Renaissance: A new age

by Sarah F1992

AU story (Be warned) The once-great Valyria, an empire of dragons and sorcery, was believed to have been lost to the world in the fiery cataclysm of the Doom, four centuries past. But what if the Valyrian might, long thought destroyed and lost to the annals of time, were to suddenly reemerge onto the chessboard of power and politics that is the world of Game of Thrones

43. Chapter 43

NOTES

The events in Riverrun are slightly ahead of what is happening at Craster's Keep.

In this fanfiction, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont and Ser Brynden Tully are nearly the same age.

This is a story based on the Game of Thrones books and TV series, but be warned, it's a very AU (Alternate Universe) story. If you're someone who doesn't enjoy a story that deviates a lot from canon, where certain characters may act out of character, or if you're not a fan of romance with a good amount of fluff, and a story that ultimately has a happy ending, then this may not be the right story for you.

KING 'S LANDING

The gates of the Red Keep loomed ahead, all crimson stone and jagged shadows, a sullen fortress squatting above the city like some brooding beast. Tyrion paused at the threshold, boots crunching on the gravel-strewn path. The wind had not relented, nor had the chill in his bones, but it was not the cold that stopped him now.

He stared up at the towering walls, brow furrowed, lips twitching with some private thought.

Podrick, who had been trailing two steps behind, halted and glanced at him with cautious curiosity. "My lord?" he asked after a beat. "Is something wrong?"

Tyrion tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as if listening for a sound that refused to surface. Then he gave a faint snort, half-amused, half-weary. "Tell me, Pod," he said, his voice soft but sharp-edged, "have you ever heard the tale of the dragon skulls?"

Podrick blinked. "The… dragon skulls, my lord?"

"Yes," Tyrion said, his gaze drifting toward the Red Keep's highest towers. "Blackened bone, long as a stable, fangs like scythes, once mounted like hunting trophies in the throne room. A daily reminder that House Targaryen did not merely conquer Westeros—they burned it into submission."

He turned to Podrick then, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Until good King Robert decided that such decor was… unfashionable. Too grim, too Targaryen. So he had them removed. Shoved into the dark, where no one had to look at them. Out of sight, out of mind."

He paused, his tone lowering like a man sharing a secret with the shadows. "But the past has teeth, Pod. And dragons, I've found, are not fond of being forgotten."

Podrick shifted uncomfortably, the leather of his boots creaking faintly as he looked at Tyrion with furrowed brows. "What are you thinking, my lord?"

Tyrion's smile widened—crooked, knowing, touched by that familiar glint of mischief and melancholy. "Thinking, Pod? No, no. Merely reminiscing." He turned, cloak swirling around his short frame as he began to descend the side path that veered away from the main gate. "Come. Walk with me."

Podrick hesitated. "Where are we going?"

"To the cellars," Tyrion replied, as if discussing a mid-afternoon stroll through the gardens. "The old ones. Beneath the Red Keep. A charming little labyrinth of dust, cobwebs, and memories the realm would rather forget."

He glanced back over his shoulder, his grin more pronounced now. "Time we paid a visit to some old friends, wouldn't you say?"

Podrick hurried to catch up, his expression uncertain. "Old friends, my lord?"

"Oh yes," Tyrion said, voice almost cheerful now. "Bone and shadow and fire. The kind of company that never talks back… but always listens."

And with that, they slipped away from the light of morning and into the bowels of the castle, where silence reigned and the ghosts of dragons waited in the dark.

MINUTES LATER

The air was damp and cold in the deep cellars of the Red Keep, thick with the scent of old stone, dust, and something ancient—something primal. Their footsteps echoed softly along the uneven ground as flickering torchlight danced across the vaulted ceilings and carved pillars. Silence pressed down like a heavy cloak, broken only by the occasional drip of water from above.

And then, there it was.

The skull loomed before them in the half-light—vast, blackened, and terrible. Balerion the Black Dread. Even lifeless, it radiated a kind of menace that no man could ignore. Its maw stretched wide in eternal silence, the jagged teeth of a nightmare bared in warning. The empty sockets where its eyes had once burned seemed to watch them still.

Tyrion stood in quiet awe, his torch casting golden hues over the bleached bone. "Magnificent, isn't it?"

Podrick, pale and stiff beside him, nodded quickly. "Y-yes, my lord. It's… very large."

Tyrion chuckled, the sound low and dry. "Indeed. Larger than some castles. And a damn sight more impressive than most lords."

He stepped forward, drawn as if by some invisible tether, until he stood before the beast's skull. He lifted the torch higher, letting the light reveal every crevice and crack in the bone.

"As a child," he murmured, "I used to dream of owning a dragon."

Podrick blinked. "A dragon, my lord?"

"Oh yes. I once asked my uncles for one as a name day gift." Tyrion smiled at the memory, though there was no joy in it. "I specified a small one—'little, like I am.' They laughed, of course. Then told me the last dragon had died a hundred years before." He paused, voice softer now. "I would start fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock and stare into them for hours, pretending the flames were dragonfire. In my mind, I was a Targaryen princeling, lost and noble… or a Valyrian dragonlord in exile."

Tyrion ran his fingers along the edge of one of Balerion's fangs, cold and sharp even after death. "Sometimes, I would stare into the flames and imagine my father burning. Or Cersei. And I would smile," he thought in that moment.

Podrick shifted uncomfortably, clutching his torch like a lifeline. His voice came low, hesitant. "But now… now the dragons are real again. With Valyria's return. They've come back, and… they're not just stories anymore. They're a threat."

Tyrion turned to look at him, and in his mismatched eyes there was a flicker of something unreadable—sorrow, perhaps. Or wonder. Or fear.

"Yes," he said quietly. "They are."

He turned his gaze back to the blackened skull of Balerion, the torchlight catching the curve of its eye socket like a dying star. For a long moment, Tyrion said nothing, his expression unreadable.

Then, with unexpected clarity and weight, he spoke.

"There's much work to be done," he said, his voice losing its usual softness. "And we'll need many arms to do it."

Podrick looked at him, puzzled. "What sort of work, my lord?"

Tyrion only smiled, that sly, familiar smile that meant plans were already in motion, and turned away from the sleeping dread.

A FEW DAYS LATER (THRONE ROOM)

Dust hung in the air like fog as men groaned under the weight of old legends.

Hundreds of laborers, stripped to their tunics and slick with sweat, shuffled in and out of the throne room, maneuvering massive crates and bundled cloth-covered shapes across the marble floor. The clang of boots, the scrape of stone, and the occasional muffled curse echoed off the high, vaulted ceilings. In the center of it all, the Iron Throne loomed, jagged and watchful.

One by one, the dragon skulls were returning.

The smaller ones came first—thin, delicate, the size of hounds or goats. But already a half-dozen monstrous shapes were being carefully unwrapped, revealing vast jaws and blackened bone beneath. The stench of old earth still clung to them, but even covered in dust, they held a terrible beauty.

Tyrion stood at the foot of the throne's steps, arms crossed behind his back, watching the work with an intensity Podrick had come to recognize. The kind of look that said his mind was a thousand leagues ahead, playing games no one else could see.

Podrick stood beside him, torch in hand again, more out of habit than necessity, glancing nervously as two men struggled to lower one of the larger skulls into place near the dais.

Then came the sharp tap-tap-tap of soft leather shoes on stone.

Maester Pycelle , robes disheveled and his chain clinking with each agitated step, approached them in a flurry of parchment-scented indignation. His normally placid face was red with confusion and a hint of fury poorly disguised as concern.

"My lord Tyrion," he began, voice tight, "am I to understand that this excavation was undertaken under royal command?"

He glanced warily at the looming skull being unwrapped behind him, as if afraid it might yawn awake and swallow him whole.

"Was this the will of King Joffrey?" he pressed, eyes narrowing. "Or perhaps of your lord father?"

Tyrion didn't even blink. He waited until a worker passed between them with a long, curved horn balanced precariously in his arms. Then he smiled thinly.

"Neither, Maester," Tyrion said. "It was mine."

Pycelle blinked. "Yours? But… but the skulls were—"

"Banished," Tyrion finished for him, his tone cool and measured. "Not forgotten. King Robert had them removed. Said they were grim relics — too much Targaryen in their shadows, I imagine. Too much history he'd rather not have staring back at him."

Maester Pycelle wrung his hands, his jowls trembling with visible unease. "My lord, if King Joffrey or Lord Tywin were to hear of this—"

Tyrion let out a long, theatrical sigh, the kind that spoke of exhaustion born not of labor, but of suffering fools. "The Red Keep is full of idiots," he thought bitterly. He turned his eyes back to the old maester, the corners of his mouth twitching in a sardonic smile.

"Do you truly believe Joffrey is still king, Pycelle? After all this? Don't be naïve — it doesn't suit you, and it's frankly quite disturbing on that face."

Pycelle's lips parted, indignant, but no words came.

Tyrion stepped closer, voice dropping low and grave, just enough to make the old man lean in. "The sight of three dragons in the skies was not a trick of the light, nor a tale spun by fools and whores. It was a warning. A whisper of fire on the wind. And soon, a Targaryen — perhaps Viserys, perhaps another — will come to collect what he believes is his by birthright."

Pycelle paled, and his mouth opened once more, no doubt to sputter more protests. But Tyrion pressed on, his tone now steel under silk.

"When the Targaryens ruled, these skulls were placed here — not hidden in the dark like family shame. They were reminders. Symbols." He gestured to the towering form of Balerion's skull, blackened and immense against the stone. "What do you suppose will happen when they arrive, and find that the greatest emblems of their power have been stuffed in the cellars like old chamber pots?"

Pycelle's voice was barely a whisper. "They will be… displeased."

"Oh, I expect quite a bit more than displeased." Tyrion offered a wolfish smile, then turned away as another skull was lifted into place with a grunt of effort from the workers.

Maester Pycelle finally hobbled away, grumbling like an old goat with gout and far too much pride. Tyrion watched him go, listening to the faint clink of chains with a look of exhausted triumph.

"Podrick," Tyrion sighed. "Next time someone tells me wisdom comes with age, remind me to throw Pycelle at them as a counterargument."

"Yes, my lord," Podrick replied, just as a red-faced servant hurried in, nearly tripping over his own feet.

"My lord Hand," the boy said between breaths. "The men you requested… the mercenaries. One has arrived."

Tyrion raised a brow. "Only one? I did order a pair. Perhaps the other got lost on the way or decided a warm whore was more inviting than a cold castle."

"This one came straight from the city gates," the servant added nervously. "Said he doesn't wait."

"Well, we already have something in common," Tyrion muttered. "Let's see the man."

The servant pulled aside the curtain, and in stepped a figure that looked like he'd come straight from the wrong end of a brawl—and had won. Dark, unkempt hair, a half-hearted beard, worn leather armor, and the kind of smirk that suggested he enjoyed his work a bit too much.

He strolled in like he owned the place—or was casing it for robbery—and stopped a few paces from Tyrion. Close enough to talk, closer still to kill.

"And you are?" Tyrion asked, tilting his head.

"Bronn," the man replied simply, as if that explained everything. And, in a way, it did.

"No house, no sigil, not even a proper surname?" Tyrion said. "How delightfully uncivilized."

"I figured if I ever got famous enough for songs, one name's easier to rhyme."

Tyrion let out a short laugh. "You may be onto something. Do you cook?"

"No."

"Read?"

"No."

"Ever killed a man with a cookbook?"

"Not yet," Bronn grinned. "But now I'm curious."

Tyrion glanced behind Bronn, toward the darkened wall of the throne room, where the massive skull of Balerion the Black Dread still loomed like a grim fossil of fire and fury.

Bronn followed his gaze and smirked. "Big bastard, wasn't he?"

"Balerion? Quite."

Bronn crossed his arms. "You ever think they keep those skulls down here to remind us who's in charge? Or maybe just to scare small folk."

"I imagine it's more for decoration," Tyrion replied. "A touch of fire-breathing doom really brings the room together."

Bronn gave a low chuckle. "Well, if any of 'em starts talking, I'm charging triple."

"That's fair," Tyrion nodded. "And if one starts breathing fire again, I'm climbing on your shoulders and hiding behind your sword."

Bronn shrugged. "You pay me enough, I might even let you."

Podrick cleared his throat awkwardly. "Should I… fetch the others, my lord?"

"If they're anything like this one, I might need a second wine," Tyrion said. Then, to Bronn: "Welcome to King's Landing. Try not to kill anyone important before breakfast."

"No promises."

Tyrion smiled. This one had promise—like a blade with just the right amount of rust and malice.

"Very well. Find a room. Try not to stab the guards unless they ask nicely. We'll talk gold in the morning."

Bronn gave a mock salute and wandered off without ceremony.

Tyrion turned back to Podrick. "Note this down, Pod: If the dragons return, I'd rather have a sellsword with no morals than a knight with too many."

RIVERRUN

As they awaited the arrival of the Lannister delegation, Lord Royce Coldwater Lord of Coldwater Burn, stood with his younger sons, Richard and Patrick, engaged in a hushed conversation with Lord Yohn Royce. Their gazes remained fixed on the head table, their expressions a mixture of contemplation and unease.

The recent revelations—the return of the Targaryens, the presence of the Valyrians—had altered the game in Westeros. A force long thought lost to history had resurfaced, one that dwarfed even the might of the Lannisters.

After a brief exchange, punctuated by nods and low murmurs, the four men stepped forward, approaching the main table where Lord Hoster Tully sat, his aged face an unreadable mask of wary curiosity.

"Lord Tully," Royce Coldwater began, his tone carrying the weight of careful deliberation, "we have a proposal—an addition to Lord Yohn Royce's earlier suggestion regarding Prince Aegon and Lady Vaella." He hesitated briefly, his eyes flickering toward the young Targaryen and the Valyrian woman, measuring their reactions before pressing on. This was a delicate gamble, one that required precision.

"Do you recall my younger brother, Ser Boromir Coldwater?" he asked, directing the question toward Lord Jasper Arryn while ensuring the entire table remained within his gaze.

Lord Jasper's brow furrowed in thought before recognition dawned. "Ser Boromir? The one who settled in Pentos? If memory serves, he married a merchant's daughter—of common birth."

Lord Royce Coldwater inclined his head. "Indeed, my lord. He has resided in Pentos for many years now, his wife a woman of means despite her station. They have two children—a son and a daughter, Dean and Mina Coldwater " He paused, drawing a steadying breath before delivering the heart of his proposal.

"Our suggestion is this: Prince Aegon and Lady Vaella could assume their identities, presenting themselves as Ser Boromir's children." His gaze flickered between the two, his apprehension evident. Would they take offense? Would they see it as a slight, a diminishment of their birthright?

A heavy silence settled over the table.

This was not merely about concealment—it was a deliberate lowering of status. A Targaryen prince and a Valyrian noblewoman posing as the offspring of a common-born mother. The audacity of it teetered on the edge of the unthinkable.

Eddard Stark, who had been listening in silence, exchanged a quick glance with Catelyn. A flicker of surprise crossed his features, followed swiftly by a thoughtful frown. He parted his lips to speak, but Catelyn, ever perceptive, placed a gentle hand on his arm, staying his words with a subtle shake of her head. Her gaze, however, lingered on Vaella, a keen curiosity glinting in her eyes.

Across the table, Margaery Tyrell observed the exchange with quiet amusement, a ghost of a smile playing at her lips as she awaited Aegon and Vaella's response.

Vaella, having watched Lord Royce Coldwater with carefully measured neutrality, felt an unexpected flicker of intrigue. A commoner's child? The notion was... bold, surprising her more than she cared to admit. Yet, even as the initial shock settled, her mind set swiftly to work, dissecting the plan. There was undeniable merit in it—a strategic layer of protection, a shield against prying eyes. And beyond that, an element of amusement.

"This could be entertaining," she mused, the corners of her lips curving ever so slightly.

Beside her, Aegon's reaction was subtler but no less telling. His eyes widened just a fraction, his jaw tensing almost imperceptibly. She could feel the battle waging within him—pride clashing with pragmatism, the instinct to assert his name and birthright against the undeniable advantage of subterfuge.

Before he could voice his thoughts—before his Targaryen blood could stir to protest—Vaella spoke, her voice laced with unexpected lightness.

"I love your idea, U… Uncle…" she began, then hesitated, casting a glance at Lord Jasper, who leaned in and murmured, "Royce."

"Uncle Royce," she corrected smoothly, her smile widening. "It is a… fascinating plan."

Her gaze found Aegon's, violet eyes gleaming with playful challenge. "What do you think, Your Grace? Ready to become… Dean Coldwater for a while?"

Aegon, momentarily caught off guard by Vaella's quick acceptance—and by her deliberate use of the common name—felt a surge of conflicting emotions.

"Dean Coldwater ," he thought, testing the name in his mind. "A mask, nothing more."

He exhaled slowly, gaze flicking toward Bran Stark. The boy, watching him with quiet intensity, gave the smallest of nods—a gesture of trust.

Finally, Aegon let out a breath and allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. His decision was made. He leaned toward Hoster Tully, speaking in a low murmur, his words for the Lord of Riverrun's ears alone. The older man's brows lifted in momentary surprise before he turned to Lord Royce Coldwater .

"Lord Coldwater," he declared, his voice carrying the weight of finality, "your… refined proposal is accepted. If this ruse is to hold, you and your sons should sit with us." He gestured toward the head table. "Come. Join us."

Vaella, her tone laced with playful mischief, beamed at Lord Royce Coldwater . "Uncle," she said warmly, "if you'll permit me, I'd like to know the names of my… cousins. It would be most unfortunate to forget them before so many lords and ladies."

Lord Royce Coldwater , still slightly flustered, stammered, "R… Richard and Patrick, my lady."

"Richard. Patrick," Vaella repeated, testing the names on her tongue before offering them each a welcoming smile. As they approached the head table, she turned to Patrick, who hesitated before taking the seat beside her, his nervousness evident.

With effortless grace, Vaella reached out, resting a gentle hand on his arm—an unexpected yet reassuring touch. A spark of warmth passed between them.

"Welcome, cousin," she said softly, her words dissolving the tension in his shoulders. Patrick let out a quiet breath, relief washing over him as he returned her smile, albeit shyly.

Meanwhile, Richard took the seat beside Aegon, who greeted him with a silent nod. The gesture, though simple, spoke volumes. A new alliance had been forged—not through grand declarations, but through quiet understanding and shared purpose.

Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, had observed the entire exchange in silence, his keen eyes lingering on Vaella. One brow arched in mild surprise before he shifted his attention to Torrhen, seated beside her. A slow smile tugged at Brynden's lips as he leaned toward Catelyn, murmuring something under his breath. Whatever he said elicited a faint flush from his niece, though she merely inclined her head, amusement and approval mingling in her expression as she returned her focus to Vaella.

The game had begun.

Moments Later

The heavy oak doors of Riverrun's Great Hall swung open with a prolonged creak, revealing not the expected Lannister envoys but a troupe of musicians. Lutes, harps, and flutes gleamed in the flickering torchlight, their polished surfaces catching the glow like scattered embers.

Clad in the opulent crimson and gold of the Westerlands, they were a stark contrast to the assembled lords and ladies, particularly the Northerners, whose muted cloaks and leathers seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. The sudden burst of color and sound cast an air of unease over the hall, a silent tension settling among those present.

For a fleeting moment, no one stirred. Though the instruments were harmless in themselves, their presence carried a weight beyond mere entertainment. The choice to send musicians ahead of envoys could be seen as an affront—an act of Lannister arrogance wrapped in the guise of civility.

The performers took their places near the great hearth, and after a brief, hesitant pause, the first notes rang out—light, almost playful. The melody drifted through the hall, bright and unburdened, yet its very presence felt jarring against the wary stares of the gathered nobility.

As the music continued, its cheerfulness only underscored the underlying tension. It was an unmistakable display of power, a subtle declaration that, even in a hall filled with their adversaries, the Lannisters remained unshaken.

Jon Umber leaned toward Maege Mormont, his voice a low rumble of displeasure. "Seven hells. Half the realm is at war, and still, the Lannisters cannot resist parading their wealth." His gaze flicked to the musicians, lips curling in disdain.

Across the table, Rickard Karstark let out a dry chuckle. "They have always been fond of spectacle," he muttered, shaking his head. Several Northern lords murmured their agreement, their expressions dark with contempt.

Maege Mormont exhaled sharply, her features hardening. "They expect music and gold to blind us—to make us forget the blood they have spilled." Her voice was low but firm, each word weighted with meaning. "As if a song could make us bow."

Lord Yohn Royce, watching the display with open incredulity, scoffed. "Perhaps Tywin Lannister believes he can serenade us into submission."

A ripple of laughter spread through the gathered lords, momentarily breaking the tension. Yet the amusement was fleeting; the weight of war and the losses already endured lingered like a specter over the hall.

Catelyn Stark, observing the scene with a raised brow, leaned closer to Eddard. "This," she murmured, "is arrogance of a new order." A flicker of amusement danced in her eyes before she added dryly, "Perhaps they intend to lull us into surrender before drawing their swords."

Eddard's lips twitched into the faintest smile, his gaze remaining on the performers. "Tywin Lannister has a peculiar sense of diplomacy," he remarked, his voice quiet, almost as if speaking more to himself than to her.

As if on cue, the doors swung open once more. This time, it was the Lannister delegation that entered.

Ser Stafford Lannister, clad in crimson armor with the golden lion emblazoned across his breastplate, strode forward with measured confidence, his gaze sweeping over the assembled lords and ladies. At his side walked Lord Serret, his manner noticeably more reserved, eyes darting between the highborn faces at the main table. A small contingent of Lannister guards followed, their hands resting lightly upon their sword hilts.

Most of those present instinctively turned their attention to the Valyrians, gauging their reactions. Vaella, openly curious, observed the delegation with keen interest, occasionally leaning toward Torrhen to whisper a question, to which he responded in hushed tones. Aegon, too, watched closely, though a flicker of unease passed over his features before he masked it.

Ser Stafford halted before the high table, offering a bow—respectful, yet tinged with unmistakable self-assurance. His gaze swept over the familiar figures before him—Lord Hoster Tully, Lord Eddard Stark, Catelyn Stark, the Blackfish, and Lord Royce Coldwater . At the sight of Coldwater seated among such company, his brow furrowed slightly. A minor lord at the main table, alongside the Starks, Tullys, and Arryns? That was… unusual.

