16.Growing Bold

2nd Day of the 6th Moon, 303 AC

Sansa Stark

The last day had been a blur; her thoughts drifted with the wind, and everything felt like a fleeting dream. After the meeting, Sansa patiently waited aside as Jon spoke to her granduncle. Having Ser Brynden Tully swear his service to him was a bold yet cunning move, which would only bolster Jon’s legitimacy.

The answers her brother promised were nearing. But… was he her brother?

Or was he Aunt Lyanna’s son as Barbrey had claimed?

After her granduncle left the Great Hall, Jon strode her way, the cloak Sansa had made proudly fastened upon his shoulders.

“Let us move to a more secluded place.”

Lantern in hand, her brother led her through the dark courtyard. Brienne of Tarth followed a dozen paces behind, her armour clinking softly with each step. Before she knew it, Sansa was faced with a familiar ironwood door in the depths of the lichyard.

Ghost was sprawled at the foot of the steps, tongue lolling from his mouth. Curled on the arching granite roof like monstrous cats, lay Stormstrider and Bloodfyre, tails languidly swaying from the edges like two pendulums. Winter was there too, a looming shadow prowling through the lichyard restlessly.

With a wave of his hand, Jon dismissed Brienne. Aside from kin, no one could enter the Crypts of Winterfell without the permission of its lord. The Tarth maid bowed stiffly and reluctantly disappeared into the darkness. Ghost stirred to his master’s side, and Jon scratched beneath the direwolf’s jaw until the beast tugged playfully at his sleeve.

When the direwolf had had enough and returned to the stone steps, Jon stepped forward, and with a push, the ironwood door groaned open. Without a word, he disappeared into the gaping darkness below, and Sansa followed.

The narrow stairs were steep and winding, forcing her to lean on the walls for balance. The granite walls were cold, sucking the heat from her skin. The chill only grew as they descended further. The air was still and damp, and with each turn of the stairs, it seemed to grow heavier.

It was the sixth archway that Jon entered, and Sansa knew this place best in the crypts. All the Starks since the Conquest were laid to rest here, and by the stone throne of each lord, a granite direwolf lay asleep. With each step, the lantern swung, ruddy light dancing against the shadows in a tug of war along the grim, judging faces of the statues of her ancestors. She drew her cloak tight around her shoulders.

Her feet soon ached from the cold stone below, but Jon finally stopped before a statue. It was an odd statue, upright where the rest were seated, yet still smaller than all of them. Unlike all the others, this one was a girl, not yet a woman, with a sad face etched into the stone. Lyanna Stark. Sansa’s tragic aunt, and perhaps… Jon’s mother, if Barbrey Dustin’s mocking words held any truth.

Of all the Starks who had their likeness carved in the stone, only she had no direwolf.

After a long silence, Jon spoke. “I began to have these… dreams, after I rose from the pyre.”

“Dreams?” she echoed, numbly.

“Visions,” Jon said. “Not like the dreams I used to have. These were clearer, sharper than any dream ought to be. As if I were remembering… fragments of another life. The more I dreamt, the more it made sense. It was a different world, one I lived in once before. There’s no easy way to speak of it, not without sounding mad.”

Madness. Visions. Those two often walked hand in hand. But gods, Sansa believed him, for Jon never lied, not to her.

“And this other life?” she asked, smoothing her skirts. “What has it to do with this?”

“Everything,” was the quiet response. “I saw wonders that you cannot even begin to imagine. Magic beyond anything the maesters could ever admit is real. Sorcery that would make the warlocks of Asshai and the mage-princes of the Freehold look like blind children wandering in the night. Powers that could tear the world apart or knit it back together with a word. Most of the magic I tried failed… but not all.”

He stepped closer to Lyanna’s statue and hung the lantern upon an empty sconce. Jon stretched his hand out.

The lantern dimmed until the light fizzled out, plunging Sansa into complete darkness. But she was not afraid.

A flame bloomed, lighting the crypt again. But this was not torchlight or lantern, but a flicker of violet dancing upon Jon’s outstretched palm. It grew, shimmered, then twisted into the shape of a maiden who began to dance across his palm.

That was how he had lit the torch in the dungeons.

“But… how?” she whispered.

“Magic,” Jon said softly, with a fondness one would speak of their favourite pet. Then his eyes glowed, burning with power like two bright torches in the night.

