Katrina's POV
The wind had teeth this far north. It cut through layers of fur and leather, biting at exposed skin, a reminder that they were pushing into lands that didn't belong to the living. Katrina pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the cold doing nothing to suppress the fire burning low in her chest.
Reynolds walked ahead, leading them through the frozen wasteland, his golden eyes scanning the horizon for something only he seemed to know how to find. Arya moved beside Katrina, her steps light, barely making a sound even in the deep snow.
"This place feels wrong," Arya muttered, her sharp gray eyes flicking to the shifting shadows that stretched long across the ice.
Katrina nodded. "Because it is."
They had been walking for hours, heading toward the source of their father's lingering power—what Reynolds called the First Shadow. The very name made Katrina's skin crawl, though she wouldn't admit it.
Reynolds slowed his pace, glancing back at them. "We're close."
Arya raised an eyebrow. "Close to what, exactly?"
Reynolds hesitated, his breath misting in the cold air. "Something old. Something he left behind."
Katrina narrowed her eyes. "You're sure it's here?"
Reynolds nodded. "Bran was right. He anchored himself to this place before he died. It's why he hasn't completely disappeared." He gestured to the horizon, where jagged, ice-covered ruins loomed in the distance. "That's where we'll find him."
Katrina exhaled sharply, her pulse quickening.
She could feel it—the weight of something unnatural pressing against the edges of her mind. It was faint, distant, but it was there. Her father's shadow still clung to this world, waiting.
And she was going to burn it away.
Arya tightened her grip on the hilt of her dagger. "Then let's finish this."
Katrina didn't hesitate. "Agreed."
She cast one last glance back, half-expecting to see Jon trailing behind them. But he wasn't there.
And she wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.
Jon's POV
Jon sat in silence, staring into the dying embers of his fire, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.
He had spent the last few hours trying to convince himself that he had done the right thing letting Katrina go. That she needed to make her own choices. That he had no right to control her path.
But it was all bullshit.
He should have gone with her.
Because the truth was, he didn't care about being right anymore.
He just couldn't lose her.
Jon exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His mind kept replaying their last argument—Katrina standing firm, her golden eyes blazing as she refused to back down. And he had let her go, because what else could he do?
But the more he sat here, alone with Ghost, the more it became clear.
It didn't matter if she could handle herself. It didn't matter if Reynolds had changed. Jon had lost too much already, had watched too many people he loved slip away.
He would not lose Katrina.
Not like this.
Ghost let out a low huff beside him, his red eyes locked on Jon, as if sensing his decision before he even made it.
Jon stood abruptly, grabbing his cloak and slinging it over his shoulders. He wouldn't wait for them to come back.
He was going after them.
And if anything happened to her, gods help anyone who stood in his way.
Arya & Reynolds' POV
The air was still, too still. Even the wind had stopped its howling, as if the land itself was holding its breath. They were deep in Wildling territory now, but there was no sign of life—no animals, no birds, only ice and shadows stretching far into the distance.
Reynolds didn't like it.
He and Arya had drifted a little ahead while Katrina rested, her fire burning low. He didn't miss how quiet she had been, how tense her shoulders were. He felt the weight of their father's presence here, and he knew Katrina did too.
For now, though, Arya was watching him.
He wasn't used to that.
Most people dismissed him or studied him like a puzzle they were trying to solve. But Arya? She just watched, like she was waiting to see what he would do next.
And for some reason, he wanted to do something worth watching.
They had stopped in a small clearing, the snow reflecting the weak afternoon light. In the midst of all the white and gray, something caught his eye—a single blue winter rose, half-buried in the frost. It was a rare thing, stubborn enough to bloom despite the cold.
Without thinking, he crouched and plucked it.
Arya arched an eyebrow as he stood, twirling the delicate flower between his fingers. "What are you doing?"
Reynolds smirked. "Giving it to you."
She scoffed. "What for?"
His smirk widened slightly. "Do I need a reason?"
Arya studied him for a moment, then took the flower, twirling it between her fingers the way he had. "You're strange," she murmured.
Reynolds chuckled, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "You say that like you're not."
Arya huffed a laugh but didn't deny it.
The silence between them stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. If anything, it was… easy.
Reynolds exhaled, his golden eyes flicking toward Katrina, who still sat by the fire, unmoving. "She's getting worse."
