NOTES: My sincerest apologies to all the readers of this story for the significant delay in posting this chapter. Work and studies have completely consumed my time lately, leaving very little opportunity to sit down and write. I truly appreciate your patience and understanding, and I hope to be back on a more regular posting schedule soon. Thank you for your continued support!
DRAGONSTONE
The slam of the door echoed in the stone chamber, shaking the flames of the oil lamps and casting dancing shadows on the walls. Stannis Baratheon stormed into the room, his face tense, hard as forged steel. Before him, Melisandre contemplated the fire in the brazier, her serene face illuminated by an orange glow that didn't seem to affect her in the slightest.
"So the great Lord of Light didn't warn you about this?" Stannis spat, his voice dripping with caustic sarcasm. He took a step forward, his boots echoing on the stone floor. "Hundreds of dragons descending on Pentos?"
He paused, gritting his teeth, his jaw tensing as a barely contained growl escaped his throat.
"How am I supposed to calmly plan the attack on King's Landing knowing this?" he continued, his tone growing darker with each word. "Fifteen years of silence, and now Valyria decides to show itself with a force we haven't seen in centuries. Hundreds of dragons obliterating five khalasars in front of Pentos! Pentos!" he repeated, his voice almost a roar. "It's barely across the Narrow Sea, a whisper from Dragonstone."
He slammed his fist on the table, the sound resonating loudly in the room, like an echo of his frustration.
"This isn't some distant threat in Essos. It's a roar loud enough to cross the strait and reach us."
Melisandre, impassive as ever, turned slowly towards him, her red hair shimmering in the firelight, her red eyes locking onto Stannis's like live coals.
"I only see what R'hllor allows me to see, Your Grace," she replied, her voice calm, but laden with a gravity that seemed to fill the room. "And though the flames did not show the arrival of the dragons, it doesn't mean this is a threat."
"Is that so?" Stannis snorted, his impatience evident.
"Dragons are fire made flesh," Melisandre continued, ignoring his tone. "They are the embodiment of the Lord of Light's power. Their return is not a sign of danger for you, but a portent."
"A portent of what?" Stannis scoffed, exasperated, his words sharp as the North wind. "Dragonstone… this damned castle… is of Valyrian origin. Do you think they'll be happy to see us here?"
Melisandre approached Stannis, her gaze penetrating. "Great things are in motion, Your Grace. Things we do not yet understand. Look into the flames," she said, gesturing towards the brazier. "R'hllor has a message for you."
Stannis Baratheon approached the fire with heavy steps, as if the heat of the brazier were about to devour him. The flames seemed alive, dancing with an almost mocking vigor, twisting into shapes that defied logic. The red light bathed his face, but it couldn't dispel the growing chill rising from within his chest. He had agreed to look, but he was not prepared for what the fire would reveal.
The flames, once warm and welcoming, began to shift, taking on a deep, icy, unnatural blue. The vision opened before him like a door that should never have been crossed. Beyond the Wall, the vast white expanse of the tundra seemed endless, a land devoid of life, of hope. Yet, in that desolation, something moved. At first, they were shadows, vague, misshapen outlines emerging like a tide. Then, the figures took form, each more grotesque than the last. They were dead.
They marched in terrifying silence, decaying bodies creaking under the weight of their own putrefaction, some with bones exposed, others wrapped in shreds of blackened flesh. But what was most disturbing was not their appearance, but their eyes. All shared the same blue glow, a cold, penetrating light that seemed to pierce through the flames and bore directly into Stannis's soul.
A group stopped, as if they had noticed him. One of them raised its head, and its eyes flared with an even more intense glow. Stannis felt his breath catch in his throat, as if an invisible hand were squeezing it. But then, behind the dead, larger, more imposing figures emerged. Tall, slender silhouettes, with faces pale as the moon and eyes that burned with the same blue glow, but with a cold, cruel intelligence that set them apart from their servants. Each carried weapons of pure ice, transparent yet lethal, reflecting the light like shattered mirrors. "The Others," Stannis thought, a chill running down his spine. "The stories… they are real." He stumbled back from the brazier, his face pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
These figures were not marching; they advanced with the calm of predators sure of their prey. They commanded the dead with an unseen power, a chilling will that seemed to resonate in the flames of the brazier. One of them stopped and turned its gaze towards him. It was as if it were observing him from the same impossible distance that separated vision from reality, as if it could see him, truly see him, through the fire. Stannis felt his skin crawl, an icy chill running down his spine. That gaze did not merely examine him; it judged him, stripped him bare, condemned him. "By the gods," he thought, his heart pounding in his chest. "This… this is no mere vision. This is a warning."
A sound broke the silence: a scream, inhuman, unnatural, echoing in the brazier. It was not a howl of pain, but a call, an echo of something coming. Stannis stumbled back, gasping, unable to tear his gaze away.
The vision shifted, swift, abrupt, like a flicker of nightmare. This time there was not only darkness, nor the advance of the dead. "Winterfell," Stannis whispered, observing the imposing walls, and around them he saw clearly hundreds of banners waving under gray skies, lashed by the icy wind and covered in frost. He recognized the direwolf of the Starks, erect and defiant on a white field. Beside it, other emblems of the North rose: the bear of the Mormonts, the giant breaking free from chains of the Umbers, the white sunburst on black of the Karstarks. Beyond, banners of more distant houses waved. "What is this?" he wondered, his mind reeling. "Why am I seeing this?"
There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, a vast amalgamation of shields and colors that should not coexist. Yet there they were, all together, aligned against a common threat. They did not move. The banners seemed immobile under the weight of tension, as if even the wind had stopped to witness what was about to come. At the foot of each banner, human figures prepared. Warriors from all regions, armed with swords, spears, and bows, their faces hardened by cold and determination. "An army," Stannis thought, his gaze sweeping over the scene. "But an army unlike any I've ever seen."
In the distance, the white tundra stretched like a frozen ocean, and upon it rose the dark army Stannis had seen before: the dead and their commanders, a tide of shadow and cold. Between the living and the dead lay a chasm of snow and ice, an empty space soon to be a battlefield. The contrast was stark: the living, vibrant and resolute, defied with their mere existence the oppressive stillness of the dead. It was as if both armies faced each other in an eternal moment of calm before the inevitable clash. "A war for the dawn," Stannis thought, the words echoing in his mind. "A war unlike any other."
And then he saw him. A figure emerged from the shadows, a young boy, barely a man, wielding a sword that blazed with a burning, living fire, as if each flame held the breath of a dragon. The radiance illuminated his face, allowing Stannis to glimpse features marked by the harshness of the North: the line of his jaw, the resolute eyes, the bearing that spoke of the Starks, though his features were not entirely familiar. There was something about him, a strength that transcended the youth of his body, a purpose etched into his movements. "Who is he?" Stannis wondered, his heart quickening. "Why does he carry such power?"