"Lord Hoster Tully," Stafford began, his voice smooth and resonant, "we are grateful for your hospitality and for granting us this audience, despite the… current hostilities."

Hoster's lips pressed into a thin line, though his tone remained civil. "It has been some years since last we met, Ser Stafford. The last occasion, if I recall correctly, was during my negotiations with Lord Tywin regarding a potential union between our houses—my daughter Lysa and his son Jaime."

Stafford offered a small, genuine smile. "Ah, yes," he said, his tone carrying a hint of nostalgia. Then, his gaze fell upon Lady Catelyn, and for a brief moment, he hesitated. "Lady Stark," he acknowledged, polite but clearly surprised. "I must admit, I did not anticipate your presence here. I had thought you would remain in Winterfell, far from the conflict."

Catelyn returned his gaze with composed dignity, offering a measured smile. "My place is with my family, Ser Stafford—my father, my husband. In times such as these, one draws strength from those closest to them."

Stafford inclined his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. "A sentiment I can respect, my lady."

Eddard stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Ser Stafford. Lord Serret. It has been many years since last we stood face to face. Not since the Greyjoy Rebellion, if I am not mistaken."

Stafford's expression softened, if only slightly. "Indeed, Lord Stark. A pity that we meet again under such circumstances—and on opposing sides, no less."

Lord Serret inclined his head. "A grievous truth, my lord. War sunders bonds once forged in fire and blood."

Eddard's gaze remained steady. "Indeed. Yet perhaps this meeting may forestall further loss. There is no need for more lives to be cast into the flames of a war that should never have been. True warriors ought to stand united—against the darkness that looms beyond these squabbles." His words were quiet, yet their weight seemed to hang in the air like a drawn blade. Bran, seated near his father, watched with solemn pride. "Father speaks not merely of battles, but of what lies beyond men's sight."

Stafford shifted, visibly unsettled by Eddard's cryptic warning. His gaze drifted over the younger faces at the high table—new players in a game he thought he understood. Their eyes, steady and unflinching, offered no warmth. They studied him not as a guest, but as an opponent to be gauged. Then his eyes caught a familiar sigil—the falcon and crescent moon of House Arryn.

They landed on the young man bearing it. Sharp-eyed, unsmiling, and utterly unreadable. Stafford had expected Lord Jasper Arryn's presence, but seeing him seated with such poise, such silent menace, was another matter entirely. "He's not his father. There's no warmth in him. Only steel."

A flicker of unease crossed Stafford's face. He had come prepared to speak to Lords Stark and Tully, but with Jasper Arryn seated across from him, each word would now require exquisite precision.

And then—another sigil. A golden rose on a field of green. Tyrell.

His frown deepened slightly, confusion creeping in. He exchanged a glance with Lord Serret, who leaned in and murmured, "Lady Margaery?" The name hung between them like a question not meant to be spoken aloud.

Eddard, observing their reaction, responded with calm deliberation. "Lady Margaery Stark," he said, his voice steady, "wife to my son and heir, Robb."

That revelation struck like a sudden gust in still air. Stafford and Serret shared a glance once more, understanding dawning in their expressions.

"Ah," Stafford replied, recovering his composure. "So the whispers held truth. The North and the Reach are now bound by marriage." His tone was even, but beneath it stirred something warier. "Tywin will not be pleased to hear this confirmed."

Before further questions could form, Lord Hoster Tully intervened. "Ser Stafford Lannister," he intoned, "before we engage in discourse, we must first observe the rites of hospitality. Bread and salt shall be offered—you are under guest right here, and so protected, so long as you honor it in turn."

At Hoster's signal, a servant moved with deliberate grace, carrying a simple wooden tray upon which rested bread and a small bowl of coarse salt.

Hoster's gaze never wavered. "The guest right has been granted. Now, state your purpose."

A brief, silent exchange passed between Stafford and Serret. Then Stafford stepped forward, his voice taking on the solemn cadence of a herald.

"My lords, my ladies," he began, "we come not of our own design, but as the mouthpieces of Lord Tywin Lannister. Know that what we speak here are his words, not ours."

"We are well aware of Lord Tywin's propensity for scripting every syllable his envoys deliver," Ser Brynden Tully replied dryly, arms crossed. "Speak plainly. We shall know the truth of it well enough."

Stafford nodded once, exhaling through his nose. "Very well. Lord Tywin offers greetings and insists that this council know he seeks not endless conflict. He would see peace restored—provided that his terms are met."

He gestured toward the back of the hall. A young squire, nerves plain on his face, stepped forward, clutching a roll of parchment tied in crimson ribbon.

"Deliver it to Lord Tully," Stafford commanded, his voice crisp.

The boy moved swiftly, boots echoing on the stone floor. He bowed low before the high table and presented the scroll to Hoster Tully, who accepted it with a firm hand. The wax seal cracked beneath his thumb—the lion of House Lannister staring back at him even in fragmented form.

As Hoster read, his jaw tightened. Stafford did not wait for him to finish.

"Contained within," he continued, "is a list of those currently held by Lord Tywin. He commands us to assure this council that all named therein are treated according to their station—as highborn prisoners of war."

He paused deliberately before adding, "Foremost among them is Lord Edmure Tully, your heir, taken at the Mummer's Ford."

A cold ripple passed through the room.

"But," Stafford pressed on, "he is not the only one." His gaze drifted across the assembled lords, finally resting on Lord Stark and Lord Arryn. "After a recent engagement near the Crossroads, Lord Tywin's forces seized several other individuals of noble birth."

He took a breath, then recited their names with solemn clarity. "Lord Medger Cerwyn. Harrion Karstark. Wylis Manderly. Ser Donnel Locke. Peter Belmore. Lord Gerold Grafton."

The words struck like hammer blows.

A collective breath was drawn sharply. Faces paled. Hushed gasps rippled like wind through leaves.

Jasper Arryn's expression turned to stone. His hands clenched so tightly on the table that his knuckles gleamed white. Catelyn Stark brought a trembling hand to her lips, a muffled cry escaping her throat.

But it was Lord Rickard Karstark who rose first. With a roar born of anguish and fury, he surged to his feet, his chair skidding back with a sharp scrape against the stone floor.

"My son!" he bellowed, his voice raw with grief and rage. "Should harm befall him, not all the gold in Casterly Rock will suffice to shield Tywin Lannister from my vengeance!"

Before Stafford could muster a reply, Lord Benedar Belmore stood as well, his expression taut with fury, though his voice trembled with barely constrained restraint.

"My heir—Peter—held like some bargaining chip," he said bitterly. "You dare place our sons' lives at stake?"

A wave of outrage rippled through the hall. Lords from the North and the Vale stirred from their seats, voices rising in anger. What had begun as murmurs quickly swelled into shouts, the fury of fathers and kin boiling to the surface.

"Silence!" Brynden Tully's voice crashed through the uproar, a thunderclap of command that halted the descent into chaos. "Let us not lose our heads before we've even heard their terms!."

Though his face had gone pale, Lord Hoster Tully gave a slow nod. His voice, though roughened by illness and age, carried authority. "My brother speaks wisely. Let us hear them through." His gaze settled upon the Lannister envoy. "Please, Ser Stafford. Proceed."

A hush fell once more—heavy, tense, and expectant.

Stafford inhaled slowly, collecting himself as he stepped forward, his composure intact but strained.

"As I was saying," he resumed, voice firm though not without effort, "Lord Tywin offers assurance that all captives are being treated with the dignity appropriate to their station. Their continued well-being, however…" He let the pause stretch deliberately, "...shall depend upon the goodwill and cooperation of their kin and bannermen."

The veiled threat lingered, like the scent of smoke before the fire.

"Lord Tywin seeks not a war without end, but a resolution—swift and orderly. He presents the following terms for your consideration."

Stafford's gaze swept the chamber, meeting the eyes of Lord Hoster, Lord Eddard, and Lord Jasper in turn. As he prepared to continue, his glance flicked to the group of musicians seated discreetly in the corner. A near-invisible nod passed between him and the lead player.

Turning back to the assembly, his eyes briefly found Lord Serret's. The man looked stricken, his expression grim with unspoken warning. Stafford hesitated—only a heartbeat—then squared his shoulders and pressed on.

"First," he declared, attempting to project confidence, "Lord Tywin demands your unconditional and immediate surrender."

The room seemed to freeze, silence deepening into something suffocating.

Then came the music.

A soft, somber melody rose from the corner—at first gentle, even ghostlike, barely threading through the tension already crowding the air. Yet as the notes unfurled, familiarity struck like a thunderbolt.

Eddard Stark's breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened in disbelief. Beside him, Catelyn clutched at her chest, a soundless gasp escaping her lips. All around them, faces paled as the realization spread.

The tune—slow, deliberate, unmistakable—seeped into every corner of the hall like a curse spoken aloud.

Vaella Balaerys noticed the sudden change in atmosphere. A strange chill passed through the hall, and she turned, sensing rather than understanding that something was terribly amiss. Her eyes swept the table and caught the subtle movements—hands resting near sword hilts, shoulders tensing, breaths held.

"Torrhen?" she whispered, concern blooming. His face had turned ashen, eyes locked on the musicians. His composure, usually so serene, had cracked. A tremor danced across his fingers.

She reached for him, her hand gently brushing his cheek. His skin was cold—unnaturally so—and she felt the tightness in his jaw, the wet gleam at the corners of his eyes.

"What is it, my love?" she asked softly, her voice nearly lost beneath the swelling notes.

Torrhen swallowed, his eyes refusing to leave the musicians. "That song," he said, barely above a whisper.

She frowned, her senses straining. The melody was haunting, yes—melancholy and beautiful in its way—but beneath it lay something dark, something coiled.

"What does it mean?" she pressed.

Torrhen exhaled sharply, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His jaw tightened, his breath unsteady, and for a moment, it seemed as if he would not answer. But at last, his voice emerged—low and strained, each syllable carrying the weight of something unspoken.

"It is a song of death," he murmured. "A dirge… one that speaks not of sorrow, but of annihilation."

As his words settled over her, Vaella felt her own hands clench, her knuckles paling with the force of her grip. The unease remained, a lingering whisper at the edge of her mind, but it was no longer alone. Something else stirred beneath it—something darker, something hotter. A slow-burning fury, sharp as a blade, coiled in her chest, awakening after years of quiet restraint.

Stafford, fully aware of the chaos the music was meant to summon, pressed forward with his duties. The melody, though chosen by Tywin, played its part well.

"Second," he said, voice steady despite the storm he saw building, "Lords Hoster Tully, Eddard Stark, and Jasper Arryn are to sign a declaration affirming Joffrey Baratheon as the true and lawful King of the Seven Kingdoms."

He let the proclamation settle, knowing its implications were as barbed as any blade.

"Third," Stafford continued, "each of you shall journey to King's Landing, where you will kneel before His Grace, beg his pardon, and swear anew your oaths of fealty."

As the final condition was spoken, Stafford signaled once more to the musicians. The haunting strains ceased, leaving behind a silence that seemed louder than the song itself.

A single beat passed. Then another.

No one spoke.

Then, Margaery Tyrell, who had remained a silent, elegant presence throughout the proceedings, finally spoke. Her voice, though soft, carried a quiet authority that cut through the charged atmosphere. Her eyes, typically warm and composed, now held a glint of steel, and her poised posture betrayed a restrained fury.

"Ser Stafford, Lord Serret," she began, her tone impeccably polite yet laced with an unmistakable firmness, "while I understand you are merely the messengers, I must say, the choice of… accompaniment… is in exceedingly poor taste. To play such a melody here, in this hall, is not only an affront to the dignity of those assembled but a direct insult to House Stark and its allies." She paused, her gaze sharpening. "I would remind you that I am now of House Stark by marriage, and I shall not stand idly by while my husband's kin are threatened under the guise of diplomacy."

Stafford, momentarily taken aback by the young lady's intervention, cleared his throat. "Lady Margaery," he replied, forcing a diplomatic tone, "we are but emissaries. The selection of music was by Lord Tywin's express command."

Before he could say more, a voice—raw with unbridled fury—cut through the air.

"HE DARES?!"

All eyes turned to Vaella Balaerys. Fire danced in her gaze, though tears streaked her cheeks—a stark contrast to the defiance carved into her features. With a swift, almost violent motion, she wiped them away, refusing to let sorrow be mistaken for weakness.

Her other hand clutched Torrhen's with such force that her nails dug into his skin. She trembled—not with fear, but with the storm raging within her. Torrhen did not flinch, nor did he appear surprised by her anger. Rather, he watched her with steady understanding, as if he alone could see the depths of the tempest within her.

With a swift yet tender movement, she cupped his face, her thumb brushing away the lone tear that had escaped him. Then, she leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek—a silent promise of protection, of unwavering devotion.

Turning sharply, she faced Stafford. Her voice, though trembling, rose with a power that silenced the room.

"How dare you threaten my betrothed's family with such a song?"

Gone was the composed Valyrian noblewoman. In her place stood a dragon awakened.

Then—a shift. A gentle, almost imperceptible caress against her arm. Torrhen. He did not speak, did not attempt to temper her rage, but his touch—his silent presence—was enough. A language without words, a bond deeper than speech.

Vaella inhaled slowly. The fire in her eyes, though still burning bright, softened—tempered by a renewed sense of control. She leaned into Torrhen, resting her head against his shoulder, drawing strength from his quiet presence. A silent acknowledgment of their bond. A soft, barely audible sigh escaped her lips.

Eddard Stark observed the exchange in astonishment—and a flicker of something akin to pride.

In Winterfell, he had already seen much of his son's betrothed—her keen mind, her impeccable grace, the effortless way she carried her Valyrian heritage. But this… this was something else entirely.

"Such raw, unrestrained emotion… Such fierce protectiveness."

It was a glimpse of the fire that burned beneath the surface, the dragon that roared within.

Yet, even as he saw the storm raging in her, he also saw how Torrhen steadied it. How the quiet strength of his son tempered her fury, as if the ice of the North could soothe the flames of Valyria. There was something unspoken between them, a connection deeper than words—a balance.

His mind drifted back to a conversation with Benjen, not long after his brother and his wife, Elaena, had arrived in Winterfell. They had stood in the godswood, the ancient weirwood looming over them, its leaves whispering secrets to the wind.

"Ely says the magic here… it is different," Benjen had said, his voice low, almost reverent. "She claims the fire of Valyria is powerful, aye, but also volatile. Impetuous. Like wildfire, it can consume everything in its path."

He had paused then, his gaze drifting to the gnarled branches of the weirwood.

"But the magic of the North… it is calmer, steadier. Like the roots of this tree, it runs deep—anchoring, grounding. She believes it balances the fire, gives it focus and direction."

Benjen had shaken his head, a faint smile touching his lips.

"According to her, the Starks, the other Northern houses, even the Free Folk, carry that magic in their blood—a connection to the land, to the old ways. And that connection, it quiets the Valyrian fire. Brings it… equilibrium."

Eddard had dismissed it then. But now… watching Vaella, her fury softened by Torrhen's quiet presence, he wondered.

Turning to Catelyn, he saw her watching the pair with a soft, understanding smile, her hand resting lightly against her chest as if feeling the echo of Vaella's powerful emotions.

His attention then shifted to Margaery. The young lady had shown courage, subtly but firmly defending her new family. "Two women standing for the North, for their loved ones," he mused. "Two who have already earned their place." A wave of protectiveness surged within him, fierce and unrelenting. "I will shield them both."

His gaze swept over the Great Hall, taking in the reactions of the gathered lords and ladies. The initial shock, the stunned silence that had followed Vaella's outburst, was beginning to shift into something else entirely. The Northern lords, in particular, seemed stirred by what they had witnessed.

The Greatjon, whose laughter usually filled any room, now bore a wide grin, his eyes gleaming with approval. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Beside him, Lady Maege Mormont, her usually stern countenance softened by a rare, genuine smile. In her eyes, a flicker of admiration—recognition of kindred spirits in the young Valyrian woman and Robb Stark's wife.

This display of fierce devotion had done more than silence the hall; it had forged an unspoken bond between Vaella Balaerys, Margaery Tyrell, and the Northern lords. A bond not built on treaties or lineage, but something far more elemental: respect.

Across the room, Eddard Stark noted a subtle shift in Jasper Arryn's demeanor. The young lord, who had observed Vaella with initial caution, now regarded her with unmistakable admiration, a faint smile ghosting his lips. It was clear her impassioned defense of Torrhen—and by extension, House Stark—had not gone unnoticed. Nor had Margaery's unwavering stance.

Eddard's gaze returned to Vaella. To his surprise, the tempest within her had dissipated entirely. She still rested against Torrhen's shoulder, a hint of a smile touching her lips. His whispered reassurances, his quiet presence, had soothed her effortlessly.

"From a raging dragon to a peaceful lamb in mere moments. And all it took was his touch," Eddard mused, marveling at the quiet power of their bond.

Just then, Aegon Targaryen, who had observed the exchange with thoughtful composure, cleared his throat. He stepped forward, his tone measured, yet undercut with an unmistakable edge of steel.

"Ser Stafford," he began, his voice even, though there was a deliberate weight to his address, a subtle yet unmistakable emphasis on the knight's title. "I believe my sister has expressed her sentiments—our sentiments—plainly enough. Perhaps we might return to the matter at hand. You spoke of terms. Pray, enlighten us. What 'mercy' does King Joffrey extend?" A faint smirk played at the corner of his lips, its meaning undeniable. "Or should I inquire as to what 'justice' His Grace intends to mete out?"

The challenge hung in the air, veiled yet impossible to ignore.

Ser Stafford Lannister stiffened. The woman's fiery outburst had unsettled him; the young man's sarcasm only deepened his irritation. His carefully composed mask nearly cracked, a flicker of genuine anger flashing in his gold-flecked gaze.

"You," Stafford said, his tone clipped, each syllable a barely restrained barb, "would do well to remember to whom you speak. Who are you, to dare speak of His Grace in such a manner?" His gaze swept over their attire—clearly nobility of the Vale, though lacking the ostentation of the great houses. He let the silence stretch before delivering his next words, laced with quiet derision.

"Some minor house, I presume? A lordling of little consequence, emboldened by borrowed courage?"

Before either could reply, Lord Royce Coldwater rose smoothly, placing himself between the Lannister envoy and the pair. His expression remained one of practiced neutrality, yet a glint of warning flashed in his eyes, sharp as frostbitten steel.

"Ser Stafford," he said, his voice mild but unyielding, "allow me to introduce my niece and nephew. This," he gestured toward the young man, "is Dean Coldwater. And this," he indicated the young woman, "is Mina Coldwater, daughter of my brother, Ser Boromir Coldwater."

A pause—brief but deliberate. It was not simply an introduction; it was a shield. A warning.

"And," Lord Coldwater continued, his gaze flickering briefly to Torrhen Stark, who sat beside Mina, his expression unreadable save for the faintest trace of amusement, "my niece is betrothed to Lord Eddard Stark's second son, Torrhen Stark."

For a fraction of a second, Stafford's composure wavered. "A Stark? Betrothed to a Stark?" His mind, trained to assess power and alliances, scrambled to reconcile the unexpected revelation. "The Starks... Kings of Winter... Age of Heroes... aligning with this*?"*

His eyes flickered to Mina Coldwater. Her gown, though finely crafted, bore none of the excess favored by the great houses. Her posture, composed. Clearly noble, but… the Coldwaters were hardly among the most powerful families of the Vale.

"It makes no sense."

"I… see," Stafford managed at last, forcing a tight smile, though it felt more akin to a grimace. His surprise was genuine, his unease undeniable. He recovered quickly, forcing his features back into their usual mask of polite indifference, though a trace of disdain lingered at the edge of his lips.

"Ser Boromir Coldwater," he repeated, testing the name as if rolling a copper between his fingers, assessing its worth. He let the words settle, an insidious pause before he added, almost idly, "I confess… the name is not familiar."

Lord Royce Coldwater smile remained unwavering, but his eyes turned cold. "My brother has resided in Pentos for many years," he replied, his voice smooth as oiled silk yet carrying the weight of tempered steel. "He wed a merchant's daughter. A woman of considerable wealth, though of common birth."

"The daughter of a commoner?" Stafford barely concealed his distaste as his gaze flickered toward Eddard and Catelyn Stark.

Robb Stark wedding Margaery Tyrell—that was expected. That made sense.

"But this?" His mind whirled, attempting to piece together the logic behind such a match. "This is an insult to the Kings of Winter."

Beside him, Lord Serret shifted uneasily, his fingers twitching against the hilt of his sword. He had known Stafford's thinly veiled disdain was a dangerous blade—one that, wielded without care, could turn against them. But what unsettled him most was not the hostility in the room.

It was the amusement.

A glance around the hall revealed an unmistakable pattern. Northern lords, knights of the Vale, ladies of the Riverlands—each exchanging knowing glances, subtle smirks playing at their lips. It was as though they shared some unspoken jest, a secret to which the Lannisters remained oblivious.

Serret caught murmurs, hushed yet unmistakably amused, slipping through the crowd like whispers through autumn leaves. He could not discern their words, but their tone was clear—mockery, edged with something even sharper.

And the most telling sign of all—the smirks.

Each time a Northern lord or a Vale knight allowed their gaze to drift toward "Dean" and "Mina," then back to Stafford Lannister, their lips curled ever so slightly.

As though they were watching an unwitting man tread the edge of a frozen lake, unaware the ice beneath him had already begun to crack.

Then, something even more curious caught Serret's attention.

Greatjon Umber—the notoriously blunt Northern lord, known for his raucous laughter and utter disregard for southern decorum—lifted his goblet in a mock salute toward "Mina". Yet it was no insult. Quite the opposite. There was a mischievous gleam in the man's eyes, a spark of camaraderie as though he and the young woman shared some unspoken jest.

To Serret's astonishment, "Mina" responded in kind. She raised her own goblet—a delicate crystal vessel, almost absurdly fragile in her fingers—and met his gesture with a bright, unabashed smile. The silent exchange, though fleeting, spoke volumes. This supposed daughter of a merchant's line held herself with the ease and confidence of one accustomed to the halls of power.

Around the hall, glances passed between the lords and ladies—quick flickers of the eye toward Mina and Dean, often accompanied by faint smiles or subtle nods. Mina met each look with composed grace, her expression serene and self-assured. She carried herself not as one stepping into noble society, but as one long accustomed to its currents.

