35. Winter is Here

17th Day of the 10th Moon, 303 AC

Myrcella Baratheon

Wary servants moved like scared rabbits, their feet uncertain, their eyes ever glancing upward, as though the very sky might crack open and rain fire upon them. The lords and ladies were little better, their grim faces joyless, and their earlier confidence shattered.

A chill that had nothing to do with the cold had settled over Winterfell.

Myrcella saw it plainly. It was not snow that drove folk away from the courtyards, nor the shortening days of the northern autumn. It was fear, the threat of crimson wings and dragon flame. Fear of Daenerys Stormborn. “Aerys with Teats,” Lord Dustin called her.

“The Mad King’s daughter will return,” they whispered in corners and kitchens, behind closed doors and beneath stairs. “She will come again, and this time not in parley. This time, she will burn us.”

The outside yards were nearly empty. Myrcella suspected it was not the snow or the cold that had made most of them huddle up inside the towers and buildings, but something more primal—fear. Fear that Daenerys would return, swooping from above, raining fire and death atop Winterfell.

“What if the Mad King’s daughter returns atop her wicked dragon?”

Talk of war festered like an open wound. Not just any war, but a Dance. A terrible clash where dragon turned against dragon, and the sky would light up with flame and fury. The first Dance had scoured the realm, turning fields to ash and castles into smouldering ruins. Even two centuries had passed, yet the memory remained—even the smallfolk knew the bitter tale of the Dance.

And now, they were facing it again, this terrible conflict that had crawled out of the yellow pages of the history books to haunt them.

Yes, the dragons were smaller this time, and the dragonriders were far fewer. But the shadow of terror hung upon everyone like a headsman’s axe. Daenerys’s threats had spread across Winterfell like a fire through dry grass.

Fear or not, thousands of men, women, and children continued flocking to Winterfell. Wintertown, if Myrcella had to be precise, where they would spend the coming winter huddled underneath the grey looming walls. Many feared the threat of dragonflame, but the cold bite of snow was already here and no less dangerous. Winter was risky on your lonesome or up the hills, they said, and the presence and numbers represented strength and safety against the cold, and so did Winterfell’s hot springs.

The city in all but name beneath Winterfell’s walls boiled with activity. Myrcella had seen the long lines of wagons and folk stretching down the kingsroad. Hill clans, crofters, miners from the mountains and woodsmen from the Wolfswood, even crannogmen from the Neck, braved the snowy roads. They came seeking shelter, warmth, and protection and received it.

And all those who arrived were eager to busy themselves. Men flocked to the sawing mill in droves, carpenters and artisans churned out scorpions and longbows with dogged eagerness, bolts and arrows flowed out of Wintertown like a river.

Things wouldn’t be as bad or worrisome, but the king had vanished from the court, save for breaking his fast with Shireen and his sisters or testing his sword against a half-dozen knights in the training yard at dawn. After the morning meal, none could ever see or hear anything from him, as if he had disappeared into the ground itself.

The Hand and Shireen held court, and her friend had confided that Jon Stark had also let her run the council meetings. The royal couple no longer flew together, and Winter’s fiendish form could no longer be spotted soaring the skies, even at night.

The king’s absence worried many. They had all seen that evil black behemoth, crowned with devilish red horns as if he had crawled out from the Seventh circle of Hell. It was a behemoth of a beast, twice as big as Winter, and word was that there were two more like it.

Yet Shireen did not look worried. Her friend fretted here and there, but only over smaller matters.

How would she deal with the trickier petitions and resolve disputes?

Was she being a good queen and Lady of Winterfell?

Were the larders and granaries sufficiently stocked to face the coming winter?

After the royal wedding, Shireen’s days had become even busier, and as her lady-in-waiting, Myrcella witnessed it all. Between dealing with the court and the royal household and shouldering some of her husband’s duties, she scarcely had time to read, garden, or embroider. It was a crushing burden, more demanding than Myrcella imagined a queen had to do. She did not remember her mother doing even half of her friend’s work.

Yet it suited Shireen, and the golden-haired maiden felt foolish for her envy.

Being Jon Stark’s wife and queen was appealing in a sordid way that words failed to explain, yet Myrcella no longer felt any desire for it. The jealousy had receded, but not fully—Shireen’s long raven locks were silkier than her golden curls. Even weaving them into a braid was easy, unlike her unruly mane.

Shireen loved her hair braided, even if letting it loose would cover her Florent ears and allow her to pass for half a beauty. It was not the classical braid of the Marches or the Rainwood but a Northern one. This one was from Skagos, with strands folded under, not over. It sat well on Shireen, and she had the look of the North with it.

“You should get some more ladies-in-waiting,” Myrcella said as her fingers folded Shireen’s black hair, who was engrossed in Clansmen of the North by Maester Alorin.

Ghost was sprawled at her feet, the direwolf a constant fixture to the young queen’s side, no matter where she went. The Pale Shadow, some servants called him. Even Jyanna Snow, the royal sworn shield, could not be spotted with her friend as often.

“I do not need a flock of hens,” Shireen said, not lifting her eyes from the yellowy pages. “All they do is cluck, gossip, and titter.”

Myrcella stifled her laughter. “Not all. It’s not all gossip or the like. Pick the ones that can aid you in your duties.”

“Like who?”

“Alys Karstark, for one,” said Myrcella. “Besides, the more ladies you gather by your side, the more power and connections you can grasp with their marriages.”

The young queen left her book on the reading table and turned to face her.

“Nobody else? Not your mermaid friends?”

“They liked Ella Waters well enough, but…” Her words thickened with bitterness. “Myrcella Baratheon, or well, Waters, is no friend of theirs. Not one they’d like to acknowledge.”

