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Chapter Text

Erntezeit 16th​, 2522

Robb's heart pounded in his chest as he stared up at Bran, a dark speck clinging to the side of the Great Watchtower, high above the courtyard adjacent to the First Keep. The winds howled, tugging at his brother's small frame, but Bran only climbed higher, fingers finding purchase where none should exist. He was fearless, just as their father was, but where their father had been tempered by years of war and wisdom, Bran was all reckless energy.

"Bran, for Ulric's sake, get down from there!" Robb's voice was tight with worry, his fists clenched at his sides. He could barely believe how high the boy had climbed, like a creature of the forest rather than the son of a lord. There was no mistaking his agility, though, he moved with the grace of a forest goblin or one of those monkeys from Araby that Robb had seen once, displayed by a traveling menagerie. But this wasn't a jest, and the danger was all too real.

"I'm fine!" Bran's voice echoed down, defiant and distant. His face turned to give his older brother a grin, but just as quickly, his foot slipped, and he was gone.

Robb's shout tore from his throat, raw and desperate. "No!" But, it was too late. Bran plummeted, limbs flailing in the open air. For a heartbeat, Robb saw nothing but the end... his brother broken on the stones below, blood seeping into the ancient cracks.

But then, in the blink of an eye, Bran's form shimmered, blurred, and an amber light engulfed him. It was as if the very wind caught him up, cradling him, and then, impossibly, Bran was no more. In his place, a great eagle, wings spread wide as five men were tall, soared through the air. Robb's breath caught in his throat as the magnificent bird wheeled in a graceful arc, the sun gleaming off its golden-brown feathers.

The eagle circled once, then twice, before it swooped down to land on the cold stone floor of the courtyard. As its talons touched down, another flash of amber light flared, and there was Bran again, hunched over, panting, his hands splayed against the ground, supporting his weight. His face was pale, eyes wide with shock and the raw thrill of what he had done.

"It'll be alright," came a calm, assured voice. Robb turned to see the Celestial Magister stepping out from the shadows, his blue robes billowing around him like the night sky itself. He moved with a quiet grace, his long white hair catching the breeze as he knelt beside Bran. The Magister's hand rested gently on the boy's head, tilting it up to meet his gaze.

"Remarkable," the Magister murmured, his voice filled with wonder. He studied Bran's face intently, as if searching for something hidden deep within. "You're a natural, and untainted... most of the Amber Order cannot achieve such a transformation until they are on the verge of graduating to journeyman. And to do so, to change back so swiftly..." He shook his head, almost in disbelief.

Bran looked up at the Magister, his breath still ragged, eyes bright with fear and exhilaration. "What… what happened?"

"You tapped into the Brown Wind, Ghur," the Magister said softly. "It's a rare gift, boy. The spirits of the wild are strong within you."

Robb's knees felt weak as he watched the scene unfold. He should have been relieved... Bran was alive, unbroken... but there was something terrifying in what he had just witnessed. Magic was not a thing to be trifled with, especially not here, in the heart of Ulric's domain. His mother's voice echoed in his mind, full of the caution she always spoke with when the subject of magic arose. But his father had always been different, more accepting of the mysteries of the world. And now…

The magister turned to Robb, his eyes sharp and penetrating. "He must be trained," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "If left unchecked, this power could consume him. The Amber College in Altdorf will take him in. I will ensure he is guided and protected."

Robb swallowed hard; his throat dry. He looked down at Bran, still pale, still trembling, but alive. "Father… Father will want to know," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

"And he will," the magister replied. "But the boy's path is set, whether your father agrees or not. This is no small thing, young Stark. Magic is both a blessing and a curse. We must hope it brings more of the former than the latter."

Robb nodded, though his heart was heavy. He knelt beside Bran, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You'll be alright, Bran. We'll figure this out." But even as he spoke, he couldn't shake the fear that had taken root inside him. The fear that nothing in Winterfell would ever be the same again.

Winter, Bran's direwolf pup, trotted up to his master, nudging him with a cold nose, as if to check if he was truly whole. Storm, Robb's own wolf, was not far behind, circling the scene with a quiet, protective growl in his throat.

It was as if the Magister's words had broken some spell of fear that had gripped the courtyard, for suddenly, a flurry of guards and servants rushed forward, their faces pale, eyes wide, all clamoring to see if the young lord was unharmed.

Robb, still reeling from what he had witnessed, grabbed the arm of one of the guards. "Sergeant, go to my father. Tell him what's happened here. We'll meet him in his solar."

The sergeant, a grizzled veteran with a scar running down one cheek, nodded sharply. "Yes, my lord." He turned on his heel to leave when the Magister's voice, cold and commanding, stopped him in his tracks.

"Tell him to summon all his children," the Magister added, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And his lady wife too." The way he tacked on Catelyn at the end, as if she were an afterthought, sent a shiver down Robb's spine.

"Yes, Magister," the sergeant said, before hurrying off.

Robb turned to the Magister, confusion tightening his chest. "Why all of my siblings? Rickon is only six. He hardly needs to be present for a discussion like this."

The Magister's gaze was unreadable, his eyes dark beneath the shadow of his hood. "If one child has the gift, the others may too. They all must be examined."

Robb's unease deepened. The Magister's midnight blue robes, adorned with the symbols of stars, twin-tailed comets, and moons, seemed to sway ominously in the breeze, far more sinister than they had appeared just moments before. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable, something that had only just begun to stir.

They soon found themselves in his father's solar, the warm glow of the hearth doing little to dispel the tension that hung thick in the air.

"Lord Stark," the Magister intoned with a deep bow as they entered.

Ned Stark, seated behind his heavy oak desk, frowned deeply. "Magister Solmann, when you arrived in Winterfell three days past, I asked what brought you here from your observatory in Volganof. You said the stars led you, that and a bright destiny." He spoke slowly, each word measured. The implication was clear: Ned did not view the Magister's visit with the same optimism.

"A bright destiny indeed," Solmann replied, seemingly oblivious to the frost in Ned's tone. "Two young heroes of noble blood, fated for the Colleges, destined to be Magisters and to do great deeds in the name of the Empire."

"Two?" Ned's eyes sharpened, his voice taking on an edge. "Who else?"

"We will see," the Magister said with a mysterious smile, "and soon."

As if on cue, the heavy door to the solar creaked open, and Catelyn Stark swept into the room, her red hair catching the light like embers. Behind her, Sansa followed, a slightly smaller mirror image of her mother, with the same striking red hair and fair skin. Arya trailed behind, her dark hair tousled, eyes darting around the room with a mix of curiosity and defiance. Little Rickon, barely past his sixth year, clung to Catelyn's skirts, wide-eyed and silent. A rather unusual condition for the rambunctious lad.

Catelyn's eyes found Bran immediately, and with a cry, she rushed to him, gathering him into her arms. "Oh, Bran! Is it true?" Her voice was thick with worry, her hands fluttering over him, checking for injuries as if he might really be broken from his fall.

Bran, still dazed from the ordeal, could only nod, his face pale against his mother's vibrant hair. He looked to his father, then to the Magister, the weight of what had happened beginning to sink in.

Ned watched them, his jaw tight, but his eyes softened as he took in the sight of his wife and children gathered before him. "Catelyn," he said quietly, and she looked up at him, her worry mirrored in his gaze. "There is more to this than we first thought."

The Magister stepped forward, his presence commanding attention. "Lady Stark, your son Bran possesses a rare and powerful gift. And he may not be the only one. I must examine your other children. If they, too, bear the mark of the winds, they must be trained... properly, and at once."

Catelyn's eyes widened, her grip tightening on Bran. "What are you saying? You can't just take them. They're children…my children!"

Ned's voice cut through her rising panic. "Catelyn, listen to him."

"But, Ned…"

"I know," he said, his voice strained. "But if the boy has this power… we can't afford to ignore it."

Catelyn's breath hitched, but she nodded, her gaze flicking to Sansa, Arya, and Rickon, as if seeing them in a new, frightening light. "Do what you must, Magister," she said, though her voice trembled.

The Magister approached Sansa first, placing a long-fingered hand on her head, closing his eyes in concentration. The room fell silent, the only sound the crackling of the fire. After a moment, he pulled back, a faint smile on his lips. "She is untouched by magic," he said, and Catelyn let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

Next, he moved to Arya. The girl stood her ground, eyes fierce, almost daring the Magister to find something. His hand barely brushed her head before he paused, his brow furrowing. He stayed like that for a long moment, then slowly withdrew his hand.

"She has the gift," he announced, his voice tinged with something like admiration. "The Grey Wind...Ulgu, runs through her veins. She must be trained at the Grey College in Altdorf."

Catelyn gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "No… not Arya. Not the shadows!"

Ned's expression darkened, but he said nothing.

Finally, the Magister came to Rickon. The boy looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes, and the Magister hesitated, as if reluctant to touch such innocence. But he laid his hand on Rickon's head nonetheless. A few tense moments passed, and then the Magister stepped back, shaking his head.

"He is untouched," Solmann said softly, and Catelyn sagged with relief.

But the relief was short-lived, overshadowed by the weight of what had just been revealed. Two of her children marked by magic, their futures uncertain, their paths now entwined with the dangerous and often deadly world of the Colleges.

Ned rose from his seat, his face as hard as stone. "What now, Magister?"

Solmann met his gaze steadily. "Now, they must come with me to Altdorf. There, they will learn to control their gifts. If they do not…"

He didn't need to finish. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air, a promise of the darkness that could come if these powers were left to fester unchecked.

Catelyn clutched Bran and Arya to her, as if she could somehow protect them from the world that was closing in around them. But she knew, deep down, that this was only the beginning.

"What of me? And Jon?" Robb's voice was steady, but underneath, a storm brewed. The idea of being passed over gnawed at him, though he couldn't say why.

The magister's eyes flicked to him, cold and calculating. "I have had more than enough contact with the two of you to determine you are untouched," he said with a finality that left no room for argument.

Robb felt a surge of relief, but he kept his face impassive, not wanting to betray his feelings in front of Bran and Arya. Thank the gods, he thought, but he swallowed the words, knowing they would sound far too callous before his siblings who had found themselves not so blessed.

His father's voice cut through his thoughts. "We'll take three riverboats down the Talabec," Ned said, his tone all business. "I'll escort you with a hundred of my best men, knights and greatswords both."

Robb's heart sank. He had dreamed of marching alongside his father once more this season, of proving himself in battle, not being left behind while the world changed around him. But before he could dwell on it, his father's next words came like a hammer blow.

"Robb, you'll have to lead the campaign against the Greenskins raiding from the World's Edge Mountains." Ned's eyes locked onto his, steady and unwavering. "I want you to draw me up a plan for your campaign by morning. Worst case scenario, these raiders are the vanguard of a fearsome new Waaagh."

Robb nodded, the weight of the responsibility settling on his shoulders. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air heavy. He had followed his father into battle the last two campaign seasons, but leading was a different matter. His thoughts raced with the enormity of the task. A Waaagh? The word alone was enough to chill his blood. He forced himself to meet his father's gaze. "Yes, Father," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ned turned to Catelyn, his expression softening slightly. "You'll have to hold the fort while he's away and manage the city."

Catelyn's face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. But she nodded, her eyes betraying the turmoil inside her.

Then Ned turned to Sansa, and his voice grew gentle. "I'm sorry I'll have to miss your name day." It was just a handful of days hence. He paused, regret heavy in his tone. "Thirteen... it's an important milestone. Be sure to help your mother."

"Yes, Father." Sansa's voice was quiet, her eyes downcast, hiding whatever thoughts she might be having.

"And Jon will come with me." Ned's words came suddenly, unexpectedly, and Robb's heart lurched in his chest. Jon?

Robb's mouth dropped open, a mix of surprise and something darker bubbling up inside him. Why Jon? A thrill of envy shot through him, bitter and sharp. But Ned wasn't finished.

"He wants to join the Knights of the White Wolf," Ned continued, his tone thoughtful. "He believes his wolf Frost is a sign from Ulric." He nodded, as if confirming something in his own mind. "I agree with him."

Robb's envy turned to a dull sadness. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut... if Jon went to the White Wolves, he would be gone, a part of his life ripped away. They had always been close, despite everything. Would he ever see Jon again? The thought was unbearable.

"You'll have to drop him off in Middenheim on your way back," the magister interjected, his voice cutting through the tension. "To detour there on our way to Altdorf would take too long."

"Understandable," Ned agreed, his tone contemplative, as if the logistics of the journey were all that mattered.

Robb stood there, silent, the world shifting around him, decisions being made that he had no control over. His father, Bran, Arya, and now Jon…all being swept away by forces larger than them all. And Robb was left behind, not untouched, but changed nonetheless. He could feel the burden of responsibility pressing down on him, the knowledge that his life was no longer his own. He would lead, he would fight, but in his heart, he knew things would never be the same again.

"I... I should go consult with the Master of Arms," Robb said, his voice steady but his mind already racing. Sir Rodrik Cassel had been a pillar of strength in Winterfell for as long as he could remember, a man who had served the Starks since his grandfather's time. If anyone could help him make sense of the chaos that had just been thrust upon him, it was Sir Rodrik. The old knight had forgotten more about war than most men ever learned, and if Robb was going to burn the midnight oil drawing up a campaign plan, he wanted no one else at his side.

"A wise decision," his father said, nodding in approval. Then, after a pause, he added, "Have someone fetch your brother. He needs to be informed."

"Yes, Father." Robb gave a brief bow and headed out, the weight of his new responsibilities already pressing down on him. He passed the guards stationed outside the solar, two greatswords, two handgunners, and two halberdiers. They were all decked in steel helmets and breast and backplates, armed with the best weapons coin could buy. The sight of them should have been reassuring, but instead, it only reminded him of the battles to come, the bloodshed that awaited him.

As he turned the corner at the end of the stone hall, he saw Jon loitering there, as he had hoped. Jon had obviously caught wind of something important happening and was waiting, as always, on the outskirts, never quite part of the family, but never fully apart from it either.

Jon was dark of hair, with the angular features that marked him as his father's son, though his complexion was a bit darker than the rest of them, a legacy of his half-Tilean, half-Arabyan mother. Robb knew Jon's resemblance to their father, was part of the reason for his mother's distaste, though she would never say it outright.

"Is it true?" Jon asked breathlessly, his grey eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement. "Did Bran turn into an eagle? Is he going to Altdorf to become a wizard?"

Robb hesitated, taking in Jon's eager expression. He knew how much his half-brother longed to be seen as more than a bastard, to have a destiny of his own. But this was no destiny Robb would wish on anyone, not even his worst enemy. He sighed, running a hand through his auburn hair, feeling older than his sixteen years.

"It's true," Robb said finally, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "Bran... he's different now. And Arya too. The magister says they have the gift, and they're to be taken to Altdorf, to the Colleges."

Jon's face fell, his excitement dimming into something darker. "And me?" he asked quietly, the question hanging between them like a blade.

Robb shook his head. "The magister says you're untouched," he replied, trying to keep his voice gentle. "Father is taking you to Middenheim. He thinks Frost is a sign from Ulric, and he's going to bring you to the Knights of the White Wolf."

Jon's eyes flickered with something Robb couldn't quite read... relief, perhaps, or maybe sadness. "And you?" Jon asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I stay here," Robb said, the bitterness creeping back into his tone. "Father's given me command of the campaign against the Greenskins raiding from the World's Edge Mountains. I'm to draw up a plan by morning."

Jon's hand came to rest on his shoulder, a gesture of solidarity that said more than words ever could. "You'll do well, Robb," Jon said, his voice firm with conviction. "You're strong, and you're smart. Father wouldn't trust you with this if he didn't believe in you."

Robb forced a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "And you'll make a fine knight," he said, clapping Jon on the back, trying to inject some levity into his voice. But inside, all he could think of was the coming storm... the Greenskins, the dangers of Altdorf, the weight of Winterfell... and how nothing would ever be the same again.

Chapter Text

Robb bid Jon farewell, watching his half-brother disappear down the well-lit corridor toward their father's solar. A pang of sadness touched his heart. Jon had always been a brother to him in truth, no matter what his mother said. But there was no time to linger on his departure now. The weight of Winterfell pressed down on him, and there were duties that needed attending.

He walked through the formidable stone halls of the Great Keep, where the clatter of armor and the murmur of voices filled the air. The castle bustled with life; servants, guards, page boys, and messengers darted to and fro, each absorbed in their tasks. Scribes hunched over printed books and old parchment scrolls, and priests murmured prayers as he passed them by.

Outside, the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the ancient stone walls, illuminating the throng of people that filled the courtyard. Winterfell was more than just a castle, it was a city in miniature, a town in its own right, housing two thousand, sevent hundred souls. Below, in Winter Town, thirty thousand more lived in the shadow of its walls, but for a castle, it was impressive.

Pride was a dangerous flaw, Robb knew, one that could lead a man down the darkest of paths. But none could deny that Winterfell rivaled the castles of some of the lesser Elector Counts and Bretonnian Dukes. The Great Keep stood tall and imposing, its stone walls thick and unyielding, by itself the equal of many castles ruled by nobles of note. Taal's Wood, sacred to the God of Nature, spread out over three acres, a rare sight within castle walls. The First Keep, an enormous, squat, round drum tower, housed the heart of Winterfell's administration.

Within its walls were the offices of Sir Rodrik Cassel, Master of Arms and State Troop Lieutenant General. Sir Rodrik was the man who commanded Winterfell's forces when Lord Stark was away, a role and rank that Robb would soon take on himself. The thought both thrilled and terrified him. One day, he would inherit his father's titles, but he hoped that day would be far off.

The First Keep was a hive of activity, filled with the offices of line officers, supply officers, artillery commanders, and army engineers. Accountants and secretaries worked tirelessly, filling reams of paper with their calculations and reports. The Steward and the Master of Coin had their quarters here as well, as did their staff, managing the lifeblood of Winterfell, its finances and resources.

Robb arrived at Sir Rodrik's office and knocked on the solid oak door. "Come in," the old knight's gruff voice called from within.

Robb pushed the door open and stepped inside. Sir Rodrik sat behind a heavy wooden desk; a map of the Stark domain and its bordering territories spread out before him. Though the heart of their power was Winterfell and Winter Town, all of Ostermark that lay between the Upper Talabec and the Braunwasser, much of the Gryphon Wood and all of the fertile grasslands of the Veldt were theirs. Nearly a fourth of the province, the whole of its northeast.

Sir Rodrick's hair was white, his face weathered and lined, not just with the wrinkles of age, but with scars earned in battle. His eyes though were sharp as ever. They narrowed as they took in Robb's expression.

"What's the matter, boy?" Sir Rodrik asked, his tone as gruff as his voice.

Robb sighed, running a hand through his auburn hair. "Bran and Arya… they're touched by the winds," he said heavily. "Father will be escorting them to Altdorf and the Colleges. He's placed me in command of the campaign against the Greenskins. He wants a plan by morning."

Sir Rodrik leaned back in his chair, his eyes studying Robb closely. "A heavy burden," he said, not unkindly. "But one you've been prepared for. What are you thinking?"

Robb stepped forward, resting his hands on the edge of the desk as he looked down at the map. The northeastern territories stretched out before him. The Veldt and the lands bordering the Talabec were rich and lush, but the forest and hills were harsh, unforgiving lands, home to hardy folk and dangerous foes. The World's Edge Mountains loomed in the distance, the source of the Greenskin raids that had plagued their lands.

"I say we give them the fight they're looking for," Robb said, his voice firm. "We draw them into the open, where our forces can meet them head-on. Use the terrain to our advantage, force them into the narrow passes, where their numbers count for less."

Sir Rodrik nodded slowly; his expression thoughtful. "A sound strategy," he said. "But remember, boy, the Greenskins are like a storm. They come fast and hit hard, but they're undisciplined. If you can weather the storm, you can break them."

Robb met the old knight's gaze, determination hardening in his chest. "Then I'll make sure our men are ready," he said. "We'll break them, Sir Rodrik. We'll break them, and send them running back to their holes in the mountains."

Sir Rodrik smiled, a rare sight on his stern face. "Good lad," he said, clapping Robb on the shoulder. "Now, let's get to work. We've got a battle to plan."

"First things first, boy. How many men do you have? How are they armed? Supplied?" Sir Rodrik Cassel's questions came rapid and sharp, like the snap of a whip.

"Ten regiments of foot, all state troops, reinforced to full strength," Robb answered, his voice steady. "Each regiment is split into three battalions of five hundred fifty men. Three hundred of them are armed with polearms, two hundred fifty with matchlock muskets. Depending on the regiment, those polearms could be halberds or pikes, seven are armed with the former, three with the latter. They're equipped with steel helmets, breast and backplates, with shortswords as backup weapons. Altogether, it comes to sixteen and a half thousand infantry."

"And the cavalry?" Sir Rodrik pressed, his gaze never wavering.

"Two regiments of pistoliers," Robb continued. "Each regiment made of three companies of five hundred, split into ten squadrons of fifty. Light cavalry, wearing half plate and armed with a brace of wheellock pistols, a light lance, and a slashing sword. A regiment of men-at-arms, organized the same as the pistoliers. Full suits of plate and shield, armed with heavy lances, maces, hammers, or swords, and perhaps a pistol on the side. As their officers and even many of their rank and file are knights, they rank higher than the pistoliers. It can be good or bad depending on who is in command. Sir Manderly is quite competent, so for now, it's a positive. All in all, forty-five hundred cavalry."

"Artillery?"

"Four batteries of demi-culverin guns, six per battery, throwing ten-pound shot. A hundred men to the battery, with another hundred fifty engineers to round out the battalion. When the engineers aren't overseeing construction or demolition, they assist the regimental quartermasters with logistics and supply. Altogether, it's an army of twenty-one thousand five hundred and fifty men."

"A very exact number that," Sir Rodrick said. "Is that really how many folk you'll march out with?"

"No," Robb shook his head. "I'll have a troop of personal guards led by your son, Jory. And of course, camp followers can swell that number far too much if you let them and slow the whole army down. A good commander makes sure they're limited to those actually needed. Priests and priestesses for guidance, spiritual protection and healing. Then mundane doctors, washerwomen, and cooks." The latter two often went beyond their mundane labor, seeing to the men's physical needs, though Robb left that unsaid. "And a wizard, if you can get one, is always helpful."

Sir Rodrik gave a slight nod of approval. "So, you've mastered the basics. Now comes the important part, how to get that force where you need it to be, when you need it to be there."

"Discipline and organization are the keys to a rapid march," Robb said confidently. "If you don't have that, you won't get anywhere fast. The pistoliers should be out screening our force to prevent unpleasant surprises. Keeping them restrained is vital. If they go haring off looking for glory, they could leave us vulnerable and get us blindsided by an army we didn't see coming."

"Good," Sir Rodrik said, his voice gruff but approving. "What else?"

"We'll need to send messages to our vassals on the outskirts of the Mountains, instructing them to send out their own scouts. And we should contact the Slayer Keep. The dwarfs could be of great help. They likely already know much more about this horde than we do."

Sir Rodrik's eyes gleamed with a hint of pride. "A wise move. The dwarfs are stubborn and proud, but they're unmatched in matters of war, especially when it comes to Greenskins. Earning their trust will be no easy task, but if you manage it, you'll have a powerful ally." He paused, "you can't just assume they will do as you ask because you are Lord Eddard's son though, you are young, especially in their eyes and will have to prove yourself."

Robb nodded, his thoughts racing. The responsibility of leading men into battle weighed heavily on his shoulders, but he knew he couldn't show weakness. Not now. "I'll send word immediately," he said. "And I'll make sure our men are ready to move at a moment's notice."

"See that you do," Sir Rodrik said, his tone firm. "War is an unforgiving teacher, but you've learned well so far. Now, it's time to put those lessons into practice. Winter is coming, Robb. And so is war."

Robb quickly dictated the messages, watching as they were sealed and sent off by the waiting couriers. With that done, the real work began.

He and Sir Rodrik Cassel dove into the records, dusting off old ledgers and parchment scrolls that had been stored away in desks and on bookcases across the breadth and depths of the First Keep.

The two of them pored over lists of supplies, counting every last barrel of gunpowder, every bushel of grain, and every crate of shot. The numbers were mind-numbing, the sheer volume of calculations enough to make any man's head spin, but Robb pressed on. This was the foundation of any successful campaign, and it had to be solid.

They calculated what was needed for the campaign, noting the shortfalls and sending out orders to the merchants in Winter Town. Every coin was accounted for, every purchase weighed against their budget. There was no room for error. A single miscalculation, something lacking when it was needed, could mean disaster in the field.

Then there were the maps. Robb and Sir Rodrik spread them across a long oak table, tracing out the best routes of advance with a practiced eye. They plotted alternate paths, routes that could be taken if the main road was blocked by enemy forces or treacherous weather. They examined the terrain for potential ambush sites, marking those they could use to their advantage as well as those that could be used against them. Lines of retreat were drawn as well, a grim acknowledgment that not every battle would be won.

Time tables were laid out, calculating the speed and length of their march, the distance they could cover in a day, the time it would take to move the entire army from one point to another and then build a fortified camp at the end. It was an exhausting task, requiring a precision that left Robb's head throbbing.

The hours bled away as they worked, afternoon slipping into evening, then into the dead of night. They paused only briefly, just long enough to wolf down some bread and cheese, to quench their thirst with some light ale, and to relieve themselves before returning to the task at hand. The room was lit by flickering candlelight and oil lamps, the shadows stretching long and dark across the walls.

By the time they were finished, the first light of dawn was creeping through the narrow windows of the First Keep. Robb's eyes were gritty with exhaustion, his muscles stiff from hours spent hunched over the maps and ledgers. But when he finally gathered up the plans and marched down to his father's solar, he felt a surge of pride. They had done it! Every detail, every contingency accounted for.

Ned Stark was waiting for him, sitting behind his desk with a cup of steaming tea. He looked up as Robb entered, his expression unreadable. Robb laid the plans before him, bound in a leather journal, watching as his father turned to the first page and began to read.

For a long moment that stretched out into half an hour, the only sound was the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft rustle of the paper as Ned studied the plans. Robb stood at attention, his heart pounding in his chest. Finally, his father looked up, a faint smile touching his lips.

"You've done well, Robb," he said quietly. "This is a sound plan."

The weight that had been pressing down on Robb's shoulders lifted slightly. "Thank you, Father," he replied, his voice rough with fatigue.
Ned nodded, closing the finely bound book and placing it in a draw in his desk. Then he reached back and picked up Ice from where it stood in its sheath, propped up against the bookcase behind him. He held it out to his son.

"If you're riding to war and command, you'll need to take this with you," his father said.

Robb gaped, "but..." he started to object.

"No, Robb. Travel may be dangerous," an understatement if there ever was one. "But war is far more so. Take it."

He reached out and took it in his hands. It felt solid though lighter than it should be at its size, six feet tall and wide across as a grown man's hand. Forged by the smiths of the Slayer Keep over four hundred years ago. It had only two runes, compared to the three of the imperial runefangs, but it was nonetheless a legendary blade, bearing the runes for Ice and Fire.

"Rest now, son. You'll need your strength in the days to come," his father said gently.

Robb nodded, but as he left the solar, his mind was already racing ahead. The campaign was just beginning, and there would be no rest until it was won.

Chapter Text

Erntezeit 17th​, 2522

The wooden docks creaked underfoot as Catelyn Stark held Bran and Arya close, the cold rush of the Upper Talabec echoing the turmoil in her heart. The afternoon bell had just rung, marking a full day since the news had shattered her world. A day spent in dread; each moment more harrowing than the last.

Her arms tightened around her children, as if by sheer force of will she could prevent the inevitable. They would leave Winterfell, leave her, and venture into a world where she could not protect them. The Magister's words had been laced with promises of greatness, of future Magisters, of deeds that would echo through the annals of history. But to Catelyn, those words were laced with poison.

Magic. The very word sent a chill down her spine. The Empire might cloak it in legitimacy, the Colleges might teach it, the Grand Theogonist might grudgingly sanctify Imperial wizards with his blessing, but it was still magic. Dangerous, unpredictable, and all too often a gateway to horrors beyond imagination. The Elves had mastered it, true, but they were not men. They did not suffer the same weaknesses of flesh and spirit.

Catelyn's fear was primal, deep-rooted in the teachings of Sigmar and the wisdom passed down through generations. Magic was a tool of the gods, not of men. And those who dared to wield it walked a perilous path. She feared for Bran and Arya's lives, but even more, she feared for their souls. In the shadowed halls of the Colleges, death was but one of many fates. Far worse were the specters of madness, mutation, and damnation.

Catelyn had spent much of the previous night in the small Sigmarite chapel, her refuge since first arriving in Ostermark. Built by one of her husband's ancestors for visiting dignitaries from the southern and western provinces, it had always been a place of solace, but never had she needed its quiet strength more than now. Kneeling before the ancient altar, she had prayed fervently to Sigmar Heldenhammer, seeking his protection for her children. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the stone walls, but in her heart, she felt the warmth of his presence, a faint glimmer of hope amidst the encroaching darkness. She prayed with all that she was that that light would extend to and cover her children.

Sansa had joined her for a time, the girl's delicate hands clasped in prayer beside her mother. But as the night wore on, sleep had begun to claim her, and Catelyn had sent her off to bed, leaving her alone in the chapel. Alone, save for her fears.

The elderly priest had been there too, his frail voice offering quiet reassurances until age got the better of him, though he had long since ceased to be of much comfort. When she first arrived in Ostermark, she had been disappointed to find him more a diplomat than a man of zealous faith, his role more that of an ambassador and mediator between the disparate creeds of the land rather than a missionary for Sigmar's truth. But after all these years, she understood. The people here were bound to Ulric in their very bones. Their faith was not something that could be argued or debated, but a deep, ancient thing, woven into the very fabric of their lives.

As Catelyn stood now on the wooden docks, the cool river breeze brushing against her, she clung tightly to Bran and Arya, her prayers to Sigmar echoing in her heart. The Upper Talabec flowed past, its wide, swift current necessitating the use of a ferry to reach Kislev on the upper bank. The onion shaped domes of the Kislivite town of Posledniy Port across the water looked hazy in the midafternoon light. Posledniy and Winter Town's ports lay at the last bastion of navigable water for the great river ships of the Empire before the wilderness upriver.

Her husband had commandeered one of the Imperial Fleet's river gunboats, a formidable vessel bristling with swivel carronades, and secured two swift merchant ships to accompany them. The decks of these ships were packed with men, supplies, and the promise of security. Even now men were carrying aboard newly purchased carronades for installation on the merchant ships accompanying them. No firepower was too much, no cost too great to safeguard their children.

Yet she knew that no amount of armament could truly safeguard them. The rivers, though the Empire's veins of trade and movement, were not impervious to danger. Even with a hundred seasoned soldiers at their side and a dozen cannons, the threat of disappearance loomed large. In the blink of an eye, an entire contingent could vanish into the mists or the treacherous woods that fringed the riverbanks.

"We need to go, Love," Eddard said, his voice gentle but firm, as he pried her fingers from her children, enveloped in her arms. Bran wide-eyed and trembling, brave Arya her face stoic, eyes fierce and determined. Catelyn's tears fell freely, staining her cheeks, and she clung to them as if they might vanish into the mist that oft shrouded the river.

"They'll be alright, Catelyn. They're clever and strong," Eddard said as he separated them, his voice a soft murmur meant to reassure, but the words barely penetrated the storm of her fears.

"I know," she choked out, her voice trembling. "But…"

He silenced her with a kiss, a lingering touch that spoke of promises and unspoken fears. The heat of his lips brought back the memory of last night, a night of desperation and desire. In the quiet darkness of their chamber, she had been insatiable, driven by a need for him to remember her, to reaffirm their bond. She had yearned for him to feel the same urgency, to mark her womb with his presence once more.

"Remember me," she had whispered, her breath mingling with his.

"Of course, my Love," he had replied, his smile a fleeting promise that could not anchor the tides of her anxieties.

Now, as he prepared to leave, the memory of that night burned in her mind. She was only three and thirty, still of childbearing age, or so she hoped though it had been six long years since her belly had swollen with Rickon. The prospect of bearing another child seemed both a distant hope and a desperate need, a way to cement their bond and fill the emptiness she feared would grow in his absence.

If only she could so sure of Ned's promises, that he would remember her and not seek outlets to fill that void. Her worries, however, were not with the dockside whores and the women who followed armies, ephemeral and forgettable. She had long resigned herself to the fact that these were the inevitable byproducts of a soldier's brutal life, unremarkable, transient, and ultimately insignificant. It was the women of Altdorf and Middenheim who truly plagued her thoughts. Noble ladies with their airs of refinement, rich burghers' daughters with their wealth and allure, and courtesans who masqueraded as paragons of both class and culture. These were the women who wielded not just their bodies but their charms and intellects as weapons. They were adept at ensnaring men of power, and Eddard, for all his strengths, was not immune.

She remembered Ashara Dayne, the Tilean beauty with her Arabyan heritage, who had left a mark on Eddard's life in a way she could not erase. The thought of Jon Snow, his existence a shadowy reminder of Eddard's past infidelities, gnawed at her. The boy was a living testament to Eddard's weakness, a complication in a marriage where she had hoped for unwavering fidelity.

Eddard, with his uncomplicated view of such matters, could not see the danger in mingling with these sophisticated temptresses. To him, they were but passing pleasures, unworthy of serious concern. He could not discern the difference between a woman of the streets and one of the courts, those who played with hearts and reputations like pawns on a chessboard. His Ulrican comrades thought nothing of such dalliances, and though most Sigmarite faithful viewed them with more severity, they considered them minor transgressions, so long as a man continued to support his wife and trueborn children.

But Catelyn understood. She knew too well the significance of loyalty and blood from her days growing up in the court of Averheim, a city where courtly politics were as lethal as they were intricate. Loyalty was not a mere word but a fortress in which one's honor and family were held safe. The serpentine games of court life, the shifting allegiances, and the sharp edges of betrayal were all too familiar to her. To her, Eddard's past sins were not just personal failures but potential threats to the stability and sanctity of her family.

As Eddard moved to board the waiting vessel, his presence a final, fleeting comfort, Catelyn's heart ached with the weight of her worries. The river's flow, swift and indifferent, seemed to mock her, carrying her fears away while she stood rooted in her dread. She watched as he stepped onto the boat, his figure growing smaller against the horizon, the finality of his departure pressing down upon her with a heavy, relentless force.

As the ship carrying Eddard and her children drifted away from the dock, Catelyn stood at the river's edge, her eyes fixed on the receding vessel. The figure of her husband, a steadfast silhouette against the shifting waters, gradually diminished in size, swallowed by the distance. Her children, Bran and Arya, stood on the deck, their small frames wavering as they waved their hands desperately, their cries lost to the wind. Their dire wolves, Winter and Myrmidia, bounded around with exuberant energy, their large forms stark against the wood, playing alongside Jon's own dire wolf, Frost. The three animals seemed to share a camaraderie of their own, their playful antics a fleeting distraction from the heartache that gripped her.

At just four months old, the dire wolves were already imposing creatures, their size rivaling the black butcher dogs of the burghers, those beastly guardians of shops and the city walls. They would grow even larger, becoming as sizeable as well-built ponies, or even horses, given the careful feeding and training they would receive. The thought of these fearsome, loyal creatures growing up with her children offered a small measure of comfort amidst her turbulent emotions. It was a fragile reassurance, a sliver of solace in the face of the uncertainties that lay ahead.

Jon Snow stood among the deck's figures, the older boy waving to Robb and Sansa besides her. His presence was a silent reminder of the complexities that marred her life. Despite his respectful demeanor and the propriety with which he had always conducted himself in her presence, Jon's very existence was a thorn in her side. His birth was an indelible mark of Eddard's infidelity, a constant reminder of a past she had been forced to accept.

Now, as the ship sailed further into the misty embrace of the Upper Talabec, Catelyn felt a pang of relief that Jon would be absent from Winterfell, though it was a bitter satisfaction. The reality of his place within their family was a wound she could never fully heal, a constant, silent insult she bore with stoic resolve.

As the last sight of Jon's figure waving eagerly dwindled into the distance, swallowed by the growing mist on the Upper Talabec, Catelyn felt a deep ache settle in her chest. The ship, now a mere shadow against the horizon, carried away her children and her husband, leaving her with only the churning river and the weight of her thoughts.

Turning away from the disappearing flotilla, she addressed Robb and Sansa, her voice a mixture of resolve and weariness. "Let's head back to Winterfell," she said, her eyes reflecting the overcast sky. "There's dinner to be had, and I'm certain Rickon must be brimming with questions."

The decision to leave Rickon behind had been necessary. The boy's curiosity and boundless energy would have been ill-suited for the rough and tumble of the port. Sansa's presence, though a strain, had been permitted only because of her heartfelt plea to see her siblings perhaps one last time. It was a fleeting concession, driven by the girl's elegant sorrow and her soft-spoken yearning.

Catelyn glanced at the bustling dockside, where the sailors and dockworkers, despite their lower station, maintained an appropriate respect for their betters. Yet the docks remained a perilous realm. The relentless bustle of labor, the shifting loads, and the treacherous waters posed a constant threat. One careless moment, a misplaced step, and disaster could befall even the most vigilant of onlookers. She shuddered to think of Rickon's fate amidst such danger; the boy's impulsiveness could have led him straight into harm's way.

With a final, lingering look at the distant ship, she turned back towards the castle, her steps heavy with the burden of parting. The comfort of Winterfell's stone walls seemed a far-off sanctuary from the storm of her fears.

Flanked by a dozen guards, Catelyn, Robb, and Sansa walked off the docks, their boots clapping against the weathered wood, the sounds swallowed by the ceaseless hum of the dock district. The air was thick with the scent of tar and fish, mingling with the sweat of laboring men and the sharp tang of fresh river water. The dockside thrummed with energy and industry, a world unto itself, cut off from the rest of Winter Town by the sturdy extensions of the city wall that jutted out into the Talabec. These walls, formidable and unyielding, ensured that the docks could not be taken by any force already on this side of the river. Should invaders somehow cross the swift waters and seize the docks, the connecting wall would still bar them from the heart of Winter Town, a final bulwark of defense.

Winter Town might have been only a third the size of Averheim, but it was nearly as well defended, if not more so in some ways. The walls, rising fifty feet high and half as thick, were crafted from stone quarried deep within the dwarfen mines of Karak Kadrin, the legendary Slayer Keep. Their granite faces were smoothed by centuries of wind and rain, yet they stood as firm as the mountains themselves. Lined with cannons that bore the mark of Nuln's master gunsmiths, the walls were a testament to the town's readiness for war. These were not mere fortifications; they were a declaration of defiance against the encroaching darkness that lay beyond the Empire's borders.

Catelyn allowed herself a moment of grudging admiration. The gates were made of thick oak, sheathed in bronze plates adorned with runes forged by a long-dead Runesmith of Karak Kadrin. These runes, etched with ancient secrets, were wards against the foul sorceries that had felled lesser towns. They were more than just gates, they were the legacy of an alliance between dwarf and man, a bond sealed in blood and stone. She recalled the gates of Averheim, fine and imposing in their own right, but these... these were something else entirely, a testament to a land where the threat of chaos was not just a distant menace, but a daily reality. One that could sweep through Kislev at any moment and arrive blood maddened at their door.

They mounted their horses, their guards forming a protective ring around them as they moved through the streets. Winter Town bustled around them, the people bowing their heads as the Lady Stark passed, though they kept a respectful distance. These were hardy folk, their lives bound to the rhythms of the Talabec and the relentless march of seasons. Yet even here, in this place of industry and toil, the shadow of the Northern Wastes loomed large. The walls of Winterfell, rising on the opposite side of the town, were a constant reminder of that looming threat.

Winterfell, the ancient seat of House Stark, was a fortress unlike any other she had witnessed. Only the electoral palaces of Nuln and Altdorf, which she had seen from the far distance of a river boat passing by on its way to bring her to Ostermark seemed to compare. The castle was built into the hill that overlooked the town, its outer walls towered eighty feet high, with inner walls that climbed even higher, a hundred feet of solid stone that had withstood countless sieges. Each wall was half as thick as it was tall, a mountain of stone that could resist the mightiest of assaults. The castle was not merely a residence; it was a bastion of the Empire's northern defenses, a citadel that had never been taken by force. In its shadow, Catelyn felt a fleeting sense of security, but it was quickly overshadowed by the knowledge of what lay beyond those walls. Goblins and orcs, foul Beastmen, and far worse things that the Empire's maps could not name.

As they rode up the Talabec Road through the city gates and toward the castle, the weight of Winterfell's ancient stones pressed down on her, a reminder of the legacy she had married into, and the peril her children now faced.

But as they passed through the gates and entered the city proper, the respect that had greeted them in the dock district evaporated like morning mist. The road leading into Winter Town was lined with taverns, inns, and brothels, all catering to the sailors and tradesmen that traveled the river. This afternoon their upper balconies and windows were teeming with harlots, eager for a glimpse of Lord Stark's heir. Catelyn had always known that this part of town had its share of whores, but she had never imagined they would be so brazen. They had not dared to utter a peep when their party had passed by on their way to the docks, cowed by her husband's presence. The respect they extended to their liege Lord, clearly did not extend to his southern wife.

The moment they spotted Robb, the women erupted into a cacophony of catcalls and lewd invitations. Dozens…no, scores of whores leaned out from the balconies, ripping open their blouses and thrusting their breasts into the open air, shaking them with shameless abandon. They shouted down promises of carnal pleasure, each one more explicit and vulgar than the last. The filth that poured from their mouths turned Catelyn's stomach, but it was clear the women knew their trade well. They spoke of things that would make even the most seasoned man-at-arms blush, their creativity in filth so staggering that even the soldiers escorting them, veterans of many hard campaigns, could not suppress their impressed smirks.

Poor Sansa was mortified, her face as red as a beet. She clutched the reins of her horse tightly, her knuckles white, as if she could will herself invisible. Robb, on the other hand, was not quite so affected. His face was flushed too, but it was not the pure embarrassment that colored Sansa's cheeks. There was something else mixed in with his mortification…a hint of curiosity, perhaps even desire.

He was a man grown now, in body and temperament, tasked with leading a great army against the Greenskin menace threatening Ostermark. Catelyn had feared for his life, but now she feared for his judgment with women. Her husband, at least, she could trust to treat camp followers and whores for what they were. Transient bedwarmers, an enjoyable diversion to the brutality of battle, to be forgotten the next morning. But Robb… Robb was different. He was a romantic, and Catelyn worried that he might fancy himself in love with the first harlot who threw herself at him and spread her legs.

These women, with their brazen smiles and open blouses, were not interested in love. They were interested in coin, and more than that, in the power that came from bedding a nobleman. Catelyn could already imagine the consequences, some whore with a belly full of noble bastard, angling for a position within one of Ostermark's most powerful families. The thought of it filled her with dread. A scandal like that could ruin Robb's reputation, undermine his authority, and bring shame to House Stark.

But how could she counsel him on such matters? He was hardly likely to listen to his mother's scolding on such a subject, especially not now when he was flush with the power and responsibility of command. Catelyn resolved to speak to Sir Rodrik Cassel. The old knight was seasoned in the ways of war, and he had seen enough of camp life to know the dangers that awaited a young lord with more heart than sense. If anyone could give Robb the guidance he needed, it would be Sir Rodrik. Robb might not heed his mother's words, but he might listen to the stern counsel of his father's most trusted man.

As they rode on, the catcalls gradually faded into the distance, but Catelyn's unease only grew. She had seen the way Robb had looked at those women, and she knew that her fears were not unfounded. The road ahead was fraught with dangers, and not all of them would come at the point of a Greenskin blade.

Chapter Text

Erntezeit 20th​, 2522

Bechafen lay over a hundred leagues downriver from Winter Town, a journey of three days by the swift current of the Talabec. The gunboat Undying Faith and its mercantile escorts made good time, their oars and sails devouring the miles with relentless efficiency. On the third afternoon, just as the sun began its slow descent behind the treetops, the flotilla pulled into the bustling river port of Bechafen.

The city loomed ahead of them, a compact mass of timber and stone, its seventy-six thousand souls packed tightly within walls of dwarf-cut granite. The buildings rose like towers, five, six, even seven stories tall, their wooden frames dark and weathered, but sturdy. The Slayer King of Karak Kadrin had gifted the city water-powered sawmills, and the constant churn of timber from the depths of the great forest fed the boatyards, where some of the finest river vessels in the Empire were laid down.

Ned had visited Bechafen a dozen times before, and each time he had been struck by the relentless thrum of industry that echoed through its streets. Here, men worked from dawn to dusk, their hands and minds bent to the task of crafting the ships that kept the lifeblood of the Empire flowing. The city was a testament to the alliance between men and dwarfs, its walls as formidable as those of Winter Town, a bulwark against the darkness that lay just beyond the borders of Ostermark.

On the deck of the Undying Faith, Jon, Bran, and Arya hung over the railing, their eyes wide with wonder as they took in the sight of the bustling port. The boatyards teemed with activity. Shipwrights and carpenters swarmed over half-built hulls, the sound of hammers striking nails and saws biting through wood filling the air. Barges and riverboats of every size and shape lined the docks, their crews shouting and cursing as they loaded and unloaded cargo. The smell of fresh-cut timber mixed with the tang of the river and the smoke from a hundred chimneys.

Bechafen was a place where the old and the new collided, where the traditions of the Empire were shaped and molded by the hands of men and dwarfs alike. Ned watched his children's faces as they took in the city's sights, their expressions a mixture of awe and excitement. This was a place of opportunity, of danger, of hard work and harder men. A place where they would learn more about the world beyond the walls of Winterfell than they ever could have imagined.

Or they would have if this was a normal trip. As the Undying Faith crept into Bechafen's bustling port, the afternoon sun began to cast long shadows across the wooden docks. The city sprawled before them, a haphazard jumble of timber and stone, rising like a phoenix from the river's edge. Lord Stark stood at the prow, his gaze sweeping over the densely packed buildings, his mind already assessing the dangers that lurked beyond the ship's rail.

He turned to Bran and Arya, who were peering eagerly over the side, their eyes wide with the promise of adventure. But Eddard Stark was not one to indulge in reckless enthusiasm. He knew all too well that the narrow, crowded streets of a city such as this held perils far beyond the ordinary. The magic that stirred within his children was as unpredictable as it was powerful, and in a place like Bechafen, fear could spark a response that even a seasoned Magister might struggle to contain. He had no desire to stir up the populace or to see his children's burgeoning powers set off a riot. The common folk were superstitious everywhere, and in a Sigmarite settlement even more so.

"Bran, Arya," he said firmly, cutting through their excitement. "You will stay aboard the ship. The city is too crowded and too unpredictable for you to be wandering its streets at this stage of your development."

Arya's face fell, and she opened her mouth to protest. "But I want to see the city," she insisted, her voice tinged with frustration. Bran stood beside her, nodding in agreement, his own disappointment evident.

"You may observe the docks, the boatyards, and the sawmills from here," Eddard replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The crew can lend you a spyglass if you like. You will have a view of the city's activity without the risk of wandering into danger." One of the sailors nearby gave him a nod, slapped a nearby compatriot and sent him off, no doubt to retrieve a spyglass for them.

Turning away from their pleading eyes, Eddard addressed Jon, who stood close by. "I'll be going into the city with Jon to pay my respects to Chancellor Hertwig. I'll keep the visit brief, but if he offers dinner, as is likely, I will have to accept. Nevertheless, I intend to set sail at first light tomorrow morning."

He glanced back at his children, who remained on the deck, disappointment etched into their young faces. He felt a pang of guilt but knew that the decision was necessary. In a city where danger lurked in every shadow, it was better to keep them safe aboard the ship than risk their well-being on the treacherous streets of Bechafen.

Eight seasoned greatswords formed a tight ring around Eddard Stark and his son, their eyes ever watchful as they navigated the bustling chaos of Bechafen. Jon Snow's dire wolf, Frost, padded silently beside them, his white fur standing out starkly against the cobbled streets of the city. The wolf's presence was both a shield and a statement, a reminder of the Stark family's power even in the heart of a city that despite its much greater population, felt to Eddard's seasoned eye, disappointingly compact compared to the sprawling fortress of Winterfell and the surrounding city of Winter Town.

A carriage, pulled by a team of sturdy horses, awaited them at the docks. The vehicle was little more than a simple conveyance, but it would suffice to transport them swiftly through the narrow, congested streets of Bechafen. Within half an hour, they had arrived at the keep, a stout stone fortress that, while tall and imposing, seemed dwarfed by the grandeur of Winterfell's expansive defenses. The keep's compactness, a hallmark of Bechafen's densely packed cityscape, spoke of a place more concerned with function than the imposing aesthetics of its northern counterpart.

They were led through a series of corridors, finally arriving in the great hall just as the evening meal was being laid out. The hall was buzzing with the anticipation of the evening's feast, the aroma of roasted meats and spiced wines mingling in the air. Eddard was introduced with the ceremonious flair befitting his numerous titles, each one announced with the weight of respect and expectation.

"Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Governor of Winter Town, Warden of the World's Edge Mountains, Viscount of the Veldt, and General of Imperial State Troops," the herald's voice rang out, each title rolling off his tongue like a chant of reverence. "Accompanied by his natural son, Jon Snow, and their dire wolf, Frost."

The hall fell into a respectful hush as the announcement was made, eyes turning to observe the Ulrican lord and his entourage. The nobles and rich burghers of the city gazing at him with respect and suspicion. Though Eddard had good personal relations with the Prince of Bechafen, born from ties formed on the battlefield, the long history of tension and occasional conflict between their families remained. After all, the Starks were by far the most powerful Ulrican family in a province that outside of Bechafen was wholly dedicated to the God of Winter, Wolves and War.

Banners of the Empire, Ostermark and the Hertwig dynasty hung from the walls aside Sigmarite paintings and iconography, flickering in the light of oil lamps reflected from polished bronze mirrors, casting long shadows over the faces of those gathered. Despite the fanfare, Eddard Stark's mind remained vigilant, aware of the delicate balance of politics and power that surrounded him. In this powerful capital, every gesture and word carried weight, and he was prepared to navigate the intricate web of diplomacy that awaited him within these walls.

"Lord Stark," the Chancellor of Ostermark, Wolfram Hertwig, greeted as he rose from the head of the long hardwood table, his voice carrying the weight of authority tempered with warmth. The Chancellor's hair and beard, once dark and lustrous, had turned to a wintery white, streaked with the burdens of years spent ruling. The former wild youth, now a meticulous and anxious man of fifty, extended his hand in welcome.

Eddard Stark, ever the stoic, made his way to take his hand and then the seat beside the Chancellor. His son Jon and the imposing dire wolf Frost remaining vigilantly behind him. The great hall was abuzz with the hum of conversation, the clinking of goblets, and the soft rustle of servants attending to the evening's feast.

"What brings you here with no advance notice?" Chancellor Hertwig inquired, his eyes narrowing with a mix of curiosity and concern. "Are the Greenskin raiders the harbingers of a grand Waaagh?"

"I hope not," Eddard replied, his tone even and measured. "As of now, we know little of their true strength and intentions. My visit is a mere courtesy while we are en route."

The Chancellor tilted his head, puzzled. "Passing through? To where? And why?"

"A Celestial Magister came to my court last week, seeking destiny. Four days ago, he found it. My son Bran has been touched by the Brown wind, and my daughter Arya by the Grey. I am escorting them to the colleges in Altdorf with all haste."

Wolfram slumped back into his seat, the weight of Eddard's words settling heavily on his shoulders. "My condolences, Eddard. I shall pray for their souls and their success in their studies."

"Thank you," Ned said simply, his gaze steady.

"What of the Greenskins?" The Chancellor's voice sharpened slightly, a flicker of worry crossing his features. "Did you assign Sir Cassel to deal with them, or is your son commanding the campaign?"

"I've given Robb command," Eddard answered, his pride evident despite the grave tone. "He is ready for it."

"As Sigmar wills," Wolfram murmured, though the words carried a note of resignation. "If he is successful, he will become quite the marriage prospect. A shame I have no daughters or nieces of age," he added, his voice tinged with annoyance. Whether his frustration stemmed from lost opportunities or the fear of a rival family gaining advantage, Eddard could not discern.

"What of conditions to the west and south?" Eddard inquired, his gaze steady and focused. "Anything that might hinder our river journey?"

Wolfram shrugged nonchalantly; the gesture half-hearted as if the weight of his office had made him weary of idle concerns. "The Beastmen are stirring. I am mustering an expedition to burn them out before they become a real menace. There are still several seasons before things turn truly perilous. If your son finds himself needing reinforcements against the Greenskins, I should be able to lend a hand."

Eddard nodded; his face grim. The Beastmen were a persistent blight on the Empire, a plague that seemed to defy all efforts to eradicate it. No matter how often they were slaughtered or driven back, they always re-emerged, as if mocking humanity's attempts to impose order on the world. He hoped Wolfram's expedition would commence without delay. The Beastmen had a knack for defying expectations and subverting well-laid plans, often striking when least anticipated.

"Then we shall hope your efforts bear fruit," Eddard said, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken worries. He turned his attention back to the feast, though his thoughts were far from the revelry. The relentless threats from the wilderness were but one more complication in an already fraught journey.

They talked for some time about the many threats that besieged Ostermark. The Greenskins, Beastmen, the ever-present menace of chaos. They spoke of the larger currents that shaped the Empire and its neighbors. Eddard listened closely as Wolfram detailed the Emperor's recent expedition to aid the dwarfs to the south, where a gathering Waaagh had been smashed with Imperial steel and Dwarfen axes. A few long-lost holds had been reclaimed, and though those holds were hardly the great ones of legends, several grudges had been wiped from the great book. It was a rare victory in a world that offered few and High King Thorgrim was said to be greatly pleased. To the north, raids from the Chaos Wastes into Kislev seemed no worse than usual, for which they could both thank the Gods. For now, the Empire held.

Their conversation eventually wound down, as such things do, and they turned their attention to the meal before them. The food was rich and well-prepared, a welcome change from the hard bread and dried meat that was often the fare of sailors on the move. Jon, seated on a stool beside Eddard, spent more time blushing at the attentions of a teasing serving girl than eating. She was a year or two older than him, with a knowing smile that suggested she had no shortage of experience in such games. Eddard noted how Jon's eyes lingered on her as she moved between the tables, a boy's infatuation clear as day.

But there was no time to linger. When the meal was finished, Eddard took his leave of the Chancellor, thanking him for his hospitality. The white moon Mannslieb was high in the sky by the time he, Jon, and their guards stepped out of the keep and began the walk back to the docks. The city was quieter now, the hustle and bustle of the day replaced by the murmurs of those who prowled the streets by night.

As they approached the docks, Eddard's keen eyes caught sight of something that gave him pause, a cheerfully disreputable establishment, its sign swinging gently in the evening breeze. The place was called The Underside, and the painted sign depicted a woman's bottom with her skirts flipped up, leaving little to the imagination. The message was clear: this was no ordinary tavern, but a house of pleasure, a place where men could drown their troubles in wine and flesh.

Eddard's mind turned over the possibilities. Jon's awkwardness with the serving girl had not gone unnoticed. He was at that age where a boy's thoughts turned to women, but Jon had no experience with the fairer sex, and Eddard knew how easily infatuation could lead to foolishness. Perhaps he had kept too close an eye on him and Robb when he had brought them on campaign with him these last two years. Better he learn the ways of the world now, in a controlled setting, than make a fool of himself at some future court or, worse, with some woman who might seek to take advantage of his inexperience.

Without a word, Eddard altered their course, leading Jon and the guards towards The Underside. Jon looked at him quizzically, but Eddard said nothing. There were lessons a man had to learn on his own, and this was one of them.

They passed through the doors, leaving the night and the world outside behind.

Chapter Text

The interior of The Underside was not what Ned Stark had expected. Instead of the dark and grimy den he had envisioned, he found a place that was both opulent and strangely inviting. In the center of the room stood a circular bar, polished to a gleaming finish, around which beautiful women of all body types and shades sat on stools carved with intricate designs. Their eyes, kohl-lined and knowing, followed every movement, some smiling in anticipation, others sipping goblets of wine and simply waiting for the night to unfold.

The walls were lined with booths, if you could call them that. Each was furnished with three thickly cushioned couches, arranged in a U-shape around two small, low tables bearing goblets and bottles of wine. The walls behind the booths were draped with finely woven carpets, and thick shag rugs covered the floors beneath their feet. Metal oil lanterns with cloudy glass panes hung from the walls, casting a steady, yet opaque light that illuminated the room more than he had expected. The effect was one of intimacy without the oppressive dimness he had feared.

Silk screens separated each booth from its neighbor, and more curtains could be drawn to close them off entirely from the central room if privacy was desired. It was a thoughtful design, one that suggested the patrons here were used to a degree of discretion. Staircases wound up along the left and right side walls to a row of private rooms above, where the real secrets of the night were likely kept.

As Ned, Jon, and their eight guards entered, a tall, thin man with skin the color of seasoned wood and close-cropped hair rose from his place at the bar and approached them. His movements were measured and smooth, almost serpentine in a way, and his eyes flicked to their livery and the dire wolf besides them, recognizing their status at once.

"Lord Stark." he began, his voice smooth as fresh butter, "Welcome to The Underside. I am Calvert. How may I assist you this evening?"

"We seek companionship," Ned said, his voice steady. "Someone who can take the boy in hand. And someone… interesting for me." His eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded the man. "Forgive me if I offend, but your skin is darker than any Arabyan I've ever seen. Where do you hail from?"

Calvert smiled, a flash of white teeth against his dark skin. "My father was native to the jungles of the Southlands, far beyond Araby," he explained, his tone easy and practiced. "Through a convoluted series of events, he found himself in Tilea, where he joined a regiment of renown. That regiment was later hired for an Imperial campaign, and it was then and there that my father met my mother." He spread his hands in a gesture that was almost a shrug. "The rest, as they say, is history."

"Interesting," Ned mused, his mind turning over this information. Despite being half-Imperial, Calvert's skin was darker than any man Ned had ever met. There was an exoticness about him that matched the place he managed.

"But enough about me," Calvert continued, smoothly redirecting the conversation. "I believe I have just the two girls for you. Would you prefer a booth or a pair of private room upstairs?"

"A booth," Ned decided. He wanted to keep an eye on Jon, to observe how the boy handled himself in such a situation. Jon's wide-eyed expression, a mix of shock and curiosity, told him all he needed to know. The boy may need guidance, and Ned intended to be on hand to offer it if necessary.

Calvert led Ned and Jon to one of the more secluded booths, draped with silk and dappled light cast by the lanterns hanging above. The man bowed slightly before leaving them, promising to return with two women who would suit their needs. Ned took the opportunity to address his men.

"Six of you, stay here and watch over the booth," he commanded, his voice low but firm. "The other two can seek entertainment elsewhere. Switch out as needed until we're finished." His men grinned at the prospect, eager to enjoy the pleasures of the establishment.

Calvert returned swiftly, two young women in tow. "A woman to take the boy in hand, and a maid for you, Lord Stark," he said, his tone respectful but with a hint of knowing amusement. "Though before you begin there is the matter of payment," he said, voice becoming more serious. "A booth, wine, an experienced beauty and a delicate maid, that all comes up to a crown and half. And of course the girls will expect a tip at the end for their hard work."

Eddard dug into his money punch and passed the ponce his coin. 'Pricey, but reasonable if he's telling the truth,' he thought.

With a practiced hand, Calvert pocketed the money and ushered the women into the booth and drew the silk curtain, sealing them off from the rest of the room. The light played softly off the walls, casting a warm, sensual glow over the scene.

The girl who took the seat beside Jon was a beauty with straight, dark blonde hair that fell just past her shoulders. Her grin was sly, almost vulpine, and freckles dotted the bridge of her nose. Her dark jade-green eyes sparkled with mischief, and there was an ease about her, a confidence that spoke of experience despite her youthful appearance. She was curvy, her full breasts and rounded hips accentuated by the tight gown she wore. She looked to be around Jon's age, but there was a knowing glint in her eyes that suggested she had seen more of the world than the boy beside her.

The other girl, who slid in next to Ned, was a stark contrast to her companion. She was nearly as tall as Ned himself, slim with long legs and a more delicate frame. Her curves were less pronounced, but she was well-proportioned, her body lithe and graceful. Dark hair cascaded down her back in a mass of curls, and her eyes, wide and shy, glanced up at Ned with a mixture of nervousness and curiosity.

Her smile, lips thickened with beeswax stained red, was wide and expressive, though there was a tremulous hint to it that she tried to hide. Ned could smell wine on her breath, perhaps she'd hoped to gain a little liquid courage. For though roughly the same age as her compatriot, there was an innocence about her that intrigued him, and he suspected Calvert's description of her as a maid held some truth. He felt a stir of anticipation at the thought of being the one to guide her into this world.

"What are your names?" Ned asked, his voice softer now, more intimate.

"I'm Lisa," the blonde replied, her voice light and teasing. She gestured to her dark-haired friend. "And this is Anne."

They were ravishing, each dressed in matching velvet gowns that clung to their bodies in all the right places, Lisa in lavender and Anne in black. The fronts of the dresses were split down to their navels, revealing expanses of smooth, taut flesh. The pink peaks of their breasts were barely concealed by the fabric, just teasingly visible from certain angles, fully exposed from others. Their skirts were slit high up their thighs, the fabric parting to reveal the curve of their hips and the soft swell of their backsides.

Ned poured some wine with a steady hand, the deep red liquid swirling into their goblets. He handed one to Anne, her fingers brushing against his as she accepted it. "Tell me about yourself, Anne," he said, his voice calm, measured. "How did a wonderful girl like you end up here?" It was a question he'd asked many times before, one that often brought forth a tale of woe and circumstance, and Anne was no exception.

"I'm from Bechafen," she began, her voice quiet, almost hesitant. "My father's a dock worker, and my mother… she was a tutor, taught reading and literature to the children of well-off burghers. She volunteered at the temple of Verena, helped out where she could." There was a brief pause, a flicker of something dark crossing her face. "She passed in a carriage accident three years ago. Since then, it's just been me and my father."

She took a deep drink of the wine, as if trying to wash away the memories that surfaced with her words. Ned watched her closely, noting the way her cheeks flushed as she continued. "Father...never really recovered from the loss and took to drink. He was hurt on the job not long ago, and now he can't work. We needed the money, and with what jobs for young women pay… tailors, weavers, cooks and such, I could scare support the two of us. It was then that I met Lisa, who convinced me this was the only way."

A typical story, Ned thought, one he'd heard a hundred times over. But there was an air of truth to it, a sincerity in her voice that tugged at his empathy. The temple of Shallya in Bechafen possessed a priestess that was a famed healer, yet like all such places were overwhelmed by the need for it. They would focus on sick and injured children first. Then their mothers. Then wounded soldiers. They had little time for anyone else. If her father was not dying or in constant agony, but simply unable to work, it would be a long time if ever before they got to him. He nodded slowly in sympathy, taking a sip from his own goblet, but before he could respond, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

"Look," he murmured, his voice low as he flicked his head toward the other side of the booth.

Anne turned, her eyes widening at the sight before her. Lisa was down on her knees between Jon's legs, her hands gliding up his thighs with a practiced ease. The top of her gown had slipped down to her elbows, exposing the full, ripe curves of her breasts. The soft pink of her aureoles, round and wide as a gold crown, were just a shade darker than her pale skin, the sight of which made Jon's breath hitch in his throat. He looked as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself, caught between embarrassment and the heady rush of desire.

Before he could gather his wits, Lisa had unbuckled his belt, her fingers working swiftly to unlace his breeches. With one smooth motion, she pulled them down to his ankles, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. Jon gasped, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and arousal, his innocence stripped away in an instant by the blonde's deft hands.

Ned's gaze flicked back to Anne, who was watching the scene with a mixture of fascination and horror. Her lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, she took another long drink of wine, her hands trembling just a little as she lowered the empty glass.

"It's all right," Ned said softly, reaching out to touch her arm, to guide her back into the moment. "You'll get used to it." His voice was gentle, almost fatherly as he poured more wine. "We all do."

Ned's fingers brushed through Anne's dark curls, pushing them back to reveal the smooth line of her neck. He leaned in, his lips pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to her skin. The girl shivered at the touch, a soft "Oh," escaping her lips as she kept her gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before her.

Lisa, with the confidence of a seasoned courtesan, made quick work of Jon's modesty. Now freed from his clothes, his arousal stood proud against the flickering light. Jon's face flushed red as he spluttered in embarrassment, instinctively trying to cover himself with trembling hands.

But Lisa only smiled, her expression one of gentle amusement. "No need to be shy," she murmured, her voice a soothing purr as she effortlessly moved his hands aside. Her touch was firm and knowing as she took him in hand, her fingers wrapping around his cock with practiced ease. With her other hand, she cupped his stones, rolling them gently in her palm.

"Very nice," she purred, her voice low and sensual. Jon could only gape at her, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He jolted with pleasure as she caressed him, and instinctively he pressed himself into her hand, driven by a desire he barely understood.

Anne watched, her eyes wide with a mix of fascination and trepidation, as she reached out to take another deep gulp of wine from her goblet and then placed it back down with a thud on the table. The innocence in her gaze was undeniable, but there was something else there too, a flicker of curiosity, of awakening. Ned's lips curved into a small smile as he felt her pulse quicken under his touch. She was shy, yes, but there was a fire within her, a fire that only needed the right kind of stoking.

He trailed his lips up from her neck, his breath warm against her ear. "You see how she handles him," Ned whispered, his voice a hushed rumble. "You can learn much from watching. But there's no rush, Anne. We'll take our time."

Anne swallowed hard, her gaze flitting between Ned and the scene before her. Her chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths, the flush on her cheeks deepening as she hesitated, caught between the pull of her curiosity and the remnants of her innocence.

Jon's gasp drew her attention back to the other side of the booth. Lisa's hand moved with slow, deliberate strokes, each motion eliciting a soft moan from the boy. His eyes were half-lidded, his lips parted as he gave himself over to the sensations coursing through him.

Ned watched Jon with a critical eye, noting the tension in the boy's shoulders, the way he clung to the edge of control. The boy was raw, untested, and that would need to change. This was part of it, learning to navigate the pleasures of the flesh without losing oneself, without letting it cloud the mind.

Anne's breath hitched as Ned's hand slid down her back, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine. "Relax," he murmured against her ear. "There's no need to be afraid." He could feel the tension in her, the way she held herself so tightly, as if afraid to let go. But he would ease her into it, draw her out until she was as pliant in his hands as Jon was in Lisa's.

There was time enough for that. For now, he let his hand wander lower to the small of her back, just above the curve of her bottom, his touch light and teasing, coaxing her to relax, to give in to the moment. They all had their parts to play, and Ned Stark had always been a master of guiding those under his care.

Ned's lips journeyed from Anne's neck down to the curve of her collarbone. He drew aside the split of her gown, baring her chest to the dim, warm light of the lanterns. The girl's breath quickened; her innocence palpable as she shivered under his touch. He pressed his mouth against the soft flesh of her breasts, his kiss lingering on the hardened pink peaks that had sprung up in response to his caress.

Across the booth, Lisa's voice broke through the haze of intimacy, her tone laced with a sultry amusement. "Feels good, doesn't it?" she asked, a wicked smile playing at the corners of her lips. She pinched one of her own nipples between her fingers, tweaking it with a practiced flick before sliding her hand down her body. Her fingers slipped beneath the silk of her dress and ventured between her legs, moving with an urgent, rhythmic motion. "Ooohhh," she sighed, her voice drawn out in pleasure as she leaned into Jon's thighs. Her soft, pliant form pressed against him, her breath hot and teasing as it brushed against the head of his cock.

Jon squirmed under her attention, his eyes wide, his breath ragged. Lisa's gaze, fierce and smoldering, locked onto his with a predatory gleam. "You're near to bursting, so don't hold back," she murmured, her voice a low, throaty purr. She parted her painted red lips, her mouth opening wide as her slick pink tongue emerged, trailing up his length in a slow, deliberate motion. Her lips followed, wrapping around him with a snug, practiced seal.

Ned watched with a measured interest, his gaze shifting between Anne's flushed face and the increasingly heated display across the booth. Anne, her cheeks a deep crimson, tensed under his touch, her eyes wide and unblinking as she observed the scene before her. Her fascination was evident, but it was tangled with an undeniable sense of embarrassment and shame. She shifted uneasily on the plush cushion of the booth, her breaths coming in sharp, quick bursts as she struggled to reconcile her curiosity with her innate sense of modesty.

Ned's hand continued its slow exploration of Anne's body, each touch deliberate and controlled. He could feel her pulse quicken under his fingers, her skin growing warmer as he coaxed her further into the moment. His eyes never strayed from Jon and Lisa, studying the way Lisa's expert touch evoked shudders and gasps from the boy. The interplay of pleasure and anxiety was almost palpable in the dim light, a tangible force that seemed to hang heavy in the air.

Anne's gaze flicked back to Ned, her eyes filled with a conflicted mix of wonder and apprehension. The reality of the scene was a stark contrast to her previous, more naive understanding of such encounters. The unrestrained pleasure of the moment, the raw intensity of Jon's reaction, all of it unfolded like a lesson in the complexities of desire and power.

Ned leaned closer to her; his breath warm against her ear as he whispered softly. "Observe closely Anne, for these experiences shape us in ways we can scarcely imagine." His voice was a low murmur, guiding her through the tumultuous landscape of emotions and sensations that surrounded them. The night was young, and there was much more to uncover.

Ned's hand slid beneath the fabric of Anne's gown, his fingers brushing against the smoothness of her long leg before traveling to the tender apex of her thighs. His touch was deliberate, exploring the untouched folds with practiced ease, finding her warmth and the sweet wetness that awaited his touch.

Anne's breath hitched as his fingers tangled in her curls and explored the trembling petals. "Wait," she murmured, her voice trembling as nerves overcame her, but his movements remained measured and relentless.

His fingers sank in and hooked gently, his thumb finding the sensitive nub above with precise taps. Anne's body responded instinctively, her hips rolling in rhythm with his touch. Gasps of pleasure escaped her lips, each one mingling with the rough, echoing groans that filled the booth.

Across the way, Jon's fingers gripped Lisa's hair with a desperate urgency, his eyes wide and unseeing as he came undone under her expert ministrations. Lisa's head bobbed in time with his movements, her lips sealed around him as he shuddered and gasped. Her gaze remained focused on his face, a blend of practiced seduction and genuine satisfaction as she milked every ounce of pleasure from him.

The atmosphere in the booth was charged with an electric tension, a symphony of sighs and muffled cries, the flickering light of the lanterns casting shadows that danced across the silk curtains. The contrasts were stark: Anne's innocent vulnerability met with Ned's experienced touch, while Jon's youthful exuberance gave way to Lisa's practiced seduction.

Ned continued his deliberate exploration, his eyes flicking between Anne's flushed face and the unfolding scene across the way. The interplay of power, pleasure, and discovery was palpable, each movement a step deeper into the intricate dance of desire and control. The night held its breath as the scenes of intimacy and exploration unfolded within the sanctuary of the booth, each participant caught in the throes of their own experience.

Lisa pushed her gown down to her hips, letting it pool in a luxurious cascade on the floor. She stepped up onto the plush cushion of the booth, her bare feet barely making a sound as she stood before Jon, who gazed up at her with wide, awestruck eyes.

Her thighs parted, revealing the soft blonde curls and the tender, pink folds that beckoned with an almost tangible allure. Lisa reached down with an assertive hand, her fingers threading through Jon's dark curls as she pressed his face firmly into the delicate V of her flesh.

"Kiss me," she commanded, her voice a low, commanding whisper.

Jon, entranced and eager, complied without hesitation. His lips brushed against her, his breath warm and unsteady. Lisa's fingers tightened their grip, guiding him with a practiced intensity. "There," she moaned softly, her back arching slightly as his lips and tongue moved with a guileless passion.

The air was thick with the scent of anticipation and the faint, heady aroma of sex and desire. Shadows played across the silk curtains as Lisa's commands mingled with Jon's fervent obedience. The scene unfolded with a rhythm of its own, a raw, unspoken dance of dominance and submission.

All the while, Ned's hand moved with deliberate, practiced motions, exploring Anne with a fervor that built with each passing moment. The girl's responses were a slow crescendo of mounting urgency, her breaths coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

"Ahhh," she breathed out, her eyes widening as she began to understand the depths of what she had been led into. "I didn't know."

"Now you do," Ned murmured, his voice low and steady as his mouth trailed from one sensitive peak to the other. His touch was unwavering, each caress igniting new reactions within her.

"You're so handsome and kind," Anne said, her voice a dreamy whisper as she neared an edge she had never before encountered. Her eyes were half-lidded, filled with a mix of bewilderment and pleasure, as she confronted sensations she could barely comprehend.

Her naïve admiration, so foolish in its innocence, contrasted sharply with the calculating ease of Ned's movements, which sought to unravel every hidden facet of her response. 'Handsome?' He thought. 'I'm only four and thirty, still in my prime. I suppose you could call me that. Kind? I think just, fair or generous would be more accurate.'

Anne's breath hitched as his thumb rolled over her pearl, her body trembling as a wave of sensation overtook her. She spasmed beneath Ned's touch, her back arching as she cried out, "Lord Stark!" Her fingers and inner walls clutched at him, tightening like a vice, as she reached her peak.

When the tremors subsided, she slumped back, utterly spent and vulnerable, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Ned watched her for a moment, a flicker of something ardent in his eyes before he laid her down across the cushions of the booth.

With a practiced ease, he swiftly removed his trousers, casting them aside. He bunched Anne's skirt up around her waist, revealing her flushed and trembling form as he positioned himself between her splayed knees.

As Anne's breath began to steady, Eddard drew her attention with a curt nod toward the opposite side of the booth. She tilted her head back to look, gaze followed his gesture, eyes widening as she took in the sight before her.

Lisa, caught in the throes of her own climax, was trembling and gasping, her body pressing heavily against Jon's face. The boy's fingers clutched at her taut bottom as he tried to steady her. With a shuddering sigh, knees weak, Lisa sat down, straddling Jon's lap, her movements slow and deliberate. She tried to catch her breath; eyes still glazed with the intensity of the moment.

Lisa hesitated for a moment, her breath coming in deep, shuddering gasps. She lifted herself slowly, breasts heaving with each breath, the tension evident in the way she struggled to maintain her composure. Her fingers, slick and trembling, reached down between her legs, seeking to guide Jon into the right position.

With a small movement she adjusted him, aligning him with practiced precision. Her eyes were half-closed, the remnants of pleasure still etched across her face, mingling with a faint hint of anticipation. As she settled back down, she took another deep breath, bracing herself for the act that was about to unfold.

As Lisa sank down on his rampant length, her eyes fluttered shut, a soft, breathy moan escaping her lips as she adjusted to his girth. The weight of Jon's manhood, combined with the lingering warmth of their earlier activities, filled her with an obvious tension. Her movements were slow, deliberate, every inch a careful negotiation between pleasure and restraint.

From across the booth, Anne watched with wide eyes, her own experiences still vivid and fresh. The scene unfolding before her was both mesmerizing and unsettling, a stark reminder of the lascivious world she had been thrust into.

Anne's gaze was locked onto Lisa, who began to move with a mix of practiced ease and fervent desire, her body rolling atop Jon's with a rhythm both urgent and primal. The young woman's eyes widened in disbelief; her mouth slightly agape as she struggled to reconcile the raw, almost brutal intimacy unfolding before her.

"Look down, my dear," Ned murmured, his voice a low rumble that cut through the haze of the moment.

Anne's eyes fell to where Ned's form hovered above her, his solid, well-muscled presence made even more imposing by the shadows dancing around him. Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld the sight. The sheer magnitude of him, his member poised and engorged, completely beyond the bounds of her limited experience. She gawked saucer eyed at his soldier, with its broad purpled helm, as it stood ready to breach her gates. She looked up at him, her face a portrait of maidenly shock, her disbelief palpable.

"There's no way," she stammered, her voice trembling with a mixture of apprehension and wonder.

Ned's expression was mentorly, yet unyielding, his resolve steady as he pressed forward with measured force. Splitting her lower lips apart with a deliberate, unhurried motion, his gaze locked onto Anne's as he surged deeper. Her protests were silenced by the immediate, overwhelming sensation, her eyes widening even further as he proved her doubts unfounded.

The steamy velvet of her inner walls yielded reluctantly, stretching to accommodate him fully. The sheer, undeniable reality of his presence filled her completely. The resistance giving way to an overwhelming, shuddering wave of sensation as he buried himself to the hilt, his stones slapping up against the curve of her arse.

Anne's lips formed a silent, disbelieving "Oh," her voice lost to the throes of new and unfamiliar sensations. Her eyes, wide with astonishment, reflected a primal mix of fear and fascination. The tightness of her flesh, so eager and untried, clung to Ned with an almost desperate need.

His movements were deliberate yet urgent, each thrust pushing them closer to a frenzied culmination. The rhythmic pulse of his desire drove him onward, a relentless force meeting her every shift and quiver. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, each inhale a shudder of surrender to the consuming pleasure that swept through her.

Her body, a vessel for his rising need, reacted with an instinctual urgency, each arch of her hips bringing them nearer to the precipice of their shared climax. The booth seemed to narrow around them, the distant sounds of the establishment fading as they neared the frenetic end of their coupling.

One of Ned's hands slipped downward, its roughened fingers skimming across her sensitive nub. His touch, purposeful and skilled, elicited a sharp gasp from Anne as it ignited a torrent of pleasure. Her body responded instinctively, muscles tightening with a shuddering climax that left her gasping and trembling.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders; her form wracked by the intensity of her release. Anne's cunt gripped him with a fierce, almost desperate grip, a testament to the fervor of their shared moment. The sensation of her clenched warmth drove Ned onward, each pulse of her body a signal for his own inevitable conclusion.

Driven by the rhythm of her climax, he surged forward, finding his own release in the midst of her tremors. The final, urgent movements of his hips met her quivering embrace, and together they reached the peak of their frenzied union as he groaned and spilled his hot seed, plentiful and deep.

The booth faded into obscurity as they clung to each other, the tumultuous dance of pleasure drawing them into a singular, consuming moment. In the dappled confines of their private space, the culmination of their passion was marked by a shared exhalation, the echoes of their fervent exertion lingering in the air.

Ned Stark drew in a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he disentangled himself from Anne. The sweat-slicked skin of his body glistened under the soft light of the lanterns that illuminated their private space. He pushed himself up with a grunt, the weight of their shared exertion settling on his shoulders. With a practiced hand, he brushed the damp curls plastered to Anne's forehead away from her face. Her eyes, a mix of satisfaction and confliction, met his with a hesitant gratitude.

"Excellent work, Anne," Ned said, his voice carrying a rare note of warmth. "I'm certain you'll earn more than enough to care for your father." He leaned back, member disengaging from her with a soft, squelching sound. The intimacy of their moments now replaced by the practicalities of the world beyond the silk curtains. As he gathered his trousers, he fished out his money pouch and withdrew a gold crown, it's face bearing Wolfram's helmed head looking wrathful and ready for battle, it's back displaying the circular blade of their famed sawmills. It was a generous sum equal to the wage of a skilled tradesman for a fortnight's worth of work. He placed it gently on her bare stomach, the weight of it settling into the soft curves of her flesh.

Anne's eyes flickered with a tumult of emotions…satisfaction, shame, greed, guilt, and resignation, each vying for dominance as she looked up at him. "Thank you, my Lord," she managed, her voice trembling with the weight of her newfound fortune and her uncertain future.

Ned pulled on his trousers with deliberate calmness, his movements methodical. "Let's go, boy," he called to Jon, who was still adjusting his clothing. The lad's face was flushed with a mixture of shame and lingering desire, his first foray into such pleasures leaving him disoriented. The boy had naturally finished a fair bit before him, unable to withstand the heat of a woman for the first time.

The blonde whore, had nestled into his lap, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear with a voice like honey. But Jon, though reluctant, followed his father's lead. He shifted the girl aside and began pulling up his breeches, a slight tremor in his hands. The girl shot Ned a sour look, but her expression softened as he dropped ten shillings into her hand, half of what Anne had received but still a decent sum.

With Jon in tow, Ned and his son stepped past the curtain of silk, rejoining the dimly lit common room. They paused for a moment as two of their guards, still amidst their revelry, were retrieved with some effort. The clamor and raucous laughter of the brothel faded behind them as they made their way out into the streets.

The cool night air struck them as they approached their ship, a sharp contrast to the heated atmosphere they had just left. Ned glanced at Jon; his expression inscrutable. "And what did you learn?" he asked, his tone carrying an edge of seriousness beneath the surface of casual inquiry. The question hung in the air, a weighty reflection on the evening's events and their implications for his son's burgeoning understanding of the world.

Jon stared at the cobblestones as they made their way back to the ship, the cool night air doing little to soothe the burning flush on his cheeks. His father's question hung in the air, weighted with the gravity of their recent activities. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his thoughts before speaking.

"I… learned that it's not as simple as I thought," Jon began hesitantly, his voice low and uncertain. "That… those pleasures, they're fleeting. You pay for a moment, but it leaves you empty in the end. You…" he paused, searching for the right words, "…you're never really left with anything lasting."

Ned regarded his son with a thoughtful expression, the night's chill biting at his face as he listened. The brothel's distant echoes were replaced by the steady rhythm of their footsteps. He nodded slowly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he considered Jon's words.

"You're right," Ned said finally, his voice carrying a gravitas that matched the night's quiet. "You'll never see that girl again. What's offered in such places is transient, just a fleeting diversion from the harshness of reality. It's a momentary pleasure that vanishes with the morning light."

Jon nodded, his face still flushed, though now with a mix of understanding and embarrassment.

Ned continued, his tone growing more serious. "What matters are things that are permanent. Loyalty to a man or a cause. In your case to the Knights of the White Wolf, to Ulric, the Empire, and its people as a whole. These are the bonds that will define you, that will shape your future. The transient pleasures of the flesh can cloud those truths, make them seem less important. But it's the steadfastness of your purpose, the honor of your commitments, that will truly guide you."

He placed a firm hand on Jon's shoulder, the weight of it a grounding force in the midst of their shared journey. "Remember this, Jon. In the end, it's not the fleeting indulgences that matter, but the enduring principles you hold. That's what will make you a man worthy of respect and honor."

Jon's gaze met his father's, the realization of their conversation settling into him with a newfound clarity. He nodded again, more resolutely this time, as they continued their walk toward the waiting ship.

Chapter Text

Erntezeit 22nd​, 2522

Father and his siblings had cruised down the river for five days, the warm winds of late summer filling their sails. Sansa's name day had come and gone the day before, marked with a feast in the great hall, a raucous affair that celebrated both her age and Robb's departure. Now, as dawn approached and the eastern gates of Winter Town loomed behind him, Robb stood ready to lead his men to war.

The hall had been a mix of joy and bittersweet nostalgia, a fleeting echo of laughter and toasts now replaced by the quiet, heavy air of farewells. Sansa and his mother embraced him, their eyes betraying the weight of their worry. "Listen to your officers," his mother urged, her voice threaded with the iron of hard experience. "They've seen far more battles than you, their wisdom will guide you."

"I will, Mother," Robb promised, his voice steady though his heart was heavy. He pulled her close for one final hug, as if to draw strength from it, but the warmth of her embrace felt dim through his full suit of plate. Then, with a resolute nod, he mounted his warhorse, its hooves pawing at the ground as he prepared to lead his army.

With a determined turn, he snapped his helm down and he wheeled around, his light summer cloak billowing behind him. He spurred his armored steed forward, the sound of the horse's hooves echoing like a drumbeat of destiny as he took his place at the head of the line, ready to face the trials that lay ahead. His gray dire wolf, Storm running loyally at his side.

At the head of the column rode Sir Wylis Manderly, the burly knight astride his massive barded destrier. Their armor glinted in the early morning light, and his great horse pawed the ground impatiently as he reined it in. As the highest-ranking commander of the heavy cavalry, he was the linchpin of their advance.

"Give the command, Sir Manderly," Robb said, his voice a cool, commanding tone that brooked no argument.

Manderly's gauntleted hand rose, signaling the start of their march. The line shuddered into motion, a living, breathing entity of steel and sinew. The pistolers, nimble and vigilant, trotted ahead, scouting and clearing the path. Their sharp eyes scanned the horizon, ensuring that the road was clear for the main force.

Behind them, the infantry marched in tight formation, their heavy boots thudding in unison upon the stone-paved road. This road, a relic of dwarf craftsmanship, stretched nearly four hundred miles from Winter Town to the Slayer Keep. It wove through the eastern reaches of Ostermark, cutting through the dense expanse of the Gryphon Wood, crossing the open fields of the Veldt, and finally ascending into the rugged terrain of the World Edge Mountains.

Following the infantry came the artillery and engineers, their wagons laden with the tools of war and supplies. The clatter of their wheels on the road was a constant reminder of the burden they bore. The camp followers, a motley assortment of camp women and support staff, trailed behind, their presence a necessary but cumbersome part of the army's progress.

The heavy cavalry, a formidable force in their own right, brought up the rear. Their armored steeds, powerful and unyielding, moved with an air of menace and might. Robb and Sir Manderly, now joined by their elite men-at-arms, positioned themselves at the back of the column, ready to guard against any threat that might emerge from the rear.

"Any unexpected news?" Sir Manderly inquired, his gaze sweeping over the column as if seeking threats in the distance.

"Nothing since the last report," Robb replied, his tone carrying the weight of a man well-acquainted with both military affairs and the nuances of leadership. "But I trust you've heard the good tidings."

"Aye," Sir Manderly answered, his voice gruff but edged with satisfaction. "Word from the Gryphon Legion. They've agreed to the contract and will join us as we push into the foothills of the World Edge Mountains. Welcome news, indeed."

Robb nodded; his expression thoughtful. "If it were anyone else, I'd doubt they'd manage to catch up before we reached the Slayer Keep. But the Gryphon Legion…well, they are another matter entirely." His voice carried a note of respect. The Kislevite cavalry were renowned, their elite status forged in the icy lands of the north. Armored in three-quarter plate adorned with grand, feathered wings, they wielded heavy lances and sabers with deadly precision. Each man carried a brace of wheellock pistols, with maces or war hammers as backup. They were a sight to behold, and their reputation stretched far across the Empire, from Ostland to Talabecland and beyond.

A reinforced regiment of four battalions, numbering two thousand men, they were a force in high demand. Their ranks were drawn exclusively from the nobility of that northern land, and while their rank and file tended to be the sons of minor landed gentry, their officers were the sons of powerful Boyars. As such, their preference was to remain close to Kislev, ready to defend their homeland should the Tzarina call them to arms against the ever-present threat of Chaos.

"I trust you've been honing your Kisleverian," Robb asked in that tongue, his pronunciation of the language, rich in rolling vowels and rhythmic harsh consonants, almost flawless. It was a stark contrast to the more guttural Reikspiel of the Empire.

"Da," Sir Manderly replied simply, acknowledging the question with the bare minimum. His command of Kisleverian might not rival Robb's, but he understood enough to use it when it mattered.

The army marched with the relentless drive of disciplined men bound by duty and purpose, carving a path fifteen miles down the road by the time the sun began its descent. As daylight waned and shadows lengthened, the soldiers began to set up camp. Quickly falling into the rhythm of their labor with a grim efficiency.

The camp was a hive of activity, as if the very forest itself were being wrestled into submission. The tree line was pushed back with an almost frenetic haste; axes rang out with a harsh symphony, felling timber that would soon be stacked into towering piles of firewood. Branches were severed and sharpened into crude, yet functional stakes, driven deep into the earth to form a defensive perimeter around the encampment.

Rough-hewn logs were pieced together to create a makeshift wall, each log set with the precision of men who had learned the bitter lessons of war. Between this hastily assembled barricade and the line of stakes, men wielding shovels dug a shallow trench, a dry moat to further impede any unwanted intrusion.

Such preparations were a grim necessity whenever an army dared to make camp within the embrace of the wood. The Gryphon Wood had been purged of Beastmen by Lord Stark's hand the previous summer, but the loathsome creatures had a knack for returning, their insidious presence a persistent blight. The dark light of Morrslieb, that malevolent, sickly green moon, cast its wicked influence down twice a year, warping even the mundane creatures of the forest into nightmarish forms.

In these woods, no measure of caution was ever excessive. Even the greenest recruit understood this truth, their faces set with a mixture of fear and determination. There was no room for idleness or hesitation, not when the threat of unseen horrors lurked just beyond the edges of their firelight. Each man labored with the weight of this knowledge heavy upon his shoulders, their movements as unyielding as the forest they sought to control.

The scouts had returned with news of only minor disturbances, of a few scattered Beastmen, who'd been quickly dispatched by the pistolers with practiced ease. As dusk settled over the camp, Robb Stark made his rounds among the men, Storm following at his heels. He moved with the measured calm of a leader familiar with both the burdens and triumphs of command. He conversed with officers, examined the progress of the fortifications, and found satisfaction in the organized chaos of their preparations.

He wandered toward the supply quarter, where the cooks and camp followers labored in a flurry of activity. The rich aroma of wild game, seasoned with fresh herbs and tubers, mingled with the earthy scent of the forest. It was a feast they would not see again for many days hence as they marched on a diet of dried meat, hard bread and cheese. It brought his stomach rumbling to life and he quickly stopped by his command tent to divest himself of his armored plate with the aid of one of his guards, setting it and the great runesword Ice on the folding table within. Four veteran guards standing watch over the priceless blade.

While the armor was much less bursensome then it looked, carrying it and the greatsword all day was tiring and freeing himself of the burden made him feel much lighter. He couldn't wait to reach his full growth and gain the musculature of a seasoned campaigner. A man like Sir Manderly could wear his armor all day and even sleep in it if he needed to.

All that being said, Robb still strapped an arming sword to his left side and holstered a wheellock pistol on his right before he left for the supply quarter. Going unarmed, even in the midst of an army loyal to him would have been the height of foolishness.

Robb took his meal from a smiling cook and went over to a large flat rock that Sir Manderly sat upon, munching on a leg of venison. He sat besides the burly knight and started to sup, taking in the bustling scene when his gaze fell upon a garishly decorated wagon, its colors vibrant against the backdrop of the encampment.

"Is that a Strigany wagon?" he asked, curiosity piqued. Sir Manderly, who was immersed in a hearty meal that would surely go to his waistline if not for the rigors of the campaign, looked up with a mouthful.

"Aye, it is," Manderly confirmed, brushing crumbs from his beard. "But worry not, your father's Witch Hunter, Albrecht, went over that wagon with a fine-toothed comb yesterday, as did several priests—of Ulrich, Morr, and Shallya. No corruption or contraband was found."

Relief washed over Robb. Albrecht was known for his discipline, a far cry from the wild-eyed fanatics that stories often painted Witch Hunters to be.

"And why are they traveling with us?" Robb asked, his brow furrowing. The Strigany were known more for their dubious occupations; woodsmanship, peddling, and fortune-telling, often dipping into petty theft or staging dubious entertainments.

A rich, melodic voice chimed in, pulling Robb from his thoughts. He turned to see a striking young woman with raven-black hair and skin the color of sun-kissed caramel. She was perhaps twenty years old, with curves that spoke of fertility and amorous appetites, her emerald eyes glinting with a knowing light.

"Oh, I helped the cooks set up the pots and the fires, and helped prepare the food. There's not much more to do when on the march," the woman said. "If we stop for a day somewhere, I'll aid with the laundry."

Robb's eye rose in skepticism. "With a wagon like that? It looks like a troupe of musicians could burst forth from it at any moment."

"Me and my cousin, used to do that," she said, her voice a musical lilt. "We used to dance and sing, putting on wondrous shows."

"And what brought that to an end?" Robb asked, his curiosity sharpened.

"Clopin was killed in Talabheim," she replied, a shadow passing over her face. "One of the mutants from the caverns below the city escaped into the light, some monstrous rat-like brute. It tore him apart, and several others, before the Elector-Count's men could put it down."

Robb's brow arched. A mutant, or perhaps a Skaven rat ogre. His mind whirled with the possibilities.

"I'm sorry to hear that. But why not continue to perform?" Robb inquired, pausing as if suddenly aware of his own impertinence. "I'm apologize, miss, I haven't even asked your name."

"Esmerelda," she replied, a smile curling her lips.

"Wait," Sir Manderly said, drawn away from his feast once more. "Is that not the name of the Halfling's cooking Goddess?"

'Ah, that's where I've heard that name before,' Robb thought. 'Strange name. Maybe, her parents really like pie.'

She nodded, "It is. My mother was a great fan of the Halflings and their cuisine."

'I was right,' Robb thought, "Don't the halflings get offended though?"

"I've never met one that hasn't thought my name hilarious and demanded to sample my cooking," she said with a tinkling laugh. "They're very casual about religion, I'm surprised it doesn't get them in more trouble with the witch hunters."

"They're resistant to corruption." Sir Manderly opined. "Less so than Dwarfs, but more than men. At least, that's what I've heard said."

'Interesting,' Robb thought. 'I didn't know that about halflings.'

"It's true," Esmerelda said, before her smile turned sly, "But to answer the young Lord's original question, why not continue to perform... who said I do not? I still entertain," she said with a teasing glint in her eye. "Private dances... and other performances," she added, shifting subtly to accentuate her curves.

Sir Manderly snorted softly, but his attention remained on his meal. Robb's face reddened as his thoughts drifted back to the invitations he had heard… and seen in Winter Town days before, and the siren call of such temptations. The image of Esmerelda's sultry smile lingered as he struggled to maintain his composure.

Robb Stark's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment; words caught in the back of his throat. He was taken aback, his mind reeling with the unexpected offer and the implications it carried.

Sir Wylis Manderly, ever the consummate soldier with a keen eye for both the battlefield and the camp's subtler dynamics, observed the young lord's struggle with a mixture of amusement and sympathy. His voice carried the air of authority tempered by a hint of amusement. "The young lord appreciates your invitation and will call on you after supper," he announced with the gravitas of a herald delivering a royal decree.

Esmerelda's eyes sparkled with mischief as she gave a slight, knowing nod and turned away. Her hips swayed with a deliberate rhythm that drew Robb's gaze, lingering on the curve of her bottom until she disappeared into her wagon, closing the door behind her with a soft thud.

Robb spun back to Manderly, his face flushed with a mix of confusion and embarrassment. "What…why did you…?"

Manderly's expression softened with paternal concern, though the humor never quite left his eyes. "You're under considerable stress, my lord. And she seems well-equipped to provide a means to relieve it," he said between hearty spoonfuls of mutton stew, as if discussing the weather. "But do keep in mind, these diversions are fleeting. Your mother would hardly approve if you tried to make her more than what she is…if you were to consider setting her up in some grand manor outside Winter Town as a mistress, for instance."

Robb's cheeks flamed a deeper red as he absorbed the implications of Manderly's words. The old knight's wisdom, though blunt, carried a sobering reminder. What might seem like an escape from the pressures of command was but an ephemeral distraction, one that could lead to complications far beyond the comfort of a temporary reprieve.

Robb Stark picked at his meal, each bite a mere formality as his thoughts lingered elsewhere. The rich, blackberry wine he sipped from a fine leather skin did little to soothe the disquiet that had settled in his gut, but it warmed him nonetheless. His gaze was drawn repeatedly to the vibrant, garishly painted wagon across the camp, where every time he looked up, he would catch a glimpse of emerald eyes watching him, only to vanish the moment he met their gaze.

With the wine's warmth spreading through him and his thoughts consumed by visions of raven hair, taut curves, and that entrancing sway of Esmerelda's walk, Robb found himself rising from his seat. He made his way across the camp, his light woolen cloak billowing behind him, Storm and a small retinue of guards trailing respectfully a few paces behind. Their presence was more a formality than a necessity, for the night was still and the camp quiet. After all, in the unlikely event that the woman tried to assassinate him, he'd have to deal with it himself.

He reached the wagon and placed a boot on the lower step, rapping sharply on the door. The knock echoed with a hollow thud, carrying the weight of his nervous anticipation.

Chapter Text

After a moment's pause that felt interminable, the door creaked open. Robb stepped inside, pulling it shut behind him, leaving his dire wolf and his guards to form a silent, vigilant circle around the wagon.

The interior of the wagon was smaller than it had appeared from the outside, illuminated by the soft glow of oil lamps that cast flickering shadows across the walls. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light, and he beheld Esmerelda sitting upon a plush bed that dominated the small space. She was a vision of beauty, her raven hair cascading around her shoulders like a dark waterfall, her eyes glinting with a mixture of invitation and mischief. The bed was adorned with cushions and silks, hinting at a comfort that belied the harshness of the world outside.

Robb stood at the threshold, his breath catching as he took in the sight before him, the wine in his veins giving him the courage to step further into the dim, enticing embrace of the wagon.

Esmerelda's voice, low and sultry, cut through the silence of the dimly lit wagon. "Sit next to me, Lord Stark," she said, patting the bedding beside her with an inviting gesture. The gesture was both intimate and casual, her eyes locked onto his with a mixture of playful daring and seduction. Her voice held a silky lilt, a promise of indulgence and pleasure.

Robb hesitated at the threshold, his heart pounding in his chest as he took in the scene before him. The wagon, though modest in size, was a haven of warmth and softness. The bed was piled high with pillows and plush fabrics, a stark contrast to the cold, hard reality of the battlefield and his duties. The flickering oil lamps cast a golden glow that highlighted Esmerelda's striking features, her raven hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, and the curve of her full, inviting lips.

"Or do you wish me to call you by your name?" she asked, her tone teasing yet respectful. Her eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint as she awaited his response, her fingers trailing lightly across the silken sheets.

Robb swallowed, his resolve wavering as he stepped further into the wagon. The wine had emboldened him, but it was the image of her…so close, so temptingly within reach, that truly unsettled him. He unbuckled the belt holding his sword and pistol, setting it aside on the floor and then crossed the space between them with a deliberate stride, his movements steady despite the tumult of emotions within.

He settled onto the edge of the bed, the soft cushions yielding beneath him, and met Esmerelda's gaze with a mixture of nervous anticipation and burgeoning desire. Her presence was intoxicating, and he felt the weight of his responsibilities momentarily lift, replaced by a yearning for a temporary escape from the world outside.

"My name," Robb said, his voice steady but his eyes betraying a flicker of uncertainty as he turned to her. The words came out with an almost deliberate slowness, as if he were both claiming and conceding something at once. He moved closer, feeling the warmth of her proximity, and the familiar weight of his own title seemed to recede into the background.

Esmerelda's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Robb," she repeated softly, her voice a caress in the dim light. The way she spoke his name was almost a ritual, imbued with a sense of intimacy that was both intoxicating and disorienting. Her emerald eyes gleamed with an understanding that felt both ancient and ephemeral.

The shadows from the oil lamps danced on the walls, casting wavering patterns that seemed to mimic the play of emotions across Robb's face. He could feel the weight of the day's exhaustion melting away as he allowed himself to be drawn into her orbit. Her presence was a balm to his weary spirit, a brief reprieve from the relentless demands of leadership and the burdens of the road ahead.

She shifted slightly, her movements fluid and graceful, and patted the bed beside her again, inviting him to close the distance. "Tell me," she murmured, "what does a man like you seek in a fleeting moment such as this?"

Robb hesitated, the walls he'd built around himself, the ones forged from duty and honor, crumbling slightly under the weight of her gaze. For a moment, he was just a man, unburdened and unguarded, and the stark reality of his role seemed to drift further away with each beat of his heart.

Robb's cheeks flushed, a ruddy stain even beneath the dim light of the lamps. He looked away, as if trying to hide his vulnerability from the shadows that danced on the walls. "I'm not sure," he confessed, his voice strained, almost strangled by the weight of his own hesitation. "I've never..." He faltered, the words catching in his throat like a knife caught between ribs.

Esmerelda's gaze softened, her emerald eyes reflecting a gentle understanding. She reached out a hand, delicate yet steady, and placed it upon his knee. Her touch was warm, grounding, and it seemed to dispel the gnawing uncertainty that had taken hold of him.

"There's no shame in it, Robb," she said, her voice a low, soothing murmur. "We all have our first steps, and sometimes it's the uncertain paths that teach us the most." Her fingers traced a subtle path along his leg, a gesture both reassuring and intimate.

The intimacy of her words and touch seemed to dissolve the walls he'd built around himself, even if just for this moment. The weight of command, the burdens of leadership, all seemed to melt away in the glow of her understanding. He was just a young man seeking solace in the midst of the chaos, a momentary escape from the relentless march of duty.

Robb's eyes met hers again, the depth of his vulnerability laid bare. "I suppose I've come here seeking something I can't quite name," he admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Perhaps just... a moment's peace."

Esmerelda's breath was warm against his ear as she leaned in closer, her hand sliding with a practiced ease along his thigh, her fingers curling around what they found beneath the fabric of his trousers. "I can give you that," she murmured, her voice as soft and enticing as the silken sheets she sat upon. The promise in her words was as old as time, a whisper of comfort in a world where comfort was often short-lived.

Robb felt a shiver run through him, a mixture of desire and uncertainty. His mind raced, torn between the duty he carried as the Stark heir and the primal need awakened by her touch. The weight of his responsibilities bore down on him like a millstone, but here, in the dim light of the wagon, those burdens seemed distant, almost unreal.

Esmerelda's hand moved with deliberate slowness, a gentle squeeze that sent a jolt of sensation through his body. She watched him intently, her green eyes gleaming with a mix of knowing and tenderness. There was no mockery in her gaze, no judgment, only a deep understanding of what it meant to be young and burdened, to seek solace in whatever form it could be found.

Robb's breath hitched as he felt the stirrings of desire grow stronger, his resolve weakening under her skilled touch. He had been raised to be strong, to lead, to bear the weight of Winterfell on his shoulders. But in this moment, he was just a young man, inexperienced and yearning for something he couldn't put in words.

Esmerelda sensed his hesitation and leaned in even closer, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, "Let me ease your burdens, Robb. Just for tonight, let me give you the peace you seek."

Her words were like a balm to his troubled soul, a promise of respite from the unrelenting demands of his life. Slowly, almost hesitantly, Robb's hand reached out to touch her, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric of her dress over her knee. The decision had been made; the line crossed. Here, in this small, dimly lit wagon, he would allow himself this one moment of weakness, this brief escape from the world that awaited him beyond its doors.

Esmerelda leaned into his touch, her warmth pressing against his arm as she kissed her way down the side of his neck. Her lips were soft, teasing, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Robb's breath quickened, each kiss drawing him further into the moment, further away from the responsibilities and expectations that usually weighed so heavily on him.

Her fingers deftly found the buttons of his trousers, undoing them with a practiced ease. Robb's heart pounded in his chest, his mind swirling with a mix of anticipation and nervousness. Each button that came undone seemed to strip away not just his clothing, but the layers of duty and honor that had defined him for so long. When she finally pushed his trousers down, letting them pool around his ankles on the wooden floor, he felt a strange sense of liberation.

He was glad now that he'd doffed his armor before heading to supper, the weight of it would have felt oppressive now, a barrier between him and the softness of her touch. Esmerelda slid lower, the curves of her breasts pressing enticingly against his thigh as she moved. Her breath was hot against his skin, her full lips parting as she descended further.

Then, without hesitation, she wrapped those lips around him, her mouth warm and eager. The sensation was like nothing Robb had ever experienced, a surge of pleasure that shot through his entire body. He gasped, his hand instinctively moving to her hair, tangling in the thick dark strands as she began her ministrations.

For a moment, Robb closed his eyes, letting himself be swept away by the sensations. The world outside this wagon ceased to exist, no battles, no armies, no expectations. Just the warmth of her mouth, the softness of her body, and the brief escape she offered him from the weight of his responsibilities.

He had never felt so alive, so utterly lost in the moment. This was a different kind of battle, one fought not with swords or strategy, but with surrender. And for once, Robb Stark was content to lose.

Esmerelda's tongue danced with an expert's grace, flicking against the sensitive underside of his head. Robb's breath caught in his throat, a sharp intake of air as her touch sent a jolt of pleasure through him. The sensations were overwhelming, far more intense than he had imagined. Her movements were deliberate, each flick of her tongue, each soft caress, designed to push him closer to the edge.

He could feel the warmth of her breath, the wet slide of her mouth as she took him deeper, and for a moment, the world seemed to blur at the edges. His hand tightened in her hair, not out of force but out of desperate need to anchor himself as the pleasure built, threatening to spiral out of control.

Too much, his mind screamed, but he couldn't find the words to stop her, didn't want to. It was a sweet torment; one he was helpless to resist. Esmerelda seemed to sense his mounting urgency, her movements becoming more insistent, more determined.

Robb's vision blurred, a shudder running through his entire body as he teetered on the brink. His breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles tensing as he fought to maintain some semblance of control. But she was relentless, her tongue tracing patterns that left him trembling, each stroke driving him closer to the inevitable.

His heart pounded in his chest, a wild, erratic rhythm that matched the frantic pace of her mouth. He could feel himself slipping, the last threads of his restraint unraveling, until finally, with a low groan that he couldn't hold back, he gave in, letting the pleasure consume him entirely.

Robb's body jerked involuntarily as the climax hit him like a wave crashing against the shore, unstoppable and overwhelming. His fingers tightened in Esmerelda's hair, his voice catching in his throat as he released with a guttural sound, half-groan, half-sigh. She did not pull away; instead, she accepted him, swallowing with a practiced ease, her lips sealing around him until every spurt and spasm had subsided.

He slumped back, breathing hard, a sheen of sweat on his brow as the tension drained from his body. The intensity of the moment left him reeling, the world around him seeming to slow as he struggled to catch his breath. Esmerelda withdrew slowly, her lips curling into a satisfied smile as she looked up at him, wiping the corner of her mouth with a delicate finger.

"Did that please you, my lord?" she asked, her voice a soft purr that sent a shiver down Robb's spine. There was a hint of mischief in her eyes, a playful glint that made it clear she knew exactly how much she had affected him.

Robb nodded, still unable to form coherent words. His mind was a haze of sensation, the echoes of pleasure still thrumming through his veins. Esmerelda's touch lingered on his thigh, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his skin as she waited for him to recover.

"You're... very skilled," Robb finally managed to say, his voice rough. He felt a flush of embarrassment at how easily he had been undone, how quickly she had taken control of the situation. But there was no mockery in her gaze, only a knowing smile that spoke of experience and understanding.

Esmerelda shifted, moving back up to lay beside him, her body still pressed close against his. "Experience, Robb," she said, her tone light. "And practice. One must know how to bring pleasure if one is to survive in this world."

Robb glanced at her, feeling a pang of guilt. This was not what he had imagined for his first time, not something so transactional. He had envisioned something more meaningful, more… sacred. But the reality was different, and now, in the aftermath, he found himself grappling with that truth.

"You're not disappointed, are you?" Esmerelda asked, her voice softer now, as if sensing his unease.

"No," Robb replied quickly, though the doubt lingered in his heart. "It's just… I didn't expect it to feel like this."

Esmerelda studied him for a moment, then leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, a simple, chaste gesture that contrasted with the intensity of what had just happened. "It's always different the first time," she whispered. "But remember, my lord, pleasure is fleeting. What matters is what you take from it, how you let it shape you."

Robb nodded, though he wasn't sure he fully understood her words. But there was wisdom in them, a reminder that this was just one moment in the long path he had ahead of him. A lesson learned, and with it, a step further into the world of men.

"What was your first time like for you?" He asked.

Esmerelda's eyes softened, taking on a distant, bittersweet cast. She turned away slightly, as if looking back into a memory.

"My first time..." she began, her voice tinged with a melancholy that Robb found both captivating and sad. "His name was Stefan. We were barely more than children, though at the time we fancied ourselves grown. He was a soldier, strong and proud, like you, Robb. I met him when my family's caravan passed through the border towns. We fell in love beneath the stars, hidden away in the woods where no one could find us."

Her voice faltered for a moment, and Robb could see the shimmer of tears she blinked away. "He promised me everything. We dreamed of running away together, away from the dangers of this world. But fate... fate had other plans." She swallowed, forcing herself to continue. "Stefan was killed in battle. Beastmen ambushed his patrol not far from where we had made our plans. They found his body torn apart, his blood staining the earth."

Robb felt a cold weight settle in his chest. He thought of the previous year, when he had accompanied his father as he led a campaign against those same creatures. The bloodshed, the horror of it all, was still fresh in his mind. He had seen men torn apart, just as Stefan had been. It was a cruel reminder of the world they lived in, where even love could be snatched away by the savagery of the wild.

"I'm sorry," Robb murmured, reaching out to take her hand, feeling a strange connection with this woman who had just moments ago been a stranger. "I didn't mean to bring up such painful memories."

Esmerelda squeezed his hand gently, giving him a sad smile. "Painful, yes. But it is part of who I am, just as your own battles shape you. We carry these memories with us, even as we march forward. Perhaps that is why I do what I do, Lord Stark. To find solace in the arms of others, to feel alive, if only for a moment."

Robb nodded, understanding more now than he had before. The weight of command, the burden of loss—they were things they both knew too well. "Stefan fought bravely," Robb said quietly, "and so did the men my father lost last year. We fight because we must, but we live... we live because we choose to, in spite of everything."

Esmerelda smiled at him again, and this time it was warmer, a flicker of shared understanding passing between them. "You are wise beyond your years, Robb Stark," she whispered, leaning in closer. "Let us live, then, if only for tonight."

Esmerelda's movements were fluid and deliberate as she shucked her white blouse off over her head, letting it fall to the floor. She then pushed her skirt and pantalets down over her hips, tossing them aside with a graceful flick of her wrist. The soft glow of the oil lamps revealed her form, a vision of beauty that seemed almost ethereal in the dim light.

Robb stared, momentarily lost in the sight before him. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the ties of his shirt, the usually sure grip of a warrior suddenly betraying him. Esmerelda observed his struggle with a knowing smile and leaned in closer. Her touch was gentle yet decisive as she brushed his hands aside, her fingers working deftly to undo the knots.

With practiced ease, she peeled the shirt from his torso, exposing the pale, unblemished skin of a young lord who had thus far been sheltered from the ravages of battle. The sight of his unmarred flesh contrasted starkly with the harsh reality of his life on campaign. It was clear to both that this tranquility would soon be disrupted by the harshness of war.

"You're a handsome one," Esmerelda murmured, her breath warm against his ear as her lips brushed lightly over his skin. Her gaze lingered on him, taking in the fine lines of his shoulders and chest. "But tonight, you don't have to be the lord or the commander. Here, you are just a man, free from the burdens of your station."

Robb's heart pounded, not just from the anticipation but from the strange comfort in her words. In the heat of the moment, amidst the flickering light and the heady aroma of the campfire, he found solace in her promise. For tonight, he could shed more than his clothing, he could shed the weight of responsibility, if only for a brief respite.

Esmerelda's voice was a soft, coaxing murmur as she guided Robb's head to rest against her chest, her warmth enveloping him. "A man who must learn how to please," she whispered, her breath a tantalizing caress against his ear, "as he has been pleased."

Her fingers traced gentle paths along his shoulders, guiding him with a practiced ease. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, the soft heat of her skin, created a cocoon of comfort that contrasted sharply with the relative cool of the late summer night air outside. Robb felt a mixture of nervous excitement and intense longing, his senses overwhelmed by the closeness of her body and the tender, intimate promise in her words.

In that moment, the weight of his responsibilities and the grim anticipation of the battles to come seemed to dissolve, replaced by the immediate and overwhelming presence of Esmerelda. Her touch was both reassuring and electrifying, a stark reminder of the simple human needs that lay beneath the armor and command of a lord.

Robb's movements were hesitant but determined as he explored the smooth expanse of Esmerelda's skin. His mouth traced a path from the dark peaks of her full breasts, where his kisses lingered briefly, down to the taut, flat plane of her belly.

She guided him with a gentle hand, directing him to where the shadows gathered, a tangled mass of curls leading to hidden folds. His lips followed, seeking out the firm, warm jewel nestled at their apex. Kissing and licking as she bade with short, needy whispers.

Esmerelda's breath grew ragged, a testament to her growing desire. Her voice, thick with yearning, faltered as her hips bucked instinctively, pressing closer to him. The intensity of the moment enveloped them both, a mingling of pleasure and anticipation that left no room for the outside world.

Robb's touch and kisses brought Esmerelda to the brink, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. Her body tensed as he continued his relentless exploration, each movement igniting a new wave of pleasure. With a final, fervent caress, he pushed her over the edge. Her cry, a breathless moan of release, filled the small space between them as she arched against him, her fingers gripping his shoulders tightly. The intensity of her climax was palpable, a testament to the raw, unrestrained passion that had overtaken them both.

As Esmerelda's breath settled and her trembling ceased, her hands, still warm from their earlier embrace, tugged at Robb's shoulders, drawing him closer. She guided him with a practiced, deliberate touch, positioning him between her spread knees. Her eyes, once clouded with pleasure, now gleamed with a hungry, expectant look.

"Now, Robb," she breathed, her voice thick with a mixture of desire and urgency. Her hand reached down, fingers wrapping around him with a firm yet tender grip, directing him to the entrance he had so eagerly prepared. The warmth and softness of her touch left no room for hesitation or doubt.

Robb, his heart pounding and breath quickening, responded with a mix of desperate need and nervous eagerness. He moved into place with an urgency born from both his own pent-up desires and the intensity of the moment. His movements were hurried yet guided by the steady pressure of her hand, which ensured that he aligned with her.

With a final, mutual gasp of anticipation, he entered her. The sensation was both overwhelming and immediate, a fusion of heat and pressure that set both their bodies on fire. He pressed forward with a fervor, driven by the potent combination of their physical connection and the heady rush of the act itself.

Esmerelda's eyes fluttered closed, her lips parting in a silent cry as she felt him fill her. Her fingers dug into his back, urging him on as he moved with a blend of urgency and reverence.

In the dim light of the wagon, the world outside ceased to exist. The weight of responsibility, the fears and doubts, everything dissolved into the intimate, throbbing rhythm of their union. All that existed was the raw, unfiltered intensity of the moment.

Robb was overwhelmed, the world shrinking to a narrow point of torrid sensation. Each thrust sent waves of heat and pressure surging through him, a relentless tide that consumed his senses. His thoughts fractured, reduced to single, fragmented notions.

Tight. The sensation enveloped him, constricting with a fervent grip that left him breathless.

Hot. The heat radiated from her, a searing contrast to the cool air of the night, pressing in on him with an almost unbearable intensity.

Wet. The slick, molten warmth of her drew him deeper, merging their bodies in a primal dance of want and desire.

The frenzy of their coupling surged with a desperate urgency, each movement a testament to their mutual desire. Robb's breath came in ragged gasps as he lost himself in the rhythm, his body driven by an insatiable demand. The press of their bodies, the heat and slickness, all combined into a maelstrom of sensation that was both overwhelming and consuming.

His hands gripped her tightly, his fingers digging into her hips as he drove into her with a force born of pent-up desire. Each thrust was a battle against the encroaching tide of his own arousal, a struggle to keep control as his mind blurred at the edges. The sensation of her warmth wrapped around him, velvety and tight, only heightened the feverish intensity of the moment.

Esmerelda's breath came in short, sharp gasps, her hands clawing at his shoulders, urging him on. Her body moved in sync with his, a frantic dance of need that only served to heighten the urgency. She met his every thrust with a corresponding arch of her own, their movements becoming a relentless rhythm that drove them both to the brink.

There was only the desperate, primal need that drove them forward. Robb poured everything he had into their union, his mind stripped bare of all but the overwhelming rush of heat and pleasure that consumed him. Each thrust, each gasp, was a declaration of his fervent desire, a testament to the raw intensity of each instant.

Esmerelda, attuned to the young lord's mounting desperation, sensed he couldn't last much longer with an instinctive grace. Her hand moved purposefully between their bodies, fingers brushing over her own slick folds with a deliberate touch. Each delicate stroke over her most sensitive flesh sent shivers through her, the anticipation of what was to come heightening her own arousal.

As Esmerelda's fingers worked her nub, an explosion of heat rippled through her. Her muscles tightened around him, cunt clamping down and flexing in time with the spasms of her climax. The sensation of her internal grip, warm and unyielding, heightened the raw intensity of their connection. She arched her back clear off the bed, her breath quickening, eyes fluttering closed as she surrendered to the waves of pleasure that crashed over her.

Robb, driven to the edge by the fervent pressure and the rhythmic heat that enveloped him, could no longer contain the storm raging within. His body tensed, a final, frenzied push against the mounting pressure, and he succumbed to an overwhelming climax. His own release surged forth with a powerful intensity, each shuddering gasp and spurt of thick, white seed, a testament to the unrestrained passion of their encounter.

"Gods above," Robb groaned, his voice thick with the remnants of his release. "I think I..."

But before he could finish, Esmerelda's fingers pressed softly against his lips, silencing him. "None of that, Robb," she murmured, her tone laced with a quiet sadness. "We met little more than an hour ago."

"But..." Robb began, his youthful heart clinging to the romantic notions that had always colored his view of the world.

She shook her head, cutting him off. "No," she said firmly, though her eyes softened as they met his. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. I certainly did. But you are the firstborn son of a great Lord, a future ruler of lands vast and bountiful. One day, you will hold sway over a fourth of Ostermark, from a fine walled city, with a noble wife by your side; beautiful, strong, and deserving of your full devotion. It would not be fair to her to have me lurking somewhere in the background, with a brood of bastards."

"I finished inside," Robb said stubbornly, a flush creeping into his cheeks. "You might already..."

"No," Esmerelda interrupted gently, shaking her head. "I drink a tea every morning, one a Shallyan priestess taught me to make, to prevent such things. You needn't worry about that." Her hand slid from his lips to rest on his chest, her touch light but reassuring. "Let us enjoy what we have, day to day. When this campaign is long over, I will remember you with fondness, and the coin you've given me will help me on my way."

"Coin?" Robb asked awkwardly, the weight of the world suddenly crashing down on his young shoulders. "How much do I owe you?"

"Ten shillings, or half a gold crown, for each time you reached your peak," she explained with a practiced calmness. "You did that twice, so for tonight, one gold crown."

Robb nodded, feeling the last remnants of his earlier passion dissipate, replaced by the cold realization of what this was. He got up from the bed and fumbled for his purse on the floor, pulling out the heavy gold crown and placing it in her hand. As her fingers closed around the coin, he felt a strange mix of gratitude and sorrow. This night, like all things, would fade into the past, leaving only memories and lessons learned.

In the dim light of the wagon, their breaths mingled in the heavy air, a testament to the primal, evanescent connection they had shared.

"Thank you, Robb," Esmerelda murmured, her voice soft and almost wistful as she clasped the gold crown in her hand. She paused, her eyes flickering with something unreadable before she added, "You are young and hearty, and it seems the night is still young. Are you sure you don't want another go before you leave?"

With that, she turned over onto her belly, her back arching slightly as she waggled her rump in playful invitation. The movement was deliberate, calculated, and yet alluring in its simplicity. The sight sent a spike of hot need rushing through Robb, his body reacting before his mind could catch up.

For a moment, the young Lord stood there, torn between the intensity of his desire and the weight of his better judgment. The room seemed to close in around him, the dim light casting shadows that danced like spirits of temptation. He swallowed hard, feeling the blood pound in his veins, his earlier resolve crumbling under the onslaught of raw, unbridled want.

Esmerelda looked back over her shoulder, her emerald eyes half-lidded, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She was a woman who understood the power she held, and in that moment, she wielded it with the precision of a seasoned warrior. "Come, my lord," she purred, her voice like silk, "let me ease the burden of command just a little longer."

Robb's breath hitched, the last vestiges of his restraint slipping away. The image of her, laid out before him like a gift, was too much to resist. In a swift, almost frantic motion, he closed the distance between them, climbing on the bed behind her, his hands reaching out to grasp her hips. The feel of her skin under his fingers, warm and yielding, sent a shiver down his spine.

He pushed into her with a desperate urgency, the tightness and heat overwhelming him. Esmerelda moaned softly, pressing back against him, urging him on. The rhythm they found was one of mutual need, a raw, primal connection that banished all thoughts of duty and honor from Robb's mind. In that moment, he was not a Lord, not a Stark, but simply a man, lost in the pleasures of the flesh.

The minutes stretched into what felt like hours, each thrust, each moan, pulling him further into a haze of ecstasy. But even in the throes of passion, a small, distant part of him knew this could not last. That when the morning came, he would be back on the march, and Esmerelda would be but a memory, a fleeting taste of something he could never truly possess.

But for now, he allowed himself to be consumed by the moment, by the warmth and the softness of her body, by the way she called his name in that lilting, melodic voice. And as he finally reached his peak, a low, guttural groan escaping his lips, he clung to the sensation, to the last remnants of this night, thinking it would be a long time before he experienced anything like it again.

Later, as Robb opened the door to leave Esmerelda's wagon, the cool night air spilling in, she reached out and placed a hand on his arm, her touch as light as a feather. She leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear, her voice a soft, intimate whisper that sent a shiver down his spine.

"I will stay free for you," she murmured, her tone a blend of gentleness and something else...something ambivalent. "Every evening, I'll wait until the end of supper, just to see if you need my services. But be aware, if you come around much later, I may be occupied with others." Her words were soft, but there was an edge to them, a reminder of the transient nature of their arrangement.

Robb felt a pang of something he couldn't quite describe, guilt, perhaps, or maybe a deeper, more complicated emotion he wasn't ready to confront. She had given him pleasure, had shown him a glimpse of something warm and comforting in the midst of the cold reality of his life, but she was reminding him now of the boundaries that must not be crossed.

"If you do return," she continued, her hand still on his arm, her eyes searching his, "remember the rules, Robb. What we have is meant to be temporary, fleeting. Don't forget that. I don't want to be the shadow that lingers over your future, or hers."

Her words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Robb swallowed hard, nodding slowly, though he found it difficult to speak. She was right, of course. He had duties, a future that was already written in the stars. This, whatever it was between them, was a moment outside of time, a brief respite from the weight of his responsibilities. But it could never be more than that.

With a final, lingering glance, he stepped out into the night, the door closing behind him with a soft thud. The cool breeze of the late summer night air bit at his skin, a stark contrast to the warmth he had just left behind. As he made his way back to his tent, his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, his body still humming with the memory of her touch. But even as he walked, the reality of his world began to settle back over him like a cloak, heavy and unavoidable.

He knew he would see her again, but he also knew that each visit would be a reminder of the line he could not cross, the future he could not change. For now, he would take what comfort he could from her, but in the end, she was right, what they had was temporary, and he could never allow himself to forget that.

Chapter Text

In the great Citadel of Winterfell, Sansa Stark gazed out from the window of her room in the Great Keep, her eyes tracing the sprawling fortress and the city that lay beyond. The mighty walls of Winterfell, bristling with cannons and patrolled by countless halberdiers and handgunners, stood like a great stone leviathan guarding against the encroaching shadows. Each squad of soldiers had a black butcher's dog at their heels, its sharp senses ever alert for the scent of treachery.

Below, the city of Winter Town spread out across low rolling hills, a living, breathing entity thrumming with industry and life. From her vantage point, Sansa could see the grand temple of Ulric reaching skyward, its spires piercing the heavens. Lesser temples, each a marvel in its own right, dotted the cityscape. The pious girl's gaze lingered on each sacred edifice in silent reverence.

The temple of Shallya, with its soothing presence, tended to the sick and the ailing, and gave out alms from a soup kitchen generously funded by her father. In contrast, the dark and somber temple of Morr stood across the way as a solemn guardian for the departed.

The temple of Verena, a repository of wisdom, loomed over the corner of Printer Street and Book Binder Way, its façade a testament to learning, knowledge and justice.

The temple of Rhya, overseeing the bustling farmer's market at the west gate, spoke to the fertility of the land and the bounty it provided. A great circle of standing stones twenty yards tall, stood round the deepest most abundant well in the city. It had never even come close to running dry. Behind the standing stones lay the temple, or as the priestesses called it, their abbey. A modest building, built in a rustic style.

Just to the east of her, within the inner walls of Winterfell lay Taal's Wood. A living temple and a sacred three-acre sanctuary within the castle's embrace, it offered a touch of the wild in the heart of civilization. It was a rare tribute to the god of nature, given the city's stone and steel confines.

The docks bore witness to the majesty of the temple of Manann, its grandeur surpassing all other structures in that riverside district. Manann's rise mirrored the Empire's resurgence, as the Emperor's near decade long secret campaign, marked by bribery, assassination, marriage, and diplomacy both secular and religious, had seen the Westerlands and Marienburg reclaimed in spectacular fashion. Merchant Prince Ragnar Weselton's elevation to Elector Count was a victory for the Empire's mercantile might, while the Cult of Manann, awarded the status of elector, now shares power with the Cults of Sigmar and Ulric.

All while the High Elves stewed in frustration, caught off guard by the speed of human politics and too busy focusing on their dark brethren and the monsters of the world to interfere. Instead they nursed their grievance, sure in their longevity and the belief that the Empire would be cursed with a string of incompetent leaders eventually and Marrienburg would once more fall under the protections of Ulthuan.

Her mother had rambled on about it for weeks, describing in detail why she thought it elevated Karl Franz into the pantheon of greats alongside Magnus the Pious. She seemed to find it far more impressive than his successful campaign to reclaim Sylvania and cleanse it of the undead, his two expeditions to aid Kislev, or the many Waaaghs and Warherds he'd smashed over his twenty-year reign.

Sansa's gaze swept further, catching sight of the Kislevite district where the onion-domed temples of Dazh and Tor stood in quiet dignity. Her great-great-grandfather had permitted their construction, recognizing the need for gods beyond those of the Empire's Old Faith. After all, Dazh's divine domain of the Sun, fire and hearth were not claimed by any of the Empire's Gods. Nor were Tor's domain of storms, thunder and lightning. Yet, a temple to Ursun remained absent, a concession to politics; for Ursun was the guardian of Kislev, much as Sigmar was for the Empire and the Lady of the Lake for Bretonnia. Such a temple would have been an affront to the delicate balance of faith and politics that governed the Empire's heart.

Sansa Stark's gaze wandered across Winter Town, her thoughts meandering towards the small Dwarf quarter nestled within the city's depths. The enclave, though modest and populated by just a few hundred, held an air of mystery. The Dwarfs, a people of stone and shadow, had their homes hidden beneath the streets, their lives a silent testament to their ancient ways. She had heard of their shrines to the Ancestor Gods, though their secrets remained concealed from her view. She wondered what those shrines might look like…what golden idols, intricate carvings and ancient rites lay hidden from the sun.

Her thoughts turned to the gods she knew better, the goddesses Verena and Shallya. Lorekeeper Luwin of the Cult of Verena and Priestess Mordane of the Cult of Shallya had imparted their wisdom, filling her mind with tales of their divine realms. Verena's pursuit of knowledge and Shallya's nurturing embrace fascinated her, their doctrines a beacon in her quest for understanding the world.

Yet, her deep interest in the divine had its constraints. The path she yearned for, a life devoted to the gods, seemed forever out of reach. Her fate was preordained by the demands of noble alliances and bloodlines. Her father, Eddard Stark, had only two sons to inherit his legacy: Bran was now a wizard bound to the arcane, and Jon Snow the bastard was soon to join the Knights of the White Wolf. Should fate's cruel hand remove Robb and Rickon from the line of succession, Winterfell's mantle would fall to her.

Such were the ways of the Stark line, where duty and survival often dictated the course of life. Should Robb survive the next few years and marry, she would find herself marrying into some great house, ensuring their aid and support for House Stark and vice versa. And if he did not… well women of her house had wed great warriors of much lower noble status or even base birth, ensuring the continuation of the Stark name through such unions.

At thirteen, Sansa felt the weight of these expectations heavy on her shoulders. Though she would not be wed until sixteen or beyond, the shadow of duty loomed large. She seemed to grow taller every day, her hips rounding and chest filling in. She knew that her thoughts of Gods and personal desires would need to be cast aside in favor of the greater necessity of preserving her family's honor and legacy.

Sansa descended from her chambers in the Great Keep, Lady padding quietly at her heels, her loyal shadow. The morning air was cool, tinged with the scent of pine and earth. She made her way to the Great Hall, her thoughts heavy despite the brightness of the day. There, she found her mother, Catelyn, seated at the long table, her face a mask of quiet sorrow. Robb had ridden out the day before, and the weight of his absence hung heavily on her. Sansa understood, but she wished her mother could hide it better. The Stark in Winterfell needed to project strength, even in the face of such uncertainty.

Sansa took her place beside Jeyne Poole, her handmaid and childhood companion. Jeyne was the daughter of the castle's Steward, a man who kept Winterfell running smoothly, seeing to the needs of both the castle and the bustling city below. Though only a few months younger than her, Jeyne was a dreamer. The pretty brunette always lost in her fanciful thoughts, flitting from one imagined romance to another. One day she would sigh over Robb, the next over some gallant knight who she had seen in the yard. She acted as though life were a ballad, filled with chivalry and love.

Sansa knew better. Even before Bran and Arya had left for the Colleges of Magic, their paths veering into the dark unknown, she had known that life was far from a song. The world outside their walls was harsh and unyielding, a truth echoed in the sermons of the preachers. Whether they were from the Cults of Ulric, Sigmar, Morr, or even the gentle Shallya, all spoke of a darkness that crept ever closer, demanding to be fought, not just in spirit but in flesh and blood.

The very walls of Winterfell spoke of that reality. People did not build such fortresses without reason, and the guards who patrolled its battlements did so with an intensity that bespoke of the dangers they feared. Sansa had grown up under the shadow of those fears, watching her father, Lord Eddard, ride out year after year to war. His campaigns took him across the length and breadth of the province, and sometimes beyond. He always returned, but not without scars, and not without the loss of men who would never again stand within these walls.

Her mind cast back six years to when those losses truly hit home to her. Sir Mormont had been a gallant knight, a winner of tourneys with a beautiful wife and an officer of her father's guards. He'd always had a smile and a gentle word for her. Then one day he had ridden out with her father alongside the full host of Ostermark to the aid of Ostland, ravaged by the reaving Dark Elves. He'd been slain by those cruel slavers, body consumed by the flames of a black dragon such that none could recognize it. The only consolation was that dragon had been slain in turn by a storm of lightning cast down by the very Magister who had later come to collect Bran and Arya.

Now, it was Robb's turn to lead their army into battle. He had gone to prove himself, to defend their lands and people. But even if he returned victorious, Sansa knew there would be a cost. There always was. Life, even for one born into power and privilege, was not the sweet melody of a song. It was a harsh, unyielding march, where victories were measured in blood and the only certainty was that tomorrow would bring new trials.

"Sansa," Jeyne Poole's voice was soft, her cheeks tinged with a delicate blush as she leaned in, her hazel eyes wide with curiosity. "Is it true what they say?"

Sansa, startled from her thoughts, blinked. "Say about what?" she asked, a frown creasing her brow.

Jeyne glanced around the hall, ensuring no one else was close enough to hear, before leaning in even closer. "That on the way back up the Talabec Road from the docks," she whispered, her tone half-scandalized, half-thrilled, "the ladies of the night called down invitations to Robb."

Sansa's face flushed a deep crimson at the memory. The ride back from the docks had been a bewildering mix of confusion and mortification. The streets had been crowded and bustling with life, sailors unloading crates, merchants haggling over goods, and, above it all, the painted women perched in their windows, their voices sweet with sin. They had called down to Robb with teasing smiles, their words bold and unashamed, offering pleasures Sansa could barely comprehend.

"Yes," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's true."

Jeyne gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "And what did he do?" she asked, her voice trembling with equal parts horror and fascination.

"He... he ignored them," Sansa said quickly, though her voice lacked conviction. "Of course he did. Robb's not like that." But the doubt lingered in her mind, unspoken but present. The way Robb had flushed under the attention, the way his eyes had darted up to the windows before he forced them back to the road... It was all too clear in her memory.

Jeyne's eyes were wide with wonder, her voice trembling with the thrill of the forbidden. "I can't believe it," she murmured, almost to herself. "To think they would be so bold..."

Sansa nodded, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and something else, something more confusing. The world was changing around them, shifting in ways she didn't fully understand. And Robb, her brother, her protector, was no longer just a boy. He was becoming a man, with all the complications that entailed. The thought left her uneasy, as though the ground beneath her feet was no longer as solid as it once had been.

"He's a man grown now," Sansa said, her voice thoughtful as she spoke her thoughts aloud. "Unmarried, leading an army on campaign." The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implications she was only beginning to grasp. "He can do as he wishes."

The realization left her feeling queasy, her stomach twisting in knots as she considered what that might mean. The women who followed the army…the washerwomen, the cooks, the camp followers…she had heard her mother speak of them with open disdain, especially when her father was away and the wine flowed too freely at supper. Her mother's words had been sharp, cutting, filled with bitterness and a hint of fear.

Sansa had never truly understood it until now.

She imagined those women, rough-handed and knowing, with eyes that had seen too much and smiles that promised things she could barely imagine. Women who had lived their lives on the edge of battlefields, always just one step ahead of the darkness that stalked the land. Women who would know how to please a man in ways Sansa could not even begin to fathom.

And Robb…her brother, her proud, noble brother… what would he do? He was no longer the boy she had grown up with, the one who had pulled her braids and chased her through Taal's wood. He was a man now, with all the desires and needs that came with it. What if he sought out those women, those rough and worldly women who marched with the army? The thought of it made her feel ill, but she couldn't push it away.

Jeyne, ever the romantic, seemed oblivious to Sansa's turmoil. "He's a great lord," she said, her tone dreamy. "He'll marry some great lady, beautiful and noble, and she'll be the envy of all the court. But until then..."

Until then, Sansa thought bitterly. Until then, he could do as he pleased, and who was she to judge him? She had seen enough to know that the world was not kind to women who wished for things to be different. It was a man's world, and Robb, for all his honor and romantic notions, was a man.

But still, the thought gnawed at her, refusing to let go. What if the boy she had known was slipping away, lost to the demands of war and power, replaced by someone harder, colder? What if the man who returned from this campaign was a stranger to her?

Sansa swallowed hard, pushing the thoughts down, deep where they couldn't hurt her. "He can do as he wishes," she repeated, more to herself than to Jeyne, trying to make herself believe it. But the words tasted bitter on her tongue, and she found no comfort in them.

Chapter Text

Erntezeit 26th, 2522

The Undying Faith cut through the waters of the Talabec like a wolf on the prowl, flanked by the merchant ships Keen Fortune and New Horizon. The river, wide and deep, stretched before them, winding its way through miles of dense forest and misty valleys. They had been making good time, the billowing sails, wind whistling through the lines and the creak of their timbers a constant rhythm that mixed with the gurgle of the current.

Their first stop was Bek, a modest city nestled on the river's edge, perhaps two-thirds the size of Winter Town. Bek was unremarkable, a place of timber and fish, where the air was thick with the scent of pine and the mud of the river. The docks were busy with traders and fishermen, their wares laid out on rickety stalls that lined the waterfront. The Undying Faith and her companions took on supplies there, their holds filled with fresh provisions, while the crew stretched their legs on solid ground. Ned Stark, ever mindful of his mission, allowed the men some rest but kept them close to the ships. There was little in Bek to tempt a man of his station.

Kusel, however, was a different story. A sprawling city, as large as Bechafen and Bek combined, Kusel was a hub of activity and power. Though Talabecland's Elector-Count ruled from the mighty city of Talabheim, Kusel was where the real work of governance happened. Each spring, representatives and burgomeisters from across the land gathered there, filling the halls of the city with their debates and decisions. But Ned Stark had no business with them. The parliament of Talabecland held no sway over him, and he had no patience for the intrigues of politics outside of Ostermark.

His own dominions aside, Ostermark was a league of free and independent towns relying on each other and Bechafen for support and protection. Navigating the various wants and feuds among them was headache inducing enough without adding Talabecland's problems onto the pile.

