22.Sowing the Wind

17th Day of the 7th Moon, 303 AC

Denys Drumm, the Sunset Sea

Denys drove the point of his blade through ringmail and flesh with ease, the ripples of red steel sliding into the foe’s breast as though it were butter. A twist, a yank, and the man crumpled. Another stood before him, a Greenlander armoured in heavy steel, hefting a greatsword. Yet no matter how heavy his strikes or good his lobstered plate was, he was no match for the Lord of Old Wyk. Not with Red Rain in Denys Drumm’s hand. The Valyrian steel turned aside every blow, and the first time the knight left his throat bare, the blade slid beneath his helm and cut through gorget, padding, and skin alike. Blood fountained down his breast, staining the white tower surcoat red.

The rest of them broke soon after, their courage dying with the fall of the knight. Throwing down their blades, they begged mercy, sinking to their knees amongst the corpses.

“Put them in chains,” Denys said. “Throw the strong ones with the rowers and sort the rest for the thralls. And if anyone proves troublesome, the Myrish will pay eagerly to take them off my hands.”

He liked the look men gave him at those words. That hollow, hopeless look as realisation of their fate sank in. Some clenched their jaws, others lowered their heads, but the Greenlanders could do nothing. Defeat had taught them their place—thralls were no better than spoils of victory.

But this time, his eyes were on the sword. Red Rain gleamed in his hand, a crimson beauty of rippled steel, glistening with blood. It fit into his hand as if it had been made for him, as light as a feather and sharper than glass. Valyrian steel did not dull, nor did it rust, and made him nigh unstoppable in battle.

A small part of him hoped that if he killed enough, he would carve his name into song. Though it would be some time before men would call him Denys the Slayer.

House Drumm had held the blade longer than any man could rightly recall. The tale-tellers claimed Hilmar the Cunning had stolen it from some Greenlander lord, armed with nothing but a cudgel and cunning. His father, Dunstan, had wielded the sword before, but he could wield it no more after a falling stone cracked his head open during the Storming of the Arbour. Denys had rightfully claimed Red Rain and his father’s lordship after, and could not get enough of it since.

That battle had been hard, though the foes were few. Most of the Redwyne men had been sunk with their fleet or sent away to the Greenlands, but the hundred Greenlanders in the castle still saw six hundred Ironmen dead or maimed. Though victory had tasted sweet, especially when Euron had cracked open the wine cellars for all, doling out golden and purple sweet wine as if it were springwater.

“We lack the men to hold all these islands,” his father had said before the fight. “The Greenlanders are more numerous than the grains of sand on a beach. Sooner or later, they will make peace with each other and rise to cast us out.”

His father was dead, though, and his prattle had died with it. Men grew cravenly and fearful as their hair turned grey, and Dunstan had been no exception.

Every victory made the Denys bolder and the Ironmen braver, and every plundered hold strengthened their faith in the Crow’s Eye. Euron had not lost once.

Today, he had led them to victory again, and the Hightower Fleet was vanquished. Some ships were burned, others sunk, and those good enough were kept as spoils to be repurposed and join the Iron Fleet. The Crow’s Eye had proven once again that the Greenlanders were weak, and now, the Ironmen sailed unopposed in the Sunset Sea as it should have been. By dusk, the king had summoned them all to a flat, barren rock too small to be called an island, lit by circles of flaring torches and smoking braziers. There, the plundered chairs and tables of the Redwynes and the Shield Lords stood laden with meat, loot, and casks of Arbour wine.

Even bards were brought in to sing while the men feasted and drank.

At the high table, Euron Crow’s Eye sat on a throne of driftwood, smiling that strange blue smile, lips dark from his warlock’s wine.

Many a captain eyed the chair to the king’s right with naked greed. That was the seat of the Iron Captain, though it was still empty—Victarion had yet to return from the far-East. It had been near a year since he had set sail, and some whispered he would never return, though never where the king could hear. Many hoped he would never return, and Denys was amongst them. Only meek weaklings did not yearn to captain the great Iron Fleet.

