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Chapter Text

The ethereal godswood of the afterlife shimmered in a light that was neither dawn nor dusk, its heart tree weeping red sap that glowed like embers in the mist. Four generations of Starks stood in judgment beneath its ancient boughs. Cregan Stark, the Old Man of the North, loomed over his descendants like a storm cloud, his face etched with centuries of pride, fury, and disappointment. Theon Stark, the Hungry wolf wants blood, itching to deal with things the old way, his way

"Eddard Stark!" barked the Hungry Wolf, his voice sharp as steel. He stepped forward, crowned with bronze and iron, his blazing eyes piercing the mist. "You let your Southron wife build a sept in Winterfell! I bled to keep the Andals’ ways from poisoning the North—fought them, drowned them, filled the Wolves’ Den with their skulls. —" He gestured with fury at Ned. "You brought their gods into our sacred heart! Where were their gods in the Long Night? Where are their gods now?!"

Ned straightened, his jaw tight. "The children needed to know both sides of their heritage."

"A Stark’s first duty is to the pack—to the North!" Theon snarled. "You let a septa teach your daughters, made them learn southern courtesies while their true gifts were ignored. Sansa, a warg with dreams that saw truths, wasted on embroidery! Arya, her wolf blood tried to be tamed by lessons in proper ladyship!"

"The children needed—" Ned began, but Theon cut him off.

"They needed the old ways! They needed to know themselves! Your sons learned of knights and jousts when they should have been learning the secrets of their blood, their bond with the direwolves. And speaking of direwolves—" Theon’s voice turned venomous. "You killed one. Killed a direwolf, the very symbol of our house, because your Southron king demanded it."

Ned flinched. "Robert was my king."

“You bowed at every whim of a drunken southern fool. Eight thousand years of Stark blood—my blood, your blood—and you let it run thin with southern honor. Even your nephew, your sister’s son, you let him be shamed in his own home."

Ned stiffened, his composure faltering. "Jon was—"

"Jon was kin!" Theon thundered. "Yet you let your wife treat him like dirt under her feet. Brandon Snow was family; Sara Snow was beloved. But you let your nephew grow up a stranger, let him flee to the Wall because you couldn’t face your wife’s wrath."

Cregan, who had been watching in grim silence, spoke now, his voice cold and steady. "At least Jon remembered what it meant to be a Stark. He defended the North, fought the true enemy while you, Eddard, played at southern games."

Ned opened his mouth, but Theon turned on Robb with a sharp bark of laughter. "And you! The King Who Lost the North. Tell me, Your Grace—" He spat the title like a curse. "What possessed you to break faith with Walder Frey? That wrinkled weasel gave you his men, his bridge, his trust—and you repaid him with betrayal for a foreign girl."

Robb’s head jerked up, guilt flashing across his face. "Talisa was—"

"A foreigner," Theon snarled. "You threw away the loyalty of the Freys, the alliance of your bannermen, for what? Love? A healer from Volantis, with no military value"

Robb’s voice rose in protest. "I won every battle!"

"And lost the war," Cregan snapped, his voice as cutting as an ice storm. "You lost the North! Your men whispered that their king cared more for a foreigner than for them. You spat on Northern alliances and left your pack divided and bleeding."

Robb’s composure cracked. "I loved her—"

"Love?" Cregan laughed bitterly. "You dishonored every man who died for you. Every Northern father who’ll never see his son again because their king couldn’t keep his word. And you ignored a Bolton—Roose Bolton, who advised you wisely. Can you blame him for saving his own house when his king floundered like a boy in love?"

Robb staggered under the weight of the accusation, his face pale with shame. He glanced at his father, searching for support, but Ned looked away, his own guilt written across his features.

"Look at your ends," Cregan continued, his voice softer now but no less biting. "You, Eddard, dead for honor. Warning your enemy out of misplaced mercy, leaving your children defenseless. You, Robb, dead for love, breaking oaths and alliances for a woman who wasn’t even Westerosi." His gaze turned to the heart tree, its blood-red leaves trembling in the cold wind. "But Jon... Jon died for the North."

Ned found his voice at last, though it trembled with regret. "Jon broke his vows."

"Jon died for his vows," Theon said, his voice quiet but sharp. "And when he came back, he fought for the living. He remembered what it meant to be a Stark. "

Silence hung heavy in the godswood, broken only by the rustling of the heart tree’s branches. The sap that flowed from its bark gleamed like blood, a silent judgment.

Finally, Cregan spoke again, his tone measured. "The Gods have made an offer. The Others aren’t truly defeated, and they give us a chance to prepare." He turned to Ned, his gaze piercing. "They’ll send me back. But not as myself."

Ned frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I’ll return in your skin, Eddard," Cregan said, his lips curling into a wry smile. "After the Greyjoy Rebellion. Your children will still be born, your alliances still made. But it will be my mind guiding them."

Ned’s face darkened. "Cat—"

"Will remain your wife," Cregan said, his voice firm. "But her influence will be tempered. The children will learn the Old Ways. They’ll know their heritage, their gifts. When the Long Night comes, the North will be ready."

“Better him to return than me, or else I’ll cut more heads and burn that sept in Winterfell.” Theon turned to Cregan. “Don’t allow that filth to grace Winterfell. MAKE IT A DECREE, NO SEPT TO BE EVER BUILT IN WINTERFELL!.”

Robb raised his head, guilt giving way to a flicker of hope. "And what will you change?"

"Everything," Cregan said, his voice hardening, "and nothing. The Lannisters will still plot. The dragons will still wake. The dead will still march. But this time..." He looked to the heart tree, its branches trembling with ancient power. "This time, the North will remember its strength. Your children will be wolves, not falcons. And when winter comes—"

The wind howled through the godswood, and Cregan’s voice rose with it.

"The pack will survive. The North will endure. And this time, we’ll be ready for both ice and fire."

The heart tree’s sap flowed freely, and the world blurred around them. Cregan felt himself pulled backward through time, into a body that was his but not his, into a life that carried both his memories and Ned’s. He would wake in Winterfell, with the taste of salt from the Iron Islands still fresh on his tongue, and ten years to prepare for the wars to come.

The North would remember. The pack would survive. And this time, the wolves would be ready.

WINTERFELL

The Great Hall of Winterfell echoed with the voices of the North's most powerful lords, gathered once more at their liege lord's summons. Though the wounds of the Greyjoy Rebellion were still fresh, there was a different tension in the air today – not the drumbeat of war, but the quiet anticipation of change.

Lord Eddard Stark sat in the ancient seat of the Kings of Winter, his grey eyes somehow harder than his bannermen remembered. Those who knew him best might have noticed subtle differences in his bearing since his return from the Iron Islands – a certain ancient coldness that hadn't been there before, tempered by an almost predatory awareness of his surroundings.

"My lords," his voice carried across the hall without needing to raise it, a trick Cregan had mastered centuries ago. "Winter is coming. Always coming. The Greyjoy Rebellion showed us how vulnerable our western shores remain, but it also showed us an opportunity."

Lord Wyman Manderly shifted his considerable bulk forward. "Opportunity, my lord?"

"Aye." Ned – or rather, Cregan wearing Ned's skin. "The Ironborn are broken. Their fleet burned. Now is the time to establish trade routes that they cannot threaten. Lord Manderly, White Harbor prospers because it trades with the south and east. I mean to see our western shores do the same."

"The Reach," Galbart Glover said slowly, "They'd be natural trading partners."

"Westerlands as well." Cregan allowed himself a small smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "But trade is only part of it. How many of your keeps have glass gardens?"

A uncomfortable silence fell over the hall. Only the Manderlys and a few other wealthy houses could afford such luxuries.

"That changes now." Cregan's voice grew harder. "Every keep in the North will have glass gardens before the next winter. I've already opened negotiations with Dorne through Prince Doran. They have the glass-makers we need."

"Dorne?" Rickard Karstark's voice carried his surprise. "After everything that happened with your sister—"

"Prince Doran remembers that I called for justice for Princess Elia and her children," Cregan cut him off, using Ned's memories to add weight to his words. "He's willing to trade. More importantly, he understands preparing for winter."

"The cost—" Roose Bolton began in his soft voice.

"Will be shared," Cregan interrupted. "The crown's compensation for our aid against the Greyjoys will help fund it. White Harbor's merchants will handle the shipping. And yes, Lord Bolton, all of us will bear some of the burden. But tell me, what costs more – glass gardens now, or buying grain from the Reach when our people starve in winter?"

He watched the calculations play across their faces. These were proud men, stubborn men, but they weren't fools. Most of them, anyway.

"There's more," he continued. "I intend to establish a Western Fleet, with Sea Dragon Point as the primary port for timber and other goods. Not warships—trading vessels, and ships to patrol the shores. The Reach desires our timber, wool, and silver, and they'll pay for it with grain, fruit, and gold."

"The ironborn—" someone started.

"Are defeated," Cregan finished. "Their strength won't recover for a generation, if ever. Now is the time to secure our future. The North remembers, my lords. We remember that our western shores were rich with trade. We remember that our winters were easier when we had more than one route to bring in food."

He could see them warming to the idea, especially the western lords who had the most to gain. Even Bolton's pale eyes showed interest.

"My father," he said, drawing on Ned's memories again, "always said the North was as large as the other six kingdoms combined. Yet we have a fraction of their wealth, their food, their people. That changes now. Winter is coming, aye – but this time, we'll be ready for it."

The lords of the North looked at their liege, seeing something of the Kings of Winter in his bearing. None of them could quite put their finger on what had changed about Eddard Stark since the rebellion, but all of them felt it – a sense of ancient purpose, of winter's wisdom wrapped in summer's opportunity.

"The glass gardens will take time to build," Cregan concluded. "The trade routes will take time to establish. But we have time – for now. I expect each of you to begin preparations. My castellan will meet with each of you to discuss specifics before you leave."

As the lords filed out, Catelyn approached him, little Sansa clutching at her skirts. He saw the questions in her eyes – she'd noticed the changes in him too, though she couldn't quite name them.

"My lord," she said carefully, "these are... ambitious plans."

Cregan gentled his voice, drawing on Ned's love for her even as he remained firm. "They are necessary plans." He knelt to Sansa's level, seeing the wolf's blood that lay dormant in her veins. "We're building this for them, Cat. For all of them."

For a moment, he allowed himself to see through time – Sansa growing up knowing her strength instead of dreaming of knights, the glass gardens providing food through the long winter to come, the western shores growing rich enough to help fund the Wall's defenses. So much to do, but for now, this was a start.

Chapter Text

The Lord of Winterfell stood atop the battlements of Moat Cailin. Ten years had transformed the once-ruined fortress into a formidable gateway to the North, its towers rebuilt with profits from the western trade routes he'd established after the Greyjoy Rebellion.

"The Manderlys report another record year of tariffs, Father," Robb said, joining him at the parapet. At fifteen, his heir carried himself with a confidence tempered by the Northern pragmatism Cregan had instilled in him. "Though Lord Wyman grumbles that the western shores are starting to rival White Harbor's trade. But Lady Dustin is quite pleased according to reports. Though they say she tries not to show it."

Cregan allowed himself a small smile, one that sat strangely on Eddard Stark's face even after all these years. "Good. Competition keeps merchants honest and prices fair." He turned to study his son – so different from the boy who had thrown away a kingdom for love in another lifetime. "What else have you observed during our progress?"

"The glass gardens are thriving, even in the mountain clans' holdings. The Reach soil you traded for made the difference – though I still don't understand how you convinced them to part with it."

"People defend their gold. They rarely think to defend their dirt." Cregan gestured toward the distant shore. "More importantly, how many keeps had full winter stores when we started our inspection?"

"All of them," Robb answered promptly. "Even the smaller holds. The mandatory crop rotation you implemented with the Reach experts has doubled yields in most places. And the New Gift..."

"Ah, yes. Your mother thought I was mad to ask for that 'wasteland' as compensation from Jon Arryn. " Cregan's eyes glinted with satisfaction. "Now it feeds half the North. Amazing what good soil and determined farmers can accomplish when they're not constantly raided by wildlings."

A horn sounded from the southern tower, announcing more visitors. Through Ned's eyes, Cregan recognized the Manderly sigil among the approaching party.

"The garrison rotation?" he asked Robb.

"House Tallhart's men are due to replace the Umber contingent at the Shadow Tower next moon," his son replied. "Lord Commander Mormont reports the additional manpower has allowed them to repair three more castles along the Wall. Though he's still surprised you convinced the lords to commit men to garrison duty."

"The Wall protects us all. It's past time we returned the favor." Cregan turned as footsteps approached, nodding as Jon Snow joined them. The boy was ever his mother's son, even if he didn't know it – solemn, dutiful, but with a quiet strength that Cregan had carefully nurtured.

"The Greyjoy boy's report from the western shore," Jon said, handing over a sealed letter. Though not seated at the high table during feasts, Cregan had made sure Ned's supposed bastard was educated alongside his siblings and given responsibilities that marked him as trusted family.

Breaking the seal, Cregan read Theon's careful accounting of the new trading ships constructed at Sea Dragon Point. The ironborn hostage had proven surprisingly capable once given clear purpose and firm boundaries. His knowledge of ships, combined with the respect Cregan had cultivated, made him an invaluable asset in establishing the North's western fleet.

"Father," Robb said carefully, "there's talk among the lords. They say the North is stronger now than it's been since Aegon's Conquest. Some even whisper..."

"That we could be independent again?" Cregan's voice was dry. "Aye, perhaps we could. But that's not our path. Not yet." His gaze turned northward, toward the Wall. "The dead don't care about crowns, boy. Everything we've built – the trade routes, the glass gardens, the restored fortresses – it's all for what's coming."

"The Others," Jon said quietly. Like all the Stark children, he'd been raised on the old stories, taught to see them as warnings rather than nursery tales. His direwolf, Ghost, padded silently up beside him, one of the six wolves Cregan had made sure they found right on schedule.

"Winter is coming," Cregan said, the words carrying the weight of eight thousand years of Stark wisdom. "But this time, the North remembers. Truly remembers." He clasped both boys' shoulders. "Come. Your sister Arya will be cross if we're late for her archery demonstration, and Sansa wanted to discuss the cargo manifests from the latest Dornish trade ships before dinner."

As they descended the tower, Cregan allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The children were growing into their strengths – Robb learning statecraft alongside swordplay, Sansa's sharp mind turned to trade and diplomacy rather than songs, Arya's wild nature channeled rather than suppressed, Bran's growing warging abilities carefully nurtured, and even little Rickon showing signs of the wolf's blood.

The great hall had emptied save for family, the hearth's warmth a stark contrast to the political calculations being discussed. Catelyn sat beside her husband, her face a careful mask as Cregan-as-Ned laid out the future of their children.

"The North must be bound together," he said, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. "But I won't have our children treated as mere tokens in this game." His eyes, grey as winter storms, settled on Robb. "You've met both ladies during their visits. Wynafryd Manderly and Alys Karstark. Speak freely."

Robb shifted in his seat, more thoughtful than the impulsive youth he might have been in another life. "Wynafryd has a keen mind for trade. She understands the importance of what we've built with the western ports." He paused. "But Alys... there's a fierceness to her that reminds me of Arya."

"The Manderlys bring ships and southern connections," Catelyn observed carefully. She'd learned to temper her southern instincts with northern pragmatism over the years. "Though the Karstarks would bind the eastern shores more firmly to us."

"There's wisdom in both choices," Cregan nodded. "Consider carefully, son. This isn't just about you – it's about the North's future."

Sansa sat straighter as her father's gaze turned to her. At three-and-ten, she carried herself with a grace that owed as much to practical wisdom as to courtly manners.

"Domeric Bolton or Daryn Hornwood," Cregan said. "Both have their merits."

"And their complications," Sansa replied, demonstrating the political acumen she'd been taught. "The Hornwoods are staunchly loyal, but the Boltons..." She trailed off, glancing at her mother.

"Speak true," Cregan encouraged. "You've studied our histories."

"Domeric himself seems honorable enough," Sansa said carefully. "And through him comes influence with the Ryswells and Dustins. But there are... rumors about his bastard brother."

"Ah, yes. Ramsay Snow." Cregan's voice carried a winter's chill. "Those rumors won't be a concern much longer. Roose will need to make certain choices if he hopes to see his trueborn son wed to a Stark."

Catelyn's eyes narrowed slightly. She'd learned to read between her husband's words over the years. "And what of Bran?"

"Meera Reed," Cregan said simply. "That match is as much about necessity as alliance. The Reeds understand things we'll need in the years to come." His expression softened slightly at his wife's concern. "She's a good lass, Cat. Strong in the old ways, but kind. She'll guide him when we cannot."

"And Arya?" Catelyn asked, though she already suspected the answer.

"Let her grow stronger first," Cregan said. "There's time yet before we need to decide her path." He turned back to his eldest children. "You have a moon's turn to consider your preferences. I'll hear your thoughts then."

As the children filed out, Catelyn remained. "You're pushing the Bolton match for Sansa."

"Aye." Cregan didn't deny it. "But only because she's strong enough to handle it. Your daughter isn't the sweet summer child she might have been, Cat. She understands power, trade, and the need for alliances." He took her hand, Ned's love for her warming his voice. "She'll have guards I trust, and Domeric is nothing like his father. More importantly, she'll have the means to watch the Dreadfort and its lords very carefully."

"And if Roose Bolton objects to your... handling of his bastard?"

Cregan's smile was sharp as frost. "Then he'll learn what it truly means when we say the North remembers."

The solar in Winterfell held its familiar warmth, though Roose Bolton carried his own peculiar chill. His pale eyes studied Lord Stark, noting how the man had changed since the Greyjoy Rebellion.

"Your bastard hunts my people," Cregan stated flatly. "Women disappear. Bodies are found in the Weeping Water. As your liege lord, I require you to surrender him to face the king's justice."

"The boy is beyond my lands at present," Roose's voice was characteristically soft, barely above a whisper.

 "Find him. Bring him to Winterfell," Cregan's voice carried the weight of winter's judgment. "I will not have my daughter wed into the Dreadfort while such a criminal goes unpunished. You are no kinslayer, Lord Bolton - I ask only that you deliver him to face proper justice for his crimes."

Roose took a careful sip of hippocras, considering. The matter was clear - surrender the bastard to Winterfell's justice, gain a Stark bride and all the advantages such an alliance would bring. Refuse, and watch the Dreadfort's influence wane as winter approached.

"The evidence?" Roose whispered.

"Will be presented properly. Witnesses. Survivors. Bodies found. He will face trial before the old gods and new." Cregan's grey eyes were unyielding.

"And when this matter is resolved?"

"Then we speak of betrothals. Trade rights. Timber contracts." Cregan's voice remained steady. "Your trueborn son would make a worthy goodson - once justice has been served."

"Very well." Roose's whisper was barely audible. "The boy will be found and delivered to Winterfell."

As Roose glided from the solar, both men understood exactly what had been negotiated. No kinslaying required - simply the proper application of Northern justice. The Dreadfort would maintain its honor while securing its future through alliance with Winterfell.

Chapter Text

The great hall of Winterfell was quiet save for the Stark family's evening meal, the usual formality softened by the privacy of a family dinner. Steam rose from bowls of hearty stew, the recipe a blend of Northern tradition and southern refinement that, like many things in Winterfell these days, bridged both worlds.

"The dragonglass shipment arrived right on schedule," Sansa reported, sitting straight-backed but relaxed. "I've already arranged the distribution among the smiths, Father. Mikken says the new mounting technique is working better than expected."

Cregan nodded, pleased with her efficiency. Though still young, she carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who understood her place in the grand scheme of things. "Good. We'll need more spear points than daggers this time."

"Is that because of what the rangers reported?" Jon asked from his place beside Robb. His presence at the family table had long since ceased to raise eyebrows, another of the subtle but significant changes Cregan had implemented over the years.

"Aye," Cregan confirmed. "The wildlings are using more mounted raiders these days. Longer reach will serve the Watch better."

"When can I learn to use a spear?" Rickon piped up, his wolf Shaggydog lounging beneath his chair.

"When you can best Arya with a practice sword," Robb teased, earning a sharp grin from their sister.

"So never, then," Arya quipped, making even Catelyn hide a smile behind her wine cup. The Lady of Winterfell had learned to accept her younger daughter's martial pursuits, especially after seeing how Cregan balanced them with other lessons.

"Sansa, I understand Domeric Bolton will be joining us within the fortnight? "Catelyn smoothly redirected.

A slight flush colored Sansa's cheeks, but her voice remained steady. "Yes. He's bringing some trade proposals from the Dreadfort as well. They're interested in expanding their glass gardens using our latest techniques."

"Smart lad," Cregan commented. "Though I expect he's more interested in seeing his betrothed than discussing agriculture."

"Father," Sansa protested softly, though without real embarrassment. After all, she'd helped choose this match, understanding its importance to the North's stability.

"At least you won't have to suffer through his harp playing anymore," Arya teased. "Now that you've agreed to marry him, he might finally stop trying to impress you with it."

"I like his playing," Bran defended, looking up from where he'd been quietly feeding scraps to Summer. "He's teaching me some songs about the old Northern heroes."

"Better those than southern ballads," Cregan approved. "Though speaking of the old songs, Jon, what did you make of those writings from the Watch's library?"

Jon straightened, clearly pleased to be included in the serious discussion. "Sam's translations are fascinating, Father. The accounts of the Long Night mention details about the Others that aren't in any of our common histories."

"Good. I want you and Robb to review them together. Different perspectives often reveal different truths." Cregan's eyes moved between his sons – one by blood and one by choice, both equally vital to the North's future.

"Will Meera be visiting again soon?" Catelyn asked Bran, who brightened at the mention of the Reed girl.

"Father says she and Jojen might come for the harvest feast," he replied. "Jojen's been having more dreams..."

"Which we'll discuss tomorrow," Cregan cut in gently, noting how young Rickon was listening intently. "For now, tell us about your progress with the bow, Rickon. I heard you hit the target three times running today."

As the conversation turned to lighter matters, Cregan observed his family – so different from what they might have been in that other timeline. Sansa's practical intelligence balanced with genuine warmth, Arya's wildness tempered but not tamed, Robb's leadership guided by Northern pragmatism rather than Southern honor, Jon's place secure if not conventional, Bran's gifts nurtured rather than dormant, and Rickon growing up surrounded by strength and stability.

Even Catelyn, though she'd never fully warm to Jon, had learned to accept his presence as part of her husband's unshakeable will. She'd found her own ways to contribute to the North's transformation, her southern connections proved invaluable in their trade negotiations.

"The honeycakes are fresh from the glass garden's winter wheat," Catelyn announced as servants brought in dessert. "Though I'm told we have Sansa to thank for negotiating the honey supplies from the mountain clans."

"They were quite reasonable once I explained our new tax policies on their timber imports," Sansa said modestly.

"A sweet victory indeed," Robb grinned, reaching for a cake.

As the family enjoyed their dessert, the direwolves lounging contentedly around them, Cregan allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. This was what he'd worked for – not just survival, but strength. A pack bound by more than blood, prepared for the winter to come.

Catelyn found him in the godswood, as she knew she would. After all these years, she'd learned to read the signs - when her husband needed solitude, he sought the ancient heart tree. She watched him for a moment, Ice gleaming as he tended to the blade, noting how the fading light cast shadows across his face.

Something had changed in Ned after the Greyjoy Rebellion. She couldn't name it precisely, but she'd felt it in a thousand small ways - in how he held himself, in the ancient wisdom that sometimes flickered behind his grey eyes, in decisions that seemed strange at first but proved uncannily prescient as the years passed.

"A raven from King's Landing," she said softly, approaching. Her fingers tightened around the scroll.

He didn't look up from Ice, but she saw his shoulders tense slightly. "Jon Arryn?"

The question was gentle, almost expectant. That too had changed - his ability to read situations before they fully unfolded. Once it had unnerved her, but the years had taught her to trust his instincts.

"Dead," she confirmed. "Robert rides north."

The silence that followed felt heavy with unspoken knowledge. She thought of their years together, of how different things might have been if she'd insisted on her sept, if she'd let her southern pride dictate terms. Instead, she'd watched as the North flourished under his guidance - glass gardens in every major keep, thriving western ports, restored fortresses, deepening ties with the mountain clans and even the Night's Watch.

Even her initial bitterness about Jon Snow had faded, helped by Ned's quiet reminder of Brandon Snow and Sara Snow years ago. "Stark bastards have always been family," he'd said then, with that strange ancient tone that sometimes crept into his voice. "They serve the North as truly as any trueborn child." And indeed, Jon had proven as loyal as any of their children, never once showing signs of coveting their birthright.

"The King will want you to go south," she ventured carefully.

"Aye." He finally sheathed Ice, turning to face her. The look in his eyes was distant, as if seeing beyond the moment. "But the North must come first."

She thought of the deserter they'd executed last week, the man's wild ravings about the Others. Once she would have dismissed such tales, but after years of watching her husband's preparations, of seeing the Night's Watch restored to strength, of hearing the increasingly troubled reports from beyond the Wall...

"You won't refuse him." It wasn't a question. She knew him well enough now.

"Can't," he said simply. His hand found hers, warm despite the evening chill. "But the North is ready, Cat. Whatever comes."

She squeezed his hand, thinking of their children - Robb's growing leadership, Sansa's sharp mind for trade and diplomacy, Arya's carefully channeled strengths, Bran's unusual gifts that Ned seemed to understand so well, even little Rickon's wildness tempered by purpose. All of them raised with an awareness of duty that went beyond mere honor.

"I'll have the household prepare," she said, not pressing further. Years of prosperity and peace had taught her to trust his judgment, even when she didn't fully understand it. "Sansa will want to review the trade manifests before any southern guests arrive."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Wise girl. Like her mother.” Then Cregan paused, remembering Bran’s accident caused by the Lannisters in his previous life. He will have to talk to Bran after dinner and double check every tower. “And Cat, make sure every tower door is locked even the unused ones."

As they walked back to the keep together, Catelyn reflected on how much had changed since she'd first come North as a young bride. The woman she'd been then would never have imagined finding such contentment in these harsh lands, would never have understood the strength in putting aside southern pride for northern pragmatism.

Yet watching her husband's sure stride beside her, seeing the quiet purpose in his bearing, she felt a certainty that had nothing to do with faith in the Seven or the old gods. Whatever storm approached from the south, the North would weather it. They had prepared for far worse, after all.

Even if she didn't fully believe in the Long Night her husband so carefully prepared for, she believed in him. It had been enough for all these years. It would be enough now.

Chapter Text

The weight of decades of Stark wisdom made the crown upon Robert's head seem a paltry thing as Cregan watched Ned’s old friend-who-never-was dismount in Winterfell's courtyard. Through Ned's eyes, he saw how the years of peace had bloated the once-mighty warrior, turned him soft where the North had grown hard.

The formal greetings passed in a blur of courtesy, Cregan drawing on Ned's memories to maintain the expected warmth while his mind calculated the implications of this royal visit. He noted how Robert's eyes lingered on Arya, seeking Lyanna's ghost in her features, even as he barely glanced at the poised and practical young woman Sansa had become.

Later, in the crypts, Robert's voice echoed against ancient stone. "Gods, Ned, it should have been you at my side all these years, not those preening southron lords." He paused before Lyanna's statue, his breath misting in the cold air. "Let me make it right. Join our houses at last – your Arya and my Joffrey. She's the very image of Lyanna."

Cregan felt Ned's old grief mix with his own pragmatic caution. "She's but a child, Robert. Barely two-and-ten."

"She'll flower soon enough. We can wait a year or two. Bring her to court, let her learn our ways—"

"The North is her way," Cregan cut in, letting some of the winter's chill enter his voice. "And she's promised to continue her education here until she's of age." A careful deflection, neither acceptance nor refusal.

Robert's face darkened slightly. "I heard your elder girl's already promised to Bolton's heir. The pretty one would have made a fine queen."

"The North must be bound together," Cregan replied simply. "Especially with winter coming."

"Winter! That's all you Starks think about." Robert laughed, though there was an edge to it. "Speaking of duty – I need you, Ned. As my Hand."

"Why not Stannis?" Cregan asked directly, watching Robert's reaction carefully. "He's served you well as Master of Ships. The realm prospers."

Robert waved dismissively. "Stannis is too rigid, too cold. I need someone I can trust, someone who'll tell me true without that constant judgement. I need you, brother."

Cregan studied the king through Ned's grey eyes, seeing the desperation beneath the command. In another life, Ned's honor might have compelled him south. But Cregan had the weight of centuries telling him that the true threats lay northward, not in southern politics.

"The North requires careful management, Your Grace. Our preparations for winter—"

"Gods, Ned, you've turned the North into a bloody merchant kingdom! Glass gardens everywhere, ships running western trade routes, restored fortresses... You can manage all that from King's Landing."

"Can I?" Cregan asked softly. "Tell me true, Robert – how often does the Small Council discuss the Night's Watch? The wildling raids? The strange reports from beyond the Wall?"

Robert's expression shifted to confusion. "The Watch? What does that matter compared to the realm's needs?"

"The North matters, Your Grace. Always." Cregan let his gaze drift to Lyanna's statue. "I'll consider your offer, and we'll discuss Arya's future when she's older. But first, tell me – what news of Varys' little birds across the Narrow Sea?"

As Robert launched into reports of Targaryen exiles, Cregan listened with patience. Let the king think he was wavering. The truth was, the board was already set. The North had spent ten years preparing for winter.

The Great Hall of Winterfell rang with song and laughter, though to Catelyn's ears, the merriment held an edge. She watched from the high table as serving women dodged King Robert's wandering hands, painfully aware of Queen Cersei's growing coldness beside her.

"Your hall is quite... rustic, Lady Stark," the queen remarked, her voice dripping with the polished contempt of the court. "Though I suppose one must make do so far from civilization."

Catelyn felt the familiar sting of wounded pride – the same she'd felt as a young bride coming north – but years of Northern wisdom had taught her to wear it differently now. "We find our own ways to prosper, Your Grace," she replied evenly, gesturing to where the steam rose from platters laden with fresh vegetables from the glass gardens, a luxury even in summer.

Cersei's perfect lips curved in a smile that never reached her eyes. "Yes, I've heard tales of Lord Stark's... mercantile pursuits. How unusual for a great lord to concern himself with trades better left to merchants." She paused deliberately. "Though I suppose such considerations influenced your eldest son’s betrothal."

Catelyn followed the queen's gaze to where Wynafryd and Robb was, his copper hair bright against the Wynafryd’s green gown. Her son was every inch of a Stark even if his appearance favour his Tully heritage.

"The Manderly match strengthens the North," Catelyn said simply, though she noted how Cersei's green eyes narrowed at the implicit rejection of a royal alliance.

"The North," Cersei echoed, her voice soft with mockery. "Always the North with you Starks. Tell me, do you truly believe these petty alliances will matter when winter comes?" The last words were twisted in mimicry of House Stark's words.

A burst of coarse laughter drew their attention. King Robert had pulled a serving girl onto his knee, his face red with wine. The girl's distress was plain, but it was the look of cold fury on Cersei's face that caught Catelyn's attention. For a moment, the queen's perfect mask slipped, revealing something so venomous it made Catelyn's breath catch.

"The bastard seems to have inherited his father's understanding of propriety," Cersei observed suddenly, her voice sharp as she nodded toward where Jon sat among the younger men. "How good of you to tolerate his presence among your true children."

The old wound twinged, but Catelyn had learned much in the years since Ned's return from the Greyjoy Rebellion. "The North remembers its traditions, Your Grace. Natural children have served House Stark well through the ages."

"How fascinating," Cersei's smile was cruel. "And does your husband's... honor... extend to all his choices? The position of Hand, for instance?"

"My lord husband considers his duties carefully," Catelyn replied, watching as Domeric rose to fetch Sansa a cup of mulled wine, his courtesies as impeccable as any southron lord's.

"Duties," Cersei repeated, her contempt now open. "Is that why he hesitates to accept a royal betrothal for your younger daughter? She's wild as a peasant girl, yet my son would make her a queen."

Catelyn thought of Arya, who even now was probably hiding somewhere with one of the Mormont girls rather than attending the feast properly. Yet she also thought of her husband's quiet certainty, of the careful way he'd been preparing all their children for something beyond mere political marriages.

"Arya is young yet," she said carefully. "There is time enough for betrothals."

"Time," Cersei's laugh was like breaking ice. "You speak of time while your husband strengthens his armies, repairs his fortresses, stocks his granaries..." Her green eyes glittered dangerously. "One might almost think the Warden of the North was preparing for something more than winter."

The double meaning in her words was clear, but Catelyn had weathered colder winds than Cersei Lannister's spite. "The North must be strong," she said simply. "For winter brings many storms."

Cersei studied her for a long moment, her beauty as terrible as it was perfect. "Indeed it does, Lady Stark. Indeed it does." She rose gracefully, her smile now openly mocking. "Do enjoy your... rustic festivities. I find myself in need of fresher air."

As the queen glided away, Catelyn watched Robert's continuing debauchery, saw how Cersei's departure went completely unnoticed by her husband. She thought of her own marriage, of the strange wisdom that had come over Ned after the Greyjoy Rebellion, of all they'd built together in preparation for the winter he seemed to see so clearly.

The Old Gods and the New together couldn't have made her trade places with the queen of the Seven Kingdoms in that moment.

The candlelight flickered across their bedchamber as Catelyn pressed the letter into his hands. Cregan felt Ned's immediate concern for his goodsister, but eight thousand years of wisdom told him to wait, to let others speak first.

"It came by private messenger," Maester Luwin explained quietly. "Hidden in a false bottom of a perfume jar."

Cregan studied the broken seal – moon-and-falcon in pale blue wax. He watched Catelyn's face as she explained the contents, noting the worry in her eyes, but also the slight furrow in her brow that suggested her own doubts.

"Such accusations..." he said carefully, letting the words hang in the air.

Catelyn paused, catching something in his tone. "You think she should have done differently?"

"I wonder," he said softly, "what the Lords of the Vale make of their liege lord's death. Yohn Royce, Horton Redfort... proud men who served Jon Arryn faithfully." He let her make the connection herself.

"They... they would have supported her claim," Catelyn said slowly. "If she had brought her accusations before them first..."

"The Vale lords are proud," Cregan noted, remembering how they had eventually rallied to their own in that other time. "They would see justice done for their lord."

Luwin cleared his throat gently. "There is also the matter of young Lord Robert. The Vale is his inheritance."

"Yes," Catelyn's voice grew stronger. "She could demanded an investigation through proper channels." Her eyes met her husband's.

He saw the thought take root in her mind – not planted by him, but growing from her own understanding of southern politics. Let her come to her own conclusions about her childhood friend, about who might benefit most from chaos between great houses.

"The king's offer still requires an answer," Luwin reminded them.

Cregan stood, moving to the window. In the yard below, he could see the places where his changes had strengthened Winterfell – the expanded glass gardens, the new guards' barracks, the fortified walls. All preparing for a winter that would come whether he went south or not.

"Perhaps," he said carefully, "there are questions in King's Landing that need answering." He turned to Catelyn, seeing both her concern and her growing suspicion about the letter's timing. "Though not necessarily the ones your sister points us toward."

"Ned..." Catelyn began, but she stopped, remembering perhaps how his strange wisdom these past years had proven true time and again.

"Write to your sister," he said gently. "Offer her comfort, invite her to bring young Robyn to foster here if she wishes. The North would protect its own." His eyes met hers meaningfully. "But let us watch carefully to see which birds sing true, and which songs are meant to lead us astray."

As Luwin bowed and withdrew, Catelyn came to stand beside him at the window. "You'll accept the king's offer then?"

"Some storms must be faced," he said softly, thinking of all that was to come.

She studied his face in the moonlight, seeing perhaps some echo of wisdom that guided him. "Winter is coming," she said, making the words a question.

"Aye," he agreed, thinking of all the pieces already in motion, of the strength they'd built that would protect the North no matter what games the south might play.

Outside, a wolf howled – one of the direwolves they'd found exactly where he'd known they would be. The sound carried both warning and promise through the night air.

Chapter Text

The godswood was quiet save for the whisper of wind through the heart tree's branches. Benjen found his brother there in the pre-dawn light, Ice across his lap as he tended the blade with practiced care.

"The deserter," Benjen said without preamble, "Will wasn't a coward. He'd been ranging beyond the Wall for years."

"No, he wasn't," Cregan agreed, setting Ice aside. "He saw something out there. Something that made breaking his vows seem worth dying for."

"You believe him then? About the white walkers?"

"I believe we need proof before making such claims," Cregan replied carefully. "But I also believe in being prepared. Have your rangers started carrying the dragonglass daggers we sent?"

Benjen nodded. "Some thought it strange at first, but after the latest reports..." He paused. "Empty villages where there should be wildling camps. Bodies arranged in patterns. And Mance Rayder gathering forces like never before."

"How many follow him now?"

"Tens of thousands. Not just warriors - entire villages, women, children. Even the Thenns have joined him." Benjen leaned forward. "Brother, the free folk don't unite like this. Not unless they're truly desperate."

"Which is why I want every ranger carrying dragonglass," Cregan said firmly. "And why we've been stockpiling it at the Wall. If the old stories are true, if what Will saw was real, we'll need every piece we can get."

"The Old Bear plans a great ranging," Benjen reported. "To find out what's driving them south."

"Good. But tell him this - any bodies you find must be burned immediately. No exceptions." Cregan's eyes met his brother's. "And make sure your men know to use the dragonglass if they encounter... anything unusual. Better to seem overcautious than be unprepared."

"You've changed since the Greyjoy Rebellion," Benjen observed. "All these preparations, the restored fortresses, the regular troop rotations to the Wall..."

"Because we need proof, yes, but we also need to be ready if that proof comes too late." Cregan clasped his brother's shoulder. "The Night's Watch was built for more than just keeping out wildlings. Remember that when you're ranging."

"And Robert's offer to be Hand?"

"The North must come first," Cregan said simply. "Whatever's driving the free folk south, whatever Will saw out there - it's more important than southern politics. We need every sword, every resource here when winter comes."

Benjen stood to leave. "I'll make sure every ranger carries dragonglass. And I'll write if we find anything... concrete."

"Be careful out there," Cregan called after him. "And Benjen? Watch for signs of the dead. Not just white walkers. If Will spoke true, we need to know exactly what we're facing."

The First Ranger nodded and left his brother in the godswood. The dragonglass daggers might seem like strange preparations to some, but Benjen had seen enough beyond the Wall to know that preparation was never wasted. If the dead truly walked with blue eyes, at least the North wouldn't face them unprepared.

The practice yard had emptied as evening approached, leaving the four young men to themselves as they cleaned and stored their training weapons. Domeric Bolton methodically oiled his practice sword, his movements precise and measured, while Theon lounged against a wooden post with his characteristic easy grace. Robb and Jon worked together to gather the scattered practice arrows, falling into the comfortable rhythm of long familiarity.

"The prince certainly keeps his distance from the yard," Theon observed with a smirk, watching as Joffrey passed by at a safe distance, his crimson-cloaked guard following like a shadow. "Too fine to get his silks dirty with the rest of us, I'd wager."

"He's not used to Northern ways," Domeric offered diplomatically, though his pale eyes followed the prince's progress with quiet assessment. "The Lannisters prefer their own manner of training."

Robb snorted softly. "Is that what we're calling it? I've yet to see him hold anything heavier than that jeweled dagger he's so proud of."

"The way he shows it off, you'd think it was Brightroar come again," Jon added quietly, sharing a knowing look with his brother. They'd both noticed how the prince strutted about, hand always resting on the ornate weapon as if to draw attention to it.

"Did you see him at the feast?" Theon asked, his voice pitched low despite the empty yard. "The way he kept looking down his nose at everything - the food, the music, even the serving girls. As if Winterfell's hospitality was somehow beneath his royal sensibilities."

"His mother's influence, that," Domeric noted. His time fostering in the Vale had given him a broader perspective on southern politics. "The queen makes no secret of her disdain for the North."

"At least King Robert seems to appreciate our ways," Robb offered, though there was a slight edge to his voice. They'd all seen how the king's "appreciation" extended to every serving woman in the castle.

"The prince takes after his mother in that regard," Jon said, carefully neutral in his assessment. "Though he seems eager enough to impress Sansa, Robb."

Robb's face darkened slightly. "Sansa's spoken for," he said, nodding to Domeric. "And Arya would sooner kiss a horse than endure his preening."

"He carries himself like a man who's never had to earn anything," Domeric observed quietly, sliding his practice sword into its rack. "Everything handed to him by right of birth, with no understanding of the responsibilities that should come with such privileges."

"Some might say the same of all of us," Theon pointed out, though his usual mocking tone was subdued.

"There's a difference between being highborn and being..." Jon trailed off, searching for a diplomatic way to phrase it.

"An entitled little shit?" Theon supplied helpfully, earning a sharp laugh from Robb.

"I was going to say 'unprepared for real leadership,'" Jon finished with a slight smile. "But your words have a certain accuracy to them."

"Still," Domeric cautioned, "he is the crown prince. And these are... delicate times." Something in his tone suggested he'd picked up on the underlying tensions that had arrived with the royal party.

"True enough," Robb agreed, his voice taking on the more measured tone he'd learned from his father. "Though I can't help but wonder what kind of king he'll make, if he can't even bring himself to cross swords with those he'd rule."

"The throne's a long way from the North," Theon said with a shrug. "Let the southrons worry about their golden prince.”

"Aye," Robb agreed, clasping Domeric's shoulder as they headed inside.

Behind them, they could hear Prince Joffrey's voice carrying across the yard, sharp with complaint about some perceived slight. The four young men shared a knowing look but kept their peace.

The afternoon sun filtered through the red leaves of the heart tree, casting dappled shadows across Domeric Bolton's pale features as his fingers danced across the strings of his harp. Unlike the flowery southern ballads that might once have captured Sansa's heart, he played the ancient Northern melodies - "The Winter Maid," "Brandon the Builder's Lament," and songs so old they had no names, only stories passed down through generations.

Jon Snow sat at a respectful distance, Ghost lounging beside him. His presence was unobtrusive but vigilant - a brother's protection wrapped in a guard's duty. Close enough to observe, far enough to allow them their privacy within the bounds of propriety.

When Domeric began the opening notes of "The Night That Ended," Sansa's clear voice joined his harp, the pure sound rising through the godswood like a prayer. At three-and-ten, her voice had the sweetness of youth but carried the depth of understanding the old songs required. She sang of the battle against the darkness, of the dawn that came after, her fingers absently tracing the patterns of her forgotten needlework in her lap.

As the final notes faded into the afternoon air, a comfortable silence settled between them. Domeric's fingers stilled on the harp strings, his pale eyes finding hers with unusual directness.

"My father told me something, before I rode for Winterfell," he said quietly. "That when the match was discussed, your lord father gave you a voice in the decision."

A faint blush colored Sansa's cheeks, though her posture remained composed. From his post, Jon shifted slightly, curious but maintaining his discrete distance.

"Father believes we must understand the choices that shape our future," she replied carefully. Years of Cregan's lessons in diplomacy guided her words. "The North is stronger when its alliances are built on mutual understanding."

"Most lords wouldn't consider their daughter's thoughts on such matters," Domeric pressed gently. "Especially one of three-and-ten. And most ladies your age would prefer a more... southron match." There was a vulnerability in his voice that belied his usual Bolton reserve.

Sansa's fingers traced the pattern of her embroidery, choosing her words with care. "The North needs strong bonds between its houses. Father taught us that such bonds must be built on more than mere duty." She glanced up at him. "When you fostered in the Vale, you wrote to your father about the importance of preserving our old songs, our old knowledge."

Domeric's eyes widened slightly. "You knew of that?"

"Father believes in understanding those we would ally with," she said diplomatically, not mentioning the careful political calculations that had gone into the match, how her father had weighed the benefits of binding the Dreadfort closer through a heir who showed more wisdom than ambition.

"I... thank you," Domeric said softly. "For having a say in the choice, and for..." He paused, seemingly struggling to express himself. "For choosing someone who others might consider too serious, too focused on old songs and dusty records."

"The North doesn't need more southern songs," Sansa replied, her smile gentle but clear-eyed. "It needs those who remember its true strength." She hesitated, then added with careful honesty, "And I find I prefer discussing trade routes and ancient verses to mere courtly pleasantries."

"Speaking of trade," Domeric's fingers picked out a gentle melody as he spoke, "the Dreadfort's archives have some fascinating records about our historical trade with Sisterton. During the harder winters, they were often the only ships that could reach our ports."

"The Three Sisters," Sansa's eyes lit with interest. "Their navigators know the winter waters better than any others. If we could secure favorable terms with them before autumn deepens..."

Jon cleared his throat softly, but he was hiding a smile. Trust his sister to turn even a romantic moment into a lesson in trade logistics.

"The Last of the Giants." "Will you join me? It was always my favorite in the Vale, though none there knew the proper verses."

Sansa's voice joined his harp without hesitation. They sang together of things passing from the world, of remembrance and endurance, their voices twining in ancient harmony while the heart tree's red leaves rustled above them like distant applause. Her voice carried the melody while his harp provided the foundation, much like their complementary strengths in other matters.

When the song ended, even Ghost closed his eyes, as if affected by the ancient sorrow in the verses.

"The Dreadfort's archives have extensive records of winter preparations through the ages," Domeric offered. "Perhaps tomorrow in the library, we could compare them with Winterfell's records? Your father mentioned you've been studying the old storage systems."

"I'd like that," Sansa said, then added shyly, "Though perhaps we might find time for more songs as well? The old verses help me think more clearly sometimes."

"As my lady wishes," Domeric replied, the formal words softened by genuine warmth.

Jon exchanged a knowing look as they sat together beneath the heart tree with Ghost. The match might have been made for politics and alliances, but accurate understanding was growing between these two. Not the stuff of southern songs and tales, perhaps, but something stronger - like the roots of the weirwood itself, deep and enduring.

The late summer sun caught the red leaves above them, making them glow like flames. Yet, instead of dreaming of southern knights and tournaments, Sansa thought of winter, preparation, and building something strong enough to weather any storm. And beside her sat a young man who understood both songs and survival, whose quiet strength complemented her growing wisdom.

Behind them, Jon kept his vigilant watch, Ghost alert but relaxed at his side. His sister was safe with this one - not because of any pretty words or gallant gestures, but because Domeric Bolton understood what truly mattered. The North.

Chapter Text

Cersei paced in her chambers, irritated, her rich crimson skirts rustling against the dusty floor. Even here, the damnable cold seeped through the stones.

"Seven days in this frozen waste," she spat. "Did you see how he looked at her? That little wolf girl?" Her beautiful face twisted with old hatred. "As if his precious Lyanna had come back to life."

"I saw how he looked at several serving women too," Jaime replied dryly, leaning against a wall. "Our noble king isn't exactly subtle in his interests."

"He wants to join our houses," Cersei's voice dripped with contempt. "Make that wild little beast a queen. Can you imagine? She prefers to stick Joff with a sword than curtsy to him."

Jaime smirked. "And what's wrong with that? Might do our son some good to face a real challenge for once."

"Don't be stupid," she snapped. "I won't have my son married to some half-wild northern savage. Did you see how they live here? Even their noble daughters act like peasants, running around with swords, consorting with servants..." She shuddered delicately. "No sense of propriety at all."

"The North has its own ways," Jaime shrugged, reaching for her. "Why does it matter? Let Robert have his fantasies. We know the truth."

Cersei allowed his embrace, but her eyes remained hard. "It matters because that honorable fool Ned Stark will be Hand of the King. Robert won't be denied in this." Her fingers dug into Jaime's arm. "He'll bring his barbaric northern ways to court. Those children of his..."

"Are no threat to us," Jaime finished, pulling her closer. "What do we care what these northerners do in their frozen wasteland? We're Lannisters."

"Lannisters," she echoed, though her voice held a touch of uncertainty. "I want to leave this place as soon as possible. The sooner we're back in King's Landing..."

A wolf howled somewhere in the darkness, making her stiffen. Jaime's arms tightened around her.

The great hall of Winterfell had emptied of petitioners, leaving only the Northern lords who mattered most. Greatjon Umber's massive frame dominated one side while Rickard Karstark stood grim-faced on the other. Maege Mormont and Galbart Glover completed the inner circle, with other bannermen arrayed behind them.

"Each house must maintain ready forces - not just for the Wall, but in reserve. When the wildling threat escalates - and it will escalate - we'll need to move swiftly."

"How many men, my lord?" the Greatjon asked, leaning forward with interest.

"Each major house should keep a minimum of five hundred men in rotating readiness," Cregan replied. "Trained, equipped, and able to march within a day's notice. The mountain clans will maintain smaller numbers, but with emphasis on mobility."

"That's a significant force to keep from regular duties," Lord Karstark observed, though his tone held no challenge.

"Better to maintain ready forces than scramble to gather them when we're already under attack," Cregan countered. "The Umbers and Karstarks will need larger numbers, being closest to the Wall. House Bolton will coordinate with the eastern holdings, while the Manderlys ensure our sea approaches remain secure."

Roose Bolton's soft voice carried in the quiet hall. "And these forces are solely for the wildling threat, my lord?"

"For now." Cregan's expression hardened. "But a wise lord prepares for multiple storms, not just the one he sees coming. The ready forces should train specifically for northern warfare - fighting in snow, winter conditions, night battles. When Mance Rayder moves, it won't be in summer weather."

"What of supplies?" Galbart Glover asked. "Keeping men in ready status means feeding them, housing them..."

"The expanded glass gardens will help with that," Cregan replied. "And each house's garrison will rotate regular duties with ready status. One month in three should suffice - enough to maintain readiness without overly straining our resources."

Lady Maege Mormont spoke up. "Bear Island can maintain naval patrols along the western waters. If the wildlings try to bypass the Wall by sea..."

"Good," Cregan nodded. "Coordinate with the Manderlys. I want our entire coastline watched." He turned back to the broader assembly. "These aren't just preparations for wildlings, my lords. Think of it as reshaping the North's martial strength. For too long, we've relied on calling banners and assembling after threats appear. That must change."

"The old way," Rickard Karstark said thoughtfully, "was to maintain ready strength even in peace. Our ancestors knew the value of swift response."

"Exactly." Cregan's voice carried the weight of centuries. "Let the south call banners and play at tournaments. The North remembers that real threats don't wait for armies to assemble. When Mance Rayder moves, we'll need to match his speed with our own."

The lords nodded, understanding dawning in their eyes. After the other lords departed, Cregan kept five behind - Robb, and Jon, the Greatjon, Rickard Karstark, and Roose Bolton. His grey eyes studied them carefully as he unrolled a detailed map of the lands beyond the Wall.

"Should Mance attack while I'm in King's Landing," he began, his voice carrying both Ned's authority and ancient wisdom, "command will be divided thus: Greatjon, you'll take the right flank. Karstark, the left. Roose, you'll command the reserve forces." His hand rested on Robb's shoulder. "My son will command the center, with overall coordination of the force."

"Three thousand cavalry," he continued, fingers tracing positions on the map. "No foot - we'll need the mobility. The Greatjon and Lord Karstark know wildling tactics better than most. You've both fought them for years."

"Aye," the Greatjon rumbled. "Tricky bastards. Don't fight like proper soldiers."

"Which is precisely why you'll command the flanks," Cregan nodded. "When they break - and they will break against mounted charges - they'll scatter into the forests. That's when discipline matters most."

"No pursuit into the deep woods," Karstark said, understanding. "Let them run?"

"Exactly, but leave them room to yield." Cregan's eyes held each man's gaze in turn. "This isn't about slaughter. Mance Rayder's no fool. When he sees mounted knights hitting him from three sides, he'll know his options."

"The reserve force?" Roose asked softly.

"Held back until we see their full numbers. Keep your cavalry fresh, Lord Bolton. When they commit their giants and mammoths, that's when you'll strike." Cregan turned to his son. "Robb, you'll coordinate the three forces. Timing will be everything - hit them together, hard and fast."

Though none but Cregan knew it, he remembered how skillfully Robb had commanded in that other life, winning battle after battle before politics and love undid him. But these weren't southern knights or Lannister forces - wildlings fought differently, with desperate ferocity rather than discipline.

"The key is to break their center without fully encircling them," he continued. "If they feel trapped, they'll fight to the death. But if they see a path to retreat..."

"They'll take it," the Greatjon finished. "And that's when Mance might discuss terms?"

"Better to treat with him than slaughter his people," Cregan agreed. "Remember - these aren't raiders coming for plunder. These are entire families, fleeing something that terrifies them more than us."

"The Umbers and Karstarks have fought wildlings for generations," Roose observed in his quiet voice. "While my cavalry trains for disciplined charges. An interesting combination."

"Precisely why you'll command the reserve," Cregan replied. "The wildlings know Umber and Karstark strength. But Bolton cavalry appearing fresh when they're already reeling..." He let the implications hang.

As the lords departed to begin their preparations, Cregan watched them with carefully hidden knowledge. He remembered Robb's tactical brilliance from that other life, but also knew the wildlings would be a different sort of foe.

That night before the departure for King’s landing, Cregan lay awake, studying Cat’s face in repose - the proud line of her jaw softened in sleep, the slight furrow between her brows that even rest couldn't completely smooth away. Her auburn hair spilled across his chest like copper in firelight.

The early years had been the hardest. He'd had Ned's memories of their betrothal, their growing love, but also his own ancient understanding of how to guide a prideful spirit. When he'd first started changing things, encouraging trade with the mountain clans - he'd seen how it chafed at her sense of propriety. A great lady, daughter of Riverrun, watching her husband haggle like a merchant.

So, he'd given her the glass gardens to oversee, letting her see how southern growing techniques could be adapted to northern needs. Her pride had shifted then, transformed into something productive as she taught other ladies how to extend their growing seasons and how to blend riverland farming wisdom with Northern pragmatism.

Catelyn had initially bristled when he'd placed Sansa in charge of trade negotiations despite her youth. But he'd asked her to teach their daughter the courtesies that could smooth such dealings, showed her how her own political acumen could serve the North. Now she took quiet satisfaction in how Sansa balanced grace with shrewdness, seeing her own teachings reflected in their daughter's successes.

Even with Jon... that had been the most delicate balance. He couldn't tell her the truth - not yet, perhaps not ever. But he'd shown her how Brandon Snow and other Stark bastards had served the North faithfully through the ages. He'd given Jon responsibilities that proved his loyalty while keeping him from threatening Robb's position. Over the years, her frigid hostility had thawed to a cool acceptance. Not perfect, but enough.

Perhaps his proudest achievement had been teaching her the value of the smallfolk - a lesson her brother Edmure had learned naturally but which Catelyn's noble upbringing had blinded her to. At first, she'd been shocked when he began sitting with craftsmen at meals, listening to farmers' concerns as attentively as lords' grievances. "They're beneath your notice," she'd said once, early on. "The smallfolk have their stewards to attend to their needs."

But he'd shown her, patiently, how contented smallfolk meant a stable kingdom. How the craftsmen who maintained the glass gardens needed to feel invested in their success. How the farmers who adapted their growing techniques needed to trust in their lord's support. He'd guided her to see how her own father's occasional blindness to the smallfolk's needs had caused unrest in the Riverlands, while Edmure's natural affinity for his people had earned him their love.

Slowly, she'd learned. When they'd expanded the glass gardens, she'd insisted on training common workers alongside noble ladies, understanding that knowledge shared meant greater yields for all. She'd even started a practice of having their children spend time in the winter town, learning the crafts and concerns of those they would one day rule.

Now she took quiet pride in how the smallfolk brought their problems directly to Winterfell, knowing they'd receive fair hearing. She'd learned that loyalty earned through respect was worth more than obedience demanded by rank. The North was stronger for it - a lesson he'd learned in his first life and had finally managed to teach this proud daughter of the rivers.

Catelyn stirred slightly in her sleep, pressing closer to his warmth. His hand automatically stroked her hair, a gesture that still amazed him. He had Three wives in his first life - strong women all, who'd helped him build the North's power. But this... this was different. He had Ned's love for her woven through his being, making her both familiar and wonderfully strange.

He'd learned to see her pride for what it was—not mere Southron vanity, but the strength that had carried her North as a young bride, that had helped her bear five children in a harsh land, that had let her adapt without breaking. Like the glass gardens they'd built together, she'd learned to bend without shattering, to grow strong things in frozen soil.

The journey south would be dangerous. The Lannisters were already circling like golden lions around a wounded stag, too blind to see the wolves watching from the shadows. But he'd prepared for this, positioned every piece with the patience of centuries. Bran would be safe with Howland, learning the old magics that ran in his blood. Robb would grow into his lordship under Catelyn's guidance.

And Catelyn... she would hold it all together. Her pride would serve her now, keep her strong through whatever storms approached. She'd learned to be both trout and wolf, to swim in treacherous waters while keeping her pack safe.

Chapter Text

The stench hit him first - worse than Cregan remembered from memories, worse even than Ned's recollections of the Rebellion. King's Landing had grown bloated during the long summer, its sewers overtaxed, its streets teeming with more souls than ever before. As he rode through the city gates, ancient wisdom mixed with fresh revulsion.

"Seven hells," Jory muttered beside him, covering his nose with a gloved hand.

"No," Cregan replied quietly, "just the work of men." His grey eyes took in everything - the poorly maintained walls, the Gold Cloaks lounging at their posts, the general air of decay beneath the city's golden facade. Where a younger Eddard Stark might have seen only the superficial signs of peace and prosperity, Cregan saw the rot beneath. Like a summer fruit left too long in the sun, the city was ripe for corruption.

The Small Council chamber felt smaller than he remembered, though whether that was Ned's memory or his own recollections from the Hour of the Wolf, he couldn't quite say. Cregan strode in with Ice strapped to his back, its weight a familiar comfort. The last time he'd been in King's Landing, that blade had delivered justice to those who'd poisoned a king. His grey eyes swept the chamber with a warrior's assessment, carrying the same commanding presence that had once held this city in fear.

Littlefinger stepped forward first, his practiced smile faltering slightly at the winter's chill in Cregan's gaze. Through Ned's memories, he recognized the man who would help destroy the Starks in that other life. I should take your head right now, he thought coldly, remembering how easily Ice had sung during the Hour of the Wolf. One clean stroke, like the others who played their games while the realm bled.

"Welcome to King's Landing, Lord Stark," Littlefinger offered smoothly, though Cregan noted how the man's eyes darted briefly to Ice.

"Lord Baelish," he replied with careful neutrality, letting none of his ancient knowledge show in Ned's features. But something in his bearing - the same cold authority that had once commanded this chamber - made Littlefinger step back slightly.

Grand Maester Pycelle shuffled forward, his chains clinking with deliberately exaggerated frailty. Another head that would look fitting on a spike, Cregan thought, remembering similar courtiers he'd judged during his time here.

Varys glided up like a perfumed ghost, but Cregan's instincts noted how the spymaster positioned himself to study every reaction. The eunuch's eyes held a calculating intelligence that reminded him of darker games played in darker times. Games that had once ended with Ice's sharp justice.

Renly's greeting was warmer, genuine through Ned's memories of Robert's youngest brother. But Cregan saw past the surface charm to the ambition beneath, remembering how this one's grasping for power would help tear the realm apart.

