Chapter 8

The wind was north. There was a scent in the air Daemon did not recognize, though they were merely a day's ride from Winterfell. It was colder here.

Behind him, he could hear the flapping of standards as a gale caught them like sails, and the trotting of horses as they trampled upon the snow-crowned pathway. His host had come far, but they were still a way's off from their destination.

Daemon shifted his grip on the reins of his black courser, leaning forward and patting him gently beneath his crest. The horse drew a wintry breath, and blew billows of steaming, hot air. The beast whickered receptively, then sped into a trot to gallop up ahead through the thickening snow.

The woodland edge of the wolfswood was aside him, and beyond that lay a gnarling mass of ironwoods, sentinels, and oaks. He lingered closer; the fresh snowfall hardened to a ground frost. There was an unnerving cracking sound, like the breaking of bones, as his courser crunched the thin crust of snow under his hooves. He looked up toward the sky. The sun, no threat now on the verge of a northern winter, was a pale disk among a sea of mercurial clouds. There was little time left for autumn, he realized. The Starks were wise in their prudence.

They had set out the day prior with a host of fifty strong; hardy bannermen and knights, sworn swords both loyal and well-trained in sword and lance. They were warriors descended from the very lines of the First Men, and eager to bring justice to the marauders; to wet their parched blades with the tainted blood of brigands and savages.

He heard horses screaming behind him, saw eddies of snow beginning to fall. Daemon looked over and saw his host of men slowing. Their mounts were played out. They'd travelled long and hard with little rest, and it was nearing time to make camp, he assumed. Rickon Stark led them, alongside his brother, Bennard. The two brothers had merrily reunited along the kingsroad early this afternoon. Their long journey had led them to this withering place, devoid of all life—especially game to hunt.

The biting cold made Daemon shiver. His grip tightened instinctively around his leather reins, fingers curling desperately against thick moleskin gloves to find any warmth. He dreamed of a hot fire—a fire to warm himself and bring some feeling back into his frigid fingers. His many furs and woollies helped abate the worst of the cold, but it still touched him deep to the very bone. The world was full of harshness, much like this clime they'd endured now. He thought himself to be one of resilience, but he was merely a stranger to these foreign lands.

Such musings were absurd, Daemon thought, pulling at his reins to turn his mount, feeling a bitter windflaw catch his hood with the motion and freeing his long silver hair. His dark steed raced across the white meadow, finding an egress where the thick trees split to form a makeshift path.

The brightest whites of the evenfall snow faded, blanketing him in a dim shadow. The wind stopped, though he could hear leaves rustling now. He felt another chill crawl up him, like someone tracing his spine with the blunt end of a cold dagger. He could have sworn he was being watched, yet he couldn't trust his mind right now. He was made brittle by this haunted place. And the wood loomed over him like that, curiously, as if he were its very prey.

The wind was rising now, coming about from the north, crowning the vast canopy of trees above with a thin sheet of sleet. He relished that; desired a great deal to be shielded from the growing squall. His courser slowed to a trot, and the wood passed him slowly now. It seemed an unnatural place, there under the guise of old oaks wizened by age. Their roots grew deep, wide, and twisted into the ground like malformed appendages of a chandelier. He saw one with a trunk so wrinkled and warped by time it appeared to gaze at him, much like the white tree in their godswood.

He hadn't expected much of this place. If it were anything like the stories he was told as a child, there would be little to find beautiful here. He saw that now, in the unnerving quiet amidst trees older than even the earliest civilizations. This was a place to fear, a remnant of a bygone age when man was young, and their many triumphs merely a dream. And Daemon was no coward, no man to be undone by such things—yet he couldn't shake his uneasy brooding as a discomfort welled inside him.

His younger self would have scorned these feelings, but he was a changed man. He wouldn't even have acknowledged their presence, would rather keep them buried in the deeper corners of thought. He wasn't particularly a pious man, either. Yet he felt something as the wind traversed the maze of trees and breathed life into their old branches to move once again. He heard things, voices even, as if they very gods of yore whispered to him . . . called his name even. Though he wouldn't be able to ponder that strangeness for long.

Cresting between two large oaks ahead, Daemon saw a plume of white smoke rising from a fire burning there. He paused a moment, taking in the sight, then cast up his hood, cloaking his silver hair of heritage underneath.