As at Bek, the ships took on supplies, and the crew found brief respite in the safety of the port. But Kusel had more to offer than just provisions, and Ned was not one to pass up an opportunity for... relaxation. As night fell, and the city's streets began to glow with the warm light of taverns and inns, Ned and Jon ventured ashore. The city bustled with life, a mix of merchants, soldiers, and townsfolk, all caught up in the rhythm of the evening.

They sought out the transient pleasures that could be found in such a place...ale, women, and the brief escape from the weight of duty. Ned, ever the careful man, did not indulge recklessly, but neither did he abstain. There was a part of him, deep and hidden, that longed for the simplicity of such nights, where the only concern was the next cup of ale or the next whispered promise from a soft pair of lips. Jon, still young and full of fire, followed his father's lead, though with a less practiced hand. The boy was learning, as all men do, that war and duty might shape a man, but it was in these quiet moments of respite that he could find the strength to continue.

When the night had run its course, and the city began to settle into sleep, Ned and Jon returned to their ships. The Undying Faith waited for them, dark and silent on the water, her crew ready to set sail at first light. The journey down the Talabec would continue, and with it, the weight of their mission would return. But for that night, at least, they had found a brief reprieve from the endless march of duty and fate.

...
Erntezeit 27th​, 2522

Talabheim loomed just two days downriver from Kusel, or more precisely, its bustling port town of Taalagad did. The great city itself was a marvel, built within the embrace of a colossal crater, its high walls fortified by both nature and stone shaped by the hands of men. The river flowed north of the crater, leaving the city isolated from the waterways that most settlements relied upon for trade and defense. Taalagad, a sprawling port town to the northeast, served as the city's lifeline, with dozens of docks jutting out into the Talabec like fingers grasping for commerce. The town buzzed with activity, its warehouses filled with goods from across the Empire and beyond. It was said that the port held a permanent population roughly half the size of Winter Town, though many more chose to trek down in the early light of morning from the security of Talabheim's walls each day for work, rather than live in the vulnerable town below.

Their caution was well-founded. Taalagad had been sacked by Beastmen many times over the centuries, its docks and warehouses set ablaze, its people slaughtered or driven into the river. But Talabheim, nestled within its impregnable crater, with its fresh water lake and abundant fields had never come close to falling. That difference in fate was what made the events of that day so troubling.

The afternoon after their departure from Kusel, Ned Stark stood on the deck of the Undying Faith, enjoying a rare moment of peace in the fresh air with Arya and Bran. The river was wide here, the ships keeping to the center of the current, as far from the shore as they could manage. The children were at his side, their faces alight with the thrill of the journey. But that peace was shattered in an instant. A crude arrow, fletched with blackened feathers, sprouted from the mast just a foot in front of his nose. And the dire wolves howled.

"Get down!" Ned barked, shoving Arya and Bran to the deck. He quickly scanned the northern shore, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the source of the attack. The dense forest on the Hochland side of the river was suddenly alive with movement, the underbrush teeming with the foul shapes of Beastmen. Hundreds of them at least, a true Warherd, their twisted bodies silhouetted against the darkening trees. Horns and malformed limbs jutted from their forms, the stench of corruption wafting across the water.

The Beastmen bellowed in fury, their crude weapons raised high, but they were poorly equipped for such an assault. Archers were rare among their kind, and though some Gors flung javelins with terrifying strength, the distance was too great. Most spears splashed harmlessly into the river, or clattered against the ship's hull. Only one made it to the deck, hurled by a huge minotaur.

It impaled an unlucky boatswain through the torso, pinning him to the deck with a spray of blood, just an arms length from Jon who looked on in horror.

The sheer number of them was unnerving, a dark tide that could easily have overwhelmed a less prepared vessel.

But his men were hardly unready. The Undying Faith and her companions were well-armed, their carronades loaded and ready. At Ned's command, the ship's cannons roared to life, spitting forth a deadly hail of grapeshot that tore through the trees. The Beastmen were caught in the storm of iron and fire, their twisted forms shredded by the barrage. Dark blood splattered the forest floor, and the foul creatures fell in heaps, some nearly cleaved in two by the force of the blast.

The Winterfell guard followed up with a volley of musket fire, the sharp cracks of their handguns echoing across the water. More of the vile beasts fell, and those that survived quickly learned the futility of their assault. The current and wind soon carried the ships out of range, leaving the Warherd screaming in frustration on the bank, unable to keep pace with the fleet. Their unnatural stamina and swift hooves were no match for the speed of the current and sails swelling full with the wind.

As the danger faded, Ned rose slowly from the deck, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He knew that what he had just witnessed meant more than a mere skirmish, soon to be forgotten. A Warherd of that size, so close to Talabheim, was a dire threat.

If there was one thing Ned Stark knew about Beastmen, it was this; if you saw one in the woods, there were five or even ten more lurking in the shadows, hidden from sight. They had just glimpsed hundreds, perhaps more, crawling out from the dark depths of the forest. That could only mean there were thousands in this herd alone. And where one herd marched, others often crawled out from the dark corners of the world to join them, driven by some vile, incomprehensible instinct.

This was news that Eddard Stark would have to carry to Helmut Feuerbach, Grand Duke and Elector-Count of Talabecland. The Beastmen were on the move, and the Empire would need to be ready.

"Captain Barbossa!" Ned's voice was as cold and commanding as the wind that whipped across the deck. "If there's any more speed to be had from these ships, find it. And keep your eyes sharp."

The captain, a grizzled veteran of dozens of river skirmishes, nodded curtly, barking orders to the crew. Sailors scrambled to adjust the sails, tightening ropes and trimming canvas to catch every breath of the wind.

Ned turned to find Jon, who had made his way over from the bow, his face pale from what he'd seen and taut with concern. The direwolves, Frost, Winter, and Myrmidia, were still restless, their hackles raised, noses pointed upstream where the monstrous creatures had been left behind.

"Frost didn't sense them?" Ned asked, his voice low, as though speaking louder might summon the beasts back. "Nor Winter or Myrmidia?" He cast a glance at Arya and Bran, who stood near Jon, their wolves pressed close to their sides.

"No," Jon replied, his voice equally subdued. "The wind was in their favor until they attacked. It was only after that it shifted."

Ned nodded, his mind racing. "Keep watch on the treeline," he told Jon. "And another on the wolves. They may notice something before we do." With that, he hustled Arya and Bran below deck, leaving Jon to keep vigil over the ship's course.

Once his children were safely below, Ned stormed towards the Magister's cabin, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. He barged in without ceremony, finding Solmann seated at a small desk, calmly writing a letter as though the world outside had not just been inches from chaos. The Celestial wizard looked up, arching an eyebrow at Ned's entrance.

"I take it this visit is in regards to that little skirmish?" Solmann inquired, his tone annoyingly placid.

"Beastmen," Ned growled. "Hundreds of them. And for every one we saw, there are far more we did not. A Celestial Magister on board, and yet you foresaw nothing? A warning might have been helpful."

The sorcerer shrugged lightly, setting his quill down with maddening nonchalance. "The winds of magic are fickle, Lord Stark. I see what the heavens reveal, no more, no less. If no vision came to me, it is because the gods, the stars or fate or whatever higher power you believe I follow deemed it unnecessary. You handled the situation well enough without my intervention."

Ned's frustration bubbled over. "Handled? A good man died! It was luck that kept us from taking more losses. The Gors were nearly on us before we even knew they were there."

Solmann leaned back in his chair, regarding Ned with a calm that bordered on disdain. "You misunderstand my gift, Lord Stark. It is not for mere inconveniences. My visions are for matters of grave importance, the kind that shape the fates of provinces and nations, not mere skirmishes in the wilds. Had there been true peril, rest assured, I would have known it."

Ned glared at him, the tight knot of tension in his chest refusing to loosen. But what could he do? The man was arrogant, yes, but he was also right. With one exception they had all survived, and the ships were still on course. There was no point in further argument.

"Let us hope you're right, Magister," Ned said, his voice grim. "For all our sakes." And with that, he turned on his heel and left the cabin, returning to the deck where the wind blustered and the current of the river carried them ever closer to whatever fate awaited them.

...
Erntezeit 28th, 2522

They arrived in Taalagad the next day, just after noon. They had sailed deep into the night to make it so soon, laying anchor around midnight, something only made possible by a relatively straight stretch of river that the captain had known well.

The foul stench of the Beastmen had long since faded, leaving nothing but the memory of that harrowing skirmish on the river. Ned disembarked with a grim determination, the weight of duty pressing down upon him like the leaden skies above.

Before he departed, he turned to Solmann, his voice low and stern. "Watch over Arya and Bran. Keep them safe, Magister. With your life, if need be."

The wizard inclined his head, a gesture more of acknowledgment than obedience, and Ned could only hope that the man's arrogance would not cloud his judgment in the hour of need. At least he'd been up on deck most of the night before, reading their fates in the stars.

Satisfied as he could be, Ned descended the gangplank with Jon at his side, eight of his finest greatswords flanking them, and Frost padding silently behind, his red eyes gleaming with a feral intensity.

They chartered a carriage and began the ascent up the narrow road called the Wizard's Way that wound its way up along the ridge of the crater. Taalagad lay out before him, with its scores of docks and warehouses by the hundred. A boatyard for building river ships and repair, shops that sold supplies, and inns, pubs and brothels all fought to draw the eye with brightly painted signs.

However what drew Ned's eye the most was Taalagad's defenses and he was not impressed by what he saw. A simple curtain wall thirty feet high and twelve thick that ran from an anchoring castle of middling size, on the downriver side of the port, around the city until the wall merged into the towering crater wall. A seprate wall of the same dimensions, much shorter in length ran from the crater wall on the northeast side of the settlement to the river, preventing an enemy from going around the crater to attack the port.

Towers rose along both walls spaced every hundred yards. Three gatehouses along the main wall led out to farms and the wilderness beyond. They were adequate he supposed, but certainly the Grand Duke could have arranged for better had he but tried.

Concerning too was the Wizard's Crossing, a great stone bridge that spanned the river from Hochland into Taalagad itself at a point where the Talabec narrowed to half a mile. It was said to have been built two centuries ago by one of the wizards who had been taken under the wing of Teclis, the great Elevn mage, when he had founded the colleges of magic.

The bridge was wide enough for two wagons passing side by side, and thankfully they had gatehouses at both ends. No more formidable than the ones on the port city walls, but Ned could see carronades on their battlements, similar to the ones carried by the Undying Fury and sighted down the length of the bridge. Any army trying to force its way across would be cut to pieces. But if the Beastmen came in large enough numbers that might not be enough to stop them.

Their carriage approached the crater walls and Ned turned his attention there. The city proper lay within, its entrance a tunnel carved through the solid rock, the only passage into Talabheim. A massive, fortified gatehouse barred the way, as formidable as that of a Dwarven hold. These gates were a testament to the city's strength, a silent challenge to any who dared test its defenses. Not once in over two thousand years had they been breeched.

When the guards at the tunnel entrance caught sight of the Stark sigil and realized who it was that sought entry, they quickly waved the carriage through, after swapping out the tired horses for fresh ones. A guide was provided, an older gray haired man with the sharp eyes of a hawk, who directed them towards the Grand Duke's palace.

Talabheim was a vast sprawl, a teeming metropolis of nearly three hundred thousand souls. The city had an ancient, weary grandeur about it, as if it had seen too much and endured too long. Yet, when they reached the palace, Ned found it less than imposing. For all its history as the seat of the Ottilian Emperors, the home of the Grand Duke was more a fortified manor than a true castle. A testament to the confidence... or perhaps the arrogance, of the Feuerbachs. They trusted in the city's natural defenses, the crater walls, and the great gates, rather than in stone battlements.

But Ned was not here to admire or criticize architecture. He was here to deliver a warning, a message as grim as any he had ever carried. A Warherd, vast and vicious, was just a day's sail from the city, and the Grand Duke needed to know. The Beastmen were not merely a rabble to be swept aside; they were a storm on the horizon, a tempest of blood and fury that could descend upon Talabheim at any moment. And Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell, would see that the city was ready to weather it.

It was nearing three in the afternoon when Eddard Stark and his escorts were finally admitted into the palace, a grand and theatrical structure, as impractical as it was ostentatious. Thankfully the guards, though vigilant, were not overly ceremonious, though the court within the main hall was lined with gold framed mirrors.

Ned was announced with the same titles and fanfare that had greeted him in Bechafen, though this time between Viscount of the Veldt and General of Imperial State Troops, Member of the League of Ostermark was appeneded. It had been superfluous in Bechafen, but the faces here were unfamiliar, their expressions guarded. The nobles of Talabheim knew him by reputation alone, not by the bonds of loyalty, kinship or friendship that tied him to the lords of Ostermark.

Still, reputation was enough. The murmurs that rippled through the hall ceased as he strode forward, his greatswords flanking him like a wall of steel. Jon walked a pace behind, the ghostly white direwolf at his heel drawing uneasy glances.

The Grand Duke, Helmut Feuerbach, sat upon his high throne, said to have been carved from a living oak by Taal himself millennia ago during the founding of the city. He was draped in the deep reds and golds of his house colors. His face was set in a frown, great reddish-brown beard poorly concealing the irritation that had settled in as he listened to the latest petitioner drone on about some minor dispute. But when Eddard Stark was announced, the room fell silent, and the petitioner was hastily dismissed. The Grand Duke leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he took in the Lord of Winterfell.

"Greetings, Lord Stark," Feuerbach intoned, his voice edged with impatience. "What brings you so far from your home?"

Ned wasted no time. "A warning," he said, his voice carrying across the hall. "As my ships sailed down from Kusel, we were assailed by hundreds of Beastmen on the northern bank of the river. We cut down a few score with grapeshot, but we all know how these creatures hide their true numbers. If we saw hundreds, there are likely thousands in the woods close to Talabheim and Kusel."

The Grand Duke's frown deepened, the lines on his face cutting sharper. "On the Hochland side of the border? I've heard nothing from the Grand Baron about this."

"Ludenhof is a valiant man," Ned replied, choosing his words carefully. "He may believe he can manage the threat on his own."

"Perhaps," Feuerbach allowed, though his tone was skeptical. He sat back, fingers drumming on the arm of his chair as he considered. "Nevertheless, I will increase patrols, in numbers and in force, both on the river and in the woods. If they cross the Talabec, I will know of it."

He then turned to a secretary standing nearby, a thin man with ink-stained fingers. "Gunter, send a missive to the Grand Baron of Hochland. Inform him of Lord Stark's report, and request an update on the situation."

The man voiced a crisp confirmation as he nodded briskly, already moving to fulfill the order. Feuerbach looked back at Ned, his expression still dark. "I thank you for bringing this to my attention, Lord Stark. We will not be caught unprepared."

Ned inclined his head in acknowledgment, but the worry gnawing at him did not lessen. He had done his duty, but the Beastmen were cunning, and the wilds of Hochland and Talabecland were vast. Moreover, the foul creatures had eldritch pathways through the woods that sometimes allowed them to bypass barriers such as rivers

If they struck, it would be swift and brutal, and the walls of Taalagad might not be enough to stop them.

The Grand Duke did not let their discussion rest there. His gaze lingered on Ned, sharp as an eagle's. "Though I do wonder," he said, his tone casual but his eyes probing, "what business takes you so far from home. It's well-known that you have fought for the Empire's cause in every province bordering Ostermark and Kislev besides, but you're not here with an army. So I wonder."

Ned met his gaze evenly, knowing that the truth would be out sooner or later. He had never been one to dissemble. "I'm bound for Altdorf," he said bluntly. "My son Bran has been touched by the Brown wind, and my daughter Arya by the Grey. I mean to see them delivered to the colleges as swiftly as I can."

A murmur passed through the hall, and Feuerbach's eyes widened in surprise. In the Empire, such news was often met with pity or even fear. Magic was a dangerous gift, one that could as easily lead to ruin as to greatness. "That is baleful news indeed," the Grand Duke said after a moment, his voice lowering. "You have my condolences, Lord Stark. I shall pray for their souls and for their success in Altdorf."

"Thank you, my lord," Ned replied, his tone respectful but distant. He appreciated the sympathy, but had little patience for it although he knew the Grand Duke meant well. "My ship has docked and is restocking supplies. I intend to depart at first light."

The Grand Duke nodded, though his eyes remained thoughtful. "Then you must take advantage of our hospitality for the evening," he proposed, the offer more command than suggestion.

Ned hesitated, but he knew better than to refuse an Elector-Count in his own hall. "Of course, my lord," he said with a nod, though his mind was already on the road back to Taalagad. Every hour spent in this grand palace was an hour lost, and with Beastmen on the move, time was a luxury he could ill afford.

As the formalities were observed and the courtiers began to disperse, Ned felt the weight of his duty settle on his shoulders once more. He was a man who had always put his family first, and now that very duty was dragging him across the Empire, into the heart of its power, and into the unknown.

...

It wasn't long before Ned found himself in the Grand Duke's elegant dining room, seated in a place of honor beside Feuerbach himself. This room was grand in a way that spoke less of ostentation and more of old, deep-rooted power. Tapestries of ancient battles hung on the walls next to the iconography of Taal, King of the Gods and Lord of Nature, along with symbols of his consort Rhya.

The long ebony table was set with fine silver and crystal, but it was the people that caught Ned's attention. The men and women who dined here were no strangers to the hard realities of rule; their eyes were sharp, their smiles thin and knowing.

Feuerbach was deep in conversation with him, his earlier irritation smoothed over by the familiarity of shared concerns. "Greenskins raiding from the World's Edge Mountains again?" the Grand Duke asked, cutting a slice of roasted pheasant with casual precision. "It seems they never tire of testing our defenses."

"Aye," Ned replied, his voice steady, though the topic brought little comfort. "My son Robb is marshalling a great host to drive them back into their mountain holes and I have every confidence he will succeed. Chancellor Hertwig meanwhile is already preparing for another purge of the forest. He thinks to cleanse the woods before the snows set in, but there's no telling how many more of the foul creatures lurk in the deep places."

The Grand Duke nodded, chewing thoughtfully. "It's much the same in Talabecland," he said after swallowing. "The Beastmen have been stirring here as well. We've had reports of movements and small skirmishes before, but nothing on the scale of what you described across the river. Still, it's troubling. These creatures don't rise in such numbers without some wicked goal in mind."

Ned took a sip of wine, letting the taste of it settle on his tongue as he considered Feuerbach's words. "Could it be connected?" he asked, voicing the thought that had been gnawing at him. "The Beastmen in Ostermark and here, the Warherd in Hochland... perhaps they're all being driven by something, or someone."

The Grand Duke's eyes narrowed as he leaned back in his chair, considering. "It's possible," he conceded. "The Warherds often act on instinct, but when they're united, when they're driven by a purpose… that's when they become truly dangerous. If they're on the move in three provinces, it could mean a greater threat is looming, one we've yet to see."

Ned nodded grimly, the weight of that possibility pressing down on him. The Empire was vast, and under Karl Franz more powerful than it had been since the days of Magnus the Pious. Yet so too were the forces that sought to tear it apart. Greenskins, Beastmen, and worse...each year seemed to bring a new threat, a new test of their strength and resolve. "We'll need to be ready," he said quietly, more to himself than to the Grand Duke. "If this is only the beginning, then we'll need to be prepared for what comes next."

Feuerbach met his gaze, and for a moment, the two men sat in silence, the weight of their shared burden heavy in the air between them. Then, with a slight nod, the Grand Duke raised his goblet in a silent toast. Ned followed suit, the wine dark as blood in his cup, and together they drank, each lost in his own thoughts, each aware that the coming days would bring no peace.

They spoke of mundane things after that. Their children, their hopes for them and their fears. As if they were but normal fathers whose first children were coming of age. But underneath all the pleasantries their minds turned, dwelling on the threat of war.

Chapter Text

Jon had been relegated to a table with lesser nobility, but he did not mind. At least that's what he tried to tell himself, no matter how much the bitter envy burned inside sometime.

He was used to it, after all, accustomed to the quiet corners where his name carried less weight than others no matter the merit of the parties involved. Tonight, though, he found himself more than content with his company. Seated beside him was Magdaletta Wood, the Grand Duke's bastard daughter. A girl perhaps his age or a year younger, with auburn hair that cascaded down to the middle of her back and curves that drew the eye despite his best efforts to remain composed.

He did his best to focus on her rather than his darker thoughts, mind flashing back to the scene on the ship. Blood gushing as a man was speared though his gut to the deck right besides him. The scent of death and shit overpowering.

"I've never been so close to a dire wolf before," Magdaletta said, her voice soft and full of wonder, pulling him back from the grim memory. "I thought it would be more wild, after all, they're renowned for being goblin mounts."

"Frost is well-behaved," Jon assured her, his gaze drifting to the white wolf lying at his feet, calm and silent as ever. "Though he's quieter than his siblings. I think it's due to his albinism."

"How many were in the litter? And how did you come by them?" Magdaletta asked, her curiosity evident.

"We were on a hunt. Me, my father and my half-brothers Robb and Bran. We discovered the mother mortally wounded in the Gryphon Wood. She'd been speared through the throat by a Gor, though she managed to tear the Beastman apart before expiring." Jon explained.

"We found them soon after that. There were six," Jon continued on, a touch of pride in his voice. "One for each of Lord Stark's children. Surely a sign, especially with a white one for me, given my future with the White Wolves of Ulric."

Magdaletta's eyes widened in surprise, clearly impressed. "Your family is truly blessed by Ulric," she said, her voice full of reverence.

"We can only hope," Jon said, though the words felt heavier on his tongue than he intended. With what awaited Bran and Arya in Altdorf, the Starks didn't feel especially blessed as of late.

Magdaletta leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "I've heard your father's castle bears a great shrine to Taal within its walls. Is that true?"

"Yes," Jon said. "Taal's Wood is a shrine that covers three acres within the inner walls of Winterfell. All of it primeval forest."

"How pious," she breathed, her eyes gleaming with something that might have been admiration, or perhaps something more. Then she glanced around, as if checking for prying eyes or listening ears.

"Would you like to see the High Temple of Taal?" she asked, her voice just above a whisper. "It's not far from here, we can walk there in under ten minutes."

Jon hesitated, knowing full well that his father would not be pleased. Ned Stark was a man of discipline and duty, and slipping away from a banquet to wander the streets of a strange city with a girl he did not know was neither. But the look in Magdaletta's eyes, the way her lips curved into a soft, inviting smile... it was hard to resist. Besides, they were at the heart of the Feuerbach's power. What harm could come of it? If his father saw Magdaletta, he might even understand. She was a natural beauty, after all.

'What he doesn't know won't hurt him,' Jon thought, a small, rebellious part of him stirring to life. He returned her smile, the decision made in an instant. "Lead the way," he said, and together they rose from the table, slipping out into the night, the weight of duty left behind, if only for a little while.

The temple of Taal was a sight to behold, even in the dim light of evening. It stood encircled by a ring of ancient rowan trees, their trunks thick and twisted, each one towering high into the sky as if reaching for the heavens. The temple itself seemed to have grown from the earth rather than have been built by mortal hands. The walls, doorways, and windows were all formed from gnarled wood, woven together in a seamless design that spoke of the raw, untamed power of the god it was dedicated to. There were whispers that the temple had been shaped by Taal himself, the spirit of the forest pulsing up from the roots of those ancient trees, bending them into this sacred place.

Though it was said to be capable of seating a thousand worshipers at a time, the temple was closed to visitors at this hour, and Jon's thoughts were not on the deity it honored. Magdaletta stayed close to him, her eyes wide and ingenuous, her soft laughter like the tinkling of bells as she asked him one meaningless question after another. She clung to his arm, and though her looks were far more innocent than those of the harlots he'd known, there was a quiet thrill in the way she leaned into him, the warmth of her body against his.

"The temple of Rhya is next door, is it not?" Jon asked, breaking the gentle rhythm of their conversation.

Magdaletta nodded, her auburn hair swaying with the motion. "Oh, yes," she said, her voice breathless.

"Then let us visit it as well," Jon said, his voice carrying a hint of something more. He led her away from the temple of Taal, down a path lined with more ancient trees until they arrived at a sacred natural spring. There was a great rustic abbey in the background, but this spring was the true heart of the temple of Rhya. Great standing stones circled the spring, half again as tall as the ones that stood before her temple in Winterfell and just as ancient, if not more. Their surfaces etched with symbols that had been worn smooth by time yet still looked fresh as the day they were carved. The air here was different, charged with an energy that seemed to hum with life, a testament to Rhya, goddess of summer, agriculture, fertility, love and carnality.

Jon stood before the spring, the sound of the water lapping gently at its edges filling the silence between them. He turned to Magdaletta, his voice low as he intoned, "Mother Rhya, goddess of summer, agriculture, and love. We have come here to demonstrate our obedience to your will."

Before Magdaletta could respond, Jon leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss. Her initial surprise melted away as she responded, her hands clutching at his shoulders. The innocence in her doe-eyed gaze gave way to something more fervent, something that echoed the ancient power surrounding them.

In that moment, beneath the watchful eyes of the standing stones and the gentle flow of the sacred spring, the quiet tension between them finally broke. The world beyond the temple fell away, leaving only the warmth of her lips against his and the soft rustle of the trees as they swayed in the night breeze.

Jon's kiss moved from Magdaletta's lips to her neck, the softness of her skin warm beneath his eager mouth. Her breath hitched as his fingers found the laces of her bodice, working them loose with a deftness that belied his relative inexperience. Magdaletta's hands tightened on his shoulders, her head tilting back to give him better access, her auburn hair cascading down her back like a veil of fire.

She gasped as his lips found the hollow of her throat, the sound a mix of surprise and desire. The laces of her bodice slipped free under Jon's fingers, the fabric loosening around her. Her breath quickened, her heart pounding in her chest like a drumbeat, echoing the pulse of life and fertility that thrummed through the sacred grove.

The standing stones around them seemed to loom closer, silent witnesses to their tryst, the ancient symbols carved into their surfaces glowing faintly in the white light of Mannslieb. The night air was cool against their skin, a sharp contrast to the heat building between them. Magdaletta's fingers curled into Jon's dark hair, pulling him closer as his lips continued their descent, trailing along her collarbone.

Jon was aware of the power in this place, the ancient, primal force that resonated through the earth beneath them. It was as if the very essence of Rhya herself was urging them on, guiding his hands as he slipped the bodice from her shoulders, revealing the pale skin of round, full breasts. Magdaletta's breath came in quick, shallow gasps, chest heaving as her eyes half-lidded and she looked up at him, her innocence slipping away with each passing moment.

For a brief instant, Jon hesitated, the risk and weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him. But Magdaletta's hands were on him now, pulling him closer, urging him forward. The decision was made for him, the desire in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, the way her body responded to his touch... all of it too powerful to resist.

He leaned down again, capturing her lips in another searing kiss as his hands roamed over her, exploring the soft curves of her body. The sacred grove seemed to close in around them, the standing stones like silent sentinels, watching over them as they gave themselves over to the desires that had been simmering between them from the moment they had met.

She filled his hands, soft roundness and turgid tips pressing into them with a warmth that sent a shiver down Jon's spine. Her breath caught as his fingers explored her, the supple curves of her body molding to his touch. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them wrapped in the warmth of each other's bodies.

Jon dipped his head, his lips brushing against her skin as he moved lower, his breath hot against her chest. Magdaletta's fingers tightened in his hair, a soft moan escaping her lips as he found his prize...a plump, pink berry that his mouth claimed with a hunger that surprised even him. Her body arched toward him, inviting him to take more, to lose himself in the moment as the scent of earth and the night air mixed with the taste of her on his tongue.

The stones around them seemed to pulse with life, a reflection of the primal, ancient power of the goddess they were invoking. Each heartbeat, each breath, was a prayer to Rhya, whispered not with words but with the language of touch and desire. Jon could feel the pull of the earth beneath them, the steady thrum of life that coursed through the roots of the trees, through the stones, through them.

Magdaletta's soft gasps filled the air, mingling with the rustle of leaves in the night breeze. Jon's hands moved of their own accord, exploring every inch of her, as if committing her to memory. Her skin was smooth under his fingertips, warm and alive, the pulse of her heartbeat strong and steady against his touch. The looming presence of Taal and Rhya nothing more than a shadow in the back of their minds.

Jon's mouth moved over her, tasting her, savoring the sweetness of her skin, the softness of her flesh. The night grew darker, the world shrinking down to the feel of her in his arms, the sound of her voice in his ears, the taste of her on his lips. The heat between them burning away any hesitation, any doubt.

His hands trailed lower, past her waist and soon Magdaletta's skirt slid over her hips, pooling at her feet, her pantalets following swiftly. The night air kissed her bare skin, sending a thrill through her that matched the hunger in Jon's eyes. With a breathless nod, she let him guide her down to her knees, the earth cool beneath them as she turned at his urging.

...

"Brace your arms against the stone," Jon murmured, his voice thick with desire. Magdaletta complied, her hands trembling slightly as they pressed against the ancient, weathered surface of the holy stone. The cool, rough texture contrasted sharply with the warmth coursing through her, grounding her even as her senses seemed to float away.

Jon's hands traced the curves of her body, rougher now, more insistent. His fingers moved over the curves of her flanks, exploring the smoothness of her skin before dipping lower, finding the soft petals that were already blossoming under his touch. Magdaletta gasped, her breath catching as he found the firm, sensitive nub nestled at the top, a small cry escaping her lips.

Her back arched, pressing her hips back towards him as he teased her, his touch deliberate and knowing. The night seemed to close in around them further, the darkness intensifying the sensation of his fingers against her most intimate flesh. Every stroke sent ripples of pleasure through her, her body responding to him with a desperation she had never felt before.

Jon's breath was hot against her ear. The weight of his desire was palpable in the way his hands moved, the way he guided her body as if he had done so a thousand times before, the way his hard length pressed against the inside of her thigh. Magdaletta's mind whirled, the world narrowing down to the feel of his fingers, the stone beneath her hands, the pleasure building between her legs like a storm ready to break.

There, in the sacred grove under the watchful eyes of the King and Queen of the Gods, she surrendered herself to the primal rhythm of life, letting the power of the earth, the power of Rhya and Taal, pulse through her. Jon was a part of that rhythm, his every rub and touch a testament to the ancient forces that bound them together in that moment.

The storm broke, shattering her thoughts, and all Magdaletta knew was bliss. It crashed over her in waves, her breath caught in her throat, her fingers curling against the stone as she rode out the ecstasy that claimed her. Her body trembled, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all, until finally, she slumped against the rough surface, spent and panting.

But Jon wasn't done. As she tried to gather herself, his voice cut through the haze. "It's time."

Magdaletta stirred, a flicker of concern breaking through the fog of pleasure. She glanced back at him, her brow furrowed in uncertainty. "But what if..." Her words trailed off as he gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her pliant flesh with an urgency that sent a shiver through her.

Jon moved then, with the power of a young man in the bloom of his prime, driven by the primal forces that governed this sacred place. He thrust forward, his movements forceful and inexorable, as if channeling Taal's dominion over life itself. Magdaletta gasped, the sensation both sharp and overwhelming, as he filled her completely, splitting her slick folds apart and claiming her in a way that was both new and terrifying.

Pain and pleasure collided within her, a heady mix that left her breathless, her body taut with the strain of it. Each thrust was a new shock to her senses, a blend of sweet agony and exquisite delight that she could barely comprehend. She clung to the stone, her mind and senses focused completely on the feel of him inside her, the rhythm of his movements in tune with the ancient, innate forces of the earth beneath them.

Jon's grip on her hips tightened, his breath ragged in her ear as he pushed her closer and closer to the edge. The sacred ground beneath them seemed to pulse with the power of the Gods, lending an almost otherworldly intensity to their union. Magdaletta felt as though she were being consumed, lost to the power of the Gods, and the man who now commanded her every sense.

It didn't take long. The intensity of the moment, the ancient power thrumming through the stones, and the primal connection between them brought their coupling to a swift, inevitable conclusion. Jon's movements grew frantic, each thrust more desperate than the last, as Magdaletta writhed beneath him, her fingertips scraping against the cold surface of the standing stone.

The world around them seemed to blur, the boundaries between earth and sky, man and woman, all dissolving in the heat of their passion. The ancient Gods of the land watched in silent approval as they neared the peak together, their union a testament to the raw, untamed forces of nature.

Magdaletta felt the tension within her snap, the pleasure cresting like a wave that crashed over her, leaving her gasping, hips bucking back as her vision went white with the force of it. Jon followed her a heartbeat later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep, painting her insides white. His release tearing through him with a power that left him reeling as their bodies becoming one with the sacred earth.

They clung to each other, lost in the overwhelming sensation, their bodies trembling with the aftermath of their joining. For a moment, the world stood still, the air thick with the scent of earth and sweat, the ancient stones bearing silent witness to their act.

Finally, Jon slumped against her, both of them spent, breathing heavily in the sacred space. The otherworldly atmosphere lingered, a reminder of the Gods' presence, as they slowly returned to themselves, the intensity of the moment leaving them both shaken and awed.

As they separated, Magdaletta turned to face Jon, her expression a mix of wonder and uncertainty. The power of what had passed between them was undeniable, something far beyond mere physical pleasure. It was as if they had touched something ancient and profound, and now, as they stood in the aftermath, the weight of it settled over them both.

...

"We should get back to the palace," Jon breathed, the urgency in his voice cutting through the lingering haze of their passion. The warmth of Magdaletta's body against his own was hard to relinquish, but the reality of their situation pressed down on him like a cold hand on his shoulder. "They're probably starting to look for us. We don't want them to realize we aren't in the palace and start searching the city for us."

Magdaletta nodded, the spell of their intimacy broken by the sharp edge of responsibility. "Right," she stuttered, her fingers fumbling with the ties of her bodice as they hurriedly dressed. The night's chill seemed more pronounced now, the shadows of the ancient rowan trees looming over them like silent judges.

As she laced up her bodice, Magdaletta hesitated, her hands trembling slightly. "Jon, what if…" The question hung in the air, unspoken yet heavy with implications.

Jon paused, his gaze softening as he turned to her. "Your father cares for you, does he not?"

"Of course," she replied, though there was a quiver of doubt in her voice. "He will support me, but…"

Jon's heart twisted at the uncertainty in her eyes. He reached out, brushing a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear. "I am destined for the Knights of the White Wolf," he said gently, the weight of that destiny pressing upon him like an avalanche of ice and snow. "I will write you," he promised, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. "And if needed, you can turn to my father or brother for aid. Avoid Lady Stark, however."

The mention of Catelyn Stark brought a strange pang to Jon's chest. As he looked at Magdaletta, he realized she bore more than a passing resemblance to the woman who had always kept him at arm's length. The thought unsettled him, stirring emotions he was not prepared to confront.

"Right," Magdaletta whispered, her voice small, the spark of the evening dimmed by the harsh reality she could face if she found herself with child.

They made their way back to the palace with haste, the urgency of their situation propelling them forward. The grandeur of the palace loomed ahead, its outside walls lit by torchlight, a beacon in the night. As they slipped inside the dinning hall, Jon could feel the weight of his father's gaze upon him, the knowing look in Ned Stark's eyes speaking volumes. But, true to his nature, nothing was said.

In the quiet of their guest quarters, the events of the night seemed distant, almost unreal. Jon lay awake long after the palace had gone still, the echoes of their encounter playing over and over in his mind. He knew they would rise before dawn for the journey to Taalagad, and sleep should have claimed him, but his thoughts were a tangled web of duty, desire, and the uncertain future that lay ahead.

As the twilight before dawn approached, Jon finally closed his eyes, the weight of what had passed between him and Magdaletta pressing down on him like a silent burden.

...
Erntezeit 29th, 2522

As the carriage rumbled back towards Taalagad, the rhythm of the horses' hooves and the clatter of the wheels provided a steady backdrop to the tension inside. Four guards perched atop the carriage, eyes scanning the road ahead, while the other four crowded within the small, dimly lit space. Frost sprawled across the floor, making it feel even more cramped.

Jon sat opposite his father, feeling half dead from lack of sleep, feeling the weight of Ned Stark's gaze upon him. He wondered if he'd even managed half an hour of slumber before being shaken awake.

The silence was thick with unspoken questions until Ned broke it. "And where did you disappear to during supper last night?"

Jon, bracing himself, answered quickly, "I visited the temple of Taal."

"Guided by the Feuerbach girl?" Ned's tone was sharp, but controlled.

"Yes, Magdaletta Wood," Jon confirmed, her name hanging in the air with a trace of reluctance. Wishing he didn't have to say it. And more than that, wishing the two of them had not been saddled with the oppressive weight of a bastard's surname.

"Did you also visit the temple of Rhya?" Ned pressed, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Jon's shoulders slumped. "Yes," he admitted, the guards inside exchanging knowing glances. Jon could feel their gaze like a silent accusation.

Ned's expression hardened. "The Grand Duke is fond of the girl," he said, his voice low and measured. "Do not concern yourself overly with her. He is a man prone to irascible outbursts though, and I could well imagine him sending missives to Middenheim denouncing you should this dalliance come to light."

Jon felt a chill at the thought, but Ned continued, "Of course, Ulrich's wolves are indifferent to such matters, so long as they happened before you swore your vows. Still, it could make your path more difficult then it needs to be. At least until you've proven yourself."

The weight of his father's words settled heavily on Jon. The road ahead seemed less certain, fraught with potential complications that could arise from a single night's decision. As the carriage rolled on in silence, the landscape outside passed in a blur, but Jon's thoughts were fixed on the precarious balance he now had to maintain between duty and desire.

"Impressively quick work, though," Ned let out eventually, his tone one of begrudging admiration. "The girl is gorgeous."

The carriage fell once more into a contemplative silence, each occupant wrapped in their own thoughts as the wheels turned. The landscape outside was a blur of warehouses being unloaded and pubs disgorging hung over sailors, but Jon's mind lingered on yesterday and the day before, haunted by memories of Beastmen, Rhya's shrine, and the girl with auburn hair.

When they arrived at the docks, the bustle of activity brought a welcome distraction. Their ships were restocked and ready to sail, and Arya and Bran were safe, their presence on deck with their wolves a reassuring sight amidst the flurry of preparations.

With their business in Talabheim behind them, the Stark party set sail once more down the Talabec. Yet, as the river carried them forward, Jon's thoughts remained tethered to the grand city and the events that had unfolded there... warnings given of shadowy threats lurking in the woods, sacred temples, and a fleeting encounter with a woman who now lingered in his memory like a half-forgotten dream.

Jon's thoughts kept drifting back to the standing stones, to the way they seemed to pulse with a primal power, each carved sigil glowing faintly in the moonlight. The very air around them had thrummed with the ancient force of Rhya's temple, a living, breathing thing that moved in time with their rutting. It was as if the goddess herself had reached out to bless their union, and in that sacred moment, Jon had felt something shift deep within him... a connection to the earth, to the old gods, to something far more ancient than any mortal man.

The image of Magdaletta's face, flushed with passion and bathed in that eerie light, lingered in his mind, intertwined with the memory of the molten heat between her legs and the knowledge of what they had invoked. Even through the lens of memory he could almost feel the weight of the divine magic that had surrounded them.

If Magdaletta's belly did not swell with child in the coming months, Jon would be very much surprised. The thought brought with it a mix of pride and dread. He was young, destined for the White Wolves, but the world and the Gods had a way of complicating the simple path of a man's life.

He knew the implications of what they had done, the consequences that could follow. And yet, there was a part of him that welcomed the notion that he might have sown his seed in such a place of power, that his bloodline might intertwine with the sacred magics of the Old World. Jon could only wonder what the future might hold for him, for Magdaletta, and for the child he felt certain would be born from their union.

Jon could not shake the feeling that what had transpired beneath those ancient stones would follow him, a shadow on the horizon of his future. And in the quiet moments when the river's song lulled him to the edge of sleep, he could almost hear the whispers of the Gods in the wind, reminding him that some actions could never be undone.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 12th​, 2522

Robb visited Esmerelda every night, her painted wagon becoming a familiar haunt in the twilight hours. His dire wolf, Storm, lay vigilant outside, flanked by his guards, while inside, Robb sought solace between her thighs, the earthy scent of the camp mingling with the musk of sweat and sex.

The whispers had begun almost as soon as the visits became routine. Camp bride, they called her, with sneers that carried in the night. But Robb cared little for their rumors; his concern was for the respect and obedience of his men, and on that front, nothing had changed.

The army pressed on, making steady progress despite the forested hills that often slowed their march to a mere ten or twelve miles a day. The Dwarf Road, sturdy though it was and repaired often by his father's men and the dwarfs, was sometimes in rough shape. Weathered by the elements, time and the relentless assaults of Beastmen.

Of the fetid goatmen they saw little, with just a handful of probes on their camps, that were brushed back by vigilant sentries with ease. The Beastmen were like that. They could seem but a nuisance for years and then drown a province in a tide of hoof, fang and fur. A festering wound that sometimes scabbed over and at other times burst forth in a torrent of blood and death.

But the forest soon gave way to the vast, open expanse of the Veldt, where the horizon stretched unbroken in every direction. Here, the army made up for lost time, the miles falling away beneath a haze of dust and sun. Days turned into weeks, and after twenty-four days of relentless marching, they reached the edge of the World's Edge Mountains.

The peaks loomed before them, jagged and towering, their snow-capped summits scraping the sky like the teeth of some primordial beast. No wonder they called it the World's Edge… it was as if the very earth had risen up to bar their passage, a wall of stone and shadow that defied any who dared to cross it.

They had stopped at the last stronghold under his father's banner before venturing into the treacherous expanse of the mountains. Beyond the territory held by its lord, there was no land claimed by men, only by Dwarfs, Greenskins, and creatures far worse.

Here, at the edge of his father's domain, Robb Stark found himself in the shadow of Dunbroch, the last bastion of civilization before the wilds of the World's Edge Mountains. The castle, named for the family that had held it for generations, was a simple yet formidable fortress. Its stone curtain wall rose thirty feet high, enclosing a stout tower keep that loomed wide and tall above the surrounding landscape.

Built on an island in a small, cold lake; a solid rock outcropping that jutted twenty feet out of the water. The castle took up nearly the entire island, with only a single stone bridge connecting it to the mainland. The sight of it stirred something primal in Robb, a sense of finality before the untamed wilderness beyond.

Robb would not be visiting Esmeralda tonight. Duty called him to sup with Lord Fergus, the Baron of Dunbroch, and his family. Fergus was a massive man, his fiery red beard and hair streaked with grey, a reminder of battles fought and won. He was in his forties and had lost his leg to a massive ursine Beastman a decade ago, but he bore the loss with the kind of grim humor that men like him often did.

His wife, a dark-haired beauty with a delicate face, bore the refinement of Bretonnian nobility, the daughter of a Count. Robb couldn't help but wonder at the story that had brought her to this rugged corner of the world two thousand miles from home.

They had three sons, identical in every way, triplets with the same fiery hair and boundless energy. But it was their daughter, Merida, who drew Robb's eye. She was his age, with a mane of wild, curly red hair that framed the soft curves of her face in a fiery halo. Her blue eyes were wide and seemed to hold the very spirit of the Veldt. She had a figure full of life, toned and athletic, with enticing curves, that spoke of long hours spent in the open air. Riding and if her claims were to be believed hunting in the woods and fields, and climbing the nearby peaks. The way she boasted of it at the dinner table, in detail and with passion, he didn't doubt it.

"And then I shot that stag straight through the heart! Its rack had eighteen points, wide across as my arms outstretched " the lass crowed.

Robb quickly found himself appreciating her in ways that went beyond mere courtesy.

The dining hall was lit by dozens of torches and the fire roaring in the great hearth. As they sat to dine, Robb couldn't help but notice the way Merida moved, her every gesture confident, her laughter loud and infectious. She was no simpering lady of the court, but a woman of the wild, as untamed as the land her family ruled. Fergus spoke with pride of her skill with a bow, of the hunts she had led, and the beasts she had slain.

Robb found himself drawn to her in a way he hadn't expected. There was something about her zest for life, her strength, that called to him. As the meal wore on, their gazes met more than once, lingering just a moment too long, and Robb wondered what it might be like to ride beside her, to match her stride for stride in the hunt.

Yet, he knew he must tread carefully. Fergus was a man of deep loyalty, and while the Baron's gruff manner masked a shrewd mind, Robb could tell that his affection for his daughter was boundless. The wrong move could sour the good relations his father had built with Dunbroch, and with the mountains looming ahead, Robb could ill afford such a mistake.

Still, as the feasts course came and went and the wine flowed, Robb couldn't shake the feeling that he had found a kindred spirit in this wild-haired girl, a soul as restless as his own, bound by duty but yearning for something more.

Lady Elinor, sharp-eyed as any noblewoman, seemed to notice his interest as soon he did himself. Whether she had planned it from the moment she learned of his visit, or merely seized the opportunity, Robb could not say, but she began to sing her daughter's praises with the fervor of a village matchmaker. Merida, it seemed, was a paragon of virtues, fluent in Bretonnian and Kisleverian, capable of managing a household and keeping accounts, skilled in leading the defense of a keep should the need arise, and, of course, beautiful and fit, with hips well-suited to bearing many children.

Merida's cheeks flushed a deep crimson at her mother's words, though Robb did not miss the way her eyes sometimes lingered on him, nor the slight curve of her lips when she thought he wasn't looking. There was embarrassment there, certainly, but something else as well… curiosity, perhaps, or even interest. It was enough to make Robb wonder if her protests were as sincere as they seemed.

As the meal progressed, Robb found himself torn between his duty and his desire. He was here to ensure the safety of his men, to prepare for the journey into the mountains, where danger lurked behind every crag and crevice. But the pull of Merida's gaze was strong, and the warmth in her eyes seemed to promise something more than just a fleeting encounter. The night stretched on, and Robb knew that soon, he would have to make a choice.

Merida of Dunbroch was a curious marriage prospect, one that Robb Stark weighed carefully as he sat in the well lit hall, the bright flames of myriad torches illuminating the faces of the baron's family. Her father, Lord Fergus, was a baron with a modest castle, a few hundred men sworn to his name, and a reputation for toughness earned on the battlefield.

Her mother, Lady Elinor, was the daughter of a Bretonnian Count, a woman of grace and dignity who had managed to carve out a life in the harsh lands of the Veldt. Yet, for all her charm and beauty, Merida was, by the harsh standards of the nobility, a step below the women Robb was expected to marry.

Robb knew his place in the world, knew the weight of his father's name and the legacy he was born into. Eddard Stark ruled nearly a fourth of an electoral province, a lord of great power and influence. His mother, Lady Catelyn, was the daughter of the Elector Count of Averland, and though it was whispered in hushed tones that the man was mad as a hatter, he was nevertheless an Elector-Count.

The union between his parents was not just a marriage; it was an alliance, a bond between two great houses that strengthened Winterfell's claim to power. Robb was expected to do the same, to marry someone who would bring wealth, armies, and influence to his house. Merida, for all her virtues, could offer none of those things.

The lineage of House Stark was steeped in history, a line that had woven itself through the tapestry of the Empire since the days when Sigmar still strode across the Old World. Robb had ancestors who had married Hertwigs of Bechafen, cementing ties to Ostermark's ruling family. There were tales of isolated marriages with the Elector Counts of other provinces, even a story of an ancestor who had wed a niece of the Tzar of Kislev.

Yet, the history of House Stark was not without its quirks. There were whispers of those who had married far beneath their station, of women who had inherited Winterfell and chosen landless knights or baseborn generals for husbands, men who lent martial legitimacy to their rule while taking the Stark name as their own. There were also stories of sons who had followed their hearts, who had wed childhood friends or companions of little note, daughters of Stewards or Masters of Coin and elevated them by virtue of their union. Even one scandalous tale of an elopement with a chambermaid.

Merida was not so lowborn as that. Her father might not command armies, but he was a landed Baron, and her mother was the daughter of a Bretonnian Count whose noble lineage could be traced back to a storied Knight of the Grail. No one would look down on her, but neither would they see the match as a grand alliance. It would be a solid marriage, one that might please his vassals, who would take it as a sign of his respect for them, a gesture that he valued their loyalty enough to take one of their own to wife rather than seeking a bride from some distant court. But it would not be a union that would echo through the halls of power in Altdorf or Middenheim. It would be a marriage of the Veldt, rooted in the rugged soil and the traditions of Ostermark.

As Robb considered all this, he felt the weight of his family's expectations pressing down on him. He knew what was required of him, the kind of wife he was meant to take. But as he watched Merida across the table, her cheeks still flushed from her mother's brazen attempts at matchmaking, Robb found himself wrestling with the choice that lay before him. She was beautiful, no doubt about that, and there was a fire in her that spoke to something deep within him. But was that enough? Could he forsake the expectations of his station, the duties that had been drilled into him from birth, for the sake of a girl who, while lovely and fierce, brought little more to his house than her own merits?

The night grew long, and the conversation around the table turned to matters of little consequence, but Robb's mind remained elsewhere, trapped between the obligations of his name and the allure of the red-haired girl with eyes blue as the Veldt's sky and a soul that seemed to yearn for something more than the simple life she had been born into.

Eventually the feast transitioned from the great hall to the trophy room, where the walls were adorned with the grizzly remnants of hunts long past, trophies of fell beasts felled by Lord Fergus and his ancestors. Robb found himself drawn once more to Merida. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows over the heads of fearsome creatures, their glassy eyes staring into the void, eternal witnesses to the deeds of men.

Robb took a seat across from her in a high-backed chair, its wood polished to a deep sheen by generations of Dunbroch lords. Merida, sitting across from him, seemed a bit smaller in the room filled with such grim reminders of mortality, but there was a strength in her posture, a defiance in the way she held herself. She was not cowed by the legacy of her father's house, nor by the expectations that weighed upon her.

He studied her for a moment, noting the way the firelight danced in her wild red hair, before leaning forward slightly. "What do you do when you're free from your mother's lessons?" he asked, his voice low and curious. It was an innocent enough question, but Robb knew it was a crucial one. He needed to know who she truly was, beyond the pleasantries and the polished surface her mother had presented.

Merida's eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a moment, he saw a flash of something… pride, perhaps, or maybe a challenge. "I ride," she said, her voice steady. "There are trails in the woods around Dunbroch that I know better than the Dwarf Road. I've mapped every inch of them. And I hunt. Not like my father, with a dozen men at his back, but alone, on horseback like an Ungol with my bow." There was a note of satisfaction in her voice as she added, "I'm better than any of my father's men."

Robb raised an eyebrow. He had seen the heads on the walls, the massive bears and antlered stags, the monstrous boars and even a few beasts of a far more sinister nature. "Your father's trophies are impressive," he said, nodding toward the walls. "Do you have any of your own?"

She smiled then; a small, proud smile that told him she did not need the heads of beasts mounted on walls to prove her skill. "I've taken down more than a few," she said. "One a dire wolf, like him," she glanced over with curiosity at Storm stretched out by his feet, "but nearly the size of my destrier. I don't care much for trophies though. I hunt for the challenge, not for glory." She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "And for the meat and fur, when the winter is long and cold, and food is scarce."

There was no boasting in her words, just a simple statement of fact. She was a hunter, a rider, a woman who knew the land and could survive on it if need be. Robb found himself admiring her more with each word she spoke. She was not the sort to be content with a life of embroidery and courtly graces, of waiting in a castle while men went off to fight and die. She was a woman who would ride beside him into battle if she could, who would not flinch away from the hardships of life.

"And what about when you're not in the woods or the field?" he asked, pushing a little further. "What do you do then?"

Merida leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she were deciding how much to reveal. "I study," she said finally. "My mother insists on it, and I suppose it's useful enough. Languages, histories, the running of a household. All the things a proper lady should know." She shrugged, as if to say that these things were of secondary importance to her. "But I'd rather be out in the open, feeling the wind on my face and the earth beneath my feet."

Robb nodded, understanding. She was a creature of the wild, a woman who would be as out of place in a grand court as he sometimes felt himself. But there was more to her than just that. She had a mind, a sharp one, and though she might chafe at the lessons her mother imposed, she did not dismiss them entirely.

He found himself intrigued by the contradiction she presented… half wildling, half lady, with a fire in her that could burn or warm, depending on how it was handled. He could see the appeal, not just for himself but for the future of his house. A woman like Merida could stand beside him as an equal, not just a wife to warm his bed and bear his children, but a partner in every sense of the word.

"I think we would have gotten along well, you and I," he said quietly, leaning closer, his voice just above a whisper, "if we had grown up together."

Merida's eyes softened at that, a small smile playing on her lips. "Perhaps," she replied, just as softly. "But we didn't, so we'll have to make the best of the time we have now."

And with that, the distance between them seemed to shrink, not in the physical sense, but in the unspoken understanding that passed between them. Robb wasn't sure what the future held, but he knew he wanted to learn more about this wild woman of Dunbroch. She might not be the match his father had envisioned, instead she might be something else entirely, something that was just what he needed.

"I wonder if your mother approves of your outdoor pursuits," he remarked wryly, trying to get a grip on their relationship. She seemed very different from her daughter, the very picture of a Bretonnian noble woman of high class and ancient breeding.

Merida shrugged, a small smile tugging at her lips. "She worries, of course, but my father understands. He says I have the heart of a warrior, and it would be a waste to keep me penned up inside. Besides, who else would be there to protect the lands while my brothers are still boys?"

There was a fierceness in her words, a determination that spoke of a girl who had fought to carve out her own place in a world that might otherwise try to contain her. Robb found himself respecting that. She was more than just a pretty face and a potential bride; she was a kindred spirit, someone who understood the call of duty, the need to prove oneself.

"And what of marriage?" Robb asked, his tone softer now, curious. "Do you not dream of a life in court, of fine gowns, formal balls and grand feasts?"

Merida's smile faded slightly, her gaze turning inward. "I dream of a life where I'm free to be who I am," she said quietly. "Whether that means a court or a castle on the edge of the wilds, I care not. I want a life where I'm not just someone's daughter or wife, but someone in my own right."

It was a bold statement, one that might have caused scandal in a different setting, but here, in this room filled with the trophies of hunts long past, it felt right. Robb looked at her, really looked at her, and saw not just a potential match, but a woman of strength and character, someone who could stand beside him as an equal, not just as a bride.

Perhaps his decision would not be so difficult after all.

Robb leaned forward, his voice low, the firelight casting flickering shadows across his face. "And what if that was the kind of woman I was looking for?" he asked, his words heavy with meaning.

Merida's eyes widened slightly, her breath catching in her throat. For a moment, the room seemed to shrink around them, the heads of beasts on the walls forgotten, the distant murmur of voices fading into the background. It was as if they were the only two people in the world, their fates hanging in the balance of this one exchange.

She studied him, searching his face for any sign of jest, but found none. There was a seriousness in his gaze, a sincerity that she had not expected. The challenge she had thrown down, the words that had been more defiance than anything else, had been met with understanding, even acceptance.

"I would say you're either a fool or a rare man," she replied, her voice steady, though there was a slight tremor beneath it. She was not used to being seen this way, not as a pawn in the game of marriage alliances, but as a person, an equal. It unsettled her, made her feel exposed in a way she hadn't anticipated.

Robb smiled, a small, genuine smile that softened the intensity of his gaze. "I've been called both," he said, leaning back in his chair, though his eyes never left hers. "But I've also learned to recognize strength when I see it. And I've learned that the best companions in life are those who challenge you, who push you to be better. Who share your burdens and your triumphs."

His words hung in the air between them, an invitation, a possibility. Merida felt her heart quicken, the blood rushing in her ears. She had never imagined that a man like Robb Stark, with his esteemed lineage and high status, could see her in such a way.

"And what would that life look like?" she asked, her voice softer now, curiosity mingling with something deeper, something she couldn't quite name.

"A life where we ride the Veldt together," Robb replied, his voice equally soft. "Where we hunt and climb and face whatever comes our way, side by side. A life where you're free to be who you are, and where your strength makes us both stronger."

Merida looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the truth in his words. He wasn't just offering her a place in his life; he was offering her a partnership, a chance to be more than just a wife or a daughter. It was a life she had never dared to dream of, one where she could be herself without apology, where her love for the wilds and her need for freedom wouldn't be stifled but celebrated.

She nodded slowly, a small, determined smile playing on her lips. "Then perhaps you're not a fool after all," she said, her voice firm. "But a rare man, indeed."

Robb's smile widened, a glint of approval in his eyes. "And perhaps," he said, his tone rich with satisfaction, "we've found something rare together."

"Perhaps," Merida said, attempting to veil her growing interest with a veneer of indifference. She tilted her head slightly, her eyes glinting with a sharp curiosity as she asked provocatively, "Do you have any bastards?"

Robb's eyes widened in surprise, and he stammered, "No."

Her gaze remained fixed on him, intense and probing. "That sounded more like a 'not yet' than a firm denial," she said with a touch of challenge, her voice low but pointed. She cast a sidelong glance at her father, who was engaged in conversation with one of Robb's officers, his back turned.

"My father thinks I don't know about them, but he's sired a few bastards on the scullery maids," Merida continued; her tone nonchalant but her eyes keen. "He's a good man, all the same. He loves my mother, and the children are cared for without making a spectacle of them. No mistresses paraded in front of his wife in gold and silk." Her gaze hardened slightly. "Not like your father and Ashara Dayne."

Robb's face flushed, though he tried to maintain his composure. That wasn't exactly what had happened, but the blunt comparison still stung, for there was still a ring of truth to it despite the exaggeration. He knew well the tales of his father's extramarital affair with Ashara Dayne and the whispers that had followed him. The reality of his father's behavior was a shadow over his own actions, one he had yet to fully escape.

He cleared his throat, an attempt to steady himself, and met Merida's challenging eyes with a look of earnest resolve. "My father's failings do not define me," he said, his voice firm but carrying an undercurrent of frustration. "I've seen the damage such things can cause. I have no intention of following in his footsteps. If I ever have a child outside of marriage, they will be cared for, but not flaunted. I have no desire to repeat his mistakes."

Merida's eyes softened slightly, though she did not relinquish her scrutinizing gaze. "It's good to hear that," she said, her voice less biting now, though still carrying a hint of her earlier challenge. "I'd rather not find myself in a marriage where I have to contend with another woman's claims on a man's heart."

Robb nodded, understanding the concern behind her words. "And I'd rather not be the man who brings such strife into a marriage," he assured her. "You have my word on that."

The air between them shifted, the tension easing into a more mutual understanding. Merida looked away for a moment, her thoughts evidently turning inward. When she looked back at Robb, her expression was thoughtful, her curiosity tinged with something softer, perhaps a growing trust.

"Well," she said, a small, genuine smile playing at her lips, "it seems we have some common ground after all."

"Tell me of Winterfell and Winter Town," Merida asked, her voice steady but laced with curiosity. "What are your mother's responsibilities? Is there something you think I could take care of that she doesn't?"

Robb studied her for a moment, considering how much to reveal. Merida was no fool, and she wasn't merely asking out of idle curiosity. She was gauging him, testing the potential weight of her future role if this marriage were to come to pass.

"Winterfell is more than just stone and timber," he began, his voice measured. "It's the heart of northeastern Ostermark, a place where the old ways still hold sway. My mother, Lady Catelyn, oversees much of the daily running of the castle. She manages the household with the Steward, ensuring the loyalty and well-being of our people. She handles the finances with the Master of Coin and helps keeps the accounts in order. She sees to it that Winter Town is supplied and the poor fed, especially in the harshest winters when the snows bury us deep."

Merida nodded, her blue eyes never leaving his. "And Winter Town itself? What of the people there?"

"It's a bustling city, thirty thousand strong," Robb said. "As the last port on the river that the great ships of the Talabec can reach, it thrives on trade. We export horses, cattle and grain from the Veldt, timber from the Gryphon Wood, and cut stone and metals from dwarfen quarries and mines brought down from upriver on barges. The guilds and craftsmen of the town make everything House Stark needs to support and outfit the army. It's more than just a place to live… it's where loyalty to House Stark is forged in the hearts of our people."

Merida leaned forward slightly; her interest piqued. "And what of me, Robb?" She asked, repeating her original question. "Is there something you think I could take care of that your mother doesn't?"

He considered her query, weighing the answer carefully. "My mother is a strong woman, and her sense of duty is unwavering," Robb said, his voice contemplative. "But there are things she struggles with. Ostermark is a hard land, and its people are just as hard. My mother's roots are in Averland, where the faith of Sigmar runs strong. She finds it difficult to understand the ways of Ulrich, Morr and Taal, and the traditions that have shaped the Ostermark for generations."

Merida nodded slowly, as if she had expected as much. "And you think I would fare better in that regard?"

"I think you'd understand the land better," Robb admitted. "You've grown up in a place where the Gods are closer to nature, where people live and die by the cycles of the earth and the sky. Winterfell is more than just a castle; it's a sacred place, where Taal's Wood and hot springs sacred to Rhya watch over us, where dire wolves roam the halls and old songs are sung. My mother does her duty, but it doesn't come naturally to her. You, though… I think you could find a place there, a way to make Winterfell truly yours."

Merida's eyes flickered with something unreadable, a mix of pride and caution. "And if I did? If I took on those responsibilities, what would that mean for us?"

Robb met her gaze, his voice steady. "It would mean we'd be partners, true partners, in every sense of the word. Winterfell needs a lady who understands it, who can guide it through the long winters and stand strong when the cold winds blow and the blood-stained hordes knock at the door. If that's something you think you could do, then there'd be a place for you there…beside me."

For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the distant murmur of the household. Then Merida smiled, a small, thoughtful curve of her lips. "It sounds like a challenge," she said softly, her eyes glinting with that familiar spark of determination. "One I might be willing to accept."

It was then that one of Robb's pistoliers appeared at the entrance to the trophy room, flanked by a Kislevite outrider. The rider's armor was caked in dust from hard travel, and Robb did not doubt his steed bore the same signs of haste.

Robb rose from his chair immediately, sensing the urgency in their approach. Storm leapt to his feet by his side and he could feel Merida's eyes on him, watching him like a hawk. The pistoleer captain saluted sharply, fist rapping against his breastplate. "Lord Stark," he said, his voice brisk with the formal confidence of a veteran. "This is Lancer Alexei Koshka, of the Gryphon Legion."

Robb's heart quickened as he saluted him back. "Will the Legion be arriving this evening?" he asked, though he knew it was late to be marching. Perhaps they had pushed hard, eager to join forces before the morning.

The blonde Kislevite shook his head, his accent thick and rolling as he replied, "Nyet, Lord Stark. I was sent ahead to inform you that we will catch up by midmorning. The Legion marches hard, but the distance is still great."

"That is welcome news, Koshka," Robb responded, switching to Kislevarin, the harsh syllables of that tongue falling from his lips with practiced ease.

At the head of a small, low table, beneath the head of fearsome Wyvern, Fergus grunted, his eyes narrowing as he watched the exchange. The Baron was not a man to miss the significance of any moment. "The Gryphon Legion, eh?" he muttered, though his voice carried easily in the quiet hall. "A fine addition to your ranks. They'll make short work of any Orc or Goblin that dare cross your path."

There was a note of approval in his tone, though it was tinged with a wariness that Robb did not miss. The Gryphon Legion was well known throughout the Empire for their prowess in battle, but they were also foreign, a reminder of the uneasy alliances that were sometimes necessary to hold back the darkness that threatened them all.

"Aye," Robb agreed, turning back to Fergus, though his mind was already on the morning to come. "They're fierce fighters, each one worth five of any Orc. With them at our side, we'll sweep through the mountain passes like a storm."

Fergus nodded slowly, his eyes still sharp, measuring. "Just be sure that storm doesn't blow in something worse. The mountains have a way of changing men, even the best of them."

The words hung heavy in the air, a warning as much as they were advice. Robb met Fergus's gaze and gave a slight nod. He understood the risks all too well. The mountains were a place of danger and darkness, and even the mightiest warriors could be brought low or corrupted by what lurked in the shadows.

But Robb had his purpose, and with the Gryphon Legion at his side, he felt the weight of it a little lighter. He offered the Kislevite a place at the table, a drink to warm him after his ride, but Koshka declined, his duty to return to his comrades too pressing.

Robb looked to return to Merida's side after Koshka's departure but found her deep in conversation with her mother, and he understood the looks of women well enough to know that it would not be wise to interrupt them. Instead he turned back and sat across from the Baron. They talked of the mountains and what was to come. The talked of campaigns long past and how that Wyvern's head had ended up on the wall.

When the night finally came to a close, Robb found his thoughts filled with the coming battles. The road ahead was long and perilous, but with lords like Fergus supporting him and warriors like Koshka fighting beside him, he was as ready as any man could be to face what lay beyond the World's Edge.

Yet even as he lay in bed and drifted off, on the edge of Morr's realm and the dreams within, the memory of Merida's fierce blue eyes lingered in his mind, and he wondered what the future might hold beyond steel and blood.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 13th​, 2522

The night offered Robb little peace. His sleep was troubled, haunted by fleeting visions that danced on the edge of desire and duty. In his dreams, Esmerelda's green eyes, deep as a roiling river, pulled him into their depths, promising pleasures and secrets he could not resist. But just as he reached for her, the vision would shift, and it was Merida's fiery blue gaze that met his, filled with a wild challenge that stirred something deep within him.

The two women's faces and forms merged and blurred, their bodies entwining with his, their whispers mingling in his ear, until he could no longer tell where one ended and the other began. The soft sheets felt suffocating, the bed too plush after so many nights on the hard ground. He tossed and turned, struggling against the weight of his own desires, until the first light of dawn finally pulled him from the restless haze of his dreams.

When he awoke, Robb felt a heaviness in his chest, the lingering echoes of the night's visions clouding his thoughts. But he pushed them aside. There was no time for dreams, not with the Gryphon Legion on its way and the mountains still looming ahead.

He sent word to his men that they would remain at Dunbroch until the Gryphon Legion arrived. They had earned a rest, and he would not deny them the chance to gather their strength before the next leg of their journey.

Robb dressed quickly, the familiar weight of his armor grounding him as he prepared to face the day. Yet even as a guard helped him fasten the last buckle, his mind drifted back to the red-haired beauty he had met the night before. Merida had stirred something in him, something more than the physical passions that Esmerelda had ignited.

He left his chambers with a sense of purpose, eager to break his fast and speak with her again. The hall was already bustling with activity as the household stirred to life, servants hurrying to and fro with trays of bread, cheese, and smoked meats. But Robb's eyes scanned the room for one figure alone.

He found her near the hearth, speaking with her mother. The firelight played off her curls, making them seem like molten copper, and her laughter rang out like chimes swaying in the breeze, clear and free. There was something about her that drew him in, something wild and untamed, like the woods and fields that surrounded her home.

As he approached, Merida turned, catching sight of him, and a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. It was a knowing smile, one that spoke of their heartfelt conversation night before, and of the dreams that still lingered in his mind.

"Good morning, my lord," she greeted him with a rough unpracticed courtesy, her voice as warm as the fire behind her.

"Good morning, Lady Merida," Robb replied, returning her smile. "I trust you slept well?"

"Well enough," she answered, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "And you, my lord? Did Dunbroch's beds prove comfortable?"

Robb hesitated, the memory of his restless night flashing through his mind. "Perhaps too comfortable," he admitted, his tone light, though the words carried more weight than he intended. "I found myself missing the hard ground."

Merida laughed, a sound that chased away the last of the shadows from his mind. "Then perhaps you should spend more time outdoors, my lord. There's much to see in Dunbroch if you have the will to explore."

Robb's heart quickened at the invitation, but before he could respond, Lord Fergus's booming voice interrupted, calling for his attention. Duty, as always, would come first, but as Robb turned away, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted, that the day ahead would bring more than just the arrival of the Gryphon Legion.

"Ho, my Lord!" came the booming voice of Lord Fergus, cutting through the morning's quiet. Robb turned to find the towering man approaching, his one good leg carrying him with surprising speed for his size. The grizzled lord's face was split by a wide grin, eyes twinkling with a knowing look as he clapped a massive hand on Robb's shoulder.

"I see you've taken a shine to my bonnie lass," Fergus said, his voice thick with the thick accent of the mountain borderlands. There was a warmth in his tone, but also a hint of something sharper, a father's protective instinct wrapped in joviality.

Robb, caught off guard, could only manage a polite nod. He glanced at Merida, who stood nearby, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink under her father's scrutiny. Yet there was no shyness in her eyes…only the same fierce spark he'd seen the night before.

"Is it her comely figure or fierce disposition that catches your eye?" Fergus laughed, the booming sound echoing off the stone walls of the hall. His laughter was infectious, the kind that made men want to join in, but Robb sensed the weight behind the words, the subtle challenge that came with them.

Robb met the older man's gaze, feeling the eyes of the room turn towards them. "Both, if I'm honest, my lord," he replied, his voice steady. He could feel the heat of Merida's gaze on him, but he kept his focus on her father. "She's a rare woman, your daughter. It would be hard not to notice."

Fergus's laughter boomed again, louder this time, his large frame shaking with the force of it. "Aye, that she is!" he agreed, turning his attention to Merida, who met her father's eyes with a raised brow. "You've got the spirit of a Highland griffon, lass, and it seems you've caught the eye of a wolf."

Merida's lips quirked into a smile, but she said nothing, only crossing her arms and tilting her head in that defiant way that seemed to be second nature to her.

"Be careful, Stark," Fergus continued, his tone growing more serious even as the smile remained on his lips. "My Merida's not the sort of girl who'll be swayed by pretty words or promises. She's got the blood of the mountains in her, and that makes her wild, untamable."

Robb nodded, understanding the unspoken message. He had dealt with men like Fergus before... lords who valued strength above all else, who measured a man by his deeds, not his titles. "I wouldn't expect anything less, my lord," he said. "Nor would I want her to be anything but what she is."

Fergus's eyes searched his for a moment, and then, seeming satisfied, he gave a sharp nod. "Good," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Very good. You've got a good head on your shoulders, Stark. Just remember, what the mountains give, they don't give easily."

With that, the tension broke, and Fergus slapped Robb's shoulder one last time before turning away to oversee the day's preparations. But as Robb watched him go, he felt Merida's eyes on him again, felt the challenge in her gaze and the promise of something more.

The mountains were calling, and Robb Stark had never been one to turn away from a challenge.

"I'll be venturing into the mountains with my men, seeking the Slayer Keep and the source of the Greenskin raids," Robb said, his voice steady as he met Merida's eyes. The air between them was thick with unspoken tension, a blend of challenge and curiosity.

Merida tilted her head slightly, her auburn curls catching the morning light. "You've no experience with mountains, then," she noted, her rich voice carrying more than a touch of the brogue that marked her father's speech.

"Certainly not with mountains such as these. Just the rolling, forested hills to the south of Winter Town," Robb admitted, his tone carrying a hint of self-awareness. "What can you tell me of these mountains?"

Merida's eyes flickered with something unreadable, a mix of caution and something else that Robb couldn't quite place. "Well," she began, choosing her words carefully, "I've never dared venture too deep into them myself, but I know enough."

She paused, looking at the wall of keep as if she could see through it and view the towering peaks in the distance, their snow-capped tops seeming to scrape the sky. "The mountains are ancient, older than memory. They don't forgive easily, and they don't suffer fools. Every ridge, every valley, every hidden pass holds its own secrets. Some say they're haunted, that the ghosts of those who've lost their lives up there still wander, waiting for the unwary."

Robb felt a chill run down his spine at her words, though he masked it with a nod. "And the Greenskins?"

"They're not the worst of what you might find," Merida replied, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "The Greenskins are brutal, yes, but predictable in their savagery. They come down in waves, driven by hunger for battle or madness, and they can be fought with steel and gunfire. But there are other things in those mountains, things that don't bleed as easily."

Her gaze shifted back to him, sharp and assessing. "You'll need more than swords and courage, Stark. The mountains demand respect. You'll need to watch the weather, for the storms up there can strip a man to his bones in minutes. You'll need to learn to read the land, for the paths shift with the seasons, and what was safe in summer might lead you straight to your doom in winter."

Robb listened carefully, her words painting a picture of a place as treacherous as it was beautiful. "What of the people?" he asked. "Those who live in the shadow of the peaks?"

Merida's expression softened, but only slightly. "Hard folk, like the stone they live on. Suspicious of outsiders, but they know the mountains better than anyone. If you can earn their trust, they might guide you, might even warn you of dangers ahead. But cross them, or take what's theirs, and they'll turn on you as quickly as any beast."

She stepped closer to him, her voice dropping even lower. "And there are creatures, Robb, that live in the deepest caves and on the highest crags. Old things, ancient as the mountains themselves. Some say they were here before men, before dwarfs even, and they don't take kindly to intruders."

Robb felt the weight of her words settle over him like a cloak. He had faced many enemies in his short life, but this was something different. The mountains were not just another battlefield; they were a world unto themselves, with rules and dangers he was only beginning to understand.

"I'll be careful," he promised, though he knew it was a weak assurance against the unknown.

Merida gave him a long, searching look, then nodded. "I'll pray to the gods for you, Ulric, Sigmar and Taal." she said softly. "And I'll hope to see you again, when you return from those peaks."

Robb met her gaze, feeling the unspoken promise between them, the recognition of a shared understanding, perhaps even a shared fate. "I'll return," he said, more to himself than to her. "And when I do, we'll speak again."

With that, he turned and left her standing there, her eyes following him as he went. The mountains loomed ahead, vast and unforgiving, and Robb Stark knew that whatever awaited him there, it would test him as he had never been tested before.

…

Merida watched him go, her heart fluttering and a warmth pooling deep within her. Robb Stark cut a dashing figure, his strong shoulders and confident stride commanding her attention. He had treated her with a respect she wasn't accustomed to, asking her opinion on matters that held weight in his campaign and listening as though her words mattered. That more than his rugged good looks or noble birth attracted her to him.

The thought of presiding over Winter Town and ruling beside him in the great citadel of Winterfell was daunting, far beyond anything she had ever dared dream. Her life had been shaped by the rugged lands of Dunbroch, a simple place compared to the riverside stronghold of the Starks. Yet, the way Robb had spoken of Winterfell, of the life they might build together... it stirred something within her. He had promised her a role, a chance to help govern, to manage the lands and people in ways his mother could not. The prospect was tempting, even if the idea of leaving behind the only home she had ever known filled her with unease.

But even the most honorable men had their flaws, and Robb Stark was no exception. Maudie, the chatty serving girl, had confided in her that she had learned that Robb was dallying with a raven-haired beauty, some Strigany whore in a garish painted wagon. The news had stung, though Merida tried to tell herself it was to be expected. All armies had camp followers, and she was no naïve girl to think Robb would be different from any other man. Still, she couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy, the thought of him with another woman gnawing at her insides.

But she also knew that men of his station rarely, if ever, came without such entanglements. She thought of her father, a man of fierce loyalty to his family and madly in love with his wife, yet she had heard the whispers of his own indiscretions. It was the way of things, but it didn't mean it had to stay that way. Robb had spoken to her of his desire to do right by his wife, to be a better husband than his father had been to Lady Stark. Merida believed him, believed in the sincerity behind his words. She could see it in his eyes when he looked at her, the way he seemed to want more than just a pretty face to warm his bed.

With that in mind, she made her decision. The thought of what lay ahead filled her with nervous anticipation, but also with a sense of purpose. If she was to be Robb Stark's wife, she would not be content to simply stand at his side. She would be his partner, his equal in all things. And if he truly valued her as he claimed, then perhaps she could even steer him away from the temptations of the camp, reminding him that his loyalty lay with her.

She retreated to her room, her heart pounding as she sat at her small writing desk. The quill felt heavy in her hand as she dipped it into the ink, the words she intended to write forming in her mind even as she hesitated. It felt foolish, childish even, to write something so embarrassingly romantic. Yet, she knew that if she did not speak her heart, she would regret it. The Stark boy was not the sort to wait forever, and she would not risk losing him to another.

The letter flowed from her pen, each word carefully chosen, yet tinged with the raw emotion she felt. She declared her intent to accept her place in his life, whatever that might be. She wrote of her hope to share in his burdens, to stand beside him as he faced the trials of the world, and to one day rule with him in Winterfell. Her heart poured onto the page, every sentence a blend of passion and resolve.

When she finished, she read it over once more, cheeks flushing with both pride and embarrassment at the intensity of her words. Folding the letter carefully, she sealed it with hot wax and her family's crest, then handed it to a servant with strict instructions that it be delivered to Robb Stark's command tent immediately.

As she watched the servant depart, Merida felt a strange mix of dread and excitement. She had taken a bold step, one that could change the course of her life forever. Now, all that remained was to see how Robb would respond. The mountains loomed ever larger outside her narrow window, but in her heart, it was Robb Stark who held the true power to shape her destiny.

Chapter Text

Robb was in the midst of a heated discussion with his officers when the messenger arrived, a young boy with wide eyes and a nervous demeanor. He handed over the missive with a low bow, clearly eager to escape the charged atmosphere of the command tent. Robb recognized the seal instantly, the mark of Dunbroch pressed into the wax. His heart gave a small, involuntary leap in his chest.

"From Lady Merida, I assume?" Ser Wylis Manderly asked, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Aye," Robb replied, trying to keep his voice even as he took the letter, feeling the weight of his men's eyes upon him. The paper was smooth beneath his fingers, the edges neatly folded. He felt the heat rising to his cheeks, but he tucked the letter into his belt, ignoring the good-natured jabs and knowing looks exchanged among the men.

"Yes, yes, it's very amusing," Robb said with a huff, waving away their teasing. He knew it was all in good fun, but the moment felt too serious to indulge in lighthearted banter. "But let's get back to what's important." He cleared his throat, refocusing on the task at hand. "How should we integrate the Gryphon Legion into our order of battle, Sir Manderly?"

The knight stroked his thick beard, considering. "We will have to consult Colonel Lubovasyn, of course," Manderly began, his tone thoughtful. "But my first thought would be to place them at the rear, alongside my heavy cavalry. There, they would be available to reinforce the line if necessary, or to take advantage of an opportunity to strike a decisive blow."

Robb nodded, the plan aligning with his own thoughts. The Gryphon Legion was renowned for their discipline and their devastating charges, capable of turning the tide of battle in a single, well-timed strike.

"I agree," Robb said. "Placing them in reserve makes sense; they can hold back until the moment is ripe, then sweep in to crush the enemy's flank or pursue a retreating force. Their presence in the rear will also serve as a deterrent. Any enemy commander worth his salt will think twice before committing fully to an assault, knowing that the Gryphon Legion could be unleashed at any moment."

Sir Manderly hummed in thought. "Against sane adversaries perhaps, but against Greenskins? Goblins might be deterred for a time, but if they're led by Orcs, then the Legion's fearsome look will draw them in for a scrap."

Robb paused at that. Sir Manderly was right, that was the mistake of a novice. A general couldn't assume Greenskins, or Beastmen or any other of man's enemies would behave like a human force. They each had their own proclivities and instincts and a successful commander had to learn and internalize them all.

Sir Manderly went on, "The idea is still sound though. Not only is it tactically wise, Kislevites are a proud lot. Best to let them hold back until they can make the greatest impact. They'll want their charge to be the hammer that shatters the enemy."

Robb nodded, "you're right of course, Sir Manderly," he said, his mind already racing ahead, considering the terrain and the enemy forces they might encounter. The World's Edge Mountains were treacherous, full of hidden valleys and narrow passes where an army could be ambushed or led astray. But with his men and the Gryphon Legion at his back, Robb felt a surge of confidence. They had fought through worse and come out stronger for it.

"Then it's settled," Robb said, his voice firm. "We'll meet with Colonel Lubovasyn and finalize the details, but the Gryphon Legion will serve with our reserve, ready to strike when the time is right."

The men around him murmured their assent, the strategy solidifying in their minds. Robb could see the resolve in their faces, the determination to see this campaign through to victory. The thought of Merida's letter still burned in the back of his mind, but he pushed it aside for the moment. There would be time to read it later, to savor her words and consider what they might mean for his future.

For now, there were more immediate concerns. The mountains loomed before them, dark and foreboding, and somewhere beyond them lay the Slayer Keep and the source of the Greenskin raids that had plagued these lands. It would be a hard march, and there was no telling what dangers awaited them in the shadows of those ancient peaks. But Robb Stark was determined. He would see this through, and when it was done, he would return to Winterfell with more than just victory.

As the meeting drew to a close, Robb dismissed his men with a nod. "Get some rest, all of you," he said. "We'll need our strength for what lies ahead." The officers filed out, leaving Robb alone in the tent, the morning's cool air seeping in through the canvas walls.

Only then did he reach for the letter at his belt, his fingers trembling slightly as he broke the seal. He sat down and unfolded the paper slowly, his heart thudding in his chest as he began to read the words penned in Merida's careful hand.

Her words were a mix of passion and promise, filled with a longing that matched his own. She spoke of her willingness to join him, to accept her place at his side, whatever that might mean. She was no stranger to the challenges that lay ahead, and she made it clear that she would stand with him, not just as a wife, but as a partner in all things.

Robb's chest tightened as he read her words, the depth of her commitment and the fire of her spirit shining through each line. She was offering him more than just her hand in marriage; she was offering him a true union, a bond that would strengthen them both. And as he read, Robb knew that his own feelings mirrored hers. He had found in Merida a kindred spirit, someone who understood the burdens of leadership and the sacrifices that came with it.

The letter ended with two simple lines, written in a hand that was slightly more unsteady than the rest.

I will be yours, in all things. Together we will chase the wind and touch the sky.

Yours truly, Merida Dunbroch

Robb folded the letter and placed it back in his belt, the warmth of her words still lingering in his chest. The morning was marching on, and there was much to do before the Kislevites arrived, but for the first time in weeks, Robb felt a sense of peace. He had a purpose, a mission, and a woman who was willing to share it with him.

The path ahead would not be easy, but with Merida waiting for him, he felt ready to face whatever the mountains might throw at him. He would see this campaign through, and then… then he would return to Dunbroch, to Merida, and they would build something new together.

Storm lifted his massive head from where he lay at Robb's feet, already larger than any hound his father had ever owned, his ears pricking, and Robb felt the familiar tightening in his gut. Something was amiss. He strained his ears, catching the faint echo of pistol shots in the distance. Though far off, the sharp cracks of gunfire, unmistakable and urgent, broke the stillness of the morning.

Robb was on his feet in an instant, pushing through the flap of his command tent and into the brisk morning air, dire wolf at his side snarling with its hackles raised. The camp was a hive of activity, men scrambling for their weapons, donning armor, and shouting commands as the alarm spread like wildfire. The cry of "To arms!" rang out, the call to battle that no soldier ever truly grew accustomed to. More gunshots followed, a staccato rhythm that rippled through the camp, stirring fear and adrenaline in equal measure.

He caught sight of Sir Manderly, armored and barking orders to his men, and made his way over. The older knight's face was a mask of grim determination, but there was no sign of panic, just the cold, practiced efficiency of a man who had seen too many battles to be rattled by the promise of another.

"What's the situation?" Robb demanded, his hand resting on the hilt of Ice as he scanned the tree line to the east, where the sounds of battle seemed to be coming from.

Before Manderly could respond, a rider approached, reining in his horse with a sharp pull. The man's face was flushed, and his breath came in short, ragged gasps as he saluted. "My lord," he said, "a score of wolf riders. They tried to get a look at the camp, but Sir Reed's battalion swept them aside with ease."

Robb felt a small measure of relief as he returned the salute, though his instincts told him there was more to this than a simple scouting party. "Did they learn anything of importance? Their tribe, their numbers?"

The rider hesitated, the pause telling Robb more than he wished to know. "I don't know if it means anything, my lord," the man said slowly, "but they were hobgoblins, mounted on dire wolves like your Storm."

Robb's brow furrowed in surprise. "Hobgoblins?" he repeated, the word heavy with disbelief. "They're damned rare this side of the World's Edge Mountains." Hobgoblins were known to rule a vast Greenskin empire far to the east, on the borders of the mysterious and opulent Cathay, not to trouble the lands west of the mountains.

"That's concerning," Ser Manderly said, his tone as grave as the situation warranted. "Whoever's leading these raids is managing to rally Greenskins from far afield to their banner. Hobgoblins don't just wander this way by chance."

"Ulric smite them," Robb swore under his breath, the weight of the situation settling over him like a shroud. "We might be facing a full-on Waaagh after all."

The word "Waaagh" hung in the air, a chilling reminder of what they might be up against. A Greenskin horde of such magnitude that it could sweep across the land like a plague, devouring everything in its path. And if hobgoblins were involved, it meant someone, or something, had enough power to unite many fractious Greenskin tribes into a cohesive force.

But before the full gravity of the situation could drag them down, a new voice cut through the tension, rich with a foreign accent. "Then it sounds like we arrived at a good time," it said, carrying an unmistakable note of confidence.

Robb turned, a wave of relief washing over him as he beheld the Gryphon Legion. Their gleaming armor, ornate wings and deadly lances caught the mid-morning light, and at their head, Colonel Lubovasyn sat astride a magnificent white warhorse, his expression both fierce and reassuring. The Kislevites were here, their presence a much-needed bolster to the army's morale.

Colonel Lubovasyn saluted Robb, his steel gauntlet striking his breastplate with a satisfying clang. "Lord Stark," he said with a nod. "It seems we've arrived just in time to join the hunt."

Robb returned the salute, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Just in time indeed," he replied. "We have much to discuss, Colonel. It appears the enemy may be more formidable than we anticipated."

The colonel's eyes gleamed with a warrior's anticipation, and he gave a sharp nod. "They always are. All the more reason to crush them swiftly."

Robb felt a renewed surge of determination. With the Gryphon Legion at his back and Merida's words still burning in his mind, he knew they had the strength to face whatever horrors awaited them in the mountains. The war was far from over, but they had the means and the will to see it through to the end.

"Colonel, let us move to the command tent and discuss the situation with my officers and yours," Robb proposed.

"Of course," the Kislevite replied summoning his battalion commanders to his side and following Robb to the great canvas tent, a structure made for practical use, not luxury.

Colonel Lubovasyn listened with a thoughtful expression, one gloved hand stroking the dark blonde stubble of his chin as Robb relayed the news of the hobgoblin wolf riders. His dark blue eyes narrowed as he considered the implications, a flicker of recognition crossing his face like a shadow.

"Could it not be the Wolfboyz of Oglah Khan?" he asked, his voice carrying the weight of seasoned experience. His father was Boyar of Vitevo, a small but wealthy town near the headwater of a tributary that merged with the Upper Talabec not far up the river from Winter Town. It was a brutal place where prisoners of the state were forced to work the salt mines. A younger son, he'd served in the Gryphon Legion for twenty years and worked his way to the top through merit as much as through his father's influence.

The suggestion hung in the air, and for a moment, the tent was silent as the other officers absorbed the possibility. It was the man who'd driven the hobgoblins off, Colonel Reed of the 1st Winter Town Pistoliers who spoke first, the slim man's brow furrowed in doubt. "Are they not in Tilea?" he asked, glancing around at the assembled officers. "They've been embroiled in the petty wars between the city-states there for years, haven't they?"

"Da," Lubovasyn nodded, his accent rolling off his tongue like the low rumble of distant thunder. "For many years, they've sold their swords, and their wolves, to the highest bidder there. But I've heard no word of them taking a contract in the last year and a half. Have you?" His eyes swept the room, challenging them to contradict him.

Reed hesitated, his mind working through the implications. "No," he admitted slowly, the tension in the tent growing palpable. "I haven't heard of any recent contracts."

The officers exchanged glances; the air heavy with unspoken concern. Each man silently racked his memory, searching for some scrap of intelligence, some rumor, that might explain the appearance of the hobgoblins. But one by one, they all shook their heads, a creeping unease settling over them like a cold fog.

"If the Wolfboyz have left Tilea," Reed continued, his voice tinged with apprehension, "then they've found a new master."

"And if they've crossed the mountains to join these Greenskin raids," Lubovasyn added, his tone grave, "then the enemy we face is not only formidable but also well-funded. Someone is pulling the strings, uniting disparate tribes under one banner."

Robb felt a chill run down his spine. The mention of the Wolfboyz brought back stories he'd heard as a child, tales of vicious raids, of cunning ambushes in the dead of night, of hobgoblins riding dire wolves that moved like shadows through the dark. They were more than a band of mercenaries; they were a force of nature, unpredictable and deadly.

"This complicates matters," Ser Manderly murmured, his deep voice breaking the silence. "If they're involved, we could be dealing with a Waaagh driven not just by bloodlust, but by strategy and cunning. This won't be a mindless horde."

Robb clenched his jaw, the weight of the situation pressing down on him like a leaden shroud. The prospect of facing the Wolfboyz, at the forefront of an already dangerous Greenskin horde, was enough to make even the most battle-hardened commander pause. But there was no room for hesitation, no time for second-guessing. The safety of his men, the success of his campaign, depended on swift and decisive action.

"Then we must be ready for anything," Robb said, his voice firm, cutting through the tension. "We'll adapt our tactics as needed, and we'll make sure the Gryphon Legion is positioned to strike at the heart of the enemy when the time comes."

Lubovasyn nodded in agreement, his eyes ablaze with the fierce resolve of a warrior who had seen too many battles to be easily shaken. "We'll be ready, Lord Stark. And when the time comes, we'll crush them."

With that, the officers began to discuss the adjustments to their plans, the tent once again filled with the low murmur of voices and the scratching of quills on paper as they prepared for the battle that loomed on the horizon. Robb's thoughts, however, remained on the Wolfboyz and the unseen puppet master pulling the strings. Whoever they were, they had made a grave mistake in challenging the Starks. And Robb Stark intended to make them pay dearly for it.

Robb's voice cut through the murmur of the tent, firm and unyielding as steel. "We need to push forward," he declared, his eyes sweeping over the faces of his officers. "We can't let the enemy dictate our reactions." There was no room for doubt or delay; the time for careful maneuvering had passed. They needed to strike before the enemy could regroup or fortify.

"The pistoliers only slew half of those scouts," Robb continued, his tone edged with urgency. "The rest fled the moment they realized how outnumbered they were. Despite the squadron sent after them, we have to assume that at least one will reach Oglah Khan or whoever commands them. We can't afford to linger. We must push on to Karak Kadrin with all haste."

Sir Manderly, ever the pragmatist, nodded thoughtfully. "The Dwarf road is well maintained in these parts," he said, his deep voice steady. "We should make good time as long as we are not opposed."

"Yes," Robb agreed, his mind already racing ahead, calculating distances and potential delays. "I want to cover at least fifteen miles every day. But we must be cautious. The pistoliers will need to screen our advance thoroughly. Baron Dunbroch has promised us local guides who know the passes. Have they arrived yet?"

Colonel Flint, a grizzled veteran of many campaigns, stepped forward. "A dozen guides arrived early this morning, Lord Stark," he reported.

"Good," Robb said, satisfaction threading through his voice. "Gentlemen, strike camp and prepare to march. We have an appointment at the Slayer Keep, and I have no intention of being late. We march for Winterfell, for Ostermark, and for the Empire. For Ulric!"

"For Ulric!" his men echoed, their voices rising in a thunderous chorus that echoed off the canvas walls of the tent. There was a fierce determination in their eyes, a shared resolve that bolstered Robb's own spirit. They were ready; ready to march, ready to fight, ready to face whatever dangers lay ahead in the shadow of the World's Edge Mountains.

As his officers dispersed to carry out his orders, Robb allowed himself a moment to reflect on the path that lay before them. The journey to Karak Kadrin would be perilous, with dangers lurking in every shadowed pass and hidden valley. But it was a journey they had to make, a battle they had to win… not just for themselves, but for the countless lives that depended on their success.

The words of his father echoed in his mind, a lesson learned long ago by his forefathers on the cold, wind-swept plains of the Veldt: "The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." Robb knew the truth of those words now more than ever. He had passed the sentence, committed his men to this course, and now he would see it through to the end, no matter the cost.

With a final glance at the maps spread across the table, Robb stepped out of the tent, the bright late-morning sun warming his face. He watched as his men moved with practiced efficiency, breaking down the camp, folding up the tents, readying the horses, and packing the supplies. In a matter of minutes, the army would be on the march again, their destination the ancient Dwarf fortress of Karak Kadrin, where they would meet their fate, whatever it might be.

Robb mounted his horse, his gaze turning eastward, towards the looming peaks of the World's Edge Mountains. Somewhere out there, in the mist-shrouded valleys and jagged passes, the enemy was waiting. But Robb Stark was not afraid. He was the son of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and he would not be cowed by the likes of Oglah Khan or any other foe. He would lead his men to victory or die trying.

As Robb surveyed the bustling camp, Sir Manderly approached, his brow furrowed with unease. The older knight's heavy steps were deliberate, his face set in a grimace that spoke volumes before he even opened his mouth.

"The more I think on these hobgoblins, the less I like it," Manderly muttered, his voice low but laden with concern. "If these Greenskins are as strong as we suspect, why limit themselves to mere raids? Burning homesteads and sacking hamlets? Waaaghs are not so timid. They should have burst forth from the mountains in full force, storming Dunbroch or some other marcher lord's castle. But whoever leads them is trying to be clever, and clever Greenskins... they lead inevitably to disaster."

Robb nodded, sharing the unease. "It's out of character for the savage brutes," he agreed, his gaze sweeping once more across the horizon where the towering peaks of the World's Edge loomed, shrouded in mist. "While they may just be foraging for supplies or intelligence, it could be that they're trying to lure us into an ambush in the mountains. Or perhaps the raids are but a distraction, a feint to keep our eyes off their true aim. The Slayer Keep could already be under siege."

Manderly started at that, his eyes widening in alarm. "That would be bold, even by Greenskin standards. But would not King Ungrim Ironfist have sent for aid if that were the case? The Slayers seek a glorious doom, yes, but Ironfist is no fool. He's a king first, and he would not risk the loss of his entire hold."

"Unless they were taken by surprise," Robb countered, his voice steady but the possibility chilling. "Besieged before they could send word."

Manderly frowned, the deep lines on his face carving even deeper with worry. "That would make them all the more dangerous. A besieged Slayer Keep would draw every Greenskin for miles like flies to a corpse. If the Keep falls, the entire region could be overrun."

Robb's jaw tightened. The weight of his responsibility pressed down on him like a physical burden, but there was no time to dwell on it. "Speculation will get us nowhere," he said, his voice hardening with resolve. "We must get into those mountains and find the truth ourselves."

With a curt nod, Robb swung up onto his horse, the bay stallion's muscles rippling under him as it shifted in place, eager to move. He glanced down at Manderly, who was already turning to shout orders to the men. The army was forming up, columns of infantry and cavalry preparing to march, their armor gleaming brilliantly in the bright morning light.

As the first horns sounded the call to advance, Robb looked once more to the east, where the shadow of the mountains loomed, foreboding and inscrutable. There, in those mist-shrouded peaks, lay the answers they sought, answers that could spell the difference between victory and ruin. Whatever waited for them in the depths of those ancient mountains, Robb Stark would face it head-on, for there was no other choice.

He spurred his horse forward, leading the march with a steely determination, Storm loping by his side. The mountains awaited, and with them, the truth that could either save his men or doom them all.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 13th, 2522

Sansa sat in the library tower of Winterfell, the faint scent of paper, old parchment, and polished oak filling the air. The sturdy table before her was scattered with books and scrolls, remnants of her lessons that morning. The soft light of the late afternoon filtered through the narrow windows, casting long shadows across the room.

Loremaster Luwin, the venerable priest of Verena, peered at her through the round lenses of his spectacles, a faint smile on his lips. "Your spoken Tilean is near fluent, Sansa," he said, nodding in approval. "Almost as good as your Kisleverian. And your progress in reading Classical texts has been remarkable."

Sansa allowed herself a small, proud smile. "Thank you, Loremaster," she replied, her tone modest yet pleased.

The old man leaned back in his chair, stroking his thin, gray beard thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is time to start you on another language," he mused. "Estalian, perhaps? It would be a natural progression given your mastery of Tilean and your understanding of Classical. Like the Tileans, many Estalians serve in mercenary bands across the Empire. It is always best to deal with such men in their own tongue."

"Mercenaries are important," Sansa conceded, though her mind was already turning to other matters. "But the dwarfs of Karak Kadrin are more so. Long have they proven to be friends of the Empire, of Ostermark, and of the Starks in particular. What of Dwarfish? Can you teach me that?"

The question caught Luwin off guard, and he rocked back in his chair, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Khazalid?" he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue with a strange, guttural sound. "The dwarfs seldom speak their ancient tongue before outsiders, deeming them unworthy to hear it. I cannot speak it myself, though I have learned to read several hundred runes of their script. But that is merely translation into Reikspiel."

Sansa felt a pang of disappointment, surprised to find a topic on which the great scholar knew little. "Is there no scholar or expert whom I could ask Mother to send for?" she pressed, unwilling to let the matter drop.

"Few men know that tongue," Luwin replied with a shake of his head. He paused, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Although… there may be someone in Winterfell who knows it. Or, if not, there might be an opportunity to acquire such knowledge in the near future."

Sansa leaned forward; her interest piqued. "What do you mean?" she asked eagerly.

"It is said," Luwin began, his voice lowering conspiratorially, "that Sigmar, that great disciple of Ulric, knew Khazalid and taught it to some of his followers. A few of those men went on to join the Cult of Sigmar in its early days, and as one of the chief tenets of the Cult is to aid the dwarfs whenever possible, many of their priests learned it. And so, to this day, that ancient dialect is taught to those novitiates with a capacity for languages."

Sansa frowned, trying to piece it together. "But wouldn't it be like trying to speak Classical to a modern Tilean?" she asked, perplexed. "Sigmar lived two thousand, five hundred years ago."

"The dwarfs are long-lived," Luwin replied, "and culturally very conservative on top of that. While it would sound overly formal and old-fashioned, with a few awkward turns of phrase here or there, they would certainly understand it. Given his diplomatic acumen, there is a good chance that Father Anselm knows this tongue. If not, well…" He trailed off, a hint of a sad smile playing on his lips. "He is very old and has slowed down of late. Let him know of your interest. Tell him you would very much prefer that whoever replaces him knows this tongue." Luwin chuckled softly. "I'm sure the Cult will be eager to fulfill the request. Any in they gain with a member of your family would be greatly valued."

Sansa nodded slowly, considering the possibilities. The idea of learning Khazalid, of understanding the secrets and stories of the dwarfs in their own tongue, was more than appealing, it was thrilling. She could see herself, years from now, seated at a table with dwarfs from Karak Kadrin, speaking in their ancient language, earning their respect not just as a Stark, but as someone who understood their culture, their history.

"Thank you, Loremaster," she said, her voice filled with newfound determination. "I will speak to Father Anselm."

The old scholar smiled at her, the light of approval in his eyes. "Good, Sansa. You have the makings of a great lady. Remember, knowledge is a power all its own, and in these times, we need every advantage we can get."

Sansa stood, gathering her books and papers. As she left the library tower, she felt a sense of purpose, a quiet resolve to pursue this new path, no matter where it might lead.

Lady followed at Sansa's heels as she made her way back to her chambers, the dire wolf's padded steps barely making a sound on the stone floors of Winterfell. After depositing her books and papers in her room, Sansa hesitated for a moment, then resolved herself. She needed to speak with Father Anselm.

The Sigmarite chapel was small, tucked away in a quieter corner of the castle, its modest façade unassuming compared to the grander halls of Winterfell. Sansa knocked at the weathered wooden door, the sound echoing softly in the corridor.

"Come in!" called an elderly voice from within.

Sansa pushed open the door and stepped inside. The chapel was dimly lit, a few candles burning before the altar where an icon of the hammer of Sigmar was prominently displayed. Father Anselm, a frail figure in a black robe, with a bald head framed by wisps of white hair and busy eyebrows, looked up from the tome he was studying. His lined face creased further with surprise as he saw who had entered.

Sansa thought those whisps of hair on the side curious, she supposed the priest had shaved his whole head when he was younger, but was so old now that his head was bald without having to do anything. Thus he'd stopped and a fringe had eventually grown in on the sides, but it had not been enough to prompt him to go back under the razor.

"Sansa, my dear," the priest greeted her warmly, though his voice held a note of curiosity. "Welcome. I can't recall the last time you visited without your mother."

Sansa felt a flush creep up her cheeks. While she respected Sigmar and acknowledged his divinity, her devotion was first and foremost to Ulric, the ancient god of her Ostagoth ancestors. In truth, she saw Sigmar more as an ascended warrior saint than a god in his own right, a sentiment shared by many in the northern provinces. It was a belief she knew better than to voice openly, especially not in front of her mother, though she suspected Father Anselm had long since guessed it.

"I've been studying languages with Loremaster Luwin," she explained, hoping her nervousness didn't show. "Speaking Kisleverian and Tilean, and reading Classical. He suggested I start on another, so I asked him about Khazalid. He knows how to translate many of their runes, but he cannot speak their tongue. He suggested I talk to you, as he thought you might know the ancient dialect known to the Cult of Sigmar." She looked at him with a mixture of hope and anxiety.

The priest's surprise deepened, though he nodded slowly, face thoughtful. "That I do, though it's been a fair number of years since I've had reason to use it," he admitted, his voice tinged with a melancholy that matched the fading light in the chapel. "Still, the lessons were burned into my mind in my youth. I can teach you, Sansa, but I cannot promise how far we will get. I have passed my eighty-third name day, and I do not know if I have another left in me."

"That's alright," Sansa said gently, her voice softening. "You've had a good life, Father Anselm, and I will remember you fondly however much Khazalid we manage to get through."

The old priest smiled, a kind, wistful expression that creased the deep lines of his face further. "Thank you, child. But my successor… he may not be able to continue our lessons."

Sansa nodded, having anticipated this. "You often send letters to the Great Cathedral of Sigmar in Altdorf, do you not?" she asked, though she knew the answer. "Mention my strong interest in the matter, and I think the likelihood of your successor knowing the tongue will rise dramatically."

Father Anselm's eyes twinkled with a touch of amusement at her perceptiveness. "That it may," he agreed, his voice growing a bit stronger. "Very well, I shall mention it in my next missive. As for where to begin…" He paused, stroking his chin in thought. "I'll need some time to gather my thoughts and prepare a lesson plan. It has been over forty years since I last taught the language to anyone, and I must reacquaint myself with the order of it."

"Of course," Sansa said, feeling a wave of relief. "Thank you, Father Anselm."

"Come to me tomorrow after the midday meal, and we shall begin," the priest instructed, his tone carrying the weight of a promise.

Sansa dipped into a slight curtsy, a gesture of respect and gratitude. "Thank you," she repeated, before turning to leave. Lady followed her out of the chapel, the dire wolf's presence a comforting shadow at her side.

Brauzeit 14th, 2522

The next day dawned under a heavy, grey sky that seemed to press down on Winterfell like a shroud. The chill winds of early autumn whispered through the ancient stones, their murmurs carrying the distant secrets of Kislev across the river, a land of harsh winters and harder people. Sansa drew her cloak tighter around her as she made her way to the Sigmarite chapel, Lady padding silently beside her, a ghostly presence in the gloom.

The small, candle lit study within the chapel was a world away from the cold, stony halls of Winterfell. The air inside was thick with the scent of old paper and incense, and the soft glow of a half dozen candelabras cast a warm, almost sacred light over the room. It was a place of quiet contemplation, where the weight of years seemed to hang in the very air, and Sigmar and his fellow Gods might whisper their secrets to those who knew how to listen.

Father Anselm greeted her with a gentle smile that softened the sharp lines of his aged face, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he motioned for her to sit. The old priest moved with a slow, deliberate grace, the movements of a man who had long since learned the value of patience. He opened a heavy tome bound in worn leather, its pages yellowed with age, and the lesson began.

Khazalid, the ancient language of the dwarfs, was unlike anything Sansa had ever encountered. The runes were stark and angular, etched in deep lines that spoke of a people as unyielding as the mountains they called home. As she traced the shapes with her fingers, she could almost feel the weight of ages in each stroke, the centuries of tradition and honor that the dwarfs had carved into their stone walls and their very souls.

Father Anselm's voice was low and steady as he explained the intricacies of the language, each word sounding like the rumble of the deeps beneath the earth or the clang of a blacksmith's hammer. The sounds were guttural and rough, lacking the fluidity of the tongues of men, but there was a certain rhythm to them, a hidden music that spoke of ancient halls and endless tunnels, of iron and stone and the fire of the forge.

Sansa found herself absorbed by the challenge, her mind latching onto the complexity of the language with a determination that surprised even her. Each new word, each unfamiliar sound, was a puzzle to be unraveled, a mystery to be understood. The more she learned, the more she found herself drawn into the world of the dwarfs. Their culture and their ways as fascinating as the language itself.

As the lesson wore on, the grey light outside the study's narrow windows dimmed further, the day slipping away as the shadows lengthened. But Sansa hardly noticed the passage of time. She was lost in the shapes and sounds of Khazalid, in the tales that Father Anselm wove into the lesson, stories of ancient kings and long-forgotten wars, of oaths sworn in blood and iron.

When the lesson finally ended, Sansa felt a strange mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. She had barely scratched the surface of Khazalid, but she knew she was on the path to something deeper, something older than even the walls of Winterfell. As she stood to leave, Father Anselm smiled at her again, a weary but proud expression on his lined face.

"You've done well today, Sansa," he said, his voice warm with approval. "Khazalid is not an easy language to learn, but you've shown a keen mind and a strong will. The dwarfs would respect that, I think."

Sansa returned his smile, feeling a spark of pride at his words. "Thank you, Father Anselm. I look forward to our next lesson."

"Tomorrow, then," he replied, nodding. "After the midday meal."

Sansa left the chapel with Lady at her side, the dire wolf a reassuring presence in the encroaching darkness. As she stepped into the cool air of Winterfell's courtyard, the weight of the day's learning settled on her like a cloak, heavy but welcome. The secrets of the dwarfs, of Khazalid, were hers to uncover, and she was determined to master them, no matter how long it took. Winter was coming, and with it, a future full of uncertainties. But with knowledge came power, and Sansa Stark was ready to claim her share of it.

As Sansa stepped back into the corridors of Winterfell's Great Keep, her stomach growled, wishing for dinner, but her mind was already on the lessons to come.

Brauzeit 15th, 2522

Sansa had hoped to return to her lessons the next day, eager to dive back into the mysteries of Khazalid and the dwarven culture that fascinated her so. But life had other plans. The night before, she had gone to bed feeling strangely bloated, dismissing the discomfort as nothing more than a passing bout of indigestion. But when she awoke, it was to a far more unwelcome surprise… sticky blood staining her sheets, her legs, and the cold realization that she had finally flowered.

She had known this day would come eventually. The signs had been there for some time now. In the last month alone, she had sprouted an inch and though she now stood a hair taller than her mother, the dull ache in her legs hinted that she still had much growing to do. Her curves had begun to fill out, much to Jeyne's envious delight, her chest, hips, and bottom all rounding into the silhouette of a woman. But despite the changes in her body, she hadn't expected it to come so suddenly, so starkly.

Her initial reaction had been one of shock. She had cried out, startled by the sight and feel of blood where there should have been none. Lady, ever attuned to her, had howled in response, setting the household into a brief panic. A guard had rushed into her chambers, only to retreat hastily to fetch a chambermaid when he realized what had happened. The maids had come quickly, helping her clean herself and change the sheets. But before they had finished, her mother had arrived, her face a mixture of concern and satisfaction.

Catelyn Stark had delivered a speech on womanhood, marriage, and childbirth, her voice steady and instructive, though awkward and lacking in warmth. It was the speech Sansa had known was coming, the one all noble daughters received when they reached this milestone. But knowing it was coming hadn't made it any easier to bear.

Now she sat within the temple of Rhya, in a private audience arranged by her mother with the head priestess. The abbey was a place of quiet reverence, the air thick with the scent of herbs and the soft glow of candles. Mother Hildebrand was an imposing woman, her presence commanding even in the simple robes of her order.

Though she bore the exalted title of Hierarch within the cult, she insisted that she be called mother, though it hardly made her seem more approachable to Sansa. She had taken Sansa's hand in her own, her grip firm but not unkind, and had begun her own version of the same talk.

Unlike her mother, the priestess spoke with a warmth and a depth of understanding that made Sansa feel less like a child and more like a young woman stepping into a new world. Mother Hildebrand explained in detail what went on between a man and a woman, the mysteries of the bedchamber laid bare in a way that was both frank and reassuring. Yet, even as she spoke of the pleasures that could be found in the act, she emphasized the need for restraint.

"I'm sure your mother has spoken to you about the importance of remaining pure," Mother Hildebrand said, her voice gentle but firm. "Her reasons, political and reputational, are valid in their own way. But they are not the reasons that matter to the Goddess. What is material to Rhya is that you are simply too young to bear a child."

Sansa nodded; her eyes wide as she listened.

"You are still growing, Sansa," the priestess continued. "Your body is not yet ready to carry the burden of a child. To do so now would put your life and the life of any babe you might conceive in grave danger. It may even render you incapable of bearing more children in the future. You need to wait until you have finished growing, which usually happens around sixteen, though it can be earlier or later, depending on the individual."

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of responsibility. Sansa understood what the priestess was saying, though the idea of motherhood still seemed distant and unreal to her. She was barely more than a girl, and yet the world was already placing these burdens on her shoulders, demanding that she navigate the complexities of womanhood with all the grace and caution of a seasoned lady.

"I understand," Sansa said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Mother Hildebrand smiled, a rare expression of warmth breaking through her stern demeanor. "Good. Take your time, Sansa. There is no rush. The Goddess's gift is yours to cherish, but it must be approached with care. When the time is right, you will know."

Sansa left the temple feeling both burdened and strangely light, the knowledge she had gained sitting heavily on her mind, even as it brought a new understanding of the world she was stepping into. The path ahead was daunting, filled with expectations and dangers she was only just beginning to grasp. But if there was one thing Sansa Stark had learned from her lessons, it was that knowledge was a weapon, and she intended to wield it well.

…

The great hall of Winterfell was subdued that evening, the usual bustle of the Stark household reduced to a quiet murmur. With Lord Eddard away to Altdorf, taking Arya, Bran, and Jon with him and his best men, and Robb leading their army towards the World's Edge Mountains, the castle felt emptier than usual. The long tables that usually groaned under the weight of feasts were sparsely occupied, and the air held the scent of stew, bread, and cheeses, simple fare for a quiet night.

Sansa sat beside Jeyne Poole, her childhood friend, trying to push away the thoughts that had haunted her since morning.

The steady light of oil lamps illuminated the banners hanging on the stone walls…one bearing the dire wolf of House Stark, one the manticore of Ostermark, and two banners of the Empire, one bearing the twin tailed comet, the other a griffin. Each light casting long shadows that seemed to loom larger than life.

Her spoon stirred the thick stew, but she barely tasted it, her mind too full of the day's events. The words of Mother Hildebrand still echoed in her ears, mixing with her mother's instructions, creating a tapestry of expectation and duty that seemed too heavy for her young shoulders.

Across from her, Jeyne's dark hazel eyes were fixed on her friend. The three months that separated their ages had never seemed significant before, but now they felt like a chasm. Jeyne was still a child in many ways, her body slim and unformed, her eyes wide with the innocence of someone who had yet to glimpse the realities of womanhood. But Jeyne was no fool; she could sense the change in Sansa, the new weight she carried, though she didn't fully understand it.

Finally, she leaned closer, her voice barely more than a whisper. "What is it like?" she asked, her question laced with curiosity and a touch of apprehension.

Sansa hesitated, her spoon pausing mid-stir. How could she explain something she barely understood herself? The fear, the confusion, the strange mixture of pride and dread? She looked at Jeyne, at her wide guileless eyes filled with trust, and felt a pang of protectiveness. Jeyne was still untouched by these things, still safe in her childhood, and Sansa didn't want to be the one to pull her into this new world.

"It's... different," Sansa finally said, her voice soft and careful. "You feel... older, I suppose. Like everything has changed, but at the same time, nothing has. It's strange."

Jeyne's brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of the words. "Does it hurt?" she asked, her voice even quieter now, as if the very question was forbidden.

Sansa thought of the blood, the cramping in her belly, the sudden awareness of her own body as something separate from her, something to be managed and controlled. She nodded slightly. "A little," she admitted. "But it's not so bad. Just... surprising."

Jeyne seemed to mull this over, her face a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. "I suppose it means you're a woman now," she said, almost in awe.

The words made Sansa flinch inwardly. Was that what it meant? The idea seemed too large, too heavy. At times she still felt like the same girl who had once dreamed of knights and songs with Jeyne, of romance and courtly love. Of course she had grown up over the years. Had recognized the darkness threatening the world and focused on her studies. But she'd still felt young, like there was so much more to learn, still so many skills to master. And now there was this other part of her, the part that would be expected to fulfill her duties as a lady, as a wife, and one day, as a mother. The thought made her feel small, almost suffocated.

"I suppose," Sansa replied, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

Jeyne's eyes sparkled with a mixture of excitement and fear. "Do you think I'll change soon too?" she asked, almost eagerly.

Sansa forced a smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "Maybe," she said, trying to sound reassuring. "But there's no rush, Jeyne. Enjoy being a girl while you can."

Jeyne nodded, but Sansa could see that her friend was already imagining what her own transformation might be like, caught between the innocence of childhood and the pull of something she couldn't yet name.

As they finished their meal, the conversation in the hall grew quieter, the fires crackling softly in the great hearths. The emptiness of the hall seemed to mirror the emptiness Sansa felt inside, a hollow space where childhood had been, now filled with the burden of expectations she wasn't sure she could carry.

After dinner, Sansa and Jeyne parted ways, Jeyne heading off to bed while Sansa lingered in the great hall. She found herself wandering to the window, looking out over the courtyard where the night wind swirled and whispered secrets that it had gained among the ancient trees of Taal's wood. The white moon Mannslieb hung low and large in the sky, casting pale silver light over the world, and for a moment, Sansa felt a longing for something she couldn't quite name… freedom, perhaps, or a return to the simpler days of her childhood.

But there was no going back. She was a woman now, or so everyone said. And that meant she had to be strong, to carry the weight of her name, her house, and her future with the grace expected of a Stark of Winterfell.

With a sigh, she turned away from the window, her thoughts drifting to her lessons, to Father Anselm, and the language of the dwarfs that she had begun to learn. It was a small thing, perhaps, but it was something she could control, something she could excel in. And in that thought, she found a glimmer of comfort as she made her way back to her chambers, Lady padding silently at her side, ever her loyal companion.

Brauzeit 16th​, 2522

Sansa was determined to return to her routine the next day, despite the new reality that clung to her like the linen belt she now wore beneath her dress, lined with moss to absorb the blood that marked her womanhood. The feel of it against her skin was a constant reminder of the change she was trying so hard to ignore, but she refused to let it disrupt her schedule.

The morning found her in the library tower, where the ancient stone walls were lined with shelves that groaned under the weight of printed books, handwritten tomes and ancient scrolls. Loremaster Luwin greeted her with a nod, his eyes betraying nothing more than the usual warmth he reserved for his most studious pupil. Still, the small, awkward congratulations he offered when she arrived made her cheeks flush with embarrassment, though he quickly moved on to the day's lesson, sparing her further discomfort.

Her studies in history, law and languages continued as usual, the familiar rhythm of learning providing a welcome distraction. Sansa lost herself in the intricacies of Tilean verbs and the endless rules that governed the League of Ostermark.

"And that's why no Stark who has tried has ever managed to unseat the Hertwig's as Chancellor, despite the province being wholly Ulrican outside of Bechafen," the Loremaster explained with enthusiasm. "All those minor lords and independent, chartered towns that make up the rest of the province prefer the light hand of a liege lord who knows they must step with care due to religious differences, to the Starks who exercise great control over their domain."

It was a comfort to know that some things and people, at least, remained unchanged.

After lunch, she made her way to the Sigmarite chapel for her lesson in Khazalid. The chill of the autumn day clung to her as she entered Father Anselm's small study, but the warmth of the room and the old priest's gentle smile chased it away. Lady, ever her loyal follower, curled up by the hearth as Sansa settled into her seat, her mind ready to tackle the ancient language of the dwarfs.

Father Anselm began the lesson with a quiet nod of acknowledgment. "You're doing quite well," he told her as they reviewed the harsh, angular runes that made up the written form of Khazalid. His voice was calm and reassuring, yet there was an edge of concern in his gaze. "But do not be frustrated with slow progress, child. Khazalid is far more difficult than the tongues of men. It will take you a good four or five years to become proficient. Few humans ever become fluent, even those who spend half their lives in a mountain hold or ministering to a dwarf-filled quarter in Altdorf."

Sansa set her jaw, her blue eyes flashing with determination. She was a Stark of Winterfell, and she was used to challenges. The thought of struggling with this language, of being anything less than excellent, was unacceptable to her. "If most manage it in four or five years, I will do it in three," she declared, her voice firm.

Father Anselm's brows lifted in mild surprise, though a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Ambition is a fine thing, my lady, but Khazalid is not like the tongues you've mastered before. It's a language of stone and iron, built for precision, for the recording of history and the making of oaths. It's not simply spoken; it's lived. There are no shortcuts."

But Sansa was undeterred. She had already proven herself adept with languages. She was fluent in Reikspiel, Kislevarin, and Tilean, and she could read Classical with ease, a dead root language that had given birth to Tilean and Estalian alike. Khazalid, she decided, would be no different. She would conquer it, just as she had the others.

"I will master it," Sansa insisted, more to herself than to the old priest. The conviction in her voice was unmistakable, and for a moment, Father Anselm saw in her the steel that ran through her family's veins. The same steel that had kept House Stark strong through countless wars and winters.

Father Anselm nodded, his eyes softening as he looked at the young woman before him, so full of determination, so eager to prove herself. "Very well, my lady," he said, his tone gentle. "We will see how far your will takes you. But remember, Khazalid is not just a language of words. It is a language of the heart and the soul. It will test you in ways you do not expect."

Sansa met his gaze, her chin lifted in defiance. "Then let it test me," she replied, her voice steady.

The lesson continued, the sound of Khazalid words and phrases filling the small study, as Sansa pushed herself to absorb as much as she could. The fire crackled softly, the only other sound the soft scratch of Father Anselm's quill as he marked down notes for her to study. Lady lay quietly by the hearth, her presence a comforting reminder that Sansa was not alone in this journey, even as she ventured into the unknown.

As the hours passed, the daylight outside the chapel began to fade, the grey skies darkening into the early twilight of autumn. But Sansa stayed focused, her mind sharp and her heart determined. She was a Stark, after all, and she would not be bested, not by a language, nor by the challenges of growing up in a world that was growing more complicated with each passing day.

And so, when the lesson finally ended and Father Anselm dismissed her with a kind word, Sansa left the chapel with her head held high, the weight of her new responsibilities sitting a little easier on her shoulders. She would master Khazalid, just as she would master the expectations placed upon her. It was, after all, what was expected of a Stark of Winterfell.

Chapter Text

Erntezeit 31st, 2522

"No, Lord Stark, we must make haste to Altdorf," Magister Slomman had protested.

"It will only take us a few days off schedule," his father had answered firmly. "We must get to bottom of this." And that was end of the discussion. Ned Stark could never pass by a land in need, not when the threat of Beastmen hung so heavily over it.

Hergig had been half a day's sail down the Talabec from Taalagad, and then a grueling day and a half up the Wolf's Run, the swift flowing tributary winding its way through dense forests and rugged hills. As they arrived, they found a place on the brink of war, where the tension was palpable in every breath of air.

The city of Hergig greeted them with the grim visage of a place preparing for siege. Grand Baron Ludenhof, the Elector-Count of Hochland, had mustered every State Troop in reach and every noble vassal's retinue and taken to the field, vowing to butcher the Beastmen and drive them back into the forest. His departure left the city in a state of anxious anticipation, praying for his victory but preparing for the worst.

Militia drilled in the streets, their movements sharp and precise, a far cry from the ragged levies Jon had seen in lesser towns. Mercenaries, every bit as disciplined as State Troops, well-armed and battle-scarred, reinforced the city's garrison, manning stone walls that loomed sixty feet high and half as thick.

The smiths toiled day and night, the clang of hammer on steel ringing through the air as they forged weapons and armor at a furious pace. Farmers were bringing in their crop to stockpile. Fish as long as a man were being salted by the hundred on the dock. Every ship carrying food that pulled into port was swiftly relieved of its cargo, the goods claimed by the city to feed a population swelling with refugees from the countryside. Compensation was given, but those who dared protest too loudly were swiftly flogged into silence. Hergig was nearly as large as Kusel in times of peace, and if it came to a siege, it would need every ounce of food and every sword arm it could muster.

Lord Stark and Jon made their way to the great fortress at the city's heart, Hergig Keep, a massive stone edifice that rivaled Winterfell in size and strength. The fortress loomed over the city, its battlements bristling with cannon and ballistae, a grim reminder of the power that the Grand Baron commanded.

But it was not the Grand Baron who greeted them, being out on campaign, nor his wife, Lady Ludenhof whom they expected in his stead. Apparently she was heavy with child, and in seclusion with the priestesses of Shallya. This left the Steward, Hertfrid von Kroppenhügel, to receive them. The man was stern, his slate-gray hair and lined face a testament to the years he had spent in service to his lord.

"Thank you for meeting us," Lord Stark began, his voice formal and measured. "We've encountered more and more Beastmen the further we've traveled down the Talabec, and we came here to learn the truth of the matter. What we heard on the docks was not... encouraging."

The Steward nodded, his expression grim. "The countryside is ablaze, my lord, with Beastmen in the tens of thousands. They rampage across the land, leaving nothing but death and destruction in their wake. The Grand Baron has taken the field, as you have no doubt heard. We have just received word that he has already won a great victory, smashing a Warherd less than two days march from the city and slaying over six thousand of the fiends, at light cost to his own forces."

"A promising victory," Lord Stark said, though his tone was guarded. "But to be so close to the city…"

"Yes, that's a bit ominous," Kroppenhügel replied with dry understatement, his voice laced with concern.

Lord Stark's frown deepened. "What's more ominous is that Talabheim seemed completely unaware of the situation here. I am certain you sent word."

"Several times," the Steward confirmed, his frustration barely concealed.

"After my warnings to him, Grand Duke Feuerbach vowed to increase his patrols in the woods and on the river," Lord Stark said. "I can only hope that he will soon understand the scale of the threat and mobilize in force. When I left Ostermark, Chancellor Hertwig was preparing a campaign against the Beastmen there. If it goes well, perhaps he can send you aid."

"We will endeavor to send messages to every Elector we can," the Steward promised, though his voice was laced with pessimism. Clearly he believed that Hochland would have to struggle through the coming storm by themselves, as they had many times before.

There wasn't much left to say after that. Polite farewells were exchanged, and they departed, the weight of Hergig's plight heavy on their minds. As they climbed on the deck of their ship, Jon couldn't shake the feeling that they were leaving a city on the brink of disaster, its fate uncertain, its people caught in a struggle that might yet consume them all.

…

Brauzeit 3rd, 2522

The journey down the Talabec was a somber one, the river's surface dark and reflective like a pool of old blood, carrying with it the weight of Jon's thoughts. The Undying Faith cut through the water with its escorts flanking it, but despite the progress they made, Jon's mind remained fixed on the dangers that lay behind and ahead.

Robb, his half-brother, was out there, marching toward the World's Edge Mountains, where the Greenskin raids had been gathering strength. Jon knew Robb's skill in battle, his tactical mind sharp as any blade, but war was a fickle thing. Even the best strategies could be undone by the chaos of the battlefield. Jon had seen too much to believe in the certainty of victory.

His thoughts turned, unbidden, to the memory of blood spraying across the deck, the crimson splatter vivid against the weathered wood. Boatswain Pintel had been impaled through the stomach, the shaft of the spear as thick as an oar's, hurled by a monstrous minotaur. The force had lifted the boatswain off his feet, pinning him to the deck like a butterfly on a board in Loremaster Luwin's collection. The life had drained from him in seconds, his bowels voiding as his eyes dulled, and Jon had been close enough to feel the warmth of the blood as it pooled around his boots and splashed across his hands.

Jon had seen men die before, he had marched with Robb and their father on campaigns the last two years, against Greenskins and Beastmen. But he had witnessed the carnage from the safety of the rear lines… he had never been so near to death itself, never had the blood of a dying man stain his skin. Pintel's death had been quick, but the image of it lingered in Jon's mind, replaying in flashes. The boatswain's nephew had cried out, a sound of raw grief that echoed in Jon's ears, even now.

He tried to push the memories aside, to shake the weight of them from his shoulders. Men died in war, that was the truth of it. You had to move on, accept it, and keep going. But the truth was cold comfort, and the screams of Pintel's nephew haunted his thoughts like a ghost.

Jon forced himself to focus on something else, on anything else. He tried to think of Magdaletta, of the softness of her skin and the way her hair had caught the light in the temple of Rhya. He had sat down to write her a dozen times, but each time he found himself at a loss for words. What could he say? His thoughts always circled back to the same memory, the night in the temple, the power thrumming through the stones, and the certainty that Magdaletta would soon carry his child. But how could he put that into words without sounding like a fool?

He sighed, crumpling yet another unfinished letter. The ship sailed on, the banks of the river slipping past, dotted with small fishing villages and trading towns. They made good time, stopping only in the larger towns to warn of the Beastmen threat. Sorna was small, barely more than a few thousand souls, while Ravenstein was more substantial, its population somewhere between seven and eight thousand. Yet, none of the towns had news of significance. They all spoke of the forest's growing hostility, the uneasy silence that had settled over the woods, and the rumors of a gathering Warherd.

The villagers and townsfolk were wary, experienced enough to recognize the signs of an impending storm, even if they could not see it with their own eyes. Jon could sense it too, a dark presence lurking at the edge of the woods, waiting, watching. The forest was alive with tension, and the river carried them ever closer to whatever fate awaited them down its winding path. Every settlement was preparing the best it could. Repairing and reinforcing their wall, stockpiling food and forging weapons.

The Undying Faith moved swiftly, the river's dark waters parting before it and its companions as they left each town behind. They didn't linger, there was no time for that, not with the threat of Beastmen lurking in the forest's shadow. Their stops were brief, just long enough to give warning to those who needed it, to gather what supplies they could, and then push on, deeper into the heart of the Empire's wildest lands.

Every time they put another settlement to their rudder it made Jon think of Hergig and its preparations. If such a great city seemed uneasy and unsure in its defenses, what hope could these towns and villages have he thought glumly.

As the sun passed its zenith and began to fall slowly across the sky, Jon knew that he could not escape his thoughts forever. The memories, the fears, and the uncertainty all weighed heavily on him, but he pushed them down, burying them beneath a layer of resolve. The journey was far from over, and there were battles yet to be fought, dangers yet to be faced. He knew that whatever awaited them, it would test him in ways he had never been tested before. And he would meet it head-on, just as he had always done.

It was when they were half a day out of Ravenstein that Jon noticed Frost's growl, low and rumbling, the dire wolf's hackles rising as if sensing some unseen danger. The beast had always been keen to the world around it, and Jon felt the familiar unease settle in his gut. He turned as Captain Barbossa's voice cut through the still air.

"Lord Stark!" Barbossa called; his sharp eyes fixed on the horizon. "Smoke on the northern bank!"

Ned Stark moved quickly to the prow, his gaze narrowing as he followed the captain's line of sight. The northern bank… they were far past the border with Hochland now. This was Middenland territory, deep within the Great Forest. Only the bravest, or the most desperate, settlers made their homes there, eking out a meager existence in a land that had known war and fire since time immemorial. Villages had risen and fallen in these woods, burned to the ground by marauding Greenskins, Beastmen, or worse, only to be rebuilt by those who would try again. Such was the cycle of life in the Empire, where the fecund blessings of Rhya and Shallya saw the land repopulated as quickly as it was emptied.

This time, vengeance would be delivered swiftly and without mercy. The men on deck moved with purpose. Sailors loading the carronades with grape shot, while Eddard's soldiers prepared their muskets, the smell of burning match cords mixing with the river's dampness. The possibility of a boarding attempt was not lost on them, and spears and swords were readied, their edges gleaming in the fading light.

Bran and Arya were hurried below decks, their protests ignored as they were kept out of harm's way. This time, however, the Magister joined the men above, his blue robes billowing as sparks of lightning crackled at his fingertips, the air around him humming with barely contained power. Jon could see the tension in his father's face, the quiet calculation in his eyes as they rounded a bend in the river.

What met their eyes was not what they expected.

The trees on the northern bank were ablaze, flames licking high into the sky, turning the dark green canopy into a sea of fire. But the village itself didn't burn. No, the small settlement, built with the stubborn resilience of those who knew the dangers of their land, stood intact behind its thick log palisade. The walls were fortified with stone at their base, the logs above draped with wet hides to fend off the flames. The villagers, no more than five or six hundred souls, had done all they could to protect their home. But Jon knew, as his father did, that it wouldn't be enough.

Not with the numbers that surrounded them.

The Beastmen were legion, a writhing mass of fur, muscle, and malice, their twisted forms pressing in on the walls like a dark tide. Hundreds of them, maybe more, driven by primal fury and the dark gods they worshipped. Their crude weapons hammered against the defenses, axes and clubs splintering wood, while the braying of their malformed throats and the dissonant calls of their war horns filled the air with a sound that was more beast than man.

"Close in and open fire," Eddard Stark commanded, his voice steady and clear, carrying over the chaos. There was no hesitation, no fear, just the iron determination of a man who had seen too much war and knew what needed to be done.

Jon's heart pounded in his chest as he readied his sword, the weight of it familiar in his hand. This was no skirmish, no mere battle of wills, this was war, raw and brutal, and it was coming for them all.

The Undying Faith surged forward, its carronades roaring to life as they poured a storm of iron into the Beastmen horde. The river echoed with the thunder of cannon fire, and the deck shook beneath Jon's feet. He watched as the first volley tore through the enemy ranks.

The three ships had unleashed a broadside that tore through the Beastmen like scythes through wheat. On the starboard side of the Undying Faith, four carronades belched fire, each shot spraying out eighteen pieces of grape shot, two-inch spheres of solid lead that ripped through the slavering horde with brutal efficiency. The Keen Fortune and the New Horizon added to the carnage, three cannons each, spitting death as the Beastmen crumpled under the onslaught. The foul creatures fell in droves, red blood and black ichor staining the ground where they stood. The sound of it was a thunderous roar, echoing over the river, drowning out the braying of the Warherd. But even as they fell, more came forward, driven by madness and bloodlust, surging toward the walls of the village with relentless ferocity.

From the center of the deck, the Magister raised his hands, his eyes blazing with a power that made the air around him crackle. Sparks danced from fingertip to fingertip, and then, with an Elvish word of power, he unleashed a storm. The sky answered, bolts of searing lightning raining down upon the Beastmen, striking them in blinding flashes that left charred corpses in their wake. It was as if the very heavens had turned against the creatures, and for a moment, it seemed the tide of battle had turned.

Lord Stark's handgunners, disciplined and unyielding, fired volley after volley from their muskets, the sharp cracks of gunfire mingling with the acrid scent of gunpowder. Beastmen fell in heaps, their bodies piling up against the village walls, but still, they came on, relentless in their fury.

Javelins, spears, and the occasional arrow began to fall upon the decks of the ships as the Beastmen, maddened by pain and bloodlust, turned their attention to the new threat. Some of the brutes, driven by rage, charged into the river, their hooves splashing through the water as they attempted to reach the ships, only to be cut down by the withering fire from the carronades.

But it wasn't the hail of missiles that sent a chill down Jon's spine, though some struck the men around him. No, it was something far worse…a black cloud of roiling energy that began to gather above the Warherd, so dark and vile that Jon could almost taste the corruption in the air. His heart sank as he recognized the loathsome magic at work, a memory he had prayed to forget ever since the Gryphon Wood.

"A Bray Shaman!" the Magister shouted; his voice laced with alarm. He began to draw upon his own power, hands trembling as the dark cloud above the Beastmen swelled. But before the Shaman could unleash whatever horror it had conjured, a great ball of fire arced out from within the village. The fiery projectile soared high into the sky before descending upon the center of the dark cloud, exploding with a force that shook the very earth.

The blast was tremendous, a burst of flame and heat that consumed the Bray Shaman and scores of Beastmen around it. The air was filled with the screams of dying and wounded creatures, their bodies incinerated or thrown aside by the force of the explosion. Much of the horde was knocked off their hooves and even the walls of the village shuddered under the impact, though they held firm, as did the settlers behind them.

The death of their Shaman and so many of their kin in such a short span of time shattered the Beastmen's resolve. The Warherd broke, the creatures turning and fleeing in blind panic, many screaming as their wounds blistered and burned, with those yet unhurt bleating in fear like the animals they were. They fled back into the forest, the shadow of their dark magic dispelled, leaving the battlefield littered with hundreds of their dead.

A great cheer went up from the crew and soldiers on the ships, a raucous cry of victory that echoed across the water. They shouted for the Empire and Sigmar, for Ostermark and Ulric, their voices filled with the fierce joy of those who had stared death in the face and lived to tell the tale. Jon joined in, his voice rising with the rest, but his eyes met his father's, and in that shared glance, he saw the truth they both knew… this was not over. This band was but a splinter of the horde that still lurked within the depths of the forest, a greater threat yet to come.

The Magister's voice cut through the jubilant cries, grim and commanding. "Captain Barbossa, bring the boats to their docks. I need to see to this hedge witch. With luck, we will have three apprentices traveling south with us." His tone left little doubt about what would happen if the hedge witch refused. The cheers faded as the men began to prepare for the next stage of their journey, the weight of the Magister's words hanging over them like a shadow.

Jon watched as the ships moved toward the village docks, the scent of smoke and blood still thick in the air, knowing that this was only the beginning. The true battles in this war were yet to come. Even Ludenhof's victory near Hergig was a shadow of the carnage that was closing in on them all.

Chapter Text

As the ships drew closer to the surprisingly sturdy wooden docks, the sound of soldiers donning their armor filled the air, breastplates and backplates clinking as they were strapped on, the metallic rasp of swords being drawn and checked. Out on the river, such heavy gear was a liability, the weight of plate enough to drown a man should he fall overboard, but now, as the scent of blood and smoke still lingered in the air, they were preparing for whatever might come next. Beastmen were mercurial, they could rally and return at a moment's notice, or the villagers themselves could turn unreasonable if they did not like what the Magister had to say to their hedge witch.

The docks were already occupied by a grim welcoming committee, a motley band of battered and bloodstained men who looked as though they had been drawn straight from an older, harsher age. Their mail and scale shirts were relics of a time long past, as were their open-faced, pointed helmets, worn with age. Most bore billhooks or boar spears, their edges nicked and dulled from use. At their sides hung falchions, blades made more for hacking through thick brush or thick skulls, than for any sort of elegant combat. A few carried arbalests, the heavy crossbows loaded with bolts thick and wicked-looking enough to punch through a knight's plate. Their leader, a man just into his middle years, wore a coat of brigandine and carried a longsword that looked as though it had seen far too many battles.

"Why are their arms and armor so primitive?" Bran's voice piped up from behind Jon, making him jump. The boy had somehow snuck back onto the deck, a habit that was becoming all too common.

"They're not that bad," Jon replied, though he found himself agreeing with Bran's observation. "In Bretonnia, this would be a first-rate levy."

"Bretonnian foot might as well be made of paper," Bran scoffed, his tone carrying all the disdain of a young lord who had been raised on tales of chivalry and gunfire. "The nation only survives because of the great blessings bestowed upon their cavalry by the Lady of the Lake."

"Breastplates are expensive, Bran," Arya interjected, her voice matter-of-fact as she stood beside them, her grey eyes taking in the scene with a keen, assessing look.

"No, they're not," Bran objected, his brow furrowing in thought. "The army Father gave Robb to command is over twenty thousand strong. All the infantry and the artillery corps have breast and backplates, with modern helmets to boot. Even the light cavalry are decked out in half-plate, let alone the men-at-arms and knights in full. It can't be that expensive."

Jon sighed, glancing at Arya before turning back to Bran. "Cities like Winter Town have large ironworks equipped with great bloomeries worked by more smiths than this village has fishermen. And even with that level of production, a cuirass will go for two crowns. That's a month's wage for a skilled craftsman. Equipping a battalion, let alone an army, isn't cheap."

