When word of the victory in the south and the queen's return reached Lady Sansa, Winterfell was thrown into a frenzy.
She had been prepared to hold a great feast and arrange for prolonged festivities, but she was not ready to see her sister in the state that Maester Luwin described.
The fever was not something to take lightly. Many, a handmaid and noble woman alike, had succumbed to it over the years.
Both Sansa and Arya were consumed with worry, and they were not alone in it.
To everyone's surprise, the Queen in the North arrived more quickly than they expected, along with two impromptu, esteemed guests.
Queen Daenerys Targaryen could not shake the feeling that her dear friend would not survive the journey north.
Thus, she flew to her in the nick of time.
Upon her arrival, Brynden begged her to fly the queen to Winterfell and seek Lady Melisandre's help.
For, Bellegere Stark was dying.
Within an hour, they landed in the courtyard of Winterfell.
She returned home even more sickly than the maester described and hanging on by a thread, but Lady Melisandre was prepared.
Princess Sansa gaped at the scene before her. "What is this? Sorcery? Dark arts?"
A young serving girl sat in the corner, gagged and bound. Her green eyes were wide with fear.
"All other efforts failed," Melisandre snapped, lacking patience in the face of her queen's imminent demise.
"I saw our queen's future as clear as day within the flames. She and her unborn babe will die if I choose to do nothing. You and Queen Daenerys have urged me to intervene. Now, what say you, honorable Princess Sansa?"
Sansa stammered, quickly realizing there was no rebuttal. She glanced at the innocent young soul as she struggled.
"I'm sorry... "
She left with guilt stuck in her throat.
Bellegere lie on the table looking at something that was not there. She reached out to it in vain.
On the verge of tears, Daenerys sat by her side and held her hand, but the Stark didn't seem to notice it.
She was in a fever dream.
"Bellegere? Please say something."
The Queen in the North could hardly see. The entire world was blurry.
Except for her ghost.
The beautiful woman looming over her was not real. She couldn't be. She was long dead. Her corpse was rotting in the Godswood.
"Why don't you come with me," Mya whispered, smiling softly. "You can't know how much I've missed you."
Bellegere tried to blink her away. "Mya?"
"Of course. Did you think I would leave you forever? No. Never. Our souls are bound."
An icy hand rested on her forehead, soothing the fever inside for a moment.
"That feels good, doesn't it?"
Bellegere nodded weakly, leaning into her touch.
"You're sick, my love. Your wounds have festered, and the maesters have no idea what to do," Mya said. "But if you allow me, I can make the pain go away. We can be together again. Live the life we always wanted."
"How?"
"Death is gentle and kind. Unlike the living."
Mya tilted her head, and the gaping wound in her neck was on full display. Bellegere shook her head, eyes widening in horror.
Offended, the ghost of her first love scowled angrily.
"Why do you cringe away from your own handiwork? Don't be ashamed now."
As the ghostly corpse moved closer, Bellegere struggled to scoot away, but her sickly body was too weak. She closed her eye and tried to force the image of Mya's decomposing face from her mind.
"You're not real," Bellegere whispered repeatedly. "You are dead."
Concerned, Daenerys looked to the priestess.
"Who is she talking to? Who is Mya?"
"I think it best if you go and rest for the night, your grace," Melisandre said solemnly. "The queen's treatment will not be pretty or easy to stomach."
Daenerys began to protest, but the serious expression on the priestess' face told her she was not exaggerating.
She kissed her love's forehead and left with a promise of her swift return.
"Do not listen to the honeyed lies that whisper in your ear, my queen."
Melisandre placed a cool towel on Bellegere's forehead and smoothed her damp hair back as if she were a small child.
"That is not Mya Stone. That is the Great Other come to lead you into the bitter coldness of death," she said firmly.
"Stay with me, Azor Ahai. R'hllor commands the fire within you to glow brighter and defend the realm of men against the darkness beyond the wall."
Bellegere gripped the red woman's hand tight when she moved away, nearly crushing it.
"I blasphemed my gods. This is their vengeance. Let them have it, or they will take everything. Promise me."
"Hush, loved one."
"Sansa, Arya, Jon, Rickon, Cregan, Alys, Torrhen," she chanted, blinking sluggishly.
"My sweet Brynden. You. Dany. The gods will take everyone I love. It will be a massacre."
"They will not forsaken you. R'hllor will not forsaken you."
Bellegere scowled with cold sweat dripping down her scarred brow.
"As your queen, I order you to leave me be."
Melisandre kissed her hand softly and shook her head. Bellegere was naive to think her loyalty was that fickle.
In reality, the priestess would gladly sacrifice herself to save her.