It was hard to admit, but Myrcella had stopped lying to herself after Dorne. Deceiving yourself could get you killed. The connection with the Manderly sisters was broken, and the other Northern ladies liked her little. For many of them, she would be forever Joffrey the Cruel’s sister. Too many had died in the wars, and too many had lost uncles, brothers, sons, and husbands to House Lannister. Her elder brother’s actions haunted her to this day, even though Myrcella liked him as much as the Northmen did.

Some hated her for being Tywin Lannister’s granddaughter or Jaime Lannister’s daughter. Tongues wagged and did not spare Myrcella from the cruelty of barbed words.

The bastard princess, the cursed Waters, the golden Hill—all nicknames she had heard whispered behind her back. None were thrown to her face, a small mercy granted only because Jon Stark had yet to claim a stance on the matter.

But then again, the Northern king rarely seemed to pay heed to matters that did not concern him or his kin—gossip and rumours were below him.

The War of the Five Kings had started when Eddard Stark made those accusations in the Throne Room in King’s Landing. Hundreds of thousands had perished for those claims, the North had almost been shattered to a thousand pieces… and Jon Stark didn’t care.

“Your Grace, must we host Cersei’s bastard like so?” a bold courtier had asked once.

“We?” The king had tilted his head, displeasure plain on his face. “You would do well to remember that there’s no we here. I decide what happens under my roof and in my kingdom. I will hear no more of this nonsense—either you obey my word or remove yourself from my hall and the North.”

They had not dared glare at Myrcella ever since.

Shireen closed her eyes and ears to the issue as if it were not even a question. Whether out of some sense of camaraderie or kindness, Myrcella couldn’t say, but she treasured it dearly. Her stay in Winterfell would have been far harder without such a friend, even before a crown was placed atop her head.

Yet the question now gnawed at her at night, turning her sleep uneasy.

Was Myrcella the true daughter of Robert Baratheon or a bastard sired by Jaime Lannister?

She didn’t know. Years ago, she dismissed this as some insidious, scheming claim, but things had changed. Now, she remembered the closeness of her maybe-not-uncle and his subtle displays of intimacy with Cersei. As a child, she thought it was normal behaviour between siblings, especially twins, but now, she knew better.

Maybe she truly was Myrcella Waters.

She dreaded finding out the truth, and ambiguity suited her better. Being Myrcella, the hostage or Myrcella, Shireen Baratheon’s lady-in-waiting, was good enough.

“Well, I didn’t like them either,” the young queen’s reply broke her musings. “Gods, Lord Manderly is amiable enough, but his granddaughters are insufferable.”

Probably because they had lusted after Shireen’s crown and husband, Myrcella’s friend was gracious enough not to rub her new position in their noses, but that did not mean she would suffer those seeking to supplant her. This was why Myrcella had suggested Alys Karstark; she was dutiful and reserved and did not whisper behind her back. It was also a way to mend the strained relationship between the crown and Karhold.

“The old Merman is a cunning schemer.” Myrcella shuddered, remembering that dreadful day at the godswood. “That man might look harmless or servile, but I would hate to be on the receiving end of his ire.”

Not again, never again. The amiable smile as blood splattered and a blonde head rolled on the grass made her skin crawl and would forever haunt her nightmares. If Jon Stark was the most dangerous man in the North, the fat merman was a close second—even if his sharp edge was hidden behind jovial smiles and displays of gluttony.

“Manderly is a good Hand,” her friend said, waving away her concerns. “A man needs guile to hold such a position. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“A wedding. You are my lady-in-waiting, after all.” Shireen’s smile grew sly. “Has some dashing young lord or heir caught your eye? A certain Umber Heir?”

“That was just a dance ages ago,” Myrcella said hastily. When the shy boy, nearly a head taller than her, approached her for a twirl during the wedding feast, she was surprised. So surprised that she had agreed despite herself. It wasn’t… terrible, and Edwyle Umber was nothing but courteous, even if more could be demanded from his dancing skills. However, according to the rumour, he had gotten his hide tanned by his lord father because of that dance later on, and she only felt guilt for it all. “Nothing will come of it.”

No man would want a scarred maiden for a wife, especially the granddaughter of the hated Tywin Lannister. Perhaps Jon Stark would… if she mounted a dragon. But Myrcella did not have Shireen’s courage, and Bloodfyre was now guarded by a band of tireless guards.

“We shall see,” Shireen said softly, but the stubborn tilt to his chin suggested the matter was not over yet. “How’s Ser Lucion? Has he approached you again?”

Myrcella let out a bright little giggle, her earlier troubles slipping away. “I’d swear he yielded after the third attempt,” she managed between breathless laughs, and even Shireen allowed herself a small, shy chuckle.

“Perhaps I ought to let him send a raven to Casterly Rock.” Shireen’s brow knitted in thought. “His attempts to convince the maester or send a rider are just… pitiful.”

Ser Lucion Lannister was a proud, capable knight and a gifted swordsman, but he could not muster even an ounce of subterfuge, even if it were to save his life. And so, no word of the dragons left for Casterly Rock by design. He approached Myrcella, asking her for assistance, cajoling maester Wolkan, or even sneaking into Wintertown—all in vain. Any letter he would send was screened, and the ravenry was guarded by five burly clansmen day and night.

It had become a game. The Northmen would watch him struggle and devise new ways and excuses to attempt to send a message south, but fail even harder. The knight did not dare threaten or harm anyone out of fear of the king’s wrath. Shireen had forbidden horses and travel supplies to be sold to the red cloaks in Wintertown, and travelling through the snow on foot would kill you as surely as the headsman’s axe.

