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Year 300 AC
Wolfswood
The wind carried the metallic tang of blood across the snow-laden ridge where Ramsay Bolton crouched, his pale eyes gleaming with predatory focus. Below, steel clashed against steel as Stannis Baratheon's forces engaged the Freys in the clearing near the crofter's village. His hounds panted softly beside him, sensing their master's excitement.
How sweet, Ramsay thought, watching a Frey soldier's head part from his shoulders. Let them bleed each other dry. Father always preaches patience, but he doesn't understand the pleasure in watching prey exhaust itself before the kill.
"My lord," whispered Damon Dance-for-Me, crouched beside him. "The Manderlys are nowhere to be seen."
Ramsay's thin lips curled into a smile. "Fat Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse thinks himself clever. No matter. When I've finished with Stannis, I'll flay the skin from Manderly's remaining sons inch by inch. I'll make White Harbor run red."
He turned to Yellow Dick and Sour Alyn, his eyes bright with malice. "The girls will have fine sport when we return to Winterfell. Perhaps we'll bring Stannis's men back alive. The ones who still have all their parts, at least."
The men chuckled nervously, exchanging glances. None dared voice disagreement.
Ramsay returned his attention to the battle, expecting to see mounting casualties on both sides. Instead, his smile faltered. Stannis's forces were cutting through the Freys with unexpected efficiency, their formations holding strong despite the blizzard's aftermath.
This isn't right, he thought, his excitement curdling into irritation. They should be weakening, not—
"Seven hells," he hissed as the Freys broke formation, fleeing in disarray. "Useless river rats. Can't even die properly."
Ramsay stood abruptly, snow falling from his pink cloak. His face flushed with anger, nearly matching the color of his garment.
"Change of plans," he announced, his voice dangerously soft. "Stannis wants to play the hunter? Let's show him what happens when you hunt in Bolton lands."
He turned to Skinner, his master of scouts. "Signal the men. We attack from three sides. I want them surrounded before they realize what's happening."
"My lord," Skinner ventured, "perhaps we should wait. Your lord father said—"
Ramsay's hand shot out, gripping Skinner's throat. "My father isn't here, is he? I am the Lord of Winterfell now. Do you question me?"
"N-no, my lord," Skinner choked out.
Ramsay released him with a shove. "Good. Because men who question me tend to lose pieces of themselves. Small pieces at first. Then larger ones."
He smiled, his eyes remaining cold. "Now. Signal the attack."
As his men scrambled to obey, Ramsay drew his sword, running a gloved finger along its edge.
"Come, boys," he whispered to his hounds. "Time for the hunt."
The initial assault went beautifully. Ramsay led his men down the snow-covered slope, their approach masked by the trees until they burst upon Stannis's flank. The surprise was complete, and Ramsay laughed aloud as he cut down his first opponent—a bearded northman who barely had time to raise his shield.
"Is this the army that means to take Winterfell?" he shouted, driving his blade through another man's throat. Blood sprayed across the snow, steaming in the cold air. "Pathetic!"
He fought with savage joy, each kill feeding his bloodlust. A knight in Baratheon colors charged him, and Ramsay sidestepped with surprising agility, hamstringing the man with a vicious swipe.
"Kneel before your lord," Ramsay taunted as the knight collapsed. He brought his sword down in a two-handed blow that split the man's helm and the skull beneath. "Oh, too late."
For precious minutes, the Bolton forces drove deep into Stannis's lines. Ramsay felt the familiar thrill of dominance, of seeing fear in men's eyes as they realized their death approached. This was power—not his father's cold calculations, but the hot rush of terror he inspired.
Then the tide began to turn.
"Form up!" came a voice of iron from the center of Stannis's forces. "Stand your ground!"
Ramsay watched with growing fury as Stannis Baratheon himself rallied his men, his lean face set with grim determination. The scattered defenders coalesced around their king, forming a bristling wall of steel.
"Forward!" Ramsay screamed at his men. "Cut them down!"
But the easy slaughter had ended. Now each yard gained cost Bolton lives, and Stannis's men fought with the desperation of those who knew defeat meant death. The battle devolved into a bloody stalemate, with neither side able to gain advantage.
