern winds that cut through Winterfell's stone walls. They held a question, a knowing that unsettled her deeper than any words could. And though she wanted nothing more than to flee from that look, she found herself rooted in place, trapped beneath its weight like a bird caught in a net.

The quiet of the brothel around her blurred into insignificance when he was near. The laughter behind the heavy oak doors became hollow, the clinking coins a distant echo, drowned out by the sound of her own breath, rapid and uneven. Each visit carved a new line of conflict within her—a stubborn fire ignited by his presence, one part defiance, one part reluctant curiosity.

She hated what he represented: a link to a past she tried to forget, a mirror reflecting a life she no longer wanted. And yet, she could not deny that beneath the anger, beneath the steel, there was something dangerously close to longing. In the stillness of those moments, as she straightened the folds of her gown and caught sight of her reflection in the tarnished mirror, Nella wondered how long she could hold the fragile balance between who she was—and who the gods had marked her to be.

The knock came softly at the door before it creaked open, revealing Cregan once again, his familiar calm presence filling the small chamber. In his hands, he carried a bundle wrapped carefully in worn cloth—more books, their spines cracked and aged, the ink faded but still vibrant with secrets waiting to be uncovered.

Nella's eyes lifted slowly, surprise flickering across her face before settling into a quiet acceptance. Over the weeks, his visits had become less a thorn and more a fragile thread of connection—a tether to something beyond the brothel's walls, beyond the life she lived by coin and whispered rumors. There was a gentleness now in her eyes when she met his, something softer, less guarded.

He set the bundle down carefully on the table, unwrapping the cloth to reveal volumes thick with knowledge of the old gods, of ancient rites, and of the Sight itself—texts that spoke of seers and dreamers marked by the gods, gifted or cursed depending on the telling.

"I thought you might want these," Cregan said quietly, watching her face as she traced the worn leather bindings with trembling fingers. "The knowledge you seek... it's here. Not just old tales, but truths."

Nella's voice was barely a whisper. "I never thought I'd want to read these again. Not here." But as she opened the first book, the pages spilled secrets that made her heart race—stories of visions, of power, and of the weight carried by those chosen by the gods.

They sat together in a silence filled only by the crackle of the hearth, the fire casting flickering shadows across the room. Finally, Cregan broke the quiet.

He studied her for a long moment, then asked gently, "Why are you here? I've asked before, but you've never answered."

Her gaze dropped, the question like a stone sinking in cold water. "Because I have no other place to be," she said finally, voice steady but laced with pain. "Because this—this is the only life I've been given."

Cregan's gaze sharpened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. "I meant...What happened to you, Nella? The bastard girl from Flint Castle—full of life, stealing books, chasing after knowledge like it was the only thing keeping her alive. What drove you to sell yourself in a brothel?"

The question hung heavy in the air between them. Nella's gaze dropped to the floor, fingers curling into the folds of her skirts as if seeking something solid to hold onto. Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper at first, as if speaking the words aloud made them more real—more unbearable.

"One day... I thought I could escape," she began slowly, each word weighted with hesitation. "I wanted to flee. To leave the shadows behind, to be someone else—someone better." She swallowed hard, the memory catching like a bitter stone in her throat. "But I was stopped. By the lord's son."

Her breath hitched, and she clenched her jaw tight to hold back a shudder. "He... he raped me. I fought, I fought with everything inside me. I had a knife—just a small blade—but I cut off two of his fingers to get free."

Nella's hands trembled as she folded them tightly in her lap. "I thought that would be the end of me—that they'd kill me for it. But no." Her eyes flickered with a hurt so deep it seemed to echo in the room. "Instead, they sold me. Like I was nothing more than a broken thing to be passed from hand to hand."

Nella's gaze dropped to the floor, her fingers nervously twisting the edge of her skirt. Her voice came out low and hesitant, each word seeming to wrestle free from a heavy weight inside her. "At first... I was afraid," she admitted, swallowing hard as if the memory lodged like a stone in her throat. "Everything was dark, strange. But..." She paused, eyes flickering up, haunted and distant. "It felt more like home than it ever did with the Flints."

She bit her lip, fighting to steady herself. "I thought the brothel was a cage, but... the Flint halls—cold, harsh, full of silence and scorn—it never felt like I belonged there. Here... at least, there was noise, faces, a kind of chaos I could live with."

Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away fiercely, refusing to give him the sight of her brokenness. "That's how I came here. Not because I chose this life — but because it was the only place left for me."

Cregan's jaw tightened, but he didn't say a word. Instead, he reached out, his hand hovering just inches from hers, unsure whether to offer comfort or respect her space as he finally broke the silence. "Have you ever thought about leaving this place, Nella? To start anew somewhere far from here?"

She shook her head slowly, voice steady but tinged with a bittersweet resignation. "No. This is my place now. The life I never wanted, but the life I have."

He studied her for a long moment, as if searching for some flicker of hope beneath her guarded exterior. Then his voice softened, almost gentle. "And have you never dreamed of something greater? Beyond these walls, beyond the shadow of the Flint name?"

Nella's fingers tightened around the edge of the worn blanket, knuckles paling as she wrestled with the weight of his question. The room felt smaller, the flickering shadows of the hearth casting long shapes that pressed in around her. She met Cregan's steady eyes, and for a moment, the fierce guard she wore slipped, revealing a crack of vulnerability.

"I used to dream," she began, voice rough like gravel but soft with memory. "Back when I was still just the bastard girl sneaking through Flint halls, stealing scraps of books and knowledge I wasn't meant to have. I dreamed of leaving all this behind — the dirt, the whispers, the chains of a name that never belonged to me. I used to think I could be more," she whispered, voice barely steady. "More than a bastard, more than a broken girl sold to the highest bidder. I thought... maybe one day, I'd find a way out. But the world doesn't give second chances to girls like me."

She swallowed hard, the taste of old fear rising like bile. "Dreams... they're dangerous things. They make you see what could be, and what you will never have."

He searched her face, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. "What about a family of your own? Have you ever thought of that? To have something that's yours, beyond this place... beyond the past?"

Nella's eyes flickered with a sudden, fragile light, but it was quickly smothered by a shadow of doubt. "A family?" she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I've seen what happens to women like me who try. Children taken away, sold, or worse. The world doesn't make room for us—not really."

She swallowed hard, fighting back a lump in her throat. "I'm not sure I know how to belong anywhere... not with a child, not with anyone. Maybe... maybe that kind of hope is a luxury I can't afford."

A silence stretched between them, heavy and filled with unspoken words. Then Cregan leaned back, running a hand through his dark hair. "Maybe... maybe your life isn't done yet. The gods' gift you carry—it's not just a curse. It's a path. Hard, yes, but a path nonetheless."

Nella bit her lip, the idea both frightening and strangely comforting. "A path to what?"

"To something greater than pain and fear," he said softly. "You just have to decide if you want to follow it."

Cregan rose slowly, the weight of their conversation lingering in the air like smoke. Without another word, he turned toward the door, his footsteps muted on the wooden floor. Nella watched him go, her mind a storm of conflicting thoughts and emotions. His words echoed inside her, stirring something she wasn't ready to face. As the heavy oak door closed behind him, a sudden, sharp cry tore through the quiet. It came from the chamber nearby — a raw, desperate sound that pulled Nella from her reverie. Without hesitation, she sprang to her feet and rushed toward the noise.

Bursting through the door, she found Mira, pale and trembling, clutching her swollen belly. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her face was drawn tight with pain.

"Help me," Mira gasped between ragged breaths, her eyes wide with fear and determination.

Nella's hands trembled as she helped Mira ease down onto the narrow bed, pulling the coarse blankets aside with a shaky urgency. The brothel was eerily silent—empty halls, no other girls or servants in sight—and that only made the moment feel more desperate, more fragile.

"What's happening?" Nella's voice was tight with panic, eyes searching Mira's pale face.

Mira gritted her teeth, clutching Nella's arm with surprising strength. "The babe's coming," she gasped, her voice raw with fear and pain. "I... I'm not ready. But I'll need you."

Nella swallowed the lump rising in her throat. She had no training, no knowledge beyond whispered tales and the occasional overheard midwife's advice. But there was no time to hesitate.

"Okay, Mira. I'm here. I'll help you. Just breathe, alright? In and out."

Mira nodded weakly, squeezing her eyes shut as another wave of pain crashed through her. Nella's hands shook, but she forced herself steady, laying a clean cloth on the bed and wetting another with cool water from the pitcher nearby. Nella quickly dipped the cloth in the cool water and pressed it gently against Mira's sweating forehead. The woman's face was pale, flushed with pain and fear, eyes wide and searching.

"You're going to have to push now," Nella said, her voice shaky but firm. "You need to help the babe come out."

Mira nodded weakly, biting her lip as another contraction hit her. Nella's heart hammered in her chest, her hands trembling as she braced herself on the edge of the bed. She had no idea how to do this. No lessons, no guidance beyond stories whispered in the dark. Every instinct told her to be calm, but inside, panic clawed at her throat.

"Okay, Mira," she whispered, trying to steady her breath. "Push when you need to. I'm here."

Mira's eyes squeezed shut, her body trembling with the force of another contraction. A guttural cry escaped her lips, raw and desperate. Nella's hands hovered uncertainly, torn between wanting to help and fearing she might do more harm than good.

"Breathe, Mira. In... out..." Nella urged, forcing calm into her own voice even as her heart pounded wildly.

The room felt unbearably small, shadows stretching and flickering against the walls as the fire sputtered low. Mira's sweat slicked her brow, and her hands clawed at the thin sheets like they were a lifeline.

"Push again... now," Mira gasped, her voice breaking under the strain.

Nella took a shaky breath and, with trembling fingers, gently placed her hands where she thought support was needed. She felt the tension tighten and then a sudden, urgent pressure that sent a shiver of fear and awe through her.

"Good... keep going," Nella whispered, her voice barely a breath. "You're doing well."

Mira's body convulsed, a low scream ripping free as another contraction seized her. Nella could see the raw, glistening skin of new life beginning to emerge, slick and slippery. Time warped; minutes stretched into hours in the burning silence punctuated only by Mira's ragged breaths and cries. Nella's throat was dry, her palms slick with sweat, but she refused to look away.

"Almost there... just a little more," she urged, though doubt gnawed at her resolve.

Mira's face twisted with pain, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I... I can't," she whispered, voice trembling with exhaustion and fear.

"You can. You must," Nella said, a fierce edge in her voice despite the fear bubbling inside her. "For your babe. For both of you."

Another contraction took Mira, harder and longer than before. Nella's hands moved instinctively to support, guiding as best she could, though every moment felt like a trial she was utterly unprepared for.

Nella's breath hitched as Mira's body tensed again. "The babe... it's here," she said, voice trembling with a mix of fear and awe. "I can see its head."

Mira's eyes widened, a painful, hopeful gleam shining through the exhaustion. "Is it... real?" she whispered.

"Yes, it's real," Nella said, her voice catching as excitement mingled with terror. "Almost done now. Just one more push."

Mira gripped the sheets tighter, her entire body shaking with the effort. "I... I'm trying."

Nella crouched by her side, heart pounding in her chest, hands ready to catch this tiny life. The firelight flickered across her face, casting long shadows as the moments stretched unbearably thin.

"Push, Mira! You can do this!" Nella urged, voice steady but breath ragged.

With a final, shuddering cry, Mira gave one last desperate push. Nella's hands closed gently around the slippery, wet form as the babe emerged — slick with blood and amniotic fluid, crying out loud and raw in the quiet room.

Tears sprang unbidden to Nella's eyes as she held the fragile, trembling infant close. The babe's cries echoed like a fragile anthem of hope amid the fear.

"It's a boy," she whispered, awe and relief flooding her voice. "He's alive."

Nella's hands trembled as she carefully held the newborn, the small, wet body wriggling and crying in her arms. Then her gaze flicked down to the thin, bluish cord still connecting the babe to Mira — the umbilical cord.

"We need to cut the cord," she said softly, voice barely steady. "It's what keeps the babe tied to you, but now he needs to breathe on his own."

Mira nodded weakly, sweat beading on her brow.

Nella glanced around quickly and found a small, sharp knife on a nearby table. She took a deep breath, steadying herself as she pressed the blade gently against the cord, careful not to hurt the babe or Mira. With a quick, sure slice, she severed the umbilical cord.

Carefully, she lifted the newborn closer to Mira's chest, feeling the mother's warmth beneath her fingers. Mira's exhausted eyes fluttered open as she wrapped trembling arms around her child, drawing him close for the first time. Nella stepped back, folding her hands quietly as she watched the tender moment unfold—the way Mira's gaze softened, the babe's tiny fingers curling around her own.

Mira's voice was barely more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of a soul unburdened. "Thank you, Nella... I don't know what I would've done without you." Her eyes glistened with tears—relief, exhaustion, and something softer, something like gratitude.

Nella nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair from Mira's damp forehead. "You did well," she said quietly, her own heart still racing from the ordeal. "He's strong."

Watching Mira cradle her newborn, Nella felt a strange warmth bloom inside her chest. The sight of that tiny, fragile life—the babe's clenched fists, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath—it was unlike anything she had ever seen. This wasn't just a transaction, a fleeting moment of pleasure or pain. This was raw, unfiltered life.

For all the darkness that surrounded her existence, for all the chains she felt from her past and her gift, the presence of that small, crying child was a light she couldn't ignore.

"It changes everything, doesn't it?" Mira murmured, her voice filled with wonder as she gazed down at her son.

Nella swallowed hard, nodding. "It does."

In that quiet, cramped room filled with the scent of sweat, blood, and new beginnings, something fragile and fierce took root in Nella's heart—a flicker of something that might just be hope.

Chapter Text

The night had been restless for Nella. Sleep came in fitful waves, haunted by echoes of cries from Mira's labor and the fragile, wet sound of the newborn's first breath. When the pale fingers of dawn finally pried open the shutters of her chamber, the cold light seemed to touch the edges of her thoughts—harsh, real, unyielding.

She rose slowly, muscles stiff and raw, and wrapped a thin shawl over her shoulders. The brothel was quiet, still heavy with the scent of wax and musk, but Nella knew the morning would bring its own burdens. Mira, tired and pale, would need her. Steeling herself, Nella made her way down the narrow corridors, her footsteps muffled by the thick rug. She paused outside Mira's door, hearing the faint rustle of movement inside. With a soft knock, she entered.

Mira lay propped up on the small bed, the child swaddled tightly against her breast. Her face was pale but serene, a tired smile brushing her lips as her fingers stroked the baby's downy head. Nella's heart clenched at the sight. The small bundle in her arms was fragile and new, a stark contrast to the hardened walls and lives the brothel had forced upon them all.

Mira's eyes opened as Nella approached, and she reached out a trembling hand. "You came," she whispered.

"I'm here," Nella said softly, settling beside her.

After a moment, she reached into the folds of her worn dress and pulled out the heavy pouch of coins Cregan had given her some days before. The weight of the gold felt like an anchor in her hand—both promise and burden.

"It's for you," Nella said, voice low but firm. "For you and the babe. You'll need to get far from here, somewhere safe. Somewhere they can't find you."

Mira's eyes widened, a flicker of hope igniting despite the exhaustion.

Nella pressed the heavy pouch into Mira's trembling hands. "This... it's more than coin. It's a chance." Her voice cracked ever so slightly. "A chance for a life that isn't this." She glanced around the dim room — the faded tapestries, the threadbare mattress, the small cot that barely held them both. "Somewhere your child can grow without fear."

Mira's gaze flickered to the pouch, then back to Nella's face. "And what will you do?" Her voice was hoarse, fragile as if speaking the question aloud might break the fragile peace they'd just found.

Nella swallowed, the knot in her throat tightening. "My place is here." The words tasted bitter, but they carried the weight of steel. "I have to stay. For the others. For the girls who have no one else. And for myself."

Mira's fingers tightened around the pouch. "I don't understand. Why not come with me? Start fresh?"

Nella's eyes darkened, clouded by old scars. "Because I'm not who I was anymore. This... this is what's left." She gestured around the room, voice heavy with reluctant acceptance. "This is my life now, messy and cruel as it is."

A silence fell between them, thick and heavy. Outside, the first birds of dawn began to stir, their songs tentative but hopeful.

Nella sat back on the edge of the narrow cot, her fingers tracing the worn fabric as she watched Mira cradling her newborn. The babe's soft, steady breathing was a lullaby of fragile new life in a place so cruel it barely seemed possible. For a moment, the harsh reality of the brothel faded, replaced by a gentle stillness that wrapped around them like a fragile shield.

Her thoughts churned in restless waves. Hope. Such a dangerous thing to feel here, where dreams were too often crushed like dried petals beneath heavy boots. Yet seeing Mira — strong, exhausted, and now a mother — stirred something deep inside her. Maybe there was a sliver of light after all, even in the darkest corners. But then, without warning, the calm shattered.

A violent vision tore through her mind—sharp, brutal, and vivid. The clash of steel rang out like thunder, jagged and unrelenting. Strange, shadowed figures moved in a chaotic dance of death, their faces twisted in rage and fear. Above them, a dragon screamed—a terrifying, guttural roar that shook her very soul. Flames poured from its gaping maw, devouring another figure writhing in agony beneath the blaze. The screams were raw, endless—piercing the silence of the room and the recesses of her mind alike.

Nella's breath hitched; her body trembled uncontrollably. Her hands clenched the rough blanket beneath her, knuckles white with the effort to hold herself together. Her heart hammered in her chest, drowning out the echoes of fire and death. The vision shattered, and she was back—cold, gasping, and shaking. Her breath came in ragged bursts, lungs burning as though filled with smoke. The quiet room felt suddenly suffocating, the shadows thick and pressing.

She turned sharply, waking Mira with a harsh whisper. "Wake. The babe—wake now."

Mira's eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding her gaze. "Nella? What's wrong?"

Nella said nothing. Without waiting for an answer, she pushed herself to her feet and fled the room. The chill of the hallway bit at her skin as she stumbled outside, the sharp night air catching in her throat.

Her knees buckled, and she bent over, retching violently onto the cold stone floor. But this was no ordinary sickness — the liquid that spilled from her mouth was dark, thick, tinged with a deep, unnatural crimson that stained the stones beneath her. It tasted bitter and metallic, like iron mixed with ash, leaving a burning trail down her throat.

Shaking, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her body trembling with exhaustion and dread. The vision—the screams, the clash of steel, the dragon's fiery wrath—it wasn't just a dream. It was a message, a warning woven into the blood of her gift. The Sight, the ancient power she despised and tried to deny, had chosen to remind her: the past was not done with her. Neither was the fate tied to her bloodline.

Her mind reeled as fragments of knowledge she barely understood stirred in her memory. The old gods, the ancient magic whispered in the pages of the books Cregan had brought—stories of dragons and warriors, of ice and fire, intertwined with prophecy and doom. The Sight was never just a curse or a gift; it was a link, a thread connecting her to forces beyond this brothel, beyond White Harbor, beyond even Winterfell itself.

The dragon's scream—the searing fire—those were echoes of a war long dead but not forgotten. A war that still burned in the blood of those descended from Valyria's fireborn. Was she marked by it? Was she destined to be more than the broken girl sold to this place, more than the whispered rumors of a whore with a dangerous secret?

She staggered back inside, wiping sweat from her brow, breath still shallow and uneven. Mira's worried eyes found her immediately. "Nella, what's wrong? You're pale as death."

Nella forced a weak smile, shaking her head. "Nothing. Just... nothing."

Mira didn't let it go. She reached out, gripping Nella's arm gently but firmly. "Please, Nella. You can tell me. Whatever it is."

Nella hesitated, her gaze darting toward the flickering shadows cast by the hearth. The room felt suddenly too small, too close. She swallowed hard, as if forcing the words up from a deep well.

It was... terrible," Nella began, swallowing hard, as if forcing the memory out of a dark well. "I saw a battle—a clash of steel, fire burning like the sun itself. Dragons... roaring, devouring. One screamed like a beast possessed, tearing through a figure that cried out, but I couldn't see who it was clearly. The screams... they filled everything."

Her voice cracked, haunted by the vividness of the scene. "But it wasn't just fire and death. I saw shadows—strange shapes moving through the chaos, like ghosts among the flames, controlling the battle from the edges. It was brutal, merciless."

She paused, looking into Mira's steady gaze. "Amid the fire and screaming dragons, there were others — icy shapes, cold as death itself. Creatures with eyes like frozen daggers, piercing straight through me." She shivered despite the warmth of the room. "Their gaze wasn't just cold... it was emptiness, cruelty. Something I've never felt before. It terrified me."

Mira's brow furrowed, sensing the depth of Nella's fear. "Icy creatures? Dragons and ice... it sounds like war, but not just any war. Something ancient, something that tears the world apart."

Nella nodded slowly, swallowing hard. "It was a clash of fire and ice — flames that devoured, and cold that killed without mercy. And those icy eyes—they seemed to be watching me, warning me. I don't know why."

She paused, looking into Mira's steady gaze. "I think it's a warning. Something coming, a war that will burn everything down."

Mira's hand found hers, squeezing gently. "You carry the Sight, Nella. These visions—they're part of your gift, your burden. We may not understand them yet, but you're not alone."

Nella's breath hitched, the weight of prophecy heavy on her chest. "I don't know if I want to see what's coming. I don't know if I can stop it."

"But knowing is the first step," Mira said softly. "And whatever comes, you'll face it stronger than you think."

For the first time in days, Nella felt a flicker of warmth — fragile but real — amid the gathering storm inside her.

The nights dragged endlessly, a suffocating blur of restless shadows and shattered sleep. Nella lay awake beneath the thin blanket, her eyes wide and unblinking as the visions clawed at the edges of her mind. The fire that once seemed distant now roared in her thoughts, and the icy daggers of cold stared into her soul with merciless intent. Each time the images came, she felt the breath squeezed from her lungs, the weight of unseen forces pressing down, relentless and unyielding.

Her skin had turned pale as winter's frost, the dark circles beneath her eyes growing deeper by the day. A persistent headache throbbed at her temples, a dull hammering that no rest could soothe. The brothel's warm, crowded rooms now felt like cages, suffocating and claustrophobic.

Lysa was the first to notice. "Nella, you don't eat. You don't drink. You barely sleep." She stepped closer, her eyes searching, worry folding her brow. She found Nella trembling by the hearth, her fingers curled so tightly at her sides they nearly whitened. "What's happening to you now?"

Nella's lips parted in a weak attempt at a smile, but it shattered like thin ice underfoot—brittle, fragile, barely there. "It's nothing, Lysa. Just... bad dreams, again." Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the storm beneath her calm facade.

Mira didn't press further, but the concern lingered in her gaze, a silent plea that Nella would share the burden.

Days later, the mistress cornered her with a sharp, critical eye. "You look like a ghost, girl," she said, voice clipped, her tone carrying both warning and impatience. "The others are asking why you're so distracted. You better take care of yourself, or you'll have no coin left to pay your debts." Her gaze flicked to the pale circles beneath Nella's eyes, unyielding and unforgiving. "This isn't a place for weakness."

But the truth was far heavier than exhaustion or simple worry. The visions haunted Nella not just in sleep but in every waking moment. The images of fire and ice, of screams and shadowed figures, blurred with whispers from old gods' lore — cryptic passages that spoke of gifts and doom intertwined. She had returned again and again to the fragile pages of the ancient book Cregan had brought her, hoping for clarity, for some hint of the path ahead. But the prophecy remained a tangled knot, every answer only deepening the mystery.

Outside the brothel, the city pulsed with murmurs that danced on every street corner and spilled from every tavern. Rumors of dragons awakening far to the south stirred uneasy whispers, while talk of war's shadow crept ever closer, casting long fingers across the land. The cold eyes of the North—unblinking, unyielding—watched with growing menace, like ice cutting through flesh.

Nella felt it all pressing in on her, the weight of a world shifting beneath her feet. Her visions were no longer fleeting nightmares but threads tugged from that unraveling tapestry, fragments of a future bleeding into the present. The fire and blood she saw, the icy daggers of those cold figures—they were not just images but warnings carved into her mind.

With each breath, the line between what was real and what was seen blurred. The familiar faces around her—the laughter, the exchanged coins, the whispered secrets—felt like a fragile veneer stretched over an abyss. And beneath it, the storm raged, relentless and unforgiving.

Caught between fear and fascination, Nella wrestled with her secret. Could she confide in Cregan, the lord who brought her knowledge and unsettled her peace? Or would revealing the truth only invite danger — for herself, for those around her?

The weight of the Sight pressed down on her, a burden she could neither bear nor abandon.

Chapter Text

Nella moved quietly through her small, dim chamber, her fingers trembling slightly as she gathered the few belongings she owned. The worn gowns—simple silks faded from too many washings and nights spent in shadows—were folded carefully, each a reminder of a life half-remembered and half-forgotten. She tucked them neatly into the small leather satchel she had hidden beneath the floorboards, the only place safe from prying eyes.

Her heart quickened when she reached for the worn, leather-bound books—the precious tomes Cregan had brought her. She ran her fingers over their cracked spines, the faint scent of old parchment and ink filling her senses. These books were more than just stories or forgotten knowledge; they were fragments of herself, pieces of a past she barely understood but couldn't abandon. She placed them gently beside the gowns, hesitating for a moment, as if fearing that touching them too long might somehow anchor her to the place she was desperate to leave.

A soft knock on the door startled her, and she quickly hid the satchel beneath her thin mattress. The mistress's sharp voice echoed from outside, cold and commanding. Nella's chest tightened, knowing the confrontation awaiting her was inevitable. The door creaked open just a crack, and the mistress's sharp eyes swept into the cramped room, immediately catching sight of the scattered gowns and the leather satchel tucked hastily under the mattress.

"What do you think you're doing?" The voice was low, but laced with steel — not a question, but a warning.

Nella didn't look up. Her fingers worked faster, folding a thin silk dress, stuffing it into the satchel with urgency. The silence stretched between them like a taut wire.

"You're not going anywhere," the mistress said again, stepping fully inside, the door clicking shut behind her.

Nella's breath caught. She forced herself to keep packing, her voice a cold whisper, "I have to leave."

"You've been distracted since that night. Debts are piling up—coins you owe from the moment your eyes stopped on your work and drifted to who knows what. And I don't care what dreams you're chasing. You won't leave until every coin is paid." the mistress said coldly, folding her arms with a ruthless certainty.

Nella swallowed hard, the empty pouch clutched tight in her hand. She had given the last of her silver to Mira—to help the girl and her newborn escape this place. Now, the price of her own freedom had grown impossible.

"Please," Nella whispered, voice trembling. "I need to go to Winterfell. I can't stay here. I have to find... answers."

The mistress's patience snapped like a dry twig. Her face twisted with fury as she stepped forward, her hands grabbing the satchel and gowns from Nella's trembling fingers. With a harsh shove, she hurled the bundle to the floor. The gowns spilled out, their delicate folds crumpling against the cold stone.

"Do you think you're special?" the mistress hissed, voice sharp as broken glass. "You're nothing but a worker here — and don't you forget it."

Nella's chest tightened, the weight of humiliation and frustration crashing over her like a wave, but she stood her ground, fists clenched at her sides.

"Let go of me," she said quietly, voice steady despite the storm inside.

The mistress's eyes blazed with cold fury as she took a step closer, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper.
"Ungrateful woman," she spat. "Without me, you'd be nothing. Just another lost girl in the streets, a shadow with no name, no place to go. Don't pretend you can walk away from this — from me."

Her words cut deeper than any blow, and for a moment, the room seemed to close in around Nella. But beneath the sting, a fire sparked, fierce and stubborn. "I'm not nothing," Nella shot back, her voice low but fierce. 

Then, a slap echoed sharply through the small, dimly lit room, the sound ringing like a judge's gavel. Nella's cheek burned fiercely where the mistress's hand had struck, a sudden shock that sent a jolt of pain flashing through her skull. She staggered back a step, the world tilting slightly as the sting burned bright and sharp. Yet, despite the fire blossoming across her skin and the shock threatening to unravel her, Nella's eyes remained steady and fierce, locked onto the woman who'd dared to strike her.

The mistress's lips curled into a cruel smile, eyes gleaming with cold authority. Her voice was a low hiss, venom laced beneath every word. "Learn your place, girl." The words dropped like chains around Nella's shoulders, heavy and binding. "You forget yourself. I hold the chains that bind you."

Just then, the door burst open with a sharp crash against the wall, and Mira stepped inside, the baby cradled protectively in her arms. Her eyes, wide and bright despite exhaustion, quickly swept over the tense scene before her—the flushed faces, the trembling hands, the heavy silence hanging thick like smoke, broken only by the mistress's cold, cutting words.

"What's going on?" Mira's voice quivered, a mixture of confusion and fear threading through each syllable. Her gaze flicked between Nella and the mistress, searching for answers she didn't have.

Nella took a step forward, her jaw set and voice steady, hardening with resolve. "I'm leaving. You need to come with me."

Mira blinked, her hold tightening instinctively around the small bundle at her chest. She stared at Nella in disbelief, the weight of the moment settling over her like a heavy fog. "Leaving? Where would we go?" she asked, voice soft but urgent, her eyes searching Nella's for reassurance.

Before Nella could answer, the mistress’s gaze landed on the swaddled baby in Mira’s arms. Her face darkened, twisting into something fierce and dangerous. “What is this?” she barked, her voice cutting the air like a whip. “You know the rules! No babies! Not in my house!”

Mira shrank back instinctively, clutching the child closer, eyes wide with fear. Nella stepped forward, placing herself protectively between them and the enraged mistress.

“You’re not going anywhere,” the mistress growled, stepping forward, her hands reaching with brutal intent. “Not you. Not this baby. Not either of you.”

Nella’s heart pounded. Time slowed in the flash of movement. With a surge of adrenaline, she grabbed Mira’s wrist, cold and urgent, pulling her toward the door. The mistress lunged, claws out, intent on dragging them back.

“Get away from me!” Nella hissed, and with a desperate, furious shove, she sent the mistress sprawling across the floor. The heavy thud of her body hitting the stone echoed through the narrow hallway. The mistress scrambled to rise, eyes blazing with shock and fury.

“Run!” Nella snapped, yanking Mira along. They bolted through the corridor, the baby cradled tightly between them, the scent of wax and musk trailing behind them. Every step rattled their nerves, every creak of the floorboards a potential alarm.

Behind them, the mistress's screams tore through the air—mad, desperate threats spilling from her lips like venom. "You'll regret this! You'll be nothing without me! That baby'll be taken from you, just like all the others!"

Nella's heart hammered in her chest as she dragged Mira down the hall, the cries echoing behind them, sharp and relentless. She didn't look back. All that mattered was getting out — away from this place, away from the chains that bound them. Just like that, they were outside, swallowed by the dim gray morning light spilling onto the narrow street. The cold air bit at their skin, sharpening their senses, urging them to move faster. Nella gripped Mira's wrist tightly as they hurried down the uneven cobblestones, the mistress's furious screams still ringing behind them.

Ahead, Nella spotted a carriage parked beside the street. A man sat inside, cloaked and still, his face shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. Without hesitation, Nella hurried over, breath quick and uneven.

"Please," she said, voice urgent. "I need to get to Winterfell. There's no time to explain — but it's important. Will you help me?"

The man's eyes flicked over her with cool detachment. "No one's heading to Winterfell right now. Trouble's brewing—roads are closed, and lords have sealed their gates tight."

Nella swallowed the lump rising in her throat but pressed on, desperation sharpening her tone. "I don't have time to wait. I will repay you—when the time comes. But for now, I need to leave. Please."

The man studied her for a long moment, hesitation flickering in his gaze. Finally, he nodded once, curt and deliberate. "Fine. But you owe me."

Nella didn't waste a second. She pushed open the carriage door with a quiet urgency, helping Mira climb inside carefully, mindful of the small, fragile bundle in her arms. The babe stirred slightly but didn't wake, wrapped snugly in worn but clean blankets. The warm, faint scent of a mother's breath mingled with the faint mustiness of the carriage interior — a strange comfort against the chill wind howling outside.

The man snapped the reins sharply. The horses shifted uneasily before their hooves struck the cobblestone with a rhythmic clatter, and the carriage began to roll forward, slowly pulling away from the suffocating shadows of the narrow street.

Nella lowered herself onto the worn seat beside Mira, her heart pounding so loudly she feared the others might hear it. She glanced down at the baby — a perfect, delicate life she vowed to protect — and then up at Mira's tired, worried face. Her own eyes found Mira's, and in that silent exchange, Nella tried to send all the reassurance she could muster.

"We're going to be safe," she whispered, her voice trembling just enough to betray the storm inside her. "Together. No matter what comes."

Her fingers brushed lightly over the baby's soft cheek, a steadying gesture for both of them.The carriage rocked gently beneath them as the horses trotted steadily down the winding road out of White Harbor. Outside, the gray sky stretched endlessly, heavy with the promise of rain. Inside, the cramped space was warm but tense, the silence between Nella and Mira thick with unspoken questions.

After a while, Nella broke the quiet, her voice low but curious. "You never told me the baby's name. Why?"

Mira shifted the child protectively in her arms, her eyes distant. "I wasn't ready, I suppose. Afraid to say it out loud... afraid it'd vanish if I did."

Nella nodded slowly, understanding more than she let on. "It's important. Names are power. You have to hold onto that."

Mira's lips twitched into a sad smile. "His name is Bram. After my father. He was the cook at Umber's Hold — a kind man who took to me when I was just a girl. He died when I was small, probably sick from the cold winters and poor food. But his memory kept me warm when the nights were darkest."

Nella looked at the sleeping infant, feeling the weight of that name settle in the air between them. "Bram," she repeated softly. "A strong name."

Mira nodded, her gaze distant but soft. "I want Bram to have a better life than I ever had. Away from this place, from the shadows that cling to us."

Nella reached out, squeezing Mira's hand gently. "He will. We'll make sure of that."

Mira gave a small, weary smile, the first genuine one Nella had seen from her in days. "I don't know how you find the strength," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Leaving everything behind... it scares me."

Nella's eyes softened. "I'm scared too. But sometimes, fear is the only thing that pushes you forward."

The baby stirred in Mira's arms, letting out a small, contented sigh. Nella glanced down at the peaceful face framed by the worn blanket, feeling a fierce protectiveness rise inside her. The baby's soft sigh filled the quiet carriage, a fragile moment of calm amidst their hurried escape.

Mira's voice broke the silence, hesitant but curious. "Why are you so eager to go to Winterfell? Is it because of your visions? Are you searching for someone there?"

Nella's breath hitched. She stared out the window, the passing trees blurring as her thoughts swirled like restless shadows in her mind. The question tugged at something buried deep—memories she had long tried to bury beneath layers of anger and pain. For a long moment, she said nothing, wrestling with the weight of her truth, afraid to let it spill into the open air.

Finally, her voice came low and reluctant, barely more than a whisper. "Maybe... I'm looking for answers. Answers about the things I see—the fire, the blood, the ice. And maybe..." She hesitated again, eyes darkening with something fierce and raw. "...maybe I'm looking for someone I lost long ago. Someone who was supposed to protect me but never did."

The words felt heavy, laden with unspoken grief and confusion. She had carried this burden alone for so long, afraid that to speak it aloud would make it all too real. Mira squeezed her hand gently, understanding more than words could say.

Nella glanced back at the babe in Mira's arms, the innocent life so full of hope, and felt a sharp pang—a desperate wish that Bram's future could be different, free from the shadows that had haunted her own.

"We have to find a way," Nella murmured, voice barely steady. "For him. And for whatever fate waits for me at Winterfell."

Chapter Text

The night had wrapped itself tightly around the carriage as it rumbled steadily toward Winterfell. Mira cradled Bram gently, the baby's soft breathing a calming rhythm against the low creak of the wooden wheels. Nella's eyes were heavy with exhaustion, her head resting against the cold windowpane as shadows played across her face.

For a few hours, they slipped into a restless sleep — the kind that never quite lets you forget where you are or what waits ahead.

Then a sharp voice cut through the darkness, breaking the fragile quiet.

"We've arrived. Wake up, now."

The driver's urgent command jolted Nella fully awake. She blinked against the dim interior light, heart pounding. Mira stirred beside her, murmuring softly, one arm tightening protectively around Bram. Nella pushed herself upright, brushing the tangled strands of hair from her face. Outside, through the carriage's small window, the first pale light of dawn was just beginning to touch the massive silhouette of Winterfell.

As the carriage slowed, the massive iron gates creaked open with a slow groan, revealing the vastness of Winterfell. Towering stone walls, ancient and weathered, stretched up toward the gray sky, crowned with battlements and the fluttering banners of House Stark. The scent of pine and smoke drifted on the wind, mingling with the faint echoes of distant footsteps and the clang of armor.

Nella's breath caught. This was unlike anything she had ever seen — not the narrow streets of White Harbor, nor the cramped quarters of the brothel. Here was a fortress, a place where centuries of history had been carved into every stone.

The carriage rumbled forward, passing under archways carved with direwolves and ancient runes. Guards in dark leather armor stood watch, their faces stoic but eyes sharp. They exchanged brief, assessing glances as the carriage passed, but made no move to stop them.

Outside, the courtyard stretched wide, scattered with a few people bustling about—servants hauling crates, soldiers polishing swords, and children darting between the shadows. The sheer scale of it overwhelmed Nella, who clutched the folds of her worn cloak tighter around her shoulders.

She whispered to Mira, "This place... it's more than I imagined. Like it's alive, breathing history."

Mira nodded, her gaze sweeping the towering walls and soaring towers. "I never thought I'd see anything like this."

The carriage finally came to a stop near a side gate. The man who had driven them turned to Nella and said, "You'd best be quick. No telling who might be watching."

Nella swung open the door, steadying Mira as she carefully lifted Bram from her arms. The chill morning air bit gently at their skin, but the towering walls of Winterfell offered a strange, solid comfort.

Nella turned to the driver. "Thank you," she said, voice soft but firm.

The man shifted his reins, eyeing her carefully. "I'll need a name for the repayment," he said, his tone businesslike, but with an edge of warning.

Nella hesitated for a moment, then met his gaze steadily. "Nella of Winterfell," she answered quietly.

He nodded once, as if making a note only to himself, and without another word, cracked the reins. The horses stirred, the carriage slowly backing away. Nella watched the wheels roll off, then took a deep breath and turned to face the castle.

The courtyard stretched wide before them, the great stone towers rising up into the pale dawn like giants from a forgotten age. Moss clung to the weathered stones, and banners fluttered softly in the cool breeze. Mira clutched Bram closer, her eyes scanning the imposing walls. Neither of them spoke at first, lost in the immensity of the place and the weight of what lay ahead.

Suddenly, a voice broke the quiet. Soldiers stepped forward, closing the distance between them and Nella with a deliberate, intimidating pace. Their breath clouded in the cold air, and the clink of their armor echoed sharply in the courtyard.

"Halt." the first soldier talked, eyes narrowing as they flicked over Mira and the sleeping babe in her arms. "What's your business coming to Winterfell?"

Nella's heart pounded fiercely beneath her ribs, but she forced a steady gaze. "My name is Nella. I have urgent matters to discuss with Lord Stark. It cannot wait."

The second soldier let out a low, mocking chuckle. "Urgent matters? From someone dressed like that?" His eyes roved over her worn gowns, the stains of travel and hardship still fresh. "Looks more like a whore than a messenger."

The first soldier smirked, crossing his arms. "A whore has no business speaking to the Lord. She should be on her knees in the streets, not wandering his halls."

The words cut through her like ice. Mira shifted nervously, tightening her grip on the baby, who stirred in his sleep.

Nella's breath hitched but she squared her shoulders. "I am no one's whore," she said quietly but with steel beneath her voice. "I'm here because it's my fate. I have a gift—a sight—and it brought me here."

The soldiers exchanged incredulous looks.

"Gift?" the second scoffed. "More like madness."

But Nella was undeterred. "I must speak with the Lord. It is important."

The second soldier let out a harsh, derisive laugh, loud enough to draw curious glances from nearby guards and servants. "Important, huh?" he sneered, stepping closer so his breath reeked of ale. "Maybe you're just looking for a warm bed—or a coin or two."

The first soldier snorted, slapping his comrade on the back. "Aye, maybe she's got some new tricks to sell. Or maybe she thinks flashing her tits will get her an audience."

Nella's jaw clenched, her hands balling into fists at her sides. The words stung like a blade, but more than that, they fueled a fire burning fierce within her. The patience she'd been holding onto snapped.

"Enough!" Her voice rang out, sharper and louder than she intended. Heads turned. The baby stirred, Mira startled, eyes wide.

"I'm not here to be mocked or insulted," Nella said, stepping forward, her glare cutting through the cold morning air like a dagger. "I carry a warning and a truth that could save lives. Your mockery won't change that."

The soldiers exchanged uneasy looks. The second soldier, still smirking but less confident, muttered, "Maybe she's crazier than we thought."

But Nella didn't back down. If anything, her anger sharpened her resolve. "Let me speak to your lord," she said, voice low but deadly serious. "Or step aside. Because I will not be stopped by fools who mistake strength for madness."

The first soldier's smirk twisted into something colder — a sneer dripping with condescension. "You talk big, girl, but you're standing in the yard of Winterfell wearing rags and clutching some bastard babe. What makes you think the lord will even look at you?"

Nella held his gaze without blinking. "Because I have something he needs to hear. Something no one else will tell him."

The second soldier's laughter broke the silence again. "You're a desperate woman. But you're not the first to try to weasel her way inside."

Before Nella could answer, a sharp voice cut through the tension.

"Enough."

A tall figure stepped forward, clad in the dark Stark armor, the direwolf sigil clear against the steel. His eyes, cold and assessing, flicked between Nella, Mira, and the soldiers. The soldiers straightened immediately, their mockery dying beneath the weight of his presence.

"Who are you, and what brings you to Winterfell at this hour?" the man demanded.

Nella's throat tightened, but she swallowed her fear and met his gaze. "My name is Nella. I have a gift — the Sight. I came because I believe the North, the realm, is on the brink of something terrible. I must speak with Lord Stark."

The man's eyes narrowed, but something unreadable passed over his face. "You claim a gift and a warning? This is not a place for charlatans."

Nella stood taller. "I am no charlatan. I have visions — glimpses of fire and blood, of dragons and war. And the fate of the realm may depend on what I have to say."

The Stark soldier's gaze lingered on the child in Mira's arms. Then, after a long, tense moment, he spoke again. "Follow me. I will take you to the lord. But know this — if your words are false, there will be consequences."

Nella's heart thundered in her chest as she nodded, the weight of everything pressing down on her, but finally, a step forward had been made.

The heavy oaken doors of Winterfell groaned behind them, shutting out the dim gray light of dawn. Nella stepped inside, her boots echoing faintly against the vast stone floor as she followed the soldier's firm footsteps deeper into the heart of the ancient castle. Mira clutched the babe close, their small trio swallowed by the endless corridors lined with cold stone and flickering torch sconces.

Each step echoed like a heartbeat in the vastness, the silence broken only by the distant murmur of voices and the occasional scrape of armor from unseen guards. The air was cool and carried a scent of woodsmoke, damp earth, and old stone—a scent that spoke of history and endurance, of winters weathered and battles fought.

Nella's fingers tightened around the strap of the worn satchel slung over her shoulder. Inside, the few precious belongings she'd brought with her nestled securely—the threadbare gowns, a small bundle of crude medicines, and the fragile collection of old texts and scraps of parchment that had become her tether to the mysterious gift burning inside her.

Despite the cold grandeur of Winterfell, an uneasy weight settled deep in her chest. This place was unlike anything she had ever known—so vast, so filled with shadows and whispered power. The sight of towering stone walls, banners of the direwolf fluttering gently in the chill breeze from an open window, and the faint light gleaming off polished armor made her feel small, fragile—like a leaf caught in a storm.

Yet she could not let the awe overwhelm her. The visions that had haunted her sleep for weeks now surged in her mind like wildfire, each flicker a terrible promise of what was to come. Fire and blood, dragons soaring through smoke-choked skies, the cold, merciless eyes of ice creatures staring like frozen daggers—and the unrelenting drumbeat of war echoing through it all.

Her breath caught, and she blinked away the sudden sting of tears threatening to spill.

Beside her, Mira's hand found hers, warm and steady. The baby stirred, a soft murmur escaping his lips. Nella smiled faintly, drawing strength from the fragile life she was sworn to protect.

They rounded a corner and entered a long gallery where the vaulted ceiling soared high above. Ancient tapestries hung heavy on the walls, depicting the history of the Starks—the first men, the legendary hunters, the winters endured and the battles won. The threads were faded, but the images still held a fierce pride and power that made Nella's heart thrum.

A sharp clang rang out nearby, drawing her eyes to a group of young men sparring with wooden swords. Their movements were swift and practiced, the air crackling with youthful energy and the promise of future valor. One of them glanced her way, curiosity flickering in his eyes before he turned back to his match.

Nella's gaze drifted upward to the towering iron chandeliers, heavy with candles that flickered against the cold stone. Shadows danced across the walls like restless ghosts, stirring something ancient and urgent within her. She was so absorbed that she nearly missed the figure standing alone further down the hall.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in a simple yet finely made cloak of dark fur that marked him as a man of importance in these northern lands. His hair was dark and streaked with early silver, his face weathered but resolute. The sharp lines of his jaw and the keen, ice-blue eyes that met hers with unmistakable recognition made her heart stumble.

Cregan Stark.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. His gaze locked on hers, narrowing as he took a step forward. "Nella," he said, voice low but edged with command. "What are you doing here?"

Nella's breath caught, but she squared her shoulders. This was the moment she had feared and hoped for—the moment when her visions, her warnings, would meet the cold light of day.

"I... I have to speak with you," she said, voice trembling yet firm. "I carry a warning."

Cregan's eyes sharpened, assessing, skeptical but curious. "A warning? From whom?"

She swallowed hard, the memories crashing through her mind—the fiery chaos, the icy stare, the screams, the dragons—images burned into her very soul. "It came to me in the night," she began, voice low, "a vision of fire and blood. Dragons soaring, a war that will tear the realm apart. And... creatures of ice, cold as death, with eyes like daggers staring into the world. I don't know how or why I see these things, but I believe they are true."

His gaze flickered with a complex storm—doubt, concern, something unreadable. The sharp blue of Cregan's eyes held hers steadily. For a heartbeat, there was no disbelief, no mockery—only understanding.

"You've seen something," he said simply, voice low but resolute. "A warning."

Nella nodded, the weight of the vision pressing down on her chest. Relief and fear mingled in her veins, a flicker of hope igniting even as the shadows lingered.

"Come with me," Cregan said, turning without waiting for her to respond.

She glanced back at Mira, whose eyes were wide but steady, her small hand resting protectively on the babe swaddled close to her chest. Mira gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod—an unspoken promise that she would wait, that Nella's words held weight, that this was the right path.

Nella took a deep breath and stepped forward, following Cregan's long strides as he led her away from the hall and deeper into the heart of Winterfell. The stone walls closed around them, the distant sounds of the bustling castle fading into a heavy silence that felt both like a shield and a burden.

Every step echoed with urgency, the truth of her vision urging her onward. Whatever lay ahead, she knew this was just the beginning—and that the fate of many would soon hang in the balance.

Chapter Text

The chamber was small, but warm, lit only by the flickering glow of a single candle set on a wooden table between them. Heavy tapestries muffled the sounds of the castle beyond the thick stone walls. The air was thick with a silence that invited confession. Cregan motioned to a chair, the rough wood creaking beneath his weight as he sat. His eyes didn't waver from hers, searching for truth in her gaze.

"You said it was a warning," he began, voice quiet but firm. "Tell me everything."

Nella's voice wavered as she began, eyes unfocused. "I saw a clash of steel... loud, brutal. The screams—like a nightmare etched in fire—echoed all around. There was a dragon, enormous and terrifying. It breathed flames that swallowed another figure whole. The screams of that figure... they cut through the haze, sharp as a blade."

She stopped for a moment, catching her breath. Cregan's gaze was fixed on her, his attention unwavering, absorbing every word like it was the only truth in the world.

After a pause, she continued, voice quieter now but steadier. "Then... there were those icy figures. Cold as death. Their eyes—like shards of frozen steel—pierced through me. They hated me with a fury I'd never felt before. It wasn't just fear; it was something paralyzing, something that clutched my soul and wouldn't let go."

Her hands trembled slightly. "When the vision ended, my breath was still caught in my throat. My body shook for a long time after, as if the fear had followed me back, refusing to leave."

Cregan's eyes darkened as he leaned closer, his voice low but steady. "Tell me more about these icy creatures you saw. What did they look like? How did they move?"

Nella swallowed hard, the memory prickling at her skin. "They were... still, but their gaze—cold as the deepest winter, like ice daggers aimed straight at me. They didn't speak, but their hatred was loud enough to drown out everything else."

He nodded slowly, a grim understanding settling on his face. "You saw death itself."

Nella blinked, confusion mingling with fear. "Death? But... how?"

"Those icy figures," Cregan said softly, "are the shadows of what's to come. The long night. The cold that seeks to snuff out all life. They are not just creatures—they are an omen, a force beyond mortal reckoning."

Her breath hitched, a shiver crawling down her spine. "I never thought it could be real. Not like this."

Cregan's gaze hardened. "Neither did we. But that is why your sight matters. You've glimpsed the edge of the storm."

The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. Nella sat rigid in her chair, her fingers curling around the edge of the table as if seeking something solid to hold onto. The weight of Cregan's words pressed down on her chest like a heavy stone. Fire and ice. Dragons and war.

Cregan's eyes never left hers, heavy with the weight of the knowledge he carried. "Your visions, Nella—they are not merely fleeting nightmares. They are pieces of a larger tapestry, threads woven deep into the prophecy of Aegon the Conqueror."

Nella frowned, confused. "Aegon the Conqueror? The man who united the Seven Kingdoms?"

He nodded. "Yes, but more than just a conqueror. He was a figure of legend, entwined with prophecy—his legacy marked by fire and blood. The Song of Ice and Fire is a tale not just of dragons and war, but of a balance between two great forces. Aegon the Conqueror himself, who dreamed of a great shadow looming over the world, a darkness that would threaten all life."  

He paused, searching for the right words. "Aegon did not see himself merely as a conqueror, a king seated upon the Iron Throne. He saw the Targaryen bloodline as something more—a sacred charge. The Targaryens were meant to be protectors of the realm, united under one banner to face common a foe older and darker than any war of men."

"The Prince That Was Promised," Cregan said quietly, "is born of fire and blood. Not just a ruler, but a beacon—a hope against death itself. When the cold and the darkness rise, only this figure can rally the scattered kingdoms, bind them together, and stand as the last bulwark against oblivion."

He looked deep into her eyes, voice low and urgent. "Your visions—the clash of fire and ice, the dragon's flames, the icy death—are the echoes of that ancient dream. The threat is coming, Nella. The realm will need that unity. The Prince will need to rise."

Nella's heart pounded. "So, the dragon breathing fire in my vision... it's Aegon's legacy? Or something else?"

Cregan's gaze grew distant, filled with something between fear and reverence. "It's the legacy reborn—the dragons will rise again. But the threat from the cold is just as real, just as deadly. Your sight connects you to this cycle. You see what others cannot."

She swallowed, the weight of his words sinking deep. "But why me? Why now?"

Cregan studied her intently, "Your gift, your visions—they mean you are tied to this fate, somehow, you have a role to play."  he said softly. "When fire and ice collide again, the fate of Westeros hangs in the balance. Your gift is a beacon—a sign that these forces are stirring. The visions you endure are warnings, meant to prepare you, and all of us, for what is to come."

Nella looked down, fingers tightening into fists. The words were a balm and a burden. She was no longer just a woman fleeing her past, no longer just a girl who sold warmth and comfort for coin. She was something more—a bearer of knowledge and perhaps a key to survival.

"But how?" she asked. "How do I begin to understand this? How do I prepare for a war I cannot see, a battle I cannot fight alone?"

Cregan closed the book gently. "You start by learning what you can. The old ways, the histories, the signs. You find those who will stand with you. Trust is rare in times like these, but it is essential."

His gaze softened, and for a moment, the stern lord became a man burdened by the same fears. "You are not alone in this, Nella."

She looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time in what felt like hours. There was an unspoken promise there—a silent pact forged in the flickering candlelight. Outside the chamber window, the wind howled, carrying with it the distant promise of change. The Dance of Dragons was no longer a story told by firelight. It was beginning.

Nella pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, the faint creak echoing softly in the quiet chamber. Mira sat in the low window seat, the babe cradled gently in her arms. The soft golden light filtered through the narrow panes, casting long, warm shadows that wrapped around the small room like a protective cloak.

For a moment, neither spoke. Nella simply watched Mira's careful, practiced movements as she soothed the sleeping child. The rhythm of Mira's whispered humming, the gentle rocking of her arms—it was a balm to Nella's frayed nerves.

At last, Mira looked up, eyes tired but soft. "You're back," she said simply.

Nella gave a small, weary smile and crossed the room to sit beside her. "I had to speak with him," she said quietly.

Mira's gaze sharpened. "And...?"

"He believes me," Nella admitted, her voice still thick with disbelief. "The visions, the prophecy—they're real. Something terrible is coming, but there's also hope. Something called the Prince Who Was Promised. A protector who will unite the realm against the darkness."

Mira nodded slowly, absorbing the words. "Sounds like something out of the old tales." Her fingers gently brushed a lock of hair from the babe's forehead. "But if there's hope, then we have to hold onto it, for Bram's sake."

Nella's fingers brushed the soft fabric of the child's blanket. "That's why we have to be careful. I don't know who to trust yet, but I won't let anything happen to him."

Mira's eyes didn't leave the infant cradled gently in her arms. The soft rise and fall of the baby's chest seemed almost too fragile for the harshness of the world outside their small chamber.

After a long pause, Mira's voice broke the silence—quiet, almost trembling. "Nella... do you really think... that Bram and I will be safe here? In Winterfell?"

Nella's gaze softened as she looked at Mira's anxious face. The worry was so raw, so real, it clutched at her own heart. "I want to believe that, Mira. I have to believe it. Winterfell isn't like the brothel, or the streets we ran through. It's strong. The castle, the people—they have something different here. A shield, maybe. Or maybe it's hope."

Mira's fingers tightened around the baby's blanket. "I'm scared. After everything that happened—after how we escaped—I don't know if anywhere can truly be safe for us. Especially for Bram." Her voice cracked, the weight of her fears pressing down.

Nella took a slow breath, searching for the words that might soothe both Mira and herself. "I promise you, Mira. I will do everything I can to keep you both safe. The world outside may be cruel, but I'm not the same girl who was trapped back there. I've seen things, heard things, things that might help us. And I have allies. Cregan believes me. That means something."

Mira looked up, searching Nella's eyes, hoping to find that conviction. "You think the Lord will protect us? Even though we're nothing? I'm just a woman and a baby with no name, no title..."

Nella shook her head gently. "He might not care about titles. But he cares about truth. And he cares about the realm. That's why he invited us to the harvest feast. It was a surprise, but it means we're not invisible here."

Mira's breath caught. "You heard that too? The feast?"

Nella nodded. "He said we're welcome. Even if we're not noble. It's a chance. A chance for Bram to grow up with something better than fear and shadows."

For a moment, the room filled only with the quiet breathing of the baby and the weight of unspoken hopes. Mira's lips curved into a small, tentative smile. "Maybe this is where his better life truly begins. Where he won't have to hide."

Nella's heart swelled with a fierce protectiveness. "It has to be. For Bram, for you, for both of you. No matter what comes next, I won't let anything take that away."

Mira's eyes glistened, gratitude and relief mingling with lingering fear. "Thank you, Nella... for everything. For fighting for us."

Nella reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Mira's face. "We fight together now. And whatever storms come, we'll face them side by side."

Mira's eyes softened, a fragile but genuine smile blooming. Then, without warning, Nella tugged gently at Mira's hand. "Come on. Let me show you something."

Curious and hesitant, Mira followed her down the hall, the baby resting peacefully in his cradle behind them. They entered Nella's chamber, a space that still felt strange and new — furnished with heavy wooden furniture, tapestries hanging on the walls, and a large armoire bursting with gowns.

Nella pulled open the heavy oak doors with a creak, revealing a room bathed in soft, pale light filtering through narrow windows. Inside hung rows of dresses that seemed to shimmer even in the dimness. Rich silks and velvets in deep hues of sapphire, garnet, and emerald caught the light like jewels, embroidered with intricate patterns of silver thread and delicate lace that looked as fragile as spun frost. The scent of lavender and cedarwood lingered faintly in the air.

"These aren't like the gowns we wore at the brothel," Nella said softly, stepping inside and running her fingers along the smooth fabric of a gown in royal blue. "No gaudy colors, no tight fits meant to draw every eye. These are made for ladies of Winterfell... or maybe even better."

Mira's breath caught in her throat, eyes wide as she reached out tentatively to touch a deep emerald dress. The silk was cool and fluid under her fingers, more exquisite than anything she had ever imagined. Her voice dropped to a reverent whisper, "I've never worn anything like this." There was awe, disbelief, and a strange flutter of hope tangled in her words.

Nella turned to Mira with a wide grin, her eyes bright and alive, glowing with a rare lightness that hadn't touched her for years. "Me neither," she admitted, her voice almost a laugh. "It's like stepping into a different life."

Without thinking, Mira picked up a pale blue gown embroidered with tiny silver stars. "What if I look ridiculous?"

Nella laughed, a genuine, bright sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Only if you don't let yourself."

The two women began trying on dresses, each one a tentative step into a life they had never thought possible. Mira twirled awkwardly in a soft golden dress, and Nella clapped her hands with delight.

"Like a lady of the North," Nella teased, brushing a strand of hair behind Mira's ear.

Mira grinned, a playful spark lighting her eyes. "And do you see yourself as a highborn northern lady, Nella? Maybe even the Lady of Winterfell one day?" She gave her a sly wink, teasing.

Nella laughed, the sound light and warm. "Lady of Winterfell? Me? With my past?" She shook her head, mock scandalized. "I'd probably trip over the bannermen during the first feast and cause some terrible scandal."

Mira giggled, nudging her gently. "I'd pay to see that. You'd be the most unforgettable lady this castle has ever seen."

Nella's smile widened. "Maybe I'd start a new fashion—clumsy elegance. It'd catch on, I'm sure."

They both burst into laughter, the joy between them a rare balm after so much hardship. "Still," Mira said, her tone softening, "even if you never wear a crown or sit on the high seat, you have something stronger. You have heart."

Nella's gaze softened, touched by Mira's words. "And you have Bram. Together, maybe that's all we need."

They exchanged a quiet look, full of hope and unspoken promises, before turning back to their dresses—two women daring to dream of a better life, one stitch at a time.

Chapter Text

The heavy wooden doors of Winterfell's great hall swung open before them, revealing a world unlike anything Nella and Mira had ever known. A wave of warmth rolled over them, sweeping away the lingering chill of the northern air. The vast chamber was alive with light and laughter, a roaring hearth sending flickering shadows dancing across the stone walls and timbered beams high above.

Long tables groaned under the weight of steaming platters filled with roasted meats, fresh breads, rich cheeses, and bowls heaped with fruits and nuts. Flickering candles and lanterns cast a golden glow over faces flushed with merriment and joy. The air was thick with the scents of spiced wine, herbs, and roasting fires — an intoxicating mix that made Nella's chest tighten with something she could only call hope.

They moved slowly through the crowd, the heavy silks of their gowns whispering softly with each step. Nella felt Mira's fingers tighten briefly around hers — a quiet reminder that they were not alone, that they could face this new world together.

Everywhere, laughter rang out like music, rich and full, carried by the voices of lords and ladies, knights and smallfolk alike. Minstrels played soft tunes from a raised dais, their fiddles and lutes weaving melodies that seemed to float in the air, lifting spirits and softening even the harshest edges of Winterfell's ancient stone.

Nella's breath caught as she took it all in — the joy, the light, the warmth — it felt almost unreal after so long spent in darkness and fear. Here, beneath the high rafters of the great hall, surrounded by faces both noble and familiar, she allowed herself a flicker of hope.

Mira, too, seemed mesmerized. Her eyes shone bright with wonder as she took in the feast, the merriment, and the unexpected kindness woven through it all. She glanced down at the baby nestled quietly in a cradle near the hearth, a small smile touching her lips.

"This," Mira whispered, "this is a place where he might grow up safe.

Nella's gaze softened as she looked down at the sleeping babe, swaddled snugly in soft blankets by the hearth. "Yes," she whispered back, voice thick with emotion. "Here, he won't have to hide in the shadows. He can grow strong, free from fear."

The two women exchanged a quiet glance, a shared understanding passing between them — a fragile hope in a world so often ruled by cruelty and darkness.

Their moment was interrupted when a man stepped into their path, sliding easily between them with the practiced ease of someone used to being welcome wherever he went. He was not old—perhaps in his early thirties—with dark hair combed neatly back and eyes the warm shade of polished chestnut. His movements carried the air of a man who knew he could draw attention without needing to demand it.

"Forgive me," he said with a smooth half-smile, his gaze locking on Mira as though the rest of the room had ceased to exist. "But I could not help but notice you." There was no hesitation in the way he spoke, no apology in the admiration that softened his tone. "Would you grant me a moment of your company? Perhaps even a dance, if you'll allow it?"

Mira blinked, startled by his directness, her cheeks tinged pink beneath the golden glow of the candles. Nella, standing at her side, arched an eyebrow and pressed her lips together to hide a smirk, clearly enjoying her friend's sudden fluster. She made no move to speak for her, only stepping back slightly as though to grant the two space, her expression mischievous.

Mira hesitated for only a heartbeat longer before offering a shy nod. The man's smile widened, and he extended a hand. As Mira took it, she cast a quick, almost nervous glance over her shoulder at Nella, who responded with a knowing look that said, go on.

Soon, Mira was laughing softly at something the man had said as he led her toward the edge of the dance floor, where couples swayed to the slow, graceful music. Nella's heart warmed at the sight—it was a small, rare happiness for someone who had known so little of it.

But the warmth lasted only a moment before a voice she knew too well slid into her ear like the edge of a winter wind.

"Nella."

It was calm, steady, but carried a weight that made her straighten at once. She turned to see Cregan standing there, his gaze fixed on her, unreadable in the flickering light of the great hall's hearths. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the noise of the feast swelling around them—laughter, clinking cups, the steady hum of conversation. Then, his lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile.

"The northern feasts fit you," he said, his deep voice carrying a warmth that contrasted with his usual measured tone.

Nella tilted her head, a small, surprised smile touching her own lips. "I'll take that as a compliment, my lord."

"It is one," he replied without hesitation.

But his attention soon shifted, following the subtle line of her gaze toward the dance floor where Mira was moving with surprising grace, her laughter ringing light above the music. A man's hand rested at her waist as they turned in slow steps, his face lit by something like admiration.

Cregan's mouth twitched with a knowing look as his eyes returned to Nella. "Your friend seems to be thriving under the attention."

Nella's lips curved, half amusement, half pride. "She deserves it."

"She does," he agreed, then leaned slightly closer, his voice dipping into a low, teasing murmur. "And so should you."

Her brow lifted at that, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth. "Are you suggesting I start collecting admirers?"

Cregan's lips quirked, the ghost of a grin breaking through his usual composure. "Only if you promise not to keep them all in one room. Wouldn't want a brawl breaking out before the feast is over."

Nella let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "I'll keep that in mind, my lord."

"Good," he said, the humor in his tone softened by something warmer. "I'd hate to have to throw half my bannermen out because of you."

She tilted her head, amused. "Half your bannermen? I didn't know I had that kind of power."

"You'd be surprised," Cregan replied, his voice dropping just enough for it to feel like a secret. "A smile in the right direction, a glance held a heartbeat too long... men will think it's the gods themselves calling them."

Nella huffed a soft laugh, but there was a faint flush in her cheeks. "And here I thought northern men were made of sterner stuff."

"Oh, we are," he said, his mouth curving in that rare, wolfish grin. "But we're still men."

Her eyes glinted as she glanced toward Mira again, catching sight of her friend in animated conversation with her would-be dance partner. "Looks like your friend is testing that theory for herself."

Cregan followed her gaze, chuckling low in his chest. "If she's not careful, she'll have offers before the night is through."

"That doesn't sound like a warning," Nella said, arching a brow.

"It isn't," he admitted. "Sometimes a little attention can be... good for the soul."

She gave him a knowing look. "And you speak from experience?"

"Of course," he said without missing a beat, his grin widening. "Though in my case, I'm usually the one doing the admiring."

Cregan's eyes lingered on her a moment longer before he leaned slightly closer, his tone quiet enough to feel personal despite the bustle of the feast. "Come," he said, nodding toward the high table. "Sit next to me."

Nella blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"I said—" his mouth curved into that easy, steady smile of his— "sit with me."

Her head shook before she could stop herself, the words tumbling out fast. "That's not— I can't. It's not fit for you... or for me. I'm no lady of the North. People would talk."

"They talk no matter what we do," he replied, calm and sure, as though he were stating the color of the sky.

Still, she hesitated, fingers curling in the fabric of her gown. "It isn't my place, my lord."

That was when his gaze sharpened, the weight of his words landing like a quiet vow. "Tonight," he said, deliberate and steady, "you are not Nella of White Harbor. You are Nella of Winterfell."

The world seemed to still for a heartbeat— the clamor of the hall fading beneath the sudden heat in her chest. She searched his face, trying to read whether he meant it as kindness, or as something more.

"Do you always get your way, my lord?" she asked finally, the faintest quirk at the corner of her mouth.

His answering grin was almost imperceptible, but it was there. "Only when I'm certain I'm right."

Nella followed him through the throng, feeling the weight of countless eyes on her back. The high table stretched across the center of the hall, flanked by roaring hearths that bathed the stone in a golden glow. Cregan guided her to the seat beside him with a simple, unspoken confidence, as though she had always belonged there.

She sat, her hands smoothing the fabric of her gown almost reflexively. For a moment, she felt the eyes again, whispers threading through the air—wondering who she was, why she sat so close to the Lord of Winterfell. But the tension eased when Cregan leaned toward her, saying something so unexpected it made her laugh aloud.

From there, it became almost easy. He spoke to her as if she were an equal, telling sly, understated northern jokes that caught her off guard and made her chuckle until her cheeks ached. At times his humor was dry as old winter air; other times, it carried a warmth that reached her in places she thought long frozen. She found herself leaning closer without realizing it, drawn into the rhythm of his voice and the rare light in his eyes.

She'd never been treated this way before—never sat at a table not to serve, not to be watched for the wrong reasons, but simply to be. She could taste the roasted venison, rich with spice; the mead was warm and sweet, coating her tongue with a strange comfort. The clamor of laughter and music swirled around her, a tapestry of sound unlike the sharp, cruel noise of the brothel.

Her gaze drifted across the hall until she found Mira—still with the man who had approached her earlier. They were speaking closely, Mira's smile bright, her head tilted in a way Nella had never seen before. The sight eased something inside her, a deep knot of worry that had lived there for far too long.

Mira was smiling. Genuinely smiling.

The vision of it filled Nella with a strange, pure joy she could hardly remember feeling. For once, the shadows of the past didn't creep into the edges of her mind.  The noise in the hall dimmed as Cregan rose to his feet, the firelight catching in his dark hair and the carved silver of his goblet. He held it high, his gaze sweeping the hall with that steady northern gravity that seemed to command not only attention, but respect.

"My friends, my family, my bannermen," he began, his voice carrying easily over the crackle of the hearth and the quiet rustle of shifting benches, "tonight we sit together, not as lord and smallfolk, but as one hearth and one harvest."

Every word settled into the air like the falling of snow—silent but sure.

"The gods have been kind this year, the earth has been generous, and your hands have been tireless. Grain fills our stores, barrels fill our cellars, and hearts fill this hall."

Nella felt the truth of it all around her—the laughter, the warmth, the smell of roasted meats mingling with spiced cider. It was the kind of moment she'd never thought she'd see, not for herself.

"Winter will come—" Cregan's tone softened, a knowing echo in the words "—as it always does. But let tonight remind us that we face it together."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, the low voices of farmers and soldiers and their wives blending as one.

"So eat well," Cregan continued, his eyes glinting faintly as they caught Nella's for the briefest heartbeat, "drink deep, and know that every loaf, every drop, every bite we share strengthens the bonds between us."

He lifted his goblet higher. "To the harvest—may it always be bountiful, and may we always be here to share it!"

A great cheer went up, so loud it rattled the very beams overhead. Goblets clinked, mead sloshed, and the hall erupted once more into music and talk, the air rich with the sound of a people who, for tonight, could forget every looming shadow.

The cheer still rang in Nella's ears when Cregan tipped back his goblet, the firelight glinting in the golden mead as he drank deep. He laughed as he set it down—a rich, unrestrained sound that seemed to loosen the very air around them. For a lord so serious in bearing, the warmth of that laugh struck her like an unexpected flame.

He leaned toward her slightly, voice lowering so only she could hear above the bustle. "Come," he said, a spark of mischief in his eyes, "I want to show you something."

Nella blinked, startled. "Now? The feast isn't over."

He smirked. "Feasts in the North go on until the candles give up... but what I have in mind won't wait until then." He stood, and before she could muster another protest, he had offered his arm.

