20.The New Hand of Winter

26th Day of the 6th Moon

Jon Stark

“The… princess is in good health,” Wolkan said after leaving the new quarters assigned to Myrcella in the Great Keep. “The stress and the cold have taken a toll on her, especially while still recovering from such a heavy, bone-deep wound on her face.”

“Rickard, I want two loyal swords at her door at all times,” Jon commanded coldly, leaving no room to doubt the seriousness of his order. “Once she’s well enough to walk, inform Myrcella that her presence is demanded in the Great Hall. She is now my guest—allowed to move around Winterfell freely with an escort but not leave.”

Rickard Liddle gave a curt nod and started barking out orders. He was a bear of a man, a capable warrior in his own right, bearing the ironic moniker of Little Liddle, and the younger brother of Chieftain Morgan Liddle and Jon’s new captain of the guard.

Once Jon was assured that a vengeful Northman would not kill his new hostage, he left.

“Grandfather, why did you not tell me she was the princess?” Wylla Manderly’s hissing echoed in his ears, carrying over from the other hallway.

“Wylla, Wynafryd, if more than two people know a secret, it’s no longer one. You genuinely made fast friends—”

Mouth twitching, Jon clamped down on his senses, drowning out the conversation. There was much more to Wyman Manderly than met the eye. The fat old merman was often mocked for his rotund body and cowardice. Today, Jon had seen that it was just a facade that hid a razor-sharp mind.

With Manderly here, Jon was only waiting for Alys Karstark, the Flints of Widow’s Watch, and Flint’s Fingers to pay homage, and the whole of the North would be once again sworn to Winterfell.

The castellan of Dreadfort had surrendered the former seat of House Bolton to Maege last evening, and so did the remaining Ryswells in the Rills to Lord Jonos Mazin. Perhaps that surrender would have been far harder to pry out if not for Winter circling the sky above, threatening a fiery death with his presence alone.

Jon gave a nod to Torghen, the sentry at his solar, and stepped in. Ghost padded just behind and rushed in to sprawl over the Myrish carpet on the floor.

His desk was finally clear of scrolls, documents, and reports—even during the Bolton occupation, the gears of bureaucracy had continued to turn. Jon had worked through the countless trivialities that required the Lord of Winterfell’s attention, but that was but a part of the royal duties.

He had to deal with lords, claims, feuds, and countless small issues that would certainly consume his time. A kingdom was a hungry beast that required its due.

So did his dragons, training in magic and skills in swordfighting.

Now, it was time to delegate. But even as a king, Jon could not toss aside his duties to just anyone, no matter how he wished otherwise. Delegation was an art in itself. Each post required a man—or a woman—of duty and skill and loyalty, a rare combination. If a post were too heavy a burden for a man, he would crumble or make a mess. If it were too light, loyal and capable men would be wasted. Lack of loyalty needed no further mention than Robb’s grisly end.

Rickard Liddle and Ser Brynden Tully had been his first choices, but their talents lay in war, not in the matters of ruling.

Still, by some small miracle, Jon had found a sliver of time for himself. Many of Winterfell’s buried secrets awaited him, and then, there was the heart tree and the vision of that terrible woman. He had not forgotten the hair of flowing ice, nor the power that dwarfed the White Walkers, but with none of their brutish crudeness.

A knock at the oaken door broke his thoughts. One of the guards announced his sisters.

Sansa came first, gliding in gracefully, a bronze direwolf brooch pinned at her breast over her heavy grey gown. Arya followed close behind, with a brooch of her own gracing her crumpled doublet.

If Sansa harboured any regret about last night’s decision, it could not be seen on her face. Her blue eyes were calm and untroubled. Arya seemed well at first glance, but Jon could see it was merely a play. A mask that pushed the tangle of her feelings down. Yet there was a new earnestness to her movements, a honesty in her motion that had been absent yesterday. She was healing in her own way, and a mask would serve her until she was well enough to go without one.

Jon would ensure she had the peace and time necessary for it.

“Come, sit,” he said, beckoning toward the table by the hearth. “How fare my two favourite princesses this fine day?”

Arya groaned with annoyance, flinging herself on the cushioned chair.

