44.Trophies of Fire, Trophies of Blood

23rd Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

The Kingslayer

The arrow didn’t whistle as ordinary arrows would. In fact, Jaime could barely see a blur that tore through the air with a cracking sound heading his way. Yet even with his fast reflexes, he tensed his body but knew he couldn’t avoid it in time.

THUNK!

A gust of wind slammed into Jaime as his ears kept ringing, and his knees almost gave out. It took all of his strength not to collapse on the ramparts, and by some miracle, his shaking legs did not falter.

His companions didn’t fare as well. Alysanne had fallen on her arse, and Addam Marbrand had gone deathly pale, clutching a merlon to keep himself upright.

Jaime shuddered; his back was covered by cold sweat, and the blood was pounding in his ears like a war drum. Any lingering doubt that the newly arrived dragonlord was a monster in human skin capable of unthinkable sorcery was gone. It was as if the man at the glassed field below had emerged from the Age of Heroes, where nothing was impossible, and the great men of legend still walked the land, testing their wits and mettle against gods and devilish fiends.

A bow shouldn’t have been able to reach fifteen hundred paces uphill. The strength required to draw with such power boggled his mind. The wood should have crumpled like wet straw under the pressure, and the bowstring should have snapped.

It shouldn’t have been possible, and yet it was.

His gaze moved to his left, and he reeled. A large spiderweb of cracks bloomed across the merlon where the arrow had embedded itself deeply, not two steps from him. The ironwood shaft was splintered, and a small scroll dangled from the end. He had not been lucky—the arrow had never been aimed at him.

After wiping the sweat from his brow, Jaime reached with a trembling hand towards what could only be a message. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t pull out the arrow, and his left hand was not dextrous enough to untie the string.

Thankfully, Addam finally came out of his stupor and helped. After a heartbeat, the scroll was unfurled, and his friend paled even further.

“What does it say?” The words came out shaky, betraying his thundering heart that had yet to calm.

Addam was no better as he shook himself, and a trembling hand handed him the message. “Here.”

Kingslayer,

I want to talk with you now.

You can either come down here to me, or I shall come up to you.

Your safety is guaranteed should you cooperate.

Jon Stark

He let out a heavy, shuddering breath and tossed the letter into Alysanne’s hands. I shall come to you sounded inconspicuous, innocent even, but the threat was more than evident after glancing at the hellish devastation below. Would the Golden Tooth also turn into a charred ruin?

After what happened below, he did not doubt the sorcerer’s ability to make good on his threat. Memories of another king setting people on fire returned unbidden. Jaime had long known that dying by flames was a gruesome, ugly way to go.

An errant thought turned his veins to ice.

Had he been found out for pushing Brandon Stark off that ledge?

Had the hour of reckoning for all of his misdeeds finally come?

But no, the words promising he would be unharmed glared at him from the parchment.

…Yet what was the worth of that? Words were wind.

“This could be a trap, Jaime,” Addam cautioned, Alysanne nodding along seriously.

“Perhaps it is,” he agreed, his voice cracking. “But can we deny any requests in front of such overwhelming power? Do you want to burn, Addam?”

“Jaim—”

“It’s me he asks for.” He shook his head, resignation creeping into his mind. There was no escape this time. Did he even want to escape? “You saw what he could do. Tens of thousands of men turned into nought but cinders in less than a minute. Do you want to test if he could do a repeat in the Golden Tooth?”

Alysanne Lefford whimpered, and Addam swallowed his retort, face twisting in anger, disbelief, reluctance, and finally—acceptance.

It wasn’t worth dragging down the lives of his men with him. The Lannister forces were quite spent, and even if the Targaryens were gone, all of the remaining Westerlands’ finest were here, in the Golden Tooth. Jaime just hoped Stark had some of his father’s infamous honour left. Perhaps he did—plenty had fled the firestorm, yet the dragonlord had given no chase.

Haste was of the essence; he didn’t want to let the fiendish dragonlord come here, so Jaime rushed down towards the stable as fast as his quivering legs allowed him to.

“Let me go with you,” his friend insisted, running behind him.

Jaime signalled for the stableboy to saddle Glory and turned to face Addam.

“You will stay here, Ser Marbrand. The Lord Protector of the Realm commands you,” Jaime said, voice steely as his Peckledon squire helped him up on the steed. “Should I perish, I trust no one else but you to be in charge here.”

His friend swallowed his objections and nodded reluctantly. He knew better than to oppose a direct order in public.

At his signal, the portcullis was lifted, and the double gates creaked open just enough for him to slip through. Jaime trotted down the hill. The ground around him was strewn with a carpet of corpses from the morning’s battle. Their blood-splattered, pointed bronze caps and foreign looks betrayed their origin—Unsullied. There were easily hundreds dead on this side of the curtain walls, which meant just as many, if not more, had perished storming the far side.

