April-June, 303 AC


"Will it work?"

The speaker was a tall man, corpse-thin. A gleaming crown sat atop his balding head; dark shadows framed his square jaw and cast sunken hollows beneath his eyes. He did not see the direwolf watching from the shadows, concealed by snow drifts as white as his fur. Beside the king stood a woman clad in silken robes. Even from a distance her scent assailed the direwolf's sharp nose, the aroma of sweet spices mingled with that of smoke and flame.

"I do not know," said the woman. The calmness of her voice belied the way she stank of fear. "What may be, what will be, they are not the same. Once the flames showed me a feast of corpses. A dead man with the head of a wolf presided over them, crowned with swords wrought of bronze and iron."

"Yet the usurper lived," said the man who could only be Stannis Baratheon. He stood in the yard of a dark castle, amongst a forest of tree stumps. In the middle of the yard was a deep pit, filled with logs, leaves, and kindling. Hundreds of men stood about the pit, knights and men-at-arms, all bearing torches, all hooded and cloaked against the icy wind that blew so loud it nearly drowned out the creak of wood and rope.

The king ground his teeth, as though the sound pained him. "A great gift requires great sacrifice, aye. A flame to pierce the coming dark." He shivered, his whole body wracked by a sharp, sudden cough. "Yet when the Other came... R'hllor did not save our horses. Nor did he drive away the dead, nor feed my starving men."

"Yet it was the Lord of Light who kept them warm in the bitterest cold, in the fiercest wind." A great gem pulsed at the woman's throat. "Just as it was the Lord of Light who healed your daughter, and breathed life into stone."

The woman reached into her robes, drawing forth an egg. At first the girl thought it was made of jewels, so brightly did it reflect the firelight. The egg was larger than a man's fist, larger than that of any natural beast. A dragon's egg, the girl realized, staring in awe. The woman drew closer to the king, turning over the egg to reveal half of the egg was cracked, slim veins twisting and turning over glimmering scales of grey and gold.

For a long moment there was nothing but the wailing of the wind and the muttering of the men circled around the pit. Then the king jerked his head stiffly, and the woman stepped forward, holding the egg out before her with both hands. Her robes swirled about her feet as she walked toward the pit, whose center boasted an altar of rough hewed stone. A ladder leaned against the edge of the pit, but the woman did not even spare it a glance. Instead she leapt down, graceful as a dancer, and placed the egg atop the altar.

When the woman climbed back out of the pit, she found the king waiting. He reached out a hand and pulled her from the top of the ladder, with a hard yank that almost flung her into his arms. Nor did he loosen his grip on her hand as he looked up for the first time since the girl began dreaming.

And as the king and the woman looked up, so did the direwolf.

High above the pit hung two cages of woven wood, alike in every way. Each was woven from saplings and branches, bent and twisted into a wooden lattice. Each was near six feet tall, and half again as wide. And each held a the blurred figure of a man.

The men were not the same. One smelled of death and cold and a strange power that set the direwolf's teeth on edge. The other smelt of salty tears and sweaty musk, of cider and stew and bread. One was garbed in shredded rags, his bare hands and feet swollen and black. The other wore thick furs, with gloves on his hands to keep off the chill. One struggled clumsily against his bonds, his bright blue eyes burning like stars. The other was unbound, standing ramrod straight with his eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer.

Below, the king turned away, letting go of the woman's hand. "Do it." He clenched his jaw hard, until the muscles in his neck stood out like cords.

The woman stepped forward, her voice clear and loud as she began to speak. In silence both direwolf and girl listened as she spoke of bleeding stars and ancient prophecy, of miracles and magic, of darkness and light.

"From king's blood and untainted fire, a dragon shall be woken!"

The woman raised her hands, and the whole pit burst into sudden flame. The logs went up as easily as the kindling, sending up tongues of sickly yellow-green fire that danced and swirled so hot even the direwolf could feel them. Then a gust of freezing wind howled out of the north, a tempest wind that blew back hoods, snapped at cloaks, and would have blown off the king's crown, had he not held it in place. It blew and blew, flinging snow across the yard and into the pit as though it meant to snuff out the flames. Instead they roared even higher, as though the wind were a blacksmith's bellows.

As the fire neared the cages, the dead man began to writhe. His cage jerked and swayed as he fought his bonds, straining to climb away from flames the same color as the silk that slashed his black wool cloak. A long tongue of flame leapt above the rest, lapping at the cage. When it touched the dead man he went up with a whoosh, as though his flesh was made of tallow.

The girl looked to the other cage, expecting to see the unbound man clinging to the top of his cage, away from the surging flames. Instead she watched, horrified, as the man fell to his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Mother have mercy," he sobbed. With a crackle the floor of his cage began to burn, the green saplings hissing and spitting. "The dragon, give him his dragon, oh Marya, forgive me—" a shriek of pain cut off his words; his furs had caught fire, his body wreathed with flames.

"End it," gritted the king, his eyes as dark and wet as deep blue pools.

The woman cried a word and threw out her hand, and the fire roared higher, the shriek ending almost as soon as it had begun. All was silent but for the hissing of the flames as they consumed the cages, the branches turning to ash and falling down upon the altar. Whether king or knight or man-at-arms, every eye was on the altar, every mouth holding its breath. Only the woman looked away, staring on the cages, doubt flickering in her eyes.

Suddenly there came a crack like the shattering of stone. On the altar the egg shuddered, fractures rippling over its face until every scale was faceted like a crystal. It must break apart, the girl thought, wonder and terror warring within her.

Yet though they watched until the flames guttered out, the egg never hatched.

Arya woke with the stink of ash still lingering in her nose. Davos Seaworth was dead, she knew that as surely as she knew that she could not fall back asleep. Should she wake Robb to tell him what she'd seen? No, he needed his rest, she could tell him at breakfast. He should get his sleep, even if she couldn't.

With a muttered curse she rose from her campbed, careful not to awaken her companions. They slept on, oblivious, Jeyne spooned about Meri. Both had faint smiles on their lips, no doubt thanks to whatever they'd been up to beneath the furs when she returned late from Robb's tent and startled them half to death.

They'd traveled north on the kingsroad for over five weeks now, riding during the day and making camp at night. When they left for the wedding it was near the end of third moon, a sennight after the feast for Arya's fourteenth nameday. Close to Winterfell there were inns and holdfasts, even a few keeps held by masterly houses, the landed knights of the north. Now it was the last day of fourth moon, and warm hearths were few and far between, at least until they drew closer to Last Hearth.

With silent feet Arya padded across the tent to the brazier, which had burned down to embers during the night. Some kindling and a few small logs served to wake them into gentle flames, and Arya dragged a leather camp chair over so she could warm her hands. It would not be dawn for a while yet; she could hardly wander around camp in the dark. Besides, she already knew what she would see.