Curiosity tugged at her stronger than hesitation. She rose, ignoring the surprised glances from nearby tables, and placed her hand lightly on his arm. The warmth of his presence was solid, grounding, even as the roar of the hall faded behind them. They slipped through a side door into the dim, cooler corridors of Winterfell. The sounds of revelry became a distant hum, replaced by the faint creak of ancient timbers and the occasional whisper of wind slipping through the stones.

He led her down a long hallway she had never seen before, lined with tapestries faded by time. A pair of tall oak doors came into view, their carvings deep and intricate—wolves and weirwoods, swords and stars.

"This way," Cregan said, pushing them open.

The breath caught in her throat.

Inside lay a vast library, its shelves stretching up toward shadowed rafters, laden with scrolls, ledgers, and tomes bound in worn leather. The scent of old parchment and ink filled the air, mingling with the faint, earthy smell of Winterfell's stones. A fire crackled low in the great hearth, casting pools of gold across the room and illuminating dust motes drifting lazily in the warmth.

"I didn't expect this," she murmured, stepping further inside. "It's... incredible."

"It's older than I am, older than my father was," Cregan replied, following her in. "Some of these scrolls were here before the Conquest. This is the memory of the North, Nella. Every name, every vow, every winter... written and kept."

Her fingers hovered over the spine of a thick book, worn smooth by countless hands. She felt as though she'd stumbled into something sacred—not of the gods, but of men and women who refused to let their history be forgotten.

Cregan watched her quietly for a moment, his expression unreadable. "I thought," he said at last, "you might like to see where our truths are kept."

She turned to look at him. "Our truths?"

"Aye," he said simply. "Because some visions are worth remembering as much as history itself."

Nella's gaze shifted from the worn spines of ancient books to Cregan's face, illuminated by the flickering firelight. In the shadows of the vast library, his features seemed softer—less the lord she had known in the great hall, and more a man carrying the weight of countless burdens, yet somehow still steady and sure.

A strange warmth stirred inside her chest, a tenderness she hadn't expected. It wasn't just gratitude for his kindness, or relief at finding an ally in this strange new place. It was something quieter, more fragile—a thread of connection weaving silently between them. She caught herself studying the slight crease at the corner of his eyes when he smiled, the way his jaw tightened thoughtfully, and the calm certainty in his steady gaze. In that moment, all the noise and fear she'd carried melted away, replaced by a surprising sense of calm.

Nella's breath hitched, her heart beating unevenly as if startled by the sudden closeness of it all. It was a feeling she didn't quite understand, but one she didn't want to dismiss. Something unspoken passed between them, held in the flicker of firelight and the silence of the ancient library—a fragile promise that she might not be alone in this after all.

She looked down at her hands, then back at him, a small, shy smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you... for this. For believing me."

Cregan's gaze softened just a fraction more, and he nodded. "We need each other, Nella. More than you know."

Chapter Text

Nella stepped quietly into her chamber, the door clicking softly behind her like a whispered secret. The soft amber glow of several candles flickered against the stone walls, casting dancing shadows that lent the room a gentle warmth, a stark contrast to the chill of the night outside. The faint scent of beeswax mixed with the lingering aroma of lavender and dried herbs, grounding Nella in a rare moment of peace.

There, perched on the edge of the bed, was Mira — her eyes bright and sparkling with mischief, lips curled into a grin that promised stories and laughter. The baby lay swaddled peacefully nearby, its steady breathing a quiet rhythm amidst the silence.

"You won't believe this," Mira began, her eyes sparkling with excitement, the kind of gleam that only comes from unexpected surprises.

Nella raised an eyebrow, already amused despite herself. "Try me."

Mira leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice as if the walls themselves had ears. "That man I was talking with all through the feast? The one who kept asking me to dance and kept stealing glances? Turns out, he's Lord Karstark's cousin."

Nella blinked, caught off guard. "Karstark? As in House Karstark? Northern lords through and through. That's... well, that's something."

Mira nodded, smirking with satisfaction. "Aye. And he wasn't like the usual lords who look down their noses at us, you know? He was charming — polite, funny even. He made me laugh more than I have in ages."

She paused for a moment, glancing toward the cradle where the baby slept peacefully, then back at Nella. "I think he might have been flirting with me."

Nella let out a soft laugh, the sound warm and light, breaking through the heavy fog of tension that had settled over her these past days. "Well, you always did have a way with people."

Mira's grin widened, a playful spark lighting her eyes. "Don't get ahead of yourself. But it's nice, you know? To feel noticed, to be treated like more than just a shadow in a room."

She glanced at Nella, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Speaking of being noticed... What about the lord of Winterfell himself? I saw you two laughing together, like old friends catching up after years apart. Then I swear, you sneaked away like you were up to something."

Nella felt her cheeks warm despite herself, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "I wasn't sneaking anywhere," she protested weakly, though Mira's teasing tone made it clear she didn't believe her for a second.

"Oh, come on," Mira teased, nudging her lightly. "You looked like you were plotting the fate of the North over a glass of wine. I half expected you to disappear into some secret passage and come back with a crown on your head."

Nella laughed, the sound light and genuine. "If only it were that simple."

Mira's grin deepened, a sly glint in her eyes as she leaned closer. "But seriously, Nella... what did you two talk about? You looked like the lord himself was wrapped around your little finger. Not just a laugh or a dance—there was something more." She studied Nella's face, searching for a crack in her calm. "Tell me, did you charm the great Cregan Stark? Because from where I was sitting, it sure looked like you had him hanging on every word."

Nella hesitated, the warmth in her chest shifting into something heavier—something guarded. She glanced down at the sleeping babe in Mira's arms before meeting her friend's expectant gaze.

"It wasn't charm," she said softly, voice low and steady. "It was something... different. He listened. Really listened. Like I wasn't just some stray who wandered into Winterfell."

Mira's eyes softened. "That's rare, Nella. Really rare."

Nella nodded slowly, a flicker of hope stirring inside her. "Maybe that's why I felt... something I haven't in a long time. Like I might actually belong somewhere." Nella smirked, a playful glint lighting her eyes. "Alright, enough chatter for tonight. You should get some sleep and start dreaming about your Karstark lover and all those dances he promised."

She gave Mira a gentle nudge. "But don't go falling too hard just yet — I'm not ready to be outshone by a lord's cousin."

Mira laughed, shaking her head as she settled the baby more comfortably. Meanwhile, Nella's own thoughts quietly drifted back to Cregan — his calm gaze, the unexpected tenderness she felt whenever he looked her way.

She remembered the way his eyes had held hers in the hall, searching, unreadable, yet somehow gentle. Not like the others who looked through her, dismissing her as a mere shadow from White Harbor. With Cregan, it had felt different. He listened—not just to her words, but to the weight behind them. When she spoke of her visions, he believed without hesitation, a rare faith that both unsettled and comforted her.

His voice had been calm and sure when he spoke of the prophecy—the Song of Ice and Fire, the Prince who was promised. The way he connected her visions to something far greater, something ancient and vital, stirred a cautious hope in her heart. For the first time in a long while, she felt like a piece of a puzzle that mattered.

Yet beneath that hope was a flicker of uncertainty. Who was he really? A lord, yes, but also a man bearing the heavy burden of his house and the North itself. Could she trust him with the fragile truths she carried? Could she trust herself?

She shook the thoughts away gently, but the warmth of his presence, the unexpected tenderness in his gaze, stayed with her—like a promise whispered in the cold.

The next day dawned crisp and pale over Winterfell, the early light filtering through the frost-kissed windows of Nella's chamber. The quiet hum of the castle waking—footsteps echoing in distant halls, the soft clatter of dishes being prepared—felt like a gentle reminder of the life and duty that awaited beyond these walls.

Nella awoke with a lingering sense of something shifting beneath the surface of her world. The visions hadn't returned during the night, but the weight of their message pressed on her mind. She glanced toward Mira, still nestled beside the cradle with the baby peacefully sleeping, and felt a surge of fierce protectiveness.

After a quick wash, Nella dressed in simple yet clean garments borrowed from Winterfell's stores—finer than anything she'd ever worn, but still practical. Mira stirred and smiled, her presence a steady comfort.

A sharp knock shattered the silence. Before she could fully rouse, the door creaked open, and a young guard stepped inside. His expression was serious but not unkind.

"Lady Nella," he said respectfully, "the Lord requests your presence outside, near the courtyard."

Nella frowned slightly, the unexpected summons stirring a mixture of curiosity and unease deep in her chest. "Where exactly?" she asked, her voice low, almost hesitant.

The soldier paused, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he dipped his head in a formal bow and turned sharply on his heel. The heavy leather of his boots echoed down the corridor as he disappeared from sight. Nella watched him go, a faint flush coloring her cheeks. The unanswered question hung in the air like a whisper of something unknown and important. Her gaze flickered toward Mira, who sat quietly by the cradle, her wide eyes reflecting both concern and curiosity.

"I'll be back soon," Nella murmured softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she offered Mira a small, reassuring smile. Mira's lips curled into a faint, understanding nod.

Tightening the cloak around her shoulders, Nella moved swiftly but quietly through the winding, shadowed halls of Winterfell. The stone walls seemed colder than usual, the silence punctuated only by the faint scuff of her boots and distant murmurs of waking servants. Finally, she stepped into the courtyard where the chill morning air bit at her skin, her breath forming small, fleeting clouds in the crisp light.

There, awaiting her, was Cregan Stark. Mounted atop a magnificent white horse, the early sun caught the dark steel of his armor, setting it aglow with a soft, almost ethereal light. His sharp gaze found hers immediately, but where it had been commanding before, now it softened with something like quiet invitation.

"Nella," he greeted, his voice steady and calm, a faint warmth threading through the words. "I'm taking you somewhere. Somewhere few have the chance to see in a lifetime."

Her heart quickened, curiosity blooming like spring after a long winter. "Where?"

He gave a small, knowing smile, the kind that held secrets meant for only a few. "The Wall."

A thrill surged through her veins, a mixture of awe and wonder. The Wall — a colossal fortress of ice and legend, standing as the last defense against the dark unknown beyond the realms of men. Without a moment's hesitation, Nella stepped forward and climbed atop the horse behind him. The leather saddle was cool and firm beneath her fingers, the horse's steady heartbeat pulsing beneath her palm soothing her growing excitement and nerves.

Behind them, a small escort of men mounted their steeds, faces grim and silent, bearing the unmistakable sigil of House Stark on their armor — fierce wolves poised and ready. As they began their slow ride from the courtyard, one of the riders leaned in slightly, voice low and respectful. "Few from the south ever get to see the Wall. It humbles even the proudest of us."

Nella turned briefly, catching Mira's eyes one last time from the courtyard. Mira's expression was steady, and she gave a small, encouraging nod — a silent promise of trust and hope. The horses moved steadily, their hooves clicking softly on the cobblestones before the road shifted beneath them to the frozen earth. With each crunch, the world felt colder and more distant from Winterfell's familiar warmth. The early morning sun stretched long, pale shadows across fields glazed with frost, each blade of grass sparkling like scattered diamonds in the gentle light.

Nella pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, her breath forming little clouds in the crisp air. Her eyes stayed fixed ahead, where the great Wall rose like a titan of ice, a massive, gleaming rampart that seemed to slice the very sky itself. Its towering face was impossibly tall, cutting across the horizon like a frozen cliff that held secrets older than the realm.

A young Stark rider, no older than a man freshly out of his boyhood, with sharp features softened by a cautious smile, rode up alongside her. "You don't see many southern folk come this far," he said, his voice low and almost reverent. "Most don't even dream of the Wall, let alone get to set eyes on it."

Nella turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze. "It does feel like a place out of legend. Something grand... and terrifying."

He chuckled, the sound light but edged with something darker. "It is both, I suppose. The men who serve there — they're not like the rest of us. Stark men, bred for cold and duty. They're sworn to defend the realm from what lies beyond that ice."

Cregan glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing with a fierce pride. "It's not just the realm they protect. It's the very balance of the world."

Nella's curiosity piqued, she shifted her gaze toward him. "What do you mean by that?"

He hesitated, the weight of the words settling between them like a shadow. "There are things out there — old things. Forgotten or feared. Things that would undo everything if they crossed the Wall. That's why it was built. Not just to keep men out, but to keep them in."

A shiver slid down Nella's spine, not from the cold that bit through her cloak, but from the chill of the thought. She swallowed hard, unable to look away from the massive icy wall now looming ever closer.

Cregan's gaze darkened, his jaw tightening as he turned toward her. His voice dropped low, each word sharp and unyielding like the frozen wind whipping around them. "Listen well, Nella. When we reach the Wall, you do exactly as I say. Stay close to me. Don't stray for a single moment."

Nella's eyes widened, taken aback by the sudden severity in his tone. "Why? What's so dangerous there?"

He fixed her with a hard, unblinking stare. "The men who serve there aren't the northerners you've known all your life. No, they're criminals — murderers, rapists, thieves. The Wall is their punishment, their prison. They're hardened by the cold, by isolation, and by the sins they've committed. They see women like you as little more than prey — and they don't hesitate to take what they want."

His words fell like icy stones in the silence between them. Nella felt a cold dread settle deep inside her, sharper than any winter chill. "You understand what that means, don't you? You stay right by my side. Trust no one but me. Not a soul."

The weight of his warning pressed down, unrelenting — a stark reminder that beyond the Wall, mercy was rare and safety even rarer. The ride grew quieter then, each rider lost in their own thoughts, the heavy silence filled only by the steady rhythm of hooves and the occasional whisper of cold wind.

After some time, the young rider beside her pointed ahead with a gloved finger. "Soon now," he murmured.

Nella leaned forward slightly, her heart pounding as the Wall's immense shadow stretched out before them, a frozen monolith that seemed almost alive, humming with the weight of countless winters and untold stories. The colossal structure was rising higher than any building Nella had ever seen. Its sheer face was a blinding white, glinting like crystal in the morning sun. 

The ice wasn't smooth but marked by jagged ridges and ancient scars—testaments to the centuries it had stood against wind, snow, and time itself. Nella's breath caught. She felt as if she had stumbled into a dream—or a myth made real.

Her eyes widened, drinking in every detail: the frost-coated battlements crowning the top like icy teeth, the huge gate carved from ancient stone and framed by towering statues whose faces had been worn smooth by endless storms. The air here was colder, sharper, filled with a silence that seemed to pulse with a thousand unseen stories.

She sat rigid in the saddle, utterly still, mesmerized and overwhelmed. The Wall was more than a barrier—it was a monument to the world's fragility, a frozen heartbeat holding back shadow and chaos.

A deep, reverent whisper escaped her lips, barely audible over the wind. "It's... magnificent."

Around her, the Stark men exchanged glances, accustomed to the Wall's awe but recognizing the rare wonder in her eyes.

For a long moment, Nella sat there, drawn by the Wall's impossible presence, feeling the weight of history and destiny pressing down, a strange mix of fear and fascination stirring within her.

Chapter Text

The group moved steadily toward the Wall's base, the colossal rampart towering above them like an unyielding frozen mountain. The early sun glinted off its vast icy face, casting a pale blue shimmer that made the sheer scale almost unreal. Nella's breath caught in her throat — it was a sight both magnificent and terrifying, a barrier not just of ice but of ancient power and grim purpose.

The cold wrapped around them like a living thing, seeping into every layer of clothing, biting through fabric and skin until it settled in the bones. Each breath formed a fleeting cloud of mist, and the crunch of hooves and boots against frozen earth and compacted snow echoed sharply in the vast silence that surrounded the Wall.

As they drew closer, heavy iron gates swung open with a groan. Two guards clad in rough black cloaks stepped forward, their faces lined with wear and hardship. Their eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned the newcomers with thinly veiled suspicion. Nella felt their rough stares linger on her, a mix of curiosity and mistrust that made her straighten instinctively in the saddle.

The architecture inside the Wall's shadow was stark and utilitarian — cold grey stone walls rose steeply, narrow stairways spiraled upward into darkness, and the occasional torch flickered weakly against the biting chill. There was no decoration, no warmth beyond the brief glow of the fires burning in iron braziers.

Nella's gaze swept over the men stationed there. Their faces were hard, weather-beaten from relentless winters, etched with scars and lined with exhaustion. Their eyes were wary, haunted by things unspoken. Some held open hostility, the bitter weight of their sentence hanging heavy in the air.

The heavy wooden doors creaked in front of her open as Cregan led Nella through a narrow stone corridor, the walls slick with frost and shadows flickering from the torches mounted unevenly along the passage. The cold here was sharper, more biting, as if the very air carried the weight of winters long past.

At the end of the hall stood a broad-shouldered man, his gray-streaked hair cropped close, and his face weathered like a battle-scarred map. His steel-blue eyes narrowed as they fixed on Nella, sizing her up with a cold, calculating gaze.

"Commander Harrow," Cregan greeted firmly, his voice carrying the weight of his rank and lineage. "I've brought a guest."

The commander's eyes lingered on Nella with suspicion. "A woman, at the Wall? That's no common sight. What business does she have here?"

Nella met his gaze steadily, though she could feel the chill of disapproval hanging thick in the air. "I've come at Lord Stark's request. There are things you should know — things beyond the Wall that concern us all."

Harrow grunted, stepping closer. "The Wall is no place for soft hearts or wandering eyes. The men who serve here are hardened by years of hardship and the worst winters you can imagine. The further north you go, the darker the shadows grow. There are things out there that chill the bone deeper than any frost."

He turned his gaze sharply toward Cregan. "You'd bring a woman into that world? It's dangerous — more dangerous than you know."

Cregan's jaw tightened, his tone unyielding. "She comes with my protection. And as Lord of Winterfell, it's my command that she be treated with respect."

A tense silence settled, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire in the brazier nearby. Nella felt the weight of the hostile atmosphere pressing in, yet she stood firm, her resolve hardening.

Commander Harrow's eyes flicked between them, then finally nodded, a reluctant acceptance settling over his features. "Very well. But know this — the Wall is unforgiving, and it demands more than courage. Stay close to the lord's side. And watch your step."

With a measured breath, Nella steeled herself for what lay ahead, knowing that every step beyond this threshold would test her resolve. She stepped into the stark corridors of the Wall's castle, the air heavy with cold and the faint scent of smoke and sweat. Beside her, Cregan moved with assured steps, his presence a steady anchor in this harsh, unforgiving place.

"This way," he said, leading her through the cramped quarters where rough-hewn wooden bunks stood shoulder to shoulder, each one marked by worn blankets and simple possessions. Men lounged silently, eyes flicking up briefly before returning to their grim tasks or furtive conversations.

Nella's gaze swept across weather-beaten faces — some youthful but hardened beyond their years, others older, marked by scars and exhaustion. She saw the toll of the cold etched into their skin, the lines of weariness that spoke of endless nights spent battling bitter winds and darker foes.

As they passed the blacksmith's forge, the clang of hammer on anvil rang sharp and relentless, sparks dancing in the dim light. The smith, a broad-shouldered man with arms like iron bands, nodded curtly but said nothing. Next came the armory, rows of weapons lining the walls — swords dulled by use, shields scarred with countless blows, bows carefully stored but worn from constant service. Cregan's hand brushed lightly over the pommel of a longsword, his expression somber.

In the mess hall, a low murmur of voices filled the air. Nella caught fragments of hushed conversations — whispers of strange figures glimpsed beyond the frozen wilderness, eerie lights flickering in the distance, shadows moving where no man should tread.

One grizzled ranger spoke quietly, "The others say the old tales were warnings. Maybe they were."

Another muttered, "I saw something... something that wasn't right. Eyes that glowed like embers in the dark."

Nella's heart tightened. The stories she had heard in her visions and from Cregan now echoed in this room, binding the place and its people to a fate larger than any one of them.

Cregan glanced at her, sensing the weight of her thoughts. "This is their world — harsh, unforgiving. But they hold the line, no matter what comes."

Nella nodded slowly, a mixture of awe and determination settling within her. She pushed the heavy weight of uncertainty aside, focusing instead on the task ahead. With steady steps, she followed Cregan through winding staircases and narrow passages, the chill of the Wall seeping deeper into her bones with every step.

At last, they emerged onto the ramparts. The wind howled sharply atop the Wall as Cregan and Nella stood together on the narrow parapet, the frozen expanse of the North stretching endlessly beneath them. The sun hung low, casting long shadows over the ice and snow, but even its feeble warmth seemed swallowed by the biting cold that cut through their cloaks like blades.

He held her a moment longer before easing back, his gaze distant as if reading the frozen horizon beyond the Wall. "The Wall is more than stone and ice," Cregan said quietly, voice heavy with reverence. "It's a sentinel built in an age when men fought wars not just for land or power, but for survival against things that defy mortal understanding."

He pulled his fur-lined hood tighter against the biting wind, eyes sharp beneath the shadow it cast. "Old magic holds this place together — spells woven by the First Men and the Children of the Forest, long before the Andals crossed the Narrow Sea."

Nella listened, her breath catching as the chill seemed to deepen with the weight of his words.

"Once, Queen Alysanne's dragon, Silverwing, and King Jaehaerys's dragon, Vermithor—two of the greatest beasts ever known—were brought here. They came to the Wall in flight, power unmatched in all of Westeros. But when they neared, something stopped them. The dragons refused to cross. No fire, no strength could break the invisible boundary. Some say it was the ancient powers at work—older than even the dragons themselves."

He glanced at her then, his voice lowering. "The Wall keeps out the Others, those shadowy beings of ice and death. Creatures that walk the endless night, their eyes like shards of frozen death. You've seen their face in your visions."

Nella shivered—not only from the biting cold but from the truth pressing down on her like a lead weight. The stories echoed faintly in the corners of her mind, threading into the terror that now marked her.

"It isn't just ice," Cregan said again, voice steady but solemn. "It's the last line of defense against a darkness older than time itself."

The tales echoed faintly in the corners of her mind — the visions she had seen, the icy figures with eyes like shards of frozen death. She swallowed hard, the wind biting through her, and suddenly her world wavered. The air thickened, colors blurring, sounds fading. Her knees buckled and she fell backward, the ground rushing up to meet her.

Darkness engulfed her.

But then everything shattered, and she was somewhere else — soaring high above a desolate wasteland, an endless field of ice stretching beyond the edge of the world. The sky above was torn apart by jagged streaks of fire, like the dying breaths of some fallen star, casting flickering shadows that twisted and writhed. Massive dragons—hulking, monstrous shapes wreathed in burning embers—danced in the fiery heavens, their roars cracking the brittle air like thunder. Their wings beat storms, but beneath their fierce blaze lay a darkness so deep it swallowed the light whole.

Below, the frozen earth was a graveyard of bones and frost, a realm ruled not by life, but by death itself. Towering figures rose from the ice—white as bone, with eyes glowing a cold, malevolent blue that pierced her very soul. They moved without sound, their frozen fingers brushing the air as if weaving invisible chains. These were the Others—ancient predators of shadow and frost, creatures born of winter's endless night, carrying with them a silence that was death's own breath.

Their gaze locked onto her, filled with a hatred so pure it burned colder than the coldest winter. She could feel it crawling into her mind, chilling her blood, whispering promises of oblivion. The world itself seemed to shudder beneath their stare, the very essence of life shrinking away before their relentless, merciless hunger.

Suddenly, a biting cold clamped around her hand—her birthmark, once a soft warmth beneath her skin, now burning like frozen fire. The flesh beneath it cracked and blackened, turning brittle and obsidian-like as if ice and shadow had fused into a living wound. The cold seeped deeper, a cruel frost that threatened to freeze her soul alive.

She gasped, heart pounding in terror, caught between the blazing fury of dragons above and the merciless silence of death below. Her breath caught, lungs filling with an invisible frost, as if she was drowning in the cold itself.

Then everything snapped back. She was on the Wall, lying on the rough stone parapet, Cregan's voice urgent above her.

"Nella! Are you all right?"

Nella's breaths came in ragged, desperate gasps, each inhale sharp and shallow as if the very air had turned to shards of ice piercing her lungs. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, clutching at her chest where an unseen weight pressed down, cold and merciless. Her skin crawled with a creeping frost that seemed to seep into her bones, and a metallic taste flooded her mouth, thick and coppery.

Her eyes, wide and glassy, stared past Cregan—seeing something dark and terrible lurking just beyond the edge of vision. The shadows writhed and twisted like living things, their whispers curling around her ears like frozen daggers. She could hear them: faint, agonized cries echoing from a void where light dared not tread.

Cregan's voice cut through the growing storm in her mind. "Nella! Tell me—what did you see?"

Her voice trembled, barely a broken whisper, soaked in dread. "I saw it... a void clawing at the edges of the world, eyes like hollow pits burning with cold fire. It looked at me—the way death does, unblinking and endless." She forced her gaze down to her trembling hand, where the mark writhed, a sick swirl of bruised purples bleeding into blackened veins. The cold burned deeper than frost, like icy fingers digging into her flesh, biting and unforgiving. "It's death... not with flame, but with frozen darkness. It's marked me."

Her body convulsed as a shudder ripped through her, the chill wrapping tight around her heart like a vise. "I heard voices—screams dripping from the shadows, twisted and broken. Faces pressed close, whispering that time is ending, that we are already caught in its grasp. There's no escape."

For a moment, silence fell between them—heavy, suffocating, as if the very air had thickened with dread. Nella's eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling as icy sweat beaded along her brow. When she opened them again, they were glazed, haunted.

Cregan's grip tightened, grounding her in the present. "You're not alone," he repeated softly, but even his words felt fragile against the creeping darkness.

A sudden gust swept along the ramparts, carrying with it a faint, distant wail—a mournful sound that seemed to echo the torment in Nella's mind. The Wall itself seemed to groan beneath their feet, ancient stones whispering secrets long buried in frost.

Nella's breath hitched as the mark pulsed faintly against her skin, cold and alive. The shadows around them deepened, as if responding to the curse now etched into her flesh. She swallowed hard, her voice barely steady. "It's coming. I can feel it... and it's hungry."

Cregan's eyes narrowed, resolve hardening like steel. "Then we prepare. Whatever this death is, it won't claim you without a fight."

Without thinking, Nella's hands shot out, clutching Cregan's cloak as she pulled him into a fierce, urgent embrace. The sudden contact was like a lifeline thrown into the storm raging inside her—a fragile anchor against the swirling darkness. She pressed her face against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, the solid warmth of his body seeping into her chilled skin.

Cregan's arms wrapped around her gently but firmly, holding her close as if shielding her from the cold that clawed at her from within and without. For the first time since the mark appeared, the tremors in her limbs began to still, soothed by the quiet strength in his touch.

The wind that had howled moments before softened to a whisper, the biting cold seeming to ebb away beneath the heat of their closeness. In that shared silence, time slowed. The harsh edges of fear dulled, replaced by a fragile thread of hope.

Their heartbeats beat out a quiet rhythm together—two souls finding comfort in the space between breath and heartbeat, a reminder that even in the shadow of death, they were not alone.

Chapter Text

The cold night still clung to Winterfell, wrapping the castle in a shroud of frost, though the journey from the Wall had ended hours ago. Stars shimmered faintly behind a veil of drifting snow, indifferent to the world below. Nella sat alone in the dim glow of a flickering lantern, the shadows of the great hall stretching across her face. Her hand rested on the rough wooden table, but she could feel the pulse beneath her skin—slow, deliberate, a heartbeat of purple and black light that seemed almost alive.

Suddenly, the images flashed behind her eyelids—visions she couldn't control. Glimmering shards of ice, the hollow eyes of the Others, and twisted landscapes of frozen desolation flooded her mind. A distant, whispering voice curled into her thoughts, cold and seductive, promising power and an end to the fear gnawing at her.

The mark burned cold against her skin, a frostbite that spread beneath the surface like creeping ice, unnerving in its relentless chill. It was no ordinary cold — this was a biting, living frost, as if the very essence of winter had seeped into her flesh, freezing her from within. The skin around it tingled with numbness and faint pain, a cruel reminder that the mark was not just a symbol, but a wound—an unhealing scar branded by death itself.

Nella's breath hitched, fogging the air before her lips, as the lantern's flame flickered and sputtered in the draft. The wavering light cast dancing shadows on the rough stone walls, twisting and bending into shapes that seemed to leer and writhe just beyond her vision.

She traced a trembling finger along the edges of the mark, feeling the brittle texture beneath her skin, like cracked obsidian cooled by eternal frost. It pulsed faintly, a heartbeat out of sync with her own, cold and slow—ominous and alive. Every pulse sent a shiver up her arm, a whisper of icy breath that clawed at her nerves.

There was something alive in that mark. Something ancient. Something hungry.

But then, far beyond the lantern's reach, she heard the sharp snap of branches breaking—close now, unmistakably alive.

She held her breath, muscles coiled tight as her eyes strained to pierce the thick darkness pressing in from every side. The brittle silence around her felt heavier than the snow settling on the branches—an unnatural stillness, as if the very forest was holding its breath alongside her.

Every snap of a twig, every crackle of frozen leaves sounded like a gunshot in the quiet night. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat pounding louder in her ears. She expected a man to step from the shadows—a ranger's rough cloak or maybe even Cregan himself.

But the darkness yielded no friendly shape.

Her fingers clenched tighter around the lantern's cold handle, knuckles whitening. The faint light flickered, casting long, quivering shadows that twisted into shapes she dared not name. The cold bit deeper into her skin, but it was the unseen eyes watching her—the weight of unseen presence—that made her pulse race.

Time stretched thin, the moments dragging out like a drawn blade hovering just above her throat.

Then, a soft rustle, a breath too low to be human, and her body tensed, ready to flee or fight. But from the gloom emerged not a man, but something else entirely—something larger, colder, and far more terrible.

Her gaze locked completely with the direwolf's, icy blue eyes piercing through the darkness straight into her soul. In that instant, the world around her seemed to dissolve—the whisper of the wind, the crunch of snow beneath unseen feet, all faded into a distant echo. A strange sensation took hold of her, unmooring her from her own body. It was as if her mind was slipping away, drifting free from flesh and bone. She felt herself fading, becoming less herself and more... something else.

Suddenly, she saw through the direwolf's eyes — the sharp clarity of its vision cutting through the night, every detail magnified. The biting cold was no longer a chill but a living force; the scents of pine, frost, and unseen creatures flooded her senses. She felt its primal heartbeat, the cold snap of its breath in the night air, the sharp scent of pine and frost.

Through the wolf's eyes, Nella saw the world anew—trails hidden beneath snowdrifts, shadows shifting in the underbrush, and faint glimmers of something darker moving just beyond the trees. The Others were near.

The wolf's senses sharpened, muscles coiled for a silent hunt, and Nella felt their cold hunger rising like a tide she could neither stop nor escape.

She tasted the acrid bite of frozen air, mingled with the metallic tang of death lingering just beyond the edge of perception. The trees seemed to lean in, their gnarled branches whispering secrets older than the Wall itself. Somewhere in the distance, a haunting wail tore through the night—a sound that pierced her very bones, a lament of ice and shadow.

The direwolf moved forward with predatory grace, paws barely stirring the snow. Nella's vision blurred and sharpened in waves as the wolf's senses flooded her mind—keen hearing picked up the faintest crunch of ice, the subtle crackle of frostbitten leaves. Shapes flickered at the edge of the forest, tall and gaunt, pale as death, eyes glowing like shards of frozen fire.

They were hunting.

A shudder ran through her body, mirrored by the wolf's tense muscles. The Others were not just lurking — they were closing in, their cold intent as relentless as winter itself. Nella felt the terror that gripped the beast, raw and unyielding, and it seeped into her soul.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the connection shattered. She was back in her own body, gasping for breath, heart pounding wildly in her chest. The mark on her hand throbbed with unnatural cold, a silent reminder that the darkness she'd glimpsed was no mere vision—it was a promise. Death was coming and it had marked her as its own.

The trees whispered secrets in a language she couldn't understand, their twisted limbs swaying though no wind stirred. Each breath she drew was sharp and ragged, the icy air clawing at her throat, as if the forest itself sought to suffocate her. She was no longer just a visitor here—she was the hunted, the object of something ancient and merciless. The visions that had clawed their way into her mind replayed endlessly, like a cruel melody she couldn't silence. Faces of the Others—empty-eyed and merciless—haunted the edges of her vision, their cold gaze burning through the veil of reality.

The mark on her hand throbbed in time with her pounding heart, a cruel reminder that she was branded by death's own touch. No matter how fast she moved or how far she ran, the cold grip of those visions pulled her back, tormenting her with whispers of her own doom.

Every shadow held a secret. Every sound was a warning.

She felt eyes on her from the darkness—unseen watchers waiting patiently, knowing her name, knowing her fear. The forest was no sanctuary. It was a cage. A crucible where her mind was stripped bare and laid open to the cold horrors beyond.

She wanted to scream, to fight, to run—but the weight of the mark pressed down, heavier than stone, and she was trapped in the relentless grip of her own terrifying fate. And through it all, the whispering voice echoed again—soft, seductive, and deadly:

"You belong to us now."

Nella's steps faltered, each movement heavier than the last, as if invisible chains dragged her deeper into despair. Her skin had drained of color, pale as the untouched snow beneath her feet, and an eerie chill seemed to seep from within, as if ice was consuming her very soul. The cold was no longer just outside—it was inside her, biting at her warmth, stealing life with relentless cruelty.

The twisted woods around her blurred, the shadows pressing close, suffocating. She stumbled blindly toward the castle, a prisoner of her own body and the merciless mark that burned beneath her skin.

Ahead, a figure broke through the gloom—Mira. Her eyes wide with worry, she rushed to Nella's side, voice trembling. "Nella! You're freezing! What's wrong? You look like you're fading... like the cold's killing you."

Nella barely registered the words. The world spun dizzily as she fell to her knees, then collapsed onto the frozen ground. Her breath came in shallow gasps, each one a struggle against the icy grip that tightened around her chest.

Mira screamed, raw and frantic, her voice tearing through the stillness. "Help! Someone, please! She's dying!"

The maesters rushed through the winding stone halls, their footsteps echoing urgently against the cold walls. Two of them carefully lifted Nella's frail body, her limbs limp and her breath shallow like the fading whisper of winter's last breath. The chill radiating from her was unnatural, seeping into their gloves and cloaks despite the layers of fur and fabric.

They hurried to the chamber reserved for the sick and wounded—a dim room lined with shelves of ancient tomes and jars filled with strange herbs and potions. The air inside was thick with the scent of tinctures and burning incense, a feeble attempt to hold back the creeping cold.

The maesters set Nella down on a narrow cot, their faces tight with concern and confusion. The eldest, Maester Orin, pressed a cold, trembling hand to her forehead, then recoiled as if burned. Her skin was ice itself—frosty to the touch, yet strangely unyielding, like polished marble.

"We've never seen anything like this," Orin muttered, his voice low and uneasy. He produced strange instruments—sharp needles, glass vials, and a silver scalpel—tools meant to diagnose ordinary illnesses. But as they pierced her skin, no blood welled up. Instead, a dark, viscous ichor, tinged with purple and black, oozed slowly, defying nature.

Another maester, younger and wide-eyed, hurried to fetch a lantern. The flickering light illuminated Nella's pallid face, her eyes fluttering open briefly, filled with distant terror.

"She's burning... but with cold," the younger maester whispered, voice trembling. "Like frostfire consuming her from within."

Suddenly, the door burst open with a force that sent the lantern wobbling, casting wild shadows across the room.

Cregan stormed in, his eyes blazing with fierce determination and fear. "What is happening to her? What madness is this?"

The maesters exchanged uneasy glances but could say nothing definitive. The unnatural chill and the strange black ichor defied all their knowledge.

"Why is she so cold? So pale—like the life has been drained right out of her?" He leaned closer, the flickering lantern casting strange shadows across her skin.

Then his gaze dropped to her arm—and recoiled. The mark was no longer confined to a small patch; the purple-black frost had spread, crawling up her forearm like a living stain of death and shadow. The color pulsed faintly, eerily, as if it breathed beneath her skin.

A cold dread settled deep in Cregan's chest. This was no common wound. No sickness known to man or healer. This was something... unnatural. Mystical. Ancient.

Cregan's voice dropped to a harsh, urgent whisper, edged with desperation and steel. "Send word at once. Find me a servant of the Lord of Light—a fire priestess, or any who walk in the flame's sacred shadow. Someone who understands the dance of cold and fire, the ancient magics bound to life and death."

He slammed his fist against the wooden table, the echo reverberating through the chamber. "If there is one in the North, bring them here immediately. If not... then they must come from wherever she hides, no matter the distance or danger. We will not wait."

The maesters hesitated, the weight of his command heavy in the cold air. Yet, they saw the fire burning in his eyes—the fierce resolve of a man who refused to lose what mattered most.

Cregan's grip on Nella's hand tightened again, his voice barely more than a growl. "We have no time for doubt or delay. The darkness that claims her will not wait for mercy."

He settled beside Nella's cot, his heart pounding so fiercely it echoed in his ears louder than the howling wind outside. The flickering lantern light barely chased away the shadows that clung to the cold stone walls, but none of that chilled him as deeply as the sight before him. Her skin was pale—so pale it seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. 

The warmth he remembered in her smile at the feast—the way it had brightened the room, soft and alive—was gone, replaced by a coldness that was almost unnatural. It wasn't just cold; it was as if the life had been stripped from her, leaving behind a hollow shell. Fear gnawed at him, fierce and unrelenting. He had grown fond of her in ways he hadn't expected—a quiet admiration turned to something deeper, something protective. Now, seeing her like this, trembling and fading, he felt helpless and terrified in a way he never thought possible.

His fingers trembled as they brushed over the frostbitten mark that pulsed faintly on her arm. It was a cruel reminder that whatever darkness had taken hold was no ordinary sickness—it was something ancient, cold, and merciless.

"Stay with me," he whispered, voice rough with desperation. "Please… don't leave me."

He leaned closer, his lips hovering over her forehead, uncertain, as though any sudden movement might shatter what little warmth remained. When he finally pressed a gentle kiss there, her skin was colder than ice, and a shiver ran down his spine. Yet he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t.

A moment passed, suspended and fragile, before his heart forced him closer to her mouth. He hesitated, his lips trembling over hers, a growing fear knotting in his chest. The first brush was tentative, and then his lips met hers fully—only to recoil in horror. She was gone. The girl he had known, the warmth he had remembered, were gone. Cold. Rigid. Dead.

A wave of dread struck him like a blow. His chest tightened, his stomach twisting. He could feel it—the unmistakable absence of life, the way the frostbite of whatever darkness had claimed her seemed to seep into him through their contact. Panic clawed at his throat, leaving him gasping, afraid to pull back and yet terrified to let go.

He stared at her frozen face, searching desperately for any sign of her—the light in her eyes, the warmth in her skin, anything that might tell him she was still here. But there was nothing. Just the cruel, unyielding cold and the mark pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat from some other, merciless world.

Fear consumed him. The thought came unbidden, sharp and awful: she was already slipping away. The warmth of her smile, the softness of her voice, everything he had ever cherished in her—gone. Fading like a dying ember swallowed by endless night.

Chapter Text

Three days had stretched into an endless blur of shadow and silence, each hour heavier than the last. Nella lay motionless, her breaths shallow whispers against the cold air, as if life itself clung to her by the thinnest thread. Her skin was unnervingly cold, pale as winter's deepest frost, and no warmth stirred within her.

Cregan and Mira were never far from her side, their presence a fragile tether to the world she seemed to be slipping from. Anxiety gnawed relentlessly at their spirits, fear tightening its grip with every breath she drew—or failed to draw. Each passing moment was a battle against the creeping darkness that threatened to consume her.

The castle itself seemed to share their despair. The vibrant hum of life that once filled its stone halls was now drained away, replaced by a suffocating silence that pressed down like a shroud. Even the walls appeared to mourn, their cold surfaces seeming to echo the quiet desperation of those who waited and watched.

Then, at last, the long-awaited word arrived. A fire priestess had answered their desperate call.

She entered without a sound, as though the shadows themselves had parted to grant her passage. The heavy oak door whispered closed behind her, and the flickering lanterns cast her crimson robes in a glow that seemed to pulse with a light not born of flame. The fabric shimmered softly, like embers smoldering beneath snow, and her presence filled the room with a quiet, unsettling power.

Her eyes were calm and unreadable—dark pools reflecting depths none dared to fathom. She moved with an eerie grace, each step measured, deliberate, as if she walked between worlds rather than across stone floors. Without a word, she approached Nella's bedside, her fingers hovering just above the girl's frostbitten skin, tracing invisible sigils that shimmered faintly in the cold air.

A chant escaped her lips, low and rhythmic, ancient as the very fires that once blazed beneath the earth. The language was foreign, its meaning lost to time, yet it thrummed with undeniable power, resonating in the stillness like a heartbeat in the silence. The air grew thick and heavy, steeped in the scent of burning amber intertwined with something colder, more sinister—like the breath of winter itself.

"Tell me," she murmured, voice both hypnotic and grave, "what do you see in the frozen fire that scars her flesh? What dance do the shadows perform beneath the surface?"

Cregan and Mira exchanged uneasy glances, their hope trembling alongside their dread. Beneath her serene mask, the priestess's eyes flickered—brief flashes of a fear too profound to voice. The Lord of Light had warned her of this darkness, a shadow no flame could easily consume.

Before her lay not a mere illness, but a manifestation of death's cold grasp—a corruption woven from ice and shadow, ancient and relentless. She inhaled deeply, the weight of the silent chamber pressing down like a storm yet to break, then spoke again, her voice heavy with sorrow and portent:

"This is no common affliction. We stand on a knife's edge between fire and ice, and the balance trembles."

The priestess's hands moved with careful purpose, fingers brushing lightly over Nella's skin, but each touch seemed to draw a chill deeper into the room. Her hands, warm and alive, met flesh that felt like cold marble—icy to the bone, lifeless and unyielding. The frostbite wasn't merely surface deep; it seeped into the girl's very soul, as if death itself had claimed residence beneath her skin.

A shadow crossed the priestess's face—fear, raw and unspoken. She drew back slightly, eyes narrowing as if searching for a way to fight a foe she could neither see nor fully understand.

"This... this is the work of the dead," she whispered, voice trembling despite her effort to remain composed. "No flame I command can easily burn such darkness away. How long she remains among the living... I cannot say. The cold spreads like a shadow at dusk—silent, patient, relentless."

Cregan's jaw tightened, frustration and desperation warping his features. He took a step closer, voice rough, laden with pleading. "There must be something you can do—anything. Tell me, priestess. We cannot lose her. Not like this."

The woman's gaze softened, pity and sorrow warring beneath her calm exterior. "I will call upon the Lord of Light's power, invoke every prayer and ritual known to our faith," she promised quietly. "But be warned—the battle ahead is one of fire against ice, and not all flames burn bright enough to banish the deepest cold."

The priestess lifted her gaze, eyes steady and commanding. "You must leave us now," she said softly but firmly. "This is a sacred moment—one where only I, and the Lord of Light may stand beside her."

Cregan's brow furrowed, reluctant, but he saw the unwavering resolve in her expression and nodded. Mira hesitated, clutching Nella's cold hand a final time before slipping quietly from the chamber. The heavy door closed behind them, muffling the distant echoes of the castle.

Alone with Nella's frozen form, the priestess began to move with deliberate grace. Her voice dropped to a low chant, words ancient and melodic, twisting through the air in a tongue not spoken in these lands for centuries—Valyrian. The syllables wound around the room like smoke, mysterious and arcane, carrying riddles and veiled meanings.

The meaning was obscure but the weight behind the words was unmistakable—invocations of fire and life, a call to burn away shadows and restore warmth to frozen blood. The priestess's chant deepened, weaving tighter around the room like a living flame, her voice rising and falling in haunting cadence. Her hands traced intricate patterns above Nella's motionless form, symbols glowing faintly with a warm, amber light that flickered against the icy pallor of the girl's skin.

But as the ritual stretched on, a tremor began to creep into her movements. Her fingers, once steady and sure, now quivered with a growing weight. The warmth she summoned seemed to clash violently with the unnatural cold that clung stubbornly to Nella's flesh — a cold that was not just frost, but death's own frostbite, gnawing at the edges of life.

Her breath hitched. The amber light faltered, dimming as though the darkness itself pushed back with silent fury. Sweat beaded at the priestess's brow, despite the chill that filled the chamber.

Her voice, once a steady stream of ancient words, began to falter, wavering into strained whispers. "By the sacred flame... I bind thee, shadow of ice... leave this flesh..." Her hands shook uncontrollably now, hovering just above Nella's arm, the mark spreading like dark poison across pale skin.

For a moment, silence swallowed the chamber, heavy and suffocating. The priestess's eyes darted upward, wide and haunted, as if pleading with unseen forces. Her shoulders sagged, the fire in her gaze dimming. "This... darkness is older, deeper... than any flame I command," she confessed, voice breaking beneath the weight of fear and exhaustion. "I... I fear the cold claims more than flesh. It gnaws at the soul itself."

Summoning every shred of strength left within her, the priestess raised her trembling hands once more, voice steadying into a fierce chant that clawed against the cold darkness. Her words echoed through the chamber—invocations of fire, light, and life—each syllable a desperate plea to burn away the shadow consuming Nella.

But then, suddenly, a crushing wave of ice surged forth—sharp and suffocating—clamping down on her throat like a vise. Her breath hitched, lungs constricted by an unseen frost, panic blooming deep within her chest. The room spun; the warmth she'd summoned recoiled as if swallowed by a vast, frozen void.

Gasping, eyes wide with terror, she staggered back, fingers clawing at her throat. The fire within her faltered, snuffed by the relentless cold. With a shuddering breath, she turned and fled the chamber, the heavy door closing behind her with a final, chilling echo.

Cregan was waiting just beyond, his voice sharp with urgency. "How did it go? What happened? Tell me!"

She met his gaze, eyes dark pools of sorrow and fear, her voice barely a whisper—haunted and raw. "There is nothing more I can do," she confessed, each word heavy like a funeral bell. "The Lord of Light himself cannot pierce this shadow. Death has claimed her, marked her in a way no flame can burn away. This... this is no wound of flesh, but a curse upon her very soul."

Her hands trembled, and for a moment, the fierce priestess—the bringer of fire and hope—was broken, swallowed by the cold truth that some darkness was beyond even her god's mercy. "I fear she is lost to us, caught between worlds, slipping deeper into the void where no light reaches."

Cregan's jaw clenched, his eyes blazing with desperate resolve. "No," he growled, shaking his head. "There must be something—anything—we can do. We can't just let her die. Not like this. Not now."

He rushed to Nella's side, dropping to his knees beside her frozen form. His hands trembled as he reached out, fingers brushing against her cold skin, searching for any sign of life. Then, for the first time since this nightmare began, tears spilled from his eyes—raw, bitter, unstoppable—falling onto her icy flesh like raindrops on stone. The priestess met his gaze, her own eyes hollow and void of hope, filled only with quiet, unbearable sadness. She said nothing, but the weight of her silence crushed the room more than any words could. 

Cregan's eyes locked onto hers, searching for any flicker of reassurance, any sign that hope still breathed within her. But all he found was a hollow emptiness, a void carved deep by fear and sorrow. The priestess said nothing, her silence heavier than the thickest stone walls around them—a silence that screamed the truth he could not bear.

His gaze dropped to Nella's still chest, and for the first time, the unbearable reality struck him like a cold blade: her fragile heartbeat was gone. When had it slipped away? Before the priestess arrived? During the ritual? He could not say. Time blurred into a cruel, endless moment.

His breath caught, chest tightening as a tidal wave of grief crashed over him—raw, unrelenting. The fortress of his control shattered. He sank forward, hands trembling as they cradled her cold face, fingers brushing strands of hair that felt like frost. The tears came then—slow at first, then pouring freely, carving wet trails down his cheeks.

He didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

Every sob tore through him like a wound, each one a desperate cry for the warmth of her smile, the light of her laughter. He remembered the feast—the way her eyes had shone, the warmth that had wrapped around him like summer sunlight—and now, here in this shadowed chamber, all that warmth was swallowed by ice. His heart ached with a loneliness so profound it seemed to stretch into forever. He whispered broken prayers, pleaded for mercy in a language long lost to hope. His grief spilled out in a flood of silent screams, shaking the room with a sorrow too deep for words.

The heavy silence shattered as Mira burst into the chamber, her breath ragged, eyes wild with panic. She fell to her knees beside Nella, hands trembling as she reached out to touch her friend's face, as if willing warmth to return.

"No, no, no," she cried, her voice breaking and raw. "Tell me she's not... tell me she's not dead."

Cregan looked up, his own eyes glistening with tears that refused to be held back. His throat tightened, words failing him. Finally, with a slow, heart-wrenching nod, he confirmed the truth.

Mira's sobs erupted like thunder, echoing off the cold stone walls, each ragged breath a raw wound in the silence. She pressed her forehead gently but desperately against Nella's icy skin, as if by sheer will she could breathe life back into her friend's still form. Grief consumed her utterly—an all-encompassing tempest that shattered every part of her being. "How—how could this happen?" she whispered, voice cracking, trembling under the unbearable weight of loss and confusion, as if the question itself might undo the cruel truth.

Cregan moved without hesitation, wrapping a steady, trembling arm around Mira's shaking shoulders, pulling her close. His own heart lay in ruins, every beat heavy with sorrow, but in that moment, he was no longer just a warrior or a protector—he was a man broken by  loss. His voice was thick and raw, barely more than a whisper, "I don't know. I don't know how, or why this darkness reached her. But I swear... I won't stop searching. There has to be a way—there must be."

His words were both a promise and a plea, a fragile ember of hope flickering amidst the encroaching shadow. They sat together, two souls bound by grief, their silence louder than any cry, both haunted by the impossible question—how do you fight a death that won't release its hold?

Chapter Text

Months had slipped by in a slow, suffocating haze. Nella's body lay motionless in the cold chamber, untouched by time's usual decay. It was as if the ice itself had claimed her, preserving her in a state neither truly alive nor surrendered to death's final embrace. Her skin remained pale and chilled, a silent testament to the unnatural stillness that held her captive.

Her once-vibrant hair, once a cascade of deep chestnut, had dulled to ashen strands, the life seemingly leeched from each lock. The rich hues that had framed her face faded into ghostly shades, as if the warmth that had fed them was slowly slipping away. Her cheeks, once flushed with the soft glow of youth, now lay flat and colorless, drained of the hues that marked vitality. Even her lips had lost their natural tint, pressed in a cold, bluish line that spoke of frostbite and frozen breath.

There was no rot, no scent of decay—only the unyielding cold that seemed to seep into the bones of the very castle, wrapping her like a shroud of ice. She was trapped between worlds, a living statue carved from frost and shadow.

Cregan was consumed by a relentless storm of desperation and duty. The world beyond the walls carried on, but for him, time had fractured and twisted around a single, impossible truth: Nella was lost, yet somehow still tethered to the fragile edge between life and death. His days and nights blended together, marked only by the flickering candlelight that spilled over countless pages of ancient tomes.

He pored over dusty volumes written in languages few still understood, seeking fragments of forgotten lore—texts that whispered of old magics, of fire and ice entwined in eternal struggle. His fingers traced runes and symbols that promised answers, but yielded only riddles. With every page turned, hope and despair wrestled within him.

Alongside the books, Cregan sought counsel from the envoys of the Lord of Light who had arrived at the Wall—priests and scholars steeped in the faith's mysteries. They spoke in cryptic terms of the soul's journey, of shadows that could cling to the living and the dead alike. They shared stories of ancient battles against darkness, of sacrifices made beneath crimson skies and burning stars. Yet, none offered a solution that might reach beyond the cold grip that held Nella.

Each conversation deepened the weight upon his heart. The envoys' reverence for the flame was unwavering, but even their brightest prayers could not touch the chill that had settled within her. At times, Cregan found himself questioning the very faith he had clung to—wondering if the Lord of Light himself had turned away from this frozen shadow.

Loneliness crept into the spaces around him. Mira remained near, a steadfast presence, but even her comforting words could not dispel the gnawing fear that time was slipping past them without mercy. Every flicker of movement outside the chamber, every distant howl on the Wall, reminded Cregan of the cruel paradox: Nella was here, and yet, she was gone.

Driven by a mixture of love and madness, Cregan refused to yield. He became a restless specter among scrolls and shadows, a man haunted not only by the cold death before him but by the torment of unanswered questions. The castle's silence pressed heavily against his soul, but still he sought, still he hoped—for a sign, for a miracle, for anything that might break the frost and bring her back from the edge of the void.

But as months blurred into years, the world beyond the chamber's cold walls pressed on with indifferent resolve. The Lord of Winterfell, Cregan's old friend and ally, bore burdens of her own. Arra Norrey, a woman of sharp wit and steady heart, had long been part of his life—a childhood companion whose loyalty was as steadfast as the North itself. Their marriage, forged by necessity and alliance, was celebrated quietly amidst the shadow of growing unease.

The lord's duties called him—harsh decisions to be made, governance to maintain, alliances to navigate—all while whispers of dark forces stirring beyond the Wall reached his ears. Yet, even amid the weight of crown and castle, his thoughts strayed often to Cregan's plight. He saw in her haunted eyes, the desperate fight against despair, the feverish search for a light in the encroaching cold.

Cregan himself was torn between duty and obsession. The weight of leadership pressed on him like the ice outside, demanding that he uphold honor and command, while his heart screamed for answers that no man seemed able to give. He stood at the crossroads of a cruel fate—one foot in the realm of the living, the other dragging through a frostbitten dreamscape where hope was a fragile, flickering flame.

And so, as the nights grew longer and the shadows deeper, Cregan Stark balanced precariously between two worlds—bound by duty to the North and driven by a love that refused to let go, even as death's cold hand clenched tighter around the girl who had become his obsession and his undoing.

For Mira, life had moved forward in a way that felt hollow and fractured. She had married Eddric Karstark, a stern but honorable cousin from the rugged lands beyond the Wolfswood—a man who carried the weight of his house with quiet dignity. Their union was a bond forged by tradition and necessity, one meant to anchor her to a future that had once seemed bright. But no matter the kindness in Eddric's eyes or the steady rhythm of their days, Mira's heart remained adrift. The absence of Nella left a cavernous emptiness, a silence that no laughter or warmth could ever fill. Her anchor was gone, swept away by the cruel frost of death, leaving her to wander a sea of memories and lost hopes.

The castle's walls no longer echoed with the lightness they once held; shadows clung tighter around her, whispers of what was and what could never be. Mira carried the weight of grief in every quiet moment—an ache as deep and endless as the North itself.

Though life pressed on, Mira knew some wounds cut too deep, some losses too vast. The gap left by Nella was a wound that time could not heal, a ghost that haunted every step she took in the cold, unforgiving world they now lived in.

Trapped in an endless night, where time folded upon itself and space dissolved into an abyss of impenetrable blackness, there was nothing — no shape, no sound, no breath of warmth. The void stretched infinitely, a cold so absolute it seeped into the marrow, numbing every flicker of life and memory. It was a place beyond pain, beyond hope, yet not quite death. A liminal realm where light had fled and shadows reigned, swallowing all that dared to exist within.

Within this vast expanse of nothingness, the silence was suffocating. It pressed against the senses like a thick, heavy fog, muting the very idea of existence. No stars pierced this darkness, no moon cast its silver glow. Even the faintest echo of a heartbeat seemed to dissolve, lost in the infinite stillness. To be here was to be utterly unmoored, a wisp of consciousness adrift on a sea of cold oblivion.

But then, faintly — almost imperceptibly at first — a shimmer flickered at the edge of that void. A fragile, trembling spark of light, hesitant and small, like the first breath of dawn breaking through a long, cruel winter night. It pulsed with a quiet warmth, an impossible glow that pushed back the suffocating blackness with the softest touch.

That light was unlike any warmth remembered. It did not burn or scorch, but it stirred something deep within — a whisper of comfort, a spark of something nearly forgotten. It felt strange, foreign even, as if awakening a part of the soul that had long been asleep beneath layers of frost. It was a warmth that spoke not only to the body but to the spirit — fragile, yet undeniably alive.

The light flickered and danced, weaving through the void like a slow heartbeat against the vast silence. It was both tender and defiant, a beacon in the endless night that neither feared the darkness nor belonged fully to the light. It beckoned with a promise: that even in the deepest abyss, where all seemed lost and nothing remained, a glimmer of hope could endure.

For a moment, the cold loosened its grip, and the crushing weight of emptiness gave way to something softer, more elusive — the faintest pulse of life, a fragile thread tethering the lost to the possibility of return. In that strange warmth, there was both sorrow and strength, a reminder that even in the face of unyielding death, the ember of hope could flicker — small, trembling, yet unbroken.

The flame refused to yield.

Though weakened, it shivered and danced with fierce resolve, pushing back against the suffocating chill. It found hidden crevices within itself—deep wells of resilience where the cold could not reach. There, in the sanctuary of that small, defiant heart, the warmth pulsed steady, slow but unbroken.

It was no longer a blaze roaring with abandon; it was a quiet, stubborn ember that clung to life with desperate grace. This ember breathed through the frost, sending out tendrils of soft heat that wove through the darkness like whispered promises. It was a subtle warmth, a tenderness that could not be crushed, a song sung low beneath the howling void.

Even as the cold sought to claim it, the flame found ways to share its light — illuminating the endless black, offering a touch of comfort to those lost in the cold night. It whispered to the shadows, dared the frost to linger, and, against all odds, kept its glow alive.

The ember flickered, its faint glow trembling against the endless black. Then, from the depths of the void, voices began to stir—ancient and hollow, threading through the silence like echoes of a forgotten time.

"Lamen tis vrah," whispered the first—a rasping breath like wind through dead branches. "Why do you cling to the flicker when all is but shadow and silence?"

The flame pulsed faintly, answering not with words, but with a warmth that spoke of defiance. Another voice, colder and deeper, murmured:

"Dros anai fenar, fenar zhol. The cold is the eternal truth; all light fades to ash and silence beneath its shroud."

A third voice rose, distant and trembling, its tone almost a lament:

"Veil anor qarthas, solis enar. Yet even in the heart of endless night, a spark endures—the breath of fire that stirs the sleeping world."

The ember's light pulsed, fragile but unyielding. A final voice, ancient beyond reckoning, intoned with heavy solemnity:

"Ni thral dova, ni zol heras. Neither shadow nor frost may claim what is born of fire's eternal flame. It is the binding thread — the secret whispered before the world was cold."

The flame flared briefly, as if answering a silent vow:

"Zor ven anai... I endure beyond the dark."

And in the hollow abyss, where time had no meaning and silence reigned eternal, the ember held fast—an echo of old magics, a promise writ in forgotten tongues, alive against the dying of the light. This night, the cold bit deeper than any winter's chill, sharp and unforgiving despite the season's mercy. It clawed at flesh and bone like a living thing, a relentless frost that whispered of ancient terrors long forgotten. The air itself seemed to freeze, heavy with a silence so profound it pressed upon the soul.

They said that you could hear the wolves' howls rising as one—a haunting, mournful chorus that carried across the blackened wilderness. Their howls wove a grim melody, a lament that spoke of lost hunters and shadows stalking just beyond the firelight. Above, the stars themselves betrayed a terrible omen, bleeding red like dying embers scattered across the heavens. A crimson veil shrouded the night, casting the world in a spectral glow that promised blood and sorrow to come.

And beneath the scarlet sky and the wolves' mournful song, a new sound stirred within the heavy silence—a faint, unfamiliar rhythm, like a heartbeat pulsing softly through the frozen air. It was subtle, almost swallowed by the biting cold and the endless dark, yet undeniably there: a fragile flicker of something ancient and alive.

A whisper against the void, a breath drawn from beyond the edge of death—a quiet promise woven into the night's cruel tapestry.

The cold did not yet relent, nor did the stars lose their crimson glow, but somewhere, deep and hidden, a spark began to stir—its meaning veiled, its presence mysterious, yet impossible to ignore.

Chapter Text

The night lay heavy, draped in a suffocating stillness that seemed to press down upon the very bones of the world. The air was brittle, sharp with cold, as if the breath of winter itself had seized the castle in a frozen grasp. Outside, the winds whispered through bare branches, but within these ancient stone walls, all was hushed—no movement, no sound, no sign of life. Time felt suspended, a slow and endless breath held in the lungs of the night.

Yet beneath that unyielding silence, beneath the ice that had claimed the chamber, something delicate began to stir. It was imperceptible at first—a faint tremor like the softest pulse of a distant star, faint as a sigh barely caught in the void. A subtle shift, as if the frozen stillness itself breathed, a whisper hidden within the cold that no eye could see but some ancient part of the world could sense.

A single flicker of warmth — strange and alien — stirred deep within the frozen shadows, a seed of light cradled not by flame, but by something older, something beyond mortal understanding. It was a warmth untouched by heat, a spark of something pure and undefinable that began to kindle beneath layers of ice and shadow. It was as if an invisible hand traced a trembling line across the surface of endless frost, drawing life from the depths of the void.

Slowly, impossibly, a breath—shallow and ragged—escaped the silence, fragile as the first crack of dawn breaking a long, dark night. It was a breath that trembled on the edge of existence, barely more than a whisper, yet profound in its defiance of the cold. Then another, deeper, steadier, weaving itself into the still air like a fragile thread of warmth knitting together a frayed tapestry. The pulse beneath the frost grew stronger, rhythmic now, a heartbeat pulsing faintly but undeniably against the frozen tomb.

Around it, shadows deepened and twisted, gathering as if drawn by the unseen fire. Patterns formed—slow, deliberate, ancient—etched in the darkness like sigils from a time when magic was raw and wild, and life danced on the edge of oblivion. The air thickened, charged with a presence that was both holy and terrible, a power that defied mortal eyes and minds. It hummed with the resonance of forgotten gods, of whispered prayers lost to the wind.

Faint murmurs rose like a chant, words without language, riddles of fire and ice spun in a voice that was everywhere and nowhere, wrapping tight around the fragile flicker of life. The cold fought fiercely, a tidal wave of frost clawing inward to snuff out the fragile spark, but it could not reach it, could not conquer what was being born in the heart of the silence.

A sudden intake of breath—deep, desperate—shattered the quiet like the first crack of ice on a frozen lake. The heartbeat throbbed clearer, more urgent, and a flicker of motion rippled through the stillness. It was subtle at first—a fluttering pulse beneath frozen flesh, a whisper of warmth stirring beneath death's grip.

Then came the slowest, smallest movement—fingers twitching, as if reaching through an endless night toward a lost dawn. The flicker of light bloomed, weaving golden threads through the frozen dark. The air grew thick with the scent of something ancient and sacred, a scent that spoke of fire smoldering beneath ice, of life struggling free from death's cold clutch.

A fragile breath, now trembling into a whisper, broke the silence once more, fragile and tentative. Eyes, heavy and clouded, fluttered open—two shards of light piercing the darkness, reflecting the endless night outside and the spark that refused to be snuffed. The eyelids fluttered like fragile wings caught in a slow, reluctant breeze—barely there, trembling at the edges of consciousness. The eyes beneath were dimmed by the weight of the void they had just escaped, clouded as if wading through a sea of shadow and frost. Yet in their depths, a flicker of awareness stirred, a quiet defiance against the all-consuming cold.

Her chest rose unevenly—a shallow, hesitant swell, as if the breath itself was a stranger newly discovered. Each inhale was a tentative thread woven into the tapestry of life, fragile yet undeniable. The world pressed close, indistinct shapes and muffled sounds brushing against the haze that clouded her mind, distant and unreal.

Fingers twitched again, drawing faint, trembling lines against the frozen air, as if reaching through layers of ice and shadow to claim the warmth that had once been hers. The faintest pulse of blood stirred beneath pale skin, fragile as a whisper but relentless as a tide. A slow warmth began to bloom in her limbs, pushing outward from some hidden spark buried deep within—a fire smoldering beneath the frost.

A flicker of light gathered behind her eyes, growing steadier, steadier—like a fragile dawn cresting the horizon of endless night. The scent of burning amber wove itself deeper into the chamber's cold breath, mingling with the faint metallic tang of frozen stone and forgotten time. It was a scent that spoke of ancient promises, of fires kept alive against the encroaching dark.

Her gaze found shape in the dimness, unsteady and searching. The shadows shifted, bending to the quiet rhythm of a heartbeat newly rekindled, echoing soft and low like a secret melody only the night could hear. The room, heavy with silence and sorrow, seemed to hold its breath, waiting as life threaded its way back through the veils of death's cold grasp.

A faint tremor shivered along her spine as awareness grew—a tentative reconnection to the world of warmth and breath. The first flicker of pain—a whisper of sensation—drew a subtle crease in her brow, the fragile stirrings of flesh remembering what it meant to live. The cold still clung like a shadow, a ghostly veil beneath the surface, but beneath it the fire was rising, slow and sure.

She tried to move again, a slow, agonizing effort. Pain bloomed like frostbite beneath her skin, sharp and biting, a cruel reminder that her body had been held captive in cold silence far too long. Each movement was a battle — a trembling, fragile rebellion against the weight of stillness that had claimed her. Her fingers curled and uncurled, trembling with the effort to grasp at something solid, something real. She pushed herself upward, a slow, laborious effort, the world tilting and swaying like a ship lost in a storm. The muscles in her arms protested, stiff and unyielding as if she were waking from a century's sleep.

Finally, she found herself half-sitting, her breath shallow and ragged, chest rising and falling unevenly. The cold still bit deep into her bones, but faint heat was blossoming from within — a fragile ember growing, fragile yet alive. Her eyes blinked through the haze, focusing on shapes and shadows, the dim glow of lanterns, the faint figures moving around her. Gathering what strength she could, she tried to stand — legs trembling like saplings in a bitter wind, knees buckling once, twice, before she caught herself. Her entire body shook, a violent shudder that coursed through every fiber, but she remained upright, anchored by a fierce, stubborn will.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, not just from pain but from the strange, overwhelming flood of returning sensation — the ache of limbs, the pulse of blood, the fragile hope blooming in the depths of darkness. Her breath hitched, a mix of exhaustion and the dawning realization that she had crossed a boundary no one dared hope to breach. Her first steps were hesitant, uncertain—a trembling waver between hope and fear. The cold clung to her like a second skin, each movement sending shards of icy fire lancing through her limbs. She shuffled forward, a fragile ghost reborn, her breath shallow and uneven, eyes wide and searching the dimly lit corridor.

Each footfall echoed softly against the stone, a fragile whisper in the hollow silence. She moved slowly, as if the castle itself held its breath, watching this fragile flicker of life tread its ancient halls once more. Shadows danced around her, familiar and yet strange, like memories half-forgotten in a dream. Her hands brushed against the cold walls, grounding herself, but trembling still. Every sound—the distant drip of water, the faint rustle of fabric—felt amplified, a symphony of a world she had long been detached from. She was both present and distant, a wandering soul caught between two realms.

A servant rounded the corner just as Nella's trembling feet carried her into the corridor's dim light. The woman froze, eyes widening in terror at the pale, spectral figure before her. A scream tore from her throat—raw, piercing, a sound so desperate and shattered it seemed to claw at the very stones.

"Help! Someone—please!" she screamed, her voice cracking with madness as panic seized her. Her hands trembled violently, and she stumbled backward, eyes wild and unseeing, overwhelmed by the impossible sight of Nella standing there—cold, silent, and unyielding like a ghost returned from the grave.

The sudden outburst jolted Nella backward, her body recoiling as if struck, but no cry escaped her lips. Her face remained blank—an eerie calm masking the storm within. She did not speak, did not turn to face the servant, only kept moving forward with slow, deliberate steps, as if guided by a force beyond understanding.

The servant's frantic screams echoed through the halls, growing more hysterical as she fled, her footsteps pounding like a frantic heartbeat, leaving Nella alone once more—a silent shadow drifting through the castle's frozen veins. Some guards, alerted by the servant's frantic cries, rushed toward the corridor, their armor clinking softly in the cold air. They halted abruptly when they saw Nella—her pale figure moving like a wraith through the castle's shadowed halls.

"Stop her!" one barked, but the command hung useless in the heavy silence.

Nella's eyes flicked briefly toward them, empty yet piercing, before she glided onward, untouched by fear or pain. The guards hesitated, caught between duty and the unsettling chill that seemed to emanate from her very presence.

Mira, summoned by the commotion, burst into the corridor, her face contorted in horror and disbelief. "Nella?" she whispered, voice trembling, reaching out instinctively but stopping short, as if the fragile apparition might shatter at her touch.

Mira stood frozen, her breath catching in her throat as she stared at Nella's ghostly form. The woman before her looked so fragile, so distant—like a dream slipping through her fingers. Her eyes, once full of warmth and laughter, now held a cold emptiness that twisted Mira's heart into knots. Confusion waged war with hope inside her. Was this really Nella? How could she be here, walking among the living after all that death? Yet, the unmistakable shape, the faint flicker of something familiar beneath that hollow gaze, told Mira she could not deny the impossible.

Her eyes traced the figure before her, taking in every detail with a mixture of awe and fear. Nella's skin was now a pale, haunting white—not the sickly, deathly pallor of before, but something softer, more ethereal, like moonlight resting on fresh snow. She looked alive, yet not quite of this world.

Her once-golden hair had transformed entirely, now a shimmering cascade of pure white that framed her face like a crown of frost. It moved gently as she stepped forward, catching what little light there was, lending her an otherworldly glow.

