9.The Ghost of Winterfell

4th Day of the 4th Moon, 303 AC

The Barrowlands

The Blackfish

Severed head strapped to his saddle, Brynden finally arrived at the village of Greybrook, just near the small river. It couldn’t even be called a small village as much as a pitiful gathering of a few drab-looking houses of mud bricks, undressed logs, and a dilapidated stone mill by the stream.

The settlement even lacked a bailiff; only a reeve passed once a year to gather the tithe. Yet it was all for the better, for without a ruling lord, knight, or steward, they had to turn to the services of a sellsword or hedge knight, especially when the already faint local authority had been mustered into war. This was how far Brynden Tully had fallen, reduced to a mere hedge knight taking any tasks just to eke out a living.

“Many thanks for the aid, Ser. Those brigands simply did not stop stealing our sheep.” The old village head bowed deeply at the presented Ironman’s head. Old and wrinkled, with hair gone as white as snow, he still stood straight, albeit with the help of a gnarly cane. He and his wife had started this whole place many decades ago. “Here’s the promised reward.”

Brynden deftly caught the pouch, and judging by the clinking inside, there were a few silver stags and some copper stars. It was enough—life was rather cheap these days.

“T’was not a problem. The Ironborn were never good at fighting.” Three foolish reavers had daringly gone too far inland in hopes of loot. They were new to reaving, for only their leader had a byrnie and a shield and could barely swing an axe. Not that it mattered; they were easy to run through for a mounted knight. “Can you point me to the nearest inn?”

With his reward collected, Brynden spurred his steed and continued toward the tavern the old village head had pointed him towards. The lonely, roiling hills covered with tufts of grass and moss made his thoughts wander once more.

Riverrun had fallen for the first time in centuries after Edmure had ordered the garrison to surrender, and the Blackfish was forced to escape for his life. Wed to a traitorous Frey, his nephew was now stuck in the bowels of Casterly Rock and would probably never see the light of day again. Even the ancestral seat of House Tully was given to Genna Lannister and her Frey husband, a match made in the Seven Hells.

His niece Catelyn and all of her sons were dead to vile turncloaks, and her daughters fared no better. Arya Stark had been missing for years, doubtlessly dead in some ditch somewhere, and Sansa Stark had finally reappeared, only to be wed to the Bolton bastard, if any of the rumours were true. His last grandnephew, Robert Arryn, was under the control of the thrice-cursed traitor Baelish, who had proven himself another Lannister lickspittle.

The ungrateful cur would have never become anyone of remote import without Hoster’s generosity, which turned out to be woefully misplaced.

Declared an outlaw, the Blackfish had little choice but to make himself scarce from the Riverlands. Removing any distinctive heraldry from his arms and armour in an old leal smith near Fairmarket had been simple enough, and by growing a thick grey beard, none would recognise him, not here at least. He looked like a veteran sellsword or an old, poor hedge knight… which wasn’t far from the truth. Like every hedge knight, Brynden was now a knight with no home or master.

The Riverlands had fallen for good, filled to the brim with lions and weasels, and the North had also fallen to the Flayed Man, with none daring to raise their banners in rebellion. And why would they? There was nobody to muster behind, for all of Catelyn’s sons were dead.

There was little left for him now but to wander around aimlessly, looking for a place to die. Perhaps the Watch? The black brothers would never turn away even an old thing like him.

Brynden finally arrived in the small inn and tossed a groat to the round-faced stableboy as he dismounted.

“I’ll take good care o’ him, Ser,” the boy promised, bobbing his head like a squirrel, a wide smile on his face.

Almost half an hour later, he was inside the inn, already supping on mutton stew filled with more carrots, turnips, and onions than meat. The room was more than half empty, with only a handful of weary farmers, a destitute bard, and a tired wine-peddler accompanied by a small retinue of aides and a single gruff guardsman.

The innkeeper’s daughter, a plump, homely chit with a plain face and brown hair, arrived with a tankard of dark ale and leaned in, showing off her not-too-impressive cleavage.

“There you go, good Ser.”