“Nay.” Myrcella swallowed her laughter with some effort. “I say let him sweat. It’s one of the little joys left to us these days.”

Besides, there was no telling what vile scheme her mother would concoct if she knew the North had dragons. Myrcella knew that Cersei would choose Tommen over her with little hesitation.

Just as the braid was finally finished, Dale, the royal steward, swept into the library, carrying a hefty book in his hands. The ledgers and spending needed balancing, especially since all those craftsmen and workers in Wintertown had to be paid for their efforts.

While a close friend of the queen, Myrcella was still a hostage and was thus dismissed. It stung, but not too much, and she could not begrudge her friend for it. Their families were still at war, and she would do much the same in her boots.

“Oh, Princess Myrcella!” Ser Lucion waylaid her across the snowy yard on the way to the kitchens. “How fares Your Grace on this fine day?”

“You call this a fine day, ser?” she asked, sweeping her hand skyward. The air was choked with ribbons of falling snow, and the sky was dark grey.

“It could be worse,” he said, nodding to himself. Then, he leaned in, whispering, “I’m ashamed to ask, but I am in need of a favour, princess.”

“Oh, and what favour would you require of me, good ser?”

His eyes darted around, doubtlessly to check if anyone else was watching. Myrcella spotted at least three guardsmen by the wall, amusement dancing all over their faces. Lucion leaned in to continue anyway, though his earlier smile grew strained.

“I am in urgent need of assistance to send my mother a letter. She’ll be worrying greatly about me, and I promised to write to her, you see—”

Myrcella giggled. Lucion began to sweat, his face fraught with worry; she couldn’t help but burst out in full-blown laughter.

19th Day of the 10th Moon, 303 AC

The Queen of the North

As any proper wife, Shireen did her duties without complaint. Yet as the days passed and the tension thickened in the air, so did her worry grow.

The threat of Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons hung over them like a shadow of doom, and dread began to pool in Shireen’s belly. She threw herself into her work headfirst, but no matter how many small councils she held, or how many supplies and staff she arranged, she would not feel at ease.

Jon spoke of plans to deal with this new threat but shared none. He was deadly with that queer dark-bronze blade of his, and arcane powers stirred at his will, but each passing day tightened the cold fist about Shireen’s heart.

One question settled in her mind, buzzing around her skull like a persistent fly.

Could alone sorcery claim victory from a dragon?

Shireen did not know, and that frightened her more than she dared admit.

So she gathered her courage to brave the ninth floor of the Great Keep. It was a lone, short hallway beneath the pitch of the roof with only three rooms: the royal solar, the king’s chambers, and… her husband’s workshop. Jon had vanished behind its ironwood door after breaking his fast and had not been glimpsed since. Sometimes, he missed even sleep.

Her steps paused, staring at the door behind which Jon spent his days. None quite knew what happened there, not even Shireen. Some whispered he hid from dread, others that he trained without cease. There were even mutterings of dark magic and curses cast upon Daenerys. Sansa insisted it was magic, though what sort, she could not guess. The meals sent up to him daily might have fed a dozen knights.

Doubt crept into her mind. Did Jon truly have a way to resolve the looming threat?

A queen was little without her king—history had shown as much. Dragons alone could not hold a throne. Rhaenyra had proved it. Called Maegor with Teats by her foes, yet her fragile reign collapsed quickly after her consort’s death.

But there was only so much she might do alone. She needed to know what Jon was doing, for her peace of mind if nothing else. Perhaps she could aid him. Yet fear of disturbing his efforts kept her rooted in place.

So she lingered before the ironwood door, torn in two.

In the long minutes she stood there, the silence grew stifling. Not even the faintest shuffle or footstep echoed from behind that door.

Why, she wondered, was it so terribly quiet?

Was Jon even here?

Shireen’s fingers crept toward the bronze knocker, though her hand trembled despite herself. Ghost waited by her side, ever silent, his great white tail sweeping slow arcs across the stone floor.

Her reluctance won, and she drew back her hand. Just when she was about to turn away, the door groaned open of its own accord.

“Come,” Jon called from the inside. “Come in.”

A blast of heat greeted her, tinged with a heavy metallic smell. After a moment’s hesitation, Shireen stepped across the threshold, her eyes adjusting to the dim crimson light inside.

The granite walls were covered with flowing runes she didn’t quite recognise, all clustered in flowery script and twisting into a geometrical pattern. Even the floor wasn’t spared. Three battered tables were haphazardly pushed to the sides, each laden with wooden blocks, sticks, shavings, and what she vaguely recognised as carpentry tools.

Her thoughts fled her entirely when she saw her husband.

Jon stood bare to the waist beside an anvil. Sweat ran in rivulets down the corded muscles of his chest and arms, glimmering like melted gold.

“I… forgive me if I disturbed you,” Shireen managed. She sank into a curtsy, bowing her head in hopes it might hide the warmth flooding her cheeks—though she suspected it hid nothing at all. “I was only… curious.”

Jon let out a low chuckle and set aside what seemed to be a carver’s chisel. “Curiosity is no sin. And you are my queen. I can spare time for you, at least. Ask away, and I shall do my best to answer.”

She swallowed. “Can… can we truly win against the Targaryens? Against their dragons?”

He wiped himself briskly with a towel, pulled a simple tunic over his head, and before she could blink, he was behind her. His arms slipped around her waist.

“Look,” Jon whispered as he raised his hand out.

A violet flash brightened the air, and flame blossomed in his outstretched palm. It was no larger than a pigeon’s egg, yet its heat rolled off in shimmering waves that twisted the air itself. There was a cruel beauty to it, much like a rose with its thorns.

