25.The Flying Storm

28th Day of the 7th Moon, 303 AC

Cersei Lannister, Casterly Rock

None wept when word arrived of the Ironmen’s devastating defeat at Oldtown. It was said that the bells rang out in triumph and the taverns overflowed with drunken merriment, though half the city lay charred and blackened. Even in Lannisport, wine flowed like a river in celebration. Yet the treacherous Reach was weaker for it, and that gladdened Cersei’s heart the most. ‘Let the fools bleed each other dry,’ she thought, ‘let them fight and squabble as long as they did not point their swords at her Tommen.’

Not even the most pious septons mourned the reavers. The Ironmen were nought but stinking beasts in iron with no loyalty save to their wretched ways.

There was no court to speak of, not yet. Tommen’s Hand had set up a makeshift hall in Lannisport to entertain petitions, a gaudy new thing thrown together in haste. Cersei would not suffer the smallfolk or the merchants that had grown fat with coin during her father’s wars to sully the halls of Casterly Rock with their dirty feet.

Life at the Rock was easy enough. The deep vaults held casks of Arbour gold enough to float a ship, and the kitchens sent up a daily bounty fit for a queen. Cersei had no flocks of scheming ladies to endure, no pratling and senseless lords to fawn and plot against; only peace, and her reflection smiling back at her in golden cups.

Tommen, alas, proved a disappointment. She had hoped to mould him into something stronger, worthy of a king, but he remained soft as butter, forever lost in his books and cats. Still, he was more pliant than Joffrey had ever been, giving her something to work with.

His future bride had arrived three days prior—Floris Rowan, a timid slip of a girl with sunlit hair and solemn grey eyes. Four-and-ten, flat-chested and coltish, she would never turn heads, and Cersei was well pleased by that. The girl was fearful, dull-witted, and endlessly prattled of sweetmeats and apple tarts—a far cry from the ambitious rose of Highgarden or the treacherous bird of the North.

Let Tommen take joy in his little golden apple. Cersei had sworn to suffer no good daughters who would scheme and plot. She watched the Rowan girl closely all the same, but try as she might, she could find no seed of defiance in her. Not yet.

The summons for a council meeting had come from Devan Lannister, and though it irked her to be called, Cersei went with all the grace a queen must show. Her steps were measured as she made her way to the council chamber, Ser Robert Strong lumbering at her heels.

Always silent and twice as dutiful, he took his place at the door without complaint, looming like a statue of muscle and enamelled white steel as she swept in.

Devan awaited her by the great table, flanked by Harys Swyft and that oily toad Petyr Baelish. True to his word, Baelish had secured the Reachlord’s loyalty. While Lord Mathis Rowan led the host, the Lord Ellard Crane of Red Lake had come to Casterly Rock in person to serve Tommen. The newcomer was a lean, dry man, with a barren crown of grey hair circling his scalp and a mouth forever twisted into a look of weary disinterest.

Yet it was not to the crane lord that Cersei’s gaze was drawn. Devan’s jaw was clenched tight, any trace of mirth absent from those laughing eyes.

Something was amiss.

“The pretender has defeated our forces,” Daven Lannister said, his voice heavy.

For a moment, Cersei could not breathe. It felt as though a sword had pierced through her chest. Her knees gave way beneath her, and without the chair at her back, she might have crumpled to the floor like a common washerwoman.

“My—” Her voice cracked, sharp and jagged as broken glass. “My brother. Jaime. What of him?”

“He lives,” the Hand replied. “The Lord Commander retreated from the battle with what remained of the horse in good order. Word is he rides now for the Golden Tooth.” Relief crashed over her, and she let out a breath she had not known she was holding. Yet the cold returned soon after. “Still, it is a grievous defeat,” Devan continued. “More than half were slain or captured, and the host is shattered beyond repair. We do not have the time or steel to raise another for years—not with winter knocking at our gate.”

Lord Ellard Crane stroked his beard, frowning. “Was it not Lord Commander’s plan to bait the pretender into arduous sieges along the Lords of the Trident?”

Devan grimaced. “It was, but Jon Connington is no green boy. He probably saw through it and followed along, prodding for weaknesses and found one when the unceasing rain turned the roads into rivers and bogged down the horse. With the retreat cut off, Ser Jaime had no choice but to give battle.”

Cersei’s hands curled into fists. So Jaime’s stubborn pride had nearly undone him again. Even crippled, he had insisted on chasing glory with a sword in hand, and now mud and rain had brought him low. He should have stayed where he belonged—by her side.

Her fingers found the cup of wine waiting for her and lifted it to her lips.

“Alas, the gods laugh at the plans of men.” Ellard Crane’s voice thickened with regret. “Had he evaded the Targaryen pretender for but a moon’s turn, Rowan would have come down on them from the south, a hammer to the Lannister anvil to crush the dragon for good.”

“In their caprice, the gods decided otherwise,” Ser Daven said flatly. “With more than half our strength lost, even with the swords of Houses Crane, Rowan, and the rest, we no longer hold the numbers to give battle to Aegon. Even discounting his wounded, the Pretender’s host could still boast thirty thousand swords.”

Cersei regarded him coolly. Poor Devan. He had been raised for sword and saddle, not for the talk of councils or the burden of the crown. Even at that, he was a pale shadow of her Jaime… before the loss of his hand.