“You should grow used to it, little sister,” Sansa told her, settling with the practised grace. “With a king for a brother, you’ll be called ‘princess’ until the Stranger takes you. They’d still call you a princess after, writ in ink on the chronicles.”

“Easy for you to say,” Arya huffed. “You’re loving every bit of the pomp.”

“Half a decade ago, perhaps. Now I cherish quiet above all else.” Sansa leaned nearer to her, lowering her voice in faux seriousness. “Do you know how hard it is to make Jon wear anything decent? If I did not press him, he’d go about in an arming doublet and plain breeches like some hedge knight.”

“You’ll not have me dressed like a woman,” Jon said, wagging a finger. Arya snorted. “Why waste half an hour dressing myself into some useless finery that’s good for nought but looking a ponce?”

“A king ought to look the part,” Sansa replied, voice stubborn. Arya wheezed with laughter.

“I care little for such things,” Jon said, shrugging. “I’ll not squander gold on silks and ill-fitted man-gowns.”

Sansa’s gaze grew fiercer, as if taking this as a challenge. “We shall see.”

Jon could already see her victory from afar. It was not a bad thing. Like with the cloak, she would fashion some garment cut to his liking, both pleasant and fit to use, knowing he would not refuse work of her own hand.

“So,” Jon clasped his hands, “what brings my fair sisters to my solar?”

Sansa cleared her throat, her face growing grave. “Winterfell’s larders run dangerously low, and winter is on our doorstep. At this pace, the stores will last a little more than a year, and that’s for the castle alone. Wintertown’s granaries were eaten clean by the Boltons, and the clans will come down from the hills soon enough, looking for food that won’t be there.”

Two battles near Winterfell and the surrounding armies were enough to eat the nearby fields and cattle clean. Both the Ironmen and the Boltons had caused too much ruin. With winter looming and the smallfolk scattered, the fields had lain fallow and the last two harvests had been lost.

“A year is enough,” he said. “We can send barges up the White Knife, laden with cattle and grain.”

If it came to it, he would fly to Essos with Winter, filling his bottomless pouch with supplies. Or perhaps even hunt leviathans in the Shivering Sea to tide Winterfell and the surroundings through the winter. He could devise a runic scheme to see the larders and granaries enchanted against rot and decay, but revealing his power was a last resort.

Perhaps he could leave the titanic carcass just outside the walls in the middle of the walls, and call it a blessing of the gods.

“Can’t you magick us food?” Arya asked.

“Magic cannot create or transform food,” he said, reaching to ruffle her hair, earning himself a squawk of protest.

A sharp kick caught his shin, followed by Arya’s hiss of pain. “Seven hells! Are your legs made of stone?”

“Manners,” Sansa sighed. “One does not kick a king.”

“I don’t mind,” Jon said with a sly grin. “She may keep kicking at her own peril.”

“No, I’ve had enough,” Arya muttered, rubbing her shin. “Don’t want to cripple myself.”

“If you can’t take it, don’t dish it out,” Jon chided, only to receive two blank looks. “Never mind. Sansa, have you drawn up a list of eligible brides?”

“Yes—”

“Wait,” Arya cut in, incredulous. “You’re going to wed?”

Jon’s mouth quirked. “Since neither you nor Sansa is likely to wed, the duty falls to me to further the Stark line. A king needs his queen and an heir.” His tone was light enough, but both sisters had the grace to look ashamed. Any other man in his place might have pressed them into matches already, yet Jon had sworn to Sansa, and it was fair to grant Arya the same boon.

Sansa cleared her throat, smoothing her skirts. “The first is Jorelle Mormont—”

“She’s too thickset,” Arya said at once. “Jon should have someone graceful. And pretty.”

“Weight can be lost,” Jon said dryly. “But I would prefer my bride easy on the eyes, aye. And Arya, do not interrupt your sister.” He fixed her with a stern look. The girl ducked her head, muttered something like an apology, and scowled at the floor.

Jon only prayed his future children were not half as troublesome.

“Let’s see,” Sansa went on, pulling out a small strip of parchment, “if not the Mormonts, there is Eddara Tallhart, Lady of Torrhen’s Square.”