Beside her tent would be three others. The grey and white was Robb's, the grey and red was Ser Mychel Redfort's, and the black and white belonged to Alys Karstark. She shared her tent with Cornel Umber; at nineteen, they were the eldest of her ladies. Well, eldest of her ladies present. Rhea Royce and Wynafryd Manderly were twenty-three, Catelyn Bracken a year younger, but they were all back at Winterfell, along with fourteen-year-old Wylla Manderly and her betrothed.

Rickon had not been pleased to be left behind again. After Osha left for Skagos, he flung himself into learning the Old Tongue from the wildling hostages. There was a solid week where he refused to speak anything but the Old Tongue, until Robb's patience ran thin and he gave Rickon the choice of speaking in the common tongue, or spending every day for a week indoors copying old scrolls in the library. Faced with such a horrifying fate, Rickon suddenly remembered how to speak in common. Thank the gods Osha was back now, armed with strange tales to distract her sullen charge.

Yes, between training with Ser Patrek Mallister, lessons with Maester Luwin, and stories with Osha, Rickon should be kept busy enough to forestall the worst of his tantrums. If not, Nymeria would dunk him in the black pool in the godswood, just like she dunked Shaggydog when he misbehaved. Much as Arya desperately missed her wolf, leaving Nymeria behind had been enough to convince Rickon that yes, she would return from Last Hearth.

If only it were true. Please, gods, let it be true.

Without Nymeria, Arya's wolf dreams seemed to be growing stronger and stranger. Sometimes she dreamt of the godswood, of Nymeria wrestling with Shaggydog and howling with him in the dark of night, but sometimes she was Shaggydog, wild and free, determined to defeat his fierce big sister. Other nights she was Grey Wind, standing guard over Robb's bed or running through the camp, fast as an arrow. On rarely did she dream of Ghost, and then her dreams were warped, for he was half blind compared Nymeria. His nose and ears though, they were the sharpest of any of them, quickest to catch a scent or the softest of sounds.

For a time she had wondered if Summer was going blind. The few glimpses she saw through his eyes were confusing, shrouded in darkness black as pitch or blazing with pale light that made stars swim in his eyes. It took several dreams before Arya realized she was seeing the inside of a cavern beneath the earth, or deep fields of snow set afire by the sun. Try as she might, she never glimpsed Bran, no more than she could glimpse Sansa.

At least she knew where Sansa was, even if it was far across the narrow sea. Why didn't the stupid Essosi keep ravens? It only took nine days to send a raven across the nine hundred leagues betwixt Winterfell and Sunspear. Princess Arianne Martell had sent their letters sailing to Meereen at the end of ninth moon; Maester Luwin said they would not reach Meereen until twelfth moon. Then the ships would circle the Jade Sea before returning to Meereen in fourth moon to pick up any new letters. Was Sansa writing to her at this very moment? Were the ships weighing anchor to sail west? It was agony knowing she could not expect any letters for another three, perhaps four or months, if there were bad winds and foul storms.

Everything always seemed to be moving slower than Arya would like. The sooner they reached Last Hearth, the sooner it would all be over. Unfortunately, what with the wind and snow, the northern retinue was lucky if they made three leagues a day. Most of the snow was knee-deep, but the wind blew it into drifts as tall as a man's waist. To ensure a clear path, teams of furry oxen went before the horses, yoked to weighted wooden plows that sat atop iron blades. Together the oxen shouldered through the drifts, leaving behind a path of ankle deep snow far easier for the mules and garrons to manage. And manage they did, at a pace that would make a snail weep.

No one else was fool enough to head north. Any travelers they saw on the road were walking or riding south, bound for the refuge of Winterfell and the winter town. All of them bent the knee as soon as they saw Robb's banners, most of them near giddy at the sight of the King of Winter in the flesh. They paid Arya homage too, their praise as predictable as it was awkward to receive. "Our princess is a true northern beauty," said some, those inclined to be gallant. She much preferred those inclined to seek her favor by calling her a she-wolf and asking if the rumors were true, a question she always answer by baring her teeth in a bloodthirsty smile.

It seemed like ages before dawn finally came. While Jeyne slept on, Meri fetched a basin of hot water from the cooks. Even with the brazier crackling merrily, the tent was chilly, and Arya's teeth chattered when she stripped for her morning wash. She stood beside the brazier as Meri quickly scrubbed her down. While Meri patted her dry, Arya scratched at the hair beneath her armpits, which itched almost as badly as that below her waist, yet another one of her body's unwelcome changes. What was the point of growing hair there? She didn't mind the downy hair growing on her legs; that at least helped keep her warm.

Warmth was scarce, now that winter was here. When they reached Long Lake near midday, it was to find thin sheets of ice sheets spreading across the still blue waters. Beside the shore grew a pair of weirwood trees. Each was carved with a face, one all curves, the other all angles, yet both somehow looked alike, their deep eyes staring across the gap between their trunks. It spanned nigh on ten yards, but their pale branches reached for each other, entwining to form a high bower. The branches curved so smoothly she half wondered if the hand of some long dead gardener had tended them, crafting a barrel-vaulted ceiling out of living wood rather than dead beams.

It was beneath that canopy that the retinue knelt. Arya's place was that of a Princess of Winterfell. She knelt at her brother's left hand, her ladies fanning out behind her. As King in the North, Robb was the last to bend his knees. Before he knelt, he thrust the point of Ice into the frozen earth, the effort making him grunt. The blade shone in the winter sun, reflections of white snow and blue waters rippling across the surface of the smoky Valyrian steel.

Long they prayed to the nameless gods of forest, lake, and stone. No sound disturbed their devotions, save those of the world itself. The waters murmured as they lapped at the pebbled shore; the wind sighed as it drew gentle fingers through her hair; the leaves whispered to each other as they fluttered over her head.

"Robb?" A voice called, faint and hesitant, the softest semblance of an echo. "Arya?"

She looked up, her eyes falling on the carved face of the closest weirwood. Somehow it seemed different than before, the face so familiar she thought she might weep. Bran? Her brother looked older than she recalled. His teeth were too big for his mouth, with gaps where they had not finished growing in; blemishes spotted his cheeks; a third eye gleamed upon his brow. Arya parted her lips, but the words caught in her throat, and when she looked again Bran was gone.

Her elder brother was less eager to abandon her. When prayers were over and their journey resumed, Robb beckoned her to join him at the front of the column, beneath the rippling white banner of House Stark. That was odd; she'd ridden beside him not a sennight ago.