An uneasy silence descended in the room. Yet Cersei found little cause for alarm. Thirty thousand? Casterly Rock could have mustered more men just five years ago. Though the number of swords and victories on the field mattered little. Her father had proven that once you cut the commander’s head off, the host would be quick to crumble.

No, she did not fear this so-called Aegon.

“Lord Baelish,” she said, turning to the man who still wore his old mockingbird pin. “Any word on Daenerys and her supposed dragons?”

The rumours of the Mad King’s last spawn landing on Dragonstone with eunuchs, horselords, and sellswords bothered her little. Even the most ambitious and treacherous lords of the realm would think thrice before supporting such savage rabble. But dragons… dragons could change everything.

Baelish, so often smirking, wore a graver face today. “The merchants passing through Dragonstone all claim they’ve seen them soar through the sky. The whores, the servants, the fishwives, they all sing the same song. Three beasts, one bronze and green, the second cream and gold, and the last with scales as dark as sin, crowned by crimson horns. Balerion Reborn, they call him, and Daenerys is his rider.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

‘A queen must always be composed,’ she told herself, but her mouth turned dry regardless.

“That’s not the worst of it,” Littlefinger added, his voice growing lower.

Devan’s face turned ashen. “How could it be worse than that?”

“The girl has not moved against Aegon as we had hoped,” Baelish said, voice tight. “Instead, she seeks to parley with him.”

“So she will either bed him or feed him to her dragons,” Cersei mused, trying to suppress the envy roiling in her chest. If only she and Jaime had been born in the House of the Dragon, nothing could have stopped them from marrying. And with a dragon, even the sky itself would have bent to her will. If only… “It’s all the Targaryens do when they meet—fight or fuck.”

“Let us pray for the former, then,” Lord Ellard Crane muttered, lifting his goblet and draining it in a single swallow. “Should this Aegon die as Rhaenyra did, we have nothing to fear. Of all the princesses and queens who rode a dragon, only Visenya Targaryen was worth a damn. This Daenerys might be many things, but Visenya reborn she is not.”

“The beasts are young still, not even five years since they hatched.” Qyburn’s soft voice somehow made the tension bleed out. “Their scales are still soft and thin. It will be years before they harden enough to repel arrows and scorpion bolts.”

This was why she had elevated the half-maester as a royal advisor. He was of no noble stock, but he was skilled and, most importantly, loyal.

“And it will be decades before their fire grows hot enough to melt stone,” the Crane Lord added.

“So the dragons are dangerous but not invincible yet.” Devan knotted his brow in thought. “As long as the beasts can be slain, we can prepare. We can muster all the craftsmen, carpenters, and artificers in the Westerlands, start stockpiling bodkins and scorpions.”

Cersei studied her councillors from behind her cup of wine. The notion of dragons had not unmanned them as she feared it would. They seemed uneasy, and fear lingered in their eyes, yes, yet their defiance was stronger. All but Ser Harys Swyft. He looked like he would either flee or void his bowels any moment now, a cowardly chicken, just like his sigil. It was a small wonder some dullard of a knight had thought him worthy enough to be knighted.

“See it done,” the Queen commanded, her green eyes settling on Littlefinger, who was fidgeting with unease. “Something else to say, my lord?”

The other councillors seemed to trust Littlefinger very little; even her faith in him had lessened.

“Indeed, Your Grace,” he said at last, drawing a scroll from his silver-studded belt. “Word from the North. House Bolton is no more.”

Cersei blinked. She had put the North out of her mind for years. The wolves had all been put down, of course, and there were no damn mutts to hound her or her children. If only that foolish Eddard Stark had not been such a prude to refuse her offer. Why did such a terrible hypocrite cling to some vaunted honour when he had given horns to his wife and even dared to raise his bastard under his roof?

And for what? For the dead Stannis or her foolish oaf of a husband?

The greying Reachlord was the first to gather himself. “How? The Leech Lord is cunning and experienced in command, and Winterfell is not easily taken.”

“Yet Theon Greyjoy took all the same, and with a handful of Ironmen at that,” Devan chortled. “Nobody likes turncloaks, and many Northmen lost kin in the Red Wedding. Perhaps someone snuck in and slashed his throat in his sleep?”

“Word is the Leech Lord was poisoned,” Baelish explained. “Others say his bastard son killed him. The manner of his demise is hard to pin down, but he’s dead, that much is certain.”

“It’s a fitting end for a man like him,” Ellard Crane said, an amused smile dancing across his face. “Traitor, slain by the hands of his son. Oh, the gods are laughing.”

“Yet the bastard was legitimised,” Cersei reminded and drained her cup, savouring the sweetness of the golden vintage. “He should be able to hold that wretched grey castle as his father did.”

“By all accounts, the boy inherited all of the Leech Lord’s cruelty and then some, but none of his wits.” Littlefinger looked troubled by his own words. “Sansa Stark managed to slip away from his grasp, running to her bastard brother on the Wall.”

The little murderous wolf bitch had escaped?!

Gods, she regretted leaving Sansa Stark to the inept Bolton Bastard. Cersei ought to have summoned the little bitch to King’s Landing, where she would have been tortured to death.

“The Watch takes no part,” Ser Harys Swyft said weakly.

An angry hiss escaped Cersei’s lips. “A bald-faced lie, for they helped Stannis.”

