Lonnel Snow, bastard son of Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, felt a shiver course through him as he approached the woman known only as Little-Cloud. Each step he took toward her seemed to amplify the icy grip of fear that tightened around his chest. She stood before the ancient heart tree in the godswood, unmoving, her gaze locked on the pale and twisted face carved into the weirwood. The godswood itself was a place of reverence, its silence heavy with the weight of centuries, but her presence made it feel like a different world entirely. A world colder, more distant, and more dangerous than he had ever known.

The weirwood had stood for as long as Winterfell itself – its roots tangled deep beneath the earth, its red sap bleeding like open wounds from its carved face. But, according to Jason Lee, the Lord of the Living and the Dead, Little-Cloud was older still. She hailed from a time so ancient that it defied the histories of men, from an age when the lands were ruled by creatures far beyond the understanding of even the wisest maesters. Jason Lee had told tales of that era, of magic untamed and beasts roaming the wilds of the world, of a time before men had crossed the Narrow Sea and claimed Westeros as their own.

But as ancient as she was, she had not been invincible. Lord Jason Lee had met her in battle, and despite her immense power, he had defeated her. He had torn her apart, shattered her form – and then, as if that wasn't enough, he had brought her back to life. The magic that coursed through him – the power of life and death itself – had made her his, remaking her into something beyond comprehension. She wasn't one of the Others, the pale and terrible beings that had descended upon the North in the Long Night, but to Lonnel, she might as well have been. What was the difference? She had that same unnatural presence about her, that same inhuman beauty and eerie calm that set his teeth on edge. Whether she was one of the Others or something worse, Lonnel wanted no part of it.

He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, though the thick furs and pelts did nothing to shield him from the biting cold that radiated from her. It was a cold unlike any he had ever felt. It wasn't just the chill of winter – it was deeper, sharper, as if it seeped into his very bones and stripped away any warmth he had left. It made him feel small, fragile, as though the very air around him was turning to ice. He swore the ground beneath his feet had frozen solid, even though he could still hear the soft rustle of wind in the branches above.

Little-Cloud stood there, still as a statue, her back to him. Her beauty was haunting. Her skin was pale – paler than snow, like freshly fallen frost that had never known the touch of sunlight. Her long, silvery hair cascaded down her back, finer and whiter than anything he had ever seen, more like spun glass than hair. And her eyes... her eyes were like cold sapphires, glowing faintly, with a light that seemed to pulse and flicker as she gazed at the heart tree. Her pointed ears, sharp as the leaves that had long since fallen from the weirwoods, only heightened her otherworldliness.

She had been there for days, unmoving. For three nights and days, she had stood before the weirwood, silent and still, as if communing with the old gods in some way Lonnel couldn't begin to understand. Jason Lee had ordered that she be left undisturbed – she didn't need food or water, he had said, and there was no point in trying to treat her like a living being. But now, things had changed. Lord Jason Lee himself had summoned all the great lords of the North to Winterfell's halls, and Little-Cloud, terrifying as she was, was to be among them. Brandon Stark, Lonnel's father, had given him the unenviable task of fetching her. Lord Jason had told him that she would obey his command, though the prospect of commanding such a being made Lonnel's skin crawl.

"M'lady," he called out, his voice faltering as the cold dug its claws deeper into him. The words barely seemed to carry in the icy air, swallowed by the silence of the godswood. Little-Cloud did not move, did not so much as twitch at the sound of his voice. It was as though he hadn't spoken at all.

Panic began to rise in Lonnel's chest. What if she didn't respond? What if she ignored him entirely? Jason Lee's orders had been clear, and Lonnel had no desire to disappoint either the Lord of Life and Death or his own father. Desperation forced him to act. His eyes darted to the ground, where a small pebble lay half-buried in the frozen earth. Without thinking, he snatched it up and hurled it at her, his heart pounding in his chest.

The pebble struck Little-Cloud's head with a soft thunk. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, she turned.

The cold vanished in an instant, like a sudden reprieve from a storm, though Lonnel still felt it lingering in his bones. Little-Cloud's eyes found him, the ghostly glow within them intensifying for a brief moment. Her face, beautiful and terrifying in equal measure, remained utterly expressionless, save for a slight tilt of her head. The gesture was unsettling, like a bird observing something small and insignificant.

Lonnel swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. He had nearly forgotten – Little-Cloud could not speak in the way that men did. She had no voice, at least not one that could be understood by any human ear. Only Jason Lee, it was said, could communicate with her directly. Yet, she understood the common tongue well enough, or so he had been told.

He cleared his throat, trying to keep the fear from choking his words.

"M'lady... Lord Jason Lee bids you attend him in the halls of Winterfell. Lord Stark has summoned all the lords of the North, and your presence is... required."

Little-Cloud's blank expression did not change, but her head tilted slightly in the other direction, as though she were considering his words. The silence stretched on, and Lonnel could feel the sweat beginning to gather at the back of his neck, despite the lingering cold. He wondered if she would refuse – if she even could refuse. And if she did... what would that mean?

But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, she turned her gaze back to the heart tree. For a long moment, she stood there, her eyes fixed on the ancient face carved into the weirwood's bark. Then, with a grace that seemed entirely unnatural, she began to move, her form gliding across the frozen ground as though she weighed nothing at all. The cold returned, but this time, it was softer, more bearable, as if the act of moving had lessened her icy presence.