"I will do no such thing."
With that, she left, ordering the guards to retrieve her sacrifice.
Now, alone, Bellegere found herself faced with her ghost again. This time, the room began to fill with them.
Many of them were familiar.
Like her father and brother.
Even Catelyn Stark, her face marred with claw marks, her skin green, and her long dead cousin from Braavos. The boy held his head in his hands like a gift.
This time, there was no one to pull her out of their grasp.
The ghost of Mya Stone took her hand, smiling unkindly.
Under the crescent moon, as thin and as sharp as the blade of a knife, Lady Melisandre ignored the muffled cries of the serving girl upon the stake.
So deep in the forest, no one could hear her. If she prayed, perhaps not even the Old Gods could save her.
"Your crime was small, yes. Petty theft. However, your purpose is bigger than you could ever imagine," she said softly.
"The queen is on her death bed, but your sacrifice will give her the strength she needs to survive."
The girl whimpered behind her gag, inaudibly pleading for leniency, but it was in vain. The choice had already been made.
"May R'hllor's flames cleanse you. May you be rewarded for your selflessness."
As the girl erupted into flames, the red woman smiled faintly, feeling the presence of her god stirring.
Warmth surrounded her amidst the cold breeze and snowy hills of the North.
R'hllor had accepted this offering, and now she would return to Azor Ahai and cleanse her body of the curse bestowed upon it.
However, when she did, Queen Bellegere of House Stark was slipping away. That silver eye was glazed over, and her chest barely rose.
That light caramel skin that often glowed from days spent outdoors was now as pale as the statues in the crypt below.
"Bellegere," Melisandre called out. "Stay awake, my queen."
There was no response and, without warning, she stopped breathing altogether.
Melisandre shook her limp body, eyes wide with shock. Within her chest, panic and utter despair set in.
Frantically, she began to pray.
"I ask the Lord to shine his light and lead a soul out of darkness! I beg the Lord to share his fire and light a candle that has gone out!"
Nothing.
For hours, Melisandre prayed over the queen. Until she felt that her tongue would never regain the strength to move again.
Nothing.
Melisandre, the prideful, often arrogant red priestess, resorted to pleading.
Yet, the queen still did not wake.
For days after, Bellegere lie on the table unmoving. All the while, the priestess refused to leave or allow anyone in.
Such was her authority as Hand of the Queen.
When Daenerys or Sansa or Arya demanded entry, their commands were ignored.
Even with the threat of being charged with treason, Melisandre could not let them see Bellegere lying dead.
Not before she was certain the queen was truly dead.
When a five days came and went with no signs of life, Melisandre lost herself in denial.
With eyes welling with tears, she lie her head on Bellegere's chest, hoping to hear her heart beating.
"Please, Belle," the priestess whispered.
"Return to where you are needed most. Fight through the darkness. Do not let it take you."
She could not remember the last time she slept or ate or thought about anything other than Bellegere Stark.
There was no possible way that Azor Ahai could be killed by a fever.
R'hllor would not allow it.
Surely, the Old Gods had not forsaken their champion in this way.
With zeal, Melisandre began her prayers anew. All the while, the queen lie as still as the statues in the crypt below.
For, in the deep slumber of death, she was consumed by a dream.
A nightmare.
All of the living Stark children convened around her, smiling happily. They were older now, but not as old as she.
Bellegere Stark sat beside her beloved husband.
Both of them wrinkled, gray, and crowned in so much gold and jewels that their backs ached.
Runa sat at their feet, peppered with gray.
She wished to reach out and touch her wolf, but in her hands, she held the royal, golden scepter and orb.
This thoroughly confused her, as these items were not a part of Northern regalia.
Only southron sovereignty used such items in their crowning ceremonies.
"Mother," a dozen voices chirped.
"Father."
They were surrounded by dark haired children. Each of them tall, short, stick thin, and plump with eyes of blue and gray and black.
Yet, one of her beloved babes was missing.
Alys, she thought. Where is she?
The deep, matured voices of Cregan and Torrhen called to her. Their smiles could only be heard and not seen.
They reached out, the oldest a spitting image of his father, and the younger, a male version of her.
"Mother," they said in relief. "War is over."
A young woman's voice rang out.
Hatred colored her tone.
"You lie, brothers."
Night descended upon Winterfell as Alys Blackwood appeared.
Tall, beautiful, and so familiar that it stung. She stood with her deceased mother and father, gray eyes burning into her with loathing.
In Ser Royce's arms lie their stillborn son, and in Mya's lie the princess, Berena Stark.
All of them glared at her accusingly, hatefully.
"Kill me," Alys demanded. "Kill me like you killed my mother."