“That they did,” Baelish said, hesitating for a long moment. “It’s hard to say what happened in the North, but all the rumours agree on one thing. The 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Jon Snow, called the Northern Banners and marched the wildlings down to Winterfell, defeating the Bolton Bastard in battle and taking back the North.”

“I thought the Northmen valued honour.” Devan tiredly ran a hand through his tangled mane. “Who would support an oath-breaking bastard who allies with savages?”

“The entire North, it seems.” Littlefinger’s smile thinned. “Jon Snow has crowned himself king, and all of the Stark bannermen seem eager to pay him homage.”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Ellard Crane said, stroking his reedy beard. “For all that they were our foes, the Northmen are not fools, and they have learned a bitter lesson in the war about the price of folly. There must be something else for them to accept an oath-breaking bastard so easily.”

Baelish folded his hands with a show of regret, but when he turned to speak, his words were anything but regretful.

“Alas, the Northmen are as flawed as the rest of us. The North is an old place where the ancient superstitions run rampant. I have heard a thousand rumours, each more unlikely than the rest. Jon Snow died and woke up again, for even death refused to take him, and many other things refused to stay dead after being slain. An army of grumpkins, snarks, children of the forest, and giants had decided to follow him in battle. Or how Jon Snow is the secret son of Aerys the Mad and turned into a dragon once he stepped into the flames—”

“Enough of this nonsense,” Cersei cut him off impatiently. “Send more spies. I want to know what’s happening in the damned North, not some washerwoman’s gossip.”

“It’s hard for outsiders to survive the harsh, cold lands.” Littlefinger’s face curdled. “Many are simply not trusted. I will need far more coin.”

Coin? He dared to speak of lacking coin in Casterly Rock?

Cersei did not know whether to laugh or to weep.

“You will have it. And buy the loyalty of some Northman, then. Surely some of those treasonous fools like gold more than they like their false gods or perfidious honour.”

Baelish’s face grew thoughtful. “If gold is no issue, perhaps we can employ the services of the Faceless Men? Not to deal with the ornery Northmen, but with the two dragons threatening His Grace’s rule. If Aegon and Daenerys are removed, their flying beasts will pose no threat without a rider to steer them, and the motley band and ambitious lords supporting them would turn their swords and spears on each other.”

“That is something worth considering,” Qyburn agreed, leaning forward. “Save for the host that calls itself the Golden Company, sellswords have proved themselves worthless compared to disciplined men-at-arms. Even if you hire a hundred companies from Essos, they will buckle at the first hard battle. Yet the Faceless Men will not hesitate to kill anyone… if the price is right.”

“Let’s say we hire those Faceless Men of yours to assassinate Aegon and Daenerys,” Ser Daven Lannister grunted with a heavy frown. “How can we ship all the gold required to Braavos? Euron Greyjoy might have been bested, but there are reavers still crawling around the Sunset Sea, and the Narrow Sea is full of pirates, including that traitor Aurane Waters.”

Ellard Crane took another gulp of wine. “Perhaps we can promise the Temple of Black and White the rights of the gold mines for a handful of years?”

“Let us ignore how you plan to use catspaw to remove the enemy,” her cousin said, his face stormy. No matter how cunning they boasted to be, all warriors loved their honour and good name, and Daven was not below such hubris. “The whole realm will consider us weak and treacherous if they find out. Can we even—”

Cersei banged the butt of her cup on the table, halting the heated exchange.

“Enough. I have decided. Send ravens across the realm, declaring Jon Snow an outlaw and a deserter of the Night’s Watch. All the lords who support him will be stripped of all their titles and holdings by the crown. Should anyone bring me his head, they would be richly rewarded!”

“And what would those rewards be?” Ser Harys Swyft inquired cautiously.

“Three hundred thousand golden dragons, a large keep, and a highborn maiden for a wife. The same rewards for Sansa Stark’s head!”

“But Your Grace,” Lord Crane began. “Without Stark or Bolton, the North would be hard to wrangle. The Northmen cannot agree on anything. Even if we remove Ned Stark’s bastard from Winterfell, it doesn’t mean the rest of the Northmen will obediently fall in line. It would be wiser to bring him back to the fold by hook or crook. Approaching the Northern problem with haste might fail to produce the desired result.”

Cersei took another sip of wine, trying to figure out what the Crane Lord was playing. “Are you implying that the oath-breaking bastard can be convinced to put down the crown and bend the knee like a good dog? Or that I will even deign to accept such a thing?”

“Do we lose anything from trying? The feud with the Northmen must be buried sooner or later, and we have no forces to spend conquering the vast, cold wasteland, no matter how weakened.”

“Reaching out first would mean we’re showing generous amounts of mercy,” Qyburn added, yet his hands wrung with worry. “If the bastard refuses, he’s nothing but an oath-breaking, treasonous cur.”

Swyft nodded like a squirrel; Littlefinger shrugged lazily, while Daven Lannister frowned fiercely but eventually gave a curt nod.

If her father had given the same order, no one would have gainsaid him like this. It irked her mightily, even more so as they made sense.

“Very well,” she conceded. “Let the Seven Kingdoms know Tommen is a generous king. Send a raven to Winterfell. Summon this bastard and his sister here to bend the knee, and their past transgressions shall be forgiven.”

Sansa Stark was foolish if she thought she could get away from her. Even if her bastard brother agreed to bend the knee, Cersei would keep the little bird hostage and toy with her until she grew tired.