Yet the attackers had simply left them there in the open; not even a small group had been sent to collect the corpses of the fallen, as was the silent agreement after each battle.

The only mercy was the cold chill in the air, for this butchery would choke everything with the stench of rot, death, and decay on a warm, sunny day. But even now, the acrid smell of death reached his nose.

It didn’t matter. Jaime Lannister could very well join the ranks of the fallen, for he was walking towards his death. Would he perish by a blade, or would that bright purple fire roast his flesh until only charred bones remained?

What was before Aegon’s enormous camp, a veritable sea of tents, was nothing of the sort. In its stead was a hellish vision of destruction without signs of life. It kept snowing and snowing, but it melted as soon as it touched the hardened glass below.

The dark-blue behemoth was hungrily tearing out big chunks of flesh from Viserion’s corpse while the armour-clad Northerner and his kinslaying brother awaited amidst a glassy field of ash and smoke. There was one more survivor, but he barely spared her a glance. That red-haired woman in her maiden-day suit was walking away, completely unbothered by the overwhelming stench of brimstone and sulfur.

Jaime half-wheezed, half-coughed as cold gusts banished the smoke, lifting whisps of fine ash into the air.

The bastard king had taken his helmet off, yet his armour-clad figure looked even more eerie up close. Tyrion, his pitiful, traitorous brother, was defiantly looking at him while also trying to look inconspicuous. He would have laughed if his joy had not been snuffed out years ago. At another time, he would have questioned how the three survived the inferno, but the ‘how‘ did not matter. The only thing that mattered was that they did.

Fifty yards from the awaiting dragonrider, Glory stopped, and no matter how much Jaime spurred his steed forward, the destrier refused to move, stubbornly stamping his hooves into the glassy ground. Sighing, he dismounted, continuing on foot. He couldn’t even blame the horse; Jaime had no desire to go anywhere near a dragon or his rider either.

Yet his course was set, and he trudged on as the glassy ground crunched under his boots. The heat had begun dissipating, the ground no longer glowed that sinister purple, and even the smoke had lifted, save for a few streams twisting like angry snakes in the wind.

“Here I am, King Sn—Stark,” Jaime corrected himself. Even he knew it wasn’t wise to antagonise the man in front of him, especially after—

“Kingslayer.” The words were uttered bereft of emotion, and Jaime shrank in his boots under the piercing gaze. Jon Stark seemed at ease, but everything about him screamed danger, and Jaime had to suppress the desire to turn around and run away. “I assume you know where Widow’s Wail is?”

Jaime just blinked, his mind coming up blank. Stark waited patiently, and then he realised what was being demanded. Tommen’s dragonsteel blade, the same one his father had reforged from Ice, House Stark’s ancestral greatsword.

“Yes,” he admitted, voice hoarse.

Alas, he had almost forgotten his treacherous brother was here until he made his presence heard.

“Why do you need another sword? You already have this one,” Tyrion said, sounding genuinely curious. “Is this Lord Commander Mormont’s Longclaw?”

“Nay.” Stark shook his head. “This isn’t Longclaw. It is not even of Freehold make, but a creation of my own.”

The words sent chills up Jaime’s spine. He had seen how this sword sheared through steel as if it were silk, skewering and chopping up armoured men with the ease a hot knife would slice through butter.

The implications were mind-boggling. The dragonrider would be unstoppable if he could forge magical blades that rivalled Valyrian steel. And he had readily revealed his ability to do so, undaunted by any consequences.

A self-deprecating chuckle hysterically bubbled out of Jaime’s throat.

Jon Stark was already unrivalled. What good were unbreakable swords against a storm of fire or a dragon in the sky?

Yet where he remained silent, Tyrion seemed to have the bright idea, trying to endear himself to the dragonlord by talking, probably hoping to avoid his long-due meeting with the Stranger.

“Does it even have a name?” His brother prattled on. “All storied swords must have a storied name to match them.”

“Name?” Stark’s armoured fingers found the pale pommel shaped like a direwolf head. “I have never given a thought to such trifles. But you’re not wrong. My sword has reaped too many souls to remain nameless. From this moment forth, let it be known as Grief.”

The final word was steeped with some intangible power and echoed, lingering in the air like a dirge. Jaimed shivered.

What sorcery was this?

“A mighty name for a blade that has doubtlessly snuffed out so many lives,” Tyrion continued his attempts at currying favour, but even his voice came out shaky and hoarse.