Bellegere cringed at the thought.
"I would never."
"Do it! End this war for good."
"War is over now."
"Your war rages on. Poisoning us all," Alys said harshly.
"Why won't you let it end? Why?"
"Alys... I don't understand."
Looking around, Bellegere found herself alone.
No scores of rambunctious children. No Runa. No siblings. No Brynden.
However, Bellegere felt cold breath on her neck, so cold that her skin burned from frostbite.
The weight of her crown and jewels grew until it was unbearable, and she fought not to fall to her knees.
As she glanced up at the crescent moon, as thin and as sharp as the blade of a knife, the feeling of dozens of eyes on her back intensified.
Until, she felt as though an army was standing behind her.
Bellegere did not have to turn around to know that it was the Kings of Winter.
Each one of them, baring the weight of the ancient, spiked crown atop their decomposed heads.
Just as she was.
When Bellegere turned to Alys with a wide, frightened eye, the girl was gone.
In her place stood an army of corpses.
Thousands of men and some women.
A few of them she recognized, but most she did not.
A lone, shadowed figure stood in front.
"My love, within you lives the heart of winter," Mya whispered in a garbled voice.
"Why did you let yourself grow so cold?"
Air whistled from the grotesque slit in her throat.
A horrific sound.
"These are all of the people you have killed in your short life. Yet, you only mourn me and your neverborn child. Where is your honor?"
"You're wrong," Bellegere said adamantly.
"My memory may fade, but I mourn all who have died by my hand or my actions. Killing is not something I enjoy. Nor will I ever."
Mya shook her head, allowing the light of the moon to illuminate her shadowed face.
"I know you, Bloody Belle."
Half of it was rotted and decomposed, displaying her teeth and the ivory expanse of her skull. The other half was untouched.
"You enjoyed killing me."
"No... I loved you."
The sight made Bellegere tremble with grief and regret. It was a horror that did not deserve to be seen by anyone.
If Bellegere were forced to look upon it any longer, she would begin to claw out her only remaining eye.
"You are a liar and a hypocrite, and you do not deserve love," Mya said, sneering.
"Look what happens when you hold it in your clawed hands. You eviscerate the blessings bestowed upon you, wolf queen. You even blaspheme the gods that have given you everything you hold dear."
Bellegere flinched as those words were followed by an icy breeze.
The severe windchill stung her flesh and made her shiver violently.
"Stay dead, wretched wolf. You will only bring the downfall of the living."
Bellegere scowled in disgust, but couldn't find a rebuttal.
The avatar of Mya stepped forward into the light, and the army of the dead echoed a woeful moan.
"You are the harbinger of the eternal winter," she declared. "Your ego will consume you and you will fail when you are needed most. Damning mankind. Stay dead and out of the world of the living."
A crooked, gray finger pointed at her accusingly.
"You are a cursed, wretched entity that should have never been born, and your gods will forsaken you when you need them most," she spat. "Stay here and atone for your crimes, or return to the living and suffer imaginiable pain."
Bellegere shook her head.
"My existence is suffering. It is all I have ever truly known," she said. "I will not remain here. I cannot."
Mya shed a tear that froze on her cheek.
"Your family will die, and, in the end, you will be alone. Tainted and covered in the blood of all the people you have massacred. You will rot for an eternity on your icy throne, never knowing what it means to be at peace," she said, grimacing in disgust.
With each word Mya spoke, the weight of Bellegere's crown increased until her head hung in defeat.
"If you return to the living, you will damn them all. It is clear that you are a plague to all you hold dear, and you will never be anything more. Such is your fate, Witch of Winterfell. The fate you deserve."
Under the weight of the crown, Bellegere struggled to lift her chin.
It embodied the burden of duty and responsibility. It was a symbol of every ounce of guilt and grief that threatened to take her under when she was alone with her thoughts.
Hope was the only thing that kept her going for the last several years of her bleak life.
It was the most elusive prey, and she held it by the scruff of its neck to keep it from running away.
Bellegere would devour it before she let it escape.
"My fate is what I make it."
The icy, skeletal hands of her ancestors found purchase beneath her chin and lifted her head until she was staring down her nose at the avatar of Mya Stone.
"I am Queen Bellegere of House Stark. Eldest daughter of Eddard Stark. I am seed of the Kings of Winter. I am blood of the wolf. I am the protector of the North and the savior of my family line," Bellegere said, scowling.
"I am the wife of Brynden Blackwood and the mother of Cregan and Torrhen Stark, and Alys Blackwood. As long as I breathe, any enemy that means me or my family harm shall witness true horror, just as you did."
The avatar smirked, splitting her decomposed face open even further.