Even those least prone to sentiment—Rickard Karstark, Lady Maege Mormont, and Yohn Royce—regarded her with the kind of quiet esteem typically reserved for peers of proven lineage. Serret noted it with growing disquiet. Jason Mallister, too, shared a subtle glance with Mina, his brow arching slightly before returning to his wine.

A cold knot began to form in Serret's gut.

"This was not proceeding as expected." He had anticipated wary glances, perhaps even deference from those present. Instead, he sensed something far more dangerous: camaraderie. Worse, he perceived amusement, a shared jest at the Lannisters' expense, veiled only by the thinnest layer of courtly decorum.

A sense of unease prickled at the base of his neck. "We have misjudged them. This is no mere gathering of bannermen—it is a conclave. And we are the outsiders."

Just then, Maester Vyman crossed the floor of the hall, his pace brisk, his destination unmistakable. He passed by the Lannister delegation without so much as a glance, disregarding Stafford's expectant look as if it were beneath notice.

Vaella rose slightly at his approach, her eyes questioning. Vyman leaned close, his voice barely more than a breath. "My lady," he murmured, "the mirror in the tower… it glows."

Her eyes widened, just faintly, and a flicker of comprehension passed over her features. She nodded once, swift and sure.

She leaned into Torrhen's side, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered something soft, lost beneath the steady rhythm of rain tapping at the windows. A subtle urgency sparked in her gaze. Torrhen gave a small nod, understanding passing between them with the ease of shared purpose.

Together, they rose and moved with silent grace toward Eddard and Catelyn.

Lord Jasper Arryn's gaze followed their path, narrowing with interest. Hoster Tully leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable yet attentive. Beside him, Ser Brynden Tully watched Vaella with narrowed eyes, sensing something beneath the surface—something significant.

Vaella halted before the high table and inclined her head in deference before speaking in a low, urgent tone. Though the content of her words remained inaudible to the wider hall, the gravity behind them was impossible to miss.

Hoster, Jasper, and Brynden leaned forward unconsciously, drawn by the moment's weight.

After a brief murmur of conversation, Eddard straightened. His expression was schooled, but a shadow of concern flickered briefly in his eyes. He turned to Hoster. "Lord Tully," he said evenly, "if you'll excuse us, my wife, Torrhen, Dean, Mina, and I must attend to a pressing matter. It will not take long."

Vaella, meanwhile, had turned to Aegon, who had watched the exchange in silence. She whispered something only he could hear. Aegon's brow furrowed, but after a moment, he gave a curt nod.

Hoster Tully exchanged a glance with Jasper Arryn, a silent inquiry sparking between them. Then he looked back to Eddard, something like knowing amusement glinting in his eye. "Of course, Lord Stark," he said, with practiced courtesy. Then, raising his voice for all to hear, he added, "Let us take a brief recess while Lord Stark sees to this matter. Refresh yourselves, my lords. We shall resume shortly."

As the Starks and their companions turned to go, Vaella paused once more and murmured something to Eddard. Whatever it was, it caused the Lord of Winterfell to hesitate—just for a heartbeat—before he nodded and turned to Ser Brynden.

"Ser Brynden," he said with quiet authority, "your presence is required."

Brynden blinked, surprised by the request, but he did not ask questions. With a short nod, he fell into step behind them, his eyes watchful as they departed the Great Hall.

The room stirred in their wake, murmurs blossoming like ripples across a still pond.

Stafford Lannister, seated and simmering beneath a veneer of courtesy, stood. "Lord Stark," he called, his voice slicing through the murmurs, "is this interruption truly necessary? We have yet to finalize our discussion, and time weighs heavily upon us all. Surely this matter may wait until we have concluded."

Eddard paused at the threshold. He turned slowly to face the Lannister envoy, and when he spoke, his voice was composed, but carried with it a finality that stilled the hall.

"Believe me, Ser Stafford," he said, "this recess is necessary. What we must address cannot be postponed. We shall return shortly."

A flicker of frustration crossed Stafford's face—quickly mastered, but not quite hidden. He offered a tight nod, though his golden eyes followed the departing Northerners with narrowed suspicion.

20 MINUTES LATER

The heavy oak doors swung open once more.

Eddard Stark returned to the Great Hall, followed closely by Catelyn, Torrhen, "Dean," "Mina," and Ser Brynden Tully. A hush fell over the chamber, the rustle of silks and murmuring voices stilled as they made their way to the head of the room. Though their absence had been brief, something indefinable had shifted. The air now bristled with unspoken tension, as though the hall itself sensed the weight of what had transpired.

Eddard's features, typically carved in stone, were drawn and grave. His grey eyes, so often calm and guarded, now held a shadow of profound unease. His jaw was clenched, his posture stiff with the strain of invisible burdens.

By contrast, Catelyn's expression bore no mask at all. Whatever veil of diplomacy she had worn before was gone, replaced by a stark, almost primal fear. Her movements were stiff, her complexion pale, and her eyes—so often bright with warmth—now stared ahead with haunted focus, as if what she had seen still lingered behind them.

Torrhen Stark, ever the quiet and contemplative son, now moved with a sharpened purpose. His frame was tense, his gaze fixed, though a slight tremor in his hand betrayed the storm beneath the surface. "He saw it too," Serret thought. "Whatever it was, it rattled them all."

"Mina" and "Dean" bore no outward signs of alarm, yet there was a distant cast to their expressions, as though their thoughts wandered still in some far and terrible place. Their steps were measured, deliberate—lacking the fluid ease they had displayed before. A silence clung to them, the kind that follows revelation.

Only Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, seemed unchanged. His weathered face was calm, his bearing resolute. Yet to those who had long known him, even that mask bore the faintest fissure—a subtle flicker in his eyes that whispered of something unsettled.

Across the room, Stafford Lannister and Lord Serret observed with growing unease. Thus far, they had cloaked themselves in the appearance of patient diplomacy. But now they exchanged brief, uncertain glances. Whatever had occurred behind those doors had unsettled the Northern delegation in a manner that could no longer be dismissed as mere theatrics.

As the group reached the high table, the stillness in the hall deepened. Tension coiled in the air like a drawn bowstring. And then, in the midst of that silence, a voice rang out—soft, young, yet eerily resonant.

"The pieces… north… have begun to move."

Bran Stark, seated quietly until now, had spoken. His words, calm and unhurried, landed like stones in still water—sending ripples across the gathered assembly.

A palpable chill swept the hall. The nobles of the North stiffened at the boy's pronouncement, exchanging uneasy glances. His tone was not one of a child playing at riddles, but of something ancient and solemn. It struck with the weight of prophecy.

Stafford Lannister's brow furrowed. "What in the seven hells…?" he muttered beneath his breath. Lord Serret did not reply—his skin had gone pale, his hands clasped tighter than before.

Ser Brynden shivered, despite the warmth of the fire. The boy's voice, so laden with quiet certainty, echoed in his mind. "He knows," Brynden thought. "He's seen it."

Catelyn turned to him, her voice low as she leaned in. Her breath stirred the hair at his temple as she murmured something only he could hear—words of reassurance.

A faint smile touched his lips—wearied, but sincere. For the first time, he looked at Bran not as his niece's son, but as something else entirely. He drew a slow breath, the chill of understanding settling in his chest.

As they resumed their seats, the weight of the unknown pressed upon the hall like a stormcloud gathering on the horizon. Brynden settled between Lord Hoster and Lord Jasper, his voice low and deliberate as he leaned toward them. Whatever he said passed unheard by the wider hall, but its impact was immediate—Hoster's mouth tightened, and Jasper's hand twitched slightly on the armrest of his chair.

Across the chamber, the Lannisters watched with barely concealed unease. Serret's eyes darted between the whispering trio and the silent, watchful Northern lords. Their expressions were unreadable, yet heavy with something Stafford could not name—conviction, perhaps, or grim expectation.

Lord Hoster Tully resisted at first, his head giving a subtle shake, his mouth drawn into a firm line. His gaze remained fixed on the Lannister envoys—his thoughts bent on Edmure's release, on concluding this parley swiftly through some hard-won accord. He desired resolution, not delay. But the whispers from Brynden continued, low yet unwavering, the tone bearing a quiet urgency that eventually cut through the fog of his impatience.

He turned to Lord Jasper, whose youthful features had hardened into a look of grave resolve. Their eyes met, and something passed between them—silent understanding, inevitable and absolute. And then, at last, recognition flickered in Hoster's expression. The weight of Bran's words, the palpable shift in the bearing of Catelyn and Brynden, the near-invisible nods exchanged among the Northern lords—all of it converged into chilling clarity.

This was no longer about Edmure. No longer merely about the Riverlands.

"This… this is about the realm itself."

Hoster's gaze swept slowly over the hall, pausing on the uncertain faces of Ser Stafford Lannister and Lord Serret. Then, with practiced composure, he rose to speak, the authority of Riverrun behind every word.

"Ser Stafford. Lord Serret," he began, his voice composed, each syllable deliberate, "I thank you for your presence and for delivering Lord Tywin's terms in good faith. Yet I must inform you—" he paused, allowing his gaze to flick briefly toward his Northern allies, their expressions taut with suppressed tension—"urgent matters have come to light. Matters of… grave import. Not only for the Riverlands, but for every corner of Westeros."

His voice took on a sharper edge as he met Stafford's eyes, the chill in his tone unmistakable.

"This council shall be adjourned until the morrow. We will reconvene at midday. Until then, you remain honored guests beneath this roof."

Ser Stafford, his expression betraying only the faintest flicker of annoyance, cleared his throat and responded with restrained diplomacy.

"Lord Tully," he began evenly, "might I ask whether such a delay is strictly necessary? Lord Tywin seeks a swift resolution to this unfortunate discord, and—"

Brynden Tully stepped forward. His stare was unflinching, his voice calm, but laced with iron.

"It is necessary, Ser Stafford. Imperative, in truth." His tone bore the weight of finality. "Come the morrow, revelations shall be made—truths that concern not merely the Riverlands, the North, or the Vale… but the whole of Westeros. Matters that must be heard, that must be faced. They are beyond your lord's terms—and beyond your imagining."

A heavy silence descended, pressing against the walls like the breath of some unseen beast.

Stafford exchanged a wary glance with Serret. The cryptic nature of the words unsettled them both. There was no posturing here, no theatre. Only a grim certainty that demanded respect.

After a long pause, Stafford inclined his head.

"Very well, Ser Brynden," he said smoothly, though the unease in his eyes betrayed his doubt.

Seizing the moment, Hoster turned to the waiting servants.

"See our guests escorted to their chambers," he instructed, his tone cool and commanding. "Ensure their comfort. We shall reconvene at midday."

As the Lannister delegation began to gather their belongings, Stafford's eye was drawn to movement across the hall. A small group of Northern lords had approached Eddard Stark. Their expressions were drawn, their voices low and urgent. One among them—a burly man with a thick auburn beard—leaned in close, speaking in a whisper barely audible over the murmurs of departure.

"My lord," the man murmured, voice taut with tension, "is it true? What you told us three nights past… has it been confirmed?"

Eddard's jaw tightened, his grey eyes hollow with the weight of truth.

"Aye," he replied softly. "Every word."

A hush fell among the Northerners. One swore beneath his breath, another closed his eyes as though in prayer, and a third clenched his fists so tightly the knuckles whitened. The burden of confirmation hung over them like a pall.

Stafford watched from across the room, a chill coiling in his chest. What knowledge could provoke such dread in men hardened by endless winter and war? His glance shifted to Serret, whose furrowed brow mirrored his own growing concern.

With that, the matter was settled, but an unease lingered in the air, thick and suffocating. The meeting for the day was concluded..

STAFFORD LANNISTER AND LORD SERRET 1 HOUR LATER

"Seven hells," Ser Stafford muttered, pacing the length of the chamber. Firelight danced across the stone walls, casting restless shadows as his boots echoed against the floor. "What in the name of the gods was that?" His voice was low, taut with suspicion. "We arrive bearing terms from Lord Tywin himself, and they dismiss us as though we were errand boys."

He halted mid-stride, turning sharply toward Lord Serret, his expression tight with growing agitation. "Those two—'Dean' and 'Mina'—did you take note of how the others regarded them? That deference... it was no act of mere courtesy." He exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing. "They would have us believe they are the offspring of some minor noble and an Essosi commoner. Rubbish. I would stake my life they are far more than they claim."

Serret, pale and clearly unsettled, had taken to pacing near the hearth, goblet in hand. He filled it anew, spilling a thin trail of wine down the stem as his hand trembled slightly. The flames crackled, their glow reflecting off the deep red liquid.

"I do not like this, Ser Stafford," he said, barely louder than a whisper. "There is something amiss here. Something we have not been told."

Stafford's jaw clenched. He crossed his arms, staring at the fire as if searching it for answers. "We must uncover the truth, Serret," he said, his voice low and resolute. "I care not if they name us guests—this is still a Lannister delegation. I will not be kept blindfolded while the rest of them whisper in corners."

He paused, catching the distant, distracted look in Serret's eyes. The older man stood still now, staring into the flames, his fingers tapping the rim of his goblet with a nervous rhythm. Something had lodged in his mind and refused to dislodge.

"What is it?" Stafford asked, a touch sharper than he intended. "You've been quiet since we left the hall. Speak plainly."

Serret blinked, his brow furrowed as though waking from a dream. He hesitated for a long breath, then spoke slowly.

"That exchange between Lord Stark and his bannermen…" he began, his voice hushed. "You heard it, did you not? They spoke of some truth—something that had been confirmed. It struck me as… foreboding."

Stafford's brows drew together. "Aye," he replied, his voice taut. "It was strange."

Serret nodded grimly. "Did you see their faces? There was fear there—real fear. Not of battle, nor of politics, but of something deeper. And Lord Stark… he looked as though he bore the realm upon his shoulders."

He took a long drink, though his hand still trembled faintly. "Whatever news they shared, it shook them to the core. Men like that don't pale at shadows."

A silence followed, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Stafford stepped closer to the hearth, the warmth offering no comfort. His mind churned, threading together fragments of unease. He had long dismissed Northern beliefs as the ramblings of men too long in the cold—wolves and gods and whispering trees. But now…

"They fear something," he said finally, his voice measured but grim. "Something they cannot name before us. But we will discover it. And if this truth holds weight—" his lips curled into a thin smile "—then perhaps Lord Tywin may find it… useful."

Serret nodded slowly, but the worry in his gaze remained.

Stafford turned once more to the fire. "Whatever game they are playing, we will not remain pawns. We are lions of the Rock."

But even as he spoke, a chill crept through the chamber, unshaken by the blaze in the hearth. Outside, the wind howled against the stone like a warning.

And Stafford Lannister, for all his confidence, could not shake the feeling that something ancient and cold was rising in the dark—something no lion could tame.

NEXT DAY (IN THE MORNING)

A muted thud against the heavy oak door barely pierced the haze of sleep that clung stubbornly to Ser Stafford Lannister. He stirred beneath the furs, releasing a low, irritated groan, burrowing deeper into the fading warmth. Dawn crept into the chamber, unwelcome and cold. The sour trace of last night's wine lingered on his tongue, mingling with fragments of unease—memories of the veiled looks and quiet smirks worn by those damnable Northern lords.

"Scheming wolves, the lot of them," he thought groggily, his thoughts sluggish and splintered.

The knock returned—sharper now, more insistent—shattering what remained of his brief respite. Irritation flared behind his eyes, joined swiftly by the dull, steady throb of a headache blooming at his temples.

"Seven bloody hells," he muttered, peeling his eyes open. Pale, grey light seeped through the narrow window, cold and unforgiving. With a grunt, he pushed himself upright, the furs slithering off his shoulders like dead weight. He squinted against the dimness, still blinking away the fog of restless sleep.

A third knock—swift and clipped.

"Who in the seven names dares interrupt a man's rest at this cursed hour?" Stafford barked, voice hoarse with sleep and growing displeasure.

A thin, cautious voice filtered through the thick wood. "Ser Stafford? Forgive me, ser. I come at Lord Hoster's bidding. Ser Brynden Tully requests your presence… at the main gate, by the drawbridge."

Stafford's brow furrowed. "Brynden Tully?" he repeated under his breath. "What madness draws him to summon me before the sun's even risen?" A faint chill, colder than the air, slithered down his spine.

He tossed aside the remaining blankets and rose, the morning cold biting at his skin. Swiftly, he pulled on his tunic, boots, and cloak, the motions brisk and practiced. "Inform Ser Brynden I shall attend him shortly," he called out, his tone regaining its usual command. As he buckled his belt and let the familiar weight of his sword settle at his hip, a grim sort of calm took hold.

Crossing the chamber, he splashed cold water on his face, hissing as the chill struck him. The reflection that met him in the basin's surface was pallid and grim, but his eyes—keen and golden—burned with resolve.

"Brynden Tully," he mused, tightening his jaw. "You play at something, old man. I mean to find out what."

He reached for his cloak, the crimson folds thick and heavy—a lion's mantle, unmistakable. A symbol of blood, pride, and unyielding strength. Drawing it over his shoulders, he took one last breath and squared his stance.

Whatever awaited him at the river gate, it would be no idle courtesy.

And Stafford Lannister would not meet it as a man half-awake in borrowed chambers—but as a lion of the Rock.

MINUTES LATER

Stafford Lannister moved through the corridors of Riverrun with measured steps, the chill of the stone seeping through the soles of his boots. The summons from Ser Brynden Tully—the Blackfish—lingered in his mind, an unspoken warning threading through the morning air. There was something deliberate in the timing, something unsettling in its implications.

By the time he reached the main gate, his unease had settled into a taut knot in his chest. The heavy oak doors loomed ahead, their iron reinforcements dark with age, barring them from whatever awaited beyond.

Lord Serret stood nearby, his expression unreadable save for the faint crease in his brow. He offered Stafford a brief nod, but his silence spoke volumes. It was not Serret's presence that deepened Stafford's disquiet, however—it was the Lannister men-at-arms.

The younger knights and squires, usually brash and eager for sport, had gathered in uneasy clusters. Their hushed murmurs slithered through the cold air, their glances flitting toward the gate with barely concealed apprehension. There was no jesting, no idle boasts. Only quiet tension, like deer scenting a wolf in the underbrush.

Before Stafford could demand an explanation, a voice cut through the silence—calm, yet unmistakably firm.

"Good morning, my esteemed guests."

Ser Brynden Tully stepped from the shadows of the corridor, his posture as unyielding as the fortress he called home. His gaze swept over them, his expression polite but cool, his presence carrying the quiet assurance of a man who had seen far worse than uneasy Lannisters at his gates.

Still rankled by the previous day's treatment, Stafford inclined his head with measured civility. "Ser Brynden," he greeted, his tone carefully even. "I trust there is a matter of great urgency to justify this summons at so ungodly an hour. Lord Tywin values efficiency above all, and I fail to see the purpose of assembling us in the dark."

Brynden's lips curved slightly, though the amusement in his gaze held an unmistakable edge. "Mysteries seldom linger past dawn, Ser Stafford," he replied smoothly. "And it is time… for certain truths to be brought into the light."

Stafford's shoulders tensed. He did not care for riddles, nor for the knowing gleam in the Blackfish's eyes. He cast a glance toward the younger Lannisters, their unease now verging on dread, before fixing Brynden with a measured look.

"And was it necessary for all of us to bear witness to this… revelation?" he asked, his patience thinning.

Brynden held his gaze, unreadable. "Indeed," he murmured. "It is essential."

A sudden clang of metal against stone rang out from beyond the gate, the sharp sound lashing through the morning stillness. Instinct guided Stafford's hand to the hilt of his sword. Around him, Serret and the others stiffened, eyes snapping toward the source of the noise.

Only Brynden remained unshaken.

Footsteps followed, measured and deliberate, each one echoing against the courtyard's stone. A shadow moved beyond the gatehouse, its form sharpening with each step into the torchlight.

Then the figure emerged.

Torrhen Stark.

A ripple of astonishment coursed through the Lannister men, hushed gasps breaking the silence. Stafford inhaled sharply—not at the man himself, but at what he wore.

The armor.

It was unlike anything he had ever beheld. Dark grey metal, smooth yet shifting, glinting with faint traces of violet and gold where the torchlight kissed its surface. The craftsmanship was unparalleled, the designs upon it intricate, almost alive, shifting in ways that defied explanation. The direwolf of House Stark was wrought upon the breastplate, its eyes gleaming with an eerie, unnatural light.

Stafford's fingers curled tighter around his sword's hilt.

"Valyrian steel," the thought struck him, sharp and undeniable.

Valyrian steel was no stranger to him, of course. Many noble houses in Westeros prized their ancestral swords, forged from the rare metal—House Stark's greatsword, Ice, being one of the most famous. He had even seen a Valyrian steel dagger once, wielded by an Essosi merchant.

But this?

A full suit of Valyrian steel armor?

That was a treasure beyond reckoning. No house in Westeros, not even the wealthiest of lords, could claim such a thing.

He turned to Serret. The man had gone pale as milk, his gaze fixed upon Torrhen with utter disbelief.. Around them, the younger Lannisters stood frozen, their earlier apprehension now transformed into something deeper.

Awe.

Torrhen halted before them, his expression warm as he embraced Brynden Tully.

"Great Uncle," he greeted, his voice rich with familiarity and ease. "It is good to see you."

Then, turning to Stafford and Serret, he inclined his head in respectful acknowledgment.

"Ser Stafford, Lord Serret."

Stafford forced himself to nod in return. His throat felt tight, his mind still grappling with the implications before him. Beside him, Serret mirrored the gesture, though his eyes remained locked upon the shifting metal of Torrhen's armor, as if afraid to look away.

At last, Stafford found his voice.

"Forgive my… curiosity, young Torrhen," he said, carefully schooling his tone. "But that armor… I must admit, I had no notion House Stark possessed such wonders. I have, of course, heard of Ice, your noble Valyrian greatsword. A fine weapon, by all accounts, though I have never had the privilege of seeing it myself. But a full suit of Valyrian steel…"

His voice trailed off, the words failing him.

Torrhen smiled faintly.

"It is a recent acquisition, Ser Stafford, Lord Serret," he replied, his tone even, unruffled. "A gift."

There was no pride in his words, no arrogance—only simple truth, spoken without embellishment. And yet, something in his bearing, in the quiet certainty of his voice, left Stafford ill at ease.

"A gift? From whom?" The question burned on his tongue, but he did not voice it. Not yet.