Taking his seat at the council table with the authority of one who had once dispensed the king's justice in this very chamber, Cregan dominated the space as naturally as he had during the Hour of the Wolf. Let them mistake him for merely Ned Stark, honorable and cautious. He had delivered justice in this city before. He could do so again, if needed.

"The Crown's finances require attention," Littlefinger observed smoothly, "Though perhaps such matters seem distant from Winterfell's concerns?"

"The North's interests are the realm's interests," Cregan replied, letting them hear Ned’s honor in the words while his mind analyzed Littlefinger's subtle probe. The man was testing him, looking for leverage. Good. Let him look.

The meeting itself was an education in what wasn't said. Petty matters dominated the discussion, but Cregan watched the undercurrents. How Littlefinger's quips probed for reactions. How Varys dropped casual mentions of distant events, testing who showed interest in what. How Pycelle's stammering increased whenever certain topics arose.

After the meeting, he stood at the Tower of the Hand's window, but his focus wasn't on the view. Instead, he mentally mapped the tower's defenses, noted which windows overlooked what, calculated how many men he'd need to hold it in a crisis. All while appearing to be lost in thought, as others would expect of Eddard Stark.

A sennight into his duties as Hand, Cregan sat in the small council chamber, keeping Ned's face carefully composed as Littlefinger detailed the tourney's expenses. Forty thousand gold dragons for the champion. Twenty thousand for the runner-up. Twenty thousand for the winning archer. Ten thousand for the melee victor.

"In total, Lord Hand, some hundred and ten thousand dragons." Littlefinger's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "A generous purse, to honor your appointment."

"Generous indeed," Cregan replied evenly, the waste of it reminding him of the southron excesses he'd witnessed during the Dance of Dragons. That sum could have built three new glass gardens, or restored another of the Watch's abandoned fortresses. "Tell me, Lord Baelish, from which royal treasury will these rewards be drawn?"

"The Crown will borrow, as needed," Littlefinger's tone was carefully light. "As we have before."

"And our current debts?" Through Cregan's grey eyes, Cregan studied the Master of Coin. The man reminded him of the courtiers he'd dealt with in King's Landing during his time as Hand - too clever by half, playing games with forces they didn't truly understand.

The numbers, when presented, were staggering. Three million to the Lannisters. Nearly two million more to various creditors, including the Iron Bank. Even the Faith was owed a considerable sum. He'd never seen such reckless spending in all his years ruling the North.

"And His Grace is aware of these figures?" Cregan asked, though he already knew the answer. Robert hadn't attended a single council meeting since his arrival, except for the one where they'd discussed reports of Daenerys Targaryen's marriage to a Dothraki khal.

"His Grace trusts his small council to handle such matters," Varys offered delicately.

"And what of Lord Stannis?" Cregan pressed, noting how Renly shifted slightly at his brother's name. "Has there been any word from Dragonstone?"

"My brother sulks in his island fortress," Renly waved dismissively. "As is his habit when he doesn't get his way."

 Stannis was many things, but he wasn't a man to abandon his duties without cause. He was prudent enough to flee from the cesspit of a city, made sure his family was safe before he pressed his claim. Ned in that life failed to do so, like he failed to educate Sansa making her flee to the queen for their escape plan.

The meeting finished like usual, with matters of the realm into the hands of corrupt men if he wasn’t there. That night at the Tower of Hand, he studied the ledgers by candlelight. The current figures were concerning enough, but his experienced eye saw the deeper pattern - how systematically the crown had been pushed into dependence on Lannister gold. Even the spaces between the numbers told a story, one of deliberate financial entanglement.

A servant brought him wine – a spy, no doubt though he wasn’t certain whom she reported to.

Let them watch, he thought grimly. Let them see Eddard Stark fretting over ledgers and duties. The truth they couldn't see was far more dangerous - that while they played their game of thrones, real power was gathering in the far north. That all their gold and schemes would mean nothing when the true enemy came.

"The whore is pregnant." Robert's voice filled the small council chamber, thick with wine and fury. He slammed a fist on the table, making the goblets rattle. "The Targaryen girl has quickened with that Dothraki savage’s child. Do I need to spell it out for you? This ends now."

Cregan Stark sat stiffly in his seat, his grey eyes steady as he studied the other council members. His mind turned coldly to Ned’s memories—Rhaegar's children, broken and bloodied in their royal cradle. That horror had been Ned’s; Cregan’s reaction was colder, more calculating. He thought instead of Sansa, her sweet face so young and full of innocence, and a child not much older than her, marked for death.

"She is five-and-ten," Cregan said evenly. "The same age as my son, Robb."

"And she's carrying a dragonspawn," Robert shot back, his voice raw with anger. "Are you all deaf, or just blind? She’s old enough to spread her legs for a horselord; she’s old enough to die. Kill her now, or we’ll have another war in twenty years when her brat comes for my throne."

Eddard Stark—no, not Eddard, Cregan reminded himself—Ned, his predecessor, had already argued this point once and been dismissed. But Cregan would not be dismissed so easily. His tone hardened. "The girl is a child, Your Grace, and her child even less so. Would you have their deaths sung by bards for generations as your legacy?"

Robert slammed his hand on the table again. "I’ll not hear lessons on honor from you, Stark. I need her dead. All of them. The whore, her brat, and that silver-haired fool she calls a brother. Is that clear enough?"

Ser Barristan Selmy, silent until now, stepped forward. "Your Grace, if I might speak." His voice was calm, but there was an edge of steel beneath the surface. "The girl has done nothing to you. Nor has her unborn child. To kill them would be an act of murder, not justice."

Cregan nodded at the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. "Killing a child in its mother’s womb is no victory, Robert. Nor will it bring peace. It will only shame the throne you fought so hard to win."

Robert turned on them both, his face dark with rage. "Shame? Do you think I care for your honor? Or yours, Selmy? I care about my throne! You know what her father did. The Mad King burned my people alive. Her brother kidnapped Lyanna—” His voice cracked. “She bears their blood, and now she breeds more of their filth. I’ll not wait for them to hatch dragons under my very nose."

"It’s a shadow you fear, Robert," Cregan said coolly. "The Dothraki will not cross the sea. Their horses will not drink salt water, and they have no ships to carry them. Even if she bears a son, what of it? There is no threat here, only a girl on the far side of the world."

"They’ll cross when they’re ready!" Robert snarled. "And when they do, they’ll bring fire and blood—"

"They won’t cross," Ser Barristan interjected firmly. 

"And what do you know of their way?" Robert snapped.

"Enough to know they are no threat today," Cregan replied. "But if you kill this girl, you will make her one. Word will spread, and every house in Westeros will know you fear a pregnant child and her unborn babe. Is that what you wish to be remembered for? Killing babes in their cradles?"

Robert turned to him, his blue eyes blazing. "If she lives, her son will come for me. For my children."

"If you wish my service as Hand," Cregan said softly, though his voice carried to every corner of the room, "then you will abandon this folly. If you cannot, then I will leave for Winterfell tonight. My duty is to my people, not your wrath."

Silence fell over the council chamber. Robert glared at him, rage warring with a shadow of something else—pride, friendship, shame, perhaps. Cregan met his gaze unflinchingly, the hall so still he could hear the crackle of the fire in the hearth.

Varys broke the silence, his voice unctuous as ever. "Perhaps cooler heads might prevail, Your Grace. The matter can wait another day, surely?"

"No," Robert growled, though some of the fire had gone from his voice. He sank back into his chair, his face red with drink and anger. "No. We’ll decide this soon enough. But know this, Stark: If you do not serve me, I will find someone who will."

"As you say, Your Grace." Cregan inclined his head, before walking out of the room.

I need the Targaryen girl and her dragons more than I need you.

Chapter Text

Cregan stood at the window, watching the city below with ancient eyes behind Ned's face. The king's royal command to remain in King's Landing and the guards posted to ensure it had initially disrupted his careful plans - he'd meant to be gone before Robert's death, removing any reason for Cersei to suspect his knowledge of the incest.

But Robert's temper had worked in his favor during their last confrontation. The memory was still fresh:

"Do you mean to ban me from attending my heir's own wedding?" he'd demanded, letting Ned's voice carry all the cold fury of the North. "First you'd have me murder children, and now you'd keep me from my family?"

Robert's face had purpled with rage. "Go to your bloody wedding! But you'll return immediately after. I won't have my Hand abandoning his post over a few moon's absence."

"I've given you my resignation—"

"And I refuse to accept it!" Robert had roared, slamming his fist on the table. "You're the only one I trust, damn you! The only one who'll tell me truth to my face!" His anger had turned to pleading, the sudden shift that had always worked on Ned's softer heart. "Come back after the wedding, Ned. The realm needs you. I need you."

Through Ned's memories, he felt the lingering pull of friendship with Robert, the desperate wish to see some remnant of the young man who'd been like a brother. But Cregan knew better - he'd once executed men who'd poisoned Aegon III, even though they'd fought on the same side during the Dance. Justice was justice, regardless of past bonds. The fact that Ned would still feel loyalty to a man who'd order the death of an innocent girl was exactly the kind of weakness he'd come to correct.

Even during the Hour of the Wolf, he'd proven that personal alliances meant nothing compared to what was right. And now Robert would murder a child out of fear - the very person whose dragons might help save the realm from the coming darkness. No, whatever friendship Ned's memories urged him to honor had died when Robert gave that order.

The evening shadows in the Tower of the Hand grew long as Varys glided into the solar, his soft-soled slippers making no sound on the stone floor.

"The hour grows late, Lord Spider," Cregan said without turning, his disgust at Robert's actions warring with Ned's instinct to defend his friend.

"Indeed, my lord Hand. Yet some conversations are best held in darkness." Varys moved closer, his powdered hands clasped before him. "I come with concerns about our beloved king."

"What sort of concerns?" Cregan turned, studying the spymaster with careful assessment. He felt Ned's immediate worry for Robert surge up, but pushed it aside. A man who'd murder a child had forfeited any claim to such loyalty.

"The same sort that may have worried our dear departed Jon Arryn." Varys' voice grew softer.

Cregan regarded the Spider thoughtfully. This was no difficult choice - even if Ned's honor alone had driven him to resign over the assassination order, Cregan's harder justice made it absolute. Kings who murdered children were no better than the poisoners he'd executed after the Dance. "He is so scared of a girl he's never met that he cannot see the vipers surrounding him. What evidence do you bring of these claims?"

"None definitive, my lord, but only you can save the king."

Cregan sighed heavily, impatient with Ned's lingering sentimentality about Robert. The man had proven himself unworthy of such loyalty. "And what of Daenerys?"

"I did as bid, my lord Hand," Varys answered in a measured tone.

Cregan clenched his jaw, remembering other kings who'd thought themselves above justice. "Then do as my bid as well. Send people to protect the girl. Get the coin from Baelish under the pretense of more assassins. The king didn't order that I cannot save her."

As Varys nodded, Cregan turned back to the window. Let Ned's memories mourn the friend Robert had once been. Cregan knew better - there was no room for sentiment when dealing with those who would murder children. Justice was justice, whether delivered to poisoners in King's Landing or to kings who'd lost their way.

The Queen’s solar still carried the faint scent of Arbor gold as Cersei poured herself another cup, her movements calm and deliberate despite the lateness of the hour. Jaime lingered by the window, his golden hair catching the flickering candlelight. He studied her in silence, noting the glint of satisfaction in her green eyes as she raised her glass to her lips.

“Three moons,” she said at last, her voice light with triumph. “Stark will be back in his frozen wasteland for his son’s wedding, and Robert will be left without his precious Ned to whisper in his ear. All that honor, wasted in the snow.”

“Will he?” Jaime’s tone was mild, though a flicker of doubt lingered beneath it. “If Robert is still fuming over the Targaryen girl, he might not let Stark leave so easily. Our dear king has a spiteful streak.”

“Robert’s moods blow colder than the North,” Cersei said dismissively. “He’ll forget this quarrel soon enough. He always does.”

“That depends,” Jaime said, watching her closely.

Cersei’s lips tightened, though her hand stayed steady as she sipped her wine. “And what of it? The wolf plays at being a stag, but he’s still leashed in the end. He obeyed when Robert commanded, did he not?”

“For now,” Jaime said. “But defiance like that isn’t forgotten. Especially not by Robert.” He smirked. “Maybe he’ll name Stark regent, just to remind him what obedience looks like.”

“Robert won’t live long enough to name anyone regent,” Cersei said coldly, setting her cup down. “And once he’s dead, Stark will go back to his North, where he belongs. By the time he suspects anything, it will be too late.”

“You’re too quick to dismiss him,” Jaime replied. “This is the same man who was ready to walk away from being Hand over a point of principle.”

“And what is that?” Cersei snapped, her green eyes flashing. “Joff is the king’s son, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

“Of course,” Jaime said, his tone smooth but edged with irony. “The spitting image of Robert, isn’t he?”

Cersei’s hand curled around the edge of the table. “It doesn’t matter what anyone suspects. By the time Robert’s body grows cold, our father will be Hand of the King, and Joffrey’s reign will begin. Who will challenge him? Stark? His honor won’t save him here.”

“Honor won’t, no,” Jaime said, pushing away from the window. “But the North remembers slights, sister. And so does Stark.”

“Stark is no fool,” Cersei said sharply. “He’ll know better than to cross us. And if he doesn’t, he’ll learn soon enough.”

Jaime regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You’re certain Father will come running to hold your hand?”

“Of course he will,” Cersei said, the words clipped and firm. “I am his daughter. Joffrey is his grandson.”

“You know Stark,” Jaime pressed. “He’s not like the others. You can’t bribe him, you can’t frighten him. If Robert names him regent before the boar finishes him off—”

“Then Stark will meet with an unfortunate accident of his own,” Cersei cut him off, her voice cold as steel.

Jaime said nothing, but his golden hand flexed at his side. He’d heard that certainty before—seen it in Aerys’s eyes as he spoke of wildfire and eternal glory. He knew how such certainties ended.

“You’re quiet, brother,” Cersei said, studying him. “Do you doubt me?”

Jaime’s smile was faint, shadowed. “Never. But tell me this, sister: what happens when Stark refuses to kneel? Not all wolves can be caged.”

Cersei turned back to her wine, her movements as fluid and unshaken as ever. “Then the North will learn that lions do not forgive.”

Jaime watched her drink deeply, watched the gleam in her eyes that was so much like Aerys’s when he’d spoken of his invincible plans. He kept those thoughts to himself, as always, and crossed the room to pull her close. For now, they stood together.

WINTERFELL

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across Winterfell’s courtyard as Eddard Stark rode through the gates, his guards fanning out behind him. Catelyn stood at the forefront of the gathered household, her pregnancy far more advanced than he had expected—seven moons, at least. The soft curve of her swollen belly did nothing to diminish her quiet dignity, her auburn hair gleaming like polished copper in the slanting light. Beside her, Robb had grown taller and more confident, carrying himself with a calm that spoke to his growing role as heir. Wynafryd Manderly's betrothed stood nearby, her intelligent eyes taking in every detail of the gathering with composed curiosity.

Sansa and Domeric Bolton flanked them, their poised and deliberate postures nearly mirror images, though Sansa’s expression held warmth where Domeric’s was unreadable. Arya stood slightly apart, shifting restlessly, her sharp gray eyes darting around as if seeking an escape. Rickon was too young to feign restraint, practically bouncing excitedly as Shaggydog bounded around him in wild, joyous circles.

“Welcome home, my lord,” Catelyn called, her voice clear and strong, formality softened by an unmistakable warmth in his chest.

Cregan dismounted with practiced ease, his eyes never leaving hers. The faintest trace of a smile touched his lips as he stepped forward. “My lady,” he replied, matching her tone even as his hand moved instinctively to her belly. The child within stirred under his touch, a strong kick against his palm. For a moment, the noise of the courtyard faded, leaving only the woman before him and the life they had created. “You’re well?”

“Very,” she said softly, her expression easing into something more personal. In a lower voice, she added, “Your instructions have served us well. Preparations continue apace. My father’s letter arrived yesterday.”

Cregan inclined his head, understanding her meaning. Years ago, he had urged Hoster Tully to implement glass gardens at Riverrun for winter preparations, and it seemed the effort was proving its worth. Whatever time remained, they were using it wisely.

Later, in the privacy of their solar, Catelyn handed him her father’s letter, her tone brisk but thoughtful. “He writes that Riverrun’s granaries are full. The Riverlands stand ready to weather a hard winter—or any other storm.”

“And Edmure?” Cregan asked, setting the parchment aside.

“Follows Father’s lead in this, thankfully.” Her hand brushed absently over the curve of her belly as she continued. “The riverlords understand preparation, even if a few suspect other motives.”

Cregan allowed himself a slight smile. “Your father always had foresight. If Riverrun’s stores serve more than one purpose, so much the better.”

She met his gaze, her Tully-blue eyes steady, thoughtful. “Father believes the Lannisters need not know every detail of what the Riverlands set aside. Officially, it’s all prudent planning for winter.”

“As it should be.” He moved behind her, resting his hands gently on her shoulders. She leaned back slightly, drawing strength from his presence.

They sat in silence for a moment, the flickering hearth casting long shadows across the walls. Winterfell was as it should be, sturdy and unshaken, filled with the people he loved most. Whatever challenges loomed on the horizon, here at least was a place of safety, of purpose.

They would endure. Together.

Chapter Text

The Small Council chamber seemed smaller under the looming shadow of the Iron Throne, where King Joffrey had insisted on holding today's session. The boy king paced before the throne like a caged animal, his face flushed with familiar rage as he waved a crumpled parchment.

"Three ravens!" Joffrey's voice cracked with fury. "Three ravens I've sent to that traitor Stark, demanding he bring his banners south to support his rightful king. And still he ignores my summons!"

"Your Grace," Varys offered carefully, "perhaps Lord Stark's... delayed response stems from the manner of his dismissal as Hand. To strip him of his position immediately after your father's tragic passing—"

"My father was a fool to trust him with the position in the first place," Joffrey snapped. "And I was right to dismiss him. The man abandoned his post to attend some savage northern wedding!"

"He had Your Grace's father's permission to attend his son's wedding," Littlefinger noted with his characteristic smirk. "Though the timing was... unfortunate."

"He should have returned the moment I summoned him," Joffrey declared. "I am his king! Instead, he hides behind his walls while  Stannis builds his fleet and Uncle Renly plays at tourneys with roses."

"The situation grows complex, Your Grace," Varys added delicately. "The Vale's borders remain sealed, with Lady Arryn claiming mountain clan threats require such... extreme measures."

"While Lord Hoster Tully maintains his peculiar silence," Littlefinger added, "comfortable behind his well-stocked granaries and assembled levies. How fortunate he began such preparations moons ago, allegedly for winter."

"Preparations suggested by the traitor Stark, no doubt," Cersei's voice was sharp as steel. "Before he used my husband's death as an excuse to abandon his duties."

"All these lords who forget who their true king is!" Joffrey's hand strayed to his sword hilt. "The crown's response must be swift and terrible. Let them learn what happens to those who ignore their king's summons!"

The council members exchanged careful glances, each calculating their positions as the realm teetered toward war. Outside, King's Landing sweltered in unhappy peace, unaware that its temporary quiet was about to shatter.

The gardens of Highgarden bloomed with late summer roses, their sweetness almost masking the scent of ambition. Renly Baratheon lounged on a marble bench while Loras Tyrell paced, his grandmother Olenna watching them both with sharp eyes from her cushioned seat.

"The North declares neutrality," Renly mused, accepting a glass of Arbor gold from a servant. "Stark refuses to answer the boy's summons. After all those years of friendship with Robert..." He laughed softly. "Though I can hardly blame him, after the way Joffrey dismissed him. The boy didn't even wait until Robert was cold in his grave before stripping Stark of his position."

"At his mother's behest," the Queen of Thorns snorted. "Though I hear Lord Tywin hasn't deigned to answer his grandson's desperate calls for him to take up the Hand's pin. The Old Lion isn't one to come running at a boy's command, even if that boy wears a crown."

"The Riverlands followed the North's lead," Loras added, running a hand through his curls. "Though fat lot of good their neutrality did them. Tywin Lannister's forces burn their lands anyway."

"Because Tywin knows what we all know," Olenna's voice was sharp. "There's no such thing as neutrality in times like these. The Tullys and Starks merely chose their moment. Rather cleverly, I must admit." She sipped her wine. "Though I'd expect nothing less from a man who spent years preparing while others played at peace."

"Stark always was tediously cautious," Renly smiled. "Though I must admit, I didn't expect such... forethought from him. All those years of careful preparation, while Robert drank and whored his way to an early grave."

"No, you wouldn't see it," Olenna agreed dryly. "You were too busy counting swords to count granaries. Tell me, how many ships does Stannis have now?"

"The North isn't the Westerlands," Olenna went on. "You can't rule it through fear and gold, something our young king and his mother seem unable to grasp. Dismissing Stark so rashly, demanding he bend the knee while burning his goodfather's lands..." She shook her head. "Even Tywin Lannister seems hesitant to step into that mess, if his continued absence from King's Landing is any indication."

"The Lannisters will bleed for that insult to Stark," Loras observed. "The North remembers slights, or so they're fond of saying."

"The North remembers more than slights, dear boy," Olenna's eyes glittered. "Now there's the interesting piece. All these years of quiet preparation. Glass gardens in every keep, western ports restored, granaries filled, the Moat strengthened... Tell me, what does that suggest to you?"

"That Stark saw something coming," Loras frowned. "But what?"

"Perhaps the better question is: what else does he see coming?" Olenna set down her wine. "While we plot summer wars, the North prepares for winter. Rather thoroughly, I might add."

"They're always obsessed with winter," Renly waved dismissively. "Stark this, Stark that..."

"Yes, and isn't it interesting how everyone dismisses their preparations as mere northern paranoia?" Olenna's smile was sharp. "While they sit safe behind their walls, their stores filled, their forces intact, watching the south bleed itself dry over a boy king's tantrums and his mother's pride..."

"You admire them," Loras realized.

"I admire preparation, dear boy. And someone who can make such extensive arrangements while keeping others blind to their true purpose?" She chuckled. "Now that's worth studying."

"The Starks won't stay neutral forever," Renly insisted.

"No," Olenna agreed. "But they'll choose their moment. Just as we must choose ours." She turned to a servant. "More wine. And someone fetch Mace. If he's going to bluster about declaring for anyone, he might as well do it when I can correct his mistakes directly."

The roses continued blooming, their sweetness masking the thorns beneath. Inside Highgarden's halls, the game of thrones continued —though with the growing sense that the North's careful preparations might prove more significant than any southern crown.

DREADFORT

The Dreadfort's great hall was silent save for the crackling of torches. Domeric stood before his father's seat, his recent ride from Winterfell having brought urgent news.

"Lord Stark believes Mance Rayder has gathered nearly a hundred thousand wildlings," Domeric reported. "Not just warriors - entire villages, women, children, even the Thenns have joined him."

"A hundred thousand," Roose's voice was characteristically soft. "While the South bleeds itself over the iron throne." He studied his son with colorless eyes. "And what does our Warden of the North plan to do about this threat?"

"He's called for all houses to double their rotating garrisons at the Wall," Domeric said. "The Watch reports the wildling camps grow larger by the day. Their rangers speak of fires that stretch across the horizon."

"Our glass gardens ensure we can feed the extra men," Roose observed. 

“Domeric stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Father, Lord Stark believes Mance Rayder will move before winter. A hundred thousand mouths to feed..."

"He'll have to," Roose agreed. "He can't maintain an army that size beyond the Wall through winter, no matter how many supplies they've gathered." His pale lips curved slightly. "And of course, there's the question of what drove so many wildlings to follow him in the first place."

"Fear," Domeric said. "The ranging parties report the same thing - the wildlings aren't just uniting to attack the Wall. They're running from something."

"Let us hope that 'something' remains their problem, not ours." Roose stood. "Double the garrison as Lord Stark requests. The Dreadfort will do its part to hold the Wall."

As Domeric turned to leave, Roose added, "And son? Keep me informed of any further developments at Winterfell. These are... interesting times."

Domeric nodded and left his father to his thoughts. Outside, snow was already beginning to fall - summer's last gasp giving way to autumn's chill. Soon enough, they would face the largest wildling army ever gathered.

WINTERFELL

The evening meal in Winterfell's great hall had emptied save for family, the hearth's warmth a stark contrast to the political calculations being discussed. Catelyn sat beside her husband, her face a careful mask as she passed him the latest raven scroll.

"The third demand from King's Landing," she said, her voice carrying carefully controlled anger. "Joffrey insists you're a traitor for refusing his summons to call the banners to his cause."

"Let the boy king rage," Cregan replied, his eyes scanning the message before tossing it into the fire. "The Lannisters don't know we're aware of their secret. They think I merely sulk over being dismissed as Hand."

"And Stannis?" Robb asked carefully. "He hasn't called for our support, though he must know he's the rightful king."

"Stannis knows the truth about Cersei's children," Cregan said. "But he also knows we discovered it independently through Jon Arryn's investigations. He won't reach out until he's ready to move openly - it's not in his nature to seek allies until his position is absolute."

"The Lannisters burn the Riverlands while demanding our loyalty," Catelyn's voice held barely contained fury. "My father's lands..."

"Your father understood our warning, Cat. His granaries were filled and his defenses prepared long before Tywin's forces crossed the border." Cregan's eyes held ancient wisdom. "The Riverlands will bleed, yes, but they'll survive. And when the time comes..."

"But why declare neutrality?" Arya interrupted, frustrated. "We know Joffrey's a false king. We know Stannis is the rightful heir."

"Because timing is everything," Sansa answered before her father could, her political acumen showing. "The North's neutrality makes the Lannisters suspicious but unsure. They can't tell if Father resents being dismissed as Hand or if there's some deeper game."

"Precisely," Cregan nodded approvingly. "If we declared for Stannis now, we'd reveal our hand too early. The Lannisters would know we had proof of the incest. But by declaring neutrality while ignoring Joffrey's demands..."

"We keep them guessing," Robb finished. "They can't be certain if we're truly neutral or just waiting to strike."

"Meanwhile," Jon added quietly, "our real preparations continue. The Wall, the wildlings, the true threat..."

"Yes." Cregan's voice hardened. "Let the south play their game of thrones. Winter is coming, and with it..." He paused meaningfully. "

"And when Stannis finally does call for aid?" Bran asked.

Ned’s voice hardened, leaving no room for argument. “Then the answer will be the same. The North will remain in the North. Stannis’s fight is not ours.” He turned to Robb, his gaze steady. “We don’t bleed our people for southern quarrels. Our strength is here, in Winterfell, in the people who depend on us to protect them from what’s to come.”

Catelyn studied her husband, her expression conflicted. “And if the Riverlands fall? If the Lannisters turn their sights north?”

Ned’s mouth set into a grim line. “Then we’ll defend our home, as we always have. But I’ll not be dragged into a war over their false thrones. Our duty is here.”

Silence settled over the room, heavy but unbroken. The fire crackled softly, its warmth doing little to thaw the tension.

Catelyn reached for her husband’s hand, finding a quiet strength there. “Your father would have said the same,” she said at last, her voice soft. “But I pray it doesn’t come to that.”

“As do I,” Ned said. His eyes flicked to the children around him—his legacy, his true responsibility. “But we’ll be ready, whatever comes.”

The conversation ended with no triumphant declarations, no promises of glory. Only the quiet, steadfast resolve of a family prepared to endure.

Chapter Text

CASTERLY ROCK

The great hall of Casterly Rock echoed with Tywin Lannister's silence as he read the raven's message. Around the war table, his commanders waited, watching their lord's face for any hint of reaction to the news.

"So," Tywin said finally, his voice precise and cold, "Renly is dead. And his army has declared for Stannis." He placed the message down with deliberate care. "How many swords?"

"Nearly all the Stormlords have gone over to him," Kevan reported. "Combined with his existing forces and fleet, he commands around eighty thousand men. And there's more - another raven from King's Landing. Stark continues to ignore the crown's summons, maintaining his declaration of neutrality. The Riverlands follow his lead, while the Vale's borders remain sealed without word from Lady Arryn."

"And what of our scouts near the Neck?" Tywin's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Moat Cailin's garrison has been strengthened significantly," Kevan replied. "The Northmen are dug in hard, with regular patrols along both the causeway and the western shores."

Tywin studied the map before him, where markers showed the current disposition of forces. "Stark declares neutrality, yet fortifies his borders as if expecting invasion from all sides." His fingers traced the line of the Neck. "The Moat is his door to the south, and those western patrols guard against the Greyjoys. A perfect defensive position."

"The Greyjoys will have to wait," Tywin declared coldly. "Stannis is the greater threat."

After dismissing his commanders, Tywin studied the markers at the map. Stannis was the immediate threat - a proven battle commander with a legitimate claim and now the full strength of the Stormlands behind him. But something about Stark's actions nagged at him. They'd heard of the strengthened Moat Cailin, the fortified western shores, and the well-stocked granaries. These weren't the hasty preparations of a lord recently spurned by the crown - this spoke of years of methodical preparation.

"Send for the captains," he commanded a waiting servant. "I want the army ready to march within hours."

Outside, the sun was setting behind clouds heavy with rain. Stannis first, Tywin thought. Then the Greyjoys would learn again why the Lannisters were feared. But somewhere in the back of his mind, a cold calculation worked - what could make Eddard Stark, a man whose famous honor had helped topple the Targaryens, not support the son of his best friend Robert Baratheon?

It was a question for another time. For now, King's Landing awaited, and with it, the battle that would determine the realm's fate. Let the North hide behind its walls. The lion's attention was needed elsewhere.

MOAT CAITLIN

Rain fell in bitter sheets as Victarion Greyjoy's longships slipped through the Neck channels, their shallow drafts allowing them to navigate where larger vessels couldn't. Fifty ships, each packed with ironborn reavers, moving under cover of a moonless night. This would show Balon the folly of focusing solely on the western shores – while the North watched their coasts, the Iron Fleet would strike through their back door.

At least, that had been the plan.

The first sign that something was wrong came when torches suddenly blazed to life along Moat Cailin's towers. They'd had not expected five fully restored towers structures bristling with arms. Dozens of fires lit simultaneously, illuminating the entire approach through the causeway.

"Treachery!" Victarion bellowed as flaming arrows began to rain down. "We've been betrayed!"

But Jory Cassel, commanding the garrison, allowed himself a grim smile as he watched from the Gatehouse Tower. No betrayal – just careful preparation and the crannog scouts who'd been watching the ironborn's approach for days, sending signals through their secret paths.

"Wait for them to commit," he commanded, Ned's instructions clear in his mind. "Let them think they can still land troops."

The Ironborn were proud warriors, but pride made them predictable. Rather than retreat, Victarion drove his ships forward to overwhelm the defenders through sheer ferocity. Dozens of longships tried to find purchase along the edges of the causeway, warriors leaping into the waist-deep water.

That's when the Manderly men revealed their positions, crossbow quarrels slicing through the night from hidden firing ports in the restored walls. The Flint men began their own work with scorpions mounted on the towers.

"For the NORTH!" Jory's voice carried across the battlefield as the trap closed.

The ironborn found themselves caught in a deadly crossfire, the restored towers allowing defenders to strike from multiple angles. Every attempt to gain the causeway was met with withering fire from above, while the few who made it to the walls found them manned by warriors who'd explicitly trained for this scenario.

When the crannog men emerged from the swamps behind the longships, striking at crews with poisoned arrows and disappearing back into the mists, the Iron Fleet's discipline finally broke.

"Back to the ships!" Victarion raged, his mighty voice carrying over the chaos. "Back, you cravens!"

But retreat proved as deadly as advance. The Moat's defenders had prepared for this too, positioning scorpions to strike at ships trying to turn in the narrow channels. Burning pitch rained down, turning the dark water into a deadly maze of fire and smoke.

In the end, barely twenty ships managed to escape back the way they'd come, leaving the waters of the Neck littered with burning hulks and floating corpses. Victarion was among the retreating, his fury echoing across the water as his flagship limped away.

Jory surveyed the aftermath of the battlements, where Flint men were already reloading the scorpions in case of another attack.

A Manderly captain approached his armour still wet from the fighting. "Fifteen ships confirmed sunk, my lord. Another dozen were too damaged to be seaworthy. Prisoners?"

"Those who surrendered will be sent to the Wall," Jory replied, remembering Ned's standing orders. "Let them serve the realm since they couldn't respect its peace."

As dawn broke over the Neck, the mists began to clear, revealing the full extent of the Iron Fleet's disaster. The ironborn had expected to find a crumbling ruin guarded by a token force. Instead, they'd smashed themselves against a fortress restored to its full ancient strength, garrisoned by men who'd trained for years to defend it.

Jory wrote his full report to Winterfell in his solar at the Gatehouse Tower. Beyond the bare numbers of enemy casualties and ships destroyed, he included the most important fact: Moat Cailin had proven itself again. The North's door remained firmly shut, ready to weather whatever storms approached.

The old way had met the new defences, and the old way had broken. Just as Lord Stark had predicted it would.

WINTERFELL

Cregan found Theon in the godswood, the young man's usual swagger absent as he stared at the heart tree's face. Snow fell lightly around them, but neither seemed to notice the cold.

"Your father has rebelled again," Cregan said without preamble. "Proclaimed himself King of the Iron Islands while the realm bleeds in southern wars."

Theon's shoulders tensed, but he didn't turn. "And sent ships to attack the North, knowing I was here. Knowing what that meant for me as your hostage."

"Yet here you stand, still trusted enough to walk freely in our godswood." Cregan moved to stand beside him. "Why do you think that is?"

"Because I'm not my father," Theon said quietly. "Because I helped build something here, even if that makes me less ironborn in his eyes."

"Less ironborn?" Cregan's voice held a hint of challenge. "Because you used your knowledge of ships to help build our western fleet? Because you understand how to defend a coast and raid one?"

"The ironborn way is to take what we want," Theon recited, though his voice lacked conviction. "To reave and raid, not... build trade routes."

"That's your father's way," Cregan corrected. "But you're not Balon Greyjoy. You're Theon. And you've proven there can be iron in building something as much as breaking it."

"Those defences you helped design - they broke your father's fleet tonight. The ships you helped strengthen our coasts with - they protect our people now. Tell me, what's more ironborn - following your father's path blindly or forging your way with the strength you've found?"

Theon turned finally, his eyes fierce. "I understand ships better than any Greenlander. I know how to fight, how to sail, how to command. But I chose to use those skills differently than my father would. Does that make me less ironborn, or just... a different kind of ironborn?"

"That's for you to decide," Cregan replied simply. "Your father may have forgotten you were his son when he sent those ships, but I haven't forgotten you're one of ours. Not because we broke you or changed you, but because you chose to be something more than just what your father demanded."

The godswood was silent save for the soft fall of snow. Finally, Theon nodded, squaring his shoulders. "The Iron Fleet will come again," he said quietly. "My father won't accept this defeat easily."

"No," Cregan agreed. "But this time, we'll face them with ships you helped build, defenses you helped design. Let them see there's strength in protecting what you value, not just taking what others have."

"I am ironborn," Theon said finally, his voice firm. "But I'll be ironborn my own way. Iron doesn't just destroy - it can also build, protect, endure. Maybe that's what it means to me."

"Then show them," Cregan replied. "Show them that being ironborn isn't just what Balon says it is. Show them what Theon Greyjoy's iron is truly worth."

The heart tree watched as another choice was made, another piece moved into place for the winter to come. And in its carved face, Theon saw his own reflection - not a hostage caught between two worlds, but a man who'd chosen to forge his own path between them.

Chapter Text

The solar felt different from the last time Ros had been here, three years ago when Lord Stark had made his unexpected proposal. She remembered her shock when he'd outlined his plan - not judgment or condemnation of her profession, but a careful strategy that would use her particular skills for the North's benefit.

"Your reports have been invaluable," Lord Stark said now, his voice carrying that strange out-of-the-world wisdom that had first convinced her to trust him. "Particularly the details about Baelish's creative bookkeeping."

Ros watched Lady Catelyn carefully. The woman's posture was stiff, but her eyes held understanding rather than contempt. That alone was remarkable - Lord Stark must have explained thoroughly for his proper lady wife to accept a whore's presence in her solar.

"Little things, my lord," Ros said carefully. "Men talk freely in certain moments. Especially men like Littlefinger, who love proving their cleverness." She kept her tone professional and factual. "The numbers never quite matched what he reported to the crown. Always small discrepancies, but they added up over time."

"Show me again," Luwin said, spreading the ledgers across Lord Stark's solar desk. "These weekly deposits..."

Ros leaned forward, pointing to specific entries. "Here - see how there's a regular flow of 'client’s payments' to each establishment. But I noticed something odd when I started managing the accounts for all his brothels last year. The numbers were too perfect, too regular."

"Explain," Lord Stark's voice was quiet but intent.

"Brothels don't work that way, my lord," Ros said frankly. "Business fluctuates - festivals bring more clients, other times less. But these payments..." She tapped the parchment. "Every week, like clockwork, the same amounts are distributed across different establishments. And not just in King's Landing - he owns brothels throughout the Crownlands, even some in the Vale and Reach."

Lady Catelyn's face remained neutral, but her eyes showed growing understanding. "And you're certain these weren't real customers?"

"My lady, I kept the books and knew every girl's schedule. These 'visits' never matched any actual activity. Just ghost entries, perfect for moving coin between accounts without drawing attention." Ros traced the pattern through multiple ledgers. "More interesting was how Baelish handled the crown's taxes on these establishments."

"Go on," Lord Stark encouraged.

"He'd use these ghost payments to generate 'income' that justified certain tax payments. But looking at the bigger picture..." She shuffled through more pages. "He was essentially using crown money to pay the taxes to the crown with the crown’s own finances. Moving it through so many accounts, it would be nearly impossible to trace without seeing all the ledgers together."

"He never thought you'd understand the larger pattern." Luwin noted.

"Men like him don't expect women like me to understand numbers," Ros said with a slight smile. "Especially not the complicated ones. But my father was a merchant before his troubles - he taught me bookkeeping when I was young."

"And Baelish never suspected?" Lady Catelyn asked.

"He was too pleased with his own cleverness, my lady. Would tell me how brilliant his system was, especially after certain... private moments." Ros kept her tone professional. "Liked to brag about how he could make gold multiply through his ledgers."

"But he wasn't multiplying it," Lord Stark said grimly. "He was stealing it.'"

"Yes, my lord. Though proving it would be nearly impossible without access to the crown's own accounts to compare against his brothel ledgers." Ros spread her hands. "I could only see the pattern from my side - money appearing as if by magic, distributed through dozens of establishments in amounts that never quite matched real business."

"But combined with what I found as Hand..." Lord Stark exchanged looks with his wife. "The crown's debts grow while Baelish's personal wealth multiplies. And these ledgers show exactly how he's managing it."

"Small amounts," Ros confirmed. "Regular deposits across many locations, spread so thin it looks legitimate on the surface. But added together over the years..."

"He's been bleeding the crown dry," Catelyn said softly, understanding dawning in her eyes.

"While using that same money to pay his taxes to the crown," Ros finished. "A perfect circle, nearly impossible to detect without seeing both sides of the ledgers."

Warmth bloomed in Ros’ chest after Ned Stark sincerely thanked her for her service.

"What will you do now, child?" Lady Catelyn asked, her initial coldness softening slightly.

"Lord Stark has recommended me as a bookkeeper to House Manderly. They have already sent their response.” Ros replied.

"The North takes care of its own," Lord Stark said simply.

"Thank you, my lord," she managed. “I am to start as a bookkeeper apprentice first. Merchants don’t discriminate my background; they told me only numbers matter in trade. They have quite a few women bookkeepers in their ranks I was told."

"The Manderlys would be lucky to have you," he said firmly. After Luwin left with Ros Catelyn finally released the emotions she has been keeping.

“The boy I considered, friend…now a corrupt person bleeding the realms’s money for his own!” she said in disgust and disappointment.

“People change Cat, you may have known him as a boy, but the man he is now, he is nothing more than a greedy schemer advancing his interests. Cregan stood clasping his hands on hers.

“What will you do now? You are no longer hand, and you have the crown’s ire. Are our taxes supposedly going to just go to his pockets? Will you tell the crown? Tywin will be crossed once he finds out that the money he lent to the crown went to Baelish.”

"We'll use my reputation," Cregan said, carrying that ancient certainty. "Six moons as Hand gave me legitimate cause to investigate the crown's finances. Particularly after noticing discrepancies in my first month."

Catelyn's eyes lit with understanding. "And no one would question Eddard Stark's honor in reporting financial irregularities..."

"Exactly. The timing works perfectly - just long enough to gather evidence, not so long it seems suspicious. And with Ros's year of detailed records..." He gestured to the ledgers. "The pattern becomes clear when compared against what I found as Hand."

"But Petyr will suspect her," Catelyn worried.

"As far as he knows, she's just another Riverlander girl - not unusual given your connection to the region. The moons she spent with Luwin learning enough about the Riverlands to maintain that cover story..." He smiled slightly. "Well, who would question a minor merchant's daughter from the Riverlands seeking opportunity in the capital?"

"And her sudden departure now?"

"Will seem natural – understandably, my intel would vanish fearing for her life, especially after my dismissal. Besides, by the time he thinks about questioning her background more closely..." Cregan's eyes held calculated wisdom. "The Lannisters will be far more concerned about where their gold has gone."

"Tywin will be furious," Catelyn said slowly, working through the implications.

"And who will he blame?" Cregan asked quietly. "The Master of Coin who stole it? Or the queen who allowed such theft under her nose? Particularly after she so rashly dismissed the Hand who was investigating these discrepancies..."

Understanding bloomed in Catelyn's eyes. "This will drive a wedge between them. Cersei must act against Petyr to appease her father, but..."

"But Littlefinger holds too many secrets, has too many noble debtors in his pocket. Any attempt to move against him will cause chaos in the court." Cregan's voice held certainty born of centuries of wisdom. "Meanwhile, the honorable Eddard Stark simply did his duty - reported financial irregularities discovered during his brief tenure as Hand, supported by clear documentation."

"And Petyr's influence diminishes while the Lannisters turn on each other," Catelyn finished. "All because my honorable husband was simply doing his job properly..."

"Sometimes the most devastating weapon is simply telling the truth at the right moment - especially when that truth can tear our enemies apart." Cregan said simply.

He moved to warm his hands by the fire. "Let them fight over stolen gold and broken trust. The North will maintain its strength, secure in knowing that we paid our dues honestly and reported corruption when we found it." His lips curved slightly. "After all, what could be more honorable than that?"

Catelyn studied her husband thoughtfully. The plan was elegant in its simplicity - using Ned's reputation for the honour to deliver a devastating blow to both Littlefinger and the Lannisters' alliance. No one would question his motives in reporting financial crimes discovered while serving as Hand.

KING’S LANDING

The solar of the Hand felt smaller than Tywin remembered from his last tenure, though whether that was the weight of the realm's debts or his own barely contained fury, he couldn't say. Stark's letter lay before him, along with the carefully detailed ledgers and documentation the Northern lord had enclosed.

He'd spent three hours verifying the numbers, cross-referencing them against the crown's accounts. Three hours of growing rage as the pattern became undeniable. Littlefinger's "creative bookkeeping" wasn't just theft – it was systematic looting of the treasury on a scale that made even Tywin's considerable wealth seem modest.

"Pycelle," he commanded, his voice carrying the deadly quiet heralding the Reynes' destruction. "Verify these numbers again. Every entry. Every ledger. I want no possibility of error."

The Grand Maester shuffled through the papers, his facade of doddering age slipping slightly as he worked. "The documentation is... most thorough, my lord Hand. Lord Stark appears to have spent his brief tenure gathering detailed evidence."

"Of course he did," Tywin's words could have frozen flame. "The honorable Eddard Stark, doing his duty to the realm even after being dismissed." His fingers drummed once on the desk – the only outward sign of his fury. "And only sending this evidence once the throne was 'secure,' as he so carefully phrases it. After maintaining his convenient neutrality throughout the war."

"Most... diplomatic of him," Pycelle ventured.

"Diplomatic?" Tywin's laugh held no humor. "This is Northern vengeance wrapped in honor. He makes no mention of his dismissal and no complaint about his treatment. Delivers evidence that the crown's finances – and my gold – have been systematically plundered by the Master of Coin. The evidence he gathered while serving as Hand presented as his 'final duty' to the office."

He rose, moving to the window overlooking the city. "The timing is exquisite. Had he revealed this during the war, it would have seemed desperate and politically motivated. But now? Now it's simply Lord Stark completing his obligations to an office he no longer holds, once the realm is stable enough to address such concerns."

"The evidence does seem quite conclusive," Pycelle admitted. "The pattern of embezzlement through Baelish's establishments..."

"Is impossible to ignore without making the crown appear either complicit or incompetent," Tywin finished coldly. "Stark gives us no choice but to act, while simultaneously ensuring that my fool of a daughter will bear the shame of allowing such theft under her nose. After all, she's the one who dismissed the Hand who was investigating these irregularities."

He turned back to his desk, his green-flecked eyes hard as emeralds. "And of course, this neatly explains why the North maintained its neutrality. What lord would commit forces to a crown whose finances were being so thoroughly plundered? Stark can claim he was simply being prudent with his people's resources while the crown's stability was in question."

"Lord Baelish has many supporters at court," Pycelle cautioned. "Many lords owe him considerable sums..."

"Which makes him even more dangerous to leave in place," Tywin's voice could have cut steel. "The longer he remains, the more of my gold he funnels into his own coffers. But remove him too quickly..."

He studied the letter again, noting the careful way Stark had phrased everything. No accusations, no demands – simply evidence presented as the completion of duties begun during his tenure as Hand. The sheer calculated precision of it was almost admirable.

"Send for Kevan," he commanded finally. "This requires careful handling. Baelish must be removed, but in a way that doesn't collapse the financial structure he's built. And someone will need to begin untangling exactly how much of my gold has gone into his personal accounts."

As Pycelle shuffled out, Tywin allowed himself a moment of grudging respect for the Northern lord's strategy. Stark had managed to strike a devastating blow at both the crown's stability and Lannister pride while maintaining perfect deniability. The North's neutrality now appeared not as defiance, but as prudent caution by a lord who had seen the crown's financial rot firsthand.

"Well played, Stark," he murmured to the empty room. "Though I doubt even you foresaw just how thoroughly Baelish's schemes would force my hand."

Outside, King's Landing continued its daily bustle, unaware that the carefully constructed financial web at its heart was about to be torn apart by Northern honor wielded as precisely as Valyrian steel.

Chapter Text

KING’S LANDING

A moon had passed since the defeat of Stannis Baratheon at the Black Waterbay. His ships decimated with wildlfire and along with it his men and Stannis himself. The whereabouts of Shireen and Selyse Baratheon unknown. The Small Council chamber seemed smaller under the looming shadow of the Iron Throne, where Tywin finished reading Stark's message aloud, his voice precise and cold:

'My responsibility is first to the North. A vast army of wildlings gathers under Mance Rayder beyond the Wall, and my duty, like my ancestors before me, is first and foremost to my own lands.'

"Insolence!" Joffrey's face flushed red. "The war is won. I am his king. He should be here, on his knees, swearing his fealty!"

The Small Council chamber fell silent as Tywin Lannister entered, his cold presence cutting through Joffrey's ranting about Stark's refusal to answer his summons.

"Enough." Tywin's voice carried deadly precision. "You rage about respect while failing to understand the larger picture. Yes, Stark refused to support the crown's rightful heir. Yes, he declares neutrality and now hides behind duties to the North. For that alone, he deserves our contempt."

He fixed Joffrey with a hard stare. "But even while refusing to support our cause, his rigid sense of honor compelled him to expose corruption he discovered as Hand. Not during the war, when it might have served his interests. Not to curry favor after our victory. But simply because his damnable Northern honor demanded he report theft of the crown's gold, regardless of who sat the throne."

"Then he should answer for his neutrality!" Joffrey insisted.

"Should he?" Tywin's voice dripped disdain. "The same man who now pays the North's taxes directly to the Iron Bank in the crown's name, with documentation so precise it makes our accounts look like a child's scratchings? He doesn't trust the crown's financial channels - and thanks to what he exposed, we now know why."

"Father—" Cersei began.

"Be silent." Tywin's command brooked no argument. "Your hasty dismissal of him gave him every reason to keep his discoveries to himself. Instead, that foolishly rigid honor of his compelled him to expose the truth. Not out of loyalty to us - he made that clear with his neutrality. But because his precious honor demanded it."

His contempt filled the chamber. "So yes, let him hide behind his duties to the North. Let him ignore demands to explain himself. His actions have already spoken clearly enough - he'll fulfill his obligations to the realm even while refusing to bow to its politics."

"But the crown's authority—" Cersei started.

"The crown's authority means nothing if its coffers are being systematically looted," Tywin cut her off. "At least Stark's Northern honor ensured we discovered the theft. Though make no mistake - I neither forget nor forgive his neutrality during the war. But only a fool ignores useful information, even from an enemy."

He turned to leave, his final words heavy with cold pragmatism: "Focus on recovering what was stolen. The North's taxes at least reach their intended destination, thanks to Stark's distrust of our channels. That's more than we can say for half the realm's revenues."

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the distant sounds of a city still recovering from war, while far to the north, Stark's rigid honor continued serving the realm in its own stubborn way - even while refusing to bend to its politics.

Tyrion Lannister and Oberyn Martell strolled the battlements of the Red Keep, the evening breeze carrying with it the sour tang of King's Landing. Oberyn swirled his Dornish red, his dark eyes glinting with amusement as he watched the Imp.

"Your nephew seems rather... vexed by Lord Stark's refusal to answer his summons," Oberyn remarked. "Fascinating, how the same man who rejects royal authority still exposes corruption within it."

Tyrion smirked. "That’s Stark for you. Too stubborn to explain himself, yet honorable enough to root out Littlefinger’s schemes before retreating to Winterfell."

"Efficient, if not particularly trusting," Oberyn mused. "Your lord father must love that."

"My father hates Stark’s neutrality during the war,” Tyrion said dryly. “But he hates more that Stark exposed the theft of Lannister gold. It’s hard to paint a man as a traitor when he fulfills his obligations more carefully than your allies."

"And all without setting foot south of Moat Cailin." Oberyn took a sip, his smile razor-sharp. "Tell me, what did you think of him when you visited Winterfell?"

Tyrion hesitated before answering. "I thought him an honorable fool, the kind of man who’d get himself killed trying to protect a stranger. But now? His honor is more precise than I gave him credit for. By refusing the summons yet performing his duties to the realm, he makes any punishment seem petty."

"Elegant," Oberyn agreed. "Fulfilling one’s obligations so thoroughly while denying authority. Paying taxes through channels the crown cannot question, but sidestepping its control entirely."

"The North remembers,” Tyrion quoted with a chuckle. “That includes how to document financial transactions so precisely even my father can’t fault them."

"Your father must have loved that." Oberyn’s tone was mocking.

Tyrion laughed. "Oh, he loved it."

"And now he claims threats beyond the Wall to avoid explaining himself," Oberyn observed. "Yet still pays his taxes, maintains trade, and guards the realm’s borders. How does one punish such selective loyalty?"

"That’s the brilliance of it,” Tyrion admitted. “He’s consistent in his rigid way. The crown demands submission, but Stark’s honor answers only to duty. He doesn’t rebel, but he doesn’t comply, either. It’s maddening."

"The Starks were kings once," Oberyn said thoughtfully. "Perhaps they remember how to wield power without banners or blades."

"Perhaps." Tyrion gestured for more wine. "Though I suspect it’s simpler than that. Stark’s honor made him report the corruption he uncovered, even to people he mistrusts. The same honor keeps him protecting his people instead of bowing to Joffrey’s whims. He’s utterly infuriating in his consistency."

Oberyn chuckled, his laughter low and dangerous. "No wonder your father is frustrated. How do you punish a man who fulfils his obligations better than your allies yet still defies you? It’s like trying to catch smoke with a net—every attempt makes you look foolish."

"Exactly," Tyrion said, his smile wry. "If Stark were the traitor Joffrey claims, he’d have kept the evidence for leverage—or used it during the war to weaken the crown. Instead, his honor compels him to serve the realm even as he denies its authority. How do you deal with a man like that?"

Oberyn swirled his wine again, considering. "Perhaps you don’t. You let him sit in the North, quietly fulfilling his duties, while the crown fumes and flails. A more cunning ruler might see the wisdom in that."

Tyrion’s laugh was bitter. "Yes, wisdom is hardly a trait the current occupant of the throne possesses."

They continued their walk in silence, pondering the man in the North whose unyielding honor cut sharper than any blade.

RIVERRUN

The evening light filtered softly through Riverrun's windows, casting long shadows across Hoster Tully's chamber. The Lord of Riverrun lay in his great bed, his once-robust frame now worn thin by illness, his fierce will finally ebbing. Catelyn sat beside him, holding his hand, while Cregan stood nearby, their journey from the North made in quiet haste.

Edmure, already carrying himself with the weight of his coming lordship, stood by the window, while Brynden the Blackfish kept his usual vigil by the door. The war's end had brought a fragile peace to the Riverlands, though the scars of Tywin's burning would take years to heal.

"Lysa?" Hoster whispered, though they all knew the answer.

"Still no word from the Vale, Father," Edmure said softly. "I'm sorry."

A ghost of a smile touched Hoster's lips. "She always was stubborn." His fevered eyes found Catelyn. "Little Cat... you were right to follow your husband's counsel all those years ago. The stores... they saved so many during the fighting..."

"Rest, Father," Cat soothed, but Hoster shook his head weakly.

"No time left for rest." His gaze shifted to Cregan. "You saw clearer than any of us, goodson. The North stands strong while we..." He coughed weakly.

"The Riverlands will rebuild, my lord," Cregan replied gently. "Your people endured."

"Thanks to your warning to store grain," Hoster managed.

His voice trailed off as another bout of coughing took him. When it passed, he gripped Cat's hand with surprising strength.

"Promise me you'll look after your brother, Little Cat. The Riverlands will need the North's friendship in the coming years."

"I promise, Father."

Hoster Tully's hand went limp in his daughter's grasp as the sun set beyond the lands he'd ruled for so long. In the gathering darkness, his family stood in silence, each lost in their grief.

"Well," Brynden said, gruff with emotion, "he was a stubborn old fish right to the end."

Edmure straightened, already carrying his father's mantle. In this fragile peace, the Riverlands would need him to heal the wounds of war.

After Hoster's funeral, Cregan and Ser Brynden walked side by side, allowing the grieving siblings time for each other.

"Any word as to why Lysa hasn't attended her father's funeral?" Cregan asked.

Brynden's face scowled. "No doubt Baelish's influence. My friends in the Vale informed me he has been lingering around my niece and her son."

"On the days that the royal party went to Winterfell, Lysa wrote to Cat, claiming that the Lannisters poisoned Jon Arryn. A supposed warning to me and my family."

Brynden paused at the revelation. "We never received any of her claims."

"Isn't it curious, that she should have rallied the Vale lords to seek justice for their Lord against the Lannisters," Cregan observed. "She could have written to Hoster and me to rally and support Stannis against the Lannisters. Yet she didn't do anything?"

"The Vale Lords won't hesitate to back Stannis if that was the case - he would seek justice for Lord Arryn," Brynden noted grimly. "She wasn't really well last time I saw her. Given what you said... with Baelish lurking ... Why would she even allow that rat to be around her? He is working with the Lannisters, until now."

"He is working for himself but from what I heard, he is the one who secured the alliance between the Tyrells and the Lannisters," Cregan added.

"That fucking rat," Brynden spat.

"Think about it, Blackfish," Cregan continued. "If Lysa truly believed the Lannisters killed Jon Arryn, why not present her evidence to Yohn Royce and the other Vale lords? They loved Jon Arryn - they would have demanded justice. Stannis would have had the Vale's full strength behind him."

"Instead she hides in the Eyrie, letting that mockingbird whisper in her ear while the realm bleeds," Brynden growled.

"Almost as if someone wanted to prevent the Vale from supporting Stannis," Cregan suggested carefully. "Someone who benefits from prolonged chaos and division..."

"Baelish," Brynden's voice was cold with fury. "He's been playing all sides - keeping the Vale neutral while helping the Lannisters secure the Tyrell alliance. And now he is married to Lysa."

“He fled to the Eyrie before Tywin could arrest him, but the old Lion will have his due. And I think it's about time to cage the rat. Meet with the vale lords and present the evidence of his corruption to them. Even if he is regent, his title wont protect him.”

Brynden nodded. He would catch the rat and protect his niece from the vile influence of his influence. Cregan sighed. It will only be a matter of time before Baelish is dealt with. With him gone, Yohn Royce will act as regent, thus securing the Vale as allies in the coming battle against the dead.

Chapter Text

The Runestone's great hall echoed with Yohn Royce's fury as his massive fist crashed down on the ancient table, scattering the documents. His face, already weathered by years, was dark with rage as he stood, towering over the evidence of Littlefinger's crimes.

"That... gutter rat," he spat, the words carrying decades of contempt. "All these years, I said he couldn't be trusted. A minor lord from the smallest of holdings, with no honor, history, or worth - yet we let him climb higher and higher while he used our lands to hide his theft!"

Lady Waynwood's usual composure cracked as she studied the ledgers. "Gods, how blind we've been. We - the great houses of the Vale - let ourselves be played like puppets by a brothelkeeper." Her hands shook with barely contained fury. "While we prided ourselves on our honor, he made us unwitting accomplices to his crimes."

"The shame of it burns," Lord Hunter growled, his face flushed with humiliation and anger. "My father would rise from his grave if he knew I'd let a Baelish use our ports for his schemes."

"It's worse than mere theft," Lord Redfort's voice was deadly quiet. "Look how he's mapped out every house's weaknesses. The Graftons' pride in their shipping wealth - which he's secretly been skimming from for years. The Belmores' desperation for advantageous marriages. Even my own son's gambling debts..." His hand clenched on his sword hilt. "He's been weaving a web around us, using our flaws against us."

Yohn Royce's laugh was bitter as winter frost. "And now he sits in the Eyrie, playing at Lord Protector, while corrupting Jon Arryn's son. Jon Arryn raised us all to value honor above all else." His voice dropped dangerously.

"The mockingbird who thought he could soar with falcons," Brynden agreed grimly. "Using my niece's weakness, her desperate need for love, to climb ever higher."

"No more." Yohn Royce’s declaration cut through the hall like a blade. "I'll see him buried in the sky cells before I let him corrupt another generation of Vale nobility."

"He's clever," Lady Waynwood cautioned, though her voice was stern with resolve. "He'll have plans within plans..."

"Clever?" Yohn Royce's contempt could have stripped paint. "He's a rat who thinks himself a lion because we let him play in our halls. But the Vale remembers, my lords. The Vale remembers when honour meant more than gold, when a lord's word was his bond, when we stood together against those who would corrupt our values."

He drew himself up to his full imposing height. "I mean to remind him what it means to challenge the true lords of the Vale. Not with schemes or whispers, but with the full weight of our ancient houses united against him."

Lord Hunter nodded grimly. "The Hunters stand with Runestone. Let's show this upjumped steward what happens when he mistakes falcon's patience for weakness."

"House Redfort as well," Lord Horton declared. "My ancestors didn't hold the Redfort against a hundred invasions to let a coin-counter's plots undermine it."

