40.The Third Slayer

18th Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

Jaime Lannister, The Golden Tooth

The command room was as quiet as a funeral. Even the crackling hearth had gone silent at some point, and with it, warmth slowly gave way to chill. Yet Jaime was still here, huddled over the great oaken table, and his gaze was fixed on the map as if it would show him a way to victory. It didn’t. He had heard a dozen suggestions, scores of ideas, each less feasible than the last. The defeat at Chesford had broken them. There, knights and veteran men-at-arms died by the hundreds, and with them perished the morale of the Westerlanders.

A less experienced commander would have seen half of his men desert.

They might as well be considered half-deserters, for Jaime still couldn’t regroup most of the routed men. Many had run to the hills and the valleys, scattering far and wide and hiding in caves and woodland groves, seeking to avoid further fighting. They feared Aegon, and they feared him more now that he had mastered a dragon.

The Riverlords did not delay the Targaryens as he had hoped. Instead, they were quick to bend the knee at the sight of the dragon banners or dragons themselves, falling like grass before a scythe. They still bowed their heads and solemnly swore fealty to Aegon and Daenerys, even though many of those Riverlords had hostages in Casterly Rock. But it shouldn’t have come as a surprise—five years of war had seen everything along the Trident spent, the land, the people, and their spirit and pride. In mere moons, the trap he had spent countless hours planning had melted away.

Now, the dragon turned its gaze west.

Jaime was far from being alone here. Alysanne Lefford, the last of her line and the ruler of the castle and these lands, had refused to retreat to the court in Casterly Rock despite any promises or threats he had levied.

“You have taken command by royal decree here, Ser Lannister, but it is the seat of House Lefford. My castle and my lands,” the stubborn maiden had said when Jaime had decided to use the Golden Tooth as a rallying point and fortify it further. “I shall live and die with the castle.”

“And you’d die quickly here without me,” he had replied. They might die quickly even with him and his men bolstering the defences, regardless.

Alysanne offered him no response, but bristled in silent fury the way short-tempered maidens often did.

Jaime would have been angry too if he had not been too tired. But a great enemy was coming, and he knew the odds were insurmountable. Dragons were the bane of armies, the end of castles.

At dawn, a pox-scarred scout by the name of Loren delivered the final blow to hope.

“My lord, the Targaryens’ host is three leagues away. They’ll be at our gates by midday tomorrow, no later.

Jaime dismissed him with a nod, rubbing tired eyes with his good hand. His left, always his left. The golden thing they’d strapped to his right wrist was a mockery of what had once been and would at best bruise his face.

“He’s being generous,” Jaime murmured. “The castle will be surrounded by the next morning.”

Addam Marbrand, his oldest friend, shifted behind him. “We’re prepared, Jaime. The Golden Tooth has never fallen, and it won’t fall now. The walls here are high and thick, the larders overflowing with food, and you have picked the bravest men to man the ramparts. With fifteen hundred defenders, we can rebuff Aegon even if he comes at us with everything he has. You’ve done all you can.”

“But is it enough?” Jaime asked quietly, the question pointed at himself as much as his friend.

“We’ve five hundred of the finest marksmen from across the land,” Addam said, voice low. “The rest of the men are seasoned, loyal veterans of many battles—none of your half-grown green boys holding a sword for the first time. If they try to storm this gate, we’ll throw them back. If they try to starve us out, we’ll—”

“Outlast them, yes,” he interrupted sourly. “My ears have grown numb enough from hearing it.”

He had prepared. Jaime had ordered every field and village within thirty leagues stripped bare or burned. Each bushel of grain or forage denied to Aegon would see the dragon’s men starve a day sooner. Jaime had ordered many things, including for five bands of outriders to circle into the enemy backlines, attacking their supply trains and forage parties. Only time would tell if it was any good.

The smallfolk would curse his name for a generation, perhaps longer—but Aegon would find no respite in victory here, not if Jaime could help it. Let the dragon starve if he dared venture deeper into the Westerlands.

“We have prepared the best we could,” he acknowledged begrudgingly. He had run out of further tricks and tactics days ago. “And it would all be for nought if we fall to dragonfire like Riverrun.”

“We have prepared for the dragons, too,” Addam stubbornly insisted. “Over a hundred scorpions. If the Dornish can kill a Meraxes, we can take down a Drogon and a Viserion. The Warrior will smile upon us this day, I say, and we’ll make the dragons choke on their ambition here.”

“They’ve flown high over our walls thrice, and the scorpions couldn’t reach them,” Jaime said bitterly. “They’ve seen every weakness from above with it, too. If it were me commanding, I’d send the Unsullied in waves until they took one wall. We might have scorpions, but can their bolts pierce the sky? What if Daenerys swoops in directly from above?”

Of course, he had made plans for that too. The best marksmen here had orders to lie in wait in the highest towers of the castle, with no other purpose but to take down the dragonriders should they fly near. Still, when he ordered the granaries to be torched if the castle fell, Lady Lefford’s face had gone white with fury. His promises of royal restitution rang hollow in her ears—and in his own. What use was gold if she weren’t alive to use it?

He had given the order to scour everything on the road to Casterly Rock, too.

It was not an order any self-respecting knight would give. It stank of cowardice and defeat, but Jaime had been called worse. There was no glory to be won here, but he no longer lusted for glory. He just wanted to halt the coming dragons, even if it was for a time.

There was nothing more to be done.

It was the sort of choice his father would have made without flinching. That thought left a foul taste in his mouth.

