18.Dragons in the Dark

15th Day of the 6th Moon, 303 AC

Aegon Targaryen, Harrenhal

The Kingslayer was no fool.

He had drawn them beneath the black walls of Harrenhal, just far enough so the Lannister marksmen could rain arrows from the ramparts. The clash had been bloody, and then the Lannister host had retreated west, leaving behind a field of corpses and a fortress that refused to fall quickly.

Two thousand Lannister men had died beneath the walls, yet Aegon had lost twice that. Taking the cursed fortress cost five more days and two thousand more lives, just to pry three defenders from the walls. They would still be hammering at the thick ironwood gate had the hinges not given out from rust.

They called it a victory, but a few more of those ‘victories’, and he would run out of men.

Now, Aegon had settled in the Hall of a Thousand Hearths, gathered around a big map for another war meeting. Everyone was uneasy—the Dornishmen glared at the Stormlords and the Crownlords. The Golden Company captains watched on with disdain and received no less suspicious looks in return.

Most of the dead and the wounded had worn the gilded surcoats of the Golden Company. Aegon had thrown them into the vanguard, where the fighting had been bloodiest—the fewer sellswords survived, the less trouble they would stir, and less coin would be paid. He held little love for the sellswords he once called brothers, and less trust.

“If we’re met with such resistance at every holdfast south of the Red Fork,” Jon Connington said, frowning down at the Riverlands on the map, “we’ll bleed ourselves dry before we ever glimpse Casterly Rock.”

Ser Manfrey Martell snorted. “Even a maimed lion has cunning. Jaime Lannister means to bleed us dry for every castle.”

Aegon saw it too. The deeper they pressed into the Riverlands, the longer their lines would stretch. And they needed to bring in supplies, for there was little forage to be found. The Riverlands had been scourged four times, once by Lannisters, then by the Starks, then by bandits, and again by the Lannisters—and what little remained had long since been carried off or put to the torch.

What few smallfolk survived had long since fled.

Few dared to work the fields, for the harvests were first burned by the lions, then taken by the wolves, and again by roses and lions. And those were the scant few who survived the bloody carnage the Mountain had unleashed upon the smallfolk.

Pressing into the Riverlands would be daunting, but they had no choice. Aegon dared not march through the gold road, lest the Tyrells cut his retreat off or flank him. Jon said the roses were not to be trusted, and he had taken the words to heart.

“Any word from the Reach?” Jon asked, rubbing his gloved hand.

“Yes,” said Lysono Maan, again fiddling with strips of parchment. “The Redwyne fleet has been smashed. The Arbour has fallen to the Ironborn.”

Jon Connington’s frown deepened. “Old Paxter had two hundred warships, and at least thrice that with their cogs and trade galleys. His fleet should have ruled the Sunset Sea.”

“A storm found him in the Redwyne straits,” Lysono drawled. “Half the ships were lost to the waves, and the rest were scattered. Crow’s Eye was waiting beyond the Sunset Sea, picking off the stragglers. By the time Redwyne regrouped, the Ironborn outnumbered him. Now, Willas Tyrell promises obeisance to whoever helps him expel the Iron Fleet from his shores.”

Silence fell across the table. Aegon had been taught that the Ironmen were reavers and pirates. That they struck the soft and the defenceless, not… this. Euron Greyjoy styled himself the King of Salt and Rock, and now ruled the Sunset Sea. Even Tyrell’s plea reeked of desperation.

With the Redwyne defeated, no fleet in Westeros could stand against the Iron Fleet. The Hightowers might muster fifty warships, the Lannisters half that. Together, not a third of the power the Arbour had once boasted.

“The Ironborn might seem dangerous, but they scarcely have the men to hold what islands they wrenched from the Reach,” Griff murmured. “They can mayhaps hold a castle or three along the shore, but anything further will see them face Tyrell lancers and knights. The Reach and the Iron Islands have tied each other for good, I say. What of the Vale, Maar?”

The Lyseni man cleared his throat as he pulled yet another crumpled parchment from his belt. “Harrold Arryn writes, professing his loyalty to the Iron Throne. Then he claims his hands are tied, for the high mountain passes are blocked by the snow.”

“A polite way of saying he backs the victor,” Ser Manfrey Martell muttered.

Aegon expected this. The Vale had one entrance from land, and it was a narrow, fortified passage called the Bloody Gate. And the Bloody Gate had broken countless armies. The last to force the Vale’s submission had done so on dragonback, and there were no dragons in Westeros now. Only Daenerys, far off in the east, mired with slavers and Dothraki. Aegon did not like to think of his aunt, for it always led to disappointment or anger or both.

“What of the Boltons?”

“Only silence, no matter how many ravens we send North, Your Grace,” Lysono said. “But I have whispers, hearsay coming from merchants who sailed through White Harbour.”

