17.Slaying Traitors and Breaking Curses

7th Day of the 6th Moon, 303 AC

Jon Stark

Maege and Jorelle Mormont left to take control of the Dreadfort and Moat Cailin two days ago, and Winterfell fell into a lull. Each new morning grew colder than the last, and this one, Jon was faced with a reminder of his own failure.

Rickon’s funeral was a sombre affair. All of Eddard Stark’s immediate family was to be buried alongside him behind his statue. Like all Northern funerals, the ceremony was hosted at dawn to signify that one end can be a new beginning. Yet Rickon’s sepulchre was empty; they had nothing left to bury but Shaggydog’s pelt and head, along with the traditional salt and iron sword to ward off evil spirits.

Eddard Stark’s tomb was the same, as was the symbolic niche left for Lady Catelyn. Perhaps another empty one would be set for Bran, for there was no word of his crippled brother. Alas, Jon knew how kind the northern wilderness was, and he held no false hopes.

The stonemasons were already working on Robb’s statue over the granite block to the side, as a king and the lord of Winterfell in his own right. Alas, his tomb was empty—neither his bones nor his wife’s remains had ever made it here.

It was yet another insult, after House Stark had been decried as traitors and rebels, not even the bones of their fallen were spared. It was ugly, it was petty, yet they had done it regardless—Bolton or Baratheon, Lannister or Frey. It only steeled Jon’s resolve to restore House Stark to its former glory. No, the former glory was not enough. The former glory got them insulted, torn apart, and crushed.

The velvet glove of honour and justice had to be worn by an iron fist—mercy and generosity for his subjects, fire and steel for his foes.

Jon listened with half an ear as the chieftains, lords, and ladies came to pay their condolences to him and Sansa. He heard their words, but they felt hollow in his ears, spoken out of obligation, not grief or genuine regret. None of them had known Rickon Stark, a boy of barely eight. At least Rickon had a family to mourn for; the look-alike boy Ramsay had brought out had no family to mourn him, and Jon had been the one to burn his body afterwards.

His gaze found Sansa. Her face was her usual mask, yet her eyes were hollow as she stared at the empty tomb.

For good or ill, she had halted her clumsy but dangerous attempts at seduction, burying herself with the duties of the Lady of Winterfell. Yet Jon was not blind; Sansa still stole a glance or two at him when she thought his attention was elsewhere. It was amusing and endearing, yet it vexed him to no end.

The choice was in her hands. He would not make it for her. Beauty was fleeting, Jon knew, and the time when he could be swayed by a pretty face or a woman’s tears had long passed. Yet his gaze often drifted to her curls, cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall of crimson. Her figure was supple, breasts full, and waist thin—Sansa was a rare beauty; even now, she turned many heads, not only his. Even twice married, it was the sort of beauty that would pull in gazes and light up lust.

Yet, none had dared to come to him and request Sansa’s hand. For now, they were wary of displeasing the new king, but once they took their time to gauge his mood and character, Jon knew they would come.

The funeral ended swiftly—the Northmen did not like to stand on ceremony. Soon, the mourners all slipped out of the darkness of the crypt, eager to get a breath of fresh air. Even Sansa excused herself, leaving Jon behind alone in the darkness.

“Rickon,” he whispered, throwing the empty tomb one final look. “Rest in peace, little brother.”

Heart heavy, Jon made his way to the dungeons. The lords supporting Ramsay would be tried in the afternoon today, and he had one final loose end to wrap up.

Barbrey Dustin was a vexing conundrum. As a childless widow, she should never have been able to take control of Barrowton. Was it Eddard Stark’s mercy? Or perhaps his guilt combined with Alysanne’s laws? It didn’t matter. He was now the king, and laws could be amended. Of course, such matters were not done thoughtlessly or in haste. If a change had to be made, Jon would rather make them with prudence and foresight.

Ghost silently padded by his side as he strode through the yard, and soon, they were in the dungeons facing a familiar wooden door. Jon had many ways to ascertain honesty, but the direwolf’s sharp senses was the easiest.

“Arlon. Deren,” he said. Clad in wool livery and mail, both wore the direwolf of House Stark with pride. They were Blackfish’s first recruits from the hills, both strong-bodied and sharp-eyed.

How long had it been since Jon had seen a man wear the direwolf of Stark so proudly?

“Your Grace,” said Arlon, unlocking the door with a bow.

Inside, Barbrey Dustin awaited with a cold gaze. Her grey hair was bound tightly behind her head in a widow’s knot. Calm, composed, and with a pride to rival Cersei Lannister.

When Ghost entered behind him, the facade crumbled—she flinched and shrank back against the wall

“Fear not, Ghost is well-behaved,” Jon said as the direwolf sat by his side and curiously glanced at the woman. She finally eased, giving him a curt nod. “Your trial will be later in the day. Your guilt is indisputable, and your life is forfeit.”

