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Chapter Text

The riding was harsh, even for an experienced horseman like Forley Prester. The King’s Road in the Riverlands had been ravaged by the war. A few stretches of it were in such disrepair that some of his men were actively avoiding it when possible, preferring to ride in the mud—breaking formation in the process.

While Forley did reprimand the men he caught doing so, he couldn’t necessarily fault them. There were already a scant few in their caravan who’d injured their horses, their forelimbs caught in broken spaces of cobblestone. One among them had been unhorsed and injured quite seriously in the fall.

If the Gods were good, Forley was hopeful they’d reach the Golden Tooth within the fortnight. The roads should be in better condition there.

The knight raised his gaze towards the setting sun, a deep orange hue illuminating the sky as dark clouds gathered.

Storm coming in. Got an hour, maybe two.

Forley considered his options. He’d been hoping to make it to Wayfarer’s Rest by dusk, but the sheer size of their party was affecting their progress. Four hundred men—too many. Two hundred, nay, even the original one hundred men would have sufficed.

He considered commanding the Westermen alongside Jaime Lannister during the war to be one of the greatest accomplishments of his life. Times had changed since then, since Jaime’s imprisonment. Forley was beginning to question Jaime’s judgment.

Aye, he managed to take Riverrun, but that feat was all but accomplished prior to his arrival. The castle was on its last legs; that siege wouldn't have lasted much longer.

The size of this host? The order to put archers’ eyes on some scared, sad little girl? The golden hand? The scars? The bags under his tired blue eyes?

He’d seen soldiers like him before—paranoid, anxious, indecisive. A liability.

Forley frowned, remembering his failure at Riverrun and his retreat. They were overwhelmed; naught could be done to turn the tide. He made the right decision, yet when Tywin was informed of his son’s capture in the prior battle in the Whispering Woods, a significant part of the blame was put on Forley for not holding his position.

As punishment, the knight was taken from the frontlines and stationed at the Golden Tooth. Forley did as he was bid, naturally—pride irreparably wounded.

He had hoped his second bid at Riverrun would be the balm that might soothe that hurt, only for the man that was the cause of it to arrive and steal that glory from him too.

Again, Forley played his part, showing no outward signs of discontent. He was a soldier, a knight through and through—a commander and a seasoned one at that. The man leading the caravan was calculated in his decision-making. Never panicked, never second-guessing.

We would have arrived at Wayfarer’s Rest a day ago if we’d been one hundred, he thought bitterly, his grip tightening on the reins of his stallion.

Halting in the Riverlands to set up encampments with such a number ran its own risk. They stood out. The number might dissuade direct attacks, yet the Brotherhood Without Banners were cowards anyway. With this many men they could easily sneak among their company.

Ser Prester had accounted for that, however. The only men that had direct access to the Westerlings or Edmure Tully were a few dozen knights he’d vetted prior to departure.

Another problem the caravan had been facing was the wildlife…

The nights were the worst. For the past four nights, wolves had snuck deep into the encampment—two or three of them, by their estimate. Stalking in the dark, they didn’t attack the first night. The beasts just roamed the perimeter, the only evidence of their visit being the footprints left behind in the morning.

The second night was much the same: footprints. A handful of his men claimed to have heard them outside their tents, nothing more.

The third night was when it changed. They attacked one of the cooks—mauled him to death. There was another attack last night, the fourth night in a row they visited. They had set up a large group of men to keep watch, yet the animals still managed to slip in unnoticed. Still managed to successfully attack one of his men and vanish before help arrived.

The boldness of the attacks wasn’t lost on the company. These wolves weren’t afraid of men. For them to wander so deep into an encampment of four hundred was highly unusual.

Forley had heard tell of wolves in the Riverlands—this kind of behavior was off-putting to be certain.

“Ser! Ser!”

A voice shook Forley from his thoughts. He turned, recognizing Gawen Westerling galloping towards him. Forley nodded, acknowledging the Lord of the Crag—another man who had experienced failure and imprisonment during the war. A good man, kindly, but too soft for Forley’s liking.

“Lord Westerling,” the leader of the caravan greeted him.

“Apologies for the bother,” Gawen said. “But is there any chance the men might make camp soon?”

“Was hoping to make the inn by tonight,” the pinched-nose knight grumbled, his gaze focused on the rickety road ahead.

“I apologize again,” Gawen sighed, sounding as exhausted as he looked. “It is just that my lady is growing rather weary from the harsh conditions.”

“We’ll break soon. There is naught to fear,” Forley answered, not unkindly, looking back toward the man. “What of your daughter? Weary from the rigors of the march?”

“She…” Gawen paused, his look growing more melancholy. “We don’t speak much these days. I’d imagine she is quite weary, yes. Not that she’d ever voice a complaint aloud.”

Forley only gave a deep grunt in return—a curt way of letting his companion know that he understood but had nothing to add.

He’d fathered a daughter himself, his only child. He didn’t know her—never made an effort. For Forley Prester, having a child was simply a duty that he’d performed, something expected of him. He couldn’t relate to the angst he was seeing in Gawen.

Forley thought his lack of comment might dissuade the other from broaching the topic further. It didn’t.

“Jeyne truly was a happy child before all this horror,” Gawen reflected solemnly. “I never thought she should’ve married that Stark boy. I said we should’ve just given her the moon tea and be done with it.”

“Lord Tywin was generous in giving your family that pardon,” Forley answered. “Seen him squash bigger houses for less.”

“Gods, I know it.” The relief was evident in the man’s voice. “It was folly. But the whole of my family was taken with the boy, not just Jeyne.”

“You’re the head of your household. You could’ve stopped it.”

“It… Were it that simple, I would have,” Gawen replied.

“You did mention your eldest son was very devoted to the Northern cause?” Forley mentioned.

This wasn’t the first time Gawen had discussed this in earshot of him. In fact, when Sybell wasn’t with the man, he had the tendency to talk—and keep talking.

“Raynald,” Gawen spoke his name with a bit of a tremble in his voice. It wasn’t lost on either man that the lad was luckily dead, killed during the Red Wedding at the Twins. “He might be the best swordsman our house has ever seen. Quick and nimble. Brave but not thick—he had his wits about him.”

Forley gave the other man another deep grunt; the conversation was taking a direction he didn’t like.

Family had always made Ser Prester uneasy—between his own wife and children or even his cousin Garrison.

Beady dark eyes met Gawen’s chestnut brown ones. Forley spoke firmly.

“We’ll be halting shortly. Go to your family.”

Finally, that seemed to shake Lord Westerling from his side.

It wasn’t an ideal place to camp; the area was still thick with trees aside from a small pastoral field that’d maybe hold fifty men. Not being able to have a proper encampment thanks to the thick foliage was a sacrifice they’d have to make.

The dark clouds were growing darker, the petrichor emanating from the earth around them. Best not be on the road when it started coming down.

It was drizzling a light rain by the time they began setting up the tents and the hitching post for the horses.

It had turned into a full-on downpour before they were even halfway done with the tasks. Branches were snapping from trees—large branches even. Tents halfway done were ripped out of the ground by strong winds.

The horses were panicked; some of those unsecured broke into the forest, never to be seen again.

It was dark. One could scarcely see more than a few feet in front of him.

Men shouted over the storm, giving orders. Naturally, Forley did his duty, staying in the thick of it—nailing down tents, hammering down posts.

The smattering of rain and wind nearly blinding him, he saw some of his men flee into completed tents or duck behind trees.

I’ll have to collect names later, Ser Prester thought, not at all pleased by a handful of his men neglecting their duties. Despite any conditions, you follow through on your orders.

So far, this march was harder than expected. This shift in weather only made it that much worse.

“Hammer the damned thing!”

Forley yelled, stocky but muscular arms straining, calloused hands pulling the rope of a tent—holding it in place for a boy beside him to finish off. The young man couldn’t be older than ten-and-five. Teeth chattering from the cold, breath misting the air, a quivering hand holding the hammer.

“Be damn well quick about it, lad!”

A lightning flash. Thunder cracked. The boy brought down the shaky hammer—swung downward.

The hammer was far off, not even close to the nail.

Fool, Forley thought, moving his foot before it was crushed, in the process losing his footing. The leverage he had on the tightly pulled rope was lost.

SNAP!

The rope lashed upwards like a whip, cracking the knight under his chin. Ser Prester tumbled backward, feeling his head ricochet back against the watery mud with a wet thump.

He must’ve lost consciousness for a brief moment. The next he knew, he was crowded by men-at-arms.

“Ser, I… it was an accident!”

The boy was whining, trying to apologize while the others were checking on his condition.

Forley felt empty-headed, dazed as they helped him back to his feet. The familiar iron taste of blood on his tongue.

What a disastrous march, Forley lamented, a couple of his men-at-arms helping him along towards one of the main pavilions they’d set up in the field earlier.

Then, out of the darkness he spied it.

A shape coming right for him.

A tall man—thin and grim, the wisps of ashy black hair remaining to him longer than most women’s. Sunken cheeks, skin a grey sickly coloring. Aged, rusted chainmail with black boiled leather underneath.

Ser Prester felt a chill run up his spine, eyes falling on the greatsword strapped to the shadow’s back.

It’s the Stranger, Forley thought hazily.

His world still spinning, propped up by men on either side of him. It felt as though his doom approached, yet the shape made no effort to acknowledge them—simply passing the three wordlessly.

The grizzled knight let a sigh of relief pass his thin hard lips, shaking his head trying to regain his senses.

He wasn’t a superstitious man—it was just the ringing in his ears, rattling his brain.

Forley got his own two feet under him, ensuring the two knights helping him there was no longer a need. He was far too prideful to let himself be seen dragged the rest of the way toward the lavish pavilion.

All the man needed was a short respite; he’d be back out there to carry out his tasks as soon as his ears stopped ringing.

Pushing through the flaps of the pavilion, the injured knight was greeted by a small number of women, children, and a handful of knights watching over them.

Gingerly, he pressed his fingertips on the gash under his chin, gauging how badly he’d been hurt. The skin was ripped, the flesh rope-burned. Forley winced. Now that his head was clearer, some of the pain was settling in—as was his anger with himself.

To be here with the women and children—it was an embarrassment.

“You’re hurt.”

A soft, sweet voice interrupted his own self-loathing.

Jeyne Westerling. Pretty curly brown hair, matching big brown eyes, healthy tawny skin color—a much more welcome sight compared to the headsman he’d passed on the way here.

Ser Prester gave her a hard look, nodding without a word.

He wasn’t one for conversation outside of the army. It was all the man knew.

There was silence for a time—just the sound of heavy rain beating on the roof of the tent hanging in the air between them.

“Should I take a look at it?” Jeyne asked, breaking the silence again. She sounded shy, unsure in asking, but dutiful all the same.

The knight furrowed his brow, taken off guard by the offer. Taking a long moment to consider it, Forley nodded and grunted gruffly.

“Take a seat.”

The man followed her instruction, finding a chair with some gaudy design carved into it.

Jeyne leaned towards him, slightly tilting his head upward with the lightest of touches. He must have been resisting in some way, because Jeyne spoke again.

“Please don’t squirm. Tilt your chin up a bit more.”

The man grunted again but did as she bid him. He felt her practiced fingertips inspecting the wound under his bristly beard.

She’s done this before, Forley thought, silently appreciative of the moment of calm in what had been a hellish day of riding and weather.

“Jeyne!”

A shrill voice broke that calm.

Sybell Spicer had come scurrying over. The knight hadn’t known the woman for more than a fortnight, yet he knew he could go without hearing her for the rest of his days. Gods be good, that would be the case after this escort was through.

Jeyne flinched upon hearing her mother stomping toward them, her feather-like touch leaving him finally.

“I’ve been clear, you are to keep to yourself! You do not mix. You do not mix.”

Jeyne’s brown hues were downcast, slightly wet as tears threatened to spill from them.

Sybell let out an irritable sigh as the downpour outside continued battering their pavilion more violently than before.

Forley cleared his throat, rising to his feet. He was a short man but a strong one—not that much taller than Sybell Spicer, save a few inches. Finally, the older woman took notice of him.

“Ser Prester,” Sybell spoke prickly as ever, giving the man a curt nod. “Is there any way to get the rest of our furniture brought here? We are missing quite a few items.”

“Forgive me, my lady,” Forley started slowly, a hard gaze glancing between mother and daughter. Jeyne seemed about ready to scurry off like a frightened rabbit. “We have some more pressing concerns out in the storm. As you can see…” He finished, gesturing to the wound under his jutting chin.

“As you say,” Sybell huffed, grimacing at the man.

“How bad was it?” the knight asked, turning his attention back towards the gloomy young girl.

Jeyne looked up from the floor, eyes still welling with tears—a shy smile curving her dainty features.

She is kind.

“It isn’t so deep. Someone should still wash it out,” Jeyne said.

“My daughter does so enjoy playing the caregiver,” Sybell Spicer’s voice was sharp, reproachful.

Jeyne looked down again, avoiding their gazes.

“I thank her for it,” Ser Prester said courteously.

Suddenly, a deep-throated cry came from outside of the pavilion. They could hear it even over the rain pelting noisily on the tent.

The burly knight was quick to snap into action, a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Stay here.”

He ordered sternly, turning on his heels and briskly walking for the entrance of the pavilion.

Another scream cut through the camp—this one more high-pitched, this one closer.

Forley threw open the flaps of the pavilion, becoming reacquainted with the heavy rain and icy gusts of wind.

Beady dark eyes scanned the pitch blackness of the camp. There were no torches lit thanks to the downpour.

The screaming had stopped. Forley had an eerie feeling.

He took a wary step forward, then another—slowly making his way toward where he assumed he’d heard the commotion.

His worn black boots stuck into the thickness of the soft ground beneath him as he moved. The mud was now about ankle deep thanks to the heavy weather, making it harder to navigate the terrain. The darkness surrounding him made that even harder.

The conditions had not changed since last he was outside; one could hardly see a few feet in front of them.

Ser Prester was quick to draw his blade, the metal singing against the sheath.

He went over the likely scenarios in his head. An enemy attack? The Brotherhood perhaps? No—that didn’t seem right.

Forley had been in battle enough to know he’d have heard some steel by now. Plus, the screams were too scattered, too random.

Another person shouting pulled him from his thoughts, giving him the answer.

“Wolf! Got us a wolf over here! It’s down!”

Forley grunted, feeling a mixture of relief and anxiousness.

Certainly, he was thankful they weren’t facing a battle tonight. However, the wolves made him uneasy.

He turned towards the shouting, cupping his hands around his mouth to call back.

“Keep a lookout! Likely two more running about!”

His hope was that his men would be able to put down the other two before they escaped the encampment like the nights prior. Considering the beast's previous exploits though, Forley was sure they’d slip through.

No matter, putting down one might discourage the rest from returning.
The stocky man moved to place his sword back but hesitated. The uneasiness hadn’t left him, it shamed him to admit. So, he kept his sword drawn, beginning to move down the encampment out of the small field into the woods.

It was even darker underneath the treeline, the man nearly ran himself right into a tree trunk on a few occasions. The benefit was that the torrent of rain pelting down was diminished greatly under the large branches and colored leaves.

The deeper Forley went, the quieter it grew. The trees swayed above him, black against flashes of white light. Rain hissed through the branches like steam escaping a kettle. Somewhere behind him, men shouted, muffled by the storm.

He found the dead wolf near a tangle of roots. Two men stood over it, spears in hand.

“Big bitch, ain’t she?” one of them said, prodding the carcass. The animal’s fur was matted with mud and blood, its eyes half open, yellow in the flickering torchlight.

Forley stepped closer, sword raised. “You’re certain it’s dead?”

The man gave a nervous laugh. “Aye, ser. Took three spears in her gut. She’s done.”

The knight crouched beside the beast. It was larger than he’d imagined — nearly the size of a small pony. The smell of wet fur and iron filled his nostrils. Its tongue lolled from its mouth.

“Drag her out of camp,” Forley ordered. “Burn the carcass when the rain stops.”

The rain had not relented. The ground was slick and uneven underfoot, the mud swallowing boots whole with each step. Forley made his way toward the edge of camp, where the men were still struggling to erect a makeshift pen for their most valuable captive.

“Gods be good, you’ve not got it up yet?” Forley barked, his voice cutting through the howl of the wind.

A half dozen soldiers flinched under his glare. They’d chosen a patch of ground too soft, and the iron stakes meant to anchor the cage walls kept sliding free. One of the men—Ser Vylarr, broad-shouldered and red from drink—looked up from the mess of chains and wood.

“Storm’s made the ground too loose, ser! The posts won’t hold!”

“Then find ground that does!” Forley snapped. “Lord Tully’s not to be left to drown in the mud—or escape through it!”

Another flash of lightning illuminated the scene, and for a heartbeat, Forley could see Edmure Tully himself: soaked to the bone, hair plastered against his face, his hands bound before him. The young lord stood in the open, guarded by two crossbowmen under a sagging canopy of canvas that did little to keep the rain off.

Edmure’s eyes found Forley’s. There was no defiance there—just a hollow, exhausted sort of quiet.

“Comfortable?” Forley asked flatly, stopping before him.

“I’ve had worse,” Edmure muttered, voice hoarse from disuse. “Though I doubt you’ve dragged queens through the mud quite so much as lords.”

Forley’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “You’ll live, and that’s more than most can say. You’ve the Lady Westerling and her kin to thank for that. The Kingslayer saw fit to keep you breathing.”

A low rumble of thunder rolled overhead, the rain beginning to thicken again. One of the guards cursed as another stake came loose, the entire half-built cage groaning and toppling into the muck.

“Seven hells,” Forley muttered under his breath, turning to the men. “Forget the bloody cage for now—get him under proper shelter. We’ll build again when this storm’s passed.”

The men hesitated, uncertain.

“That’s an order,” Forley barked.

Edmure said nothing as they guided him toward one of the sturdier tents near the treeline. Forley followed a few paces behind, his eyes drawn upward to the restless dark of the woods beyond. For an instant, between the sheets of rain and the flash of lightning, he thought he saw movement. Something low, quick, and silent slipping between the trees.

He squinted, straining to see through the downpour. Nothing. Just the storm.

And yet, his gut was tight.

Forley lingered a moment longer at the edge of the treeline, the rain easing only enough to make the quiet worse. The wind had shifted — carrying with it the smell of wet earth, smoke, and something else beneath it. Something iron.

Blood.

He shook the thought away. Wolves had taken too much of his sleep already. The men had Edmure secured inside the pavilion now, tethered to a post like some ill-tempered mule. There was nothing more to be done. Still, Forley found himself circling the perimeter of the camp, scanning the shadows between each lightning flash, listening to the patter of rain and the uneasy snorts of the horses.

The storm made everything sound alive. Every flap of canvas, every shifting branch.

And then — a sound that wasn’t wind.

A low, throaty growl. Close.

Forley froze, hand falling to the pommel of his sword. He turned toward the noise, eyes narrowed, trying to pierce the gloom. The rain stung his face as he strained to listen.

“Who goes there?” he called out.

No answer. Only the rustling of wet leaves.

He took a few cautious steps forward, boots sinking in the mire. A flash of lightning illuminated the clearing—and in that split second, he saw it.