There had been a time when Jaime Lannister would never have stooped so low. A time when the thought of scorched fields and starving smallfolk would have seemed beneath him. Glory was to be won atop a destrier, sword in hand. But the War of the Five Kings had taught him a bitter lesson he could never forget.

All the skill he had honed since boyhood, all the hours spent sparring in the yard at Casterly Rock and the Red Keep, had been for nought the day they took his hand.

The urge to slip away to the sept, to kneel before the Seven, stirred faintly in him. It died just as quickly.

Jaime had not prayed in years. Not truly. The gods had never answered when it mattered.

Where had they been when Aerys defiled his sister-wife behind locked doors, raving and laughing as her cries echoed through the Red Keep?

Where were the Seven when Rickard Stark burned, and his son strangled above him?

What god had stayed Aerys’s hand when he ordered wildfire beneath the city?

Where were the gods when Robert broke Cersei’s lip and left her sobbing on the floor?

They were not there. Or worse, they were watching amused.

If they existed at all, they were blind, deaf, or cruel. Jaime had no more prayers left in him.

Oftentimes, his thoughts turned to that day. The day he was called Kingslayer, when his sword sliced Aerys’s throat open, and he watched the man he swore to protect choke in his own blood. A mad king had been an easier kill than a rabbit, and he had died worse than one. Jaime had sat on the Iron Throne that day, waiting for the new king in that most uncomfortable chair. For a brief moment, the thought of raising his own claim, kingsguard vows be damned, had passed through his mind.

The Lion of Lannister, cloaked in white, seated upon a throne of melted swords and presiding over courtly matters. But the vision crumbled. Jaime had no love for crowns, and even less for councils. He had never cared for coin or crops or laws. He was no ruler—no more than Robert had ever been.

And the realm would never suffer a kingslayer to rule. Not one who wore the white cloak and betrayed the vows sworn with it.

Then, Addam spoke again, breaking him out of his musings, “Come spar with me, Jaime.”

“What’s the point?” Jaime laughed bitterly. “Even a stable boy can best me with a sword now.”

The men would lose their fighting spirit if they saw their commander being smacked around like an errant child, too weak to fight properly. But Jaime was too ashamed to say it.

His stubborn friend was not so easily rebuffed, however.

“You are Lord Commander of the kingsguard.” A gloved finger was stabbed at his breastplate. “Could you even defend your royal nephew when the time comes?”

The question made Jaime reel. Tommen’s face flickered before him—innocent, soft, easily frightened. He could not even lift a dagger to defend himself.

“I might not be able to,” he admitted quietly.

“Then you must train,” Addam said. “Not for glory, but for duty. We can do it away from watching eyes. I say your left swordhand is no better than a stableboy’s, because you’ve wielded a sword with it less than a stableboy has.”

Something stirred in his chest, something old, almost forgotten. Something that he had discarded long ago. Was it pride? Or perhaps the old arrogance? Or even ambition?

Could he?

Jaime still remembered the past. The pride of the best sword in the West, and the skills to match it. Did he have what it takes to do it again? Could it even be done?

He looked at his stump. The awkward golden hand was still there, weighing him down in more ways than one. A useless replacement that could barely hold a shield.

Then, his gaze moved towards his left hand. It was whole, if awkward from disuse, hidden under a plain leather glove.

Could he… could he train himself again?

Could he become a swordsman again? A real warrior, not some fool swinging a piece of steel?

Mere weeks would be far from enough. A handful of months would not do, either. But years? Perhaps. Years of blood, tears, and sweat. That was what it had taken to see him renowned with his right hand, and it would take just as much to do so with the left.

He would have to endure the shame, the mocking laughter. The whispers of those who called him a cripple and a coward. He would bruise his pride and body again. Lose again. But what else was there?

Jaime was no stranger to loss and defeat. His lauded name lay in the mud, a curse upon the tongues of many, and could not fall any lower. He raised his head, and green eyes met blue.

“Fine,” he said at last. “Let’s go.”

He would bear all of this indignity and more. For Tommen. He would be better than before, better than he had been with his right hand.

20th Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

Greatjon Umber, near Westwatch

The scout came barreling through the snow, his face flushed, breath steaming in the cold air, and the neighing horse dashed away when the man left the saddle.

“My lord,” he gasped, half falling to one knee, “the Bridge of Skulls has fallen. Collapsed down into the chasm. But the dead—gods save us—the dead are pouring out of the Gorge. The black brothers are being driven back.”

A low curse rumbled from the Wull, his frosted beard bristling. “We don’t have the numbers to face them in the open. We need to shove them back into the Gorge, or they’ll just outflank us, burying us on the spot with sheer numbers.”

Greatjon knew it all too well. They had only five thousand men, a drop in the sea compared to the countless corpses that could be raised beyond the Wall.

At that moment, he was glad he forced his men to carry three torches each, no matter how much they grumbled. Soon enough, they would ask for more.

“That might buy us time,” he said. “But even we can’t fight the dead forever. What happens when we tire, and they don’t? We need something more. A wooden rampart to halt their advance?”

The Wull gave him a look, one part incredulous, one part weary. “With what, Jon? We have trees, aye. We have the men, but it takes more than that. You need time to fell a tree, strip it, drag it, and hammer it proper into the ground. And all that time, we’d be fightin’ and dyin’, pushin’ back the wights. It will be days before a rampart can be raised, and our host will break long before it.”

“Unless you’ve a better plan, we will try,” Greatjon growled. “We’ve got giants and mammoths. Sixty of them, all big and strong. Wun Wun and his kin. Trees are nothing to them, and they can raise the rampart with great haste.”