Tears welled up, blurring her vision. "Nella... is it really you?" she whispered, voice trembling between disbelief and desperate longing. Her hands reached out slowly, unsure whether to touch or to hold back, afraid this fragile apparition might vanish if met with too much warmth.

Before Mira could move closer, the heavy door creaked open with a sudden force, and Cregan stumbled into the room. His eyes widened, heart pounding wildly as he took in the impossible sight before him. His face, usually composed and resolute, was now a storm of raw emotion—shock, hope, and an aching vulnerability all mingling in his gaze.

He took a hesitant step forward, voice thick with disbelief. "Nella?" The single word hung in the air like a fragile promise. His strong frame seemed to tremble, as if the weight of months of fear and despair was suddenly lifted—and replaced with a fragile hope that almost terrified him as much as it comforted.

Cregan's footsteps were slow, cautious, as if afraid that any sudden movement might shatter the fragile miracle before him. His eyes never left her pale, spectral form — white as snow but pulsing with faint life — and the shock in his voice was raw, trembling.

"You... you should be dead," he whispered, the words barely escaping his lips, heavy with disbelief. "Years ago, we all thought you were gone... lost to the cold, to death itself."

His voice cracked, caught between awe and lingering fear. Every instinct screamed at him to reach out, to touch her, to confirm she was truly there — yet a part of him hesitated, afraid that this was some cruel illusion, some trick of the night. Cregan's gaze searched her face, searching for answers in the pale contours that were so achingly familiar yet changed. His voice barely rose above a breath, trembling with confusion and wonder.

"How... how is this possible?" he whispered, the question heavy with disbelief. "We held your body as the cold claimed you, and yet here you stand — alive. Defying death itself."

His eyes pleaded for some explanation, some thread of hope to grasp amid the impossible miracle before him. Nella's gaze drifted downward, settling on her own hands trembling before her. The mark—once a cruel purple stain spreading like frostbite along her skin—now seemed different, faintly pulsing with an unfamiliar rhythm. She stared, as if seeing it for the first time, her mind struggling to grasp the meaning behind the silent change.

A shiver rippled through her—not from cold, but from something stirring deep inside, something ancient and raw, clawing its way through the frozen walls that had kept her numb. It was a presence, a whisper of power emerging from the dark embrace of death's grip, fragile yet undeniable.

She swallowed hard, unable to speak, caught between the lingering shadow of the past and the strange, fragile flame awakening within. The weight of it pressed on her chest—an unknown force, neither fully understood nor fully welcomed—but it was there. Growing. Waiting.

The sudden surge of sensation overwhelmed her. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she collapsed back onto the cold stone floor, breath ragged and uneven. The effort of simply rising, of feeling again, had drained what little strength she had reclaimed.

Her fingers twitched weakly, the faint pulse of the mark dimming as exhaustion pulled her under once more. The weight of the unseen force pressing from within felt immense—too vast, too fierce for her fragile body to hold just yet. As her eyelids fluttered shut, a quiet, shivering whisper escaped her lips—half a plea, half a promise—as the line between death and life wavered once more.

Chapter Text

Nella lay upon the narrow bed in the quiet chamber, wrapped in thick furs that did little to soften the cold that still clung beneath her skin. Though her body was fragile and pale, there was something new—a faint, elusive warmth radiating from within, subtle but undeniable. It was a warmth that had not been there before, a flicker of life that stirred beneath the ice.

Around her, the flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, and outside, the wind whispered through the castle like a restless ghost. Cregan and Mira kept watch nearby, their faces etched with a mixture of hope and fear, waiting for the smallest sign that she might truly be returning to them.

Slowly, impossibly, her eyelids fluttered open. They rose like dawn breaking over a frozen horizon—tentative, fragile, yet unstoppable. Her eyes, clouded and heavy at first, began to sharpen as the light touched them, shimmering with a pale but living glow. Her gaze flickered across the dim room, slow and unsteady at first. Shapes emerged from the shadows—faces blurred by sleep and worry. Then, as her sight cleared, the world sharpened into focus: Mira's worried eyes, glistening with unshed tears, and Cregan's strong, anxious face hovering close.

Recognition stirred within her like a faint pulse, a fragile thread weaving memories back into place. Her lips parted, and for a brief moment, a small, trembling smile found its way across her pale face—a fragile beacon of warmth amid the cold.

Mira's voice broke the silence, soft and trembling. "Nella... you're awake. You're really awake."

Cregan's relief was barely contained as he reached for her hand, his voice thick with emotion. "How do you feel? Can you speak to us?"

Nella's voice emerged, faint and fragile as a whisper carried on the wind. "I... I don't know. It's like waking from a long, frozen dream."

Mira's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "We thought we'd lost you... that you were gone forever."

Nella shook her head slowly, the movement fragile but certain. "I was gone. Not just here, but somewhere else... somewhere that felt like an eternity. My mind... it drifted through a place beyond time, cold and endless."

Cregan's brow furrowed with worry, his voice gentle but urgent. "What happened to you, Nella? How did you come to be in such a state? How could you survive... that cold?"

She closed her eyes briefly, struggling to gather the fragments of memory that lingered like smoke. "It was like being trapped between worlds. The cold wasn't just a chill—it was a weight that tried to crush my very soul. I could feel something dark, ancient... clawing at me, trying to pull me under."

Nella's eyelids fluttered open again, her gaze distant as if peering into that shadowed place once more.

Cregan's voice broke the silence, heavy with disbelief. "The maesters searched through every old tome and whispered to every healer they knew, none—none could explain what held you captive. Not a single answer."

Mira swallowed hard, her voice trembling. "It was like you were caught between life and death, but untouched by either. The cold that gripped you wasn't natural—it was something older, something darker."

Nella shivered, though the room was warm. "Yes... something ancient. I could hear whispers—voices without words—promising release, but only through surrender. It was a battle... not just of flesh and bone, but of spirit."

Cregan reached out, his hand brushing lightly over hers. "We feared you were lost forever, trapped by that darkness."

She closed her eyes, her breath coming slow and uneven. When she finally spoke, her voice was fragile—like it was carrying the weight of a long, endless night. "I... I was dead. Not in the way you think. My body was here, but my soul... it was gone."

Mira's fingers trembled as she squeezed Nella's hand, her voice barely a whisper, trembling with disbelief and sorrow.
"Dead? But... how is that even possible? You looked so still, so cold... we thought—"

Nella's eyes fluttered open just a bit, struggling to hold back the memory that clawed at her mind. "It wasn't just cold... It was like a darkness, a void trying to drag me under. I could feel it reaching into me, deeper than anything I've ever known. It was pulling at my soul, trying to tear it away from my body, from this world. It felt endless, like time had stopped and I was trapped there... somewhere between life and death."

Nella's chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath a laborious effort as if her lungs were relearning their purpose. Her fingers twitched weakly, as though trying to clutch a fragment of a dream slipping just beyond reach. The memories wavered, blurred and fragile—like smoke twisting through the cracks of a forgotten fire.

"But in that endless cold," she whispered, voice barely more than a breath, "in that frozen silence... I saw something else." Her eyes fluttered shut briefly, as if bracing herself to speak what was almost too much to hold. "A light. At first, it was faint—like a candle flickering, struggling to hold itself against a cruel, biting wind."

Her gaze drifted upward, as though searching the shadows of the chamber for that elusive glow. "But it was there... warm. Alive." Her fingers curled slightly, trembling. "It cut through the darkness like a blade, sharp and true. It called to me, like a distant song pulling me home."

Mira's voice cracked with a mixture of awe and fragile hope, the heavy shroud of grief momentarily lifting. "A light... something to guide you back?"

Nella's lips parted slowly, the faintest quiver betraying the weight behind her words. She nodded—small, almost imperceptible, but filled with a desperate truth. "Yes. That light... it was a flicker of hope. A whisper in the void that I wasn't lost forever—that I could return from the shadow."

The room seemed to hold its breath, the fragile promise of that light weaving a tenuous thread between the living and the dead, between despair and the possibility of dawn.

Nella's eyes, still heavy with the haze of lingering shadows, searched theirs with a quiet desperation. "And, how long... how long have I been gone?" Her voice was fragile, trembling like a leaf caught in a storm.

Mira and Cregan exchanged a heavy glance, the silence between them stretching taut with the burden of unspoken truths. Neither wanted to be the one to break it. Finally, Cregan's voice cut through the stillness—low, steady, and aching with sorrow.
"Two years, Nella."

The words struck her like a cruel tide, crashing into the shores of her mind. Two whole years lost to an endless void, a place where time had no meaning, where her soul had been held captive in a frozen prison. Now, as she lay in the warmth of the living world once more, the weight of those vanished years pressed down on her with suffocating force.

Her pale face crumpled ever so slightly, confusion and grief swirling in her eyes like dark clouds gathering before a storm. "Two years..." she whispered, almost disbelieving, as if the length of absence was a phantom she could not grasp. "It feels like... I've missed everything. The moments, the people... all slipping away like shadows at dawn."

Nella's gaze drifted slowly between Mira and Cregan, searching for anchors in the shifting tides of time. Her voice came out soft, tentative, fragile—like a fragile bird testing its wings for the first time in ages. "What... what about you two? What has become of you while I was gone?"

Mira's lips curved into a small, bittersweet smile—the first genuine light to grace her face since Nella had awakened. Her eyes shimmered with a quiet warmth that made Nella's heart ache in a new way. "I'm married now," Mira said gently, one hand resting instinctively on the soft curve of her belly. "To a Karstark cousin. We're expecting our second child soon." Her voice wavered, a tender mix of pride and sorrow weaving through each word. "Bram... your little Bram is safe. He's two years old now—loud and stubborn, just like his father used to be."

At the mention of her son, Nella felt a sudden rush—a tide of relief, love, and a sharp, aching pang for the years that had slipped through her fingers like sand. Her chest tightened, breath catching briefly as memories flooded back, mixing joy with a bittersweet longing. And then—unexpectedly—she laughed. A soft, clear sound that bubbled up from deep within her, like spring water breaking through winter's grasp. The sound was pure and real, unburdened by pain or fear, filling the room with a fragile, shining hope.

Then her eyes found Cregan's, and the flicker of light in them seemed to dim, replaced by something heavier—an unspoken weight that pressed down between them. His gaze faltered, drifting away like a leaf caught in a cold wind, before he forced himself to meet hers again.

"I'm still Lord of Winterfell," he said, his voice steady but threaded with a fragile vulnerability, as if each word was pulled from deep inside him. "And... I'm married too." The confession fell like a whispered secret, hesitant and almost afraid to fully take shape in the room. "To Arra Norrey."

Nella's breath caught, her eyes widening with a sudden sharpness—as if the very air between them had shifted, colder now yet laced with something unbearably tender. The words sank into her like ice and fire intertwined—"married"—simple, yet carrying a weight that pressed down on her chest with relentless gravity.

Her heart fluttered, uncertain, like a fragile bird trapped in a cage of glass. She felt the quickening of old feelings, dormant and fragile, awakening with a tremor she could neither name nor fully understand. It was a jarring collision—relief that he had found some measure of happiness, and the raw sting of an ache that blossomed from the knowledge that it was not with her.

Her eyes flickered down to her hands, trembling slightly, as if afraid that if she reached out she might shatter something invisible between them. The warmth that had begun to rise within her felt strange, almost odd, threading through the cold that had long wrapped her like a shroud. It was a warmth that spoke not only of hope but of mourning—the mourning of what had been stolen by the cruel hands of time and fate.

Nella swallowed hard, fighting to steady her voice. "Arra Norrey..." she repeated softly, tasting the name like a bittersweet wine, heavy with unspoken stories. A flicker of a smile touched her lips—small, fragile, and tinged with sorrow. "She is... lucky."

Her eyes met his again, searching—not for regret, but for truth, for understanding. There was a silent plea buried deep within that gaze, a yearning to bridge the chasm that had opened between them. "I'm... happy for you, Cregan," she whispered, her voice trembling but sincere. "And I... I hope she knows she is lucky for the man she has."

A pause settled between them, thick and heavy with all the things left unsaid—love lost and found, futures rewritten, and the strange, aching beauty of forgiveness that might one day heal the wounds time had carved so deep. Her gaze flickered, struggling to find footing in this new reality. She struggled to sit up, her voice gaining a faint thread of strength as she asked, "And the North? The realm? What... what has happened since I've been gone?"

Cregan's jaw tightened, the lines of worry deepening across his face. He settled beside her bed, the weight of his words dragging down the air around them. "The realm... it's torn apart. A war has broken out—a war of succession that threatens to consume everything we know."

He paused, searching her face for understanding, then spoke with grave gravity, his voice heavy with the weight of history in motion. "Aegon II, the son of King Viserys, and his half-sister, Rhaenyra, both lay claim to the Iron Throne. The Dance of the Dragons has begun."

The words fell like a dark curse, reverberating through the quiet chamber. His tone dropped lower, burdened by the shadows of what was to come. "Dragons clash across the skies, flames consume the lands beneath, and kingdoms—once mighty—are torn asunder. The very foundations of the realm tremble. Blood will run in rivers, and loyalties forged in fire will be shattered to ash."

Nella's breath caught, her eyes widening as the weight of those names and visions crashed into her like a tempest. The world she had known—her home, her time—now smoldered in chaos and ruin. In her mind, distant echoes stirred: the crackling roar of dragonfire tearing the skies, the relentless thunder of hooves racing toward carnage, and the dirge-like wail of war drums that seemed to mourn the death of an age.

She felt the cold grip of loss tighten around her heart—not only for those lost in the flames but for the innocence of a realm she might never reclaim. The past was a fading shadow, but the war's fire threatened to consume all futures alike.

Chapter Text

Nella lay in the quiet stillness of her chamber, the muted light of dawn filtering through the heavy curtains and casting pale shadows on the walls. Around her, the castle hummed softly with the life of Winterfell waking — footsteps, distant voices, the faint scrape of servants preparing for the day. But inside her, a different world churned.

She reached up tentatively, fingers trembling as they brushed through the hair that fell like a silver river over her shoulders. The strands, once a vibrant gold that had caught sunlight like living fire, were now stark white—an unexpected, silent testament to all she had endured. For a moment she simply stared, unsure whether to recoil or accept this new crown of frost.

Was this new self still her? Or had death claimed a piece of her very soul, leaving behind only a hollow echo?

The reflection in the nearby polished bronze mirror was both familiar and strange. Her face, pale and drawn but alive, stared back with eyes that held shadows deeper than before. The light in them flickered faintly, like a candle guttering against a cold wind. She touched her cheek lightly, feeling the fragile warmth beneath the chill. Her heart clenched painfully, torn between the overwhelming relief of breath returned and the gnawing loneliness of everything lost.

Where did she belong now? What meaning could she find in this fractured world that had moved on without her?

She thought of Cregan—his quiet strength, his new life forged in her absence. The sting of jealousy and grief tangled with something softer, more tender—hope perhaps, or forgiveness she hadn't dared to imagine before.

And Mira, steadfast and changed, a reminder that time had not stopped, that life demanded they all move forward. Nella closed her eyes, breath catching as a single tear slid down her cheek. The joy of return was tangled irrevocably with the sorrow of displacement. She was alive, and yet a ghost of the girl who had left.

Was she strong enough to claim this life again? Could she weave herself whole from the shards?

The questions lingered, unanswered, in the quiet dawn.

Days folded into one another, each marked by quiet conversations and shared silences. Mira's presence remained a steady anchor—a gentle hand on Nella's trembling shoulder, a soft voice laced with concern. But beneath Mira's support, Nella sensed an unspoken wariness, as if her friend was treading lightly, afraid to stir the tempest roiling beneath the surface.

Cregan, too, was there, but he felt different—his warmth now distant, a guarded softness edged with something Nella struggled to name. His eyes held shadows she hadn't seen before, weighed down by promises made and lives reshaped in her absence. It was as if the space between them was measured not in words but in the careful boundaries of unspoken guilt and fragile hope.

Then came the day she saw Arra.

She appeared in the courtyard like a sudden spring bloom in the gray of winter—radiant and alive, her smile bright and easy, carrying the quiet strength of the North in her steady gaze. Arra's laughter, clear and warm, floated on the cold air, wrapping around Cregan as naturally as sunlight through the trees. Nella watched from the shadows, her heart tightening in a painful squeeze.

Arra's smile was everything Nella no longer was—bright, unburdened, untouched by darkness. It was the smile of life in full bloom, a vivid flame against the dull frost that clung to Nella's own face. The pale skin, the stark white hair, the faint tremor in her lips—Nella's smile was fragile, scarred by cold and shadow, a quiet echo of the vibrant warmth she once possessed.

The way Cregan looked at Arra—eyes softened, lips curved in genuine happiness—it was a scene so simple, so pure, and yet it stabbed at Nella with sharp edges of jealousy and sorrow. The image burned into her mind: Cregan's hand resting lightly on Arra's waist, the way they leaned into each other, their smiles intertwining like two flames dancing in perfect harmony. For a moment, Nella felt like a ghost watching life move on without her, the world spinning away from the girl she once was, from the place she thought she'd always hold in Cregan's heart.

The ache was raw and unyielding—a bitter reminder that though she had returned from death's shadow, some bonds were frayed beyond repair. Nella's gaze still lingered on Arra's radiant smile, her  presence was a vivid reminder of all that had moved on without her—the laughter, the life, the unbroken thread of happiness.

A sharp, familiar voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, breaking the silence like a sudden winter wind.
"You shouldn't look at her like that," Mira said, her tone steady but edged with worry. Her eyes didn't waver from Nella's face, searching for something beneath the surface. "You look like you're about to break again... or worse, like you're ready to kill someone."

The words struck hard. Nella blinked, caught in the raw vulnerability of being seen so clearly. She felt the weight of Mira's gaze, full of both concern and understanding, and yet it somehow pressed heavier on her chest. "I can't help it," Nella whispered, her voice fragile as cracked ice. "It's like watching a life I'm no longer part of... like a chapter that ended while I was trapped in darkness."

Mira stepped closer, her voice softening but firm. "I know it hurts. I see the storm raging inside you—those scars aren't just on your skin." She reached out, a tentative touch on Nella's trembling hand. "But you're not alone in this, no matter how much it feels like you are."

For a moment, Nella allowed herself to lean into that small comfort, the fragile warmth of a friend who refused to let her fall completely into despair. Yet even as Mira spoke, Nella's eyes slipped back toward Arra—the smile, the light, the life that seemed to mock her stillness. The pain etched into her features was unmistakable, a silent scream that only her closest companion could hear.

Mira's gaze held her there, unwavering and gentle. "You don't have to carry this alone," she said softly. "Not anymore."

But in Nella's heart, the ache remained—a deep, aching fissure carved by time, change, and the unspoken truths between them all. She lingered a moment longer in the quiet courtyard, the fading light casting long shadows over the stones beneath her feet. Then, with a slow, reluctant breath, she turned away from the open air and stepped toward the looming walls of Winterfell once more.

The corridors of Winterfell stretched before Nella like a labyrinth of shadows and whispers. Each step she took was careful, tentative—her pale feet barely making a sound on the cold stone floors. The castle felt different now, both familiar and alien, as if time itself had folded over her absence and changed the world in subtle, irrevocable ways. She moved through empty chambers and long-forgotten passageways, her presence like a pale wraith drifting between memories and echoes. The flickering torchlight cast long, wavering shadows that danced eerily along the walls, mirroring the unrest that churned within her soul.

At last, she reached the ancient library—an old sanctuary she had not seen since before death's icy grip took her. The towering shelves loomed like silent sentinels, crammed with countless books and scrolls whose very presence seemed to pulse with forgotten power. For a moment, Nella stood still, breath caught in her throat, as if beholding a treasure long lost and found anew. The scent of aged parchment and dust filled the air, crisp and mysterious.

Fascination bloomed inside her like a fragile flame. She stepped forward slowly, fingertips trembling as they brushed against the spines of tomes that felt both strange and deeply familiar, as if she were seeing them for the very first time. Each page held secrets older than any living soul in Winterfell—whispers of magic, histories of fire and ice locked in endless struggle, and shadowed forces lurking at the edges of mortal understanding.

She would sit for hours, poring over these crumbling texts, tracing faded words with a reverence born of desperation. The knowledge they contained was a labyrinth, each revelation pulling her deeper into mysteries she had yet to grasp—the nature of the darkness that had claimed her, and the light that somehow had spared her soul.

Night after night, the library became her refuge, a place where time felt both suspended and infinite. Under the watchful gaze of ancient stone faces carved in cold relief, she wrestled with truths too heavy to voice: that the cold which had taken her was no mere illness or fate, but an ancient shadow older than the world itself.

Yet beneath the weight of fear and confusion, a slender thread of hope flickered—a promise that the fire within her, though buried beneath ice, was not extinguished, waiting only to be kindled once more.

The night settled over Winterfell like a shroud, thick and silent, but for the restless whisper of wind weaving through the ancient stone battlements. Nella wrapped her cloak tighter around her as she made her way through the dim corridors of Winterfell, her steps hesitant but resolute. Her heart pounded with a mixture of anticipation and fear—two years had passed since she last held her son, Bram, and the ache of absence weighed heavy in her chest.

Nella hesitated outside the small chamber where Mira, her husband and her son resided for now—a space that had once felt like a world apart from her own life.  Inside the quiet chamber, Bram sat cross-legged on the floor, the small wooden blocks arranged in uneven towers before him. His bright eyes flicked up the moment Nella entered, wide and curious, as if he sensed something beyond words in her presence. He set down a block carefully and then crawled toward her with unsteady but eager steps.

Nella's breath caught as the child approached, his gaze locked on hers—searching, almost understanding the weight behind her soft words. Though he was only two and could barely form complete sentences, he babbled softly as he reached out, his small hands grasping her fingers with gentle curiosity.

"Ne-lla... dra-gon..." he mumbled, his voice a jumble of innocent sounds and broken words.

A tender smile flickered across Nella's face at the sound of her name tumbling from his lips, raw and precious. The simple connection—his attempt to speak her name, to reach across time and absence—felt like a balm to her aching heart.

"Hello, Bram," she whispered, voice trembling. "I've thought of you every day." Her fingers wrapped gently around his small hand, careful not to startle him.

Mira watched them, eyes shimmering with tears she tried to hold back. "He talks about you, you know. Sometimes he says your name when he's playing... and dragons, always dragons."

The boy's bright eyes searched Nella's face again, then he babbled once more, "Dra-gon... Ne-lla... dra-gon..."

Nella's chest tightened with bittersweet ache, overwhelmed by the fragile bond that time and absence had not erased. "I'm here," she murmured again, voice breaking under the weight of everything unsaid. "Even if I can't be what you think... I'll always be here."

Bram's small hand squeezed hers, his innocent grasp both grounding and shattering her. The sound of his soft voice calling her name was a fragile thread pulling her back from the abyss she had wandered through for so long. She bent down slightly, her face softening, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Do you know how much I've dreamed of this moment?" she whispered, barely above a breath. 

The boy giggled, a pure, untarnished sound that broke through the heavy silence hanging over her heart. His chubby fingers clumsily reached up to touch her cheek, exploring the pale, worn lines of a face changed by pain and time.

Mira stepped closer, watching the exchange with a mixture of relief and sadness. "I think in a. way, he never stopped waiting for you, Nella. Even when he couldn't understand why you were gone."

Nella nodded, swallowing the lump that rose in her throat. "And I was lost... in a darkness so deep it felt endless." Her gaze drifted to the small child before her—the living proof of the years she had missed, the future she feared she might never truly be part of.

"But this," she said softly, "this moment is my anchor." Her fingers curled around Bram's small hand, her heart aching with a fierce, desperate love. "I'll fight to be here—for you, for Mira, for the life I thought I'd lost forever."

Bram reached up again, tugging gently at the strands of her now-white hair. His innocent touch was a reminder that, despite the cold that had scarred her, warmth still lived within.

Nella smiled faintly, a bittersweet curve of lips, before gently pulling her hand free. "I must go now, little one," she whispered softly, her voice trembling with a mixture of love and sorrow. "But I'll see you again soon."

She stepped back slowly, casting one last lingering glance at Bram, who watched her with wide, curious eyes full of unspoken questions and fragile trust. Mira gave her a knowing, gentle nod—an unspoken understanding passing between them both. Turning away from the room, Nella moved down the quiet stone corridors of Winterfell, each step measured and heavy with thoughts that churned beneath her skin. The castle, with all its cold halls and distant memories, seemed vast and endless, yet somehow smaller in the weight of her solitude.

At last, she reached her chamber—a small sanctuary cloaked in shadows and silence. The door closed behind her with a soft thud, muffling the sounds of the waking castle. She moved slowly to the bed, the weight of the day settling like a shroud upon her shoulders. Sliding beneath the heavy blankets, Nella closed her eyes and felt the stillness wrap around her. Alone, yet cradled by the quiet, her mind raced with  the unbearable ache of all she had lost—and all she might still regain.

The cold air crept in through the cracks, chilling her skin despite the heavy blankets. Then came the faintest murmur, barely more than a breath—an indistinct whisper riding the night breeze, curling like smoke around the flickering candlelight. At first, it was just a sound—fragile, elusive—yet woven into it was a thread of dread, a voice ancient and layered, as though the wind itself spoke in riddles.

"The flame that burns beneath the frost... will soon be tested by fire."

Nella's breath caught. The words felt like a claw tracing down her spine, a silent warning more felt than understood. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, where the purple mark still pulsed faintly beneath her skin—a reminder of the cold prison she had escaped, and the darkness that had tried to claim her soul.

That night, sleep eluded her. When at last her eyes closed, her dreams were invaded by shadows—shapes shifting in a landscape of ash and smoke. Dragons soared in skies stained blood-red, their roars shattering the silence as kingdoms burned below. Amid the chaos, a solitary figure reached out through the firelight—a fragile silhouette, neither wholly living nor dead, beckoning her to step into a fate entwined with fire and ruin.

She woke with a start, heart pounding, sweat cold against her pale skin. The omen was clear: the darkness she had fled was no mere specter of death. It was a force gathering strength, a shadow poised to engulf the realms. And Nella, fragile and changed, was destined to face it once more.

The Dance of Dragons had begun, and her part in it was far from over.

Chapter Text

The dawn crept slowly through the narrow windows of Nella's chamber, spilling pale, hesitant light across the cold stone floor. The beams filtered softly through the thick curtains, like fragile fingers reaching into the stillness, carrying the faint promise of a new day. She lay there for a long moment, her breath shallow, her body heavy with the remnants of the night's restless dreams and the weight of memories that refused to loosen their grip.

With great effort, she pushed herself upright, each movement slow and deliberate, as if her limbs were tied with invisible threads. The weariness from the past days clung to her like a second skin, a dull ache beneath her bones that whispered she had not yet fully returned to the realm of the living. Her pale eyes adjusted to the growing light, the room feeling both familiar and distant, a place caught between past and present.

It was then, in the quiet stillness, that the whispered words drifted into her mind—soft echoes that had already begun to weave through Winterfell's halls like a secret breeze: Cregan's wife, Arra Norrey, was with child.

The news settled over Nella like a cold shadow, sharp and undeniable. It wrapped around her heart with an unforgiving chill, a reminder of time lost and futures rewritten. The thought that a new life was growing beneath the very same roof where her own had once flourished—where her bloodline had been carried in hope and promise—twisted inside her like a blade she couldn't see but could feel with cruel clarity.

It was not her child. It was not her future being nurtured in the warmth of this ancient fortress. Yet, despite the ache and the sting of grief that tightened her chest, there was something else—a reluctant flicker of hope, fragile and strange, like a timid ember glowing beneath frost. A new beginning was stirring, even if it was not hers to claim.

Nella closed her eyes, swallowing hard against the storm rising within her. The cold that had scarred her so deeply now seemed to seep into her very soul, making the brightness of this hope both a balm and a torment. 

Winterfell buzzed with unusual activity. Despite the war that tore across the realm like a wildfire, a tournament was being hosted in honor of this unborn heir—a symbol of continuity, a spark of future amidst the chaos. Lords and knights from across the North had come, their banners bright but their faces grim with the knowledge of the times. Shields clanged and horses thundered, a show of strength and defiance as much as celebration.

Nella moved among the crowds, her presence quiet and watchful. She saw the lords' proud stances and the eager eyes of young squires, felt the restless energy thrumming in the air. Yet beneath the noise, beneath the clamor of steel and cheers, she felt isolated—an outsider looking in on a world that had moved forward without her.

In the midst of it all, she caught a glimpse of Cregan, standing tall and regal, his eyes briefly meeting hers with a look that was both warm and tinged with sorrow. She noticed how carefully he held Arra's hand, the protective curve of his fingers a silent vow to the life they were bringing into the world. Her breath caught.

The tournament was not just a contest of skill; it was a statement, a fragile thread of hope binding the North's fractured spirit. But for Nella, it was also a reminder—the future was moving forward, with or without her.

The morning sun cast long shadows across the Winterfell courtyard, where horses shifted impatiently beneath their riders and grooms. Nella knelt beside one of the steeds, her pale fingers gently brushing the dark mane with slow, careful strokes. The rhythmic motion was soothing—a fragile tether to the world that still felt distant and strange.

From across the courtyard, Mira's eyes found her immediately. Her heavily pregnant belly made her movements slower, but her steps were sure as she approached quietly, carrying both warmth and concern. She paused a few feet away, watching Nella with a tenderness born from knowing the ache beneath her calm.

"Nella," Mira's voice broke through the bustle softly. "Will you attend the tourney as a guest, or will you slip away before the crowd gathers?"

Nella's hand stilled, the brush hovering in the air. She glanced up, meeting Mira's knowing gaze.

Mira's eyes held a gentle understanding. "I see it in you—the weight of it all. Cregan's wife with child, the lords here to honor the future heir... I know your heart aches."

Nella's lips pressed together, a fleeting sadness flickering across her features. "I'm not sure if I belong at a celebration meant for a future I lost."

Mira's lips curled into a small, playful smile as she squeezed Nella's arm gently. "You should come to the tourney. Maybe you could find some fun in all this—some distraction, if only for a day." She gave a teasing glance. "Who knows? Maybe some lucky lord will ask for your favor, and you can forget all those heavy thoughts for a little while."

Nella hesitated, the weight of her grief pressing against the flicker of hope Mira offered. She looked down at the horse's mane beneath her fingers, then back into Mira's warm, encouraging eyes.

"I... I don't know if I'm ready," she admitted quietly, voice tinged with uncertainty.

Mira's smile softened, filled with gentle insistence. "Sometimes, the world needs us to step forward even when our hearts are heavy. And maybe... maybe you'll find a reason to smile again."

Nella took a slow breath, the notion settling within her like a fragile seed. After a moment, she nodded. 

A lightness flickered in her chest—small, but real—as Mira's grin widened, and for the first time in a long while, laughter whispered between them like a promise.

The great courtyard of Winterfell was alive with color and sound, a stark contrast to the heavy shadows that had lingered within its walls for so long. Banners fluttered on high poles, their vivid sigils catching the breeze—the direwolf of House Stark, the white sunburst of Karstark, and other northern houses gathered for the rare occasion. The clatter of hooves rang sharply against the packed earth as armored knights paraded proudly, their polished steel gleaming in the bright light of day. The air smelled of dust, sweat, and roasting meats, mingled with the crisp chill that never quite left the North.

Lords and ladies, cloaked in furs and rich fabrics, lined the stands. Some whispered eagerly, others watched in silent anticipation. Children darted between legs, laughing and shrieking, their innocence a fleeting reprieve from the tensions gnawing at the realm. Minstrels plucked strings and sang ballads of dragons and ancient battles, the melodies weaving through the roar of the crowd.

In the midst of the gathering, Nella's eyes searched for familiar faces, lingering last on Cregan. He stood beside Arra, his hand resting protectively on her pregnant belly. Yet between them, an invisible gulf yawned wide—a fragile distance born of years and changed lives. Cregan's gaze often drifted across the crowd, avoiding the quiet tension in the small space he shared with his wife. Arra's smile, though warm, never quite reached her eyes when she looked at him, and Nella felt the silent fracture like a blade twisting in her chest. Time, it seemed, had carved away what was once whole between them.

But the tourney would not wait for grief. A herald stepped forward onto the dais, voice booming over the gathered crowd. "Lords and ladies, knights and bannermen, welcome to the grand tourney of Winterfell! Today, we bear witness to skill, honor, and the fierce pride of the North!" As the echoes of the first charge faded, the herald stepped forward again, his voice ringing clear and proud across the courtyard.

"Next to ride, Lords and Ladies: Ser Jorah Karstark, the Wolf's Fang, known for his unyielding courage and fierce loyalty. A champion of the North, his lance is as sharp as his honor."

The crowd roared, and Ser Jorah rode in, his armor gleaming like freshly fallen snow. His steely gaze swept the crowd with steady confidence, but when his eyes briefly met Nella's, there was something—an unspoken flicker, a recognition or perhaps a question—that caught her breath.

Following him came Ser Edric Umber, a mountain of a man whose booming laughter echoed even over the clashing of swords. Known for his brutal strength and boisterous spirit, he waved to the crowd, his smile wide and genuine, as if the tournament were a grand celebration rather than a harsh contest.

Then came Lady Rickon Mormont, riding proudly atop her fierce black bear-like destrier, a rare sight that drew gasps and cheers alike. Fierce and fearless, her reputation for unmatched skill with the lance preceded her. Her eyes, sharp and piercing, scanned the crowd—briefly resting on Nella with an inscrutable expression.

Yet, despite the parade of knights and the thunder of hooves, it was Ser Kaelen Snow who held Nella's gaze. Clad in dark armor etched with subtle patterns of ice, his steely blue eyes met hers with a steady calm that stirred something deep within. He was younger than the others, but there was an undeniable intensity in his presence—a quiet strength tempered by a shadow of mystery.

The clamor of the crowd softened into a murmur as the knights began their rounds of demanding favors, a tradition that stirred the hearts of ladies and lords alike. Voices called out, laughter mingled with cheers, and delicate ribbons and tokens were offered in exchange for valor and skill.

One by one, knights sought their chosen ladies, voices ringing clear with chivalrous requests. Ser Jorah Karstark approached a noblewoman adorned in sapphire silk, kneeling with respectful grace. Lady Rickon Mormont's favor was a simple but fierce token—a carved wooden wolf—that drew approving murmurs. Even the boisterous Ser Edric Umber took a moment to bow deeply to a shy girl in the crowd, her cheeks flushing with delight.

Then, amid the bustle, a sudden stillness grew near the edge of the lists. Ser Kaelen Snow's dark horse moved with deliberate ease, hoofbeats soft against the ground as he guided his mount closer to where Nella stood. His eyes, steady and intent, never left hers. He dismounted smoothly, the whispered hush of the crowd falling into reverence. Approaching with measured steps, Ser Kaelen came before Nella and knelt, the edge of his gauntlet brushing the stone floor.

"My lady," he said, voice low but clear, "would you grant me your favor this day? To carry your token in battle would be my honor and my strength."

Nella's breath caught, warmth flooding her chest. The tension of the moment melted into a radiant smile that brightened her pale face. With a gentle nod, she extended her hand, offering a delicate crimson ribbon—simple, yet imbued with her quiet hope.

"Ser Kaelen," she whispered, voice trembling with a mix of surprise and joy, "you have it."

A flicker of something unspoken passed between them, a fragile promise beneath the cheering crowd's roar. As Ser Kaelen rose, the ribbon bound around his wrist, Nella felt the first genuine spark of light in days—an unexpected thread of connection weaving through the shifting tides of her world.

As she was smiling, her eyes drifted almost unconsciously toward the stands where Cregan watched the tourney. His gaze was fixed on the lists, but as her glance met his, she swore she caught a flicker beneath his calm exterior—a shadow of something fierce, something almost like jealousy.

It was a fleeting glimpse, gone as quickly as it came, yet it burned bright enough to unsettle her. A quiet ache settled deeper in her chest, tangled with the strange warmth blossoming from Kaelen's favor. For a moment, the distance between her and Cregan felt less vast, yet the unspoken chasms remained—widened and complicated by time, loss, and the fragile hopes stirring anew.

The crowd hushed as the first pair stepped into the ring: a rugged northern knight, broad-shouldered and grim-faced, against a younger challenger, swift and precise. The fight was fierce, each strike carrying the weight of harsh winters and ancient grudges. The northern way was merciless—blows aimed to disable, not merely to score points—and the clatter of weapons and grunts of effort stirred the blood of all who watched.

One by one, knights clashed beneath the cold, gray sky, each bout more brutal than the last. The sharp crack of wood breaking, the clang of armor denting, the gritty determination in every set jaw—this was battle's raw dance, not courtly sport.

Then the moment came. Kaelen rode into the ring, his armor gleaming dully in the pale light. Across from him stood Lord Umber, a towering man known for his strength and ruthless skill, eyes like cold steel and a reputation as fierce as the frozen wilds. The crowd's murmur grew to a roar, the tension palpable as the two faced off. Kaelen's horse pawed the earth, muscles coiled and ready. Umber gripped his greatsword, a weapon that seemed as much a part of him as the northern ice.

The fight began with a thunderous clash. Kaelen moved with a deadly grace, parrying and striking with precision born of countless battles. Umber responded with overwhelming power, each blow threatening to crush the smaller man. The two circled, trading strikes that echoed the fury of the North itself—relentless, unforgiving, and fierce.

Nella watched, heart pounding, caught between awe and dread. The fight was more than a contest; it was a brutal dance of survival, honor, and pride under the shadow of war. Each strike carried the weight of all they fought for, and as Kaelen dodged a crushing blow and countered with a swift strike, the crowd erupted into cheers.

Kaelen's final blow landed with a sharp crack, sending Lord Umber staggering backward before he fell hard onto the ground, defeated. The courtyard exploded in cheers and applause, the raw northern crowd roaring approval for the victor. Nella, caught in the surge of emotion, suddenly rose to her feet. Without a second thought, she clapped her hands together in a boyish, genuine burst of joy—her smile wide and unguarded, the first in a long while to shine so freely. Her laughter, light and bright, rang out clear against the clamor of the crowd.

As Nella clapped and laughed, her eyes sparkling with renewed life, she called out to Kaelen, her voice carrying clearly over the noise.

"Well fought Ser!"

Across the way, Cregan's eyes locked onto her movement. For a brief moment, he was frozen—not just by surprise, but by something deeper, something strange and unfamiliar tugging at his chest. He couldn't help but wish, almost painfully, that the warmth in her applause was meant for him—that she still held a piece of their past in that spontaneous joy.

But Nella's gaze never met his. She was caught in the moment, alive and free, even if just for a heartbeat. And in that, the gulf between them felt wider than ever.

Chapter Text

The great hall of Winterfell was alive with heat and noise. Torches roared in the sconces, their light dancing over the long tables laden with roasted boar, steaming venison pies, honeyed root vegetables, and great flagons of spiced wine and mead. The banners of the northern houses swayed gently from the rafters, the wolf of Stark dominant among them. The air smelled of woodsmoke, pine, and rich meat—winter scents, but tonight, they mingled with the sweetness of celebration.

Lords and ladies filled the benches, their voices weaving into a low, constant hum, broken only by bursts of laughter or the clatter of goblets. Servants moved deftly between them, filling cups and replacing empty platters, their arms shining with the sheen of heat from the roaring hearths. The atmosphere was warm and alive, but there was an undercurrent—a reminder that beyond these walls, war still clawed at the realm.

At the high table, Cregan sat beside Arra Norrey, her beauty softly radiant in the firelight. She wore deep blue wool embroidered with white snowflakes, her hair braided in the northern style, and her hand rested gently on the small swell of her belly. Her smile was easy, warm—the kind that invited comfort without effort. Nella's gaze, almost against her will, drifted there often, and each time, her chest tightened.

From her seat further down, Nella tried to keep her attention on the feast, on the food, on the noise—but the distance between her and Cregan felt heavier tonight than ever before. She could still feel the weight of years lost, the cold shadow of the changes she could not undo.

A burst of laughter drew her attention across the table. Kaelen sat among his companions, the flush of victory still on his cheeks. He was half-turned toward her, his cup in one hand, his other gesturing animatedly as he recounted the moment he had brought Lord Umber to his knees.

Their eyes met—just a flicker at first—but it was enough to still her for a heartbeat. The noise of the hall dulled. He raised his cup toward her in a small, private salute, and for a moment, it was just the two of them in the crowded room. She couldn't help the curve of her lips in response, the subtle tilt of her head in acknowledgment.

From the high table, Cregan's gaze shifted. He had been listening to something Arra was saying, but now his eyes were on Nella. They lingered for a heartbeat too long, his expression unreadable—save for a faint tightening of his jaw. Nella didn't see it at first, but Kaelen did. The knight's smile deepened slightly, though not unkindly, before he turned back to her.

When the first round of food was done and the minstrels struck up a lively tune, Kaelen rose from his seat. The flickering light painted his features with a certain boldness as he crossed to her.

"My lady," he said, bowing slightly but with the glint of mischief in his eyes, "it seems my victory has not yet been celebrated properly. Would you honor me with a dance?" Nella's instinct was to refuse—she hadn't danced in years, not since before the darkness had claimed her—but something in his voice, in the warmth of his gaze, made her pause.

"I..." She glanced toward the high table. Cregan was speaking with a visiting lord now, but she could feel his awareness of her like a weight in the air. Her eyes lingered a heartbeat too long on him before returning to Kaelen. "Very well. One dance."

As Kaelen led her into the open space before the hearth, the hall's noise shifted. A few nearby lords leaned forward with interest, and Mira, seated with her husband, gave Nella an encouraging smile. The music began, a slow but lilting melody, and they moved together—not perfect, but close enough. Kaelen's hand was steady on hers, his other resting lightly against her back. She could feel the strength in his grip, the ease in his step.

"You've been carrying a storm in your eyes all night," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear. "I don't know what it is, but I'd like to see it clear—if only for an evening."

Nella's lips curved faintly, though her heart ached. "You have no idea what you're asking."

"Maybe not," Kaelen said, "but I'll ask anyway."

At the high table, Cregan's gaze was once again on them. His cup rested forgotten in his hand, his face shadowed in the firelight. Beside him, Arra spoke to a lady from House Ryswell, unaware of—or perhaps ignoring—her husband's wandering attention. For the rest of the song, Nella did not look at him. But she could feel it—like a thread pulled taut between them—Cregan watching, and Kaelen's steady, unflinching presence before her.

At the high table, he leaned back slightly, his elbow resting against the carved arm of his chair. His gaze slid sideways toward the man seated two places down—a Stark cousin, Brannen by name, whose grin usually held the sharpness of a knife kept for cutting both meat and pride.

"That man," Cregan said, his voice pitched low, almost casual, though it was weighed down with a subtle gravity. "The one dancing with her. Do you know him?"

Brannen followed his stare to where Kaelen's tall frame turned Nella with easy confidence, the firelight glinting off the edge of his smile. "Aye," he said, leaning in slightly as though sharing some profitable secret. "Kaelen Snow. Bastard of Ser Jory Lakeford, down in the Rills. He's made a name for himself these past two winters—good with a sword, better with his tongue." His grin sharpened. "And I don't mean just in the talking way."

Cregan's brow furrowed. "You're telling me he's—"

"A charmer," Brannen interrupted with a shrug. "Fought alongside the Manderly men in the skirmishes with the hill tribes last year. Held his own against three at once, so the tale goes. But it's the way he wins hearts that people remember." He tilted his head, watching the dance. "Seems he's aiming for another tonight."

Cregan's jaw clenched, though his goblet remained steady in his hand. "Is that so?" His tone was quiet, flat—but there was a weight behind it, like the first rumble of thunder before a storm.

Brannen chuckled, oblivious or uncaring of the flicker in his lord's eyes. "Why? Do you know him?"

"I do now," Cregan murmured, his eyes never leaving Nella.

The music swelled, the pipes and fiddles weaving a lively tune that should have stirred nothing but mirth, yet for him it rang hollow. He watched the way Kaelen's hand lingered an instant too long on hers, the way Nella's smile—small, almost reluctant—bloomed into something freer when she looked at him. And then, when Kaelen bent his head to speak, she laughed—soft, unguarded.

It was not the kind of laugh she had given Cregan in years. The song ended. Kaelen released her hand with a bow, the ease in his movements betraying no hint of the battle he'd fought earlier that day. Nella dipped her head, a faint smile still lingering at her lips. His hand lingered lightly at her waist before he stepped back, but he didn't let go of her entirely—his fingers brushed hers, a deliberate, unhurried touch.

He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "Come with me tonight," he murmured, his tone smooth as velvet. "Let me be the one to make you forget the rest of the world exists."

Nella blinked, startled by the boldness—and the way her stomach fluttered at his words. She tilted her head back just enough to catch the gleam in his eyes. "Gods curse you, Ser Kaelen... what a charmer you are," she said, her voice laced with a hint of playfulness. "How many poor ladies have fallen for that line of yours?"

A slow, confident smile curved his lips. "Enough to know it works," he said, his tone dripping with shameless honesty. "But tonight, there's only one answer I want."

Her breath caught. She should laugh it off, step back, keep her distance. But the spark in his eyes was warm where she had only known cold for so long.

"Maybe you should let go," the treacherous voice inside her whispered. "Maybe you should forget him—for one night. Maybe you should remember what it feels like to be wanted."

She looked away, biting her lip to keep from smiling. "You're trouble," she said quietly.

"And yet..." he murmured, leaning just close enough for her to feel the heat of him, "you haven't said no."

Nella's cheeks warmed, and though she didn't answer, her silence was enough.

She slipped back into her seat, her pulse still unsteady from the dance and Kaelen's words lingering in her ears like a forbidden melody. She kept her eyes lowered at first, reaching for her goblet as if the dark wine could mask the faint flush in her cheeks. But she didn't need to look up to know—Cregan was watching her. She could feel it. That still, quiet weight of his gaze, heavy as the winter sky. When she finally risked meeting it, she found no anger there, no easy smile either—just a depth she couldn't read, something caught between reproach and something far more dangerous.

He didn't speak. He didn't have to. His jaw was tight, and his fingers drummed lightly against the table, the only sign of the tension coiled beneath his stillness. Before she could look away, Kaelen dropped into the seat beside her, the scent of leather and pine clinging to him. He didn't glance at Cregan, not once. Instead, his eyes found hers—and stayed there. Unblinking. Steady. Possessive in a way that was both thrilling and unsettling.

And then—Arra leaned in. Her hand rested lightly on Cregan's forearm as she whispered something in his ear, her lips close enough for Nella to see the brush of breath against his skin. Whatever she said drew the faintest curl of a smile from him, a warmth in his eyes he had not shown in Nella's direction for what felt like years.

Nella's chest tightened painfully, the moment striking like a blade between her ribs. She looked away too quickly, reaching for her goblet again, but Kaelen's presence beside her kept her from folding entirely into herself. He still hadn't looked away—his gaze holding hers as if daring her to remember there was someone else willing to see her, wholly and without hesitation.

Kaelen leaned in slightly, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Are you ready to leave?"

The words were simple, but they were not innocent. There was an undercurrent to them—an invitation, a promise—that made her breath catch in her throat. She didn't answer right away. Her fingers curled lightly around the stem of her goblet, as if the cool metal might anchor her. From the corner of her vision, she knew Cregan had heard. He had stopped speaking to Arra entirely, his head tilted just enough to listen.

Kaelen waited, unhurried, his gaze fixed on her with quiet certainty. He didn't fill the silence with reassurances or coaxing. He simply offered her the choice. Nella's pulse thundered in her ears. She thought of Cregan's smile at Arra, of the months—years—of distance and absence. She thought of Kaelen's eyes on her, unwavering and unashamed.

Across the table, Cregan's knuckles tightened around his goblet. He didn't speak, but his stillness was almost louder than any words.

Nella set her goblet down carefully, her voice barely above a whisper. "I... don't know."

Kaelen's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile, as if her uncertainty wasn't a deterrent at all. "Then let's find out," he murmured.

Her chair scraped softly against the stone floor as she rose, the sound far louder in her own ears than it could possibly have been. Kaelen stood with her, offering his arm in a quiet, gentlemanly gesture, though there was nothing entirely polite about the heat behind his eyes. The hall went on as if nothing had happened—laughter, music, the clatter of goblets and platters—but at their table, the air shifted. Cregan's gaze followed her, unblinking, heavy with something she couldn't name.

Nella let her fingers rest lightly on Kaelen's offered arm, her pulse racing. She could feel the weight of Cregan's eyes on her back as though they were a physical touch, a pull she had to resist with every step she took. As they passed, Arra's hand briefly touched Cregan's sleeve, but he didn't look at her. His focus was fixed solely on Nella and the man leading her away.

When they reached the edge of the hall, Kaelen leaned closer, his voice a quiet murmur just for her. "You made the right choice." She didn't answer—couldn't. Every step toward the door felt like stepping further from something she had once known and deeper into something she could not yet name.

The heavy oak doors closed behind them with a muffled thud, sealing off the music and laughter of the hall. The air in the corridor was cooler, quieter—thick with the echoes of what they'd left behind. Kaelen didn't let go of her arm. His touch was steady, grounding, though the faint brush of his fingers against her sleeve sent a shiver through her.

"Too loud in there," he said at last, his tone warm and low, though she could tell he'd chosen his words to make it sound casual. "I thought you could use some air... and maybe company that doesn't ask you to smile when you don't feel like it."

Nella exhaled slowly, her breath fogging faintly in the chill. "And you think you're that company?" she asked, her voice softer than she intended—more of a challenge than a jest.

He gave her that same half-smile he'd worn in the lists, the one that had unnerved Lord Umber before their fight. "I'm whatever you need me to be tonight."

They walked in silence for a few steps, their boots whispering over the worn rushes scattered on the floor. She was acutely aware of the sound of her own heartbeat, of the faint scent of leather and steel that clung to him. When they reached a small antechamber, Kaelen pushed the door open and gestured her inside. The fire within had burned low, casting long shadows that wavered along the stone walls.

"Why me?" she asked suddenly, turning to face him as he closed the door. "There were plenty of ladies tonight who would have given you their favor—and more."

He stepped closer, his eyes holding hers without hesitation. "Because none of them looked at me the way you did."

Her breath caught. She wanted to laugh, to deflect, but the words lodged in her throat. Instead, she found herself standing perfectly still as he reached up, not touching her, but brushing a loose strand of her white hair back with the faintest ghost of a touch.

"I've heard you've been through fire and frost," he murmured. "And you're still standing. That's worth more than any courtly beauty."

The words landed somewhere deep inside her, somewhere Cregan's absence had left hollow. The fire flickered between them, painting their faces in amber light. She felt the tension between restraint and desire, between longing and guilt. And slowly, hesitantly, she leaned closer.

Kaelen's hands found hers, clasping them as if he would hold onto her very essence. "There's no one else here," he said softly. "Only you and me. Let the rest of the world fade."

Nella closed her eyes, letting herself be guided by the warmth, the intensity, the unspoken promise of the night. "Then... show me," she whispered, "show me how to be alive again, even if only for a few hours."

He pressed a kiss to her temple, soft, lingering, a question and an answer at once. "I'll show you," he breathed. "I'll show you everything you've been missing. Tonight... you are mine to make remember."

Their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss, tentative at first, then deeper, more insistent, as if each was trying to anchor themselves in the reality of the other. Fingers entwined, hands brushed along arms and shoulders, and every touch sent shivers down Nella's spine.

Kaelen pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against hers. "You belong to the world, Nella," he murmured, "but tonight, just for tonight... you belong to me."

Nella's breath caught. Her hands found the nape of his neck, holding him close, and she realized that for the first time since her return, the cold that had haunted her felt distant, almost forgetful. Here, in Kaelen's presence, she could let herself exist purely in the warmth of a moment, in the tension and closeness, without the weight of what had been lost.

Hours passed in a haze of whispered confessions, gentle touches, and the closeness that had been denied them both for so long. When at last they fell into a quiet, contented silence, Nella rested against Kaelen, her hair mingling with the warmth of his chest, and his arms held her as if letting go was impossible.

The torchlight flickered across the room, painting soft shadows over skin and silk, a silent witness to the night they had shared. Though neither spoke, the unspoken truth lingered in the air: they had crossed the line between desire and something deeper, leaving the night forever etched into their memories.

Nella closed her eyes, a tired but satisfied smile on her lips, and for the first time in years, she felt truly alive. Outside, Winterfell slept, oblivious to the small, stolen world they had created within its walls.

Chapter Text

The first pale light of dawn seeped through the narrow window of Nella's chamber, brushing her skin with quiet insistence. She stirred slowly, every movement heavy with the memory of the night before. The warmth of Kaelen's arms lingered like a ghost as she sat up, the sheets falling away from her shoulders, and for a heartbeat, she allowed herself to savor the remnants of what had passed.

Yet even as the memory made her heart race, a sharp, unbidden pang of guilt tightened in her chest. She thought of Cregan—his quiet presence at the feast, the weight of his gaze as she had chosen Kaelen. Would he know? Could he feel it? The thought made her stomach twist.

Dressing hastily, she tried to quell the flush that colored her cheeks. When she emerged into the courtyard, Winterfell was already stirring: servants moving briskly, the distant clatter of hooves, and the soft murmur of voices preparing for the day. But her attention was caught by a familiar figure leaning against one of the stone pillars near the stables—Cregan.

He was watching her. Not in anger, not in accusation, but with something quieter, sharper—an edge of tension that spoke of unspoken questions and unwelcome awareness. Nella felt her chest constrict, aware that her choice the night before had left a visible mark, even if he did not yet voice it.

Cregan's voice, low and measured, broke the silence. "You're up early." There was a pause, as if he was measuring her response, gauging her mood. "And... rested?"

Nella met his gaze, forcing a calm she did not feel. "I am," she said softly, careful not to betray more than she should. "The morning air helps."

He nodded, though his eyes lingered on her longer than necessary, tracing her every movement. In that glance, she felt both the sting of loss and a peculiar, almost painful longing—something he had no right to feel, yet could not suppress. Kaelen's presence was no longer physical, but it hung in the air, a silent testament to a night she could not forget. And as the northern wind stirred the banners above the courtyard, Nella realized that nothing would feel the same again.

By midmorning, Nella sought the solace of familiar faces, her steps carrying her to the quiet corner of Winterfell where Mira often lingered. The courtyard was bright with sunlight now, but Nella moved as if wrapped in a fog, her thoughts still tangled in the night's memory.

Mira spotted her first, a soft smile breaking across her face despite the obvious tension she sensed in her friend. "Nella," she said, voice warm, almost hesitant, as if approaching a fragile glass sculpture.

Beside Mira stood her husband, the bastard—tall, broad-shouldered, eyes sharp and assessing. He inclined his head politely but reservedly toward Nella, a quiet acknowledgment of her presence.

"I wanted to see you both," Nella said softly, her gaze flicking between Mira and her husband. "And... maybe talk a little?"

Mira's expression softened immediately, and she gestured toward a secluded alcove just beyond the courtyard. "Of course," she said. "We can step aside."

Once they were alone, Nella let out a shaky breath, her fingers twisting in the folds of her cloak. "Mira... last night... with the knight," she began, voice trembling, caught between shame, relief, and something darker she could not name. "I left the feast... and... I—" She faltered, swallowing hard. "I slept with him."

Mira's eyes widened, but she remained silent, waiting for Nella to continue.

Nella's gaze dropped, as if the stones beneath their feet could somehow absorb her confession. "I saw Cregan... just for a moment. His eyes—he was watching me. And yet... for that night, I forgot about him. I forgot about everything except Kaelen. It was... freeing, and terrifying all at once."

Her voice cracked, the words spilling out faster now. "I don't know if it was right, or if I should feel guilty. But... for the first time in so long, I felt alive. For one night, my heart wasn't heavy with loss, or the ache of what I can never have with him."

Mira reached out, her hand steady over Nella's trembling one. "Sometimes, we act on the need to remember what it means to feel, Nella. That doesn't make you weak... or cruel. It just makes you human."

Nella lifted her eyes, glimmering with tears and something like wonder. "I don't know what comes next. I only know that night... it gave me a glimpse of myself again. And yet, I can't pretend the world around me hasn't changed. Especially him."

Her gaze drifted toward the window, where pale morning light crept across the castle walls. For a long moment, she said nothing, letting the weight of her confession settle between them. The quiet tick of the hourglass seemed louder than usual, marking time she could not reclaim.

Mira's hand remained on hers, warm and steady. "You've felt something, Nella. Something real. Don't let anyone take that away from you... not even yourself."

A fragile smile tugged at Nella's lips, though it faltered as her thoughts inevitably wandered back to Cregan. Her chest tightened at the memory of his watchful eyes at the feast, the subtle weight of his gaze that seemed to follow her even when she tried to turn away. Every glimpse of him stirred a familiar ache, a pain carved by years lost and moments stolen by time itself. She wondered if he had guessed the truth of her night with Kaelen, if the faint flash of jealousy she thought she saw in him had been real—or merely a shadow of her own guilt.

"I..." she started, her voice low, uncertain. "I can't ignore him, Mira. I can't pretend nothing's changed there either. But... last night reminded me I still have choices. That I still feel—even though my heart aches whenever I see him, for all that time has taken from us."

Mira squeezed her hand gently, as if granting her permission to hold both truths at once—the past, the longing, and the fleeting freedom she had tasted. "Then feel it, Nella. All of it. But tread carefully. Hearts are fragile, and not all battles are fought with swords."

Nella nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. Slowly, she rose, releasing Mira's hand. The warmth lingered, a quiet anchor in a sea of uncertainty. "Thank you... for listening. For understanding."

Mira gave a small smile. "Always. Now... go, and face the day. Whatever it brings, you'll meet it head-on. You always do."

Nella straightened, squared her shoulders, and left Mira's presence. Each step toward her chamber felt heavier than the last, the echoes of her night with Kaelen and the unspoken tension with Cregan following her like shadows. Every corner of the castle seemed to whisper of the time stolen from her, and the ache in her heart deepened whenever she thought of him.

When she reached her door, she paused, drawing a deep breath before slipping inside, the solitude of her room both comforting and cruel. She laid herself upon the bed, staring at the ceiling as the morning sun painted streaks of gold across the stone. Memories of the night before—soft touches, whispered words, the feeling of being wanted—clung to her skin and her mind. A part of her ached with guilt; another part, wild and rebellious, reveled in the memory.

The sun was still low over Winterfell's walls, casting long, pale shafts of light across the courtyard. Cregan's gaze swept over the training grounds, his eyes settling on Kaelen. The bastard moved with precise, fluid strength, sparring with one of the castle's men. Each strike, each parry, seemed effortless, yet every motion carried a controlled intensity that drew the eye—and Cregan's ire.

He watched Kaelen laugh quietly at something his sparring partner had said, the corner of his mouth tilting in that infuriating, knowing way. And then, he saw her—Nella—standing at the edge of the courtyard, brushing a horse, the morning light catching strands of her pale hair. Her posture was calm, serene even, but the way her gaze lingered on Kaelen tightened something deep in Cregan's chest.

Kaelen's eyes flicked toward Cregan for a brief moment, and he smiled—a slow, deliberate, infuriating smile. One that seemed to say, I see you, and I know exactly what you feel. Cregan's jaw tightened. His hand itched toward his sword, though he knew he would not strike. The fight today was not his, and yet every swing of Kaelen's blade, every controlled maneuver, every grin directed at her set his teeth on edge.

Nella's hand brushed the horse again, but her gaze didn't waver from Kaelen. The warmth in her eyes, the soft curve of her lips as she smiled—it was a quiet rebellion against him, a reminder of time lost, of nights stolen, and of a heart that still beat for what he could not reclaim in that moment.

Cregan's chest ached with a familiar, bitter pain. Time had stolen so much from him—the years of closeness with Nella, the intimacy, the easy laughter. And now, seeing her laugh quietly at Kaelen's banter, seeing her attentive to him, seeing that spark in her eyes... it was unbearable.

Kaelen noticed the intensity of Cregan's stare, but he did not flinch. He moved with the same confident grace, each strike sharp and deliberate, yet his eyes never left Nella. He knew the effect he had on Cregan, and he did not care. In fact, the faint, playful curl of his lips hinted he almost enjoyed it.

Cregan turned his gaze back to the ground, exhaling slowly, trying to still the storm that Kaelen had stirred in him, even as he knew it was far from over. The morning was young, the day ahead long, but the ache of what had been lost—and what he could not reclaim—would linger with him as long as Nella's eyes stayed on that bastard knight.

As for Nella, she leaned against the wooden railing, the cool morning air brushing against her skin. Her hands rested lightly on the horse's mane, but her attention had long since left the animal. Kaelen moved across the yard with a controlled, lethal grace, every strike and parry precise, every movement a testament to the skill that had earned him a place at Winterfell.

Her chest fluttered unexpectedly, a warm pulse of admiration mixed with something more dangerous—desire, curiosity, and the lingering memory of last night. She bit her lip, recalling how close he had been, how his hands had traced her skin with a familiarity that felt at once foreign and exhilarating. Her heart skipped, despite herself, at the thought, and a small, guilty smile curved her lips.

Kaelen glanced up mid-lunge, catching her eyes for a brief, deliberate moment. Nella felt heat rise in her cheeks as her gaze faltered slightly. There was an unspoken conversation there, a tension that spoke louder than words ever could. He knows. He knows exactly what he's done to me, she thought, the memory of last night burning behind her eyelids.

Her gaze flicked sideways, almost unconsciously, toward Cregan. The tension there was palpable even from a distance—the subtle tightening of his jaw, the rigid line of his shoulders. Nella felt her chest ache. Time had stolen so much from them, and now Kaelen's presence was a stark reminder that some things could not be reclaimed, not without sacrifice.

Yet, she found herself unable to look away from Kaelen. Every controlled movement, every quiet smile he sent her way tugged at her, weaving a dangerous web of longing and defiance. She could feel her pulse quicken as if the courtyard itself had shrunk around the three of them, holding them in a delicate, volatile triangle.

She swallowed, her heart heavy with conflicting emotions. For one night, I let go, she reminded herself, a fragile thread of guilt winding through her relief. Her eyes lingered a moment longer on Kaelen, drinking in the sight of him, savoring the closeness she had allowed herself, before she reluctantly tore her gaze away, forcing herself to meet Cregan's eyes just once.

He was watching, still, and she swore she could see the brief flicker of jealousy pass across his face. But Kaelen... Kaelen didn't care. He only smiled, knowingly, and returned to his training as though the world had shrunk to the space between him and her, leaving Cregan outside that circle of intimacy.

Nella's breath caught. She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and whispered softly to herself, "How did it come to this?"

The answer, she knew, would not be simple—and yet she could not deny the pull of the present, the dangerous thrill of Kaelen, and the ache of what remained unspoken with Cregan. Nella finally tore her gaze from Kaelen and stepped back from the railing, her boots crunching softly on the gravel as she left the courtyard. She did not notice the shadow moving silently behind her, careful and deliberate, keeping pace without a sound.

By the time she reached her chambers, she was grateful for the privacy. She closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment, letting out a shaky breath. The solitude felt like a balm, a place where the complicated tangle of desire, guilt, and longing could finally settle, if only for a moment.

The sudden crash of the door swinging open made her start violently. Cregan stood there, filling the room like a storm. His hair was slightly tousled, eyes dark and intense, jaw set tight with frustration. Nella's lips parted, but no words came. Cregan's gaze bore into her, heavy with unspoken questions, the air between them taut.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low, controlled but edged with tension. "What's going on with him?"

Nella blinked at him, taken aback. "I... what do you mean?"

"You shouldn't let yourself fall for a charmer like him," he said, his tone casual but carrying an unmistakable weight, as if testing her reaction. "He'll only... leave when it suits him."

Her chest tightened, a flush of anger rising. She squared her shoulders, meeting his gaze. "Why would you even care?" she shot back, voice trembling with indignation. "Why is it your concern who I give myself to—or if I let myself feel anything at all?"

Cregan's eyes narrowed, the frustration in his stance deepening. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped, the words caught somewhere between pride, jealousy, and something more dangerous. Nella glared at him, heart pounding, her pulse a mix of defiance and heat. The room felt smaller, charged with tension neither of them wanted to name.

Cregan's eyes darkened, the controlled frustration snapping into raw anger. "Do you even hear yourself, Nella?" he barked, stepping closer, the tension radiating from him. "Kaelen is not right for you! He's here to... to sleep with you, and then he'll vanish like the rest! You have nothing to hold him—no title, no name, no claim. Everyone knows where you came from. You used to work in... in a brothel. Nothing binds him to you."

Nella's face flamed crimson, her hands curling into fists at her sides. For a heartbeat, the room felt suffocating with his words. "How—how dare you!" she snapped, voice trembling with fury. "That's low, even for you, Cregan. To use my past against me? To try to shame me into... what? Obedience? Loyalty? You have no right!"

Cregan's jaw tightened, the anger in his gaze clashing with something unspoken—something that wasn't just jealousy, but fear, and perhaps regret. Nella's chest heaved as her words hung in the air, the sting of his accusation mixing with the raw ache of old wounds.

"You think I care what anyone else says about me?" she hissed, stepping forward, matching his intensity. "I know who I am! And I'll not be told who I can or cannot care for, or who I can or cannot—"

Nella's hands lashed out, shoving Cregan back, her fingers clawing at his chest. "Get out of my face! Don't tell me who I can care for, don't you dare!" she spat, her voice trembling with fury and hurt. Each push, each blow of her words, was a release of all the ache time had stolen from her.

Cregan's eyes widened, his arms instinctively raising to steady her. "Nella, stop!" he barked, voice firm but strained. "Stop! I can't—"

But she didn't. She kept hitting, shoving, cursing, letting all the anger and pain pour out.

Finally, his voice broke through, low and raw. "I can't... I can't let myself see you with someone else!"

Her eyes flashed with incredulity and rage. "What?" she hissed, stepping back, trembling with fury. "You're married! You're expecting a child! There's no way—no way you could say that! Both of us... we don't even have a chance, Cregan! Those words—those thoughts—are selfish! Completely selfish!"

Cregan's jaw tightened, the confession hanging between them like a live wire. He looked at her, a mixture of shame, desire, and helplessness flickering across his face. Nella's chest heaved, the truth of his admission striking her as both devastating and maddening.

"You don't understand—" he began, but she cut him off, voice sharp and trembling.

"I understand perfectly," she spat, shaking her head. "I understand that time stole us, and yet you think of yourself first!" 

Nella shrieked, tears streaking her face. "I'm nothing! Just a whore— remember ? You think I could ever be anything for you? For us? We'll never work, Cregan! You're married! Expecting a child! There's no place for me in your life, and there never will be!"

Her hands slammed against his chest again and again, each strike fueled by the fire of betrayal and the ache of love turned bitter. "I hate you!" she screamed, her voice breaking into sobs. "I hate that you make me feel like this, that I even cared!"

Cregan stumbled back, arms lifting instinctively to block her blows, but she didn't relent. She pushed him, struck him, the room echoing with her rage. "Go! Just leave! I don't ever want to see you like this again!"

His eyes, dark and stormy, searched hers, pleading in vain, but she couldn't stop. The hurt she had carried for so long, the time stolen, the longing she had tried to bury—it all erupted in a torrent of anger and grief.

Finally, gasping, sobbing, her hands trembling with fury, she shoved him one last time with all her strength. Cregan exhaled sharply, a mix of frustration and sorrow, and silently, wordlessly, he stepped back. Without another word, he turned, leaving her alone, her chest heaving, tears soaking her cheeks, rage and heartbreak interwoven into every shuddering breath.

The door closed with a muted finality. Nella sank against the wall, shaking, the echo of his presence still burning in the air, the sting of her own words mingling with the ache in her chest.

Chapter Text

The morning light crept through Nella's curtains, pale and unforgiving. She sat up in bed, her hair tangled, cheeks damp from the tears she hadn't bothered to wipe away. The space beside her felt empty in a way that gnawed at her chest—too empty. A messenger arrived, breathless and awkward, carrying news that hit her like a fist. Kaelen had left. Gone, without a word. No note, no farewell, no hint of what he had felt or planned.

Nella's hands shook as she dropped the paper onto her lap. Her stomach knotted, a mix of fury and shame tightening around her ribs. She had allowed herself to hope—even for a single night—to forget, to feel alive again, and he had vanished as if she were nothing more than a fleeting amusement.

She felt the old ache of being tossed aside, the sting of being used and discarded, rise up like a tide. For a moment, she saw herself as the girl she had been long before the brothel: naive, yearning for affection, always too quick to trust. The memory of that past self was bitter, painful, and yet hauntingly familiar.

Nella buried her face in her hands, angry tears streaming down. Stupid, weak... how could I have thought this time would be different?

Every heartbeat echoed with the loss, with the realization that even now, after everything, she could still be broken, still be left behind. And yet, somewhere under that pain, a small spark of defiance glimmered. She would not—could not—let herself be entirely consumed by betrayal again.

Her steps carried her out into the courtyard, almost unconsciously. The cool stone beneath her feet grounded her, yet the emptiness she felt inside seemed to echo in the open air. Servants scurried about, practicing drills or tending horses, their voices distant and blurred. Nella's gaze was vacant, tracing the horizon where Kaelen had vanished, where nothing now remained but the faint memory of his smile.

