Chapter 1

More than twenty years before, there was a day when a singer came to the court of Storm's End, from the bustle of the capital. He sang sweet songs, but after he had come and gone, it so happened that Stannis Baratheon fell ill.

It was only a winter chill, but he was only a young boy, too small and weak to fight it. It worsened, and before long he was confined to his bed, and often slept longer than a single night. Once, when he was pretending to be asleep, he overheard Maester Cressen telling his lady mother that he might not survive.

In the end, he did. But while he lay there in a great deep sleep, on the verge of death, he dreamt a dream unlike any dream that he had dreamt before. He stood upon what felt like a hard stone surface, hot like a furnace. The full moon shone above him, as a pretty silver disc, outshone by a great orange glow beneath his feet, as if from a vast beacon fire. There were clouds over his head. They seemed too close.

"Where am I?" he called at the top of his voice. Nobody answered.

Stannis was dizzy and afraid. The air felt too thin to breathe. He sat down, to steady himself. He was on a surface of white stone, somewhere far higher than the walls of Storm's End. He did not like to imagine what might lie beyond it.

It puzzled him that he was dreaming of this. He had never seen or thought of anywhere like it. But he was not afraid. Sometime the dream would end, and when it ended he would be at home.

What if you aren't?

It was a voice that Stannis did not know. "Don't be silly," he told it, turning around to speak to it. It was a crow, keeping level with the height of his face, flapping its wings in the distance. "Of course I will be at home. I am at home, really."

How sure are you of that?

He had thought he was. "Certain," he said, willing himself to believe it.

Very well, child, said the voice, sardonically. Then you won't object to this.

The crow flew away.

He was alone. It still felt strange to breathe; he had to take more breaths than usual. But he was not going to say he had been wrong. He had said that he would be at home, and so he would do it. He would make sure that he would be.

Defiantly Stannis stood, walked to the edge of the white stone platform and dared a glance downward. The ground was so far away! He gazed at it with wonder. There were fields like little squares smaller than the thickness of a fingernail, and houses that were tinier still. His eyes kept going inward, coming ever closer to looking straight down. Then they were straight down. Below the shining beacon, below hundreds and hundreds of feet of stone, a sheer drop, he caught a glimpse of something far beneath him, something black as pitch that oozed with ancient malice, and he shrieked, and he shielded his eyes, and he stumbled away.

It was cold to be so high. Stannis shivered, and wrapped his arms around himself for warmth. There he stayed for a long while. How long, he did not know. He did not dare look down. The drop was far and terrible, though not so terrible as what lay beneath. Why was his lord father not coming? Why was Robert not coming? If this were a nightmare of being trapped in endlessness, it should end at the moment of horror, as did all nightmares. Why was he not waking up? Why was he not at home?

"Where am I?" he called, louder this time, tearfully. "Somebody come!"

Nobody answered.

Had anybody heard?

How was he going to get home?

But somebody had heard. Claws gripped his shoulder.

Fly, said the voice of the crow.

"I can't fly," wept Stannis. "I'm going to die here."

How sure are you of that?

"Very," said Stannis.

You said that before, the crow pointed out. You were wrong. Try.

"I was wrong. Now I'm right."

Oh gods give me patience, said the crow. Suppose that you aren't going to die, child. How will you get home?

"I won't."

Suppose you knew that you already had. How would you guess you had done it?

"Climbing."

The crow's head turned down. Really?

"No," he admitted. "How do I get home?"

Come with me.

Stannis did. The crow flew ahead of him. It led him to the very edge.

Look down.

He did.

The houses below were thin as fingernails, and yet the world below spread away from him, huge and sprawling far away. There was a city below him, he could see, but from this height it was like a city of ants. The stone of most of the tower was fair, but beneath it was a greasy matte blackness that drank the light and let none leave it. It made his skin crawl just by seeing it.

Look further.

He looked further, and saw the vast stretches of the mainland, green and golden fields dotted with tiny towns, going far, far, far. He glanced to his right, and saw the single tower of Storm's End, at the coast, in the distance, unreachable.

Not there, the crow said. Look north. Look further.

He looked further. How could he see so much, in black of night? Surely he could not, in the real world. But he did. Somehow the dream-light of the tower's beacon was enough for him. He looked beyond, and saw green fields give way to frozen tundra, and an enormous wall of ice at the end of the world.

The end of the world? The crow snorted. Hardly. If only it were… Look further.

He did. He looked north past the Wall, past a dark menacing forest, past rivers of ice, past a land so cold that there were not even the tiny shapes of trees and animals, only featureless white… and he looked past that, past everything, to the uttermost north, and the white was marred with blue, and his eyes were met by pale blue as bright as stars, and he knew those eyes were looking straight back at him.

He screamed.

Now you see, said the crow.

"What are they?"

The Others, the crow said matter-of-factly. They dwell in the Land of Always Winter. They are coming for the realms of men. You will learn what I can teach, and you and I are going to stop them.

"You are mad," said Stannis.

Am I?

He looked at the crow, hovering in front of him. There was another eye between where there should have been two. The crow's third eye regarded him steadily, shining with otherworldly knowledge.

"Maybe not," he admitted.

Somebody has to, said the crow.

"I see," said Stannis. "Show me."

Only if you live, said the crow. You cannot be here forever. Are you going to get home?

"Yes," said Stannis.

Then you have to fly.

"But I can't fly."

Jump, and fly. Or you can die here. What other choice do you have?

Stannis jumped, and he flew.

The tall tower fell away into the distance, and the crow followed him, and the crow flew into his face. Its beak bit at his forehead. Stannis shouted with surprise, and the world dissolved around him.

When he woke up, he saw Maester Cressen's kindly face, smiling with relief. "My lady!" the maester called. "He's awake!"