For a while she did not speak, content with examining her brother's face each time he glanced away. Would Bran recognize their brother now? Five years had passed since they were last together; Robb was now a man of nineteen. He stood two inches shy of six feet, well-muscled from long hours sparring with his honor guard and with his bannermen. His face was handsome, save for the scar that slashed across his cheek. He wore a close-cropped beard, the same one Father used to wear, save for the color, which was as auburn as the thick waves of hair that fell past Robb's shoulders. Like Arya, he kept his hair up when he rode, to keep it from flying in his face. Unlike Arya, he simply pulled it up into a rough horsetail, whilst she must have her hair neatly braided in a long maiden's plait every morning.

A maiden's plait. Arya had a sneaking suspicion as to why Robb had chosen to favor her as his riding companion. Still, she said nothing, not until they were far enough ahead that the wind wouldn't carry her words to Ser Perwyn Truefaith, Dacey Mormont, Helman Tallhart, and Ser Mychel Redfort, who rode at their heels as always whilst Grey Wind raced ahead.

"Whose turn was it?"

Robb glared at her, a hint of irritated brother flickering under his kingly bearing. "Arya," he scolded.

"I beg your pardons," Arya said, innocent as a septa. "Whose turn was it, Your Grace?"

Robb rolled his eyes at that, putting a hand to his brow. "Alys Karstark."

"But you like Alys," Arya protested, annoyed at having her suspicions confirmed.

"No, you like Alys," he shot back. "Granted, I should probably grant her a boon in thanks for her service keeping you and Cornel from murdering each other."

Arya crossed her arms, one hand still holding her reins. Not that she needed reins. Whitey was the most reliable of mules, as steady and solid as one might expect of a beast that spent thirty years ascending the mountains of the Vale. Small wonder Mya Stone had chosen him to bring him with her when she departed the Gates of the Moon.

When the younger of Arya's two garrons lamed himself ten leagues north of Winterfell, Mya had offered up Whitey as a temporary replacement. She'd brought half a dozen shaggy donkeys with her that she hoped to breed with the sturdy garrons of the mountain clans descending upon Last Hearth. Arya made a face. At least the donkeys and garrons wouldn't be forced to undress in public while a crowd shouted bawdy jokes.

"Everyone at the wedding will be asking why you aren't betrothed yet," Arya said, trying to be reasonable. Robb's advisers might have long since given up on dropping hints that the king deliberately ignored, but that didn't mean everyone else would.

"You haven't given Alys a fair chance. If she can keep me from stabbing Cornel over needlework, wouldn't she be good at handling quarrelsome lords? She's very clever, and she's even-tempered. She explains why my stitches keep going wrong without insulting me like Cornel does, she speaks the Old Tongue almost as well as Rickon does, she even sings."

Robb sighed, then glanced back, making sure they were still speaking privily. "I can't give Alys a fair chance," he explained patiently. "Rickard Karstark brought her to Winterfell when we were, oh, seven, I think? Before they arrived, Father sat me down in his study, and explained that Lord Karstark hoped to make a match. As Lord Eddard did not intend to make a match until I was much older, he told me I must treat Alys with every courtesy, but remember that a lord weds for his people, not himself. We danced after the feast; I think I foisted her off on Jon because he was sulking over something and needed cheering up."

What did Jon sulking have to do with giving Alys a fair chance? "Everyone sulks sometimes," Arya said, in defense of her absent brother. "You're not seven now. What's the problem? Maester Luwin told me there's been plenty of Karstark marriages in the past."

She'd specifically asked about that point before they left Winterfell; if Robb pressed her, she could have recited the names and dates.

"The Karstarks are a good match for the King in the North," Robb agreed, much to her surprise. "Not so for the King of the Trident and the King of Mountain and Vale. Already I betrothed my brother and my sister to my northern bannermen; I cannot marry a northwoman myself, not without giving grave offense to the riverlords and valelords. Perhaps if I could make southern matches for Sansa and Bran it might be different, but..." He shook his head.

"Fine, not Alys." If Robb was willing to speak on marriage, she'd best seize the opportunity before he fell into a melancholy, like he did each year on the anniversary of the Red Wedding and that of Jeyne Westerling's death. A new wife could not make him forget his pain, but at least she might give him some comfort. "What about Catelyn Bracken? She's nice enough, and you could go riding together every day."

"We could, if I wanted to set my northmen's teeth on edge. She's far too pious."

"Mother worshipped the Seven."

Robb winced. "So she did. But Mother always respected the old gods, even if she did not keep them herself. Catelyn Bracken, however... Hother Umber came to me a few moons back, spitting mad over some comment he overheard her make about the savagery of the godswood. 'If one Stark might be convinced to build a sept,' she said, 'perhaps another might be open to the salvation of the Faith.'"

"Oh."

"Oh indeed," Robb said grimly. "Among the highest houses of the Vale, neither the Redforts, Waynwoods, nor Corbrays have any daughters of likely age. For a time I thought Rhea Royce might suit. She ran the household at Runestone for years before she was wed and then again after she was widowed. She's not outspoken about keeping the Faith, she's accomplished at the womanly arts, and wedding her would more tightly secure our bonds with the Vale. When you were away at the Dreadfort, I spent more time with her, hoping some affection might bloom. Instead..."

Arya hung her head. "It's my fault," she mumbled.

Shortly after she returned from the Dreadfort, still flush with victory over the Boltons' downfall, she'd proposed teaching her ladies some grappling moves, so that they might escape attack just as Jeyne and Meri had. Her ladies hesitantly agreed to the lessons, but matters deteriorated when, after three hours practice, Rhea Royce disdainfully proclaimed she required no such lessons because she was not such a lackwit as to send away her sworn sword so he might wed the only woman fool enough to have him.

Cornel Umber and Alys Karstark had seized a furious Wylla Manderly before she could do more than shout in her sister's defense, but no one managed to catch hold of Arya until after she slapped Rhea. The strength of Lady Edythe Cerwyn's rebuke afterward had nearly deafened them all; she'd forgotten amiable, quiet Edythe was born an Umber and had bellows for lungs. Wylla, Arya, and Rhea all had to write heartfelt apologies, read them aloud before all the ladies in Arya's solar, and then embrace, kiss, and swear to love each other always. Suffice to say, whilst they held their tongues henceforth, the vow about loving each other proved much harder to keep.

"Oh, it's not your fault," Robb said pleasantly. "Though I thank you for the convenient excuse to end any talk of betrothal. I could hardly write Yohn Royce to tell him that I cannot wed his daughter merely because I dislike her and she despises Winterfell. Truth be told, I don't think she holds any fondness for me either. The more time we spent together, the more we irritated each other, and a bitter marriage would do more harm than good. On the other hand, I can inform Yohn Royce that in a single stroke his daughter gravely insulted the Princess of Winterfell, the future Lady of White Harbor, and her husband, who also happens to be among my most loyal knights."