“So I am to lose my head then.” She laughed hoarsely. “What else do you want from me, Lord Snow? A taste of my cunny while your daft sister isn’t watching?”

“I see your insolence remains,” Jon said, chortling. “Yet with all that talk of fucking, one would mistake you for a whore.”

Barbrey’s face turned mocking as she stood up from her cot and leaned close. He could feel her warm breath on his neck.

“All bastards are creatures of lust. You don’t have to pretend to be a paragon of honour like your father, no, your uncle.” His mind was linked with Ghost, and Jon shared the direwolf’s sharp senses. Yet it only made his nose twitch, for he could smell the widow’s eagerness.

She was provoking him on purpose. The bloody Barbrey Dustin wanted to be fucked.

It was cunning, Jon realised. Perhaps she saw something of his uncle in him. Regardless, becoming his lover would be Barbrey’s way to salvation. Or… she was just wanton—or both.

“I’m sorry to disappoint,” he said, tilting his head with amusement. “But I came here merely to ask a question.”

The widow’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I answer, Lord Snow? What’s in for me?”

Jon pulled a small lacquered box from his pouch and placed it on her cot. “There is sweetsleep inside. Should you answer my query, you can take it and fall into eternal sleep. Quick, painless, and more than you deserve.”

“And why would I do that?” Barbrey scowled, bringing out the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. Despite her age, a smile would easily make her look beautiful, but no joy was left in her. “Perhaps you want me to die before I can shout to the world of your parentage tonight?”

“Why yes,” Jon said brightly. “If you did something as foolish as that, it would be quite troublesome. Letting yourself take your own life will spare me much grief.”

“You can’t make me.” Her face grew smug. “Not without shedding your false pretence of honour and decency for the North to see. I can bear any indignity you dare throw at me.”

“Bold words of a woman thinking she has nothing to lose,” he murmured. “But I wonder… if you still care about your kin.”

“Bastard—”

“Just like you, House Ryswell paid obeisance to Roose and Ramsay.” Jon rubbed his chin thoughtfully as Barbrey grew pale as chalk. “They were the first to do it, quicker and more eager than all the rest. Nobody will blink if I weed out all the traitors, root and stem. Fly my dragons to the Rills, burn your childhood home to cinders, and kill every Ryswell I can find. Even the women and the children.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Who would stop me?” Jon asked with a savage grin. He knew he would do it if his hand were forced. A king could not make empty threats or promises. It would be easier to cut down Barbrey here and now, but it would not be justice.

Yet the words made Barbrey’s proud facade crumple. So she was not just a cold-hearted bitch.

“I want your word here and now that you won’t harm any of my innocent kinfolk.”

“Quite demanding of the King in the North. But I suppose I am not the heartless man you thought me to be. So long as you answer truthfully and they did not commit treason, I can indulge you,” Jon assured. If she dared to lie…

“Ask away, then.” The Dustin widow sat back on her coat, face expressionless.

“Did you know that Rickon Stark was held in the dungeons of Winterfell?” Jon’s voice grew cold. “Did you know his bones were thrown to the dogs?”

“How could I have known?” Barbrey scoffed. “Why would the Bolton Bastard tell me?”

She was lying. Ghost could sense it, and Jon easily noticed the stiffness in her neck and the twitch of her clasped hand. The old bitch dared to lie to his face. Jon had to push down the desire to grab Barbrey by her throat and choke the life out of her.

He could forgive Umber’s betrayal. It was not done by their lord, and they were given a choice between their liege and their own kin. He could forgive Karstark’s ambition, too—those ambitious curs who dared to raise their hands against House Stark had all perished, and neither had been the rightful Lord of Karhold.

But Barbrey Dustin and the Ryswells? They had all entered this treason and lingered knowingly. There had been no coercion or leverage, just… betrayal.

Could Jon forgive them?

Did he want to forgive them?

“Good night, Lady Dustin.” It took all of his strength to force the words to sound light. Jon nodded one last time, turned around, and left with Ghost in tow without looking back, heart heavy.

The guardsmen slammed the heavy dungeon door closed and locked it with a click. The box with the sweetsleep remained behind—it was the price of answering his question, truth or not. Perhaps she would be foolish enough to give him the joy of chopping her head off.

Shireen Baratheon

The last sennight had been madness.

War, Shireen Baratheon knew, was an ugly thing. Yet it was one thing to hear the words whispered in the cold library of Dragonstone, and another to see the truth of them splattered across the battlefield. She had read many accounts of battles, but words on a page could never do justice to seeing the real thing. She had heard the din of battle, had smelled death from up close, heard the screams, and watched the pained grunts of the dying.

The execution was no less vivid in her mind, and just like the battle, it had been her first.

Her heart clenched at the memory of the scaffold and the growing pile of heads, but she remembered her lessons. Her father had taught her the difference between justice and cruelty, between weakness and mercy. No true king could ever pardon betrayal.