Bellies were filled with steaming food, throats were quenched with rich wine, but not even an hour had passed when the king slammed his golden chalice down on the table. Smiling widely, the Crow’s Eye rose as the singing and noise ceased.

“At the kingsmoot I promised you the Arbour,” he called, his voice carrying across the firelit clearing. “And I have delivered.”

“EURON! EURON! EURON!” the Ironborn thundered with drunken fervour, Denys with them, his throat raw with shouting.

The king raised his sword—Bonerender, dragonsteel rippling black and blue in the torchlight—and the tumult died. “And I will deliver more. Fill your bellies, drink your fill, for tomorrow we sail for Oldtown. The jewel of the Honeywine shall be ours.”

A whisper at the back of his skull told Denys it wouldn’t be so easy. Quarter million souls called Oldtown their home, and the Crow’s Eye only commanded eleven thousand reavers. Twelve, at most, if they emptied the men holding the new islands. Years of war and battles had thinned their number aplenty. Yet when he looked upon the Crow’s Eye in the torchlight, face pale as bone, with that blue eye blazing hot with fury, the doubts withered.

Euron would lead them to victory.

The king’s hand was strange, though. Bonerender’s hilt was clenched in his left, while the right hung stiff and lifeless at his side. Wounded in the battle, perhaps. Or worse. For half a heartbeat, Denys wondered if the king bled like other men.

He shoved the thought away. Wounds healed, and Euron never lied.

Denys didn’t think hard of it. Scheming and dastardly plots were for Greenlanders and women. Denys, like all proper Ironborn, was made for sweeter things, for fighting, reaving, and fucking. His mind turned to sweeter things, to Desmera’s soft curves, the taste of her lips, the squeal she made when he mounted her.

“Here’s how we’ll breach the city…” The Crow’s Eye’s cold voice cut through his reverie.

Madman, some would call the king. But if victory was madness, then there was no man madder than Euron Greyjoy. Oldtown would be theirs, of that Denys had no doubt.

Samwell Tarly, Oldtown

Sam,

Word arrived that my brother has named me his heir. I killed a certain bloody bastard, and I’m back home. The red woman is no longer a problem, and Val wants her nephew back as soon as possible.

Stay safe,

-Your friend J

The letter had vexed him for days, though it was not hard to figure out which hand had inked it. Sam had rolled the words in his mind for many sleepless nights, but even while vague, they could mean one thing only. Word of the North and the Watch scarcely reached Oldtown, and men here cared even less for distant cold lands thousands of miles away. To most, the Wall itself was nothing more than a queer tale, and the things beyond were no better than the ramblings of men who had lost their wits in the cold.

The letter had to be true, though. It had arrived by a raven from Winterfell, and the words were written by Jon’s hand. It painted a clear picture that left Sam reeling for days.

The Flayed Man had been cast down, and House Stark ruled the North again. Somehow, beyond the grave, Robb Stark had made his bastard brother a king, and Jon Snow was no longer the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch but the King in the North.

Perhaps it was Jon Stark now.

To his dismay, it made perfect sense. Jon was of the North and succeeded where Stannis had failed.

Could a king cast aside the vows of the Night’s Watch?

The laws… did not speak on the matter. It had not been done before, but kings often did things that normal men never dared even think. Where Stannis had failed to steal away Jon from the Watch, Robb Stark had done it.

Sam read the letter again. The parchment was crumpled and its edges frayed against his fingers.

Why would Val want to bring the babe North? Little Aemon would live a far better life as a bastard in Horn Hill than anything a spearwife could offer him in the cold, harsh North.

The three links Sam had won clinked in his pocket as he hurried down the torchlit hall. Black iron for ravenry, copper for history, and silver for medicine. A year’s worth of study, and this was all he had to show for it. He would have forged more, but the Archmaesters barred most acolytes from the library, forcing them into those dry, long-winded lectures that could put even the most eager learners to sleep.

He longed to forge his chain, to proudly call himself a maester. Yet the news from the west soured his sleep. The Redwyne fleet had gone to the bottom of the sea, and in his heart, Sam feared that worse would follow.