Loyal might be an understatement, Arya thought as she glimpsed Ser Perwyn Truefaith out of the corner of her eye. As usual, he stuck to her like a bur, his horse keeping pace a few lengths behind hers, his cheeks ruddy with the cold. Like most of the northmen, he was growing out a winter beard that covered his weak chin and most of his jaw. Rhea Royce might be a sharp-tongued shrew, but even Arya had to admit that the thicket of brown hair diminished Perwyn's unfortunate resemblance to a weasel.

Not that Wynafryd minded. She'd fairly glowed with smug satisfaction when they returned from White Harbor, having successfully persuaded first her father, Ser Wylis, then her grandfather, Lord Wyman, to give their blessing for her to wed. Wynafryd was even more smug when she promptly began to grow great with child, giving birth to a healthy babe shortly before they left Winterfell, an adorably bald and chubby boy she'd named Wyman.

As the new parents refused to leave their chambers, Arya barely saw hide nor hair of Ser Perwyn until the day they departed, her sworn shield having flatly refused to let her set foot outside of Winterfell again without his protection. Granted, she rode beyond the walls of Winterfell all the time with her ladies and a heavy guard of men-at-arms, but apparently that didn't count. No, she must have Ser Perwyn always at her elbow, sighing with longing over Wynafryd and gushing over his son.

Talk of babies seemed inescapable of late. Ser Mychel Redfort and his wife Mya were trying for a babe, or so Arya guessed by how often she heard noises coming from their tent. Every bannerman whose keep they visited along the kingsroad had made at least one remark about Robb sowing his seed, a notion that she really, really did not want to think about, no more than she wanted to think of the rapidly approaching day when she would be expected to bear children.

Although... it would be nice, to have a niece or nephew. When she was little Arya used to make up names for all the babes around the keep and play with them once they could do more than nurse and cry. Growing older had not made it any less fun to play hide-the-treasure with Anguy and Helly's toddler when she visited the fletcher's shop, or come-into-my-castle with little Bessa Bolton, even if she would never need to know how to welcome someone to the Dreadfort.

The King in the North had attainted House Bolton long before the Dreadfort fell. Once Lord Bolton and his bastard were dead, it was only a matter of divvying up the lands, incomes, and holdings. Some went to the Umbers and Hornwoods as rewards for leal service, some Robb kept for House Stark. Walton Truefaith was castellan of the Dreadfort now, with a small keep of his own close by.

Roose Bolton's widow, Fat Walda Frey, remained at the Dreadfort with her kinsman. Robb was not sure what part Fat Walda played in the Red Wedding, but he refused to risk the chance that she might raise her daughter to commit further treasons. No, Bessa would foster at Winterfell until she came of age, at which time Robb would dower her and wed her to some faithful bannerman. Someday the Dreadfort would pass to a member of House Stark, perhaps Rickon, or one of Robb's sons once he had some.

They were welcome to it. The ominous quiet of the ancient keep was enough to make even a snowdrift look like a more desirable abode. Still, she could stand to see less of them; when the retinue stopped to make camp at the first glimpse of dusk, it felt like they'd barely moved a league.

While servants raised tents and stoked cookfires, Arya practiced water dancing. After a month on the road her footwork was almost back to normal, or as normal as it could be, with so much snow to worry about. She nearly danced circles around Ser Perwyn as she ran through her drills, as many of them as she could cram in before Jeyne fetched her to wash up and dress for dinner.

The rest of the journey north proceeded much the same. Each morning Arya dressed for the cold, then spent the day riding with her ladies, sometimes joined by Robb or one of his bannermen. And every night, when they stopped to make camp, she danced. She could not afford to forget a single stance, now that she no longer had Oro Nestoris.

Arya had known better than to try to persuade her dancing master to follow her to Last Hearth. Oro was determined to return home to Braavos before winter storms closed the Shivering Sea to all but the greediest or most foolhardy captains. Even if he had been willing to stay at Winterfell, he could not go to Last Hearth, no more than Gendry could.

She missed visiting the forge. Boistrous Master Theowyle would show her drawings of the commissions he was working on for various lords and knights, and seek her thoughts on the designs. Then there was Gendry, solid and quiet, save for when she asked about his training as a journeyman. He was almost shy when telling her about the different sorts of metal and why they required different handling, why some shapes were harder to make than others, why some jewels were never used by armorers.

"If a lordling asks for opals or pearls in aught else, he's welcome to them," he said gruffly. "But in a hilt? Never, not unless the armorer wants to be shouted at when the gems crack in the first battle."

Still, she wished Gendry wasn't doing so well at his training. He was soaking up knowledge like a sponge, so much so that Theowyle expected him to achieve mastery in three years, rather than the usual five or more. What would happen when he reached his mastery? Would he want to keep working with Theowyle, or would he set up a shop of his own elsewhere? Once he'd raised the idea of shaving his head and returning to King's Landing so he might seek further training from his old master, Tobho Mott. The very idea made Arya sick to her stomach.

She felt just as queasy when they finally reached the end of their journey. It was near the end of fifth moon, sixty days after they set out from Winterfell. They had ridden a hundred and fifty leagues through snow and wind, through low grasslands, through hills covered in forests of mountain birch, aspens and alders, rowan and juniper, and others she could not name, until at last the forest opened to reveal her future home.

Last Hearth bore little resemblance to Winterfell. There was no Great Keep here, no soaring towers and stout walls of grey stone. All was made of timber, from the longhall atop a flat-topped hill to the village in the bailey below, not to mention the fifteen foot palisade guarded by an ironbound gate and timber watchtowers. Smallfolk packed the bailey beneath the hill, which boasted a yard, stables, paddock, smithy, wells, and sheepfold, along with a godswood a third the size of that at Winterfell.

It was there that Lord Umber waited to greet them, before the heart tree, his kin and household all on bended knee. After Robb raised the Greatjon to his feet it was time for everyone to be introduced. There was Lady Marna, with her soft eyes and flames embroidered all over her thick quilted coat. There was Mors Crowfood, with his dragonglass eye to replace the one he'd lost, his cloak made from a snow bear whose head served as a hood. Last to come forward were the Greatjon's sons, Rime, a gangly youth two years her elder, and Hoarfrost, a powerfully built man of twenty, six years her elder.

"Come now," the Greatjon boomed, as soon as the courtesies were done. "A man should be able to greet the bride less formally, eh, Your Grace?"

Robb had barely had time to give his assent when the Greatjon barreled forward. With a great bellow he seized his hapless victim, lifting her off her feet and spinning her about until she gave a breathless laugh and begged to be put down, a plea which went ignored.

"Haven't you had enough?" Arya demanded, annoyed.

Cornel Umber looked rather queasy from the exuberance of her father's embrace, her face a faint green. With a booming laugh the Greatjon set his daughter back on the ground, where she swayed, dizzy, until Alys Karstark took her by the arm.