Bran's eyes widened at the cost, the reality of it sinking in for the first time.

Arya nodded, she'd already understood this, but her gaze remained fixed on the men below. "I understand that," she said, "but I don't understand the arbalests. They're not as expensive as muskets, but they're certainly not cheap either. Aren't handgunners so much better that the difference in cost is worth it?"

"Yes, but gunpowder is made up of three fourths saltpeter, and unfortunately saltpeter is rare," Jon explained, his tone carrying the weight of lessons learned both from books and from the bitter experience of anyone who's ever had to conserve ammunition. "Every province does its best to produce gunpowder in mass quantities, but every year nine-tenths or more are bought up by the state troops and the Imperial fleet. Then the great mercenary companies get first shot at the rest, and what little remains is bid on by noble houses too small or too poor to raise their own regiment of state troops. They might have only a few hundred or even a few score men to their banner, but the number of such houses in the Empire is in the thousands and the amount of men they can raise in total is vast. There is never near enough gunpowder to supply them all, let alone village militias like this one."

Bran's face tightened with understanding, his youthful arrogance giving way to a dawning realization of the harsh realities that governed the world beyond Winterfell. The men on the docks were doing the best they could with what little they had, just like so many others across the Empire.

As the ships finally docked, Jon felt the tension in the air, a taut string ready to snap at the slightest provocation. The Magister stood at the ready, his eyes narrowed as he watched the village ahead, no doubt pondering what sort of hedge witch they were about to encounter. The villagers' weapons might have been old, their armor patched and worn, but their eyes were sharp and hard, and their leader's grip on his longsword was steady.

These men had fought for their lives against a tide of monsters and survived. Primitive or not, they were still standing, and Jon knew that in a world as unforgiving as theirs, that counted for something.

"Ahoy!" called the village leader, his voice rough with the burr of a rural Middenland accent. "You have our gratitude, lords. I am Mayor Erhard. To whom do we owe our thanks?" There was respect in his tone, but Jon caught a flicker of something else, suspicion, perhaps. Strange, given that they had just saved the village from utter destruction. His father must have noticed it too, for when he replied, he did so in a manner that was far more grandiose than usual, as though to drive home their authority.

"Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Governor of Winter Town, Warden of the World's Edge Mountains, Viscount of the Veldt, Member of the League of Ostermark, and General of Imperial State Troops. This is Captain Barbossa of the Imperial Fleet and Celestial Magister Klaus Solmann."

The titles hung in the air like the toll of a great bell, heavy and imposing. Most of the villagers looked puzzled, intimidated and unsure what to make of the long list of honors and titles, but Jon saw recognition flicker in the eyes of the mayor and a few of his men. Their expressions shifted from cautious gratitude to something closer to alarm, as though they had just realized the full weight of the men who had come to their aid.

"And what is such a great and noble lord as yourself doing in a place like this, if I may be so bold?" Mayor Erhard asked, though there was an edge to his voice now, something guarded.

Lord Stark merely raised an eyebrow. "One must oppose the enemy wherever they are sighted. To pass you by in your hour of need when we could have done something about it would have been a sin against the Gods and an act of great cowardice."

Before the mayor could respond, the Magister stepped forward, his blue robes rustling with the movement. "But if you're asking why we did not pass on after the good deed was done, we must first investigate the mage who threw the fireball."

Jon thought the choice of the formal sounding Elvish term odd, but perhaps he wanted to avoid using something with as negative a connotation as witch to avoid angering the villagers. He wondered if the mayor, educated as he seemed to be, would even recognize the term, though the context of the question should make its meaning clear.

The mayor stiffened, his suspicion deepening. "You ask us to betray one of our own."

"The mage has saved you, and as such your loyalty does you credit," the Magister replied, his voice smooth and kind, though there was a note of warning beneath the courtesy. "Certainly, it is a refreshing difference from the usual lynch mobs. Yet, though I felt nought but pure Aqshy and flame in that spell, without training, such purity cannot last forever. A slide into the dark, whether slow and drawn out or swift and sudden, is all but inevitable. If you care for them, you must allow me to speak with them and attempt to convince them to travel with us to the Colleges in Altdorf."

The fight seemed to drain out of the mayor as though air had been let out of a pig's bladder, the kind boys played with in the yard. He sagged visibly, shoulders slumping in resignation. "I… I understand," the mayor murmured, his voice heavy with defeat.

"Jon, escort the Magister with a squad of men," Lord Stark commanded, his tone leaving no room for protest. Then he turned to Bran and Arya, his gaze stern. "You two stay on the ship while I speak with the mayor about this attack."

Jon hadn't expected to be given such a task, but there was no time to dwell on it. The soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, handing him a cuirass and helping him strap it on. It felt strange after so long without it, the weight of the armor both comforting and oppressive. But there was no time to think about that either.

Cuirassed and armed, Jon descended the gangplank, flanked by ten soldiers. Six were greatswords, their massive blades gleaming in the fading light, and four handgunners, their matches already lit, ready to unleash a hail of lead at a moment's notice. Frost loped by his side, nose twitching, lips curling up over fangs, clearly bothered by the scent of blood, ash and Beastmen.

One of the mayor's subordinates, a man who had clearly recognized the weight of Eddard Stark's titles, led them through the village. They passed by simple homes roofed with thatch and wary villagers, eyes wide with fear and curiosity. Soon they reached the rear of the small settlement, where a girl stood, her body moving as though she couldn't bear to be still.

She was tall for her age, tall for any woman. Jon judged her to be just an inch shorter than his own five foot nine. Her dark curls cascaded down to her shoulder blades, framing a face of youthful beauty marred by a nervous energy that crackled in the air around her. Her green eyes darted about, unable to settle, and her figure, though still youthful, bore curves that would attract the gaze of any man.

The Magister regarded her with a keen, appraising eye. "You look… overactive," he said, his voice carrying a note of concern. "Has she always been this way?" He turned to a woman standing nearby, who bore a striking resemblance to the girl, though she was older, perhaps thirty or a year or two more.

"No," the woman replied slowly, her voice thick with worry. "It's a recent change. Why?"

The Magister sighed, his expression softening as he turned back to the girl. "It's an arcane mark," he explained gently. "A minor one, but powerful nonetheless. You are bound to Aqshy, the Red Wind. If you attempt to use any other magic, it will inevitably become tainted, corrupted by darkness, and it will destroy you. The only way to save you is to bring you to the Colleges in Altdorf."

The girl's eyes widened in fear, but before she could respond, the older woman stepped forward, her face twisted in anguish. "No!" she cried out, desperation lacing her voice. "I just lost Raimund; I can't lose Beatriz too. She's only fifteen!"

The Magister's expression turned grave, though his voice remained gentle. "If she doesn't come with us, you will lose her," he warned. "Surely your husband wouldn't want that. He would want her to live, to thrive, not to wither and die, consumed by powers she cannot control."

The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on, and Jon could see that the girl, Beatriz, was growing more distressed by the second. Her green eyes flicked between her mother and the Magister, a silent plea for someone to make this nightmare end. Jon knew he had to act quickly before the situation spiraled out of control.

"Could her mother not come with us to the Colleges?" Jon suggested, his voice steady but firm. "Even if she can't stay in the dorms with her daughter, the Colleges must have need of servants. She could work as a maid or a cook, keep tabs on her daughter that way."

The Magister blinked, clearly taken aback by the suggestion. "That would be… unorthodox," he replied, doubt creeping into his voice. "Apprentices are typically kept apart from the outside world for good reason. Their training is rigorous, and distractions are…"

"Oh, please, Master Wizard," Beatriz's mother interrupted, stepping forward with a desperation that was almost palpable. Her eyes were wide, pleading, but there was something else there too, something darker. She leaned closer to the Magister, her voice dropping to a breathy whisper. "I would do anything to be allowed to accompany her."

Her words dripped with a different kind of plea, one laced with suggestion. As she spoke, she leaned back slightly, pressing her chest against the thin fabric of her homespun dress, the swell of her bosom unmistakable. Her tongue darted out, tracing the edge of her lips, leaving a glistening trail that caught the dying light. It was painfully clear what she was offering in exchange for her daughter's safety.

Klaus Solmann looked sixty, though a healthy, well-kept sixty and was far more vigorous than that. It must have been the magic running through his veins, because he typically moved and behaved like a man of forty.

However the advances of Beatriz's mother had him suddenly at loss, acting far younger than that. "I… I'm sure we can… work something out," he said stammered weakly, sounding more like a flustered boy than a seasoned Magister of the Celestial College. The confidence that had carried him through countless arcane rituals seemed to evaporate under the weight of this woman's overture. He spluttered, his cheeks flushing crimson as he tried to find his voice.

Jon felt a wave of discomfort wash over him. He had seen men and women barter with everything they had in the market, but this… this was different. He watched as the Magister struggled to regain his composure; the older man's authority shaken by the woman's desperate advances.

Beatriz's mother didn't relent, pressing closer, her intentions clear. Jon's stomach twisted as he realized that, for all their power and influence, even the most revered men could be reduced to this… desire and desperation intertwined, threatening to cloud their judgment. He could only hope that Solmann, for all his current fluster, would remember the true purpose of their mission; to save this girl from a fate worse than death, not to indulge in the base temptations of the flesh.

Jon's gaze shifted to Beatriz, her pretty face flushed with shame at her mother's brazen behavior. She stood silent, her head bowed, accepting her mother's actions as if it were a burden she had long learned to bear. A pang of sympathy shot through Jon, mingled with a sense of discomfort at the entire exchange.

He moved closer to her, trying to offer some comfort. "You're going to be alright," he said softly. "We're heading to Altdorf at full speed. My brother and sister are headed to the Colleges too."

Beatriz looked up at him, confusion flickering in her eyes. "Ah… are you accompanying them to the Colleges like my mother?" she asked, her voice hesitant.

"No," Jon shook his head. "I'm just escorting them with my father. After we drop them off at the Colleges, we're planning to head to Middenheim. I'll be enlisting with the Knights of the White Wolf." He paused, realizing he hadn't introduced himself. "I'm Jon Snow, by the way."

"The White Wolves?" Her gaze slid over to Frost, who stood by Jon's side, his fur bristling slightly. "Impressive." She looked back at Jon, curiosity replacing some of the uncertainty in her eyes. "So, your father is Lord Snow? It was his ships that fired on the Beastmen?"

Jon blinked, taken aback by the assumption. "Ah, no," he corrected her. "Snow is the surname bastards are given in Ostermark, like Wolf in Middenland or Wood in Talabecland. My father is Lord Stark."

"Ostermark… the East March," Beatriz murmured, as if trying to recall some distant piece of knowledge. "That's very far away. Is your father powerful?"

The man who had guided them, a grizzled villager who seemed to grasp more of the world than most here, spluttered at the question. "As powerful as a lord gets without being an Elector Count," he interjected. "If the Emperor's at the top of the heap and the other ten Electors-Counts are just below him, Lord Stark is certainly among the next ten most powerful, maybe even the next five."

Beatriz blinked, her mind clearly struggling to process the information. "So, you grew up in a castle?"

Jon couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips, though it was tinged with a hint of sadness at her ignorance. "Winterfell's Great Keep covers more ground than this whole village," he said, a note of pride in his voice. "The entire castle spans over twenty acres, and more than twenty-seven hundred people live there."

Beatriz's eyes widened, the enormity of such a place clearly beyond her experience. To Jon, Winterfell had always been home, a fortress made of stone and timber, but also a place of warmth and family. To this girl, it must seem like something out of a legend, as distant and unreachable as the stars.

He saw the awe in her eyes, mingled with a trace of fear. In that moment, Jon realized how different their worlds truly were. She was a girl from a village on the edge of the forest, living in the shadow of Beastmen and wild magic. He was a bastard of a noble house, raised in a castle old as the Empire itself. And yet, here they stood, bound together by fate and the whims of the gods.

Jon led Beatriz and her mother back to the ship, the villagers watching in silence. Their eyes followed the trio, many filled with disappointment, but others with a glimmer of satisfaction or even spite. The presence of a witch, no matter how helpful, was a heavy burden to bear for these folk. It was clear that not all would miss her.

When they reached the docks, Jon saw that his father's conversation with the mayor was drawing to a close. Eddard Stark turned, his eyes landing on the Magister and the girl. A tired smile flickered across his face, a rare sight these days. "I see you have good news," he said, his voice carrying the weariness of a man who had seen too much.

The Magister inclined his head. "Yes. Beatriz will be coming with us to apprentice herself to the Bright Order. Three new apprentices at once! No Magister has had such luck in twenty years," he gloated, clearly pleased with himself.

"And… her mother?" Lord Stark's gaze shifted to the striking, dark-haired woman standing beside the Magister. Jon understood the unspoken question in his father's eyes. Carlota looked young enough to be mistaken for Beatriz's elder sister, yet there was a world of weariness etched into her features such that she could easily be her mother as well.

"Yes," the Magister said, his tone a bit too casual. "Her mother, Carlota, will be accompanying us. She'll take up work in the servants' quarters, so she can stay near her daughter."

Lord Stark raised an eyebrow but said nothing, though Jon could tell he wasn't entirely convinced. His father gestured back to the mayor. "The mayor's story is the same as what we heard in Hergig. The forests are swarming with Beastmen. They've repelled a few smaller assaults already, but this was by far the largest. Let's hope the main Warherds pass them by for richer prey." But there was little confidence in his words, and Jon could hear the uncertainty beneath them.

"We need to set off soon," Lord Stark continued, his tone brisk. "Can the girl, Beatriz, set those bodies ablaze before we leave? It will be far easier for her to do it than for the villagers to burn them themselves. It must be done one way or the other to prevent illness."

"Absolutely not," the Magister replied firmly. "What you're asking for is no mere cantrip. To summon fires of that size and heat requires a serious spell. The risk is far too great when I cannot guide her."

"I've summoned such fires before," Beatriz interjected, her voice brimming with confidence.

The Magister turned on her, his eyes flashing with anger. "Doing so was more dangerous than you can imagine. You've come this far with talent and a strong will, but even with that, you've earned an arcane mark, however minor. You'll do no more than light a candle until we reach Altdorf, do you understand me?"

Carlota stood beside the Magister, her expression stern, her eyes reflecting her agreement. Jon could see that this was a woman who had already lost much and was terrified of losing more.

Beatriz's defiance melted away under their combined gaze. "Alright. I understand," she muttered, sulking but subdued.

"That's a shame," Ned said, turning back to the mayor. "If the Magister says she can't do it, it can't be done."

The mayor nodded, frustration etched into his face, but acceptance too. He stepped forward to see them off, his voice cracking with emotion as he exchanged final words with Carlota and Beatriz. Jon only caught the tail end of it. "Make a good life out there. There's so much more to the world and what you can do."

As the villagers faded into the distance, Jon couldn't help but feel the weight of their expectations, their fears, and their hopes. The road ahead was uncertain, and though they had won a small victory today, the shadows of the forest loomed large, and the Beastmen were far from the only threat lurking in the dark corners of the Empire.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 5th​, 2522

Arya studied her new roommate with a mixture of curiosity and bemusement. Beatriz was beautiful, with dark curls cascading down her back and a figure that was decidedly more woman than girl. But the older girl's ignorance of the world beyond her little village was as astounding as her beauty. It was as if Beatriz had spent her life in a bubble, untouched by the wider lands that Arya had known all her life.

They sat together in the small cabin, the ship's gentle sway a steady rhythm beneath them. Beatriz was perched on a stool, unable to sit still, her leg bouncing up and down with nervous energy, fingers drumming a restless pattern against the writing desk that folded down from the wall. Arya, seated beside her, felt a flicker of irritation at the constant movement but said nothing. Instead, she focused on the task at hand, her fingers tracing out the letters of the alphabet on the rough paper, guiding Beatriz's hand to follow.

Myrmidia, her wolf cub, lay curled at her feet, a soft presence that kept Arya grounded. Her right hand absently stroked the cub's fur as she tried to teach Beatriz the basics of reading. It wasn't surprising that the girl didn't know how to read, few did, outside the cities or the great castles. In Winter Town, only about four in ten men could read, and perhaps half as many women. Within Winterfell, where the Starks had always prized learning among their servants, the numbers were perhaps twice as high, but in a village like Beatriz's? Arya wouldn't have been surprised if only one man in ten, and one woman in twenty, could make sense of the written word.

Beatriz fumbled with the quill, her fingers awkward and unsure. She glanced at Arya, her green eyes wide with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice thick with the accent of the Middenland woods. "I've never done this before."

Arya sighed, softening as she saw the genuine distress in the older girl's face. "It's alright," she said, her tone gentler now. "You'll get it. It just takes practice."

Beatriz nodded, but Arya could see the doubt in her eyes. The girl was used to a world of simple things, of trees and fields, of tending the hearth, spinning wool and gathering firewood. The idea of reading, of making sense of the strange symbols on the paper, was as foreign to her as the lands beyond her village.

Still, Arya pressed on, her voice steady as she guided Beatriz through the letters. The girl needed to learn, and Arya had little patience for those who gave up too easily. They were both on a journey now, far from the places they called home, and if Arya had learned anything, it was that the world was not kind to those who could not fend for themselves.

As the ship rocked gently on the river, Arya continued her lesson, her mind drifting to the lands they had left behind. Winterfell seemed a world away now, but the lessons she had learned there stayed with her. She would teach Beatriz as best she could, for the girl would need every bit of knowledge she could gain in the days to come.

In a world as cruel as theirs, ignorance was as dangerous as any sword.

…

Beatriz felt a deep flush of embarrassment as she sat beside Arya. The younger girl was only eleven, yet she spoke with a confidence and knowledge that left Beatriz feeling like a fool. Arya's words were sharp and clear, carrying the weight of a broader world that Beatriz had never even dreamed of.

She spoke of people, places, and histories that Beatriz had never heard of, as if they were common knowledge. Arya could switch effortlessly to Kisleverian, a language that was foreign to Beatriz, and she dressed like a princess in clothing finer than anything Beatriz had ever seen. The girl's dark hair, grey eyes, and high cheekbones mirrored her father's stern features, a reminder of the power and privilege that surrounded her from birth. Arya's father, Lord Stark, was apparently one of the most powerful men in the Empire, a fact that only deepened Beatriz's sense of inadequacy.

Hopelessly out of her depth, Beatriz struggled with the weight of it all. She had been plucked from her simple life in a remote village and thrust into a world that felt like it was spinning out of control. And then there was the magic, a terrifying and exhilarating force that she could barely comprehend. The Magister, Klaus Solmann, was a figure she didn't know how to feel about. He was a good teacher, if a harsh one, but he had kept his distance from her in a way that seemed both respectful and dispassionate. It didn't take much to figure out why, his attentions were fixed firmly on her mother.

Beatriz's thoughts darkened as she thought of her mother. The loss of her father, taken by the Beastmen two months ago, had left their family in shambles. They had little to their name, and without her father's support, life had been hard. Beatriz had suspected for some time that her mother had begun to trade favors for food, a suspicion that had only been confirmed once they boarded the ship. Below decks, the walls were thin, and the sound carried all too easily. Every night, she could hear the Magister and her mother, the sounds of their rutting cutting through the dark silence of the night like a blade. It made her sick with guilt, knowing that her mother was doing this for her sake, so that she could follow her to Altdorf and watch over her as best she could.

The guilt gnawed at her, a constant ache in her chest. Beatriz wanted to be strong, to live up to the expectations that had been placed on her, but the weight of it all was overwhelming. She felt trapped, not just by the magic that had awakened inside her, but by the choices her mother had made, by the debt she now owed to a world she barely understood simply for being different and dangerous. She had no idea what awaited her in Altdorf, but she feared it would only deepen the divide between the life she had known and the life she was being forced into.

Arya continued to teach her the letters, her voice calm and patient. But all Beatriz could think of was the heavy burden of it all. The magic, the Empire, the loss of her father, and the sacrifice her mother was making every night. It felt like too much for a girl of fifteen to bear. Yet, there was no turning back now. The ship was already on its way to Altdorf, and with it, Beatriz's fate.

The ship itself felt constricting. The sailors and soldiers aboard it eyed Beatriz with a wary mix of desire and fear. They had witnessed her unleash a fireball upon the Bray Shaman, a creature of darkness and rot. The memory of the burning flesh and searing heat, was still fresh in their minds, and it left them both in awe and dread of the power she held within her.

Among the crew, only a few treated her like a person, rather than a sorceress or a danger to be avoided. Her mother, Carlota, stayed close, ever protective, while the Magister, Klaus Solmann, remained focused on her training, his mind more on the magic she wielded than the girl herself. But then there were the Starks and Jon Snow.

Jon looked at her not with fear, but with the eyes of a man who saw her as a woman, and the attention flattered her. He was clever, dressed with the same understated elegance as Arya, and as handsome as his father. He carried himself with a quiet confidence that drew her in. His resemblance to Lord Stark was striking. He had the same strong form, the same solemn face, the same dark hair. Yet Jon's skin was a shade darker, as if kissed by the sun of some far-off southern land like Tilea, giving him a warmth that contrasted with the cool nature of House Stark that his father and half-siblings bore.

But for all her fascination with him, Beatriz knew that nothing could come of it. She was bound for Altdorf, to the Colleges of Magic, a path that would take her deep into the mysteries of the arcane. Jon, on the other hand, was destined for Middenheim and the Knights of the White Wolf, a life of steel and honor, far from the world of spells and sorcery that awaited her. Their futures were set on diverging paths, and any thought of a bond between them was a fleeting fantasy, like a dream that fades with the dawn.

Beatriz couldn't help but wonder if she would ever know the kind of love that had existed between her father and mother. Theirs had been a simple, steadfast love, forged in the quiet of their village and tempered by years of hardship. But in Altdorf, among the ranks of the wizards, would such a love be possible? Or would her only prospects be other wizards, men and women as consumed by the winds of magic as she was destined to be?

The uncertainty gnawed at her; a small, quiet fear buried beneath the surface. She had power now, and with it, a future full of promise and peril. But at what cost? What would she have to sacrifice, what parts of herself would she have to lose, to walk the path laid out before her? As the ship sailed on, carrying her closer to that unknown future, Beatriz could only hope that somewhere along the way, she would find the answers.

As the evening drew to a close, Arya began spinning tales before bed, weaving stories so vivid that Winterfell sounded like something out of a fairy tale, a place of legend and dreams. She spoke of the great walls, eighty and a hundred feet high, that encircled the ancient keep. Her words painted a picture in her mind of the vast shrine that was Taal's Wood, where a massive sacred oak stood, as old as the castle, its leaves whispering secrets in the wind. Arya described the enormous Great Keep, warmed by the heat of underground hot springs, a fortress as old as Ostermark itself.

Arya's voice grew animated as she recounted her father's campaigns, painting him as a hero of epic sagas. She spoke of the armies he had led across Ostermark and beyond, of battles fought against cultists and monsters, of victories that had echoed through the halls of history. There were tales of her ancestors, men and women whose deeds had shaped the world, leaving their mark on the land and the people who dwelled within it.

She spoke of her mother, Lady Stark, with a reverence that made her sound like a queen, regal and wise. And of her sister, Sansa, a true princess, as graceful as she was beautiful, destined for great things. Arya's words were filled with admiration and pride, a child's unshakable faith in her family.

Eventually, the stories gave way to the quiet of the night. Arya drifted off to sleep quickly, her breathing deep and even, the peace of the young and untroubled. Beatriz, however, lay awake, her thoughts spinning like the stories Arya had told. She was nearly asleep when she heard it again, the sounds from the other side of the thin cabin walls.

It began with the familiar grunts and groans of the Magister, Klaus Solmann, his voice strained and eager. Then came her mother's moans, the gasps and whimpers that she recognized all too well. Each night since they'd boarded this ship, it had been the same.

Beatriz lay still, her body rigid with discomfort, listening as her mother and the Magister coupled in the dark. She hated herself for it, but she couldn't help trying to discern if there was any difference between the sounds her mother made now and those she had made with her father.

In their small, one-room hut back in the village, there had been no privacy. She had heard everything… every whisper, every murmur, every breathless cry in the night. And now, on this ship, those same sounds haunted her, familiar yet foreign, as if they belonged to someone else entirely.

But she hated most of all that she couldn't tell the difference. Were her mother's moans the same now as they had been with her father? Did that mean Carlota was merely a skilled play-actor, able to feign passion with ease? Or was she something worse, a whore who could take pleasure in any man's touch, even one as old and bearded as the Magister?

These thoughts plagued Beatriz deep into the night, long after the pair had reached their frantic, noisy climax. She lay there in the darkness, staring at the wooden beams overhead, feeling as if she were drowning in shame and confusion. The night stretched on endlessly, and with it, the questions that had no answers.

…

Brauzeit 7th​, 2522

The day after next, their small flotilla arrived in the late morning at the crowded docks of Altdorf. The city, a sprawling mass of stone, humanity and dwarfs, was far beyond anything Beatriz had ever imagined. Arya's tales of Winterfell, which had seemed so grand and magical, now felt almost modest by comparison.

The docks were a cacophony of sounds and smells, with ships packed together so tight they could scarcely move, their masts jutting up into the sky like a forest of dead trees. The air was thick with the scent of mud, fish, and the bodies of thousands of people hard at work, crammed into a space too small to contain them all.

"How big is it?" Beatriz asked, her voice barely a whisper as her eyes widened, trying to take in the sheer scale of the city before her.

"Four hundred twenty thousand live here," Bran replied, his voice filled with a mix of awe and knowledge drilled into him through long study. "Forty thousand of them dwarfs."

Beatriz's mouth hung open in disbelief. The numbers were beyond her comprehension, a population so vast it might as well have been a myth. How could so many people live in one place?

"Winter Town only has thirty thousand," Arya murmured, her voice tinged with a rare note of uncertainty. "It could fit inside these walls fourteen times over."

The walls themselves were a marvel, towering a hundred feet high and half as thick, their surfaces gleaming with white stone cut by dwarfen hands. The stones were perfectly fitted together, as if they had been carved from a single piece, and the tops of the walls were adorned with roofs of red terracotta tiles that glowed like embers in the sunlight.

Two buildings dominated the skyline. The Grand Cathedral of Sigmar, its spires piercing the heavens, cast long shadows over the city, while across the way, the Imperial Palace loomed like a slumbering giant. The palace, a fortress of polished dark brown stone, looked as if it had been built to withstand the wrath of the gods themselves, its battlements bristling with defenses.

"I expected it to be bigger," Jon said, his voice cutting through Beatriz's thoughts like a knife.

"What?" Beatriz turned to him, her head whipping around so fast she nearly lost her balance. Astonishment was written plain on her face.

"Winterfell's perhaps three-fourths the size of that castle," Jon continued, shrugging as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "The stories made it sound twice the size. I just expected more."

Beatriz felt her world tilt on its axis. The city, which had seemed to her like the beating heart of the Empire, the very center of all things, suddenly felt a little less important, a little less grand. Arya's tales, which she had dismissed as the embellishments of a child's imagination, now took on a new weight. They weren't fairy tales at all, but glimpses into a world far more vast and intricate than she had ever dared to dream. They were windows into a realm of power, history, and grandeur that she had only begun to comprehend.

As the ships docked and the sailors went about their work, tying off the ropes and securing the gangplanks, Beatriz looked back at the city, at the spires of the cathedral and the looming bulk of the palace, and she realized that her journey had only just begun. Altdorf was but a stop along the way, a piece of the puzzle. The true heart of the world might lie elsewhere, in places she had yet to see, in stories yet to be told.

Chapter Text

Beatriz watched as Lord Stark approached them with heavy steps, the weight of the world seemingly on his shoulders. He knelt on the deck before his trueborn children, the lines on his face etched deeply with the burden of duty. His hands, roughened by years of leadership and combat, rested gently on Arya's and Bran's shoulders.

"Bran, Arya, my love for you both surpasses all words," he said, his voice a low rumble that carried the weight of his emotions. "I wish more than anything to be by your side when you step into the Colleges, but duty calls me to the Imperial Palace. I must report to the Emperor the full scale of the Beastmen threat. You understand, don't you?"

"It's your duty to the realm," Arya said, her eyes meeting her father's with a mixture of concern and understanding. Eddard gave a solemn nod.

"I will come to visit you both tomorrow with Jon," he promised, his voice firm but softened by the affection he held for his children. "Have no fear. You will always be in my thoughts."

"We won't forget you either," Arya said, her voice steady despite the tears glistening in her eyes. Bran, younger and more direct, simply uttered, "I love you."

The parting was an emotional one, filled with heartfelt hugs and lingering farewells. Jon, standing beside his father, shared his own goodbyes with his siblings. Frost, his loyal dire wolf, stood by their side, his eyes watching with a knowing patience.

As Lord Eddard and Jon departed, their figures growing smaller against the bustling backdrop of Altdorf's docks, Magister Slomman appeared, his presence as commanding as ever. He was accompanied by Beatriz's mother, who carried a heavy pack with their few remaining belongings.

"It is time to embrace your destiny, children," the Magister intoned, his voice carrying the gravitas of a man accustomed to commanding respect and attention. His eyes, dark and penetrating, seemed to search for any sign of hesitation or fear in the young faces before him.

Bran and Arya gave him none, for they were a son and daughter of Winterfell, and Beatriz did her best to emulate them.

…

Eddard Stark's gaze was steely as he surveyed the bustling docks of Altdorf, his mind already locked onto the task at hand. The Empire was vast and powerful, but so were the threats that stalked it from the shadowed corners of its lands. He knew the urgency of his mission and the importance of splitting his forces. Fifty men, his most trusted soldiers, would escort Magister Slomman and the children to the Colleges, ensuring their safety in a city where danger lurked behind every facade. The other fifty would ride with him and Jon to the Imperial Palace.

As they made their way to the livery stable, Eddard's steps were firm and determined, the march of a man who knew time was against him. The stable was a busy place, filled with the scent of hay and the sound of horses snorting in their stalls. The yard master, an elderly man with a tangled mass of bushy eyebrows that seemed to have a life of their own, looked up as they approached, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the imposing lord and his retinue.

Eddard didn't waste time with pleasantries. He reached into his cloak, pulling out a purse that jingled with the weight of gold. "Fetch me six carriages," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. "With the best horses and drivers you have. I have word for the Emperor that must be delivered with all haste."

The yard master blinked, his surprise evident as his eyebrows climbed halfway up his weathered forehead. He quickly bowed deeply, recognizing the authority in Eddard's tone. "Certainly, my lord," he stammered, his voice respectful. "My boys can bring you to the Imperial Palace forthwith, but…" He hesitated, as if afraid to deliver unwelcome news. "I cannot guarantee they will let you in right away, of course. Provincials sometimes are kept cooling their heels for quite a while."

Eddard's eyes narrowed, the hard edge of his determination cutting through the yard master's doubt. "He will see me," he said with the quiet certainty of a man who had faced worse odds and prevailed. "Sure as the sun sets in the west."

The yard master swallowed, nodding quickly before turning to shout orders to his stable hands. Eddard watched him go, then turned to Jon, who stood at his side, silent but alert. The boy's dark eyes mirrored his father's resolve, and there was no need for words between them. The path ahead was clear, and they would walk it together, no matter what obstacles the Imperial Court might throw in their way.

The journey through the crowded streets of Altdorf was swift, thanks to the skill of the drivers. They wielded their whips with precision, guiding the horses through the throng with a steady hand. The sight of the heavily armed Stark soldiers, veterans all, with the scars and hardened expressions to prove it, perched atop the carriages and filling the interiors, sent ripples of fear and respect through the crowds. The masses parted like a tide before them, and the great palace loomed closer with each passing moment.

When they finally arrived at the gates of the Imperial Palace, Eddard Stark leapt down from the front carriage with the grace of a man ten years younger, his boots crunching against the cobblestones. He strode forward with purpose, the grey dire wolf head of House Stark emblazoned on the fine greatcoat he wore over his armor, a stark contrast against the gleaming dark brown sandstone of the palace walls. Jon moved beside him, his young direwolf Frost at his heel, a silent shadow that made the guards stiffen.

The palace gatehouse was a formidable sight, towering over all who approached with an air of unyielding authority. The gates were plated with polished steel and inlaid with dwarfen runes of protection. Above the gates perched stone gargoyles that were said to be capable of disgorging molten lead on any bold enough to assault the gate.

Two knights of the Reiksguard stood before it, their plate armor shinning in the midday sun, hands resting on the hilts of their swords. Beside them stood a dozen state troops at the ready, holding keen halberds or deadly wheellock muskets. They were seasoned men, but even they looked momentarily startled at the sight of Eddard Stark bearing down on them, his reputation preceding him like a storm.

One of the knights stepped forward, recognition flashing in his eyes beneath his helm. He had served in the Emperor's campaigns to aid Kislev, and Eddard Stark's name was one spoken of with respect and awe. "Lord Stark," the knight said, his voice tinged with surprise. "You are unexpected."

Eddard's gaze was as cold and steady as the northern winds. "I came to Altdorf to deliver two of my children to the Colleges," he began, his tone brooking no argument, "and found Hochland and Middenland aflame, teeming with Beastmen. I must speak to the Emperor immediately. Let me through."

The knight hesitated, his eyes flicking to the towering gates and back to the lord before him. There were protocols to be followed, but there was also the weight of the man's presence, the urgency in his words. Finally, he nodded, conceding to the necessity of the moment. "I will summon an escort," he said. "Your son, wolf, and four guards may accompany you, but the wolf and guards must remain outside the Emperor's office."

Eddard inclined his head in acknowledgment, a flicker of gratitude passing through his stern features. The knight turned to shout orders, and within moments, a small escort of elite state troops led by members of the Reiksguard had gathered to lead them through the winding corridors of the Imperial Palace. Jon followed closely, Frost padding silently at his side, his presence a comfort in the vastness of the palace.

As they walked, Eddard's mind was already on the coming audience. The Emperor would listen, of that he had no doubt, but whether he could act swiftly enough to stem the tide of chaos was another matter entirely. The stakes had rarely been higher, and as they approached the Emperor's chamber, the weight of what lay ahead pressed heavily on his shoulders. Yet Eddard Stark was a man who had faced the worst the world had to offer, and he would do so again if it meant safeguarding the realms of men.

The door to the Emperor's solar loomed large, a barrier made not just of oak banded with iron but of the immense power that lay behind it.

Jon hesitated, only for a moment, as he commanded Frost to stay with the men. The direwolf, ever loyal, obeyed, curling up on the cool marble floor with a huff, his head resting on massively oversized paws that showed just how much more he had to grow, eyes alert even in repose.

Eddard and Jon entered the room, their boots clicking softly against the polished stone floor. The Reiksguard, their armor shinning like mirrors, followed in silence, their presence a reminder of the Emperor's might. The solar was vast, its high ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes depicting Sigmar's victories. Tall, arched windows lined the walls, letting in streams of golden light that played across the rich tapestries and plush furnishings. The air was heavy with the scent of polished wood and incense, a subtle reminder of both the Empire's grandeur and wealth.

At the far end of the room, Karl Franz stood by a window, his back to them as he gazed out over the courtyard below. The Emperor of Sigmar's sacred domain was a man in his prime, just four years older than Lord Stark, yet the weight of twenty years on the throne had etched lines of care into his handsome features.

He was tall, a solid six feet and one inch, his frame built like that of a warrior who had seen battle and emerged victorious. His shoulders were broad, his body clad in a cuirass of burnished gromril, the priceless dwarfen metal gleaming in the light. Beneath it he wore garments of the finest silk, dyed in deep crimson and gold, the colors of the Empire.

His hair was as black as a raven's wing, thick and carefully groomed, a stark contrast to the steel in his blue eyes. There was no beard to soften his face; his jaw was clean-shaven, revealing the strong lines of his chin and cheekbones. He was the image of nobility and command, a man who bore the weight of an empire of a hundred million souls on his shoulders with a dignity that was beyond regal. Yet there was a hardness to him, a sense of the iron will that had kept the Empire united in the face of countless threats.

As Eddard and Jon approached and bowed deep at the waist, Karl Franz turned, his contemplation giving way to recognition. The change in his expression was subtle, a narrowing of the eyes, a tightening of the lips, as he took in the sight of Eddard Stark standing before him. He was surprised, but not unwelcoming.

"Lord Stark," the Emperor greeted, his voice deep and resonant, filling the room as if it had been crafted for command. "I did not expect to see you in Altdorf anytime soon. You bring news, I presume?"

Eddard, ever the embodiment of Ulrican honor, met the Emperor's gaze without flinching. "I do, Your Majesty. Grave news. Hochland and Middenland are swarming with Beastmen in the tens of thousands, and the threat to the Empire is greater than you may have been led to believe."

At those words, a shadow passed over Karl Franz's face, deepening the lines etched by two decades of rule. His eyes, so often filled with the concerns of statecraft and war, darkened with the weight of new burdens. "Tell me everything," Karl Franz commanded, his tone sharp, brooking no delay.

Lord Eddard Stark stood tall before the Emperor; the weight of his words matched only by the gravity in his eyes. "I left for Altdorf with the aim of delivering Arya and Bran safely to the Colleges," he began, his voice steady and measured. "But the road south held darker tidings than I anticipated. I first heard rumors of the Beastmen stirring in Bechafen from Chancellor Hertwig, who was planning a campaign to purge the forests of western Ostermark."

Karl Franz's blue eyes narrowed as he considered this. "You saw no sign of them in your own lands, Lord Stark?"

"I purged the Gryphon Wood thoroughly last year," Eddard replied, his tone reflecting the grim satisfaction of a man who knew his duty and did it well.

"Proactive as always, Lord Stark," the Emperor nodded, a glimmer of approval crossing his face. But the satisfaction was fleeting, replaced by concern as Eddard continued.

"We didn't hear much of them for a while," Eddard said, "but just half a day downriver from Kusel, we were attacked from the Hochland side by hundreds of the foul creatures. Thankfully, few arrows and javelins reached us in the middle of the river, but the storm of lead from our carronades tore into them. Scores were slain before we sailed past, but it was clear there were far more lurking in those woods."

Karl Franz's face hardened. "That is far too close to Kusel to be comfortable, and not far at all from Taalagad and Talabheim."

"Indeed," Eddard agreed, his voice grim. "And apparently, the Grand Duke knew nothing of them. No word from Hochland, no warnings… just minor skirmishes in the deep forest and rumors from frightened villagers."

"Nothing at all?" The Emperor's voice was sharp, his anger barely concealed.

"No," Eddard confirmed. "From there, we visited Hergig. We found the Grand Baron already in the field with his army, the city preparing for a siege. Ludenhof's steward, von Kroppenhügel, reported a victory less than two days' march from the city. Six thousand beasts slain, for light losses."

"A victory, yes," Karl Franz said, his brow furrowed, "but far too close to the city walls."

"Too close by far," Eddard agreed. "The whole journey down the river was marked by signs of war. Towns and villages were arming themselves, preparing for the worst. A few villages had already been razed to the ground. We caught one attack in the act and shelled them to pieces while Magister Slomman called down lightning from the heavens. But even then, it might not have been enough. They had a Bray Shaman among them, one who was thankfully turned to ash by a young hedge witch. The Magister convinced her to join us on our journey to the Colleges."

Eddard paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the room. "And here we are, Your Majesty," he finished, his voice heavy with the burden of what he had witnessed.

Karl Franz turned away to once more look out the window, his face a mask of concern and resolve. The gravity of the situation was clear, and as the Emperor of the Empire of Man, the weight of those dangers fell squarely on his shoulders. The room was silent, save for the distant sounds of the city outside, as the Emperor considered the dire news brought before him.

The Emperor turned back to them and leaned heavily against his desk, the weariness in his voice belying the steel in his eyes. "I arrived in Altdorf just over six weeks ago," he began, his tone grave. "Returning from a campaign to smash a growing Waagh and aid the Karaz Ankor. It was a victory… but not without cost. My forces are still licking their wounds, regaining their strength. New men are being recruited and trained, supplies restocked, arms and armor forged anew. I would have liked more time, but that is a luxury we cannot afford."

His voice began to grow stronger, become more inspiring as he went on. "We will have to intervene with what we have on hand, I'm sure we can scrape together a force of forty thousand good men. With the artillery and wizards we can muster, along with the men of Middenland that will flock to our side, and the support of our Gods, I'm sure it will be enough."

The Emperor's confidence was infectious but Lord Stark knew well that the Emperor had marched south with fifty thousand veterans and was joined by half that many led by the Elector-Count of Averland when he went to aid the Karaz Ankor. That he could perhaps gather up forty thousand men now, some of them no doubt green boys, was concerning.

On the other hand, Middenland could muster vast armies itself and their Elector-Count Boris Todbringer was a far more renowned warrior than Marius Leitdorf of Averland, so perhaps the Emperor's trust in providence was warranted.

With swift precision, Karl Franz bent over the desk, his quill moving rapidly across a fine piece of paper. The document was large, the strokes of his pen decisive. When he was done, he signed it with an ornate flourish, sealing it with the Imperial stamp. He turned to one of the knights standing by, a veteran by the look of him. "Sir Winzer, take this to the Reiksmarshal. He is to prepare an expedition to Middenland and Hochland to relieve them of the Beastman threat."

"Right away, Your Majesty," the knight replied, snapping to attention. But as he turned to leave, the Emperor spoke again.

"One more thing," Franz added, almost as an afterthought. "Send in the dire wolf. I've seen them in battle, of course, and at the Imperial Zoo, but I'd like to see one up close, here in my chambers."

The knight hesitated, concern flickering across his face. "But, Your Majesty," he began, clearly worried for the Emperor's safety.

"Just do as I command," Franz said, his voice brooking no further argument. "I'm sure your comrades can protect me from a half-grown pup, in the unlikely event it does not heed its master's commands."

Reluctantly, the knight complied, stepping out of the room. Moments later, the door creaked open again, and the great white wolf padded in, its movements almost ghostly on the polished marble floor. Frost's eyes, red as blood, gleamed in the dim light of the Emperor's solar, his snowy fur a stark contrast against the dark richness of the room.

Two state troops armed with halberds followed in Frost's wake, no doubt tasked by Sir Winzer to do so in case intervention was necessary.

"An albino," the Emperor remarked, surprise lacing his tone as he took in the sight of the beast. "I know the high priests say such an affliction is harmless, but most take no risks with mutation of any sort."

Eddard Stark's voice was calm, as though discussing the most mundane of matters. "The boy has spoken for years of joining the Knights of the White Wolf," he explained, his gaze steady. "When I found their mother dead, there were five other pups, each of them normal in size and coat. One for each of my trueborn children. But then there was the runt of the litter, white as snow."

"A sign from the Lord of Winter and Wolves," Franz murmured, almost to himself, his eyes never leaving the direwolf.

In that moment, the ruler of the Empire, with all his might and majesty, stood before the creature as one might stand before a portent, a harbinger of something ancient and powerful. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with the weight of unseen forces, as if the gods themselves were watching.

Karl Franz studied Frost with a mix of curiosity and intrigue, his gaze intense as he took in the dire wolf's imposing form. "He looks as if he already weighs as much as Jon. How old is he?" the Emperor asked, his voice rich with genuine interest.

"Five months, Your Majesty," Jon replied, standing proudly beside his companion.

The Emperor nodded slowly, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "Impressive," he murmured. "These beasts typically grow to the size of large ponies, but I've seen some that rival warhorses. I have no doubt Frost will be among the latter." His eyes narrowed as he considered the wolf. "How intelligent is he?"

Jon's eyes flickered with contemplation. "Frost is more intelligent than any hound I've known. He surpasses the black butcher dogs of Winterfell and even the great shepherds used by the horse herders of the Veldt. But he's not quite as clever as the monkey I saw in a traveling menagerie." He paused, a slight smile touching his lips. "Still, give him another two years to mature, and I'd wager he'll only grow more astute."

Karl Franz's gaze remained fixed on the direwolf, a faint smile touching his lips. The Emperor's fascination was clear, mingled with a touch of admiration. In the stillness of the room, the air seemed charged with unspoken promise, as if the wolf itself held secrets yet to be revealed.

All Emperor's had eccentricities, and Karl Franz's was his well known interest in monsters of all types. He was a great patron of the Imperial Zoo, which housed a menagerie said to be greater than any in the Old World.

"Having an intelligent animal companion is a rare and valuable gift," the Emperor mused, his gaze lingering on Frost. "My own griffon, Deathclaw, is as brilliant as they come. Sometimes, I wonder if he surpasses even me in cunning."

Eddard nodded, a wry smile touching his lips. "He will be a tremendous asset in battle, even if he doesn't grow large enough to carry a rider."

"Indeed," the Emperor agreed, his gaze turning thoughtful. "You mentioned that you had a wolf for each of your children. Did the two you sent to the Colleges bring theirs along?"

"Yes," Eddard replied, a note of confusion in his voice. "The Magister said nothing of any issue."

The Emperor's expression shifted slightly, a trace of concern in his eyes. "I'm sure they'll be accepted due to your station and Solmann's assurances. However, I suspect there are staff who might harbor reservations about having dire wolves among the students, particularly when it comes to discipline."

He shook his head, then gestured to the door. "This has been an enlightening conversation, but I must confer with the Reiksmarshal about the impending campaign. Unless you have further pressing news, I'll see you later, perhaps at dinner, but more likely tomorrow."

Ned took the cue to conclude his report. "There have been rising Greenskin raids from the World's Edge Mountains into the Veldt. I've sent Robb and my forces to push them back."

"Let us hope for swift victory," the Emperor said gravely. "We have our hands full enough with these Beastmen."

He turned to one of the knights that had led them into room, a steely command in his voice. "Sir Jurgen, escort Lord Stark and his son to the east wing, to the blue guest room."

With a curt nod, the Reiksguard moved to carry out his orders, while Eddard and Jon prepared to leave, their thoughts heavy with the weight of the Emperor's concerns and their own burdens.

Sir Jurgen led them through the sprawling corridors of the Imperial Palace, his armored boots clanking softly with each step. His armor gleamed with the polished sheen of one accustomed to the finest arms and an air of authority that matched his garb.

"The Blue Room is generally reserved for the highest of dignitaries," Sir Jurgen said, his tone uncharacteristically direct. "Elector Counts, High Priests of the major cults and foreign lords of notable import. Since none of that caliber are in residence at the moment and given your proximity to their standing, this is a mark of respect for your swift and vital warning."

Lord Stark, his demeanor unchanged, chose not to respond to the implication. Instead, he inquired, "Have my men been billeted in the barracks?"

"I assume so," Sir Jurgen answered with a nod. "I can verify it once I've shown you to your room."

"Please do so," Eddard said. "And inform the barracks that another fifty men will be arriving once my children have been settled at the Colleges."

"Consider it done," Sir Jurgen replied, already turning towards the task. He halted before an elaborate wooden door, painted a deep, striking azure. "This is the Blue Room. Should you require anything, ring the bell by the door, and a servant will attend to your needs." With a sharp salute, he departed, no doubt to address the accommodation of Stark's men.

Eddard and Jon pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the room. The opulence matched, if not surpassed, the grandeur of the Emperor's own chambers. The room's splendor spoke of wealth and power, a fitting residence for those of high renown. The father and son took in the lavish surroundings, their thoughts heavy with the burdens and responsibilities that lay before them.

Chapter Text

The World's Edge Mountains loomed ominously, their jagged, snow-capped peaks piercing the sky like the serrated edge of a great saw blade. Robb Stark's army wound its way up the ancient Dwarf Road through Peak Pass, a narrow gorge carved into the mountains by countless centuries of wind and wear. The pass was the lifeline between the Old World and the forsaken Dark Lands, a desolate, volcanic wasteland where Greenskin tribes, ogres, and far darker creatures waged constant war. Legends whispered of Ratmen beneath the earth and the twisted remnants of the Dwarfs' own kin, lost to madness and darkness.

Despite the grim surroundings, the soldiers marched with high spirits, their voices ringing out with songs popular since the days of Magnus the Pious, when the Empire reunified and waged war against the forces of Chaos. "Watch on the Reik," "The March of Kislev," "The Girl I Left Behind", and more. These were tunes that had carried countless armies to battle, and they echoed now through the narrow pass, defying the encroaching night.

Robb had sent his scouts out in force, pistoliers combing every side path and crevice, their eyes sharp for signs of the enemy. They encountered dangers, but none of the organized kind: solitary trolls hunting for an easy meal, stray wolves and monsters driven mad by hunger, but no bands of goblins or orcs. The absence of Greenskin resistance was troubling, a silence where there should have been clamor.

As dusk settled, the army made camp. The mountains offered little in the way of proper timber to build a wall, but the soldiers gathered what scraggly trees they could find, doubling the breadth of their stake circle. The dry moat was dug wider and deeper, this time on the outside of the stake perimeter, a precaution against the unknown.

At supper, Robb sat with Ser Wylis Manderly and Colonel Lubovasyn. The hard-eyed Kislevite veteran seemed to have a nose for trouble and Robb wanted his council. The three men huddled close around the fire, their breath misting in the chill mountain air.

"The lack of contact with Greenskins is odd," Robb said, tearing into a piece of salted beef with a ferocity not unlike his dire wolf Storm who lay beside him. His voice held the steady calm of a man used to war, but there was a small thread of unease beneath it pointing at his inexperience for those who knew where to look.

"They're likely trying to finish off the Dwarfs before turning their eyes to you," Lubovasyn replied, his accent thick but his words sharp.

"Aye," Manderly agreed, his broad face furrowed with concern. "I'm starting to think you were right about that, Lord Stark. The Slayer Keep is almost certainly under siege as we speak."

Lubovasyn leaned in, his eyes narrowing. "I have an idea of who it could be."

Robb and Sir Manderly exchanged a glance, surprise flickering in their eyes. "Who?" Robb asked.

"Two years ago," Lubovasyn began, his voice low, "a great Warboss, a Black Orc by the name of Grimgor Ironhide, burst forth from the mountains into Kislev. He sacked towns and crushed armies, only being turned back by the Tzarina herself, her ice magic freezing thousands of Greenskins where they stood. Last year, it's said he took Red Eye Mountain from the goblins who've held it for centuries. He has a history of war with the Slayer Keep. With the goblins of Red Eye Mountain under his command, he might believe he finally has the strength to cast down Karak Kadrin."

"Grimgor Ironhide," Manderly muttered, the name tasting foul in his mouth. "They say he defeated three armies in Kislev."

"He did," Lubovasyn confirmed, his expression grim. "And they say he's grown stronger since. If it's Grimgor who leads the horde, then we face more than just a band of marauding Greenskins. We face an army that could break empires."

Robb stared into the fire, the crackling flames reflecting in his blue eyes. He knew the stories of Grimgor Ironhide, the Black Orc who had waged war from the Mountains of Mourn to the Empire's borders, leaving only death and ruin in his wake. If that warlord was indeed in these mountains, then the task before them was greater than he had imagined.

"What would you have us do, Lord Stark?" Sir Manderly asked, his voice heavy with the weight of the question.

Robb looked up from the fire, his jaw set with the determination that had seen him through battles
on the plains of the Veldt and in the depths of the Gryphon Wood. "We march for Karak Kadrin at first light. If Grimgor Ironhide is laying siege to the Slayer Keep, then we will break it. And if he's not... then we will be ready for whatever lies ahead."

Lubovasyn and Manderly nodded, the resolve of seasoned warriors settling over them like a cloak. The hour was late, and the mountains held their secrets close, but in the morning, they would march into the teeth of whatever awaited them. In the shadow of the World's Edge Mountains, the fate of empires would be decided.

Robb Stark finished his meal with a sigh, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on him like the chill mountain air. The flickering firelight danced on his face, casting shadows over his brooding expression. He pushed himself to his feet, feeling the burden of what he had to do. 'Better to lance this boil quickly,' he thought, the words echoing in his mind like a grim mantra.

He made his way through the camp, the sounds of soldiers settling in for the night fading into the background as he approached Esmerelda's wagon. The air was thick with the scent of pine and wood smoke, but Robb's thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in the knot of his resolve. He climbed the first step, pausing at the threshold and giving it a knock. "Esmerelda," he called, his voice low.

Her voice, warm and sultry, called back from within. "Robb? Come in, I missed you last night."

Robb hesitated, his hand resting on the door. He could feel the heat of the stove fire inside, the warmth that had once comforted him, now a reminder of the coldness of his purpose. He opened the door just a crack. "Can you come here? I'd like to talk," he said, his tone betraying his unease.

There was a pause, a puzzled silence, and then he heard her footsteps approaching. The door swung open fully, revealing Esmerelda standing there, her raven-black hair cascading over her shoulders, her green eyes sharp with curiosity and just a hint of irritation. She placed her hands on her hips, her expression a mix of defiance and concern. "If this is about what I did last night when you were not here…"

"No," Robb interjected quickly, his words stumbling over themselves. "It's about me. I… I met…" He stuttered, the flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck as he struggled to find the right words. "Lord Dunbroch's daughter, Merida… we have an agreement, should I return from the campaign alive."

A flicker of understanding sparked in Esmerelda's eyes, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Oh, young love… so precious," she murmured, her voice laced with a mix of affection and amusement. She studied him for a moment, her gaze softening. "And you think if you continue to see me, then what we have will hang over that like a shadow…" She nodded, her smile turning wistful. "Well, it doesn't have to, but it could if you let it. If you feel you can't continue to see me without it becoming a problem, I understand."

Robb exhaled, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Thank you," he said, his voice awkward, unsure. He turned to go, eager to escape the discomfort of the moment. "I'll see you around camp."

"Robb," she said, catching his arm, her touch light but firm. He turned back to face her, and she looked up at him with a seriousness that cut through the night. "You're a romantic, but just because you think you shouldn't see me doesn't mean you shouldn't see someone on occasion. We march to battle, and hundreds, if not thousands, of men will die. That fate lays heavy on the hearts of men, and guilt will lay even heavier on the survivors. Even the best of men need relief in such a situation, and there are many pretty, young cooks and washerwomen in the camp who would be happy to provide you with it. Make sure to take them up on it from time to time."

Robb pulled his arm free, a mulish set to his jaw. "I'll think on it," he muttered, though his voice was thick with resistance. He turned away, making his way back to the command tent where his bed awaited. But as he walked, her words lingered in his mind, gnawing at him, refusing to be dismissed. The camp was alive with the soft murmur of night, and as he passed, the women he saw seemed to take on a new significance. Their inviting smiles, the way they stretched their legs or yawned theatrically, thrusting out their chests, these gestures, once innocuous enough, now seemed laden with unspoken offers, and the weight of them pressed down on him, making it hard to focus on anything else.

He pushed into the tent, the familiar scent of leather and steel grounding him once more. But even as he lay down, pulling the rough blanket over his shoulders, he couldn't shake the thoughts that crowded his mind, the war between desire and loyalty waging its silent battle within him.

…

Robb was riding with the reserves the next day when the sharp crack of gunfire echoed from the van, first in sporadic bursts and then in a relentless torrent. The sounds of battle washed over the pass like a sudden, crashing wave, gunshots giving way to the clash of steel and the feral howls of giant wolves.

With practiced discipline, the infantry unfurled from their marching columns, quickly forming into battle lines across the narrow pass. The air was thick with dust and tension, and Robb urged his horse forward, Storm snarling at his side, his hackles raised in anticipation of a fight. Sir Manderly and Colonel Lubovasyn rode close behind, their faces grim under the shadow of their helms.

Before them, the scene was chaos. A swirl of dust and death as three thousand pistoliers clashed with a horde of goblin wolf riders. The riders swarmed, their snarling mounts snapping at the legs of horses and men alike, while the pistoliers fired their shots as fast as they could draw and reholster and draw again, driving the goblins back by sheer force of will and firepower.

"This was never going to work," Robb muttered, his voice low as he took in the grim spectacle. "They must be outnumbered five to one. So why attack?"

"There!" Lubovasyn, ever the sharp-eyed Kislevite, pointed toward a figure being escorted back through the Imperial lines. Two of his pistoliers flanked the rider, guiding him with careful urgency. The rider's armor was foreign, the style unmistakably different from the Empire's own.

"Is that a Bretonnian?" Robb asked, a note of confusion threading his voice.

"A questing knight, perhaps," Sir Manderly guessed, his brow furrowing.

"Most likely," Robb agreed, though the sight of a Bretonnian knight so far from home was still an oddity. There had to be a reason.

As the last of the goblins broke and fled, the wolf riders retreating in disarray, the knight and his escorts approached. The field was littered with the dead, two hundred goblins and their mounts lying broken on the rocky ground, their crude weapons scattered among them. But the cost to Robb's own men was evident too, and he couldn't help but feel the familiar tightening of guilt in his belly as he surveyed the wounded being carried back from the fray.

Before he could dwell on it, the knight reined in his horse before Robb, sweeping off his helmet to reveal a head of well-coifed blonde hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He bowed deeply in his saddle, his Bretonnian manners impeccable even in the dust and blood of the battlefield.

"Lord Stark," the knight intoned, his voice thick with the accent of his homeland. "I hope your father is well. I am Sir Phoebus de Gondelaurier of Carcassonne, questing knight of Bretonnia." He looked weary, lines of fatigue and worry etched deep into his face. "I rode through the teeth of an entire Greenskin army with dire news. The Slayer Keep lies besieged by the Black Orc Grimgor Ironhide."

Robb's heart sank at the knight's words, the gravity of the situation settling over him like a shroud. The Slayer Keep, one of the Dwarfs' most formidable bastions, now besieged by one of the most feared warlords in the Old World. The implications were dire, and the path before him grew darker with each passing moment.

"It's as you suspected, Lord Stark," Sir Manderly said, his voice heavy with the weight of confirmation.

Robb's jaw tightened, his mind racing with the implications. "What is the condition of the Karak, and its defenses?" Lubovasyn interjected, his sharp Kislevite accent cutting through the tension. "What of the orcs and their numbers?"

Sir Phoebus met their eyes with a grave expression. "Dreams sent by the Lady led me to Karak Kadrin," he began, his tone reverent yet troubled. "At first, I did not understand why. Your father's castle is formidable Lord Stark, a stronghold worthy of song, even among Bretonnian dukes. But the Slayer Keep... it is beyond description. It makes Winterfell look like a mere tower keep in comparison, a landed knight's hall before a grand palace. Karak Kadrin is impregnable, or so I believed."

He paused; his face shadowed by the memory of what he had witnessed. "Then Grimgor Ironhide came," Phoebus continued, shaking his head as if to clear the vision from his mind. "He's taken tremendous losses to the great guns and flame cannons emplaced in the gatehouse. Tens of thousands, surely. The dwarfs are unmatched in their defense. Yet, still, Grimgor's horde outnumbers what you've brought here two or two and a half to one."

"Forty-five to sixty thousand Greenskins," Robb muttered, more to himself than to the others. "Many of them orcs." He could almost see the battlefield in his mind's eye. Hordes of savage Greenskins surging against the unyielding walls of Karak Kadrin, their red-black blood staining the stones. "Fearsome odds in an open field, but if we catch him against the walls of Karak Kadrin, or in a narrow enough pass where our artillery and handgunners can pour in fire, we can win."

"You'll have to move fast," Sir Phoebus warned, his voice cutting through Robb's thoughts. "It was my dreams that led me to you, and they were dark ones. Grimgor has fearsome shamans at his side, orc warlocks who can bend the winds of magic to their will. Were it not for a skilled journeyman of the Gold Order who was visiting the Karak when the orcs arrived, the gatehouse would likely have already fallen."

Robb felt a chill creep up his spine at the knight's words. Magic was a force as unpredictable as it was deadly, and in the hands of the Greenskins, it was a weapon of chaos and destruction. Grimgor's warlocks could turn the tide of battle in a heartbeat, and all the courage and steel in the world might not be enough to stop them. The path ahead was fraught with peril, but there was no turning back now. The fate of the Slayer Keep, and perhaps of all the Old World, rested on his shoulders.

"We march at first light," Robb declared, his voice firm, cutting through the gathering gloom. "Gather the officers, we need to plan our approach."

Sir Manderly glanced at the sun, which was now dipping below the jagged mountain horizon, casting long shadows over the stony path. "Aye, we were about to stop nearby anyway," he remarked, his voice gruff but steady. "It's why the full force of the pistoliers was so close to the leading foot." He leaned over to one of the pistoliers, giving swift orders to make camp where they stood.

Robb turned to the Bretonnian knight; his brow furrowed in thought. "How far to the Karak?" he asked, the urgency in his voice barely masked.

"Perhaps seventy-five imperial miles," Sir Phoebus replied, his tone measured. "I rode it in two days, with hobgoblins snapping at my heels. But that was on my own, mounted on a Bretonnian steed bred for endurance with the Lady bolstering us. A full army, with cannons and supply train, marching up a fine dwarf-made road? Perhaps you could make it in four days; if you pushed hard," he said, though there was doubt in his eyes.

"It will be rough," Robb admitted, his gaze distant as he calculated the toll such a march would take on his men. "But it can be done if we are not opposed."

"And if they oppose us in numbers enough to stop us, or even slow us down, they risk not being able to break inside the keep," Sir Manderly added, his tone hopeful. The old knight knew all too well the cost of delay and compromise in war.

"Grimgor does not believe in half measures," Lubovasyn interjected, his voice carrying the weight of bitter experience. "He will not try to slow us down with dribs and drabs. He will either turn and try to crush us with everything he has, or he will redouble his efforts to breach the gates of Karak Kadrin."

"I concur," Phoebus said, his eyes narrowing as he considered the enemy they faced. "Being from Carcassonne, I know orcs well, and Grimgor is an orc exaggerated in every way, a force of nature, brutish and relentless."

As they spoke, the command tent was erected around them, the familiar bustle of camp life filling the air. Robb's officers began streaming in, their faces a mix of determination and exhaustion, the pistoliers arriving last, having had to reorganize their battalions after the skirmish.

They gathered around a large table in the center of the tent, maps inked on parchment far more durable than paper spread before them. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on their faces, making them look older, wearier. They talked long into the evening, planning for every eventuality, Grimgor turning on them in full force, Grimgor redoubling his attempts to take the Karak, even the unlikely scenario of him trying to slow them down with piecemeal attacks.

Robb listened to each of his commanders, weighing their words carefully. His mind was a whirlwind of strategies and counter-strategies, but beneath it all, a single thought gnawed at him: thousands of lives depended on the decisions made this night.

As the hours dragged on, the talk grew quieter, more focused. The men around the table were veterans, hardened by years of war, but there was no denying the gravity of the task before them. They were marching into the jaws of death, and they knew it.

Finally, as the last plans were made and the final words spoken, Robb stood. His eyes swept over the faces of his commanders, men he had come to trust with his life. "We march at first light," he said, his voice firm, cutting through the exhaustion that weighed on them all. "We'll use every trick and stratagem we have. And by the gods, we'll break Grimgor's siege, or die trying."

The men nodded; their expressions grim but resolute. They had faced long odds before, and they would face them again. But this time, the stakes seemed higher than ever.

As the officers filed out of the tent, Robb remained behind, staring down at the map of the pass. His hand rested on the hilt of Ice, the cold dwarfen star metal a comfort in the face of the storm to come. The weight of command pressed down on him, heavy as a millstone, but he bore it without complaint.

Over the next few days, the road ahead would be long, and the enemy merciless. But tonight, he allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection, of doubt, even.

For tomorrow, there could be no room for either.

Chapter Text

As Robb left the tent with his officers, the weight of command heavy on his shoulders, his eyes caught sight of a procession returning from the battlefield. The priests of Morr, somber and silent in their black robes, moved like shadows through the camp, their heavy scythes gleaming dully in the fading light. At their side walked a single Templar of Morr, his black armor a stark contrast against the pale faces of the priests, a grim guardian escorting them back from the field where they had just given the fallen pistoliers their last rites.

Robb's gaze lingered on them for a moment, then he reached out, catching the sleeve of a nearby light cavalry officer. "How many men did we lose?" he asked, his voice low.

"Two score dead, my lord," the officer replied quickly, a soldier's brusqueness in his tone. "Don't worry, it won't affect our effectiveness. The wounded have already been treated by the priestesses of Shallya."

Robb nodded, dismissing the officer with a gesture. But the man's words did nothing to ease the knot of guilt tightening in his chest. As he sat down to his meal, his appetite fled. The food before him, smoked meat, black bread, and a bowl of thick vegetable stew, might as well have been ash on his tongue. All he could think of were the forty men who had died under his command.

They had been cut down in their prime. Shot through the neck with an arrow, run through with a lance, cut down by a sword, or savaged by a great dire wolf. However they had fallen, their lives and deaths were his responsibility. The realization turned his stomach, making him feel sick with guilt and sorrow. He was young, barely more than a boy in the eyes of some, and yet the weight of those lives lay heavy on him, a burden he had anticipated but could not escape.

As he sat there, lost in his thoughts, a cook approached him. She was a lovely blonde woman, perhaps twenty years old, with a warm smile that contrasted sharply with the bleakness of the camp. "Is there something wrong with the meal, my lord?" she asked, her voice soft and concerned.

Robb looked up, startled out of his reverie. "Oh, no, miss," he replied, trying to force a smile. "The food is good as ever. There's just a lot on my mind."

"You can call me Gretchen, my lord," she said, stepping closer. There was something inviting in the way she moved, the way she held her hands behind her back and stretched languidly, emphasizing curves that would stir a hunger in any man.

Robb was certainly not immune to the effect. He felt a flush rise to his cheeks, a welcome distraction from the grim thoughts that had plagued him all evening. He couldn't drink his guilt away, not when he needed a clear head come morning, but perhaps there was another way to find some small comfort in the darkness.

Gretchen's smile widened as she noticed his reaction, and she leaned in a little closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Perhaps I can help you with that, my lord," she suggested, her tone as warm and inviting as the campfire.

Robb hesitated for a moment, torn between thoughts of Merida waiting back at her castle for him and desire. But the need for human warmth, for some fleeting escape from the cold and the guilt gnawing at him, was too strong to resist. He nodded, unable to trust his voice, and let her lead him away from the meal he no longer had any appetite for.

The night was long, and the days to come would bring fresh battles, fresh losses in numbers far greater than those suffered so far. But for now, Robb Stark slung Ice up over his shoulder and allowed himself to be led, seeking solace in the only comfort the camp could offer. Storm and his guards following at a respectful distance.

As they left the eating area, Gretchen glanced back at Robb with a soft smile. "Do you want to use my tent or yours?" she asked, her voice low, almost a whisper.

Robb considered the offer for a moment. The command tent was where he slept, but it was also where maps, documents and private correspondence vital to the campaign were kept. Bringing a woman he barely knew into such a place would be reckless. "Your tent will be fine," he said, his tone decisive.

Gretchen nodded, her hips swaying as she led him through the dimly lit camp. "Alright, but I should warn you," she said with a hint of self-deprecation, "it won't be up to your standards."

Robb didn't reply, but he couldn't help but notice the way her voice carried both weariness and warmth. As they walked, he tried to fill the silence with conversation, anything to distract from the guilt gnawing at him. "How did you end up with the army?"

She paused for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts, then began to speak in a quiet, measured tone. "My father was a printer. He had family down in the Veldt. Three years ago, he and my mother were killed while traveling back from visiting them. Beastmen in the Gryphon Wood." Her voice faltered, but she pressed on. "The print shop had debts, and we had to sell it. I joined the camp to support my siblings. My younger brother Hans followed me; he's a handgunner now in the 2nd Winter Town Foot. We give most of our earnings to our grandmother, who cares for our little sister Annalise. We've arranged a seamstress apprenticeship for her with the money we've saved. And, of course, we support my son, Wilhard. He's one, and my grandmother looks after him."

They came to a stop in front of a small, low-peaked canvas tent. It was a meager shelter, barely large enough for a bedroll and a few possessions. The wind rustled the canvas, and in the dim light of the camp, the tent seemed a fragile thing, a poor defense against the darkness that surrounded them on all sides.

Gretchen knelt down to open the flap, her thin dress stretching over her form as she did so, the fabric clinging to the curves of her bottom in the evening chill. She glanced back at him, her green eyes catching the faint light of the campfires, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Follow me," she whispered.

Robb hesitated only a moment longer, then ducked down to follow her into the tent. Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the scent of canvas and the faint, lingering traces of whatever perfumes she could afford. It was a simple space, nothing more than a bedroll, a few blankets, and a small bundle of belongings, a stark contrast to the command tent where Robb spent his nights.

Gretchen settled onto the bedroll, her movements slow and deliberate as she made room for him beside her. There was a vulnerability in her eyes, a softness that hadn't been there before. "It's not much," she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath, "but it's mine."

Robb sat down beside her; the weight of the day heavy on his shoulders. As she leaned into him, offering warmth and comfort in the only way she knew how, he let himself forget, just for a little while, the burden of command and the lives lost under his watch. The night was long, and the war would wait until morning. For now, in the quiet darkness of the tent, Robb Stark found solace in the arms of a woman who had her own burdens to bear.

The night was still and quiet, save for the faint rustle of wind against the canvas and the soft padding of the guards' boots circling the tent. Gretchen's giggle cut through the silence as Storm, ever curious, nosed his way beneath the tent flap, his cold snout brushing against her hand. She laughed again, gently pushing the dire wolf away as he let out a soft huff and settled himself just outside the entrance.

Robb laid Ice down beside them and worked with Gretchen to unbuckle his armor; the task more cumbersome than he expected in the dark, tight confines of the small tent. The girl struck a flame with a sulphur-tipped match, the tiny spark flickering to life before she lit a small tallow candle. The warm, wavering light cast long shadows across the canvas walls, making the cramped space feel even smaller, more intimate.

Gretchen did her best to help, her fingers nimble but unfamiliar with the intricacies of the high-quality plate. Her attempts were earnest, though she fumbled with the clasps, her hands brushing against his chest and arms in the process. Despite her inexperience, there was a tenderness in her touch, a warmth that Robb found oddly comforting.

Piece by piece, the armor came off, clattering softly as it was set aside. When his boots were finally removed, Gretchen's hands found their way to his breeches, her fingers tracing slow, deliberate paths up his legs. Her breath was warm against his ear as she leaned in close, her voice a whisper in the candlelit darkness. "Let's snuff out the candle," she murmured, her lips brushing against his skin.

Robb hesitated for a moment, the weight of the day still heavy on his shoulders, the guilt of the fallen men gnawing at the edges of his mind. But here, in the dim glow of the candlelight, with Gretchen's soft hands and soothing voice, he allowed himself to let go, if only for a little while. He reached out and pinched the flame between his fingers, plunging them both into darkness. The night outside was cold and fraught with danger, but inside the tent, the world shrank to the warmth of their bodies and the gentle whisper of her breath.

The light was so dim that at first Robb could see little more than the faintest outline of her figure, dark shadows shifting in the narrow space. Gretchen's lips brushed against his neck, a tender warmth that sent a shiver down his spine as her fingers pulled his shirt up and then found the waistline of his breeches, tugging them down with a practiced ease.

Robb's own hands moved to the laces of her bodice, fingers working deftly to undo the ties that held her dress in place. The fabric parted under his touch, revealing the soft roundness beneath. His hands moved over her skin, finding the full, firm weight of her breasts, and she sighed, a sound that was almost a whisper, before reaching down and taking him in hand.

Shadows danced across the tent as Robb's lips pressed against the firm, rounded peaks of Gretchen's breasts. Her body arched in response, a soft, almost imperceptible shudder running through her. She guided him gently back, her touch both commanding and tender.

Gretchen's head dipped low, her movements fluid and purposeful, her cascade of golden hair falling like a veil around them, soft and shadowy in the gloom. The strands brushed against Robb's stomach, a tantalizing touch that heightened his senses.

As her head lowered further, the heat of her breath was followed by the delicate, teasing stroke of her tongue. It traced a slow, deliberate path along his length, each flick and caress of her tongue a promise, a gentle yet intense reminder of the raw, primal need they were both fulfilling in the dark confines of the tent.

Robb lost himself in the sensations, his mind a blur of pleasure and anticipation, the dim surroundings narrowing to a singular focus. The press of her warmth, the sweet tension of the moment, and the soft rustle of fabric against skin were all that remained in the enveloping darkness.

His fingers tangled in the golden strands of her hair, gripping tightly as Gretchen's lips enveloped him. Her head moved rhythmically; a steady bobbing motion that drove him closer to the edge. The tent's oppressive darkness seemed to press in tighter, the only sensations that mattered were the warm, moist pressure of her mouth and the teasing dance of her tongue.

Each motion was deliberate and skilled, her tongue tracing intricate patterns, working the head with a practiced precision that made his breath come in sharp, ragged gasps. The world outside, with its distant sounds of camp life and the encroaching threat of the Greenskins, faded into a mere murmur as he was consumed by the intense pleasure she was giving him.

"Gretchen!" he gasped, the sound of his voice a raw whisper lost in the confines of the tent. The sheer intensity of the moment surged through him, every nerve in his body attuned to the exquisite torment of her ministrations. His head fell back, everything forgotten in the haze of sensation. Her movements, her touch, all combined into a singular force of nature that overwhelmed his senses, pulling him inexorably towards the edge of his control.

Over the edge he went, surrendering to the rising tide within him. His hips bucked involuntarily, driven by a primal instinct that left him breathless. Gretchen's grip tightened as she held him in place, her movements unrelenting, each one sending waves of pleasure crashing through him. In that moment, there was only the heat of her mouth, the deftness of her tongue, and the raw, aching need that had taken hold of him. His body moved of its own accord, muscles tensing, every fiber of his being coiling tighter as he spilled his seed. Each thrust sending a jolt through him, he was a man lost in the storm, carried away by the surge that she had so skillfully conjured. He called out her name once more, but it was a breathless whisper, swallowed by the darkness that now seemed to close in around them, sealing them off from the rest of the world.

In the aftermath, as his body slowly relaxed, he could still feel the ghost of her touch lingering on his skin, a reminder of the moment when he had let go, completely and utterly.

As Robb's senses slowly returned, the dim outlines of the tent began to reassert themselves in the periphery of his awareness. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat and desire, and he could faintly hear the rustle of clothing in the darkness, of Gretchen shifting beside him, the soft fabric of her dress sliding against her skin.

He felt the warmth of her body as she nestled against him, her bare flesh pressing against his own. Her breath was hot against his neck, the soft rise and fall of her chest matching the slowing rhythm of his own breathing. For a moment, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of them, cocooned in the intimacy of the moment.

"Did you like that, my lord?" she murmured, her voice low and teasing, a note of satisfaction woven through her words. She nuzzled closer, her lips grazing his skin, leaving a trail of warmth that sent a shiver down his spine.

Robb swallowed, his thoughts still hazy, struggling to find words in the aftermath of the storm she had stirred within him. There was a fleeting pang of guilt, a reminder of Merida and the responsibilities that waited outside this tent, of the men who had fallen under his command, and the battles yet to come. But here, in the darkness, those burdens felt far off, almost unreal.

"Aye," he replied, his voice rough, the single word carrying with it a complexity of emotions he could not yet untangle. His hand moved almost of its own accord, fingers tracing the line of her back, feeling the slight tremor in her body as she relaxed into his touch.

Gretchen smiled against his neck, a small, contented sound escaping her lips. "Good," she whispered, her tone playful yet sincere, as if she took pride in the pleasure she had given him.

For a moment longer, they lay there in the stillness, the world beyond the tent held at bay. But Robb knew that the moment would not last, that soon he would have to rise, don his armor, and step back into the role that duty demanded of him.

But it was not yet time to return to the world outside. His hand moved of its own accord, sweeping over the curve of her flank and down to the warmth between her thighs. The short curls of her hair were soft against his fingertips. He felt her stir, her breath hitching as his fingers found the hot, slick folds beneath. The tension in her body told him she was waiting, anticipating, her need mirroring his own. His touch was deliberate as he sought out that firm, sensitive spot, the small bud that drew a sharp gasp from her lips when he brushed against it.

Gretchen's hips shifted, instinctively pressing her mound against his hand, her desire made plain in the way she moved, the soft whimper that escaped her. There was a power in this, in the way she responded to his touch, a power that thrilled him. Here, in the darkness, they were equals in their need, both seeking and giving in turn.

He watched her face, what little he could see of it in the gloom, as her pleasure grew under his ministrations. Her eyes fluttered closed, her lips parting in a silent plea, her body arching into him. Robb could feel the pulse of her heartbeat in the tight heat of her core, a rhythm that matched the quickening pace of his own.

And for that moment, nothing else mattered, not the war waiting for him at the break of dawn or the girl back at Dunbroch castle, nor the blood that had been shed or the lives lost under his command. Here, there was only the two of them, lost in the intimacy of touch, the rest of the world forgotten in the shadowed quiet of the night.

Robb shifted, his desire driving him to explore further. He grasped Gretchen's legs, gently pushing them back, opening her to him in a way that made her breath catch. He could see the flicker of surprise in her eyes, the slight parting of her lips as she registered his intent.

"You don't have to..." she began, her voice breathy, uncertain.

"I want to," he replied, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

He lowered himself, his mouth replacing the hand that had so recently been the source of her pleasure. The warmth of her folds, the taste of her on his lips, it was a heady mix that sent a shudder through him as much as it did her. Gretchen shifted beneath him, her body tensing with the unexpected sensation, her fingers threading through his hair in a mixture of surprise and need.

He moved with purpose, his tongue tracing the contours of her desire, finding that pearl hidden within her folds and polished it with care. The effect was immediate, a shudder ran through her, her back arching off the thin bedroll as she gasped, the sound a mix of surprise and pleasure.

Robb felt the warmth of that moment deep in his bones, the way she responded to him, the way she trembled under his touch, and he knew he had found something beyond the simple comfort of her arms. It was a connection, fleeting as it might be, in the midst of a world filled with uncertainty and death. Here, now, in this stolen moment, they were both something more than what the world had made of them

Gretchen's body tensed; every muscle taut as a bowstring as he worked her closer to the edge. She flexed against him, her back arching in a perfect curve, a cry of pleasure escaping her lips as she shattered beneath his touch. Her fingers dug into the bedding, clutching it as though it were the only thing keeping her anchored in a world that had suddenly become a whirl of sensation.

Robb held her through it, his grip firm yet gentle, guiding her through the waves of ecstasy that left her trembling in his arms. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart, the way her breath came in short, ragged bursts as the intensity of the moment began to fade.

But he was not finished.

With a smooth motion, he flipped her over, her body pliant under his hands. She gasped, the sound a mix of surprise and anticipation, as he positioned her on her stomach, her legs parting instinctively to accommodate him. The shift in position brought a new surge of desire, one that left him aching with need.

Gretchen glanced over her shoulder, her hair a shadowy golden tangle against the rough fabric of the bedroll. Her eyes met his, the green depths sparkling with the remnants of passion in the darkness. Filled with a readiness, a trust that sent a thrill through him.

Gretchen's breath hitched as Robb guided her down, her face pressed into the bedding, her bottom raised in a submissive arch. The position was instinctive, primal, the kind of stance that demanded surrender and trust. Robb moved forward, his hands gripping her hips with a possessive urgency that sent a shiver through her spine.

There was no room for gentleness now, no pretense of tenderness. The need was too great, too immediate. He thrust into her, rough and insistent, the force of his movements driving her forward with each stroke. Gretchen's hands clawed at the bedroll, her gasps turning into muffled cries as she gave herself over to the raw, unrelenting rhythm he set.

Robb was lost to the heat of the moment, his thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm. All that mattered was the here and now, the sensation of their bodies colliding, the way she tightened around him with every thrust. He moved with a desperation that bordered on feral, each movement more urgent than the last.

Gretchen responded in kind, pushing back against him, her own need as fierce as his. The roughness of their coupling only heightened the intensity, turning the act into something more than just a release, it became a battle of wills, even as they both surrendered to the inevitable.

When the end came, it was like a breaking wave, crashing over them with a force that left them both breathless and trembling, frothy white foam filling her up. The end left their bodies spent and sated, though the warmth between them remained, lingering in the air like the scent of smoke after a fire.

Robb lingered against her, their breaths mingling in the afterglow, his body draped over hers. "That was wonderful," he murmured, his voice still rough from the intensity of their coupling.

Gretchen's fingers traced idle patterns along his arm, her voice soft with satisfaction. "Yes," she replied, her words laced with contentment.

Reality began to seep back into his mind, the weight of responsibility settling once more on his shoulders. "But I must return to my tent," Robb said, reluctantly pushing himself up, "we march at first light."

She sighed, a sound of disappointment escaping her lips as she helped him dress, her hands deftly tying the laces and smoothing the fabric. When it came to his armor, Robb stepped outside the tent, passing the heavy pieces to the waiting guards who stood sentinel in the night.

Before leaving, Robb turned back to her, a sudden impulse moving him to lean down and press a kiss to her lips. He placed a gold crown in her hand, watching as her eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected amount.

"Thank you," he said, his voice sincere, tinged with a contentment he had not felt in quite some time.

Gretchen stared at the gold coin, her fingers curling around it as if it were something precious and rare. "Thank you," she echoed, still dazed, clearly unused to such generosity.

Robb walked back to his tent, the cold night air clearing his head. The encounter left him satisfied and thoughtful, the memory of it stirring something new within him. 'So, it wasn't just Esmerelda,' he mused, a realization settling over him. 'All women can feel like that.'

As he prepared for sleep, the tent now dark and quiet, his thoughts drifted to Merida. He wondered how she would respond to his touch, how different it might feel to hold her, to explore the uncharted territory that lay between them. It was a thought both tantalizing and terrifying, and it followed him into his dreams, mingling with the shadows of the battles yet to come.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 16-19th, 2522

They set out as the first rays of dawn crept over the jagged peaks, the cold mountain air biting at their faces. The soldiers broke their fast on the move, tearing into coarse bread, hard cheese, and strips of dried meat as they tramped forward. The road was well made but unforgiving, the stones beneath their feet slick with an early autumn frost, but they marched with grim determination, the weight of their purpose pressing them onward.

For three days, they drove themselves to the brink, marching from the first sliver of light in the morning until the darkness of night made further progress impossible. There were no songs, no idle chatter, only the relentless sound of boots on stone and the muted clatter of wagon wheels, horseshoes, armor and weapons. The air was thin and sharp, their breath misting before them in the cool of the morning and evening.

On the fourth day, as they pressed on through the chill silence of the early morning, a distant rumble reached their ears, faint but unmistakable. The deep, rhythmic thud of cannon fire echoed through the mountains, carried on the wind like the growl of some distant beast.

Robb's heart quickened at the sound, and he turned to Phoebus, who rode beside him, his face etched with the same grim resolve that had carried them this far.

"We've made excellent time," the Bretonnian knight said, his voice tight with anticipation. "We have but fifteen or sixteen miles left. We shall reach them before nightfall."

Robb nodded, his eyes narrowing as he gazed toward the distant horizon, where the sounds of battle whispered of the struggle ahead. There would be no respite, no rest, until they stood before the gates of Karak Kadrin, until they faced the enemy that awaited them in the shadow of the mountains. The march had been hard, but the hardest part was yet to come.

As they marched and the distant roar of cannons grew ever louder, Robb broke the silence with a question that had been gnawing at him. "How skilled was the journeyman you spoke of?"

Sir Phoebus glanced at him; his face shadowed by the rising sun. "He did not match the legends of Balthasar Gelt, but he seemed formidable in his own right. He wielded the Lore of Metal with a deft hand, though not with the mastery that the Patriarch is said to possess. But then, who could? The damsels of Bretonnia do not use such magic, so I have little to compare it with."

"The damsels…" Robb mused, his thoughts drifting to the tales he had heard from Loremaster Luwin. "They command the Lore of Beasts and Life, and their prophetesses are said to also know the Lore of Heavens. Yet the Magisters of the Empire's colleges can only master one lore. How is that?"

Phoebus gave him a sidelong look, a hint of surprise in his eyes. "You are strangely well informed for an outsider, Lord Stark. But you are right. The damsels draw their power from the Lady of the Lake, who blesses and teaches them. The elves of Athel Loren are formidable, their magic wild and ancient, and Teclis of Ulthuan is said to be the greatest mage of our age, but even he cannot match the Lady. Her power and teachings are beyond the ability of elves and men to replicate. Why do you dwell on such things, my lord?"

Robb nodded, though his mind was far from the Lady of the Lake. "My brother Bran and my sister Arya," he began, his voice heavy with the weight of unspoken fears, "they are on their way to the colleges as we speak. My father escorts them. That is why I am here, and he is not."

Phoebus's gaze softened. "Worry not, my lord. Your presence here was meant to be. The Lady has a hand in all things, even in this."

But Robb's thoughts were far from the Bretonnian knight's reassurances. He wondered if his siblings had already arrived in Altdorf. It was certainly possible if the winds and currents had favored them.

He thought of Bran's sharp mind and Arya's fierce spirit, thrust into a world of sorcery and danger, and he could not shake the sense that he should be there with them, guiding them, protecting them. Instead, he was here, marching toward a battle that would surely test him in ways he could hardly imagine.

The cannons thundered again in the distance, a grim reminder of the war that awaited them. Robb squared his shoulders and marched on, the weight of his duty pressing heavily upon him.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows as Robb's army finally emerged from the narrow pass, their footsteps echoing against the towering cliffs. The pass widened into a broader valley a mile across and three or four miles long, and there before them lay the gruesome tableau of war. Greenskin corpses by the tens of thousands carpeted the back half of the valley, yet Grimgor Ironhide's horde still swarmed like a plague of locusts, blackening the landscape as they streamed across a massive, ancient bridge of dwarf-cut stone.

The bridge spanned a chasm so deep and dark it seemed bottomless, as though the earth itself had been split by some ancient and terrible god. On the far side, the colossal gates of Karak Kadrin stood defiant, embedded in the sheer face of the mountain before a shallow plateau, their stone faces carved with ancient runes that pulsed with a bright, angry light.

But even those mighty gates, forged by the finest Dwarf smiths and stonemasons in ages long past, seemed to tremble under the onslaught of Grimgor's forces. The Greenskins swarmed the bridge, their crude banners snapping in the wind, their guttural war cries echoing off the cliffs. Orcs fell by the dozens, cut down by cannonballs that tore through their ranks, sending bodies and limbs flying. But for every orc that fell, two more seemed to take its place, driven forward by some mad, bloodthirsty fury.

As Robb and his men watched from the ridgeline at the valley entrance, a great burning orb of green fire manifested above the horde, its surface swirling with malevolent energy. The ball took the shape of a monstrous face, tusked and wicked, its eyes burning with hate. With a roar that shook the mountains, the fiery orb hurtled toward the gatehouse, exploding against the ancient stone with a blast of green flame. The force of the impact sent a shockwave through the valley, and even from over a mile away, Robb could feel the ground tremble beneath his feet.

The gatehouse shuddered under the assault, its stonework cracked and blackened, but it held… for now. Robb's heart sank as he saw the damage. The Dwarfs of Karak Kadrin were known for their resilience, their stubborn refusal to yield even in the face of overwhelming odds. But their walls could not endure much more of this punishment. The shamanic sorcery of Grimgor's warlocks was unlike anything he had seen before, a raw, primal force that defied all logic and reason.

Sir Phoebus rode up beside him, his face grim. "They will not hold much longer, my lord. If we are to break this siege, it must be now."

Robb nodded; the weight of the decision heavy on his shoulders. "Signal the men. We attack at once."
The time for marching had passed. Now there was only the fight.

Robb stood tall in the saddle; his eyes fixed on the chaos below. Grimgor's army was a seething mass of orcs and goblins, a vast, green tide that threatened to engulf the ancient stronghold. The Black Orcs, Grimgor's elite, moved with a grim purpose, their ranks disciplined and unyielding. But the rest of the horde, the common orcs and goblins, were a different breed altogether, driven more by bloodlust than any sense of order... and for the most part they were separated from Grimgor and his best by the chasm, waiting for space to free up, by way of spilt blood or by victory, so that they could cross the bridge to the narrow plateau before the gates.

"Grimgor may have whipped his Black Orcs into shape," Robb said, his voice strong, carrying authority, "but the rest of that rabble? They're as wild and reckless as any Greenskin."

Sir Manderly and the other officers gathered around him, their faces tense with anticipation. Robb's gaze swept over them, calculating, assessing. The plan was audacious, but if it worked, they could shatter the orcish horde and break the siege.

"We'll send in the pistoliers and the Gryphon Legion," Robb continued, his voice growing firmer. "They'll perform the caracole on a grand scale. Five thousand horsemen, each armed with a brace of pistols. They'll ride close, fire their volleys, then wheel away before the orcs can react. It'll be like a storm of lead, and those green-skinned brutes won't know what hit them."

Colonel Lubovasyn nodded; his face set in a determined grimace. The Gryphon Legion of Kislev were legendary for their discipline and skill, and the pistoliers, too, were veterans of many battles. Robb could trust them to execute the maneuver with precision.

"The orc line will break," Robb said, his eyes narrowing as he envisioned the chaos to come. "They'll rage forward in a reckless charge, just as they always do when their blood is up. Once they're out of position, our horsemen will pull back, drawing them in further. Then they'll join with our men-at-arms under your command, Sir Manderly, and hit them with one great charge."

Manderly grunted in agreement, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Aye, my lord. We'll crush them before they even know what's happening."

"The infantry will follow close behind us," Robb added, "and the artillery will open up as soon as the bulk of their force is within range. We'll hammer them with everything we have, give them no quarter."

The officers murmured their assent, and Robb could see the resolve in their eyes. This was a bold gamble, but one that could turn the tide of the battle in their favor. They had no choice but to seize the initiative, to strike hard and fast before the orcs could breach the gates of Karak Kadrin.

"Let's give them a fight they'll remember," Robb said, a fierce light in his eyes. "For Ostermark and the Empire! For Ulric and Sigmer! For the Old World! We ride to victory!"

And with that, he spurred his horse forward, the battle plans set in motion, the fate of the day resting on the edge of a blade.

Robb rode at the head of his column, the air thick with tension as he followed the pistoliers into the fray. Sir Phoebus kept pace beside him, and just behind them, Sir Manderly's regiment of heavy horse rumbled forward, their hooves pounding against the hard-packed earth. The roar of dwarfish cannon fire was a constant reminder of the stakes, but here, in the valley, it was the Greenskins who held their focus.

The plan was unfolding just as they'd hoped. The pistoliers and Kislevite Gryphon Legion moved ahead of them at a canter, wheeling in perfect unison to parallel the Greenskin horde. The orcs, caught in their mindless surge towards the gates of the Slayer Keep, struggled to pivot and face the sudden threat on their flank.

Then came the sound that signaled the beginning of the battle, thousands of pistols blasting in rapid succession. The pistoliers rode by in disciplined ranks, each man firing his shots with deadly precision. The effect was devastating: a rolling thunder of lead that tore through the Greenskin ranks. First five thousand shots, then ten thousand, and the orcs, already furious, reached the boiling point.

Robb's keen eyes assessed the damage. Fifteen hundred, perhaps two thousand of the brutes lay dead, with thousands more wounded, howling in rage. It was enough. The bloodlust surged through the Greenskin ranks, and with a fearsome, guttural cry that echoed through the valley, "Waaagh!", a massive section of Grimgor's army broke off and charged at their tormentors.

The cavalry knew their part well. The pistoliers and Kislevites turned their mounts and began a measured retreat, drawing the orcs away from the gates, luring them on with just enough speed to stay ahead, but not so fast as to lose them. The Greenskins took the bait, their ranks stretching out, turning the disciplined horde into a disorderly mob.

It was the moment Robb had been waiting for. As the enemy pursued, leaving themselves vulnerable, the Gryphon Legion wheeled back into position, forming up on the right of Manderly's knights. The pistoliers took their place to the right of the Kislevites, the line of cavalry stretching wide across the valley floor.

Robb felt the presence of Ice in his hand, the ancient runesword humming with latent power, light as an arming sword despite its size. He raised his right arm, holding the sword aloft, the signal unmistakable. Nearly six thousand, five hundred lances snapped down as one, the gleaming tips aimed squarely at the onrushing Greenskins.

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then Robb brought his arm down, the blade of Ice pointing forward, and the whole line surged ahead in a thunderous charge.

Steel met flesh with a sickening crunch as the heavy cavalry plowed into the Greenskin horde at full gallop, the momentum of their charge unstoppable. The cries of the dying mixed with the clash of steel and the screams of horses as Robb and his men carved a path through the heart of the enemy, driving deep into their ranks.

The battle was joined in earnest, and there would be no turning back.

The Greenskins, spread out and disorganized, were no match for the onslaught that bore down upon them. The chaos of their charge, driven more by rage than strategy, had left them in a hopeless tangle. They were scattered, separated, and out of any semblance of formation, a gift to Robb's forces. Even the lightly armored pistoliers, in their half-plate and armed with light lances, found little resistance as they drove their weapons into the brutes. Orcs that might have shrugged off lesser assaults crumpled under the disciplined fury of their attack.

But it was the sight of the Kislevite winged lancers and the imperial knights around him that stole Robb's breath away. Clad in three-quarter and full plate, the heavy cavalry thundered into the Greenskin ranks with a force that was as awe-inspiring as it was terrifying. The lances of the heavy horsemen pierced through the orcs' thick, muscled bodies as though they were made of parchment, while their warhorses trampled over the fallen, crushing bones and flesh beneath iron-shod hooves.

Robb rode at the forefront, Ice in hand, the runesword cleaving through orcish flesh and steel alike with frightening ease. The sword, forged in the ancient fires of the dwarfs, did not require the invocation of its runes to prove its lethality. Orcs fell before its edge like wheat before the scythe, their brutish weapons splintering and shattering against its keen blade.

The slaughter was merciless. Thousands of orcs and goblins were cut down, their blood staining the ground. Those at the rear, who had been slow to join the reckless charge, tried to rally, bunching up into a desperate, ragged line. But the cavalry, well-drilled and disciplined, withdrew in perfect order, not allowing themselves to be bogged down. They pulled back, leaving the orcs disoriented and exposed.

As the knights and lancers fell back, the infantry advanced to take their place. Rows of pikes and halberds bristled in the late afternoon light, a wall of steel ready to meet the orcs' disarrayed charges. Behind them, the handgunners began their work, firing volley after volley into the Greenskin ranks with grim precision. The crack of gunfire echoed across the valley, each shot finding its mark in the mass of orcish bodies.

Then came the artillery, their guns unleashed with devastating effect. Solid shot ripped through the Greenskin line, tearing great holes in their ranks, sending orcs flying in bloody arcs. The roar of the cannons was a sound that carried for miles, a harbinger of death that the orcs had no answer for. The orcs' advance faltered, and for the first time, Robb saw hesitation in their ranks.

The Greenskin horde on this side of the chasm was in rough shape, their numbers dwindling, their morale shattered. And still, the guns thundered, the infantry held firm, and Robb's forces pressed the advantage. Victory was within their grasp, and Robb knew that today would be the day they turned the tide against Grimgor and his savage host.

The light cavalry, having spent their first barrage, swiftly reloaded their pistols, their fingers moving with the practiced ease of veterans. Nearby, the imperial heavy horse and the Kislevite lancers busied themselves with replacing broken lances, their eyes never leaving the battlefield, awaiting the signal to charge once more. They were prepared, their numbers ready to reinforce the line or strike deep into the enemy ranks, whichever the battle might demand.

Robb's gaze swept over the field, narrowing as he caught sight of Grimgor Ironhide, the monstrous orc warlord. The brute towered over his kin, a hulking behemoth clad in jagged armor, each piece scarred and battered from countless battles. He was a full ten feet tall, big as an Oger Tyrant and far more muscled, and where he strode, orcs scrambled to clear a path. But the bridge was choked with Greenskins, and even Grimgor found himself slowed by the press of bodies. Yet, Robb knew it was only a matter of time before the warlord forced his way through.

They couldn't wait for that.

"If Grimgor reaches this side of the bridge," Sir Manderly muttered, his voice grim, "it'll be a slaughter. The men can't stand against him."

Robb nodded, his mind racing. They needed to end this quickly, to strike the killing blow before Grimgor could rally his forces. He turned to his officers, his voice firm and clear. "Pull back the infantry on the far right, where they're anchored against the valley wall. Create a gap."

His words hung in the air, the officers exchanging glances, understanding dawning in their eyes. Robb's plan was audacious, but it was their best chance. "Once the gap is open," Robb continued, "we'll punch through with the heavy horse. Break their line and turn hard into their flank. If we can catch them off guard, we can roll them up before Grimgor ever reaches us."

Phoebus nodded, his expression one of approval. "A bold move, my lord. It could be the turning point."

"It has to be," Robb replied. He cast one last look at the distant figure of Grimgor, then raised his blade, signaling for the maneuver to begin. Horns blew, the call echoing through the valley. The infantry on the right began to pull back in an orderly fashion, creating a narrow gap at the end of their line.

The Greenskins, seeing the movement, roared in anticipation, surging forward to exploit what they thought was a retreat. But they were rushing into a trap. As the orcs raced in, the cavalry was already moving, the imperial knights and Kislevite lancers forming up, their lances lowered, their mounts snorting and pawing at the ground, eager for the charge.

"Hold steady," Robb commanded, watching the Greenskins stumble into the gap, disorganized and chaotic. Then, with a fierce cry, he brought Ice down, the runesword gleaming in the dimming light. "Charge!"

The cavalry surged forward, a wave of steel and flesh that crashed into the orcish horde with devastating force. The orcs, once more caught by surprise, faltered as the knights and lancers tore into their ranks, lances skewering bodies, hooves trampling those who fell. The gap widened, and as the cavalry punched through, they wheeled to their left, driving into the orcish flank with a relentless fury.

The Greenskin line began to crumble, the orcs struggling to hold their ground against the ferocious assault. Robb could see the panic spreading through their ranks, the disciplined knights carving through them with practiced ease.

The tide of battle was turning rapidly, and Robb was certain that they would win this day.

The pistoliers surged forward, following the heavy cavalry into the gap, their sabers slashing down with precision, while others drew pistols, firing point-blank into the snarling faces of orcs. Blood sprayed, and green-skinned brutes crumpled under the merciless assault. The combined might of the knights and light cavalry throwing the orc left into further disarray.

Then it was as if a great hinge had swung; the infantry that had pulled back perpendicular to the rest of the line to allow the cavalry passage, now snapped back into place with a disciplined efficiency, swinging even further to follow up the horsemen and roll up the collapsing flank. The maneuver was a masterstroke, a testament to the rigid training and iron discipline of the Stark state troops. Most forces would have shattered under the pressure of the initial pull back, but these men were as hard as the steel they wielded.

The Greenskins, however, were anything but disciplined. The base orcs and goblins that comprised the bulk of Grimgor's horde had already been baited out of position twice. First by the caracole, then the feigned retreat, both times their bloodlust leading them into a trap. Now Robb's cavalry rolled up their flank, their line collapsed like a crumbling wall. The left flank of Grimgor's army buckled completely under the pressure, unable to withstand the combined onslaught of knights and men-at-arms followed on by light cavalry and imperial infantry.

Robb's artillery rained hellfire on the orcs at the bridge's entrance, each cannon shot tearing through flesh and bone, sowing chaos and death among those trying desperately to form a defense. The Greenskins' right flank was now in tatters, and their left was shattered. Victory was well within reach.

But then, from the chaos, a new threat emerged. Hobgoblin wolf riders, fierce and swift, plunged into the fray, their leader at the forefront. There were too few of them to truly turn the tide, only four hundred, but they fought with the ferocity of ten times their number. Their leader was a sight to behold, a monstrous figure clad in a dire wolf pelt, bronze-scaled armor gleaming beneath the blood-red sky. His spiked helmet was topped with a wolf's tail, and he bore a round shield, painted white and decorated with three savage red slashes. In his hand, he held a scimitar, its blade dark and eerie, as if forged in the fires of some hellish forge.

"Hiiyaaarrghh!" Oghla Khan howled, his voice a shriek that cut through the din of battle. "Gonna kill you, boy, and give your head to Grimgor!" He spurred his mount, a snarling wolf with eyes as mad as its master's, and slashed at Robb with the wicked curve of his blade.

Robb met the blow with Ice, the runesword singing as it clashed against the scimitar. For the first time, Ice did not cut through or shatter the enemy's weapon. Oghla Khan's blade held, its dark magic resisting the runic power of the dwarf-forged star steel. But Robb was undeterred. As the scimitar swept past, Robb twisted in the saddle, bringing Ice back around in a deadly arc.

"Fire!" he shouted, the ancient dwarfen word rolling off his tongue with the authority of a king. It was one of only two dwarfen words that he knew, but it was more than enough. A burst of flame leaped from the sword's edge, enveloping the greasy Hobgoblin and his great wolf. The beast shrieked in agony, bucking wildly as its fur ignited. Oghla Khan screamed as his armor turned red-hot against his skin. The wolf, maddened by pain, threw its rider, who landed with a sickening crunch on the blood-soaked ground.

Robb didn't hesitate. He drove his spurs into his horse's flanks, surging forward as the dying Khan tried to rise. With one swift stroke, Robb brought Ice down, the runesword cleaving through flesh and bone, lopping off Oghla Khan's head. The Hobgoblin's body slumped, lifeless, and Robb wheeled his mount around, the head of the Khan still tumbling through the air.

Storm howled beside Robb, the dire wolf's victory cry echoing across the battlefield. The hobgoblins faltered, their grotesque faces twisting in fear as they watched their leader's head tumble to the ground. Panic spread like wildfire, and the remaining wolf riders turned to flee, their wails of terror igniting the rout. The Greenskin left crumbled further, and Robb's forces surged forward, driving the shattered remnants into center of their line.

Robb's army had nearly encircled the enemy, pressing relentlessly into their center. But as they advanced, the resistance stiffened. Robb could see the cause; the towering figure had finally crossed the bridge. Grimgor Ironhide, the warlord himself, had arrived. A wedge of black orcs, hulking and brutal, followed in his wake, forming a bulwark around their leader. Grimgor's roar cut through the chaos, a guttural sound filled with raw rage.

"Useless gits and gobbos," Grimgor spat, his voice a disgusting growl. His red eyes blazed with fury as he took in the carnage. "I ain't never not won before, but I still ain't been beat. I'll be back with some 'ard boyz. More Black orcs an' big uns than you eva seen. I'm gonna crack open dis stuntie Keep and den I'm com'n for da humies with da Wolf banna."

With that, the great warboss began a fighting retreat, his massive axe cleaving through any knight foolish enough to challenge him. Gunshots rang out, but Grimgor shrugged them off as if they were mere insect bites. Blood sprayed as he hacked his way through the lines, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.

He only paused as Sir Pheobus appeared before him, cleaving through black orcs as if they were not but spindly forest goblins. The shinning knight exchanged a dozen blows with the beast, fast as the wind and hard hitting as a cannonball. One even managed to land a small cut to the monster's arm, but the brute caught the Bretonnian knight on the backswing with his great axe, literally lifting the knight off his horse and throwing him yards through the air. Where it not for the warm golden light that flashed with the impact of the weapon, Robb would have been sure the knight had been killed instantly. Even with the aid of the Lady though, Robb thought a betting men would be wise to put their money on dead rather than alive.

It was then that the gates of Karak Kadrin opened with a groan of creaking stone, and the Slayer King's throng poured out, a tide of dwarfen fury. They crashed into the Greenskins, driving those who remained on the other side of the bridge into the chasm below. The firing from the great gate finally ceased as their throng joined the fray, their axes gleaming in the late afternoon light.

Robb's men pressed Grimgor's retreating force, but these were no mere rabble. The Black orcs were the toughest, most disciplined Greenskins Robb had ever faced. They fought with a grim determination, each one willing to die fighting rather than break ranks and flee. They died, but they took a heavy toll, and their resistance slowed the Stark advance to a crawl.

Eventually, Robb gave the order to pull back, his forces too exhausted to continue the chase. He watched as Grimgor and his surviving warriors, less than fifteen thousand of the forty-five thousand that had stood against him, disappeared into the distance retreating in good order. The victory was theirs, but it was not complete. Grimgor had escaped, and Robb knew the warlord would return with a vengeance.

"A glorious victory, manling," came a gruff voice behind him. Robb turned to see a dwarf approaching, a magnificent cloak of dragon skin hanging from his burly shoulders, bare chest crisscrossed with scars. He wore a splendid horned helmet, bearing a crown of gold and a bright orange crest standing tall.

"A shame we couldn't finish the beast off," Ungrim continued, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the retreating Greenskins. "But not bad at all for your first command. You're the young Stark, I take it."

Robb inclined his head, the exhaustion of battle weighing heavily on his shoulders. "I am."

Ungrim grunted, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You've done well, lad. I don't give praise lightly, but you earned it today. Grimgor may have escaped, but you've broken his back. It'll be some time before he returns to trouble us again."

Robb nodded, but his thoughts were already on the future. Grimgor was beaten but not broken. And when the warlord returned, it would be with a vengeance. The victory tasted of ash in his mouth, knowing that the real fight was yet to come.

Chapter Text

Robb rode alongside the Slayer King, his horses' hooves crunching over the blood-soaked earth as they made their way back toward the great stone bridge. The carnage of battle lay scattered around them, orcish corpses, shattered weapons, and the torn banners of the fallen. It was a grim procession, but Robb's thoughts were elsewhere, drawn to a golden statue of an orc shaman that glinted dully in the fading light. It's hideous face twisted in a horrified grimace, as if it had realized what was about to happen, but couldn't stop it.

"What happened here?" Robb asked, nodding toward the statue. "The wizard I heard of from Sir Phoebus, was he the one who struck down the shaman?"

Ungrim Ironfist grumbled, his thick brows knitting together. "Aye, the shaman revealed his hand when he summoned the Evil Sun. That's when Ludger Scherler, a journeyman of the Gold Order, struck him down. Smote him good, he did. Not the first one he killed either, he slew several shamans during the course of the siege."

"Fortunate timing," Robb remarked. "Had the shaman turned his magic on us, the battle could have taken a darker turn."

The Slayer King's face darkened, his expression troubled. "Aye," he muttered, though there was no joy in his tone.

Robb frowned, sensing the dwarf's discontent. "Is something amiss? Have I, or Scherler, said something to offend?"

Ironfist shook his head. "No, lad. It's not you. The journeyman did us a great service today, as did you. Rewarding a human lord is simple enough, you already carry a runesword, so a cuirass of gromril and your weight in gold would be a fitting gift."

Robb inhaled sharply at the mention of gromril, the rare and near-mythical star metal coveted by kings and emperors alike. Even the promise of a single piece of armor crafted from it was a treasure beyond price.

"But a wizard…" the Slayer King continued; his voice heavy with reluctance. "A wizard's desires are another matter. Like all of his kind in the Gold Order, he sniffs about, searching for the secrets of gromril and runecraft. No matter what service he has rendered, I cannot…will not, share those with him."

Robb understood at once. No people would willingly give up the secrets of their most prized crafts, just as the elves of Ulthuan would never part with the knowledge of their enchantments. But an idea formed in his mind, sparked by a connection he'd only just realized.

"Karak Kadrin is an ancient hold, is it not?" Robb asked, his voice thoughtful.

The Slayer King nodded; his curiosity piqued. "Aye, young Stark. It was founded millennia ago during our Golden Age. Why do you ask?"

"Then it existed during your great war with the Elves of Ulthuan," Robb pressed. "I wonder, do you still keep trophies from those days? Enchanted arms of silvery Ithilmar that a wizard of the Gold Order might like to study?"

Ungrim Ironfist paused, rocking back on his heels, his orange beard quivering as he stroked it in thought. "That we do, lad… that we do. But those relics belong to our ancestors."

"Honoring your ancestors is crucial," Robb agreed, knowing well how to navigate the pride of dwarfs. "But so too is rewarding those who ensure that future generations will exist by their actions. Surely, among those relics, there are some minor prizes, taken from elves of lesser worth, that your ancestors wouldn't mind being used to reward such gallantry. After all, if Scherler manages to replicate Ithilmar or even a minor enchantment, imagine how the elves will feel."

The Slayer King's stern face slowly split into a broad grin, the idea clearly appealing to him. "Aye, lad," he rumbled, the mirth returning to his eyes. "Aye, I think you may be right. The elves will squirm when they see their own tricks used against them."

Robb nodded, satisfied. He had secured both a reward for the wizard and, perhaps, a lasting advantage over their enemies. The Slayer King clapped him on the hip, a gesture that nearly unseated him from his horse.

"You've a cunning mind, young Stark," Ungrim declared. "We dwarfs could use more of your kind."

Robb flushed with pride at the Slayer King's praise, but the feeling was short-lived as he noticed Sir Manderly riding up to him, his face grim beneath his helm. The battle was won, but the cost… Robb braced himself for the news.

"How does the army fare?" Robb asked, his voice steady despite the dread gnawing at his stomach.

"Considering how hard and long we marched before facing an enemy that outnumbered us two to one, I'd say we fared better than most could hope," Sir Manderly replied, though the satisfaction in his tone couldn't mask the underlying sorrow.

"And our losses?" Robb pressed, fearing the answer.

Sir Manderly's expression hardened. "More than one in five, less than one in four," he said. "A bit more than half of those were killed outright, the rest are wounded. The priests and doctors are working tirelessly to save as many as they can."

Robb's heart sank. He did the rough count in his head, his stomach twisting. 'Good gods,' he thought, horror creeping in. Roughly five thousand men, dead or wounded…'

King Ironfist's voice broke through his thoughts, as solid and unyielding as the mountains his people called home. "We have our own dead and wounded to tend to," the dwarf said, his voice as gruff as ever. "But the healers' guild has beds to spare, even after this last sally. We will take as many of your wounded as we can accommodate."

Robb turned to the Slayer King; his gratitude tempered by the weight of his losses. "You have our thanks, King Ironfist," he said solemnly. "The skill of dwarf surgeons is known the world over."

"I'll have them sent over straight away," Sir Manderly said. "It may please you to know that Sir Phoebus will be among them, somehow alive, though it seems every rib he has is broken."

That was a surprise, Robb would have thought no man could survive such a blow. But though it did please him to hear it, it hardly lifted the overall mood.

The Slayer King nodded, "excellent news," he said but his eyes, like Robb's, were shadowed. The victory had been hard-won and it had come at a steep price. The men who lay dying on the field, the comrades they would bury by morning's light, these were the costs of glory, the tolls of war that no amount of praise or gold could ever repay.

As the wounded were carried away and the dead laid out for the rites, Robb felt the weight of command settle more heavily on his shoulders. The cheers of victory echoed hollowly in his ears. He had won the day, but at what cost? The faces of the fallen, men he had trained with, laughed with, marched alongside, would haunt him long after the battlefield was cleared.

He could only hope that the Gods saw fit to grant him the strength to bear it.

"Come with me, young Stark," King Ironfist said, his voice a gruff rumble that echoed across the battlefield. "Let me receive you with all due honors in the great hall."

"Aye, your majesty," Robb replied, the weight of the day heavy on his shoulders. "Sir Manderly, see to the men. Ensure they're organized and ready to repulse any attack. And do your best to transfer the excess wounded to the hold, as King Ironfist has kindly offered."

The older knight saluted; his face lined with the toll of command. "Yes, my lord," he said, saluting before turning to fulfill his duties.

Robb dismounted his horse and fell in step beside the Slayer King, their pace slow and measured, constrained by the dwarf's short, steady gait. The battlefield stretched out before them, a grim testament to the bloody work of the day. Robb's eyes were drawn to where his infantry lay dead, their bodies forming small heaps before far greater mounds of Greenskin corpses.

Scenes from the battle flashed before his eyes, vivid and haunting. He saw the great mobs of orcs and goblins hurling themselves against the disciplined ranks of his men, their brutish strength pitted against the cold steel of pikes and halberds. Greenskins impaled themselves on the sharp points, their bodies twitching as they were skewered or cut down by the blades. Muscled orcs, relentless in their fury, forcing themselves over the dying bodies of their fellows, trying to shove aside the polearms and squeeze between the ranks, only to be stabbed or hacked down by the next row of weapons. Goblins spryer and shorter, trying to sneak underneath those stabbing points, only to be pinned to the ground like the bugs they were.

It was a grim dance, played out over and over, the brutality of it numbing. Robb could see it all as if it were happening again. The blood spraying through the air, the bright red of his men mingling with the dark almost black red blood of orcs and goblins. The screams of the wounded and dying, the clash of steel on steel and the thunder of the guns, the raw, primal roar of battle.

The air was thick with the stench of death, a foul mixture of sweat, blood, shit and burnt flesh. The ground beneath their feet was slick with the lifeblood of thousands, turning the earth into a muddy quagmire. The Slayer King trudged on beside him, his face set in a stony mask of endurance, but Robb could see the weight of the day in his eyes as well. They were both commanders, both men who had led their soldiers into the maw of death and emerged on the other side, but at what price?

As they approached the great stone bridge leading to the hold, Robb glanced back one last time at the battlefield, at the bodies of the men who had fought and died under his command. He felt a pang of guilt, a gnawing sense of responsibility. These men had followed him into battle, trusted him with their lives, and now they lay dead because of it. He had won the day, but the victory tasted bitter on his tongue.

"War is a cruel master," King Ironfist muttered in anger, almost as if reading his thoughts. He stared out over the field, almost vibrating with pure dwarfen hatred as he glared at the corpses of the orcs who had desecrated his bridge. "It crowns us with honor and glory, but the oil that anoints us is made of blood and pain," he said, conflicted as only a Slayer who was also a King could be.

Robb nodded; his throat tight. "Aye, your majesty. But it is our lot, as lords and kings, to bear that burden. To lead, to command, to send men to their deaths, and to live with the consequences."

The Slayer King grunted in agreement, his gaze hardening as they neared the entrance to Karak Kadrin. "Aye, that it is. And may our ancestors grant us the strength to carry that burden, and to do what must be done."

Robb's voice was low, weighted with the wisdom of hard-won experience. "It is a burden," he said, his eyes fixed on the path ahead, "but what else can we do when the monsters come knocking at the door? Men, dwarves, even some elves can be reasoned with. But Greenskins, Beastmen, the Undead, and the forces of the Ruinous Powers... there is so much in this world that we must fight to survive. We can offer no quarter, for none will be given in return, and what lies in store for the survivors is a fate worse than death."

The Slayer King walked beside him, his steps heavy and deliberate, yet there was a gravity in his presence that spoke of ancient strength and unyielding resolve. He nodded solemnly, his voice deep as the roots of the mountains. "That is why, however cruel war may be, we must wage it. To refuse is to embrace despair, to dishonor ourselves, our ancestors, and our people. We fight not for conquest, nor for riches, but for the simple, steadfast cause of survival. And in that fight, there is always great honor and glory."

The two continued their journey across the battlefield, their words hanging in the air like the mist that clung to the earth after a long and terrible storm. The wind whispered through the mountains, carrying with it the faint echoes of battles long past. The sun, sinking low over the horizon and reflecting off the smoke and dust of the battlefield, cast a reddish light over the land, as if in tribute to the courage and sacrifice of those who had fallen.

Robb glanced at the Slayer King, seeing in him the embodiment of a spirit that had endured through ages of strife, unbroken and unbowed. There was a kinship between them, born not of blood, but of shared purpose and the mutual respect of warriors who understood the price of peace.

"We fight for the light," Robb said softly, almost to himself, "for the hope that our children may one day live in a world free of such darkness."

The Slayer King's eyes, sharp and clear as the finest steel, turned to meet Robb's gaze. "Aye," he said, his voice a rumble like distant thunder. "And so long as we stand, the darkness will not prevail. For in the hearts of men and dwarfs alike, there burns a flame that no shadow can extinguish."

As they crossed the great stone bridge leading to the hold, Robb felt a renewed sense of determination. The world was vast and full of perils, but it was also full of wonders, and it was worth fighting for, with every ounce of strength they possessed.

Together, they entered the colossal gates of Karak Kadrin, leaving the blood-soaked battlefield behind, but carrying with them the memory of those who had fallen. They would be remembered, and their sacrifice would not be in vain. For the struggle against the darkness was eternal, and in that struggle, there was always hope.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 7th, 2522

As Sir Jurgen departed to see to the billeting of Stark's men, Ned turned his gaze to the sizable silver bell hanging from the wall, its presence unmistakable even in the ornate surroundings. He reached for it and rang it with purpose, the sound resonating through the chamber.

It wasn't long before a sharp knock came at the door, followed by the entrance of two senior servants. A man and a woman stepped into the room, both in their middle years and bearing the calm, practiced efficiency of those who had served within the Imperial household for decades. Their manner was unflappable, as though they had seen all manner of lords and ladies pass through these halls.

"You called, Lord Stark?" The man's voice was measured, deferential.

"Yes," Ned replied, his tone steady. "The sun's already past its peak, and we're in need of a quick meal that we can take here. Afterward, we'll require directions, and if possible, a guide to the Imperial College of Engineers. It's our first time in Altdorf, and I'd rather not risk losing our way. They say the streets have a mind of their own."

"That's only in the Wizard's Quarter, my lord," the man reassured him. "But it's true, Altdorf is vast, and its streets can be confusing, even to those who've lived here all their lives. We'll see that a guide is provided for you."

"And the food? Do you have any requests? Does the wolf need to be fed?" The woman inquired, her gaze briefly flickering to Frost, who lay at Jon's feet, his eyes alert.

"No preferences on my end," Ned said, glancing at the wolf and his son. "But yes, the wolf will need to be fed."

"A sandwich," Jon said after a moment's thought. "Roast beef with thick cheese."

The woman nodded, taking the request in stride. "Of course, my lord. The wolf will be fed some fresh meat. Anything else?"

Ned shook his head. "That'll do."

The man bowed and the woman curtsied, and the two servants left as swiftly as they had come, their footsteps fading into the distance. As the door closed, Ned turned his attention back to Jon, the silence between them filled with unspoken thoughts.

Altdorf was a strange place to him, a haphazard mélange of tangled, crowded streets and monumental architecture, very different from the orderly streets of Winter Town that he was used to. This palace, this room… it was beyond opulent. One could hardly call Winterfell understated, nor Bechafen castle with which he was well familiar, but in comparison they seemed rather spartan. But he was here for a purpose, and the city's unfamiliarity would not deter him.

Jon, though he outwardly seemed at ease, had a tension in his shoulders that Ned recognized all too well, the weight of expectation, the burden of carrying on in a land that was not their own. Frost let out a low, contented growl as Jon scratched behind his ears, and for a moment, the room felt a little less foreign. But only for a moment.

Jon's voice cut through the quiet, laced with worry. "Do you think Arya and Bran are alright?"

Ned looked at his son, seeing the concern etched on his young face. "I'm sure they are," he replied with a calm he didn't quite feel. "Magister Solmann will take good care of them. Let them get settled, Jon. We'll visit them in the morning and hear all about today's adventure."

Jon nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. The weight of worry was still there, but it had lightened, if only a little.

As they waited for their meal, Sir Jurgen returned, his expression composed. "Your men have been billeted in the barracks, my lord, save for the four guards at the door and those still escorting your children."

Ned offered a nod of thanks. "Good. Make sure they're well taken care of."

Jurgen bowed and left as quietly as he'd come. Moments later, a pair of maids entered, each balancing trays laden with food.

"Lunch, my lords," one said, setting a tray on the table and unveiling an array of sandwiches that looked far more appetizing than their simple fare suggested. "Your guide awaits outside, whenever you're ready."

The other maid placed a second tray on the floor, this one bearing a haunch of raw pork. Frost's eyes gleamed, and with a low growl of satisfaction, he tore into the meat. The maid stepped back quickly, her nervousness clear.

The sandwiches were simple but satisfying, with thin sliced roast beef, half melted orange cheese, sauteed onions and mushrooms set between the halves of a bun with a flaky golden crust. Ned found himself eating with more appetite than he'd expected, dipping the ends in one of the two small pots of spicy mustard that had been provided.

Jon seemed to share the sentiment, finishing his food with a quiet efficiency that mirrored his father's.

When they were done, they found a man waiting for them outside the chamber. His armor gleamed in the light of the hallway, a member of the Reiksguard clad in shining plate. The man bowed low. "Lord Stark, Sir Harald Keitel of the Reiksguard, at your service."

Ned raised an eyebrow, surprised. "I didn't expect so prestigious a guide."

"You are a guest of the Emperor," Sir Keitel replied smoothly, "and I am a native of this city. With a member of the Reiksguard by your side, none will dare bother you."

Ned considered that, glancing back at Jon and the four greatswords who flanked the two of them, Frost padding along quietly at Jon's heel. He doubted there were many in the city willing to challenge two armed nobles accompanied by such an entourage. However, in a place like Altdorf, where power was more often whispered than shouted, a member of the Reiksguard accompanying them was not just protection, it was a statement.

"Very well," Ned said simply. "Let's head out."

As they walked, Jon glanced at his father, curiosity in his eyes. "Why are we going to visit the Imperial College of Engineers?"

Sir Keitel answered before Ned could, his voice filled with a soldier's practicality. "Lord Stark intends to buy guns in bulk, does he not?"

Ned nodded, his expression unreadable. "I do."

Sir Keitel continued as they moved down a gilded hall, the grandeur of the palace a world away from the simpler walls of Winterfell that Ned was used to. Starks had always preferred fine stone and wood carvings, chased in silver to the gaudiness of gold and polished mirrors.

"Then the Imperial College of Engineers is where you need to go." Sir Keitel confirmed. "It's subsidized by the Emperor himself, and they sell handguns and cannons across the Empire in numbers that only the Imperial Gunnery School of Nuln can match."

Ned listened, his thoughts turning inward. The world was changing, and with it, the weapons of war. As a faithful follower of Ulric he had never cared much for guns, preferring steel and honor to powder and shot. But he had never won a battle with swords alone and that would not change in the future. The College of Engineers awaited, and with it, the tools he needed to prepare for the battles yet to come.

Jon's brow furrowed in confusion. "But hasn't House Stark always supported the Imperial Gunnery School in Nuln?"

Ned's gaze was steady and he spoke with a patient, parental tone. "Not always. Long before our time, centuries ago, the Starks were patrons of the Imperial College of Engineers here in Altdorf. But when Mangus the Pious reunited the realm and made Nuln his capital, our ancestor Edric Stark shifted our support to the Gunnery School to curry favor with the new Emperor."

Jon's eyes widened, a flicker of scandal crossing his face. "I had no idea."

Ned gave a nod, acknowledging his son's surprise. "Their work was on par with the College here, so the connection continued to this day. But now, being in Altdorf, I see an opportunity. Shifting our patronage back to the College of Engineers could be advantageous. The Emperor will no doubt view it favorably, and I suspect the College here will be eager to offer us a good deal to lure us away from their competitors. Plus, it's a good four hundred miles shorter for shipping, which could save us a considerable sum."

Jon looked at his father with new respect, the depth of Ned's political maneuvering evident in his words. It was a side of him Jon hadn't fully appreciated before. Robb, with his courtly education, would have grasped such subtleties without surprise, but Jon had always focused fully on martial training, preparing for a knightly order. It struck Ned as fitting, that in a few short months Jon would be sworn to the Knights of the White Wolf, fulfilling that noble ideal.

The weight of the family's legacy seemed to press on Ned's shoulders as they walked, a reminder of the shifting currents of power and the importance of maintaining favor with those who wielded it.

Sir Keitel procured a carriage from the Imperial stables, a shiny affair, lacquered black and bearing the coat of arms of the Reiksguard emblazoned on the door. He turned to address Ned, Jon, and the four greatswords who would accompany them, their presence a steel-clad assurance in this bustling city.

"Before we set out, a word of caution," Sir Keitel began, his voice steady and low. "We must cross into the East End of the city."

Ned's brow furrowed. "The quarter between the confluence of the Reik and the Talabec?"

"Indeed," the knight affirmed with a nod. "The East End is a rough place, rife with the dregs of society. Though this carriage should shield us from the worst of it, I'll ride up alongside the driver to ensure we're untroubled. Even so, I'd advise you to remain vigilant until we reach the more respectable neighborhoods near the college."

Ned nodded, his gaze steely. He had no intention of letting his guard down in a city as vast and unpredictable as Altdorf.

The carriage lurched into motion, jostling them through city streets teeming with the afternoon crowd. It took almost an hour to traverse the city, and the confined space, with Jon and the four guards packed inside and Frost stretched out on the floor, was less than comfortable. Despite the discomfort, the journey offered many glimpses of the city's varied character.

They passed by the stunning Grand Cathedral of Sigmar with its magnificent dome, resplendent stained-glass windows and jaw-dropping spires, each towering hundreds of feet into the sky. The highest of them, the famed Tower of Living Saints. Not long after that they passed the Temple of Rhya, its majestic standing stones and rustic abbey a testament to the city's ancient piety. The carriage then crossed a colossal bridge, spanning more than a mile and built with the same immaculate white stone as the city walls. Ned had no doubt that the dwarfs of the city had had a hand in its construction.

As they continued, the carriage wove through a curious blend of neighborhoods. Dilapidated human slums stretched on for blocks only to be followed by well-maintained dwarf quarters that did the same, a stark contrast that spoke of Altdorf's layered history.

Finally, they arrived at the Imperial College of Engineers, the campus set among a more well to do human neighborhood filled with prosperous shops and craftsmen near the eastern wall.

The college itself was an imposing collection of solid stone buildings, their facades practical and only lightly adorned. Inside, one would find classrooms, manufactories, and well-equipped laboratories. Adjacent to the college sprawled an expansive complex of firing ranges, bunkers for explosive tests, and large open areas designed to test the tools of war. The sight was a stark reminder of the city's industrial might and the intricate web of politics and power that the college was entangled in.

They were ushered with haste into the dimly lit office of Grand Master Volker Von Meinkopt, a man of considerable girth and reputation. His face, lined with age and soot, bore the marks of a life dedicated to the craft of war. Once merely the head designer of firearms, Von Meinkopt had ascended to the head of the Imperial College of Engineers after his predecessor met a fiery end in an experiment gone awry.

The engineer's office was a cluttered labyrinth of metal and muskets, filled with the pungent tang of gunpowder and the acrid scent of sweat that clung to the walls like a shroud of grim resolve. Papers lay strewn about in disarray, as if the very essence of warfare had been distilled into the room's atmosphere.

"Welcome, Lord Stark! Welcome!" Von Meinkopt exclaimed, his voice a booming echo within the stone walls. He grasped Ned's hand with surprising strength, then turned to Jon with the same enthusiasm. "Have you come to purchase a battery of Helblaster Volley Cannons or perhaps a battery of Helstorm Rockets?"

Ned shook his head, a diplomatic smile playing on his lips. "The Helblasters, while formidable, are still somewhat… temperamental," he replied carefully, mindful that these weapons were of Von Meinkopt's own designs. "The rockets hold potential, but my needs are more straightforward, if substantial."

Von Meinkopt's eyes glimmered with interest, sensing a lucrative deal. "Ah, simpler needs often make for swifter business. What is it you require, my lord?"

"When I campaigned with the Emperor in Kislev," Ned began, recalling the bitter cold and the blood-soaked fields, "I noticed his handgunners were all armed with wheellock muskets. Their performance left an impression."

"As it should," Von Meinkopt interjected eagerly. "Wheellocks are more reliable in the rain and there's no glow of the match to give away your position in the dark. Best of all, they can be used with paper cartridges, a significant advantage over the older matchlocks which cannot do so. A lit flame around paper cartridges packed with gunpowder is far too dangerous, that's why such handgunners use powder horns. A matchlock handgunner, relying on loose powder and a burning match, might manage two shots a minute if he's quite skilled. But with a wheellock and cartridges, three shots a minute is within reach of any well-trained man. A game-changer in battle."

Ned nodded, the memory of Kislev's frozen battlefields vivid in his mind. "Indeed. I command a sizable force, with seventy-five hundred handgunners in my main field army. Then there are the city and castle garrisons, not to mention the inevitable losses on campaign." He paused, calculating. "Ten thousand muskets should suffice for an initial order. It's not an unreasonable number, is it?"

Von Meinkopt's eyes widened, the sheer scale of the order taking him aback. "No, my lord," he managed, his tone a mix of excitement and calculation. "Once we sign the contract, the college can produce two thousand within the first month. Another two thousand the month after, and three thousand for each of the following two months. Ten thousand wheellock muskets in four months. All for only twenty thousand gold marks."

Ned's gaze didn't waver as he leaned in slightly, his voice firm. "Understand, Grand Master, that this is no small matter. I am transferring my House's patronage from the Gunnery School in Nuln, after over two centuries of loyalty. For that price, I expect you to arrange the shipping to Winter Town."

Von Meinkopt's face stiffened, as if he had just bitten into something sour, but he nodded all the same.

Eddard Stark leaned forward, powerful hand gripping the armrest of his chair, his sharp gaze unwavering. "Of course, there are other matters that require your attention if you wish to retain my favor," he said, his voice carrying the weight of command and authority.

The Grand Master shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the creaking of leather and wood accompanying his every movement.

"I have gunsmiths at Winterfell attending to the maintenance of the wheellock pistols used by my light cavalry and the matchlock muskets of my handgunners," Eddard continued, his tone grave. "Yet, their numbers will fall short once we transition fully to wheellocks. They're more complex and require more maintenance. You will need to send some journeymen to assist with the upkeep."

Von Meinkopt's expression betrayed a flicker of concern before he masked it with a diplomatic nod. "The need for additional gunsmiths is always anticipated with such substantial orders," he replied cautiously. "Rest assured, we will provide the necessary personnel."

Eddard's eyes narrowed. He could almost taste the subtext of the Grand Master's assurances, a veiled promise that the numbers sent would be carefully measured to prevent the development of any challenge to the monopoly of their trade.

"I will also require introductions to the alchemists or whatever guild is responsible for producing paper cartridges," he stated. "No lord responsible for an army in the field can afford to be at the mercy of outside suppliers for his munitions. I will need their aid in setting up a manufactory in Winter Town."

Von Meinkopt's brows knitted together as he considered the request. "That would be the Alchemist's Guild," he confirmed, his voice taking on a scholarly edge. "They are not wizards of the Gold Order of course, but merely adept craftsmen and mundane scholars. Do not worry, they will accede to your request. Imperial law requires them to do so. The Emperor well understood how important such a supply issue was and forced the law through once he realized how superior wheellock muskets were. That was… hmmm, close to ten years back now." He rambled on.

Eddard's gaze remained fixed, as unyielding as the walls of Winterfell. "And the powder itself, how will a fifty percent increase in the rate of fire impact our supply needs?"

The Grand Master shifted, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips. "Paper cartridges offer greater efficiency," he explained. "Loose powder is prone to wastage. You may need roughly a third more powder than previously required."

Eddard's frown deepened. "The transition will not be immediate, then?"

Von Meinkopt's nod was slow and deliberate. "The Alchemists guild here in Altdorf possesses advanced techniques that may enhance your production. However, depending on your circumstances and the changes that need to be made, this transition could range from a few months to several years. A shortage may well occur during the interim."

Ned Stark's lips twisted into a grimace, his disappointment obvious. "In that case, I will have to procure powder from the Dwarfs of Karak Kadrin, as my ancestors have sometimes done in days long past," he said, his tone carrying the weight of ancient deals and oaths. "Thankfully, it hasn't been necessary since the early years of my grandfather's reign."

The Grand Master's eyes widened in disbelief, his brows shooting up in surprise. "The Dwarfs of the Slayer Keep are willing to trade their gunpowder? Truly? It has ever been my experience that the dwarfs guard their secrets as fiercely as their treasure."

A proud smile flickered across Ned's face. "The Starks have fought alongside the dwarfs of Karak Kadrin since the days of Sigmar Heldenhammer. My son may very well find himself shoulder to shoulder with them within the month. They do not sell to just anyone, but even if they did, the College of Engineers and the Alchemists would find themselves sorely disappointed."

Von Meinkopt's face twisted in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Ned's smile deepened, a glint of amusement in his eyes at the engineer's naivete. "From what I've gathered from my grandfather's old records, the powder they provided was of a lesser grade, crafted by their apprentices or simply not meeting the high standards they set for themselves. It's still superior to our finest, of course, but only marginally so. Far from the peak of Dwarfen craftsmanship."

The Grand Master's face fell into a look of resigned understanding. "Ah, I see," he murmured, the disappointment evident in his voice. He paused, then looked up. "Is there anything else you require?"

Ned shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Draft up a contract. I will return on the morrow, in the afternoon with the gold. Ensure a representative from the Alchemist Guild is present to discuss my proposal for a manufactory in Winter Town."

Von Meinkopt nodded with a hint of relief and stretched out his soot-streaked hand. "It will be my pleasure," he said.

Ned Stark took the proffered hand, his grip firm and unflinching, undeterred by the grime that marked the Grand Master's fingers. Some courtiers of the Imperial palace might have recoiled, but Ned was a man of action, unafraid to get his hands dirty if it meant securing what was necessary for his people.

Chapter Text

Though the matters at hand had been grave, they had passed with a swiftness that seemed almost jarring. Lord Stark had departed the Imperial Palace an hour past noon, the weight of his meeting with the Emperor still settling on his shoulders.

He had then endured the oppressive confines of a carriage, crawling through the squalid streets of the East Side. An hour-long journey brought him to the College of Engineers, where perhaps only half an hour had been consumed in bartering and discussion.

Emerging from the headquarters of the College, he found himself once more about to enter the city's grimy underbelly.

"That went surprisingly well," Jon remarked, his young dire wolf Frost bounding into the carriage alongside him as their guards took their places.

"Indeed," Eddard replied with a measured tone. "With an order for ten thousand handguns on the table, the Grand Master had little choice but to be accommodating. Otherwise, I would have taken my business back to the Gunnery School of Nuln."

As the carriage lurched forward once more, its progress hindered by the congested roads, it left behind the modest affluence of the College's surroundings, plunging into the ramshackle expanse of the East Side slums. The carriage came to a halt amidst the cluttered, decrepit streets, ensnared in a brief snarl of traffic.

Eddard's gaze fell upon a commotion to the right. A young woman, her face painted with fear, was being dragged off by a gang of rough-looking men. His voice cut through the din with a commanding edge. "Stop them."

The two guards at his right side sprang into action, leaping out of the carriage with alacrity, their greatswords gleaming ominously, as did their cuirasses and helmets. Eddard followed with purposeful strides, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Jon, his own sword at the ready, scrambled after him, with Frost leaping down beside them, white fur bristling and red eyes glinting with menace. Two more greatswords piled out after him.

"Let the woman go," Eddard ordered, his voice firm and unyielding. Sir Kietel, a knight of the Reiksguard, dismounted from his perch beside the driver, his imposing armored presence adding weight to Eddard's command. "You'd be wise to heed Lord Stark," Sir Kietel intoned, his tone brooking no argument.

The thugs, momentarily stunned by the unexpected intervention, stared with a mix of surprise and unease. Even the young woman, her rich brown hair falling about her face, appeared taken aback. "She... broke my vase," one of the ruffians stammered, his words lacking conviction, gesturing his head at a shattered white pot. "A Cathayan work of art it was. She owes recompense."

Eddard's gaze hardened with disdain, his eyes rolling in open irritation. "That vase was no more Cathayan than I am," he declared, his tone leaving no room for dispute. "You'd best take up your grievance with the vendor who sold it to you and release the girl."

The crook, visibly deflated, released the woman with a muttered apology. "My mistake, my Lord."

"Get in the carriage," Eddard instructed the young woman gently, his demeanor softening. "We'll see you safely to where you need to go."

"Thank you, my Lord," the girl said, her voice a mere whisper as she climbed into the carriage.

"Bertram, there's no room for you now," Ned said to the greatsword, his tone edged with practicality. "Climb up on the roof and keep watch. I've no doubt those ruffians or their friends might try something bold if they think our backs are turned." His eyes lingered on the thugs, who were peering out from the shadows of a nearby alley, their faces twisted in a mixture of defiance and fear.

"As you command, my Lord," Bertram replied, wasting no time in clambering up to his new perch.

Ned entered the carriage, settling himself across from Jon and their unexpected guest. As the carriage jerked forward, weaving through the crowded streets, Ned took the opportunity to study the girl more closely.