"And Ironoaks," Lady Waynwood's voice carried the weight of centuries. "It's time we reminded the realm why Vale's honour was legendary before this... creature... sought to corrupt it."

Brynden watched the transformation with grim satisfaction. The proud lords of the Vale, their ancient honor wounded by the revelation of how thoroughly they'd been played, were now united in their fury. Littlefinger had counted on their pride keeping them divided, too ashamed to admit how he'd manipulated them all. Instead, that same pride was forging them into a weapon aimed at his destruction.

"Every loan, every arrangement, every whispered suggestion," Yohn Royce continued, his tactical mind already at work. "We'll trace them all, show every house how he's used them. Let them see how their pride in dealing with the 'clever' Lord Baelish was just another thread in his web."

Moons of investigating led them all back at Yohn Royce's solar. The ancient table was covered with ledgers, correspondence, and carefully traced patterns of debt and influence. Lady Waynwood's network of informants brought daily revelations of how deeply Littlefinger's tendrils had wound through Vale society.

"House Grafton owes him nearly fifty thousand dragons," Lord Hunter reported one morning, his voice heavy with disgust. "Though half those 'loans' seem to have come from money he skimmed from their shipping duties."

"House Lynderly's worse," Lady Waynwood added. "He's been charging them interest on interest for years, while simultaneously using their ports to move his illegal goods. The old lord's too proud to admit how thoroughly he's been trapped."

Yohn Royce studied the growing web of documentation with cold fury. "And each house too ashamed to speak to the others, thinking themselves alone in their foolishness. While that creature played them all against each other."

The coalition of great houses moved carefully, methodically. To each indebted lord, they sent not accusations but evidence - showing how Baelish had used the crown's gold to loan Vale houses to secure loyalty

"Let them see what's coming," Yohn Royce declared. "When Tywin finishes dismantling Baelish's networks in the capital, he'll follow the gold. Every loan and every arrangement will be examined. Better they stand with us now than wait for the Old Lion's justice."

Lady Waynwood's approach proved remarkably effective. To each house, she offered not just alliance but practical aid - restructuring of legitimate debts, ways to disentangle themselves from Baelish's schemes before the Lannisters came calling. Her message was clear: the great houses of the Vale would protect their own, but only if they acted now.

"The Corbrays were the first to turn," Lord Redfort reported with grim satisfaction. "Once they saw proof that their 'loans' came from stolen crown gold, they realised their choice was between our protection or Tywin's revenge."

Houses that had been too proud to admit their vulnerability were presented with a simple choice: stand with their fellow Vale lords against the corrupt creature who had manipulated them all, or face the consequences alone when the Lannisters finally traced their stolen gold.

The autumn mist clung to the narrow mountain path like a shroud. Littlefinger's party moved slowly through the pre-dawn gloom, their horses carefully descending the treacherous slope. The Lord Protector of the Vale rode in the center of his escort - twenty hired swords, good enough for routine travel but not the full complement he'd have brought had he suspected danger.

"Three days to Gulltown, m'lord," his captain reported. "Though this fog might slow us."

"Time enough," Littlefinger replied smoothly. "My business with the Iron Bank won't wait, and Lady Arryn understands the importance of maintaining our credit." His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "The Vale's prosperity requires careful management."

They'd barely cleared the last switchback when the first arrows took his outriders. Silent death from the mist, followed by the thunder of hooves as armored knights emerged from hidden positions along the ridgeline.

"Protect Lord Baelish!" the captain shouted, but already more arrows were finding targets among the hired swords. These weren't common bandits - the attackers moved with military precision, cutting off any retreat back up the mountain while forcing them away from the cliff edge.

Littlefinger's mind raced even as his horse reared in panic. The Yohn Royce's sigil on the leading knights, Redfort colors among the archers, Hunter green visible through the mist... How? He'd been so careful, had spies watching all the major houses...

"My lords!" he called out, forcing lightness into his voice. "Surely there's no need for such dramatics. Whatever concerns you have—"

"Take him." Yohn Royce's command cut through the chaos like a blade.

The hired swords who still lived threw down their weapons as Vale knights closed in. Littlefinger's horse screamed as an arrow took it in the flank, sending him tumbling. Before he could rise, armored hands seized him.

"Careful with our distinguished Lord Protector," Lady Waynwood's voice dripped acid as she emerged from the mist. "We wouldn't want him injured before he can answer our questions."

"My lady," Littlefinger tried again, mind already calculating angles. "There seems to be some misunderstanding. If you'll allow me to explain—"

"Gag him," Yohn Royce commanded. "I've heard enough of his lies to last several lifetimes."

As they bound him, Littlefinger saw more shapes materialising from the fog - not just knights and men-at-arms, but lords he'd thought safely bound by debt and blackmail.

They dragged him to a wagon cell and brought him to the nearest keep for interrogation.

"Now then, let's discuss your creative accounting practices. Particularly your hidden accounts with the Iron Bank."

Lady Waynwood stepped forward, unfurling a scroll. "We have some fascinating correspondence here - letters between you and certain bank representatives. But we need the account numbers, the passwords you use to access the stolen gold."

Littlefinger's smile was ghost-white but still confident. "My lords, my lady - surely we can discuss this reasonably. The Vale's prosperity—"

"The Vale's honor," Yohn Royce cut him off. "Something you've spent years corrupting with your schemes." He nodded to a man who stepped forward with implements that widened Littlefinger's eyes. "Now, shall we begin with your accounts or those you've hidden behind false names?"

"You can't," Littlefinger's voice cracked slightly. "I'm the Lord Protector of the Vale, chosen by Lady Arryn herself—"

"The same Lady Arryn you convinced to deny justice for her murdered husband," Lord Hunter spat. "While you helped protect his killers and grew rich from the chaos."

"Everything I did was for the Vale's benefit," Littlefinger tried. "The profits, the alliances—"

"The theft," Lady Waynwood's voice could have frozen flame. "The manipulation of our houses against each other. The corruption of everything Jon Arryn built."

"The numbers first," Yohn Royce commanded. "Send ravens as soon as we have the account details," Yohn Royce ordered. "I want our men at the Iron Bank before this reaches King's Landing."

"And the gold?" Lord Redfort asked.

"We keep what we can prove he stole from the Vale," Lady Waynwood replied. "The rest we'll transfer to the crown's account - directly with the Iron Bank, as the North does. Let the Lannisters see we're willing to make restitution but on our terms."

"And him?" Lord Hunter jerked his head toward their prisoner.

Yohn Royce's smile was colder than the mountain wind. "Once we have what we need, he'll face proper Vale justice. The sky cells await - though I doubt he'll trouble them for long."

Two days later, they had their answers. Littlefinger's legendary composure had finally broken under the combined effects of pain, humiliation, and the cold knowledge that his carefully constructed web had finally collapsed.

"Take him to Runestone," Yohn Royce commanded. "Quietly. Once our men secure the accounts, we'll announce his crimes formally. Let all the Vale see what becomes of those who mistake our patience for weakness."

"And the Iron Bank?" Lady Waynwood asked.

"They'll cooperate," Yohn Royce's certainty was absolute. "They value their reputation too much to be caught helping hide stolen gold. Once we prove the theft, they'll work with us to untangle his schemes."

In the distance, a falcon's cry echoed off the mountain peaks. The mists continued to clear, revealing the Vale in all its ancient glory - a land where honor still meant something, despite one man's attempts to corrupt it with gold and schemes. Littlefinger had played his game of thrones, but in the end, he'd learned too late that some things couldn't be bought or manipulated. The Vale's justice, like its mountains, was absolute.

Chapter Text

The raven from Castle Black about the wildling's attempted attack had barely arrived before Cregan issued his commands. The Karstark forces, being nearest to the Wall, would arrive within two days. The Umbers and Boltons would take three to four days. His force would need five days of hard riding, travelling light with only mounted men and minimal provisions.

"Remember," he told Robb and Jon as they rode north, Grey Wind, Ghost and Lady running alongside their horses, "these aren't soldiers you're facing. These are desperate people fleeing something that terrifies them more than death. Desperate people don't fight like knights or men-at-arms - they fight like cornered animals."

Two days after reaching Castle Black, Cregan stood atop the Wall with his commanders, studying the vast expanse beyond where Mance Rayder's fires dotted the landscape like stars fallen to earth.

"The Karstarks will join us in the center," Cregan indicated, pointing to the wildling encampments. "Lord Bolton, your cavalry will sweep from the left. Greatjon, your strength will attack from the right. We corner them in the middle whilst the direwolves will take care of their mammoths.”

"What of the terrain?" Roose Bolton asked softly, studying the landscape through Mance's fires.

"Open ground for the first league, then scattered woodlands," Cregan replied. "The wildlings have their main force here, between these two hills. They won't and army - they're focused on the Wall."

"A good strong charge should break their lines," the Greatjon said eagerly. Beside him, Jon Snow stood quietly, Ghost at his side.

"No pursuit deep into the forests," Cregan warned. "We hit them hard, but leave them room to yield. This isn't about slaughter - it's about forcing terms."

"The free folk don't surrender," Alliser Thorne spat.

"They will when they see mounted soldiers hitting them from three sides," Cregan replied. "Mance Rayder's no fool. He'll know his options once we have his people surrounded."

He turned to his sons. "Robb, you'll ride with me in the center. Jon, stay with the Greatjon ." Both young men nodded, understanding the gravity of their first real battle.

"Three hours before dawn position your men," Cregan continued. “When you hear three horn blasts, we hit them together - hard and fast. Give them space to retreat and yield."

"And if they don't yield?" Domeric Bolton asked.

"Then we show them why the North remembers how to fight," Cregan answered grimly. "But remember - we need as many alive as possible. There are worse things coming with winter than wildlings."

The commanders absorbed their orders, each understanding their role. Beyond the Wall, snow fell steadily on Mance's fires.

"Get some rest," Cregan ordered. As the others filed away, he kept Robb and Jon back. "Remember - these aren't the enemies you've trained against. They'll fight with desperation, not skill. Stay alert, show mercy where you can, but never let your guard down."

His sons nodded, then left to prepare their men, their direwolves padding silently beside them. Tomorrow would bring battle, but tonight was for preparation and clear heads. The true enemy still lay ahead, but first, they had to end this fight - quickly and decisively.

Domeric found his father checking the straps of his horse's saddle in the pre-dawn darkness, their breath misting in the cold air. Five hundred Bolton riders stood ready behind them, with another hundred waiting as a reserve. The pink light of dawn would soon reveal their flayed man banners, but for now, they were just shadows in the dark.

"Your first true battle," Roose said softly, not looking up from his work. His voice was quiet as always, barely above a whisper. "Not like the practice yards."

"No, Father." Like his father's, Domeric's pale eyes studied the older man's methodical movements.

"Lord Stark gives us the left flank. Five hundred men, with another hundred in reserve." Roose finally looked up, his colorless eyes meeting his son's. "The Boltons have held flanks for the Starks since before Aegon's conquest. But remember - a flank can be the weakest point or the strongest, depending on who holds it."

"I understand."

"Do you?" Roose's voice remained soft but carried an edge. "Your future goodfather watches today. The Dreadfort's reputation rides with us." He adjusted his pink cloak, the color barely visible in the darkness. "No heroics. No glory-seeking. We fight as Boltons have always fought - with precision."

"Like a blade," Domeric said, remembering his father's lessons.

"Like a flaying knife," Roose corrected. "Sharp enough to cut but controlled enough to peel." He placed a pale hand on his son's shoulder - a rare gesture from him.

Domeric nodded, understanding both the criticism and the praise. Behind them, their men waited in disciplined silence, ready to prove why the flayed man was still feared after thousands of years.

The horns would sound soon, and the battle would begin. But for now, father and son stood together in the dark, two pale shadows preparing to remind the wild folk why the North remembered its old strengths.

The Greatjon found Jon Snow checking his sword belt in the darkness, Ghost's red eyes glowing like embers beside him. The massive lord of Last Hearth laughed, a sound like distant thunder, and Smalljon stood proudly beside him.

"Good to have that white demon of yours with us, boy. Nothing unsettles the free folk like a direwolf. Add to the terror factor, eh?" The Greatjon clapped Jon's shoulder hard enough to stagger a lesser man. "Though from the look of you, you'd rather be hearing pretty southern tales about wildlings than hard truths."

"I want to know what we're truly facing," Jon replied steadily. "Not stories from wet nurses."

"Ha! Well said." The Greatjon's voice grew serious, an unusual tone for the boisterous lord. "Listen well then. The free folk aren't just one army - they're dozens of clans, each with their ways. The Thenns? They're the closest to us - have their own lords, laws, work bronze, fight in formation. Dangerous buggers, but predictable at least."

He gestured toward the distant fires. "Then you've got the ice-river clans - savage fighters, but no discipline. The Hornfoots, tough as old boots from walking barefoot even in snow. Cave dwellers, raiders, mountain folk - each fight different, thinks different."

"How do you counter so many different styles?" Jon asked, Ghost pressing against his leg.

"That's the trick - you can't fight them all the same way." The Greatjon drew his massive sword, using it to point. "Thenns will try to form shield walls, fight like proper soldiers. But raiders? They'll hit and run, try to draw you out. Cave dwellers fight in tight groups."

He sheathed his blade with practised ease. "Been fighting them for years at Last Hearth. Key is to watch their weapons - raiders carry light, for speed. Thenns have proper bronze weapons and armor. Ice-river clans? They'll have bone weapons and not much else."

"And Mance Rayder united all of them?" Jon's voice held a hint of disbelief.

"Aye, and that should tell you something." The Greatjon's face grew grimmer. "What kind of threat makes these proud, independent folk bend knee to one king? What makes Thenns march alongside raiders they'd normally kill on sight?"

Ghost's ears pricked forward suddenly, and the Greatjon nodded approvingly. "That beast of yours will be worth a hundred men in the fight. Wildlings fear direwolves more than any other creature - say they're meant to hunt in the deep snow, where men fear to tread."

He gripped Jon's shoulder again, gentler this time. "Stay alert, boy. Watch their weapons, watch how they move. And keep that white demon close - between his teeth and your sword, you'll make the Starks proud today."

Jon nodded solemnly, but the Greatjon wasn't finished. "One more thing - when a wildling yields, they kneel. If they throw down their weapons but don't kneel, they're like as not planning to snatch them back up when you turn around. Old trick, that one. SmallJon here learned it the hard way."

Ghost's head turned suddenly toward the darkness beyond their lines, and the Greatjon grinned fiercely. "Almost time. Remember what I told you, boy. And try to keep up with an old man in the charge, eh?"

Cregan found Robb near the edge of their camp, Grey Wind at his side as he stared north toward the wildling fires. In the pre-dawn darkness, with his hand resting on his direwolf's fur, he looked like the young king he'd been in that other life - before love and honor led him down a deadly path.

"Your first real battle," Cregan said, keeping Ned's warmth in his voice. "How do you feel?"

"Ready," Robb answered, then hesitated. "At least, I think I am. The men look to me as your heir. I can't show them fear."

"There's wisdom in fear, son." Cregan moved to stand beside him, watching how Robb unconsciously squared his shoulders the way he had before every battle in that other life. "Fear keeps you sharp. Keeps you thinking. It's not about being fearless - it's about mastering your fear."

Grey Wind pressed against Robb's leg as the young man turned to his father. "The men say you've never lost a battle."

"The men say many things," Cregan replied carefully, remembering both Ned's victories and his own. "But winning battles isn't just about sword work. It's about making the right decisions, not just the brave ones." Like choosing love over duty, he thought, remembering that other Robb's fatal mistake.

"I've studied the histories," Robb said. "The tactics, the strategies. But this is different, isn't it?"

"Aye." Cregan touched his son's shoulder, feeling the tension there. "You have good instincts, Robb. Better than most. Trust them. But remember - a leader's choices affect more than just himself. Every decision you make today will ripple through the men who follow you."

“No southern dreams of chivalry here - just Northern pragmatism and strength. "You'll make me proud today, son. You already have."

They stood together in comfortable silence, father and son, as the sky lightened. Soon, the horns would sound, and Robb would prove again why he was born to lead men in battle. But this time, Cregan thought, his path would be different. This time, he'd been raised to understand that victory in battle was only part of a leader's duty.

Grey Wind raised his head suddenly, scenting the pre-dawn air. The time for words was ending. Battle approached.

"Stay close to me," Cregan said finally. "Watch, learn, and remember - we fight not for glory but for the North."

"For the North," Robb echoed, his hand moving to his sword hilt. At that moment, he was every inch a Stark of Winterfell, ready to prove himself worthy of his heritage.

The horns would sound soon. But for now, father and son stood together, watching the darkness fade, ready to face whatever the dawn might bring.

Chapter Text

BEYOND THE WALL

Dawn broke over the lands beyond the Wall, the steel-grey light mirroring the armor of the Northern cavalry. The air was sharp and cold, the frozen ground beneath their hooves reverberating with the thunder of two thousand horses. Three horn blasts shattered the eerie silence, and the Northern forces struck from three sides.

In the center flank, Cregan Stark led the charge, his banner snapping in the wind—a grey direwolf racing across a white field. Beside him rode Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, his youth belying the determination etched into his features. Grey Wind ran alongside them, a streak of grey fur weaving effortlessly between the thundering destriers, his breath steaming in the chill.

Behind them came the full might of the central host, a wave of steel and determination. Swords gleamed, and shields reflected the pale dawn as the Northern cavalry descended upon the wildling camp like an avalanche. The wildlings, caught completely off guard, scrambled to respond. Giants bellowed as they mounted their mammoths, while spearwives and raiders formed hasty lines. The Ice River clans, brutish and savage, rushed into the fray, their disorganization evident in their chaotic shouts and erratic movements.

"Hold formation!" Cregan's command rang clear above the cacophony, the authority of a seasoned commander who had seen the fires of the Dance of Dragons. "Strike hard, strike fast!"

The Northern charge hit the wildling camp like a hammer, scattering disorganized clusters of raiders. The first mammoth trumpeted in panic as Grey Wind darted between its legs. The direwolf's presence unsettled the massive creature, some primal instinct recognizing a predator far deadlier than its size suggested. The giant atop it roared in frustration as Northern arrows found their marks. Three shafts pierced his throat, and he toppled from the mammoth's back. The beast screamed and bolted, crashing through the wildling lines, crushing friend and foe beneath its massive feet.

Robb's heart pounded in his ears as he swung his sword at an oncoming Thenn warrior. The bronze shield rose too late, and his blade found its mark, slicing through flesh and bone. Blood sprayed across the frost, and the Thenn fell, clutching his chest. Robb’s hand froze mid-swing as he stared at the body—his first kill. The reality of it crashed into him like a wave, drowning him in shock. The world seemed to slow, the clamor of battle fading into the distance.

A scream jolted him back to the present—a wildling, axe raised, rushing to exploit his hesitation. Before Robb could react, Grey Wind was there. The direwolf leapt, his jaws closing around the wildling's neck, and the man collapsed in a gurgling heap. Grey Wind turned to Robb, blood dripping from his maw, and growled softly, urging him forward.

Robb gritted his teeth, forcing the shock away as he spurred his horse onward. There was no time for hesitation now. His sword moved with newfound purpose, striking down another Ice River clansman. The man’s crude spear snapped beneath Robb’s blade, and Grey Wind brought him to the ground moments later.

"Keep moving!" Cregan bellowed, his sword carving a bloody path through the chaos. Ice, the Stark greatsword, shone in the dawn light as it cleaved through a wildling, its Valyrian steel edge cutting effortlessly. Cregan rode with the calm precision of a veteran, never lingering, never losing momentum. He knew the perils of cavalry bogged down in prolonged melee. The key was movement—horses needed space to maneuver, their mass and speed shattering formations before they could fully cohere.

A second mammoth charged the Northern line, this one under tighter control. The giant atop it roared, his war cry echoing across the battlefield. The beast barreled forward, tusks lowered to gore the charging cavalry. Grey Wind darted to intercept, his presence unnerving the mammoth just enough to disrupt its charge. As the beast hesitated, Northern archers loosed another volley. The giant slumped forward, an arrow through his eye, and the mammoth panicked, rearing back into the wildling ranks.

The Ice River clans were falling apart, their brutish ferocity no match for Northern discipline. Robb and Grey Wind moved as one, carving through clusters of wildlings with steel and fangs. The direwolf’s primal fury struck fear into their enemies, scattering disorganized groups in all directions. Those who tried to rally fell beneath Robb’s sword, his confidence growing with each strike.

"Reform!" Cregan’s command cut through the chaos like Ice through flesh. The Northern cavalry wheeled with practiced precision, pulling back in perfect unison as the archers loosed another volley. The retreat was deliberate, drawing the wildlings forward and exposing their disarray.

The Thenns, though, held firm. Their bronze shields raised together, overlapping in a disciplined wall that deflected arrow after arrow. They moved forward in a phalanx, spears bristling, their determination starkly contrasting to the disorganized clans around them.

Cregan saw the opportunity. "Cavalry, ready for another charge!" The riders formed a wedge, their horses snorting and pawing the ground, eager to run. "On my command!"

The Northern horns sounded again, and the cavalry surged forward. The Thenns braced for impact, their shields locked tightly. But as the wedge struck, the combined weight of horses and riders proved too much. Shields buckled, and the formation shattered, spears snapping beneath hooves. Grey Wind darted into the gaps, sowing further chaos as Robb’s blade cut through the remnants of the line.

"Sound the horns!" Cregan called, his sharp eyes surveying the battlefield. The wildlings were breaking, their lines fragmenting as panic spread like wildfire. Giants and mammoths lay dead or fled, and the once-strong Thenns were scattered.

"Give them room to yield!" Cregan commanded. He raised Ice high, its edge gleaming in the pale light, as the Northern forces reformed, ready to finish what they had begun.

The left flank moved with characteristic Bolton precision, 500 riders advancing in perfect formation. Lady ran silently beside Domeric's horse, her usual gentle demeanor replaced by something ancient and predatory. Domeric had never seen Sansa's direwolf bare her teeth before, but now she moved with the same deadly grace as her siblings, a living embodiment of the North’s ferocity.

"Forward at a gallop," Roose Bolton commanded softly, his words carrying an unnatural weight. The cavalry surged ahead, their charge a thunderous symphony of hooves pounding against frozen earth. Domeric rode near the center of the formation, his sword drawn, his heart steady despite the rising chaos. Ahead, the wildling lines scrambled to react, disorganized but fierce, with shouts and war cries echoing across the icy battlefield.

As they closed the distance, a group of Thenns, their bronze shields polished and gleaming even in the pale dawn light, raised their defenses in unison, forming a bristling shield wall. Spears jutted from behind the shields, a glimmer of discipline amid the wildling chaos.

The clash was brutal. Bolton riders struck the wall like a hammer, the weight of their charge shattering some lines but failing to break the Thenns entirely. Horses screamed as spears found their marks, while swords flashed against bronze shields. Lady moved through the melee, her silent lethality unsettling even the fiercest warriors. She leaped onto one of the Thenn captains, her jaws closing around his throat, dragging him from the line in a spray of blood.

"Pull back!" Roose's voice cut through the din. The riders wheeled expertly, withdrawing just as the wildlings tried to press their advantage. Domeric kept his horse steady, glancing back to see the Thenns reforming, raising their shields again in a disciplined advance.

The cavalry returned to their lines, their charge having sown disarray but leaving the Thenns intact. Domeric’s breath steamed in the frigid air as he took stock. Many horses bore wounds, and some riders limped back, clutching their sides. The Thenn shield wall remained, battered but unbroken.

Roose watched the battlefield with cold calculation. His pale eyes flicked to the Bolton archers, waiting in perfect ranks behind the cavalry. "Archers, loose at my command," he said, his voice barely a whisper yet clear. The bowmen raised their longbows, arrows nocked and ready. "Giants first. Then their beasts."

The wildling mammoths emerged from the mist, their massive forms looming like ancient nightmares. Riders perched atop their backs, bellowing war cries that echoed across the icy plain. One of the beasts charged forward tusks glinting with frost.

"Loose," Roose commanded.

The air filled with the hiss of arrows. A disciplined volley arced overhead, striking true. Giants toppled, clutching at arrows lodged in throats and eyes, their bellows of pain drowning out the sounds of battle. The mammoths reared and screamed, thrashing as their riders tumbled.

But the Thenns were ready. As arrows approached them, their shields came up, overlapping to form a protective shell. The first volley clattered harmlessly against the bronze wall, the sound a sharp counterpoint to the chaos surrounding them.

Roose's eyes narrowed. "Cavalry, reform. Prepare for another charge."

The Bolton riders moved with practiced precision, forming a wedge formation. Domeric tightened his grip on the reins, his sword slick with blood. Ahead, the Thenns began to shift their formation, spears bristling as they prepared for the oncoming assault.

"Archers, second volley," Roose commanded. Arrows flew again, aimed at the Thenn flanks where their shields offered no protection. Warriors fell, clutching at throats and legs, and the shield wall wavered.

"Charge!" Roose ordered.

The Bolton cavalry surged forward again, their wedge slamming into the weakened Thenn line. This time, the shield wall splintered under the combined weight of arrows and horses. Spears snapped, and bronze shields crumpled as the riders crashed through. Domeric's blade struck true, slashing a path through the chaos. Lady darted ahead, her silent fury scattering wildlings in every direction. She leapt onto a mammoth's flank, her fangs finding purchase in the beast’s thick hide. The creature screamed and reared, trampling its riders as it tried to shake her off.

The Thenns broke, their discipline collapsing under the relentless assault. Wildlings fled in all directions, pursued by Lady and the Bolton riders.

"Reform ranks," Roose commanded, his tone calm, almost bored. The cavalry wheeled back, leaving the battlefield strewn with bodies. "Archers, pick your targets. Make every shaft count."

The Bolton archers delivered death with unerring precision, cutting down the stragglers. Lady returned to Domeric’s side, her muzzle stained with blood, her golden eyes gleaming with a feral light.

Through it all, Roose Bolton stood motionless, his pale eyes scanning the battlefield—no wasted movements, no wild charges – just cold, calculated annihilation.

The right flank thundered forward at the horns' signal, the Greatjon's booming laughter carrying over the sound of hooves. "SHOW THEM HOW THE NORTH FIGHTS, LADS!" His massive sword was already drawn, the steel catching the grey dawn light.

Jon rode beside him, Ghost a white shadow pacing their charge. The Umber men followed, their discipline holding despite their lord's notorious battlefield fury. Jon had seen how the Greatjon drilled his men relentlessly - wild they might be, but they knew how to hold formation.

The first impact was chaos. A mammoth reared before them, its giant rider swinging a massive stone club. Ghost darted between the beast's legs, his white fur making him seem like a spirit in the dim light. The mammoth trumpeted in terror, nearly throwing its rider as Ghost's presence triggered some primal fear in the massive creature.

"THAT'S IT, BOY!" the Greatjon roared approvingly as arrows took down the giant. He swung his greatsword in a deadly arc, cleaving through a Thenn's bronze armor like it was parchment. "KEEP MOVING! DON'T LET THEM BUNCH US UP!"

Jon's sword found its mark repeatedly, the lessons learned in Winterfell's training yard serving him well. Ghost worked in perfect concert with him, the direwolf targeting the legs of horses and mammoths while Jon struck at their riders. Together they created a deadly zone of white fur and flashing steel.

"Watch the ice-river men!" the Greatjon warned, blood already staining his beard. "They'll try to hamstring the horses!" He demonstrated his point by riding over a wildling who'd attempted to duck under his mount, trampling the man beneath iron-shod hooves.

A group of Thenns attempted to form a shield wall, their bronze armor gleaming. Ghost's appearance made their horses panic, breaking their formation before it could fully form. Jon drove into the gap, his sword finding the weak points in their armor just as he'd been taught.

"THE WOLF! THE WOLF!" The cry went up among the wildlings as Ghost brought down another mammoth, spooking it into trampling its own lines. The direwolf seemed everywhere at once, his white fur stained red, but his movements never slowing.

The Umber men kept their formation despite their lord's berserker fury, and years of drilling were evident in how they moved as one unit. They struck like a hammer, but a disciplined one, never breaking ranks or losing cohesion even in the chaos of battle.

Another mammoth fell to their combined assault, Ghost's harassment driving it into a panic while Northern arrows found the giant controlling it. The massive beast crashed through the wildling lines in its death throes, creating even more chaos.

"REFORM!" the Greatjon's voice boomed over the battlefield as they prepared for another pass. "SHOW THEM WHY THE LAST HEARTH STANDS STRONG!"

Jon found himself grinning despite the blood and chaos. The Greatjon's enthusiasm was infectious, and his massive presence inspired those around him even as his sword claimed life after life. A ghost appeared beside Jon's horse, red eyes alert for their next target.

They struck again and again, each charge more deadly than the last. The wildlings had no answer for the combination of Northern cavalry, disciplined archery, and a direwolf's supernatural terror. When Cregan's signal came to offer surrender, the Greatjon reluctantly reined in his bloodlust.

"Shame to stop now," he grumbled, though there was respect in his voice as he watched the wildlings begin to yield.

Jon watched as Ghost padded back to his side, the direwolf's white fur crimson with battle, but his movements were still solid and sure. Together, they'd helped break the greatest wildling army ever assembled, proving that the blood of the First Men ran true in both wolf and warrior.

"Well fought, lad," the Greatjon said more quietly, clapping Jon's shoulder hard enough to nearly unhorse him. "You and that white demon of yours did the North proud today."

Around them, the sounds of battle faded as more wildlings threw down their weapons. The right flank had held true, matching the center's success in breaking Mance's army. Dawn broke fully over the battlefield, revealing the scale of their victory and the wisdom of offering mercy to those who would take it.

Chapter Text

Inside the Shield Hall of Castle Black, torchlight cast flickering shadows across weathered stone walls. Cregan sat at the high table, Robb and Jon flanking him, their direwolves lounging with deceptive casualness at their feet. The Northern lords - Bolton, Karstark, Umber, and others - lined one side of the hall, tense and watchful after the morning's battle.

Mance Rayder stood before them with only Tormund Giantsbane and Sigorn of Thenn beside him. Despite his army's defeat, the King-Beyond-the-Wall maintained his dignity under guard.

"What do you want, Mance Rayder?" Cregan asked.

"Life for my people, Lord Stark," Mance replied evenly. "A chance to survive what comes."

"A hundred thousand free folk don't abandon their lands and unite under one king without cause," Cregan observed coldly. "Even in defeat, you show more concern for what lies behind you than the army that broke yours."

"Would you believe us if we told you?" Tormund asked gruffly.

"I'm not a fool," Cregan replied. "The free folk refuse to kneel to anyone, yet here you stand, following one man. Clans that have warred for thousands of years now fight together. Something drives you south - something worse than death in battle."

"The dead themselves walk, Lord Stark," Mance said quietly. "The cold gods return. Every village we couldn't burn in time, everybody we couldn't reach—"

"You'll need more than words to convince my bannermen," Cregan cut him off. "If you want safe passage south of the Wall, prove what drives you here. Not to me - but to them." He gestured to the assembled Northern lords. "Show us what frightens the free folk enough to make them follow one king."

Mance gestured to one of his men. The wildling brought forward a heavy sack. When its contents spilled across the floor, hardened warriors recoiled - severed hands, black with frost but still moving, fingers grasping at empty air.

"These were my warriors," Mance said grimly. "Every village we don't burn, every corpse we can't carry to the flames - they all rise. The cold gods walk again, Lord Stark. The true enemy returns."

Grey Wind and Ghost rose suddenly, hackles raised as they approached the twitching hands. Their growls carried something primal, a recognition of ancient wrong.

"And what do you propose?" Cregan asked, though his eyes never left the moving hands.

"Give us passage south," Mance replied. "Land to settle. In return, we'll help hold the Wall against what comes."

"Brandon's Gift has space," Cregan said carefully. "But there will be laws. Break them, and you'll face Northern justice. This isn't a negotiation - it's your only chance for survival."

Mance nodded, accepting the terms. It’s more than they can ask for.

"What of those who went ranging?" Cregan asked, his voice growing colder. "The Lord Commander took three hundred men beyond the Wall. My brother Benjen went before them. Only a few have returned."

A heavy silence fell across the hall. Even Tormund's usual bluster faded.

"The Fist of the First Men was a slaughter," Mance said grimly. "Those who died there... they serve them now. Your brother..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "We found his horse riderless. The Old Crow and his men made their stand at the Fist, but against what comes in the night..."

"And our uncle Benjen Stark?" Jon asked quietly, speaking for the first time.

"You won't hear from him again," Mance replied solemnly. "The dead are marching south; every ranger they catch only adds to their numbers. That's why we're here. That's why I united the free folk."

The hall fell silent save for the grotesque movement of the severed hands. The implications were clear - the Night's Watch's finest rangers, including the Old Bear himself, had fallen to the army of the dead. And everyone that fell rose again with blue eyes to serve the true enemy.

Cregan's face might have been carved from stone, but those who knew him best could see the grief and rage he contained. Three hundred of the Watch's best men, his own "brother" among them - all now part of the army they would have to face.

The hour for negotiation was over. Now, it was time to prepare for war.

The following negotiations were brief but detailed: Cregan's pre-prepared plan for wildling settlement was enacted. 

After the Free Folk leaders departed, Cregan faced Alliser Thorne in the Lord commander's chamber.The acting Lord Commander stood stiffly, his customary sneer faltering under Cregan's cold assessment.

"Tell me, Ser Alliser," Cregan began quietly, his voice deadly calm. Why did you not immediately inform Winterfell when the Tarly boy returned with news of the Old Bear's ranging?"

"The Watch doesn't answer to Winterfell—" Thorne began.

"No," Cregan cut him off. "The Watch answers to the realm it's sworn to protect. The same realm you endangered with your silence." His grey eyes bored into Thorne. "Did you know about the dead before Mormont went ranging?"

Thorne shifted uncomfortably. "There were... reports."

"Reports." The word fell like ice. "Was it only the Tarly boy who spoke of these things?"

"There were others," Thorne admitted reluctantly. "Rangers who claimed to see... things in the night."

"Three hundred men," Cregan's voice grew colder still. "Three hundred of your brothers venture beyond the Wall. A handful return with tales of horror, and you, as acting Lord Commander, never questioned why? Never wondered what could slaughter the Old Bear and the Watch's finest rangers?"

"Wildlings have always been a threat—"

"Wildlings." Cregan's laugh held no humor. "Tell me, in all your years at the Wall, when have the free folk ever united under one leader? When have the Thenns abandoned their bronze halls to follow a former crow? Did you never ask yourself what could frighten them enough to kneel to Mance Rayder?"

Thorne's face flushed. "I don't have to explain—"

"You do," Cregan interrupted. "You absolutely do. Because your pride, your contempt for that 'coward' Tarly, nearly cost us everything. The ranging parties, the dead men, the wildlings uniting - all signs you chose to ignore."

He stepped closer, his presence filling the room. "I'm not here to undermine your authority in the Watch, Ser Alliser. But understand this - your disregard for these warnings could have doomed us all. The Watch needed to know. The North needed to know. Instead, you let your disdain for a fat boy blind you to the real threat."

"What would you have had me do?" Thorne demanded. "Send ravens crying about grumpkins and snarks?"

"I would have had you remember your vows," Cregan replied coldly. "The shield that guards the realms of men. Not the shield that guards your pride. The enemy you were truly meant to fight approaches, Ser Alliser. The one the Wall was built to stop. And you nearly let them catch us unaware because you couldn't see past your own prejudices."

Thorne stood silently, the truth of Cregan's words hanging heavy in the cold air.

"The Watch will adapt to this threat," Cregan concluded, "or it will die. Those are your only choices now. Learn from the free folk - they've paid for their knowledge in blood. Or watch your command become just another set of blue eyes in the army of the dead."

He turned to leave, then stopped at the door. "One more thing. The next time someone brings you word of the dead walking - be they lord or peasant, warrior or craven - you will listen. The dead don't care about our titles or our pride. Remember that, Ser Alliser."

The door closed behind him with quiet finality, leaving Thorne alone with uncomfortable truths and the growing winter chill.

Snow fell lightly as Roose and Domeric Bolton rode south from Castle Black, their men following at a respectful distance. The severed hand, still twitching occasionally in its sealed box, was secured to Roose's saddle - proof for the Citadel of what awaited them all.

"Do you believe him, Father?" Domeric asked quietly. "That he only learned of this threat from that deserter?"

"No." Roose's voice was characteristically soft, yet carried clearly in the winter air. "Lord Stark's preparations these past years... they speak of deeper knowledge." His pale eyes studied the falling snow. "The glass gardens, the restored fortresses, the soldier rotation at the wall - he wasn't just preparing for winter or ironborn raids."

"The trade routes," Domeric added thoughtfully. "Ensuring every major house had enough food stored..."

"And now we see why." Roose guided his horse around a patch of ice. "He knew what was coming. Not just the white walkers, I'd wager, but everything. Why else refuse to march south when his goodfather's lands burned? Why maintain our strength here instead of supporting Stannis's claim?"

"Like a seer," Domeric mused. "Or something older. The Stark line goes back to the Age of Heroes..."

"The old powers of the North," Roose agreed. "We Boltons remember such things, even if others choose to forget." He paused. "Interesting that he chose me to ride to Oldtown. Boltons haven't traveled south since before Aegon's Landing."

"Why do you think he selected you, Father?"

A ghost of a smile touched Roose's bloodless lips. "The maesters deal in facts, in. They'll dismiss tales of white walkers from most men... but they know the reputation of Boltons. They’ll know it's not some fever dream or drunken fancy." He glanced at the box containing the hand. "Lord Stark needs the Citadel to believe, and he knows they'll not easily dismiss the Lord of the Dreadfort - we're not known for flights of fancy or embellished tales."

They rode in silence for a moment before Domeric spoke again. "If he truly has the old sight... if he's known all along what's coming..."

"Then everything he's done has been preparation for this war," Roose finished. "And we'd do well to remember that when he gives his next commands." His pale eyes fixed on the horizon. "The North awakens, son. The old powers stir. Lord Stark knew - has known for years, I'd wager. Now we all see why."

WINTERFELL

A light snow fell over Winterfell when word came of Domeric's arrival from the Dreadfort just few days after the battle. Sansa's heart leapt at the news, her feet carrying her swiftly to the courtyard before propriety could catch up with her eagerness. She found him dismounting, still in his riding clothes, his pale eyes lighting up at the sight of her.

Without waiting for formality, she grasped his hand and led him toward the godswood, her pulse quickening at their solitude. She knew they should have a chaperone, but at that moment, she couldn't bring herself to care.

"Lady protected you," she said softly once they reached the heart tree, the direwolf settling nearby to watch. "I was so worried..."

"She was magnificent," Domeric replied, stepping closer. His eyes traced her features with new intensity. "I kept thinking of you, during the battle and after. Not just of duty or alliances, but of you, Sansa."

She met his gaze, seeing something shift in those pale eyes that caught her breath. When he bent to kiss her, she rose to meet him. The first press of his lips was gentle, almost reverent. But then he drew back slightly, searching her face, and what he saw there made him kiss her again with newfound urgency.

When he drew her in for that second kiss, something changed. Sansa found herself melting against him, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Without truly understanding what drove her, she parted her lips, her tongue tentatively seeking his. The innocence of that unconscious gesture broke something in Domeric's careful control. He deepened the kiss, following her lead with practiced skill that made her legs weak. When a small moan escaped her, he jerked back suddenly as if burned, putting immediate distance between them.

"Gods, Sansa," he managed hoarsely, his pale eyes dark with barely restrained desire. "We need a chaperone. Now more than ever."

Sansa stood there, breathing heavily, her lips still tingling from the intensity of that kiss. She didn't fully understand what had just happened or why he'd pulled away so abruptly, but she could feel the charged tension between them, something far more potent than their usual comfortable companionship.

"Yes," she agreed breathlessly, though part of her wished to chase that electricity between them further. "We should return to the keep."

As they walked back, maintaining careful distance between them, Sansa caught Domeric watching her with that same heated intensity. Something had awakened in him - something that went beyond their growing affection into territory she'd only read about in songs. She might be innocent, but she wasn't naive enough to miss how his controlled facade had slipped, revealing depths of passion she hadn't expected from her usually restrained betrothed.

The snow continued to fall, as if trying to cool the fire that single kiss had ignited between them.

Domeric paced his chamber in Winterfell, his usual Bolton composure thoroughly shaken. The taste of Sansa still lingered on his lips, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw her - flushed and breathless, responding to his kiss with an innocence that had nearly undone him.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, trying to regain control. He was a Bolton, trained since childhood to master his impulses, to keep desires firmly leashed. Yet that kiss in the godswood had awakened something he hadn't expected. Something raw and hungry that had nothing to do with their careful political alliance or their growing friendship.

Of course he'd known pleasure before, during his time in the Vale. Controlled encounters, satisfying but ultimately forgettable. He'd never lost himself, never felt this consuming need to touch, to taste again. But when Sansa had instinctively deepened their kiss, her inexperienced passion destroying his carefully maintained restraint...

Domeric pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall, trying to cool the heat in his blood. He'd grown fond of their time together - discussing trade routes, playing music, sharing Northern histories. He respected her sharp mind, admired how she balanced grace with practicality. But now... now he found himself watching her lips as she spoke, remembering how they'd parted so sweetly under his. His dreams will be filled with the small sounds she'd made, the way she'd melted against him.

This wasn't just lust - he knew lust, could control it. This was something more dangerous, more consuming. Desire tangled with genuine affection, with growing admiration, making it all the more potent. Every glance, every accidental touch now carried new meaning, new temptation.

He would need iron control in the moons ahead. They weren't wed yet, and he refused to dishonor her. But gods, knowing how responsive she was, how perfectly she fit against him... The Bolton in him might be trained to control impulses, but the man in him had awakened to something far more powerful than mere physical attraction.

Sleep would not come easily tonight, not with the memory of that kiss burning through his veins.

Chapter Text

The great hall of Winterfell was quiet save for family tonight, the evening meal a private affair after the day's duties. Steam rose from bowls of hearty stew, the recipe a blend of southern refinement and northern practicality that seemed to symbolize how the Starks had evolved over the years.

"News from King's Landing," Catelyn said carefully, breaking the comfortable silence. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the raven scroll she'd received that morning. "Three ravens, actually, arriving in quick succession over the past fortnight. Each bearing darker tidings than the last."

Cregan looked up from his meal, noting how she held herself - the same rigid posture she'd maintained through other political storms. "Tell us."

"Joffrey is dead," she began, watching their reactions carefully. "Poisoned at his own wedding feast, the very day after your battle beyond the Wall. They say he died horribly, clawing at his own throat while his face turned black."

Arya's savage grin earned her a sharp look from her mother, though Cregan noted how Catelyn didn't seem particularly grieved by the news herself.

"The Tyrells must be beside themselves," Sansa observed diplomatically. "All their careful planning to make Margaery a queen..."

"That's not all," Catelyn continued. "Cersei accused Tyrion of the murder. He demanded trial by combat." She paused, her eyes finding her husband's. "Prince Oberyn volunteered to be his champion."

"Against Ser Gregor Clegane," Cregan finished, seeing the truth in her expression. "The Red Viper's luck finally ran out?"

"They say he had the Mountain beaten," Catelyn's voice carried equal measures of disgust and admiration. "But he wanted a confession more than a victory. The Mountain crushed his skull while admitting to Elia's murder."

A heavy silence fell over the table. Even Rickon seemed to sense the weight of it.

"There's more," Catelyn said finally. "The last raven arrived this morning. Lord Tywin is dead as well."

That brought every head up sharply. "How?" Robb asked, leaning forward.

"Killed by Tyrion, if the reports are true. Found dead in his privy, shot through with a crossbow bolt." Catelyn's voice carried a note of grim satisfaction. "The Imp escaped afterward. No one knows where he's fled."

"Three lions brought low in a fortnight," Jon mused quietly. "The gods have interesting timing."

"The gods had less to do with it than men's ambitions, I'd wager," Cregan replied, though his ancient wisdom saw deeper patterns at work. "The Lannisters finally reaped what they've sown."

"What happens now?" Arya asked, her training with the Mormont warriors having given her a sharp eye for power shifts. "Tommen's just a boy..."

"Now the real dance begins," Cregan said grimly. "Cersei will rule as regent, but she lacks her father's cunning. The Tyrells will seek to control young Tommen through Margaery. And somewhere across the Narrow Sea, dragons grow stronger while the realm bleeds itself dry with summer wars."

"At least Edmure's careful fealty keeps the Riverlands safe for now," Catelyn observed. Her brother's pragmatic approach, following Cregan's counsel after their father's death, had helped shield their homeland from further bloodshed.

"The south will play their games," Cregan agreed. "But our path remains clear. The true enemy gathers beyond the Wall, and that's where our strength must focus."

"What of Dorne?" Sansa asked, her diplomatic training evident in how she pieced together the implications. "With Prince Oberyn dead and the Mountain's confession about Elia... Surely Prince Doran won't let this stand, even with Myrcella betrothed to his son?"

"Doran Martell is not a man to act rashly," Cregan replied, drawing on ancient wisdom. "Even with his brother's death and Tywin's confession through his monster, he'll move like a viper - patient, waiting for the perfect moment to strike."

"The Tyrells and Lannisters will be focused on each other," Robb observed. "With Tywin dead and Cersei as regent..."

"Precisely," Cregan nodded. "Doran has waited years for justice. Now, with the Lannisters weakened and the Tyrells trying to secure their power through young Tommen, the vipers have room to move. The betrothal of Myrcella to Trystane gives them a perfect excuse to keep their intentions hidden."

"Like pieces on a cyvasse board," Jon added quietly. "The Martells can position themselves while everyone watches the Tyrells and Lannisters circle each other."

"And if Dorne does strike," Catelyn noted, "they'll likely wait until the Lannisters and Tyrells have weakened each other further."

"The Red Viper's death may actually serve his brother's purposes better than his life did," Cregan mused. "Doran now has a public confession about Elia's murder, a clear cause for vengeance, and enemies too busy watching each other to see him moving his spears into position."

Arya leaned forward, fascinated by the layers of intrigue. "So, Prince Doran will use Myrcella's betrothal as a shield while he prepares for war?"

"Perhaps," Cregan answered carefully. "Though Doran Martell's game is likely more complex than simple revenge."

"But who really holds the power of queen now?" Arya asked, her head tilting thoughtfully. "If Margaery marries Tommen, she's queen, even if he's not of age. But Cersei is queen dowager and regent..." Her eyes narrowed. "They can't both rule, can they?"

A slight smile touched Cregan's lips. "Now there's the real battle to come. Cersei will claim all authority through her regency until Tommen comes of age. But the Tyrells didn't arrange this marriage to have Margaery sit quietly in the shadows."

"Two queens in one Red Keep," Catelyn observed dryly. "One with wealth and ambition, the other with authority and a lifetime of resentment. I don't envy the servants who must navigate between them."

"The Tyrells will try to isolate Cersei," Sansa added with political acumen. "They'll use Margaery's charm to win over the court, and the masses while keeping Tommen close. A young boy is more likely to listen to a beautiful young wife than a controlling mother."

"And Cersei will see enemies in every shadow," Cregan noted grimly. "She never learned the difference between fear and respect. Without Tywin to check her worst impulses..."

"She'll lash out," Catelyn finished. "And the Tyrells will use every mistake to further undermine her position."

"Two queens," Arya mused. "Both thinking they're the clever one."

"And both of them wrong," Cregan said softly. "The real power won't rest with either of them in the end. But they'll tear each other apart competing for it all the same."

ESSOS

"The Usurper's line grows weaker," Daenerys said softly as the evening air hung thick with heat in Meereen. She sat upon her bench of polished ebony while Missandei arranged the latest messages from their informants across the Narrow Sea. "First the boy Joffrey at his own wedding feast, then the Old Lion himself, killed by his own son." She turned to Ser Barristan. "You knew Tywin Lannister. What does his death mean for the Seven Kingdoms?"

"Chaos, Your Grace," Barristan answered carefully. "Tywin Lannister was feared more than loved, but he kept order through force of will alone. Without him..." He paused. "The Lannisters and Tyrells will turn on each other soon enough, each seeking to control young Tommen."

"And what of Lord Stannis's claims?" Daenerys asked. "That the children were born of incest, not of the Usurper's blood at all?"

"Lord Stannis is not a man who makes such accusations lightly, Your Grace," Barristan replied. "He is rigid, uncompromising - a man who would break before he bent. If he says the children are born of incest, he believes it true."

"Would he lie to claim his nephew's throne?"

"No, Your Grace. Stannis Baratheon cares more for law than power. He presses his claim because he believes it is his duty as Robert's rightful heir, not from ambition."

Daenerys considered this carefully. "And what of Lord Stark? You told me he opposed sending assassins after me, that he resigned as Hand rather than support my murder. If Stannis speaks true about the children's parentage, surely such an honorable man would support Stannis?"

"That is... complex, Your Grace," Barristan said slowly. "Lord Stark attended his son's wedding with King Robert's blessing. But after Robert's death, the boy king Joffrey immediately stripped him of his position as Hand and commanded him never to return to King's Landing. It was a grave insult, handled poorly."

"Yet even after such an insult, if Stark truly believed Stannis's claims about the children..." Daenerys let the question hang.

"Lord Stark knows Stannis well, Your Grace. If Stannis presented evidence of the children's true parentage, Stark would know whether to trust it."

"Then why declare neutrality?" Daenerys pressed. "If he believes Stannis speaks true, if he knows the man's character as you say, why not support his claim?"

"That, Your Grace, is the question that troubles many in Westeros," Barristan admitted. "The North's neutrality, their careful preparation and fortification... some say Lord Stark sees something coming that the rest of us don't."

“I’m curious. If Tywin Lannister could ravage the Riverlands for their neutrality, why not do the same to the North?" Daenerys asked, leaning forward with interest. "Surely the Old Lion wouldn't let such independence go unchallenged?"

Barristan smiled grimly. "The Riverlands are rich, flat lands, Your Grace, easily invaded from multiple directions. The North..." He shook his head. "The only way in by land is through Moat Cailin, which was fully restored to its ancient strength. When I saw it during our journey, I understood why no southern army has ever taken it by force."

"We heard the ironborn attempted an attack during the war," he continued. "But word reached us that they were soundly defeated. Knowing the North's defenses, I'm not surprised. The Moat itself is formidable, but it's the crannogmen who make the Neck truly impenetrable."

"These crannogmen?" Daenerys asked.

"Small in stature but deadly in their own lands, Your Grace. They know every channel, every path through the swamps. They can disappear into bogs that would swallow mounted knights, strike from the reeds with poisoned weapons, vanish before retaliation. The Neck is their fortress as much as Moat Cailin, and they're fanatically loyal to House Stark."

"And the western shores?" Daenerys pressed.

"Protected by a new system of watchtowers and patrol ships. The eastern coast has always had White Harbor's strength. Between those defenses, the crannogmen's loyalty, and winter approaching..." He spread his hands. "Tywin Lannister was many things, Your Grace, but never a fool. He knew which battles were worth the cost. The North would bleed any invading army dry before they ever reached its heartlands, and even if they somehow succeeded, they'd have to hold it through a northern winter."

"So the North is truly a fortress," Daenerys mused. "Self-sufficient as you described, defended on all sides, trading enough to maintain itself but not dependent on any single partner."

"Indeed. The Lannisters could burn the Riverlands because the risk was low and the potential gains high. But the North?" Barristan shook his head. "They'd bleed themselves white trying to crack that shell, and even if they succeeded, they'd have to maintain their forces through hostile swamps while facing the fury of the North itself. The cost would far outweigh any possible benefit."

"That's what makes it so clever, Your Grace. Everything was done in the name of preparing for winter. The glass gardens to grow food in the cold. The restored fortresses to protect against ironborn raids. The trade routes to ensure supplies. Yet the end result..." He paused thoughtfully. "The North is practically independent already, though they never declared it. They pay their taxes to the crown, maintain all the forms of fealty, but have quietly built themselves into a position where they need little from the south."

"So they don't need a ruler from the south then?" Daenerys asked, her violet eyes sharp with understanding.

Barristan hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "The North remembers the last dragons, Your Grace, but they remember their independence before the dragons as well. They haven't forgotten either."

Daenerys nodded slowly, turning to watch her children wheeling against the darkening sky. The implications hung unspoken between them - the North's careful preparations could serve equally well against dragons as against lions.

Chapter Text

CITADEL

The air in the Seneschal's Court carried the musty scent of old books and older pride. Roose Bolton sat straight-backed in his chair, his pale eyes studying the assembled archmaesters with the same calculating patience he might use when preparing to flay a man. The sealed box containing the still-twitching hand sat on the table between them, untouched.

"You expect us to believe," Archmaester Ebrose said carefully, "that this... specimen... proves the return of creatures from children's tales?"

"I expect nothing from the Citadel," Roose replied. "I merely deliver what Lord Stark commanded shown. Whether you choose to believe your eyes is no concern of mine."

"The box remains sealed," Archmaester Perestan noted with scholarly precision. "How are we to verify—"

"By all means," Roose gestured to the box. "Though I suggest you have your guards ready. The contents remain... active."

The assembled maesters exchanged glances. None seemed eager to be the first to open the box, despite their proclaimed dedication to knowledge.

"You sailed quite far out of your way to bring us a box you claim contains proof of grumpkins and snarks," Ebrose observed. "The western route would have been faster."

"The western route," Roose's bloodless lips curved in what might have been a smile, "currently hosts three different ironborn factions hunting any ship worth taking." He paused deliberately.

"We have noticed," Perestan admitted. "Though some suggested the North deliberately blocked western trade to—"

 Roose cut him off, his voice growing softer still. "The North gains nothing from disrupting trade."

"Open the box," Roose commanded suddenly. "Or shall I tell Lord Stark the Citadel's vaunted dedication to knowledge extends only to comfortable truths?"

Ebrose's face tightened at the implied insult. He gestured to one of the younger maesters, who approached the box with visible reluctance. The moment the seal broke, the hand inside began moving with renewed vigor, its blackened fingers grasping at empty air.

Several maesters recoiled. One muttered a prayer to the Seven. Even Ebrose's scholarly composure cracked slightly.

"Impossible," Perestan whispered.

Without warning, Roose drew a sharp dagger from his belt and drove it through the hand's palm, pinning it to the table. The blackened flesh didn't bleed—it had no blood left to give—but the fingers continued their grasping motion, unaffected by what should have been a crippling wound.

"Examine it," Roose suggested, leaving his dagger embedded in the moving hand. "Touch it, if you dare. Feel how cold it remains, even in this warm room."

None stepped forward to accept his invitation. The hand continued its relentless movement, the dagger through its palm seeming to cause it no distress at all.

 "While you debate in your tower, death marches south. Lord Stark sends this proof not to convince you of children's tales, but to prepare the realm for what comes with winter."

"These are serious claims," Ebrose managed finally. "The Citadel cannot simply—"

"The Citadel can do as it pleases," Roose rose smoothly. "The North prepares regardless of your belief or disbelief. But ask yourselves this: why would the Lord of the Dreadfort sail halfway around Westeros to bring you a tale of grumpkins and snarks?"

He pulled his dagger free—the hand kept moving, unhindered by the hole now piercing its palm. "Keep it. Study it. Write your learned treatises about it. The North has no time for your debates. Winter comes, and with it, things that care nothing for your chains or your theories."

"You speak of winter," Perestan noted carefully. "Yet the Starks have spent years preparing—"

“I speak of winter that brings more than the cold." He moved toward the door, then paused. "The North will do its duty, as we have for thousands of years. We will fight this threat. And when we fall—each Northern death only adds to their numbers. You’ll be corpses joining their ranks if you don’t heed this warning." His bloodless lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "I suggest you burn that hand before nightfall. They grow... stronger after dark."

He left them then, the assembled wisdom of the Citadel staring at the twitching proof of everything their comfortable learning denied. Through the closing door, he heard one of them suggesting it must be some form of dark magic, even as the hand continued its relentless movement, untired and unhurt by his blade.

As he walked through the Citadel's ancient halls, Roose allowed himself a small smile. Lord Stark had chosen well in sending him. The Citadel might dismiss tales from other houses, but the Boltons' reputation for cold practicality would make even these proud maesters question their certainties.

The Seneschal's Court remained silent for several long moments after Roose Bolton's departure, the only sound the soft scraping of the wight's hand against the ancient wooden table. The blackened fingers continued their rhythmic grasping, the hole left by Bolton's dagger seeming to trouble it not at all.

"Dark magic," Ebrose repeated firmly, though his eyes never left the moving appendage. "Some form of blood sorcery from beyond the Wall, perhaps. The wildlings are known to—"

"Blood magic requires blood," Perestan cut in, his scholarly certainty wavering. "This thing has none. Look at the tissue degradation. By all natural laws, it should be rotting, yet..." He gestured helplessly at the still-moving fingers.

A younger maester, Cellador, moved closer to examine the hand, though he was careful to stay beyond its reach. "The tissue shows signs of severe freezing, but no normal decay. And the temperature... even in this warm room, it radiates a noticeable chill."

"Roose Bolton is not known for flights of fancy," Archmaester Ryam noted quietly. "The Boltons are many things, but never credulous. If he sailed all this way to bring us this..."

"You cannot seriously be suggesting—" Ebrose began.

"What I am suggesting," Ryam interrupted, "is that we examine the evidence before us without the comfort of our preconceptions. When was the last time a Bolton lord left the North? Yet this one sailed halfway around the continent to deliver this... specimen."

"I have the messages raven from the Wall," Archmaester Perestan announced, entering the chamber where his colleagues still studied the writhing hand. "Not in Maester Aemon's hand."

"The old man finally passed?" Ebrose asked, looking up from his notes.

"According to young Tarly's letter, yes." Perestan's expression was troubled as he scanned the message. "But there's more. Castle Black was reportedly attacked by an army of nearly a hundred thousand wildlings."

"Preposterous," Ebrose scoffed. "The Watch's own records show the largest wildling army ever assembled was barely twenty thousand."

"Yet Lord Stark met them in battle," Perestan continued reading. "With Bolton, Karstark, and Umber forces. And then... this strains credibility... permitted the survivors to settle in the North?"

"Nonsense," Archmaester Vaellyn interrupted. "The Starks have defended against wildling raids for thousands of years. They would never allow them south of the Wall. This letter is clearly some sort of ruse."

"For what purpose?" Ryam asked from his desk, surrounded by ledgers.

"Political maneuvering, obviously," Ebrose declared. "The North seeks to justify its military buildup, its hoarding of resources—"

"By inventing tales of impossible wildling armies?" Ryam challenged. "The Starks are many things, but never fanciful."

"Then how do you explain these shipping records?" Archmaester Norren held up several scrolls. "Ten years of dragonglass imports from Dragonstone."

"For the glass gardens," Ebrose said dismissively. "A practical concern—"

"The North has been systematically preparing for something," Cellador interjected. "The restored fortresses, the expanded farming in the Gift, the military rotations to the Wall—"

"Young man," Ebrose's voice dripped condescension, "when you wear your silver link as long as I have, you'll understand that there are always practical explanations for such things. The North strengthens its defenses against ironborn raids. They expand food production for winter. They support the Watch out of traditional duty. There's no need to invent grumpkins and snarks to explain basic governance."