It had been a grim sight to behold, but no less necessary for it. She had watched the king swing the sword himself, and with each stroke, with each fallen head, it was as if the Northmen grew steadier. The tradition had been kept, and each man had been given the chance to say his final words, each head had been taken by the hand that damned them to death. It was a brutal thing, but Shireen could see the wisdom in it. Ordering a man to their death was as easy as uttering a word. But execution? That took time, and it took a spine.

Would Stannis have done it if she had not escaped?

Would Shireen’s father light the torch to her sacrificial pyre?

Or would he have watched without blinking as Melisandre of Asshai did the deed in his name?

Shireen thought no further, because the answer scared her.

It didn’t matter now, for she was safe. Jon Stark proved he took the plight of his realm with grim determination. If half the rumours were true, all the deserters, brigands, and marauders around the North were now being hunted down. And soon, the king himself would ride out to Torrhen’s Square to cast off the last Ironmen lingering in the North.

The King’s Peace.

When was the last time there was a king who had chased peace instead of more war?

The notion felt odd, for she had spent the last third of her life under the shadow of war. It made this idea of peace all the sweeter. Only, she wondered how long it would last. As capable as Jon Stark was, he was a young man, and Shireen knew many would rise to challenge and test him, especially with his dragons still young and vulnerable. But she had faith nothing could halt Jon Stark’s rise, and held even less fear.

She lived now within the Great Keep, a level below the King and the Princess, as a ward of House Stark. An honoured guest, Sansa had called her. Most of the day, the red-haired princess was too busy for company, her time consumed putting Winterfell to order.

Shireen knew her duty as a ward and offered to help, but Sansa only smiled and refused. “Rest,” she had said. “These duties are not yours to bear.”

There had been a single embroidery lesson with Lyra and Lyanna Mormont, but both had left for Bear Island after their mother had marched to the Dreadfort, leaving Shireen alone again. Even the newly recruited servants and courtiers stepped lightly around Shireen, avoiding her from afar. She passed her days in the castle’s dusty library or tending the glass gardens. The overgrown fruit trees needed pruning, the weeds strangling the flowers had to be removed one by one, and the roses coaxed back to life one at a time.

It was quiet work. Lonely, but comforting. Underneath the glass panels, it was warm and pleasant, reminding her of her childhood, of the summer long gone.

Ser Davos and Devan remained in Wintertown, though they kept to themselves. The King had no need of a smuggler now, however loyal, and Ser Davos had not complained. He had said once that being idle was a blessing for men who had toiled for too long.

As she was busy pruning around the winter roses, the new scar-faced steward of Winterfell came over.

“Lady Baratheon,” said Dale, bowing deeply. He was a spindly man in his thirties and the youngest son of a scribe from White Harbour. “His Grace requests your presence in his solar.”

It was not proper to make a king wait. But Shireen looked at her mud-stained fingers and sighed.

It took her half an hour to scrub the dirt from beneath her nails, change into something fit for meeting a king, and climb the winding stairs to the highest floor of the Great Keep. She arrived breathless and flustered, her cheeks flushed from haste.

The guardsman at the solar door nodded and announced her, and a moment later, she stepped inside.

It was not like she imagined a king’s solar to be, but austere with a pinch of style. It had a few shelves, a desk, a small table, and tapered chairs, leaving more than half of it empty. But the furniture was all of masterful make and looked cosy.

Jon Stark sat behind the desk, reading a thick roll of parchment. The earnest way he read only made him more handsome, even if his garments were as plain as usual. Ghost lay beside the hearth, sprawled before it like a carpet of soft snow. Shireen never wanted anything more than to go over and run her fingers through the silky-looking fur.

“Sit, Lady Shireen,” Jon said, peering from behind his scroll with smiling eyes.

Her face burned as she obeyed.

“You summoned me, Your Grace?” Her voice cracked slightly. She hated it. She wanted to sound calm, sure. It was one thing to speak to a bastard or a lord commander, and entirely another to speak to a king. Kings were busy men, each moment of their time priceless.

Jon sighed and set the parchment aside. “Let’s do away with courtesies in private, aye? Hard to say anything of worth, when a third of it is Your Grace.”

“Er… yes, Your—” She caught herself. Jon was too close, too familiar. “Yes, my lord.”

He groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Gods be good. Just call me Jon. My royal ears have grown raw from titles.”

That made her laugh; a soft and unsure, but a laugh all the same.

“Now, how are you finding Winterfell?” he asked.

Shireen brightened. “It’s beautiful. The two curtain walls are massive, and the moat between them is like nothing I’ve ever seen. A marvel of stonework and masonry. And the hot spring water pumped through the Great Keep’s walls is like magic, I didn’t think such a thing possible. Then, the glass gardens are… peaceful.”

It was better than Dragonstone in every way.

“I am glad you’ve taken to Winterfell,” the king said with half a smile. Then, the cheer melted away from his face, giving way to calm severity. “Truth be told, I summoned you here because I wish to try something.”