Whatever had transpired in the North, whatever had emboldened these wolves—one thing was clear.

This was not the North he had known.

It was something else entirely.

Lord Serret, recovering his composure, spoke with careful deliberation.

"There is naught else like it in all of Westeros, young Torrhen. Whoever saw fit to bestow such a treasure upon your house… it was a gift worthy of a king."

A hush fell over the gathering, thick with unspoken questions.

Brynden Tully, ever perceptive, stepped forward. His gaze lingered on Torrhen for a heartbeat—pride, subtle yet unmistakable, flickering in his eyes—before shifting to Stafford and Serret.

"Gentlemen," he said, his voice a quiet blade, "if you would be so kind as to accompany me."

He turned toward the main gate and, with measured authority, gave the command.

"Open the doors."

The guards obeyed without hesitation.

The heavy oak gates groaned apart, revealing a sight wholly unlike the bustling courtyard Stafford and Serret had expected.

A fine drizzle still fell, draping the castle in a shroud of grey melancholy. Yet, as the mist curled in the air, it shimmered strangely, reflecting a light that did not belong to the overcast sky. There was something unnatural in it, something that sent a whisper of foreboding through Stafford's bones.

Brynden Tully led them forward, across the drawbridge.

Then they saw.

And the world stilled.

Two colossal shapes loomed beyond the castle walls.

Dragons.

Valyrian dragons.

Stafford staggered, his breath catching in his throat, his hand rising instinctively to his mouth as if to stifle the gasp that threatened to escape.

"This cannot be."

He had known of Valyria's return. Sixteen years past, the news had swept through Westeros like wildfire, fanning the flames of speculation and unease. Yet, like many, he had believed the Freehold too consumed with rebuilding its shattered empire to turn its gaze westward.

He had never truly believed they would intervene.

He had been wrong.

Terribly, catastrophically wrong.

Before him lay two dragons, each more fearsome than any tale whispered by firelight.

The larger, a titan of burnished gold, lay still as stone, its vast wings folded like a shroud against the damp earth. Even in repose, its sheer size dwarfed the very towers of Riverrun.

The other, though smaller, was no less menacing. A beast of blackened steel and violet flame, its obsidian scales shimmered with an unnatural iridescence, as though the very air around it pulsed with unseen power. Its eyes—molten gold, ancient and knowing—burned with an intensity that seemed to strip away flesh and lay bare the soul. Smoke curled lazily from its nostrils, and where its talons met the ground, the earth itself seemed to smolder.

A low, ragged breath escaped Serret, his skin pallid, his frame trembling. His fingers found Stafford's arm, clutching with an urgency born of terror. His lips parted, yet no words came—only a faint, involuntary whimper, the sound of a man unmade.

The younger Lannisters fared no better. Some stumbled backward, eyes wide with uncomprehending dread, their earlier bravado shattered like glass beneath a hammer. Others stood frozen, transfixed, as though the very sight of the beasts had robbed them of all reason.

The arrogance that had once laced their voices—their certainty in Lannister gold, in the might of their house—vanished.

Like mist before the rising sun.

Stafford forced himself to breathe, though his lungs felt constricted, as if the air itself resisted him. His gaze shifted—from the dragons, to Torrhen, and finally, to the armor.

And then it struck him.

A revelation so simple, yet so utterly devastating, it sent ice through his veins.

"That armor…"

His breath came shallow, his throat tight as he turned to the young Stark. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper, ragged with the weight of understanding.

"That… that armor…" he faltered, the words catching before he could shape them. "That gift… was it from… them?"

Torrhen met his gaze, and a slow, knowing smile curved his lips.

He nodded.

"Yes."

No boast.

No threat.

Merely truth.

But it was enough.

Understanding crashed upon Stafford like a collapsing mountain.

"This is not a game we can win."

"This is not a war we can fight."

The Lannisters—despite all their wealth, their armies, their carefully laid schemes—were nothing.

Pawns.

That was all they had ever been. Pawns in a game played by dragons.

And with that, the last vestiges of certainty shattered.

The game, Stafford now understood with chilling finality, had ended before it had even begun.

They had already lost.

Just then, a young squire—Lyle Crakehall of House Crakehall—spoke, his voice laced with unease.

"My lords… look."

A trembling hand pointed toward the bridge spanning the Tumblestone, his wide eyes fixed on a figure emerging from the mist.

Stafford and Serret, their hearts pounding, turned their gaze.

A lone silhouette strode across the bridge, its presence cutting through the veil of rain like a blade. Slender, poised, it carried itself with an air of quiet command. At first, distance and mist obscured details, rendering it little more than a wraith against the grey expanse of Riverrun. But as it advanced, shapes and colors began to coalesce—the gleam of metal, the shimmer of something… unnatural.

A cold dread crept into Stafford's chest.

"Something is wrong."

The figure halted at the edge of the drawbridge, and even at this distance, a tremor of unease rippled through the Lannister delegation.

Etched into the breastplate of Valyrian steel was an unmistakable insignia—the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

A sharp intake of breath. Serret's lips parted in a silent gasp, the color draining from his face. Beside him, Stafford felt his pulse hammer against his ribs, his mind scrambling to reconcile what his eyes beheld.

He knew this young man.

The one dismissed only yesterday as some minor lordling's son, a commoner from Pentos with an unremarkable name.

"Dean Coldwater," Lord Royce Coldwater had called him.

Yet now, his platinum-blond hair, no longer hidden beneath a coif, cascaded freely over his shoulders, a river of molten silver shimmering in the rain. His violet eyes, once veiled in polite deference, now burned with an intensity that cut through the mist like flame through shadow.

Serret exhaled, scarcely more than a whisper.

"Gods be good."

He leaned closer to Stafford, voice strained with disbelief.

"Could it be… Viserys Targaryen?"

The name sent a chill through Stafford's spine.

"Viserys."

The last son of the Mad King. Lost after the Sack of King's Landing. A ghost, a forgotten threat, now risen from the ashes.

But as Stafford studied the young man's features, doubt clawed at him.

"He looks… too young to be Viserys, does he not?" he murmured, almost to himself.

The boy, for all his Targaryen bearing, seemed impossibly young.

Too composed.

Serret frowned, his initial terror tempered by uncertainty.

"You are right," he conceded, his gaze narrowing. "He appears closer to Prince Aegon's age… perhaps younger still."

A pause. A frown. A breath unsteady.

"But that cannot be." His voice faltered, his mind reaching for certainties that no longer existed. "Aegon and his sister Rhaenys… they perished in the Sack of King's Landing. We saw their… their bodies."

A muscle twitched in his jaw.

Or so they had believed.

"Unless…"

The thought coiled in his mind, dark and unrelenting, refusing to be cast aside.

He turned to Stafford, his eyes wide with dawning horror.

"Unless…"

The words failed him.

The young Targaryen came to a halt before them, the rain tracing glistening paths over the dark gleam of his armor.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips as he greeted Ser Brynden Tully and Torrhen Stark—not with formality, not with solemnity, but with warmth.

Then he turned.

His gaze swept over the Lannister delegation.

There was no arrogance in his violet stare, no malice, no triumph.

Only quiet amusement.

And in that quiet, in that unbearable calm, Stafford's blood ran cold.

Brynden Tully, ever inscrutable, stepped forward. A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched his lips as he regarded Stafford and Serret.

"Gentlemen," he said, his voice smooth as polished steel, "I believe a clarification is in order. And perhaps… an apology."

Stafford and Serret exchanged wary glances.

An apology? From the Blackfish?

Brynden Tully, a man of unyielding resolve and sharp cunning, did not offer apologies lightly. And this—this careful, measured tone—stirred an unease deeper than any open threat.

"Yesterday," Brynden continued, his gaze sweeping over them, lingering for a fraction longer on their pale faces, "a deception was necessary. A precaution, nothing more. Given the current… political climate, I am sure you understand."

He let the words settle, their weight undeniable, before his tone took on a shade of quiet amusement.

"You see, it seemed… prudent… to conceal certain truths. For the safety of our guests."

A gesture. A turn of his hand. And all eyes followed—to the young man standing beside him, clad in Valyrian steel.

The Targaryen sigil, once a puzzle, now blazed with irrefutable truth.

"Allow me to introduce him properly," Brynden said, each word precise, deliberate. "This is not Dean Coldwater, son of a minor lord and a commoner from Pentos."

A pause. A breath. A glint of steel in his Tully-blue eyes.

"This is Aegon Targaryen.

Son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell.

The true and rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms."

Silence fell.

Heavy. Absolute.

The rain whispered against stone, the only sound in the wake of revelation.

And in that silence, the world shifted.

Pale and unsteady, Stafford Lannister lowered his gaze to the rain-slicked stones, his voice a fragile thread of deference.

"M—my lord… y—Your Grace… we… we had our suspicions that there was… more to this matter. That tale of common birth… it seemed… improbable."

His knees buckled. With a muted gasp, he sank to the ground, his movements clumsy yet deliberate.

A heartbeat later, Lord Serret and the rest of the Lannister retinue followed suit, the clash of armor against wet stone ringing through the air—a discordant symphony of submission.

Aegon regarded them in silence. No trace of triumph flickered across his features. Only cold, measured resolve.

From the corner of his eye, a movement caught his attention.

Torrhen Stark.

A smile ghosted the young Stark's lips, his gaze fixed on something beyond the drawbridge.

Intrigued, Aegon followed his line of sight.

Vaella Balaerys was approaching.

As if drawn by some unseen force, Torrhen stepped forward—then again, his stride gaining purpose, his breath caught somewhere between hesitation and certainty. There was no calculation in his movement, no conscious decision—only instinct. A pull as inexorable as the tide, as if the world beyond her had lost all consequence.

Then, from the ranks of kneeling men, a hesitant voice wavered through the air.

"Your Grace," Lyle Crakehall ventured, his words faltering, his wide eyes locked on the approaching woman. "Is she… your sister? Princess Rhaenys?"

Aegon turned, amusement flickering in his gaze. A small smile played at his lips as he studied the boy.

"Young. Uncertain. But not without courage."

"And you are?" Aegon inquired, his tone measured yet inviting.

The boy hesitated for only a moment before inclining his head in a respectful bow.

"Lyle Crakehall, of House Crakehall, Your Grace. Second son of Lord Roland Crakehall."

Aegon's smile deepened.

"Lyle Crakehall," he mused. "Your House has a storied history. If I am not mistaken, King Jaehaerys the First visited Crakehall with his dragon, Vermithor. And long before that, Aegon the Conqueror graced your halls with Balerion the Black Dread."

He let the weight of history settle between them, a quiet reminder of the past shaping the present.

"It would seem our paths are intertwined by more than mere circumstance."

His gaze shifted once more to the figure advancing toward them, his voice calm yet deliberate as he continued.

"As for that young woman, Lyle… she is not my sister. She is no Targaryen."

A murmur of confusion rippled through the Lannister ranks.

Aegon let the silence stretch, watching as uncertainty crept into their expressions. Then, with the barest hint of a knowing smile, he spoke again.

"But she is a dragonlord."

The air seemed to tighten. A barely restrained gasp passed through the gathered knights and lords, the weight of those words pressing upon them like a storm on the horizon.

Stafford Lannister and Lord Serret exchanged a glance—unease darkening their features, the depth of their predicament settling upon them like a cold hand upon their shoulders.

Aegon's smile did not waver. With an effortless grace, he gestured toward the approaching woman.

"Her name is Vaella Balaerys," he declared, his voice carrying over the rain-drenched courtyard. "Of House Balaerys, of the Triarchy of Valyria."

He let the name settle, watching uncertainty flicker across their faces before delivering the final blow.

"The most powerful family in Valyria."

A hush fell over the Lannister delegation.

All eyes followed his gaze.

Beyond the drawbridge, Torrhen Stark advanced toward Vaella with unwavering certainty. No hesitation. No restraint. When he reached her, she met him with an embrace, her lips pressing against his in a kiss that spoke of neither formality nor fleeting affection.

It was not a mere gesture—it was a claim.

The sight struck Stafford Lannister and Lord Serret like a physical blow. Their minds reeled, the name Mina echoing in their thoughts.

"The girl we dismissed as the daughter of some Essosi noble of little consequence… she is a dragonlord."

Aegon allowed the silence to stretch, letting the weight of revelation press upon them like the blade of a dagger poised at their throats. Then, his voice took on a regal authority that brooked no defiance.

"Rise, Ser Stafford, Lord Serret." His tone was firm but not unkind. His violet gaze swept over them—unreadable, unwavering. "There is no need for such… formalities. Not yet. Besides, there are matters of far greater importance to discuss at the midday council."

The two men stood, their movements stiff, their eyes drawn irresistibly to Vaella as she walked beside Torrhen.

Stafford's breath caught.

Her armor.

Like that of Aegon Targaryen and Torrhen Stark, it was forged of Valyrian steel—its dark sheen shifting like liquid shadow—but hers was unlike theirs. Intricate carvings of dragons coiled across the metal, their gemstone eyes seeming to smolder from within. Along the pauldrons and breastplate, ancient Valyrian script had been etched with such precision that it was nearly imperceptible, whispering words of power.

Yet it was not merely the craftsmanship that held him spellbound.

It was the emblem upon her breastplate—a dragon crowned with an unfamiliar diadem—and the silver direwolf pendant resting against the dark steel.

A mark of allegiance.

A statement more powerful than any declaration.

"I must commit this family's sigil to memory," thought Lord Serret, his gaze lingering on the crowned dragon. "My lord Tywin will want to know every detail."

Before Stafford could fully process the implications, a voice cut through the tense quiet.

"Ser Stafford. Lord Serret."

Brynden Tully's tone was calm, deliberate. Each syllable measured, each word weighted with meaning.

"The reason yesterday's meeting was postponed until midday today was not a slight against your lord. We understand that you come as emissaries of Lord Tywin, and knowing him as I do, he is a man who values swift answers."

He let the words settle before continuing.

"At midday, you will be presented with undeniable proof—evidence of a threat far greater than any you perceive. A threat that demands the attention of all Westeros. And I believe that once you have seen it, the war we are fighting now will seem… insignificant."

Stafford masked his unease with a composed nod.

"I see. Yet, what I fail to understand is the purpose of this morning's gathering. If the true discussion is to take place at midday… why this preliminary meeting?"

Brynden's gaze sharpened. His voice turned cool, edged with steel.

"This meeting was necessary, Ser Stafford," he said, gesturing toward Aegon, Vaella, and the dragons beyond the drawbridge. "We deemed it imperative that you understand exactly who stands with House Stark."

His expression remained unreadable, yet his meaning was clear.

"The Starks are not alone."

He took a step forward, lowering his voice, yet somehow making it carry with even greater force.

"Their allies do not fear Lannister gold, nor do they bend to threats."

Another pause, calculated, deliberate.

"Valyria stands with the Starks."

His eyes locked onto Stafford's, his next words landing like a blow.

"And Valyria is a power unlike any you have ever encountered. A power even the Lannisters cannot hope to match."

A heavy silence fell, thick with unspoken warnings. Stafford held his ground, but something in his eyes shifted—arrogance giving way to something closer to wariness.

Brynden's tone shifted once more, now firm, diplomatic.

"There are also two matters that must be settled here and now. Terms you must accept on behalf of Lord Tywin."

He let the moment stretch, ensuring the full gravity of his words took hold.

"The return of the prisoners, including my nephew, Ser Edmure Tully. And, above all, the recognition of Aegon as the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Stafford's gaze flickered between Aegon and Vaella, the weight of his position settling upon him. At last, he inclined his head slightly, a gesture of reluctant acknowledgment.

"Your Grace," he addressed Aegon directly, his voice measured, careful. "Were it within my power, I would sign the terms of surrender here and now. But I am merely a messenger. I will deliver your offer and ensure Lord Tywin hears every word of what I have seen today."

Aegon studied him for a moment before offering a small, knowing smile.

"See to it that these terms reach Lord Tywin safely."

"It shall be done, Your Grace," Lord Serret quickly replied.

Stafford exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. Yet, as his gaze drifted once more to the silver direwolf at Vaella's throat, a realization settled behind his eyes.

"That is the look of a woman in love. This is not merely a political alliance." His fingers curled at his sides. "This is something far more dangerous."

Brynden exchanged a glance with Aegon. The message had been delivered.

"Ser Stafford. Lord Serret." Brynden's voice resumed its measured diplomacy. "This meeting has served its purpose. It is still early," he added, glancing at the sky, where the first pale hints of dawn crept through the clouds. "If you so wish, you may return to your chambers and rest. We shall reconvene at midday."

Stafford inclined his head. A flicker of relief passed across his features.

"Thank you, Ser Brynden," he said, his gaze lingering once more upon the dragons before turning sharply to usher his delegation back toward the gatehouse.

But before they could take their leave, a voice—melodic yet unwavering—halted them in their tracks.

"Ser Stafford. Lord Serret."

Vaella stepped forward, her presence both commanding and effortless. Though her smile was polite, her violet eyes gleamed with something sharper—amusement laced with challenge.

"If you would be so kind," she began, her tone light yet edged with unmistakable intent, "see to it that the musicians accompany us to the midday meeting. Perhaps they might favor us with something more… cheerful. Something less somber than The Rains of Castamere."

A ripple of unease passed through the Lannister delegation.

Stafford swallowed, his throat bobbing as a flicker of discomfort crossed his features.

"O-of course, my lady… Princess," he stammered. "We shall instruct the musicians accordingly."

Beside him, Lord Serret managed only a stiff nod.

"Y-yes, Your Highness. I will… ensure they select a more festive repertoire."

Vaella's smile deepened, the faintest shift in her expression transforming mere courtesy into something far more deliberate. Though gracious, her demeanor held an undeniable weight—one that did not require raised voices or threats to be felt.

She inclined her head, a gesture both elegant and pointed.

"Thank you, my lords," she murmured, her voice a blend of silk and steel.

Then, turning with effortless grace, she rejoined Torrhen. As she did, she cast him a playful wink—fleeting, yet unmistakable.

Stafford and Serret caught it. Their eyes met briefly, the same thought passing between them.

"Not merely an alliance. Something deeper. Something dangerous."

As the Lannister delegation withdrew into the safety of Riverrun, a lingering hesitation betrayed them. Before vanishing beyond the gatehouse, they glanced over their shoulders one last time.

Beyond the drawbridge, the dragons stirred. The golden beast stretched its vast wings, sending rain cascading like scattered diamonds. Then, with a single, thunderous beat, it launched into the storm-darkened sky, its roar splitting the heavens.

The black dragon followed—a shadow against the shifting clouds.

Their departure felt like an omen.

The end of an era.

The dawn of another.

The world had shifted.

The game had changed.

HOURS LATER

The Lannister musicians played in the Great Hall of Riverrun, their lively melody a jarring contrast to the grim tension suffusing the chamber. Lords and ladies from the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale sat in watchful silence, their gazes fixed upon Eddard Stark. Opposite them, Stafford Lannister and Lord Serret remained quiet, sensing the weight of the moment.

"My lords, my ladies," Eddard began, his voice resonating through the hall, heavy with meaning. He paused, his keen gaze sweeping over the assembled nobility. Apprehension and veiled skepticism marked their expressions. His eyes lingered briefly on Hoster Tully and Jasper Arryn, discerning their lingering doubts. Then, his gaze settled upon Ser Stafford Lannister, and a steely edge entered his voice.

"For too long, the South has dismissed the warnings of the North as mere fables. You have squabbled over thrones and titles while a far graver threat has risen beyond the Wall."

The musicians had fallen silent, their instruments resting idly in their hands as they, like all others present, listened with rapt attention.

Lord Serret swallowed hard, his face paling slightly. Even Stafford Lannister, ever composed, shifted uneasily in his seat.

Eddard's voice grew firmer, each word imbued with the weight of undeniable truth. "The Long Night is coming. The dead march. The White Walkers have returned."

A hush fell over the hall, broken only by the crackling of the hearth and the soft patter of rain against the windows.

Stafford Lannister, struggling to maintain his composure, cleared his throat. "Lord Stark, with all due respect… White Walkers? But… those are mere legends."

Before Eddard could reply, a calm, measured voice cut through the air.

"They are real, Ser Stafford."

Bran Stark's young face remained eerily composed. His deep, knowing gaze seemed to pierce through Stafford's carefully maintained façade.

"Everything my father says is true," he continued, his voice quiet yet carrying an unsettling certainty. "The Long Night is upon us. The dead march. The White Walkers are not merely returning—they are already here. And they do not come alone. They bring an army of the dead, wights that know no loyalty, no fear, no rest. They are coming for us all. Lannister, Stark, Tully, Arryn, Targaryen—no one is beyond their reach."

His words, spoken with chilling conviction, struck the hall like a blast of icy wind. A collective gasp rippled through the assembled lords and ladies. Even the most hardened warriors shifted uneasily, hands instinctively moving toward the hilts of their swords.

Before murmurs of disbelief could rise, Vaella Balaerys stood. Her violet eyes blazed, her presence as commanding as the fire in her blood.

"The young greenseer speaks the truth," she declared, her voice ringing with unshakable authority. "I have spoken with my aunt, Aelora Balaerys, who even now stands beyond the Wall. She has witnessed this threat firsthand. The Others are real. The wights are real. And they are coming."

Jasper Arryn's expression sharpened. He exchanged a glance with Hoster Tully, a silent exchange of measured skepticism and mounting concern. His gaze then settled upon Vaella.

"And how, precisely, did your aunt contact you, Lady Vaella?" His voice was carefully neutral, yet laced with steel. It was evident that Eddard's words now carried more weight, but indisputable proof would be required.

Vaella's lips curved into a knowing smile. "With this."

From the folds of her gown, she withdrew a polished obsidian mirror, lifting it for all to see. Its metal frame gleamed under the torchlight, the dark glass holding an unnatural depth.

"This," she continued, her voice unwavering, "is a Valyrian magical mirror. It allows communication across vast distances. My aunt sent a much larger one to Riverrun, so that she might show you what mere words cannot convey. Even now, she stands beyond the Wall, and she wishes to speak with all of you. Now."

A murmur of astonishment spread through the hall.

Catelyn Stark stepped forward, her voice steady, resolute. "Father. Lord Arryn. These mirrors are no mere curiosities. We have several in Winterfell, gifts from Lady Aelora. Eddard spoke to me through one only days ago—from this very hall, while I remained in Winterfell."