The old chieftain frowned. “Fine,” he said eventually, battle lust creeping into his eyes. “You’re not wrong. We can only hold here or die trying. It’s a good day to die, as good as any other, ha—I never thought I would live to see the next summer regardless!”

“The raven should be at Winterfell by now. We just need to hold off long enough for the Stark to fly on his great fire-breathing beast.” The ravens didn’t fare too well in the deep snow and the harsh cold, he knew. The message might have never reached Winterfell, but Greatjon did not like to think of this. He turned to his captain. “Arton, get me Leathers. And Wun Wun, too.”

The man ran off. For a moment, the Umber lord stood silent in the snow.

It was a strange time, and things he would have never thought possible a decade ago were happening before his eyes. Old tales were coming back to life, and he had seen them in the flesh. Dragons were soaring through the skies once more, circling above Winterfell not as a threat but a shield. Old, sinister things had stirred beyond the Wall, dead men walked the land, and giants walked the Gift. But the North would endure through it all, Greatjon believed—Jon Stark would see to it. The old lord just wasn’t sure he would live long enough to see it.

When Leathers came, Wun Wun loomed behind him, draped in freshly fallen snow and just as silent. The wildling had taken to his vows as well as any true Northman had, and had even dyed his old, tattered cloak black as was proper.

“Leathers,” Greatjon said, “ask him. Will he and his kin cut down trees and help us build a wall—something to pen the enemy into the Gorge?”

The harsh and clanging sound of the Old Tongue stirred something within Greatjon. He would get a tutor to teach him and his sons if he survived today.

Ultimately, the shaggy giant grunted loudly and gave a deep nod, and the Lord of Last Hearth did not need any translation to understand.

“They’ll help,” said Leathers.

“It won’t be enough,” Wull muttered. “But it’s better than nothin’. Leathers, go with them. I’ll send five hundred axemen. My son Rogar’ll lead them—he’s got a good hand with woodwork.”

Greatjon nodded. He reckoned even with giants, men, and mammoths, it would take over a day, probably more. Too long to keep fighting in the snow, even if they split into three and fought in turns.

Orders were given, and men dispatched. Soon, Wun Wun and his hulking kin were lumbering towards the treeline up the hills, mammoths and hundreds of grim-faced axemen in tow.

The rest of the host pressed on toward the Bay of Ice. The sky above was dark, choked with clouds from one end to the other as snow kept falling and falling without end. From atop a rise, Greatjon glimpsed the Gorge—and the dead. They spilt from the narrow mouth in a tide of rot and decay, threatening to overwhelm the faltering watchmen and wildlings.

“Burn me when I die,” Wull leaned in to whisper, hefting his heavy war-axe over his shoulder. Then, something hard and hot stirred at the depths of his eyes, threatening to spill out. Battle-rage. His voice rose then, harder and firmer like cold hills that bred him. “Now we have to hold the Gorge just long enough to make this folly worth it.”

Greatjon remembered the king’s voice, regal and full of confidence. Burn them. Chop them up into pieces if you can’t. And leave the horses—beasts are too frightened by the shambling corpses to stand steady.

He looked down at his destrier, stamping nervously in the deepening snow. “We leave the horses,” he said.

“Why?” asked Wull.

“They panic at the smell of death, the king said.”

Wull swung down from his saddle without a word, snow crunching beneath him. “Then we die on our feet.”

Greatjon dismounted as well. The snow reached his knees, sapping his strength with each step forward. It would slow the advance, ruin the line, and turn battle into chaos, but what choice did they have?

The cries of clang of fighting were close now, close enough to taste. Rot and ash mingled in the cold, raking at his throat.

“Form ranks!” he roared. “Light the torches, gods damn you!”

The men scrambled, fumbling for flint and steel. Fire sprang to life across the line—flickering flames in the white and grey, the only warmth in the frozen world.

“UMBER!” Greatjon bellowed, and his men took up his cry, as he rushed where the wights threatened to envelop the faltering black brothers.

“BUCKETS!”

He plunged into the enemy, burning torch in one hand, shield in the other. A wight rushed him as soon as he approached, half-limping and glaring with a pair of cold blue eyes. Greatjon rammed the torch into its face, and the thing screamed—if a dead thing could scream—and went up in flames.

Greatjon kicked it back into its brethren, and the fire leapt to them, catching like dry tinder.

He grinned, teeth bared against the cold. “Might be easier than I thought,” he muttered, and swung again.

Ash and blood and charred bones soon thickened over the snow, and it was like the North held its breath.

The sound of battle drowned everything.

The battering of shields, the fleshy sound of steel smacking at meat or furs, the tired grunts and moans of pain, the sizzling of burning flesh. The stench was the worst of all—charred meat, voided bowels, and cloying rot choked the air.

They burned and burned, but the dead did not stop. Time had lost meaning, the sun had long set somewhere in the west, and the darkness threatened to devour them all.

Hours of slogging through the knee-deep snow, burning things and batting away clawing limbs. Even his hands started trembling from the strain. They had pressed the dead back, little by little, and each step was a struggle. Now they were close—fifteen yards from the edge of the Gorge.

Just a little more, and they would throw the dead into the chasm. They were so close.

Yet those fifteen yards felt like fifteen leagues. Many of his men had fallen, only to rise with blue eyes and claw at their former allies moments later. The dead had no flanks, no ranks, no lines. It was like a relentless flood, looking for the smallest weakness and threatening to drown you.