A little further along the path he saw a figure blanketed in a swathe of furs. He sat upon a log in front of a generous fire underneath two roasting spits of rabbit. The flame crackled, inviting him to its warmth. Beside him was a large, black destrier—a hardy horse fit for these northern winds. He stopped his own horse just off the path and waved a friendly gesture. "Might I intreat to sit about your fire?" Daemon asked warmly, dismounting from his courser. He tethered the steed to a fallen tree nearby. "If it displeases you, I should depart. I needn't be a bother upon your solitude."

The stranger looked at him sidelong, face cloaked under a pitch-dark hood. "You are not unwelcomed," he then said. "Rather, there is pleasure in company, and by chance, there just so happens to be two fine hares roasting here." He gestured toward the generous offering. The meat crackled and spit deliciously. "As your host, I must insist," he finished, lowering his hood to reveal a kindly smile.

Then Daemon looked more closely, and with a second glance, undistorted by the man's cloak, he saw this was no ordinary woodsman. He was an older man, perhaps nearing fifty years. Long, chestnut brown hair curled about his broad shoulders. His beard was supple. He had dark, tired eyes, yet spoke of a man well-journeyed and sharp-witted. Beneath his furs was a bountiful coat of shimmering black ringmail set upon layers of black wool and boiled leather. His boots were as charcoal, and his cloak was long and dark to match. He knew of the brotherhood who donned such a distinguishing appearance.

"Are you of the Sworn Brothers of the Night's Watch?" asked Daemon, taking a spit in his hands. He bit a hunk from the seared and crispy rabbit. It tasted even better than it looked.

His host smiled warmly, and then bowed his head slightly. "I am Magnes Storm of Deep Lake," he then replied, "where I am the garrison commander. It is my pleasure to receive you here in these wilds."

The regent's eyes widened. "Storm, is it?" he asked between bites. "If you've taken after such a namesake, it means . . ."

"That I am a bastard," Magnes said curtly, finishing his musing. He helped himself to the other hare. "Yes, indeed. I am an ill-born son of the late Lucamore Strong, Kingsguard to Jaehaerys, and a maiden of the stormlands. And ill it may seem, yet my father took the black; served out what remained of his time faithfully, and in service to the brotherhood." He offered a wineskin with his right hand, asked, "Drink?"

Daemon, not to be rude, took it. "I thank you," he said, uncorking the wineskin, and sipping from it. It was sweet. A variant of honeyed wine, he surmised. It wasn't fresh, but it tasted well enough. "Are you always so forthcoming with your lineage?" Daemon then asked.

The Sworn Brother laughed softly. "No, but I am not ashamed of my birth," he said.

"As you shouldn't," Daemon said at length. He took another gulp of the wine, corked it, and then tossed the wineskin back. He saw him catch it and then stuff it into his pack. His longsword sheathed in black lay against it.

"Might I have the name of my most curious visitor?" Magnes asked evenly. His brown eyes narrowed slightly. "I mean not to pry, just to know whom I have the pleasure of hosting on this finest of days. Very seldom has my travels taken me this far south the Wall, and it's uncommon to share the company of another as now."

Daemon smiled then. He couldn't help himself. "My name is not important," he lied. "I am but another traveller, much like any other you'd find on these paths."

Magnes laughed heartily. Spit of rabbit in hand and leaning back with his amusement. "Just another traveller, you say? Scarcely have I seen a traveller with such striking eyes, and even Valyrian steel at their hip. And that one in particular, I've seen it once before."

The regent's eyebrow raised then. Lilac eyes narrowed. "Have you, now?" he asked curiously.

Magnes nodded. "I wasn't yet a man grown, but my remembrance of King Jaehaerys is quite vivid, even in my older years. Yes, I do think that particular sword is none other than the Dark Sister of legend." He paused. Daemon saw him smirk, then he uttered, "Which would make you . . ."

Daemon waved his hand. "Who I am matters not. We needn't discuss this further," he said abruptly. By now, he'd finished his meal and tossed the spit onto the ground covered by fallen leaves. "I dare to admit we share some common ground, here . . . now, and as companions. I've been following the trail of a wildling pack; mayhaps you've come across them?"

Magnes glanced curiously at him a moment, then shrugged. "I've been hunting them for well a fortnight," he said tersely. He appeared more tired then, bothered by their very mention. "By now, my black brothers have gone our separate ways to cover more ground in our search."

"Have you lost them?" Daemon wondered aloud.