“Better hearsay than silence,” Aegon murmured. “Out with it.”

“The tales are most strange, I’m afraid.” Maar gave him an apologetic smile. “But most speak of Lord Commander Jon Snow, mustering a wildling army to conquer the North.”

“Madness,” grumbled Lord Adrian Thorne, his red plate creaking as he shifted. The Red Flail, they called him, but never to his face. “The Watch ought to take no part.”

“Madness and grief, perhaps,” said Trebor Jordayne softly. “His kin slain, his house hunted down and butchered like dogs. What man would not want revenge?”

Aegon glanced around. The men here were scoffing under their breath, looking more dismissive or vexed. Griff liked to call the Usurper’s Dogs because the Starks of Winterfell were loyal to the end and had been the lynchpin and the core that held the rebel army at the Trident. Robert Baratheon would have never come close to the Iron Throne without them. Starks were thought broken, their strength long shattered by betrayal and folly.

It was no wonder they did not take the North seriously.

Could Eddard Stark’s bastard stir any trouble with a broken kingdom and a band of savages?

“I would not be in a hurry to celebrate,” the Hand said coldly, glancing about the table. “Jon Snow was raised in Winterfell. He was taught at Eddard Stark’s knee, together with the Young Wolf. If he’s half the commander his brother was, and he finds swords enough to follow him, he could pry the North out of the Flayed Man’s grasp.”

“Aye,” said Lord Rykker, “but which lord would stand with savages?”

“Many stood with Freys and Boltons regardless,” Lord Walter Wyl drawled, sipping a cup of mulled wine. “Wouldn’t be the first or the last time old feuds were set aside to fight a common foe.”

“It’s not the same,” insisted Lord Staunton. “No Northman would stand beside wildlings.”

“Spoken like a man who’s never seen the North,” Jordayne said.

“Neither have you.” If looks could kill, the portly Staunton lord would have murdered half the Dornishmen around the table.

“A Stark bastard for a King Beyond the Wall and of the North,” Aegon said softly. “A troublesome foe.”

“Unlikely, Your Grace,” Ser Manfrey said, waving a gloved hand dismissively. “The wildlings will crumble before the heavy lancers.”

“Doubtlessly, the old lion thought much the same in the Riverlands,” sneered Ser Bennard Brune, his face scornful. The burly master of Brownhollow was not a lord but a landed knight, yet he was the head of the clawmen, leading over three thousand warriors to join Aegon’s host. “He thought he would make quick work of Robb Stark and his host, and that House Stark would fold.”

Murmurs rippled across the table. The clawmen eyed the Dornish, who looked at the Crownlanders with curled lips. The Stormlords muttered beneath their moustaches, and the sellswords watched on with dark amusement.

Griff slammed his fist down.

“Enough squabbling. We cannot reach them in winter, nor can they march south in strength. We can deal with them last. Anything else for us, Maar?”

Maar hesitated. “One more report, Your Grace. From the Twins. Everyone is dead.”

“Good riddance!” the Red Flail chortled.

“What do you mean dead?” Griff’s face darkened.

“Poisoned,” Lysono said, pale face set in a grimace. “Not just the men, but the women, and the children, and even the chickens were not spared.”

“The gods are good,” someone laughed from the corner.

“This is outrageous!”

“There must be some kind of a mistake—”

“How can someone poison a whole castle?”

“Nobody knows,” Maar said. He took out another scroll and placed it on the table, clearing his throat. “The maester was found with a slit throat, but not before sending ravens across the realm. Do you remember the tale of the Rat Cook? The North Remembers. Winter is coming.”

“Perhaps a Stark still lives,” muttered the Brune Knight.

“Unless one of ’em rose from the dead or Snow flew over like a dragon from the Wall, I doubt it.” The Wyl Lord yawned. “We ought to employ more food and wine testers, I say.”

“That we do,” Jon grimly agreed. “But a Stark would never use poison. The Northmen all fight with swords and spears, not daggers and poison.”

Jordayne snorted derisively. “Honour comes easy when your kin is hale and hearty, when your castle, subjects, and lands are untouched. But loss changes even the best of men, and war and loss make monsters of us all.”

But for all the talk of Starks and Northmen, they were not Aegon’s enemy. Jaime Lannister was.

“We must deal with the Kingslayer’s host,” Aegon said. “Once Jaime Lannister falls and the Westermen are defeated, the rest will strike their banner.”

Walter Wyl nodded. “We ought to send outriders. Harass his retreat and forages, and slow him down. We have more than enough light lancers and scouts to do it.”

“It’s a game of cat and mouse,” Griff said, rubbing his chin. “His host is thinner than ours, and can move swifter for it. We should aim to kill his horse in those raids. Without sufficient horses, he’ll be easy to outflank and pin down.”

Aegon looked at the map one final time. “Wyl, Jordayne, see to the raiding parties. Lord Hand, you’ll be in charge of the chase.”