Worse, the rocky, uneven ridge and the mounting piles of bones made holding a shield wall impossible.

Greatjon swung what was left of his torch into a corpse and watched it catch like seasoned wood. The next swing broke the haft in two. He’d lost count of how many torches had snapped in his hands or how many wights had burned out before his eyes. His first dragonglass dagger had shattered on bone in the first hour; the second he kept tucked into his belt, just in case.

One of his men handed Greatjon yet another lit torch. A glance had him grimace; that had been the last one, and now his torchbearer’s hands were empty.

The chill in the air grew fiercer, and the snow in the air thickened, turning the night darker. Greatjon’s breath came ragged, his fingers stiff in gloves. Even his torch seemed to falter, its flame dimming with each gust.

Were the gods watching? Or had they long turned their backs on the North?

He was the Umber of Last Hearth—the cold and the snow did not scare him. But if the snowfall grew any thicker, even their dwindling torches would be snuffed out. And without the fire, they were lost.

With a roar, he slammed his battered shield into another charging wight and stabbed the torch into its chest. Greatjon kicked it backwards, spreading the flame into its shambling allies.

It was not enough. There were always more corpses, more wights.

They had found their cunning during the battle, too, quickly moving away from their burning kin.

His chest rose and fell like a great bellows, and he wheezed twice as loudly. Gods, he was tired. His hands weighed like lead, and even his knees cried out in pain.

What strength remained was no more than stubbornness and rage. His men were faltering. Their movements had grown sluggish hours ago. The battle-lust had long been cooled by hours of fighting in the snow, and now only desperation remained.

They were so close; so close to success, but they lacked the means to reach out and grab it.

Then the screams came, desperate and filled with terror, and all cut short as if by a blade. And then he saw it.

A figure slid through the snowfalls with inhuman grace, pale as moonlight, wreathed in ice. A pair of blue eyes glowed like evil stars upon a face hewn of frost.

A White Walker.

Its blade was a thing of horror—long, slender, and impossibly cold, gleaming with moonlight as it cut through men like parchment. Ringmail offered no more protection than wool. The White Walker glided through the snow like a ghost, leaving only death behind. Men fell in doves, only to rise with their eyes glowing hateful blue.

Axes and swords rang against its crystalline armour, bouncing off harmlessly. The creature continued its deadly dance, unhurried and cruel. Twice did the men try to encircle it, and twice it swiftly retreated behind the wights.

“Marksmen—aim for the Walker!” Wull roared in the distance.

A weak flutter of arrows peppered at the icy fiend, but its sword rose, lazily swatting away those that came close.

In a mere minute, the Walker had undone hours of their struggles. Their lines were again pushed back.

Greatjon saw the panic in his men’s eyes spread like fire through dry grass. He saw their tired limbs falter. He had to do something—anything, or they would lose here and now.

He set another corpse alight, then hurled the flaming torch at the Walker. Its sword flicked like a viper’s tongue, splitting the torch in twain. The fire kissed its armour, but the crystal did not burn. The fiend turned its icy stare upon him, and in that moment, Greatjon Umber felt as if his soul had been plunged into the Shivering Sea.

He cast aside his battered shield and drew his greatsword, pointing it toward the Cold Shadow in the oldest challenge known to man. Single combat.

For a moment, the world held its breath as the fighting around them quieted. Then, the wights halted, stepping back from the faltering men, clearing half a circle between Greatjon and the fiend. The Northmen took a step back, more to take a brief respite than anything else.

The Walker tilted its head, as if in mockery, and then moved.

The thirty yards between them disappeared too quickly, and Greatjon could barely lift his sword.

Steel clashed with ice with a high-pitched screech, and pain shot from his wrist all the way to his shoulder. The fiend had strength greater than his own, greater than any man he had met. Greatjon had no time for disbelief.

He staggered, barely dodging the sword meant to part his neck from his shoulders. The ice sword was swift and brutal, and Greatjon was tired. Within moments, his hands had grown numb. Even his greatsword had whitened with frost, rended with deep gashes where the icy blade had kissed it.

The icy creature was playing with him, he realised.

The next swing, Greatjon stepped aside a tad too late. Ice sliced through his ringmail and dug into his side, but his own greatsword was already on the Walker’s neck.

TING!

His blade shattered, sending shards of steel flying like needles. Some dug into his flesh, but he was too numb to care as coldness crept into his torso.

The Walker let out a cold, mocking sound like a half-dead beast keening as Greatjon tumbled down.

Gasping greedily for breath, he grabbed a handful of snow, flinging it into the Walker’s gloating face. It shrieked and slashed blindly. Greatjon lunged low and drove the dragonglass dagger into its ankle.

The thing froze dead in its tracks. Fractures spread like cobwebs until it broke like a shattered vase.

Scores of corpses collapsed with it, like puppets with their strings cut. For a heartbeat, Greatjon thought they had won.

But the reality was cruel. Two heartbeats later, no more corpses fell, and the wights kept coming in a relentless wave. The fallen wights rose again, eyes glowing a brighter blue than before.

He tried to rise and failed. Pain flared through his side where the blade had grazed him, and the cold was spreading fast now. His limbs barely listened. Still, he fumbled, grabbing a fallen torch from the ground. His hands could barely move, but he found the flint. Struck it once. Twice. Again.

Nothing. The falling snow swallowed the sparks.

Greatjon lacked the strength to curse, let alone swing his torch again.