The council meeting ended, and Cersei sent for a servant to fetch Ser Damion Lannister, the castellan of the Rock and her trusty cousin.

With another wave of Cersei’s hand, her handmaid came over to refill the ornate cup with the finest Arbour gold. The North was a spent force, and they would bend or break sooner or later, and Cersei was looking forward to either. However, Aegon, Daenerys and her dragons were a far thornier problem, one that needed to be resolved urgently.

Littlefinger was right about the Faceless Men, she decided. The one thing Casterly Rock did not lack was gold.

In a handful of minutes, Damion arrived. His hair had long turned grey, and the kind face she remembered from childhood was now wrinkled like a prune.

“You called for me, Your Grace?” he asked, his voice raspy.

“Yes, Ser Damion. I have a very important task for you.”

3rd Day of the 8th Moon, 303 AC

Jon Stark

The dark sorcerer would have been a far greater foe if the lackwit had not wielded all his power like a small child would swing about an oversized bludgeon. Wizards here—though they never called themselves such—possessed none of the finesse required to master magic properly. It was all crude, death and blood and brute force, and while formidable, even Voldemort would baulk at such a blundering way to wield the Dark Arts. Jon could feel the echo of blood and souls swirling around him, amplified a hundredfold by something, but it was still easy to break once you grasped its weakness. And weaknesses it had aplenty, as would any form of raw magic clumped into the flesh of man whilst held together by a string.

The crown atop his head had bolstered his authority to the extreme, giving him an assurance even without resorting to its might. Yet even in victory, his mind was full of questions.

Where had the battle taken place?

It was in Winterfell, but at the same time, it was not. It remained fresh in his mind; the world was like a twisted reflection of reality, seen under a running stream of water. Yet everything was far more abstract, and time and space had been watered down to the extreme. The young doe sleeping amidst the rune-covered stones felt like Shireen Baratheon, if more alive with magic and power. Even the scarring on the left side of her face was similar.

Was this the legendary Greendream?

Or was it another realm, adjacent to reality, which the greenseers of old could tap into?

Despite being so ethereal in feeling, the strain on his magic and mind was real enough. Even the slight bruise on his knuckles, where he punched the shadowy fiend, lingered for a few hours.

To Jon’s chagrin, he couldn’t slip inside that realm again, no matter how hard he tried. He could not even feel its existence. The only reason he managed was that Winterfell’s protections had detected an intruder, and he had followed the tug of his psyche that he had followed.

With no foe to attack or any danger looming, Jon couldn’t grasp that same feeling, no matter how hard he tried. Winterfell had led him in last time, and now the fortress lay slumbering. Hours of meditation had borne no fruit, although his mind was clearer than before, and his control over magic had solidified an inch further. Yet even his attempts to tap into his unconscious mind during sleep had failed.

Perhaps he lacked the talent for it. There were rituals he could attempt to forge a connection with that place, but Jon was wary of doing so. His soul was now recovered, but fiddling with it so soon was ill-advised, and the place itself felt dangerous in a twisted way.

Jon did not lack patience. Perhaps, once his strength had grown further, another attempt could be made.

The foolish sorcerer stinking of death and soul magic was quickly forgotten; men like that never lasted too long, even with luck. There was an odd familiarity to him, but Jon couldn’t put his finger on it.

Ultimately, he had better ways to spend his time than waste it thinking of some dead lackwit.

A groan escaped Jon’s mouth as he reluctantly peeled himself from the royal bed and pulled on some garments. His feet carried him to the alcove, where he tucked the curtain to the side and latched open the shutter.

In the east, the first rays of the morning sun just peeked over the snowy horizon to greet him, slowly painting the clouds in hues of molten gold and bloody red. The vast North stretched before him, beautiful and endless and cold.

And it all belonged to him.

The Skagosi had arrived and paid homage to him, and now every Stark bannerman was in Winterfell. Some were disgruntled or distrustful, but Jon was certain all of them would follow and listen. The tale of Ryswell’s fate had spread far and wide, and none dared to test his patience again. Or perhaps they dared not test his dragons.

Whereas none dared to confront the king, they found other ways to irk him—ways that Jon could not dismiss without slighting others by being petty and rude and small-minded. More galling was the ever-growing swarm of maidens following his every step. An unwed king was the greatest prize a maiden could win. Daughters of high birth came armed with pretty smiles and eyes alight with lust and hunger. Perhaps, some were pushed by their father or mother, or even some ambitious grandsire, but they were here all the same, vying for his attention.

Jon endured it all: coy glances, titters that sounded too forced in his ears, fingers brushing his sleeve as if by happenstance. Some had even begun to doll themselves with Essosi powders and lip balms, as if vanity would lift them higher in his eyes.

A queen was not chosen in haste, nor in her skills of dolling up her face. He yearned for a partner who could share the burden of the crown, not some vapid broodmare.

The choice still had to be made, a queen needed to be picked, but he was in no rush. Other, far direr matters required his attention. The cold threat still grew beyond the Wall, and the Watch was still in shambles, unprepared for any proper battle. They lacked the swords to man the Wall, let alone fight off hordes of wights and those icy fiends.

Ideas churned through his mind, and Jon was swift to run them through his councillors, and a proper plan had finally ripened in his mind. All that was left was to reveal it to his bannermen, together with the threat many remained ignorant of, and Jon had called a council where each lord and master of the North would be present, to be held tomorrow evening.