Arya followed his gaze, her expression tightening. "Yeah."
Reynolds swallowed hard. "If this doesn't work…"
Arya turned back to him, her sharp gray eyes locking onto his. "Then we make it work."
Reynolds looked at her, something settling in his chest. He didn't know when it had started—this pull toward her, this strange feeling that had nothing to do with shadows or family or the past.
He just knew that if he survived this, he wanted more of this.
More of her.
Katrina's POV
The moment she closed her eyes, the world shifted.
It was like being yanked out of her body, pulled into something cold and dark, but all too familiar.
She was in a long, narrow corridor. The walls were slick with something she didn't want to name, the air thick and damp. It felt like she was deep underground, beneath something ancient, something alive.
And then she heard him.
"Useless girl."
The voice echoed around her, low and sharp, like a blade against stone.
Katrina turned slowly.
Her father stood at the end of the corridor, his golden eyes glowing in the dark.
He looked as he always did—tall, imposing, dressed in black, his presence like a weight pressing against her ribs. But this time, he wasn't just a shadow.
He felt real.
Katrina clenched her fists. "You're dead."
Her father stepped closer. "And yet, here I am."
Katrina gritted her teeth. "You can't hurt me anymore."
His smirk was cold. "Haven't I already?"
Her breathing hitched.
No. No, this was just a vision, just a memory twisted by whatever darkness still clung to this place. She had burned him away. She had won.
Hadn't she?
Her father's voice dropped lower, a dangerous whisper. "You are nothing without me. You think you have control? That you have power?" His smirk widened. "You are still mine."
Katrina felt her fire flicker inside her, weaker than before.
No. No, she wasn't his. She was herself.
She closed her eyes, tried to breathe, tried to focus—
But then she felt him reach for her.
And suddenly—
Someone else was there.
A sharp, unfamiliar force ripped through the vision, like a blade slicing through the fog.
Katrina gasped as she felt something pull her back—
And when she opened her eyes, she wasn't alone.
Jon's POV
Jon didn't know how he had gotten here.
One moment, he was standing over Katrina's still form, shaking her, calling her name—
And then, suddenly, he was somewhere else.
The air was damp and choking, the corridor stretching long and endless. His boots echoed against the slick stone floor as he turned—
And saw him.
Jon's breath caught as his eyes locked onto the tall, dark figure at the end of the corridor.
Katrina's father.
The man turned slowly, golden eyes gleaming in the darkness.
His smirk widened. "Interesting."
Jon's hand went to his sword on instinct, but something about this place felt wrong. It was like he had stepped into something not meant for him.
Then he saw her.
Katrina stood just a few feet away, frozen in place, her golden eyes wide and distant, like she wasn't really there.
Jon's chest tightened.
The man—her father—tilted his head, studying Jon like he was some kind of insect beneath his boot. "You don't belong here."
Jon's grip on his sword tightened. "Neither do you."
Katrina's father let out a soft, cold chuckle. "And yet, here we are."
Jon ignored him, stepping toward Katrina. "Katrina," he called, voice firm. "Look at me."
She didn't move.
Jon cursed under his breath, stepping closer, reaching for her—
But the moment his fingers brushed her arm, the world shattered.
The corridor trembled, the walls cracking, darkness seeping through—
And Katrina's father lunged.
Jon barely had time to react before something cold slammed into his chest, knocking him back, sending him spiraling—
And then—
Everything went black.
Katrina's POV
The moment the world shattered around her, Katrina felt herself falling.
Not physically—there was no sensation of weight, no ground rushing to meet her—but she knew she was plummeting, sinking deep into something dark and ancient.
She had felt this before in her coma, in the nightmares that clawed at her even when she was awake. But this time, it was different.
This time, she wasn't trapped in his shadow.
She was being shown something.
When she opened her eyes, she wasn't standing in the cold North, nor in the twisted corridors of her father's mind. She was somewhere else entirely.
A grand stone hall stretched before her, high ceilings and walls lined with torches casting flickering light over massive wooden beams. The floor was polished black stone, gleaming beneath the golden glow of a roaring fire. It was a castle, though not one she recognized.
And then she saw him.
Not the man she had fought against, not the terrifying shadow she had burned away.