The hand twisted suddenly in its chains, drawing their attention. In the fading daylight, its movements seemed more purposeful.

"And how do you explain this?" Ryam gestured to the hand. "With your practical explanations?"

"Some form of preservation technique," Ebrose insisted, though he took a step back from the specimen. "Perhaps combined with mechanical artifice—"

"That Bolton himself stabbed through?" Perestan asked skeptically. "That grows stronger at night, just as the old stories claim the wights did?"

"Stories are not evidence," Vaellyn declared. "Next you'll have us believing in ice spiders and—"

"While we debate in our tower, they've spent ten years preparing. Everything hidden in plain sight - the trade routes, the restored fortresses, the expanded food production, the military reforms..."

"Coincidence," Ebrose insisted. "You're seeing patterns where none exist."

"Like the dragonglass shipments?" Cellador asked. "The regular rotation of troops to the Wall?

"And now a hundred thousand wildlings flee south," Perestan added. "Speaking of the same horrors this... specimen... seems to prove exist."

"You cannot seriously suggest—" Ebrose began.

The hand slammed against the table with sudden violence, straining at its chains. Several maesters jumped back.

"Your chains and theories won't change what's before your eyes," Ryam said quietly. "The North prepares for war while we debate whether the war can exist. And if Lord Bolton speaks true - if they expect to fall despite a decade of preparation..."

"Speculation," Ebrose insisted. "Based on one specimen of uncertain origin and letters that could easily be falsified—"

"Then explain the preparation!" Ryam's voice rose slightly. "Explain ten years of systematic strengthening of the North's defenses, food supplies, and military capability. Explain mountain clans sending men to the Watch. Explain all of it with your comfortable theories!"

The hand twisted again as darkness fell, its strength visibly increasing. Even Ebrose fell silent at its display.

"We have a choice," Ryam said into the silence. "We can cling to our certainties while the North bleeds, or we can open our eyes to the possibility that not all monsters are metaphors."

"You propose we accept children's tales as fact?" Vaellyn demanded.

"I propose we examine the evidence before us," Ryam replied. "All of it - including the decade of preparation these records reveal.”

The debate continued long into the night, the assembled wisdom of the Citadel arguing as the dead hand moved with growing strength in its chains. Outside their tower, winter approached. And with it, perhaps, proof of which side of the debate was right.

Chapter Text

The black volcanic beaches of Skagos loomed before them as their ship approached the shore. Jon stood at the bow with Ghost, the direwolf's white fur stark against the dark sand ahead. Sigorn of Thenn and Tormund Giantsbane flanked him, while the Stark men maintained a careful watch.

"Look," Tormund pointed, his wild red beard catching the wind. "Those not marks of starving folk."

Jon followed his gesture, seeing what had caught the wildling's attention. Herds of unicorns - massive, shaggy beasts with deadly horns - grazed along the coastline in numbers he'd never imagined possible. Their meat would be more than enough to feed a population several times what Skagos supposedly held.

"No sense," Sigorn growled in his broken Common Tongue. "Why eat men when prey runs like this?"

As they made landfall, they were met not by savage cannibals, but by a well-organized group of warriors. Their weapons and armor showed clear signs of First Men heritage - bronze-headed spears and sealed unicorn hide that Jon realized must be excellent protection against both weather and weapons.

Sigorn stepped forward, addressing them in the Old Tongue. The response was immediate - the Skagosi straightened, clearly surprised. Their leader, a scarred man who introduced himself as Kjarl, spoke rapidly.

"He say..." Sigorn turned to Jon, searching for words. "Say no mainlander come since great rebellion. Many winters past. You first to seek us out."

Ghost padded forward then, and the Skagosi warriors fell absolutely silent. Kjarl addressed Sigorn with renewed intensity.

"They know wolf-beast," Sigorn translated haltingly. "Say only true First Men blood commands such creature. Will take us to hall."

The journey inland revealed a society far different from the savage reputation Skagos held in the mainland's imagination. Settlements were well-organized, with smoking houses for preserving unicorn meat and tanneries processing their hides. Children played freely, their faces full and healthy.

In the great hall of Kingshouse, built from volcanic stone and massive unicorn bones, Jon presented their offer through Sigorn's translation. The dragonglass weapons caught immediate attention - the Skagosi clearly recognized their significance.

"They see things in water," Sigorn struggled to convey. "Dead things that swim. They burn all dead now. Many moons already."

"Tell them that's why we've come," Jon replied. "The dead march, and the North remembers its true enemies. We offer choice - safe passage to mainland if they wish, or weapons and support if they stay."

When Sigorn translated, a fierce pride showed in Kjarl's face. His response was immediate and passionate.

"They not leave ancestors' land," Sigorn conveyed. "Will fight with us when time comes." He frowned, concentrating hard. "Ask why mainlanders name them man-eaters."

The truth emerged through careful translation. In the old days, they would "consume" their enemies by taking their property, their herds, their resources. "To consume" in the Old Tongue had multiple meanings. The misconception had spread after their rebellion, when no mainlanders came to learn the truth.

"They laugh at story," Sigorn said. "Say easier for mainland to think them monsters than know truth."

In the great hall of Kingshouse, built from volcanic stone and massive unicorn bones, Jon noted the crude obsidian weapons displayed along the walls. Through Sigorn's translations, he addressed Kjarl and the assembled Skagosi leaders.

"We don't know if the white walkers can freeze the waters between here and the mainland," Jon explained carefully. "None of our records say for certain. If they can, Skagos would face the army of the dead with water on all sides." He paused, letting Sigorn convey this. "We offer safe passage for your elderly and children to the mainland, if you wish. Your women too, though I understand many will choose to fight."

When Sigorn finished translating, the hall erupted in fierce discussion. Kjarl raised his hand for silence before responding at length.

"He say," Sigorn worked through the words, "Skagosi women always fight. Children and old ones..." he listened as Kjarl continued, "they say thanks for offer, but all Skagosi stay. Rather die on ancestors' land than run."

Jon nodded, having expected this response. Looking at the crude dragonglass weapons on the walls, he pressed forward with his true purpose. "You have dragonglass in your mountains. Would you be willing to trade the raw glass? We'll leave all the weapons we brought with you, but we need more dragonglass for the North's defenses."

After Sigorn translated, Kjarl examined one of the finely crafted daggers they'd brought, comparing it to their own rough implements. His eyes showed clear appreciation for the superior craftsmanship.

"We'd also welcome your smiths to Winterfell," Jon added. "They could learn how to craft weapons like these while we establish regular trade for the raw dragonglass."

When Sigorn conveyed this, Kjarl spoke at length with his advisors before responding.

"He say," Sigorn translated roughly, "mountains have much glass. Will trade. Want send three smiths learn proper way to make weapons not break." He listened as Kjarl continued. "Ask how much raw glass you want?"

"As much as you're willing to trade," Jon replied. "We'll need enough to arm every keep in the North before the dead come."

The Skagosi leaders conferred briefly before Kjarl responded.

"Say will show where best deposits found," Sigorn conveyed. "Can fill ships with raw glass. Want good weapons now though - ones you bring stay here?"

"Yes," Jon confirmed. "All the weapons we brought are yours. They'll protect your people until your smiths return with the knowledge to make more."

This practical exchange seemed to please the Skagosi far more than any grander diplomatic gestures might have. Within hours, they were discussing specific arrangements for mining and transporting the raw dragonglass, while three of their smiths began preparing for the journey to Winterfell.

The negotiations proceeded swiftly after that. The Skagosi would also trade their unicorn products - preserved meat that could last years when properly stored, armor made from their hides that could turn aside blades while remaining flexible enough for quick movement. These weren't the savages of legend, but skilled craftspeople who'd perfected their arts in isolation.

Ghost had made friends with several of the massive herding dogs the Skagosi used to control their unicorn herds, his presence doing more to earn trust than any words could have. When Sigorn translated their offer to breed some of their dogs with the direwolf, Jon recognized yet another unexpected benefit of this mission.

Jon studied the grazing herds visible through the hall's openings. "Your unicorns seem to thrive here. What would you want from the mainland in exchange for their meat and hides?"

When Sigorn translated, Kjarl's eyes lit with interest. He spoke at length, gesturing emphatically.

"He say," Sigorn conveyed roughly, "too many beasts now. Need salt for preserving meat. Need good steel - weapons, tools. Need cloth mainland makes." He listened as Kjarl continued. "

"We can establish regular trade," Jon offered. "Ships bringing what you need, leaving with meat and hides. The North will need supplies for the winter ahead."

The practical nature of this exchange seemed to please the Skagosi even more than the earlier dragonglass arrangements. After being isolated since their rebellion, the prospect of regular trade for necessities clearly appealed to them.

"They say," Sigorn translated Kjarl's response, "first ship bring salt, steel. They have meat, hides ready when ship returns. Want fair trade, not mainland cheating them like old times."

"You'll deal directly with Winterfell," Jon assured them. "You have my word all trades will be fair."

The negotiations proceeded swiftly after that, both sides recognizing the mutual benefit. The Skagosi had resources the North desperately needed, and the North could provide what Skagos had done without for too long. It was a practical alliance born of necessity, but one that might help them all survive the winter to come.

The warm glow of the hearth fire filled Cregan's solar as Jon gave his report, Ghost lounging contentedly beside him. The three Skagosi smiths had been shown to the guest quarters, their wonder at Winterfell's size barely concealed despite their fierce demeanors.

"Cannibals," Jon said with a slight shake of his head. "All these years we believed them savages who ate human flesh, when the truth was a simple misunderstanding of their language. 'To consume' meant taking an enemy's resources, not their flesh."

"A convenient misconception," Cregan observed thoughtfully. "One that kept mainlanders away while they built their strength in isolation."

"They're nothing like what we imagined," Jon continued. "Their settlements are well-organized, their people healthy. The unicorn herds alone could feed an army through winter. And the dragonglass deposits..." He leaned forward. "They're willing to trade as much as we can transport."

"And their loyalty?" Cregan's grey eyes studied his supposed bastard carefully. "House Stark hasn't had contact with them since the rebellion during Daeron's time. Not since my... since Lord Barthogan Stark's death."

Jon met his father's gaze directly. "They recognize the direwolf's significance. When Ghost approached them, their entire demeanor changed. They say only true First Men blood can command such creatures." He paused. "But they're proud, Father. They won't simply bend the knee after centuries of independence. They want equal trading partners, not lords demanding fealty."

"As I suspected." Cregan's fingers drummed thoughtfully on his chair's arm. "Better to have them as willing allies than reluctant subjects, especially with what's coming. Their dragonglass and unicorn products will help the North prepare, while fair trade will bind them closer than any demands of ancient loyalty."

"They've already seen the dead," Jon added quietly. "In the waters around their island. They burn all their deceased now, have been for months. They know what's coming better than most of us."

"The old blood runs strong in them," Cregan mused. He studied Jon with ancient wisdom in his gaze. "You did well, bringing us this alliance. When winter comes, we'll need every resource they can provide."

"There's more," Jon said. "They've offered to breed some of their herding dogs with Ghost. The pups would be formidable, and loyal to the North."

"The old powers wake," Cregan nodded approvingly. "Direwolf blood mixing with the hounds of Skagos... there's power in such things, even if most have forgotten why." He rose, moving to study the map on his wall. "We'll establish regular trade immediately the rest are secondary."

"They're not the savages we believed them to be," Jon concluded. "Just a proud people who turned isolation to their advantage."

"Sometimes," Cregan said softly, "the most useful reputation is the one your enemies believe without questioning." His eyes held ancient memories as he added, "Remember that, Jon. The time may come when letting others believe false stories serves the North better than correcting them."

"They insisted on trading directly with Winterfell. Not through merchants or middlemen, no matter how profitable it might be. The last time they dealt with mainland merchants, during Daeron's time, they were cheated badly. That distrust still runs deep."

Cregan nodded approvingly. "A wise stipulation. Merchants think in terms of profit - they'd be tempted to exploit the Skagosi's isolation, damaging the trust we've built." He studied the map thoughtfully. "We'll handle all trades through Winterfell directly. House Manderly's ships transport the goods, but every transaction will bear our seal and authority."

"Kjarl made that very clear," Jon agreed. "They'll provide what we need, but only if they deal with the Starks personally. They say at least we understand the old ways, even if we've forgotten some of them."

 "We'll assign trusted men to oversee the trade. No profiteering, no attempts to undercut their terms. The North needs their resources too badly to risk their trust over a few extra coins."

"They watch the sea carefully," Jon added. "Any merchant ship trying to trade directly will be turned away. It has to be Winterfell's banners, Winterfell's authority."

Cregan's smile held grim approval. "Good. Let them maintain that wariness of outsiders. It's served them well this long, and it will serve us all in the times ahead."

Chapter Text

The great hall of Winterfell fell silent after Roose Bolton left. The mixed response from the Citadel hung heavy in the air - some maesters fascinated by the evidence, others dismissing it as northern superstition.

"Tell me," Cregan said finally, his grey eyes holding both Ned's warmth and ancient wisdom, "what would each of you do next?"

Sansa spoke first, her years of practical education evident in her measured tone. "Since the Wall needs a maester, we should request one of those who expressed disbelief in Lord Bolton's evidence. Let them see the truth with their own eyes." A slight smile touched her lips. "And perhaps having a skeptic witness event firsthand will carry more weight with their brothers at the Citadel than accounts from those already inclined to believe."

Cregan's eyes gleamed with approval. "Clever. And you, Robb?"

"Start with those who remember," his heir replied thoughtfully. "The mountain clans, the Northern houses with the most First Men blood. They'll understand faster than those who've forgotten the old ways." He paused, considering. "The Blackwoods too, though they're in the Riverlands. They've kept the old gods all these years."

"And don't forget the mountain clans in the Vale," Jon added, leaning forward. "They are of pure First Men blood, even if the vale lords look down on them. The Royces still keep the old ways, and Yohn Royce has always respected our traditions." His eyes met his father's. "You fostered with Lord Arryn - the older houses there remember when the Andals first came. House Royce, House Redfort, even House Belmore... they might listen where others won't."

"True," Sansa agreed. "I heard Lady Anya Waynwood still keeps a godswood, though she follows the Seven. And the Redfords claim descent from the First Men kings. They're proud of those connections, even if they don't worship the old gods anymore."

Arya shifted impatiently. "The mountain clans in the Vale might help more than the lords. They remember the old stories better than most, even if everyone looks down on them. And they respect strength - if they saw the evidence..."

"We could use Father's connections." Robb suggested.

"Those who follow the Seven see the old tales as children's stories," Arya interrupted. "But the Free Folk don't tell stories about the Others - they tell warnings. The mountain clans in both the North and Vale are the same. They never forgot why they keep their warning fires burning."

"Some of father's old war companions are in the Vale too," Sansa added thoughtfully. "Lord Redfort fought beside you in the rebellion, didn't he? And Ser Morton Waynwood? They might remember how you always honored the old ways, even then."

"And what of you, Rickon?" Cregan asked his youngest present child.

"Send them Shaggydog," the boy declared firmly. "Anyone who sees a direwolf knows the old stories are true."

A warm chuckle rippled through the family at that, though there was wisdom in the child's simple solution. The direwolves were indeed living proof of the things the south thought were just tales.

"The gods will matter greatly," Jon continued. "Lord Edmure might believe more easily now that he's married to a Blackwood, but most of his bannermen follow the Seven. They'll be harder to convince."

"Yohn Royce lost his youngest to the Others without even knowing it," Cregan mused grimly. "Learning the truth of it might convince him to our cause."

"We'll need them all," Robb said solemnly. "The North, the mountain clans of the Vale, the older houses that remember."

Cregan agreed. "But remember - we don't just need believers. We might need all of Westeros for we do not know how many dead walk."

He stood, his presence filling the hall. "Sansa, write to the Citadel about their skeptical maester. Robb, draft letters to Yohn Royce and the other lords for the Vale and Riverland lords who might remember. The old bonds still hold, even if some have forgotten why they mattered."

Outside, snow continued to fall as the Stark family council plotted how to prepare the realm for the winter to come. The direwolves lounged by the hearth, their quiet presence a reminder that some powers of the North had never truly slept - they had only waited for the right time to wake.

RUNESTONE

The solar of Yohn Royce was silent save for the crackling of the hearth. The Lord of Runestone stood before the fire, reading Eddard Stark's letter for the third time, his weathered hands trembling slightly. Ancient runes adorned his bronze armor, passed down through generations of First Men kings, but in this moment he felt every one of his years.

Waymar. His youngest. His bold, proud boy who'd wanted glory in the Watch.

"Father?" Andar, his eldest, entered quietly. "The maester said you'd received word from Winterfell..."

"Close the door," Yohn Royce commanded, his deep voice rougher than usual. When Andar complied, he continued, "Call your brother Robar as well. They should both hear this."

Once both sons were present, Yohn Royce sank heavily into his chair. "We were wrong about Waymar's death. Or rather, we didn't know the full truth." He looked up at his remaining sons, his eyes haunted. "The deserter Stark executed, the one who babbled about white walkers... he was there. He saw what happened."

"Father..." Robar started, but Yohn Royce raised a hand.

"Let me finish. Ned writes that they've fought a massive battle beyond the Wall. A hundred thousand wildlings trying to flee south. Not to raid or pillage, but to escape." He drew a deep breath. "To escape the dead. The same dead your brother faced on his last ranging."

He stood again, unable to keep still. "Waymar didn't just die in a ranging accident. He faced one of them - a White Walker itself. Fought it with valor, upheld his vows until the very end." Pride and grief warred in his voice. "The deserter saw it all. Stark knew then, but had no proof. Now he does. He's sent Bolton to the Citadel with evidence."

"Ned asks for our help. The mountain clans must be warned - they still remember the old ways. Young Bolton will come to speak with them, but he'll need our protection, our influence."

"Lady Arryn won't like that," Robar observed. "She barely tolerates our dealings with the clans as it is."

"Lady Arryn hides behind her gates while ancient enemies return," Yohn Royce's voice carried the iron of centuries of Royce pride. "Our blood is the blood of the First Men. Our armor bears the runes of protection against exactly these foes. While she plays at politics, the real war approaches."

He faced his sons fully. "The North stand ready. But they'll need aid when the time comes, whether the Lady of the Vale believes or not." His hand rested on his runed breastplate. "Your brother died fighting mankind's most ancient enemy. We'll honor his sacrifice by helping prepare for what comes."

"The other houses?" Andar asked.

"They remember their First Men blood, even if some have forgotten why it matters." Yohn Royce nodded. "I'll call them. They'll listen. They know the Royces don't chase shadows." He picked up the letter again. "Stark wouldn't write this if he wasn't certain. He's not a man given to fancy."

"And the mountain clans?" Robar pressed.

"They never forgot. All these years, we thought them superstitious for keeping their warning fires, for their talk of ice demons..." Yohn Royce's laugh was bitter. "They remembered what we forgot. What Waymar died facing."

He moved to the window, watching snow begin to fall over the Vale. "Send for the other lords. Those who still keep the old ways, who remember their First Men blood. And prepare our fastest riders – Domeric will meet them with the evidence of the dead." His voice hardened. "Winter comes, my sons. And this time, the Royces will be ready. We owe your brother that much."

His hand touched the runes on his armor - protections against creatures he'd once thought mere legend. Now his youngest son had died facing them, and the Lord of Runestone would ensure that sacrifice meant something.

RIVERLAND

In the godswood of Raventree Hall, before the towering dead weirwood where no ravens perched, Lord Tytos Blackwood stood with his children. The letter from Winterfell was worn from multiple readings, its contents weighing heavily in the autumn air.

"It explains everything," Brynden, his eldest, said quietly. "All these years of careful preparation. Even Lord Hoster's grain stores..."

"A greenseer," Bethany whispered, touching the white bark of the dead heart tree. "It's the only explanation. Lord Stark knew what was coming, even before he had proof."

"Is that why you agreed so readily to his trade proposals, Father?" Edmund asked. "When he suggested having glass gardens?"

"The neutrality makes sense now too," Brynden noted. "Everyone questioned how the honorable Eddard Stark could remain neutral when his goodfather's lands burned, when Stannis – by all laws the rightful king – called for aid." He shook his head in wonder. "But he knew the real war wasn't in the south."

"The dead walk again," Tytos said grimly. "The Others return. The North prepares for the true enemy." His eyes found the carved face in the dead weirwood. "Our ancestors knew these enemies. The old gods remember, even if most have forgotten."

"Lord Edmure will believe," Bethany said confidently. "Since his marriage to our cousin Allysa, he's shown more respect for the old ways."

"Aye, but what of his other bannermen?" Edmund countered. "The Brackens barely tolerate our godswood. The others follow the Seven almost exclusively now."

"That's why Lord Stark suggested maintaining balance between the faiths," Brynden realized. "He wasn't just being diplomatic – he was ensuring we'd have voices on both sides when the truth needed to be told."

"Lord Stark knew the Riverlands would burn, didn't he? He was making sure we'd survive the war when he told Lord Hoster to prepare Riverland for winter– the one with the Lannisters and the one to come."

"A seer's burden," Tytos said softly. "To know what's coming but be unable to speak plainly until the evidence presents itself." He turned to face his children fully. "Think of every suggestion he's made these past years. He was preparing us all while appearing to focus solely on trade and practical matters."

"Stark chose well sending Lord Bolton to Citadel– no one accuses Boltons of imagining things." Brynden mused.

"What will you tell the other River lords, Father?" Bethany asked.

"The truth, though carefully." Tytos's dark eyes reflected the fading sunlight. "But we approach first  those who remember their First Men blood, who still keep godswoods even if they don't pray there..." He touched the dead weirwood again. "They'll listen. They'll remember."

"The Mallisters might," Edmund suggested. "And the Mootons still keep a godswood. Even the Darrys, though they follow the Seven now..."

"Will Lord Edmure call the banners when the time comes?" Lucas wondered. "He'll have to," Brynden answered grimly. "The dead don't care about political alliances.."

The dead weirwood loomed above them, its carved face seeming to watch with ancient wisdom. No ravens darkened its branches, but the old gods' presence felt stronger than ever in the autumn air.

"We prepare," Brynden said firmly.

"For the night is dark," Bethany whispered the old words, "and full of terrors."

"And now we know which terrors approach," Tytos finished. "

As darkness fell over Raventree Hall, the Blackwoods stood together before their dead heart tree, understanding at last the true meaning of winter's approach. The old gods had blessed them with a seer's warning through Eddard Stark. Now they would ensure that warning didn't go to waste.

Chapter Text

The morning air at the Dreadfort held winter's bite, frost coating the ancient stone walls as Domeric checked his horse's tack one final time. Fifty Bolton men-at-arms waited in formation, while Sigorn of Thenn and Val stood slightly apart, their Free Folk nature evident even in how they held themselves among the more regimented Northerners.

"The mountain clans in the Vale speak a dialect closer to the Old Tongue than the Common Speech," Roose's soft voice carried easily despite its quietness. He stood beside his son, pale eyes studying the assembled party. "That's why Lord Stark suggested taking these two. Val's beauty will catch their attention, but it's her knowledge of their ancient language that truly matters."

"And Sigorn?" Domeric asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

"The Thenns are the most disciplined of the Free Folk. "When the Vale mountain clans see a Thenn lord speaking of what comes with winter, they'll listen."

Domeric nodded, understanding the layers of calculation involved. "And our men?"

"Chosen carefully. No hotheads, no glory-seekers. Men who understand discipline and know how to hold their tongues." Roose adjusted his son's cloak, a surprisingly paternal gesture. "The Vale lords remember your time fostering with Lord Redfort. They'll welcome you as one of their own. We need as many allies as possible."

Val approached, her beauty striking even bundled against the cold. "The horses are ready, m'lord," she said in careful Common Tongue. "Though your southern mounts seem delicate compared to our garrons."

"They'll manage," Domeric assured her. "We'll take the eastern road once we arrive in Gulltown, avoid the worst passes."

Roose's pale eyes studied the Free Folk woman. "Your job is to listen, to speak when spoken to in their ancient tongue. Let them see that the Free Folk and the North work together now. They'll want to know why."

Val's answering smile held winter's edge. "Don't worry, Lord Bolton. We know our parts in this dance."

"Good." Roose turned back to his son. "Stop at Winterfell first. Your betrothed will want to see you off."

"And if Lady Arryn's men try to interfere?" Domeric asked.

"They won't," Roose's voice grew softer still. "The mountain clans have never recognized her authority. And the Vale lords... they'll be curious why the North sends such an unusual party. Their curiosity will outweigh any loyalty to Littlefinger's puppet."

He gripped Domeric's arm, his eyes holding his son's. "Remember - you're not just my heir or Sansa's betrothed. You're carrying proof of what comes with winter."

Domeric mounted his horse, his party forming up behind him. The Bolton banner snapped in the cold wind, its flayed man stark against the pink field.

"One more thing," Roose called as they prepared to depart. "When you reach the Redfort, pay particular attention to the ancient carvings in their godswood. It will help convince Lord Redfort of what comes with winter."

As the party rode out from the Dreadfort's gates, Roose Bolton watched his son lead them south. The pieces were moving now, all according to Lord Stark's careful design. The Vale would remember its ancient ties to the North, whether Lady Arryn wished it or not.

WINTERFELL

The morning ride to Winterfell had been quiet until Val's sharp laugh cut through the chill air. "Your father's keep is fearsome." she said in her carefully measured Common Tongue, "but you southerners spoke true about Winterfell."

They'd crested the final hill, giving them their first view of the ancient fortress. Even at this distance, Winterfell dominated the landscape, its massive granite walls rising like mountains themselves, steam rising from the hot springs that fed its warmth.

"The Kings of Winter built well," Domeric agreed, noting how even Sigorn's usually stoic expression had shifted to one of careful assessment. "Eight thousand years, and it's never fallen."

As they approached Winterfell's gates, familiar howls echoed across the yard.

"More beasts?" Sigorn asked, his thick accent carrying genuine curiosity. "Three were in battle, but..."

Five massive shapes emerged to meet them - Grey Wind, Ghost, and Lady whom they knew, but also Nymeria and Shaggydog, equally massive and proud. The wolves arranged themselves in an arc, their intelligence evident in how they studied the newcomers.

"Every Stark child has one," Domeric explained, watching their reactions. "Save for the babe, Torrhen."

Val's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "We saw what three could do against the dead. But five..." She shook her head in wonder.

"The pack grows with the family," Domeric said carefully. "Though who knows? Perhaps the old gods will bless young Torrhen with his own wolf one day."

Once the gates were opened they saw Lord Stark himself waiting with his family. Sansa stood beside her father, her copper hair bright against her grey wool dress, while Lady padded over to sit regally at her feet. The other Stark children arranged themselves with careful formality, though young Rickon could barely contain his excitement.

"Welcome to Winterfell," Lord Stark's voice carried easily across the yard. "Yohn Royce writes that he and the other Vale lords who keep the old ways will meet you at the Bloody Gate." "You'll rest here tonight before continuing to White Harbour."

Later, in the godswood, Val spoke quietly to Domeric. "We knew the Starks were different, after seeing three direwolves fight beyond the Wall. But this..." She gestured toward where the wolves' howls could still be heard. "Every child with own wolf, save the babe? The old powers  strong here."

"Stronger than most know," Domeric agreed. "That's why we go to remind the Vale of their own First Men blood. They've forgotten what it means to keep the old ways."

Sigorn touched the heart tree's bark with reverent care. "They will remember," he said with certainty. "How can they not, gods show favor to Starks? Five direwolves, none been seen south of the Wall for centuries..."

As they walked the godswood that evening, Val's curiosity about the direwolves led to deeper revelations.

"There's more to it than just numbers," Domeric explained, his voice low despite their privacy. "The wolve’s sexes match the Stark children."

"Like the old powers arranged it." Val said, understanding dawning in her eyes.

"Bran's wolf Summer isn't here," Domeric continued carefully, "He is at the Neck with the crannogmen, learning to control warg and seer abilities."

Sigorn's normally stoic expression showed rare surprise. "A true warg? South of the Wall?"

"Arya especially shows signs like Bran did. Though for now, most only share their wolves' dreams at night." He glanced toward the heart tree. "I suspect they might all have the gift, to varying degrees. The old blood runs strong in them."

Val nodded slowly. "Beyond the Wall, such gifts aren't uncommon. But here, in your southron lands..." She smiled grimly.

"Old powers wake," Sigorn agreed solemnly. "First direwolves south , skinchangers born to great house. The gods prepare for what comes."

Domeric thought of Sansa's careful hints about her own wolf dreams, though she rarely spoke of them. "The pack grows stronger," he said simply. "And soon the Vale will need to remember why their ancestors kept the old ways."

The heart tree's red leaves rustled in agreement, while somewhere in the darkness, five wolves howled as one - living proof that the old powers were returning to the blood of the First Men.

Domeric found Sansa in the glass gardens after the evening meal, Lady padding silently beside her as she checked the winter roses. At five-and-ten, she'd grown into a striking beauty, her copper hair gleaming in the lantern light, her movements carrying the grace of her noble bearing tempered by Northern practicality.

"The Free Folk woman is quite beautiful," Sansa said without turning, her voice carefully neutral as she examined a bloom. "And very... fierce."

Domeric caught the slight tension in her shoulders, the way Lady pressed closer to her side. Though Sansa's courtesies were perfect as always, he'd learned to read the subtle signs of her true feelings.

"Val speaks the Old Tongue," he replied, moving to stand beside her. "That's why your father suggested her for this mission. The mountain clans remember the ancient language, even if their valley lords have forgotten it."

Sansa nodded, her fingers gently touching a winter rose. "Of course. It makes perfect sense." Her composure was flawless, but Lady's eyes watched him with an intensity that reflected her mistress's hidden thoughts.

"I'd like to bring Lady with us," Domeric said quietly, changing the subject. "The mountain clans respect strength, but they fear magic more. A direwolf who follows commands, who shows both power and discipline..." He reached out slowly, letting Lady sniff his hand before scratching behind her ears. The great wolf leaned into his touch, demonstrating the trust she'd developed in him.

Some of the tension left Sansa's shoulders as she watched their interaction. "She obeys you almost as well as she does me now," she observed, a hint of pride entering her voice.

"Because you taught her to trust me," Domeric replied. "The Vale lords and mountain clans need to see that the North remembers the old ways. What better proof than a direwolf who chooses to follow our commands?" He paused, then added softly, "Though she's gentle, like her mistress, unless threatened."

A slight blush colored Sansa's cheeks at the compliment. "You think the mountain clans will listen? Even with Val speaking their tongue?"

"They'll listen better when they see Lady. A direwolf accepting my authority shows the bonds between our houses. And when they see how she mirrors you - graceful until threatened..." He let the words hang meaningfully.

Sansa finally turned to face him fully, her Tully-blue eyes meeting his. "Be careful in the Vale," she said softly. "The mountain clans are one thing, but Lady Arryn..." She hesitated. "Mother says she's changed. And Lord Baelish's influence..."

"I'll be careful," he promised, noting how the mention of Baelish made Lady's fur bristle slightly. "The Bolton men know their duties, Val and Sigorn understand their roles, and Lady..." He smiled slightly. "Lady will show them all that strength doesn't always need to bare its teeth."

Sansa's hand found his, her fingers cool against his palm. "You'll write? Father says the ravens might need to fly frequently, depending on how the Vale lords respond."

"Of course." He squeezed her hand gently. "Though I suspect Lady already knows we'll return safely. She wouldn't be so calm about leaving otherwise."

That earned him a genuine smile, the carefully maintained composure softening. "She does seem to know things sometimes. Like she can sense what's coming." Sansa's other hand threaded through Lady's fur.

"Be safe," she whispered, and for a moment, the perfect lady's mask fell away completely, showing the young woman beneath who was sending both her betrothed and her direwolf into uncertain territory.

"We will," he promised.

Lady pressed against both their legs, as if sealing the promise. Tomorrow they would ride south, carrying the North's warnings to those who might still remember the old ways. But for now, in the warm sanctuary of the glass gardens, surrounded by winter roses, they were just a young couple sharing a quiet moment while a direwolf stood guard.

Chapter Text

SUNSPEAR

The evening air in the Water Gardens carried the sweet scent of blood oranges, a gentle counterpoint to the gravity of Sarella Sand's report. She stood before her uncle in her acolyte's robes, having ridden hard from Oldtown. Doran Martell sat in his wheeled chair beneath the blood orange trees, while young Myrcella played cyvasse with Trystane at a respectful distance, guards watching discreetly nearby.

"The Citadel debates while the dead walk," Sarella said, her voice carrying the same intensity her father had possessed. "Lord Bolton brought proof - a hand that moves without life, cold as ice yet grasping at air. I saw it myself, uncle. Even Ebrose couldn't deny its unnatural nature, though he tried to explain it away with theories of preservation and mechanical artifice."

"And yet they do nothing?" Doran's voice was mild, though his dark eyes were sharp.

"They argue. They theorize. They write treatises." Sarella's disgust was evident. "Months have passed since Bolton's visit, and still they cannot agree on action. Even with the Wall requesting a new maester after Aemon's death, they debate who to send. Lord Stark specifically asked for one of the skeptics, but they're too busy arguing about the implications."

"Interesting." Doran's fingers tapped his armrest thoughtfully. "And what do you make of the North's preparations these past years? Now that we see their purpose more clearly."

"Everything points to foreknowledge," Sarella replied. "The glass gardens, the restored fortresses, the careful positioning of forces - even Father commented on it before..." She paused, grief flickering across her features.

From their cyvasse table, Myrcella's laugh carried across the gardens as Trystane captured one of her pieces. Doran's eyes flickered to the children, then back to his niece.

"And the dragonglass shipments?"

"Massive quantities, far more than needed for any glass gardens." Sarella leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Uncle, the records show of similar preparations before the Long Night."

"While the Citadel debates, the North remembers," Doran mused. He gestured to a nearby guard. "Fetch Arianne. She should hear this as well."

When his daughter arrived, her dark eyes widened slightly at seeing her cousin still in acolyte's robes. "Sarella? What brings you from your studies?"

"The dead walk in the North," Doran said simply. "And the Citadel argues about whether to believe it."

As Sarella repeated her report, Arianne's expression grew increasingly troubled. "The Stark preparations... that's why they maintained neutrality during the war? Even when the Lannisters burned the Riverlands."

"They knew a greater threat approached," Doran nodded. "Just as we knew justice for Elia would require patience." His eyes found Myrcella again, the golden-haired princess laughing at something Trystane had said. "Sometimes the longest games require the most careful positioning."

"What will we do?" Arianne asked. "If this threat is real..."

"First, we watch," Doran replied. "The North prepared for years while appearing to focus solely on trade and practical matters. We'll do the same." He turned to Sarella. "Return to the Citadel. Continue your studies, but watch carefully how they respond to the Wall's request."

The blood oranges cast dappled shadows across the gardens as the sun began to set. At their cyvasse table, Myrcella and Trystane continued their game, unaware of the grave discussions happening mere yards away. The princess's golden hair shone in the fading light, so like her mother's, yet her laughter carried an innocence Cersei had long since lost.

"We watch, we learn, and we prepare - as we have always done." Doran finally said

RUNESTONE

The private solar in Runestone held just the principal lords of the Vale who still kept the old ways. Yohn Royce sat at the head of the great oaken table, with Horton Redfort and Lady Waynwood flanking him. Their eyes kept straying to Lady, who sat regally beside Domeric's chair, her size making even the spacious solar seem smaller.

“Lord Stark has been preparing for the war against the dead."

"Against the dead?" Lady Waynwood's voice carried skepticism, though her eyes kept returning to Lady's massive form.

"This war isn't just the North's concern. When the dead come south..." Domeric paused meaningfully. "The Vale's isolation won't protect it. The same mountains that keep armies out mean nothing to those who don't need to eat, don't tire, and don't feel the cold."

"You speak of this with such certainty," Lady Waynwood observed. "What proof do you bring?"

Domeric glanced at the ironbound box that sat untouched on a side table. "I have proof, my lady”

Yohn Royce's face hardened. "Show us," he commanded. "Show us what killed my boy."

Domeric held up his hand. "What you're about to see... the Citadel debates still, months after my father showed them. But you keep the old ways. You remember the First Men's warnings, even if some have forgotten why we carved them."

When he lifted the lid, even Yohn Royce Royce, veteran of countless battles, drew back slightly. The severed hand, black with frost, moved with terrible purpose, its fingers grasping at empty air.

"By the old gods," Horton Redfort breathed, his weathered face paling. "And this is what Waymar faced?"

"Waymar faced a White Walker Lord Horton, this is just an arm of the dead army’s foot soldier." Domeric answered, drawing his blade. Just as his father had done at the Citadel, he drove the steel through the hand's palm, pinning it to the table. The blackened fingers continued their relentless movement, undeterred.

Lady growled softly, the sound carrying ancient hostility. The hand's movements became more agitated in response.

"How many, Domeric?” Yohn Royce asked.

“Every soul left unburned behind the Wall—rangers, wildlings, forgotten names—now walks with the dead.”

"The dragonglass," Lady Waynwood said, her earlier skepticism replaced by cold calculation. "How much would the Vale need?"

"More than you can imagine. We'll need arrowheads, spear points, daggers - any weapon that can be tipped or forged with it." Domeric gestured to the still-moving hand. "The North can send smiths to train yours, but first we need the raw material."

"I'll write to the castellan at Dragonstone myself. No lord occupies it at the moment.”

"We need to act fast and secure supplies of it." Lord Horton said.

"Agreed," Lady Waynwood nodded. "Though we'll need a reason to explain such quantities..."

"Glass gardens," Domeric suggested. "The North's success with them is well-known. Say you wish to replicate their methods."

"Good," Yohn Royce approved. "Let them think we seek agricultural advantages. How long can you leave this with us?"

"A fortnight no more. It must return to Winterfell - Lord Stark means to show it to other allies."

"We'll need to carefully choose who else sees it," Lady Waynwood mused. "Too many at once would cause panic.”

"The mountain clans, you’ll meet them the day after tomorrow." Yohn Royce said.

"We show them this." Horton gestured to the hand. "Gods, to think we thought them mere superstitions. The carvings in our godswoods... the warnings our ancestors left..."

He turned to Domeric, his expression hard as the bronze runes on his armor. "The North spent years preparing. We have far less time, but the Vale remembers its ancient strength. We'll be ready."

The hand twisted in its chains, as if sensing their resolve. Lady watched it with unwavering attention, a living reminder that the old powers were waking. The old alliance between North and Vale, forged in the Age of Heroes, was stirring once more.

The meeting place was ancient - a ring of weathered standing stones high in the Mountains of the Moon, where the mountain clans had gathered for thousands of years. Yohn Royce and Domeric waited with their small honor guard while Val and Sigorn stood before the assembled clan chiefs. Lady sat alert between the two groups, her presence drawing immediate attention from the gathered warriors.

The Burned Men came first, led by Timmett son of Timmett. Then the Black Ears, the Painted Dogs, and even a few Moon Brothers - those chiefs wise enough to heed Yohn Royce's carefully worded invitation. But before Val could speak of their purpose, Timmett raised his hand, his one eye fixed on Lady.

"That is no common wolf," he said in the Old Tongue. "The signs spoke true - the great wolves return."

Lady sat regally beside Domeric, her size making even the fierce mountain warriors keep their distance. She was larger than any mountain shadowcat, her intelligence evident in how she studied each clan chief in turn.

The aged Moon Brother stepped forward, his weathered face showing awe. "No direwolf has been seen south of the Wall

"Starks have six" Sigorn said.

"Our oldest songs speak of these wolves. They fought beside the First Men against the cold gods. Their howls could send them back to death."

"Let her come forward," the aged Moon Brother requested in the Old Tongue, which Val translated."

At a subtle signal from Domeric, Lady rose and padded forward. She moved with lethal grace, power evident in every motion, yet maintained the same dignified bearing she showed in Winterfell's halls. The mountain chiefs watched in absolute silence as she approached.

"She understands," the Moon Brother said suddenly. "Her eyes have human wisdom there. The old songs spoke true."

Only after Lady had been acknowledged did Val begin speaking in the ancient language of the First Men, her voice strong in the mountain air.

Sigorn stepped forward, his bronze scales gleaming. "My people left mountain halls because the dead walk."

Val and Sigorn told them of the army of the dead, of villages found empty and cold, of the nightmare of facing warriors who felt no pain and rose again after falling. They spoke of the Night's Watch rangers who died and rose with blue eyes, of children's corpses walking with ancient malice.

Revealing the wight’s hand remove any lingering skepticism, if there ever was one.

"The mountains remember," the aged Moon Brother declared.

Lady chose that moment to throw back her head and howl - a sound that echoed off the mountains like a call from the dawn of time. Several nearby shadowcats yowled in response and fled deeper into the peaks.

 "When the great wolves howl, the First Men must listen."Timmett declared, making an ancient sign of respect toward Lady.

"The clans will fight," the chiefs called out one by one.

As the sun set behind the mountains, the ancient enemies of Vale knights and mountain clansmen found common ground in older memories, in warnings carved in stone and bred in bone.

Chapter Text

In the privacy of the Redfort's solar, Jasper Redfort sprawled in his chair with the casual ease of youth while his brother Creyton sat more formally. The three foster brothers had grown close during Domeric's years at the Redfort, and now their reunion brought a lighter mood to the otherwise grave mission.

"You should bring the wildling woman to every lord you visit," Jasper said with a roguish grin, swirling his wine. "Val, is it? I'd believe anything she told me, especially when she does that thing with her voice in the Old Tongue. Makes the hair on your neck stand up."

Lady, lying beside Domeric's chair, lifted her head at the mention of Val's name, her intelligent eyes tracking the conversation.

"She's not married, is she?" Creyton asked, trying and failing to sound merely curious. "I mean, their customs are different beyond the Wall, or so I've heard..."

"Looking for a bride, brother?" Jasper teased. "Though I suppose you could do worse. Second and third sons can't be too picky, eh Domeric? Present company excluded of course, with your lovely Stark betrothed."

"Speaking of which," Jasper leaned forward with exaggerated concern, "what does the future Lady Bolton think of you traveling with such a beauty? Val's lovelier than half the highborn ladies I've met at tournaments. Those eyes of hers..."

"You're not the only ones to notice," Domeric answered dryly. He'd seen how heads turned whenever Val entered a room, how even hardened warriors found excuses to linger near her.

Lady suddenly barked, sharp and reproachful, making Jasper jump in his seat.

"Seven hells!" Jasper laughed. "I think the wolf understood you, Dom. Better watch your words about other women when she's around – she'll report back to your Sansa."

"Lady has grown... protective," Domeric admitted, reaching down to scratch behind her ears. The direwolf accepted the attention regally, though her eyes remained fixed on Jasper with unsettling intelligence.

"Protective?" Creyton shook his head in wonder. "That beast could take down a shadowcat without breaking stride. I still can't believe she lets you handle her."

"She knows he's to be family," Jasper said sagely, then grinned. "Though I notice she growls whenever Val gets too close to our dear Domeric. Smart wolf, that one."

"The Free Folk aren't what we imagined," Domeric said, steering the conversation back to safer ground. "Val and Sigorn both. They keep their own laws, their own customs. The Thenns especially – they're more organized than most Andal kingdoms."

"Still," Creyton mused, unable to let it go entirely, "a wildling marriage wouldn't be the worst alliance, given what's coming. Better than some perfumed southron lady who'd faint at the first sight of battle."

"You just want to see if all wildling women are as beautiful as Val," Jasper accused. "Though I admit, the way she handles that spear of hers..." He gave an appreciative whistle.

Lady growled softly, and Jasper raised his hands in mock surrender. "Peace, my lady! I meant no disrespect to your mistress's betrothed. Though you must admit, Dom, having such a fierce beauty in your party can't hurt when convincing skeptical lords."

"The Free Folk's knowledge will convince them," Domeric replied firmly. "Their experiences beyond the Wall, their understanding of the old ways. That's what matters now."

"Ever the serious one," Jasper sighed dramatically. "Fine, speak to me of military preparations and ancient enemies. But don't think I haven't noticed how even you watch Val when she demonstrates those spear techniques."

Lady barked again, louder this time, and Jasper nearly fell out of his chair laughing. "Your wolf is a better chaperone than Septa Malora ever was ?"

Domeric smiled slightly, remembering Sansa's careful hints about her growing abilities. "Lady has her own ways of keeping the pack informed," he said diplomatically.

The three foster brothers continued their reunion well into the evening, the gravity of their mission lightened by old friendship and shared jests. But through it all, Lady watched and listened, her presence a constant reminder that some bonds – like those between direwolf and Stark, between foster brothers, between ancient allies – ran deeper than mere politics or attraction.

WINTERFELL

The great hall of Winterfell was packed with Northern lords, their breath visible in the cold air despite the roaring hearths. Cregan sat in the ancient seat of the Starks, his grey eyes studying the assembled nobles. Most of the major houses were represented, though the Boltons, Umbers, and Karstarks who'd fought beyond the Wall wore grimmer expressions than their peers.

"You've all heard by now," Cregan began, his voice carrying both Ned's authority. "Of the battle at the Wall. A hundred thousand wildlings, led by Mance Rayder, met by Northern steel." He paused, letting the magnitude sink in. "But you haven't heard why they came south in such numbers."

"The Free Folk, fled south in terror. From something that hunts in the lands of always winter." He nodded to Greatjon Umber, who placed a sealed box on the table before them.

"What you're about to see," the Greatjon warned, "Will challenge everything you think you know about the old stories. The ones we tell our children, the ones your septas and maesters dismiss as northern superstition."

When the box was opened, several lords recoiled. The wight's hand continued its relentless movement, black fingers grasping at empty air. Even hardened warriors who'd seen it before found their hands straying to sword hilts.

"The dead walk," Cregan declared into the stunned silence. "Every village the Free Folk couldn't burn in time, every corpse they couldn't reach – all rise to join the army of the Others. Eight thousand years of victims, waiting in the ice."

"Gods be good," Lord Cerwyn whispered.

"This is why I called you here," Cregan continued. "Not just to show you our enemy, but to prepare for what must be done. The Free Folk who surrendered – the women, children, and elderly who can't fight – must be settled among our people."

"The mountain clans have already agreed to take some," Cregan added. "The Umbers too, despite centuries of raiding. Because they understand what's at stake."

"These are our ancient enemies," Lord Glover protested. "Generations of raids and bloodshed-"

"And now they run south in terror," Lord Karstark interrupted. "Think on that, my lords. What could frighten the Free Folk so much they'd abandon their lands, their ancient ways, submit to us, to seek shelter behind the Wall they've raided for thousands of years?"

"Each household will take their share," Cregan declared. "Not just the great houses – every village, every holdfast. Those who can work will earn their keep. Those who can fight will help defend the Wall. The rest must be protected, or they'll only add to the army of the dead."

"And their warriors?" Lady Mormont asked practically.

"Will be distributed among our forces," Cregan confirmed.

"What of their customs?" someone called. "Their old ways?"

"They keep the old gods," Cregan replied. "The giants speak the Old Tongue, the rest know of common tongue. In many ways, they're closer to our ancestors than we are." He leaned forward. "This isn't about erasing thousands of years of conflict. It's about survival. Every corpse that rises is another soldier in the army of the dead. We protect the living now, or fight them later as wights."

The Greatjon stood, his massive frame commanding attention. "I've fought the Free Folk all my life. Lost kin to their raids. But the dead don't care about our ancient feuds."

Lord Karstark nodded grimly. "My lands will take their share. Better to feed them now than fight them later with blue eyes."

"The Dreadfort has space," Roose added softly. "And the Weeping Water valley needs strong hands for the harvest."

One by one, the lords voiced their agreement. Some grudgingly, some with practical considerations about labor and defense, but all understanding the gravity of what they'd seen and heard.

"Winter is coming," Cregan concluded, the words carrying new weight in light of the horror they'd witnessed. "But the North remembers. We know what that truly means, even if the south has forgotten. The Free Folk remember too. Together, we face the true enemy – or we all fall before it."

RIVERRUN

The great hall of Riverrun held just a handful of carefully chosen River lords - those houses that still kept their godswoods, even if they no longer prayed there. Lord Tytos Blackwood stood beside the ironbound box, his raven-feather cloak adding gravity to his words as he addressed his peers.

When Domeric opened the box, several lords muttered prayers - some to the Seven, some far older - as the wight's hand moved with its terrible purpose.

“By the gods…” Lord Mallister exclaimed, his hand on his sword hilt.

"No southern tale, this," the Blackfish observed grimly. "No mummer's trick could make dead flesh move so."

Edmure, already convinced by his sister's letters and his goodbrother's warnings, spoke up. "The North prepared us all, even if we didn't realize it. The glass gardens, the grain stores my father established on Lord Stark's counsel - it wasn't just for winter."

"Winter brings more than just snow," Domeric confirmed.

Lady's quiet growl punctuated his words as the hand twisted in its bonds. The River lords watched how even this magnificent direwolf treated the specimen as an ancient enemy.

By the end of the gathering, even the most skeptical lords had seen enough. The combination of the wight's hand, Lady's obvious reaction to it, and Lord Blackwood's ancient authority convinced them that some threats were older than their Seven-pointed stars.

HIGHGARDEN

"Our acolyte in the Citadel reports interesting developments," Willas began, shifting his bad leg on its cushioned stool as he reviewed the scrolls before him. "It seems Lord Stark recently rode out to meet a massive wildling army beyond the Wall - a hundred thousand strong, if the reports are true."

"What interests me," he continued thoughtfully, "is not just that Lord Bolton went to the Citadel afterward, but why it had to be him specifically. Stark had plenty of lords with him at this battle - Umbers, who've fought wildlings for generations, Karstarks, even his own heir. Yet he chose Roose Bolton to carry whatever evidence has disturbed the archmaesters so deeply."

Lady Olenna's eyes glittered with interest. "The Boltons aren't known for flights of fancy or exaggeration..."

"Exactly," Garlan picked up the thread. "If you wanted the Citadel to take something seriously, especially something that might seem impossible..."

"Who better than Roose Bolton?" Willas finished. "The Citadel would dismiss tales from the Umbers as wildling superstitions, ignore the Karstarks as Northern zealots. But the Boltons..." He shifted his bad leg thoughtfully. "They have a reputation for cold practicality."

Olenna nodded. "Clever of Stark. Send the one lord whose word can't be dismissed as mere superstition or excitement."

"And now his son follows," Garlan noted, "Meeting houses that keep the old ways. Yohn Royce, Lord Redfort, Lord Blackwood - traveling with a Stark direwolf, no less."

"The timing can't be coincidence," Willas said. "A battle beyond the Wall, then Lord Bolton rushes south with something urgent enough to disturb the Citadel's ancient calm. Now his heir follows a careful path through the Vale and Riverlands, speaking only to houses that remember the First Men's ways."

"Garlan," Olenna said suddenly, her voice sharp with decision, "send word to our friend in the Citadel. If the archmaesters are debating whatever Bolton showed them, they'll be loud enough about it. The maesters love their own voices too much to keep their arguments truly private."

"The trick will be sorting truth from speculation," Willas noted. "Though the books they consult might tell us more than their actual debates."

"Exactly," Olenna nodded approvingly. "Have our friend watch Archmaester Ebrose especially. That one only admits he's wrong when the evidence is overwhelming." She turned back to the reports.

"Find out what they're shouting about in those halls," Olenna commanded. "What texts they're frantically searching. A hundred thousand wildlings don't flee their lands for nothing, and Roose Bolton doesn't sail halfway around Westeros just to spark academic debate."

Chapter Text

WINTERFELL

The solar was warm despite the autumn chill outside, the hearth crackling as Sansa stood before her parents. Cat sat in her chair, little Torrhen sleeping peacefully in her arms, while Cregan occupied his usual seat by the fire. Through the window, she could see Wynafryd directing a group of Free Folk women in preserving late-harvest vegetables, her swollen belly not slowing her efficiency.

"I wish to marry Domeric after my fifteenth nameday," Sansa declared, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "The Dreadfort needs a lady, especially now."

Catelyn's eyes widened slightly. "Sansa, that's barely four moons away. We'd planned to wait until—"

"Unil what, Mother? Until the dead reach the Wall? Until we're at war?" Sansa's composure remained perfect. "Look at what Wynafryd has already accomplished, helping you settle the Free Folk, organizing the expanded glass gardens. And she's with child."

"You're still very young," Catelyn said carefully. "I was nineteen when I married your father."

"These are different times, Mother." Sansa's hands folded in her lap. "We can't afford to wait for perfect moments anymore. The Dreadfort is the only major keep without a lady to prepare for what's coming."

"And the wedding itself?" Cregan asked, studying his daughter thoughtfully.

"It needn't be grand," Sansa replied firmly. "Though Lord Bolton might have other thoughts, I'd prefer something modest. We can't waste food on feasts when we need every grain for winter stores." She straightened in her chair. "The Dreadfort needs organization more than it needs celebrations. While Domeric rides with the army, someone must ensure their glass gardens are expanded, their Free Folk properly settled, their stores prepared."

"You've given this careful thought." Cregan said.

"I have." Sansa looked between her parents. "I've learned from Mother how to manage a great keep. I've studied trade and logistics. The Bolton men respect martial strength, but someone must manage the practical matters."

Sansa moved closer to her mother's chair. "You've taught me well, Mother. How to manage a household, how to organize supplies, how to balance courtesy with practicality. Let me use those lessons where they're needed most."

"The Dreadfort is... different from other keeps," Catelyn said carefully. "The Bolton men—"

"Are disciplined and practical, like their lord," Sansa finished. "That's why they need this marriage sooner rather than later. They respect strength and efficiency. Let me show them that doesn't just mean martial prowess."

Cregan exchanged a look with his wife, one heavy with shared understanding. They'd raised their daughter to be more than just a courteous lady – they'd prepared her for the winter to come.

"Four moons," he said finally. "That gives us time to prepare properly, to ensure the Dreadfort is ready for its new lady." His eyes held Sansa's. "You understand what you're undertaking? The Dreadfort is not Winterfell."

"I understand," Sansa replied firmly. "The Boltons are different from other houses. But that's precisely why they need this now. They respect practicality above all. A modest wedding, followed by immediate attention to winter preparations – that will earn their respect more than any grand celebration."

Catelyn adjusted sleeping Torrhen in her arms. "You've grown wise, my dear. Though I suspect these past years of preparation have taught us all to think differently about what matters."

"Then we'll begin the arrangements," Cregan declared. "Though I suspect you've already started planning in your mind."

Sansa's answering smile carried both warmth and determination. "The glass gardens will need expansion before winter truly arrives. And the Free Folk women have knowledge of preserving foods we haven't considered. If we start now..."

As she outlined her plans, Cregan watched Ned’s daughter whom he raised with quiet pride. She would be a true Lady of the Dreadfort, helping prepare the North for the long night ahead.

The solar in Winterfell held its usual warmth, though Roose Bolton seemed to bring a chill with him wherever he stood. His pale eyes studied Cregan carefully as the two lords discussed their children's future.

"Your daughter suggests four moons," Roose said softly, his voice barely above a whisper yet carrying perfectly in the quiet room. "Sooner than we'd discussed."

"She feels the Dreadfort needs a lady, especially with what's coming." Cregan replied.

A ghost of a smile touched Roose's bloodless lips. "Practical. Though Domeric doesn't yet know?"

"He returns next week from the Vale. The timing seemed appropriate, given the success of his mission there."

"Indeed." Roose moved to stand by the window, watching snow fall outside. "A modest ceremony. Admirable, given the circumstances. Though as heir to the Dreadfort and eldest daughter of Winterfell..." He let the words hang meaningfully.

"The North remembers ceremony as well as practicality," Cregan acknowledged. "Even in winter."

"Precisely." Roose turned back, his pale eyes glittering. "It needn't be extravagant. But certain... considerations must be made. The first Stark-Bolton union in centuries deserves proper recognition, even in these times."

"What did you have in mind?"

"A balance," Roose's voice grew softer still. "No week-long feasts or elaborate celebrations. But representatives from the major houses should witness the union. The mountain clans especially - they remember the old blood feuds better than most. Seeing our houses sealed properly matters."

Cregan nodded slowly, seeing the wisdom in Roose's words. "And the Free Folk chiefs we've settled?"

"Should attend as well. Let them see how the North binds its great houses." Roose's lips curved slightly.

"Your godswood is as old as ours" Cregan agreed. "The heart tree there has watched over countless generations."

"Yes." Roose's eyes grew distant. "Eight thousand years of Boltons have taken their brides before that heart tree. Even in winter, some traditions must be maintained." His gaze sharpened again. "Though your daughter is right about avoiding waste. A day of ceremony, not a week. Enough food to honor guests properly, but not to excess."

Cregan didn't respond to that, simply nodding. "Then we are agreed? Four moons."

"Agreed." As Roose departed, Cregan considered the conversation. The Bolton lord understood better than most the delicate balance required - maintaining ancient ceremonies while preparing for the storm ahead. Sansa would learn that balance too, as Lady of the Dreadfort.

The glass gardens offered privacy and warmth, even as snow fell steadily outside. Sansa sat beside Domeric at the bench nearby.

"The Vale lords received our warnings better than expected," he said, his voice warm with satisfaction. "Lord Yohn Royce particularly---" He stopped, noting Sansa's expression. "What is it?"

"I've asked Father to move up our wedding," Sansa said directly, knowing Domeric preferred honesty to courtly games. "Four moons from now, after my sixteenth nameday. If... if you agree."

Domeric went very still, his pale eyes darkening instantly with an intensity that made Sansa's breath catch. "Four moons?" His voice had grown rough. "Thank the gods. I've been going half-mad these past months, trying to maintain proper distance."

"You... have?" Sansa asked softly, a blush coloring her cheeks.

"Gods, Sansa," he moved closer, his usual Bolton restraint cracking. "Do you know what it's been like? Watching you grow more beautiful and capable each day? That kiss in the godswood nearly broke my control entirely. I've dreamed of nothing else since."

His hands found her waist, drawing her against him. "I've tried to be honorable, to keep proper distance. But seeing you manage Winterfell, watching your quiet strength emerge..." He drew a shaky breath. "Every day the waiting has grown more difficult. And now you tell me we only need wait four more moons..."

When his mouth found hers, it was nothing like their previous kisses. This was raw need and barely restrained passion, his hands tightening on her waist as she melted against him. Sansa gasped softly against his lips, and the sound seemed to break something in his control. He tentatively touched his tongue to her lips, asking permission, and when she parted them with innocent instinct, he groaned deeply and deepened the kiss. His tongue slid against hers with gentle expertise that made her knees weak, while his hand tangled in her hair and the other pulled her more firmly against him.

The intimacy of it stole her breath - this new way of kissing that made heat pool in her belly and caused her to arch unconsciously closer. When she shyly touched her tongue to his in return, Domeric made a sound of pure need that sent shivers down her spine.

Without conscious thought, Sansa shifted to straddle his lap, strong thighs bracketing his hips. The new position aligned her aching center perfectly with the hard ridge of his arousal, making them both groan into the kiss.

Domeric's fingers dug into the supple leather covering her hips as he fought the urge to rock up into her welcoming heat. Even through their layers, he could feel the fever-warmth of her, the way she trembled and clenched against him.