“I named it in honour of Rickon, my dead brother,” was the cold reply. “It was a blade cast out of fury and sorrow of his cruel end. But I know what you’re doing, Tyrion of House Lannister. I did not come here to chit-chat or exchange pleasantries. It doesn’t matter if I have one, five, or five thousand magical blades or how greedy the thief is. Ice shall forever belong to House Stark. The second half that your thieving father stole—I want it back.“

His stunted brother raised his hands.

“I don’t have the sword, as I said—”

“Then be silent!” Jon Stark turned fierce, his face looking so cold it could freeze you on the spot. “I have spared you because of the debt owed with the prudent advice you granted me at the Wall, but consider any dues I owe repaid, and do not try my patience further.”

His purple eyes flicked to Jaime. “You are lucky that I have urgent matters to attend to in the North, so I won’t slaughter my way through the Westerlands to retrieve it. For now.”

The Lannister knight squirmed under the merciless gaze, but the Northman continued relentlessly. “Let it be known that House Stark is not beyond reason and mercy, ser. You have two moons henceforth to return the second stolen half of Ice to Winterfell, the head of that brutish knave Meryn Trant and a formal acknowledgement of my sovereign rule of the North.”

Gods, this was not a jest or a cruel jape. Jaime didn’t have to think long about why Stark wanted one of the old white cloaks. Meryn Trant… the only surviving kingsguard from those who had laid a hand on Sansa Stark… the fiend’s sister. He could begrudgingly respect his desire to protect his sister’s honour. How many times had Jaime wished he could run Robert through?

Jon Stark meant every word that left his mouth; Jaime could tell. He would do good on his threats—the hellish scene around them was ample proof. Over ten thousand souls were snuffed out with laughable ease by the power of sorcery.

Yet Jaime counted his blessings—he would live to see another day. But that did not mean the threat had passed. He had only one path before him. Fulfil the conditions and pray the dragonlord honoured them and spared Tommen.

A naive, younger part of him would have claimed that stone did not burn and Casterly Rock would never fall. But Jaime had seen Harren’s folly more than once, and a glance at the surroundings saw many half-melted rocks, and any fleeting trace of fighting spirit had been drained out. No, Jon Stark was not a man who could be fought. Not one to be angered either. Whatever sorcery he had cast did not tire him, nor did the earlier slaughter. Even now, his breath was even, unhurried like that of a man well-rested.

Were there limits to his power?

There had to be, Jaime knew. But he dared not test them.

The painful, ugly truth was that, in front of overwhelming strength, the only thing he could do was bow down or die. The royal authority of his son, Tommen, meant nothing in the face of such raw might.

A wise man would simply bow his head and give solemn promises to fulfil the demands of such a man. Yet something completely different tumbled out of his mouth. “What about my… Myrcella?”

A month prior, his sister had written that his dear, beautiful girl was alive, if a hostage in the wolf’s den.

“She is my guest and will remain such for some time,” was the cold reply. “A guarantee for your good behaviour, since I’ve lost long trust in words.

Jaime wanted to scream and rage, but he could only bow his head.

“Myrcella is innocent,” Tyrion rasped out weakly from the side.

Jon Stark ignored him, his gaze not moving from Jaime.

“You know, I wanted to walk the road of peace.” There was irritation there. Anger. “I wanted to try and end this mess without bloodshed. Gods be good, I tried. I tried, but fools care not for reason and can only understand violence.”

He leaned in with a sigh. “I even went to Casterly Rock in person to offer an alliance, yet I was rebuffed most rudely by your sister. She acted like a harlot eager to seduce me, and upon my refusal, wanted to see me attacked and imprisoned, despite the given guest right.”

Tyrion guffawed; a burst of uncontrollable, raspy laughter raked at his ears, yet Jaime’s mind turned blank. He couldn’t sense even an ounce of deception in the words. Jon Stark had no reason to lie despite the oddness of the tale.

Had Cersei continued to spread her legs for everything, even Moon Boy?

How many had she bedded?

Lancel, Kettleblacks, why not Trant too?

How many more?

Had he been so blindly devoted that he had failed to see the truth?

Jaime Lannister felt weary. The exhaustion was deep in his bones, mingling with the dull disappointment in his gut. Yet the world went on, no matter how much he wallowed in sorrow.

“Gods, that does sound like my dearest sister.” Tyrion’s stunted form still shook as he wheezed. He then turned serious. “And Daenerys?”

“What about her?”

“Aren’t you afraid she will… come back and seek vengeance, Your Grace?”

“There’s nothing to fear, lest she can crawl out of the afterlife.” The words were as chilly as the man who spoke them.

Jon Stark’s face grew stormy then, and the icy mask returned as if his emotions had drained away in a heartbeat.

