37.Salt and Steel

Disclaimer: I don’t own HP, GOT, or ASOIAF. Would have finished the last two properly if I had.
Edited by Bub3loka

14th Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

The Kraken’s Daughter, Nagga’s Hill

Asha shifted her weight, and pain flared like fire up her right ankle. Her left leg had gone numb from standing too long, but the other was worse, smashed during the storm that sank most of her fleet and broke her pride in half. She clenched her jaw to tide her through the pain and leaned on her cane, breathing harshly. There was no use complaining; she was among the lucky ones.

Three of her men died from the falling ice, their heads cracked open like overripe melons. Seven more were knocked overboard, vanishing beneath the waves. Scores were wounded, and dozens lived on as broken things that would have been better off dead. Enyl, the poor fool, had his hands ruined so badly he might never pull a rope again.

The hailstorm had battered her black and blue when she had tried to steer and command the ships. The maester on Harlaw had seen to her limp arm, but her ankle remained a ruin, the skin there hot and angry, pulsing with pain no matter what draughts and concoctions were tried. The grey-bearded rat had mumbled of rot, and even dared to speak of amputation. “Cut it off,” he had suggested, as if she were a goat with a festering hoof.

With each day she limped, each night she lay with the pain, the notion of a peg leg grew less offensive.

“There were more drowned men last time,” she noted as she limped toward Nagga’s hill, her voice low.

Qarl the Maid walked beside her, blade on his hip and smirk on his lips as his eyes wandered across the gathering. “Aye. Last kingsmoot, the hill swarmed with priests, over a hundred strong. Now? A pitiful two dozen, and all old men or half-drowned boys.”

The beating of their driftwood cudgels was a pale echo of the thunder they had once raised. Last time, the roar of the kingsmoot had drowned even the stormy waves. Now the gentle sea sounded louder than the priests.

It was not only the priests who had been cut in number. The captains and the ships had thinned, too; this kingsmoot was a mere shadow of what it had been, and Asha was counting generously. Half the Iron Fleet and the might of the Iron Islands were at the bottom of the Whispering Sound, and the other half—in the bloody fist of Hightower. Gone was the endless stretch of ships that would spill across the sea as far as the eye could see, and with it, the pride of the Iron Islands.

“They say your uncle Euron turned on the priests when Damphair vanished,” Qarl said with a crooked grin. “Called them all traitors and hunted them down one by one. Shame he missed a few. Never understood why anyone listens to the wave-worshipping madmen. All they do is mutter and stink of dead fish.”

“Quiet, fool.” She scanned the hill. No heads turned, no eyes glared. Good. Her crew was small, but tongues were sharp, and the drowned priests still held too much sway. “You’re my champion. Don’t act like a burden.”

Qarl snorted but said no more. He knew how fragile her claim was. They all did.

Trade had brought her more silver than reaving ever had, though she still took ships when the chance was ripe. Yet most Ironborn disdained the gold price, her late father most of all.

Atop the hill, Rus of Old Wyk raised a hand. The cudgels ceased. His voice was dry as sand and carried half the weight Damphair’s once had. Aeron had vanished the day Euron took the driftwood crown, and no one truly believed he still lived, and Asha, least of all.

If you told Euron kinslaying was forbidden, he’d slit a son’s throat just to spite you.

She felt no sorrow at her uncle’s passing, only relief. There had always been something wrong with the Crow’s Eye, something far more unnatural than cruelty and love for mockery. His sorcerers, his mute killers, his riddles were all gone now. Their bones were left in Oldtown, so close to the sea yet so far away. Euron Greyjoy was gone, and with his foul tricks had died with him.

And yet, even with her enemies dead, the Seastone Chair remained far out of reach.

Her blood gave her the right—daughter of a king, niece to a second, last true Greyjoy of sound mind. No man dared challenge her claim to Pyke. But ruling the Iron Islands was another matter entirely.

Too many of the old captains were gone. Too many of the newly forged lords held a grudge with the Greyjoys for their kinsmen’s passing. ‘It wasn’t me who led them to ruin and death,’ she wanted to scream, but they would not heed it. They had no will to kneel to a woman—worse, a woman broken in body and beaten once before.

“They remember,” Uncle Rodrik had warned her, voice gravely. “They remember you lost a kingsmoot once. They remember your failure, and it mars your name like a scar that would never fade. They have tasted the old glories and new plunder, and will not let it go for your pitiful peace.”

“I was close,” she had snapped. “Closer than any woman’s ever been. I had them. I had them until Euron sounded that thrice-damned horn.”