This isn't how it was supposed to go, Ramsay thought, his rage building as he watched one of his captains fall to a northman's axe. They should have broken by now. They should be begging for mercy.
"My lord," gasped Luton, blood seeping from a wound in his side, "we're taking heavy losses. Perhaps we should—"
"Perhaps you should shut your mouth before I cut out your tongue," Ramsay snarled. "We push forward. I want Stannis's head!"
But even as he spoke, he could see Stannis conferring with his commanders, gesturing toward the forest behind them. A retreat was being organized.
"They're running," Ramsay announced, his mood brightening. "The great Stannis Baratheon is running from me."
He watched as the enemy began an orderly withdrawal, maintaining formation as they backed toward the treeline.
"Oh no," Ramsay murmured, his eyes gleaming. "You don't escape that easily."
He snatched a bow from one of his archers, nocking an arrow with practiced ease. The distance was considerable, but Ramsay had hunted men through the wolfswood since boyhood. He knew how to make this shot.
"Which one is Stannis?" he demanded.
"There, my lord," said Yellow Dick, pointing to a tall figure directing the retreat. "The one with the burning stag on his breastplate."
Ramsay drew the bowstring to his cheek, sighting along the arrow. "You know what I told my last wife before I killed her?" he asked conversationally. "I told her my hounds would have her bones for dinner."
He loosed the arrow, watching its arc with hungry eyes.
"I lied," he continued as the shaft found its mark, striking Stannis in the chest. "I fed her to them while she still lived."
A savage grin split his face as Stannis staggered, clutching at the arrow. The retreating soldiers closed ranks around their fallen king, bearing him away into the forest.
"After them!" Ramsay commanded, but even he could see that his men were exhausted, their numbers too depleted to pursue effectively.
Father will be displeased, he thought, surveying the battlefield strewn with bodies bearing the flayed man of Bolton. But I've wounded their king. Perhaps fatally.
He turned to his remaining captains, his bloody face alight with cruel purpose.
"Send scouts to track them. I want to know where they're going, how many survived, and whether Stannis still draws breath." He pointed to the bodies littering the snow. "And find me any of their wounded still alive. My girls need exercise, and I need answers."
Ramsay wiped his sword on a dead man's cloak, his mind already turning to the next phase of his hunt.
"When I return to Winterfell," he promised, "it will be with Stannis Baratheon's head on a pike. And every northern lord who supported him will learn what it means to rouse the Bolton beast."
He kicked at a fallen Baratheon banner, grinding it into the bloodied snow.
"This is my game now," he said softly. "And in my game, everyone screams before the end."
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Outskirts of Raventree Hall
The rain pelted Jaime's face as the Brotherhood dragged him through the mud toward their hidden cave. His golden hand, once a symbol of Lannister wealth and power, now served only to unbalance him as he stumbled forward. His escort—five men, loyal Lannister soldiers—lay dead in the forest behind them.
This is what comes of attempting to be honorable, he thought bitterly. Had I brought twenty men instead of five, I might not be in this predicament. But I didn't want to appear threatening to Brienne. Fool.
The cave's entrance loomed before him, a dark mouth in the hillside. Inside, torchlight flickered against damp stone walls, revealing gaunt faces watching his approach with undisguised hatred.
These men have reason enough to hate Lannisters, Jaime admitted to himself. The Riverlands have suffered more than most in this war my family started.
They shoved him forward into a wider chamber where a hooded figure sat in shadow. Beside her stood Brienne of Tarth, her face a mask of anguish. Her eyes met his, filled with shame and desperation.
"Brienne," Jaime said, managing a crooked smile despite his circumstances. "When I answered your call, I didn't expect such... spirited hospitality."
"Ser Jaime," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry? For what?" But even as he asked, the hooded figure rose, and Jaime felt his blood turn to ice.
The woman before him might once have been Catelyn Stark, but what remained was something else entirely. Her flesh had the pallor of a corpse too long in water, her throat a ragged wound that had never healed. But it was her eyes that truly horrified him—flat, dead things burning with hatred.