A wolf.

Massive, grey-furred, eyes glinting gold in the stormlight. It stood no more than twenty paces from him, muzzle low, lips drawn back from its teeth.

And then there were more.

Shapes slinking from the trees, silent, surrounding the camp. Half a dozen at least, maybe more, darting between the tents and shadows. One of the horses screamed as another wolf lunged from the dark, tearing its flank open.

“Wolves!” someone shouted, voice raw with panic. “To arms! The bloody wolves are in the camp!”

The encampment exploded into chaos. Men stumbled from their tents, blades half-drawn, slipping in the mud. Horses broke from their posts, shrieking, kicking, trampling anyone unlucky enough to be in their path. The rain made torches useless — only the lightning gave brief, terrible glimpses of the slaughter.

Forley drew steel, barking orders above the din. “Form up! Spears to the front! Protect the wagons—”

A blur of grey slammed into one of the men beside him, knocking him flat. Forley pivoted, blade flashing downward, feeling it bite through flesh and fur. The wolf yelped, twisting, snapping at his arm before collapsing into the muck.

Another shape darted past him. A man screamed.

Forley turned again, breath ragged, searching for direction in the madness. He could barely see ten feet ahead, but he knew where he needed to be — the pavilion. The Westerlings. The prisoners.

He started toward the heart of the camp, pushing through the rain and chaos. Every few steps, he caught sight of more wolves — at least a dozen now, tearing through men like a pack possessed.

The storm cracked with another bolt of lightning, and for an instant the whole camp was thrown into stark relief.

Dozens of them.

Dozens of wolves.

They were everywhere.

Forley’s heart pounded as he ran, shouting over his shoulder. “Hold the line! Hold the—”

A horse broke free in front of him, crashing through the mud, nearly bowling him over. He rolled aside, scrambling back to his feet. The wind carried the scent of blood, sharp and thick in his throat.

Forley crashed through the rain-slicked mud toward the pavilion. His lungs burning, boots dragging with each step. The howling was everywhere now — the wolves baying, men screaming, horses shrieking. Lightning split the sky again, and in that blinding instant he saw the great tent ahead — canvas ripped open, its poles sagging under the downpour. A shadow moved inside.

He didn’t think — he threw himself through the flaps.

“Lady Jeyne! Lady Sybell!” he bellowed, voice half-lost to the thunder.

The interior was chaos — overturned chairs, torn silks, straw scattered across the floor. One of the guards lay sprawled near the entrance, his throat torn clean out. Another was crawling, hand clutching at the stump of his leg, leaving a dark trail across the carpets. The stink of blood and wet fur choked the air.

“Gods be good…” Forley muttered, drawing his sword again. His hand trembled. He’d seen war. He’d seen men die screaming. But this — this was slaughter.

A sharp movement drew his eye. At the far end of the tent, Jeyne Westerling crouched beside a toppled chest, white gown drenched and muddied, eyes wide with terror. She wasn’t screaming — only trembling, frozen like a doe that’s heard the hounds. Sybell Spicer stood behind her daughter, clutching a carving knife in both hands. Her knuckles were white.

“Ser Prester!” Sybell shrieked. “Help us! For the love of the gods, help us!”

Something tore through the back of the pavilion — the canvas ripped like paper. A grey shape burst through, all muscle and fur and teeth. It hit the ground with a wet thud and a snarl, eyes burning like twin embers in the gloom. The smell of wet animal filled the space.

Forley stepped forward, sword raised. “Behind me!” he shouted, though his voice sounded far away, swallowed by the roar of the storm. Sybell screamed again as the wolf lunged.

He swung hard, meeting it mid-leap. The steel glanced off its shoulder, shearing a patch of fur and drawing blood. The wolf barely slowed — slammed into him, knocking him back against a table that shattered beneath his weight. His sword slipped from his hand. He saw teeth flashing, lunging for his throat — and then another voice, a cry, Jeyne’s — “Mother!”

The shout urged him forward. Catching the snapping teeth between his gauntlet, they didn’t penetrate the steel. But the bite was powerful enough to dig the steel deep into his arm. The knight groaned, fumbling for his dirk, gripping it tight then slamming it harshly through the wolf’s eye socket. It yelped, cried and died. The carcass collapsing atop his chestplate, teeth still sunk deep into his armor. 

Forley staggered to his feet, dizzy, snatching for his blade. Lady Sybell had vanished, Jeyne still cradled herself in the corner of the tent, making herself small. Whether her mother abandoned her or was dragged off by the wolves he couldn’t say. The canvas shuddered again as another wolf burst through the side — larger, darker — its coat near black, silver streaks glinting in the rainlight. It padded into the tent, low and silent, eyes fixed on Jeyne. For a heartbeat, everything stilled — the storm outside muffled, the only sound the wet pour of rain through the torn canvas.

“Seven hells—!” Forley charged, swinging his sword again. It bit deep into the wolf’s flank, earning a low, guttural growl that rattled his bones. The beast turned on him, lips peeled back, jaws stained crimson. It met his eyes, and for a moment — gods help him — it wasn’t a beast he saw. It was something older. Wiser. Ancient and terrible.

Then it leapt.

He met it with steel and fury, their bodies crashing together. The blade went home — he felt it hit something vital — but the force sent him sprawling again, breath knocked clean from his chest. He rolled over, spitting mud, just in time to see the wolf tear itself free of his sword and bound past him toward the tent flap whining and stumbling lamely.

Jeyne vanished now as well.

“Jeyne!” he shouted, stumbling to his feet. “My lady, run!”

He tore through the ruined pavilion after her, into the storm again. The rain had washed everything into a blur of grey and red. Men and wolves tangled across the field, screaming, dying. He thought he saw her — a flash of white among the darkness, running for the trees.

Then lightning struck again, bright as day. Dozens of wolves stood at the treeline, watching. The storm swallowed Jeyne’s shape again, and the girl was gone.

Forley swung until his arm burned, but there were too many. A sea of grey. He felt jaws close on his leg, another on his shoulder, the pull and tear. His sword slipped from numb fingers.

He fell to his knees, the world slowing to a whisper. Through the curtain of thick rain he saw it — a shape larger than the rest, fur silver in the stormlight, eyes like pale fire.

A direwolf.

Forley tried to pray, but the words wouldn’t come. His last breath left him in a cloud of steam, carried off into the dark as the storm swallowed everything.

Chapter Text

The snow was red again.

Not with war, not with wolves — with dogs. The kennel yard stank of piss and meat and fear, and Ben Bones had seen enough of all three to know they meant Ramsay was in a temper. The bastard’s beasts had torn through three curs already, half mad from the scent of the girl.

“She’ll freeze out there,” one of the boys muttered.

“So will we, if he hears you,” Ben said. He’d seen Ramsay’s temper before — seen it peeled.

A print marked the crust ahead, small as a child’s, another lighter one beside it. “This way!” he called, but even shouting, his voice was swallowed by the snow.

One of the boys whistled low. “She’s gone mad, runnin’ barefoot.”

“She won’t run far,” Ben muttered. “Not in this.”

But even as he said it, the thought gnawed at him. The girl had the look of prey that wanted dying more than capture. Sometimes that was worse than a hound that turned on you.

They pushed through a half-broken gate, snow piling to their knees. The torches threw long, thin shadows across the walls of Winterfell. From within, the castle moaned — wind through shuttered halls, the sigh of doors that no longer closed. This was no lord’s seat now. It was a carcass.

By the time they reached the yard below the Great Keep, the trail was lost to the wind. The snow came faster now, fat flakes tumbling through the dark. The hounds howled and sniffed, confused, their muzzles dusted white.

“Enough,” Ben growled. He yanked one beast back hard by the chain. “They’re scenting ghosts.”

They had beaten the woods half the night, turning up only drifts, dead crows, and a half-eaten Frey. The girl and the turncloak were gone, swallowed by the storm.

“Dog’s tits,” he whispered.

“Inside,” said a voice behind him. “Lord Bolton wants you, all of you.” It was one of Roose’s own guards, pale and silent as a corpse. “Now.”

The words settled like a weight in Ben’s chest. He gave the leash to another boy and trudged toward the keep. The wind nipped at his cheeks until they burned.
The warmth of Winterfell was gone. Only the smell remained — stale smoke, mold, and rot under the stones. The fire in the hall guttered low, and men huddled around it like beggars.

Roose Bolton sat apart, where the light could not quite reach him. His face was the color of milk left too long in the sun, pale and curdled. One hand rested on the arm of his chair; the other toyed with a goblet. His eyes were the worst of it — pale, colorless things that saw too much and gave nothing back.

Ben stopped two steps from the chair and bent his knee. “M’lord. We lost the trail. Storm’s near whitein’ out everything.”

Roose didn’t look up at first. When he did, it was slow, deliberate. “Lost it,” he said softly, as if tasting the words. “Your hounds?”

“Gone mad from the scent, m’lord. The girl and the turncloak fled together. We’ll find them by morning.”

“Will you?” Roose asked. His voice was mild, but the cold in it made Ben wish Ramsay were here instead.

“Aye, m’lord. We—”

“Enough.” The goblet clicked against the arm of the chair. “Fetch the bastard.”

Ben blinked. “The bastard, m’lord?”

A small, dry smile flickered on Roose’s lips. “You know the one, do you not?”

The other men in the room — Bolton guards, two Frey cousins, silent as shadows — watched Ben like hounds waiting for a command. Roose leaned back, eyes drifting toward the brazier beside him. “Tell him I would speak with him. Alone.”

Ben bowed. “At once, m’lord.”

Roose’s gaze lingered. “Tell him, also,” he said quietly, “that a leash must never forget the hand that holds it.”

Ben didn’t understand what that meant, he only nodded and backed out of the chamber, heart thudding as he turned toward Ramsay’s quarters. The torches burned low. The air stank of old tallow and fear.

He sat by the fire in his chambers, elbows on his knees, staring into the flames. His hands were raw, the knuckles bleeding where he’d struck the wall. On the flagstones before him lay a scrap of torn grey wool — the girl’s cloak.

Ben lingered near the door, daring not to breathe too loud.

“She was mine,” Ramsay said, soft as prayer. “My sweet Arya. My Reek.” His fingers brushed the cloth. “They took what was mine.”

The old man didn’t speak. Too frightened to make himself known behind the half open oak door. The room was still, save for the pop of burning wood.

Ramsay rose. The sound he made was something like a sob, though his face did not change. He flung the cloak into the fire. “Find them,” he said. “Dig them out. I want their bones.”

The bastard continued rambling to himself yet Ramsay said nothing when Ben finally plucked up the courage to give him the summons. He only rose, slow and stiff, and for a moment the firelight caught in his eyes and turned them the color of blood.

“Now,” Ben stammered. “He said—”

Ramsay snatched up his cloak, the black one lined with wolfskin. He did not bother with gloves. “Come.”

Ben hesitated. “He said alone, m’lord.”

Ramsay’s mouth curved. “He did.” His hand closed around Ben’s collar. “And yet, I want you with me.”

He dragged him through the hall, boots echoing off the stone. The torches hissed as they passed, throwing their shadows long against the walls. Ramsay’s grip was iron, and Ben stumbled to keep pace.

At the door to Roose’s solar, the guards looked to one another but neither dared speak. Ramsay flung the door wide without knocking.

Roose was seated behind his desk, quill in hand, the room lit by one small candle and the dull glow of a brazier. He did not look up at once. When he did, his pale eyes flicked from his son to Ben, then back again.

Ramsay’s jaw tightened. “You sent for me.”

Roose set the quill aside. “I did.” His voice was soft, cold as the air outside. “I hear my hounds have gone mad. As has their master.”

Ramsay’s face twitched, the faintest flicker of something that might have been a smile or a snarl. “They lost their scent in the storm.”

“Their scent,” Roose repeated, as though tasting the word. “Or your quarry? You let a girl and a broken creature slip your leash. And you call yourself a hunter.”

Ramsay’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. “They won’t get far. I’ll find them. I—”

“They are already gone.” Roose’s tone did not rise, but the words cut sharper than any knife. “As is my patience.”

Ben stood rooted by the door. The air in the room was heavy, thick as a tannery’s vat. He could smell ink and blood and the faint sourness of Roose’s wine. Every word from the lord’s mouth felt measured and deliberate, as though he’d weighed them on a scale.

Roose’s gaze drifted over his son. “You think yourself a lord,” he said. “A man fit to rule. But you are a dog wearing a man’s skin. Snarling at shadows, too stupid to know when the chain is drawn tight.”

Ramsay’s breath came faster now. “You forget who I am.”

“No,” Roose said. “I remember all too well.”

Roose rose from his chair, every movement unhurried. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

Ramsay stood very still. “Your son.”

Roose’s lip curled faintly, cruelly. He’s enjoying this, Ben thought, sickened. He wanted to leave — to vanish into the stone — but his feet would not move. The air itself seemed to pin him in place.

“My shame.”

The word fell like a lash. Ben saw it strike Ramsay — saw his jaw clench, his eyes glisten, the tremor in his shoulders. He looked like a boy again for a heartbeat. A cornered boy with blood under his nails. He tried to speak, but Roose did not stop.

“You are base-born, a bastard,” he said softly. “A creature of filth and hunger. I thought to make use of you, to shape you into something serviceable. But you cannot shape dung, only spread it thin.”

Ben’s heart thudded against his ribs. He could hear it. The candle’s flame trembled. Something awful was gathering in the silence, heavy and inevitable.

Ramsay’s breath hitched. His face had gone white, then red.

Ben looked away — wanting not to see — but his eyes stayed fixed on the stone beneath him as it glimmered in the dim light of the brazier.

“I brought you into my hall, gave you name and place,” Roose went on. “And how do you repay me? With noise. With chaos. With dead dogs and missing girls.” He took a slow step closer. “Every word you speak drips folly. Every breath shames me.”

Ramsay’s hands were trembling. “You made me what I am.”

“Do not flatter yourself,” Roose said. “You made yourself — in your mother’s mud and your own filth. You are a thing that gnaws its own leg to feel alive.”

The words landed like stones. Ramsay’s mouth quivered; he blinked, once, twice, as though trying to hold the tears back.

Ben saw the first one fall. A small, shining drop that caught the candlelight as it went. Something in Ramsay broke then — not loudly, but cleanly, like ice cracking underfoot. His face twisted, ugly and wet. His shoulders began to shake with quiet, stifled sobs.

“I did what you wanted,” he said, between gasps. “You told me to hunt. To flay. To make them fear. I did that for you.”

Roose regarded him with the calm of a man studying a dull knife. “You did it for yourself. Because you are too small to be feared for anything else.”

Ramsay made a sound that was not quite a cry, not quite a snarl. He pressed a hand to his face, smearing his tears. “You’ll see,” he whispered. “You’ll see what I—”

Roose turned away. “Enough.”

That single word seemed to hollow the room. Ramsay stood trembling, staring at his father’s back.

Ben shifted a step, uncertain whether to move or pray. 

For a heartbeat, the solar was silent save for the hiss of the candle. Then the desk went over with a crash, parchment scattering like snow. Ben flinched. He heard a sound—soft, wet, final—and then nothing at all.

The candle guttered.

For a moment there was only the hiss of the brazier and the slow drip of something hitting the floor. Ben’s stomach turned. He didn’t see the act — only heard the breath leave one man and enter another.

When he dared to look, Roose lay half-hidden in shadow. Ramsay stood above him, chest heaving, the heavy candleholder black with blood.

“M’lord…?” Ben whispered. His own voice sounded strange, thin, not his own.

Ramsay turned toward him. His face was streaked and wet, the tears still fresh, his mouth twisted in something that might once have been a smile.

Ben’s instincts screamed. Run. He took a step back, then another.

Ramsay’s eyes found him.

“Come here, Ben,” he said, almost kindly. “You’ve been loyal.”

Ben’s back hit the door. He turned towards it. He fumbled for the latch, the iron bit cold against his fingertips as he tried to lift it. Ramsay was already there — quick as a striking adder, silent as snowfall.

He never finished with latch. Ramsay moved faster than he should have been able, one arm wrapping around Ben’s chest, thick and unyielding, pulling him back into that broad, stifling warmth. Ben smelled blood and tallow and the rank sweetness of sweat.

“Hush now,” Ramsay murmured close to his ear. “No noise. Not from you.”

Ben’s heart pounded once, twice—

A fat, wet palm covered his eyes.

The room went dark.

Chapter Text

The snow was falling softly again, pale and fine as dust.

Pale, lithe fingers gently traced the petals of the beautiful light-colored winter roses. They'd been woven into a small bracelet that adorned her dainty wrist. It had been a gift from her father, Petyr Baelish; he'd sent it over to Alayne that afternoon with a few handmaidens.

She had been admiring the haunting blue of the petals since she'd put it on.

Alayne had woken up rather late, past noon. She'd been exhausted from the long descent from the Eyrie that had taken them all night. No sooner than she'd woken, her Sweet Robin had summoned her — and that had eaten away more precious hours of Alayne's day.

She had responsibilities to see to. Most important among them was to welcome Ser Harrold Hardyng, Lady Anya Waynwood, and Lord Gerold Grafton. Their party should be approaching soon. Alayne hurried, nervousness bubbling in her stomach.

"You are to beguile him, charm him, bend him to you."

That is what her father had asked of her. She was to wed Harry the Heir — but only if he'd have her. Petyr Baelish had promised that with this union they'd be able to rally the Vale, reclaim Winterfell, the North.

A seed of hope. A way home.

Alayne checked the mirror once, then twice, then thrice — and then once more — before deciding she was as ready as she ever would be.

Descending the large stone steps from her tower, she crossed into the yard. There was a chill in the air, a light snowfall that tickled her cheeks. The cold winds weren't too strong but strong enough to pinken her ears.

She wore a gown of green silk and Myrish lace that fit her tightly — one of her Aunt Lysa's gowns, long unworn. As stout as her aunt had been, this must have been a relic of her youth. Alayne's figure filled it differently, softly, like something reborn. Over it, she wore a heavy dark wool cloak and a handsome light-gray fox pelt around her shoulders.

"Alayne!"

Myranda Royce's voice rang across the yard the moment she caught sight of her. The buxom girl waved her over cheerfully — that made Alayne smile. Beside Myranda stood her father, Lord Nestor Royce.

Lord Nestor was a massive man — tall and wide, balding with a graying beard.

"Welcome to the Gates of the Moon, my dear girl!" the big man said, his voice booming. "My apologies for not greeting you properly when you arrived. I hadn't expected you while the castle slept. Myranda was just captivating me with the story of your journey."

He was her father's man, she thought — bought and paid for with titles and castles. Littlefinger had granted him the title of Keeper of the Gates of the Moon and the castle itself in perpetuity. A cadet branch of House Royce, elevated and bound by gratitude.

"Men of honor will do things for their children that they would never consider doing for themselves."

That is what her father had said of Lord Nestor — and when he had said that, she'd thought of her other father. The one who had lied upon the execution platform, confessing to all manner of atrocity. That honorable man had sullied himself — and for what?

For her.

A sharp panic fluttered in her chest.

Better here.

She reminded herself. It had become like a prayer.