All they needed was one battle. One good battle, not the feigned fighting or the swift retreat. One good battle, one victory, and Tommen Waters’ cause would crumble, and with him out of the way, the Seven Kingdoms would be ripe for the picking.

Eddara Tallhart, Torrhen’s Square

A soft tapping stirred her awake. It came from the shutter; it was not the gentle patter of the rain, but something sharper and more insistent.

Eddara blinked and shuffled beneath the blankets. She waited, hoping the noise might cease. It did not. With a weary sigh, she pushed herself from the straw-stuffed mattress, pulled her wool cloak over her shoulders, and padded barefoot toward the alcove.

The shutter creaked as she unlatched it. Snow danced outside, cloaking the castle in white. A raven crouched on the sill, its feathers dusted in white, its black beady eyes fixed on her without fear. The bird tilted its head, glanced past her into the gloom of the chamber, then let out a low croak. With a shake of its wings, it cast the snow from its back and took flight, vanishing into the night.

“If only I had wings,” Eddara murmured, her breath misting the cold air. “If only I could fly away too.”

“And fly where?” came a voice behind her, half-drowsy from sleep. “The world beyond these walls is no kinder, niece.”

Her aunt stirred beneath the threadbare blanket. Rising had woken Berena, though the older woman never slept soundly anymore. None of them did.

“I’d sooner freeze in the snow than wait for the reavers to come,” Eddara said, latching the shutter, lest what little warmth they had escaped into the night. Then, she hurried back into bed. There was no fire in the hearth. The Ironborn had taken even that from them, claiming burning logs might be used as a weapon. All they had for warmth were old furs, wool, and each other.

“Brave talk,” Berena said, pulling Eddara into her warm bosom. Her grey hair spilt over her shoulders, tickling the young maiden’s neck. “But alone in the wild, you would need more than words. Could you gut a rabbit? Skin it? Could you survive the evening without shelter? The nights grow longer and colder. Winter is coming…”

Eddara turned her face away. She wanted to cry, but her tears had long gone dry.

A Stark in Winterfell would never have let it come to this. He would have never suffered reavers and traitors in the North.

But there were no Starks left. One by one, they had fallen—Robb at the Twins, Bran and Rickon at the hands of traitors, Arya lost gods know where, and Sansa wed to the Bolton Bastard. Each time the word reached Torrhen’s Square, Dagmer Cleftjaw came in person, smugly offering it up as if it were a gift with his hideous mouth.

The gods had shown mercy—Berena was too old to rouse desire, and Eddara had been too young. It was a small mercy, but it had spared them indignity. The rest of the household had not been so fortunate, and she had witnessed it all.

Last moon, Eddara had flowered. With her moonblood came pain and the fear for her chastity. The reaver who brought them meals leered more and more. His gaze made her skin crawl, and every knock at the door made her stomach twist.

She knew it was coming. Sooner or later, one of them would take her. If not for the lust, for the claim. Worse, she could do no more to resist it than the washerwomen could when the castle had fallen. Or perhaps, she could bite her tongue and take her own life.

Eddara pressed her eyes shut, willing sleep to come again. Minutes dragged on in the quiet of the night, but sleep would not come.

Something was wrong.

The unease crept into her skin, seeping into her bones. It gnawed at her thoughts like a hungry rat in a barn.

Of course something was wrong. Everything was wrong. Her family was dead, the future was bleak and hopeless, and Dagmer’s glances grew lustier with each passing week. He had not voiced it, but Eddara knew he meant to take her as his salt-wife, to seal his hold on the castle with her womb.

The gods were cruel.

A faint scuffling broke the silence. Too soft for footsteps. Was it the wind? Perhaps a rat?

A creak came from the door, and a dull light filtered into the room.

Her breath hitched. Berena stirred beside her. Eddara tried to cry out, but before sound could escape, a cold gauntlet clamped over her mouth, stifling her scream.

“Fear not, my lady,” came a whisper, soft, unhurried, and surprisingly gentle. “I mean no harm. I am here to free Torrhen’s Square from the reavers. But you must be kept safe and quiet before the fight begins. Tap twice if you understand—and if you’ll keep silent.”

Eddara’s mind went blank. But the fear receded—the words had come in a soft Northern brogue, not the harsh guttural speech of the Ironmen.

Thousands of questions warred inside her head, yet she shuffled an arm, tapping at the metal twice.

It produced no sound, but the gauntlet lifted from her mouth. She twisted around and squinted at the light.

It was a lantern, flame flickering between purple and gold, casting soft, shifting shadows across the figure who held it. The man was tall, broad in the shoulder, his face half-shrouded in the dark locks that fell to his pauldrons. His eyes were like nothing she had seen before, a sharp purple akin to polished amethyst.

