A dark and starless sky hangs over the island of Sweetsister, leaving only its burning beacon tower to give light to the port city of Sisterton. A cool air blows in from the empty expanse of the bay, heralding a coming frost. Here, moored among dozens of other vessels large and small, the Barnacled Belinda sits still on the water, the small, rickety boat leaning to one side as its fresh leak continues to refuse repair. The crew are fast asleep below, but on the deck a grey shape moves, bounding over the piles of rope, nets, and crab pots as it races the boat's length. It is the direwolf Lady, and tonight, she is not alone in her body.
For what reason she cannot say, but for the first time since fleeing King's Landing, Sansa Stark has awoken from an uneven sleep in her rented bed to find herself warging. The sensation is liberating - gone is the scratching discomfort of her pauper's disguise, now the thick fur coating her skin bristles with excitement in the night air. There is little space to run here, but she is free, breathing with Lady as one. Stopping at the bow of the Belinda, she throws back her head and howls into the open air.
In the distance, she can hear dogs from far off in Sisterton answer her call. She leans, paws up on the railing to look out over the water. She misses her littermates. It has been so long since they were all together, but she can still remember all their scents - Grey Wind, Summer, Shaggydog, Tessarion, Nymeria, and even Ghost. A foolish part of her brain, half-wolf and half-girl, imagines that if she howls loud enough, they will hear her and join in, all howling together until the moon emerges from behind the black clouds.
But something is wrong. She feels it inside first. A roiling, rotting sensation of dread in her stomach. She looks down, wet nose sniffing suspiciously at the dark water of the bay. She smells salt, mouldering wood, and… something else. There is something beneath the surface. Sansa has never felt Lady's fear before. But now it overwhelms her. Whatever it is, watching them, hidden from view, the wolf knows it somehow. Some dark memory from before birth, before the Seven Kingdoms, before the Age of Man is rising up and telling her to run.
The placid surface of the water begins to ripple and bubble. Lady whimpers as a whirlpool grows, churning the water violently and sending spray up to sting her face, colder than ice. It beckons, calling forth to certain doom, but neither girl nor wolf can pull away. A deep rumble rises over the sound of the sloshing tumult, a rhythmic beat beneath the sea like the pounding of ancient drums. The water grows more violent and the unknowable song louder, surrounding and shaking Lady with such force that Sansa fears her spirit is about to be thrown out of the wolf's body. And what then? Sucked down beneath the waves?
Another burst of water erupts, shaking the boat as if something is about to burst forth but then - nothing. It is gone as soon as it began, the surface of the bay returned to smooth black glass lapping softly at the hull. Lady drops down from the rail, backing nervously away. All is silent until - a piercing scream cuts through the night.
Mother!
With a shout, Sansa bolts awake. She is back in her bed in the ramshackle inn, her pulse racing, panting for breath. Her rough-hewn wool nightgown is drenched in cold sweat, clinging to her body. The room is pitch black until she hears a hiss of fire and a rush of feet. Mycah Manderly is standing over her in an instant, lamp in hand, the oily flame casting a warm, flickering glow over his face, his eyes wide and glistening with concern.
"My lady, what's wrong?" he asks, lowering the lamp to see her better. She recoils from the heat.
Blinking as her eyes adjust to the light, Sansa sees Therry on guard at the door and Fen sitting up, arms-crossed and vexed by her disturbed slumber. Remus remains fast asleep. Slowly, her breathing returns to a normal rhythm. Mycah still hovers over her, waiting upon an answer.
"It was only a bad dream," she insists. But she cannot shake the feeling of dread. Slowly, she slides her feet out of bed and onto the splintery wooden floor. Mycah hovers to steady her, but she stands on her own. Fresh air will clear my head, she thinks.
"What did you see?" Fen asks, her voice showing concern for the first time.
"What do you mean?"
"It could be an ill omen."
"No, no," Sansa shakes her head, pretending to dismiss the thought, unwilling to let her companions see the fear that has taken hold of her. She wrenches open the shutters, welcoming the breeze in and with it the stench of Sisterton - smoke and dirt and rotted fish are what counts for fresh air here. But she breathes it in nonetheless and lets the cool night air wash over her, soothing her prickly skin. "It is only the bed. I could not sleep well."
Fen scoffs and rolls back over in her own bed, no doubt mocking the sensitive sleep of a highborn girl, Sansa supposes. But Mycah lingers by her side, the burning wick of his lamp protected from the breeze by soot-stained glass. The burning oil gives off a sickening smell, but she is grateful for it all the same.
"You don't have to lie to us," he whispers. "We're all afraid. Even Fen."
"Well, I wasn't lying," Sansa insists, crossing her arms. Below them, a muffled scream is cut off somewhere in the dark streets. She stifles a shudder. "And I'm not afraid, either."