And all at once, Alayne Stone resurfaced — and Sansa Stark was pushed down into the darkness below.

"Be still my heart," Myranda hummed softly, placing a hand over her chest. Alayne couldn't help but notice how low-cut her gown was — dark purple, flowing about her hips, tightly drawn above. The way her breasts pressed together when she moved made Alayne's cheeks warm.

"You look like a doll, Alayne. Those big blue doe eyes, those puffy pink lips. I've half a mind to marry you myself."

"Myranda," her father said sternly. "I've told you time and time again, that kind of talk must stop."

"It's quite alright, my lord," Alayne said quickly, lowering her gaze to the snow. "I'm glad to hear it. I was trying to look… pretty."

"Hm. I see. It must be quite the change for you. Do you find yourself enjoying court, my lady?"

"Yes. There has been much change since my father brought me to court," Alayne said, raising her gaze to the big man. "He has been very patient with me. Everyone has been so kind since—"

"Terrible thing," Nestor Royce said solemnly. "We can only hope that the singer died screaming for what he did to sweet Lady Lysa."

"May she rest with the Mother," Myranda added — though her tone did not sound entirely solemn.

The silence that followed was sharp as glass. Alayne could feel their eyes on her.

"Riders!"

The shout came from above the gate.

The great doors creaked open, pushing up snow and mud as they spread apart.

Through the swirling flurries came a dozen men on horseback — the Vale knights, proud in their sigils of silver and blue. In their midst rode Ser Harrold Hardyng.

He looked every inch the story: young, handsome, fine-shouldered, his hair bright as polished copper beneath his hood. His cloak was white, his breastplate chased with the falcon of House Arryn.

Alayne felt her breath catch.

So this is Harry the Heir.

He dismounted lightly, laughing at something Lord Grafton said beside him. He clasped hands with Lord Nestor first, bowed to Lady Waynwood, and kissed Myranda's hand with easy grace. When his eyes fell to Alayne, they paused only a moment.

"Ser Harrold," Lord Nestor said. "May I present Alayne Stone, Lord Protector Baelish's daughter."

Harry smiled politely — a knight's smile, quick and distant. He bowed the barest degree, then turned his head as if already distracted by another voice.

The warmth that had risen in Alayne's cheeks turned cold.

She curtsied anyway. "My lord. We are so pleased to welcome you."

"Of course," he said. "It's good to be here."

He did not look at her again.

The snow fell heavier, muting the sound of the yard. Alayne stood very still, her hand brushing the winter roses at her wrist. The petals had already begun to frost over.

She smiled anyway, as her father had taught her.
Later on, the dining hall smelled of sweets, sweeter than Alayne had expected.

Though, coupled with the savory scent of roasted boar, tender lamb and mountain elk, the bastard girl's mouth was watering.

A half dozen hearths warmed her blood along with the wine.

In truth, Alayne had never been much of a drinker. Even when Eddard Stark allowed her a glass during feasts, Alayne's face would more often than not wrinkle. She didn't mind the taste now. No, it was what the wine induced that troubled her much and more.

It made Alayne look back upon what she'd rather keep buried.

Wine reminded her of Winterfell.
Wine reminded her of Joffrey, of Lady, of that horrible day on the King's Road.
Wine reminded her of the Queen, never without a goblet while men died on the Blackwater.
Wine reminded her of the Hound and his lips.
Wine reminded her of Sansa Stark.

Her pretty eyes shut, inhaling and exhaling to calm herself. Which wasn't the most comfortable task given the tightness of the corset.

Or perhaps that was just the tightness in her chest?

When Alayne Stone opened her eyes, she mustered a smile.

Better here.

She thought, watching the merriment unfold around her. Singing and dancing, toasts and mummery, japes and laughter.

The Gates of the Moon were much more lively than the gloominess of the Eyrie. And of the gloominess that had been Lysa Arryn's dining hall.

The last time she'd been at a proper feast was when she attended the King's wedding.

Best forgotten.

She swirled the dark red wine in her cup, raising it to full pink lips drinking deeply.

Glancing up at the high table. Her father, Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn, sat in the center beside Nestor Royce. Lord Royce was her father's man, bought and paid for with titles and castles.

To Lord Royce's right was Myranda Royce, his daughter, seated beside her was her brother, Albar. To her father's left was Sweet Robin, the little Lord of the Eyrie. To his left, Anya Waynwood, then finally to her left—

Harry the Heir.

He was handsome to look upon, a strong jaw, straight teeth and an as yet unbroken nose. Harry wasn't as pretty as Joffrey had been, no, but he looked more of a man. Tall and strong of body.

Sansa Stark would have been very envious of Alayne Stone, very envious indeed. A strong handsome prince to take her hand so they might rule together, a little girl's dream.

The way his cheeks dimpled every time he grinned would surely send most maids to swooning. However, she saw how those blue hues leered at all the serving girls. It was almost the same look her father had given her the previous night, when he told Alayne of his plans to marry her off to the Heir.

That thought made her uncomfortable. She wouldn't dwell on it.

Alyane, being of common birth, had been placed off to the left just below the high table which suited her just fine.

Sweet Robin however nearly suffered another fit when he was told. He wouldn't hear any of it, he wouldn't accept anything less than her sitting by his side.

"Sweet Robin, I'll be close at hand."

She had told him, gently holding a shaky bony hand in her own, lightly brushing the pad of her thumb over it. Despite his anxiety, Alayne was growing better at relaxing him.

She leaned in close, giving his gaunt cheek a peck.

"Do your duty, after that we can enjoy lemon cakes before bed. The lords have been whispering, they've heard tell of your bravery on the descent. Be sure to regale them with the tale."

A lie, it came easy. The flattery softened his stance but hardly, Alayne spent all afternoon trying to convince the little lordling.

This had very much frustrated Alayne, she was planning to spend much more time with Myranda before the feast. Her father had warned her to be wary of the Royce girl, it's true.

Normally she'd listen but Myranda inspired some mischief in the bastard girl. Well, compared to toiling around with Robin's whining for hours on end, Myranda's company was worth more than gold.

Once Petyr heard about the trouble with Sweet Robin, he swiftly put an end to it. Fear of his stepfather was more powerful than love of her.

Alayne was just thankful to be rid of Robin, for at least a few hours.

Her gaze fell back on the little lord, his own gaze was downcast towards his full untouched plate. Red and droopy eyes, his thin upper lip quivering. He would be telling no tales of his bravery tonight it seems.

As the night drew on, Alayne helped herself to another half-glass of wine before men came calling upon her.

Despite the few glasses of wine she'd finished, Alayne could still remember her steps. Dancing hadn't come natural to her when she'd first learned. They called Arya underfoot, they called Sansa trip-on foot once.

So graceless she was once she'd twisted her ankle while dancing with her instructor, the pain had been such that she was bedridden for days. The first time that Sansa had been successful in finishing a dance without forgetting or misplacing her steps, she had wept out of happiness.

Such a simple joy.

Alayne thought as she danced about with Ser Albar Royce.

A big man, broad of shoulder and barrel chested. He was wearing a simple wool tunic, coarse black hair covering his forearms. Fierce black sidewhiskers complimented a bald chin.

He was a cold and serious man with a deep scratchy voice. Alayne suspected he had only asked her to dance as a courtesy, at the urgenting of his lord father, no doubt.

Regardless of his reason, others soon followed his example.

The hedge knights her father employed recently were the next, Byron the Beautiful and Shadrich the Mad Mouse.

Byron had complimented her beauty and told a few japes. He kissed the back of her hand before taking his leave.

The Mad Mouse was mostly quiet, he didn't say much more than a few words. Shadrich just stared intently at her for most of the dance. It was queer to say the least but he seemed mostly harmless. A small man of a height with her, in fact, Alayne may have been a pinch taller than the Mad Mouse.

Alyane was thankful the third hedge knight Morgarth the Merry didn't ask her for the privilege. Morgarth was a scary sight, his humongous nose with its broken veins. Not to mention those giant gnarled and calloused hands, hands she'd rather they stay far from her.

Ser Jasper Redfort was the next to ask for her hand, he was more of a welcome sight than that of Morgarth. Ser Jasper was followed quickly by his brothers, Ser Creighton and Ser Jon.

The youngest Redfort, Mychel, had not asked her for the pleasure. Alayne made a note of that and of him. A long faced youth with a short button nose, small ears hidden under short closely cropped dark-brown hair. He looked no more than seven-and-ten, perhaps eight-and-ten or near enough to make no difference.

So, this is the boy that took Mya's maidenhead?

Alayne thought, not very impressed at her first sight of him.

She'd heard it told Mychel was one of the most promising swordsmen in the Vale and very gallant too. She'd heard nothing of his looks, she understood why that must've been now.

Joffrey was beautiful.

The thought suddenly came to her, she cursed herself for it and blamed the wine. But it was true, Joffrey had been beautiful but soiled was his heart. Blackened by hatred and cruelty.

Whereas Tyrion Lannister had been a stunted, ugly little thing yet, he'd shown her the kindness and courtesy that Joffrey failed to.

Harry the Heir is handsome.

Alayne thought, looking back towards the high table, seeing those dimples as Harry was laughing at something Lady Anya had whispered.

Yes, he was very pleasant to look upon.

Her gaze leveled back towards Mychel who wasn't so pleasant to look upon. Despite their outward appearance, the court was only whispering about one of these newly appointed knights siring baseborn bastard children.

His name wasn't Mychel Redfort.

Alayne felt a pang of sadness for Mya Stone then. She felt a pang of sadness for Ser Mychel too.

Having to marry out of duty, she knew how that felt.

Then Alayne felt a pang of fear, for herself. Suddenly, she didn't feel much like dancing anymore.

Before she could seat herself again, she heard a low deep voice.

"In your cups tonight?"

Ser Lyn Corbray stood before her, tall and lean, his presence looming. He wore a white jerkin embroidered with three black ravens in flight, each clutching a red heart—the sigil of House Corbray. A turquoise tunic showed beneath it, white breeches fastened by a glossy brown sword-belt. His tall boots clicked on the stone as he drew nearer.

One long, thin hand rested on the pommel of Lady Forlorn, the famed Valyrian steel blade. His fingers traced the ruby inlay; in the hearth-light the gem glimmered, a small pool of red shot through with yellow.

"Ser Lyn." Alayne inclined her head. The last time she'd seen him, he had threatened her father beneath her own roof, violating the laws of hospitality. That little bit of theater had bought Petyr Baelish another year as Lord Protector of the Vale. Ser Lyn Corbray was her father's man—bought with gold and boys.

"If you've eyes for young Mychel," the knight said in a dry tone, "I'm afraid he is a man wed."

"No, I… You mistake me, ser." She kept her voice polite, though her guard was high. Of all the lords of the Vale, Ser Lyn made her most uneasy.

"I have my heart set on another," she finished, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks.

"Oh? I'm relieved to hear it. My squire was recently knighted and wed to Ysilla Royce." His long fingers left the pommel to brush a lock of brown hair behind his ear. "Bronze Yohn's daughter. You remember Bronze Yohn?"

What is he saying?

"Yes, of course." Alayne nodded slowly. "He was one of the Lords Declarant who called upon my father in the Eyrie. I made his acquaintance then."

True enough for Alayne Stone. But Sansa Stark had known Yohn Royce beneath Winterfell's roof. She still remembered holding her breath, praying he would not know her—and the other part of her that had wanted to throw herself at his feet and beg him to take her home.

Better here, she reminded herself. She could not afford doubt, not now.

"A terrible man to make an enemy of, Bronze Yohn." Ser Lyn turned his head toward Mychel, a thin-lipped smirk ghosting across his pale face. "We'd best be careful."

Her heart quickened. How much did he know? How much had Petyr told him?

"I'm sorry, ser, I don't understand your meaning—"

"You do." His voice cut across hers. Then, elegantly, he extended a hand—long fingers like the legs of a spider. "Might I have this dance?"

Refusing would be rude. She forced a smile.
"The pleasure is mine," she said sweet as honey, setting her hand in his.

They swept out across the painted floor. He was light on his feet, every step measured.

"You're a very good dancer," she offered, hoping to ease the tension.

"A swordsman must have grace, my lady," he said, tone still low and rigid. "We dance when we kill."

The words made her tighten; she nearly missed a step.

"Will you enter the lists tomorrow, ser?" she asked quickly, grasping for a safer subject.

"Yes." A smile tugged at his mouth. "I'll fall to Harrold Hardyng on my third tilt."

She faltered again, startled. Was that part of her father's plan? The music masked their voices; none seemed to notice.

"My father's work?" she whispered. "Or Lady Waynwood's?"

He chuckled. "Suspicious little one, aren't you? Your father's bidding, aye. Anya Waynwood's honor would never allow such deceit—it isn't in her blood."

His tone pricked at her. "My father and I have bigger plans," she blurted before she could stop herself. Wine loosened her tongue.

"Oh, you do." His smile thinned. "Nothing like a tourney to bind a realm—a handsome heir triumphant, a pretty heiress waiting to be revealed, banners rising for some grand cause."
His gaze sharpened. "But tourneys can tear kingdoms apart. I was at one such. No one guessed it then. One pretty little Stark girl made Seven Kingdoms bleed."

"Harrenhal," Alayne said softly. She knew that story—the day Prince Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark. "What happened after was hardly her fault."

"She was stupid," he sneered.

"She was raped and murdered!" The words came loud and raw. Heads turned. Her heart pounded; she didn't even know why the anger stung so deep.

Perhaps because Lyanna was Sansa Stark's kin… or because she remembered the sadness in Lord Eddard's eyes whenever he spoke of his sister.

Mayhaps most of all, she thought, Lyanna Stark's cage was not so different from mine. Little birds, moving from cage to cage. Would the Vale be her final one?

"Keep your voice low, girl," Ser Lyn murmured. "There are eyes and ears everywhere."

"You speak out of turn," she whispered back, feeling small again.

He only watched her, dark eyes glinting like obsidian. They reminded her of Jon Snow's—sullen, fierce, unyielding.

Ah, Jon, Alayne thought, Jon Snow, he's at The Wall.

It was the second time she'd thought about her bastard brother on The Wall in as many days. He was a nice thought but a useless one now. Jon Snow never had what she'd call a kind face but it was far kinder than that of Lyn Corbray.

"I only meant to show," he said, "how easily these pretty pleasantries can curdle into tragedy."

The venom in his voice froze her. "I think your point is made, ser."

"You'd do well to remember it." He released her hand, bowed, and was gone.

She stood motionless amid the dancers, heart hammering like a stallion's hooves. Better here, she told herself again. It had become like a prayer for her.

She got to pouring wine then, Arbor gold, Dornish red. Alayne decided the spiced honey wine was her favorite, she wasn't quite sure how many cups she'd had. The more cups she drank, the less tense she felt. The fright slowly washed away with the bittersweetness of the wine on her tongue.

It must've looked like she was good and drunk because Myranda soon joined her. Her powdered face smirking at Alayne like a cat prepared to pounce on prey.
They talked and gossipped, such a childish girlish thing. Something Alayne hadn't been able to do in quite sometime, something she sorely missed. It helped take her mind off her fears and of Lyn Corbray's smirking face.

They watched Lothor Brune awkwardly dance with Mya Stone, both were uncoordinated and unaccustomed to it. They watched as Mychel Redfort danced with a bit more poise with his wife Ysilla. Myranda commented on how they looked 'bloody miserable' for two newly weds and about how she'd 'sooner be fucking' than waltzing around with a new husband.

They japed about how Benedar Belmore looked like a fat red toad with a beard. Lord Belmore was one of the Lords Declarant that called upon Littlefinger. Alayne confided that her father thought he was corrupt and greedy in addition to being ugly.

Myranda asked her about Harry the Heir, if she'd fantasized about taking him to bed yet. Alayne answered honestly with a 'no' and the thought of it 'disgusted her'. The vulgar older girl asked if her older brother would suffice instead and that they could be 'sisters'. Alayne flatly answered 'no' to that.

By the time Myranda yawned and sought to take her leave the dining hall was half empty and of who remained less rowdy. The buxom girl kissed Alayne cheek before leaving her there.

Seeing as there wasn't much excitement left to be had in the hall, Alayne gingerly rose from the bench. The girl nearly toppled over, her head was swimming. The floor felt as though it was spinning beneath her tiny feet.

"Oh," she groaned softly, steadying herself with a palm on the tabletop. Her stomach felt queasy, awash with all manner of wine and roasted boar. Alayne was sure she looked funny, not wanting to linger long she began walking from the hall.

Swaying side-to-side, nearly collapsing several times. It was a wonder that she made it to the entryway. That seemed to be all she was able to muster under her own power, toppling over against the open oak door, slamming a petite shoulder hard into it.

Alayne laughed heartedly, placing a palm over her mouth to attempt to stifle the noise. The stone tile under her was cold, despite that Alayne still felt hot and breathless. Putting herself in such a position was unbecoming. Her father had enemies that would look to any slander or odious rumor to discredit him. That all seemed so far away at the moment.

The tipsy girl tried to gauge how much attention she'd drawn to herself only to realize he was coming right for her. The heir, his sapphire blue hues fixed on Alayne. The bastard girl gave him a ditzy smile, trying her best to provide pleasantries from the floor.

"A thousand apologies." Alayne said, a sweet fit of soft laughter escaping puffy lips. "I can't seem to find my feet."

Tall black boots came to a halt in front of her, Alayne had to look up at Harry. He towered over the fallen girl, she was surprised at how big he was up close. She attempted to push herself up in vain, slipping once more on her backside.

"You belong to Littlefinger, don't you?"

Alayne perked up at that question, her gaze meeting his. His lips were pressed into a hard line, thick dark blonde brows furrowed. He isn't pleased, Alayne realized.
"It isn't as bad as all that," Alayne japed. "I'm only his daughter."

The witticism brought about a smirk from the man. He squatted down to get closer to her, too close. Suddenly Alayne cursed herself for not doing her hair as well this morning as she had almost every other morning. Her red roots would be more noticeable at this angle or so she assumed.

"His bastard you mean?"

The word made her flinch. He spat it like something foul.

"They mean to offer me your hand, bastard. Can you imagine?" His breath reeked of wine. "My lady wife wouldn't be stumbling drunk like a broodmare at my feast."

Shame burned hotter than the drink. Tears pricked at her eyes as she scrambled upright, but the world still spun. When she swayed, he caught her wrist—hard enough to make her gasp.

"You're hurting me," she whispered.

That was a brief reprieve, a short silence as Harry glowered behind her. He clicked his tongue, released her, and shoved past. His shoulder struck another's as he went.

Ser Lothor Brune stood there now, watching quietly.

Alayne wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and tried to steady her breath before he could speak.
Ser Lothor Brune stood over her, his square jaw shadowed in the torchlight, dark eyes steady and unyielding.
"Best not to wander alone, my lady," he said gruffly, though there was no mockery in his tone. "These feasts sour before the cups are cleared."

Alayne tried to muster a smile. "I only wanted air." Her voice came out small, brittle. "It seems the hall has too little of it tonight."

"Then let me see you safe to your chambers," Ser Lothor offered.
It wasn't a question.