He saw Magnes shake his head. "I have not," he said indifferently. "They always seem leagues ahead and rarely leave nary a smouldering campfire in their wake. These are no mere savages, but experienced raiders who have honed their craft well. Though even with their skills, I've tracked them here. They pillaged a smaller clan to the west, and then travelled north alongside the edges of the wood. I figured they planned to make for the coast, then perhaps cut across the kingsroad, and into the realm of the Umbers."

"For what purpose would they do this?" Daemon asked.

A chill wind blew then. Leaves danced. "I fear they're practising some kind of foul magic," Magnes said quietly. He averted his gaze to look into the gnarled wood. Wind blew. Their horses whickered with the singing of the wood. "The village folk say they're collecting virgins . . . babes even, in order to continue their most wicked rituals."

"You speak of bloodmagic," Daemon uttered. "Do the histories tell of this kind of dark magic beyond the Wall?"

There was a stiff, short silence, then:

"These magics have gone unwritten," said Magnes of Deep Lake clearly. "Such rituals are passed down through one's line and shared only in secret. Perhaps it is bloodmagic, perhaps not; more fearfully, it could be a union of sorts, of both the red and green kind. Whatever it is we must put an end to it, that much is clear."

It had to be done, he thought much later, when he had the mood for a calmer reflection on the unsettling events of the day. He and Magnes warmed by the fire, talked, and shared stories of their life, of war and the battles they'd endured. He found the commander to be quite the intriguing fellow, and he'd seen much beyond the Wall . . . and deeper still, the haunted wood which nestled deep beyond. Before taking his position of high esteem, he was a ranger, like his father before him who'd risen to the highest of his order as First Ranger, second only to the Lord Commander himself. He shared fables of the darker things at the edge of the world, where hairy mammoths, white bears, and even spiders just as large dwelled in the shadows. Such things seemed unthinkable. And Magnes regaled him with song and story, their own strange customs, of the Mole's Town whores, and even shared scars with one another.

"This one is most recent," Daemon said, smiling wide and with his leg propped up on the snowy log. He'd rolled up his trousers to show a curved scar along his right calf. He pointed energetically. "Right here! You can see the curvature of a corsair's cutlass. He cut deep to the bone with a lucky swing. I thought I was done in, but somehow, I had sunk my blade deep into his chest. Turned out he wasn't so fortunate, after all."

Magnes smiled wanly. "Oh, yes. Sometimes it happens all too fast. I scarcely remember my first, even more so my last. It was most unpleasant . . ."

"I've lost count at some forty-odd."

Magnes stared at his old wound. He seemed to be deep in thought then. After a moment, Daemon shifted on the log and rolled down his trousers. Their fire dwindled now; specklings of ash and ember drifted south with a gust of icy wind.

Which, for some reason, drew a response from Magnes of Deep Lake. He turned his head slightly to look full into his eyes. There was an immediate silence. Then, the sound of a leaves rustling.

"I know just who you are," said Magnes finally, his own voice little more than a whisper now. "Even cloaked and beneath the pale of the early winter I see the subtle violets of your eyes."

As the two of them locked gazes at one another amidst the swaying oaks and branches, Daemon realized, rather late, a quarter score of horses were approaching. He turned his head. Beside him, Magnes uttered something under his breath he couldn't quite hear.

Daemon sobered quickly then. He saw the two riders leading the pack—Rickon and Bennard Stark—and behind them standard bearers wielding the direwolf sigil high. Lord Stark's burly garron trampled the packed earth beneath until he signalled a halt where he'd tethered his courser. He dismounted with a thud and so did his brother, and then approached on foot.

The regent cast a quick glance up at the approaching men, just as Magnes did, and saw the two Stark brothers were both grim looking. And the commander stood, left his sword laying against the log. He needn't be worried, he knew. The colours of the direwolf were a close ally, and most dear friend to his brotherhood.

"My lords, hail!" Magnes greeted warmly.

Rickon smiled then. In his left hand was a torch, and the flaring light illuminated his friendly demeanour. He passed the torch to Bennard and came forward. Muddy earth crowned with a thin crust of snow crunched underfoot in his approach.

He paused just before the Sworn Brother. A momentary silence. Leaves rustled; a knowing smirk formed in the corner of Rickon's mouth.

And then the two broke out in laughter as they embraced each other.

"Magnes!" Rickon exclaimed. "My dearest friend, how are you faring?"