"No?" Mycah tilts his head, watching her carefully. She looks away. The charm of his impertinence is starting to wear thin, she thinks. A Kingsguard should not question his queen. But he stands there in silence, waiting for an answer he already knows. Sansa focus on a distant light, down by the harbor. If she looks at him, she knows she will not be able to maintain the façade.
"Of course not. I stopped being afraid of night terrors a long time ago. They can't hurt you. There's nothing there."
Silently, he leaves her. She lingers by the window a moment longer, not wanting to return to sleep and what might be waiting there. No matter her protestations, somewhere deep within her chest she knows something has gone horribly wrong.
The next day, the sky over Winterfell is a dark blue with no clouds to be seen from the ramparts as Ser Jaime Lannister stands looking out over the vast expanse of brown-grey fields pockmarked with patches of snow and distant forests that make up the North. How many months had it been since he first stood here? He was a different man then. And the castle had a different lord. Now I am the Lord of Winterfell, he thinks. Not that he would ever want such a bleak and bitterly cold keep. But better me than Vargo Hoat.
At least the screams have stopped, he thinks as he turns away, tightening the beaverskin cloak around his shoulders as he takes the stairs back down to the yard. Had he not been there, he had no doubt the Brave Companions would have slaughtered every last man, woman, and child within the castle walls. But for whatever madness afflicted him, the slobbering Qohorik warlord could still hear reason. With the northern armies away warring against his father in the Riverlands, taking the castle had been as easy as could be hoped. Ever since he was a boy, Jaime had learned to mark the weaknesses of any keep he stepped into. Winterfell was no different. He had led the sellswords to victory with a memory as clear as if it had only been days before that he and Cersei had walked these halls with Ned and Robert. But holding the castle was another matter altogether. They could not afford a revolt of the smallfolk, and great cruelty made men forget their better judgements. He had watched the Targaryens learn that lesson quite harshly.
As his feet crunch over frozen dirt on the way to the Great Hall, he feels the touch of ice on his forehead. Looking up, he can see a few lonely grey clouds blown in from the plains, letting tiny white crystals fall slowly down onto the castle. When was the last time he had seen snow? He pictures Tommen chasing after the flakes, trying to catch them on his tongue. He remembers the boy's laugh and almost smiles.
But he cannot linger long. The sellsword is waiting on him, and any moment left to his own devices is a higher chance he will do something rash. Ducking inside, he retraces the steps in his memory to the Great Hall. He has not strayed from the handful of paths between the main rooms of the keep – in a castle this vast, it would no doubt be very easy to get lost.
He finds Vargo Hoat sitting at the head of the hall, sprawled out in his haggard black cloak and spilling wine on his long, braided beard in the seat that had once belonged to Ned Stark. Jaime glances down at his feet so Hoat will not mark the look of shame on his face. The captains of the Brave Companions encircle Hoat, while the old man Qyburn stands aside with Antario Jast, keeping a close eye on their prisoners, seated at a long and lonely table – Wendel Manderly, badly bruised and battered even now after being remanded to the washrooms, two children Jaime does not recognize, but who claim to be of a House Reed in the Neck, and lastly the Stark boys – Rickon and Bran.
As Jaime's eyes fall on Bran, the dread he has been avoiding since they took Winterfell at last sets in. The boy sits in a large chair, overfilled with cushions to keep his broken body propped up. Jaime watches him carefully, looking for any sign of accusation or remembrance of their last meeting. Of what Jaime had done to him. But instead, Bran only stares back with the silent rage of a lordling whose keep has been stolen in the night. He quickly looks away.
"Ser Jaime?"
He looks to the head of the room, but it is not Vargo who has spoken. Instead, he turns to face the far corner, where the Stark's old maester Luwin stands, shackled, an ugly bruise swelling on his forehead. There's no point in disguising myself anymore, he thinks.
"Vargo, why is this man in chains?" he asks, putting back on his confidence like a gilded glove. "Were your men frightened of him?"
"Bah!" The sellsword spits. "Do not thpeak to me like that, Lannithter! Winterfell ith my cathle now! The old man hath birdth. They would have flown off with warning!"
"Exactly!" Jaime shakes his head in frustration. It is clear the Brave Companions have built their reputation on savagery alone, not brains. He marches to Luwin, gesturing toward the nearest sellsword, a towering, scarred Dothraki, for the key. "The goal of this enterprise was to lure Robb Stark back north! How will we do that if he does not know we are here?"
He holds out an expectant hand, but the Dothraki instead look to Hoat, who shakes his head.
"I do not trutht him. Qyburn?"