All around them, fire bloomed alive.

Flames twisted through the air, forming wreaths of purple and deep blue. They churned and danced, taking shapes—dragons, direwolves, and horned serpents, each chasing each other. The torches along the crypt sprang to life with unnatural fire, and the air grew warm. Sansa lifted a hand to shield her eyes.

Then, as quickly as it had come, it ended. Jon closed his fist, and the creatures of flame vanished smokelessly, though the torches remained lit. A gentle warmth lingered, banishing the chill even from the flagstone below.

Sansa stared at him in awe. Dragons she knew, she had seen them aplenty. But this… this was sorcery unlike any she had heard of before, and he wielded it with the ease an old warrior would wield a sword.

She crossed the chamber slowly and reached toward a nearby torch. The heat danced across her face, like the kiss of the warm summer wind.

“This is…” She hesitated. “Amazing.”

Jon inclined his head, and the purple flames grew paler until all the torches burned yellow. His face had grown solemn once more, but the relief in his eyes was plain to see.

“But it’s not what I meant to ask,” Sansa murmured. Her hand reached up and touched his cheek. It was warm beneath her palm, the dark stubble prickling her fingers.

“I know.” Jon gave her a quiet, wry smile. “I did promise you the truth.” Then he gently grasped her fingers, laying a soft kiss upon them. She blushed despite herself, feeling like a foolish young girl once again. “Patience. I’ll get to it.”

It was a show of trust, she realised. Magic was reviled in Westeros for millenia, and sorcerers and wargs were to be hunted down, yet Jon revealed his darkest secrets for her to see. To gauge her reaction and test her resolve.

“Very well,” Sansa said, but it sounded more like a squeak.

“There are many things my magic can do.”

Her brother gave her a conflicted smile and reached for the hilt at his side, and drew it without a sound. The metal was eerie, a dark dusky bronze that drank in the torchlight without reflection. The sight of it made her want to turn around and flee.

“Your armour is of a similar make,” Sansa said instead. There is no other like it. “And this… must be something forged by your hand.”

It all made sense now, even those long hours spent in Castle Black in the smithy.

“Aye.” Jon nodded with grim approval and idly stabbed the sword’s tip downwards. It sank into the granite as if it were butter. “Spellforged bronze, if I had to give it a name—as good as dragonsteel, if not better. It… was difficult to make, and the cost was not small.”

For a fleeting heartbeat, he looked almost demonic, his face looking devilish. Then, her brother was back, smiling kindly. Sansa shivered, and a desire to bolt away rose in her chest, but her feet remained firmly planted on the ground. Jon had been here for her when everything had seemed lost, and she would not falter now, not before the good, the bad, or the ugly.

He drew the sword back effortlessly and returned it to the sheath, and Sansa could breathe easier again. Jon reached for the small leather pouch on his belt, no larger than a grown man’s hand. What happened next made Sansa’s heart leap—his hand disappeared inside all the way to the elbow, far past what should have been possible.

When he pulled it out, he placed something warm in her palm: a delicate pin of dark bronze, shaped like a direwolf’s head.

“I made it for you,” he said lightly. “The pouch is… larger than it seems. Enchanted to be as light as a feather, too.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, fumbling to fasten the gift to her bodice. But even as her fingers worked, her thoughts raced. “Maester Luwin used to say magic was a sword without a hilt… that there was no safe way to grasp it.”

“And he was not wrong,” Jon replied. “But he was not right either. The way of sorcery and magic is terrible and great in equal measures, fraught with perils, but only for those who tread it without guidance. Any… wizard of sufficient skill and knowledge has little to fear from magic. To such a man, sorcery is his greatest ally and strongest weapon.”

“This is all fascinating,” Sansa said lightly, but the storm in her heart had little to do with fire or sorcery. “Jon… are you truly my aunt’s son?”

Will you respond to my affection if you’re my cousin?

“Yes,” he said, his smile growing brittle. “I would have never known without magic—it’s sorcery that helped me uncover the truth. I just wished to know who my mother was, and instead, I found out that the man who raised me is not my sire.”

She did not doubt it, not after what she had seen tonight.

“I can see why Father took you in.” Sansa’s fingers idly twirled crimson strands of her hair. “This could change everything, Jon—”

“This changes nothing at all.”

‘Always so stubborn,’ she thought, though part of her loved him for it. Did he not see? Or did he refuse to see?