Her gaze shifted lower, to the white wolf head snarling at her from the dark breastplate. The armour was plain, with no inlay or ornament, only the coat of arms.

Behind her, Berena stirred. “Who… who are you?” she whispered.

“Name’s Jon Stark.”

Eddara frowned. “There are no Starks named Jon in the North,” she said. There were no Starks left at all.

“There were none. Now, there’s me.” His voice was light, almost teasing. Then, his face grew serious. “Do you trust me?”

Eddara didn’t need to think. “More than the Ironborn.”

“Good enough,” he said lightly.

Berena, however, was still uneasy. “My sons…” she began, her voice hoarse and desperate.

“Do you know where they are, my lady?”

“No,” she admitted. “But they must be near. They must be—”

“Then stay here and keep quiet.” Without further word, he pressed the lantern into Eddara’s hands and vanished into the dark hallway, the door closing soundlessly behind him. The heavy plate and the dark greaves made no noise as he moved, as if he were a spectre.

Silence returned to the room.

The lantern felt too heavy in Eddara’s grip. She stared into its flickering flame, half-wondering whether she dreamt it all. But the warmth of the flame and the scent of the oil were real.

Berena moved first, slipping out of bed and gathering their heavy woollen cloaks with stiff hands. “We may need to run,” she muttered.

The cloaks gave them some warmth but no comfort.

“His eyes…” Eddara murmured, “They were purple. Stark eyes are grey, aren’t they? Or ice blue?”

“Indeed,” her aunt said, brows furrowed in thought. “But that man… he reminds me of Lord Eddard’s baseborn boy.”

“Jon Snow?” Eddara had heard of him, as had most children of the North. Once, she had glimpsed him at a harvest feast in Winterfell, but his face had long escaped her memory.

“The very same,” Berena said, pacing across the narrow room. “The bastard was young and sullen, merely a boy when I last saw him. If my wits have not left me, his eyes were dark grey, like his father’s. But… perhaps I misremembered.”

Even so, Jon Snow was supposed to be at the Wall, far away from here, guarding the realms of men as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. It didn’t make sense.

Eddara rubbed her face, pushing away the thought. The world had gone mad years ago.

“Anything is better than the Ironborn,” she said, drawing her cloak tighter. “We can only wait and see.”

The minutes dragged on in grim silence until footsteps approached from the hallway, and the door burst open.

“Mother!” The cry rang out as two wildlings rushed inside. They wrapped Berena in thin, shaking arms, both weeping freely.

Eddara blinked, pinching her nose.

It was Brandon and Beren—her cousins, not wildlings. But they looked and smelled like one, with their faces hidden behind tangled beards and shaggy brown hair. Berena’s sons were young men, next in line to the Tallhart name, who could rally men and mount resistance should they escape.

While her aunt had clung to hope, Eddara had thought them killed when the castle fell. Or perhaps sent away to the Iron Islands, where they could not escape or be rescued. It would be the clever thing to do, but Dagmer the Brute did not have a single clever bone in his body, nor an ounce of cunning.

Her cousins wept, and Berena clung to them with desperation. Eddara did not move to join them. As gladdened as she felt, her own heart remained hollow.

She would never get to hug her mother or embrace her brother and father again. They were all dead.

“What now?” she asked, turning to the armoured man at the door. “How will we slip out unseen?”

Jon Stark stood just beyond the threshold, helm under one arm, gazing at them with an indolent smile.

“Slip out?” he echoed, and a dark chuckle rose from his throat. “There will be no more sneaking around, my lady. These wretched pirates have no place in the North.”

From beyond the alcove came a roar. It was deep, thunderous, and savage. It rattled the shutter and shook her bones.

Her ears rang. Swaying, Eddara set the lantern on the stand.

“What in the seven bloody hells was that?” Beren swore, pulling a rusted dagger from his worn belt.

“Winter is here,” Jon said, his voice tinged with amusement as if telling a joke only he was privy to. “And that was the signal to attack.”

Someone was roaring down the yard. The clangour of steel and battle cries filled the night. Soon, shouts came from the hallway, and the rush of footsteps grew closer. The Ironmen were coming here.

Jon Stark’s face grew icy, and he slid the visored helm over his head and spun around.

“Stay inside.”

The door slammed shut, and the sound of fighting rose through it. It was louder than the din from the yard, and closer. Far too close for comfort. All she could hear was the thudding of bodies, the crunch of bone, and the screams.

Eddara pressed her hands to her ears, but it did nothing to stop the screams. Her heart was pounding so loudly it hurt. Beside her, Brandon and Beren edged toward the door.

“Boys!” Berena hissed. “Where are you going?”

“We can’t let him fight alone,” Brandon said, raising his knife towards the hallway. “What if he gets overwhelmed?”

Berena looked ready to faint. “He’s armoured and trained. You’ve got a kitchen knife and a torn shirt.”