Up close, she was stunningly beautiful, with hair the deep, rich color of chocolate imported from the Southlands. It was pulled back in a low ponytail, secured by a blue ribbon that had seen better days, its edges frayed and worn. Her dress, once a pristine white and blue, was now dulled and threadbare. Her captivating hazel eyes, wide and alert, flickered with unease, and her button nose and heart-shaped face gave her an alluring charm. She was as shapely as a Tilean hourglass, and Ned knew all too well what those gutter scum had in mind for her; if fate hadn't intervened, she'd be working a brothel by nightfall.

"Once more, my Lord, thank you," the girl said, her voice steadier now, though a trace of lingering fear remained. "I have no means to repay you for your kindness."

Oh, there were ways, and Ned was not so chaste as to be blind to them, but his thoughts were interrupted by the faint lilt in her voice, an accent that carried the musical cadence of Bretonnia.

"Think nothing of it," Ned said, offering a reassuring smile. "I couldn't stand by and watch those men get away with kidnapping you in broad daylight. What I want to know is your story. Who are you, and where do you hail from? You don't sound like you come from this city."

"My name is Belle," the girl said, her voice soft but tinged with a quiet strength.

"I come from a small village in western Reikland, near Axe Bite Pass," the girl explained, her voice carrying a wistful note that hinted at memories of home.

Ned's mind immediately conjured a map of the Empire, tracing the path through the Grey Mountains into Bretonnia. Axe Bite Pass was a strategic artery, a well-trodden route for traders, armies and those fleeing persecution, warranted or not.

"My father fled Bretonnia when he was young, seeking the freedoms the Empire offered that his homeland did not," she continued, her eyes distant as if seeing a place far removed from the dirty streets of Altdorf. "He settled in Villeneuve. As you might guess from the name, it's full of folk like him, people whose Bretonnian ancestors made the same choice. I suppose you can still hear it in my voice."

Ned nodded, the faint Bretonnian lilt now making sense. "You speak Bretonnian, then?"

"Oh yes," Belle said with a shy smile. "I can read it too, as well as I read Reikspiel or Classical."

Ned raised an eyebrow, taken aback by her admission. "That's a rare education for a girl wandering the East End alone."

She dipped her head, a shadow passing over her expression. "My father made a good life for us. He was a prosperous gentleman farmer with a passion for books and inventions."

A resourceful man, then, Ned mused. To rise from a refugee, fleeing his homeland with nothing but the clothes on his back, to a landholder with the leisure to indulge in learning and tinkering. It spoke to an uncommon will and skill. It also showed his good judgment in fleeing his homeland, such a feat was difficult enough in the Empire, but in Bretonnia it would have been impossible.

"The trouble began when a witch cursed the young baron who ruled over our lands," Belle said, her voice quivering with the weight of her memories. "He was a fair man, well-liked by those he ruled.
At first, it seemed as though nothing had come of the curse, and folk breathed easy. But on Witching Night, an ill wind blew, and a string of unbelievable misfortunes led him out beneath the wicked glow of Morrslieb. They say he was twisted by that baleful light into a horrific beast, ten feet tall, half minotaur, half dire wolf, and gods know what else mixed in. A nightmare given flesh."

Ned, Jon, and the guards fell silent, each of them aghast with stunned disbelief. Morrslieb's taint was the stuff of childhood fears, the kind of terror whispered to them by their granny in the darkest hours of night. All to ensure they would never dare treat the threat cavalierly.

"Thankfully, the beast was slain quickly," Belle continued, though her tone was anything but grateful. "A renowned hunter named Gaston did the deed." She spoke the name with a sharp disdain, her mouth twisting as if tasting something bitter. "With the baron dead and no heirs to speak of, the duke granted the barony to Gaston in reward."

"And what was wrong with that?" Jon asked, his brow furrowing. "Isn't that how it's supposed to be done? A lord rewards a hero."

"There are always other nobles with distant claims," Ned interjected, his voice seasoned with the wisdom of experience. "But a duke would prefer to grant lands to someone who will be beholden solely to him, rather than strengthen a distant cousin who might one day grow too bold. A hero's reward is a leash of another kind."

"Good for my village. Good for the duke. Good for Gaston," Belle echoed, her voice hollow. "Terrible for me. Gaston always had his eye on me, and now, as lord, he meant to have me whether I willed it or not."

"Papa and I fled to Altdorf that very night," she said, her gaze distant, haunted by the memories of her flight. "My father had contacts at the Imperial College of Engineers. They took him in, gave him work on steam engines. The scholars there spoke highly of him."

Ned considered the man. A refugee who had risen to become a gentleman farmer, a scholar who found employment among the greatest minds of Altdorf. It spoke of far more than idle tinkering; it shouted of genius, the kind that could flourish even in the harshest soil.

"But it was not to last," Belle murmured, her voice cracking. "A month after we arrived, he was killed. Not in one of those dreadful steam explosions as I'd always feared, but run down in the street by a wagon. The College paid me a fair price for his books and tools, but without his income, I had to move from the nice neighborhood adjacent to the college further into the East End to make the money stretch. Now it's nearly gone, and I was out looking for work… but the streets here are less forgiving than those back home."

Belle flushed, her eyes cast down as shame and sorrow warred on her face. The carriage trundled on, the sound of the wheels clattering over the cobblestones filling the heavy silence.

"You were just looking in the wrong places," Ned chided gently, his voice warm. "A girl of your station and education," and appearance, though he kept that thought to himself, "could easily find work in a noble's mansion in town. In fact, with my recommendation, I'm certain I can get you a position at the Imperial Palace." A plan was forming even as he spoke.

Belle's eyes widened in disbelief, her lips parting as if to speak but no words came for quite some time until she spluttered, "The Imperial Palace? Truly? I have no words."

"Think nothing of it, my dear," Ned said with a dismissive wave, as if arranging such a thing was no great feat. Then he paused and shifted his tone, adding, "Forgive me, but I must discuss some matters of state with my son and men. I trust you understand."

Belle nodded, though her mind seemed elsewhere, still wrapped in the fantasy of a life suddenly and inexplicably turned to fortune. "The palace," she murmured to herself, her gaze distant.

Ned turned to the greatsword on his left, his voice dropping to a low growl as he switched to Kisleverian. "Pyotr, you gossip-mongering hound, have you managed to confirm any of the whispers we heard on the river?"

Pyotr, the son of Kislevite émigrés who had become a valued source of news and rumor, scratched his chin thoughtfully before a flicker of understanding crossed his face. "Ah, yes. The Emperor's mistress of the last few years is no longer in favor. He sent her back to her father's manor upon returning from the recent Dwarf campaign. Seems she was embroiled in some kind of political plotting, using her influence against her family's enemies and such. The Emperor dealt with it swiftly."

"And the Empress?" Ned pressed, his eyes narrowing, searching for any hidden angles.

Maria-Luise von Walfen had been the Emperor's mistress in the first decade of his reign. However after his nephew and heir had been betrayed and assassinated by confidents who had been seduced by the Ruinous Powers, the Emperor had married her and legitimized his two children with her.

As she was of a distinguished noble line herself, there was not much grumbling by the Elector-Counts over this, waiting to see if his son Luitpold would succeed or fail. He was eighteen now and had recently earned his spurs with the Reiksguard and was said to have fought with honor in the recent campaign to aid the Karaz Ankor.

"Same as it has been for years," answered Pyotr. "They're close friends as they've ever been since childhood, but the physical spark in their marriage has long since turned to ash."

Ned nodded slowly, the cogs of his mind turning. "So, if an innocent, educated, and utterly beautiful young woman were to appear in his midst, one without troublesome ties or political entanglements, she'd be a welcome distraction."

Pyotr shrugged, noncommittal, while Jon's brow furrowed in curiosity. "What's the point of all this, Father?" he asked, his Kislevarin a little rougher than Robb's, but still quite good. "We've already earned his favor by warning him of the Beastmen and shifting our patronage to the College of Engineers. Why not pursue Belle yourself if she's such a prize?"

Ned shot his son a sharp look. "Those are matters of duty and state, Jon. He will be thankful, but at the same time, such actions are expected. This… this is much more personal. It matters in a way that transcends politics. A man's heart craves something more than victories and alliances." His voice softened, tinged with the weight of his own past, but Jon only nodded, still visibly unconvinced.

The ride back to the palace continued in a heavy silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. When they arrived, Ned summoned a servant, who fetched the senior maid, the same sharp-eyed woman who had appeared earlier when the bell had rung in Ned's quarters. He gave her a brisk rundown of Belle's circumstances, detailing her talents and the misfortunes that had brought her low.

The maid, a serious woman with a stern face and discerning eyes, listened with a practiced ear. She fired off a few rapid questions at Belle in alternating Reikspiel and Bretonnian. Satisfied by the girl's answers, she gave a curt nod. "She'll do. Though she'll have to be checked over by the priest in residence. It doesn't take long… unless he finds something."

Belle looked a bit alarmed at that, but it was normal procedure. Unless she'd gravely misrepresented herself, Eddard was sure she'd be fine.

"One more thing," Ned added, catching the maid's sleeve as she turned to go. "I believe the Emperor intends to take his supper in his study this evening. Why not send Belle up with it?"

The maid glanced back at Belle, her gaze sweeping over the girl's figure with a calculating eye. Then she looked at Ned, her expression as flat and knowing as an old cat's. "As you wish, my lord." And off she went, the girl by her side goggling at the richness on display everywhere around her.

Chapter Text

Arya and Bran stood by the docks, the morning sun casting long shadows over the bustling crowd. They watched their father march away, his silhouette shrinking until he was just another figure lost in the sea of Altdorf's chaos. The clamor of the city, the cries of the dockworkers, the creaking of ships, and the squawks of river gulls, faded into a dull roar as they focused on the disappearing forms of Lord Stark and Jon.

From the throng emerged Magister Solmann, his robes billowing like a dark blue cloud in the wind. He strode towards them with the self-assured gait of one who had long commanded both respect and fear. Beside him walked Beatriz's mother, her pretty face lined with worry, clutching a heavy pack that contained their meager belongings. The look on her face was one of quiet resignation; the same look Arya had seen in so many mothers in Ostermark who sent their sons off to war to stave off the darkness.

"It is time to embrace your destiny, children," Solmann declared, his voice a low rumble that seemed to still the noise around them. His oak brown eyes, ancient seeming and wise, swept over them, assessing and weighing. What exactly he was looking for, Arya did not know, but she met his gaze with a defiant lift of her chin, while Bran did his best to keep his expression steady. Beatriz mimicked their stoicism, though her eyes flickered with uncertainty.

Solmann's tone shifted from commanding to instructional, the voice of a man accustomed to navigating the labyrinthine corridors of scholarship and power. "This journey will be more complicated than most," he said, eyeing the children as though they were puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit. "Given the diversity of the paths you are to walk."

Arya folded her arms, impatient to hear what that meant.

"We will travel along the riverbank until we reach the next bridge," Solmann continued. "From there, we'll cross to the North Bank. Beatriz will be delivered to the Bright College first, then Arya to the Grey. Simple enough." His pause was deliberate, a slight narrowing of the eyes as he measured his words.

"But that's the easy part," Solmann went on, his gaze shifting to Bran. "The Amber College is another matter. They're not like the rest; they disdain the city and its trappings. They've made their home in the Amber Hills to the south, a fair distance from Altdorf's walls. We'll take a short boat ride up the river, but even so, it will take most of the day to get there and back."

He glanced at the veteran guardsmen accompanying them. They were a mix of greatswords, halberdiers and handgunners. Their fearsome weapons and dour expressions marking them as men used to the weight of duty. "I apologize for the inconvenience," Solmann said, offering a slight bow to Captain Weiss.

"It matters not," Captain Weiss replied, his voice as unyielding as his armor. "We'll march all day and night if we must."

Bran's face, usually bright with curiosity, now looked pinched and anxious. Arya saw the worry in her brother's eyes and felt a pang in her chest. She reached over, squeezing his shoulder with a firm grip. "It'll be alright," she said, her voice brimming with the same stubborn courage that had always gotten her into trouble back home.

Bran nodded, though the look he gave her was one of quiet fear. Arya held his gaze, her grey eyes fierce and unyielding, willing him to be brave. They were Starks, after all. Whatever lay ahead, no matter how far they were separated, they would face it as they always had, together in spirit if in nothing else. The pack survived, where the lone wolf died. No matter what stood in her way, she would come if he howled for her.

Their party marched away from the docks, their path winding along the riverbank. Fifty veteran soldiers in gleaming breastplates and livery bearing the snarling head of a dire wolf cut through the bustling crowd like a shark moving through a school of fish. The people of Altdorf, sensing the severity of their presence, quickly made way, eyes wide and murmurs trailing in their wake as they speculated about their identity. Arya watched the guards move with a mixture of admiration and impatience, itching to lead their march herself rather than merely walk surrounded by it.

They eventually came upon a flat, low bridge that spanned the river. Arya had seen bridges before, but this one seemed almost unnatural. It was a marvel of engineering, a hulking mass of iron and steam that looked like it belonged in one of Bran's tales. With a great hiss, strange engines began to churn, and the central span of the bridge lifted, allowing queued ships to pass beneath. Arya, Bran, and Beatriz watched in wide-eyed amazement, the steam enveloping them like a warm mist, while the bridge groaned and clattered as if it were alive.

When the span finally lowered, the way was clear for foot traffic and they moved on. Arya's eyes caught sight of a cluster of engineers, Dwarfen, human and even a halfling, tinkering with one of the mechanisms. The contraptions were as intricate as a spider's web, gears and levers interlocked in a baffling dance that made Arya's head spin just looking at it.

"Stay close," Solmann warned, his voice cutting through the steam and the noise. "We don't want to lose anyone. Keep your focus on me, and don't get distracted." His tone was sharp, the kind that brooked no argument.

Arya tightened her grip on Myrmidia's fur, the dire wolf's ears twitching in agitation as they stepped off the bridge. A strange sensation crept over Arya; her sense of direction turned slippery, like she was spinning in circles though she was sure her feet moved forward. The streets blurred at the edges of her vision, buildings wavering like heat rising from stone. For a moment, she faltered, her stride stuttering as if she might lose her way, but she pressed on, eyes fixed on Solmann's dark blue robes.

She wasn't the only one affected; the men around her moved as though in a dream, their armor clinking in disjointed rhythm. Even Myrmidia and Bran's dire wolf Winter seemed unsettled, their keen noses sniffing the air with unease. Arya's heart quickened, but she kept pace, walking steadily after the Magister and refusing to let the strangeness pull her under.

The streets finally gave way to a block of charred ruins, blackened buildings standing like tombstones against the sky. They were skeletal, half-devoured by fire, yet Arya couldn't tell if the flames had burned decades ago or mere moments past. The air shimmered with heat; she could feel it against her skin, could see the occasional ember glowing in the ash. Myrmidia wrinkled her nose, growling softly at the acrid scent of smoke and scorched wood.

Deeper into the ruins they ventured, smoldering wreckage pressing close on all sides, until the haze abruptly lifted, like stepping out of a dense fog. Before them stood a set of massive bronze gates, three times the height of a man and glowing as if they had just been pulled from a forge. It didn't just glow with heat. With her second sight Arya could see red lines and odd shapes infused in the gate, no doubt the magic of Aqshy bound within the metal. The air was thick with the smell of molten metal, burning coal, and something more sinister… charred flesh. Arya's stomach turned, but she held her ground, her eyes locked on the gates.

A cowled figure in an orange-red robe emerged from a small building beside the gates, a gatekeeper with a wary expression and the look of one who had seen much and trusted little. He bore runic red tattoos across the sides of his face and a set of mismatched keys clinked on his belt. "Who approaches the Bright College?" he demanded, his voice crackling like burning wood. The air shimmered, the red wind dancing around him.

Magister Solmann stepped forward, his presence commanding as ever, sparks of the blue wind running over him. "Magister Klaus Solmann of the Celestial Order," he declared, his voice steady and assured. "I bring Beatriz of Middenland, a hedge-witch marked by Aqshy and free of corruption. I witnessed her burn a Bray Shaman to ash with my own eyes."

The gatekeeper's gaze shifted to Beatriz, his scrutiny like a blade. The dark-haired girl stood still as she was able, thumbs running over her fingers constantly. Arya stood by her, feeling the weight of the moment. This was no mere door; this was the threshold to another world, and the older girl was about to cross it.

"And why does an applicant from the woods of Middenland arrive escorted by a company of guards fit for an Elector?" the gatekeeper asked, his gaze flicking from Solmann to the heavily armed guards.

"I bring three applicants to the colleges today," Magister Solmann replied with a hint of pride. "Arya of House Stark of Winterfell and her brother Brandon Stark, bound for the Grey College and the Amber College, respectively."

The gatekeeper's eyes turned to the Stark siblings, sizing them up. "A great and noble line from Ostermark, ancient and storied," he mused, his tone flat and unimpressed. "But do not think that matters here. In the colleges, you rise or fall by your own merit. Nobility means nothing once you pass these gates or those of any other college."

Arya squared her shoulders, refusing to let the man's dismissive words rattle her. "Are these gates supposed to be impressive?" she challenged; her voice sharp with defiance. "The gates of Winter Town are taller, four men high, not three."

The gatekeeper stiffened, a flash of offense passing over his face. "These gates are not mere timber and stone. The doors are solid bronze, not bronze plates over wood, and they are infused with the Red Wind, hot enough to sear you to the bone. Step too close girl, and you'll feel the bite of Aqshy's fire."

Arya raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Our gates bear powerful dwarfen runes, inlaid by a Runelord of Karak Kadrin centuries ago," she said, her voice dripping with matter-of-fact confidence. "No magic, no matter how dark or strong, has ever breached them. Not the magic of the twisted shamans of a Warherd, nor of the Greenskin warlocks of a Waaagh. Not even the magic wielded by the mad sorcerers of the Chaos Wastes has done so."

Bran looked nervously between Arya and the gatekeeper, whose face had gone as still as the bronze doors themselves. Myrmidia snarled softly at the man, sensing the rising tension in her mistress. For a moment, the gatekeeper seemed caught between fury and grudging respect, his lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line.

"Bold words," he said at last, his tone clipped. "But talk means little within these Orders. You'll soon learn that the fire of Aqshy burns away all pretense. Here, skill is all that matters. Step carefully, little wolf."

The gatekeeper's gaze shifted back to Beatriz, who had watched the exchange between Arya and the gatekeeper with wide, curious eyes. She tapped her foot rhythmically on the charred ground.

'Is it her arcane compulsion to move at work, or her nerves betraying her composure?' Arya wondered.

"Conjure a small flame in your hand, young applicant," the gatekeeper ordered, his tone one of imperious demand. "I wish to observe your control."

Beatriz stepped forward, raising her right hand. Arya could feel the wind shift as the red currents of Aqshy swirled around the girl's fingers, coalescing into a small, flickering ball of orange-yellow flame hovering above her open palm. She closed her hand, snuffing it out, only to open it again and summon tiny, dancing flames atop each fingertip. She waggled her fingers playfully, dismissing the fire with a flick of her wrist.

The gatekeeper watched with a stony expression. "Impressive control," he admitted, though his tone remained severe. "But you will need to dispense with the embellishments. Showmanship is for fools and charlatans. Do only what you are told, and no more, until you earn the rank of Journeyman."

Beatriz nodded, her face flushed with a mixture of pride and chastisement. Without another word, the gatekeeper turned and laid his hands on the great bronze doors. Arya watched as his fingers pressed against the red-hot surface, unaffected by the searing heat that radiated from them. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pushed the massive gates open, revealing a glimpse of the blazing courtyard beyond, where pillars of fire rose into the sky and molten metal flowed like a river before a great soot streaked red brick building that looked much more mundane, but no less ominous.

"Come, apprentice. Follow me," he commanded, his voice echoing like the crack of a forge hammer.

Beatriz turned to her mother, who had been watching with tear-brimmed eyes. She took the heavy pack from her hands, gave her a swift kiss on the cheek, and dashed off after the gatekeeper, disappearing into the fiery maw of the Bright College.

Arya watched her go, a strange mixture of admiration and unease stirring within her. The gates slammed shut behind them, and the air was suddenly cooler, emptier, as if the Red Wind itself had taken its leave with the girl from Middenland.

Chapter Text

"That was rather overly dramatic, don't you think?" came a voice from above, light and lilting with a hint of mischief. Arya spun around, her mouth falling open in shock. A girl her own age, or perhaps a year older, hung suspended in the air behind them, borne aloft on swirling currents of Azyr as delicate as silk but as powerful as a storm.

The guards cursed and moved swiftly to shield Arya, hands going to hilts, eyes and matchlock muskets darting upward.

"Tanya," Magister Solmann chided, his tone weary but not unkind, "don't startle guards who carry handguns. They're quick to fright and quicker to shoot."

"Of course, Magister, my apologies," the girl said, bowing mid-air with a flourish before descending gracefully to the charred ground. She was a touch taller than Arya, slim as a reed, with hair like spun gold, cut short and framed around her face. She had big cornflower blue eyes that seemed to sparkle with mischief and secrets untold.

"This is Tanya, a rather notable apprentice of the Celestial Order," Solmann introduced her, his eyes flickering with a mix of admiration and curiosity. "One I had not met until now, but there's no mistaking who she is. I've received quite a voluminous amount of correspondence from my colleagues about her."

"Is it because she can fly?" Bran asked, his voice filled with awe. "Can you fly too?"

"I can," Solmann replied, lifting a few inches off the ground before settling back down with what looked like practiced ease. "But it requires an immense amount of concentration. It's dangerous to try anything else while airborne. If distracted, startled or attacked mid-flight, one risks a deadly fall."

He eyed Tanya with a newfound wonder, his gaze sharp and appraising. "This girl, though… she floats as if it were second nature. My colleagues spoke of you with reverence, saying that if you had come to the college at age twenty instead of ten, they would have made you a Magister straight away, just as the Gold Order did with Balthasar Gelt. I admit, I thought it an exaggeration… until now."

"I've had ample time to practice," Tanya said, her tone cool and dismissive. "Two years of honing my skills, and yet here I am, not a Magister, not even a Journeyman."

Magister Solmann sighed, his voice carrying the weight of a conversation long worn thin, even though he'd only experienced it second hand. "If the High Celestial believed you'd content yourself with peering at stars and scribbling down theories and prophesies, she'd have promoted you long ago. But you've made it abundantly clear that you mean to join the army the moment you're allowed."

Tanya's eyes flashed, hard as sapphires. "And why shouldn't I do my part like everyone else? I won't hide away in some observatory while our comrades fight and spill their blood in the mud."

Arya blinked at the girl's fierceness, reminded of her older brothers and their headstrong ways. "I get it, but my brothers weren't allowed to march with my father until they were fourteen, and they'd been training with arms since they were seven."

"I've mastered more spells than most full Magisters," Tanya snapped, her pride prickling at the comparison.

"Being dangerous is not the same as being ready for danger," Solmann countered, a note of warning in his voice. "You're only twelve."

Arya could see the storm brewing in Tanya's blue eyes, dark and dangerous. Solmann must have sensed it too, for he swiftly changed tack. "But what are you doing outside our college grounds? No acolyte is allowed to leave without permission."

Tanya smirked, producing a neatly folded parchment with a flick of her wrist. "I have permission. Since I've learned nearly all they can teach me, I'm allowed to pursue my own studies. I was heading to Altdorf University. I've published articles there on the short comings of mercantile theory, the need for greater urban planning, and military theory with regards to logistics and fortifications."

Arya stared, half expecting the girl to be jesting, but there was no hint of mockery in her tone. Tanya spoke of these grand accomplishments as if they were no more remarkable than fetching water from a well, and somehow, Arya believed her.

"Anyways, it was nice to meet you," Tanya said, her tone turning brisk as if the meeting had run its course. "Always good to make connections with other girls, especially since we won't see much of each other, if we see each other at all, until we're both journeymen. We're outnumbered here, so we've got to look out for one another."

Arya frowned, not quite grasping the point. "What do you mean?"

Tanya tilted her head, a hint of impatience flickering in her eyes, as if Arya were slow to catch up. "Think about it. The Colleges recruit men and women equally from the Empire, Tilea, and Estalia… but our two largest neighbors are Bretonnia and Kislev."

Understanding dawned on Arya. "Women from those lands become Damsels of the Lady or Ice Witches, and the men aren't allowed to learn magic at all."

"Precisely," Tanya nodded, a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "So many of them come here, where they can learn freely. And because of that, out of every ten wizards in the Colleges, six are men and four are women."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Arya said, trying to downplay the disparity.

"It isn't terrible," Tanya agreed, "but it's something you should keep in mind. We're a rare sort in these halls." She glanced at the sky, noting the position of the sun. "Now, I've got to run. Don't want to be late." With a final nod, she lifted off the ground, currents of magic swirling around her feet as she soared off, a bright streak of blue to Arya's eyes against the morning sky.

"There's something… off about that girl," Magister Solmann mused, watching Tanya's retreating form with a mix of awe and unease.

"I mean no disrespect, Magister, but isn't that true of most wizards?" Captain Weiss said, his tone caught between humor and wariness.

"Yes, but Celestial wizards are usually peculiar in a particular way… eccentric, withdrawn, given to stargazing and prophecy. Tanya… she's different. Too driven, too focused. It's like there's a storm raging inside her." Solmann shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the unease. "Still, her magic's clean, pure as a mountain stream. No taint, no darkness. Just a sharpness of mind that cuts like a blade. I suppose there's exceptions in every group."

The Magister straightened his dark blue robes, casting off the strange tension that Tanya had left in her wake. "But enough of that. We've dallied long enough. Arya, we must get you to the Grey College. No more distractions."

With that, the procession resumed, the guards falling into step around them. As they marched, Arya found herself wondering what kind of place the Grey College would be, and whether she'd truly find her destiny waiting there for her. Was it a place she could make her own? Where she could finally succeed and become who she wanted to be?

They moved through the winding streets, every step a struggle to keep focused on Magister Solmann as the city twisted and turned around them. The path seemed far longer than it could possibly be, each block more confounding than the last, until they finally came upon a small, unassuming building of weathered stone. It was cloaked in moss, its façade cracked and sagging under the weight of years. It looked out of place, even in the Wizard's District, a forgotten corner on the edge of Altdorf, leading to mundane, narrow alleys packed with taverns reeking of stale ale, cheap inns where coin bought silence, and establishments where no decent folk would linger long.

Magister Solmann marched up to the weather-beaten door and knocked, his fist wrapped in the blue light of Azyr. The sound reverberated strangely, echoing far longer and louder than it should have, a trick of magic meant to announce his presence with authority. Arya felt a shiver run down her spine; there was something unnatural about it, something that made her feel small in the presence of these men who wielded such powers as easily as others wielded a blade.

As the echo faded, shadows pooled deeper around the building, darkening in a way that seemed almost alive. From those shadows emerged a man, stepping forward with the practiced grace of someone used to lurking in the dark. He wore fine grey clothes, draped with a rich green velvet cloak that looked expensive enough to mark him as a man of means, yet discreet enough to pass unnoticed when needed. A sharp-featured man in his early to mid-forties, his pointed beard and mustache gave him a rakish air, and his wide-brimmed hat, set at a jaunty angle, sported a grand griffin feather that caught the eye. A dueling sword hung at his hip, sleek and deadly, and a wheellock pistol was strapped on the other side, but it was not the weapons that marked him as dangerous.

Arya felt it immediately, the weight of Ulgu, the Grey Wind, clung to him like a shroud. It swirled in shades she'd never seen before, whispering secrets and half-truths, calling to her in a way that felt both inviting and menacing.

"What business does a Magister of the Celestial Order and a company of armed men have with the Grey Order?" the wizard asked, his voice smooth but edged with a hint of irritation, as though he had better things to do than deal with uninvited guests.

Solmann stepped forward, all bluster and show, waving a hand as if conducting an unseen orchestra. "I bring an applicant with a keen disposition towards the Shadows," he declared, as if presenting a prize at court. "Arya, of House Stark of Winterfell."

The Grey Wizard's gaze shifted to Arya, his eyes narrowing with interest. He studied her as one might appraise a blade at the smithy, testing for flaws, for weaknesses, but also for potential. "Intriguing... and perhaps useful, in time. Tell me, girl, have you channeled the winds before?"

Arya met his gaze without flinching. "No, I haven't," she replied, her voice steady, her wolfish pride shielding her from his scrutiny. "Magister Solmann instructed me to wait until I had a mentor. I know the dangers of magic… last year I snuck away from the castle to watch the execution of a witch in the town square. He'd done something he'd oughtn't and was riven by terrible mutations. Father's pyromancer burnt him to ash." She could still hear the screams. Smell the burnt, rotten flesh. She shook her head and went on, "but I can see the winds clearly, all of them. I've never touched them, but I can see Ulgu around you. You wear it like a cloak."

The wizard's lips curled into a thin smile, amused, perhaps impressed. "A cautious novice is a rare find," he mused. "And one who speaks plainly even rarer. You'll need that steel if you wish to walk the shadows, girl. Ulgu is not kind, nor does it forgive foolishness. But those who learn to bend it to their will… well, they can shape the world from behind the curtain." He looked at her, as if weighing some unspoken decision, then turned back to Solmann with a curt nod. "She may enter. But know this, Stark girl, the Grey College does not coddle its students. You'll rise by your own merits or be consumed by them. The plots we unravel, the foes we pursue, they often give us no second chances. To fail against them dooms far more than just us."

With that, he pushed open the door, the dark interior yawning like a maw, ready to swallow her whole.

Arya turned to Bran, her heart heavy with the weight of parting, and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a fierce hug. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, her voice low and determined. "You'll survive and thrive, Bran, and so will I." She gave his dire wolf, Winter, a final pat, feeling the warmth of his fur beneath her hand. With a steadying breath, she adjusted the pack slung over her shoulder, squaring it as if it were armor, and stepped forward into the shadowy interior of the building, her own wolf, Myrmidia, padding silently at her side.

The inside was no better than the outside. The walls were cracked and worn, the stone floors coated in dust, and the faint, musty smell of decay lingered in the air. It was a place that seemed forgotten, as though even time had lost interest in it.

"Not what you expected?" the wizard asked, watching her closely.

"I'm not sure what I expected," Arya admitted, her eyes scanning the neglected room. "But no, not this."

"We Grey Wizards are fond of misdirection," he said with a sly smile. "This building is little more than a façade. There are a few laboratories and libraries within, ones you might earn access to if you prove yourself, but you won't spend much time here." He settled into a rickety chair with the air of a man accustomed to discomfort and gestured for her to sit at the small, uneven table opposite him. Arya hesitated, then took her seat. Myrmidia circling around next to her before curling up by her on the dusty floor.

"Now," he began, his tone shifting to something more probing, "a few questions, young Stark. What does your father think of your talent? And why, of all people, did a Celestial Magister from Ostland bring you here? Why not the Bright Wizard attached to your father's retinue?"

Arya faltered for a few seconds, unable to speak, the moment she'd heard of Eckhard's death still vivid and raw in her memory. "Eckhard died last summer, fighting Beastmen," she said quietly. "He killed four Bray Shamans, but the wounds they dealt were mortal." She paused, gathering herself. "As for my father… I wouldn't say he approves of my abilities or Bran's, but he supports us. He traveled all this way, with three gunboats packed with a hundred guards, to see us here safely. The only reason he isn't with us now is that he rode to warn the Emperor of what we saw on our journey as soon as we docked."

The wizard's eyes narrowed. "And what did you see?"

Arya found herself recounting the story of the rising Beastmen, of the forces they'd amassed in the dark corners of Hochland, Talabecland, and Middenland. She told it plainly, as she would recount any everyday story, but she could see the gravity settling on the wizard's shoulders as she spoke.

He stroked his pointed beard, dark and flecked with grey, lost in thought. "This is urgent news indeed. My nephew will need to act swiftly."

Arya blinked. "Your nephew?"

He smiled faintly, almost amused at her confusion. "I am Immanuel-Ferrand of House Holswig-Schliestein," he said, watching her reaction closely.

Arya's eyes widened as she realized who sat before her. "My lord, you're the High Chancellor of the Realm, uncle to the Emperor!" She stood abruptly, offering a clumsy curtsy in her travel-stained trousers. On the ship, out of her mother's view, she'd grown used to dressing like her brothers, but this was not a ship on the river.

Immanuel-Ferrand waved her off, dismissing the gesture. "None of that here, girl. It seems there was purpose in your arrival today. I've wielded influence at court for decades and played my part in the shadows, but I've not focused on my magic as much as others. Now, at long last, I am a full Magister, and what should fall into my lap but a potential apprentice, one with whom I share a unique connection."

Arya looked at him, puzzled. "What do you mean, my lord?"

"Most wizards are of humble birth," Immanuel-Ferrand explained, his voice laced with the practiced patience of a teacher. "Of course, there are those with noble blood among us, but there are none currently so closely tied to power as you and I. As uncle to the Emperor, and you, a daughter of the most powerful vassal of a relatively weak Elector Count, we are the highest-born among the Orders."

Arya straightened in her seat, brow furrowing. "But I was told that birth and nobility don't matter here."

The wizard's smile was thin, almost knowing. "It does and it doesn't," he said. "It won't help you survive the arcane trials ahead or help you rise to journeyman. Willpower and skill with Ulgu are all that matters there. But should you succeed… well, let's just say it does open doors." He leaned back, eyes glinting. "I didn't become High Chancellor because I was the most skilled wizard. I was awarded the position because of my blood and because I was just skilled enough. Still, that only gave me the opportunity. I've only remained High Chancellor because I knew what to do and when to do it."

He turned his eyes to her. "It's a lesson you'd do well to remember. Magic will test you, but power, true power, lies in knowing where to place yourself when the time comes and acting on that knowledge."

"I like that," Arya said with a fierce little smile, recalling her father's lessons. "My father says something similar, something he learned from an old mercenary friend of his when he was young… Robard, I think his name was. He always said that winning a battle isn't about being the best swordsman. It's about knowing where the fight will turn and getting there first, with more men than the other side."

The wizard chuckled softly, his eyes glittering with a knowing gleam. "Your father is a wise man. Many think that battles are won with strength or bravery, but they are fools. Wars are won by those who see the field for what it truly is, a game of shadows and positioning, a test of wit as much as steel. You would do well to remember that, Arya Stark. Those who master such lessons are the ones who live to tell their tales."

Arya nodded, feeling a spark of kinship with this dangerous man who wore his cunning like a cloak. It reminded her of her father's quiet advice, of Jon's careful guidance, and of everything she had learned at Winterfell. "I will remember," she said, her voice firm, the words carrying more weight than a simple promise.

Immanuel-Ferrand regarded her for a moment, as if weighing her soul against the shadows that clung to him. "Good," he said finally, his voice low and conspiratorial. "You will need to be quick, cunning, and ruthless in this world. The path ahead is dark, Arya Stark, but if you play your pieces well, you may yet bend it to your will."

The old wizard rose, his shadow stretching long and thin across the cracked stone floor. "Come, girl. There is much to teach you, and the day is never long enough for the lessons that truly matter."

With that, Arya followed him deeper into the building, where the shadows were darkest, her heart racing and her mind keen, ready to react to anything.

They walked through a corridor of shadows, deeper and darker than any night Arya had known. The blackness seemed to close in on them, thick and cloying, swallowing sound and sense alike. The only light was a faint, ghostly glow that seemed to flicker and shift without cause, illuminating nothing but the steel-plated door ahead and a circle of space before it the length of a grown man.

Arya could feel the pull of Ulgu here, woven into the door and the air, bending light and shadow to some unseen will. The magic was old and subtle, a whispering thread that danced just at the edge of her senses.

"What lies beyond here?" Arya whispered, her voice barely more than breath.

"The office of Reiner Starke, Magister Patriarch of the Grey Guardians," Immanuel-Ferrand replied, his voice echoing strangely in the gloom. "It is customary, indeed, required to present any new apprentice to him without delay." He paused and then added, "Despite the name, which he spells with an e after the k, he is as far as I know, of no relation to you, hailing from Wissenland."

Arya nodded, her hand finding the reassuring presence of Myrmidia's fur. The dire wolf's ears were pricked, her gaze sharp and wary. Arya could feel her heart pounding, but there was excitement there too. "Alright," she said, steeling herself. "Let's go."

"That's what I like to hear," Immanuel-Ferrand said, a sly smile playing at his lips as he pushed the heavy door open.

Inside, the room was an unsettling contrast to the darkness outside, surprisingly bright, with silver candelabras casting flickering light across the walls. Shadows danced there in strange, shifting patterns, alive with hidden movements and half-formed shapes that twisted and writhed.

At a desk cluttered with books, scrolls, and curious artifacts, a man looked up from his work. He was tall and thin, almost gaunt, with grey hair swept back from a high brow and a silver beard trimmed with meticulous precision. His age seemed fluid, one moment he looked barely a few years older than her father, the next as ancient as Old Nan, the oldest servant in Winterfell. Behind him, propped against the wall, a staff topped with the remains of a raven stood sentinel, its bleached skull gleaming in the candlelight while its feathers remained impossibly pristine.

The man's eyes flicked over Arya and her dire wolf, perceptive and assessing. He cocked his head slightly, the hint of surprise creasing his otherwise stern features. "Who's this, Immanuel?" His voice was low, a soft rasp that hinted at both power and weariness. "Don't tell me you've been a Magister for less than half a morning and have already found yourself an apprentice."

"Delivered straight to our door," Immanuel-Ferrand replied with a satisfied grin, as if he had somehow outmaneuvered fate itself. "Arya of House Stark of Winterfell," he elaborated, his voice rich with the weight of her name. "And her brother shows promise as well."

"Magister Solmann is delivering him to the Amber Order as we speak," Arya added, her tone measured but tinged with pride.

"Interesting indeed," Reiner Starke mused, his gaze sharp and penetrating as he studied her, his head tilted at an odd angle like a curious crow. "Tell me, Arya. Have you yet bent the shadows to your will?"

"Not yet, but I can see them," Arya replied, her voice steady.

"Good. Reach for the shadows on the wall," the Patriarch instructed, his voice carrying the weight of command. "It needn't be anything grand. Just... move them."

Arya focused on the restless, writhing darkness that clung to the walls, seeing the fine threads of Ulgu woven through them, shimmering faintly like strands of moonlit cobweb. She reached out, not with her hands but with her mind, feeling the cool, silken touch of the grey wind between her thoughts. Slowly, she tugged at the threads, coaxing them to bend, to twist, until the wall was no longer just a wall but a canvas of shadows. There, painted in flickering darkness, stood Winterfell in all its solemn glory. She saw the high walls, the great keep, the towering watchtower, and the trees of Taal's Wood, every detail rendered with a haunting clarity. It was a masterpiece born of smoke and shade.

The Patriarch raised an eyebrow, his expression caught between admiration and suspicion. "Are you quite certain you've never manipulated Ulgu before, girl?"

Arya bristled, her pride flaring. "That's not impressive," she said defiantly. "When Bran fell from the Great Watchtower, he turned into a Great Eagle midair, soared as if he'd flown his whole life, then shifted back into a boy when he landed. We passed by a village attacked by Beastmen on our journey, and a hedge-witch who lived there blew apart the Warherd with a fireball that lit up the sky, slaying a Bray Shaman and scores of goatmen. And just today, as we left Beatriz at the Bright College, we met a girl from the Celestial College who flew as easily as a hawk on the wind."

"Tanya..." the Patriarch said, his tone contemplative. "Yes, she's an anomaly, but what you've done here... it's not something to be dismissed lightly."

"The winds blow strong these days," Immanuel-Ferrand said, though his tone carried an undercurrent of doubt, as if the words were more to reassure himself than anyone else.

"Stronger than usual, perhaps," Starke replied, leaning back, his hands steepled as he rested his chin on his fingers, eyes distant in thought. "But I've seen the winds wax and wane before, and even at their strongest… never have I seen prodigies gather at our gates in such numbers."

He paused, as if weighing something heavy in his mind. "No, this is different. I must speak with the Celestial Order, the Grand Theogonist, and the High Priest of the Temple of Morr. Whatever this is... it speaks of a great challenge waiting just beyond the horizon."

"Perhaps you should speak with the Ar-Ulric," Arya suggested, her hand idly stroking Myrmidia's thick fur. The dire wolf 's golden eyes glowed faintly even in the bright light of the Patriarch's office, mirroring her own fierce resolve. "Father says the dire wolves are a sign."

Patriarch Starke's expression shifted, skepticism flickering behind his sharp gaze. "A sign, you say? And how did your father come by this beast and her kin?"

Arya leaned back, recounting the story she'd heard from her brothers a dozen times over, each word laced with the awe and dread that still accompanied the tale. "He found them in the Gryphon Wood, at the foot of a wooded hill where the winds swirl and howl like a wolf. Their mother lay there, slain but still warm, her blood not yet dry on the stones. Around her, half a dozen Beastmen lay torn to pieces, mangled by a mother's monstrous fury. But the largest of them, a Gor with horns black as pitch, had struck her down with a deathblow."

Arya paused, her eyes flickering with a mix of pride and sorrow for the mother wolf. "There were six pups. Five were strong, with the familiar grey and black coats of their kind. But the last… the runt, its fur was pale as fresh snow, with eyes red as embers. My father saw that one as a sign. It was meant for my brother Jon, my father's bastard son by Ashara Dayne. Jon had always dreamed of swearing his sword to the Knights of the White Wolf, but my father said he would only allow it if the Lord of Winter and Wolves gave him a sign. And so he did. When Father is done with his business in Altdorf, he'll ride to Middenheim and deliver Jon to the White Wolves himself."

Reiner Starke listened intently, his earlier skepticism melting into something darker… intrigue, perhaps, or a cautious dread. "I'd like to hear this tale from your father's lips," he said, his voice laced with an urgency that had not been there before. "It is not every day that Ulric gives his favor so openly, if that is what this is. But you did not see it yourself, did you?"

Arya shook her head. "No, I wasn't there. It happened on a hunt and I was not allowed to attend them," she said bitterly. "But Father plans to visit the College tomorrow. He wants to see how I fare, and there's the matter of tuition. For girls like Beatriz, common-born and full of fire, a simple pledge of service is enough. But we know better than to think the same terms apply to those of our blood."

"Your father is wise to think so," Starke said, leaning back, his fingers drumming on the edge of his desk. "I'll be sure to ask him of this sign in detail when he arrives tomorrow. There's much to discuss, it seems. Is there anything more you wish to know? Questions about the College, our ways, or what lies ahead?"

Arya hesitated, glancing at Myrmidia, who had settled by her feet, the wolf's ears twitching at the faintest sound. "Only this; dire wolves live long, like the great destriers that carry knights into battle. Myrmidia here is but five months old. She'll be full grown at three years, in her prime at four. If these wolves are indeed sent by Ulric as a sign, then whatever challenge they are meant to face will likely come due around that time. The Gods don't give signs or aid without reason. They prepare us, even if we don't yet understand what for."

Patriarch Starke nodded, his face now a mask of solemn consideration. "Dire wolves are not creatures that come into the hands of men by chance, nor are such portents given lightly. If Ulric has truly marked you and your kin, then the world should brace itself, for the gods play at no small game."

"Indeed," Immanuel-Ferrand agreed, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he turned toward Arya. "Come, girl. Let's head out to the Palace. I keep a good-sized set of rooms there, and you can be housed in the servants' quarters attached to it. It's not your chambers in Winterfell, but it will do. I'll introduce you to the palace proper, help you get your bearings. And tomorrow morning, we'll surprise your father and escort him back here to meet the Patriarch."

"That sounds wonderful," Arya said, her heart quickening with the thrill of it. Luck, she thought, or something better than luck. The Gods must be with her. She could almost hear their whispers in the shadows, guiding her steps. Bran, she mused, would likely not be so fortunate. The Amber Order wasn't known for its luxuries. She pictured him wrapped in furs, sleeping under the stars on some hard, unforgiving ground, surrounded by the wild scents of pine and earth, his wolf curled close for warmth. If Bran had so much as a bedroll to his name tonight, she'd be shocked.

Immanuel-Ferrand took his leave of the Patriarch with a courteous farewell and a nod, and Arya bowed deeply, abandoning any thought of a curtsey until she could find herself back in a dress. Starke watched them go, his gaze lingering on her a moment longer, as if weighing her worth and finding it both promising and perilous.

They stepped out into the shadowed halls, thick with the scent of dust and musty stone, and Arya found herself smiling despite the cool air that clung to her skin. This was the life she had chosen, the path the gods had set before her. A path of shadows and secrets, of hidden doors and whispered truths. She would walk it with eyes wide open, sharp as a blade unsheathed.

Tomorrow would come soon enough, with its arcane trials and its tests. But tonight, she would sleep in a palace, and though the room might be little more than a servant's nook, it was a start, a foothold in this new world where secrets held power and shadows danced to silent songs. Arya Stark of Winterfell, apprentice of the Grey Order, would carve her place among them, one way or another.

Chapter Text

Bran watched Arya disappear into the shadowy maw of the rundown building, her dire wolf Myrmidia padding faithfully at her side. As the heavy door groaned shut behind them, sealing her off from sight, he felt a cold emptiness gnawing at his insides. He was alone now, truly alone, in this strange city of stone and smoke. But Bran was a Stark of Winterfell, and Starks did not cry, not even when they were scared, not even when the world felt too big and too loud. He bit down on his lip, swallowed his fear, and followed Magister Solmann's command.

"We march back to the docks," Magister Solmann declared, his voice brisk and impatient. "No dawdling. We've a long journey ahead, and these men deserve a bed before nightfall."

The company set off at a swift pace, boots clattering on cobblestones as they wove their way through the twisting streets. Bran moved as quickly as he could, well aware that his short legs slowed the others down, but Solmann kept them in line, pushing them onward with a sense of urgency that Bran did not quite understand.

It felt as though the Wizard's Quarter itself was helping them now; where before the streets had twisted and shifted like a maze intent on trapping them or turning them back, now they seemed to open up, guiding them back the way they came as if eager to be rid of them.

Sooner than Bran expected, they found themselves back at the great mechanical bridge that spanned the River Reik. Its iron gears and pulleys clanked and groaned, the noise like the growl of some ancient beast waking from slumber. Bran stared at it in quiet awe, trying not to let his weariness show.

They reached the docks with time to spare, the scent of muddy river water and tar heavy in the air, mingling with the cries of gulls and the shouts of dockhands unloading crates. Solmann's eyes roved over the moored vessels, sharp and calculating, until he settled on a ship that suited his fancy, a long, sleek sloop with pale blue sails, its prow carved in the shape of a winged horse.

"Your ship will do," Solmann announced to the captain, a hard-eyed man with a scar running down his cheek like a crack in old marble. "The Celestial College will pay you handsomely for your trouble, a sum double the going rate. Refuse, and I see in the stars that your first mate will find himself enjoying the captain's cabin sooner than expected. Do you catch my meaning?"

The captain's face paled, and he gave a stiff, hurried nod. "Aye, Magister, no need for threats. We'll get you where you need to go."

He barked orders at his crew, and soon enough the sloop was ready, sails unfurled to catch the afternoon breeze. Bran found himself ushered aboard with the soldiers, the packed deck lurching underfoot as they cast off. He clung to the wooden rail, staring back at the city that loomed behind them, its spires and towers glinting in the midday sun, a place of mystery and danger that he was already leaving behind.

As they sailed south toward the Amber Hills, the river wide and the water clear beneath them, Bran's thoughts turned to Arya. She had found her place, for better or worse, in the shadowed halls of the Grey Order. He was bound for the wilds, the open places where beasts prowled and the winds sang strange songs. A different path, a harder path, but a path all the same.

He would not cry. He would survive. He was a Stark of Winterfell, and winter was coming.

The river journey was short and uneventful, with the sun moving west in the sky as the afternoon wore on, casting longer shadows across the water as they passed by thickly settled farmland. Nearly three hours had passed when Magister Solmann finally gave the order to lay anchor. The wizard stood at the prow, his eyes scanning the wooded hills beyond, a landscape of rolling greenery interspersed with the occasional rocky outcrop.

"This is as far as we go by water," Solmann said, his voice carrying over the lapping waves of the river. "It will be about an hour's walk to the appointed place. The handover will be swift, five minutes at most. Then it's another hour's march back. Captain, make sure your ship is still here when we return, or you'll find yourself blacklisted from Altdorf's waters for the rest of your days."

The captain, his face like old leather, nodded with a stern determination. "Be it Beastmen or river pirates, no one's moving us an inch, Magister. You have my word."

Bran thought it unlikely he'd face either this close to Altdorf. An imperial gunboat wondering what this ship was doing anchored in the middle of nowhere seemed more likely.

"The Colleges will hold you to that," Solmann replied, his voice flat, as if he'd already seen what would happen in the stars. The crew scrambled into action, and the men were ferried to shore in the ship's two rowboats, a dozen at a time. It took five trips to get all fifty of the guards, the Magister, Bran, and his wolf Winter to the bank. By the time they were all ashore, the afternoon light had turned golden, shadows stretching long over the water's edge.

They set off into the hills, the company moving steadily through the rolling, wooded landscape. Bran could see that these hills had been logged and cleared many times over, leaving only patches of thin forest to remind them of what once had been. It surprised Bran a bit that hills this close to the city hadn't been turned into terraced farms, but he supposed the Amber Order making this the site of their college prevented that.

This close to Altdorf, the land was no doubt often purged of any lurking threats, but that did little to ease the tension in his father's men. No forest was ever truly safe, and soldiers who'd fought on the Empire's internal frontiers knew better than to let their guard down, no matter how tame the woods might seem.

Halberds were held at the ready, the long polearms gleaming in the afternoon light. The greatswords moved with a grim determination, their massive blades resting on armored shoulders, ready to swing at a moment's notice. The handgunners kept their matchcords lit, the faint glow of burning cord trailing smoke in the breeze, prepared to fire at the first sign of danger. Even the Magister, so sure of himself before, moved with a newfound wariness, his form flickering with faint blue sparks of Azyr, visible only to those like Bran who could see the winds of magic.

Bran felt the tension in the air, his senses prickling with the unspoken threat that lay all around them. The brown wind coursed heavy and thick in these hills. It flowed through the air like the breeze, bringing the crackle of early autumn leaves and the calls of distant birds to his ears.

Winter padded by his side, the great wolf's nose twitching as he sniffed the air, ears flicking at every sound, every rustle of leaves. So far, there was nothing to alarm him, no scent of Beastmen or worse. But Bran knew better than to think they were safe. The woods had a way of hiding things, and danger, when it came, would come swiftly.

He felt the weight of their long journey in his bones, the uncertainty of what awaited them. Arya had found her path, but his own still seemed shrouded in the shadows of these trees. Bran's mind flashed back to Loremaster Luwin explaining irony to him in the library tower. He hadn't really understood it at the time, but he thought he did now.

They were far from Winterfell, far from the land they knew, and every step into the forest felt like another step into the unknown.

"Keep alert," Solmann whispered, though Bran could hear the crackle of nerves in his voice, masked behind the command. "We're close now. Keep your weapons at hand, but your wits about you. We don't want anyone taking a shot at a member of the Amber Order."

Bran tightened his grip on the small knife he carried, more for comfort than any real protection. Winter growled softly, a low rumble that Bran felt in his chest as much as he heard it. They were moving into the heart of the hills now, deeper and deeper, and Bran couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched.

"I don't know where the caves of the Amber Order lie exactly," Magister Solmann said, his voice low, as if the very trees might overhear. "But they are somewhere within these hills. And if we have not been watched since we stepped into these woods, I would be very much surprised."

He took Bran by the hand, guiding him forward with a firm grip. Winter padded alongside, the dire wolf's movements near-silent, every muscle coiled and ready. Solmann released Bran's hand and stepped ahead, his dark blue robes catching the faint breeze that rippled through the forest. With a sudden, sweeping gesture, he spread his arms wide, his voice booming unnaturally as the wind of Azyr carried it far and wide.

"I have come bearing an applicant for the Amber Order!" Solmann called, his voice echoing through the trees, as if the very woods were listening. "Brandon Stark of Winterfell. I watched him transform into a Great Eagle when he fell from a castle tower, and back to a boy upon landing. It was his first touch of the Brown Wind of Ghur, the wind of beasts."

Silence fell over the forest, heavy and tense, the kind that makes men's hands tighten on their weapons. The soldiers shifted uneasily, eyes scanning the trees, half-expecting an ambush at any moment. Winter's hackles raised slightly, his golden eyes fixed on something unseen. Bran could feel the beast's tension, every nerve alert.

Then Winter turned, his ears twitching toward a dense thicket of trees on the hillside, and Bran followed his gaze. From the shadows, a man emerged, moving with the predatory grace of a wolf. He was bald, beardless, his head crowned with a silver wolf's pelt that glinted in the dappled sunlight. His eyes were molten gold, gleaming with a wild intelligence that mirrored Winter's own. Three wolves, lean and scarred, flanked him, their eyes fixed on Bran. Though full-grown, even the largest of them was out massed twenty or thirty pounds by young Winter, whose presence among them loomed like a shepherd dog among the sheep.

The man stopped and studied Bran, his eyes piercing, as if he could see through skin and bone to whatever truth lay beneath. When he spoke, his voice was a low growl, more beast than man. "Is this true, boy?" he asked, each word edged with suspicion, the question more challenge than inquiry.

Bran swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the man's stare, the eyes of his wolves on him as well. This was no mere hunter; this was a man who knew the wilds as intimately as Bran knew the halls of Winterfell. And where sparks of Azyr crackled over Magister Solmann and the shadows of Ulgu had clung to the unnamed Magister in the Wizard's quarter like a shroud, Ghur swirled around this man like a torrential eddy. Like the Upper Talabec when the spring rains were too heavy. This man couldn't possibly be only a Magister.

'He must be a Lord Magister!' Bran thought. One of the true masters of his craft. There was no place for lies here, no room for false bravado. The truth would be the only thing that might earn him a place among these strange, feral men and women of the Amber Order.

Bran squared his shoulders, feeling the thrum of the magic that had coursed through him when he'd changed, the rush of wind and feathers, the thrill of flight. "Aye, it's true," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "I fell from the great watchtower, but before I hit the ground, I turned. I became an eagle, and I flew." He looked the man in the eye, unblinking. "I did it without even knowing how."

The man's gaze lingered, weighing Bran's words, the truth of them. His wolves sniffed the air, circling Bran and Winter, as if they, too, were judging him. The moment hung heavy between them, the air thick with expectation. Whatever was decided here, Bran knew, would change the course of his life forever.

"Come with me, then," the man said abruptly, turning back toward the woods without waiting for a reply.

Bran flinched at the sudden movement but quickly regained his composure. He turned to Magister Solmann and gave him a quick, awkward bow. "Thank you for everything," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Good luck, boy," Solmann replied with a faint smile, his eyes gleaming as if he saw more in Bran's future than he dared to say.

Bran turned to Captain Weiss, the leader of the guards father had brought on this journey, and nodded. "Take care of my father, Captain," he said, his voice carrying a hint of the command he'd heard so often from his father.

"We will, my lord," Captain Weiss replied, his salute crisp, his eyes watching Bran with the silent respect owed to a Stark of Winterfell.

Without another word, Bran sprinted after the wild wizard, Winter bounding alongside him, each stride effortless and smooth. The Lord Magister moved swiftly, a shadow slipping through the trees, always at least a hundred feet ahead, barely seeming to touch the ground. Bran struggled to keep up, his legs burning, but he refused to fall behind. The man moved like a great cat, at ease in the wild despite his apparent age, and Bran knew the man could have left him behind at any moment if he'd wanted.

The forest thickened as they climbed higher into the hills, the air growing colder and the trees gnarled and twisted, as though the land itself were bent and wary. Twice Bran lost sight of the man entirely, the amber robes and brown leather clothes beneath swallowed by the shadows of the woods, but Winter never faltered, his nose to the ground, guiding Bran through the maze of trunks and roots. The dire wolf's instincts were unerring, his golden eyes focused ahead as if he could sense the man's very essence.

At last, they reached a clearing where a great cave mouth yawned open before them, dark and foreboding, layered in strands of Ghur. Bran somehow knew that no wild creature would dare approach this cave and even ones twisted by corruption would avoid it unless one of their dark shamans was with them.

The wizard stood waiting at its entrance, his figure stark against the shadowy backdrop of the cavern. He turned as Bran approached, golden eyes glowing like embers in the half-light. "I am Setanta Lobas, the Wild Father," he said, his voice as rough and deep as the stones beneath their feet. "Though those outside our brotherhood call me the Patriarch of the Amber Order."

Bran caught his breath, feeling the weight of the man's words. Setanta was no mere Lord Magister, he was something far stronger, far wilder, with a presence that made the very air seem thicker, charged with the raw magic of the earth. There was no warmth in his gaze, only the fierce scrutiny of one predator sizing up another, and Bran felt a shiver run through him, both of fear and something else, something that called to the wild place within him, the part that had soared as an eagle and longed to do so again.

This was no kindly mentor, no gentle guide. This was the Wild Father, and whatever lessons he would teach, Bran knew they would be as unforgiving as the wilderness itself.

"Am I to be your apprentice?" Bran asked, stunned by the notion.

"For now," Setanta replied, his voice as unyielding as the roots of an ancient oak. "But likely not for long. I may pass you to another Magister when the time comes, depending on what you need to learn and what my brothers and sisters need to teach. The Amber Order does not bind itself to rigid plans, boy. We move as the wild moves, unpredictable and fierce. Much depends on what the winds whisper and what challenges arise. Planning too strongly now would be folly."

"Oh," Bran said, a little overwhelmed but nodding all the same. "I guess that makes sense."

Setanta's gaze bore into him, molten gold eyes glinting with an unnerving intensity. "Tell me, what do you think the Amber Order does, lad? What do you think you need to learn?"

"The Order protects the forests," Bran answered, feeling the weight of the man's scrutiny. "They root out Beastmen and forest goblins, even if it's a fight that never ends. We saw so many Beastmen on our way here. Thousands. Father didn't escort me here because he's gone to speak with the Emperor about it."

Setanta's eyes narrowed, his expression shifting from irritation to something darker, concern mixed with a hint of dread. "Thousands, you say? Where?" His voice was low, urgent. "Tell me everything you saw."

Bran hesitated, confused by the urgency in the old wizard's voice. "Shouldn't you already know? There were warherds near Kusel and Taalagad. The Grand Baron of Hochland had his army in the field, fighting them. We saw villages in Middenland that had been burnt and ransacked, not a week's journey upriver."

Setanta's face darkened, the lines of his weathered skin deepening as if carved in stone.

"Strange," he muttered, half to himself. "My brothers and sisters must have acted against these warherds, and they would have sent word... But I've heard nothing. Something is blocking our eyes and ears. Something cunning, hidden, and foul."

Bran frowned, sensing that things were more serious than he'd realized. "But aren't Beastmen the opposite of subtle? They're all rage and hate, lashing out at anything built or even touched by men. That's what makes them so dangerous."

"True enough," Setanta said grimly. "But when they act with cunning, with restraint, they become a threat far worse than any blind charge. All who fight them quickly come to realize that they are not to be underestimated, but men in their hubris constantly do so anyways. And so, a clever Beastlord is a nightmare few of us are ever truly prepared for. If messages from my kin are being blocked, if we're blind to their movements, it means something far more dangerous is at play than a simple warherd. Something or someone is working in the shadows."

He turned to Bran, his eyes hard as amber. "I need every detail, boy. Every sight, every sound from your journey down the Talabec. Leave nothing out. If the Emperor doesn't summon me at first light, I'll ride into the city myself to make inquiries."

Bran nodded, his heart thudding as he realized just how important his words had become. He took a breath and began to speak, recounting the horrors and sights he'd witnessed on the river, each memory dredged up with the vividness of fresh wounds. The story unspooled in the darkening light, stretching on into the long, cold hours of night, as Bran shared every harrowing detail of the journey that had led him here.

Bran's words eventually dried up like the sands of Araby, and his throat felt just as parched. He swallowed, his voice a hoarse whisper by the end, as the last of his tale left him feeling both emptied and strangely unburdened.

"Good work, lad," Setanta said, nodding in approval. "I know this isn't the sort of lesson you were expecting on your first day, but it was an important one. Go on, drink. There's a brook just over there." He gestured to a cluster of trees off to the left, where the gurgle of running water could faintly be heard.

Bran followed the sound and found the stream easily enough, its clear waters running over smooth stones. He knelt beside it and drank deep, the water cold and pure, better than any juice or wine he'd ever tasted. Winter drank beside him, his tongue dipping into the brook, and for a moment, the boy and his wolf were at peace, the chill water refreshing them after a long and wearying day.

When Bran returned to the cave's entrance, Setanta handed him a bundle of dried meat wrapped in strange leaves, packed with berries. It was unlike anything Bran had eaten before, earthy, rich, and satisfying in a way he hadn't expected. It filled his belly in a manner far more wholesome than any banquet in Winterfell's halls.

"I'll show you how to find those leaves tomorrow, along with other things you'll need to know if you're to survive these woods," the Wild Father said. "But first, I must ride to Altdorf at dawn. There are questions that need answering; answers I mean to find, no matter how many people I must talk to. I should be back by the late afternoon, and Martak will look after you in the meantime."

Bran glanced around, puzzled. Not counting Magister Solmann and his guards, who were long gone, he hadn't seen another soul since they'd entered the woods. None save for the Wild Father and the wolves that shadowed him like his own grim honor guard. There was no sign of this Martak.

"Get some rest, boy," Setanta urged, his voice gentler now. "You've got a hard day ahead of you, and you'll need your strength."

Bran nodded, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle on him. He found a spot at the cave's mouth and wrapped himself in a thin blanket from his pack. Winter curled up beside him, a warm, comforting presence against the chill night. The cave walls seemed to whisper in the darkness, ancient secrets hidden in their rough stone.

As Bran lay there, staring up at the stars through the sparse branches above, he wondered what Arya was doing, and whether his father had managed to meet the Emperor. He could just see the shining white walls of Altdorf on the far edge of the horizon through a gap in the trees and was curious… how did the Wild Father expect the Emperor to summon him? A rider set out before dawn? Some magic flash of fire or lightning sent up by a magister of another Order?

Worries flitted through his mind, but they were distant things, like shadows in a half-remembered dream. Was Robb alright? Surely Sir Manderly and Jory Cassel would protect him no matter how fierce the Greenskin raids...

Soon, the soothing presence of Winter's steady breathing and the lullaby of the forest eased him into sleep, where dreams of dire wolves, dark woods, and distant battles awaited.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 8th, 2522

Eddard Stark had weathered many surprises of late, but none quite like this. When his daughter Arya knocked on his chamber door that morning, flanked by none other than Immanuel-Ferrand, the High Chancellor of the Realm, it was the first time in recent memory that he felt a twist of relief at something unexpected instead of dread. Arya wore a sassy grin, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Good morning, Father!" she chirped, her voice bright as the morning sun.

"Arya," Ned replied, still struggling to reconcile the sight before him. "I don't understand. I thought Magister Solmann delivered you to the Grey College yesterday."

Immanuel-Ferrand, a man of slender build draped in muted gray and green velvet, smiled faintly beneath a sharp beard and mustache, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Grey Guardians are rarely confined to one place, Lord Stark. Our Order does not run a college in the traditional sense. We operate differently from most of the others, more... fluidly. Instead, we foster a close relationship between master and apprentice." His gaze fell on Arya with a hint of pride.

Ned rocked back on his heels, realizing only then the full significance of the High Chancellor's presence. His surprise at Arya's sudden return had momentarily overshadowed the fact that Immanuel-Ferrand was not merely an Imperial official but a notorious member of the Grey Order.

The High Chancellor's position was a controversial one; many whispered in the halls of power across the Empire that it was unwise to have a wizard so close to the throne, especially one from the Grey College. But Immanuel-Ferrand was the Emperor's blood, a beloved uncle, and over the years his keen mind and steady hand had quelled most of the complaints from those who feared the influence of magic over the affairs of state.

"Forgive me, High Chancellor," Ned said carefully, trying to piece the puzzle together, "but are you saying that you've taken Arya on as your apprentice? I was under the impression you were but a journeyman yourself."

"A recent promotion," Immanuel-Ferrand admitted, his voice tinged with pride. "Barely hours before your daughter arrived at our door, in fact. Some might call it fate."

Ned blinked, stunned at the sheer fortune of it. His daughter, apprenticed to one of the most influential figures in the Empire, and so soon after she had stepped into this strange new world. "That's… that's incredible," Ned breathed, the words coming out almost as a whisper. He had worried for Arya, alone in this unfamiliar city, but this changed everything. If Arya was under the High Chancellor's tutelage, she would be at the heart of power, learning from one of the most cunning minds in Altdorf.

Arya grinned wider, clearly pleased with herself, and Ned couldn't help but feel a surge of pride. His little wolf, standing shoulder to shoulder with the highest in the land. Perhaps, for once, fate had dealt the Starks a kind hand.

"Yes, your house has been blessed, Lord Stark," Immanuel-Ferrand said, his eyes sharp and calculating. "And that's precisely why we're here. The Patriarch of our Order wishes to hear from your own lips the tale of how you came upon the dire wolves, as well as the details of your journey down the Talabec."

Ned frowned, his brows knitting together in confusion. "Of course, but… why?" he asked, hesitating as he searched for the right words. "I understand the need for the details of our journey… the Beastmen we encountered, the state of the land. That's clear enough. But the wolves? A family blessing, uncommon, yes, but hardly the sort of thing that would draw the attention of a Magister Patriarch."

Immanuel-Ferrand glanced at Arya, who stood at Ned's side, her defiant smile slipping away into a look of quiet curiosity. "We think differently, Lord Stark. There have been signs… omens or portents, if you will… of something coming in the years ahead. We don't yet know what it is, but the signs point to it being something of great consequence. Your dire wolves may be a piece of that puzzle."

Ned's unease deepened as the High Chancellor continued, "You won't just be speaking to the Patriarch of the Grey Order, Lord Stark. You'll be addressing the Matriarch of the Celestial Order, the Grand Theogonist, the High Priest of the Temple of Morr, and the High Priest of the Wolftor Temple, the oldest shrine to Ulric in the city, near the Northern Gate."

Ned opened his mouth to respond, his thoughts spinning like leaves in a storm, when the chamber door swung open. A wild-looking man strode in, wearing robes of amber and leather and a great wolf's pelt draped over his head and shoulders. His eyes gleamed the same molten gold as a beast's, fierce and untamed.

"And the Wild Father will be there as well," the man said, his voice rough as gravel. Ned's instincts flared; this was a man accustomed to the wilderness, not the politicking of Altdorf.

Ned stiffened, every fiber of him alert. "Magister Patriarch," Immanuel-Ferrand greeted, dipping his head respectfully. "You honor us with your presence. I wasn't aware you were in the city."

"The Emperor's pyromancer lit the beacon for me before dawn, though I'd have come anyway," the Amber wizard said, his voice clipped and impatient as he turned toward Lord Stark. "Your boy told me about the Beastmen. I spoke with the Emperor this morning, he has plans of course, but his knowledge of the threat is not much greater than my own. Perhaps this conclave will shed light on what we're truly facing."

"Bran is all right?" Ned asked, concern flashing across his face.

The Wild Father nodded, though his expression remained as inscrutable as the woods he lived in. "The boy is fine. I've left him with Martak, my likely successor. He's in good hands."

Ned exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He turned to look at Arya, who was watching the exchange with a wary, calculating eye. His children were now bound up in the affairs of wizards and priests of the highest levels, far beyond the walls of Winterfell and the streets of Winter Tower that they knew. There was no going back now; whatever winds of fate had swept them into this, they would have to ride them out to the end.

"Let's get moving then," said Immanuel-Ferrand, his voice brisk as he motioned towards the door. "The Patriarch's chambers are far too cramped for a meeting of this size, so we've arranged to gather in the Map Room. The Great Chart will help us keep track of everything, and I've made sure there'll be food waiting so you and your son can break your fast."

Ned nodded. "That's welcome news," he said, gesturing for Jon to follow. The door opened to reveal two priestesses standing side by side, their expressions taut with mutual disdain, pointedly not looking at the other, while his guards watched on awkwardly. The elder of the two, a stern woman in her fifties clad in black and gold armor, was unmistakably a Myrmidian, a devotee of the Goddess of Strategy, Civilization and the Arts. The other was younger, perhaps in her late twenties, dressed like a wealthy burgher, with a shrewd, calculating glint in her eyes.

Ned glanced between them, his patience already fraying. "Whatever this is, we don't have time for it." At least his men had prevented them from barging in like the Patriarch of the Amber order.

The younger priestess gave a quick bow and stepped forward, all business. "Lord Stark, I am Alda Schilling, priestess of Handrich." Her voice was smooth and persuasive. "The High Priest has asked me to arrange a meeting with you to discuss establishing a temple to the God of Commerce in Winter Town. Consider the benefits; increased trade and industry, a larger tax base and the growth in manpower that comes with it. Your city would prosper, Lord Stark."

Ned studied her closely, weighing her words. He had little love for Handrich's creed. Trading and bargaining felt a far cry from the honorable pursuits of soldiering or farming, but there was no denying commerce's importance. Trade and the taxes that came with it were the lifeblood of the state. Handrich, at least, was a god who valued contracts and rules, a safer bet than Ranald, whose creed of luck and thievery had sown chaos wherever it took root. If fostering Handrich meant displacing the influence of Ranald, it might be a price worth paying. "Have your High Priest meet me in my chambers tomorrow morning after breakfast," Ned replied, curt but polite.

He turned to the older priestess, who stood with her arms crossed and a look that could freeze a river. She met his gaze steadily, composed but brimming with a soldier's pride. "I am Sonnhild Speer, High Priestess of the Temple of Myrmidia Incazzata," she said, her voice clear and commanding. "I've come to you personally, Lord Stark, to make our case. Myrmidia's wisdom in war and strategy is unparalleled. We would be honored to establish a temple in your domain."

Ned regarded her thoughtfully. "Ulric as the God of War and Sigmar as the God of the Empire already cover war and battle in Ostermark, and Verena provides guidance in knowledge and learning. I'm not certain there's a place for Myrmidia in Winter Town. Still, you've come in person, and I respect that." He paused, considering. "We're convening with some of the most powerful voices in Altdorf shortly. Would you object to joining our gathering? Your insight could prove valuable, and after the meeting you're free to try and convince me." After all, every God and Goddess dealt in prophecy and omens, even if it was Morr who specialized in it.

Sonnhild's eyes flickered, the hint of a smile breaking her stern demeanor. "I would be honored, Lord Stark."

Immanuel-Ferrand nodded, though there was a guarded look in his eyes. He turned to Alda, who looked as if she were about to declare her intent to join them. "However," he interjected, his tone leaving no room for argument, "junior clergy are not privy to the matters we will be discussing today."

Alda flushed but held her tongue, stepping back reluctantly. Ned's gaze took in the two women once more, feeling the weight of his decisions bearing down upon him. It seemed every step in this city of wizards and priests brought him deeper into a web of power plays and hidden agendas. There were alliances to be made, promises to consider, and gods watching over it all. But for now, there were more pressing matters; the signs, the threats looming on the horizon, and the dire wolves that had set it all in motion.

"Let's not keep them waiting," Ned said, gesturing for Sonnhild to follow. Together, they moved through the winding halls, their footsteps echoing like the prelude to a storm. Frost padding softly besides them.

Jon was the first to break the silence, his voice hesitant but unwavering. "Forgive my boldness my lords, but will the Emperor be attending this meeting?"

Immanuel-Ferrand turned his head slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing at the corner of his mouth. "No, Jon Snow," he replied. "Though His Majesty is steeped in the wisdom of the scriptures and enjoys the favor of the Gods, he leaves the reading of omens and portents to the Cults… unless, of course, it is he who has borne witness to the sign or vision. His focus is elsewhere. The threat of the Beastmen looms large over the realm, and he has summoned the Reiksmarshal, his chosen officers, and the heads of the Knightly Orders to ready themselves for the campaign."

"That must be why Siegfried was called away," Speer mused, her voice carrying a note of contemplation. She turned her gaze to Jon, her eyes appraising. "Siegfried Trappenfeld, young master, is the Grand Master of the Order of the Blazing Sun. A fierce warrior, though his temper runs hot as the Goddess he worships."

"I see," Jon murmured, his cheeks flushing with the sting of his own ignorance. He absorbed the information silently, committing the name and the weight it carried to memory, for the world of men and their allegiances was as fraught with danger as any battlefield.

They continued on in silence, the air around them thickening with the weight of what lay ahead. As they neared the Map Room, Jon squared his shoulders, sensing the gravity of the moment, and wondered what revelations would be laid bare before the day was done.

Chapter Text

When they walked into the Map Room, it felt as though they had stepped into a vault of ancient power, where the might and majesty of the Empire was etched into every stone and shimmered from every surface. The pillars that supported the vaulted ceiling were wrapped in gold leaf, catching the morning light that filtered through stained-glass windows that overlooked the river Reik and depicted heroes and battles of old. Sigmar himself wielding his holy warhammer, the twin-tailed flames of his righteousness reflected in every piece of colored glass. The walls were draped with vast tapestries, woven in vibrant threads of silk that depicted the Empire's glories and its darkest struggles; the battle of Blackfire Pass against the Orcs, Magnus the Pious battling the Everchosen Asavar Kul and the hordes Chaos, Mandred Skaven Slayer smiting vile ratmen, and so many more.

Yet it was the floor that truly commanded attention, and there Ned's gaze fell and lingered. The Great Chart stretched out before them, a masterwork of Dwarven skill and Imperial ambition. Eighteen feet long from the World's Edge Mountains to the coast of the Sea of Chaos and twelve feet from Kislev to the Grey Mountains, each foot representing a hundred miles. It dominated the chamber, a colossal rendering of the Empire in all its sprawling vastness. Every inch of it was a testament to the artistry and craft of the stout folk, a marvel of lacquered woods and precious metals.

The land of the Empire was carved from ancient oaks taken from the darkest depths of the Drakwald, each province painstakingly detailed, with borders of inlaid brass demarcating the territories of each Elector-Count. Rivers of shimmering pearl snaked their way across the land, flowing into lakes of polished silver that glinted like moonlight on water. The grand cities of Marienburg, Altdorf, Middenheim, Nuln, and Talabheim were marked by buttons of burnished gold, shining bright like beacons of civilization amidst the wild lands. Lesser cities and towns were represented by ivory discs, humble yet vital, each one representing countless souls who toiled and bled to keep the Empire alive.

Chevrons of deep ebony, carved from the rarest wood of the Southlands, traced the sprawling forests, marking the Drakwald, the Reikwald, and the tangled, haunted woods that lay beyond civilization's reach. Every detail had been rendered with care and artistry, from the highest peaks of the Black Mountains to the rolling plains of Averland, down to the smallest bend in the rivers. The entire realm was laid bare before them, a map not just of land, but of power, ambition, and the relentless march of history.

Ned stood at the edge of the chart, his eyes tracing the lines and markers. He had seen maps before, even beautiful ones drawn with artistry on parchment by the Loremasters of Verena, but nothing like this. This was the Empire laid bare, a continent rendered in such detail that it almost felt alive, every inch a reminder of the wars fought and the blood spilled to hold it all together. He felt the weight of it then, the sheer vastness of what they were trying to protect, and the millions of lives hanging in the balance.

"This is… incredible," Arya breathed, her voice soft with wonder, eyes wide as she took in the sheer scope of it.

"A marvel of craftsmanship," Immanuel-Ferrand said, his tone carrying a note of pride. "Even Mountain Kings in Dwarfholds of ancient splendor would be impressed by such a work of art. The Empire, in all its glory and all its frailty, laid bare for those with the eyes to see it and the courage to act."

"Then let us act," said the Grand Theogonist, his voice echoing through the chamber, cutting through the murmur of anticipation like a blade.

Ned straightened, tearing his gaze from the Great Chart to study the gathered figures more closely. He had noticed them before, familiar figures at the edge of the room's grandeur, but only now did he take their measure. The splendor of the chamber had made him feel small, like a boy standing before the great bronze-plated gates of Winterfell, but he was a lord, and it was time to set that awe aside.

Volkmar the Grim was as imposing as Ned remembered from the last war in Kislev. The Grand Theogonist of Sigmar, he stood like a sentinel, his presence commanding and unyielding. He was clad in the white robes of his office, but over them, he wore a cuirass of gromril, forged in the deepest halls of the Dwarfs. Hanging from his neck was a great griffon carved from green jade, shimmering with enchantments and said to be blessed by Magnus the Pious himself. It was a symbol of faith and power; its divine magic rumored to heal wounds and bolster the strength of its bearer. Volkmar's head was shaven, his face framed by long white whiskers that hung like banners of age and wisdom. In his right hand, he gripped the Staff of Command, a cult relic that was said to channel the might of heroes and lend it to the one who held it. The man was old, but his bearing was that of a warrior still, unbowed by the years or the burdens of his office.

Beside him stood a figure in stark contrast, a man of middle years, draped in simple black robes that almost seemed to absorb the light around them. His face was pale and clean-shaven, his hair cut close to his scalp. The High Priest of Altdorf's Temple of Morr, no doubt, with the haunted look of one who had seen too many visions of death and the shadowed paths beyond. There was a melancholy to him, a quiet depression that clung to him like a shroud.

The Celestial Matriarch, in contrast, was a vision of great age and vitality. Her robes were deep blue, festooned with hanging pendants of silver moons, stars of electrum and golden comets that caught the morning light through the windows, glimmering with every shift of her form as if the heavens themselves hung from her garments. Though she looked as ancient as Old Nan, there was a liveliness in her eyes, sharp and knowing, that spoke of a mind untouched by time's decay.

And then there was the Ulrican priest, unmistakable in his traditional black vestments trimmed with wolf fur. His hair was long, his beard thick and unkempt, a living embodiment of the savage northern god he served. The man wore the feral look of winter lands, and Ned felt a twinge of guilt as he met his gaze, remembering how he had never quite managed to endure the itch of a full beard, a small failure in the eyes of the God of Winter. The priest's eyes were sharp, his expression hard, and though he said nothing, there was a sense of challenge in the set of his jaw, as if he judged each soul he looked upon and found too many of them wanting.

Ned drew a breath, steeling himself. He was among powerful men and women, each with their own strengths and secrets, each carrying the weight of their gods' demands. This was not the Gryphon Wood or the plains of the Veldt, but it was a battlefield all the same, and Eddard Stark had long ago learned that the rules of battle applied in court just as surely as they did on any field of war.

A figure emerged from the shadowed corner of the chamber, slipping forward with the quiet grace of a whisper in the dark. Ned blinked, wondering how he had missed him before, given the man's height and bearing. Tall and thin as a sapling, the man wore robes of muted grey, and had the stone walls not been covered in tapestries Ned could imagine him fading into them even in the light. He moved with an uncanny fluidity, every step measured and deliberate, and his presence was an unsettling thing, as though he were more shadow than flesh. Ned found it hard to place an age to him; the face was lined yet ageless, the eyes sharp as a hawk's, betraying neither youth nor age. This, Ned realized, must be the Patriarch of the Grey Order… Reiner Starke. He had to struggle to recall the name, but the air of authority around the man left no doubt who he was.

"We are gathered to speak of portents," Starke began, his voice a smooth murmur that carried through the room like smoke. "The White Wolf, the prodigies appearing at the Colleges in unprecedented numbers, the sudden infestation of Beastmen that swarm like locusts from the woods, and any other signs that may illuminate what lies ahead." His gaze shifted to Ned, those grey eyes as cold and unreadable as mist over a winter lake. "Lord Stark, if you would, tell us the tale of the dire wolves and how you came upon them."

Eddard nodded, gathering his thoughts before speaking, his voice steady and clear as he began. He recounted the story as he had done before, each word conjuring the memory of that fateful day. Ned spoke of the howling winds that had swept through the trees like mournful ghosts, the chill in the air that had raised the hair on the back of his neck, and the savage scene they had stumbled upon. A half-dozen Beastmen, torn apart by a fury that only a mother defending her young could muster. He told of the five pups they had found amidst the carnage, each one healthy and hale, a perfect match for each of his children by Catelyn's side. And then there was the runt, pale as winter's first snow, a stark white that marked him apart from the rest, a sign, he'd believed, of Jon's destiny to join the Knights of the White Wolf, the holy warriors of Ulric.

The High Priest of the Wolftor Temple, a burly man with the look of a battle-hardened warrior, stepped forward. He knelt before Frost and met the beast's crimson gaze without flinching. Frost stared back, unblinking, neither growling nor showing submission, a creature of ice and silent power. The priest gave a short, bark-like laugh as he rose, brushing the dire wolf's fur from his hands.

"No doubt about this one," he said, his voice rough and full of conviction. "This wolf is Ulric's own. They all are." He glanced at Arya's Myrmidia, the fierce she-wolf with eyes as bright and wild as her mistress. "Dire wolves do not wander from their haunts without reason. Were it not for this conclave, I would say they are simply a blessing upon House Stark. Your bloodline is storied and old, and you have always been faithful to Ulric, bearing the Dire Wolf upon your banners. But this… this is more than that." His gaze swept across the room, searching the faces of his fellow priests and magisters, his brow furrowed in thought. "My brothers know more than they've spoken. These wolves are a sign, but of what, I cannot yet say."

The room fell silent, and Ned could feel the weight of their stares pressing down on him. They were not just listening to a tale of wolves; they were searching for answers, for meaning, in the midst of a world that seemed to teeter on the edge of chaos. The dire wolves were more than a single family's blessing; they were an omen, a harbinger of something vast and unknown, prowling just beyond the edge of their sight.

"They are clearly meant to protect the children… but from what?" the priest of Morr asked, his voice low and mournful, like the tolling of a distant funeral bell. "The eldest sons will see battle soon enough, and the one who has joined the Amber Order will brave the dangers of the wild. But what of the daughter and the young son Lord Stark left behind in one of the Empire's greatest strongholds? And what of this one?" He pointed a bony finger at Arya, his gaze heavy and somber. "Here, in the heart of the Empire's power? True, she is in danger because she is learning magic, but the wolf cannot protect her from that."

"The Beastmen, perhaps?" the Celestial Matriarch suggested, her voice quavering like the rustling of parchment, though doubt clouded her starry eyes. The old Astromancer rarely spoke without certainty, but now there was some hesitation in her words.

"They are a problem," the Amber Patriarch agreed, his tone rough as gravel. "I suspect Khazrak One-Eye is behind their recent uprisings. Few others among their kind are as subtle and patient in their works."

"But he's always been confined to Middenland," the Ulrican priest argued, his voice as fierce as a wolf's snarl. "Never has he acted on such a grand scale as this. The Drakwald has always been his sole domain."

The Wild Father paused, a frown creasing his weathered face. His eyes were distant, as if seeing something none of them could. "I fear… though I have no proof," he admitted, the words coming slow and reluctant, "that Khazrak is but a pawn in a greater scheme, one spun by the Dark Omen."

The air in the room turned cold, every breath seeming to catch and hold, as though the very walls recoiled at the name. Khazrak One-Eye was formidable, a cunning and brutal foe, but Malagor the Dark Omen was something far worse… a creature of prophecy and nightmare, an abomination even among the vile ranks of Bray Shamans. Where Khazrak was a beast, Malagor was a terror made flesh, a living blasphemy against all that was holy.

"And that is not the only threat we must consider," the Amber Wizard continued, though his voice had taken on a graver note, each word laden with unspoken fears.

Volkmar's eyes narrowed, the Grand Theogonist gripping his staff of command as if he would rather have been holding his warhammer. "What could compare to the machinations of that harbinger of disaster and defiler of the sacred?" he growled, his voice echoing with the righteous fury of Sigmar himself.

"My protégé, Martak, has had visions," the Amber Wizard confessed, his gaze flickering to the faces around him. "Dreams of shadowy beasts, unlike any Beastmen he has ever encountered, rising from beneath the earth. They swarm up from the depths, tearing down the Empire's greatest cities, enslaving its people, devouring all in their path."

"The Skaven!" spat Sonnhild Speer, her face twisting in a snarl of revulsion. The Myrmidian priestess's hand strayed to the hilt of her sword, as if she would strike down the verminous scourge right then and there if she could. "Vile, treacherous ratmen! They skulk in the dark, plotting ruin. If these dreams are true, they threaten not just war, but the very foundations of the Empire."

A tense silence fell over the room, the enormity of the words weighing heavy on them all. Ned felt it in his bones… the chill of something vast and malevolent stirring in the shadows beneath them, threatening to unravel all they held dear. The dire wolves were more than a sign; they were a warning, a desperate cry in the wilderness for those who could still hear. The Empire stood at a crossroads, beset by enemies within and without, and the wolves had come not just to protect, but to forewarn of the storms that lay ahead.

"I'm confused," Jon admitted, his brow furrowed in thought. "I thought the Skaven were just a myth, something to frighten children and keep them from wandering too far from their parents." Arya, standing beside him, looked equally bewildered, her brows knitting together in a frown.

Ned turned his gaze to his son, a grim set to his mouth. "That's what the Emperor and the Electors want people to believe, Jon. Keeps the smallfolk from panicking, makes the towns feel safer than they are. But lords with armies, generals of the State Troops, and the men assigned to patrol the sewers and catacombs of cities like Altdorf, Nuln, and Talabheim… they know the truth. The Skaven are real, and they are every bit as foul as the stories claim. For the average halberdier, handgunner, or man-at-arms, it's enough that they're an ugly animal mutant that looks similar enough to the Beastmen to instantly provoke a response. The details are less important. They see something monstrous, they fight it, or if they're outnumbered and they're wise, they run and warn their fellows."

Jon's face tightened in disbelief. "That's… forgive me, my lords, but that seems madness. Surely these Skaven, if they're a whole different race, act differently from the Beastmen, even if they're just as malevolent. Soldiers should be taught the signs, how to tell them apart, what to watch for. You can't fight what you don't understand."

"Aye, lad," said Immanuel-Ferrand with a wry smile, "we all felt that way when we first learned of the conspiracy of silence." He shrugged, "most of us eventually come to see the sense in it, though some never do. It's a question of what's worse; an ignorant soldier, or a realm gripped in fear of things that crawl beneath its feet. Both sides have merit to their arguments, but this is not a debate we will settle here and now. It's a policy set by the Emperor and his Elector-Counts, and it's not for us to overturn. Just know that the law is in place, and breaking it, no matter how well-intentioned, carries heavy consequences."

Jon's face flushed, a mix of frustration and understanding passing over him. He was young, but not so naive as to challenge the Empire's iron-bound decrees in a room full of its highest priests and magisters. "I understand, my lord," he said quietly, though a shadow of doubt lingered in his eyes.

Arya, meanwhile, looked thoughtful, her mouth twitching as if she were about to speak but decided against it. Ned could see the fire in her, the fierce curiosity that always burned a little too bright, the refusal to simply accept what she was told. He would have to speak with her later, to make sure she understood the weight of what they'd just been told. The Empire was a great beast of tangled laws and traditions, and not all of its secrets were meant to be revealed.

"The important thing," Speer said, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade, "is to determine when this is going to happen." The Myrmidian priestess was intent on dragging the conversation back to the matter at hand, her tone sharp with urgency.

"If the rats strike while the Emperor is locked in battle with the Beastmen, it will be rough for us, no doubt about it," growled the Ulrican priest, his eyes blazing with a wolf's fury. Ned realized with some chagrin that he had yet to catch the man's name; in the sea of faces and voices, he was just another cleric, another warrior of the faith.

The High Chancellor's face tightened, his brows drawing into a stern line. "The Emperor is not reckless. He will leave behind substantial garrisons in every city, town and castle of significance. He has always done so when he marches to war."

"I don't see the vermin rising any time soon," said the Celestial Matriarch, her voice far less lively than her eyes and movements. It was thin and brittle, as though the weight of countless years had worn it down. "My visions are filled with battles in the East, of Beastmen and Orcs, and the clash of steel and sorcery. The outcomes are clouded, but the signs are mostly favorable."

Ned's heart stirred at her words, at the mention of Greenskins in the East. Robb could be among those battles, commanding his bannermen and pushing back the foul tide. He allowed himself a flicker of pride, quickly masked behind his stoic facade.

Reiner Starke, the Grey Patriarch, turned his sharp gaze on Arya, who shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. "Young Arya here mentioned that dire wolves reach their full strength in three years' time. Perhaps that's when the true threat will reveal itself, or soon after."

Volkmar's voice boomed across the chamber, commanding as ever. "The Skaven are craven and deceitful by nature. A firm, resolute defense will send them squealing back into the dark, where they'll bicker and tear each other apart, just as they always have. No, it is not the rats that concern me most." He paused, his eyes narrowing, his words heavy with foreboding. "The signs from the far north trouble me more deeply. Three years, perhaps four... I have seen prophecies, whispers of a new Everchosen."

The air in the room stilled as if frozen in place by the horror of it, the very mention of an Everchosen carrying a dread far beyond any Beastmen or Skaven threat. Malagor the Dark Omen was a terror, yes, but an Everchosen? That was the hand of the Dark Gods themselves made flesh, a scourge that had broken empires and turned kingdoms to ruin.

Eddard felt a chill run through him, colder than the winter winds that howled down from Kislev to batter against the walls of Winterfell. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, the weight of it pressing down on them all.

"Are you certain?" Ned's voice broke the quiet, low and grave. "I have fought in Kislev at the side of the Emperor and the Tzarina. Twice we've faced the Norscans and their monstrous patrons, and though they pressed harder than in the past few decades, I saw no sign of an Everchosen."

The Matriarch of the Celestial College nodded solemnly, her old eyes far away, lost in visions of things no mortal should see. "The signs are there, Lord Stark. Great battles, terrible and wondrous magics, blessings both bright and foul. The north is in turmoil, and Kislev and the Empire will feel the brunt of the storm. All is in flux, and the winds of chaos are rising."

Ned stared at her, the full weight of what they were facing settling like a stone in his gut. An Everchosen of Chaos was not a mere enemy; it was a cataclysm, the wrath of the dark gods made manifest. There would be no easy answers, no simple victories. And if the dire wolves were meant to protect his children, then whatever storm was brewing would test them all.

"I foresee much work for the Cult of Morr," intoned the High Priest, his voice low and sonorous, resonating through the room. Clad in his mournful black robes, he was a shadow among shadows, his pale face stark against the darkness of his attire. "The north stirs, and death will surely follow. Yet of the undead and the vampires, I see no sign. That, at least, is a blessing. But there are dreams of strife in Bretonnia. The King's knights may be too distracted for him to send us aid."

"What fighting is this?" asked the Wild Father, his voice gruff and curious. Ned was also intrigued; he had heard nothing of any such troubles across the Grey Mountains.

"A new Grail Knight has been blessed, and is rallying his brothers to cleanse Mousillon," the Morrian Priest explained, his words laden with grim certainty. "The Augurs have dreamed he will uncover a great necromancer lurking there. The campaign will be bloodier than anticipated. Among the Cult there is talk of sending the Knights of the Raven to aid Bretonnia once battle is joined."

"A wise plan," Immanuel-Ferrand said, nodding with urgency. "The undead must be crushed the moment they rise, lest they grow into a scourge. As for us in the Empire, we need to focus on defeating the Beastmen first. If the foul creatures are not driven back into the forest and purged root and branch, then nothing else will matter."

Speer, the Myrmidian priestess, leaned forward, her sharp eyes flashing. "Precautions must be taken against the Ratmen as well. Train the town militias more often, spread tales of mutant infiltrators aiding the Beastmen, increase the sewer patrols, and bring in Dwarfen engineers to survey the undercity and reinforce our defenses."

"All sound proposals," Volkmar agreed, his expression grim but approving. "But what of the north? The Beastmen, the rats… they are real enough, but they are symptoms of a larger disease. If an Everchosen rises, they will be the least of our worries."

"I will send word to my brethren, both within the Empire and in Kislev," said the Ulrican priest, his voice resolute. "We will watch the northern skies, hunt for omens in the deep snows and in the blood of our prey." Ned nodded to himself; Ulric's priests held sway in those frozen lands where Sigmar's light did not reach, where wolves and winter reigned supreme.

"We must all watch for signs," Reiner Starke added, his tone a shade darker. "Every lord and priest, every soldier and wizard. We must be vigilant. The storm will come, and we must be ready."

The High Chancellor spoke up next, his words carrying the weight of imperial authority. "The Emperor will subsidize efforts to stockpile provisions, munitions, and make much-needed repairs to our fortifications. Every city must prepare as if they will come under siege, for we do not know exactly where the hammer will fall."

The talk then turned to details, the endless stream of logistics that all campaigns demand. They debated how best to search for signs, how to share what they found, and how to brace themselves for the gathering storm. Plans were laid, missives dispatched, and every man and woman in the room wore the grim look of those who knew they stood on the edge of a knife.

Ned and Jon stepped aside to break their fast, taking bread, cheese, and cold meats from a side table, listening as the strategists and priests argued over provisions and garrisons, fortifications and scouts. Lord Stark added his insight here and there and it seemed appreciated.

There was much to do, and little time to do it. A storm was coming, and whether it was Skaven clawing up from below, Beastmen howling from the woods, or Chaos descending from the north, the Empire would bleed.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 19th, 2522

In Winterfell, the days were starting to grow shorter and cooler, but Sansa Stark could feel a deeper chill than the approach of autumn. Her courses had come and gone, a quiet reminder of her womanhood, but it brought her little comfort. Instead of returning to her Khazalid lessons with her usual focus, she found herself distracted, listening at doors, overhearing servants' whispers, and trying to catch glimpses of the letters that came to her mother. Missives sealed with the wax seals of the great lords of Ostermark and provinces beyond, some even from their liege the Elector-Count.

Word had come from the west, where Chancellor Hertwig was said to be fighting off hordes of Beastmen. The first two battles had been easy victories, swift and overwhelming, but the most recent battle, though also a victory, had been much bloodier and harder fought. Worse, it seemed Ostermark would get no aid from the rest of the Empire any time soon, for there were now rumors of fierce fighting in Hochland and Talabecland. It was said the foul creatures were striking up and down the length and breadth of the river, everywhere at once. Though the sun still shone bright, and the trees of Taal's Wood had just begun to turn gold and red, the news made everything feel as bleak as midwinter.

Lady Catelyn tried to hide her worry behind a composed face, but Sansa knew her mother too well. Catelyn Stark's eyes lingered too long on the horizon, and her hands fidgeted with the folds of her skirts when she thought no one was looking. She had summoned Sir Rodrik Cassel from his duties as Master of Arms to train the Winter Town militia twice a week, turning shopkeeps and tanners into halberdiers. He drilled them in the town square with wooden swords and blunt spears, his voice sharp as a whip, and Sansa watched them from her window, imagining them marching off to man the city walls and face the monstrous creatures that haunted her dreams.

Lady Stark had also ordered the city and castle to prepare for a siege, and the signs of it were everywhere. The cold cellars of Winterfell were filling up with stores of grain, barrels of gunpowder, salted fish and pork, and kegs of hard cider. Armor was being mended and polished, pikes and halberds sharpened, and the forges were never silent. Each night, the ring of the blacksmith's hammer echoed through the halls, a sound that set Sansa's teeth on edge.

The armory was coming back to life, the shelves that Robb and her father had nearly cleared out, filling once more with musket balls and stacks of halberds and matchlocks. The kennel master's boys were training the hounds harder than ever, in case the black dogs of Winterfell were needed to sniff out infiltrators. The castle's every corner was alive with the kind of grim industry that had not been seen since her father had marched off to aid Kislev five years before. The men who had not gone off to fight with Robb in the east were now sharpening blades and stacking sacks of gunpowder and potatoes, their faces drawn and grim.

Robb's absence weighed heavily on them all. He was away with the field army, fighting Greenskins on the borders of Ostermark and the World's Edge Mountains, far from the troubles that seemed to be growing closer with every passing day. With him gone, Winterfell felt strangely hollow, like a house with its heart ripped out. Sansa tried to be brave, as a Stark should, but she was not her sister. She had no taste for blood or battle, and each new rumor of Beastmen and Orcs made her stomach twist in fear.

Sansa had taken to joining her mother in the Great Hall each morning, where Lady Stark held court in her husband's absence. It was not her place to be there, not truly, but she had grown desperate to hear any fresh tidings as soon as they arrived. The Great Hall was colder than usual, the hearths burning low as wood was rationed for the winter to come, and every morning it seemed emptier, the menfolk of Winterfell working from dawn to dusk to improve the defenses of the castle and Winter Town below.

Sansa sat in the heir's chair beside her mother, her dire wolf Lady curled up at her feet. The chair was carved from a single block of rich brown oak, the wood carved with images of the ancient Ostagoth warriors who had held a fort on this hill since long before the birth of Sigmar. The carvings depicted fierce battle scenes, of warriors wearing shirts of bronze scales and wielding round shields and spears, with wild hair and savage eyes locked in eternal combat with Beastmen and goblins. She traced them with her fingers when she thought no one was looking, wondering what they had felt on the eve of war.

Her mother sat in the Lord's seat next to her, a heavy thing of carved grey stone with snarling heads of dire wolves on each armrest, polished smooth by the more than one hundred generations of Starks who had ruled from it. To the common folk, Sansa supposed it might look like a throne, but to her, it was a pale shadow of the seat her father had always made look so commanding. Lady Catelyn sat in it, straight and regal, her hands folded neatly in her lap, and she spoke with a firm, measured voice that Sansa thought suited the gravity of the situation well. But still, it didn't seem quite right. Sansa could not shake the feeling that the chair did not belong to her mother, for Catelyn was only borrowing it until its true lord returned. Perhaps it was because Sansa had grown too used to seeing her father there, a presence as solid and unyielding as the stone itself.

Most of those who came before Lady Stark were smallfolk from the nearby hamlets and market towns, with petitions for aid or complaints of petty disputes. She would hear them out, dispense what justice she could, and send them on their way, her brow furrowed in thought. Sansa listened keenly, catching fragments of news that were woven through their words, talk of goblins growing bolder near the Gryphon Wood, of odd lights seen flickering on the hills in the distance, of livestock gone missing in the night with sign of Beastmen tracks.

Today was no different, until the herald's voice broke through the low murmur of the hall, drawing all eyes to the doors. "Messengers from the Baron of Dunbroch, bearing correspondence from Robb Stark, heir of Lord Eddard Stark and Lieutenant General of Imperial State Troops."

Lady Stark waved the messengers forward, her attention shifting swiftly from the crofter who had been pleading his case about lost sheep. The man stepped aside without a word, his own concerns forgotten as he craned his neck, eager like everyone else to hear news from the front. Even Lady rose her head from her paws to look curiously at them. The two men who stepped into the hall were clad in livery sporting the three bears of Dunbroch over fine coats of brigandine that had clearly turned aside blows, their spears marked with nicks and scratches that spoke of recent use. Dust clung to their boots, and their faces were drawn with the exhaustion of travel on a dangerous road.

They bowed deeply before Lady Catelyn. The one on the right, a lanky fellow with a grizzled beard, was the first to speak. "Lady Stark, your son was well, last we saw him six days past." Sansa's heart eased a little at that. The messengers had made remarkable time; they must have pushed hard and secured fresh mounts at every opportunity.

Catelyn's relief was plain as she smiled, though the worry never quite left her eyes. "We are gladdened to hear that," she said. "What of the state of the army? And the Greenskins? Has there been any word on their movements?"

"The army was in fine shape when we departed, my lady," the messenger reported. "Indeed, it's grown stronger still. The Griffin Legion of Kislev joined them the morning we left."

Murmurs rippled through the hall. Sansa's spirits lifted. The Griffin Legion was famed across the Old World, fierce horsemen clad in gleaming armor, their lances tipped with steel and their hearts hardened by the endless war against Chaos and the dark things that dwelt beyond Kislev's frozen borders. It was said that when the Griffin Legion rode, they rode to win.

"As for the enemy," the messenger continued, "we encountered a band of hobgoblin wolf riders the morning we departed, but your son's pistoliers drove them off with ease. The Greenskins didn't stand a chance."

"Hobgoblins?" Catelyn's brow furrowed. It was not the usual rabble of orcs and goblins they had expected. Hobgoblins were rare this far west, and their presence was troubling.

"Aye, my lady," the man confirmed with a shrug. "Why they're here, though, we cannot say."

"Strange," Catelyn said, her voice edged with concern. "And what of your journey? You look like you've seen trouble."

The messenger nodded gravely. "Aye, my lady. The Gryphon Wood is darker than it's been in years. After the turn in the river, west of Rheden, we were set upon by a dozen Beastmen lurking in the hills. Alwin was slain, butchered by a gor with a twisted horn, but we cut our way free and made for Winter Town as best we could."

A ripple of anxious murmurs ran through the hall, and Sansa's stomach twisted with dread. Beastmen, this far east and so near to Winterfell… It was too close. She whispered a silent prayer to Ulric, asking for her brother's swift return. The Gryphon Wood would need to be cleansed and soon, before these creatures grew bolder.

"Alwin was a brave man," Catelyn said, her voice steady and firm. "He did his duty, and so have you. Your courage will not be forgotten." The messengers stood a little straighter at her words, the pride in their eyes momentarily dulling the pain of loss. "Is there any other news?"

"We bear letters of correspondence from the Baron and your son," the messenger replied, reaching into his weathered leather satchel. He pulled forth two sealed letters and handed them to Lady Stark. "I think, for the most part, you will be pleased with what they contain."

Catelyn took the letters, her fingers moving deftly as she broke the seal on Robb's first. The missive was brief, and Sansa watched as her mother's copper-red eyebrows climbed higher with each passing line. She hurriedly opened the second letter, which seemed much longer, and her eyes moved swiftly over the words. When she finished, she sank back into the stone-carved chair, head tilted back under the fanged maw of the dire wolf head that topped it, a sigh escaping her lips.

"Sansa, dear," Catelyn began, her voice tinged with an odd mixture of weariness and something else Sansa couldn't quite place. "You've always had a sharper memory for these things. Remind me, what do you know of the heritage of Merida Dunbroch?"

Sansa blinked, her mind scrambling to recall the details. Her mother's sudden interest seemed peculiar, and her heart quickened. What could possibly be so urgent about a girl of sixteen? And then, with a sudden jolt of realization, it dawned on her, and her face flushed with alarm. 'Oh,' she thought, feeling the weight of dread settle in her chest. 'I hope Robb hasn't done anything foolish.'

"The Dunbrochs have held their modest castle since the Great War against Chaos," Sansa said, her voice steady as she recounted the history. "Before that, it was known as the Last Keep, but the old Baron and his sons perished in Kislev, fighting alongside Magnus the Pious. Their Master of Arms was the most senior survivor among the family's men and was awarded the fief by He Who Rode North, Edric Stark." Nearly two hundred and twenty years had passed since, a respectable reign, Sansa thought, though hardly illustrious.

"Lady Elinor's bloodline, however, is far more distinguished," Sansa continued. "She's the youngest daughter of the late lord Luthor Tyrell, a Count of Bretonnia. Her brother Mace now rules from Highgarden, a castle that they say is as grand as Winterfell, set upon a broad hill overlooking a river. It is the largest stronghold in the southern half of Lyonesse that was annexed from Mousillon, after it's descent into its current state," she paused trying to remember the particulars.

"It's only two days ride from the current border with that benighted land. Though their domain isn't near as vast as ours, it's thickly settled and prosperous, rich in fields and well-tended vineyards. They can muster a thousand horse and four thousand foot; splendidly equipped cavalry, and infantry that's quite fine by Bretonnian standards… though perhaps not by ours." Sansa caught her mother's subtle nod and pressed on.

"The Tyrells have held the county for nearly three centuries," she continued. "A dragon slew the old house and all its heirs save one, a daughter who was wed to the Steward, a landless knight of some renown. He was granted the fief by the Duke of Lyonesse, but the family's lack of a Grail Knight in their male line marked them as lesser in the eyes of their peers. Yet through clever marriages and alliances, they have steadily risen in influence. They have become a focal point of power in the southern half of the Dukedom, much of this due to Count Tyrell's mother, whose guile is said to rival that of any courtier in Bretonnia.

"This summer, their house was much talked about when Mace's second son, Garlan the Gallant fulfilled his quest for the Grail in less than a year. He has returned triumphant and now rallies knights errant to his cause, petitioning the King for a crusade to cleanse Mousillon. If he succeeds, it is widely speculated that the Tyrells will try to reestablish the dukedom under their rule, claiming much of southern Lyonesse in the process. The northern half of the duchy is so riven by infighting that it's doubtful their Duke could stop them."

"That's good," Catelyn said with a relieved sigh, leaning back in the stone chair. "Far more impressive than I remembered. I suppose since moving here, my mind's been so occupied with the Empire and Kislev that everything I once knew about Bretonnian houses has slipped away. I learned it all when I was a girl, but now…" She trailed off, lost in thought.

"Mother?" Sansa's brow furrowed. She could sense something more behind her mother's distracted tone.

Catelyn looked up, lips pressing into a thin line. "The letters," she said, setting them down on the arm of the chair. "They claim Robb and Merida Dunbroch have agreed to marry if he returns from the Mountains." Her voice wavered between pride and uncertainty, as if she were weighing the implications of each word. "And Baron Dunbroch says that Lady Elinor insists that the marriage take place in the Temple of Rhya."

'If he returned…,' The words hung in Sansa's mind like a dark cloud, twisting her stomach into knots. She couldn't bear the thought, so she pushed it away, grasping instead at the brighter notion of a wedding, of a fine match for Robb with a noble lady of good lineage. Her brother's heart was as big as his sword arm, and it seemed he hadn't fallen prey to the temptations of camp followers as she'd feared. He was still the romantic, just as he'd always been.

The Temple of Rhya was a wise and fitting choice. Any priest of a legitimate cult could marry a couple, whether they served Sigmar, Ulric, or Taal, and noble lords or judges could do the same if necessary. But the Priestesses of Rhya were the most sought after, their ceremonies renowned across the Empire and beyond. Who better to bless a union than the goddess of fertility and carnal love? A blessing from Rhya was seen as a promise of strong sons, healthy daughters, and a life filled with abundance. For a lord in Robb's position, to marry in their great abbey in Winter Town before the crowds was a shrewd move as well as a sentimental one, though, knowing Robb, the sentiment would come first.

Although, now that she thought of it, her mother had said it was Lady Elinor who'd mentioned the temple. Robb was probably so in love he hadn't even thought that far ahead Sansa thought ruefully.

Low murmurs rippled through the hall, carried on the current of fresh gossip. The news of Robb's engagement spread like wildfire, igniting whispers and sidelong glances among the gathered folk. Though Sansa prided herself on decorum and held no love for idle rumor-mongering, today it felt like a balm, a welcome distraction from the heavy weight of war and worry that had pressed upon them all.

Catelyn leaned forward in her chair; eyes fixed on the messengers. "Tell me," she said, her voice edged with the sharpness of a mother's concern, "did you see my son with Lady Merida? How did they seem to get on together?"

The second messenger, who had remained silent until now, cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Aye, my lady. They spoke long at dinner and again after, well into the night, and then once more in the morning before your son rode out. He was every bit the gentleman, courtly and honorable, and she, well… she's a spirited lass, but they seemed to suit each other well. There was fondness there, for certain."

Catelyn nodded, her expression softening just a touch. "Good," she said, but her eyes still held the glimmer of doubt, as if she could see every peril that lay between her son and his return. After a few more questions, brief and formal, the messengers were dismissed, leaving the Great Hall awash in murmurs once more.

Brauzeit 28th, 2522

Sansa found it easier to focus on her studies in the days that followed, the weight of her brother's engagement lifting her spirits even as grim tidings of bloody clashes continued to roll in from the west. Jeyne Poole, however, was insufferable, prattling endlessly about Robb's romance with Merida Dunbroch, speculating on every imagined word and gesture as if she were a courtier in Altdorf or Couronne. Sansa endured it, reminding herself that Jeyne's fantasies were a small price to pay for news of her brother's triumphs.

She still attended her mother's morning court, eager for any scrap of news. Nine days after the messengers had come, the herald announced with clear excitement, "A road warden, bearing news of victory from Robb Stark, heir of Lord Eddard Stark and Lieutenant General of Imperial State Troops."

The Great Hall buzzed like a hive; excitement at the news filling every breath. The warden, his brigandine stained with dried blood and the grime of the road, was hurried forward. He was a wiry man, face lined with hard miles and harder battles. A brace of wheellock pistols hung on his coat, along with a fine arming sword, and he bore bandages across his head and arms, the marks of recent battle.

Catelyn leaned forward, her voice edged with both urgency and dread. "What news?" she pressed. "How is Robb?"

The warden dipped his head low. "Alive and uninjured, my lady," he said, and the hall let out a collective sigh. "Your son has won a great victory. I had just arrived at Karak Kadrin, bearing correspondence with two of my fellows when Grimgor Ironhide himself laid siege to the fortress hold with a horde of eighty or ninety thousand Greenskins."

A stunned silence swept the hall, swallowing any whispers that might have followed. Grimgor Ironhide, the name alone was enough to chill the blood. That the warlord who had nearly brought Kislev to ruin had stood against Robb and the dwarfs with such a host… how had they survived?

The warden continued, his rich voice rising with the tale. "Grimgor assaulted the gates for a week, battering them day and night. His losses were great, in the tens of thousands, but he was close to breaking through, even with the dwarfs' great cannons and the magic of a Gold Order journeyman ripping through their lines," he paused for dramatic effect. "The Greenskins had their own magic, vile spells from orc shamans that darkened the sky and shook the earth. You could feel their sorcery dripping with bloodlust even from behind thick dwarf-cut walls."

He paused once more, "When your son arrived, Grimgor's forces were down to forty-five, maybe fifty thousand, split by the ravine and the narrow bridge that crossed it. Grimgor was on the Karak side with his Black Orcs and most disciplined forces. Robb struck hard, crushing the Greenskins on the far side. Grimgor, seeing his horde in disarray, tried to fight his way back, but it was too late. Robb's men cut the beasts down in waves, and by the time he crossed the bridge Grimgor was forced into a fighting retreat. Still, he is a monster of an orc, and his Black Orcs fought like demons. They broke through the encirclement and fled the field, perhaps fifteen thousand of them."

Sansa's heart swelled with pride, her mind ablaze with the image of Robb at the head of his troops, smashing through the Greenskin horde. What a victory, she thought, more glorious than she could have imagined.

The warden, emboldened by the crowd's attention, spoke with the flair of a troubadour spinning a tale at a royal court. "Robb Stark met Olgha Khan, the infamous hobgoblin wolf rider, in single combat," he declared, his voice rising. "Two blows exchanged, swift and deadly. The second found its mark, and despite the foul creature's fell blade, forged with dark magic, it was Robb who stood triumphant over his corpse."

Gasps rippled through the hall, and Sansa felt a swell of pride. Her brother, standing tall against such a foe, the kind of deed that would be sung of in taverns and told at hearthsides for years to come.

The warden continued, savoring every word. "For his valor and for leading his men to victory, Robb Stark was honored in the Great Hall of Karak Kadrin by the Slayer King himself, Ungrim Ironfist. Before the eyes of the dwarfs, he was named Dwarf Friend and given his weight in gold. The Slayer King's own Runelord promised that when Robb reaches his full growth, they would forge him a cuirass of gromril, star-wrought and fit for a king."

Sansa could not help but gasp aloud. Gromril! A prize beyond any measure of gold, worth the ransom of an Elector Count or a Bretonnian Duke. Even her mother, so often measured and restrained, rocked back in her seat, her expression one of astonished delight.

"Wonderful," Catelyn breathed, though a shadow of worry still lingered in her eyes. "But what of your journey here? Those wounds are too recent to come from the siege."

The warden's face darkened. "Three of us set out for Winter Town. We made good time until we reached the Gryphon Wood. It was there the Beastmen set upon us, again and again. We killed nearly a score of the creatures, but the woods grew darker with each step, and the farther we went, the more of them we found. I'm the only one who lived to see the end of it."

The hall, which had been alive with whispered celebrations, fell silent, the shadow of the Beastmen's lurking menace creeping in once more. Sansa felt the chill, like a cold wind blowing through the open gates of Winterfell. Victory in the mountains was one thing, but the Gryphon Wood was at their doorstep.

Catelyn frowned, her fingers drumming on the arm of the stone-carved chair. "How long until Robb's army returns?" she asked, her voice tight with unease.

"It took near a month to reach Karak Kadrin," the warden answered. "I reckon it'll take much the same to march back."

Sansa bit her lip, feeling the weight of the distance between Robb and Winterfell. A month was too long. The Beastmen were pressing closer, inch by inch, and by the time Robb returned, Winter Town might be under siege, their walls surrounded by the darkness that crept ever nearer.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 19th, 2522

Robb walked beside King Ungrim Ironfist, marveling at the grandeur of Karak Kadrin. The dwarf hold was a living testament to an age beyond his reckoning, where stone and gold told stories of a lost world. Immense pillars rose around him, wrapped in carvings that seemed to pulse with the weight of centuries. Scenes of ancient battles and glories long past were etched into every surface, dwarfs clad in resplendent armor, wielding hammers and axes against the dark, terrible things that clawed at the edges of their history.

There were the great wars with the elves, the bitterness of that betrayal eternal and somehow displayed so well in stone it was as if it was spelled out in words, shouting of the strife that had torn the world asunder in an age when men were but babes in the cradle of the earth. Robb's eyes traced the course of the goblin wars and the endless battles against green-skinned hordes. And there on the edges, the shadowy, twisting forms of Skaven, the ratmen who gnawed at the heart of the mountains. Each scene was a testament to dwarfen valor, the unending struggle of a people who refused to yield, their bearded throngs and fierce, mohawked slayers forever charging headlong into doom.

But there, in the background of some of the more recent battles, were figures that struck a chord in him, Imperial soldiers, bearing the manticore and bull of their provinces, men who had marched beside these dwarfs in their wars. Robb's heart swelled at the sight of a dire wolf banner, for in those stony visages, he saw the unbroken line of kinship between his people and these stout warriors, bound by blood and oaths that crossed the gulf of years.

Would his battle be immortalized in such stone someday? Robb wondered, his thoughts turning to the desperate clash outside the gates, where Grimgor Ironhide's horde had battered itself to ruin against dwarfen cannons and Imperial steel. He pictured the black orcs surging forward, the clash of halberd and axe, the roars of defiance and crack of gunfire that had filled the air like thunder. He thought of Olgha Khan falling before his sword, the feel of his runesword biting through polished bronze and flesh.

Would the artisans of Karak Kadrin carve his deeds into these walls? Would his face find a place among these heroes of old, or would it be forgotten, swallowed by the same darkness that had claimed so many before him? Robb could only hope that his name might linger, even if only as a footnote, in the endless tale of dwarfs and men standing side by side against a world gone mad.

"Forgive my impertinence, your majesty," Sir Jory Cassel said, stepping forward with the careful respect of a man who knew he was out of place. As head of Robb's bodyguard, he had charged beside Robb into battle, holding his banner high. "Are there certain... ceremonial forms that we must follow? Pardon my ignorance, for though I have fought beside your throngs before with Lord Stark, and even entered the Karak once, you did not address him before the Great Hall."

King Ungrim Ironfist grunted, his eyes narrowing as if to appraise the man who dared ask such a question. "No need to speak so softly with me," he replied, his tone gruff, but not unkind. "Lord Eddard has been a fine and loyal ally to Karak Kadrin, as his forefathers before him. But he never achieved what his son has, there are few men who have. Harlon Stark was the last, four centuries ago."

The name sent a ripple through Robb's thoughts, pulling at the threads of his memory. 'Harlon Stark,' he recalled from his lessons. 'He saved the life of the Slayer King and his throng, breaking through a Greenskin horde to reach him when all seemed lost. For that, he was awarded the runesword that he named Ice.'

Ungrim continued, oblivious to the young Stark's musings. "Some Starks in that time have earned a private reception in the King's royal audience chambers, but none since Harlon have earned one before the Great Hall and the folk of the hold."

The weight of that statement settled on Robb's shoulders. His deeds had granted him an honor most of his ancestors had only dreamed of, a place among the legends of both men and dwarfs. But with that honor came expectations, and responsibilities he could not ignore.

"As for what you need to do," Ungrim said, his voice rough as the stones around them, "there's nothing special. Just rest a bit in The Emperor's Griffon, a fine tavern in our human quarter. It's mainly used by merchants crazy enough to risk taking the pass to the Dark Lands and the small chance to reach Cathay. I'll have someone come get you when you're ready. Just act like you were called before your Elector-Count for some great ceremony and that will be good enough. Hold your head high. Our folk respect strength, not groveling. Show them the measure of Stark blood."

Robb nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. The Emperor's Griffon, with its fine rooms and gathering of men who dared venture into the unknown, would be a fitting place to gather his thoughts before the ceremony. The King had spoken plainly, but there was a layer of respect in his words, a recognition that Robb had earned his place here, not as a boy following in his father's shadow, but as a man who had forged his own path through blood shed in battle.

"Thank you, your majesty," Robb replied, his voice firm. He would be ready when the time came, ready to stand before the Great Hall of Karak Kadrin, where his name would be spoken among the heroes of old.

...

The Emperor's Griffon was indeed a fine establishment, a rare gem in these dangerous mountains. The walls inside were lined with polished wood panels that gleamed under the warm glow of oil lamps reflected by mirrors, so well-lit you'd almost think you were outside. The tavern could hardly be called lively though, packed with downcast patrons. Wealthy merchants and battered mercenaries nursing drinks and wounds earned defending the hold, their faces weary and eyes cast low. The chatter died abruptly when Robb Stark strode in, his polished plate armor glinting in the light, the silk of his livery drawing the eye, the mix of the two setting him apart from the richly dressed civilians and rougher warriors in the room. All eyes snapped to him, and a hush fell over the room, a collective intake of breath as if the room itself had come alive. Storm, his young dire wolf, padded silently at his side, drawing a few gasps and uneasy glances. Some men whispered prayers under their breath and clutched at holy charms. They had not expected to see such a beast among them.

Sir Jory Cassel entered close behind, his voice ringing with authority as he announced, "Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell, Lieutenant General of State Troops, and breaker of the Siege of Karak Kadrin!"

The proclamation broke the tension like a hammer on stone. Cheers erupted, and mugs were raised, the noise a thunderous roar that reverberated off the walls. Men clapped each other on the back, and cries of joy and relief filled the room.

The proprietor bustled forward, his ample belly swaying beneath a stained apron, a walking caricature of innkeepers everywhere. His thick muttonchop mustache quivered as he spoke, and his face flushed with excitement. "Praise Sigmar and Ulric both, we thought the worst when we heard the cannons go silent! You've no idea the relief you've brought, young lord. Drinks on the house, anything you like. Bretonnian wine, perhaps? Imperial ale? Or maybe something stronger, a taste of Kislevite vodka? Or if you've other appetites, we can arrange something more... personal."

Robb's eyes wandered to the tavern maids, clustered near the back, peering out like curious foxes from behind the counter and half-empty barrels. They were a fetching lot, each one a bright blossom amid the drab patrons. A blonde winked at him, the boldest of the lot, with a cascade of golden curls tumbling down to her ample bosom, her bodice straining to contain her curves. Her eyes were a deep blue, daring and coy at once, and her smile was a sultry promise. Beside her stood a tall girl, raven-haired and slender, her beauty sharp and dangerous like a dagger's edge, with high cheekbones and dark eyes that lingered just a second too long. Then there was a girl with fiery red hair that tumbled loose and wild, a smattering of freckles across her nose, and a mischievous gleam that spoke of hidden pleasures. They eyed him with keen interest, the hunger in their gazes plain as day, here was a hero, a lord in shining armor, and no doubt a rich one at that.

Robb let his gaze linger on them, feeling the weight of the past days' bloodshed pressing down on his shoulders. The smell of smoke and iron still clung to him, and the memory of his fallen men was a fresh wound. His thoughts flickered to the screams and splashing blood, the clash of steel, the green tide of orcs crashing against his halberdiers and pikemen. His men hacked down where they stood, butchered like animals. He could still see Olgha Khan's eyes mad with fury, could still feel the dark magic of the fell blade he'd wielded. The thrill of victory he'd experienced as he'd took the hobgoblin's head and crushed the Greenskin left tasted a bit more bitter now.

Turning to Jory, Robb's voice was quieter. "He said we have a couple of hours, right?"

"Aye, my lord," Jory answered, ever the loyal shadow. "It'll take some time to gather the court and prepare the Great Hall. We've time enough."

Robb nodded, slowly unbuckling his helmet and setting it down on the nearest table. "All right," he said, rubbing a gauntleted hand over his sweat-matted hair. "A small cup of vodka, then. And a girl."

He glanced back at the maids, and the blonde stepped forward with a sway of her hips, her smile wide and inviting. She curtsied, low and graceful, her eyes never leaving his. "I'll see to your drink, m'lord," she purred. "And as for company, well, you've but to name your choice."

Robb nodded, his gaze settling on her for a moment longer before he looked away. The promise of soft arms and warm flesh might not banish the ghosts of the battlefield, but it would be a distraction, if nothing else, a fleeting respite from the horrors that still lingered in his mind. And for now, that would have to be enough.

Robb's gaze moved over the women once more and this time they lingered on a shy girl his age, half-hidden behind the kitchen door, her presence like a shadow that went unnoticed until you caught it from the corner of your eye. She was not like the other maids. There was no flirtatious smile on her lips, no practiced sway to her step. Instead, she watched from a distance, her face half-lit by the warm glow of the tavern, revealing soft features and a delicate frame. Her hair was a silky dark brown, spilling over her shoulders, and her skin was a pale porcelain, a stark contrast to the ruddy complexions of the others. But it was her eyes that caught him most of all, almond-shaped, deep and thoughtful, and touched with a faraway sadness that spoke of lands beyond the Empire.

"Who's the girl in the kitchen?" Robb asked, his curiosity piqued.

The blonde glanced back, her expression shifting from surprise to mild disapproval. "Fuu?" she said, her tone carrying a note of warning. "She's the cook's helper. She doesn't… serve patrons, m'lord." The emphasis on those last words was hard to miss, and Robb could tell she thought he meant something else entirely. "That's fine," Robb said, his interest only growing. "Bring her out. Get her some wine. I just want to talk to her; I won't force her to do anything she doesn't wish to." He was no Norscan barbarian, ready to throw the girl over his shoulder and drag her off. He'd talk to her and see how things went. If he could gain her interest, good, if not, the other girls would still be there.

Frieda exchanged a skeptical look with her fellow maids, but she knew better than to argue with a lord, especially not one who'd just saved the hold from annihilation. She called out to the girl, who hesitated, her protests muffled as Frieda led her out, pushing her gently toward the table. The girl's cheeks flushed, her eyes darting nervously around the room as she sat across from Robb, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She avoided his gaze at first, but curiosity got the better of her, and she glanced up just as a goblet of wine was set in front of her. Robb's vodka arrived too, clear and sharp as ice.

Robb studied her, noting the fine lines of her face, the delicate curve of her neck, and the wary look in her eyes. "You have interesting eyes," Robb said, leaning in a little closer, his voice gentle. "Where are you from?"

"Cathay," she answered, her accent lilting and musical, carrying a hint of distant shores and ancient palaces.

Robb's brows lifted. Cathay was a land of myth and legend, a place whispered about in taverns and by merchant fresh from yearlong caravans, but rarely if ever seen. It lay five thousand miles east or more, beyond wastelands crawling with horrors: Greenskins, Skaven, Ogres, and worse. "How did you get here?" he asked, unable to hide his amazement. He gestured vaguely, his words unable to bridge the vast, hostile miles that lay between them and her home. "There's half a world of monsters between here and there."

Fuu took a sip of her wine, her eyes distant as if looking back through the years. "My father was a knight from the west, with sunflowers on his coat. After my mother passed, I left home to find him, but I couldn't afford a ship. In the courtyard of Fu-Chow, I saved the lives of two swordsmen, experts of their art, and they promised to escort me as far as they could. One was an exiled warrior from the island kingdom of Nippon named Jin, the other a rebel named Mugen who had escaped the blood drenched Kingdoms of Khuresh and the dreaded Snakemen who rule there," she paused shivering at the very thought of it.

She went on, "they guided me across the length and breadth of Cathay, from that great port city to the Mountains of Mourne, across the Ogre Kingdoms and through the Dark Lands, fought off orcs and ogres and far, far worse." She smiled faintly; a touch of pride mixed with sorrow. "Over the course of a year and a half they saved my life a hundred times over, but when we reached this Karak, they told me their debt was repaid. From here, they said, I must go on alone."

Robb blinked, marveling at the tale. It was like something out of the old stories, the kind he'd grown up hearing beside the hearth. "They must have been skilled indeed," he said, impressed. "To cross such lands with only two blades between them..." His thoughts turned to her father, this mysterious knight with a coat of sunflowers. "A coat of armor bearing sunflowers, that sounds Bretonnian. But if that's true, then you still have nearly two thousand miles to go... and Bretonnia's no small kingdom, a land full of knights and petty lords."

The enormity of her journey lay heavy in the air, and Robb found himself wondering just what kind of man could inspire such devotion.

Robb knocked back his drink, feeling the vodka burn down his throat and then pool warm in his belly. Then he leaned forward, studying her reaction. "You can accompany my army back to Winter Town. From there, you could charter a ship down the Talabec. That would take you four fifths of the way across the Empire, right down to Altdorf. Compared to what you've already crossed, what's left would be a short trip."

Fuu's brow furrowed, her expression caught between hope and resignation. "I'm sure it's cheaper than an ocean ship," she said, her voice thoughtful yet edged with worry. "But I can't afford that, not even close."

Robb smiled warmly, his eyes glinting with mischief. "I could be convinced to pay the fare."

Her head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise, the flush in her cheeks deepening. She pulled back as if she'd been stung, then quickly hid her embarrassment behind the goblet, gulping down the wine as if it might steel her nerves. For a moment, she stared into the dark liquid, lost in thought, the silence stretching between them. Robb could see the wheels turning in her mind, the weight of the journey ahead measured against the miles she'd already survived.

When she finally set the goblet down, her lips were stained red, and she chewed at her lower lip, eyes distant and filled with longing. "That would bring me almost there," she murmured, half to herself. "Too close to give up now."

She looked up at him then, her gaze sharper, a flicker of determination shining through. She nodded, a silent agreement, and Robb could see she had made up her mind.

Fuu led him to a small back room, her steps hesitant as if she wasn't quite sure of the path she'd chosen. She paused before the door, awkwardly biting her lip as Jory unbuckled the straps of Robb's plate, piece by piece. When the last of it fell away, Robb was left in nothing but his sweat-soaked gambeson and riding trousers. The gambeson soon joined the rest of his armor on the floor and the girl pushed the door open and ushered him inside, lighting a trio of beeswax candles that filled the room with a soft, warm glow.

The chamber was scarcely larger than a closet, barely six feet by four. A rickety cot was pressed against one wall, its straw mattress covered by a faded quilt. Next to it against the far wall stood a table, small and sturdy, with a basin for water set on top along with a polished steel mirror that seemed out of place amidst such humble surroundings. Robb wondered at its origins, spoils taken from some nameless battlefield in the Dark Lands, or perhaps a cherished memento of better days.

"How… how do you want to do this?" Fuu's voice trembled, her breath catching as she glanced up at him. She was nervous, eyes darting everywhere but him. Robb found himself thinking of Merida, would she be so uncertain when their first time came? No, he decided, Merida was far too bold, too sure of herself to be fluttering like a frightened sparrow.

He cupped Fuu's face in his hand, his thumb brushing lightly across her cheek. Leaning down, he kissed her softly. "Just follow my lead," he whispered, his voice low and reassuring. He kissed her again, his lips trailing down her chin to her neck as she tilted her head back, offering herself to him with a breathy sigh.

His fingers fumbled at the unfamiliar stays of her foreign dress, tugging and pulling until the strange fabric loosened. The garment fell open, revealing a chest much fuller than he'd expected, and he cupped the warm, yielding flesh in his hands. Fuu gasped at his touch, her skin soft beneath his calloused palms as his thumbs brushed over her nipples, firm and taut. She shivered, her breath quickening, and Robb found himself drawn into the moment, the world outside the small, candlelit room slipping away.

Robb leaned down and took a ripe, dark nipple between his lips, flicking his tongue against it as she arched beneath him, her back bowing in a graceful curve. Fuu's breath hitched, her fingers tangling in his auburn hair, pulling him closer as he moved from right to left, savoring her taste. Her skin was smooth and warm, a balm against the cold stone of the Karak that surrounded them.

The kisses grew fiercer, hungrier, until Robb found himself reaching for the basin on the table, setting it aside on the floor. He lifted Fuu and seated her on the edge of the table, her legs parting instinctively to make room for him.

"Why?" she gasped, breathless and wide-eyed, her voice trembling with a mix of nerves and anticipation.

Robb ran a hand up the length of her calf, feeling the tension in her muscles, the smoothness of her skin beneath the hem of her skirt. "The cot doesn't look sturdy enough," he murmured against her lips, his mouth finding hers again. He felt her shiver as his fingers slipped higher, teasing the soft flesh of her thigh. The desk creaked beneath them, solid and unyielding, and Robb was glad for it; in a place like this, even passion had to be practical.

Robb's hand ventured further, slipping beneath the folds of her skirt until his fingers brushed against the unexpected, a pair of split pantalettes, fashioned for ease and quick trips to the privy. The garment gave him ready access, an open invitation that surprised him, though he doubted it was intended that way.

He pressed onward, his touch finding the soft curls nestled between her thighs, a contrast to the roughness of his calloused hands. She tensed, then relaxed, her breath catching as he explored further, tracing the warm, yielding contours of her. Soft folds, delicate and inviting, parted at his touch, and he felt the slick heat of her, the unmistakable sign of her readiness.

Fuu bit her lip, her hands gripping the edge of the table as she looked at him through half-lidded eyes, caught between fear and desire. Robb moved with deliberate care, his fingers coaxing soft sighs from her, the air thick with the mingled scents of candle wax, wine, and something more primal.

His thumb found a small, sensitive bud nestled among the folds, and he brushed it gently, circling with slow, deliberate movements. Fuu gasped, her breath hitching as she clutched the edge of the small table tighter, knuckles whitening. Robb watched her reaction, entranced by the way her eyes fluttered shut and her lips parted, a soft, tremulous sound escaping her throat.

He rolled the button beneath his thumb, teasing and testing, feeling the way she responded to each subtle shift in pressure. Her hips lifted involuntarily, seeking more of his touch, her body yielding to him in small, tentative movements. The room was filled with the soft creak of wood and the ragged sound of her breathing, mingling with the low murmur of his own whispered reassurances.

"I don't understand," she whimpered in denial, her voice tinged with both defiance and desperation. "I'm just doing this for a boat ride."

Robb's hands never faltered, his touch insistent yet patient, coaxing her body into a rhythm that her mind still fought to deny. "Sometimes," he murmured, his lips brushing against the hollow of her throat, "things don't make sense until they do." His words were soft, almost a promise, lost between the heat of his breath and the flicker of candlelight that danced across her flushed skin.

Fuu's protest faded into a bitten lip, her brow furrowing in a conflict of desire and disbelief. Her hips began to move more urgently, rising to meet him, a silent plea for more. She clung to the edge of reason, but her body betrayed her, guided by instincts that had no place for logic or restraint. Robb watched her, mesmerized, savoring the surrender written in every shiver, every breathless gasp.

She shuddered beneath his touch, her defenses unraveling like a spool of thread pulled too tight as she came undone, all soft gasps and trembling limbs, the tension that had held her tight finally breaking. Fuu's hands grasped at him, searching for something solid as her body quaked and her breath hitched, her head thrown back against the rough stone wall.

Robb wasted no time, unbuckling his trousers and pushing them to the floor. He moved with the practiced ease of a man who knew the weight of armor and the swiftness of a blade, positioning himself between her parted thighs. The desk creaked beneath her, and her breath hitched in anticipation. The room seemed to shrink around them, walls closing in, the flicker of candlelight casting shadows that danced and swayed in time with their hurried movements. He settled the swollen head of his cock against the heat of her virgin opening, and there was no more room for hesitation, no more space for doubts.

Robb sank into her, deep and slow, a quiet hiss escaping his lips as he felt her wet heat yield around him. The desk creaked beneath their weight, but Fuu didn't seem to notice as she groaned in some odd mix of pain and pleasure, her legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer. She was so warm, impossibly tight, and every inch he claimed felt like a victory, a conquest more intimate than any battlefield.

Her breath hitched, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she tried to catch the rhythm, the last vestiges of her hesitation melting away. Robb moved with a measured intensity, driving into her with each thrust, savoring the way she clung to him, the way her gasps filled the small room like a prayer unanswered.

Here, in this dim, candle-lit corner of the world, far from the eyes of kings and the weight of duty, there was nothing but the raw and unspoken connection between them, simple, ephemeral, and utterly consuming.

Robb drove hard, each thrust a testament to the fiery vitality he felt here, in stark contrast to the blood-soaked chaos of the battlefield. Outside, his world was one of battle and bloodshed; inside this small room, amidst the flickering light of beeswax candles, was something more elemental, more immediate, raw, fervent life.

It did not take long for either of them. The tension built quickly, a crescendo of breathless gasps and muted cries, until they reached the pulsing culmination of their fervor. His hips straining as he pushed as deep as possible, manhood jerking inside her as he spasmed and spilled his seed, her slick walls fluttering around him, gripping him tight.

The room was filled with the heady mix of their shared release, their bodies entwined, both spent and breathless. The world outside seemed to fall away, leaving only the echo of their shared, fleeting passion in the quiet aftermath.

"That was a fine distraction," Robb murmured into the silky sheen of her brown hair as he gently withdrew, his voice carrying the deep, throaty satisfaction of a man who had found solace in fleeting moments of peace amidst a life of strife. "But now I need to prepare for a grand audience before the King and the dwarfs of the hold in the Great Hall."

Fuu's eyes, wide and questioning, met his as he pulled up his trousers. "Are you so great a lord?" she asked, her voice a mix of wonder and uncertainty.

"My father is the lord," Robb replied with a soft, rueful smile. "Not I. I pray that I've many years yet to grow into that mantle. He commands a great keep, a bustling riverport, and a quarter of Ostermark as his domain. You'll see much of it when we march back."

She nodded, accepting the gravity of his words as she hopped down from the small table, smoothing her skirts and refastening her blouse. Robb's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he turned, retrieving his money pouch. He slipped a couple of gold crowns and several silver shillings into his hand, the gleam of the coins reflecting in the dim light.

"Here," he said, pressing one crown into her palm. "That should secure you a small private cabin to Altdorf. The rest should see you well into Bretonnia."

"Thank you," Fuu said quietly, her eyes following him with a mix of gratitude and lingering curiosity. As Jory began to assist Robb with donning his armor, the quiet buzz of the tavern's mundane reality seemed to intrude upon the brief sanctuary of their shared moment.

Chapter Text

"I'll have someone fetch you when my army's ready to move," Robb said, his voice carrying a note of finality as he turned toward the common room.

He paused on the threshold, a thought striking him. "I met a Bretonnian questing knight on the way here, Sir Phoebus. He came seeking aid for the Karak and he mentioned he'd been here for some time beforehand. Did you happen to speak to him about the knight of sunflowers?"

Fuu's eyes flickered with recognition. "Yes," she replied softly. "He believed there was a family bearing that coat of arms sworn to the Count of Highgarden. But as he hailed from Carcassonne, he wasn't entirely certain."

Robb's brow furrowed. "Highgarden? That's the county my betrothed's uncle rules. I'll have to inquire with her about this family when we rendezvous at her father's keep after we leave the mountains. If she doesn't know, her mother surely will."

Fuu's cheeks flushed, and she looked down, as if unsure of how to respond. "Your betrothed?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"Yes," Robb said with a hint of pride, his gaze warm as he spoke of her. "She's a fine lady. This news is very fortuitous for you. Highgarden narrows your search greatly, though it will require you to traverse the length of Bretonnia as it is on the far side of that country from the Empire."