Words said, the dragonrider turned to Viserion’s broken corpse, leaving the two brothers as if they no longer mattered. A small voice in Jaime’s mind told him to draw his blade and slay the man now that he had his back turned and his helmet unstrapped to rid the world of this inhuman monster. Yet all of his instincts screamed danger at the mere idea.

Jaime, too numb to care, was left reeling at the sheer audacity of the man. If Daenerys was truly dead, Jon Stark slew her and her black beast before coming here and baited Aegon into stalling in vain until his wife returned. The Targaryens had never stood a chance…

Meanwhile, Stark effortlessly lifted the torn-off draconic head over half the size of his stature and tied it up to his beast’s saddle before climbing on top with grace despite his armour.

“Wait. WAIT!” Tyrion’s desperate cry awoke him from his stupor. Jaime looked up only to see his brother running towards the Northern King. “Take me with you! I can be of use—”

The fire-breathing monster turned his head, opened a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth, and roared straight towards Tyrion. His brother fell, tumbling onto the glassy ground, and even Jaime felt his innards vibrate.

The dragonlord ignored the fallen dwarf and turned to Jaime.

“Two moons, Kingslayer, and not a single day more. Don’t make me fly back south.”

The dragon took off, raising a cloud of ash in his wake, and headed north. Jaime choked on a mouthful of ash, heaving over to cough while covering his eyes.

While trying not to tear his throat out, a terrified part of his mind realised that Jon Stark could have requested him to swear fealty to him, and he would have no choice but to die or bend the knee.

Today, Jaime Lannister had faced the Stranger and lived only by the grace of whatever urgently demanded Stark’s attention.

By the time the cloud settled, Jaime’s eyes had stung painfully, and his throat and nose felt dry and scratchy as if someone had poked inside with a rusty dirk. And everything tasted like ash.

As he patted the soot and ash off his face and hair, Tyrion groggily stood up and started clumsily running away as fast as his short, stubby legs allowed him.

The realisation sank in then.

His treacherous, kinslaying brother was within his grasp, without anyone else to protect him.

Jaime shook his head, gritted his teeth, and looked around for Glory. His horse seemed nowhere in sight, so he dashed after Tyrion, forcing his stiff legs to move. Yet running was a pain. He was clad in half-plate, nearly forty pounds of steel in the form of his hefty armour, swords, and rondels, weighing his tired body down.

Each laboured breath tore at his sore throat, and each step sent jolts of pain in his shaky legs, but Jaime soldiered on.

It seemed his stunted brother was even more tired, for within half a minute, Tyrion stumbled over a glassy crack on the ground, fell, and rolled into the ash with a pained groan.

Jaime took a handful of heartbeats to catch up. His brother was struggling to get up futilely, so he unsheathed his sword and placed the tip on his brother’s neck, making him freeze. Gods, using his left hand felt awkward and wrong.

“Please, Jaime,” the accursed dwarf begged through pained groans as tears streamed through his soot-covered face. The years had not been kind to his once beloved brother; he looked far worse than Jaime could remember. “Let me go. We’re brothers—I’ve always loved you!”

“Did you not say how you would take revenge for that lowborn gold-digging whore?” Jaime hissed angrily, pressing the steel tip further into his neck, drawing blood. “Did you not brag about how you poisoned my son?! Did I not save you from the headsman only for you to spit on my face and kill our father?!”

It would be easy to drive the sword into his brother’s soft, defenceless flesh and see how the light left his beady, mismatched eyes. Jaime could end the lying, treacherous, kinslaying creature that called himself his brother. But it would make him a kinslayer in turn, the most accursed existence in the lands. Jaime had loved his brother once as fiercely as one could love a brother. He was so close to doing the deed, but it would mean stooping as low as Tyrion had.

It disgusted him.

“I was lying! Please—”

Jaime’s wrist twisted, and the flat of his sword lashed out at Tyrion’s temple, knocking him out.

26th Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

Camp outside the Gorge

Greatjon Umber

The drifts of snow kept falling without any respite. Day and night, it continued, slowing their work on the second defensive fortifications facing the Bay. It was growing colder by the day, and his beard would be covered by frost and icicles within minutes outside.

Worse, the cold made the wound at his side throb and sting, and the pain lanced through his ribs, making him feel weak. Mullin of the Shadowtower tried all sorts of concoctions and poultices, but it still ached, and Greatjon refused to take any milk of the poppy, which would dull his wits.

The last three days dragged on heavily, fighting under the snowy veil as the wights continued churning out of the Gorge.

They would have been long overwhelmed if it had not been for the hastily erected wall. And the never-ending assault also took a toll on the men. It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion that came after a battle. The unending snow, the grey, sunless sky, and the endless surge of shambling corpses were slowly wearing down the men’s spirits. They fought, but even the bravest man would falter after days of constant battle against such a grim foe, rest or not. It was one thing to fight against warriors or savages, but what they faced was far more insidious.