Tearing his mouth away, Domeric trailed biting kisses along the column of her throat, rasping his teeth over her fluttering pulse. "Gods, Sansa," he panted against her skin. "The things you do to me... you test the limits of my control."

Emboldened by his reaction, Sansa rolled her hips, gasping at the exquisite pressure against her throbbing sex. "I ache," she confessed breathlessly, a becoming flush staining her cheeks. "Inside. A hollow sort of ache that I don't understand. And I'm... I'm wet." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Down there. Between my legs. I've never felt like this before."

Domeric's grip tightened convulsively, a low oath rumbling up from his chest. "Fuck, Sansa. You can't just say things like that. Makes me want to..."

He trailed off, jaw clenched as he visibly wrestled his baser urges back under control. With gentle hands, he guided her off his lap to sit beside him once more, immediately feeling bereft at the loss of her heat.

Sansa made a soft sound of protest, but understanding dawned as the haze of arousal receded. They couldn't continue down this path, not if they wanted their union to be blessed and unimpeachable in the eyes of the gods.

"Soon," Domeric rasped, lacing their fingers together and bringing her hand up to press a fervent kiss to her knuckles. "When you're mine in truth, I will worship you as you deserve. Fill every hollow place and soothe every ache until you're replete and glowing with pleasure."

A delicious shiver wracked Sansa's frame at the raw promise in his words. "I will count the hours," she vowed tremulously. "Until I can hold you inside me, feel you move within me, love you as you should be loved. With everything I am, for all the days to come."

Lady's sharp bark finally forced them apart, though Domeric kept her close, his breathing ragged and his pale eyes nearly black with desire. "Four moons," he repeated hoarsely, his voice rough. "Gods, how will I survive four more moons, knowing how perfectly you respond to me? The taste of you..." He had to stop and collect himself, his chest heaving.

"The Dreadfort needs preparations," Sansa managed, though her voice trembled. "Glass gardens, winter stores..."

"My practical bride," he groaned, pressing his forehead to hers. "Even now, thinking of preparations and duty. Do you know how much that inflames me? Your mind is as beautiful as your face." His fingers traced her jaw with exquisite gentleness despite the obvious tension in his frame. "Though perhaps we should return to the keep before I forget myself entirely. Your wolf's judgment grows sharper by the second."

Lady huffed in clear warning, making Domeric step back with visible reluctance. "Four moons," he said again, his voice carrying both promise and barely contained need. "Then I won't have to stop when Lady barks."

They walked back together, maintaining proper distance under the direwolf's watchful eye, but the heat in Domeric's gaze whenever their eyes met left Sansa in no doubt about how deeply he desired her - both body and mind.

Chapter Text

The Dreadfort's ancient godswood held an eerie beauty in the fading winter light, its black-barked trees heavy with snow. Unlike Winterfell's heart tree, the Dreadfort's weirwood seemed to weep blood-red sap more freely, its carved face twisted in what might have been sorrow or triumph. Before it stood the North's most powerful lords and their heirs, Free Folk chiefs and clan leaders, all gathered to witness the binding of two ancient houses.

Bran sat with Meera Reed beside him, both newly arrived from the Neck. His time with the crannogmen had changed him - his eyes held an older wisdom now, and Summer's presence at his side seemed more extension than companion. The five direwolves arranged themselves in a protective semi-circle behind the Stark family - Grey Wind, Ghost, Summer, Nymeria, and Shaggydog forming a living wall of fur and ancient power. Lady alone stood apart, positioning herself where she could watch both her mistress and the assembled crowd.

Cregan stood with Catelyn, who held little Torrhen wrapped warmly against the cold. The toddler's dark Stark looks marked him clearly as his father's son, though he showed none of a child's usual restlessness in the solemn setting. Robb and Jon flanked them, with Arya fidgeting slightly in her new dress while Rickon stood unusually still, sensing the gravity of the moment. Even Theon maintained proper decorum, his usual smirk replaced by careful observation.

Val stood with the Free Folk chiefs, her beauty drawing eyes but her bearing marking her as more than mere ornament. Sigorn of Thenn represented his people proudly, his bronze scales gleaming dully in the fading light. The Northern lords and their families created a sea of furs and wool - Umbers, Karstarks, Manderlys with Robb's pregnant wife Wynafryd, Mormonts, Glovers, Dustins, and more.

Roose Bolton stood beside the heart tree, his pale eyes watching everything while seeming to focus on nothing. The ancient bride's cloak of House Bolton hung from his arms - red wool with the flayed man worked in pink silk, said to date back to the Age of Heroes.

A hush fell as Domeric led Sansa toward the heart tree. She wore white wool trimmed with grey fur, her bride's cloak bearing the Stark direwolf worked in white on grey. Her copper hair had been done in the Northern style, with winter roses woven through the braids. When their eyes met, Domeric's customary Bolton restraint softened into something warmer, more personal. For all their practical discussions of preparation and duty, this moment held something deeper - a connection forged through shared purpose and growing affection.

Sansa felt her heart quicken as they approached the heart tree together. This was no southern ceremony with its seven vows and elaborate speeches. Here before the old gods, it was just them - a man and woman choosing to face the coming storms together. When Domeric took her hands in his, she could feel the slight tremor in them despite his outward calm. His pale eyes held hers with an intensity that made the rest of the world fade away.

Their voices melded together as they spoke the ancient words, each syllable carrying weight beyond mere tradition. These were the same vows spoken before this heart tree for eight thousand years, yet between them they held new meaning - a promise not just of loyalty and devotion, but of shared purpose in the face of the long night to come.

As Roose stepped forward with the ancient Bolton bride's cloak, Domeric's hands were gentle as he removed her Stark cloak. The moment before the Bolton cloak settled on her shoulders, he whispered "Together, through whatever storms come," meant only for her ears - words that brought a soft blush to her cheeks and a smile to her lips despite the solemnity of the occasion.

The instant the ancient wool settled on her shoulders, all six direwolves raised their heads and howled as one - a sound that echoed off the Dreadfort's dark walls and sent ravens scattering from the towers. But Sansa and Domeric barely noticed, lost in each other's eyes as they sealed their union with a kiss that was both tender and full of promise.

Lady's approving huff drew soft laughter from those closest to them, breaking the heavy solemnity of the moment. As they turned to face their gathered families and bannermen, Domeric's hand found Sansa's and squeezed gently. They were no longer just Stark and Bolton, but something new - a bridge between ancient houses, strengthening the North through more than mere alliance.

The feast that followed was modest by traditional standards but still honored the dignity of the occasion. The great hall had been prepared carefully, with braziers providing warmth while servants moved efficiently under the direction of the Dreadfort's steward. The subtle touches they shared throughout the feast spoke volumes to those who knew them well - Domeric's hand covering hers briefly as she reached for her cup, Sansa's smile when he leaned close to whisper observations about their guests, the way their eyes found each other across conversations.

Sansa sat beside her new husband, already showing the dignity of the Lady of the Dreadfort. Her courtesy smoothed potentially awkward moments between various lords, while her practical knowledge of the North's preparations earned respect from the Free Folk chiefs. Even Roose's customary cold expression held a hint of approval as he watched his son and new gooddaughter move through their duties with both grace and clear affection.

Jasper Redfort had been watching Val throughout the feast, working up the courage that came so easily with southron ladies. She sat among the Free Folk chiefs with an easy grace that made the fine ladies of the Vale look stiff in comparison, her beauty only enhanced by her complete indifference to the attention she drew.

"My lady," he said, finally approaching with his most charming smile, "would you honor me with a dance?"

Val looked at him as if he were a particularly slow child. "I don't know your southern dances, lord boy."

"I could teach you," Jasper offered, undaunted. "It's really quite simple—"

"Like teaching a shadowcat to fetch?" Her smile held a predatory edge. "We dance beyond the Wall, but not in pretty circles holding hands. Unless you'd care to learn how we dance?"

Something in her tone made Jasper hesitate. "How... do you dance?"

"With spears," Val's eyes glittered with amusement. "Though I suppose you could use that pretty sword at your hip. If you don't mind a few bruises."

Nearby, several Free Folk warriors who understood the Common Tongue poorly hid their laughter. Jasper felt his face flush but maintained his smile. "Perhaps we could start with something less martial..."

"Perhaps you could find a nice southron girl who knows your steps," Val suggested, not unkindly. "Though if you ever want to learn real dancing..." She patted the knife at her belt meaningfully.

Across the hall, a very different scene unfolded as Sigorn of Thenn watched Alys Karstark with undisguised interest. Her dark hair and lean strength reminded him of the women of his people, but she moved with a grace he'd never seen in the harsh lands beyond the Wall.

"You are... Karstark?" he asked in careful Common Tongue when she passed near his table. His bronze scale armor gleamed in the torchlight as he stood, towering over most men in the hall.

Alys paused, studying him with direct interest rather than the fear or disdain some showed the Free Folk. "Alys Karstark," she confirmed. "And you're the Magnar of Thenn."

"Sigorn," he corrected. Then, with careful deliberation: "Would ask for dance, but not know steps. Would shame such grace."

A slight blush colored Alys's cheeks at the frank compliment. "We could talk instead? I'd like to hear about Thenn. I hear your people work bronze, like the First Men did."

Sigorn's face lit with genuine pleasure. "Yes! Show you?" He touched his intricate bronze bracers. "Our crafters... make beauty strong. Like you."

Meanwhile, Robb led Wynafryd in a careful dance despite her advanced pregnancy, both of them laughing softly as they modified the steps to accommodate her condition. Nearby, Bran and Meera swayed together, lost in their own world, while Cregan and Catelyn showed that years of marriage had only deepened their connection as they moved in perfect harmony.

But the hall's attention was increasingly drawn to the corner where Alys Karstark sat with the Magnar of Thenn, her hands running over his bronze armor as he explained the craftsmanship in his broken Common Tongue. Her genuine fascination with his people's metalwork was met with his obvious admiration for her quick understanding.

"Your father," Sigorn said carefully, "he is... chief? Leader?"

"Lord," Alys corrected gently. "Lord Karstark."

"Would speak to Lord Karstark," Sigorn declared with characteristic Thenn directness. "Ask permission court daughter. Proper way, yes?"

Alys's blush deepened, but her smile was pleased. "Very proper. Though perhaps... perhaps we should speak more first? Learn more of each other's ways?"

"Yes," Sigorn agreed readily. "Tell me of Karhold. I tell you of Thenn. Good foundation for..." he searched for the word, "courtship?"

Jasper, still smarting from Val's rejection, watched in disbelief as the fearsome Thenn warrior made more progress with a highborn lady in broken Common Tongue than he had with all his practiced charm.

"You could try being that direct," Val suggested, appearing beside him with silent grace. "We Free Folk have no patience for pretty words that mean nothing. See how your lady Karstark responds to honest interest?"

Indeed, Alys was leaning closer to Sigorn, completely absorbed as he drew diagrams of Thenn metalworking techniques on a scrap of parchment. Their heads bent together created a striking image - her dark hair nearly touching his bronze-adorned braids, both of them lost in their shared fascination.

"Perhaps I should learn spear dancing after all," Jasper mused, earning a genuine laugh from Val.

"There's hope for you yet, lord boy," she said, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince. "Though I'd start with a practice spear if I were you."

The feast continued around them - Robb now resting with Wynafryd while his hand splayed protectively over her belly, Bran and Meera sharing quiet observations that sometimes made them both laugh, Cregan and Catelyn watching it all with quiet satisfaction. But more than a few eyes strayed to where Alys Karstark and the Magnar of Thenn remained deep in conversation, their cultural differences forgotten in the discovery of shared interests and growing attraction.

Chapter Text

"Poor Redfort," Theon commented to Sansa and Domeric at the high table, his customary smirk in place. "Clearly doesn't understand how to handle a woman like that. Watch and learn."

Robb and Jon exchanged glances, already struggling to maintain straight faces. They'd seen Val take down warriors twice Theon's size in the practice yard, always with that same amused smile.

"Theon—" Domeric began, but the Greyjoy heir was already swaggering toward Val, full of his usual confidence.

"Let him," Jon murmured, his eyes dancing. "Some lessons are best learned firsthand."

Val had resumed her seat after sending Jasper off to learn spear dancing, her casual grace drawing eyes from across the hall. She saw Theon's approach and her lips curved in that same predatory smile she'd given Redfort.

"My lady," Theon began, giving her his most practiced grin, "I couldn't help but notice you're not properly appreciating our Northern hospitality. Perhaps I could show you some of our more... intimate customs?"

"The little squid wants to dance too?" Val's eyes sparkled with mischief. "And here I thought only the Vale lord was brave enough tonight."

"I assure you," Theon preened, missing her tone completely, "I'm far more experienced than Redfort in these matters. We Ironborn know how to properly appreciate a beautiful woman—"

"Oh? And do all Ironborn talk this much?" Val rose smoothly, and suddenly she was much closer than Theon had expected. "Or is it just you trying to convince me of your... experience?"

At the high table, Robb had to turn his laugh into a cough. Jon wasn't even trying to hide his grin anymore.

"I could show you rather than tell you," Theon suggested, still somehow missing the dangerous edge to Val's playful smile.

"Could you now?" In one fluid motion, Val had Theon's wrist bent back and her other hand resting casually on her knife. But unlike her earlier warning to Jasper, her tone remained light, almost teasing. "And here I thought the iron boys only knew how to raid fishing villages. Tell me, little squid, do you practice these smooth words in the mirror each morning?"

"I— what— how did you—" Theon's usual eloquence deserted him completely.

"Shhhh," Val soothed, as if calming a startled horse. "Too many words. Now, I offered the Vale lord spear dancing lessons. Would you like to learn too? I promise only a few bruises. Well, mostly promise."

From the high table, Sansa had to press her face into Domeric's shoulder to stifle her giggles. Even Domeric's usual Bolton reserve had cracked enough to show clear amusement.

"I don't— that is— perhaps another time—" Theon managed, his face flushing as red as his wrist where Val held it.

"Such a shy squid after all!" Val released him with a gentle push that somehow still sent him stumbling backward. "Run along then. Maybe practice those pretty words more before trying them on someone who might actually cut you for them."

Theon retreated with as much dignity as he could muster, which wasn't much. When he passed the high table, Robb and Jon had given up all pretense of solemnity and were laughing openly.

"Not quite the demonstration you promised?" Jon called after him.

"Shut up, Snow," Theon muttered, but there was no real heat in it. Even he had to acknowledge the humor in the situation, even if his pride stung.

"If it helps," Val called after him, "you lasted longer than the Vale lord before looking terrified!"

The hall erupted in laughter then, but it was more good-natured than cruel. Even Theon managed a rueful smile, though he made sure to stay well out of Val's reach for the rest of the feast.

"Well," Sansa said softly to Domeric, "at least he learned with relatively little damage to anything but his pride."

Near the back of the hall, the Greatjon's booming laugh suggested he'd particularly enjoyed the show. "That's the way, lass!" he called to Val

Val's answering grin was all predator, though her eyes still danced with amusement. "The night's still young, Lord Umber. Any other volunteers for dancing lessons?"

After watching Theon's retreat, Jon caught Val's eye from across the hall.

"You know me?" he asked simply, coming to stand before her.

"Aye, the quiet one with the white wolf," Val nodded, her previous predatory amusement softening into something more genuine. "Fought well in the battle. Your wolf even better."

"Ghost has that effect," Jon's lips quirked in a half-smile. He gestured toward where Arya and Rickon were dancing - if it could be called that - spinning and laughing with absolutely no regard for proper steps. "Would you dance? No fancy southern moves, I promise. I'm hopeless at those myself."

Val's eyes tracked to the younger Starks, noting their unrestrained joy. "And what do I get in return, Jon Snow?"

"I'll help you learn our dances today," Jon's dark eyes held a glint of mischief, "and you can teach me how Free Folk dance in the training yard tomorrow. Seems fair?"

Theon's jaw dropped as Val actually took Jon's offered hand, her own laugh matching his sardonic wit. "Four indeed. Very well, Jon Snow. Show me how you southrons move when you're not busy being proper."

"I'm told I'm rarely proper anyway," Jon guided her toward where Arya and Rickon danced, his natural grace matching Val's warrior's poise.

"JON!" Arya's delighted shriek cut through the hall as she saw her favorite brother approaching. "Val! Come dance with us! Rickon's making up all the steps!"

"Making up steps? Now that's a proper way to dance," Val grinned, letting Jon lead her into the children's chaotic revelry.

"Your brother has layers," Domeric observed to Robb, who was still whistling and clapping.

"More than most know," Robb grinned proudly. "Though I'd pay good gold to see him in the training yard tomorrow. Val doesn't make idle promises about putting warriors on their backs."

The Free Folk chiefs watched with clear approval - here was someone who understood their ways, who offered respect without submission and courage with humor.

As the improvised dance continued, with Arya and Rickon now teaching Val their completely invented steps while Jon followed along with exaggerated seriousness, the feast's atmosphere shifted. The remaining formality melted away, replaced by genuine celebration as others joined the spontaneous revelry.

"Now that," Val declared between spins, "is proper dancing, Jon Snow."

The feast had fully transformed now, the rigid lines between Free Folk and Northerners, nobles and warriors dissolving into shared laughter and improvised dancing. And at the center, Jon Snow and Val moved with matched warrior's grace, neither trying to lead or follow, just flowing with the joy of the moment.

The chamber was warm from the hearth's glow, scented with winter roses and heady anticipation when Domeric carried Sansa across the threshold. Her slender arms twined around his neck, face flushed and eyes bright with nervousness and excitement. He set her reverently on the furs, pale gaze darkening as it traced her kiss-swollen lips, elegant throat, the hints of creamy skin beneath her laces.

"My wife," he murmured, voice roughened by barely restrained desire. "My beautiful Sansa."

Callused fingers ghosted along her cheek, so tender it made her ache. Sansa trembled, nerves and a strange, unfamiliar need intertwining beneath her skin. Shyly, she reached up to twine a dark lock of his hair around her fingers.

"Yours," she whispered. "As you are mine."

Something fierce and hungry flashed in Domeric's eyes, primal and possessive. He captured her mouth in a searing kiss, weeks of pent-up longing pouring out. Sansa gasped, then tentatively responded, trying to match his ardor even as her innocence left her uncertain.

They sank into the furs, Domeric's larger frame covering hers. His hands shaped her curves through the thin fabric of her shift, making her shiver with newly awakened sensations. The hard ridge of his arousal pressed against her hip, strange yet exciting, hinting at mysteries she had only imagined.

He gentled the kiss, hot mouth trailing whisper-soft caresses along her jaw to her ear. "We go at your pace, sweet girl," he rasped. "Only what you wish, nothing more."

Sansa bit her lip, gaze flicking demurely to his. "I want to be a good wife to you. To... to please you." Her maidenly blush deepened. "I'm just not certain how."

Domeric's eyes softened, adoration and reverence mingling with the ever-present hunger. "You please me with every breath, simply by being mine." He brushed a tender kiss over her brow. "Let me love you, sweetling. Let me show you pleasure."

At Sansa's bashful nod, Domeric unlaced her shift with deliberate slowness, calloused fingers grazing each new inch of exposed skin. Sansa trembled as cool air met the heated flush his touch left behind. When the fabric pooled around her waist, she resisted the maidenly urge to cover herself, wanting him to look his fill even as shyness threatened to overwhelm her.

"Exquisite," he breathed reverently. "A true Northern beauty."

Then his head lowered, facial hair pleasantly abrading her sensitive skin as he trailed soft kisses from her collarbone to the swell of her breasts. Sansa gasped as his clever mouth closed around one pert nipple, the sensation completely foreign yet utterly wonderful. She tangled her fingers in his hair, unconsciously arching into him.

Domeric laved devoted attention on her breasts, exploring with lips and tongue and just a hint of teeth, until Sansa was shifting restlessly beneath him, breath coming in little pants and soft sighs. Only then did he continue his worship down her body, slowly peeling her shift off as he went. 

By the time he reached the thatch of auburn curls at the apex of her thighs, Sansa was bare before him, flushed and nervous but alight with anticipation. She instinctively moved to close her legs, the vulnerability of the moment almost too much, but Domeric gentled her with tender caresses, eyes full of love and reassurance.

"Let me taste you, sweet wife," he requested softly, breath teasing her sensitive folds. "I would feast on your honey, if you allow it."

Sansa's eyes widened at the intimate suggestion, a thrill of excitement warring with maidenly reserve. But the heat in Domeric's gaze, tempered by utter devotion, gave her courage. Hands trembling slightly, she parted her thighs for him in silent invitation.

The first swipe of Domeric's tongue through her folds made Sansa jerk, a breathy moan escaping her. He gentled her with strong hands on her hips, licking slowly, thoroughly, soft groans of appreciation vibrating against her sensitive flesh.

The sensations were strange but utterly blissful, stoking the curious ache building in her core. Sansa found herself tentatively rocking against his face, gasping his name like a prayer. A spring coiled ever tighter low in her belly until something in her shattered, pleasure coursing through her veins like lightning.

Domeric worked her through the waves, touch and pressure gentling until she floated down from the peak, hazy and sated. Only then did he crawl up her body, hand cupping her cheek as he gazed down at her with wonder.

"My perfect Northern rose," he praised hoarsely. "Flushed with passion, sweet as honey."

Something about that look, about his obvious desire tempered by utter love and devotion, made Sansa brave. She reached between them to unlace his breeches, shyly brushing the hard length straining behind the fabric. Domeric's hips jerked at her touch, a low groan escaping him.

"Sansa," he warned, voice strained. "If you touch me thus, my control will snap."

"Then let it," she whispered, finding the courage she needed in his ardent gaze. "I'm yours, husband. Make me a true wife."

With a shuddering breath, Domeric reached between them to gently guide himself to her entrance. His darkened eyes sought hers, searching for signs of hesitation. "I would rather die than hurt you, my love."

"You could never," Sansa breathed, absolute certainty in her tone. "I trust you, Domeric. With all that I am, from this day to my last."

They both gasped as he pressed forward, her body stretching around him, unused to the intrusion. Domeric gentled her with soft kisses and soothing caresses, letting her set the pace as he slowly, carefully sheathed himself in her tight heat.

The momentary discomfort was chased by a fullness, a rightness Sansa had never felt before. When Domeric finally seated himself to the hilt, she felt complete, two halves made whole.

Her awed smile was all the encouragement he needed. With a reverent kiss, he began to move, long, slow thrusts that had Sansa seeing stars, breathy sighs of bliss escaping her lips. In his darkened grey eyes she saw love, devotion, and desire, all for her, only for her.

The bedchamber filled with the ancient song of passion- soft cries harmonizing with deep groans, the slip of sweat-dampened skin, the creak of the featherbed. Release built slowly, cresting over Sansa in gentle waves as Domeric whispered words of love against her skin with each thrust.

When Domeric finally found his completion, her name was on his lips like a prayer, his powerful frame shuddering above her. They clung together in the afterglow, sharing kisses flavored with salt and sweet affirmation.

"I love you," Sansa whispered, eyes bright with joyful tears. "I didn't know it could be like this, that I could feel so much."

Domeric smiled softly, tenderly brushing her tears away. "This is only the beginning, my heart. I intend to spend my life loving you well."

With that vow, he drew her tightly into his embrace, their bodies still joined in the most intimate way. Sleep claimed them wrapped in the certainty of their love, ready to face the coming dawn together.

Chapter Text

The first hints of dawn filtered through the Dreadfort's thick stone walls, casting the lord's chambers in a soft grey light. Sansa stirred slowly to consciousness, warm and content despite the morning chill. Her cheek rested against Domeric's chest, his steady heartbeat a gentle rhythm beneath her ear. One of his arms curved protectively around her waist, while his other hand had somehow tangled itself in her unbound hair during the night.

She allowed herself a moment to simply exist in this space, memorizing every detail - the rise and fall of his chest, the surprising warmth of him despite the Bolton's cold reputation, the way his usual rigid control had softened in sleep. His face looked younger, more peaceful, the careful mask of Bolton restraint replaced by genuine contentment. The furs had slipped down to his waist, and she felt her cheeks warm at the memory of discovering just how misleading his reputation for coldness had been.

A languid stroke down her spine told her Domeric was awake, though his eyes remained closed. His fingers traced idle patterns across her skin, each touch sending little shivers through her.

"I can feel you blushing," he murmured, voice rough with sleep but warm with affection. His pale eyes opened finally, finding hers with a tenderness that made her heart skip.

"I'm not blushing," she protested weakly, even as she felt her cheeks grow warmer.

His lips curved in that rare full smile he seemed to reserve solely for her. "No? Then why is my shy wife hiding her face against my chest?"

"I'm not hiding," Sansa mumbled into his skin. "I'm simply... comfortable here."

"Mmm." His hand continued its gentle exploration of her back. "As shy now as you were last night? When you—"

"Domeric!" She swatted his chest, face flaming even as she couldn't help smiling at his teasing. This playful side of him was something she'd only glimpsed during their courtship, usually when they were completely alone. Now it seemed marriage had freed him to show it more openly, at least with her.

"What?" His innocent tone was belied by the mischief in his eyes. "I was merely going to compliment my wife's grace and poise. Even when—"

She pressed her hand over his mouth, laughing despite her embarrassment. "You're terrible."

He kissed her palm before moving it away, his own laugh a low rumble she felt through his chest. "Terrible? I thought I was rather wonderful, given your reactions last—"

"Husband," she interrupted with all the dignity she could muster while blushing furiously, "you are not nearly as proper as everyone believes."

"Only with you," he assured her, fingers now tracing the curve of her shoulder. "I have a fearsome reputation to maintain with everyone else." His touch drifted lower, following the line of her arm. "Though I find I rather enjoy making you blush."

Sansa buried her face in his neck, but couldn't help smiling. This was a side of Domeric no one else got to see - playful, tender, almost mischievous in his determination to tease her. The feared Bolton heir, who could silence a room with one pale-eyed stare, now seemed entirely focused on drawing out her embarrassed laughter.

"I had plans for this morning, you know," she informed his collarbone with what dignity she could muster. "The glass gardens need expanding before the next moon turns. And the Free Folk women showed me some new preservation techniques we should implement immediately."

"Did they now?" His fingers had found their way back into her hair, gently working out the tangles. "And did any of them mention how terribly distracting you are when you try to discuss practical matters while lying unclothed in my arms?"

"Domeric!" But she was laughing again, unable to maintain even pretend indignation when he was being so unexpectedly charming.

"My practical wife," he murmured fondly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Already planning improvements to the Dreadfort before the sun has properly risen on our first day of marriage."

"The Dreadfort is my home now too," she reminded him, finally lifting her head to meet his eyes properly. "And winter is coming."

"So it is." His expression softened as he studied her face. "Though perhaps we could delay discussing glass gardens for at least a few more hours?"

His hand had resumed its wandering path along her spine, and Sansa found her thoughts of practical matters growing decidedly less coherent. "I suppose... the preparations could wait a little longer."

"How gracious of you," he teased gently, pulling her closer. "To spare some time for your poor husband before beginning your improvements to his ancestral home."

Outside, she could hear the Dreadfort beginning to wake - servants moving in the corridors, the distant sound of the yard coming to life. But here in this room, wrapped in warmth and newfound intimacy, the rest of the world could wait.

They had found something precious amid all their practical planning and political alliance - genuine love growing alongside mutual respect and shared purpose. As Domeric's fingers continued their gentle exploration, drawing out little sighs and shivers, Sansa smiled against his chest. The Dreadfort would have its glass gardens and winter preparations soon enough. But for now, she was content simply to be Domeric's wife, finding unexpected warmth in the allegedly cold halls of her new home.

Her last coherent thought, before Domeric thoroughly distracted her from all practical matters, was that Lady would simply have to wait a bit longer for her morning walk.

SENNIGHT LATER

Lord Rickard found Alys in Karhold's glass gardens, where she was studying the diagrams Sigorn had drawn of Thenn preservation techniques. Her dark hair was braided simply in the Northern style, and her expression held the same focused intensity he remembered seeing on his wife's face when tackling complex problems.

"A word, daughter," he said, settling onto a nearby bench. "The Magnar of Thenn spoke with me today."

Alys's hands stilled on the parchment, though her voice remained steady. "Did he?"

"Aye. Asked permission to court you - properly, by our customs." Rickard studied his daughter's face carefully. "Though he made it clear that among his people, the woman's choice matters most."

A slight blush colored Alys's cheeks, but she met her father's eyes directly. "And what did you tell him?"

"That depends," Rickard said carefully. "First, I'd hear your thoughts. You've spent much time with him and his people these past moons."

"The Thenns are different from what we imagined," Alys said thoughtfully. "They're not raiders or savages. They work metal, keep laws, follow proper hierarchy. Sigorn especially - he understands the importance of legacy, of building something that lasts."

"And the man himself?"

Alys's blush deepened slightly, but her voice remained clear. "He's strong, yes, but also wise. Learns our ways while teaching his. Shows respect not through pretty words, but through actions." She gestured to the diagrams. "See how he takes time to document their knowledge, to ensure it's preserved and shared? That's not just about teaching techniques - it's about building understanding between our peoples."

"He said if you wished to stay here after the war, he would make his home here with his people," Rickard noted. "Or return to Thenn if you preferred."

"He'd let me choose?" Alys's eyes widened slightly.

"Said his people follow their Magnar. If you chose to stay, they'd build a new Thenn on the lands Lord Stark offered." Rickard's weathered face softened. "He's thought it through carefully, daughter. Spoken to Lord Stark as well as me."

Alys was quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing the careful lines of Sigorn's drawings. "What do you think, Father?"

"I think," Rickard said slowly, "that I've never seen you so alive as when you're working with the Thenns, learning their crafts while teaching ours. And I think Sigorn watches you with the same respect I saw your mother earn from our people - not for her beauty alone, but for her strength and wisdom."

Alys found Sigorn in the forge yard where they'd spent so many evenings these past moons, his massive form bent over a piece of bronze work. Since Sansa's wedding, they'd fallen into an easy rhythm - him teaching metalwork while she shared Northern knowledge, their broken conversations growing more natural with time.

"Your father spoke to you?" Sigorn asked without looking up, somehow always aware of her presence.

"He did." Alys settled on her usual bench, watching his skilled hands work the metal. "I have questions, though. Important ones."

Sigorn set his tools aside, giving her his full attention. "Ask. Will answer true."

"You mean to stay in the North? Truly?" Her dark eyes studied his face. "Not just saying what my father wishes hear?"

"Is... complicated feeling," Sigorn admitted, his broken Common Tongue struggling to express deeper thoughts. "Miss Thenn. Miss mountains, caves where we mine bronze. But..." He gestured to the yard where his people worked alongside Northerners. "See how they learn together? Build something new?"

"But your people - they'd accept staying so far from their home?"

"My people follow Magnar," Sigorn said simply. "Always have. But more than that - they see future here. Good land Lord Stark gave. Strong allies." His pale eyes met hers. "If choose return Thenn someday, can still work both places. Mine bronze there, trade here. But if choose stay..." He paused, choosing words carefully. "Would not ask you leave family alone. Not like that."

"You've thought about this. Genuinely thought about it."

"Think about many things," Sigorn admitted. "Think about how you work with our women, learn our ways. Think about children who would know both cultures, be strong with both bloods." His serious expression softened slightly. "Think about you, Alys Karstark. How you see value in our ways, not just tolerate."

"And if I wanted to see Thenn someday? Not to stay, but to understand?"

"Would show you," Sigorn's face brightened. "Show caves where we mine, halls we built in mountain. But as visitor, not exile." He reached for something he'd been working on. "Like bronze we work - can be part of many things, still keep strength."

"You make everything sound so practical," Alys said with a slight smile.

"Am practical man," Sigorn agreed, then added with rare humor, "Most times. Not so practical when watch you work with our crafters. Lose count of strikes then."

Alys laughed - a sound that still drew attention from others, unused to hearing such lightness from either of them. "The fearsome Magnar of Thenn, distracted from his metalwork?"

"Only by stronger metal," Sigorn said softly, his expression more open than she'd ever seen it. "Stronger will."

The forgelight caught the bronze of his armor, the same shade as the pieces they'd worked together these past moons. Two cultures meeting, merging, growing stronger together - just as he'd said.

"Ask me properly then," Alys said, her voice carrying its own quiet certainty.

"Sure?" His eyes held hers. "Once ask proper way, no taking back."

"I'm sure," Alys replied. "Ask me, Sigorn of Thenn."

The forge's warmth couldn't match the heat in his eyes as he reached for her hand with his metalworker's calluses, his formal words in broken Common Tongue carrying more weight than any southron poetry.

They had built this understanding piece by piece, like the bronze they worked together. Now it was time to forge it properly, binding two ancient bloodlines into something new yet rooted in both their traditions.

The snows were falling harder outside, but in the forge yard, warmth bloomed like bronze in the fire, strong and enduring as the foundations they would build together.

Chapter Text

Dragonstone's harbor held more than just her returning fleet. Several ships bearing House Manderly's merman sigil were already anchored there, with crews of workers hauling dark stones from the beach caves to their vessels. Daenerys watched from the deck of her flagship as Drogon's shadow swept over the workers, sending them scrambling for cover.

"Your Grace," Tyrion said quietly, "it seems someone has been making use of your ancestral seat in your absence."

A messenger was dispatched, and within the hour, a portly man in Manderly colors was escorted to the castle's great hall where Daenerys held her first court on Westerosi soil. The man's face was still pale from his first sight of the dragons, though he maintained his dignity as he bowed.

"Ser Wendel Manderly, Your Grace, representing White Harbor and the North."

"You mine my family's dragonglass without permission, Ser Wendel," Daenerys observed. "Explain."

"We're preparing for a war against the dead, Your Grace." Wendel answered without preamble.

Tyrion barked out a laugh. "Surely you're japing."

But something in Wendel's expression made the laughter die in Tyrion's throat. The Manderly knight's face held no trace of humor as he continued: "Lord Stark sent Lord Bolton himself to the Citadel with proof, but they debate while we prepare. The North fights, along with some houses from the Vale and Riverlands. Even the Free Folk stand with us now."

"And what of the crown?" Daenerys asked. "What of Cersei Lannister's rule?"

Wendel's expression hardened. "With Cersei as queen, we expect no aid from the Iron Throne. The North remembers its duty, even if the south has forgotten. The dead march, Your Grace. We need every piece of dragonglass we can find."

That evening  after Wendel was allowed to continue mining Daenerys sat with her closest advisors in the Chamber of the Painted Table. Tyrion stood on a raised platform to better see the carved map, while Grey Worm and Missandei flanked their queen. Ser Barristan stood near the window, his weathered face thoughtful as he considered all they'd learned.

"The Reach, Dorne, even the Iron Islands - they all came seeking alliances," Daenerys mused, her fingers tracing the carved outline of the North. "Yet the Starks prepare for a threat we barely understand, caring nothing for the game of thrones."

"And they've been preparing for years," Tyrion noted. "Long before anyone knew you'd return to Westeros. The glass gardens, the restored fortresses, the careful positioning of forces - all done while appearing to focus solely on practical matters."

"Roose Bolton is not a man given to flights of fancy, Your Grace," Ser Barristan said carefully. "I never knew him to exaggerate or make false claims. If he took evidence to the Citadel himself..." He hesitated, then added with grave certainty, "The threat must be real indeed."

"You knew Lord Bolton, Ser Barristan?" Daenerys asked.

The old knight's weathered face grew solemn. "I did, Your Grace. But more importantly, I knew what your father did to the Starks. Lord Rickard, Brandon... they came to King's Landing seeking justice, just as Princess Elia sought protection. Instead, they found only madness and fire." His voice carried the weight of painful memory. "Lord Rickard burned while his son strangled himself trying to save him. No trial, no justice - just murder born of paranoia and cruelty."

Daenerys's expression tightened. "I am not my father."

"No, Your Grace, you are not," Barristan agreed gently. "But the North remembers. The Starks lost a lord and his heir to the Mad King's flames, just as you lost your family to Robert's wrath, just as the Martells lost Elia and her children to Lannister ambition. That pain, that injustice - it does not fade easily." He met her eyes directly. "It will not be simple for them to bend the knee to another Targaryen, especially when those murders were what truly began Robert's Rebellion."

"What would you suggest then?" Daenerys asked, her voice carrying less certainty now.

"If I don't offer aid against these dead men," she said slowly, "I prove exactly what they believe - that the south cares nothing for their plight."

"Careful, Your Grace," Tyrion warned. "Any offer of conditional aid would likely backfire. 'I'll help you fight the dead if you bend the knee' would only remind them of past demands from the Iron Throne - demands that ended in fire and blood."

"The North has spent years ensuring they need nothing from the Iron Throne," Missandei observed quietly. "Perhaps the approach should not be what you can offer in exchange for fealty, but what you can prove about your character."

"Your father's reign ended because he lost sight of a ruler's true duty - justice and protection of the realm," Ser Barristan said solemnly. "Here is a chance to show you understand that duty comes before personal ambition or ancient grievances."

"They face an existential threat," Tyrion explained. "One that the current crown ignores completely. If you were to aid them simply because it's right, because you truly are different from those who came before..." He let the implications hang.

"Without demanding their submission first," Grey Worm added, showing his growing grasp of Westerosi politics.

"The North remembers every slight, every broken promise," Ser Barristan agreed. "But they also remember those who stood with them when it mattered most. Your Grace, this is your chance to show you're not just another southron ruler seeking their submission. You could be the queen who came to their aid simply because it was right."

"And if they still refuse to acknowledge my claim afterward?" Daenerys asked, though her tone suggested she already understood the deeper strategy.

"Then you'll still have proved yourself different from Cersei, from all those who ignored their warnings," Tyrion said. "But I suspect Lord Stark is practical enough to recognize a true ally when one presents themselves."

"I've known Lord Stark since Robert's Rebellion," Ser Barristan added. "He values actions over words, duty over ambition. Show him you understand the true meaning of rulership - protecting the realm - and you may find him a stronger ally than any won through force or demands."

Daenerys stood, moving to the window where her dragons wheeled against the darkening sky. "Three dragons against an army of the dead," she said softly. "Perhaps this is why they were given to me - not just to take back my throne, but to help save the realm I mean to rule."

"Starting with those who need it most," Missandei suggested, "regardless of whether they've bent the knee."

"The throne can wait," Daenerys decided. "Send word to Lord Stark. Tell him I've seen his man's proof myself, here at Dragonstone. Tell him..." She turned back to her advisors, her eyes carrying both determination and wisdom. "Tell him the realm needs unity now more than ever. And this time, the dragons come not to conquer, but to protect."

Ser Barristan's weathered face showed quiet approval. This was the kind of queen he'd hoped to serve - one who understood that true leadership meant putting the realm's needs before personal power.

"You mean to divert our forces north?" Olenna Tyrell's voice carried her characteristic sharpness. "When we finally have the strength to take King's Landing?"

"The dead won't wait for us to play politics," Daenerys replied firmly. "And they won't care who sits the Iron Throne if they breach the Wall."

"Prince Doran knew of this threat," Tyene Sand interjected, her dark eyes intent. "Sarella returned from the Citadel nearly a year ago about Bolton's evidence. That's why we've been stockpiling food and supplies in the desert caves."

"Doran?" Olenna's eyebrows rose. "The man who's done nothing but watch and wait for twenty years?"

"My uncle watches, yes," Tyene's smile was sharp as a blade. "And prepares. The desert remembers winter, even if the rest of the south forgets. We've been gathering resources, strengthening our positions... waiting to see what would come next."

"And your uncle said nothing?" Tyrion asked carefully.

"Who would believe Dorne?" Tyene countered. "Better to prepare quietly and wait for the right moment. Which, it seems, has arrived."

Yara Greyjoy shifted in her seat, skepticism evident in her stance. "These are northern fairy tales. Dead men walking?" She shook her head. "Though... I could ask Theon. He's been strangely quiet since Victarion's attack on Moat Cailin failed."

"Failed spectacularly, from what I hear," Olenna noted dryly. "Your uncle lost half his fleet trying to sneak through the Neck. Almost as if the North knew exactly where to expect him."

"The North's preparations go beyond mere defense," Tyrion observed. "They've been systematically strengthening their position for years. I think this is the reason."

"We investigated Bolton's claims, actually," Olenna admitted, surprising them all. "After he visited the Citadel. I had my own people look into why he went there." Her face tightened with old pain. "But then Cersei destroyed the Sept, and with it... well, other matters took precedence."

"Your grandchildren," Daenerys said softly.

"Margaery and Loras, yes." Olenna's voice carried steel beneath the grief. "But perhaps their deaths served a purpose after all. They showed us what Cersei is willing to do to maintain power. Will she be any more willing to face this threat than she was to face her own crimes?"

"She'll ignore it," Tyrion said flatly. "Just as she ignores anything that doesn't directly threaten her grip on power. The dead could be marching on King's Landing and she'd still be plotting against perceived rivals."

"Then we must act first," Daenerys decided. "The Dothraki can outride any army in Westeros. The Unsullied can hold any position. And the dragons..." She paused meaningfully.

"Dragons," Tyene mused. "Fire made flesh. The perfect weapon against the dead, if the old stories are true."

"They're true enough for the North to spend years preparing," Yara noted reluctantly. "

"The Reach can provide food," Olenna offered after a moment's consideration. "Our harvests have been good, and if winter truly brings these horrors..." She straightened in her chair. "House Tyrell remembers its duty to the realm, even if others forget."

"Dorne will stand with you," Tyene declared. "My uncle's preparations won't have been in vain. And perhaps..." Her smile turned predatory. "Perhaps helping save the realm will remind everyone that Dorne is more than just sand and spears."

"The ironborn..." Yara hesitated. "I'll need to speak with my captains. But if Theon confirms this threat..." She met Daenerys's eyes. "We know better than most what lurks in deep waters. If death truly walks, we'll face it."

"Then we are agreed?" Daenerys looked around the chamber. "We focus our strength northward, deal with the dead first?"

"The Iron Throne will still be there," Tyrion noted. "Assuming we all survive what's coming."

"Winter is coming," Tyene quoted with only a hint of irony. "Though I never thought I'd hear a Dornishwoman say those words with real concern."

"Winter comes for us all," Daenerys replied. "The only question is whether we face it divided or united."

The chamber fell silent as her words hung in the air, each ally considering the implications of this change in strategy. Outside, her dragons screamed - a sound that now carried less conquest and more protection. The game of thrones would wait. The true enemy approached.

Chapter Text

The dragons' shadows swept across Winterfell's courtyard as Daenerys Targaryen descended from Drogon's back, her silver-gold hair whipping in the cold wind. Cregan watched through Ned's eyes, remembering the raven they'd received after her landing at Dragonstone - how she'd met Wendel Manderly there and, on the counsel of Ser Barristan and Tyrion, chosen to aid the North without demanding fealty first.

"Welcome to Winterfell, Your Grace," he said in Ned's measured tones, stepping forward with Catelyn at his side.

"Lord Stark," Daenerys replied, her violet eyes meeting his grey ones. "After meeting Ser Wendel at Dragonstone and learning of the threat you face, I felt I could not delay." She paused, studying him carefully. "Though I confess, some of my advisors thought me rash for coming North without waiting for more proof."

"Yet here you stand," Cregan observed, letting just a touch of his ancient wisdom color Ned's voice. Through eight thousand years of experience, he recognized this moment for what it was - not just a meeting of lords, but a test of character for them both.

"Here I stand," she agreed. "Because Ser Barristan reminded me that a true ruler's first duty is to protect the realm. The Iron Throne can wait - the dead, I suspect, will not."

Behind her, Tyrion Lannister watched the exchange with sharp interest, while her dragons wheeled overhead against the grey Northern sky. The court of Winterfell had fallen silent, all eyes on this meeting between the Quiet Wolf and the Dragon Queen.

The game of thrones could wait. Winter was coming, and with it, enemies that cared nothing for human crowns or kingdoms. The wheel turned, bringing old powers together once more - though whether in harmony or conflict remained to be seen.

"Come," Cregan gestured in Ned's characteristically reserved manner. "The great hall is warmer, and there is much to discuss." He noted how she tried to hide her shivering in the Northern cold - a small detail that spoke of pride without arrogance.

As they walked, Catelyn beside him and their children following, he studied her. She'd chosen to come North on the word of a Manderly knight and the counsel of those who knew the North's reputation. No demands for fealty, no insistence on proof first. That told him more about her character than any number of grand declarations could have.

"Your Ser Wendel seemed surprised when we granted permission to continue mining dragonglass," Daenerys said as they entered the hall. "He expected us to demand something in return."

"Most would have," Cregan replied carefully, keeping Ned's tone measured. "Three dragons give you considerable leverage for negotiations."

"The dead won't wait for political maneuvering, Lord Stark," she answered. "Ser Barristan spoke of your honor, and Lord Tyrion of your preparations these past years. If the North diverts its resources for more than just preparing for winter, the threat must be real indeed."

Cregan felt his estimation of her rise slightly. She'd pieced together the implications of their actions rather than simply demanding explanations. Behind her, Tyrion watched their exchange with sharp interest.

"You'll see the proof soon enough," he said. "Though I confess, the fact that you came without waiting for it... interests me."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Would you have preferred I demanded proof and fealty first, like every other southron ruler?"

"No," Cregan answered simply, letting some of his approval show through Ned's reserved expression. "I would not."

Above them, the dragons screamed again, but the direwolves merely watched with ancient, unimpressed eyes.

"Your dragons would be invaluable," Cregan said carefully, Ned's measured tones masking ancient calculation. "The army of the dead grows with every village they claim, every warrior who falls. Your forces could help thin their numbers, but the dragons..." He paused meaningfully. "Dragons could burn thousands of corpses before they can rise again."

Daenerys leaned forward, her violet eyes sharp. "How many march with the army of the dead?"

"We don't know," Cregan admitted. "The Free Folk fled from tens of thousands. But beyond the Wall lie eight thousand years of victims. Every ranger who never returned, every wildling who died in the endless winter - all potential soldiers in their army."

"The South is unprepared?" Though phrased as a question, her tone suggested she already knew the answer.

"Completely." Cregan's voice held Ned's frustration. "We sent proof to the Citadel over a year ago. They debate still wasting time."

"They didn't even send the maester you requested for the Wall?" Tyrion asked, his mismatched eyes narrowing.

"No. They sent one of their choosing instead. A young man more interested in the Watch's library than the threats we face." There was an edge to Cregan's voice now. "The Citadel holds the realm's trust. If they acknowledged the threat..."

"The same maesters who recorded the first Long Night now deny its return," Daenerys observed, anger coloring her tone. "Perhaps they need motivation to take action."

"Your Grace?"

A dangerous smile curved her lips. "How precious are their books and scrolls to them, Lord Stark? How quickly might they remember ancient truths if a dragon threatened their precious library?"

"That would certainly get their attention," Tyrion noted dryly. "Though probably not the kind we want."

"The Citadel guards knowledge that could help us fight this threat," Cregan said carefully. "Ancient records of the first Long Night, details about dragonglass and Valyrian steel..."

"Then they should share it," Daenerys replied firmly. "Not hide behind debates while the realm faces extinction. If they won't listen to proof delivered peacefully..." She let the implications hang.

"The dead care nothing for books or learning," Cregan agreed grimly. "If the South falls unprepared, the Citadel's precious scrolls will burn anyway. Or worse - be buried under eternal ice."

"Then we make them understand that." Daenerys's expression hardened. "If reason won't move them, perhaps fear will. Not of me - but of what comes for us all."

"They respect power," Tyrion observed thoughtfully. "A dragon's shadow over Oldtown might remind them why their ancestors recorded these warnings in the first place."

"If we fall," Cregan said quietly, letting some of his ancient wisdom show through Ned's solemn facade, "The dead will sweep down like a tide, adding every fallen defender to their numbers."

"Then we make them see," Daenerys declared. “Let them witness a dragon's power, that old magic is returning to the world. Then perhaps they'll remember why their predecessors thought these warnings worth preserving."

Outside, her dragons' cries echoed off Winterfell's ancient walls, while inside, two rulers found common ground in facing humanity's oldest enemy. There was a moment of silence between them before Cregan diverted the topic to other things.

“Your grace, might I ask, do you know about the Pact of Ice and Fire?” Cregan asked.

Tyrion leaned forward with interest. "The Pact of Ice and Fire? Made between Prince Jacaerys and the North?"

"Yes. Though most histories speak only of the military alliance." Cregan's eyes grew distant, remembering that conversation with the traumatized young king. "During the Hour of the Wolf, Cregan spoke with Aegon III about what Jacaerys had told him before his death. About the true nature of the pact."

"What did Prince Jacaerys say?" Daenerys asked.

"He made young Aegon swear to remember that the pact wasn't just about armies," Cregan said softly, his voice carrying the weight of personal memory he disguised as historical knowledge. "A Targaryen princess was to marry into House Stark. Ice and fire were meant to join, not just ally."

He remembered that conversation clearly - the broken young king, so haunted by dragon dreams, listening as Cregan spoke of Jacaerys's final wishes. How even in his last days, the prince had tried to ensure the pact would be honored.

"Cregan Stark reminded Aegon III of this during his brief time as Hand," he continued carefully. "The young king understood the importance, but the realm was too fractured then. Too many dragons lost, too much blood spilled. The promise remained unfulfilled."

"You know a remarkable amount about a private conversation between a long-dead king and his Hand," Tyrion observed shrewdly.

"The North keeps its own histories," Cregan replied smoothly, though his eyes never left Daenerys. "That conversation was recorded carefully, passed down through generations of Starks. Because the North remembers - not just slights and victories, but promises. Even those left unfulfilled."

"And now dragons return to the North," Daenerys said thoughtfully, "just as the greatest threat in history approaches. Perhaps it's time to revisit old pacts."

"Perhaps," Cregan agreed, his voice carrying layers of meaning that only he fully understood. "Some promises transcend mere politics. Ice and fire were meant to unite once before, facing the chaos of the Dance. Now an even greater chaos approaches."

He remembered the young king's haunted eyes as they spoke of Jacaerys's last wishes, of pacts unfulfilled and promises buried by the weight of tragedy. Now, centuries later, another Targaryen sat before him as winter approached. Perhaps this time, the wheel would turn differently.

The evening light cast long shadows in Daenerys's chambers as she paced, puzzling over the earlier conversation. Tyrion poured them both wine, his expression carefully thoughtful.

"I find myself curious, Your Grace," he began, swirling his wine. "About why Lord Stark would raise the subject of the Pact of Ice and Fire now."

"He spoke of ancient alliances," Daenerys said, accepting her cup. "Of promises unfulfilled."

"Yes, but Eddard Stark isn't known for idle historical discussion." Tyrion's mismatched eyes were sharp. "He's famously direct in his dealings. Yet he deliberately raised a marriage pact made during the Dance of Dragons, speaking of unions between Targaryens and Starks..."

"What are you suggesting?"

"You'll need alliances, Your Grace. Strong ones. The Vale remains neutral, the Riverlands watch and wait..." He paused meaningfully. "But the North - if they could be bound through more than just shared enemies..."

"Lord Stark has no trueborn sons left," Daenerys pointed out. "Only his bastard remains."

"True." Tyrion studied his wine carefully. "Though the Starks are not your only option. The Vale lords still keep the old ways, and young Robert Arryn will need a bride soon..."

"You think Lord Stark raised this ancient pact to suggest modern alliances?"

"I think Eddard Stark is many things, but never subtle." Tyrion's voice grew more serious. "He could have simply pledged support against the dead. Instead, he reminded you of a time when dragons and wolves stood together - when a Targaryen princess was meant to join House Stark."

"To secure the North's loyalty?"

"Perhaps. Though it's curious..." Tyrion trailed off deliberately.

"What is?"

"That he would raise this specific pact. Not the more recent alliances between your house and others, but this one particular promise - made when dragons and wolves last faced chaos together." He looked up at her directly. "The North remembers, Your Grace. And Lord Stark just reminded us of a very specific promise that was never fulfilled."

"Yet as you said - he has no trueborn sons left to fulfill such a pact," Daenerys said, though something in her voice suggested she was considering deeper implications.

"No trueborn sons, true. Just the bastard, raised alongside his true children, educated like a lord's son..." Tyrion shrugged slightly. "Though of course, that's hardly a suitable match for a Targaryen princess."

"You're pursuing an interesting line of thought, Lord Hand," Daenerys observed dryly.

"Am I?" Tyrion's innocence was clearly feigned. "I'm merely considering why such an honorable man would raise the subject of ancient pacts between dragons and wolves. Particularly now, when the realm needs unity more than ever."

Daenerys moved to the window, watching her dragons wheel against the darkening sky. "The dead march south, and you're pondering marriage alliances?"

"The dead march south, and I'm pondering how to unite the realm against them," Tyrion corrected. "Battles can be won with dragons and armies, Your Grace. But lasting peace? That requires different weapons entirely."

"Such as marriage pacts?"

"Such as fulfilling ancient promises," Tyrion said carefully. "Though as you point out - Lord Stark's only remaining son is a bastard. Hardly suitable for a queen who must secure the strongest possible alliances."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken implications.

Chapter Text

 The morning air held winter's bite as Ser Barristan watched Jon Snow spar with his sister Arya in Winterfell's training yard. The old knight had seen thousands of warriors train over his decades of service, but something about the young man's movements caught his eye - a fluid grace that seemed strangely familiar.

Jon moved like water, his practice sword an extension of himself as he guided Arya through increasingly complex sequences. There was no showmanship in his style, no unnecessary flourishes. Each movement was precise, economical, yet carried an underlying elegance that spoke of natural talent honed by relentless practice.

"Interesting view, isn't it?" Tyrion's voice came from beside him, the dwarf having approached silently during Barristan's focused observation.

"He moves well," Barristan said carefully, his eyes never leaving Jon's form.

"Quite different from what you'd expect of a bastard raised in the North," Tyrion noted. "Though I suppose Lord Stark ensured his natural son received proper training."

Just then, Jon laughed at something Arya said, his usually solemn features transforming with genuine mirth. Barristan's hand tightened involuntarily on his sword belt, his face draining of color as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Ser Barristan?" Tyrion asked, noting the old knight's sudden tension. "Are you well?"

"Fine," Barristan managed, though his eyes remained fixed on Jon. "Just... remembering something."

"Oh?" Tyrion's mismatched eyes sparkled with interest. "Something about our young Snow?"

"He reminds me of someone I once knew," Barristan said carefully. "Long ago."

"Really?" Tyrion studied Jon with renewed interest. "Someone significant?"

"The finest swordsman I ever trained," Barristan replied softly, lost in memory. "He moved with that same grace."

They watched as Jon demonstrated another sequence, his instructions clear and patient. The authority in his voice was subtle but natural, carrying an odd familiarity that made Barristan's throat tighten.

"You seem quite focused on Lord Stark's bastard," Tyrion observed shrewdly. "Any particular reason?"

"Old men often see ghosts in young faces," Barristan deflected, though his eyes never left Jon. "Especially those of us who've served as long as I have."

"Ghosts," Tyrion repeated thoughtfully. "Interesting choice of words."

Barristan said nothing, but his hand had not left his sword belt, knuckles white with tension as he watched Jon's fluid movements. All those years serving the Targaryens, watching their children grow... how had he not seen it immediately?

"Well, whoever he reminds you of," Tyrion said carefully, "they clearly left quite an impression."

"They did," Barristan agreed quietly. "They most certainly did."

They stood in silence then, watching Jon train his sister. Tyrion puzzled over the old knight's strange behavior, while Barristan fought to keep his composure as memories of another young man's laugh echoed through the years.

Above them, dragons wheeled against the morning sky, their cries carrying across Winterfell's ancient stones. But Barristan barely noticed, too lost in the ghost of a smile he'd never thought to see again - now transformed on a face that carried more of the North than the South, yet spoke volumes to those who knew where to look.

"Jon! Jon!" Arya's voice echoed across Winterfell's courtyard as she practically dragged her brother by the arm. "She's right there - come on!"

"Arya, no-" Jon tried to resist, but his little sister's determination was a force of nature. "Father would literally kill me-"

"Father doesn't have to know!" Arya insisted, pulling him toward where Daenerys stood watching her dragons with Tyrion. "You saw them flying! Don't pretend you're not curious."

"Your Grace," Jon managed as Arya finally brought them to a halt, trying to maintain some dignity despite being manhandled by his tiny sister. "I apologize for the interruption. My sister can be... enthusiastic."

Daenerys turned, amusement dancing in her violet eyes. "No apology needed. And what brings such enthusiasm my way?"

"We want to ride the dragons!" Arya burst out, earning a groan from Jon.

"Your Grace, please don't listen to-" A sharp punch to his shoulder cut him off.

"Stop being so proper," Arya scolded. "You were watching them all morning. I saw your face when Drogon did that dive-"

"Arya-"

"He pretends to be all serious," Arya informed Daenerys confidentially, "but he's just as excited as I am. He just thinks he has to be *responsible*." She made the word sound like a curse.

Daenerys looked between them - the solemn young man trying to maintain his dignity and the fierce little wolf practically vibrating with excitement. "And what does Lord Stark think of this request?"

"Father would literally kill me-" Jon started.

"Father doesn't have to know!" Arya insisted.

"And Lady Stark would hang what's left," Jon muttered darkly. "Probably enjoy it too."

"Jon!" Arya punched his arm again, harder this time. "She wouldn't-"

"She absolutely would," Jon said with grim certainty. "Can you imagine? 'Not only did the bastard endanger my precious daughter, he did it with dragons.' She'd have the rope ready before Father finished his lecture."

Something flickered in Daenerys's eyes at his words - a shadow of understanding, perhaps even sympathy. She'd heard whispers of how Lady Stark treated her husband's bastard, but to hear him speak of it so matter-of-factly...

"I wouldn't let her," Arya declared fiercely, her previous excitement momentarily replaced by protective fury. "You're my brother. If she tried anything-"

"Peace, little wolf," Jon's voice softened as he ruffled her hair. "I was only jesting." Though Daenerys noted his eyes told a different story.

"And they wont find." Arya countered. "Please, Your Grace? Just once? I promise I won't fall off!"

"You most certainly would fall off," Jon muttered, then caught himself. "Not that it matters, because we're not doing this."

"Ah, so you have considered the logistics," Daenerys noted, making Jon flush slightly. "Despite being so determined not to listen to the request."

"I..." Jon floundered, caught out. Arya's triumphant grin didn't help.

"See? He totally wants to try it too!" She bounced on her toes. "Please? We'll be careful. Jon's good with animals - you should see him with Ghost!"

"A direwolf is rather different from a dragon," Jon pointed out, though Daenerys noticed his eyes straying to where Drogon lounged in the sun.

"But you're still curious," Daenerys said softly, watching his reaction.

Something passed between them then - a moment of shared understanding that made Arya glance back and forth between them with sharp interest.

"I..." Jon seemed to struggle with himself. "It doesn't matter. Father would never approve."

"You're not answering the question," Daenerys pressed gently. "Are you curious?"

Jon met her eyes then, and something in his expression made her breath catch. "Who wouldn't be?" he admitted quietly. "They're... incredible."

"Ha!" Arya crowed. "I knew it! You do want to-" Another groan from Jon as she practically danced with excitement.

"Lord Stark doesn't have to know everything," Daenerys found herself saying, surprising all of them. "Perhaps a short flight..."