The other man laughed, cheerfully. The sound carried through the wood. "About as well as one can be," said the commander.

"And your blood brother? Still finding trouble, is he?" Rickon asked.

"Trouble finds him," Magnes replied. He departed from their embrace and turned his head to look at Daemon sidelong. "By happenstance, your companion here came upon my camp. I was quite surprised, truly. Forgive me for my lack of welcoming; I've little in the ways of eat or drink in these wilds, and I've travelled long and hard."

The other Stark took a step forward into the camp. He was nigh a foot shorter than Rickon, hairy on the face, and stoutly muscled. There was a pause before he spoke, and a knowing smile. "He's no mere companion, Magnes," Bennard said stiffly. "This is Prince Daemon Targaryen, Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. As wardens of these lands, he is our liege lord."

Daemon lowered his hood then. His long pale-silver hair spilled to rest upon his shoulders and fall down his back. He turned to face Magnes, lilac eyes gleaming in the pale of winter.

And he saw the expression of Magnes change slowly as he thought about this. He then turned to him and knelt. "I have been most discourteous to you," he said meekly, with face low to stare down at the earth. "I am but a man of the Watch, yet leal in my duties. And my sword both shields the realm from the horrors beyond the Wall, and serves the Crown, Your Grace."

The regent's face softened. He gestured kindly, saying, "On your feet, Magnes. There are no walls here, tapestries, nor patrons of the court. There needn't be room for such formalities here, underneath tree and snow."

Magnes looked up at him. "Your Grace . . ."

Daemon's smile was genial, his voice toned. "Think of me as you would your black brothers, when we draw swords together and paint these white snows red with blood."

And when Magnes did stand, he looked up at Daemon with a newfound respect. "So, we are to ride together, then?" he asked.

Daemon nodded plainly. "Yes, I would think your swords and knowledge of our foe appurtenant to subjugating these raiders."

"I shall muster the brothers, then," he said, and turned to take his blade and set it in his black belt. His pitch-dark destrier whickered loudly as he approached. He slung his saddlebags over. "Shall I take my leave?" Magnes then asked, turning his head slowly to acknowledge the lords and regent.

As he expected, the commander was a loyal and decent man. Like as not, he would need allies cut from his very cloth. He valued it; had to surround himself with such loyalty, if only to keep the betrayers at bay. He knew exactly where a man of his calibre should be.

"I think not, no," Daemon replied, smiling mischievously. "Yes, I believe I have need of you for now."

Magnes looked surprised. He nodded and said, "It would be my honour, if you'd have me."

Daemon smiled wider then. "Very well. Let us ride northward then and see where your path takes us. The wildling host couldn't be more than a day's ride ahead. Mayhaps they've left a clearer trail up ahead for us to stumble upon?"

"Aye," Magnes agreed.

And he took a step forward; mounted his destrier in one youthful leap. Even in his advanced age, he was limber. Daemon too, found the saddle of his courser as the Stark brothers followed.

A snow shrike called out.

Another answered. A half-dozen horses trotted eastward, a gale blew out of the north, and the trees whispered.

The north wind blew the plumes of smoke away, so he had been able to see, quite clearly by moonlight from the ridge at the fringes of the wood, exactly what lain ahead. He watched calmly as they approached, saw a minor castle ruined in the distance. The ramparts were tall, and wide enough to mount a worthy defence. There wasn't a moat, but in these weathers, it would have been frozen over anyway. The fortified barbican in front of the main gate was untouched, providing little clue as to what transpired. Neither were there colours or identifiable banners flying on the battlements. They were quite close now, though hidden among some oaks which had strayed from the wolfswood. For quite some time they watched, listened for any sign of strife or man-made sound. They heard nothing, and the smoke rose higher to drape the moon in its grey curtain.

He was bothered by the burning, though in itself would not have given him reason to pause. He did pause however, silent and brooding on his courser above the scourged castle and watched it patiently. Rickon of House Stark came to rest beside him, as did his brother, and even Magnes Storm upon his hardy destrier. Their horses whined and trounced the packed snow beneath them with uneasy hooves.

Daemon was unsettled by this, in fact, and as he looked upon the smouldering castle keep, he sighed deeply. His hesitation was unexpected, an unnatural reaction to an all-too-familiar feeling of terror. He relished in such feelings normally, welcomed them even. And yet here he was, wordless to look upon destruction and pointless bloodshed amidst times of peace.