A boy.
Katrina inhaled sharply, her golden eyes widening.
He couldn't have been older than ten.
His hair was darker than hers, thick and unruly, but the golden eyes were the same. And they were filled with something familiar.
Not power. Not cruelty.
Fear.
The boy stood rigid in the center of the hall, his fists clenched at his sides, his small frame trembling. His tunic was fine, tailored—he came from wealth. But his posture screamed defense.
A woman towered over him.
She was tall, statuesque, with sharp cheekbones and a cascade of long, silver-streaked hair. Katrina didn't recognize her, but she knew who she was.
His mother.
The resemblance was subtle, but it was there. Same eyes, same sharp features. But where the boy's face was tight with fear, hers was a mask of icy disgust.
"You are weak," the woman spat, her voice like a blade slicing through the air.
The boy didn't flinch. He stood there, frozen, staring up at her with defiant, tear-rimmed eyes.
Weak.
The word echoed around them, bouncing off the stone walls like a curse.
Katrina's breath caught as the woman struck him.
A sharp slap, her jeweled fingers slicing across his cheek.
The boy barely moved.
No cry of pain. No stumble. He just stood there, taking it.
Katrina's chest tightened.
"You will never rule," the woman hissed. "You will never be strong enough."
The boy remained silent.
"You embarrass me," she continued, her voice dripping with scorn. "Cowering in corners. Crying when your father—" She stopped, inhaling sharply, then exhaled through her nose. "If you cannot learn, then you are no better than a mistake."
Katrina felt something tighten in her throat.
This wasn't cruelty for the sake of it.
This was conditioning.
This was why.
The woman turned away sharply, striding toward the fire, as if disgusted by the sight of him.
And then a new voice rang out.
"You should have drowned him at birth."
Katrina flinched.
A man stepped forward from the shadows, his presence like a wave of ice flooding the hall. Tall, broad-shouldered, his tunic was adorned with sigils Katrina didn't recognize. His face was lined with age, but his eyes—cold, sharp, merciless—were what made her stomach churn.
The boy's father.
His mother turned to him, her expression blank. "You know I considered it."
The boy's fists clenched harder.
Katrina's heart pounded as the man moved closer, looming over the boy.
"And yet you didn't," the man muttered, voice dark with contempt. "You let this pathetic little thing live."
He grabbed the boy by the arm, yanking him forward, forcing him to look up.
"Do you know what my father did when I cried?" the man asked, his voice eerily calm.
The boy didn't answer.
His father's grip tightened.
"He broke my hand," the man said. "Right there at the dinner table. Snapped the bones himself." He smirked, shaking his head as if it were some fond memory. "And I never cried again."
Katrina felt sick.
The boy was silent, his small body shaking with effort to remain still.
His father leaned down, his voice lowering to something worse.
"You will be nothing until you learn what it means to take power," he whispered.
Katrina could feel the shift in the boy's breathing.
Could see the moment his fear turned into something else.
A seed planted.
A shadow waiting to grow.
His father let him go, shoving him backward.
"Disgusting," he muttered, before turning and walking away.
His mother followed without a glance back.
The boy stood there, alone.
The flickering fire cast shadows over his face, golden eyes burning, his small hands still clenched into fists.
Katrina wanted to look away, but she couldn't.
This wasn't just some cruel memory.
This was his beginning.
This was where her father—the man who would one day try to control her—had started.
And then—
His golden eyes lifted.
And locked directly onto hers.
Katrina's breath hitched.
No. No, he couldn't see her. This was a memory. He was just a child.
And yet—
The boy tilted his head.
Then—
A slow, knowing smirk.
Katrina staggered back—
And then she was ripped from the vision.
Katrina gasped, her body jerking upright.
The cold air slammed into her lungs as she found herself back in the snow, back at the ruins, back with Arya and Reynolds—both of whom were staring at her in alarm.
"Katrina?" Reynolds said, stepping forward. "What the hell just happened?"
She couldn't speak.
Her heart was pounding, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.
It wasn't just the vision that rattled her.
It wasn't just the memory.
It was the fact that he saw her.
That somehow, even as a child, her father had felt her presence in his past.
And that meant one thing.
This wasn't just her seeing him.
He could see her back.
And he was waiting.