They had all laughed at the Ironmen and their longboats. Now men muttered in inns that Euron Crow’s Eye was the Drowned God’s champion, master of storms. Though even that muttering was thicker with mockery than fear. The maesters scoffed, of course, and so did most acolytes. But Samwell Tarly knew better.

Magic was no fable. Samwell Tarly knew the true cold. A chill so fierce that no layers of fur and wool could ward away, a cold that sank into your marrow and crept into your very soul.

He had seen the dead men walking in the snow, their blue eyes burning cold, and the White Walkers dancing gracefully through the snow like a spectre of ice. He had struck one down with his own hand. And he remembered Melisandre too, her red eyes, her fire, and her subtler but no less unnatural power. One was ice, the other was fire, and both made him quiver with fear. As much as the maesters wished otherwise, sorcery was raw and strong, rippling through his nightmares—and the waking world alike.

So he prayed to the Father for wisdom. Sorcery was the domain of the divine, and men who sought it grew twisted. His gut told him Euron Greyjoy was one such man, drunk on powers he understood little, powers that warped his mind beyond repair.

Two days ago, the Hightower fleet sailed out to meet him, and no word had come back yet. In the halls of the Citadel and even amongst the sprawling city taverns, Sam heard many speak of certain victory.

“How could a handful of reavers take down a city with a quarter million people? Even if years of war had not thinned their ranks, it would be folly.”

Yet Sam remembered the wildling horde, shattered by Stannis Baratheon beneath the Wall with a handful of lancers. Few could break many, if they had the will and the skill to see it through.

Many a drunk patron in the taverns scoffed at the thought of the Ironmen.

“The pirate wretches are a danger only at sea,” others reasoned. “The Ironborn never dared storm a citadel unless it were near-empty. If they come here, Lord Leyton and his sons would give them a good taste of real steel.”

The words came easily to men who were drunk on the lingering warmth of summer, to those who had not seen the true cold and the rest of the realm sundered by war. So little they thought of the Ironmen that talk more often turned to the great fire that had scorched King’s Landing. With the same breath, they spoke of the new Aegon calling himself a Targaryen, and his battles against the Kingslayer in the Riverlands. Some called the new dragon a pretender, a mummer using a dead babe’s name, while others—mostly those deep in their cups—thought him Rhaegar’s heir.

Sam did not think of Aegon at all. That war meant nothing to a novice and a brother of the Night’s Watch. But he couldn’t stop thinking of the Crow’s Eye and his Ironmen.

The city watch had never seen battle, whereas the reavers had fought aplenty in the last three years. Lord Hightower had seen much the same, for the beacon atop the Hightower burned bright green for days now—the banners had been called. Sam had seen columns of knights and men-at-arms stream into the city by the dozen. Yet their presence only swelled the confidence of those in the city.

They thought that the Ironmen stood no chance against a prepared foe, no doubt. Without the element of surprise or advantage in numbers, cities were hard to take.

Perhaps they were right. But Euron Greyjoy should have seen that. And yet… and yet, what if he still came?

The sickly, cloying feeling of dread pooled inside his belly and would not go away.

Something was wrong.

‘Sorcery,’ his gut told him.

His hands trembled as he fumbled around his small, damp cell, cramming the meagre things he owned into a roughspun sack. Three silver stags, two sets of black robes, a pair of black boots, and a bow Jon bade him carry everywhere and practice with until his fingers were raw.

In less than five minutes, he was out in the winding stone halls, heart thudding like a drum. A voice halted him.

“Sam?” It was Alleras the Sphinx, a comely young man with slender boy and a soft smile. His dark eyes were fixed on the bag upon his shoulder. “Leaving so suddenly?”

He claimed his mother to be from the Summer Islands, but everyone knew he was a bastard of some Dornish lordling.

“Yes. Going north,” Sam blurted out, trying to edge past his fellow acolyte.

“What of your chain? I thought you wanted to become a maester?”