The shift in tone sent a shiver down her neck. Shireen swallowed hard. “Try something?”

“Aye.” His sharp eyes bore into the grey flakes on her cheek. “I believe I may be able to help with your affliction.”

Her hand twitched toward her cheek on instinct, but stopped halfway.

“How?” she asked cautiously. “There is no cure for it, Your Grace. My lord father summoned maesters, alchemists, herbalists from the Summer Isles, even a warlock from Qarth. They all failed. It cannot be undone; nothing worked. At best, it can be stopped from spreading further.”

When she was younger, Shireen had dove into books on greyscale, hoping for another way out. But she only met with disappointment in those pages. She had long accepted greyscale as a part of her.

“I know what was tried,” Jon said, his voice softer now. “But I am none of those men.”

He rose from behind the desk, circling to her side. “And I do not mean to give false hope. I cannot promise success, but I give my word that I will not harm you.”

Her heart began to race as his bright eyes once again fixed on her face. There was a power to them, a tangible glow of something else.

“With your permission?”

Then the realisation came. If it were healing, he would have called the maester. If it were trickery, he would not have asked so solemnly. That left her only one answer. Magic. Knowledge and medicine had failed against greyscale, and now, the king was speaking of magic.

The details… she didn’t dare ask. Shireen wasn’t even sure she wanted to know. The real question was—did she trust Jon Stark?

Her erratic heart calmed.

“Yes.” The words were barely a whisper on her tongue. Shireen didn’t dare hope, but Jon Stark had done the impossible before.

“Good,” he murmured, drawing a wickedly curved dagger from his belt. “You might feel a bit of discomfort.”

The tip did not approach her but aimed at his own hand. She flinched as he pricked the tips of three fingers, letting blood well forth, and the dagger disappeared. His hand was steady as it reached out, the three pricked fingers nearing her flaky skin.

Warmth surged where his fingers brushed across the greyscale.

Her heart began to thunder, and Shireen could only sit still and look… straight into Jon Stark’s eyes. It was the pettiest thing she had seen. Gods, she could look in that deep purple all day, and she would not get enough. She suddenly felt very hot. The king’s eyes started glowing with power, like two bright lanterns in the dark. The air around grew so heavy.

Meanwhile, underneath the greyscale, the heat started pulsing. It was odd to feel the part of her that had been locked behind the greyscale, but not unpleasant. Time lost its meaning as she gazed into Jon Stark’s eyes.

When he finally stepped back, Shireen let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. Her limbs tingled, light and strange, and she felt light as if a weight she had never known existed had been lifted from her shoulders.

“Did it work?” she asked, her voice cracking again.

Jon smiled, handing her a polished mirror. His fingers, she noticed, were now clean, unmarred by blood or wounds.

With trembling fingers, she raised the mirror.

At first, all she saw were the patterns—symbols, runes, spirals etched in faint crimson across the grey flakes, all sharp and shimmering under the daylight streaming from the window. Not High Valyrian, not Old Ghiscari, not even the symbols she had once studied from Ibbenese scrolls.

An itch now replaced the usual feeling of numb emptiness. Her trembling hand reached to feel the edges of the greyscale, where the stony scales met the now-reddened skin. And then the skin began to peel.

She gasped.

The flakes of greyscale crumbled beneath her fingers, turning to ash. Then, the next flake peeled off on its own, also crumbling, and a third, and a fourth. Beneath them lay tender red skin, raw and stinging, but… alive. She could feel it. She could feel everything.

Before Shireen could blink, the Greyscale was gone—all of it.

“It would seem it worked,” Jon said lightly, as if commenting on the weather.

Her vision swam as she opened her mouth, but words failed her. How could mere words ever express her gratitude? How could words even describe the storm of feelings that warred in her chest? Without a thought, she moved, throwing herself into Jon’s arms.

The king did not pull away, nor did he stiffen. Instead, he held her back gently.

After a few heartbeats, Shireen gathered back her wits and flushed. She, a maiden barely past girlhood, was holding the King of the North, an unmarried man. She was alone in the King’s Solar, embracing him. And his body was pleasantly firm beneath the linen tunic, and he smelled of oak, leather, and ink.

And Shireen liked it.

A soft cough broke the spell. Jon’s hands found her shoulders, and he eased her back with the faintest smile.

“I’m sorry, Your Gr—Jon,” she stammered, cheeks blazing.

“It’s fine,” he said kindly. “But you ought to see Maester Wolkan. The greyscale might be gone, but the skin beneath may fester if not treated properly.”

“What should I tell him?” she asked, still dazed. “The maester’ll ask how it happened. Greyscale doesn’t simply vanish…”

Jon smiled, amusement dancing through his eyes. “Say you prayed to the heart tree. And the Old Gods answered.”