"Of course, Lord Vargo. I still know the ways of the ravens. Maester Luwin is an old friend. I will see to it that he says only what we desire to be known."
"Good, good," Vargo nods approvingly. If he had any other meaningful questions for this meeting, those thoughts have drifted from his mind. "More wine!"
Qyburn smiles as he crosses the Hall. Jaime watches him carefully. He has struggled to understand this strange old man. But the hateful look on Luwin's face as he draws near and accepts the keys from the Dothraki speaks volumes.
"If we were ever friends, Qyburn, that was a lifetime ago," the maester glances furtively to Jaime, dropping his voice to a whisper. "You cannot trust this man, Ser Jaime."
"Come now, Luwin, we have much work to do." Qyburn grabs the shackles and pulls the maester off towards the rookery.
Jaime glances back, but Vargo is paying him no heed and Bran's head is hung, staring down at his hands. Beginning to compose the announcement of their conquest in his head, he turns and follows the old men, wondering, not for the first time, what has become of the rest of the Starks.
A sharp frost has turned the muddy streets of Sisterton into hard, uneasy paths that crunch beneath Sansa's feet as she makes her furtive way from the inn to the docks. She pulls her grey hood lower over her brow, both to keep the cold out and to further obscure her face. It wasn't as if she was the only red-haired girl in this grey town, but the less attention she attracted the better. No doubt Mother already has men hunting for me, she thinks, turning quickly away from anyone whose gaze lingers too long.
She knew Mycah would have scolded her for going alone, but he had left with Torbin to charter their new boat, while Therry and Fen had left to the market for supplies. And after her awful experience the night before, she must see Lady without delay. Remus at least had offered no resistance to her slipping out. Someone had to stay back and guard their gold, he'd insisted, and for once she was grateful for the rude boy's indifference to her. Letting out a huff of hot air that turns to wispy clouds in the frigid air, she trudges on.
By now, the morning fog has mostly lifted into the grim, cloudy sky and Sansa can see more of the harbor than she had when they first arrived. There seems to be no rhyme or reason here; the streets cross and turn at haphazard angles, less planned roads than merely the open space left surrounding randomly erected shacks and huts, some of rough-hewn rock but mostly wood. The shanties lean whichever way the wind blows off the bay, speckled green as they fester with all manner of moss and mildew. From within, dirty vendors hock their wares. Sansa is overwhelmed by countless smells, only a scarce few pleasant and even less seeming edible.
"Lemoncakes here, fresh!" A harsh voice cuts through the crowd, stopping Sansa in her tracks. She turns, scanning through the dozens of grey and brown-cloaked sistermen hunched over and huddled in the cold as they shuffle about their business. Feeling the heft of the coin in the pouch on her waist, she moves to the caller.
She finds herself before a three-sided shack of driftwood bound together with frayed rope and netting. From within, thick black smoke from an over-fueled cookfire pours out, nearly obscuring the round woman in a mud-stained black dress and an apron that once was white who waits, tray in hand and an expectant look in her squinting eyes. On the wood tray, three cakes remain - each a different lumpy shape, with their yellow insides spilling out through gaps in the flaky crust, the lemon sauce crystallized by the flame. But Sansa can't resist.
"Thank you," she smiles kindly, dropping a coin into the cook's hand, noting the thick, leathery skin between her fingers, up to the first joint. So the stories are true, she thinks, but does not recoil as she gingerly picks up one piping hot pastry. They will be my people, too, when I am queen. Down to the oddest one. The woman says nothing in reply, and she hurries on her way.
Her mouth burns as she bits into the cake, the filling still boiling hot inside but sickeningly sweet. Far too much sugar for this recipe, but after days on the run, Sansa doesn't care. She eats quickly, ignoring the sting of her tongue as she swallows the treat down, warming her whole chest and stomach as it goes. Small pleasures, even here, she thinks, saying a quick prayer to the Mother, or the Crone, or whatever god had blessed her wayward path.
She is at the dock now, scanning the waterfront in search of the Barnacled Belinda. Thankfully, the decrepit old cog is still afloat. The prospect of seeing Lady again boosts her spirits further, and she pulls up the hem of her dress ready to run down the rickety pier - only to nearly fall face first down the stone steps as a towering man crashes into her from behind, shouldering her out of the way without a moment's recognition.
Sansa opens her mouth in indignation to protest, but stops. It's good no one notices me, she reminds herself. I should be invisible. Nonetheless, her mood has dropped and she proceeds down the steps with her sense of stealth returned. She eyes the docks cautiously - each furtive figure a potential spy, thief, or worse. And then, as she reaches the last step, she sees him.