The words made him stop short. He dabbed at the sweat beading on his brow with the sleeve of his robe. Could he tell Alleras the truth—that he was fleeing like a craven because the Ironborn haunted his every thought? That he dreamt of blood in the streets, and golden kraken sails crowding the Whispering Sound that might never come?

“…I did,” he admitted, voice cracking. “But I cannot forge any links if I am dead. I… I don’t think Oldtown is safe any longer.”

The Dornish boy arched a brow. “Not safe? This is Oldtown, Sam. After King’s Landing, no city in Westeros is greater. Do you truly think the Ironborn could storm its walls?”

“Nobody thought the Shields would fall, yet the Ironmen hold them,” he said. “No one thought the Redwyne fleet could be bested, yet it lies at the bottom of the sea. The Arbour was thought unassailable, but Euron Greyjoy rules it now. The Hightowers have sent their ships to meet him, yet no word returns. The Crow’s Eye is not a man to be underestimated, and all who have done so are no better than fishfeed. I… I would rather leave before the Ironmen arrive, before Lord Hightower seals the gates shut.”

Alleras ran a hand through his dark curls, eyes darting through the doorway leading out. “Are you certain?”

“I… I know the taste of danger,” whispered Sam. “I have seen far more death than I ever wished beyond the Wall and at Castle Black. I know that lurch in my belly and the cold shiver down my spine when it comes creeping close. It’s near now, and the Wall is safer than here.”

He turned on his heel, determined to find the east gate before his courage fled him.

Footsteps hurried after him. “Wait. I’ll come with you!”

Sam turned around and blinked at Alleras, who had hunched his shoulders. “Why?”

“I… I’ve seen things in the glass candle.” The boy wrung his slender hands. “Dark things that made little sense until now.” Those dark, rosy lips stretched into a brittle smile. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to see the Wall at least once and see those mysterious tomes nobody in the Citadel has ever laid eyes upon. Now is a good time as any, and we can always come back here to forge the rest of our links. Let me fetch my things—and warn my friends.”

“I’ll be in the yard,” Sam muttered, grateful for the thought of a companion. Alleras was deft with his goldenheart bow, and the thought of travelling alone had frightened him. Not as much as the Ironmen, though.

There was little respite to be found in the yard.

“Oh look, the black leviathan!” Leo Tyrell’s mocking cry rang across the cobbles the moment Sam leaned onto the stone stair railing outside. “The scared pig runs squealing away, back to the cold sty! Oink, oink!”

Laughter rippled from Leo’s gaggle of acolytes, and even others nearby joined. A passing maester gave him a glance thick with disdain, and that twisted the knife that had been stabbed in Sam’s chest.

‘I am a brother of the Night’s Watch,’ Sam reminded himself, clenching his fists. Let them jeer and mock him. Let them stay when the Ironmen came. He owed them nothing, not even a warning of the dangers to come. Even if he did, they were too deaf to hear reason. He looked away, but his face still burned red.

The indignity ended when Archmaester Harodon crossed the yard, his lip curling in contempt. Leo wilted under that gaze and slunk off. The other acolytes were quick to disappear, too. Harodon spared Sam a short glance, shook his head, and left.

A handful of minutes later, Alleras returned, cloaked in unassuming brown, his pack slung heavy on his shoulder, together with an elongated leather wrap, just the sort and size used to carry bows.

“Come. We should leave before the gates are barred.”

Sam needed no urging and followed after the light-footed Dornishman.

As they crossed the yard, he asked in a hushed voice, “What of your friends?”

“Mollander is dead drunk again,” Alleras said, bitterness creeping into his voice. “I warned Pate and Roone, but they laughed it off. They confuse Oldtown with Casterly Rock, the fools. So… how shall we reach the Wall? It’s rather far, and the sea is closed off with all the reavers sailing across.”

“I thought to go by road for a time.” Sam shuffled timidly. “To Horn Hill first, for… for supplies, then with barges up the Mander to the Crownlands and then north by ship from Duskendale, perhaps. To White Harbour or Eastwatch.”