Shireen walked out of the king’s solar in a daze. Her hand kept reaching to her left cheek and down her neck to feel the sting of pain again and again. It hurt… and she was grateful for it. She felt lighter than ever, and even the grey granite walls of the Great Keep looked more vibrant, as if the world itself had grown more colourful.

The future was as uncertain as ever, but Shireen only felt hopeful.

Jon Stark

Dispelling the curse was much easier than Jon expected—he had prepared several different methods. But the ancient Gaelic cleansing ritual had been enough, especially since Jon was the one to pay the price—a pint of blood and a third of his magic. The skin beneath the greyscale would probably remain scarred, but Shireen would be free from the burden and the stigma.

She had perhaps reaped other benefits, as the ritual did cleanse, and the king’s blood was the most potent ingredient. However, only time could tell what the results were.

The evening had come, and it was time to mete out judgment to the last men who had supported Bolton. Unlike the men-at-arms and the common soldiers, the noblemen would be judged in the Great Hall, before the budding Northern court.

Now, Jon was sitting atop the winter throne. The royal seat of the olden kings of the North was hewn from granite; its massive arms were decorated with snarling direwolf heads. Below him, the trestle tables had been pushed to the walls, freeing a wide swathe of space at the centre of the Great Hall.

Lords, masters, chieftains—even the wildlings—all stood here, waiting with anticipation. It made for an odd sight, but there was peace, if uneasy. At times like this, his sharp hearing was a curse. Jon had to force himself to focus, filtering the inane whispers and hushed talk that he could catch all too well.

The side door opened with a groan, and Ser Brynden Tully slipped in, hastily making for the throne.

“Your Grace,” the knight leaned in to whisper. “Barbrey Dustin has been found dead in her cell.”

Jon’s face did not so much as twitch. It was foolish to hold grudges with the dead.

“See her bones returned to the Rills, with an escort. And bring in the accused.”

The great doors opened once more, and three men were ushered in beneath the watchful eyes of Stark men-at-arms. Hother Umber, broad-shouldered and grey-bearded. Roose Ryswell, lean and tight-jawed, with bitterness in his eyes. Harwood Stout, a portly man and as pale as a corpse, his hands shaking.

Their wrists and ankles were clasped in iron. The clang of the manacles echoed with each step as the chains dragged over the flagstones.

Once they stopped before the dais, Jon rose from his throne.

“Hother Umber. Step forward.” The castellan of Last Hearth did so with the stiffness of age. This was the man who had betrayed Rickon, even if the deed was done out of desperation instead of hatred or anger. The last embers of Jon’s anger cooled down. “You stand accused of treason. How do you plead?”

“Guilty,” Hother rasped without hesitation, but his eyes were dull, the eyes of a tired old man resigned to his fate. “Guilty, King Stark.”

“The block or the black?” Jon asked, ignoring the gazes of the crowd.

It was a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless, and he could feel the void inside him dwindle yet again. The Watch was in dire need of capable men, even greybeards. It was Hother’s chance for redemption in the eyes of the North and for Jon’s conscience.

A small spark appeared in the Umber’s flinty eyes, and his face hardened with determination. “The black,” he said.

A few voices in the hall grunted their approval. Jon inclined his head. “So be it. Take him to the Wall.”

Jon’s gaze moved onto the Leech Lord’s namesake—the man stood there, glaring back at him defiantly. He was in his early thirties, a lean-limbed man with a warrior’s eyes.

“Ser Roose Ryswell, you stand accused of treason. How do you plead?”

“Innocent, your Grace,” the man spat, and a storm of jeers erupted from the mountain chieftains.

His anger was not surprising. Roose Ryswell had lost a brother and father in the Battle for Winterfell. His sister was also gone, even if he did not know it.

“House Ryswell is one of the bannermen sworn to House Stark,” Jon said flatly. “Fighting against your liege is treason.”

Roose’s dark eyes burned with hate, his words laced with spite. “House Stark was gone. When the Young Wolf called, we answered. Then came the Red Wedding, and House Stark fell. The North fell. And after that, who was left? A bastard in black, and a girl married to a Bolton. You call that House Stark?”

“You were in Winterfell,” Jon replied coldly, “when Rickon Stark—your liege lord—was chained and caged, starved and flayed and worse in the dungeons. You said nothing. You did nothing, just like your brother and father. None from your house was held hostage, and you were the first to follow the turncloak Roose Bolton, and did so willingly.”

“House Ryswell had no choice. Everyone bent their knee!”

It was not a denial. Perhaps the man did not know. Perhaps he did not care.

“I find you guilty of the highest of treasons,” Jon said icily. “Take him outside.”

“This is a sham!” Roose shouted as guards seized him. “I am innocent—I demand a trial! A trial by battle!”

Everyone stilled at the words, and even the murmurs died off. The guards around Roose looked to Jon, waiting for his command. So did all the courtiers, and Jon could read the question in their eyes.

Would he honour the rights of the highborn, or would he sweep them aside like Aerys had done?