Brynden took a gulp of his beer, ignoring the poor attempt at seduction, earning himself a sad pout. Usually, he wouldn’t hesitate to take such an offer, but lately, even a woman’s touch felt dull and bereft of pleasure.

Two more men entered, wrapped up in worn travel cloaks, and sat on the table beside him.

“Have you heard what happened, uncle?” It was the youngest of the two, a lad barely in his twenties, while gobbling up last week’s cheese pie leftovers, which the innkeeper had offered for cheap.

“Nay, many things have happened lately, and I’m not privy to most of them. It’s just woe and tears, lad.” The other, an older man, shook his head and sipped slowly on a small cup of mead. “There’s only so much grief a man can take before breaking.”

“Word is that Sansa Stark escaped Winterfell and ran to her bastard brother on the Wall.”

Brynden subtly shifted closer to them to hear better.

“Aye, I wouldn’t blame her,” the old man muttered. “They say her screams could be heard throughout every corner of Winterfell every night the Bolton bastard visited her. I hope she can find succour with her brother. But enough o’ that. Did you hear old man Rolly—”

Tuning out the rest of the conversation, the Blackfish shoved the rest of the stew into his mouth and emptied the tankard of ale in a single gulp. Tossing a few copper stars to the innkeeper’s daughter, he rushed out of the tavern.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Brynden Tully mounted his steed and made his way northward, weariness forgotten.

7th Day of the 4th Moon 303 AC

The Runaway Doe

“You should stop running away, girl,” grunted Ser Perkin Follard, a gaunt man with a sharp goatee, as he led Shireen’s horse back to Melisandre. He was one of her mother’s men, a fervent follower of R’hllor and the red witch.

Shireen remained silent, unfazed by the utter disdain in his voice. No longer was she addressed as a princess or even a lady, even by someone who supposedly swore vows of fealty to her father, but words were wind in the end. She was tied up and lopped over the gelding’s saddle like a sack of wheat. It was not the first time she had tried to escape after Melisandre of Asshai and her men had captured her, but alas. She couldn’t even wiggle her way out anymore, for the knight had tied her to the saddle.

Soon enough, they were back in the makeshift camp, which was quickly dismantled by Merrel and Morgan, two drunken sots her father had lent Melisandre as guards. To her dismay, Devan was helping them after their capture, the boy utterly obedient to the red witch in all things. It was just another betrayal, but it still… stung. Their path through the snow was the hardest endeavour Shireen had ever undertaken, but she still liked it more than the current situation. Yet the snow had melted, and her fortunes had changed and not in a good way.

“There you are, Shireen. Your escape serves no purpose but to delay needlessly,” Meslisandre said softly.

As usual, she was garbed in her thin, crimson velvet gown, revealing an almost scandalous amount of cleavage, and remained completely unaffected by the cold. Not deigning to respond or look into the eerie red eyes, Shireen turned her gaze away. She was not deceived, for there was no greater mummer than the red witch, and the mere mentioning of her name in such a kind and intimate way had made her skin crawl.

“We should have let the snows have her,” said Ser Corliss Penny, the last member of Melisandre’s current retinue. “Or feed her to the flames as decreed, just like the other traitors.”

“Lord Snow wants her hale and hearty.”

“Dunno why we’re following the words of some upjumped bastard,” the Follard knight spat. A snowshrike’s shrill cry echoed through the forest path.

“It matters not which side of the blanket he was born on, for even those of the humblest beginnings can achieve greatness. He’s Azor Ahai reborn through ice and fire, the Lord of the Light’s champion who awoke the dragons from stone.” The conviction in Melisandre’s voice scared Shireen. Follard and Penny listened with reverence. “If you desire, you can voice your displeasure to Lord Snow in person.”

The following silence was deafening. The knights, Devan, and the two guardsmen gulped and hastily scrambled to dismantle the remains of the camp, and in a few minutes, they finally departed through the tufts of grass.

Shireen remembered many a knight and lord in Stannis’ forces, who spoke of the young Lord Commander with suspicion or outright disdain and derision. Yet now, there was terror in their words and dread in their eyes. It was not the sort of fear or respect people would speak of their liege lord or the king, but something far more primal. For all their distaste and bluster towards her, none of Melisandre’s retinue dared lay a hand on her and were content with disdainful glares here and there.