Her gaze shifted between Hoster and Jasper, her tone gaining weight. "He told me of your doubts. Your reluctance to believe what lies beyond the Wall. But now… now is the time to set aside skepticism. We face a menace beyond imagining, and it demands our immediate attention."

Hoster Tully shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering between his daughter and the mirror in Vaella's hand. Jasper Arryn held Catelyn's gaze, his face unreadable—yet the tension in his posture betrayed the struggle within him. Across the room, Stafford and Serret exchanged uneasy glances, their initial bewilderment giving way to a far graver apprehension.

Eddard Stark's voice rang clear, unwavering. "We do not speak of such things lightly," he declared. "We have seen the proof with our own eyes. My brother Benjen has fought them. The Night's Watch has lost good men to their icy blades. And if we continue our petty rivalries—if we do not unite—we will allow the White Walkers to turn Westeros into one vast graveyard."

Vaella met Eddard's gaze, offering a small, knowing smile before turning back to the assembled nobility.

"And now, my lords, my ladies… we bring you proof."

She turned to Maester Vyman, her voice calm, deliberate.

"Maester, the mirror, if you please."

As the hall's attention shifted toward the maester, Hoster Tully leaned closer to his brother, his expression troubled.

"Brother," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "You accompanied my daughter and Lord Eddard when they withdrew from yesterday's meeting. Tell me… is it true?"

Brynden Tully did not answer immediately. His serious gaze met his brother's, and when he finally spoke, his tone left no room for doubt.

"Yes," he said gravely. "It is all true."

At that precise moment, Maester Vyman, his face pale yet resolute, gave the order. The doors of the Great Hall swung open, revealing five servants struggling to carry an immense, ornately crafted mirror. Its frame, hewn from dark, polished obsidian, gleamed ominously under the torchlight, and the obsidian glass pulsed with an eerie, otherworldly glow.

Silence descended like a shroud. All eyes fixed upon the mirror, its presence a palpable force in the chamber.

Stafford Lannister struggled to form words, his throat working, his mind scrambling to regain control. "Seven save us… what is this sorcery?" The carefully maintained veneer of Lannister composure—the arrogance he had wielded like a shield since arriving at Riverrun—cracked like ice beneath a heavy boot. Beside him, Lord Serret stood frozen, cold dread coiling in his stomach. "White Walkers? Wights? By the Seven… what have we walked into?"

The five servants, straining under its weight, carefully maneuvered the great mirror up the steps leading to the main table. Its polished surface, smooth as still water, reflected the flickering torchlight, casting restless shadows across the hall. The assembled lords and ladies, seated at the lower tables, watched in hushed reverence, their faces shifting between awe and apprehension. Their reflections wavered in the mirror's depths—spectral images awaiting a revelation unlike any they had ever witnessed.

At a table placed prominently before the others, Eddard Stark, Catelyn Stark, Aegon Targaryen, Vaella Balaerys, Torrhen Stark, Bran Stark, Lord Hoster Tully, Lord Jasper Arryn, Ser Brynden Tully, and Margaery Tyrell sat in watchful silence. The weight of the moment pressed down upon them, a tension thick as a storm-laden sky.

Catelyn, her gaze fixed upon the mirror, leaned toward Vaella. "It is remarkable, Lady Vaella," she murmured, her voice laced with wonder. "Even after seeing it whole yesterday, its sheer size remains staggering. I recall when your aunt Aelora left it in pieces at Winterfell, before departing beyond the Wall. The servants labored for hours to load each fragment onto the carriages."

Vaella's lips curved faintly, her violet eyes catching the mirror's obsidian depths. "Indeed, Lady Catelyn," she replied. "It is a delicate creation despite its grandeur. Obsidian glass, though formidable, is brittle if mishandled. Fortunately, our artisans possess the skill to shape it with precision." Her expression darkened. "Yet its true power lies not in its craftsmanship, but in the magic it holds."

As the last of the servants settled the mirror upon the stone floor, its polished surface now reflecting the gathered nobility, Lord Hoster Tully turned toward Ser Stafford Lannister.

"Ser Stafford," he said, his tone unexpectedly cordial, "if you and Lord Serret would do us the honor of joining us at the high table, you may." He gestured toward the empty seats. "It would be… unseemly for Lord Tywin's emissaries to witness such a revelation from a distance."

Stafford Lannister, though visibly surprised, inclined his head and approached, Lord Serret trailing uneasily behind him. At the same time, Eddard Stark turned to Lady Maege Mormont.

"Lady Maege," he said warmly, "if you would join us as well."

Maege Mormont, though taken aback, offered a faint smile before nodding and stepping forward.

Vaella Balaerys drew a small, ornate dagger from a hidden sheath beneath her gown. The Valyrian steel blade, etched with arcane symbols that seemed to writhe in the shifting light, gleamed with an unnatural sharpness. A hush fell over the hall, the air thick with a mix of wonder and unease as the lords and ladies watched her.

"As you are aware," Vaella began, her voice carrying through the room with quiet authority, "this mirror is far more than a polished piece of obsidian. It is a conduit, a gateway through which we may speak across great distances. But, as with all blood magic, it requires… a catalyst."

She paused, allowing her words to settle, her gaze sweeping across the assembled lords and ladies.

"It requires… a sacrifice. A small offering… of blood."

A ripple of unease spread through the hall. Lord Jason Mallister, his voice unsteady, broke the silence.

"My lady… how much blood…?"

Vaella offered a reassuring smile, though her gaze remained unreadable.

"Merely a single drop, my lord. A pinprick—enough to awaken the magic and bind your essence to the mirror."

She let the words settle before sweeping her gaze across the chamber—not only upon the high lords and ladies but also upon the musicians, the servants, the guards. Every soul present.

"It is a small price to pay… for the truth."

Then, her eyes found Stafford Lannister and Lord Serret, pinning them beneath her scrutiny.

"And it is a truth," she continued, her voice like silk wrapped around steel, "that all present must witness."

Bran Stark, his youthful face solemn, gave a single nod.

"She speaks truly," he said, his voice soft yet carrying an unnerving weight. "This is not a secret to be hoarded by a select few. It concerns us all."

Ser Brynden Tully, calm and measured, added his voice to the moment.

"There is no cause for alarm. Those of us who bore witness yesterday can attest to that. It is but a pinprick, and the vision granted through the mirror…" He hesitated for the briefest moment before continuing, his words laden with meaning. "It is… life-altering. Trust me when I say that what you are about to see is a truth worth far more than a single drop of blood." He turned his gaze upon Jason Mallister. "Were it required of me, I would give more, Ser."

A knowing glimmer flickered in Vaella's violet eyes as she moved gracefully toward Lord Hoster Tully. The dagger in her hand gleamed faintly, the Valyrian steel catching the flickering torchlight. With a swift, precise motion, she pricked his finger, watching as a single drop of blood welled upon his skin.

She repeated the ritual with Lord Jasper Arryn and Margaery Tyrell, her touch light, her expression serene.

She continued, unwavering, as she collected the offering from every soul in the hall—lords and ladies, musicians and servants, even the kitchen staff who had gathered, drawn by the strange spectacle unfolding before them. None were excluded.

As she made her way back to the mirror, the last drop collected, she halted beside Torrhen. Her gaze softened, a glint of mischief dancing in her eyes. She bit her lip slightly, her voice a hushed whisper, barely audible above the charged stillness of the chamber.

"Show me your finger," she murmured, her gaze never leaving his.

Torrhen, a faint flush creeping up his neck, hesitated before extending his hand. The faint mark from yesterday's prick was still visible, barely more than a shadow upon his skin.

Vaella leaned in, the dagger poised as though to repeat the ritual. Torrhen's breath caught, a strange anticipation coiling within him at her closeness, at the weight of her attention.

But instead of the sting of steel, he felt the warmth of her lips against his fingertip—a lingering kiss, featherlight yet searing in its intent.

From across the table, Margaery Tyrell let out a soft, amused laugh, her eyes glinting with knowing mirth.

Vaella, unfazed, acknowledged Margaery's amusement with the barest curve of her lips before turning her attention back to the obsidian mirror. Without hesitation, she pricked her own finger, allowing a single drop of blood to bead upon the blade before pressing it against the dark glass.

She began to recite an incantation in High Valyrian, her voice smooth and commanding, each syllable carrying an ancient weight.

The air thickened with unseen energy, a hum reverberating through the hall as all eyes fixed upon the mirror. Its surface trembled, rippling like disturbed water. The reflected images of the chamber wavered, dissolving into swirling mist as an eerie golden light pulsed from within.

"It is… mesmerizing, is it not?" Margaery Tyrell murmured, her gaze fixed upon the shifting mist. "No matter how many times I have used my own mirrors, it always feels like the first."

Lord Jasper Arryn, his brow furrowed in thought, turned to her, a flicker of surprise in his expression.

"Your own mirrors? I was unaware you possessed such artifacts, Lady Margaery."

A soft smile touched Margaery's lips.

"Lady Aelora was kind enough to gift several to my family before she returned to Valyria. My grandmother, Lady Olenna, my father, Lord Mace, and I each received a few. I keep one in my chambers at Winterfell—it allows me to speak with them at Highgarden whenever I wish."

She paused, a fleeting shadow of longing crossing her features.

"It is a comfort, to see their faces, to hear their voices, even across such distances." Then, with a playful glint in her eyes, she added, "Though I must confess, gossip travels far swifter through the mirrors than by raven."

Jasper Arryn regarded her, then the great obsidian mirror before them, a dawning comprehension settling over him. He exhaled softly, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips—

And in that moment, he noticed Aegon watching him and Margaery, a faint yet knowing smile playing upon his lips.

"What you are about to witness, Lord Jasper," Aegon said, his voice calm yet heavy with significance, "will change Westeros forever."

BEYOND THE WALL (CRASTER'S KEEP) - JOJEN REED

Tormund's voice shattered the silence, a low growl laced with disbelief. "Mance?" His sharp eyes flicked to another figure clad in bronze armor, incredulity thick in his tone. "Sigorn?"

A heavy stillness followed, broken only by the whispering wind and the crackling of the nearby fire.

Jojen Reed's lips curled into a faint smile, a knowing glint in his emerald eyes as he regarded the middle-aged woman among the newcomers. Though serene, his expression carried a depth that suggested he could see beyond the present moment, as if glimpsing the unseen threads of fate weaving together.

"I should go to them," he said, his voice soft yet imbued with quiet authority. "Give them a proper welcome."

He moved with an almost ethereal grace, each step deliberate, as if treading upon sacred ground.

Surprise flickered across the gathered faces.

Ser Jorah Mormont furrowed his brow, stepping forward. "Young Jojen," he called, hesitation in his tone. "Are you certain that's wise? Going alone?" His hand drifted instinctively to the hilt of his sword, a protective reflex. He cast a wary glance toward the Free Folk in the distance. "Let me go with you. Or Benjen. It's safer."

Jojen turned to him, a knowing smile touching his lips. "I appreciate your concern, Ser Jorah," he said, his voice steady despite his youth. "But this first step… this initial meeting… it must be mine alone."

His emerald gaze swept across the assembled company—Night's Watch and Free Folk, Valyrians and Westerosi, Children of the Forest—lingering on each face for a heartbeat, as if weighing their destinies.

"This gathering… this convergence… is no accident," he continued, his voice gaining a resonance beyond his years. "The old gods of the forest… they are at work here, weaving something greater than any of us."

His gaze met Elaena's, then Aelora's. Aelora's violet eyes widened slightly, curiosity and respect flickering in her features. Beside her, Daeraxys studied Jojen with narrowed eyes, intrigue shadowing his expression. Jaenara Vaelorn, her fingers tightening subtly around Jorah's hand, regarded the young greenseer with wonder.

"Many threads were set in motion sixteen years ago, Lady Elaena," Jojen said, his tone soft yet carrying across the clearing. "That vision you had… in the Valyrian Senate…"

Daeraxys took a step forward, his brow creased in contemplation. "Sixteen years ago, I was but a child," he admitted, a note of challenge beneath his measured words. "I was not present in the Senate when that vision occurred. However," he hesitated, as if choosing his next words with care, "my grandfather, Baesenarr Valitheos, who was Triarch at the time, spoke of it often. That day stirred all of Valyria. It was… a turning point."

Jojen inclined his head slightly, his emerald eyes searching Daeraxys's face. "Indeed. That vision, and all it set into motion… it shaped destinies on both sides of the Narrow Sea."

Elaena and Aelora exchanged a brief glance, surprise lingering in their expressions. Daeraxys's violet gaze darkened with thought. Jaenara, a knowing smile playing at her lips, leaned toward Jorah. "Who is that boy's father, my love?" she murmured, watching Jojen with keen interest.

"Lord Howland Reed," Jorah replied in a low voice. "He rules Greywater Watch and leads the crannogmen of the Neck."

Jaenara's gaze softened, admiration flickering in her violet eyes. "A Westerosi lord raising a son with such wisdom…" she mused, studying Jojen's retreating form. "When all of this is over," she murmured, almost to herself, "I would like to meet Lord Howland Reed. To speak with him."

Just then, Tormund Giantsbane strode forward, clapping a heavy hand on Jojen's shoulder. "If yer walkin' up to parley with Mance Rayder, boy," he rumbled, his voice carrying across the clearing, "then I'm comin' with ya. Mance knows me, an' my word ain't worth a piss in the wind if I ain't there to give it meself. Better he hears what ya got to say with me standin' right there."

Jojen, unshaken by the interruption, merely smiled. "The more, the merrier, Tormund Giantsbane," he said, his voice laced with something ancient. "The threads of fate bind us all. And some knots… require a strong hand to tighten them." His emerald eyes glowed in the pale light of dawn.

"Come," he said, turning toward Mance Rayder's party, his tone now imbued with quiet resolve. "Let us walk this path together."

With a final, unreadable smile, Jojen stepped forward, Tormund beside him, their boots crunching over the snow.

Ygritte watched her uncle walk away with the young greenseer, a mischievous glint in her eye. Leaning in close to Doreah, she murmured, her voice a husky whisper against the other woman's ear, "Best get ready to meet the rest o' me kin, little bird."

Doreah's lips curled into a shy smile, warmth blooming in her chest at Ygritte's words and the possessive undertone that lingered beneath them.

Aelora Balaerys, her gaze tracking Jojen's retreating form, turned sharply toward Lord Commander Mormont. "Lord Commander," she said, her tone carrying a quiet urgency, "have your men finished assembling the mirror?" She gestured toward the site where several members of the Night's Watch were carefully arranging the obsidian shards.

Mormont nodded. "Aye, my lady. It's nearly complete—just a few more pieces to set in place."

Elaena, overhearing the exchange, stepped closer, curiosity gleaming in her violet eyes. "Who do you intend to contact, Aelora?" she asked.

Aelora's expression darkened with concern. "My niece, Vaella," she replied. "She's at Riverrun with Eddard, Catelyn, and the others. They need to be made aware of what is unfolding here—that Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, is about to parley with us. And," she hesitated, her gaze sharpening, "they must see the truth for themselves—the undeniable proof of what lurks beyond the Wall. The White Walker and the wight that you, Benjen, the Night's Watch, and the others fought to capture."

Her gaze shifted to Jaenara Vaelorn and Daeraxys Valitheos, both listening intently. "Just as many in Valyria dismissed the threat as superstition," she continued, her voice gaining momentum, "I suspect the southern lords of Westeros suffer from the same… reluctance. Isn't that right, Benjen?"

Benjen exhaled slowly, his expression grim. "Aye, Lady Aelora," he confirmed. "I spoke with Eddard just days ago—through my magic glass. He told me Lord Hoster Tully and Lord Jasper Arryn were… dismissive, to say the least. Their focus remains on the war against the Lannisters, on securing the Riverlands. It's difficult for them to shift their priorities—to even consider something like this."

He gestured toward the clearing where the battle had raged, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "To them, the Others, the Long Night… they're nothing more than old tales. Legends whispered by northern wet nurses. They need proof, Lady Aelora. Something they cannot ignore."

Daeraxys Valitheos, who had been silent until now, exchanged a glance with Jaenara before stepping forward, his expression thoughtful. "It's a wise course of action, Aelora," he said, his voice carrying newfound conviction. "In Valyria, Jaenara and I were among the most… skeptical. We needed to see the truth with our own eyes before we truly understood the danger."

His gaze drifted toward the site where the White Walker lay in chains, a flicker of unease in his eyes. "If the southern lords are as stubborn as we were," he continued, his voice hardening, "then showing them proof is the only way. Let them stand before the White Walker. Let them inhale the stench of death clinging to the wight. Let them feel the unnatural chill that seeps from its very presence."

A voice broke the tense silence.

"That… mirror… it really lets you talk to folk far off?"

All eyes turned to Val, her tone tinged with both awe and skepticism. She and Ygritte stood beside Doreah, their gazes locked on the obsidian mirror. The two Free Folk women, their faces a mixture of wonder and wariness, edged closer, drawn to the strange, otherworldly artifact.

Aelora, her violet eyes gleaming with interest, studied them. Their furs and worn leathers, the raw, untamed energy in their bearing—it was a stark contrast to the measured grace of courtiers and lords. She smiled, warmth in her expression.

"Yes," she said, her voice carrying across the clearing. "It is Valyrian magic. It allows us to speak with those who are far away, as if they were standing beside us."

Val's eyes remained fixed on the mirror, her breath hitching slightly. "It's… incredible," she murmured.

Aelora, still observing the two Free Folk women, also noted the Westerosi youths standing nearby. Their armor, their house sigils—all marked them as nobility. Then, she turned to Elaena and Benjen, an unspoken question lingering in her gaze.

Elaena, ever perceptive, understood at once and stepped forward.

"Before we continue," she said, her voice carrying a note of formality, "though Marillion the bard has already recounted the events, proper introductions are in order."

She gestured toward the two men standing nearby. "Aelora, Daeraxys, Jaenara—this is Lord Beric Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven and head of House Dondarrion." Then, turning slightly, she indicated the younger man beside him. "And this is Lord Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall and head of House Dayne."

Both Beric and Edric inclined their heads in acknowledgment, their expressions composed yet respectful. "An honor," they said in unison, their voices carrying the weight of noble lineage.

Elaena then turned to the two Free Folk women beside her, her expression softening. "And these are Val and Ygritte," she said. "They are… well, they were part of Mance Rayder's warband, but they fought beside us against the Others." She smiled, her tone genuine. "They are allies."

Val's blue eyes gleamed with something close to gratitude at Elaena's introduction. Stepping forward, she extended her hand toward Daeraxys Valitheos. "Val," she said simply, her voice steady and sure. "Val Casterly."

A dragonlord, she thought, locking eyes with him. And from the looks of 'im, one o' the big ones. The kind that makes the choices. Best play this smart.

Her grip was firm as she shook his hand, her gaze unwavering.

Ygritte's jaw dropped. "Val!" she blurted out, staring at her cousin as if she'd lost her wits.

Val turned to her, a knowing grin spreading across her face. "Ygritte, love," she murmured, her voice low, "things are changin'. If we're headin' south, best they know who we are. Southrons give a damn 'bout names 'n' blood. Ours is Casterly. Down there, they were kings once. Might be worth somethin'."

Her gaze flicked toward Doreah, still nestled comfortably in Ygritte's arms, and she added silently, Might even impress your little bird. If she's from that far-off island, maybe they care 'bout such things too.

Then, with a sharp glance back at the Valyrians, her mind whirred with thought. If it gets us a warm fire an' a full belly, we'll use it.

A heavy silence followed Val's revelation. Jaenara Vaelorn, noticing the stunned expressions—not just on Jorah's face but on those of the other Westerosi present—leaned closer to him and whispered, "What is it, my love? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

Jorah, his gaze still locked on the two Free Folk women, murmured, "It's as if we're staring at echoes of a forgotten past, Jaenara. A past of stories and legends—figures thought to be nothing more than myth."

Intrigued, Jaenara studied Val and Ygritte more closely.

Lord Edric Dayne was the first to break the silence, his expression thoughtful. "Casterly, you say?" he asked, his tone laced with curiosity and disbelief. "As in House Casterly, the ancient kings of the Rock?"

Val lifted her chin slightly, pride flickering in her eyes. "Aye," she said. "Our blood runs back to 'em. Tormund, Ygritte, an' me—we're their kin."

Lord Beric Dondarrion exchanged a look of astonishment with Benjen Stark and Lord Commander Mormont before exhaling sharply. "What other secrets lie beyond the Wall?" he mused. "Meeting Bran the Builder was already something beyond imagining. And now, to stand before the living descendants of an ancient royal house from the Age of Heroes…" He shook his head, still trying to grasp the enormity of it. "I never thought I'd see the day."

Lord Commander Mormont narrowed his eyes. "Can you prove it?" he asked, skepticism lacing his tone as he studied Val closely. "Can you prove that you carry Casterly blood?"

Val didn't hesitate. "I got an old key," she said plainly. "An' the boy with the green dreams—Jojen—he can swear that what I say is true."

Ser Jorah Mormont, ever pragmatic, stepped forward, his gaze steady on Val. "You did well to reveal your lineage," he said, his voice gruff yet approving. "When you cross the Wall, that name will carry weight. It'll open doors for you and your kin."

Val met his gaze without hesitation. "Aye," she said simply. "That's what I'm countin' on."

A smirk threatened to tug at her lips as she mused, "Another southron lord, dazzled by a name. Just as I reckoned. What I suspected 'bout the south—what I talked 'bout with Dalla, Tormund, and Ygritte—was true".

Daeraxys Valitheos, his expression unreadable save for the flicker of surprise in his violet eyes, studied her with keen interest. His gaze took in her wildling garb, the untamed fire in her stance. Then, straightening to his full height, his Valyrian steel armor catching the pale light, he spoke with quiet authority.

"I am Daeraxys Valitheos," he declared, his voice resonant, imbued with the weight of his lineage. "A dragonlord of Valyria and a member of the Triarchy."

Val held his gaze, unflinchin', a knowing smile playing on her lips. She didn't miss how his eyes lingered on the old key resting against her chest, an unspoken question hanging between them.

"That key…," Daeraxys began, curiosity threading his tone, "it's… unusual. Where did you acquire such an artifact?"

Val's smile widened slightly. She touched the key, her fingers tracing its familiar grooves. "Was my grandmother's," she said, her voice softer now, but no less certain. "She gave it to my cousin Tormund a few years back… It's all we got left from… from the old days. When our kin, the Casterlys, were kings in them lands south of the Wall."