She hesitated. Petyr had warned her once: Every kindness in the Vale comes at a cost. Yet Lothor Brune had always seemed… different. Plain-spoken, loyal, without the sly gleam she saw in most of her father's men.

"That's kind of you," Alayne said at last, lowering her gaze.

They walked in silence through the corridor, the clatter and laughter of the feast fading behind them. The torches hissed as they passed, their flames bending toward the open windows where moonlight spilled across the stone floor.

"You shouldn't let him speak to you that way," Lothor muttered after a time.

Alayne blinked. "Ser Harrold?"

He gave a curt nod. "He'll be heir to the Vale soon enough, but that doesn't make him a man worth the crown. You've a father who'd have my hide for saying it, but still—"

"I know what he is," she interrupted softly. The words surprised her, but they felt true.

Lothor's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Then you've more sense than most lords I've served."

They stopped before her door. The air between them was heavy with things unsaid—fear, shame, the faint ache of loneliness.

"Thank you, Ser Lothor," Alayne said, voice barely above a whisper.

He bowed his head slightly. "Sleep well, my lady."
Then, quieter: "And keep your wits sharp. Ser Lyn plays a longer game than most reckon."

That caught her off guard. "You saw us dance?"

"I see more than folk think," he said, turning away before she could answer. "Good night."

When he was gone, Alayne stood for a long while, staring at the empty corridor. The flicker of torchlight danced on the stone, but she felt cold all the same.

"Better here," she murmured to herself. But for the first time, the words sounded hollow.

Chapter Text

The riverlands were dying by inches.

The trees along the banks of the Trident were bare now, skeletal fingers reaching up through the morning mist. Their branches clacked softly in the wind, like old bones rattling together. Jaime could smell the rot before he saw it — the sweet, foul stink of mud and carrion where the floodwaters had receded. A broken cart half-buried in the muck leaned at an angle, its wheels swallowed by the earth. A child’s doll stared up at him from the roadside, its painted eyes scoured away by the rain.

He urged Honor forward.

The destrier’s breath steamed in the chill air, hooves squelching wetly through the mire. Ahead of him, Brienne rode in silence. Her shoulders were broad beneath the battered mail, her blue cloak frayed and torn at the hem. She’d said little since they’d left Pennytree.

Follow me if you would save the girl. That was all she’d said.

The morning mist thickened, curling around them in pale ribbons. “You’ve not said where we’re bound,” he called to her. His voice sounded strange in the fog, echoing in the stillness. “If this is your notion of a rescue, I’d call it a poor one.”

Brienne slowed her horse but didn’t turn. “You’ll see soon enough.”

I’ve had enough of that phrase to last a lifetime, he thought. He made out as Oathkeeper’s red-and-black scabbard caught what little light filtered through the mist. He remembered the day he gave it to her, remembered the look on her face — so pure, so earnest, so damned foolish. 

His hand — the good one — brushed the hilt of his own sword out of habit.

The riverlands were quieter than he remembered during the war. That was only natural. He had ridden through a dozen such villages since Riverrun fell. Broken men and blackened beams — that was all the war had left behind.

Even the crows had grown thin. They wheeled above the trees in lazy circles, their cries sharp and hollow against the morning fog. 

“Your horse looks half-dead,” he said after a while, if only to fill the silence. “If she drops, I’m not carrying you the rest of the way.”

Brienne’s shoulders tensed. “She’ll make it.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“She’ll make it,” she repeated.

Jaime sighed, shifting in the saddle. His stump ached faintly in the damp. The leather of his golden hand creaked when he flexed it. The sound made him think of chains.

He watched her a long while, trying to read her as he might a page. There was something off about her gait — not fear, not quite, but a kind of hesitation. Like a woman walking toward something she could not avoid.

He still remembered her as she’d been — the girl who had fought three men at once to save him, who had wept when he told her of the things he’d done for love. Whatever madness had seized her now, he owed her that much trust.

Still, the longer they rode, the more the air seemed to close around him. The woods were darker here, the fog thicker. Branches clawed at his cloak as they passed, wet leaves brushing his face like cold fingers.

Jaime could not shake the feeling they were moving in circles. The ground beneath the horses’ hooves was soft and uneven. Once, he caught sight of a low stone wall half-swallowed by moss. A field perhaps, long forgotten.

“Where are we?” he asked.

Brienne didn’t answer.

He guided his horse closer, close enough that his knee brushed hers. “I said, where are we?”

She slowed, eyes still on the path ahead. “A place the war forgot.”

“Is that what you call it? Looks to me like the war’s been through here twice,” said Jaime as he let out a dry laugh. That almost earned him a glance, but not quite.

He studied her again — the set of her shoulders, the way her fingers clenched and unclenched around her reins. Every motion was deliberate, careful, as if she were afraid her body might betray her.

When had she grown so quiet? The Brienne he remembered could barely hold her tongue through a single mile. She’d lectured him on vows, honor, oaths — seven bloody hells, how she’d lectured. Now she rode through the smog like a ghost.

“You’ve changed,” he said softly. His deep green hues watching over her broad frame, the brown cloak he’d replaced for his white billowing in the early morning breeze. “You look ghastly.” 

Brienne said nothing at first. Her horse snorted, shaking droplets from its mane. The only other sound was the soft, sucking pull of mud beneath the hooves. When she finally spoke, her voice came low.

“I could say the same of you.”

“Supposing I do,” Jaime said. “In my case, ghastly would come with a certain charm.”

No answer.

He tried a smile, but it felt thin on his lips, false as the hand that gleamed at his side. She used to take his jests with a frown and a retort — something blunt and honest that cut sharper than most swords. Now even his mockery seemed to fall into a pit between them.

“Judging by the look of you,” Jaime started again, prodding her. “You’ve seen a few battles. Slain your first man, have you?”

“Yes.”

The answer came quick, almost bitten off, and she kept her gaze fixed on the road ahead.

Jaime studied her profile through the mist — the set of her jaw, the faint tremor in her mouth. “You don’t sound proud of it.”

Brienne’s fingers tightened around her reins. “Why should I be?”

“Most knights are. They’ll name every man they’ve killed as if it were a song.”

“I’m no knight.”

“No,” he said softly. “You were always something else.”

That earned him a glance, brief but sharp. Her eyes — gods, they looked older than he remembered. The blue had dulled, worn thin by sleepless nights. “You’ve killed more than most,” she said. “Does it make you proud?”

Jaime chuckled under his breath, though it came out rough. “It used to. When I was younger, more full of vigor.”

“And now?”

“Now I forget their faces. That’s the kindness age gives us.” He looked at her again. “Do you?”

Brienne didn’t answer right away. The silence between them stretched, filled only by the damp creak of saddles and the drip of water from the leaves above. Finally, she said, “I remember every one.”

There was no boast in it — only weariness.

He found himself watching her hands again, the way her knuckles whitened on the leather straps. She’d always been strong — but this was a different kind of strength, the brittle sort that came after something had broken and never quite healed right.

“How many?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Enough to remember.”

The air hung between them like a blade.

By afternoon, the mist had turned to rain — a fine, needling drizzle that soaked through cloak and mail alike. Jaime’s fingers were numb, his stump throbbed, and his patience was running thin.

“How far?” he asked again.

“Not far,” Brienne said, the same words she’d given him a dozen times before.

He almost laughed. Not far, always not far. 

He tried to picture Sansa Stark — the girl she’d spoken of, the reason he’d followed her from Pennytree. A ghost, that’s all she was now. A name whispered in half a hundred camps. It had been a fool’s hope to think she might still live.

It was colder now, the sort of cold that found its way into joints and marrow. He drew his cloak tighter. Doubts sinking deep as blades. “You’re certain the girl’s alive?” he asked, watching the back of her head.

Brienne hesitated. “She was.”

Was. Jaime’s gut clenched.

“Alive when?”

A pause too long.

 “When I last saw her.”

Her voice cracked like dry wood. He stared at her for a long moment, surprised by the venom in it. Then he turned away, studying the mist instead.

They climbed a shallow rise where the fog broke enough to show the river again — a dark ribbon winding through the valley. The banks were swollen and soft, the water sluggish with silt. What had once been fields were now pools of stagnant rain. A dead horse lay half-submerged near the far bank, its ribs sharp beneath stretched skin.

A fine country you’ve won yourself, Jaime thought bitterly.

He looked back toward Brienne. Her hair had darkened with rain, plastered to her cheeks. She wasn’t looking at him, but at the river — or past it, perhaps. Her face was unreadable.

“You’ve said nothing of Podrick Payne,” Jaime said. “Did the boy run off? Or did you lose him too?”

For a moment he thought she hadn’t heard. Then she said, barely above a whisper, “He’s waiting.”

“Waiting where?”

No answer.

“Seven bloody hells, Brienne, I asked—”

She wheeled her horse suddenly, facing him full. Her expression startled him — not anger, not quite, but something more fragile and frightening. Fear, maybe. Or guilt.

“Please,” she said. “Just… trust me.”

That stilled him. The words were simple, but the way she said them — raw, low, almost pleading — left his throat dry.

“Trust you,” Jaime echoed. “You vanish for months, drag me halfway across the Riverlands, and won’t say a word of why. And now you ask for trust.”

“Yes.”

The single word hung there, soft as snowfall.

He wanted to laugh, but the sound caught somewhere in his chest. Gods, she looked half-mad — hollow-eyed, lips chapped, her cheek maimed by something foul, shoulders trembling under wet mail. 

“Fine.”

The single word response hung there. Then, the two were riding once again as they were before. 

They rode until the trees grew too close for the horses to pass abreast. The fog clung thick between the trunks, swallowing sound. Jaime could hear only the wet jangle of tack and the soft squelch of hooves.

Then something changed.

The air grew heavy — still, almost reverent. The woods had gone utterly silent. Even the crows had fled.

He frowned, glancing aside. The branches here were crooked and swollen, thick ropes of moss hanging from them like old cobwebs. Except—

Not moss.

At first he thought them strips of bark, pale and weather-gnawed. But then a gust came through, slow and cold, and they swayed.

Shapes. Long and thin, twisting at the ends. Boots dangling above the muck.

Jaime’s horse snorted and balked, ears flat.

He felt it before he truly saw it — the weight pressing on his chest, the cold prickling his scalp. His eyes traced the nearest shape upward: a man, bloated and stiff, tongue swollen between blue lips. Flies crawled in the hollows of his face.

The next had no face at all.

Another, smaller, was just a girl.

There were seven of them, strung like offerings along the road.

“What in—” His voice rasped dry in his throat.

Brienne had stopped ahead. She didn’t look back.

“Brienne,” he said, more sharply.

Nothing.

He turned in the saddle, scanning the fog. The world felt narrower somehow, the mist folding closer, smothering the light. His fingers brushed his sword’s hilt.

“This is their work,” he said. “The Brotherhood.”

A tremor ran through her shoulders.

“You brought me here,” Jaime said. “Seven hells, you brought me to them.”

“I didn’t want—” Her voice cracked. “Please, just—”

The rest was lost in the wind.

A crow screamed above them, sudden and sharp. The horses started, and from the fog came the whisper of feet through leaves. Then another. And another.

Something moved at the edge of sight.

Jaime twisted in the saddle. Shadows were coalescing between the trees — rough shapes, shifting, drawing nearer. A glint of steel here, a flash of yellow cloth there.

“Brienne,” he said again, and this time Jaime heard real fear in his own voice.

“Don’t fight,” she whispered.

He almost laughed, but the sound died before it left him. His hand closed around his sword's grip, slick with rain. The air was thick with the stink of rot and old rope.

Then the fog erupted.

A man came screaming from the brush, a tangle of rags and fury, axe raised high. Jaime had only a heartbeat to pull at the reins. Honor reared with a startled whinny, hooves flailing — too late. The axe came down in a wet crunch.

The destrier shrieked, a sound that tore through the mist like the cry of some dying god. Warm blood sprayed Jaime’s face, steaming in the chill. He felt himself lifted, weightless, before the world turned and slammed him into the mud. The breath fled his lungs in one great rush.

The great horse thrashed in the muck, eyes rolling white, hooves churning the ground into red mire.

When he pushed himself up, spitting dirt and blood, Honor was still there — his stallion, his pride. The destrier stumbled, knees folding beneath him as he tried to rise again. Blood streamed down his neck in dark rivulets, steaming in the cold air. Each breath came in a wet rattle. Jaime lurched toward him.

“Easy, boy,” he rasped. “Easy.”

Honor’s dark eyes found him, wide and terrified. He tried to rise a final time — hooves flailing, muscles quivering — but his strength was gone. The horse shuddered and collapsed into the muck with a dull thud. His breath gurgled out, thin and fading, until there was only silence and the soft hiss of rain on blood.

Then the shouting began anew.

Shapes burst from the trees on all sides now, half-glimpsed shadows wrapped in rags and mist. The air filled with the whine of arrows. One struck the ground beside Jaime’s knee, another thudded into a nearby trunk.

“Brienne!” he bellowed, but his voice was swallowed by the din.

Steel rang somewhere to his left. A man charged out of the fog, screaming, beard matted and wild. Jaime brought his golden hand up on instinct — it caught the man square across the jaw with a crack like splitting wood. Teeth flew. The man crumpled.

Another came from behind — he barely saw the glint of a blade before it slashed at his back. The cut tore through his cloak, the scratching of his armor making a horrid sound. Jaime twisted, wrenching his sword from its sheath at last. The blade came free in a hiss of steel, solid silver in the murk.

He slashed wildly, one-handed, driving his attacker back. The man stumbled, tripped over Honor’s still body, and fell. Jaime’s boot came down on his wrist before he could rise. The sword's point found his throat. 

The attacker gasped, blood squirting and bubbling from his flesh. Jaime didn't relent, pushing the blade deeper. Deeper until the man stilled.

More men poured from the trees — half a dozen, maybe more, their eyes fever-bright in the fog. One wore a yellow cloak, filthy and torn, the color of old ale.

“Hold!” Brienne’s voice cut through the chaos, raw and desperate. Jaime still couldn't make out where she was. “Hold, for the love of the gods!”

They didn’t.

“You've debts to pay, Kingslayer!” the man in the yellow cloak roared behind a torn scarf. He swung a cudgel the size of a child. Jaime caught the blow on his blade's flat, but it jarred his arm to the shoulder. Numbing the sword arm left to him.

“Brienne!” he shouted again.

She was nowhere.

Jaime staggered, slipping in the mud. Someone seized his shoulder — he turned, golden hand flashing, striking bone. He didn’t know if it was a face or a breastplate he hit, only that the man fell away screaming.

The strap securing his hand tore from the impact. Perhaps it was ripped away after being caught on some stray piece of armor. Jaime was too disoriented to say for certain. Gold dropped into the mud with a heavy plop. Pain shot through his stump, white and sudden.

Another arrow whistled by, close enough to tug his hair. His world was sound and motion now — the wet thud of boots, the ragged shouts, the hammering of his own heart.

Mud gave way beneath his boots. Jaime staggered backward, groping for footing that wasn’t there. The ground simply fell away. He went tumbling down a steep, slick embankment — rolling through ferns and roots, armor clattering, limbs scraping rock. The breath was torn from him again and again. He crashed hard against a half-buried log, then kept sliding.

The fog grew thinner for a heartbeat, and then he saw it — the river.

It loomed up black and heaving below him, swollen with rain and runoff, choked with debris. He tried to dig his heels in, but the mud was too slick. The last thing he felt before he went under was the bitter slap of the cold.

The world became bubbles and roar. The current seized him like a living thing and dragged him down. His armor turned to lead, every strap and plate conspiring to drown him. 

He kicked, clawed upward. His lungs burned. The river spun him, slammed him into something hard — a branch, a rock, he couldn’t tell. His head rang.

Up, he told himself. Up.

He broke the surface once, choking, spitting brown water. The fog hung even here, veiling the far bank in gray. Behind him he could just make out shouting — faint, distant, muffled by the river’s thunder. Brienne’s voice, maybe. Or his mind.

Then the current took him again.

He flailed, one arm useless, the other clutching at nothing. His sword was gone. His horse was gone. His golden hand was gone. The world was noise and cold and pain. He sank again, deeper this time, and the roar dulled to a steady hum. The river’s pull was steady now, almost gentle.

A strange calm came over him. He thought of Cersei — her voice, her scent, her hair spilling over him like the golden waves above. He reached for her in the dark.

When his eyes opened again, the river had changed. It was slower here, thick with reeds. The fog hung close to the surface, moving like smoke. He was caught on something — a root, a tangle of driftwood — and the current lapped around him in little eddies.

Jaime tried to move and found he couldn’t. His limbs were heavy, his head full of ringing. He coughed up water, gagged, and forced himself to crawl toward the bank.

Each motion was agony. His armor dragged him down, but inch by inch he made it. He collapsed in the reeds, half in the water, half out, chest heaving. The world tilted around him — green and gray and black.

Somewhere upstream, faint and distant, he thought he heard voices again. Men shouting. A woman’s cry. Then silence. Only the river.

He lay there a long time, listening to it.

Then, slowly, he turned his head — and saw the shape of a boot lying in the mud beside him. The fog drifted lower, folding him in again.

“Seven hells,” Jaime whispered hoarsely looking up from his back.

Above him were the hanged men, swaying gently in the fog — as if nodding.

Chapter Text

A chill ran through her, a shiver racked Asha Greyjoy’s whole body. The tent she shared with Alysane Mormont was colder than usual, the snow was heavy tonight. Not that she could hope for a respite of peace. Sleep would not come easy for her tonight if it did at all, not after the horrors Theon had described to her.

Asha couldn’t even shut her eyes without seeing it. Every single atrocity committed upon her brother by that Bastard of Bolton. She wondered from what part of his body that piece of skin came from in the letter she received. Unable to stop herself, the likely choice came to the forefront of her mind.

Asha dry heaved, feeling what meager meal she had that day as it came up and became trapped inside her mouth. Swallowing it back down she cursed under her breath. The bitter taste lingering on her tongue. That made her heave again noisily though this time nothing else came up.

The woman rolled over in her furs, looking blankly up at the roof of the tent. It was starting to sag noticeably. They’d have to get out and clear it soon lest they want to be buried in snow once it gave way.

Not now, Asha thought. I need to gather my strength again first.

Regardless of if she wished it, Asha was sure Alysane would rouse her soon to help her with the chore. The She-Bear wasn’t sleeping judging by the absence of that thunderous snoring. She hadn’t talked to Asha since she returned. But there was no doubt that she heard about it.

After her reunion with Theon the whole encampment was abuzz with talk. She’d heard whispers of the turncloak and the traitor around nearly every fire she passed. Balon Greyjoy’s last living son was a captive now, held inside the watchtower to be kept close to King Stannis lest these northerners took it upon themselves to behead him tonight.

While the two of them were cordial and shared a mutual respect, there were no words Alysane Mormont could very well share.

She wants Theon dead as much as the rest of the Northmen. She’s said as much.

Not that Asha could really blame her. After all he’d done? Aye, Theon deserved to die. She likely deserved to die too after all.

But no one deserves... No one deserves that.

The twinge of guilt twisted in her stomach again, making her shake ever so softly inside her furs. Her teeth were lightly chattering as she pulled them tighter towards her chest.