"Gods be good," he breathed. "They say the dead don't keep their promises. It seems they do."
Lady Stoneheart raised a hand to her ruined throat and made a horrible rasping sound. A thin, dark-haired man translated.
"She says you swore to return her daughters. You swore on your honor as a Lannister." The man's tone suggested what he thought of Lannister honor.
Jaime straightened, finding his familiar arrogance like a shield. "I sent Brienne to find Sansa and bring her to safety. As for Arya, no one has seen her since my father took King's Landing."
Another rasping command from Lady Stoneheart.
"Your family orchestrated the Red Wedding," the translator continued. "Murdered her son, her good-daughter, her people. Under guest right."
"I had no part in the Red Wedding," Jaime replied, his voice hardening. "I was your prisoner when it happened, my lady, as you well remember."
This is pointless, he realized. She didn't bring me here for explanations.
"The Kingslayer lies," snarled a large man in a stained yellow cloak—Lem Lemoncloak, Jaime recalled. "Lannisters planned it all with the Freys and Boltons. His father gave the orders."
"My father is dead," Jaime said flatly. "Shot through with a crossbow bolt while sitting on his privy. If you're looking for justice, there it is."
Lady Stoneheart made another sound, this one clearly dismissive.
"House Lannister still stands," the translator said. "Your sister sits the Iron Throne through her sons. The Freys prosper from their treachery. The North remembers, Kingslayer. And so does she."
Jaime glanced at Brienne, whose misery was palpable. She brought me here to die. Why? What choice did they give her?
"Brienne," he said softly. "What did they threaten you with?"
Before she could answer, Lem struck him across the face. "You don't speak to her, Kingslayer. Your words are poison."
Jaime spat blood onto the cave floor. "I see. So I'm to be executed without trial. How very... Stark of you."
Lady Stoneheart's eyes narrowed at that, and she gestured sharply. Men moved forward with ropes.
"Wait!" Brienne stepped forward, her hand on her sword hilt. "My lady, I beg you to reconsider. Ser Jaime is not the man he was. He saved me from rape at Harrenhal. He lost his sword hand protecting me. He came back for me at the bear pit when he had no reason to risk himself."
Brave, stubborn Brienne, Jaime thought with unexpected fondness. Still believing in honor, even here at the end.
"He gave me Oathkeeper to find and protect your daughters," she continued desperately. "He has tried to keep his oath to you."
Lady Stoneheart made a terrible sound that might have been laughter. She pointed at Jaime, then at her ruined throat, and finally at the hanging ropes.
"She says oaths to the dead outweigh all others," the translator said quietly. "And that your death will be the first payment for the North's suffering."
Jaime looked at the nooses being prepared, at the Frey prisoners watching with terrified eyes, at Brienne's desperate face. A strange calm settled over him.
So this is how Jaime Lannister ends. Not defending his king or his family, but in a damp cave at the hands of a vengeful corpse.
Then a thought struck him—sudden, dangerous, and perhaps his only chance.
"Lady Stark," he said, addressing her directly. "I will help you kill the Freys."
The cave went silent. Lady Stoneheart's dead eyes fixed on him with suspicious intensity.
"I know the Twins better than most," Jaime continued, his voice gaining strength. "I know their defenses, their weaknesses. I know which Freys matter and which don't. And I know something else—my sister has abandoned them."
He took a step forward, ignoring the drawn swords that immediately pointed at him.
"Cersei is consumed with her own problems in King's Landing. The alliance with the Freys means nothing to her now. She left me to die when I was captured before; she'll do the same to them."
Jaime met Lady Stoneheart's gaze unflinchingly. "The Freys broke guest right. That offense is against gods and men alike. Even a Lannister can see the justice in making them answer for it."
I'm not even certain I'm lying, he realized with surprise. Old Walder deserves a sword through his lying throat.
Lady Stoneheart studied him for a long moment, then made a questioning gesture toward Brienne.
"She asks if you can be trusted," the translator said.
Brienne stepped forward, standing tall despite her wounds. "He can, my lady. Ser Jaime has changed. His word now has meaning."