“Too young at three-and-ten,” Jon said. Still, he had seen the way the girl looked at him, her shy glances, and clumsy attempts at attracting his gaze. Whether he wanted to ‘thank’ her saviour or aimed for the crown, he could not guess.

“It could be a betrothal, to wed once she comes of age,” Sansa suggested. “Do not strike her from the list yet. Next would be Argelle Mazin, Lord Mazin’s daughter.”

“House Mazin has been rewarded enough for their loyalty. And I’ve no wish to wed the Lady of Torrhen’s Square now or later. House Tallhart has not earned that honour, and Eddara is not the make of queens.”

“Very well, then. How about Alys Karstark?”

“Daughter of the lord our brother beheaded? Rickard Karstark betrayed Robb, and betrayal should not be rewarded. Not with a queen.”

“Mending such wounds might be a step toward reconciliation,” Sansa offered. “And Alys is comely by my memory.”

Ghost stirred then, stretching in silence before padding to the table. Arya, losing interest in the talk of matches, reached up to scratch beneath his jaw, and he started licking her face in turn. Something in that motion lessened the void in Arya. A hidden boon from the ritual?

“The North needs no mending,” Jon said, voice firm. “I have been more than merciful where forgiveness was prudent, but that does not mean I will forget. I remember those who answered our call at the Wall, and Karstark was not amongst them. Any others?”

“The other suitable ones are the Manderly sisters, Shireen, and…” Sansa hesitated, “Myrcella Baratheon. The rest are either too young, too old, or of houses with no importance.”

“Myrcella?” Jon shook his head. “I want no more ties to the Lannisters, be it good or bad. Watch the Manderly sisters and Alys Karstark. Learn all you can of them, and I shall make my choice. Anything else?”

“Yes, many have begun inquiring subtly about the Lordship of Barrowton, Hornwood, and the Dreadfort,” she said, spitting out the last word like a curse.

“Peace, Sansa. The Dreadfort has done you no harm. If they ask again, tell them I am considering the matter.” He rubbed at his brow. “I’ll have to look into the claims, the bloodlines, the old marriages. By law, you could be considered Lady of the Dreadfort, should you wish it.”

“No.” Sansa clenched her jaw. “I would rather that marriage remain voided. I want no part of the vile castle that seems to spawn traitors and monsters. I do not wish to hear of it again, let alone lay my gaze on the dreadful castle. But there’s one last thing…”

“Aye?”

“Have you commissioned your crown?”

27th Day of the 6th Moon, 303AC

“Your Grace.” The fat merman lord had a subservient smile on his face, but Jon could see the caution in his eyes. “Your brother charged me with a task before he rode to war.”

Wyman Manderly had requested another private audience, and they were now in Jon’s solar.

Jon leaned back in his chair. “And what task was that?”

“King Robb bade me build a fleet,” said Manderly, patting his bulging belly. “And I have delivered. Sixty-five carracks, twenty-one galleys, and another twenty cogs refitted for war. All done in utter secrecy—not even Varys the Spider would know of this.”

The words gave Jon pause. A Northern fleet was unexpected but very welcome. Ships meant grain from Essos, salted fish from the Bite, protection for the White Knife, and the eastern coast. It was no small thing to raise such strength in secret.

This only confirmed his suspicions—Manderly was far more cunning than he let on.

Jon studied the man across the table. Greying hair still dotted with wisps of gold, meaty cheeks flushed from the climb here, and fingers grasping the armrests like pale sausages. His jovial smile did not drop for a heartbeat, but Jon sensed no deception. Even Ghost’s senses could only catch honesty and a whiff of earnestness. Wyman Manderly was loyal, of that there was no doubt now. A pleasant surprise for Jon, who had expected to have to bring each bannerman to heel or cow them into obedience.

Was it the threat of dragons?

His willingness to pull out House Ryswell root and stem as a warning?

Or perhaps respect for Eddard Stark?

“Wine?” Jon asked.

At Wyman’s nod, he poured Arbour gold into a pair of silver goblets. Drinking was not something he relished in either life, and now he could not get drunk even if he wanted to. Still, drinking a cup after offering refreshment was common courtesy.