"No offense meant, little princess," the Greatjon rumbled, amused. "I would offer you the same warm welcome, but I fear Grey Wind might take two more fingers, if my lady did not stab me first."

He turned to Robb. "The Burleys are out hunting for the wedding feast. The last wedding guests from the mountain clans should arrive in the next few days, not that there will be many of them, with all the young ones headed for the winter town. The Wull, the Liddle, and the Knott are less than ten leagues out, but the Norreys and First Flints are at home, snowed in for the winter."

"Already?" Robb asked sharply.

The Greatjon gave a grim nod, but before he could speak Lady Marna stepped forward and placed a hand on her husband's arm. "Such talk can wait until after the wedding," she said, smiling gently. "No doubt you're eager for a warm hearth and a hot bath. I myself shall see that our princess is well settled."

Over the next few days Lady Marna was as good as her word. While the mountain clans trudged through snow and ice, Arya trudged through every single nook and cranny of Last Hearth's timber hall, Jeyne and Meri following at her feet like faithful cats, if somewhat less quiet. Lady Marna didn't seem to mind; she had the ears of a hawk, and sometimes answered their whispered questions.

"The high seat is not weirwood," she informed them on the second day, noting their interest in the throne carved from pale wood. "It is birch, from the forests beyond."

Each arm was supported by a giant wearing broken chains, the supposed founders of House Umber who'd helped the ancient Starks defeat the Warg King. The sides were just as beautiful, bearing northron runes above an endless forest. Arya squinted; she was fairly sure the runes said the Umber house words, only loyalty can bind. The carving was exquisite, each tree rendered in even finer detail than all the other furniture she'd seen thus far.

"No wonder the carvers of the hearthwood are so renowned."

Thanks either to that praise or to her general good humor, Lady Marna did not take offense when shortly thereafter Arya announced she would be returning to her chamber. Though the good lady did ask an excessive number of questions as to whether Arya was feeling alright, offering to fetch the maester or tend the princess herself if she was feeling the least bit unwell, an offer Arya politely but firmly declined.

"What's wrong?" Jeyne asked as soon as they were alone in the guest chamber.

"Stomach cramp," Arya replied, careful to keep her voice low. "I think it was all that juniper tea last night and this morning. It felt weird going down; my nose was all itchy like it gets when we scent the keep at the turn of the new year."

Jeyne and Meri exchanged a pregnant look, but neither said anything as they fetched a hot compress and some mulled wine. It was the juniper, Arya wanted to shout as she curled up in bed, clutching the compress to her belly. It had to be the juniper, it had to be. Because if it wasn't...

Princess Arya is to remain at Winterfell until such time as she flowers, the betrothal contract said. Upon flowering, the princess and no more than four of her ladies-in-waiting shall journey to Last Hearth, whence the princess will foster for a span of four years, at the end of which time Hoarfrost Umber shall take her to wife.

She couldn't flower now, she mustn't. Robb had promised that he would not make her stay at Last Hearth after the wedding, not unless she flowered before it came time for them to depart. It had taken weeks to talk him into it, given the expense and annoyance of a second journey to Last Hearth once she flowered. Even then, she was fairly certain Robb only gave in because Maester Luwin said she would likely flower any day.

Hot tears pricked at her eyes. Once her moonblood came, she would not see Winterfell again until she was wedded and bedded. An escort would bring Nymeria north, but that was small consolation for the thought of abandoning Rickon and everyone else back home.

"Princess?" Meri called softly. "Do you still want me to let out your breeches?"

"Yes, please."

Everything fitting wrong was yet another indignity to be suffered. Though her breasts remained mercifully small, she still had to wear a breastband, and it was always coming loose or sitting wrong. Her hips were widening too, straining at the seams of her breeches and hose, and she kept getting painful blemishes on her upper back.

At least now one could see the blemishes in the modest gown of white and grey she wore for the wedding. The Greatjon bawled like a big drunk baby when the time came to bed the newlyweds, sweeping his still clothed daughter up in his arms and carrying her to the bridal chamber whilst leaving Alaric Burley to be tormented by the womenfolk. Arya participated from a distance, keeping to the outskirts of the little mob of women as they eagerly stripped the laughing groom, trying to focus on Dacey Mormont's bawdy japes rather than the very naked man.

"You'll enjoy it more when you're older," Dacey told her cheerfully when it was over. They sat alone at the high table, Robb having gone off talking with the Wull, and Jeyne and Meri having fallen asleep at the table thanks to an excess of mead thrust upon them by their generous host. Outside she could hear the smallfolk laughing and shouting as they toasted the newlyweds with black beer and off-color songs. "My bedding was great fun; by the time they threw us in bed we were both laughing our heads off."

"I suppose," Arya said doubtfully. Grey Wind yawned at her feet; she scratched his ears. "I didn't know you were married."

"Widowed," Dacey said, eyeing an abandoned rosehip cake before shrugging and devouring it in three bites. "Ten years past, when I was but a girl of eighteen. He was a younger son of a minor house on Bear Island, fond of sailing and hawking and watching me wield a blade." She smiled fondly at the memory. "Two years after we were wed, his ship sank in a summer squall that caught him in the open sea."

"I'm sorry," Arya mumbled, wishing she had not asked.

Dacey patted her on the shoulder as if Arya were one of her four younger sisters. "My thanks, princess, but the wound is long since healed. Three years of happiness we had, and that's more than many can say. Alysane and her children will be my heirs, and House Mormont shall stand as it has for thousands of years."

Arya frowned. Robb had offered to find Dacey a husband, some lordling or knight with no seat of his own but wealth enough to fatten the coffers of Bear Island. Dacey had refused, saying she was well pleased to remain in Robb's personal guard as long as he deemed her worthy of the honor.

"Why not marry again?"

"Eh." Dacey shrugged. "Too much fuss. Pate was a good husband, but one was enough. Besides," she added with a sly smile. "If one has an itch that requires scratching, men leap at the chance to comfort a widow."

Arya made a face. That explained why Nymeria thought Dacey and Ser Patrek Mallister smelled more like each other than was warranted by them sharing the same rotation for the duty of guarding Robb.

"Such talk is not fit for Princess Arya's ears," a disapproving voice rumbled. Hoarfrost Umber loomed over them, resplendent in a tunic of flame-red wool embroidered with broken chains. Unlike his father, he'd drunk little of the mead, instead spending most of the night awkwardly attempting to make conversation with Arya.

"Your lady mother said worse during the bedding," Dacey replied pleasantly. "Even my mother would be impressed. She claims no one east of the mountains knows any of the old northron vulgarities."

The tips of Hoarfrost's ears turned pink. "I take your point. Might I have a word with my betrothed?"