Some fools began calling it the Grand Northern Council. The love of fancy, grand-sounding names seemed a vice even Northmen suffered from.

Outside of his room, he was met by his newfound squire.

“King Stark, I am here as you requested,” Torrhen Flint said in a deep yet still cracking voice. The boy was three and ten yet barely taller than Arya, but his shoulders were near thrice as wide. The son of Black Donnel Flint had unassuming brown hair and dark eyes, but his face had a stubbornness to it.

“Good lad, now follow me.”

Jon headed outside, and Torrhen’s hurried footsteps echoed in his wake. The duty between a squire and his master went both ways. The squire would clean the armour, tend to the horses, act as a cupbearer and run errands, while the master would pass on his martial skills and impart any lessons he deemed important. Since he would be teaching the boy, Jon would do his part well.

No student of his would be anything short of exceptional.

The crisp morning air caressed his skin like an eager lover, reaching out to run its cold fingers over his neck and down his skin through the thin tunic he wore. Even without a cloak, Jon paid little heed, unlike the servants and men-at-arms going about their morning, all clad in thick furs and heavy wools.

Even Torrhen, raised the high hills where the cold bit deep, was draped in a heavy cloak lined with fur.

“What is the most vital quality for a fighter?” Jon asked as their boots crunched through the snowy courtyard.

“Swiftness?” Torrhen murmured, his voice uncertain, then dipped his head in haste. “Your Grace.”

“You can drop the courtesies when it’s just us,” Jon’s tone was curt, though not unkind. “I didn’t take you for a squire so I’d have my arse kissed. And was that an answer, or a question?”

The small yard he had chosen was near empty, save for the two guardsmen at the far end, everyone else still hidden in the warmth of the kitchens—or their beds.

“Swiftness,” Torrhen said again, firmer this time. “Swiftness is the most important.”

Jon gave a short, sharp snort. “Speed’ll serve you, aye, but it does little good against an armour foe. Unless you move quicker than a man can blink, what of it? And the quicker you fight, the quicker you tire. A warrior is the sum of many things—will, strength, endurance, skill, and the weight of experience, to name a few. Forget one, and the others will fail you soon enough. A man on a horseback has even less need for swiftness, and would do better to master their steed and steady their hand.”

The boy frowned. “But… didn’t you take down Ser Roose Ryswell in but a breath?”

“I did,” Jon said, “but swiftness was the least of it. I was stronger, better trained, clad in good steel, and my sword sharp and heavy enough to cut through him clean, bone, armour, and shield. I could have gone easier or pretended to struggle to grant him some dignity, but I chose not to. Never forget, Torrhen—once steel is bared and your life is on the line, fight to your fullest, no matter how feeble a foe might seem. Hubris has been the death of many a great man.”

The boy’s brow furrowed, confusion flickering through those dark eyes, but Jon said no more. The world would teach him soon enough.

They arrived in the armoury where the smell of beeswax and whale oil hung thick, and Jon waved over Jarod, the new armourer of Winterfell.

“Fit the boy in a brigandine,” the king ordered. “Find a ringmail and a padded jack his size, too.”

In a quarter hour, they were back in the yard. The snow sank deeper under Torrhen’s boots as he trudged out, clad in riveted plates sewn into leather, looking every inch a green man-at-arms, if half a head too short.

“My father says you wield Longclaw,” Torrhen said, hesitation dripping from his words as if he were afraid to speak them. “The Valyrian blade. Can it truly cut steel and oak like butter?”

“Jeor Mormont bestowed it upon me,” said Jon, letting out a long sigh. “It was my reward when I saved his life on the Wall. A gracious man, who met an ill-deserved end. And aye, dragonsteel is all they claim, though armour is harder cut than tales would have you think.”

Torrhen’s eyes were bright with wonder, a look he remembered seeing on his own face… a lifetime ago.

“Longclaw is a good sword,” Jon added, “better than most. But that’s not the blade I now wield.”

“Why? Aren’t Valyrian swords the best?” Torrhen scratched his head, baffled.

“Some would claim so.” Jon drew the bronze blade from his hip, lashing out at an old granite block as tall as a man and twice as thick, cleaving it in twain. Torrhen’s mouth hung open as the king slid the sword back in its sheath. “Perhaps they’re right, but this one serves me better. Now, enough chatter. Warm up your limbs. It’s time for a good run—try and keep up.”

An hour later, Torrhen wheezed like a horse after a race yet still dragged his boots across the fresh snow, stubborn as any mountain lad. Jon had set a demanding pace across Winterfell, dashing up the broad ramparts, across the slushy yards, through the godswood’s quiet frost. When the boy faltered, Jon slowed, only to press him harder once his breath had steadied. The run itself was tiresome even for Jon, though it was due to the runes weighing his movements.

The king halted his final dash near the training yard. Torrhen stumbled in behind, face flushed, hair steaming in the morning chill. For all his puffing, the boy had grit enough not to quit nor raise a word of complaint.

“Enough,” Jon said. The lad looked ready to fall into the snow and not rise again. “Do not stop after a run. Walk slowly. Breathe deep and let your heart ease.”

Torrhen obeyed, though his stomach protested with a low growl. His cheeks reddened, but he gave no word of complaint, which earned a quiet nod from Jon. A man had to fight hungry and tired more often than not—a lesson best learned now.

In the yard, Ser Brynden was already drilling guardsmen and a bleary-eyed Arya in the morning chill.