Rodrik had only shrugged. “Close is still a loss. Close means nothing—here, the victor takes all, and the losers are forgotten.”

That stung worse than the ankle.

“And look what their victor bought them,” she had said bitterly. “Madness and ruin, that’s what. How many warriors were lost far from sea? How many widows weep in silence? All for what? A madman’s dream and a fool’s folly.”

“I know it too well, niece.” Rodrik had bowed his head. “I had followed you once, and I will follow you again.”

She had returned not to claim the driftwood crown, but to test the waters. And the waters were cold, unwelcoming. No one challenged her openly, but few pledged their swords either. Her limp did not inspire confidence. Nor did her cane and broken arm still bound and wrapped all over.

Qarl nudged her side. Asha winced.

The hill was quiet. The rite was beginning, and the captains watched on with cold eyes.

And Asha Greyjoy, bruised and broken but unbent, straightened her back and limped forward with her head raised high.

“Euron is dead! The Iron King is dead!”

The remaining priests joined in the chant. “The king is dead!”

“The king is dead!”

“What is dead may never die, yet rises again, harder and stronger!” Rus reminded them with his low, rumbling voice. “Euron has fallen. They called him the Crow’s Eye, yet he honoured the Old Ways and paid the iron price. Euron is dead, but an iron king shall rise again to sit upon the Seastone Chair and rule the Isles!”

“A king shall rise!” the captains all roared along, this time. Asha stayed silent but heard Qarl join in the hollers. “He shall rise!”

What the gods had given with one hand, they had taken with the other—her lover had a pretty enough face, but on days like this, she questioned the sharpness of his wits.

“He shall rise,” Rus agreed and ran his bony hand through his long black beard. Then, each next word rose in a crescendo, “But who? Who shall sit in Euron’s place? Who shall rule these holy isles? Who shall be king among us?!”

The ending cry rang out through the hills, sweeping over Nagga’s bones. Asha felt a pain throb at her temples and had to clench her teeth to remain silent.

Old captains and new lords stood in uneasy silence, their dark cloaks fluttering like banners in the sudden sea breeze. They cast sidelong glances at each other, weighing mettle and measuring danger. She could see the desire and ambition in their gazes; many hungered for the power to command the Iron Islands, yet feared the cost of the attempt.

No one moved.

The future was not set in stone, and there was no clear favourite—Asha doubted her chances, but she would never voice it. She had to try.

Her eyes swept the hill. None stepped forward. Few ironmen would choose someone at the very start when they had not heard something that had struck their liking or miss the chance of a better offer that might come later.

The silence stretched, and not even Gylbert Farwynd was foolish enough to come forth first again. Only the howling of the winds and the song of the waves below echoed across the hill. Not even seagulls could be seen in the sky, a bad omen. The day was dying—the sun had already begun sinking into the Sunset Sea, bathing the horizon in red.

Then, just as Rus, face hard, stepped forth again, a booming roar tumbled through Nagga’s hill, halting the priest in his steps.

“Me! I shall be king!”

“Andrik! Andrik king!”

The cheers accompanied the giant figure as it ascended towards the Grey King’s Hall, clad in steel like a knight, with a red cloak billowing in the wind behind him. The Unsmiling, they called him, for the fierce frown that never left his face. Andrik was a giant of a man, and twice as fierce with an axe as any other. He served the bone hand of Old Wyk once.

Yet only a babe remained from House Drumm, and a babe could hardly keep his loyalty. Asha frowned – the Unsmiling was a dangerous foe, and she carefully looked to see who his champions were.

Her face soured at the sight of Jon Myre, who saw her and sent her an infuriatingly condescending smirk. The second one was the young Lord of Volmark, who had yet to reach six and ten name days. Asha did not recognise the last, but he was tall, second only to Andrick himself, and had a fierce scar across his face.

“I will claim the driftwood crown! Who better to lead the Ironmen than the strongest warrior!?” Andrik’s words echoed, yet most captains remained unmoved. “I have slain many a greenlander, and if you follow me, there will be more blood to be shed and spoils to be taken.”

The words were plainspoken and direct, just like the man himself.

A handful of sailors brought up three large oak chests and upended them on the base of the steps. Torrents of steel, silver, and bronze spilt forth—swords, daggers, dirks, axes, rings, and even necklaces. Many men helped themselves, and some cheered Andrick’s name. The fierce giant seemed to have earned plenty of spoils during Euron’s campaign along the Reach.

But it was not enough; she saw no gold, and for every willing man, three remained unmoving. The cries chanting his name quickly waned, and Andrik retreated down the hill, head hung low.