The young man faced the darkness, the oppressive blue that surrounded him. With each stroke of his flaming sword, he banished the shadows, dispersed the cold, reclaiming space for the light. He fought not with desperation, but with a controlled ferocity, as if he knew victory was within his grasp. The sword blazed brighter with each movement, as if the fire responded to his will, growing, roaring. And though the shadows seemed infinite, each time they lunged at him, they recoiled under the light of his weapon. Stannis felt a tremor deep within his being: this boy was not merely resisting the darkness; he was conquering it. "He… he is the one," Stannis thought, a flicker of awe igniting within him. "The one the legends speak of."
Stannis felt an irresistible urge. He reached out towards the sword, towards the fire, as if by touching it he could understand its power, make it his own, be a part of the fight. His fingers neared the radiance, almost feeling the heat. But just as he thought he would reach it, the vision vanished.
The flames of the brazier returned to their usual swirling red, leaving Stannis with his hand suspended in the air, trembling. His breath was heavy, as if he had been fighting alongside the young man. But the image of that boy and his sword, the determination in his eyes, remained etched in his mind. "Who was he?" he wondered. "Why did I see him?"
"What does this mean?" he murmured, his voice hoarse, barely audible.
Melisandre did not answer immediately. She looked at him with her red eyes, serene but intense, as if she too knew that this vision was different, more important than he could imagine.
"The fire shows what must be seen, my lord. But the answers… must be earned."
Stannis clenched his fist, still feeling the emptiness where the sword should have been. Uncertainty consumed him, but something else was beginning to take shape within him. A flame, faint but growing, kindled by the image of the young man who had fought against the darkness… and won.
"Did you see him?" Melisandre asked, her voice so serene it was almost cruel. There was no astonishment in her red eyes, only expectation, as if she already knew what he had witnessed.
"I saw… something," Stannis murmured, his voice trembling. He was a man who rarely showed fear, but now terror clung to his heart like an icy fist. "The dead… the Others… they are real."
"The Long Night is coming, my lord. And the armies of death and eternal darkness are already marching."
Stannis looked at her, but found no comfort. Only more doubt. "What does it mean?" he wondered. "What am I supposed to do?" And when he turned his gaze back to the fire, believing it was over, the flames showed him something more: those blue eyes were still there, watching him, waiting. "It's not over," he thought, a shiver running down his spine. "It's just the beginning."
THE CROSSROADS INN, THE RIVERLANDS, 299 AC
Candlelight flickered across the rough-hewn tables in the common room of the Crossroads Inn, casting long, dancing shadows on the maps and parchments strewn across their surfaces. The remnants of the day's victory hung in the air – the scent of woodsmoke, the metallic tang of blood, and the low murmur of Lannister soldiers celebrating their triumph over the combined forces of the North and the Vale.
Lord Tywin Lannister, his face a mask of impassive calculation, sat at the head of the table, his piercing gaze fixed on the strategic points marked on the map. Beside him, Ser Kevan Lannister, his expression equally grim, studied the disposition of their troops. Ser Harys Swyft and Lord Leo Lefford stood before them, awaiting further instructions.
"Lord Medger Cerwyn, young Harrion Karstark, Wylis Manderly, Ser Donnel Locke…" Tywin's voice, though quiet, commanded the room. He paused, letting the weight of each name settle. "From the Vale: Peter Belmore and Gerold Grafton. Six prisoners. Six key pieces in this game. Four heirs, one lord, and a knight of lesser rank."
Ser Kevan leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "Rickard Karstark is a man of fierce temper, my lord. His loyalty to the Starks is beyond question, but that loyalty could drive him to pressure Eddard Stark into rash decisions. Harrion is his firstborn, the heir to Karhold. The Karstarks would burn the Riverlands to ash if it meant reclaiming him."
Tywin inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the point. "Rickard Karstark is predictable in his fury, and we will use that. His desperation will be a lever against the Starks. Eddard is pragmatic; he will weigh Harrion's life against the cost of further conflict. As for the Vale… Peter Belmore and Gerold Grafton represent houses sworn to Arryn. If the young falcon doesn't see reason, his bannermen may convince him otherwise."
Ser Harys Swyft cleared his throat tentatively. "My lord, what of Lord Medger Cerwyn? He is not an heir, but as lord of his house, his capture will surely unsettle the Starks."
"Medger Cerwyn's value lies in his position, not his influence," Tywin replied coldly. "The Cerwyns are sworn to Winterfell, but they lack the strength or prominence to pose a significant threat. Still, his captivity will serve as a reminder to the North of their vulnerability."
"Wylis Manderly is another matter," Kevan interjected. "The Manderlys are among the wealthiest houses in the North, and Wyman Manderly is known for his shrewdness. He will not take his son's capture lightly, but he is also unlikely to act without consulting Stark."
Tywin's gaze sharpened. "Wyman Manderly is fat and cautious, but he is not a fool. He will understand that Wylis's safety depends on Stark's willingness to negotiate. As for Ser Donnel Locke… treat him with the same care as the others. While he holds no title, he is fiercely loyal to Winterfell. His presence among the captives will remind the Starks of what they stand to lose."
Lord Lefford shifted uncomfortably. "My lord, riders have already been dispatched to Riverrun with your terms. Stafford Lannister and Lord Serret lead the delegation. They carry word of the captives and the offer of parley. Riverrun should receive them within the next few days."
"Good," Tywin replied, his tone clipped. "Hoster Tully will have no choice but to consider our terms. His son and heir, Edmure, along with these northern and Vale captives, are powerful bargaining tools. The Riverlands are surrounded. If Hoster does not yield, he will be the one to answer for his son's suffering."
Kevan's lips tightened. "And Walder Frey?"
Tywin's eyes narrowed slightly, his tone taking on a harder edge. "Frey's loyalty must be secured. The Twins are too vital a crossing to leave in question. Walder Frey is a grasping opportunist, more concerned with advancing his house than preserving his honor. I suspect Frey has already begun to test the waters of treachery. My spies inform me that he was the only Tully bannerman who did not answer Hoster's call to arms. He has not openly betrayed his lord—yet—but his hesitation is telling."
Kevan considered this, nodding. "If Frey sees an opportunity to better his position, he will seize it. A marriage alliance would be the surest means of binding him to us."
"Tywin studied the map, his finger tracing the course of the Green Fork. 'Offer him a marriage. One of old Frey's granddaughters to some promising young man from the houses of the Westerlands. The details can be settled later, but we must act swiftly. Securing Frey's cooperation is crucial to consolidating our hold on the Riverlands.'"