"Not alone," Dacey said, covering a yawn. "Besides, it's late. We're here for a moon at least, Hoarfrost, there'll be plenty of time."

The next week felt like a year. Hoarfrost continued to seek her out for conversations about nothing, trying and failing to hide his clear disapproval of young maidens who cut off heads and threw them at people. One would have thought the Greatjon was a singer or a skald, judging by his delight at telling all and sundry of Arya's exploits. She'd not seen him do anything with such relish since the day he'd hung Bolton and his bastard's entrails from the Dreadfort's heart tree. Then as now, however, Hoarfrost, did not share his sire's good humor.

One chilly afternoon, desperate to avoid her hosts, Arya spent an hour hunting down Robb. Finally she found him in the first place she'd looked, his solar, where he sat with a stack of letters. Whilst on the road Maester Luwin had sent the most urgent ravens Winterfell received on to Last Hearth. Upon his arrival Robb had begun to go through them, sending replies either to his council back at Winterfell or directly to the petitioners.

Most of the letters had to do with winter, Arya knew that much. Yohn Royce had finally arrived at the Wall, along with the ships which had survived the tempest that caught them in the Bay of Seals. The lords of the Vale who remained in the south were eager to sell their grain, albeit at a heinous price, pleading scarcity due to the ongoing mountain clan raids.

Robb bought that excuse as much as he bought Rickon's claim that he would never, ever use the Old Tongue to swear at his brother and sister. He was more concerned by the continued dissatisfaction of the dwarf High Septon of Harrenhal and the increasing alarm of the maesters of the Citadel, who predicted an exceptionally long, cold winter.

"Either say what you want or go away," Robb sighed, staring at his letters. "Unless you'd like to write Uncle Edmure and explain why I cannot spare any more gold nor food for the Riverlands beyond what I have already committed."

Arya paused, thrown. She vaguely remembered that coming up at a council meeting; Lord Jason Mallister had been very understanding. Why was their uncle being difficult? The North couldn't afford to lose half their folk should the winter prove as disastrous as Robb expected. By Torrhen Poole's best estimate as keeper of accounts, the North's population still had yet to recover from the ironborn raids of the early 200s, the war with Raymun Redbeard, King-Beyond-the-Wall, the five year winter of the 230s, the ironborn raids of the 240s, Robert's Rebellion, the Greyjoy Rebellion, and the War of the Five Kings.

Only one king sat before her, his brow furrowed at her unexpected visit. Right, he'd asked her question.

"Can we go to that wildling village tomorrow, instead of next week?"

Robb sat back, thoughtfully stroking his beard. Come on, Arya prayed silently. She needed a respite from Hoarfrost and his lady mother, who hovered like a hen. Lady Marna meant well, but if she sighed one more time over poor Arya lacking a mother to guide her through her flowering, she was going to scream. Thank the gods the cramps had gone away since she began avoiding the juniper tea. Visiting the nearest wildling village in the Gift would mean two days ride each way, giving her four blessed days of relief from her future goodfamily.

"I don't see why not." Robb smiled wearily. "Mors did ask that I attend to the matter as soon as possible."

In the end it took three days to reach the village of the Thenns, even with one of the Umbers' wildling hostages serving as their guide. Like all the hostages she was kin to a wildling chief, in this case, Sigorn, the Magnar of the Thenns, who was her cousin.

Robb spent most of the journey interrogating Synne about the wildlings, the Wall, and its Lord Commander, in that order. Much to Arya's disappointment, she knew much more about wildlings and the Wall than she did about Jon Snow, whom she'd seen only a few times, and then at a distance. At least Synne spoke the common tongue fairly well, unlike her fellow hostages, and was even patient enough to practice the Old Tongue with Alys Karstark, who'd come along out of curiosity.

The wildling village was not a village at all, just a hamlet, no different than those she'd seen on the kingsroad. The houses were the same daub-and-wattle with thatched roofs and stone chimneys. They were set around a pasture where a few goats grazed beneath plum trees, digging their hooves to get at the grass beneath the snow. A whiskery old woman watched over the herd, accompanied by a mother in white furs holding onto a wriggling boy not more than three.

Everyone else was indoors, at least until they came out to see the unexpected visitors. All wore coats of shaggy furs, carefully layered to ward off the cold, faces peeping out of the thick fur ruffs about the edges of their hoods. There were no other children that Arya could see, and few elders. Grey Wind loped toward the wrinkled old goat woman, sniffing her while her goats pawed the snow. The direwolf growled low in his throat; when the goats pointed their horns at him, he bared his teeth. Not until Robb gave a sharp whistle did the direwolf leave off, trotting back to stand between Robb and Arya.

There could not be more than two hundred of them, Arya realized as Synne translated between the King in the North and the Magnar. Soon the wildlings were returning to their hamlet's modest longhall, and Robb, Arya and the northmen were being led on a tour of the tiny hamlet. As they walked Synne explained the repairs they had made since their arrival and apologized for the meagerness of their few harvests before winter.

"We paid our weregild to the crows," she translated, holding her head as proudly as her cousin did. One would think she was in a great hall, not in the enormous root cellar beneath the hamlet's only barn. It served both as storehouse and as a place of refuge during the bitterest cold. Amongst the wildlings' stores of barley, salted meat, and dried snow plums stood heavy sacks of vegetables, barrels of flour, and casks that could only be pickled fish.

"You still have these?" Robb asked. There was an air of mingled surprise and respect in his voice. "It's been over two years now. You must have starved whilst getting the first harvest in."

Synne frowned as she translated, an odd look passing between her and her cousin. "We are used to hunger," she finally said. "Long was the road from our high mountain valleys, and bitter. Lord Crow promised we would be safe behind the Wall if we kept your peace."

"See that you continue keeping the peace," said Robb. "No stealing women, no leaving the Gift."

"Where go?" said Sigorn. He spoke the common tongue as though each word cost him dearly, and the torchlight cast shadows on his face as he led them back out of the cellar and toward the hamlet's longhall. "North? Others slay us, like our kin. South?" He laughed bitterly. "Kneelers kill the rest."

For a moment there was silence, save for the crunch of boots upon the snow, the creak of the longhall door, and the muttered talk of the wildlings within. A few sat on a long bench at a rough trestle table, most sat cross-legged on the floor, but all were busy at their work. A dozen women stood, preparing food over the long firepit that ran down the center of the hall. They were assisted by their children, none of whom looked to be younger than seven. The rest of the wildlings mended furs, or stitched rough runes onto thin strips of dyed wool, or carved wood with bronze chisels.

It was the work of those at the table that drew Robb's eye. Chunks of obsidian covered the table, the firelight making them shine black and blue and green, like a raven's feathers. Grey-haired wildlings struck the largest chunks with antler billets, each blow carefully chosen. Younger, sharper eyed wildlings held the fruit of their labors, smaller chunks vaguely shaped like daggers, spearheads, or arrowheads. These they pressed with thin antler points, flaking off chips of obsidian.