A sudden glint of green caught her eye. She squinted at the sky, her breath catching. A green dragon sliced through the clouds.

Though it was not the towering beast of legend, it moved with the grace of a predator, and its presence sent the courtyard into immediate chaos. People screamed and scattered. Servants fell to their knees, some pointing in awe, others in panic. A few knights drew swords instinctively, though it was clear the creature was far too swift for any human to touch.

Nella froze, hand to her mouth, her heart hammering. The dragon banked low, circling the courtyard, its green scales glinting in the morning sun. Whispers rose like a tide: A dragon... or an omen... The dragon's descent was swift and graceful, its green scales shimmering in the morning light as it landed with a soft thud in the center of the courtyard. The creature's wings folded neatly against its sides, and its eyes scanned the surroundings with an almost regal air. The courtyard fell into stunned silence, the earlier chaos giving way to a hushed awe.

Nella stood frozen, her heart still racing from the dragon's sudden appearance. Her mind struggled to process the reality of the situation. A dragon—here, in Winterfell. She had heard tales of such creatures, but to witness one firsthand was something entirely different. As the crowd began to murmur in disbelief, a figure dismounted from the dragon's back. He was young, with unmistakable dark hair and eyes that spoke of the sea. His presence commanded attention, and the whispers grew louder as people speculated about his identity.

The young man strode confidently toward the castle gates, his gaze steady and purposeful. As he approached, he called out, his voice carrying across the courtyard.

"I bear a message for Lord Cregan Stark, from the Queen."

The mention of Queen Rhaenyra's name sent a ripple through the crowd. Her supporters in the North had been few, and her claim to the throne was contested. Yet here was a messenger, arriving with a dragon, bearing a direct communication from the Queen herself.

Nella's thoughts raced. What could this mean? Why had Rhaenyra sent someone to Winterfell? And why now, when tensions were already high? As the young man reached the gates, a guard stepped forward, eyeing him warily.

"And who are you?" the guard demanded.

The young man met his gaze without hesitation. "I am Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne. I come bearing a message for Lord Cregan Stark."

The revelation struck like a thunderclap. Jacaerys Velaryon—the son of Queen Rhaenyra, the heir to the Iron Throne—was here, in Winterfell. And he had come to deliver a message. Nella's heart beat faster, the weight of the moment settling over her. This was no ordinary visitor. This was a prince, a dragonrider, and the bearer of a message that could change the course of history.

As Jacaerys Velaryon stepped into the courtyard, the clatter of armor and murmurs of the crowd seemed to fade around him. His eyes swept over the assembled nobles and guards, sharp and calculating, but then they caught hers.

Nella had instinctively stepped back, trying not to draw attention, but something in the way he looked at her stopped her in her tracks. His gaze lingered longer than it should have, curious, piercing, as if he were seeing more than just a face. He noticed the white strands that framed her face, the sharp contrast against the faint blush of her cheeks, and something flickered in his expression—interest, recognition, or perhaps both.

For a heartbeat, the chaos of the courtyard—the dragon, the shouting guards, the whispers of the onlookers—faded to nothing. It was only the two of them, a silent acknowledgment passing between their eyes. Then he shifted his attention back to the gates, signaling that he was here with purpose, but even as he did, Nella felt the pull of his gaze like a tether she couldn't shake.

Her heart beat faster, a strange mixture of caution and curiosity flooding her chest. Something about this prince was different—he was no mere knight, no charmer like Kaelen. There was weight in his presence, a gravity she had not expected, and she knew, without fully understanding why, that she would remember this encounter long after he had delivered his message.

The moment broke as a guard stepped forward to clear a path for him, and Jacaerys finally turned, striding toward the gates to announce himself properly. Yet, the brief lock of eyes with Nella lingered, unspoken and charged, as though a silent question had passed between them—one neither dared to voice in the open courtyard.

Hours passed in a haze of uneasy anticipation. Nella had tried to busy herself with the courtyard chores, the clatter of hooves and distant shouts from the tourney grounds failing to distract her entirely. When a messenger arrived summoning her to the lord's hall, a shiver ran down her spine. The memory of her confrontation with Cregan the day before—words shouted, hands raised, hearts unguarded—made the summons feel like walking into a storm.

She dressed carefully, smoothing her white hair into a loose braid, and approached the hall with measured steps. The stone corridors echoed her footfalls, each one amplifying the tension coiling in her chest. When she entered the hall, she was greeted not by Cregan alone, but by a chamberlain who directed her through winding passages to a more private chamber. There, by the firelight and polished stone, both Cregan and the prince she had glimpsed earlier waited.

Jacaerys Velaryon stood with a quiet authority, the faint shimmer of his Velaryon sigil catching the light. His presence was calm but undeniable, and for the first time since seeing the dragon, Nella felt that same thread of tension pull taut within her chest.

Cregan's gaze met hers briefly, sharp and unreadable, before he gestured toward the prince. "Nella," he said, voice steady but carrying an undercurrent she couldn't ignore. "This is Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. He comes with a message for Winterfell... and perhaps, you should meet him properly."

Jacaerys inclined his head slightly, his eyes flicking to her as if acknowledging her presence in a way no one else did. "Lady Nella," he said, his voice smooth but firm. "I have heard of your... gift. It precedes you."

Her stomach tightened at the mention, a mix of pride and unease bubbling within her. She met his gaze cautiously, feeling both exposed and curiously understood. Cregan's eyes never left her, and for a moment, the room seemed suspended between unspoken histories and the weight of expectation. Nella's pulse quickened as she realized that this meeting—formal, charged, and fraught with tension—was more than political. Somehow, it felt personal.

Nella's hand lingered in Jacaerys's presence, the air between them charged, until Cregan cleared his throat, drawing both their attention. "The war rages across the realm," he began, his voice steady, though the tension beneath it was palpable. "Yet what looms beyond it may be far worse."

Jacaerys's sharp eyes narrowed, listening intently. Nella felt a weight settle over the chamber; even the fire seemed to burn lower, as if aware of the gravity of what was about to be spoken.

"She—" Cregan gestured toward Nella, "—was trapped in death for two years. Saw what we could not, what most of the realm refuses to believe. The Others... and the darkness beyond them."

Nella's throat tightened, memories surfacing with a jolt: the icy hush of the lands beyond the Wall, the endless march of shadows, the glimpses of the dead walking. She swallowed, her heart beating fast. "You need to see what I saw," she said softly, her voice steadying as her memories sharpened. "It's not something that can be explained with words alone."

Cregan's eyes narrowed, a flicker of unease passing across his face. He had seen her resilience, her courage—but this... the idea that the dead themselves had walked beyond the Wall, that she had witnessed it, made something inside him tighten.

Jacaerys leaned forward, intrigued, his expression intent. "Show me, then. What did you see?"

Nella closed her eyes, letting herself drift into the recollections that had haunted her dreams for months. "It began as silence," she murmured. "A cold deeper than any winter, stillness that pressed against your soul." Her voice grew stronger as she described the visions, each word painting a vivid, terrifying picture. "The Others... pale, impossibly tall, moving without sound. And behind them... shadows that swallowed the land, frost that spread faster than fire."

Her hands rose unconsciously, as if tracing the icy paths she had seen. "They will raise the dead to serve them. Whole villages vanish, and the snow covers the tracks of the living. It is not just war—it is an extinction. The realm will not withstand them if men continue to fight among themselves."

Jacaerys's lips parted slightly, and his eyes darkened with a mixture of fear and realization. He leaned closer, his voice low and urgent. "And you say this... you saw it with your own eyes?"

"Yes," Nella whispered. "I was there. And I lived to tell it."

"And now," Cregan continued, "with the war tearing men apart, something even more terrifying approaches. The realm is fractured, distracted... and what comes does not care for crowns or banners. The threat to the realm of men is unlike any we've faced before."

Jacaerys's gaze flicked between them, sharp, calculating, but a shadow of awe—or perhaps concern—crossed his features. "So this," he said slowly, "is why she is here. The Song of Ice and Fire... it is not just prophecy, not just legend. It is a warning. And you, have seen it."

Cregan's jaw tightened. He had heard her story, yet seeing the conviction in her eyes, the weight in her voice, stirred a dangerous mix of anger, guilt, and helplessness. He felt a pang of jealousy—not for the visions themselves, but for the way Jacaerys's focus, his awe, clung entirely to her, as though she alone bore the truth he could neither deny nor embrace.

"You have to understand," she continued, her voice trembling as she gestured, conjuring the images in words. "The Others do not negotiate. They do not care for crowns or loyalty. If they march, every man, woman, and child in Westeros could fall."

Cregan's fists clenched at his sides, his eyes darkening. He hated that he felt powerless—not against the Others, not against the threat she had witnessed, but against the authority she commanded in that room, the way Jacaerys's attention hung on her every word.

Jacaerys, sensing the weight of Cregan's tension, finally spoke, his tone sharp but measured. "Then we must act. If your visions are true, every delay costs lives. And you," he said, locking eyes with Nella, "you are no longer just a witness. You are a guide, a warning. The realm must listen."

Cregan's jaw tightened, and for a moment Nella saw a glimpse of the man beneath the lordly exterior—the man who still carried guilt, fear, and perhaps hope. "She has the knowledge that could turn the tide... if it is heeded. But the realm's attention is on crowns and vengeance, not survival."

Nella opened her eyes, and for a fleeting moment, they glimmered with both fear and resolve. She had felt death and returned to tell its tale; now, even as Cregan's conflicted gaze burned into her from the side, she knew that what she had seen could not be ignored.

Cregan's heart ached—frustration, desire, fear, and protectiveness all twisted inside him. He knew she carried a burden heavier than any sword, and yet he could not step forward to help without revealing how deeply he still felt for her... a dangerous truth he could not yet voice.

The room was quiet after that, the fire crackling softly, but the weight of their conversation pressed down like stone. Nella's mind swirled with visions of shadows, fire, and cold beyond imagining, yet amid the fear, a spark of determination ignited. She had been chosen for this—by fate, by death, by forces she barely understood—and she would not turn away.

Chapter Text

Nella lay on the soft grass of the hill just outside Winterfell, the wind tangling through her white hair, brushing her face with a gentle insistence. The air smelled faintly of pine and smoke from the distant hearths of the castle. The world seemed to breathe around her, the distant walls of Winterfell a quiet hum against the rustle of leaves and the distant clatter of training in the courtyard. For once, she let herself sink into the moment, letting the weight of visions, warnings, and war slip, if only slightly, from her shoulders.

Above, the green dragon circled with a predator's grace, scales catching the sunlight and scattering it like fragments of emerald across the sky. Nella's eyes traced each elegant arc, the wings slicing the air with both power and poetry. A small, bittersweet smile tugged at her lips—a taste of freedom, raw and unpracticed, the kind she had not felt in years.

Her chest rose and fell with the rhythm of the dragon's flight, a strange kinship forming in silence. For a heartbeat, she imagined herself soaring, weightless, the earth falling away beneath her, and the past—the betrayals, the loss, the endless ache of waiting—fading like shadows at dawn.

And then a voice cut through her reverie, calm yet commanding, like a ripple across still water. "Beautiful, isn't he?"

Nella turned sharply, and there he was: the prince himself, standing at the edge of the hill, eyes tracking the dragon with the same reverence she had felt. The presence of another, particularly him, brought her pulse to a stutter. She had thought herself alone in this quiet solace, and now the world pressed back, reminding her that she could not escape entirely from eyes that questioned, judged... and invited.

"I—" she began, then faltered, unsure what to say. The hill, the dragon, the wind—it all seemed to shrink under the weight of his eyes.

"Don't be frightened," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes remained serious. "I won't bite... unless you want me to."

Nella blinked, a flush rising to her cheeks, partly from the heat, partly from the audacity of his charm. She tried to focus on the dragon again, but the creature's flight seemed trivial compared to the tension in the space between them.

Jacaerys lifted his gaze to the sky, eyes following the green dragon as it soared in wide, lazy circles. "That's a fine creature," he said, voice carrying both awe and pride. "There's something about the way a dragon moves—like it knows the wind itself, obeying no one but its own will."

Nella followed his eyes, watching the sunlight glint along the dragon's scales, her thoughts still tangled with the weight of her visions.

"This one?" she asked softly, nodding toward the dragon.

He smiled faintly, a mixture of pride and longing. "Yes. Vermax. He is my companion, my friend, and yet... he is so much more. A dragon chooses its rider as much as the rider tames it. The bond... it's unlike anything else in the world." His gaze flicked back to her briefly, then returned to the sky. "Do you... understand? To fly like that? To feel the wind beneath your wings and the earth so far below?"

Nella shook her head, a small smile touching her lips despite herself. "I can imagine it. But I fear I'd never hold on. My life has been... tethered too long to things that weigh, not lift."

Jacaerys's expression softened, though his eyes remained fixed on Vermax. "Perhaps," he said quietly, "but even dragons have their moments of patience, their moments of waiting for the one who is meant to ride. And sometimes... it's not the rider who tames the dragon, but the dragon that chooses the rider."

Nella hesitated, the question clinging to her tongue as if unsure it deserved to be spoken. But the silence between them pressed too heavily, demanding it. “And you?” she whispered, her voice tremulous but intent. “Did you choose Vermax… or did he choose you?”

For a long heartbeat, Jacaerys said nothing. His gaze slid toward the sky, where the shadow of wings still rippled faintly across the snowy plains. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a softness that surprised her.

“My cradle held his egg,” he said, the words edged with memory. “They placed it beside me the day I was born, as is our custom. And when it cracked, when Vermax clawed his way into the world… I was there. He saw me before anyone else. His first cry rang against my own. From that moment, there was no separating us.”

His lips tightened faintly, as though the recollection was both a comfort and a burden. “I did not tame him. I could not. I was a boy of three when I first clung to his neck, and even then, I knew—Vermax allowed me. Perhaps even claimed me.”

His eyes lowered for a moment, the firelight glinting against a fleeting shadow of doubt. “Some like to believe it is a matter of birthright, of blood. That dragons bend because we are Targaryen.” His voice dropped, quieter now. “But I think… it is less about command, and more about recognition. Sometimes, it isn’t the rider who chooses the dragon. Sometimes, it is the dragon who decides who they will bear.”

The dragon dipped suddenly, sending a breeze that ruffled both their hair, and for a moment, the world seemed suspended. Nella felt the pull of the wind, the raw power of the creature, and the reminder that the realm itself was full of forces she could barely control.

Jacaerys's voice brought her back.  "Tell me... would you ever want to fly? To feel the wind beneath you as he does, to leave the world behind for a while?" Jacaerys' voice was calm, almost intimate, carrying a weight that made her pulse uneven.

Nella blinked, caught off guard. Her heart skipped—not from fear, but from the audacity of the question. "Fly?" she echoed, voice barely above a whisper. "I... I don't even know if I could."

He finally turned toward her, eyes catching the sunlight, a faint, inviting smile tugging at his lips. "Perhaps you think it madness. But dragons... they choose who they trust. If you wished it, truly wished it, you might find yourself soaring above Winterfell, seeing the world as few ever do."

The wind lifted her hair around her face, and for a heartbeat, she imagined it: the rush of air, the earth shrinking beneath her, the world suddenly small and distant. Her chest tightened. The idea was both terrifying and exhilarating. "You... you mean you would let me? Ride with you?"

His gaze held hers, steady, patient, a kind of quiet insistence that made her stomach twist. "If you are willing. One flight. Just once. To see the world differently, and perhaps... to see yourself differently."

A shiver ran through her, a strange mix of fear, disbelief, and longing. The weight of everything she carried—the loss, the pain, the memory of Cregan and Kaelen, the years trapped in shadow—seemed to loosen, if only for a heartbeat. Flying, with a dragon beneath her, was unthinkable... and yet, it called to her like a promise she couldn't refuse.

Her hands trembled slightly as she folded them in her lap, voice barely audible. "I... I don't know if I can."

Jacaerys' smile widened, gentle but unwavering, as if he could see into the knot of hesitation and longing that churned inside her. "Then we'll start small. A step at a time. There is no shame in fear, Nella—only in refusing to see what the world might offer, if you dare to reach."

Her eyes flicked back to the circling dragon, scales glinting emerald in the sunlight. 

Nella's fingers trembled as she traced a tentative line along Vermax's scaled neck. Each ridge beneath her touch was alive, shifting slightly under her hand, and the heat of his body radiated through her palm. The dragon's massive head dipped just enough to meet her movements, as though acknowledging her presence, testing her resolve. Her breath hitched, a cocktail of fear and awe tightening her chest.

Jacaerys's voice was soft, patient, yet filled with undeniable authority. "See? He accepts you. He feels your hesitation... but he trusts you, if only you trust yourself."

As Nella settled against Vermax's powerful flank, gripping the ridges of his scales with a mixture of fear and exhilaration, Jacaerys allowed himself a small, amused smile. "You know," he said, voice light but teasing, "watching you there... I might almost believe you were a lost Targaryen yourself. Calm, daring... fearless where most would falter."

Nella blinked at him, a flush rising to her cheeks as a nervous laugh escaped. "A princess?" she whispered, incredulous. "I'm barely holding on, let alone commanding a dragon."

"Precisely," Jacaerys replied, his grin widening. "Yet you do it. That courage—raw, untrained, and unafraid—is exactly what a dragon respects. Vermax senses it. I'm just saying... if the realm had more of your sort of daring, perhaps it wouldn't be in such peril."

Her laughter grew, shaky but genuine, easing some of the tension in her chest. "I... I can't believe I'm doing this," she whispered, almost to herself. "It's... impossible."

"Impossible is just the word of those who've never tried," Jacaerys replied, stepping closer. His hand rested lightly on the dragon's flank, steadying her nerves by proximity. "Now... if you feel ready, I'll help you up. One step at a time."

Her pulse raced as she looked up at the enormity of Vermax, wings folded like sails of emerald silk. The ground seemed impossibly far below, yet the thought of touching the sky made her chest ache with a strange longing.

"I... I don't know if I can," she admitted again, voice barely audible.

"You can," he said firmly, meeting her gaze. "I'll be with you the entire way. Just place your foot here..." He lifted her, guiding her gently to the first ridge along the dragon's side. "And hold on. He's calm, but he can feel fear as well as courage."

Her hands gripped the ridges of scales, rough and warm, and she felt a shiver of exhilaration race through her. The dragon's muscles tensed beneath her as if sensing her readiness. Jacaerys offered a reassuring nod. "When you're ready, lean forward and let him rise. Trust him... trust yourself."

Vermax shifted beneath her, muscles coiling and flexing with terrifying grace. Nella's stomach lurched as Jacaerys's voice cut through the wind. "Hold tight. Trust him. Trust yourself."

The ground seemed to slip away as the dragon's massive wings unfurled, catching the air with a deafening roar. Nella gripped the ridges along his neck, knuckles white, heart hammering so loudly she thought Vermax might hear it. The first lift was jarring, a sudden tug that pressed her against his scaled body, but she held on, trembling.

And then—weightlessness.

Her breath caught in her throat. Below, Winterfell shrank into a mosaic of stone walls and green hills. The wind whipped her hair around her face, stinging her cheeks, and the sun glinted off the dragon's green scales, making them shimmer like liquid emerald. Fear mingled with exhilaration, and a laugh—small, incredulous, and pure—escaped her lips.

"This... this is...!" she gasped, words failing her as Vermax arched into the sky, smooth and effortless. The valley, the forests, the distant mountains—they all stretched out in breathtaking panorama. She felt suspended between earth and heaven, her heartbeat thrumming in tandem with the dragon's powerful wings.

Jacaerys's hand brushed hers briefly, steadying her against the movement, and his eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. "Not bad for your first flight," he said, his voice carrying over the wind. "You've got the courage of a storm, Nella."

Courage. The word struck her like a revelation. She had lived through loss, fear, and captivity, yet here she was—suspended high above the world, feeling the raw, unbound freedom she had thought forever lost. A shiver of delight ran through her, part terror, part triumph.

"Keep your weight centered," Jacaerys instructed, guiding her subtly, "and let him feel your balance. Dragons respond to that... to your heart."

Nella's chest swelled with a wild, electric rhythm as she felt Vermax beneath her—alive, powerful, and utterly unlike anything she had ever known. Every beat of his wings, every subtle shift of muscle beneath her hands, seemed to echo her own pulse, as if the dragon and she shared a single, soaring heartbeat.

A scream tore from her lips, part laughter, part shock, a sound raw and untamed. The wind whipped through her hair, stinging her cheeks, and for the first time in years, she felt the weight of the world lift. She flung her head back, eyes closed, letting the rush of air fill her lungs, letting the exhilaration carry her higher and higher.

Jacaerys's gaze found her in that moment, soft and steady, filled with a tenderness that made her heart flutter despite the fear and excitement. He watched her with quiet awe, as if seeing her truly alive for the first time, and something unspoken passed between them in that shared silence—an acknowledgment of courage, of freedom, of the fragile, fleeting beauty of this soaring instant.

Then, after a while, the wind's roar gradually softened as Vermax leveled out, gliding in wide arcs above the forests and hills surrounding Winterfell. Nella's hands loosened their grip, resting lightly on the dragon's scales as she let the steady rhythm of his flight fill her senses. She felt the world below shrink, the worries and pain that had weighed so heavily on her only hours ago reduced to nothing more than distant murmurs.

Jacaerys's presence was a quiet anchor beside her. She could feel the strength and certainty in him, even without looking, and when she did, his gaze held a calm encouragement that made her chest ache in a way she hadn't expected. As Vermax banked gently over a rising ridge, Nella's laughter faded into a soft gasp, the wind tugging at her hair. Her fingers, almost unconsciously, reached out and brushed against Jacaerys's hand. The contact was brief, tentative—electric in its simplicity.

He didn't pull away. Instead, his hand shifted just enough to meet hers fully, warm and steady against the cold rush of air. Nella's pulse quickened, a mixture of fear, exhilaration, and a strange, unspoken understanding passing between them.

"Not many would dare this," he said softly, his voice carrying over the wind, intimate in its closeness. "But you... you seem to belong up here, with the sky beneath you."

She swallowed, her chest tightening. "I... I've never felt so... free. Or... seen," she admitted, voice trembling. "Like I'm... finally not carrying everything by myself."

His gaze met hers, steady and unwavering, and in that look, Nella felt something profound: acknowledgment, respect, and a tenderness that went beyond words. "You don't have to carry it alone," he said, his thumb brushing lightly over hers. "Not today. Not while we're up here."

For a long moment, suspended above Winterfell, the two of them shared the quiet intimacy of the flight—the rush of wind, the heartbeat of a dragon beneath them, and the warmth of hands finally meeting. Nella laughed again, quieter this time, a sound mingled with relief and wonder, feeling for the first time in years that perhaps someone could see all of her—and still choose to stay. 

Chapter Text

The dragon had landed hours ago, but the exhilaration of flight still hummed through Nella's veins. The sky above Winterfell had returned to its pale blue calm, and the hills stretched quietly around them as they walked back toward the castle on foot. Vermax had been returned to his stables, the dragon's tail flicking lazily as he watched them leave, eyes bright with intelligence.

Jacaerys walked a careful pace beside her, glancing at her now and then, the easy confidence of flight giving way to a gentler, more human presence. "You handled that far better than most," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Most would have panicked the moment we left the ground."

Jacaerys glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips, the kind that carried both amusement and understanding. "It shows," he said quietly, the wind tousling his hair. "You embraced it, even after everything you've carried. That's... rare."

Nella hesitated, then looked up at him, curiosity and caution threading her tone. "And you... what about your family? Do you... do you get to enjoy moments like this often? Or is it all duty, and expectation?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he thought. "Duty weighs heavily, as you might imagine. I am Rhaenyra Targaryen's eldest, therefore heir to the iron throne. My father... Lord Laenor Velaryon, died when I was seven. Too young to understand it fully at the time, but old enough to feel the absence of a father's guidance."

Nella's eyes flicked to him, curiosity and sympathy mixing in her expression.

"I have three younger brothers," he continued, a faint warmth in his tone. "Lucerys, Aegon, and Viserys. They keep me grounded... and remind me constantly of the weight of expectations. Of the blood we carry, the duties we cannot escape." He chuckled softly, a shadow of wistfulness in the sound. "And yet... sometimes I envy them, in a way. Childhood stolen too early, but still... together, protected. Not like me, perhaps."

Nella swallowed, the ache in her chest mingling with a strange empathy. "I... I think I understand that," she whispered. "Even when I was little... House Flint was cold. My father... he never saw me as a daughter. He punished me for simply existing. My mother... she died when I was born—or shortly after. I barely remember her. My family... they were never a place of warmth, of protection. Only... fear and pain."

Jacaerys's steps slowed. His expression, usually so composed, softened, revealing a rare flicker of sorrow. "I cannot imagine such cruelty. And yet, you survived it. You've survived more than most could bear."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, a bitter laugh escaping. "Survived, yes. Scarred, yes. I've spent years being used, discarded... and sometimes it still feels like I'm that little girl, trapped, helpless, haunted by all that I could not control."

He looked at her with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "And yet, today... today you rode a dragon. You soared above Winterfell. That little girl... she's still there, yes—but she is also something else now. Stronger. Braver. Alive in ways they could never have imagined."

Nella's chest tightened, a tremor of both sorrow and awe passing through her. "Maybe... maybe that's why flying mattered. For once, I felt like... myself. Not a tool, not a victim. Just... me."

He nodded, a soft, approving smile tugging at his lips. "Hold onto that, Nella. Let it guide you, even when the weight of the world—or of the past—feels unbearable."

She glanced at him, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them: respect, understanding, and perhaps the beginnings of a fragile trust that neither had expected to find. The gates of Winterfell rose before them, cold grey stone softened only by the late afternoon sun. Nella slowed her pace, feeling the solid earth beneath her feet again after the dizzying heights of Vermax's flight. The wind had tamed itself, leaving only the faint scent of pine and smoke in its wake.

Jacaerys matched her step, his presence calm, almost grounding after the exhilaration of the dragon. They passed the courtyard, still echoing with the distant clatter of soldiers and the faint hum of castle life. For a moment, the normalcy of it all felt jarring, as if they were returning from a world entirely their own.

"Back on the ground," he said softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Everything looks... smaller, doesn't it?"

Nella laughed, brushing a strand of white hair from her face. "Smaller, yes—but somehow heavier too. All the things I carry... they feel closer again." Her voice faltered, and she looked away, toward the tall walls and the shadows of the towers.

Jacaerys's gaze lingered on her, tender and probing. "You carried a lot up there, Nella. And somehow... you still managed to let go, even if only for a few hours."

She hesitated, swallowing. "It's strange. I... I felt free. Lighter. But now... now I wonder if I'll ever feel that way without the wind beneath me."

"You can," he said quietly. "It isn't just the dragons that give you flight. Some of it... comes from knowing what you are capable of, from trusting yourself."

The gates of Winterfell opened, and servants glanced curiously at the pair, though none dared interrupt. Nella drew a deep breath, steeling herself against the return to reality.

"Thank you," she murmured, almost to herself, then louder, "for... showing me that."

Jacaerys's eyes softened further, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. He said nothing, simply letting her words settle in the space between them.

As they stepped inside, the stone corridors of Winterfell felt colder, heavier than the open sky but then, a sudden, piercing scream froze her mid-step. Her chest tightened. The sound... it was hauntingly familiar. A memory clawed its way back—shrieks echoing through the narrow corridors of the brothel, the terror, the helplessness.

"Mira..." Nella's heart lurched. She didn't hesitate, breaking into a run toward the source. The hallways blurred past her, stone and torchlight melting together, she  ran toward the source, heart hammering, and burst into the chamber. 

Mira was there, crouched over the bed, her face ghostly pale, sweat dampening her hair, every muscle straining with pain. Her hands clutched at the sheets as another scream ripped from her throat.

"Mira!" Nella cried, rushing to her side. She grabbed her friend's trembling hand, gripping it tightly. "Oh, Mira... you're pale. Exhausted... what's happening?"

Mira gasped, her face contorted, voice a raw whisper between screams. "Nella... it hurts so much... I can't... I—"

"You're not alone," Nella said firmly, her own voice steadying despite her panic. "I'm here. I'm right here. Just hold on."

Another scream escaped Mira, and Nella squeezed her hand, willing her strength to pass through. "Breathe... as best you can. I'm with you. Every step."

Mira's eyes flickered up, glistening with pain and relief. "It... it hurts... more than I imagined... please, Nella..."

Nella's hand trembled in Mira's grip as she glanced around the chamber. Maesters hovered, faces pale and lips pressed tight, whispering nervously among themselves. Their eyes flicked to her, as if daring her to intervene, but Nella ignored them.

"Mira..." she murmured, voice urgent but soft. "I'm right here. I won't leave you."

Mira's face twisted in pain, her voice raw. "Nella... I... I'm going to die... I can feel it... it's too much..."

Nella's heart clenched. She tightened her grip, brushing damp hair from Mira's forehead. "No. You're not going anywhere. Not today. You're going to meet your child, and I'll be right here."

Desperate, she turned to the nearest maester. "Tell me—what's happening? Why is she so pale? Why—why does it look like this?"

The older man swallowed, his hands trembling as he adjusted his robes. "Her... her body... the child is... the babe will not come. She is trapped... and... and I fear... she may not survive this, my lady."

Nella's blood ran ice cold. "No," she spat, her voice sharp with defiance. "You will not speak like that. She's not dying."

Mira whimpered, voice barely a whisper. "Nella... I... I can't... I can't make it... I'm... I'm going to die..."

Nella ignored the maesters now, ignoring the fear in their eyes. She sank back to Mira's side, gripping her hands tightly. "Shush," she said firmly, voice unwavering. "None of that. You're stronger than this. You will live. You will meet your baby. I promise you."

Mira's trembling hands clutched hers harder, her tears mingling with sweat. "It hurts... it's too much... I can't."

"I know," Nella whispered, brushing her face close to Mira's, letting her hear the steadiness in her tone. "I know it does. But I'm here. And you're not alone. Not ever."

The chamber throbbed with tension, every gasp and cry magnified against the stone walls. Mira's screams tore through the air, ragged and desperate, each contraction shaking her body violently. Nella pressed herself to her friend's side, gripping her hands, trying to anchor her through the terror.

"Push, Mira! One more time! You can do this!" Nella urged, her voice raw, fierce, shaking with panic she refused to let show.

The maesters’ faces were pale, sweat gleaming along their brows as they hovered with trembling hands, instruments poised but hesitant. Every heartbeat stretched thin as a blade. “The child… it’s stuck—” one muttered under his breath, voice cracking with fear.

“Don’t you dare say that!” Nella snapped, her voice a whip that cut through the panic. Her white hair clung damp to her face, eyes blazing like cold fire. She seized the maester’s wrist with surprising strength. “She will live. The child will live. Now help her!”

Mira’s scream ripped through the chamber, raw, ragged, animal. Her body arched against the bed, knuckles white as she clawed at the sheets. Tears streamed down her cheeks, lips trembling around half-sobs, half-prayers. “I—I can’t,” she gasped, voice breaking, her chest heaving. “It won’t—oh gods, it won’t come—”

Nella bent close, so close Mira could feel her breath against her ear, her words like anchors in the storm. “Yes, you can. You must. Listen to me, Mira. Breathe. Push. You are stronger than this pain—you are stronger than anyone knows. I will not let anything take you from me. Do you hear?”

The chamber was chaos—the crackle of fire, the hiss of boiling water, the frantic shuffle of feet—but between them, there was only the rhythm of Mira’s labored breaths and Nella’s low, steady insistence.

“Push, now,” Nella urged, her hand gripping Mira’s slick, trembling fingers. “Push as if you mean to tear the world open.”

Mira cried out again, a sound so raw it rattled the maesters where they stood. Her face was contorted with agony, sweat glistening, but still she bore down, every muscle straining, her body shaking with the effort. The chamber seemed to tilt, the silence of held breaths punctuated by her cries.

And then—suddenly—a shift. A subtle give. The tension broke like a storm cloud split by lightning. The wet, piercing cry of a newborn split the air. A sound so small, so fierce, it filled the chamber and drowned out every whisper of death that had hovered moments before.

Nella’s heart slammed against her ribs. She surged forward, hands steady where the maesters’ faltered, catching the tiny, wriggling form. Heat, slickness, fragility—life itself pulsed against her palms.

“A boy,” one of the maesters breathed, awed, but Nella scarcely heard. All she saw was the child’s chest rising, the tiny fists clenched, the furious wail that told the world he was here.

Nella cradled the infant close, her voice trembling for the first time that night. “Alive,” she whispered fiercely, pressing her lips to his damp brow. “You’re alive. You both are.”

She turned back to Mira, whose face was pale and damp, eyes glassy with exhaustion and tears. Nella pressed the babe into her arms, her own throat tightening as she whispered, “See? You did it. You brought him into the world. He’s here because of your strength.”

Without hesitation, she guided the newborn gently into Mira's trembling arms. Mira's body sagged against the bed, her eyes fluttering, breath shallow, but instinctively, she held her child. "I... I..." she whispered, voice barely audible, "I can't... see..."

Nella pressed closer, brushing damp hair from Mira's forehead. "Look! Look at them, Mira. You did this. They're here. They're alive. You're alive... you're here."

Mira’s fingers curled weakly around the baby’s swaddled body, trembling as though even the weight of her child was too much to bear. Her breaths came shallow, ragged, each one sounding fainter than the last. Her eyes, glassy with pain, tried to focus, but shadows crept in at the edges of her vision.

“He… he is… beautiful…” she whispered, her voice no stronger than the rustle of silk in the wind. Her gaze lifted to Nella for the briefest of moments, and she managed the ghost of a smile. “Nella… do you see him?”

Nella’s throat burned, her tears hot against her chilled cheeks. She caught Mira’s frail hand and pressed it closer to the babe. “Yes—I see him. He’s perfect. But don’t you dare leave him. Don’t you dare leave me. Stay with me, Mira! Please!”

The baby squirmed softly, letting out a thin, needy wail that filled the chamber with life even as Mira’s own seemed to ebb away. She tried to shush him with trembling lips, her voice breaking into a cough. “Hush, little one… hush… Mama’s here…”

Her body shook with the effort, and her head rolled weakly against the pillow. Still, she fought to lift her eyes toward Nella again. There was sorrow there, but also a fragile kind of peace. “Promise me…” she breathed, words slipping like sand through her fingers. “Promise me… you’ll love him… enough for us both…”

Nella shook her head violently, sobbing now, her voice cracking with each desperate word. “No, no, don’t say that! He needs you! I need you! Don’t leave me to raise him without you—don’t you dare give him only half of what he deserves. Fight, Mira, please!”

Mira tried to smile again, though her lips were pale, her strength all but gone. She pressed her mouth briefly against the baby’s forehead, a trembling kiss, before leaning back. Her voice was barely audible, yet every word carved itself into Nella’s heart. “Live… for him… for them… for me…”

Her fingers slipped in Nella’s grasp, falling limp against the blankets. The rise and fall of her chest stilled. The light dimmed from her eyes, leaving only emptiness.

“No…” The word tore from Nella’s throat, jagged and raw. She clutched Mira’s hand, shaking it, pressing it to the baby’s body as if to force warmth back into her friend’s veins. “No, Mira! You can’t leave like this! Look at him—he needs you! He’ll always need you!”

But Mira’s silence was final. The only answer was the baby’s cries, high and piercing, a sound that seemed to echo against the stone walls with a cruel kind of defiance—life demanding to be heard even as death claimed the mother who bore it.

Nella sank to her knees beside the bed, the weight of the world pressing against her chest. Mira lay there, pale and still, the life that had once burned so fiercely extinguished. The sheets beneath her were dark with blood, her clothes soaked, clinging to the contours of a body that had given everything and received nothing in return.

Nella's hands trembled violently as she clutched the tiny, wailing baby to her chest. Its small, frantic cries echoed in the silent room, a cruel contrast to the stillness of the woman who had just borne it. Mira was gone. Mira, who had trusted her, who had laughed with her, who had endured so much—and now the only thing left of her was this fragile life in Nella's arms.

Nella pressed the baby closer, feeling the fragile weight of him against her chest. He was perfect and terrifyingly small, a life freshly carved out of grief and blood. Mira hadn't had the chance to name him—her friend's voice silenced before that final, ordinary joy could be hers.

Nella's hands shook as she gently stroked his tiny cheek, eyes burning with tears. "You... you don't have a name yet," she whispered, her voice raw. "But you... you're still here. And you'll have one. You'll have a name, and it will matter."

She closed her eyes, thinking of Mira, thinking of the strength and courage that had brought him into the world. She wanted the name to carry life, hope, and remembrance. Slowly, her lips formed the word, tentative but sure.

"Your name... will be Elric," she said softly, the sound of it rolling off her tongue like a promise. "Elric... you are Mira's blood, Mira's love, and you will live. I swear it."

The baby cried in response, small fists clenching, a tiny breath escaping him, and Nella felt a strange, fragile warmth bloom through her grief. Mira was gone—but Elric had come, a piece of her friend enduring, a legacy she would carry with her through the darkness.

She pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, whispering through tears, "Elric... you are safe. I will keep you safe. Always."

Her chest ached as the sobs shook her body, the horrifying weight of responsibility settling over her like a stone. The only thing alive in the room, the only thing breathing, the only thing to hold onto—was this tiny, fragile life. Nella's gaze remained fixed on the infant, her fingers brushing damp hair from its forehead, willing herself to stay strong, even as her heart shattered beside Mira's lifeless form.

The maesters, seeing her determination and the intensity of her grief, slowly stepped back, leaving Nella alone with the baby. And there, kneeling beside the bed, in the blood-stained room, she realized the bitter truth: everything had ended, and yet, everything depended on her now.

Chapter Text

The small clearing beyond the northern woods was quiet, save for the whisper of the wind through skeletal branches and the low crackle of the pyre. Nella stood beside it, her hands trembling as she cradled Bram, Mira's small son, in her arms. His weight was heavy in her grief-stricken heart, a living reminder of the friend she had lost. The air smelled of pine, smoke, and something far more permanent—death.

Mira's body lay atop the pyre, her pale face serene for the first time in hours, surrounded by the simple garb of her life. Only Cregan, her husband, and Nella had come. No grand farewells, no voices raised in lamentation—just the wind, the fire, and the three of them standing against the cold reality of mortality.

The fire caught quickly, dry wood crackling as flames licked upward, hungrily devouring the shroud. The pyre glowed brighter with each breath of wind, the heat pushing back the night, but no warmth could touch the frozen hollow in Nella’s chest.

The shape upon the flames—so still, so achingly familiar—blurred through her tears. Mira. Her Mira. The girl who had laughed with her in stolen moments, who had held her hand through storms and shadows, who had whispered promises of tomorrow. All of it was ash now, swallowed in orange light. Nella’s arms tightened around the infant pressed against her breast. Bram stirred faintly, his small mouth opening in a soft whimper, as if he too felt the loss, as if some thread had been cut before he’d even learned the sound of his mother’s voice.

“Shh… hush, little one,” Nella whispered, her voice trembling, breaking apart.

But the words rang hollow against the roar of the fire. For every promise she gave, the truth of Mira’s absence burned deeper. Her throat clenched with the sobs she tried to swallow, but the tears betrayed her, falling heavy and unrelenting, streaking down her face in silence. She pressed her cheek against Bram’s downy head, rocking gently as though she could soothe both child and heart alike. His warmth was a fragile anchor, a small flame against the cold storm of grief threatening to drag her under.

“I wasn’t ready…” Her whisper cracked, carried away by the wind. “You weren’t meant to leave me yet. We still had so much—so many days, so many nights—” Her voice broke entirely, the words dissolving into quiet sobs.

The fire roared higher, sparks scattering like stars into the dark sky, and in their fleeting glow Nella thought she saw Mira’s smile again—soft, fleeting, gone in an instant.

Clutching Bram tighter, she let the silence fall between her tears and the crackling fire, her grief spilling unspoken into the night. The flames consumed, the wood splintered, the body vanished to ash—but the weight of loss remained, heavy and endless.

Cregan stepped beside her, his presence both comforting and painful. He was silent at first, watching the fire consume Mira's body with that restrained northern grief that marked him. Then, softly, almost a murmur against the roar of the flames, he said, "She was fierce. She was... alive, Nella. She loved with everything she had."

Nella's grip on Bram tightened, a fresh wave of grief rising. "I— I couldn't... I couldn't save her," she whispered, her voice raw, choking on the words. "She... she gave life, and I..."

Cregan's hand hovered over her shoulder, then rested lightly there. "No," he said, firm but gentle. "You did what you could. She lived because of you until the very end. You held her, Nella. That is more than most ever do for anyone."

She looked up at him, eyes red and swollen, and saw his grief mirrored in his icy gaze. "And now... she's gone," she said, her voice breaking. Bram whimpered, and she hugged him closer, feeling the weight of two lives lost and entrusted to her care.

Cregan's jaw tightened, and for a moment, he was quiet again, only the fire speaking between them. Then, slowly, he murmured, "We honor her best by keeping them safe... both of them. Mira may be gone, but her fire... it lives in her children. And in you, Nella. Never forget that."

Nella swallowed the lump in her throat, letting the words sink in. She shifted Bram in her arms, rocking him gently as his small whimpers blended with the crackle of the fire.

Cregan's gaze lingered on the pyre for a long moment more before he turned toward her. His expression was hard in the way the North made its men, but his eyes—gray as the winter sea—softened when they met hers.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached down and touched her free hand, his palm warm against her chilled skin. It wasn't a grip meant to claim or lead—just a steady, grounding presence. His thumb brushed over her knuckles once, a small motion, but it anchored her as surely as if he had wrapped her in furs.

Nella drew in a shuddering breath. Her instinct was to pull away, to guard the fragile shell she'd built around her grief, but she didn't. She let his hand rest there, solid and real, while the fire consumed what remained of Mira.

"You're not alone in this," Cregan murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

Her throat tightened, and she nodded, unable to trust her voice. In that small, wordless moment, she understood that the weight she carried—Bram's life, Mira's memory—wasn't hers alone to bear.

Nella trudged through the snow-laden courtyard, Bram bundled tightly in her arms, his small weight pressing against her chest. Each step toward the gates of Winterfell felt heavier than the last, as though the castle itself sensed the void Mira had left behind. The wind tugged at her hair, carrying with it the lingering scent of smoke and ash, a cruel reminder of the life that had been extinguished.

Inside the walls, the warmth of the hearths did little to thaw the chill in her chest. Every familiar corridor seemed impossibly silent without Mira's laughter or presence. She kept Bram close, whispering soft reassurances to him—even as she struggled to convince herself that they were true.

Setting him on the floor for a brief moment, she watched his small fingers curl around the edge of her cloak. His eyes, wide and uncomprehending, followed her every movement. Nella's chest tightened; the enormity of her new role pressed down on her with unrelenting force. She was no longer just Nella. She was his guardian, his shield, his mother in all but name.

Sitting by the fire in her chambers, Bram finally lulled to quiet by her rocking, Nella stared into the flames. She felt the ache of grief and exhaustion intertwine with the fierce, raw impulse to protect this fragile life Mira had left behind. Every instinct she had honed surviving the streets, the brothel, and the horrors of captivity now turned inward, focused entirely on him.

Her fingers brushed against his soft cheek, and she whispered fiercely, almost to herself, "I will keep you safe, Bram. I swear it." Her voice cracked, a mixture of mourning and determination. Tears streaked her cheeks, unnoticed by the child who now napped in her arms.

For a moment, she allowed herself to lean back against the wall, the firelight casting shadows across her pale hair. The weight of responsibility pressed upon her, and yet, alongside it, a stubborn spark of resolve kindled. She would mourn Mira, yes—but she would raise Bram. She would teach him love, safety, and courage in a world that had shown them both so little of it.

The fire's glow softened the harsh lines of her grief, Bram warm against her chest, his small breaths feathering against her collarbone. She had almost begun to lose herself in the quiet—until movement at the doorway caught her eye.

Mira's husband stood there, framed by the dim light of the corridor. His face was pale and drawn, the weight of loss pressing heavily in his posture. For a moment, neither spoke; the air between them was thick with things unsaid.

He stepped closer, his voice low but steady. "I'll be leaving for my castle before the week's end," he said, eyes fixed not on her, but on the sleeping boy in her arms. "And... I'll be taking Elric with me. He's my heir now."

Nella's arms instinctively tightened around Bram—as if she could shield him from the words. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

The man's gaze finally lifted to hers. "I want to thank you," he said, the gratitude in his tone tempered by sorrow. "For everything you did for Mira. Even in her last moments... you were there for her when I could not be."

Nella swallowed hard, blinking back the burn in her eyes. His words were a quiet blade—both a kindness and a reminder of the inevitability she'd been avoiding.

He gave her a small, almost formal nod, then turned and walked away, leaving her with the child still nestled in her arms and the cold ache of knowing that, soon, he would be gone from them too.

The door clicked softly behind him, and the silence of Winterfell's halls pressed down on her again. She stayed frozen for a moment, the warmth of Bram in her arms a fragile tether to reality. Her chest ached—not just with grief for Mira, but with the sudden, looming emptiness of knowing the boy would soon leave her.

Tears slid unbidden down her cheeks, warm and bitter against the chill of the stone floor. She rocked Bram gently, whispering fragments of promises she wasn't sure she could keep. "I... I'll take care of you... just a little longer... I swear, I'll keep you safe..."

Her fingers traced the soft curve of his cheek, the tiny weight of him so impossibly small in her arms. For a moment, the grief threatened to overwhelm her entirely, and she buried her face in his hair, letting the sobs come unrestrained. The sound echoed through the empty hall, a private lament for a friend lost and a future she could not yet imagine.

Every heartbeat reminded her that life went on despite loss, that she had a responsibility now far greater than her own sorrow. Slowly, trembling, she lifted her head, eyes red and raw, and whispered fiercely to herself: "I will protect him. I will. Mira... I won't let him forget you."

She straightened, rocking Bram gently as she took the first careful steps back toward the warmth of the castle, her grief still heavy, but mingled now with a fragile determination.

Weeks slipped quietly through Winterfell's cold corridors, each day measured in Bram's small, steady changes. He had grown heavier in her arms, his laugh brighter, his steps more confident. His dark eyes—so like Mira's—seemed to drink in the world, and when he smiled, it was like a sliver of sunlight breaking through a long winter.

That afternoon, Nella sat near the hearth, watching him on the rug with a small set of carved wooden figurines—wolves, knights, a few soldiers lined in crooked ranks. Bram's chubby hands moved them with purpose only he understood, his little voice mumbling imagined battles and victories.

She didn't hear the footsteps until a deep voice came from behind.

"It's the best sight in the world," Cregan said, his tone soft but carrying weight.

Nella turned, finding him standing in the firelight, eyes fixed on Bram with a softness she rarely saw from him.

"I could watch him for hours," she admitted quietly.

Cregan took a slow step closer. "I never thought I'd see such life in him—or in anyone, really," he said. "He has Mira's eyes... and somehow, he has your patience."

She smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Patience... I think he's the one teaching me that, more than I could teach him. Every day, he reminds me there's still something worth fighting for."

Nella’s eyes softened as she watched Bram. The weight of sorrow never left her—it lingered like a shadow at the edge of every smile—but in moments like this, it loosened, just enough for her heart to breathe. The fire’s glow caught in Bram’s hair, gilding him in warmth, and for a heartbeat, the world felt gentle again.

Her fingers brushed absently over the table’s rough grain, tracing patterns she didn’t notice, her thoughts quiet for the first time in what felt like ages. The ache of Mira’s absence pressed against her, but it was different now—not an open wound, but a scar she carried in silence. Watching Bram’s small hands grasp at the toy, so determined, so alive, she realized that grief and hope had woven themselves together, inseparable.

When Bram looked up at her suddenly, eyes wide and bright, and reached out with a delighted squeal, Nella’s breath caught. A smile—real, unguarded—bloomed across her lips, softening the hardness sorrow had carved there.

Cregan's gaze lingered on her, a flicker of unspoken understanding in his eyes. "And what about you, Nella? Do you... want more of this?"

She hesitated, the ache in her chest pressing against the warmth of the hearth. "Yes," she said finally, her voice low, trembling slightly. "I want children of my own. I want to hold them, watch them grow, see the world through their eyes... and I want to give them everything I can that Mira never had the chance to give Bram."

Nella turned, finding him standing in the firelight, eyes fixed on Bram with a softness she rarely saw from him. "And you will be a father, too, Cregan, soon. You'll share this sight. This joy."

Her words lingered between them, soft but weighty, like a bell tolling in the quiet room. She didn't need to name the ache that pressed against her ribs—the ache of loss, of longing, of knowing what it meant to cradle life in her arms while mourning what had been taken. It pulsed there, steady and insistent, a reminder that joy and grief often walked hand in hand.

Cregan's gaze met hers, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them: Bram's laughter echoing faintly from the rug, the crackle of the fire, the subtle tremor in Nella's voice. His hand moved, hesitating, then brushed hers in a tentative gesture—small, but deliberate, a quiet acknowledgment of her grief and the unspoken truths she carried.

The warmth of his touch startled her—not because it was unwelcome, but because of how much it steadied her. For a heartbeat, she didn't breathe, her gaze locked with his, the air between them heavy with things neither dared to say aloud.

Her fingers twitched faintly beneath his, almost as if they wanted to hold on. But she didn't. She couldn't.

Instead, she let her eyes drift back to Bram, who was now making two wooden wolves clash in an imagined battle, his laughter bright and unbroken. "He'll grow fast," she murmured. "One day we'll look up, and he won't be small anymore. These moments... they vanish before you know it."

Cregan's voice was low, almost thoughtful. "Then we hold onto them while we can."

Something in his tone, in the way he said we, pulled at her. She almost turned to look at him again, but she feared what she might see there—what she might feel. So she just nodded, her hand still tingling from the brief, deliberate brush of his fingers, and told herself that the ache in her chest was only from the memory of Mira... not from the man standing beside her.

Chapter Text

The courtyard of Winterfell was stark in the late autumn chill, the cold wind slicing through furs and cloaks with a sharp insistence. Nella drew her shawl closer around her shoulders, watching the black ravens wheel above the stone walls, their wings cutting through the gray sky like slow, deliberate knives. Each flap seemed to echo the silence she had carried inside herself for weeks—the quiet that had settled after Mira's funeral, after Bram had fallen asleep in her arms each night, leaving her to wrestle with exhaustion and grief.

Her eyes caught Jacaerys before she even heard the clamor of the approaching messenger. He moved along the edge of the courtyard, shoulders squared but somehow heavier than the day before, head tilted slightly forward, as if the weight of the wind itself pressed down upon him. His dark cloak whipped around his legs, and for a fleeting moment, Nella thought she could see him waver, as though the world's burden threatened to topple him.

There was a pause in the way he walked, a subtle tightening of his jaw, a hand brushing absentmindedly against the hilt of his sword—a ritual of control she recognized from her own long years of keeping calm when the world refused to bend. Something in his eyes was different, darker, as if he carried news he had not yet spoken aloud.

Nella instinctively took a step closer, though she did not call to him. The wind gusted between them, carrying the faint scent of smoke from the kitchens and the stinging promise of winter approaching. And in that silence, she understood before anyone said a word: this was no ordinary heaviness, no trivial concern. Something had shifted, and the air itself seemed to tighten around Jacaerys, pulling at the edges of her chest.

The prince turned, and Nella saw the subtle shift in his posture—the brief stiffening of his shoulders, the way his jaw set. The rider bowed low, breath clouding in the cold air.

Nella's chest tightened. She could see it before the words fully landed. Jacaerys' hand curled slightly at his side, knuckles pale beneath his glove. His eyes, usually bright with purpose or mischief, narrowed. He absorbed the words silently.

Jacaerys' breath hitched once, a subtle, almost imperceptible tremor. His face tightened, not in the explosive grief of youth, but in the deep, quiet way of someone carrying a lifetime of loss all at once. He bowed his head briefly, then lifted it, eyes distant, fixed somewhere beyond the walls of Winterfell.

Nella's stomach clenched. She had seen loss before, in the sterile cold of Maester's chambers, in the dying whispers of Mira, in the burning, empty ache of a realm at war—but this... this was different. The grief was patient, cold, and heavy. It wrapped around Jacaerys like the frost around the northern stones, and she felt it echo in her own chest.

He turned to the messenger, voice measured but low, almost brittle. "Thank you. That will be all." The man bowed and hurried away, leaving only the wind and the heavy silence that seemed to pulse in the courtyard.

Nella watched as Jacaerys closed his eyes briefly, one hand brushing at his temple, a silent prayer, or perhaps a final farewell. She wished she could say something, anything, to bridge the vast gulf of sorrow she could feel radiating from him—but the words would have been empty. Only silence could honor this loss, only presence.

Jacaerys walked without purpose at first, as if the cold stone of Winterfell's courtyard could absorb his grief. Nella kept a careful distance, silent, watching him. The air was sharp, each breath visible in the winter light, but she barely noticed it—her eyes were on him, on the subtle tremor of his gloved hand, the tension in his shoulders.

Finally, he stopped, mid-stride, and she instinctively slowed, unsure if he wanted her near. Then he turned toward her, and she saw it—tears glimmering at the edges of his dark eyes, the kind of sorrow that no pride or training could hide.

"I... I promised him," Jacaerys said, his voice breaking, ragged and raw. "I promised Lucerys he'd be safe. I swore it, over and over... and now..." His throat closed, strangling the words, and he dropped his gaze to the floor as though ashamed to even look at her. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles bone-white.

For a long, stifled moment, he tried to hold himself together, but the dam broke all the same. The tears came, sudden and relentless, his chest heaving as if the weight of the world had finally crushed him down. "He's... gone," he choked out, each word tearing through him like a blade. "My brother... my little brother... he's dead."

Nella froze, the breath caught in her throat. The shock of his words hollowed her chest, the truth like ice pressed into her heart. She had seen death—held it in her arms, felt its merciless silence—but hearing it here, from him, was different. It was as though she could feel the very moment his soul fractured, and the echo of that break reverberated through her own.

Her lips parted, but no words came. What balm could she offer against a grief so jagged, so deep? Words felt fragile, breakable things, incapable of holding the storm that consumed him. And yet her silence felt crueler still.

Her hand trembled as she reached toward him, fingers brushing the air between them. "I'm so sorry, Jacaerys," she whispered at last, her voice barely more than a breath. "I know that hollow ache. I've felt it myself... and it does not fade easily."

His head lifted slightly, his eyes finding hers through the blur of tears. In that gaze, she saw the rawest truth of him—the prince stripped bare of duty, armor, and bloodline. He was just a boy who had loved, and lost, and could not forgive himself for surviving.

"I should have protected him," he rasped, the words spilling out in a rush. "I should have been faster, stronger, anything. He was mine to guard, and I failed him. I failed Lucerys."

"You couldn’t," Nella said softly, her voice firm even as her own throat tightened. She stepped closer, the distance between them unbearable. "No one could. Fate is cruel... crueler than we ever imagine. But that does not make you a failure. It makes you human."

Her hand hovered for only a breath longer before she gestured gently toward the bed. Her eyes told him what words could not: you don’t have to carry this alone.

Hesitant, broken, he moved toward her. The silence stretched between them until suddenly, as if something inside him finally shattered, he collapsed onto the edge of the bed. His body folded forward, his forehead pressing against her lap. His shoulders shook violently as sobs wracked through him, muffled and raw against the fabric of her dress.

Nella’s hands trembled, then steadied as she lowered them into his hair, stroking it softly. She said nothing—there were no words strong enough, no promises sure enough. But she let her touch speak the vow her lips could not form: you are not alone in this grief.

Her hand slid into his dark hair, fingers weaving gently through it, the way one might soothe a frightened child. She felt the heat of his grief against her thighs, the raw ache in the way he clung to her without shame.

They stayed like that until his sobs faded into uneven breaths. Only then did he lift his head, wiping his face with the back of his hand, though his eyes were still rimmed red.

"I have to leave," he said hoarsely. "I must go south, to my mother. War is... no longer coming, Nella. It's here. And I need to stand beside her."

She stayed silent, her fingers still resting lightly in his hair.

He hesitated, searching her face, as if weighing something unspoken. "The North has sworn to my mother—sworn to stand with her—but oaths... they fade with time and distance. I hope they'll remember. I hope you'll remember."

"I will," she said softly.

His jaw tightened, but then his voice gentled. "You could come with me, Nella. My mother... she will want to meet you. Your visions, your knowledge, the life you've lived—" He paused, his gaze flicking briefly toward Bram, then back to her. "I think she'd see your worth. You could be of great use at her court. And if ever you wished to leave... you could. But... I would have you there."

Something in his tone made her chest ache—not a command, but an offer laced with something warmer, something almost fragile.

Nella's fingers had stilled in his hair, but she didn't draw them back. His offer hung there, heavy and tempting, like a door cracked open to a different life—a life beyond the cold walls of Winterfell, beyond the watchful eyes of the North. She thought of his mother's court, of the heart of the realm where decisions were made, of the possibility of being useful—not merely existing, but shaping something greater. She thought of the warmth in his voice when he said I would have you there.

And then her gaze drifted to Bram. The boy's tiny chest rose and fell in the even rhythm of deep sleep. His small hand was curled against the furs, his dark lashes resting against cheeks that still carried the roundness of early childhood. He was her anchor, her promise.

Her mind pulled in two directions—southward toward the prince who looked at her as though she were more than her scars, more than her past, and northward to the boy who had no one else in the world.

"I..." she began, but her voice faltered. She forced herself to meet Jacaerys' eyes, though her heart thudded hard against her ribs. "I cannot leave him." Her hand rested lightly over Bram's sleeping form. "Bram is my family now. I swore to Mira—" Her voice broke on the name, and she swallowed. "I swore I'd keep him safe. Wherever I go, he goes. If I come south... it will be with him."

Jacaerys' eyes softened, and something like understanding passed over his face. "Then it will be with him," he said quietly, as though sealing the matter with no hesitation.

She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until it escaped her in a slow exhale.

Still, she felt the ache of the choice. Going south would mean leaving the familiar chill of the North, the security of its quiet corners, for the uncertainty of a court that might welcome her or cast her aside. Yet staying meant letting Jacaerys ride away into war without knowing when—or if—he would return.

Her voice was softer when she spoke again. "If I come... it won't be for your mother's court. It will be for you."

A faint, almost pained smile curved his mouth, and he nodded once, as though the words had struck something deep.

The morning light crept through the tall windows of Nella's chamber, pale and tentative against the cold stone walls. She moved quietly, packing the few belongings she would need, each item a tether to the life she had built here—the life she wasn't sure she could fully leave behind. Bram played quietly on the floor, his small hands clutching a wooden wolf, oblivious to the weight pressing down on her chest.

She paused at the edge of the bed, brushing her fingers over the soft blanket that still smelled faintly of Mira. The memories clung to her, persistent and insistent. Leaving Winterfell, leaving Bram even temporarily, felt like tearing a piece of herself away. Yet the pull of Jacaerys, the chance to serve at the court, to witness the Targaryen world from within, tugged relentlessly at her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

"Nella?" Cregan's voice was low, hesitant, yet it carried weight. He stepped fully into the room, his presence both grounding and gentle. "Are you... really leaving?"

She let out a short, bitter laugh, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yes. I am leaving." she echoed, her tone edged with both humor and pain. She turned to him, and for a long moment her gaze held his, unwavering. "I came to Winterfell as a whore... nothing more, really. Just another shadow in the halls. And somehow... somehow, I became a woman of my own. Strong enough to hold life... to protect it... to care for it." Her voice cracked slightly, but she swallowed hard and continued, voice firmer now. "And now... something greater is calling me. I can't ignore it. Not anymore."

Cregan moved closer, slow and deliberate, the quiet authority in his presence softened by the unspoken understanding between them. "The world has always been cruel," he said quietly, "but the woman you've become... the strength you've shown, the lives you've saved... perhaps the world is ready for that." His gaze softened, lingering on her as though trying to pass some of his certainty into her. "Winterfell will always be here. I will always be here. And I... I will always be grateful for what you've done."

Nella's chest tightened, a swell of conflicting emotions rising in her throat. Her cloak was gathered tightly around, but the weight of Bram in her arms made it feel heavier, more real. His small hands clutched at her neck, his golden hair soft against her cheek, and for a moment she let herself just hold him, feeling the warmth and life that Mira had left behind.

Cregan was silent as she approached, watching her with quiet intensity. "You're taking him with you," he said, more statement than question.

She met his gaze steadily. "Yes," she said simply. "He will come with me. He has a right to see the world, to grow... and I will not leave him behind." Her voice carried a mix of conviction and a mother's tenderness, the same strength she had summoned for Mira and Bram all these months.

Cregan stepped closer, lowering his eyes to meet hers. His hand reached out hesitantly, brushing hers in a small, careful gesture—not to stop her, but to mark the moment, to offer support. The touch was fleeting, yet it carried the weight of shared grief and understanding. "Nella... I—there's something I've meant to tell you..."

She raised a hand, just a slight, almost imperceptible movement, and he paused mid-word, catching the gesture. Her eyes met his, steady and calm, though the corners of her mouth trembled slightly.

"I know what you might say," she murmured softly, letting a pause hang between them, "and maybe... before Mira... before death claimed me... there could have been a place for it." Her fingers brushed against Bram's small hand as she held him closer, letting the warmth of the child anchor her words.

"But not now," she continued, her voice firmer, tinged with sorrow. "Not anymore. There's a life to raise, Cregan. A family waiting. This...," she nodded gently toward him, "this is no longer a place for confessions of the heart. Only what must be done."

He looked down, shame and longing flickering across his face. She stepped closer, placing her hand over his, a quiet, grounding gesture. "Take care of you," she whispered. "Live as you must. And I... I will do the same."

He drew a slow, heavy breath, the weight of her words sinking in. Their eyes lingered a moment longer, silent acknowledgment of the bond they shared, before reality reclaimed them both. She tightened her cloak around her shoulders and cradled Bram in her arms as she stepped toward the outer courtyard. 

The chill of Winterfell's morning nipped at her cheeks, but her mind was elsewhere, tangled with every weight she carried: grief, hope, fear, and the strange thrill of what was to come.

The great green dragon loomed before her, scales glinting like emeralds in the weak sun. Jacaerys stood beside the massive beast, his expression unreadable, but his hand reached for hers in quiet reassurance.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice soft, almost tender.

Nella swallowed hard, feeling Bram's tiny fingers curl around hers. She nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line, and stepped onto the dragon's scaled flank. The heat rising from the creature beneath her was startling, alive in a way nothing else ever had been. She hesitated, gripping Bram closer.

"Take your time," Jacaerys murmured, climbing up beside her. "We'll go slow."

With a careful movement, he lifted her slightly, guiding her until she was seated securely, Bram nestled against her chest. Her heart pounded, not from fear alone, but from the realization of what she was doing—leaving home, taking flight, stepping into a world far larger than Winterfell.

As Jacaerys climbed up after her, steadying himself beside her, Nella turned her head. Across the courtyard, she saw Cregan standing next to his wife, his posture rigid, shoulders heavy with sorrow. His face was pale, eyes shadowed, yet when they caught hers, there was a flicker of understanding, of farewell.

She forced a small, bittersweet smile, nodding to him silently, letting him know everything would be alright—for Bram, for herself, for him.

The dragon rumbled beneath them, a deep vibration that thrummed through her chest. With a surge of motion, the creature lifted off the ground, wings unfurling in magnificent sweep. Nella clutched Bram tighter, inhaled the cold wind, and felt it all—the fear, the exhilaration, the promise of what lay ahead.

Winterfell fell away beneath them, its towers shrinking, the smell of smoke from the hearths rising faintly. And in that instant, suspended between earth and sky, Nella allowed herself a fleeting freedom, a sense of belonging not just to a place, but to the life she was about to step into.

Jacaerys' hand found hers again, fingers entwining, grounding her amidst the rush of wind and possibility. They rode together, a silent pact of trust, grief, and hope, soaring into the vast horizon, leaving Winterfell—and the past—behind.

Chapter Text

The wind tore past Nella's face, tugging at her hair and the folds of her cloak. Bram slept quietly against her chest, small body warm and heavy, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a comfort against the endless expanse of sky. Every so often, a soft whimper or a sudden stir would make her adjust him, murmuring quiet reassurances, brushing hair from his forehead. His tiny hands would twitch, then relax again, and she would sigh, grateful for these fragile reminders of life.

Below them, the North stretched in a patchwork of forests, rivers glinting like silver threads in the sunlight. Winter was creeping in, and the fields and hills were tinged with frost. She had never flown like this, never seen the world laid out so raw and immense. The valleys seemed impossibly small, the mountains impossibly tall, and yet here she was, atop a dragon, the wind carrying her toward a destiny she could hardly imagine.

Her thoughts wandered unbidden. She thought of Mira, of the mornings they had laughed together, of Bram's cries when the world felt too large, and of all she had lost—and yet, somehow, survived. The irony pressed on her chest. She, Nella of Flint House, the girl who had been beaten, left unloved, forced into survival by necessity, was now flying on the back of a dragon beside Jacaerys Targaryen. A prince. A son of Queen Rhaenyra. She could barely wrap her mind around it.

"Bram," she whispered, brushing his cheek with her fingers as he stirred awake, eyes blinking at the brightness of the clouds, "it's alright. I'm here." His small whimper was met with the rise and fall of the dragon beneath them, a lullaby of wind and scale.

Hours passed in this strange, surreal journey. Nella counted them in her mind—not for the sake of time, but to measure herself, to measure how far she had come from the girl she had been, caged in the shadows of Winterfell, and the woman she was becoming. Each beat of the dragon's wings carried her further from her past, and closer to a world she had never dared to dream existed.

And then, on the horizon, a jagged silhouette rose from the sea: Dragonstone. The island's dark cliffs jutted from the waves, the castle looming above like a sentinel of stone and history. Nella's breath caught in her throat.

She swallowed hard, gripping Bram tighter as she let her eyes roam over the fortress. She could see the banners flapping in the wind, the black-and-red of the Targaryens heralding power and lineage. Her heart hammered.

It felt unreal. A cruel, impossible joke. Nella—once a bastard girl, once a servant in a brothel—was now here, on the back of a dragon, beside the heir to the throne, carrying the son of her deceased friend. The weight of it pressed on her, a mix of awe, disbelief, and fear. She laughed quietly, a short, bitter sound, because it was absurd, beautiful, terrifying all at once.

Jacaerys' voice broke through her thoughts. "Almost there," he said softly, hand brushing hers in a fleeting, grounding touch. She looked at him, heart lurching, realizing that even amidst the chaos of dragons and destinies, there was a tether to something familiar—trust, and perhaps more, though she dared not name it.

As Dragonstone grew nearer, a massive, dark fortress rising from the sea like a crown upon the waves, Nella whispered to herself, almost incredulously: "This... this is real." Bram shifted in her arms, stirring awake, and she smiled down at him, brushing hair from his eyes. "Yes, little one... it's real. And we're here. You and I. Together."

The waves crashed below, the wind roared around them, and the dragon beneath her soared with a power she had never known. Nella clung to the moment, to the impossible miracle of it all, knowing that whatever awaited her on Dragonstone, her life had changed forever.

The dragon descended with a grace that belied its size, wings slicing through the sea wind. Nella tightened her hold on Bram as the fortress of Dragonstone grew larger, its black stone cliffs looming like sentinels against the sky. The smell of salt and smoke drifted upward, mingling with the faint tang of iron from the cliffs below.

As they landed on the outer terrace, the dragon's talons scraped against stone with a terrifying rumble. Bram stirred, blinking up at her with sleepy eyes. "It's alright, little one," she whispered, brushing the hair from his forehead. "We're here."

Jacaerys leapt lightly to the terrace, helping her guide Bram from her arms. The boy yawned, rubbing his eyes, still too young to fully grasp the grandeur surrounding him. Nella adjusted the folds of her cloak and squared her shoulders. The castle was formidable, the stone dark and jagged, walls rising high and unyielding. It carried the weight of history and power; every step she took felt like a step into a world she had never dared imagine.

They were met immediately by guards, their faces careful, measured. Nella nodded respectfully, letting Jacaerys lead them through the massive doors into the inner keep. The corridors smelled of firewood, polished stone, and faintly of sea salt. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long shadows, and banners of black and red hung proudly from the ceilings.

Nella's pulse raced. She had been to courts before, but never like this—never among Targaryens in their seat of power. Every glance from the courtiers seemed to measure her, to weigh her worth, yet Jacaerys moved confidently beside her, offering subtle gestures of reassurance.

Finally, they entered a wide chamber, the ceiling high and vaulted. Here, nobles and attendants moved in careful choreography, eyes turning to acknowledge the heir to the throne and his unexpected companion. Nella felt Bram shift in her arms and tightened her hold, whispering softly to him. His small fingers curled around hers, grounding her in the reality of what she held dear.

Jacaerys spoke in a low voice, meant only for her: "Stay close to him. They may look at us strangely, but this is your family now."

Nella nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I will," she said quietly, her voice steadier than she felt.

The courtiers bowed and curtsied, whispers following in their wake. Nella noticed subtle glances—curiosity, doubt, some suspicion—but she held herself upright, letting Bram's presence remind her of why she was here: not for status, but to protect and guide the fragile new life in her care.