The news of her father’s defeat and demise was harrowing. Shireen thought she wouldn’t care, but it made her heart clench painfully. A part deep in her yearned for Stannis and Selyse’s approval and love, things that never came, no matter what she did or how hard she tried. No matter how hard she tried, Shireen could never be the son they wanted. Yet there had been hope that everything had been a bad dream, and she would awaken back on Dragonstone with her parents alive and well and no war raging across the realm.

It was a fool’s dream.

The chill had mostly receded under the autumn sun, which had melted the snow a week ago save for a few shadowy alcoves. But it didn’t matter.

She was Shireen of House Baratheon, an orphan betrayed by her parents and captured by the witch who wanted to see her burn alive.

Yet it wasn’t so bad; even now, as she was wrapped up and tied to the saddle, Shireen was still alive. And if a single thing Melisandre had said were true, she wouldn’t be dying anytime soon, but the former Princess couldn’t truly trust the red priestess. Alas, the choice was out of her hands, and her attempts to escape were easily thwarted.

The tales the red witch told were too unbelievable—Jon Snow’s death, rebirth in fire, and hatching dragons. It sounded like a story straight out of the children’s books. Shireen no longer knew what to believe, but the fright in the knight’s eyes and devotion far deeper than what Melisandre showed her father could not be disputed. Something drastic had to happen to bring in such a change.

Shireen Baratheon knew not why Jon Snow wanted her alive and unharmed, but she was glad for it. Despite all the nonsense about the evil bastardy, she had not heard the natural son of the late Lord Stark performing wicked deeds, only complaints of his supposedly sinful origins. During her stay in Castle Black, Shireen caught only a handful of glimpses of the Lord Commander from afar and exchanged courtesies once.

He did not have the look of someone terrible or cruel. Jon Snow looked… young but full of resolve, and he was comely and kind, unlike the other watchmen.

The time flew by in solemn silence as they rode in silence until Melisandre spoke up, “We’re approaching.”

“Untie me, and I will no longer try to escape,” Shireen said, voice hoarse from disuse. If she were going to be brought before a supposed dragonlord, it would do to gather what little dignity she had left. In the end, Shireen had been escaping to meet with Ser Davos, but the old Onion Knight was now following Jon Snow anyway.

“So you finally speak!” The delight in the red witch’s voice irked her. “Very well, untie her.”

The bindings were removed a minute later, and Shireen could finally move her stiff limbs again. Riding on the saddle properly was far more comfortable than being lugged around like… a sack of turnips. The thought of trying to run away from the red witch emerged, but Shireen immediately squashed it. She had given her word.

Northwards they went; the only sounds that could be heard were the dull clopping of the horse’s hooves in the mud and the occasional whisper between the knights and the guardsmen. The day quickly dwindled, and the sun was disappearing behind the Northern Mountains to the west, yet Shireen couldn’t shake the feeling that something or someone was watching them. Melisandre glanced at a snow-shrike in the sky before scoffing dismissively. Soon enough, they heard the bustle of the army encampment.

A few wildling scouts were patrolling the road now, and probably a dozen more were unseen in the surrounding treeline.

Yet none barred their way, although Shireen received quite a few glances filled with revulsion. It was… oddly refreshing and scary to see the dislike for her greyscale scarring expressed so openly. She almost preferred it to the thinly veiled aversion or pity.

Over the hill, the wildling army camp was finally revealed. It was a sea of crude tents stretching along the length of a meadow. The horses were scarce, but Shireen could see some… oxen and a handful of carts. It made sense, after all, that wildlings were not known for their craft or animal rearing. There were even… three giants here! She could see the three thirteen-foot-tall figures towering over many tents, even while sitting on some enormous fallen logs. Men and women swarmed the river shores with nets and makeshift fishing rods, angling for trout, salmon, and grayling.

Yet the army wasn’t much, probably no more than three thousand; Shireen had easily seen a bigger gathering for her royal uncle’s tourneys.

As they entered the army encampment, they were met by a group of wildlings led by a stout man with red hair streaked with grey.