She nodded slowly, absorbing the implications of his words, her gaze thoughtful and distant as she considered the arduous journey ahead

"Be ready to leave at a moment's notice," Robb said, his tone firm as he bade Fuu farewell. He made his way back to the common room, settling into a corner with Jory, his guards and a stout ale that he sipped contemplatively, lost in thought about the battle, the Cathayan girl and the royal audience to come.

He had barely finished half of his mug when a dwarf clad in ornate plate armor appeared. His beard was long and white, and his expression was a mixture of bemusement and disapproval as he wrinkled his nose,. "Leave a young human alone for two hours," the dwarf grumbled, his voice a gravelly rumble. "And look what they get up to. No wonder there are so many of you." He shook his head with a shrug. "Well, no matter. The king's waiting. Let's go."

Robb, caught off guard by the dwarf's blunt remark, felt the heat rise to his cheeks. He silently wished he had his helm on to hide behind, as the dwarf's words elicited a wave of laughter from the patrons around them. He rose, straightening his back, and picked up his helmet and the great runesword Ice, feeling the weight of both his lineage and the moment pressing down upon him.

The longbeard led him out of the tavern with a brisk, purposeful stride. As they stepped into the chill night air, Robb's mind shifted to the audience awaiting him, the significance of the moment weighing heavily on his shoulders.

Robb handed his helm to Jory, letting his face be seen, unmasked and open to the scrutiny of those he would meet. The runesword, however, he kept firmly in hand, its weight a steady reminder of the ancient bond between his house and the Dwarfs of the Slayer Keep.

The dwarf guiding him, though short as all his folk were, was a mountain of a figure, wielding a massive two-handed hammer in one hand that seemed as much a part of him as his beard. They halted before a colossal set of steel gates, the burnished metalwork a testament to Dwarfen artistry, each panel depicting legends of the Ancestor Gods and their epic deeds.

The dwarf's voice, rough and commanding, cut through the ambient noise. "Hold here a moment. I'll announce you to the King. When you enter, walk to the throne. Stop two human strides from His Majesty and pay your respects." He paused, "Your men and the dire wolf will have to remain here, I'm afraid."

Robb nodded in understanding, his gaze shifting to the gates that loomed before him, and then back to the dwarf. The ceremonial instructions were straightforward, but the gravity of the moment was not lost on him. The corridors of Karak Kadrin, filled with the distant murmur of voices and the clinking of metal, seemed to close in with a solemn weight as he awaited the herald's signal.

He reached down to ruffle Storm's fur. "You stay with Jory," he whispered and the wolf chuffed in understanding.

The longbeard strode forward, the thudding of the handle of his great hammer on the stone floor echoing like distant thunder. "Presenting the heir of Eddard, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Governor of Winter Town, Warden of the World's Edge Mountains, Viscount of the Veldt, and Member of the League of Ostermark. Here is Robb Stark, Lieutenant General of Imperial State Troops, Slayer of Oglah Khan, and breaker of the 91st siege of Karak Kadrin."

Robb entered with a measured pace, his head held high. The hall was a colossus of stone and grandeur, the walls lined with thousands upon thousands of silent spectators. The Karak's throng in the first lines and the civilians behind them. The sheer scale of it dwarfed any hall he had seen before, its vaults stretching so high he thought Winterfell's great keep might fit under them, the air heavy with the scent of metal beaten at the forge and age-old smoke.

He moved forward, the hush of the crowd pressing in on him, and stopped precisely two strides from the spectacular throne upon which King Ungrim Ironfist sat. With a fluid grace honed by years of courtly training, he executed a bow of such depth and elegance that it could have graced the courts of Altdorf. The sweep of his movement was both a tribute and a declaration, a show of respect to the Dwarf king that spoke of the weight of his own honor and the reverence he held for this ancient and storied race.

"Long have the Starks been good neighbors of Karak Kadrin, even by the standards of the Dawi," King Ungrim Ironfist's voice boomed through the vast hall, echoing off stone and iron. "A Stark has held the south bank of the Fortenhaf crossing for so long that even their scholars have forgotten it was called that, since two centuries before the birth of Sigmar."

Robb straightened before the Slayer King, fighting to keep his face impassive. Old Nan's stories had whispered of ancient ties, of Starks as chiefs among the Ostagoths before Sigmar's coming, and Loremaster Luwin had recited epic sagas that claimed the same. But records from the days of Sigmar were as rare as hen's teeth, almost all lost to time or the destruction of war. The days before him were shrouded in shadow and myth, their history told more by firelight tales than any written word.

"The Starks were good and trustworthy trade partners from the beginning," Ungrim went on, his voice like the grinding of stone, "and as their prosperity grew and their power spread beyond the Gryphon Wood, across the Veldt, they became allies in the fight against the creatures of the Dark, battling with us against Greenskins and worse."

Robb held himself still as the King continued, his words a testament to centuries of blood and honor. "A hundred and twenty generations of manlings, and though a few have been indifferent to us, none has played us false or betrayed us. Most have been faithful allies, and a few, above all… Theon the Hungry Wolf, Cregan the Wise, and Harlon the Dreadful have been named Dwarf Friend. Now, we add Robb the Young Wolf to that number, for his achievements have matched or exceeded all those before him. If he is not a Dwarf Friend, then the phrase has no meaning."

Robb's heart quickened. He had heard the title Dwarf Friend spoken of with envy in the halls of Winterfell, and of the honor that came with it. Ungrim's gaze bore into him, as fierce as any griffin's. "He has saved this hold. Saved its people. For this, I name him Dwarf Friend. I award him his weight in gold, and once he has reached his full growth, our Runelord shall forge him a mighty cuirass of star-wrought gromril, fit for a king and able to withstand the blows of dragons and daemons."

Robb's breath caught in his throat. He had come to Karak Kadrin seeking to fight, to honor his family's legacy, but this… this was a gift beyond measure, a promise of wealth and power, forged in the fires of ancient oaths.

"There are no words, King Ironfist," Robb said, his voice steady but laden with the weight of the moment, "that can truly convey the emotions I feel now." He kept his eyes on the Slayer King, aware of the thousands of Dwarfen eyes upon him, each gaze as sharp as a whetted axe. "When I marched east a month ago, I did so with a single purpose: to make my father proud. To show him that his trust in me was not misplaced."

Robb paused, feeling the heat of the hall, the pride, and expectation that hung heavy in the air. He could feel the eyes of his guards, the longbeards, the thanes, all waiting for him to falter or rise. "To receive such praise from the Slayer King of Karak Kadrin, from a warrior of your stature... it is more than I ever imagined," he said, his voice tinged with humility and awe. "Even after the victory we have won together, this honor is overwhelming."

He bowed his head, not in submission but in respect, feeling the weight of his words, of his deeds, and of the ancient bonds renewed between his house and the Dwarfs of Karak Kadrin.

"You've done more than make your father proud, young Stark," Ungrim Ironfist boomed, his laughter echoing off the stone walls. "You've… what's this?" The king's smile faltered as his gaze shifted beyond Robb.

Robb turned, and his breath caught at the sight of something rare; a lady dwarf. It was said there was only one born for every two dwarf men. He'd only glimpsed a few from a distance in Winterfell's small dwarf quarter, manning shops and storefronts. She wore a flowing purple dress trimmed in gold, her presence commanding yet dignified. Around her neck hung a runic medallion, heavy and ancient, gleaming in the torchlight. Though Robb could not read the runes, he knew enough from his lessons with Loremaster Luwin to recognize the garb of a cleric of Valaya, the dwarf Ancestor God of hearth and healing.

She approached the king with purpose, turning so she could address the two of them at once.

"The Bretonnian has awoken," she announced. Her voice was no louder than normal, yet the sudden hush that had fallen over the great hall made her words carry like a bell tolling in the dark. "He's had another vision. Beastmen battling Imperial soldiers along the length and breadth of the Talabec and unto even the farthest reaches of the Drakwald. A great gor leads them, with sweeping horns and a single eye. But he is not the true threat. In the shadows behind him, like a puppet master pulling strings, is a great bray shaman...with wings."

Robb felt a cold dread settle in his chest. Khazrak One-Eye was dangerous enough, a scourge that had raided the heartlands of Middenland for nearly a decade, but as the thrall of that fell sorcerer… Malagor the Dark Omen? The thought was disastrous.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I must ready my men. We march for Ostermark without delay." He turned to the cleric, eyes pleading for some good news. "Blessed cleric, forgive my ignorance for I know not how to address you, but how many of my wounded can march back to Winterfell?"

She pursed her lips, considering. "There's a difference between marching and marching and then being able to fight when you get there, young lord. Of your twenty-three hundred wounded, perhaps fifteen hundred might make the march. Eight hundred should remain; they need rest, not the strain of battle. It will be no burden to keep them here; most have no need to occupy the beds in the healing quarters or receive specialized care. They simply need time for bones to knit and stitched gashes to close. The Kislevites' proportions are similar."

Robb's mind raced, tallying the grim arithmetic. Twenty-seven hundred dead, eight hundred too broken to leave, and fifteen hundred well enough to limp their way back to Winterfell and still fight. Well... the priests of Shallya would make sure the worst of those who marched with them were in fighting shape by the time they reached the woods.

Still, of the twenty-one and a half thousand men he'd marched out with, he'd return to Ostermark with eighteen thousand, bolstered by perhaps sixteen or seventeen hundred Kislevite lancers. It would have to be enough. If he could carve his way through the Gryphon Wood and reach Winterfell, they would be able to make their stand.

"We will hold," Robb vowed quietly, gripping Ice's hilt until his knuckles whitened. "By Ulric, by Sigmar, by every god that has ever watched over Ostermark, we will hold."

"And the Dawi will hold with you!" Ungrim Ironfist's voice rang out like the clash of hammers on anvils, his fiery gaze sweeping across the hall. "A throng of a thousand dwarfs will march beside you, warriors of Karak Kadrin, veterans of a hundred battles, each one worth ten men. And a hundred of them slayers, bound by their oaths of death and honor, eager to meet their doom in the blood of our foes. Let no one say Karak Kadrin leaves a debt unpaid or a favor unreturned."

Robb felt a surge of gratitude, the gravity of his burdens momentarily lifted. A thousand dwarfs, stalwart, unyielding, each with decades, perhaps centuries, of battle-hardened experience. They would fight without flinching, axe in hand and iron in their hearts. This was no meager promise; it was a force that could turn the tide.

He dipped his head in deep respect. "The sons of Ulric and Sigmar welcome your aid with all our hearts," Robb declared, his voice steady, though his own heart thundered within his chest. "We will fight as brothers, as our ancestors did before us, man and dwarf side by side. And we will hold."

Ungrim's eyes gleamed, and he nodded in grim approval. "Then may the enemies of the Dwarfs and Empire tremble," the Slayer King growled, his grip tightening on his mighty runeaxe. "For they will find no mercy, no quarter, and no retreat. Only death awaits them on the swords of men and the axes of dwarfs. For Karak Kadrin and Winterfell alike, we will carve their doom into the annals of history."

Robb grinned fiercely. For the first time since he'd heard the words of the cleric, he was certain of victory. It would be a hard road back to Ostermark, and a harder fight still to hold it. But with the dwarfs marching at his side, they were sure to stand against the darkness and drive it back, as his forebears had done for centuries.

"We march together," Robb said, his voice echoing in the great hall, resolute and defiant. "And together, we will prevail."

"I must go and prepare my men to march, King Ironfist," Robb said, dipping into a bow, eager to set things in motion.

Ungrim Ironfist let out a low chuckle, the sound like gravel grinding beneath an iron boot. "You may have forgotten, lad, being beneath rock and stone as we are, but the sun's sinking behind the mountains as we speak. Night is upon us. You'll have to wait until morning."

Robb nodded, feeling a flush creep up his neck. "Ah, of course. You're right, as ever, your majesty. But I should still speak with my officers. There's much to arrange, much to set in order before first light. And if it pleases you, I would also ask for the Gold Order Journeyman. We'll need him, I think, to counter the enemy's bray shamans. If he can be convinced to march with us our chances will be much greater."

Ungrim stroked his beard thoughtfully, his eyes flickering with something between amusement and respect. "A prudent request. A battle wizard at your side will be worth several regiments when the winds of magic blow foul." The King turned to his herald, his voice as commanding as the crash of a war drum. "Kragurd, go to the trophy room and fetch some small piece of ithilmar, a dagger or trinket will do. Wizards are fond of such baubles, especially those with a taste for metal. Then send him to Lord Stark. I think we'll see that having been so rewarded for his good work in the siege, he'll be in a positive mood to listen to Lord Stark's request. If not, see if the prospect of a personal letter of recommendation and praise by myself to Balthasar Gelt will sway him."

The Longbeard, who had introduced Robb with such formality moments before, dipped his head. "Yes, my King," he said, and then he turned, his armor clanking softly as he strode away, purpose in every step.

Robb watched him go, a faint smile playing at his lips. Ungrim knew the ways of men and wizards alike; a piece of ithilmar, rare as dragon's breath and prized above all, would surely soften the journeyman's heart. Robb's mind was already on the campaign ahead, the strategies forming in his head, but for now, the first moves would have to wait until dawn.

"The work never ends, your majesty," Robb said, inclining his head to the King once more.

Ungrim nodded, his expression hardening into something like approval. "No, lad. It doesn't. But with friends beside you and steel in your hand, it's work worth doing."

Robb bade the King farewell, bowing low before turning on his heel and beginning the long walk back toward the Karak gates. The corridors were wide and echoing, lined with statues of ancient heroes carved in granite, the flickering light of braziers casting long shadows that danced like ghosts on the walls. His steps were heavy with the weight of the responsibilities ahead, the endless march, and the battles yet to be fought. Beyond the gates lay his army, camped on the far side of the great bridge that spanned the deep ravine before the hold. His men would be waiting for orders, for the word to make ready and move.

He turned to Jory Cassel, who followed close at his side, ever faithful and ready. "Send one of your lads to fetch the Cathayan girl, Fuu," Robb said, his voice firm. "She asked for safe passage to Winter Town, and I told her she could travel with us. Also, I saw road wardens in the common room. Three of them. Have your man hire them for a special task. I want them riding out before dawn, ahead of the army. Their charge will be to bring word of our victory to Winter Town, and let the people know we're on our way."

"Aye, my lord," Jory said, nodding smartly. He turned to one of his men and relayed Robb's commands. The man gave a quick salute and jogged off toward the tavern, disappearing into the dim-lit corridors with the haste of a courier on urgent business.

Robb watched him go, then resumed his march. The trip to Karak Kadrin had taken them a hard month of riding, and he did not expect the return journey to be any easier, likely far worse. With the Gryphon Wood teeming with Beastmen, their passage through the forest was sure to be hotly contested. They would have to push hard through Peak Pass and across the Veldt, pressing their advantage where they could, and then striking swiftly and without mercy. There was no room for delay, no place for rest or respite. Every day would be a struggle, every night a trial. That was the life of a Stark, of a soldier, and a lord.

He pictured Winter Town in his mind's eye, its smoky chimneys, the pointed rooftops built for snow, the walls of Winterfell rising above it all, strong and unyielding. His people would be waiting, hoping, trusting in their young lord to bring them through. And bring them through he would, or die trying.

'We'll get there,' he declared to himself. 'With Ulric and Sigmar behind us, we'll make it home.'

With one last look at the ancient halls of Karak Kadrin, Robb Stark set his mind to the road ahead. The journey was long, and the enemies many, but his will was iron, and his purpose clear.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 20th-24th, 2522

The camp stirred long before dawn, the low murmur of voices blending with the rustle of tents and the clatter of armor as men prepared for another long march. For Robb Stark, the transition from the aftermath of an intense battle to another day of marching was easier than he had expected. The men were still locked into the rhythm of early starts and long days, conditioned by the month-long march to Karak Kadrin. The routine brought a strange comfort in its familiarity, the predictability of orders given and followed, boots laced, and blades sharpened.

More men than horses had fallen during the battle, leaving them with a surplus of steeds that would serve as remounts or pack animals. A small mercy amidst the grim toll. It would ease the burden of the march ahead, if only by a fraction. Robb could not help but see it as a faint glimmer of silver on the edge of a storm cloud, a hint of luck in a situation that promised dark days ahead.

The priests of Morr moved among the ranks of the dead, their somber robes heavy with the dust and blood of the battlefield. They had pleaded to stay, to consecrate each body with the proper rites, but time was a luxury Robb could not afford. Still, they had reached a compromise, one priest would remain behind to work alongside the clerics of Gazul, the Dawi ancestor god of the dead. The bond between the two cults was old and strong, the friendship between men and dwarfs extending even to matters of the soul. It was a comfort, knowing the dead would be honored, even if he could not stay to witness it.

Sir Phoebus, the Bretonnian knight who had fought with such valor against Grimgor, would not be riding out with them. All his ribs were broken and his breath labored, but he refused to concede that he would miss the upcoming campaign. "I'll be fit to ride within the week," he had declared with stubborn pride, vowing to catch up with them before they reached the Gryphon Wood. Robb could not help but believe him; the man's resolve was iron, his faith unshakable. It would not surprise him in the least if the Lady of the Lake blessed Sir Phoebus with the Grail before long. The knight had been bested, but his courage had shone bright, a banner against the dark.

Robb watched as the camp bustled with purpose, the last of the fires doused, the banners unfurled, and the columns of men starting to form up, getting ready for the road. The sun was still low, hidden behind the craggy peaks, and a chill hung in the air, but the promise of movement, of heading homeward, filled them all with renewed determination. They had hundreds of miles to go and enemies to face, but they were alive, and they were moving. That, at least, was something.

Word of Beastmen attacks in the west of Ostermark had been carefully spread among the men. The rank and file were informed of the threat, enough to stir them to action and vigilance, but the details of Sir Phoebus' vision were kept within the inner circle of Robb's officers. Khazrak One-Eye and Malagor the Dark Omen were names to inspire terror, and Robb knew that too much fear could paralyze his men before they even faced the enemy. Better to stoke their determination with the promise of battle against an ancestral foe, one they had bested time and again, than to drown them in dread.

As he sat on his great bay warhorse, watching his men prepare to depart, he heard the gates of Karak Kadrin begin to move and turned toward them. The great metal clad stone doors creaked open, revealing the promised Dwarfen throng. A thousand strong, they marched with a steady, unyielding rhythm, their presence a reminder of the ancient strength that had held these mountains for millennia. At the head of the column, a hundred Slayers strode forward, their orange mohawks blazing like fire in the morning light, axes slung over their broad shoulders. Their bare chests were crisscrossed with scars, eyes ablaze with the fire of the lost oaths, broken promises and the failures that had led them down this path. Leading them was King Ungrim Ironfist himself, the Slayer King, his monstrous rune axe glinting ominously as he advanced.

Robb felt a swell of admiration and gratitude as he observed the Dawi. Their numbers might not match the legions of men under his command, but their skill and valor were worth ten times their weight in steel and shot. He reached into his saddlebag and retrieved a Tilean spyglass, bringing it to his eye to better see the figure riding alongside the Dwarfs. It was Ludger Scherler, the Gold Order journeyman. The wizard had visited Robb's camp the night before and had pledged to march with them to Winter Town. From what Robb had heard of Ludger's performance during the siege, the man was long overdue for promotion to Magister. His presence would be invaluable in the battles to come, especially against the dark sorceries of the Beastmen.

Robb scanned the rest of the column, his eyes catching on a feminine figure trailing behind the dwarfs. Fuu, the half Cathayan girl. She was cutting it close, but he supposed she had wanted one last night in a bed, no matter how paltry it might be, compared to a night on the hard ground. She was resourceful though, and Robb trusted she would keep up.

The road wardens had already ridden out before first light, carrying word of his victory to Winter Town. Each man had three horses with him and letters of writ that would see them supplied with remounts from any vassal in his father's domain. With such resources they should be able to make forty to fifty miles a day and arrive to give word to his mother in eight to ten… if the Beastmen didn't get to them.

They were Imperial Road Wardens, skilled and dangerous, but that didn't mean their success was assured. He could only pray the gods favored them.

There was nothing more to do now but march, and face whatever awaited them in the Gryphon Wood. He lowered the spyglass and slid it back into his saddlebag, his mind already turning to the tasks ahead. The road back to Winterfell would be long and perilous, and the Gryphon Wood was likely to be hotly contested. But they were strong, and with Ulric and Sigmar behind them, they would make it home.

Robb leaned over to Sir Manderly; his voice low but commanding. "Get the men moving. Pistoliers out in front to scout the way. Usual formation, infantry first, then the artillery and supply train. The dwarfs will follow, and the heavy cavalry will bring up the rear and guard us from any surprises."

"Aye, my lord," Manderly replied, a stout and loyal knight, who gave a quick salute before turning to bark orders at the men.

Robb watched the lines stir to life, men moving with practiced precision as they took their places. He rode forward, Storm loping after him, meeting King Ungrim Ironfist as the Dawi made their way across the stone bridge. The Slayer King's throng marched in perfect unison, axes and crossbows glinting in the sunlight, their heavy boots echoing with each determined step.

It seemed that the King had left his thunderers and hammerers at home. Robb couldn't blame him for leaving his best to guard the hold, after all it had just gone through a terrible, bloody siege.

"Your throng looks magnificent, Your Majesty," Robb greeted, eyes taking in the disciplined ranks of muscle and steel.

"It may look shiny now, Stark, but it'll look truly glorious when their axes are wet with the blood of Beastmen," Ungrim proclaimed, his face hard as the stone of his hold.

Robb laughed, unable to help himself at the blunt honesty of the Slayer King. "As you say." He offered a respectful bow before spurring his horse forward to catch up with the Gold Order wizard. His dire wolf raced along besides him.

Ludger Scherler rode beside the dwarfs, his yellow robes vivid against the sea of grim metal. An ithilmar dagger hung at his belt, a glittering gift from the King. "Good day, Journeyman Scherler," Robb greeted. "Any portents of the coming days? I know reading the future isn't your specialty, but they say all wizards hear whispers on the winds."

Scherler inclined his head, the glint of intellect sharp in his eyes. "The winds do whisper, my lord, but they've been silent to me of late."

Robb nodded, taking the answer in stride. "Let me know if that ever changes."

"Of course, my lord," Scherler said, his tone respectful, but distant, the reserve of a man more used to conversing with arcane forces than with lords and kings. The wizard looked more intrigued with Robb's runesword than with the lord himself.

With a brief farewell, Robb rode on to find Fuu. The Cathayan girl moved with a determined pace, her legs easily keeping stride with the shorter dwarfs. For now anyways... the mountain folk were renowned for their stamina after all.

The girl certainly wasn't tall, but she still had four or five inches on most of them and she had the look of someone who could out march most men. She'd proven it by making her way from the far east of Cathay to Karak Kadrin in a year and a half's time. No small feat, considering she'd had to cross the Ogre Kingdoms and the Dark Lands.

"Fuu, are you well?" Robb asked, looking down from his saddle.

"Yes, my lord," she replied, her cheeks coloring slightly as she looked up at him. Her voice was small, but her spirit was not. She gave Storm just one glance and dismissed him as tame.

Robb offered her a note from his saddlebag, a small token of goodwill that would ensure she found her place among his army. "The dwarfs will be marching behind the artillery and supply train. Move up to them and ask to speak to the quartermaster in charge of the camp followers. Give Lieutenant Büchner this note, and he'll put you to work with the cooks. That'll see you fed twice a day and grant you a small weekly stipend and a spot to pitch your tent. You do have a tent, don't you? I can't imagine you made it across the Dark Lands without one."

"I do," Fuu said, taking the note with a grateful smile. "Thank you, my lord."

Robb gave her a nod, his expression turning serious. "Now, be warned, the cooks and washerwomen often take on extra work to earn a little more coin, entertaining the men, but that's never required. The men are usually well-behaved and don't press those who aren't interested, but you're new and exotic. If anyone troubles you, run to the quartermaster. He's very firm when it comes to discipline. The others girls will help you as well, they all look out for each other."

Fuu clutched the note tightly, her eyes fierce. "I understand. Thank you."

"Good," Robb said. "Keep your wits about you. The road ahead won't be kind, but you've already proven you've got the strength to walk it."

With that, he turned his steed back to his place at the head of the heavy horse, his mind already on the march to come. The Gryphon Wood awaited, and beyond it, the hard road home. But they would make it. Their families were counting on them.

Once the army got moving in earnest they made good time. The road sloped very gently downward; a blessing compared to the grueling uphill march that had brought them to Karak Kadrin. To look at the slight slope, one would think it could hardly make a difference either way, but march on it bearing arms and armor and you would feel the difference in your bones.

Robb kept his men at a steady pace, knowing that every mile they covered now meant one less mile they would have to fight for tomorrow. Every step brought them closer to home, closer to the Beastmen threatening it and their families.

The pistoliers rode ahead, scouting with their usual diligence, though they seemed to move with a bit more freedom. They were far less likely to stumble upon an entire enemy army this time, not when retracing their own path.

Fuu seemed to settle in with the cooks well and he saw her working a pot in the evening with vigor.

On the second day, a shadow swept across the column, and Robb looked up to see a great wyvern diving low, its leathery wings flapping with a low, menacing thrum. The beast's eyes gleamed with a cruel intelligence, scanning the army below as if weighing its chances.

The men didn't hesitate. A volley of gunfire rang out from the front ranks of the infantry, dozens of matchlock muskets cracking in unison. Lead shot peppered the wyvern's thick scaly hide, and it screeched in fury, twisting in the sky. Blood splattered the air, and it veered away, flapping hard to gain altitude, a dark stain spreading across its flank.

"That won't put it down for good," King Ungrim Ironfist muttered, his eyes fixed on the retreating shape, now a shrinking silhouette against the distant peaks.

"No," Robb agreed, watching the beast's labored flight. "But perhaps it will learn to avoid men in the future."

The Slayer King snorted, shaking his head. "Doubtful. Wyverns are vicious things, cruel and spiteful. Their eyes are as poor as their tempers, and they'd sooner die than pass up a meal."

Robb nodded thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the marching column. The men had barely paused in their stride, the ranks rippling like a river of steel and flesh, flowing steadily westward. The autumn sun beat down on them, warm and welcoming in the cool mountain air. Robb could feel the rhythm of the march in his bones, the thud of boots on the stone paving of the Dwarf road, the creak of leather and plate, the low murmur of voices, disciplined and determined.

They moved as one, a single purpose driving them onward. For all the trials they had endured, they were still their father's sons, the sons of Ostermark. And no wyvern, no Beastman, no lurking terror in the dark would break their spirit. They had a home to return to, and Robb Stark intended to see them there, come what may.

The days stretched long on the march, and Robb spent much of them at the side of King Ungrim Ironfist. His father, Eddard Stark, was a great leader and a skilled tactician, and old Sir Rodrik Cassel had decades of experience under his belt. But the Slayer King was something else entirely, those first two things, and a warrior with centuries of wisdom gained in blood-soaked battle. Each day spent learning from the dwarf felt like weeks of lessons from ordinary men, a treasure trove of hard-won knowledge mixed with the grim humor that only veterans could understand.

Ungrim's war stories were unlike any Robb had ever heard. Tales of slaughter and slaughter narrowly averted, of monstrous foes and impossible odds. The Slayer King's eyes gleamed as he spoke, his laughter booming like a drumbeat.

"And that's why luck is the most valuable thing a general can have," Ungrim chortled, clapping Robb on the side of his hip. "Worth its weight in gold!"

Robb chuckled, picturing the bewildered Skaven Ungrim had just described, scampering in retreat after a warpfire thrower had an explosive misfire, setting half its own ranks ablaze. The image of ratmen squealing and fleeing as their own cursed weapons turned on them made him laugh harder than he had in a week.

"Speaking of gold," Ungrim said, still grinning through his fierce orange dyed beard. "You left before we could weigh you. Does Winter Town have scales worthy of a king's ransom?"

Robb hesitated, considering the options. "The scale at Winterfell might do, the one we use to measure taxes. But if you want something precise by your standards, there's an ore scale down at the docks. Dwarf miners from the foothills often float their ore down the river on barges and weigh it there. It's maintained by some of your folk living in town, and I've never heard a complaint about its accuracy."

"That'll do nicely," the King grunted, nodding in approval. "Though I'll have some of my lads check the mechanism before we weigh you. No offense, mind."

"None taken," Robb said with a smile. "The scale is well-tested. But I'd trust your dwarfs to put it through its paces."

Ungrim's eyes gleamed with mischief. "Is the scale indoors or out?"

"Out," Robb replied. "Right on the riverbank. No one wants to haul metal and stone further than they have to."

Ungrim snorted. "Good. Then you won't mind stripping before the crowd. Your weight in gold doesn't cover your clothes, lad."

Robb blinked, then laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'll keep that in mind, your majesty. I'll make sure my smallclothes are the finest Winter Town has ever seen, and once I shuck them off I'll have even more women after me than before."

Ungrim's laughter echoed off the mountainside, loud and unashamed.

They reached Dunbroch Castle an hour after dusk on the fifth day, hard-pressed and weary from the long march but driven by the thought of walls and warmth. The journey back had been nearly a full day faster; they'd pushed hard on that last leg, knowing the road was good and the castle close. Robb ached from the ride, his muscles knotted and stiff, but the sight of the keep's looming silhouette against the night sky brought a surge of relief.

This wasn't a pace they could keep up, despite the flat expanse of the Veldt. They'd been driven to leave the dark shadows of the mountains, to reach the relative safety and familiarity of Ostermark. They'd have to march at a more sustainable pace from now on. It wouldn't do to arrive at the Gryphon Wood too exhausted to fight.

As they crossed the bridge to the castle isle, he saw her waiting for him, a figure framed in the flickering torchlight. Merida sat astride a great black destrier, her flame-orange hair streaming behind her like a banner of fire. She wore no crown, no jewels, just a plain green dress with a bow slung across her back, quiver on one hip, sword on the other, the very image of a warrior queen. Even from this distance, Robb could see the fierce joy lighting her face.

She rode out to meet him, her smile wide and wild as the plains of the Veldt themselves. "Robb! You're safe!" she called out, her voice carrying over the clatter of hooves on stone. "I heard of your great victory from the road wardens, they passed by two days and half ago."

Robb grinned, feeling a warmth that had little to do with the torches burning on the battlements. "Aye, they're swift riders," he said as he reined in his horse beside her. "But they gave you only half the tale, I'm sure. There's more yet to tell."

Merida laughed, a sound like bells in the wind. "Then you'd best come in, my lord. The castle's hearth is warm, and I've saved you the finest cut of venison. You'll need your strength, with all the boasting you've got to do."

Her blue eyes gleamed, and for a moment, the long march, the blood and smoke of battle, all of it seemed to melt away. Here, on this bridge under the dark, star-spangled sky and a white crescent moon, there was only Merida, fierce and free, waiting for him at the edge of the world

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 8th, 2522

The Map Room had fallen quiet, its vaulted ceiling echoing with the last murmurs of men who thought themselves the masters of the Old World. The conclave was finally winding down, their grand schemes and dire warnings committed to paper by diligent scribes.

Immanuel-Ferrand, resplendent in his forest green velvet cloak, gave a theatrical flourish as he prepared to depart. His gestures were grand, as if the room were a stage and he the leading player.

"The Grand Theogonist and I will brief the Emperor on this forthwith," he declared, his words hanging heavy in the opulent chamber, as he turned and left. Arya trailed in his wake, a small shadow darting behind the imposing figure of the High Chancellor, eyes sharp and quick, absorbing every detail like a hawk studying its prey.

Volkmar the Grim moved after them with all the grace and inevitability of a landslide, a thundercloud of a man who left silence in his wake.

The Celestial Matriarch swept out next, her dark blue robes shimmering like the night sky, followed by the High Priest of Morr, his dour expression suggesting he'd rather be anywhere else, tending to graves and funerals where things were at least predictable.

And then there were four gathered around Ned and Jon. The great room felt emptier, the angle of the late morning light coming through the stained glass windows casting shadows that danced on the tapestried walls and the servants standing against them like restless ghosts, as clouds came and went, crossing the face of the sun. Ned Stark stood next to a table that had been piled with food, now nearly bare, feeling the weight of powerful eyes upon him. Jon Snow stood beside him, straight-backed and somber, his grey eyes flicking nervously around this strange and dangerous world of politics and prophecy.

Jon looked so much like his father, albeit darker-skinned, bronze coloring a legacy of his mother, half-Tilean and half-Arabyan. He was still a Stark through and through, armored in a stoicism that was almost Kislivite in its severity, and which masked whatever doubts churned within.

Sonnhild Speer, golden-haired, tall and fierce-eyed, the High Priestess of the Temple of Myrmidia Incazzata, stood before them. Watching both of them with a calculating gaze, her armor gleaming as if polished for battle. Next to her was the Wild Father, the Patriarch of the Amber Order, formal robes overlaying brown furs and tan leathers that made him look more beast than man, gleaming eyes, sharp and yellow, assessing the Starks like a predator weighing the strength of its prey. Off to Speer's left was Reiner Starke, the Grey Patriarch. He leaned against a gilded pillar, his hood pulled low over his face, but Ned could feel the weight of his stare from the shadows.

The last was the High Priest of Altdorf's Wolftor temple, a jovial bearded figure with the rugged, wind-scoured look of a man from Nordland. Ned had finally learned his name, Beorn Eisenbach. His presence was solid, immovable, like a boulder lodged in the earth, and though he had spoken little since the beginning of the conclave when he pronounced his judgement on Jon's dire wolf Frost, his silence carried a weight of its own.

"Your son will be a fine addition to the Knights of the White Wolf, Lord Stark," Beorn Eisenbach proclaimed with a broad grin, his voice rich and hearty, echoing off the stone walls. "There hasn't been a better time in a thousand years for a handsome young lad like him to join our ranks." There was a twinkle in his eye, the sort of mischievous glint that spoke of hard nights in alehouses and bawdy tales swapped by the fire.

Jon shifted on his feet, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. "What do you mean, Wolf Priest?"

Beorn's grin widened, and he leaned in conspiratorially, the air thick with the scent of sweat and wolf pelts. "Ah, you've heard, no doubt, that a long dead Graff of Middenland, in his wisdom, or lack thereof, forced the cult to swear an oath of celibacy nearly a thousand years ago. Not something that comes easy to our kind, mind you," he said with a wink, his voice dropping into a low, knowing growl. "We're hot-blooded folk, not made to live like monks."

"Yet it was an oath that lasted a thousand years," Ned said, raising an eyebrow. "And given your tone, it's been cast aside. Why now, and how?"

The Wolf Priest's grin turned smug, almost wolfish, and he folded his arms, savoring the moment like a hunter who's cornered his prey. "Well, word's come from Middenheim that our old Elector-Count, Graff Todbringer, has seen fit to release us from that burden. And it's all because his own natural son, a young buck with more fire in him than sense, got a priestess of Ulric with child."

Beorn paused, chuckling as if savoring the irony of it all. "The scandal was fit to bring the whole city down in flames. If the Graff's own kin can't follow the vows they've imposed on us, how in the name of Ulric can the rest of us be expected to? So he's loosened the reins, so to speak. No more vows of chastity for the cult, so long as we swear that any child born of a priest or priestess can never inherit lands or titles, be they of the world or the temple. We belong to the wolf and the wild, not the trappings of men. We must all start at the bottom and work our way up."

"A sensible policy," Ned said, though the concession surprised him. Boris Todbringer was not a man known for bending, and the thought of him loosening the cult's ancient vows of celibacy seemed out of character. He could only guess the Graff had tired of dealing with the issue or feared what the scandal might stir up among his people. After all, with his invalid son Steffan finally passing two years ago, his bastard son Heinrich was the natural heir. He was a giant of a man the bards swore was just an inch shy of seven feet tall and already a renowned warrior and leader of men at four and twenty. A young buck, was certainly not how Eddard would have described him and sweeping the scandal under the rug must have looked very tempting to the Graff.

Beorn nodded, visibly pleased, his eyes gleaming with the zeal of a true believer. "I knew you'd see it that way, Lord Stark. You're a man of faith, a man who's done great deeds in Ulric's name. If ever you wish to speak of those deeds, of the battles you've fought, the miracles you've witnessed, you'd be welcome before my congregation. They would be honored to hear you."

"I'll keep that in mind," Ned replied, though he had no intention of doing any such thing. Speaking at a major Ulrican temple in the heart of Altdorf would be like stepping into a den of wolves in more ways than one. Chancellor Hertwig would see it as a power play, an attempt to rally the Ulrican faithful from across the Empire against him. And perhaps it would be, in the eyes of many who still whispered of his family's old ambitions.

The Starks of Ostermark had once dreamed of more, of power and titles and influence that stretched beyond their own lands. To rule as Elector-Counts in their own right so that perhaps one day, they or their descendants might be elected Emperor themselves. That was a different time, a different man's fight. His father had chased those dreams and what had he gained from it? Nothing that had helped prevent him and his eldest son from being assassinated by a blasphemous cult dedicated to the Changer.

Ned was not about to follow in those footsteps, he had real enemies to face. Beastmen lurking in the dark woods, Greenskin hordes threatening his borders, and other horrors that defied reason and sanity. Men, dwarfs and elves could be dealt with, reasoned or bargained with. But monsters and daemons were coming, and they would not be stopped by speeches or politics.

If he was to build anything that would last, it would be with steel, stone and gold. New guns ordered, new temples and manufactories built. Not empty titles or another doomed struggle for power among the League of Ostermark. There was a city to build up, lands to secure, and soldiers to arm. That was where his focus lay, not in the endless games of Imperial politics. Let Hertwig keep his throne; Ned would build something real.

"I'm glad to hear that," Beorn said, his grin fading into a more serious expression. "Fare you well, Lord Stark. I've business at the temple that can't be left waiting, and it seems to me the others have much to discuss with you yet." With a nod, he turned and lumbered off, his heavy footsteps echoing against the stone floor.

Ned watched him go, then turned to the remaining figures. "Patriarchs, if you'll pardon me, I'll go fetch my children's tuition soon enough, but before that, I'd like to speak with the High Priestess." He cast his gaze to Sonnhild Speer, her armor catching the dim light of the Map Room.

"Fine by me," Reiner Starke said with a lazy shrug, his gray cloak shifting as he leaned back against the pillar. The Wild Father merely scowled, his eyes burning with the impatience of a caged beast, but he kept his silence, despite his obvious eagerness to leave this city of smoke and stone.

Sonnhild Speer stepped forward, her bearing resolute. "I'm grateful for the opportunity, Lord Stark," she said. "I understand you have concerns that Myrmidia's domain overlaps too closely with those of Ulric and Sigmar, and that her presence in your lands might be redundant. But I must respectfully disagree. The God of Winter, War and Wolves and the God of the Empire do not represent the same things and ideals that Myrmidia represents."

Ned crossed his arms, his face impassive. "Ulric is a god of war, of courage and valor. Sigmar is the Empire's shield and hammer. I fail to see what more Myrmidia offers that we do not already have."

Speer met his gaze with a steadfast intensity. "Ulric is indeed war's heart, the courage, the fury, the relentless drive to battle on, no matter the odds. Sigmar stands for the Empire itself, and so, yes, his priests often take up arms to defend it. But he is more than that, he is a diplomat and most importantly a ruler. Myrmidia's focus is different. She is not just war. She is strategy, logistics, the discipline of armies, and the art of command. Where Ulric and Sigmar inspire, Myrmidia plans."

Ned's eyes narrowed, still unconvinced. "Ulric values strategy as well. His warriors are not fools."

"True," Speer conceded. "But Ulric's favor falls upon the man who fights, who stands shoulder to shoulder with his brothers, sword in hand and shield raised high. Myrmidia's concern is not just the man at the front line but the one who ensures that line does not break, who sees the whole battle, not just the moment. She understands that courage without wisdom can lead a man to his death, that a sword without a plan is just steel in the wind."

"In the same way, she focuses on different knowledge than Verena. Practical knowledge," Speer continued, her voice cutting through the thickening tension in the room.

Ned blinked, furrowing his brow. "I have always found the knowledge taught by the Lorekeepers to be useful."

"Of course," Speer nodded, smiling faintly. "A well-rounded lord, or any educated man, should know history, the law, foreign tongues, and the great works of literature. But Myrmidia concerns herself with knowledge that serves the battlefield and the city alike. The skills an engineer needs to design a weapon or a machine, the expertise of an architect who builds roads, aqueducts, and castles, or the craft of an alchemist blending saltpeter, charcoal and sulfur to make gunpowder. The Lorekeepers dabble in these arts, but they do not master them. Myrmidia embraces them completely."

"A god of craftsmen," Ned mused, his interest finally piqued, though his face remained inscrutable.

"And artisans," Speer added. "Myrmidia weds the practical with the beautiful, the forge and the easel, the blueprint and the blade."

Ned scratched at his chin, pondering. "Such an education… it could be useful, aye. Winter Town's dwarf quarter is small, and their smiths and engineers are already stretched far too thin. Our city grows faster than their hammers can keep pace, and we'll need more skilled hands if we're to keep building..." He trailed off, thoughts aligning at last. "Very well, I grant you leave to build a temple in Winter Town."

Speer's face lit up with triumph. "Thank you, my lord. Do you have any preference as to where it should stand?"

"There's open ground maintained near the west gate and the farmer's market, where we levy and train troops. With two new temples rising and a munitions factory being built as well, much of it will be taken up. I expect I'll open up what's left of it after that to settlement. Some farms outside the walls will need to be bought out, I suppose, to make room for drilling and mustering," Ned said, half to Speer and half to himself.

He sighed, already thinking of the gold it would cost. But gold spent on craftsmen and warriors was never wasted. More forest could always be cut back for more farms. Land within his walls could serve better as a temple, words from the pulpit fortifying minds and souls. Soldiers could be armed by munitions made inside the walls and trained in the open ground before them, so that they could one day beat back the tide of darkness that ever lapped at Ostermark's borders. That would always be his aim.

Chapter Text

"Bring me a writ of permission tomorrow afternoon, and I will sign it," Ned said, his voice steady and firm, the decision made.

"Thank you, my lord," Sonnhild Speer replied, bowing slightly, her satisfaction evident. "I'll leave you to your discussions with the Patriarchs."

Ned nodded, his attention shifting to the Grey Patriarch, who lingered like a shadow against his gilded pillar. "So," Ned began, choosing his words carefully, "I am aware that tuition to the colleges scales with the status and wealth of the family involved, but I've never heard any particular numbers quoted."

Reiner Starke offered a casual shrug, though his eyes glinted from beneath his hood. "Each case is unique, Lord Stark, and we value discretion. We prefer to keep our donors' contributions private."

'More like you try to squeeze each noble for every coin you can pry from their purses,' Ned thought sourly. 'Keeping them in the dark about what others pay makes it harder to know what's fair.'

"I've no wish to haggle over this like fishwives at market," Ned said plainly, not in the mood for games. "Let's keep it simple, one thousand gold crowns to each College."

The Wild Father, wrapped in leather and furs beneath formal robes, gave a curt nod. "That's acceptable," he said, his voice low and gravelly, the words a grudging approval from a man who preferred the wilderness to walls.

Reiner Starke's expression tightened, displeasure flickering across his sharp features. He had clearly hoped for more, but with the Amber Patriarch's agreement, there was little room to press. "It will suffice," the Grey Magister said at last, though the reluctance in his tone was palpable, the words spoken as if each was a coin reluctantly surrendered.

Ned sensed the dissatisfaction but remained unmoved. Gold was a tool like any other, and he had no intention of letting the colleges bleed him dry. In a city of schemes and secrets, he knew better than to give ground without cause.

"All right, let's head down to the guest barracks," Ned said, setting the pace as they moved from the Map Room. "When I rode to the palace, I had my men in half a dozen carriages, each loaded with chests of coin from the ship. I can pay you now."

Reiner Starke arched an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Very well. No time like the present." The Wild Father gave a grunt of agreement, his disinterest palpable.

The four made their way through the palace's twisting corridors, the walls adorned with paintings and tapestries displaying past glories, lit by sconces that cast steady light. Their path took them past the Blue Room, where Ned and Jon were housed during their stay here in Altdorf.

As they approached, Ned saw Alda Schilling, the priestess of Handrich who had approached Ned earlier alongside High Priestess Speer, waiting outside his door. She'd made herself comfortable, lounging on a stool that she must have coaxed from the palace servants. Gone was the conservative garb of their earlier meeting. Now she wore a gown of rich, crimson silk that clung to her every curve, the kind of dress that might've been fit for a palace ball if not for its brazen cut, plunging neckline, and the saucy smirk she wore with it.

Alda rose gracefully, curtseying with a coy smile, her ample bosom on display. "Welcome back, my lord," she purred, her voice like honey laced with desire. "I know you agreed to meet Handrich's high priest tomorrow, but I hoped we might begin... preliminary negotiations in private."

Ned took in the sight of her, a striking woman in her mid to late twenties, sharp-eyed and self-assured. In different circumstances he would have been drawn to her boldness, but not today. He had too many matters on his plate to indulge a priestess whose loyalties lay solely with gold and trade. "I must decline, madam," Ned said, his tone firm. "I have business with the Patriarchs, and after that, I must visit the College of Engineers again and meet with representatives from the Alchemist's Guild. Perhaps you could... negotiate with my son. He can relay any particulars to me when I return later."

Alda's smile faltered, but she turned her gaze to Jon, assessing him with a flicker of interest. She studied him, her gaze sweeping up and down in a slow, appraising manner that left little room for doubt on she was looking for. Jon, caught off guard, stared back, wide-eyed and eager. "Alright," she said finally, taking Jon's arm and pulling him toward the door with a sway in her hips that promised much and concealed more. Jon followed, half dazed, half thrilled, and the door closed behind them and Jon's wolf, who squeezed through at the last moment, with a soft click.

As Ned and the Patriarchs resumed their walk, Reiner Starke let out a low chuckle. "An interesting development, wouldn't you say?"

"Not particularly," Ned replied, unruffled. "I've already decided to approve her cult's request tomorrow. As for Jon, this will be good for him. He's had his dalliances with girls his age, but never with a mature woman who knows the game. Now, tell me about her."

Starke shrugged. "What's there to say? She's as much a priestess of Handrich as any, lives for coin and commerce. She was married to a Reiksguard knight who died fighting Greenskins in the Grey Mountains two years back. Left her with three small children and a thirst for… opportunity."

Ned nodded, his mind already turning. Altdorf was full of players, and this one had just made her move.

It took longer than he expected to reach the guest barracks, the palace's endless corridors winding like the roots of an ancient tree. He wondered if visitors to Winterfell ever felt the same. When they finally arrived, the barracks were quiet and nearly empty, Ned's hundred men occupying only a tenth of the wooden bunks. Scattered retainers from lesser lords filled a few more and they bowed lightly in acknowledgment at Lord Stark and the Magister Patriarchs as they passed.

Ned signaled his guards, and soon enough, a quartet of them emerged from a side room, hauling a heavy iron banded chest between them. An intricate brass key opened the heavy lock, and he pushed back the lid revealing stacks of a hundred coins wrapped in neat paper bundles. With practiced efficiency, Ned handed ten bundles to each of the Patriarchs, slightly pulling back the paper on one to show gold gleaming faintly in the dim light of the barrack. "You're welcome to count them here if you wish," Ned said, though he knew full well they wouldn't.

"That won't be necessary, Lord Stark," Reiner Starke replied, his lips curling into a sardonic smile. "Should anything be amiss, we'll simply let you know how much you owe us and that you've been robbed by your own household."

The Wild Father grunted in agreement, his yellow eyes glinting like a wolf's. "I'll be marching with the Emperor's forces when he rides against the Beastmen in Middenland. I suspect you'll travel with us at least part of the way on your journey to Middenheim. If so, we'll likely meet again on the battlefield."

Ned nodded, knowing full well the value of such an ally in the chaos of battle. "I look forward to it. Your talents will be invaluable against the foul sorcery of the Beastmen and their Bray Shamans."

The Amber Patriarch gave a brief nod and, without further word, turned and strode away, his formal cloak trailing behind him like the forest wind.

Reiner lingered, his dark eyes studying Ned with a hint of something inscrutable. "I may not see you again before you depart, Lord Stark, but know this, I foresee great things in your daughter's future. Our paths will cross again, I'm sure of it." He gave a slight bow, then turned on his heel, vanishing into the palace's endless halls.

Ned watched them go, the coins exchanged and promises made, yet he could not shake the fear that these dealings were but a prelude to darker things.

He shook his head. "All right, men, listen up," Ned's voice rang out with the crisp authority of a seasoned commander. "We need to prepare for transport to the College of Engineers. Put this chest back in the barracks vault and bring out two more, untouched, mind you." Each chest, heavy with gold, held the promise and peril of ten thousand crowns.

His guards sprang into motion, a well-drilled machine. "We'll take five carriages," Ned continued, his tone all business, "each with eight guards. Six inside, one by the driver, one perched on top. The chests will ride in the second and fourth carriages, and I'll be in the third." He paused, calculating. "That's forty men... no, thirty-nine, with me taking a spot in the third. The rest of you sixty-one will borrow horses from the Imperial stables and ride escort."

Captain Weiss, a handsome blonde man whose good looks belied his status as a grizzled veteran, nodded approvingly. "A sound plan, my lord. Even if the word's out, no gang in Altdorf is mad enough to cross a hundred state troops."

"Let's hope not," Ned said, though he knew better than to count on hope alone in a city like this. "But stay sharp. I won't have us caught unawares." Weiss nodded, steel-eyed, and barked orders to the men.

The hour passed in a flurry of preparations, and by the time the sun had reached its zenith, they were on the move. The carriages rolled out of the barracks with the rhythmic clatter of hooves and wheels, cutting a steady path through Altdorf's crowded streets. They moved slowly, navigating the crush of midday traffic, and Ned caught the occasional furtive glance from shadowed alleyways and crooked doorways. The East End, with its grime and hungry eyes, watched them pass like a pack of wolves eyeing a stag. But no fool dared test them; the sight of a hundred well-armed veterans was deterrent enough.

They reached the gates of the College of Engineers just as the sun began its slow descent, the solid stonework looming ahead like a fortress of ingenuity and arcane wonders. Two in the afternoon by Ned's reckoning, and not a hair out of place. The men breathed a little easier, but Ned kept his gaze sharp, every sense tuned to the hum of the city. There were dangers enough inside those walls as well, where ambition and invention often walked a perilous line.

…

As the door clicked shut behind them, and Frost ran off to curl himself up on Jon's bed, the room's silence swallowed up the noise of the palace corridors. Alda leaned in close, her presence intoxicating, the scent of jasmine and rosewater clinging to her like a promise. Jon felt the weight of her against him, her head barely reaching his chin, her thick black hair brushing the line of his mouth.

She laughed, a rich, sultry sound that sent a shiver up his spine as he jumped slightly, his inexperience betraying him. Jon fumbled to hold her, hands unsure, yet eager, as they found the curve of her waist. Alda looked up, her light brown eyes glowing with mischief and warmth. "Is this your first time, young lord?" she asked, voice low and teasing, the words curling like smoke between them.

Jon's face hardened at the question; his pride stung. He grabbed her firmly, cupping the generous curve of her bottom and pulling her flush against the hardness tenting his breeches with a roughness that made her gasp.

"I guess not," Alda giggled, her lips parting in a sly, knowing smile. "But I'd wager your lovers were but jaded whores or girls your own age, a decade shy of mine own. Little more than playthings." She tilted her head back, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "You're in need of proper schooling, my lord. And I think I'll be your teacher today."

She pressed closer, her words a purr in his ear, and Jon found himself caught between embarrassment and desire, his blood thrumming with the tantalizing thrill of her touch and the heady promise of whatever came next.

"First, we'll have to take the edge off you," Alda purred, her voice dripping with a sly confidence that set Jon's heart racing. "We can't have the main act over before it's even begun." There was a glint of wicked amusement in her eyes as she maneuvered him backward, guiding him with a firm but gentle touch until his legs met the edge of the couch.

Jon stumbled into it, falling back ungracefully into the cushions. Alda watched him with a playful smile, like a cat toying with a mouse, and then she sank to her knees before him, her movements slow and deliberate. She tugged down the neckline of her silk dress, letting it pool around her waist, exposing the creamy fullness of her chest. Her heavy, round breasts, pale and set with large dark pink areola. The air in the room felt charged, like the air on the walls of Winterfell before a lightning storm, as she leaned closer, her hands working deftly to unlace his breeches and pull them down past his knees.

Jon could hardly breathe, his eyes wide and fixed on her, caught between nerves and the rush of desire. Alda moved with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing, her touch firm and unhurried. She enveloped his hardness with the soft, warm weight of her breasts, her skin brushing against his in a way that was both intimate and overwhelming. Jon's head fell back against the couch, his mind spinning as she took control and he let himself be led, lost to the heady pleasure of it all.

Alda's head dipped low, her dark hair cascading around her face like a veil as she descended. Her lips brushed the tip of him, a fleeting kiss that sent a shiver through Jon's spine, the warmth of her breath mingling with his own ragged exhalations. She was taking her time, savoring every moment of his anticipation, her eyes flicking up to meet his with a teasing glimmer.

Her tongue flicked out, rolling languidly over the head that peeked out from between the soft mounds of her breasts. Each slow, deliberate movement sent a jolt through Jon's body, his breath catching as she worked him with the skill of a seasoned courtesan. He bit his lip, stifling a groan, his fingers digging into the upholstery of the couch as Alda continued, every touch driving him deeper into the heat of the moment, deeper into the seductive power of her knowing smile.

Jon's mind was awash with disbelief as Alda's practiced touch enveloped him. She was leagues beyond Lisa, the blonde whore from Bechafen, whose talents now seemed crude and clumsy in comparison. Each stroke, each flick of her tongue, was executed with an artistry and precision that left him breathless.

In less than a minute he was undone, a shudder wracking his body as he reached the precipice of his restraint. The tension within him unraveling like a tightly wound coil, leaving him spent and gasping as he sprayed her tongue and the back of her throat with his seed.

Alda absorbed every drop of him with a practiced grace, her composure unshaken by the intensity of his release. As he lay back, drained and adrift, she rose with deliberate calm, her gown slipping down in a cascade of crimson silk that pooled at her feet.

"Now, lie down on the sofa," she instructed, her voice a velvet command. To his own surprise, Jon complied, stretching out on the couch, the plush fabric creasing under his weight. His head rested perilously close to the armrest, not leaving him much room to move.

She mounted him with a feline grace, her legs straddling his head, her hands gripping the armrest before her as if she were readying herself for a grand performance. "Impress me," she demanded, her gaze sharp and expectant, her posture a challenge as she held herself poised above him.

Jon had never before glimpsed such intimacy laid bare beneath the clear, unrelenting light of day. Between the apex of her thighs, thick dark curls framed a visage of softness, where moist pink lips slightly parted, promising pleasures yet to come. From the top of those lips, her delicate bud peeked out, shy yet inviting, a silent siren in the folds of her flesh.

He lifted his head, his breath warm against her skin. He pressed his lips to that tender, vulnerable spot, a kiss both reverent and hungry. Tongue swiping up in a hearty lick over her.

Alda's approval was a low, throaty hum, her fingers gripping the armrest with increasing intensity. She rocked herself gently against his face, each movement a measured dance of pleasure. "Just like that," she murmured, her voice a mix of command and satisfaction, guiding him with the rhythm of her body.

Jon obeyed her whispered commands, his movements cautious yet deliberate. Gradually, the sound of her pleasure grew louder, her moans becoming an insistent rhythm. Her body shifted more freely, rocking with a wild abandon as she surrendered to the sensations. Her breathing quickened, and the scent of her desire filled the room as she dripped all over his face, a tangible testament to the depth of her enjoyment.

Then suddenly, Alda cried out, a keening wail that echoed off the walls. Her entire body shuddered with the force of her release as she shoved herself back to collapse sitting on his chest, her weight pressing heavily against him. For a moment, she was a living, trembling blanket of warmth, her breath ragged and uneven. Her form, once commanding, now slumped over his, the weight of her passion nearly overwhelming as she sat there, trembling and spent.

Once she finally recovered, she scooted back, her movements deliberate and languid, rising up above his hips with a practiced grace. She took him in hand, her fingers stroking with a knowing touch, and Jon, bathed in the stark midday light pouring through the window, could see every detail of her.

The full round breasts, jutting from her chest, with just the smallest bit of sag to them speaking of their motherly history. Her flat, smooth stomach, marred with stretch marks. Her pink, dripping opening, hovering over the fat head of his cock.

"Fill me up," she murmured, her voice a sultry whisper. "It's been too long since I've had a babe to give suck."

Her eyes, dark with raw, unfiltered hunger, seemed to pierce through the veil of the mundane and touch something primal in Jon. The intensity of her gaze ignited a fire within him, compelling him to act with unrestrained zeal.

As she leaned back, Jon met her descent with fervor, feeling her sheathe his sword as she sank down, the connection between them deepening with each movement. The weight of their bodies pressed together, and the room seemed to dissolve into a blur of warmth and sensation.

Her right hand clutched the sofa's backrest for support and tightened as she moved, each breath a ragged, breathless sound. Her left worked at her chest, cupping bouncing flesh and tweaking hard nipples. The midday light danced over their entwined forms, casting long shadows that flickered with the rhythm of their coupling.

Her hand shifted from the backrest to Jon's shirt, her fingers digging in with a powerful grip, as if anchoring herself in the moment. The fabric of his shirt strained under her hold, creasing and twisting with her urgent, relentless motion.

Alda rode him with a ferocity that spoke of how long it had been since she'd gone hunting in pursuit of pleasure, her movements driven by a hunger that seemed almost primeval. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, each thrust pushing her further into a state of abandon. The intensity of her rhythm brought the room to life with a blend of soft groans and the creak of the sofa, punctuating their primal dance.

Jon, caught in the throes of her fervent energy, could only surrender to the rhythm she set, each sensation magnified by the heat of her passion. The daylight streaming through the window highlighted the sweat glistening on their bodies, adding a raw, almost barbaric beauty to their coupling.

Jon's hands clenched at the firm curve of her hips, his fingers pressing in deeply as he arched up, straining beneath her. The intensity of his climax surging through him with a sudden, unexpected rush, each wave of pleasure wringing a throaty groan from his throat.

Alda's body trembled in response, her own release quickly following his. She shuddered with a violent fervor, her movements becoming erratic as she rode out the final waves of their shared ecstasy. Her breath came in sharp, quick gasps, mingling with the soft, low moans that escaped her lips.

As the moment of fervent passion waned, her grip on his shirt relaxed, her fingers releasing their fierce hold. She collapsed forward, her damp hair falling around them like a curtain. The room, filled with the mingling scents of sweat and sex, settled into a heavy silence.

Alda hummed contentedly; her breath warm against Jon's chest. "That was nice," she murmured, tracing idle patterns on his skin. "I haven't been able to indulge much since my husband passed, and none of them were as biddable as you." There was a playful lilt to her voice, though it was tinged with an undercurrent of sadness.

Jon's cheeks reddened at her words, feeling both flattered and a little ashamed. "Your husband?" he asked hesitantly, trying to imagine the life she lead.

She sighed, her expression clouding with a weariness that made her seem older. "An honorable knight of the Reiksguard," she said, her voice softening with a mix of fondness and bitterness. "He was slain two years ago, fighting a troll that came down with a Greenskin raiding party from the Grey Mountains. The beast's acid didn't leave much more than bones and melted metal."

Jon shifted beneath her, uncomfortable with the sudden turn in their conversation. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. It felt inadequate, like offering a salve to a wound too deep to heal.

"So am I," she replied, staring at something only she could see. For a moment, the room was filled with a thick, awkward silence, heavy with memories of lives lost and paths altered.

Then she looked back at him, her eyes bright with a sudden, desperate need. "Take me to bed," she said, her voice trembling on the edge of pleading. "Help me forget."

Jon didn't need to be asked twice. He lifted her off him, her weight light in his arms, and carried her to his father's enormous bed in the master bedroom attached directly to the back of this sitting room. Alda clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder as if trying to shut out the world beyond this small moment of stolen solace.

He set her down gently on the goose down mattress, the silk sheets cool against their heated skin. She reached up, pulling him down into a kiss that tasted of salt and longing, of a woman clinging to something that had slipped through her fingers one too many times.

Jon kissed her back, slow and deep, his hands roaming her body as if memorizing every curve. The urgency that had driven them before gave way to something slower, more deliberate, a dance that was both tender and fierce, a balm for wounds they could not name.

For now, they lost themselves in the gentle rhythm of breath and touch, finding a fragile comfort in each other's arms as the world outside faded to nothing.

Chapter Text

The transaction with Grand Master Volker Von Meinkopt had gone smoothly, the clinking of gold coins in two heavy chests a satisfying sound to both men. Ned Stark scanned the contract before him, two pages, straightforward, written in clear terms that any seasoned lord with a grasp of Imperial Law could understand. He nodded his approval, the ink drying quickly beneath his signature.

"This all looks above board, my lord," Von Meinkopt said, his gaze shifting from the chests to Ned. "I'll have my accountant verify the sums, but we will begin production immediately. The first batch of two thousand wheellock muskets will be completed by this time next month. It might take another month after that before they reach Winter Town though, shipping upriver is often a tedious affair."

"I understand, Grand Master," Ned said, his voice calm, though his mind was already on the next matter. "And the alchemists?"

"Their representative is waiting in a larger, more comfortable room than this cramped office," Von Meinkopt replied, gesturing down the hall. "If I may lead the way?"

"By all means," Ned said, falling into step behind the old engineer. His boots clacked against the stone floor, each step echoing through the narrow corridor, as they moved deeper into the bowels of the College. They passed rows of heavy iron doors, some slightly ajar, offering glimpses into workshops where strange mechanisms clattered and whirred, and men and women in soot-streaked aprons toiled over cauldrons of boiling metal or pored over yellowed blueprints. The air was thick with the acrid smell of iron, oil, and alchemical brews, a sharp tang that stung the nostrils and clung to the throat.

At last, Von Meinkopt halted before a large, iron-bound oak door, pushing it open with a creak that seemed to echo with the groan of ancient hinges. The room beyond was a stark contrast to the narrow corridors; spacious, lined with polished wood and fine tapestries depicting scenes of Imperial industrial might. Scenes of Helstorm Rocket Batteries, Ulric's Thunder on the walls of Middenheim, the Steam Tanks of Leonardo da Miragliano, and even the great Sawmills of Bechafen were woven into fabric and legend.

Tables were laden with glass flasks and jars filled with strange powders and liquids, their contents shimmering under the light of oil lamps. Tools of brass and glass lay scattered like the relics of some forgotten age, the air thick with the sharp scent of tinctures and volatile concoctions that spoke of both brilliance and danger.

"This is Dietgard Günzburg, head of the Mundane Alchemists Guild," Von Meinkopt said, stepping aside as they entered. "Their main office is in the Wizard's district, for they have a love hate relationship with the Gold Order, but they do work with us often enough to keep a permanent office here under their name."

Günzburg was tall and gaunt, his features sharp as a knife's edge. His hawkish nose jutted over thin, pursed lips, and his eyes, a piercing shade of blue, gleamed with a mixture of shrewd calculation and barely contained impatience. Spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose, amplifying the intensity of his gaze as he scrutinized Ned with a quiet, appraising look.

"I understand you've placed a substantial order for wheellock muskets and are seeking to establish a manufactory for the production of the necessary paper cartridges," Günzburg began, his tone clipped and businesslike.

"Yes," Ned replied, meeting the alchemist's keen gaze. "And we'll also need your expertise to increase our saltpeter production, and thus, our gunpowder."

Günzburg's brows lifted slightly. "I was under the impression you were already producing enough to meet your needs?"

"For our own use, yes," Ned confirmed, his voice steady. "But not enough to export. My men are often in the field, nearly every year, sometimes more than once. We usually manage to produce a small surplus and stockpile it for dark days, but eventually those days come and it gets used up. And of course, wheellock muskets will increase my handgunner's rate of fire by fifty percent. Von Meinkopt explained that paper cartridges use powder more efficiently, but that I would still need a third more gunpowder than before."

The alchemist nodded thoughtfully. "Based on the practices common in the northern half of the Empire, our specialists could likely improve your current production by twenty percent without requiring any expansion of your existing works. However, achieving greater increases would necessitate enlarging the works, in particular expanding the saltpeter beds."

"That'll be difficult," Ned acknowledged, the weight of logistics already settling on his shoulders. "But I'll see it done. How many specialists will you send?"

"A dozen should suffice," Günzburg replied with a flick of his hand, as though the task were a simple one. "Once operations are established, half will return to Altdorf while the other half remain on site to oversee the manufactory and the powder works."

"And how large will this manufactory need to be?" Ned asked, already calculating the labor and costs in his head.

Günzburg tapped his thin fingers against a nearby flask, the glass resonating with a faint ring. "Once trained, a worker can produce sixteen paper cartridges an hour, about a hundred and sixty a day. With thirty workers, you'd produce forty-eight hundred paper cartridges daily. Another ten workers would be required to load them with powder and shot. With supervisors and maintenance staff, you'd need about forty-five personnel in total at the factory. You'd also need some people to transport the powder and shot to the factory. "

"Forty-eight hundred a day…" Ned muttered, thinking aloud. "Running seven days out of eight in a week, that's over a hundred thousand rounds a month."

"One hundred thirty-four thousand, four hundred, to be precise," Günzburg corrected smoothly. "Not as much as it might sound. If your field army is to march out with sixty rounds per man, you'd need four hundred fifty thousand rounds."

Ned frowned, the numbers turning in his mind. "Then I'll have to build a factory twice as large… No, that's too risky. A manufactory like this would be vulnerable to accidents or sabotage. Better to build two separate facilities. Over a quarter million rounds a month between them should allow us to build up a reserve over time."

Günzburg gave a small nod of approval, his sharp eyes glinting with a hint of respect. "A wise decision, Lord Stark. A distributed operation is far less susceptible to disaster."

"Let's hope so," Ned said, the shadow of doubt flickering across his features. "It seems no matter how much we prepare, there's always some fresh threat around the corner."

"There always is," Günzburg replied. "But with foresight and readiness, even the darkest corners can be lit. We'll see to that, my lord."

Ned nodded, feeling the weight of every coin spent, every risk taken. Winter Town would not just be prepared; it would be armed to the teeth. Yet even as he planned for future battles, his thoughts drifted to the home he fought to protect, and the children he had sent so far from it. How many more gambles would he have to take before the storm finally broke?

"Will a dozen specialists truly be enough to set up two factories, improve, and expand the powder works?" Ned asked, his brow furrowing. "Especially when half of them return home? That would leave six men spread far too thin."

Günzburg stroked his thin, pointed chin, his eyes narrowing in thought. "You have a point, Lord Stark. Eighteen, then. That should cover it."

"How much will that cost?" Ned asked, bracing himself. "These men don't sound like common craftsmen."

"They're not," Günzburg said, matter-of-factly. "You'll be getting the best. Ten times the rate of a skilled craftsman would be fair. Twenty crowns a month, travel time included."

Ned grimaced. "Ten per month, and they'll have room and board within the castle walls, with priority treatment from our Shallyan priestess if they're ill or injured."

The alchemist's mouth curled into a thin smile. "Sixteen crowns."

"Twelve," Ned said firmly, feeling the negotiation tighten like a noose.

Günzburg's eyes gleamed behind his spectacles. "Fourteen, Lord Stark. That's as low as I'll go."

Ned exhaled sharply; jaw clenched. "Fourteen it is," he agreed, though the bitterness in his tone was unmistakable. Eighteen men at fourteen crowns each, it was... two hundred and fifty-two crowns a month, not a trivial expense. House Stark was wealthy, their coffers heavy with gold and silver, but there was always some new cost to drain them dry. If he hadn't managed to increase their income by a full third since taking the Lordship, Winterfell would have been beggared by now.

The thought gnawed at him, a constant reminder of how precarious his position was, even with his efforts. The mines yielded more, their lands were richer, and trade had flourished under his stewardship, but it all felt like trying to hold back the tide with his bare hands. Every gain was matched by some fresh demand; new weapons, more soldiers, new defenses and infrastructure. It was a ceaseless struggle, and the weight of it bore down on him like armor he couldn't remove.

Günzburg seemed to sense his frustration, though if it troubled him, it didn't show on his hawkish face. "You'll find our specialists are worth every crown," he assured, a hint of pride in his voice. "With these new facilities and improvements, you'll not only arm your men but also put your house at the forefront of this new age of warfare."

"A new age," Ned repeated, his voice low and heavy. He'd heard the phrase before, from lords and merchants, and from soldiers who should know better, who spoke of gunpowder like it was magic. It all seemed a distant echo of the past now. After all, hadn't the men of Wissenland that had marched with Magnus the Pious two centuries ago carried matchlock muskets. The technology had spread quickly from there across the rest of the Empire and into Kislev as a result of the Great War. Yet, though they were clearly an improvement on the arbalests they'd replaced, there had been no revolution in warfare.

Lines of halberds or pike were still needed to protect the handgunners from the endless hordes that charged heedless of losses. The same would be true with the new guns. The dwarfs carried firearms far better than them into battle and still had to rely on stout lines of axes and hammers. "Let us hope this new age spares us the worst of its trials." Ned opined.

"Hope, my lord?" Günzburg said, raising an eyebrow. "I've always found hope is best backed by powder and lead."

Ned allowed himself a faint, rueful smile. "Aye. And a sharp sword never hurts."

"No, it does not," Günzburg conceded, a slight grin curling at the corners of his lips. "If everything is set, I can begin drafting the contract. It will be significantly more complex than the one you just signed with the College of Engineers. I'd advise hiring a lawyer to read it over. We wouldn't want any misunderstandings cropping up later."

"That would be wise," Ned said, nodding thoughtfully. "I have a full day tomorrow, but I'd like to move forward on this as soon as possible. The palace staff should be able to put me in touch with a lawyer, shouldn't they?"

"For a lord of your stature? I would think so," Günzburg replied. "The palace employs quite a few solicitors. They're often busy, but for you, I imagine one can be requisitioned."

"Whether from the palace or elsewhere, I'll make sure to find someone suitable and have them briefed on the matter," Ned said. "I'll see to it that they visit you tomorrow. You can provide them with a copy of the contract, and they'll go over it with me in detail. I should have an answer in two days, if all goes well. Hopefully, no revisions will be necessary."

"There seldom are," Günzburg said, adjusting his spectacles with a quick, precise motion. "But better to ensure our understanding now than to find ourselves at odds later."

Ned gave a curt nod, the weight of yet another task settling on his shoulders. It seemed his days were filled with negotiations and bargains, each more convoluted than the last. The Empire ran on paper and coin as much as blood and steel, and navigating its labyrinth of contracts and agreements required a patience that taxed even him.

"Then here's to an agreement in principle," Ned said, extending his hand. Günzburg grasped it firmly, his grip brief and businesslike. They exchanged farewells, and Ned made his way back to his men, his mind already turning to the next task.

The return to the palace was far less tense than the journey to the College of Engineers. The streets were still crowded, bustling with the constant churn of Altdorf's teeming masses, but the passage was smooth. They encountered no disturbances or crimes that required their intervention, unlike the near kidnapping of the previous day. By Ned's reckoning, it was close to four in the afternoon when they reached the towering mass of polished brown stone that was the Imperial Palace. The sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows across the courtyard.

As Ned and his men returned the borrowed horses and carriages to the stables, a senior servant approached, his bearing crisp and formal.

"Pardon, Lord Stark," the man said with a respectful bow. "The Emperor extends an invitation to you for dinner this evening. He has reserved a place of honor at his left hand."

"I'd be honored," Ned replied, his thoughts drifting momentarily to who might sit at the Emperor's right. Would it be his son, Luitpold? Or his formidable uncle, Immanuel-Ferrand? No sense in wondering, Ned thought; he'd know soon enough. "Is Jon required to attend?" he asked. "The boy might be… otherwise engaged."

"No, my lord," the servant answered, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Your son's presence is not required."

Ned nodded, relieved. "Is my attire suitable?" he asked, glancing down at his outfit. He wore a finely made silk doublet bearing the Stark direwolf, layered discreetly over a shirt of mail. Though he'd been traveling, the carriage ride had left him nearly as pristine as he'd been when he'd departed. Still, he knew the palace had its own standards. "I don't have much finer than this with me."

The servant assessed him with a discerning eye. "I believe it is perfectly acceptable. The Emperor is rather forgiving about such matters when it comes to warriors."

"Very well," Ned said, satisfied. "When should I arrive?"

"By six, if you please," the man responded.

Ned glanced at the descending sun. He had two hours to spare. "What to do with the time?" he mused aloud. The thought of the Blue Room crossed his mind, but he dismissed it quickly, Alda would likely be gone by now, but if not, he had no desire to intrude on whatever might be unfolding. "Perhaps a visit to the library?"

The servant hesitated. "I believe the Emperor is currently showing the library to the young lady you introduced to the staff yesterday," he said, somewhat awkwardly.

Ned's brow arched in surprise. "Belle? Of course he is." The Emperor was no fool; Belle's intellect and curiosity would be well-suited to the library's vast trove of knowledge. He smirked at the thought of Karl Franz courting Belle with ancient tomes and whispered histories. It was a clever move.

"Perhaps a tour of the gardens while there's still light, and then the Volkshalle?" The grey-haired servant proposed. "Of course, the Volkshalle is seldom used for its intended purpose, electing the Emperor is a rare occurrence, but it frequently serves as the meeting place for the Reikland Council and Diet."

"Lead the way," Ned said, gesturing for the servant to proceed.

"As you wish, my lord," the servant nodded and guided him from the guest stables through the winding corridors of the palace, the walls adorned with masterful paintings and tapestries depicting the glory and strife of the Empire. Outside on the other side of the palace, the gardens awaited. A tranquil escape filled with manicured hedges, exotic flowering plants, and statues of long-dead heroes immortalized in stone and bronze. Ned followed, eager to see a different side of this sprawling city of power and intrigue.

Chapter Text

As Belle was ushered into the towering spire that held the Imperial family's private library, she could only gape in astonishment. It was a magnificent sight, a soaring tower lined 'round with shelves that reached from floor to ceiling, filled with countless volumes bound in leather and gold leaf. Spiraling staircases led to walkways that circled the tower, give access to shelves higher up. There were clearly thousands of books here, perhaps tens of thousands.

She had visited the Great Library before her father passed, that grand repository of knowledge connected to the Temple of Verena and the University of Altdorf. With over seven hundred thousand books open to the public and an untold number of books and ancient scrolls hidden away in locked vaults for scholars and priests, it was a marvel of the world. But this… this was something else entirely. A private collection of unmatched splendor and intimacy, where each tome seemed to whisper secrets that only the privileged few could ever hope to hear.

"Your majesty, how many volumes are here?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her awe palpable.

"About thirty thousand," the Emperor said. Belle turned to find him standing off to the side, and her breath caught again. Karl Franz, Grand Prince of Reikland and Emperor of the Empire of Man, was as handsome a man as she had ever laid eyes on. But now, with the light of the late afternoon sun streaming through a stained-glass window set high on the wall, he seemed almost otherworldly. The window above depicted Ulric crowning Sigmar with divinity, and beams of colored light fell upon Karl Franz like a blessing. A halo of crimson and gold that bathed him in ethereal glow, as if he were a statue of a hero from some lost age, brought to life by the will of the gods.

It was hard to believe that this man, with his broad shoulders, chiseled features, and eyes sharp with intelligence and unyielding strength, had ruled the Empire with unsurpassed skill for two decades. Even harder to believe that he was thirty-eight, twenty-one years her senior. He looked every inch the warrior-king, virile and powerful, as if he could stride from the page of some ancient legend and conquer the world anew.

Belle felt her cheeks flush as she looked at him, a hot rush of color that spread down her neck and stirred a warmth deep inside her, unsettling and undeniable. The Emperor's gaze met hers, and she quickly averted her eyes, feeling the heat bloom further down as if his presence alone could light a fire within her.

"Let's take a look around," Karl Franz said, taking her arm in his, leading her deeper into the library. His touch was bold, his hand warm on her arm, and though Belle knew it was hardly proper, she could not find the will to pull away. There was something intoxicating about his nearness, the easy confidence in the way he guided her, and she let herself be drawn along, feeling the heat of his grip seep through the plain white sleeve of her serving dress.

"This section is devoted to the Gods of Men," the Emperor said, his fingers grazing the spines of a row of tomes with a familiarity that spoke of countless hours spent here. Some of the titles Belle recognized instantly, having read them several times over, others she knew only by reputation. The 'Testaments of Sigmar' a collection of memoirs by men who had known the God when he was mortal, 'The Liber Lupus' which covered the history of the Cult of Ulric, the 'Bellona Myrmidia' with its epic tales of that southern goddess, and many more. His hand paused over a volume she had not seen in person before, a thick leather-bound book embossed with a golden sheaf of wheat on the cover, 'Rhya's Wisdom'.

"Let's take a closer look at this," the Emperor said, plucking the book from the shelf and leading her toward a plush couch facing a low, ornately carved table. He settled himself on the left side, and patted the space beside him as he placed the book on the table. Belle hesitated, feeling a flicker of nerves she couldn't quite place, but she sat beside him nonetheless, her heart fluttering in her chest like a caged bird.

"Isn't this a collection on pregnancy, childbirth, and midwifery?" Belle asked, eyeing the worn cover. "Not exactly the sort of reading I'd imagine would interest the Emperor."

Karl Franz smiled, a hint of something playful at the corner of his lips. "The latter two thirds, yes," he agreed. "But the first third of the book… well, they focus on the marital relations that often lead to that condition." He flipped the book open to an early section, revealing pages filled with sketches of men and women entwined in the most intimate of positions, their bodies rendered in detailed, evocative strokes.

Belle's breath hitched. The images were unabashedly sensual, capturing moments of passion and tenderness, the kind of art rarely seen outside private collections. She glanced at the Emperor, whose eyes remained fixed on the pages with a look that seemed both insightful and amused, as if he could sense her unease and her curiosity. She couldn't bring herself to look away from the pages before her, drawn to the boldness of the illustrations and the strange thrill of sharing this forbidden knowledge with a man so powerful, so utterly unrestrained by the conventions that bound lesser men.

"Why are you showing me this, Your Majesty?" Belle asked, her voice trembling as she finally tore her gaze away from the illustrations, her cheeks flushed. The room suddenly felt too warm, the air thick with an unspoken tension.

Karl Franz smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver through her. "You know why, my dear. You're no fool."

No, she wasn't, but she could scarcely believe that a man like him, ruler of an empire of a hundred million souls and favored by the gods, could have any interest in her. "But... you're married," she protested weakly, the words feeling small and hollow even as they left her lips.

The Emperor's expression grew pained. "Maria-Luise is a cherished friend from childhood," he said, his voice heavy with the weight of long-kept secrets. "We are close, and I care for her deeply. But some women, as they age into their thirties, lose the desire to... physically engage as they once did. She is one of them. I love her as family, but a man of my station, of my vitality... under the crushing burdens of responsibility... needs more. Romantic love. Physical love."

Belle's heart ached at the rawness of his words, yet disbelief still tugged at her. "I'm sure you have many other options, Your Majesty," she murmured, struggling to reconcile his longing with the image of an invincible Emperor.

He sighed, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice. "I had a mistress once, a fine lady of the court. You may have heard… I had to send her away not long ago," he said, his brow furrowing in disappointment. "She was using our connection to secure favors for herself and her kin, exploiting my trust. But you, Belle... you would never do such a thing. You are kind, generous, and gentle. An intelligent, ravishing young lady, everything I need."

He turned to her, his left hand sliding onto her knee, the touch both soft and possessive. With his right, he tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. For a moment, Belle's breath caught in her throat; the Emperor's eyes were dark blue, intense, filled with a hunger she had not expected. He leaned in, and before she could find the words to stop him, or admit she didn't want to, his lips met hers.

The kiss was firm, demanding, a claim as much as an invitation. Belle's mind swirled, caught between the propriety drilled into her since girlhood and the undeniable thrill of being wanted by the most powerful man in the Old World. She should pull away, she knew, but his touch was electrifying, banishing her doubts in a rush of heat and longing that she had never felt before.

As Karl Franz kissed her, his lips fervent and insistent, Belle felt herself melting into the moment, her mind spinning. His mouth moved over hers with a boldness she had never imagined, and before she knew it, he had drawn her into his lap, her legs straddling him. The heat of his need pressed against her, only thin layers of fabric separating them, and it made her gasp. She'd seen the illustrations in 'Rhya's Wisdom', thinking them fanciful exaggerations of the marital act and especially that part of a man, but now, feeling the Emperor's arousal beneath her, she realized they were nothing of the sort.

He pulled away, just enough to let her catch her breath, though his hands still roamed her waist, his touch light but commanding. "Breathe, dear," he murmured, his tone tinged with a teasing lilt.

Belle flushed, her cheeks burning as she met his intense gaze. "I've... I've never kissed a man before," she admitted, the words stumbling out, a confession she had never expected to make.

Karl Franz's lips curled into a half-smile, a mix of amusement and something hungrier, something that made her pulse quicken. "There are many things you've never done before," he said, his voice low and edged with promise. "But worry not, Belle. I will teach you."

His hands moved with deliberate slowness, fingers tracing the line of her back, pulling her closer. Belle's breath hitched, her mind a whirl of nerves and anticipation. The Emperor's touch was a heady mix of power and restraint, as if he was savoring every moment of her innocence, ready to guide her, to shape her desires to match his own.

Karl Franz's fingers worked deftly at the buttons of her plain woolen dress, each one coming undone with a soft click, and he slowly peeled the fabric down to the curve of her hips, revealing her in the fading light of the stained-glass windows. Belle flushed, feeling exposed under his gaze, the cool air raising goosebumps on her skin. She instinctively moved to cover herself, hands reaching up to shield her chest, but he caught her wrists with a firm yet gentle grip, pulling her hands aside with a patience that was almost reverent.

"Do not hide yourself," he murmured, his voice warm and commanding, his eyes drinking in every inch of her. "You are a work of art, no less exquisite than the stained glass that surrounds us."

Belle's cheeks flushed a deeper red. "I'm nothing special," she said softly, lowering her eyes in modesty.

He smiled, the kind of smile that could sway a court and inspire an army. "On the contrary," he said, his voice rich with admiration. "You are the very ideal of beauty, the sort artists dream of capturing. Were the art school at the University in need of a new model, they would find none more perfect than you."

He bent his head, and Belle gasped as his lips brushed the delicate line of her collarbone. The Emperor's kisses were slow and deliberate, trailing from the hollow of her throat to the soft swell of her chest, his breath warm against her skin. Each kiss was a promise, each touch a declaration. Belle's hands trembled, caught between surrender and disbelief, but the Emperor held her steady, his lips whispering worship over her flesh, a lord's homage to a newfound muse.

His lips continued their descent, trailing a slow, deliberate path downward, each kiss a soft whisper of warmth against her skin until he reached a stiff, pink peak. Belle shivered as he took it in his mouth, the sensation sending a jolt through her that made her arch and gasp. It was unlike anything she had ever felt, intimate, overwhelming, and intoxicating, as if every nerve in her body was suddenly alight with a fire she'd never known she carried.

The Emperor's hand slipped beneath the folds of her skirt; his touch firm yet gentle as it traveled upward along her thigh. Belle's breath hitched, her body quivering with a mix of anticipation and disbelief. She could feel the heat of his palm against through the thin cloth of her pantalettes, a slow, searing advance that left her both terrified and desperately wanting more. Each inch closer was a promise unspoken, a moment suspended between what was and what might be.

She shut her eyes, feeling the brush of his fingers moving higher, each touch deliberate, exploring, claiming. Her world narrowed to the points where he touched her, to the warm, insistent press of his mouth, and to the weight of his desire. Belle had never been so aflutter, her thoughts scattering like leaves before a storm as she surrendered to the Emperor's ministrations.

His hand slipped deftly through the opening of her split pantalettes to find what had been hidden. His touch was gentle yet assured, exploring with a practiced confidence that sent sparks shooting up her spine. Belle tensed, unprepared for the surge of raw sensation that followed as his fingers traced delicate paths over folds that had never known another's touch.

He found places she'd never dared explore herself, each stroke igniting something deep and primal within her. The soft, insistent pressure of his fingers as they sank deep, coaxed soft gasps from her lips, and she clung to his shoulders, fingers curling into the fine fabric of his doublet as though it were the only thing anchoring her to the moment. Belle's mind was awash with heat and bewilderment, swept away on a tide of sensations that were both foreign and exhilarating. She had never imagined it would be like this, her senses ablaze, her world narrowed to nothing but his touch. His thumb massaging a nub she had barely known existed before this.

Belle came completely undone, her body convulsing with a sudden, fierce release that tore a cry from her lips. She shuddered violently, her breath hitching, and then she collapsed against his chest, trembling and spent. The heat of his body seeped through his doublet, the steady beat of his heart a comforting rhythm beneath her ear.

She clung to him, dazed and overwhelmed, the world wobbling as her senses slowly returned. His hands were gentle now, one stroking her back in soothing circles, the other resting possessively on her inner thigh. Belle's head lolled against his shoulder; her breath ragged as she struggled to collect herself.

'So that's why he did not wear the cuirass I've always seen him in,' she thought dully, half-amused by the realization even as she drifted in the aftermath of pleasure. The Emperor, always armored and imposing in court, had come to her dressed more simply, as though he had known exactly how this afternoon would unfold.

She felt his hands gathering the fabric of her skirt, bunching it up around her hips with deliberate, practiced ease. Belle blinked, still dazed, her mind struggling to catch up with her body's sensations. She shifted, the reality of the moment sinking in as she realized somewhere along the line his breeches had been pushed down to his knees. The heat of his erection pressed against the inside of her thigh, insistent and unyielding, leaving no doubt about his intentions.

For a heartbeat, Belle's breath caught in her throat, torn between fear and desire. She had never been this close to any man, never dreamed she would be so with the Emperor of all people. Yet here she was, poised on the precipice of something irreversible. His hands were firm but gentle, gripping the back of her thighs, guiding her forward, and when she looked up, his gaze was fixed on her with a mix of hunger and tenderness that left her breathless.

"You need only say the word and I will stop," he murmured, his voice low and rich, a promise wrapped in velvet. His lips brushed her cheek, tracing a delicate path down her jawline, and she could feel the power of his gaze, commanding yet patient, as if willing her to take that final step.

Belle swallowed, her heart racing. She thought of all the times she had dreamt of romance, of stolen glances and whispered words, but never had she imagined this, a man whose very presence made the room feel smaller, as though his will alone could bend the world around him. She felt the pull of him, the allure of something forbidden and dangerous. His touch was a brand, warm and possessive, and she found herself leaning into it, her resolve slipping away like sand between her fingers.

She shifted her hips, a tentative movement, and his breath hitched, the sound almost a growl of approval. The Emperor's grip tightened, his fingers pressing into the softness of her thighs through the thin cloth of her undergarments as he guided her down, slowly, inch by inch, until she took his thick length in fully. Belle gasped, her body stretched and filled in ways that made her reel.

It was more than she had ever thought to feel, a strange blend of pain and pleasure that sent sparks up her spine. She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into the silk of his doublet as she adjusted, her breaths coming in shallow pants. The Emperor watched her intently, his eyes dark and focused, as though she were the only thing in the world that mattered.

"There now," he murmured, his voice a husky rumble. "You were made for me."

Belle couldn't answer, couldn't think, lost in the intensity of the moment as she began to move, slowly at first, then with a growing confidence that surprised even herself. Each movement brought a fresh wave of sensation, her body finding a rhythm that matched his. The Emperor's hands roamed her back, guiding and urging, his every touch fanning the flames that burned between them.

They moved together, a dance of flesh and heat, each breath shared, each touch a declaration. Belle could feel him all around her, inside her, and she gave herself over to it, to him, the world narrowing to the here and now. She had never known such closeness, such raw, unfiltered passion, and in that moment, she truly believed this was where she was meant to be.

Chapter Text

After a brisk tour of the garden, its meticulously manicured lawns and ornate fountains sparkling in the fading light, and then the Volkshalle, where the grandeur of the chamber was rivaled only by its storied history, Eddard Stark took a moment to freshen himself. The water closet, a marvel of modern design, boasted a polished glass mirror and décor that spoke of wealth and refinement, but the cold water was a surprising reminder of one of the few unique luxuries that Winterfell enjoyed. There was no hot water here, a detail that always struck Ned as a shocking contrast to his home on the far frontier of the Northeast.

Once assured that his appearance was immaculate, his clothes neat, his face scrubbed of travel dust, Ned made his way to the Grand Banquet Hall with a measured stride. The herald, robed in rich livery, stood at the entrance, his voice rising in a sonorous proclamation that echoed through the hall. "Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Governor of Winter Town, Warden of the World's Edge Mountains, Viscount of the Veldt, Member of the League of Ostermark, and General of Imperial State Troops!"

The titles rolled off the herald's tongue like a river of gold, each one seemingly more resplendent than the last. Lords and ladies in the hall paused, their conversations momentarily interrupted by the pomp of the announcement. Their gazes flitted toward Ned with a mixture of curiosity and calculation. While most returned to their chatter and clinking goblets, a few scrutinized him with keen eyes, their intentions cloaked in the shadow of their political machinations or perhaps a more personal intrigue.

The walk to the head of the table was a gauntlet of eyes and whispers. Eddard Stark moved with the assurance of one who had weathered many a storm, each step measured and purposeful. As he took his place at the Emperor's left hand, the room's attention swiveled with renewed interest. The Emperor's position at the head of the table cast a long shadow, and Ned, now seated by his side, drew a conspicuous amount of gaze and speculation. The shifting of eyes, the subtle adjustments of posture among the assembled nobles, spoke of a web of politics and personal agendas that would undoubtedly unfurl as the evening progressed.

The banter of the hall resumed its rhythm, though now with a sharper edge, as Eddard Stark settled into his seat, the weight of his new surroundings pressing down on him. The Emperor's presence at the head of the table was a beacon, and in his light, every movement, every glance in Ned's direction took on an added significance.

"Lord Stark, welcome!" The Emperor greeted him with a broad smile, looking more at ease than Ned had seen in a long time. Not since five years ago, when they were younger men, bloodied but victorious, returning in victory from that brutal second campaign in Kislev. There was a satisfaction in Karl Franz's eyes that Ned found familiar, and given what that servant had implied when he'd diverted Ned from visiting the library and the Emperor's now relaxed demeanor, he could well guess the source of this newfound vitality.

"You're looking well, Your Majesty," Ned said, meaning every word.

"All thanks to you, my good friend. Your generosity astounds me," Karl Franz replied, his tone rich with warmth, and Ned's suspicions were confirmed. He kept his face composed, but his mind was already working ahead, savoring how best to break the news to Jon. The boy had questioned his father's wisdom on this matter, but it seemed his old man's plans had born fruit after all.

"Think nothing of it, Your Grace," Ned said, even as thoughts of future alliances and favors simmered beneath his calm exterior.

"I assure you, Lord Stark, I will not forget this kindness," Karl Franz said with a smile that was half a promise, half a warning. "Now, tell me, is there anything you need help with during your time in Altdorf?"

"I could use the services of a skilled lawyer to look over a contract with the Mundane Alchemists' Guild, my Lord," Ned said. "I had planned to seek a recommendation from the palace staff."

"No need for that," the Emperor said, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand. "My personal solicitor is idle at the moment, tending to nothing of great importance. I'll have him review the contract for you." Karl Franz paused, his eyes narrowing with a hint of curiosity. "I hear you've ordered ten thousand wheellock muskets from the College of Engineers. I presume this contract involves the establishment of a manufactory for paper cartridges in Winter Town?"

"Just so, Your Majesty," Ned confirmed. "Two factories, to be precise, along with the modernization and expansion of my powder works. There is much to be done if we're to keep pace with the times."

"Ambitious, as always," Karl Franz said, nodding approvingly. "And I hear there will be a temple to Handrich rising in Winter Town and perhaps one to Myrmidia as well?"

"Yes, Sire," Ned replied. "The people of Winter Town are eager as always for new patronage, and the gods must have their due."

Karl Franz's gaze lingered on Ned, sharp and assessing. "The Empire is fortunate to have a man like you, Lord Stark, one who sees the future and moves to seize it. I shall watch your endeavors with great interest."

Ned nodded, knowing that every step he took in this city was a step in a larger game. The Emperor's favor was a powerful thing, but it was also a heavy one.

"Two good-sized temples and two munitions factories... they'll take up a fair bit of space. Will you have to expand the walls? " the Emperor asked, leaning back in his chair, his eyes shrewd and measuring.

Ned shook his head. "No, Your Majesty. There's a mustering ground behind the western gate that I plan to build over. It should fit in another thousand souls, even when taking into account those new structures. I'll have a fresh mustering ground set outside the walls, the town square in front of Winterfell is no longer sufficient for the full army. "

Karl Franz nodded thoughtfully, though a flicker of doubt passed over his features. "I suspect a thousand people will fill that space sooner than you think, Lord Stark. Winter Town's walls are stout, and the city is clearly on the rise. That will attract people."

Ned stroked his chin, considering. "Extending the walls is no small task, and it's not one we can tackle lightly. It's an expensive venture that demands quiet times, something we don't have right now. With the central provinces in flames from Beastmen raids and Greenskins spilling out of the mountains, these times can hardly be called quiet. After all, I'd need my soldiers to secure the city while working on such an undertaking. Even pushing the walls half a mile out, west or south, would take two or three months, and that's with twenty thousand men laboring from dawn to dusk."

He paused, weighing the Emperor's gaze. "It's a commitment I'd need to be sure of. If the city starts spilling past the walls in earnest, then I'll begin laying plans. But as it stands, the Grand Theogonist himself warns we've only got three or four years until the next great storm rolls in, with chaos at our doorstep. The expansion will likely have to wait until after that. Perhaps then, with refugees from the countryside or Kislev swelling our numbers, the demand will justify the cost."

"Time constrains us all, " the Emperor agreed, a shadow of concern flitting across his sharp blue eyes. "But you've always been one to see ahead, Lord Stark. I've no doubt you'll be ready when the time comes. "

The two men shared a moment of understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the burdens they bore and the grim futures they steeled themselves against.

Ned's ears pricked as the herald's voice rang out, sharp and clear. "Luitpold of House Holswig-Schliestein, Knight of the Reiksguard and heir to the Grand Principality of Reikland." So that's who will sit at the Emperor's right hand, he thought, watching as the young prince made his way up the long, gleaming table.

Luitpold was a striking figure, perhaps an inch shorter than his father but with the same broad shoulders and athletic frame. His hair was a lighter shade of brown, cut short and neat, and his face bore a youthful version of the Emperor's chiseled features, though softened by inexperience.

"Lord Stark, may I introduce my son and heir, Luitpold," the Emperor said, his voice brimming with a father's pride.

"It's an honor to meet you, Your Highness" Ned said, inclining his head politely. "I've heard of your service in aiding the Dwarfs in the mountains. A hard-fought campaign, by all accounts."

"Oh, it was nothing special," Luitpold replied, his voice colored with modesty. "I did as I was told, held the line as any man should. No more, no less."

Ned smiled faintly. "Even so my lord, your presence on the battlefield speaks volumes to those who watch and judge. Forgive me for saying, but your reputation in your younger years was... well, less than flattering. But most boys stumble before they find their footing. The question is always whether they grow into the boots they must fill, or trip over them."

Luitpold flushed, his cheeks turning a shade that almost matched the crimson of his knightly sash. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous gesture that belied his station and made him look younger than his eighteen years. "Aye, I can't deny it. I was a pampered little brat, craving attention at every turn. But I'm not that boy anymore, or at least, I'm trying not to be. I just wish there were more chances to prove it. I hear you've entrusted your son with command of your army, over twenty thousand men at sixteen years old. That's... well, that's something."

"Robb is a rare case, my lord," Ned said, his tone gentle but firm. "He's sharp, with a keen eye for tactics and a natural talent for leadership, but he's still young, as you say. That's why I've placed seasoned commanders at his side, men who can guide him, and take the reins if need be. Don't measure yourself against him, Your Highness. Greatness comes at its own pace, and many a worthy man has found his mettle much later in life than you."

Luitpold nodded, though the self-doubt lingered in his eyes. "I hope you're right, Lord Stark. I'd hate to be the one who fails when the time comes. For the sake of my father, and for Reikland."

The words hung in the air, a quiet admission of the weight the young man bore, and Ned found himself nodding, the bond between them deepening in the shared understanding of a son's struggle to live up to his family's legacy.

"What do you think of his chances of being elected Emperor after me?" Karl Franz asked, putting Ned on the spot and fixing him with a steady gaze. "Say tomorrow, if I were to simply fail to wake."

Ned blinked, caught off guard. "I can scarcely imagine you passing anywhere but on the battlefield, Your Majesty," he said truthfully, buying himself a moment to gather his thoughts. "But if it came to it... I'd say his prospects are strong, despite his youth and inexperience."

Karl Franz leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "Go on. I'd hear your reasoning."

"There's little real competition, Your Grace," Ned said, weighing his words carefully. "Sigmarite candidates always hold an advantage, but the two other provinces with cities that have the wealth and prominence to serve as Imperial capitals are poorly positioned. Wissenland has Emmanuelle von Liebwitz, a cunning woman, but there are enough Electors who'll balk at her sex to doom any candidacy she puts forth. As for the Westerlands, their return to the Empire is too recent, and Ragnar is too old. Some will wonder how sincere his worship of Sigmar truly is. Perhaps one of his grandsons might have a shot in three or four decades, but not him."

"There are other Sigmarite Electors," the Emperor interjected, pressing him further.

Ned nodded, but countered. "Yes, but none that carry the same weight. They'd need an exceptional candidate, or your son would need to be exceptionally poor to be overlooked. Leitdorf may be my father-in-law, but he is mad as a loon, hardly fit to rule Averland, let alone the empire. Ludenhof's eldest son was cursed by some dark sorcerer and twisted into a mutant. The Grand Baron did his duty and put the boy down, but the Electors are a superstitious lot. Kinslaying and the taint of mutation? Those aren't stains that wash off easily."

"And Hertwig?" Karl Franz asked, his voice edged with curiosity.

"Hertwig's in his fifties, and his vassals are all Ulricans," Ned said, shrugging. "Many Electors will view him as too weak to don the laurels of Sigmar's heir. As for von Raukov, he's a great general, and Ostland leans a bit more Sigmarite than the rest of the north, but his province is on the far frontier. A capital on the edge of civilization won't sit well with most Electors. And Haupt-Anderssen?" Ned shook his head. "They still remember what a bloody farce it was the last time his family took the throne. No one wants that again."

Luitpold, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke. "And what of the non-Sigmarite candidates, Lord Stark? Surely they must factor in."

"They do," Ned admitted. "But to overcome Sigmarite bias, they need a capital city that can rival Altdorf, and only Middenheim and Talabheim have that kind of pull. Todbringer's close to sixty, and after losing his eye seems a spent force, and Feuerbach... well, no one likes Feuerbach. So long as you keep your head down and show yourself capable, Your Highness, you're likely to take the throne. And if you do more than that, if you show even a glimmer of greatness, you'll win in a landslide."

Karl Franz's eyes glinted, the weight of the Empire and his own legacy pressing upon him. "Competence is a low bar," he said, but his voice softened as he looked at his son. "But it's where all great men start. You had command of a troop in the last campaign, this time you'll have a squadron, you'll work your way up to the top over time."

'From ten knights to fifty, it's not much compared to what Robb's handling,' Ned thought, 'but frankly my son is a prodigy. Luitpold's progression is far more typical.'

"What if Boris's son Heinrich were the Elector of Middenland?" Luitpold asked, his voice tinged with genuine curiosity.

Eddard considered the young wolf of Middenheim. "Heinrich has carved out a name for himself on the battlefield, no doubt about that. If you were to stumble, he could become a serious contender. But his birth outside of marriage still casts a shadow over him, and the scandal that led to the revocation of the Cult of Ulric's thousand-year vow of celibacy... it may have made for salacious gossip, but it also cost his father politically. Those indiscretions are likely to lose him a vote or two, and in a close race, that's all it takes to bury a man's ambitions."

Luitpold nodded, but the Emperor leaned forward, still hungry for more insight. "And what of the Westerlands' return? That's two more Electors now, the Prince of Marienburg and the Cult of Manann. How do you see that shaping future elections?"

Ned rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Ragnar owes you his throne, Your Majesty. To cast his vote anywhere but for your heir would be seen as the height of ingratitude and would stain his house in the eyes of the other Electors. His successors, though? They'll look out for themselves first, pushing their own claims if they have the votes, or casting their lot with whomever promises the most in return."

"And the Cult of Manann?" Luitpold pressed, eager to learn.

"They're tied to Marienburg, of course, but if their prince is not viable they'll always cast their vote toward those next most likely to safeguard the sea lanes and the rivers. Reikland, Wissenland, Talabecland, they're the three who stand to gain."

Karl Franz shifted in his chair, his eyes glimmering with contemplation. "Haupt-Anderssen is young, barely twenty-five, but he's made a bold promise; to split Stirland and Sylvania between his sons when he dies. Should that come to pass, we're looking at eighteen Electors. How would you suggest we deal with the possibility of a tie?"

Ned took a measured breath. "I know you've long wanted the Colleges of Magic to gain a vote, Your Majesty, but the Electors would never accept it. It's not just their aversion to sorcery; they see it as another advantage for Altdorf, one that would solidify your house's dominance. The only real solution is to elevate another Cult. The Cult of Taal would be the natural choice, but they've spurned the offer time and again."

The Emperor listened intently, but it was Luitpold who asked, "Then who? The Cult of Rhya would never accept, surely."

Ned's brow furrowed in thought. "The Cult of Morr, perhaps. They've kept to the shadows, usually steering clear of politics, but they might be swayed by the opportunity to wield more influence in their war against the undead. Their priests are respected for their dedication and appreciated for safeguarding men's souls. Their vote could lend legitimacy to whatever happens with Sylvania."

Karl Franz stroked his chin, deep in thought. "It would be fitting, wouldn't it? Gaining Morr's vote at the same time Sylvania gains its own. There's a symmetry to it, and while Morr's priests aren't beloved, they are as you say, respected. Their work is grim, but necessary. Yes, I think that just might be a solution we could make palatable."

The conversation paused, a weight of unspoken implications hanging between them, each man considering the uncertain future of the Empire, the shifting alliances, and the unseen threats that loomed over them all.

"What do you think of the palace, Lord Stark?" Luitpold asked, making an effort to rekindle the conversation.

Ned considered the question, glancing around at the grand hall with its vaulted ceilings, gilded columns, and banners that fluttered softly in the breeze let in by open windows. "It's an impressive stronghold, to say the least," he replied, truthfully. "Aside from the Bokha Palace in Kislev, it's the only other citadel I've seen that clearly surpasses Winterfell in size."

Luitpold raised an eyebrow. "Really? I knew Winterfell was sizable, but you've visited the seats of many Elector-Counts over the years, haven't you? None of their castles exceeded it?"

Ned nodded thoughtfully. "Eagle Castle in Wurtbad, Wolfenburg Castle, and Hergig Keep, they're comparable in scale. Bechafen's bastion, though imposing, is smaller than Winterfell. Talabheim has no true castle at all; the crater walls and its monstrous gate are their main defenses. The Grand Duke lives in a fortified manor house, more suited for luxurious comfort than a siege. I hear that the Graf's Palace in Middenheim is much the same, safe within the mountain top's natural defenses. I've never visited Averheim, but my wife Catelyn was struck by Winterfell's size when she first arrived, so I'd wager Leitdorf's seat is closer to Bechafen's in scale."

"A fair assessment," Emperor Karl Franz agreed, nodding. "I've only glimpsed Winterfell from the deck of a river ship, but it was clear even from a distance that it was one of the mightiest strongholds in the Empire. Only the Imperial Palace in Altdorf, the Electoral Palace in Nuln, and Marienburg's New Palace truly outmatch it."

"Is there anything you miss about it?" Luitpold asked, leaning in with genuine interest. "Aside from your family, of course."

Ned's eyes softened, his mind drifting back to the familiar stones of his home. "Taal's Wood, mostly. The garden here is exquisite, well-tended and full of rare blooms, but it lacks the wild beauty of the forest that grows within Winterfell's walls." He paused, a wistful smile touching his lips. "And I miss the hot water. It's something I've not found anywhere else beside Karak Kadrin."

The Emperor's brow furrowed with curiosity. "Every traveler I've known who's gone to Winterfell raves about the hot water and warm walls of Winterfell. How does it work?"

"There are hot springs, blessed by Rhya, on the edge of Taal's Wood," Ned explained, his voice taking on a hint of pride. "The Dwarfs built a system of pumps and brass pipes that run the water throughout the castle during the colder months. In Karak Kadrin and other great Dwarf holds, I'd wager they use rune-engraved pipes to heat the water, an impressive feat of magic and engineering. I'm sure they'd be willing to install such a system here, though the cost would likely be steep, even for the Emperor of the Empire."

Karl Franz chuckled, his gaze turning inward, calculating the worth of such a luxury against the endless needs of his realm. "An intriguing thought, but the Dwarfs never part with their secrets cheaply. Still, I envy you your hot springs. There's a certain comfort in such things, rare as they are."

"Aye," Ned agreed, his thoughts lingering on the warmth of the waters and the familiar halls of home. The Emperor and his heir might have the grandest palace in all the Empire, but in some ways, Winterfell's ancient stones felt richer still.

"Will you be accompanying us into Middenland?" Luitpold asked, his eyes bright with the eagerness of youth.

"Part of the way, Your Highness," Ned said with a respectful nod. "I'll travel with Reikland's host until we reach Eldagsen, where the Taub splits from the Delb. From there, I'll take the Taub upriver to Grimmenhagen, and if the situation allows, I'll make my way on to Middenheim. If the path proves treacherous, I'll stay in Grimmenhagen and lend my men to the city's defense until it's safe to proceed."

"Hard to plan that far ahead," Karl Franz said, rubbing his jaw in thought. "Eldagsen may not be in our path at all. Or, if things worsen, I might have to march to relieve Grimmenhagen or even Middenheim myself."

Ned inclined his head, acknowledging the Emperor's words. "Much depends on what's to come, Your Majesty. But whatever the case, I'm yours to command. I've only a hundred men with me, but they are some of my best, and sometimes a hundred good men can turn the tide."

Karl Franz smiled, a weary but genuine expression. "I'll call upon you if the need arises, you can be sure of that. But as of now, I see no reason to delay your journey to Middenheim."

"If you do make it to Middenheim soon, please, write me about it," Luitpold interjected, a touch of awkward eagerness slipping through his composed demeanor.

Ned raised an eyebrow at the request. "Of course, Your Highness, but why the particular interest?"

The young prince flushed slightly, glancing at his father before speaking. "Ah, well, you may know I am betrothed to Katerina Todbringer, Heinrich's younger half-sister. The wedding is set for next year, on her sixteenth nameday. We've exchanged letters, but… I'd like to know more about her from an unbiased observer."

Ned nodded thoughtfully. "I'd be happy to, Your Highness. Your betrothal has been much talked about. Many hope it might ease the tensions between Altdorf and Middenheim, between Sigmarites and Ulricans, but even a successful marriage may not be enough, not when you and her brother could end up as rival claimants for the Imperial throne."

Luitpold's face fell slightly, and Karl Franz's gaze turned contemplative. "It's a difficult path you both tread," Ned continued. "But sometimes, a well-made match can do more to heal old wounds than any war or treaty. Still, the shadow of the throne casts a long and dangerous pall over such unions."

The Emperor nodded, his expression a mix of hope and pragmatism. "If the Gods are kind, it may be enough. But the politics of the Empire have devoured greater hopes than ours."

Ned could only nod in agreement. In the Empire, marriages were more than just unions of hearts, they were gambles, political maneuvers made on a board where a single misstep could end a dynasty. He wondered what the girl Katerina was like and whether she knew what she was being thrust into. It was a dangerous game, but that was the way of things in these lands, where crowns were made as often with blood and iron as with vows and veils.

"What of your son, Robb, and your eldest girl, Sansa?" Karl Franz asked, leaning back in his chair, eyes keen as a hawk's. "She should have just turned thirteen, no? Any unions on the horizon for them?"

"No…" Ned said, voice careful but honest. "There's been talk. Von Raukov has a daughter a couple of years younger than Robb, unpledged, and there are a few powerful boyars across the border in Kislev's southern Oblast with daughters of the right age. I've sent out feelers, but all I've got back are non-committal answers."

"They want to see what the boy is made of," the Emperor said with a knowing nod. "His campaign against the Greenskins will be a proving ground. The High Matriarch of the Celestial College spoke favorably of his chances, did she not?"

"She did," Ned agreed. "I'm not worried about his performance on the battlefield. I've no doubt he'll return victorious. My worry lies elsewhere… he's got a romantic's heart, and I'd wager two-to-one he'll pledge himself to some vassal's daughter he meets on the march to the Mountains or on his way back."

Karl Franz arched a brow, surprised. "That's rather reckless, Lord Stark. You can trust him with an army, but not with his marriage?"

Ned allowed himself a rueful smile. "No man is perfect, Your Majesty. Boys even less so."

"Is there any particular vassal's daughter you're concerned about?" Luitpold asked, curiosity piqued.

Ned considered for a moment, his mind mapping out the path Robb would likely take. "Well, if he follows the Dwarf road all the way to the World's Edge Mountains…"

"That would lead him to the Last Keep," Karl Franz interrupted, his tone light. "The Dunbroch family's seat, isn't it?"

Ned blinked, surprised. "I'm impressed you know of them, Your Majesty. I would have thought the Dunbrochs would be quite obscure this far west."

The Emperor chuckled; eyes gleaming with amusement. "Baron Dunbroch visited Altdorf during the tourney celebrating my coronation. That's where he met Elinor Tyrell. His pursuit of her… gods, that was a sight to behold." Karl Franz shook his head, still smiling at the memory. "They've a daughter around Robb's age, I believe. If she takes after her mother, I can see why a young man might be drawn to her."

Ned recalled the girl as she had been at thirteen, all gangly limbs and fiery spirit. "I last saw her some years back. She was a bit awkward then, but girls grow, and I imagine she's blossomed into a beauty by now." He paused; the memory of her fierce, untamed energy clear in his mind. "But more than her looks, she takes after her father in character. Rides and shoots a bow from horseback like she was born in the saddle. Sharp tongue, never afraid to speak her mind. I can see Robb falling for her, yes. That worries me."

Karl Franz nodded in understanding. "Better her than most barons' daughters. Her mother's family, the Tyrells, have been gaining prominence in southern Lyonesse, and with their second son Garlan blessed by the Grail, their influence is growing. They've been making alliances right and left, and there's talk of them cleansing Mousillon and setting themselves up as Dukes."

Ned frowned, considering the implications. "A Grail-blessed family rising in Bretonnia could make for a powerful ally, or see us targeted by powerful enemies." Though they were very far away, likely all the relation would do is lend Merida some much needed prestige.

Karl Franz gave a wry smile. "True enough. But whether Robb is smitten or not, there are worse matches he could make than one with ties to the Grail and such a storied lineage. The question is whether a heart led by love can still serve the realm's needs. It's a dangerous game when duty and desire clash, and the stakes are high for boys like your Robb and girls like Katerina."

Ned couldn't disagree. The weight of a name, of a realm's expectations, bore down on the young harder than steel. And in a world where alliances were forged with blood and ink, love was a luxury few could afford.

A serving girl, her cheeks flushed with the exertion of her task, approached the Emperor and whispered something into his ear. His face lit up, clearly pleased before he turned back to Ned. "You're in for a treat," he declared, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "This meal has been prepared by the finest Halfling cooks outside of the Moot."

Barely had the Emperor's words settled when the grand doors of the banquet hall creaked open once more, revealing a procession of servers. They moved with a practiced grace, each one bearing trays heavy with an array of dishes that seemed to gleam in the torchlight. The scents that drifted into the hall were intoxicating, weaving a tapestry of savory meats, grilled vegetables, aromatic herbs, and the sweet, buttery promise of pastries.

As the first tray was set before the Emperor, the air was filled with a tantalizing mixture of roasted game and spiced fruits. The servers moved with a synchronized rhythm, laying out dish after dish with deft precision. Each plate seemed to tell a story of abundance and craft, from golden-brown roast ducks to steaming bowls of rich stews.

Karl Franz gestured towards the spread with an inviting smile. "Please, help yourselves," he said, settling into his seat with an air of satisfied anticipation. His eyes twinkled as he surveyed the offerings. "The Halflings are known for their culinary talents, but they've truly outdone themselves tonight."

Ned found himself drawn to a platter of honey-glazed ham, the glaze shimmering like liquid gold. He served himself generously, his senses assaulted by the succulent aroma. As he took a bite, the flavor was as rich and layered as he had hoped, a testament to the skill of the cooks who had prepared it.

Luitpold, leaned in, his expression one of delight. "They say the Halflings' cooking is almost magical," he remarked, his voice low. "I believe they might be right."

The Emperor, carving a piece of roast pheasant, nodded in agreement. "Indeed. Their talent with food is matched only by their love for it. It's a tradition among them to make every meal a celebration, a sentiment we can all appreciate."

Ned took in the sight of the banquet hall, the long table laden with every conceivable delicacy. The mirrored oil lamps cast a warm glow over the scene, making the hall seem almost otherworldly in its opulence. The grand setting, combined with the Emperor's evident enjoyment, created an atmosphere that felt enchanting.

As the feast continued, the conversation turned to lighter matters, the clinking of silverware and the murmur of voices filling the hall. Yet beneath the surface of this conviviality, Ned could not shake the feeling of underlying tension. The feast, while lavish, was set against the backdrop of a realm in flux, with political currents as deep and shifting as the river Reik itself. And as he looked around at the gathered nobility, each face a mask of carefully controlled expression, he wondered what deeper currents might be at play beneath the surface of this seemingly perfect evening.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 11th, 2522

The wind was sharp with the bite of oncoming autumn, carrying with it the scent of the Reik as it swept across the docks. The smell of mud, fish and shit. Eddard Stark stood atop the deck of the 'Undying Faith' with Jon and the boy's dire wolf at his side, his eyes scanning the mass of men, ships, and supplies spread out before him. The clamor of the harbor, the calls of deckhands, the creak of timber, and the grating rasp of chains loading cargo was a cacophony that filled the air, but Ned found a strange satisfaction in it. Order within chaos. Forty thousand men, all armed and armored, their weapons gleaming beneath the morning sun, boarding the flotilla that would soon carry them to war.

They were good men, most of them, more seasoned than Ned had dared hope. Hardened State Troops in their regimental colors, the banners of Reikland's myriad cities and towns flapping against the breeze. Regiments from Altdorf, Kemperbed, Dunkelburg, Ubersreik and more, their flags bright against the blue-grey sky. But here and there he could see the green in some, boys barely old enough to shave, their eyes wide with the thrill of their first campaign. It was always like that, he supposed. War aged men fast, but never fast enough.

Among them, he spied a few Regiments of Renown boarding the larger vessels. Mercenaries, as hard-bitten as any man alive, selling their swords to the highest bidder. They'd fight well, Ned knew. Men with nothing to lose always did.

The ships themselves were another marvel. Two hundred of them, most far larger than the humble gunboat and merchant vessels he'd taken down the Talabec. Great sloops, their masts like towering spears, capable of sailing not just up the Reik, but on the sea along the coast, all the way to Estalia or Tilea. Flat-bottomed barges piled high with men, grain and munitions, their broad hulls cutting sluggishly through the water, the lifeblood of the army that was soon to depart.

He allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. The planning, the logistics, the wrangling of nobles and merchants alike, it had all come together. The Emperor's war machine was moving, all due to his timely warning.

His thoughts drifted briefly to the events of the past few days. Meetings with Altdorf's High Priest of Handrich and the High Priestess of Myrmidia Incazzata had gone smoothly enough. Permission had been granted for new temples in Winter Town, the necessary documents signed and stamped. Routine matters, though important.

Yesterday morning, he'd finally signed the contract with the Mundane Alchemist Guild, the Emperor's solicitor having found nothing amiss. The modernization of his war machine would soon proceed at pace.

And then, the night had descended into revelry. The ball had been impromptu, but grand nonetheless. It wasn't the sort of thing Eddard usually enjoyed, frivolous and filled with courtly drama, but watching it unfold there had been a certain… entertainment to it. The knights and officers, most of them bound for the front, danced as if the war was a distant thing, a shadow on the horizon not yet looming close enough to chill their bones.

Belle, in her golden gown, had drawn eyes as she spun across the floor with the Emperor himself. Ned had watched from the shadows, observing the stir it caused, the whispers that buzzed like hornets among the court. "Karl Franz's new mistress," the words flickered like candlelight. It was a drama of its own, no different than the intrigues of smaller courts like Winterfell, but with more silk and polish.

Pyotr, his rumor-monger, had spoken of the Empress's icy indifference toward the Emperor's previous mistress, a mask hiding deeper resentment. Yet last night, after the Emperor had danced with his wife and then transitioned to dancing with his young mistress, the Empress had watched with a gaze that to Ned had seemed bemused rather than jealous. Like a mother watching a child fawn over a new puppy, indulgent but knowing. Her smile genuine, looking at Belle with sympathy. An experienced woman gazing at a love-struck girl who did not realize she was a passing fancy, foolish, but too adorable to get angry at.

Ned had wondered how long that tolerance would last. Sooner or later, the winds of court would change, and indulgence could easily turn to wrath. But that was Karl Franz's burden, not his. The Emperor ruled Altdorf, and it was up to him to manage his household.

Now, as the sails above caught the wind, and the ships groaned under the weight of their cargo, the time for balls and courtly games was over. War was upon them once more, and Ned Stark's mind turned to the battles yet to be fought. He had always been a man of duty, and there was no greater duty than leading men into war. He had no doubt he'd engage in a battle or two at the Emperor's side before parting ways and heading on to Middenheim with his son.

…

Brauzeit 15th, 2522

"Arya," her master said, his voice a secretive murmur from beneath his green hood, "I have much to do and little time to do it in. I want you to escort the Imperial Dwarfs I've hired to inspect the sewers."

His typical melodrama aside, it was an odd request. Then again, the High Chancellor often gave her odd tasks, shadowy errands that had no explanation and little purpose, at least not one she could see. But this? This seemed the strangest of all. "The sewers, master?" Arya blinked. "Aren't the Dwarfs being escorted by the Sewer Watch?"

"Of course," he replied, the shadows of his face unreadable. "But I want to hear what the Dwarfs uncover from you."

Arya frowned. "But… forgive me, master, I don't understand. Won't the Watch submit their own report? And the Dwarfs will surely give one as well. Why do you need me?" She shifted uncomfortably. The idea of trudging through the muck of Altdorf's sewers wasn't exactly what she'd imagined when she left Winterfell to become a Magister's apprentice.

Immanuel-Ferrand's eyes gleamed, a cold spark beneath his cowl. "Three reports are better than two," he said, as if that were answer enough. "The Dwarfs will likely exaggerate any issues they find, though exaggerate may be the wrong word. Sounds too deliberate and negative. Better to say they will emphasize the flaws they find, driven by their innate sense of perfectionism. The Sewer Watch, on the other hand, will likely downplay any problems, eager to avoid any blame. Your report, Arya, will be more… objective."

"Master, I'm an eleven-year-old girl who grew up in a castle," Arya protested, incredulous. "I've spent my life learning court manners, not how to crawl around in sewers. How will I know what to look for?"

The High Chancellor's lips twitched into something like a smile, cold and calculating. "You've snuck into Winter Town often enough, by your own admission. And you've witnessed battles against Beastmen on the way to Altdorf. Surely you've developed a good sense for danger and watching eyes. If not, this will be a good place to sharpen it."

Arya opened her mouth to protest further, but the words died in her throat. Immanuel-Ferrand's tone left little room for argument. Still, she wasn't one to back down easily. "Master, I've only been your apprentice for a week," she said. "I've learned a few tricks, some illusions, the basics of swordplay from the Tilean master you hired, but I can't defend myself with blade or magic, let alone others. Would it not be wise to recruit someone who can?"

The Grey Magister cocked his head, studying her like a chess piece he was contemplating moving. "Oh? And who do you think would want to accompany you into the sewers? Even the greenest journeymen have no desire to wade through muck, and most apprentices would be of little more use than you."

Arya thought for a moment, her mind racing. 'Tanya,' she realized. "What about Tanya from the Celestial College?" she asked. "She seemed eager for adventure when I saw her, and I've heard she's more dangerous than most Magisters."

Immanuel-Ferrand's eyes narrowed in thought. He rubbed a finger along his pointed beard, then nodded slowly. "A good choice. If you can convince her to join you, do so. But," his voice lowered, sharp with warning, "under no circumstances are you to reveal the secret of the Ratmen to her. Neither the Dwarfs nor the Watch must speak of them. If you run into Skaven, well, then that's that. But until then, you keep your mouth shut."

The mention of Skaven made Arya's skin prickle. She'd heard tales of them of course from Old Nan, of twisted, monstrous, ratlike creatures that lurked beneath the cities of the Empire. More legend than reality, or so she'd thought until learning the truth of them in the Map Room conclave earlier this week. But there was something in her master's tone that chilled her. The High Chancellor really takes this conspiracy of silence seriously, she realized.

"Once the inspection is done," the Grey Magister continued, "you will write up a report on Tanya as well. I want to know if she's worth keeping an eye on."

Arya stifled a groan. 'More paperwork,' she thought. As if crawling through the sewers wasn't punishment enough. But she merely nodded, biting back her irritation. "Yes, master," she said, bowing her head.

As she left the room, the heavy door closing behind her, Arya couldn't help but feel the weight of the task ahead. Sewers, Skaven, and now the enigmatic Tanya. Her apprenticeship was proving far stranger than she'd ever imagined.

The inspection was set for tomorrow, and Arya could already feel the weight of it pressing down on her. The sewers of Altdorf sprawled beneath the city like a labyrinth, a city that was spread across twelve square miles of streets and alleyways. Only the Gods knew how much filth flowed beneath them through half-forgotten stone passageways. It would take days, perhaps longer, to complete the task.

And then there was Tanya. Arya had been planning to track her down for some time now, but the inspection made it urgent. She'd managed to procure a copy of the other girl's University schedule, an easy enough task if you knew the right people to bribe or the right ears to whisper into. Today was Bezahltag, the fifth day of the week, and Tanya's schedule was blissfully empty for the next three days. At the University, at least.

The Celestial College was another matter entirely. Arya knew little of how they ran things there, but from what she'd overheard, Tanya seemed to have more freedom than most. Hopefully, that meant she'd have the time to join Arya on this odd little venture into the bowels of the city.

Without delay, Arya headed toward the stables. The stable boys were already quite familiar with her. An apprentice's license flashed and the name of her master spoken once, and they now scrambled to fetch her a mare without so much as a question. The whispers of her reputation, and more importantly, of the Grey Magister's, followed her wherever she went in Altdorf.

A flicker of sunlight caught her eye, glinting off the brass face of an expensive looking lantern clock that hung from the corridor's wall. Time was slipping away, faster than she liked. If she wanted to catch Tanya before she disappeared into whatever strange business the Celestial College had for her, she'd need to hurry.

Her pulse quickened. Without another thought, Arya broke into a run, her feet pounding against the marble tiles of the hall as she raced toward her destination, her heart beating with the thrill of the chase.

…

Tanya Degurechaff settled into the alcove of a private study booth within the Great Library, her thoughts still buzzing from the lively debate she'd just had in her mercantile theory class. She had argued fiercely, almost to the point of fisticuffs, with the professor, but the verbal sparring had left her invigorated. Yet, as always, she couldn't shake the strange sensation of living between two worlds, both familiar and alien.

This Empire, much like the one in her last world, was a nation under siege, surrounded by enemies, clinging to survival with military might and brutal efficiency. She had been raised in an orphanage, plucked from obscurity the moment her magical potential had been recognized, and forced into service. The military conscription, the harsh training, the ceaseless war, all of that was the same.

But then, there were the differences. The authorities here had refused to throw into battle despite her power and skill, judging her too young, worrying for her safety and sanity. And strangest of all, despite constant attacks from Greenskins, Beastmen, Chaos Cults, the Undead and gods knew what else, this Empire thrived. It had stood for over twenty-five hundred years, while the Empire of her last world hadn't managed to survive one century. The people here lived, fought, and prospered, all under the blessing of their so-called gods.

Tanya's mouth twisted into a bitter smile as she recalled the sneer of her professor during their last class. "You, Miss Degurechaff, may think yourself blessed with some revelation by Handrich, but let me assure you, economics does not work the way you think it does."

That was the crux of it, wasn't it? The gods here were real. Tangible, in a way Being X had never been. Tanya had long since deduced that the gods of this world were nothing more than constructs, manifestations of human fears, desires, and prayers, pooling together in the aether until they took form and gained power. They were, in her estimation, artificial, but real nonetheless. Real enough to answer prayers and bestow miracles upon their followers. Real enough to sustain an Empire under siege for centuries.

Her thoughts darkened as she recalled the day Being X had sent her here. The Great War was ending, the world she'd known crumbling around her, when a sudden accident, no accident at all she knew, had torn her life away. She could still hear the mocking voice of that wretched creature in her ear, smug and patronizing. "If you won't learn your lesson from me, perhaps some of my colleagues can teach it to you. If you don't follow them sincerely, your soul will be devoured by the Dark Gods of that place."

Tanya's grip tightened on the parchment before her, crinkling its edges. 'Colleagues,' he'd called them, as if these gods of the Old World were on the same level as Being X. But they weren't. They were far more present, far more active in the lives of their followers. Sigmar, Rhya, Morr, they answered prayers with tangible blessings. Soldiers were empowered, crops flourished, dreams guided, and the dead shepherded safely beyond the veil. It was transactional, almost comforting in its predictability. You offered them worship and the appropriate sacrifice, and in return, they gave you protection and their blessing.

She had witnessed it hundreds of times at the temple her orphanage had been attached to. Seen countless people brought in over the years, broken and bleeding, coughing and dying, and seen them healed with nothing but the faith and prayers of the Shallyan priestesses there.

It was nothing like the capricious neglect of Being X, who claimed omnipotence and omnibenevolence but acted more like a petulant tyrant. Granting 'miracles' that melted the mind of someone with no intention of following him, all for some twisted sociology experiment.

No, these gods were different. And for all her loathing of divine beings, Tanya had to admit, following them made sense. At least here, in this world, a prayer wasn't just a shot into the dark. It was an exchange, a deal struck between mortal and god.

And Tanya had always been good at making deals.

Tanya Degurechaff shook off her thoughts of gods, pushing away the musings that, despite herself, she often returned to. The Empire's strange pantheon could wait; for now, there were more immediate concerns, and so she turned her attention to the heavy tome resting in her lap, a primer on Tar-Eltharin grammar. The Elvish tongue of Ulthuan was nothing short of a labyrinth, and though Tanya was no stranger to difficult studies, she found this one to be particularly vexing.

Still, she had to admit that mastering languages in this world had come far easier than she'd expected. Reikspiel bore a striking resemblance to 17th-century German, and with her background, mastering it had been trivial. The same went for Kislevarin, which mirrored the Russian of Peter the Great, and Bretonnian, an almost perfect twin of the Sun King's French. Classical was practically Latin reborn, and though Tanya hadn't come across much Nipponese writing yet, the few texts she had seen seemed nearly identical to Japanese from the early Edo period. English, though, was an odd absence, one of the most widespread languages of her past lives, yet it seemed nonexistent in this world. A minor curiosity, but one that still nagged at her from time to time.

Her proficiency in these languages had granted her a solid foundation in linguistics, one that made learning Lingua Praestantia, the College's arcane tongue, far simpler than her tutors had anticipated. A hybrid of simplified Elvish and Old Reikspiel, it had flowed easily into her mind. The tones and inflections didn't trouble her either, thanks to half-remembered lessons in Chinese from her distant, half forgotten first life.

But Tar-Eltharin was different. The language was elegant and maddening in its complexity, as though each word carried a thousand years of history, secrets wound tight in every syllable. After over a year of intense study, Tanya could barely string together sentences better than a small child. It was frustrating, and it gnawed at her that something, anything, could challenge her this much.
She scowled and buried herself deeper in the text, making precise notes in the margins. Words were her weapons now, and she would master this, just as she had mastered everything else.

Her concentration was eventually broken by a small cough. "Excuse me," came a voice, soft yet firm. Tanya's head snapped up, her sharp eyes narrowing as she registered the girl before her.

Arya Stark, a scion of a great house from Ostermark on the Empire's far north-eastern frontier. Apprenticed to the notorious High Chancellor of the Realm, Immanuel-Ferrand. Young Arya had been the subject of much discussion and rumor in the Colleges over the last week.

The name flitted through her mind, tied to a sharp memory from the Gates of Aqshy. The girl was young, just eleven, but her bearing was more like that of a seasoned scout than a child. Arya had that look about her… feral, sharp, and hungry, as though she'd seen too much already and yet was eager for more.

"Yes?" Tanya asked, her voice cold but polite. She marked her place in the book and closed it with a practiced snap, her eyes never leaving Arya's face.

Arya hesitated for only a moment, her eyes darting to the tome in Tanya's lap before fixing on her with a strange intensity. "I need your help."

Tanya arched an eyebrow. 'Interesting.' She had pegged this girl as trouble the moment she'd laid eyes on her, but now Arya was here, standing in front of her, asking for something. And Tanya knew from experience, people didn't ask for help unless they needed it desperately.

Still, she kept her voice measured. "My help? I doubt I'm the kind of person you're looking for."

Arya's lips twisted into a half-smile, one that spoke of mischief and something darker. "Oh, I think you're exactly who I'm looking for."

Tanya studied her for a long moment, intrigued despite herself. "And what could someone like you possibly want from me?"

Arya's eyes gleamed. "I've been sent to inspect the sewers. My master thought you might be… helpful. And I thought you might be looking for an adventure."

Tanya's smile was thin and cold. Adventure. It was a word people used when they didn't understand the risks, when they wanted to romanticize danger and death. But Arya Stark… there was something about her that suggested she understood more than most.

"I'm not in the habit of crawling through filth," Tanya replied, voice clipped. "But… I suppose it depends on what you're offering."

Arya leaned in just a little closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I hear there are things in the sewers… things you won't learn about in your books."

Tanya's expression didn't change, but her mind raced. She knew enough about this world's underbelly, literally and figuratively, to recognize the possibilities. And she knew something else, Arya Stark was no mere apprentice, no simple servant. The girl was dangerous in her own way.

After a long, tense pause, Tanya put her hand on her book and slid it aside.

"I'll listen," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "But if I don't like what I hear, I'll walk away."

Arya's smile widened, feral and sharp. "Fair enough."

"What kinds of things in the sewer do you expect to find?" Tanya asked the High Chancellor's apprentice.

"You know.... Mutants, Beastmen, Cultists and worse," Arya whispered.

Tanya narrowed her eyes, her mind working like the gears of a well-oiled machine, grinding over the possibilities Arya's vague words presented. Mutants, Beastmen, and Cultists… those were all horrors she had read about, dangers that were commonplace enough in this world of perpetual war. But "worse"? Worse meant something beyond the mundane nightmares this Empire faced.

"Worse?" Tanya repeated, her voice sharp as a blade. "That's quite the cryptic answer. You expect me to wade into the muck and filth of the sewers without knowing what manner of worse we're dealing with?"

Arya leaned closer, her eyes darting around the library as if the shadows themselves might be listening. "It's a state secret," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You'll know it if we run into it, but I can't tell you. Just trust me."

Tanya stiffened at the word 'trust'. Trust given unearned was for fools and she'd learned that lesson the hard way. Her mind raced, cycling through the threats she knew lurked in the dark corners of this world. A demon, perhaps? No, even demons were spoken of in hushed whispers, written about in tomes that collected dust in the locked vaults of libraries like this one. Cultists summoning some monstrosity of the Ruinous Powers? Plausible, but unlikely to be so tightly guarded. If Arya couldn't speak of it, it had to be something more… something the Empire itself feared to name aloud.

Her mind snapped back to the present, where Arya stood across from her with a strange, unreadable expression. Tanya's gut told her this girl wasn't lying. Whatever 'worse' was, it was real, and it was dangerous enough to warrant secrecy.

Tanya decided to take another angle. "And why would a man like the High Chancellor send you, an apprentice, into the sewers to uncover such a secret? Surely, if it's so important, he'd send someone more... seasoned."

Arya shrugged, the motion casual, though there was a certain hardness in her eyes that belied her nonchalance. "We're just there to observe. The Sewer Watch will handle any real danger, and the dwarfs, well, they're hired contractors, supposed to be the best at what they do. They can certainly defend themselves. My master just wants an unbiased report. He thinks the Watch will sugarcoat it to avoid blame, and the dwarfs... well, they're too perfectionist. Their report will be all doom and gloom."

Tanya's brow furrowed. 'Typical bureaucratic nonsense,' she thought. Even in a world filled with sorcery and gods, human nature remained the same, always a game of politics, of covering one's back, of managing perceptions.

"And you're his unbiased eyes," Tanya said, her voice cold with calculation. "An eleven-year-old girl with no real experience in such matters."

Arya smirked, her lips curling at the edge. "You'd be surprised what I've seen."

Tanya studied her, taking in the small but fierce frame, the sharpness in her eyes, the coiled tension of someone who had learned, far too early, that the world was a dangerous place. This girl wasn't just some lord's daughter playing at being a Magister's apprentice. There was steel in Arya Stark, the kind that only came from blood and loss.

Tanya leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "Fine," she said at last, her voice measured. "I'll come. But if this 'worse' turns out to be more than either of us can handle, don't expect me to stick around and play hero."

Arya's grin widened, a wolfish thing. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

For a moment, the two girls were quiet, a silent understanding passing between them. Neither trusted the other fully, but both recognized the value in this partnership.

Tanya had spent her last lifetime trying to fruitlessly claw her way to a position of safety, and she could sense that Arya Stark was cut from the same cloth as the battle hungry maniacs who'd made that impossible. Still, she needed to find out what this mysterious threat was and going with Arya was the best way to do that. She'd just have to do her best to hold back the blood thirsty girl and prevent her from doing anything rash.

"Be ready by morning," Arya said. "We'll be heading down with the patrol at first light." She put down a piece of paper on Tanya's table with the address of the Sewer Watch's main headquarters.

Tanya gave a curt nod, already thinking ahead, her mind a storm of possibilities and dangers. Whatever lurked in the sewers beneath Altdorf, whatever secret the High Chancellor wanted kept hidden, it wouldn't take her by surprise.

As Arya walked away, Tanya's fingers tapped rhythmically on the closed tome in front of her. "Worse" was an interesting word, she thought. And whatever it meant; she was determined to find out.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 16th, 2522

When Tanya arrived she found herself the last one to do so. That was unusual, she was normally one of the first to show up and there was still a good fifteen minutes before dawn. Then again, the Watch was stationed here and Dwarfs were never late, so perhaps it was not so surprising after all. What was surprising was how heavily armed they all were.

The nine men of the Sewer Watch were all wearing well-worn brigandine, sets that were clearly old, but well cared for. They wore old fashioned open face helms. Some carried billhooks, with the poles cut short to match the length of the bearer, likely due to the lack of space underground. Others carried heavy crossbows with wicked looking broadhead points. All of them had falchions at their sides, thick chopping blades. The officer in charge of the other eight had a brace of wheellock pistols.

"I wasn't aware the Sewer Watch was so well equipped," she said after exchanging greetings.

Her mind raced to calculate the reason for all this. The brigandine was old, yes, but it was solid, far better than mail. The crossbows, heavy and brutal, spoke to a need for force at a distance, and those broadhead bolts weren't meant for skirmishing with rats. This was equipment made for war, for something far worse than drunken vagrants or common thieves hiding in the sewers. Maybe there really were nests of mutants or Beastmen hidden in the depths. As for worse than that… she hadn't been able to come up with anything other than cultists of the Ruinous Powers and the results of their foul rituals.