“Right,” Beren muttered abashed, stepping back. His brother followed suit. The door rattled again as a cry was cut off mid-scream.

Outside, the thunderous roaring continued, coupled by ominous wooshing and something that sounded like the crack of a whip. Time dragged on until the sound of fighting eventually receded, both outside and in the hallway.

The door creaked open. Jon Stark stepped inside, his armour dripping crimson. The blade he carried was eerily clean, and he looked like a demon that had crawled out of the seven hells.

“You can come now,” he said from beneath his visor. His voice was clear, and his breath was even, as if he had not just fought.

Just like that?

Was her home freed so… easily? She struggled to believe it.

Berena and her sons had already left. Hesitating for a heartbeat, Eddara took the lantern and followed.

For the first time in years, she stepped outside the room that had caged her.

Then, she looked down.

The corridor was painted in blood. The flagstones were slick with it, the bodies hacked and broken. Ironborn limbs lay strewn like firewood, some heads severed cleanly, their faces frozen in agony. Others were cleaved in two. Splintered shields, shattered swords, and broken spears littered the hallway.

The stench hit next, the terrible reek of blood, piss, and shit. Bile rose in her throat.

Berena retched first. Eddara followed, her knees buckling as she heaved beside the corpses.

18th Day of the 6th Moon, 303 AC

Shireen

The bandages covering her cheek and neck were gone, and Shireen found herself on the receiving end of many curious glances.

As the king had said, the greyscale was no more, but it had left its mark on the flesh beneath. The scar stretched from her upper neck over her left cheek, a third smaller than the greyscale.

Shireen didn’t care. The stony flakes were gone, and now she could feel both sides of her face. She was still ugly, but this was enough. The feeling of strength surging through her limbs remained, too, and her steps were light.

Everything was right in the world.

The household had grown, the court had begun to fill, and Winterfell was abuzz with excitement. Raven had come from Torrhen’s Square last night, bringing word of the king’s victory. The Ironborn were smashed, the castle was retaken, and the hostages recovered.

Shireen was unsurprised—a few pirates could hardly stand a chance against the king. Still, she toasted Sansa with a small cup of ale as everyone else had. Aside from that, nothing had changed, not for her. Her days had entered a routine, spent between the library with Maester Wolkan, the Great Hall for meals, and the glass garden.

She usually ate late, preferring to avoid the hubbub of the courtiers. They already avoided her, and Shireen always ate alone.

Today, her daily ritual was broken. She was ambushed during her midday meal—most courtiers had finished, and the trestle tables were almost empty.

The wildling chieftains crowded near her, though still keeping a yard distance.

“The Stag’s daughter,” Tormunt Giantsbane murmured as he eyed the fresh scar on her cheek. The mark was red-rimmed and angry-looking and healed faster than any wound had a right to—or so had Maester Wolkan claimed.

Sigorn Thenn stood beside the big wildling, arms crossed, painted face unreadable. Soren Shieldbreaker was here too, stroking his greying beard. The rest of the chieftains had marched back to the Gift with their warbands, but those three still lingered here. Shireen had often seen them speaking with the Northern lords or murmuring with the hill clansmen in corners of the hall.

“King Wolf bested the grey death, eh?” Tormund let out a bark of laughter, nodding to himself as he pulled over a roasted hen.

“Erm.” She tugged at her braid. “It was… a blessing. A blessing from the Old Gods.”

The lie sounded weak even in her own ears.

Three snorts answered her.

“Sure it was,” said Tormund, grinning as he slumped across the table from her. “But I’ve not come for that. Your father was a hard man and just as demanding. A king of the kneelers. But tell me, girl, what did he do for the kneelers to follow him?”

‘They were not asking for her father,’ Shireen mused.

She unhurriedly bit into a piece of roast duck, savouring every moment. It was no royal feast, but the cook had set the spices just right, and the meat melted on her tongue. Most importantly, it filled her belly. “Well… many things.”

“Such as?” Soren asked patiently.

She scrunched up her nose and tried not to frown. Right, wildling had no inkling of what made a kingdom.

“Well, a king rules the realm,” she said slowly. “He’s the protector of the kingdom and the keeper of justice for his subjects.

“All of them?” Sigorn asked, face stony.

“All of them. The king has the power to grant lands and titles, punish treason and reward loyalty…”

The chieftains listened as she spoke, and they listened closely. Their questions were many and surprisingly sharp—disputes over grazing rights, inheritance, and fostering of wards, and Shireen did her best to answer.

When she finished, the duck had gone cold.

“You’re a clever one.” Tormund grinned, wiping grease from his beard with the back of his hand. “Hardy one too, to survive the grey death for so long.”

Plucking a chicken leg from the half-eaten hen, he walked away, and the other two wildlings followed. Shireen watched them go, feeling… odd. These same chieftains and their men and spearwives had avoided her like a leper a month prior.