Daeraxys's gaze darkened with thought, understanding dawning in the depths of his violet eyes. He turned toward Aelora and Elaena, his expression contemplative. "The Casterly key…," he murmured, almost to himself. "I can feel it… There's power in it. Old magic. Older than Valyria itself."

He shifted his gaze back to Val, studying her intently. "In Valyria, bloodlines are sacred, Val Casterly. If what you claim is true—if you and your cousin are truly descended from the ancient kings of the Rock, from the First Men who once ruled these lands—then your lineage is… remarkable. Something to be respected."

A slow smile curled his lips. "I like you, Val Casterly," he admitted, his voice edged with intrigue. "I like your… audacity."

His attention swept over the gathered lords and warriors—Aelora, Jaenara, Lord Commander Mormont, Elaena, Benjen, Lord Beric, and Lord Edric. "It seems," he announced, "that the negotiations with the Free Folk have already begun. There is no time to waste. The Others will not wait."

"Negotiations?" Val echoed, brow furrowin' in surprise. "But… shouldn't we wait for Mance Rayder? He's the King-Beyond-the-Wall. He's the one who speaks for us folk."

"From the moment you presented yourself to me, Val Casterly," Daeraxys replied, a glint of amusement sparking in his eyes, "the negotiations began."

"And I must say," he added, his smile widening ever so slightly, "you've made quite the… impressive opening gambit."

"She's Sharp", he thought. "And ambitious. I can work with that".

"He's movin' fast… I like that", Val mused. A surprised laugh escaped her lips—a rare, genuine sound that softened the guarded edge in her expression. She met Daeraxys's gaze, something flickering in her own—admiration, perhaps, or something more elusive. With a slight tilt of her head, she acknowledged the unspoken challenge between them and accepted it with a quiet, confident smile.

Daeraxys, his expression thoughtful, turned to Aelora. "Aelora," he said, his voice firm, "when we speak with Lord Eddard Stark, I believe Lady Val Casterly and her cousin, Lady Ygritte Casterly, should be present."

Val's eyes widened at the title. "Lady?" The word felt foreign on her tongue, sweet yet strange. Amusement danced in her gaze before settling into something quieter—something close to pride. She inclined her head, accepting the honor with a knowing smile.

Ser Jorah Mormont watched the exchange between Daeraxys and Val with a furrowed brow. He had never seen Daeraxys so… open, so unguarded. It was unsettling. He glanced toward Jaenara, searching for some explanation in her expression.

She smiled, a knowing glint in her violet eyes. Leaning closer, she whispered against his ear, her warm breath a welcome contrast to the biting wind. "Daeraxys knows what he's doing, my love," she murmured, her voice a silken caress. "He may seem… cold and distant… at times. But he's no fool. He senses an opportunity."

Jorah's brow remained furrowed. "An opportunity?" he echoed, voice low, skeptical. "What possible advantage could he see in that?"

Jaenara's smile widened. "Do you remember what I told you, years ago, when we first met? About what we Valyrians value above all else—above even gold?"

Jorah nodded slowly, the memory as vivid as the day she had first spoken the words. "Magic," he murmured, "and blood."

"Precisely," Jaenara affirmed, her gaze lingering on Daeraxys and Val. "Daeraxys sensed magic within that woman, Jorah. An ancient magic, powerful. And if what she claims is true… if she is truly a descendant of the Casterly kings, of the First Men who once ruled these lands… then her bloodline is… remarkable. A treasure."

She paused, her expression sharpening. "Daeraxys is a pragmatist, my love. He understands the value of such an alliance." Her gaze softened as she studied Jorah. "He isn't merely being… cordial. He's forging a bond—a connection. And that," she added, her voice dropping to a whisper, "is worth more than any sword."

Her hand rose, fingers grazing Jorah's cheek with deliberate tenderness. "Perhaps," she murmured, an enigmatic smile curving her lips, "the Free Folk aren't so… wild after all."

Her words, soft as a caress, carried a promise—a spark of desire that set Jorah's blood burning.

MINUTES LATER

Ygritte watched, fascinated, as Aelora pressed the obsidian dagger against the mirror's dark surface. The Valyrian woman's lips moved, shaping words Ygritte couldn't understand. The air crackled, a strange hum filling the space, making the hairs on her arms stand on end. She stole a glance at Val, who stood beside her, eyes wide with something close to awe.

Doreah, however, seemed less impressed. Though pale, she watched with quiet intensity, her gaze never leaving Aelora's movements.

"Does she always need to… use blood?" Ygritte whispered, barely audible over Aelora's low chant. She rubbed the fresh cut on her fingertip, the faint sting a stark reminder of the ritual they had all undergone moments before.

Val, brow furrowed, glanced at the small cuts on her own fingers. "Aye," she muttered before fixing her gaze on Doreah. "Is all that bloodlettin' truly needful? For just a bit o' lookin'?"

Doreah shrugged, her expression unreadable. "I've seen Lady Elaena do similar things," she whispered back, her light blue eyes flickering toward the mirror. "She says for this kind of magic… blood is… essential. A way to… connect. To… see." She hesitated, a shadow crossing her face.

Lysara, who had been observing in silence, stepped forward. Her crimson robes swirled around her as if stirred by an unseen wind, the dim torchlight deepening the shadows at her feet. Her voice, though soft, carried an unsettling weight.

"This is a simple spell," she explained, her golden eyes gleaming. "It requires little. Lady Elaena told me it was enough to establish a stable connection between the mirrors." She glanced at Val and Ygritte, something unreadable in her gaze. "But for more powerful spells… for greater magic… more is required. Much more."

Her attention drifted toward the mirror, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "A life for a life. A soul for a soul. It's the price of true power."

Val's breath hitched. She exchanged a wary glance with Ygritte. "A life?" she murmured. "For magic?" The idea, so foreign to everything she knew, sent an uneasy shiver down her spine.

Ygritte's grip tightened on Doreah's arm. "Is that… true, Little Bird?" she asked, her voice hushed.

Doreah nodded slowly, gaze distant. "There are… different kinds of spells," she whispered, voice barely steady. "Some… demand more." She looked away, as if the thought itself was too heavy to bear.

"Ygritte, Val," Doreah continued, barely above a whisper. "Remember the shadows… the spirits… that Lady Elaena and Lysara summoned in the battle?"

Both women nodded, their eyes locked on Doreah.

Doreah exhaled softly, her breath misting in the cold air. "That… that was blood magic. And to create it… Lady Elaena and Lysara… they sacrificed animals." Her voice faltered, a shadow of sorrow threading through her words.

"In war," a deep voice interjected, "sacrifices must be made."

Lord Beric Dondarrion, who had been watching in silence, stepped closer, his tone grave. "One life… can save hundreds."

Before anyone could respond, a sudden sound broke the midday stillness. Everyone turned as the obsidian mirror began to shimmer.

Val and Ygritte gasped in unison as the dark surface rippled, its reflection dissolving into swirling mist. Shapes flickered within the glass, shifting like ghostly visions caught between shadow and light.

Slowly, the haze cleared, revealing six figures standing within the mirror's depths. Clad in the fine robes of Westerosi nobility, their garments were rich with color and intricate embroidery. The setting took shape—a circular chamber enclosed by high stone walls, the air heavy with the weight of ancient stone. A single narrow window pierced the gloom, revealing a sky thick with rolling clouds. It resembled the tower room of a castle.

Silence fell, thick and heavy, punctuated only by wide eyes and exchanged glances of astonishment.

Then, a voice—resonant, achingly familiar—cut through the stillness. It emanated from the mirror's surface, impossibly bridging the vast, frozen leagues separating the wastes beyond the Wall from the ancient stone halls of Riverrun.

"Jeor? Lord Jeor Mormont? Is that truly you, old friend?"

The question, laced with warmth that couldn't entirely mask the tension humming beneath the surface, coaxed a slow smile onto the Lord Commander's weathered face. He stepped closer to the obsidian glass, his gaze locking onto the older man's image within its dark, shimmering depths. Recognition flared in his grey eyes—a sudden spark of affection that momentarily softened his customary sternness.

"Ser Brynden Tully!" Jeor Mormont's voice boomed, a surprised bark quickly followed by a deep, rumbling laugh. "By the Old Gods and the New, Brynden! How many years has it been?" His laughter faded, replaced by a sigh. "I wish this reunion were under better circumstances, old friend," he continued, "and that we had more time. But time is a luxury we cannot afford."

His gaze shifted to the figures beside Brynden. "Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn—it's good to see you both well."

Benjen Stark stepped forward, his eyes meeting his brother's through the obsidian depths. "Ned," he said, urgency lacing his voice, "forgive my lack of courtesy—and I know there should be proper introductions for those who accompany me beyond the Wall, and whom you at Riverrun have yet to meet—but there will be time for that later. We have more pressing matters to discuss. The reason for this... unusual meeting cannot wait."

Eddard Stark, his brow furrowed with concern, nodded slowly. He could see the urgency etched on his brother's face, the tension in his stance. "Benjen," he replied, his voice calm but firm, "if the matter is as pressing as you say, then it's best we dispense with formalities. Speak plainly. What news do you bring?"

Benjen glanced at Elaena, then at Aelora Balaerys, and finally at Lord Commander Mormont. A silent exchange passed between them—a quick meeting of eyes, subtle nods, small shifts in posture. He turned back to the mirror, his gaze locking once more with his brother's. "Ned," he said, "I believe it's best if the Lord Commander delivers this news. He is, after all, the one who led the mission we discussed months ago in Winterfell."

Elaena and Aelora nodded in agreement. Aelora, ever the pragmatist, spoke up, her voice carrying clearly across the distance. "Indeed, Lord Stark. The Lord Commander is the most suitable person to explain the situation." Her violet eyes held a glimmer of respect for the old bear, acknowledging his authority.

"Mission? What mission?" Ser Brynden Tully asked, curiosity and concern equally evident in his tone.

Eddard Stark met Brynden's gaze and gave a reassuring nod. "Ser Brynden," he began, his voice calm and steady, "a few months ago, we held a meeting at Winterfell with the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch—my brother Benjen—and his wife, Elaena Targaryen." He paused briefly, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. His eyes flicked toward the mirror, where Benjen's image reflected, then back to Brynden.

Sensing Brynden's unspoken questions, Benjen moved closer, his grey eyes meeting Brynden's through the obsidian surface, a familiar warmth flickering in them. "Ser Brynden," he said with a respectful nod, "what a joy it is to see you again after so many years."

He then gestured toward the woman beside him. "Allow me to introduce my wife, Elaena Targaryen."

Elaena stood perfectly still, her eyes meeting Brynden's through the shimmering surface of the mirror. A warm, genuine smile softened the usual intensity of her gaze. "It is an honor to finally meet you, Ser Brynden," she said, her voice carrying a melodic lilt, a subtle echo of her Valyrian heritage. "My husband has told me much about you." Her gaze shifted briefly to the Lord Commander before settling on Eddard. "Please, continue, Lord Eddard."

Eddard inclined his head slightly, his tone regaining its earlier gravity. "Also present at that meeting were other representatives from Valyria—Elaena among them—as well as members of House Tyrell. The purpose of the gathering was to discuss... certain matters concerning the security of the realm." He paused, choosing his words carefully. His eyes flicked once more to the obsidian mirror, then back to Brynden, the weight of unspoken warnings lingering in the air.

Ser Brynden Tully furrowed his brow, a flicker of unease crossing his usually steady features. His sharp eyes turned toward Lord Commander Jeor Mormont. "Old friend," he said, his voice low and measured, though a subtle tremor betrayed his concern, "these matters concerning the realm's security... do they have to do with the White Walkers?"

Jeor Mormont's expression darkened, his weathered face set like stone. He gave a slow nod, the weight of grim knowledge settling upon him like a heavy cloak. "Aye, Ser Brynden," he said gravely. "At that meeting, we were entrusted with two missions—both intertwined: to seek proof of the Others' existence beyond the Wall, and to find Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, to pursue the possibility of peace."

He let out a quiet, weary sigh.

"The reason this conversation cannot stretch on much longer is because we are about to begin negotiations with Mance Rayder himself. He has just arrived at Craster's Keep, where I am now. We've already taken the first steps toward arranging a meeting with the Free Folk."

Brynden's frown deepened, his gaze sharpening as he considered the implications. "Peace… with the Wildlings?" he echoed, clear skepticism in his tone. "Forgive my bluntness, Jeor, but is that truly wise? I've heard the stories—raids in the North, villages burned, women and children taken. How can we trust them? How can we even consider an alliance, especially now, with the Lannisters pressing against our borders?"

Lord Commander Mormont's eyes did not waver. "In this war, Ser Brynden," he said firmly, "the Free Folk are not the enemy. The true threat is the Others. The White Walkers. And believe me when I say—most of the men and women here with me, beyond the Wall, have already learned this truth the hard way."

He let the words settle before continuing, his voice grim.

"We know from experience that the Others raise the dead, Brynden. They turn them into wights—mindless things bound to their will. If the Free Folk are slaughtered, their bodies will rise again to serve the enemy. Every man, every woman, every child lost to them becomes another weapon turned against us. We need the Free Folk as allies in this war—not as corpses swelling the ranks of the dead."

His tone dropped to a near-whisper, but it carried with it the weight of ice and iron. "We cannot afford to fight on two fronts, Ser Brynden. Not when winter is coming."

In the tower at Riverrun, silence fell. Eddard, Catelyn, Ser Brynden, Torrhen, Vaella, and Aegon exchanged anxious, uneasy glances. The flickering torchlight seemed suddenly dimmer, and the chill in the air deeper.

"Lord Commander," Aegon said quietly, his eyes narrowing with concern. "What did you mean when you said you've already learned it the hard way?"

Mormont's expression darkened. "Your Grace, you'll understand soon enough."

"Bring them forth," he commanded, his voice echoing with authority.

As six black brothers hauled the captive White Walker and wight before the obsidian mirror, the cramped space seemed to shrink further.

Eddard felt ice crawl down his spine, his Stark blood whispering ancient warnings older than Winterfell's foundations.

Catelyn stifled a cry of horror, her hand flying to her mouth as she stumbled back until the cold stone wall halted her retreat. Her embroidery needle slipped from numb fingers, clattering to the floor.

Brynden Tully—the Blackfish who feared nothing—gripped the heavy oak table until his knuckles cracked. His eyes widened in pure disbelief, and his usual sardonic smirk froze into a rictus of shock. "This can't be..." he murmured.

Torrhen pressed into Vaella's side like a child seeking shelter from a storm, his scholar's mind warring with gut-deep terror as he stared at the impossible creatures.

Vaella's lips parted in silent denial, her Valyrian certainty crumbling before these abominations. Her fingers dug into Torrhen's hand.

Aegon's restless fingers found the hidden dagger at his wrist. The tower's narrow windows did little to dispel the creeping sense of being trapped with death itself.

The silence, thick with unspoken horror, stretched taut as a bowstring. Then, a voice, calm yet edged with a soldier's pragmatism, cut through the stillness.

"How many men were lost, Lord Commander?"

It was Brynden Tully, his gaze fixed on the grotesque figures reflected in the mirror. He hadn't needed an explanation, hadn't required the details of what had transpired beyond the Wall. The grim set of Jeor Mormont's face, the haunted look in Benjen's eyes, the barely suppressed horror etched on Elaena's features and in every soul accompanying them… it all spoke of a battle fought, a victory hard-won. And the sight of those… things… chained and subdued, yet radiating an aura of death.

"Nearly half the Night's Watch detachment, Ser Brynden," the Lord Commander replied, his tone grim. "Good men, lost to the Others' cursed wights. And that's not counting the hundreds of Free Folk slaughtered—their bodies risen again to serve the enemy."

At the Lord Commander's words, a broken sob escaped Ygritte's lips. It was brief, quickly swallowed, but in the heavy silence, it echoed like a dirge for the fallen.

A chill, deeper than any winter he'd known in the Riverlands, settled in Brynden's bones.

He exchanged a look with Eddard, a silent understanding passing between them. This was bigger than any of them. Bigger than the war against the Lannisters. This was a fight for the very survival of the realms of men.

"Lord Commander," Eddard said, his voice grave. "We understand the urgency. We won't take any more of your time. Prepare for your meeting with Mance Rayder. We will speak again… soon."

"How soon, Lord Eddard?" Mormont asked, his gaze steady, his tone carrying the same grim determination.

"Tomorrow, midday," Eddard replied firmly. "We'll reconvene through the mirror. We need a larger gathering. All the lords and ladies present at Riverrun must witness this." His gaze flickered toward the chained White Walker and wight, the unspoken horror lingering in the air.

Aelora Balaerys, who had remained silent until now, nodded in agreement. "Indeed, Lord Stark," she said, her voice carrying across the distance. "It is imperative that all the lords and ladies at Riverrun—including those of the Lannister delegation—see the truth for themselves. Let them witness the enemy with their own eyes. Let them feel the chill of the Great Other's presence. Only then will they truly understand the gravity of what we face."

"Agreed," Eddard replied, his gaze meeting Aelora's before turning to Brynden.

The Blackfish observed the Valyrian woman with curiosity. "She must be someone of great importance in Valyria," he thought. "She bears the same sigil on her armor as Lady Vaella." His sharp eyes took in the two other Valyrians standing nearby—a young woman and a young man, both wearing different sigils from Vaella's.

Yet what truly caught him unawares were the two Westerosi lordlings standing amongst their company. One bore arms he knew at once. "The purple lightning... Dondarrion," Brynden muttered under his breath, marking the device upon the man's black, star-strewn jupon. The other—a youth near-grown—wore the badge of House Dayne. "And sword and falling star... Dayne." His eye fixed upon the pale blade crossing the star on its field of lilac. "What in the name of the Seven are they doing beyond the Wall?" Brynden wondered.

He turned to Jeor Mormont, his voice calm but resolute. "Jeor, my old friend, we'll make the arrangements on our end. We'll gather everyone at Riverrun tomorrow. We'll be ready."

Then, his gaze settled again on the two young lords standing near Elaena and Benjen.

"Benjen," he said, a flicker of curiosity in his voice, "those two young men… their sigils?"

Benjen smiled faintly. "Ser Brynden, these are Lord Beric Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven and head of House Dondarrion," he said, gesturing toward the older of the two, a man with a scarred face and a commanding presence. "And this is Lord Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall and head of House Dayne."

Beric stepped forward first, inclining his head respectfully. "Ser Brynden," he said, his voice steady, "it is an honor to look upon the man whose deeds fill the chronicles of war. Your name carries great esteem in the annals of martial prowess."

Edric, younger and perhaps less accustomed to such formalities, hesitated for a moment before following Beric's example. "Ser Brynden," his voice quieter yet no less earnest, "my lord father oft spoke of you as a man of honor and skill—worthy of respect even as foe."

Brynden regarded them both, studying the men before him. Then, a slow smile crossed his lips. "With the presence of these two houses, tomorrow's gathering takes on an even greater significance." His gaze shifted to Jeor, then to Eddard and Catelyn. "Imagine it. All the great realms of Westeros—save for the Iron Islands—will be present at this meeting."

"The Stormlands, represented by Lord Dondarrion. Dorne, by Lord Dayne. Here in Riverrun, the Riverlands, the North, and the Vale are already gathered. Lady Margaery, though now a Stark by marriage, speaks for the Tyrells and the Reach. Even the Westerlands have a voice—through Lord Tywin's emissaries."

He paused, then added quietly, "And finally, the Crownlands… represented by our rightful king."

At that, Brynden gave a respectful nod toward Aegon.

Watching from the other side of the mirror, Val and Ygritte exchanged awestruck glances. The weight of this moment was not lost on them.

"Mance needs to know this," Val whispered, her voice laced with urgency. "The Southron King…"

"Indeed," Lord Commander Mormont said, his voice carrying clearly through the mirror. "We will reconvene tomorrow at midday, then. That should give us enough time to conclude our discussions with Mance Rayder and allow you to gather the lords and ladies at Riverrun."

Ser Brynden Tully gave a firm nod, then leaned slightly toward Vaella, his voice a low murmur. A subtle smile curved her lips as she listened, violet eyes gleaming with understanding. With a small nod of her own, she turned back to the mirror.

"Aunt Aelora," she began, her tone carrying the poised formality of Valyrian highborns, "before we conclude this meeting, allow me to introduce Ser Brynden Tully—uncle to Lady Catelyn Stark and brother to Lord Hoster Tully."

Aelora Balaerys, her keen gaze alight with polite interest, inclined her head slightly toward Brynden's reflection. "Ser Brynden," she said warmly, "it is a pleasure."

Vaella's attention shifted to the two Valyrians standing beside her aunt's reflection. "Daeraxys, Jaenara," she continued, a hint of fond amusement in her voice, "I believe you haven't met most of those here with me, aside from Aegon, of course, so I'll be brief, as time is of the essence." She gestured toward those around her in Riverrun. "Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell; his wife, Lady Catelyn Stark; her esteemed uncle, Ser Brynden Tully; and lastly, my charming betrothed, Torrhen Stark."

Daeraxys Valitheos and Jaenara Vaelorn exchanged a glance before offering courteous nods, their expressions bearing the composed, almost detached refinement characteristic of Valyrian nobility.

Daeraxys, ever the pragmatist, spoke first. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance." His gaze lingered briefly on Eddard and Catelyn. "I must say, Lord Stark, Lady Stark, I had the honor of meeting your son Robb in Winterfell—he was a most gracious host."

Eddard met Daeraxys's gaze with steady appraisal. "We are pleased to hear you found Winterfell welcoming, my lord. Robb takes his duties seriously."

"It warms a mother's heart to hear such praise for my son, Lord Daeraxys," Catelyn said, a trace of maternal pride softening her features. "Thank you. He is embracing his responsibilities well."

Daeraxys inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment before Jaenara spoke.

Jaenara's sharp golden eyes swept over the gathered figures in the mirror, curiosity glinting in their depths. "Ser Brynden," she said, her voice smooth as silk, "your reputation precedes you. I look forward to making your acquaintance… properly… when circumstances allow."

Her gaze flickered toward Ser Jorah Mormont for the briefest moment—a silent exchange passing between them—before she returned her attention to the mirror.

Brynden Tully, momentarily caught off guard by the warmth of their introductions, offered a measured nod. He had anticipated more aloofness from the dragonlords.