“Tormund,” the red witch greeted with open distaste.

“So this is the stag’s daughter.” The man ignored Melisandre completely and inspected her, blue eyes lingering on her left cheek where the greyscale was. “The girl is unclean.”

Shireen’s heart clenched at the words, but she remained silent. None had said it openly before, but she had seen it in the eyes of many, thinking just the same. She couldn’t even deny it…

“Yet she survived where many others did not. R’hllor’s light can reach even in the darkest of nights.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve heard all that drivel ’bout yer red Rolo.” Tormund scratched his head while Perkin Follard and Corliss Penny bristled. “I suppose it matters not. Lord Snow does not fear death, grey or otherwise, har!”

Melisandre’s face seemed impassive, but her next words came out icy: “Where is Jon Snow?”

“He rode southward to look for his brother because of the pink man’s letter.”

The red witch closed her eyes for a moment, then sighed. “Winterfell? ‘Tis a folly.”

“Many said the same, but Jon’s as stubborn as an ox.” Tormund shrugged, but he had an approving smile on his face. “The bonds of kinship run deep, even in you, kneelers.”

“But Lord Snow’s brothers perished long ago,” Melisandre said, her brow scrunched up in confusion before shaking her head. “Regardless, lead us to Sansa Stark, then.”

Their group was escorted through the camp, and a few minutes later, Shireen found herself before the largest tent, thrice the size of any others around it, made from the pelts of what looked like white bears, with their shaggy fur still intact.

Outside stood the most beautiful maiden Shireen had ever seen, tall and proud, guarded by a towering knight clad in dented armour. Dark crimson hair flowed like a wavy waterfall, framing a heart-shaped face so pale it reminded her of porcelain, all crowned by two blue eyes that were both sad and flinty. Yet dark bags had formed under her eyes, marring the enchanting visage. Garbed in a heavy gown of grey wool and a plain but well-kept fur-lined cloak pinned by a silver direwolf brooch, this could only be Sansa Stark.

Just as Shireen was inspecting the beautiful woman, she was also being scrutinised.

“Welcome, Lady Baratheon,” Sansa Stark said, voice soft and pleasant, greeting followed by a perfect curtsy, unbothered by the muddy ground below. Yet despite everything, not even a shred of feeling appeared on her face. “A tent shall be provided for you.”

“Thank you, Lady Stark.” Shireen hopped off the horse and forced her stiff limbs to curtsy. It was a bad, barely passable as far as courtesies went, and Septa Alena would have scolded her if she had seen it. But Septa Alena was long dead, fed to the red witch’s flames.

The Stark maiden tilted her head, then waved over what looked like an old servant. “Let us share a meal. I know of a certain Onion Knight who would be glad to see you.”

Shireen felt relief at the mention of the old smuggler; offering to dine together was an obvious way of extending guest rights. “I am honoured.”

12th Day of the 4th Moon, 303 AC

Arianne Martell

As soon as her ship moored in Plankytown, Doran Martell had sent a summons to the private gallery where her family dined. She didn’t even have time to take a proper bath and change her garments, so she joined Trystane and her father in her dusty travel attire. There was all that remained of House Martell. Her uncle Oberyn had perished in that tragic trial by battle, her mother had returned in Norvos for years now, and her other brother, Qunetyn, was half the world away on the quest to gain the Hand of the dragon queen.

As usual, Areo Hotah stood inside, guarding the door silently, with his bronze-scale armour and great longaxe.

“So, tell me of your journey,” Doran inquired as the servants brought food. Sitting in his wheeled ivory chair, her father was as still as a marble statue, looking as if he had aged five more years since the last time they met, even though it had been barely two moons. With a sigh, Arianne grabbed a serving of roasted fowl soaked in dragon pepper sauce and began retelling her story.

“…This Aegon had no proof backing his outlandish claims, save for the presence of Jon Connington,” Arianne concluded her tale as she took a generous gulp of heavy Dornish Red. “Clearly, the old Griffin knight has been led astray by desperation and the Spider’s mummery.”