Greybeards and green boys, women and children, men and crones, beasts and critters, each with two eerie shining blue eyes—Greatjon had seen and fought them all.

Or perhaps it was the vile, ancient magics lurking in the cold darkness beyond the Wall that sapped their courage.

There was no end in sight to the fighting, and the damned wights seemed endless. They couldn’t even begin to guess their numbers. Yet fighting was only half the battle. Winter had come, and everything, especially warmth, was scarce, and you had to struggle against the cold and the snow each step outside.

They would have been overwhelmed days ago, had not the young queen come. Back in Winterfell, Greatjon harboured some discontent about the king’s choice of bride—another Southron maid, following the Seven, and the daughter of the grim, unpleasant Stannis Baratheon to boot. There was nothing pleasant to look at on her face, no softness young maidens carried.

Oh, Greatjon had been so wrong back then. But he was glad for it.

Shireen Baratheon had come in the darkest hour, delivering them from the brink of defeat and despair. It wasn’t a victory—the foes kept surging out of the Gorge. But they had been so close to breaking. Their fighting spirit had cracked, their arms had grown tired, and their hearts had begun to waver as the lines buckled. In the midst of winter, surviving and living were considered a victory; there was still hope that you could live to struggle for one more day.

They were saved, but not by some lauded warrior, a skilled tactician, or a miracle. It was done by a slip of a girl, not yet of age at four and ten, tall and awkward, just stepping on the path of womanhood, expected to be a dutiful wife and churn out heirs. Nobody had expected Shireen Stark to come and fight. Nobody would have blamed her if she had remained in Winterfell, ruling in her husband’s stead.

But she had flown all the way to the Wall, and everyone loved her for it. Even now, she napped only enough for her dragon to get well-rested before flying through the air, burning wave after wave of corpses. Just as everyone else pushed themselves to the bone, so did Shireen Stark and her visibly growing drake.

As Jon Stark had won their loyalty with swift but fair justice and an iron hand, so had his young wife with her unbending duty. And the North remembered. They would never forget how the young queen’s daring had saved their lives. They would all die for her, even the weary wildlings, and the Lord of Last Hearth was no exception.

Alas, even Her Grace could not turn the weather around or stem the gods’ will, and their fears had ripened.

“The Bay of Ice has started to freeze,” Maege reported grimly in the newly finished wooden hall. It was a shoddy, hastily built thing of undressed logs and outer walls plastered with mud, but it provided better shelter than tents from the fierce winter wind, especially with the two stone-lined hearths roaring with ruddy flames.

The proclamation was met with grim silence. Greatjon’s gaze roamed the table but couldn’t find any surprise in their eyes—only acceptance, laced with some fear and a measure of resignation. They had already expected this to happen, if not so soon.

“The ice won’t thicken in a day,” the She-Bear added. “We still have time until the wights can use the Bay of Ice to flank us from the northwest.”

“And how long until it thickens?” the old Harclay croaked out, leaning on his axe. “A sennight? A moon?”

Maege’s shoulders sagged.

“Five days if the chill and the snow do not turn,” she said, voice tight. “Less if luck is not on our side. We must redouble our effort with the fortifications facing the Bay.”

For all the good that would do. No walls would save them—their camp was open to the south and the east, and the damned shambling corpses could just go around and box them in.

Even if they built a proper fort, they could do nothing to stop the wights pouring into Gift—a defeat without a battle.

The silence hung upon them like a headsman’s axe, as worried eyes searched for answers but had none.

It was a young, weary voice that spoke then.

“What if I try to melt the thickening ice?”

They all turned to look at the young queen. The firelight caught the pallor of her skin, and even the glow could not mask the shadows beneath her eyes. Even now, her eyes drooped, and she looked one pillow away from sleep. Even her well-kept raven braid was now frayed on the edges. Yet there was steel in her, the stuff that great men and women were hewn from, and her spine was ramrod straight.

“With the wooden rampart, holding the wights from the Gorge should be no issue,” she said, not daunted by the many gazes. “If so, I can focus on the Bay with Stormstrider.”

“Perhaps it can work,” Maege said, hesitant.

The purple drake had greatly grown in the last sennight; that much was plain to see. The purple-scaled wyrm was nearly twice the size since it first came, and its flames burned hotter and longer, now. It was not natural, but few cared, and even fewer asked questions.

But would dragonflame be enough to turn back the tide of frost or the fury of nature?

Greatjon Umber downed his ale in one swallow. The drink was cold as snowmelt and did little to ease the bite of the wind or the weight in his gut.

“The ramparts will hold,” he vowed. “We’ll make them hold.”