Shireen reached toward it without thinking, curiosity tugging her forward, but pain bit at her skin long before her fingers came close. Half an arm’s length away, it felt as if her digits would burn.

Jon’s skin, by contrast, seemed wholly untouched. He clenched his hand into a fist, and the flame winked out with a faint hiss, leaving only a thin wisp of smoke.

“I can make it larger and hotter,” Jon said, stepping aside. “It is not Daenerys who troubles me most. It is the beast she rides.”

From thin air, a longbow appeared in his hands: pale weirwood, the very one Morgan Liddle had gifted him for their wedding.

“Here.” He set it into her stunned grip, along with a single arrow.

“I… I have never drawn a bow before,” Shireen admitted, blinking. The wood was warm beneath her palms. Rust-red runes twisted along its pale length.

“I’ll guide you.” Jon moved behind her, arms sliding around her once more. The feel of him—all solid and broad—sent a warm flutter down her spine. She tried not to lean back into him… and failed miserably.

“First,” he murmured near her ear, breath stirring the fine hairs at her neck, “you take your stance. As with all things, strength here comes from the legs. Knees slightly bent, left foot forward. Hold the bow in your left hand, and nock the arrow with your right.”

Shireen obeyed, though clumsily; her fingers trembled too much, and every puff of his breath against her skin made it worse. She set the arrow and pulled—

Nothing.

The bow might as well have been carved from granite. Shireen strained, face puffed up with exertion until the deep red string bit into her fingers, sinking through flesh, yet the wood did not yield so much as a hair.

Then, Jon’s warm hands closed over hers, and the immovable weight disappeared as the bowstring immediately bent.

The arrow was let loose at a metal sheet at the corner, with a sharp crack, as if the air itself shattered, followed by a resounding thunk as it struck true.

Shireen staggered at the force of it, her ears ringing long after the echo died. The metal plate lay crumpled like a piece of Volantine paper, a jagged shaft jutting from its centre.

Jon strode over, pried free the splinters, and carried the mangled sheet back to her. “Here. Look.”

It was about two inches thick and almost too heavy for her to hold. The finger-sized hole punched through its centre was smooth. Shireen glanced past Jon’s shoulder; the rune-etched wall where the arrow had struck was wholly unmarked.

A bow that could pierce shields… armour… perhaps even dragonscale.

She knew little of archery, but she knew one thing for certain: the harder the draw, the deadlier the arrow. Weirwood bows were hardy, yet even the finest one should have snapped long before they could ever produce such force. How had neither bow nor string been broken? Was it the runes?

How mighty was her husband to draw such a thing?

“…How?” she asked.

“Magic,” her husband offered with a sharp wolfish smile that made her fears fade away.

She was safe. The North was safe. With Jon at her side, Shireen felt certain that Daenerys Targaryen would rue the day she threatened them.

“I’ve prepared a few more plans, should need arise,” he went on, glancing at the wooden sticks on the table. “And as I told you—ask what you will. You’ve the right to know it all, though some of it may not make much sense.”

Jon trusted her… and that alone made Shireen’s heart melt again.

Yet the question that spilt from her lips had nothing to do with sorcery. “Where is Winter?”

Others had remarked upon the dragon’s absence, but Shireen felt it keenly. She still missed those early morning flights. It was not a fondness of the chilly northern gale and the snow in her hair but those quiet moments they shared, away from Winterfell, away from courtiers, councillors, and guards.

“At the Wall,” Jon replied, a slight smile tugging at his mouth. “Tilting the balance a bit.”

“The Wall?” Shireen frowned. “What part does the Wall play in any of this?”

That earned her a roguish grin. Jon strode to the shutters and threw them wide, letting a breath of crisp northern air sweep through the stifling heat.

“Come,” he said, dragging a chair near and sweeping a cluttered table clean with one easy stroke. “It’s time you heard the whole of it.”

Shireen seated herself on the surprisingly comfortable chair, trying to ignore her fluttering heart.

“Some say dragons are fire made flesh,” Jon began, leaning against the table’s edge. “They’re half-right. Fire is their nature, but it’s magic that drives them. Mine were blessed by ice, weaned on the power that sleeps in the Wall. When they hatched—”

22nd Day of the 10th Moon, 303 AC

Three days later, Shireen was still in a daze. Gods… how blind she had been. Oblivious to the might of sorcery, to Daenerys, and most of all, to her own husband.

She had known Jon Stark to be a formidable warrior and knew that he had dabbled in some arcane power, the very same thing that had dispelled her affliction. But those words alone did not do the truth of it justice.

Her gentle, yet ruthless husband was no mere man. The word hardly fit him anymore.

His strength made giants look like children, steel and iron were no stronger than putty in his hands, and fire bent to his command. And then there were the enchantments—the runes, wooden carvings, sticks and spells whose names slipped from her memory as soon as he spoke them. And all of it had come from dreams from some half-remembered past life, life lived in another world. Shireen thought it was madness at first, but only such madness could explain it all.

And he was growing stronger still.

That was what he had been doing behind the sealed door of his workroom—tempering his body as a smith tempers metal, deepening his mastery over magic, crafting enchantments and queer devices he called wands. Much of it had flown clean over her head, yet his calm and steady voice had soothed her all the same.

Yet he kept it all close to his heart. Now, Shireen was the only one who knew it. Not Sansa, not Arya, not some loyal councillor or confidant. Her. The knowledge warmed her from within, no matter how fierce the northern chill grew, fluttering in her belly like a field of startled butterflies.

“The things you might do for the North with such sorcery,” she had said that night, when they had at last retired to sleep.