“Then let us fight,” he said, slowly descending the dais. His hand found his sword’s hilt. “Get this traitor his arms and armour.”

Half an hour later, the yard outside the Great Keep was filled with men. The curious servants and guardsmen had clustered at the edge, eager to witness the fight. The day was fading, and the shadows grew long and twisted as the sun was about to kiss the horizon.

Jon pulled on his spell-forged chainmail over his enchanted arming doublet, then strapped his greaves, and put on a nasal-helmet.

Across the yard, Roose Ryswell was being strapped into a half-suit of mail and plate by a pair of guards, his surcoat bearing the black horse’s head of his house.

“Your Grace,” came Brynden Tully’s voice beside him. “At least wear your full armour. You are too valuable to risk.”

Jon snorted. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

Even now, the battle wasn’t fair. But it was the fate Roose Ryswell had chosen. Truth be told, the reason Jon didn’t bother donning his full armour was because it took too much time to put it on and take it off. Even his current one was not something the likes of Roose Ryswell could ever pierce.

“This isn’t about fairness. If you fall—”

“I won’t,” said Jon, and stepped forward into the yard. He shrugged off the runic restrictions that pressed down onto his movements like a looming mountain. “Have faith in your king, ser.”

The watchers parted, making room. Roose Ryswell stood waiting, sword in one hand, shield in the other, breathing harshly.

Ser Brynden came between them and cleared his throat. “Let the trial begin!”

Jon’s blade was already in hand. The moment the Blackfish stepped away, he was already charging with all his might.

Ryswell’s eyes widened at the speed. He barely raised his shield in time—and by then it was done.

The heavy blade fell in a single arc, faster than most could see. The bronze edge cleaved through steel, sundered wood and bone apart, splitting cloth and flesh.

Warm blood splattered as Roose Ryswell split in two along his shield and armour, both sides falling apart with a wet thud.

The yard was silent. Some were rubbing their eyes, others were pinching their hands, while the rest were frozen still. Whatever they had expected, it was not this. The first to regain his cool was the Blackfish.

“The gods have spoken,” Brynden said solemnly. “Roose Ryswell was guilty of treason.”

Even fools had their use. Idiots would think twice before provoking him in a contest of arms. They would think twice before invoking a trial by battle, too.

But today, Jon had killed two Ryswells, even though one was not by his hand. Rickard Ryswell, the new Lord of the Rills, had just lost two brothers, a sister, and a father to House Stark. And the previous treason still lingered.

Many a lord would hold a grudge for less. Perhaps, Rickard Ryswell would bend the knee and swallow the indignity. Perhaps not. Jon didn’t care to find out. This was a good chance to make an example.

Turning to the crowd, he raised his voice. “Let it be known: from this day forth, House Ryswell is attainted for treason. All surviving males shall take the black. All women of the blood are to be given to the Silent Sisters at White Harbour.”

Murmurs surged like a wave, but no one dared speak against it. But what a king could take with one hand, he could give with the other.

“Furthermore,” Jon continued. “For their loyalty in our hour of need, House Mazin shall now rule the Rills in perpetuity, and rise as principal bannermen of Winterfell.”

Cheers rang out through the yard. Lord Mazin came forth and kneeled, swearing eternal fealty to House Stark.

Perhaps Jon was needlessly petty, but the bitch had lied to his face. Still, he had kept his word. The Ryswells would all be spared the block so long as they didn’t rebel.

He turned his attention to the final prisoner, the petty lord sworn to Barrowton. Lord Harwood Stout stood pale, trembling so badly that his chains rattled.

“Lord Stout.” Jon tossed his helmet aside. “Kneel and swear never to bear arms against House Stark, and you can walk away a free man.”

Harwood Stout departed on trembling legs, a free man by the king’s grace. The crowd was quick to disperse as daylight dwindled. Jon did not linger either, heading for the group of men in furs and crude leather, conspicuous even without the giants. Wun Wun and Dag had already left for the Gift to return to their brethren.

The wildlings were surprisingly well-behaved, yet they were to cause trouble in Winterfell, and their men were encamped on the hills outside. The chieftains had watched closely both trials. They wore byrnies and padded jacks looted from the Bolton dead, some boasting brigandines and castle-forged swords hanging from their hips. Victory had armed them well.

“You asked to see me,” Jon said as he approached.

Tormund Giantsbane met him with a nod, his old, craggy face uncharacteristically solemn. “Aye. It’s time we talked proper.”

“I heard a rumour you mean to stay.”

“You heard true.” The voice came from Soren Shieldbreaker, who stepped forward, his dark beard now clean and braided. “The land here is good, far better than anything we’ve seen beyond the Wall. The soil is soft, and there’s wood to build and game to hunt.”

The rest of the wildlings were nodding along in agreement.

“By now, you know what staying means,” Jon said, glancing at the motley gathering. Spearwives, hunters, and old raiders from the tundra and the frozen mountains. “You’ll need to kneel.”