The moment the golden vintage tickled down his throat, Manderly’s shoulders eased.

“Keep a third of your ships for fishing out of White Harbor,” Jon said, “and send the rest to the Free Cities. Trade for grain, salted meats, and lasting foodstuffs. Sail them with barges up the White Knife.

“What shall we be trading in return, Your Grace?”

“Lumber, iron, salt, and furs. Lady Cerwyn might be persuaded to part with her amber and join in on the rest. If you need more to make the trip worthwhile, invite the lords with the ports and the river landings on the eastern shore to join the venture. They ought to have plentiful stockpiles.”

Most noble houses rarely engaged in trade, often keeping a respectable stock of assets—the small folk paid most of their dues to their lords in kind, not in coin.

“It will be done,” promised Manderly.

“Jorelle Mormont has manned Moat Cailin. I want White Harbor to send her builders and stonecutters, free hands, timber, and stone. Bolster the defenses.” Jon took a swallow from his cup. The Arbor wine was so sweet that it might have been the juice. A juice worth its weight in silver.

They spent the better part of the next half hour speaking terms: which ports and cities to approach, the measures of each cargo, and the division of profit. Jon agreed to pay seventy thousand golden dragons for the ships already built, and to invest another twenty into the shipyards in a joint venture between Manderly and Stark. Winterfell would bear the Moat’s costs for a year, after which further spending and repair would be reviewed.

“My son Wylis will oversee the works,” said Lord Wyman. His eyes grew guarded as he hesitated for a long moment. “Your Grace… I have heard some most outlandish tales since I arrived.”

Jon smiled. “I did not think a lord your age would put stock in hearsay.”

“Nor do I, most days. Yet these I have heard too oft to dismiss. Whispers of dragons.” A nervous chuckle pried from the merman’s mouth. “And trouble beyond the Wall.”

“Trouble,” Jon echoed. “Aye, you can call it that. You shall know more when the last of the Northern lords gather in Winterfell. As for dragons… I hatched them myself. They sleep in the godswood by day, hunt in the wolfswood when night gathers. Not easily seen unless luck smiles upon you.”

“Gods… dragons? How?” The lord’s jowls quivered as he gaped.

“How? Call it luck. Or the whim of the gods, who saw fit to bless me with three dragons in their caprice.”

Wyman Manderly studied him for a long moment, trying to decide whether this was some sort of jest. Then, the surprise in his gaze settled, and his meaty face calmed.

“Dragon eggs are rare, Your Grace,” said the old merman, voice hushed. “It is told only the blood of the dragon can ever hatch and master them.”

“Three eggs from Maester Aemon’s funeral pyre. They cracked in the flames and climbed over me.” It was close enough to the truth, but not half as shocking and far easier to believe.

Jon knew the dragons couldn’t be kept secret forever, but that didn’t mean he would shout their presence for the world to hear. A bastard oathbreaker ruling Winterfell and the North was one thing, but a dragon-riding skinchanger another entirely. Rumours would spread—they always do—but oft hand in hand with generous embellishment and much confusion.

And the more embellished and confusing a tale was, the harder it was to swallow.

“Aemon? The son of Maeker?” The merman’s pale brows climbed all the way to his hair. “Father Above, he must have been nearly a hundred.”

“A hundred and four, when he passed,” Jon said.

The surprise on Manderly’s face was replaced by the pensive look of a man looking at a new challenge. Or perhaps a game. Dragons meant a different sort of power, and represented an opportunity and stepping into the unknown.

Jon could see the calculations behind those small blue eyes and found them pleasing. Wyman Manderly was no fool. Too fat to ride a horse with a love of roasted eels, with shrewdness to match, and most importantly, loyal. As loyal as a bannerman could be.

“You are the sort of man I need,” Jon said at last. “Wyman Manderly, I would name you my Hand. Do you accept?”

“Yes, yes, Your Grace.” He bowed at once, almost knocking down the wine cup in his haste. “It is an honour!”

“Good.” Jon allowed himself the barest smile—a few more men like the old merman, and the North would run itself. “I have no need for a small council, but we will need a justiciar, an admiral, perhaps a spymaster. Find men fit for these posts.”