It was very nearly the end of day, though, with the waxing pale moon ever watchful above them . . . and the northern skies, never frightful of such a display, made to be dark and dreary in the hazy backdrop. It is a long way back to the encampment, Daemon told himself, they had to be careful here. In the darkness under the blue light, he saw the elder Stark cast a worried glance at him.

"I well remember these walls," Rickon said with a sigh. "Those who dwell here are kin to my lady wife, Gilliane: close cousins of the Glovers and ever friends of my House. I once was host to Galibert and his daughters just last summer in our very halls." He frowned deeper, averting his gaze. "These ill sights are hard to look upon."

Daemon nodded slowly. It appeared to him their foe had come upon this keep. Yet, a band of wildlings sacking a castle seemed an unlikely happening. He felt himself shiver, and he pulled his cloak further over futilely to try and gather some heat. The north in these twinkling hours was nigh unbearable.

"Have they any knights? Guardsmen even?" Daemon asked.

Rickon nodded slowly. "Aye, they do. But they are a peaceful people, and much loved by the smallfolk."

He shook his head. "This is what their peace has wrought," he said pointedly, gesturing at the ruined castle, "and their peasants have burned for it."

Bennard grunted. "And these wildlings have the means to mount such an attack?" he asked.

"If they can scale the Wall, these battlements are a woman's work for them," Magnes replied evenly. He turned his reins and his horse to point. "There, at the postern gate; we can make our entry if we so wish."

Daemon felt a jolt of fire suddenly. A feeling of excitement suffused him, looking at the Sworn Brother, hearing the calm and silence of the twilight. He spurred his courser and turned him around to face his three companions.

"Now we must go!" he then exclaimed, drawing Dark Sister harshly from its frosty sheathe to glimmer brightly in the moonlight. "We haven't much time if we are to aid them."

Bennard grimaced underneath his thick, wild, chestnut coloured beard. "But is this wise? Perhaps they've laid in for an ambush. An assassin's work is honourable for the savages beyond the Wall."

"I do not believe so," Magnes then said. "They have only done their pillaging, taken women, babes, grain—all what they will, only to move on. We needn't suspect them of diverging in their doings."

Bennard nodded curtly, looked to his brother for affirmation.

"Prince Daemon speaks true," Rickon uttered gravely, "and we haven't the time, nor the weakness to ride back in cowardice." The elder Stark drew his broadsword in silence from a sheathe of furs. "Set free your steel; we ride now!"

"Fewer men means more glory!" Daemon yelled tall and proud, and spurred his horse to charge down the snow-crowned pathway. "Ride, my friends!"

Magnes cantered his horse as Bennard and Rickon followed behind him, angling through to match Daemon's pace. They thundered toward the castle like that, riding alongside each other. Rising in his stirrups, Bennard cried, "Make safe the keep!" and stormed ahead.

Daemon smiled then, feeling the fires awaken inside him once again. Blood rushed to his extremities, bringing the much-desired warmth and feeling back. His fingers curled around the pommel of Dark Sister; he looked over and saw Rickon determined, snorting horse beneath him driving hooves harshly against the earth to keep his pace. They had stayed his side, but he was ever before them, leading their charge to dangers untold.

And Daemon looked ahead, saw the postern gate curiously open as a sliver of moonlight illuminated it. They were halfway to the walls, and with eyes narrowed, he could now discern a corpse hanging from the archway. The headless remains dangled upside down from a rope, was stripped nude, and draped in a banner presenting a scaled fist of silver upon scarlet: the sigil of the Glovers.

His mind began racing furiously, and he looked over to see Rickon curse something lost to time under his breath, and then he faced forward. The postern lain open, and their mounts made entry into the main ward.

Daemon jerked his reins; his courser whickered excitedly and reared to a halt. In a second, he was dismounted and gazing at the worrisome sight before them. The castle was vacant, he could see that plainly in the lifeless desolation with his own eyes. Some great battle took place here, that much was clear. Discarded spears, blades and other weapons ruined by war lay about the courtyard. Arrows snapped and splintered dotted the stone walls, the white earth, and very stairways leading to keep. Numerous bodies wearing the colours of red and silver were strewn about the place, and the baleful stench of death pervaded the air beneath grey smoke and silvery pale light gifted by the waxing moon.