They walked through winding corridors of black stone, the walls slick with the salt of the sea and lined with torches that flickered like distant stars. Nella could hardly believe she was here—inside Dragonstone itself, the seat of dragons, the fortress of Targaryens. The air was different from the North: warmer, heavier, scented faintly of smoke and salt, with a sharp tang of iron that made her skin prickle. Strange, foreign—but in a way she liked. It hummed with power, with history, with promise.

Bram rested quietly in her arms, lulled by the steady rhythm of her steps. Nella's eyes drifted along the stone, at tapestries depicting dragons in flight, and carvings that seemed alive in the flickering torchlight. Her pulse quickened; it felt unreal. A bastard girl from the streets, a former whore—now walking the halls of dragonlords, cradling a child in her arms.

Jacaerys moved ahead with measured confidence, yet Nella noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way his steps faltered slightly when they reached a heavy door set into the stone. He paused for a moment, hand hovering over the latch, and Nella felt a flicker of hesitation in him. She watched him take a slow breath before turning the handle.

Inside, the chamber was bright, warmed by a fire that painted the walls in gold and crimson. At the far end, a woman with silver hair, tall and radiant, stood with an undeniable grace. Nella's breath caught—the woman exuded a power, a beauty, that made the room feel simultaneously smaller and infinite.

Jacaerys stepped forward, voice shaking as he began to speak. "The North... has pledged loyalty to the rightful queen. They have promised men, their swords, their strength..." His words faltered, voice breaking as raw emotion overtook him. Nella could see his hands tremble at his sides, hear the catch in his breath.

Then the woman moved toward him. Her steps were quiet but certain, and when she reached him, she wrapped him in an embrace that seemed to steady him while letting him release everything he had been holding inside.

Jacaerys cried openly into her shoulder, the sound raw and unrestrained. Nella watched, the weight of the moment pressing on her chest, and she saw the relief, the vulnerability, the deep love in their connection. The silver-haired woman whispered something that Nella could not hear, but it soothed him, grounding him even as tears ran down his face.

For a moment, Nella let herself simply watch, feeling the strange mixture of awe and humility. Here, in the heart of the dragonlord's castle, she was an outsider—yet a part of this moment, bearing Bram, witnessing the intersection of power, love, and grief.

The silver-haired woman—stepped back from Jacaerys' embrace, her gaze shifting toward Nella. The firelight danced across her features, sharp and commanding, yet with a softness reserved for those she deemed important. Nella felt her pulse quicken. This was the queen—the mother of the realm, the woman who bore the weight of dragons and destiny alike.

Nella swallowed hard, bringing Bram closer to her chest. She dipped into a careful, measured bow, one learned from long years of servitude and survival. "Your Grace," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her stomach.

Rhaenyra's eyes studied her with a mixture of curiosity and intensity. "And who... are you?" Her tone was neither harsh nor cold, but precise, expecting truth without pretense.

Jacaerys stepped forward, his hand brushing lightly against Nella's arm in a small, grounding gesture. "This is Nella," he said, voice quiet but firm. "Your Grace, she... she is the miracle you have heard of in the North. The woman who came back from death, who survived when none thought it possible. The one who witnessed... the dream of the Conqueror in her bones."

Nella felt her breath hitch at the words. She had never imagined herself described in such a way—"miracle," "witness to dreams that shape kings and conquerors." The weight of it pressed down on her chest, yet there was also a strange surge of pride, tempered by humility.

Rhaenyra's gaze lingered on her, piercing but thoughtful. "You witnessed visions... in the North? Dreams of the Conqueror? Tell me." Her voice was commanding yet not cruel, inviting, yet careful, as if she measured every word Nella might speak.

Nella straightened, letting Bram rest safely against her shoulder, and nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. I... I saw things that came to pass. And I was there when... when life and death met in the same breath."

Jacaerys' fingers brushed hers again, a silent confirmation of her loyalty, his faith in her unspoken but unmistakable. Nella felt the stirrings of something she had never anticipated: not just awe or fear, but a fragile belonging in this place of dragons and destiny.

Rhaenyra's gaze shifted subtly, and Nella noticed, almost instinctively, the way the queen's silver hair caught the torchlight—like moonlight spilling over snow. Nella's lips parted, but no words came; she did not speak of it. Instead, her eyes were drawn to the small life cradled in her arms.

"Is this... your child?" Rhaenyra asked softly, reaching out with delicate fingers to touch the infant's cheeks. Her hand hovered for a moment, then lightly brushed the warmth of the baby's skin.

Nella shook her head gently, keeping the child close. "No, Your Grace," she said. Her voice was low, careful, almost reverent. "He is... not mine."

Rhaenyra studied her for a moment longer, as if weighing the truth in her words, then nodded slightly, withdrawing her hand. Her eyes lingered, unreadable, on the child and then back to Nella, as though both held stories she already knew were important but did not yet understand.

The court around them remained still, the murmurs quieting under the weight of the encounter. Nella felt the pressure of their stares but kept her focus steady, neither flinching nor lowering her gaze from the queen. In this moment, the child in her arms was the only tether to certainty she had; everything else—the majesty, the history, the expectations—was dizzying.

Rhaenyra's silver eyes softened as she looked at Nella, then back to the child cradled in her arms. "Children," she said gently, almost as if speaking to herself as much as to Nella, "are the greatest gift a woman can ever receive. The day you hold your own, the day you hear their first cries and feel their warmth... it will be the best day of your life."

Nella's hands tightened around the infant, her chest warming with a mixture of longing and hesitation. The words stirred something deep inside her—a quiet ache she had not dared to name. She glanced at Rhaenyra, noting the serene certainty in the queen's voice, the way she carried both power and tenderness effortlessly.

"I... I hope," Nella murmured, "that day will come." Her words were soft, almost lost in the echoes of the hall, yet filled with an unspoken promise.

Rhaenyra inclined her head slightly, a faint, approving smile curving her lips. "It will, if you allow it. And when it does, you will know the strength of life itself, as you have known its fragility."

Nella's gaze fell once more to the child in her arms. For a moment, she let herself imagine a future beyond grief, beyond loss—a life of small hands, laughter, and hope. And though the weight of the past lingered, Rhaenyra's words offered a sliver of light she had almost forgotten existed.

Nella bowed her head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than submission. She held the child closer, feeling the quiet heartbeat against her own, a small, fragile proof that life persisted, even amid the shadow of dragons and crowns.

Chapter Text

Nella stepped further into the hall, Bram still cradled in her arms. The air smelled faintly of warm wood and honeyed wax, and sunlight spilled in through the tall windows, catching dust motes that drifted lazily above the low table. Around it, Rhaenyra's two young sons—Aegon and Viserys—were utterly absorbed in a quiet world of their own making.

Even at three, their concentration was remarkable. Tiny dragons and soldiers were lined up with surprising precision, each figure poised for imaginary battles only they could see. Aegon's small hands hovered over a row of dragons, moving them carefully, pausing to consider the next maneuver. Viserys mirrored him across the table, tilting his head, lips parted slightly in focus, and nudging a soldier forward with the delicate patience of a miniature general.

Beside them, a tiny, living dragon, scales a shimmering stormy blue, twisted playfully among the toys. Its eyes blinked with curiosity, and a small wisp of smoke escaped its nostrils.

Bram's gaze immediately locked onto it. His tiny fingers reached, his voice straining: "D-dragon!" The word was clumsy, but his excitement was unmistakable.

Nella smiled softly and held him out toward the older children. "This is Bram," she said gently. "He's... someone I care for." Bram gurgled happily, pointing at the tiny blue dragon again.

The children glanced up briefly at Bram, eyes wide, then returned to their play. The small dragon twitched in response to Bram's pointing, as if acknowledging his fascination.

Bram giggled, a pure, bubbling sound, and tried to mimic the careful movements he'd seen the older children make with their figurines. Nella's heart warmed at the sight—he was cautious, curious, learning the rhythms of play from these children born to a world of dragons and fire.

Aegon nudged Viserys slightly, pointing at Bram, and for the first time the boys' tiny, unpracticed voices chimed in—soft, tentative words of acknowledgment. The dragon shifted closer to Bram, curling protectively around his hand. Nella felt a thrill of relief; it wasn't just the magic of the dragon, it was the beginning of acceptance.

She kept her hands near, guiding Bram gently, letting him explore the space without fear. Each laugh, each careful touch, made her chest ache with the mixture of past grief and present hope. 

The Targaryen children remained absorbed in their play, but the dragon seemed drawn to Bram's cautious curiosity, its small wings fluttering as it nudged against his fingers. Each giggle, each careful movement, made Nella's chest tighten—a mixture of wonder and protective love.

From across the room, Jacaerys lingered, leaning slightly against the carved stone archway. He watched quietly, a hand pressed to his chest as warmth spread through him despite the chill of Dragonstone. The sight of Bram, a child who had survived so much, interacting with his siblings' dragons, stirred something deep in him. The boy's laughter, bright and unguarded, was a balm to the ache left by loss and war.

He noticed how Nella guided Bram with gentle patience, how she encouraged him without forcing him, and a quiet admiration bloomed within him. The fragile strength she carried, born from grief and survival, was something he had witnessed before, but seeing it now, tenderly extended to another life, made him feel protective and grateful at once.

After a moment, he stepped closer, letting the scene play out before gently clearing his throat. Nella's attention snapped to him, Bram instinctively shifting closer to her.

"I... didn't mean to startle you," Jacaerys said softly, his eyes lingering on Bram for a moment before meeting hers. "It's... comforting to see him here, laughing, alive."

Nella gave a small, wry smile, brushing a strand of hair from Bram's face. "He's always been a fighter," she said quietly, her gaze flicking to the tiny dragon again. "Even when the world tried to take everything from him... he keeps going."

Jacaerys stepped closer, careful not to startle Bram, who had nestled comfortably against Nella's chest. His eyes lingered on her face, soft and serious, and for a moment, the room—the dragons, the children, the distant echo of the sea against Dragonstone—faded into quiet stillness.

"You know..." he began slowly, as if testing the weight of his words, "you would make a good mother."

Nella felt warmth rise in her chest, a mixture of surprise and something unspoken tugging at her heart. She adjusted Bram in her arms, letting him rest against her shoulder, and met Jacaerys' gaze.

"I... hope," he continued, voice low, almost hesitant, "that one day you'll have children of your own. Someone to care for, to love... to watch grow the way you do him."

Nella's fingers absently brushed Bram's hair, and a soft smile curved her lips, tinged with both longing and restraint. "Perhaps," she said quietly, her voice steady but thoughtful. "But... I have him now. He needs me. My place is here, for the moment."

Jacaerys nodded, a faint, understanding smile brushing his lips. "I see that," he said gently. "And he's lucky... lucky to have you."

Nella shifted Bram slightly in her arms, clearing her throat as if to steady herself. "Jacaerys..." she began, her voice careful but curious, "what happens now... with all this? The... dance of dragons, I mean. With the factions, and... your family?"

Jacaerys' expression grew somber, the lightness of the previous moment fading. He ran a hand through his hair, gaze drifting to the small dragons skittering about. "It will not be simple," he admitted. "The realm is divided. Loyalties are tested, and... many will try to claim power for themselves. Even within my own family, there are those who will not yield willingly."

He looked back at her, his eyes dark with both worry and resolve. "That is why I asked you to come. Your insight, your visions... what you've seen... it can help us. More than you know. But it will not be without danger, Nella. The dance of dragons... it burns everything in its path, sometimes those we least expect."

Nella's fingers tightened around Bram's small form, her mind racing. The thrill and fear of this new world pressed against her chest. "When I was a child," she began softly, "I saw... dragons. Dancing. Not real, not yet... but in my bones, in my dreams. I knew something terrible and beautiful was coming."

Jacaerys' brow furrowed, leaning closer, curiosity and concern mingling in his gaze. "And... can you... call these visions? Use them whenever you want?"

She shook her head, a faint, rueful smile tugging at her lips. "No. They don't come when I choose. It's never me who decides. It's as if... the gods, or fate itself, chooses the moments I must see." Her grip on Bram tightened slightly, as though the child grounded her. "Sometimes it's hours ahead, sometimes decades. Sometimes... it shows hope. Sometimes... only loss."

Jacaerys remained quiet for a moment, watching her face, noting the calm certainty mixed with an unspoken weariness. "That... must be a heavy gift," he said finally, his voice low, almost reverent. "To see what may come... and not be able to stop it."

Nella's gaze drifted toward the dragons skittering around the courtyard, her thoughts spinning. "It is. And yet... it is why I am here. Why I came with you. I cannot ignore what I've been shown, even if it terrifies me."

Her voice faltered, the last words scarcely more than a whisper. She tightened her hold on Bram, feeling the steady rise and fall of his tiny chest against her own, as though anchoring herself in the moment. Beyond the arched windows, the courtyard blazed with life—scaled wings catching the sunlight, tails lashing against the flagstones—but all Nella saw was the vision that had haunted her dreams: fire, shadows, and the faces of those she loved swallowed by the dark.

She blinked, forcing herself to focus on the present, on the murmured voices in the hall, the scent of fresh rushes beneath her feet. "If there is a chance to change it... to turn the path another way," she continued, almost to herself, "then I must try. Even if the trying costs me more than I can bear."

Jacaerys, who had been silent at her side, shifted. "Then come with me," he said, his voice quiet but certain.

Her head turned toward him, brows knitting. "Where?"

"You'll see."

He was already moving toward the far archway, and after a brief hesitation, she followed—only to pause when she felt the warm weight of Bram in her arms. Crossing to the low table where Aegon and Viserys sat with their scattered dragons and soldiers, she crouched and brushed a stray curl from Bram's sleeping face. The nurse stepped forward, and Nella pressed the boy gently into her arms.

"Keep him close," she murmured, lingering just long enough to touch his hair once more.

When she looked up, Jacaerys was waiting, impatience flickering in the line of his shoulders. She caught up quickly, her steps echoing faintly in the vaulted corridors as they wound deeper into the castle. He said nothing, and she did not press him; there was something in his silence that warned her to save her questions.

The air grew cooler as they descended, the torchlight painting their shadows long and strange across the stone. Then came a sound—low, distant, and almost felt rather than heard—a deep, resonant rumble that made her chest tighten. A faint, sharp tang of metal and smoke clung to the air.

They rounded the final bend, and the corridor widened into a cavernous archway. Beyond it, the space opened into darkness broken only by shafts of sunlight streaming through high slits in the walls. The ground was blackened in places, scarred as though by some ancient fire.

Then she heard it—slow, deliberate breaths that were not human. The air seemed to move with them, drawn in and pushed out by something immense. A chain clinked softly somewhere in the shadows, followed by a faint, guttural hiss.

Her pulse quickened. Shapes shifted at the edge of her vision—massive, coiled forms that caught the light just enough to glint off scales. Eyes, molten gold and unblinking, opened in the gloom and fixed upon her.

The dragonpit.

Jacearys turned slightly, his gaze sweeping the shadows as if greeting old friends. "My great-grandsire, King Jaehaerys, had this place built when the city outgrew the old dragonyards. He said dragons deserved a hall worthy of their power, a place where their fire could breathe without scorching the streets."

His words carried in the cavern, mingling with the faint scrape of claws on stone. "Here, every Targaryen prince and princess who rode learned their mount's strength... and its temper. Not all walked out unscathed." He glanced back at her, the torchlight catching the sharp curve of his mouth. "It is said the walls themselves remember the roars of Balerion, Vhagar, Meraxes—echoes of power that never fade."

Another breath rolled through the pit, this one hotter, curling around her face like the edge of a summer wind. Somewhere in the shadows, a tail lashed once, striking the ground with a deep, dull thud.

Jacaerys's eyes found hers again. "If you mean to change what you've seen, you'll need more than courage."

A familiar sound answered him—the scrape of claws on stone, the metallic rattle of chain links shifting. Then a low, throaty rumble rolled through the pit, and she knew that voice before she even saw him.

Vermax emerged from the shadows, his scales a deep green shimmering with copper in the torchlight, his eyes like molten gold. Sunlight from the high slits in the walls spilled across his wings as they flexed, each membrane catching the light like aged bronze.

She had flown on him few days ago, clinging to Jacaerys as Vermax carried them high above Dragonstone's jagged cliffs. She remembered the rush of air tearing through her hair, the salt spray of the sea far below, the way the world looked impossibly small beneath his beating wings. That same awe stirred in her now—but it came laced with a heavier thread, one she couldn't name.

Jacaerys stepped forward, resting a hand against Vermax's neck. The dragon's breath rolled warm and smoky over her face, the scent of ash and something older, wilder.

"The sight of a dragon... it's something men don't even deserve," she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the low rumble of the beast. She stepped closer, letting her gaze travel over the massive form she had once flown upon, and added, almost to herself, "It is because of them that the common folk believed Targaryens were closer to gods than men."

Her eyes flicked to Jacaerys, and a wry, incredulous smile touched her lips. "Before... before this, I would never have thought I'd see a dragon. Or... a Targaryen prince, up close like this."

Vermax exhaled, a warm, smoky gust that brushed against her face, as if acknowledging her words, and she shivered in awe and a hint of fear.

Jacaerys stepped closer. "I brought you here because you've seen what might come," he said, his voice steady but low, carrying over the dragon's soft rumble. "The visions you cannot ignore... they are not just warnings. They are instructions. A path you must walk—one I cannot walk for you."

Nella's chest tightened, the weight of her own foresight pressing against her ribs. "And you think... that I can change it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I do," Jacaerys said, eyes never leaving hers. "But only if you understand the tools you have. The power that waits in this hall. In them." He gestured toward Vermax and the shadows beyond, where other dragons shifted, restless. "Dragons are not merely beasts of fire. They are strength, memory, and fury made flesh. Those who ride them—those who command them—shape the world."

Vermax shifted, a low rumble rolling from deep in his chest, and Nella felt it vibrate through her feet, through the stone, as if the dragon itself acknowledged the truth in Jacaerys's words.

"You've flown with him before," Jacaerys continued. "You know the bond, the fear, the exhilaration. That bond is not just for flight—it is for survival, for change, for bending the impossible into the possible. If you are to alter what is coming, you must understand that fully. That is why I brought you here."

Nella's gaze lingered on Vermax, remembering the wind tearing past her as she clung to Jacaerys on his back, the world spread out like a map beneath them. The memory burned in her mind—and with it, a quiet resolve.

Chapter Text

The night was impossibly long. Nella lay on the hard mattress of her chamber, the sounds of the castle—distant voices, the faint scrape of servants, the restless breathing of the children—turning every moment into an echo she could not ignore. Sleep eluded her entirely. Her eyes flicked to the window over and over, to the dark sky above Dragonstone, the moon slicing silver through clouds, but nothing brought rest.

Her mind was alive with fragments: flames, shadows, distant cries, a child's laughter twisted into a scream. Every heartbeat seemed too loud, every footstep on the stone floor like a drumbeat marking some unseen danger. She tried to steady herself, to remember Jacaerys's words, the dragons, the bond, the power—but even that brought only more restlessness.

And then it came.

A vision sharp and unrelenting. She saw the hall outside the royal chambers, the faint candlelight flickering against polished stone. One of the guards moved silently, dagger drawn. Then the vision guided her where another guard, loyal and steadfast, was elsewhere, unaware of the danger. The first guard's hand was steady, his intent clear: the dagger aimed at the queen.

Her stomach turned. The scene played out in horrifying slow motion. She saw the flash of steel, the sway of the chamber door, the queen's hair catching the light. Then it shifted, as if mocking her: the dagger halted midair, almost imperceptibly—but only just. Nella felt a jolt of panic. 

Her chest heaved, lungs burning as she sank against the wall of her chamber. She was panting, trembling, but she understood. She understood exactly what she had seen—and what she had to do. Her fingers clutched at the skirts of her gown, brushing against the cold metal of the dagger she had hidden beneath them.

Tears blurred her vision. Fear clawed at her throat, hot and choking, and she could not stop the quiet, ragged sobs that escaped. She pushed herself off the wall, setting out into the corridors, but the castle had become a maze, every hallway twisting and turning, every archway leading her further from the place she needed. She cursed herself under her breath, muttering frantic words: How could I forget this wing? How could I let myself panic?

Her boots scraped against the stone floor, echoes bouncing mockingly around the empty halls. Each familiar landmark seemed strange, distorted by the shadows and the terror in her chest. She pressed her hands to the walls, trying to guide herself, but the passages all seemed to fold into one another, leading her in circles.

"Stupid, stupid..." she hissed between sobs, tears blinding her. "Why can't I—just—find it?" Her fingers clawed at the fabric of her skirts as she stumbled forward, dagger clutched tightly. Think! Think, Nella. You've seen it—you know it. You have to..."

Her panic threatened to overwhelm her, legs trembling with exhaustion, lungs burning with each hurried breath. She cursed the castle itself, this twisting labyrinth of stone and shadow that seemed determined to keep her from saving the queen. "Why is it always like this? Always impossible..." Her voice was a whisper, fragile and broken, swallowed immediately by the echoing halls.

But slowly, stubbornly, she forced herself to move. Hand against stone, ears straining for any hint of life or danger, she traced her way through corridors that felt endless. She stumbled once, twice, nearly crying out in frustration, but she pressed on, muttering angry words at herself with every step: Stop doubting yourself. Stop being afraid. Stop letting fear control you.

Finally, as if by instinct, her fingers found the smooth edge of a door that led to the hallway she sought. Her knees threatened to buckle from relief and exhaustion, but she pressed her forehead to the wood and drew in a shuddering breath. The dagger under her skirts felt heavier now, a tangible lifeline. She wiped her tear-streaked face with trembling hands and pushed the door open.

A man stood in the center of the room, dagger gleaming in the dim candlelight, his stance deliberate and cold. Every movement of his shoulders, every twitch of his fingers, screamed threat. Nella's chest tightened, her pulse spiking, and without a thought, she lunged. Her body twisted with a desperate grace, propelled by fear, adrenaline, and the knowledge of what was at stake.

The queen stirred, groaning awake, eyes widening in confusion and horror as they fell upon the struggle unfolding before her.

The intruder reacted with practiced speed. He shoved Nella violently to the ground. Pain exploded across her shoulder, sharp and burning, but she didn't cry out. Gritting her teeth, she rolled onto her side, dagger clutched tightly in her hand, every nerve screaming, every instinct screaming survival.

She charged again, heart hammering, legs shaking with exhaustion and fear.

He met her with brute force, throwing himself atop her. The weight of his armored bulk crushed her to the cold stone floor. Pain shot through her ribs, the air knocked out of her lungs. Panic flared, sharp and suffocating, and memories she had buried clawed their way to the surface: the day she had tried to flee her father's castle, the terror, the helplessness, the hands of her half-brother... the violation.

But she would not be weak like that again. Not now. Not ever.

Summoning every ounce of feral strength, she twisted her head, snapping her jaws down hard onto his hand. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, and he hissed in shock and pain. That moment of weakness—his flinch—was all she needed.

Her dagger flashed, slicing across the curve of his throat. A hot, wet spray of blood spattered her arm, running in sticky rivulets down the stone floor. He staggered back, hands pressed to his throat, eyes wide with disbelief. The sound of his ragged, gurgling breath filled the chamber, mingling with the queen's terrified gasps.

The moment she slashed his throat, a fire ignited in her chest she hadn't known existed. The blood blossomed across his armor, and before she fully understood what she was doing, she plunged the dagger into him again—again, and again. Each strike was desperate, frantic, driven by a terror that burned hotter than reason.

Her cries filled the chamber, jagged, uncontrolled, echoing off the stone walls. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with sweat and blood, and every scream seemed to fuel her panic further. "Die! Die!" she shouted, though the intruder was already faltering, already bleeding out. She didn't stop, stabbing until her arms ached, until the dagger felt impossibly heavy in her hands.

The queen's frightened gasp cut through her frenzy, but Nella barely registered it. She was lost in a whirl of fear and fury, trembling, crying, the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. Her mind couldn't process anything but the threat, the shadow of what might have happened if she hadn't acted, and the raw, unfiltered horror of what she was doing.

Finally, after what felt like endless moments, she froze mid-motion, chest heaving, body shaking, dagger slick and trembling in her hands. The man was gone. Dead. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood, her sobs echoing off the walls.

She collapsed to her knees, dagger clattering to the floor beside her, and her cries became softer, ragged, trembling. Shock crashed over her in waves—she had killed, again and again, in a way she never could have imagined, and the reality was almost unbearable.  

She blinked, taking in the chamber through tear-blurred eyes: the queen pressed against her bed, wide-eyed and trembling, the body of the intruder sprawled grotesquely on the floor. The metallic tang of blood hung thick in the air, mixing with the scent of sweat and fear.

Nella forced herself to inhale, the dagger still clutched tightly in her trembling hand. She stepped closer to the queen, voice raw and urgent. "I—I saw him," she said, words spilling over in a frantic rush. "I saw him in my visions. He was coming to kill you. I... I had to stop him. I had to kill him."

The queen's eyes widened, disbelief and horror mingling in her gaze. "You... you saw it? You knew?"

Nella nodded rapidly, tears streaking her face. "Yes! I saw it. And I couldn't let it happen. I had no choice." Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, and she raised the dagger slightly, not as a threat, but as a trembling reminder of the reality they now faced.

The queen's hands clutched the bedcovers, lips quivering. "By the gods... you—"

"I know," Nella interrupted, voice sharper now, trying to regain control of herself. "I know it looks... monstrous. But it was him or you. I couldn't be weak. I couldn't—" She swallowed, fighting the rising tide of panic, and squared her shoulders. "It's over now. There's no one else here. You're safe."

The door burst open before Nella could even catch her breath, and Jacaerys stumbled into the room. His eyes widened in shock at the scene before him: a man sprawled lifeless on the cold floor, a dark, spreading pool of blood, and Nella, trembling and soaked in crimson, dagger still clutched in her hand. Her hair clung to her face, streaked with sweat and tears, and her chest heaved as ragged sobs wracked her body.

"Nella!" His voice cracked with fear as he rushed forward, his boots clanging against the stone floor. "Nella, are you—what happened? Are you hurt?"

She looked up at him, tears blinding her, and tried to speak through her shaking lips. "I... I saw it... I saw him coming for her. For the queen. I couldn't let it happen... I had to—"

Jacaerys knelt beside her in an instant, eyes wide, hands hovering over her as though he feared to touch her for fear she might shatter. "Shh, shh, it's okay, you're here. You're alive... you're safe." His voice trembled with panic, but his hands were firm as they hovered near hers, ready to steady her if she collapsed.

Nella pressed the dagger loosely against her side, still trembling, unable to fully comprehend the violence she had unleashed. "I—I had to," she whispered, voice hoarse and raw. "I saw it before it happened. I couldn't... I couldn't let her die."

Jacaerys' expression softened, but the fear in his eyes never left. He reached out and gently took her by the shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You're alive," he said again, almost as if saying it enough would make it real. "You're here. That's what matters. Tell me you're not hurt!"

Jacaerys' eyes quickly flicked to the queen, sitting upright in her bed, wide-eyed and trembling at the sight before her. She clutched the sheets to her chest, silent but clearly understanding the danger that had just passed. He gave her a sharp, reassuring nod, and she returned it, a silent exchange that spoke volumes—acknowledgment, gratitude, fear, and the bond forged in shared peril.

Turning back to Nella, Jacaerys' expression softened, though worry still etched every line of his face. "You're coming with me," he said firmly. Without waiting for her to protest, he scooped her into his arms. She went limp for a moment, overwhelmed, still trembling, letting him carry her as though she were both fragile and fierce at once.

The weight of her in his arms was a reminder of how close they had come to losing her, and how much she had endured. Nella pressed her face into his shoulder, trying to steady herself, the smell of blood and sweat clinging to her hair and skin, her body still shaking from shock and exertion.

"Somewhere you can clean up," he murmured as he moved swiftly through the corridors, careful but urgent. "You need to wash this off—relax for a moment. You've... been through more than anyone should."

Nella barely managed a nod, words failing her, but in his arms she felt the tiniest thread of safety, a fragile reprieve amid the chaos of the night.  Jacaerys carried her through the quiet, shadowed corridors, each step careful yet swift, until at last he reached a chamber that was warm and softly lit. He gently set her down and called for a bath to be drawn, the water steaming and fragrant, filling the room with a sense of fragile comfort.

He remained close, settling on the edge of the bed, still tense, still haunted by the memory of the blood and violence they'd left behind. The room smelled faintly of herbs and heat from the fire, but neither could dispel the echo of what had just happened. He heard the soft rustle of her garments as she undressed, the careful, almost reverent movements of someone still in shock. He turned his gaze away, giving her privacy, but couldn't fully suppress the pull of concern that made him remain near.

When she slid into the bath, the water rose around her trembling form, steam curling upward into the lamplit air. The surface shimmered with faint ripples, but it was not the water Jacaerys saw. His gaze lingered on her back, and for the first time, he noticed them clearly—faint, jagged scars carved into her skin. They gleamed pale against the warm water, stark and unyielding, like words etched into flesh.

The sight struck him like a blow. His breath caught, an ache swelling in his chest that was not his own but hers—some pain carried all this time in silence.

“May I…?” he asked quietly, his voice breaking the stillness. His hand hovered uncertainly, not daring to touch without her leave.

She hesitated. For a long moment, the only sound was the soft lapping of water against stone. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, she nodded. A small act of trust that weighed heavier than any oath.

Jacaerys moved closer, kneeling by the edge of the bath, his hand reaching with a reverence usually reserved for relics of gods. His fingertips brushed the first scar, tracing its uneven ridge, and he stilled, as though afraid his touch might reopen the old wound.

The ridges told their own story—some thin and sharp, others deep and ragged, crisscrossing like a cruel tapestry. They were not marks of accident but of intent.

“What… who did this?” he whispered, his voice raw, heavy with a grief he did not yet understand.

She flinched, though not from his touch—rather from the memories the question pulled forward. Her lips parted, but no words came at first. The water quivered as she tightened her grip on the rim of the bath, knuckles paling.

Nella flinched at the touch at first, the memory heavy in her chest, before her voice came, quiet and uneven. "My father," she whispered, her hands tightening against the warm water as if to hold herself together. "He... he didn't care that I was his daughter—because I wasn't. I was... just a bastard to him." She swallowed hard, eyes cast down, reluctant to share more.

Jacaerys remained still, letting her words hang in the steam-filled room, his hands hovering just above her back, careful not to press too far. "I'm so sorry," he murmured, voice low, threaded with quiet emotion. "You didn't deserve any of it. None of it."

Nella shivered, the tremor of old fear mingling with the adrenaline still coursing through her from the night's events. She didn't look at him, letting the water lap around her like a small shield from the world. 

For a long moment, neither spoke. The echoes of the night's violence lingered in their minds, but in the small chamber, with the bath steaming and the fire flickering, a fragile stillness settled over them. Nella's trembling eased slightly under the quiet steadiness of his presence, the heat of the water mingling with the warmth radiating from him.

Jacaerys leaned a fraction closer, his hand brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. The touch was light, careful, almost reverent. "You've been through so much," he murmured, voice low, threaded with concern and something softer she wasn't ready to name. "I... I don't want you to bear it alone anymore."

Nella's eyes met his, searching, hesitant, still raw with tears and the adrenaline of survival. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, her hands trembling as they rested on the edge of the bath. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Her lips quivered, a silent confession of everything she hadn't said, of everything she feared would break her if she did.

The air between them thickened, charged by shared fear, fragile trust, and the unspoken understanding that had grown between them over weeks and months. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they inched closer, drawn together by the quiet gravity of their bond. The warmth of the bath mingled with the heat of their bodies, and each breath they took seemed to echo in the small chamber.

Their eyes locked, hesitant, searching, and for a heartbeat the world outside—blood, betrayal, fear—vanished. Nella's hands hovered near his chest, trembling, unsure whether to touch or flee, and Jacaerys's own hesitated just above her shoulders, steadying, offering silent reassurance.

Then, as if pulled by some quiet inevitability, their foreheads met, soft and tentative. A shiver passed through them both, a mixture of relief, longing, and fragile courage. Nella's lips parted slightly, a quiet invitation, and he responded instinctively, leaning closer until their lips brushed in a careful, almost hesitant kiss.

It was tentative at first, testing, fragile, but the kiss deepened gradually, the caution melting away under the weight of shared vulnerability. Their breaths mingled, trembling and uneven, as Nella pressed closer, leaning into him while he held her gently, as if afraid to break the delicate moment. For the first time in hours—or perhaps years—they allowed themselves a spark of closeness unshadowed by violence or fear, a kiss that was both confession and comfort, trembling with the raw honesty of what had passed between them and what might still come.

Chapter Text

Days had passed since the night of blood in the queen's chamber, yet its echo still clung to the halls of Dragonstone. Whispers followed Nella wherever she walked—some in awe, some in suspicion—but none dared speak too loudly. She had not only seen the danger before it came; she had struck it down with her own hands.

The summons came in the morning, carried by a young page who looked at her as though he were delivering a message to someone far above his station. The Queen requests your presence at the war council.

Nella's pulse quickened. This was no idle courtesy. To be summoned here, to the table where dragons and kings were weighed against armies and kingdoms, meant she had been granted something rarer than favor—trust.

When she entered the council chamber, the air was thick with tension and the faint smell of smoke from the great fire in the hearth. Maps stretched across the table, marked with carved pieces of wood—ships, fortresses, dragons—each one representing lives and power in play. Rhaenyra sat at the head, her gaze sharp, assessing, yet no longer guarded toward Nella. Princes Jacaerys and Lucerys flanked her, along with lords and knights whose eyes turned in open curiosity at the young woman who had bled for their queen.

"Lady Nella," Rhaenyra's voice was steady, commanding. "You are here because you have seen what others cannot. You warned me before... and you were right. Today, I would have you listen, and speak, when you must."

Nella inclined her head, stepping closer to the table, the weight of their eyes heavy upon her. 

Rhaenyra's hand swept over the painted table, the map lit by flickering torches. "Daemon has taken Harrenhal," she announced, the words sharp enough to still the murmurs. "And with it, the Riverlords begin to bend the knee. Their oaths are no iron chain, but for now, their banners rise for our cause."

A hum of voices broke loose—low at first, then rising as if her words had struck flint to dry kindling.

"Harrenhal is cursed ground," one lord spat. "It will not hold."

"And yet it is the strongest post along the Trident," Lord Celtigar countered, his ring hammering the table for emphasis. "A symbol, aye, but also a blade aimed at the heart of the Riverlands. Whoever wields it bleeds the enemy from the inside."

Arguments tumbled over each other—about grain stores, troop movements, the loyalty of men who had sworn to the crown and broken those vows before. Voices clashed, louder and faster, until the air itself felt tight with the press of urgency.

Nella stood apart, near the shadowed wall, her fingers knotted together. She had been summoned here by the queen herself, yet no one addressed her. Her place was to watch, not to speak. Still, every sharp tone, every hastily drawn line across the map struck her like a hammer blow.

Jacaerys leaned forward beside his mother, pointing toward the narrow sea routes, speaking in quick bursts about supply lines and the Velaryon fleet. Lord Corlys's deep voice cut through the din, pushing back with strategies of his own. Even the torchlight seemed to quiver in the heated air, shadows leaping over the carved edges of the painted table.

Nella's gaze moved from face to face, catching the sweat along brows, the twitch of restless hands. The rhythm of it all—talk of alliances won and lost, the endless tally of men and ships—was like the drumbeat of a storm closing in. She said nothing. But she listened. And in the back of her mind, beneath the roar of voices, something else stirred—an unease she couldn't yet name, the faint echo of a vision she hadn't dared speak aloud.

Then—without warning—the world tilted.

A rush of dizziness swept through her, hot and cold all at once. Her vision narrowed, the edges darkening. She swallowed hard, her fingers curling tight against her skirts. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. The air felt heavier, the council voices distant now, as if she were listening from underwater. A taste—metallic, bitter—coated her tongue. Her stomach clenched in a violent spasm.

"Forgive me," she managed, her voice thin. She rose, the chair scraping softly against the floor.

She barely made it into the adjoining passage before her body convulsed. She dropped to her knees, one hand braced against the cold stone, and retched.

Black.

It poured from her lips in slow, unnatural streams—cold as ice, darker than ink, pooling against the flagstones.  Her breath came ragged, clouds of it puffing in the chill of the passage. She stared at the puddle spreading on the stones—thick, cold, and black as midnight. The sight clawed at the edges of her mind, pulling loose a memory she wished had stayed buried.

She had seen this before. The night before the dead marked her.

The same dizzying weight, the same suffocating chill creeping into her bones, the same taste of iron and ash on her tongue... and then, this liquid—exactly this color—seeping from her, as if something inside had been claimed by shadow. Her gaze dropped to her forearm, hidden beneath her sleeve, where the mark still lay. Faint to the eye, but never gone. It was the same black, as though the liquid and the scar were made of the same substance.

A shudder wracked her. Death had touched her once, and it had not let go.

This... this was a reminder. A whisper that the bargain was not over, that the thing which had marked her still lingered just out of sight, watching, waiting. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, but the cold stayed in her veins, crawling upward toward her heart.  A footstep echoed sharply against the stone corridor. Nella's head snapped up, her vision still swimming. Panic surged—she hadn't expected anyone to follow.

"By the Seven..." a voice whispered, hushed but edged with alarm.

One of the council members, a sharp-eyed lord she barely recognized, rounded the corner. His gaze fell on the dark puddle, then on her trembling form, and his eyes widened in disbelief.

"Lady... are you—what—?" He faltered, taking a cautious step closer, as if approaching a wild animal.

Nella pressed her hands to her mouth, the black taste still lingering, her body shaking. She could barely nod, her mind racing to explain without revealing too much. "I... I'm fine," she stammered, though even she didn't believe it. "It... it's nothing. Just—illness. I need—air."

She sank to her knees again, her chest heaving. The reminder of the mark, of death, still clung to her like a shadow. She had survived once, and now she had to survive again—but this time, the eyes of the living had seen her in the grip of it. The lord lingered for a moment too long, his gaze fixed on her as if trying to decide whether to call for a maester—or a septon.

Nella's pulse spiked. The walls felt too close, the air too thick. She couldn't stay there. Not under that stare.

She pushed herself to her feet, her legs unsteady, and without another word, she brushed past him. Her shoulder caught his sleeve, and for a heartbeat she thought he might grab her arm—but he didn't. As she moved down the corridor, his voice followed her, low and almost to himself, yet sharp enough to pierce the ringing in her ears.

"Cursed..."

She froze mid-step. The word clung to her like a chill. She didn't dare turn back.

Instead, she ran. Her slippers slapped against the stone, her breath tearing in and out as if something unseen chased her. She didn't stop until the council chamber and its prying eyes were far behind, until the murmur of voices faded into the distant hum of the castle.

Her hands still trembled as she staggered through the stone corridors, the taste of that cold black liquid thick on her tongue. It burned with memory—of the day the dead had marked her, of the moment life and death had felt like two hands tearing her apart. She couldn't stay. Couldn't breathe inside those walls.

She barely knew where her feet were taking her until the council chamber and its voices were far behind, until the torches gave way to open air and the sound of her own ragged breaths.

The pull came then—sharp, irresistible. Not a thought. Not a choice.

She was going to the dragonpit.

Her pace quickened, boots striking against cobblestones slick with morning mist. She didn't understand why—only that the urge was absolute, like some invisible hand had hooked itself into her ribs and was drawing her forward. By the time the massive, ancient doors loomed before her, her pulse was hammering. She pushed them open, stepping into the warm, ash-scented dark.

It was quiet at first, save for the faint hiss of shifting scales and the drip of water echoing from somewhere deep within. The shadows seemed to move around her, heavy with breath and power. The air in the was thick with dust and the faint tang of ash, but Nella barely noticed. She stood there, rooted in the vast, shadowed space, her pulse pounding in her ears.

Then it came again. A sudden, merciless cold, blooming from deep within her chest and spilling through her limbs like poisoned ice.

She screamed.

It tore from her throat raw and jagged, echoing off the high stone walls. The sound broke into a choked gasp as her lungs clenched, the cold devouring them from the inside. She clawed at her chest, desperate for breath, her body shuddering as the air itself seemed to freeze in her.

Her knees buckled. She stumbled back, boots scraping on the stone before she collapsed hard onto her back. The vaulted ceiling above swam and blurred, a dark haze pierced only by the faint shimmer of dragon eyes in the gloom. She pressed her palm to the mark, as if she could hold the ice in place, stop it from spreading—but it poured through her veins, curling its frozen fingers around her heart.

Her breaths came ragged, each one sharper and shorter than the last, as though the very air was turning solid in her lungs. Her palms scraped against the cold stone as she tried to push herself up, her muscles trembling under the weight of the freezing ache inside her. Her voice broke, raw and desperate, as she screamed for help—though deep down, she already knew.

No man would come for her. Her cry wasn't meant for them. It was meant for something greater. Something older than kings, older than crowns.

The echo of her voice rolled through the cavernous space of the pit, swallowed by the shadows. For a heartbeat, there was only her ragged breathing, the pounding of her heart, and the cold gnawing deeper and deeper into her bones. Her vision swam. Then—beneath the agony—she felt it. A tremor, low and steady, thrumming through the floor like the heartbeat of the world itself. It grew, deepened, until the air seemed to hum with it.

A sound followed—low, thunderous, ancient. A growl that was not meant for mortal ears. Her head jerked up, tears streaking her cheeks.

From the darkness beyond the torches, a shape stirred. Not sudden, but with the slow inevitability of a mountain shifting after centuries. A vast silhouette unfurled from the shadows, each movement deliberate, carrying the weight of uncounted years. The scrape of claws on stone sent sparks dancing into the gloom.

Light caught on bronze and gold, each scale weathered yet gleaming, like hammered metal kissed by fire. The chest rose and fell with a steady, rumbling breath that filled the vast space with heat, banishing the cold from her skin.

Then—those eyes. Immense, molten, ancient beyond reason, locking on her as though they had seen her long before she stepped into this place. She trembled on the stone, chest heaving, tears carving lines through the grime on her face. Her cries for help echoed off the walls, swallowed by the cavernous pit.

The shadow moved again—closer this time. Each step reverberated through the stone, vibrating under her feet and through her bones. She could see the glint of molten eyes, the sweep of immense wings folding and unfolding with a terrifying elegance. Desperation warred with awe. She raised herself, shakily at first, then with a sudden surge of defiance, planting her feet, straightening her spine. Arms lifted, wide, trembling—but steady. She would meet it. Whatever came, she would not run.

The dragon froze. Its head lowered almost imperceptibly, nostrils flaring, as if it understood her gesture. The heat from its chest rolled over her, promising fire yet demanding respect.

And then, without a sound of warning but with a deep, reverberating growl, it unleashed a torrent of fire.

The flames roared across the pit, the searing heat washing over her, her skin screaming, the air splitting in a scream of molten fury. She flinched instinctively, but her arms remained raised, her resolve a raw, trembling defiance against the inferno. The fire licked at her like a living thing, but there was no malice in the creature's attack—only a testing, a command, a challenge.  The torrent struck her, deafening roar, air burning so hot it felt solid. Her skin should have blistered, her lungs should have shriveled in her chest... and yet—

The moment the fire touched her, something broke loose inside. The ice that had been devouring her—the cold grip she had felt since the mark—shattered. It was as though the flames poured directly into her veins, scouring away the black chill and filling her with molten life. She gasped, not in pain, but in shock.

The heat didn't consume her. It claimed her. Her arms trembled, but she did not lower them. Her heart hammered, each beat echoing the rhythm of the dragon's breath. The fire poured over her like a storm, then slowly tapered off, leaving the air shimmering between them.

The fire had devoured everything she had worn. Her clothes were gone, reduced to ash and smoldering threads, leaving her bare to the scorching heat and the raw world around her. Steam rose from her skin, curling into the air as if the dragon itself had baptized her in flame.

She stood there, trembling but unbowed, facing the colossal creature that circled her with deliberate, predatory grace. Her chest heaved, her hair plastered to her damp face, eyes wide and unblinking. There was madness in the way she trembled, a wild, untamed edge—but also a strange, resolute calm, as if some unseen force guided her, urging her forward rather than recoiling in fear.

The dragon's golden eyes never left hers. Every exhalation of heat, every ripple of muscle beneath iridescent scales, spoke of power beyond reckoning, of a force that could consume kingdoms yet chose, for a moment, to pause, to sense, to acknowledge her.

She raised her arms slightly, not in surrender, but as though willing herself into the current of something greater, something alive and eternal. Fire licked around her without pain now—it only magnified her presence, illuminating her naked, trembling form like a figure carved from flame and shadow.

From her perch high above the dragonpit, the queen's breath caught in her throat. She had seen battles, rebellions, and the fire of war, but nothing like this. The girl—bare, trembling, yet somehow unbroken—stood in the center of the pit, embraced by flames that would have consumed any ordinary mortal.

Her eyes widened as the dragon circled, sensing the girl with an almost reverent deliberation. The scales shimmered in the firelight, each movement a testament to raw, unbridled power. And yet, it was not the fire that held Rhaenyra's gaze—it was the girl herself. There was madness there, yes, but also something else: courage, defiance, a strange bond with the creature that made even the queen's heart tighten.

The flames licked higher, yet the girl remained. Her arms lifted slightly, not in fear but in challenge, as though she were ready to claim whatever force had guided her here. The queen's fingers tightened around the railing. She could see every detail—the way the girl's hair clung to her scorched skin, the steam rising from her bare body, the fire painting her in gold and shadow.

And still, she stood. Alive. Trembling, burned, yet alive.

For a long moment, the queen did not move, did not speak. The world felt suspended—the fire, the dragon, the girl at the center of it all. And in that suspended moment, a quiet recognition settled over her: this girl, this impossible, fearless girl, had just done something no one else could.

The queen's chest tightened. She realized, with a cold clarity, that she was witnessing not just survival, but transformation. Whatever the world had demanded of her before, the girl had crossed a threshold now. The fire had not consumed her—it had marked her. And the queen, silent and awestruck, knew she had just seen the impossible take flesh.

Chapter Text

The stones of Dragonstone felt cold beneath her bare feet, though her skin still steamed faintly from the fire. Ash clung to her like a second skin, smeared across her face, her hair, her shoulders, the faint trace of heat still radiating from her flesh. Her steps were slow, almost dreamlike, but steady—unwavering.

She moved through the shadowed corridors like a specter, the night air carrying the faint, charred scent of her passage. Servants froze where they stood, eyes widening as they took in the sight: a girl stripped of everything but the smoke that seemed to follow her. Some made the sign of the Seven, others whispered to one another in quick, frightened breaths. A few simply stared in open shock, as though doubting she was real.

Nella did not flinch. She did not speak. Her gaze was unfocused, her breathing even, but her steps were purposeful in a way she herself didn't understand. She wasn't sure where she was going—only that she couldn't stop moving.

The long halls blurred around her, the echo of her own footsteps sounding distant, like they belonged to someone else. Every flickering torch she passed seemed dimmer, every shadow longer. The heat of the dragon's breath still lingered deep in her bones, and though she knew she should have been cold, she felt... neither warmth nor chill. Only the hollow pull of something greater, something she could not name.

The corridor ahead darkened for a heartbeat—then a figure stepped into her path.

The queen.

Her silver hair caught the torchlight like molten moonlight, her presence filling the narrow hall without effort. She said nothing at first, only looked at Nella with an unreadable expression—eyes sharp as glass, yet carrying something softer beneath, something almost... searching.

Nella stopped, though her body swayed faintly, her breath coming in quiet, steady pulls. The ash clinging to her skin marked her like war paint; the faint shimmer of heat rising from her bare form spoke of something unnatural. They stared at one another for a long moment. Around them, the castle seemed to hold its breath. No servant dared to pass, no guard stepped forward.

Finally, the queen moved closer, slow and deliberate, her gaze never leaving Nella's. "What are you?" she asked. "And where are you truly from?"

The question hung in the air like a blade. Nella's jaw tightened. She held the queen's stare, ash still flaking from her skin, but her lips stayed closed. Whatever answer the queen sought, she would not—could not—give it.

A muscle flickered in the queen's cheek, the faintest sign of impatience.

Footsteps approached from behind. A guard, his eyes flicking nervously between them, stepped forward and draped a heavy cloak over Nella's shoulders. The warmth of it was jarring against the fading heat of the dragon's fire, the weight a reminder of her own trembling.

Without another word, the queen took her by the arm—firm, not unkind—and steered her away from the main corridor. They moved quickly, the echo of their steps swallowed by the winding stone passageways. Servants and knights stepped aside without question, heads bowed, not daring to look too long.

They stopped only when the hall opened into a secluded chamber, far from prying ears. The queen closed the door behind them, the sound loud in the silence. The queen stood a few paces away, her posture regal yet charged with impatience, eyes locked on Nella like a hawk that had finally cornered its prey.

"You will answer me," she said, voice low but cutting. "I watched you walk from the dragon's fire unburnt. I saw the beast circle you as if... as if it knew you. That is not the mark of chance, girl."

Nella's fingers tightened on the edge of the cloak. Her heart pounded so loud she feared it might betray her words before she spoke them.

"You think me blind?" the queen pressed, stepping closer, her presence a force in the room. "You carry something—something that does not belong to common birth or chance. Now tell me—what are you?"

Nella swallowed hard, her throat aching. She could feel it again—the faint burn under her skin, the cold that had crawled into her bones before the fire. The mark on her flesh seemed to pulse in answer, like it was listening.

"I..." Her voice faltered. The truth pressed at her lips like a scream she could not let out. Images surged—visions that had haunted her nights, the black liquid on her tongue, the frozen grasp of death, the searing breath of the dragon reviving her.

"I don't know what I am," she finally breathed, her voice breaking. "But... it's not the first time death has tried to take me. And it's not the first time it failed."

The queen's eyes narrowed, but not with disbelief—rather with calculation, as though fitting Nella's words into a larger puzzle. Nella's hands trembled as she tightened the cloak around her, though it did little to hide the faint glow beneath her skin. Her voice was low, hesitant, almost as if she were speaking to herself as much as to the queen.

"When it happened... when I felt it again," she whispered, her eyes darting away, haunted by the memory, "the cold... the mark of death, it came back. Like it had claimed me once, and wanted to do so again. I... I don't know why, but something—something deep inside me, a voice I don't understand—guided me to the dragons."

Her gaze dropped, ashamed yet unflinching. "I don't know how I survived. I... I shouldn't have. I don't know why it spared me. But when the fire touched me, I... I felt alive, more than I have in years."

The queen's eyes remained fixed on her, sharp and unyielding. "A voice," she murmured, testing the words. "Or a memory, perhaps. Or a vision. But it guided you."

Nella nodded slowly. "Yes... it was strange. Odd. Impossible even. But it brought me there. To the fire. And I... I lived. I don't understand it. I... can't explain it. I only know I survived."

The queen did not speak at once. She studied Nella as one might study a relic unearthed from the depths of the earth—wary of its power, yet unable to deny its pull. The silence between them stretched, heavy, as if the walls themselves strained to hear the verdict.

Finally, her voice came low, steady, and edged with something unnameable. "I never believed in miracles," she said, her gaze never wavering. "Not truly. Not until I heard the tale of a girl who died in the North... and yet walked again."

Nella's breath caught, her fingers tightening in the folds of the cloak.

"And now," the queen continued, taking a slow step closer, "this. Fire that does not burn you. Death that marks you yet fails to claim you. I thought the gods were silent—that their magic had long since bled from this world. But you..." Her eyes swept over Nella, from the ash clinging to her bare skin to the faint, unnatural light of the mark beneath her collarbone. "You are the truth. Proof they still meddle in mortal fates."

The queen's eyes lingered on her, a mixture of awe, caution, and curiosity as Nella spoke again, her voice was quieter, almost hesitant, but firm. "If... if I am to understand what happened to me, and what I might become... I need to learn. I need to see the old books—about dragons, fire, blood, magic. The knowledge that has been kept hidden."

The queen regarded her for a long moment, measuring the weight of the request. Finally, she nodded, a shadow of a smile breaking the tension. "You wish to wander the archives of the Dragon Library... the ones few dare to touch. Some of those volumes were saved from the old Valyria itself, preserved by our ancestors when the Doom shattered their empire. Knowledge older than most of the lords in this hall."

"Yes," Nella whispered, almost to herself, "I need to understand, before it understands me."

Rhaenyra studied her silently, a mixture of awe, caution, and curiosity in her gaze. "Very well. You may enter, but heed this—tread carefully. Some truths are darker than even dragons' fire, and once seen, cannot be unseen."

Nella inclined her head, the ash still clinging to her skin, and for the first time since the dragonpit, a small, determined spark lit in her eyes. "I understand. I just... I need to know."

The queen's eyes lingered on her, a mixture of awe, caution, and curiosity. "Then it shall be so. But remember, child—some truths are heavier than even fire can burn away." 

Nella's fingers trembled as she reached for a book bound in deep crimson leather. Its surface was cold, almost unnaturally so, and flecked with dark stains that made her stomach twist. She opened it, and immediately the script caught her breath—the letters were High Valyrian, yet older, jagged, and flowing like molten iron. And somehow... impossibly... she understood it.

The pages were streaked with what looked unmistakably like blood, dark and thick in places, as if the ink itself had been drawn from living sacrifice. As she read, a chill crept along her spine. This was no ordinary magic. This was blood magic: the deepest, most forbidden sorcery of the Freehold, the magic used long ago to bind dragons to men, to forge life from fire and sacrifice. It spoke of exchanges, life for life, power granted at the cost of mortality, it was strange, terrifying, and... familiar in a way she could not name. Her mind turned over the thought, quiet and uneasy: Is this magic only for Valyrians?

Her pulse quickened as pieces fell into place. The fire that had passed over her unscathed in the Dragon Pit, the heat that should have burned her alive... perhaps it had not been random. Perhaps her survival was no accident. A thread of realization trembled at the edge of her mind: someone's life had been given so that she could walk through fire, untouched. But whose?

A cold dread wrapped itself around her heart. She did not yet know the answer, but the weight of the book pressed down as if it demanded acknowledgment. Every word she read seemed to echo in her blood: a life for a life, a gift stolen from death itself.

Her gaze lingered on the diagrams and incantations, the traces of lives used as fuel for the power. It was a dangerous knowledge, ancient and carefully preserved. And yet, here she was, feeling it respond in some small, inexplicable way to her presence. Her immunity to fire—the way she had survived the dragon's blaze—felt tied to this, though she could not yet understand how.

But even as the book's dark wisdom seeped into her mind, another question lingered, gnawing at the edges of her thoughts: Who am I? The threads of her origin were frayed, twisted, and incomplete. Her mother's identity remained a shadow, a secret buried so deeply she feared she might never uncover it.

She longed for answers, a glimpse of the life that had shaped her before she had even drawn her first breath. And yet, even if her father still lived, she wondered if he would have ever spoken the truth. Another question rose in its place, heavier, more insistent: What has my heritage been hiding?

The crimson book lay open, the scent of old parchment and iron filling the quiet of the library. Its secrets were dangerous, its power seductive, but her mind could not focus entirely on that. Instead, her pulse quickened with the awareness that discovering herself—her origins, her blood, her destiny—might be the truest magic of all, and the greatest danger.

Nella closed the crimson book with a trembling hand, her mind still thrumming with the dark cadence of its knowledge. Every shadowed corner of the Dragon Library seemed to lean closer, as if the walls themselves were listening, waiting for her next move.

She stepped carefully between the towering shelves, brushing her fingers along the spines of other ancient tomes, seeking anything that might whisper a clue of her origins. Old Valyrian glyphs glimmered faintly in the flickering torchlight, each a promise of forgotten histories and lost names.

Her thoughts returned obsessively to her mother, the woman she had never known. Who had she been? And what blood had coursed through her veins, spilling into Nella's own? Each question felt like a pulse against her chest, urgent, unrelenting.

Tentatively, she pulled another volume—smaller, bound in worn dragonhide, pages etched in a script both familiar and foreign. As she opened it, descriptions of lineages and rituals unfolded before her. The names of Targaryens she knew were there, yes, but there were others... shadowed, nearly erased, hints of families that had been erased or hidden, whispered through magic and secrecy.

Nella's pulse quickened. Perhaps her mother had belonged to one of these forgotten houses. Perhaps the blood that flowed through her was more than she had ever imagined. And if she could trace it—if she could uncover even a fragment—maybe she could finally answer the question that had haunted her her whole life: Who am I meant to be?

She paused on one name that appeared more than once, linked repeatedly to rituals and feats of magic involving dragons and fire. The margins of the page were scrawled with notes: "Sacrifice, blood of the unclaimed, pyre-born, fire-walker." A shiver ran down her spine. The descriptions seemed to mirror her own experiences: the fire, the dragon, the black liquid. It was as if someone had left her a breadcrumb trail, centuries old, pointing toward a truth she was only beginning to sense.

Her fingers traced the lines connecting families and magical rites. One particular lineage, long thought extinct, was noted for producing children who survived death or fire through the offering of another's life. The details were vague, but the implications gnawed at her: could her survival in the dragon pit be tied to something she had no memory of? A sacrifice made, a bloodline's magic awakened within her?

The thought both frightened and enthralled her. She had always been haunted by her mark, by the icy touch of death, but now it seemed part of a larger pattern, one that pulsed with power she could neither name nor fully understand.

Her mind spun. If this magic is tied to bloodlines, to heritage... then my mother, my father... everything I thought I knew is only a fragment.

For the first time, Nella felt the weight of her ancestry pressing upon her, not as a shadow of fear, but as a key. If she could uncover it, she might finally understand the source of her fire, the visions, the black liquid—and, perhaps, the path she was meant to walk.

Nella paused, the book still open in her hands, and realized she could not piece this together alone. The labyrinth of names, bloodlines, and rituals was too tangled, too old. She needed someone with authority—and knowledge of court—to grant her access to truths she could not reach herself.

Her thoughts immediately turned to Rhaenyra. The queen had already seen her survive the impossible, had witnessed the fire and the dragon. If anyone could sway her father to grant an audience, it was Rhaenyra. But approaching her was a delicate matter; Nella could not reveal everything—yet.

She rose from the library, careful not to jostle the ancient tomes, and sought the queen. When she found her, Nella's voice was tentative, a quiet edge to the urgency beneath.

"Your Grace... I need your counsel," she said, holding the book close. "I... I need to speak with my father. I know he is in the north, but there are questions I cannot answer alone. About who I am, about... the bloodline, the magic. I cannot understand it without him."

Rhaenyra regarded her steadily, her sharp eyes measuring the weight in Nella's words. The queen's expression softened slightly, a mixture of awe and concern flickering over her features.

"You seek truths long buried," Rhaenyra said slowly, her voice low. "And you would go to the north for them? Dangerous ground, for truths and for blood alike. But... if you truly seek your place in this world, perhaps you cannot do otherwise."

Nella swallowed, the enormity of the request pressing on her chest. "I... I don't know what I will find. But I need to try. I cannot... remain in the dark any longer." Her words hung in the air, heavy with urgency and uncertainty. Rhaenyra's gaze sharpened, unwavering.

"You shall have your audience," the queen said firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. "I will send an envoy to your father. He will answer—not to you, not to his whims—but to his queen. Whatever his reasons, whatever the secrets he clings to, he will not deny me."

Nella felt a tremor of relief ripple through her chest, but her anxiety lingered. "You... you promise?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

Rhaenyra's expression softened slightly, though her authority never wavered. "I promise, Nella. You will have your answers. I will see to it. Nothing will stop this—not distance, not fear, not the shadow of your past."

For the first time in years, Nella allowed herself to feel a small, fragile hope. Somewhere deep down, the threads of her mysterious heritage might finally begin to unravel, and she would no longer be defined by the unknown.

Chapter Text

The weeks stretched like a taut cord, each day taut with the rhythm of war beyond the walls, yet Nella remained ensnared in her own private obsession. She devoured the ancient texts of the Dragon Library, letting the musty scent of parchment and the weight of centuries-old knowledge consume her. The books became a lifeline, a labyrinth she wandered eagerly, searching for threads of bloodlines, the secrets of dragoncraft, and the whispers of old Valyria that might hint at her own origin.

The war thundered in the distance, the clang of swords and the calls of banners a constant reminder that life and death were ever at the gates. But Nella hardly noticed. Her mind swirled with hypotheses, with connections between blood, fire, and the strange immunity she carried within her veins. She scribbled notes, cross-referenced obscure texts, and let the slow unraveling of ancient knowledge shape her hours.

Then, one late afternoon, as the sun dipped behind Dragonstone's jagged peaks, the quiet of her study was broken. Heavy footsteps echoed in the hall, and the guards at the entrance announced, "An envoy from the north, Your Grace."

Nella froze, her heart hammering violently in her chest. The moment she had been waiting for—for which she had hungrily waited through weeks of obsession and anticipation—had finally arrived. Her father's answer, or perhaps his refusal, had come.

She rose from her chair, a mixture of fear and fierce determination setting her jaw.

The envoy's presence filled the chamber before he even spoke. A tall man in muted northern colors, bearing the sigil of her father's house, stepped forward, his expression guarded, but respectful. Nella's pulse thundered in her ears as she studied him—every gesture, every pause, every flicker of his eyes felt like a test.

"You are Nella?" His voice was firm, carrying the weight of authority, though tempered with caution. "I bring word from your father. He has been informed that you seek answers, and I am here to deliver them—or at least, to hear your words first."

Nella drew herself up, fighting the tremor in her hands. "I seek the truth," she said, voice steadier than she felt. "About who I am, about where I come from, and what blood runs through me. My father owes me that much."

The envoy's gaze sharpened, and he glanced around briefly before stepping closer. "You speak boldly. Your father is... cautious, to say the least. He will answer you—but only if you speak clearly, and not in riddles. He expects respect, and he will weigh your words as he would any... claim."

Nella's stomach twisted, part fear, part anticipation. This was the threshold she had been waiting for, the first real confrontation with the shadow of her origin. "I will speak clearly," she said, her voice rising with a blend of defiance and hunger. "I want to know my blood. I want to know why I survived when others did not. And I will have no riddles. No secrets."

The envoy studied her for a long moment, his eyes flicking to the marks of her fire-scorched past, the faint bruises of recent strain. "Very well," he said finally. 

Nella's heart thudded as the doors opened, and there he stood—her father. The tall, imposing man, sharp-eyed and cold, exuded the same presence she remembered from her childhood: a storm of authority that had once crushed her small world. The old memories surged like jagged waves—whippings for whimsy, cold dismissals, nights spent hiding from his anger, the sharp sting of his disdain, the certainty that she was never his daughter, only a convenient bastard to punish at leisure.

She inhaled, forcing herself to leave the frightened child behind. That girl had been swallowed by years of survival and fire; this woman, standing before him, would not tremble.

He crossed the chamber slowly, hands clasped behind his back, his voice cutting like ice. "Weeks of travel," he began, a sharp note of annoyance in his tone, "all because the Queen herself demanded my presence. I cannot fathom why I must waste my time on this... this child."

When his gaze fell upon her, he smirked, the kind of cruel amusement that made her stomach twist. "Ah," he said mockingly, "You're not quite what I imagined. You look... fragile. Weak, even."

Nella's throat tightened, but she forced herself to stand tall, refusing to let the old fear claim her. "I am here for answers," she said steadily, her voice measured. "Not for your judgment. I want the truth about who I am, why I survived, and what this magic is that chose me."

He let out a low laugh, stepping closer, still mocking. "Magic, you say? Perhaps the Queen has grown sentimental, or perhaps this little show of yours amuses her. You are bold, I'll give you that... foolishly bold. But speak quickly, girl—my patience wears thin, and I am not known for charity."

Nella's pulse raced, but the fire within her chest steadied her. She had survived more than cruelty; she had survived fire itself. And now, she would survive this reckoning.

"Then tell me about my mother," she said, her voice low but unwavering. "Who was she? Where did she come from?"

Her father let out a harsh, grating laugh, the kind that scraped along her nerves. "Your mother?" he sneered, leaning back as if she were some annoyance buzzing at his ear. "Bah! Some whore I barely noticed. You really care about her? Hah! You're lucky I even remember her face."

She felt the old anger flare, memories of being dismissed, of never being cared for, but she forced herself to stay calm. "I have a right to know," she said, voice firm.

He spat on the floor. "Right? You? Girl, I don't owe you a damn thing. She was nothing. A fleeting whim, a mess I cleaned up. Ask too much, and you'll get less."

Nella took a breath, her eyes locked on him. "I'll keep asking," she said, quietly but with steel in her voice. "Until you answer."

Her father's eyes narrowed, the amusement in his expression darkening into irritation. "You really think pestering me will get you anything but anger, girl?" he growled, leaning forward so that the stench of wine and sweat hit her. "Your mother... she wasn't someone to fuss over. You think she mattered? To me? Bah. A fleeting whim, a stain I let fade."

Nella's chest tightened, the old sting of neglect mixing with the sharp ache of curiosity. "You're lying by omission," she said, her voice low, unwavering. "I know there's more than that. You can't just—"

He slammed his hand on the table, making her start. "I said enough!" he barked. "I don't care if you know. You weren't supposed to exist. You were a mistake, a bastard I tolerated for a while. That's all!"

She didn't flinch, though her heart pounded. "I deserve more than that," she whispered, each word a quiet challenge. "I'll hear the truth, even if it takes everything you've got to tell me."

Nella's patience snapped. Her voice rang sharp, cutting through the stale, heavy air of the room. "I will know!" she shouted, rising slightly from her chair, fists clenching at her sides. "You cannot keep her hidden from me! I have a right to know who she was—I need to know!"

Her father froze, caught off guard by the fire in her tone, and for a moment, he said nothing. The veins in his neck twitched; his eyes narrowed, a mixture of anger and begrudging respect flickering behind the cruelty.

"You think raising your voice changes anything?" he growled, his tone harsh, low, almost threatening. "You think I owe you the truth because you shout?"

"Yes!" Nella shot back, her voice trembling with barely contained emotion. "I know she was special. I can feel it. I know she wasn't just... nothing! You can't deny me this—I need to know who she was!"

Her father's laughter was sharp, bitter, and devoid of humor. "Special, huh?" he sneered. "You really think you're anything like her? You want the truth? Fine. But don't expect it to be kind, girl. Don't expect it to make your life easier." 

Nella's voice dropped, no longer angry but steady, almost pleading. "It's the only thing I'm asking of you," she said, eyes locked on his. "The only thing I've ever asked... who was my mother?"

Her father's expression hardened, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. For a long moment, he said nothing, as if weighing whether her persistence was folly—or daring. The room felt smaller, the silence heavy, until finally a rough, begrudging tone broke through.

He leaned forward, voice low and rasping. "Her name... was Lysara of Myr. White hair, pale as moonlight on snow, and eyes so pale they seemed almost hollow, like they were looking through you instead of at you. She came from Essos, from lands no one remembers with kindness. They said she was a witch... maybe they were right. Or maybe they were afraid of what she could do."

Nella's stomach tightened. Her pulse quickened, the black liquid she had once vomited rising in her mind like a memory.

"A merchant brought her north once," he continued, his voice trembling ever so slightly, "but people feared her. Dogs howled when she passed. Children cried. Even men—strong men—looked away. She had a presence... a coldness that could strip the warmth from a room. And yet... she caught my eye. I should have known better, but I couldn't look away. She had this hunger... this need for something more than Essos could give, and she bent me, used me, like I was nothing more than a tool."

He paused, and Nella could feel the weight of the story pressing down, like a shadow reaching across the room. "She... she did things. Strange things. Rituals in the dead of night. Bathing in blood, whispering words that made the air burn. I saw her touch life and death as if they were clay to mold. I should have fled, I should have... I was foolish. And that... is your mother."

A cold shiver ran down Nella's spine. The images of black liquid, fire, and the dragons came rushing back. Her mark throbbed faintly, as if recognizing the name. The fire that hadn't burned her, the cold that had nearly devoured her... it was no accident. It had begun here, with Lysara. And the thought made her stomach twist with equal parts fear and awe.

She wanted to speak, to ask more, but words failed her. 

His voice dropped lower, dragging across the room like gravel. "She... she often spoke of visions. Of fire and ice. Of a child... a child destined for something neither of us could understand. She believed it was her purpose to bring it into the world, and she reveled in it—like she was shaping fate itself. Strange woman. Cruel. I thought... I thought she loved me. Foolish, blind. But she only ever loved herself. Every glance, every whisper, every touch... it was always for her own reflection."

Nella's chest tightened, and she felt her stomach twist.

"When she gave birth..." His voice broke into a dry, rasping laugh, hollow and bitter. "Gods, I saw it in her eyes that day. Not love. Not wonder. Not even a moment’s fear. No... she was admiring herself. As if she had sculpted you from her own vanity, as if your first cry was nothing more than a hymn to her own brilliance. She adored her creation, yes... but not as a mother. As an artist. As a tyrant. She saw you as her mirror, her vessel, her continuation."

His hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening. "And after that? After she placed you in a crib still soaked in her blood? She returned to her games. Seduction. Manipulation. She wrapped men around her fingers and drank them dry. She whispered in tongues when she thought I wasn’t listening. Blood offerings. Circles of ash on the floor. Her body, her voice, her very presence became ritual. Occult. Foul. I tell you now, she rejoiced in filth. I could feel it seeping into the walls. I hated it. I hated her."