"Your Grace," Jon protested, though his eyes betrayed his interest. "It wouldn't be proper-"

"Oh gods, not the proper thing again," Arya rolled her eyes. "Your Grace, he does this all the time. Always has to be the responsible one, never wants to do anything fun-"

"I let you practice with real steel yesterday," Jon pointed out.

"That's different!"

"How is it different?"

"Because... because..." Arya fumbled, then brightened. "Because dragons! Come on, Jon. When are we ever going to get another chance?"

Daenerys watched their bickering with growing amusement and something deeper - a strange ache in her chest at their obvious affection. The way Jon tried to maintain his stern expression even as his eyes softened when Arya punched his arm again. The easy familiarity between them that spoke of years of such interactions.

"Perhaps," she said carefully, "we could arrange something... discrete. After all, the dragons need exercise..."

Jon's expression warred between desire and duty. "Your Grace, I couldn't ask-"

"You're not asking," Daenerys pointed out. "Your sister is. Most persistently, I might add."

"See?" Arya beamed. "Her Grace understands! Come on, Jon. Live a little!"

"Father really would kill me," Jon muttered, but Daenerys could see his resolve weakening.

"What Father doesn't know won't hurt him," Arya said firmly. Then, to Daenerys: "He's always been like this. Too honorable for his own good. But he's also the best rider in Winterfell - even better than Robb, though he'd never admit it."

"Arya-" Jon's protest was half-hearted at best.

"Tomorrow morning," Daenerys found herself saying. "Before dawn. When there are fewer eyes about."

The look of pure joy on Arya's face was matched only by the complicated mix of emotions that crossed Jon's - desire and duty, excitement and restraint, all warring in those dark eyes that seemed to hold such depths.

"Your Grace," he began, but she cut him off.

"Sometimes," she said softly, "we must seize the moments of wonder when they're offered. The dead march toward us, winter deepens... perhaps a little joy is exactly what we need."

Something passed between them again - that strange connection that made Arya's eyes narrow thoughtfully. But before Jon could protest further, his sister was dragging him away, already chattering about what to wear for dragon-riding.

"Thank you!" she called back to Daenerys. "And don't worry - I'll make sure he actually shows up instead of brooding about duty all night!"

"I don't brood," Jon protested weakly, earning another punch to his shoulder.

"You absolutely do," Arya informed him. "It's what you're doing right now!"

Their bickering faded as they moved away, leaving Daenerys with the strange feeling that something significant had just happened - though she couldn't quite say what. Perhaps it was the way Jon's solemn features had transformed when he smiled at his sister. Or how his careful restraint had cracked just enough to show the wonder beneath when he spoke of the dragons.

Or perhaps it was something else entirely - something that made her dragons stir with interest when he passed, something that called to the blood of old Valyria in ways she didn't yet understand.

Tomorrow would bring what it would. For now, she simply smiled, remembering the look in Jon's eyes when he admitted his fascination with her children. Some things, it seemed, transcended duty and propriety - even for the most honorable of wolves.

Chapter Text

The pre-dawn air was sharp with frost as Jon and Arya made their way to the clearing where Daenerys waited with her dragons. Even in the dim light, Drogon's massive black form was impossible to miss. But it was Rhaegal who caught Jon's attention - the green dragon lifting its head suddenly as they approached, nostrils flaring.

"Remember what I said about being careful-" Jon started, but Arya was already bouncing on her toes with barely contained excitement.

"Look at them!" she breathed. "They're even more magnificent up close!"

Daenerys stood beside Drogon, a slight smile playing at her lips as she watched their reactions. "They can sense fear," she warned. "But also truth. They know when someone approaches with honest intent."

As if to prove her point, Rhaegal suddenly moved forward, his long neck stretching out as he scented the air around Jon. The dragon's head alone was larger than a horse, each breath sending hot air washing over them. Jon stood perfectly still, his heart hammering but his face calm as those ancient eyes studied him.

"Jon..." Arya's voice held a note of concern, but Daenerys raised a hand to quiet her.

"Let them meet properly," she said softly, something like wonder in her tone as she watched Rhaegal's behavior.

The dragon moved closer still, until its snout was mere inches from Jon's chest. This close, Jon could see every scale, every subtle variation of color that made up Rhaegal's hide. The dragon's eyes were like molten bronze, holding an intelligence that made his breath catch.

Slowly, moving purely on instinct, Jon raised his hand. Rhaegal watched the motion, a low rumble building in his chest that wasn't quite a growl. When Jon's palm finally made contact with the dragon's scales, warm and smooth beneath his fingers, something electric seemed to pass between them.

"Oh gods," Arya whispered, watching her brother commune with the dragon.

"Come," Daenerys said to Arya, extending her hand with a warm smile. "You can ride with me on Drogon while your brother gets acquainted with Rhaegal."

Arya's eyes lit up like stars. "Really? You mean it?"

"Of course. Though mind you hold on tight."

While Daenerys helped an ecstatic Arya mount behind her on Drogon, Rhaegal lowered his wing for Jon, creating a natural ramp. Jon approached carefully, placing his foot between the scales and gripping the spinal ridges as Daenerys had shown him. The dragon's hide was surprisingly warm beneath his hands as he climbed.

"Use his wing joint to steady yourself," Daenerys called over. "Then swing your leg over just behind the shoulder ridge."

Jon did as instructed, his movements careful but sure. Something about this felt strangely natural, as if his body remembered motions his mind had never learned. When he finally settled into position, Rhaegal let out a pleased rumble that vibrated through his entire frame.

"This is amazing!" Arya shouted from her perch behind Daenerys on Drogon. Her face was split with the widest grin Jon had ever seen.

"Ready?" Daenerys asked them both, her own smile matching Arya's excitement.

Before Jon could answer, Rhaegal's powerful legs bunched beneath them. Then they were airborne, the ground falling away as massive wings caught the dawn wind. Jon's stomach lurched, but his grip was sure. This felt... right, somehow. As if he'd been waiting his whole life to touch the sky.

Arya's delighted screams echoed across the morning as the dragons soared higher, her joy infectious. Jon found himself laughing too, the sheer exhilaration of flight overwhelming any fear. When he glanced over at Daenerys, she was watching him with that same unreadable expression, though now it held something that might have been wonder.

They wheeled through the clouds together, two dragons and their precious cargo greeting the dawn. Arya's laughter mixed with the wind as she clung to Daenerys, while Jon and Rhaegal moved in perfect synchronization beside them. And if Jon felt something ancient stirring in his blood, some echo of power he didn't yet understand, he kept that to himself. For now, it was enough to simply fly, connected to Rhaegal in ways that defied explanation but felt as natural as breathing.

It was only later, feet back on solid ground, that Jon realized just how much his life had changed in a single morning. But watching Rhaegal settle beside him, still rumbling that dragon's purr while Arya chattered excitedly about their flight, Jon found he wouldn't have it any other way.

WEEK AFTER

The library's warmth was a stark contrast to the bitter cold outside. Daenerys followed Maester Luwin through the towering shelves, noting the impressive collection without comment. Jon Snow stood at one of the tables, studying an ancient text with characteristic intensity when they entered.

"Your Grace," Luwin began, "our maps are quite extensive, though some may need—" A servant burst through the door, breathless.

"Maester! Lady Wynafryd—the babe—she's having pains!"

Luwin's eyes widened knowing Wynafryd is in the early stages of her second pregnancy.

"Of course," she said smoothly. "Lady Stark's gooddaughter takes priority."

"Jon," Luwin called as he hurried out, "please assist Her Grace with whatever she needs."

"Your Grace," he said simply, his Northern accent making even those formal words sound somehow deeper. "What were you seeking?"

"Maps," she replied. "Detailed ones, showing the route between here and Oldtown."

His dark brows drew together slightly. "You mean to fly to the Reach?"

"The Citadel requires... motivation. A dragon's shadow might help them take the threat more seriously."

"Alone?" There was no judgment in his voice, merely practical concern.

"That was my intention."

"It's a long journey, Your Grace. You'll need to rest, both you and your dragon. And while Drogon can hunt..." He paused diplomatically.

"I take your meaning." She studied the map before them. "Grey Worm could accompany me—"

"A man who knows nothing of these lands or how to survive in them," Jon said quietly. His solemnity reminded her oddly of Lord Stark. "You'll need someone who knows where it's safe to stop, how to find shelter, how to hunt when needed."

Their eyes met across the table.

"Someone like you?" she asked.

He looked back to the map, face betraying nothing. "I wouldn't presume—"

"You're not presuming. I'm asking." When he remained silent, she pressed, "Why does this journey concern you so?"

"The Citadel has ignored every warning, every piece of evidence we've sent," he said carefully. "What makes you believe they'll listen even to dragons?"

"They'll listen," she replied, steel entering her voice, "because I'll make it impossible to ignore. Their precious libraries won't matter much if the dead breach the Wall."

Something flickered in his dark eyes—not amusement exactly, but a glimmer of approval at her ruthlessness regarding the Citadel's pride. "Then it's too important a mission to risk failure through poor preparation."

"Is that a yes?"

His solemn expression didn't change, but his eyes met hers directly. "If my father permits it. Though a bastard's company might not be what you need for such a journey."

"I need someone who knows these lands and isn't afraid to speak plain truth," she said. "Your birth matters far less than your knowledge."

He nodded once, accepting both the compliment and the responsibility it carried. "Then let me show you the safest routes. There are places even dragons should avoid..."

They bent over the maps together, heads nearly touching as they traced possible paths. If either noticed how the library's warmth seemed to increase, or how their hands occasionally brushed as they pointed out landmarks, neither gave any sign. The dead were coming. All else could wait.

WEEK LATER

MOAT CAITLIN

The fire burned low in Moat Cailin's solar as Daenerys and Jon rested during their journey. Outside, their dragons slept, barely visible through the mists.

"Tell me about the Long Night," Daenerys asked, adding another log to the fire. Outside Moat Cailin's ancient walls, the wind howled like a living thing. "The version the North remembers, not what the maesters write."

Jon's solemn face grew more serious. "The stories say darkness fell for a generation. The Others came with the cold, raising the dead to join their army." His voice carried the weight of eight thousand years of memory. "Children died in their beds, frozen solid despite the fires burning beside them. Warriors would fall in battle only to rise again with blue eyes, forced to kill their own families."

"But the North survived."

"The North remembered," Jon corrected. "Brandon the Builder raised the Wall with magic and might, built Winterfell over hot springs, established the Night's Watch. He understood that winter would come again." His dark eyes reflected the firelight. "That's why every Stark child learns these stories - not as legends, but as warnings."

"Like now," Daenerys observed quietly.

"Like now," Jon agreed. "Though the stories say the last hero had a sword of dragonsteel..."

"Valyrian steel," Daenerys supplied. "Though Valyria hadn't risen yet."

"Perhaps they weren't the first to forge such blades," Jon mused. "The North remembers fragments of older magics. Like the dragonglass we mine - the children of the forest used it long before anyone else."

"You know a great deal about these old stories."

A shadow of something crossed Jon's features. "Old Nan - she was our nurse at Winterfell. She knew all the stories, especially the scary ones. Used to tell us about ice spiders big as hounds..." He shook his head. "We thought they were just tales to frighten children. Now..."

"Now you wonder what other stories held truth," Daenerys finished.

"Aye." Jon was quiet for a moment before continuing. "Take Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf. He wasn't just fierce in battle - he was ruthlessly practical. When the Andals tried invading the North, he not only defeated them, he sailed to Andalos itself."

"To take the fight to his enemy," Daenerys said, remembering her reading.

"To make absolutely certain they'd never threaten his people again," Jon corrected. "He wasn't seeking glory or conquest. He was protecting the North - completely and permanently." His voice carried quiet pride. "That's why they called him the Hungry Wolf. He would do whatever it took to keep his people safe, no matter the cost to himself."

"Like Torrhen Stark," Daenerys said slowly, pieces falling into place. "The King Who Knelt."

"The King Who Saved His People," Jon countered, surprising her. "He had a larger army than Aegon at the time. His bastard brother Brandon Snow believed he could kill the dragons - he was a warg and skinchanger of tremendous power. But Torrhen looked at those dragons and thought of his people burning."

"So he knelt," Daenerys said softly.

"He sacrificed his crown to save thousands of lives," Jon's voice was fierce with conviction. "That's what the Starks have always done - whatever it takes to protect the North. Not for glory or power, but because it's their duty." He met her eyes directly. "Like now, with the dead coming. Pride and crowns mean nothing compared to survival."

Daenerys sat back, understanding dawning in her violet eyes. Every Stark decision she'd studied suddenly made sense - from Brandon the Builder to Cregan to Torrhen to Ned. They weren't acting from mere honor or stubbornness, but from an ancient understanding of their true duty.

"I struggled in Meereen," Daenerys admitted softly. "Everyone had advice - my advisors, Tyrion, even Varys. But ruling wasn't what I expected."

Jon listened quietly as she continued, "They all told me the North was different. Ser Barristan said it was independent in all but name, even before Aegon's Conquest. That the North follows the Starks out of something deeper than fear or gold."

"Long before Valyria dreamed of dragons, the Starks were keeping watch from Winterfell"

"Your house's history stretches back before Valyria dreamed of dragons. When my ancestors were shepherds, the Starks were already Kings of Winter." Daenerys's voice held understanding rather than bitterness. "The North follows because the Starks have always put their people first."

"Through winter and summer, war and peace," Jon agreed. "The duty never changes - guard the realms of men, protect our people, prepare for winter."

"I want to be that kind of ruler," Daenerys admitted quietly. "Not ruling through fear, but through genuine care for my people. But I wasn't raised for this - I was raised running from assassins, believing power came from dragons and armies."

Jon studied her across the dying fire. "You're here - flying north to fight the dead, risking everything to protect people who haven't even accepted your rule. That says more than any crown or title."

Their eyes met in understanding. In this ancient fortress, stripped of titles and pretense, they were just two people trying to do right by those they protected.

"Perhaps," Daenerys mused, "that's why the gods brought dragons back now. Not for conquest, but because the realms of men need protecting. Like during the Long Night..."

Chapter Text

The dragons' shadows swept across the Citadel's ancient towers as Drogon and Rhaegal landed in the courtyard, sending archmaesters and acolytes scattering. Daenerys dismounted gracefully while Jon hung back, his dark eyes taking in every detail of the assembled maesters' reactions.

"Impossible," Archmaester Ebrose breathed, his scholarly composure cracking. "The last dragon died over a century ago..."

"Yet here they stand," Daenerys replied coolly. "Just as the army of the dead stands beyond the Wall, despite your insistence that such things cannot exist."

"Your Grace," Ebrose managed, struggling to recover his dignity. "While we appreciate this... dramatic demonstration, there are procedures, protocols that must be followed before the Citadel can make official pronouncements—"

"Procedures?" Daenerys's voice cracked like a whip. "Lord Bolton brought you proof nearly a year ago. How many more procedures do you need while the dead march south?"

"The Citadel must verify all claims thoroughly," Ebrose insisted, several other archmaesters nodding behind him. "We cannot simply accept every tale—"

"Enough." Daenerys's eyes flashed dangerously. "While you debate in your tower, the realm faces extinction. I could have my children burn your precious library to ash in moments. Would that finally motivate you to act?"

Gasps erupted from the assembled maesters. Archmaester Nymos stepped forward, trembling. "Your Grace, please—our books contain thousands of years of knowledge..."

"Knowledge you hoard rather than use," Daenerys shot back. But despite her dragons' imposing presence, the archmaesters seemed to draw strength from each other, their academic arrogance reasserting itself.

"Threats will not change our procedures, Your Grace," Ebrose said stiffly. "The Citadel has survived kings and conquerors. We must maintain our standards—"

Jon, who had been silently observing until now, stepped forward. His quiet voice somehow carried more weight than Daenerys's threats. "Tell me, archmaesters, what happens after we win? And we will win, especially now we have dragons."

The sudden shift in approach caught their attention. Jon continued, his tone reasonable but relentless: "When the dead come—and they will come—every house in Westeros will learn how we presented evidence, sent Lord Bolton himself, even brought dragons to your doorstep... all just to make you warn people of real danger."

He let the implications sink in before delivering the fatal blow: "After that becomes known, do you think they'll still want maesters in their keeps? Will they trust the Citadel's judgment on anything ever again?"

The assembled maesters shifted uncomfortably as Jon systematically dismantled their position: "You pride yourselves on being the realm's source of knowledge and wisdom. Yet when faced with direct evidence of a threat to all humanity, you hide behind procedure. What use is a maester who ignores proof? Who refuses to warn of true dangers?"

"The Citadel has stood for centuries," Ebrose said, but with notably less conviction.

"And could fall in a day," Jon replied evenly, "not from dragons or the dead, but from your own choosing of pride over duty. Once we defeat the dead—and we will defeat them and Queen Daenarys takes the iron throne—do you think the lords of Westeros will forgive learning that their trusted maesters had warning and chose to do nothing?"

The silence that followed was absolute. Jon had struck at something far more precious than their library—their very legitimacy as an institution.

"What would you have us do?" Ebrose asked finally, his voice heavy with the weight of inevitable change.

"Warn the realm," Daenerys declared, picking up Jon's thread smoothly. "Share your knowledge of the Long Night, of dragonglass, of anything that might help us survive. Or watch your order become as irrelevant as the threats you refused to believe in."

Above them, the dragons screamed, but it was Jon's quiet decimation of their institutional authority that had truly won the day. Daenerys glanced at him with newfound appreciation—he'd transformed her threat of immediate destruction into something far more devastating: the complete dismantling of the Citadel's purpose and power.

"You would destroy centuries of tradition—" one of the younger archmaesters began.

"You're destroying it yourselves," Jon cut in. "With every moment you choose pride over truth. The dead won't wait for your procedures. Neither will history's judgment of your choices."

Faced with this systematic dismantling of their position, the archmaesters finally yielded. Daenerys's dragons might have frightened them, but Jon's cold logic had made them fear for their very existence as an institution. And that, as both dragon and wolf knew, was the deeper victory.

HIGHGARDEN

The midday sun streamed through Highgarden's glass windows as they dined, Olenna watching Jon Snow over the rim of her wine cup. The boy had that brooding look about him again - not the sullen brooding of youth, but something deeper, more melancholic. It tugged at her memory, though she couldn't quite place why.

"You're rather serious for one so young, Lord Snow," she observed lightly. "Though I suppose that's the Stark influence. Your father was never one for frivolity either."

Jon shifted slightly at the mention of Ned Stark - such a small tell, but Olenna hadn't survived this long by missing such details.

"The dead march on the Wall, my lady," he replied with quiet gravity. "There's little room for frivolity."

"HmM." Olenna studied him as he unconsciously straightened, natural grace underlying that solemn bearing. "You know, it's curious - most young men given a dragon would be rather more... boastful about it. Yet here you sit, brooding about duty."

Daenerys smiled slightly. "Jon takes his responsibilities very seriously."

"So I see." Olenna's shrewd eyes noted how he ducked his head at the praise - trying to make himself smaller despite that underlying air of natural authority. "Though I must say, Lord Snow, you handled those pompous archmaesters rather cleverly. Not many would think to threaten their authority rather than their lives."

"They needed to understand the consequences of their inaction," Jon said simply.

"Indeed." She tapped her fingers thoughtfully on her chair's arm. "Lord Stark educated you well in matters of governance, I see. Rather thorough, wasn't he, in your instruction?"

Something flickered across Jon's features - that same quiet dignity that nagged at her memory. "I was fortunate in my upbringing, my lady."

"Quite fortunate," she agreed mildly, watching him watch Rhaegal soar past the windows. There was something in his profile...

But before she could pursue that thought, a servant arrived with more wine. By the time they'd finished lunch, Olenna had filled away several interesting observations for later consideration. After all, some puzzles were best solved in private.

Later, alone in her solar, she poured herself another glass and allowed herself to really think about what she'd seen. The timing of it all. Ned Stark's uncharacteristic dishonor. A babe brought back from Dorne after his sister's death...

"Well," she murmured to herself, "that's rather obvious once you know where to look, isn't it?"

But she kept that revelation to herself. Some truths were more valuable unspoken, after all.

The evening air along the Red Fork carried autumn's chill as Jon and Daenerys walked together, their dragons resting nearby after the day's flight from the Vale. The vale lords were grateful of the maps given to find more dragon glass in there mountains. The riverbank offered privacy, away from curious eyes at Riverrun where they'd stopped to rest.

"The Vale lords are critical of me," Daenerys said quietly, breaking their companionable silence. "I can see it in their messages - they question my every decision, doubt my ability to rule justly."

Jon considered her words carefully before responding. "Let’s just say the authority manipulated them, pried on their weakness and actually had a hand in killing Lord Arryn."

"How so?"

"He manipulated Lady Arryn, convinced her to close the Vale's borders during the war. Then married her to secure his position." Jon's voice hardened slightly. "When Lord Royce and the other lords discovered his role in Jon Arryn's death, how he'd played all sides during the war... well, trust comes harder to them now."

"And what of me?" Daenerys asked, vulnerability creeping into her voice. "I'm the Mad King's daughter. They'll always wonder if one day I'll be like him."

Jon stopped walking, turning to face her fully. "Father said that rulers will always be questioned, doubted. It’s part of the ruler’s burden."

"My brother Viserys..." Daenerys's voice grew soft with old pain. "I think he was mad as well. It got worse over time - the pressure of exile, of believing he was meant to be king." A sad smile touched her lips. "We spent our life running from assassins. We begged on the streets just so we can eat…Selling our mother’s crown is the final straw for Viserys…he lost his joy and wa  s never the same again. He would weep at night . The weight of it all broke something in him."

"What happened to him?" Jon asked gently.

"He became cruel, obsessed. Threatened to kill me and my unborn child if he didn't get his crown." Her eyes grew distant with memory. "In the end, he died screaming, still believing he was the dragon."

Jon felt his heart ache for her - this young woman who'd lost everything yet kept fighting. They were such opposites in some ways. She was born royal but lived as an outcast, while he was born a bastard but raised among family, treated almost like a trueborn son.

"Sometimes I wonder," Daenerys admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, "if that madness sleeps in my blood too. If one day I'll wake up and become everything I've fought against."

"I don't believe that," Jon said firmly. "You flew north to fight the dead without demanding anything in return. You've shown mercy where others would show fire. Those aren't the actions of someone consumed by madness."

"You sound very certain," she said, studying his face in the fading light.

"I am." Jon's voice carried quiet conviction. "I've seen you with your people, with the smallfolk. You care about more than just power or birthright. That matters more than any blood inheritance."

They stood silently for a moment, the river flowing steadily beside them. In the distance, their dragons called to each other, the sounds echoing off the hills.

"It's strange," Daenerys said finally. "People have surrounded me since crossing the Narrow Sea, yet sometimes I feel more alone than ever. Everyone wants something from the Dragon Queen."

"But not from just Daenerys?" Jon asked softly, understanding in his dark eyes.

"No." She gave him a small, genuine smile. "Not from just Daenerys."

"You don't have to be formal with me," she added said softly. "Not out here, away from courts and titles."

Jon hesitated. "What should I call you then?"

"My brother used to call me Dany," she offered, then something flickered across her face - pain, perhaps, or regret.

"Dany," Jon tried carefully, watching her reaction. The diminutive felt intimate somehow, like crossing an invisible boundary.

She turned away slightly, but not before he caught the sheen in her violet eyes. "It's strange to hear that name again. Viserys was the last..." She trailed off.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace. I didn't mean to—"

"No," she interrupted, turning back to him. "Please. I'd like to hear it again. From someone who doesn't want to use me or control me. At least... at least during this journey?"

Jon nodded slowly, understanding the gift of trust she was offering. "As you wish... Dany."

They sat in comfortable silence after that, each lost in thoughts of paths not taken and the strange twists of fate that had brought them here. Their dragons slept nearby, their massive forms a reminder of how far they'd both come from their original destinies.

The rest of the journey back north, Jon taught Dany how to wield a bow and arrow and to hunt. He advised her to learn basic fighting, even sword handling basics. After all it wasn’t unusual for a queen to learn such especially that both Visenya and Rhaenys are also warriors aside from dragon riders.

Chapter Text

The sound of infant laughter drew Daenerys to Winterfell's nursery as she passed. After their long journey together - facing the Citadel's resistance, coordinating with the Vale lords, even weathering storms side by side on dragonback - hearing Jon's quiet chuckle mixed with a baby's giggles felt strangely intimate.

Inside, she found him sitting cross-legged on the floor, little Cregan Stark balanced on his knee. The babe, not yet a year old, had Robb's Tully coloring but the long Stark face that marked him clearly as his father's son.

Cregan demanded imperiously, his chubby hands reaching for Jon's hair.

"As m'lord commands," Jon replied with the same gentle teasing tone he'd started using with her during their journey. The one that had first emerged during long evening conversations by campfires, when titles and formality fell away leaving just Jon and Dany.

Cregan's delighted shriek as Jon lifted him high made her smile. She'd grown used to seeing this softer side of him during their travels - how his solemn facade would crack into unexpected warmth, usually when he thought no one was watching.

"I didn't expect to find you here," she said softly, moving to sit beside him on the floor rather than maintaining the formal distance she might have kept weeks ago. Their shared adventures had worn away such barriers.

"Someone has to keep this little lord entertained while his parents are busy with the war council," Jon replied, carefully extracting his hair from Cregan's determined grip. His eyes met hers with the easy familiarity they'd developed. "Though I suspect you didn't come seeking the company of babes, Dany?"

The use of her nickname, once cautiously offered during a vulnerable moment by a riverbank, now came naturally to his lips. Just as she'd grown accustomed to seeing past his carefully maintained reserve.

"Actually, I was looking for you," she admitted. "I've been thinking about what you said during our flight from the Vale - about not letting fear of the future prevent us from living in the present."

Jon's expression softened as he settled Cregan more comfortably in his lap. The babe immediately reached for a wooden dragon someone had carved as a toy - an amusingly apt choice given their conversation.

"You're still troubled by the witch's words?" he asked gently.

"Less so, after our talks." Daenerys found herself leaning slightly closer, drawn by the warmth of his presence that had become so familiar during their journey. "You were right about prophecies being shaped by our own fears. About not letting someone else's words define our future."

"You seemed more certain of that when you were arguing with the archmaesters," Jon noted with a hint of the dry humor she'd discovered he possessed. "I particularly enjoyed watching you make Ebrose choke on his own predictions about dragons being impossible."

She laughed softly, remembering how they'd played off each other during that confrontation - her fiery threats balanced by his quiet decimation of the Citadel's authority. They'd learned to work together seamlessly, each strengthening the other's approach.

"We make a good team," she said, the words carrying more weight than their simple meaning.

"Aye," Jon agreed softly. "We do."

Robb's voice rang out from the doorway. "There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you." He strode in with his characteristic easy confidence, then noticed Daenerys. "Your Grace, I apologize for interrupting."

"Not at all, Lord Stark. I was just leaving." She smiled warmly at them both before departing, though her eyes lingered on Jon with something like understanding.

Once she was gone, Robb noticed Jon's solemn expression. "Everything alright?"

"Fine," Jon replied, then a mischievous glint entered his eyes. "Though speaking of fine... I notice little Cregan has a wet nurse for nights now. No wonder Wynafryd's with child again so soon. When exactly did you start working on another heir, brother?"

Robb's face reddened but he grinned proudly. "As soon as Maester Luwin said Wynafryd was ready."

"Which was when exactly?" Jon pressed, already suspecting the answer.

"Two moons after Cregan was born," Robb admitted.

"Two moons?!" Jon looked scandalized. "Gods, Robb! The poor woman had barely recovered!"

"Maester Luwin said she was healed!" Robb defended himself. "And Wynafryd was quite... enthusiastic about resuming our marital duties."

"Is that why you were yawning through all those council meetings? And here we thought you were up with the babe." Jon shook his head in mock disappointment. "Though that explains why you two kept disappearing in the middle of the day..."

"Well, when you're married, brother, you'll understand the importance of keeping your wife happy," Robb said with an unrepentant grin.

"Seven hells, at this rate you'll have another five children." Jon groaned.

"Someone has to ensure the Stark line continues," Robb replied cheerfully. "Though if you'd stop mooning over a certain dragon queen and actually talk to her..."

Jon threw a practice sword at him, which Robb dodged while laughing. Some things never changed, even with wars approaching – including brothers teasing each other about their love lives.

The great hall of Winterfell held an icy silence as Jaime Lannister stood before them, his characteristic smirk firmly in place despite the hostility directed at him. Daenerys sat beside Cregan Stark, her violet eyes blazing with barely contained fury.

"The Kingslayer," she said, voice tight with anger. "The man who stabbed my father in the back."

"Technically, Your Grace, it was through the back," Jaime replied with practiced insolence. "Though I suppose accuracy matters little when discussing regicide."

"You find this amusing?" Ser Barristan demanded, stepping forward.

"Not at all, Ser Barristan." Jaime's smile turned sharp. "Tell me, in all your years guarding my predecessor, what do you imagine his last command would be? With Lannister forces at the gates, the battle clearly lost?" He cocked his head. "Come now, you knew Aerys well. What would the man who loved fire above all else order when cornered?"

"Watch your tongue, Kingslayer," Ser Barristan warned.

"Interesting choice of words," Jaime mused. "Considering Aerys had Rossart hidden throughout the city. You remember Rossart, don't you Ser Barristan? The pyromancer who so loved helping Aerys with his... particular interests?"

"The wildfire," Bran said suddenly, making everyone turn. "Hidden under the streets, the markets, the Sept of Baelor..."

"Ah yes, the Sept." Jaime's eyes glittered dangerously. "I wonder where my sweet sister found all that wildfire she used recently. Certainly not from the caches her father-in-law had arranged. The ones I was supposed to let Rossart ignite on command."

Daenerys's face had lost some of its certainty. "What are you saying?"

"Only that killing a pyromancer seems rather pointless when the king can just order another to light the flames," Jaime replied casually. "Or any soldier really. 'Burn them all' isn't a particularly complex command to follow." His smile never wavered, but his eyes had gone hard. "Unless, of course, there's no one left to give the command."

"Half a million people," Tyrion said quietly, understanding dawning. "That's how many lived in King's Landing then."

"Oh, more than that," Jaime corrected. "But who's counting? Certainly not Aerys. He was rather preoccupied with the idea that the flames would transform him into a dragon." He turned to Daenerys. "Tell me, Your Grace - when you execute me for killing your father, will you use dragonfire? He would have appreciated the irony."

"Jaime," Tyrion warned, but his brother wasn't finished.

"Though I suppose we should be grateful some of those caches remained undiscovered all these years. Imagine if someone as unstable as Cersei found them all? Why, they might do something truly mad - like blow up the Sept of Baelor." His laugh held no humor. "But then, what do I know? I'm just the oathbreaker who stabbed his king in the back instead of letting him burn a city to ash."

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the Blackfish looked troubled, while Ser Barristan's face had drained of color as the implications sank in.

"He's telling the truth," Bran confirmed quietly. "I've seen it in my visions. The wildfire was everywhere. Aerys meant to burn them all."

"Why didn't you ever tell anyone?" Cregan asked through Ned's voice, though his ancient wisdom already suspected the answer.

"And say what?" Jaime's smirk returned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "That I nobly sacrificed my honor to save the city? That the Kingslayer had pure intentions?" He shook his head. "Much simpler to be the man who killed a king than the boy who couldn't figure out a better way to save half a million lives."

"So why tell us now?" Jon asked.

"Because unlike some, I've seen what wildfire does to a city." All pretense of amusement had left Jaime's voice. "I've watched Cersei become everything I once stopped. And now the dead march south..." He shrugged. "Let's just say I'm tired of serving rulers who care more for power than the people they'd sacrifice to keep it."

Cregan looked at him. This is again one of Ned’s mistakes, not even asking what truly happened. Had he done that, the caches would have been searched and events at Sept of Baelor prevented.

“You mean to fight then with us.” Cregan stated, not questioned.

“Why else would I come here when if not.” Jamie answered.

Cregan nodded. Jamie is one of the best swordsmen in Westeros and Jon needs men protect him until he reaches the Night King.

The flames cast long shadows in Tyrion's chambers as Jaime stared into his wine cup, the revelations of the great hall still hanging heavy in the air.

"You never told me," Tyrion said quietly. "All those years, listening to people call you Kingslayer, and you never said a word about the wildfire."

"Would it have mattered?" Jaime's usual arrogance had worn thin, leaving something raw beneath. "Who would have believed me? The oathbreaker, the man without honor..." His laugh was hollow. "Besides, I watched Cersei use those same caches to do exactly what I stopped Aerys from doing. The Sept of Baelor, all those people..."

"That's why you finally left her."

"Among other things." Jaime's face hardened. "She's become everything I once prevented. Working with that creature Qyburn, seeing traitors in every shadow. Even with proof of the dead marching south, she plots with Euron Greyjoy and obsesses over Daenerys while the real threat approaches." He took a long drink. "At least Myrcella found happiness in Dorne before... before everything. But Cersei never truly cared for any of them except Joffrey. And Tommen..." His voice caught.

"What happened to Tommen?" Tyrion asked gently.

"He threw himself from the Red Keep after she murdered his wife. His beloved Margaery, along with everyone in that Sept." Jaime's knuckles whitened around his cup. "She didn't even weep, Tyrion. Our son was dead, and all she cared about was her precious throne."

"So you came North."

"So I came North." Jaime set his cup down with careful precision. "Because someone has to fight for the living. And I'm done serving rulers who care more for power than the people they'd burn to keep it."

The brothers sat in understanding silence after that, the weight of secrets and choices heavy between them. Outside, snow fell steadily, a reminder that greater battles lay ahead than those between lions.

"The dead march south," Jaime said finally, his voice firming with purpose. "Whatever comes after, that's what matters now. Everything else... everything else can wait."

"How did she take it?" Jaime asked after a long silence. "Learning what her father truly was. Is she..." He hesitated. "Is she like him?"

Tyrion swirled his wine thoughtfully. "She was raised on Viserys's stories - tales of the noble king deposed by traitors, of their stolen birthright. It's what kept them alive in exile, I suppose. Those beliefs ran deep."

"But?"

"But Ser Barristan began telling her the truth. About the burnings, the paranoia, the cruelty. It wasn't easy for her to hear, but she listened." Tyrion studied his brother's face. "You noticed she came North without demanding fealty? That wasn't chance. She's learning there's more to ruling than just claiming a birthright."

"And the Starks? They're not exactly known for softening hard truths."

"No," Tyrion chuckled. "They've been remarkably blunt about the histories of their houses. The rebellion, Father's sack of King's Landing, even your... complicated past. But they've also shown her respect when she's earned it. It's probably the first time in her life someone's treated her as just Daenerys, not as either a goddess or a demon."

Jaime nodded slowly. "She still worries about Cersei though."

"With good reason. Cersei grows stronger in the south, gathering sellswords, making deals with Euron Greyjoy. When we face the dead, she'll be waiting to strike at whoever survives." Tyrion's mouth twisted. "She's never been one to fight her own battles if she can let others weaken themselves first."

"No," Jaime agreed grimly. "She isn't." He stared into the fire for a long moment. "The dead have to come first. Everything else... everything else can wait."

"Including Cersei?"

"Including Cersei." Jaime's voice carried quiet finality. "I made my choice when I rode North. Let her play her games with her pet necromancer and mad pirates. The true war is here."

Chapter Text

"Bran's been tracking his movements," Cregan replied. "For months now, he and the Reeds have focused his visions specifically on Valyrian steel. Through their systematic searching, we found Longclaw beyond the Wall, Dark Sister given by Bloodraven and retrieved Daemon's helmet from the Gods Eye. Now Euron gathers even more - he has Brightroar, a full suit of Valyrian steel armor, and Nightfall."

"The armor alone can be reforged into three swords," Cregan continued, "especially when combined with Daemon's helmet." He lifted Frost. "As heir to Winterfell, you'll need this in the wars to come, Robb. The dead fear no normal steel."

"He seeks more," Bran added, his voice distant. "My visions show him searching for Blackfyre. He believes collecting Valyrian steel will make him unstoppable, though he doesn't understand its true purpose against the Others."

"Between Jojen's green dreams and my visions," Bran continued, "we've tracked most of the remaining Valyrian steel in Westeros."

"Honour requires Longclaw's return to House Mormont," Cregan continued. "They'll need it for what approaches."

"What of Dark Sister?" Arya asked, eyeing the slender blade with unconcealed interest.

"Jon," Bran spoke up from his place by the hearth. "Bloodraven gave it for you. It seems... right, somehow."

Jon stiffened. "Your Grace should have it," he said, looking to Daenerys. "It's a Targaryen blade."

"You can return it to her after the war," Cregan said firmly. "But for now, we need every advantage against the dead. The blade goes to where it will do the most good."

"I agree," Daenerys added softly. "I was never trained with a sword. In your hands, it will help protect us all."

"Euron sails for Oldtown," Bran explained. "And he's equipped his ships with something deadlier than just normal weapons."

"That's why you'll need to attack together," Cregan said firmly. "Drogon from one direction, Rhaegal from another. Divide his attention. Make him choose which dragon to target." He gestured to the map. "If you time it right, you can cripple his fleet without destroying it entirely. We need those resources - the Valyrian steel could arm several more warriors against the dead."

"But first we have to get past those scorpions," Daenerys noted grimly.

"And survive his Dragonbinder horn," Bran added quietly. "He thinks it can control dragons, though he doesn't understand its true cost to use. Be wary when you hear it - it will cause the dragons pain, but their bond with their riders runs deeper than any horn's magic."

The family continued planning, discussing the details of intercepting Euron and retrieving the precious Valyrian steel. Above them, the heart tree's red leaves rustled, as if acknowledging the gravity of arming the living against the army of the dead.

OLD  TOWN

The stench of burning timber filled Jon's nostrils as they approached Oldtown. From Rhaegal's back, he could see Euron's massive fleet - close to a thousand ships spread across the harbor like a kraken's tentacles. Flaming projectiles arced through the darkening sky, the Iron Fleet's catapults methodically targeting the city's structures.

Dany had suggested their strategy during the flight - start with the outermost ships first, where Euron was least likely to be. It made sense. Work their way inward, use the sun and height to their advantage. Jon guided Rhaegal higher, matching Drogon's ascent. From this elevation, they could observe the fleet's pattern while remaining largely invisible against the sun.

They began their attack in a carefully coordinated semi-circle. Jon watched for scorpions as they burned their way through the outer ships, noting which vessels carried the massive dragon-killing weapons. Not all ships had them - the mechanisms were too complex and costly to outfit an entire fleet. But enough bristled with the deadly bolts to make each approach dangerous.

As they circled the fleet, Jon's eyes constantly scanned for the Silence. Bran had been specific - that's where they'd find Euron and the Dragonbinder. The black sails all looked similar from above, but something caught his attention - movement on one of the central ships, a man whose hip bore what looked like a horn.

Jon's heart quickened. He gave the signal they'd practiced with Dany - three quick dives from Rhaegal. They needed to destroy the surrounding scorpions before Euron could use that horn, and fast. They coordinated their attack, dragons diving in tandem to burn the ships protecting the Silence.

But they weren't quite fast enough. A deep, resonant note cut through the battle noise, making Jon's bones vibrate. Beneath him, Rhaegal convulsed in obvious pain. He could see Drogon similarly affected, both dragons fighting against some unseen force.

Dany guided Drogon higher, understanding their vulnerability with the remaining scorpions. Rhaegal followed instinctively, though Jon could feel his dragon's resistance to the unnatural compulsion. They needed to end this fast.

After burning the Silence's main mast, watching crew members leap into the sea, Jon took his chance. The leap from Rhaegal's back to the deck was perfectly timed, his boots hitting the charred wood with practiced grace. Five of Euron's crew still stood between him and his target. No time for hesitation - every moment the horn existed put Dany and the dragons at risk.

Jon moved with lethal efficiency, Dark Sister singing through the salt air. Each strike had purpose, each movement bringing him closer to the horn. He could hear Drogon and Rhaegal's pained cries above, feel their struggle against the magical binding through his connection with Rhaegal. It drove him forward, made each blow more precise.

After the fifth man fell, Jon still found himself too far from Euron. Making a split-second decision, he grabbed a piece of fallen debris and hurled it. The improvised projectile forced Euron to raise one hand in defense, though he maintained his grip on the horn. That moment of divided attention was all Jon needed. He closed the distance in two long strides, Dark Sister flashing out to slash the hand holding the Dragonbinder. His boot followed, kicking Euron away from the falling horn before bringing his heel down hard on the ancient artifact.

The effect was immediate. Above, both dragons' cries changed from pain to rage. Jon could feel Rhaegal's relief through their bond, matched by his own as he saw Dany resuming her systematic destruction of the remaining scorpions. Euron had managed to draw his sword despite his injured hand, but Jon knew the real battle was already won. The koordination between dragon riders had proven stronger than Valyrian sorcery, while Euron's reliance on magical artifacts had proven his undoing.

After securing Euron's Valyrian steel armor and the other precious relics from the Silence, Jon and Daenerys turned their attention to the remaining fleet. They couldn't risk leaving even a portion of these ships intact - any surviving vessel could threaten the vital evacuation routes to Dorne or the supply lines to the North.

Working in their now-familiar pattern, they systematically burned the rest of the Iron Fleet. The harbor waters turned to steam as dragonfire met sea, while burning ships lit the evening sky like massive torches. Some crews tried to flee in smaller boats, but most simply dove into the water, swimming desperately for shore.

"The city fires," Jon called to Dany during a pass. The Iron Fleet's earlier bombardment had left several sections of Oldtown burning, the flames threatening to spread.

They found an unexpected solution in the floating debris. The massive masts from the destroyed ships, still relatively intact and soaked with seawater, could be used to combat the flames. Jon and Dany coordinated with the city defenders, using their dragons to carefully lift and position the largest pieces of wreckage. The wet wood helped create firebreaks, while smaller pieces were used directly to smother flames.

By dawn, the harbor of Oldtown held only floating ash and charred timber where Euron's mighty fleet had anchored. The city fires had been contained, though several buildings would need extensive repairs. But the western seas were free now - safe for the ships that would soon carry refugees south to Dorne and supplies north.

They had eliminated more than just Euron's threat. They had secured vital routes that could mean the difference between survival and destruction in the war to come. As Jon and Dany flew north with their precious cargo of Valyrian steel, they left behind a city damaged but standing, and seas that would remain open for those fleeing winter's fury.

HIGHGARDEN

Jon surveyed the Lannister siege lines from Rhaegal's back, his grip tightening on the dragon's spinal ridges as he took in the scale of the encampment. Thousands of red-cloaked soldiers surrounded Highgarden's massive white walls, their siege equipment a stark reminder of how long they'd maintained this stranglehold. Refugees were visible even from this height, crowded against the castle gates seeking shelter that was quickly running out.

"We need to minimize bloodshed," he called to Dany where she flew Drogon beside him. "These men will be needed for the real war ahead."

She nodded, understanding in her violet eyes. They'd discussed this strategy during their flight from Oldtown - how to break a siege without massacring the very soldiers they'd need to fight the dead. The dragons alone would likely be enough to force surrender, but timing and approach would be crucial.

"The siege equipment first," Jon suggested, gesturing to the nearest catapults. "Show them resistance is pointless without slaughtering their men."

Dany guided Drogon into position, while Jon took Rhaegal wide to approach from the opposite direction. The dragons' shadows swept across the Lannister camp, sending men scrambling for cover. No arrows flew up to meet them - after word of Euron's defeat had spread, few were foolish enough to waste shafts against dragons.

At Jon's command, Rhaegal's flames engulfed the nearest siege tower. The ancient wood caught immediately, sending soldiers fleeing from the inferno. Across the field, Drogon's fire made short work of three catapults. The message was clear - the dragons could have been targeting men instead of machinery.

Jon brought Rhaegal down in a clearing between the siege lines and Highgarden's walls, making sure to land where both armies could see him clearly. He'd learned that sometimes the appearance of power was as important as its exercise.

"I would speak with your commanders," he called out, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent field. "Bring them forth and you have my word no harm will come to them under parley."

It took several minutes for the Lannister officers to gather their courage, but eventually a small group approached.

"You know who sent us here," Prester said without preamble. "The Queen will have our heads if we break this siege."

"Your Queen burns septs and murders her own people," Jon replied evenly. "But more importantly, Ser Kevan Lannister has already pledged his forces to the true fight - the one that comes for us all from the north." He met each commander's eyes in turn. "You have a choice. Join Ser Kevan's men and fight for the living, or retreat to Casterly Rock. But this siege ends today."

He could see the calculations running behind their eyes - the dragons overhead, the burned siege equipment, the knowledge that their position was hopeless. More importantly, he saw the relief in some faces at being offered an honorable way out.

"The dead march south," Jon continued. "Every day this siege continues is another day the Reach cannot send aid north. Another day refugees cannot evacuate to safety. The time for southern wars is over."

Prester's weathered face showed he understood the truth of Jon's words. "And our men? You'll guarantee their safety?"

"You have my word," Jon replied firmly. "Any who wish to join Ser Kevan's forces will be welcome. The rest may return to their homes or holdings. But the siege ends now."

The surrender, when it came, was almost anticlimactic. Within hours, the Lannister forces were withdrawing in good order, many choosing to join Kevan's army rather than return to Cersei's increasingly unstable rule. Supply wagons began moving immediately, carrying food and resources that would be vital in the coming war.

From Rhaegal's back, Jon watched refugees finally streaming south toward safety while Tyrell forces prepared to march north. They'd won this victory without a massacre, turning enemies into allies through show of force and reasonable terms. The real war still loomed ahead, but today at least, they'd achieved their aims without needless bloodshed.

Sometimes, he reflected, the most important victories were the ones that prevented battles rather than won them. The dead wouldn't care about such mercies, but today's choices might mean more swords to face them when the time came.

Chapter Text

The great hall of Winterfell echoed with music and laughter as the celebration continued. Alys and Sigorn sat at the high table, the new bride practically glowing while her Thenn husband watched her with quiet devotion. Their wedding had beautifully blended Free Folk and Northern traditions, a symbol of peoples coming together.

"Different from what you expected?" Tyrion asked Daenerys, noting her fascination with the proceedings.

"The South calls them savages," Daenerys replied thoughtfully. "Yet I see no bedding ceremony, no crude jests or pawing hands. Just... celebration."

"The North remembers older ways," Tyrion agreed. "They consider the bedding ceremony a southern custom, actually. Here, marriage is a solemn covenant before the old gods."

Across the hall, Robb and Arya huddled in conspiratorial whispers.

"Look at him," Arya muttered, watching Jon brood in his corner. "He's been staring at her all night but won't move an inch closer."

"Too honorable for his own good," Robb agreed with a knowing grin. "Ready?"

The music shifted to a traditional Northern tune as Robb approached Daenerys with an elegant bow. "Your Grace, might I have this dance?"

Simultaneously, Arya practically dragged Jon onto the floor. "Stop brooding and dance with me, you fool."

The two pairs began the intricate steps, moving in perfect synchronization. Then, at precisely the right moment, Robb and Arya smoothly maneuvered their partners together, stepping away before either could react.

Jon found himself suddenly holding Daenerys, their faces inches apart. His eyes widened in panic and he actually took half a step back, clearly intending to flee.

"Are you really going to embarrass me in the middle of the dance floor, Jon Snow?" Daenerys asked softly, though there was steel beneath the silk of her voice. Her violet eyes held both challenge and amusement.

Jon's face flushed red. "Your Grace, I didn't mean- that is, I wouldn't-" He shot a desperate glance toward escape, only to find Arya blocking one path and Robb the other, both wearing identical grins.

"I'm not asking for your hand in marriage," Daenerys teased gently. "Just a dance."

From her place near the high table, Missandei's knowing smile grew wider as she watched them. She'd seen that look in her queen's eyes before - the one that said she'd made up her mind about something and wouldn't be denied.

Trapped between his siblings' machinations and Daenerys's gentle challenge, Jon finally surrendered with what dignity he could muster. "As you command, Your Grace," he muttered, though his hand trembled slightly as it found her waist.

"Oh, so now you're following commands?" Daenerys's eyes sparkled with mischief.

That startled a reluctant laugh from him, and some of the tension left his shoulders. They began moving together, Jon's natural grace overcoming his initial awkwardness as they fell into the rhythm of the dance.

From different corners of the hall, several pairs of eyes watched with varying reactions. Ser Barristan's weathered face showed both concern and a strange sort of wonder. Tyrion's expression was calculating but not disapproving. Missandei continued to smile that knowing smile, while Grey Worm watched with careful assessment. And Cregan, watching through Ned's eyes, observed with ancient wisdom how naturally they moved together once Jon stopped fighting it - ice and fire finding their own balance.

"Your siblings are terrible plotters," Daenerys murmured as they turned. "I saw them planning this from across the hall."

"They've never been subtle," Jon agreed ruefully. "I apologize for their... interference."

"Don't," she said simply. "Sometimes we need a little push to take what we want."

Jon's step faltered slightly at that, his eyes meeting hers with sudden intensity. But before he could respond, the music ended, leaving them standing perhaps closer than strictly proper, the air between them charged with unspoken possibilities.

Around them, the celebration continued, but for that moment, they might as well have been alone in the hall, caught in each other's gaze while the North celebrated around them.

The torchlight cast long shadows in the crypts of Winterfell as Cregan led Jon past the stone kings, deeper than they'd ever gone before. When they stopped before Lyanna's statue, Jon's chest tightened with an inexplicable dread. He'd always felt drawn to this statue, to the aunt he'd never known. Now, watching the flickering light play across her carved features, that pull felt almost painful.

"There's something you need to know," Cregan said quietly. "Something I should have told you long ago."

The words hit Jon like a blow from a war hammer. His knees nearly buckled as understanding crashed through him in waves. Not his father. Lyanna's son. Rhaegar's son. Each revelation feeling like another knife to the gut.

"No," Jon choked out, stumbling backward until his shoulders hit the cold stone wall. "No, that's not... I'm your son. Your shame. Your stain on Lady Stark's honor. I'm—" His voice cracked. "That's who I am."

"Jon—" Cregan reached for him, but Jon jerked away.

"Don't!" The word echoed off ancient stone. "Was anything real? All those years, calling you Father, trying to be worthy of the Stark name..." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Gods, Lady Stark was right to hate me. I'm worse than a bastard – I'm the reason her betrothed went to war. The reason thousands died!"

"Listen to me," Cregan commanded, but Jon was beyond hearing.

"Rapespawn," he spat, self-loathing thick in his voice. "The product of what tore the realm apart—"

"ENOUGH!" Cregan's voice cracked like thunder in the confined space. "You think I don't know your mother? Lyanna was a wolf of Winterfell, fierce and free. No one, not even a crown prince, could take her anywhere she didn't choose to go."

"Then she chose?" Jon's voice was small, almost childlike in its pain. "She chose him over her family? Over peace?"

"She chose love," Cregan said softly. "And thanks to Bran's visions, we know they married before the heart tree. You were born of love, Jon. Not rape. Not dishonor."

Jon slid down the wall until he sat at its base, his head in his hands. "The rebellion—"

"Was coming regardless," Cregan interrupted. "Think. When your grandfather and uncle were murdered, did the North rise? No. The rebellion truly began when Aerys demanded my head and Robert's from Jon Arryn. That's what forced his hand."

"But if they hadn't fallen in love..."

"If they hadn't fallen in love, Aerys would have found another excuse." Cregan knelt beside him. "The realm was a powder keg. Your parents' love was the spark, yes, but the wildfire was already there, waiting."

Jon lifted his head, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "Why tell me now?"

"Because you need to know who you are," Cregan said gently. "The dragons didn't accept you by accident, Jon. But more importantly—" He gripped Jon's shoulder. "You need to know you were wanted. Loved."

Something in those words broke the dam inside Jon. "My mother..." His voice cracked. "Did she... did she want me?"

"Oh, Jon." Cregan's voice was thick with emotion. "Her last words were of you. She made me swear to protect you, clutching you to her breast even as her strength failed. 'Promise me, Ned,' she begged. 'Promise me you'll keep him safe.'"

A sob tore from Jon's throat, raw and painful. "All my life, I thought... I believed..."

"You believed you were unwanted," Cregan finished softly. "A stain on my honor. But you were loved, Jon. So loved that your mother died protecting you. So loved that I claimed you as my own, knowing what it would cost, because keeping you safe was more important than any reputation."

Jon's shoulders shook as years of buried pain and longing broke free. All the times he'd watched his siblings with Lady Stark, aching for a mother's love. All the nights he'd lain awake wondering who had borne him, if she ever thought of him, if she'd given him away willingly.

"She's always been here," Cregan said quietly, gesturing to Lyanna's statue. "Watching over you. Every time you practiced in the yard, every time you played with your siblings... she saw it all."

Jon looked up at his mother's stone face through tear-blurred eyes. "I don't... I don't know how to be this person. This prince. I'm just... I've always been just Jon Snow."

"You're my son," Cregan said firmly. "Whether I sired you or not. I raised you, loved you, taught you everything I could. That matters more than blood." He paused. "But you're also Lyanna's son. And if you're anything like her – and gods know you are – you'll find your way through this."

They stayed there in the crypts until Jon's tears ran dry, until the first wave of shock and pain began to ebb. And if sometimes his eyes strayed to his mother's statue with a desperate kind of hunger, Cregan pretended not to notice. Some wounds needed time to heal, and some truths needed darkness to be properly mourned.

Later, as they climbed back toward the light, Jon stopped suddenly. "Does she know?" His voice was hoarse. "Daenerys?"

"No," Cregan replied. "That choice will be yours to make."

Jon nodded slowly, the weight of yet another impossible choice settling on his shoulders. But as they emerged into the weak winter sunlight, he found himself standing straighter. He was still Jon Snow, still the man his father – for Cregan would always be his father in the ways that mattered – had raised him to be. But he was also his mother's son. And somehow, knowing she had wanted him, had loved him enough to die protecting him, made all the difference in the world.

The godwood's silence wrapped around Jon like a shroud as he sat beneath the heart tree, Dark Sister laid across his knees. Its Valyrian steel caught the weak winter light, seeming to pulse with ancient power. His mother's blood had wielded Valyrian steel before - Visenya on dragonback with Dark Sister singing through the air. The thought still felt foreign, like ill-fitting clothes he wasn't sure how to wear.

"I wondered if I'd find you here," Arya's voice broke through his brooding. She settled beside him with her usual quiet grace. "You've been avoiding everyone since you came up from the crypts."

"I needed time to think," Jon replied, his voice rough. He hadn't slept since learning the truth - about his parents, about the prophecy Bran had shared, about the destiny that apparently awaited him. The weight of it all pressed down like a physical thing.

"About being a prince?" Arya asked bluntly.

Jon's laugh held no humor. "About being the one meant to kill the Night King. About wielding two blades when most men can barely master one. About..." He trailed off, unable to voice his growing feelings for his own aunt.

"Bran said the old gods chose you," Arya said quietly. "That's why Dark Sister came to you. Why Rhaegal accepted you so easily."

"The old gods," Jon repeated bitterly. "Did they choose my parents too? Did they plan all of this?"

"Does it matter?" Arya's directness cut through his self-pity. "You're still you, Jon. Still my brother. Still the best swordsman in Winterfell. The rest is just... details."

Before Jon could respond, Ghost appeared silently from the trees, pressing against his side. The direwolf's presence was grounding, reminding him of who he was beyond names and prophecies.

"Come on," Arya stood, offering her hand. "There's a war council meeting. Time to focus on what matters - killing the dead and keeping the living alive."

Chapter Text

The solar's warmth did nothing to dispel the gravity of their discussion as Cregan laid out what would be required. Jon stood by the hearth, his discomfort evident as they discussed who would likely die protecting him.

"The strike team needs more than just skill," Cregan said. "We need men who understand this isn't about glory or survival. Their only purpose is getting Jon through to the Night King. Everything else - including their own lives - is secondary."

"I won't ask men to die for me," Jon protested. "This is my duty, my fight-"

"It's all our fight," Robb cut him off fiercely. "And I'm going with you. You're my brother - if anyone should die getting you through, it should be me."

"Robb, you have a wife, children..." Jon began.

"And they'll die like everyone else if we fail," Robb said firmly. "My duty to them is making sure you reach the Night King, whatever it costs me."

"I'll stand with you," the Blackfish declared. "I've no wife or children to mourn me. My sword and life are yours."

"As is mine," Jaime said quietly from where he stood with Brightroar at his hip. "The realm needs saving again. And this time, I'll do it properly - no broken vows, just a clean death in service of the living."

Jon looked stricken. "I can't ask this of any of you-"

You're not asking," Jory stepped forward. "We're offering. My speed and blade are yours, as they've always been."

"And mine," said a quiet voice. They turned to see Ser Barristan in the doorway, Nightfall steel blade gleaming on his hip. "Though I must remain with the queen when she's not airborne, I'll help train this strike team. You'll need every advantage we can give you."

Jon looked around at these men - his brother, legendary knights, proven warriors - all calmly volunteering to die so he could reach his target. The weight of it threatened to crush him.

"I don't want any of you to die for me," he said hoarsely.

"We're not dying for you," the Blackfish corrected gruffly. "We're dying for the dawn. You're just the sword we need to deliver it."

"The best swords need the strongest shields," Ser Barristan added. "Let us be your shield, Jon Snow. Every man here understands what's being offered - and what's at stake."

Cregan watched his son struggle with this burden. "Sometimes the hardest courage is accepting others' sacrifice," he said quietly. "Let them make this choice, Jon. Let them serve the realm this way."

The silence that followed was heavy with understanding. These men weren't volunteering for glory or honor. They were committing to a mission that would likely kill them all - but might save everything they loved.

"Then it's settled," Cregan said finally. "The finest blades we have, all willing to die so Jon can deliver the blow that matters. The old gods themselves couldn't ask for more."

Jon looked at each man in turn - his brother, the knights, the warriors - seeing their quiet determination, their acceptance of what this would cost. And though it broke his heart, he nodded. The strike team was chosen - not for skill alone, but for their absolute understanding that their lives were secondary to getting him through. They would be the shield that died so he could be the sword that ended the Long Night.

"There are three more blades to assign. One will go to Jory, he’ll hold Moat Caitlin with the other northern troops." Cregan said, gesturing to the remaining Valyrian steel swords on the table. "One must go to a commander who can hold the South should we fall."

"Edmure," the Blackfish spoke up immediately.

"The Moat is our last defense if the Wall and Winterfell fall," Cregan agreed. "Its commander will need every advantage."

"And the last blade?" Jon asked.

"Domeric Bolton," Robb suggested. "He’ll fight for duty."

"He's also married to your sister," the Blackfish pointed out. "With a child on the way."

"All the more reason he'll fight to his last breath," Robb countered. "He understands what's at stake - this isn't about glory for him."

Jon nodded slowly. "I've crossed swords with him in practice. He's exceptional. And more importantly, he knows this is about survival, not honor."

"The Boltons were kings once," Cregan said thoughtfully. "Before bending the knee to Winterfell. Perhaps it's fitting their house receives a Valyrian steel blade now, when all must stand together." He paused. "Though this means asking another father-to-be to risk leaving his child fatherless."