“Perhaps.” Jon lay beside her in the dimness. “But what good would it serve to make the realm lean upon me for every little need? Such great power breeds dependence. I have their loyalty already, won by blood and steel. I would not see them grow soft or helpless, waiting for their king to conjure answers to their every problem from thin air.”

He shook his head slowly. “Magic is no trifle, nor something to be used lightly, Shireen. It is feared from Sunspear to the Shadow Tower, and rightly so. Sorcery has ever been met with suspicion, envy, and hatred, and the danger to it is great. Revealing any of it shall do me more harm than good. When facing me, now men might at most expect a cunning commander and a skilled swordsman, not a sorcerer who has mastered powers beyond command sense, and that gives me an advantage I loathe to abandon.”

He was right, of course. As usual, he had put great thought into the matter. Her father’s teachings came to mind: a lord’s first duty was to keep the peace and mete out justice. From there, prosperity might grow… but never without the toil and fortune of those who lived under his rule.

“Yet,” she said at last, giving voice to the thought that had needled her, “if you revealed all you could do—if you showed them how far above other men you stand… they would worship you. As a god.”

Jon’s mouth twisted. “Just so. Another reason to keep such things buried. I cannot hide forever, I know that much. But I can keep my silence, use it as a shield, allowing others to conjure up one reason or another in their minds. My father’s clever ruse proved as much.”

His father.

It was said as a matter of fact, as if Eddard Stark had sired him, not Rhaegar Targaryen. But perhaps her husband did not consider the Silver Prince to be his father. After all, Rhaegar Targaryen was but a distant name of a man he had never met. Shireen hadn’t pried further at the matter—if Jon was not troubled about his parentage, then there was no need for her to worry.

The weight of the golden crown on her brow felt lighter than it had for months. She would do her duties and rule Winterfell, and Jon would do the fighting, and that was enough.

The courtiers still fretted like old hens, and grim faces filled the Great Hall at every meal, worried whispers filtering across the trestled tables. Yet the dread seemed far away now, unable to touch her. All Shireen could do was sit tall, show iron in her voice and spine, and let them all see a queen undaunted by Daenerys Targaryen or the beasts she commanded.

“Harrion Karstark has arrived at last, Your Grace,” Wyman Manderly murmured at her side, rousing her from her drifting thoughts. Shireen sat on the queen’s carved wooden throne, his stone seat empty beside her. Manderly eased himself into the painted chair to her left, while Ghost sprawled at her right, tail thumping lazily against the rushes. “He begs a private audience with His Grace.”

“I shall receive him,” Shireen said softly, fingers sinking into Ghost’s thick, pale fur. “My husband cannot be disturbed. Not now.”

The court dispersed quickly thereafter. Lord Harrion bent the knee and swore his fealty to Jon with a voice roughened by captivity. Shireen accepted the vows in her husband’s name. The Karstark Lord looked thin like a starving man, his face still pallid and worn out. But his eyes were still bright and full of steel—whatever had happened in the Maidenpool dungeons had not broken him.

When the formalities were done, she and Manderly withdrew with him to a smaller chamber behind the Great Hall.

“Much seems to have changed while I languished in that thrice-damned dungeon,” Harrion Karstark rasped, casting a wary glance at Ghost’s hulking form as the direwolf padded in behind them. “I would have His Grace know this: House Karstark stands leal to Winterfell, no matter past quarrels.”

“House Karstark’s loyalty is seen and accepted,” Shireen replied. “Any wrongs done by your cousins and uncles died with them. The Starks hold no further grievance. In truth, we seek mended ties. With your leave, your sister Alys would make a fine companion and aide for me.”

That eased the tension in Harrion’s shoulders, and from there the conversation flowed more freely. Manderly lent his heavy voice when matters turned to musters, holdfast levies, the state of the Night’s Watch, and what aid Karhold could spare for the Wall.

11th Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

Jon Stark

He woke up refreshed, feeling a gentle warmth encompassing him. As usual, his young wife had draped herself over him, her head peacefully resting on his chest and her slender hands clutching at him tightly as if he would disappear once she let go.

“It would be odd if a newlywed couple did not spend some nights together,” she had reasoned the night after the wedding.

Jon knew what weighed on her mind. The lack of consummation, of bedding, worried Shireen, even if she would never voice it. So when she invaded his quarters to sleep in his bed, Jon did not refuse, nor did he have the heart to chase her away. He had pushed that wedding, and it was time to reap what he had sown.

They didn’t do anything but rest, of course, but Jon grew fond of the warmth and the closeness, and her presence soothed him. It shouldn’t have had such an effect, and once he spread his senses, he was startled. It was a subtle power in her that calmed him, something he could only detect when he stretched his senses to the limits. A boon from the cleansing ritual?

It seems Shireen’s fortune had long turned over for the better.

There would be no more training or practice today, for he could feel Winter drawing nearer. Jon could allow himself a measure of rest for the first time in a while—perhaps the only true rest he would manage in the following days.

The last moon had cooled his anger. There was a primal joy of repeatedly pushing your body and magic to the limit, and the growth that came with it. The solitude of seclusion and the clarity of training cleansed his mind and strengthened his spirit. And he encountered no bottlenecks, nor did the diminishing returns that would accompany building strength and muscle.

Of course, Jon knew nothing was truly limitless, and the human body was no exception. But he was not exactly human, and it was hard to say where his limits lay. The rest of his time was spent exploring what would have been considered auxiliary branches of magic in his previous life, and he achieved some success there, even managing to craft a functional wand. Three of them, to be precise, though with ground dragon scale for a core and poor affinity for him. If Ollivander could ever see them, he would doubtlessly call them garbage. He wouldn’t be wrong.