At the yard, Brynden Tully was already drilling the guardsmen and a still half-asleep Arya in the morning chill.

“Your Grace!” The Blackfish slammed a fist to his breastplate, and all the men followed, bowing low.

“Do not halt on my account,” Jon said. “We’ve come to join.”

Torrhen was thrust in with the fresh recruits and handed an axe, sword, and a spear in turn until Brynden judged him passable. Jon crossed blades with the veterans, though his eye was never far from his squire. The boy fumbled with swords, each stroke coming awkward and stiff, but axes and maces came easier to him. No matter. By the time his service was done, Torrhen Flint would wield any weapon well enough to kill. Jon would see to it.

There was a raw satisfaction in teaching—even though most of it had yet to begin. The mere idea of shaping a young and impressionable boy into a warrior worth his salt made his blood sing.

Arya drew his gaze next. She hacked at a straw man with dogged fury for a time. But when her turn came to face off against the young squares, she lost each fight. They had fought hesitantly at first, throwing wary glances his way, but once Jon remained silent, his sister’s defeats came faster. Stealth and swiftness served an assassin well, but had little use in an open fight. Left-handed or not, she was small, and the Blackfish made certain none spared her for her birth or title.

The bruises or the hardship didn’t break his sister, but stoked that stubborn flame in her eyes.

He turned back to Torrhen, already plotting his regimen: an hour’s run each day, two hours in the yard, two more with Maester Wolkan. Perhaps three—the clans of the Northern Mountains had no maesters, and while mothers, uncles, and grandparents in the clans were good teachers, they came short of a proper scholar. All done with armour to wear from dawn till dusk, until it became a second skin and hearty meals to give him the strength to last.

And then, he would serve Jon as a cupbearer throughout the day.

When the training was done and Jon’s itch for swordfighting was scratched, Torrhen could scarcely stand. Eryk and Derren carried him away to the hot springs for a good soak, while Jon turned toward the godswood for his magic training.

But the moment he stepped into the grove, Winter tugged on his mind with the stubborn insistence of a three-year-old child, and Jon let out a long sigh and turned to join his dragon.

4th Day of the 8th Moon, 303 AC

Shireen Baratheon

The horror had returned to her dreams, bigger and scarier than before. But the king beat it up all the same, and then set it aflame. It was strange and laughable in the way that only dreams could be, but to Shireen, it felt real.

Regardless, the nightmares didn’t return, and her sleep the following night came easier.

To her delight, each next dawn saw her well-rested.

Breakfast in the Great Hall was a rowdy affair. The benches overflowed with Northmen, each of noble stock, their colourful blazons fanned across the trestle tables. Each lord and chieftain sworn to Winterfell was here, together with their brothers, cousins, sons, and nephews. The daughters and unwed sisters were here, too. Rumbling voices, deep Northern brogue, cold rasps and the chatter of a hundred voices rippled through the air.

Greatjon Umber’s booming voice rang over the din as he bellowed back and forth with a half-giant of a man with hands as thick as tree trunks in a roughspun surcoat stitched with a green lobster clutching a harpoon. Whispers named him Skageir Magnar of the Kingshouse clan, one of the Skagosi chieftains seldom seen so far from their grim isle. According to the other courtiers, House Magnar of Kingshouse and the other Skagosi clans were a rare sight in Winterfell. The Skagosi were said to feud with each other as fiercely as they did with the rest of the North, and their presence set many lords muttering into their ale.

Many stole glimpses at the high seat, but it stood empty today, as it often did. Jon Stark broke his fast most days in solitude, and his new squire, Torrhen Flint, was worked half to death in training before the sun had even risen.

Beside her, Myrcella leaned close, her golden curls brushing Shireen’s sleeve. “Do you know what has them all eager?” she whispered, eyes darting across the hall.

Most Northerners passed Cersei’s daughter by with quiet dislike at best, and even her guards remained silent and distant, so she clung to Shireen for company. The Baratheon girl did not mind. Myrcella was gentle enough, and her quiet grace made for a pleasant breakfast companion on the rare occasion she came to eat in the Great Hall.

Shireen lowered her voice. “The king has called a gathering tomorrow evening. They’re calling it a Grand Northern Council. No one seems to know what he means to say—or if they do, they keep it close to their heart.”

Myrcella picked daintily at a venison pie, her gaze drifting to the high table. “Princess Arya no longer breaks her fast with us,” she murmured.

“His Grace has given leave for her to train with the guard,” Shireen answered after a sip of lemonwater. “Ser Brynden Tully has her up at dawn each day, drilling her harder than the rest.”

“Trained by the Blackfish?” Myrcella asked incredulously. “Would it not make her harder to wed?”

Shireen pulled over a serving of scrambled eggs. “Would a princess ever want for suitors? Bear Island’s daughters take up the bow and the bludgeon, as do the maidens of the mountain clans. None think less of them. Still… I doubt Arya Stark will ever wed, for other reasons.”

“You mean she would sooner kick her suitor in the shin?”

Shireen stifled a laugh. “Not only that. Have you not heard? They say she poisoned every soul in the Crossing. Women, children, all.”

Cersei’s daughter seemed to shrink into herself, her face paling.

“Is… is that why they call her Freysbane?” she whispered.