“Who shall rule the Ironborn?!” Rus’s challenge rumbled in the clearing again. “Who shall rule over us?”

Once again, time passed, and the silence grew heavy. Euron’s madness had taken the boldest of them, leaving the old and the cautious behind, she realised. A low murmur spread like a fire through dry grass through the men, talking in hushed whispers that she strained to hear.

Asha shifted on her cane again, her ankle a dull throb beneath her. She half-regretted not taking her flask of wine. Her mind wandered to the future—that and dragons.

Could the Ironborn be made to bend the knee without a fight?

She did not know, and it scared her.

The dragons promised to crown her Lady of the Iron Islands, but what use was a title if it only sat on her name because some other had placed it there? Leave to rule granted by the grace of Targaryens was no rule at all. The Iron Lords would name her a puppet, betrayer to the old ways, a saltwife to the greenlands.

It would be better to win the kingsmoot with her own strength here. But would they follow a woman whose goal was to bend the knee?

If she failed, she would have to call upon the dragons. And that shame would follow her to the grave, tarnishing her name far worse than kneeling.

If she failed, it would be a war here. A fight against the House of the Dragon—a fight no sailor could win. Ships burned easily, for they were all made of wood, and dragons did not lack for fire.

The Ironborn were stubborn and proud, and would fight hard regardless of the enemy. Perhaps they might have succeeded—the dragons were still young and small, their scales vulnerable. But at what cost? The Iron Islands were already half-crippled by the wars her father and uncle had started.

Could they afford another bloody war? After the fighting in the North, after her uncle’s mad daring, very few were left from the captains and the lords: swaddling babes, greybeards, third and fourth sons, uncles who had remained as castellans.

Where once there were a dozen Greyjoys and twice as many Harlaws, now there were only names to be mourned—not even bones remained to be sent into the Drowned God’s watery halls. From the Harlaws, it was her uncle, the Reader, and her distant cousin Alyna—a slip of a girl. The once mighty line of Greyjoy had been reduced to herself and her brother, a shell of his former self, brittle and ready to crumple at the first strong gust of wind. But Theon followed along, shadowing her like a crooked-legged dog who knew no better.

No one had come forward again. Then, the hushed whispers quieted, and Asha turned, lips tight, as her uncle Rodrik Harlaw stepped forward.

The Reader moved up the worn stone steps with surprising grace, under the cold gazes of the captains and lords. Rodrik was not known for his skills in sailing and fighting, and no Ironborn admired him for it.

“I say we bend the knee to the dragons again,” he said, and the hill erupted.

“Traitor!”

“Craven!”

“Greenlander swine!”

“Is there salt in your veins, or ink, Reader?”

Rodrik did not flinch. His spine remained ramrod straight despite the insults and jeers flying his way. There was steel there, more than they expected from the Reader, and the crowd soon grew quiet.

“Baelor Hightower has taken most of the Iron Fleet. And the Drumm Fleet, and the Harlaw Fleet and many more—he has over five hundred ships to his name.” His quiet voice was as grim as his face, but carried between Nagga’s bones just enough to be heard. “The rest are being hunted like dogs in the Sunset Sea! And those who held the North in Euron’s name have been slaughtered. Slain in their halls, butchered in their beds. What do we have to show for the two kings who ruled us?”

His challenge was met with reluctant silence. Stubborn as the Ironborn could be, they were not blind. Her uncle pressed on, his words sharpening.

“Bones and death, that is what we’ve gained,” he snarled. “How many widows weep in Pyke? How many sons will never know their fathers? How many foes have we made for it? What price has the Old Way fetched us? Answer me, damn you!”

Dagon Ironmaker sneered. “You sound like a fishwife, Harlaw.”

Rodrik rounded on him. “And you sound like a fool, boy! We are fewer than ever, and the dragons rule the skies again. If we bend the knee, we might yet live to see our sons grow to manhood. In ten years, in fifteen, we may rise again.”

Some paused. Asha could see it—the flicker of thought behind grim eyes, harsh words of reason battling pride. For a heartbeat, hope blossomed in her heart. But then Rus slammed his cudgel upon the stone.

“This is a kingsmoot, not a council, Harlaw.” Rus did not look angry—merely disappointed. “Either put forth your claim or leave. If some Southron king wants the Seastone Chair, let him come speak his claim or pay the iron price!”

The cry was taken up with roaring fervour, and Rodrik Harlaw looked ten years older as he turned and stepped down, drowned by rising jeers. Asha grimaced, heart heavy. ‘Brave men,’ she thought bitterly, ‘and fools all the same.’