"Maester Cressen," Stannis asked him, "I had a dream when I could fly. Can I fly?"

The maester stroked his forehead gently. "No, child. You'll never fly. But it… it is pleasing beyond words that you have woken."

But his forehead felt hot where the three-eyed crow had touched him, though he pressed a hand to it and he could feel no eye there. He resolved, I will try anyway.

And so he did. He dreamt of the three-eyed crow many times afterwards, and listened to what it had to tell him, of what could be done, of what should be done and of the enemy that must be faced. They were interesting dreams, though he was never quite sure if they were real. He tried to tell his lady mother once, but she knelt in front of him so she could look into his eyes and told him solemnly that it was not wise to dwell on what could not be and to live in dreams. Stung, he did not tell anybody after that. It was not doing anybody any harm. It could remain his little secret.

There came a time, a few years later, when Robert was gifted a gyrfalcon called Thunderclap who never missed her strike. Robert was delighted with her. Stannis watched, and admired, and wanted one himself. His father said he would not have one yet, for he was younger than Robert, but he still wanted one.

He happened to be wandering in the forest, watching one of his lord father's hunts, when he saw a goshawk that did not fly away from him. He came closer, instantly enchanted, none the less so when he saw she had a broken wing. He begged his lord father and promised to do everything for her himself, and Lord Steffon permitted him to keep her. He named her Proudwing. He fed her, and tended her, and she would perch upon his shoulder or flutter about him, as the mood took her. Even when he was as old as Robert had been when he received Thunderclap, and he was offered another bird, Stannis refused. Proudwing was his, and he would make it so that she could fly.

One day he returned from one of his attempts hawking with her. He had been unsuccessful. Robert was learning from the master-at-arms in the yard, who always praised Robert's skill and strength of arm.

Yet none of that stopped Robert from stopping and turning as soon as he espied his younger brother. "What did you catch hawking today?" he asked, bright-eyed.

Stannis was, as usual, empty-handed. Cheeks burning, he had to say so.

"Oh well," said Robert. "You should try another bird, Stannis. I don't think you're bad at it. You just won't catch anything with Weakwing."

Tears shone in Stannis's eyes. He turned on his heel and ran away. He could not wait for Robert to be away in the Eyrie.

Afterwards, his great-uncle Harbert found him alone in a cold room high in Storm's End's sole tower. "There, there," Harbert said, striding forward long-legged to embrace him.

"Robert was cruel," said little Stannis, warmed by his great-uncle's arms.

"I heard. He didn't mean to be," said Harbert. "Listen, child. I know you have grown attached to that hawk of yours, but this is too much. You're ten now, closer to a man grown than a new babe, and a man grown, a Lord of Storm's End, cannot be seen to cry."

"Father is Lord of Storm's End, and Robert will be after him."

"So we must hope, but that might not be so. There are sometimes accidents. You are of House Baratheon, and ours is the blood of Durran, who defied the gods themselves in his pride. You're young yet, but you cannot be seen to make such displays of weakness as crying in front of the men. You hear me?"

Harbert's comment was gently worded but that did not take away from its sting. "I understand," said Stannis, sniffling. "I… I don't often, you know I don't. I'll do better."

"I'm sure you will," Harbert said. "And that begins with this hawk."

"I'm keeping Proudwing," Stannis said fiercely.

"You shouldn't. Stannis, you're a sweet child, but this matter of the hawk is making you look like a fool to our retainers. Your hawk scarcely flies. She never goes any higher than the treetops. Do you believe that is appropriate to a Baratheon of Storm's End?"

"She will fly higher!" said Stannis, stamping his foot. "She will!"

Harbert said softly, "Child, of all the things I know of you, I never knew you to be a liar."

The accusation hit hard, especially from genial Harbert who so rarely spoke such things.

"Am I?"

"Yes. You are lying to yourself. She will not fly higher. She was too badly hurt, and now she is crippled, and she will never hunt again. In your heart, you know this."

Stannis managed a tremulous nod. "So we'll release her?"

"She would starve," said his great-uncle sharply. "That would not be merciful. The kindest thing to do at this point is to put her down."

Stannis watched as his great-uncle did it. He hated the sight, but the least he owed to her was that. Whatever else he was, he was not a coward.

Their family dinner was solemn that night, and breakfast was solemn the day after. A week later, he and Robert went hawking with their lord father. Stannis watched Thunderclap soar and bring Robert a fat reddish juicy grouse, his heart filled with sorrow and envy. He watched his brother's jubilant laugh and his lord father's proud smile.

Proudwing would never fly like Thunderclap was flying.

Sitting straight-backed on his horse, his eyes traced Thunderclap's every move. She danced on the winds with speckled white wings, and her every movement he resented. It was so unfair that she could fly when Proudwing could not…

He slipped, and he went flying.

He stumbled a little at first, but soon the wind was in his face and flowing beneath his arms. A force rushed up to meet him, hard and angry and pushing out, out, out. He ignored it, did not weep, did not falter, pushed on through the pain. He danced in the sky, and he was happy.

He slipped out again, and returned to how he had been. "She just went up and down and in circles!" Robert was telling their lord father excitedly. "I've never seen her do that before!"

Stannis saw the falcon above, looking for prey, and his brother below, and paid heed to neither of them. He relaxed the reins; he had been gripping them too tightly. It's real, he thought with wonder, the dreams are real, the three-eyed crow is real, the Others, what I can do, it's all real…

He did not know how to feel. His sense of triumph was a powerful thing, and he knew that Thunderclap was his now, his, his gyrfalcon, more completely than she had ever been Robert's. And yet… No, child, he recalled, you'll never fly.

Stannis knew better now. The maester lied to me.