"My lords, my ladies," he said, "the honor is mine. I trust we shall meet again soon under better circumstances." A slight smile touched his lips. "And perhaps," he added with a glint of dry humor, "without such weighty matters looming over us."

Eddard Stark's gaze shifted to Ser Jorah Mormont, contemplation settling over his features. "Ser Jorah," he said, his voice steady yet measured, "in Winterfell, Lady Aelora, Aegon, and Daenerys spoke highly of you. They believe you are on the path to redemption."

Jorah met Eddard's gaze, his own eyes reflecting a mix of hope and uncertainty. "That is… my intention, Lord Stark," he replied, his voice low but resolute.

Eddard gave a slow nod. "If you truly seek the North's forgiveness," he continued, his tone carrying both gravity and understanding, "tomorrow, at the gathering, you will have the chance to speak with Lady Maege Mormont. She will be among the Northern lords and ladies present."

A flicker of something unreadable passed over Jorah's face—relief, perhaps, or apprehension. After a brief pause, he nodded. "It shall be done, Lord Stark," he said, his voice carrying newfound conviction.

Beside him, Jaenara Vaelorn gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, her violet eyes gleaming with quiet affection.

Watching the exchange, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder. A rare, fleeting smile touched his lips. "He will speak with her, Lord Stark," Jeor said, his voice gruff but carrying an unmistakable note of pride. "My son will make amends."

A brief silence followed, the weight of his words lingering in the air. Then, before anyone could speak further, a sharp voice cut through the quiet.

"They are coming," Anguy called out, urgency lacing his tone. "Jojen Reed is approaching with the Free Folk."

Lord Commander Mormont straightened, his gaze sweeping over the assembled faces reflected in the mirror. "Lord Stark," he said, his voice carrying the weight of command, "Lady Catelyn, Ser Brynden—we appreciate your time, but this meeting must end."

Eddard Stark inclined his head. "We will speak again tomorrow, at midday, as agreed. Until then, may the gods, old and new, protect you." He gave a curt nod.

Aelora Balaerys stepped forward. "Until tomorrow, Lord Stark," she said, a faint smile touching her lips.

With a swift motion, Aelora pressed the tip of her dagger against the obsidian surface. The mirror rippled, images swirling into a haze before fading to black.

BEYOND THE WALL (CRASTER'S KEEP) MANCE RAYDER, SIGORN MAGNAR OF THE THENN

"Tell me, Mance, is it true?" Sigorn, Magnar of Thenn, asked, his gaze fixed on the group standin' some distance away near Craster's Keep. He shifted uneasy-like, the heavy bronze armor creakin' with the movement. His eyes lingered on three women an' a man who stood out sharp from the rest. Their hair, pale as moonlit snow, shimmered strange-like in the dim light, an' their armor, dark as a storm-lit sea, caught a luster unlike anythin' he'd ever seen. A prickle of unease ran through him, a deep-seated distrust of anythin' that glittered so bright in this harsh, unforgivin' land.

"What ya talkin' 'bout, Sigorn?" Mance replied, his tone wary. He followed Sigorn's gaze, his brow furrowin' some.

Sigorn exhaled, his breath mistin' in the frigid air. "Years back, in the valley, we heard a tale," he said, his voice low, a shiver runnin' down his spine despite the thick furs he wore. "A tale 'bout a white-haired witch, a witch with fire in her blood, burned a whole damned army to cinders. Said she turned the Lord o' Bones an' all his men to nothin' but ash an' smoke." He swallowed hard, the memory of the tale sendin' a chill deeper than any winter wind through his bones. He looked from the pale-haired strangers to the dragons restin' near 'em, their scales shimmerin' even in the weak daylight. The sight made his gut churn. "Thought it were just a fireside tale, somethin' to scare the wee ones, but now..." His voice trailed off, the unspoken fear hangin' heavy in the air. He crossed his arms tight, like wardin' off the cold dread creepin' over him.

Mance sighed, the sound heavy, tired-like. He rubbed his eyes wearily, then ran a hand through his thick, dark beard. "Stories grow in the tellin', Sigorn. Weren't no whole army. But if ya askin' if they truly got power over fire..." He paused, his gaze flickerin' toward the strangers, somethin' unreadable in his dark eyes 'fore lookin' back at Sigorn. "Aye, it's true. They ain't like us. They come from lands far off, beyond the sea, where the sun burns hot an' the air shimmers like glass. They ride dragons, Sigorn. Real ones." He let the words settle, his tone flat, almost resigned, like he still couldn't quite believe it himself.

Sigorn's mouth opened some, but no words came out. He just stood there, starin' at the dragons, mesmerized by their otherworldly presence. His breath hitched, an' he took a step back, like the very air 'round the creatures crackled with an unseen power he couldn't quite name. His gaze dragged back to the Night's Watch men standin' near the keep, their faces grim, their hands restin' on their weapons. Sigorn's expression hardened. He shook his head slow, distrust etched deep in his eyes. "So this is it, then?" he muttered, his voice low an' wary. "We put our trust in dreams an' visions? Just walk right into their hands?" He jerked his chin toward Mother Mole, who'd moved off to speak with Dalla an' the giant, her back to 'em. "She an' her bloody visions... They'll be the death of us all."

Mance's eyes darkened. "'Their hands?'" he echoed, turnin' full to face Sigorn. "Ya think I trust 'em just like that?" His tone was edged with somethin' unreadable—frustration, maybe, or just the weariness of a man forced to make choices with no easy answers. "I don't. But I fear the dead more than I distrust crows." He nodded northward, toward the vast, empty expanse beyond, where the real threat stirred. "Ain't got the luxury to sit 'round doubtin', not with them out there." His voice was heavy, the weight of too many dead hangin' from every word. He placed a hand on Sigorn's arm, a gesture both firm an' pleadin'. "Ya saw 'em, Sigorn. Beyond the Frostfangs... ya saw what they can do."

Sigorn's jaw tightened, his hands clenchin' into fists. He wanted to argue, spit out the doubts gnawin' at him, but the memory of that night—the dead crawlin' back up, the icy blue gleam in their eyes, the screams, the cold, unnatural terror—burned too deep. He swallowed hard, the taste of old fear bitter on his tongue. "An' ya reckon makin' nice with crows an' southron lords is the way?"

"I reckon stayin' alive is the way," Mance shot back, his voice steady as the Wall itself. "An' right now, this is the only chance we got. If the gods themselves sent us a sign—a bloody greenseer with whispers of hope—we'd be fools to turn our backs on it."

"Could ya two shut yer traps for a moment? Look." Bryna's sharp voice, edged with impatience, cut through the tension. The young skinchanger stood a short distance away, arms crossed tight over her chest, her dark eyes, sharp as a hawk's, fixed on somethin' in the distance. A large raven perched on her shoulder, its black feathers ruffled slightly, like it shared her mood.

Dalla, Varamyr Sixskins—his face oddly still, thoughtful, like he was listenin' to somethin' beyond the reach of human ears—and even Wun Wun, the giant, were watchin' somethin' approachin' with that same eerie focus.

Mance followed their line of sight. Two figures were comin' outta the swirling mist, their shapes gettin' clearer. One of 'em was easy enough to recognize—broad grin, thick red beard, that same damn swagger.

"Tormund, the bloody fool," Dalla muttered under her breath, but there was a flicker of warmth on her lips despite the cold.

But the other one—he was a stranger. A boy, barely twelve, pale-faced and serious, movin' with a stillness that didn't sit right for a lad his age.

Sigorn watched the boy walkin' up with Tormund, then looked back at Mance, his brow still furrowed. Doubt lingered in his eyes, but after a long, tense moment, he gave a slow, reluctant nod.

"Hope ya know what ya're doin', Mance," he muttered, voice barely louder than the wind. "For all our sakes."

Mance nodded back, grim but resolute, a faint flicker of somethin'—hope, maybe—lightin' his dark eyes. "So do I, Sigorn. So do I."

Across the clearin', Mother Mole's breath hitched, a tremor runnin' through her thin frame as she watched the young greenseer approach. A faint, knowin' smile touched her lips. "The old gods don't lie. This is it. The boy marked by the green, bound to the fate of many." She clutched the worn leather pouch hangin' from her neck, fingers tracın' the shape of the dried herbs within.

Mance Rayder stepped forward, his gaze settlin' on the boy with wary curiosity. The lad's clothes were wrong—fine wool an' leather, southron make. Too clean. Too soft. But there was a stillness in him, a quiet confidence in them green eyes. That was somethin' else.

"Tormund," he greeted, voice rough but familiar. He clapped the red-bearded giant on the arm, a gesture both welcomin' and assessin'. "'Bout time I saw that ugly mug o' yours again. And who's this... lad?"

Tormund let out a booming laugh that echoed 'cross the clearin', his broad chest heavin' with amusement. He clasped Mance's arm in a firm embrace. "Good to see ya too, Mance," he said, voice warm with real fondness. He turned to Dalla, who stood beside Sigorn, her hand restin' on her belly. "And you, Dalla. Still keepin' these fools in line, I hope."

His grin lingered before he placed a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder, gentle-like. "This here's Jojen Reed," he announced, his tone oddly respectful. "A greenseer from south o' the Wall."

Before Mance could answer, Mother Mole stepped forward, her wizened face illuminated by a strange inner light. A small grey bird perched on her shoulder, its dark eyes locked on Jojen. "Mance," she muttered, her voice low but sure, drawin' his attention. "I know this one. Seen him in the fire, in the roots. One o' the two boys from the south." Her gaze sharpened, lockin' onto Mance's. "This ain't just some lad, Mance. He's got the sight. The true sight."

Jojen met her stare, a faint smile touchin' his lips. "About time we met in the flesh, Mother Mole," he said, his voice calm and knowing. "Not in a vision, not in a dream. Here. Just like it was always meant to be."

Mother Mole's lips curved in a knowing smile, but a flicker of unease passed through her eyes. "Aye, lad," she rasped, nodding slow. "Good to finally see you in person, Jojen Reed. But I must ask—what about the other boy? The other greendreamer. Bran Stark. Where is he?"

Jojen didn't waver. "Bran, at this very moment, is walking a path just as important as this one," he said, his gaze distant, as if he could see the other boy clear as day, even across vast distances. "He walks beside one of the three heads of the dragon."

Mother Mole's eyes widened, a flicker of wonder sparking within their depths. "The three-headed dragon... So it's true, then. My dreams..." She trailed off, glancing at Jojen, then at Tormund, who was frowning, clearly lost.

"What you saw is real, Mother Mole," Jojen affirmed, noticing the confused looks around him. He spoke with a conviction that defied his youth. "The dragon has three heads. Two of them are near. The third... remains south of the Wall, waiting for its moment to rise."

His gaze flickered toward Craster's Keep, where Jon targaryen rested, accompanied by Daenerys.

"I need to see them. Speak with them," Mother Mole said firmly, the urgency back in her voice.

"You will, Mother Mole. Don't worry," Jojen reassured her, his emerald eyes gleaming with an otherworldly light. Then he turned to Mance and Dalla, his gaze lingering on the slight swell of her belly. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a hushed, almost reverent tone.

"The child you carry, Lady Dalla, of the ancient Casterlys," Jojen continued, his voice steady yet solemn, "is destined for greatness. I see him riding alongside dragon princes and princesses, a warrior of renown. He will stand beside the heirs of wolves and lions, falcons and stags, roses and krakens, trouts and suns. His name will echo through halls of stone, his deeds sung from the North to the farthest shores of the South."

Dalla's breath hitched, her eyes widening—not with fear, but with something close to wonder. A faint blush colored her cheeks as her hand went to her belly, feeling the gentle flutter of life within. Beside her, Mance, just as stunned, reached out, his calloused fingers covering hers.

Their eyes met, an unspoken exchange passing between them—something both awed and uncertain. Then they turned back to Jojen, the boy barely a man, who held their gazes with an unnerving calm.

"How… how do ya know that?" Dalla whispered, her voice barely a breath, still reelin' from the words.

Mance leaned in, his usual commandin' presence givin' way to somethin' quieter, sharper. His dark eyes flicked over Jojen, a flicker o' unease in 'em.

"Aye, lad," he said, voice low an' rough. "That… that was between Dalla an' me. We ain't spoken a word of it to no one. Not even Tormund, Val, or Ygritte."

Jojen's expression remained calm, his gaze unwavering. "I am merely a messenger of what the Old Gods choose to reveal," he said, his voice soft yet carrying a quiet power that rippled through the cold air. "Their whispers ride the wind, speak through rustling leaves, and flow with the rivers' currents. Your child's fate is already woven into the great tapestry of what is to come—he will be a thread in the vast weave of a world on the cusp of change."

Dalla exchanged a look with Mance, her wonder plain as day. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. Tormund, who'd been watchin' with a deep frown, suddenly barked out a laugh, shakin' his head. His usual booming energy was still there, but there was a warmth to it now. He strode forward an' wrapped Dalla in a bear hug, liftin' her right off the ground.

"Lass," he rumbled, his voice thick with emotion, though a flicker o' worry lingered in his eyes as he glanced at her belly. "You an' Mance… a babe? An' not a damn word to yer old cousin, eh?" His grin was wide, but concern still lurked beneath it.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes twinklin' with unmistakable pride. Then he clapped Mance hard on the back, the sound echoin' through the clearin'.

"Ah, but this is somethin' worth celebratin'! A new cub for the pack—means we gotta drink, feast, raise a proper ruckus. Soon as we ain't freezin' our arses off up here, we'll do it right, south o' the Wall. A feast fit for a king… or a queen," he added with a wink. Then, lookin' at Mance, a knowin' grin spread across his face. "Well done, Mance Rayder. Guess ye ain't been sittin' idle, eh?"

Mance smirked, shakin' his head at Tormund's antics, but his gaze flicked back to Jojen Reed, the weight o' the boy's words still settlin' in his mind. He glanced at Sigorn, who stood silent, arms crossed tight over his broad chest, eyes fixed on the Night's Watch men near Craster's Keep. His fingers tapped the handle o' his axe, a silent gesture o' distrust.

After a long moment, Mance finally spoke, his voice heavier now, like he was feelin' the burden of every life dependin' on him.

"I believe yer words, Jojen Reed," he said, his gaze steady. "An' I see in ye one blessed by the gods, with the gift o' green dreams. What ye said 'bout my unborn son… it gives me hope."

He exhaled, a cloud of mist formnin' in the frigid air. His voice, usually so commandin', now held a rare vulnerability. "But I gotta ask… what 'bout us?"

His gaze swept over Mother Mole, who stood beside the giant, her small grey bird now perched on Wun Wun's massive shoulder. He looked at Sigorn, his expression questionin', then at the skinchangers, Varamyr and Bryna. Varamyr stood silently, his face still and unreadable, as if listenin' to the whispers of the animals he controlled. Bryna, however, fidgeted nervously, her hand absently strokin' the feathers of the raven perched on her arm, its dark eyes fixed intently on Jojen.

"What place do we have in this… new world?"

All eyes turned to Jojen, the weight of Mance's question settlin' upon them like freshly fallen snow.

Jojen's gaze softened, a flicker of compassion breakin' through his usual impassivity. "Your role, Mance Rayder," he began, his voice carryin' across the clearin', "is to lead your people south. To safety. To forge an alliance with those who were once your enemies and stand together against the darkness that comes for all of us."

He paused, his eyes sweepin' over the assembled Free Folk, lingerin' for a moment on Dalla's face. "For thousands of years, the Wall has stood as a barrier—not just of ice and stone, but of fear and distrust. It's a monument to the divide between those who dwell on either side. Yet even its height and ancient magic cannot hold back the night that's coming. It cannot stop the cold that whispers of death, or the darkness that seeks to devour all life."

Turnin' to Mance, his gaze piercin', Jojen continued, "You seek a future for your people, Mance Rayder—a future for the child Dalla carries. That future lies south of the Wall." He paused, his voice laced with quiet urgency. "To reach it, you must set aside generations of pride and distrust. Extend your hand in peace to the Night's Watch. For in this coming darkness, we face an enemy far greater than any we've known. An enemy that cares nothing for titles, borders, oaths, or blood feuds. An enemy that seeks only to extinguish all life and plunge the world into eternal winter."

Mance Rayder, his gaze distant, turned to Tormund, who now stood silently, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a grim pensiveness. "Old friend," Mance began, his voice low, measured, "ye were my eyes and ears at Craster's. Ye saw how this… parley… unfolded. Can we trust their words? Can we trust the crows?"

Tormund's brow furrowed, his usual jovial expression replaced by a grim set to his lips. He scratched his beard thoughtfully, his gaze scannin' the dense forest ahead as if searchin' for answers among the silent trees. The weight of what he had seen pressed down on him, heavy and cold as a glacier. He took a deep breath, the frigid air stingin' his lungs, before meetin' Mance's gaze.

"Mance," he began, his voice thick with unspoken emotion, "there was… a battle."

Dalla gasped, her face palin' as she exchanged a worried look with Mother Mole. A ripple of tension coursed through Mance's gathered warband. The giant shifted his weight uneasily, his massive form castin' a long shadow in the pre-dawn light. Sigorn's hand tightened around the haft of his axe, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"A battle?" Dalla asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Aye," Tormund confirmed grimly, his gaze distant, as if staring straight into the horrors of the last few days. "An army o' White Walkers and wights… they came for us, Mance. They were here. Right here." He gestured toward the remnants of the great funeral pyre from the night before, its charred remains a stark and silent monument to the dead. The faint scent of woodsmoke still clung to the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the cloying stench of decay. "All our warriors… the ones who came with us, with Val, Ygritte, and me… they're gone. Every last one." He swallowed hard, his voice thick with grief. "Those ice-cold demons… they butchered our people. And then… they raised 'em. Made 'em fight against us."

His voice cracked, the raw pain unmistakable. He glanced at Dalla, who stood frozen, one hand resting protectively over her swollen belly, her face ashen. Mance, too, seemed to age before their eyes, the weight of Tormund's words settling on him like freshly fallen snow.

"We fought 'em, Mance," Tormund continued, his voice rough with barely suppressed anguish. "Crows and Free Folk, side by side. We had help, too. Some southron lords… a red-haired sorceress with shadow magic… and a dragon lady with fire in her blood." He paused, drawing a shuddering breath, the cold air a harsh reminder of the terror they had faced. "We beat 'em, aye… but the cost…" His voice faltered, the unspoken horror hanging between them. "Gods, the cost… it were too high."

Mance ran a hand down his face, the weight of countless choices etched into his features. "An' what do ye think we should do, Tormund?" he asked, his voice tight with worry.

Tormund met his gaze, unflinching. "For the future o' the Free Folk… to survive what's comin'… we need help, Mance," he said, his voice raw with conviction. "We gotta strike a deal with the crow commander an' cross the Wall—our entire people, as soon as we can. That's the only way."

Mance studied him intently, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "Ye ain't told me everythin', old friend," he said quietly, his voice laced with the knowing of years spent fightin' side by side. "I know ye too well. I see it in yer eyes. There's somethin' else."

Tormund let out a heavy sigh, the sound lost in the wind's howl. He rubbed his beard, his gaze distant, as if he were starin' straight into the horrors o' the last few days. "A crow… Samwell Tarly, his name is… he saved my life, Mance," he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. "Killed a wight that was about to take my bloody head. If not for him—and one o' them dragonglass daggers he carried—I wouldn't be standin' here now." He paused, a flicker o' shame crossin' his features. "A crow… savin' a wildling… It's… well, it ain't somethin' I ever thought I'd say."

Mother Mole, who'd been watchin' both Tormund an' Jojen with a keen, knowing gaze, suddenly spoke, her voice raspy but firm. "Tormund, Jojen, what about the other boy? One o' the dragon's heads… the one who, in my dreams, is destined to face the darkness." The small grey bird perched on Wun Wun's shoulder ruffled its feathers, its dark eyes fixed intently on Jojen.

Tormund frowned, scratchin' his beard thoughtfully. But before he could speak, Jojen answered, his voice calm an' steady. "The young crow… the one who defeated the strongest of the White Walkers, wielding both fire and ice… he is the one you seek."

A murmur rippled through the gathered Free Folk, astonishment flickerin' in their eyes. Before anyone could respond, Sigorn stepped forward, his face a mask o' skepticism, his hand restin' on the haft o' his axe. He directed a skeptical glare at Jojen, then at Tormund, disbelief etched into every line o' his expression.

"An' ye expect us to trust the crows so easily?" he demanded, his voice hard, edged with years o' resentment. "The same men who've hunted us for thousands o' years? My grandfather died fightin' the crows for our people's freedom. An' now ye ask me to forget his sacrifice an' join forces with his killers?"

"Sigorn, son of Styr," Jojen Reed interjected, his voice calm but carryin' across the clearin', "yer doubts are understandable. Thousands o' years o' conflict with the Night's Watch can't be resolved overnight. But the threat we face is no mere tale spun by bards. It's a truth carried on the winds o' winter, a reality etched into the ice itself. The crows ain't the enemy, Sigorn—not anymore. The true enemy comes from the land o' always winter, a darkness that seeks to consume all life."

He paused, his gaze piercin', lockin' onto Sigorn's. "I know o' yer father's bravery," he continued, his voice softenin' slightly, "his fierce loyalty to his people. I know how he died. He didn't fall to a crow's blade, but to the icy touch o' a White Walker, his soul claimed by the Great Other."

Sigorn's face paled, his breath catchin' in his throat. The pain o' his father's death, a wound he'd tried to bury deep, surfaced with raw intensity. He stared at Jojen, eyes wide with grief an' disbelief. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words seemed to freeze in the frigid air. He tightened his grip on his axe, the cold metal a small comfort.

Tormund stepped forward, the snow crunchin' under his heavy boots. He placed a hand on Sigorn's arm, a gesture o' reassurance, though his own face was grim, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a quiet intensity. "I get yer doubts, Sigorn," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. He met Sigorn's gaze, but his eyes swept over the others as well—Mance, Dalla, Wun Wun, Varamyr, an' Bryna. He shifted his weight, the subtle movement betrayin' his unease. The faint smell o' smoke still clung to his furs, a hauntin' reminder o' the funeral pyre an' the heavy price o' their recent victory.

"Hell, if I were in yer boots," he continued, "I'd be just as wary—o' the crows, the southrons, an' them fire-wieldin' dragon lords." The memory o' the battle flashed in his eyes, a flicker o' fear he couldn't quite suppress.