She leaned on her cane, feeling more powerless than ever. That was what she had feared.

Her fleet was scattered, her crew thinned. Some had been lost in the storm. Others had fled when she could not rise from her bed for a sennight. “What kind of Ironborn survives a storm half-dead?” they whispered.

The words were scathing but not untrue.

Alas, every decision, every battle the Ironmen made had to be paid in blood. It was known.

Asha wanted the Iron Islands to be better. She wanted them to flourish beyond the old traditions that had kept them shackled for so long. But those were far harder to break than any iron chain. There was nothing more she could do now but watch and prepare herself for the coming struggle. Blood might not be drawn today, but Asha held no illusions—the Ironborn would be subjugated, whether by fire or by steel.

Then, Rus struck the stone again.

“Who shall rule the Ironborn?” he called. “Who shall be king over salt and rock—”

A sound silenced him.

A terrible, rumbling roar rolled down Nagga’s hill like a thunderclap. The ground shook, and men stumbled. Gloved fists reached for axes and swords, quick to bear them. The captains looked around, seeking its source.

Asha did not need to look. She knew that sound. She had heard it in the skies above Meereen and Dragonstone. It rattled your heart and knocked the breath from your lungs. It was the cry of a dragon.

“Dragon!” someone shrieked, pointing skyward.

The wind turned violent, and a gale swept Nagga’s Hill as wings blotted the sun. Asha’s cane shook in her grasp. Hope crept up into her heart.

Daenerys was here—or Aegon. They had come to press their claim, and a battle could be avoided, for no captain would choose against a dragon. She would sit on the Seastone Chair, the First Lady Reaper of Pyke and the next daughter of the Sea Wind, and not a single drop of blood would be spilt over it. She could imagine it beneath her, the black stone seat of her ancestors.

The crack of dragon wings against the wind was sweeter than any song, then.

But what followed was death.

The dragon descended like a shadow with fire in its belly, and flame spilt across the hill. Black fire, streaked with swirls of blue, poured like liquid ink, drowning everything in sight. Many screamed as the Ironmen scattered like rats from a burning ship.

Asha reeled.

She saw Qarl flee, but the flame caught him. Saw Ironborn flung aside like dolls by a sweep of the spiked tail, their screams rising and dying in the same breath. Then a ring of fire circled Nagga’s hill—this one a dark purple, unmoving like a wall. A few brave souls attempted to leap through but disappeared into the curtain of greedy flames, though not before letting out a howl of pain that came to a sudden halt.

They were all trapped.

The screams of her people pained her more than her ankle did. Why had Daenerys betrayed her?

No, she realised. This was not Daenerys.

Drogon did not boast scales of blue, but red and black. Nor did Viserion or Rhaegal have such a colouring. This was a different dragon.

She tried to run, but her ankle betrayed her. Pain speared up her side as she fell, face-first into the mud and filth. The screams of pain and anguish mixed with the stench of charred meat voided their bowels, overwhelming her senses. Vomit splattered her chest. She coughed wetly as her trembling fingers sought out her cane, but found only grass.

Was this how she died?

A pair of shaky hands managed to help her to her feet with great effort. It was Theon. Her brother then handed her the cane like it was a sword. Yet his eyes were looking away, fixed on the shadow in the sky.

Quiver as she might, the fire never came for Asha and Theon. She hacked her throat out at the acrid smoke threatening to drown her, while her brother just wheezed along. Men died all around them in agony, until the screams ceased and only the crackling of the fire remained.

Then, the fires all suddenly went out. The plumes of dark smoke that choked the surroundings died just as quickly, as if they had never been there, revealing scorched ground, all blackened and cracked, like a field of broken glass.

Asha didn’t have time to think as the dragon descended, each beat of his wings rising ribbons of ash. The ground shook as the dragon landed with a heavy thud.

Her brother swallowed his wheezing, his pale face set not on the dragon, but the rider. It was a man, leaping off the saddle with the grace of a shadowcat, unrestrained by his sleek-looking black armour. A single piece of heraldry betrayed his origin—a direwolf head, all in white but the two red eyes that shone like rubies, snarling at Asha from the breastplate.

A Stark, with a dragon.

It all made sense, then, in a twisted way.

Yet everything about him was wrong. Wrong. Worse than her uncle Euron and his smiling eye. The dragon was all teeth and spikes, but something told Asha that the rider was the dangerous one.

She quivered, as if she were a small child again, scared by the thunder outside the castle’s walls.

It was wrong, all wrong.