She gave a short nod to Lieutenant Wurzelbacher, whose face was etched with the hard lines of a man who'd seen too much. His presence was suspicious in and of itself, she doubted patrols were normally led by anyone higher ranked than a sergeant. His explanation was simple enough, almost too simple. The kind of answer meant to gloss over questions that shouldn't be asked.

"Ten years back in 2512, the Emperor reformed and upgraded the city militia," Wurzelbacher said, his voice steady but his eyes flickering toward the entrance of the sewers as though he half-expected something to crawl out at any moment. "He subsidized the purchase of cuirasses, modern helms, halberds, swords, etc. And he gave the militia the matchlock muskets that he had replaced with wheellocks for Reikland's state troops. Then he made sure that the Sewer Watch had first dibs on all the arms and armor that the militia now had no use for. That's where the crossbows, brigandine, billhooks, and such come from."

Tanya nodded, filing the information away, but her mind lingered on the unspoken question. 'Why?' Why the need for such heavy armament beneath the city? Sewers were dark, damp places, filled with filth and vermin. But this, this felt like preparation for a battle beneath the streets.

Her sharp gaze flitted from man to man, noting the tension in their shoulders, the way they gripped their weapons a little too tightly. These men had been in combat before, but the sewer shouldn't be a battlefield, unless something down there made it one.

Her gut twisted. What exactly were they expecting to find?

Tanya's gaze shifted to the half dozen dwarves and their imposing arsenal. Plate and mail gleamed in the faint pre-dawn light. Their axes were great, grim tools of war resting heavily on their shoulders. The breech-loading wheellock pistol each carried at their hip, were all fine works of craftsmanship, obviously of far higher quality than the guns of the watch Lieutenant. Their handmade elegance was stark against the rough hands of their bearers. This was not the usual gear of mere contractors; it spoke of serious intent.

"And you, masters of the forge," she addressed them formally, voice tinged with curiosity. "I expected you to be well-armed, but this... this seems excessive."

Arya interjected smoothly, her tone betraying an edge of familiarity with scenes of soldiers preparing for a dangerous mission. "They're members of the 1st Altdorf Pikes, commonly called the Throng of Altdorf. They're an all dwarf regiment. They've simply brought their usual gear, minus the pikes that would be impractical in the tunnels."

Tanya's brow furrowed as she processed the information. "I was under the impression they were hired contractors. If they're State Troops stationed in the city, why weren't they simply ordered to accompany us?"

The eldest dwarf, his beard a cascade of silver that seemed to hold its own secrets, stepped forward. He had eyes like chips of stone and was wrinkled with the weight of years but still looked strong as an ox. His voice, deep and resonant, carried a note of weary patience. "I can answer that. We are stationed at the East End gate and walls, lass. Our contract binds us to the defenses of the city itself, not to the underbelly of it. Should the city be attacked by foes from land, sky, the river, or below, we'll fight back. We'll even counterattack, and if needs be, pursue the enemy underground. But regularly patrolling the sewers… that's not part of our duties unless the regiment's terms are renegotiated."

Tanya's eyes widened as she connected the dots. "So, is that why the Sewer Watch seems to all be men? No dwarfs among them?"

The dwarf nodded, a grim smile touching his lips. "Aye. The Watch is as it is because dwarfs patrolling the sewers are a matter of collective bargaining, which the city refuses to do with us on this subject. If the city or the Emperor want us in those tunnels, they'll have to offer us a price that befits our skills." His eyes crinkled in amusement. "Of course... according to the government, there's nothing truly dangerous down there, so why would they pay us such high prices." He spread his hands in mock confusion.

Tanya's frustration edged into her voice as she confronted the dwarfs. "So, let me get this straight. The danger down there is significant enough that you arm yourselves to the teeth to meet it, yet the government won't employ your kind to face it, all due to some petty budgetary squabble? Even though your people are obviously the best suited for it? I expected better of Karl Franz."

The dwarf with the long beard gave a dry chuckle. "Ah, lass, it's not the Emperor's fault that the city's coffers are thin. A dwarf's skills are prized, but so are the funds to pay for them. And we're no cheap investment. The city's administration might be willing to gamble with men's lives on a tight budget, but dwarves aren't so easily bought."

Arya glanced at Tanya, her face a mask of concern. "It's not just a matter of gold. The bureaucratic entanglements and red tape surrounding the secrets involved are such that even the Emperor can't simply cut through them. And the contract for the Throng of Altdorf was drawn up in stone, it's practically unbreakable, and there's no easy way to amend it without significant political fallout. By equipping the Sewer Watch with the City Militia's surplus gear, Karl Franz has done more for them than any other Emperor in nearly two centuries."

Tanya's lips tightened, eyes narrowing into a dangerous gleam, her frustration palpable. "So, we're left with a squad of ill-equipped men short a man, and a half dozen well-armed dwarves, with only a flimsy promise of support should things go awry. This is hardly the preparation one would expect for a situation that's evidently dire."

The lieutenant, Wurzelbacher, shrugged his shoulders. "I wouldn't call the situation dire quite yet. The dwarfs are here to inspect the sewers with us because of some… visions, that the senior wizards had. Premonitions of trouble. Maybe we'll find nothing. Maybe we'll find enough to nip it in the bud before it gets out of hand. We'll make do with what we have, like we always do. If things get worse, well, I trust the High Chancellor will send the necessary reinforcements."

Tanya sighed, her breath a soft hiss between her teeth. "That's comforting. Let's just hope we aren't already too late."

The longbeard grunted, his eyes flicking toward the dark maw of the sewers. "Late or early, what matters is what we do once we're down there. No sense in worrying now. Only fools worry before a fight."

Tanya couldn't help but agree. Politics and squabbles were a game for the lords above, but down below, in the shadowed depths, decisive action and cunning would decide their fate. She adjusted the strap of her pack, the weight of her pistol reassuring against her side. Arya, quieter now, checked her own gear with the precision of someone preparing for something far worse than routine.

The Watchmen shifted nervously in their old brigandines, exchanging glances. Even the dwarfs, for all their bravado, seemed to sense the undercurrent of unease. This wasn't a simple inspection.

"Let's get on with it, then," Tanya muttered. "Before the sun rises on us while we're still debating who's to blame."

With that, they moved toward the sewers, where the air reeked of rot and filth, and the sound of rushing water was drowned beneath the weight of their footsteps. Above ground, the city of Altdorf was waking, but there, below the cobblestones, something older, darker, and far more dangerous seemed to be stirring.

The entrance to the sewers loomed before them, a great iron grate pulled open with the groan of rusted hinges. The smell hit them first, thick, sour, clinging to their nostrils like a living thing. Beneath the streets of Altdorf, the underbelly of the Empire lay festering. The Sewer Watch moved ahead; their faces grim beneath their open-faced helms. Each man lit an oil lantern, the flames sputtering in the cool morning air, and hooked them to their packs. It was a strange comfort, the dull yellow glow pushing back the dark in their path.

Tanya could see other parties of the Sewer Watch starting to gather behind them in the courtyard and prepare for their morning patrols. She wondered how much deeper the patrol she was with would delve than them. The presence of the lieutenant, the dwarfs, her and Arya, it all pointed to a journey far more perilous than usual.

Arya, her dire wolf and Tanya stepped forward next, lighting their own lanterns and matching their Watchmen's preparations with practiced ease. The young Stark moved with the grace of a shadow, her face set in the same hard lines as her father's had been on those days he marched off to war. Tanya, prettier, but no less resolute, followed suit, cornflower blue eyes narrowing against the smell and the weight of the air. This wasn't the first time she'd ventured forth into danger, but every time felt like a reckoning.

Behind them, the dwarfs fell into line, their boots clanging on the stone steps. None of them bothered with lamps, above ground in the light of the sun, or deep below in the dark, it made no difference to them. Dwarves could see clearly through shadow and gloom so long as there was the barest glint of light. Their eyes gleamed in the half-light, watching, waiting, ready for whatever might stir beneath the earth.

The air grew colder as they descended, and the sound of rushing water echoed up from the depths, a constant reminder of the filth that flowed beneath the great city. Above, the people of Altdorf went about their lives, blissfully unaware of the dark things lurking beneath their feet. Here, though, the group knew better. In the shadows of the sewers, dark things waited, patient as time itself.

Tanya's gaze swept over Arya, her brow arching with a hint of disdain. "Aren't you a bit under-equipped?" she asked, her voice sharp with incredulity. Arya Stark, the scion of a great noble house, looked more like a half-armed squire than the apprentice to the High Chancellor. The only weapon she carried was a rapier, slender, almost delicate, and better suited for a halfling than a girl of her stature. The blade gleamed in the flickering lantern light, though it looked more like an ornament than something meant for true battle. The only thing dangerous about her was the great wolf that paced at her side, eyes glowing a molten gold in the dim light.

Arya wore a mail shirt, finely made but oversized, the hem hanging low past her mid-thigh. Tanya recognized the craftsmanship, dwarf-forged, no doubt, but the fit was all wrong. It draped around Arya like it had been made for a stocky full-grown dwarf, swallowing her frame. The girl was a bit short, even for her eleven years, and the ill-fitting armor only emphasized her smallness.

Tanya, though only a year older, was already more than half a head taller, her eyes gleaming with a certain satisfaction. She couldn't help the smirk that tugged at her lips. In this life, at least, she would grow to be of at least average height, a small victory she clung to. The Shallyans had fed her well, a blessing she would take in stride.

Arya's eyes flicked to her, expression hard as stone, with a spark of defiance as she adjusted her lantern on her pack. "I could say the same for you," she shot back, her voice edged with cool disdain. "You've got a fashionable leather jacket and a single pistol. Hardly seems enough."

Tanya smirked, tugging at her collar to reveal the quilted gambeson beneath the sleek leather. The material was thick enough to turn aside a slashing blade, though she usually wore it to ward off the cold when soaring high above the clouds.

"The pistol isn't what makes me dangerous," she said, her voice calm, almost matter-of-fact. "I can cast storms of lightning and generate gusts of wind strong enough to crush a squad of men against a wall and break all their bones. I can summon blades of compressed air that can slice a Black Orc to pieces. Magic is my weapon, not steel or lead." Her gaze lingered on Arya, assessing with interest the way Ulgu already clung thickly to the girl. "You, on the other hand, have been an apprentice for, what, a week? If anyone needs a brace of pistols, it's you."

Arya's expression tightened, the defiance dimming slightly as she shrugged. "My mother wouldn't let me train with such things," she admitted, her voice quieter now, tinged with something that might've been frustration. "I thought about getting some for this trip, but it's foolish to carry a handgun if you don't know how to use it."

Tanya gave a curt nod, her lips curling into a knowing smile. True enough, the girl would likely be more of a danger to their own party than any beast lurking in the sewers. "And that sword?" she asked, glancing at the rapier hanging awkwardly at Arya's side. "You trained enough to use it?"

Arya's lips quirked into a wry smile, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of discomfort. "Enough to draw it without cutting myself," she said, voice low. "After that, my brother told me to stick the enemy with the pointy end."

Tanya chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Sage advice," she murmured, her eyes sharp as they swept over the girl once more. "Let's hope it's enough."

Chapter Text

Arya couldn't help but watch Tanya out of the corner of her eye as they walked, trying to make sense of the strange girl. It wasn't just that Tanya was a genius, though she clearly was. The girl seemed to know more about nearly everything than anyone Arya had ever met, speaking with the confidence and insight of a lord far older than her father, as if she had lived through experiences no child could possibly have.

It was unsettling, really. Tanya was mature in a way that Arya couldn't quite pin down. She spoke of strategy, economics, and magic as though she had been at court for decades, as though she had led armies and ruled lands. But the strangest part was that it didn't seem like boasting. Tanya's words carried the weight of truth, and that was perturbing.

And powerful, by the gods, she was powerful. Arya could see and feel the blue wind of magic swirling around her, even down here beneath the earth, where the air was thick and the darkness pressed in on all sides. Azyr danced around Tanya like a living storm, far stronger than it ever had around Magister Solmann.

Arya's own master, Immanuel-Ferrand, was drenched with Ulgu, shadows clinging to him, but even he paled in comparison to the energy that crackled around Tanya. Honestly, Tanya was not far off from matching the Magister Patriarchs she'd encountered.

It made Arya feel both safe and small at the same time, knowing that such strength was at their side and knowing that she herself was a mere apprentice. Her own power barely a flicker in comparison, even though she had matched favorably with some journeymen that she'd met.

As they descended deeper into the bowels of the city, the sense of foreboding grew, though the sewers themselves were surprisingly grand. The tunnel they now walked through was wide enough for three men to walk abreast, the vaulted ceiling towering high above them. The channel of waterborn filth flowing beside them was even wider.

Despite the plain utility of the design, the craftsmanship of the place was unmistakably dwarfen. Every line, every angle, every curve was impossibly straight or perfectly round. Too perfect, Arya thought. The stonework, while masterful, gave off an eerie feeling, as if something unnatural lurked behind its flawless surface.

Her mind wandered back to Tanya. How would she even begin to describe her in her report to the High Chancellor? "Genius" didn't seem to cover it. Nor did "mature" or even "powerful." Tanya was all of those things, yes, but she was more than the sum of her parts. Something about her was "off", despite the purity of the magic around her and Arya couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the strange girl than even she realized.

As they continued their descent into the darkness, Arya glanced once more at Tanya, who walked with the same calm, composed air she always did, as if she were not descending into a labyrinth of filth and danger, but merely taking a stroll through the gardens of the Imperial Palace. It was unnerving, and in some strange way, comforting. Whatever lay ahead, at least Tanya Degurechaff would be there to face it with them.

And gods help whatever stood in her way.

…

They walked deeper for some time. The temperature slowly rising from the chill that lay just beneath the surface to a warmth that would have been pleasant if it weren't so humid. The moisture in the air soon turned into a cloying, sticky thing.

Arya could feel the sweat beginning to bead on her brow, and the stone walls around them seemed to trap the dampness, making each breath heavy. The tunnel they were in now had narrowed, just wide enough for two armed men to walk side by side.

They'd taken so many turns, twists, and forks in the path that Arya wasn't sure she could find her way back even if her life depended on it. She'd tried to keep track, but the deeper they went, the more the sewers felt like a maze designed to swallow them whole.

Tanya's voice cut through the thick air, sharp as ever. "Do we have an actual objective, or are we just wandering around, hoping to stumble into something unpleasant?"

Lieutenant Wurzelbacher glanced back at her, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the lanterns. "We're headed for the Atrium. There've been a fair number of monster sightings around there since it was finished five years ago."

Tanya snorted softly. "The Atrium? That's where the butchers and fishmongers dump their refuse, isn't it?" she asked. "If so, I can see why it would attract unwanted guests. You'd think the Watch would keep a closer eye on it."

The lieutenant's jaw tightened. "We've cleared it out and purged the tunnels around it more than a few times," he said defensively. "Talk of opening a permanent station down there's been going on for a while. But, well... that's stuck in committee. The usual nonsense."

"Of course," Tanya muttered, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Politics over practicality, as always."

Wurzelbacher ignored the jibe. "Once we reach the Atrium, we'll see if there's any sign of recent disturbances. Hopefully we'll find traces of something untoward and track it down," he continued. "Get a lead on whatever might be stirring up trouble down here and then deal with it before it gets out of hand."

Arya listened quietly, her mind racing. She'd heard of the Atrium before, though only in passing. It was a place where the dregs of the city flowed, blood, guts, and filth. No wonder monsters were drawn to it. And yet, the thought of heading there now, of walking into the heart of that festering pit, sent a chill down her spine despite the heat. She glanced at Tanya, who remained as calm as ever, her face impassive, as if she were entirely unaffected by the looming danger. She acted as if this was just another task to be completed. Another problem to be solved. No fear, no hesitation.

Arya wished she could feel the same calm confidence as Tanya. She was a Stark, after all. She was supposed to be brave. Her father had always said that a Stark's courage came not from the absence of fear, but from acting despite it. She clenched her fists, silently vowing that whatever horror lay ahead, however scared she felt, she would act and she would fight. She would make her father proud.

Yet so far, there had been nothing to fight. Just traces of beggars and crooks, shadows of desperation lurking in the sewers. Now and then, they'd come across signs of some unfortunate soul who had tried to survive down here, only to be swallowed by the darkness. Broken crates, half-eaten scraps of food, and the lingering smell of human waste.

Another half-hour of trudging through the dank tunnels passed before the lieutenant finally raised his hand to pause the group. "We're close to the Atrium now," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Stay sharp."

Arya's grip tightened on the hilt of her rapier, her heart pounding in her chest. Myrmidia, her dire wolf, padded silently beside her, nostrils flaring as the wolf caught a scent in the air. The young beast licked her chops, eyes gleaming with hunger. Likely the butcher's refuse up ahead. Arya couldn't smell anything beyond the foulness of the tunnels, her senses dulled by the constant assault of rot and filth. She couldn't decide if she envied or pitied the wolf's sharp nose.

Ten minutes later they turned a corner, and the tunnel widened, opening into a massive brick lined pit, blood-soaked and foul. The Atrium, a cesspool of waste and refuse. Open to the air of the city above, the late morning light illuminated a scene of horror. The walls were slick with blood and offal, a glistening red sheen coating the stone. Bones, rotting flesh, and tannery waste filled the pit, piled high in grotesque heaps.

The stench hit Arya like a blow to the stomach, overwhelming everything else, making her eyes water and her stomach twist painfully. She fought to keep her breakfast down, swallowing hard against the bile rising in her throat.

The others fared little better. Even the dwarfs grimaced at the horrid smell, though they held their composure as best they could. The Sewer Watch, for all their bravado, looked uneasy, their hands tightening on their weapons.

Arya forced herself to take a deep breath, drawing her focus away from the stench, from the swirling nausea in her gut. She was a Stark, and Starks did not falter. Not in the face of fear. Not in the face of filth. If something lurked here, it would meet her blade. She steeled herself, waiting for whatever nightmare might emerge from the shadows.

Lieutenant Wurzelbacher's voice cut through the thick, stagnant air like a whip. "Richard, Dietger, go left. Detlev and Adelbrand, cover them."

His orders were sharp and precise, as though the weight of the Atrium's stench couldn't touch him. He gestured toward the pit, sending his men off along the solid stone path that lined the pit. Two billmen first, then two crossbowmen after them. "Ralf, Ingmar, take the right. Norbert and Volkmar, you're their cover."

Arya couldn't help but smirk, her thoughts wandering. 'Volkmar, huh. Gods, that boy looks barely old enough to carry that crossbow into battle. He must be named after the Grand Theogonist himself. Could his parents have been that hopeful? Or desperate?'

The dwarfs, with the measured calm of their kind, moved without command. Two followed each group of Sewer Watch, axes ready in hand, their steps lighter than one would expect given their bulk. The remaining pair stayed behind at the tunnel mouth, standing like statues beside the Lieutenant, Tanya, and Arya, their eyes ever watchful.

The men crept cautiously along the rim of the pit, boots clicking on stone, their breaths shallow as if not to offend the gods with the stench they endured. Each side of the foul basin had its own tunnel mouth, spaced evenly like the points of a compass. The groups fanned out, one to the left, the other to the right, each hugging the wall and avoiding the edge of the pit as if any sudden movement might wake something terrible from its slumber beneath the muck.

Arya's fingers tapped nervously on the hilt of her rapier, her senses on edge, eyes darting between the distant figures and the looming shadows of the tunnels. The air felt thick with anticipation, as though they were trespassing on the edge of something dark and ancient, a secret that had long lain buried in the filth.

Then, from the left, Richard waved his arm as he reached the tunnel mouth on that side. They'd found something.

The hairs on Arya's neck stood on end. She gripped her sword tighter, her heart thudding in her chest. Whatever it was they'd uncovered, it was not going to be anything good. In this world, things found in places like this never were.

The Lieutenant's voice boomed across the Atrium, commanding the men on the right to regroup. His tone brooked no hesitation, and the Sewer Watch, along with their dwarfen escorts, moved swiftly to converge with him upon the leftmost tunnel, boots echoing in the foul, enclosed space. Arya and Tanya rushed after the Lieutenant, their shorter legs struggling to keep pace with his. Despite their stature, the dwarfs didn't seem to have as much of a problem with it, their stamina seemingly endless.

When they reached the tunnel's mouth, Arya's eyes immediately caught sight of a trail. It was a thin line of blood, bits of viscera strewn here and there, small pieces of offal glistening in the dim light like wet jewels as they trailed off into darkness of the tunnel. She had to hold Myrmidia back from following the trail right away.

But it wasn't the gore that drew the watchmen's attention, nor the dwarfs'. Instead they were transfixed by the symbols daubed crudely on the wall, painted in the same blood that streaked across the floor.

The symbols were large, both a full foot across, and they were strange and unfamiliar. The one on the right closer to the tunnel mouth was an upside-down triangle, sharp and menacing. Besides it, further into the tunnel, was a diamond with two jagged lines sprouting from its top that almost looked like crooked horns.

Tanya frowned, leaning closer to inspect them. "I don't recognize these runes," she muttered, frustration biting into her words. She turned to Lieutenant Wurzelbacher. "But it seems your men do."

The Lieutenant's face had turned pale, his lips drawn into a tight line. "They're signs of a cult," he said grimly. "One dedicated to one of the more obscure Ruinous Powers."

'Chaos!' Arya's heart stuttered in her chest. She'd heard of the Dark Gods, and the whispered tales of those who pledged their souls to madness. But this… this was something else. Her skin prickled with unease, as if the very air in the tunnel had shifted, thickening with dread. 'We were supposed to track down Ratmen,' she thought, half in horror, half with confusion. This was far worse.

But then her gaze returned to the bloody triangle. Something about it gnawed at the back of her mind, an itch just beyond reach. Her breath caught as realization struck. 'That looks like the face of a rat.' The triangle's angles, the jagged lines… it was unmistakable, now that she saw it clearly.

Her pulse quickened. This was what they were hunting. Wurzelbacher had mentioned a Chaos Cult, but Arya realized he was just holding back, keeping Tanya in the dark by offering a plausible explanation. Or perhaps it was true as well. The Skaven were whispered of, not written about in any book. At least any book apprentices had access to. And if they worshipped one of the Dark Gods…

Arya swallowed hard, her fingers tightening on the hilt of her rapier. 'It made sense,' she thought, her stomach twisting. 'Creatures like that couldn't worship anything good.'

"This is evidence enough," the Longbeard declared, his voice a low rumble that echoed through the tunnel.

Lieutenant Wurzelbacher raised an eyebrow. "Evidence for what? To march up to the High Chancellor and demand he mobilize the militia to hold the walls, while the State Troops are sent out from their garrison posts to sweep the Undercity?"

"Why not?" the dwarf snapped, his voice rising, bristling with indignation. "You have eyes, man! You see these signs! The threat below us festers while you dither."

The Lieutenant's face hardened, though his voice remained measured. "The Emperor's just left for Middenland, with the cream of the army. What remains is stretched thin, and you know it. The High Chancellor isn't going to authorize a full-scale battle in Altdorf unless he's given no choice. As it stands, whatever foul things crawl beneath our feet have always lurked there. But they're cowards, these... things. They rarely show themselves, and when they do, it's usually nothing the Watch can't handle. If we're to convince the Chancellor to act, we'll need proof. Proof that they're massing, preparing to strike in force."

"That sounds like a mission most of us won't return from," Tanya said darkly, her blue eyes narrowing.

Wurzelbacher met her gaze with a shrug. "There are three ways this ends. First, we find nothing too bad, and we all make it out alive, though with less glory than you might have hoped. Second, we find something very bad, but some of us escape to give warning. And third, we find something so bad, none of us make it back. Either way, Lady Stark is high-born enough that if she doesn't return, the High Chancellor will have no choice but to send the entire garrison below to discover her fate."

Arya blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of the Lieutenant's words. She felt a sudden chill, despite the warm, humid air. 'Is that why Master Immanuel-Ferrand sent me?' she wondered. 'To serve as the spark that forces the Chancellor's hand?' She wanted to dismiss the thought, but the way the magister had looked at her before she left, calculating, almost cold, came to mind. Arya had always prided herself on her loyalty to him, her trust. But now…

Her heart clenched with doubt. 'No,' she told herself. 'He sent me because he trusts me, because he knows I'll make it back.' But still, the unease remained, lurking at the edges of her mind like a shadow she couldn't quite shake.

"We'll have to follow this trail," Lieutenant Wurzelbacher said, his voice echoing faintly against the damp stone walls. He gestured to the streaks of blood on the tunnel floor, dark and smeared. "All the way to the end, or until we find proof that even the High Chancellor can't ignore."

The Longbeard beside him paused, his bearded chin dipped in thought, then gave a grim nod of agreement. The tension in the air thickened, an unspoken understanding passing between all of them; whatever lay ahead was not likely to be found without a fight.

"How keen are your wolf's senses?" Tanya's voice cut through the silence, her sharp blue eyes flicking toward Arya.

"Myrmidia's nose is keener than the butchers' dogs my father's men use to sniff out infiltrators and monsters," Arya replied, resting a hand lightly on the great wolf's head. The animal's yellow eyes gleamed in the dim light, her nostrils flaring as she caught the scent of the foul tunnel ahead.

Tanya paused, a quizzical look crossing her face. "Wait a minute. Did you really name your wolf after a goddess?" she asked, a hint of amusement creeping into her voice. "I know Winterfell doesn't yet have a temple to her, and you likely named her before you knew you were coming to Altdorf, but still…" She shook her head. "At least call her Myr from now on. There are plenty of Tilean and Estalian recruits at the Colleges who'd take great offense. And Myrmidia's got her own following these days here in Reikland and Wissenland."

Arya flushed, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. "I didn't think of that," she admitted. "I just wanted to name her after a powerful warrior woman."

"There have been plenty of those who aren't worshipped as gods," Tanya said with a note of frustration. "But forget it. This isn't the time." She glanced toward the wolf. "How are her ears?"

"Better than my father's hounds," Arya said, her voice steadying. "She'll hear anything before we do."

"Good," Tanya said, her tone softening. "Let's keep our eyes on her. She'll react before any of us if there's something dangerous lurking ahead."

Wurzelbacher nodded, motioning his men forward. "Right. Let's move."

And so they descended further into the gloom, the sour stench of rot and shit growing thicker with every step. The flickering oil lamps cast long shadows on the walls, and the silence was broken only by the soft clink of armor and the steady padding of the wolf's paws. Every breath felt heavy with expectation, every sound like a whisper of something just out of sight, waiting in the dark.

Chapter Text

"I wasn't exaggerating when I said what I could do," Tanya announced, her voice sharp in the stale, humid air. She slowed her pace, letting her words sink in as she glanced at the men ahead of her.

"So, if I shout for you to get down, you'd better do it. Unless you'd prefer to get fried or sliced to pieces." She paused, waiting for some acknowledgment, getting a scattering of nods and clipped rights and got its in return. And then the silence stretched on once more, broken only by the distant drip of water from the tunnel's ceiling. "Which would you recommend I try?" she asked, her frustration seeping through.

Lieutenant Wurzelbacher didn't look back. His eyes were on the path ahead, his steps measured and steady. "Depends on what we run into," he said, voice gruff and unconcerned. "Might be heavily armed and armored, might not be. Still dangerous either way."

Tanya's jaw tightened, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. "Right…" she muttered, clearly peeved at the lack of detail, even now. The secrets they kept irked her, but she wasn't about to push harder. Not yet, at least.

Arya, walking a few paces behind, couldn't shake the unease curling in her stomach. "How much deeper do you think we'll have to go?" she asked, her voice lower, almost hesitant. The weight of the dark, the cool dampness of the stone and the warm humid air around them, it all felt wrong. Like something was waiting, watching.

Wurzelbacher's careful steps didn't falter. "A couple of miles," he said. "An hour, probably. Drink some water if you've got it. And choke down some bread if you can. You'll need the energy."

Arya glanced at the others, their faces set in grim determination. The dwarves trudged on, their beards swaying with each heavy step. Myrmidia padded beside her, alert, ears pricked for any sound. She wasn't sure what unnerved her more, the silence that hung thick around them, or the fact that no one seemed willing to speak plainly about what they might be walking into.

Though Arya knew what their quarry was, the word "Skaven" still held a sense of mystery for her. She knew little beyond the old stories Old Nan used to tell, tales of the Emperor Mandred Skaven Slayer, who had driven the verminous creatures from the Empire centuries ago. But those were just tales, half-whispers told to scare children by the fire. In her mind, she imagined them as little more than rat-shaped Beastmen, vile, cunning, and twisted, but she had no real sense of how they fought or what kind of enemy they truly were.

The lieutenant had called them cowards. Even the Grand Theogonist had stressed their craven nature, how they scurried through tunnels and struck from the shadows like vermin. But no matter how cowardly, they were still dangerous. A cornered rat could bite, and Arya knew enough to recognize that there was more to this hunt than simple vermin control. If these creatures were enough to stir the Emperor's men, enough to warrant whispers of the ruinous powers, then they were no small threat.

She kept her hand close to the hilt of her rapier, every sense alert, eyes flicking to the shadows that danced in the lamplight. The air down here felt heavy, pressing against her chest like a weight, thick with the stink of refuse and old blood. Myrmidia trotted at her side, head low, ears twitching. Arya glanced down at the wolf, the only comfort she had in this dark, suffocating place.

Danger could come from anywhere, and when it did, it wouldn't be the men in armor or the dwarves at their rear who were most likely to feel its bite. It would be her, young and untried, and she had to be ready. Her father's words echoed in her mind, a reminder of the world she was in now; 'There's no mercy in battle, only survival.'

And Arya Stark intended to survive.

They marched in uneasy silence, the only sound the soft clink of armor and the dull echo of boots on the damp stone. Then, without warning, Myrmidia stiffened beside Arya, her hackles rising, lips pulling back to reveal sharp white teeth.

"Stop," Arya hissed, her voice low but firm, just enough to bring the column to a halt.

The Lieutenant turned his head, his hand already on the hilt of his sword. "What is it?"

"She senses something," Arya murmured, her eyes on the wolf, watching the way the beast's ears twitched, her nose lifting to sniff the stale air.

The Lieutenant frowned, scanning the shadows ahead. "There's a turn up ahead, if I remember right. After that, it's a straightaway, maybe a hundred yards, then a crossroads. If they've got sentries posted, that's where they'll be."

"Let me go take a look, laddie," the longbeard offered, his voice a quiet rumble. "I may not look it, but I can be quiet when need be. No lantern to give me away, neither."

The Lieutenant hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Good idea. Go."

The elder dwarf slipped forward, moving through the Watchmen with surprising grace for one of his bulk. His armor barely whispered as he passed, quiet as a stalking cat, until the darkness swallowed him whole.

Arya strained her ears, the silence stretching thin, the air down here thick with an unseen tension. Myrmidia still stood rigid at her side, every muscle taut, ready to spring. Arya's pulse quickened. Whatever was out there, they would find it soon enough.

It felt like hours, though it likely had been mere minutes. Time stretched thin in the dark, the stillness heavy with anticipation. Arya could feel her heartbeat in her ears, the damp air clinging to her skin. Myrmidia's fur bristled beside her, the wolf just as tense as her human companion. Finally, the longbeard slipped back into the circle of light, his return so quiet it startled the Watchmen. Crossbowmen jerked in surprise, their fingers twitching on the triggers, but thankfully no one loosed a bolt.

"Four of the Thaggoraki," the dwarf growled softly, eyes gleaming beneath his helm. "Up at the crossroad, chittering like vermin in their foul tongue."

Arya's heart raced. 'The ratmen,' she thought. 'We've found them after all.'

The longbeard continued, his voice low. "If your men loan me and three of mine those crossbows, we might take them out quietly. A bolt each, well-placed."

"How long since you've handled a crossbow?" Lieutenant Wurzelbacher asked, eyeing the dwarf.

The old dwarf grunted. "A while, but shooting is shooting, whether it's a handgun or a bow."

Wurzelbacher scratched his chin. "But these crossbows… we take good care of them, but they're secondhand. Not up to dwarfen standards, I'd wager."

The longbeard gave a curt nod. "We've all made do with umgi gear before. We'll manage."

Tanya, who had been silent until now, frowned. "Too risky. One miss, and we're compromised. Were the sentries armored?"

"A bit of scrap here and there," the dwarf replied. "Nothing heavy."

"Then let me handle it," Tanya said, her tone matter-of-fact. "A few blades of air, sudden and quiet. They won't even have time to scream."

The dwarf narrowed his eyes. "Can you see well enough in the dark to hit them proper?"

Tanya didn't flinch. "Tell me how high off the floor they stand, and I'll fill the whole corridor with blades. They'll never know what hit them."

The longbeard stroked his beard, deep in thought. One of his kin chimed in, "Better odds than trusting these shoddy bows, Gidham. Especially at a range of a hundred yards."

Gidham, Arya knew his name now, grunted in reluctant agreement. "Don't like trusting magic, but… aye, it seems the best bet."

Wurzelbacher nodded. "Do it quickly, then. No noise. We don't know how many more of them are down here."

Tanya stepped forward, her eyes gleaming in the dim light, her fingers twitching, already shaping the winds of Azyr. Arya felt a chill despite the heat and humidity. Magic, no matter how pure, always felt strange to her, unnatural even in the hands of an ally… unless they were channeling Ulgu. Somehow the grey wind felt just right.

Tanya rose off the ground, her boots hovering just inches above the stone, silent as a breath of wind. She moved after Gidham, slipping into the darkness with an eerie grace. Arya watched her go, the unnatural sight of it unsettling, her heart racing in her chest. Myrmidia shifted beside her, her fur standing on end, but she made no sound.

The waiting was worse this time. Time drawn out as the moments crawled by, each second weighed down by the silence. Arya's fingers twitched; her body taut like a bowstring ready to snap. The tension hung heavy, each heartbeat a deafening thud in her ears.

Then, out of the gloom, Tanya reappeared, fading back into view like a wraith slipping from the shadows. Her face was calm, though a glint of satisfaction lit her eyes. "Whatever they are, I got them," she said, her voice steady, almost casual. "No sound but for the pieces hitting the floor."

Arya exhaled, realizing she'd been holding her breath.

Tanya's gaze flicked to the Lieutenant and the dwarfs. "Let's go and check them out," she said, impatience creeping into her tone. "I'm eager to end this farce and finally be able to discuss the threat we're facing."

Wurzelbacher gave her a hard look, but nodded. "All right. But keep it quiet. We don't know what else is lurking down here."

Arya followed, her hand drifting to the hilt of Needle. Her heart still pounded, but her mind was clearer now. Tanya's magic was unnerving, but it was effective, and that was what mattered. Whatever lay ahead, Arya swore to herself she'd face it with steel in hand, just as her father would expect of her.

They turned the corner and walked the hundred yards to the crossroad. The flickering light of their oil lamps revealed a grisly sight, four creatures, scrawny and hunched, lay scattered in pieces. Each was no taller than five feet, their light brown fur matted with dark, clotted blood. Limbs, torsos, and heads had been severed cleanly, the ground slick with gore. The sheer amount of blood spilled from such small bodies was unsettling, and the stench, overpowering even in these foul sewers, was enough to make Arya's stomach churn.

Rusty sabers and crude spears, their wooden shafts cut into fragments, lay among the remains. One head still wore half a rusted helm, another a single pauldron strapped to a bony shoulder. Aside from that they wore little more than tattered rags, grimy cloth or dark leather, though Arya couldn't tell what sort. Nor did she care to. She swallowed, willing herself not to gag at the sight.

"Skaven?" Tanya's voice broke the silence, sharp with disbelief. She knelt beside one of the bodies, her eyes narrowing as she studied the shredded remains. "Really?" she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn't this.

Arya's eyes flicked back to the creatures. So, the rat-men of legend were real. But seeing them, broken and lifeless on the cold stone floor, they seemed almost pathetic. Yet something gnawed at her gut, a feeling she couldn't shake. They were small, weak, and pitiful. But they were also numerous. If these were just the sentries, how many more were lurking in the darkness ahead?

The Lieutenant grunted. "Not the first time we've come across their kind in the depths, but it never gets easier." He spat on the ground, as if to ward off some unseen curse. "Let's move. This is just the start."

Arya steeled herself, gripping the hilt of her sword tighter. If Old Nan's tales about Skaven were true, then the worst was yet to come.

"They don't look so dangerous," Tanya muttered, her voice thick with doubt as she nudged a severed limb with the toe of her boot. "What am I missing?"

Gidham's grim chuckle echoed low in the tunnel. "Their numbers," he said, the weight of years in his voice. "One on one, even their so-called elite are no better than an average halbardier of the State Troops. But the Skaven are endless. Numberless. Even the Greenskin hordes of the Dark Lands cannot compare. For every Orc there are four black-furred Stormvermin. For every Goblin, a dozen of these wretched Clanrats."

Tanya furrowed her brow, skeptical. "Numbers alone don't win wars."

The longbeard's face hardened, his eyes narrowing like someone who had seen too much and knew better than to argue. "Numbers... and madness. You think Greenskin hordes are bad? At one turn the Skaven can seem as disciplined as a host of the undead, at the next they collapse into civil war and back stabbing at the drop of a hat. But blades aren't the only danger they carry."

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Grey Seers, they call their mages. Twisted creatures, worse than any Bray-Shaman or Orc Warlock you'll ever face. Some Skaven carry Warpstone weapons, foul things that spit green-black lightning that will sear the flesh from your bone. They have their rat ogres, giants, more beast than rat or man, built for war, and then there's their poisons. Gas that'll choke the life from you, turn your lungs to pulp. You think these aren't a threat, lass? This... this is just the surface."

Tanya's face paled slightly, the cold realization settling in. She glanced at Arya, whose gaze had fixed on the dismembered remains. There was no underestimating what lay ahead now.

The Lieutenant cleared his throat, breaking the uneasy silence. "We need to move. We've lingered too long." He gestured for the others to gather. "We don't know when the next shift of their guards will come through. Better we're gone by then."

Arya tightened her grip on her sword. The stink of death clung to the air, and though the tunnel ahead beckoned, it also whispered promises of horrors still unseen.

"We need to find their nest," the Lieutenant said, voice steady but eyes tense as he surveyed the bloodied remains around them. "Get a sense of just how many of these creatures there are." His gaze shifted to Tanya, a hard edge to his tone. "Miss, you take point with the billmen. Use those wind blades of yours, keep it clean and quiet. If more of these vermin come to replace the dead, I want them gone before they even know what's happened."

Tanya's smile was bloodthirsty, almost feral. "Of course," she purred, a gleam in her eyes. "Every strike will be swift and silent."

Arya shuddered, goosebumps rising on her skin. There was something in Tanya's bloodlust that unsettled her, a dangerous glint in her eyes that seemed as cold and lethal as the Skaven they hunted. For a moment, she wondered who was more terrifying, the chaos-worshipping rats or the girl at her side.

They pressed onward, the tunnel stretching before them like the maw of some beast waiting to swallow them whole. Their footsteps, cautious and deliberate, echoed in the oppressive silence, the only sound their shallow breathing and the distant drip of water from the dank stone walls.

No more Skaven came until they reached the end of the tunnel. Arya caught a glimpse of a trio of scrawny rat-men, quarreling, their high-pitched chittering echoing off the walls. They were so absorbed in their bickering; they didn't notice the interlopers creeping toward them. With a flick of her hand, Tanya unleashed her magic. The air shimmered, blades of wind slicing through the sentries with a soft whistle, their bodies falling to the ground in pieces before they even realized they were dead.

Arya swallowed hard. Tanya's magic left no trace, just death.

They moved past the bodies, hearts pounding in unison, until the tunnel opened to overlook a vast, sprawling chamber, one that certainly had not been made by the dwarfs. Arya's breath caught in her throat. The sight before her was nightmarish, a pit, crudely dug and reinforced with haphazard wooden beams and iron spikes. But it wasn't the shoddy craftsmanship that stole her breath; it was the mass of creatures within.

Hundreds of them at minimum, swarming like insects. The pit teemed with rats, Skaven scrabbling over each other in a frenzy of activity. Arya's eyes widened as she took in the scene. Hulking, black-furred beasts, as tall as grown men, broad and muscular as a laborer who worked for a living. They were encased in mismatched plate and chain, their wicked spears and glaives gleaming in the dim light. They barked orders in their chittering tongue, their voices deeper and more guttural than the sentries had been, driving smaller, pathetic creatures… Skaven slaves perhaps, hunched and starved-looking into frantic labor.

The air was thick with the stench of musk, decay and sweat, the chittering and squeaking of the Skaven drowning out even the pounding of Arya's heart. A sense of dread settled in her stomach like a lead weight. There were so many of them, more than she could have ever imagined.

The Lieutenant cursed under his breath, eyes narrowing as he took in the sheer size of the gathering below. "This... this is worse than I thought," he muttered. "They're not just lurking in the shadows. They're preparing. Mustering."

Arya's pulse quickened. Her father's words echoed in her mind: 'Be brave. Be a Stark.' But in that moment, looking down at the churning sea of vermin, even her father's voice seemed small.

The cavern brightened suddenly, a crackling energy filling the air, causing every rat below to pause in their frantic scurrying, their beady eyes turning upward in terror. Arya's breath caught as the shadows of the pit flickered in the pulsing light.

Tanya's voice cut through the moment like a knife. "This ought to throw them into enough chaos to make our escape," she said with a cold satisfaction. Then, with a flick of her wrist, the air trembled as she summoned a maelstrom of lightning. The magic surged forth, leaping from her fingers to the armored Skaven below, streaks of white-hot chain lightning tearing through the rats like scythes through wheat. Bolts arced from one armored soldier to the next, but spared none of those caught in between. The smaller, weaker slaves stood no chance, their flesh charred, their bodies convulsing, as they were caught in the current. The stench of fear musk, burning fur and flesh was overwhelming, and Arya gagged as the air filled with the sickening screams of the dying.

In mere moments, the pit that had once teemed with Skaven was a graveyard. The armored warriors lay motionless, their bodies twitching as the last of the lightning's energy dissipated. The few dozen slaves who were still alive broke into a panicked frenzy, fleeing into the tunnels in terror.

The Lieutenant stood frozen, his mouth agape in disbelief at the devastation below. "Alright," he managed to say, his voice trembling with shock. "Time to go!"

Arya nodded, relief swelling in her chest. They were turning to leave when a movement below caught her eye, something shifted in the chaos. The Skaven that had been fleeing suddenly parted, scrambling to the sides of a tunnel entrance as something far worse emerged.

It was a hulking beast, a massive rat-ogre, bigger than any true ogre that Arya had ever seen. Its fur was matted and slick with grime, muscles bulging grotesquely under its leathery skin. Riding on its hunched back was a smaller figure, clad in dark robes. Its fur was solid gray, long black horns swept back from its head, and its long, bony fingers gripped a staff that crackled with a dark, malevolent energy.

"Man-thing mage!" the creature screeched in Reikspiel, its voice high-pitched and grating, echoing in the cavern. "Who dares slay the minions of Thanquol, most famed-great of the Grey Seers?"

The title Grey Seer sent a ripple of unease through the party. Arya felt it in her bones, this wasn't just any Skaven. The sorcerer riding that beast was something far more dangerous; she could almost taste the currents of dark magic that swirled about it.

Tanya's face twisted with disdain. "The Argent," she said, her voice low and lethal, as she threw her hands forward again, summoning a blizzard of slicing air blades. The gusts howled as they flew toward the Seer, razor-sharp and deadly. But just as they were about to strike, the rat raised one spindly paw, a translucent, sickly green barrier flickering to life before him. The blades slammed against it with a metallic screech, scattering harmlessly into the air.

The rat's green eyes gleamed with triumph. "You think you can challenge Thanquol, stupid-fool man-thing?!" he hissed, his grin revealing rows of yellowed teeth. His laughter echoed through the cavern, a mocking, terrible sound that sent a shiver down Arya's spine.

The Lieutenant's face was pale. "What... what is that?"

"A sorcerer of the Skaven," Gidham muttered, his voice grim. "Worse than any Bray Shaman or witch you've ever faced. We're in trouble now, lad."

Tanya's eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a snarl. "I don't care what it is," she hissed. "I'll kill it just the same."

But Arya felt a cold dread settle over her. The rat-ogre's beady red eyes were locked on them, its massive frame trembling with barely restrained fury. And above it, the Grey Seer, Thanquol smiled as though victory was already his.

It was then that Skaven came pouring out of the tunnels into the pit, like a torrent of rats driven mad by the scent of blood. Clanrats, scrawny and barely armed, scrambled over one another in their frantic haste, while hulking Stormvermin, clad in dark plate and wielding cruel halberds, pushed through the chaos, forming a menacing line around Thanquol and his monstrous mount.

Tanya's eyes narrowed as she surveyed the scene, her lips curling into a smirk. "Hmm," she hummed thoughtfully. "I think you need some exercise, Thanquol."

The Grey Seer's head twitched, his beady eyes narrowing with confusion. His long, clawed fingers twitched against the staff as if sensing the danger but unsure of its form. Above, Tanya raised her hands, fingers tracing the outline of an unseen ball, her movements quick, but deliberate. She murmured a word in the arcane tongue, and the very air seemed to shudder.

A great crystal sphere materialized around Thanquol and his rat ogre, shimmering with an unnaturally bright light. The Grey Seer's snarl was cut short, his head snapping around in panic as the sphere closed in, trapping him and his mount within.

Tanya waved a hand with a dismissive flick, her expression cold. "Enjoy the ball."

The sphere responded at once, rolling back with a thunderous crash. Thanquol shrieked, his high-pitched wail filling the cavern as he and the rat ogre tumbled helplessly inside, thrown around like rag dolls. The sphere barreled through the horde of Skaven behind them, crushing Clanrats and Stormvermin alike, leaving behind only a trail of crushed bodies and broken weapons as it careened back into the tunnel from which the Grey Seer had emerged.

Arya watched in stunned silence as the pit below erupted into chaos. The Skaven screamed and scattered, the sight of their slain comrades and the impossible strength of the swirling magics breaking their nerve. Tanya wasn't finished. With another sharp gesture, she called forth a whirlwind, and it descended upon the pit like a vengeful storm. Rats, dead and alive, were sucked into the maelstrom, their shrieks swallowed by the wind. Rusted blades, shattered spears, and shards of armor spun wildly in the tempest, slicing through flesh and bone with brutal precision.

In moments, the pit was an abattoir, the stench of blood and fear thick in the air. Arya could feel the bile rising in her throat, but she swallowed it down, her eyes wide as she stared at Tanya. The young wizard's face was impassive, her cold blue eyes surveying the carnage she had wrought as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience.

The Lieutenant's voice broke through the silence, shaken but resolute. "We need to move. Now."

Tanya nodded; her expression tight. "That sphere won't hold him for long," she said, her voice calm despite the chaos around them. "We need to inform the authorities of what's down here before he breaks free."

Gidham growled, his face grim as he surveyed the devastation. "The sooner, the better," he muttered. "That Grey Seer'll bring down half the Under-Empire on us once he's loose."

Arya's heart raced as they turned to leave, the horrors of the pit fading into the darkness behind them. But the echo of Thanquol's scream still lingered in her mind, a promise of the terror yet to come.

Chapter Text

They moved through the tunnels at a swift, steady pace, the air thick with the stench of the Skaven's wretched lair. Each time they reached an intersection, Arya would pause, her hands weaving quick, silent shadows into one of the other tunnels, casting illusions to mislead their pursuers. For a time, it seemed to work. The scurrying of claws and chittering voices faded behind them, giving the brief illusion of safety. But deep down, Arya knew the rats would not be fooled for long.

Perhaps the vermin had only needed time to regroup, or maybe their wretched noses had caught the scent of their prey. Either way, the pursuit resumed, the noises growing louder with each passing moment.

"Where are we headed?" Arya asked the Lieutenant, her voice low but urgent.

"Pauper's Keep," Wurzelbacher replied, not breaking stride. His breath came in short bursts, but his gaze was focused. "It's the closest concentration of State Troops. Captain Udern's got it in hand, brought in a slew of veterans and been training them hard. It's our best chance."

The grinding of steel on stone and the hiss of rats behind them drew closer. Arya felt her skin prickle with unease. Myrmidia's growl was the only warning before the rats were upon them, a flood of Clanrats crashing into their rear like a wave against rock.

The dwarfs were the first to turn, their great axes swinging in wide arcs. Gidham let loose a roar, hewing two rats apart with a single blow, their broken bodies crumpling to the tunnel floor. Pistols barked, the sound echoing harshly in the confined space as dwarfs fired point-blank into the horde.

The crossbowmen sent bolts flying over the dwarfs' heads, embedding themselves in the writhing mass of vermin. Myrmidia bounded side to side, behind the line of battle, rushing into a gap to savage a hapless Clanrat with her fangs.

Tanya hovered in the air; her pale face illuminated by the arcane energy crackling at her fingertips. With a single gesture, she sent razor-thin lines of air slicing down into the horde, cutting through fur and flesh with merciless precision. With each line half a dozen Skaven fell, their bodies split apart like paper in a storm, but still, more came.

One of them, a wiry creature with a mangy coat, darted through the chaos, its beady eyes fixed on Tanya. It moved like lightning, dodging a stumbling dwarf and weaving through the clamor. Arya saw it before anyone else did. There was no time to shout a warning. The creature was almost upon Tanya, a rusted blade gleaming in its clawed hand, when Arya moved without thinking.

She felt the cool hilt of her rapier in her palm before she even knew she'd drawn it. The rat turned its head to meet her eyes, its lips peeling back in a snarl. Arya drove the blade forward, her feet barely making a sound as she slid between the charging Skaven and Tanya. Her rapier found its mark, burying itself hilt-deep in the creature's eye. The creature convulsed, its limbs flailing as its last breath gurgled from its throat, and then it was still, its weight hanging from her slender blade.

Arya pulled the rapier free with a sharp twist, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Blood, too much blood for something so small, splattered across her boots. The rat's body slumped to the ground, lifeless.

Tanya looked down, her eyes narrowing as if she were seeing Arya for the first time. "Quick work," she muttered, barely a trace of gratitude in her tone. Then, without another word, she turned back to the battle, casting another deadly wind blade into the swarm.

Arya wiped the blood from her blade, her heart pounding in her chest. She felt a strange thrill, the surge of adrenaline, but also a cold dread coiling in her gut. These rats, they weren't just beasts. They were something more insidious, more dangerous. And they were relentless.

The Skaven broke at last, their courage shattering like brittle glass. Arya watched as the survivors scurried back into the shadows, their tails flicking in frantic retreat. The dwarfs held their ground, breathing heavily, blood dripping from axes and pistols still smoking. Though none had fallen, many bore fresh wounds, cuts and gashes from rat blades that had found their marks.

"Keep moving!" Wurzelbacher barked, spurring the party onward. There was no time to celebrate the victory. The rats would be back. The stories said they always came back.

They fled again, their pace quick but controlled, the air in the tunnels growing heavier with the scent of rot and blood. The oil lamps flickered as they passed through intersection after intersection, the tunnels winding like the guts of some giant beast.

Three cross tunnels north of where the Clanrats had attacked, Tanya halted, floating just inches above the ground as her eyes narrowed. "We have to turn right," she said, her voice calm yet commanding. "They're coming from the left."

The Lieutenant didn't argue, though his brow furrowed in frustration. "This is taking us away from Pauper's Keep," he muttered.

Arya, panting from the relentless pace, looked back over her shoulder. "Maybe they've figured out where we're trying to go?" Her words sounded harsh, more from exhaustion than defiance. "Is there anywhere else we can reach?"

"There's an exit near the East End gate," Gidham offered, his voice a low rumble. The elder dwarf kept pace with surprising ease, his breath steady despite his age and the weight of his armor. "Hundreds of the First Pike stationed there. These vermin will break on a line of good dwarfs."

The Lieutenant scowled. "That's another mile out of our way."

"Aye," Gidham grunted, wiping his axe clean on the hem of his tunic. "But most of it is straightaways. No more winding paths."

Wurzelbacher hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he nodded. "Fine. East End Gate it is."

And so they ran, the echoes of their footfalls swallowed by the endless dark. Each corner they turned felt like the wrong one, each shadow a place for the Skaven to regroup. But they pressed on, hearts hammering in their chests, knowing that behind them, death followed swift and hungry.

Half a mile further down, Myrmidia howled and another wave of Clanrats came at them, this time from the front, a mass of fur and fangs crashing down the tunnel like a living tide. This time, Arya saw the glint of wicked eyes before the first one even lunged. The Skaven had somehow anticipated their path, cutting them off. 'How?' she wondered, as she drew her sword.

The fighting was savage, frantic, a brutal scramble in the narrow tunnel. Arya darted in and out of the melee, her rapier flashing, slicing through fur and flesh, but for every rat she felled, two more seemed to take its place. The dwarfs, roaring and cursing, fought like they were possessed, their axes cleaving through the swarm, but still the tide came.

Two of the billmen went down, gutted by rusted blades, their bodies dragged into the dark by clawed hands before anyone could react. Their screams echoed, then died out, lost in the chaos. Arya turned, wide-eyed, but there was no time to mourn.

"Keep moving!" the Lieutenant yelled, voice hoarse as hacked through a Skaven head with his falchion and shot another through the heart, eyes wild with desperation. "Leave them! We have to move!"

They broke through the crowd of vermin, barely, stumbling over the crushed remains of the rats they'd left behind; Tanya turning to hit the remnants regrouping behind them with a gust of wind that hit them like a hammer, scattering them and breaking bones.

Arya's breath came in ragged gasps, her limbs aching. Her sword arm trembled, not from fear, but from sheer exhaustion. She glanced back at the dark tunnel behind them, knowing what lay back there. The fallen. The dead. Left to rot in the darkness.

"Why do they only send the dregs?" one of the surviving Watchmen asked between labored breaths, his face pale and slick with sweat. "Why not the Stormvermin?"

Tanya wiped blood from her face with the back of her hand, her eyes hard as stone. "They saw what I did with the lightning," she said, her voice calm, almost cold. "Why waste their elite when they've got enough of the chaff to grind us down?"

Arya swallowed, tasting bile at the back of her throat. She'd seen the destruction Tanya had unleashed, and though the Skaven were foul, cowardly creatures, they were smart. They weren't throwing their best at them, not yet.

"We're getting close," the Lieutenant snapped, his voice harsh and biting. "Save your breath."

But Arya could feel it, this was a race, and the rats were gaining on them. Every second they lingered, more of the vermin gathered in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike again. And next time, they might not be so lucky.

"We're almost there," one of the Watchmen gasped, his voice ragged with exhaustion. "Five hundred yards, no more."

Arya's heart pounded in her chest, each step feeling like a battle against the weight of her legs. But then, a low snarl from Myrmidia cut through the air. Before Arya could process it, Tanya was already gone, speeding to the rear like a streak of lightning. She raised her arm, a shield of crackling blue energy springing to life around her just in time.

A sickening bolt of green lightning shot through the darkness, thick with twisted magic so vile that Arya felt her stomach churn just looking at it. 'Dhar! It reeks of death and madness.'

Despite its fell power it scattered across the surface of Tanya's shield like water poured across a hot pan, dissipating into smoke.

"Little man-thing wizard thinks it's tricky-clever!" came Thanquol's voice, high and shrill, chittering like nails across stone. He rode forward atop the hulking Rat Ogre, its monstrous form looming out of the shadows, the stench of its fur mingling with the foul air of the sewers.

"If I'm measured against you, that's a pretty low bar," Tanya muttered, her voice dry as winter wind. Without hesitation, she snapped her right hand forward, a word of power hissing from her lips, horrible and jagged in the arcane tongue.

Thanquol screeched in affront, his beady eyes narrowing. "Petty man-thing curse cannot harm Thanquol! I am blessed by the Horned Rat!" The Grey Seer raised his staff high, its gnarled wood crackling with dark energy, pulling the foul magic of the huge chunk of Warpstone set in the staff head to him, weaving it into a sphere of green-black death.

But before he could unleash it, something surged out of the filthy water beside them, massive, grotesque, and terrible to behold. It was a fishman, but unlike any Arya had ever heard of in Old Nan's tales. Forty feet long if it was an inch, its body was a mass of sinewy muscle, thrashing its thick tail as it hurled itself from the depths. Its long, pike-like snout snapped with rows of fangs the size of butcher knives, and its massive eyes, disturbingly human, locked onto the Rat Ogre with a predatory hunger. It reached out with thin, wiry arms tipped with great hook-like claws.

"Boneripper! Quick, bite-slay, kill-kill!" Thanquol shrieked, panic filling his voice. The Rat Ogre roared in response, laying into the beast with all the fury of its brutish strength, claws rending flesh and bone, but the fishman was relentless, its jaws closing around the Rat Ogre's thick, muscled neck with a sickening crunch.

Arya stared, wide-eyed at the chaotic scene, her breath catching in her throat.

"Go!" the Lieutenant's voice rang out, cutting through the madness. "We have to move!"

The party turned and fled, the sounds of the monstrous battle echoing behind them, filling the tunnels with the shrieks of beasts and the crackle of magic. Even Tanya, usually so composed, looked amazed as she glanced back at the carnage, her lips parted in surprise.

…

"After that, we managed to get away cleanly," Arya explained, her voice steady but her eyes still darkened by the memory.

"The dwarf sentries posted at the sewer entrance heard the roaring behind us. They didn't wait a moment before sending word of that to their commander. A company of the First Pike came in soon after, investigating what they could. They found the fishman, dead, skull charred to the bone. Thanquol's magic must have gotten the better of it in the end. But his mount... Boneripper, I think it was called. The ogre-rat didn't get off easily. The dwarfs said there was Skaven blood everywhere, thick as a river, trailing off into the tunnels. They didn't venture in any further."

Immanuel-Ferrand, the High Chancellor, listened quietly, his brow furrowed in deliberation. Arya had never seen her master so still, as if weighing the weight of this news against his thoughts. At last, he let out a soft hum, deep in his throat. "I've heard of this fish creature before," he said, his voice contemplative, as though discussing some old and half-forgotten myth. "It's been haunting the old docks for years, dragging men into the depths at night. It's a rare thing to see it come up from the water."

He allowed himself a thin smile, "Quite the stroke of bad luck for that Grey Seer, then. Tanya's curse was anything but petty," he mused. "She'll be promoted for this, surely. Outdueling a Grey Seer. Slaying what sounds like at least six hundred Skaven. Impressive for any mage, but for one so young… a Journeyman at the very least, perhaps even a full Magister. Twelve years old." He shook his head in wonderment. "I never thought I'd see the day."

Arya hesitated at that, 'twelve,' the number echoed in her mind. Tanya's age, was so close to her own, yet she seemed worlds apart, wielding powers Arya could scarcely comprehend. "What will you do about the Skaven, my lord?" she asked, her voice smaller than she intended.

Immanuel-Ferrand let out a sigh, a hand rubbing his temple as if fighting off an impending headache. "What can we do?" he replied, his lips twisting into a frown. "I'll have to pay the dwarfs their ridiculous prices to have them sweep the Undercity. The First Pike will scour what they can, but it won't matter much. Even if another thousand of the rats are slain, it's a drop in the bucket. Skaven never die in numbers that matter, and the more you kill, the more they seem to multiply. But they died dramatically this time, and that's what counts with their kind." He paused, his mouth curling into something resembling a grim smile. "They're cowardly by nature. After this, they'll lay low for quite some time."

The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across the High Chancellor's face. Arya swallowed, unsure whether to feel relieved or more uneasy than before. Thanquol was still out there, lurking in the dark below the city, waiting. And as for the Skaven as a whole, every story made clear that they always came back, and her experience down below in the sewers told her the same.

Chapter Text

Late evening, Brauzeit 24th, 2522

Dunbroch hall was dimly lit by flickering torches, their smoke curling lazily toward the vaulted ceiling. Robb Stark sat at the long oaken table, his officers and retainers filling the benches around him, but his attention was fixed on the steaming plate before him. The venison, rich and tender, seemed like a gift from the gods after so many days of dried rations and cold mountain marches. He tore into it, savoring each bite, the taste of woodsmoke and herbs a welcome change from the blood and iron of battle.

Merida sat beside him, her wild red-orange hair framing her pretty face, nose lightly dusted with freckles, wide blue eyes bright with curiosity. She leaned closer, her voice a lilting call in the candlelight. "Tell me of your battle with Oglah Khan," she urged, as if the words themselves were a treasure she needed to possess.

Robb chuckled, though there was little mirth in it. He lifted his cup, the wine heavy and red, and took a deep swig before setting it down. "There's not much to say," he began, though his own blue eyes darkened as memories stirred. "He came at me, fast and vicious. But I was ready. I parried his blow, and then on the backhand," he raised his hand as if feeling the weight of the great runesword Ice in his grip "I called on the rune of fire."

Merida's lips parted, hanging on his every word.

"He didn't see it coming," Robb continued, his voice low and edged with the memory of flame and fury. "The bolt of fire hit him full in the chest and his wolf bucked him off. Before he could rise, I brought Ice down and took his head clean off." His fingers traced the rim of his cup as he recalled the heat of the flames and the weighty satisfaction of his kill.

"Gods," Merida swore, awe widening her eyes. "Oglah Khan… His name is known from Kislev to Tilea. To have killed him… You're a hero, Robb."

Robb shook his head, the shadow of a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Compared to Grimgor, Oglah was nothing. A flea on a dog's back. Grimgor got away, and that'll haunt us." His jaw clenched as he thought of the black orc's escape. "He'll carry that grudge, mark my words. Not just against me, but against Ostermark, Kislev, the Dwarfs… anyone who stood in his way. He'll come back, and when he does…"

He let the words hang, unfinished, the weight of them thick in the air.

"Was he as big as they say?" Merida asked, her voice softer now, as if speaking of Grimgor could summon the beast himself.

Robb's eyes flicked to hers, a grim smile tugging at his lips. "Bigger. Tall as a bull ogre, broad as a mountain. Every inch of him muscle and hate. Even a Questing Knight with the Lady's favor couldn't exchange more than a dozen blows with him."

Merida gasped, her hand to her lips. "Sir Phoebus? Was it him? Did he survive?"

Robb nodded, though his expression remained dark. "He lives, though by the skin of his teeth. I saw him fight, brave and skilled, but even that wasn't enough against Grimgor. I suppose he must've passed through here on his way to Karak Kadrin."

Merida exhaled, her shoulders relaxing. "He did. He spoke of honor and glory, but he wouldn't say much of what awaited him in the mountains."

Robb leaned back in his chair, the weight of command settling back on his shoulders as he recalled the terrible things that had awaited them there. "If we hadn't broken that siege…" His voice trailed off, and he glanced at Merida, whose eyes still shimmered with admiration. But the feast, the warmth, the wine, none of it could dull the ache of loss in his heart. Twenty-seven hundred dead. Faces he knew. Names he would remember long after their bones turned to dust.

He raised his cup again, "To the fallen. May they be remembered with glory." His men followed him, raising their glasses in silence, and for a moment it felt like the flickering light of the torches grew dimmer around them in sympathy.

The clatter of goblets and the low hum of conversation filled the hall, but the sound of the Baron's peg leg tapping against the stone floor drew Robb's attention away from Merida. Fergus Dunbroch approached, his face weathered and hard as old oak, a man who had seen his share of battles. He came to rest beside Robb, the smell of wine and venison lingering between them.

"Trouble in the forests, I hear," the Baron said, his voice gruff.

Robb nodded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before answering. "Yes. Sir Phoebus warned us. Beastmen rising across the Empire." He hesitated, casting a glance toward the Baron's wife and daughter, who were watching intently. "Said he had a vision from the Lady. Have you heard any news?"

The Baron let out a weary sigh. "Tales of fighting in the west of Ostermark. They say Chancellor Hertwig's had a couple victories, but rumors are all we have. Further clashes downriver, along the Talabec. How much truth's in it, I can't say."

Robb's jaw tightened. "I'll have to move on in the morning." He looked to Merida, a pang of regret flashing in his eyes. "I want to reach the Gryphon Wood as soon as possible."

Before the Baron could reply, his wife, Lady Elinor, stepped forward with a graceful but determined air. "And you'll be taking me and Merida with you," she said, her tone leaving little room for argument.

Robb turned toward her, startled. "What? It's too dangerous," he objected, frowning.

Elinor met his gaze without flinching. "You have an army at your back, and my husband can spare a hundred men for your cause, if that's not enough to protect us."

Robb glanced at the Baron, but Fergus only shrugged as if to say, 'She speaks for me.'

A hundred men, when he already had eighteen thousand of his own, near seventeen hundred Kislivites and a thousand dwarfs, was of little value on its own. But as Robb considered it, the idea grew more tempting. If he gathered a hundred here, and at least a few score more from every keep and settlement along the way, he could bolster his forces with fresh blood. Form up another regiment to keep in reserve.

They'd be no match for the state troops he commanded. Lords like Fergus could afford plate for himself and his knights, but his soldiers would be armed with spears and swords, protected with shields and brigandine. It was enough to stand against the Beastmen though. Even rural veterans were better equipped than the savage brutes roaming the forest.

Still, his gaze lingered on Merida, her eyes alight with eagerness. "Bringing your husband's men is wise Lady Elinor, but bringing you and Merida… That's reckless. The Beastmen aren't something you want to come face-to-face with."

"No," Lady Elinor said, her lips curling into a knowing smile, "Merida's eager to wed and eager to bed." Her voice was blunt, cutting through the hall like a blade. "For that, she needs to get you before the altar at Rhya's Temple in Winter Town."

Robb felt heat rise in his cheeks as Merida looked away, her own face turning pink beneath her wild hair. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsure whether to laugh or protest. His mind was caught between the call of duty and the warmth of her presence, the looming battle ahead and the future she'd promised.

"This isn't a game, Lady Elinor," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "The roads are dangerous. The Beastmen…"

"The Beastmen will come whether we're on the road or locked behind castle walls," she interrupted, her tone calm but firm. "If Merida's to marry you, then it will be done properly, at Winter Town. And if she's to travel, she'll travel with you under your protection."

The Baron remained silent, his eyes narrowing as he studied Robb. There was an unspoken challenge in his gaze, one that Robb wasn't quite sure how to interpert. Was it a reminder that men who married daughters of Dunbroch did not shy from danger? Or that those daughters would not shy from it either? Perhaps it was meant to dissuade him from publicly arguing with her.

Robb could feel the weight of the decision pressing down on him. He had faced worse, fought through orcs, felled Oglah Khan, but this, this was something else entirely. Robb set down his goblet and leaned forward, the weight of command pressing on his shoulders like a familiar burden. His blue eyes found Merida's, bright with defiance, and he sighed, knowing full well what was coming.

"Alright," he said, his voice low but firm. "If you're determined to go, I won't stop you. But you'll stay in the rear with the priests and the other camp followers during battle. I know you can shoot a bow like an Ungol horseman, Merida, but I can't bear to see you on the battle line."

Merida's lips parted, her protest ready to spill out, but before a word could escape, her mother's hand came to rest on her shoulder, fingers tightening ever so slightly. Lady Elinor's gaze was calm, but there was steel in it. Merida shut her mouth, though her fiery hair seemed to bristle in frustration.

Robb exhaled softly, a small victory. "Thank you," he said, his tone gentler now as he nodded to both women. He wasn't sure if they understood the danger or simply refused to acknowledge it. Either way, he had no time to argue further.

Turning to the Baron, Robb squared his shoulders, slipping back into the role of commander. "Let's talk about which men of yours I should take with me."

Fergus Dunbroch gave a grunt, shifting his weight on his peg leg. His face, scarred and weathered by years of battle and bitter winters, was thoughtful as he looked to his wife and daughter, then back to Robb.

"You'll have the pick of my men," the Baron said, voice rough as gravel. "A hundred, as promised. Good men, all of them. Veterans of the mountains, used to fighting things worse than men."

Robb nodded, though inwardly, he knew a hundred men were unlikely to change the tide of the war. But they'd help hold the line, perhaps buy time for the more seasoned troops to regroup and strike. And he'd take what he could get, every spear, every sword would be needed against what was coming.

The Baron leaned closer, his voice dropping to a rasp. "Watch yourself, boy. The Beastmen… they're not like orcs or men. They're something darker. The wild's in their blood, same as madness."

"I know," Robb said, his voice as grim as the Baron's. He had seen enough of them last year campaigning with his father to understand it. The Beastmen were not merely foes, they were a plague, a dark fury made flesh, and they were rising.

The Baron nodded, satisfied, and Robb rose from the table, the weight of tomorrow already heavy in his mind. As he glanced one last time at Merida, he saw her jaw set, her eyes still smoldering with the promise of defiance. 'This will be a long road,' he thought. But he bid her goodnight and turned away, already steeling himself for what lay ahead.

---

Merida stood in the flickering candlelight, watching Robb's broad shoulders as he bid her goodnight, his words polite, but distant. She nodded in return, though her heart ached for more. He left with his officers and noble retainers, already planning tomorrow's march.

'Duty first, always duty first,' she thought, biting her lip as he disappeared into the shadows beyond the hall. It was what a good lord did, she knew that, but it didn't stop her from wanting more.

Her mother's voice cut through the quiet, sharp and ominous. "You WILL obey him on that matter, Merida."

Merida stiffened, her pulse quickening. She didn't need to look to know the stern expression on her mother's face, the one that said 'don't test me'.

"If you throw yourself into battle and survive," Lady Elinor continued, "I'll tan your bare bottom before his whole host."

Merida flushed red, both from anger and the sheer mortification that the image conjured up. "I have no intention of entering battle, Mother," she said, though her voice lacked conviction. After all… if the fighting came close enough, such that she could loose a few arrows from the supposed safety of the camp, it would be foolish not to do so, wouldn't it? A flicker of defiance burned in her chest.

Her mother's eyes narrowed, suspicion darkening her sharp gaze. "Hmm," Lady Elinor muttered, watching her daughter with the same calculating look she'd used to rule over Dunbroch for years.

Before her mother could press further, Merida spotted a familiar figure near the side doorway. Maudie, the overly round serving girl, was waving to her from the shadows of the hall. Grateful for the distraction, Merida seized the moment. "Oh, look, Maudie's here. Let's see what she has to say," she said hurriedly, rushing toward the doorway before her mother could object.

She heard the soft rustle of her mother's gown as she followed at a more deliberate pace, but Merida didn't slow. She reached Maudie first, pulling the woman into a quieter alcove just beyond the main hall.

"What did you learn?" Merida asked, her heart pounding, hope mingling with fear. The hefty blonde was an excellent finder of rumors and secrets.

Maudie glanced around, making sure no one was within earshot. "He broke off his relationship with the Strigany whore as soon as he left Dunbroch for the mountains. Hasn't seen her since," the serving wench whispered, her round face alight with the thrill of gossip.

Merida's heart soared. She clapped her hands in glee, her voice barely a whisper. "He does love me!"

But Maudie's face grew somber, and Merida felt a chill creep into her bones. "However…" Maudie hesitated, glancing nervously toward Lady Elinor, who was now approaching, her eyes sharp as a hawk's.

"Go on," Merida urged, her voice tight.

"After a skirmish with hobgoblins on the Dwarf Road, and then after the big battle… it's said he laid with a woman. A different one each time. He didn't return to either afterward."

The words hit her like a blow to the chest, and for a moment, Merida couldn't breathe. She felt her mother's presence beside her, and her voice, calm and untroubled, cut through the haze of emotion.

"It's not surprising," Lady Elinor said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Battle is more stressful than you can imagine, and even though he survived, as the man in command he's responsible for all those who didn't. He's just blowing off steam. It doesn't mean anything, Merida."

Merida's heart clenched, her mind reeling. 'It doesn't mean anything.' But the ache in her chest told her otherwise. Her man had been with another woman. More than one. 'But not the Strigany girl,' she reminded herself, clinging to that small victory. 'Not her.'

Still, the thought gnawed at her. Was she just another fleeting distraction to him, another way to blow off steam? No. She couldn't believe that. Not after everything they'd shared, not after the way he looked at her when no one else was watching.

She glanced at her mother, who stood as serene as ever, her expression unreadable. 'She doesn't understand. How could she? What she and Robb had wasn't some battle-born dalliance. They had something real.'

"Thank you, Maudie," Merida said, her voice steady despite the storm swirling inside her. She straightened her shoulders, lifting her chin.

He would be hers, and soon.

Merida's thoughts swirled as she stood in the dim alcove, after Maudie left, her heart pounding in her chest. The Strigany woman, that dark-eyed, exotic beauty, had been important. More than the others, certainly. Robb had been seeing her every day since he'd left Winter Town, and then, just like that, he had stopped. He'd promised himself to her, to Merida, and he'd broken things off. That had to mean something. It had to.

Her mother's voice still lingered in her ears. "Just blowing off steam," Lady Elinor had said, dismissing the rumors of Robb's liaisons after battle as though they were nothing more than a soldier's need to forget the horrors of war. Merida swallowed hard, her stomach twisting. Maybe her mother was right. Yes… she was right. This was simply the way of soldiers. After all, these other women, whoever they were, weren't the Strigany woman. They didn't matter. Just comely faces and tight bodies, a fleeting comfort in the midst of blood and death. Nothing more.

And Robb was a good man. Merida knew that, deep in her bones. He wasn't like the men her mother had oft warned her about. At the same time he was a man... and she'd accepted that when she'd wrote him that letter. It was just that hearing about it from Maudie... it made it a little more real to her.

She glanced at her mother, who stood at her side, her gaze distant and cool as always. 'Look at Father,' Merida reminded herself. Fergus Dunbroch was a good man too. A good husband that deeply loved his wife, and a good father. And yet… he'd planted a few bastards in the scullery maids, hadn't he? She'd known, ever since she was old enough to understand the whispers in the halls, the way her mother's face hardened when she saw certain servants. But he'd been discreet about it, never flaunted a mistress before the court, never raised his by-blows alongside his trueborn children. Not like Lord Stark and his boy, Jon.

Merida's lips tightened. The Starks had their own ways of doing things, but Robb had promised her he'd behave with decorum. He wasn't going to make a spectacle of himself, parading some bastard child through Winterfell. No, Robb was better than that.

'And I'm better than Catelyn Stark,' Merida thought fiercely, her hands curling into fists. She wasn't some trembling, jealous wife, forever haunted by a husband's infidelity. She could accept the truth of the world, the way things worked for men who carried swords and led armies. So long as Robb kept his promise, so long as he remained hers in all the ways that mattered, then… surely it would be okay.

She exhaled, the tension easing from her shoulders. Yes, her mother was right. These other women meant nothing. The Strigany woman was the one that had mattered, and Robb had let her go. For her. For Merida.

In the end, the others were a small price to pay for Robb and Winterfell. And she could live with it.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 25th-33rd

Merida rode alongside Robb as they departed Dunbroch, the morning sun casting long shadows over the road. Angus, her black destrier, snorted beneath her, eager for the journey ahead. Her mother sat primly on her own mount, sidesaddle in the formal Bretonnian style, the picture of noble decorum.

The pistoliers rode far ahead, scouting the Dwarf Road and the great fields of the Veldt around it. Directly ahead of them marched the infantry and artillery, her father's hundred veterans blending seamlessly into Robb's larger host.

Robb marched at the head of the heavy cavalry forming the rear guard, dire wolf and gryphon banners fluttering in the wind. It was a grand sight, but Merida's thoughts were elsewhere, on Robb, on his promises, on what lay ahead for them.

Then Robb spoke, his voice cutting through the rhythmic clatter of hooves.

"Lady Elinor, one of the vassals of your brother wears a sunflower on their coat of arms, do they not?"

Merida glanced at her mother, surprised by the sudden question.

"Why yes," Lady Elinor replied, equally taken aback. "House Cuy. They hold Sunflower Hall, a keep on the coast sworn to Highgarden. Why do you ask?"

Robb's gaze remained fixed ahead, his expression thoughtful. "In Karak Kadrin, I met a girl, half-Cathayan. She'd journeyed from the East, across Cathay, the Ogre Kingdoms, and the Dark Lands, searching for her Bretonnian father. A knight who bore a sunflower on his coat."

Merida gaped at the enormity of it. "That must be… eight thousand miles," she said, incredulous. "Five thousand of them crawling with the most dangerous beasts and armies imaginable. How did she manage that? Is she a wizard?"

Robb shook his head. "I didn't get all the details. But along the way, she saved the lives of two swordsmen, the greatest blade masters in the East, by the sound of it. They swore an oath to escort her to her destination. They only took her as far as Karak Kadrin, though. Decided that was enough to fulfill their vow."

Merida could hear the disapproval in his voice, and she shared it. To abandon the girl at the edge of the Empire, after such a harrowing journey… but even so, the feat was staggering. Crossing the Ogre Kingdoms and the Dark Lands with only two men at her side? It sounded like something out of an old Bretonnian song.

"She stayed at the Karak for a time," Robb continued, "learning Reikspiel. She's following my army now, planning to reach Winter Town and take a boat to Altdorf, then travel from there to Bretonnia. She spoke with Sir Phoebus, who thought her father might be from a house sworn to Highgarden. Given your kin, I thought you might know for sure."

Merida's mother tilted her head, considering. "Hmm… I know of whom you speak. Emmon Cuy. The younger brother of Baron Branston. He returned from the East three years ago to much celebration. He is the lord of Sunflower Hall now. Branston was slain in battle, and his sons fell before him. But I hear that Emmon's health is ailing. I do not know if he'll live long enough for her to find him."

Merida felt a pang of sympathy for the girl. To journey so far, to endure so much, and perhaps arrive only to find a grave. She couldn't imagine the sorrow, the hollow feeling of reaching the end of a road only to find it had come too late.

Her mother's voice cut through her thoughts. "It seems a tragedy waiting to unfold, but such is the way of things. She may not find the happy ending she seeks, but she will find her truth. And that, sometimes, is enough."

Merida stared ahead; her thoughts heavy. 'Enough?' Perhaps. But for her own journey, for the path she and Robb had embarked on, simple truth would never be enough. She would demand more. She would have more.

"That's a shame," Robb said, his voice thoughtful. "I'll have a message sent to her with those details..." He trailed off, brow furrowing. "Huh... I'm not sure she can read Reikspiel. It didn't seem like she had been at Karak Kadrin more than a few months. She must be quick with languages, but if I remember my lessons right, Grand Cathay uses a completely different writing system than that of Old World tongues. Even if she can read and write in her native tongue, that doesn't mean she can do the same for Reikspiel."

Merida's mother, ever calm and poised, chimed in, "Let me speak to the girl, Lord Stark. I would like to see if I can detect any trace of Lord Cuy in her features. It's been twenty years, but I think I remember him well enough."

Robb nodded. "Alright. She'll be with the cooks up ahead, among the camp followers."

The words left a sour taste in Merida's mouth. 'Camp followers.' Of course the girl was there. Where else would a half-Cathayan traveler belong in a host of soldiers, but tramping along the fine Dwarf Road behind the infantry, artillery, and supply wagons? It was logical, but Merida felt a prick of unease. The camp followers were a mixed lot, cooks and washerwomen, priests and surgeons. But cooks and washerwomen were paid a meager wage, and most of them supplemented their income in less than honorable ways.

She frowned, her mind already racing. The girl had come so far, but what had she fallen into now? Merida had seen the kind of women that slunk through the camps, trading more than food or clean linens. They were survivors, yes, but there was a sharpness to them, a hunger. It was a different kind of danger from the beasts and hobgoblins the girl had already faced, but just as real.

Merida's fingers clenched the reins, a tightness forming in her chest. She hoped, prayed, the girl wouldn't fall prey to those bad influences, wouldn't take up the trade those other women plied on the side.

And then a thought struck her, unwelcome and cold. 'How had Robb met her, anyway?' He'd spoken so easily of the girl, but hadn't mentioned the circumstances of their meeting. It nagged at her, a thorn in her thoughts. Had the girl been another of those who sought the warmth of a commander's tent after a battle, hoping for protection or coin?

Merida's eyes darted to Robb, riding beside her, tall and noble on his horse. She tried to shake the doubt from her mind. He had promised her. He loved her. But the nagging thought was persistent, creeping in despite herself. 'Men have needs after battle.' She had heard it a thousand times, from women older and wiser than she.

Merida had heard the whispers, low and insidious, from Maudie, whose round face was always too eager with news. Two women since Robb had left Dunbroch. Two nights, fleeting moments in the long march of war. One after the skirmish with the hobgoblins on the road. That woman, Merida thought, must have been with the army already, a cook or washerwoman who had been part of the host since the beginning. These things happened, she told herself, when men were far from home and the tension of battle lingered on their skin.

But the second? That one gnawed at her. After the great battle with Grimgor, after he had broken the siege and stood triumphant amidst the bodies of orcs and men alike. That night could have been spent in the Karak. This Cathayan girl, she was plausible. The timing fit, the pieces slotted together too easily. Was she about to look into the face of one of Robb's bedwarmers?

The thought churned in her stomach, bitter as old wine. It was easy to accept the existence of such women in the abstract, but to meet them... No, she was being foolish and melodramatic. She shook her head, as if trying to shake the discomfort away. It was fine. He'd only spent one night with her, and that night had followed the kind of battle that left men broken in ways she could only imagine.

This Cathayan girl, whoever she was, had been just a passing diversion. Maudie had made it clear, Robb had not seen her again, nor had he sought her out. She was another face in the endless march of his campaign, someone he was helping along the way, nothing more.

And she was the Lady he had sworn to. She was the one he had brought on this campaign, the one who rode by his side, the one whose hand he had taken with every word of respect and promise. She had his love, his trust. He had been hers from the moment he promised, and Merida would not let the ghosts of a few nights' weakness tear at that bond.

'No,' she told herself again, stronger now. She would not let it unsettle her, not when so much was at stake. She was stronger than that. She had to be.

They rode forward found the half-Cathayan girl walking beside a wagon loaded with cookpots, her back straight despite the weight of a full pack on it. Her dress was foreign, strange in its cut and style, several layers wrapped about her form, modest by any measure. In fact, it covered her far more than the women Merida had come to associate with the camp followers, who flaunted their cleavage and legs with shameless pride.

This girl, though foreign, had a quiet dignity about her. Her skin was pale, flawless, her round face framed by silky, dark brown hair done up with pins in a style that Merida had never seen before.

She was shorter than Merida by a few inches, and when she noticed them, the girl stopped in her tracks and gave a bow, low and graceful. It felt odd, wrong even, to see a woman bow instead of curtsey. But then, Merida had heard that in the far East, men and women both bent their backs in greeting.

What struck her most, though, was the way the girl looked at Robb. There was a blush on her cheeks, but it wasn't the brazen look Merida had feared, not the hungry eyes of a whore or the possessive gaze of a lover. It was... shy. Almost innocent. Perhaps she had been wrong to suspect her, after all.

"I am Lady Elinor Dunbroch," her mother said, her voice cool and measured. "Born Elinor Tyrell of Highgarden. I have heard your story, tell me, do you know your father's name?"

The girl straightened, meeting Lady Elinor's eyes with a quiet strength. "No, my lady," she said softly with strange accent. It was clear enough to be understood, though the words were said with tones that were almost musical. "He was only papa to me. All I know of his origin is that he was from the Sunset Kingdoms, and that his symbol was several sunflowers on a field of blue. I don't remember the exact number."

Merida saw her mother narrow her eyes, tilting her head to examine the girl from different angles, as if trying to see the truth hidden in her face. "Hmm," her mother hummed, her sharp gaze flicking over the girl's features. "Yes, I can see the Baron's influence in the lines of her face."

The girl's expression lit up, hope blooming like a flower after a long winter. "Do you know my father, my lady?" she asked, her voice filled with a yearning that Merida hadn't expected.

Merida watched her mother closely, unsure how much of the truth she would reveal. But she knew what her mother saw. This wasn't some camp follower hoping for a place by Robb's side. This was a girl who had crossed half the world in search of her father, in search of answers. She wasn't a threat to Merida, not in the way she'd feared.

Merida stole a glance at Robb from the corner of her eye, watching him closely as the half-Cathayan girl stood before them. He didn't seem to be eyeing the lass with lust or any inappropriate interest, nothing like the brazen glances she had seen men give to camp followers or tavern girls. No, Robb simply looked... pleased. Pleased that her mother had confirmed the girl's origins, that the mystery was solved. His expression was one of satisfaction, not hunger.

Still, her father had always been careful about where he cast his gaze too, at least when he wasn't well and truly drunk. Merida had learned young that didn't mean he wasn't slipping off with serving wenches when no one was looking. Just because a man didn't stare didn't mean he wasn't tempted. And who could say what might have happened before?

But it mattered, that control. Whether or not Robb had lain with the girl, it spoke well of him that he could keep his desires, if he had any, out of his eyes. Many men, even lords, were incapable of hiding their appreciation of a pretty face, no matter the circumstances. If Robb could be this discreet in public, that at least, was something.

Her mother had answered the girl with ease, detailing the path to Sunflower Hall as though she had traveled it herself only yesterday. "Yes, Emmon Cuy, Baron of Sunflower Hall. It lays on the coast of Lyonesse," she said. "You'll have to cross the full breadth of Bretonnia to get there."

Merida could see the weariness in the girl's eyes at that, but Robb was quick to interject, offering a solution. "Might it not be faster to take a ship to Marienburg and from there along the coast down to Sunflower Hall?"

He was always thinking of solutions, ways to help, ways to ease another's burden. It was one of the things she loved most about him, but now, in the presence of this foreign girl, it grated against her heart. Why did he care so much?

"It might be," her mother replied, her tone thoughtful. "River and sea travel is much faster, of course. But given the route, perhaps four times as long? It would depend on the winds and weather... and there's always the risk of Druchi and Norscan raiders."

"Druchi?" Fuu's voice broke through, uneasy. "They are like the elves of Ulthuan, but dark. Evil, no?"

Merida answered before her mother could. "Yes. The common folk call them the Dark Elves. Vile pirates and slavers."

She watched the girl nod, but her expression darkened, her lips pressed thin. "My mother was taken by Dark Elf raiders," Fuu said softly. "From her home, a fishing village in Nippon. They were going to take her to their flying fortress. But Cathayan ships attacked, and she was rescued before they could reach it. She was brought ashore in Cathay."

Merida felt a coldness settle over her as the girl revealed this. She wasn't even truly Cathayan, just another lost soul washed up from some distant shore, clinging to whatever place had taken her in.

"So, you're not Cathayan at all, Fuu?" Robb asked, surprise in his voice.

Her mother had spoken with the girl as if she were no more than a stray caught on the road, yet treated her with surprising grace. Yet, Robb's casual use of the girl's name just now hadn't escaped her notice. Fuu, he had called her, without hesitation, without formality. It stirred something in Merida, something she couldn't quite name. A flicker of jealousy, perhaps, or was it only wariness?

"Not by blood," the girl answered. "But Cathay is all I've known."

Her mother's voice cut in, practical and brisk as ever. "Can you speak the language of Nippon?"

"Yes," Fuu replied. "But I can't read it, or Reikspiel. Only Cathayan."

"Bretonnian uses the same alphabet as Reikspiel," her mother advised. "I'd recommend learning it. It will help with both."

Merida kept her silence, her gaze shifting between them. Fuu's story stirred sympathy in her, but the casual way Robb spoke to the girl, the way he seemed so at ease, it gnawed at her. He had not touched her, or even looked at her with desire, not once, but his tone, his manner... she couldn't help but wonder what had passed between them. Had he lain with this girl as she'd suspected? The doubt clung to her heart like brambles, even as she tried to tear it away.

It didn't matter, Merida told herself. Fuu was just a passing fancy, a piece of comely relief for a lord overwhelmed by the carnage of battle. Men needed succor after battle, especially after something like Karak Kadrin, with its blood and fire and the screams of dying men ringing in their ears. They sought comfort where they could, between the legs of women who meant nothing, just warmth to chase away the horror.

'But you are more than that,' Merida reminded herself, her jaw tightening. She was Robb's betrothed, the one he had sworn to, the one he would marry before the gods. Soon they would stand together in Winter Town, beneath the Standing Stones of Old and before the eyes of Rhya's priestesses, bound in sacred vows. A real bond, not some fleeting night stolen away on a battlefield.

She glanced at Fuu, the half-Cathayan girl with her bowed head and shy glances, and felt the bitterness try to rise again before she ruthlessly pushed it down. Soon, this poor lost girl would be making her way down the river to Altdorf, her journey taking her far from them. Robb's kindness to her would be no more than a memory, and Fuu would be no more than a shadow in the past, drifting into the great distance of his life.

'But I will remain,' Merida thought. 'I am the one he will build his future with.'

The conversation wound down not long after that and they bade the foreign girl adieu. She was soon gone, fading into the dust and clamor of the camp, and Robb hadn't spared her a second glance. Not a look of longing, not even a hint of regret. Merida had watched him closely, but his thoughts were elsewhere, far from the half-Cathayan girl. His attention turned fully to her whenever he wasn't directing the army, and when he did, it was as if nothing else in the world existed for him but her and the weight of his command.

They moved swiftly, their forces growing with each brief pause at the keeps and settlements dotting flat expanse of the Veldt. Pistoliers rode ahead, bringing word of Robb's needs, and men came, a few score here, a half a hundred there, flowing into the host like tributaries feeding a mighty river. Each band joining her father's men, their banners mingling together, their combined strength slowly swelling into a reserve regiment that was strong enough to be called on in the most dire of circumstances. And each day, Robb managed it all with the ease of a man born to lead.

It was just what she had dreamed of. Robb was a besotted gentleman in her presence, his eyes always seeking hers, his words soft and warm. He treated her like a queen, even amidst the dust that rose from the road, as if there was no one else who could ever matter. She reveled in it; in the realization of the fantasy she had spun in her head since the day they were promised to one another.

So when the Strigany woman's painted wagon clattered into view, gaudy and ridiculous, Merida could hardly muster the energy to care. The woman, with her colorful skirts, fetching curves and wild dark hair, was nothing. And when Maudie, ever her faithful shadow, whispered that the half-Cathayan girl had indeed been the one Robb had bedded after the battle with Grimgor, Merida felt only a dull flicker of disappointment, quickly smothered.

These women did not matter. Robb was a great lord, and she was his lady. They were everything, the ones who would shape the future. The others, whether Strigany, Cathayan, or some blonde camp follower, were mere diversions, fleeting shadows that would fade into nothing. They could never threaten what she had, what they had built together. Not in the light of what was to come.

Merida felt a swell of pride in her chest. Pride in her restraint, in her growing maturity. She was learning to focus on what mattered, on the future that awaited them, and letting go of the petty annoyances that had once gnawed at her. She was no fearful girl, to be shaken by every passing liaison. She was Robb Stark's future wife, his partner in everything that truly mattered. And the rest? The rest were beneath her.

Chapter Text

Evening, Brauzeit 33rd​, 2522

Robb had barely finished his supper and was just about to go survey the camp when he spotted Sir Phoebus on the horizon, the Bretonnian knight riding up out of the gathering dusk like a figure out of some old tale. It wasn't surprise that filled him, not entirely. Phoebus had a way of turning up just when he was needed, as if the invisible hand of The Lady guided him. That sense of fate, of destiny, lingered in the air now as the knight approached.

The small market town of Veldtstart loomed behind their camp. Its walls a solid base of stone ten feet high, topped with a thick palisade carved from old growth timber, rising another fifteen feet. It was higher than Robb would've expected for a place of its size. Impressive, really, for a settlement barely exceeding fifteen hundred souls. The townspeople had welcomed his men with open arms, but there was fear in their eyes, a weariness that spoke of recent battle. Beastmen had been at their gates, and the stench of the creatures still seemed to cling to the air, foul and unnatural.

"Sir Phoebus! Well met! I can scarce believe you caught us in time." Robb called out as the knight reached him, the Bretonnian moved stiffly in his saddle, but he looked like he'd rested over a month since Robb had seen him but a dozen days ago, and surely half of that had been spent riding as hard as he could. His armor shone in the twilight, though his eyes carried the weight of many long days and nights.

Phoebus inclined his head, a slight smile playing at his lips. "I had a feeling you needed me," he said, honestly looking pleased to be here. His gaze shifted to the woods north of the town, dark and oppressive in the dying light. "Those woods look grim and full of shadows. They'll be watching, I think."

Robb nodded, his expression hardening. "The villagers were pleased to see us, for sure. Beastmen tried to breach their walls two days ago. A few score of them, easily driven off, but..." His voice trailed off, the unspoken weight of what that meant lingering between them.

Phoebus finished the thought for him, his voice grim. "But that means many more will come next time."

"Aye," Robb agreed, tightening his grip on the reins. "We're not going to wait for them. We'll be moving for Winter Town at first light, and any beast that dares cross our path will feel the edge of Stark steel."

"Good man," Phoebus said, his approval clear in the way he sat up straighter in his saddle. "The Old World could use more commanders with such clarity of purpose. Too many wait until the wolves are at their throat before they raise their swords."

Robb grimaced. "It's not courage, Phoebus. Just necessity. The longer we wait, the more these creatures multiply and move according to their own designs; and the more settlements like this one will fall. We need to seize the initiative."

Phoebus nodded; his gaze distant. "Any news of the Chancellor?"

Robb sighed; the weight of the reports heavy on his shoulders. "He's fought a third battle. Bigger than the first two, not nearly as easy a victory. It was bloody and hard-fought, but he won."

The Bretonnian's brow furrowed. "And yet you speak of it uneasily."

Robb shifted in his saddle. "Because it's not enough. The woods are still thick with them. The Beastmen keep coming, and now there's talk of great battles in Hochland and Talabecland. If the rumors are true, this may be bigger than any of us thought." His voice dropped to a whisper, as if admitting the fear to himself for the first time. "The kind of war that could cripple the Empire for years if we're not ready."

Phoebus's eyes narrowed, his jaw setting in determination. "Then let's make sure we are ready."

Robb smiled as he clapped Phoebus on the shoulder. "We are, my friend. Go eat and rest. You need food, and I'll see to the camp's fortifications."

The Bretonnian knight nodded gratefully, the weariness in his bones too great to argue. He rode off toward the cook fires, where the last of the evening meals were being served. Robb noticed the way Esmeralda and the other cooks reacted as Phoebus approached, their eyes lighting up, hands quick to serve. The knight might have been weary, but his looks hadn't dulled. Robb chuckled softly, shaking his head.

He turned his attention to the camp, Storm padding quietly at his side. The great wolf had grown larger, stronger, already at least a hundred and sixty pounds, with his thick fur and sharp eyes, ever alert. And yet Robb knew this was only the beginning. One day, Storm would be a monster of the battlefield, four or even five times the size, a force of nature beside him. But for now, he was a fierce and loyal shadow, always nearby.

The camp was a hive of activity. Soldiers worked with an efficiency born of hard experience, felling trees from the forest's edge, dragging them back to build a palisade. The Dwarfs worked alongside them, their axes biting deep into the wood, their craftsmanship leaving no room for error. Every night since they'd left Winter Town a month ago, they'd made camp like this strong, fortified, ready for anything. But with the Dwarfs at their side and access to fresh timber, the works were stronger than any camp Robb had ever seen.

Still, it was the proximity to the forest that gave him pause. He knew what lurked beyond those trees… Beastmen, watching, waiting. It was hard to say what they would do. Sit and observe? Probe the line to see how the sentries would react? Rush the camp before dawn with every Gor they could gather in the night? That was the nature of the enemy they faced; cunning, unpredictable, and relentless.

With the work underway, Robb made his way toward Merida's tent, pitched close to his own command tent. It was a fine thing, silk and colorful, far smaller than his own but much more luxurious. A contrast to the rough and ready camp that surrounded it. Maduie, Merida's attendant, sat on a stool outside, darning a handkerchief. She looked up quickly as he approached.

"Can I speak with your lady, miss?" Robb asked politely.

Maduie blinked, startled, before dipping her head and disappearing under the flap. "My Lady Merida, Lord Stark is here!" she called out.

It wasn't long before Merida stepped out, fiery hair tumbling loose around her shoulders, dressed in a demure nightgown that only added to her beauty. Robb found himself staring for a heartbeat longer than he'd intended, struck again by how radiant she looked, even here on the edge of the wild.

"Yes, Robb?" she asked, her voice eager, her eyes bright with curiosity.

Robb cleared his throat, reminding himself why he'd come. "I just wanted to warn you. This close to the forest, we're likely to see enemy scouts testing our sentries tonight. Nothing in great force, I don't think, but with Beastmen, you never know. We need to be ready for anything."

Merida's expression tightened, but there was no fear there. Only determination. "We'll be ready," she said, her voice steady.

Robb nodded, reassured. She had the spirit of a warrior's daughter, and he knew she'd face whatever came with the same strength she always showed. But still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something darker lurked in those woods, something waiting for the right moment to strike.

Kaldezeit 1st​ – Kaldezeit 10th​, 2522

The night had been restless, as Robb had expected. The Beastmen came, probing the edges of their defenses, testing the sentries like wolves circling a herd. They never came all at once, not in a great tide, but in small bands. A few here, another group there, an hour between each raid, just enough time for the camp to settle before the next attack came. It was a deliberate tactic, meant to exhaust, to unnerve.

But his men and the dwarfs were hardened. They dealt with the creatures swiftly. Crossbow bolts finding their marks, steel clashing briefly before the Beastmen were driven back or cut down. Gunshots rang out through the night, sharp and loud, the bestial howls of dying monsters echoing in the darkness. And yet, for all the noise and violence, Robb's soldiers were professionals. Even the reinforcements they'd picked up from Veldt had that peculiar skill of seasoned troops, the ability to fall asleep instantly, the moment the danger had passed.

Robb himself had been woken a dozen times, but each time he closed his eyes after the action, sleep took him again. It was a soldier's gift, born of necessity and long nights on campaign. By morning, he felt... well, not rested, but ready. Ready enough.

Merida, however, did not fare as well. She looked as though she hadn't slept at all, her fiery hair tangled, dark circles under her eyes. Her mother and Maduie fared no better, their faces pale, drawn, as though they'd spent the night fighting demons of their own.

"How are you and your men so chipper?" Merida demanded; her voice heavy with exhaustion. Her words ended in a tremendous yawn, one that she didn't bother to stifle.

Robb chuckled, amused despite the grimness of the night before. "I wouldn't call us chipper, but we're rested enough to go."

She squinted at him, trying and failing to suppress another yawn. "How? With all that racket last night?"

He could see it in her face, the struggle to stay awake, to stay alert. Even in the saddle, she swayed a little, her body fighting the urge to collapse. She looked as if she might fall asleep on her horse at any moment.

"We woke for it," Robb said, grinning. "Dealt with it, and then went back to sleep. It's one of the first things you learn as a soldier, how to sleep on command. It's the sentries who have it the worst, learning to stay awake is harder, but they managed it."

Merida gave him a look of disbelief, but Robb could see the weariness in her. This life wasn't meant for someone like her, not truly, no matter how well she rode or shot a bow. A lady of noble birth, raised in a world of courts and tournaments, not in the muddy, blood-soaked grind of war. And yet, she was here, beside him. Strong in her own way, even if the night had worn her thin.

She shook her head, another yawn breaking free. "I'll never understand it," she muttered, rubbing her eyes.

Robb laughed again, but there was a tenderness to it. "You're doing fine, Merida," he said softly. "Better than most." The truth was, he admired her resilience, her stubbornness. It made her stronger than many he'd known.

…

The day had been a slow grind, scattered skirmishes breaking the stillness as the pistoliers rode ahead. Every so often, the crack of gunfire echoed down the Dwarf Road, or the distant ring of steel meeting steel drifted back through the trees. Nothing serious, nothing that would stop them outright, but enough to slow their advance. And that was what gnawed at Robb.

Beastmen didn't fight like this. They were like rabid Orcs, driven by bloodlust and fury. If they thought they had the numbers to do serious damage, they'd charge headlong, a maddened wave of muscle and horns, not caring if they lived or died. If not, they'd vanish into the forest, as wild and untamed as the woods themselves. But this... this was measured. Purposeful.

Robb stood at the head of his officers that night, the firelight flickering across their faces. The smell of woodsmoke and sweat filled the air, mingling with the ever-present scent of damp earth and pine.

"This smacks of Khazrak One-Eye," Robb said, his voice low but firm. He could feel the weight of it pressing on him, the strategy behind the chaos. Khazrak was a cunning bastard, not like the usual Beastlords who fought with brute strength alone.

"He's not the only Beastlord that can be clever," Colonel Lubovasyn countered in his rich Kislevite accent. The man's face was hard as granite, his dark blue yes gleaming in the firelight.

"True," Robb admitted, nodding. "But Khazrak is a different breed. He plays the long game."

"Whoever's in charge of them is doing something they don't want us to interfere with," Sir Manderly said, his voice a growl. He was big and burly, a knight better suited to the melee of a grand tourney than to dense forests, but his instincts were sharp. "They're distracting us, pulling us off the scent."

"Another siege?" Sir Phoebus ventured; his pale brow furrowed beneath the shadow of his helm. His Bretonnian accent was smoother, more refined, but there was tension in his words.

Robb's thoughts flickered to Winter Town, its high walls standing proud on the banks of the Upper Talabec. The town had weathered countless sieges over the centuries, Greenskins, Beastmen, and even raiders from the Northern Wastes. The walls would hold, he told himself, but doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind. 'Would they?'

"Perhaps," Robb said, his voice more uncertain than he liked. "Or maybe they mean to deal with the Chancellor first and us after."

Colonel Reed spoke up from across the fire, his face gaunt but thoughtful. "If they can keep us separate, they'll pick us off one by one. Khazrak would like nothing more than to deal with our forces piecemeal."

Robb nodded, frustration tightening in his chest. They needed to move faster, to press forward before the trap fully closed around them. But rushing blindly could lead them straight into Khazrak's waiting jaws.

"We need to move faster," he said, the words feeling hollow even as he spoke them. "But we can't risk a major ambush. We've got to know what lies ahead."

His gaze settled on Sir Phoebus; the knight still stiff in the saddle from his earlier wounds. But the Bretonnian mount beneath him was a beast, bred for endurance and power that Imperial horses just couldn't match.

"Can you range further ahead than the pistoliers, Sir Phoebus?" Robb asked. "I know you're still aching, but your mount has the stamina to outpace them."

The knight straightened, a grim smile curling beneath his visor. "I swear by the Lady, I will sweep these miscreants from your path. And if there is a trap, you'll hear of it before you fall into it."

There was something in the way Phoebus said it, an iron certainty, a knightly vow that seemed to banish the doubts, if only for a moment. Robb nodded, feeling a flicker of hope.

"Good," Robb said, clapping Phoebus on the shoulder. "I trust you. Ride hard, and may the gods go with you.

The council broke, and Robb watched as Sir Phoebus went to tend to his horse. He would no doubt get a short night's sleep and ride out before dawn. The nights were growing colder, the shadows deeper, but the fires burned bright. And somewhere, out there in the forest, Khazrak One-Eye was waiting.

Robb could feel it, like the edge of a blade pressing against his throat. The game was already in motion, and it was his move next.

…

The forest stretched on, endless and oppressive, but they moved faster now, a good ten to twelve miles a day. The men grew accustomed to the rhythm of it: the grind of the march, the scattered skirmishes, the tension that hung in the air like the scent of autumn leaves and sweat. Every evening, Sir Phoebus returned to their lines, his armor marked with fresh nicks, his horse streaked with the blood of Beastmen. He spoke little of the skirmishes, only that they were dealt with. The knight's silence said more than his words ever could.

On the tenth day, the sound of distant cannon fire echoed through the hills. It was faint at first, a murmur on the wind, but it grew louder with each passing mile. The hills here had a way of carrying sound, bouncing it off the slopes and trees, distorting it. But Robb knew they were still a day's march from the city.

Still, the sound of cannon fire lit a fire in the men. Hope… hope that they'd reach the city in time, hope that the walls still held. The column pressed onward, picking up their pace. Even the dwarfs seemed to move with renewed purpose, their short legs keeping time with the taller strides of the Imperials.

By Robb's reckoning, they would reach the city by noon the next day. He allowed himself a sliver of optimism. Just a sliver, though. The Beastmen were still out there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for their moment.

That evening, as the campfires burned low and the men settled into a wary rest, Sir Phoebus strode into the command tent. His armor was dented, streaked with dirt and gore, but his eyes were sharp, alive with the fervor of battle.

Questions flew at him the moment he crossed the threshold.

"What news of the city?" Robb asked, stepping forward, eager to hear any report.

Phoebus held up a hand, silencing the flurry of voices. "Peace, friends. I will tell you all."

"The city holds?" Robb pressed.

"It holds," the Bretonnian knight confirmed with a firm nod.

"The cannon fire tells us that much," Sir Manderly grumbled from his seat, his meaty fingers drumming against the hilt of his sword. "But will it still hold by tomorrow?"

"They will hold," Phoebus replied. "The host outside was already turning to face this way when I departed the hill I was observing them from."

Robb's jaw tightened. "What numbers do they have? Will they march on us tonight?"

Phoebus' expression darkened, his eyes narrowing. "Thirty thousand at least, perhaps thirty-five. And yes... I believe a night attack is likely."

A collective groan rippled through the officers. It made sense, of course. The Beastmen favored the night, favored the confusion, the darkness, the fear. Robb felt a heavy weight settle in his chest, but he swallowed it down. There was no time for doubt, no time for hesitation.

"We'll post one battalion from each regiment on the palisade for each watch, cycle through all three during the night," Robb ordered, his voice hard, cutting through the mutters of frustration. "Have the other men sleep in lines on the open ground. If the Beastmen come, I want them ready to fight the moment they rise."

"The open ground?" Sir Reed raised an eyebrow. "They'll freeze their arses off."

"The sky is clear," Robb said, already turning to the maps laid out on the table. "And while it's cool, it's not cold enough to kill or blacken toes or noses. They'll bear it." The weather was cooperating with them. This time of the year the nights could have been much colder. Perhaps Ulric was holding the chill back in their favor.

The officers nodded, though some looked less than pleased. But they knew, as Robb did, that the open ground would be safer. It would take too long for men to get from their tents to where they needed to be if the whole Beastmen host crashed down on them at once. Here, in the open, the men could form ranks quickly, stand together, steel against fury.

As the officers dispersed to relay the orders, Robb lingered by the table, his mind racing. He could feel the tension, the weight of the night pressing down on him.

The Beastmen would come, that much was certain. But would they come with the full weight of their force? Or would Khazrak hold something back, some trick, some surprise?

'Tonight,' Robb thought, staring at the distant line of trees beyond the campfires. 'We'll know soon enough.'

But first, they had to survive and they had to win.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 31st, 2522

The hall was cool, morning shadows stretching across the stone floor, and Sansa sat in the great oak chair of the heir, her fingers idly tracing the ancient carvings along the arms, where her Ostagoth ancestors fought forever against Goblins and Beastmen. She had grown used to the seat these past weeks. Robb's seat, but with him away on campaign, the duty fell to her.

Next to her, her mother sat in the Lord's seat, the one that dwarfed all who dared sit in it. It was a seat made for Brandon the Builder whom Old Nan claimed was near seven feet tall. With its snarling wolf heads carved into every inch, it reminded all who entered Winterfell's hall that the Starks were descended from the blood of ancient tribal chiefs. But her mother, though dignified and proud as ever, looked small in it today. Small and tired.

The wool merchants guild was quarreling with the weavers guild again, and her mother listened, her hands resting lightly in her lap, her face still as stone. Sansa admired that about her. 'She is always calm. Even when I know the words are boring or angering her, she never lets it show.'

Just as the debate began to heat up, the herald's voice rang out. "A courier from House Hertwig of Bechafen!"

The court fell silent. All eyes turned to the man as he approached, his steps hurried, his face pale. Sansa's heart skipped a beat. 'Bad news,' she thought. 'It has to be bad news.'

Lady Stark waved the man forward, her voice firm. "Come, speak."

The courier knelt before her, fumbling for the message. "Lady Stark, the news I bear… it may be best for your ears alone."

A murmur swept through the hall, but her mother silenced it with a single glance. "You have the message written?"

"Aye, my lady." The man pulled a roll of formal court parchment from his satchel, handing it over with trembling hands.

Sansa watched her mother's fingers as she unrolled it, swift and sure. She always noticed her mother's hands, hands that could soothe or strike with equal grace. But now they stilled, the fine vellum crinkling in her grip as her eyes scanned the words.

Sansa swallowed hard, feeling the tension rising like a storm in her chest. 'It's bad. It must be terrible.' She glanced around the hall, seeing the same unease reflected in the faces of the court. Even the wool merchants had fallen silent.

Her mother's voice broke through the quiet, steady and controlled as always. "You came by boat, did you not?"

"Yes, Lady Stark," the courier answered. "We needed to get word to you right away. The journey took four days, since we were moving upstream."

Catelyn Stark nodded, standing, her hands tightening at her sides. "Six days ago, Chancellor Hertwig was defeated halfway between Rugenbuttle and Bechafen."

A gasp went through the hall, like the sharp intake of a collective breath. Sansa felt her heart sink, her skin cold despite the warmth of the hearth behind her. 'Defeated.'

Her mother raised a hand, calling for silence. The hall obeyed.

"Chancellor Wolfram's heir, Ortwin, managed to rally half of the army and retreat to Bechafen in good order. The city is not in danger of falling," she said, her voice firm. "But Chancellor Wolfram himself… and his younger sons, Hartmann and Landolf, are confirmed to have fallen."

The words hit like a hammer blow. Sansa heard the gasps, the murmurs of disbelief around her, but all she could see was her mother's face. 'So calm, so composed,' even now as she delivered the worst of news.

Sansa's hands trembled in her lap, but she folded them tightly together. She wanted to be strong, like her mother. 'But I'm not ready for this, not for any of this.'

"The enemy has suffered heavy losses as well," her mother added, but Sansa barely heard it. Her thoughts had already flown beyond the walls of Winterfell, beyond the distant hills, to the blood-soaked fields where so many good men had died sword in hand.

'Robb,' she thought, her heart clenching. 'Please, please be safe,' she prayed even though she knew he was hundreds of miles away from that battlefield.

The hall buzzed with alarm, but her mother remained standing, a pillar of strength amidst the storm. "We will mourn them in time," she said, her voice steady. "But for now, Bechafen holds. And so must we."

"Ortwin is acting Chancellor for the remainder of the emergency," Mother announced, her voice carrying through the hall like the crack of a whip and silencing the crowd. "He has sent for aid to Talabecland and Ostland. And to House Stark. We can do nothing until Robb returns, but we must prepare for siege ourselves."

'How long would Robb take?' Sansa wondered, her mind racing. Robb had set out on the 20th of Brauzeit, if the Warden's tale was true, so he was somewhere out there now, lost to her in the Veldt. If the gods were kind, he'd be nearing the Gryphon Wood. If he made good time, perhaps he could arrive on the 10th of Kaldezeit… twelve days from now. But he could take longer. If the weather was poor or the supply wagons broke down, if the Beastmen harried him and the roads were choked with mud and blood, it might take him another week, or more. 'And what if he doesn't arrive at all?'

The thought sent a chill down her spine, and she gripped the arms of the heir's chair, as though the ancient carvings beneath her fingers could ground her in the present, away from the dark futures that her mind conjured.

Mother's voice was steady as ever, though. She stood like a rock before the court, unshaken by the grim tidings. "We have already taken extensive preparations for such a siege, stockpiling vast amounts of food, gunpowder, and arms. We will send out riders to every surrounding village, calling the people to shelter behind Winter Town's walls."

'The walls will save us,' Sansa thought, clinging to the thought like a prayer. Fifty feet high and thick enough to withstand even the mightiest of blows, the walls of Winter Town had weathered the storms of many Warherds, stood fast against Orc Waaaghs, and even thrown back northern reavers who had carved their bloody path across Kislev. The gates, too, were plated with bronze and carved with Dwarf runes, ancient words of protection that would keep them safe. 'They have to.'

"We'll be ready," Mother continued, her words cutting through the murmurs that had begun to ripple through the crowd. "Sir Rodrik Cassel remains in charge of the garrison and is given leave to call out the militia at his discretion and enroll any able-bodied man from sixteen to fifty-five."

Sansa glanced at Sir Rodrik, the old knight standing stiff-backed beside the dais, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His face was hard, but his eyes betrayed the worry that gnawed at him. Winter Town had withstood many sieges, but they all knew the truth, a horde of Beastmen was always dangerous. They did not break as easily as Greenskins, nor did they tire like men. They fought with madness, driven by the dark gods themselves. And if they were coming for Winter Town, they wouldn't stop until they had slaughtered everyone inside or were themselves broken in turn.

But Mother wasn't done yet. "Furthermore, we call on the Cults of Ulric and Verena for aid. The Knights of the White Wolf and the Everlasting Light within the city, though small in number, are mighty in strength of arm. Their presence on the walls, working with Sir Cassel, will do much to lift the people's spirits."

Sansa nodded, reassured despite herself. She could already picture the knights in their shining armor, patrolling the ramparts, their banners flying high. The people would see them and believe. 'If the gods are with us, perhaps Robb will arrive in time. Perhaps the city will hold.'

But even as she thought it, a voice in the back of her mind whispered another truth, one she dared not speak aloud: 'If Robb doesn't come, it won't be enough. The walls will fall. And we will fall with them.'

She glanced at her mother again, sitting so still in the Lord's chair, her back straight, her face an unreadable mask. Sansa wondered if Mother had the same fears, buried somewhere deep beneath that iron composure. Or perhaps she was stronger than Sansa could ever hope to be.

'You must be strong,' she told herself. 'Strong like her. Strong like Robb.'

But still, it was a strain to keep her hands from trembling.

...

In the end, it wasn't Mother's steady voice, Sir Rodrik's stern speeches, or even the quiet faith of Father Anselm that gave Sansa strength. No, it was Jeyne Poole who stiffened her spine, in her own way.

Jeyne was the same incurable romantic as ever, always spinning tales of knights and heroes, of love blossoming in the midst of war. But she had a way of seeing through Sansa's airs and masks, a way of knowing her better than anyone else. And so, when they were alone in a quiet corner of the Great Hall, away from the eyes of the court, Jeyne asked the one question no one else had dared.

"Are you scared, Sansa?"

Sansa blushed, caught off guard, and turned away as if the stone walls and carved pillars might offer some escape. "What?" she replied, too quickly, her voice higher than she'd meant. "No, of course not."

But Jeyne, for once, wasn't fooled. She had that serious look in her eyes, the one she only ever wore when something troubled her deeply. "There's no need to be," she said softly, her dark hazel eyes full of a quiet reassurance that Sansa didn't feel in herself. "Winterfell has never fallen. Not in twenty-five hundred years. Even the walls of Winter Town have stood fast; they've not once been breached since Harlon Stark had them restored and expanded. Four hundred years ago, wasn't it? When the bronze plated gates were installed and engraved with Dwarfen runes."

Sansa bit her lip, shame heating her cheeks. "I know..." She tried to muster a smile, but it faltered. Of course she knew the history, every tale of Winterfell's unyielding strength. But those stories felt like something far away, something from another time, another world. They didn't feel like the present, like her present.

"And your brother," Jeyne continued, more insistent now. "Robb crushed an Orc horde led by Grimgor Ironhide himself… Grimgor, Sansa. The one who laid waste to Eastern Kislev, the one they all said was invincible, and Robb sent him running. Whoever leads these Beastmen, they're not as formidable as that. You can trust in Robb."

Sansa swallowed hard; her throat tight. She wanted to believe it, wanted to have the same faith in her brother that Jeyne seemed to carry so easily. But war wasn't like the songs, and the stories didn't always have a happy ending. Robb had won, yes, but there was always another battle, another enemy lurking just beyond the horizon. What if this time he wasn't enough?

But Jeyne's gaze didn't waver, her belief in the walls of Winter Town, in the strength of Winterfell, and in Robb Stark unshakable. And in that moment, Sansa felt something stir within her. She straightened a little, took a breath. Jeyne was right. Winterfell and the Starks had stood strong for millennia. Robb had beaten Grimgor. She would trust in that. She had to.

"Thank you, Jeyne," she whispered, offering her friend a small, grateful smile.

For a moment, Jeyne's seriousness faded, and she grinned in return. "Of course. You'll see. It'll all turn out like the stories. Robb will come back victorious, and we'll all be safe behind these gods blessed walls. You'll see."

Sansa nodded, her heart still heavy with doubt, but lighter than it had been. The stories were true after all. And given that was so... well, then perhaps she would survive this, too.

Maybe Jeyne was more mature than Sansa had given her credit for. She'd always thought of Jeyne as her silly, dreamy friend, the one who saw everything through the rose-tinted lens of her songs and stories. But now... now Sansa saw something different. Jeyne had grown taller in the last month, her face a little less round, her voice a touch more serious. There was a new confidence in her posture, too, and Sansa noticed the way she carried herself, straighter, more assured. Even her body had begun to change, hints of curves softening her once-childish frame.

It wasn't just her body, though. Jeyne had grown sharper in ways Sansa hadn't seen before, noticing things, understanding them. Perhaps Sansa had been too quick to dismiss her. She had always looked down on Jeyne's fantasies, the constant talk of brave knights and sweeping romances, thinking her friend was still a child lost in make-believe. But now, standing before her, offering quiet words of comfort and wisdom, Jeyne seemed... older.

Sansa had to admit, grudgingly, that maybe Jeyne understood more than she let on. Maybe there was a strength in her that Sansa had missed, hidden beneath all those dreams of heroes and happy endings. A strength Sansa wished she had right now.

She glanced at her friend again, trying to reconcile the Jeyne she thought she knew with this new version standing before her. "You've changed," Sansa said softly, the words slipping out before she could think.

Jeyne smiled, a little shy, a little proud. "We all have, haven't we? The world's not as it was."

That was true enough. The last two months had changed everything, forced them all to grow, to harden. And here was Jeyne, standing tall, giving her comfort when it should have been the other way around. 'Perhaps,' Sansa thought, 'I should have been paying more attention.'

"Maybe you're right," Sansa admitted. "Maybe I haven't seen things clearly."

Jeyne's smile widened, that girlish glee returning for just a moment. "I've always been right, Sansa."

And for once, Sansa didn't argue.

Kaldezeit 3rd, 2522

The city was choking with people. At least twenty thousand refugees had flooded in from dozens of nearby villages, crammed into basements, attics, and stables... wherever they could find shelter. The streets, once wide and open, were now a maze of tents and shanties that cluttered every square, every yard that wasn't kept clear for the garrison's movements. The air stank of sweat, fear, and desperation.

Sansa had never seen Winterfell so full. Even the harvest festivals, when half of Eastern Ostermark seemed to gather, were nothing compared to this. But there was no celebration in the faces of the people crowding the city now. Only terror.

The Beastmen were close. Too close. The Knights of the White Wolf had ridden out to scout, only to return bloodied, their armor dented and splattered with the filth of the enemy. Smoke had been rising from behind the terraced hills since dawn, thick and black, choking the sky. The Beastmen were burning everything, tearing down farms and hamlets with their insatiable lust for destruction.

The gates had been closed early that morning, their oaken drawbars thicker than a man's chest, carved from ancient tree trunks as a single piece and banded with steel. Sir Rodrick had assured them all that to breach those gates would take an unholy amount of dark magic, and that the priests of Winter Town's many Cults who were patrolling the walls would spot any Bray Shamans attempting it, calling down cannon fire and the gods wrath upon them before they could do any harm.

Sansa wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that the ancient fortifications would hold as they always had, that the walls and gates would stand firm against the chaos gathering outside. But as she stood at her window in the Great Keep, looking out over the hills, her heart skipped a beat.

A dark tide spilled from the hills, a writhing mass of twisted bodies and misshapen limbs. They were mutants, Beastmen, things that belonged to nightmares more than to the waking world. Thousands upon thousands of them, blackening the valley like a swarm of locusts. Sansa's breath caught in her throat as they poured forward, moving with a terrible, mindless purpose, hungry for blood and ruin.

She clutched the window ledge, her knuckles white. The stories she had read, the songs of brave knights and noble lords fighting back the forces of darkness… they all seemed so distant now, so foolish. This wasn't some grand battle of heroes and villains. This was survival. And looking at the endless horde spilling out before her, Sansa wasn't sure how they would survive this at all.

The Beastmen were coming. And Winter Town had never seemed so small.

The Beastmen burned everything in their path, setting fire to the farms clinging to the terraced hills and the fields that stretched between the hills and the walls. Thick black smoke billowed up into the sky, the flames devouring the homes and livelihoods of so many good people. Sansa's heart twisted as she watched the destruction. She thought of the farmers, the children, all those who had fled here, packed into the city, only to see everything they had built consumed by fire.

As the Warherd closed within six hundred yards, the cannons roared from the walls, and for a moment, hope flickered in her chest. Great iron balls tore through the ranks of the enemy, cutting bloody swathes through the horde of twisted bodies. Beastmen and mutants alike were torn apart, their bodies flung like ragdolls. But still, they came. Relentless, unthinking, they surged toward the eastern gate with a speed that defied belief, howling and shrieking, their horns and weapons raised high.

Sansa gripped the window ledge, her pulse quickening. The cannons bellowed again, this time firing grapeshot, a storm of lead balls that ripped through the horde. Flesh and bone exploded in bloody clouds, and for a heartbeat, the charge faltered.

Then, just as suddenly as they had rushed the gate, the creatures peeled away. They scattered, retreating behind the hills and out of range of the guns, spreading out like a black stain across the valley. More farms were set ablaze, the fires rising higher, brighter.

Sansa frowned, confused. "That can't be it," she said softly, more to herself than anyone.

"No," came Old Nan's rasping voice from behind her. The ancient woman sat in her rocking chair, knitting calmly as if there weren't thousands of monsters outside the walls. Her gnarled hands moved with the slow, steady precision of a lifetime's practice. "That was no true attack, child. Just a feint, a test. They wanted to see if the gate was barred and if we were ready. We are, so now they'll wait for nightfall. That's when the real push will come. They always wait for the dark."

Sansa turned, her wide blue eyes fixing on the old woman. "You've seen this before?"

Old Nan nodded; her wrinkled face creased with memories. "Three times with Warherds, I've seen it. The first, I was two years younger than you are now. Two Waaaghs, a band of Chaos reavers, every kind of darkness you can imagine. They always come in the night, when men's courage falters and their torches burn low. And they'll come again, before this is done." She gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "They always do."

Sansa shivered despite herself. The thought of those things coming in the night, crashing against the walls under cover of darkness, filled her with a cold dread she couldn't shake. The walls were strong, she reminded herself. Winterfell had never fallen. The Beastmen had no modern siege weapons and their dark sorcery though terrible was not known to tear down stone. But still…

'Nightfall,' she thought. 'They'll come when the sun goes down with darkness and fire,' bringing a battle she wasn't sure they could win.

Old Nan's voice was as steady as the stones of Winterfell. "Don't you worry, dear," she said, her knitting needles clicking softly in her lap. "Your brother will be here in a week and he'll smash them against the walls. I've seen it all before."

Her certainty was a balm, as soothing as Jeyne Poole's romantic daydreams, but deeper, older, rooted in something Sansa could not quite understand. The words made Sansa feel ashamed for letting her newfound courage falter at the first glimpse of the enemy. That a frail old woman, hunched and brittle as dry leaves, could show more bravery than a Stark of Winterfell was humbling. Old Nan had seen so much, surely Sansa should trust her instincts, trust in Robb, her brother.

Old Nan had been old even when Father was young, Sansa thought with a hint of childish wonder. 'How old is she, really?' It was a question all the Stark children had pondered but none had been brave enough to ask aloud… until now.

"How old are you, Nan?" Sansa asked, unable to stop herself.

The old woman chuckled, her wrinkled face creasing like parchment. "How old am I? Well now, that's a question. I'm not sure I remember." She paused, tapping her chin with one gnarled finger.

"What year is it, love?"

"Two thousand, five hundred and twenty-two," Sansa answered.

Old Nan cackled softly. "Well then… six and ninety, I'd wager."

Sansa's mouth fell open. Ninety-six winters. It seemed impossible… no humans lived that long, did they? The thought struck her like a hammer blow. "You're… you're older than the temples of Dazh and Tor," she blurted, dumbstruck.

Old Nan's lips curved into a knowing smile, thin and faint. "Aye, that I am. I remember when your great-great-grandfather gave the Kislivites permission to put them up. I was just a girl then, but I remember it like it was yesterday."

Sansa blinked, her mind struggling to grasp the enormity of it. Old Nan had seen more winters than any living soul in Winterfell. She was as old as Sansa was now on the day Father Anselm had been born. She had survived great wars, terrible famines, and harrowing sieges, things that Sansa had only heard of in songs and stories. Ninety-six years of life, of hardship, and yet here she was, as calm as ever, knitting by the fire while the world seemed to burn outside.

'She's tougher than she looks,' Sansa thought. 'We all are.'

Old Nan had lived through horrors Sansa could scarcely imagine, had watched men and monsters come and go like the turning of the seasons. There was something unbreakable in her, something hard as iron beneath the frailty of her body. That made Sansa feel small, foolish for her fear.

Winterfell had stood through it all. And it would stand again.

Sansa swallowed hard, turning back to the window. Smoke was still rising from the hills beyond the walls, but her hands no longer trembled as they gripped the stone ledge.

Kaldezeit 3rd-7th

They came with battering rams for the East Gate the first two nights, but each time, the city's cannons tore the siege weapons to splinters. Sansa had watched from her window in the Great Keep with a Tilean spyglass, her hands clutching it tight as the Beastmen were torn apart by a hail of grapeshot. It was like some horrible nightmare come to life, their brays and howls echoing through the night, their twisted forms lit by the red glow of the burning farms. Yet Winter Town held.

For three more nights, they rushed the walls with ladders and makeshift siege towers. And on the seventh night of Kaldezeit, they came again, more furious than ever. This time, they brought with them monsters out of legend.

Minotaurs.

The sight of them sent a chill down Sansa's spine. They were towering, horned monsters, covered in blood and filth, their black eyes burning with hate. And at their head, a creature more terrible than all the rest, a Doombull clad in gleaming brass, its hide alive with unholy light. Taurox the Brass Bull, they called him, and he led the charge with a fury that made the ground tremble beneath his hooves.

The minotaurs stormed the walls, their axes cleaving through steel armor and men alike. The Knights of the Everlasting Light lead the counterattack and fought back with all the valor they could muster, their white cloaks billowing in the wind as they cut down the monsters one by one. But Taurox… Taurox was unstoppable. He was a force of pure destruction, a whirling dervish of blood and death. It seemed that nothing could stand against him.

The wall would fall. Sansa could feel it in her bones.

But then Father Anselm appeared.

She saw him from her window, the old priest moving with a strength and purpose that she had never imagined. He carried a great warhammer in both hands, its head glowing with the golden light of Sigmar's grace. For a moment, the chaos of battle seemed to still as the gentle old man, her kind, bookish teacher, raised the hammer high.

And then, with a cry that echoed across the battlements, Father Anselm brought it crashing down on the Brass Bull.

The light that exploded from the blow was blinding. Sansa shielded her eyes as Taurox was hurled from the walls, his brass hide spider-webbed with cracks, his monstrous form bellowing with pain and rage. The Doombull and the rest of the Beastmen retreated leaving the bloodied knights and garrison to reclaim the city battlements.

But Father Anselm did not stand to see their victory. He slumped to the ground, his face pale, his body broken by the effort of the act. He had given everything to smite the beast.

By dawn, he was dead.

Sansa couldn't believe it. Father Anselm, the man who had taught her Khazalid, who had gently corrected her prayers, who had never once raised his voice in anger, gone, like some tragic hero from an old story. That such a quiet, gentle soul could burn so brightly in the end seemed impossible to her. Unthinkable.

She wept for him; her tears silent as she sat in the cold temple of Ulric for their were no other Sigmarite priests in the city to tend to him. The Wolf Priest was delivering his eulogy, his voice a deep rumble as he praised Father Anselm as a true follower of Sigmar, that great disciple of Ulric. That he had died a warrior's death, as all followers of Ulric should. The words were full of glory and valor, of battles fought and lives saved, even praise for his deft diplomacy, but Sansa could only think of the old man's hands, stained with ink from all the letters and books he had read.

He was not a warrior or a diplomat to her. He was her mentor, the one who had taught her to say 'dawongr' in Khazalid, their word for "dwarf-friend." It was him she heard when she whispered the words, him who had oft made her feel brave when the world seemed so full of monsters.

Now he was gone, and all she could do was sit and listen, red-eyed and heartbroken, as the Wolf Priest's words washed over her.

Kaldezeit 8th – 10th

The Beastmen came again the next two nights, their howls rising like the wind before a storm. They assailed the walls with ladders and siege towers, while covered rams were rushed towards the gates, but without the Brass Bull, they were leaderless; frenzied but uncoordinated. Countless gors and ungors fell beneath the fury of Winterfell's defenses, cut down by cannon fire and handguns, crushed under the weight of stones hurled from the battlements, or burned alive in boiling oil. Their bodies piled up at the base of the walls, black blood staining the earth.

But no one believed the Brass Bull was truly dead. Sansa had heard the whispers among the soldiers, the fear in their voices. The creature was too strong, too monstrous. Even after Father Anselm's sacrifice, they knew Taurox would return. It was only a matter of when.

And when he did, it was at midday on the tenth day of the siege.

Sansa had expected him to come under the cover of darkness, like before. But there he was, as clear as day, standing tall amidst his horde. His metal skin gleamed under the sun, though now it was marred with thin scars, the faint remnants of the wounds Father Anselm had dealt him. It made him seem even more terrible, an unkillable force that had been hurt and only grown stronger for it.

Her heart clenched at the sight.

She watched from the top of Winterfell's Great Watchtower as Taurox led the charge himself, barreling toward the city walls with reckless fury. But the attack made no sense. The Beastmen had no new ladders, no fresh siege towers to replace the ones they'd lost the night before. They hurled themselves at the defenses with no real hope of breaching them, a mindless rush of bodies and rage. The cannons barked and cut them down like wheat before the scythe, but still, they came.

Sansa felt the confusion knotting in her chest. Why would Taurox attack in broad daylight, without proper preparation? What had changed?

Her mother's voice broke the tension. "Why the change, Sir Rodrik?"

The old knight stood on the battlements, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the other holding a spyglass to an eye, his face grim but steady. He glanced at the Easy Gate, as if listening for something distant. Then he looked back at Lady Catelyn.

"Robb must be near," he said, his voice low but sure. "A day away, at most."

Hope blossomed in Sansa's chest. Robb. Her brother was coming. He was near, and he would smash the Beastmen against the walls like a wave breaking on the shore. She could almost see him, sword in hand, riding at the head of his army, the banners of Winterfell flying behind him

The thought steadied her, and for the first time in days, Sansa allowed herself to believe that they might survive this. The walls of Winterfell had held through worse. They would hold again. And Robb would save them. Jeyne and Old Nan had been right after all.

Sansa watched the fighting from the Watchtower for a while, but despite Taurox's presence, the city walls held firm. The Beastmen hurled themselves at the defenses, wild and furious, but without much siege equipment, it was a futile effort. After a time, her mother called her away, and Sansa left the battle behind, feeling a burgeoning hope that perhaps the worst was over.

At dinner that evening, the hall was heavy with tension, though quieter than it had been in days. The distant sounds of the siege seemed far away here, cannon fire muffled by thick walls and the flicker of oil lamps. Sansa sat beside her mother, picking at her food, listening to the quiet murmurs around them.

Then the doors opened, and a courier rushed in, blood still clinging to his boots. He bent low to whisper something in her mother's ear. Sansa saw her mother blink, her face carefully neutral, before she rose to her feet, tapping her spoon against her goblet to call for silence.

The hall stilled at once, all eyes turning to Lady Catelyn.

"The Beastmen have begun to withdraw…" she said, her voice calm, but the words sent a ripple of excitement through the room.

A great cheer erupted around them, loud and jubilant as people praised Ulric and Sigmar. The noise of it made Sansa's heart leap, hope blooming so suddenly that it left her breathless. The siege was over. The Beastmen were leaving.

But her mother raised a hand, her face still grave, and the hall quieted once more.

"Sir Rodrik believes they intend to attack Robb's army this night," Lady Catelyn continued, her voice steadier than Sansa felt. "So pray to Sigmar and Ulric for their victory and success."

The room fell into a tense hush. No more cheers, only fervent prayers calling on the aid of the Gods. Sansa's stomach twisted painfully. The Beastmen were retreating from the city, but not out of real defeat. They were heading for her brother, for Robb.

She felt the familiar knot of fear tighten in her chest. Robb was so close, only a day away, Sir Rodrik had said, but now it seemed even that was too far. She imagined him on the field, his army surrounded in the dark, Beastmen crashing into their lines like an endless tide.

But then she remembered Sir Rodrik's calm assurance, Jeyne's confidence and Old Nan's words from days before. 'Robb will smash them against the walls.' She had to believe that. Robb was strong, he was a Stark, and Starks never fell easily.

He would win. Sansa told herself this, clinging to the thought like a drowning man to driftwood. Robb would be victorious. How could it be otherwise? Her brother, strong and valiant, would lead his men to triumph, for surely the gods favored their cause. Her mind drifted back to that fateful moment upon the walls, the memory as vivid as the day it happened.

She had pondered it often the past two days, praying over its meaning in Taal's Wood and in the small Sigmarite Chapel that Father Anselem had presided over.

The sky had been darkened with smoke, and the Beastmen's foul stench filled the air. Yet in the midst of that chaos and despair, there had been a flash of golden light, bright and pure as the dawn. Father Anselm, that old priest of Sigmar, had stood before the monstrous form of Taurox, a fell minotaur clad in living brass, its every movement shaking the stones beneath its feet. Sansa had watched, breathless, as the priest, normally frail and bent with age, raised his warhammer high with a strength he had not had in decades.

And then the light came.

Golden, radiant, it had burst from the hammer as though Sigmar himself had blessed the blow. It struck the beast full in the chest, and with a roar that shook the very walls of Winterfell, the Brass Bull had been hurled from the battlements, wounded and defeated. Though Father Anselm had perished in the act, there was no doubt in Sansa's heart that the gods had been with him. They had shown their power, their might, and Sansa knew then that they watched over her brother, too.

Yes, the gods were on their side.

Ulric, the Wolf of Winter, would guide Robb's sword arm; Sigmar, the hammer of justice, would stand at his back. Even now, as the Beastmen turned their wrath toward her brother's army, Sansa felt a flicker of hope kindle in her heart. She whispered a prayer beneath her breath, soft and fervent.

"Robb will be safe," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the darkening sky beyond the window. "The gods will protect him."

Though fear still tugged at her heart, Sansa felt the weight of her doubt begin to lift. The Beastmen had tasted defeat once; they would taste it again. Robb was her brother, a Stark of Winterfell. Like the great wolf of their sigil, he was strong, proud, and unyielding. No evil, no dark force could break him.

And so, as the evening deepened, Sansa held fast to her faith. There was light in the darkness, and the gods, mighty and wise, would see them through to victory.

Chapter Text

Kaldezeit 11th, 2522

It was the middle of the second watch when a crackling volley of handgun fire, sharp and sudden, tore Robb from sleep. Before he was fully awake, the deep boom of the cannons followed, a rumbling thunder that rolled through the camp, shaking the very earth beneath him. He was on his feet in an instant, his hand going to the sword at his side. All around him, men were stirring, the rustle of armor, the clank of steel, the murmur of voices rising as thousands scrambled to form ranks.

He knew what was coming before he heard the howls.

Beastmen. Their guttural cries echoed from the dark woods beyond the camp, savage and wild. Robb felt a cold knot of dread twist in his gut, but he shoved it aside. There was no time for fear. The enemy was upon them.

He grabbed his cloak and fastened it as he moved, making his way through the press of men toward the viewing platform near the center of the camp. The dwarfs had thrown it together the evening before, grumbling all the while about its shoddy construction, but it seemed sturdy enough to him. He needed a clear view of the battlefield.