Lonnel let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

She was coming.

For better or worse, she was coming.

And not in a good way.


Shiera Seastar stared into the fire, her ocean-blue eyes narrowing in concentration as she reached out with her left hand, letting her fingers brush against the flickering tongues of the red flame. She had always been drawn to fire – there was something about its untamed energy, its ability to consume and transform, that spoke to the chaos within her. She'd read the ancient tomes, learned the old rites, and listened to the whispers of those who claimed to see the future in the dancing light. Yet, as she stared deeper into the flames, waiting for some vision to take form, all she could feel was frustration gnawing at her insides.

Several long, silent moments passed, the heat from the hearth licking at her palm, but the answers she sought remained elusive. The flames were said to carry secrets, visions of things to come, of things long past, and of things hidden from the sight of ordinary men. Many could look into a fire and see nothing but light and heat, but for those with the gift – so it was said – the fire could be a window to all the realms of time. Past, present, and future, laid bare in the flicker of a flame.

Yet, as Shiera watched, all she saw were shadows shifting in the orange glow. Her brow furrowed in irritation. I'm really not very good at this, she thought bitterly.

She had seen dragons waking from their long sleep, a dark god rising from the depths of shadow, and a man who walked among the dead, commanding them with a wave of his hand. But she wasn't entirely convinced those were true visions, or just the product of her indulgence. Earlier, she had mixed her wine with a small dose of weirwood paste, just enough to help her drift into a more suggestive state of mind.

Weirwood, mixed with the right drink, could sharpen the senses and open one's mind to strange wonders - or so she had been told. But the effects of such a concoction were often unreliable. And she only ever made use of it to enhance the feeling of making love.

With a sigh, Shiera leaned back, pulling her hand away from the fire. The dizziness from the wine-paste mix made the flames blur and spin before her eyes, and she knew better than to trust any visions she might have under its influence. The fire offered no clear answers tonight, only confusion, and she had no use for uncertainty. Her head was beginning to ache, and the warmth of the hearth had become stifling.

Turning away from the fire, she allowed her gaze to settle on the bed behind her, where Brynden Rivers – her Bloodraven – lay sprawled, his pale body half-covered by the furs. His long, silvery-white hair spilled across the pillow, a stark contrast to the darkness of his surroundings. His sharp, angular features were softened in the dim light, though the usual intensity of his dark, blood-colored eyes remained, even as he stared at her through the shadows. He was a handsome man, in his own way – if one could overlook the weariness that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. But it was the depth of his mind, his cunning and insight, that had always fascinated her more than his appearance.

Of course, Bittersteel was the more passionate lover, the one who burned with fire and fury in every touch. But Brynden... Brynden had a different sort of appeal. His cold determination and endless stamina often carried them through nights that left her utterly spent, which counted for a lot in her eyes. That was why she allowed herself the luxury of cycling between them, whenever the mood struck her. The drama between the two half-brothers only heightened the excitement.

"You seem more distressed than usual," she remarked, her tone light, though her eyes never left him. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightened as though he carried some unbearable burden.

Brynden's gaze flicked to hers, his expression unreadable for a moment before he sighed and turned to his back, resting his head against the pillows.

"There is trouble in the North," he said, his voice as low and gravelly as the crackling fire. "Whispers of dissent... rebellion stirring in the cold. But it's not just the usual grumblings of Northern lords."

His eyes darkened further, and Shiera could see the weight of the news pulling at him, as though he were bearing the troubles of the realm on his own shoulders. But he also looked like that almost all the time.

"They speak of a necromancer," Brynden continued, his voice barely above a whisper, as though the very words themselves were dangerous. "A man who commands the dead – and holds dominion over dragons."

Shiera's breath caught in her throat, her languid posture snapping into alertness. Dragons? Her mind raced as she turned her head sharply toward the fire, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. She hadn't seen a true dragon, not since the last of their kind had faded from the world before she was born. But the idea that someone – some necromancer – could command the dead and raise dragons from their graves?

The very thought sent a thrill of dread and excitement coursing through her veins.

For a moment, the fire seemed to flare, its embers glowing brighter as though reacting to her sudden surge of emotion. Shiera's eyes widened, the half-forgotten visions of dragons waking from death flashing through her mind once again. Perhaps what she had seen in the fire earlier hadn't been the fevered imaginings of a weirwood-paste-induced haze after all. Perhaps there was something more to the visions.

"You're certain?" she asked, her voice quieter now, a sharp edge of curiosity creeping in. "Dragons?"

Brynden's lips pressed into a thin line.

"As certain as one can be with rumors," he replied grimly. "But the whispers have grown louder. And the North... the North seems to be rallying behind this man. Jason Lee, they call him. They say he's more than a sorcerer, more than a necromancer. They say he wields the power of life and death itself."

Shiera's pulse quickened. She had heard many tales of powerful men and women, of sorcerers and wizards who claimed mastery over death, but this... this was different. If the rumors were true – if there truly was a man in the North with the power to raise the dead and wake dragons from their slumber – it could change everything.


AN: Chapter 47 is out on (Pat)reon!