“Thank you, my daughter.” As usual, Doran’s voice was soft and his words were unhurried. He looked thinner, and his swollen hands were hidden underneath a blanket. Her youngest brother stood silently, his attention entirely devoted to the roasted mackerel before him.

“So, what will our next step be?” Arianne prodded impatiently after cleaning the meat off the fowl’s leg. It was infuriatingly hard to get Doran Martell to speak; he was lost in his thoughts far too oft and kept them close to his heart.

Not even Uncle Oberyn had been privy to his plans. To Arianne Martell, it looked like her father was content to do nothing, hiding his inaction behind a veil of mystery—

Doran Martell tilted his head pensively. “Dorne shall support Aegon. I have called the banners.”

“What, why?” Ariane blurted out. Even Trystane stopped munching on his spiced fowl and looked at their father. “He’s just a pretender. A babe taken by some Lyseni whore, deceived by a mummer’s farce, or worse, a Blackfyre!”

“That might be true,” Doran conceded softly. “But circumstances have changed while you were at sea. King’s Landing is no more—the roses have lost their prized daughter and queen.”

“What do you mean King’s Landing is no more?!”

“Some… foul plot drowned the city in wildfire, or so Nymeria and my spies report.” Her father’s words were indifferent, but she could feel a sliver of satisfaction underneath. “As you can imagine, there isn’t much left of it but ruin.”

A thousand questions rolled in Arianne’s mind, but her father never lied. He would withhold information or mislead, but never lie. Even Trystane did not look particularly surprised and returned to attacking his fish; it seemed like the destruction of a whole city was common knowledge in the Martell household.

It took her a handful of minutes to unjumble her thoughts. “…How can something like this happen?”

“Targaryen madness, Arianne. Half of the dragonlords were great, half were mad, and some were greater in madness than the others, and almost all had a fondness for flames. A green firestorm of such scale could only be the doing of Aerys the Mad.”

Arianne shook herself from the stupor, filled her cup with heavy, red strongwine, and took a generous mouthful to soothe her nerves.

“If King’s Landing is gone…” she paused, tasting the words on her tongue, and found them odd, “why would we bother with the rest of the kingdoms? Wouldn’t the lions have all perished in the capital?”

Her father’s face darkened. “The gods in their caprice have chosen to favour the Lions of Casterly Rock. Cersei Lannister and her youngest son lived, barely escaping the city. The lion’s daughter blames Aegon, of course. The time to strike has come, to cast the lions down once and for all.”

“Why now?”

Finally, Doran moved, removing the blanket covering his arms and legs, and reached for the cask of wine with smooth surety. Arianne watched with fascination as her father poured himself a generous amount of heavy strongwine, grasping the ornate golden cup with fingers all swollen and angry red. Yet there was no pain on his face, and the Prince of Dorne drained the wine in one breath. Yet, despite the serene visage, his limbs were painfully thin and soft, and his legs looked badly misshapen by the gout.

“Your cousin lost Myrcella on her journey back, forcing my hand.” The words came out slowly and emotionlessly. “The Crownlanders have all raised the dragon banners now, and Aegon’s forces swell further. It matters not; it fits together on the board, and the time to move has come.”

Arianne Martell blinked at her father, confused. “Were we not going to wait for Quentyn and the dragon queen before moving?”

“Word arrived from Slaver’s Bay a sennight ago.” Doran Martell slowly picked up a sharp dagger and carefully began to peel a ripe blood orange. “The mad king’s daughter has gone missing for over two moons on her uncontrollable dragon. The foolish girl doubtlessly fell to her death without a saddle, just like Joffrey Velaryon on his ride with Syrax.”

Maiden’s teats, how many things had happened while she was away? The princess massaged her temples to soothe the budding headache and took another sip of wine. “But backing a no-name pretender is but an insult—”

“Enough childish tantrums, Arianne. I have indulged your curiosity, yet you remain unable to see the garden for the flowers.” Her father looked at her with profound disappointment, sighed, and bit into the ripe blood orange, the juice colouring his grey goatee crimson. “Go back to your quarters and reflect on the situation in solitude.”