Tormund laughed and slapped his belly. “We’ll kneel to you, King Snow. That’s no shame, so long as we don’t forget how to stand.”

“Aye,” grunted Sigorn, the Magnar of Thenn. “You are worthy. We follow.”

The Thenn had wandered across Winterfell since the battle, all wide-eyed with wonder.

Jon crossed his arms. “It’s more than just bending the knee. If you stay here and take land, you’ll live by the law. You’ll pay dues yearly—grain, coin, or service. When Winterfell calls its banners, you will answer. And your sons and daughters will be fostered among the Northern houses. They must learn our ways.”

Soren frowned. “That’s a tall ask, King Crow.”

“No taller than what I ask of any bannerman,” Jon replied. “It is how the North is. But that goes both ways. House Stark might demand a lot, but it will grant you all justice and protection. You have already seen the Northern justice. Speak to the chieftains, to Lord Glover, or Lord Mazin. They’ll tell you how it is to be sworn to Winterfell. You have a moon’s turn to decide.”

He turned to leave, but a voice halted his steps.

“Wait, King Crow.”

Jon looked back. It was Val who had spoken—Val, spearwife and the so-called princess of the free folk, with the beauty to match it. Mance Rayder’s good sister. Her honey hair was woven in ringlets, dangling over her shoulder. A ringmail shirt clung tight to her lithe frame, beneath it her white wool breeches and pale boots. Daring and proud in equal measure, she had fought in the battle for Winterfell, coming out unscathed.

“Val.” Jon inclined his head. She stepped closer, grey eyes eyeing him with caution and a sliver of desire.

“What of my sister’s boy?” she asked, voice firm. “You sent him away with that fat crow, said it was for his safety. You said the Red Woman was dangerous, and I let it go. But she’s no danger now. Not to you.”

Jon remembered the plan. Gilly and the babe were sent south with Samwell Tarly to be passed off as his paramour and bastard and hidden in Horn Hill. It had been clever once, necessary even. But Jon had no inkling of what transpired south of the Neck, let alone where Mance’s boy ended up. Sam was the furthest thing from reliable. Loyalty he had in spades, but everything else…

“I will look into it,” Jon promised. “It will take me some time, for Sam is far away.”

Val studied him for a long moment, as if looking at his face would help her weigh the worth of his words. Then she nodded and walked away with a sway of her hips.

The wildling beauty had once stirred something in him, something hot and restless. Looking back, she had teased him mercilessly, but he had been too green to see it. Val could have been his lover, and she still could be. Yet love was a young man’s dream and folly. Jon now knew better, and Val was not the make of Queens.

14th Day of the 6th Moon, 303 AC

Petyr Baelish, Casterly Rock

Never had Petyr Baelish seen a place so gaudy, so smothered in wealth. Gold-veined marble lined the halls. Velvet banners of crimson and lion’s gold hung from every arch and sconce. Countless rubies dotted the gilded pillars. Even the floors were polished to a sheen, and lion heads—some carved in the stone and wood, some forged by a smith and all set with garnets for eyes—leered at him from every corner, every lintel, every stair. So many lions. He dreamt of them now and could hear their roars in his sleep.

The Lannisters had never been subtle, but Casterly Rock was the greatest monument to vanity.

With Sweetrobin dead of a fever—one Petyr had not encouraged, but certainly did not mourn—his grip on the Vale had grown dangerously feeble. Ser Harrold Hardying, or perhaps it was Arryn now, had been quick to secure his inheritance, and the Lords Declarant had moved faster still. This had seen Petyr return to the lion’s fold, bringing failure along for the first time.

Still, he had been granted a place at the royal council once again, though only after much grumbling and many cold looks. The small council of Tommen Baratheon had a great need of spies, and spies were what Petyr had in spades. Or so he let them believe.

“I’ve looked into the matter at the Twins, Your Grace,” he said smoothly.

They were in the council chamber of the Rock, a garish room of gold and crimson, with a table carved from goldenheart wood and draped in velvet. Only the lion’s banner hung from the walls, and not a single crowned stag could be seen. Maegor’s laws had been returned, outlawing the Faith Militant. The rest of the lords and even Aegon followed, for the High Sparrow’s rapid rise to power had scared many. Cersei was now blaming the holy order for the Burning of King’s Landing, too.

“The Freys?” asked Ser Daven Lannister, the Queen Regent’s cousin and her newest pet Hand. He was no fool, though hardly a Tywin. A soldier through and through, sharp and blunt.

“Dead,” Petyr confirmed. “At least those in the Twins have been sent to the cold embrace of the Stranger.”

Cersei Lannister yawned, her eyes half-lidded as she looked down on the small council. Her golden curls only reached her shoulders now, a token of her Walk of Atonement. Sitting on the great high-backed chair once probably used by her lord father, the queen dowager looked like she wished to be anywhere but here.