At that moment, a young squire entered the room, bowing deeply. "My lord," he announced, his voice carrying a note of urgency, "a rider from King's Landing requests an audience. He bears two urgent messages."
Tywin's expression darkened slightly, though he remained seated. "Bring him here."
As the squire hurried away, Tywin turned his attention back to the map, his mind already calculating the implications of whatever news the rider might bring. The tension in the room thickened, the flickering candlelight casting the faces of the assembled lords and knights into sharp relief. For all their victories, Tywin knew the game was far from over—and every piece, every move, had to be perfectly calculated.
The heavy wooden doors creaked open, and all eyes turned as a young rider, barely old enough to shave, stepped inside. His face was flushed from the exertion of his journey, and dirt streaked his tunic, a testament to the speed with which he had ridden. The room's tense stillness seemed to weigh on him as he approached. He bowed deeply before Tywin Lannister, his eyes darting nervously around the room, taking in the grim visages of the assembled lords.
"My lord," the rider stammered, his voice cracking under the pressure, "I bring two urgent messages from King's Landing. One from your son, the Hand of the King, and the other from Ser Addam Marbrand." He extended two scrolls, their wax seals still intact, towards Tywin with trembling hands.
Tywin accepted the scrolls, his expression as unreadable as stone. He examined the seals for a brief moment, his sharp gaze narrowing slightly, then broke the wax with practiced precision. Unfolding the parchments, he began to read. The room fell into a deep, oppressive silence as his eyes scanned the lines. Each flicker of candlelight seemed to accentuate the sharp planes of his face, the faint furrow of his brow hinting at the weight of what he read.
Kevan Lannister, standing close by, watched his brother intently. Though Tywin's features remained an impassive mask, Kevan knew him too well to miss the subtle tension in his shoulders, the faint tightness in his jaw. Something was wrong. Something that even Tywin Lannister, master strategist and cold calculator, found unsettling.
When Tywin finally lowered the scrolls, the silence became almost unbearable. His piercing gaze swept over the room before settling on Ser Harys Swyft and Lord Leo Lefford. "Gentlemen," he said, his voice calm yet edged with steel, "if you would excuse us. I need to speak with my brother privately."
Ser Harys and Lord Lefford exchanged glances, then bowed and departed without question. The heavy doors closed behind them with a dull thud, leaving Tywin and Kevan alone in the flickering light of the hearth.
Tywin turned to the wine jug resting on the table, pouring himself a goblet. The dark liquid swirled in the dim light as he raised it to his lips, taking a long, measured sip. Setting the goblet down, he faced his brother, his expression sharp as a drawn blade.
"Kevan," Tywin began, his voice low but resonant, "do you recall our conversation some days ago regarding Genna's letter? The one about what she witnessed in Pentos?"
Kevan nodded, his brow creased in thought. "I do. She wrote of the Valyrian assault on the Dothraki. Hundreds of dragons in the skies, she said. A show of power unlike anything the world has seen in centuries."
"At the time," Tywin continued, his tone laced with a hint of self-reproach, "I dismissed it as a mere show of force, a calculated maneuver to reestablish Valyria's dominance in Essos. I believed, as a military strategist, that Valyria sought to reassert its dominance over its former colonies, territories that had once been part of the Freehold."
"Aye," Kevan replied, his gaze meeting his brother's. "I recall your words. You said they were likely reorganizing, gathering intelligence on what had transpired in Essos during their absence. That it was only a matter of time before they made a move to reclaim their lost holdings."
Kevan's frown deepened. "You also said we had nothing to fear in Westeros. That Valyria would need decades, if not centuries, to rebuild what they had lost, to reconquer and reorganize the Freehold. That Westeros meant nothing to them."
"I did," Tywin acknowledged grimly. "And I was wrong."
Kevan stiffened. Tywin Lannister rarely admitted to errors, let alone one of such magnitude. "What has changed?"
Tywin handed his brother the scroll from Tyrion, allowing him to read the report. His gaze shifted toward the window, as if searching for answers in the darkness beyond. "Three dragons," he said, his voice barely above a whisper yet heavy with foreboding. "Three dragons flew over King's Landing a few days ago."
Kevan's eyes scanned the lines of the scroll from Tyrion. As he read, the furrow in his brow deepened, and by the time he lowered the parchment, his expression was one of unmistakable concern. He looked to his brother, his voice hesitant but steady.
"Three dragons over King's Landing," Kevan repeated. "This changes everything. If Valyria has not only returned but is actively moving against Westeros..." He trailed off, his unease plain.
Tywin's gaze remained fixed on the darkness outside, his expression inscrutable. After a long silence, he spoke, his voice low and deliberate. "Had I known of Valyria's reappearance sixteen years ago," he began, "when we took King's Landing, I would never have allowed the children to die."
Kevan blinked, startled by the admission. Tywin's tone was calm, yet the weight of his words was unmistakable.
"The Mad King had to die," Tywin continued, his voice cold and unyielding. "He was a blight on the realm and a threat to its stability. But Aegon and Rhaenys? They were innocents. Tools, yes, but tools that could have been wielded to secure a stronger future." He looked at Kevan, his piercing gaze sharp as steel. "Had I known Valyria would return, I would have protected them, ensured their survival. Aegon, at the very least, would have been a valuable piece on the board."
Kevan considered his brother's words carefully. "And what of Robert?" he asked. "Would he have accepted it? The boy claimed to fight for Lyanna Stark, but we both know his hatred for the Targaryens ran deep."
Tywin's lips pressed into a thin line. "Robert was a fool," he said bluntly. "A skilled warrior, but a terrible king. If he had refused to see reason, I would have dealt with him accordingly. The realm needed stability, not a drunken brute on the throne."
"And yet you placed him there," Kevan pointed out, though his tone was not accusatory, merely reflective.
"Because at the time," Tywin replied, his voice icy, "there were no better options. But I underestimated the consequences of that decision." He paused, his gaze drifting back to the window. "Had I kept Aegon and Rhaenys alive, with Valyria's return, I would have had leverage. Aegon could have been molded, prepared to rule with Valyrian support. The dragons would have been an ally, not a threat."
Kevan's fingers tapped lightly against the arm of his chair, his mind working through the implications. "Do you think they come to reclaim the throne for the Targaryens?" he asked.
"It is a possibility," Tywin admitted, his tone carefully measured. His gaze grew colder as he continued, "Viserys, the youngest son of the Mad King, was never found. There were rumors that he fled to Essos, though nothing was ever confirmed."
Kevan's unease deepened. "If that is the case, what are we to do? The Lannisters are strong, but we cannot stand against dragons and Valyrian sorcery."