“Well then, excuse me, my prince,” she hissed. Unwilling to continue with this charade, Arianne stood up abruptly, the chair behind her scraping across the floor, bowed mockingly, and stormed out of the dining chamber.

16th Day of the 4th Moon, 303 AC

Shireen Baratheon

Bloodfyre was beautiful. Slender, agile limbs, sanguine scales that glistened like rubies upon the sunlight, and with the crest, horns, and wing membrane the colour of soft gold, it was just… magnificent. The childish dreams returned unbidden; Shireen never thought she could lay her eyes upon a living dragon. In her childhood, she spent hours upon hours reading all the books on dragon lore in Dragonstone.

Somehow, the drake had reached the size of a large destrier in just a moon and a half after hatching and was following Sansa Stark like an obedient, overgrown… scaly cat. Not only that, but Bloodfyre not only understood the common tongue but also listened to the red-haired maiden.

This went against everything Shireen knew about dragons!

The dragonlords had used blood and sorcery to bind themselves to the dragons, and the rulers of the sky would bow to none but the Forty. Yet all that knowledge and power were long lost in the annals of history. While almost inhumanely beautiful, Sansa Stark did not have a single drop of Valyrian blood.

Jon Snow should have been the same… but nobody knew who his mother was. Not that it should have mattered; the knowledge was lost, and the powers of the Freehold had long dwindled; many had tried to hatch dragon eggs before, and all had failed save the rumours of Daenerys Targaryen. Yet Jon Snow could control not one but three dragons with laughable ease that could put even the House of the Dragon at its peak to shame.

Even now, when he was hundreds of miles away, Bloodfyre acted like an intelligent guard dog, following Sansa Stark everywhere and causing no trouble save for the growl or showing rows of razor-sharp teeth when someone got too close. All because he supposedly lent his half-sister a dragon.

Dragons didn’t work like that!

Shireen could approach a bit closer than everyone else before earning herself a warning snarl, probably because of the faint sliver of dragonblood in her veins.

Yet even now, as they had settled down camp for the evening again, Sansa was absentmindedly scratching the drake’s neck under a row of wicked golden spikes while listening to Tormund’s reports, making the drake let out a quiet, rumbling purr. It made no sense and went against everything Shireen knew, so… she just let it go. The world had gone mad long ago.

Jon Snow’s sister was a hardy woman, Shireen could admit. She did everything to keep the camp as organised as possible, coordinating even the smallest tasks, from scouting to fishing, to organising supplies and solving any emerging disputes. Some wildlings grumbled, but none… objected, not with the drake by her side.

Every evening, Sansa picked up a needle and meticulously worked on a black cloak with great care. There was no time when Shireen could see the red-haired lady resting. Sansa slowly ran herself ragged, and despite her impassive expression, every next day, she was more tired than the last, and there was a hint of desperation in her movements. Yet somehow, she managed to keep her garb pristine at all times, much to Shireen’s envy.

“She’s missing her brother,” Davos said knowingly beside her. “Jon Snow is everything she has left, and she was willing to jump into the pyre for him.” It sounded like a story straight out of the tales, like Aemon and Naerys. Only Shireen was just as lonely, but she lacked any brothers to fight for her. She was all alone, save for the kindly Onion Knight.

“Do you think… he’ll save Rickon Stark?”

“If anyone can save him, it will be Jon Snow.” The words were said with iron surety, yet the old smuggler turned regretful. “Only, I fear the boy is not alive anymore.”

Shireen grimaced but couldn’t help but agree inwardly; a trueborn son was far more dangerous than a bastard and a daughter. And if even half the things said about Ramsay Snow were true, Rickon had long perished.

Despite everything, the future was still looking gloomy. Jon Snow had yet to return from his journey South, and there was an undercurrent of uncertainty in the camp, yet Sansa Stark managed to squash any rising doubts. Only Shireen’s fate was interwoven with the last two Stark siblings; her father had made a foe of everyone else, and she had no holdings or bannermen left.

“Ser Davos.” Shireen looked around as the army quickly set camp for the evening. The numbers still looked lower than her father’s, with poorer equipment and worse discipline. “Can Jon Snow defeat the Boltons?”