Her frustration bubbled over. Before she could even think, Sansa cupped his face and kissed him.

His lips were warm and tasted faintly of salt and spice, yet sweeter than anything she had tasted before. For a moment, he froze, and Sansa thought she had made a terrible mistake. But before she could pull away, he kissed her back with a hunger. His ravenous hands found her waist, her back, her shoulders, and his tongue did things that made her blush.

It felt like an eternity, but before Sansa could get enough, he broke away, chuckling.

“What’s so amusing?” she said, breathless.

“You’ve grown vey bold, Sansa Stark. But this would be a mistake.”

She pulled back, wounded. Her cheeks burned with shame. Would he spurn her because she was scarred or despoiled?

“Do not fret,” he said, catching her hand again. “By all the gods, I am a breath away from hiking up your skirt and bending you over here, for all of our ancestors to see. You wouldn’t even mind. But…”

Sansa had the decency to blush as she looked away. Her eyes found her father’s statue, stone face looking down on her with grim disapproval.

“Why? Why would this be a mistake?” she pressed, swallowing down the guilt bubbling in her throat. “We are not brother and sister.” And… even if they were, Jon was the Blood of the Dragon. They wedded and bedded their sisters aplenty.

“Because I want this to be genuine,” said Jon. The burning desire in his eyes made her heart flutter. “So I must ask. Are you seeking your brother’s protection and the closeness of kinship, or a lover’s affection?”

“I…” The words caught in her throat. He was holding himself back for her sake, not for his, she realised.

With just a word, the deed would be done, and there would be no going back. But that word did not leave her lips.

What did she truly want? She didn’t know, and… it scared her.

“I’ll protect you either way,” he said gently, giving her hand a slight squeeze. “Cousin, brother, or husband, my protection will not falter. Forget about alliances, royal affairs, or the like.”

“How?” Sansa hiccuped. “Any lady, any princesses are to be wedded off! It’s a woman’s duty…”

“It is. But what do I need alliances for? The North is now mine. Who can help me more than dragons and sorcery can?” Then, he reached out, his fingers brushing softly against her cheek. “You’ve been twice wedded already, but there will be no third time, should you wish it. Not while I still breathe.”

“But,” her voice cracked, her throat felt dry, “what if I want it? What if I want you?”

“I will do it,” Jon said, closing his eyes. “I will wed you… as the son of Lyanna Stark. I can forge some proof and announce my parentage to the world. But it comes with no small consequences.”

“W-What?” The words came out like a whisper, her mind still half-lost in the warmth of his touch.

“The blood of Rhaegar Targaryen will run through the veins of your children. No matter how loudly I renounce any claims, when some lord grows restless south of the Neck, remembering the ‘good old days’, they will look not to their liege, but to me. Or worse… to my sons.”

“You have dragons,” she murmured almost petulantly. “The lords would look to you regardless.”

“Some might,” Jon allowed. “But Eddard Stark’s son, who never left the North, can easily turn them away. Too many turned against House Stark in the war, and now the wounds and grievances run deep. But Rhaegar’s heir with a dragon? They’d come to me in droves. The blood claim will linger for decades. They’d call us sisterfuckers too, and our children dragonspawn and abominations. Cousins by blood or not, we grew as siblings under the same roof, making our union no less perverse.”

Sansa looked away, then, but Jon gently took her chin, pushing her gaze to meet his.

“I can live with such rumours,” he said, his voice calm. “I’ve heard worse as a bastard. Of course, I can try to silence the whispers, pass laws and royal orders forbidding such talk on the pain of death, but it would crop up on its own like weeds in a garden. But can you bear it? Can you endure when the courtiers whisper behind your back? Can you bear it when men curse you and your children in their cups? The mockery and contempt will be no less, and even time won’t wash the stigma away.”

It was all true; she knew it in her heart. Sansa had seen more than enough to know it. For a fleeting moment, she wanted to disappear into the ground. He had given this more thought than she, and that shamed her most of all.

Jon’s warm hand settled on her shoulder. “This choice is yours. Take your time. Look deep within your heart, and decide. But know this, all other roads are open to you. If you choose to stay here and take no husband, then stay. If you wish to wed another, I will not gainsay you. If you would ride south, or cross the Narrow Sea and see all the world has to offer, you may. Read, fight, pray, or dance through the halls, and I will even find you tutors for it all. Whatever you wish, so long as I breathe, it shall be yours. This, I swear, by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron, by ice and fire.”