Tywin's golden gaze locked onto his brother, his voice like tempered steel. "We do what we have always done: adapt. We cannot fight Valyria, but we can survive. We ensure that the lions of Casterly Rock remain indispensable to whoever claims power. If that means bending the knee to dragons, so be it. Survival is paramount."
Kevan nodded slowly, though the weight of Tywin's words sat heavily on him. "And the boy king?" he asked. "Joffrey will never accept such a strategy. His pride blinds him."
Tywin's expression darkened. "Joffrey is a liability," he said curtly. "And liabilities must be managed. If his recklessness endangers our house, I will act."
Kevan leaned back slightly, studying his brother. "You truly believe Valyria will force us into such a position?"
Tywin's gaze returned to the fire, his expression unyielding. "Three dragons over King's Landing, Kevan. That is not a gesture; it is a statement. Valyria has returned, and the world will bend to their will. But no one remembers better than I that it is those who endure the storm who ultimately prevail."
The room fell silent, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Kevan knew better than to question further. His brother's mind was already at work, crafting the next move in a game that had just shifted into dangerous, uncharted territory.
RIVERRUN
The wind, heavy with the promise of rain, whipped the trout banner of House Tully, which flew over Riverrun as a constant reminder of where they were. Tension, thick as a gathering storm, hung in the air. The Northern lords, their faces grim and their gazes severe, watched their liege lord with a mixture of awe and unease. Beneath the mask of unwavering loyalty to Eddard Stark, bewilderment and a fear none dared to name now stirred.
The faint sunlight, filtering through the grey clouds, glinted dully off the two Valyrian obsidian mirrors Eddard held in his hands. To the untrained eye, they appeared to be simple discs of polished jet, cold and inert. But everyone gathered there knew these were no mere mirrors;, they were artifacts imbued with ancient, deep, and dangerous magic, the kind of power that lay beyond the comprehension of ordinary men. The knowledge that their lord had spoken with his wife Catelyn in distant Winterfell, and even more disturbingly, with his brother Benjen in the icy, death-ridden lands beyond the Wall, unsettled even the bravest among them.
Murmurs rippled through the lords, like uneasy waves on a sea before a storm. More than the artifacts themselves, it was the message Benjen Stark had conveyed that chilled the blood of those present.
Eddard Stark raised a hand, a calm but firm gesture that demanded silence. When he spoke, his voice resonated like the North wind, cold and laden with authority.
"I understand your unease," he said, his steel-grey eyes sweeping over the tense faces of his vassals. On the walls of Riverrun, beneath the leaden sky, each word seemed to weigh more than the last. "I have relayed to you the words of Benjen and his wife, Elaena. They have seen horrors beyond the Wall, horrors that can only be described as an ancient evil, reborn in our time."
A deeper murmur ran through the assembled men. Some looked away, others clenched their fists. It was clear that Eddard's words awakened something primal in their hearts: the fear of cold, of starvation, of the unknown that lurked beyond the edges of the world.
"Lord Eddard," the voice of Galbart Glover cut through the air like the dry crack of a log beneath a sharp axe. His face, weathered by the relentless Northern winds, was etched with lines that spoke of years of war, loss, and responsibility. "Have you discussed this with Lord Hoster Tully? With Lord Jasper Arryn?"
The murmur of approval was almost imperceptible, but the same unease was reflected in the faces of the other Northern lords. Each face was a silent echo of Glover's question: hard eyes, furrowed brows, tight lips. Some avoided looking directly at the mirrors in Eddard's hands, as if afraid they might reflect something more than their own doubts.
Eddard Stark, unperturbed, let the question hang in the air for a moment. His eyes, grey and severe as the steel forged in Winterfell, narrowed slightly as he observed his vassals.
"No," he finally answered, his voice low, but as cold and sharp as the first frost of winter. "I wanted to speak with you first."
A heavy silence fell over the group, broken only by the restless flapping of banners and the howl of the wind against the walls of Riverrun. Eddard lowered his gaze to the mirrors in his hands, as if seeking within them the strength for what he was about to say.
"You must understand the perspective of Lord Hoster and Lord Jasper Arryn," he continued, his tone a blend of firmness and a hint of resignation. "The Lannister sacking of the Riverlands is an open wound, an affront that burns in their hearts. My brother-in-law, Edmure Tully, remains Tywin Lannister's captive, and war is not a possibility, it is a reality"
His eyes rose again, slowly scanning each man present.
"All of Hoster Tully's and Jasper Arryn's attention is focused on this conflict with the Lannisters and King's Landing, on protecting their lands, their people. And I cannot blame them for it. For them, the danger is immediate, tangible, something they can see with their own eyes. How could they think beyond that, to an invisible, distant threat, when Lannister steel is already at their doors?"
The wind gusted, and the lords' cloaks billowed like restless wings.
Eddard raised one of the mirrors, allowing the grayish daylight to play over its black surface. The obsidian, smooth and polished, seemed to devour the light, as if it held secrets too dark to reveal in plain sight.
"This magic," he said, his voice growing more solemn. "These mirrors are not something men like them can easily accept. Even you have only accepted them because you trust your lord and his word. But now tell me, what do you think Lord Hoster Tully or Jasper Arryn will do if I tell them I have spoken with my brother in the frozen lands beyond the Wall, thanks to Valyrian artifacts that carry the essence of magic defying the laws of the world?"
The words echoed among the men like the distant rumble of thunder. Some averted their eyes, others frowned even more deeply. The mention of magic was enough to unsettle the men of the North, so grounded in their reality of ice and iron.
Eddard paused, letting the weight of his words settle over them before continuing.
"And when I warn them of an enemy that does not tire, does not fear, does not stop... What do you think they will believe? To them, the Lannister armies are something they can understand, something they can fight. But this..."
He slowly lowered the mirror, his eyes reflecting the determination that had guided his entire life.
"This is something that even we do not fully understand."
"Without concrete evidence to corroborate what we know lurks beyond the Wall, I cannot expect them to shift their focus," he continued, letting his words sink in. "To them, this war against the Lannisters is the only reality."
Jon Umber stepped forward, his imposing figure seemed to grow even larger under the dim light filtering through the clouds. His barely contained anger was like a fire fueled by the Northern wind, burning in his eyes. He could no longer remain silent.
"Proof!" he roared, spitting the word with palpable disdain as he turned toward Eddard. His eyes, blazing with indignation, also carried a shadow of astonishment, an emotion that resonated among the other Northern lords as they gazed at the mirrors in their lord's hands. Despite his brusqueness, his words bore the weight of a truth none could deny. "Your brother spoke of the dead who walk, of a cold that brings the end. And if Benjen Stark, a man with the North in his very bones, warns us of this darkness, how can we doubt his words?"
He paused, his broad shoulders rising and falling with the force of his breathing. Then he looked back at Eddard, his words now laced with determination.