“Even without dragons, he is as fierce and cunning as one can get,” the Onion knight said, chuckling. “Now he has three.”

At that moment, Soren Shieldbreaker hastily rode between the tents and stopped before Sansa Stark.

“Southrons are coming from the mountains in force and have blocked the road.” The voice was as rough as the man who spoke it. “They demand a meeting.”

The red-haired maiden stood still for a rare moment of indecision. “I shall meet them. Soren, go summon Sigorn and Tormund. Brienne, Lady Shireen, Ser Davos, with me.”

Everyone quickly began to scuttle around and about as the sun hid behind the northern mountains, and the camp got lively as they quickly headed to the horses. Bloodfyre lazily stretched, completely unaffected by the commotion unless someone dared approach too closely, although his presence did make the horses uneasy.

Shireen glared at the young Devan, who approached to help her up on the gelding, causing him to halt, and, with some difficulty, got on the saddle herself.

The wildlings were preparing for a fight, and Shireen couldn’t help but grimace. The Northern clansmen had not stirred from their mountains for her father’s envoys, yet now they came. If they chose to fight them here, any chances of taking Winterfell would scatter in cold winds.

With a single leap, Bloodfyre took to the night skies, looking like an enormous crow circling in the darkness above.

Half a league down the kingsroad, the clansmen could be seen in the distance. In the dark, it was impossible to make out their numbers, but the sea of flickering torches stretched beyond the hill behind. Seven dark figures rode forward to meet them.

Shireen couldn’t help but focus on their surcoats and shields as they approached. A brown fret on white, pinecones on white and green, a white knife on blue, six green thistles on yellow, three moons on white and blue, and brown buckets on blue. All of them were hardy men with violence in their eyes, some greying, some young; two were shaved bald, the others shaggy and well-trimmed, and the clansman at the front had an enormous belly and hands as thick as tree trunks.

They met on the road, and the silence grew heavy as each group uneasily inspected the other.

“Chieftains,” Sansa finally spoke up, voice quivering at the end. “You asked for a meeting.”

“Aye, we wanted to see,” the bald, burly man with the pinecones on his shield grunted out.

Jon Snow’s sister grew stiff, but her voice turned impassive. “And did you find what you were looking for?”

“Aye!” The leader had a booming voice, and a wide smile split his weather-worn face as he slapped his bulging gut. “You’re Ned’s lass, alright, I remember ye from the Harvest feast. You called for us, did ye not? We’ve come to fight n’ die for ye!”

“STARK!”

“STARK!”

“STARK!”

The chieftains raised their swords and axes in the air, the sudden holler so deafening that it made Shireen’s ears ring. Those who were not chanting Stark were instead hollering, “The Ned!”

At that moment, her gaze went to Sansa Stark, who was trying her hardest not to weep.

17th Day of the 4th Moon, 303 AC

The Bastard of Winterfell, the Wolfswood

Iron and steel were the metals of Muggles and the bane of sorcerers, fae, and most magical creatures.

Magically inert, they tore through most shielding spells and could slay a weaker wizard unprepared to conjure physical protection against such attacks. Of course, there were many ways to overcome such attacks, but most wizards always perished to steel and iron in war.

Yet, this made steel hard to enchant, and upon success, the final effects were… greatly diminished. He could always fumble around with the Valyrian steel until he got the details right, but Jon had no time to waste on forging, folding, hammering, and learning all the intricacies of the craft. Also, a desire had risen within, a fierce want to make something of his own.

A subtle way to announce to the world that the Valyrian Freehold were not the pinnacle of sorcery, that they were not the final masters of the arcane.

Poor smith he might be, but magic? Magic he knew far better than the mage-princes of the Freehold.

A spell-forged sword, at its core, was using magic to give new properties to metal.

Unlike iron and steel, bronze and dragonglass held enchantments far better. Yet, creating a functional alloy between the two was a fierce challenge, as the melting point of the black glass was twice that of bronze. Metal and glass mixed poorly, but dragonglass had a sliver of power, completely absent from his previous world. And Jon desired that power, the magic that cleaved into the bone-rending ice, vanquishing the White Walkers.