With deliberate slowness, Daemon walked his horse forward by the reins. He stopped to look down at a distressing sight: the spoiled remains of a mother near a young child. Her gown had been pulled up and torn—nay, cut at the very seams to paint a horrid picture of her raping. And both she and the child's throat had been slit. It seemed to him they'd done it out of spite, to force the poor woman to watch the life of her child fade away before her own end.

There was a crunching of footsteps upon snow behind him. "Fey, it seems, to look upon such tragedy," Rickon whispered pensively.

Daemon did not turn to face him. "We are too late," he muttered bluntly. "Too late is worse than never."

He moved on, still slowly, tethering his courser to a stake and marching silently toward the gatehouse leading into the keep. Rickon lingered behind him—further still, Bennard and Magnes who rummaged through the desolate wastes for signs of life, or perhaps a trail to further lead them. The cold shadow of the walls struck him with a chill. No longer did the fires of war burn inside him, and it left him feeling rather despondent.

He traversed the stairs carefully, taking each step deliberately with his sword ready and raised slightly. There had been silence all around them, though he swore he could hear something beyond the doors leading into the keep itself. He stopped, took a breath to calm his nerves, then pushed open the door which was already slightly ajar.

And heard the clang of numerous pewter cups and plates as they splattered against the ground in a room down the hallway.

He lowered his voice to a snarled whisper. "Who goes there?! Come out and show yourself, quickly!" Even as he spoke, he took a few more steps to allow himself room to swing his sword overhead if need be.

With the drifting away of his own voice, the hallways became more silent than any lichyard yet again. And he waited there patiently; for what, he did not know. All the light of the castle had been doused. First by bandit, then by nightfall. The few sconces and braziers around were snuffed out or knocked over. He could only find his way by what little moonlight slivered its way inside, though with his night's eye adjusted, it was well enough.

He called out again, and there was a silence from the other end of the hallway. With the last words, he continued his approach. Try as he might, his attire—though covered with thick furs—was set upon a coat of ringmail, and it just about rattled with each step. Sneaking was futile, he figured, and so he swung around the corner to stand ready in the entryway.

And he saw a dirty looking man, there, behind the dining table and hiding his face as if he'd been caught in the act.

Daemon grimaced sharply and relaxed himself. "Are you a fool?" he hissed, stepping into the dark room. "Come on out from behind there if you have your manhood. You needn't be like a coward."

There was a silence from the other man, very much as if he'd been weighing his response. That, Daemon had wholeheartedly expected. From what he could see of the man, he seemed a devious cretin—and he smelt the sort, too.

"You took me unawares!" the man bleated. He poked his head up to assess his situation. "Could've been one of them wildfolk, gods be good!"

His expression did not change; he'd assumed this was little more than a peasant who'd happened upon this place to loot and ransack for his own benefit. And he saw a makeshift sack made from a blanket slung over his shoulder as he stood. "Been helping yourself to the castle keep, have you?" Daemon asked sardonically. "You drop that plunder to the floor and show me what's there. I may have your hands for this, you flea-ridden cur!"

The bandit paused as he watched Daemon cant his blade lower to strike. He is an uncivilized wretch, he thought. His was the sort to risk his life for merely a groat. He detested his type: thieves, uncultured, and uneducated oafs who preyed upon the honest livelihood of others. He'd suddenly remembered his time heading the gold cloaks. He oft took the pleasure himself of removing fingers, hands—mayhaps even noses of those who were particularly immoral. He needn't be lenient with this mangey dog, whether it be in the pleasure houses of Flea Bottom or a lord's chambers.

And so, he looked upon the man with disdain, hatred even. "I'll not yet grant you leave of this misdeed," he uttered darkly. "Come clean your crimes, or cheapen yourself further as ill-made a man you are, it matters not."

"You've got it wrong, ser!" he replied, keeping his voice high. "I've gone a fortnight without eat or drink. Please, most honourable lord, allow me and my brothers to sup tonight!"

He'd heard enough. Prince Daemon, without a word, lunged at the man and cut effortlessly into his sack. Silver spoons, pewter cups, and clay bowls clanged against the ground. Even a knife with a jewel adorned hilt fell pitifully to ring against the cold stone floor. Inscrutable lies, he thought. "Have you the mind to sup on the very air tonight?" the regent asked. His face contorted into something maniacal then. "I'll take one hand," he whispered with mirth. "I'll let you decide which to keep; do choose wisely!"