The sun peeked above, yet the black metal of that armour seemed to devour it all, not glinting in reflection. The greaves landing on the glassed ground produced no sound either. And the dark cloak behind him fluttered like a banner, even though the air had grown still. The silence was unnerving, eerie, and the more Asha looked at the dragonrider, the bigger he seemed, until he was a giant in her eyes, tall and looming over like a mountain.

“J-Jon?” Theon whispered, his voice half a wheeze. “Is that you?”

And then, the spell was broken as the dragonrider removed his helm, revealing dark purple eyes, glowing with power. The face was pretty, long and sharp and framed with raven curls, but colder than Asha had ever seen.

“Imagine my surprise when I heard of a kingsmoot,” Jon said, voice calm as the cold snows of the North. “A most convenient gathering of all the lords and captains of the Ironmen—a meeting I couldn’t afford to miss out on. So I came to settle old debts.”

Theon shook like a leaf. “I… I helped Sansa,” he croaked out.

“You did,” acknowledged the dragonrider. “For that, you may choose how you die.”

Asha wanted to scream, to shout, to beg. But all she could do was cough.

“The Old Way,” Theon said. Her brother was not speaking of the ancient creed of their people, but the Old Way of the First Men. The Stark Way.

Theon Greyjoy proudly stepped forth before the man. He stood taller than she remembered, prouder than the day they had reunited in Pyke.

For half a heartbeat, the man called Jon was surprised—but it was gone so quickly she might as well have imagined it.

“Words?”

Theon mouthed something, a barely audible rasp that she could not decipher.

Jon said nothing. He drew a blade of dark bronze that made her skin crawl, and the world darkened.

And then Theon’s head was gone from his shoulders, now rolling through the ashes.

Asha blinked. It had happened too fast. She numbly watched as her brother’s headless corpse crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.

The dragon turned, dark flame licking its teeth. Asha raised her hand, but it was too late, and her hand was too small.

All she saw was a river of molten darkness rushing to consume her.

16th Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

The Winter Queen, Winterfell

Today was one of those rare days when the court had been short, and everything in Winterfell had run smoothly without her touch.

Shireen Baratheon tucked a winter rose into her dark hair; its blue petals adorned her curls like sapphires. Her gloved hand brushed Ghost’s pale fur as they left the warmth of the glass gardens. The direwolf made no sound; he never did, but his red eyes wandered, always watchful. Behind her came the soft crunch of footsteps—her ladies in waiting, trailed by Jyanna Snow a few paces back. The snow fell soft and steady, cloaking the godswood in silence.

“I thought you were raised to the Seven,” Alys Karstark noted, her breath fogging in the cold. Even Myrcella turned, eyes curious.

“I was,” Shireen said, sighing. The words tasted odd on her tongue. The memory of the Faith brought little warmth, and she had yet to forget the sharp chastisements of Septa Alena. Chastisement, fear, and fire were all Shireen had ever known from the gods—always fire, since Melisandre. “But I am a Stark now. My children will be Starks. And Starks pray to the Old Gods and pay homage to their heart tree.”

It was the easier road to tread.

She did not speak of how the Old Gods asked for nothing in return—no coin, no sermons and endless rites, no gilded septs or pompous septons. Only quiet worship in the godswood. In this, Shireen found something truer than fire and superfluous words, deeper than the marble and crystal of the Great Sept of Baelor.

Some whispered the Old Gods had turned her greyscale back, that the red leaves and white faces had taken pity on her when she had prayed.

She knelt in the snow before the heart tree. The godswood’s silence wrapped around her like a shroud, and even her companions dared not make a sound. Shireen prayed, not in words but in thought, for her husband’s safe return. She prayed for his swift victory and hoped for his triumph. The leaves rustled, though no wind stirred them.

Alys knelt beside her. Myrcella hovered uncertainly before following.

When the prayer was done, and her knees were wet from the snow, Shireen rose lighter than before. Her heart still held worry, but it was smaller than before, not as sharp in her throat. Jon knew war better than most and had mastered magic and dragons. But even the surest sword could still use a blessing. And what was luck, if not a sliver of divine favour? Even the Freehold had learned that no matter how mighty you grew, if the gods in their caprice decided you would fall, you would meet your doom.

“Where to now?” Alys asked while dusting the snow off her gown.

“To the Great Keep,” she said, tugging her cloak tighter. “Sansa is weaving a new tapestry. She’ll want our help.”

“That battle, is it?” Myrcella asked as they walked.

Shireen nodded. “The Battle for Winterfell.”