Jon Snow's letters said the Thenns had lived in the far north Beyond the Wall, in a hidden valley protected from the worst of the wind and snow. For centuries they'd remained there, fending off all the other wildlings who wanted to claim the lands for their own. When Others and their thralls came, they'd resisted for long years, ringing their homes with firepits and arming themselves with obsidian.

Only the obsidian let them hold their ground for so long, when folk disappeared on cold nights, walking out into the wind and snow. Soon or late, they always returned, but it was with burning blue eyes and frozen black hands, their swollen flesh the milky white of death. Their food began to run short, ruined by blue-eyed rats and weasels, and their oldest and youngest grew sick and died. Only when the winds began to blow out the nightfires did they finally flee with what little they could carry, furs, food, precious tools and even more precious dragonglass.

They watched the wildlings at their knapping for a good long while, Robb occasionally asking questions which Synne translated. Arya circled the table, watching fire flare at the edges of the dragonglass and trying not to think of Gendry at his forge. Eventually she grew bored, and with Robb's leave, she, Grey Wind, and Ser Perwyn headed back out into the late afternoon sun, the cold making her breath steam.

No one else was fool enough to be outside. The goat woman was gone, doubtless sheltering in one of the houses whose thatched roofs were covered in several inches of thick snow. Atop one roof perched a pair of crows, one fluffing its feathers, the other rolling down the snowy roof before hopping up to the roof's ridge and rolling down again.

"Silly beasts," Ser Perwyn chuckled. "Are we out here for any particular reason, princess?"

She replied with a shrug, glad she could be less formal without an audience. The bronze circlet under her hood was uncomfortable in the cold, and the skirts of her gown were apt to getting blown about by the wind, even with the length of heavy cord sewn into her hem. Still, she was glad of the fresh air, and the blanket of soft wet snow that draped the hamlet. "I'd rather like to make a snow knight," she confessed. "It's not a good idea, is it?"

"Probably not, m'lady," Perwyn sighed. They were about to go back into the hall when they heard the sound of a horn blowing at the edge of the hamlet. Turning, they saw a small covered wayn. Someone had removed its wheels; the garrons dragged it on long runners as though it were a sled.

Two men sat atop the wayn, and Arya's heart soared when she realized both dressed all in black. What were brothers of the Night's Watch doing here? Was it Jon? No, it couldn't be, if the lord commander ever left the Wall it would be with a retinue of men, not a single wayn. The brothers of the Night's Watch gaped like fishes when she strode forward to greet them, her hood falling off thanks to the quickness of her stride. She didn't mind, her heart was too full for the cold to touch her.

The younger of the two brothers seemed to be in charge, a moon-faced youth around Robb's age with soft dark hair and the unhealthy look of a man who weighed less than he ought to, judging by the loose skin about his jaw. His name, he stammered, was Samwell Tarly. He was a steward of the Night's Watch, with orders to seek out the Thenns and deliver more dragonglass for them to work.

"And speak to their elders," he said, abashedly holding out his thick fingers for Grey Wind to sniff. Once the direwolf gave his approval, Ser Perwyn headed back to the longhall to fetch Robb. "Uhm, you look very much like your brother, princess. Lord Commander Snow, I mean. But prettier." He winced. "Sorry, my lady."

"Nevermind that," Arya said impatiently. Much as she wanted to pelt him with questions about Jon, that could wait. "Why do you need to speak to their elders? They don't have any."

"I'm not dead yet, beastling." The goat woman's voice was drier than Dorne. She glanced at Grey Wind, then spat. "I hope you've meat for him. We've little enough as it is. If he goes near my goats, things are apt to get messy."

"He won't," Arya replied. Grey Wind bared his teeth, and informed her that goats tasted foul anyway.

"I'm to ask them about the Others," Samwell stuttered, half at Arya and half at the old skinchanger. "The Watch knows so little, besides fire and dragonglass. The wildlings at Queenscrown have seen them-"

"I bet they have," the goat woman snarled; in the distance her goats bellowed. "Cowardly lot of rabbits. You want to know about the Others, crow, ask them who's defied them, not kissed their boots." Catching sight of Robb emerging from the longhall, she snorted. "I'll have to wait my turn, I see. Find me when you've knocked the snow from your ears."

Unlike the goat woman, Arya spent the next several days in an almost euphoric humor. Even returning to Last Hearth could not lower her spirits, not when Lady Marna greeted them with such genuinely warm embraces, followed by hot baths in their rooms. When they met in Robb's solar afterward, hair still damp, it was to find loaves of bread fresh from the ovens awaited them, along with creamy butter, rosehip jelly, roasted venison from the Greatjon's most recent hunt, and a stack of letters from Winterfell.

"Anything interesting?" Arya asked, cutting a loaf into thick slices before covering them with butter, then topping half with jelly and half with tender meat. Robb absentmindedly picked up a slice laden with venison, his lips moving slightly as he read the letter on top of the stack.

"Lord Redfort politely declines your invitation for his niece to join your ladies," he said, setting the letter aside. "Apparently she is in ill health, and cannot travel with the roads as they are." Robb snorted. "Hopefully Lord Grafton's niece and Lord Belmore's daughter are in better health."

The next letter bore an orange seal. Arya fought the urge to rip it out of Robb's hand as he slowly, painstakingly deciphered Arianne's Martells elegant script, half reading it aloud, half summarizing. The Princess of Dorne was happy to sell the King in the North additional fruit and fish for the Night's Watch, and at a price so reasonable it was almost suspicious.

"Because of the kinship we share through the marriage between our houses," Robb read, one eyebrow raised. "Either Princess Arianne wants something, or she's no idea of a fair price for her bannermen's bounty. If only the Tyrells were so generous, the grasping blackguards. Do they think I have all the gold of Casterly Rock hidden under my pillow? The Myrish glassworkers alone..."

At that point her brother stopped reading the letter, instead muttering under his breath about moneygrubbing slavers who charged double for glassblowers and glaziers once they realized the King in the North meant to keep them after they finished expanding Winterfell's glass gardens, not merely rent them for a while before returning them to their masters. It had been Jon's idea to buy glassworkers instead of immense amounts of glass; the offer of freedom should entice the glassworkers to teach their secrets to northern apprentices.

"And I've no way to make Willas Tyrell see reason, not with every lord north of the Crownlands trying to fill his granaries before the weather worsens. Even if I wrote every lord in the Reach separately to try and negotiate a better price..."

"The other letters?" Arya prompted, approximately five seconds away from yanking the stack away from him, courtesies be damned. With an irritable grunt he tossed them at her. As he went through the rest of his correspondence, Arya copied the letters into plain speech, having memorized the code by heart. And as she translated, she shared the letter's contents.