Does it? Jaime wondered. Or am I simply finding new lies to save my skin?
The Brotherhood members began arguing among themselves. Lem wanted him hanged immediately. Thoros of Myr, looking haggard and doubtful, suggested there might be purpose in Jaime's offer.
"The Lord of Light shows many paths in the flames," the red priest said wearily. "Perhaps this is one of them."
Finally, Lady Stoneheart raised a hand for silence. She approached Jaime, her movement stiff and unnatural. Up close, the smell of decay was unmistakable. She reached out with gray fingers and touched his golden hand, then made a contemptuous gesture.
"She says a man who cannot wield a sword is of little use against the Freys," the translator explained.
Jaime smiled thinly. "I've been learning to fight with my left. And besides, Lady Stark, wars aren't won with swords alone. They're won with cunning. Ask your son Robb how effective my father's plotting was."
It was a cruel thing to say, but Jaime needed her to see him as valuable. To his surprise, Lady Stoneheart nodded slowly.
"Swear it," came her raspy whisper, the first words she'd spoken directly to him. "Swear... you will... bring me... Freys."
Jaime knelt before her, acutely aware of the absurdity and danger of his position.
"I swear by the old gods and the new that I will help you bring justice to House Frey for their crimes against House Stark and the violation of guest right."
Lady Stoneheart's hand came to rest on his head, cold as a grave. She spoke again, each word clearly causing her pain.
"Betrayal... will mean... your head."
"I understand," Jaime replied, rising to his feet. He glanced at Brienne, whose relief was palpable, though concern still shadowed her eyes.
What have I done? he wondered as the Brotherhood reluctantly cut his bonds. Sworn yet another oath I may not be able to keep? Or finally found a path to honor?
As they led him deeper into the cave to discuss their plans, Jaime reflected on the strange turns his life had taken. Once the golden son of Casterly Rock, now a one-handed conspirator with outlaws and a vengeful corpse.
Cersei would call me a fool. Father would be disgusted. But they're not here.
Only Brienne walked beside him, her loyalty unshaken despite everything. Perhaps that was worth something after all.
My life has become an endless series of conflicting oaths, Jaime thought grimly. But perhaps this one, this last one, might somehow redeem the others.
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The Dothraki Sea
The sun beat down mercilessly on the endless sea of grass, baking the earth beneath Daenerys's feet. Her silver-gold hair hung in matted strands around her face, her once-fine clothing torn and stained from days in the wilderness. She had wandered far from where Drogon had left her, seeking water, seeking anything familiar in this vast emptiness.
I was a fool to leave Meereen, she thought, squinting against the harsh light. A queen belongs with her people, not chasing dragons through the grass. And yet...
And yet something had changed within her during these days alone. Away from her counselors, from the contradictory voices of Ser Barristan and Daario and all the rest, her mind had cleared. She had dreamed of fire and blood, of Westeros and her birthright.
If I look back, I am lost.
The drumming of hooves broke her reverie. A lone rider approached, his copper skin and long braid marking him as Dothraki. One of Khal Jhaqo's bloodriders, perhaps, or a scout. He rode directly toward her, his face impassive but his eyes calculating.
Daenerys straightened her back and lifted her chin. I am the blood of the dragon. I will not cower before him, even alone and unarmed.
The rider circled her once, appraising her with undisguised contempt. He spoke in Dothraki, his voice mocking.
"What is this? A silver-haired girl alone in the grass? Are you lost, little foreigner?"
Daenerys met his gaze steadily, replying in fluent Dothraki. "I am not lost. I am exactly where I am meant to be."
The scout laughed, a harsh sound that carried across the empty plain. "Bold words from a woman with no horse, no water, no weapon." He leaned down from his mount, reaching for her. "Khal Jhaqo will decide what to do with you. Perhaps if you please him, he will keep you."
Jhaqo. The name sent a cold fury through her veins. She remembered Eroeh, the young girl she had tried to protect after Drogo's khalasar sacked her village. How Jhaqo had claimed her after Drogo fell ill, used her cruelly, and then killed her when he tired of her screams.
He betrayed his khal and he betrayed me. And now he thinks to make me his slave?