She remembered that day clearly. Shouts of men rushing to their death, lancers charging into a wall of spears that wouldn’t falter, horns blaring, giants roaring, the grisly slaughter when men met men with the sole purpose of killing each other. A terrible battle, a bloody struggle, crowned by dragonflame—the first time Westeros had seen dragons fall upon the armies of men since the Dance. It was that day that had seen her husband crowned. It was that day that the Northmen called him the Demon of Winterfell for his fearless valour, whispering his name in reverence even today.

It was the stuff of legends.

Sansa was ambitious, trying to catch it all in thread, but Shireen would do her best to help her succeed.

Myrcella shivered. “Winterfell would be the perfect castle, if not for the chill.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Alys returned with a smirk. “This is warm, for the North. Karhold’s far colder, and without a hot spring to warm us. But at least with so much snow, we can build a snow snark.”

“A what?” Myrcella blinked.

“A snow snark. We made them as children—my brothers and I,” Alys added, and her smile dimmed.

Shireen knew why. Torrhen and Eddard Karstark had died in the Whispering Wood, at the hands of the Kingslayer—two brothers lost in a single day. At first, Alys had been colder than the northern wind, but time had eased the distance.

“Show us how,” Shireen said on impulse. She’d not played since Storm’s End, not truly. “Let’s build one.”

Alys tilted her head, then laughed—a rare sound. “Very well. We all have gloves.”

For a time, they were just girls in the snow, shaping the body of a monstrous thing, big as a bear, horned and snouted. They laughed, they ran, and then Alys hurled the first snowball. It struck Myrcella full in the face. Alys tittered, but Cersei’s daughter was not amused and reached down for a scoop of snow.

A war began.

Snowballs flew freely through the godswood. Shireen was struck—once, twice—and let out a shout, more startled than angry. Soon she joined them, shrieking and laughing, letting her cloak hang heavy with snow. Her gloves were soaked, her face flushed with exertion, and her heart free. She had never had friends to play with like this before.

Then Myrcella stopped and pointed. “Oh no!”

Stormstrider loomed behind them, with his snout raised haughtily as his tail swept through the snow, sending white gusts over them. Then, he had the audacity to let out a rumbling snort. But his amusement was short-lived.

Ghost had caught the tip of his tail and was dragging the young dragon, now all snarling, back into the trees. Snow flew as wings flailed and the drake yowled indignantly.

“Gods,” Myrcella giggled, sweeping snow from her hood. “Ghost is stronger than your dragon, even at half the size!”

“Only for now,” Alys said. “Wait till the beast grows further.”

The chill hit them as soon as they halted. Their joy was quickly cooled by the snow in their hair and wet cloaks as they looked at their work. The snark was left half-formed, yet no matter how much they brushed the snow from their gowns and faces, the cold clung to them. They made haste toward the keep. The fleeting moment of childish joy was like a whisper in the wind, gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Jyanna arrived not long after they had bathed and dried. Her face was grim, her hand clenched around a letter.

“A raven from the Shadow Tower,” she said. “Lord Manderly requests your presence at the council at once.”

Winterfell’s hallways felt endless then, and Shireen now lamented the size. By the time she reached the council room, her damp hair had chilled again. Manderly, Locke, Glover, and Wolkan were already gathered, all uneasy in their seats. They looked like Daenerys had come again, grim-faced and weary.

“The Bridge of Skulls is under attack,” Manderly said, not mincing words. “Wights have come, Commander Mallister writes.”

Shireen’s heart skipped a beat.

“Is it one? Or… many?” Shireen’s voice was low.

“We don’t know,” Glover admitted. “The raven gave little detail—nothing beyond Westwatch under attack.”

“Sparse detail suggests haste,” Locke said, his brow heavy with worry. “The situation must be dire if they had no time to write a longer message.”

Manderly and Glover murmured in agreement, while Shireen wrung her hands nervously.

This could be bad. Jon had spoken of the cold foe beyond the Wall, but she had dismissed it. It was but a distant worry, a fight far away, long in the future. Her husband had planned and prepared at great length for it. Jon Stark knew how to fight the White Walkers and their shambling thralls, so Shireen held no fear.

Yet the foe was here, and her husband was not.

He was deep in the south, dealing with the unruly House of the Dragon and their beasts. Until he returned, the North was hers to rule. Hers to protect.

“Commander Mallister is no green boy, but a veteran of many battles at over seventy,” Wolkan said. “He’ll call for aid if need be. Greatjon and the Big Bucket are near, with the host, and the wildlings have all sworn to defend the Wall.”

“But if this is a true attack?” Shireen asked. “Not one meant to prod the defences but overwhelm them. Would the men be enough?”

“We can only pray,” Locke muttered, “that Westwatch will hold.”