Alleras snorted. “You’re lucky I chose to join you, Samwell. I’ve coin enough for a palfrey or two.”

19th Day of the 7th Moon, 303 AC

Jon Stark

Winter was young and tired quickly. A quarter hour aloft was the most the dark drake could manage before he needed a full hour’s rest.

He was not too surprised. For all his size and strength, the dragon was but five moons hatched, still young by any measure. And Jon himself was no longer wholly a man. The cleansing of the funeral pyre and the blood magic had seen his bones and flesh grow stronger and denser, his weight nearly double that of other men.

That was a problem that would solve itself with time. Flight was not just a matter of muscle and wings for dragons, though they certainly played a role. Magic was no less important, helping keep those great behemoths flying, no matter how big they grew. Jon could feel it through the bond as air brushed against them. The more they flew, the stronger Winter grew, both in body and magic, as if the union of dragon and rider strengthened itself. It was not the growth of size, but of power, and in a manner Winter had never shown on his own.

When they swept down into Winterfell’s yard, the guardsmen scattered before them. Jon leapt off the neck, and the sense of unity sundered, leaving him half-hollow. Pain rushed to fill the void. His thighs and palms were sliced open, and his hips were bruised raw.

Winter’s scales were as keen as razors, and his jutting spikes twice as sharp, easily tearing through his hardened skin. A few moments of focus, and the pain receded, the flesh knitting itself whole once more, and the bruise fading.

The courtyard was thick with gawkers, courtiers, servants, and guardsmen craning their necks for a glimpse. Winter, basking in the attention, flopped down in the snow to rest, wings folding tight.

The crowd watched from afar, some with awe, while most with caution.

Even the boldest men dared not approach. Two had tried before—the first had lost half his hair in dragonflame and his face was scorched, the second had been flung into a wall by a single smack of the bony tail. Maester Wolkan had saved the fool, though he would not walk again for many moons. There had been no third.

Jon had taught his dragons restraint as best as he could. But as clever as they were, dragons were beasts with a fiery temper to match, with little regard for things smaller than they. Bloodfyre and Stormstrider took to men’s company well enough—so long as they didn’t get too close or make sudden movements—yet Winter suffered none near him but Jon. The saddlemaker had nearly pissed himself when ordered to take the dragon’s measure, though the king had held Winter from snapping, both with body and mind.

After the crowd dispersed, the king found him in his workshop by the stables, a cramped timber hall stuffed with racks of leather, wood, and tools. As usual, smoke and the stench of dye, oil, and glue were the first to greet him. The king studied the saddle-maker for a long moment—the man was absorbed in his work, feverishly toiling over strips of leather and wood.

Jon cleared his throat loudly. “Daren.”

The man jumped as though struck, twisting about with a scrap of leather clutched in his gnarly hands.

“Yer Grace,” he stammered, bowing stiffly. “The saddle… it’s nothing like I’ve done before. Worse, the dragon’s scales are too sharp.”

“I thought as much.” Jon gave a slow nod. “Suppose normal leather and wood will not do.”

The bow-legged fellow wiped his glistening balding brow and nodded miserably, mumbling about the difficulty of the royal demands.

“Go to Dale,” the king said. “Take a choicer pick of the crown’s ironwood stock. Use chain instead of leather—have Artos hammer them all from castle-forged steel. Get the royal tailor to work something comfortable for the padding.”

He drew a token from his pouch, spell-forged bronze shaped with the direwolf of Stark, and tossed it across the room.

Daren caught it fumbling, eyes widening. “Your Grace?”

“Show that to any man who denies you. Take what craftsmen you require and whatever else you might need. I want my saddle done in a fortnight.”

21st Day of the 7th Moon, 303 AC

After a modest meal in his solar, Jon made his way to a chamber newly set aside for council.

It was repurposed from an old store room, lying in the shadow of the Great Keep. The old granite walls were softened with pinewood panels, Myrish tapestries, and thick carpets that muffled footsteps and the chill of the flagstone beneath. High-backed chairs lined a large table of varnished oak, their arms carved into stags, wolves, and bears. The king’s seat was the grandest of them—a direwolf and a dragon carved with great care on the armrests and the likeness of Ghost’s head threaded into the tall backrest.