"You will not touch me," Daenerys said, her voice quiet but firm.
The scout's face darkened with anger. "You do not command me, foreign girl. You will—"
A shadow passed overhead, momentarily blocking the sun. The scout's horse reared suddenly, whinnying in terror. Before he could regain control, an enormous black shape plummeted from the sky, landing with earth-shaking force between the scout and his mount.
Drogon's massive head swung toward the Dothraki, smoke curling from his nostrils. His red eyes gleamed with predatory intelligence as he unfurled his great wings, now spanning more than twenty feet from tip to tip.
The scout fell to his knees, his arrogance forgotten. "Dragon," he whispered, the word a prayer and a curse.
My child has grown, Daenerys thought with a mixture of pride and awe. He is truly becoming the dread of which the songs will speak.
She stepped forward, placing a hand on Drogon's hot scales. The dragon quieted at her touch, though his eyes remained fixed on the trembling Dothraki.
"Yes," she said, switching to the Common Tongue momentarily before returning to Dothraki. "He is a dragon. And I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Khaleesi to Khal Drogo's riders."
Recognition dawned in the scout's eyes, followed quickly by fear.
"Now," Daenerys continued, her voice hardening, "you will give me your water and your food. It is my right as khaleesi."
The man hastily untied a waterskin and a small pouch of dried meat from his belt, offering them with shaking hands. Daenerys drank deeply, feeling strength return to her limbs.
"You have a choice," she told him when she had finished. "Take me to Khal Jhaqo's camp, or be the first man to learn what it means to wake the dragon."
Drogon punctuated her words with a low growl that seemed to vibrate the very air.
"I will take you, Khaleesi," the scout said, his eyes downcast. "Though Jhaqo may kill me for bringing you."
"Jhaqo will have other concerns," Daenerys replied coldly. "Now rise and lead the way."
As they journeyed toward Jhaqo's khalasar, Daenerys rode upon Drogon's back, following the scout who proceeded on foot, his horse having fled in terror. The sensation of flying was still new to her—exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. From this height, she could see the vastness of the Dothraki Sea stretching in all directions, and for a moment, she felt a pang of longing for the simple life she had once known with Drogo.
But that was another Daenerys, she reminded herself. Young and frightened and easily led. I have been forged in fire since then. I have freed slaves and conquered cities and awakened dragons from stone.
Her thoughts turned to Eroeh again, and to Jhaqo's betrayal. She had promised the girl protection, only to fail her utterly. The memory still burned like a brand upon her heart.
Is this vengeance or justice I seek? she wondered. And does it matter which, if the outcome is the same?
The question troubled her. In Meereen, she had tried to rule with wisdom and mercy, to be the queen her people needed rather than the conqueror she sometimes longed to be. She had compromised, married for peace, reopened the fighting pits—all to preserve the fragile stability of her city.
And what had it brought her? Rebellion. Assassination attempts. The Sons of the Harpy still stalking her streets.
Perhaps there comes a time when fire and blood is the only answer. When mercy is seen not as strength but as weakness.
As the sun began to set, painting the grasslands in hues of gold and crimson, they crested a low rise, and Daenerys saw the khalasar spread out before them. Hundreds of tents and cookfires dotted the plain, horses grazing in carefully guarded herds nearby. It was smaller than Drogo's great khalasar had been, but still formidable.
"There," the scout said, pointing to a cluster of larger tents at the center of the camp. "That is where Khal Jhaqo will be."
Daenerys felt a cold resolve settle over her. "Good. Drogon will land there."
The scout's eyes widened. "Khaleesi, perhaps it would be wiser to approach more cautiously. Jhaqo has many bloodriders, many archers—"
"I am not here to negotiate," Daenerys interrupted. "I am here to bring justice."
She urged Drogon forward, feeling the powerful muscles bunch beneath her as he took to the air once more. As they soared over the camp, she saw the Dothraki below pointing upward, some fleeing in terror, others standing transfixed by the sight of a dragon in flight.
Let them see, she thought fiercely. Let them remember the old stories of dragonlords and fire made flesh.