She had heard the whispers of how wildlings wanted to kneel. Perhaps the king would soon welcome three clans into the fold. The North was vast, almost as large as the rest of the kingdoms combined, and there was land aplenty.

Shireen Baratheon pushed the cold duck across her plate, the meat gone stiff and greasy. The eggs and onions to the side were no better. Still, she forced a few more bites in before leaving.

Drawing her heavy cloak tighter, she made her way through the courtyard, her boots crunching with each step. The air was thick with snowfall, and the blanket of white was already above her ankles after a single night. Winterfell looked like half a fairy tale, white shrouding the granite battlements and slate roofings.

Even the cold no longer burned as it had before, and the warm walls of the Great Keep dispelled the chill at night.

Alas, on the way to the Godswood, Shireen met with the person she wanted to avoid the most.

“Princess.” Melisandre of Asshai stepped before her, red eyes lingering on Shireen’s cheek. As usual, the crimson velvet gown clung to her body like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. “I see the king’s powers only grow further.”

Shireen swallowed. The priestess loomed over her, a head taller, pale and ageless. The warm smile on the woman’s face brought her anything but comfort. Her heart quickly calmed—this was Winterfell. She was under the king’s protection now, and none would dare harm her here. Not even the red witch.

“It was a—”

“Yes, yes, a gift from the Old Gods,” Melisandre murmured, waving away the words as if they were flies. “I heard the tale. Perhaps the clansmen from the hills would believe it. Even the maester might buy into it. But not I. No, I felt it, girl. Your blood is still singing, and I can still feel it. A touch of ice and fire, and something primal, something verdant and ancient.”

Shireen closed her eyes. The priestess’s presence made her skin crawl, but she stood her ground. “What do you want of me?”

“Nothing,” said Melisandre dryly. “Not anymore.”

“Good,” Shireen replied, though her voice came out small. “Because I don’t care about you or your red god. His Grace doesn’t either.”

To her surprise, the red woman nodded.

“A vexing conundrum, to be sure. But it has given me room to contemplate the meaning of fate.” Melisandre’s red eyes grew distant. “If Azor Ahai could be swayed like pleasures of the flesh or promises of boons, gifts, and titles, he would falter before the Great Other. A true hero must be selfless. He must serve, not seek reward.”

That was a different tune from what she had heard before.

“How do you even know the prophecies are true?” Shireen asked. “I’ve read some. It’s all vague words of smoke and mirrors that can mean anything and everything.”

“I have faith.” Melisandre smiled, and for the first time, it did not make her skin crawl. “You should beware, daughter of the Storm. Whatever His Grace did to cleanse your ailment was powerful. It stirred the old, ancient powers slumbering within the depths of your blood. Such boons come at a cost—now you shine like a beacon in the Night, for all the terrors that dwell in the Darkness.”

Words said, Melisandre bowed and strode away, leaving Shireen alone in the courtyard, confused and chilled.

“More cryptic riddles,” she murmured under her breath. “Only of a different tune.”

She let out a long sigh, pushing the red priestess out of her thoughts and trudged towards the godswood. The roses in the glass gardens would clear her mind. The grove had many entrances, and Shireen avoided the main iron gate and the arched stone door in favour of the smaller wooden doors.

The hinges groaned in protest as she pushed the door open. The trees were half-cloaked in snow, and Shireen stepped in, and—

Thump.

She shrieked as a cold weight struck the back of her head, and a flurry of snow spilt all over. Her gloved hands flew to her face, wiping away the cold, wet snow.

Grumbling, Shireen looked up to chastise the culprit, but the words died on her lips. It was not a guardsman or a servant.

On the rampart above, Stormstrider stood, two pools of molten bronze studying her with curiosity. And mischief. The dragon’s tail twitched. Then, with a lazy sweep, he knocked loose another drift, sending it cascading down in a second wave.

She lifted her hand to shield her eyes.

“That’s not nice,” Shireen muttered, brushing off the wet clumps from her face again.

Stormstrider let out a low rumble, smoke curling from his nostrils as his scaly chest shook.

He was laughing at her. She was certain of it.

“You think that’s funny?”

Stormstrider stirred again, spun around to sweep the other side of the rampart, but this time, Shireen jumped away.

Two could play that game!

Her fingers, already numb, scooped up a ball of snow. She packed it tight and hurled it. The snowball struck true, right on the drake’s snout.

Stormstrider reared back, startled.

“See?” she said, grinning despite herself. “Not so fun when it’s you, is it?”

The dragon let out a sharp huff, shook like a dog emerging from a river, then launched into the air. Snow exploded from the ramparts in every direction as his wings struck.

Shireen watched him vanish with a sigh. Her cloak was soaked, her hood heavy with snow, her gown wet through to the skin.

Gardening, she decided, could wait.

She turned back toward the keep, boots crunching softly in the fresh-fallen snow.