As he climbed the steps, his eyes swept over the defenses, taking in the scene. His men were already moving with the discipline drilled into them over months of hard training, forming lines and pouring toward the walls of the palisade. The ditch that encircled the camp, a trench that was four yards wide and three deep, would force the Beastmen to slow their advance. To cross it in good time they would have to lay wooden planks across it or fill it with debris.

All of which would take time and patience that was beyond them. Khazrak One-Eye or not, they would almost certainly just elect to bridge it by filling it with their bodies. And before the ditch, lay the stakes.

Row after row of sharpened wooden stakes jutted from the earth, offset and staggered, a deadly maze that no full-grown Beastman could navigate easily. Ludger Scherler, the wizard of the Gold Order, had walked the border of the camp for hours on end, from early in the evening to deep into the night, muttering his incantations as he touched each one. They looked like ordinary wood, but Robb knew better. They were as heavy, hard and sharp as steel now, and would be so until dawn.

Any Beastman that threw himself against them would be skewered like a boar on a spit. To even reach the trench, hundreds of the Beastmen would die forcing themselves through, and far more would be wounded.

A gust of wind brought the smell of powder and blood to his nose. The handgunners on the walls were already firing in disciplined volleys, cutting down the first wave of Beastmen that dared to charge from the woods. The cannons boomed again, sending shockwaves through the air, their iron shot tearing bloody swathes through the enemy ranks and felling trees. But still, the howling hordes came on, driven by some primal rage, mindless in their determination.

Robb scanned the battlefield from his vantage point. The camp was cramped, too small for any proper cavalry charge. His knights, men-at-arms and pistoliers had dismounted, forming battalions of foot soldiers, ready to reinforce the walls wherever the enemy pressed hardest. The Kislivite lancers had done the same, grim-faced and silent as they prepared for the inevitable clash.

And then there were the men of the Veldt, the last line of defense. They were not State Troops in the truest sense, but they were hardy veterans and fierce, and they would hold if the walls fell.

They had to hold.

Robb gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, feeling the weight of it. His father's words echoed in his mind, words he had heard so many times growing up in Winterfell, 'A lord must always protect his people.'

He glanced up at the night sky, splattered with stars and the waning crescent of Mannslieb, and whispered a prayer to the gods, to Ulric and Sigmar.

The howls grew louder. The Beastmen were coming.

But they would not break him. They would not break his men. Not tonight.

"Hold fast," he muttered, though none could hear him.

Robb heard the heavy tread of boots behind him and turned to see King Ungrim Ironfist climbing onto the platform, grumbling with each step. The dwarf king's thick, braided beard shook as he hoisted himself up with a grunt, his scarred face lit by the flickering bonfires below.

"That ladder's built for long manling legs, not dawi ones," Ungrim muttered, straightening up beside Robb. His orange crest gleamed crimson in the light of the flames.

Below them, two battalions of dwarfs stood at the ready. In the front rank of each, fifty slayers, bare-chested and grim stared out at the black woods beyond the palisade. The bonfires and torches illuminating the camp sent flickering light across their tattooed skin, casting shadows on their faces like skulls, their axes gleaming. They had come here to die, and Robb had no doubt some would get their wish before the night was done.

"They're coming at us the same old way," Ungrim growled, watching the treeline with his hard, squinting eyes.

Robb nodded, though his own heart was clenched tight. The Beastmen had no strategy, no subtlety. They came like a wave, crashing against the walls, eager to spill blood. "They'll lose thousands just getting to the walls," he said, his voice low. "But there's always more of them. They outnumber us by ten, maybe fifteen thousand." His gaze flicked to the far edges of the camp, where the fires barely reached. "They don't care if they win. They just want to make us bleed."

The night stretched long, and the sound of battle rolled over them like distant thunder. It took time, a grim, grinding time, for the Beastmen to force their way through the stakes and past the ditch. Robb watched as their twisted forms pushed forward, trampling over their own dead, claws scrabbling at the earth as they tried to cross the deep trench. All the while, his handgunners fired in steady volleys, cutting them down like scythes through wheat. The cannons roared, grapeshot shredding the front lines, leaving only ragged remains of flesh and bone.

But still, they came. Wave after wave.

When the ladders finally went up, Robb felt his stomach knot. The halberdiers were there, ready at the walls, shoving ladders back down into the ditch. Stones rained from above, crushing the skulls of the gors below, improvised grenades bursting in the mass of fur and flesh. The smell of blood and burnt meat filled the air. He could see the Beastmen scrambling, hands clawing desperately for purchase on the logs that made up the wall, only to be met by a halberd to the face, or a swift boot that sent them tumbling back to the ground.

Those few that made it over soon found their skulls split, limbs lopped off or chest impaled and then shoved back into the braying crowd below.

"Steady!" Robb barked though he doubted his men could hear him that far off, with the din of battle ringing in their ears. His men were holding, but the weight of the assault was heavy. His throat was dry, and the air stank of sweat and gunpowder.

Then came the Minotaurs.

The braying of gors and ungors gave way to a new sound, deeper, more menacing. The ground seemed to tremble beneath their feet. Robb's heart clenched as he saw them coming over the walls, hulking brutes, towering above even the tallest men, their thick arms swinging massive axes and clubs. They moved with terrifying speed for creatures of their size, slamming into the halberdiers with the force of a battering ram. Men screamed as they were thrown from the walls, their bodies crumpling as they hit the ground inside the camp.

And at their head, gleaming in the firelight, was the Brass Bull.

It towered a head above the rest, twelve feet tall if it was an inch, its skin glinting like molten metal, its eyes glowing red and burning with bloodlust. Every swing of its axes sent men flying, their armor crumpling and tearing like paper, their bodies split almost in half, spewing blood like a fountain. The walls shook under its weight. Robb's throat tightened, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow as he watched it, a storm of destruction. The halberdiers, brave as they were, could do nothing against the beast's fury.

Still, Robb tightened his grip on his sword.

The sound of Umgrim's voice cut through the din of battle, harsh and guttural in the dwarf tongue. The slayers and warriors of the nearest battalion surged forward at his command, a wall of iron and grim purpose. Axes glinted in the firelight, shields raised high as they moved to reinforce the faltering halberdiers. Robb's breath caught as the quarrelers fired in unison a single, terrible volley of death. Bolts filled the air, thick as a swarm of hornets, and when they landed, the effect was instant.

Many a minotaur fell, their monstrous bodies crashing to the ground with a sound like breaking trees. Throats gurgled blood as broadhead bolts tore through them, some beasts pierced through heart or skull. Yet not all fell. Robb's heart sank as he saw others keep coming, bolts jutting from limbs or caught in thick hide, too stubborn or too mad with fury to die just yet. The halberdiers struggled beneath the weight of the onslaught, already pushed to their limit as a horde of gors and ungors climbed over the walls like ants to join their leader.

And the Brass Bull... it stood untouched, gleaming, invincible. The quarrelers' bolts bounced off its metal skin as if they were made of straw.

"Only runed weapons, or those blessed by the gods, can harm it!" Umgrim bellowed over the clamor, his voice a grating roar. Without hesitation, the dwarf king grabbed a rope tied to the rail of the viewing platform and slid down it to the ground.

Robb's eyes locked onto the massive runed axe slung across Umgrim's back. The weight of it, the ancient power within that broad blade, seemed to spark something within him. 'Ice'. His hand went to the hilt of his own weapon, his mind racing.

There was no time to think. He seized the rope, feeling the burn through his gauntlets as he followed Umgrim down to the ground, the chaos of the battle swirling around him. The heat of the fires licked at his face, the stench of blood and burnt flesh thick in the air.

Robb landed heavily but kept his feet. He ran, his eyes scanning the battlefield for the nearest unit, and there he found them, a battalion of dismounted knights. Sir Manderly stood at their head, his face grim beneath his helm. Robb reached him, breath coming hard and fast.

"Sir Manderly!" Robb barked, gripping the knight's shoulder. "Only a weapon like Ice can cut down that beast. Take my place on the platform and direct the reserves. Do what must be done."

Manderly gave a sharp nod, his eyes flicking to the towering form of the Brass Bull beyond.

Robb turned to the knights, their armor shining in the firelight, their swords ready but unused. "You men, follow me!"

Robb's breath caught as he sprinted toward the wall, his boots pounding the earth. A quick glance told him what he needed to know, the rest of the camp still held firm. For now, this was the only place in danger. He pushed his men forward, driving them faster. Another flurry of crossbow bolts whistled overhead, and he saw more of the beastmen fall, their bodies riddled with quarrels. Minotaurs dropped like felled oaks, dozens of brays and ungors crumpling with them.

Ahead, the slayers were already on the wall, their orange crests like flames among the chaos. Robb watched as they cut down gors with reckless abandon, axes swinging in wide arcs, cleaving limbs, heads, and anything else in their path. They darted inside the reach of the minotaurs, striking with precision, burying their weapons deep into the beasts' guts, or hacking apart a thick thigh to bring them crashing down.

Sir Phoebus was with them, taking on a knot of minotaurs all by himself. He strained to move towards the great brass beast, but for every minotaur he cut down, it seemed another monster replaced it. Gors crowded round the paladin, screaming their hate for men and their gods, desperate to strike him down and offer up his lifeblood to the Ruinous Powers.

The dwarfen warriors followed, solid as iron, their shields locked together in a disciplined line. Behind them, the halberdiers rallied, forming up once more. Their long polearms stabbed out, methodical and sure, taking back ground inch by inch, hacking and stabbing at the snarling, slavering tide of beasts. For a moment, hope flickered in Robb's chest, that they could push the Beastmen back, retake the wall, and hold it.

But the Brass Bull... Taurox...

It moved like a force of nature, unstoppable, a force of inevitable slaughter. Its massive axes swung in wide, brutal arcs, cutting through slayers as if they were nothing more than green boys with sticks. Blood sprayed from every stroke, and the dwarfs fell before it, their bodies broken and mangled. Robb's heart pounded in his chest as he saw the rallying line falter, men and dwarfs alike retreating before the unstoppable fury of the brass-skinned monster.

And then, from the chaos, Ungrim Ironfist charged.

The Slayer King moved like a storm, his runed axe singing as it met the Brass Bull in a thunderous clash. The ancient weapon shone with a light of its own, runes glowing bright in the firelit gloom. Ungrim struck with all the might of his ancestors, his voice raised in the ancient songs of his people, a battle hymn as old as the mountains themselves. But Taurox was no mere beast. It met the king blow for blow, its twin axes dark and cruel, each swing bearing the weight of unholy runes etched deep into the steel.

They fought like gods, the Slayer King and the Brass Bull, their weapons ringing out like thunder on the battlefield.

Robb led his knights and men-at-arms up the ramp, their heavy boots thudding against the timber as they stormed onto the parapet. The air was thick with the reek of sweat, blood, and the foul stench of the Beastmen, but the sight of the halberdiers and dwarf warriors holding the line inspired him. His own men, armored in fine plate, brought with them a weight to the line that the Beastmen could not stand against. They threw the twisted creatures back, smashing them like waves breaking over a sandbar.

The Beastmen shrieked and howled, fighting with the savage fury of animals. Strong they were, but their strength was not so far beyond men's, and their weapons were crude, axes of iron, swords rusted and chipped with use, clubs of wood and stone. Here and there, one held a blade of steel, scavenged from some forgotten battlefield, but overall their weapons were no match for the craftsmanship of imperial steel, let alone the exquisite artistry of the dwarfs. The Beastmen flailed and swung with the rage of rabid dogs, but their blows glanced off shields and armor, and one by one, they fell under the crushing might of disciplined steel.

And then, a sudden glow. The blades of the men around him gleamed with a strange light and seemed lighter in their hands. It must be the Gold Wizard's doing. Their weapons, already superior, now cut through Beastmen like a hot knife through butter. Shields splintered, bones cracked, weapons broke and the line surged forward, pushing the horned monstrosities back in a tide of blood and iron.

A shame it didn't seem to enhance Ice. Nor Ungrim's runed axe, but Robb knew such weapons needed no further enchantment. Star-forged gromril, enchanted by ancient dwarf runes, could cleave through the hardest steel as if it were nothing but flesh.

Robb moved with a fury, Ice carving through gors and ungors as if they were nothing more than weeds. Storm was at his side, savaging the Beastmen with his fangs. Jory and his bodyguards were with him, their swords flashing in the firelight as they hacked the horned beasts apart, the braying and snarling growing fainter as the line thinned. And then, suddenly, he found himself in the open, face-to-face with the beast that had brought such ruin upon them.

Taurox, the Brass Bull, towered over the battlefield, its twin axes dripping with the blood of dwarfs and men alike. Ungrim Ironfist lay sprawled at its feet, his axe just out of reach. The Doombull bellowed in triumph, its breath a rancid wind that reeked of death and rot. It raised its axes high, ready to bring them down on the Slayer King.

Without thinking, Robb lunged.

Ice sank deep into the creature's hip, and it roared, a sound that shook the very earth beneath them. The beast turned, far quicker than something so massive had any right to, its left axe swinging toward Robb's head. He barely managed to leap back, the blade whistling past his face, missing it by a fraction of an inch. It would have caved in his skull in like an egg thrown against a wall had it connected, but the wound in its hip slowed the beast just enough.

Robb gulped in a breath, his heart pounding in his chest. As the bovine monstrosity's metal arm blurred by he flicked Ice upward, shouting the Dawi word for ice, and the magic within the runesword surged forth. In an instant, the creature's arm was encased in a thick block of ice, from shoulder to fist, freezing the limb solid. The Brass Bull staggered at the unexpected weight, unsteady on its hooved feet. The Doombull stumbled forward, lowing in confusion, its guttural moo echoing across the battlefield.

Ungrim saw his chance. The Slayer King was on his feet in an instant, his huge runed axe flashing through the air as he leapt toward the creature's back. The blade sank deep into the Brass Bull's flesh, and it screamed, eyes wide with agony. Robb didn't hesitate. He darted forward, Ice in both hands, and drove the great runesword straight through the beast's neck. Blood sprayed from the wound as he ripped the sword free, nearly severing the creature's head from its massive shoulders.

Taurox fell to his knees, a gurgling roar dying in its throat, and then collapsed into the dirt, lifeless.

For a moment, the battlefield fell silent. Robb stood panting, foul, thick blood dripping from Ice's blade, as the men and dwarfs around him stared in awe. Then Ungrim let out a booming laugh, and the men erupted in cheers.

The Beastmen fell from the walls like autumn leaves in a storm, swept away with ease now that their leader lay dead. But Robb knew this was far from the end. Taurox's death had not rippled through the horde as he had hoped. If they had seen the Brass Bull fall, it mattered little. Their blood was still up, their rage unchecked. The Warherd kept coming, wave after wave, smashing against the palisade like a sea of howling madness.

At different points along the wall, Beastmen crested the battlements, their filthy hooves trampling the wooden battlements. Each time they broke through, reinforcements rushed to meet them, men and dwarfs alike cutting them down with the cold precision of veterans. But none of it had the desperation of that first clash with the Minotaurs, none as grim as the moment Taurox had bellowed his rage and hate.

Hours passed in the grinding toil of battle. The sun crept slowly over the horizon, casting its light over the heaps of dead and dying. The Warherd, now a shattered remnant of the force that had come upon them, finally broke. The survivors, a pitiful few, turned and fled into the woods, their savage bellows fading into the morning mist.

"Mount up the pistoliers," Robb barked, his voice raw from shouting commands all night. His throat burned, his limbs ached, but there was no rest yet. "I want every last one of these creatures ridden down." He gestured to one of Jory's men, who ran off to relay the order. Robb could barely recognize him through the grime and gore.

Ungrim Ironfist stretched, rolling his massive shoulders, streaked with blood and soot. "Exhausting work," the Slayer King muttered, though there was a glint in his eye. "But good all the same. If we lost a thousand, men and dawi together, I'd be surprised."

Robb wiped his brow with a gauntleted hand, trying to mask his weariness. His own body felt heavy, weighed down by the night's labor and the sight of so much death. "Only because of the strength of these walls," he said, gesturing to the palisade. "My men are skilled at fortifying camp, but with a thousand dwarfs beside them..." He shook his head in disbelief. "It felt like we stood behind a fortress of stone, not hastily hewn logs."

Ungrim grunted in agreement. "Aye, and the wizard was a big help. Those spikes and the blades he enchanted on the walls, that made quite the difference. But don't sell yourself short, Stark. It was your blade that felled Taurox. The Brass Bull has been a terror in Talabecland for years. You slew him in a single stroke. The Grand Duke has a bounty on his head as high as the one the Graff of Middenland put on Khazrak One-Eye, ten thousand gold crowns."

"Khazrak..." Robb murmured, sheathing Ice. His hands still tingled from the battle, though whether from fatigue or the sword's magic, he couldn't tell. "I thought we'd see him here, but he never showed."

Ungrim chuckled darkly, his beard shaking. "Khazrak's likely elsewhere, fighting the Chancellor or raiding across Hochland. He moves like a shadow, always just out of reach. But remember, it's the Dark Omen pulling the strings. We can't predict where they'll strike next."

Robb nodded, though his mind still raced with the thought of Khazrak lurking in the forests, a silent predator. But before he could dwell on it, Ungrim clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance.

"Don't deflect my praise, lad," the Slayer King said, his tone half-serious, half-amused. "You did a great thing today. You saved my life, and you slew the Brass Bull. That's no small feat." He shook his head and sighed, "It would have been a glorious doom, but still... it's a debt I owe you. A cuirass of Gromril won't do. No, you'll get a suit of half-plate. Star-wrought by the Runelord of Karak Kadrin. It's the least I can offer."

Robb's mouth opened in shock. Gromril? A suit of half-plate? He'd heard the tales, of course… armor forged from the rarest meteoric iron with the most secret techniques of the dwarfs, far stronger than steel and lighter too. Even the wealthiest Elector-Counts in the Empire would envy such a gift. The Emperor had a full suit and he thought the Grand Theogonist had a suit of half plate, but he wasn't sure any other lords had more than the cuirass that the King had originally promised him.

"I..." Robb stammered, feeling the weight of the Slayer King's words. "I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing," Ungrim rumbled, his eyes gleaming beneath the battle-scarred brow. "Just wear it well. You've earned it."

Robb nodded sheepishly, standing over the battlefield, surveying the aftermath with a grim satisfaction. The Warherd was broken, but there was little time to savor the victory. The work of organizing the camp fell to him now, and it was sure to prove slower than he hoped.

The dead had to be gathered, and there were many, whatever Ungrim said. Near a thousand lives snuffed out… Men and dwarfs alike, their bodies mangled by axes, hooves, and horns. The Priests of Morr moved through the rows, murmuring their rites to sanctify the fallen. It was a slow, solemn procession, and Robb watched it with a heavy heart. Most of the dwarfs would stay behind to guard the priests and their own dead until they could be properly buried or sent back to their holds. Only a select body guard of slayers and thanes would accompany King Ungrim to Winter Town.

Robb turned to the wounded. The smell of blood and the cries of pain filled the air. The worst of them were already being treated by the priestesses of Shallya, their hands gentle, their faces pale with the effort of pulling men back from death's door. Mundane surgeons set broken limbs and stitched up cuts. But there were too many who wouldn't be able to move so easily. The worst among them were loaded onto wagons, carts, even the backs of spare horses. The walking wounded limped along behind. Robb knew it would slow the army's march, turning what should have been a midday arrival into late afternoon or evening.

He scowled at the thought. Winter Town would be restless by now, surely. They'd heard the cannon fire and the volleys of hundreds of handguns going off at once. They'd be wondering what had become of the battle, whether the beasts would be back at their gates or if victory had been won.

"Sir Manderly," Robb called, spotting the burly knight amidst the soldiers. "Send a troop of your fastest riders ahead to Winterfell. Let the city and castle know what's happened here. I don't want them wondering any longer."

"Aye, my lord." Manderly saluted, his gauntleted fist thumping against his breastplate, and hurried to see it done.

By the time the column finally set off, the sun was already rising high in the sky. They marched out from the battered palisade onto the Dwarf Road, the long line of soldiers stretching behind Robb as far as the eye could see. It was only an hour before they were free of the woods, and when they emerged, Robb's mood darkened.

The rolling hills of Ostermark should have been green with crops, dotted with villages and hamlets. But the beastmen had left only ash in their wake. Terraced farms were burned, nothing but blackened husks and scorched earth. Robb's jaw tightened as he rode past one ruined hill after another. There was no blood, no bodies. The people must have fled and taken shelter behind the walls of Winter Town. But the devastation was still a bitter sight.

He vowed silently then, as he rode through the ashes, that the ten thousand crowns he'd earned for slaying Taurox would go to rebuilding these lands. The gold would flow into Ostermark, into the hands of the people whose homes had been destroyed. It was the least he could do. The severed head of the Brass Bull hung from his horse's side in a leather sack, the grisly bag blessed by priests from every cult in his army so that the foul influence of what it contained would be held at bay. It weighed heavy at his side, and he longed to be rid of it. As soon as he reached the city, he'd send it downriver to Talabheim in a lead lined box. Let the Grand Duke have it. Robb was done with it.

The day dragged on as they passed one wrecked, burnt out farm after another. The shadows grew long, and the sun hung low on the horizon when they finally crested the last of the hills. Beyond, Winter Town spread before them, its walls tall and solid, the spires and rooftops of great temples peeking over the battlements. The sight of home lifted the spirits of the men, their weary faces breaking into smiles, their steps quickening with new energy.

Robb felt the weight of exhaustion pressing on him, but it eased at the sight of the city. 'Home.' That single word carried more comfort than a hundred victories. The men behind him cheered as they marched down the slope, flowing toward the gates like a tide, joy lighting their faces. They were home at last.

Merida galloped up beside him, her face bright with joy, and Robb felt a pang of guilt. He hadn't spoken a word to her all day, not since the battle began, not after it ended. So caught up in command, in organizing the aftermath, he hadn't even thought to seek her out.

"Robb! You did it!" she beamed, eyes sparkling like the morning sky.

Robb flushed, his face burning with embarrassment. "Merida, forgive me," he said, fumbling for the words. "I've been so... caught up in everything. The battle, the march, the wounded..."

Merida laughed, waving off his apology with a dismissive hand. "Don't be ridiculous! You were doing your duty. I understand."

There was no reproach in her voice, only the warmth he'd come to know. Robb looked at her, truly looked at her then, with a love he didn't know how to put into words. "Thank you," he said softly.

"No need to thank me," she said, her cheeks coloring slightly. "I'm just being reasonable." She shifted in the saddle, eyes shining again with excitement. "But tell me, is it true? Did you really slay the Brass Bull? We could barely see a thing from where we were in camp, just see crowds of men and beast struggling on the distant walls and hear the clash of steel and cannon fire."

Robb gave a humble nod, though he could feel the pride welling in him. "I couldn't have done it without King Ironfist," he admitted. "But I struck the blow that finished it."

"Incredible," Merida whispered, her voice full of awe. She looked at him as though he were a hero from tales of old, as though he were something more than just a lord's son. It made his heart swell.

"And you," Robb asked, eager to hear of her part in it, "how was your first battle? Did you manage to take a shot at any of them?"

Merida's expression faltered, and she looked a little put out. "No," she admitted. "The fighting was always just out of range. I couldn't make the shot without risking hitting one of our own."

Before Robb could respond, Lady Elinor rode up beside them, graceful as ever even riding side saddle. "Were you really in any condition to shoot, Merida?" her mother asked pointedly. "You could see more detail than you implied and looked positively green at the sight of the carnage."

Merida's face went scarlet, and she straightened in the saddle, all fiery pride. "That's because I had to stand there and watch, Mother! If I'd had something to do, some task to focus on… Robb, you believe me, don't you?"

Robb chuckled, the good natured sound coming from deep in his chest. "Of course I do," he said, his voice gentle. "It's no easy thing, seeing battle for the first time. My brother Jon's a better swordsman than I am, but the first time we fought forest goblins with my father, two years back, he lost his stomach all over my boots."

Merida blinked; her eyes wide with surprise. "And what of your stomach, my lord?" she asked, teasing him now, her tone mischievous.

"I was fine," Robb said with mock solemnity. "At least until Jon's little episode." Merida laughed, her voice bright as bells in the evening air.

Robb spurred his horse, a grin tugging at his lips. "Come on," he said, glancing back at her and her mother. "The castle's not far now, and dinner's waiting for us."

As they approached Winter Town's East Gate, the great castle of Winterfell loomed over the city, its great grey walls rising from the landscape like something ancient and eternal. The familiar sight warmed Robb's heart, though he could tell from Merida's gasp that she hadn't fully expected the sheer size of it.

"It's so enormous," she breathed, her eyes wide with wonder.

Lady Elinor, riding beside them, glanced at her daughter with a knowing smile. "It's of a size with Highgarden, child. I've told you about my home a hundred times."

"Seeing something is very different from hearing of it," Merida replied, still staring up at the mountainous walls, her voice full of awe.

Robb smiled at her; his heart full as he kicked his horse into a faster trot. "Come on, Merida," he said, his voice warm with affection. "I'll give you a tour."

And with that, he rode ahead, laughing as Merida chased after him, her fiery hair streaming behind her like flame.

Chapter Text

Merida rode beneath the towering East Gate of Winter Town, her head swiveling as she tried to take it all in. There was so much to see, more than she had ever imagined. Fifty feet high and twenty-five feet thick, the walls seemed like something out of a Bretonnian ballad, dwarfing the curtain wall of her father's castle. The gatehouse itself was grander than the central keep at Dunbroch, and as she passed under its shadow, she felt small for the first time in years.

The gates were made of oak, twenty inches thick and plated with bronze. Merida marveled at the thought of how they opened. She knew dwarfs had built the mechanism, and only their skill could make something so massive move. The bronze wasn't merely functional, either. It was a work of art. Her eyes traced the engraved runes, shimmering faintly with the protective magics of the Dwarfs, but even they paled next to the images of the gods.

To her right, Ulric, the God of War, stood tall, his great axe Blitzbeil held in one hand, the other outstretched, grasping for Sigmar's hand. At Ulric's feet lay the broken bodies of Beastmen, scattered like fallen leaves. On the left, Sigmar himself was depicted in all his glory, Ghal Maraz raised in triumph, his other hand reaching for Ulric's. His enemies, the orcs, were strewn about him, their twisted bodies carved with a precision that made them seem real. When the gates closed, their hands would clasp as if in brotherhood, binding War and Empire together.

Merida stared, awe flooding through her. It was beautiful, more beautiful than she could have ever imagined. She had heard stories about Winter Town's gates, of course, but none had prepared her for this. She could only imagine what the other gates must look like. The Talabec Gate, she'd heard, had depictions of Manann and Morr, while the West Gate honored Taal and Rhya. And then there was Winterfell itself, with its great gate decorated with Ulric in his guise as the God of Winter and Verena, the Goddess of Justice. She could hardly wait to see them all.

But as her horse passed under the gate, Merida's eyes caught the dark holes above, murder holes ready to rain down death on any who dared breach these walls. Slots for two iron-plated portcullises loomed ominously, ready to cut the space beneath the gate into thirds. Even if an enemy somehow shattered the front gates, the rear gate stood strong, just as thick, though bare of adornment, iron-plated and stern. Practicality over beauty here, she thought, knowing that the cost of dwarf-craft was high.

Still, the power of this place struck her. It was built to endure; to withstand the worst the world could throw at it, just like the Starks themselves. Winter Town was no mere fortress, it was a testament to strength, to the Gods of Men and the Empire alike. And Merida found herself proud to be here, in the heart of it all, riding at Robb's side. This was where her future lay, she knew. And it was more magnificent than she could have ever hoped for.

They emerged from the gatehouse into streets that thrummed with an uneasy energy. Winter Town was crowded with refugees who had escaped the ashes of their homes. They'd fled from burnt-out farms and villages like ghosts, their faces drawn and weary, hope flickering in their eyes like dying embers. Unlike the jubilant soldiers at the gates who had greeted Robb with cries of "Lord Stark!" and "Victory!", their calls were desperate, a chorus of need that tugged at Merida's heart. They begged for succor, for aid in their time of sorrow, and the weight of their plight settled heavily on her shoulders.

Robb was visibly moved by their cries, a shadow crossing his face as he dismounted his horse. With determined strides, he climbed atop a loaded wagon, raising himself to be seen by all, his presence a beacon amid the despair. His dire wolf, Storm, leapt to follow but found the space too cramped, his hackles raised as he scanned the crowd. Merida felt a swell of pride watching Robb; he was more than just a lord now; he was a symbol of hope.

He lifted his right hand high and a silence fell over the street, save for the soft rustling of horseflesh. Robb's voice rang out, strong and clear. "I have seen the extent of your suffering," he declared, and Merida could feel the tension shift in the air. "And it is great." His words hung heavily, yet they were laced with strength and purpose. "The foul Beastmen who did this are dead! Slain in the tens of thousands by our army, and I myself took off the head of Taurox the Brass Bull with Ice."

A ripple of awe washed over the crowd, and Merida held her breath, caught between the power of his proclamation and the reality of their losses. Robb paused, and she could see the weight of sorrow in his eyes, a burden he shared with them. "Still, vengeance though fitting and proper will not bring back what you have lost," he continued, and for a moment, Merida felt her heart ache for the people who had seen their lives turned to ash.

But then Robb's tone shifted, filled with resolve. "But I will," he declared. "There is a ten thousand crown reward for the head of the Brass Bull, and every crown will go to rebuilding what was torn down. Every village. Every hamlet. Every farmstead."

Merida's breath caught in her throat, hope igniting anew in the faces around her. "And if that ten thousand is not enough, well, the King of Karak Kadrin has promised me my weight in gold for breaking the siege on his hold. Rest assured, there will be enough money to restore everything the way it was."

Shock enveloped the street for a heartbeat, a pause that felt like the world holding its breath. Then, like a dam bursting, the silence shattered into jubilant cheers. The crowd erupted, their voices rising in unison, chanting "Stark! Stark! Stark!" Robb's pronouncement was a lifeline thrown to the weary, a promise that they were not alone in their suffering.

Merida felt the swell of their hope wash over her, and she couldn't help but smile, pride swelling in her chest. This was why she had come, why she had chosen to ride beside Robb. For moments like this, where he transformed despair into something brighter, something worth fighting for. As the cheers echoed around her, she knew that they were not just celebrating victory; they were rallying around a future rebuilt from the ashes, one where the spirit of Winter Town and its environs could rise anew.

Robb swung down from the wagon, a sheepish smile flickering across his face as the cheers of the townsfolk still echoed in the air. He mounted his bay stallion with an easy grace, leaning over toward her. "Come on, my mother is waiting," he said softly, the words a private moment between the two of them amidst the bustle of the street.

Merida urged her horse forward, falling into stride beside him as they rode up the wide, paved main street. The flat stones beneath the hooves of their mounts felt grander than the cobbled side streets they'd passed earlier, a reminder of Winter Town's power and wealth. It was nothing like the winding dirt paths back home in Dunbroch. Here, everything seemed broader, more solid, built to last a thousand years or more.

The temple of Ulric loomed ahead, its spires clawing at the sky, a fortress for the God of War and Winter. Merida glanced up, marveling at the stonework, the carvings of wolves and swirling snow etched into the stone. She wondered what it must be like inside, whether the weight of Ulric's presence could be felt even in the walls. And beyond, near the West Gate on the other side of the city, she spotted the tall Standing Stones of Rhya, ancient and solemn. A thrill raced through her. The stones held her future within them, the place where she would stand with Robb, before the gods and the people of Winterfell, the Hierarch of Rhya binding them together. Her heart fluttered at the thought, and for a moment, the din of the city faded into a quiet dream.

But the closer they came to Winterfell, the more that dream was overshadowed by the reality of the fortress. The outer gatehouse rose up before them, larger than anything she had ever seen, a towering behemoth of granite. Its great bronze plated gates gleamed in the late day sun, just as she'd imagined them, but somehow even more magnificent in truth. Dwarfen runes traced the metal, glowing faintly, as though the power of the mountains had been sealed into the gates themselves.

On the right, Ulric stood engraved in bronze, his wolfskin cloak billowing as if caught in an eternal storm, surrounded by swirling winds and snowflakes. His hood shadowed his face, the sharp edges of the wolf's teeth peeking out from beneath, feral and unforgiving. On the left gate, Verena held her scales and sword, blindfolded but regal, her face a mask of beauty and judgment. The scales balanced two skulls equally, even though one bore a crown and the other none. Justice, unyielding and indifferent to rank.

Merida's breath caught in her throat. The outer walls were monstrous, eighty feet high and half as thick. But behind them, looming like a great stone giant, stood the inner walls of Winterfell. They dwarfed even the outer defenses, a hundred feet tall and fifty feet thick, seemingly hewn from the very bones of the earth, built into an ancient hill that had seen millennia pass by. The inner gatehouse was like something out of the old stories, a fortress fit for gods, the stone molded by giants, not dwarfs or men.

It was a place of legend, where time itself seemed to bend. The thought of living here... of being Lady of this place, left her breathless. She had heard of Winterfell's grandeur, of its ancient, cold strength, but the sight of it, the sheer scale, was overwhelming. This was not just a castle. It was a citadel of stone and history, and Merida felt a deep sense of awe as they passed beneath the gates.

'How can something so vast feel like home?' she wondered, stealing a glance at Robb. Yet in his presence, among these ancient stones, it felt inevitable, as if her life had always been leading here.

"It's so big," Merida murmured, eyes wide with wonder. The sheer size of the place dazzled her, its scale overwhelming. "Did the dwarfs use giants or ogres to help build it?"

King Umgrim Ironfist, who marched just behind them, gave a snort of amusement. "Giants? Ogres? Bah, lass, ye've no idea what we dwarfs are capable of. If you think this is impressive, you should see Karak Kadrin." His eyes gleamed with pride; his voice thick with the weight of five thousand years of dwarfen craftsmanship. "We can build far greater than this, if we've a mind to."

Merida blinked, struggling to imagine something even grander than Winterfell. 'How is that even possible?' The size of the walls, the weight of the stone… it all seemed beyond the hands of men or dwarfs. She had heard tales of Karaks, of the wonders to be seen within the dwarfs mountain holds, but now that she had something to compare them too… they just felt mythic, surely nothing could be so far beyond what lay in front of her.

Robb smiled at her beside him, that quiet confidence of his easing her awe. "I doubt ogres were a common sight in the Empire when these walls went up," he said, his tone thoughtful. "Even now, there are only a few in Winter Town, and they don't mingle much. My ancestors didn't favor them, preferring their own strength. You'll find them more often in Bechafen and in the free towns of the south and west of Ostermark."

They passed through the massive Inner Gatehouse, the sound of their horse's hooves echoing off stone as they emerged into the heart of Winterfell. A central castle greeted her, this one even more breathtaking than what had come before. Walls of a size with those that surrounded the city emerged from the Great Keep, an absolutely titanic structure. Its footprint was colossal, dwarfing the gatehouse behind them by at least eightfold. The sheer mass of it, the weight of its presence and its stark beauty, pressed down on her.

Her eyes were drawn to the peaked roof of the Great Hall, its windows glittering in the light, casting bright reflections across the courtyard. It was a fine mix of elegancy and rough power, and though the Outer and Inner walls were far more formidable, she thought it might be the Dwarf masons finest work.

To her right stood the First Keep, an enormous stone drum, squat and solid, as if it had been planted there by ancient gods. Next to it, the Great Watchtower rose like a spear, cutting into the sky. It had to be two hundred feet tall at least, a true wonder of the world. It made everything around it seem small, even the massive walls.

But to the left… her breath caught. There lay Taal's Wood, a sacred grove enclosed by a low wall. The forest within looked ancient, wild, as if untouched by time or the hand of man. In the center, a great sacred oak stood, towering over the trees around it, its trunk as wide as a farmhouse, its boughs stretching high into the sky. She had heard of this tree, said to have been planted as gift by King Adelhard of the Ostagoth's himself, in the days when Sigmar walked the Old World.

She felt the weight of ages pressing down on her. Walking into Winterfell felt like stepping into the pages of a history book, a place where the past still lived in every stone, every tree. It was a castle out of the epic sagas, built for heroes, not for men or women like her. Yet here she was, riding beside Robb, her future bound to his.

'This is where I will make my home,' she thought, breathless and awed. But with that thought came another, quieter, one that gnawed at her. 'How will I ever live up to it?'

They passed through the gatehouse of the central castle, and Merida felt the air shift as they stepped into the main courtyard. It was vast, an expanse of polished stone that echoed with power and artistry. She dismounted, her heart racing as a flurry of stable hands rushed in, bowing and gesturing to whisk away Angus and the other steeds.

From here, the path to the Great Keep loomed before them, her gaze drawn to the covered bridge arcing gracefully above the courtyard, connecting the Great Keep to the armory, a great fortress in its own right, larger than any keep she'd seen on her journey here. To her left, the Great Hall beckoned, its beauty more pronounced up close, every detail sharpened by the late afternoon light.

Robb stepped aside, pulling a man aside who bore the hallmarks of a senior servant. "Hullen, is my mother presiding over the Great Hall?"

"Yes, my lord," the man replied, before turning back to oversee the stable hands, a flurry of activity in the courtyard.

"This way, my lady," Robb said, and she followed him up the stone stairs, her heart pounding in her chest as they crossed a lowered drawbridge. Her mother, King Ungrim and his retinue followed after them, but they may as well have been still in the city for all the attention she paid to them.

The hall within was nothing short of immense. Great silk banners hung from the walls, each a testament to power and lineage. The closest to the entrance bore the Griffin and Twin-Tailed Comet of the Empire, symbols of Imperial might and divine authority. Next came the Manticore of Ostermark, fierce and proud. Finally, near the Lord's seat, loomed the snarling Dire Wolf of House Stark.

The hall was empty, save for trestle tables lined up against the walls, waiting to be brought out for the feast to come. The stone floor gleamed, polished until it almost shone, a testament to the countless feet that had crossed it. A narrow frost blue carpet led up to the Lord's seat.

Merida wondered how many of those carpets had been worn through by the steps of innumerable visitors over the centuries. Dignitaries stood to either side of it, looking at Robb and her, their expressions a mixture of respect and curiosity.

And there sat Robb's mother, a small figure in a massive stone seat carved with wolves. Though her stature seemed dwarfed by the throne, she radiated authority, every inch the daughter of an Elector-Count and a Great Lady in her own right. Beside her sat Robb's sister, Sansa, in the heir's chair, the solid oak a work of art in itself. Sansa was beautiful, her features echoing their mother's, a blend of grace and strength.

Robb guided Merida forward until they stood but a pace away from his mother. "I return in victory, Mother. This is my betrothed, Merida Dunbroch."

A flush crept across her cheeks, heat rising as she attempted to execute a passable courtesy, though she felt all too aware of the weight of their gazes. The hall, with its soaring ceiling and towering banners, seemed to close in around her, the weight of expectation pressing heavily on her shoulders. She was stepping into a world she had only imagined, a world where duty and honor mingled with the intricate dance of politics and power.

'What if I do not belong here?' The thought flickered in her mind like a shadow, but she pushed it aside, focusing instead on the proud figure of Robb beside her. He had faced down the horrors of war and returned victorious; surely she could find her place alongside him. Yet, as she stood there, she could not shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of a much larger journey, one filled with trials that would test her in ways she had yet to comprehend.

---

Sansa's heart raced with anticipation, a whirlwind of excitement thrumming through her veins. The morning had dawned with such ominous tension, each echo of cannon fire and the crackling volleys of handguns reverberating off the terraced hills near Winter Town filling the air with dread. All night, the shadows of uncertainty had lingered, and whispers of worry threaded through the halls. Who had triumphed? Had her brother emerged from the fray unscathed?

Then, as if summoned by the gods themselves, the messengers had arrived. Victory! The word exploded through Winterfell like wildfire, that the Warherd had been completely annihilated and the Brass Bull slain by Robb's own hand. It was a tale spun from dreams, an affirmation of divine favor that lifted the spirits of all. In her heart, Sansa felt a pang of shame for her doubts and the lingering fears that had gnawed at her resolve.

The hours that followed were a test of patience, each tick of the clock stretching into an eternity. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a golden hue across the stone walls, when at last the watchtower rang with news. Robb's army approached. Excitement surged anew, and the Great Hall buzzed with energy as everyone scrambled to prepare for the triumphant return.

When they finally arrived, it was as if the very sun had burst forth to greet them. Robb strode into the hall, every inch a knight and victorious general, his presence commanding the attention of all. Beside him was a vision, a vivacious redhead, clad in a green dress that was perhaps more suited for a ride than a celebration, but she wore it with a confidence that sparkled like the sunlight. Following closely was her mother, embodying the grace of her Bretonnian lineage, each step a dance of nobility. And then there were the dwarfs, the Slayer King and his thanes, rugged and imposing, just as the stories had promised.

Robb led his lady to stand before their mother, his voice ringing clear in the hall. "I return in victory, Mother. This is my betrothed, Merida Dunbroch."

Sansa watched, rapt, as the girl flushed a brilliant shade of crimson, fumbling a courtesy that seemed both awkward and earnest, which the girl's own mother observed with a discerning eye, obviously unimpressed.

"Lady Stark," Merida began, her voice laced with a warmth that put Sansa at ease. "Robb has told me so much about you, and I've long awaited this day."

In that moment, Sansa felt a flicker of kinship. This girl, so different yet so familiar, was to be her sister, bound by marriage and by the unyielding ties of fate. Merida's earnestness spoke of hopes and dreams, of the trials they would face together. Sansa couldn't help but smile, her heart swelling with pride for her brother and the bond the two would forge.

The hall seemed to breathe in unison, a collective sigh of relief mingling with the echoes of laughter and celebration. This was not just a day of victory; it was a new beginning, a tapestry woven from the threads of their intertwined destinies, where honor and love would guide them through the storm to come.

---

Catelyn Stark's gaze rested on her son as he entered the Great Hall, a beacon of pride amidst the stone hall and it's silk banners.

Her eyes moved to the red-haired girl by Robb's side as he approached the Lord's seat. 'Merida has the beauty of Sansa mixed with the tomboy nature of Arya; no wonder Robb was drawn to her,' she thought, observing her as she awkwardly introduced herself.

Despite her lack of courtly polish, there was a strength in her that reminded Catelyn of her daughters, a vitality that sparked hope in the hearts of those around her. She nodded with a smile at the girl, "as have I Lady Merida," then she turned to her son.

"Well met, Robb," Catelyn said, her voice steady yet warm, echoing the joy that swelled within her. "Words cannot express how proud I am of you in this moment. To defeat a Waaagh led by Grimgor Ironhide and a Warherd led by Taurox the Brass Bull in the very first campaign under your command... what can one do but call these deeds legendary? The kind of tale every boy dreams of. You have met and exceeded all expectations." Her heart swelled with maternal pride, for his success was nothing short of astounding, a story that would be told around fires within Ostermark for generations.

Yet, the joy was bittersweet, tinged with the shadows that loomed beyond the walls of Winterfell. "Yet, as great as your victories are, the news from elsewhere has been far darker. Have you heard it, my son?" She observed the flicker of wariness in his eyes, a familiar tension that mirrored the uncertainty that lay heavy in her heart.

"I don't think so," Robb replied, brows furrowed in concern. "The last I heard; the Chancellor had won a third victory. Bloody and hard-fought, but a victory all the same. There were rumors of further fighting downriver in Hochland and Talabecland."

Catelyn sighed, the weight of her next words pressing heavily on her tongue. "The Chancellor is dead, along with his two younger sons."

Robb gaped, disbelief flashing across his face. "What of Ortwin?"

"He managed to rally half the army and retreat to Bechafen, where he has beat back several determined assaults. Hochland is in similar straits from what we've heard, though thankfully the Grand Prince of Ostland has mobilized a mighty force to ride to the Grand Baron's aid."

She paused, allowing the grim news to sink into his mind, watching the light dim in his eyes. "Talabecland seems to be faring well enough that they do not require aid, but neither are they in a position to send any help to others. Rumors have reached us of great clashes in Middenland, and that the Emperor is preparing to ride to their aid."

A moment of silence stretched between them, heavy with the implications of the unfolding conflict. Robb's face set into a mask of determination, the boy she had once known slowly giving way to the man he was becoming. "Now that I've arrived, we can send several regiments by boat to reinforce Bechafen," he said, his voice resolute. "The wizard, too. He was a great aid to King Ungrim and I, and I'm sure he can provide the same support to the acting Chancellor."

He turned, eyes drifting toward the setting sun outside the window, its golden rays casting long shadows in the hall. "It's too late to send them off now, but if they leave in the morning, they'll arrive by evening of the third day. I'll discuss which regiments to send with my officers after dinner."

Catelyn's heart swelled with a mix of pride and concern. 'Her son really had grown up,' she realized, a warrior now forged in the crucible of battle. The echoes of his victories resonated within her, yet the weight of impending darkness loomed ever closer. The realm was in turmoil, and their fate hung precariously in the balance. She would stand beside him, unwavering, as they faced the storm together.

---

Dinner at home was a welcome reprieve after two long, grueling months on the march. Robb sat at the head of the table, savoring the warm glow of the hearth and the comforting scent of roast beef, potatoes, and spiced pumpkin pie. To his right, his mother, Sansa, and little Rickon sat quietly, while to his left were King Ungrim Ironfist, Merida, and her stately mother, Lady Elinor. Further down the table, the other lords and officers filled the seats, from Sir Wylis Manderly to Sir Phoebus, and the Slayer King's grim-faced Thanes.

Ungrim looked as though he'd rather be sitting among the warriors, sharing stories of battle and blood, his fiery eyes flicking to the lower end of the table. Robb couldn't blame him, he himself felt like the protocols of rank weighed heavy tonight. 'Still,' he thought, stealing a glance at Merida as she spoke quietly to her mother, 'it was good to be home.'

The meal was sumptuous, the beef tender and full of flavor, the potatoes rich with the earthiness of the season, and the pumpkin pie a reminder that autumn was settling in. Yet despite the comfort of home and the richness of the food, the weight of war still pressed down on Robb's shoulders. Victory had come at a cost, and the troubles across the Empire were far from over.

"Mother," Robb said, turning to Lady Stark with a frown, "what did you mean when you said that Hochland was in the same straits as Bechafen? Was the Grand Baron defeated?"

Catelyn Stark hesitated, gathering her thoughts. Robb recognized the look in her eyes, measured, careful. "Not from what we've heard," she said slowly, "but it is grim nonetheless. The Grand Baron fought a long series of battles, winning each one, but his losses built up enough that he was forced to withdraw to Hergig. A fighting retreat all the way. Now both Hergig and Krudenwald are said to be under siege."

Robb grimaced, weighing the news. "They should stand until the Grand Prince arrives from Ostland," he said after a moment, voice steady. "Krudenwald's walls are as formidable as Winter Town's, and Hergig's are stronger still. Those walls haven't been breached in a thousand years."

Merida's hand reached across the table, brushing over his, a brief, warm touch. When she spoke, her voice was soft but tinged with worry. "Will you be heading to Bechafen with your reinforcements?" she asked, her wide blue eyes clouded with trepidation. She clearly wanted him to stay.

Robb felt a pang of sympathy at her question. He hated the thought of leaving her, even though he had just spent weeks marching with her by his side. "I don't think that's necessary," he said, trying to ease her fears. "There is much work to be done here. Refugees need to be resettled, new soldiers recruited and trained. And of course, we have a wedding." He smiled at her, seeing the hope light up her face. "Tomorrow is Festag, a good day to have it."

There was a stunned silence from across the table. His mother's face flushed, and he could see the signs of mounting indignation behind her eyes. Lady Elinor looked equally taken aback, her elegant features stiff with shock.

"Robb..." Catelyn began, her voice tight, "we can't possibly prepare for a wedding of your station in that time. We need at least two weeks to make proper arrangements."

Robb sighed inwardly. He'd anticipated this. His mother had always been meticulous about courtly traditions and the rituals of nobility, and Lady Elinor clearly shared those same concerns. But he had no patience for pomp and ceremony, not after everything he had seen and done. "It's been over a month since we promised each other," Robb said, holding firm. "And you've known of this for a couple of weeks, at least, I'd wager."

He glanced at Catelyn, watching her wrestle with her own desire for high ceremony. "So, I'm sure you've been making preparations on the side," he continued, softening his tone slightly. "That's enough. We don't need anything fancy, not now. Especially with the common folk hurting the way they are. It would be in bad taste to make the wedding too extravagant."

"But..." his mother began to protest, her voice laden with exasperation.

"That's final, Mother," Robb said firmly, meeting her gaze. He loved her, but he would not allow her to turn this into another display of wealth and power, not when the world was burning around them. There would be time for grandeur later, if they survived this war.

Catelyn's lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing more, her eyes flickering briefly to Merida, who smiled nervously. Robb reached for his cider, the taste of spiced apple filling his mouth as the conversation shifted to lighter matters. Yet his mind was already wandering beyond the walls of Winterfell, to the battles that likely awaited him and the responsibilities that weighed heavily on his shoulders.

"Not that this... domestic drama isn't fascinating," King Ungrim, said dryly. "But won't the acting Chancellor be expecting you, young Stark?"

Robb frowned, setting his goblet down on the heavy oak table. The warmth of the meal was quickly fading, and he felt the familiar tension of duty creeping back in. "Did Ortwin call for aid from House Stark generally, or from me specifically?" he asked, turning to his mother.

Lady Catelyn, ever composed, tilted her head thoughtfully. "House Stark," she said after a moment. "I remember it quite distinctly, though if you wish to see the missive yourself, I can have one of the servants fetch it."

Sansa, seated beside their mother, nodded along, clearly remembering it the same way.

Robb shook his head. "That's not necessary. Honestly, it's better for us that I'm not there."

Sansa's brow furrowed, and Merida glanced at him with concern. "What do you mean?" his sister asked, her voice careful, testing the waters.

"Ortwin…" Robb began, leaning back in his chair as he gathered his thoughts. "He puts on a good face and looks confident on the surface, but even though he's seven years my senior, he's insecure." That had been easily apparent when Robb had last seen him two years ago. "If I show up in person… no matter what victories I've won, he'll look at me and see a boy. But if I stay away… well, stories grow in the telling, and without me standing there to remind him of my age, those stories will loom larger. He may grow desperate to prove himself, to outshine the deeds of some 'boy.' And that desperation can drive a man to make reckless decisions."

"Your deeds loom large even by my standards," Ungrim muttered, his scarred face squinting at Robb from across the table. "Especially for a human your age. What exactly are you getting at?"

Before Robb could respond, realization flashed in Sansa's eyes. She spoke quickly, her words quiet, but sharp with understanding. "His younger brothers are dead, and he has only three young daughters. None of his male cousins are distinguished warriors or statesmen. If he dies in battle, then the League of Ostermark would be forced to choose; vote for a five-year-old girl as Chancellor, with her mother, a Haupt-Anderssen from Stirland, as regent during a time of crisis… or vote for our father as Chancellor, with you his proven heir as regent until his return."

Robb allowed himself a small shrug, though the weight of it settled heavily on his shoulders. "I'm not proposing we do anything untoward," he said, keeping his voice steady. "I'll send the aid Bechafen needs, with orders for the men to follow Ortwin's commands as if they were mine. Whatever the gods will…" He paused, glancing between his mother and sister, the implication clear. "No one will be able to say I didn't do my duty."

The room fell quiet for a moment, the crackling of the hearth the only sound. His mother looked at him with a mixture of pride and something else, worry, perhaps. She had always been cautious, especially when it came to matters of power. But Robb had learned much in these past months of war, not just how to fight, but how to navigate the dangerous waters of politics and pride.

Ungrim grunted, though there was something like approval in his gaze. "Careful scheming," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Just like your father."

Robb smiled faintly, though he felt no joy in the comparison. "No scheming," he said. "Just practicality. Ortwin may yet prove himself. But if he doesn't, then Ostermark will need someone strong enough to hold it together. Someone the soldiers can follow." His eyes flicked to Merida, then back to his family. "The Empire is being assailed on all sides, and we can't afford to be caught off guard if things get worse."

Sansa sat back in her chair, her sharp blue eyes watching him with a quiet understanding. His mother, though she said nothing, seemed to relent, perhaps recognizing the truth in his words, however much it pained her. Robb picked up his goblet again, taking a slow drink, the taste of the cider lingering on his tongue.

Whatever happened in Bechafen, the gods would decide. But he would be ready.

Chapter Text

Kaldezeit 12th, 2522

The next day came like a torrent, each hour filled with duty and obligation, no time for rest. The morning mist hadn't yet lifted from the streets of Winter Town when Robb found himself at the docks, watching the four regiments that had suffered the fewest losses in his campaign, loading onto river ships and barges bound for Bechafen. The soldiers moved with the silent efficiency of men who had seen too much war, their faces grim beneath their helms, their eyes fierce. Some clapped their comrades on the shoulder or whispered quick prayers to Ulric, Sigmar, or Morr before boarding. But most simply went about their business, resigned to the long, bloodstained road ahead.

Robb stood apart from them, his breath clouding in the cold autumn air. The smell of woodsmoke and damp leaves filled his nostrils, reminding him that winter was not far off. And yet the war would not wait for winter. It would not stop for snow or ice, nor for wedding vows. The battles would continue, the blood would keep flowing, and men like him would be left to pick up the pieces.

As the last of the soldiers disappeared onto the barges, he caught sight of the Gold Order Wizard in his gaudy yellow robes climbing aboard. Behind him was Fuu, waiting on the docks for her turn with her pack slung over her shoulder. She gave him a little wave, her expression unreadable beneath the shadow of her hood.

He nodded in recognition, too far from her to speak, though words usually felt hollow in moments like these. He hoped she found whatever it was she sought. Peace, perhaps. Or vengeance. She'd never really explained why she'd traveled the length and breadth of the world to find the father who'd abandoned her. He knew enough of the world to realize that both were often elusive.

She got on, and soon enough the barges drifted down the river, silent as ghosts, until they vanished from view. Robb turned away and made for the temple of Morr.

The service there was quieter than loading ships, but no less heavy. The air inside the temple was thick with the scent of incense and candle smoke. Morr's priests, draped in black robes, moved among the gathered mourners like shadows, their voices low and solemn as they chanted the rites for the dead. Robb knelt among them, his head bowed, his hands clasped tight in prayer. The names of the fallen echoed in his mind, so many names. Too many.

Men who had followed him into battle. Men who had looked to him for leadership, for protection. Men who had died beneath the weight of steel and claw and fire. He had done what he could, but in the end, Morr had claimed them all.

Still, there was some comfort in the rites. Morr's realm, they said, was a place of peace, a shadowy land of dreams where the dead could rest at last. Perhaps his men, those who had bled for him, now wandered those quiet plains, free from the pain and fear that had marked their last moments. Or perhaps, if they had been faithful to Ulric or Sigmar, they had passed beyond the mists of Morr's realm to the feasting halls of those gods, where they would drink and laugh and fight once more.

Robb hoped it was so. The gods knew his men deserved that much, at least.

As the priests' voices droned on, he felt the weight of it all pressing down on him, the war, the deaths, the future he had yet to face. His marriage, his duty to Winter Town, the fate of Bechafen. It was all bound together, a tangled knot that would be difficult to unravel, but unravel it he would. He was his father's son, after all. And like Eddard Stark, he would carry the weight, no matter how heavy.

The candles flickered in the dim light of the temple, their flames dancing like the souls of the dying, flickering, and fading. On the brink of transitioning from one form of being to the next.

When the service was done, Robb rose to his feet, his heart a little lighter and his resolve stronger. There was no time to linger in the shadow of Morr, there was much to be done.

Robb had scarcely left the temple of Morr when he found himself back at the docks, this time for something far less solemn. The ore scale loomed ahead, a hulking contraption of steel and brass that dwarf miners used to weigh their stone and metals before they sold them in Winter Town. It was an old tradition among the dwarves to settle great debts this way. King Ironfist had promised him his weight in gold and Robb knew he had no choice but to oblige.

He stripped down without hesitation, despite the cold bite of the autumn air. The rough dockhands, hard men with hands as cracked as the stone they hauled, called out ribald jokes, laughing as he swayed slightly on the scale's platform. He smirked at their jests, but their laughter didn't bother him. He had nothing to be ashamed of. His body was hardened from months of campaign, lean muscle and a smattering of small scars marking him a man of war, not some soft noble born to luxury and easy living.

King Ironfist stood beside the scale, his horned helm, with its golden crown gleaming in the later morning light. The Slayer King didn't flinch, his sharp eyes scanning the weight closely, taking in every ounce, every subtle shift.

"A hundred seventy pounds, and four ounces," Ironfist proclaimed, nodding in approval. His voice was loud enough to carry over the dockhands' chatter, silencing their jests. "I'll see to it the gold is shipped to Winterfell when I return home."

"When will that be?" Robb asked, stepping down from the platform and beginning to dress once more. His breath misted before him, the chill settling in his bones, but the weight of Ironfist's words kept him grounded.

"I'll stay for your wedding and the feast that follows," the dwarf king replied, arms folded across his chest, his beard bristling with frost. "Then I'll take my leave in the morning. My thanes and warriors have their own duties, and I've lingered long enough."

Robb paused, pulling his tunic over his head. "We'll be sad to see you go, but we understand. Duty calls for us all." His voice carried the weight of those words, duty, that ever-present yoke around his neck. He thought of his own obligations, the battles yet to come, the marriage that lay ahead. The wedding would be brief, the feast relatively subdued, but it would mark the beginning of another kind of duty. One he would have to carry out without sword or shield.

Ironfist gave a short grunt of approval. "Aye, duty calls, but you've done well, boy." His gaze lingered on Robb, sharp as the edge of an axe. "More than most Lords twice your age. Remember that."

Robb nodded, though the words did little to ease the weight he carried. He had learned early that praise could be as heavy as reproach.

The docks stretched out behind him, and beyond them, the river flowed on, silent and endless. Somewhere down that river, war waited for him. But for now, there was Winter Town, the wedding, and the feast that would follow.

Then, as always, duty.

…

Merida was seething. Men had it so easy. She could practically see Robb up at Winterfell, probably out in the yard sparring with his men, or maybe swilling ale with his officers. What did men have to do to prepare for a wedding? Comb their hair, maybe? Shave if they could be bothered? Throw on a silk doublet and some tight breeches, and they were ready to stand before the Hierarch and say a few vows.

Meanwhile, from the first light of dawn she was stuck down in Winter Town, surrounded by Lady Stark, her mother, Sansa, and Maudie. All of them fussing over every gown, every fabric, every inch of lace. Dressmakers, seamstresses, hatters, glove makers, cobblers, each of them hounding her with endless options, countless combinations, while the others clucked their tongues and muttered their thoughts on each one.

It was exhausting.

Her mother, Lady Elinor, was the worst of it. "Stand up straight, Merida," she'd say, or "A lady of your station must look her best," as if Merida wasn't already doing her best to keep from screaming. She wanted to be out in the field, with her bow in hand, not drowning in silk and satin. And Lady Stark, stern, dutiful Catelyn, was no better. Her hawkish gaze missed nothing, constantly flicking over Merida like a tailor's measuring tape, searching for some flaw to be smoothed out before the afternoon.

Sansa, for her part, was polite, at least. The girl offered her advice, soft as a spring breeze, a far cry from her mother's demands. Sansa's suggestions were thoughtful, too thoughtful for someone so young, and sometimes Merida wondered how a girl that age had come to know so much of courtly life and how to walk so delicately through it.

Still, the whole affair felt like torture. Each gown she tried on felt more restrictive than the last. Some too heavy, some too fine, all of them too much. Merida, who had always preferred the freedom of riding dresses, now found herself swaddled in layers of fabric that made her feel like some pampered princess instead of the warrior she knew she was.

At last, they settled on something. A silk gown of rich autumn green, with gold embroidery that mirrored the falling leaves of the season. It fit snugly but allowed enough movement that she didn't feel entirely trapped. Merida could almost breathe again. Almost. But that wasn't the end of it. Next came the shoes, the gloves, the veil. And the comments, always the comments.

By the time they made it back to Winterfell at noon, Merida felt ready to collapse. Her arms ached from holding them out for hours, her head pounded from the constant chatter, and her mind was a jumble of dresses, shoes, and expectations.

But there was no time for rest. The wedding was this afternoon. Today! A Festag wedding, Robb had insisted, with barely any time for proper preparations. He didn't care about all this pomp and ceremony.

Merida sighed. She didn't care for it either, truth be told. But the world they lived in, the world of duty and honor, demanded it. And so, she would go along with it, as best she could.

Still, a part of her yearned for the hills and forests of her youth, where a girl could run wild and free, unbound by gowns and veils and the weight of expectation. But that world felt farther away with every passing day.

After wolfing down a quick lunch, Merida followed the others to Sansa's room, which the girl had volunteered for the preparations. The same quartet surrounded her: her mother, Lady Elinor, with her ever-watchful eyes; Lady Stark, as composed and stern as always; Sansa, poised and eager to help; and Maudie, their tireless attendant.

But there was someone new. As they entered the chamber, Merida noticed an ancient old woman sitting in a rocking chair by the fire, knitting slowly, her gnarled hands moving with surprising precision. She was in the middle of telling a harrowing tale of the Wood Elves to a wide-eyed Rickon, who sat at her feet, enraptured by every word.

Lady Stark clucked her tongue. "Rickon, you shouldn't be here. Stop bothering Old Nan."

"But she tells the best stories," the boy protested, his bright blue eyes pleading.

"I've had plenty of practice," the old woman agreed, her voice dry as autumn leaves. Merida had never seen anyone so old. Her skin was like parchment, her hair thin and white, but there was a spark in her eyes, sharp and knowing.

"Heidi!" Lady Stark called, and soon a maid appeared to take Rickon away to his lessons. "Go on now, to your studies," she urged her youngest, though the boy dragged his feet, glancing longingly at Old Nan.

As the door closed behind him, Sansa stepped forward to introduce the ancient woman. "This is Old Nan," she said. "She's six and ninety, and she's been in service to Winterfell since my great-great-grandfather's reign. Her great-grandson Walder is one of the greatswords who went to Altdorf with Father."

Merida blinked in surprise. Six and ninety? She didn't know people could live so long. She eyed the woman, unsure whether to be awed or unnerved by her longevity.

"I was waiting for you, love," Old Nan said suddenly, her voice creaking like the floorboards underfoot. Her eyes fixed on Sansa. "Where were you all morning, hm? Out chasing wolves?"

Sansa's dire wolf Lady give an inquisitive little whine at that, cocking her head.

Before anyone else could answer, Sansa chimed in, her voice a little annoyed. "Merida's marrying Robb this afternoon. He made the... well, the outrageous demand for the wedding to be today at dinner last night, and we've been running all over Winter Town trying to prepare for it."

Old Nan gave a low, throaty chuckle, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she turned her head to Merida. "That's no surprise, not with a fine young woman like her in his sights. After all, the boy's probably gotten a taste for ploughing on campaign, and now that he's home he's eager to till virgin fields."

Merida's cheeks burned, and she could feel her mother stiffen beside her. Sansa, too, turned scarlet, glancing away as if unsure whether to laugh or hide her face. Even Lady Stark seemed taken aback, though she quickly recovered, shaking her head with a weary smile.

"Nan, don't tease the poor girl," Lady Stark chided, though her tone was gentle. "Just because you've grown so old you've forgotten your own maidenly jitters doesn't mean you should go scaring her."

But Old Nan just cackled again, leaning back in her chair, her knitting forgotten in her lap. "Jitters, eh? I remember mine well enough. But a wedding's nothing to be scared of, love. The boy's strong, and you've a fire in you, I can see it. You'll be fine."

Merida tried to force a smile, but her heart was racing. She had hunted dire wolves and faced down brown bears, yet the thought of this wedding, this strange, rushed ceremony, made her palms sweat. It wasn't fear, exactly, but something else. Something she couldn't quite name.

She looked at Sansa, who was still blushing furiously, and wondered if the younger girl knew how she felt. Likely not. Sansa was a picture of elegance, even in her embarrassment, her face like a portrait from a book of courtly tales. But for Merida, the weight of what was to come, what marriage truly meant, hung over her like a cloud.

Old Nan was still watching her, those old, knowing eyes twinkling with something like amusement. "Don't fret, girl," she said, her voice softer now. "You'll make a fine bride. And Robb Stark is a lucky lad."

Merida felt the heat rise to her cheeks, deeper now, almost unbearable. She wanted to laugh it off, shrug it away like one of the many jests tossed around campfires, but this was too real. Too close. She swallowed hard and spoke, her voice more vulnerable than she meant for it to be.

"I know. I'm confident in most things… but it's true what you say. Robb did get a taste for that. He's been with at least three women from the camp." The words came out quickly, a confession more than a complaint, and her eyes flicked toward Lady Stark, whose face had darkened. "What if… what if I can't please him the way they did?"

Her voice was earnest, soft, as if admitting this could somehow make the fear disappear. But it only seemed to grow, swelling in the silent room. "I'm not afraid of losing him," she went on, more to herself now than the others. "I know he loves me. That he's chosen me, to live his life with me. But I don't want him to be disappointed. That part of life… it's important to a man."

The air in the room grew thick, her words hanging like storm clouds ready to burst. Lady Stark's expression was drawn tight, as if she'd been slapped, a mixture of hurt and shame. Her mother, Lady Elinor, gave a weary sigh, her face turned toward the ceiling as if hoping to find some comfort there. Sansa, poor Sansa, her cheeks had gone beet-red, her eyes cast down, not daring to meet Merida's gaze. Her embarrassment was palpable.

Only Old Nan seemed unshaken, her wrinkled lips curling into a knowing smile, as though she'd heard such things a thousand times before and found them all the same. Her old eyes sparkled with a kind of bemusement, like a cat watching a mouse scurry about in pointless circles.

"And…" Merida's voice faltered, barely more than a whisper now, "I don't want to make a fool of myself during the bedding... before the witnesses."

That hung in the air like a curse, unspoken but known. The witnesses... two out of three were in this room right now. They were her mother and Lady Stark. The third would be the old crone who would preside over the ceremony, the Hierarch of Rhya, Mother Hildebrand. They would be the ones to confirm it all. That there were no hidden deformities or mutations, and that the marriage was consummated properly. It was more than tradition, it was the law for noble weddings, the old ways that couldn't be denied. It was a way to prevent either family from making unfounded accusations and claims.

Her mother let out a long, weary sigh. "It's a natural act, Merida," she said, her voice heavy with both weariness and a hint of annoyance. "You're physically adept, you always have been. Just… follow your instincts."

Merida's heart pounded in her chest, her mind churning with indignation at the thought that such simple instructions could somehow ease the anxiety that twisted her insides. Follow your instincts. What good were instincts when faced with such expectations? When every eye in the room, her mother's, Lady Stark's, the Heirarch's and Rhya's herself, would be watching and judging?

"...and the lead of my son," Lady Stark added bitterly, her voice colder now, almost accusatory. "Apparently he has experience in this arena."

Merida winced, the sharp edge of the words cutting through the air. It wasn't a surprise, not really, but hearing it aloud, spoken with such disappointment, such pain, it made her stomach churn. Robb had experience, yes, but that only made things worse. What did she know of pleasing a man, especially a man who'd already been with others? Others who no doubt had much experience in the act themselves. What if she fell short? What if…?

"I know what you're thinking, girl," Old Nan's voice broke the silence like a rock tossed into still water, her words crackling with age and wisdom. "You're thinking about those camp wenches, about what they gave him and what you can't. But let me tell you something, girl; men like to stray, aye. They've got a hunger in them, like wolves. But it's not those women he's marrying. It's you."

Merida blinked, staring at the old woman, unsure whether to take comfort or feel more unsettled.

Old Nan gave a sly grin, her gnarled fingers resuming their knitting. "You'll be fine, lass. And when the time comes… well, move your hips and just remember. It's not about the bedding, not really. It's about what comes after."

"Babes," Merida whispered, the word barely escaping her lips, as though speaking it aloud would make it real.

She had never cared much for infants before. They were small, fragile things, squalling bundles that did little more than cry, soil themselves and sleep. The triplets, aye, they had been cute enough in their own way, with their wide eyes and pudgy faces, but until they could crawl around or start to babble their first words, they'd seemed more burden than joy. Boring, if she was being honest.

But now, as she sat there, the weight of what was to come pressing down on her, she found herself thinking of it in a way she hadn't before. The thought of holding Robb's child in her arms, of cradling a babe, their babe, at her breast, sent a warmth coursing through her that she hadn't expected. Her heart fluttered, an unfamiliar but welcome sensation, as she imagined the child's tiny hands gripping her finger, its bright blue eyes, Robb's eyes, looking up at her.

She imagined herself nursing them, rocking them to sleep in the quiet hours of the night, singing songs of the Veldt, and whispering old Bretonnian tales passed down from her mother and her mother's mother before her. The idea of it, of raising their children together, watching them grow into strong lords and fine ladies, Stark and Dunbroch blood entwined, filled her with a kind of anticipation she'd never known.

For a moment, she allowed herself to dream, to picture their life after all the coming battles and bloodshed. Their life beyond this war, beyond all the wars that would surely come, where they could build a family, with days that would be filled with laughter and love. There would always be war and carnage in this world, but that didn't mean there only had to be that. There was room in their lives for so much more.

'This is what it means to be a wife,' she realized, the thought settling deep within her. 'This is what it means to be his.' Not just to stand at Robb's side on the battlefield, but to build something with him. A future. A legacy. Sons who would ride off to war with their father's sword in hand, daughters who would carry the strength of both their houses in their veins and birth their own children in turn.

Her breath caught in her throat as the thought settled in her chest, a slow smile spreading across her face. She could picture it now, clearer than ever. A boy with Robb's stubbornness and her fire, a girl with her wild spirit and his quiet strength.

"Our children," she whispered again, this time with more conviction, her heart swelling with the warmth of it. For the first time, the idea of becoming a mother didn't frighten her. It made her feel whole.

In that moment, the worries about the bedding, the witnesses, all of it seemed to fade into the background. What did any of that matter, when she had a future to look forward to? A future with Robb, with their children. Their family.

Both her mother and Lady Stark exchanged a glance, their expressions softening, as if Merida's words had soothed some deeper worry in them.

"That's right, Merida," Lady Elinor said, her voice warm, but with that familiar edge of motherly authority. "When you have a child of your own, you'll understand. There's nothing like it."

"They become your world," Lady Stark agreed, a shadow crossing her face, her thoughts perhaps wandering to Arya and Bran, attending the Colleges of Magic in Altdorf. Of the peril they were in that she could not protect them from.

Merida nodded, though a knot formed in her throat. She could feel the weight of their expectations bearing down on her like a thick woolen cloak. 'Was this what awaited her?' she wondered. To be consumed by motherhood, by duty, as her mother and Lady Stark had been? To love her children so fiercely that nothing else would matter? Would that be so bad? It seemed smothering and lovely all at the same time.

Before she could dwell on it, Sansa's voice cut through the air, sharp and practical, as if sensing the room needed a shift in tone. "Mama, we need to get Merida dressed," she said, tugging at her mother's sleeve. "Time is slipping through our fingers."

The girl had a point. Merida felt her chest tighten as she glanced out the window, the sun already past its zenith and starting its long march toward the horizon, shadows beginning to lengthen in the courtyard below. There was still so much to do, and so little time to prepare. She had never been one to fuss over gowns or jewelry, but now it seemed the world demanded she look every inch the noble bride.

What followed was a whirlwind. A mad, breathless scramble to make her presentable, as if she were a lamb being dressed for slaughter, or worse, a queen for her coronation. Seamstresses bustled in and out, hemming and stitching, adjusting and pinning. Lady Elinor's hands were never still, smoothing fabric here, tightening laces there, her brows furrowed in concentration. Lady Stark oversaw it all, issuing commands with the authority of a woman who had seen too many weddings and knew exactly what was needed.

Sansa, too, was a flurry of motion, her excitement palpable as she moved from one task to the next with the energy of youth. She fussed over the gown, the veil, the jewelry, her eyes wide with admiration. "You'll be beautiful," she whispered, half to herself, as if speaking a truth into existence.

Merida barely had a moment to think, let alone speak. The room was a blur of fabric, lace, and hushed voices, her body pulled and prodded as if she were a mere doll to be dressed. She felt the weight of the silk gown settle on her shoulders, the cool metal of the necklace against her skin. Each piece, a reminder of the role she was about to take on. 'Lady of Winterfell. Wife. Mother.'

Her heart raced, but there was no time for second thoughts. No time for doubt. Not now. Not when everything was set in motion. The afternoon was passing by fast, and soon enough, the circle of Standing Stones in front of the Temple of Rhya would be filled with lords and ladies, banners flying, the scent of spiced wine in the air. And Robb. He would be waiting for her, his blue eyes steady and certain, just as they always were.

With a final tug on the laces of her gown, Lady Elinor stepped back, inspecting her handiwork with a critical eye. "There," she said, her voice tinged with pride. "You're ready."

Merida glanced at herself in the mirror, barely recognizing the girl staring back at her. She looked every inch the lady they wanted her to be, poised, regal, the perfect bride. But beneath the silk and lace, her heart pounded with the uncertainty of what was to come. The future, once so far away, was now rushing toward her, faster than she had ever imagined.

And all she could do was face it head-on.

Chapter Text

The sound of the trumpets rang through the air, their call bright and clear, reverberating off the towering stones that surrounded him. Robb Stark stood tall in the center of the grass circle; his breath steady as he awaited his bride. The late afternoon sky above was gray, the chill of autumn was in the air, but it felt warmer here, beneath the sacred Standing Stones. The ancient pillars rose around them, twenty yards tall and etched with the worn sigils of a Goddess older than the Empire itself.

Then, through the gathered crowd, he saw her.

Merida stepped forward, escorted by her mother, Lady Elinor, and for a moment, Robb felt his breath leave him. She was more beautiful than he had ever imagined, the autumn green of her silk gown clinging to her figure, embroidered with golden leaves that seemed to shimmer with each step she took. Her hair, wild as the Highlands she came from, tumbled down her shoulders like a flame, and the electrum necklace around her throat, Estalian in its pattern, glinted in the fading sunlight. She looked both regal and fierce, a vision of beauty and strength. And she was his.

The sight of her made his heart pound harder in his chest, the weight of the moment crashing down upon him. He had fought battles, faced down monsters, and commanded men, but this… standing here, waiting to take Merida as his wife, this felt like the most significant moment of his life.

Around them, the nobles of Winter Town and his father's domain watched in silence, their finery a blur in his peripheral vision. King Ungrim Ironfist stood closest to the front on the left side, his grizzled face unreadable beneath his incredible, braided orange beard, though Robb could feel the weight of the dwarf king's gaze. Beside him, Sir Phoebus of Bretonnia, clad in gleaming armor, watched with quiet dignity.

On the right, across the packed dirt path that separated the two halves of the crowd, opposite the Slayer King, was his mother Lady Stark, his sister Sansa and little brother Rickon. His dire wolf Storm sitting with Lady and Shaggydog besides the young boy.

Behind the nobles were the city's wealthier burghers, and beyond them, a line of soldiers that kept the common folk at bay. Robb knew that many of those gathered were as interested in his promise of free food after the ceremony, as they were in witnessing the spectacle of this union, but he didn't care. His world was focused entirely on this moment, on Merida.

Lady Elinor reached his side, her eyes bright with emotion as she handed Merida off to him, placing her daughter's arm in his. "Gods be with you," she whispered, her voice thick with joy.

Robb barely heard her. His eyes were locked on Merida's, and he saw the flicker of awe in her gaze as she glanced up at the towering Standing Stones. Her free hand clutched a brass candlestick, the candle within still unlit. In his own hand, he held a matching candlestick, though his flame was already burning, the flickering light casting faint shadows across their faces.

Then the Hierarch of Rhya stepped forward. Mother Hildebrand. She was an imposing woman, her glossy dark hair streaked with gray, her brown eyes sharp and slightly tilted, a mark of the Ungol blood that ran through so many of the common people in Ostermark. Though unlike Kislev, where its Northern Oblast was dominated by Ungol tribes to this day, the migrants to Ostermark had eventually been swallowed up and assimilated into the native population centuries ago.

Mother Hildebrand carried herself with the authority of one who had long served the goddess, her robes heavy with embroidered sigils of Rhya and the harvest. As she approached, Robb felt the weight of the moment settle deeper on his shoulders. His life was about to change forever.

The air beneath the Standing Stones hummed with excitement, and Robb could feel the eyes of thousands upon him, yet in this moment, all he could see was Merida. The Hierarch of Rhya stood between them, her voice strong and measured as she began the ceremony.

"Who comes before Rhya, the Goddess of summer, agriculture, fertility, and love?"

Robb stepped forward, his chest rising with purpose. "Robb, of House Stark of Winterfell," he declared, holding out his candle, its flame flickering in the breeze but burning steady. He tilted it toward Merida, offering her its light, warmth, and promise.

"Merida, of House Dunbroch of the Last Keep," she answered, her voice clear, as she brought her candle to his. The moment their wicks touched, the flame leaped between them, as if drawn by something deeper than wax and wick. The light of his candle spread to hers, and the two flames danced together, bound now by a common spark.

The Hierarch's voice rang out again. "Robb Stark, do you swear to unite your houses, until your light goes out and your time on this world is done? To love, cherish, and support her and all the children you have together."

Robb didn't hesitate. "I do," he said, his voice steady. Then, before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out, stronger than tradition, stronger than a simple vow. "Until my flame goes out and I await her in the halls of the Gods."

It wasn't required, but he needed Merida, and everyone else, to know the depth of what this meant to him. This wasn't just duty or politics, it was love, fierce and unyielding. When his eyes met hers, the way she gazed at him, wide-eyed and love-struck, told him that he had made his point well enough. She understood.

The Hierarch turned to Merida. "And you, Merida Dunbroch, do you swear to unite your houses, until your light goes out and your time on this world is done? To love, cherish, and obey your husband in all things?"

There was a brief pause. Robb could see the flicker in her eyes, the inner fire that matched his own. She was no submissive maiden, not Merida. But when she spoke, her voice was resolute. "I do. Until my flame goes out and I await him in the halls of the Gods."

The Hierarch nodded, her lined face impassive. "Then exchange your bracelets and kiss. Let Rhya's will be done," she pronounced as she took their candles from them and handed them off to an attending priestess behind her.

Robb felt the weight of it then. Not the weight of duty, but of something older, something sacred. He reached into his doublet and drew forth the bracelet, a silver circlet shaped like a running direwolf. The detailed artistry of its fur and features was exquisite, its eyes gleaming with polished sapphires. He took Merida's forearm, the skin warm beneath his touch, and slipped the bracelet over her hand down to her wrist, his fingers lingering for just a moment longer than they needed to.

Merida followed suit, drawing out the matching bracelet his mother had provided. Her hands were steady as she slipped it over his wrist. It fit perfectly, the metal cool against his skin, but the warmth of her presence overwhelmed everything else.

Then he pulled her close, his heart thudding in his chest, and dipped his head to kiss her. It wasn't the searing, desperate kiss of passion, but something softer, deeper. As their lips touched, he felt her melt into him, her body molding against his chest, and for a brief moment, the world around them faded away. It was just him and her, bound by something far stronger than the flame of their candles.

"In the name of Rhya, Queen of the Gods, this marriage is blessed," the Hierarch declared, her voice ringing out through the stones. "Let none dare attempt to tear this couple asunder, lest they suffer the wrath of the Gods."

Robb barely heard the words. All he could think of was Merida, the feel of her in his arms, the warmth of her breath on his skin and the swell of her firm breasts against his chest. This was his wife now. His partner. His equal.

And whatever the world threw at them, they would face it together.

…

The kiss ended, slow and lingering, and for a moment, Merida felt as though the world had shifted beneath her. Their lips parted, and the world rushed back in… cheers, sounding trumpets and pounding drums, the scent of burning torches and incense. Merida barely had a moment to catch her breath before Robb bent low and scooped her up into his arms. She gasped, clutching at his shoulders, laughing in spite of herself as the ground seemed to fall away beneath her.

"What are you doing?" she asked, half breathless, half incredulous.

Robb grinned down at her, with that wolfish smirk she'd come to love. "Carrying you over the threshold," he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

She blinked, glancing toward the outer gate of Winterfell, halfway across the city. "But the threshold is a mile away," she protested, her voice pitched higher than she intended. He couldn't be serious. "You'll throw your back out before we even make it halfway."

"Tradition," Robb laughed, his voice warm and rich with amusement. "Normally, a husband only has to carry his bride a street or two. But the way I see it, we've got to go the entire distance to the gate. It's not like I could carry you just a few steps and call it done. It wouldn't feel right."

Before she could argue further, a sudden sting hit the side of her head, and she let out a startled squeak. "Why are they throwing brass pennies at us?"

Robb's laughter rumbled through his chest, and she could feel it, warm and deep. "Another tradition," he said, as if that explained anything. "Usually, the couple picks up every coin tossed their way. Helps them start their life together."

"And we're meant to pick up all of them?" she asked, incredulous. Hundreds of people were tossing them at them, nobles, burghers and even well off commoners. It was charming, in a rustic sort of way, but entirely impractical.

"Not us," he reassured her, glancing around at the crowds. "We're leaving them to the temple. No need for brass when we already have a treasury filled with silver and gold."

The crowd around them cheered and clapped, showering them with more pennies that scattered across the ground like falling leaves, their faces glowing with merriment. Yet all she could think of was Robb, strong and sure, holding her as if she weighed nothing at all.

Merida couldn't help but smile at that, despite her lingering worry that Robb might strain something long before they reached the gates. She could already picture it, the strong, proud Stark heir humbled by his attempt at heroics, groaning for a healer before they even made it to the bedding.

And yet, as she rested her head against his shoulder, there was a certain sweetness to it all, the weight of old customs carried forward, the shared laughter, the way his arms felt so solid and sure beneath her. Traditions, no matter how absurd, had their place, and for the first time since arriving in this strange mythic place, she felt a part of something larger.

Still, she thought with a smirk, best not to let him collapse on their wedding night. The bedding would be far less enjoyable if they had to summon a priestess of Shallya first.

…

Merida had tried, truly she had. Soft pleas, firm commands, and even gentle teasing. All had been met with the same stubborn resolve from Robb. He would not set her down. So, she clung to him as he carried her, step after step, past the cheering crowds and scattered brass pennies, until they finally crossed the threshold of the outer gate. By then, the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, casting long shadows across the land, and her heart swelled with awe.

"I can't believe you managed that!" she gasped, breathless, her eyes wide as she looked up at him. The road had been paved with finely cut stones, but it was at an incline, and yet he had never faltered.

Robb only smirked, a hint of mischief in his eyes. "I have a lot of stamina," he said, his voice low and full of meaning. The playful tone sent a flush to her cheeks, the pink rising despite herself.

Her hand slipped into his as they walked to the great hall, and she could feel the warmth of his fingers, solid and steady as they entered it together. The hall was packed with guests, nobles, burghers, warriors, all gathered for the feast, their faces eager with celebration. Unencumbered as Robb had been, they'd all beaten them back to the castle with ease and started in on the refreshments right away, especially the drinks.

Robb led her to the high table, where King Ungrim still sat beside him on his left, his stern dwarven face set like carved stone. But tonight, it was Merida who sat at Robb's right, the seat of honor as his wife, with her mother, Lady Elinor, seated beside her. Across from them, Lady Stark took her place next to the Slayer King, and Sansa sat beside her, with little Rickon next to her in turn. The three dire wolves sitting under the table and hunting for scraps.

As Merida sat down, the weight of the moment settled over her like a heavy cloak. She looked out over the hall, at the faces turned toward them, at the colorful banners hanging from the walls, the candles flickering in the great chandeliers above and the steady glow of oil lamps set into the wall. This wasn't just a feast or a celebration. This was a glimpse into the future. One day, Robb Stark would rule here as Lord, and she would sit at his side as Lady. Winterfell was their home. A place where their children would grow, where the seasons would turn, where their lives would unfold, year after year.

Robb stood suddenly, raising his goblet high, his voice ringing out across the hall. "A toast," he called, his voice rich with the weight of command. "To the brave men who've fallen this year in defense of Ostermark and the Empire. And to those men still in the field, against the Beastmen and our other foes."

"Hear! Hear!" the crowd echoed, voices rising like a wave, the sound of mugs and goblets lifted and knocked back filling the air.

Merida raised her own goblet, the metal cool against her fingertips. She took a long drink, her heart thudding in her chest as she watched Robb lower his cup, his eyes sweeping over the hall. She could see the strength in him, the responsibility he carried, and felt the quiet pride that bloomed within her. He wasn't just hers, he was theirs, a leader, a warrior, a lord.

And in that moment, she felt something shift inside her, a quiet resolve. Whatever challenges lay ahead, Beastmen, battles, or even the weight of rule, she would face them beside him. As his wife, as his Lady, and as the mother of his heirs.

The hall had grown warm with laughter and song, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats and spilled wine and ale. Merida had lost track of how many toasts had been raised, how many goblets had been drained. She laughed at jokes she barely understood, feeling the warmth in her cheeks that came not just from the drink but from the constant weight of Robb's gaze on her. His hand found hers under the table, strong and steady, a reminder that though the eyes of the court were on them, they were in this together.

Then, before she fully realized it, Robb was rising to his feet again, his voice cutting through the din of the feast. "It has been a wonderful evening," he announced, his tone light, though there was an unmistakable undercurrent of command. "But it's time for us to retire and get our rest."

The hall erupted in bawdy laughter, ribald jests flying from every corner, as if the very walls themselves had turned red with the mirth of it. There was no mistaking what kind of 'rest' he meant. Merida felt the heat rise to her face again, her head suddenly light as she pushed herself unsteadily to her feet. 'Did I drink so much?' she wondered, her vision swimming for a moment as the noise of the hall seemed to grow distant.

They left the Great Hall amid more laughter and knowing winks, the night air cool against her flushed skin. Robb's hand was firm on her arm, guiding her through the corridors of the keep, but there was no escaping what came next.

She made a quick stop at the privy to relieve herself and clean up, the hot water running water of Winterfell a godsend. Her mother and Lady Stark waiting outside with the calm certainty of those who had lived through the coming ritual themselves.

When they finally entered Robb's apartment, she found the room already prepared. The flickering candlelight played over the stone walls, casting long shadows as Lady Stark, her mother, and Mother Hildebrand followed them in. The three women stood quietly against the interior wall, their eyes keen and watchful. There was no shame in their gaze, only tradition, cold and unyielding as the stones beneath their feet. This was part of it all, an ancient custom older than any of them, a rite that sealed not just the marriage but the future of their houses.

Robb wasted no time. He stripped off his wedding clothes, tossing them aside without hesitation. His body was strong and lean, muscles rippling under the flickering light as he turned, arms outstretched for the observers. "No mutations here," he said, his voice a low rumble that held no shame, only confidence.

Merida's breath caught in her throat. She had seen him before, glimpses of his chest when he'd bathed in a creek, the way his arms flexed as he sparred with his men, but now, there was no mistaking it. He was beautiful, in the rough way of a warrior, all sharp angles and raw strength. And there was that... ready and intimidating, far larger than she'd imagined. She swallowed, pushing down the shyness that threatened to rise. 'I'm his now,' she reminded herself. 'And he is mine.'

With trembling fingers, she followed his lead, undoing the laces of her dress. The embroidered leaves of autumn slid from her shoulders, the cool air of the room brushing her skin as she turned for the women to see. "No mutations here," she echoed, her voice stronger than she expected.

But it wasn't the gaze of her mother or Lady Stark that she felt most keenly. It was Robb's. His eyes never left her, tracing the lines of her body with an intensity that made her heart race. Gaze lingering on her bosom and her bottom. She felt exposed, but not vulnerable; desired in a way she had never known before.

Before she could say a word, he crossed the room in two long strides, his arms sweeping her up as if she weighed nothing at all. She gasped, her hands instinctively gripping his shoulders, but there was no hesitation in him. Robb carried her to the waiting bed, a fine feather mattress that had been prepared for this very moment. He laid her down gently, his lips brushing her forehead, her cheek, her mouth. Heated hands skimming over her body.

Merida closed her eyes, her pulse pounding in her ears as she let herself sink into the softness of the bed, into the warmth of his touch. The eyes of the others faded into the background, the weight of tradition slipping away until there was only him, and her, and the future they had just begun to build.

Robb's mouth followed the path his hands had laid. His lips pressed softly against her skin, trailing heat in their wake. When his mouth found her breasts, he was gentle at first, as if testing her, before he took a tender nipple between his lips.

Merida gasped, her back arching off the mattress, her body straining up towards him. Her breath came quicker, and she could feel the flush on her cheeks spreading down her neck and across her chest. She tried to steady herself, but each flick of his tongue over stiff flesh sent a fresh wave of sensation through her, tightening low in her core. She was dripping, warm and wet there and she didn't care.

She could just see his auburn hair, tousled as it dipped lower, brushing against her bare skin. Her head tilted back, eyes half-closed in the haze of it all.

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of her mother and his standing there, watching intently, silent as a shadow. Their presence was a reminder of the wedding, of the union between their two houses and of the duty they had to perform to make it official, but Robb's touch kept pulling her back, deeper into the moment. Politics and duty had no meaning in the midst of this storm of love and sensation.

He moved from right to left, then back again, teasing her teats with the slow, deliberate rhythm of it. She shivered under him, her breath quickening as her body betrayed her, giving in to the growing heat that rose within her. The world outside, her mother, Lady Stark, the Hierarch, the vows, they were distant now, swallowed up by the fire they had kindled.

Robb's hand slid down her side, over the curve of her hip, lingering for a moment before moving lower. His touch was light, almost teasing, as his fingers threaded through the short, soft curls that coated her mons. Merida's breath hitched, her body instinctively shifting toward him, seeking more of that heat.

When his fingers found the hot slick folds beneath, she bit her lip, her heart pounding in her chest. His touch was slow, deliberate, tracing her lower lips, exploring her with the careful patience of a man who wanted to savor every moment. Then he found that tender spot, the engorged bud of pleasure hidden within the heat, and she gasped, her body tensing beneath him.

Robb's fingers worked her gently, sending pulses of pleasure through her, each touch like a spark catching dry tinder, building a smoldering fire inside her that threatened to rage out of control. His touch was so much more skilled than her own fumbling explanations of that place. She writhed beneath him, the world narrowing to just his hands, his breath, his body against hers, as the rest of the room became distant and unimportant.

Robb shifted, moving lower, gently spreading her legs open and pushing them back as he positioned himself between them. Merida blinked, confusion flickering across her lightly freckled face as she felt the sudden absence of his hand. "What...?" she began, her voice a soft whisper, half questioning, half unsure. 'Was he going to put it in?'

Robb looked up at her, his breath warm against her skin, his voice low and filled with something deep and tender. "I love you," he said, and before she could respond, his mouth replaced where his fingers had been, finding the same heated place with a careful, deliberate ease.

Merida's breath caught in her throat, her hips jerking up involuntarily at the new sensation. His lips and tongue worked her with slow, practiced patience, the pressure both maddeningly gentle and achingly precise. She gasped, her hands gripping the sheets, knuckles white as he polished her nub with the same care as a jeweler might tend to a rare pearl. Every flick of his tongue sent waves of ecstasy rolling through her, leaving her trembling beneath him, lost in the tempest he had summoned within her.

Her mind swirled, thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind, only one thing remaining constant, the feel of Robb's love in every soft touch, every kiss, every breath he took against her sex.

The heat inside her coiled tighter and tighter, like a spring wound beyond its limit, every motion of his mouth sending her higher, closer to the edge. Merida's breath came in shallow gasps, her body thrumming with a tension she had never known, each flick of Robb's tongue pushing her nearer to a breaking point.

Then the spring snapped.

Her back arched off the bed, fingers clutching the sheets as if to keep herself tethered to the world. A cry tore from her throat, unbidden, Robb's name spilling from her lips like a prayer. A wave of pleasure crashed through her, fierce and unstoppable, leaving her trembling, gasping for air as her vision blurred at the edges.

Robb stayed with her through it all, never faltering, his hands holding her shaking hips steady, his mouth unrelenting until the last shudder passed through her. Only then did he pull away, his face glistening in the candlelight, his eyes never leaving hers.

She lay there, chest rising and falling, trying to catch her breath, still half-lost in the haze. His name was the only word she could find, a whisper on her lips as she looked at him, knowing she would never forget this moment for as long as she lived.

Robb shifted forward, positioning himself between her thighs, his body moving with a controlled grace that belied the storm in his eyes. Merida could feel the heat of him, poised at her entrance, his proud ram ready to burst through her sacred gates. Her heart raced in her chest, anticipation and trepidation mingling in her veins like fire and ice.

'This is it,' she thought, both eager and anxious. There was no turning back now, no more innocence left to cling to. She watched him through half-lidded eyes, every muscle of his body tense with restraint, his breath coming in low and ragged.

And then he moved.

The pressure built, slow and insistent, her body yielding beneath his thick cock, her cunt splitting apart as he entered her, the sensation foreign and overwhelming. It hurt a little, but it felt so good, all at the same time. Robb's hands found hers, his fingers threading through her own, grounding her as he pressed deeper, inch by inch, until they were bound together as one.

A low groan escaped his lips, and Merida gasped, her hands tightening around his, her breath catching as her body adjusted to his raging hardness. She could feel the tension in him, the battle between his desire to ravage her and his care for her, and in that moment, she knew he was hers as much as she was his.

She felt so full, stretched and claimed in a way she had never known, his body pressing down on hers with a strength that stole her breath. Robb moved with power, each thrust deep and sure, his hands braced on either side of her, his muscles taut and rippling beneath his skin.

Her legs instinctively wrapped around his back, drawing him closer, desperate for more of him, for all of him. The ache between her thighs mingled with a burgeoning pleasure, a throbbing need she could not name but that begged to be sated.

Old Nan's voice whispered in her mind, a hazy memory from the early afternoon. "When the time comes, move your hips, girl."

Merida did as she had been told, arching her hips up to meet his thrusts, and the sensation changed at once, the friction igniting something deep within her. Robb's breath hitched, his pace faltering for a moment as he felt her move with him, his blue eyes darkening with something fierce and hungry.

"That's it," he whispered, his voice rough with want. "Just like that."

Her fingers dug into his haunches, nails cutting into his skin, urging him on, pulling him deeper. The world outside their bed faded into a distant murmur, the only sound that mattered was the rhythmic pounding of his body into hers, the lewd slap of flesh on flesh. Each thrust sent waves of heat coursing through her, as if the very essence of life was pulsing between them.

Robb's breath came in sharp gasps, his brow furrowing in concentration as he redoubled his rhythm, driving his thick member to the hilt and then pulling it back, a primal dance that spoke of desperation and devotion. She felt the tension building, each movement tightening the coil within her, a promise of something wild and consuming.

In that moment, the weight of expectation and the burdens of their families fell away, leaving only the two of them, lost in each other, bound by an unspoken vow that went beyond words. As she urged him on, the fire inside her flared brighter, a fierce light illuminating the darkness of the night.

"I can't hold on much longer," he gasped, his voice taut with urgency, the strain evident in every syllable.

One of his hand's swept down, thumb pressing against that sensitive nubbin, and she felt a rush of heat flood through her loins. A wave of incredible sensation washed over her, and she spasmed in ecstasy, her sex clamping down reflexively around his length, as if trying to draw him deeper.

Words tumbled from her lips, wild babbled cries, "Oh Rhya! Robb! Gods! I'm…" Her eyes rolled up as her mind went blank, their breaths mingling, hearts hammering in a frantic rhythm.

With one final thrust, Robb followed her over the edge, their bodies entwined in a culmination of passion, a moment that felt both timeless and fleeting, a spark in the darkness.

"So hot, so…" he hissed, a tremendous shudder running through him as he surrendered to the tide of his pleasure and spilled his seed deep within her.

"I love you," he murmured, collapsing against her, his weight a comforting warmth as he slumped over her, their bodies still tangled together.

Merida felt her cheeks flush crimson with a mix of embarrassment and exhilaration, his intimate confession igniting a sense of pride within her. She had pleased him, successfully crossing the threshold into a new realm of their bond, and the realization swelled in her chest like a blossoming flower, vibrant and alive.

Merida sensed movement at the periphery of her awareness, her gaze flicking to the side as she noticed the witnesses discreetly making for the exit, belatedly recalling that she'd been observed the whole time. A bolt of inane worry shot through her. 'Did they approve of what they'd seen?'

Her mother offered a nod of satisfaction, a flicker of encouragement in her eyes that bolstered Merida's spirit amidst the haze of her newfound vulnerability.

Lady Stark, however, was a study in contrast; her wide eyes remained resolutely fixed on the door, deliberately avoiding Merida's gaze as if it pained her to acknowledge what had just transpired. She looked as though she had witnessed something she wished she could unsee, her expression a mix of shock and discomfort.

As for the Hierarch, she seemed utterly unfazed, her nonchalant countenance reflecting the countless such consummations she'd witnessed over the years. To her, it was just another ritual successfully completed, a duty fulfilled in the endless cycle of life and love, devoid of the thrill or significance that clung so tightly to Merida's heart.

Robb rolled off her, nuzzling against her neck, his arm draped possessively around her waist. In that moment, it was a tableau of marital bliss, one that Merida had often conjured in her dreams, where reality felt softer and the dangerous world outside ceased to exist.

Yet, reality had its own surprises. She hadn't expected the damp spot on the blankets beneath her, nor the way his thick seed trickled down the inside curve of her thigh, a warm reminder of their union, mingling with the satin sheets. It was an intimate testament to their love, both raw and tender, marking the moment as something profoundly real, a bond forged in passion and trust.

Robb's nuzzling shifted into hungry kisses along her neck, each gentle press of his lips sending shivers down her spine. It was a sweet torment, one that she found herself craving, yet when she felt him, proud and rampant against the side of her hip, a gasp escaped her lips.

"Again?" she breathed, a mixture of surprise and eager anticipation coloring her voice.

"Gods yes," Robb murmured, his breath hot against her ear, igniting a fire within her.

With deft hands, he turned her over, shifting her with an ease that spoke of both desire and experience. He pulled her hips back, arching her bottom up towards him, exposing her feminine treasure to the world anew. The intimacy of the moment was overwhelming, the daring position making her pulse quicken and her breath hitch.

He ran his hand down line of her body, fingers trailing sparks along her folds until he reached her most sensitive spot. With a deftness that left her gasping, he massaged her button until she melted beneath his touch, sobbing with pleasure into the mattress as each caress ignited a flame deep within her.

Then, he gripped her hips and with a sudden thrust, he drove home, filling her completely and claiming her once more. The new angle stiring her up and striking sparks of white hot need within her.

What followed was the beginning of a long, fervent night, a whirlwind of passion and pleasure. She lost herself in the heat of the moment, the war and the rest of their troubles a distant memory, eclipsed by their shared intimacy and the promises whispered between them in the flickering candlelight.

Chapter Text

Evening, Brauzeit 14th, 2522

The Emperor's fleet had sailed for two days up the Talabec, turning as Ned expected onto the Delb and then sailing two days more. It was a grim journey. Many of the villages along the banks, once filled with sights of fishing boats laying nets and the sound of children laughing, were now blackened ruins. Freshly razed. The stench of burning wood and flesh still hung in the air. Few had the look of places where the folk had managed to escape. Most bore signs of slaughter, with carved up bodies hung from trees or heads impaled on stakes, grim testament to the Beastmen's savagery.

A small, swift schooner had been sent ahead, gathering what news it could from the villages that still stood. The village at the first bend of the Delb, named Flussbiegung, had survived… this time.

From there, word came that the Duke of Carroburg had taken the field, meeting the Beastmen in battle before the walls of Kutenholz. The town had been under siege, and the Duke had broken it, smashing the Warherd against the town's stone wall and wiping them out. It had been a hard fight, they said, and the Duke's men were licking their wounds under the shelter of Kutenholz's walls.

The flotilla put in there, overwhelming the village's paltry docks as it disgorged tens of thousands of soldiers. Barges were able to pull up right next to the bank, while boats with deeper drafts sent out a flurry of rowboats, full to the brim with men. The natives of this small place and the refugees packing it, watched the spectacle of it all in awe.

A hard two days march lay between them and the Duke's army, but the Emperor wasn't willing to wait. He meant to ride ahead with half the cavalry and mages, confer with the Duke, and gather what news he could before deciding their next move.

The rest of the army would fortify here, along the Delb's banks. Luitpold would stay behind with the Reikland runefang and the remaining cavalry, just in case the Emperor's column was cut off or wiped out in transit.

Ned thought that unlikely. Four and a half thousand cavalry, along with half a dozen battle-hardened wizards, would be hard for all but the largest Warherds to bring down. And there had been no sign of any such force in the area. Not since the Duke's victory.

Still, he would have preferred to take his full hundred men with him. But there weren't enough horses to go around. He'd only managed to scrape up enough mounts for twenty of them. It wasn't for lack of coin; it was just that the State Troops had bought up every suitable horse for sale in Altdorf, and the ships he'd hired were packed to the brim as it was.

He frowned as he watched the Emperor's go over the details with his officers. This was no battle against rival lords or men. These were creatures of Chaos, beasts that lived for slaughter. And the worst of them might be out there, Khazrak One-Eye and Malagor the Dark Omen, lurking in the woods, waiting for a chance to strike.

"Forgive me for asking, Your Majesty," Jon began, his voice steady but curious, "but why take the risk of riding to Kutenholz? Couldn't you fly there on Deathclaw? I've never heard of the Beastmen having anything that could bring down a griffon. Magic, perhaps, but you brought a dozen powerful wizards on this campaign. Deathclaw is a large beast and strong. If a Lord Magister flew with you, surely you'd have little to fear."

The Emperor's smile was weary, though there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Safe from the Beastmen? Likely so," he replied. "But it's not them I'd be worried about. No, Jon, an Imperial army sees a flying beast, especially one as large as Deathclaw approaching unexpectedly and they won't waste time asking questions. They'll fire first and think later. And by then it might be too late. Friendly fire is more common than you'd think, and dead is dead, no matter whose bullet or crossbow bolt takes you down."

Ned listened in silence, his gaze shifting between his son and the Emperor. It was a sound question Jon had asked, one that spoke to the lad's sharpness. But the Emperor's answer, in its simplicity, carried the weight of a man who had seen too many fields of battle. Even the strongest warriors or the fiercest beasts, could fall to their own side's confusion. In war, the one to kill you wasn't always the enemy before you. Sometimes, it was your friends behind you that could end a man's life just as easily.

"Better to ride on the ground," the Emperor added, "where a man can see his foes, and his friends, before him."

Karl Franz had certainly gathered more than his fair share of friends, forty-two thousand soldiers in all. Thirty thousand infantry, every man among them a state trooper or veteran mercenary of the highest repute. Ten and a half thousand cavalry, with four regiments of pistoliers and two of heavy horse sworn to the Emperor's banner. One of those regiments was entirely composed of Reiksguard knights, their armor gleaming like silver under the sun.

A third regiment of heavy cavalry, perhaps more impressive still, was made up of smaller companies from five knightly orders; the Knights of the Fiery Heart, the Knights Panther, the Knights of the Blazing Sun, the Knights of Everlasting Light, and the Knights Griffon. Three hundred men from each order, bound together in a single force. They'd be held back as a final reserve for when the battle was at its most desperate or set to guard the Grand Theogonist's war altar in the heat of battle. It was fitting that the Grandmaster of the Knights of the Fiery Heart, a fanatical order of Sigmarite templars, was placed in command of that unit.

Then there was the artillery. Three battalions strong, each boasting three batteries of demi-culverin guns and one of Hellstorm rocket launchers. Fifty-four cannons and eighteen rocket batteries in all. Ned had seen a few of them in action the last time he'd campaigned alongside the Emperor, but never in numbers like this. He was curious how the rockets would fare when the time came. Steel and steady hands where what won most battles, but fire from the sky always helped.

And, of course, there were the wizards. A dozen in total, with at least one representative for each of the eight orders of magic. The Wild Father, Patriarch of the Amber Order, was in command. No one knew the Drakwald better than him, nor understood the twisted minds of the Beastmen and the monsters that infested the deep reaches of the forest better than he did. He'd even taken Bran under his wing for a time when the boy had first come to the College of Magic. But war was no place for a ten-year-old, and the Wild Father had left Bran in the care of his protégé, Martak.

Ned could not help but think of Bran, of his son so far from home, and wondered what kind of man he would grow into under the Amber Order's guidance. Ned trusted that the boy was in good hands, though he couldn't help but feel the weight of responsibility, even from so far away. The boy had his own path to walk, but it was not one his father could guide him on anymore.

Ned was pulled from his thoughts as the Emperor spoke. "The Reiksmarshal and Grand Theogonist will remain here in Flussbiegung, making sure the army is prepared to march or defend. The Patriarch of the Amber Order will ride with me, as his knowledge might prove invaluable on this journey. And I think Lord Stark and his son shall come with us as well. I've decided to detach the Knights of the Everlasting Light from the reserve to join us on this ride. It would do them good to ride alongside their fellows from Ostermark."

Ned refrained from arching a skeptical brow. He doubted many of the knights among them were truly from Ostermark. Aside from some of the officers, most knights stationed in the Altdorf chapterhouse likely hailed from the southern or western provinces.

Kaspar Stein, the current master of the Altdorf chapterhouse, was a native of Essen, where the order's primary chapterhouse stood. A good-sized town of nearly nine thousand on the southern border of Ostermark, along the River Stir, facing the cursed marshes of Hel Fenn in Sylvania.

It would be good to ride with them wherever they hailed form. The Knights of Everlasting Light were sworn to Verena, champions of justice and truth, often fighting for hopeless causes no other knightly order would touch. Ned had always respected them, for they gave more than just their strength or even their lives. To join these knights was not just an act of heroism, but one of sacrifice. For they suffered under a baleful curse that had doomed many to the most embarrassing misfortune or ignoble deaths. But despite that, their resolve never wavered.

"We would be honored to ride alongside the Knights of Everlasting Light, Your Majesty," Ned said. He meant every word of it, even if most of their number weren't from home.

The Emperor nodded, satisfied. "That's settled, then. We'll take three thousand pistoliers, eighteen hundred heavy cavalry, and half a dozen wizards with us. We leave at dawn."

There was a stir of assent among the gathered nobles and officers, and soon the command tent emptied. It was late, and they'd already eaten. As Ned and Jon stepped outside, two young women approached them, stepping lightly but purposefully.

The older one, a woman of perhaps one and twenty, had the look of the woods about her. Strong, with sharp features and oak-brown hair cut raggedly, though a few locks at the front were stained red. Beet juice, perhaps. The younger girl, closer to Jon's age, had the air of a hunter, blonde hair dyed a deep brown, falling to her shoulder blades. Henna by the looks of it; he could tell because a full inch had grown out golden from her roots. With all the chaos of the last month, she must not have had time or opportunity to reapply the dye.

"Would my lords care for some company?" the older one asked, her tone bold. The younger, however, cast her eyes downward, seeming shy.

Ned paused. There was something about the way the older woman held herself, unafraid. "I don't see why not," he said at last. Four days cramped on a riverboat and a dangerous ride ahead, it wouldn't hurt to relax a little.

The elder nodded to a younger blonde girl standing off to the side, perhaps twelve, cradling a toddler with dark curls, sucking his thumb. A sister, maybe. The girl returned the nod, then turned and walked away.

"Your boy?" Ned asked.

"Yes," the older woman replied. "And her sister," she added, gesturing to the girl beside her with a tilt of her head.

Ned nodded. "Our tent's not far," he said, leading the way. As they walked, he couldn't help but ask, "If you don't mind me saying, you don't look like the usual camp followers." These weren't women used to trailing armies, wearing dresses with revealing bodices and skirts split to show off their calves. No, in their leather and fur they looked like they belonged to the forest itself.

"We're from Walddorf," the brunette answered. "A half day north of here." That was the most common name for a forest village in the Empire, but the weight in her voice told him which one she meant.

"The Beastmen came through a few weeks back. Razed it to the ground. Most of the women and children got away, but the men..." Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. "My husband, Finn. Her uncle, Haymich and the rest... they died holding them back."

"A glorious death," Ned said softly. "Ulric will welcome them to his hall."

The woman's gaze drifted to Jon's direwolf, Frost, following close at his master's side. "I hope so," she murmured. "But those of us left behind have to find a way to live. Me and Katniss, we kept going into the woods after we got here. For lumber and game. But with Beastmen seemingly behind every other tree, each trip was taking our lives into our hands." Her eyes hardened. "Now, with the Emperor's army here, we'd be mad to keep doing that. To risk leaving my son, or Kat's sister, orphaned." She looked at him squarely. "When there's another way."

Ned understood. Peasants had a hard life in the Empire, especially in times like these. "If she's Kat," he asked, "what's your name?"

"I'm Johanna," she answered.

As they neared his tent, Johanna's eyes widened. "So many fine knights and greatswords, all in your livery," she murmured, clearly impressed.

"Are you an Elector-Count?" the blonde asked, her voice steady but curious. It was the first he'd heard from her, and her rich voice carried more strength than her withdrawn demeanor suggested.

Ned smiled, indulging her curiosity. "No, not quite. I'm Lord Stark of Winterfell and Viscount of the Veldt. Think of me as the Ostermark equivalent of the Duke of Carroburg here in Middenland." He figured they didn't know much about Ostermark, but everyone in Middenland knew Duke Leopold. The comparison would give them enough to grasp the standing he held.

"Hodor, fetch us four cups and two skins of blackberry wine," Jon called out, glancing at a giant of a man among the greatswords before them. He topped Ned by a full foot.

"Aye, my lord," Hodor replied, turning to get the wine.

"That's an odd name," Johanna noted.

Ned chuckled softly. "His true name is Walder. 'Hodor' is one of those nicknames that soldiers give, and it stuck. About ten years ago, he was kicked in the head by a centigor during a battle. Everyone thought he was dead, but he woke up after a few hours. All he could say for a week was 'Hodor,' until his fellows managed to get him to a Jade wizard who managed to heal him."

As they reached his tent, a sturdy two-man structure that had seen many campaigns, Ned and Jon bent down to light a pair of oil lamps before stepping inside. The heavy canvas could hold back any rain, and tonight it felt like a small refuge from the uncertainty of the coming days.

Once inside, they sat on thick bedrolls, settling in. "Which would you like to sit with you, Jon?" Ned asked, giving his son a thoughtful look.

"Johanna," Jon answered without hesitation, a slight blush creeping up his face, noticeable despite his bronze complexion.

Ned raised an eyebrow, noting the firmness in his son's voice. 'It seems Jon has developed a taste for experienced women,' he thought. 'That priestess of Handrich in Altdorf must have left quite the impression.'

Johanna sat down beside Jon with the confidence of someone who knew her own worth. Meanwhile, Kat sat more hesitantly beside Ned, her nervousness clear. Ned gave her a reassuring smile as Hodor arrived, carrying the cups and wine.

Ned and Jon were given silver cups. It was an extravagance, but they would tarnish in the presence of arsenic. Poisoning was an ever present threat for men of his status, not so much from his rivals, though that wasn't unheard of, but from the dark Cults that worshipped the Ruinous Powers and did everything in their power to undermine the Empire.

The girls were given simple soldier's mugs, made of wood; most men wouldn't risk anything finer on campaign. Once they were set down, Ned poured a cup for the golden crowned girl, hoping to ease her nerves. She seemed out of place among soldiers and knights, but there was strength in her eyes, a resilience born of survival.

"Drink," he said kindly, offering her the cup. "No need to be uneasy."

"Yeah," Johanna said, downing half her cup with ease. "No reason to fret. Fuckin' is one of the simplest things in the world. A couple of bored youths could figure it out in the time it takes most folks to walk a mile. You've seen deer going at it, I'm sure. I'd be surprised if you've never caught your uncle with one of his lady friends. That still of his made him popular with the widows."

Ned raised an eyebrow, but to his surprise, Kat let out a hearty laugh. "Yeah, but I always made myself scarce when I did. Didn't stick around to spy on them. I mean… my uncle, ugh." She took a deep drink, as though the memory needed washing down.

Johanna chuckled and leaned into Jon, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, the ease of her movements showing how comfortable she was with this talk. "Well, there's that," she continued, "but maybe you should've found another couple to get an eyeful of. Nothing shameful in what men and women do," she said with a knowing grin. "It's how Taal and Rhya made us, after all. Just the way of things."

Ned sipped his wine quietly, listening. 'Taal and Rhya,' he thought with approval. The God of nature, beasts, and spring, the Goddess of agriculture, fertility and summer. To peasant women who revered those gods above all, sex was always simple. It was just a natural part of survival, family, and the cycles of life. They never tried to overcomplicate it like noblewoman sometimes did, especially those from the south. He loved his wife dearly, but she was definitely one of those.

That exchange seemed to ease Kat's nerves, and she opened up to him more freely.

"What kind of game do you hunt?" Ned asked.

"All kinds, but mostly deer," she replied. "The woods are full of white tail and moose." She downed the rest of her wine, and Ned refilled her cup.

"Moose are big animals," he remarked, genuinely impressed. "How do you bring them down?"

"Same as anything else," she said with a shrug. "An arrow with a broadhead to the heart or lungs will kill anything soon enough. Anything natural anyways... it'll kill Beastmen too, but they can last an unnatural amount of time. Too full of rage and hate to die easy."

She spoke with the voice of experience, Ned was sure she'd killed a fair number of Beastmen in the flight from Walddorf to Flussbieung. "You must be a good shot," he noted.

"As good as an elf," she boasted with a grin.

She grew bolder, asking him about Ostermark and his domain. When he mentioned Winter Town's population, she seemed astonished.

"Winter Town has thirty thousand people?" she repeated, eyes wide with disbelief. "I don't think I'd seen three thousand people in my whole life before the Emperor's army showed up here today."

"He has thirty thousand infantry with him," Ned pointed out. "That should give you a fair idea of how many live there."

She shook her head, still struggling to grasp it. "Do you have an army like this one back home?" she asked.

"I have one about half as large," Ned said. "My son Robb is leading it in the field, fighting Greenskins coming down from the mountains."

Her eyebrows shot up at that, just as a soft sigh caught her attention. Kat turned to glance at the pair on the other side of the tent.

Jon's face was buried in Johanna's neck, sucking at it greedily. Johanna's leather waistcoat hung open, and the two were lost in each other. Jon's hand had slipped beneath the woman's woolen shirt, exploring her full chest.

Kat watched with open curiosity, only a hint of a blush rising as she took in the scene.

Ned watched her for a moment, seeing the hesitation fade from her eyes. He spoke softly, "Looks like they've started." His voice was calm, measured. "We wouldn't want to leave them behind."

Kat nodded, slowly at first, her gaze lingering on Jon and Johanna. Then, with sudden decisiveness, she downed the rest of her drink, setting the cup down with care. When she turned to face him, there was a newfound confidence in her expression, her lips stained dark red from the wine.

Without a word, she leaned in, her boldness almost catching him off guard.

Ned met her halfway, kissing her, his touch gentle but certain.

It wasn't long before he was peeling her out of her clothes and guiding her down on the bedroll, the flickering lamplight casting soft shadows across her bare skin as he feasted on the turgid pink peaks of her breasts. Her eyes were wide, breath catching as he hooked her calves over his shoulders. He moved with purpose, the weight of the moment grounding him.

Every motion was deliberate and steady, years of restraint and quiet strength guiding him. She looked up at him, vulnerable and trusting as he surged forward. Their bodies pressing close, a single moment of tension as he split apart her virgin cunt, manhood driving deep. It was urgent but straightforward, uncomplicated. The world outside the tent faded, and for now, it was just the two of them, nothing more, nothing less. His movements were steady, driven by the same unspoken resolve that guided him through every challenge he'd ever faced.

Kat's breath quickened, round breasts heaving, eyes fixed on his as they moved together, her body responding to the rhythm with a kind of natural simplicity. There was no need for words, just the primal, undeniable connection of the moment.

Johanna rode Jon wildly beside them, hips rolling, breasts bouncing as she rose up and slammed back down on his length, but Kat had eyes only for him, her friend's presence barely a shadow on the edge of her world.

The angle of their connection was something else, pushing them quickly to the brink. Sparks seemed to strike in her loins with each thrust, every movement building the tension higher and higher.

And then she unraveled beneath him, her folds clenching tight around him, every breath matching his as she clawed at his back. It was raw, powerful, like the wind before a storm, impossible to resist.

The heat between her thighs was overwhelming, the weight of it pressing down on his cock like a summer storm about to break. His body shuddered, tension coiled tight as a bowstring, and then it snapped.

His release hit like a flood, an eruption he couldn't hold back, surging through him as he spilled his seed and the tent around them seemed to fall away. There was nothing left but the closeness, the unbearable intensity of the moment, and the breathless aftermath that followed.

Johanna laughed breathlessly next to them, her eyes sparkling. "Told you it was simple." She and Jon must have finished while they were preoccupied.

Kat, still catching her breath, nodded. "You were right."

Ned pushed himself up slowly, a sense of duty pulling him back from the moment and out of her. "I wish we had more time for simple things, but dawn will come sooner than we'd like, and we must be ready to ride."

The women made a few quiet protests, but he silenced them gently, pressing a generous coin into Kat's hand. "This will tide you over for a couple of weeks," he said, watching her eyes widen in surprise at the golden crown. A small fortune in these lands, for coin carried further in the country than in the city. It might last her three or four weeks if she were frugal.

"A shame they couldn't stay longer," Jon murmured, watching the sway of Johanna's hips as she walked away, still caught in the afterglow.

"Yes," Ned agreed, "but we need our rest. Tomorrow promises to be a long day, and perhaps a dangerous one."

With that, they set about preparing for bed. After a brief visit to the latrine, both men sank into a deep and well-earned sleep, their minds already turning toward the coming ride.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 15th​, 2522

The watch roused them before dawn, and after a quick breakfast of bread, grilled fish, and cheese, Ned, Jon, and twenty of his best men mounted their steeds. Spare horses followed behind, with Jon's dire wolf, Frost, padding silently in their wake. Thankfully, the horses had grown accustomed to the wolf's presence. It helped that Frost was unusually well-behaved for such a fierce creature.

The twenty-two riders made their way to join the Emperor and the eighteen hundred knights that formed his escort. They would ride in the center of the column, flanked at the front and the rear by full regiments of pistoliers. With such a powerful screening force, there would be little chance of an ambush.

Karl Franz was astride Deathclaw, the most magnificent griffon Ned had ever laid eyes on. It amazed him that the horses of the Reiksguard could endure such a fearsome predator so close to them. The presence of a dire wolf not even half grown was one thing… Deathclaw was an entirely different one altogether.

The Emperor gave a nod and gestured ahead. "The Knights of the Everlasting Light have the honor to lead the column," he said.

Ned returned the nod in thanks, and together with Jon and his men, they rode to the head of the heavy cavalry. The road stretched before them, and the day promised to test them all.

Ned and his men fell into formation with the Knights of the Everlasting Light, their horses blending seamlessly into the column of armored riders.

"Lord Stark," called Kaspar Stein, the Master of the Atldorf Chapterhouse. His voice carried the distinct cadence of their homeland, despite his long years in Reikland. "Hail, and well met. It's a rare sight to see one of the League so far afield, especially a lord of your standing. How fares Ostermark?"

"Well met, Sir Stein," Ned answered with a respectful nod. "When I left, things were steady enough. Greenskins were raiding down into the Veldt from the World's Edge Mountains, and the Chancellor was preparing a purge against the Beastmen in the western half of the Gryphon Wood. But given what we've learned, I doubt his campaign is proceeding as smoothly as he might've hoped."

"No doubt my brothers are in the thick of it," the knight remarked with enthusiasm.

"They always are," Ned said with a faint grin.

Their exchange was cut short as the regiment of pistoliers ahead of them began to move out, and the column of heavy horse followed. The Knights of the Everlasting Light took the lead, the Reiksguard following after them, with a second regiment of pistoliers screening their rear.

The dirt road to Kutenholz was hard-packed and broad, wide enough for riders to advance four abreast, but this still meant the column stretched over two miles. Towering old-growth trees flanked the road, their vast trunks looming overhead.

At first glance, Ned wondered why these ancient trees hadn't been felled for timber, but the answer lay at his feet. The forest floor was clear of undergrowth, the great canopies above sealing off the sun from the ground below, making it easy to spot any approaching threat. There was ample space to maneuver horses between the trunks as well, ideal ground for defense if it came to it.

Yet the ride was tense. The distant calls of moose, the guttural yowls of great hunting cats, and the eerie hoots of owls disturbed by the clatter of hooves and the creak of armor echoed through the woods, adding an edge to the journey and filling the silence. But nothing serious came their way, just a few distant pistol shots over hours of travel. It reminded Ned of the Gryphon Wood after a purge, too quiet, too still. The Duke of Carroburg had won a great victory, true, but that hardly meant all was safe. The Warherd that he'd crushed certainly wasn't the only one on the rampage in Middenland.

He'd expected to come across some scouts by now, but the road had been empty. With their fresh remounts, they arrived at Kutenholz just as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The market town was sizable, home to perhaps seven thousand souls, with solid stone walls that stood twenty-five feet tall and twelve thick.

Outside those walls lay the camp of Duke Leopold's army, a sea of tents and banners spread over acres of land. Even after a hard-fought battle, it was clear to Ned that the Duke commanded a force equal to, if not larger than, the one he'd assembled at Winterfell before he'd had to leave suddenly for Altdorf with Arya and Bran.

Few men in the Empire could exceed his strength and resources who weren't Elector Counts themselves. The Duke of Carroburg was one of them. Hardly a surprise, seeing as he ruled from a city of a hundred, twenty thousand and controlled nearly half of the former province of the Drakwald. If he were not a loyal cousin of the Graf, one would wonder if he did not hope to one day reestablish that long lost province and become an Elector-Count in his own right.

The Emperor, with his retinue of nobles, Ned among them, and his high-ranking officers, rode directly toward the Duke's gaudy command tent. None could mistake Karl Franz, shining in his gromril plate with Ghal Maraz at his side, mounted atop his majestic griffon. The sentries let them through without hesitation.

The Duke met them outside his tent, his once-pristine armor now scuffed from the recent battle. "Your Majesty," he said with a flourishing bow. "Welcome to Kutenholz. We didn't expect you."

"I could hardly leave my vassals to face an uprising of this scale alone," Karl Franz replied as he dismounted. "Tell me what you know."

"There's not much to tell," the Duke said, shaking his head. "For the first half of the year, things were as quiet as they ever get in the Drakwald. But by mid Nachgeheim, the reports started coming in of Beastmen raids, spreading like wildfire. I called my banners at the beginning of Erntezeit, mustered thirty thousand, and began clearing the woods around Carroburg. Had to hunt down dozens of small bands causing chaos. Each one just a few hundred strong, but it was more than enough to make an unholy mess of things."

"They didn't coalesce together into one Warherd?" The Emperor asked, his brow furrowed.

"No," the Duke said, his voice tight. "Very strange behavior for them. It became clear something, or someone, was pulling the strings, drawing me out and wasting my time. By the time I'd wiped them out, it was nearly too late. I reached Kutenholz just as twenty-five thousand Beastmen were assaulting the walls. Smashed them against the stone, cut them down to the last bray and ungor. Long, bloody work."

Ned felt a weight settle in his gut. 'Malagor the Dark Omen,' he thought grimly. It reeked of his handiwork.

"How many do you have fit to fight?" the Emperor asked.

"Twenty-three thousand in good shape," the Duke replied, "another three thousand who are banged up but can still hold a gun or a halberd. It sounds like a miracle, but I've a Jade Magister with me. Without him, I'd have at least a thousand more dead and another thousand too broken to fight."

Ned nodded in silent understanding. They'd need every one of them before this was through.

"I've a journeywoman of the Amethyst Order with me as well," the Duke added. "She did good work disrupting the bray-shamans and their dark magics."

"We'll need to speak with her, and your Jade Magister, to hear what they've seen," the Wild Father declared in his low, gravelly voice.

The Duke dipped his head in deference. "Of course, Lord Magister. You may question them, the priests, or anyone you wish."

The Amber Patriarch didn't bother to correct him. Men of the wild cared little for titles and formality. Obedience mattered more than niceties.

But the Emperor wasn't as indifferent. "This is Setanta Lobas, Magister Patriarch of the Amber Order," he said with proper introduction.

The Duke paled a little. "Forgive my error, Magister Patriarch," he said, bowing again.

"It matters not, as long as you heed me," the wild wizard replied with a grunt.

"Of course," the Duke said, bowing lower.

Karl Franz, ever sharp, returned to the matter at hand. "Leopold, what else have you heard?"

"Grossfurre and Brockel both repelled attacks, though the assault here was fiercer by far. Word has reached me that Delberz is under siege by a great host, and Hochland is said to be faring poorly as well."

Worried murmurs rippled through the gathered men. Delberz was a fortified city of forty-five thousand, its walls standing tall and strong, much like Winter Town. Any force bold enough to lay siege there would be formidable indeed.

"What of the Graff?" the Emperor asked.

"Only rumors, Your Majesty. They say Todbringer and his son are in the field with his army, already victorious near Kammendun and marching to relieve Grimhaggen. How much truth there is to that, I cannot say."

The Emperor made his decision without hesitation. "You will march back to the river with us. I arranged extra ships in Altdorf for this eventuality and have conscripted every vessel we've encountered along the way. We'll have room enough."

Ned had his doubts. The Emperor had secured more ships, yes, but fitting so many more men aboard? It would be a tight, uncomfortable journey to say the least. Still, with the two armies combined, they would be damn hard to stop.

"We'll sail up the Delb and dock at Guthugel," Karl Franz continued. "They'll know the truth of the situation in Delberz."

It wasn't the route Ned would have chosen to reach Middenheim, but it was a sound enough plan. For now, he'd follow the Emperor's host. He was of a mind to head up to Delberz whether the Emperor decided to go that way in the end or not. Having reached Guthugel, the route through Delberz would be the swiftest. Whether besieged or not, it was almost certainly the best way to go.

The questioning wrapped up, and the Emperor dismissed them all to eat. Tomorrow would be another long march, with the Duke's army pushing hard to reach the river in the two days the Emperor hoped.

Ned and Jon followed the smell of the cook pots and soon found themselves eating a thick stew, sitting on a broad, flat rock next to the Amethyst wizard the Duke had mentioned. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, her skin unnaturally pale. If not for the mist of her breath in the cool air of an autumn evening, Ned might have mistaken her for a vampire or one of the cursed undead.

Her eyes flicked to the coat of arms displayed on the silk livery he wore over his armor, then to Jon's dire wolf Frost, gnawing on a haunch of wild boar beside them. "Lord Stark," she said, her voice quiet. "Forgive me, but I didn't expect to see you here. What brings you so far from Ostermark?"

"The Colleges," Ned replied, keeping his words simple. "My daughter Arya channels the Grey Wind, and my son Bran, the Brown. I took them to Altdorf for training and then brought word to the Emperor of what I saw along the way." He gestured toward the camp around them and the woods beyond. "Now I travel with the Emperor's host. Our next stop is Middenheim. My son Jon here, is to join the Knights of the White Wolf."

Her eyes widened. "It's rare for the Colleges to receive such highborn applicants," she said.

Ned nodded. "Arya is apprenticed to the High Chancellor, Immanuel-Ferrand, while Bran studies under Martak, the Wild Father's protégé. I expect much of them."

Her expression soured slightly. "Their names grant them advantages, it seems," she replied dryly. "But those won't help them become journeymen. Only mastery of magic will."

"True," Ned agreed. "Favoritism may gain them mentors, but the Colleges value skill above all. There will be many who watch them closely."

She gave a small nod, slight blush blooming bright against her pale complexion, realizing her words had been caught out. "Yes, I imagine so."

Jon, sensing the tension, stepped in. "The Duke spoke highly of you to the Emperor. You must've done well in the battle."

The wizard's pale face softened with the compliment. "I spent most of my time countering the enemy's spells. I didn't get to strike many of them myself."

"That's more than enough," Ned said, his voice sincere. "Breaking the enemy's magic can turn a battle quicker than any blade. You did your part."

"I know," Kriemhild said, her voice tinged with disappointment. "It's just... not quite what I imagined when I joined the Colleges." She hesitated, as if embarrassed at her childhood dreams. "I thought it would be duels with vampires, clashes with necromancers. But with Sylvania cleared out early in the Emperor's reign, thank the gods... there's not much of that left."

Ned saw an opportunity. "Well..." He paused, realizing something. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

Her face flushed slightly and she dipped her head in respect, "Forgive my rudeness, it's Kriemhild, my lord."

"No need to apologize," he said. "As I was saying, I was recently present for... let's call it an informal conclave. The Patriarchs of the Amber and Grey Orders were there, along with the Matriarch of the Celestial Order. The High Chancellor, the Grand Theogonist, the High Priests of Altdorf's temple of Morr and the Wolftor Temple, and even the High Priestess of Myrmidia Incazzata were there as well."

Kriemhild blinked, surprised. "That's quite the assembly."

Ned nodded. "It was. They spoke of the many dangers ahead. One that came up, raised by the High Priest of Morr, was the brewing situation in Bretonnia."

"Bretonnia?" Kriemhild repeated, confused.

"A new Grail Knight has called for a crusade to cleanse Mousillon," Ned explained. "But the Augurs of the Cult of Morr claim a great necromancer will reveal himself there, leading to a terrible war. The Cult plans to offer the aid of the Knights of the Raven to the King of Bretonnia." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Given how closely your order has worked with Morr's priests in the past, the Colleges might consider offering the support of the Amethyst Order. Though, I'm sure it would be wise to only offer women, considering Bretonnia's... views on magic."

Her eyes lit up, excitement building. "Do you think they'd accept?"

Ned shrugged. "The Knights of the Raven? I think the chance is high. Their piety and service to Morr are likely to outweigh any concerns about the birth of their members. After all, it is well-known that unlike many knightly orders, the Knights of the Raven do not require its applicants to be of noble birth. But even though Bretonnia revers the Lady of the Lake over all other gods and obsesses over noble birth more than any other land, even they wouldn't dare insult a god as great as Morr by refusing his knights. Every one dies after all."

He paused in thought, then continued. "As for Imperial wizards, even if female... who can say? It's likely to be up to the decision of the King himself, though the Fay Enchantress may have her say on the matter. But it's worth bringing to the attention of the Lord Magister of your order that the Emperor has brought along."

Kriemhild looked thoughtful, then smiled. "I'll do that, Lord Stark. Thank you."

Ned gave a simple nod, "There's always more we can do than we think."

With that, the young mage excused herself, offering a polite nod before slipping away into the shadows of the camp. Ned watched her go, then turned back to his meal. The stew had cooled some, but it was hearty enough. Jon sat in silence beside him, lost in his own thoughts, with Frost tearing at what remained of the boar.

When they had eaten their fill, Ned set the bowl aside and stood, stretching his tired limbs. The day had been long, and the road ahead would be no easier. Tomorrow would bring another hard ride, more decisions to weigh, and more dangers to face. He had learned to take rest when he could, for the world offered little of it.

He glanced at Jon. The boy seemed ready for what lay ahead, though he wore the weight of his choices like a mantle he hadn't asked for. Still, Ned was proud of him, and though the road was long, they would walk it together for a little while yet.

"Best get some rest," he said quietly, and Jon nodded, rising to follow him toward their assigned place, not far off from the Emperor's tent. The camp settled around them, the night filled with the sounds of men pitching tents and preparing for the next day, the distant crackle of fires, and the soft murmur of voices.

As Ned crouched down to enter their tent, his eyes flicked up and fixed on the dark sky above, twinkling stars and a silver half-moon lighting the sky. Beautiful as it was, he wished he was viewing that sky from the windows of home, Catelyn at his side.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 16th -19th, 2522

The return march was grueling. With over thirty thousand men moving, a third of them on horseback and with an extensive supply train to boot, the column stretched out for eight miles. Even with the pistoliers riding out before dawn to screen the advance, it was hours before the last of the men had even set off. By the time the first outriders stopped in the late afternoon to begin the construction of a fortified camp, it was clear they were behind schedule. It would take another half day, maybe more, to reach the river.

"Two days was overly optimistic, Your Grace," Ned said, his tone even, though the strain of the march weighed on him as well. "We're making good time, all things considered."

The Emperor sighed, his eyes scanning the long, snaking line of men. "I know," he admitted, "but time is the one thing we don't have."

Ned nodded in understanding. In war, time was always against you. They all knew the pressure, the gnawing sense that every moment lost could cost lives or the battle itself.

That night, the camp settled into an uneasy rest, soldiers filling their bellies and trying to catch what sleep they could. Ned lay awake for a time, the weight of the day heavy on his mind. Beside him, Jon slept, though lightly, as Frost lay near, his eyes ever watchful.

It was the crack of gunshots that woke them later. At first, a single sharp report, then a rapid crescendo as a ragged volley rang out, cutting through the night air. The howls of beastmen followed, savage and close, mingling with the bellows of monstrous things moving in the darkness.

Ned sprang from his tent, Jon close behind, pulling on his armor in haste. By the time they reached the palisade walls, the fighting had already died down.

"What happened here?" Ned asked a nearby sergeant, his voice steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through him.

The grizzled veteran wiped sweat from his brow. "A few hundred Beastmen, my lord. Just Gors, Ungors, and Brays, nothing special about 'em. They had no hope of doing real damage. The sentries spotted 'em quick enough. We only took a handful of casualties."

Ned scanned the field beyond the walls. The bodies of the fallen were scattered, a pitiful attempt by the enemy. Still, something about it sat wrong with him.

The Emperor arrived then, his face set in a grim line. "This was nothing more than a distraction," he said, his tone low but certain. "A ploy to unsettle the men and slow our march."

Ned agreed. These Beastmen weren't here to win, just to harry them, to chip away at the army's strength.

"They'll be testing us all the way to the river," he murmured.

The Emperor nodded; his gaze distant. "Let them try. We'll see who tires first."

The Emperor, as always, had the right of it. The next day, a band of Centigors harried the pistoliers screening the advance. The hideous mutants were savages with the four-legged bodies of horses or oxen and the upper bodies of Beastmen.

The sharp crack of pistols and the clash of steel-on-steel rang out ahead of the main advance every hour or so. Each skirmish was brief and decisively in the pistoliers favor, the mutant brutes were strong, but clumsy and better suited to running down infantry. But nevertheless, these engagements were more than enough to slow the army's progress, forcing caution where speed was needed.

More troubling was the attack on the Duke's baggage train. A flock of harpies had descended like a swarm out of a nightmare from the trees, the creatures a vile mix of voluptuous maiden, bat, and bird of prey, dripping with filth and malice. They had hidden among the upper branches of the canopy, waiting until most of the army had passed before diving onto the unsuspecting quartermasters and cooks below.

Their talons drove deep into their victims' flesh, red blood fountaining, bodies jerking in agony as they were lifted high into the air before being dropped. Screams filled the air, cutting off instantly as their prey hit the forest floor with a sickening crack.

Of course the supply train was screened by a thin line of soldiers on each side, but given the constraints of the road, there weren't as many as anyone would like. On another day, it might have been a massacre. But the Duke's wizards rode with the train, and they turned the tide before the worst could unfold.

The Jade Magister brought the great old growth trees around them alive, their branches lashing out with impossible speed, deadly precision and overwhelming power. They skewered harpies or smacked them out of the air, sending them hurtling to the ground to meet the fate they'd just consigned innocent men and women to.

Kriemhild fought as only a wielder of Shyish could. She simply drained the life force from her foes, dropping harpy after harpy, each dead before they hit the ground, their life sucked right out of them.

Soon after, the harpies broke, screeching into the sky in retreat.

When Ned heard of the attack, he realized how much danger they'd been in. "That could have crippled us," he said. "An army runs on its supply train and starves without it."

The Emperor gave a weary nod. "It failed to do the damage they intended, but it still cost us time. We'll need another full day to reach Flussbiegung."

"That they're wasting valuable assets like this means they're afraid we can stop them," Duke Leopold said.