“My king.” Manderly hesitated then, his hands fidgeting against the armrests of his chair. “May I speak… frankly?”

“I expect it,” Jon told him. “I want the truth in all matters, even when I mislike it. I have no use for fools, liars, and flatterers.”

“It takes years to seed spies across the kingdoms,” Manderly said. “Any spymaster I recruit will be near blind to the happenings of the kingdoms and of little use at first.”

“The sooner we get one, the better, then. I don’t expect miracles, just good, honest work.”

When terms were hammered out, the Hand took his leave to begin his work. Jon had the servants fetch another lord who wished for a word in private. A short, wiry man with sharp eyes and hair the colour of wet bark.

“Lord Reed,” Jon greeted him.

The crannoglord seated himself gingerly. “Your Grace, I come before you for two reasons. My children—Jojen and Meera—were in Winterfell before the Bastard of Bolton took it, and I haven’t heard a word of them since. I had hoped you might know their fate.”

Jon’s mouth tightened. “No more than I know of my brother Bran. There is no word of their demise, nor any remains to be found. Perhaps… perhaps they’re still hiding somewhere, thinking the Boltons hold Winterfell.”

It sounded hollow even to his own ears, but a glimmer of hope appeared in Reed’s eyes.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” The crannoglord gave him a wan smile. “Did Lord Stark ever speak to you of your mother?”

Jon stilled. Seven men had ridden down to the Tower of Joy to rescue Lyanna Stark, but only two had returned. Howland Reed and Eddard Stark. If any living man knew the truth of his parentage, it was the Crannoglord before him.

“He died before he could,” Jon said at last.

“You have heard the tale of the Tower of Joy?”

Jon held his gaze without wavering. “The whole realm knows of Arthur Dayne’s fall, and I have heard as much as any other.”

“Then, let me speak of what happened that day. Once the white cloaks lay dead, Ned and I rushed up the tower. At the top, Lyanna lay in a bed of blood, holding a babe in her arms. Weak and flushed with fever, she barely clung to life.” Reed’s voice grew softer. “Lyanna thought Ned was a dream, you know? Yet she gave him the babe, and with her last breath, took a promise from him. A promise he would protect the child, no matter what.”

A pang of anger rose within Jon. Had Eddard Stark taken him in only because of a vow?

The rage drained away as quickly as it came. Words were wind. Vow or not, the man raised him as his own. In another life, he had seen a reluctant uncle, and Eddard Stark was anything but.

“That babe was me,” Jon said tightly. There was no use denying it, not before Howland Reed.

Reed inclined his head. “Aye.”

The confirmation brought him no relief, nor did he expect it to.

“I had suspected for some time.” His words came out quietly as numbness crept into his mind. “I must request you keep your silence on this.”

“You have my word.” The vow was given without a shred of hesitation.

“Was she taken?” Jon asked. “Or did she go willingly?”

“I cannot say. She should have been dead before we reached her, yet she clung on just enough to place you in Ned’s hands. The kingsguard had slain the midwife, and no soul was left alive to shed light on it all.”

Jon stared into the dull gold of his wine. He drained it with one swallow, wishing he could get drunk. But perhaps… perhaps it was better. The truth was often disappointing, and he had no desire to dig further into the past.

His gaze returned to the crannoglord. “All these years, and you did not tell a single soul. Why?”

“Ned swore me to silence, and House Reed has always been loyal to the Starks. And I owed Lady Lyanna my life.” Howland’s eyes softened, and his gaze grew wistful. “She saved my life once.”

Jon leaned forward. “Tell me.”

“It all started at the Tourney of Harrenhal…”

10th day of the 7th Moon, 303 AC

Daenerys Targaryen, Dragonstone

She was home at last.

She had dreamed of a beautiful palace as a girl, but the grim fortress was far more imposing. A far darker and less welcoming. The air here was grim, heavy with sulphur and salt, and the shadows pooled along the walls of fused black stone. Each detail in the castle was carved and moulded with care, though all of it was meant to inspire a twisted sense of fright rather than awe and beauty. Gargoyles loomed from the battlements instead of merlons, and the twisted towers bore the shape of winged serpents. Even the steps wound up like a dragon’s tail, and each door handle was a talon or a dragon’s head.