Shireen’s blue eyes hardened like two chips of ice. Greatjon knew her answer before it even left her tongue.

“I’ll go to the Bay,” she said. “If melting the ice buys us a day, or even an hour, it will have to be enough.”

28th Day of the 11th Moon, 303 AC

The Stark in Winterfell

The feeling of helplessness grated on her very soul. Sansa had nearly forgotten that dire urge in her breast, where the world seemed to be falling apart, and she felt powerless to do anything.

She had gotten too used to the feeling of comfort and safety Jon’s presence brought her. It was a soothing sense of security that warmed her heart. But Jon wasn’t here; he had flown south to deal with the Targaryens.

On its own, that wouldn’t be an issue. Sansa trusted her brother to deal with the House of the Dragon, for Jon wielded power beyond what her mind could comprehend. But even he couldn’t be in two places at once. Dark wings, dark words; a raven from the Shadow Tower had arrived this morning, grimmer than the last.

While Shireen had arrived safely, an uncountable number of wights assaulted the Watch’s defences, attacking without respite. Ill-tidings, judging by Wyman Manderly’s worried grimace.

There was nothing she could do. Some would pray to the gods, but Sansa knew it was futile. How many times had she prayed before, but to no avail? She had not wanted a miracle, just a sign, but received nothing.

Perhaps Cersei was right—if the Gods were real, they were as cruel and apathetic as winter. If so, what use was praying?

Worry clawed at her gut, and Sansa turned to distractions. She had plenty of duties to distract herself with now that her brother and his wife had gone fighting, one in the south and the other in the north.

Yet the court petitions, the small council meetings, or the duties of the Stark of Winterfell felt dull and barely abated her worry. Worse, they only made her feel more tired and useless.

Another day had ended, and Sansa had dismissed Alys and Myrcella, retreating to her cosy quarters. The sun had just set, but Sansa did not feel sleepy despite the exhaustion, so she sank into her tapered chair by the roaring hearth. Closing her eyes, she basked in the warmth of the crackling fire. Usually, she would pick up her needle and work on her next project. She had planned to make Arya a fur-lined riding dress, but was too weary to start.

The inanities of ruling and the worry had sapped all of her strength and desire for embroidery and weaving. Just as Sansa seriously contemplated whether she should move to her bed, her door opened with a bang.

There was no need to guess her visitor, for only one soul could pass through the guards at the grand staircase and enter like that—Arya. And her sister only did it when she was excited.

Unlike when she was young, Arya’s interest was only piqued by matters of import. Reluctantly, Sansa groaned, rubbing the drowsiness from her eyes. For once, the solemn determination on Arya’s face was replaced by a wide, genuinely happy smile, as if she were still a child.

“Sansa! Guess who’s back?”

“Jon?” Sansa eagerly leaned forward, any traces of sleep gone. “Has he returned?”

Arya’s smile visibly wilted, but a sliver of joy remained in her eyes.

“No, not yet. Someone else. Nymeria, come!”

“Why did you invite the Dornish—” The words died on her lips when an enormous grey direwolf cautiously pawed into the room.

Eyes like liquid gold met her gaze, and Sansa couldn’t help but remember that playful pup the size of a kitten named after the Rhoynish warrior-queen.

Yet Nymeria was no longer a pup. While not as big as Ghost, she was easily the size of a garon and still taller than Arya.

Sansa stared at the golden eyes, blinking until her sister wheeled around and quickly hugged the furry neck. Any caution was forgotten as a grey, shaggy tail wagged happily, and the direwolf twisted around, hellbent on trying to slobber over her face.

They looked as if they had never separated for half a decade, playing and wrestling. Instead of becoming a feral beast that would tear limbs, Nymeria was playful and obedient, and her sister looked like a happy child.

It was the first time she had seen Arya so happy, and a part of Sansa rejoiced, for there was no trace of her sister’s hollowness lingering from that shroud of misery. Yet her joy tasted like ash, for another part deep down mourned. Sansa had a direwolf of her own once. Lady had been a good girl, obedient, protective, and pretty, but she perished because of her foolish owner.

Her sister finally won the playful tug-of-war and avoided the tongue. “Come, sister, give her your hand.”

Only a fool would approach a wild dog, let alone a direwolf, but Nymeria stood there obediently, eyeing her with wariness.

Sansa hesitantly approached and slowly lifted her arm. A warm, wet nose carefully inspected her fingers. For a heartbeat, Sansa thought the razor-sharp teeth would tear off her digits, but a rough pink tongue tickled her palm instead.

An involuntary giggle escaped her lips, and she tried her hardest to ignore the ugly jealousy welling up in her breast.

“Where did you find her?” Sansa asked, swallowing heavily. “I thought she was lost in the Riverlands.”