He spat, the sound sharp as steel. His eyes were two pits of venom.  "And one day... one day, I had enough." His voice dropped, cold and bitter. "I killed her. I... I thought it would end it. Thought it would rid me of her shadow, her presence, her... darkness." He shuddered, as if reliving it. "My fingers closed around her throat, and I thought I was free. But even as her breath rattled out... even as her lips turned blue... she did not even look at me. She did not fear me. There was nothing human left in her eyes. Only malice. Only the abyss staring back."

His breath came ragged, his face twisted. "And then—" his voice dropped, cold as stone, "her lips moved. Not in plea. Not in prayer. But in a curse. A curse that curdled the air, that clung to me even after the breath left her. She whispered, with her last rancid breath, that I would never be rid of her. That her shadow would dog me, bind me, choke me in my sleep. That she would linger."

He leaned forward suddenly, eyes narrowing, drilling into her with a hatred so sharp it could have cut flesh. "And she was right. Look at you."

His voice cracked, then rose, raw and venomous. "I hated her. Hated every painted smile, every lie dripped in honey, every time she looked at me as though she were a god and I her servant. I hated the sound of her laughter, that cruel, cold music that no flame could burn away. I hated every night spent under the same roof, knowing she was rotting me from within. And still—still—" His jaw clenched hard, his body shaking as if the fury was eating him alive. "...I hated most of all the gift she left me. You."

His words became jagged, serrated with loathing. "Every time I see you, I see her. Her lips in your smile. Her poison in your eyes. Her arrogance curled in the set of your jaw. You are her echo, her curse made flesh. Do you hear me?" His voice cracked into a snarl. "You are her."

He dragged in a breath, as though to steady himself, but the hatred boiled over again. "I would have burned my own hall to cinders rather than share it with her shadow. I would have salted the earth. Drowned the stones in blood. Anything, anything but this. To watch her walk again through you. To know I strangled her once, and yet she still breathes every time you do."

The silence that followed was suffocating. His chest heaved, his face pale and wet with the spit of his own rage. His eyes, locked on her, blazed not with love, not even with sorrow, but with a loathing so deep it was almost reverence—an endless war that no death had ever ended.

Nella felt the words cut through her, sharp as Valyrian steel, searing into a place she had never fully known existed. Her chest tightened, heart hammering as a sickening mix of fear and fury surged through her. The air seemed to thrum with his hatred, and for the first time, she understood the full weight of the darkness coursing through her veins.

Her jaw tightened, fingers clenching at her sides as heat rose to her face—not the warmth of life, but the fire of recognition. This cruelty... this malice... it was in her too, a spark she had never named but had always sensed. Her mother's shadow was not just a memory; it was an inheritance, etched into her very blood.

And then it hit her, unbidden: every encounter she had endured in the brothel, every man who had touched her, leered at her, used her—she had felt it then, that same malice, that same cold, gnawing cruelty that her mother used to carry like a weapon. It had burrowed deep into her bones, a pulse of darkness she had tried to deny, tried to bury beneath survival and pretense. But it was hers. She had carried it long before she knew its source, and now she understood—it was blood, it was inheritance, it was fire in the marrow of her soul.

Her lips pressed together, a shiver crawling down her spine as she realized the truth: she was not simply Nella, the girl abandoned and used. She was the daughter of shadows and fire, a vessel of malice and power, and the world—her father included—had only begun to see the shape of what she could become.

Chapter Text

Nella remained by the high window long after her father's escort had vanished from Dragonstone, the gates clanging shut behind them. The cold wind whipped her hair around her face, yet she hardly felt it. Her thoughts churned like storm-tossed seas, each revelation from the confrontation striking her anew.

Her answers had come at last, but they were not comforting. They were raw, bitter, and filled with shadows she could not simply sweep away. She had seen the truth of her mother, glimpsed the inheritance she carried—and it both terrified and fascinated her. The blood, the malice, the fire coursing in her veins: it was hers, undeniable, and yet she could not tell if it was a curse or a weapon.

She pressed her palm to the window sill, her fingers trembling slightly. Dragonstone stretched below her, jagged cliffs and black sands meeting the grey waves of the Narrow Sea. The island had always felt like home in some ways, but now it seemed a crucible, a place where the weight of her lineage pressed down harder than any stone.

Her heart still raced from the confrontation. Her father's voice, harsh and venomous, echoed in her mind. You carry her shadow. I hate you for it.

Yet beneath the fear and anger, something else flickered—a quiet, burning curiosity. The darkness she had inherited was no longer abstract. It was tangible, and she could feel its pulse, its potential. She wanted to understand it, to master it, to know how far it could reach.

And yet, another thought lingered, colder than the sea wind, sharper than any Valyrian steel. She had answers, yes—but the deeper question remained. Who am I truly, beyond the blood and the shadows? And what am I meant to become?

Nella's thoughts shifted, reluctantly, from the shadows of her heritage to something small, bright, and impossibly alive. Bram. Her little boy, just three years old, whose laughter had once filled even the darkest corners of Dragonstone. She could almost hear it now, ringing like bells through the empty halls.

She moved quickly, almost instinctively, toward the nursery. The idea of miracles crept unbidden into her mind—how she had survived fire, how she had been marked by forces she barely understood. And yet, nothing compared to this tiny life she had nurtured, this small heartbeat that had given her a reason to keep moving forward.

When she opened the door, Bram looked up with wide, curious eyes. "Nene?" His voice was soft, innocent, and it pierced the heaviness in her chest.

Nella's lips curved into a smile, fragile but genuine. She knelt beside him, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "Yes, little one. I'm here."

Her fingers lingered on his tiny hand, warm and unmarked by the shadows she carried. In that moment, she allowed herself to imagine a future—a future where she could protect him, guide him, and perhaps, in some way, redeem the darkness she had inherited. She thought of the boy he would become, the courage he might need, the pride she would feel watching him grow. Bram was a miracle in his own right, a living testament that not all legacies were cruel, that not all blood carried only shadows.

Nella held Bram close, the child's small warmth a fleeting anchor against the storm inside her. She hadn't realized how tense her shoulders had become until she felt Jacearys's presence, a quiet weight beside her. He moved closer, careful not to disturb Bram, and brushed a soft kiss against her shoulder.

"Are you okay?" he asked gently, his voice low, carrying concern that went deeper than words. His eyes searched hers, as if trying to gauge the weight she carried, to measure the fire and shadows she had inherited.

She hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around Bram. "I... I don't know," she admitted finally, her voice almost a whisper. "There's so much... so much I've learned, and yet..." Her words faltered, swallowed by the swirl of fear, fury, and awe she still felt from the day's revelations.

Jacearys nodded slowly, his hand resting lightly on hers, a grounding presence. "Is there anything you need? Anything at all?"

Nella swallowed, feeling the echo of her father's hatred, the dark inheritance of her bloodline, and yet, in this moment, she sensed a fragile reprieve. "Just... You," she murmured, the single word heavy with more meaning than she could articulate. "I just need you."

He gave her a small, reassuring smile, leaning closer without breaking the gentle tension. 

Bram giggled, his tiny fingers gripping at the folds of her sleeve, and Nella smiled faintly, a fleeting warmth in her chest. But the moment was broken as Jacearys straightened slightly, a shadow of responsibility crossing his face.

"You know...I'll probably have to fly to battle soon," he said quietly, his tone heavy with the weight of the war. "The dragons... they're needed."

Nella felt a pang in her chest, her heart twisting. She bent down and set Bram gently on the ground, his small hand waving as if he understood more than he should. Then she faced Jacearys fully, her gaze intense, raw with pleading.

"Don't leave," she said, her voice firm but trembling. "I don't want you to go."

He hesitated, his expression torn. Duty called him, but the warmth of her presence, of Bram's laughter, anchored him in a way the battlefield never could. Slowly, he stepped closer, his hands reaching up to cup her cheeks, holding her as if he could shield her from the world.

"I have no choice," he whispered, his forehead nearly touching hers, eyes dark with the impossible tension between them.

Then, in a breathless instant, he pressed his lips to hers, soft but urgent, a kiss that held longing, reassurance, and the unspoken promise that he would return.  Nella felt herself caught between desire and disbelief, the heat of the kiss clashing with the cold reminders of the war outside, the dragons looming, the crown she carried in her own blood. Her hands rose instinctively, pressing against his chest, feeling the strength and warmth beneath her fingers.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to let his forehead rest against hers, breath mingling, eyes dark and stormy. Bram's laughter echoed behind them, tiny and joyful, grounding them in a world that seemed impossibly fragile and fleeting.

"I have to go," Jacearys whispered, his voice rough with restraint, "but I don't want to leave like this... without knowing..." He hesitated, searching her face as if looking for courage in her eyes.

Nella blinked, heart still pounding, and before she could speak, he took a deep breath. "Marry me."

The words struck her like lightning. Nella froze, a flush rising in her cheeks, her mind spinning. A few years ago, she had been nothing more than a poor bastard girl, scraping by in a brothel, trying to survive. Now... now a prince of the realm, a dragonrider, was asking for her hand. The world had turned upside down, and for a moment, she couldn't even answer, staring at him as if he'd just spoken in a language she didn't know.

Jacearys's hands still cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek tenderly. "I know this is sudden. I know it's... impossible to imagine. But I can't leave without asking. Not when I feel this... this truth between us."

Nella's chest tightened, her thoughts racing. Part of her wanted to laugh at the absurdity, part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms again. The fire inside her—the same fire that had survived the dragon pit, the same fire she didn't yet fully understand—burned hotter at his words.

"I... I..." she began, but words failed her. Instead, she pressed her hands to his chest again, feeling the heartbeat of a man who carried not just dragons but the weight of a realm, and she realized that the girl she had been was gone, replaced by someone who had survived horrors, fire, and blood magic, someone capable of standing on equal footing with a prince.

Nella's chest tightened, her fingers trembling as they rested on his arms. She searched his eyes, feeling the warmth and sincerity radiating from him. The world seemed to shrink until there was only him, Bram, and the weight of the moment.

Then, in a quiet, steady voice, she said, "Yes."

He blinked, stunned for a heartbeat, then a slow, radiant smile spread across his face. "Yes?" he repeated, as if hearing it aloud made it real.

"Yes," she confirmed, heart hammering, a mixture of relief and wonder flooding through her. "I... I'll marry you."

Jacearys cupped her face with both hands, pressing his lips to hers once more, this time slower, softer, as if sealing a promise in the quiet of Dragonstone. Bram clapped his small hands, giggling at the display, oblivious to the enormity of what had just been decided.

The prince pulled back slightly, his hands still cupping her face, thumbs brushing along her cheekbones as if trying to memorize every line, every curve. His gaze locked onto hers, steady, unwavering, filled with a gravity that made her heart skip. "Be ready by tomorrow morning," he said, voice firm but threaded with something softer, almost reverent. "We don’t have the luxury of waiting. The war… it will call me soon. This… this must be done now."

Nella swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling into her chest. Tomorrow. A wedding in the shadow of dragons, fire, and the iron roar of war. There was no time for grandeur, no time for lavish vows or feasts. Only this—an urgent promise carved out in stolen moments, made under the flicker of Dragonstone’s flames.

Her hand brushed over his, feeling the heat of his skin through the coarse fabric of his sleeve. She felt Bram tug at her skirts, his small giggle breaking the tension for a heartbeat, and she let herself smile, fragile but real, imagining them—three of them—bound together by choice, by love, by fate. For a fleeting instant, the war felt distant, and their family whole.

Jacearys leaned in again, pressing his lips to hers, softer this time, almost a whisper, a tether in the chaos. "I’ll return to you," he murmured, voice thick with unsaid words and burning certainty. "No matter where the war drags me, no matter what I face… I swear, I’ll come back."

She traced a line along his jaw, memorizing the planes of his face in the firelight. Her voice was barely audible, trembling but steady. "Then I’ll be ready," she whispered, "whatever comes… I’ll be ready."

A pause stretched between them, heavy with longing, desire, and the weight of the battles yet to come. Then, almost as if it had been waiting for the right moment, he spoke again, voice low but filled with promise. "And when the war is over… when the rightful queen sits upon the Iron Throne, we will have a wedding worthy of the prince and princess of this realm. In the sept, before the eyes of the gods… and all who would witness it."

Nella’s breath caught. The image of a sunlit sept, of vows spoken without fear, without shadow, bloomed in her mind—a future worth fighting for. Her hand squeezed his. "Then I’ll wait," she said, certainty threading through her words. "I’ll wait for that day, no matter how long it takes."

The firelight danced across them, reflecting hope and steel, devotion and defiance, a fragile promise spoken in the shadows of an uncertain dawn.

The first light of dawn crept over Dragonstone, a pale gold spilling across the jagged cliffs and the restless sea below. Inside the high hall, the castle was quiet—too quiet for a place bracing for war—but the air hummed with urgency. Servants moved swiftly, preparing what little could be managed in a day, while Nella stood at the center, heart pounding, her fingers brushing the folds of the simple yet elegant gown chosen for her in haste.

Jacearys appeared beside her, armored only in ceremonial pieces, his cloak dark and heavy, but his eyes soft as they met hers. "We have no time for extravagance," he murmured, tilting his head toward her. "The war... it's already at our gates."

Nella nodded, letting her hands settle in his. "Then let this be enough," she said quietly. "Just us, here and now."

They moved together toward the small dais hastily prepared, a few trusted witnesses—guards and attendants—standing at a respectful distance. The sea wind carried with it the scent of salt and smoke from the distant battlefield, a stark reminder of the world waiting beyond these walls.

As they exchanged words, soft but deliberate, the intimacy of the moment pressed heavily against the tension of the outside world. Every vow they spoke was not just a promise of love, but a defiance of fate, a claim of something enduring in the chaos of war. When Jacearys slipped the ring onto her finger, their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, time seemed to pause. The roar of the waves below and the cries from the distant battlements faded, replaced by the thrum of hearts tethered together against the storm.

As they stepped back, Nella felt the weight of the coming days, the battles, the fires, the dragons, but she also felt something steadier—a thread of certainty, of hope, of belonging, winding through the fear. 

They barely made it to their chamber before laughter bubbled up, light and unrestrained, echoing off the cold stone walls. The world outside—the war, the dragons, the endless schemes—seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them. Jacearys caught her hand, tugging her close as they stumbled over the threshold like children caught in mischief.

Nella pressed herself against him, and their laughter faded into soft breaths. He cupped her face, fingers brushing hair from her forehead, and lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was urgent but tender, a collision of relief, desire, and the shared knowledge that tomorrow would demand everything from them.

They broke for air, foreheads resting together, and whispered promises that no one else would hear. "I'll come back to you," he murmured, voice low, "no matter what fires I walk through."

"I'll wait," she replied, heart hammering, "and I'll fight for us... always."

His hands traced her shoulders, memorizing the warmth of her skin against the chill of the stone chamber. Slowly, deliberately, he began to undo the laces of her gown, each tug revealing more of her in the soft candlelight. She mirrored him in return, slipping the folds of his tunic from his shoulders, fingers lingering over the planes of his chest as he did hers.

They laughed quietly, breathless, a mix of anticipation and relief, before their lips met again, long and lingering, tasting and claiming. That night, the world beyond the stone walls—the dragons, the war, the heavy crown of duty—fell away. They moved together as one, every touch, every sigh, every heartbeat synchronized, a rhythm born of longing, trust, and newfound devotion.

Time became irrelevant. They lived in that moment, bodies and souls entwined, discovering each other with a reverence that left neither untouched, neither the same as before. The night held them completely, a sanctuary of fire and shadow, of whispered promises and unspoken truths, until the first pale light of dawn began to seep through the chamber windows.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn spilled into the chamber, pale and gold against the rumpled sheets. Nella lay on her side, watching him. Jacaerys' breathing was slow and steady, his features softened in sleep—so different from the prince the realm knew, so different from the man readying himself for war.

She traced the line of his jaw with her eyes, committing it to memory. A lock of his black hair had fallen over his face, and with the lightest touch, she brushed it aside. Her lips curved into a smile she hadn't even realized was there. For all the storms and shadows in her life, this... this felt like a moment stolen from a gentler world.

Leaning forward, she pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. His brows twitched, then his eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep.

He blinked fully awake, the sleepy haze giving way to a slow smile. "Good morning, wife."

The word sent a shiver through her—new, fragile, but solid in its truth. She let the syllables settle between them before answering. "Good morning... husband." 

Jacaerys leaned in first, his lips warm and unhurried against hers, a lingering kiss that spoke of both tenderness and a reluctant goodbye. When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling.

"Do we have to leave this bed?" she asked, her voice soft, almost a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile peace between them.

He sighed, brushing his thumb along her jaw. "Yes," he murmured, regret thick in his tone. "Duty calls... my mother needs me."

She stayed beneath the covers, her cheek resting on her hand as she watched him rise from the bed. Her eyes followed him as he moved across the chamber, gathering his clothes with the quiet efficiency of a man used to armor and urgency.

"You move too quickly," she said softly, her voice still thick with sleep. "I'd keep you here if I could."

He glanced over his shoulder at her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "And I'd let you... if the world would stop for us."

She watched as he pulled on his trousers, the fabric sliding over lean muscle, then reached for the tunic. He caught her staring and shook his head with a low chuckle. "Seven hells, you look dreamy right now. Like you're somewhere else entirely."

"Maybe I am," she murmured, eyes never leaving him. "Somewhere where you don't have to leave me."

She propped herself up on one elbow, the sheet slipping down just enough to bare one breast, letting the cool morning air kiss her skin. Her gaze lingered on him deliberately as he fastened his belt, and her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.

"You know," she drawled, "you're making it very hard for me to stay under these covers. Walking around like that... you could at least pretend you don't know I'm watching."

He glanced back at her, eyebrow arched, that smirk growing wider. "And what exactly am I doing?"

"Being entirely too handsome for a morning like this," she said, her tone dipping low. "All that muscle, all those scars... it's cruel to show them off and then walk away."

He gave a short laugh, shaking his head as he tugged his tunic over his head. "If I stay, you'll never let me leave."

"Exactly," she replied, biting her lip just enough to make his gaze flicker back to her before he looked away again, shoulders tensing as though resisting the pull.

As he slid his arms through his sleeves, she added in a hushed, teasing tone, "I could help you with that shirt... or better yet, take it back off."

He froze mid-button, a low groan escaping his throat. "Seven hells, woman, you're going to make me late."

"That's the idea," she said, eyes glinting with mischief.

He stood there for a heartbeat longer, his hands still on the last button, chest rising and falling faster than before. Then, with a muttered curse under his breath, he crossed the space between them in two long strides.

Her laugh caught in her throat as his hands cupped her face, warm and sure, pulling her into a kiss that stole the air from her lungs. It wasn't hurried, not at first—it was deep, lingering, the kind that made her fingers curl into his tunic as though she could anchor him there forever.

When he finally broke away, his lips brushed her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "One last kiss," he murmured, though they both knew it wasn't enough.

Her hand slid along his jaw, thumb tracing the corner of his mouth. "Then make it count."

He kissed her again—harder this time, almost desperate—before tearing himself away, resting his forehead against hers for a single, suspended moment. His voice was rough when he finally said, "If I stay another second, I won't leave at all."

She smiled faintly, though her chest ached. "Then maybe you should stay."

He chuckled low, a sound that was equal parts regret and want, before straightening and backing toward the door. His eyes never left hers until he was gone.

The chamber felt colder the moment the door shut behind him. Nella stayed where she was for about an hour, the sheets drawn loosely around her, listening to the fading echo of his boots in the hall until there was nothing but silence.

Through the narrow slit of the window, she caught sight of him striding across the courtyard, armor glinting faintly in the pale morning light. Stablehands moved quickly to ready his dragon, the smell of smoke and salt from the sea drifting in with the wind.

Her fingers tightened in the fabric at her chest. The warmth of his lips still lingered on hers, but already it felt like the war was pulling him away—pulling them both into its jaws. She'd known this moment would come. She had told herself she would be strong. Yet, as she watched him mount his dragon and lift into the grey sky, the thundering beat of its wings felt like a countdown, each stroke carrying him further from her and closer to danger.

She rose from the bed with purpose, the chill in the air biting against her bare skin as she dressed. Her fingers moved quickly over laces and clasps, braiding her hair back so the wind wouldn't toss it into her eyes. If he was leaving, she would see him off—properly.

The corridors of Dragonstone felt longer that morning, her steps echoing as she descended toward the courtyard. When she emerged into the open air, the sky was a muted grey, the scent of rain and salt heavy in the wind.

Rhaenyra was already there, her posture straight, her expression carved from something unreadable. The Queen's eyes flicked to Nella for a heartbeat, giving a slight nod before returning to the massive shape that waited beyond them. The dragon loomed like a living storm, its wings half-spread, scales rippling with subtle movement. Jacaerys stood beside it, adjusting the last straps on the saddle, his dark hair whipping in the breeze.

Nella stood beside Rhaenyra, feeling the hum of power and danger in the air. Every sound seemed sharper—the clink of metal buckles, the low, rumbling growl of the dragon, the rush of the wind funneling through the courtyard. Jacaerys turned from the saddle, his gaze finding her instantly. The tension in his shoulders eased for just a moment as he crossed the courtyard toward her, the world narrowing to the space between them.

The prince turned first to his mother. Rhaenyra stood tall despite the strain in her eyes. He stepped into her arms without hesitation, and she held him tightly, her face buried briefly in his shoulder.

"I'll fly safe," he murmured against her ear. "I'll come back to you."

Her grip tightened, and for a moment, she looked every inch the mother, not the queen. "You'd better," she said, voice soft but edged with command. "The realm can't afford to lose you. Neither can I."

He kissed her cheek, gave her one last look, and then turned toward Nella. The change in his expression was subtle but unmistakable—the prince becoming a man in love.

He stood in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat from his body even through the chill wind. His hand came up to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing over her skin as though trying to memorize it.

"I'll come back," he said, voice low but sure. "No matter how far I fly or how long I'm gone—I'll come back to you Nella."

Before she could answer, he bent down, pressing his mouth to hers in a kiss that was both fierce and lingering, a desperate seal against the uncertainty of war. The dragon rumbled behind them, impatient, but he didn't break away until he had to.

His forehead rested against hers for a heartbeat longer. "Promise me you'll be here when I do."

She could only nod, words caught in her throat.

With one last squeeze of her hand, he turned. The courtyard trembled under the beating wings of the dragons as Jacaerys mounted, his green-scaled companion pawing the stones impatiently.  Nella's eyes never left him, memorizing every line of his body, every movement, every gesture—the way he adjusted the saddle, the tilt of his head, the certainty in his stance.

Beside her, Rhaenyra's gaze was fixed on her own son, the eldest of her blood, preparing to vanish into the sky. Her lips pressed into a thin line, betraying the fear she refused to voice. The roar of the dragons and the wind whipping through their hair seemed to echo the drumbeat of worry in both women's chests.

Rhaenyra reached out, her hand brushing against Nella's. She gripped it firmly, a quiet anchor amidst the chaos. "He will come back," she said, her voice steady despite the tension in her jaw. "Jacaerys... he's brave. You'll see. He will come back."

Nella squeezed her hand in return, finding a strange solace in the touch, a shared understanding of fear, love, and hope. "I... I trust you," she whispered, her eyes still fixed on her husband, now preparing to take flight.

The dragon reared, shaking the very air with power, and for a heartbeat, both women simply watched, hearts caught between pride and dread, drawing strength from each other's presence. Together, they bore the terror and the hope, knowing the men they loved would soon be swallowed by the skies, and yet, both women held onto the promise that the wind would bring them back home.

Nella's footsteps echoed softly through the cold stone halls as she returned to the castle. Each step seemed to stretch, as though the corridors themselves had grown longer in Jacaerys's absence. The air felt heavier, almost tangible, pressing against her chest.

She paused in the grand hall, hands resting lightly on the marble balustrade, and let her eyes wander over the empty spaces. Where moments ago there had been life, warmth, and laughter, now there was only stillness. The tapestries on the walls fluttered slightly in the draft, the flickering torchlight casting long, lonely shadows.

A hollow ache settled deep in her chest, the weight of absence anchoring her in place. The war, the dragons, the promises—all of it seemed distant now, swallowed by a quiet grief she could not shake. She had never felt the castle so vast, so silent, so devoid of him. Her fingers trailed along the railing as if seeking some trace of him, some connection to the man who had kissed her, promised her, and then taken to the skies. But there was nothing—only the echo of his presence, and the sharp sting of longing.

Her steps led her to the balcony overlooking Dragonstone's cliffs. The wind whipped against her face, salty and sharp, carrying the cries of gulls and the distant roar of waves. She wrapped her arms around herself, drawing in a deep breath, trying to steel herself against the gnawing emptiness. The sea, vast and unrelenting, mirrored the void she felt inside.

Nella's mind wandered to Bram, small and bright, the one spark of life she could hold close even as the war drew others away. She imagined his laughter echoing through the halls, and it made her chest ache both with love and with the yearning for normalcy that seemed impossibly distant.

Her gaze lifted to the sky, half-expecting to see Jacaerys' dragon slicing through the clouds. But the heavens were empty, a stark reminder that duty had claimed him for now. She clenched her fists, the thrill of yesterday's joy now tangled with the gnawing dread of today's reality. The castle felt vast, cold, and hers only in body, not in spirit.

She wrapped her arms around herself, the chill of the morning air biting at her skin.

In the stillness, she began to hum softly, a melody passed down through generations. It was a lullaby, simple and haunting, known to many in Westeros. The words, though ancient, were familiar to her:

"The Father's face is stern and strong,
He sits and judges right from wrong.
He weighs our lives, the short and long,
And loves the little children."

Her voice trembled slightly as she continued, the song a comfort and a sorrow all at once. The lullaby spoke of the Seven, of the gods who watched over the realm. It was a prayer, a plea for protection, for peace. As she sang, memories of her mother flooded her mind—of nights spent by the hearth, her mother's voice soothing her to sleep with this very song. The warmth of those moments contrasted sharply with the cold emptiness she felt now.

For a fleeting moment, her thoughts returned to Cregan. She remembered how he had made her heart race with a single glance, how the world had seemed lighter when he was near. She remembered the thrill of stolen smiles, the softness in his voice that had made her feel seen in ways no one else ever had.

And then, almost as sharply, she remembered how he had broken her—how the same heart that had soared in his presence had been crushed by betrayal and absence. The memory twisted in her chest, bitter and aching, leaving her torn between longing and the bitter lesson of loss. She shook her head, forcing herself back to the present, to the empty halls of Dragonstone and the sky where Jacearys rode, and the lullaby slipped from her lips once more, trembling yet resolute.

Chapter Text

The weeks stretched on, each one bleeding seamlessly into the next, until Nella's life had become a quiet prison of waiting. The castle's halls echoed with the muted sounds of daily life, but to her, it felt hollow, as if the very stones themselves had conspired to keep her in this limbo. Every morning she awoke with the same hope—a word from Jacearys, a letter, the distant roar of a dragon—and every evening it ended in disappointment, the silence pressing down on her like a physical weight.

She spent countless hours on the balcony, leaning over the cold stone, eyes straining against the horizon. She memorized every cloud, every distant hill, every ripple of the sea, searching for a sign. Sometimes she thought she saw a dragon's shadow against the sky and her heart would leap, only to fall back into the emptiness when it was nothing. At night, she whispered his name into the wind, imagining that somehow it might reach him, or perhaps the gods might hear her longing and bring him home.

When not watching the skies, she devoted herself to Bram. She read him stories with exaggerated voices, laughing at his unfiltered curiosity, letting him pull her into his little world of wonder. His laughter was the only sound that could pierce the thick fog of her anxiety, though even it could not fully drown out the worry gnawing at her chest. Sometimes, while watching him play, she was struck by the cruel contrast: her husband, the father of her child, was alive and yet unreachable, leaving her to shoulder the days alone.

In quieter hours, she immersed herself in the Dragon Library, running her fingers along the spines of ancient Valyrian tomes, some older than any living memory. The books smelled of ash and ink, of old fire and secrets buried beneath centuries of dust. She read of dragons born from blood, of rituals that could twist fate, and of power both intoxicating and terrible. The knowledge thrilled her, but it also left a hollow ache; it reminded her of her own heritage, her own strange immunity to fire, and the unspoken legacies carried in her blood. Even the whispers of dark magic could not replace the absence she felt.

Days were marked by routines: feeding Bram, dusting the library, pacing the balcony, reading, and endlessly waiting. Time had become a monotone melody, and she moved through it almost mechanically, her mind tethered to a single, consuming thought: where was Jacearys? Each sunrise offered hope; each sunset, despair. She no longer felt joy as she had before, only the gray weight of expectation and longing. The vibrancy of her life—the laughter, the stolen moments with Jacearys, the reckless freedom of love—had dimmed, leaving her world muted and heavy.

And then, one morning, as she cradled Bram in her arms, a sudden wave of dizziness swept over her. She blinked rapidly, trying to steady herself, but the room spun too sharply.

"I—" she started, but her voice caught in her throat. Carefully, she handed Bram to the waiting nurse. "Take him... please," she murmured, her fingers brushing the child's cheek one last time.

The nurse's eyes softened. "Of course, Your Grace. He'll be safe with me."

Nella nodded, taking a tentative step toward the chamber doorway, but the world tilted violently. She doubled over, retching, and felt a hollow weakness spread through her bones. The air seemed thick and heavy, pressing down on her chest.

From the shadowed hallway, a figure stepped forward. The maester had been observing silently, his expression a careful mask of concern. "Your Grace," he said, voice calm yet edged with urgency, "come with me. At once."

Nella swayed, gripping the doorframe for support. "I—I'm fine," she whispered, though her limbs trembled. "Just... a bit of... dizziness."

The maester's eyes narrowed slightly. "This is no ordinary dizziness. Your pulse races, your cheeks are flushed. You must come. Now. Please."

She shook her head weakly, trying to protest. "I don't have time... there's—" She faltered, thinking of Jacearys and the war raging beyond the seas.

"Your health is what matters," he interrupted gently, yet firmly. "Whatever news waits outside these walls can wait a moment longer. You cannot."

Her heart pounded, not with her usual anxiety over her husband, but with a strange, deeper unease that sent shivers along her spine. There was something in the maester's eyes—a quiet insistence—that told her this was not merely illness. Something was coming, something she could not avoid.

Swallowing hard, she gave a shallow nod. "Very well," she murmured. "Lead the way."

The maester extended a steadying hand, and she grasped it, feeling the weight of the unknown press against her chest as they moved through the quiet corridors of the castle.  Nella's steps slowed as they reached a quiet chamber, her hand pressed instinctively against her stomach. Another wave of nausea rose, and she shivered, feeling suddenly small in the empty room.

The maester's gaze softened. "Your Grace... may I?" he asked gently, gesturing toward her midsection. "I need your permission to examine you—your pulse, your stomach. Only if you allow it."

Nella swallowed hard, her nerves taut. "Yes... yes, do what you must," she whispered, bracing herself.

He stepped closer, placing a careful hand on her wrist to check her pulse, then his other hand lightly against her abdomen. His expression shifted, thoughtful at first, then something warmer flickered in his eyes. He withdrew his hands and stood back, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.

Nella's brow furrowed. "What... what is it? Tell me," she urged, panic and curiosity lacing her tone.

The maester's smile widened, and he looked at her with a reverence she hadn't expected. "You are with child, Your Grace," he said softly. "Five weeks along."

Nella's hand flew instinctively to her stomach, feeling the impossible weight of the words settle there. Her heart leapt, a mixture of wonder, fear, and disbelief swirling inside her. "A child..." she breathed, her voice trembling. 

The maester inclined his head. "Allow the days to pass with caution, all will be well. But..." He paused, letting the gravity of the moment sink in. "You must rest and guard yourself. This child... is precious."

A soft laugh escaped her lips, tinged with tears. "A child... my child," she whispered, her voice catching in the hollow chamber. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to still the rapid beat of her heart. A warmth, almost like fire, spread through her, chasing away the grey monotony that had shadowed her weeks.

But fear crept back, gnawing at her joy. What if the war took him? What if she failed to protect the life she now carried? Her gaze fell to the small bundle of possibility in her arms, and determination hardened her resolve. She could not let dread overwhelm her. She had to be strong—for herself, for Bram, and now for the child she carried.

Rising with care, she smoothed her hair and wrapped a light cloak around her shoulders, steadying herself against the dizziness that still lingered. Bram's laughter echoed faintly from the nursery, a reminder that life persisted even when the world seemed frayed.

She made her way through the corridors, each step measured, until she reached Rhaenyra's solar. The queen looked up as Nella entered, sensing the unusual urgency in her posture.

"Your Grace," Nella began, her voice trembling, "I... I have news. Wonderful news." She paused, a soft smile tugging at her lips as if the secret was too big to contain, her fingers brushing her stomach unconsciously. For a moment, she let the words linger in the air, savoring the anticipation before finally speaking them.

Rhaenyra's brow lifted, curiosity flickering in her sharp eyes. "Wonderful news? Speak plainly, child. What is it?"

Nella took a deep breath, her smile widening despite the flutter of nerves in her chest. "I... I am with child. Five weeks." The words slipped out in a whisper at first, then a little stronger, carrying the joy she could no longer hide.

For a heartbeat, Rhaenyra's face was unreadable. Then a rare warmth softened her expression, and she stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on Nella's arm. "A child..." she murmured. "In the midst of war, you carry life."

Nella felt a rush of emotion, joy mingled with lingering fear. "I... I was afraid to hope," she admitted, her hands resting lightly over her stomach. "With Jacearys at war... with everything... I didn't know how to even think of the future. But now—" She laughed softly, almost in disbelief, eyes glimmering with tears. "Now I can't keep this to myself. I feel... alive. As if a piece of him is with me, even while he is away."

Rhaenyra's eyes softened further, and without a word, she pulled Nella into a warm, maternal embrace. Nella felt the queen's arms around her, steady and reassuring, and for the first time in weeks, a sense of safety and calm washed over her.

"This child," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice low and reverent, "is so precious. You carry a future king of the Seven Kingdoms in your womb." She pulled back slightly, tilting Nella's face up with a gentle hand, her gaze fierce and proud. "One day... he will sit upon my throne. You carry the future of our line, Nella, and you must never forget the weight and the wonder of that."

Nella's smile widened, tears threatening to spill, a mix of joy, awe, and fear. "I... I will protect him," she said softly. "I will do everything in my power."

Rhaenyra pressed a hand to her shoulder, her grip firm, grounding. "And you will not be alone. We will see to it that he grows strong, wise, and ready for the world he will inherit. You have given us hope in the midst of war, Nella. Never doubt the power of that life you carry."

Nella leaned into the queen again, heart full, feeling a surge of fierce love and purpose. The weight of worry still lingered—Jacearys, the war—but for this moment, wrapped in Rhaenyra's embrace, she felt hope as vivid and alive as the life growing inside her. 

For a brief moment, she let herself imagine Jacearys' face, the pride, the love, the impossible relief that they were bringing life into a world so fraught with war. She pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling the first stirrings of her child, and whispered, "I hope... I hope he can feel it already."

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, tucking a strand of Nella's hair behind her ear. "In time, he will. And when he does... he will see what I see: the beginning of a legacy that will outshine any shadow war can cast."

Back alone in her chamber, Nella pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling the small, impossible life growing within her. She whispered softly, as if the child could already hear her, "You're going to have a father who loves you more than anything... and a mother who will do everything to keep you safe." Her eyes glistened with tears, half from joy, half from awe.

She thought of Jacearys, of how she would tell him—how his eyes would light up, how his hands would tremble, how he would hold her close and promise to protect both of them. The thought made her heart race, a wild, fluttering rhythm that mirrored the stirrings inside her.

A laugh escaped her lips, shaky and breathless, as her mind wandered further back, to Mira. They had sat together in the dim warmth of the brothel, talking quietly, daring to dream aloud. Mira had wanted children, too, and they had shared whispers of names and futures, of lullabies they might sing when the world allowed them. For Nella, that had seemed like a distant, impossible fantasy then—a life she could only imagine. And now... now it was real. Her hands trembled with wonder as she traced the curve of her belly, marveling at the miracle that had made her dream tangible.

"Little one," she whispered again, her voice trembling with laughter and awe, "I've waited so long for you... and now... now you're here. And I'll be ready for the world together, I promise."

Nella sank into the velvet cushions by the window, cradling her belly as the morning light painted golden streaks across the chamber.

She let herself smile again, soft and unrestrained, and whispered little stories to the child, imagining the adventures they would have, the lessons they would learn, the love they would know. "One day, you'll run through these halls and laugh," she murmured, "and your father... he'll lift you high above the world, just to see you smile. And I'll be there, always, cheering for you."

A shiver ran through her at the thought of the future, and she laughed quietly, a sound filled with both wonder and relief. Her eyes wandered to the balcony, where the wind stirred the banners beyond, and she thought of Jacearys flying over the clouds, unaware of this new life. Her heart ached a little for him, and yet it was full, too, with the certainty that he would return. That he would see this life they had created together and understand how much it meant to her.

Then, almost unconsciously, she pressed a hand to her lips and whispered, "Thank you... thank you for choosing me, for letting me hold you." It felt strange, almost sacred, to speak to a life not yet born—but it also felt like the most natural thing in the world.

For a moment, the world outside—the war, the uncertainty, the absence of her husband—faded entirely. There was only this: a small, fierce heartbeat against her own, a promise of the future, and a love that had survived all the cruelty and darkness that had come before.

Chapter Text

Nella moved through Dragonstone with a quiet purpose, her steps measured, yet somehow light, as if the life growing within her gave her wings. The castle, vast and echoing, felt different now—not empty, but alive with her thoughts, her fears, and her hopes. Each corner she passed held memories of battles past, whispered conversations, and the weight of her new role. She was no longer just Nella; she was a wife, a mother, and soon, a queen.

She began preparing a chamber for her child, a room once reserved for guests, now transformed into a sanctuary. Pale silks draped over the bed, soft linens folded with meticulous care, and small toys—hand-carved dragons, wooden horses—sat ready on a low shelf. Bram would share the room, and she imagined his laughter echoing off the stone walls, a sound that would chase away even the shadow of war.

Yet the mundane acts of nesting could not entirely silence her thoughts. In a quiet corner, she unfurled the yellowed pages of ancient Valyrian texts, the ink faded but the words potent with the fire of history. She traced her fingers over the names of dragonlords long gone: the kings who had conquered with fire, the queens who had ruled with iron, the betrayals that had toppled dynasties. Each story reminded her of the blood she now carried, the legacy that her child would inherit.

Her fingers lingered over a passage detailing the Targaryen line, a faint thrill coursing through her. "You will be strong," she whispered to her belly, the words half promise, half prayer. "Stronger than the storms that will come."

Outside, the castle hummed with the rhythm of war. The clatter of armor, the muted commands of sentries, and the occasional roar of a dragon reminded her that the world beyond her chamber was still dangerous, still unrelenting. Her joy was intertwined with peril; the child she carried was a symbol of hope, but also a reminder that the realm demanded vigilance.

Bram toddled in, wooden horse clutched to his chest, his eyes bright. "Nene, look!" he exclaimed, holding it out to her. Nella smiled, lifting him onto her lap, her heart swelling at his innocent joy. "Yes, my brave little dragon," she said, brushing a lock of golden hair from his forehead. "We will protect you. Always."

Later, she returned to the ancient texts, tracing lineages and battles, her mind alive with visions of the past. She thought of Mira, the conversations they had shared in the brothel years ago, dreaming of children they might one day have. And now, it was no longer a distant dream—it was real. She traced the letters of the old Valyrian language, murmuring them softly as if by speaking aloud, she could weave the strength of her ancestors into her child's very being.

Hours passed, the light shifting across the room, yet Nella remained engrossed. She paused occasionally to watch Bram sleep, his chest rising and falling in gentle rhythm, a living testament to life and hope. And though the horizon was filled with the dark promise of war, though Jacearys was still absent, she felt a fierce joy burning in her chest—a joy that was as unyielding as dragonfire.

The letters came sporadically, carried by tired ravens whose wings beat against the chill of Dragonstone's winds. Each seal made her stomach tighten, a mixture of hope and dread coiling within her. Sometimes the words were short, cryptic, filled with military code and the weight of strategy; other times, they were personal—stolen moments of tenderness that reminded her of the man she had married.

Nella traced the ink with trembling fingers, reading and rereading each line as if the words themselves could bridge the distance between them. She wrote back with care, crafting letters that spoke of Bram's laughter, of the soft mornings she spent reading Valyrian texts, and of the quiet, tender moments she shared with the child growing within her. She imagined what she would say when he returned, how she would run to him on the battlements, her arms open, her heart full.

At night, when the castle fell silent except for the distant roar of waves and the sigh of the wind through the towers, she would sit beside the fire or on the balcony, cradling her belly. She whispered stories and dreams to the child she carried—tales of brave ancestors, of dragons who soared above storm-tossed seas, of kingdoms built on courage and love. And always, she felt the subtle movements in response, tiny kicks and rolls that were proof of life, proof that even amidst the chaos of war, continuity persisted.

Sometimes, she pressed her ear to her belly and imagined hearing Jacearys' voice, the warmth of his hand over hers, the promise of return. And though her heart ached with longing, there was also a fierce, unyielding joy—an acknowledgment that life, no matter how fragile or threatened, would go on.

A sharp knock echoed through the solar, and Nella rose from her seat beside the hearth, brushing the hem of her silk gown over her belly with a protective instinct she barely recognized as hers. "Enter," she called, her voice steady despite the flutter of unease in her chest.

The doors opened to reveal Ser Roderic Storm, a seasoned knight of the Black faction, and his retinue. He bowed formally. "Your Grace," he said, eyes flicking toward her midsection, though he said nothing of it. "I come with the news you requested..."

Nella gestured for him to sit, her posture regal despite the weight pressing on her shoulders. Bram tugged at her sleeve behind her, and she brushed his hand gently before turning back to the lord. "Speak." she said, voice calm but commanding.

He cleared his throat. "The enemy holds the eastern coast near White Harbor. Our forces have pushed back their vanguard, but skirmishes continue. Ships are being prepared along the Narrow Sea, yet we lack sufficient men to cover every stretch. Your husband—Prince Jacearys—commands the dragons with unmatched skill, and the forces are close to the Gullet."

Nella listened, her fingers tightening against the carved railing of the chair beside her. Each word pressed into her chest like stone. "And the men?" she asked, her voice softening slightly, betraying the worry she rarely allowed herself to show.

"Loyal, though restless," Ser Storm replied. "They follow orders, but uncertainty breeds unease. If Jacearys does not return soon, morale will falter. And... Your Grace, I must say, your presence here—your guidance—keeps many hearts steadfast. The castle and the people look to you as much as to the prince himself."

Her jaw tightened, absorbing the weight of his words. "I requested this report," she said, her tone sharper now. "I need to know. No courtesies, no comfort—just the truth."

Roderick inclined his head, impressed. "Then know this, Your Grace. The war is perilous. Each day is a test. Yet... hope rides with our dragons. Your husband fights with the strength of a storm. And I am sure—he will return."

Nella exhaled slowly, letting the tension ease for a moment. She walked to the balcony, Bram in her arms, the wind tugging at her hair.  She pressed her ear gently to the curve of her belly, letting Bram's small hands brush hers as she imagined the tiny flutter of life within. She imagined Jacearys' voice—deep, steady, and soft—whispering promises of safety and return. She pictured the warmth of his hand settling over hers, the reassuring strength of him near, and felt a shiver of both longing and comfort.

Her heart ached, raw with the absence of him, the weight of uncertainty pressing against her ribs like a storm, yet beneath that ache surged a fierce, unyielding joy. Life had taken root inside her, fragile yet insistent, a beating reminder that even in the shadow of war, the world would continue. She smiled, brushing a hand over the swell of her stomach, whispering softly, "You are my courage... and my hope."

For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine the day he would return—dragon wings casting shadows across the courtyard, his eyes seeking hers first, before all else. And in that fleeting vision, she felt whole: the longing, the fear, the joy, all mingling together, bound by the pulse of new life that promised a future no war could erase.

The heavy doors of the queen's solar swung open with a soft creak, and Nella stepped inside, careful not to disturb the quiet dignity of the chamber. The morning light filtered through high windows, glinting on the polished stone floor, illuminating shelves of gilded tomes and delicate Valyrian trinkets. Nella hesitated at the threshold, unsure if her presence was truly welcome, but the soft murmur of Rhaenyra's voice eased her hesitation.

"Come in, Nella," the queen called gently, her tone warm yet measured. "What brings you here?"

Nella's shoulders tensed for a moment, and she swallowed hard. "I... nothing, Your Grace," she said, though her voice betrayed a flicker of unease. She moved further into the room, the echo of her boots quiet against the stone, and finally allowed herself a small, honest admission. "I suppose... I just felt lonely. And I thought... perhaps I could have some company."

Rhaenyra's gaze softened, and she gestured to the cushions beside her throne. "Then sit by my side," she said. "There is no need to endure loneliness when conversation—and companionship—are within reach."

Nella lowered herself onto the cushions, feeling the slight warmth of the queen's presence beside her. The air between them was calm, yet charged with a subtle energy, the quiet authority of the queen settling over Nella like a protective cloak. 

For a moment, they sat in silence, listening to the distant cry of gulls along the cliffs and the gentle swish of waves against the stone walls until the queen broke the silence. "When I look at you, Nella," Rhaenyra began, her voice low, measured, but carrying a weight that made Nella's chest tighten, "I see a part of myself. Not the queen, not the mother, not the heir—but the girl I once was. The wildness that refused to bow, the fire that burned in defiance of anyone daring enough to cage it. That spark... it's there in you, too."

Nella's lips parted slightly, caught between surprise and a cautious curiosity. She tilted her head, studying the queen, the way her words fell like embers in the quiet of the chamber. There was no flattery here—only truth, measured and undeniable. A part of her wanted to deny it, to hide that flicker of recklessness that had carried her through the hardest nights of her life. But something in Rhaenyra's gaze held her steady, like a mirror she could not look away from.

"Tell me," Rhaenyra said, leaning just slightly closer, the faint scent of her hair and the warmth of her presence brushing Nella's senses, "Have I ever told you the day I claimed my dragon?"

Nella blinked, a small, intrigued smile forming despite herself. "No... Not that I can recall," she admitted, though her heart had already begun to race, imagining the scene.

Rhaenyra's eyes glimmered with mischief, a dangerous joy Nella had not yet seen fully. "I sneaked into the dragon pit," she confessed, a soft laugh escaping her. "My father would not allow it—seven years old, he said, too small, too young, too foolish to wander among dragons. But I wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted to show him... that courage and stubbornness mattered more than age or size. I remember the heat of the stones under my feet, the weight of my own defiance in my chest... and how thrilling it was to see him forced to admit I could face what others dared not."

Nella laughed softly with her, caught up in the image—the bold, reckless young girl defying a king for the sake of pride and fire. "You... loved proving him wrong," she said, her voice warm, touched by admiration.

Rhaenyra's laugh lingered like a melody. "I did. I loved it. Every single time. And when I finally stood before Syrax, fearless, the older riders staring, I knew then that no one—not even my father—could dictate what I could do if I refused to bend. That moment, Nella... it was the moment I claimed her, claimed my place, and claimed my fire."

Nella felt a shiver run through her, part awe, part reverence, part longing. The story was not just a tale of triumph—it was a lesson, an inheritance, something alive in the air between them.

Rhaenyra's gaze softened as she leaned back slightly, though the fire in her eyes never dimmed. "I cherish these moments," she murmured, almost to herself, "the quiet ones, the stolen stories, the laughter that isn't watched by a thousand eyes. They feel... fragile, almost too delicate to hold onto. And yet, they remind me of what it means to live."

She paused, letting a shadow pass across her face, a flicker of the weight she carried. "But the moment the crown was placed upon my head... everything changed. The world became cruel, unforgiving, sharper than the teeth of any dragon. Each smile, each gesture, is measured against expectation. The weight of this crown is heavy, Nella—heavier than any blade, heavier than any chain. And yet..." Her voice strengthened, edged with steel and quiet resolve, "I was chosen to wear it. And so I must. I must bear it, even when it bends my shoulders and tests the fire in my heart. Even when it separates me from the life I once knew... I must."

She let the words hang in the quiet chamber, her eyes briefly distant, imagining the child she would one day raise, the legacy of fire and crown entwined in its blood. "These moments with you, Nella," she added finally, her voice gentler now, "remind me that beneath the weight, beneath the crown, there is still life worth protecting. And there is still fire worth nurturing."

Nella felt the weight of the queen's truth pressing softly against her own chest. She reached out instinctively, taking Rhaenyra's hand, squeezing it.  She lingered by her queen's side, listening to her voice, feeling the warmth of her hand in hers, and yet her thoughts drifted inward. She pressed a hand to her belly, feeling the small, insistent movements of the life she carried. The stirrings were delicate, fragile, but stubborn, a reminder that even in a world ruled by fire and cruelty, life persisted.

She thought of the weight she now bore—not a crown, but something perhaps just as heavy. The child inside her was a future that demanded protection, guidance, survival, even as the war outside these walls raged on. How could she shield this small spark of life when the world had proven itself so merciless? And yet, as Rhaenyra's presence reminded her, there was a strength in choosing to face it.

The queen had claimed her dragon, had claimed her throne, and had endured the burdens that came with it. Nella, too, would claim her duty: not with armies or fire, but with vigilance and love. Her mind traced the contours of Bram's small face, imagining laughter and footsteps, the quiet happiness of a life untouched by cruelty... and she felt both fear and fierce joy.

Chapter Text

The morning was still, the soft light of dawn filtering through the tall windows, when the sudden slam of the chamber door jerked Nella from her dreams. She sat up with a start, heart hammering, hair tousled, the remnants of sleep clinging to her like cobwebs. For a moment, her mind lingered in the edges of the dream—Jacearys’ hand brushing hers, the faint glow of the child she carried in her imagination, a life both fragile and fierce. She pressed a hand to her belly, feeling the flutter there, letting herself believe, if only for an instant, that he had been there with her, kneeling at her side.

A sharp cough cut through her reverie. Nella’s eyes snapped open fully to the chamber, and there, standing stiffly in the doorway, was a guard. His armor glinted dully in the dawn light, but his expression left no room for hesitation.

"Your Grace! You are summoned—by order of the Queen!" barked the guard, his voice harsh, echoing through the chamber.

Nella swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as her belly protested the sudden movement. "Summoned? At this hour?" she croaked, her voice thick with sleep.

"The Queen commands your presence in the war council hall, Your Grace. Immediately," the guard repeated, tone unyielding, eyes fixed firmly on her.

The words sank into her chest like a stone. Her pulse spiked—not fear of the Queen, but the weight of the urgency behind the summons. Something in the tone of the guard, in the clipped precision of his command, told her that the morning's serenity was gone, replaced by the cold, insistent claws of duty and war.

Nella inhaled, trying to steady herself. She tugged at her robes, hastily pulling them around her, and glanced down at Bram, still asleep in his crib. Her stomach tightened—not from nausea this time, but from the prickling premonition that the council hall would bring news that might rip her heart between hope and dread.

Swallowing hard, she followed the guard, her mind racing through the possibilities, her steps echoing along the stone corridors. The castle seemed colder now, more formidable, its walls heavier with the weight of waiting. 

Nella's footsteps echoed softly against the stone as she entered the war council hall, her breath catching at the sight before her. The chamber was vast, cold, but the Queen's silhouette, framed against the roaring fire, seemed to draw every shadow into sharp relief. Rhaenyra did not turn to face her; instead, she stood still, hands loosely clasped, eyes fixed on the flames as though seeking answers in their flickering depths.

For a long moment, Nella said nothing, hesitating on the threshold. The heat of the fire did nothing to ease the chill that had crept into her chest, a sense of foreboding she couldn't name. Finally, her voice broke the silence, soft and uncertain.

"Your Grace... what is the matter? What could be so urgent?" she asked, the words catching in her throat, a knot of anxiety twisting deep in her belly.

The fire crackled, snapping at the silence, but Rhaenyra remained still, her figure rigid, almost carved from shadow. Nella's voice had faded into the tense quiet of the hall, the question hanging unanswered. She shifted slightly, her heart thundering in her chest, the knot in her throat tightening with each passing second.

A minute stretched into eternity. Nella's eyes never left the Queen, her unease growing with each shallow breath she took. And then, slowly, Rhaenyra turned to face her.

The sight stole Nella's breath. Tears glistened along the queen's cheeks, catching the firelight like molten gold. Her eyes, usually so commanding and sharp, were clouded with grief and rage, dark pools of sorrow that seemed almost to pierce Nella's soul. Her jaw was tight, lips trembling slightly, as though she fought to keep her anguish contained—but the fire of anger, the raw ache of sadness, radiated from her every movement. Her shoulders were tense, pressed back as if bracing against some invisible weight, and yet there was an undeniable vulnerability in the curve of her stance, the way her hands trembled slightly at her sides.

Nella's stomach dropped. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, a cold dread snaking through her. She had never seen the Queen like this—not in council, not in joy, not even in moments of private grief. There was something elemental in the sorrow that clouded Rhaenyra's face, something that spoke of loss, betrayal, and fear all at once.

"Your Grace...?" Nella whispered again, her voice trembling now. The air felt thick, oppressive, and for a terrifying heartbeat, she feared she already knew the answer, feared the news that had brought such torment to the woman before her.

Rhaenyra's gaze met hers fully now, the firelight reflected in her eyes, but it was not the command of a queen Nella saw—it was the raw, exposed anguish of someone who had seen the edges of the world darken. Her lips parted, as if to speak, but for a long moment, no sound came, only the weight of her sorrow pressing down on Nella like the heavy stone walls around them.

Nella's hand rose unconsciously, as if to reach for her, but froze midway. Her mind raced, heart tightening with the fear that she might be too late to stop the tide of tragedy she could already feel rising in the room.

"Tell me..." Nella's voice cracked, barely audible over the crackle of the fire. "Tell me it's not... bad?"

And then the Queen's composure shattered. A low, ragged cry tore from Rhaenyra's chest, echoing off the stone walls. She buried her face in her hands for a moment, the sound raw, human, unbearable.

Nella froze, confusion and terror twisting inside her. She didn't understand—what could possibly drive the Queen to such despair? Yet, deep in her bones, a chilling dread rooted itself. Every instinct screamed at her that the fire in Rhaenyra's cry was for a loss impossible to bear.

Nella took a hesitant step forward, her hand trembling. "Your Grace... please," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath, "please say it. Tell me... what happened?"

Rhaenyra lifted her head slowly, eyes glistening with unshed tears, red-rimmed and haunted. The firelight danced across her face, highlighting the raw lines of grief and rage intertwined. Her lips quivered, and she seemed to struggle to find the words that could bear the weight of the truth.

"He... he will not return," she said, voice low, halting, each syllable trembling with grief. "Jacearys... he... fell at the gullet. On his dragon's back... the battle—he did not survive."

The words landed like a hammer. Nella's breath caught, and for a moment, she could not move, could not speak.

Rhaenyra's hands flexed at her sides, her chest heaving. "I... I wished I could shield him, but—" She stopped, swallowing hard. "He is gone. There is no bringing him back."

Nella's throat tightened. "Say it... say it, please," she whispered, voice quivering, a knot forming deep inside her.

Rhaenyra's eyes met hers, glistening and wild. "He is dead, Nella," she said finally, the weight of each word dragging across the room like smoke. "Jacearys... my son... he will never ride for us again."

Nella's knees buckled before she could even process the words. The firelight danced across the floor, but it offered no warmth, only mocking shadows. Her hands clutched at her chest as if she could hold her shattered heart together, but it felt like nothing could—every beat tore through her like shards of glass.

"No... no, that can't be..." Her voice trembled, a fragile whisper that cracked into a strangled sob. Then, with a sudden, wrenching surge of despair, she screamed, a raw, piercing cry that filled the chamber, bouncing off stone walls and echoing like a curse: "Why?! Why,... why would the gods be so cruel? Why take away the little happiness I've ever known?!"

Her voice broke again, swallowed by the roar of grief. She pressed a hand to her mouth, but the sound came anyway—unrelenting, desperate. Her knees sank fully to the cold, unforgiving stone, and the room tilted as the edges of her vision blurred. Her fingers clawed at the hearth, seeking something solid to anchor herself to, but the cold bit through her skin, and the ache inside only deepened. Her stomach churned violently, not with sickness, but with grief so complete it felt like it could devour her from the inside out.

And then the thought struck her like a cruel blade: the child she carried—the little life growing beneath her heart—would never know its father. Never feel his laughter, never hear his voice, never see his eyes light up with love. Her tears fell faster, hotter, as the weight of loneliness pressed down on her. She would raise this child alone, cradle it, teach it, protect it, while the void left by Jacearys' absence gnawed at her from within. How could she bear it? How could she stand when every joy would be shadowed by the ghost of what had been stolen from them?

Her mind flailed, desperate for fragments of reason, but it found only memory—and memory stabbed her with a cruelty that felt intentional. She saw his smile, the brush of his fingers against hers, the soft laughter shared in stolen moments, the warmth of his chest against hers, the tender promises whispered under starlit skies... and now all of it was gone. Every recollection twisted in her chest like a blade, tearing and twisting with each heartbeat.

She collapsed fully against the hearth, curling into herself as though her body could somehow shield her fragile soul. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, shallow and uneven, a storm of sorrow shaking her from within. She wanted to scream again, to rend the sky, to hurl the world itself into the fire, to snatch him back—but she had no power over death, no shield against this final cruelty.

"N-no... give it back...my love... my life..." she choked, trembling violently. Her tears fell freely now, hot and relentless, soaking the sleeves of her gown. Every heartbeat, every inhalation, every thought was a reminder: he was gone, and she was left clutching only empty air, memories, a cruel, silent castle, and the little life that would never know its father.

Even the fire, once a comforting companion in the long nights of waiting, now seemed a silent judge, flickering and indifferent, mocking the ache in her chest. Her soul felt cleaved, split in two by the sheer, unforgiving weight of loss.

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her own heart caught in the same storm, and gently lowered herself beside Nella. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around the trembling woman, drawing her close. The firelight flickered across her face, revealing a grief of her own, but steadied enough to be a refuge.

Nella's cries didn't stop. They tore from deep within her chest, ragged, aching, endless. Rhaenyra held her tighter, rocking her slightly, murmuring nothing at first—letting the sobs claim Nella entirely.

"I... I can't... I can't..." Nella gasped, her face buried against the queen's shoulder. "He's gone... my heart... it's... it's shattered..."

Rhaenyra's hand stroked her hair, slow and deliberate, as if each movement was a promise: you will not face this alone. "Shhh... it's... it's all right," the queen whispered, her own voice tight with the ache of loss.

Nella's body shook with the weight of despair. Her sobs racked her frame, tears soaking Rhaenyra's gown as the words continued to spill: "Why... why him? Why now? Why everything I dared to hope for... taken?"

Rhaenyra held her tighter still, her cheek pressed against Nella's, letting the warmth of her body, her presence, speak what words could not. Slowly, the ragged gasps began to thin. Nella's cries softened, turning from screams into trembling sobs, each one a thread unraveling the knot of terror, anguish, and disbelief.

For long moments, they stayed like that—two women bound in sorrow, one holding, the other breaking—but gradually, Nella's body grew less convulsive. Her breaths came in uneven, shallow waves, and her sobs became intermittent hiccups, her forehead resting against Rhaenyra's chest.

Rhaenyra murmured softly, a quiet lullaby of comfort she hadn't known she could summon: "He would have wanted you to live... to breathe... to carry on. You are not alone, Nella. Not now, not ever. I am here. I am here."

Nella's hands clutched at Rhaenyra's gown, seeking the anchor of touch, her face wet with tears but slowly beginning to calm. She pressed closer, letting the queen's strength fill the hollow ache that had threatened to consume her entirely. The room smelled of smoke and tears, the firelight casting long shadows across their entwined figures. Nella let herself linger there, held and sheltered, as if by leaning into this grief she could begin to gather the courage to face the void left behind.

And though her heart remained raw, aching with a loss that could never be undone, there was the faintest glimmer of solace: she was not entirely alone.

The days that followed were heavy, gray, and endless. Nella moved through the castle like a shadow, her steps slow, her gaze distant. The joy that had once filled her mornings—watching Bram play, laughing at the innocence in his wide eyes—was gone, replaced by a hollow ache that seemed to press against her chest with every heartbeat. Her hair fell in loose waves around her face, unkempt, and her cheeks, once flushed with excitement over her pregnancy, had grown pale.

She visited Bram less often, finding even his laughter unbearably sharp against the ache of her grief. When she did sit with him, it was mechanical: rocking him in her arms, reading from the old Valyrian texts, whispering words she barely heard herself. She longed to curl up in her own chambers, to disappear into the quiet and let the darkness swallow her whole.

And yet, there was a tether, fragile and invisible, that kept her from giving up completely. It was the life growing inside her, the child she carried—not for herself, but for Jacearys. Even as her heart shattered a thousand times over, she clung to the thought that her child would know the warmth of a mother, even if the father they had dreamed of together would never return.

Some nights, she pressed her hand to her belly, feeling the faint flutter of movement, and whispered through tears, "I'll keep you safe. I'll live... for you. For him." The promise was raw, desperate, but it held her upright when the world threatened to collapse around her.

She wandered the halls of Dragonstone with heavy steps, often staring out across the dark waters, the waves reflecting her own turmoil. Every raven that returned with news from the battlefield brought another twist of fear in her chest, but she could no longer muster hope for Jacearys' safe return. Her sorrow had hardened into a quiet, grim determination: she would survive. For her child, for the fragment of joy that remained in her womb, she would endure.

Even in the lifeless rhythm of her days, the world pressed on. The castle bustled with preparations, the council debated the war, and yet Nella felt removed, untouchable by the noise of life around her. She kept to her chambers more, letting Bram play with his toys under the watchful eyes of his nurse, while she sat by the window, her hand on her belly, murmuring stories to the child who would never know their father.

The weight of grief pressed her to the floor some days, the silence of the castle amplifying her sense of isolation, but with every tear shed, every shuddering breath, she reminded herself of the promise she had made: to live, to carry life forward, to honor the memory of the man she had loved.

And so she endured, a fragile, broken flame flickering against the wind, stubbornly refusing to go out.

Chapter Text

Months passed in a blur of gray mornings and sleepless nights. Days folded into one another, indistinguishable, and time seemed to hold no meaning at all. The war pressed against Dragonstone like a shadow that refused to lift—ravens came with tidings from the front, reports of skirmishes and burned villages, losses mounting like a slow tide. And yet, amidst the endless tension and fear, Nella's belly grew, rounding with the quiet promise of life.

She moved through the castle carefully now, each step deliberate, her hand often resting instinctively on her swelling stomach. The child she carried was a fragile thread of hope that tethered her to the world. It was a living reminder that even in the midst of destruction, something good could exist, something worth surviving for.

The courtyards and halls, usually brimming with the sound of strategy and clattering armor, seemed quieter now when she walked. Servants and guards gave her a wide berth, respectful of her condition, and Nella accepted it with a small, automatic nod. Even the simplest gestures of the castle's routine—passing a page, adjusting a tapestry—felt heavy, weighted by the duality of her grief and anticipation.

Some days she lingered on the balcony for hours, staring out across the gray sea, listening to the wind whipping against the stone. In those moments, she imagined a future she could barely allow herself to hope for: a child laughing under the sun, a quiet hearth, a life rebuilt from the shards of what had been. She pressed her hands to her belly, feeling the subtle flutter of movement, and whispered promises: "I will keep you safe. I will bring you into this world no matter what."

Rhaenyra watched her quietly, noting the way Nella's gaze would drift, the faint tension in her shoulders, the careful steps across the hall. The queen understood too well the weight of survival, the need to protect life amidst unrelenting war. And so, in small gestures—a soft word, a shared moment in the gardens—she offered support, anchoring Nella when the world felt unsteady.

The threat of the war never waned, but within Nella, a private, silent rebellion took shape: the fierce determination to carry life forward, to nurture hope in a place where hope was so often extinguished. And as her belly grew rounder with each passing day, the castle, the sea, and the shadow of the war faded slightly in the face of the future she carried within her.

The council chamber was thick with smoke and tension when Nella arrived, her hand resting over her swelling belly. She lingered at the doorway, hesitant, while the lords and captains murmured over maps and reports. Rhaenyra stood at the head of the table, her silhouette sharp in the firelight, eyes cold as ice.

The Master of Whisperers stepped forward, his expression grim. "Your Grace... I bring word from the skies over Harrenhall."

The room went still. Nella felt her pulse quicken, a knot forming in her throat.

"Daemon..." the master began, hesitating as if the words themselves were too heavy to bear. "...faced Prince Aemond and his dragon above the God's Eyes, Vhagar. It was... a violent clash. Fire and blood, Your Grace."

Rhaenyra's hand tightened on the edge of the table. Nella pressed herself against the wall, stomach fluttering, sensing the horror that was about to unfold.

"He... both dragons fell," the master continued slowly, each word measured. "And their riders... they were struck down. Neither survived the battle."

The room went silent, save for the crackle of the fire. Nella felt the world tilt, a cold weight pressing into her chest.

A lord whispered, voice trembling, "Both... killed? Harenhall... it's lost?"

"Yes," the master replied. "Daemon's strength, his fearsome alliance... gone."

Rhaenyra's eyes blazed, and though her voice was steady, the fury beneath it was palpable. "Harrenhal will not fall for lack of courage. We will rally the men. We will hold. But mark my words—this loss... it cannot be replaced. None can replace him."

The council's murmurs grew louder, edged with tension, almost turning into a chorus of blame. Nella felt the heat of the room pressing on her, the lords' eyes fixed on the queen as she leaned over the war table, the firelight flickering across her stern face.

"Your Grace," one of the older lords began, voice brittle with concern, "Daemon was not just a dragonrider, he was the pillar of our strength. Without him, the vanguard over Harrenhal is exposed. Aemond's forces could strike again at any moment."

Another councilor, younger and more brash, leaned forward. "We have no time for mourning. The men grow restless, and the lords of the Black faction are already whispering of shifting allegiances. If we do not act swiftly, the crown's cause may fracture from within."

Rhaenyra's hands rested lightly on the table, fingers curling over the carved dragon motifs, but her face remained controlled, though the shadow under her eyes betrayed sleepless nights and grief.

"Your Grace," a seasoned captain pressed, "the moment of vulnerability is now. Without Daemon, we are weaker than we have ever been. Every delay is another chance for Aemond's allies to consolidate. The crown's cause begins to crumble."

Rhaenyra's voice was sharp, carrying across the room. "I am aware of our losses. I am aware of the danger. Daemon's fall leaves a wound, yes, but it does not end this war. Our claim does not rest on one man—it rests on the blood of our line and the loyalty of those who stand with us."

The lords exchanged uneasy glances, uncertain if their queen's defiance was strength or stubbornness. Nella watched her, heart heavy, knowing the loneliness behind that authority—the impossible weight of command resting squarely on her shoulders.

The last echoes of armored footsteps faded from the war council chamber, leaving only the queen and Nella. The heavy scent of smoke from the hearth mingled with the tension that still clung to the stone walls. Nella, hands lightly resting on her swelling belly, watched as Rhaenyra remained standing over the table, fingers splayed across the carved dragon motifs, the firelight casting her in a harsh, unflinching glow.

For a long moment, Rhaenyra said nothing, the weight of the day pressing on her like a physical force. Then, finally, she turned toward Nella, and something broke.

Her shoulders slumped, and her hands fell to her sides as if the crown itself had become lead. Her voice, usually so commanding and unyielding, trembled. "I... I thought I would never fear the throne. That the day my father named me heir, I would carry it without doubt, without hesitation... But now..." She swallowed, eyes glimmering with unshed tears. "Now I wonder if I am truly capable. The war is uncertain, every day a knife's edge. Daemon... gone. And with him, the strength I thought unshakable. How am I to lead, to protect the crown, when everything I've built feels as fragile as smoke?"

Nella stepped closer, though she kept a careful distance, mindful of her pregnancy, but not afraid to offer presence. "Your Grace... you are strong. You've carried more than anyone could ask, more than any man could. This war... you have led it, and you have inspired your people. That strength hasn't vanished."

Rhaenyra shook her head, letting out a bitter, trembling laugh. "Strength? I do not feel it. I feel... fear. Fear of failure, of losing everything I've fought for, of watching the blood of my family and my house spill while I stand helpless." Her gaze softened slightly, and she looked directly at Nella. "And yet, I must stand. I must bear this... even if I doubt myself. Even if I am afraid."

Nella's hands rose instinctively, one brushing against the queen's arm, though gently, almost reverently. "You are not alone, Your Grace. Whatever comes... you have those who believe in you. Those who will stand with you, even through the darkness."

Rhaenyra drew a shuddering breath, slowly lifting her head from Nella's shoulder. The tears still glistened on her cheeks, but the wild tremor in her body began to settle, replaced by a grim, iron resolve. She straightened, letting the firelight carve sharp lines across her face, her expression hardening with the weight of command.

"Nella," she said, her voice steady now, though it carried the gravity of all she had just endured. She stepped back slightly, placing both hands on Nella's shoulders and holding her gaze with an intensity that made the air itself feel heavy. "Look at me."