The marriage remained unconsummated, a fact of which Arya approved heartily and of which Robb was deeply skeptical. When the letters were written Sansa might have been a maiden, but now? Now that she was of age, spending long lonely months in a foreign land, with no kith or kin to distract her from her husband? Any woman would succumb, as would any man blessed with a beautiful highborn wife. Especially a bastard, bastards were lustful. Surely Olyvar Sand could not be as indifferent to Sansa's charms as he claimed, not when half the letter was practically an ode to her many good qualities.

Olyvar Sand was far less enthusiastic about Daenerys Targaryen. Although he praised her fondness for children and restraint when it came to her impulses, he was far less pleased with her ignorance regarding Westeros, her inability to control her dragons, her utter indifference to honoring the old gods or the new, and her continuing refusal to accept that Rhaegar Targaryen was a prophecy obsessed raper, a point which seemed to fill Ser Olyvar with especial fury. Oh, and one of her counselors was a red priest who claimed Daenerys was a hero of legend, Azor Ahai, born to cleanse the world with fire.

"The world, or Westeros?" said Robb. "What foul sorcery do the red priests possess, that they make men like Stannis Baratheon dance like a puppet on a string? Gods help us, the woman won't stay in Essos forever, she'll come for the Iron Throne sooner or later. One dragon would be enough to reduce Winterfell to a smoking ruin, let alone three..."

"The third one is missing," Arya reminded him. "Stolen by a corsair king. And the second one is Olyvar's, he thinks it will be big enough for him to ride by eighth moon."

"Another dance of the dragons, then," Robb said grimly. "I'd sooner face the Lannisters alone than ally with the woman Olyvar describes. Gods willing they will dance over the skies of Meereen, not Westeros. If Sansa and Robett's letters confirm even half of what he claims... the dragon queen should be put down, like a rabid dog, and I pray this Olyvar has the stomach to do it."

Arya could not blame him for such a deadly prayer, but as she opened Sansa's letter and dipped her quill in ink, she said a silent prayer of her own.

Gods, whatever happens, please keep my sister safe.


...so much just happened, holy shit. Sound off in the comments! Only one more Arya chapter left before the end of Part IV.

Next Up

132: Edythe II

133: Dany V

134: Irri

135: Cersei IV

I am *determined* to get out more chapters this month; finishing only 2 each for October/November was really frustrating. I'm hoping for at least 3-4 chapters, possibly 5 depending on how winter break goes. General reminder that you can find me on tumblr, as redwolf17, and I'm delighted to answer random Weirwood Queen questions, like the anon who asked how I picked the name "Olyvar" for everyone's favorite dork. Don't try to ask for major spoilers though :P

I also got the "snow plums" and use of juniper tea from another anon. Random suggestions for worldbuilding and characterization are welcome; I may use them if I think they fit the fic :) For example, Dacey and Alys' increased prominence is due to readers really liking them and asking for more.

Speaking of more... I hit the 5k character limit for end notes Rather than shorten my notes, I said fuck it and posted notes 6-10 as the first comment below. Check them out, they're delightful.

NOTES

1) The flames are weird colors because wolves cannot see red. So red/orange flames become a deep olive yellow. Additionally, Ghost is a red-eyed albino. Due to the lack of melanin in his eyes, Ghost would have worse vision than his siblings, specifically issues with focusing and depth perception. Jon doesn't notice; Arya, who is used to Nymeria, does pick up on the difference.

2) Davos's plan was relatively simple. King's blood life = dragon, in theory. Selyse volunteered herself based on her descent from the Gardener kings, but it didn't work. Maybe those kings were too remote? (Or maybe the spell was wrong, or the timing, or whatever, etc). Wight!Mance definitely has king's blood, but he's dead. Davos has common blood, but is alive. Burn both of them together, and boom, the dragon will hatch, no need to burn Shireen. Or so Davos hoped/prayed, unfortunately in vain. Melisandre was also skeptical as to whether it would work, but given the alternative, she backed Davos up. Alas, poor Onion Knight.

3) I played a bit fast and loose with Wylla Manderly's age. In canon, Davos guesses her age to be "no more than 15" as of 300 AC. Well, I decided he's terrible at guessing, and she was 12 in 300 AC, making her almost 15 here. When Rickon comes of age and marries Wylla, he will be 16 to her 23, not ideal but better than 16 and 26.

4) Given the frequency of long winters, and uncertainty of when they will end, winter travel happens, but no one is thrilled about it. I couldn't find anything about medieval snow plows, but the North would HAVE to invent them out of sheer necessity. I based the plow on homemade plow.

5) The shrine at Long Lake is lightly inspired by Shinto temples, which accentuate the natural beauty of their surroundings.

6) Opals are more prone to cracking than most gemstones, although they're still quite strong. Many people believe that water will crack an opal; that's mostly a myth based on the fact that a small percentage of opals can be damaged by water. Pearls are also fragile due to their porous nature and soft nacre coating.

7) The area around Last Hearth is based on the Scandinavian montane birch forest. As the Umbers control lands with good timber, a local expertise in wood carving made sense as a fun cultural touch. The Umber house words came from GoodQueenAly, who did a series where she analyzed all the major (and many minor) houses without canon words and developed suitable mottos for them.

8) Am I evil for implying Arya was the one getting married? Mayyyyybe, but I couldn't resist :) No flowering yet, and therefore no fostering. Robb felt bad for Arya and agreed to her "I don't have to stay at Last Hearth until I flower" proposal, but he was dead certain that Arya would get her period at some point during the 2 month journey to Last Hearth. She's 14 now, she's healthy, it should be here any day... For reference, in the medieval era, menarche typically occurred between the ages of 12-15, depending on nutrition and health. Sansa was an early bloomer, poor kid; Arya, not so much.

9) The Thenn village! I originally had a crap ton of notes on caretaker agriculture and how the wildlings would set up a village... and then realized wait, they're refugees desperately shoring up an existing village before winter hits. This doesn't go here. And yes, tiny cameo of Grisella the goat woman and Dalla and her son. Where's Val? No idea, up to you.

The fur coats are based on Sami beaska. The techniques for working obsidian I based on flint knapping; apparently flint and obsidian are worked using similar techniques.

Yes, ravens and crows play in the snow. You're welcome.

10)Travel times are a bitch to calculate; here's the tracking info on those letters from Meereen

Ships reach Meereen in mid-December; no Jade Sea circuit because Euron

Leave in early January; storms drive them back into port in early February; repairs made

Leave Meereen in early March; seas/winds are not great

Arrive in Sunspear in May; additional 10 days for raven from Sunspear--Winterfell

Luwin relays to Last Hearth; letters arrive in early June