The dead closed in. He could see their faces—some he had ridden with just yesterday. They kept coming, relentless like the falling snow. He knew it then. It was over. This was where the Giant of Last Hearth would perish.

He was reluctant. It was not death that pained him, even though dying in this vile manner was the worst end one could meet, but failure. They had not held even for a full day—the wooden rampant would be far from completed.

They would fall here, and the North would follow, buried in a tide of death and darkness. It was over, he knew. His strength waned, and the cold darkness beckoned him into its sweet embrace.

And then, a sound tore through the night. A loud, rumbling roar echoed louder than any warhorn.

It swallowed the screams, the wind, and the despair. Something glowed above him, brighter than the waning moon.

A storm of amethyst flame pushed away the darkness, swallowing the tide of corpses. It crashed into the ranks of the dead, turning bone and rot into ash in a heartbeat. The fire spread, licking the snow with its bronze swirls.

And Greatjon Umber, Lord of the Last Hearth, laughed—laughed through bloodied lips and frozen tears. They were saved.

The Stark had come.

21st Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

Sarella Sand, Winterfell

They thought White Harbour was cold.

They were wrong.

In the heart of the North, the chill in the pale city was but a shadow, a fond memory of warmer times. Sailing on a barge up the White Knife was easy enough. But once the river grew narrow and choked with frost, the rest of the way was made on garrons—sturdy, shaggy ponies bred for the cold.

Cerwyn had two sledges and a wheelhouse that could be pulled through the snow, but they were reserved for the Northmen alone, no matter how much Arianne tried to smile coyly at the men guarding them. Bastards rarely received any courtesies here.

What should have been thirty miles passed like a hundred. Two days of wet cloaks, stiff limbs, and cold winds that bit through wool and leather alike. Sarella might have found some joy in the snow-draped pines and silent white horizon, if not for the aching cold in her fingers and the frost gathering at her curls. Even the horses felt it, skittish and fretful. Tyene, ever with a tale to tell, swore she’d glimpsed a great wolf prowling through the trees—huge as a horse, with eyes like molten gold. Ser Andrey Dalt had chuckled, and Sarella herself dismissed it as folly. All wolves feared men, lone wolves twice as much.

Winterfell appeared first as a smear of grey against the horizon, then grew with every step, stark and solemn in the snow. A gust of wind unfurled the direwolf above the battlements, its grey head snarling across a banner large as a ship’s sail, snapping in the frigid air.

The castle itself was formidable. A fortress of granite, second only to Harren’s folly in size, sitting proudly at the heart of the North itself. The Hightower was taller, and Casterly Rock was bigger, but they could never match Winterfell’s walls. The double-ring of curtain walls loomed closer by the minute, growing until it towered over them like a grey giant.

Houses were sprawled beneath those terrible walls, huddled for protection, much like the Shadow City clung to Sunspear. Wintertown, they called it, a large town now filled with fur-clad Northmen, and woodsmoke twisting like dark snakes from the chimneys.

Still, the folk here watched them with narrow eyes and unsmiling faces. No cries of welcome came as they did in Sunspear and Plankytown, no eager children chasing their mares, no merchants came, offering their wares. Instead, the men shrank away from them, muttering into their beards and the women only pulled their hoods tighter. One old man even spat as they passed.

None barred their way or approached, though. They just watched from the side, silent, their eyes filled with judgment.

“There it is, then,” said Ser Andrey Dalt, his voice deceptively light. “Winterfell. We’ve laid eyes on it and had our fill of snow. No shame in turning back now. The Northmen hardly seem like good hosts.”

Tyene shuddered beneath her thick fur cloak; only blue eyes could be seen from the wrapped creature of fur and wool that her sister had become. “It’s colder than a grave,” she muttered. “What kind of madmen endure this cold hell for a lifetime?”

Nymeria and Sarella remained silent. Despite the hardships and their misgivings, they had come. Out of loyalty—or curiosity. Even Sarella, who still seethed at her cousin’s harebrained ploys, would never betray her.

“We’ve come too far to turn back now,” Arianne said. But her words lacked the earlier confidence; the cold and the snow had whittled most of her stubborn resolve, but not all.

The gate was sealed shut, but the small postern door was opened, flanked by four stern-faced guards, clad in wool and ringmail. They all had the grey direwolf of Stark upon their white surcoats and stood proudly with it as if guarding the postern door was the utmost honour they could ever receive. The next words saw Arianne’s hopes of anonymity crumble.

“The Court receives no petitioners from the South. Turn back,” said one, face ruddy with cold, voice firm.

Arianne sighed and rubbed her gloved hands for warmth. “What of envoys?”

The guard gave an indifferent shrug.

They stood before the guards, awkwardly unsure how to deal with their indifference and wariness. Even Arianne looked hesitant—until a particularly vicious gale started blowing again, gusts throwing snow into their faces.

“I a-am Arianne Nymeros Martell of Sunspear,” Arianne finally declared. Her voice would have been regal if it hadn’t cracked under the cold. “Princess of Dorne, and the rightful heir to Sunspear.”

A snort was her answer. One of the guards scratched his ear. “You got proof of that, then?”

Arianne’s gloved fingers produced a medallion of red gold, a crimson sun pierced by a golden spear. “House Martell’s token.”

“Looks fancy.” Another sentry, tall and wiry, coughed. “But how do we know it’s yours?”

“A princess without her retainers and an army of servants and banners?” gruffed a third, scowling suspiciously at them. “Not likely. We’d have heard if some Martell appeared in the North.”