This was her birthright. A small, sullen part of her wished she had stayed in Lys.

The garrison had been a paltry force of three knights, twenty men-at-arms, and twice as many crossbowmen. At the sight of Drogon, they laid down their arms and opened the gate, and Daenerys graciously allowed them to leave.

That was as far as her luck had stretched. The long voyage had bled her strength: most of the Dothraki horses had died on the way, their riders sickly and sullen. Many had thrown themselves to the waves rather than live horseless. She regretted coaxing them through the poisoned water, but it was now too late to regret. Three hundred screamers still lived, and she had promised them the finest steeds Westeros could offer. Worse, storms had scattered her fleet again, leaving her with fewer than two thousand Ironborn under Asha Greyjoy and thrice as many Unsullied.

Daenerys spent two days strolling through Dragonstone, drinking in every corner, every small room, hallway, and staircase, and marvelled at the skill of the Valyrians.

As soon as Varys returned with new tidings, Daenerys called her councilors in the Chamber of the Painted Table.

The great slab of wood stretched before her for over fifty feet, from the Broken Arm of Dorne all the way to Brandon’s Wall. Each river, each mountain and valley and castle was carved in deep detail, all darkened by centuries of varnish. Aegon’s dream—as the Imp called it—the kingdoms forged into one, with no lines drawn on the map from one end to the other.

“How bad is King’s Landing?” Ser Barristan began, his voice heavy.

“The city is… gone.” Varys’s usual silken tones had frayed. “A green veil lies over the ruins, thicker than any fog I’ve seen. No beast will go near it. Men who dare enter die before they take ten steps.”

Tyrion stared at the Spider with bloodshot eyes. “The wind and the rain have not cleared it?”

“No. It clings to the ruins like a leech.” Varys shuddered. “The septons say it is the gods’ judgment upon House Lannister.”

Tyrion snorted. “The gods did not judge my father, no matter how cruel he grew. I did.”

Daenerys’s gaze swept to the squat, beetle-browed old man in soiled robes. “What say you, archmaester?”

Marwyn the Mage was the newest addition to her council, joining her at Tyrosh. As unreliable as his name seemed, he was a master scholar and an Archmaester of Magic. And the man who had taught Mirri Maz Duur. Like Varys, Daenerys had taken the man to service out of necessity, not trust.

“Magic is at play—of that, there is no doubt.” Marwyn’s mouth parted in a smile, revealing a mouthful of red teeth. “The alchemists used to make wildfire with secret spells as old as the Freehold, though the jade demon has never been fed so many souls before. Not at once. I cannot say more without witnessing it for myself, though I suspect the unnatural fog will linger like it does in the Sorrows.”

“Forever, then?” Varys asked tightly.

Marwyn inclined his head. The imp lifted his flask high and drained the wine down his throat. The rest of the councillors grew grim-faced as they stared at the carved mouth of the Blackwater.

Daenerys studied the Painted Table, face blank. A part of her wished she could feel the same dread they do. But what could she feel for a city she had never seen and people she had never met?

“Then King’s Landing is lost,” Barristan said at last, voice hoarse. “The Iron Throne is forever out of reach.”

“But the realm is not,” Tyrion murmured, eyeing the pitcher of wine. “Cities can be rebuilt and thrones can be reforged. But her Grace must first take the kingdoms piece by piece, as the Conquer did.”

Varys was nodding along, and so were the rest, and she knew the Imp had spoken true.

Daenerys had known her return to the Sunset Lands would not be easy. Still, now that the task loomed before her, she felt small and tired.

If I look back, I’m lost.

“Varys, tell me of the realm,” Daenerys commanded.

He mentioned the Vale had a change in leadership, yet had not stirred from their rugged mountain valleys. The Usurper’s wife and her bastard child stood alone in Casterly Rock, abandoned by the roses of Highgarden after the death of their lord and daughter. Her so-called nephew, Aegon, at length, and how he clashed with the Kingslayer over the battered Riverlands. His forces had swelled far beyond the Golden Company, with Dorne, the Crowlands, and what little was left of the Stormlords joining his host.