The words made her want to scream in frustration. Prayers were all well and good, but if the gods cared, they would never meddle directly—a sign, a vision, or even a sliver of luck, but they would not wield swords or smite your enemies down.

“Send riders and ravens,” she ordered, steeling herself. “Call the northernmost clansmen and the Mormont banners. Muster them at Westwatch. Call upon the Skagosi and the Ironsmiths and the Karstarks, and everyone near enough to aid the Watch.”

Manderly frowned, his voice growing grave. “Calling the banners is no small thing, Your Grace, especially at one place. If this is a ruse, a feint, we might see the rest of the Wall poorly defended…”

“This is not the Wall.” Shireen pointed to the map, her finger stabbing at the Shadow Tower, where ink denoting the Wall ended. “Westwatch lies beyond it. If the dead breach there, the Wall means nothing. Seven hundred feet of ice or not, each wall is as strong as its weakest link. The North cannot allow Westwatch to fall. We will never survive it.”

The room fell silent. None would meet her eyes. They all knew it—the topic had been spoken of before. If the White Walkers entered the North proper, the fight would be lost. Castles would not fall easily, but the countless villages and hamlets strewn across the North would be ripe pickings for the White Walkers. How many corpses would they add to their shambling army then? Hundreds of thousands? Millions?

No, the moment the wights and their icy masters passed the Wall, the North would lose. It would be a slow, painful defeat, a terrible struggle, but not one they ever had a chance of winning.

Yet here they stood, bickering, trying to haggle like fishwives at the market.

“My husband commanded you to obey me in his absence,” she said coldly. “To follow my every word as if it came from his tongue. Or have you forgotten?”

Only Ghost moved, rising beside her, towering over the seated councillors like a giant. His crimson gaze swept the table. Glover looked away. Locke cleared his throat. Even Manderly ceased mopping sweat from his brow.

“It shall be done,” Wolkan said at last. “I will send out the fastest ravens.”

Yet fear crawled like a beetle up her spine. They listened to her because Jon had bidden them. Not for her.

And yet… she was his queen. She would be his queen in truth. The Queen in the North.

Even if they listened, even if the banners mustered, it might not be enough. It might be too late. Even the most valiant of men would tire, while the walking corpses would not. Even the bravest of warriors needed bread and meat and warmth, while the wights did not.

Her father had taught her many things, as had Maester Creylen. Law, and rule, and warcraft. But of all the lessons, one was forever lodged in her heart.

Great or small, we must all do our duty.

Her father’s words thundered across her mind. Yet Shireen felt too small, too young. How could she make a difference when she was so weak? It was the king’s duty to fight wars and protect the realm, not the queen’s.

But the brothers at the Wall had written those desperate words, seeking help from Winterfell, and Shireen was the Stark in Winterfell now, if only by vows.

“We should wait for the king,” Glover muttered. “Haste is ill-advised, Your Grace. Wull and Umber are enough to deal with this—they would write if further assistance is needed.”

She ignored him and stood up. “I will go.”

“What?” Locke’s voice was incredulous.

“To Westwatch,” Shireen said, louder this time. “I’ll fly Stormstrider there. Cover Lords Umber and Wull from the sky.”

Ghost blinked. Manderly opened his mouth, then closed it.

“If Jon were here, he would fly north without pause,” she said. “He would go there with Winter and smash the enemy. Since he is not, I will do it in his stead.”

“But, Your Grace! You—”

“I have a dragon. Wights burn. You said so yourself.”

They stared, as if seeing her for the first time.

Manderly’s jowls quivered with fear. “Your Grace,” he said, voice low and pleading, “if something happens to you, the king will never forgive us. Please reconsider!”

He bowed his head deeply then, his sweaty brow kissing the table.

“What if Westwatch falls, Lord Hand?” Shireen challenged, voice more resigned than angry. “What shall the North do then?”

They kept their tongues, faces growing grim. They had no answer, no more than she did.

“Perhaps this is just a feint,” Locke proposed lightly, but it sounded like he tried to convince himself instead of others. “Perhaps Her Grace will just take a flight and be swift to return, finding all this a false alarm.”

“Then no harm shall come to me if I go now,” Shireen said calmly. “And I could easily return, perhaps even recall the muster before it fully gathered if this is some false alarm.”

The old merman sank into his chair, looking ten years older. “Very well. But we must still fit you for battle regardless, Your Grace. And if possible, Lady Jyanna must accompany you.”

Just an hour before, she had been laughing and playing with her handmaidens, and now? Now, Shireen was preparing for war.