Katrina's POV
The fire flickered weakly, casting long shadows against the ruins. The cold night pressed in around them, but Katrina barely felt it. Her body was here, but her mind was still trapped in the vision—the stone hall, the harsh words, the look in her father's golden eyes as a child.
He had seen her.
That changed everything.
Jon sat across from her, arms crossed, his dark eyes scanning her face for answers she wasn't ready to give. Arya crouched nearby, absently twirling the winter rose Reynolds had given her between her fingers, but her sharp gaze never left Katrina. Reynolds, for once, looked uneasy.
She exhaled, pressing the heels of her hands into her temples.
"There's more," she said finally, breaking the heavy silence.
Jon straightened. "More what?"
Katrina lowered her hands, glancing between them all. "More memories. More… pieces of him. He's not just lingering because of the First Shadow." She swallowed. "He's anchored to me. To his past."
Arya frowned. "You mean… you're seeing things that happened before you were born?"
Katrina nodded. "I just saw him as a child. I saw his parents—" Her stomach tightened at the memory. "The way they treated him. How they shaped him into… what he became."
Jon was silent for a long moment before saying, "And you think there are more of these memories?"
Katrina inhaled deeply, nodding. "I don't think I've seen everything yet. And if we're going to destroy him completely, I need to."
Reynolds shifted where he sat, rubbing his chin. "That actually makes sense."
Jon shot him a sharp look. "How?"
Reynolds exhaled. "Our father didn't just exist in the present. He was obsessed with legacy, with the idea of power that lasts through generations. If he truly tied himself to something old—something that existed before us—it makes sense that part of him is still woven into those memories. If Katrina is seeing them, it means he's still connected to them."
Arya's expression darkened. "So we're dealing with a shadow that isn't just clinging to now, but to the past?"
"Exactly," Reynolds confirmed. "And if Katrina is the key to those memories, then…" He hesitated. "I think I need to do more research."
Jon scoffed. "Of course you do."
Katrina ignored their bickering, her gaze locked on the flames. "If I can find the right memories, if I can understand what's keeping him here, I can sever it."
Jon's voice was firm. "And what happens to you when you do?"
Katrina hesitated. She hadn't thought that far ahead.
"I'll handle it," she said eventually.
Jon let out a slow breath, clearly not satisfied with that answer.
Reynolds leaned forward, his golden eyes thoughtful. "There's a Wildling camp a few days' ride from here. Some of the elders there keep old histories—stories of magic, shadowbinding, things that were never written down but passed on. If we want more answers, that's where I'd start."
Katrina nodded. "Then that's where we go next."
Jon shook his head. "Katrina, this is dangerous. The more you let him into your mind, the stronger his hold on you could become."
Katrina met his gaze, her voice steady. "And if I don't, he never goes away."
Jon's jaw tightened. She could see the fight in his eyes—the urge to argue, to stop her from going any further down this path. But deep down, he knew she was right.
Finally, he exhaled. "I don't like it."
Katrina smirked slightly. "I'd be worried if you did."
Jon ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "Fine. We go to the Wildlings. But the second things start to go wrong, we leave. All of us."
Reynolds raised an eyebrow. "Even me?"
Jon's glare was answer enough.
Katrina pushed herself to her feet, stretching her sore muscles. "Then we leave at first light."
Arya stood as well, flipping the winter rose in her fingers before tucking it into her belt. "Better get some sleep, then."
Katrina nodded but knew she wouldn't sleep.
Not when there were still pieces of her father out there, waiting for her.
And not when she knew he was waiting too.
Katrina's POV
The moment Katrina closed her eyes, she fell.
Not into sleep, not into darkness, but into memory.
She knew it was coming. She had felt it the moment she left the last vision—the pull, the unfinished pieces, the fragments of her father's past still clinging to her.
And now, it dragged her under once more.
When she opened her eyes, she was standing in a dimly lit chamber, the heavy scent of damp stone and old firewood pressing against her senses. The air was thick, suffocating, carrying whispers of something she didn't recognize.
But she recognized the boy.
He sat on the cold stone floor, knees pulled to his chest, his small frame shaking.
Her father.
Still young, maybe twelve now—slightly older than the last vision. His hair was longer, wild curls shadowing his face, but she could still see the trembling in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell too quickly, as if he were trying to breathe through a panic that wouldn't let go.