Drogon descended toward the central area of the camp, scattering horses and warriors alike. He landed with a thunderous impact, his massive tail sweeping tents aside as if they were made of air. His wings created a wind that sent cookfires swirling into miniature cyclones of flame and ash.
Through the chaos, Daenerys spotted Khal Jhaqo emerging from his tent, surrounded by his bloodriders. His face registered shock, then fury as he recognized her atop the great beast.
"Jhaqo," she called out in a clear voice that carried across the suddenly silent camp. "Do you remember me?"
The khal's hand went to his arakh, though he did not draw it. "The silver-haired whore," he replied, his Dothraki harsh and guttural. "Drogo's foreign bride."
"I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen," she corrected him, sliding from Drogon's back to stand before the khal. The dragon remained coiled behind her, smoke rising from his nostrils. "Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons."
Jhaqo spat on the ground. "You are nothing here. Your khal is dead. Your khalasar scattered."
"And yet here I stand," Daenerys replied. "With my dragon at my back. Do you remember Eroeh, Jhaqo? The girl you claimed after betraying your khal?"
A cruel smile twisted Jhaqo's lips. "The village girl? She screamed sweetly enough before I tired of her."
White-hot rage surged through Daenerys, but her face remained calm. "You betrayed your khal when he could no longer ride. You abandoned your khaleesi when she needed her khal's bloodriders most. You took a girl under my protection and defiled her before killing her."
She took a step forward, her violet eyes reflecting the firelight. "I have not forgotten. And I have not forgiven."
Jhaqo laughed, looking to his bloodriders who laughed with him. "Bold words from a woman alone among warriors."
"I am not alone," Daenerys said softly. Then, louder: "I am never alone."
She turned to Drogon, speaking a single word in High Valyrian: "Dracarys."
The dragon's head reared back, his jaws opening wide to reveal rows of teeth like black daggers. For an instant, Jhaqo's face registered understanding—and fear—before Drogon's flame engulfed him and his bloodriders in a torrent of red-black fire.
The heat was so intense that Daenerys had to step back, though it did not burn her. She watched impassively as the men screamed and thrashed, their arakhs glowing red-hot before melting in their hands. Within moments, there was nothing left but charred corpses and the acrid smell of burnt flesh.
The remaining Dothraki stared in stunned silence, many falling to their knees in terror or awe. Daenerys surveyed them, feeling the weight of their eyes upon her.
This is power, she realized. Not the fragile authority I held in Meereen, balanced on compromises and concessions. This is the power of my ancestors, of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters. Fire and blood.
She spoke again, her voice carrying to every corner of the now-silent camp.
"I am Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. Those who would follow, follow. Those who would not, go. But remember what happened here when the dragons returned to the world."
One by one, then in groups, the Dothraki began to kneel before her. First the women and children, then the younger warriors, and finally the battle-hardened veterans who had seen enough to know when the winds of power had shifted.
As Daenerys looked out over her newly claimed khalasar, she felt something settle within her—a question answered, a path made clear.
No more compromise. No more hesitation. I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and rule I shall.
She turned her gaze westward, toward Meereen and the sunset sea beyond.
I will return to my city first, to set my affairs in order. Then I will sail west, to claim what is mine by fire and blood.
Mounting Drogon once more, she prepared to take flight. The dragon seemed to sense her resolve, his massive body tensing beneath her.
"We go home," she whispered to him, though whether she meant Meereen or Westeros, she could not say.
As they rose into the darkening sky, the Dothraki watched in silence, their faces illuminated by firelight. The age of dragons had returned, and with it, the last Targaryen had found her path.
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Castle Black, The Wall
The bitter cold of Castle Black cut through Alysane Mormont's furs as she dismounted, her boots crunching in the fresh snow. She helped the trembling girl beside her down from her horse, noting how the child flinched at every sound. Jeyne Poole was playing her part well enough, but Alysane knew the truth—this was no Stark girl, just another northern victim of Bolton cruelty.
Mother would say I'm doing right by the North, even with this mummer's farce, Alysane thought grimly. The girl needed saving regardless of her name, and the Boltons need to believe they've lost their prize.