"Lord Eddard," he continued, his deep voice thundering like a storm through the towers of Riverrun, "forgive me if my words seem harsh toward your father-in-law, Lord Hoster Tully, and toward Lord Jasper Arryn, but I must say it: they are fools!"
The wind seemed to blow stronger, as if the gods of the North were lending their ear to his speech.
"They speak of the White Walkers as if they were stories to frighten children!" he exclaimed, and a murmur of approval rippled through some of the gathered lords. "If not for the loyalty we owe you and the memory of Jasper Arryn, we might already have returned to the North to protect what truly matters."
Beside him, the Smalljon, his son, kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, his jaw clenched in a gesture that mirrored his father's frustration. He was not merely a man, but a collective force, the roar of the North personified.
The other lords shared that same tension. Maege Mormont crossed her arms, her stony expression making it clear her thoughts were aligned with Umber's. Rickard Karstark, flanked by two of his sons, nodded grimly, his dark, piercing eyes fixed on Eddard. Halys Hornwood exchanged worried glances with his son Daryn. Wendel Manderly stood on the sidelines, yet even he showed signs of unease. Galbart Glover, usually the most restrained of the lords, had a deep frown, his face heavy with gravity.
It was then that Rickard Karstark stepped forward, his voice as rough as the icy wind whipping against the walls.
"We march south for you, Lord Stark, for the duty that binds us as men of the North and for the alliance with the Tullys and the Arryns. But if the southerners prefer to dismiss what looms beyond the Wall, perhaps it is time we think about protecting our own lands."
His words fell heavy, like a hammer striking an anvil. For a moment, no one responded. The silence that followed was not empty but charged, like the calm before a storm. It was Halys Hornwood who broke it, his tone measured but no less firm.
"We are not asking you to abandon your in-laws, Lord Stark," he said, his voice a reasoned echo amid the growing unrest. "But time is not on our side. Lord Tully and Lord Arryn must understand that those damned Lannisters, with all their gold and armies, will mean nothing when winter comes."
Eddard met Halys Hornwood's gaze with a steadiness that spoke of unyielding determination. His expression was a mask of ice, unshaken by the intensity of the conversation unfolding around him.
"You are not wrong in your words, Lord Halys," he replied gravely, his tone as weighty as a blacksmith's anvil. "I will find a way to show them that the threat beyond the Wall is real. If they cannot be made to understand with words, then it must be with something they cannot ignore."
Before he could continue, a subtle shift in the atmosphere interrupted his speech. A movement, a gesture at the edge of his vision, caught his attention. The stern expression that had until then defined Maege Mormont's face changed unexpectedly. Her eyes widened with surprise, and for a brief moment, a flicker of fear crossed her features—an instinctive reaction to the unknown.
However, that initial emotion quickly dissipated. In its place appeared something entirely unexpected, a spark, a glimmer that contrasted sharply with the tension gripping the others. Her furrowed brow relaxed, and a faint smile began to form on her lips, barely perceptible but laden with meaning.
Her gaze was fixed northward, beyond the walls of Riverrun.
"Perhaps, Lord Stark," Maege said, her voice firm and deep, now tinged with a hint of satisfaction that piqued the curiosity of those present, "help is on its way that will convince these southerners that what you say is true."
Maege's words fell like a small pebble into a pond, creating ripples of unease among the northern lords. Their gazes turned to her, seeking an explanation. But the Lady of Bear Island kept her eyes fixed on the horizon. With a slight tilt of her head, she indicated a specific direction.
"Look to the sky, to the north," she added, her voice laden with a weight that made all obey without question.
Eddard turned slowly, his eyes searching for what had captured Maege's attention. The other northern lords followed his example, their cloaks billowing in the wind as they lifted their heads toward the sky.
For a moment, all they saw was the gray expanse of the heavens, the clouds swirling like a harbinger of storms. But then, something began to take shape. At first, they were mere shadows on the horizon, barely visible but enough to stir the curiosity of the more observant.
Eddard squinted, focusing on the forms approaching at great speed. A moment later, his face—usually as unyielding as winter frost—shifted to one of astonishment.
It was Jon Umber who broke the silence first, his voice ringing out like thunder that shook all those present. "By the Old Gods... two dragons!"
A murmur swept through the northern lords, like the echo of thunder reverberating across the mountains. Faces hardened by years of war displayed disbelief, awe, and a touch of fear. On the horizon, the winged figures emerged from the clouds, drawing closer with remarkable speed. With every beat of their massive wings, they grew larger, clearer, until their immensity was impossible to ignore.
The creatures were majestic. Their muscular bodies swayed with a primordial power, and the constant beating of their wings resonated like war drums in the distance. The cold, unrelenting gray light of the sky caressed the scales of their bodies, casting glimmers that looked like glowing embers or freshly forged steel.
For a moment, no one spoke. None of the lords, men accustomed to facing iron and ice, could tear their gazes away. Dragons. They weren't bards' tales or remnants of a lost age. They were real, alive, and their presence rewrote everything they thought they knew about the world.
The roar of the nearest beast shattered the silence like thunder, eliciting a collective shudder.
"Dragons…" Rickard Karstark repeated in a hushed whisper of awe, his words laced with a reverence he didn't bother to hide.
Eddard barely heard the words around him. The image of the dragons, majestic and terrifying, unleashed a storm of recent memories. The conversation with Catelyn, two days earlier, resurfaced with a rush of intense emotion.
His wife's frustration had been palpable as he recounted the conversation and arguments he'd had with her father, Hoster Tully, and with Jasper Arryn. Both had dismissed his warnings about the White Walkers, focused solely on the war against the Lannisters. Catelyn had listened to his words with growing indignation, her gaze reflecting not only love and loyalty toward him, but also the desperation of a woman caught between her family and her duty.
"If they won't listen to you, Ned, at least let them listen to me," she had said, her voice strained but filled with determination. "I can speak with my father, convince him of the gravity of what you say. He cannot ignore me as he did you."
Eddard had rejected the idea immediately. "It's too dangerous, Catelyn. With the Lannisters prowling and Edmure a hostage, I can't risk you going anywhere near Riverrun. Your father and Lord Jasper Arryn will have to be convinced another way."
Yet now, as the dragons drew nearer and their roars filled the air, a thought flashed through his mind like lightning: What if Catelyn disobeyed me? What if she's on one of those dragons?
His heart pounded as his eyes strained to make out the riders. But the wind and the distance made it impossible to clearly see the figures mounted on the imposing beasts. Even so, he didn't need to see them to know who they were. He recognized the dragons.
The largest, with golden scales and immense wings that cast shadows over the land, was unmistakable: the dragon of Vaella Balaerys, the young Valyrian woman betrothed to his son, Torrhen Stark. Eddard felt a mixture of relief and resignation as he realized Vaella's presence couldn't be a coincidence.