21st Day of the 6th Moon

Arya Stark

She was prowling on four legs amidst the pine trees.

The scent of prey was near, and she could feel the pack behind her. Then, she finally saw them over the road. The hunt was on. A group carrying the hated markings. The twin blue towers. She waited patiently until they passed the junction and shadowed them through the trees. Once they set to rest for the day and their wariness waned, she lunged…

She awoke with the taste of blood in her mouth and a wet, sticky feeling on her face. Even in her sleep, Arya was killing Freys. Nothing less than the traitorous weasels deserved. She had dreamed of such before, but this was the first time his face was wet for it.

Who was she again?

It took her some time to remember her true name. There were too many memories, too many faces, and they had begun to blur together. Awakening was always faced with a similar woe. But each morning that followed, she remembered quicker. The North helped her remember.

She was Arya Stark of Winterfell, and she finally opened her eyes.

First, a giant pink tongue and red eyes greeted her. Whiteness flashed quicker than she could react, and Arya realised her face was licked.

With a mighty effort, she pushed away the offending tongue and got up. A great white direwolf was standing right in front of her. It was more than a head and a half higher, even with Arya standing upright. She did not worry, for she knew the beast.

The last time she had seen Ghost, he had been so small, and now…

She reached up a hand to scratch beneath his left ear, just like he liked as a pup.

“It’s good that you survived,” Arya whispered, but her thoughts drifted towards a different wolf. The direwolf she had chased away with stones all those years ago. Her direwolf—Nymeria.

Ghost lowered his head, gave her face one final lick, bolted out of her tent, disappearing into the snow outside. Winter was almost upon them.

With a groan, Arya pulled on her travel cloak and started dismantling the tent. They could have stayed the night at Castle Cerwyn, sleeping on a feathered bed by a crackling hearth, but Lord Howland Reed had insisted they continue, afraid that a stop at Cerwyn would delay them a whole day. The man seemed more eager to reach Winterfell than Arya.

Some days, she thought it was all a dream and that she would wake up in Braavos again, in the House of Black and White. But this was no dream. A week earlier, they had met with a mounted warband two hundred strong on the kingsroad, sent to man the Moat with Jorelle Mormont at the helm.

She had told Arya the same tale as Howland Reed—the Boltons were no more, Jon was king, and he was calling his bannermen to swear fealty. Only, she had spoken of dragons and giants, too. Arya cared little about that. Her thoughts were on Jon and Sansa—her siblings were alive and well. And she would soon see them again.

The crannogmen, much like Howland Reed, did not dally, and within a quarter of an hour, their small encampment was nowhere to be seen, rolled up in bags and wraps. They each had a bite of cold meat to break their fast and wordlessly mounted their garrons.

This stretch of the kingsroad split through the wolfswood, with an endless expanse of snow-topped trees looming over on both sides. To the left, one of the nameless sleeves of the White Knife travelled along the path.

A few hours on the road later, the wolfswood slowly retreated further from the road. Winterfell appeared far in the distance, a great splotch of grey crowned by white, snuggled on a hill.

Arya felt something on the edge of her mind, and all the horses came to a halt.

“By the gods!” boomed Greatjon Umber, loud as usual. The old man couldn’t be quiet even if his life depended on it. “Is that the king’s direwolf?”

The horses grew startled, tossing their heads, hooves stamping restlessly in the snow. Arya’s mare froze stiff beneath her thighs.

Twisting in the saddle, she was not the least surprised to see Ghost behind them, prowling silently around the Umber lord. The beast dwarfed the warhorse beneath Greatjon, who muttered a curse and shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. The grey charger trembled, but did not bolt—whether from training or sheer terror, Arya could not say.

The crannogmen were all tense, watching Ghost with wary eyes and hands palming their spears.

“Easy,” Arya said lightly. “He’s harmless. Come here, boy!”

She regretted the words the moment they left their tongue.

Ghost bounded her way with surprising swiftness, and he was big enough to reach her atop the horse just by raising his head. Arya grimaced as the direwolf’s cold snout pressed against her face, tongue once again licking her cheeks and brow.

“Ghost! Down, you big brute!” She laughed as she shoved at him, though he budged as much as a boulder would.

“Harmless, she says,” Greatjon muttered, still wide-eyed. “That beast is nearly twice the size of Grey Wind. Gods, and I saw that wolf rip men apart at the Whispering Woods and Oxcross.”

With a final slobbering lick, Ghost moved away from her and rolled onto his back, as if he were a young pup again. Then, as suddenly as he’d appeared, he rushed down the road toward Winterfell, disappearing amidst the snow.

The horses settled once more, and the group continued.

“That’s no normal direwolf,” Howland Reed said softly.

“He was the runt of the litter,” she said defensively. “The smallest one of the six. Deathly quiet too—never heard him make a sound. They said he’d die before the moon turned.”