Nella met her eyes, the silent question burning in her own.

Rhaenyra's lips pressed into a thin line, and she spoke, each word deliberate, almost a prayer and a command at once. "If anything... anything at all... should happen—if the war claims me, if the throne crumbles, if fire or blood touch us—then you must... you must save this child." Her hands tightened gently, not harshly, but with a force that demanded understanding. "This life... it is the most precious that this world has to offer. You carry in your womb what is left of my beloved son, my sweet Jacearys... and if I cannot protect him, then you will."

Her eyes softened, shimmering with grief, yet still burning with the fire of a mother, a queen, a woman unwilling to let hope die. "Promise me, Nella. Swear it."

Nella's throat tightened, her own heart clenching at the weight of the promise. She nodded, tears stinging her eyes, her hand instinctively resting over her belly. "I promise, Your Grace," she whispered, her voice firm despite the tremor. "I will protect him. I will protect this child. Nothing will take him from me."

Rhaenyra exhaled sharply, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. A faint, almost imperceptible nod accompanied a fleeting, sorrowful smile. "Then we endure, Nella. We endure, even when the world seeks to strip away everything we love."

The room grew quieter, the fire crackling between them, but now the air held a fragile kind of hope—a promise carved from grief, strengthened by duty, and sealed by the bond of those who must carry forward the future.

That night, sleep eluded Nella entirely. She lay in her chamber, the shadows of Dragonstone crawling along the walls, twisting and stretching with every flicker of the firelight from the hearth. Her hands rested lightly on her swollen belly, seeking the comfort of the life within her, but even that small reassurance could not steady her racing heart. Each thrum of her pulse echoed like a drumbeat in her chest, a reminder that she was still alive, yet so unbearably alone.

Visions tormented her relentlessly. She saw the clash of dragons and riders, fire lashing through the skies, and the thundering hooves of war pounding across stone battlements. Faces—familiar and cruelly absent—blurred into one another: fallen knights, bloodied soldiers, Aemond's cruel smirk, and Jacearys, tumbling from the sky, arms outstretched as if reaching for her, his scream swallowed by the roar of flame. Each image struck her like a physical blow, leaving her breathless and trembling.

Her gaze fell to her belly, the small life she carried, fragile and untouched by the horrors she had seen. Tears ran unbidden down her cheeks, burning in the chill of the room. She imagined her child's tiny hands reaching out—hands that would never feel Jacearys' warmth, that would never hear his voice, never see the man who had captured so much of her heart. The thought twisted inside her like a blade, sharp and unrelenting, and she pressed her palms to her face, choking back sobs that rattled through her chest.

Every creak of the stone floor, every whisper of wind against the battlements, became a threat. Shadows lengthened and leaned closer, carrying the weight of whispers she could not name, whispers that promised death and despair. She tried to wrench herself awake, to shake off the visions, to banish the fire and blood from her mind, but they clung to her like smoke, curling around her throat and fingers.

And then the fear settled deeper, into her bones: Will I survive this? Will my child survive? She rocked slightly, whispering to the small life pressed against her, her voice barely audible over the wind and the crackle of flames: "I will keep you safe. I will protect you, no matter what comes. I promise." Her lips trembled, and the words almost faltered, but the vow rooted itself deep, a fragile ember of determination amidst the terror.

Sleep never came that night, only the long, cold hours of waiting, haunted by the echoes of war and the absent warmth of Jacearys. Yet even in that relentless dark, that ember of hope glimmered—small, fragile, and stubbornly alive, like a spark refusing to be snuffed out.

Chapter Text

The nights after that day bled into one another, each darker and more restless than the last. But this night was different. The storm that raged outside was as if the very sky and sea were at war with one another. Rain lashed against the stone walls, wind howled through the battlements like a chorus of mourning spirits, and the waves crashed violently against Dragonstone's cliffs, sending shudders through the castle itself. The stones groaned, and the echoes rattled through Nella's chamber, stirring a primal fear in her chest.

She had been dozing fitfully, the fire sputtering low in the hearth, when a sudden knock—or perhaps it was a door thrown open—startled her awake.

"Your Grace," a voice hissed in the darkness, low, urgent, and almost swallowed by the storm. There was no name, no preamble, only the command. "You must come. Now. By order of Her Grace the Queen. There is no time to explain. Follow."

Nella bolted upright, her heart hammering. The shadows of the room stretched and twisted with the flickering firelight, the storm casting an eerie, restless motion across the walls. Her mind raced.

"Who...?" she whispered, but the guard only gestured sharply toward the door, urgency radiating from every movement. His armor clinked faintly with each step. No explanation, no hesitation, only the imperative: move.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. The weight of her swollen belly made each movement slow, cumbersome, yet instinct pushed her forward. The storm outside seemed to press in on her, the wind tearing at her hair, the rain already soaking the threshold as she stepped into the corridor. Every gust sounded like a roar, every crack of thunder like the castigation of some angry god.

She followed the guard through twisting halls, up narrow staircases, the stones beneath her feet trembling as if Dragonstone itself recoiled at the fury outside. The wind screamed through the open battlements, shrieking like a living thing, bending the battlement stones as if it sought to tear the castle from the cliffs. Rain lashed at her face in sharp, icy sheets, running into her eyes, stinging and blurring her vision. Her hair whipped violently around her cheeks, plastering to her skin as the storm dragged her forward.

Each step was a battle. Water pooled in the corridors, slicking the flagstones, while gusts tore at the banners above, slamming them against the walls in deafening crashes. The thunder was relentless, shaking the very air, and every crash of lightning revealed the jagged, relentless ocean thrashing below like a beast in chains. Nella pressed closer to the guard, clinging to his arm as he moved swiftly, purposefully, ignoring the storm's violent tantrum.

"Where—where are we going?" she demanded at last, voice trembling and nearly drowned by the roar of the wind. Each word was snatched away almost as soon as it left her lips.

The guard glanced at her briefly, the shadows of his face stark in the flickering torchlight, rain streaming from the open battlements and soaking him through. His expression was grim, unreadable, but in his eyes there was a flicker of warning, a silent insistence that she follow without question. He did not answer, only pressed forward, and the cold water from above ran down her back like molten ice, mingling with her sweat and fear.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating the cliffside in brief, terrifying flashes. The guard led her to a small, battered boat hidden in a cove, the waves crashing against it like the fists of some furious god. The oarlocks groaned under the sudden force of the storm as he shoved them off the jagged rocks, the sea immediately taking hold, slamming the boat against Dragonstone's cliffs. Nella clung to the sides, teeth chattering, as the wind tore at her cloak and the rain cut into her skin.

The guard worked silently, straining against the oars to push them toward a larger ship waiting beyond the breaking waves. Water sloshed into the boat with every violent surge, soaking her to the bone.

When they were close enough to the bigger vessel, Nella froze. "I... I can't leave him," she shouted, her voice nearly lost in the roar of the storm. "Bram—my son! I need to get him!"

The guard's eyes were hard, his jaw tight. "There's no time. Your Grace commanded it. If you're lucky, he will see you on the other side of the sea."

"No!" Nella snapped, cutting him off. Her voice, though raw and ragged, carried an unyielding edge. "I will not leave him. Not like this. Not without seeing him safe!" She pressed herself against the side of the boat, rain and spray blinding her, but her gaze burned toward the rocks of Dragonstone. "Bram is mine to protect! I swore it, and I will keep that vow—even if the sea wants to swallow me!"

The storm answered her defiance with a furious wave that slammed the boat sideways, knocking her to her knees. Water poured over her head, stinging her eyes, but she would not relent. Her hands clawed at the boat's rim, her fingernails scraping against soaked wood, anchoring herself as if sheer will could tether her to the world.

"You cannot!" the guard said through gritted teeth, the roar of the storm nearly drowning his voice. "If you go back, you'll die. And the child—your child—won't survive either!"

Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, every gust of wind and hammering wave fueling her stubborn fury. "I don't care! I will find him! I will protect him myself!" Her words cut through the storm, each one a fragile lance of defiance. She felt the surge of helplessness twist inside her, threatening to break her—but she would not break. Not yet. Not when Bram might still be alive, somewhere in the chaos of the castle.

Then—pain. Sharp and sudden, unlike anything she had ever felt, slicing through her belly with cruel precision. It stole the air from her lungs, forcing a ragged gasp from her throat. Her hands flew instinctively to her stomach, clutching at herself as if she could shield the life within from whatever force had just struck. The boat pitched violently, and she collapsed to her knees, the boards slick and cold beneath her palms.

Her heart skipped and stumbled, terror flooding her veins, mingling with the agony. This wasn't just pain—it was a warning. The child she carried, the child who was supposed to be her hope, her reason to keep breathing, was now painfully, painfully vulnerable.

Another wave slammed the boat, water spilling over her legs as the pain doubled, deepened, gripping her entire body in a cruel vice. She cried out—no longer defiant, but desperate—her voice torn away by the screaming wind. She twisted onto her side, the wood biting into her shoulder, her hair plastered wet against her face.

The guard's oars stilled. "Seven hells—what's happening?!" His voice was loud, but she barely heard it over the storm's fury.

She gasped for breath, her voice breaking in sobs. "It's—too early—" The words dissolved into a wail as another wave of pain ripped through her. "The babe—can't—come out yet!" Her hands pressed harder against her belly as if she could hold the child inside by sheer force of will.

Lightning split the sky, turning the world white for an instant, and she saw the fear in the guard's face. The next moment, thunder cracked like the breaking of the world, and she screamed—raw, primal—her knees slipping out from under her on the wet boards.

Rain hammered her face, mingling with tears, and she tried to curl in on herself, rocking against the pain. "Please," she choked, "not now... not here... not in this storm..." But the sea gave no mercy. The boat was tossed again, her body jolted with every violent sway, and the agony only grew, relentless and unyielding. 

She doubled over as another bolt of pain ripped through her belly, sharper and deeper than the last. Her hands clawed at the deck, seeking anything to hold onto, but the rain-slick wood offered no mercy. She cried out, the sound raw, swallowed almost instantly by the roar of the wind.

"She's in labour!" a sailor bellowed, grabbing at her arm to stop her from sliding across the tilting deck.

"No—no, it's too soon!" she gasped, voice breaking as her body fought against her. "The babe—can't—survive—" Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the rain.

The ship lurched violently, and she was thrown into the arms of another man who hauled her toward the mast. Lightning lit the scene in stark white: the frantic crew hauling ropes, water crashing over the sides, their faces pale with the knowledge that both storm and war were at their backs.

"Get her below!" someone shouted, but the way the deck bucked beneath them made it nearly impossible to move without being tossed into the sea.

Another contraction seized her, forcing a cry from deep in her chest. It felt as though the storm had invaded her very bones, ripping her apart from the inside. She clutched at her stomach, her knees buckling, every part of her screaming in protest.

Saltwater burned her lips as another wave washed over them. She could taste the bitterness of the sea, the copper of her own blood, and the truth sank in like ice—she might not survive this night.

They half-carried, half-dragged her below deck, the hatch slamming shut with a hollow, jarring thud that barely muffled the chaos above. The air below was damp and suffocating, thick with salt, tar, and the sharp tang of wet rope. Lanterns swung madly from their hooks, light strobing across the cramped passage as the ship heaved and pitched beneath the storm's fury.

The floor was slick with seawater that leaked and gushed through the seams of the planks overhead, every tilt of the vessel sending cold streams running underfoot. Each violent swell rocked them forward, then hurled them back, as though the ship were a toy caught in the hands of an angry god. The timbers groaned, the hull shuddered, and above, the roar of the sea was a constant, deafening presence—waves hammering the sides so fiercely that the entire vessel seemed to lurch in pain.

The guard shoved open the door to a narrow cabin—a box of creaking wood and shadows. A straw pallet lay against one wall, already damp from the storm's intrusion. The air was cold enough to sting her lungs, and every breath was thick with the stench of brine.

She collapsed to her knees, hands gripping her belly as another contraction ripped through her—white-hot, sharp, unrelenting. She gasped, sweat already prickling her skin despite the chill. The boards beneath her were slick; her knees slid against the wet wood as the ship tilted hard to starboard, throwing her against the wall.

"Gods—she's birthing!" a sailor shouted, clinging to the doorframe as the boat lurched again.

"No!" Nella choked out, her voice breaking. "The babe—" Her words dissolved into a scream as another wave of pain tore through her, stealing the breath from her lungs.

Outside, the storm howled, each gust of wind a scream that rattled the planks. The rain pounded against the deck above like an endless drumbeat, violent and merciless, while the waves struck the hull in booming crashes that sent shivers through the ship's bones.

A lantern toppled, its light swinging wildly before it smashed against the wall, plunging the room into near darkness. Only the faint glow from the corridor remained, flickering with every shudder of the vessel. The sound of water sloshing under the floorboards was constant, a chilling reminder of how deep they were in the sea's rage.

Nella clutched at the splintered wood, nails biting deep, as if holding on might anchor her to something solid. But there was no solid ground here—only the endless sway, the violent back-and-forth that made the walls seem alive around her. Her screams mingled with the storm's, indistinguishable in the chaos.

Her mind was a whirl of terror and grief. She saw Jacearys' smile, his touch, his voice when he'd spoken of their child. And now... now the thought that neither she nor the babe might survive the night pressed in on her like the weight of the sea itself. The next wave of pain struck without mercy, so sharp it stole the very air from her lungs. Nella's cry was swallowed by the deafening crash of the sea against the hull, a sound so violent it felt as though the ocean meant to splinter the ship apart.

Her body took control—there was no stopping it now. She gasped, her nails raking the soaked boards as another contraction wrung her like a vice, forcing her forward, her forehead pressing into the cold, wet wood. Her hair clung to her face, plastered there by seawater and sweat, and each breath came ragged, broken, desperate.

"Push, my lady! You must push!" the voice was sharp, panicked—a sailor who had no business speaking words meant for a midwife.

The ship pitched violently to one side, throwing everyone in the cramped cabin against the wall. The straw pallet slid across the floor, bumping into her legs. A bucket toppled, its contents joining the seawater that sloshed ankle-deep in the room.

"I can't—" she sobbed, shaking her head, her voice raw. "Gods, I can't—" Another contraction seized her, wrenching the words away and replacing them with a guttural scream that tore through her throat.

The storm outside raged with renewed force. Rain drummed the deck overhead so furiously it sounded like a thousand spears striking at once. The wind screamed through the masts, ropes whipping and snapping, and the timbers groaned under the relentless assault of the waves. The ship lurched again, hard, and she almost slipped onto her side if not for someone's hands catching her shoulders.

Her belly clenched, unbearably tight, and she bore down with every shred of strength left in her. She could taste blood from biting her lip, her own scream vibrating in her skull, drowning even the noise of the sea for one moment. The pain was blinding—there was no storm, no ship, no world, only the tearing, relentless agony and the desperate need to see it end.

She felt it then—movement, the shift within her that signaled there was no turning back. Panic flooded her chest, cold and choking, mixing with the unbearable heat of her effort.

"Please—please—" she begged, though whether she begged the gods, the storm, or the child, she did not know. The world swayed wildly with the ship, and for a heartbeat she thought she might be swept away into the blackness forever.

She bore down, again and again, until the agony peaked and something heavy, wet, and silent slid free of her. For a heartbeat, she thought—hoped—that the babe's first cry had been swallowed by the tempest's deafening rage. Rain and seawater thundered above them, ropes cracked like whips, and the timbers groaned under the assault of the waves. Surely, she told herself, the sound had simply been lost.

A sailor knelt, lifting the small, blood- and salt-slick bundle with hands that trembled. His eyes darted from the child to her, then back again. She saw something in his face that made her blood run cold—pity. Regret. The hollow look of someone who wished they could speak but knew no words would matter.

He handed the babe to her. The bundle was warm but far too still. No squirm, no breath, no wail. Just silence.

Her heart dropped into an abyss. "No... no, no, no..." The word dissolved into a choking sob as she clutched the child to her chest, rocking uselessly, as if motion alone could coax life into that tiny, unmoving form. "Please—please, not my baby..." Her voice cracked, shredded by grief.

The storm raged on, merciless. The sea hurled itself at the hull as though determined to grind the ship to splinters. Lightning flared through the cracks in the cabin walls, painting her tear-streaked face in harsh white light before plunging her back into shadow.

She pressed her cheek to the child's head, desperate for even the faintest flicker of warmth, of life. There was none. Her cries grew raw, guttural, spilling from somewhere deeper than voice—a sound born only from a heart being torn in two. She screamed her anguish into the howl of the wind, but the storm neither heard nor cared.

There was no Jacearys, no child, nothing left but the hollow, crushing weight of loss. And outside, the sea's rage went on, as if the gods themselves had decided she should be broken utterly.

Chapter Text

She didn't know how long she laid in the cabin, the ship groaning and shuddering under the assault of the storm, her body wracked with tremors. Time dissolved into the rhythm of the waves and her own ragged breathing. The babe lay cradled against her breast, wrapped tightly in what little dry cloth could be found, his skin growing colder with each passing moment.

The candlelight flickered, casting shadows that swayed with the ship's lurch, making it feel as though the whole world moved in slow, unsteady circles. Somewhere far above, men shouted to one another, boots pounded on soaked decks, the rigging snapped and strained. She could feel the vessel buck beneath her, fighting against the pull of the sea's fury.

Her mind drifted, exhaustion pulling her under and yanking her back without warning. She would wake with a start, fingers tightening around the babe in her arms, afraid that if she loosened her grip for even a heartbeat, the sea would come and take him again. She pressed her lips to his tiny forehead over and over, as if her breath alone might breathe life back into him.

When the door finally opened, it was not the guard but a broad-shouldered sailor, his face drawn tight with something between duty and sorrow. He crouched beside her, water dripping from his hair, his voice low and halting. "You have to let me take him, my lady."

She shook her head violently, clutching the babe tighter, curling her body around him like a shield. "No. He's mine. He's all I have left—" Her words broke into sobs, her throat raw.

The man hesitated, his weathered hands trembling as he reached for her. "Please," he said quietly, though whether it was for her sake or his own, she couldn't tell.

It took both him and another sailor to pry her fingers away. Her nails scraped their hands, her voice rising into a desperate, broken wail that cut through the crash of the waves. They took him, as if the child were sleeping, their boots leaving trails of seawater across the planks as they stepped away.

The moment her arms were empty, the cold hit her like a blade. She folded forward, pressing her forehead to the wet boards, her body heaving with silent cries. The ship rolled and pitched, and still she stayed there, the hollow where her child had been feeling wider than the ocean itself.

The storm had passed by the time land rose on the horizon, but the sea still heaved beneath the ship, its swells sluggish and heavy like the breath of some great beast. Nella stood at the rail, her hands gripping the salt-stained wood, the wind tangling her damp hair. Her eyes, rimmed red and hollow, did not lift to meet the jagged coastline ahead.

When they docked, the cold hit her first—sharp and unyielding, a winter's breath that sank through her soaked cloak and into her bones. She stepped onto the creaking pier as if in a dream, her boots slick with frost, the boards groaning beneath her weight. The world here smelled of brine and smoke, but it carried none of Dragonstone's warmth, none of its volcanic heartbeat.

Men paused in their work as she passed. Sailors, fishmongers, guards—faces turned toward her, and something in their gaze lingered. It wasn't just the sight of a young woman, heavily cloaked and pale; it was the way she moved, slow and deliberate, as though each step had to be remembered. It was the way her eyes seemed fixed on some place far beyond the present moment.

The grief clung to her like a shroud, so tangible it made people drop their voices as she neared. No one dared ask who she was or what she had lost—they only knew, somehow, that whatever it was had left her less alive than the day before.

A gull screamed overhead, the sound slicing through the still air. She didn't flinch. The cold seeped deeper, but it couldn't touch the numbness that had already claimed her. Somewhere behind her, the sailors were unloading what little cargo had survived the crossing, their voices rising and falling like distant echoes.

As Nella began to stumble away from the ship, hugging herself as if trying to hold a stranger, a figure stepped into her path. A guard, tall and stoic, his armor slick with rain, blocked her way.

"Your Grace," he said cautiously, voice raised over the wind and crashing waves. "You shouldn't—"

"I need time," Nella interrupted, her voice raw, trembling with grief. "I need... a moment alone. I will return. I promise." Her eyes, brimming with tears, avoided his. She pressed her arms tighter around herself, trying to create a barrier against the world, against the memories that clawed at her.

The guard studied her for a long moment, the storm lashing against them both, rain and spray soaking them to the bone. Finally, he gave a slow, reluctant nod. "As you wish, Your Grace. I will wait."

Nella walked on, each step heavy, dragging through puddles and mud as the storm continued to rage around her. Her cloak, soaked through, clung to her like a second skin, and the cold bit deep into her bones. She hugged herself tighter, rocking slightly with every step, as if she could shield herself from the sorrow that threatened to consume her entirely. The city around her seemed alien and hostile, streets slick with rain, lanterns flickering weakly against the wind, the cries of the storm mingling with distant shouts and clanging metal.

Her mind wandered, or perhaps it refused to wander, replaying every horrid second of the birth, every wave that had tossed her like a doll in the tempest, every heartbeat that had stopped. Her grief weighed her down like a physical force; she felt hollowed, emptied of hope, and yet the ache of her loss pulsed as sharply as ever.

And then, slowly, a shape, a street, a wharf, a scent—something familiar pricked at the edge of her fogged mind. The buildings, whitewashed and cold, the smell of salt and fish, the narrow streets where she had once walked with less shame but more survival—White Harbor.

Recognition hit her in a cruel rush. She knew this place too well. The memory of younger days, of desperate nights and borrowed warmth in a world that had offered her nothing but hands and coin, surged up, unbidden and unwelcome. Her misery deepened; it was no longer just sorrow for the child she had lost—it was the bitter reminder of everything she had endured to survive, everything she had carried alone.

Her steps, almost automatic, carried her through streets she had once known like the back of her hand, down the alleys and paths she had walked every day when she was simply Nella of White Harbor. The life she had led here, the girl she had been, felt like a different person entirely—distant, untouchable, as if separated by decades and lifetimes of sorrow.

Her gaze fell on the familiar shape at the end of the street, the building that had marked both her survival and her shame. The brothel. Its red-lacquered sign swung lazily in the wind, the same faded curtains in the windows, the same faint glow from lanterns inside. Nothing had changed. Nothing at all.

She stopped, heart hammering painfully in her chest, and simply stood there, staring. The memory of herself stepping through that door, timid yet bold, desperate yet alive, pressed on her mind. She could see the girl she had been, hear the laughter and the whispers, feel the chill of the floors beneath her bare feet, the clink of coins in rough hands.

And yet, standing there now, soaked, shivering, hollowed by grief, she felt like a ghost, an echo of that girl. Nella the girl of White Harbor had vanished, replaced by someone unrecognizable to herself: a woman who had lost too much, carried too much, and whose heart now bore a wound that no storm or sea could ever wash away.

The sound of the door creaking pulled Nella from her reverie. She froze, the drizzle soaking her hair and clothes, heart skipping as the door cracked open just enough to reveal a shadowed face. Dark hair framed sharp features, eyes wide with disbelief, and the severe expression was unmistakable.

Her breath caught. It couldn't be—could it? And yet, every line of that face, every familiar curve and sharp angle, struck her with undeniable recognition. Her old mistress, the one who had shaped so much of her youth in this city, stared back at her.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Time slowed in the rain-soaked street, the soft hiss of water on cobblestones mingling with the echo of memories too long buried. Nella opened her mouth, but no words came.

Then, as quickly as the door had opened, it slammed shut, the sharp thud cutting through the quiet drizzle. The click of the lock resonated like a verdict. Nella was left staring at the closed door, chest tightening, mind racing with the sudden, painful collision of past and present.

Her fingers trembled, dripping water onto the stones beneath her, as the rain continued its steady assault. The city felt both familiar and alien, and for the first time since leaving the storm-tossed ship, Nella felt the raw, unyielding weight of being utterly, painfully alone.

Yet she didn't speak. She didn't call out. She didn't even glance back at the door of the brothel, though the image of her old mistress's shocked face burned in her mind. The rain had stopped, but the streets were slick and glistening, reflecting the pale, exhausted light of a timid morning sun. Her cloak clung to her like a second skin, wet and heavy, pressing down on her shoulders already bowed with grief.

Each step felt impossibly heavy. Her arms instinctively wrapped around herself, as if holding onto someone she had lost, someone she could not bring back. She walked past the wharves, past merchants beginning to unpack, past sailors muttering in the drizzle, but she noticed none of it. The world moved around her, alive and real, while she felt hollow, untethered.

The guard's voice cracked the haze of her thoughts. "Your Grace, you'll need to take this carriage—"

She lifted a hand, almost mechanically, and shook her head. Her voice was low, hollow, yet edged with a bitter finality. "There's no need to call me that anymore," she said, her eyes fixed on the wet cobblestones before her. "I am no one now. Nothing ties me to this life... nothing."

The guard hesitated, unsure whether to press further. His words caught somewhere between duty and sympathy.

She took a shaky breath, her gaze turning to the gray sea beyond the docks, the water heaving under the lingering storm. "I have lost my husband... my child... everything I ever held dear," she continued, the words spilling from her in a tremor of sorrow that seemed too large for her frame to bear. "The titles, the crown, the life I thought I had—it's all gone. I am nothing."

For a moment, the guard said nothing, merely watched as the grief that had weighed her down for months seemed to anchor her to the world yet detach her from it all at once. She turned away, hugging herself as if holding onto some fragile remnant of herself—or perhaps the memory of what she had lost. 

She didn't even ask where it was taking her; curiosity had abandoned her, leaving only exhaustion, despair, and a numbing certainty that the world had nothing left to offer her.

The carriage waited, its wheels slick with rain and mud. She climbed inside, the soft interior enveloping her like a fragile cocoon, a temporary barrier against the chaos of her own emotions. She let herself fall onto the seat, her face buried in her hands, trembling as she finally surrendered to the weight of everything—the loss, the storm, the sea, the child she had held only to lose.

The horses stirred and began to move, the carriage jolting slightly over the uneven stones, rocking her gently yet cruelly, as though the road itself mocked her grief. Outside, life continued, indifferent to her suffering: the docks bustled, the gulls cawed, the wind whispered against the buildings. Inside, she drifted in a haze, the motion lulling her into a fragile, restless sleep.

Even in sleep, the memories clung. The tempest at sea, the violent rocking of the ship, the red, broken body of her child in her arms, the distant, haunting cries she thought she heard—all of it replayed endlessly in her mind. Her hands remained clutched as if she could still hold something, anything, that belonged to the life she had lost.

And like that, the carriage carried her away from White Harbor, away from the life she had once known, leaving only a hollowed, broken woman in its wake.

Chapter Text

Waking was a struggle. Her head throbbed as if the storm itself had lodged inside her skull, each pulse echoing with pain. She blinked against the dim light that filtered through a small, grimy window, her body heavy and aching. The air smelled faintly of smoke and wet stone, sharp and earthy, and the warmth that wrapped around her was both foreign and unsettling.

The chamber was rough and bare, its stone walls uneven and cold to the touch, yet there was something in their shape, their weight, that tugged at a memory she couldn't quite reach. A simple hearth glowed weakly in the corner, casting trembling shadows that danced across the floor. She shivered, not from cold, but from a quiet, creeping recognition.

She lay there for a long moment, letting the warmth of the chamber seep into her frozen bones, though the ache in her head throbbed like distant drums. Her fingers traced the rough stone beside her, the uneven surface pressing into her palm, and something tugged at the edges of her memory. She frowned, trying to summon it, but the images came in fragments, like shards of ice slipping through her mind.

Where had she seen these walls before? The cold weight of stone, the faint dampness in the corners, the firelight bending across the uneven floor—it all felt familiar, impossibly so. She searched her mind for a name, a face, a memory that might anchor her here.

A flash surfaced: a narrow stairway she had once climbed, its steps worn and uneven beneath her bare feet; a small, dimly lit chamber, where the smell of smoke and something faintly acrid had clung to the air. Her chest tightened. The memory was distant, as though filtered through fog, but she could see it—herself, younger, different, walking these same halls.

She sat up slowly, wincing as a dull ache radiated through her body. Her eyes roamed the chamber, trying to piece together every detail. The hearth, the low ceiling, the shadows clinging stubbornly to the corners—it whispered to her, tugged at her memory, yet something felt... off. The stone was colder than she remembered. The air carried no hint of salt from the sea, no distant murmur of waves.

Her stomach sank as the truth pressed, though she could not name it. She had been here before—but not recently. Not exactly. The faint frost on the window's edge, the peculiar draft in the hallway beyond, and the smell of woodsmoke that was too clean, too sharp—all of it hinted at a place similar to her old home, yet impossible to be the same.

Memories of White Harbor—the streets she had wandered, the brothel she had once known—tugged at her, but as she stared at the stone beneath her fingers, a strange unease settled in her chest. This place was familiar, yes, but altered. Somehow larger, colder, and less forgiving. She pressed her hands to her face, the weight of grief and the haze of memory pressing down, leaving her trembling.

Her mind spun, and she let herself fall back against the mattress. Hours—or maybe minutes—passed in that fragile, uncertain space where past and present collided. She didn't move. She didn't speak. She just let the shadows creep over her, let the warmth of the fire wash across her skin—and somewhere deep, a cold whisper hinted that she was no longer in the city she had thought she had returned to.

After a while, the door creaked open and the chill that rushed in made her shiver violently. White, blindingly cold, swept across her face, stinging her raw skin. She blinked against it, the brightness stark after the dim warmth of the chamber, and the world outside seemed almost unreal. Snow lay thick on the streets, undisturbed and pristine, dusting rooftops and eaves like a heavy quilt. Each flake danced violently in the wind, whipped by a bitter gust that cut through her soaked cloak and soaked bones.

For a moment, she could only stare. The cold was like ice in her chest, forcing her lungs to tighten with every breath. She wrapped her arms around herself, hugging the fragile warmth of her own body, and her knees nearly buckled under the weight of it all. The storm at sea had been violent, terrifying—but this... this was a different kind of assault, one that pierced her soul rather than her skin.

Her eyes moved across the streets, and the reality clawed at her fogged mind. The architecture—the tall, dark towers, the sprawling courtyards, the sense of age that seemed to breathe from every stone—pulled at something deep and familiar. It was impossible, and yet undeniable. She knew this place. She had walked here before, in a life that now felt like a dream: Winterfell.

Recognition and grief collided violently within her. Her throat tightened, a strangled sob catching in her chest. She had survived the storm, the loss of her child, the endless betrayal of fate—but now, standing here, exposed to the bitter wind, the full weight of her sorrow pressed down, heavier than ever. The streets were silent, yet every corner seemed to whisper of a life she had left behind, a life that now felt unreachable.

She moved slowly through the streets, each step careful against the ice and snow. Her body still ached from the voyage, her grief pressing down like lead on her chest, and yet her feet carried her forward, guided by some half-forgotten memory of these halls. The cold bit into her fingers and cheeks, but she barely noticed, lost as she was in the maze of recognition. Each turn, each courtyard, each tower seemed to awaken echoes of the girl she had once been—Nella of Winterfell, long before the storms of her life had torn her world apart.

The castle gates loomed ahead, dark and imposing, yet somehow familiar, as though they had waited for her return all these years. She paused at the entrance, her gloved hands gripping the worn stone, the weight of everything she had lost pressing on her like the snow-laden roof above. She could feel the heartbeat of the castle, steady and strong beneath the cold, and it gave her a small, fragile tether to reality.

Inside, the halls were quiet. Footsteps echoed faintly in the distance, but no one approached her. She wandered through corridors that twisted and turned, past familiar tapestries and doors she remembered from another life, moving almost on instinct. Her mind was foggy, fragmented by exhaustion and sorrow, yet the familiarity of Winterfell wrapped around her like a faintly remembered lullaby.

Eventually, she came to a door slightly ajar. A flickering light spilled out from within, and the low crackle of a fire reached her ears. She pushed the door open with a trembling hand, stepping into the warm glow. The room was small, cramped, but safe-seeming after the storm and the sea.

There, by the fireplace, a solitary figure stood, shoulders squared, the firelight casting shadows across their features. Nella's breath caught. She froze, not daring to speak, as if any sound might shatter the fragile illusion of this moment.

Then, the figure turned.

Her heart seized. It was him—Cregan. She had dreamt of him in the long nights at sea, imagined his face when the world had been cruelest, hoped against hope that she might see him again. And yet now, seeing him here, it was as if decades had passed between them. His face, though familiar, seemed both distant and achingly near, carrying the weight of years she hadn't counted, the grief of everything they had both endured.

Nella's legs trembled, her body still raw with exhaustion, but she didn't pause. She crossed the chamber in uneven, desperate steps and threw herself into Cregan's arms, clinging to him as if holding on could anchor her to the world.

He stayed still, letting her press against him, his hands resting lightly on her back, steadying her without a word. The silence was thick but comforting, a fragile shield from all the storms she had endured.

"I... life's been so difficult," she whispered, her voice breaking, tears soaking his chest. "Since I left... everything's been so... so hard."

Her face pressed into him, the tension in her body slowly ebbing as she leaned on him, letting herself weep without restraint. She shuddered, letting the raw exhaustion and sorrow of the past months pour out in tremors and sobs.

Nella didn't pull back. She stayed pressed against him, her face buried in the curve of his shoulder, letting the rise and fall of his chest dictate a rhythm that was steadier than her own faltering heartbeat. The firelight flickered across the chamber, illuminating the rough stone walls, but she barely noticed. Everything beyond Cregan—the storms, the sea, the loss, the months of ceaseless ache—seemed to vanish.

She trembled, not from cold but from the exhaustion and grief that had built inside her, coiling like smoke and fire. Each shudder was a small surrender, a tiny acknowledgment that she could not hold herself upright any longer, not here, not now. She let the tears stream freely, soaking through the fabric of his tunic, her grief spilling into the quiet space they shared.

Cregan's hands rested lightly on her back, firm yet unobtrusive, giving her the comfort of presence without demanding explanation. She could feel him, solid and calm, a stark contrast to the chaos she had survived. It was enough. She didn't need words. She didn't need apologies, or consolation, or even acknowledgment. She simply needed the weight of someone who would hold her, someone who could bear witness to the storm inside her without trying to fix it.

After what felt like an eternity, Nella slowly loosened her grip, though her hands still lingered on his arms, as if afraid to let go entirely. Her face was streaked with tears, her hair damp and clinging to her cheeks. The firelight caught in her eyes, wide and searching, as she finally lifted her gaze to his.

"What... what happened?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper, hoarse from crying, yet it carried all the trembling urgency of someone desperate to understand how she had survived the storm, the loss, the chaos. "Why... why am I here? How did I get here? I—I don't understand..."

Cregan's expression was steady, but there was something in his eyes that mirrored the weight of everything she had endured—an unspoken acknowledgment of the horrors she had lived through. He didn't speak immediately, letting her words hang in the quiet chamber, letting the gravity of the moment settle between them.

He drew a slow, steadying breath, letting her cling to him a moment longer before speaking. His voice was quiet, careful, carrying the weight of something both urgent and tender. "Nella... your arrival here—" he paused, searching for the right words, "—was commanded. Not by me, but by the Queen herself."

Nella blinked up at him, confusion and exhaustion mingling with disbelief. "The... Queen?" she whispered, her voice trembling, "Rhaenyra?"

He nodded, his gaze steady, almost reverent, as if speaking her name aloud carried its own risk. "Before she sent you... before she sent you across the sea, she... she knew of the danger growing. She foresaw what might come for you, for the child you carry... and she acted to protect you."

Nella's breath hitched, and she pressed her face against his chest again, her hands trembling. "The child... she sent me because of... Jacearys?"

Cregan's fingers rested gently at the small of her back, guiding her slowly to step back enough to meet his eyes. "Yes," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Before he left with you... he made me swear. He said, if anything—anything—threatened you, I was to see that you were brought here, to Winterfell, where you would be safe. He trusted me with that. He trusted me with you."

Nella's chest heaved, her sorrow and relief colliding in waves. She wanted to speak, to protest, to cry out for the son she had lost and the safety she now bore witness to—but words failed her. Instead, she let herself simply stare, the enormity of it settling slowly, a fragile tether in the midst of her grief.

Cregan's eyes softened. "The Queen sent you here knowing the storm that was coming... knowing the danger to your life, to the child's. She honored Jacearys' wish. She honored her promise. That is why you are here, Nella. That is why you are alive."

Nella's hands clutched at her chest, trembling as the words escaped in a choked whisper. "But... the child... didn't even survive," she said, her voice cracking under the weight of confession.

Cregan remained still, his gaze steady but gentle, giving her the space she needed, letting the silence stretch around her like a shield.

"I... I—" she began, tears slipping freely down her face, "I held him... in my arms... and he... he was gone. Cold. Nothing. Nothing but... blood and salt and... and silence..." Her words fell apart as grief broke her defenses.

She pressed her face to her hands, shoulders shaking violently. "I should have... I should have done something. I should have protected him! I failed him... I—" Her sobs wracked her body, the sound raw and hollow, a voice broken by loss.

Cregan stepped closer, cautious, his hand brushing her trembling arm. "Nella," he said softly, almost a whisper, "it was not your fault."

She shook her head, wailing now, the memory clawing at her as if the storm at sea were raging all over again. "It was supposed to be different! He was supposed to be my hope... my reason... and I... I couldn't even keep him alive!"

The tears flowed unchecked, and she sank to her knees, letting herself collapse into grief fully, unashamed, unguarded. Cregan knelt beside her, not forcing words, only letting his presence anchor her in the chaos of her own sorrow.

"I remember how held him..." she whispered again, her voice breaking, "I held him... and he didn't cry... he didn't move... I thought maybe—maybe the storm drowned out his cries... but... no... nothing..." Her hands rose as if to clutch the phantom weight of her child, and she sobbed again, body racked with grief.

Nella's sobs shook her body, raw and unrelenting. She pressed herself closer to Cregan, letting the last vestiges of pride, of composure, slip away. Her hands clutched at his tunic as though it were a lifeline, and finally, with a shuddering breath, she let herself collapse against him.

"I've... I've lost everything," she whispered, her voice broken, hoarse from crying. "Everything I've ever loved... gone. My husband... my child... my life... I'm... I'm empty now."

She buried her face into his chest, and the world outside—the snow-laden streets of Winterfell, the cold, the firelight—faded into insignificance. There was only the weight of her sorrow, and the solid presence of Cregan beside her.

Her body trembled, wracked by grief, as she murmured broken fragments of despair. "I can't... I can't hold on anymore... I don't know how to... how to go on..."

Cregan's hand settled gently at the nape of her neck, holding her, anchoring her without words. She let herself cling to him as though her life depended on it—because, in this moment, it did. The tears continued to flow, unending, carrying every fragment of loss and horror from the storms, the sea, the child she never got to protect.

And at last, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Nella surrendered completely. She no longer tried to be strong, no longer tried to keep the world at bay. She was hollow, empty, utterly consumed by grief—but she was not alone.

She whispered into the stillness of the room, her voice barely audible over her own sobs: "I... I'm nothing now... nothing... just... empty..."

Cregan didn't answer, didn't try to soothe her with words. He simply let her rest against him, letting the silence bear the weight of all she could not say, holding her through the ache that would not yet, could not yet, leave her.

Chapter Text

The morning light was pale and tentative, filtering through the narrow windows of the stone chamber where Nella lay. The warmth of the fire did little to reach her bones, chilled as they were by grief and exhaustion. She stirred slowly, head heavy, every breath a reminder of the storm she had survived at sea—and the one she carried inside herself. Snow fell silently outside, coating the ground in a bright, unforgiving white, a stark contrast to the violence of waves and wind that had nearly claimed her life just hours before.

Cregan remained near, sitting quietly on a wooden chair beside her bed. He did not speak, did not press her to move or eat. The silence between them was not uncomfortable; it was a form of protection, a boundary that allowed her to exist without the pressure of words she could not yet summon. When she finally managed to sit upright, he offered a blanket without a word, draping it over her trembling shoulders with steady hands. The small gesture, simple as it was, grounded her.

"Thank you," she whispered finally, her voice raw and brittle.

He inclined his head, eyes distant. She noticed, with a pang, how different he seemed—less open, less warm. The faint smile she had remembered was gone, replaced by a careful, measured reserve, as if life itself had etched cold lines into him.

They stayed like that for a while, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the wind moaning against the stone. When she finally spoke, it was halting, almost afraid of breaking the fragile calm. "Cregan..." she began, her voice quivering, fragile as the thin light spilling through the chamber. "After... everything... how are you?"

He lifted his gaze slowly, as though weighing each word before allowing them to pass his lips. The weight of unspoken sorrow hung thick between them, pressing down on the space that had once been easy and familiar. "I endure," he said finally, voice quiet, flat almost, like stone scraped raw. "As best I can."

She studied him, tracing the subtle lines around his eyes, the tightness in his jaw—marks of a hardness she had never known, a coldness carved by grief and absence. His presence, once a comforting anchor, now carried the weight of tragedy she could scarcely imagine. Hesitating, she let her curiosity, her need for fragments of the world she had left behind, surface in a whispered, trembling question.

"And... your child," she said carefully, her words tentative, as though naming it aloud might shatter the fragile calm. "When I... left... you were expecting...?"

For a long moment, he did not answer. The room seemed to shrink around them, the fire crackling in the hearth the only sound daring to intrude on the heavy silence. His eyes darkened, shadowed with grief, the calm reserve she had relied upon cracking like thin ice underfoot.

"Shortly after you departed," he said finally, voice low, weighted with a sorrow that seemed to anchor itself to the walls, "my wife gave birth to a son. But... both... they did not survive long. Both of them... gone."

Nella felt her stomach tighten, a cold, twisting ache settling deep in her chest. She had thought herself alone in suffering, but here was Cregan, his grief carved into every line of his face, raw and untamed, a mirror to her own hollow despair. She wanted to reach out, to offer comfort, yet the words faltered in her throat.

"I... I'm so sorry," she whispered, voice trembling, unable to bridge the chasm of sorrow between them. "I didn't... I can't..."

He shook his head almost imperceptibly, the faintest quiver betraying his own struggle. "There are no words for it, Nella. Only survival. Only endurance."

And for the first time, she understood the depth of his coldness—not cruelty, not hardness—but the quiet, relentless force of a heart shaped by grief. In that moment, she realized that both of them had been hollowed out by life, yet still carried the capacity for care, for connection.

Nella drew in a shaky breath, letting the silence between them stretch, filled with the shared understanding of loss and the fragile beginnings of trust again. Snow continued to fall outside, soft and indifferent, blanketing Winterfell in a deceptive serenity, while inside, two hearts, broken and hollow, found a tentative space to simply exist—together, and apart, in their mutual endurance.

For the first time in days, Nella let herself linger near him, not retreating into the corners of the chamber where the shadows might hide her sorrow. She didn't speak much, only allowing the smallest gestures—a hand brushing against a blanket he laid over her shoulders, a quiet nod when he offered her food. Each motion was measured, hesitant, as if testing the ground of this fragile safety.

Cregan did not push, did not demand explanations or words she could not give. He moved around her with careful attentiveness, placing a cup of warm broth on the table and adjusting the blankets so they cocooned her without confining her. His presence was steady, a quiet rhythm against the storm of memories and loss that still roared in her chest.

She watched him, noting the subtle ways he had changed—the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his hands lingered over tasks as though every action mattered more than before. And yet, despite the weight of his own grief, he remained patient with her fragility. It was a kind of care she had not known she could still rely on.

Nella allowed herself to lean slightly into his shoulder as she sat at the table, the warmth a tenuous comfort against the cold ache in her chest. Her hands rested over the folds of her skirts, trembling just enough to remind her that she still existed in the world, still had a body, still drew breath.

"I... I don't know how to do this anymore," she admitted softly, voice barely above a whisper. Not crying, yet. Not yet. "How to live. How to... keep going."

Cregan's hand hovered for a moment before resting lightly over hers, steady and grounding. "You don't have to know yet," he said quietly. "Not today. Not now. Just... be here."

The simplicity of it struck her more than any words could have. No judgment, no expectation, no demand that she speak of her child or the storm or the horrors she had endured. Only the quiet assurance that she was not alone, that she could, for these hours, exist without pretending.

Tentatively, almost imperceptibly, she let herself relax into him, leaning against the edge of the table so that her body pressed toward his in a way that said, without words, I trust you, even when I cannot trust the world. And in that small, trembling surrender, she felt the barest flicker of something she had long thought lost—safety.

Outside, the snow fell silently over Winterfell, a fragile quiet that contrasted the storm she had survived, yet inside that stone-walled chamber, Nella began, in the smallest ways, to allow herself to be held.

The morning passed in quiet, the warmth of the chamber a fragile cocoon that kept the winter at bay. Nella stayed mostly near the fire, wrapped in blankets, letting the small ritual of eating and sipping warm broth tether her to the present. The snow pressed against the windows, thick and undisturbed, a world paused, reflecting the stillness she needed.

Eventually, she moved to the window, the glass cold beneath her fingertips. The streets of Winterfell lay beneath her, blanketed in white, unfamiliar yet strangely grounding. The sight stirred something she had not expected—an almost imperceptible curiosity, a spark of the old Nella who had once learned to navigate streets and faces with sharp eyes and nimble feet.

Cregan watched from the doorway, silent, waiting. She turned, meeting his gaze. "I... think I should walk," she said softly. Not to escape, not to flee, but to test the fragile tether between herself and the world outside these walls. "I need to see... to feel..."

He nodded, unspoken permission, and she bundled herself in her cloak, her steps tentative as she crossed the threshold. The snow crunched beneath her boots, sharp and crisp, each step a reminder of her body, her presence, her survival.

She wandered slowly, unsure where her feet would take her, letting the streets guide her. Shops and homes were dotted with smoke, people moving in muffled patterns against the cold. She did not speak to anyone, did not look for recognition. Her grief made her small, a shadow moving along the edges of life, observing but not yet participating.

Eventually, a familiar curve of a road, a bridge over a frozen stream, a cluster of buildings—something clicked in her memory. A life long past, a self long buried. Her pace faltered, then halted. She was at a place she once knew, though the years had softened the edges. 

The snow crunched under her boots as she continued down the street, her breath forming clouds in the cold air. Nella's hands were tucked deep into her cloak, her eyes tracing rooftops, doorways, and the occasional passerby—but she did not meet anyone's gaze. The weight of everything she had lost pressed her shoulders down, yet something small, almost imperceptible, urged her forward.

A cart rattled nearby, laden with bundles of firewood. The driver, a stout woman with rosy cheeks and a warm scarf, paused as Nella approached, tipping her head politely. "Cold morning, isn't it?" she said, her voice cheerful but low, carrying the rough warmth of the North.

Nella's lips parted, then closed again. Her voice felt foreign, brittle. Finally, she whispered, "Yes... very."

The woman smiled faintly, not pressing further. "You look... new to these streets. First time seeing the snow?"

Nella hesitated. The question was innocent, but it probed a part of her she had kept tightly sealed. Still, she found herself nodding, almost imperceptibly. "It's... been a long time," she admitted, her voice softer now, a thread of vulnerability weaving through it.

The woman gave a knowing glance, as though she understood without needing explanation. "Well, then. Take care walking. The ice will catch even the careful ones."

Nella nodded again, clutching her cloak tighter, feeling the strange warmth of the interaction. It was small, almost meaningless in the grand scale of her grief, yet it tethered her in a way the walls of Winterfell had not. 

She moved on, each step slower, more deliberate, testing this tentative connection to the world beyond her sorrow. She paused when a soft voice called out behind her.

"My lady?"

She turned slowly. A woman in a simple Winterfell servant's cloak approached, eyes wide but bright with recognition. Her face was lined with age, but the warmth in her expression struck a chord deep within Nella.

"I... I knew you'd come back," the woman said softly, almost to herself, as if saying the words aloud made them real. "Lady Nella... the girl who used to run through these streets, always so lively... I never thought I'd see you again."

Nella froze. The name felt strange and familiar all at once, a ghost of the life she had thought left behind. Her lips parted, and she smiled faintly, a small tremor of something long buried surfacing. "You... remember me?" she whispered, barely able to believe it.

The woman nodded, her eyes glistening. "I remember... you and your friend," she said quietly. "Laughing in the courtyard, in the spring sun. You two would chase each other around, shouting and spinning, and you... you loved the sight of the little miracles—the way the sunlight danced on the snow, the birds, even the first flowers of the season."

Nella's chest constricted as a flood of memories overtook her. Mira—her friend, her constant companion—her voice bright and warm even against Winterfell's biting cold, her laughter like sunlight breaking through gray clouds. She could almost feel Mira's hand brushing against hers, could hear the echo of their shared jokes in the empty corridors of her mind. But as the warmth of that memory lingered, another, sharper thought crashed through her panic: Bram.

Her stomach twisted, a cold knot of fear seizing her. How could she have forgotten him, even for a fleeting heartbeat? A surge of dread overtook her grief, and she stumbled forward, her cloak tangling around her arms, snow and ice clinging to her wet boots.

"I... I'm sorry," she whispered, voice breaking. Her words felt meaningless even as she spoke them. Without a second thought, she spun on her heel, heart hammering in her chest, and ran toward the castle. The wind tore at her hair, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her feet slipping on the ice-slick stones. 

Hallways blurred past, her tears freezing on her lashes, blinding her. Panic clawed at her chest with every step—what if he wasn't here? What if...? And then, piercing through the frantic din of her thoughts, came it—the sound that made her blood still and her heart leap. A laugh. Tiny, pure, unmistakable.

Her chest tightened as disbelief and hope collided. That laugh, alive, full of life—cut through the haze of grief like a beacon. She stumbled forward, boots sliding on the icy floor, adrenaline and tears mixing in a dizzying storm. Her breath came in sharp, uneven bursts as she followed the sound, each step a prayer.

Finally, she reached a door ajar, light spilling from the crack like warmth in the frozen air. She pressed forward, heart hammering violently, hands trembling as she pushed it open.

There he was. Bram. Laughing, playing, every ounce of life in him shining through the soft winter light that fell across his hair. He turned his head, wide-eyed, and met hers.

For a suspended heartbeat, the weight of storms, losses, and grief seemed to vanish. Nella didn't hesitate. She lunged forward, arms flinging around him, lifting him into her embrace as tears streamed freely down her cheeks. Her sobs shook her body as she held him tight, rocking him gently.

"Bram... my sweet, my brave boy... it's you," she whispered, voice choked with relief and wonder, mingling with the sound of his delighted laughter. The room, the snow, the hardships outside—all of it melted away into that one, sacred moment, where she could finally feel joy piercing through the endless darkness.

Nella didn't dare put him down. Every tiny movement of his body against hers, every laugh that escaped him, felt like a miracle reclaimed from the jaws of her darkest fears. Her arms trembled beneath his weight, not from the burden of his small frame, but from the flood of emotions she had bottled for so long—relief, terror, joy, and the aching remnants of grief.

She pressed her face into his hair, inhaling the warmth and the faint scent of him, grounding herself in the reality that he was truly here. "You're here... you're really here," she whispered repeatedly, as though saying it aloud enough times could make the moment last forever. Each word cracked like ice in her throat, fragile but desperately necessary.

Bram wriggled in her arms, squealing with delight and curiosity, and Nella laughed through her tears, a shaky, unsteady sound that surprised even her. She hugged him tighter, as if her own heart had been stitched together again with the simple, living proof of him in her arms.

For a few suspended minutes, they existed only in that bubble of warmth. Outside, Winterfell's snow glimmered cold and distant, the castle walls solid and protective, but inside, the world had narrowed to the beat of her son's small heart and the rhythm of her own ragged breaths.

Nella's mind swirled with fragments—memories of the sea storm, of her child lost to the waves, of nights spent hollow and wandering—but each fragment collided with the undeniable, radiant truth of Bram's laughter. The storm of grief inside her was not erased, not by any means, but it softened, replaced by a fragile, trembling hope.

She shifted slightly, cradling him closer against her chest, marveling at the solidity of his presence. "I thought... I thought I'd lost you too," she admitted in a whisper, voice thick, letting herself be vulnerable in the way she hadn't allowed for months. "But you... you're here. You're safe. Oh, Bram..."

The boy reached up, tiny fingers brushing her tears, and she clung to him even tighter, laughing and sobbing at once. The collision of relief and residual terror left her dizzy, but she did not care. For the first time since the storm, since the loss that had hollowed her out, she allowed herself to simply exist in the warmth of being whole again—if only for this fleeting, precious moment.

Time slowed. Nella let herself rock him gently, whispering promises she had yet to find the courage to make aloud, soaking in every heartbeat, every laugh, every fragile second of this reclamation of her son.

Chapter Text

The castle had grown quiet as night descended, snow muffling footsteps and the wind whispering against Winterfell's high walls. Nella moved through the corridors slowly, Bram's laughter and small footsteps lingering in her ears from earlier in the day. The joy of being reunited with him hadn't left her—it was alive and fierce—but now, as the shadows lengthened, a heavier presence settled over her.

She carried herself with mechanical motions, letting the servants guide her through the familiar yet strange expanses of Winterfell. By the time she reached her chamber, the day's exhaustion clung to her like a second skin. She closed the heavy door behind her and paused, hand on the handle, listening to the faint creak of the hinges echo through the stone.

Inside, she began to undress, each movement deliberate, almost ritualistic. Her nightgown felt foreign in her hands, its soft fabric a strange comfort against the raw emptiness that throbbed beneath her ribs. The mirror caught her reflection, and she barely recognized the woman staring back—hollowed eyes, pale from grief, yet eyes that had endured storms, both at sea and in life.

She stepped into the bed, the sheets cool and unfamiliar, and drew the covers around herself. For a moment, she simply stared at the ceiling, the quiet pressing in from all sides. The absence of Jacearys beside her was unbearable; she felt the phantom weight of his presence missing on the other side of the bed, the warmth that had once anchored her in the dark now gone.

And the child—her child—was gone too, leaving behind an emptiness that nothing could fill. She pressed a hand to her belly, half-expecting to feel the tiny movement that would never come again. All that remained were memories of hope, of love she could no longer cradle, and the lingering, aching void that made the vast, stone chamber feel impossibly lonely.

She curled up, wrapping herself tightly in the sheets, letting the silence envelop her. Her chest felt heavy, each breath a reminder of what she had lost. Bram's laughter, Jacearys' absence, the child she had held only to lose—they swirled together in her mind, a storm as relentless as the sea she had survived, now quieted only by the frost outside the walls.

Sleep would not come. Nella lay in the heavy silence of her chamber, tossing beneath the blankets, the emptiness of the bed pressing into her ribs. The moonlight spilled pale across the floor, and she found herself drawn to the balcony. Pushing open the heavy doors, a cold gust of winter air swept over her, brushing against her cheeks and stirring the few loose strands of hair that had escaped her braid.

She leaned on the stone railing, staring up at the vast, star-strewn sky. The night was impossibly quiet, the kind of silence that seemed to press against her chest and demand she confront her own thoughts. She traced the constellations with a finger, though it did nothing to distract her from the hollowness that lingered beneath her heart.

After long moments, she stepped back inside, shivering slightly, and her gaze drifted to the door across the hall. It called to her in some quiet, persistent way. Her hand hovered for a heartbeat before she moved. She left the warmth of her chamber, her footsteps muffled against the stone, each one deliberate.

The corridors were empty, dimly lit by torches that flickered with an almost human uncertainty. Yet, even in the darkness, she felt a strange certainty guiding her steps. Her feet moved almost of their own accord, carrying her along familiar passages she hadn't walked in years. Memories of Winterfell long buried surfaced: laughter in the halls, the smell of burning pine, the echoes of voices that had once shaped her world.

It was a long walk. Each step felt heavier than the last, her chest tight with unspoken thoughts, with grief still clinging to her like a second skin. Finally, she reached the door she had sought, the one that now seemed impossibly close and impossibly far all at once. She stopped, her hand raised, hovering just above the wood.

Her breath hitched. She didn't knock yet. She hesitated, caught between the desperate need to see what—or who—was behind it and the fear of what she might find. Time stretched, the silence of the hall wrapping around her like a living thing, waiting.

Her fingers trembled as she finally knocked on the door—softly, almost apologetically. The sound echoed slightly in the quiet hall, and she froze, heart pounding, waiting. No words, no reply—just the faint creak of the hinges as she slowly pushed the door open.

Step by tentative step, she entered, her gaze immediately finding him. Cregan lay in his bed, the blankets pulled up, his dark eyes fixed on her. He said nothing. He didn't move. He simply watched, as if letting her presence settle without comment. Nella paused in the doorway, unsure if she should advance or retreat. The silence stretched, heavy and intimate, until she felt it—an ache in her chest too raw to be contained. Her voice, barely more than a whisper, trembled as she finally broke it.

"I... I can't sleep," she said. Her eyes flickered down, then back up, searching his face. "I... I need warmth. The... the loneliness... it won't let me rest."

She let the words hang, exposing herself in a way she hadn't in months. Her hands fidgeted at the edge of her gown, clutching the fabric as if it could anchor her against the emptiness pressing in. The room was still, yet somehow it felt alive with the unspoken understanding between them.

Cregan said nothing, but the faint shift of his body under the covers, the way he didn't avert his gaze, offered her permission she hadn't known she needed. Slowly, cautiously, she moved closer, drawn toward the quiet solidity of him, her fragile need for comfort outweighing her fear.

Her lips parted, searching for something more to say, but the words dissolved into the room's stillness.  She hesitated at the edge of the bed, the blankets warm and inviting, yet she felt exposed, fragile, unsure if she had the right to take up space in his presence. Her hand brushed the fabric, testing the weight of it, the softness of it. Cregan's gaze remained steady, silent, offering a quiet permission.

Slowly, she swung one leg over the side, then the other, lowering herself onto the mattress inch by careful inch. Every movement was measured, almost reverent, as though she feared breaking the fragile peace between them. Her body shivered, not from cold, but from the tremor of emotions she hadn't let herself feel in months: relief, longing, and the deep ache of loss.

She finally settled beside him, leaving a small, respectful space between them. Her hands clutched the blankets close to her chest as she exhaled a shuddering breath, letting some of the tension seep out of her limbs. The bed creaked faintly under her weight, a reminder that she was real, alive, here.

Cregan didn't speak. He didn't move toward her, but the warmth of his body, the quiet steadiness of his presence, radiated like a tether, grounding her trembling heart. Tentatively, she edged a little closer, not daring to touch, only letting the nearness soothe the loneliness that had wrapped itself around her so tightly.

Nella's hand twitched almost imperceptibly, as if drawn by some quiet magnetism. She let it hover over the blanket near him, then, with a trembling, hesitant motion, her fingers brushed the back of his hand. The contact was feather-light, almost accidental, yet it carried a warmth that made her chest tighten.

She drew in a shaky breath, emboldened just enough to shift closer, letting the curve of her body press gently against his side. The movement was careful, tentative, a silent question: would he let her stay this close?

Cregan didn't move away. Instead, after a heartbeat, he shifted himself, an almost imperceptible motion that drew her nearer. Slowly, deliberately, he eased her until her head rested against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat vibrated through her, grounding her, quieting the storm that had raged inside her for so long.

Her arms instinctively curled around him, and for the first time since arriving at Winterfell, Nella let herself breathe without restraint. The warmth, the quiet, the unspoken understanding between them—it all seemed to tell her that it was safe to feel, safe to lean, even in her brokenness.

She shivered, not from cold, but from the vulnerability of letting herself feel. Yet, nestled against him, she felt a strange, tender kind of safety. Slowly, her voice softened, the confessions trailing off into murmurs as sleep tugged at her eyelids.

Cregan's chest rose and fell beneath her head, a steady rhythm that seemed to lull her toward calm. Her hands relaxed, letting go of the tension she hadn't realized she was holding. Inch by inch, her body gave in to the warmth and the quiet, and her breaths grew slower, deeper, until at last, she allowed herself to drift fully into sleep, murmuring soft fragments of fears and longing that dissolved into the dark.

Wrapped in his embrace, Nella finally surrendered to the fragile peace she had denied herself for so long, letting the comfort of another heartbeat guide her into dreams, however fleeting, of safety and home.

Morning light crept slowly through the frost-tinged windows, casting pale gold across the stone walls of Winterfell. Nella's eyes fluttered open, heavy and slow, her body still wrapped in the lingering warmth of Cregan's embrace. For a moment, she did not move, simply letting the quiet of the castle seep into her bones. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek was grounding, a tether to the world she had almost lost.

She did not move immediately. She simply looked, her eyes tracing the familiar lines of his face: the set of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the way his lashes lay against his cheeks. Each feature seemed impossibly vivid, and yet so achingly distant, like something remembered from a dream.

Her hand itched to reach out, to feel the warmth of him against her skin, but she held herself back. Instead, she shifted slightly, just enough to press a shoulder against his chest, letting the heat and solidity of him ground her. The steady rise and fall of him beneath her, the subtle beat of his heart, offered a fragile tether to reality—a reassurance that she was not alone.

Nella's mind wandered through the long nights, the storms, the losses, the ache that had hollowed her out. Yet here he was, silent, patient, solid, and unjudging. She studied him as though memorizing every contour, every shadow of his face, every detail she could hold onto if the world shifted beneath them again.

Her fingers twitched against the fabric of his tunic, as though they carried the weight of all the things she hadn't dared speak aloud. Her voice was barely more than a breath, a fragile thread strung between the dark and the light of the morning. "I thought... I thought I'd never feel safe again," she whispered, the admission carrying both shame and relief. "But... with you... I... I don't know. "

As Nella's whispered confession faded into the soft quiet of the room, a faint shift beneath her made her realize he was stirring. Slowly, Cregan's eyes opened, heavy with sleep but alert enough to find her there.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was her shallow breathing, the faint pulse of life beneath her ear. Then, almost imperceptibly, a small, slow smile curved across his lips.

It was not a triumphant or joyful smile—it was quieter, gentler, full of understanding and something unspoken: reassurance. That simple curve of his mouth reached her chest before it even touched her eyes, and for the first time in what felt like ages, the tension in her shoulders eased.

She felt her breath hitch, a soft shiver running through her as warmth spread from the core of her being outward. That smile alone told her he understood her fear, her sorrow, her longing—and that, at least for now, she was not alone.

Nella allowed herself to lean a fraction closer, pressing a little more of herself against him, and let the comfort of that quiet acknowledgment wash over her. The world outside—the storm, the losses, the grief—seemed, for a fleeting moment, to hold at bay.

Her lips parted, a soft murmur escaping: "Thank you..." but she didn't move away, letting herself linger in the small miracle of being seen and not judged.

The hand over hers moved, brushing up to her shoulder, then back down, an unspoken promise that he would stay, that he would carry some of the weight with her. The silence that followed wasn't empty; it was a cocoon, a fragile space where grief, fear, and longing could coexist, held safe by the steady presence of someone who refused to let her fall completely.

Chapter Text

A few days later, the world beyond Winterfell pressed in with a sudden, unyielding force. Nella had learned the news she had feared but somehow still resisted—the queen, Rhaenyra, was dead. The message had arrived as quietly as a shadow, borne on the hushed whispers of messengers whose eyes seemed to carry the weight of sorrow even before the words were spoken. Yet despite the gentle delivery, the impact was brutal: the life she had looked to for guidance, the figure whose foresight and protection had shaped so many of her choices, was gone.

She felt the news settle in her chest like a stone, heavy and unmovable. It was not only grief—it was the sharp, hollow pang of disbelief, the icy recognition that the war's cruelty could reach even those who seemed untouchable. The battles, the betrayals, the endless burning of keeps and lives—suddenly, it was all magnified. Rhaenyra's demise was proof that no one, not even a queen, could escape the voracious hunger of fate and conflict.

She sat by one of the narrow windows, the snow outside melting slowly under the pale winter sun, her fingers tracing the frosted glass absently. The war, the endless cruelty, the fires consuming entire keeps, the families torn apart—it all converged into a singular, numbing ache. Nella felt hollow yet again, as if the small relief she had found in Winterfell had been only a brief pause before grief resumed its unrelenting march.

Cregan had come to her side silently, as he had done so many times before. He did not speak immediately, letting her absorb the news in her own way, but when she finally let her gaze fall from the window, he was there, a steady presence. She couldn't summon words; the anguish was too vast, too raw, curling in her chest like a living thing.

Nella's voice trembled, fragile and uneven, as she spoke into the quiet chamber. "She... she was almost like a mother to me," she whispered, each word heavy with sorrow. "She did so much... so much for me. I trusted her with everything—my life, my choices, my secrets—and now... now she's gone."

Her gaze fell to the floor, her body trembling with the weight of grief. Every memory of Rhaenyra—her calm strength, her rare smiles, the quiet ways she offered guidance—flashed through Nella's mind, leaving her hollow, yet clinging desperately to fragments of the woman she had revered.

Nella's shoulders shook violently as fresh tears spilled over, her voice rising in anguish. "It won't stop... it just... it never stops!" she cried, her hands gripping at her hair, pulling at it as if she could wrench the pain free. "The gods... they won't leave me alone! Everyone I love... everyone I hold close... I lose them! I can't... I can't bear it!"

She sank to the floor, knees drawn up, her body trembling with raw grief. "And... and what if... what if it's you next?" Her voice faltered, choking on the words as she looked up at Cregan, eyes wide and desperate. "What if I lose you too?"

Cregan's hand moved slowly, hesitating for only a moment before resting gently on her trembling shoulder. His gaze softened, meeting hers with a steadiness that seemed to anchor her storm-tossed heart.

"Nella..." he said quietly, voice low but firm, carrying a weight that only experience and loss could give. "I cannot promise the world will be kind, that it will spare us pain or loss. But I can promise this—I will not abandon you. Not while I breathe, not while you need me."

He leaned closer, letting his presence envelop her, a quiet shield against the chaos that had become her life. "I am here," he repeated, as if the words themselves could drive away the darkness. "And I will remain. You are not alone. Not now."

Nella's voice shook as she finally forced the words out, her eyes searching his face for an answer she couldn't guess.

"Why... why are you so good to me?" she whispered, almost afraid of hearing the answer. "After everything... after I left Winterfell, after I refused to hear your confession... why?"

Cregan's eyes softened, a shadow of old sorrow flickering there. He didn't answer immediately, letting her question hang in the quiet of the room. Then, slowly, he spoke, his voice gentle but certain.

"Because... because I know the woman you are, Nella," he said, each word deliberate. "Because I've seen your heart, your courage, your loyalty. The mistakes, the departures, the silence—they never erased that. You left, yes—but even then, I understood. You carried burdens no one could see, and you made choices for reasons I may never fully know. And yet, here you are... and here I am."

He let a faint smile touch his lips, though his eyes remained solemn. "I care for you not because you were always perfect, or always present, but because I see you. All of you, even the pieces you think are broken. And those pieces... they matter to me."

He reached out slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Nothing that's happened, nothing you've done, has changed that."

Nella's chest tightened, the warmth of his words mingling with the lingering ache of her grief. She felt raw, fragile, and yet... seen. Truly seen.

Then, almost reluctantly, he drew in a slow breath. "But... I will need to be away for a time."

Her brows knit in confusion, and he continued before she could speak. "The queen you grieve was my queen too. Rhaenyra's death cannot go unanswered. There will come a reckoning...Her death wasn't fate, Nella. It was betrayal. And betrayal must be answered." 

She swallowed, her throat tight. "Answered... how?"

He met her gaze squarely, no hesitation. "Aye. I will take my men south. We will stand in the halls of the usurper's court and strip away their false smiles. Every oathbreaker, every coward who feasted while my queen was slaughtered, will answer for it. There will be no hiding from the North's justice."

He paused, the faintest muscle ticking in his jaw. "A Stark does not forget an oath, Nella. Not his own, and not the oaths others swore to keep. When you give your word, it's part of you. To break it is to break yourself." His tone deepened, a weight settling into every word. "Those men may think time will wash their treachery clean. They are wrong. I will find them. One by one, I will look them in the eye, and they will answer for what they did to her. To the realm. To every soul who trusted them."

She swallowed, glancing away for a heartbeat. "And... how long will you be gone?"

"As long as it takes," he said simply. "Vengeance is not bound by days or moons." He hesitated, his voice softening. "But my place... my home... will still be here. With you."

Her voice trembled, but she didn't look away from him. "I don't want to wait again, Cregan," she said, the words spilling out before she could stop them "I don't want to be left behind, only to be welcomed by death when you're gone. Not again."

She drew in a shaking breath, the ache in her chest almost too much to bear. "The gods have been too cruel with me already. I need you to come back to me—because you and Bram... you're everything I have left now."

He shifted closer, his hand tightening gently around hers. "You won't. Not while I still draw breath. But I can't stay idle while her blood cries out for justice. This is what it means to be a Stark, Nella. And it's what it means to have sworn an oath."

Her fingers curled slightly against his sleeve, as though to anchor him there with her. "It's almost laughable when I think about it." she whispered, though there was no humor in her voice. "I went from a bastard... to a brothel worker... to Nella of Winterfell... to a princess of the realm. And now..." She shook her head faintly, a bitter edge to her breath. "Now I'm just a girl from Winterfell again. As if fate decided that's where I should stay. As if it's been pulling me back here all along."