He no longer held meetings in the solar. That place was for his own quiet contemplation, books, and his closest of kin. The Great Keep itself was for House Stark, and for the wards and hostages who lived beneath its roof, barred for everyone else. Last but not least, Jon often feared that Wyman Manderly might collapse on the stairs before reaching his solar one day.

Winterfell lacked many things, but space was not one of them. The fortress was a maze of old towers, keeps, courtyards, and smaller houses, some thoughtlessly built, while others were half a ruin and entirely abandoned. Many ideas swirled in his mind on how to put it all to better use. But building new and tearing down the old could wait until spring or summer, when the weather grew gentler.

Soon Lord Manderly waddled in, wheezing, and took the seat to Jon’s right. Galbart Glover followed, bowing deeply and placing himself lower down the table.

“Wyman. Galbart.” Jon gave a light nod. “Henceforth, our councils shall be held here.”

“Your Grace, it’s an honour.” Glover’s gaze wandered around the chamber. “Do we still call it the small council?”

Jon let out a snort. “Names matter little compared to the work that must be done. But I shall not be burdened by the crumbling legacy of House Targaryen or Baratheon, or dwell on their old glories. The Long Winter is coming, and we must face it prepared.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” said Glover, leaning forward. “I have secured fifty barrels of dragonglass, yet shaping it is slow and costly work.”

Jon thought a moment, then said, “Any smallfolk who fashions a hundred arrowheads, spearpoints, or daggers of obsidian shall be excused of all other taxes for the year. That ought to hasten the matter.”

“Your Grace…” Manderly pursed his lips, hesitating for a long moment. “That might see the royal coffers grow thin.”

“Let them grow thin, then,” said Jon. “Hoarding gold will be of no use should we lose that battle. With time, the coffers could be refilled. Speaking of which, have you men in mind for my council, Lord Wyman?

“Only Edwyle Locke, cousin to Lord Locke of Oldcastle.” Manderly signalled to his page, Alyn Woolfield, who filled their goblets with mulled wine. “Edwyle is a man well-travelled, a handler of sea trade, with friends in Braavos, Myr, and half the western ports. He is cunning and more discreet than most. I cannot think of a better man.”

No doubt one of Manderly’s creatures, then. This was the beginning of courtly games—every king’s curse. Yet a wise king could steer the game in his favour.

“Summon Edwyle Locke to Winterfell,” he said. “If he proves unfit, he will be dismissed.”

“As you command.” The Hand sipped his wine, then tugged at his collar of blue satin with an uneasy hand. “Your Grace… have you considered a bride? The North would be gladdened to see its king wed, and the presence of a queen would ease the minds of many.”

Jon smiled thinly. “Fret not, my lord Hand. A wife will be found in due time, but haste in such matters is folly. I have eyes and ears on the matter, but the choosing of a queen is not to be rushed. Let us move to more urgent matters instead.”

“The matter of the joint venture in trade—” Manderly began, plunging into a long discourse of coin, cogs, and foodstuff. Jon endured it in silence, the heavy weight of his crown pressing against his temples. Trade bored him to death, yet his previous life had shown that the flow of trade was the lifeblood of any kingdom.

It could not be ignored, just like the countless small challenges facing a fledgling kingdom. The North needed more than just a king and a dragonrider. It needed a royal court and means to rule the vast kingdom in peacetime in a way that would see its peoples flourish.

Jon meant to build something new, something better than what the Targaryens had done, better than what the old Kings of Winter had boasted of, and now was the time to set the foundation. But it had to be done with consideration and care. One misstep, one wrong move, and everything might crumble under its weight later.

22nd Day of the 7th Moon, 303 AC

Sansa Stark

The needle slipped from her fingers as the door banged open, and Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. The direwolf she had been stitching bled white thread across the black doublet as her hand trembled. Arya swept into the chamber like a whirlwind… at least she wasn’t leaving mud with each step this time.