He exhaled, a plume o' mist form'n in the frigid air, an' shook his head slowly. "But ye weren't there, Sigorn. Ye didn't see what I saw." His voice dropped, thick with the weight o' memory. "Ye didn't witness the horrors, the overwhelm' sense o' death an' emptiness them demons bring. Nor did ye see the magic that red-haired sorceress an' the Dragon Lady wield. The weapons… made o' frozen fire… We need their steel, their fire, their magic. I saw what they can do, Sigorn. Their flames… they burn with a power strong enough to push back the darkness itself."

He paused, glancin' at Mother Mole, whose small grey bird ruffled its feathers nervously. Then, his gaze settled on Jojen, who stood silently.

"And there's somethin' else," Tormund added, his voice rough but tinged with something close to awe. "What the seer boy and Mother Mole said, it's true. At the end of the battle, a young crow—Jon Targaryen, they call him—awoke powers even the Dragon Lady herself couldn't believe. I saw it with my own eyes. Fire and ice, Mance. He wielded 'em both, like a god."

He gestured toward Mother Mole and Jojen. "They say he's one o' the heads of the dragon. I don't know much about all that dragon nonsense," he admitted with a shrug, "but I'll tell ye this: we're gonna need him. Mark my words."

He turned back to the group, his expression grim, his voice hardening with conviction. "If us Free Folk stand alone against the White Walkers and their army o' the dead," he declared, "we don't stand a chance. Not ye, not me, not even all of us together. They'll sweep over us like a blizzard, an' we'll all be corpses walkin' before the next moon rises." He paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "And they've got one o' them ice demons. Alive. Chained up like a dog. An' one o' the dead ones, too. A wight."

A collective gasp rippled through the gathering, their breath misting in the cold air. Varamyr Sixskins shifted uneasily, his sharp eyes darting between Tormund and Jojen. His voice, rough with skepticism, cut through the silence. "Ye sayin' they caught one o' them bright-eyed demons… alive?"

"Aye," Tormund confirmed, his face grim. "With fire magic an' enchanted chains. Said they was forged with the magic o' them fire lords."

Sigorn exhaled sharply, his breath a white cloud against the grey sky. Though the news unsettled him, it chipped away at his doubts. He straightened, squarin' his shoulders, his gaze lockin' onto Jojen Reed.

"Aye, then," he said, his voice steady. "If the Old Gods be whisperin' through ye, Jojen Reed, I ain't fool enough to turn a deaf ear." He shifted his attention to Mance, his stance unyieldin'. "I'll heed yer counsel, Mance. An' I'll meet with this… King Crow. But hear me now—if I so much as smell treachery, if I see even a flicker o' deceit in his eye, I'll split his skull meself an' leave his corpse for the cold."

His gaze drifted to the three dragons, their colossal forms coiled like livin' mountains o' scale an' fire. Narrowin' his eyes, he turned back to Jojen.

"These… lords o' fire…" he muttered, his tone sharp with suspicion. "What d'they call their land, greenseer? What d'they call themselves?"

Jojen met his gaze, unshaken. "Their homeland is Valyria, far to the east, beyond the Narrow Sea," he answered, his voice clear. "They are known as the Valyrians. And those among them who command dragons and wield the magic of fire and blood… they call themselves Dragonlords. They are a people forged in fire and war, Sigorn. Their power is vast, their magic unlike anything known in the North."

Sigorn rolled the foreign word on his tongue, testing its weight. "Valyria," he murmured. "Dragonlords. Fire an' blood." His lips curled into a grim smile, his eyes glintin' with somethin' close to admiration. "A damn fine match for the cold an' death that comes."

"I want words with these Valyrians," he declared, his voice low, resolute. "An' with this… Jon Targaryen." He fixed Jojen with a challengin' stare. "But mark me, Jojen Reed—I ain't some southron kneeler to be cowed by their dragons. Or their magic."

Jojen's lips curved slightly, a hint of reassurance in his expression. "That is not something you need to fear, Sigorn, Magnar of Thenn. The dragons are not here to conquer, but to aid."

Then, with measured grace, he approached the giant and bowed deeply. His voice, soft but carryin' weight, reached across the clearin'.

"Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun," he said, his green eyes shinin' with respect. "It is an honor to stand before you. The giants, like the Children of the Forest, are a race of ancient wisdom and strength, older than the very stones themselves. Your people walked these lands long before the First Men arrived, and the old gods cherish your kind."

He paused, meetin' the giant's deep, obsidian gaze. "You, Wun Wun, carry within you the blood of warriors who once stood against the darkness in ages past. Your strength, your courage… they will be vital in the war to come."

A deep, guttural rumble echoed from Wun Wun's chest. He studied the boy with surprising gentleness before turnin' to Tormund. In the Old Tongue, his voice like distant thunder, he rumbled, "This little southron speaks with wisdom. He knows the old ways. He respects our ancestors. I will listen to what he has to say."

Jojen then turned to Varamyr and Bryna, his tone softenin'. "Varamyr Sixskins, Bryna," he began, "the beasts of the North—the wolves, the snow bears, the shadowcats, the eagles—they are your kin, your allies in this frozen land. Your bond with them, your ability to warg… it is a gift of immense power, a strength that will be needed in the battles ahead." His gaze swept over the snow-covered expanse. "But even the fiercest beasts cannot stand alone against the encroaching darkness. We must all unite—men and beasts, skinchangers and warriors—if we are to survive." His voice deepened, echoin' with an ancient wisdom. "The time has come to share your gifts with those who were once your enemies. For in this war… we are all bound by a common fate."

Varamyr's face was unusually still. He nodded slowly, his sharp eyes distant. "The beasts know," he muttered, his voice rough as stone. "They feel the cold comin'. They are afraid." He glanced at Bryna, then back at Jojen, a flicker o' understandin' in his gaze.

Bryna wrung her hands, her voice barely a whisper against the wind. "I seen it too, young greenseer," she admitted, her eyes wide with a terror she couldn't quite shake. "In my dreams. Shadows in the ice. Eyes starin' from the darkness." She shuddered, her voice tremblin'. "The beasts… they're strong, but they're afraid. An' so am I." She looked at Jojen, desperation flickerin' in her gaze. "Is there truly hope, Jojen? South o' the Wall?"

Jojen held her gaze, his expression gentle. "Hope remains, Bryna," he said softly. "But it is fragile, like a newborn babe in a blizzard. We must fight for it. Together. The crows… they have seen the darkness too. They are searching for a way to survive, just as you are."

Bryna's frown deepened. "Can we really trust 'em, Jojen?" she asked, doubt heavy in her voice. "In all my twenty years, all I've ever known 'bout the crows is that they want to see my people—the Free Folk—wiped from the face o' the earth."

Jojen nodded solemnly. "Trust is a precious thing, Bryna—not easily given, not after so many years of bloodshed. But if we wish to survive this long night… we have no choice but to offer it. We must stand together, fight as one… or perish."

He turned to Mance, his gaze steady. "The time has come to make a choice, Mance Rayder, King Beyond the Wall. A choice that will determine the fate of your people."

Mance, his thoughts driftin' to Dalla an' the child she carried, felt the weight of responsibility pressin' down on his shoulders. He looked at Jojen, then at the faces around him—Mother Mole, her eyes closed as if listenin' to the whispers o' the old gods, Sigorn, his stance wary, an' Wun Wun, whose massive form loomed over them all.

He let out a long breath, his gaze turnin' northward, toward the vast, frozen expanse where the true enemy waited. Thousands o' Free Folk huddled in makeshift camps, waitin' for his word. Their hopes rested on his shoulders.

He knew what he had to do.

"Aye, we will," Mance announced, his voice carrying through the frozen clearing. "We'll meet with the crows. And the dragons." He paused, a flicker of doubt crossing his gaze. "If they'll have us."

His eyes settled on Jojen. "Jojen Reed," he continued, "from what you and Mother Mole have said, this… Jon Targaryen… he's a key piece in all this. I need him at this meeting. He's part o' this prophecy, ain't he? One of the three bloody dragons?"

Jojen nodded, a faint knowing smile on his lips. "Indeed, he is. He is destined to stand against the darkness."

Mance listened carefully, his brow furrowed in thought. "Aye," he muttered, his voice rough but steady. "But the dragon… it has three heads, don't it? That's what you told Mother Mole. Two are close, you said. So who's the second?"

"Her name is Daenerys Targaryen," Jojen replied calmly. "You will meet her soon enough, Mance Rayder. Her and Jon."

Jojen turned slightly, gesturing toward the dark silhouette of Craster's Keep. "Lord Commander Mormont awaits. There is much to discuss… and little time to waste."

As they prepared to move, Jojen stepped closer to Varamyr and Bryna, lowering his voice just above a whisper. "Those we are about to meet… they respect power. A display of your connection to the beasts could be useful."

Varamyr and Bryna exchanged glances. "You sure about that, southron?" Varamyr asked, his brow furrowed. "Showin' too much power… in front of dragons and southron lords… might be seen as a challenge."

Jojen's emerald eyes glinted with certainty. "Trust me," he said softly. "There is nothing they respect more than strength. And Bryna… if you wish to make a lasting impression, now is the time."

Varamyr closed his eyes, his face illuminated with the deep connection to the creatures of the wild. A low growl rumbled from the treeline, followed by the crunch of snow beneath heavy paws. Three white wolves emerged from the shadows, their eyes burning with primal intelligence. Behind them, a towering snow bear lumbered forward, its breath steaming in the icy air. A sleek, dark shape moved like liquid between the trees—a great shadowcat, its muscles rippling beneath its fur. Overhead, an eagle circled, its piercing cry slicing through the sky.

From the other side of the clearing, almost as if in answer, two direwolves emerged, their grey fur blending seamlessly with the snowy landscape. They moved with a measured, almost otherworldly grace and positioned themselves beside Bryna. Behind them, a mammoth lumbered into view, its massive tusks sharp as polished ivory. A giant elk stood proudly beside the mammoth, its antlers crowned with winter roses. Two ravens, black as midnight, perched on Bryna's shoulders, their obsidian eyes glinting with silent intelligence.

Perched near Craster's Keep, the dragons stirred. Their colossal heads turned slowly, their molten gold eyes locked onto the beasts. A low, rumbling growl emanated from their throats, vibrating the air with primal tension.

Varamyr, feeling the unshakable bond with his beast, climbed atop the snow bear. Bryna, with equal grace, swung herself onto the mammoth's broad back. Her gaze met Jojen's. "Who am I meant to impress, southron?"

Jojen offered a cryptic smile. "You'll see soon enough."

Led by Tormund and Jojen, Mance Rayder and his warband marched toward the keep. Wun Wun, a colossus among men, trudged behind them, his footsteps pounding the earth like distant thunder. Varamyr rode alongside him atop his snow bear, his wolves padding silently at his sides. Bryna followed closely behind, her mammoth lumbering forward, flanked by her direwolves. High above, the eagle and the raven circled, their cries echoing like omens in the cold morning air.

As they advanced, Tormund turned to Mance, his face lined with concern. "What's the rush, Mance? Last we spoke, I thought we had more time. Figured I'd be headin' back to the Frostfangs before we settled on anythin'."

Mance sighed, casting a glance at Mother Mole, who walked alongside Dalla. "The cold… it's different now, Tormund," he said grimly. "Mother Mole's visions… what Sigorn saw beyond the Frostfangs… It ain't just stories anymore." He ran a hand over his beard, his expression hardening. "The dead walk. The Others are real. And they're closer than we thought."

Mother Mole nodded gravely, her eyes narrowed as if she could still hear the whispers of unseen forces. "The gods spoke to me in a dream, Mance," she murmured. "Shadows in the ice… a cold darkness spreadin' from the north. The whispers of the Great Other… grow stronger by the day."

Tormund's gaze darkened as he looked northward. He nodded slowly, then turned toward Jojen. Craster's Keep loomed in the distance, a skeletal finger pointing at the sky. "Then let's get this over with," he grunted. "The sooner we're south o' the Wall, the better. For all of us."

Dalla, her hand protectively resting on her swollen belly, looked to Tormund. "Tormund," she asked, worry lacing her voice, "how are Val and Ygritte? Are they well?"

Tormund's grim expression softened, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Aye, lass," he said with amusement. "They're fine. More than fine, in fact." He smirked, leaning slightly toward her. "Seems your cousin Ygritte found herself a… special reason to want this parley to go well." Lowering his voice, he added, "Looks like that little bird from that far-off island's got her all aflutter. Ygritte's got more reason than most to want past the Wall now. She's plannin' on takin' her little bird south, far from the cold and the shadows."

Dalla frowned, utterly bewildered. "Little bird? Island? What in the hells are you talkin' about, Tormund?"

Tormund just chuckled, shaking his head. "You'll see, lass. You'll see."

With that, the group pressed on. Craster's Keep rose before them, dark and foreboding against the snow-covered landscape. The dragons, perched near the keep, watched them with unsettling stillness, their golden eyes gleaming like molten fire in the pale light. The air crackled with anticipation.

The moment of truth was upon them.

VAL, YGRITTE, DOREAH

Val leaned closer to Ygritte, her words a hushed murmur against the wind's howl. "Cousin, let's go and tell Mance," she said, her sharp blue eyes flickering with urgency. "Tell 'em all what we saw—what we heard."

Ygritte's hand found Doreah's, her fingers interlacing with the Lyseni woman's, a silent reassurance against the cold. "Aye," she muttered, her gaze shifting toward the approaching figures of Mance, Dalla, and Tormund. "Reckon we should. Ain't every day we see a Southron king. And one willin' to parley at that." She drew a breath, the cold air stinging her lungs, then shook her head slowly, doubt still lingerin' in her eyes. "Still don't know if the others'll believe it though, not even with the crow commander's word."

"They'll believe what we saw through the mirror," Val countered, her voice steady. "They'll hear what we heard. There's hope, Ygritte. More'n we've ever had before." Her fingers brushed lightly against the old key resting beneath her furs, its cold surface a quiet comfort against her skin. A subtle smile touched her lips.

A flicker of warmth—something rare and fragile—stirred in Ygritte's eyes, melting a sliver of her usual fierce demeanor. She squeezed Doreah's hand, a silent message passing between them. She couldn't deny the glimmer of somethin' better, a promise of warmth in the ever-present chill. Leaning in, her breath warm against Doreah's skin, she murmured, "You comin' with us, little bird?" The words were rough, but her tone was unexpectedly soft—the kind of voice she used for no one else.

Doreah hesitated, a nervous flutter in her chest. She glanced toward Elaena, who stood beside Benjen, her eyes watching them with a knowing calm. There was a silent question in Doreah's gaze, a flicker of uncertainty she couldn't quite suppress.

Elaena, as if sensing her hesitation, smiled gently. "Go with them, Doreah," she said, her voice carrying across the clearing. There was an unspoken understanding in her words, a quiet reassurance.

Ygritte's gaze met Elaena's, gratitude flickering in her features. Turning back to Doreah, a soft smile played on her lips. She leaned in close, pressing her cheek against Doreah's—a fleeting, warm contact that sent a shiver down Doreah's spine.

Then, with deliberate slowness, Ygritte pivoted her head. Doreah felt the silken slide of Ygritte's skin against hers as her face angled, her lips drawing inevitably nearer. The movement was mesmerizing, achingly deliberate, as Ygritte's lips traveled the small distance, tracing the curve of Doreah's cheek until they found their destination—the delicate corner of her mouth.

There, she paused, breath mingling with Doreah's. And then, with deliberate tenderness, she pressed a kiss—not quite on her lips, but intimately close. As she pulled back, the tip of her tongue flicked over that sensitive spot, teasing and lingering.

Doreah gasped, a deeper shiver running through her this time—unexpected, electrifying, and utterly welcome.

Val, watching with a mixture of amusement and something sharper in her gaze, chuckled. "There'll be time for more o' that later, lovebirds," she said with a crooked grin. "But for now, we best get over there. Tell Mance what we seen."

Ygritte, her voice husky, perhaps a little breathless herself, murmured, "Come on, then, little bird. Let's fly."

Doreah, her face flushed with warmth blooming beneath her skin, nodded. Her heart pounded at Ygritte's touch, at Elaena's silent permission. With Ygritte's hand in hers, the three women turned and walked toward Mance Rayder, their steps whispering softly against the snow.

As they departed, their forms shrinking against the vast white expanse, Elaena's gaze flicked sideways—to Benjen.

He stood still, silent, watching the same fading figures. His jaw was set, his expression unreadable, but Elaena saw what lay beneath it: the tension in his shoulders, the quiet worry in his eyes. Not for the mission. For Doreah.

She reached out, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm, grounding him with a familiar touch. "She'll be alright, Ben," she murmured, her voice soft but firm against the biting wind. "Don't let worry gnaw at you now."

He didn't turn immediately, his focus still distant.

"You don't have to worry about her," Elaena continued gently, her voice barely more than a whisper carried just for him. "Remember what Jojen told us? Back in Winterfell, all those months ago, before we even knew the shape of this path..."

Benjen exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air. His eyes softened.

"Aye," he said, his voice low, almost wistful. "You're right, Ely. When we started this mission back in Winterfell, we knew—we knew with certainty—that Doreah would be safe. That she had a role to play in all this, and that she'd remain unharmed."

A shared understanding passed between them, brief yet steady in the vast, uncertain cold. Their eyes turned back toward the distant figures now reaching Mance Rayder, the weight of their own next steps settling upon them once more.

MINUTES LATER

"The moment of truth, Lord Commander," Ser Jarman Buckwell murmured, his voice taut as a drawn bowstring.

Mance Rayder's party advanced, his sharp gaze lingering on the giant lumbering among them—a sight he had yet to fully believe.

He turned to Qhorin Halfhand, who stood beside him in grim silence. "In all your rangings," Buckwell asked, failing to mask his unease, "did you ever see a giant?"

Qhorin's weathered face betrayed nothing as he watched the Free Folk approach. "Never," he admitted at last, his voice rough as gravel. "Like the Children, they were only stories… until now."

His focus shifted from the giant to Mance Rayder, sharpening. "But it's the turncloak I'd speak with," he added, something darker than duty threading his words. "He was a brother once… before he chose a different cloak."

Jeor Mormont's head snapped toward him, eyes flinty beneath his heavy brows. "Keep your steel sheathed, Halfhand," the Old Bear warned, his tone leaving no room for debate. "We're here to talk, not settle old scores."

Qhorin held his commander's stare, unblinking. "No blood will be spilled by my hand," he rumbled, fingers brushing the worn pommel of his sword. "But I'll look him in the eye… and ask him why."

A short distance away, Elaena Targaryen stood beside Benjen Stark, her attention locked on the two skinchangers commanding their host of beasts. Wolves, direwolves, a snow bear, even a mammoth—all moved as one with their human counterparts. A low whistle escaped her lips.

She turned to Benjen, finding his grey eyes fixed on them, a thoughtful glint in his expression. The man astride the snow bear seemed lost in silent communion with his beasts, while the young woman atop the mammoth moved with an eerie grace, the ravens on her shoulders watching with unsettling intelligence.

"Ben," she murmured, the wind nearly swallowing her words, "look at them. That control… it's incredible." She tilted her head slightly. "Have you ever tried bonding with another beast? Besides Nightwing?"

Benjen shook his head, something like respect—or envy—flickering in his eyes. "No, Ely. Nightwing was the first. The only one I've ever connected with." His voice turned low, pensive. "But these two… they're something else. I've heard of skinchangers controlling multiple beasts, but this…" He gestured at the seamless unity between the creatures and their masters. "This is beyond anything I've seen."

His focus lingered on the younger skinchanger. "That girl… so young, and yet she wields that power like it's second nature. Remarkable."

Elaena nodded. "Warging…" she murmured. "Such a raw, visceral bond with the beasts of this land."

Benjen's gaze flicked toward another group nearby. "It seems we're not the only ones marveling at their abilities."

Elaena followed his attention and spotted Aelora and Daeraxys deep in conversation, their expressions intent as they observed the skinchangers. Daeraxys gestured toward the young woman atop the mammoth, his brow furrowed. Aelora listened intently, nodding slowly, her face contemplative.

Then Elaena noticed Marillion, the bard, standing apart from the others. His quill scratched feverishly across parchment as he studied the Free Folk and their skinchangers, the beasts moving in eerie unison. A sly smile curved her lips. "The tales he'll weave from this…"

"Look, Ely." Benjen's voice, low and steady, pulled Elaena's attention back to the approaching Free Folk.

They had drawn within fifty meters when, suddenly, they halted.

A flicker of concern crossed Elaena's mind, but it quickly faded as she studied them. There was no aggression in their stance—only intrigue. Their focus had locked onto Jojen Reed, who stood among them, speaking in his calm, measured way. Confusion flickered across the wildlings' faces, but so did curiosity, and as Jojen continued, nods of acknowledgment followed.

Then, as if sensing her gaze, Jojen turned. His eyes met Elaena's, and a broad smile broke across his face.

Elaena opened her mouth to speak to Benjen, but the words died in her throat.

A sudden, earsplitting roar tore through the air, shaking the ground beneath their feet.

All eyes—wildling and crow, Valyrian and Westerosi—whipped toward the three dragons. Until that moment, they had remained coiled in an unsettling stillness; now, they unfurled their massive wings.

Another roar, deeper and more guttural than the last, echoed across the clearing—a primal sound that rattled bones. Flames, bright and fierce, erupted from their maws, reaching for the sky, tasting the cold air. Their eyes, molten pools of gold and amber, burned with unnatural intensity, fixed on the keep's entrance as if awaiting something—or someone.

A hush fell over the gathering, the sudden display of draconic power silencing both whispers and the wind's howl. Tension crackled in the air, thick as the first rumble of a winter storm. The Free Folk stepped back, their hands instinctively moving toward their weapons. Even the giant, Wun Wun, looked unsettled, a rare flicker of unease in his usually steadfast gaze.

But then Jojen Reed spoke, and his words held them in place.

From the shadowed ruins of Craster's Keep, four figures emerged.

Jon Targaryen stepped forward, firelight catching in his eyes, his gaze set with unwavering determination.

At his side, Daenerys Targaryen walked close, her expression calm yet resolute, quiet purpose etched into her features.

Close behind them, Brandon the Builder, solemn and steady.

And Samwell Tarly, pale but steadfast.