“Aye, a princess ought to come with fanfare, servants, and a big retinue,” a stout guard nodded, waving his gloved hands. “Everyone knows that! Pretty sure we would’ve heard about such a thing.”

They spent the next half an hour proving what their words could not. Tokens, letters bearing the seal of Sunspear, and golden pins gifted by their father, and Sarella could see the shame burning on Arianne’s face. Only then did the guards relent, fetching a knight clad in grey plate to judge their claims.

“The sigil’s the real thing,” the knight concluded curtly. “The faces match, too, and they have the speech and manners of Dornish royalty. Doran Martell’s daughter and the Red Viper’s bastard get. But Sunspear is at war with the North. What brings you so far from your sandy shores without a word of warning?”

War?

“We seek an audience with King Jon Stark,” Arianne answered, her voice deep and dignified. Sarella would have been deceived if she did not know better.

“I’m afraid His Grace is currently indisposed. The knight’s tone remained clipped. The snow on his surcoat fell as he shifted, revealing a faded black fish stitched upon the cloth. “Come back later.”

Sarella stilled. This could only be the Blackfish. But what was Catelyn Tully’s legendary uncle doing here, in the court of Lord Stark’s bastard? There were no bonds of blood between Brynden Tully and Jon Snow.

“We can wait,” Arianne pressed on. “Surely, Winterfell is not so lacking in courtesy that it cannot spare rooms for a small retinue?”

The knight studied her for a long moment, then reluctantly nodded. “You’ll be quartered in the Guest House. But no arms shall enter Winterfell—all of your steel shall remain here.”

No protest changed that. Sarella surrendered her bow, her knives—every sharp thing she bore, even hairpins. Her sisters and Ser Dalt were likewise stripped bare.

“Surely, you won’t stoop to groping an unmarried princess like me?” Arianne teased, though there was a sliver of ire in her voice.

“Indeed, I won’t,” the Blackfish sighed, murmuring something sounding suspiciously like troublesome Dornish. “Lyrella, on the other hand, would have no such qualms.”

A scarred woman of stout stature in blackened mail stepped forward. With a stony face, she unearthed Arianne’s hidden blades and three more on Nymeria. Tyene’s own was concealed in a glove.

Then, they were finally escorted through the drawbridge over a frozen moat and into the castle proper. There was as much snow inside Winterfell as outside, but the biting wind was absent, and it felt almost warm. Even Tyenne cautiously removed one of her shawls. Sarella saw a flicker of gold and red atop a snow-capped rooftop, but it slipped away so quickly that she might as well have imagined it.

The man charged with their escort was tall and auburn-haired, clad in a half-plate of finer steel than most knights carried. Three pinecones lay on his green and white surcoat. Rickard, Ser Brynden had named him. At least a captain, for the other men-at-arms heeded his commands without question.

He led them through sprawling courtyards and narrow arched gateways, through a maze of walls and hallways. Yet his gaze flickered, again and again, to Sarella, not to her fairer sisters and her princely cousin, but to her.

Tyene noticed, of course. Her whisper brushed across Sarella’s ear. “You’ve caught his eye, sweet sister.”

“What is your name, ser?” Tyene called, voice dripping like honey.

“Rickard Liddle,” he replied evenly, ” and I’m no knight.”

Sarella elbowed her sister before she could say something foolish. Her sisters barely knew of the Northmen and cared even less to learn. Yet Sarella knew that knighthood was not well-received or respected in these lands, with small exceptions. Barrowknights swore their oaths and stood vigil before their ancestors’ tombs; others gave old, solemn vows before a heart tree and had to brave the cold Northern night under the starry sky.

“Forgive her if she has given offence, Lord Rickard,” she said pleadingly. “She means no slight. Dorne is… unfamiliar with Northern custom.”

That earned her a bright, honest smile. “No offence taken, my lady.”

“Yet I’m not a lady, my lord,” Sarella said gently. “Just a Sand of Dorne. One of the many.”

It sounded crude to declare it so openly, but the Northmen valued honesty.

“I am no lord either,” he said, and there was a pride to his words. “We, the clansmen up the cold hills, hold no such titles.”

That surprised her—the books had not said that. Or if any did, Sarella had not read it.

At last, they came to an oaken gate belonging to a looming hall of stone. “The court is in session. You may wait till the end to meet the Princess Sansa, or announce your presence now.”

“Princess Sansa?” Arianne echoed.

“They did say the king is indisposed,” Nymeria murmured. “But I didn’t think he would let his sister hold court in his stead.”

“Still, it’s almost unheard of for a princess to hold the royal court and welcome petitioners,” Sarella said with a frown.

“Announce us first,” Arianne decided, curiosity stirring in her dark eyes.

A serving boy quickly ushered them through the large oaken doors. A wave of sorely missed warmth greeted them, and they finally shrugged off their hoods and shawls.

A gaunt herald stepped forth, clearing his voice.

“Welcoming princess Arianne Martell of Sunspear, with her cousins and Ser Andrey Dalt!”

They were met with the sweet scent of oak, hushed whispers, and suspicious looks as soon as they entered. The Great Hall was half-filled, and at least a hundred men and women were seated at the tables. Sarella did not see a single strip of silk or velvet; all garments were thick linen, wool, fur, and leather. Even the ladies wore gowns of dyed wool and heavy cloaks of ermine and fox fur.

At the dais, the stone throne sat empty. Three chairs were placed before it. One was twice as wide as the rest, seating a man as fat as an overfed pig. The white merman on his doublet betrayed him as a Manderly—this could only be the infamous fat merman of White Harbour.