His greatest gain had been runeless enchantment, using blood magic as a medium. Jon had the most potent ingredient for that—his own blood. Blood was the life source of any wizard, and his blood was imbued with both the powers lurking in his lineage and the royal authority.

Jon shook his head, banishing the idle musings. Today, he would put those thoughts and matters aside and spend the day with his wife and sisters.

Once the decision was made, he felt a sense of unprecedented relaxation.

His eyes slid down, settling on Shireen’s sleeping form. Her face was peaceful, unmarred by any worry. There were no regrets in wedding her, for his wife had done her duty more than admirably, and even some of his.

It was Shireen, Sansa, and Arya he would fight to defend. It would be the North and all those lives that hinged on the royal protection he would kill for. Jon would not lie like some hypocrite if asked—he fought for House Stark first and foremost. It was a selfish thing to fight for yourself first, but he was a selfish man.

He had taken the mantle and the crown and would do his duty, but not at the cost of himself and his family.

As if sensing his thoughts, his wife stirred.

“Is it mornin’ yet?” Shireen mumbled into his chest.

“Aye.”

She lifted her head, looking at him with bleary eyes.

“Are you late for your training?”

“I am done with sparring for now,” Jon said with half a smile. “Today shall be a time for leisure.”

“Oh.” That seemed to wake Shireen up quickly, but she remained draped over his naked torso, even though the tips of her ears grew red. “What now?”

“Now, I spend the day with my wife and sisters. Unless you have other plans?”

“I don’t,” she said, vigorously shaking her head. “Only… when do you leave ?”

“When Winter returns,” he answered. “Let’s break our fast first. In my solar, this time. I’d have a quiet meal with you and your good sisters.”

His wife reluctantly peeled herself away, releasing him from her embrace, but not before stealing a daring kiss, her face flushed bright red.

Half an hour later, Shireen, Jon, and Ghostwere already in the solar, seated around a table laden with a hearty fare. It was a generous breakfast spread with scrambled eggs, roasted ham, sausages, bacon, and apple tarts. They didn’t wait long for the she-wolves of Winterfell to arrive.

“The king has requested our presence?” Sansa spoke in her most haughty voice, chin raised, and mock arrogance plastered on her face.

At that moment, Ghost decided to rush towards her and slobber all over her face with his tongue. Jon snickered despite himself while Arya howled with laughter, clutching her belly.

Shireen also cracked a smile as the redhead tried to push away the affections of the enormous direwolf.

“Ghost, that’s enough,” Jon commanded once he stopped white direwolf reluctantly tore himself away, returned and lay down on the floor next to him, leaving an annoyed Sansa at the door.

Jon quickly called for a servant to fetch a wet towel. Sansa cleared her face, grumbling underneath her breath, and joined them.

“I will be heading south later today,” he said, washing down a bite of bacon with rich dark ale.

Arya froze for a long moment, then her eyes turned to him with reluctance and pleading.

“Do you truly have to go?” Her shoulder was stiff, and Jon knew she was grasping the dagger he had gifted her beneath the table. “You can say the word, and both Aegon and Daenerys will be gone.”

“There is no need to tread that twisted path again.” Jon shook his head. “If Daenerys rode the Black Dread itself into battle, even I might have been outmatched. But the so-called Balerion-Come-Again? That half-grown wyrm is something I can still manage.”

It was not the first time they had had this argument; his younger sister had offered to ‘remove’ Aerys with Teats since that day. But what brother would he be if he risked her mind, body, and soul for a foe he could defeat alone?

“He has to go,” Shireen said solemnly. “The other two dragons, too. House Targaryen left us no choice—wars have been started for less. Insults, slander, accusations and impudence can not go unanswered either, lest men think House Stark can be pushed around.”

“Jon, are you going to be fine fighting against them?” Sansa asked cautiously, her words nary a whisper. Her food was untouched. “…No more is more accursed than the kinslayer.”

“Kin is more than just blood.” Jon’s voice hardened. “What are House Targaryen to me? I was raised here, in Winterfell, as the son of Lord Stark. I ate the same food you did and enjoyed the same privileges, tutoring, lessons, protection, and more. Would the House of the Dragon even look twice at me if I did not have one of their precious dragons?”

Shireen gently clasped his balled fist. Jon blinked, realising the steel fork in his fingers had crumpled.

“Any claims of your parentage would have been dismissed then,” she added, not unkindly. “It’s easier to claim you a thief, a charlatan or a sorcerer who has grown lucky—or someone from some bastard line of dragonseeds. My mother always said that the House of the Dragon no longer acknowledged their bastards after Blackfyre, but did not stop siring them.”

Jon gave her a grateful smile.

“Your mother spoke truly in this,” he said. “Perhaps… perhaps I ought to be more amiable to dealing with the other side of my family, but Daenerys was the one who threw the glove first. I will choke the life out of her with my own two hands if needs must.”

A part of him wanted peace to last forever, for the fighting to end for good, and summer never to end, but he knew better. House Stark knew better. Winter was always coming. Ambition, desire, and greed in the hearts of men and women knew no bounds, and force was the only thing that could truly curtail them. House Targaryen’s obsession with their iron chair and ruling the Seven Kingdoms would never truly die.

Even if they could swallow peace for this generation, what about the next? What about the one after? How long until they began dreaming of ruling the whole realm as their ancestors once did?

It was true that blood ran thicker than water, but was the connection the other side would not acknowledge even there?

Even if they acknowledged it, so what?

A kingdom could not have two kings, a castle could not have two lords, and the Targaryens wanted to rule the North.

Perhaps he would have been willing to pursue some sort of agreement, a peace… if Daenerys had not threatened him, his home, and his kin. Even so, it would not be the first time Targaryens turned against their kin.