She looked less like Mya Stone and more like an embodiment of death.
"Behold what you've done to someone you called family," it said, smirking.
The being lifted its head, causing the slit in its throat to gape open.
Hundreds of insects crawled from the grotesque, blackened wound. The gore caused the queen's knees to buckle, but icy hands held her up.
"You are the horror, Bellegere Stark. You are the enemy of all who foolishly love you. You are slowly slipping into a madness that you cannot see. Give in. Stay here, where you belong."
The familiar feeling of Mya Stone's sticky, dried blood covered her skin, and the smell of it made her stomach turn.
Yet, Bellegere would not bow to her guilt. She would not bend the knee to grief. She could not allow death to take her under and drown her.
The Kings of Winter would not allow it.
There was a purpose that needed to be fulfilled.
"I am everything I was meant to be," Bellegere said stoically.
"I have divine purpose. The gods chose me to do their bidding. I am the one. If they forsaken me, I will make my own way. I will carve it out."
The entity growled, frothing at the mouth, and the army of her victims cried out.
"You are the beast. All you know is merciless violence."
Bellegere pursed her lips.
"A wolf knows no mercy."
Where once it had Mya's beautiful eyes, now they were the color of ice.
"You are a pawn of the Great Other," it roared.
"You are the harbinger of eternal winter. See what lies before you, demon."
Bellegere gasped as her surroundings morphed into a wasteland of ice and snow. The wind blew wildly and she shielded her face.
In the distance, she could make out a group of people, perhaps an army, slowly moving toward her position.
Bellegere frowned as they moved closer, unable to believe what she was seeing.
White Walkers. Hundreds of thousands.
Yet, that was not what made her entire body go as rigid as stone.
The two leaders of the massive army sat atop undead horses, not even sparing her a glance as they passed.
Eternally silent and frozen.
"No," Bellegere muttered repeatedly.
"No. No. No!"
She closed her eye to erase their painfully familiar faces from her mind, but it was too late. They would haunt her forever.
Even her ancestors, who once stood at her back, vanished into thin air at the sight.
"Now you know," death whispered sadly.
"Now you must find a way to live with it."
A tear fell from Bellegere's eye as she turned to the entity, utterly defeated.
"I will stay here," she wailed. "I will remain dead. If this future is set in stone, I beg of you, don't send me back."
Death shook it's head.
"You poor thing. Mad, suffering wolf. There is nothing you can do."
Enraged, Bellegere tried to grab the entity, only for her hands to pass through it.
"Tell me what I need to do to stop this," she roared. "Tell me!"
Death held her gaze as the shadow of a dragon passed over them, covering the army in perpetual darkness.
"What did you say to your gods the last time you spoke with them," it said, smiling grotesquely.
"It is your voice that bites the back of a cold wind. It is you who bends the tall grasses. You are the one. You are the only one. Don't you remember? Become everything that you claim you are and escape your fate."
The ground shook with the sound of the dragon's shriek, and the queen was violently thrown free from the claws of death.
"By R'hllor's flame!"
Bellegere gasped in the air of her ancestral home, shaking from the horror of her nightmare.
When Melisandre tried to comfort her, she pulled away violently. The haunted look in the queen's eye shook her to the core.
Never had Melisandre seen her so terrified.
"What did you see, my queen?"
In the silence, Bellegere, naked and trembling, wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked back and forth.
After a long moment, she spoke.
"Harbinger of eternal winter," Bellegere slurred under her breath.
"Demon. Pawn of the Great Other. Eyes as blue as ice."
Hesitantly, Melisandre reached out again.
This time, Bellegere only flinched as she was embraced.
"Do not let what you saw break you, my queen. That is what the Great Other wants," Melisandre whispered adamantly.
"You are Azor Ahai. We all need you. Fight against everything that threatens to manipulate you."
If Bellegere heard her, she did not respond.
She continued her disturbed, incoherent ramblings, staring ahead but not seeing.
"It is my voice that bites the back of a cold wind," Bellegere whispered through clenched teeth.
"I will protect you from all the things I've seen. I must."
As Melisandre held her friend, her beloved queen, the cold fingers of dread tickled up her spine.
She prayed to her god that Bellegere would break free from this catatonic state.
Melisandre could scarcely imagine the chaos that would ensue if one of the most powerful women in Westeros descended into some sort of madness.
She trembled at the thought.
When she began to pull away, Bellegere returned her embrace with vigor, nails digging into her bicep painfully to keep her as close as possible.
"It was me atop that pale horse," she whispered, wide-eyed and afraid.
"Gods save us. It was me."
At once, Lady Melisandre knew that a vital piece of Bellegere Stark did not return from the dead.