And then there was her, on the other chair.

The most beautiful maiden Sarella had ever seen, crowned by a silver circlet. Tall like a spear, with copper hair that spilt like a river of flame, eyes of ice, and a posture regal as any queen. And her face, oh, her face was sharp where it needed to be, soft where it mattered, and pale and unblemished, like the finest porcelain from Yi Ti. Beside her, a younger girl, dark-haired, grey-eyed, far plainer in looks and half wild in bearing. Arya Stark.

“You favour a maiden’s touch, now, Rella?” Tyenne’s wicked voice whispered, this time sending shivers down her neck. “I can warm your bed tonight, if you wish.”

Sarella ignored her, following Arianne to a nearby bench.

Nymeria’s gaze flicked toward the wall—toward the royal ladies-in-waiting.

“That girl,” she whispered, “near the banners. That’s Myrcella.”

Sarella followed her gaze. A golden-haired girl, face terribly scarred, watched them with venom in her green eyes.

“She’s meant to be dead,” Nymeria muttered.

“Well,” said Arianne dryly, “they do say cats have nine lives. Alas, it seems she still blames us for that mishap with the Darkstar.”

They were not the only surprise. A pair of Lannisters—gold lions proud on their chests—glowered at them from across the hall. There was a Blackwood here too, an old lord and his sons, all with steel on their faces.

“Have the wolves joined hands with the lions?” Tyenne whispered, face growing harsh.

Sarella glanced at the Lannisters on the far table. They sat alone, avoided by all Northmen.

“I think they’re envoys here,” Sarella offered hesitantly.

A soft yet firm voice spoke, quieting the murmurs. “Lords Knott and Burley, step forth.”

Two grizzled clansmen came forward in the middle of the hall, glaring daggers at each other. One had a brown knot on white for a coat of arms, and the other wore a surcoat with a white knife on blue.

“I have heard your claims on the Red Spring Valley, and I have found them equal,” Sansa Stark spoke, her face unreadable.

“My grandma, Alysanne, was the elder twin,” one of the men declared.

The other man laughed, but it was full of anger. “No, my grandmother Jeyne’s the eldest. The Red Spring Valley is mine by right.”

The princess clapped her hands, halting the argument.

“There are no records of which twin was born first,” she said, her clear voice echoing through the hall. “So, you will settle it the old way—here and now, before the court as witness. Are you willing?”

“Aye!” both men chorused, then glared at each other.

The great hall erupted in cheers as men started banging their tankards on the tables.

Sansa then continued once the clamour died. “Both of your spares will fight in single combat until one yields or is knocked out. The winner will take the name Redspring along with the valley and wed the eldest unmarried sister of his opponent.”

The chieftains nodded without uttering a word and waved over two younger men.

One wore ringmail over boiled leather, the other had green brigandine, and both had a half helmet. Both fighters were tall; one had brown hair, and the other had a bright red mane. Neither carried distinctive heraldry.

Across the Great Hall, the long trestle tables were being dragged back by the eager courtiers, their wooden legs scraping across the flagged stone below. Soon, an empty ring formed—more than enough space for two men to fight.

Then came the Blackfish.

Tyene leaned forward beside Sarella, her voice barely above a whisper. “Are they truly to fight for a valley?”

“Savages,” Nymeria sniffed. “More fools eager to bash each other’s heads in.”

“Is it truly savage, though?” Sarella said with a chuckle. “How many die over lesser disputes in the South? Hundreds? Thousands? This seems like a wiser way to solve it to me.”

Then, the fighters were given shields painted with heraldry. The red-haired warrior was the Knott, armed with a bearded war-axe, while the mud-haired warrior was a Burley, who received an arming sword from his father. They stood fifteen paces apart, breathing hard, sweat beading beneath their helms.

Ser Brynden raised a mailed hand, standing between them.

“Begin!” he barked out, voice sharp.

The men were quick to charge, and the great hall was filled with the sound of steel ringing against wood. Sarella watched with measured calm. She had never been drawn to bloodshed and fighting, but her father and mother insisted she learn the bow and the dagger. The Red Viper’s daughter needed to have fangs, even if she would never use them.

The fighters moved cautiously at first; a probe here, a faint there, testing each other’s mettle with glancing blows and half-hearted lunges. Sarella’s gaze flickered away, already bored—until Knott lunged forward, drawing back her attention.

With a twist of his axe, he hooked the lip of Burley’s shield and yanked down. The brown-haired man stumbled, exposed.

Knott drove his own shield forward with a grunt, smashing it into the other’s helm. Burley dropped like a sack of barley tossed from a cart, his blade skittering across the stones.

Ser Brynden did not move at first, waiting a few heartbeats, but the fallen man did not stir. Then he raised his hand.

“Jared Knott has won the duel,” he declared, and the courtiers erupted in clamour.

The fallen man got up soon after.

“One bruised head for a valley,” Arianne mused, watching the defeated through lidded eyes. “Not as savage as you thought, Nym.”

The court was quickly dismissed, then, and the Northmen started streaming out through the gate. Some lingered behind. There was Princess Myrcella, surrounded by her kinsmen and a gaggle of Karstarks and a half-giant that could only be an Umber, who slowly moved to Arianne’s table. Many of the remaining Northmen halted, looking on with interest.

Myrcella’s piercing green eyes glared at Nymeria and, combined with the thinly veiled scowl on her scarred face, made for a fearsome sight.