"We all risk that," Robb said quietly. "Every man who fights, every house that stands against the dead. At least with these blades, we give our children a better chance of having a future at all."

The weight of that truth settled over them. In the end, they were all fighting for the same thing - the chance for their children to see another dawn.

The Dreadfort's solar held its characteristic chill despite the roaring hearth. Roose Bolton watched his son examine the rippled steel of his newly-acquired Valyrian blade, noting how the firelight caught the darker swirls in the metal.

"You understand what being part of the strike force means," Roose said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "The White Walkers will target those with Valyrian steel first."

"I understand, Father." Domeric's pale eyes, so like his own, remained fixed on the blade. "Someone must guard Jon Snow's advance. Better me than a less skilled swordsman."

"The Valyrian steel sings differently than normal blades," Roose observed. "You'll need to adjust your technique."

"The Blackfish said the same. We begin training together tomorrow - all six of us." Domeric tested the sword's balance with the precision he brought to everything. "It needs a name."

"The old traditions demand it be something meaningful." Roose's bloodless lips curved slightly. "Our ancestors were the Red Kings. This blade should honor that legacy."

Domeric studied the blade's darker ripples thoughtfully. "What of Blood Dawn? The Red Kings ruled the dawn of the North's history. And now their steel will meet the Long Night's dawn."

"Fitting," Roose approved. "A name that remembers both our ancient crown and our current purpose." His pale eyes studied his son.

"Sansa's pregnancy changes things."

"It does." Roose's voice grew even softer. "Your duty to the strike force puts you at greatest risk. A White Walker is no common foe."

"Which is why you're considering marriage again," Domeric said with characteristic directness. "To secure more heirs for the Dreadfort."

"The thought had occurred." Roose studied his son carefully. "We have a year before the dead come, according to Brandon Stark's visions. Long enough to cement alliances, ensure continuity."

"The Flints have been hinting," Domeric noted. "And you've always maintained good relations with them."

"I have." Roose paused delicately. "Though I would hear your thoughts on the matter. You are my heir, after all. For now."

Domeric's hand tightened imperceptibly on Blood Dawn's hilt. "We are Boltons. The line must continue, regardless of what fate awaits me in the war to come." His voice carried quiet certainty. "Though I would ask one thing."

"Name it."

"If Sansa bears a son... and if I fall..." Domeric met his father's eyes directly. "Ensure the boy knows of our history. Of what it means to be a Bolton. Of how the Red Kings became the North's staunchest defenders."

"You have my word," Roose replied solemnly. "Though I would prefer to teach such lessons to your own sons."

They sat in comfortable silence after that, father and son united in understanding of duty and legacy. Blood Dawn gleamed between them, its Valyrian steel holding both promise and warning. Outside, snow began to fall, as if the old gods themselves were witnessing their preparations for the long night ahead.

"Train well," Roose said finally, his voice carrying rare warmth. "The Boltons have endured eight thousand years. I would not have our line end now."

Domeric nodded once, decisive. In his hands, Blood Dawn seemed to pulse with ancient purpose. The dead would come, but the Boltons would be ready. As they had always been.

The glass gardens offered privacy and warmth as Domeric found Sansa among the winter roses, her hand resting unconsciously on her swollen belly. eight moons along now, she seemed to glow with an inner light that made his heart ache. This might be the last time he saw her like this.

"When were you planning to tell me?" she asked without turning, her voice steady despite the tension in her shoulders. She'd always been able to sense his presence, even before they wed.

"I was looking for you now," Domeric replied softly, moving to stand beside her. His pale eyes traced her profile, memorizing every detail. "Father just gave me the blade - one of the new ones forged from Euron's armor."

"A Valyrian steel sword for House Bolton at last," Sansa observed, finally turning to face him. Her blue eyes were bright with unshed tears, though her composure remained perfect. "And all it costs is my husband riding out to face the Night King himself."

"Sansa..." He reached for her, and she came into his arms without hesitation, pressing close despite her pregnant belly between them. Her fingers curled into his tunic as if she could keep him there by will alone.

"I understand why," she whispered against his chest. "You're one of our finest swords. The strike team needs every advantage. It's logical, practical..." Her voice caught. "But I hate it all the same."

Domeric stroked her copper hair, so much like autumn leaves in the glass gardens' filtered light. "Your brother needs men he can trust at his back. Men who understand what we're truly fighting for." His hand dropped to cover hers where it rested on her belly. "Men who have everything to live for."

A small sob escaped her then, though she tried to muffle it against his chest. "Promise me you'll come back," she demanded, her fingers tightening in his tunic. "Promise me our child won't grow up without a father."

"My practical wife," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Asking me for promises I may not be able to keep."

"Then lie to me," she said fiercely. "Tell me what I need to hear, even if we both know better."

Instead, Domeric drew back just enough to cup her face in his hands, making her meet his gaze. "I promise to fight with everything I have to return to you both. I promise that every step I take toward the Night King will be driven by thoughts of you, of our child, of the future we're building together." His thumbs brushed away her tears. "I promise that if I fall, it will be protecting your brother so he can end this threat to our family once and for all."

"That's not what I asked for," Sansa protested, but her lips curved in a watery smile.

"No," he agreed, managing a slight smile of his own. "But it's the truth. And we've never lied to each other, have we?"

She shook her head, then pulled him down for a desperate kiss. Domeric poured everything he couldn't say into it - his love, his fear, his determination to return to her. When they finally parted, both breathless, Sansa's composure had cracked completely.

Domeric gathered her close again, feeling their unborn child move between them. They stood there until the light began to fade, holding each other in the warmth of the glass gardens while winter raged outside. Neither spoke of the dangers ahead or the possibility of failure. Instead, they simply existed in this moment, surrounded by winter roses and the promise of spring to come.

Chapter Text

The great hall was quiet save for the clink of cutlery as the lords took their evening meal, discussing the day's plans in low voices. Cregan sat with Catelyn, watching the unlikely alliance of Northern, Vale, and Riverland nobles breaking bread together when Jory Cassel entered with urgency in his step.

"My lord," he announced, "There's a man at the gates - Ser Davos Seaworth. With him is the Princess Shireen Baratheon and a red priestess. They request audience."

A murmur went through the hall. No one had heard from Stannis's family since the defeat at the Blackwater Bay.

"Bring them in," Cregan commanded, sensing the importance of this arrival.

When they entered, Shireen walked with quiet dignity despite her youth, her greyscale scars partially hidden by her dark hair. Ser Davos flanked her protectively while Melisandre's red robes seemed to glow in the firelight.

"Lord Stark," Shireen began, her voice clear and steady. "Before my father succumbed from his injuries from the Blackwater, he spoke of letters from the Watch. Of an enemy beyond counting that brings the cold." She paused, lifting her chin. "His last command was that when the time came, we should bring our strength north. The real war, he said, wasn't for the Iron Throne."

"And what strength do you bring, my lady?" Yohn Royce asked carefully.

"Twenty thousand swords," Davos answered. "Men who followed Stannis, who believed in his sense of duty. They follow Princess Shireen now."

"My father wasn't always..." Shireen hesitated, then continued with remarkable composure, "He made mistakes. Terrible ones. But he understood what truly mattered in the end. These men aren't fighting for a crown anymore - they're fighting for the living."

Melisandre stepped forward, her ruby glowing at her throat. "I have seen it in my flames. The dead march, and the dawn will not come without fire to light the way."

Cregan studied them carefully - the brave young lady carrying her father's last command, the loyal smuggler who'd followed Stannis through victory and defeat, and the priestess whose god's power grew stronger as the dead approached.

"Your father was right about what matters," he said finally. "The war for dawn needs every sword, every willing heart." He turned to Davos. "Where are these forces now?"

"Camped three days' ride south, my lord," Davos replied. "Ready to march on your command."

"And you, my lady?" Catelyn asked Shireen gently. "What would you ask of us?"

"Only to fight beside you," Shireen answered with quiet determination. "My father believed in duty above all. This is mine - to bring his strength to humanity's defense."

A murmur of approval went through the hall. Even those who had opposed Stannis could respect his daughter's courage and sense of duty.

"We'll need to adjust the deployments," Lord Royce noted, already thinking practically. "These fresh forces could strengthen Moat Cailin significantly."

"Your men will be welcome," Cregan declared formally. "And you as well, Princess Shireen. Winterfell offers you guest right and honors your father's last command."

As servants rushed to bring food and wine for the newcomers, Cregan watched Shireen take her seat with quiet grace. She carried shadows in her eyes - whatever had happened after the Blackwater had clearly left scars deeper than her greyscale. But there was steel there too, forged in fire and loss yet unbroken.

"The night comes," Melisandre intoned softly, "but fires burn against the darkness. Your father saw true at the end, my lady. The war that matters stands before us."

The weak winter sun caught the bronze scales as Jon and Dany worked to secure the final pieces of armor onto Rhaegal's massive form. The dragon endured the process with surprise   ing patience, though occasional puffs of smoke betrayed his restlessness. Nearby, Drogon waited with his own armor already fitted, the metal seeming to pulse with inner fire in the fading light.

A small movement in the shadows of the keep caught Dany's eye. She turned to see a young girl trying to make herself invisible behind a pillar, though her curiosity clearly warred with her attempt at stealth. Even partially hidden, the greyscale scars were unmistakable.

"You can come closer," Dany called gently. "They won't harm you."

Shireen Baratheon emerged hesitantly, her dark hair falling forward to partially shield her marked cheek. Despite her obvious nervousness, there was wonder in her eyes as she watched the dragons.

"I've never seen them up close before," Shireen admitted softly. "Only from the battlements."

Jon finished securing a final strap on Rhaegal's armor before moving to help with Viserion. The cream-colored dragon had been watching Shireen with unusual interest since she appeared, his head tilted in a way that reminded Dany oddly of a curious cat.

"Which do you think is the most beautiful?" Dany asked, noting how the young girl's tension eased slightly at being addressed directly rather than pitied or ignored.

Shireen studied each dragon carefully before answering. "The cream one," she said finally. "He's the color of the dragons in my dreams."

Dany's eyebrows rose slightly. "You dream of dragons?"

A blush colored Shireen's unscarred cheek. "Sometimes. Since I was very small. Father said it was because of our Targaryen blood, through grandmother Rhaelle." Her voice caught slightly on 'father,' but she continued. "In my dreams, they're always cream-colored, with golden eyes like his."

As if responding to her words, Viserion stretched his long neck toward her, nostrils flaring as he scented the air. Shireen held perfectly still, neither advancing nor retreating.

"He's curious about you," Dany observed with growing interest. "Dragons are very intelligent - they can sense things about people that we can't always see."

"Really?" Shireen's eyes brightened. "What do you think he senses about me?"

"Perhaps he recognizes that old blood you mentioned," Dany suggested. "Or perhaps he simply likes that you called him beautiful. Dragons can be quite vain."

That earned a small giggle from Shireen - possibly the first time she'd laughed since arriving at Winterfell. Viserion rumbled deep in his chest, a sound that might have been threatening from Drogon but seemed almost playful coming from him.

"Would you like to help?" Dany asked impulsively. "We need to check all the armor straps are secure before they fly today."

Shireen's eyes widened. "I... I wouldn't know how..."

"I'll show you," Dany offered, holding out her hand. "Sometimes having smaller fingers is actually an advantage with the more delicate buckles."

After a moment's hesitation, Shireen stepped forward to take Dany's offered hand. Together they approached Viserion, who lowered his head to study them both more closely.

"See?" Dany said softly. "He knows a friend when he meets one."

As they worked together checking the armor's fastenings, Dany found herself wondering about those dragon dreams Shireen had mentioned. The old blood ran strong in unexpected places sometimes. And watching how Viserion remained unusually still and calm under the young girl's careful touches, she couldn't help but think that perhaps the dreams meant more than anyone had realized.

Over the following days, Shireen's presence during the dragons' armor fittings became a familiar sight. Her small fingers proved particularly deft with the more delicate buckles, and Dany noticed how Viserion would deliberately angle his body to make the work easier for the young girl. The cream-colored dragon showed remarkable patience, staying perfectly still even when Shireen had to readjust straps multiple times.

"You have a gift for this," Dany observed one afternoon, watching Shireen expertly secure a complicated chest piece. "Viserion's usually far more restless during fittings."

Shireen blushed at the praise, though her hands remained steady on the straps. "He makes it easy," she said softly. "It's like... like he wants to help."

They'd just finished checking the armor after a practice flight with Jon when it happened. As Rhaegal and Drogon took wing to hunt, Viserion remained behind, his golden eyes fixed on Shireen with unmistakable intent. The dragon moved closer, nudging her chest gently with his snout - exactly the same way Rhaegal had first approached Jon.

"Your Grace?" Shireen's voice wavered slightly, though she held her ground. "What's he doing?"

Before Dany could answer, Viserion lowered himself into a crouch, wings slightly spread, head turned expectantly toward Shireen. It was the exact position her dragons took when preparing to be mounted.

"He wants you to ride him," Dany said quietly, her suspicions finally confirmed. "The old blood runs true, it seems - even diluted through generations."

"PRINCESS!" Davos's panicked voice cut through the moment as he came running across the yard. "Step away from the beast!"

"Peace, Ser Davos," Dany called, not taking her eyes off Shireen and Viserion. "He won't harm her. He's chosen her."

"Chosen?" Shireen whispered, her unscarred cheek flushed with excitement and nerves.

"Dragons choose their riders," Dany explained gently. "I've seen how he watches you, how carefully he moves around you. He's been waiting for the right moment." She smiled encouragingly. "Would you like to try?"

Shireen's eyes were huge. "I... I don't know how..."

"Yes, you do," Dany said firmly. "You've been dreaming of this your whole life, haven't you? Trust those dreams. Trust him."

"Princess, please," Davos pleaded, though he didn't dare approach too closely. "Your father entrusted me with your safety..."

"And she'll be perfectly safe," Dany assured him. "Viserion won't let her fall. Will you try, Shireen?"

After a moment's hesitation, Shireen nodded. With Dany's guidance, she carefully climbed onto Viserion's back, settling just behind his shoulders where the neck met body. The dragon remained perfectly still, more patient than Dany had ever seen him.

"Hold tight to his spines," Dany instructed. "Just like you've watched Jon and me do. He'll start gently..."

As if understanding her words, Viserion took wing with remarkable care, rising slowly and smoothly. Shireen's initial gasp of fear transformed into a laugh of pure joy as they cleared the tower tops. The dragon kept his flight low and steady, clearly conscious of his precious cargo.

As Shireen's delighted laughter filled the yard, Dany felt a familiar ache in her chest - the same one she'd experienced when Jon first bonded with Rhaegal. Another rider meant another piece of her family restored, but watching the young girl's scarred face glow with joy, she felt the weight of what this truly meant.

Viserion would protect Shireen with his life - of that Dany had no doubt. But in the war to come, this child would face horrors that no one her age should have to witness. The army of the dead didn't distinguish between warrior and child, and dragonfire would be needed everywhere when the battle came.

"Your Grace?" Shireen's voice pulled her from her dark thoughts. The girl still sat astride Viserion, one hand gently stroking his scales. "When can we try again?"

Looking at her now, Dany saw not just a child, but a princess who had already endured more than most adults - the greyscale, her father's death, exile from her home. Perhaps that's why Viserion had chosen her. Dragons sensed strength that others might miss.

"Soon," Dany promised, managing a warm smile despite her concerns. "But first, we have much to teach you about flying in formation." She didn't add "for battle," but the words hung unspoken between them.

Watching Ser Davos fuss over his charge, Dany silently vowed to protect this newest dragon rider as best she could. The burden of what was to come would be heavy enough without adding the weight of a child's death to her conscience.

For now, though, she would let Shireen have this moment of pure joy. The war for dawn would come soon enough. This young dragon rider deserved at least a few days to simply revel in the wonder of flight before facing the darkness ahead.

Chapter Text

The great hall had emptied after the war council, leaving only Cregan and Jon before the dying hearth. The familiar space felt different now, heavy with unspoken truths and the weight of what was to come. Outside, snow fell steadily, while somewhere in the darkness, dragons and direwolves called to the night.

"All this preparation," Cregan said quietly. "and still it feels insufficient."

Jon studied the man he'd always known as his father. "Have you always known, Father? Of what was coming?"

"I have." The admission hung between them, heavy with years of careful planning and protected secrets.

"It must have been a terrible burden," Jon said softly. "Carrying that knowledge alone all these years."

"Not as heavy as the burden you carry now," Cregan replied, his grey eyes finding Jon's. "Being the only one who can end the Night King." He paused, letting the full weight of that destiny settle. "Though perhaps that's not what truly troubles you tonight."

Jon was quiet for a long moment, gathering his thoughts. "I'm afraid," he admitted finally. "Not of dying – we all die eventually. But of failing. Of watching everyone I love die because I wasn't strong enough, fast enough, good enough..."

"It would be foolish not to be afraid, son." Cregan's voice held centuries of understanding. "Fear sharpens us, makes us more aware. But there are different kinds of fear. The kind that paralyzes, and the kind that drives us to be better than we thought possible."

"The wars for the Iron Throne seem so petty now," Jon said, shaking his head. "All that bloodshed over a chair, while death itself marches on the realm." He hesitated, then pushed forward. "Father... I want to tell Daenerys who I am. Before everything. I don't want her to think we were just using her, that we hid the truth for political advantage."

Cregan was silent for a long moment, studying his son's face. "And if she withdraws her support? Her armies, her dragons? The fate of the realm could hang on her reaction."

"Then she's not the queen the realm needs," Jon replied with quiet conviction, though his eyes betrayed deeper feelings. "Anyone who would abandon humanity to death over a throne doesn't deserve to sit it." He met Cregan's gaze directly. "But that's not who she is. You've seen her with her people, how she puts their needs before her own ambitions. She came North to fight without demanding fealty first. That's not someone who would abandon the realm to death out of pride."

"No," Cregan agreed softly, something like approval in his ancient eyes. "It's not. Though telling her will change everything between you."

"Everything's already changing," Jon said. "The dead march on us... at least let this change come from truth freely given, not secrets discovered too late."

Cregan rose, moving to stand before his son. Despite wearing Ned's face, in that moment he seemed to carry the weight of every Stark who'd ever protected the realms of men. "You've grown wise, Jon or perhaps I should say,Jaeharys."

"I'll always be your son," Jon said firmly. "No matter what name I was born with. You raised me, taught me, loved me when you didn't have to. That means more than any throne or title."

"And you'll always be my blood," Cregan replied, his voice rough with emotion. "Go. Tell her. But remember – sometimes the hardest part of love is knowing when to let truth destroy comfortable lies."

As Jon turned to leave, Cregan called after him softly: "And Jon? Your mother would be proud of the man you've become. As am I."

The snow continued falling outside as father and son shared one last look of understanding. The wheel turned, ancient powers stirred, and in Winterfell's great hall, a truth long protected prepared to emerge into the light at last.

She found Shireen in the glass gardens, seeking warmth among the winter roses while Davos hovered protectively nearby. Through the glass panes, Dany could see Viserion curled in the snow outside, his cream scales almost blending with the whiteness.

"I hoped we might speak," Dany said, settling beside Shireen on the stone bench. "About what it means to be a dragon rider, especially now."

"Your Grace, she's just a child," Davos protested softly, though without his usual force. Even he had seen how naturally Shireen took to flying, how Viserion responded to her every touch.

"I was younger than her when I first rode Drogon," Dany pointed out. She turned to Shireen. "But Ser Davos is right - you are young. No one would think less of you for choosing not to fight."

Shireen straightened, her scarred face set with familiar determination. "My father taught me that duty isn't a choice. It's what we owe to those who depend on us." Her voice carried quiet certainty. "Viserion chose me. That makes it my duty to help however I can."

"Your father would be proud," Davos said roughly, his eyes suspiciously bright. "But he'd also want you safe."

She met Dany's gaze directly. "The dead come for all of us. Having a dragon means I can help protect people who can't protect themselves."

"You'll need to train hard," Dany said finally. "Flying in battle is different from pleasure rides. Jon and I will teach you everything we can, but there's not much time."

"I understand." Shireen's hand unconsciously reached toward where Viserion lounged outside. "He'll help me. I can feel it - like he knows what I need before I do."

"That's the bond," Dany explained softly. "It grows stronger every day. But Shireen..." She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "In battle, you must stay high. Use Viserion's flames from above, but don't engage directly. Promise me this."

"I promise," Shireen said solemnly. Then, with a ghost of a smile: "Father always said a commander's duty is to fight wisely, not recklessly. I imagine that applies to dragon riders too."

Davos made a choked sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. "Gods, you sound just like him sometimes."

"Good," Shireen said firmly. "He wasn't perfect, but he understood duty.

Dany reached out to squeeze her hand. "Then we begin at dawn tomorrow. The dead won't wait, and neither can we."

As they left the glass gardens, Dany heard Viserion's pleased rumble. The dragon already loved his young rider - that much was clear. She could only pray that love would be enough to keep Shireen safe in the battles to come.

The evening light cast long shadows in their chambers as Wynafryd finished packing the last of her things for Dorne. Her swollen belly made bending difficult, but she refused to let the servants handle everything. Robb watched from the doorway, little Cregan sleeping against his shoulder, as his wife carefully folded one of her warmer dresses.

"You won't need that in Dorne," he said softly.

"I know." She smoothed the grey wool with gentle hands. "But I want our child to have something of the North, even born in the south." Her voice caught slightly. "Something to remind them of their father's home."

"Their father will tell them himself," Robb replied, moving to sit beside her on the bed. "When this is over."

Wynafryd's hands stilled on the fabric. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Robb Stark." Her voice was steady, but her fingers trembled slightly. "I'm not some southron lady who needs pretty lies."

"No," he agreed, shifting Cregan to settle more comfortably. "You're the Lady of Winterfell, who organized the settlement of thousands of Free Folk while carrying our first child. Who mastered Northern politics while learning to run a castle larger than White Harbor. Who never once complained about the burden I placed on your shoulders."

"It was my duty," she said simply.

"It was more than duty." He caught her hand, squeezing gently. "You've become more than I could have hoped for in a wife. More than just an alliance between houses."

"Stop it," she said sharply, though her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Don't you dare start saying goodbyes. I forbid it."

"As my lady commands," he tried to smile, but it wobbled slightly. "Though I notice you're not arguing about going to Dorne."

"Because you're right, curse you." She rested one hand on her rounded belly. "I won't risk our child being born at sea if we have to evacuate. And I won't be a burden here when the fighting starts." Her chin lifted proudly. "A Lady of Winterfell knows when to be practical."

"Even if it means leaving your fool of a husband to face ice demons without you to keep him sensible?"

"Especially then." She leaned over to brush Cregan's curls back from his face. "Though I meant what I said earlier – if you die facing this Night King, I'll find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you myself."

"I believe you would." Robb's voice was fond. "My fierce mermaid turned she-wolf."

"Someone has to keep you Starks in line." But her attempt at lightness cracked, and suddenly she was pressing her face against his shoulder, careful not to wake Cregan. "I hate this. I hate leaving you. I hate not knowing if our child will ever know their father."

"Wynafryd..."

"No," she cut him off, straightening with visible effort. "No, I won't do this. I won't make it harder for either of us." She wiped her eyes briskly. "I am the Lady of Winterfell, and I will do what needs to be done. Even if that means going to bloody Dorne while my husband fights the dead."

"Have I told you lately that I love you?" Robb asked softly.

"You'd better," she replied, but her hand found his and squeezed tight. "Someone has to give these Stark children of ours some Manderly sense to balance out their wolf blood."

"Gods help us if this one's a girl," Robb said, his free hand resting on her belly. "She'll probably be ruling the North before she's five."

"With your charm and my wits? Definitely." Wynafryd managed a watery smile. "Just... try not to be too heroic? Remember you have children who need their father."

"I'll do my best." He pressed his forehead to hers. "Though I'm more afraid of facing your wrath than the Night King's if I fail."

"Good." She kissed him then, fierce and desperate, before pulling back. "You focus on surviving. I'll focus on keeping our children safe. That's the deal."

"As my lady commands," he said again, but this time the words carried the weight of a vow.

They sat together in the fading light, their sleeping son between them, their unborn child moving beneath their joined hands. Tomorrow would bring pain and parting, but for now, they had this moment – a family that had grown from political alliance into something far stronger, preparing to face the darkness ahead with all the practical courage they could muster.

"I should finish packing," Wynafryd said finally, but she made no move to rise.

"In a minute," Robb replied softly. "Let me just... let me remember this. In case..."

"In a minute," she agreed, resting her head against his shoulder. Their hands remained linked, resting on the promise of future that grew beneath her heart.

Chapter Text

The cold winter wind whipped through Winterfell's training yard as Jaime watched Jon Snow spar with Jory Cassel, their blades flashing in the weak sunlight. Something about the way the young man moved had been nagging at him for weeks - a fluid grace that seemed oddly familiar, though he couldn't quite place why.

"He's good with a blade," Ser Barristan said quietly, coming to stand beside him. "Natural talent, honed by relentless practice."

"And with dragons," Jaime replied carefully, watching the old knight's reaction. "Curious thing, isn't it? A bastard boy from the North, chosen by Queen Daenerys's dragon."

Barristan said nothing, but his hand tightened slightly on his sword belt.

"I've been thinking about dragon riders," Jaime continued. "Throughout history, they all shared one thing - Valyrian blood. Targaryen blood, specifically." He turned to study Selmy's weathered face. "Even during the Dance, when dragons accepted riders more freely, those riders were dragon seeds - bastards with Targaryen ancestry."

Still Barristan remained silent, though his eyes never left Jon's fluid movements as he parried Jory's attack.

"Then there's his smile," Jaime said softly. "I couldn't place it at first. But I've seen that exact expression before. On another young man's face."

"Careful, Ser Jaime," Barristan warned quietly.

"I failed them, you know," Jaime's voice cracked slightly. "Princess Elia, her children. I chose protecting the innocent from Aerys over protecting them from my father's men. That shame will haunt me until I die."

Finally, Barristan turned to face him fully. "When did you realize?"

"Pieces, here and there. The way he moves, that smile. How Rhaegal chose him specifically." Jaime's lips twisted in a bitter smile. "Ironic that the dragon named after Rhaegar chose him."

"I suspected when I first saw him smile," Barristan admitted quietly. "It was like seeing a ghost. Then watching him with the dragon..." The old knight paused. "Rhaegar was obsessed with prophecy, you know. The prince that was promised, the song of ice and fire. He believed his child would be the one to save us all from the great darkness."

"And now his son must face the Night King," Jaime said softly, understanding dawning in his eyes.

"Perhaps Rhaegar wasn't wrong after all - just early in his predictions. Not the prince who was promised, but the father of that prince."

"We failed his father's other children," Jaime said finally. "Perhaps this is our chance to do better. To be true Kingsguard, even if he never sits the throne."

"Aye," Barristan agreed softly. "Though I suspect he'd want our swords defending the living rather than his person."

"Like his father, before politics and prophecy crushed the man he could have been." Jaime's hand tightened on his golden sword hilt. "This time, we do better. We protect what matters - not empty crowns or mad kings, but the realms of men themselves."

They stood together in the cold, two knights who'd failed one prince finding redemption in protecting his son - not for prophecies or thrones, but because it was right.

The snow fell softly in Winterfell's godswood as Jon led Daenerys toward the heart tree, a wrapped bundle tucked carefully under his arm. The ancient face carved in the weirwood seemed to watch them with knowing eyes, while steam rose from the nearby hot springs in delicate wisps.

"How are your lessons with Ser Barristan progressing?" Jon asked, his voice carefully casual though his heart hammered in his chest.

"Better than he probably expected," Dany replied with a slight smile. "Though I doubt I'll ever match your skill with a blade."

"About that..." Jon unwrapped the bundle, revealing a slender sword that caught the weak winter light with rippling patterns in its steel. "I had this made for you. From some of the Valyrian steel we recovered from Euron."

Dany's breath caught as she took the blade, testing its perfect balance. "It’s perfect."

"I gave Arya her first sword, you know. I thought you should have something similar. For when you're not on dragonback."

"Thank you," she said softly, still admiring the blade's rippled surface. "Though something tells me this isn't the only reason you brought me here."

Jon took a deep breath, steeling himself. "I saw you with Shireen today. Teaching her to ride Viserion."

"She has natural talent," Dany said. "The old blood runs true in her, despite the generations between."

"Yes... about that." Jon's voice grew rough with tension. "Rhaegal chose me for the same reason Viserion chose her. Because of Targaryen blood."

The silence that followed seemed to stretch forever. Dany went very still, her violet eyes searching his face. "What are you saying?"

"I'm not my father's bastard," Jon said quietly, the words feeling like stones in his throat. "I'm not a bastard at all. My mother was Lyanna Stark... and my father was Rhaegar Targaryen. They were married in secret, before a heart tree like this one."

Dany's hand tightened on the sword's hilt as understanding dawned. "You're..."

"Your nephew," Jon finished, unable to meet her eyes. "The legitimate son of the last Dragon Prince." His words came faster now, tumbling out like a flood long held back. "I don't want the Iron Throne. I'll take this secret to my grave if need be. I just... you deserved to know the truth. After everything, I couldn't keep lying to you."

The silence that followed made him want to run, to hide from whatever judgment he'd see in her face. But then her hand touched his cheek, gentle as a snowflake, making him look at her.

"All this time," she whispered, her eyes bright with unshed tears, "I thought I was alone. The last Targaryen, carrying the weight of my family's legacy by myself." A smile broke across her face like dawn after darkness. "And now I have family. Real family."

"Dany..." Jon started, but she pressed her fingers to his lips.

"I have an heir," she said, joy making her voice tremble.

"Didn't you hear me?" Jon protested. "I don't want the throne—"

"And I don't doubt that," she interrupted. "Saving humanity from extinction is pressure enough, isn't it?" Her smile turned gentle. "Thank you for telling me the truth. For trusting me with this."

She looked down at the sword in her hands, then back at his face. "Though I suppose this makes the gift even more significant. Dragon giving dragon Valyrian blade."

"I'm still a wolf," Jon said firmly.

"You're both," Dany replied softly. She reached for his hand, twining their fingers together. "We're not alone anymore. Either of us."

Above them, the heart tree's red leaves rustled in the winter wind, while their dragons called to each other in the distance. Two dragons who'd thought themselves alone in the world, finding family in the most unexpected place. 

The evening shadows lengthened in Winterfell's godswood as Jon and Robb sat beneath the heart tree, sharing a wineskin like they used to do as boys. The familiar comfort of brotherhood made it easier to discuss what had happened earlier that day.

"How did she take it?" Robb asked quietly.

Jon took a deep drink before answering. "Better than I feared. She was... happy, actually. To not be alone anymore. To have family."

"And?" Robb pressed gently, knowing his brother well enough to see the deeper turmoil. "Did you tell her the rest? How you feel about her?"

"It wasn't the right time," Jon said, though his voice held little conviction. "With everything we're facing..."

"On the contrary, brother." Robb's voice grew serious. "This might be exactly the right time. None of us know how much time we have left."

Jon was quiet for a long moment, absently running his fingers through Ghost's fur where the direwolf lay between them. "You know what's funny?" he said finally, with a bitter laugh that held no humor. "All those years, I was so afraid of going to the winter town brothels. Not just because I might father a bastard, but because..." He swallowed hard. "Because I didn't know who my mother was. I was terrified that any woman there might be... might be related to me somehow."

"Gods, Jon." Robb's voice cracked with sympathy as he realized the weight his brother had carried all those years.

"And now?" Jon's laugh was hollow. "Now I find myself falling for my own aunt. The gods have a cruel sense of humor."

"You're Targaryens," Robb said carefully. "It wouldn't be unprecedented. After the war..."

"I didn't grow up Targaryen," Jon interrupted sharply. "I grew up Northern, believing I was your father's son. These feelings, they're..."

"Natural," Robb finished firmly. "And not even that shocking, truly. The Starks have had uncle-niece marriages in our own history. Does knowing she's your aunt make you love her less?"

Jon's hands clenched into fists. "No," he admitted quietly. "That's what terrifies me."

"Listen to me." Robb gripped his brother's shoulder. "Anyone else who tries to marry her will only see the Dragon Queen, a path to power. You're the only one who sees her as an equal. The only one who could stand beside her without being overshadowed."

"Or burned," Jon muttered, but there was a ghost of a smile playing at his lips.

"Don't let fear of what others might think stop you from finding happiness, brother. We face the army of the dead. If we survive that... everything else is just details."

They sat in companionable silence after that, sharing the wine while the heart tree's red leaves rustled above them. Finally, Jon spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper: "I do want her."

"Then tell her that," Robb said simply. "Before it's too late."

The old gods watched over their quiet conversation, while somewhere in the distance, dragons called to each other in the gathering dark. The wheel turned, bringing patterns as old as Valyria itself back around - though this time, perhaps, love might matter more than duty or destiny.

Chapter Text

The great hall of Winterfell was packed as Cregan stood before the massive map table, his grey eyes studying the carefully placed markers that represented their forces. Northern lords, Free Folk chiefs, commanders from the Vale, Riverlands, and even Dorne crowded around, while dragons circled overhead and direwolves prowled the castle walls.

"The evacuation is almost complete, only close families remain." Cregan began. "All those who cannot fight or heal have been safely moved south to Dorne. Now we focus on how we mean to survive what comes."

He gestured to the map. "Our defense will have three major lines. The Wall first, then Winterfell, and Moat Cailin as our final position." His hand moved to each location in turn. "Each must be held, and each requires specific forces and tactics."

"The dragons will be our first strike," he continued, nodding to Jon and Daenerys. "They'll decimate the dead's numbers before they reach Winterfell, using hit-and-run tactics. Strike and retreat, never staying still long enough for the Night King to target them."

"The trenches dug were filled with wildfire smuggled from King’s Landing with the help of Ser Davos and Tyrion." Cregan stated, nodding towards the two.

"The swamps around Moat Cailin has been treated the same." he added. "And we'll dose Winterfell's walls with it as well - a last resort if the castle is breached."

Moving markers across the map, he outlined the cavalry tactics. "The Dothraki and Vale knights will alternate charges - strike out, engage, then retreat behind our lines. Circle the castle, always moving, never letting the dead pin them down."

"Behind them, the Unsullied will maintain our defensive lines with the trenches. They'll rotate with other infantry - Northmen, Free Folk, our allied forces - to ensure no section of the defense weakens from exhaustion."

"Winterfell itself will be defended by all the Vale forces, select Riverlords, all Northern houses, and the Free Folk," he continued. "The castle must hold as long as possible to prevent the dead from gaining a foothold in the heart of the North."

His hand moved south to Moat Cailin. "This is our final line. If Winterfell falls, we retreat here. The fortress will be held by forces from the Westerlands, what remains of Stannis's army, and troops from Dorne and the Riverlands. The causeway gives us the advantage - the dead can only come at us from one direction."

"And south of the Moat?" Lord Royce asked.

"More wildfire in the swamps, and our remaining defensive forces positioned on the southern side. If the dead breach the Moat, these forces will be all that stands between them and the rest of Westeros." Cregan then gestured to Sansa.

"Every soldier will carry this," Sansa announced, holding up one of the knapsacks she had designed years ago. "Inside each pack is preserved unicorn meat from Skagos for Northern forces - or dried beef for those in the south - enough for a week if rationed carefully. Two backup dragonglass daggers, thin dried bread, and basic medical supplies - bandages, salves, and materials for stitching wounds and matches and oil for lighting fires…"Sansa paused. “and different purposes.”

The men around understood the implication. Sansa then moved to the pouches laid on the other table. "Our mounted forces have additional pouches on their saddles containing dried fruits and compressed hay - emergency provisions for both rider and horse."

"The women of every house contributed to making these packs," Catelyn added. "Years of work went into ensuring every fighter would have these supplies. Distribution has already started among the houses."

Cregan nodded in approval. "In a battle against the dead, where every fallen soldier becomes another enemy, such preparations could mean the difference between holding our lines and watching them break."

The commanders examined the packs with grim appreciation, understanding how these carefully planned provisions could save countless lives in the chaos to come.

The evening shadows lengthened across Daenerys's chambers as Jon watched her from the doorway. She stood by the window, still as carved stone, watching the last of the evacuation wagons disappear into the gathering dark.

"I saw you saying farewell to your people," he said softly. "Are you alright?"

She turned, and something in her expression made his heart ache. "They trust me to protect them," she replied. "To make the right choices when the time comes."

Jon moved closer, drawn by the vulnerability he rarely saw her show. "Dany..." His voice caught on her name. "There's something I need to tell you. Before...before everything happens. In case I don't get another chance."

Her violet eyes met his, and suddenly all his carefully planned words deserted him. "I've been struggling," he admitted roughly. "Not with the war coming, or the prophecies, or even facing the Night King. But with this - with what I feel for you."

When she remained silent, panic seized him. "You don't need to say anything. I just...I need you to know. I fell in love with you. Before I knew the truth about who I am, about us being..." He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I know Targaryens have married each other for generations. But I wasn't raised as one. I was raised in the North, where such things..."

His words tumbled out faster now, trying to fill her silence. "But gods help me, I love you anyway. Even knowing you're my aunt, even knowing it should feel wrong, I can't stop-"

She silenced him with a kiss, fierce and desperate, her hands fisting in his tunic to pull him closer. For a heartbeat he froze, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion. Then something inside him broke loose - all the years of holding back, of being afraid to want, of restraining his desires for fear of creating another bastard - it all shattered under the heat of her lips on his.

He took control of the kiss, one hand tangling in her silver hair while the other pulled her flush against him. She gasped into his mouth, and he deepened the kiss with a hunger that surprised them both. All his doubts and fears melted away, leaving only this - the taste of her, the feel of her pressed against him, the knowledge that she wanted him too.

The kiss deepened, desperation and desire overriding any lingering hesitation. Jon's hands roamed over Dany's body reverently, amazed that he was finally allowed to touch her like this. When she arched into his exploration with a soft moan, it emboldened him, giving him the confidence to let his calloused fingers slip beneath the thin silk of her dress.

"Dany," he breathed against her lips, his voice raw with want and a tinge of nervousness. "Tell me what you need. I want... I want to make this good for you."

She smiled tenderly up at him, reaching out to caress his cheek. "Just keep touching me," she encouraged, guiding his hand to the swell of her breast. "Anything you do will be perfect because it's you."

Spurred on by her reassurance, Jon let instinct take over. He trailed open-mouthed kisses down the elegant column of her throat as he palmed her soft flesh, relishing her breathy sighs and the way she clutched at his shoulders. Her responsiveness gave him a heady sense of power, knowing that he was the cause of her pleasure.

Clothes were shed in a flurry of impatient tugs and gentle guidance until they tumbled onto the bed, naked and aching for each other. Jon pulled back to stare at the miracle beneath him, committing every detail to memory. "Gods, you're gorgeous," he rasped, almost overwhelmed by the sight and feel of all that creamy skin pressed against his.

Dany reached for him, drawing him back down into a languid kiss. "So are you," she murmured, reveling in the weight of his body covering hers. "I need you, Jon. Please..."

He groaned low in his throat as she rolled her hips invitingly. Pausing to gaze into her eyes, silently asking for permission one last time, he reached between them to line himself up. At her nod and encouraging smile, he pushed forward slowly, carefully, gasping at the incredible heat and tightness enveloping him.

The feeling of finally being inside her was indescribable - like finding home and losing himself all at once. He stilled, trembling with the effort of holding back, wanting to savor this moment.

Dany too seemed lost in sensation, head tossed back and lips parted as she adjusted to his length. After a long moment, she rocked her hips experimentally, drawing a choked moan from Jon's throat. "Move," she urged breathlessly, wrapping her legs around his waist. "I won't break, my love."

Jon withdrew almost completely before sliding back in, starting a slow, deep rhythm. Each thrust drove him higher, stoking the fire in his veins, but it was Dany's reactions that truly ignited him. She was so responsive, arching to meet him, hands roaming restlessly over his back and chest, panting his name like a prayer.

He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and was rewarded with a sharp cry of ecstasy. "There!" Dany keened, fingernails digging into his shoulders. "Just like that, yes!"

Jon increased his pace, putting a bit more force behind his movements as he chased that spot inside her that made her eyes roll back. His own pleasure was building rapidly but he pushed it down, determined to bring her over first.

Sliding a hand between them, he found the sensitive bundle of nerves at her apex, circling it in time with his thrusts. Dany let out a broken sob, muscles starting to tense and flutter around him. "Jon," she choked out. "I'm... I'm going to..."

"That's it, Dany," he encouraged hoarsely, feeling her inner walls grip him even tighter. "Let go for me, love. I want to feel you."

A few more thrusts and expert caresses of his fingers sent her flying apart with a wordless cry of rapture. The rippling, clenching heat was too much for Jon - with a guttural shout of her name, he followed her into bliss, his release pulsing deep inside her welcoming body.

Boneless and sated, he collapsed onto her, barely remembering to roll to the side at the last second to avoid crushing her. Dany immediately curled into him, pressing sweet kisses to his jaw as she basked in the afterglow.

"That was incredible," she purred, nuzzling his neck. "You're a natural."

Jon huffed a laugh, brushing damp tendrils of hair away from her face. "Was it truly alright? I didn't hurt you?"

"It was perfect," Dany assured him, violet eyes shining with love and contentment. "I've never felt like this before. So cherished, so worshipped. You made me feel like a goddess, Jon."

He peppered her face with soft kisses. "You are a goddess," he declared fervently. "My goddess. I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you know how much I adore you, if you'll let me."

"I'll let you," she promised, happy tears pricking her eyes. "Tonight and every night, for as long as we have."

They fell asleep twined together, smiles on their faces, hearts full to bursting. The coming war could wait a few hours more. For now, they had this perfect bubble of peace, of joy, of a love that burned brighter than any flame.

Chapter Text

Sansa’s chamber in Winterfell held an uncommon warmth as she nursed little Rogar while Rodrik slept nearby in his cradle, Lady curled protectively around both babes. Domeric sat beside her on the bed, his usual Bolton reserve cracking as he watched his tiny son's hand curl around his mother's finger.

"You need to rest," he said softly, noting the shadows under Sansa's eyes. "The journey to White Harbor-"

"Don't." Her voice cracked on the word. "Please, Dom. I can't... I can't think about leaving yet." Tears spilled down her cheeks as she clutched Rogar closer. "They're so small. They need their father. They need..."

"Sansa..." Domeric gathered her carefully against him, mindful of the nursing babe. "You're the strongest person I know. You'll keep them safe in Dorne while-"

"While you ride off to die?" The words burst from her with unexpected vehemence. "While you face creatures from nightmare with only Valyrian steel between you and death? Our sons might never know you beyond stories and I just-" A sob caught in her throat. "I'm sorry. The midwife warned me about the emotions after birthing, but..."

"No," Domeric's voice roughened as he pressed his forehead to her temple. "Don't apologize. Not for this. Not for loving our family enough to fear losing it."

Rogar finished nursing, and Domeric carefully took him to burp while Sansa wiped her eyes. "I'm being selfish," she whispered. "The fate of the realm hangs in the balance, and I'm crying because I don't want my husband to leave me."

"If that's selfish, then I'm equally guilty." Domeric settled their son in his cradle before returning to gather Sansa in his arms. "Every time I look at you, at our boys, I want to forsake duty and ride south with you. Keep our family together, safe in the desert while others fight the dead."

"But you won't," Sansa said softly, her fingers curling into his tunic.

"No. Because you married a man bound by duty, just as I married a woman who understands sacrifice." His voice caught. "Our sons will know me, Sansa. I swear it by the old gods and new. I will fight through death itself to return to you."

They held each other in the quiet chamber, their sleeping sons and watchful direwolf the only witnesses to this moment of shared vulnerability. Tomorrow they would be strong again - the Lord and Lady of the Dreadfort preparing for war and evacuation. But for now, they allowed themselves this - the fear, the love, the desperate hope of reunion.

"Please," Sansa whispered, her fingers tightening in his tunic as they lay together in the darkness, their twins sleeping nearby. "Just let me see you off when you ride north. One last time, before..."

"My love," Domeric's voice was gentle but firm, his hand stroking her copper hair. "You know I can't. Once we reach White Harbor, I must ride straight back. - we don't know how much time we have left."

"But a few more days-" Her voice caught on a sob. "Just a few more days with you, before..."

"The army of the dead could be closer than we think. Every day I delay returning could mean..." He trailed off, pulling her closer. "I'll escort you and the boys to White Harbor myself. That much I can promise. But after that..."

Sansa pressed her face against his chest, her tears dampening his shirt. "I hate this. I hate not knowing if the last time I see you will be on some dock in White Harbor, watching you ride away while I wait to sail south."

"Better that than watching me ride to face the dead," Domeric said softly. "Better our last memory be of life - of you and our sons safe - than of war and death approaching."

"And if you fall?" The words seemed torn from her. "If the last thing I ever see of you is your back as you ride away?"

"Then remember me as I am now," he whispered, tilting her face up to his. "Remember me holding our sons, loving you, choosing duty not because I want to leave you but because I must protect everything we've built together."

Sansa's breath hitched as she fought for composure. "Two weeks in White Harbor before the ship sails. Two weeks knowing you're riding north while I wait to flee south. I don't know if I'm strong enough..."

"You are," Domeric said with quiet certainty. "You're the strongest person I know. You'll keep our boys safe, help maintain order among our people in Dorne. And when this is over..." His voice roughened. "When this is over, I'll come find you. All of you."

They clung together in the darkness, neither speaking of how that promise might prove impossible to keep. In their cradles, Rogar and Rodrik slept peacefully, too young to understand the weight of destiny pressing down on their parents.

In the great hall of Winterfell, Catelyn held Torrhen close as she prepared to say goodbye to her eldest son and youngest daughter. At three, Torrhen was too young to understand why his siblings couldn't come with them to Dorne, but he clung tightly to Robb's neck when his brother lifted him for one last hug.

"Mother," Robb said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "Travel safely. Keep them protected in Dorne until we send word."

Catelyn's eyes filled with tears as she embraced him. "My first boy. My heir." She touched his cheek. "Come back to us. Come back to your wife, your son, the babe yet to come."

Rickon stood straighter when Cregan knelt before him. "You're the eldest Stark male going south," Cregan said gravely. "Watch over your mother, your little brother, Robb's children. Show them what it means to be of the North, even in Dorne."

"I will, Father," Rickon promised solemnly, though his lip trembled. "I'll protect them all."

Catelyn turned to Arya, her fierce fourteen-year-old who had begged to stay and fight. "My sweet girl..." She pulled her close, breathing in her scent. "Be careful. Listen to your brother. Don't try to be too brave."

"I have to stay, Mother," Arya whispered. "I can help. I can fight."

"I know." Catelyn's voice cracked. "That's what terrifies me most." She held her daughter's face between her hands. "Promise me you'll be careful."

The farewells stretched on until they could delay no longer. Catelyn gathered Torrhen in her arms, taking one last look at the children she had to leave behind. The ones who would face the dead while she sheltered in the south.

"Come back to us. All of you." she said softly, touching each of their faces one final time.

After the children's goodbyes, Cregan found himself alone with Catelyn. Through Ned's eyes, he watched her methodically check Torrhen's travel things, her hands stead despite the emotion he knew she carried.

"Cat," he said softly, and something in his voice made her pause.

She turned to face him, this proud daughter of rivers who had made the North her home. Who had given them five remarkable children and faced every storm with unwavering strength. Over the years, he had come to care for her deeply - not just through Ned's abiding love, but in his own way. She was his fourth wife in truth, though she would never know it, and she had proven herself worthy of the North in ways that still surprised him.

"I need you to know," he began carefully, "how proud I am of the life we've built together. Of the woman you've become." He stepped closer, taking her hands in his. "You've grown wise in the ways of winter, my love. Stronger than any southern lady who ever came North."

Catelyn's composure cracked slightly. "Don't," she whispered. "Don't say goodbye as if you won't return to us."

"I have lived long enough to know the price of false promises," he said gently, letting some of his ancient wisdom show through Ned's voice. "But know this - everything I've done, every preparation we've made, has been to protect our family."

"Promise me one thing then, my love. Promise me you'll keep our children safe - Robb, Arya..." She hesitated only slightly before adding, "Jon too. Bring them back to us."

Cregan felt his heart swell with pride and love - both Ned's and his own. Even now, facing separation and possible death, she included Jon in her concern. She had grown beyond her initial prejudices, become more than he could have hoped.

"My fierce Cat," he murmured, drawing her close. "You've come so far from that young bride who first rode North. The She-Wolf of Riverrun, they call you now." He pressed his forehead to hers. "Keep our little ones safe in Dorne. Show them how to be wolves, even in the sun. And know that whatever comes, you have made me prouder than you can imagine."

"I love you," she whispered fiercely. "Come back to us. Come back to me."

He kissed her then, pouring all of Ned's love and his own hard-earned affection into it. When they parted, he wiped away her tears with gentle fingers.

He had sent three wives to their graves in his first life. This one, he prayed, would live to see spring again.

The vision seized Bran suddenly, yanking him through time and space until he stood in Bloodraven's cave. But something was wrong. The air felt thick with dread, the old roots of the weirwood pulsing with an unnatural red glow. Even in the dream-state, Bran could feel the lingering cold of the Night King's touch on his arm, like frost burning into his soul.

"He saw me!" Bran's voice cracked with panic. "The Night King - when he touched me..."

"He knows where I am now." Bloodraven's voice carried millennia of weariness. The thousand eyes of the three-eyed crow seemed to weep blood in the crimson light. "The barriers that kept him blind to this place have been breached."

"But how?" Bran demanded, his words echoing strangely in the magical space between them. "This is just a dream, just a vision-" He paused, a new fear gripping him. "I thought he wanted Jon - the prophecy says Jon will be the one to end him. Why come for me too?"

"Because you can see him, child." Bloodraven's remaining eye fixed on him with terrible intensity. "Jon may be his doom, but you are his witness. Through me, you track his movements, warn of his coming. He would blind humanity before striking."

"Dreams are his domain too, young one." Bloodraven continued. "He is as old as the first dreams of men. And now he has found what he sought - a way to sever our connection permanently."

Ice crawled up Bran's spine as understanding dawned. "He's coming for you."

"Yes. To end the last greenseer, to blind humanity to his movements." A soft sigh rustled through the cave like dead leaves. "When I fall, my power will pass to you - but you'll be untrained, unable to track him as I have. That's what he wants - eternal night, with none to warn of his coming."

"The horn," Bran whispered, fragments of another vision crystallizing. "I saw him find it, but..."

"It hasn't happened yet," Bloodraven confirmed. "But it will. Soon. The Wall will fall." His voice grew urgent. "You have a moon's turn, perhaps less. After he ends me. Prepare them. The night comes, Brandon Stark, and with it..."

The vision began to fragment, the cave dissolving into shadows. The last thing Bran saw was Bloodraven's eye, glowing like a blood moon in the darkness:

"Winter rises."

Bran woke screaming, frost coating his bedsheets despite the warmth of Winterfell's walls. Outside, the wolves began to howl - a sound of ancient warning that echoed through the bones of the castle like the first notes of winter's song.

Chapter Text

DOLOROUS EDD

The day was too quiet.

Dolorous Edd stood on the east walkway of Castle Black, squinting into the cold light. The tree line beyond the snow looked the same as always—bare, distant, unmoving.

Until it didn't.

Shadows shifted. Lines. Ranks. Then too many to count.

Edd blinked. Rubbed his eyes.

They weren't charging. Not yet. Just standing.

Watching.

"Haern," he called, already moving down the stairs.

The boy came running, breathless. "What is it?"

"Tell the dragon queen and Lord Snow to mount up now. We've got company."

"Gods," Haern muttered, paling.

"No time for gods," Edd said. "Tell them. Then prep the ravens."

Back in the rookery, the ink was half-frozen and the quill too dull, but Edd scrawled anyway. The table trembled faintly under his wrist.

Dead are here.

He didn't wait. Just reached for another scrap.

Then the horn sounded—not theirs.

Older. Lower. It came from the bones of the earth.

The rookery shook. Dust drifted. A crack split the far wall.

Edd stopped breathing.

Then he started writing.

Wall has fallen

The ink ran with the tremor. The quill jumped.

The tower groaned—a deep, shuddering sound that came from beneath.

Fingers fumbling, he tied the message to the largest raven.

Another crack—this time from the floor itself.

He shoved the hatch open.

"Fly, you bastard!" he barked. "Faster than you've ever flown!"

The raven vanished into snow.

The scream of ice followed. Loud. Final.

Edd turned.

The Wall split and fell like a mountain breaking apart. Ice sheared away in great slabs. Stone crumbled. Wind howled through the gap like a dying god.

The rookery came apart behind him.

He ran—too late.

The blast caught him as the tower gave way.

White.

Then black.

DAENERYS

The Wall was broken.

Not shattered completely—but wounded, ripped open like the world itself had cracked. What had stood for eight thousand years now slumped in ruin. A jagged scar of collapsed ice marked where the dead had come through, smoke curling from the breach like the land exhaling its last breath.

Daenerys circled above the devastation, the wind cold against her face despite the heat that pulsed beneath her. Below, the snow was churned to rubble, blackened and broken. Drogon shifted beneath her saddle, muscles taut, wings twitching. He didn't like this sky. Neither did she.

There were no survivors. No movement. No Watchmen. Just shattered stone and bone. The Wall hadn't fallen in battle—it had been undone.

Then she saw it.

Marching.

Slow. Rhythmic. Endless.

A sound that didn't rise or approach—it simply spread, like rot beneath skin.

Her eyes scanned the snowline—then froze.

The dead. Tens of thousands of them, moving as one. Giants. Twisted beasts. Wights packed so tightly they moved like a single mass. No screams. No fury. Only purpose. She flew closer. She could make out the faces now—blackened skin stretched tight over bone, empty eye sockets glowing with unnatural blue light.

Watchmen in tattered black cloaks. Wildlings in furs stiff with ice. Ancient corpses from forgotten battles, their armor rusted and broken. Massive bears and shadowcats prowled among the ranks. And at the rear, the White Walkers themselves—tall, gaunt figures of ice astride dead horses, their crystalline weapons catching what little light remained in the frozen air.

Drogon growled low in his throat. She felt the fire building in him—heat curling up her spine like a second heartbeat.

This was her true purpose. The reason why she hatched her dragons.

She charged. Her voice came low and steady: "Dracarys."

The roar that followed cracked the sky. A moment later, Rhaegal swept in from the right, Jon low in his saddle, and joined the firestorm.

They moved as one. Two shadows, two storms of fire.

For a heartbeat, it felt like they could win.

And then—

A spear.

White and silent, launched—not thrown—ripped through the air. It missed Drogon by feet, but he twisted hard, wings lurching. Another came for Jon. Rhaegal veered, screaming. A third whistled between them.

Too close.

Too many.

Drogon surged skyward, instinct burning hotter than flame. Rhaegal followed. They punched through the clouds, into a sky pale with cold light and wind.

Daenerys's heart pounded. She looked across.

Jon was watching her.

And in his eyes, she saw it.

Fear. For her.

They found a cliff far from the battlefield—wind-scoured and jagged. Drogon landed heavy, talons cracking ice, steam rising off his flanks. He coiled in tight, wings folded, nostrils smoking.

She slid down slowly. Her hands trembled—not from cold.

Jon landed moments later, too fast, dismounting in one sharp movement. He came to her at once.

"Are you hurt?"

His voice was tight. His eyes scanned her face.

"No," she said softly. "I'm fine."

But he didn't move.

"You looked at me," she whispered, "like it was the last time."

"It might have been," he said.

"And you—you've accepted it," she said. "That you might die."

His eyes darkened, old and Northern. "I was raised on stories of the Long Night. I've prepared for this fight all my life."

She stepped closer. Her voice shook. "That doesn't make it easier, Jon. Not for me."

He said nothing.

"I've lost everyone I ever loved," she said, voice cracking. "My brother. Drogo. My son." Her breath hitched. "I buried them all. I can't—I can't bury you too."

His expression softened. His hand rose, trembling slightly, and brushed a strand of silver hair from her face.

"I've accepted it could happen," he said gently. "But I haven't accepted losing you."

The tenderness in his voice nearly broke her.

"That's not fair," she whispered. "You can't protect me from this."

"I know." His eyes held hers. "But I can ask you one thing."

He stepped closer. She didn't pull away.

"Promise me you'll live," he said, voice raw. "If it comes to that. Survive. Fight. Lead."

Tears stung her eyes—frozen and unwanted.

"I can't make that promise."

"You have to." His voice cracked. He gripped her shoulders like she might vanish. "You're not just a queen. You're hope. A dream of spring in endless winter." A beat. "If I fall—finish what we started."

She looked at him, really looked.

The boy who grew up unwanted. The man who carried honor like a shield. Lived as an outcast his life, now stood beside her.

He had her heart.

And she wasn't wasting another breath pretending otherwise.

"I promise," she said.

Something in him broke. The last wall fell.

They met halfway. Lips crashing together—desperate, furious, full of everything unsaid and everything known. His arms locked around her. Her hands curled into his coat.

They clung to each other like the world might end—and maybe it would.

When they parted, they stayed close, foreheads pressed, breathing as one.

"We stay together," she whispered.

Jon nodded. "Always."

"No lone charges. No foolish deaths."

"I swear it."

She turned to Drogon. His eyes glowed in the cold. He growled low, smoke curling from his nostrils.

"We attack together," she said. "One day on, one day off. Let them rest. Hunt. Heal."

"And then we burn again," Jon said.

She nodded.

"We burn until there's nothing left to burn."

They mounted once more.

Not with fear.

But with purpose.

Because they had chosen fire.

And they had chosen each other.

As they soared back toward the battlefield, Daenerys knew the North must be warned. Whatever messengers had survived Castle Black—if any had—would be racing to carry word to Winterfell. The dead were marching. And now it fell to her and Jon to slow them, to burn as many as they could before the army reached those preparing to make their stand.

CREGAN

Three words: Wall has fallen.

Cregan held the parchment between weathered fingers, feeling its weight. Not the physical heft of the thin scrap, but the weight of all the winters ever endured collapsed in those three words.”He had known this moment would come. Bran had warned him. But the knowing did not soften the blow.

Ice had held for millennia. Now it was reforged.

Winter had finally, truly come.

"Summon the war council," he told Jory Cassel, his voice carrying the calm of ancient rivers. "All of them."

The great hall of Winterfell held a solemn quiet as they gathered, these men and women who would face the end together. Not the charged silence of fear or uncertainty, but the measured hush of warriors who had accepted what approached. They filed in without fanfare—Northern lords and their seconds, Free Folk chiefs, commanders from lands that had never known true winter until now.

Roose Bolton entered with his quiet, measured steps, Domeric at his shoulder, both pale-eyed and watchful. The Greatjon towered beside Mors Crowfood, both Umbers carved from the same Northern stone. Maege Mormont and her daughter Elira wore their mail as comfortably as other women wore wool, their house's strength evident in the set of their shoulders. Galbart Glover exchanged quiet words with his nephew Wendric, both men grim but steady.