“Aren’t you angry at Father for hiding all this from you, Jon?” Arya asked as she scarfed down scrambled quail eggs and some apple tarts. “I know I would be if I were in your boots.”

“I can understand why he did it,” he said, letting out a long sigh. “And gods, I agree with him. I was a sheltered boy, green enough to piss grass, not ready to face the hard truths or the cruelty of the world.”

“And as stubborn as an auroch,” Sansa added with a chortle, but her face quickly grew serious. “Jon, do you intend to make good with the Lannisters?”

“What makes you think so?”

She folded her hands together over her lap—something she always did when nervous, but wanted to appear calm.

“The Lannister envoys are still here, walking through Winterfell’s halls as distinguished guests. You could have dismissed them long ago, but you did not. And, well, they are enemies of House Targaryen. And the enemy of my enemy…”

“Might not necessarily be my friend,” Jon finished. “It remains to be seen. I will not need to ally with House Lannister, but I might try to wring out some benefits out of them since I shall face their worst foe regardless. Perhaps even formal concessions.”

Something that House Lannister would be forced to give sooner or later. They had no hope of conquering the North at all, and Jon would merely… help them come to that conclusion a bit quicker.

Arya, though, eyed him with no small measure of concern.

“And what if they try something during the parley?” she asked, distrust roughening her voice. “I’d wager Cersei Lannister would give half a kingdom for a chance to lay hands on you.”

“I’ve no fear of their little tricks,” Jon said. “And who ever claimed I meant to go as Jon Stark?” A sly grin touched his mouth as he turned to Sansa. “Is the surcoat finished?”

“Yes. I saw to it yesterday,” Sansa replied, rising with her usual poise. From a chest she drew a garment of green-grey wool, the black lizard-lion stitched upon its breast. “But brother, even under another name, your face is… difficult to hide. Purple eyes are rare, too.”

“Arya is not the only one who can change her appearance,” he said, focusing his magic carefully.

His hair became the same shade of auburn as his sister’s, and if he did not screw it up, his eyes should be green—the same shade Harry Potter possessed in his last life. It was a common colouring amongst those dwelling in the Neck, and Howland Reed himself had granted the use of his House’s name for the ruse.

His eyes, however, fought the onset of magic stubbornly, resisting the change. He steeled his mind and poured more magic into it until they yielded, finally turning green.

“How?” Arya sputtered, half a laugh and half a cough, dabbing her mouth with a napkin.

“Magic,” he replied with a wide grin. Magic that only worked inside his body… for now.

“Could you teach me?”

Jon’s smile faded, and he shook his head. “I’m afraid none of you has the talent.”

Three pairs of sorrowful eyes fixed upon him, and Jon felt his jaw tighten, a grimace threatening to appear despite himself.

His claim wasn’t exactly… true. They had a sliver more magic than a squib but too little to become witches. And without proper wands, any spellcasting would be impossible in this world where magic was so fickle, and their bodies had already grown without channelling magic. But no lie had left his tongue—they would not have qualified to attend a certain magic school in another life.

There was a reason wizards and witches started learning at eleven in his old world. Of course, Shireen was another matter entirely. Ever since that old cleansing rite, something had changed, but even he still couldn’t quite tell what. Something was slowly shifting deep within her bloodline, too.

Jon decided to attend one final council meeting, set things straight, and dispel any lingering confusion before he departed.

Not even ten minutes had passed since he had given the summons for the small council when his councillors had already rushed over, all too eager to see his face.

“Word has come from Lords Umber and Wull,” Manderly began, voice rumbling. “They have reached the New Gift at last, with the relief host at their backs.”

Just as planned. The Greatjon and the old Wull each commanded two thousand hardened men, with nearly a thousand more expected from the northernmost holds. Enough to bolster the Wall and the faltering Watch.

“Lord Commander Tollett has seen fit to grant them several of the empty forts along the Wall,” said Glover, folding his hands upon the table. “He’s loaned them builders too, for the repairs. All runs smooth enough—and even the wildlings keep to peace.”

“I fear such aid cannot be sent as easily again,” Manderly sighed, thick fingers knotting together. “Snow’s begun to climb the passes. Lord Wull writes the roads will soon be buried deep—fit only for bear-paws and sledges. The Watch will have to make do with what it has now.”

“The white raven from the Citadel came but yesterday,” Shireen murmured. “Winter is here.”

“Could we not use the fleet to bring men and grain by sea?” Sansa ventured. Jon had bid her attend the council as his declared heir in case Shireen was childless, which she most definitely was. His eldest sister did not look charmed by the prospect but attended without a complaint.

“The Shivering Sea is too stormy to risk it during winter.” Manderly shook his round head, chins jiggling with unease. “And the further north you sail, the chunks of ice you meet, some easily the size of a holdfast. If the cold thickens enough, it will be all bound by ice, freezing ships on the spot. Soon, the only ones who can assist the watch will be the Skagosi and the mountain clans. And Their Graces with their dragons.”

“We’ve prepared more than enough to deal with the White Walkers.” Glover cleared his throat. “What terms will you place before House Lannister, Your Grace?”

“In exchange for my aid against the Targaryens,” Jon said, voice even, “Tommen’s regents will name me King in the North, return the missing half of Ice, and give up Ser Meryn Trant for execution. Myrcella is to be returned to her brother come spring, and I can allow concessions on trade and customs.”

“And if they refuse?” Edwyle asked, stroking his pointed beard.

“Then I shall answer as I deem fit,” Jon replied icily. “Anything else?”

Wyman tugged fretfully at the fur edging his collar. “What if… if Daenerys strikes while Your Grace is away?”

That was the only worry weighing on his mind, the only gap in his plan. For good or ill, Jon could not yet Apparate, and neither could Winter.