It took the better part of an hour to ready her for the flight. She was tall for a girl of her years, true enough, but her frame was still slight, her shoulders narrow where a knight’s would be broad and corded with muscle. In the end, they found but one brigandine that would fit—a grey, quilted leather coat, heavy with steel plates hidden betwixt layers of wool and linen.

It was not a great fit, a little tight across the chest, though Shireen said nothing of it. The arming doublet beneath gave her little trouble, but that was the extent of their fortune. Ringmail proved too much for her. When the hauberk was pulled over her shoulders, her knees folded like a newly born fawn’s, so Shireen cast it aside.

The brigandine alone was burden enough, but at least its weight lay evenly across her torso, and she could still move—though not well, not quickly.

“I mislike this,” grumbled Jyanna, gauntleted hand seeking the comfort of her axe. “Women are not meant to soar in the sky. Nor are men, for that matter.”

Shireen sighed, blowing a pale wisp of breath into the crisp air. “Needs must. Besides, you’ll ride a dragon this day. How many children dream of such a thing, only to wake up to horses and donkeys?”

Jyanna grunted, neither in agreement nor protest. She looked up at the sky with eyes as dark as storm clouds. Whether she hated heights, dragons, or both, she did not say. Yet she would fly. Of that, Shireen had no doubt.

In the yard, only Sansa waited. News of Westwatch’s peril had not yet spilt beyond the walls of the Great Keep, or else Winterfell might already be ringing with alarm. The red-haired princess stood cloaked in grey fur, her eyes solemn beneath the morning’s pale sun. At the far end of the yard, Lord Manderly loomed like some beached and blubbered sea lion in his great fur robes, content to observe from the side.

“Must you go?” Sansa asked, voice laced with worry.

Shireen swallowed. Her throat was tight, though she could not say why. “There’s no one else,” she said. “And you’ll hold Winterfell in my stead, should the worst come. You have the blood for it, and Ser Brynden will stand with you.”

If she and Jon perished, Winterfell would fall to Sansa. They all knew it, but it remained unsaid.

“I don’t want it,” Sansa said, her hands rising to hide her face. “You’ve done well, Shireen. You should stay.”

Shireen gave her a brittle smile. “Manderly will see that everything runs smoothly here. And it’s only until Jon returns. Perhaps this threat at Westwatch is nought but shadows and wind. Perhaps I’ll be back in a sennight.”

Yet even the young queen did not believe the words rolling off her lips but felt compelled to say them.

“Stay safe,” Sansa whispered, embracing her. Shireen clung to her for a moment longer than was seemly, then turned away, wrapping her scarf tight about her face. Up in the air, the cold wind would cut sharper than any blade.

Stormstrider landed with a beat of his wings, talons sinking deep into the snowy yard. He had come unbidden, summoned by her desire alone. It was an odd connection binding the dragon and the rider, a shared awareness between the two, but it was elusive, like a phantom at the edge of your vision; sometimes it was there, oftentimes it was not. Shireen would have never known of such if Jon had not spoken of it once.

One mind, sharing two bodies, dragon and rider intertwining until there was no distinction. The young Queen was far from such heights of magic, but she still yearned for it.

Even now, the dragon was always docile, receptive to Shireen’s touch… but Jyanna was another matter entirely. Stormstrider lowered his head, though his tail swung out restlessly. It took long minutes and softer tones to soothe him enough that the sworn shield could mount behind.

“Soves!”

The dragon reared up and took to the sky.

The wind was cold and cruel, howling in her ears, and Jyanna’s weight against her spine brought her no relief. Stormstrider flew slower than he had before—the new burden had taken its due.

Below, the North stretched wide, white and grey and deathly still. Once, such flights had given Shireen a sense of freedom, but not this day. Her heart was heavy with fear.

What if the wights had never come? What if she’d leapt at shadows and dragged the North’s strength to its doom? Moving men in winter was no small thing. And worse—what if the dead had come, and she was too late?

What if she failed?

Her father’s voice echoed within her. Only fools and weaklings let their fears rule them. Those who go to battle with hearts full of doubt lose before steel has been drawn.

The words were harsh, but not untrue. The thought of her father brought her solace and reassurance, where before she had found only anger.

She forced it all down deep, burying her trepidation beneath duty. Her eyes scanned the snowbound forests below. A flicker, something moved through the white, then was gone, swallowed by the boughs of the wolfswood.

Shireen frowned, but there was no time to ponder distractions. Her mind went to the road ahead—and the battle that probably awaited. A woman, she might be, but the blood of great men and kings ran in her veins, and she would do her part as well as any man.