When the North was mentioned, Varys shook his head. “I have precious little of the North. Half a year had passed since any word came from Winterfell. The kingdom has grown silent since Stannis met his end in the snow.”

Daenerys frowned. “You seem to know every secret in the realm. How is it the North stumps you so?”

The Spider’s smile was mournful. “My little birds do not fare well in such a cold and empty land. The North is vast, cold, and bitter, and its people are slow to trust strangers. Slower still after the war.”

“The North is a spent force,” Tyrion said with a slur. “My father, Lord Bolton, and the Ironmen made sure of it in the Twins and Winterfell. They made sure no Stark worth the name remains to trouble them, too. All the Stark sons are dead. It matters little who squats in Winterfell—when dragons come, they’ll kneel as Torrhen did.”

“Not all Stark sons,” said Asha Greyjoy, scratching her nose with a yawn. “My brother slew two miller brats in place of Brandon and Rickon Stark. The true wolves slipped away.”

“A cripple and a boy too young to wield a sword will not survive the cold wild alone,” Barristan said, shaking his head. “Chances are they’re long dead, frozen stiff in some ditch or the belly of some hungry wildcat or bear—cold and snow have no mercy for young or weak.”

Asha scoffed. “You have not been in the North, old ser. The land is old and harsh, aye, but it is a place of wolves, and they do not fear the cold.”

“Does it matter?” Marwyn the Mage leaned upon his black staff, his eyes half closed. “Neither a boy of seven nor a cripple can lead. Perhaps some leal lord will give them succour and muster a host to raise their claim, trying to bleed the Dreadfort and Winterfell dry. Even if, by some miracle, the loyal lord snatches victory, the North’s swords will be all spent.”

His words grew deeper. “And there are other tidings, of foul, dark things stirring beyond the Wall. Things a broken North cannot hope to face alone. In the end, Bolton or Stark, they will come crawling to you for aid, Your Grace.”

“Old wives’ tales,” Tyrion said, waving away the words as if they were buzzing midges. “Lord Commander Mormont filled my ears with such nonsense years ago. Lo and behold, the Wall still stands. It will stand in a decade, a century, and long after all of us have breathed our last.”

“There’s truth even to the tales of old,” Marwyn rasped, the sound half-laugh, half-cough. “Or have you forgotten Her Grace’s dragons?”

“Dragons were never a tale. Even years ago, we had the bones and the skulls, the great charred fortress of Harrenhal and the ample writing of maesters on the matter.” Tyrion took another swallow of wine. “White Walkers? Giants? Snarks? The cold has addled Northern wits. Whatever worth the North might have held perished with the Young Wolf in the Red Wedding.”

“Why, Lord Tyrion,” Varys tittered, “do you not wonder what became of your lady wife?”

Tyrion lifted his cup high, wine spilling through his beard and soaking the front of his doublet. “I expect our little union has been neatly undone. Sansa Stark was a naïve chit, and no maiden yearns for a dwarf. Now I heard she’s gotten the taste of a bastard instead.”

“I tire of this squabbling,” Daenerys said sharply, cutting in before they would descend to pointless barbs. The Imp’s japes were laced with bitterness, though she could not say whether it was for the girl herself or the insult to his pride. “We have a realm to conquer. Ser Barristan, your counsel?”

“We should proclaim your return to the kingdoms,” Selmy answered, slow and certain. “But the so-called son of Elia has already drawn the swords of those still loyal to the Targaryen name. Pulling other powerful lords to our side shall be a tall task.”

“Aegon might bear the name, but not the dragons,” Tyrion said from behind the pitcher.

“House Martell has joined him,” Barristan reminded. “They would not rally behind a mummer’s boy wearing Princess Elia’s son’s face. That makes him—”

“—the best husband I could hope for?” Daenerys finished with a thin smile. “Perhaps. Yet he claims my crown, as do Tommen Waters and this Euron Greyjoy.”

Asha’s mouth tightened. “Your Grace, my uncle Euron is mad and twice as dangerous. He has a terrible horn, a rune-carved thing as tall as a man, that’s said to bind dragons to his will.”

She had mentioned the horn before, but Daenerys did not believe it then, and she did not believe it now.