“I thought so too, but Nymeria came to me while I was strolling around Wintertown.” Arya smiled wanly. “I dreamt of her often. Sometimes, I dreamed I was her, hunting for Freys in the wilderness.”

Sansa sighed and pushed down the frustrating tangle of emotions in her gut. “It does sound like how Jon described slipping into Ghost’s skin. You should ask him to teach you when he returns. Just make sure Nymeria doesn’t bite anyone again. Or, well, anyone undeserving.”

“She would never!” Arya vehemently protested. “In fact, she should have torn Joffrey’s throat out, not bitten his hand. Nymeria is a good girl, unlike that Dornish harlot!”

Sansa shook her head. “It does not do to dwell on what-ifs.” If Robert Baratheon’s supposed heir had perished under a direwolf’s fangs, things would have taken a different turn, but not necessarily for the better. “Thought you liked the Dornish and their warrior women?”

Her sister scowled. “I did until I met them in person. Cravens, the lot of them! I asked the Sand Snakes to show me some moves in the yard, but they all declined. And they’re all extremely suspicious. I swear to the gods, they’re up to no good here.”

While she agreed that Arianne Martell was either a fool or a schemer, such an accusation from Arya’s mouth felt ironic. Usually, her sister was the one up to mischief.

“Perhaps they declined because of the cold,” Sansa proposed lightly. “Or perhaps they’re afraid to strike at a royal.”

Arya’s face scrunched up at the reminder as she returned to petting Nymeria. “Pah, this is stupid. I still don’t trust them, though.”

Sansa inclined her head.

“They have yet to show anything worthy of trust. But fret not, sister. Whatever nefarious schemes they are hatching will find no purchase here.”

On her order, the guard around Bloodfyre doubled the day the Dornish arrived. Their appearance here was highly suspicious, just after Jon and Shireen were away.

Sansa had not forgotten her lessons—the blood of the dragon coursed through the veins of House Nymeros Martell through the daughter of the Unworthy. If Shireen could claim a dragon, so could they. All of the Dornish retinue were assigned guards under the excuse of safety. It was a blatant way to watch their activities here, but so what? As uninvited guests, they could only accept the guardsmen shadowing their every move inside Winterfell.

Of course, Sansa had not stopped there. Every servant in Winterfell was also instructed to listen in and report their words. She had appointed food and wine tasters, and each piece of food or drink was sampled before it reached Sansa and Arya’s lips. Some might claim it was paranoid, but Sansa dared not take the risk. The Dornish did not shy away from poison, and she would scoff if anyone told her the Red Viper’s daughters were not well-versed in it.

“Anyway.” Arya cleared her throat, seemingly tired of playing with the direwolf, who was now lazily sprawled on the wooden floor like an enormous grey rug. “That Dornish knight doesn’t dare step in Wintertown anymore. The lion knight and his red cloaks keep challenging him to duels and spars.”

She chuckled merrily as Sansa pinched the bridge of her nose.

The feud that had started with the deaths of Elia Martell and her children was now completely rekindled with Myrcella’s maiming. While forced to keep the peace in Winterfell’s halls, that did not mean the enmity was gone or forgotten, and sparring was an easy way to vent their grievances and rough up their opponent.

While Ser Andrey Dalt seemingly had nothing to do with that particular feud, Myrcella had explained that he was one of the conspirators who had aided Arianne in her scheme.

“Anything else of interest in Wintertown?” Sansa asked, returning to her chair.

“Oh yes, I heard a most delicious tale,” Arya began with a wicked smile. “A few people claim that Osric Burley lost the single combat on purpose because the Knott’s daughter was uglier than a snar—”

A deafening roar drowned whatever her sister wanted to say. The sound was terrible, making Sansa’s heart clench, but she had faced worse. No, she knew this sound, for she had heard it plenty of times.

Sansa and Arya shared a quick look, eyes alight with joy.

Grabbing a heavy cloak, the sisters dashed towards the yard, everything else completely forgotten.

Sansa scarcely had to run in her life, but her tired legs seemed to have a mind of their own and almost flew down the stairs. Arya, who had trained in the yard for hours since the crack of dawn, was just as tired as Sansa and heaved behind her, her pace slower. Nymeria, on the other hand, pawed effortlessly after them, though all her hackles had risen with caution.

It was snowing again. Ignoring the crowd gathered in the yard outside, Sansa snatched an oil lantern from one of the guards and made her way through the snow.

She didn’t dare to hope, but the sight filled her heart with joy.

Jon was back!

Her brother, hale and hearty, clad in his black armour, jumped off the saddle. Behind him, the gargantuan form of Winter loomed in the darkness, even larger than she remembered. Sansa wanted to dash forward, hug her brother, and check for any injuries, but Jon caught her gaze, gave her a slight smile, and shook his head.