Cregan's brow furrowed slightly at her words, his gaze steady on her as if weighing every syllable she'd spoken.

"Fate?" he said quietly. "Maybe it's not fate dragging you back, Nella. Maybe it's this place—maybe it's Winterfell—that's been holding its ground, waiting for you to return. Some things don't change. The snow still falls. The walls still stand. And when the rest of the world turns cruel, this... this is where you find your footing again."

He paused, studying her as though making certain she heard him. "You're not here because fate wanted you small again. You're here because you belong here more than you ever belonged anywhere else."

Nella's fingers tightened in her lap, the knuckles paling. She stared at the flagstones beneath her feet as if they might hold her together if she looked hard enough.

"And yet, I see them," she began again, slower this time, as though forcing herself to name the ghosts. "In the courtyard, I see Jacaerys training with the men. In the great hall, I see him smiling at me across the table. In my chambers... I see myself with him, my hands over my belly, feeling the life we made move inside me. I can almost hear it still—the way he laughed when he felt the baby kick for the first time. I see my child. I see the life I should have had. And it... it makes me sad in a way I don't think will ever heal. "

Her voice faltered. She drew in a shaky breath.

"And now, those moments just... sit in me. They ache. They burn. They're a scar, Cregan—deep and ugly. A part of me knows it will never fade. I loved him. I loved my child. And all I wanted—" she broke, shaking her head, "—all I wanted was to be happy. To have a child of my own. To give them the life I never had."

She swallowed hard, her throat tight.

"There's still time," Cregan said quietly. The words carried weight, but not pressure—spoken as a promise, not an expectation.

Her eyes snapped to his, and for a heartbeat she almost believed him. Almost. But then the fear crept back in, wrapping its cold hands around her ribs.

"After everything that's happened," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears, "I don't even know if I want one anymore. I don't want to feel life in me just to... to have it taken away. I don't want to hold another child in my arms and feel them grow still. I couldn't do it again. Not to myself. Not again."

She turned away, unable to meet his gaze, her next words laced with bitterness and grief alike. "The world is cruel, Cregan. The gods are cruel. Every time I reach for something good, they take it from me. They've taken enough."

Cregan was quiet for a long while. The firelight between them crackled, throwing faint shadows across his face, the set of his jaw as unyielding as the stone walls around them.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady—the kind of voice made for speaking vows before the gods.

"Aye," he said. "The world is cruel. And the gods don't always answer fair. But that's why we keep what's ours close. Why we guard it with everything we are."

His gaze held hers, unflinching.

"My father used to tell me that a  Stark doesn't let fear decide the shape of their life. We don't stop planting in the spring because winter's sure to come. We build, we protect, we endure. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts."

Something softened then, the barest shift in his expression. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his eyes steady on hers in a way that made her feel seen all the way through.

"You've lost more than most could bear, Nella," he went on, quieter now. "But you're still here. And as long as you are, there's still a chance for something good to grow again. Not because the gods will it. But because you will it. And if the gods try to take it—" a faint, wry curve touched his lips "—they'll have to go through me first."

It was the kind of promise that felt carved from iron. They lingered in that stillness, eyes locked, neither willing to break the moment. The fire popped softly between them, its light dancing over his face.

Then, at last, Cregan exhaled. "I have to go now," he said, his voice low but certain. "It's time I mount for King's Landing."

Something inside her clenched. She didn't want to speak—didn't want to give the moment over to words—but her hands moved on their own. She reached to the tie of her nightgown, fingers slipping under the soft fabric until she pulled free a strip of cloth.

"Here," she said, holding it out to him. Her voice was steady, though her heart was not. "You'll need this... to ride safe. In a way... it means I'll always be with you, as you ride south."

Cregan's rough fingers closed around the strip of cloth, holding it for a moment as if it carried more weight than fabric alone. His gaze lingered on her, steady and unwavering, and Nella felt a flutter of something she hadn't allowed herself to feel in so long—hope tempered with sorrow.

He lifted it carefully, as if it were fragile, and tucked it into the folds of his cloak. Then he took a step closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. Without a word, he bent slightly and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. It was fleeting, almost tenderly reluctant, but it carried a promise that only they could understand—a vow that he would return, that she was never truly alone.

"Thank you," he murmured, tucking it carefully away. There was no grand speech, no promise he couldn't keep—just the quiet acknowledgment of what she had given him.

Her breath caught in her throat, a shiver running down her spine. She wanted to reach out, to stop him, to tell him that the world could not take him too—but the words didn't come.

Instead, he straightened, gave her one final, searching look, and turned toward the door. His steps echoed through the hall, each one a reminder that he was leaving, but the memory of the night, the quiet strength of his presence, and the cloth she had given him would linger, a tether to him across the distance that now stretched between them.

Nella sank back against the edge of the bed, her fingers lingering where his hands had touched her skin, the warmth of it a small, stubborn flame against the cold emptiness of the room. She whispered his name, not daring to let it out loud, and let the ache of longing settle around her, tempered by the fragile hope that somehow, he would come back.

Chapter Text

The wind cut sharp as Nella stepped out into Winterfell's streets, the snow crunching beneath her boots, Bram clutched securely against her side. She felt exposed, fragile in the wide open, as though every passerby might notice the tremor in her chest, the way her hands shook just slightly as she guided her son through the familiar streets.

She hated this waiting. Each day stretched endlessly, dragging her along a precipice she didn't trust the gods to spare her from. The terror of losing him—or Cregan, or anyone else she held dear—lurched in her stomach with every passing moment.

Still, she forced herself forward, letting Bram marvel at the vendors and the smells of roasted meat and fresh bread, the loud calls of fishmongers, and the swaying stalls heavy with vegetables and preserved goods. He pointed and laughed at the odd shapes of winter gourds, at the way a blacksmith's hammer rang against iron, at a dog chasing its own tail. His laughter was bright, fragile against the weight she carried, but it steadied her.

Her gaze drifted, wandering across the crowded market, until something unusual caught her attention—a stall tucked slightly away from the bustle, painted with faded colors and draped in threads of beads, crystals, and charms that glittered dully in the pale sunlight. Behind it stood an old woman, her hair streaked with gray, her eyes sharp and curious, watching the crowd as if she could see more than any of them dared to show.

Nella slowed, Bram tugging at her sleeve to point at a wooden carving of a bird, but she barely noticed him. The old woman's gaze met hers, and in that glance something stirred—a strange, almost electric recognition, like a memory she couldn't place. The charms, the beads, the faint scent of herbs, it all whispered secrets she didn't yet understand.

"Ah," the woman said, her voice soft but knowing. "Not many come this way seeking more than trinkets." She gestured to the necklaces, each one dangling as though caught mid-sway. "You seek something... or someone. Perhaps protection, perhaps a reminder."

Nella blinked, unsure why the words struck her so sharply. She looked down at Bram, whose small hand clutched hers, and felt the first flicker of that old, dangerous curiosity returning—the kind that had always led her to see beyond what was merely in front of her.

Nella's gaze drifted over the stall, slow and hesitant, until one charm caught her eye: a small, amber pendant carved in the shape of a bird in mid-flight. It shimmered faintly in the pale winter sun, as if it held its own inner warmth. Her fingers itched to reach out, and the moment she did, the old woman's voice cut through the murmur of the market.

"Ah... the bird always chooses the one who fears to wait," she said softly, leaning on the counter with gnarled hands. Her eyes were sharp, almost piercing. "It answers the gods' will, though they are cruel in their timing. It protects those who cannot protect themselves. And those they love."

Nella's fingers closed around the charm, the amber smooth and warm despite the cold. "Protect... Who?" she asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

The woman tilted her head, eyes glinting. "It protects the one who fears loss most. For the gods will test you again, and again. But these," she gestured to several charms strung along the counter, "these carry the sway of old promises, the stubbornness of oaths kept, and the shadow of those who wait in silence."

Nella's breath caught. She thought of Cregan riding south, of the cruel weight of waiting for him to return. She thought of all she had lost, and the terror that clung to her even now. "The... the gods won't be cruel?" she murmured.

The woman's lips curved, almost smiling, but not quite. "The gods are never kind or cruel in the way we imagine. They are simply... exacting. They answer, but not always as you wish. These charms," she tapped the amber bird, "do not bend fate. But they may guard the hearts that refuse to break under it."

Nella felt a strange calm stir in her chest, mingled with the prickling fear she had carried since leaving the sea. She looked down at Bram, sleeping lightly against her, and then back at the pendant. Slowly, deliberately, she hung it around her neck. The warmth against her chest was faint, but real, as though some small piece of the world had finally tilted in her favor.

The old woman's voice softened further, almost a whisper now. "Remember—sometimes it is not the waiting that tests you, but the strength to carry what you hold through it. And sometimes, the gods speak not in thunder, but in the quiet insistence of a charm, or a laugh, or a hand held."

Nella's fingers lingered over the bird pendant for a heartbeat longer before her attention wandered to the other trinkets, each whispering in its own silent language. A tiny silver fox, curled into a perfect circle, seemed to glow faintly beneath the winter sun. She picked it up, turning it over in her palm.

"The fox," the old woman said without looking up, "is for cunning and patience. Those who wait must know when to act, and when to hide their hearts from the storm."

Nella's gaze fell on Bram, dozing against her shoulder. She thought of Cregan riding south, of the dangers he would face. Patience... cunning... she realized that perhaps this was a charm not just for herself, but for him too, in a way she could never give. Her eyes drifted to a small, carved stone shaped like a crescent moon, threaded on a thin leather cord. She held it to the light, and the shadows of its carvings seemed to shift, tracing shapes she couldn't quite name.

"This one watches the night," the woman whispered. "Keeps fear at bay, and wards the dreams of those who cannot sleep, or whose hearts are heavy with longing. It remembers the unseen and unheard, and whispers to them when the world is silent."

Nella pressed it to her lips for a moment, feeling the quiet warmth seep into her chest. She imagined Cregan under the same sky, miles away, yet somehow still watched over, somehow still within reach of protection.

Finally, she noticed a charm of entwined hands, carved from dark wood and polished smooth. She traced the lines with her thumb, feeling the shape of connection, of promises that could not be broken.

"This," the old woman said softly, "is for the bonds that endure. Even when one is far, even when the hour is long. Oaths, hearts, and hands—you may be apart, but the world remembers who you hold dear, and sometimes, it bends to protect them."

Nella closed her eyes and let the charms rest in her hands. Each seemed to whisper in its own way, a quiet counterpoint to the chaos of the world beyond Winterfell. They did not erase the danger or the waiting, but they lent her a fragile, almost sacred confidence that the gods' cruelty might not claim everything she loved.

Finally, she lifted her hand and pressed a coin into the old woman's palm, selecting the fox charm she had been drawn to. The woman's fingers closed around it with a gentle, deliberate grip.

Her gaze met Nella's, gentle and unreadable. "Do not mistake these for magic that changes fate. They merely remind those who fear that even the smallest threads may hold a tapestry together."

Nella smiled faintly, more to herself than the woman, feeling the small weight of the charm rest against her palm—a quiet talisman, a reminder that some measure of protection, however fragile, still lingered in the world. With Bram nestled safely against her, she felt the first hint of courage bloom in her chest. She could wait. She could endure. And perhaps, by the time Cregan returned from the south, she would be stronger than the cruel world had allowed her before. 

The snow crunched softly beneath Nella's boots as she walked Bram through the familiar streets of Winterfell. As she passed a butcher's stall, a cleaver slipped from the seller's hand. Without hesitation, a young boy darted forward, catching it before it could strike the ground. Nella's heart skipped—so small, yet so precise, so certain. The fox charm pulsed faintly in her palm, and she thought of cunning, of readiness, of survival.

A few steps further, a small dog trotted into the street, barking at the morning bustle. It froze as a cart wheel rolled toward it, too fast for the animal to escape. A man, unseen until the last moment, grabbed the dog gently by the scruff, lifting it clear. Nella's breath caught, and she pressed the moon charm to her lips. Watching the quiet protection unfold around her, she felt that same whispered reassurance the charm had promised: that unseen forces sometimes moved just when danger approached.

They turned a corner, and a mother stumbled with her basket, threatening to spill the winter potatoes across the cobbles. Bram laughed, reaching for the rolling tubers. Another child nearby ran forward, steadying the basket and grinning at Bram. Nella felt the wooden hands in her palm, twisting gently as though they remembered the bonds that endured even in a fleeting moment of connection.

She walked on, letting the small acts of care and protection thread through her consciousness. Each one mirrored the charms she carried, subtle and quiet signs that even amidst uncertainty, the world had corners of mercy, tiny threads of kindness. She thought of Cregan riding south, facing dangers she could not yet see, and she felt the charms' comfort again—not as a guarantee of safety, but as a reminder that vigilance, love, and courage rippled outward, touching everything they loved.

By the time she returned to the castle gates, Bram chattering about the fishmongers' cat and the smell of fresh bread, Nella felt her heart a little less heavy. She had not changed fate, and the dangers beyond Winterfell were no less real—but in these small moments, she glimpsed a fragile, persistent magic in the world. And she could hold onto that while she waited. 

Later, she went alone to the chambers she and Cregan shared. The room felt empty, yet familiar, and she allowed herself a quiet exhale. She moved to the balcony, the cold biting her fingers, the wind tugging at her cloak. The snow stretched endlessly in every direction, white and silent, broken only by the distant horizon. 

Her breath fogged in the chill as she squinted against the fading light, trying to make sense of the small, dark shapes moving toward Winterfell. At first, they seemed no more than shadows—figures half-lost in the snow—but there was a certainty in their movement, a steady, deliberate pace that made her heart catch.

She pressed her hands to the railing, leaning forward, straining for any detail. Hooves? Riders? Her pulse quickened. Could it be? She dared not hope. The shapes grew larger, sharper against the winter sky, and a thrill of recognition shivered through her. Her chest tightened, breath shallow, as she whispered to herself, almost afraid to speak the words: "It's him... it has to be him..."

Her heart pounded so violently she thought it might betray her excitement before she could even see him. She pressed herself closer to the railing, eyes wide, every instinct urging her to run, to throw herself into the courtyard before the riders even arrived. A laugh, half-choked by relief, escaped her lips, and she realized tears were already streaking her cheeks.

The soldiers passed through the outer gate, the clatter of hooves and the murmur of voices growing louder. Nella could see the banners more clearly now, the men pushing through the snow as if drawn by an invisible tether. Her pulse raced, a mixture of awe and disbelief. She could barely stand still, her skirts clutched in her fists, ready to dash forward, though she still could not see him.

And then—through the gates, past the gates, among the men—she caught sight of the familiar figure. The moment her eyes locked onto him, her knees nearly buckled. Cregan. The sight of him, upright in the saddle, armor catching the cold sunlight, sent a rush of tears and laughter spilling together.

She didn't pause. With a cry of pure joy, she bolted toward the courtyard, skirts flying, heart nearly bursting from her chest. 

Cregan dismounted slowly, one hand on the reins, his gaze never leaving her. The world seemed to shrink around them—the clatter of the soldiers, the distant banners, the snow crunching under hooves—all faded into the background. It was only her and him, and the ache of all the days apart dissolved in an instant.

Without thinking, Nella threw herself into his arms. Her hands clutched his shoulders, pressing her face against his chest as tears spilled freely down her cheeks. The warmth of him, solid and unyielding, anchored her after weeks of fear and waiting. She could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear, and it steadied her own frantic pulse.

For a heartbeat, they simply held each other, breathing in the presence they had been denied for far too long. Then a small, urgent voice pierced the moment.

"Soldiers! Soldiers! Soldiers!"

Nella's head snapped up, and there he was—Bram, little legs pumping through the snow, his small cloak flapping wildly behind him. His eyes were wide with delight and relief. Nella's heart melted all over again. She scooped him up into her arms, holding him close, feeling the warmth of her son pressed against her chest.

"Bram!" she whispered, rocking him gently, laughter and tears mingling in the same breath.

She guided him toward Cregan, lifting him high so he could wrap his tiny arms around his father. Cregan's face softened, and then a rare, unguarded smile lit his features. Bram clung to him, and for a moment, the three of them stood together in the snow—Nella holding her son, Cregan receiving his child's embrace, and the quiet, undeniable sense of family filling the courtyard.

Bram still clung to her neck, his small cheek pressed against hers, but Nella's gaze was fixed on Cregan. The snowflakes caught in his dark hair, the faint shadows of exhaustion beneath his eyes, the quiet strength in the set of his jaw—he was here. He was whole.

"You've finally returned to me," she whispered, her voice breaking.

A faint, almost private smile tugged at his mouth. He reached into the breast of his cloak and drew out a folded scrap of cloth—the one she had pressed into his hands before he rode south. It was worn now, edges frayed, but her stitches still held.

"With this," he said, his voice low and rough, "I could've fought a storm itself and come back to you safely."

Her throat tightened, and she had to blink hard against the fresh rush of tears. Without another word, he reached out, his large, calloused hand resting for a brief moment on Bram's back before settling at the small of her own.

They turned together toward the gates. Soldiers moved aside as they passed, heads bowing to their Lord, but Nella hardly noticed them. Her steps matched Cregan's without thought, and though they didn't speak, there was a quiet rhythm between them—his steady presence at her side, her fingers brushing against his sleeve as if to reassure herself he was still real.

Bram's chatter filled the silence, a stream of breathless words about cats at the fishmongers, the tallest snowbank he'd ever seen, and whether Cregan had brought him anything from King's Landing. Cregan listened without interrupting, the faint curve of a smile still in place, as though simply hearing the boy's voice was gift enough.

The great wooden doors of the keep closed behind them, shutting out the cold. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of burning pine and roasting meat. Nella caught herself glancing at Cregan now and then, the simple domesticity of walking through Winterfell with him at her side feeling almost foreign after the long, empty weeks of waiting.

They paused in the hall. Cregan shrugged off his heavy cloak, handing it to a servant, then met her eyes with a look that seemed to say I'm here. I'm staying. She shifted Bram on her hip, smiling faintly back at him. For the first time in what felt like years, she allowed herself to believe it.

Chapter Text

Months—or perhaps only weeks—had passed since Cregan had announced it: a feast to rival anything the North had seen in a century. Word had spread quickly through Winterfell and beyond. The war was over, its scars still fresh, but peace had returned, however fragile, and the North could finally gather again. Winter was coming, yes, but tonight, for a few hours at least, the halls of Winterfell would echo with laughter instead of battle cries.

Nella lingered over the pages of her book, but her thoughts kept drifting, flitting like restless birds between the letters on the page and the sounds of Winterfell preparing for the evening feast. The walls of her chamber, usually quiet and familiar, seemed to hum with anticipation. The faint clatter from the kitchens, the muted laughter of servants, even the echo of hooves on the courtyard stones—all of it made the air feel charged, as if the castle itself was aware of the celebration to come.

Finally, she set the book aside and rose, stretching her arms above her head. Her gaze fell on a gown laid neatly across the edge of her bed. It was a deep, vibrant green, the shade of moss in the deepest northern forests, rich and alive. Her breath caught. The color mirrored her own eyes so perfectly it felt like a secret wink from the gods themselves, a quiet reminder of who she was, and where she belonged.

She stepped closer, her fingers brushing the fabric with reverent care. The material was soft yet substantial, heavy enough to drape gracefully but light enough to move freely. Along the neckline and sleeves, delicate embroidery traced intricate patterns, subtle and elegant—a craftsmanship that spoke of thoughtfulness, of intent, of someone who had chosen this with her in mind. Nella lifted a sleeve and let the fabric slide through her fingers, marveling at the way it shimmered in the firelight.

Her lips curved into a shy, knowing smile, and warmth crept into her cheeks. She could feel the quiet pulse of meaning behind the gift: it was more than a gown. It was recognition, attention, care. She knew immediately who had brought it. The thought of him—his hands, his eyes, the way he had always noticed her even in the shadows of Winterfell—made her heart flutter in a way she hadn't felt in months.

Slipping into the gown, Nella let the fabric settle around her, the skirts flowing with a natural grace that made her movements feel lighter than they had in years. She drew a deep breath as she fastened the clasps along the back, the sound of the tiny clicks echoing softly in the quiet of her chamber. Then her gaze fell upon the mirror, and she froze for just a heartbeat.

For the first time in ages, she truly saw herself. Not the girl who had fled south, not the woman who had survived betrayals and impossible losses—but Nella of Winterfell. Strong. Silver-haired. Undeniably alive. The green of the gown made her eyes shine, like sunlight caught in spring leaves, and the embroidery traced delicate patterns that seemed to echo her own resilience.

A fragile, almost trembling joy filled her chest. For a fleeting heartbeat, she allowed herself to feel beautiful, truly beautiful, as she had never dared in years. She traced the curve of her neckline with her eyes, took in the sweep of her skirts, and let a small, almost shy smile curl her lips.

And then, unexpectedly, a memory surfaced—one that had been tucked away in the quiet corners of her mind. The first Winterfell feast she had attended, years ago. She could see it clearly: the long tables, the torches casting warm light over laughing faces, the clatter of goblets, the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread. She and Cregan had laughed like little girls, their joy unrestrained, their hearts light, unburdened by the tragedies that would come. That memory seemed impossibly far away now, yet the warmth of it made her chest ache in the sweetest way. She cherished it fiercely, letting it remind her that joy could return, even after the darkest winters.

Nella lifted her chin, smoothing the folds of her gown with gentle hands, and stepped toward the door. Each movement felt deliberate, quiet, yet full of a newfound pride. The familiar stone of Winterfell's halls seemed to welcome her back, echoing softly under her heels. She breathed in the scent of burning pine and roasting meats, the hum of preparation, the distant laughter of servants and lords alike, and felt an almost electric anticipation curl through her chest.

It was as if the gods themselves had lent her this moment, a rare, fragile gift—a second chance to feel light, to feel alive. Perhaps they were not so cruel after all, she thought, allowing herself a quiet smile.

As she entered the great hall, the chatter and clatter seemed to fade slightly into the background. Her gaze found him immediately. Cregan stood near the head of the table, the largest in the North, gleaming in candlelight, the lords around him a blur. But he was clear, solid, unwavering—his eyes locking on hers across the hall.

A smile curved her lips, shy and yet fearless, a reflection of everything she had become. The hall seemed to fall away as she walked, her skirts brushing the stone, each step carrying the echo of hope and the thrill of reunion. She felt the weight of past winters and losses lift just a little, replaced by the warmth of what she had regained.

She slowly approached him, their eyes never leaving each other's, she felt it fully: the sense of home, of belonging, of love returned.  As she reached the head of the table, Cregan stepped forward slightly, a quiet smile playing on his lips. "I knew green would suit you," he said, his voice low, meant only for her. "But I did not expect it would make you... the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Nella raised an eyebrow, a teasing lilt in her voice. "You're a charmer, Lord Stark," she said, shaking her head with a laugh.

"I do not flatter," he replied steadily, stepping closer, his gaze holding hers. "I mean it."

The hall buzzed with chatter and the clink of cups, but in that moment, it felt like it had fallen away, leaving only the two of them. His voice softened, more intimate now, carrying a rare tenderness that he reserved for her alone. "You are beautiful... Nella."

Her cheeks warmed, and she let herself lean just a fraction closer, savoring the rare, steady devotion in his eyes.

The feast resumed its life around them: long tables laden with roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet pies; the murmur of lords and ladies punctuated by bursts of laughter. But Nella found herself almost intoxicated by the simple joy of being here, of being with him. She clinked her cup lightly against his, and their laughter mingled as they drank, exchanged glances, and shared small, private smiles.

Nella's laughter rang clear across the hall, the sound light and unburdened. Cregan mirrored her joy, a rare, easy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. They exchanged another glance, silent and intimate, savoring the simplicity of being together.

Then a staggered, wine-heavy lord wove past them, leaning too close as he grinned with far too much familiarity. "Ah, the two of you!" he hiccupped, grinning like he'd discovered a secret. "By the gods, I'd wager you don't just hold hands and whisper sweet nothings! I'd put coin on it—you're probably getting... very familiar behind closed doors, if you catch my meaning!" 

Nella nearly snorted, clutching her goblet to keep from falling over laughing. Her face burned a bright shade of red, but it was the kind of blush that made her laugh all the harder.

Cregan's lips twitched, and soon his deep chuckle joined hers. Their eyes met, sparkling with amusement and warmth. Neither of them were angry or embarrassed in a harsh way—they were drunk on laughter, on the absurdity of the world, and the shared delight in each other's company.

Cregan leaned closer, voice low and teasing, "Perhaps you should worry less about what drunk lords think, and more about how lovely you look right now."

Nella hiccuped a little laugh, pressing a hand to her mouth, shaking her head, and grinning.  "Stop charming me Lord Stark, I might think you have hidden attentions with those flatteries."

Cregan's lips quirked in a sly, half-smile. "Ah, so you doubt me now, my lady? Perhaps I am hiding... some grand, nefarious plan to steal your heart," he teased, lifting his goblet with mock solemnity.

Nella laughed, the sound spilling freely, and tapped her own cup against his. "I shall be wary, then. You are far too cunning to trust with such dangerous intentions."

He leaned just slightly closer, voice dropping in playful gravity. "Dangerous, perhaps—but only if you allow it."

She caught herself smiling, a warmth spreading through her chest, and let the words slide over her as she drank in the sight of him. The hall around them seemed to fade for a moment; Cregan's eyes were fixed on her, unwavering, and she realized with a start how completely he could focus, as if the world itself had shrunk to just the two of them.

The teasing melted into quiet admiration, and Nella, flushed from wine and laughter, felt a thrilling shiver of recognition: he wasn't just looking at her—he was seeing her. Not the girl who had run south, nor the princess who had suffered so much, but Nella, here and now, alive and whole.

She tilted her head, smirking through her blush. "And what, pray tell, does my daring, wily lord plan to do with such knowledge?"

Cregan's answer was simple, teasing yet intimate, as his hand brushed hers briefly across the table: "Guard it, and you, for as long as you'll let me."

Nella laughed, a bright, slightly tipsy sound, and grabbed his hand. "Cregan! Let's... let's go somewhere else," she urged, tugging him gently.

He chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Somewhere else, hm? Very well... I suppose I can't refuse such a persuasive lady."

They wandered through the corridors of Winterfell, laughter spilling between them like warmth in the cold stone halls. Their steps echoed, but it only made the moment feel private, as if the castle itself had quieted for them.

At a turn in the hallway, they paused. Cregan looked down at her, his tall frame casting a shadow, eyes soft but intense. Nella, still flushed from wine and laughter, tilted her head, squinting playfully. "Your eyes... they've got a little green in them," she said softly, a teasing lilt in her voice.

He just smiled, that slow, steady smile that made her heart skip. "Perhaps it's a reflection of what I see," he murmured.

Encouraged by the warmth between them, she reached up, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. It was a small, natural gesture, intimate but innocent—until, as if drawn by some quiet, inevitable force, their lips met.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, a gentle brush of warmth and familiarity. But beneath that softness lay the weight of months of waiting, of longing held in quiet moments and stolen thoughts, of a joy neither had dared speak aloud. Nella felt her pulse quicken, her senses sharpening to the feel of him, the taste of him, the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her hand. The world seemed to contract, narrowing until it was just them, their laughter still echoing faintly in the corridors, the firelight casting dancing shadows across his face. And in that exquisite stillness, she allowed herself to surrender to the truth she had carried alone for so long: he was here, finally, and she could hold onto him.

When they pulled back, foreheads still nearly touching, breath mingling, Cregan's eyes softened as he whispered, "I've dreamed of this moment... more times than I can count. Always wondering if it could ever be real."

Nella's lips curved into a tender smile, her fingers still resting against his chest. "And now it is," she murmured, her voice warm, shaky with happiness. "It's real... and it's here with you."

He let out a low, contented laugh, brushing a thumb over her cheek. "Then I'll hold onto it, and onto you, for as long as I breathe."

She leaned into him again, not with the urgency of before, but with the quiet, effortless trust of someone who finally feels home. Their fingers entwined as they began walking through the dimly lit corridors of Winterfell, laughter and quiet murmurs of the departing feast fading behind them. 

Every step felt electric, the warmth of each other's hands and bodies a tether in the cold stone halls. Nella leaned into him, her breath hitching with anticipation, and he followed her lead, letting their pace slow only as desire and longing guided them.

By the time they reached Cregan's chamber, neither could keep their hands off one another. Their lips met again, this time urgent, hungry, a shared release of weeks of waiting and unspoken longing. The kiss deepened, rougher now, thrilling in its intensity, and Nella pressed against him with a boldness that made Cregan's pulse race.

It was her who pulled at the edges of his tunic first, teasing and urgent, and he responded immediately, sliding the fabric from his shoulders as his hands roamed hers, brushing over the green gown at her shoulder. She shivered against him as he slowly let the gown slip from her, the soft fabric falling to the floor, leaving her exposed to the heat between them.

Their mouths met again, fiercely, as they led one another toward the bed, bodies pressed together, hearts pounding in perfect rhythm. She fell back onto the warm furs, and he followed, hovering above her, still kissing her with that same hunger and devotion. 

Cregan paused mid-kiss, his forehead resting against hers, his hands cupping her cheeks with a tenderness that made her heart swell. His gaze, intense and unwavering, held her completely. "Nella," he murmured, his voice low and reverent, "you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

Her breath caught, and for a heartbeat, the world outside the chamber ceased to exist. Then, as if the words had unlocked something inside them both, he kissed her again—slower this time, savoring the warmth and softness of her lips.

The rhythm of their movements shifted naturally, a conversation of hands, lips, and breath, each gesture a reflection of months of longing finally released. Cregan moved with her, careful yet urgent, their bodies pressed together, the bed beneath them a soft island against the cold of the castle stones.

They gave themselves over to each other fully, their passion mingling with laughter, whispered names, and the deep, unspoken joy of reunion. Hours seemed to pass in heartbeats, the outside world fading until there was nothing but the heat of their closeness, the steady beat of their hearts, and the quiet intimacy of being wholly together.

When they finally rested, wrapped in each other's arms, the fur beneath them warm and comforting, Nella felt a completeness she had not dared imagine. It was more than passion—it was home, safety, love, and a fragile, dazzling happiness that the gods had granted them at last.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn filtered through the tall windows of their chamber, brushing the stone walls with soft gold. Nella stirred beneath the covers, the warmth beside her a steady, comforting weight. Cregan's chest rose and fell slowly, the quiet rhythm of his breath a reassurance that he was truly there, truly hers.

She watched him for a long moment, her silver hair spilling across the pillow, the green of her eyes catching the light as she traced the curve of his jaw with a finger. A quiet laugh escaped her lips. "I could get used to this sight," she murmured, her words half-teasing, half-serious, the corners of her mouth curling with contentment.

Cregan's eyes fluttered open, a small smile forming as he caught her gaze. "And I to you," he said, voice still husky with sleep, pulling her closer until their foreheads touched.

The room was filled with the gentle comfort of shared warmth, the faint scent of the hearth mingling with the lingering traces of the night before. Bram's laughter echoed faintly from the courtyard below, a reminder of the life that surrounded them, the family they were slowly rebuilding. Nella shifted, leaning against him, letting the memory of the past and the relief of the present settle together.

"I never imagined mornings could feel like this," she said softly, letting herself rest her head on his shoulder. "Like the world... is exactly where it's supposed to be."

Cregan brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, eyes tender and full of a rare, unspoken promise. "We've earned this, Nella. Every moment, every battle... and now we have the rest."

She let herself sigh, a sound of pure ease, and closed her eyes. In that quiet morning light, with Cregan by her side and Bram safe below, Nella felt a rare certainty—the kind that whispered of second chances, of home, of a future they could shape together.

Bram's small feet pounded against the floor before Nella could even rise, and the little boy burst into the chamber, arms outstretched. Nella caught him instinctively, lifting him into her arms, his warmth against her chest a perfect anchor for the morning.

Behind him, the nursemaid appeared, a startled look on her face, hands raised as if to scold—but her eyes widened in quiet horror when they landed on Nella and Cregan, still tangled beneath the blankets. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish, no words coming, and her cheeks flushed a deep pink.

The nursemaid froze, glancing from Nella to Cregan, her hands still slightly raised as if caught mid-motion, then took a hesitant step back. She looked as though she might speak again, but a subtle shake of her head and the faintest sigh of resignation made her slowly retreat toward the door. Each step was measured, almost reverent, as if she were tiptoeing around some delicate magic she didn't dare disturb.

Finally, she reached the doorway, casting one last, flustered glance at the couple. Nella caught the fleeting mixture of shock and amusement in her eyes and smiled faintly. 

With a quiet murmur of acquiescence, the nursemaid stepped fully into the corridor and closed the door behind her, leaving the chamber warm and private once more. Nella shifted Bram slightly in her arms, leaning against Cregan.

Nella pressed a finger to Bram's chest to calm him, giving the nursemaid a small, amused shrug. "She's seen us," she murmured to Cregan, "and soon... there will be talk."

Cregan's expression remained steady, almost playful in its calm. "Let them talk," he said. "I do not care what they think."

Nella blinked, feeling Bram wriggle lightly in her arms. She brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, her mind racing. "We will talk about you. I will not have your name sullied by gossip," she said, her voice a mix of exasperation and disbelief.

He leaned closer, brushing a silver strand from her face, his touch gentle but deliberate. "Then let them talk. I do not care, Nella," he said, his voice low, confident, unyielding.

Her eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a mock stern line. "No, you don't understand. I cannot—people will speak, and you—"

"Then I will marry you," he cut in smoothly, the hint of mischief in his tone turning her breath momentarily to stillness. His eyes gleamed with warmth and certainty, unwavering.

Nella blinked, a laugh escaping her lips, part disbelief, part joy, and entirely unrestrained. Her heart raced as the words sank in. "You'll... marry me?" she repeated, half to confirm she had heard correctly, half because it felt too miraculous to be true.

"I will," he said again, firm and sure, as if speaking the truth of the world itself. "And if anyone questions it, they will see the truth for themselves."

Shock fluttered through her chest, softening into a quiet, almost dizzying warmth. The room, Bram in her arms, the soft light spilling across the blankets—it all felt impossibly perfect. She could hardly speak, only press a hand to his cheek and let her fingers linger, marveling at the certainty in his gaze.

For the first time in months, perhaps years, Nella felt the weight of the world ease, replaced by the promise of something enduring, something entirely their own. She laughed again, this time softly, her head resting against his chest. "You are impossible," she murmured, heart full, and yet the joy in her voice left no doubt—she would not have it any other way.

Cregan's lips curved into a teasing smile, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he leaned closer. "Then... is it a yes?" he murmured, his tone mock-serious. "Or are you refusing the Lords of Winterfell's hand in marriage?"

Nella blinked, caught between laughter and disbelief, her cheeks warm. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling Bram's small weight against her, and shook her head with a grin. "I... I suppose," she said, her voice soft but sure, "that I am accepting your hand, and no one else's."

Cregan chuckled, a low, satisfied sound that made her heart flutter. "Good," he said simply, brushing his thumb across her cheek. "Then it is settled. The rest of Winterfell can talk all they like—I care for none of it, so long as you are mine."

Nella leaned into him, resting her forehead against his, a quiet laugh escaping her lips. "Then I suppose the Lords will have to endure my stubbornness, won't they?"

"They will," he agreed, his voice a tender promise.

Just as Cregan leaned in, lips hovering near hers, Bram suddenly jabbed his small hands against Nella's cheeks, pushing her gently but firmly away from Cregan's face. His little nose wrinkled in mock disgust, eyes wide and serious.

"Bram!" Nella exclaimed, half-laughing, half-scolding, as she tried to free herself, but the boy's grip was stubborn.

Cregan threw back his head and laughed, a rich, deep sound that made Nella's heart lift. "I see that this little man has opinions on such matters," he teased, reaching out a hand to ruffle Bram's hair.

Bram frowned at him, clearly unimpressed, and then turned his gaze back to Nella, pressing his tiny hands against her face again as if to say, Absolutely not!

Nella laughed, collapsing against Cregan's chest, the warmth of him and the absurdity of the moment mingling into a perfect, domestic joy. "I suppose we'll have to wait, my lord," she said between giggles, "Bram will not allow it just yet."

Cregan's eyes twinkled, still smiling, and he kissed the top of her head instead. "Then we wait," he said, his voice gentle, "and we enjoy every bit of mischief in the meantime."

The three of them laughed together, the early morning sun spilling through the windows, warming the room as their little family reveled in the simple, perfect chaos of life at Winterfell.

Later, after the laughter and the soft quiet had settled into the castle like a comfortable blanket, Nella slipped from the warmth of her chambers and made her way to the library. The familiar scent of parchment and candle smoke greeted her, and for a moment she let herself breathe, letting the noise of the feast and the clatter of servants fade behind her.

She found a pair of maesters arranging scrolls and adjusting their chains. Clearing her throat politely, she said, "May I... may I have a blank book and some ink?"

One looked up, adjusting his spectacles, while the other blinked in mild surprise. "A blank book, my lady?"

"Yes," she said, her voice quiet but firm, as if she were asking permission not just to borrow a book, but to reclaim a piece of herself. "I want to write something of my own... something that is mine."

The maesters exchanged a glance, then nodded. "We have blank vellum, and ink. We will prepare it for you."

Nella's heart lifted. She moved toward a table, brushing her fingers over the polished surface as if it were a bridge to a world she had almost forgotten she wanted. She thought of the events of the past months—the waiting, the fear, the love she had finally reclaimed—and felt a spark of determination.

When the maesters returned with the supplies, she gently lifted the blank pages, inhaling the faint scent of fresh parchment. Sitting down, Nella dipped her quill into the ink, and for a heartbeat, hesitated, as if the blank page itself were breathing beneath her fingers. Then she began to write, and the words came unbidden, tumbling from the deepest, most secret corners of her mind.

Memories she had buried—dark nights spent listening to the wind howl across Winterfell's walls, the distant cries of men at war, the moments when hope had felt like a fragile ember on the verge of being extinguished—rose up around her like a tide. She wrote of the terror she had felt, the endless hours of waiting, the weight of loss that had pressed against her chest like stone.

But she did not linger only on despair. Her pen traced the small miracles too: the charm of the fox that had whispered protection, the laughter of children in the streets, the fleeting warmth of kindness from strangers and friends alike. She wrote of Cregan's return, of Bram's small body running toward her, of the fragile, almost sacred confidence that had blossomed in her heart when she had glimpsed that persistence of joy.

As her quill moved, she began to speak not only to herself but to the future. If she was not yet meant to fulfill the prophecy, if the threads of fate had other plans, then this record would remain. It would be her testament, a guide for those who would come after her: a warning of the Others, of the endless winter, and of the song of ice and fire that had always stirred the land beneath their feet.

The words blurred at times as her memories flooded her mind—the first feast she had attended, the green of her gown like sunlight on snow, the warmth of Cregan's gaze, the small touches and soft whispers that had reminded her that love and life were not entirely cruel. She wrote of the courage of the small, the unseen, the overlooked: the maesters who chronicled, the soldiers who held the walls, the merchants who carried hope in their daily toil.

She paused to breathe, looking out the high library windows. Winterfell's towers gleamed in the morning light, the snow untouched yet glinting with the promise of enduring strength. Her heart lifted again, and she dipped the quill into the ink, writing with a fervor born of necessity. This was her mark, her legacy, a gift to the generations that would follow—so that they might learn, remember, and perhaps act when the darkness came again.

Hours passed as she wrote, each word a stitch in the tapestry of memory and prophecy. Tears occasionally wet the pages, but she welcomed them, for they were proof of life, of love, of endurance. By the time she set the quill down, the book was heavy with truth, with fear, and with hope. And in that quiet, sacred act, Nella felt herself whole again—not only as a survivor, not only as a witness, but as a keeper of stories, of warnings, and of the fragile, relentless spark that was life itself.

At last, Nella lowered her quill, her hand trembling slightly from hours of pouring herself into the pages. She leaned back, the room quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. The book before her seemed to pulse with the weight of memory, of truths she had dared to hold close, and of the hope she now entrusted to the future.

She took a deep breath, her eyes scanning the words one last time. Each sentence, each carefully traced letter, felt like a heartbeat of its own—alive, enduring, a testament to all she had seen and endured. And as her gaze lingered on the final page, she realized it needed a name, a declaration of purpose, something that would echo long after her own voice was silent.

With deliberate care, she dipped her quill once more. Her hand moved with reverent certainty as she wrote the title across the first page in bold, confident strokes:

"The Song of Ice and Fire: Chronicles of Winterfell"

Beneath it, she signed her name, not as the girl who had fled the South, nor only as the woman who had survived the darkness, but as Nella of Winterfell, keeper of stories, witness to the light and shadow, and guardian of what must never be forgotten.

She closed the book gently, resting it against her chest. A soft smile curved her lips as she whispered, almost to herself, "May it serve those who come after... and may they remember."

Nella rose from her seat, clutching the freshly completed chronicle to her chest. The firelight danced across the pages as she made her way to the maester's quarters, each step measured, deliberate. She found him among his scrolls and tomes, quill in hand, his spectacles perched low on his nose.

"I have something I wish to entrust to the Citadel," she said quietly, her voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of gravity. She set the book on the table before him, the leather-bound cover gleaming like a jewel in the candlelight.

The maester raised a brow, glancing at the weight of the book. "A new chronicle, my lady?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, her eyes unwavering. "But it is not for the eyes of all. It must be kept... hidden. Carefully. One day, it will be needed. The truths within may guide those who come after us."

He leaned closer, turning the book over in his hands, his fingers brushing the gilded edges of the pages. There was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, but he said nothing, only nodded. "As you wish, my lady," he said, voice low and respectful. "It will be secured, and preserved. No one will touch it without your leave."

Nella allowed herself a faint, knowing smile, the weight of secrecy settling comfortably on her shoulders. "Good. Some truths must wait for the right eyes, the right time. Keep it safe, Maester."

"I will," he assured her. "It shall remain as you intend."

She lingered for a moment, her gaze softening, almost wistful. Then, with the quiet authority that came naturally to her, she turned and walked back toward the halls of Winterfell, the book's presence behind her like a heartbeat, silent but alive.

In that moment, Nella felt a renewed sense of purpose. The war had ended, her family was whole again, and yet the story she had written reminded her that the world was wider, darker, and more intricate than even the safest walls could contain. The chronicle would wait—and when the time came, it would speak.

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled across Winterfell in crisp, golden light, catching the frost still clinging to the battlements. Nella awoke with a strange mixture of nerves and excitement, her silver hair spilling across the pillows as she took a deep breath, feeling the weight and wonder of the day ahead. Today, she would wed Cregan, and the long shadows of waiting, fear, and uncertainty would finally give way to a new beginning.

Down the halls, servants scurried with quiet purpose, draping banners, arranging flowers, and preparing the great hall for the largest gathering of northerners in a century. The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of pine, wax, and roasting meats mingling in a way that made the heart beat faster.

Nella rose, her feet bare on the cold stone, and caught sight of the mirror. She allowed herself a small, private smile, remembering the green gown she had worn at the feast, the warmth of Cregan's hand on hers, the laughter that had filled the night. Today, the gown would be replaced by her wedding dress, a gown of northern white, with delicate embroidery that whispered of frost and snow, of the lands she had always called home.

As the maesters and attendants assisted her, she let her mind wander briefly. Her chronicles, safely stored away, felt like a secret strength behind her, a reminder that she had carved a place for herself in history—and now she was ready to carve a place in the hearts of those she loved.

Outside, the snow sparkled under the morning sun, and she could hear the faint murmur of guests arriving, lords and ladies in fine northern attire, children bundled in furs, and the small, joyful shouts of Bram, who had been promised the honor of walking between them at the ceremony.

Hours had slipped by since Nella had dressed, the rich fabric of her silver and green gown settling around her as she moved through her chamber. Candlelight danced along the walls, reflecting in her hair, now streaked with silver but catching the warm glow in a way that made her feel alive, radiant. She lingered only a moment, taking a slow breath, steadying the fluttering anticipation in her chest.

A few young girls, maidens of Winterfell, trailed quietly behind her, carrying her train and whispering soft encouragements, but Nella barely noticed them. Her thoughts were elsewhere, drawn forward by the pull of destiny and desire alike. The corridors were hushed, the castle holding its breath in honor of the evening, and each step she took toward the godswood felt like crossing into another world.

When the massive doors opened, the scent of pine and earth greeted her, and the godswood lay before her, bathed in the soft, amber glow of torchlight. Shadows flickered across the snow-dusted ground, and the ancient weirwood tree loomed, its white bark almost ethereal against the fading sky.

And there he was.

Cregan stood beneath the heart tree, tall and commanding, yet with an undeniable warmth in his stance as he waited. His eyes found hers instantly, the green of his gaze catching the firelight in a way that made her heart tighten and her breath catch. Time seemed to slow around her, the whispers of the girls fading to nothing as every step forward carried her closer to him, closer to the life she had fought for, closer to the man she loved.

Nella stood before the heart tree, her silver gown shimmering against the backdrop of the forest. Cregan stood opposite her, his gaze steady and filled with quiet strength. Between them, the old gods watched, their presence felt in the very air.

The ceremony began with the customary words.

"Who comes before the Old Gods this night?"

"I, Nella," she replied, her voice clear and unwavering. "A woman grown. I come to beg the blessings of the gods."

"And who comes to claim her?"

"I, Cregan of House Stark," he answered, his voice deep and resonant. "Lord to Winterfell. I come to claim her."

"Who gives her?"

Roderick Cerwyn, standing nearby, stepped forward. "I do," he said, his voice tinged with the weight of his past and the bond he shared with Nella.

The officiant, a maester from the Citadel, nodded solemnly. "Lady Nella, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To love him, honor him, and cherish him, in times of peace and in times of war, in health and in sickness, for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," Nella said, her voice steady, her heart resolute.

"Lord Cregan, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love her, honor her, and cherish her, in times of peace and in times of war, in health and in sickness, for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," Cregan replied, his gaze never leaving hers.

The maester then took a small vial from his robes, filled with the sacred oil of the Old Gods. He anointed their foreheads with the oil, marking them as bound in the eyes of the gods.

"By the power vested in me by the Old Gods of the Forest, I now pronounce you husband and wife. May your union be strong, your love enduring, and your house prosperous."

The words hung in the crisp evening air, mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft murmurs of the godswood. Nella's heart swelled as Cregan took her hands in his, his eyes bright with quiet awe and unspoken promises. Around them, the small gathering of lords, ladies, and close friends leaned forward, smiling, the shadows of the trees dancing in the flickering light of lanterns set along the paths.

A rush of warmth and relief coursed through her, and she laughed softly, a sound of pure joy that seemed to make the branches above them shimmer. Cregan's grip tightened just slightly, and he leaned closer, brushing his lips against hers in a tender, lingering kiss that sealed not just the ceremony but every shared moment that had brought them here.

Bram, standing nearby with wide, excited eyes, let out a jubilant squeal and clapped his small hands, and Nella scooped him up into her arms, lifting him toward Cregan. The three of them shared a moment of laughter, a small, perfect family framed by the solemn grandeur of the ancient trees.

Everywhere she looked, the world seemed to glow a little brighter, as if the Old Gods themselves were blessing them, affirming that this union—born from patience, longing, and survival—was something miraculous, something enduring. And in that moment, with Cregan at her side and Bram nestled between them, Nella felt a joy so full it seemed to echo through the forest, a promise that the darkest nights of the past had finally given way to light.

The air of Winterfell was electric, the kind of joy that could be felt deep in the bones. Lanterns swung gently along the streets, their warm glow reflecting in the snow-dusted cobblestones. From every window and doorway, voices rose in laughter and cheer. Merchants and townsfolk alike stopped to offer blessings, clapping her and Cregan on the back or kneeling in playful respect as they passed. Children tumbled in the streets, throwing handfuls of petals and ribbons in celebration, while elders waved from balconies, voices rich with well-wishes for happiness, health, and fertile years to come.

Nella's heart swelled with a quiet, radiant pride as she walked beside her newly wed husband. Her green gown caught the lamplight, shimmering like fresh leaves in spring, and she felt every glance, every smile of adoration aimed in her direction. There was a magic in it, not the kind that bent fate, but the kind that reminded her she belonged here, that she was loved and celebrated.

Cregan's hand found hers, warm and steady. He leaned close, voice a low, intimate murmur against the hum of celebration. "I think... they've never seen a more beautiful Lady of Winterfell than you," he said, eyes reflecting both mischief and deep reverence.

Nella's lips curved into a soft, glowing smile, her cheeks warming at the words as they ontinued their walk, the laughter and music of Winterfell's streets swirling around them, a woman stepped forward from the crowd. She was modestly dressed, hands trembling slightly as she reached for Nella's.

"My lady," she said, voice soft but urgent, "please... bless my hand."

Nella blinked, caught off guard. It was not something she had expected—her role was not usually one of ritual or veneration—but something gentle and instinctive rose within her. She smiled warmly, took the woman's hand in hers, and pressed a delicate kiss to the palm.

"May it bring you courage," Nella murmured, "and strength in all the days to come."

The woman's eyes glimmered with gratitude as she bowed her head, retreating into the crowd with a quiet, joyful hum. Nella glanced at Cregan, who only chuckled softly, squeezing her hand with pride.

As they continued toward Winterfell, another woman approached, then another. Each sought the same gentle blessing, some whispering prayers, some smiling shyly, all touched by the unexpected intimacy of the moment. Nella obliged each, holding their hands, pressing her lips to their palms, and murmuring soft words of hope and protection.

It was odd, and yet profoundly moving—her newly won status as Lady of Winterfell brought with it a small, tender connection to her people that she had never anticipated. By the time she and Cregan reached the castle gates, several women had approached, all leaving with hearts lifted, while Nella herself felt a warmth spreading through her chest, a quiet pride that radiated far beyond the silk of her gown and the jewels of her crown.

Cregan leaned closer as they stepped back into the castle, whispering with a teasing grin, "Seems you've already won their hearts as much as you've won mine."

Cregan's teasing remark earned a mock scowl from Nella. "Oh, shut up," she whispered, her lips curling with mischief. "Your new wife cannot wait to bring her newly wed husband to their bed."

The lord's teasing grin widened at her words, and he let out a low, amused chuckle. "Is that so, my lady? Such bold promises from a newly wed wife..."

Nella tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with mischief, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, "Bold? Perhaps. But can you resist testing whether I'm right?" Her voice dripped with playful seduction, and the heat in it made his pulse quicken.

He caught her hand and pressed it to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his own heart. "I... I do not think I could resist, even if I wanted to," he admitted, voice low, rough with desire.

Nella laughed softly against his lips, teasing further as she pressed closer. "Then you shall see, my lord. Tonight, the gods themselves might envy what we will do."

He laughed, a deep, warm sound that rumbled through her, and let her take the lead, allowing her to guide him through the quiet corridors of Winterfell. The castle, alive with celebration just moments ago, seemed distant now, as if the halls themselves had shrunk around them, leaving only the two of them.

The moment the door to their chamber closed behind them, all restraint dissolved. Their mouths met in a furious, urgent kiss, pressing together with a hunger that had been months in the making. Neither pulled away, only deepened the contact, hands roaming, hearts racing.

Between ragged breaths and fevered kisses, Nella’s lips barely left his, the heat between them crackling like wildfire. Her silver eyes shimmered with mischief and want, pupils dilated with desire. She pressed herself closer, her body trembling against his, feeling the hard press of him through layers of fabric. “Tonight… tonight I will give you a son, I saw it.” she whispered, voice low, husky, carrying a certainty that sent a shiver crawling down Cregan’s spine, igniting something fierce and possessive in him.

Cregan groaned, lips capturing hers with a force that was equal parts need and reverence. His hands fisted in her gown, clutching at the silken folds as if trying to memorize the feel of her, of this moment, forever. “Nella…” His voice was rough, guttural, broken with want, every syllable trembling. “You speak as if it’s already done… but I—”

She silenced him with the press of her lips, biting lightly at his lower lip, teasing, testing, drawing a groan from deep within his chest. When she broke away, her breath came in hot, uneven gasps. “He will have your eyes,” she whispered, her silver gaze locked on his, burning, “deep… alive… and his hair… a deep auburn, with a single strand of white, like the moonlight caught in shadow.”

Cregan’s hands roamed without control, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts under the silk, the small of her back where the warmth of her skin begged to be touched. “Nella…” he murmured again, this time softer, desperate, as if saying her name might make her his forever. “If you speak of this child… if you—” He didn’t finish; his lips crushed hers again, rough, urgent, demanding, desperate.

She broke away just slightly, pressing her forehead to his, voice trembling with heat and need. “He will be the future of House Stark,” she murmured, letting her hands tangle in his hair, pull him impossibly closer, her body arching against his. “And… and his bloodline… it will carry the hope of the North. He will bring the Prince Who Was Promised, who will bring the dawn.”

Cregan’s lips found hers with a renewed hunger, deeper, more urgent than before. Their kisses became a conversation of flesh and need, punctuated with gasps, moans, and whispered promises. Nella pressed her body fully against him, every inch of skin screaming to be touched. “The song of ice and fire,” she whispered between kisses, voice ragged, trembling, “it flows through him… through us. He will know… he will carry it.”

Their kisses grew hungrier, desperate, yet tender in the way that only months of longing could forge. As they pressed closer, the rest of the world fell away—the echoing halls of Winterfell, the feasting and laughter outside, even time itself seemed suspended. Cregan's hands traced the lines of her body with a reverence that mirrored her own, and Nella responded with a soft, urgent need, letting herself be guided by the rhythm of their shared desire. Every brush of skin, every whispered name and promise, deepened the intimacy between them.

She tilted her head, brushing her lips along his jawline, down his throat, tasting, teasing. Cregan shivered, arms wrapping around her with possessive strength. “You… you tempt me too much,” he rasped, voice thick with desire, “I cannot—”

“You can,” she interrupted softly, pressing a hand to his chest, feeling the fierce pulse of his heart beneath her palm. “I will guide you. We will carry him into this world together… and he will be strong, Cregan. Strong like you, fierce like the North, untouchable like the wind over the walls of Winterfell.”

Cregan groaned low, the sound vibrating in his chest as he pressed her harder into him, both of them trembling at the closeness, the tension, the unbearable longing. Their bodies moved instinctively together, slow at first, teasing, savoring, as if every brush of skin and whispered word drew out months of waiting, of desire.

Nella’s fingers danced along the nape of his neck, down his shoulders, tracing the lines of strength beneath his tunic. Her lips found his again, slower now, savoring, tasting, teasing. “I want you to remember,” she murmured, voice a sultry whisper, “every moment of this night. Not just me… but us… our son… the life we will make.”

Cregan caught her gaze, seeing in her eyes the storm of fire and ice, of longing and certainty, and he knew there was no holding back. “Nella… you are mine,” he said, voice rough, husky with emotion, “and I am yours.From this day, until the end of my days.”

They moved together with a natural, unspoken harmony, bodies pressed close, breaths mingling, hearts pounding. Every kiss, every shiver, every sigh built the tension higher, a crescendo of desire that left no part of either untouched. Nella clung to him, murmuring hopes, visions, and promises of their son, the legacy of House Stark, each word punctuated by gasps and moans of urgent need.

Hours seemed to dissolve in the quiet intensity of the night. When they finally paused, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world felt infinitely brighter, calmer, as if the night itself had bent to their union. The warmth of their closeness lingered, leaving Nella with a quiet, glowing certainty: they had begun a new chapter, and it was theirs alone.

Chapter Text

Months had passed since the wedding, and Winterfell had settled into a peaceful rhythm under Cregan's rule. Yet for Nella, every day brought a secret, quietly swelling with hope: the confirmation that she carried life within her.

She wasn't surprised; the vision had been clear, almost like a whisper from the gods themselves. Still, the joy of knowing she would hold her child in her arms was profound, a light that danced in her chest with every heartbeat. When she finally told Cregan, the way his eyes lit up, the smile that spread across his face, and the protective hand he pressed over her stomach made her own heart swell all over again.

But alongside the elation, a shadow lingered. The memory of her first child—the one she had lost—was a quiet ache at the edges of her happiness. As she carried this new life, the loss sometimes weighed heavy, a reminder of grief entwined with joy. Tasks that had once been easy now required effort; steps felt heavier, and her body ached in ways she hadn't anticipated.

Yet, none of it could diminish the happiness that surged whenever she imagined the small life growing within her. Every flutter, every moment of stillness, reminded her that this child was hers to nurture, hers to love, and hers to hold—a living testament to hope, to resilience, and to the enduring thread of her own story.

As for Bram, he was growing at a pace that astonished even the most seasoned maesters. His small words had blossomed into full sentences, and each new phrase he spoke seemed to reveal a mind far sharper than most children his age. There was an intelligence in his bright eyes, a clarity that made Nella proud and quietly wary all at once—her little boy was extraordinary, and she could only imagine what the future held for him.

Each night, as the cold northern winds rattled the castle windows, Nella would draw Bram into the warm sanctuary of her and Cregan's bed. She would sit with him between them, her swollen belly a gentle reminder of the new life growing inside her. "Do you feel him, Bram?" she would whisper as her hand rested lightly on her stomach. "He can hear you. One day, you'll play together, and you'll have a companion to share your adventures with."

Bram's small fingers would press against the curve of her belly, and his voice, full of wonder, would ask endless questions about the baby—what he might look like, whether he'd be brave like Cregan, clever like her. Nella would answer in soft, teasing tones, imagining the bond that would form between them. She hoped, fiercely, that her two sons would become inseparable, that they would shoulder the burdens of Winterfell together, and laugh through its joys side by side.

And as she watched Bram drift to sleep, nestled close to her and Cregan, she would allow herself a quiet smile. Soon, her child would be here, and the family she had longed for—one that could survive loss, endure hardships, and celebrate joys—would finally begin to take its full, living shape.

The candlelight flickered across the walls of Nella's chamber as she sat propped against pillows, an ancient, worn book open across her lap. Her fingers traced the delicate illustrations of the Children of the Forest, their small, strange faces peering from the pages as if they were observing her. She had been lost in their stories, marveling at the age and magic of the North, when the sudden, sharp twinge hit her like a bolt of ice.

She gasped, clutching her stomach, then doubled over, feeling the rhythm of labor descend with unrelenting force. "Maester! Now!" she cried, her voice trembling but determined. Her knees buckled beneath her, and before anyone could reach her, she crumbled to the floor. Her chest heaved as another wave of pain tore through her, but beneath the fear, excitement surged—her son was coming.

The maester arrived swiftly, lifting her into his arms as she clutched him like a lifeline. Her eyes were wide, shining with tears and fire. "He will be alive," she whispered to herself, over and over, almost like a chant. "He must be alive. Not like before. Not like the last..." Her grip tightened on the maester's robes. "I promised Cregan. I promised myself."

The hall outside the chamber was quiet, yet the sounds of her labor began to ripple through the castle. Each scream, each shuddering cry filled the corridors, drawing the attendants and servants in their urgency. Meanwhile, on the other side of the walls, Cregan's hand clenched at his side. He had faced monstrous warriors, bloodied battlefields, and death itself, yet nothing had ever struck terror into him as the sound of his wife in labor did.

He leaned against the cold stone of the corridor, trying to steady his own racing heart. Every shout, every cry, reverberated through him, echoing in a way that made him ache with helplessness. He wanted to be there, to take the pain from her, but he could not—he could only wait and pray that their son, their living promise, would arrive safely.

Inside, Nella's breaths came in ragged gasps, sweat dampening her silver hair, her body trembling with the effort. Her mind danced between visions and reality, between fear and anticipation. She could see her child already: a boy with deep auburn hair touched with a strand of white, strong, clever, and alive. And with every cry, with every contraction, she willed him into the world, into her arms, where she would not let him slip away.

The halls of Winterfell were filled with her screams, yet in them lay determination and hope, and on the other side, Cregan clenched his fists and whispered to himself, "Come to us, my son. Come to us safe."

Nella's body arched against the pillows, every nerve ablaze with pain, every breath a ragged fight. The room spun with candlelight and sweat, the air thick with the scent of herbs and the sharp tang of iron from the maester's instruments. Another contraction tore through her, and she cried out, raw and fierce, her voice mingling with the pounding of her own heart.

"Keep going, milady!" one of the attendants urged, her tone sharp but encouraging, hands ready to support her as the next wave of labor hit. Nella's eyes squeezed shut, teeth gritted, and when she opened them again, she saw it—just a glimmer, the tip of his head, so small and perfect. The midwife's voice cut through the haze: "Be strong, my Lady. You must be strong!"

A fire sparked inside her. There was no weakness here. She had endured too much, had carried the weight of visions and losses alike, and she would not fail now. She thought of Mira, of the sister she had lost too soon, and the memory fueled her determination. This is for you, Mira, she vowed silently. I will make you proud. I will never give up. Not now. Not ever.

Another wave struck, harder, sharper, and Nella let out a scream that was almost a roar, raw and unrelenting. Her hands clawed at the blankets, her body trembling, yet she pressed on. Every muscle ached, yet her will would not bend. She focused on the promise she had whispered to Cregan, the life she had imagined cradling in her arms.

And then, in the haze of pain and determination, the maester's voice rose above the chaos: "He's coming! One more push! You can do this!"

With a deep, shuddering cry, summoning every ounce of strength she had left, she pushed with all her being. The world narrowed to a single, brilliant point—the small, warm life that was finally, finally emerging into her arms. Tears streaked her cheeks as she gasped, trembling, exhausted beyond measure, but a fierce, triumphant joy rose within her.

The attendant gently placed the tiny, wriggling bundle into Nella's trembling arms. The warmth of him, so small and perfect, surged through her like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Tears ran freely down her cheeks as she cradled him, her voice choked with awe and love.

"My son..." she whispered, pressing her lips softly to his downy head, tasting the faint salt of tears on her own skin. Every pain, every fear of the past months melted away in that single, miraculous heartbeat.

Nella looked up, her eyes shining, and called out, her voice firm despite the tremor of emotion, "Cregan... he must see him. Bring him... let him meet his son, the heir of Winterfell!"

Moments later, the door opened, and Cregan entered, armor forgotten, his face pale but lit with awe. When his eyes fell on the small, swaddled boy in Nella's arms, a breathless silence filled the chamber. He stepped closer, every stride slow and reverent, until he was kneeling before them, the weight of the moment pressing on his shoulders.

Nella lifted the child slightly, guiding him toward Cregan. "This... this is Ned, Ned Stark. The future of Winterfell. Our legacy," she whispered, her voice breaking with joy.

Cregan's eyes glistened as he reached out, hands trembling almost as much as hers, and gently touched the tiny hand of the boy who would carry their blood, their story, and the hope of generations to come.

Slowly, reverently, he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her dampened cheeks.

"Thank you," he whispered, voice husky with emotion. "Thank you... for everything. For enduring... for carrying him... for bringing our son into this world."

Nella's chest tightened, and she smiled through her tears, feeling the profound bond that had always held them together now stretch wider, encompassing this new life. "He's ours," she breathed, voice trembling with joy and love. "Our son... our future."

Cregan's hand tightened around hers, and he rested his forehead briefly against hers, drawing in a shuddering breath. "I will never stop thanking you," he murmured. "Never."

And in that quiet, golden moment, with their son cradled safely between them, the echoes of fear and pain faded completely, leaving only love, hope, and the promise of all that was yet to come.

Years passed in Winterfell, and the castle thrummed with life, peace, and a happiness that seemed almost tangible. The halls rang with laughter, the children's footsteps echoing alongside the memories of feasts, lessons, and quiet evenings by the hearth. Life had settled into a rhythm both comforting and vigorous, a reflection of the prosperity and stability that the Lady and Lord of Winterfell had nurtured.

Nella thrived in her role, graceful and commanding in equal measure, the heart of the castle, and the mother of a growing brood. Since Ned's birth, she and Cregan had welcomed two daughters. The elder, Alys, was the spitting image of her mother—blonde hair, pale skin, and the sharp, discerning eye of Winterfell's matriarch—but she had inherited her father's intensity in her gaze. The younger, Sansa, was a contrast: dark hair and vivid blue eyes, with a quiet strength that hinted she might one day rival even her mother in beauty and presence. Both girls were already considered treasures of the North, whispers running through Winterfell that perhaps one day their allure could match the Lady of the castle herself.

Bram and Ned grew inseparable, two brothers bound not by blood alone but by camaraderie, rivalry, and affection.

By the time Bram was seventeen and Ned fourteen, they were knighted together, a ceremony that marked both their skill and the promise of what was yet to come. They moved in tandem on the training grounds, ate at the same table, and shared secrets in the quiet of Winterfell's corridors. Ned had the charm and wit to turn heads wherever he went, yet he respected Bram's stoicism and relentless focus on the sword. Bram, for his part, cared little for the attentions of ladies and instead insisted on discipline, ensuring Ned never neglected his lessons.

Despite Bram's strictness, Ned's skill with the blade quickly rivaled his older brother's. Together, under Cregan's watchful eye, they trained daily, weaving through drills with swords, shields, and strategy, preparing themselves for the duties and battles their names demanded. It was a brotherhood forged not just in blood, but in sweat, laughter, and the shared pulse of Winterfell's enduring life.

The long oak table in Winterfell's great hall groaned under the weight of steaming dishes, fresh bread, roasted meats, and bowls of honeyed fruits. Candles flickered, casting a warm glow across the faces of Nella, Cregan, and their children as they gathered for the evening meal. The chatter was lively, full of laughter, teasing, and the ease of a family comfortable in its own strength.

Bram and Ned sat side by side, elbows bumping and knives tapping on plates as they recounted the day's training.

"You nearly fell over your own shield today," Ned said, grinning as he speared a piece of roasted meat.

"I did not," Bram shot back, smirking, "I merely made sure you didn't trip on your own feet. It's called teaching by example."

Ned laughed, rolling his eyes. "Teaching by example? You mean showing off because you're older and think you're better!"

Bram leaned forward, voice low but teasing. "Better enough to actually hit the target while you were dancing around like a fool. Admit it, little brother."

"I'll get you next time," Ned shot back, his grin bright and unapologetic. "Just wait—one day I'll have you on the ground before you even swing your sword."

Cregan shook his head with quiet amusement, his fork poised over a plate. "And yet you always come back for more," he said, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

Nella watched them with a soft smile, heart swelling as their easy teasing echoed through the hall. Her gaze shifted to her daughters, who were seated across from the boys. Alys, her blonde hair catching the candlelight, tilted her head and asked with curiosity, "Mother... could I ever marry someone from outside the North?"

Nella's lips curved in a gentle smile. "Yes, my sweet Alys. If your heart truly desires it, there is nothing to stop you."

Alys's face lit up, her excitement bubbling over. "Oh, Mother, you don't understand! I've been thinking... I wish to marry the prince of the realm! Daeron, the son of the King! Everyone at court whispers about him... they say he is so charming, so clever. And... he has silver hair like you, Mother, but his eyes—purple, Mother! Purple eyes!" She leaned closer, voice dropping to a breathless whisper. "I... I dream of being his queen."

She clasped Nella's hands tightly, her young face earnest, almost pleading. "Please, Mother... let me go to the capital just once. Just to see the Targaryens, their family... maybe I can meet him."

Sansa, sitting beside her, rolled her eyes, her dark hair falling over one shoulder as she muttered sharply, "You're ridiculous, Alys. Always chasing princes and dreams. Focus on something real for once, like your studies or reading. Stop daydreaming about a boy who probably doesn't even know you exist."

Alys pouted, clearly torn between excitement and frustration, while Nella's smile softened, brushing a hand over both her daughters'. "Dreams are not wasted, little ones," she murmured. "Even when others call them foolish, they show us the paths our hearts wish to follow... and perhaps, one day, the right path will find you."

Cregan caught Nella's gaze across the table and gave her a small, private nod, that subtle, unspoken approval making her chest warm. She returned the smile, squeezing his hand lightly under the table, a quiet acknowledgment of everything they had built together.

Bram leaned back in his chair with a teasing grin, nudging Ned with his elbow. "So, Ned, think you can still beat me tomorrow during training, or are you going to hide behind those daydreaming sisters again?"

Ned chuckled, shaking his head, his dark eyes sparkling. "I'm not hiding, Bram. Don't get too comfortable gloating—you know I've been practicing. Tomorrow, you'll be the one tasting the snow."

Alys piped up suddenly, leaning across the table with a mischievous grin. "Don't be too confident, Ned. Bram's been bragging all week about his sword skills. He might finally get that moment of glory."

Sansa, without looking up from her plate, muttered dryly, "Both of you are acting like children. Focus on your forms instead of your egos."

Bram laughed, ruffling his dark hair. "Oh, Sansa, you just worry too much. It's fun teasing Ned—he gets all flustered."

Ned shot him a mock glare. "And you'll regret it when I knock you into the snow. That's all I'm saying."

Nella listened, smiling to herself, letting the sound of laughter, teasing, and the clatter of plates fill her ears. She watched her children interact—their joy, their rivalry, their love for one another—and felt a deep, steady pride.

In that moment, the past with its hardships and losses seemed to dissolve behind the warmth of the present. The future looked bright and unshakable, tied together by family, by the children's laughter, by the unspoken bonds of love and loyalty that threaded through the hall. She reached across to squeeze Cregan's hand again, feeling the pulse of their life together—the life they had fought for, dreamed for, and now lived fully, surrounded by joy, hope, and unbroken hearts.