“Then, we shall rely on Northern steel and valour,” Jon said, sighing. “We have the men, we have the bows, and we’ll have the scorpions.. Should Daenerys come, order them all to aim for the riders or the soft, leathery part of the wings. Daenerys’s beasts are still young, and once they are on the ground, slaying one would be a simpler matter…”

That was met with grim faces, but nobody said a word. There was no need to, for they had suspected, or even known, about it for some time, even if they did not voice it aloud. Jon hated it; the risk irked him, but it had to be done, for he loathed letting the enemy make the first move more.

Targeting their weakness was the surest way to kill any beast, and the dragons were no different. Yet the older the fire-breathing beasts grew, the tougher their scales and wings would be, and the harder it was to slay them. Older dragons were nigh invincible in the sky unless you were lucky enough to get a good strike at their eyes.

Jon had no such fear—the powers of sorcery were endless and inexhaustible. A wizard of skill could easily toy with a grown dragon. Men like Albus Dumbledore, Gellert Grindelwald, or Riddle would have made short work of the Conqueror, his sister-wives and their three dragons without breaking a sweat.

He pushed such thoughts aside. “Edwyle,” Jon said, turning to the spymaster, “what word have you gathered of Daenerys and this Aegon?”

Locke cleared his throat. “The boy first showed himself when the Golden Company made landfall at the Rainwood, and…”

The spymaster’s words weren’t much, for he hadn’t found any clue of Aegon’s earlier movements. The so-called son of Elia was elusive and kept to himself, but the things Jon heard about Daenerys were nothing good.

The council was dismissed soon after. It almost drew a smile from him—hard-bitten men like Glover, Manderly, and Locke wore the long faces of soldiers marching to a doomed battle, while Shireen and Sansa held themselves with the poise of ladies thrice their age, showing only the faintest tremor of unease.

The next few hours flew by swiftly. Jon allowed his mind to relax in the company of Shireen and his sisters, idly strolling through the snowy courtyards of Winterfell. Their steps carried them from the library’s quiet stacks to the misted glass gardens, and at last to the frostbound stillness of the godswood. Yet with every heartbeat, the presence tugging at the edge of his thoughts grew nearer, sending louder and louder ripples through his mind.

“It is time,” Jon said, striding toward the central yard. It was empty save for the handful of guards braving the chill out of duty.

Then, a deep, monstrous roar tore through the calm and quiet, filled with challenge as it rolled through the snowy courtyards. Freshly fallen snow fluttered in ribbons.

Then came the wind.

Thrum.

A rising stirred the fresh snow atop the battlements, as the sound of wings, vast, monstrous wings, beat against the wind.

Thrum.

Thrum!

Faces tilted skyward, fingers pointing as the dark shadow grew larger, closer, and more terrible with each heartbeat. When the dragon descended, the ground quaked beneath its weight, and a small storm of snow rose with the last snap of his wings. Winter had returned.

Sansa shielded her face with a gloved hand, her hair tousled by the flurry. “Gods,” she murmured, wide-eyed.

All but Jon were surprised, and for good reason. Winter was larger, darker, crueller than when they had last seen him. His scales had blackened to a blue so deep it almost looked black. The horns had grown longer and more curved, thicker at the root. Wicked spines jutted from his back, and his claws sank deep into the frozen ground.

Winter reared with a shriek that shook the shutters in their frames, and from his gaping maw erupted a torrent of flame—black fire streaked with ghostly blue that brightened the sky. So great was the heat that the snow below began to melt, trickling into a muddy stream.

“What a show-off,” Jon murmured, shaking his head with exasperation. Winter loved the attention and the fear his presence brought. Yet the connection in his mind was full of challenge, of a desire to fight, kill that foolish red-horned dragon for encroaching on his lair. On this, dragon and rider were of a single mind.

The king turned around to embrace both of his sisters tightly.

“Arya,” he whispered while stroking their backs. “Listen to your sister while I’m gone. And help Shireen, both of you. She’ll need you.”

Arya nodded, eyes hard as granite. Her sister failed to find that same steel—Sansa’s face was pale, her lips trembling with emotion.

“Swear to me you won’t trust anyone in the South,” she managed, and the hatred in her voice was colder than the winds beyond the Wall. “They’re all liars and traitors. Every one of them.”

“I swear it,” Jon said solemnly, kissing her brow. “I never planned to trust any of them, regardless.”

His gaze found his wife, who stood nearby, and the old unease returned to her face. Her blue eyes were clouded by worry. She said nothing at first, only stepped forward and drew from her cloak a narrow length of grey silk. Embroidered upon it, a great white wolf circled a small black doe.

“A favour,” she said. “For luck.”

She tied it to his wrist. He kissed her, lips brushing together for a swift moment.

“No matter what comes, Ghost will guard you,” he whispered.

Her hands wrapped around him for a surprisingly strong embrace. “Just come back. That’s all I ask.”

“I will,” Jon promised. “No matter the cost.”

He kissed her lips, wiped the tears threatening to burst out, and after a moment’s thought, pulled the bronze dagger from his belt and pressed it into her hands.

“I’ve never used one,” she said, voice hoarse.

“Just stab them with the pointy end,” Jon said, managing a small smile. “Always keep it with you. Arya and Jyanna can teach you how to use it.”

Shireen gave a wet laugh that broke into a sob. Jon could not bear to see more tears. He turned away, jaw clenched, heart heavy. Farewells had never come easy for him, and this one was the worst.

Within moments, the saddle was fastened, the reins gripped tight in his fists, and Winter rose into the sky, black wings unfurling like the shadow of doom across the snows of the North.