Asha wanted to see Qarl — he’d warm her. She wanted to kiss and fuck and forget about all of this. In truth she knew that would only be a little ointment on a festering wound.

Not that she could see the Maid even if she wanted to. Stannis thought it wise to keep the Ironborn separated for the time being. Each of them scattered to a different corner of the encampment with a designated guard assigned to watch over them at all times.

A wise decision, Asha had to admit. Were they all together they’d likely come to the conclusion it was better to fight and die in glorious battle than freeze to death. One last stand against their captors.

Asha would love to sink her suckling babe into Clayton Suggs’ throat before she died. How sweet that would be.

Coming this far inland was folly, she knew that from the onset. There was no escape to be found here in this frozen hellscape anymore. They should have never ventured so far from the sea.

Look what has become of us...

The bitterness of the winter cold slowly melted away then. The only sound was the wind whipping at the outside of her tent and her breathing. Hot breath misted the air in front of her face, slowly getting thicker as her breathing grew harder and louder.

A warm palm cupped her cheek, she purred, turning towards it. Planting feathery kisses against its thumb before taking the digit between her pink lips and suckling on it.

Other phantom hands groped at her body roughly, Asha shuddered, suppressing a moan. There were eight arms in total, cradling her, caressing her.

“More,” Asha groaned desperately, finally looking up at the man mounting her. “Qarl, please.”

There he was hovering above her, the Maid. The smooth beardless face, soft features, so pristine. Her fingertips reached for him, ghosting over his pale swimmer’s physique, her long nails grazing the leanness of his muscles. She couldn’t recall ever seeing a more beautiful sight.

Her dark eyes noticed candlelight — strange, she wasn’t in her tent anymore. Asha wasn’t lying on an uncomfortable cot of bark and straw anymore, instead she found herself on a soft featherbed.

I’m back at Deepwood, Asha realized.

The woman didn’t have any time to dwell on that, looking back up at her lover. The thumb she’d been suckling on left her mouth with a wet pop.

Qarl’s fingers slowly slid around her slender neck, tightening and tightening. He was in her then, raw and wild. Her sex was slick, dribbling down her thighs. Long legs wrapping around his slender waist, crossing her ankles, locking him in place — heels pushing into his lower back to force his member deeper.

Oh, Tris.

Asha was staring wide-eyed up at Tristifer Botley now. He was broader of body, bearded and handsome. Gasping for breath as he leveraged his weight above her, hands clasped tighter about her throat. Asha’s whole body spasmed, eyes rolling back as the pleasure became too great.

She was dazed, the hands clasped tightening still, breathing growing ever thinner. Putting caution to the wind, she didn’t stop it, she wouldn’t.

Asha loved this as Tris loved her. Their cocks, they both fit snugly, perfectly. Both of them, Tris and Qarl, the Drowned God made them for her, she was sure of that.

Her vision was hazy, having lost herself in the throes of pleasure. The man above her had changed again. It took Asha a moment to see him.

As her vision cleared, Asha saw his dark hair matted to his brow, sweat dripping down his nose. An exhausted smile curved her features as she whispered his name softly — “Theon.”

She remembered the day he sailed back home, pampered and pompous. Just like a little princeling of the greenlands. Stupid as he was, he was as comely as a maiden could hope for.

Asha still remembered how her brother’s mass throbbed against the palm of her hand, the memory brought a choked laugh from her throat. Her hips eagerly rocking against his, trying to goad him into thrusting into her.

Theon groaned, his nails digging into the sides of her pale neck, drawing blood. It took Asha a moment to understand — his moan wasn’t a moan of pleasure but of pain.

Theon’s face contorted, twisting up in agony. His eyes drooped, becoming sunken and the color of a blood-red sea. His thick black hair fell out and thinned, becoming as white as a winter snow. His body, gods, his body became as thin and fragile as a newborn babe. Skeletal, diseased, and rotting from the inside out.

The worst was his teeth.

They broke and shattered, falling out of Theon’s mouth in a gushing rain of blood and bone that stained her face below.

Asha panicked then, thrashing and struggling under him. Her nails clawing at his hands, tearing flesh trying to free herself from his grip.

She couldn’t breathe.

Gasping for breath, struggling for her life, the specter above her leaned down to claim her lips. He had blue lips now, his smiling eye was glittering.

Euron Greyjoy thrust into her violently, Asha wanted to scream but she’d run out of breath. What was inside her now wasn’t rigid or hot anymore. It was cold — ice cold — squirming, it was alive, worming its way toward her womb.

With what little strength remained left to her, Asha struggled. His face sloughed off where she mauled at it, flesh peeling off under her fingernails.

What was underneath it was worse than Euron Crow’s Eye.

Its face a mass of writhing tentacles, dripping putrid sludge and salt water onto Asha’s face. The miasma of filth the monster was excreting filled her mouth and nostrils — she was drowning in it, she was drowning.

The world went dark.

Asha was no longer in Deepwood, no longer in bed, no longer in distress. She was floating, it was freezing yet peaceful. How far beneath the surface was she? It was so dark that Asha couldn’t tell.

Was this the Drowned God’s watery halls? Rays of sunlight came from above her cutting through the murkiness of the water. Her bloodshot eyes looked toward it, bubbles forming around her as she exhaled.

Ice — the sunlight was coming from cracks in the thick ice above her. Kicking her bare feet she noticed her toes were webbed. Asha swam towards the ice with an urgency.

Asha wasn’t drowning but she felt threatened, she felt preyed upon. She had to get through that ice, she had to.

That was when tentacles rose from the deep, slipping around her leg, yanking her down. Her scream was muffled by the frosty water. Asha beat on the tentacle with a fist trying to squirm her way loose.

She was almost free when more slimy limbs rose from the deep dark, coiling around her. They were strong, squeezing, suffocating the life from her.

Then she saw the thing. A horrifying creature, something Asha couldn’t comprehend. A kraken? A dragon? It was winged and tentacled, scaled yet translucent. It had eyes — three eyes — one black as the darkest night, one glittering like a jewel, one red as open flame.

A grotesque mouth opened — mangled and jagged onyx teeth sought to taste her flesh.

It’s him — my god, my doom.

Something black and winged sped past her head from above, crashing into the kraken rising from the deep. The thing exploded against the monstrosity into a blast of smoke.

Another one then shot past her, they were crashing through the ice and attacking the beast.

Ravens, Asha realized.

“Theon,” one of the dark birds screeched.

“The tree,” cried another, darting past her into the colossus in the sea beneath her.

Its tentacles lost their grip on her. Suddenly Asha was freed. She turned in the water, frantically swimming towards the icy surface above.

She heard the beast screaming in the depths behind her, it was a distorted ghastly sound. The ravens that flew past her continued their screams as well.

“The tree!”

                   “Theon!”

                                     “Tree!”

                                                    “Mercy!”

                                                                      “Mercy!”

Asha jerked upright, lungs clawing for air. For an instant she didn’t know where she was—the freezing dark, the taste of salt and rot still in her mouth, the weight of something that wasn’t there pressing on her chest. Then the sound reached her: canvas snapping, the low moan of wind, the creak of snow sliding down a tent pole.

Alysane was shouting her name from somewhere close by. The roof had bowed inward; a white ridge of snow trembled, then spilled across the floor in a glittering sheet. The cold bit so deep it felt like punishment.

Asha wiped her face with a shaking hand. It came away wet, but not from sea water—melted frost and sweat. Her throat ached as if she’d truly been strangled.

Another shout—Alysane again. Asha forced her legs free of the furs and staggered upright. Her knees barely obeyed her.

Outside, the wind keened through the pines like the cries she had just heard in her dream. Mercy, it seemed to whisper. Mercy.

The gust outside sharpened, snapping the flap wide. A swirl of snow rushed in, hissing across the floor. The air stung her skin like tiny knives. Alysane’s shadow moved beyond the lamplight—broad shoulders, axe slung against her back.

“Up,” came the woman’s voice through the wind. “Snow’s near brought the tent down.”

Asha’s body obeyed before her mind did. Her fingers were stiff as she clawed at her boots, dragging them on with half-frozen hands. The cold had a taste now, coppery and bitter. When she stood, her knees trembled under her own weight.

She pushed aside the hanging furs and stepped into the storm. The world was silver and black. Wind cut through her like a whip, and the snow piled high enough to swallow her calves. The tents nearby looked like graves with candles burning atop them.

Alysane was already there, beating at the sagging canvas with a spear shaft to shake the weight free. Asha joined her. The two women worked in silence, striking, breathing, striking again, until the last load of snow slid off with a dull thud.

They stood panting, their breath rising in twin plumes that merged and vanished. The camp beyond was eerily still—only the groan of ropes and the far-off howl of something in the dark.

For a moment, Asha’s gaze drifted upward. The clouds were so low they looked carved out of iron. Somewhere above them, unseen stars still burned. She shivered, thinking of the dream’s icy deep, and how close it still felt.                                

By the time they’d beaten the snow from the tent roof, Asha could no longer feel her fingers. The cold had teeth tonight. When she finally pulled her gloves back on, her hands burned as if the skin would split.

Alysane was already cinching her cloak. “You’re awake now," she said, voice clipped by the wind. “Good. The king’s sent for you.”

Asha turned, wary. “At this hour?”

“Best you don’t keep him waiting.”

Asha searched her face for meaning, but the She-Bear’s expression gave nothing away. She stepped outside instead, pushing into the dark. The camp stretched before them, half-buried under snowdrifts, fires guttering low in the night. Every sound was swallowed by the storm — the creak of ropes, the snort of horses, the hiss of wind through the pines.

Men watched as she passed, hard faces haloed by torchlight. Some muttered, others only looked on in silence. Their stares clung to her back like burrs.

“Why now?” Asha asked, voice rough from the cold.

Alysane didn’t answer at first. They walked until the shadow of the old watchtower rose above them, stark against the stormy sky. Then she said, “Your brother’s with him. The king means to see to him before dawn.”

Asha stopped dead. “See to him?”

Alysane turned, eyes steady as stone. “He’s chosen to burn the boy. Out on the ice before all the Northmen.”

The wind moaned through the camp. Asha felt it cut straight through her furs, down to the bone. For a heartbeat, she couldn’t breathe.

“When?” she whispered, though she already knew.

“First light,” said Alysane. “Stannis would have words with you first.”

They climbed the slope to the tower in silence. The snow came down thicker now, smothering every trace of their steps. Asha could see the firelight flickering through the arrow slits, orange against the black stone.

At the entrance, two of the queen’s men stood guard — their armor rimed with frost, torches hissing in the wind. One banged a mailed fist against the door.

“Lady Asha Greyjoy,” he called. “By the king’s command.”

The door opened with a groan. Warmth and the smell of burning wood spilled out.

Alysane stopped at the threshold, but Asha moved past her. She could hear something from above — the low murmur of voices, and beneath it, a sound she couldn’t mistake.

Her brother’s coughing.

Asha clenched her jaw and started up the stairs.

The door shut behind her with a heavy thud that echoed up the stairwell. The warmth inside the tower was meager, barely more than what leaked from a hearth somewhere above. Asha’s boots left wet prints on the worn steps as she climbed. Her breath came ragged, each exhale a wisp of ghost-smoke in the dimness.

Halfway up, she heard them — voices, low and sharp.

“— you will have your gold, banker,” came Stannis’s iron rasp. “After the war. If I am dead, you may take it from my corpse.”

Tycho Nestoris’s smooth tone followed, a stark contrast. “Gold is of little use to the dead, Your Grace. The Iron Bank invests in men who endure.”

A chair scraped, boots shifted.

“You think I mean to fail?” Stannis asked.

“I think the snow does not kneel to kings,” Tycho said quietly.

Asha crept higher, the chill of the stone seeping through her furs. The air smelled of smoke and salt and the faint, acrid tang of pitch. She could see faint firelight flickering beneath the door at the landing above.

Another voice joined in — rough, with a Marcher’s drawl. “The Karstarks are with the enemy, sure as summer. Rattleshirt found one o’ their men skulking near the meat tents last night.” That was Clayton Suggs, or perhaps Richard Horpe; Asha couldn’t tell which.

“They swear loyalty, then trade messages with Bolton’s men,” another said. Justin Massey this time. “Aye, I believe it. We should hang them all before sunrise.”

“Enough.” Stannis’s tone was final, cutting through the room like a blade. “Arnolf Karstark’s treachery will be answered soon enough. I will not see the rest of the north poisoned with his rot.”

There was a soft groan, a weak, rasping breath — a voice she’d know even in the depths of the sea.

“Please…” Theon’s whisper carried through the crack in the door.

She pressed closer. Through the narrow opening, she saw him.

Theon Greyjoy was bound to a chair near the fire, wrists tied before him, head drooping forward. His hair was the color of ashes, his face a ruin of scars. The light of the flames licked across his skin, hollowing his cheeks and throwing his eyes into deep shadow.

He looked so small. The boy who’d strutted the deck of the Sea Bitch was gone. In his place sat something half-made of ash and brittle bone.

One of the knights — Suggs, she realized — gave him a shove with the back of his hand. “The bastard should thank you, Your Grace. Not every man gets to warm a god’s heart with his own body.”

Stannis didn’t even glance at him. “You will hold your tongue in my presence, Ser Clayton, or lose it.”

The knight grunted, muttered something into his beard, and stepped back.

Tycho Nestoris folded his gloved hands. “This sacrifice you speak of… it is not a thing the Bank condones.”

“Nor do I,” Stannis said, staring into the fire. “But the gods are owed. The boy’s crimes are many — and his death may yet win the snows to melt.”

He turned then, and the light caught the hard planes of his face — gaunt, sleepless, merciless.

Asha felt her heart hammering in her chest. Her fingers found the doorframe, gripping until her nails bit wood.

Theon whimpered softly.

She could not stay hidden any longer. The urge to rush to him, to tear the ropes from his wrists, to do something, nearly choked her. Yet her feet would not move.

Stannis spoke again, quieter now. “Bring the sister in.”

The guards at the stairwell below had followed her up. One of them moved past her and opened the door wide.

The light of the fire poured over her like molten gold.

The door shut behind her with a heavy finality that made the chamber feel smaller than it was. Smoke hung in the air, thick and stinging, the scent of pitch and tallow. The fire in the hearth threw long, wavering shadows across the walls. Stannis Baratheon stood before it like a carved figure of obsidian, unmoving, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Tycho Nestoris turned at the sound of her boots. The banker’s expression was unreadable, pale face catching the firelight as if cast from polished bone. Ser Clayton Suggs, Ser Richard Horpe, and Ser Justin Massey lingered by the table. Only Theon did not turn; his head hung low, the ropes around his wrists slack.

“Your Grace,” Alysane Mormont said behind her. “As you commanded. Lady Asha of House Greyjoy.”

“Leave us,” Stannis said.

The She-Bear hesitated, eyes flicking toward Theon then to Asha. “He’s half-dead already. There’s little honor in—”

“Leave us,” Stannis repeated, voice quiet but edged in steel.

Alysane inclined her head stiffly and withdrew, her heavy footfalls fading down the stairwell. The door closed. Asha stood alone in the king’s presence.

She bowed, low but not servile. “Your Grace.”

“You know why you are here,” Stannis said, not looking at her. The fire crackled between them. “Your brother’s crimes are many. I mean to see justice done..”

“By fire?” she asked.

Asha drew herself up, meeting his gaze. “If justice is what you want, Your Grace, I’ll not gainsay the sentence. But burning—” She swallowed. “Burning is not the way of the North. It’s not the way of men.”

“Nor is treason,” Stannis said. “He slew boys who were wards, burned Winterfell, betrayed every oath he ever swore.”

“He’s paid for that a hundred times over,” Asha said sharply before she could stop herself. “Look at him.”

Stannis did. For a long moment, no one spoke. Theon stirred faintly, his lips moving soundlessly.

“The old gods will not have him. The Drowned God cannot save him. What remains will be cleansed in fire.”

“If it’s death you mean to give him, there are cleaner ways. You could hang him. Swing the sword yourself if you must.” 

“That would be mercy.”

Asha blinked, the word striking her like a slap. Mercy.

It echoed from somewhere deep inside her — from her dream, from the black water, from the ravens that had screamed it as she drowned.

“Mercy,” she whispered, barely aware she’d spoken. “Is that such a crime, Your Grace?”

“Mercy is a luxury of the innocent,” Stannis said. “I am not innocent, nor is he.”

Asha took a step closer. The firelight touched her face now, gold over pallor. “You are a king. You can make mercy mean something.”

His jaw flexed. “A king is a servant of law. Not of mercy.”

Her eyes darted to Theon — to his thin wrists, his hollowed cheeks, the broken thing that once was a man. “Law’s already had its fill of him,” she said. “Look at him, Your Grace. Look at what’s left. He’s—”

“Enough,” Stannis said. He turned then, his face carved from granite, eyes the pale blue of deep winter. “You think to sway me with your sympathy, but I do not bend.”

“I’m not asking you to bend,” she said, voice rough. “I’m asking you to see.”

Stannis’s gaze flicked toward Theon — once, briefly — then away. The silence that followed felt like judgment.

Asha drew a long, slow breath, steadying herself. The tower chamber was close with heat and the stink of damp wool, tallow smoke, and old blood. Theon’s chains rasped faintly as he stirred, or shivered — she could no longer tell which.

“You’d burn him before the Northmen?” she asked. Her voice came quieter now, but the words carried. “Before the old gods?”

Stannis’s jaw shifted, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “Before the realm,” he said. “Before the gods who still answer.”

Tycho Nestoris shifted behind him, the banker’s expression unreadable save for the faint tightening around his mouth. Clayton Suggs stood rigid as a spear glowering at her, while Justin Massey and Richard Horpe exchanged glances that said more than they wished.

Asha took another step forward. “You’ve men of the North among you still. Hill clans, Karstark men, Umbers, what’s left of them. They’ve seen their kin hanged and flayed, and suffered in the snow. Starving and freezing. Now they watch you burn a son of Balon Greyjoy like a witch’s doll, a sacrifice for a red god stranger to them. They seek true Northern justice. Eddard Stark's justice.”

For the first time, Theon stirred, more than a moan or a whine. Something more alive.

“You’ll break your men here if you do this your way.”

Stannis’s eyes flicked toward her, narrow and sharp as chips of ice. “They will learn discipline. The law.”

“The law means naught if the hearts of your men turn against you,” she said. “You speak of law and duty, aye, but the North doesn’t bend to southern gods or southern justice. You call yourself the King of the North now — then act as one. Let him die as the old gods demand, before the heart tree with cold steel. Give your men something they can stomach.”

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the pop of the fire.

Horpe cleared his throat softly. “There’s sense in that, Your Grace. The men whisper. Some call it ill fortune, the burnings.”

Stannis’s gaze cut to him, and Horpe fell silent at once. The king turned back to Asha.

The wind groaned against the shutters. In the corner, Theon sat mute.

Ravens echoed oddly in her ears — a whisper out of her dreams. Mercy. Theon. The tree.

Stannis’s gaze lingered on her for a long while. Beneath his beard, his mouth worked, tightening once, twice, before he finally spoke.