“Yes,” Shireen said with a shake of her head. “Though it’s more of Greatjon’s boasting than anything else.” She drew another slice of venison to her plate. Of late, she had found her hunger sharper. Meat filled her belly better than sweets ever had, though once she had thought she could live on lemoncakes and apple tarts alone. Now they only made her hungrier, so Shireen dared not touch them. Maester Wolkan said a child needed proper food to grow. Perhaps he was right, for never had she eaten so much, and she did not grow plump for it like Lady Cerwyn did.

By contrast, Myrcella only pushed her bacon about with her fork, nibbling like a sparrow.

“Do you think His Grace would let me train with his sister, if I asked?” The words were faint, scarcely above a whisper, but enough to make Shireen turn. “I always wished to wield a sword, but Mother would never hear of it.”

For the briefest heartbeat, Shireen pictured herself with sword in hand, squaring her stance across from some armoured knight. The thought seemed foolish as soon as it came. She had no taste for fighting. The very notion of striking another left her uneasy, and she had long since resigned herself to her place. Her duty had never been to wield steel. Even with her father dead and his claim shattered, Shireen Baratheon knew she must wed in time, as every highborn maid must, and not live forever as a guest upon another king’s largesse. Perhaps she might serve as lady to the queen-to-come. That was honour enough for someone like her.

“You should ask,” she said instead.

“The king frightens me.”

“Frightens you?!” Heads turned her way down the benches at the outburst. Shireen flushed scarlet and lowered her gaze, scolding herself for breaching courtesy. She still leaned to whisper, “His Grace is kinder than most men I have known.”

Bold as it sounded, it was twice as true. Where her own father’s bannermen pretended she did not exist, Jon Stark had shown great care and kindness. He had cured her of the greyscale when no other hand could, and asked for no price in return. He had offered her shelter when she had nothing but a name with countless foes. It was a great grace bestowed upon her shoulders, one Shireen could never forget.

“Kind?” Myrcella let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “He cut the heads of hundreds of men who fought for their lord himself, with his own hand, like some common headsman. They rotted on Winterfell’s walls until the crows picked them clean. And that beast of his—” she grimaced, glancing about as if Ghost might be listening “—he is no pet hound, Shireen. That thing is as big as a destrier, with fangs that could tear a limb. Or your head.”

“Ghost is gentle,” Shireen murmured. The fluffy white direwolf was quiet and loomed over most in frame, but was as playful as a pup. “You’re being unreasonable. And the king cannot be seen showing mercy to traitors and turncloaks who turned their swords against their liege.”

A childish pout was her answer as the golden-haired maiden turned her attention to the bacon.

Once their bellies were full, the two girls slipped into the chilly yard, wrapped tightly in cloaks of fur and wool. The sky was now clear, and the sun hung above, but its warmth was faint at best, and the crisp air stung at their bare faces. The night had laid down fresh snow, knee-deep where servants had yet to shovel it away.

“How d-do you bear it?” Myrcella’s teeth were chattering. “The Northmen might have i-ice in their veins, but we have none.”

“It was colder at the Wall,” Shireen said, smiling. As dark and grim as the Wall had been, she recalled the day she had met the king with fondness. “After a while, the cold no longer stings as much.”

In the yard, the clang of steel rang out. Men sweated and cursed in the cold, drilling as if it were midsummer. Arya Stark was with them, her arming doublet streaked brown with mud and slush. The girl was knocked down by the blunted swords and the shove of a shield, but each time she sprang back on her feet, as if eager for the punishment.

Myrcella blanched. “Seven save me, I don’t want to train with her after all. That looks too painful.”

Shireen laughed softly. “Then you needn’t beg leave of the king.” She tugged her companion along.

The path to the glass gardens was short, though the snow slowed their steps. Both maidens had a liking for flowers. In the Red Keep, Myrcella had her little plot near the godswood, tended more by servants than by her own hand, while Shireen had a small stone bed of daffodils and lotus over Aegon’s Garden in Dragonstone. At Winterfell, the work was left to them alone. Flowers would have never lasted in such fierce cold if not for the glasshouse warmed by the hot water surging from the ground.

“I heard the servants whisper last night,” Myrcella said, casting a wary glance as they slipped past the wooden door into the godswood. “They say the purple dragon’s made his lair near the gardens. Are we safe?”

“Winterfell is safe.” Shireen gave her a reassuring smile. “Nothing ill will come to us here.”

The other girl was not convinced, but she held her tongue. Shireen only thought of the dragon with a wry smile. If Stormstrider showed his scaly snout, she would pelt him with snow again.

The glass gardens greeted them with a roof heavy with snow, but something else drew their attention. A great mound of snow twice as tall as both of them, set square before the entrance.

“This was not here before!” Myrcella cried out fretfully. She drew back, her face pale. “I mislike this. We should go back.”

“Are you frightened of snow?” Shireen teased. “Come, we’ll go around. Lions are meant to be brave.”

“I’m a doe just like you,” Myrcella whispered, though she followed all the same.

From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the golden-haired maiden turning as pale as milk, quaking in her boots.

Shireen slowly turned around, only to freeze.

The mound of snow was gone. In its place, a dragon stretched with catlike grace, snow sliding down his purple scales in soft cascades, his wings drawn wide.

Gods, he was beautiful with that slender body, larger than any warhorse Shireen had ever seen, with ings and delicate underbelly in deep bronze. And those dark pools of violet were fixed on them with childish curiosity.