“No, not like that.” The Crannoglord’s gaze remained fixed on where the direwolf had gone. “He’s bigger than he ought to be. And something is… different about him.”

“He has a name—Ghost!” she retorted hotly. “When was the last time you saw a direwolf, Lord Reed?”

“Seen? Never before this. But Greywater Watch has plenty of records, and not one describes direwolves of this size. And his presence was almost overwhelming.”

Greatjon laughed loud enough to startle a raven from a nearby tree. “Everything that can rip out your spine with ease has an overwhelming presence, Howland!”

They rode on as Winterfell slowly grew bigger. When they were near enough to make out the grey direwolf in the banner fluttering above the walls, a dozen riders rode out of the gate to meet them, each clad in ringmail shirts and cloaks of grey wool.

“Halt!” the captain said, his voice rough. He was half a head taller than the others, clad in polished half-plate, his tabard bearing the silver direwolf on white of House Stark. “State your names and your business.”

“Lord Howland Reed of the Neck,” said the crannoglord. “And Lord Jon Umber of Last Hearth. We come to pay homage to King Jon of House Stark. His sister, Princess Arya, rides with us.”

At once, the riders dismounted and dipped their heads.

“Princess Arya,” the captain said, bowing low. “Winterfell welcomes you.”

Arya wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m no princess,’ she wanted to say, but the words stuck in her throat. Her brother was king now. That did make her a princess, didn’t it?

“…How do you even know I’m Arya Stark?”

“Lady Cerwyn’s raven reached us last evening,” said the captain. “And Princess Sansa described you well enough. You match her words. Besides, ’tis not like Umber and Reed would lie to us.”

“And my brother?” Arya asked. “Where is he?”

“At Torrhen Square,” came the proud reply. “Driving out the last of the Ironmen from the North.”

The captain puffed up his chest, as if he were the one to do the fighting. Arya stifled a chortle.

“Damn shame I missed it!” Greatjon thundered, laughing boisterously. “There’s no joy like splitting squid skulls.”

The guardsmen then escorted them to Winterfell in silence. As they neared the gatehouse, Arya glanced up and froze.

Spiked above the battlements, hundreds of heads lined the ramparts. It was a grisly display, and the snow and frost dusting their head made it all the more eerie. And each face was frozen in terror or despair. The crows pecked at the eyes and the cheeks, stealing bits of half-rotten flesh.

“That’s plenty of heads,” Howland Reed said quietly.

“Each one belonged to a traitor,” said the captain with a cool voice. “These are heads of the wretches who sacked Winterfell with the Bolton Bastard and turned their swords on the Northmen at the Twins.”

Arya’s stomach churned, but she had done worse. She had not looked at the corpses in the Twins, though. Something deep in her uncoiled. Satisfaction and unease. She was not the only one to get vengeance.

The unease in her heart melted as soon as she passed through the drawbridge between the walls.

Winterfell’s courtyard was just as she remembered it—walls of grey stone, wisps of grey smoke twisting from the chimneys, and servants and guardsmen hurrying through the snow, going about their duties. At the centre stood a tall maiden in a heavy grey gown, flanked by the looming armoured form of Brienne of Tarth and Ghost.

The woman’s hair was dark crimson, running in a thick braid over her shoulder. It was the familiar blue eyes that struck Arya the most, and the pretty face filled with longing.

Sansa.

At that moment, everything else was forgotten. Arya dismounted and flung herself into her sister’s embrace.

“I’m glad you’re alive, Arya,” Sansa whispered in her hair, and Arya clung tighter, burying her face into her sister’s shoulder. She was warm and smelled of pine and lemons and home.

When they pulled apart, Arya stared up at her. Sansa had grown tall, taller than their mother had been. Ice had crept into her blue eyes, and the silliness of childhood was nowhere to be found on her face. There was a trace of grief there, and her posture was guarded, judging by the tensing in her shoulders, though she tried hard to appear calm.

“My lords,” Sansa said, turning to Arya’s companions. “Lord Reed. Lord Umber, you honour Winterfell with your presence. But I must ask—how did you escape the Twins?”

“I did nothing!” A proud smile spread across Greatjon’s weathered face, and Arya felt her hair stand on end as he glanced her way. “It was all Princess Arya! She freed me and killed the treacherous old Weasel and his brood!”

Arya groaned, burying her face in her hands as the courtyard erupted in cheers. A shout rose from the side.

“Freysbane!”

Within moments, it spread through the yard, echoed by servants, stableboys, and guardsmen alike. “Freysbane!”

She wanted to disappear into the snow like Ghost could. Damn it, Greatjon.

Better than Weaselbane, she supposed, though not by much.

Sansa took her hand and whispered, “Come. I have much to tell you.” Arya obediently followed, heading towards the Great Keep.

She was Arya Stark of Winterfell, and she was now home.