Sarella could feel her sisters and cousin tense, but the hands that reached for daggers under their silks and furs found none. At that moment, a young page innocently ran up to them, completely uncaring about his surroundings.

“Princess Martell, the Lord Hand and Princess Stark will meet you in the audience chambers now,” he said in a squeaky, adorable voice that most children his age had.

The words were like a royal decree, and the Lannisters and the Karstarks dispersed, albeit reluctantly. Yet Sarella could see it on their faces—the confrontation was merely delayed, not avoided.

Arianne, Sarella, and her sisters followed the young page towards a small hallway at the back of the Great Hall, where the fat old merman awaited, face unreadable.

“Princess Stark shall receive you now.”

Next, they were led through another doorway into an audience room.

The chamber was spacious, dominated by a large varnished table at its centre. Across it sat the two princesses, and behind them was the tallest woman Sarella had ever seen, clad in steel from head to toe.

Half a dozen burly guardsmen stood near the walls and looked at them with distrust, as if expecting them to attack the Stark maidens. For some reason, Sarella found that her gaze easily passed over the younger, dark-haired princess, as if her own eyes found everything else more interesting.

A plain platter with bread, salt, and a cask of what looked like a red vintage from the Arbour was at the middle of the table.

Her cousin carefully sat in the chair across from the Northern princesses, tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in the salt, and quickly ate it. Sarella, her sisters, and Ser Dalt did the same, standing behind Arianne.

“What brings you to Winterfell, Princess Arianne?” Sansa Stark asked, her voice cool and measured.

“Curiosity,” Arianne replied. “And a request.”

“So, you’re not here as envoys as you claimed,” the younger princess noted, voice growing colder.

“I am an envoy of myself,” Arianne said, giving the girl a disarming smile.

It didn’t work—Arya Stark’s face only grew stonier. There was something dangerous lurking in her eyes, then, something that made Sarella’s hair stand on end.

Sansa Stark placed a slender hand on the younger girl’s shoulder, and the feeling disappeared, as if it had never been there.

“Well, you wanted to meet me,” she said. “I am here and ready to listen—speak your piece.”

“Very well. I request that my cousin Sarella be allowed to browse through Winterfell’s library freely. She has an undying love for books and dusty scrolls, you see,” Arianne said, motioning to Sarella.

Any previous disgruntlement melted away at the gesture. Arianne might be prickly and whimsical, but she knew when to be generous. And by the gods, when she was generous, she gave happily. This was half the reason men and women followed her when they did.

The mesmerising blue eyes sized her up for a long moment, making Sarella’s heart skip a beat.

“Granted,” Sansa allowed. “But she will be escorted at all times, and must obey Maester Wolkan’s rules. But I doubt this alone could bring you all the way here.”

“You are right,” Arianne agreed with a wink. “There is another reason. I’ve always wanted to see the North and get a taste of all it could offer.”

Sansa Stark’s face froze faster than Tyenne’s gloveless fingers outside. Whatever warmth had graced her features before vanished, leaving only a mask of cold courtesy.

“You have chosen a terrible moment for it,” she said at last, her words carefully measured. “Even the Northmen avoid long travel in the depth of winter.”

“Perhaps,” Arianne allowed with a demure smile. “But my cousin is dearer to me than most. When I heard tell of a bastard-turned-king sitting the winter throne, well… what kind of Dornishwoman would I be if I didn’t come to see such a wonder with my own eyes? Surely the newly crowned Jon Stark would not deny a Princess of Dorne an audience?”

“I fear your journey may have been in vain.” Sansa’s lips tightened with displeasure. “My royal brother has already departed for the South. He goes to treat with House Targaryen—in person.“

‘Still calling him king,’ Sarella thought. Did Jon Snow—no, Jon Stark now—truly mean to wear the crown while bending his knee to the dragons? Or did he intend something else entirely?

“Then I shall wait,” Arianne shrugged with practised nonchalance. “The North has its charms, and I’ve not yet tasted Winterfell’s hospitality. I trust we do not impose by staying here until his return?”

Sansa said nothing at first. Her gaze moved from Arianne to Sarella, and then to the tall figure of Nymeria Sand and the silent Tyenne. The Northern princess was no warrior, but her eyes were full of steel and frost, like a wolf measuring her prey.

The silence stretched, and even Arianne grew unnerved, her smile dimming.

“You may stay,” Sansa allowed, her voice clipped. “As long as you do not stir up any trouble. The servants have already seen to your baggage. You’ll find the Guest House pleasant enough.”

She waved them off with a flick of her hand, a gesture careless enough to border on insult, much like one would shoo away persistent horseflies. A dismissal, plain and deliberate. Then, she stood up and left the chamber, with her sister and the armoured maiden in tow.

Arianne looked like she had swallowed a lemon, but Sarella could easily guess why the Stark princess was so wroth; they were uninvited and unexpected guests and on the opposite side of the war to boot. Or perhaps it was because they were Dornish?

“That is one tough maiden,” Tyene said with half a smile. “I can’t believe she is six and ten.”

“Not a maiden after two husbands, though,” Nymeria chuckled, though it was strained.

Their reputation was scarcely better than Freys and Lannisters on this side of the Red Mountains. The line between hostages and guests was dangerously thin. Arianne might even find all the trouble she had sought and then some more.

Sarella didn’t care, though. If anything, her heart was full of anticipation. All the hardships, all the frustrations had paid off, with Winterfell’s library waiting for her.

What ancient tomes lie hidden there?

What knowledge would Sarella find in the dusty scrolls?