Stumbling up from the dark sea, scabbed hands covered in seaweed as he pulls himself onto the pier, is a short, haggard man drenched to the bone. His black vest and pants are far too small but are plastered tight to his angular body like a second skin by the cold water. The top of his head is bald, with stringy black hair falling to his shoulders. As he stands, dripping heavy, salty drops, she sees his frame take a bizarre shape - shoulders far too broad for his body, spine twisted, legs bent inward, as if he were once a tall man balled up and broken by some unnatural force.
Sansa knows she should hurry on, but finds her feet will not move. The man opens his mouth, salty brine pouring out, as he begins to speak some sort of song, the words slowly making sense to her ears. She listens for a moment too long and now he sees her, dark eyes settling on her face, unblinking.
"It's always summer under the sea, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh…" his voice is garbled, sounding as if he is still underwater. He moves toward her with sloshing, shaking steps. "The birds have scales, and the fish take wing, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh…"
How do I know this song? Sansa thinks. And then she remembers - she had heard it just the night before, through Lady's ears, the rhythm in the deep. Nonsense, a children's song, but somehow terrifying. Her blood runs cold and the lingering taste of lemoncake turns sour. She is frozen in place.
"The rain is dry, and the snow falls up, I know, I know…."
"Good ser, are you alright?" Sansa asks quietly.
The singing stops. Slowly, the man smiles at her, his chapped lips parting to reveal rotted teeth.
"I am more than alright, I am the chosen of the Sea God. I speak from the depths to the land, I know, I know." His voice rises and falls, cresting with uncertain rhythm, half drone and half tune. "It is an honor to meet you, Lady Wolf."
Sansa's eyes go wide. "What did you say?"
In a flash, the man's hand whips out, grabbing her left wrist in a clammy grip. Sansa tries to scream, but the noise catches in her throat.
"Dead things in the water, dead things by land, the time is almost here, I know, I know."
"Let go of me!"
"Ice is burning, corruption reigns, I know, I know…" The man's grip tightens, eyes rolling back in his head. "You have forgotten the old ways but you are not lost yet. The Lady Wolf must choose, or she will burn!"
"I said let go!" Sansa finally snaps the trance, the wolfblood surging in the back of her brain. She tries to wrench her arm free but the man's grip is strong. She reaches for the knife hidden in her belt, the gift from Mycah, but before she can grasp it, a blur flashes before her face as a fist appears from nowhere, landing with a loud crack square in the strange man's face. His grip releases and she stumbles back to be caught by strong arms.
"Winter is coming, Lady Wolf!" the prophet howls in pain as he stumbles away. "Winter is coming!"
Before she can speak another word, Sansa finds herself being turned around and hurried away along the dock, so fast she nearly trips over her own feet.
"Mycah?" she asks, confused. But as she pulls herself away from the rescuing grip, she comes face to face with a stranger.
A tall, slender man in a dark blue cloak looks down at her. He is clean-shaven, with an angular face, hooked nose, and thick, dark hair down to his collar. He nearly looks like a knight, Sansa thinks, almost handsome, but not quite. Yet he seems to wear no armor. She courtesies, awkwardly, hoping he did not hear her earlier cry. It was not becoming a lady to go about shouting out young men's names, especially when betrothed to another.
"Are you alright, miss?" the man asks, his voice rough but caring. He certainly doesn't suspect me of nobility, Sansa thinks, relieved. "What are you doing down here alone? It's a dangerous place."
"I know," Sansa tightens the collar of her cloak, reclaiming her sense of assuredness. She chooses her words carefully. Sound plain, she thinks. Speak simply. "Thank you for your help. I must be going."
"Not alone, I think," the man protests, following her along the dock as she turns back towards the Belinda. She can spy Lady's head poking out over the rail and smiles back at the wolf. But the stranger is still with her.
"I can fend for myself just fine," she insists, not looking back.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm certain!" Sansa turns on him, nearly reaching for the knife again, face flushing red with indignation. But this time he stops, hands held up defensively. The man flashes a crooked, disarming smile, but she does not yield her glare.
"Only tell me where you're going, so I can see you to safety."
"I'm practically there already," Sansa shakes her head, stomping the rest of the way to the Belinda's ramp. "If you think I'm going to pay you for protection, you're wasting your time. You have my thanks and the Mother's blessing for your kindness, that is all."
"That is all I need," he bows at the bottom of the ramp. Perhaps he is a knight after all, she thinks.
"What is your name? If we meet again, I will owe you a drink."
"I hope we do meet again. Please be careful until then." The man's smile is beginning to win her over. But then Lady is bounding toward her, and she turns away, missing the sudden arch of his eyebrow as he sees the wolf for the first time. "And my name? Osney Kettleblack."
That sounds familiar, somehow, Sansa thinks as Lady licks her face, assuring her that the terror of the past night is vanquished. But when she looks back, she finds him already gone.