"Keep your chin up," she murmured to Jeyne, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Remember what we practiced. You're home now."
Jeyne nodded almost imperceptibly, her eyes downcast. "What if Lord Snow recognizes me?" she whispered, so softly that only Alysane could hear.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Alysane replied under her breath. "For now, just be Arya Stark."
Justin Massey stepped forward with his customary smile, seemingly oblivious to the tension. "We seek audience with Lord Commander Snow," he announced to a grim-faced steward. "We bring his sister, rescued from Winterfell by the grace of King Stannis."
Alysane suppressed a snort. Aye, and I'm sure you'll take all the credit while forgetting how the girl nearly froze to death because you insisted on traveling through that blizzard.
The Night's Watch men watched them with strange, wary expressions. Their eyes lingered on "Arya" with an unsettling mixture of awe and discomfort that made Alysane's hand drift instinctively to her axe.
The steward exchanged glances with his brothers before nodding stiffly. "This way," he said, his voice betraying nothing.
As they were led toward the King's Tower, Alysane felt the wrongness of the place like a physical weight. The men of the Night's Watch moved about with a nervous energy, casting furtive glances toward the sky. Some clutched dragonglass daggers, others muttered prayers.
Something's happened here, she realized. Something beyond the usual troubles of the Wall.
The chamber they were led to was surprisingly crowded. Queen Selyse sat rigidly in one corner, her pinched face even more severe than usual. Beside her stood Axel Florent, looking as if he'd swallowed something sour. Eddison Tollett—Alysane remembered him from their councils with Stannis—stood near the hearth, his normally dour face now positively funereal. And then there was the red woman, Melisandre, her ruby pulsing at her throat like a living heart.
But no Jon Snow.
Justin Massey, ever the courtier, bowed elaborately. "Your Grace, my lords, my lady," he began, "I am pleased to present Lady Arya of House Stark, sister to Lord Commander Snow, rescued from the clutches of the Boltons by brave men loyal to King Stannis."
Alysane watched their reactions carefully. Queen Selyse seemed almost frightened, while Axel Florent wouldn't meet their eyes. Edd Tollett looked at "Arya" with something like pity, while Melisandre's gaze was calculating, almost hungry.
Seven hells, Alysane thought. What's happened here?
When no one spoke, Justin cleared his throat. "We had expected Lord Commander Snow would wish to greet his sister. Is he indisposed?"
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush stone.
Alysane had never been one for courtly patience. On Bear Island, directness was valued over pretty words. She stepped forward, her hand still protectively on Jeyne's shoulder.
"What has happened here?" she demanded bluntly. "Where is the Lord Commander?"
Tycho Nestoris, who had been quietly observing until now, added smoothly, "The Iron Bank's interests require clarity on Castle Black's current leadership."
Of course, Alysane thought with bitter amusement. Even at the end of the world, the Iron Bank wants its due.
Finally, Edd Tollett spoke, his voice heavy with resignation. "Jon Snow is dead. Or he was—murdered by his own brothers of the Night's Watch."
Alysane felt Jeyne stiffen beneath her hand. She tightened her grip slightly—both to offer comfort and to prevent any outburst that might betray her.
"Murdered?" Alysane repeated, her voice hard as northern iron. "By his own men? Why?"
And who leads the Watch now? she wondered. Who controls the Wall?
Before Edd could answer, Melisandre stepped forward, her ruby glowing unnaturally bright in the dim chamber.
"Lord Snow was dead," the priestess said, her accent making the words sound almost musical. "But R'hllor had greater plans. He rose again, transformed by fire into a creature of legend."
Alysane stared at the woman, trying to determine if this was some kind of elaborate jest. On Bear Island, they had little patience for mystical nonsense—life was too hard, too practical for such indulgences.
"What in the seven hells does that mean, priestess?" she demanded. "Speak plainly or not at all. Is Snow alive or dead?"
Melisandre merely smiled, that serene, knowing smile that made Alysane want to test if her face would bleed red like any other woman's.