“Seven hells, don’t you tire of sewing?” her sister demanded, pouting as though the sight offended her.

“Must you always come crashing in?” Sansa’s voice wavered despite herself as she stiffly gathered back the thread and needle. Sudden noises still set her heart pounding, no matter how many months had passed.

Arya blinked, chastened in a way that she would have never expected on that face.

“Gods, I’m sorry,” she said, bowing her head. “I’ll not do it again.”

Few could disturb Sansa when she wished to be alone, and her sister was one of them—Brienne would never have barred Arya or Jon. She found her hands steadying only after several breaths and returned to her stitches.

“Embroidery soothes me,” she said at last, lifting the doublet to show the white wolf head taking shape upon black Norvoshi wool rimmed in silver thread. “And you know our royal brother would wear a burlap sack or some tattered old thing if left to himself.”

Arya snorted. “He only wears your work because he hasn’t the heart to refuse you.” A sliver of envy slipped into her voice. “And it’s good work, better than any tailor’s. Gods, you were always always talented in this.”

Once, Sansa would have basked in such praise, doubly so coming from her brash little sister. Even now, it warmed her heart. Yet she knew better—her skills were on par with any seamstress worth her salt, and borne out of countless hours of needlework, not something as elusive as talent.

“It’s a pity my sister will not be coaxed into finer garb,” she said, eyeing Arya’s scruffy woollen breeches with mock sorrow. “You look more stablehand than princess.”

Arya bristled, then paused, frowning. “…If you made me a dress, I’d wear it.”

Sansa stared. Their mother had wept and Septa Mordane had despaired for years to no avail, yet Arya had never yielded. “Truly?”

“Aye.” Arya bobbed her head. “Don’t gape at me so. Gowns don’t sound so bad if they’re not so tight and stiff. I just want something easy to move in.”

Sansa studied her needle, lips pursed. This was not something she had worked on before. But a challenge was always welcome. “A riding gown, then. Of Norvoshi wool and Myrish cotton. You shall have it.”

“I promise I’ll try not to muck it this time. Now—come, Jon’s about to spar!”

“In a moment.” Carefully, Sansa finished the direwolf’s head, laid the doublet aside, and smoothed her skirts before rising. For once, Arya had waited in silence, without twitching a finger.

Draping fur-lined cloaks over their shoulders, they left the warmth of the parlour and made way to the training grounds.

At the edge of the yard, a crowd of maidens had gathered like a flock of bright-plumed birds, tight silk bodices and low-cut velvet peeking from beneath the sable and ermine cloaks despite the cold.

“They all look like peacocks.” Arya eyed them with disgust.

Sansa stifled an unladylike snort. “With no fear of outshining a queen, they don’t hesitate to doll up.”

It was no surprise to see all the unwed Northern maidens crowded here. Her royal brother was lean with muscle, his dark hair damp with sweat as he moved with the grace and certainty of a dancer. She shook her head sharply, banishing the thought. She had made her choices, and it was too late to regret.

“Do you think Jon would let me spar with him if I asked?” Arya whispered.

“Perhaps. He can scarce deny you anything. Best ask in the godswood, though, not before half the castle.”

Already, Jon had disarmed one foe and knocked another to the ground.

“I will.” Her sister watched the fight with rapt attention. “This is slower than I thought. Thought Jon would be done by now after all that talk about the trail in combat.”

“The guardsmen are not foes to be killed,” Sansa said with a low chuckle and lowered her voice. “He slows himself with sorcery, I believe. Elsewise, there’d be no challenge to him. Something about… gra-gravy-ty and resistance that I didn’t quite get.”

The memory of the battle was still vivid in her mind. Jon had fought like the Warrior made flesh, carving a bloody swath through steel, flesh, and bone as if they were parchment. Many called him the Demon of Winterfell for that valour, and rightly so. Even here, his strokes came swift and powerful, and the burly guardsmen struggled to fend them off. Within moments, the third was disarmed, and the last one lay flat upon the snowy gravel.