Jon Snow settled his eyes onto the cooling ingot, twenty-six parts bronze and one part obsidian. Carefully, he broke the jagged slag on top, revealing the darkened piece of metal below.

Finally, he had succeeded. Jon could feel the subtle power properly infused in the alloy, even though almost all of the dragonglass had turned into blackened slag, leaving very little behind.

Experience from previous attempts told him it was extremely brittle and would break at the first strike. Still, there were ways to address that problem. Concentrating, a burst of dark purple flame enveloped the charred ingot like a cocoon.

Ever since the ritual, his own… fire, regardless of the spell, had turned the colour of amethyst, and he was using a magical one now, suitable for enchanting. In hindsight, this shouldn’t have come as a surprise—his magic and affinity for fire had been most empowered by the rituals, and changing such things always left its mark.

Clearing his mind, Jon focused on the task ahead. The flames were dispelled once the ingot had turned a dull red. Only pleasant warmth could be felt as he grasped the searing piece of metal in his hand and dunked it into a bucket of icy water, filling the small, makeshift forge with a hiss of steam. The heat cycling had made it less brittle, but once was not enough.

With a tug of his mind, Winter’s head, even more savage and spiky and now the size of a boar, curiously popped through the open door. The ritual had changed him, too; his scales had not only hardened but deepened in colour, glistening like a dark sapphire under the pale moonlight. Winter had grown even larger and bulky with muscle compared to the slender, elongated form of Stormstrider, who was now only half the size of his sibling. The rituals had changed far more, but only time would tell how deep that change ran.

Jon rolled up his sleeve and held out his hand, ingot in his palm, as Winter belched a torrent of inky black flame streaked with swirls of blue.

The instant the ingot reached a dull glow, the flames halted, and Jon shoved it into the water again, rising another cloud of steam.

Two heat cycles finished, Jon flicked the ingot with all his strength, and an unbidden smile appeared on his lips at the ringing sound. The alloy did not crumble or crack, and a hint of magic had been infused from Winter’s flames and his own.

Two hours later, the mould and the other preparations were ready, and he was in the small clearing outside, drawing the sinister ritual circle under the eerie starry sky.

Jon was residing in a settlement so small it could barely be called a village, five crude houses nestled in a small meadow near a creek deeper within the Wolfswood. It had been abandoned for at least a year; the falling snows, the Ironborn, or the Flayed men probably chased out the inhabitants. Or perhaps they had perished in the war?

Regardless, the vast woodland was sparsely populated, and the crofters, foresters, and huntsmen had abandoned the dwellings at the edge of the wolfswood in favour of hiding. Jon had scouted a few gatherings full of women, children, green summer boys, and greybeards hiding within burrows, deeper valleys, hills, and caves, but left them undisturbed, not even bothering to approach.

To the side, Winter, Stormstrider, and Ghost observed his actions with interest. Not only had his drakeling shown a change from the rituals, but the direwolf too—Ghost had started to grow again and felt more dangerous. Jon struggled to pinpoint what had changed besides the size, even with his senses, but he knew it was there.

Focusing, Jon brought over the captives, slotted them within the circle, and prepared for another challenge. The best moment to weave the enchantments was while creating the item, and they were twice as effective if done by the same hand.

Now, the question was if Jon could keep the ritual sacrifice going for hours while the bronze was poured into the mould, filed, polished, and sharpened properly before weaving the magic into the metal.

The ritual started, and the air was filled with the stench as the thirteen Bolton men-at-arms dwindled into lifeless husks.

The brutal onslaught of the swirls of baleful magic assaulted Jon’s mind. Even his soul felt pressure under such strain. Brow covered in sweat, Jon gathered his focus and the ingot was again enveloped in a cocoon of dark amethyst, flames dancing like spectral petals.

A young, naive remnant of the old, idealistic Jon Snow was horrified by such vile magicks as the vengeful souls cried out with anguish in his grasp. Yet another part recognised a more brutal truth—weakness was a sin, and mercy to your foes was cruelty to yourself. Too much of his kin was lost… and for what? His foes were numerous and had proven that everything was fair in war, and Jon Snow would grasp victory no matter the cost.