It was Edd who answered, looking directly at Jeyne with surprising gentleness. "Your brother turned into a dragon. Not like the Targaryens of old with their beasts—he became one, in flesh. Black as night, massive as the Wall itself. He said he would return, then flew north."
The chamber fell silent again. Alysane felt as if she'd been struck in the chest with a war hammer. She'd heard many tales in her life—Bear Island was full of old stories—but this stretched belief beyond breaking.
"A dragon," she repeated flatly. "Lord Commander Jon Snow... turned into a dragon."
They've all gone mad, she thought. The cold, the war, the hunger—it's driven them to madness.
And yet... there was no hint of deception in Edd Tollett's eyes. The man believed what he was saying, as impossible as it seemed.
Alysane glanced at Jeyne, seeing the girl's eyes widen with genuine shock. At least this solved one problem—Jon Snow wouldn't be recognizing anyone if he was either dead or transformed into a mythical beast.
"I saw it with my own eyes," Edd continued, his voice gaining strength. "We all did. Ask any man in Castle Black. They'll tell you the same."
Alysane crossed her arms over her chest, her brow furrowed in thought. She'd always been practical, like her mother before her. Magic and legends were fine for children's stories, but reality was steel and blood and survival.
And yet... hadn't there been tales from her grandmother? Stories of skinchangers and children of the forest? Of ice spiders and dragons? The old woman had sworn they were more than just stories.
"Let's say I believe you," Alysane said slowly. "What does this mean for us? For her?" She nodded toward Jeyne, still playing her part as Arya Stark.
Tycho Nestoris spoke up, his voice cool and measured. "If a dragon is indeed coming back here, is this truly the safest place for the girl?"
It was a fair question. Dragons in the old tales weren't known for their gentleness.
But Edd shook his head firmly. "It's Jon. Dragon or not, he would never harm his family. Of that I'm sure."
That might be true for the real Arya Stark, Alysane thought grimly. But what about for a girl pretending to be her?
She looked down at Jeyne, seeing the fear and confusion in her eyes. This charade had just become infinitely more complicated. If Jon Snow truly had become a dragon, would he recognize the deception? And if he did, what then?
But one thing remained clear—they couldn't return to Bolton lands. And they couldn't wander the North in winter. Dragon or no dragon, Castle Black was their best hope of survival.
"House Mormont stands with House Stark," she declared firmly, meeting each pair of eyes in the room. "Whether Jon Snow is man, dragon, or the Stranger himself, we will protect his sister until he returns."
She turned to Jeyne, speaking loudly enough for all to hear. "You're safe now, my lady. I swear it by the old gods and the new. No harm will come to you while I draw breath."
Jeyne's eyes welled with tears—genuine ones, Alysane knew. The girl had suffered greatly, and even this strange twist of fate was preferable to returning to Ramsay Bolton.
I'm sorry for the lies you must tell, child, she thought. But sometimes lies keep us alive until the truth can be faced.
Suddenly, screams erupted from the courtyard below, followed by a roar, a roar that seemed to shake the very stones of Castle Black. It was a sound unlike anything Alysane had ever heard—primal, haunting, and terrifying.
Edd Tollett's face drained of color. "Oh shit," he whispered. "He's here."
Alysane's hand went to her axe instinctively as she tired to form a plan. If this was truly Jon Snow returned as a dragon, would he see through their deception? Would he burn them all for the lie?
If Jon Snow had indeed become a dragon, she would face him as a Mormont should—with courage, with honesty, and with her axe ready if needed.
"Listen to me," she said quickly to Jeyne, her voice low and urgent. "If it truly is Lord Snow out there, transformed as they say, we may need to tell him the truth. A dragon might not be fooled by our mummer's farce."
Fear flashed across Jeyne's face. "He'll burn me for lying—"
"No," Alysane said firmly. "If he's still Jon Snow in there, he'll understand you were forced into this. And if he's not... well, lying won't save us anyway."
She straightened, squaring her shoulders as the roaring grew louder. The She-Bear of Bear Island would not cower, not even before a dragon.
"Here we stand," she muttered to herself, the words of House Mormont giving her strength as they moved toward the window to face whatever awaited them in the courtyard below.
Here we stand.