“Tomorrow, before the heart tree, he will answer for his crimes with fire. That is the most clemency I'll allow.”

Asha’s lips trembled, but she mastered herself. “And when the fire’s done? What then, Your Grace? Will your gods thank you for another soul burned?”

Stannis looked past her, past the chamber walls, to something only he could see. “The gods are silent. I act, because they will not.”

That was all.

She bowed — “Do what you will, Your Grace. The cold will take us all soon enough.”

The king said nothing. 

The flames of the heath hissed behind her as she stepped into the storm.

Mercy.

The wind carried it, or maybe it came from her own lips — she couldn’t tell.

Chapter Text

The wind moaned like a woman in pain.

It found every crack in the tower wall, every gap between stone and shutter, and poured through as cold as a knife’s edge. Theon crouched beside the dying brazier, hugging his knees to his chest. His breath plumed white in the dark.

Sleep had been coming in fits, thin and fevered. Faces drifted through the haze — Ramsay’s pale grin, the girls he’d flayed, Robb’s wolf banner burning. He woke each time gasping, sure he’d heard boots outside the door.

When the latch  scraped, he near screamed.

It was not Ramsay. It was the girl.

Jeyne Poole, wrapped in a rough grey cloak, her face hidden beneath the hood. Her hands shook as she carried the small oil lamp. “Theon,” she whispered into the dark. “Are you here?”

Jeyne’s voice quavered like the flame she carried — small, trembling, but stubbornly alive.
Theon blinked at her through the dim, his mind still clawing its way out of some half-dream. The lamplight hurt his eyes. He’d been crouched in the cold so long, even light seemed to burn.

“I’m here,” he rasped, and hated the sound — thin, broken, more breath than voice.

She stepped closer, her bare feet soundless on the stone. The cloak she wore was too large for her, some soldier’s cast-off; it hung heavy with damp. Beneath it, he glimpsed the same plain brown dress she’d worn for days. Once she’d been a pretty enough girl — he remembered her as such, dimly, from Winterfell’s halls — but her face was pale now, lips raw and split, eyes ringed in purple.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said. “I only… I couldn’t sleep.”

“Nor I.”

Jeyne hesitated near the brazier, the weak light painting her face in shifting gold and shadow. Theon could see her throat move as she swallowed, the small sound of it sharp against the quiet.

She knelt beside him without asking, close enough that he could smell the lamp oil on her hands and the sour edge of smoke in her cloak.

“Do you ever sleep?” she asked after a while.

I haven’t slept in a year, he thought solemnly. 

“Sometimes,” Theon said, though he wasn’t sure if it was true. “For a bit. Then the dreams come.”

“What do you dream of?”

He looked into the coals. “Fire.”

The word ironically seemed to draw the warmth out of the room. The wind sighed through the cracks again, the sound thin and keening. He could almost hear the hiss of fat on flame, the crack of bones, the smell—gods, the smell.

“They’ll burn me,” he said softly, not quite to her. “When they’ve done with me. The godswood, maybe. A tree’s a good pyre.”

She frowned, not understanding. Her eyes were wide, wet in the lamplight. “You saved me,” she said finally, as if to calm him more than herself. “You climbed the walls, you got us out. You did it.”

“I got them all killed. That’s what I did. The singer and all the girls, surely. Nearly killed you, between the fall and the snows and the cold.”

“But I lived.”

Theon turned his face from her. The stones seemed to press closer around them, the walls breathing slow as if the tower itself were listening.

“I used to think I’d die with songs,” he murmured. “Like the heroes in the old tales. An arrow through the heart, a last charge, a name shouted in battle. Not like this. Not in the dark, waiting to burn.”

Jeyne’s breath shuddered in the stillness. Theon watched her fingers twist in her lap, white at the knuckles. For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t answer.

Then, softly: “They took my name first.”

He looked up. Her eyes were distant, turned inward.

“When they told me I’d be Arya Stark, I said no.” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed. “I told them I wasn’t her, that Arya was gone. They laughed at me. Said Arya was whoever they said she was.”

Her voice wavered, but she kept talking, as if afraid silence would let the memories in. “I tried to remember how Arya used to walk, how she used to talk. But I’d never spoken to her much. She was always running, shouting, swordfighting with sticks. I never liked that. She’d hit me with them sometimes.”

“You have to be her still — Arya Stark, the lord’s daughter, the wolf maid of Winterfell. Even if it’s a lie. Especially because it’s a lie.”

Jeyne stifled a whimper, she was close to tears. She’s scared. Theon knew fear well, he could see it in her taking hold. Pulling on her like some great beast set upon its prey.

“I don’t want to,” she protested, weakly, meek as a rabbit. “Please. I don't want to.”

“You have to,” Theon said. He tried to speak firmly yet his voice came out wispy. “It is your shield now.”

Jeyne’s lip trembled. The lamplight threw long shadows across her face, hollowing her cheeks, making her eyes seem even larger. She drew her cloak tighter around herself, as though she could hide within it.

“My name is Jeyne,” she broke then, her body racked by silent sobs.

She even cries prettily, he found himself thinking.

“I’m Jeyne.” She repeated as if it was an attempt to make herself believe it.

Theon’s throat worked. He knew that feeling too well — the blurring at the edges, the slow erasure of a self until only what others called you remained. Reek, Ramsay had named him, and Reek he had become. The name was a chain that had chafed until it cut through bone.

He looked at her now, and what he saw wasn’t so different. A girl stolen from herself, wearing a dead child’s skin.

Jeyne’s sobs ebbed to quiet shivers. The lamp guttered low between them, its tiny flame dancing weakly as if it too feared the dark. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, leaving smudges of soot on her cheek. For a time she only stared into the brazier, the coals pulsing like a heartbeat.

Then, in a whisper that barely stirred the air: “They mean to send me to the Wall.”

Theon blinked. “The Wall?”

“To the Lord Commander,” she said. Her voice caught on the title. “To Jon Snow.”

Theon stared at her, uncomprehending for a moment. Jon Snow. Ned Stark’s bastard. He saw a boy again in his mind’s eye — dark hair, quiet eyes, the ghost of a smile when they’d trained in the yard. He’d looked through Theon more than at him, as if he’d seen the hollow already forming there.

Jeyne drew her cloak tighter. “Stannis means it as mercy. Says Lord Snow will protect me, that he’ll see me safe.” She looked up at him then, her face pale and desperate. “But he’ll know, Theon. The first moment he looks at me — he’ll know I’m not her.”

Jeyne’s fingers began to twitch where they clutched her cloak. “He’ll see me,” she whispered, eyes darting toward the shadowed walls, “and he’ll know. He’ll see I’m no lady, no wolf, just Jeyne — just the steward’s girl. He’ll send me back. He has to. He’ll send me back to him.”

Her breath came faster, sharp and shallow. The words tumbled out, breaking apart between gasps. “He’ll say I stole a name that wasn’t mine — that I lied, that I tricked them.”

“Jon Snow is not Ramsay,” Theon said, and there was a raw edge to the words that surprised him. “He won’t send you back. He’s Ned Stark’s blood — he’s her blood. He’ll see what was done to you and he’ll protect you, same as his father would’ve done.”

Jeyne shook her head, unable to meet his gaze. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Theon said, and for once he almost believed it. “Didn’t spend much time with him, didn’t much like him. Yet I know he wasn’t a cruel boy. He’ll pity you, if nothing else.”

Her sobs began to slow, her breaths deep but ragged, the kind that scrape a throat raw on the way out.

Silence settled between them again, broken only by the moan of the wind and the faint crackle of dying coals. She leaned her head against the wall, eyes fluttering shut, her breathing slow but still uneven.

Theon sat still bound and chained, feeling the chill creeping back into his bones as the fire flickered. In the dim, he looked at her — this frightened girl wearing the wolf’s name — and thought, We are both ghosts wearing borrowed skins.

Jeyne’s breathing steadied by degrees, the panic ebbing like a receding tide. Theon could hear the faint hitch between each breath, the quiet sound of someone fighting to keep herself whole.

She sat with her back to the wall, knees drawn to her chest, the cloak falling half-open around her. Her hair, once dark and fine, hung in matted tangles against her face. In the flicker of the lamp, her skin looked nearly translucent — a wisp of a girl, thin as candle smoke.

“They say the Wall never falls,” she said at last, voice low and small. “That it’s too high, too strong. Do you think it’s true?”

Theon looked toward the narrow slit of a window. Only darkness out there. He thought of the wind beyond, shrieking through the ruins of the world. 

“Aye,” he lied in a whisper. “It’s true.”

She nodded once, almost to herself. Her eyes lingered on the brazier, on the way the coals pulsed and dimmed. “I used to pray,” she said quietly. “To the Mother. To be gentle. To be strong. But I don’t think she hears me anymore.”

Theon almost told her the gods didn’t listen to him either — not the Drowned God, not the old gods, none of them — but he stopped. Instead, he said, “Keep praying. If they don’t hear, it can’t hurt to remind them you’re still here.”

Jeyne gave him a look, tired but soft. “You sound like a septon.”

“I sound like a fool.”

“A kind fool,” she whispered. “I remember the first time I saw you. At Winterfell. You laughed loud. You were so sure of yourself.”

He flinched at that — Theon Turncloak, Theon Kinslayer, Theon of the burned boys. The names pressed close, crowding out the air.

“That boy’s dead,” he said.

She was quiet a long time, then murmured, “Then I’ll mourn for both of us.”

When she rose, the lamplight wavered again. “Thank you,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “For… for tonight.”

Theon could only nod. The door creaked open, and a blade of cold air swept in as she slipped through it. The light vanished with her, swallowed by the dark.

He sat there long after she was gone, the coals sinking into ash. The wind outside rose again, rattling the shutters like chains.

He closed his eyes and tried not to hear it — the voice in the dark that sounded like Ramsay’s laughter, the hiss of fire in his dreams, the promise of burning yet to come.

The wind would not rest.
It prowled the tower like a ghost, slipping through cracks and whispering against the stones. The brazier had gone cold. Theon sat slumped in his chair, chains coiled at his feet, the iron biting chill through skin and bone. He had lost track of hours. Only the dark remained — deep, unending.

He might have slept, if what came next hadn’t woken him.

At first it was faint — a clang of steel somewhere below, then shouting, muffled through snow and stone. Theon’s head jerked up. He listened. Another clash — sharper this time, and nearer.

Boots pounded on ice. A horse screamed. Then came a man’s dying wail, cut short.

Theon’s breath caught in his throat. He’s come. The thought was cold as the air around him. Ramsay’s come. He’s come for me.

The chair creaked beneath him as he strained against his bonds. The links rattled like laughter. His heart hammered; the old smell rose in his mind — blood, dogs, smoke. He could hear it now, Ramsay’s voice echoing through the dark.

A door slammed somewhere below. Boots thundered on the stairs. He couldn’t breathe.

The latch scraped.

Theon flinched, eyes wide, chains jerking taut.

But it wasn’t Ramsay.

It was Clayton Suggs.

The knight filled the doorway, broad and red-faced, snow melting on his beard. Another visitor come in from the night. His cloak was half off his shoulder, his mail flecked with frost. The stench of wine and cold iron followed him in.

“Well, look at you,” he drawled, shaking the snow from his boots. “Pissing yourself yet, turncloak?”

Theon said nothing. His tongue was dry as leather.

Suggs strode closer, lamp in hand, the light glinting off the steel of his gorget. “You hear all that racket?” he said. “Karstark men, that’s what it is. Tried to slip off in the dark. Thought they could make for the woods before dawn.”

Theon swallowed. “They’re fighting?”

“Not fer much longer.” Suggs grinned. “We caught half before they cleared the palisade. The rest we’ll find by morning, frozen stiff as trout.” He leaned close, breath sour. “You should’ve seen it, turncloak. One of ’em took a pike through the belly. Screamed long enough to make the dogs whine.”

He circled behind the chair, the heavy tread of his boots echoing on the stone. Theon felt the man’s presence like heat at his back.

“You’ll get your justice soon enough,” Suggs went on. “His Grace will want you when the fire’s lit. Burn a few Karstarks first, maybe. But he won’t forget you.”

Theon said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Clayton grinned, pleased with himself, and leaned closer so the torchlight carved his face into bright mockery. “Come now, lad,” he urged, voice oily. “Say something. Tell me you’re not afeared. Put on your prince voice for me. Sing us a song about ironborn courage. Or perhaps—” he reached out and jabbed a finger at Theon’s chest, where a bruise had set like old weather — “—you’ll tell us how you flung yourself from the battlements to save your pretty Stark girl. Brave as a gull, you were. Go on, tell your tall tale.”

Theon turned his head away. The chains bit when he shifted, the iron ringing soft and cruel. Suggs’ smile splintered for a second, then brightened with irritation. “Stoic, are we? No clever retort? No fire in the belly? You used to have a tongue, turncloak. Where’s it gone? Stolen by dogs?”

He tried a different prod, lower, crueler. “Do you miss your father? Salt and iron? Tell me — do you dream of the sea, or do you dream of the flames that ate your banners?”

Theon’s fingers tightened on the arms of the chair, not from anger but from muscle and habit. He could feel the calluses on his palms, the memory of rope burning into flesh. He remembered the shout of men, the weight of a spear, the sound of Robb’s banners snapping. All of it folded inward like paper, burnt edges curling toward black. His chest hurt where some other man had stamped on it, where shame had been edged in so long the pain felt like a second skin.

Suggs’ jibes slid off him now the way rain slips off a waxed cloak. The cruel amusement Suggs expected never came. Instead there was a hollow, a quiet as deep as a grave.

“That’s the thing with you lot,” Suggs sniffed, voice souring. “ You noble lot. You wear your names like trophies till they rot. And when they rot, you rot with them.”

He bent then, close enough that Theon could see the crooked scar along the knight’s jaw, the yellow teeth flashing in a grin that had never known kindness. Suggs planted his hands on the chair’s back and gave it a hard push, so that the iron ring in the floor scraped the stone and Theon rocked forward against his bonds. The chains rattled noisily.

“Look at you,” Suggs said, softer now, almost disappointed. “You’re nothing but a chair and a sound. Tell me you’re not afraid, turncloak. Say it loud. Make it worth the night.”

Suggs straightened with a bark of displeasure and spat on the floor between Theon’s boots. “Fine,” he snarled. “Save your screams for the flames.”

He stepped back, boots heavy on the flagstones, and for a heartbeat the tower was only wind and the dull creak of iron. Then Clayton Suggs turned, and the door slammed behind him like a verdict.

Theon sat very still. The torchlight painted moving shadows on the walls, and from somewhere below the camp a man swore, another laughed, the sound of men hauling and binding drifting up like tide. The night would not end.

When the door finally opened again, he didn’t flinch. He’d been waiting for it.

 The brazier had long gone cold. The lamp guttered out somewhere near the middle of the night, leaving him with only the moan of the wind and the distant, irregular clamor from the courtyard below — voices, hooves, the clang of steel on steel. Every so often came a scream that was quickly swallowed by the snow.

Three of them came in, heavy boots thudding on the floor, faces hidden behind frost and hoods. One carried a coil of rope.  The one who spoke — wore the burned heart of R’hllor on his breast.

“Theon Greyjoy.”

He didn’t answer. The name felt like it belonged to someone else. Someone who’d died screaming long ago.

“His Grace has sent for you,” the man said.

They didn’t need to drag him. There was no fight in him. He stood on his own, stiff and hollow, the irons biting his wrists as they fixed the rope around them. The links rattled faintly with each step as they led him out.

The corridor smelled of smoke and pitch. Down the stairs, he could see the orange glow spilling through the cracks of the outer door — dawn was upon the encampment. 

He thought of Jeyne’s tear-streaked face, her small voice whispering They’ll send me to the Wall. He’d told her not to be afraid. That Jon Snow would not send her back. But no one was coming for him.

Only the stake waited.

Snow swallowed the sound of their boots. The wind had died with the night, but the cold was sharper now, clean and merciless. It bit his cheeks until they burned. Each breath stung, each step felt like a trespass.

They led him down from the tower, across the yard, where the world was caught between shadow and dawn. The sky was bleeding orange along the edges, the color of flame behind smoke. The Queen’s Men had been busy through the dark hours — he could see what they’d built.

The stakes stood in a crooked row, tall and intimidating against the snow, each one crowned with frozen ropes and kindling slick with oil. 

The Karstarks, Theon knew. They'd burn after him. The sacrifices would last through the afternoon, he was sure.

When he was younger, another boy had told him in Essos the fire priests celebrate holidays by burning hundreds of men alive all through the entire night. A child's night fire tale had spun true here in the near frozen village.

Everywhere, faces watched as he was led like a lamb to slaughter between the rows of stakes.

Northmen, grim and silent, wrapped in furs and doubt. A few of them spat when they saw him. Others looked away, as though even their hatred was too much trouble. He caught a whisper — Turncloak. Another — Kinslayer.

He could not say they were wrong.

He had worn so many names — prince, hostage, ward, fool, Reek — that Theon Greyjoy felt like a story he’d once been told and half forgotten. He wondered which one they'd sing in the songs of the burning.

The Queen’s Men flanked him close, their red god’s badges dark with soot. One of them hummed something as they walked, low and tuneless, something that might’ve been a prayer. 

He stumbled once on the frozen ground, caught himself on his knees. The guard behind him yanked the rope, hard enough to wrench his shoulder. “On your feet, kinslayer.”

He rose. There was nowhere else to go.

Ahead, the weirwood loomed above them — pale as bone, tall and terrible against the sky. Its red leaves whispered in the wind that wasn’t there, and its carved face looked down upon him with eyes that wept sap the color of blood.

He had prayed there once, years ago, it shamed him back then. A child so far from the sea, seeking comfort from gods that were not his own. The memory came sharp and sudden — the silence of the godswood, the creak of branches, the feeling that something old and watchful had stirred as he’d whispered for strength.

It had not answered then. It would not answer now.

I’m sorry, he thought, though he did not know to whom — to the old gods, to Robb, to the boys he’d killed, to the boy he’d been. The apology hung silent in his chest, small and useless.

He saw it then.

My stake.

My grave.

A thick post of dark wood, its base ringed with straw and pitch, its top glinting faintly with frost. A rope hung loose about it, ready for his throat or his wrists.

He stopped a few paces short. His breath fogged the air. A voice behind him said, “Move.”

He didn’t. Not yet. His eyes went to the weirwood one last time.
Its branches reached toward the sky, stark and silent. He wondered if the gods truly watched — if they saw him now, a broken man about to be unmade again.

Maybe they did. Maybe they’d already turned away.

Either way, he felt a strange comfort. To die in front of these, the old gods of the north. Eddard Stark's gods, it felt like justice. 

Better than burning by himself on a frozen lake. Silently, he found himself thankful for Asha's interference the night prior. It was her protest that brought him before the heart tree.

Sunken eyes looked towards the crowd hoping to catch one last glance of his sister. So many faces, so many more gathering. It was a useless effort.

The rope pulled tight around his arms. Theon let them guide him forward.
He did not pray.
He only listened — to the crack of ice and snow beneath his boots, to the mutter of men behind him, to the far-off groan of the wind through the trees, and the cries of ravens as they gathered upon white tree limbs. 