The other dragon, though smaller, was equally impressive. Its coal-black scales shimmered even under the grey sky. There was no doubt it was the dragon of Aegon Targaryen. Eddard felt his mind race with questions: Why would Aegon have decided to come here with Vaella? What did their arrival mean for the days to come?
Before he could find an answer, the sound of shouts ripped through the air. From the walls of Riverrun, terror spread like wildfire among the men guarding the fortress. The voices, thick with panic, announced what few would have believed possible.
"Dragons! Dragons in the sky!"
Eddard inhaled deeply, trying to maintain his composure. Maege Mormont, at his side, gave him a look of confidence, a slight smile playing on her lips.
"Perhaps, Lord Stark," she said with her decisive tone, "these are the heralds we need to turn the tide. Let the Southrons continue to ignore words, if they wish. This… this they cannot ignore."
Maege's words brought him back to the present, and just then he heard approaching footsteps. Turning his head towards the sound, he saw Jasper Arryn and Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, hurrying towards them. Their faces were pale, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and the fear the Northmen had managed to keep hidden.
Eddard allowed a slight smile to curve his lips, barely perceptible to the others. "Finally", he thought, "reality sets in". As Jasper Arryn and Brynden reached the group, the dragons roared once more, as if heralding the end of an era of skepticism.
WINTERFELL (THIS SCENE TAKES PLACE A FEW DAYS BEFORE THE SCENE AT RIVERRUN)
Catelyn Stark was alone in her chambers, the fading light of dusk painting the room in warm hues. On her dressing table rested the Valyrian glass mirror, its black surface polished smooth as the water of a still pond. Her conversation with Eddard still echoed in her mind, his words heavy with worry and warnings: war, alliances, enemies.
She approached the mirror, her tired eyes reflected in its mysterious surface. She reached out, tracing the cool glass with her fingertips. A shiver ran up her arm, but she didn't look away.
She sighed deeply. The shadow of war loomed over Westeros, darkening even the brightest days. Ned was far away, her children occupied with their own duties. The weight of responsibility settled upon her like an invisible but crushing cloak.
She turned her gaze from the mirror to the fire crackling in the hearth. The flames danced, casting flickering light and warmth, but they couldn't dispel the chill she felt inside.
"Father, always so stubborn and unyielding," she murmured, thinking of Hoster Tully, whose obstinacy threatened to further complicate their already precarious position. "If only I could be there to make you understand."
Another sigh, heavy with frustration, escaped her lips. She knew her father wouldn't give in easily, but neither could she allow his pride to drag them all to ruin. She closed her eyes, seeking clarity amidst the chaos of her thoughts.
A soft knock at the door broke through her reverie.
"Come in," she said, straightening up quickly.
The door opened to reveal Bran, her eight-year-old son. His eyes, a deep, clear blue, seemed to hold secrets older than winter itself. A chill went through Catelyn; she didn't need words to know that Bran had witnessed her conversation with Ned through the glass. Her son's ability to see beyond the veil of reality continued to unsettle her, filling her with wonder and, at times, a touch of fear.
Bran approached with steady steps, his small face serious and solemn.
"Mother," he said, his voice soft but firm, "we need to talk about Father… and Riverrun."
TWO DAYS LATER
"Are you sure about this, Bran?" Rhaenys Targaryen asked. Her voice, laced with concern, resonated softly amidst the preparations. Her violet eyes, a legacy of her lineage, fixed on the young greenseer, searching for any trace of doubt in his expression. Beside her, Aegon Targaryen finished adjusting the straps of his Valyrian steel armor, an intricate work with dragon reliefs that seemed to shift and move in the light.
The air crackled with anticipation. A few meters away, the dragons waited impatiently. The larger one, with golden scales that blazed under the midday sun, was an imposing sight, its amber eyes watching with an unsettling intelligence. Beside it, the other dragon, jet black, contrasted sharply with the surrounding snow, its dark scales absorbing the light.
Young Bran, standing near them, exuded a calmness that contrasted sharply with the palpable tension in the air. He nodded slowly, his face serene as that of an elder who had already witnessed the unfolding of events. "Yes, Lady Rhaenys. Aegon's presence at Riverrun is crucial." His gaze, intense and filled with a wisdom that didn't belong to someone his age, shifted to Aegon.
"The dragon has three heads, Your Grace," he said, with a conviction that seemed to resonate in the very fabric of time. "You are one. Jon Targaryen and Daenerys Targaryen are the others. Together, you will change the fate of this world."
Aegon paused in his preparations, his steady hands stilling on the final buckle of his armor. A slight, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, but in his eyes, something deeper flickered: a mixture of doubt, hope, and the acceptance of a destiny that seemed larger than himself. Rhaenys, at his side, also grasped the weight of those words. Her eyes rested on her brother with a mixture of surprise and pride.
Meanwhile, a few steps away, Catelyn Stark said goodbye to her children. Robb, Sansa, and Arya stood before her, forming a semicircle. Rickon, the youngest, rested in the arms of Septa Mordane, who watched the family with a mixture of sadness and resolve.
Catelyn began with Robb, taking his hands in hers and squeezing them tightly. "Look after Winterfell, Robb," she said firmly, though her eyes shone with a mixture of love and worry. "I know you will do well. But don't take any unnecessary risks. Family comes first."
Robb nodded solemnly. "I promise, Mother."
She then turned to Sansa and Arya. Sansa, ever elegant, tried to maintain her composure, but her eyes glistened with unshed tears. Catelyn embraced her tightly. "Sansa, I trust you to keep calm and look after the others. You are strong, stronger than you know."
Sansa nodded, her voice trembling. "I'll do my best, Mother."
Finally, she turned to Arya, who, though trying to appear strong, had a frown on her face and her lips pressed together. "Arya, be brave, but also careful. Don't forget your lessons, but always remember who you are."
Arya nodded quickly, swallowing the words she wanted to say. Instead of speaking, she hugged her mother tightly.
Lastly, Catelyn approached Rickon, placing a kiss on his forehead as Septa Mordane held him. "Septa, I trust you to care for my children while I am gone."
Septa Mordane nodded solemnly. "I will do everything in my power, my lady. You have no need to worry."
Maester Luwin, ever observant, watched them from a distance. His wrinkled face reflected a mixture of pride and sorrow. Ser Rodrik Cassel, clad in his battle armor and his face weathered by years of service, approached Catelyn.
"My Lady," he said, his tone a blend of respect and concern, "are you certain about this? Tywin Lannister's armies are not far from Riverrun. This journey could be perilous."
Catelyn met his gaze, her expression firm and steely. "It is necessary, Ser Rodrik. If I do not speak with my father and Lord Jasper Arryn, they may underestimate the threat looming over us. This is a time for action, not for doubt."