“Poison?” asked Qyburn, ever the curious corpse-picker.

“Yes,” Petyr said. “The strangler and something slow-acting. Servants, hounds, and even the maester in the solar are all dead. Not a single soul survived, and even the horses were let loose. The Twins are no better than a grave now.”

Daven frowned, fingers drumming. “And who did the deed?”

Littlefinger drew a scroll from his sleeve. “The message left behind was simple. Do you recall the tale of the Rat Cook? The North Remembers. Winter is Coming.“

“Anyone could have written those words,” Qyburn said mildly.

“Indeed,” said Cersei, her lip curling into a sneer. “The old weasel and his bastards were more trouble than they were worth. Good riddance, I say.”

Petyr smirked, hiding it behind a polite bow of the head. “Alas, not all Freys were in the Crossing. A dozen or more scattered in the Riverlands—cousins, bastards, second sons. Each one racing back to claim the seat, thinking themselves the next weasel lord. No doubt we will see them gut one another before the moon turns.”

Yet nobody was concerned with the Freys now, even though they could call upon at least two thousand swords.

“What of my brother?” Cersei demanded, finally stirring from her chair.

Ser Daven took out a letter from his cloak. “Ser Jaime held the hills around Harrentown for four hours but was forced to retreat. Aegon outnumbers him with over fifteen thousand men. Veterans from the Golden Company, war elephants, Dornish spears and lancers, knights from the Crownlands, all of them are fresh. Jon Connington is by the Pretender’s side, leading the host in all but name with his experienced hand.”

The queen drained a cup of wine. “And what of our forces?”

“We hold from the castles south of Red Fork to the gold road, and the crossings near the Gods Eye,” Daven said. “But the Riverlords are all battered, and their morale couldn’t fall lower. Jaime cannot meet Aegon in open battle, not without further reinforcements, so he’ll be forced to keep retreating. I bet he’ll try to bleed them for every castle and holdfast on the way.”

Cersei’s glare was venomous. “Have the high lords not answered Tommen’s call?”

Petyr sighed softly. “The Reach is preoccupied. The Ironborn raid their shores again, or so Lord Willas claims. The Vale’s high road is rendered unpassable by snowfall, and the new Lord Arryn shows no signs of calling his banners. As for the North…”

He hesitated a moment. Word from the North had only grown more unreliable. His best spy had expired when Ramsay Snow had sacked Winterfell. The next two had gone missing in less than half a year, and the North had been silent still.

“The North is silent,” he said, voice laced with regret. “Since Lord Bolton stopped sending ravens after Stannis’s demise, all I have are rumours from passing merchants, speaking of grumkins, snarks, dragons, and dead men walking.”

“Fairy tales,” Cersei scoffed.

“Perhaps,” said Petyr smoothly, “but when there’s smoke, there’s fire. Yet it’s hard to know for certain. Even whores in Barrowton or White Harbour won’t sell to a southron, even now. Their hate runs deep, Your Grace.”

“And the realm does nothing after a pretender burned down the capital?” Ser Daven asked, incredulous. “The Reach? The Stormlords and the Crownlords all lost kith and kin there.”

“I’m afraid five years of war have made many a lord wary of fighting, Lord Hand,” Petyr said with a helpless shrug. “And there is no Iron Throne to rally behind, and the lords grow… confused. I would wager they would be swift to move once the victor is decided.”

“Cravens,” Cersei hissed. “Every last one of them. My son is the king!”

That much was true, on parchment. But parchment burned easily, and so did claims—Petyr knew it all too well.

He bowed his head. “There may yet be moves to make. Lord Ellard Crane is ambitious and commands a sizeable muster, and his son died in the burning of King’s Landing. If he were named Master of Laws, and perhaps offered a marriage to one of the Lannister cousins in Lannisport, he could be swayed to our side. Lord Rowan has a daughter. Three years older than Tommen, unwed and pretty as a golden apple. Between House Rowan and House Crane, we could raise another eight thousand swords, all within striking distance of the Riverlands.”

Cersei grew quiet, her eyes narrowing in thought, doubtlessly troubled by the prospect of wrangling with a new queen. Her hand reached for the curls flowing down her shoulders, but found only the gilded rim of her bodice.

For half a heartbeat, Petyr contemplated reaching out to Aegon. But the black dragon would not have him, for Petyr had little to offer but rumours and spies. And Aegon had plenty of those. He would be known as a turncloak, and for what? To start anew or even be discarded? For good or ill, Littlefinger would rise and fall with the Lions again and the chaos they sow around the realm.

“Do it,” Cersei commanded at last. “Reach out to Crane and Rowan with those terms, and to any other house you think might be swayed. If the high lords will not answer our call, we shall reel in the lesser lords one by one.”

“It shall be done, Your Grace.” Petyr dipped into a bow and left the council chamber.

He had stumbled down the ladder, but the climb had begun again. His old plans had all foiled, and now, he had to sow new ones.