Stormstrider lowered his great head until his snout was half an arm’s length from them. Smoke streamed from his nostrils, and his breath smelled of ash. Myrcella quailed, shrinking into herself, but the beast thrust at her with his snout, and she toppled shrieking into the snow.

Shireen did not move—she couldn’t move. Her heart was steady and calmer than it had any right to be, and her eyes were drawn to the dragon. His scales shone like polished amethyst in the sun. When the dragon loosened a low, rumbling sound from deep within his throat, Shireen finally moved.

Her glove was peeled off before she knew it.

Her bare fingers brushed along the warm, smooth plates of his snout. It was delicate and warm like porcelain, and a giggle slipped from her lips. At that moment, nothing else in the world mattered—there was only Shireen Baratheon and the drake.

Stormstrider leaned into her touch, and a deep purr rumbled from his chest. He nudged her gently, then lowered his head and neck, wings half-furled. Shireen stood, bewildered, and smoke curled from his nostrils as he rose to nudge her again, sharper this time.

Her head was blank, but her body knew what to do and moved on its own. Her skirts were gathered, her foot found the ridge of his neck. She swung her leg over the bony base of the neck.

The moment Shireen seated herself firmly, the dragon surged upward. His wings beat once, twice, and the ground was gone beneath them. Shireen clutched tight on the jutting spikes as the wind roared in her ears, swallowing Myrcella’s cry below.

Only when the frigid gale prickled at her bare face did the truth sink in. She was flying. On a dragon.

Shireen’s head swam as the ground grew smaller and smaller. Wonder and fright warred in her mind as the wind pressed against her body as if trying to fold her like a wet towel, and her braid snapped behind her like a banner. She clung tight, fingers curled around the sharp spikes and thighs pressed against the slick scales, every muscle quivering with strain. Stormstrider was warm beneath her, but that comfort was fleeting. The scales on the neck were crueller than those on his snout, edged like shards of glass. The harder she clutched, the deeper they bit, until her thighs burned with pain.

Yet for all that, it was glorious. The bronze wings beat against the wind with a crack, every stroke sending a wave of thrill through her blood. It was as if the vast sky itself took her into its cool embrace. For a long moment, Shireen forgot herself. She forgot fathers and foes, kings and queens, the wind washed away all those worries—and even the ground below seemed small and distant.

Winterfell dwindled behind her until it was no bigger than a blotch of grey capped by snow. Below spread the wolfswood, an endless expanse of snow-kissed trees, and fear finally rose in her chest, sobering her swiftly.

“Land—oh, please, land!” she cried, but words were swallowed by the wind. Whether the dragon heard or sensed her distress, she could not say, but Stormstrider wheeled, gliding toward a snow-veiled glade.

The landing rattled her bones, and when her boots finally found the ground, her knees buckled. Shireen crumpled into the snow. Strength drained out of her, and pain came flooding in its stead, prickling at her hands and thighs.

Her legs shook when she tried to rise, and she fell back on her arse.

It was then she saw the blood. Thin lines dark crimson bloomed across her skirts. Beneath, her torn leggings fared no better. Even the dragon bore the marks of her ride, red streaks steaming upon his neck and spikes she had clung to.

The cold wind was like a slap, waking her from her daze.

The snow sucked in the warmth from her limbs. Her body felt heavy, her strength drained away by the heartbeat. A shiver wracked her body. She was alone amidst the wolfswood—bleeding, half-frozen, a weak girl with no water or shelter, and no way back to Winterfell.

Stormstrider circled the clearing, restless, his wings beating against the air, casting ribbons of snow adrift. Shireen tried to lift herself again and found she could not. She doubted she had the strength to climb him even if the beast lowered his neck for her. She could not even say where the castle lay. The forest was white in every direction.

Tears pooled in her eyes, blurring the snowy clearing, when a monstrous roar shattered the silence.

Stormstrider was immediately upon her. Shrieking at the sky, he coiled around her, veiling Shireen with leathery wings. For a moment, she allowed herself to enjoy the warmth, but then came the beat of wings—heavier and deeper than Stormstrider—and something heavy landed into the snow with a heavy crunch.

Winter was here.

“Stormstrider… what has come over you?” The king’s muffled carried through the wings, calm but edged with authority. Relief washed through her. “You know we would never harm you.”

The dragon slowly uncoiled, and the warmth vanished as abruptly as it had come. Shireen shivered, caught beneath Jon Stark’s piercing gaze. Head cocked, the King of Winter regarded her as though seeing her for the first time. Behind him, Winter’s great form loomed—dark blue and bristling with inky spikes, twice Stormstrider’s size, and twice as imposing.

“Blood of the dragon indeed,” Jon murmured to himself. “Come, Princess, we must return.”

Her mind thawed at the words, but Shireen only felt her heart pound wildly for it. This was bad. Once a dragon took a rider, it would heed no other until either died. And she had stolen a dragon from the king himself. A whole dragon.

Shireen’s stomach twisted into a cold knot. Heads had been lost for far smaller offences. Gods, she was in deep trouble.

“I don’t think I can get up yet, Your Grace,” Shireen sniffled, voice raw and thick with guilt.

“‘Tis fine.” The words were soft, bereft of anger and calmed her racing heart.

Before she could protest, he was already beside her, lifting her effortlessly in his arms. The king was impossibly warm, like a burning furnace that cast away the chill from her bones. His fingers brushed her tear-streaked face, and Shireen felt her cheeks burn.