Nearby, Vaella Balaerys and Alyssane Targaryen helped Torrhen Stark with his Valyrian steel armor. Vaella, with a confident smile, adjusted the straps, while Alyssane supervised, her eyes burning bright as her dragon's flames. Torrhen, for his part, couldn't quite hide his nerves. It was his first flight, and the prospect of riding a dragon filled him with both excitement and a contained anxiety.
Vaella paused for a moment, turning to him. Without warning, she cupped his face in her hands and placed a soft but firm kiss on his lips. "Don't worry, Torrhen," she said, her voice low but reassuring. "You're with us. Nothing bad can happen."
Alyssane, not to be outdone, leaned in, her fiery gaze fixed on Torrhen's. She took his hand firmly and placed an equally passionate kiss upon it, like a promise. "Trust us," she said, her tone making it clear this wasn't a suggestion but a command veiled in affection. "You are our future, and we won't let anything happen to you."
Torrhen, visibly calmer after their words and gestures, nodded with a small smile, letting the warmth of their confidence envelop him.
Meanwhile, Robb Stark approached Margaery Tyrell. His normally composed expression revealed the inner struggle of letting go of the woman he loved. He took her hands in his, his fingers brushing against the softness of her skin.
"Be careful, my rose of Highgarden," he whispered, the love in his voice palpable. "I will wait for you here. Every day I will count the hours until your return."
Margaery looked at him with tenderness and determination, leaning in to kiss him. "Look after Winterfell while I'm gone. And don't worry, my wolf. I will return to you, always."
When the final preparations were complete, Vaella gracefully mounted her dragon, and Aegon did the same. Torrhen, after a moment of hesitation, climbed up behind Vaella, his trembling hands steadying as he gripped the saddle.
Catelyn, Bran, Margaery, and a few guards boarded the carriage, which would be their refuge during the flight. Vaella gave the signal, and her dragon spread its immense wings, taking off with a powerful thrust that shook the ground. Aegon, astride his own dragon, rose shortly after, escorting them from the air. With precision and care, the claws of Vaella's dragon gently grasped the carriage, lifting it effortlessly into the sky.
From the walls of Winterfell, Robb, Arya, Sansa, Rhaenys ,Meera Reed, and Theon watched the scene unfold. Maester Luwin, beside them, sighed with resignation, understanding that the fate of the North, and perhaps all of Westeros, now rested on those who journeyed towards the unknown.
The dragons, majestic and terrifying, soared through the sky with a roar that echoed in the air. Within minutes, Winterfell was left behind, its imposing silhouette fading as the travelers headed towards Riverrun, towards war, towards destiny.
BEYOND THE WALL, NIGHT'S WATCH ENCAMPMENT / CRASTER'S KEEP
The three points of light grew rapidly, resolving into the dark silhouettes of dragons against the faintly lightening sky. Elaena, Benjen, and Mormont stood rooted in place, their breath visible in the freezing air as the creatures approached. Their wings carved through the silence, casting long, shifting shadows across the snow. The powerful beats of their wings sent ripples through the icy ground, a deep, resonant thrum that echoed the quickening of their hearts.
"Just hours ago, we faced the dead and the White Walkers," remarked a voice from behind, tinged with awe and unease. "And now... this. It seems this day holds more wonders... or perhaps more yet to unfold."
Elaena turned, catching the familiar faces of Qhorin Halfhand and Ser Jarman Buckwell. their gazes fixed on the dragons.
The dragons grew closer, their immense forms still distant but distinct against the pale expanse of the sky. The faint pre-dawn light glinted off their scales, hinting at a sheen like molten metal. The cold air vibrated with the power of their wingbeats, sending loose snow scattering like mist around the gathered watchers.
Ser Jarman's gaze lingered on the faint glint of dark, gleaming plates that adorned the two largest dragons, visible even at a distance. "Is that… Valyrian steel?" he asked, his voice a mix of wonder and disbelief.
Elaena nodded, her expression calm but her tone laced with pride. "It is. The dragons belonging to the three greater families of Valyria—the Triarchy—are often fitted with armor crafted from Valyrian steel. It's both a tradition and a symbol of their power."
Qhorin let out a low whistle, his eyes fixed on the largest dragon, its obsidian scales and dark armor merging into a seamless, spectral visage. "I've spent more years beyond the Wall than most," he said, his voice rasping through the cold. "I've seen things that would turn a southron's blood to ice—giants, shadows, beasts that defy reason." He shook his head slowly, a rare smile ghosting across his face. "But this? To see dragons return… It's as if the very stories whispered around campfires for centuries have stepped out of the flames and into the world."
He glanced at Mormont, his expression shadowed by wonder. "The world is changing, Lord Commander. And we're standing on the edge of something entirely new."
Elaena exhaled softly, her eyes fixed on the dragons as her thoughts churned. The fires of Valyria seemed to flicker before her, rekindled in this frozen wilderness.
Just at that moment, Bran the Builder approached, his steps measured and deliberate, his gaze fixed on the magnificent creatures before them. He stopped beside them, his weathered face etched with profound contemplation as he observed the dragons in silence.
Elaena, ever perceptive, noticed a flicker of recognition in Bran's eyes—a subtle shift in his demeanor that hinted at something more than mere awe. It was a look of familiarity, a memory long dormant now reawakened. Curiosity sparked within her.
"Bran," Elaena asked, "it seems… these are not the first dragons you've seen."
Bran's gaze shifted from the dragons to Elaena. A faint smile touched his lips. "No, Lady Elaena," he replied, "they are not. Thousands of years ago, I too walked among dragons."
Elaena's lips parted, ready to interrogate Bran about his experience with dragons in such a distant past, when she noticed something. She turned her head toward her husband, Benjen, who stood beside her. His gaze was fixed on the sky, his brows slightly furrowed, his face illuminated by a mixture of intrigue and concentration.
"What is it, Ben?" Elaena asked softly, using the affectionate nickname she always addressed him with.
Benjen didn't take his eyes off the sky, his jaw clenched as his eyes followed the majestic creatures soaring through the air. "Look up again, Ely," he said quietly, but his tone carried something more: a sense of foreboding.
Elaena looked up, and along with the others, she watched as the dragons circled directly above Craster's Keep. Their enormous wings traced patterns in the grayish clouds, the sound of their wingbeats growing louder as gusts of icy wind stirred the snow below. Their movements were deliberate, as though drawn to something hidden within the keep.
"How strange," Elaena thought, a mix of bewilderment and curiosity tightening in her chest. "Dragons don't behave like this. Not even in Valyria."