“Mad and dangerous?” Tyrion chortled. “So, much like his brothers.”

“My father might have been blind with pride, Imp. But my uncle is far worse than your mind could even conjure. I pray I never see the day this hell-horn comes near the dragons.”

“Bold words,” said Daenerys. “But I have heard bold boasts before. Your Uncle might be a dangerous man, but a dragon is not a slave.”

“It was no ordinary boast,” Asha said quietly, raising her hand. It was trembling. “I was there when the damned thing sounded at the kingsmoot. It was as if a thousand souls screamed together in anguish, and even my bones felt on fire.”

Daenerys swallowed as unease settled in her throat. This was the first time the Greyjoy captain had shown fear. She turned to Marwyn. “Archmaester?”

“With magic, much is possible, Your Grace,” he said, stroking his stubbled chin. “At least if you’re brave or foolish enough to know how to pay the right price. But such arcane secrets would be long lost. It could be some old relic surviving the Doom. Until I see this horn, I can say no more.”

Ser Barristan cleared his throat. “Even if this Euron Greyjoy is half the terror Lady Asha claims him to be, the reavers are entangled in the Reach now. He can be dealt with in time—”

After another half an hour of what-ifs and half-hearted suggestions, the meeting concluded. Daenerys had yet to decide on her path forward, opting for patience.

She had been rash before, eager for swift results in Mereen and Astapor, and the price had been steep. Here, her foes were dwindling, divided, and battling bitterly with each other. Haste would only see her repeat her errors.

Edwyn Frey, The Crossing

“Mercy, please. Mercy!” Steffon Frey was on his knees in the mud, wrists bound in iron, his face a swollen mess of purple and red. “I am your blood, Edwyn—your kin. We stand together. Kill me, and you’d be a kinslayer. I’ll take the black—swear it before gods and men—”

“Steffon, you lackwit.” Edwyn spat at his cousin, though the spittle missed, landing by his ear. “Did you think I’d forgive a usurper? Blood or no, a thief is still a thief.”

He turned to his men. “Hang him!”

They eagerly dragged Steffon to the gallows. He kicked, he wept, he cursed them all, but the noose still tightened around his neck. Arms folded, Edwyn watched as the trap gave way. The soft snap followed, and his cousin grew limp.

“Tsch.” One of the men-at-arms spat, handing over a silver stag to an old, grizzly knight. “Should’a guessed this one has a weak neck.”

Edwyn had also hoped for more—most men on the scaffold had the decency to entertain him for a minute or two before expiring.

Steffon was the sixth cousin he had killed. The previous five had banded together to ambush him on the road here. Their plot had been clever but in vain—with two hundred knights and fifteen hundred swords under his command, the motley ambush was smashed apart.

It had been Steffon’s own folly to try to hold the Twins with twenty half-trained men-at-arms. Did he think the title of Lord Frey came to whoever sat the lord’s chair first?

Once, Edwyn would have been hesitant to kill his kinsmen. Accursed was a kinslayer.

But they were all kinslayers now. Had not the Red Wedding pained the floors with kin’s blood?

Blackwood, Vance, Darry, Haigh, Blanetree, Goodbrook, Hawick, Vypren, Whent, and countless more. All kin to House Frey, by blood and marriage. Yet that day, the kinship had not halted the bolts or the spears even for a heartbeat.

Whoever had slaughtered the Old Walder and the rest had done Edwyn a great kindness. No more mewling cousins whining for place, no more hands grasping at his seat. Now, the Twins were his by right and by might, something he had not thought possible before Old Walder and his father perished. Something that would have seen Edwyn turn old and grey first.

Anticipation bubbled in his heart as he rushed up the stairway to the solar, taking three steps at a time. It tastes sweet on his tongue, like Arbour gold. Now, he could drink the golden wine to his heart’s desire, too. He was smiling as he passed through a crackling brazier, the wavering firelight casting a long shadow across the wall, twisting and leaping with each heartbeat.

On the last step, his mud-caked boot slid. His arms flailed, catching empty air. The world spun, the timbers of the ceiling drifted away, and a white-hot pain burst at the base of his skull.