No herald called his crimes. No priests spoke. Even the wind seemed to still as he passed beneath the branches. Snow fell softly. Each flake settled on his hair of the same color, on the torn remnants of his cloak, on the ropes that bound his wrists behind his back. His feet dragged. The guards did not speak, only grunted as they shoved him forward, their breath rising in pale clouds.

When they stopped, the stake waited — thick, rough-hewn, rimed with frost. Theon could smell the pitch on it. 

Hands pushed him down. He did not resist. The ropes bit deep into his wrists as they tied him fast, then looped around his chest and neck. His breath came shallow, rattling in his throat.

One of the men muttered a prayer to the Seven. Theon almost found that irony funny. Another spat. Most just watched. Their faces blurred together — pale, red, gray — like spirits in the snow.

Stannis stood apart, half-shrouded by mist. His cloak snapped once in the wind, dark as dried blood. He said nothing, did nothing. Just watched as the ropes were knotted tight. His expression was carved from cold.

Theon met his gaze once — only once — and found nothing there. No hate. No mercy. Just duty, naked and absolute.

The last knot was drawn. A guard stepped back. 

When the wind came again, it hissed through the heart tree’s leaves, setting them to whispering. The sound was like distant voices.

Theon…

He bowed his head, the name echoing in his skull — his name, at least that was his still.

Theon…

The winds moaned louder, the gods were speaking again.

Theon…

Stannis took a single step forward. The men parted to make way for him. The wind pressed his cloak flat against his back, the black and red fabric snapping in the cold. He stopped before the weirwood, between the carved face and the condemned man tied beneath it.

For a long moment, he said nothing. The only sound was the rasp of the torches and the restless murmur of men gathered in a half circle —

When Stannis finally spoke, his voice was low but carried clean through the still air.
“Men of the North,” he said, “you have called me your king. So long as that is true, justice shall not freeze nor falter in my sight.”

His breath misted. His eyes found Theon, then passed over him. “This man was born a prince, son of Balon Greyjoy of Pyke. He came to Winterfell as ward and hostage, sworn to live under Lord Eddard Stark’s roof and protection. He repaid that oath with treachery.”

The king’s tone never rose, but remained deep and strong.

“He took Winterfell with fire and sword,” Stannis continued. “He slew the sons of those who sheltered him. He betrayed the hand that fed him and defiled the name of guest. By all laws of gods and men, he has earned death.”

“This day,” he said, turning to face the assembly, “we make an end to the lies that brought ruin to this land. The North shall have its due vengeance — not in secret torment, not in cruelty, but in justice.”

He turned toward the heart tree, lowering his head a fraction. “Let all gods and men bear witness. Let them see that the King of Westeros does not fear their eyes upon him.”

A hush fell. Theon could hear his own breathing, shallow and trembling. Stannis raised his hand — a simple motion — and one of his knights lit a torch.

“For the crimes of treason, murder, and betrayal,” Stannis said, “Theon of House Greyjoy, I sentence you to die.”

The torchbearer stepped forward. The pitch burned bright and mean, its orange light lapping over Theon’s hollow face. He could smell it — smoke, oil, the faint tang of ash that clung to everything in this frozen hell.

The wind shifted.

It came sudden and violent from the trees, tearing through the camp with a shriek that snuffed half the torches to guttering embers. Men flinched, clutching cloaks, cursing. The firelight danced wild across their faces.

Theon lifted his head.

Above him, the branches of the weirwood thrashed. The carved face, pale as bone, seemed to twist in the light. The red sap that bled from its eyes glistened dark and wet.

And then the ravens screamed.

They came alive all at once — a storm of wings and black feathers bursting from the limbs, cracking against the winds. The sound was deafening, raw, endless. Their cries cut through the wind, through the snapping of banners and the shouts of frightened men.

“Theon!” they screamed.

It wasn’t just noise. The sound shaped itself — syllables twisted by wind and echo.

“Mercy!”

He stared up, breath caught in his throat, heart pounding against the ropes. The world swam red and black and white.

“Theon!”

“Mercy!”

The ravens circled the heart tree as more joined the flock, hundreds of them, blotting the sky. Their voices rose until it seemed the forest itself was crying out, until even Stannis turned his face toward the noise.

The torch wavered in the knight’s hand.

No man moved.

Theon’s eyes filled. He couldn’t tell if it was from the smoke or the sound — that terrible chorus, like all the dead he’d ever failed calling him by name.

The wind drove harder still, bending the fire sideways, scattering sparks across the snow.

“Theon!”

“Mercy!”

The gods were speaking — or the dead were.

And every man present felt it in his marrow.

The wind howled, rising to a roar. It tore through the pines and the tents, snapping pennons from their poles, scattering snow and ash alike. Horses reared and screamed. Men threw up their arms to shield their faces.

The ravens did not flee. They wheeled above the heart tree like smoke given form — a black crown against the sky.

“Theon,” they cried.

Each word tore through the gale, echoing against the frozen slopes.

“Winterfell.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered soldiers. Some dropped to their knees, others prayed to themselves, their faces white as the snow beneath their boots. The sound seemed to claw its way inside them, old and cold and knowing.

Then one voice — rough, northern, trembling — rose to answer it.

“Theon,” a man whispered, as though repeating a prayer.

Another took it up beside him. Then another.

Soon the murmurs spread through the ranks like fire beneath snow. Theon’s name — his name, not his crimes — rolling low and strange from a hundred throats. Some men wept as they said it, as if the word itself had been stolen from them and now returned.

“Theon.”

“Mercy.”

A few fell forward into the drifts, pressing their foreheads to the earth, the way their fathers had before the heart trees of their youth.

“Old gods hear us,” one rasped, his voice breaking. “Mercy.”

The ravens answered — not with chaos now, but rhythm, echo, a dark litany beating in the air. Their black wings stirred the branches, and the face of the weirwood seemed almost to weep. Red sap gleamed like tears beneath its carved eyes.

The Northmen stood fast. Some even began to chant louder, voices rough with cold and awe.

“Theon.”

“Winterfell.”

“Mercy.”

The sound rose, raw and desperate, until even the howling wind seemed to carry it.

Yet the ravens did not stop. The men did not still. The word — mercy — hung in the air like judgment, heavy and unyielding.

And Stannis, for all his iron, could not silence it.

“Theon.”

“Mercy.”

 The wind drove harder still, whipping Stannis’s cloak about him. His jaw was set, but his eyes flicked once toward the tree — just once — and that was enough for every man watching.

The torchbearer faltered. The flame guttered, coughing smoke.

“Do it,” barked one of the queen’s men, though his voice broke halfway through. “Put an end to this madness!”

But no one moved.

Even Stannis did not speak.

The sound filled the clearing — that endless chorus of ravens, of men, of wind, rising and falling like a tide: Theon. Mercy. Theon. Winterfell.

The torch slipped from the knight’s trembling hand, landing in the snow. Smoke curled thin and gray as the fire sputtered, hissed, and died.

No one dared light another.

Theon’s breath came ragged and shallow. He could taste the cold, the sap, the fear.

Stannis stood motionless, a man carved of stone beneath the screaming sky. Then, slowly, he turned from the pyre.

“Unbind him,” he said.

The words came low, carried by the wind — half command, half surrender.

Theon bowed his head as the ropes were cut. He didn’t speak, didn’t dare. He only listened as the ravens quieted, one by one, until the woods were still again.

Chapter Text

When Alayne awoke, her head felt full of broken glass.

The sunlight that slipped through the shutters was thin and pitiless, stabbing at her eyes as she groaned and turned over. Her mouth was dry as sand. The flagon of wine beside her bed lay on its side, a dark stain spreading across the rushes like a map of her sins.

She could not remember when the feast had ended — only laughter, the sound of Myranda Royce’s sharp voice, and Sweetrobin weeping into his cup again. Petyr had kept pouring. A little courage, he’d said, when she hesitated. A little warmth never hurt a cold girl.

It was clear to her now, she'd indulged a little too heartily. Now she could hardly move her head without the room spinning.

When Alayne pushed herself upright, the world tilted cruelly.

Her stomach gave a slow, sullen churn — a warning.

She pressed a hand to her temple, then to her mouth, and stumbled from the feather bed. The chill of the stones beneath her bare feet bit like ice, shocking her awake just enough to reach the basin in the corner. She barely made it before she was retching, wine and bile spilling in bitter waves that left her gasping and trembling.

When at last it passed, she wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist and sat slumped against the wall, eyes half-lidded. A pale curl of hair had stuck to her cheek with sweat. She brushed it aside and let out a small, humorless laugh.

“Lady Alayne,” she muttered to herself, voice hoarse. “Bastard of Baelish, drunk as a dockhand.”

Identity was a shield. The girl behind it grew unrecognizable. She thought of Eddard Stark briefly before forcing it out of Alayne's mind. 

The chamber stank of sour wine and perfume gone stale. The curtains hung limp, heavy with last night’s smoke. Her gown from the feast lay in a heap by the hearth, wrinkled and spotted with red — some of it wine, some perhaps not.

Her moon's blood flowed heavy. Making her feel queasier still.

For a moment she just sat there, breathing, listening to the faint hum of the hall below. The sound of voices, hooves clattering in the yard, a trumpet’s distant call.

Her eyes widened. Trumpet.

“Gods,” she moaned, defeated. “The tourney."

She staggered to her feet, ignoring the lurch of her stomach. A pitcher of water stood by the washstand; she poured, drank greedily, and splashed the rest across her face. The water was freezing, but it steadied her.

Somewhere beyond her door she heard the quick steps of her handmaid, Tya, calling her name.

“Lady Alayne? You’re wanted! The lists have begun!”

“Tell them I’m dressing,” she croaked, fumbling.

She dragged open the chest at the foot of her bed, half-expecting to find the contents in the same disarray as her mind. Silks and velvets lay bundled together, crushed from travel and neglect. Petyr had pampered her with fine things — gifts from Gulltown merchants and Lysa’s old wardrobes — but today every gown seemed too bright, too soft, too unlike Alayne.

At last her fingers found a dress of muted blue wool, trimmed with pale marten fur at the collar. Simple, practical, and blessedly warm. The Vale chill clung to every stone in the castle, no matter the hour. She pulled it over her shift, grimacing as the fabric brushed against her still-damp skin from her night sweats. The gown smelled faintly of cedar and lavender, Alayne was thankful for it.

Her laces tangled twice before she managed to fasten them. Her hands were not steady.

In the small mirror above the washstand, a stranger stared back at her — pale, hollow-eyed, with her braid half undone and her cheeks colorless. Alayne Stone, bastard daughter of Baelish, just a girl with a pounding head and a face that showed too much of the night before.

She dipped a cloth into the basin and scrubbed at her skin until it stung, chasing away the traces of sleep and regret. The cold water brought blood to her cheeks at last, though it also made her shiver. She dabbed her lips with a touch of rose balm, smoothed the stray curls that clung to her temples, and drew her shiny brown hair back with a blue ribbon, binding it into a single, neat braid.

The gesture steadied her — something small and familiar, a ritual she could still master when everything else felt out of her control.

When she rose again, her reflection looked almost convincing.

Clean, composed, and sober enough to pass.

Her only jewelry was a small silver brooch shaped like a falcon, a token Petyr had given her “to wear when the eyes of the Vale are upon you.” She pinned it at her breast and tried not to think of the way his hand had lingered when he’d fastened it the first time.

Then she drew her cloak about her shoulders — soft grey wool lined with fur — and turned toward the door.

Through the window, sunlight poured over the Gates of the Moon — bright and hard, turning the towers to white flame. The yard below glittered with lances, banners, and silver helms. She could hear the crowd’s roar even from here.

And still her stomach twisted, uneasy — from the wine, yes, but something else too. A feeling she could not name.

She swallowed hard, staring down at her trembling hands.

It was only a tourney.

Only a game of honor and chivalry and make-believe knights.

It is no battle, she reminded herself firmly.

Still the sounds.

The beating hooves, the clashing of lances against shields, the screams persisted.

Alayne trembled.

Reminded of harsh words and hard thin lips.

When Alayne reached the outer steps, the wind met her like a slap, sharp and cold enough to make her eyes water. The path wound down from the keep toward the tiltyard, where the banners of half the Vale flapped in proud disarray — the bronze falcon of House Royce, the crescent moons of Corbray, Belmore’s silver bells, Hunter’s leaping stag. Cloth-of-gold and silk in a dozen hues rippled like a painted sea beneath the mountain sun.

Everywhere she looked, color and noise. Pages in half-matching liveries darted between horses; squires knelt in the mud, polishing helms until they caught the light like mirrors. Women filled the stands in fur-lined mantles, their laughter bright as the trumpets that sounded from the field. Lords and knights clustered in the pavilions, drinking from silver cups and boasting in loud voices that carried easily on the mountain air.

The tilt itself was a long, narrow ribbon of churned earth and broken straw, hemmed by rails and lined with watchers. Beyond it, the distant peaks gleamed — white and cruel and impossibly high. The sound of them all, the lords and ladies and horses and banners and wind, was a single great living noise that pressed against her ears until she felt she might drown in it.

She made her way to the viewing platform reserved for Petyr’s household. The Vale’s knights had gone to grand lengths for the occasion: flowers strewn over the benches, blue and silver ribbons tied to the railings, even musicians set at the corner, their pipes shrilling thin over the crowd’s roar.

A group of boys darted past her, cheering. “Did you see it?” one shouted. “Down in the dirt! Knocked him clean from the saddle!”

Alayne blinked, trying to gather herself. She smoothed her skirts and forced a smile for the attendants bowing her past. The faces blurred — strangers, all of them, though some had toasted her name the night before.

The smell of trampled grass and horse sweat hung heavy in the air. A knight in falcon-winged helm thundered past the railing, lance raised, his destrier’s mane braided with blue ribbons. Another was being helped from the ground, helm dented, his white surcoat streaked brown where he’d fallen.

The tilt yard glittered like a dream — shining steel, bright banners, the sheen of sunlight on armor — but beneath it ran that old, familiar current she could not ignore. The rhythm of hooves. The cries. The crash of impact that sounded too much like war.

Her throat tightened.

She told herself again it was only a tourney. But as she looked out across the field, she could almost hear the crack of another kind of splintering — not lances, but bones. Not cheers, but screams.

She folded her hands in her lap to keep them from.

Petyr was already seated when she arrived — calm amid the noise, the faintest curve of a smile tracing his lips as if he’d been expecting her lateness all along.

He looked every inch the gracious lord, his doublet of black and smoke-gray trimmed in silver, the mockingbird pin winking at his throat. Only his eyes betrayed him — pale, sharp, restless, as they swept over her when she sat.

“Where have you been, my sweet?” he asked softly, without looking away from the lists. “I half-expected to send the maester to fetch you from your bed.”

Alayne smoothed her skirts, forcing composure into her hands. “I overslept,” she said. “The feast went late.”

His mouth twitched — amusement, reproach, both at once. “So it did. And you drank like a Royce last night.”

Heat climbed her neck. “You poured the wine.”

“I pour for many,” Petyr murmured, “but not all drink so eagerly.”

The crowd roared suddenly as a lance shattered down the field. Alayne flinched. Petyr only tilted his head, studying her from the corner of his eye.

“You missed the morning tilts,” Petyr said, his tone light, conversational, as though they were speaking of the weather rather than the subtle game of power unfolding beneath them.

He gestured with a gloved hand toward the field below, where squires were sweeping away broken lances and dragging off splintered shields. “A fine showing, all told. Ser Roland Waynwood unhorsed that puffed-up Gulltown knight, Ser Jon Lynderly — good for him, the Waynwoods needed a win after their recent misfortunes. They’ll remember who sponsored the lists.”

His smile deepened, sharp and private. “Ser Morgarth rode well too. A solid man — not brilliant, but obedient. That’s worth more than brilliance, in truth. Obedience builds kingdoms.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Ser Ben Coldwater, Ben the Cold they’re calling him now — ridiculous name, but the smallfolk adore such nonsense. I backed him with gold and good word both. Now he’s sworn himself wholly to me. A knight’s honor is a dear thing, but debt is dearer.”

Below, the next competitors were making ready. A line of squires ran to and fro, shining helms, tightening straps, murmuring last-minute words of courage.

Petyr’s eyes followed them all, calculating. “The Egen boy held the field for three passes. Crashed hard on the last — he’ll wake with a few new bones, if he wakes at all. Still, his father will sing my praises for allowing the lad to ride. Poor boy was a dull one, couldn't read nor write, and could hardly ride in a straight line. But sturdy of body at the least. People so do love to have a chance to grasp at glory. Especially proud houses.”

Alayne felt the words like a thin, cold thread winding through her. This was how he thought — all coin and consequence, every name a stone in the foundation he built.

“The Vale is proud,” Petyr went on, “but pride is soft clay, if you warm it right. I give them tourneys and songs, and they forget the steel beneath it.” His fingers tapped lightly on his knee, each beat deliberate. “When I name my household knights, it will not be the proudest lords who stand in white. It will be the clever, the grateful — those who owe their rise to me.”

He smiled faintly. “In time, the Lord of the Vale will have his own sworn brotherhood. Seven, perhaps eight — handpicked, bound to him not by honor but by need. Knights who owe their station to their lord’s grace. Not unlike the Kingsguard, in spirit if not in name.”

Alayne glanced at him sidelong. “And Harry the Heir?”

Petyr’s smile didn’t waver. “Harry is young. He needs guidance. He’ll have it — from me, through you.”

Myranda Royce arrived in a flutter of silk and laughter, dropping herself beside Alayne with none of the grace expected of a highborn lady.

“Seven save me, I thought I’d missed the best of it,” she said, fanning herself with a ribbon of lace that had clearly seen better days. “Tell me everything, who’s fallen, who’s risen, and who’s made a fool of himself.”

Petyr’s mouth twitched — not quite disapproval, not quite indulgence — and he turned his eyes back to the field, letting the girls chatter.

Below, the next pair of knights was lining up at the end of the lists.

“Ser Ossifer Lipps,” cried the herald, “against Ser Albar Royce of the Gates of the Moon!”

Myranda groaned aloud, drawing a glance from a nearby septa. “Oh, gods. Not that one again.”

Alayne wrinkled her brow confused looking toward the field. Ser Albar was a walking war, huge and barking orders to his squires as he mounted his pitch black destrier.

“Your brother?” She asked, wondering if they'd had a falling out since last night.

“No,” The girl replied exasperated. “The other.”

Alayne glanced sidelong at her. “You know him?”

“Know him?” Myranda said, lowering her fan. “Ser Lipps been buzzing about me like a fly since he took his vows. Thinks a lord’s daughter will fall swooning at the sight of his crooked teeth. Told me I had ‘a mouth like summer wine.’”

Alayne stifled a laugh. “How charming.”

“Charming?” Myranda sniffed, lowering her voice. “He smells like a damp kennel and rides worse than Sweetrobin.”

On the field, the two knights were already charging. Ser Ossifer’s bright purple plume bobbed comically as he thundered forward, lance wobbling. Ser Albar met him head-on — calm, sure, a wall of bronze and black. The impact was deafening.