A murmur of amazement spread among the group, a blend of fascination and alarm at the dragons' persistent focus on the inn. Elaena frowned, her mind racing to uncover the reason behind their fixation. Something within the keep seemed to be calling to them, an invisible force pulling them closer.
Before she could form a question, Bran the Builder, who had been silently watching the dragons, let out a soft laugh, his voice filled with certainty.
"The dragons are sensing his presence," he finally said, his words resonating in the icy air like a solemn declaration.
Elaena turned her attention to him, her eyes searching his. "Are you speaking of Jon, Bran?"
The ancient man of Westeros looked at her, his expression filled with mysterious knowledge. "Yes," he replied calmly, his gaze shifting toward the inn. "Jon Targaryen. The fire of the dragons burns within him. They know it. They feel it."
Elaena felt her breath catch for a moment, her eyes returning to the dragons, who continued their aerial dance. The massive creatures circled above them, their shadows cast on the frozen ground and over the keep, as though they were waiting for something. A new understanding began to form in her mind as the connection between Jon and the majestic beasts soaring in the sky became increasingly clear.
TORMUND, VAL, AND YGRITTE (CRASTER'S KEEP) (this scene occurs simultaneously)
Within the rough structure of Craster's Keep, the faint candlelight struggled to penetrate the darkness and cold. Silence reigned, broken only by the snores of the sleepers and the occasional creak of old wood. Tormund, his face still sore from battle, approached the bed where Val slept. He gently shook her.
"Val, wake up," he murmured, his voice hoarse from sleep.
Val stirred among the furs, her eyes still closed. "What is it, Tormund?" she asked, her voice drowsy. "Can't you let a person sleep in peace?"
"You have to see this," Tormund insisted, a note of urgency in his voice. "It's something you don't see every day, not even north of the Wall."
Val, with a grunt of annoyance, sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. Her blonde hair, tousled from sleep, fell over her shoulders. "Alright, alright," she said resignedly. "Let's see what's so important that it woke you up."
Tormund led her towards the exit of the Keep. Before leaving, he stopped by Ygritte's bed. To his surprise, he saw strands of platinum blonde mixed with Ygritte's red hair. Moving a little closer, he discovered that Ygritte was sleeping embracing Doreah, her arms wrapped around the Lyseni woman's waist from behind.
Doreah, oblivious to the world, slept peacefully with an expression of serene tranquility on her face. She murmured something unintelligible in her sleep and snuggled closer to Ygritte, seeking her warmth.
Tormund cleared his throat, amused. He gently nudged Ygritte. "Ygritte, wake up," he said softly. "Come with me. There's something you need to see."
Ygritte jolted awake, her eyes snapping open. "What...?" she asked groggily, her gaze shifting from Tormund, who was watching her with a raised eyebrow, to Doreah, curled up against her, the Lysene's back resting softly against Ygritte's breasts as the redhead instinctively held her close.
"What do you want, Tormund?" she asked again, this time frowning.
Tormund, with a mischievous smile, nodded towards Doreah.
Ygritte, understanding the hint, rolled her eyes. "What? Like I'd pass up a cuddle this good?" "Her skin is like silk", she thought, enjoying the feeling of Doreah pressed against her. Then, with a protective edge in her voice, she addressed Tormund, "And she's clearly comfortable. Now go away and let us sleep." She shifted slightly, drawing Doreah closer. "She fits perfectly," she murmured, more to herself than to Tormund.
Tormund let out a laugh. "As you wish," he said, still smiling. "But don't say I didn't warn you. It's something you won't want to miss."
Curiosity, finally, won over sleep. Ygritte, with a sigh of annoyance, got up. Before following Tormund, she leaned over Doreah and kissed her softly on the neck. The scent of herbs and something sweet and indefinable intoxicated her for an instant.
"Sleep tight, my sweet little bird," she whispered tenderly before following Tormund out, leaving Doreah alone and deeply asleep, unaware of the spectacle unfolding outside the Keep.
Upon exiting the Keep, the icy breeze hit them hard, cutting through the warmth offered by the shelter. The sky was beginning to tinge with a faint pink and gold, a prelude to dawn. Tormund pointed upwards with a dramatic gesture.
Above them, three dragons soared through the air, dark and majestic against the nascent glow. Their wings unfolded like enormous sails, casting shadows on the snowy ground. The roar of one of them broke the silence, deep and guttural, reverberating like thunder among the nearby trees.
Val stood motionless, her eyes wide and her hand covering her mouth. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, trying to assimilate what she was seeing. She had heard stories, whispers in the darkness of wild bonfires, about creatures that once ruled the skies. But nothing, not even the most fantastic legends, had prepared her for this.
"They're..." she began to say, but the words caught in her throat. She brought a hand to her chest, as if to calm her racing heart. "They're real."
Ygritte, beside her, wore a similar expression of astonishment, though her lips curved slightly into an incredulous smile. Her eyes, which usually shone with defiance and determination, now showed a mixture of admiration and reverence. "I thought they were stories to scare southern children," she murmured, a slight tremor in her voice. "But... they're here. They're really here."
"What is it, Tormund?" Val finally asked, forcing herself to look away from the dragons to observe her cousin's unusually thoughtful face. There was something different about him, a strange glint in his eyes that wasn't usual.
"These last few days... I've seen and heard things that have opened my eyes," Tormund replied, in a tone that lacked his usual joviality. His words hung in the freezing air as he continued to watch the winged beasts. Finally, he turned to Ygritte, who still had her head tilted towards the sky, her lips slightly parted in wonder. "Where did you say your little bird was from?"
Ygritte, surprised by the question, looked away, her cheeks flushing. "Lys," she replied softly. "An island beyond the Narrow Sea."
Tormund studied her carefully before adding, "And what did she, Samwell, and the young bard tell you about this island?"
"That it's beautiful," Ygritte said, her voice regaining some strength. "They say the sky is always blue and winters never come. It's a place where life flourishes, where everything seems eternal." She paused, her thoughts momentarily carrying her far away, beyond the ice walls and frozen forests.
Tormund nodded slowly, his eyes returning to the dragons that were still circling above Craster's Keep. "The world is much bigger than I thought," he murmured, his tone tinged with wonder and a hint of melancholy. "Beyond the Wall, beyond the sea... there are things we could never imagine. Things that remind us how small we are."
He turned to Val and Ygritte, and his expression, though thoughtful, regained some of its usual spark. "But if there's one thing I know, it's that we freefolk have never feared the unknown. If the world wants to show us dragons, well, we'll look them straight in the eye. But whatever comes next," he said with a mischievous grin, "we'll have to be ready for it."
Ygritte let out a short, dry laugh, shaking her head. "You always have a way of making the impossible seem simple, Tormund."
Val, still impressed, murmured, "It doesn't matter what comes next. What matters is that we're here to see it."