"Oh no, gods no!" the man shrieked. He cowed before Daemon, and then in his madness leapt for the doorway.

The regent was always quicker. A flash of silver caught in the moonlight, a shrill whistle through the air. Multi-shaded reds splattered to paint the stone floor with a crimson spray as he cut effortlessly through tendon and bone. The man's right hand twirled through the air before landing in a puddle of freshly-spilt blood. The bandit wailed out in terror, shedding what little remnants of manhood he held so cheaply. He flailed and spun about to land on his backside, grasping pitifully at his leaking stump of an arm.

"You whoreson!" he yelped, eyes wide and rolling backward with madness. "That'd been my good hand!" And his panicked shrieks mixed with unmistakable wails as reality dawned on him.

"I gave you a choice," Daemon said harshly, "and you spat in my face." He sheathed Dark Sister to sleep again, continued, "Now you must live with that decision until your pitiful end."

On that same word, numerous footsteps pounded the wooden floorboards and stone hallways to reach them. He turned to see the Stark brothers and Magnes of Deep Lake with swords drawn and ready.

Daemon raised a hand to both greet and assuage them. "Find calm, my friends," he said to them with a smile. "I merely instructed this fellow on what it means to be a man. He knows now of the queen's justice."

Rickon looked down at the trembling peasant who'd by now become covered in his own lifeblood. He looked over Daemon's shoulder to see the spilt sack and all its contents strewn about the dining hall. He smiled knowingly, saying, "Bennard. Magnes. Remove this thief from these halls and place him in irons. He may sooner find his honour by taking the black, if he so wishes."

The thief looked horrified, then. "Needs must I? Must I truly take the black?" he asked, voice wavering with pain. "I've already given up a hand, m'lords," he added.

"Not willingly," Daemon said sternly.

Bennard grunted. "Have you a shred of dignity in your frail bones?" he asked.

"Aye," Magnes interjected, "and we've need of men . . . with one hand or not. Come along now."

Daemon watched as Bennard and Magnes helped the wounded man to his feet. The thief turned to bitterly stare at him one last time, before they escorted him out of dining hall and into the snows. Turning to look at his friend, at his weathered, unkempt face, Daemon knew the elder Stark had little patience for thieves and minor villainy.

There came a time for them to speak alone. Yet, something caught his attention. He heard a vague sound emanating from behind the walls. "Is my mind playing tricks?" he asked quietly. "Have you heard it too?"

Rickon turned his head, nodding. "A strange voice," he replied, scratching his growing beard in thought. "Perhaps behind those shelves?" He pointed at the far corner of the dining hall.

Edging closer, Daemon listened intently at whatever lay beyond the wall. Then it dawned on him: there had been a door behind the shelves. "Look there!" he exclaimed. "An exit to a secret passageway?"

Rickon tore away at the shelves, knocked them down, and then attempted to push the doors open. They creaked but hardly budged an inch, so Daemon pushed with him to force it open.

And immediately a young maiden fell forward into Daemon's arms. He held her then as she moaned in agony against his chest. It had surprised him, but he had compassion for such things. "You poor, sweet thing," he whispered as she latched onto him for dear life. "There, now; you're in safe with us now."

Rickon's eyes widened. "Little Salvia?" he asked quietly. "Where is your father? Your mother and sister? Speak now, dear girl."

The very mention of her family spurred her into further grief. She was inconsolable now, as she sobbed and spasmed with an intense outpouring of sorrow upon his shoulder. He could do nothing but pat the girl gently upon the back, with poor hopes to comfort her at all. Suddenly, she stopped her convulsions and looked up at Daemon.

He found himself gazing down upon her; saw a fair-skinned maiden who was quite tall for her young years. She had long, dark hair and emerald-green eyes. Her eyes were genuinely extraordinary, for someone without Valyrian blood that was; seldom had he seen a girl with such striking eyes. With that thought, he touched a finger to her chin, saying in his tenderest, "Tell us what happened, so we may bring them to justice."

She made no motion, no response to his words. Just looked up at him with wide, doe-like eyes. He realized she was the daughter of this castle's lord, based upon Rickon's words and how she was dressed. Indeed, she was the daughter of Galibert Glover, ruler of this land. He needed answers, he realized.

"Have they cut out your tongue?" he asked to prod a reaction. "You must tell us what happened.