The torches flared, and a sudden wind surged through the vaulted hallway, but the words still lingered in her ears. Ice and fire. Sansa felt a ghostly shiver down her skin.

Too much. It was too much.

The day had left her weary, and the revelations had left her numb. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess. Sansa could not think clearly.

“I… thank you.” It was all she could say to Jon’s earnest gaze.

His words had not been the answer she had hoped for. Instead, he had given her something greater—honesty, and the freedom of choice, something she never thought possible for someone like her.

She did not know what she felt. She only knew she did not dislike the feeling.

Sansa stifled a yawn, though it escaped her despite herself. Jon gave a soft chuckle and, without a word, took her hand and helped her back toward the surface.

4th Day of the 6th Moon, 303 AC

Maege Mormont

Tomorrow, she would march eastward, through the White Knife and the Lonely Hills, to take command of the Dreadfort. A raven had arrived last evening with the surrender of the Castellan, so it was just a formality. Yet the Bolton seat still had to be secured properly, and the task was entrusted to her.

And the honour fell to House Mormont. Many honours fell on her house. Moat Cailin and Dreadfort were of strategic importance, and both were entrusted to them. Perhaps it was a reward for their loyalty to the Young Wolf. Regardless, it gladdened Maege beyond words, and in this trust, she saw the chance for her house to rise.

The king was a young man, but had cunning beyond his years, and the grit to make the truly hard choices.

The time had come for the executions. It was a cold and windy morning, and a pale veil of hoarfrost clung to the ground as the morning sun struggled to dispel it.

A large crowd had gathered in the big square in Wintertown, pressing towards the wooden scaffold raised yesterday.

This was the first execution in Jon Stark’s reign, and as all Northern executions, they were done by the hand of the judging lord. The judging king, now. Regardless, none wanted to miss it.

Wildling, hill, and forest chieftains alike were here, standing on a wooden platform nearby. Even the giants were here, their hairy figures looming over everyone. Lord Mazin, Princess Sansa, the young doe, Maege’s daughters, and even the plump Jonelle Cerwyn, who had arrived yesterday to bend the knee, now stood wrapped in sable fur. Near the back, a red-robed priestess stood apart, the cut of her garments too low, too revealing for the Northern autumn. She looked more like a whore than a godly woman, too. But then, most queer Essosi gods were patrons of harlots and slatterns.

Even the smallfolk were here in a crowd, having come from the nearby villages and hamlets to witness the new king. To witness his justice.

Maege’s gaze found the Princess again. She was withdrawn, even more than the previous days. The icy mask all Starks eventually mastered was plastered over her face, but her eyes looked lost.

Suddenly, the whispers only grew more frantic, and the crowd parted.

Jon Stark strode through with a large stone block hoisted upon his shoulder, as if it were a sack of flour. The thing must have weighed at least thirty stone by its size, but he bore it with ease, and the groaning thud as he laid it upon the scaffold only confirmed her guess. As usual, he wore a simple tunic and breeches; the only thing that would set him apart from any other Northman was his sharp purple eyes and black cloak bearing his sigil.

He unsheathed the dark blade and swung it over lazily, the flat side resting upon his shoulder. It was not Longclaw, but a greatsword, with its blade broader than usual and somewhat thicker, that looked like a heavy, wicked thing. Perhaps it was, and the king had no trouble wielding it.

Soon, the prisoners came, dragged from the dungeons in chains, a long and miserable column winding down from Winterfell’s gate. By the gate stood a tall stake, and upon it writhed a dying man impaled from arse to neck—Ramsay’s kennelmaster. A day later, he had yet to expire, but Maege found no mercy in her heart for him. In the king’s boots, she would have done worse.

“Today, you shall witness Northern justice,” Jon said, his cool voice cutting through the whispers. His words were quiet, but somehow carried through the whole crowd. “These men are all guilty of the highest of treasons—turning their blade on their king and his men. Say your last words, and may the gods have mercy upon your souls, for you will find none from me.”

The first man was hauled up the scaffold, his face sallow and unwashed, his lips trembling with fear.

“Mercy! Mercy, Yer Grace,” he sobbed. “It was just orders—just orders—”

The king’s face darkened.