The mountain clans came next—Chief Wull and Qyle Norrey representing their fierce, proud people. Tormund Giantsbane led his Free Folk warriors, their wild appearance belying the sharp intelligence in their eyes. Grey Worm stood with his Unsullied captains, their discipline a counterpoint to the Dothraki liaisons who paced like caged predators. From the Vale, Ser Desryn carried the weight of Bronze Yohn's trust, his runed armor catching the torchlight.

As they took their places around the massive oak table, Cregan studied them through Ned's eyes. How many councils had he presided over in his long first life? How many wars had he planned, led, survived? The faces changed. The enemies changed. But the weight of command remained the same—heavy as Valyrian steel on weary shoulders.

Yet this council was different. This was not the Hour of the Wolf, when he had marched south to deliver justice after the Dance of Dragons. That had been a war of men, of politics and betrayal. This was simpler. Colder.

This was death itself marching on the living.

When all had assembled, Cregan rose. The murmurs died immediately, every eye turning to him. He placed the raven's message at the center of the table, though he knew they had all heard.

"The Wall has fallen," he said, his voice carrying easily through the hall without needing to rise. "Castle Black is lost. The dead march south."

No gasps. No exclamations of shock or dismay. These were commanders who had prepared for this moment from the day he had called the first council after the Greyjoy Rebellion. Their preparations had been building for years, not in haste or panic, but with the steady determination of those who knew what winter truly meant.

"They are organised like the living."

He unrolled the map that had sat waiting. The North laid bare before them, marked with defensive positions they all knew by heart. Every river crossing. Every choke point. Every fallback position from the Wall to the Neck.

"But we have one advantage," Cregan said. "We know exactly where they're going." His finger traced the path southward. "The Three-Eyed Raven. The heart of the weirwood network. The old powers that still bind this world together." He tapped Winterfell's position. "Here. He comes to end memory itself."

He let that sink in before continuing.

"Some of you stood with me against the Greyjoys. Some have never bent the knee to any southern king." His eyes swept the assembly, acknowledging each faction. "None of that matters now. Today, we are simply the living. And we defend the memory of what came before, and the hope of what may come after."

The Greatjon nodded, his beard catching the firelight. Across the table, Roose Bolton's pale eyes reflected nothing, but his slight inclination of the head spoke volumes. Even the Free Folk chiefs stood straighter.

"This may be the last time we all stand in one room," Cregan said quietly. The truth of it settled over them like fresh snow—silent, cold, undeniable. "Many of us will join the ranks of the fallen. But we will fall fulfilling our duty to the last breath."

"We do not fight for glory. We do not fight for songs. We fight because we are the North, and the North remembers when others forget." His voice dropped lower, carrying the weight of eight thousand years. "We remember the old promises. The old magics. The price paid for dawn after darkness."

Around the table, heads bowed slightly—not in defeat, but in acceptance of what must be done.

"Now, to your assignments," Cregan said, his tone shifting to something more practical, though no less grave. "Castle defense will be held by the Mormonts on the eastern walls." He nodded to Maege and Elira. "Glovers will take the western approach, Boltons the southern gate. The Unsullied will form our core infantry, rotated in three-hour shifts to maintain strength."

Grey Worm gave a single, sharp nod, understanding the brutal efficiency required.

"Field forces "Stay behind the spikes. Fire and dragonglass are your walls now." He looked at Lord Umber and other northern and riverlords. "Rhaqo, your Dothraki mobile units—strike, vanish, rotate with the Vale knights. Tormund, Sigorn your Free Folk know the dead better than any of us. Spearmen in front. Your archers with Meera and Theon, and our cover from above."

Cregan continued methodically, assigning each commander their position, their role, their purpose in the coming battle. Fire-lighters, signal corps, fallback coordinators—every detail accounted for, every contingency addressed.

"The strike team—Jon, Jaime, the Blackfish, Domeric—will remain on standby for the Night King himself. When he reveals himself, we strike fast and hard."

"As you all know our defense will have multiple layers," Cregan continued, tracing the map from Winterfell southward. "Winterfell is our primary position, where we make our stand against the Night King. If we must retreat, our first fallback is the reserve camp along the Kingsroad, before the neck where Vale knights, Reach infantry, and Manderly men will maintain position under Lord Wyman's command."

His hand moved further south. "Lord Edmure holds Moat Cailin with rivermen and crannogmen, reinforced by contingents from the Westerlands. The ancient fortress gives us control of the Neck—the dead can only come at us through a narrow front."

He traced the final positions. "If even the Moat falls, survivors will retreat to the harbours."

Grey Worm nodded his understanding of the strategy. "Layer upon layer. Each position buys time for the others."

"Precisely," Cregan confirmed. "We hold as long as possible at each point, retreat in good order when necessary, but never give them an easy advance south "This isn't just Winterfell's fight. It's the realm's last line.""

"Runners will maintain communications between positions. If a section falls, the adjacent forces must fill the gap. "If Winterfell falls, those who survive will regroup at Moat Cailin, though we pray it will not come to that."

Cregan straightened, looking at each face in turn. Hundreds of years separated him from his first life, his first wars. But in all that time, the courage of men facing impossible odds had never changed. It humbled him now, as it had then.

"The North is more than land," he said, his voice carrying ancient echoes. "It is memory. It is sacrifice. It is standing when others have fallen. It is remembering why the Wall was built, why the First Men made their pacts, why the old magics must be honored."

He looked at his son. "As long as Bran breathes beneath the weirwood, the old powers remain. That is what the Night King comes to end."

"Fight with fire. Fight with steel. Fight with whatever strength remains when hope has fled. But above all, fight knowing that you stood when darkness came." His eyes held theirs, one by one. "That is what the North has always done. That is what we will do today."

No applause followed his words. No cheers or raised fists. Instead, they bowed—Northern lords, riverlords and Free Folk chiefs, foreign commanders—a gesture of respect not just to him, but to the gravity of what they faced together.

As they filed out, each to their assigned positions, Cregan watched them go. He thought of all the councils he had led, all the wars he had planned. But none had carried this weight—the last defense of the living against the long night.

The hour of the wolf approached. This time, it might never end.
But the North would stand. As it always had.
As long as one memory remained.

BRAN

The heart tree watched him as it had watched a thousand Starks before.

Bran stood beneath its red eyes, snow drifting softly around him. The weirwood's face was stained with sap, but its gaze was clear. It remembered. And so did he.

He was no longer a student. No longer reaching for visions through dreams. The Three-Eyed Raven was gone. Bran had taken his place.

He was still twelve years old. But now he carried lifetimes.

The ravens knew him. The trees knew him. The past had opened to him like pages in a book he no longer needed to read—only remember.

He had seen dragons in the sky, the Wall rising stone by stone, the first Long Night stretching its claws across the world.
But not tomorrow.
That part of the story had gone dark.

And that was how he knew.

The Night King was coming. The blindness was unsettling. Since Bloodraven's death, that part of the weirnet had gone silent—a darkness where once there had been sight. Bran could still access memories, still see fragments of past and present elsewhere, but wherever the Night King moved, vision failed. It was like trying to see through a wall of ice—knowing something waited on the other side, hearing its movements, feeling its cold, but unable to glimpse its form.

The godswood had been prepared for what was coming. He could feel the wards being set, the defenses woven in fire and blood and dragonglass. This was no longer just a sacred place—it was the center of the storm.

And he could feel them beyond the walls—ranks of soldiers, Free Folk, archers, and dragons. They stood not to protect a boy beneath a tree, but what he carried. Memory. The true history of the world.

Summer pressed closer, sensing his unease. Bran buried his fingers in the direwolf's warm fur, grateful for the solid reality of him. Despite all the memories he now carried, despite the weight of thousands of years pressing against his mind, he was still Bran Stark. The same boy who had once climbed Winterfell's towers with reckless joy, though those days felt distant now.

But now those stories walked, and blind or not, he knew they were coming for him.

"Bran."

His father's voice pulled him back to now. To the snow under his boots. The breath in his lungs. The family standing near.

Ned Stark stood before him—but Bran saw deeper. Beneath the face was Cregan. The weight of ancient winters in his bearing. His voice, however, was his father's. Strong. Familiar.

Bran didn't hesitate. "He's coming. For me."

That was all.

Arya stood beside him, fierce and still. Her hand touched Needle like it could steady the world.

"I won't leave him," she said.

"Nor will I," Jory Cassel added. Six guards stood ready, but Arya's promise mattered more.

"He doesn't need to come himself," Bran said. "But he will."

He didn't explain. They knew. They could feel it too.

"And Jon?" Arya asked.

"He'll try to kill him," Bran said. "He has to. Jon is his death—and I'm what he has to erase."

Father nodded. "Then we set the terms."

Robb stood behind him, his sword Frost strapped to his back. The Young Wolf returned, older in the eyes.

"You ride with me," Father told him. "The North will follow."

Bran said nothing. He had seen the preparations—the fire trenches, the fallback positions, the blood-soaked snow to come. He had seen enough to know many would not survive.

The silence that followed was thick with goodbye.

Father stepped closer, met Bran's eyes.

"You are what he fears," he said. "Not your power. Your memory."

Bran didn't flinch. "I know."

"If it becomes too dangerous—" Arya began.

"It already is," he said. "It always was."

Arya's face trembled, just for a second.

"Do you remember what I taught you?" she asked.

Bran tilted his head. "About what?"

She gave a ghost of a smile. "The pointy end."

He smiled back—softly. "I remember everything."

Robb stepped forward. "When this is done," he said, "we'll ride in the wolfwood. Like before."

Bran nodded. "I'd like that."

They hugged him—his father, strong and brief, the familiar scent of leather and pine making Bran's throat tighten; Robb, fierce and unspoken, his brother's arms reminding him how small he still was against the man Robb had become; Arya, fast and tight, her hand curling into his cloak. And for a moment, Bran allowed himself to be just a boy again, clinging to his sister with fingers that trembled slightly before he steadied them.

"Go," Bran said.

They left. Arya lingered.

"I'll be close," she said. "If you call, I'll come."

"I know."

She squeezed his hand once, then disappeared into the trees.

And he was alone.

With Summer circling nearby, quiet and watchful. With ravens gathering in the branches above, eyes gleaming. With the weirwood—silent, ancient, waiting.

Bran stepped forward and placed his hand on the bark. It was cold. Familiar. Alive.

The face carved into the tree seemed to shift—not sorrowful now. Just ready.

He stood tall before it.

Not a boy playing at magic.

A Stark of Winterfell.

The Three-Eyed Raven.

And memory, unbroken.

Chapter Text

Ten days of fire. Ten nights of death.

The fighting never stopped — it only changed shape. The dead came harder after dusk, when the cold bit deeper and the fires burned lower. They moved with strategy now, not frenzy. They waited until the defenders turned to burn their own fallen — then raised them before the flames could take hold.

Many of the first to fall had returned. Some still wore the faces of friends.

The dragons were resting. Their fire spent, their bellies full. On the walls and in the fields, the living still held — archers, torch-bearers, runners, healers, soldiers. But cracks had begun to show. In armor. In voices. In belief.

The Night King had not shown himself. The dragons grew more exhausted with each sortie. Rhaegal's wing had been pierced three days before, limiting Jon's flights to shorter runs along the eastern flank. At the heart of Winterfell, Bran Stark remained in the godswood, silent and unseeing, surrounded by guards who watched the skies as much as the ground.

Robb Stark had not slept in two days, directing what remained of the Northern infantry with his uncle's grim determination.

The eleventh dawn came pale and grudging. Smoke obscured what little light filtered through the winter clouds. The trenches that once blazed with fire now lay filled with broken ice and bodies. Each night, the dead dragged snow to smother the flames. Each morning, the living fought to relight what they could.

Shireen Baratheon worked methodically among the fallen, her scarred face expressionless as she moved from body to body. The frightened child who had once cried at the sight of blood now directed the burning crews with quiet authority. She lit pyres by day, hardened too soon for her age. She had not smiled in days.

In the southern courtyard, Grey Worm rotated the Unsullied into six-hour shifts instead of eight. Too many had fallen. Too few remained strong enough to hold longer. The mountain clans took their place on the northern wall, their numbers halved, but their resolve intact.

Stories of the first Long Night crept through the ranks — how darkness had lasted a generation, how children were born and died without ever seeing the sun. Old men spoke of it as if remembering, not recounting. The young no longer scoffed.

The previous night had taken the Greatjon. The massive lord of Last Hearth had held the eastern gate for nine days, his booming voice a beacon in the darkness. When he fell, six men carried his body to the burning grounds. They were halfway there when his eyes opened, blue and empty. His massive hands found his son first. Smalljon Umber survived, but his screams echoed still.

The first batch of reinforcements for the southern camps had arrived, boosting morale — if only slightly. Runners brought word from the walls: White Walkers had been sighted directing the attacks, but never the Night King himself. He remained hidden. Patient. His strategy unchanged: attrition. Let time and cold work where direct assault had failed.

Ten days of fighting. Ten nights of death.

And winter had only just begun.

On the northern wall, Meera Reed no longer remembered the last time she slept. Only the number of arrows left — and the way giants bled when they burned.

MEERA

Meera's fingers burned with cold. The tears in her gloves had grown larger over the past days, exposing strips of raw skin to the biting air. She ignored it, nocking another arrow.

"Giant. Left side of the gate," she said quietly.

Theon shifted beside her, his bow already raised. Five other archers adjusted their aim on her command.

"Loose."

Six arrows whistled through the darkness, trailing fire. Four struck true. The giant stumbled but didn't fall.

"Again," she said.

The second volley caught it in the chest and face. It crashed forward into the trench fires, sending sparks skyward. Meera blinked slowly, forcing her tired eyes to focus. Ten days. Ten nights. No real sleep, just moments of half-consciousness whenever she could steal them. For a moment, her thoughts drifted to Bran in the godswood. Still sitting beneath the heart tree, still watching with those ancient eyes. Still unable to see the Night King's movements. She wondered if he could sense what was happening here, on the walls — if any of her arrows mattered in whatever game the Three-Eyed Raven played against the darkness.

A runner arrived with a bundle of arrows, fewer than yesterday. She distributed them without comment.

"Your father's men still holding with Lord Edmure at Moat Cailin?" Theon asked, scanning the darkness for the next target.

"Last we heard," she said simply. She wouldn't let herself think how long it had been since a raven got through. "Yes," was all she said.

Theon exhaled a plume of frozen breath. "Yara's lucky. Sitting in White Harbor, guarding ships." His voice carried no bitterness, just weary observation.

"Lucky is relative." Meera spotted movement to their right – three more giants pushing through the mass of smaller wights. "Three more. Coming through the old breach."

They shifted, drawing together.

"You know," Theon said, taking aim, "I almost sailed with her."

Meera didn't ask why he hadn't. She knew. The same reason she stood on this wall instead of riding south with her father. Some choices weren't really choices.

"Loose," she commanded.

The arrows found their marks. One shadowcat fell immediately, burning bright against the snow. The others kept coming.

"Last volley," she said, distributing their remaining fire arrows. Beyond the wall, the dead crawled over each other, building mounds of bodies to scale the defenses. Near the eastern corner, a White Walker directed the assault, its ice-blue eyes visible even through the darkness and smoke.

"Just the bastard's lieutenants." Theon muttered.

"He's waiting," Meera said, her voice flat with certainty.

They released their arrows in unison. The giants burned, but more shapes emerged from the darkness to replace them. Always more.

Her shoulders ached from drawing the bowstring thousands of times, muscles growing weaker with each passing day. Even breathing hurt now — the cold air scraping her lungs raw, her ribs sore from sleeping upright against the battlements.

Meera flexed her stiffening fingers. The northern wind cut through her torn gloves, numbing the pain, but making precision difficult. She'd need new ones soon, though she doubted any remained to be found.

A tall Free Folk woman — Dalla or Dalna, Meera could never remember which — passed her a spare glove. "Won't help much, but better than nothing."

Meera nodded her thanks. A fortnight ago, the wildling wouldn't have shared winter clothing with a southerner. Ten days of fighting side by side changed things.

"Rotation by the hour," she told the archers, though no one really kept time anymore. Day bled into night, night into day, marked only by the changing intensity of attacks.

She was reaching for one of the plain arrows when she saw it —a distortion in the swarm of the dead. Far beyond the trenches, beyond even the White Walkers directing the assault, something was moving. Not forward with the mass of wights, but... sideways. Gathering.

Meera narrowed her eyes, straining to see through the smoke and darkness.

"Theon," she said quietly. He turned, following her gaze.

In the far distance, the darkness seemed to shift and coalesce, like ink dropped in water. The dead there were moving with new purpose, forming tight columns where before they had advanced in waves.

Something had changed.

It wasn't random movement. It was purposeful. Deliberate. Like pieces shifting on a cyvasse board before the killing move. The probing was over. Now came the move that mattered.

"Get a runner," she said.

"Now."

CREGAN

The field stank of smoke and frozen rot.

Cregan reined in atop a rise, his destrier snorting clouds of steam into the bitter air. The dying light painted the snow in rust and shadow, making the carnage seem almost beautiful from a distance. To the west, the trench fires still held — ribbons of orange cutting through the gloom. He spotted a knot of Thenns among the embers, greataxes raised as they covered the retreat of a Mormont detachment.

To the east, they flickered low, thin as memory, smothered by the relentless advance.

A runner had found him minutes before, breathless with Meera Reed's report: the dead were changing formation, gathering in ways they hadn't seen before.

"Any riders return?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. The Dothraki he'd sent to harry the eastern flank should have been back by now.

Rhaqo, black braid streaked with soot and blood, turned toward him in the saddle. "Three returned. The rest ride no more." His voice was blunt, without ornament. "We burn what we can. But now, we break the legs first."

Cregan frowned. "The horses?"

Rhaqo nodded. "If we do not, they rise too. With men still strapped to saddles. It is shameful. But better than seeing a brother trampled by his own mount."

Cregan said nothing. There was no argument. Only understanding.

He scanned the slope below. The dead moved in shifting ranks — slow, relentless. But one shape moved differently. Smoother. Purposeful. Wights parted around it like water around a stone.

Not a wight.

A White Walker.

"There," Cregan said, pointing with Ice. The Valyrian steel absorbed the light, its edge dark and eager. "Lower ridge. Alone."

Rhaqo's eyes narrowed. "Then it is bait. Or it is bold."

"Either way," Cregan muttered, "we take it."

He raised Ice, signaling the horn: three short blasts — White Walker sighted. Engage.

They charged.

Snow and mud tore beneath hooves as they thundered into the field. Behind him rode two Vale knights, grim-faced, silent. Rhaqo kept pace without looking back, his arakh gleaming with old blood.

The White Walker moved like a shadow made of ice. It glided toward a cluster of fallen defenders. Wights stirred and followed — silent, obedient, tethered by unseen threads.

"Flank it!" Cregan barked. "Don't let it vanish into the dead!"

The knights split wide. Rhaqo angled to the left, already cutting down a wight that lunged too soon.

Cregan kept his eyes on the Walker.

His destrier screamed — a wight's axe had found its leg. Cregan leapt clear, landing hard on frozen earth. He rolled. Rose.

The White Walker turned.

It stood tall, armored in ice, sword pale and luminous. Its eyes fixed on Cregan, unreadable, ancient.

Cregan raised Ice.

The blades met with a thunderclap of frost and steel. The first blow numbed Cregan's hand. The second slid down Ice's length and slammed into his shoulder guard, nearly toppling him.

He grit his teeth. Focused. Let instinct and blood-memory guide his limbs.

Centuries of battle wisdom guided Ned Stark's limbs. The man who had once delivered justice during the Hour of the Wolf remembered how to face inhuman enemies.

He fought not just with ancient instinct but with present purpose — for Robb commanding the northern gate, for Jon with his dragon, for Arya being a shield for Bran for his family that fled to Dorne. For all the Starks who had ever stood against the long night.

The Walker moved with the elegance of inevitability — no rage, no pause. Just death.

Cregan sidestepped, boots sliding. Feinted right. Drew a parry. Then pivoted and drove Ice into its ribs.

The Walker shrieked.

And shattered.

Light. Wind. Cold like knives. The wights around them convulsed — then dropped.

Dozens collapsed in unison. Ash and bone. Hollow flesh. Dead again.

From the far ridge, a Thenn warhorn answered — low and guttural, echoing through the snow. They had seen it too.

Rhaqo rode up, eyes wide. He looked at the fallen dead, then the shards of the Walker.

"They fall when it falls."

Cregan nodded, breathing hard. His body ached beneath his armor. Days of battle had worn grooves into muscle and bone. Sleep came in snatches, never enough to truly recover. The cold had settled into his joints like a permanent companion. But beneath Ned's worn flesh, Cregan's ancient will remained unbroken.

Jasper Redfort stumbled near, armor bloodied. "What happened?"

The cold retreated like breath from glass. And suddenly, he understood.
"We've been fighting the wrong way," Cregan said. "Kill the Walker. Kill its pack. We need to spread the word," he said. "Every fighter with Valyrian steel or dragonglass must target the Walkers first."

Jasper nodded. "I'll have runners tell the captains."

"And have the horns signal it too," Cregan ordered. "We need everyone to understand — this could change everything.

He turned toward the trenches. More figures approached — some gliding, some crawling.

Rhaqo lifted his arakh. "Then we hunt the cold ones."

Cregan raised Ice.

Not victory. Not yet.

But now, a path.

SHIREEN

Shireen had never imagined herself as a warrior. Just months ago, she had been reading stories of dragons, not riding one. The greyscale scars that had once defined her life seemed trivial now — she was no longer the disfigured princess to be hidden away, but the girl who flew. The girl who burned. The girl who fought.

She had maintained her routine at Winterfell — lighting pyres by day, burning the fallen so they couldn't rise. Always back behind the walls before dark, when the real fighting began. Safe. Protected. While others died.

Until the raven came.

She wasn't supposed to be here.

Shireen had come to burn the dead. Viserion screamed as they dove, his flame lighting the trenchlines where Moat Cailin held — barely. Below, the swamp boiled, slowing the dead but not stopping them. Arrows flew from the towers. The outer gate burned.

They had come when the raven arrived — Daenerys and Shireen, flying hard from Winterfell. Jon stayed behind. Bran needed him. The message had been brief: Reinforcements retreated. Moat Cailin breached. Casualties mounting. Southern defense failing. Without aid, the castle would fall soon Moat Cailin needed dragons.

Daenerys had found her preparing the morning pyres. "We fly now," was all she'd said. No question, no hesitation. Just certainty. The queen didn't treat her as a child anymore — none of them did. War had aged them all.

The castle had been under siege for three days. The crannogmen fought from the swamps, slowing the dead's advance dragonglass-tipped arrows and guerrilla tactics. Lord Reed himself directed their efforts, though she couldn't spot him through the smoke and chaos. The moat's ancient stones stood blackened from constant fire, its towers crumbling under the weight of endless assault.

The stench hit her even from above — burning flesh, stagnant water, the peculiar rot of the wights. Her eyes watered, but she kept Viserion steady. Queen Daenerys had taught her that — a dragon responds to its rider's confidence. Show fear, and they grow erratic. Show strength, and they match it.

They had turned the tide, at first. Fire carved through the enemy in long, clean lines. Shireen held Viserion steady as he swept low across the field. The burning wights lit the swamps like broken lanterns.

But it was never enough.

By dusk, her arms ached. Her fingers cramped from clutching the saddle. Viserion's breaths came heavy and uneven beneath her.

They landed inside the walls for a moment's rest. She slid off stiffly, boots crunching on broken stone.

Lord Edmure met her near the tower stairs. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"We're holding," he said. "For now."

She nodded. "We'll keep the sky clear."

Another voice joined them — an older man, scarred and soot-streaked. Lord Caron of Nightsong, Stormlander bannerman, still alive. "The south walls are cracked. If they push again before night—"

"We won't let them," Shireen said. Her voice sounded too thin, too young. She squared her shoulders anyway. "We'll go again."

Viserion waited, wings twitching. She climbed back into the saddle. He rumbled beneath her — tired, but ready.

They rose into the sky one more time. Above the towers. Over the trenches.

Only a few wights still moved — stragglers. She could see fire still holding at the edges.

She exhaled. "Just a little more."

She allowed herself to think of Winterfell — of the books she'd left stacked by her bedside, of the carvings she'd been making for the youngest children in the keep. She thought of Davos, who had cried when she first mounted Viserion, not from fear but from pride. She'd promised him she would be careful.

Strange, how peaceful it felt up here, even with death raging below. The sky was clear above the smoke, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the landscape. For a moment, she could almost imagine spring — green returning to the swamps, birds filling the air instead of arrows, children playing where wights now stumbled through frozen mud.

She was tired. So tired. But they were making a difference. They were holding the line. All the stories she'd read as a child — about heroes and battles and sacrifice — they made sense to her now in a way they never had before. This was what it meant to fight for the living.

One more pass, she decided. One more sweep of flame, and then they could rest properly.

Then something struck Viserion.

Not a spear. Not an arrow. A shard of blackness that hissed through the air and found his neck.

He screamed. Blood falling.

The sky tipped.

Shireen held on, legs locking against the saddle, fingers white on the leather.

"Hold," she whispered. "Hold—"

But he was going down.

She could feel it — the wrongness in his flight, the drop in his chest. He tried to level out. He couldn't.

She didn't let go.

They crashed together.

Stone. Wind. Fire. Then the earth.

She hit hard. Something gave.
Pain bloomed — bright, consuming.

Something warm and wet filled her mouth. She tried to call for Viserion, but her voice wouldn't come.

Around her, the world slowed — the sounds of battle muffled as if underwater. Her vision narrowed to a single point of light. She saw snow falling, delicate flakes landing on her outstretched hand. How beautiful, she thought distantly. How strange that something so fragile could exist in a world so brutal.

She thought of her mother. Of her father. Of Davos. She hoped they would understand. That they would be proud.

Her last sensation was cold — a cold so profound it burned. Then darkness, rising like a tide.

And above — just before the dark took her — she heard Daenerys scream her name.

Chapter Text

DAENERYS

For a moment, everything else stopped—the sky, the wind, even thought.

Drogon banked hard beneath her, his muscles tensing as they watched Viserion plummet. The projectile had struck with terrible precision—not a wild throw, but a calculated blow that found the vulnerable spot where neck met body.

"No!" Daenerys screamed, but her voice was lost in the wind.

Viserion hit the ground with a force that shook the earth, his massive body skidding through mud and stone. Shireen was thrown clear, a small figure tumbling like a broken doll across the frozen ground. She didn't rise.

Dany urged Drogon down, landing hard beside them both. She slid from his back, landing hard. Her knees buckled. She forced herself upright then ran first to Shireen. Blood pooled beneath the cream-colored dragon, steam rising from it in the bitter cold. His golden eyes were glazing, the fire within dimming with each labored breath.

Beside her, Shireen lay still, blood staining the snow beneath her small body. The greyscale scars stood stark against skin gone pale as milk. This child who had found such joy in flight, who had never complained of the burdens thrust upon her, who had faced the dead with more courage than warriors twice her age.

Grief clawed at Dany's throat, threatening to choke her. She'd brought Shireen here. Her decision. Her responsibility.

A child of fire, lost like the others. Burned not by dragons, but by duty.

In the distance, beyond the ridge where Viserion had crashed, she felt it—that terrible, familiar sensation. Even without seeing him, she knew. The same emptiness she'd felt when Rhaego left her body, when Drogo's spirit fled. The slow ebbing of life, unstoppable as the tide.

Another child slipping away. Another piece of herself, lost to the darkness.

The bond between dragon and rider carried even across distance—she felt Viserion's last shuddering breath, felt the moment his fire went out forever. Her knees buckled with the weight of that loss, even as she knelt beside Shireen.

Gone. Both of them gone.

Then the Night King raised his hand.

Not toward her. Not toward Drogon.

Toward the fallen.

The dead stirred.

Shireen moved.

First a twitch. Then a gasp—a sound that didn't belong in any child's throat. Her eyes snapped open, glowing the same hideous blue as the Night King's. Blood still stained her chin. Her mouth opened wide.

And she screamed.

Not the voice of a girl. Not anymore. Something broken and ancient spilled out of her, a wail of death and winter. Her fingers curled, clawlike, and she lunged.

"Shireen—" Dany breathed, too stunned to move.

The girl's small hands caught at her sleeve, scrabbling for her face, her neck. There was no mind behind the eyes. No mercy. Just hunger.

Drogon roared.

The heat behind her made Dany flinch. She shoved Shireen back—not in anger, not even fear, but heartbreak.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Then Drogon's flame took the child.

It was over in seconds—fire washing over her like a mercy. The scream cut off. The snow turned to steam.

Dany stared at the place where Shireen had stood, her eyes burning with tears she could no longer feel.

The Night King watched.

He had done it for her. Not for strategy. Not for advantage.

For cruelty.

Movement caught her eye—a disturbance in the pattern of wights surrounding Moat Cailin's southern approach. The dead were parting, creating a path through their ranks.

A figure approached on horseback. Tall, gaunt, crowned with ice. The horse's hooves left no impression in the snow. Its dead eyes stared without seeing. But the rider—the rider saw everything.

The Night King.

Time slowed as he dismounted. He moved like prophecy given form. She had dreamed of this face in every shadow since the war began. His ice-blue eyes met hers across the battlefield. No hate lived in that gaze. No rage. Only ancient, patient malice.

Drogon growled, his massive head lowering as heat built in his throat. Dany didn't need to give the command—her son knew their enemy.

"Dracarys," she whispered.

Fire erupted, a roaring column of flame that engulfed the Night King completely. The heat blistered Dany's face despite the bitter cold. For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to hope.

Then the flames died.

He stood untouched. Unharmed. The snow around him had melted to slush, but not a single shard of his ice armor had cracked. His expression remained unchanged—that terrible stillness, that empty patience.

And then—gods help her—he smiled.

A slight curve of colorless lips. The barest acknowledgment that she had tried her best weapon and found it worthless.

Terror bloomed in Dany's chest, cold and sharp as dragonglass. This was no wight to be burned. No White Walker to be shattered by Valyrian steel. This was winter itself given form, the darkness at the heart of the Long Night.

The Night King turned from her, approaching Viserion's body with deliberate steps. He knelt beside her fallen child, his crystalline blade catching the fading light. Then, with terrible gentleness, he placed one hand on Viserion's head.

"Don't touch him," Dany whispered, the words catching in her throat.

Drogon roared, flames building again. But before he could release them, the Night King raised his other hand—not toward them, but toward the battlefield beyond.

The fallen rose.

Defenders who had died minutes before stood again, eyes burning blue in the gathering darkness. Crushed limbs straightened. Torn flesh knitted together. And they turned as one, facing her with empty gazes.

But worse was yet to come.

Beneath the Night King's touch, Viserion stirred. A terrible shudder ran through his massive frame. The wound in his neck froze over, ice spreading across golden scales. And then—gods, no—his eyes opened.

Blue. Cold. Empty.

A keening sound escaped Dany's throat—grief beyond words, horror beyond bearing. Her child, her sweet Viserion, twisted into this mockery of life.

The Night King stood, and Viserion rose with him. Ice crackled along the dragon's wings as he stretched them, frost forming where fire had once lived. His movements were wrong—too fluid, too coordinated. Like a puppet controlled by unseen strings.

When he opened his jaws, it wasn't flame that emerged but a cloud of blue-white mist, crackling with ancient cold.

Then, with terrible grace, he mounted her fallen child. Viserion's wings extended, ice crackling along the membranes. They lifted skyward, the beat of those massive wings sending waves of bitter cold across the battlefield.

"No," Dany whispered, the word tearing from her like a prayer. "Please, no."

But the gods were silent. The darkness deepened. And her son—her child—soared into the sky with death itself upon his back.

Drogon pressed against her, heat radiating from his scales, urging her to mount. The battle was lost here. Worse than lost. The dead would have Moat Cailin by nightfall. And now the dead had wings of ice.

Winterfell must be warned.

With numb fingers, Dany climbed onto Drogon's back. Her body moved by instinct, her mind still reeling from the horror she had witnessed. As they took flight, she cast one last glance at Shireen's small form, now half-buried in falling snow. She couldn't even bring the child's body back for proper burning.

She had failed them all—Shireen, Viserion, Moat Cailin. She didn't even have hate left. Only the cold. Now she saw the shape of it—what he'd planned all along. Moat Cailin was never the end. It was a lure. Shireen's death, her grief, her retreat—it had all moved her exactly where he wanted. Close enough for him to reach Viserion. Close enough to take what he needed most.
Not just memory. Not just prophecy. He wanted a dragon. One of her children—turned, twisted, and unleashed on the last light of the living.

They flew north, faster than they had ever flown before. Wind tore at Dany's face, freezing the tears on her cheeks. Behind them, a shadow followed—ice where there should be fire, death where there should be life.

Her child, turned against her. Her strength, made her enemy's.

And Winterfell, unknowing, waiting in the path of winter's wrath.

JON

The blue flame struck first.

Jon stood atop the northern battlements when Viserion appeared—not arriving, but manifesting, like smoke becoming flesh. Ice crusted his once-golden scales, his eyes burning with that terrible blue light. The Night King sat astride him, impassive and ancient.

"Shields!" Jon shouted, but too late.

Viserion's breath swept across the eastern wall. Not fire, but something colder, deadlier. Where it touched, men froze solid, shattering when they fell. Three dozen defenders gone in an instant.

The courtyard erupted into chaos. Archers scrambled for position. Commanders shouted orders. Soldiers grabbed whatever weapons remained.

Jon's eyes shot skyward again—just in time to see a second dragon scream into view. Drogon, with Daenerys on his back, diving from the clouds toward Viserion. Fire erupted from his jaws in a sustained blast, aimed directly at the Night King.

But the flames parted around the icy figure, leaving him untouched. Smoke rose briefly from Viserion's scales before frost sealed over the damage.

"Strike team—on me!" Jon barked. "Now. The Night King's here. This is our only shot."

They didn't hesitate, gathering as Jon pointed to the aerial clash raging above Winterfell's heart. "The Night King's here. This is our chance!"

"We'll need to reach him," Jaime said, nodding toward the battle circling Winterfell's towers.

"Rhaegal!" Jon called.

The green dragon soared up from behind the armory where he'd been sheltering, answering his rider's call with a piercing cry. Jon swung into the saddle in one motion, practiced and seamless.

"The rest of you—make for the eastern field," he ordered. "I'll drive him there."

"What about the wights?" Domeric asked, gesturing as the dead surged toward Winterfell from all sides—drawn like moths to their master.

"We hold them back!" Cregan shouted from below. "Give the strike team their opening!"

Jon turned to the others. "Drive him away from the godswood," he called. "Don't let him reach Bran!"

Rhaegal launched skyward, wings beating like war drums. Jon spotted Daenerys and Drogon locked in the fray, circling and diving. Flame rained down in torrents, met with blasts of blue ice.

He joined them.

Rhaegal roared his challenge and closed from behind. Viserion twisted midair—unnaturally fast—blue fire bursting toward them. Jon banked hard, the frost-breath missing them by feet.

"To the fields!" he shouted toward Daenerys. She couldn't hear him, but she seemed to understand.

Together, they began to herd Viserion. One dragon attacked from each side, blocking every attempt to veer toward the godswood. Every time the Night King turned his mount toward Bran, either Rhaegal or Drogon was there—streams of flame forcing him off course.

Slowly, they drove him eastward, toward open ground. Below, Jon saw the strike team carving their way through the advancing dead, Valyrian steel flashing like firelight in a sea of rot.

Viserion twisted, his body moving with a fluidity that no corpse should possess. The Night King remained still—expressionless, spear raised, waiting.

Then Drogon struck.

He slammed into Viserion from the side, claws tearing across ice-crusted scales. The force of the blow sent both dragons spiraling. For a heartbeat, the Night King lost his grace. His grip slipped. His body tilted, off-balance—

Jon reacted.

Jon urged Rhaegal into a punishing dive. The green dragon's jaws opened wide—but Viserion twisted, hard, and the Night King slipped further off his back.

And then—

He fell.

The Night King plummeted, his cloak whipping in the air. There was no fear in his face. Only calculation. Just before impact, he raised both arms—and the ground below erupted as wights surged upward, piling into a grotesque cushion.

He landed atop their backs, and stood.

Graceful. Effortless. Inhuman.

Viserion screamed—a sound like shattering crystal. Jon felt it: the moment the Night King seized control again. Viserion turned in the air and veered—toward Winterfell.

Toward the godswood.

Toward Bran.

"No!" Jon roared.

But Daenerys was already diving, Drogon's wings straining as they gave chase. Fire trailed behind them like a comet's tail.

Jon hesitated.

Follow Daenerys—and protect Bran?

Or face the Night King here, alone?

He clenched his fists around the saddle. "Protect Bran!" he shouted after Daenerys, though the wind carried his voice away.

He turned Rhaegal toward the field, where the Night King now stood amid his army—an ice blade forming in his hand. The strike team was closing in, blades rising and falling as they fought through the wall of corpses between them.

This was the true battle. The only one that mattered.

"For the dawn," Jon whispered.

And with fire in his lungs and death on all sides, Jon flew into winter's heart.

JAIME

He hadn't meant to die on a battlefield.

But here they were—riding through snow and screams, chasing a man made of ice and silence, with the fate of everything clinging to the hem of Jon Snow's cloak.

The Blackfish rode beside him, silent as ever. Stark heir and the Bolton pup behind them, less silent, hacking at wights tethered to their masters, each one moving with unnatural coordination. The line to Jon was narrowing, but so was the gap behind them—full of hungry blue eyes and broken faces.

Jaime's sword arm ached. The cold never stopped biting, not even under steel and leather. His fingers had long gone numb. He wasn't sure how many of the dead he'd killed. It felt like trying to empty the ocean with a cracked goblet.

Ahead, Jon had landed—Rhaegal circling overhead like a green storm while his rider faced the Night King on foot. Steel rang against ice in a duel that would decide everything. The rest of them just had to reach him alive.

"Faster," Jaime muttered, kicking his mount harder. "Before that bastard freezes the world again."

The Blackfish didn't answer. He only leaned lower in his saddle and drew steel.

Then the white mist parted—and the first White Walker stepped out. They weren't hunting. They were shielding. Sentinels, holding the line so their master could finish his work.

Tall. Pale. Eyes like shattered sapphire. It raised its blade without ceremony.

Jaime dismounted in one smooth motion, more instinct than grace. The ground crunched beneath him. The air hurt to breathe. The Blackfish joined him without a word.

"Get to Snow," Tully said simply.

Then they fought.

Steel met ice. Not just in sound, but in meaning. The Walker moved with a grace that mocked them. Jaime's blade scraped its armor—Valyrian steel, but still the thing danced away, like it had known this fight since the world began.

They were slowing. Too old. Too tired. Jaime felt it in his shoulder, in his ribs. In the way his breath came short.

Then a second Walker appeared. Of course it did.

"Why not two?" Jaime grunted. "Let's make it a proper suicide."

It lunged.

He parried one, barely dodged the second. His heel slipped. Cold steel kissed his cheek. He swore, turned, and—

Swish.

A sound like wind whistling through a grave. One of the Walkers stopped mid-strike. An arrow jutted from its eye socket. It stood for half a second longer.

Then shattered.

And with it, two dozen wights collapsed like puppets with their strings cut.

Jaime turned toward the direction of the shot.

Atop the battlements, bow in hand, stood a figure he hadn't seen in years.

Theon Greyjoy. Alive. Gods help them all.

Archers flanked him, loosing more fire-tipped arrows into the mob.

"Didn't expect that," Jaime muttered.

The remaining Walker pressed forward. Jaime raised his sword again—but not before he heard the scream behind him.

A shadowcat wight broke from the mist, claws catching Robb across the shoulder in a blur of black fur and frost. He stumbled, blood staining his cloak. His sword flew from his hand. Robb Stark—down on one knee. His sword knocked away.

The White Walker raised its blade.

And the Blackfish stepped between them.

It wasn't elegant. It wasn't noble. Just one old man taking a blow meant for his kin.

The sword cut through his neck clean. No sound. Just red on white.

The Blackfish fell.

Robb didn't scream. He rose.

And with a roar, he drove his blade through the Walker's chest.

It shattered.

And so did its wights.

Only two Walkers remained now.

One locked in brutal combat with the Bolton boy—Domeric ducking and weaving like a wolf cub, bleeding, but still fighting.

The other was heading straight for Jon.

The Night King hadn't moved. He watched the duel like a man waiting for a fire to die out. Ice blade in hand. Silent. Patient.

Jon held his own. But barely. He was good. Gods, he was good.

But the Night King was better.

Jaime saw the second Walker closing on him—fast.

"No," he growled, and ran.

There was no glory in it. No duel. Just Jaime Lannister diving into snow and ash, driving his sword into the thing's legs with all the force he had left. The creature screamed—high and cold—and went down hard.

And Jon turned. Just enough.

Their eyes met.

Not for the first time.

But maybe the first time with understanding.

This boy. This last son of Rhaella. Not one to kill. One to protect.

Not for duty. Not for honor. But because someone had to stand between him and the end of the world.

Jaime Lannister raised his sword again.

Not as the Kingslayer.

But as a man who remembered what it meant to fight for the living.

Chapter Text

BRAN

The weirwood net stretched before him like roots of light, each strand a memory, a moment, a possibility. But something was wrong. Dark patches spread through the network—blind spots where the Night King's presence blocked his sight.

He could feel it rather than see it: Jon locked in combat with the Night King somewhere in the eastern fields. The strike team converging. The clash of Valyrian steel against ancient ice.

But closer, more immediate—death approached on wings.

Viserion. Alone. Sent to find him.

Bran raced through the memories, searching. How do you speak to dragons? How do you enter minds that dream of fire?

Fragments came to him—old beyond reckoning. Dragons in the Dawn Age. The children singing to them in tongues of stone and flame. But nothing about warging, nothing about—

There. A memory like ash: The dragons dream alone.

No time for more searching. Through the trees, he could sense Viserion approaching, blue flames ready to burn the godswood to ash.

Rhaegal hovered near the clouds, riderless and uncertain, watching his mother battle his brother. Rhaegal's mind blazed in the darkness—green fire, wild and proud, but confused.
He had no rider now. Jon was down, and still he felt him—wounded, calling, needing.
Drogon and Daenerys fought above, fire against frost, and Rhaegal wanted to follow them. But Viserion was his brother. And Bran... Bran was something else entirely.

Rage surged through him—rage and instinct and too many calls at once. He didn't know where to fly. He didn't know who to protect.

Bran reached out carefully.

The rejection was instant, violent.

NO.

Pure draconic will. A mind that had never bent, never served, never shared itself with another consciousness.

Please, Bran pushed through the pain. The Night King sent your brother to kill me. Viserion—he's already dead, just a puppet—

BROTHER. MINE.

The fury in that thought nearly threw Bran back into his own body. Rhaegal's rage at seeing Viserion corrupted, twisted, enslaved—it burned hotter than any flame.

Let me help you save him, Bran pressed. Not bring him back—he's gone. But we can stop him from being used. Stop the Night King from making him kill your mother.

The green flames flickered. Bran felt the dragon's attention shift, studying him with ancient intelligence.

For your mother, Bran whispered. For Daenerys. She's trying to protect everyone, but she can't fight your brother alone. Let me in, Rhaegal. Let me help you stop him.

A long pause. The dragon's mind circled his, testing, probing. Finding the truth in his words.

The flames parted.

And Bran fell into the dragon dream.

ARYA

She saw the moment it happened.

Bran's body went rigid beneath the heart tree, back arching like a drawn bow. Blood ran from his nose, his ears. His fingers clawed deep furrows in the frozen earth.

"Bran!" She started forward, but stopped. This was different from any warging she'd seen. Violent. Desperate.

Above them, Rhaegal suddenly changed course. The green dragon had been circling aimlessly, waiting for Jon's return. Now he moved with terrifying purpose, banking hard toward the approaching shadow.

Viserion came through the smoke like winter itself—ice-blue flames trailing from his maw, dead eyes fixed on the godswood. On Bran.

Then Rhaegal slammed into him.

Then the dragon screamed overhead.

Arya looked up through the branches. Viserion alone, riderless, ice-blue flames trailing from his maw. The Night King had sent his mount ahead while he fought on foot.

Coming for Bran.

"Gods preserve us," Jory muttered, gripping his Valyrian steel blade. "How do we fight that?"

Drogon and Rhaegal were already responding - two shapes diving through smoke-filled skies to intercept. But Viserion moved with unnatural purpose, dead eyes fixed on the godswood with terrible intent.

Bran's fingers twitched. His breathing changed - quick, sharp, like someone preparing for battle. His eyes moved beneath white lids, tracking something above.

Rhaegal suddenly banked hard, abandoning his pursuit of Viserion to circle back. He moved differently now - not the organic flow of a living creature, but with precise, calculated intent.

He's in the dragon.

She'd seen Bran warg before - into Summer, into ravens. But this was different. Deeper. His whole body tensed with concentration as Rhaegal turned to meet Viserion head-on.

"Look," one of the guards breathed. "Rhaegal's fighting like... like he knows exactly what to do."

The green dragon struck from below, catching Viserion off-guard. Claws raked across ice-crusted scales, drawing black blood. Viserion shrieked and twisted, blue flame washing over Rhaegal's wing.

Bran gasped. A thin line of blood trickled from his nose.

"He feels it," Arya realized. "Whatever happens to the dragon..."

"Can he hold it?" Jory asked, watching the aerial battle with growing concern.

Above them, Daenerys on Drogon joined the fight, but it was Rhaegal - Bran - who seemed to anticipate Viserion's every move. He knew where the ice dragon would turn, when he would breathe flame, how he would attack.

Because he's seen it, Arya understood suddenly. In his visions. He knows what's coming.

The dragons collided in mid-air, a tangle of wings and fury. Rhaegal's jaws found Viserion's throat, green flames pouring into the wound. The ice dragon thrashed wildly, but Bran held on through the pain.

More blood now - from Bran's ears, his mouth. His body shook with the effort.

"Bran," Arya whispered, kneeling beside him. "Don't go too deep."

But he was beyond hearing. Through Rhaegal's eyes, he fought with desperate purpose - not to win, but to buy time. To keep Viserion from the godswood while Jon faced the true enemy.

Viserion broke free, wheeling away from the assault. For a moment, Arya thought he might retreat. Then the ice dragon turned, diving straight toward the heart tree with murderous intent.

Rhaegal intercepted him just above the godswood walls. The impact shook the earth, both dragons crashing into the outer courtyard in a cacophony of breaking stone and screaming metal.

Bran convulsed. His eyes snapped open - brown again, full of pain. Blood streamed freely now as he gasped for air.

"I... I stopped him," he whispered. "Jon needs... more time..."

Through the trees, Arya could see the wreckage. Viserion struggled to rise, one wing clearly broken. Rhaegal lay still, but breathing - Bran had withdrawn just before impact.

"You did it," she told her brother, holding him steady as he coughed blood. "You protected us."

Bran managed a weak smile. "The dragon dreams... I finally... understood..."

His eyes fluttered closed - not warging this time, just exhausted. Arya wiped blood from his face with shaking hands, standing guard as she'd promised.

Somewhere beyond the walls, Jon Snow and the Night King danced their deadly duel. The dragons were down, the field cleared.

Now it was steel against ice, prophecy against ancient malice.
And all she could do was wait. The fire rings were ready. If the wights broke the wall, she'd light them herself.

Wait—and watch. If the godswood fell, she would light the fire herself. The tar rings would burn hot and fast. It might not stop them.
But it would buy time. Time for Jon. Time for the end.

ROBB

Here, the wights were gone.

But Winterfell still burned. Somewhere beyond the godswood, steel still clashed with bone, screams still echoed through stone and snow.

But not here. Not now.

The field had gone too still—that terrible quiet after everything's ended but before you know who's left to count the cost.

Robb stood over the body of his great-uncle, the Blackfish, chest heaving through the fire in his ribs. His left shoulder throbbed where the shadowcat wight had raked him—four deep furrows through mail and leather, down to the meat. Not the cursed cold of a White Walker's weapon, thank the gods, just honest wounds from dead claws. They burned like seven hells, but they wouldn't spread like poison through his veins.

The Blackfish stared at nothing, throat opened by ice. The man who'd trained him with a sword when he was seven, who'd grumbled about southern foolishness but came North anyway when family called—dead because he'd stepped between Robb and a blade meant to end the Stark line.

Should have been me.

Robb knelt stiffly, his torn shoulder screaming at the movement. He fumbled for the oil flask in his knapsack—Sansa's design, the one she'd insisted every soldier carry. The oil splashed over the Blackfish's body, and the flame took quickly. The Tully cloak caught first. Then the rest.

No time for words. Just fire and the stench of burning.

A shape moved ahead—crawling.

Domeric.

Robb stumbled across the corpse-littered field, using Frost as a crutch when his legs threatened to give. Domeric had dragged himself behind a dead horse, one leg trailing useless, face grey as old snow except where blood had dried in rusty streaks.

Robb dropped beside him. "Hold still."

The younger Bolton looked up, pale eyes clouded with pain and worse—understanding. "It's spreading."

Robb pulled back the torn fabric and mail, revealing the wound. Not large—just a puncture below the knee where the White walker's weapon had found flesh. But around it, the skin had turned grey-black, veins standing out like frozen rivers. The corruption crept upward even as he watched, ice-death spreading through living flesh.

Domeric's voice came steady despite the pain. "Cut it off."

"Domeric—"

"It's creeping up. You wait, it'll reach my heart." His teeth were chattering now, but his eyes stayed clear. "My boys need their father. Even if he's missing pieces."

Robb looked around desperately. No maester, no clean blades. Just corpses and snow and—there. A wight still smoldering, flames licking at its chest.

He drove Frost into the burning corpse, letting the Valyrian steel heat until the edge glowed red. Then pulled a leather strap from his belt, wrapping it tight around Domeric's thigh.

"Bite down," he said, offering another strip.

Domeric took it between his teeth, nodded once. Ready.

Robb positioned the blade just below the knee, where healthy flesh met creeping death. One breath. Two.

He struck.

The leg came away in a spray of blood and steam. Domeric's scream cut through the leather, high and raw, but he didn't thrash. Didn't fight. Just endured.

Robb pressed the heated blade to the stump, cauterizing the wound. The smell of burning flesh joined the battlefield's other horrors. When it was done, the bleeding had slowed to a seep.

"Still alive," Robb managed, hand on Domeric's shoulder.

Domeric spat out the leather, managed a ghost of his usual composure. "For now." His eyes focused past Robb's shoulder. "Look."

Robb turned.

In the distance, where the eastern field met the walls, three figures still moved in deadly orbit. Everything else had stopped—no more wights here, no more Walkers nearby. Just those three.

Jon, blood soaking his side, Dark Sister singing in his hands.
Jaime Lannister, favoring his left leg, Brightroar reflecting the dying light.
And between them, patient as winter itself—the Night King.

They moved in a tight circle, no words, no ceremony. Just the endless dance of blade against blade, life against death. Jon struck from the left, Jaime from the right, but the Night King flowed between their attacks like wind through trees. His blade—summoned from nothing, ice given killing form—met every strike with casual precision.

Jaime was slowing. Blood ran from his mouth where the Night King's fist had found him. Jon's movements were still sharp but growing desperate, each parry coming a heartbeat later than the last.

Then Jaime stumbled. Just a fraction, weight shifting wrong on his injured leg.

The Night King flowed toward the opening like water finding a crack. His blade swept up—

Jon moved. Not away but forward, inside the arc, too close for the ice sword to matter. Dark Sister punched up through the gap where ancient armor met throat, the one place even the Night King couldn't fully protect.

The blade went deep.

For a moment—nothing. The world held still, waiting.

The Night King looked down at the Valyrian steel in his throat. His ancient eyes met Jon's—not with surprise or rage, but something almost like recognition. Like he'd always known it would end this way, with this boy, this blade, this moment written in the ice since the world was young.

Then he shattered.

Not violently like his Walkers. This was different—quieter, more final. He simply ceased, breaking apart like winter releasing its grip. Each piece smaller than the last, catching the wind, scattering until nothing remained but memory.

Across the field, the changes rippled outward. Viserion, grounded and twitching with unnatural life, fell fully still. The blue fire in his jaws flickered out. Every trace of the Night King's army turned to dust and memory.

The silence was absolute.

Jon stood frozen, Dark Sister still extended, as if he couldn't believe it was over. Then his knees buckled—

—and Robb was already moving, despite his wounds, despite Domeric calling his name. He caught his brother—always his brother, never just a bastard—before Jon could hit the ground.

"Jon. Look at me."

Grey eyes found grey, unfocused but alive.

"Did we…?" Jon's voice was threadbare.

"You did it," Robb said.
He found his cheeks wet.
"You ended it."

Jon's laugh was more blood than sound. "Told you… the shield would hold."

"Always does," Robb agreed, pulling him closer.

They sat there in the ruins of prophecy, two wolves of Winterfell who'd survived the longest night.

A few paces away, Jaime knelt, breathing hard, Brightroar planted in the ground like a cane. Blood ran from his temple, but his eyes were steady. He watched them quietly, said nothing. Just nodded once—a silent acknowledgment from one knight to two wolves who had stood.

Behind them, Domeric had pulled himself upright against the dead horse, watching the snow begin to fall—clean and white this time, carrying the promise of spring.

The Long Night was over.
And in the morning, they'd count who was left to see the dawn.

Chapter Text

Epilogue – Five Years After the Dawn

Peace had returned, but it bore the quiet weight of all that had come before it.

The war for the Iron Throne never truly ignited. When Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow soared from the skies on dragonback, the scorpions that had once threatened fire and air were reduced to splinters. The Reach and Dorne, unified in purpose, brought their banners not for conquest, but for justice. King's Landing fell not to flames, but to siege and steel — its gates eventually opening not out of loyalty, but rejection of Cersei Lannister.

She tried to flee. Qyburn beside her, gold and poison hidden in the folds of her cloak. But the Velaryon fleet found them before the Narrow Sea could offer escape. They were brought to Dragonstone in chains. Their trial was swift. Their executions, quiet.

The realm did not mourn them. Westeros did not crown a conqueror — they crowned a savior.

Two years after the Battle for the Dawn, Daenerys Targaryen was crowned Queen of Westeros, not merely by right of birth, but as the one who saved the realm from both ice and fire. The lords bowed not to a dragon, but to the woman who had carried the realm through its darkest night.

She married Jon Snow a year later. To the public, he remained her prince-consort. His parentage — whispered by a few, known by fewer — was never proclaimed, but recorded faithfully in the royal annals and Citadel ledgers. Their son, Aemon, a boy of quiet strength and silvery-black hair, toddled through the Red Keep’s gardens under the watch of both direwolf and dragon.

In the halls of the Red Keep, a quiet chamber stood apart from politics and power — a room of remembrance. At its heart, a painting, lovingly commissioned by Davos Seaworth, showed a young girl with greyscale-scarred hands leaning into a book. Behind her lay Viserion, tail curled lazily, golden eyes half-lidded. Shireen Baratheon, forever reading, forever safe. It was, as Davos said, “how she would have wanted to be remembered — not burned, not broken… but learning beside a dragon.”

They called her Princess Shireen Baratheon, The Dragon Princess, not for her bloodline, but for the fire of kindness she carried quietly through a cruel world.

Storm’s End passed not into ruin, but into worthy hands. Edric Storm, legitimized by Queen Daenerys, ruled as Lord Edric Baratheon, steadfast and unshaken.

And Davos Seaworth, the smuggler who became a knight and then so much more, served still — not as a warrior, but as Steward of the Red Keep, and advisor to both Queen and Consort. He kept the household running, listened more than he spoke, and lit a candle beneath Shireen’s portrait each evening.

In the North:

The North stood apart, yet never alone. Like Dorne before them, they were Northmen first, sovereign in all but name. Their stand in the Long Night had earned that right.

Winterfell had been rebuilt. Stronger. Broader. War-hardened and frost-kissed. It stood not just as a seat of power, but as a beacon of memory.

Robb Stark ruled as heir and commander in the field, though not yet as Lord of Winterfell. That honor still rested with Cregan, whose bearing remained as unbending as ever. But even the Old Wolf knew it was nearly time. When Robb reached thirty, Cregan would pass the Wardenship of the North to him, choosing instead to spend his remaining years as a father, a husband, and finally at peace.

At Robb's side stood Wynafryd, ever shrewd and warm. Their children filled the keep with life: Cregan, the oldest, already led his cousins through the godswood like a young wolf king. Lyarra, five, and sharp-tongued, and has never ending questions. Serena, two, shadowed her mother everywhere.

Sansa Bolton, Lady of the Dreadfort, held both court and command with the same cool grace. Her sons, Rogar and Rodrik, five now, were as different as sun and moon. Rogar trained daily, hungry for knighthood. Rodrik sat in the solar with ledgers and books. Little Rohan, two, showed signs of being the wildest of them all.

Domeric, steady as ever, wore his Braavosi-forged prosthetic with quiet dignity. He rode when needed, and his cane had become a symbol rather than a crutch.

Bran and Meera, still betrothed, reside in Moat Cailin. Fully restored before the Dawn, it now served as a nexus of old power and new learning. Its causeways held scouts, scholars, and ravens.

Arya went to travel all over Westeros then to Essos. She said she has seen enough shit and there were many of them Stark brood that she need not to marry.

Rickon, now twelve and nearly grown, was betrothed to Lyanna Mormont. They were promised a new keep near White Harbor, from which they would watch the eastern coast and trade routes. Rickon, when not glowering through sword drills, spent most of his time playing with his nephew.

Torrhen now eight, son of Cregan and Catelyn Stark, had become the unofficial king of the cousins' pack — a charming troublemaker who'd once stolen a bannerman's cloak to use as his own.

Theon Greyjoy ruled Pyke in partnership with Yara, not as raiders but as stewards of a new fleet. Their ships patrolled the western seas and carried goods instead of plunder. He married Beth Cassel. They had two daughters who could climb faster than any boy on the islands.

That spring, all gathered at Winterfell for Little Cregan's sixth nameday. The great hall rang with children's laughter and the clatter of wooden swords. The Boltons arrived in full, with their children racing through the gates ahead of them. Even Jon Snow came, he used the royal ship because of little Aemon, though while Rhaegal followed above.

It was during the feast that Robb proudly said that they were expecting again. Before the others could respond, Domeric cleared his throat, his voice low but audible: "So is Sansa."

Jon, mid-drink, nearly choked. He coughed once, wiped his mouth, then said flatly: "Are you at it again? Seriously? You two?"

The room erupted in laughter.

The North, proud and self-ruled, stood ready for whatever the world might yet send.

And beyond:

Queen Daenerys decreed that the Long Night, the White Walkers, and the magic of old must not become myth. All children were to be taught what truly happened. History, she said, must be honest. It was recorded by maesters, sung by bards, and etched into the foundations of the Citadel.

Jaime Lannister, no longer Kingslayer, returned to the Westerlands, older and quieter. He wed Desmera Redwyne, and became something simpler: a man who no longer ran from who he was.

And in the quiet shade of the godswood, beneath Winterfell’s red leaves, Cregan Stark finally rested. Ice, no longer stained, stood at his side. The children laughed beyond the trees. The wolves slept in peace.

He had come back to save the pack.

And he had.

Please check out my new ASOIF fanfic Robb and OC Princess of YiTi 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63782263/chapters/163541347