Her expression changed then. "My sister was taken," she then uttered quickly. Her voice was very high, and extraordinarily feminine. "They hung Father—I saw it—and I heard the screams of Mother as they . . . as they . . ." Her voice faded with her stutter. She couldn't finish; collapsed into another mess.

Daemon's own face softened then, as he saw her break down further. He turned to Rickon. "Fetch this girl a pail of water and a trencher of bread," he commanded. "She looks gaunt, sickly; mayhaps she's been here for long."

"Far too long," the elder Stark murmured before turning to depart.

He turned to look down at the miserable girl again, pushing the dark bangs from her eyes.

"There, there, sweet child," he whispered.

And rocked her back and forth gently, and as best he could.

On the bright, mild morning in winter when she prays for the safe return of her lord uncle, Rhaenyra Targaryen is returning carefully from her customary walk along the natural, tree-lined pathways from the weirwood in the godswood and back to the castle, when she sees Gilliane Stark waiting for her under the archway.

Her breath quickens from her growing apprehension, and she hastens her pace to see the lady looking at her with a very warm and inviting expression. Mayhaps my uncle has returned, she thinks, perhaps they have triumphed.

"Good morrow, my lady," she says as she comes quickly under the archway. The morning is still very young, and one can hear—see birds fluttering from tree to tree and playing in the early winter. It is a bustling day at the castle, with Ser Waldemar made castellan of Winterfell in his lord's absence. They are far enough away though to be cloaked in only the sounds of birds and the gentle breeze.

Gilliane Stark, elegant and fair in her warm furs and long gown, makes no immediate reply to her greeting, but smiles pleasantly. They have been spending time like this together, in the absence of their loved ones. It is a ritual now, for her to come here and for Gilliane to await her return. Rhaenyra knows she finds comfort in her companionship, and learns much as they go about their day together.

"Did you hear them?" she asks finally, as if there is no one around. "When away, I am always curious if others can hear their voices amidst the winds, the swaying of leaves, and the falling of snow and rain." She smiles warmly, but only briefly; it is almost missed entirely by Rhaenyra, but she notices it.

She gestures for Gilliane to follow her. "Walk with me," she says plainly. "I intend to amble in your lovely gardens once again. And yes, I do believe I heard something today, though I know not what."

She sees Gilliane smile, and she turns her head slightly. "You truly heard it?" she asks with real wonder in her voice. "It means they have taken a like to you," she adds with a womanly giggle. "I have come to see for myself how they've received you, but I hadn't realized they already bestowed their blessings upon you . . ."

She wonders about that. "Blessings?" she asks timidly. "Do you mean the old gods interfere with worldly things? I wasn't so sure . . ."

"Oh, yes," she says, "more often than one would believe, I think."

Rhaenyra feels a smile creep up in the corners of her mouth. Be careful, she tells herself then. It is too childish to place her hopes in such mysteries. Though, it has been several days since Daemon set out with Lord Stark northward. They have not received any missive, any word or raven of their progress. It bothers her much to be left alone like so, but Gilliane has kept her in good company.

She hears the flowing of a stream passing through the centre garden. Even in wintertime it stays in thaw, born from the natural springs beneath the earth as it is. The sound is calming to her, and altogether relaxing. She wishes to walk these pathways with Daemon again, hand-in-hand and together in unity of marriage.

Gilliane drags her hand along the balustrade as they pass by. She's smiling now, Rhaenyra can see that. She knows the lady enjoys her company, too. They are much alike in their penchants and desires, she feels.

"Ser Waldemar tells me of strife in the winter town," Gilliane says suddenly. She turns and leans over the balustrade to look up into the clear, wintry sky.

"Strife?" Rhaenyra asks curtly.

Gilliane nods, saying, "There is a dispute between two families over a dowry. As wife to my lord husband, it is my responsibility and duty to handle these matters in his absence. You see, one must dig up the rotten seedlings which have been sowed in your fields."

Drawing a deep breath, Rhaenyra asks, "And shall I aid you in this matter?"

Gilliane turns her head and smiles, "No, but I do wish for you to accompany me after we break our fast."

Rhaenyra's turn to smile. She has much to learn from this experienced lady, she realizes. And so, they turn and take another step, the one necessary to be on their way again. They can stay here all day, and do nothing, she thinks. But she knows she must attend to the realm's problems, just as Daemon is in this very moment.

She thinks of him and their love, as they traverse the remainder of the gardens, lit by an eager sun above pretty clouds in the dawn of winter.