Ossifer Lipps flew backward off his horse, arms flailing, and hit the ground hard enough that dust plumed up like smoke. His helm rolled one way, his dignity another.

The crowd roared. Myranda laughed so hard she nearly doubled over.

“Oh, sweet mother,” she gasped. “Did you see the way he spun? Like a frog kicked from a pond! Thank the gods for Albar.”

Even Petyr allowed himself a small, knowing smile, eyes never leaving the field.

Myranda leaned close, her breath warm against Alayne’s ear in a way that made her flush. “You ought to marry him, you know,” she whispered, eyes glittering with mischief.

Alayne smiled softly. “I think not. We've discussed this before.”

“Oh , sister.” Myranda laughed, teasingly. Her arms wrapping around Alayne's at the elbow. Feeling the plumpness of her bosom between her arm, Alayne held her breath for a moment. A feeling unfamiliar and uncomfortable taking hold of her.

Myranda didn't notice her discomfort or didn't care to notice, Alayne couldn't say which.

She turned, flicking her fan toward the field. “Look at him! Tall as a tower and twice as steady. He’d give you strong sons, my lady — gods, he’d give anyone strong sons. Half the girls in the Vale are already swooning for him.”

On the pitch, Ser Albar Royce was the very image of a knight from an old song. The sunlight caught on the bronze of his armor, turning him to living metal — gold and fire and shadow. His visor was lifted, revealing a face as broad and solid as the cliffs of Runestone. He saluted the stands with his broken lance, calm and composed even as the crowd thundered his name.

There was nothing comical about him — no flourish, no vanity — only strength, and that quiet pride the Royces wore like a second skin.

Alayne found herself smiling despite the pounding in her head. “He’s very gallant,” she said politely, hoping to appease the other girl with that.

“Gallant and unmarried,” Myranda quipped. “And more coin than half the Vale besides. You could stay here, Alayne Stone.”

Alayne gave Myranda a sidelong look — half amusement, half warning. “You sound like my father,” she said.

“Do I?” Myranda kept smiling, unbothered. “Then perhaps we should just run away together. You’d look lovely draped in bronze and pearls at Runestone.”

Runestone?

They held each other's gaze for a moment that felt like it lasted a heartbeat too long. Alayne thought she saw something familiar in those eyes, something she couldn't place.

Then the herald’s horn sounded again, sharp as steel on stone.

“Next upon the field,” the crier called, “Ser Lyn Corbray, of Heart’s Home, and Ser Mychel Redfort!”

At once the mood shifted. The chatter died down, the air charged. Ser Lyn rode out first, his armor gleaming like quicksilver, his black hair streaming behind him. Even from here, Alayne could feel the weight of his arrogance, the restless energy of a man who craved blood as much as glory.

Across the field, Ser Mychel Redfort was a contrast of calm — his surcoat a sober gray, his shield emblazoned with red towers. Composed, steady, and well-liked by most of the Vale.

Myranda leaned close again, voice hushed. “Mychel will win,” she said. “He always rides true.”

This was no mere tilt — it was war dressed in pageantry.

The first pass came like thunder. Both knights struck true, lances shattering in the same breath, splinters flying like rain. Ser Mychel swayed in the saddle but held fast; Ser Lyn wheeled his horse about, helm lit with that terrible, beautiful fury that seemed to live in his blood.

A second pass. Then a third. Then a fourth.

 Each time the crowd’s roar swelled higher, until the air itself trembled with it. Lords and ladies were on their feet now, shouting names, waving banners. Even the wind seemed to stir in time with the pounding hooves.

“They’re mad,” Myranda breathed. “Both of them.”

Alayne could hardly answer. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap, clenching her gown hard. It should have been over by now — it was supposed to be over. Ser Lyn was meant to advance easily, and fall later, as planned. Father's plans were always perfect.

But Ser Mychel Redfort had other ideas.

 Alayne could still see Petyr’s look of irritation — fleeting, sharp, gone in a blink. 

Now both men rode again, new lances gleaming. The fifth pass. The sixth.

 Once, Ser Lyn’s point glanced off Mychel’s shield with a screech that rang like tearing metal. Another time, Mychel’s blow struck true, snapping Lyn’s helm sideways — the crowd gasped, but the silver knight only straightened, sitting strong and steady.

“Seven hells,” Myranda whispered. “They'll kill each other.”

Ser Lyn adjusted his helm back again, and for an instant — with the sun burning behind him.

The seventh pass broke both their lances and nearly their mounts as well. The eighth left Ser Mychel half out of the saddle, saved only by his squire’s quick hand at the reins.

The crowd was on its feet now. Coins changed hands, shouts of “Redfort!” clashed with “Corbray!”

And Alayne sat transfixed.

The thunder of hooves filled her chest, the sunlight glinting off steel was blinding, beautiful, terrible.

It was not so different from war after all.

The ninth pass began with a silence that felt alive. Even the wind seemed to pause, the banners hanging still as breath.

Then, as if by unspoken agreement, both knights cast aside their shields. They fell to the ground with heavy thuds — a pledge that this would be decided by skill and courage alone. This earned a great cheer from the enthralled crowd.

Ser Lyn Corbray circled his destrier in a tight spiral, the horse’s barding rippling silver in the sun. He lifted his lance, bare of its pennon now, and lowered his visor. Ser Mychel Redfort mirrored him from across the field — gray steel and red towers gleaming like fresh blood.

When they charged, the sound was a storm unleashed.

 Lances leveled. Hooves pounding.

They met in the center of the lists with a crash so fierce it seemed to shake the stands. Both lances struck true — Lyn’s splintering against Mychel’s shoulder, Mychel’s bursting across Lyn’s chestplate. Wood exploded in shards.

For an instant both men rocked backward in the saddle, nearly thrown.

 Alayne bit her lip so hard she tasted copper.

But neither fell.

They wheeled their mounts in perfect unison — proud, stubborn, furious — and reached for fresh lances.

The tenth pass came quicker, more desperate. Sweat gleamed on their armor now, horses snorting, white foam streaking the reins.

Lyn was the first to lower his point, but slower this time, the arm that had held his lance trembling from the earlier blows. Mychel saw it — and aimed high.

Their impact was brutal. Mychel’s lance caught Lyn square on the breast, just beneath the gorget, driving him half out of the saddle. Gasps broke from the stands as the silver knight pitched sideways, hanging off his horse by one stirrup.

But he did not fall. Somehow, impossibly, Ser Lyn dragged himself upright, one gauntlet clutched around the pommel. 

“Again!” 

Alayne heard him faintly bark beneath the helm against the frenzy of the crowd.

And again they rode.

The eleventh pass was slower, heavier — two men near the edge of exhaustion, driven only by pride. Mychel’s horse galloped clean and true, while Lyn’s mount stumbled at the start, too eager. It cost him half a stride.

They met one final time in the center. Mychel’s aim was flawless. His lance struck the join of Lyn’s breastplate and arm, the perfect blow, all his strength behind it. Lyn’s own lance went wide, scraping harmlessly off a pauldron.

The silver knight flew from the saddle, twisting midair, his helm flashing once before he struck the ground with a sound like thunder. The dust rose high, he rolled violently to a stop.

For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then the roar came — vast, wild, unstoppable.

“Redfort! Redfort!”

Ser Mychel circled once, lowering his lance in salute to his fallen foe. Ser Lyn stirred faintly, a smear of blood rolling down his breastplate. 

Alayne found herself standing without remembering when she’d risen, her heart hammering, applauding with all the rest.

Blue hues glanced from the field towards her father.

Petyr’s hands came together in a slow, deliberate clap — polite, measured, and utterly without warmth.

“Well struck,” he said loudly, joining with the cries from the stands, though his tone was flatter than usual. 

Alayne glanced at him sidelong. To anyone else, he looked the picture of approval — lips curved faintly, eyes following the victor’s salute with a courtier’s grace. But she had learned to read the silences between his smiles. The stillness at the corners of his mouth. The narrowing of his eyes when a piece on his board moved where it shouldn’t.

Ser Mychel Redfort was not meant to be the victor today. 

Something has gone wrong, Alayne thought.

“He wasn’t meant to win,” Alayne murmured in a hush before she could stop herself.

Petyr’s gaze flicked toward her, soft as a knife’s edge. “No,” he said. “He wasn’t.”

Below, Ser Lyn Corbray staggered to his feet, brushing the dirt from his armor, glaring at the stands as if he might strike down the crowd itself for daring to cheer his fall. The heralds rushed forward, crying Ser Mychel’s victory, but Lyn’s pale eyes found Petyr’s box — and lingered there, burning.

For a moment, Alayne thought she saw something pass between them — 

Then Mychel Redfort reined his horse toward the stands to accept his laurels, and the moment dissolved into applause. . 

The crowd’s roar ebbed by degrees, like the tide pulling back from stone. Laughter and applause dulled to murmurs, the stands alive with the rustle of silks and the shifting of banners in the wind. Dust hung in the sunlight, a golden haze that softened the field below where squires rushed to gather broken lances and lead the next riders forward.

Petyr's smile returned, easy and welcoming.

“Ah,” he breathed, rising slightly in his seat. “At last. Our young falcon spreads his wings.”

Harry the Heir cantered onto the field astride a white destrier draped in Vale blue and silver. His armor gleamed like a mirror; his helm crested with a falcon in mid-dive. The sight drew a swell of cheers from the high lords’ stands, their voices carrying above the common din — a chorus of expectation and pride.

“Ser Harrold Arryn, Defender of the Vale!” the herald cried.

Alayne clapped when she was meant to, though the sound felt hollow in her palms. Her hangover had dulled, but the ache in her chest lingered — a nervous thrum she could not name.

Across the field, Harry’s opponent waited — a lean man in plain steel, his surcoat the dusty gray of unclaimed birth. No sigil, no colors, no following. Only a black helm with no crest and a battered kite shield.

“A bastard of Gulltown,” Myranda whispered beside her, leaning forward with interest. “Or so they say. No one knows his name.”

“A hedge knight,” Petyr said smoothly. “Every tourney must have one — a dreamer chasing gold and glory.” He turned to Alayne, eyes glinting.

The trumpets sounded. Both men lowered their lances.

Harry’s stallion stamped, eager. The bastard’s horse pawed the dirt, lean and tense as its rider.

“Now watch closely, my sweet,” Petyr murmured. “You are about to see the future Lord of the Vale announce himself to the realm.”

The herald’s cry split the air — “Ride!”

The two knights thundered forward, hooves drumming the frozen earth, sunlight flashing along the steel of their lances.

The field seemed to tighten around them as they thundered forward — two shapes of color and motion, the white and blue of the falcon clashing with dull gray steel. The air itself vibrated with the force of their charge.

Harry’s seat was proud and easy; he rode like a man born to tournaments, his lance couched perfectly beneath his arm, his shield high, his plume streaming behind him like a comet’s tail. Every eye in the yard was on him — the Heir to the Eyrie, the promise of the Vale made flesh.

His opponent — the bastard, the nameless knight in plain steel — rode lower, tighter. No flourish, no showmanship. His body was a single, rigid line, all intent.

They met in the center with a crack like thunder.

Harry’s lance struck the bastard’s shield true, splintering along its edge, but the blow seemed to vanish into that gray armor like rain against stone. In the same instant, the bastard’s own lance slammed into Harry’s breastplate, driving him hard back in the saddle. The young falcon rocked, barely holding his seat as wood exploded in the air between them.

The crowd gasped — a ripple of disbelief, of excitement.

Both horses veered away, snorting and stamping. The bastard righted himself quickly, calm as ever, while Harry tore off his broken lance and gestured sharply for another.

From beside her, Alayne heard Myranda hiss through her teeth. “He struck him clean, gods be good. Did you see it?”

Petyr said nothing. His smile had gone still, thin as a drawn blade.

The herald signaled for the second pass.

Harry leaned forward, voice muffled behind his helm as he barked for his squire. A fresh lance was placed in his hand — longer, heavier. He twisted his wrist once, as though testing its balance.

The bastard merely adjusted his reins and lowered his visor.

The trumpet sounded.

This time, Harry came harder — spurring his horse with a fury that made its nostrils flare and foam. The bastard didn’t so much as flinch. The gap closed in heartbeats — ten yards, five — and then they struck.

Another crack.

Harry’s lance glanced high, scraping harmlessly along the bastard’s pauldron, while the gray knight’s struck dead center, shattering against the falcon crest and sending Harry reeling sideways. For a heartbeat it seemed he would fall — one hand slipping from the reins, the other flailing for balance — but somehow he righted himself, dragging the horse around at a trot.

Cheers and jeers mixed in the air. The Vale lords shouted for the heir, willing him to recover.

“Is he hurt?” Alayne asked in a whisper.

Petyr’s voice was calm, too calm. “He’s embarrassed. That hurts more.”

The third pass.

Harry’s breath steamed through the visor slits; even from the stands, Alayne could see the tremor in his shoulders. The bastard waited, utterly still, the wind tugging at his torn cloak.

Trumpets.

The charge.

The world seemed to slow. The pounding of hooves, the whistling of air past the lances, the crowd holding its breath. And then —

Impact.

The bastard’s lance struck true, dead center beneath Harry’s arm, with such force that the young heir’s body lifted clean from the saddle. He hit the ground with a crash of steel and plume, rolling once, twice, before coming to rest in the dirt. His horse veered off, riderless, snorting in panic.

The stands erupted — gasps, shouts, curses, the sound of disbelief made flesh.

The bastard raised his splintered lance in silent salute to the stands, then turned his horse and rode away, leaving Harry sprawled in the dust like a fallen banner.

Petyr’s fingers drummed once on his knee. His lips pressed in a firm line, his eyes colder than she'd ever seen them.

Harry’s helm came off in a fury, thrown to the dirt so hard it bounced. His hair, golden in the sunlight, was plastered to his brow with sweat.

“Seven hells!” he snarled, shoving off his squire and striding toward the tents, his white-and-blue cloak dragging in the mud behind him. The crowd still shouted, but none of it reached him — only the roar of his own humiliation. Lords called after him, a few laughing, others pitying. He didn’t look back.

From the stands, Alayne watched the young heir disappear beneath the striped canopy, shoulders stiff, fury and shame plain in every step.

Petyr’s gaze followed him for a moment, then flicked toward her. “Go to him,” he murmured.

“Now?” she asked. “He’ll not want to see anyone.”

“He’ll want to be seen,” Petyr said. His tone was soft, but his eyes left no room for argument. “Go, my sweet. A kind word from a gentle lady may salve his pride better than a dozen squires.”

Alayne hesitated — just a heartbeat, just long enough to feel the weight of all that expectation pressing on her — then rose. Her handmaiden Tya rushed quickly behind her, Alayne was quick to send her away. One of father's, she knew. 

The air outside the stands was sharp with the scent of trampled grass and horse sweat. The cheers behind her faded to a dull hum as she made her way down toward the lists.

The mystery knight had dismounted by then, standing beside his horse as he loosened the girth strap. He was smaller than she’d imagined — narrow of frame, light on his feet, helm tucked under one arm. The gray of his armor was dull and plain, unpolished, the kind hedge knights wore when they could not afford better.

He turned his head slightly as she passed, and for an instant she caught a glimpse of his face — smooth-cheeked, pale beneath the dust, eyes quick and bright as coins.

A boy. Four and ten, perhaps five and ten at most.

Her breath caught.

The knight who had humiliated Harry the Heir, the pride of the Vale, was no hardened sellsword or storied champion — just a boy with steady hands and a quiet gaze.

The boy dipped his head to her politely as she went by. “My lady.”

Alayne found her voice only long enough to nod in return before moving on, skirts brushing the grass.

The tourney field bled into chaos beyond the lists — squires shouting, horses snorting, banners drooping half-forgotten in the afternoon sun. Alayne moved through it with her skirts gathered tight, the laughter and the clash of arms still ringing faintly in her skull.

She reached the rows of tents, bright as jewels and twice as confusing. Some bore sigils others none at all — a swirl of painted canvas, pennants tangled in the wind. Somewhere among them Harry had vanished, a storm in a white cloak.

She tried one tent. Empty — save for a half-eaten meal and a sleeping squire snoring into a saddlecloth.

Another. The smell of oil and leather, a suit of armor half-disassembled, its owner nowhere to be seen.

Her heart beat faster. She had no wish to appear foolish, blundering into strangers’ quarters. But Petyr’s voice echoed behind her eyes: Go to him.

She turned into the next tent, meaning to try again — nothing.

She turned to leave and froze.

A shadow moved across the canvas door.

Ser Shadrick stood there, blocking her way.

The Mad Mouse.

He filled the entrance without moving a muscle, his small, sharp eyes fixed on her. His armor was simple, travel-worn, but the way he carried himself — still as a coiled trap — made her step back before she realized it.

“Ser Shadrick,” she managed, trying for politeness, but her voice came out thinner than she’d liked. “You startled me.”

He did not answer.

The light from outside caught the edge of his face — pale beneath a stubble of gray, the lines around his mouth carved deep from too much watching, too much waiting.

“I was looking for Ser Harrold,” she said quickly. “He left the field in haste, and—”

The silence stretched. The canvas walls seemed to press in closer with every breath.

“Your father sent me to fetch you,” he finally spoke, not unkindly.

He's lying, Alayne knew right away.

Her throat went dry.

“He did?” she said, forcing a small smile, the one Petyr had taught her — sweet, harmless, forgettable. “How strange. He told me to find Ser Harrold.”

Ser Shadrick didn’t blink. “Did he?” His tone was mild, but his eyes never left her face. “Strange indeed. Seems there’s been a misunderstanding.”

He took a step closer. The soft crunch of his boots on the rushes made her flinch before she could stop herself. She wanted to look past him, to the bright sliver of daylight beyond his shoulder, but his lean frame filled the opening.

“Best come with me, my lady,” he said. “Clear things up.”

Her pulse quickened. “If that’s true,” she said carefully, “then send my maid to fetch me. I’ll come properly.”

He smiled at that — a small, knowing curve of the mouth. “Your maid? She’s a sweet one. But slow, I’d think. I’m quicker.”

He stepped aside half a pace, as if inviting her to pass, but the angle of his body said otherwise. 

Alayne’s fingers clenched around the fabric of her skirts to keep them from trembling. He’s testing me, she thought. He knows something — or thinks he does.

“I’m late already,” she tried again, mustering the airy impatience of a spoiled girl. “If Lord Baelish wants me, he knows where to find me.”

Shadrick’s head tilted slightly. “Aye,” he said, almost kindly. “He always does, doesn’t he?”

Something about the words made her skin crawl.

For a heartbeat they stood like that — the sound of distant cheers and clanging steel seeping faintly through the canvas, her heart pounding loud enough to drown it all.

Then, from outside, someone called her name. “Lady Alayne!”

Tya’s voice — thin, shrill, blessedly real.

Shadrick’s expression flickered, annoyance or calculation — she couldn’t tell which.

Alayne seized the moment, ducked her head, and slipped past him. The edge of his cloak brushed her arm like a snake’s tongue.

“Be careful, my lady,” he murmured as she fled into the light. “The ground’s treacherous in the Vale. One wrong step, and down you fall.”