Giggles and cheers rang out from the gaggle of maidens. Sansa felt a small stab of something—envy, perhaps—at the way Wylla Manderly and the rest all but devoured Jon with their eyes. Tallhart, Manderly, Forrester, Mazin, Slate, Flint… none seemed worthy of a crown. Or her brother. Especially her brother.

“They drool at him like eager curs before a fresh slab of meat,” Arya scowled. Sansa followed her sister’s gaze to Wylla, green braid twisting over her chest, her bodice cut low. The girl looked ready to mount Jon in the yard, wedding vows or no.

Sansa knew the feeling. Once, not so long ago, she had been much the same—her head full of false songs, her heart full of pretty lies as she had chased Joffrey with vapid desperation. While Jon didn’t care for gallantry and pomp, his blunt honesty and honour made him a fine man. A finer husband than most.

Morgan Liddle stepped forward to the challenge next, towering over most men by half a head. He was half a shoulder wider, too, with a muscled body that reminded her of a bull.

“Every girl has dreamed of being a queen,” Sansa said lightly.

“Not me,” Arya snapped back.

“No?” Sansa’s smile turned sly. “What of Visenya, or Nymeria? How often did you play at being them? I do not recall them as fishwives or washerwomen.”

“That’s not fair.” Arya pouted, though she did not deny it. “But I think few girls dream of being warrior queens.”

“None, save Lyra Mormont,” Sansa let out a soft snort. “But… the weight of a crown can be crushing, even atop a woman’s head. They all feel lacking.”

Arya gave a tight nod, eyeing the maidens in question with thinly veiled disdain. “They want to be the Queen and the Lady of Winterfell far more than they want to be Jon’s wife. I can see it in their eyes. A small surprise that they haven’t started fighting for it.”

Sansa’s lips twitched. “Their battle has already begun, dear sister. But it’s not fought with swords and arrows but with gowns and silks and smiles. Each glance our brother spares a maiden is a small victory, each moment his eyes linger a greater one, though none seem close to winning.”

“…That’s dreadful. I’d rather watch them fight it out properly. I bet Jon would prefer it, too.”

Morgan Liddle caught Jon’s blade with the curve of his bearded axe, but Jon lunged, twisting swiftly. Both weapons fell aside, and the guardsmen roared as fists began to fly instead.

They battered each other for a long while without faltering. Then, Jon had seized the mountain chieftain’s sleeve. With a great pull, he spun with a sharp twist, sending him flying over his shoulder. Morgan Liddle slammed straight into the gravel with a thud, and even Sansa cringed. But her brother had pulled tight the jack’s sleeve and placed his foot beneath the chieftain’s head in the last moment, softening the fall.

Smiling widely, Jon hauled him up again with ease, and the guardsmen erupted into cheers.

As soon as the Liddle chieftain stepped aside, the Greatjon lumbered in for the challenge, laughing, greatsword in hand.

“Who will he choose, do you think?” her sister asked.

“Wylla Manderly,” Sansa replied. Arya wrinkled her nose.

The green-haired maiden’s bold staring displeased her as much as it did her sister, but Wylla was the Hand’s granddaughter, and her match would bind White Harbour tighter to Winterfell. She had wit enough when she chose to show it, though more often she simpered. Jon’s eyes had strayed to her chest more than once, and the girl was not without her charms. But not as good—or as big—as Sansa’s own charms, at least.

“She would not look at him once, at harvest feast,” Arya said, scorn sharp in her voice. “Now she moons over him like a bitch in heat.”

“That was Lysara Flint, not Wylla” Sansa let out a soft sigh. “But Lysara Flint was far from the only one to turn her gaze away from Jon then.” Her own cheeks burned with shame. She had been one of them once.

The clangour of steel seemed to grow louder and louder as her brother and Greatjon clashed, until even her ears rang with it. It made her head ache.

“I think I shall return to the keep,” she said faintly.

Gathering her skirts, she turned from the yard, leaving Arya frowning behind.