Right, the courtyard was quickly filling up, the crowd growing by the heartbeat.

Sansa calmed her laboured breath and stepped forth with a curtsy. “Winterfell is yours, Your Grace.”

Her attempt to kneel was thwarted as a pair of steel-clad arms pulled her into a tight embrace. Arya was also squashed against his armour. It was inappropriate to show such affection in public, but her brother did not seem to care.

After a handful of heartbeats, Jon released them, but not before planting a quick kiss on both of their foreheads.

He turned to the courtyard full of kneeling men and women; even the Dornish and the Lannisters had knelt. Sansa couldn’t tell if it was out of fear of Winter or something else. “Rise.”

Then came a heaving Wyman Manderly, misty puffs ghosting out of his mouth. “I hope you were successful in your negotiations, Your Grace.”

Something unreadable flashed in Jon’s purple eyes, but he nodded slowly.

“It could be said so.” His hand disappeared into his cloak for a moment, then brought out two decapitated heads by their silver-gold curls and raised them in the air for all to see. “Aegon and Daenerys Targaryen are no more! From this day forth, I, Jon Stark of Winterfell, declare the House of Targaryen extinct.”

His gaze found her grand-uncle, and he beckoned him with a gesture. “Ser Brynden.”

The Blackfish swiftly marched over, bowing deeply. “I am yours to command, Your Grace!”

Sansa remembered Daenerys’ face, even if it was now forever frozen in resignation. The second head belonged to a man, but a dragonsteel crown encrusted with rubies rested upon his brow, betraying his identity. She knew this crown; Sansa had seen drawings of Aegon’s crown in many books, and it was supposed to be lost in Dorne…

“Put them on before the Great Hall,” Jon commanded, but there was a sliver of sorrow in his eyes. Then he untied the new, ornate scabbard that Sansa had only noticed from his belt. “Put this on the display above my throne. Let all see what happens to those who threaten House Stark!”

“Blackfyre,” the word rolled off her lips as she saw the unmistakable gilded dragonhead guard and iconic ruby pommel she had seen before in Luwin’s books. “The sword of kings…”

“STARK!”

“DRAGONSLAYER!”

“STARK!”

“THE JON!”

“LONG LIVE THE KING!”

The erupting clamour almost deafened Sansa, but she didn’t care. A silly smile spread across her face as relief flooded her being, but a tinge of guilt followed next. It was pitiful that Jon had been forced to kill his kin, but they had forced his hand. There was none more accursed than the kinslayer, but would her brother care about mere curses?

Her gaze roamed the jubilant crowd before settling on the Dornish.

Pale, stunned faces filled with fear, disbelief, and doubt. Even lust, judging by how quickly Arianne Martell shook herself together and gave Jon a smouldering look.

“What of their dragons, Your Grace?” Manderly asked when the commotion had died out.

A moment later, Winter’s sinister silhouette leaned in closer, revealing two barrel-sized draconic heads hanging from both sides of his saddle, the dragon seemingly undaunted by the additional weight. The first one, almost as big as Winter’s, belonged to Daenerys’ fiendish mount, the beast they called Drogon. The second one was half the size, fully covered by soot, and its eyes had been charred out.

While everyone else had lost their tongues, Arya stepped forth, smiling savagely. “They shall make fine trophies for the Great Hall, brother.”

“Indeed,” the Merman Lord quickly agreed. “By your leave, Your Grace.”

“See to it then, Lord Manderly.” Jon motioned, effortlessly untying the two draconic heads and tossing them in the snow with a heavy thud.

Sansa shook herself out of the stupor and leaned toward her brother. It was good to know all the woes to the south had been dealt with, but the problems did not end there.

“Jon,” she whispered in his ear, trying to convey her fear and apprehension. “Westwatch is under attack, and Shireen has flown there to defend it.”

“I know.” The words were said without an ounce of feeling, but she could recognise that Jon was somehow suppressing all of his emotions. His gloved hand had also found the hilt of his sword, something he only did when wroth.

Jon turned to Lord Manderly. “While I join my wife at Westwatch, Sansa shall continue ruling in my stead.”

Without waiting for a reply, Jon leapt atop the saddle with a single graceful motion. The dragon took off, the first beat of his wings sending ribbons of snow in every direction, forcing Sansa to shield her face.

Within heartbeats, Winter disappeared northward into the darkness, and the mighty drumming of his wings dwindled in the night, leaving the courtyard filled with excitement and confusion.

Sansa would have almost thought her brother’s return was a mirage, a product of her imagination, but the four grim trophies, two human and two draconic, lay on the snow.

Jon was back in the North, and everything was right in the world again.