And he was crying.
Silent, muffled sobs.
Katrina froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had never seen him like this.
Not the cruel man she had known. Not the ruthless manipulator, the monster who had tried to break her.
Just a boy.
A broken boy.
Then—
Heavy boots against stone.
The sound made Katrina stiffen, and she saw the boy flinch hard, his entire body tensing as the door creaked open.
A shadow filled the doorway.
His father.
The man stepped inside, his frame casting a long, dark silhouette across the chamber. He carried no torch, no lantern, but his presence alone was enough to make the space darker.
Katrina had never seen his father properly before. She had only seen glimpses, pieces of him in the first vision, but now, here he was, fully formed.
And he was terrifying.
Not because he was monstrous. Not because he had sharp claws or unnatural features.
But because he was ordinary.
A man of flesh and bone.
And yet, his very presence made the air feel wrong.
The boy didn't look up. He stayed where he was, curled on the floor, shoulders shaking.
Katrina wanted to step forward, to say something, to do anything, but she wasn't here. She was only watching.
The man exhaled sharply. "Enough."
His voice was deep, controlled, with a slight edge of exhaustion, as if he had grown tired of this display.
The boy stiffened but didn't speak.
His father stepped closer, his heavy boots echoing in the chamber. "Stop it."
The boy pressed his forehead against his knees, as if willing himself to disappear.
His father's voice dropped lower, colder. "I said, stop it."
The boy's breathing hitched, but the sobs stopped.
Instantly.
Like a command had been given.
Like something had been broken.
The boy's small fingers curled against the stone floor.
His father exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "I told your mother you weren't ready. That I should've let her deal with you years ago."
No response.
The man sighed, crouching so that he was level with the boy.
"Listen to me," he said, his tone eerily patient. "Men do not cry."
The boy's hands clenched tighter.
"Men do not beg," his father continued, his voice a razor-sharp whisper. "Men take. They survive. They endure."
The boy was silent.
The man leaned in closer, his words a deathly whisper. "If you ever weep like that again, I will make you forget what it feels like."
Something in the air shifted.
Katrina saw it.
The way the boy's breath steadied.
The way his body locked into place.
The way the fear in his golden eyes suddenly shut off.
Like a door slamming closed.
His father smirked, standing up again. "Good."
He turned and left, closing the door behind him.
The boy didn't move.
Katrina felt something deeply wrong settle into her chest.
Because she knew.
Knew what had just happened.
This wasn't just a memory.
This was a turning point.
The moment the boy who would one day become her father stopped feeling—stopped allowing himself to feel.
Because he had been taught that to feel was to be weak.
To be nothing.
Katrina felt a sharp, painful weight in her throat.
She hated him.
She hated what he became.
Hated what he had done to her.
But standing here, watching this, she couldn't help but see the child that had never been given a chance.
And that made her chest ache in a way she wasn't ready for.
Then—
The boy lifted his head.
And just like before—
His golden eyes locked onto hers.
Katrina's breath caught.
No. No, this was a memory. He wasn't supposed to—
His lips curved into the smallest, faintest smirk.
And then—
His voice.
Soft. Almost teasing.
"You should not be here, daughter."
Katrina's heart stopped.
The world snapped.
And she was yanked violently back into her body.
Katrina gasped as she sat up, her entire body covered in sweat, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.
Jon was right there, gripping her arms, his dark eyes wide with worry.
"Katrina!" His voice was urgent. "What happened?"
Arya and Reynolds were already awake, both tense, waiting.
Katrina pressed a shaking hand to her forehead, trying to steady herself.
"He saw me," she whispered, her voice hoarse.
Jon's grip tightened. "Again?"
Katrina swallowed hard. "Again."
She inhaled sharply, forcing herself to speak. "There's more. More memories. And I have to see them. All of them."
Jon's expression darkened. "Katrina—"
"No," she cut him off, her golden eyes locking onto his. "I need to understand."
She looked at Reynolds, her hands still trembling. "You were right. We need more answers. We need to go further."
Reynolds exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Then we keep going."
Jon didn't move. Didn't agree.
He just stared at her, his dark eyes filled with something haunted.
But Katrina had already made up her mind.
This wasn't just about him anymore.
This was about ending him for good.