“Ser Rodrick Cassel and his men were given no mercy. Nor the Northmen slain at the Crossing or the people of Winterfell. Your lord gave the command, aye, but it was your hands that carried it out. You followed Roose and Ramsay to the last—now follow them into death.”

The man was pressed down the block. The black blade rose, and with a single stroke, the head rolled down. Blood sprayed across the planks, and a low, hoarse cheer rose from the crowd.

“Stark!” someone called out.

It was as if a dam had burst open.

“Stark!” The shouts spread through the crowd like fire through dry grass, and soon, rose in strength like the rumbling of thunder. Even Maege found herself chanting. “Stark!”

The king raised his hand, and the clamour died on their lips. At that moment, Maege Mormont knew that crown or not, Jon Stark had won the hearts of the Northmen.

Another was dragged to the block. And then a third, and a fourth. Some begged, others wept, and one cursed him, and had his teeth broken by a clansman’s mailed fist before his head was taken. A few tried to fight, only to be clubbed into submission. But none were spared; the king did not waver even once. Patiently, he listened to their last words as was the Northern custom and raised the sword to take their head. One after the other, the line of prisoners grew shorter.

By the thirtieth man, the square stank of blood and fear. The scaffold ran red, and heads piled high in a macabre sight.

Without a shadow of a doubt, Maege knew this would be like the kings of old, men with ice in their hearts who ruled from an iron fist from the Neck to the Wall.

Ours is the Old Way.

It was not bloodlust that drove him, but righteousness. Maege had seen too many twisted men, killing for the joy of it. There was no joy in Jon Stark today, just cold resolve. He was killing them because justice demanded it. It would be easier to pardon these men, all experienced warriors, battle-hardened and good at following orders. Precisely the kind of men Jon Stark most needed right now. But it would not be just.

The crowd did not look away; the smallfolk watched with set jaws and grim approval. The men-at-arms stood straighter. This was justice for them, too. It was their sons and brothers who had suffered under the Bolton blades in Winterfell and the Crossing. It was their kin that was flayed, burned, and chased like wild hares across farms and fields.

Not all had the stomach for such sights. The princess had averted her gaze, and Lady Jonelle Cerwyn retched into the mud. One of the Forrester girls fainted. Maege’s youngest had retreated, unable to see it through. Yet the little Baratheon girl, Shireen, the good part of her face as pale as chalk, did not flinch. Her eyes never left Jon once.

Hours had passed by the time the last head fell. The scaffold was soaked with blood, and the nearby mud was painted red. Jon’s cloak and garments were all crimson, yet the dark blade in his hand remained clean, untouched by gore.

“Burn the bodies,” he commanded. “Mount the heads on the outer wall. Let all who come see the fate of traitors in the North.”

Beside Maege, her daughter Lyra whispered, “He didn’t hesitate. Not even once.”

“They killed his household and butchered loyal men at the feast table,” she said. “Such crimes are not forgiven. Nor should they be.”

It had been a grisly thing. But men would remember. And they would think twice before drawing swords against the direwolf banner, orders or not.

Jon Stark

His garments were soaked with blood, down to his boots. Jon burned them away, but gave the cloak that Sansa had gifted him to the servants for cleaning.

If his self-control had been any weaker, Sansa would have been fucked on the spot. And once that line was crossed, it could never be undone. Once there was a first time, a second time would be quick to come, and a third, and a fourth. Of all the things, he had expected such boldness from Sansa the least.

Jon pushed the thought away.

The execution was still weighing on his mind, but that heaviness could not be simply set aside or buried under magic. There was only so much one could suppress their emotions without backlash. Beheading helpless men took a heavy toll on him, but a message had to be sent. Treason would not be tolerated.

He let his emotions run, and the backlash had him reeling.

Letting his thoughts flow freely, Jon let his feet lead him as he wandered through the courtyards and the hallways, his eyes drinking in every detail to distract his mind. Before long, he found himself before the godswood’s entrance.

Jon had been here for half a decade, since he had left to join the Watch.

When he stepped inside the grove, a jolt went through his senses. The magic was thick in the air, almost palpable. It was an ancient, primal power that could no longer be found in his previous world after the old forests had been decimated.

This place was old, impossibly old, preserved for millennia, and some of the trees here were older than Winterfell. Bubbling hot water surged from the depths of the earth into a wreath of steaming pools, and a veil of mist cloaked the moss-covered rocks and roots like a ghostly blanket.

Above was a dense canopy of red, brown, green, and yellow leaves covered by a pale layer of frost. Deeper, in the heart of the grove, Jon found the heart tree. A behemoth of pale bark crowned by leaves of crimson rustling in the wind.

As he neared, Jon felt it clearer—it thrummed with power, shining with magic like a beacon in the dark.

Curiosity stirred in his mind, but he made no move to inspect the tree—delving into unknown magic was not done with a mind as unsettled as his. Instead, he sat cross-legged on a stone, letting his thoughts and emotions flow freely. As time passed, his mind slowly eased, and the strain from earlier finally dwindled. The fissures along his soul were mending, even faster than before.

Was it because he believed in the righteousness of his deed?

Or was it because magic was different here?

Or was it the First Men tradition, imprinted in magic itself?

An hour later, his mind was as light as a feather, and Jon opened his eyes. His gaze was drawn to the carved face in the weirwood, twisted in melancholy. Cautiously, Jon reached out and carefully ran his fingers over the bone-white bark, feeling the rough texture. Curiosity got the better of him, and he pushed a single tendril of magic in, and the world suddenly twisted.

A bear of a man clad in bronze led a charge against smaller, human-like figures. Behind him came others, men with spears and shields, their faces marked with white and black war-paint and soon blood.

Their foes were child-like, lithe and quick as cats, with brown skin, dappled and spotted like a deer. Children of the Forest. They were nimble between the trees and bushes, fighting back with obsidian daggers and weirwood bows. But nimbleness and dragonglass were no match for the strength of men.

One by one, they all fell, and their corpses were tossed in the lake, dying it crimson.

Jon tried desperately to wrench away his mind and magic, but the bloody tree’s hold on him was as tight as a vice.

Eventually, the world spun again.

The shores were lined with spiked heads as far as the eye could see. A group of longboats chock-full of armed men in ringmail approached but turned around at the grisly sight.

He kept seeing more and more different scenes, most of which were short, merely a fleeting glance at times and places Jon did not recognise. Some were full of fighting, while others were quite mundane. No matter what Jon tried, he could not return to his body.

A man moved hurriedly, fingers trembling as he reached for the dragon eggs. There were three—one as dark as ink with veins of blue, the second a deep purple streaked with bronze, and the last was as deep red, stained with whirls of gold. He slipped them into a leather satchel lined with fur, careful as if they would break at the slightest push.

He took off his hood, revealing flowing white hair, a single red eye, and a pale face marred by a blotched wine-stain birthmark. An albino. He had just tied the bag before men-at-arms barged into the room and dragged him away.

The world twisted.

Everything was now covered by a veil of white. A score of pale shadows slid through the snow, leaving no footprints. Yet… they were not the crude, ugly make of the White Walkers Jon had seen. Instead of ice, their flesh was as pale as milk, moving with unnatural grace.

They were standing in a circle, three times seven, each Other chanting at a throne hewn of frost. Atop it sat an ethereal maiden with cold white skin, a furious snarl on her pretty face. The oddest thing was the plain bronze circlet atop her snowy curls. With her at the centre, a matrix of stone and ice spiralled away in the shape of a whirlpool, densely inscribed with the runes of the First Men, glowed in eerie blue.

The jarring chanting, which sounded like cracking the ice of a frozen lake, only rose as they retreated.

The imprisoned woman and her surroundings slowly faded, but her cold blue eyes met Jon’s, and a familiar crushing pressure enveloped him.

Yet Jon was not as he had been before; he lashed out with all his magic as a roaring purple fire rose within him, the world shattered like a broken mirror.

Something battered at his mind like an angry bull. A weaker and less experienced wizard would have had his very sense of self shattered, but Jon’s mind was anything but. Gritting his teeth, he stood his ground, forcing his mind to hold steady by sheer will.

The moment it ended, Jon jerked away from the heart tree. The previous bone-white bark had a single, charred handprint where his palm had lingered.

Jon felt very foolish now—he had acted like he had the power from his previous life. And even then, a ten-thousand-year-old magical tree that served as a divine totem would not be something he would underestimate. The weirwood was not truly sentient, but could wield mind magic. And gods, it was powerful.

Even now, he was unsure if what he had seen was just an illusion meant to toy with his mind or just some weird form of past sight.

He warily eyed the weirwood tree as the carved face began to weep crimson.

A myriad of questions churned in his mind, but a glance at the sky above had Jon cursing. He had thought that only a dozen minutes had passed, but the sun’s position suggested three hours had flown away.

6th Day of the 6th Moon, 303 AC

Arya, The Neck

She was Arya Stark of Winterfell. The words helped her remember. Her memories came easier as if the North helped her remember, even if it was the hateful marshland she had only seen once.

Bits and pieces of her childhood were returning each night in her dreams, spurred by Lord Umber’s tales. The faces in them were less blurred with each following evening, and she remembered the names. Jon, Robb, Bran, and Rickon. Sansa, too. And her parents were Catelyn and Eddard Stark.

She was Arya Stark of Winterfell.

Scowling, Arya swatted another big mosquito from her shoulder, leaving a smear of blood. Linen and leather did not stop the pests; half her back was covered in itchy red welts.

The swamp stretched in all directions, a tangled sprawl of reeds, turbid water, and the occasional twisted tree. Snakes slithered between the reeds, and the air was thick with the buzzing of bugs, some easily the size of a goose’s egg. But it wasn’t the snakes or the bloodthirsty flies that made Arya wary.

Her gaze was set on a stagnant pool twelve yards from them, on the gnarled shape half-submerged in the muck. To the untrained eye, it might have passed for a rotten log, but Arya knew better—it was a lizard-lion and it was watching.

They could stay motionless for hours, she remembered Mycah saying. The moment someone stepped near, they would spring forth, dragging you into the marsh.

“It’s faster to go through the Neck. We can easily sneak around Moat Cailin,” Arya grumbled deeply, mimicking Umber’s voice. “Stupid! At this point, we won’t even see the Moat at all. We should have taken a boat and crossed the Bite. Now we’re stuck in the middle of this damned bog without horses.”

“How would I know that the causeway was flooded?” Greatjon’s tangled beard shook indignantly. “The southern shores of the Bite are a barren, craggy place, hard to traverse and even harder to eke out a living in. You can walk leagues and leagues before finding a small fisherman’s village, and they might not even have a boat good enough to sail through the Bite.”

Two days ago, the causeway disappeared into the middle of a swamp. Greatjon called it autumn flooding, but to Arya, it looked like the marsh had gone hungry and just decided to eat the kingsroad.

Ever since, they carefully trudged along, trying to avoid the bogs on the way north. They crawled like turtles, careful with every step lest they sink into the soft ground or slip into the murky waters. Their first horse had broken his leg on the slippery root, and Greatjon had relieved it from its suffering. The second one had stumbled into a bog and was dragged into the murky depths before they could react. All they had seen was a prolonged maw full of razor-sharp teeth before the palfrey was gone and the waters were filled with blood. The third horse had been spooked, running straight into the jaws of yet another waiting lizard-lion.

All of this happened on the first day off the road. And their supplies and loot from the Crossing were strapped to the saddle, now lost with the horses.

“And where are all the crannogmen that would gladly help us, Lord Umber?” Arya groaned as she saw three more floating logs on the way forward.

“They’re here,” Greatjon said. But the certainty in his voice was weaker than yesterday. “The Neck is their domain.”

“Well,” she said, drawing out the word as she cast a slow, exaggerated glance over the mire. “No doubt they’re tucked somewhere between the lizard-lions, the fist-sized flies, and all this lovely swampland.”

The Lord of Last Hearth said nothing, and Arya felt bad as his shoulders sagged. But her patience had dwindled. She angrily swatted away another mosquito from her breeches—this one before it could take a bite—as they slowly trodded forward, cautiously testing every step.

They were lost in those cursed bogs. Under the formless grey sky, even the sun was lost, and every direction looked the same. There was no good place to rest at night, and they huddled together near a moss-covered rock and barely got a wink of sleep. Everything was cold and damp, too wet to start a fire. Arya could scarcely close her eyes with the near-constant buzzing of the flies.

She could easily imagine how, in ages past, many an Andal Warlord had met their end here before ever getting a glimpse at Moat Cailin. The Neck itself could kill you as surely as any blade or arrow, and any wounds here would doubtlessly fester and rot.

Truth be told, things were dire. They had no food, but men could go hungry for a while. They had no drink either—Arya had drunk the last of their fresh water this morning, and Greatjon had half a flask of ale left that would barely last them till tomorrow.

“We’ll just catch a frog or a snake, and drink its blood,” Greatjon had said, carelessly waving his meaty hand.

Even now, her stomach felt queasy at the thought.

Yet despite all those woes, Arya felt more alive than ever. The emptiness inside had slowly but grudgingly retreated as her memories kept returning. But with those memories, a desire to live, to survive, grew in her heart. Even though Greatjon seemed composed, Arya could sense his nervousness. If they didn’t find a way out soon, they would grow weak and die.

They should have tried to find a boat and crossed the Bite with it instead.

“You will not find us in the Neck, Lady Stark,” a soft voice came with the wind. “Not unless we wish to be found.”

Arya’s hand rushed to Needle’s hilt, and her eyes darted from shadow to shadow. The surrounding reeds rustled, but there was no breeze.

Then she saw them.

They stepped out of the marsh, as if no different from the lizard-lions and the snakes. One moment, the bog had been empty, and the next moment, Arya and Greatjon were surrounded by a score of men, though they were barely taller than she was.

Leather-bound shields, three-pronged spears, and armour of boiled leather and spotted green and brown cloaks merging with the surrounding mire.

All of her senses screamed of danger. She was as good as any other Faceless Man, yet she had not sensed a thing until she was surrounded.

Her gaze settled on the hooded figure at the front, slightly taller than the rest.

“Fear not,” said the man at the head, lowering his hood. “The blood of the Kings of Winter shall always find welcome in the Neck.”

His voice was calm, almost mild, but Arya felt the hairs stand on end. He smiled as if greeting old friends, and his soft green eyes were the kindest she had seen. Yet something in him put her on edge. He bore no armour, no blade she could see, but of all those who surrounded them, he was the most dangerous.

“How would you know that I’m a Stark?” Arya asked suspiciously.

“I would know that face anywhere,” he said, his gaze settling on her. “It’s as if Lyanna herself stands before me… if a touch shorter.”

“Howland Reed? Is that you, you sly bastard?” boomed Greatjon Umber, his scowl breaking into a grin that threatened to split his face. “By the gods, I’d kiss you if you had teats! This bloody mire drove me half-mad.”

Arya swallowed, her fingers falling from Needle’s hilt at last. Howland Reed. The Lord of Greywater Watch and the Neck. She remembered that name the moment Greatjon had spoken it—her father’s oldest friend.

They were saved.

“You best not,” Howland said with a chuckle. “My Jyanna has a sharp tongue and a sharper knife, and is not afraid to use either. You’re making way to Winterfell, I take it?”

“Indeed.” Arya gritted her teeth. “House Bolton has much to pay for.”

The crannoglord’s eyes flicked to her face, and his smile faded into something gentler. “There is much grief in you, child.”

“I’m not a child,” she snapped, bristling. “I’ll have fourteen name days come next moon.”

“Is that so?” Howland said it in the same tone one would speak when indulging a child. “But if it’s vengeance you seek, you’ve come too late.”

Arya swallowed, reading the truth on the crannogman’s face. “What?”

“King Jon Stark and Princess Sansa rode down from the Wall and smashed the Flayed Man and his host by the wolfswood. House Bolton is no more, and all the Northern Lords were summoned to Winterfell to bend the knee.”

Arya stood frozen, stunned, but Greatjon guffawed, his laughter rang loud enough to chase the lizard-lions deeper into the marsh.

“So the old She-Bear bloody well did it!”

The Umber Lord had mentioned Robb’s last decree in passing but had not thought it had arrived. Nothing had happened for nearly two years, and last she heard, Jon had been Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

“Ser Meryn, Ser Illyn, Cersei Lannister, Dunsen,” Arya murmured under her nose. With Walder Frey and the Boltons dead, only four names were left on her list. She was close. Maybe she should turn back and head to Casterly Rock. Three of them were probably in Tommen Baratheon’s court.

But was it worth it? What if she died? She would never see Jon and Sansa again.

Her brother looked like her, she could remember. And her sister… her hair was pretty, like blood.

Her hand instinctively found Needle’s hilt again.

No! She was Arya Stark of Winterfell. And Arya was tired. She longed to see her favourite brother… and even Sansa. Arya wouldn’t even mind if they quarrelled again, so long as she got to see her elder sister alive and well.

Vengeance could wait for now.