The Emperor's eyes hardened. "And they're right to be, for stop them, we will," he proclaimed.

That night, the camp was even busier than the last, more attacks came in waves, each assault seeming more frantic and desperate than the last. However, whole battalions had been posted at watch this night and beat them back quickly. The men, seasoned and tough, endured it all, catching what rest they could, and by the next morning, they marched on without complaint.

The Centigors tried again, but the pistoliers brushed them aside. By the afternoon, scouts from the Duke's forces met with the main army, and by nightfall, the full column reached the river bend at Flussbiegung. Relief swept through the column when they learned the rest of the army had been spared any attacks, waiting for them in peace.

Ned and his son ate in silence and turned in early, finding no sign of Johanna or Katniss. Jon's eyes had scanned the camp eagerly for them, but it was clear the two women had either found a new patron or, more likely, taken their earnings and settled in the village to wait out the troubles in the woods.

That made sense to Ned. They seemed to enjoy their usual work, woodswoman and hunter, both strong in their own way. They weren't shy about doing what was needed to survive, but neither struck him as ones to earn their living on their back, not if there were other choices.

Sleep came easy that night, deep and undisturbed. They were up before dawn, the camp already alive with the sounds of men, horses, and war machines preparing to board the Emperor's river fleet. As Ned expected, it looked like it would be a tight fit. Duke Leopold had brought a large force, nineteen thousand infantry and six thousand cavalry, five hundred of them Knights of the White Wolf, the very order that Jon aimed to join. Two artillery battalions had come as well, with eleven hundred gunners and engineers, along with forty-eight cannons that would take up more space than any regiment of foot.

But the fleet had grown since they had departed for Kutenholz, more ships stopped by the navy as they sailed up or down the river and pressed into service. That would make the difference, Ned thought, watching with a measured sense of relief. The army, though a bit smaller than the one Karl Franz had led to the aid of the dwarfs earlier in the year, was well-equipped, with heavy complements of cavalry, artillery and wizards.

Sixty-eight thousand men, hardened and armed to the teeth. The Emperor had enough to stop whatever came at them, if they were swift enough to strike first.

The ships coming downriver carried grim news, confirming much of what Duke Leopold had already told them. Delberz and Grimhaggen were under siege, and though Todbringer's movements were shrouded in rumor, all agreed that their lord was leading an army in the field. The Empire was stretched thin, no doubt about it.

Before they set off, the Emperor performed a sacrifice to Manann, God of the seas, storms, ships and rivers. A captured stag was dragged into the shallows, its throat cut clean by the Emperor himself. The body was cast into the deeper waters as a prayer was offered for swift passage. The winds seemed to favor them, as a breeze picked up soon after, filling their sails as the fleet got underway. Ned watched the Emperor with his usual quiet respect. He was obviously favored by the Gods, not just Sigmar, but the Empire's pantheon as a whole.

As they pulled away from Flussbiegung, Ned took one last look at the bustling settlement. The place had changed quickly, its numbers swelled with refugees, the population had more than doubled to over thirteen hundred. The village, once just a collection of less than a hundred ramshackle homes and docks, had grown into something that might become a real riverport someday.

The army's engineers had worked wonders with the defenses, replacing the simple palisade with one that stood twenty-five feet high, more than half a dozen feet thick, and lined with four proper guard towers. It was still all wood, but it would take a determined force to breach it now. The walls had also been extended to provide shelter for the displaced, those who had until now been packed in with the townsfolk or living in alleys under makeshift shanties or tents.

Even now, he could see villagers dismantling the remains of the army camp's defenses, stripping the timbers for use in building homes for their new fellows.

They'd waste nothing, not here. Ned reached for his Tilean spyglass, scanning the site. As he suspected, there were Johanna and Katniss among the workers, prying apart the camp's palisade with the men. It seemed they'd returned to their old lives, just as he'd thought.

Ned turned the spyglass back toward the horizon. Hopefully, this Beastmen uprising would soon be crushed. The Empire needed peace, and so did its people. Only then could life return to what it had been for everyone.

Brauzeit 19th -24th, 2522

The gods favored them still. The wind held steady, pushing the ships along at a good pace. Some of the smaller vessels began to fall behind, but their decks were close enough to the water's surface that the men could dip in oars and pull themselves forward. With so many soldiers aboard, there was no shortage of hands for the task. Each man took his turn, ensuring a steady, tireless rotation.

It took two days to reach the confluence of the Delb and the Taub rivers. There, on the spit of land between the meeting of the waters, lay Eldagsen, a fine riverport twice the size of Kutenholz. The sandstone walls were high, a good thirty feet, and half as thick, a solid defense against any force. Ned took in the sight, noting how well-positioned the town was, and he could imagine it growing into something great in time. Yet many lords had thought the same since Sigmar had united the Empire, only to see the place sacked and burned by Beastmen or Forest Goblins. Still, this iteration of Eldagsen had stood for two hundred and fifty years, and its walls bore cannon. No easy target for any foe.

Their scout ship returned from the city with nothing new to report, so the flotilla pressed onward up the Delb. Three and a half days later, they reached Guthugel, a large fishing village. It wasn't much, but it served its purpose. They stopped to gather supplies and to hear what news the villagers might have. Delberz was still a good five or six days upriver.

The Emperor, Duke Leopold, and Ned met with the dockmaster and the village headman. They were simple men, but they knew enough to be useful.

"Kupengrupe's gone," the headman said. "Burned to the ground. But the Baron evacuated the people to Brockel before the Beastmen arrived. They've tried a few times to break through the walls, but it seems more like they're trying to pin the Baron down, keep him from riding to Delberz, rather than seriously attempting to take Brockel itself."

"And Delberz?" the Emperor asked.

"It still stands, Your Majesty," the dockmaster answered. "But it may not last much longer. The host besieging it is said to be as large as yours... or larger."

Duke Leopold leaned forward. "And what of the Graff?"

"In the field, my lord," the headman replied. "He won a victory near Kammendun and is said to be marching for Grimhaggen."

The dockmaster chimed in. "Rumor has it the Grand Baron of Nordland has called his banners and is on the march to aid him."

Ned spoke then, his voice calm but firm. "What do you know of the enemy leaders?"

The two men exchanged uneasy glances before the headman replied. "There's much talk, my lord. But who knows what's true? Khazrak One-Eye has been sighted all across Middenland, if the tales are to be believed."

The dockmaster's face paled. "And there's worse, my lord. People say that the winged Harbinger of Disaster is behind all of this."

"We've suspected as much," the Emperor said. "But has anyone seen him?"

"No one living, Your Majesty," the dockmaster said, his voice a whisper, fear etched into his face.

"Have no fear, my good man," the Emperor spoke, his voice steady and confident. "I have faced daemons far greater than that foul sorcerer. If he dares stand against me, Ghal Maraz will reduce him to ashes with the holy wrath of Sigmar."

The villagers straightened at that, their fear easing. Even the soldiers nearby, common men who had seen battle and knew of the terrible horrors they might face, seemed bolstered by the Emperor's words. It wasn't just the promise of victory that moved them, but the way that he spoke. There was no doubt in his tone, no hesitation. He believed what he said, and that belief spread like wildfire.

Ned watched quietly. He had seen men lead before, seen good men inspire others with words. But the Emperor was something else. He could rally hearts with a single breath, his presence alone enough to stir men to action. Ned knew that he could speak well and command respect when needed, but the Emperor was in a league of his own.

The conversation wrapped up soon after, and the focus shifted to practical matters. The ships were restocked with fresh water and provisions, tubers, dried meat, salted fish. The men knew the final leg of the journey was ahead.

That night, they anchored by the docks. Ned, like many others of rank, found brief comfort in one of the tiny dockside taverns, buried between the warm thighs of a buxom barmaid. Just as satisfying was a bed that did not rock with the waves of the river. He'd long since learned to tolerate it, but he still noticed it more often than not.

With the first light, they were back on the river, sailing ever closer to the heart of this war.

Brauzeit 25th-30th, 2522

The further they sailed up the Delb, the more the land became a graveyard. Village after village lay in ruin, burnt to cinders, the charred remains of homes no more than blackened timbers rising like bones from the scorched earth. Bodies, men, women, children… were left for all to see, hung from trees, nailed to posts, impaled on stakes or worse, twisted into grotesque shapes. The Beastmen wanted to send a message, and they'd sent it with blood.

Ned watched in silence from the deck, his jaw set. The men around him muttered curses, spat into the river, or made the sign of the twin-tailed comet. Some stared at the grisly scenes, others couldn't bear to look. War was never clean, but this, this was savagery. There was no honor in this.

On the third day, the lookouts in the crow's nests called down. Harpies. He squinted into the distance, seeing their twisted shapes, wings flapping lazily as they followed the fleet. Watching. Hunting.

"They'll strike when they see weakness," Jon muttered at his side, his voice low, a touch of the wolf in his tone. He stood tall, a man now, his gaze hard and cold, far removed from rambunctious child that Ned remembered. Jon was ready for war, to ride at the front of the line, striking down foes, even if Ned's heart still clenched at the thought.

Before he could reply, there was a sharp cry from the Emperor's barge. The great griffon, Deathclaw, took to the air with a mighty beat of its wings, talons gleaming in the sunlight. The beast was a sight to behold, a creature of legend, as terrible as it was beautiful. It soared through the sky, closing the distance to the harpies in moments. There was a screech of terror from the mutants as they scattered, but one was too slow. Deathclaw descended upon it with a furious grace, tearing it apart midair, its talons and beak turning the creature into a shower of feathers and blood.

The other harpies fled, disappearing north, no doubt to carry word to the Beastmen laying siege to Delberz. The sight of them retreating put a new urgency into the men. They would need to move faster now.

They reached a long stretch of straight river, so the Emperor gave the order and the ships sailed on through the night. It was a gamble, but Manann still seemed to favor them. No ships ran aground or hit a sandbar. The river stayed calm, and the fleet pressed on, ever closer to the embattled city.

On the morning of the fifth day, Ned stood on deck, his breath misting in the cool air. The mist clung to the surface of the river, giving the world an eerie stillness. As it lifted, the city of Delberz came into view. The walls were tall, but even from this distance, he could see the dark shapes moving beyond them, the twisted forms of the enemy that lay siege.

Ned's grip tightened on the railing. The storm of battle was upon them, and they were sailing straight into its heart.

Delberz loomed before them, half again the size of Winter Town, its walls just as formidable, thick and weathered, bastions of stone built to withstand centuries of war and hate. Even from this distance, Ned could see the scars of battle etched into its face, chunks of rock missing from catapult strikes, charred sections where flames had licked at the defenses. But the city stood tall, defiant, despite the tide of horror pressing against it.

Through his spyglass, Ned saw what protected them: a great bramble wall, fierce and unnatural, encircling the city in a massive thicket of thorns tall as the largest minotaur and five yards deep. Each spike was longer than a man's hand, thick as an axe handle at its base, and hundreds of Beastmen hung from the thorns, skewered like insects in a spider's web. Their corpses swung gently in the breeze, a testament to the power of whatever magic had conjured the barrier. 'A powerful Jade wizard's work, a Magister at the very least,' he thought, their enchantment born of the earth, powerful and unyielding.

But the brambles alone hadn't saved Delberz. Even as he watched, a fireball arced through the sky, cast down from the battlements by a pyromancer in flowing crimson robes. It exploded amidst a pack of braying Beastmen who had somehow forced their way through the brambles and made it to the gates. The explosion was magnificent, Ned almost believed he could feel the heat of it from where he stood on the deck of a ship over a mile away. The flames consumed the ram the Beastmen had brought with them, scattering the creatures, broken and burned like leaves in a firestorm.

Before the smoke cleared, more brambles sprang from the scorched earth, twisting and writhing like living things to seal the breach before the gates once more. The defenders were holding the line, but barely. Beyond the walls, the land teemed with the enemy. Beastmen, in the tens of thousands. No, not only that. Ned adjusted the spyglass and grimaced. It was worse than he thought. There must be a hundred thousand of them, a roiling, endless sea of fur, muscle, and bloodlust. The stench of them, even at this distance, carried on the wind, thick with sweat, blood, filth and rot.

He had only seen an enemy host this numerous once before, five years past, when he'd ridden north to aid Kislev with the Emperor. The memory came back unbidden, of the frostbitten plains north of Praag, the clash of steel against Norscan raiders, the thunder of hooves as the steppe riders charged, the howls of Beastmen and the roars of trolls, and worse, the daemonic things from the Chaos Wastes.

That had been a true battle, an all-consuming clash between the living and the damned. They had won decisively that day, driven the hordes back into their cursed wasteland, but the cost had been steep. Too many good men had fallen.

And now, it seemed, the same evil had arisen in the heart of the Empire.

Ned lowered the spyglass, his knuckles white where he gripped it. The sight of Delberz under siege filled him with a grim certainty. He had been in countless wars, fought in battles where the odds had seemed impossible, and somehow, they had always prevailed. This would be no different. The Beastmen might outnumber them, but numbers alone weren't enough. Not against men who had something to fight for, something to protect.

"We'll break them," he announced loudly to his men. "We've done it before, and we'll do it again." He was sure of it. They had the Emperor's strength, they had discipline, and most importantly they had the favor of the gods. And with the sorcery of the wizards within the walls and the fourteen they had brought with them, they would break this siege and annihilate this loathsome army.

A storm of steel, lead, faith and magic was coming for the Beastmen and it would be brutal.

Chapter Text

Delberz, like Winter Town on the Upper Talabec, stood at the last point on the Delb where the great river ships of the Empire could navigate. The importance of that fact to their plan couldn't be overstated. There were too many men, too much baggage for the Emperor's army to rely on barges alone. The river ships were crucial, not just for their transport capacity, but for their firepower.

The fleet approached the flat, open land southeast of the city, the great ships looming over the waters, their hulls bristling with cannons. These were no simple vessels. Armed to the teeth, each carried four cannons and two carronades on their broadside, while the barges and smaller ships were each armed with three or four carronades to a side. The shorter guns, wide barreled and brutal, were designed for close-quarters devastation.

Ned stood on the deck of the Undying Faith, his flagship, a gunboat of the Imperial navy. It might not have been as imposing as the great ships, but with four carronades, it was still deadly.

The time came, and the signal was given. Cannons roared, sending shockwaves through the air. Ned felt it in his bones, a deep, primal thud as heavy iron balls tore into the mass of Beastmen on the shore, each shot mowing down a dozen or more in their path. Then came the carronades, belching out thick clouds of smoke and lead, spraying grapeshot in wide arcs. It was like watching the wrath of the gods themselves, a thunderous fury that left Beastmen mangled and broken in heaps.

Hundreds were killed in the opening salvo. The Warherd, braying and howling, fell back in disorder, retreating over the burned remains of farms and trampled homesteads that had once been peaceful and prosperous. The devastation stretched for miles around the city, the earth blackened and scarred, littered with the bodies of the dead.

Jon stood beside him, staring at the chaos with wide eyes. "They won't contest our landing?" he asked, disbelief coloring his voice.

Ned shook his head, his face set with grim satisfaction. "Too many ships, and far too many guns. They'd be torn to pieces before long, without any way but magic to attack the ships. No, they want us to come to them. Out of range of our cannons, where they can fight on their terms." He raised a hand, pointing toward the Warherd as it regrouped a mile and a half from the shore. "Look, that's a challenge if ever I saw one."

High above the twisted horde, a vast cloud of carrion birds circled, thousands of them, black specks in the grey sky. And at their center, wings spread wide, was something far worse, a winged monstrosity, feathers matted with filth, its horned face a twisted mask of malice and hunger. Malagor the Dark Omen.

Even from this distance, Ned could feel the creature's malign presence, a heavy weight pressing down on him, darkening the air. The Beastmen were challenging them to meet them in battle, to step into the maw of Chaos itself. To spill blood and match them blow for blow, line against line.

The Beastmen continued to hang back, kept at bay by the guns of the Imperial fleet, but their twisted forms and the ominous figure of Malagor loomed over the battlefield like a shadow that could not be cast aside. Even so, the Imperial army landed with the calm precision of men who knew their enemy wouldn't dare approach, at least, not yet.

Ned watched the ranks form with grim admiration. Forty-nine thousand infantry, their colorful puffy sleeves and gleaming cuirasses catching the light of the morning sun, lined up in perfect rows. Some twenty-two thousand handgunners stood ready. Karl Franz's men armed with the latest wheellock muskets, Duke Leopold's with older matchlocks. Before them stood about twenty-seven thousand halberdiers with cruel axe blades shining atop long poles tipped with sharp points, a wall of steel meant to protect the handgunners from harm..

Next came the cavalry. Sixteen and a half thousand mounted men, a sight to stir the heart of any lord. Nine thousand pistoliers in half plate, their horses prancing impatiently as if eager for the charge. Behind them, seven and a half thousand knights and men-at-arms, all in full plate, their heavy lances glinting in the light. It was a formidable host, a hammer waiting to strike.

The left flank, anchored by half the pistoliers and three thousand heavy cavalry, seemed strong enough to weather any storm. The right was secured by the walls and garrison of Delberz itself, a bulwark against any flanking attempt. The rest of the cavalry waited behind, held in reserve, ready to exploit any weakness or rush to where the line might falter.

But it was the artillery that filled Ned with a cold sense of awe. A hundred and two cannons, and eighteen fearsome Hellstorm rocket batteries were arrayed in an enormous artillery park at the rear of the formation. The smell of powder already hung in the air, and the crews waited in silence, knowing the carnage they would unleash when the time came.

And then there were the wizards. Nine were sent to back up the infantry, grouped in threes to bolster each third of the line, with five more held in reserve under the command of the Amber Patriarch himself. Their presence was a quiet menace, a reminder that the Winds of Magic would play a great part in the battle to come. The air felt heavy with their power, the winds swirling unseen but felt nonetheless.

It was an army of devastating strength, every inch of it disciplined, polished, and poised to strike. From the walls of Delberz, the city's defenders could only watch and pray that it would be enough.

Ned's eyes lingered on the distant figure of Malagor, wings spread wide over his vile host. He had seen men falter against such foes before, creatures of darkness, nightmares given flesh. But this time they faced an Imperial army mightier than any he had marched with before. Only the combined might of the Kislevite and Imperial armies that he'd fought with north of Praag had exceeded it. Yet even with all their might, Ned could not shake the feeling that rivers of blood would flow before the day was done, and not just the blood of Beastmen.

War had a way of devouring the best-laid plans.

The sound of bugles rang clear in the morning air, calling the army to advance. Ned felt the tremor in the earth as the great mass of soldiers began their march, the rhythm of their steps set by the young drummer boys whose small hands beat out the cadence. The infantry moved in perfect ranks, a sight that would have gladdened the heart of any drill sergeant, their halberds gleaming in the sun, handgunners with their muskets held firm on their shoulders.

To the left, the cavalry kept pace, the heavy clink of armor mingling with the hoofbeats as they walked their horses slowly forward to match the pace of the infantry. The knights advancing with their shields raised and heavy lances upright, the pistoliers ready to switch between their wheellocks and their light lances at any moment.

Behind them, the artillery rumbled forward, monstrous guns and deadly rocket batteries drawn by teams of horses, keeping the the distance between them and the infantry line before them steady, but ready to rain hell upon the enemy at a moment's notice.

From the walls of Delberz came a raucous cheer. Ned could hear it echo across the field, the garrison's soldiers roaring in approval at the sight of the Emperor's army on the march, their relief palpable even from this distance. Cannons on the walls nearest to enemy line boomed, great iron balls crashing into the Beastmen with a terrible force, sending twisted bodies flying through the air.

Ned's gaze drifted to the walls themselves. He could see the garrison's handgunners armed with matchlocks and men of the city militia armed with crossbows hurrying to their stations, taking up positions closest to the enemy, readying for the possibility that the battle may draw near enough for them to lend their fire. It was a wise move. They might not be able to engage the Beastmen from this distance, but if the fighting came close, every shot would matter.

The army halted a mile from the shore, just where the walls of Delberz turned sharply to the right, curving to encircle the city. Any further and they would forfeit the protection those walls provided, leaving the right flank exposed. Ahead of them, only a half-mile of scorched farmland lay between the Imperial line and the seething mass of Beastmen.

Ned could see the twisted host of Malagor, a churning tide of fur, horns, and savage limbs, waiting like a storm about to break. A mile might still be within range of the fleet's heavier cannons, but the risk was too great. No captain would fire with the Imperial lines so close. Malagor, no doubt, knew this too. He had driven them to this point, daring them to come closer, to meet him on his own terms. But the Emperor's army had stopped, offering him their own challenge instead.

The halberdiers raised their weapons, shafts thrust skyward, and then brought the butts of their polearms down in unison. 'Boom.' The sound echoed like thunder. "Sigmar!" they shouted, voices strong, the cry taken up by the handgunners, the cavalry, all along the line. Again, the halberds rose and fell. "Ulric!" Again, "Taal!"

Ned felt the words reverberate through him, the raw power of tens of thousands of voices lifted as one, a defiant roar in the face of the horde.

Across the field, Malagor moved. His too-long arm stretched out, grotesque and wrong, and the Beastmen surged forward with a terrible howl, a charge that was like an avalanche, unstoppable, crushing everything in its path. Ned's hand gripped the hilt of his sword. This was it.

The battle had begun.

The air exploded with the deafening roar of the rocket batteries. Ned watched as eighteen batteries, each unleashing nine rockets as long as a man was tall, lit up the sky with streaks of fire. The projectiles arched high above the Imperial line, like flaming serpents twisting through the heavens. When they fell, they did so with brutal force, stabbing deep into the heart of the Beastmen horde. The sound that followed was sickening: the rockets burst apart in the midst of the enemy, and Ned saw the explosions rip through their twisted ranks, flinging bodies into the air like dolls. The musket balls embedded in the warheads sprayed out with terrifying force, shredding the foul mutants like wheat beneath a reaper's scythe.

A hundred and sixty-two blasts. Ned didn't need to count them to know the toll. The Beastmen formations buckled, thrown into chaos. But the twisted creatures, stubborn as ever, were already pulling themselves back together, their seemingly endless numbers reforming to press forward once again.

On the Imperial side, the cannons were already moving into place. Along the line, where the regiments met, ten gaps had opened up. It was deliberate, part of the Emperor's strategy, the artillery batteries being maneuvered into the spaces, the troops on the edges pulling back just enough to give the guns the room they needed. Ready and waiting to dash back in and reform the line right before the Beastmen hit it.

Seven batteries were left in reserve, a bulwark to rally around, should everything go wrong.

The sixty cannons at the front boomed in near-perfect unison, the ground shaking beneath Ned's feet with each blast. Great iron shot hurtled through the air, scything through the dense masses of Beastmen like a butcher's blade. The enemy stood no chance, each ball carved through eight or ten bodies before slowing, grinding flesh and bone into the blood-soaked dirt.

Yet even as the artillery did its work, the magic of the battlefield took on a life of its own. Ned felt it, a disturbance in the air, heavy and unnatural. He saw the fireball first, a blazing sphere the size of a horse, hurled by the pyromancer atop Delberz's wall into the heart of the twisted host. For a moment, it seemed as if it would consume all in its path. But then, just as quickly, it stopped, frozen in the air by some unseen force. Malagor's foul magic snuffed it out, the flames disappearing into nothing.

For every spell the Dark Omen dispelled, though, another struck home. Ned's gaze shifted to Magister Solmann, his staff raised high, summoning a storm from the heavens. Lightning bolts crackled down from the sky, flashing blue-white as they forked through the dark clouds. The bolts flowed around Malagor, as if he were warded by some foul force, but they struck the carrion birds that flocked around him, sending hundreds of their blackened forms plummeting to the earth. Scores of Beastmen fell dead where they stood, struck down by the vengeful storm.

But then, Ned saw it, a mass of darkness rising on the right flank of the Beastmen. It was not natural. The air seemed to thicken, a palpable weight pressing down on him, on all of them. It was the black magic of Dhar, swirling above the enemy ranks like a storm cloud, pulsing with a terrible, vile energy.

Ned's breath caught in his throat. He had seen such hideous dark power before, north of Praag close to the wastes beyond Kislev. He had seen other Bray Shamans wield a weak facsimile of this power in many of his battles with their benighted kind over the years. But never this strong, so deep within the Empire. Never like this.

"The Shadowgave is with them!" came a cry from the reserves. It was the Grand Theogonist himself, his voice strong, though even from his place with the heavy cavalry, Ned could sense the alarm in it. The Grand Theogonist stood atop the War Altar of Sigmar, his ancient face drawn, his hands raised in fervent prayer. He was calling upon the might of Sigmar, desperate to turn back the tide of darkness.

And Sigmar answered.

A great golden light burst forth from the rampant griffon atop the War Altar, a lance of pure, searing radiance that shot out from the hammer it held, toward the gathering storm of black magic. It struck the swirling darkness, the holy light of Sigmar cutting through the sickening pollution like a summer wind dispersing a campfire's smoke. The blackness dissolved, washed away by the golden brilliance, its vile presence banished in an instant.

Ned let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. But the battle was far from over. The Beastmen would try again. They always did.

Volkmar the Grim sagged against the platform of the War Altar, his old body nearly buckling under the weight of the divine power he had channeled. Ned watched the man closely, feeling the tension in the air. Even with the enchanted jade griffon amulet hanging on his chest flashing with its regenerative magic, and the staff of command channeling strength and power into him, breathing life back into his frail bones, the effort had clearly taken its toll. The Grand Theogonist pushed himself up, his voice rasping but resolute.

"My Emperor," Volkmar said, his eyes blazing with fervor, "we must crush their right before that abhorrent monster can try once more."

Karl Franz, nodded grimly from atop Deathclaw, the weight of command heavy upon him. He raised his arm, and the bugles rang out, their call slicing through the din of battle like the Emperor's sword. The cavalry reserve stirred to life. A tide of armored men and horses, pistoliers and the shining knights of the Empire, moved to reinforce the Imperial cavalry that had already been concentrated on the left side of their line. Preparing to charge the right flank of the Beastmen where Morghur the Shadowgave laired amongst the howling mob.

Ned felt his own heart quicken as the signal was given. He rode with the Knights of Everlasting Light, his own twenty mounted men forming up behind him. This would be the largest cavalry charge Ned had ever been part of, and he had been part of many. The anticipation gnawed at him, the familiar mix of dread and grim determination churning in his gut. The ground thundered beneath them as they prepared to ride, hooves kicking up the earth, the horses snorting with impatience. The Emperor himself would lead the charge, the War Altar following them, radiant with Sigmar's fury.

But ahead, the Beastmen did not waver. The holes blown into their ranks by the rocket barrage and iron shot were closing as the foul creatures surged forward. They were within two hundred yards now, their monstrous forms becoming clearer with every step. The ground seemed to tremble under the weight of their charge, and the braying of the Beastmen filled the air like the howling of a thousand mad dogs.

The artillery switched to grapeshot, the ten batteries firing in furious unison. Ned felt the force of it in his chest, a thunderous roar as over a thousand, two inch, lead balls tore across the battlefield. The effect was brutal, shredding through the Beastmen like a dwarf forged axe tearing through paper, ripping apart flesh and bone in a spray of blood and viscera. But still, they came.

At one hundred and fifty yards, the handgunners opened fire, their muskets belching smoke and flame. Their guns were only accurate to within a hundred, but when you were firing at such a densely packed mass it didn't matter. The crackling volley was deafening, the massed fire ripping into the charging Beastmen with devastating effect. The entire first rank pitched forward, bodies riddle with holes, blood pooling on the churned-up ground. And yet, the tide pressed on, relentless, driven by the twisted will of the Dark Omen.

Ned gritted his teeth. He had seen this before, had faced charges just as terrible. The odds always seemed impossible. Men, even knights, were only flesh. They could be ripped through and broken. He glanced toward the Emperor, who held fast, unyielding in the face of the monstrous horde. The cavalry reserves lined up with their fellows on the left, forming an enormous mass of armored horsemen, their lances gleaming in the late morning light, ready to deliver the decisive blow.

Ned's breath quickened, his hand gripping the reins tighter as the buglers prepared to sound the horn. Every muscle in his body tensed, bracing for the moment when the charge would begin.

Then came a cry from the Grand Theogonist, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Look to the trees!"

Ned's gaze snapped to the forest, and what he saw left him momentarily stunned. A storm of arrows, thick as a torrent of falling rain, flew from the tree line in the thousands, arcing high over the field and crashing into the rear of the Beastmen horde's right flank. The creatures recoiled, their backlines staggering under the sudden onslaught. The braying faltered, confusion spreading like wildfire through their ranks as their right faltered and struggled to turn and face this new threat.

And then they appeared. Out of the trees, a wedge of infantry emerged, their movements so graceful they seemed almost otherworldly. They flowed across the battlefield like a river of silver and green, their armor, plate and scale, shining in the sun, their forms lithe and swift.

Elves.

Wood Elves. Ned had heard tales of their skill in battle, of their deadly precision and ethereal beauty, but to see them here, now, fighting alongside men of the Empire, it was a sight that none on the battlefield had expected. He could see the surprise rippling through the Imperial ranks, soldiers staring in wonder as their unlikely allies charged the Beastmen from the rear.

The tide of the battle had shifted. The charge had not yet begun, but already the enemy was faltering. The Beastmen, caught between the might of the Empire and the grace of the Elves, now faced annihilation.

But Ned knew better than to let hope rise too high too soon. There was still blood to be spilled, and much of it. He tightened his grip on his sword, readying himself for what was to come. The buglers would sound the charge any moment now.

And then, the real killing would begin. And so would the dying.

Chapter Text

The Beastmen's right flank wavered, their back lines now turning towards the Wood Elves emerging from the forest, their central reserves rushing to reinforce them. Ned saw flashes of fire, searing bolts of white-hot flame raining down on the twisted creatures, but the Shadowgave, that foul sorcerer at the heart of their right, deflected the magic with sickly black shields. The air around him seemed to throb with the pressure of dark forces at work.

Everything would be up to the Emperor now.

Ned watched as Karl Franz dropped his arm with a steady hand and fierce resolve. The signal was given, the bugles sounded.

Deathclaw, that great war griffon, leapt forward, leading a tidal wave of knights and light cavalry. The ground thundered beneath them, hooves pounding the earth as they surged ahead.

Ned spurred his horse into motion, the cool morning air whipping through the slits in his helm's visor and running over his face, his heart beating faster as the knights of the Empire followed like an unstoppable avalanche.

The wind rushed around him as his horse picked up speed, but Ned was focused on the enemy line. He had been in enough battles to know well the moment before impact, the sickening mix of fear and anticipation that curled in his gut. He'd long since learned to master that fear, to pour it into the strength of his blows and empower them.

His twenty men rode close behind him, but it was the sea of knights around him, their shining armor glinting in the light, that gave the cavalry its terrible weight. They were a wall of steel and flesh, unstoppable and deadly.

They collided with the Beastmen's right flank at full gallop with bone-shattering force.

Ned felt the impact reverberate through his entire body, as he drove his lance clear through a minotaur's chest, tearing its black heart in two. The lance snapped under the impact, caught on the thick ribs of the monstrous creature.

He tossed it aside, drawing his sword and hacking down into the shoulder of the nearest mutant, cleaving through flesh and bone. The creature shrieked, a sound more animal than human, and crumpled beneath his horse's hooves. This blade was not anywhere near the equal of Ice, but it was dwarf forged steel nevertheless.

Around him, the knights of the Empire struck like a hammer, shattering the faltering enemy line. The Beastmen tried to hold, but they were no match for the cavalry's momentum, and their right flank began to buckle.

Yet even as they pushed forward, Ned could see the battle raging elsewhere. Down the line, the center and right of the Imperial forces had met the full fury of the Beastmen. The twisted mutants surged against the halberdiers, a chaotic mass of fur, muscle, and iron. They were enormous creatures, seven feet tall, some with the faces of goats, deer or bulls, others bearing the features of wild boars, wolves or great wild cats, distorted and grotesque. Worse were the chimeras, amalgamations of creatures that should never have existed, their forms warped by dark magic.

Ned had seen them countless times before, during his battles across the Empire, but they never became easier to look upon. They were not just beasts; they were an abomination against nature itself.

The Empire's halberdiers stood firm, stabbing and chopping with brutal precision, their movements disciplined, their hearts steeled by faith. The Beastmen had size and fury, but they lacked discipline, and their primitive weapons were no match for the halberds that cut them down. Blood and filth soaked the earth, the air thick with the smell of death and decay. The Imperial line held, but barely. Every inch was contested, every man forced to fight for his life and to protect those fighting by their side.

Ned knew the feeling well. It was the way of war, glory was for after the battle was done, in its midst there was only survival.

Ahead, Deathclaw tore through the enemy, its jagged beak and fearsome talons rending Beastmen apart with savage brutality. The Emperor rode high, his warhammer glowing with the righteous light of Sigmar as he crushed the skulls of his enemies.

Ned swung his sword once more, cleaving through the neck of a Beastman who had charged too close. The creature fell in a heap, and Ned turned his horse, keeping close to the Emperor.

But something darker stirred. He could feel it, a sense of dread creeping over the battlefield. The Shadowgave was still there, lurking like a viper, his dark magic swirling through the ranks of the Beastmen.

And then, in the distance, Ned saw the architect of this terrible war. The Dark Omen, hanging over the center of the field and seemingly fighting off half a dozen Imperial wizards or more all at once. A monstrous figure, twisted and foul, commanding the very forces of darkness with his outstretched hand. The Beastmen fought harder now, as if driven by some unholy force, their braying calls rising in volume, growing more frenzied. It was not just their strength that Ned feared, but their unquenchable, unnatural fury.

Ned could feel it in his bones, this was no ordinary battle. If they lost this, the Empire could be crippled for generations. Gods' forbid, it may even be a mortal wound.

The Emperor's voice rang out, calling for another charge. The cavalry wheeled around, ready to break the Beastmen once and for all. But even as Ned readied himself, he couldn't shake the feeling that something worse was coming, that the Shadowgave was still lurking, waiting for the right moment to strike.

The pistoliers, knights and men-at-arms of the Empire wheeled around, a great armored fist of steel and fury, ready to plunge back into the fray. Ned could feel the weight of the moment pressing upon him, the air thick with the stench of blood and fire. His breath came in short gasps, but there was no time to think on it, not as the Emperor raised his arm, preparing to call the charge once again.

And then, something strange happened. A tree sprouted behind the Empire's lines, a mere sapling at first, but growing impossibly fast. Ned watched, wide-eyed, as it stretched skyward, its trunk thickening, branches spreading until it stood like an ancient oak, two hundred years old, perhaps more. It was hard for him to judge; for any tree, including this one, paled in size and age before the sacred oak of Taal's Wood at Winterfell.

The boughs of the great oak swayed, though there was no wind, and from them drifted pollen, glittering with a soft, green light. The air smelled of spring, of fresh earth after rain.

The pollen swept across the field, carried on invisible currents, and wherever it landed, men were healed. Ned saw it with his own eyes, cuts closing, broken bones knitting, men who had been racked with pain standing tall once more. Even those who had lost limbs or eyes, were whole again. It was a miracle, whether of faith or magic, Ned was unsure, but it was pure and undeniable, and for a moment, the grim tide of battle seemed to ebb.

Ned felt the warmth of it touch him too, a brief sensation, like the brush of a hand on his shoulder, reinvigorating his tired muscles. It was fleeting as it was energizing.

Then came the blast.

Green lightning so dark it was nearly black split the sky with a crack of thunder, and Ned's heart seized in his chest. Malagor, that twisted abomination, had cast his foul magic down upon the tree, splitting it in two. The mighty oak burst into flames, the fire raging out of control and devouring it from branch to roots in seconds.

The healing pollen stopped flowing; its brief boon cut short. But even as the tree crumbled, its bark blackened and burning, thousands had already been healed.

The Beastmen struggled to reform their right flank as the Wood Elves harried them from the rear. Ned could see them, creatures of grace and precision, their movements so fluid they seemed to dance through the battle, their blades cutting down the enemy with terrifying efficiency. Every strike was lethal, every motion deliberate. The Beastmen howled in outrage and disgust, their primitive minds unable to grasp the elegance of the slaughter.

The Emperor's voice rang out over the field, calling for the charge once again. And the knights responded. The chivalry of the Empire surged forward, a sea of gleaming armor and raised lances, hammering into the Beastmen's right flank with the force of a battering ram.

Ned rode among them, his sword raised, his heart pounding in his chest. He could see Jon ahead, his face grim, set with purpose. The boy had grown into a man in this war, hardened by blood and steel.

They rode close to the Emperor once more, Karl Franz at the head of the charge, Ghal Maraz in hand, the sacred warhammer of the Empire glowing with the righteous fury of Sigmar. Deathclaw tore through the enemy with talons and beak, while the Emperor smote every foul creature that crossed his path. Beastmen fell before him like wheat before the scythe, their bodies crushed beneath the might of Sigmar's chosen.

Ned's sword cut down another mutant, its goat-faced head lolling from its shoulders as it collapsed beneath his horse. All around him was chaos, the braying of Beastmen, the clash of steel, the cries of dying men. Yet in the heart of it all, the Emperor pressed forward, his gaze fixed on one figure in the distance.

Morghur.

Along with the Dark Omen, he was the twisted, corrupt heart of the Beastmen host. The Great Corrupter, bringer of madness. Ned had heard tales of him, whispers of a creature too foul for words, too dangerous for any mortal man to face.

But Karl Franz was no ordinary man.

Ghal Maraz shone like the sun, and the Emperor, with Ned and Jon riding close at his side, drove deeper into the Beastmen's ranks. Morghur was out there, casting down fearsome spells upon the Elves, hardly paying attention to the men of the Empire at all and Ned could feel the weight of the battle turning. It was not over yet. Victory hung in the balance, and whether it would be the Empire's or the Beastmen's would be decided in the next few moments.

Ned leaned forward in the saddle. There was no turning back now.

The Elves moved like sunbeams across the field, their armor gleaming in the mid-day light, blades flashing with lethal grace. Ned had never seen warriors fight with such fluidity, each movement as precise and deliberate as a dancer's step. They carved deeper into the rear of the Beastmen's line, their advance as relentless as it was beautiful.

By their sides marched Treemen and Dryads, fey creatures of bark and vine with faces twisted in fury. The Treemen massive and mighty, the Dryads lithesome and elegant as they were terrible. They literally tore through the Beastmen, rending limbs from their bodies and snapping bones with terrifying strength.

At their head rode a noble Elf maiden, her beauty almost otherworldly, her golden hair streaming behind her as she rode a great stag into the heart of the enemy. She wore a slender crown upon her brow, and her sword, an enchanted Ithilmar blade, glimmered with deadly light as she struck down any creature foolish enough to challenge her might. Magic crackled in the air around her, a shimmering aura of power that rippled with every spell she cast.

Ned knew little of the Wood Elves, their ways as alien to him as they were to any man of the Old World, but he had heard the tales. Ariel, the Queen of Athel Loren, was said to manifest with wings of light and a presence that could cow even the strongest of wills. But this maiden… she did not carry that overwhelming sense of majesty. There were no wings, no antenna as the stories claimed. 'Is this the Queen of Laurelorn?' Ned wondered, brow furrowing beneath his helm. Laurelorn lay much closer to Delberz than Athel Loren, after all.

But there was no time to linger on such thoughts, not as the battle raged around him. The Beastmen line was crumbling under the combined onslaught of Elf and man, but the twisted shaman at the heart of their right flank turned his dark gaze upon the Elf maiden. His great horns, curling and grotesque, caught the dimming light as his hands wove terrible spells that seemed to suck the sunshine from the very air around him.

Dark magic spilled forth from him, splitting Treemen and Dryads apart in gory bursts of splintered wood and sap. Some of the Eternal Guard fighting beside the queen twisted in agony, their forms mutating into slavering chaos spawn. They were barely recognizable before their own kin put them down, swift and merciless.

The Elf maiden pressed on, fury etched into her face, her blade a blur as she clashed with Morghur. They moved like storm and shadow, a whirlwind of violence and magic, but Ned could see the strain in her. No matter how fast her strikes, no matter how strong her spells, the Beastlord seemed to grow stronger with each exchange. His hideous presence loomed over her, the embodiment of chaos itself.

Still, the Elves were not alone in their assault. The cavalry of the Empire had cut their way into the heart of the Beastmen formation, their armored wedge cleaving a path through blood and bone. Ned rode with them, his sword light in his hand, feeling invigorated by the blessing of the healing tree, cutting down gor after gor as the slaughter raged on. Jon was close, his face set with grim determination, his white dire wolf Frost tearing through the foul creatures with savage glee.

And at the head of them all was the Emperor, mounted on Deathclaw, his warhammer Ghal Maraz alight with the fury of Sigmar. He was an unstoppable force, each swing of his hammer sending Beastmen sprawling, their twisted bodies crushed and broken beneath the righteous might of Karl Franz.

Ned's heart pounded in his chest as they drew closer to Morghur. The Beastlord stood at the center of it all, a creature of pure chaos, and yet… there was something more. Something darker. Ned could feel it, like a cold hand gripping his soul.

The Elf maiden faltered, her strikes growing slower, her magic wavering.

Ned urged his horse forward. He had fought in dozens of battles before, had faced the horror of war, but this… this was something he had only encountered once before in Kislev. The Shadowgave felt less like a bray shaman and more like a daemon of the Northern Wastes.

And yet, in the heart of it, he still clung to hope. For all the darkness that surrounded them, for all the chaos that threatened to swallow the world, there was still the Emperor. There was still Jon. There were still tens of thousands of men by their side who fought for more than just survival, who fought for each other, for the Empire, for all that was good in this world. Fighting for a chance at a better tomorrow where creatures such as these were but a memory.

Morghur's staff came down with the force of a thunderclap, the wood black and twisted, writhing as if alive and pulsing with hatred of the world. The Elf maiden's sword barely caught the blow, her arm trembling under the weight of it. The sheer power of the strike sent her tumbling from her stag, crashing into the blood-soaked earth. Her crown, that slim band of gleaming gold and Ithilmar, lay crooked on her brow as she struggled to rise.

Ned spurred his horse forward, weaving through the chaos. His heart hammered in his chest. He'd seen enough battle to know what came next, knew the look of death when it hovered over a battlefield, ready to claim its due. Morghur raised his staff again, his inhuman eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction, ready to finish what he'd started.

'Not today,' Ned thought grimly. He leaned low in the saddle, his arm reaching out, rough fingers catching the Elf maiden's slender wrist and yanking her out of harm's way. She gasped in surprise as he hauled her onto his horse, her lithe form draped awkwardly across his lap.

The Shadowgave let out a hideous shriek, a sound that cut through the clamor of battle like a blade. His staff crackled with dark magic, the very air around him warping, bending in unnatural ways. The creature's eyes burned with fury, but before Morghur could strike at them, the Emperor was upon him.

Karl Franz struck like a storm given flesh, Deathclaw leaping with talons outstretched, beak snapping. Ghal Maraz blazed in his hands, the warhammer alight with the pure, holy power of Sigmar. The Emperor's voice rang out over the battlefield, not with words, but with hymns of battle, the prayers of the faithful, his every swing a paean to the god who had made the Empire great.

Ned felt the raw force of it, the faith, the power. It was like standing in the heart of a tempest. The Emperor's blows fell like a smith's hammer upon an anvil, each one precise, each one driven by purpose, as if Sigmar himself was guiding his hand.

For a moment, Ned's breath caught in his throat as he watched the battle unfold. Morghur staggered under the relentless assault, his staff straining to parry the Emperor's hammer. The creature's twisted visage, so full of malice and rage, faltering under the onslaught.

Ned held the Elf maiden tightly as Deathclaw slashed and snapped, the warhammer of Sigmar lashing out at the foul Beastlord with frightful speed, as if it were a fencer's blade rather than a weighty hammer. There was something awe-inspiring about it, this primal clash of order and chaos. And in that moment, despite all the blood and horror around them, Ned dared to hope.

That hope was rewarded as Ghal Maraz came whistling down, shinning like the Twin-Tailed comet and pulped Morghur's hideous caprine face in. Bone splintered like dry wood, and what passed for its brain leaked out in a sickening, viscous slurry. The sound of that blessed warhammer shattering Morghur's skull was like that of a melon thrown out a tower window onto the rocks below, a sharp, final crack that cut through the din of battle.

Despite all the power and the twisted magic that had made Morghur a terror to the Old World, it meant nothing now. The repugnant beast collapsed as if the strings that held it upright had been severed, its body crumpling into the muck with a grotesque thud.

Ned watched as the Beastmen's right wing collapsed entirely. Already crumbling under the relentless hammering of both the Empire and the Wood Elves, the death of Morghur shattered their resolve. Panic rippled through their ranks, turning their retreat into a rout. The imperial cavalry did not relent. They surged forward, cutting down fleeing Gors and Brays by the thousands, hooves pounding over broken bodies. The Wood Elves, precise as ever, let fly a constant hail of arrows into the backs of the fleeing Beastmen. The Elves laughed and sang, their grim work done to cheerful song as eerie as it was malicious, as if the slaughter was no more than a childhood game.

Ned's heart still raced in his chest, but there was no time to dwell on victory. The Dark Omen still hovered over the field, their putrefying presence weighing down on the all.

Still, though the vile shaman had clearly slain some of the wizards battling him, it was all Malagor could do to ward off those that remained along with the Elvish spellcasters and the trio of Imperial wizards from the left flank who now shifted their attention to him.

Ned caught a glimpse of the twisted creature, crackling with dark magic as it deflected bolt after bolt of searing light. But even the Dark Omen, for all its power, was faltering under the combined might of its many foes.

The battle was turning. The Beastmen's center, pressed on all sides by the Imperial cavalry, the Elves, and the infantry of the Imperial left and center, began to give ground. Slowly, grudgingly, the brutes retreated toward the dark line of the woods from where they had emerged, their once savage advance turned into a fighting withdrawal.

Ned reined in his horse as he reached the main force of the Elves. He leaned down, helping the queen off his saddle, her armor gleaming, though dirtied by the grime of battle. Her eyes met his, cool, serene, as if she had not just been locked in a desperate fight for her life. There was a nobility in her, a quiet strength that Ned could not quite name. He offered her a brief salute, a gesture of respect, which she returned before she turned to join her own people.

He did not linger. The battle was far from over. Ned wheeled his horse around, spurred it into motion, and raced back toward the fray. The Beastmen might have been in retreat, but they were not yet beaten. There was more blood to spill, and he would not abandon his men while they were still fighting. The scent of blood, sweat, and earth filled the air as Ned drove onward, the rhythm of war pounding in his ears. The enemy might be falling back, but battles never ended cleanly.

The end was closing in on the Beastmen, like the jaws of some vast, unseen beast. Men and Elves pressed forward, with relentless force from the left of the Imperial line. The center of the enemy line began to fold backwards like a fishook, its new right flank crumpling under the weight of the Empire's advance and the sheer force of the Elven wedge. Ned could see it, could feel it, the way the Beastmen struggled, frantic, desperate to fall back to the dark sanctuary of the trees. But it was too late. Their disciplined retreat was faltering, crumbling like everything else. The snare was tightening around them, and soon their entire army would be encircled, unable to flee or do anything but fight a doomed last stand.

The Dark Omen bellowed in frustration, a roar of rage that reverberated across the field like a storm breaking loose. The left of the Beastmen's line broke for the woods, panic driving them as much as the will of their twisted leader. The first to turn their backs were cut down swiftly, the relentless fire of Imperial handgunners and the savage chops of the halberdiers making short work of them. Still, most managed to escape, disappearing into the shadows of the forest. But those in the center who remained, they fought as if they had nothing left but death.

Ned's eyes scanned the field, noting some of the regiments on that side of the field repositioning, standing watch over the woods, ready for any counterstrike. None came. The Beastmen who had fled did not return to attempt to save their doomed kin. They were leaving them to die, abandoning the fight entirely to save their own skins.

The realization settled over the Imperial ranks like a heavy fog, but there was no celebration yet. This was not a swift, easy end. The Beastmen fought with a savagery that made even seasoned veterans flinch, pressed into a tight knot of defiance, their numbers still great enough to slow the Imperial advance. Every step forward felt like an eternity of grinding, blood-soaked combat.

Ned pushed his way through the thick of it, his blade rising and falling with a grim finality. There was no great glory in this kind of killing, in cutting down an enemy who had nowhere to run. But war against the creatures of Chaos would always be honorable no matter the circumstances. War against the servants of the Dark Gods was about securing the survival of the mortal races and in that there was always honor and glory.

He glanced at Jon, fighting nearby, his white wolf snapping at the heels of a wounded foe. They fought as one, boy and beast, hardened by the relentless cruelty of the battlefield.

The fight dragged on, hour after hour, as the Beastmen were slowly crushed into the center, a crowd of rage and desperation, packed so tight that they could barely move. It was only when they were reduced to a dwindling core of powerful monsters and mutants, that the end finally seemed near. The air was thick with the stench of blood and sweat, of fear and fury. Ned saw Malagor, the Dark Omen, at the center of it all, his hideous form twisted in defiance. And then, in a flash of dark, warped shadow-light, the creature vanished, teleporting away and abandoning his followers to their fate.

At this point, a band of Minotaurs, hulking beasts of pure muscle and bloodlust, were all that remained. They fought with a fury that defied sense, their rage turning them into a wall of death. But even they could not stand against the combined might of the Empire and the Elves. Arrows and gunfire tore through them, bringing their madness to an end.

Ned wiped the sweat from his brow, his breath still heavy with the weight of the battle that had passed. All around him, the battlefield lay strewn with the bodies of the fallen, both friend and foe, a ghastly testament to the day's grim work. Yet, in the fading light of the afternoon, as the smoke and dust began to settle, the unmistakable sense of victory filled the air. A hard-fought triumph, forged in steel and blood, and blessed by the will of the gods.

The Beastmen were broken, their vile horde shattered upon the field. What had once seemed an endless tide of darkness, invincible and unstoppable, now lay crushed beneath the might of the Empire and its allies.

It had been a force even greater than he had first believed. From the deck of the ship, he had not grasped the full scope of the enemy's strength. One hundred twenty thousand, at least, had come to Delberz, intent on its ruin. But now, perhaps three-fourths of that vast horde lay dead upon the ground, their twisted forms scattered like autumn leaves in a forest laid bare by a storm.

Morghur, the Shadowgave, was no more. The foul creature, whose very presence had twisted and poisoned the land, had fallen beneath the righteous wrath of Ghal Maraz and the Emperor's strength. And with his death, the shadow over Delberz had lifted. Middenland had been spared from the darkness.

A wind stirred the field, carrying with it the scent of blood and fire, but also something purer, the breath of the earth, as though the land itself sighed in relief. The Dark had been defied this day. The light of Sigmar had shone bright, the ferocity of Ulric had carried the charge, and the quiet, enduring strength of Taal had watched over them all. They had stood together, men, elves, and creatures of the forest, all bound by the same purpose: to protect what was good and right in this world.

And they had prevailed.

Ned's heart swelled with pride and sorrow in equal measure. So many good men had fallen to see this day through, their lives given in defense of the realm. He looked across the battlefield and saw their faces in his mind's eye, noble men of the Empire, brave warriors who would never again stand in the light of the sun. But they had earned their rest, and surely, they now dined in the halls of the gods, honored and remembered for their sacrifice.

For such is the fate of all men, thought Ned. We live and we die, and in the end, it is our deeds that will echo in the songs of those who come after.

The thought brought him peace, as he stood there amidst the ruins of the battle. Though the cost had been great, Delberz was saved. The enemy had been driven back, and for this day at least, the light had triumphed over the dark.

Chapter Text

The battlefield still reeked of blood and smoke, the echoes of slaughter lingering in the air. Ned could practically taste it, the bitterness of death clinging to every breath he sucked in. The bodies of Beastmen, their twisted forms grotesque even in death, littered the ground, a reminder of just how close the day had come to ruin. But they had won. The Empire had held the line, and the Elves had struck like a storm from the woods, turning the tide just when all seemed to hang in the balance.

He watched as the Emperor dismounted from Deathclaw, exhaustion briefly flickering across his noble face. Even Sigmar's chosen could feel the weight of battle, Ned supposed. But Karl Franz was a man of discipline. A deep breath, a steadying of the shoulders, and that fleeting weariness vanished as if it had never been there.

"Duke Leopold," the Emperor called out, his voice firm despite the weariness that clung to him. "See a Jade Wizard or a Priestess of Shallya about that wound."

Leopold grimaced, his face pale, his left arm hanging limp as his right hand clutched it. Some great beast, a minotaur most likely, had shattered his shield and broken his bones with a terrible blow. The Duke gave a tight nod before stumbling off toward the healers.

Ned stood nearby, watching the Emperor with a mixture of respect and concern. Karl Franz was every inch the warrior king the Empire needed, strong, sharp-eyed, with a sense of purpose as steady as an oaken trunk. But even kings could bleed. Even emperors could be weary after days like this.

"Lord Stark," the Emperor said, turning to him, his voice lower now, as though he spoke not just to a commander but a friend. "Let us go meet our guests."

Ned nodded, falling into step beside him, Jon walking at his side, the great white wolf Frost padding silently along. His body ached from the fight, and though he had occasionally seen worse in his years, the sight of so many dead Beastmen and fallen soldiers still filled him with a grim weight.

"Magister Patriarch Lobas!" The Emperor's voice rang out again, this time louder as he looked farther down the line. "Let us go meet the Elves." Lesser lords trailed the Emperor like sheep after a shepherd, while a party of greatswords played sheepdog.

Ned turned and saw the figure of the Wild Father, the ancient patriarch of the Amber Order, gruff and silent, nodding his assent. The magister began walking toward them, his staff thumping in rhythm with his heavy strides.

Ned shifted his gaze back to the Emperor. "That was a battle out of legend, Your Majesty," he said, his voice carrying the tired admiration of a man who had seen more than his share of war. "I think only the one we fought in Kislev five years ago can compare."

The Emperor nodded solemnly. "'Twas a fearsome clash. If the Elves had not arrived…" His words trailed off, and he shook his head, staring into the distance where the remnants of the Beastmen lay strewn across the field. "We still could have won the day in the end, but we would have been bled white for certain."

"How many did we lose?" Ned asked quietly, though he already dreaded the answer.

"Perhaps twelve thousand dead," the Emperor replied, his voice heavy. "And nine thousand wounded." A frightful toll, the numbers hung down on them like a anchor, roughly three in ten of those who saw battle. "It would have been far worse if not for Lord Magister Grunfeld."

"Yes," came the gruff voice of Setanta Lobas, the Patriarch of the Amber Order, as he stepped up beside Ned, his heavy boots sinking into the blood-soaked ground. Ned blinked in surprise; the man rarely spoke unless necessary. "I can see why Grunfeld is favored to succeed Arburg as Matriarch of the Jade Order. That tree of hers was inspired."

Ned turned his head, studying the older man's weathered face. Setanta Lobas was not one for idle praise. That he spoke now, and with such clear admiration, meant much.

The tree had been magic then, and not some divine act by Taal. Ned felt a surge of respect. He had seen many strange and wondrous things since he had first marched to war as a boy. But the sight of that great oak, with its branches stretching wide over the field of battle, casting healing pollen, alight with a soft green glow, down on the wounded like a blessing from the gods… it had left him speechless.

A miracle, if ever there was one.

He had known the power of magic, of course. He had seen it wielded with brutal effectiveness by many over the years, most impressively by the Tzarina herself. Ned remembered Kislev, the bitter cold biting through layers of fur and steel, the sky dark and unforgiving. He had watched as the Ice Queen conjured walls of ice as formidable as those that circled a market town, gales that howled like the wolves of Ulric, and fields of razor-sharp ice spikes that had skewered whole battalions of men and monsters alike.

But there had been something different about this. There was no fury, no destructive force behind the Jade Magister's work. Only life and an ancient, powerful vitality that filled the battlefield, mending torn flesh, knitting broken bones. Thousands had been saved by that single spell.

Ned's eyes swept across soldiers walking by, their armor rent and stained with blood, yet they looked unharmed. Many of them were on their feet only thanks to that great oak. It was a wonder, truly, that so much death had been averted in a battle that had seemed poised to drown them all in blood.

"The only thing that comes close to what I saw today," Ned said, his voice low as though unwilling to break the solemn air of the aftermath, "is the magic of the Tzarina. But her power felt… colder." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "This felt like something older. Something… gentler."

Lobas grunted, nodding once. "Nature's fury is one thing. It is often brutal and unforgiving. But nature's mercy, the warmth of spring and a mother's love... that is something even more ancient." He glanced at Ned; eyes hard but not unkind. "A rare sight, Lord Stark. Best not forget it."

Most of the Elves had already slipped back into the depths of the forest, their presence fading as if they had never been there at all. But a small party remained, standing in the shadows of the trees at the edge of the field like statues from another age. At their center was their Queen, her figure unmistakable even among the tall, slender forms of her Eternal Guard.

Ned regarded them warily. The Eternal Guard were as still as the trees they came from, yet their armor gleamed through the blood and grime, plates and scales catching the afternoon light like polished silver. They moved with a grace beyond human understanding, pale-skinned and sharp-eyed, their cloaks the color of the forest itself. Their hair, in shades of brown and auburn, seemed to blend with the earth and the bark of the trees. Some wore helms adorned with the antlers of deer, as though they had stolen crowns from the forest's most noble creatures.

But it was the Queen who held Ned's gaze.

She did not look like most of the Wood Elves, whose faces and bearing spoke of the wild places, of shadowed groves and ancient oaks. No, this one had the appearance of the fabled High Elves of Ulthuan, their seafaring kin who lived in palaces of marble and gold. Long golden hair, bright as sunlight, cascaded down her back, and her crown, slim and delicate, fashioned of gold and ithilmar in the form of leaves blowing in the wind, bearing jewels that glittered like the stars. Her face was otherworldly, the kind of beauty that no mortal woman could match. If Ned hadn't known better, he'd have sworn she was no older than two and twenty. But he knew the truth. This queen had lived for centuries, ruling her realm with a power and wisdom far beyond her youthful appearance.

A strange chill crept up Ned's spine as he studied her. Beauty like that didn't belong in a place like this, amidst the ruin of battle, the stench of blood and death. She seemed untouched by it all, as if the filth and horror of the world simply couldn't touch her. And yet, he knew better than to be fooled by appearances. The Elves were as dangerous as any Beastman, perhaps more so. They were creatures of magic, and there was an old power in them, something that Ned had never quite trusted.

He could feel the weight of her eyes on him, sharp and cold, measuring him just as he was measuring her.

"Your Majesty," the Emperor said, his voice laced with respect, "you were not expected, but your arrival was most welcome."

The Elf Queen inclined her head slightly, her golden hair shimmering as it caught the light falling through the branches of the trees. "Ever have the Eonir been opposed to the Beastmen and to Morghur in particular, Your Grace. We could not stand idle while the designs of The Corruptor and The Dark Omen threatened the world. It is good to see Morghur dispelled, and with such a potent divine weapon... it will be many decades, at least, before he is reborn."

Ned's heart sank. It was like the bottom had dropped out of his stomach, and a cold chill crept up his spine. 'She couldn't mean...,' But the Emperor's face confirmed it.

Karl Franz sighed, a sound filled with the weight of grim understanding. "So it is true, then, what they say of him?"

The Queen nodded, her expression as ethereal and unreadable as the wind. "He is more Daemon than Beastman now. The Asrai of Athel Loren have slain him several times over the millennia. The last time was in the year two thousand and seven, by your reckoning. They doused him with sap harvested from the sacred Oak of Ages, and he burst into purifying flames hotter than any magic or dragon fire. It took him two centuries to be reborn after that, and he has rampaged through the woods for three hundred years since."

She paused, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as if the burden of this knowledge weighed even on her ancient soul. "Ghal Maraz is a mighty artifact, and Sigmar a powerful god, but even so, Morghur will return. Perhaps in a century, perhaps two."

Ned's fingers tightened on the reins, a creeping dread settling into his bones. He had thought the monster vanquished, a great victory to celebrate. But no. In this world, the horrors never truly ended. Morghur would rise again, as sure as the seasons turned. The thought of it clawed at him, like the cold winds of Kislev biting at his face. 'How do you fight an enemy that never dies?' he wondered. 'How do you protect your people from something that will always come back?'

The Emperor stood tall, his face grim but resolved. But Ned felt the weight of it all pressing down on him, heavier than his armor, heavier than the sword at his side. The fight wasn't over, not truly. It never would be.

"It is rare, but even Daemons can die forever. Eventually, we will find a way," the Emperor said with a confidence that could only belong to a man who'd stood against countless horrors and lived to tell the tale. "And he will be gone for some time. Even by the standards of Elves, a century or two is a fine reprieve. Time enough for us to crush this uprising and slay the rest of their leaders. There will be no coming back for them."

The way he spoke was simply inspiring, lifting Ned's spirits and fortifying his resolve. The weight and dread dissipated, replaced by conviction and ironclad determination.

The Elf Queen's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "It is times like these I admire the confidence of humanity." Her gaze shifted, landing on Ned with an intensity that made him uneasy. "Lord Stark, thank you for your timely assistance. My son is far too young to take the throne."

Ned inclined his head, his voice steady though his thoughts churned. "I was only doing my duty, Your Grace."

"Yet saving a Queen must be rewarded," she said, her tone light, but there was something in her eyes, something ancient, something beyond his understanding. "I will have an amulet of protection made for you. A simple thing, to make the wearer resistant to magic."

Ned blinked, caught off guard by the offer. That was no small thing; it sounded like something beyond value, beyond price. "My family will treasure it forever, Your Majesty."

The Queen's eyes seemed to grow sharper, and her smile thinned, becoming almost wistful. "That means far more from your family than from most humans. Nearly all the great dynasties of the Empire from when I was a girl have fallen from power, or been subsumed by another house. All save House Stark, which rules over the same crossing as it has since before the birth of Sigmar." She paused, her voice taking on a strange tone. "I wonder if your House's time has finally come."

Ned felt a chill creep up his spine at her words. There was something ominous in them, something unsettling. "What do you mean?" he asked, a knot of alarm tightening in his chest.

The Queen's expression remained calm, but her next words hit him like a blow to the gut. "Chancellor Hertwig is dead. He fell five days ago with two of his sons, slain by Taurox the Brass Bull."

Ned gasped, horror gripping him. Chancellor Hertwig, the Elector Count of Ostermark, the man who had ruled the province for decades… dead?

The Queen continued, her voice steady, almost detached, as if she were recounting something inevitable. "The eldest of his sons rallied the remnants of the army and retreated to Bechafen. He has since beaten off two serious attacks on the walls."

Ned struggled to process it. Hertwig was gone. His sons, his legacy… Bechafen under siege. It felt like the ground beneath his feet was crumbling, the weight of the news bearing down on him.

The Emperor, ever pragmatic, asked, "How do you know this?"

The Queen's gaze never wavered. "When I became aware of the danger of this Beastmen uprising, I sent out rangers to all the northern provinces along the World Roots, to observe and return to me with news of import."

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Ned's mind raced. Ostermark was in chaos, its leadership shattered, and now Bechafen, the capital, was under siege. And the Queen's cryptic remark echoed in his ears, 'I wonder if your House's time has finally come.'

There was no escaping it. War was coming to his doorstep, and the Stark name, old as it was, would be tested once more.

"What of my son, Your Majesty?" Ned's voice was thick with worry. His mind was racing, imagining all the horrors that might have befallen Robb. His boy was young, untested, and this war, this world was cruel. "What of Robb and his army?"

The Queen's gaze settled on him, her expression calm, almost serene, in stark contrast to the storm brewing in Ned's heart. "The outlying villages around Winter Town are abuzz with news of great victory," she said, her voice carrying a strange lilt, as if she were speaking of ancient stories rather than recent events. "They say that your son saved the Slayer Keep just as it was about to fall to a Waaagh led by Grimgor Ironhide. That Umgrim Ironfist himself has named him Dwarf-Friend and promised him great treasures in reward."

Eddard's heart pounded in his chest. "Robb defeated Grimgor Ironhide?" he repeated, scarcely able to believe it. Grimgor Ironhide was no minor Greenskin warlord… he was a monster, a legend, the brute who had ravaged Kislev not two years past. For Robb to stand against him...

The Queen nodded, her ethereal features impassive. "And it is said that your son slew Oglah Khan in single combat, in an epic duel."

Pride surged in Ned's chest, mingling with the relief that had begun to bloom. Robb, his boy, had done that? The first campaign he'd led, and already, these victories? Ned had always known that Robb was clever, that Starks were strong, their blood ancient and true, but this... this was far beyond what he'd dared to hope.

"If Winter Town has had news of this victory," Ned said, his mind calculating, "Robb should be back in the city within two or three weeks."

"Good," the Emperor said, his voice firm with satisfaction. "If he managed to handle Grimgor, he will be able to ensure the city stands. We'll need him if we are to see this through." The Emperor turned to the Queen, his brow furrowing. "What of the other Elector-Counts, Your Majesty? How goes their campaigns?"

The Queen tilted her head, golden hair spilling over her shoulders, her eyes distant as if reading messages written in the wind or listening to reports from the murmurs of far distant trees. "Graff Todbringer and the Grand Baron of Nordland both march for Grimmenhagen. Khazrak One-Eye will no doubt try to confront them separately, but I do not see him defeating both armies. Todbringer leads a mighty host, nearly as formidable as yours was at the onset of this battle. And Gausser's force is comparable to the army you left Reikland with, not one easily brushed aside."

She paused, a flicker of doubt crossing her face. "Though... if Malagor and those that escaped here today move to reinforce Khazrak..." She shook her head. "I have already sent out rangers. If the Dark Omen dares show his twisted visage again this season, the Eonir will be there to confront him and aid those he faces."

"It will be much appreciated," the Emperor said, his voice lowering in gratitude. "The Eonir have not done so much for the Empire since the Great War Against Chaos."

"The Graff has been a good neighbor," the Queen replied, her lips curving into a soft smile. "As has the Grand Baron, even if some of his nobles make it difficult for him."

"What of Hochland and Talabecland, Your Majesty?" The Wild Father's voice, as gruff and deep as the roots of an ancient tree, cut through the air. Ned had nearly forgotten he was there, as still and silent as a statue. When he spoke, it was always like thunder in a clear sky.

The Queen turned her eyes toward him, her gaze calm and calculating. "Von Raukov is approaching Hergig at speed, with a formidable force. I expect he will break the siege." There was confidence in her voice, as if the matter had already been settled. "As for Talabecland, Feuerbach and his vassals have crushed the major Warherds within their borders. Yet, they suffered significant losses in those battles. Quite a few minor bands still roam the woods, and they must be hunted down. Feuerbach will not be sending expeditions beyond Talabecland's borders anytime soon." She paused, considering. "The Grand Duke has, however, sent large shipments of food and munitions by ship to Hergig."

The Emperor stroked his chin, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Not bad, not bad at all. If the Graff and the Grand Baron are victorious near Grimmenhagen, one of them can march to relieve Krudenwald. Von Raukov, after breaking the siege of Hergig, can turn back to aid Ostermark."

Ned listened, absorbing the news. It was better than he had expected. The pieces were falling into place for the war to be won without the Emperor needing to lift his sword again. Victory was in sight, if all went as planned. But if there was one thing Ned knew, it was that plans had a way of unraveling, and men like Karl Franz did not wait for events to unfold without them.

Ned watched the Emperor closely. The man had the look of a hawk ready to strike, not content to sit idly by while others did the fighting. 'If it were me,' Ned thought, 'I would be the same. How can a man sit back and wait while his people bleed?'

The Emperor's voice snapped him back to the present. "We will not sit idle," Karl Franz declared, his eyes sharp as he looked out over the assembled lords. "Our part in this war is not yet done." The words were steel, and Ned knew the Emperor meant to march, whether the war could be won without him or not.

Ned stood there, a flood of emotions swirling within him. There was relief for Robb's safety, pride for his victories, the inspiration of the Emperor's words and the heavy weight of the news the Queen had delivered, both dire and welcome. The Beastmen were far from defeated. The war was not over. But after their victory here, and the news of Robb and the other armies on the march, the hope flickering in his heart grew into a raging flame.

"Since there are two Imperial armies in the north," the Emperor said, his voice steady and commanding, "and I'm sure the Eonir would prefer to focus on that area, being close to Laurelorn, it makes the most sense for us to move south and reinforce von Raukov. If things go well, we can liberate Hochland and move on to Ostermark before the snows set in."

The Elven Queen nodded, her regal bearing unshaken. "That does seem the most prudent thing to do," she agreed, her words calm, but her gaze sharp, always watching, always assessing.

Ned felt the weight of the Emperor's words before they were spoken. He had known something was coming, something that would pull him in a direction he hadn't planned.

Karl Franz turned to him, his eyes steady but not without sympathy. "I know you wished to proceed to Middenheim from here, but with Ostermark in peril, I can understand if you wish to return. Delberz has a fine temple of Ulric with a Chapter House of the Knights of the White Wolf attached. Jon doesn't have to go all the way to Middenheim to join them."

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Ned couldn't speak. He grimaced, his thoughts racing. He could have had Jon join the White Wolves in Winter Town if convenience were all that mattered. But it wasn't. He had planned to take Jon to Middenheim for a reason. The Chapter House there, attached to the Great Temple of Ulric, was the most prestigious. Joining it would have helped Jon's career, placing him in the company of men who could shape his future. And there was something else, something personal. Ned had long desired to see the White Flame of Ulric with his own eyes, to stand before it, feel its holy warmth. The thought of that flame had been a beacon, pulling him north. Now, the dream flickered and dimmed.

The Emperor's suggestion was no suggestion at all, not really. It was a command wrapped in silk, a request made by a man who expected it to be followed. Ned knew he could refuse, but to do so would squander much of the goodwill he had built with Karl Franz during this journey. And the Emperor had a point. With Ostermark in peril, how could he justify a detour to Middenheim? His people needed him.

He sighed heavily, feeling the weight of duty settle over his shoulders like a cloak of iron. Ned turned to Jon, expecting to see disappointment, but his son met his gaze with a sad, knowing smile.

"I understand, Father," Jon said quietly, his voice steady despite the sadness in his eyes. "Joining the White Wolves here is fine."

Ned's heart ached at the words. Jon had always understood too much, had always been too willing to sacrifice his own desires for the sake of others. It wasn't fair, not to him. But when had life ever been fair?

Ned nodded slowly, his voice rough when he finally spoke. "You're sure?"

Jon smiled again, that same sad smile that tore at Ned's heart. "I'm sure."

Ned closed his eyes for a moment, letting the weight of it all press down on him. The roads they walked were never easy, never straight. He had hoped to give Jon something more, something better. But in the end, duty always came first. It always did.

And so, he nodded, turning back to the Emperor. "We will do as you suggest, Your Majesty. Jon will join the White Wolves here, in Delberz."

Karl Franz inclined his head, understanding in his eyes. "You're doing the right thing, Lord Stark."

'The right thing,' Ned thought, turning the words over in his mind. They always had the best outcome in the long run, and one would often look back in confusion at why it was so difficult a decision to make, but it always tasted so sour in the moment.

The Emperor turned to the Elven Queen with that commanding air he wore so easily, as if every word was a foregone conclusion. "Would you care to join us for dinner in Delberz, Your Majesty?"

The Queen's expression was one of immediate refusal, lips parting to deliver a polite dismissal.

But Karl Franz wasn't finished. "I would appreciate the chance to discuss the northern campaign in more depth. I believe we can greatly increase our chances of victory if we coordinate better, especially with your ability to send messengers through the World Roots. If the Graff and the Grand Baron could communicate and align their movements, they'd be far more effective against the Beastmen. And of course, there are other matters you might wish to address… human settlers encroaching upon Laurelorn, for one. The broader issue of your forest's relations with Nordland and Middenland, too."

At that, her mouth snapped shut. Ned watched as her keen eyes flickered with thought, weighing the Emperor's words. The silence that followed was tense, though not from the Emperor's side. He stood with the quiet confidence of a man who knew he had just shifted the conversation in his favor.

The Queen, after a long pause, nodded with reluctance. "Those do sound like matters worth discussing, Your Grace."

A brief flicker of discontent passed across the faces of her guards, their displeasure obvious even though they hid it quickly. Ned could hardly blame them, Elves didn't trust easily, and dining with a human emperor, in one of his own cities, over matters of war and politics wasn't their usual way. The thought brought him back to his own worries about the journey, about Jon, about the choice he had just made. There was always something being bartered, whether it was land, armies, or even a son's future.

The Emperor, however, looked pleased as he gestured toward the city's gates. "Then let us proceed," he said, his voice warm with satisfaction. "Evening is fast approaching."

Ned fell into step behind them, his mind still troubled. The Elven Queen had her own agenda, he could see that much. Her decision to accept the invitation was not driven by politeness, but by something deeper, something she had yet to reveal. Karl Franz knew that, and perhaps even welcomed it.

Ned, on the other hand, could only brood. The world was shifting around him, in ways that felt beyond his control. There was always some new scheme, some fresh threat on the horizon. He had seen it before in the courts of the Empire, and he had learned to navigate them as best he could. But at times like these, he longed for the simpler dangers of the battlefield, where a man could face his foes in the open and deal with them by sword and steel.

The Emperor and the Queen exchanged words, discussing tactics and logistics, but Ned's thoughts were elsewhere. He thought of Robb, somewhere on the road back from his hard-won victory, of Jon and his path now leading him to Delberz instead of Middenheim.

He had done what was right, and that brought some comfort. There had been sacrifices made, and hopes deferred. Yet he had always found that such actions often led to greater victories and dreams fulfilled than what had been so bitterly given up in the first place. He could only pray to Ulric that such would be the case once again.

Chapter Text

The streets of Delberz erupted with cheers as they entered the city. Not just the garrison and the militia, but the common folk as well, rich burghers in their puffed lace sleeves stood shoulder to shoulder with peasant refugees clad in sackcloth. "Karl Franz!" they cried, the Emperor's name rolling like thunder through the streets. "Karl Franz!" "Karl Franz!" His name echoed, mingling with shouts of praise for Ulric, Sigmar, and Taal, the gods themselves invoked, for they too had fought beside them.

The Emperor smiled and waved, throwing fistfuls of silver shillings into the crowd, each coin sending the people into fresh waves of adoration. Beneath him, his griffon, Deathclaw, strutted with even more pride than his master, preening before the admiration of the masses. To the beast, it seemed as though the crowd was cheering for him as much as for Karl Franz, and perhaps they were.

Ned rode among them, the other lords and officers trailing behind the Emperor, receiving their share of applause. The common soldiers basked in it as well, chests swelling with pride. This, Ned realized, was what they fought for, not just victory, but for the people. To return from battle as heroes, to be welcomed as saviors. It filled them all with a sense of purpose and satisfaction. Even he felt the weight of the moment. The battle had been hard-fought and the cost heavy, but seeing the joy in the faces of the people, it was impossible not to feel that it had been worth it.

To his surprise, even the Elves received cheers, their uneasy expressions betraying how out of place they felt in a human city. Word of their intervention had spread faster than wildfire, it seemed, and now even they were hailed as heroes. They shifted in the saddles of their stags and horses, uncomfortable with the praise, but the people didn't care. The Elves had fought side by side with the Empire, and that was all that mattered to them.

The procession wound its way through Delberz, the cheers following them all the way to the mayor's residence, a grand mansion at the heart of the city. They were greeted at the entrance by the mayor himself, a portly man of about sixty with a cheerful face and thick, greying muttonchops. Baranduin Alvere, Ned remembered, though he had never met the man before. He had won election twenty years running though, and had been unopposed in the last five, so he was a well-known figure.

Beside him stood a young brunette woman, no more than eighteen, her face flushed not with age but with the feverish intensity of a Bright Wizard. Ned had seen enough pyromancers in his time to know the signs, her eyes smoldering with the Red Wind of fire. She wore a short sleeve on her right arm, deliberately exposing the mark of Aqshy that coiled around her upper arm like a serpent. It was a mark of honor, of course. Ned knew well the pride wizards took in their power, how they flaunted the gifts that set them apart.

The mayor's youngest daughter, no doubt. The news of her joining the Colleges of Magic a few years ago had spread quickly, as such things always did, especially when someone of prominence was involved. It was the same with Bran and Arya. Word of their apprenticeship in Altdorf had surely reached Nuln and Marienburg by now. The thought of them so far away, training to wield powers he barely understood, sat uneasily with him, but there was nothing to be done about it.

Ned inclined his head in greeting, though his eyes lingered on the young wizard a moment longer. So young, he thought, yet already bearing the weight and responsibility of the fire she commanded. No doubt she had been the pyromancer on the wall who had destroyed the ram brought against the gate. How many times, he wondered, had the deliverance of Delberz from destruction rested on her shoulders?

Looking at her reminded him of the world they lived in, a world where children grew up too fast, where they were expected to carry burdens that should have been borne by their elders. He thought of Robb, far away on his campaign, and Jon, ready to join the White Wolves. Of Araya and Bran learning to master arcane gifts that could kill them or drive them mad.

They were all so young. Too young. But the world did not wait for anyone to grow into their roles. It demanded, and it took, whether they were ready or not.

The Emperor was already speaking with the mayor, exchanging pleasantries, but Ned's thoughts were elsewhere. He had fought his share of battles, had seen bloodshed, atrocities and the horrors of war. Now his children were being drawn into it, in ways he couldn't have foreseen. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. The world was moving faster than he could keep pace with. All he could do was try to guide them through it, to keep them safe as best he could.

But deep down, he knew that safety was a fleeting thing in times like these.

They were ushered inside, the mayor's mansion far grander than any building Ned had seen since leaving Altdorf. The long dining table gleamed under the light of a dozen oil lamps; their steady glow reflected from silvered mirrors onto the polished wood. The Emperor took his seat at the head, naturally, with the Queen of Laurelorn to his right, her ethereal presence almost unnerving in the mortal trappings of this place. The mayor of Delberz sat to Karl Franz's left, his portly form almost spilling from his chair.

Ned was placed in the seat next to the mayor, across from Duke Leopold, a man as broad and muscled as a bull, dressed overly fine, with a ruddy face that seemed perpetually on the verge of bursting. It looked like his arm had been taken care of and healed well.

Beside the Duke sat the Magister Patriarch of the Amber Order, whose eyes betrayed a longing to be anywhere but here, perhaps sleeping under a tree in the forest, far from the confines of courtly etiquette. And to Ned's left, conveniently placed, was the Chapter Master of the White Wolves of Delberz.

'How quickly this was arranged,' Ned thought, sipping the wine that had been poured for him. The Emperor's machinations moved faster than most men's thoughts. No doubt Karl Franz had carefully placed each guest, each conversation already playing out in his mind. Nothing here was by chance.

The Emperor rose, raising his goblet. "A toast," he said, his voice commanding the room's attention. "To all those who fought with us here today, both men and Elves alike." He inclined his head toward the Queen, who gave the barest nod in return. "Let us remember those who fell, defending the world from the dark."

His words hung heavy in the air, and the response was immediate. "Here, here!" "Aye, aye!" Goblets and mugs clinked together, and the guests drank deeply, eager to be seen partaking in the Emperor's toast. Ned lifted his own cup but drank only a sip. The weight of the fallen was not something he could wash away with wine, however fine.

The Queen seemed similarly restrained, just taking one sip from her goblet, though he thought that was Eleven snobbery at work rather than anything deeper at work. It was said they thought the finest human wines little better than rotgut. Their standards for wine higher even than the ones Dwarfs held for beer, impossible as that seemed.

As soon as the Emperor sat, the room hummed with conversation. Lords and officers leaned toward one another, voices low, speaking of strategy and losses, of future battles and what rewards might come. Ned listened without really hearing, his thoughts drifting back to Winterfell, to the snow-covered halls and the great sacred oak of Taal's wood. Here in the heart of the Empire, with its crowded streets and grand banquets, his home felt like a distant dream.

The Chapter Master beside him broke into his thoughts. "Lord Stark, I am Sir Tannhäuser, Chapter Master of the White Wolves of Delberz ," he said, his voice deep and melodic, quite unlike what one would expect of a warrior long accustomed to the battlefield. "It's an honor to meet such a distinguished follower of Ulric. I've heard your son Jon is interested in joining the White Wolves?"

Ned turned to face him, studying the man's face. It was marked with thin scars where it had been sliced open by the edge of a blade. He was older than Ned had expected, with a full beard more grey than brown and eyes that had seen more death than life. There was respect in his tone, but also something else, something probing. This wasn't mere conversation; it was another move in the game that Karl Franz played so well.

"Aye," Ned said, nodding slowly. "Jon's always had an affinity for wolves. He's been drawn to Ulric's path since he was a young boy."

The Chapter Master smiled, and though it reached his eyes, it was a challenging one. "Ulric demands strength and courage above all else. Your son will find both tested among us. The White Wolves of Delberz are a proud order."

"I've no doubt of that," Ned replied. His gaze flicked briefly to the Emperor, who was deep in conversation with the Queen, his words too low to hear but doubtlessly about the upcoming campaign to the north.

The Emperor's suggestion to have Jon join the Delberz chapter had been no idle remark. He was steering him, guiding him along a path that would keep Jon closer to the frontlines, where Karl Franz needed strong men. For even though the White Wolves of Middenheim often left the city to aid the Graff on his campaigns, there was no doubt the Delberz chapter saw more combat than they, given its location deep within the Drakwald.

"I had intended to take Jon to Middenheim," Ned continued, watching the Chapter Master's reaction closely. "To have him join the chapter there, under the shadow of the Great Temple."

"A noble goal," the Chapter Master said, his voice carefully measured. "But the wolves of Delberz are no lesser in Ulric's eyes. Many a man has joined the White Wolves at far more minor outposts of the Cult than ours and risen high. And with the Empire in peril, perhaps Ulric has guided Jon where he's most needed."

'Needed by whom?' Ned thought, though he kept his face impassive. He had been a lord long enough to know when he was being maneuvered, and the Emperor was playing his pieces well. Jon's place in the White Wolves here was more than just a choice for his son, it was a part of the larger game. A way to take care of Jon while at the same time allowing him to send Ned back to Ostermark where the Emperor wanted him to be.

Ned took another sip of his wine, feeling the weight of the decision pressing on him. Jon had always wanted to follow Ulric's path, but there was more at stake now than his son's desires. The wolves of Delberz would test him, yes, but they would also shape him into an asset the Emperor could use. And in these times, with war on all sides and darkness creeping ever closer, Ned was sure he couldn't afford to refuse.

He didn't even want to refuse… not really, it was just that he didn't like to be forced to change his plans so suddenly. Foolish he knew, he was not a boy, to think that he was in control of the world. But reign long enough as a powerful lord and you began to think that way. Serving in the presence of the Emperor, quickly reminded one of their limits.

"I'll consider your words," Ned said finally, meeting the Chapter Master's gaze. "But in the end, it's Jon's choice to make." Of course, Jon had already made his decision, but there was no reason to tell the Chapter Master now. The Emperor had likely already informed Sir Tannhäuser of Jon's decision, but it wouldn't be official until the knight had word from the boy directly. Let him stew until then.

The Chapter Master nodded, though his eyes still glinted with that knowing look. "Of course, Lord Stark. Ulric guides those who are strong enough to follow his path. And your son... I believe he is one of those."

Ned remained silent after that, the weight of the conversation settling heavily on him. The Emperor had set the stage, but it was his move now. And no matter which path he chose, the game would go on.

It was then, just as the conversation between Ned and the Chapter Master began to lull, that they were interrupted by the soft sound of someone clearing their throat. Ned turned to find a young girl standing behind them. She couldn't have been much more than twelve, slim and awkward, her limbs too long for her body, the way children sometimes look when they're in the midst of a growth spurt. Her tousled hair was golden, cropped short at her jaw, and her eyes were a striking blue, big and sharp with a clever glint to them. There was a promise of beauty in her face, but for now, it was the unpolished kind that belonged to youth.

"Excuse me, Chapter Master," the girl said, her voice steady as a rock despite her age. "Would you mind if I spoke with Lord Stark? I believe his son is seated at the table near the door," she added, gesturing down the hall.

The Chapter Master raised an eyebrow and looked at Ned, silently asking whether to humor this strange interruption. Ned, frowning in confusion, turned his attention to the girl. She was no one he recognized, and at a banquet like this, strangers were few and far between.

"And who might you be?" Ned asked, his voice cautious.

Before the girl could answer, there was a sudden outburst from across the table. The mayor's daughter, her face flushed with shock, practically jumped from her seat beside the Wild Father.

"Tanya!" she gasped; her voice filled with disbelief. "What on earth are you doing here? Apprentices aren't allowed out of Altdorf without supervision. Magisters of the Celestial Order rarely leave the city with an apprentice in tow, and that Order never grants exceptions to that rule. They are not the Amber or Grey Orders."

That stirred the Magister Patriarch from his quiet brooding, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the girl with renewed interest. "Explain yourself, Degurechaff!" he barked, his tone sharp with authority.

The girl, Tanya, apparently, remained calm in the face of the sudden scrutiny. With a deliberate movement, she reached into the satchel slung over her shoulder and withdrew an Imperial Magic License, signed and stamped. She handed it to the Magister Patriarch with a certain confidence that belied her years.

"I was promoted," she said simply, her voice flat, as though her words were no more remarkable than stating the weather.

The Magister Patriarch took the document, his expression shifting from annoyance to something like suspicion. He unfolded the parchment, inspecting the fine vellum and the official seals with careful eyes. His brows furrowed as he read, and then furrowed deeper still as he read again, clearly not believing what he saw.

"To Magister?" he asked, his voice low with disbelief. "How?"

Tanya paused, a thoughtful look crossing her young face, before she launched into her explanation with unsettling confidence. "The High Chancellor ordered an inspection of the Undercity, and he tasked the Sewer Watch to escort a party of dwarfs to do the job. But he was concerned the Watch might downplay the problems, while the dwarfs, in their perfectionism, might overstate them. So he sent his apprentice, Lady Stark, to observe conditions with an impartial eye."

The words struck Ned like a hammer blow. "He sent Arya into the sewers?" His voice came out strangled, half a shout, half a groan. He knew well enough what lived in the dark below Altdorf. He'd heard the stories, whispered in the shadows of taverns and told around soldiers' campfires. The loathsome Ratmen, the Skaven, monsters no one dared admit truly existed, though everyone in a position of power knew.

Tanya nodded as though the Emperor's uncle sending a young girl into such peril was nothing at all. "And she immediately recruited me to accompany her. A good thing, too."

The girl's voice was steady, calm in a way that made Ned's skin crawl. "We came across a swarm of subterranean Beastmen preparing for war. I slew at least six hundred of them and outdueled a dark shaman of great power. And thankfully, the two of us, the dwarfs, and most of the watchmen were able to escape."

The table fell silent, as if the weight of her words had sucked all the air from the room. Ned felt his stomach twist with dread. 'Six hundred of those foul creatures. A Grey Seer!' He knew the others at the table, knights and lords, veterans of countless battles, understood the true horror of what she spoke. The Skaven weren't just a threat, they were a scourge. The kind that could devour cities and kingdoms.

The mayor's daughter, what was her name again? Something Bretonnian he was sure, looked confused, but Ned ignored her. His heart pounded as he asked, "Is Arya alright?" The thought of his daughter, so young, facing such danger made his voice crack. The terrible things she must've seen, must've fought…

"Not a scratch," Tanya assured him, her voice too smooth, too practiced for someone her age.

Before Ned could press further, the Emperor leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with interest. "And what did the High Chancellor do when given your report?" His tone was sharp, with a keen edge that could cut through lies and half-truths.

Tanya straightened, her posture equal to a veteran sergeant of the State Troops. "He had the Altdorf throng sweep the Undercity with the Sewer Watch, Your Majesty. Hundreds more of the vermin were slain, and the operation was judged a success."

"Good," Karl Franz said, satisfied, though the grimness in his eyes never faded.

The Magister Patriarch, who had been quietly fuming, finally spoke up, his voice as rough as his expression. "Alright, I can see a promotion to Journeyman for that, but to Magister?" His words were thick with skepticism.

Tanya's lips curled into a dangerous smile, one far too old for her young face. "I simply demanded to undergo the trials immediately. I was put through many tests of skill and knowledge, and I passed them all with perfect marks." She paused, letting the silence build before adding with a touch of mischief, "Of course, the final test is usually a magical duel, but Lord Magister Julevno was so impressed by my performance that he gave me a pass then and there."

Ned's hands tightened around his goblet. The girl spoke like a seasoned general recounting a skirmish, but there was something about her, something cold and calculating, a fire behind her eyes that reminded him of Arya. And that terrified him. 'What in Ulric's name is Arya getting herself into?'

Sir Tannhäuser rose, offering a brief nod to Ned before departing. "Well, I see you and Lord Stark have much to discuss. I think I'll go speak with Jon. Farewell, my Lord."

Ned returned the gesture, watching the knight walk toward his son. The girl… 'Magister,' he corrected himself, slipped into the knight's vacant seat. Now that he knew what to look for, her identity was clear. The dark blue robes embroidered with symbols of moons, stars, and comets; the delicate broaches and pendants pinned in place; all marked her as a Celestial Magister. He hadn't noticed before, her age blinding him to the truth of it. But now, seeing her sitting there with the confidence of a seasoned soldier, it was impossible to ignore.

"Magister Degurechaff, was it?" Ned asked, his voice measured, careful.

The girl nodded; her face impassive. "Yes, Lord Stark."

"I understand how you met my daughter and earned your promotion," Ned said, "but not why you've come to speak with me. Surely, it isn't just to tell me of Arya's exploits?"

Tanya's lips curled ever so slightly, something between a smile and a smirk. "Now that I'm promoted, I need to go out into the field. It's tradition for a newly-minted Journeyman or Magister to serve a lord or an army. You are a lord with an army, and I've heard from Arya that your last wizard passed away tragically. If you're worried about my age, I have letters of recommendation from your daughter and from Lord Magister Julevno, who oversaw my trials."

Ned's brows furrowed, and he felt a heaviness settle in his chest. "Yes, Eckhard fell in battle last year…" He let his words drift for a moment, considering. "And the wizard's turret has sat empty since then…" He studied her more closely now, trying to see beyond her youth. She was absurdly young, too young to be speaking of battles and trials, but she claimed to have killed hundreds of Skaven, bested a Grey Seer, and lived to tell of it. A rare thing, that. He wouldn't have believed it of such a young girl, but the Magister Patriarch of the Amber Order and the Mayor's daughter had not doubted her story for an instant, so he supposed he had to believe it. "I suppose I can take you on," he said at last, "though I'll want to see those letters later."

"Of course," she said with a sharp nod. "You won't regret this. I'm glad to be aligning myself with a House rising to new heights."

Ned's eyes narrowed, a knot forming in his stomach. "What do you mean?" There was something in her tone that set his teeth on edge.

Tanya's expression didn't change, but her voice took on a quiet intensity. "I've seen a map of Ostermark in my dreams, painted with Hertwig's coat of arms. They fade away, replaced by the dire wolf of House Stark." She looked at him knowingly, "I'm sure you understand that the dreams of Celestial wizards are not just dreams."

Her words hit like a cold wind, chilling Ned to the bone. He sat back, his mind racing. Wolfram Hertwig and his younger sons were already dead, slain on the field, but his eldest, Ortwin, was said to be holding Bechafen against the enemy. "Does Bechafen fall?" he asked, his voice thick with the weight of the question. Celestial Magisters were known for their visions, their prophecies, though they were seldom fixed. Fate was not so easily bound, not unless men let it bind them.

Tanya's brow furrowed; her youthful face twisted in a thoughtful frown. "I do not think so. Prince Hertwig's fate is murky… dark but unclear, but in my visions, the city stands."

Ned exhaled slowly, but the tension did not leave him. Hertwig alive but somehow no longer in power? Dead defending the walls? Slain by some stray arrow or caught by a Bray Shaman's spell? He could not see himself being elected Chancellor of Ostermark unless Ortwin fell. The thought churned in his gut like sour wine. Unlike so many of his ancestors he'd never actually wanted to be Elector-Count. The burden of such responsibility… Was this what the Queen of Laurelorn meant when she said 'House Stark's time had come'?

Ned's eyes fell on Tanya again, the girl who sat so casually in the seat of seasoned knights. Too young to be so certain, too young to hold such power. Yet here she was, speaking of the future as if it were already written. But Ned Stark knew better than to trust in prophecy alone.

Tanya's words cut through his thoughts with the sharpness of a well-honed blade. "Forgive me for asking such a materialistic question, but 'turret' sounds rather small," she began, her tone flat and unbothered, despite the forwardness of her query. "I don't mind with regards to my lodgings, but I had intended to have Magister Solmann's books, astrological charts, and other scholarly resources shipped in once I am settled at Winterfell. Is there somewhere that I can store them?"

Ned blinked, the shift in conversation pulling him out of the dark thoughts that had begun to swirl around her earlier prophecies. "If you don't have enough room, I'm sure the library tower the wizard's turret juts off of can accommodate whatever you need. Loremaster Luwin would be more than willing to assist, I'm sure…" He trailed off, finally realizing the implication of her question, "Although, did something happen to Magister Solmann?"

A cold silence settled between them. Tanya paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "I tracked you down through my dreams of the battle that just occurred, though when I dreamt them, the battle had not yet happened." she said, her voice quieter now but no less direct. "In almost every dream and vision I had, he died. Did he not?"

Ned stiffened at her words, his mind racing. His gaze flicked to Magister Patriarch Lobas, seated across the table, searching for some confirmation. The old wizard's frown deepened, lines cutting into his weathered face. "Unfortunately, Magister Solmann was slain by the Dark Omen," he said, his voice heavy with regret.

Ned's heart sank at the news. Although the wizard had lived in Ostland, he had known Solmann for years. He was steady, patient, a voice of reason in times of chaos. And now, gone. He could already envision his empty tower in Volganof, books and ancient scrolls gathering dust, the arcane knowledge Solmann had guarded so carefully, now unmoored.

Before he could dwell further on it, the Emperor spoke, his voice firm, commanding attention. "Magister Degurechaff," he said, addressing Tanya with the formality of a great lord speaking to one of his trusted knights. "I would like to speak more of these visions." His gaze shifted toward the mayor, an unspoken understanding passing between them. "My apologies, Mayor Alvere, but she may have information crucial to our upcoming campaigns. Would you mind switching seats with her?"

The mayor, ever gracious, nodded and rose without complaint. "No problem at all, Your Majesty," he said, stepping aside as Tanya slipped into his place, now seated between the Emperor and Ned himself.

Ned couldn't help but feel the unease creeping in again. Here she was, this girl, barely more than a child, now seated at the Emperor's left, and at his right, as if the fate of the realm rested on her slender shoulders. She spoke of visions as if they were certainties, of death and omens with the same casual air one might discuss the weather. It unsettled him, reminded him too much of the old tales, the things he had tried to leave behind in the stories Old Nan had told him as a boy.

He glanced at Tanya, her face still calm, almost cold, as if none of this weighed on her at all. He could not shake the feeling that she saw more than she let on, that her eyes, young as they were, carried something older, something darker. And here she was, brought into his service, speaking of stars and prophecies and battles yet to come.

Ned cleared his throat, trying to bring himself back to the moment. "You spoke of your visions," he said, more to fill the silence than anything. "What more can you tell us?"

Tanya turned to him, her gaze sharp and calculating. "The stars speak of a storm brewing, Lord Stark. One that will touch every corner of the Old World, and beyond."

The words sent a chill through him. He could feel the weight of it now, pressing down on his shoulders like a winter wind sweeping down from Kislev. Whatever storm she spoke of, it would come for them all, and he was sure he knew what she spoke of.

Ned leaned in closer, his voice barely more than a whisper. "A new..." He hesitated, wary of saying the word Everchosen aloud. The air around the table seemed to tighten as he forced himself to finish, "...Champion from the Northern Wastes?"

Tanya's eyes flicked to him, and she nodded slowly. "Yes," she confirmed, her tone carrying the weight of it. "But aside from knowing that he exists, the visions that far out are… murky. I see a shadow gathering, but its shape is still shifting." There was something in her gaze that unsettled him, the way she spoke of it so casually, as if it were no more than a passing storm cloud.

Ned felt a chill creep up his spine. He had heard too many stories of what an Everchosen could mean. He could see it in his mind's eye, bleak wastes, the landscape twisted and wrong, stretching on forever. Warbands of mutants and daemons massing like vultures around a fresh corpse. A monstrous figure rising up to lead them, crowned in darkness and fire. The last Everchosen had brought Kislev to its knees. Asavar Kul, a monster that Magnus the Pious had only barely defeated with the full might of the Empire behind him. A new Champion of Chaos… he could hardly bring himself to think on it. Not with his children scattered, Jon here in Delberz, Robb marching through the Veldt, and Bran and Arya at Altdorf. Gods, they were all so far away from home.

The Emperor leaned forward, drawing all eyes to him. "Then what of closer events?" His voice was low, each word measured. "How detailed were your visions of the Battle of Delberz?"

Tanya shifted slightly in her seat; hands folded neatly in her lap. "I knew Malagor and Morghur would both be here," she said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "In most of my dreams, the Elves intervened." She inclined her head toward the Queen of Laurelorn, a gesture of respect. "In those where they did not, we still won most of the time… but our losses were horrendous." She paused, letting the words sink in. "Morghur died in many of my dreams, slain by you or the Queen, or a wizard, but the Dark Omen never died."

A silence fell over the table. Ned could see the other lords exchanging uneasy glances, the ripple of fear and doubt passing between them. The Dark Omen, Malagor, was a name whispered in dread across the Empire. The twisted thing that had made a mockery of so many of their armies and wizards, sowing terror wherever he roamed. For a moment, Ned could almost hear Catelyn's voice in his ear, cold and fearful. 'Ominous names for ominous monsters.'

"So my visions," Tanya continued, breaking the silence, "they're expansive… but conflicting. I can tell you what 'might' happen, and what is 'most likely', but I can't tell you what 'will' happen."

There was a bitterness in her voice then, a frustration that seemed to flicker behind those cold, calculating eyes. Ned studied her, trying to read the truth of her. For all her youth, there was a depth there, an intensity that made him wary. It was the look of a gambler weighing odds that no man should have to weigh. And yet here she sat, between himself and the Emperor, speaking of armies and omens and Champions of the Dark Gods as if she were some wizened crone.

The Emperor's gaze remained fixed on her, his expression thoughtful. "Then your visions are not prophecy," he said softly. "They are warnings."

Tanya's lips quirked into a thin, humorless smile. "Aye, Your Majesty. Warnings. If we heed them, perhaps we can bend fate in our favor." Her eyes flicked to Ned again, as if weighing him. "Or, if we're foolish, we'll end up like I saw in the worst of them, entire towns put to the torch, armies shattered, the Empire left bleeding and broken."

Ned clenched his jaw, feeling the weight of it settling on his shoulders. How many times had he thought the same in Ostermark, hearing of a Waaagh forming in the Dark Lands beyond the World's Edge Mountains, or seeing the signs of Beastmen massing in the Gryphon Wood. Warnings. Always warnings. And yet, he knew better than most how hard it was to make men listen.

But this… this was different. An Everchosen rising in the Chaos Wastes, the Beastmen's most feared leader directing an uprising of the foul mutants across the length and breadth of the Empire, and a girl barely twelve or thirteen speaking of visions of slaughter and ruin with the calm of a seasoned general. The stakes were higher than they had ever been, and the future felt more uncertain than it had in years.

"Then we would do well to heed them," Ned said quietly, his eyes still locked on Tanya's. "If your warnings are true… a storm is coming. And we'll need all the strength we can muster." He glanced at the Emperor, who nodded solemnly, then back to the girl. "You've spoken of what might come, Magister. But what would you have us do?"

For a moment, she simply looked at him, her gaze sharp and piercing. Then she leaned forward, voice low and firm. "We put the Beastmen to the sword. We prepare," she said. "We gather our armies, strengthen our walls, and watch the Chaos Waste like hawks. And when the time comes, we act first. Arrive in Kislev before the enemy does. Strike them hard before they've even reached Praag. Make sure the enemy knows that we are not sheep to be butchered."

It was such a simple thing to say, so straightforward and bold. But as she spoke, he felt something stir in him, a flicker of hope amidst the dread. This girl, this young girl, was fearless, unflinching. And maybe, just maybe, she was exactly what they needed. A mind sharp enough to cut through the fog of war, to see the shape of things to come.

Ned nodded slowly, the weight of it settling in. "Then you'll have your place at Winterfell, Magister Degurechaff," he said softly. "And we'll see what fate has in store for us."

…

Karl Franz leaned forward, the weight of his office pressing down on him like a mantle of iron. The Beastmen were a relentless scourge, and though victory at Delberz had given the Empire a moment's reprieve, he knew it would be short-lived. The enemy was still out there in force with all of their vile, savage, cunning and his generals, his armies, they needed answers. He studied the girl, this Magister Degurechaff, with her strange, piercing gaze. There was something unnerving about her, but also something invaluable.

"What of our current campaigns against the Beastmen?" he asked, his tone firm. "Have you had any dreams of the siege of Hergig? Of Ostermark?"

Tanya shook her head, her expression calm, almost too serene for one so young. "Beyond the change of dynasty in Ostermark, no," she said, as if speaking of the weather. The implication lingered, another shift of power, another house falling. In a land as fractured as the Empire, such changes could mean the difference between a province standing strong or crumbling under the weight of invasion.

"A lack of visions is usually a good sign," she continued, her voice steady. "The visions I've seen had great detail of northern Middenland and Hochland. I see two main possibilities; one is a series of major battles between the Beastmen and the armies of Middenland, Nordland and Laurelorn."

She paused, "The second is a colossal battle, even larger than the one that was just fought here. Where the forces besieging Krudenwald and Grimmenhagen unite with the warherd of Khazrak One-Eye and with Malagor and the forces that escaped here. They then take on the combined armies of the Graff, the Grand Baron and the Queen. Either way, the free people are markedly more likely to win, though the casualties among the soldiery and the nobility varies. I can write up a report detailing the most likely scenarios and their results, both good and ill."

Karl Franz listened closely, his brow furrowing as she described a titanic clash, larger than even the slaughter they had just endured. Khazrak One-Eye, that cursed Beastlord, rallying the his dispersed Warherds and uniting with Malagor and the survivors from Delberz. The thought of it was enough to chill him to the bone.

She paused, letting the weight of her words settle over the table like a thick fog. He could see the room tense around her, the other lords and officers exchanging wary glances. None of them had spoken, none of them daring to interrupt.

Her gaze didn't waver, and for a moment Karl Franz found himself wondering if she had already seen the faces of those who would die in the battles to come. Good men and women he had fought besides, trusted, and ruled. His own son, perhaps. Or even himself.

He nodded, his face a mask of carefully measured thought. "Yes, please do that. Make the report as thorough as you are able." he ordered, keeping his voice steady. Inside, though, a kernel of frustration gnawed at him. It was all so... vague. Fascinating, yes, and yet… was it enough?

He wasn't sure.

Karl Franz watched the young girl as she spoke, her voice tranquil but her words weighed with strange foresight. The oil lamps were running low and would have to be refilled soon. Their light flickered across her face, casting long shadows that danced eerily across her youthful features. There was something unsettling about her, a child with a mind like a blade, sharp and cold, cutting through the fog of war with a clarity even his most seasoned generals lacked.

She spoke of battles and visions with the same ease that others spoke of the weather. It wasn't the confidence of the ignorant either. He'd read her books, The Wealth of Nations, On War, Architecture & Urban Planning, all works of genius that would influence the Empire for centuries to come. She could die tomorrow and be regarded as one of mankind's greatest minds, up there with the likes of Leonardo da Miragliano.

"No dreams of Ostermark at all?" he asked, unable to mask his frustration. The Empire was vast, and his armies stretched thin. Every province felt the strain of these endless wars, but Ostermark's fate weighed heavily on him. The instability there could tear the Empire apart as surely as any Beastman horde. "What of Prince Hertwig, Lord Stark, or his son? What of the Brass Bull?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but then her eyes... shifted. Her gaze grew distant, pupils darting wildly, as though she were seeing something none of them could. The air around the table tightened as the men nearby stirred, sensing the change.

"Magister Degurechaff?" The Emperor's voice was steady, but a tendril of unease crept into his tone. He had seen magic enough in his years to know when something unnatural was at work.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the vision passed. The girl blinked, her small frame shaking slightly as she came back to herself. "Sorry," she muttered, her voice trembling just a little. "It's just that your question sparked a vision."

A vision. Karl Franz's heart tightened in his chest. He had dealt with seers before, but something about her unsettled him. Perhaps it was her age, the strange dichotomy of wisdom and innocence that made her both invaluable and deeply unnerving.

"I did see the Young Wolf," she continued, her voice steadying again. "Clashing with a Brass Bull, Fists of Iron at his side. The signs are in their favor."

The young wolf, thought Karl, his mind drifting to Robb Stark, a boy who was barely more than a child himself, and yet already leading an army in his father's name. And 'Fists of Iron', there was no doubt who that was. The Slayer King himself. If Grimnir's chosen was at the boy's side, then perhaps there was hope for Ostermark yet. But hope was a fragile thing, and the Brass Bull was a fearsome leader of the Beastmen, one who'd united the warherds of Talabecland under his banner and rampaged across that province for years.

"Very good news," Karl Franz said, though the weight in his voice betrayed the unease he still felt. It was good news, he told himself. Eddard Stark was a capable lord, measured and sensible. His son showed great promise, leading the fight in his father's absence. But there was no ignoring the larger issue, if Ostermark passed from a Sigmarite line to an Ulrican one, the balance of power in the Empire could shift. A house so closely tied to Ulric could prove troublesome in the future. Eddard Stark might be a stabilizing force, one who preferred peace and unity over doctrinal fervor, but his son? Would the boy see things the same way? Or would his loyalties shift as he grew into his role?

Karl Franz's thoughts flickered to Luitpold, his own son, who had performed well enough in the recent battle. The boy had been thrust into command after his battalion's commanding and deputy officer had fallen, and though he hadn't commanded an army like Robb Stark, he had shown resolve, making decisions that had saved lives. But war could change a boy. As it had no doubt changed Robb Stark, so too would it shape Luitpold. The Emperor could only hope that his son's heart would remain true, that the boy he had raised would emerge from the fires of war as a man fit to one day rule the Empire.

Then there was Todbringer's son to consider. A rival in the making, who'd already won acclaim in previous campaigns. Should the battles ahead prove as bloody as Degurechaff predicted, there was every chance for Heinrich to achieve some act of heroism that could sway the fickle minds of men. And Karl Franz knew all too well how the tide of public sentiment could shift in times of war.

"Magister Degurechaff," he said, looking once more to the girl who had spoken so cryptically and yet so plainly. "Your vision offers hope, but I will need more than hope to win this war." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "The change in Ostermark's ruling dynasty is inevitable, you say?"

She paused, a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. "I am loathe to say anything is inevitable… but compared to most of the visions or dreams I've had this one was unusually simple and direct. It lacked detail, but there were no other options shown. It felt rather definitive," she hesitated once more. "That doesn't mean the change can't be prevented, but it seems unlikely and I have no clues on how to do so."

He clenched his jaw. "Then we must ensure that when it comes, the Empire remains united. There are many who will not take kindly to a shift in control of an electoral province, from Sigmarite to Ulrican, no matter how much that reflects the belief of the population. Nor will Lord Stark's reputation as a statesman or his son's prowess as a general change their minds."

A silence fell over the table, heavy and full of unspoken truths. The Emperor let his gaze drift toward the window, where the fires incinerating thousands of Beastmen corpses still burned in the distance. The Empire was always at war, always fighting some new foe, some new threat to its existence. And now it seemed, they were at risk of fighting on yet another front, one not of steel and blood, but of faith and politics. The Beastmen were a clear and present danger, but the shifting loyalties within the Empire itself? That, Karl Franz knew, could destroy them just as surely as any army.

It was a sad, disheartening thing, Karl Franz thought, how a matter so trivial could become a wedge between men who should be allies. Sigmar and Ulric, the gods themselves were not at odds. No, that divide was a creation of men, of priests and nobles more concerned with power than piety. Save for a handful of fanatics on both sides, all Sigmarites honored Ulric as the god of winter and of war, as they always had. And so too did Ulricans worship Sigmar as the Empire's patron, as was proper. They only quarreled over which god deserved to stand highest, and it was a dispute born not of faith, but of pride.

The Emperor's brow furrowed as he thought on it. A handful of zealots could turn that pride into a wildfire if given the chance. And here he was, watching the seeds of it being sown. Ostermark, if it passed from a Sigmarite to an Ulrican overlord, would not be a true religious shift. It would however upset the balance that had held the Empire together through so many crises. Men like Lord Stark might keep the peace, but what of the next generation? What of Robb Stark? What if the young wolf proved as proud as the Ulrican priests who whispered their disdain for Altdorf and Nuln in the dark corners of Middenheim and countless villages and towns dotting the northern forests? He had much to be proud of already, with more to come if Tanya's visions came true.

Yet, Lord Stark was no fool. The man had tied himself to the Emperor's cause throughout this journey, his loyalty steady, his actions measured. Arya Stark, a wild girl with her father's grey eyes, apprenticed to his uncle Immanuel-Ferrand, High Chancellor of the Realm, learning the Grey College's hidden arts. The Starks had shifted their patronage to the Imperial College of Engineers from the Imperial Gunnery School in Nuln, no small decision. It was a clear signal of their allegiance. Eddard's presence at his side during this campaign had been a boon, the Stark name carrying weight even beyond Ostermark's borders. And there was Belle…

Karl Franz's groin tightened at the thought of her luscious curves, silky brown hair and musical voice. Ned Stark had procured his latest mistress for him, quietly, of course, but such things never stayed quiet for long. The court in Altdorf was a nest of spies and gossips, every glance and whispered word dissected for meaning. The Starks might not care for such courtly games, but they knew how to play them when they had to. And it was clear that Lord Stark was playing for the Emperor's favor.

It was all pointing in one direction. When the time came for the next election, it seemed near certain that if Eddard Stark was an Elector-Count as the young Tanya predicted, he would cast his vote for Luitpold. His son was proving himself on the battlefield, growing into a leader. Barring some great catastrophe or a sudden rise to greatness from Heinrich Todbringer, the Starks' loyalty would be secured.

But that election was years away, hopefully decades. Much could change between now and then. Karl Franz knew that well enough. The winds of fortune shifted as often as the winds of magic, and what seemed inevitable today could be upended tomorrow by a single stroke of fate.

He sighed, rubbing his temples, the weight of the crown settling heavier on his brow. Ostermark, Middenland, Talabecland and Hochland… so many provinces were stretched thin against the Beastmen, with men like Stark holding them together with their blood and sheer will. And yet the real threat to the Empire's future lay not in the wilds, but here in the halls of power. It always did.

For now, he would play his part, and Lord Stark would play his. They were allies, but Karl Franz knew well the fickleness of men's hearts. He would keep a close eye on the young wolf in the north. And should the winds change, as they always did, he would be ready.

Chapter Text

Brauzeit 31st​, 2522

The army settled in Delberz, weary from battle but still standing after their hard-won victory. They needed a day to rest and reorganize. A day for the healers to tend to the wounded, the Shallyans moving like ghosts among the men, their pale robes streaked with blood. The Jade Wizards, too, were at work, their magic knitting together flesh and bone, easing the pain where herbs and skilled hands fell short. Lord Magister Grunfeld led them, a tall woman with a kind face, never one for words. Her magic did the speaking for her.

Beside her worked a young man she'd brought with her from Altdorf, a Journeyman on his first campaign. A third member of their order labored by their side, a young Magister in her mid-twenties, Nyneve they called her.

Like the Mayor's daughter Guinevere, she had a Bretonnian name. They'd been all the rage for girls around the turn of the century in Middenland for some reason that escaped Eddard. After about a decade, tradition reasserted itself for equally mysterious reasons. Who could understand the flow of fashion, Ned wondered.

Nyneve had the look of a village girl about her, strong in the arms and quick with a sharp word if her glances were any indication. Brunette and buxom, with a face that spoke more of duty than charm, though she had her beauty, if a man cared to look for it. She came from one of the outlying villages around the city, folks said, and had helped hold the city with her magic, healing soldiers by the hundreds and summoning a thick bramble wall to stop the Beastmen in their tracks. That was no small feat.

Ned kept his distance from the woman, and not just because he had no taste for wizardry. There was something about Nyneve, a hardness in her, a demand in her eyes that made him think of the old Loremaster who'd preceded Luwin and had tutored him as a boy, ready with a ruler in hand to thump disobedient children into line.

And yet, somehow, this Nyneve had managed to wed herself to an Ungol prince from the far north of Kislev. Ned had seen him, a grizzled man, older than her by a decade at least, with the look of a master swordsman who'd lived too long in a world where men like him seldom lived long enough. His hands bore the marks of the sword and the bow, callused and scarred, but he held himself like a lord, whatever his tribe's fate had been. And it had been a sad fate indeed, still told of around camp fires in Kislev, Ostland and Ostermark.

Ned had no wish to become involved in their affairs. He had spent enough of the night before in the company of Magister Degurechaff, with her cold blue eyes and eerie prophecies, steeped in blood and horror, enough to unsettle any man. Wizards had their own way of seeing the world, and it was a way Ned Stark could never quite understand.

Today, though, was not for wizardry or visions. Today was for Jon.

Jon and Ned walked slowly through the streets of Delberz, a troop of Knights of the White Wolf flanking them, wearing armor and wolfskin cloaks, their presence a silent reminder of the gravity of the moment. The streets they passed through were hushed, people bowing their heads in respect as they passed, murmuring prayers to Ulric. The air carried a weight of expectation, as if even the stones beneath their feet knew what was to come.

Ahead, the temple of Ulric loomed, its grand facade etched with symbols of wolves and war, of winter's harshness and the strength that lay within it. It was no Middenheim, no sprawling fortress of faith atop a mountain, but it was impressive in its own right. Stark stone walls, thick and unyielding, with a great cult statue of Ulric towering behind the altar, eyes fierce and unblinking, staring down at those who came to swear their lives to him.

Jon walked beside him, silent and composed, wearing the black robe of an initiate. He seemed older now, though Ned knew it had only been a couple of months since they left Winterfell. The boy had become a man in the crucible of battle, blooded in ways that no words could explain. And at his side, the white dire wolf Frost followed patiently, watching with those crimson, knowing eyes, as if understanding more than a beast should.

They entered the heart of the temple, where the Chapter Master of the White Wolves waited. Jon knelt before him, his head bowed, though there was no fear in his posture, only resolve. Ned stood behind, his eyes fixed on his son, knowing that the boy kneeling before the altar was not the same one who had left home. This was a new beginning, but also an ending.

The Chapter Master's voice rang out, solemn and measured. "Jon Snow, son of Lord Eddard Stark. You come before the White Wolves of Ulric a man blooded in battle."

Jon looked up, meeting the man's gaze without wavering.

"Do you swear before Ulric to obey your betters? To defend your honor whenever it is challenged? To stand honest and true, scorning deceit and trickery?"

"I swear it," Jon said, his voice steady.

"To wear wolfskin only if you have killed the wolf yourself, with weapons you have hand-crafted from nature? To forgo the use of black-powder weapons, crossbows, and helmets? And to ensure that the sacred fires in the holy places of Ulric are never allowed to go out?"

"I swear it," Jon repeated, his voice stronger this time. "I pledge my life and honor to Ulric and his Knights of the White Wolf, for this day and all the days to come."

The Chapter Master nodded; his weathered face unreadable. He placed a heavy hand on Jon's shoulder, a gesture more of brotherhood than authority. "You are sworn now, Jon Snow. I name you an initiate. From this day forth, you are bound to Ulric's service, to defend the people of the Empire and to honor the god of winter, wolves and war. Your life is no longer your own. It belongs to Ulric and to the Knights of the White Wolf."

Ned felt pride rise in his chest, though it was tempered by the cold truth of what lay ahead. Jon had chosen this path, and there would be no turning back. The wolves would test him, as would the god he now served, and the trials to come would not be easy. There would be more blood, more loss, more danger than any father would ever wish for his son. But Jon had chosen this, and in his heart, Ned knew he would not have stopped him even if he could have. For to serve the gods was the greatest honor of all, and the more difficulty in the service, the more honor it brought.

Jon rose to his feet, the weight of his oath settling over him like a cloak. He had pledged his life to the wolves, to Ulric, and to a cause that would see him risk all he had, again and again. He was still young, but the boy was gone. In his place stood a man who would carve his own fate in the world, with sword and honor, as Ulric demanded.

Ned watched, silent and still. He knew the price of such vows, but he also knew the road Jon now walked would not be nearly as difficult as it would be for many initiates. He had the advantage of a Lord's training. His skill with arms and horsemanship as well as his understanding of theology were far ahead of most boys his age. There would still be a year, perhaps, before he was fully knighted, but what was a year in a life time of service? Jon had already taken the first steps, and the rest would follow in due time.

For now, there was pride, and there was hope, hope that with Jon's aid, and Ulric's blessing, the people of Middenland would finally triumph over their twisted adversaries. And beneath it all, was the quiet ache of a father who knew the cost of duty, and who had seen too many men fall to it. But he said nothing, for this was Jon's moment, and his private fears would remain sealed away as was proper.

After a quick embrace, Jon was sent off for his first trial, to pray and fast alone until this time tomorrow, as was the custom of Ulric's initiates. Ned watched him go, his heart heavy with the weight of fatherhood, warm pride mingling with a quiet, familiar sorrow. Alone now in the great temple, he stood for a moment beneath the stern gaze of Ulric's statue, the wolves at the god's feet carved in stone, forever vigilant. The cold air inside the temple seemed to echo the chill in his thoughts. Yet, there was no time for lingering. Duty called him once more, and he turned his steps towards the temple of Morr.

Delberz's temple of the god of the dead was a somber place, its dark spires rising like silent sentinels against the sky, ever watchful over the souls entrusted to its care. Since the battle, the priests of Morr had labored without rest, consecrating the fallen and performing the sacred rites. Morr's domain was not one of life, but of the afterlife, a shadowy realm of dreams where peace awaited the weary souls of the departed. The air here was thick with incense, the scent mingling with the chill of autumn as Ned approached.

Three of the twenty men who had ridden beside him and Jon had fallen in that fateful clash, Aldo, Reinhard, and Gerwin. They had been good men, brave and true, and their absence now felt like a hollow space where their laughter and their voices, should have been. Ned felt their loss keenly, though his face betrayed it little. There was no room for grief in battle, but here, in the quiet of Morr's temple, he allowed himself a moment of stillness.

Everyone must come before Morr in the end. It was a simple truth, as inescapable as the turning of the seasons. All men gave Morr his due, for in his hands lay that final peace, the safe-keeping of their souls. Yet, few spoke his name gladly. Many feared him, mistaking him for the cause of death, when in truth Morr was not the god of dying, but the guardian of the dead, the protector of the soul. It was not he who took life, but he who ensured it was not lost to darkness. In this, the people of Ostermark and Sylvannia were wiser than most, their understanding of Morr shaped by the constant nearness of death and undeath in their lands.

The rites were carried out with quiet reverence. Ned stood at the edge of the ceremony, watching as the priests moved with slow, deliberate grace. Prayers were whispered, offerings given, and the souls of his men were committed to Morr's keeping. The contemplative god would guide and safeguard them in his realm of dreams. Perhaps, Ned thought, their spirits might rest there in peace. Or, if Ulric deemed them worthy, they might pass through Morr's halls and find themselves in the wolf-god's great feasting hall, where warriors would eat, drink and fight for all eternity, free from the toils of the world.

Ned's heart was heavy as the rites concluded. There would be letters to write, words of comfort to find for the families of these men who had fought and fallen at his side. Yet, there was a quiet satisfaction in knowing they had been sent on their way with proper reverence, their souls shielded from the chaos and darkness that lay beyond. Morr's hand would guide them, and if fate was kind, they would be welcomed into Ulric's hall.

With a final bow of his head, Ned turned to leave. The cold wind stirred his cloak as he stepped outside the temple, but there was a strange peace in his heart, a sense of closure that came from knowing his men had been honored, their bravery remembered, their souls safe. Yet, for every funeral, there would be another battle, another test. He could feel it on the wind. The world was shifting, and he knew not what was to come, only that more would be asked of him and his sons before the end.

Brauzeit 32nd ​2522

The next day, the army loaded itself back onto the great river fleet that had borne them here, setting off once again, but now with the current carrying them swiftly down the waters. The oarsmen strained less, and the river's flow did much of the work. Ned stood on the deck of the Undying Faith, feeling the absence of Jon beside him like a missing limb. His son had always been close, and now there was an empty space where Jon's quiet presence, and that of his great direwolf, Frost, should have been. He wondered how long it would be before he saw him again. Three years, perhaps four, if the war with Chaos that so many wizards and priests foretold did indeed come. A grim thought that.

One of those very wizards was beside him now. Magister Degurechaff, they called her. Slim as a reed, with golden hair that framed her small face, she looked more like the child she was than a fearsome wielder of magic. And yet, the girl was no ordinary wizard. There was something unsettling about her, a sharpness in her blue eyes that was colder than the river wind. She moved with the bearing of someone far older than her years, her expression distant, as though she held the weight of many lifetimes behind that youthful face.

Ned cleared his throat. "Miss… Magister Degurechaff," he began, choosing his words carefully. He had read the letters of recommendation she'd provided him, effusive and detailed though they were of her prowess with magic and incredible intelligence, they revealed little about her character. "I've read the letters you provided and been impressed by the tales of your deeds. But I must admit, you remain something of a mystery to me. One cannot fight or even work with someone they do not understand. Let us try and remedy that. You're twelve years old, yes? And from Altdorf?"

"Yes, my lord," the girl replied, her voice flat, measured. "I was abandoned at birth. Left at the Temple of Shallya, where I was raised by the priestesses until they discovered my arcane talents two years ago. After that, I was given to the Colleges."

She spoke of it as if it were nothing, but Ned heard the weight behind the words. Abandoned at birth. Raised in a temple. Handed over to the Colleges. No warmth in her tone, no hint of sorrow or anger. Just a statement of fact. How could a child so young speak so coldly of her own life? It troubled him, though he kept his face still. He had seen enough in this world to know that life was seldom kind, but to see such detachment in one so young was disquieting.

"I see," Ned said after a pause. "The Colleges… they're a strange place, I've been told. Not an easy life, I'd wager."

A flicker of something passed over her face, was it amusement, or something darker? "No, it's not easy, my lord," she said, her voice still emotionless. "But nothing worth having is."

Ned nodded slowly, unsure what else to say. He had known many wizards in his time, but this one was different. The others had their oddities, their quirks, but they were still men and women, still tethered to the world in some way. Degurechaff, though… she seemed more like a spirit than a person, something distant and unknowable.

He glanced at her again, trying to read her, but there was little to glean. The girl's eyes were fixed ahead, scanning the river as if her mind was already leagues away. There was something unsettling about her, though not in the way that magic often was. It was her lack of warmth, her detachment. Even the other wizards had shown some sign of humanity, but with this one, it was as if something vital had been stripped away, leaving only a cold intellect behind.

"Do you ever miss it?" Ned asked after a long silence. "The temple, I mean. Shallya's care?"

The girl's gaze flickered toward him, and for a moment, he thought she might smile, some small hint of the child she was beneath all that power and mystery. But her face remained impassive.

"Miss it?" she echoed, her tone unreadable. "No, Lord Stark. The past is gone, and dwelling on it serves no purpose. I've found my place now."

Her words hung in the air, and Ned felt a chill that had little to do with the wind. He gave a small nod, not pressing further. He had learned enough to know when not to pry. Still, as they sailed down the river, he couldn't shake the feeling that Magister Degurechaff was not just a mystery, she was a storm waiting to break, and when it did, it would leave nothing untouched.

"Have you given much thought to the question of primacy between Ulric and Sigmar?" Ned asked, his voice low as they continued their slow walk across the deck. He had seen enough division over gods to know how deep the rift could run between faiths, especially when the lines between religion and power blurred. "Will it trouble you, working for an Ulrican lord?"

Tanya Degurechaff raised an eyebrow at him, as if the question itself was foolish. The expression, so full of confidence, seemed out of place on a face so young. "I was raised in the heart of Sigmarite power, my lord, that is true. But the whole controversy is just that, a matter of power." She spoke as if it were obvious, as if the centuries of conflict between the two faiths were nothing more than squabbles between prideful children. "If they actually read their own holy books, truly understood their theology, they'd see that Ulric is the greater god."

Her tone made Ned pause. Was she telling him what he wanted to hear, or did she truly believe it? He frowned. "Oh?"

Tanya rolled her eyes, a gesture that made her seem less like a wizard and more like the child she appeared to be. "Sigmar worshipped Ulric in life, and it was Ulric who crowned him with divinity. That much is clear. And if we compare their divine domains, it becomes even more obvious who is the senior partner in that relationship. Sigmar is the god of the Empire, no more, no less. He's favored by the Empire's elites because they identify with him when they lead armies, negotiate treaties, or build their grand cities and castles. Sigmar is their god because he is a reflection of their own power and their ambition."

Ned listened, his mind turning the words over. It wasn't the answer he had expected from an Altdorf native, but then again, nothing about Tanya had fit neatly into his expectations.

She continued, her voice calm, almost dismissive of Sigmar's divinity. "But Ulric… Ulric is far greater than one nation. He's the God of Winter, of War and Wolves. His worship isn't limited to the Empire's borders. Wherever the cold bites, wherever men face the dark and the monsters that dwell there, Ulric is with them. He's the god of those who suffer the cold and know that without winter, there can be no spring. Every peasant who relies on the turning of the seasons to grow their crop worships him. So too does every soldier in need of courage or strength in their sword arm. Officers may pray to Myrmidia for tactics that can carry the day, their lords may pray to Sigmar for leadership, but the halberdier and handgunner in the line, or the knight with the couched lance, they pray to Ulric."

She spoke with such certainty, with a fire that belied her calm exterior. Ned couldn't help but feel the weight of her words. It was rare to hear anyone from the south, especially someone from Altdorf, speak of Sigmar in such diminished terms.

"So it's just politics then," Ned said, his tone heavy with the understanding of what that meant.

Tanya nodded. "Lords and priests of Reikland and Wissenland conspiring against their rivals in Middenland and Talabecland, using the veneer of faith to justify their ambition. It's not about the gods themselves, it's about the power they represent. Sigmar is convenient for those who sit on the thrones of the south, but Ulric and Taal, those are the gods of the North and East, of the countryside, of the wild and those who don't care for Altdorf and Nuln or the politics of their courts."

Ned looked out across the river, his thoughts weighed down by her words. Power had always been at the heart of conflict, whether it was the banners of men or the gods they followed that people claimed were the issue. And yet, Tanya's bluntness had cut through the mysticism that often surrounded such matters. She saw it for what it was, ambition dressed as faith.

"If, my lord, you become Elector-Count, as my visions suggest," Tanya added, her voice colder now, "you'll have to face this struggle directly. You'll have to choose where your loyalties lie, not just with Ulric, but with those who wield his name for their own ends. The Ar-Ulric and his priests are not blameless, and they may try to exploit your ascension in ways you may think… unwise."

Ned's jaw tightened. He had not sought power; he had sought only to protect his people, his family. But in this land, the gods themselves seemed to be part of that struggle, and it was not enough to wield a sword. He would have to navigate the tides of faith and ambition, and from what Tanya had said, there was little room for hesitation.

The girl wizard turned her gaze back to the river, her expression unreadable once again. "The gods guide men, Lord Stark, but for the most part, men are the ones who fight the battles. Remember that."

Ned nodded, though a part of him still wrestled with the oddness of taking counsel from a girl who seemed far older in wisdom than in years. There was something unsettling about it, something unnatural. But then, everything about Tanya Degurechaff had unsettled him from the moment they'd met. The Emperor himself had spoken of her brilliance, urging Ned to read the three books she had written, as if a man with battles to fight and perhaps a province to rule, had time for the musings of a child. Yet here she was, offering advice as if she'd lived a hundred years and seen every corner of the Empire.

He felt a twinge of discomfort asking her a question meant for older, battle-hardened men, but his curiosity gnawed at him. How deep did her knowledge truly run? How far did this girl's genius extend? "What would you have me do, then?" Ned asked, measuring each word. "How should I balance these competing interests? Could I not follow the path of the Hertwigs, let the Sigmarites in Bechafen be, as they've left the Ulricans in peace throughout the rest of Ostermark?"

She shook her head, that sharpness in her eyes cutting through any illusion that she was simply a child. "He was constrained by the weakness of his position, greatly outnumbered and overmatched. You, Lord Stark, would be ruling from strength. That demands a different kind of rule. People on both sides of the issue will expect it of you."

Ned frowned, the weight of her words settling over him like a cold mist. She spoke as if the decision had already been made, as if it was his destiny to command all of Ostermark. There was a confidence in her, unsettling for someone so young.

"You've invited the Cults of Myrmidia and Handrich to build temples in Winter Town, haven't you, my lord?" Tanya's voice broke through his thoughts, her tone more pointed than before. "And you're planning to build munitions factories as well."

Ned blinked, surprised she knew of those plans already. He had kept his intentions quiet, confided in only a few trusted men. "Yes," he admitted, watching her closely.

"Don't stop there, my lord," she put forward, her voice calm and deliberate. "Embark on a grand building program and make Winter Town a capital worthy of Ostermark."

Ned listened; brow furrowed in thought as the girl laid out her plan with an ease that unsettled him. Tanya Degurechaff spoke of cities and temples, of diplomacy and appeasing rival gods, as if she had lived a lifetime among the great lords of the Empire. It was hard to imagine she was only twelve years old. Yet here she was, shaping the future of his lands as if she had been born to it.

Her advice hung in the air, the audacious statement heavy and shocking in its directness and ambition. Ned felt the weight of it settle on his shoulders. The Emperor had suggested as much, expand the walls, enlarge the town, but the need hadn't been there. Not yet.

"Is there demand for that?" Ned asked, voice gruff with skepticism. "The town hasn't spilled beyond the walls yet."

"What you've already planned to build will fill up the walls, won't it, my lord?" she replied, her tone almost mocking in its certainty.

He didn't like admitting it, but she was right. "Likely so," he muttered.

"Then keep building, and people will come, my lord," Tanya said, her eyes gleaming. "Especially if you build with purpose."

"Offer the Cult of Sigmar the chance to build a proper temple," she continued, her voice smooth. "Limit it to half the size of Ulric's, then let them argue you into expanding it to three-fourths. Of course, the Cult of Ulric will be alarmed by that, especially with that little Sigmarite chapel within Winterfell's walls. In turn grant them leave to construct a full chapterhouse for the Knights of the White Wolf."

She smiled, "point to some service they've done in the current siege and portray it as a well-earned reward. Expand their numbers, from the twenty-five knights currently attached to their Temple, to two hundred fifty and it'll show where your true loyalties lie. Even the Cult of Sigmar will find it hard to complain given what they've gained. And the lords that they cultivate in the south will hear you've built a temple to Sigmar in a city that had none, and that will be enough for most to think highly of you."

Her confidence grated at him, but there was a wisdom to her words he couldn't deny. Satisfying both Sigmarites and Ulricans... it was like trying to please two dogs with a single bone. But her solution? It struck a balance, a delicate game of give and take that could work, if played carefully.

Ned considered the idea. It was shrewd, far more so than he would have come up with on his own. "That could work…" he admitted, though the taste of politics left a sourness in his mouth.

Tanya wasn't done. "Reward the Verenans, too, my lord. I'm sure the templars they have attached to their temple are in the thick of the battle as well. The Knights of Everlasting Light already have a full chapterhouse in the south of Ostermark, but let them double the barracks attached to the temple and give them leave to build a full library, and they'll be quite pleased I believe."

"Don't all Temples of Verena have a library within them?" Ned asked.

"A few thousand volumes," Tanya said dismissively as if that wasn't an enormous number, "they would leap at the opportunity to build a collection that outstripped that by tenfold or more. A library that outshines every other in Ostermark, Ostland and Nordland." She nodded to herself, caught up in the planning. "A temple of Taal and an attached park would be good as well. The great shrine that you have in Winterfell is amazing, no doubt, but Taal's Wood is not a temple and it's hardly accessible to the average person in town. Taal's Cult and the lords of Talabecland would be pleased to hear it."

She painted a picture of a growing city, new temples rising, knightly orders swelling in number, factories filling the air with the clamor of industry. It was almost too much to take in. "Think of it Lord Stark," she said, her voice quickening with enthusiasm. "Four new temples, a new library, the chapterhouse of a knightly order, and munition factories. Already we are talking of five hundred people at minimum. Then there's the families and servants that will come along with them. When we factor that in, we're talking a couple of thousand new residents at least. And that's not even talking of the impact of you becoming an Elector-Count."

Ned blinked, caught off guard by the last statement. "What do you mean?"

Ned's head was swimming. He had come to this meeting expecting some insight into the girl's strange character or her visions, perhaps an anodyne conversation about the matters of state that now weighed so heavily upon him. Instead, Tanya Degurechaff was laying out plans, grand, sweeping plans, for the future of Winter Town, ideas that he hadn't even begun to consider. It was too much, too fast, and yet the confidence with which she spoke made it difficult to dismiss.

"While the Hertwigs will retain direct rule over their seventh of Ostermark, your responsibilities will expand," Tanya said, her voice smooth and measured, as if she were discussing the weather. "From the fourth you already govern to the rest of the province."

Ned shook his head. "As Wolfram put it, Ostermark is the Empire in miniature. Local lords and chartered towns rule the rest of the land. If I become Elector-Count, they'll still govern themselves. All that changes is they'll call me liege."

The girl smiled, a small, knowing thing. "Of course, my lord. But with that title comes new responsibilities. You'll collect taxes from them and organize their defenses, subsidizing them when needed. The upkeep of roads, bridges, irrigation systems, rural temples, and forts... all that and more will fall to you. And those who manage such things, the bureaucrats, engineers, and scribes, will move from Bechafen to your seat. Winter Town will become their home, and the most senior of them will live within Winterfell's walls."

Ned hadn't thought of that. He'd barely thought of any of this, to be honest. He was hoping, in his heart of hearts, that the girl's prophecy wouldn't come true at all. He didn't want this burden. But the way she spoke, it was as if it had already happened, as if it were inevitable.

"And then there's the coinage," she continued. "Bechafen is large and rich enough to keep its coinage rights, of course, but the mint there will be limited to supplying Hertwig's domain. You'll need to mint enough coin for the rest of Ostermark. You'll see an influx of goldsmiths, silversmiths, smiths of all kinds really. Part of subsidizing the defense of those smaller towns and lords will be done by providing them arms and armor. And of course the garrison of Winter Town will grow with the circumference of the walls. With new walls and all the rest, you could see the population grow by five thousand or more by the end of next year."

Ned goggled, stunned. "Winter Town only has thirty thousand people! Another five thousand in one year?"

Tanya's eyes gleamed with a sharp, almost predatory intelligence. "So, you see the necessity of expanding the walls. Push them half a mile west, a third of a mile south. You'll double the space and have room for sixty thousand."

"That's too much," Ned said, shaking his head, trying to imagine it. Trying to imagine his quiet town swollen with people, choked with the noise of industry and trade.

Tanya shook her head dismissively, "It would still be the smallest capital aside from Eicheschatten in the Moot," she continued on, relentless. "Build more docks along the waterfront. Watermills too, they're not just for grain or sawmills. There are manufactories that can use them too. I can give you a list. Once trade starts pouring in, people will come. Boys who don't want to return to their father's farms after a stint in the state troops. Girls who don't want the man their parents picked out for them. A city on the rise attracts them all."

Ned stared at her. She was so young, yet she spoke like a seasoned lord, like one who had lived through wars and peace, through victories and defeats, through the constant pressure of keeping a kingdom running. It was unnerving, but more than that, it was exhausting. She spoke of cities and commerce and industry as if they were living things, and maybe they were, in a way. Living things that would grow whether he wanted them to or not.

He rubbed a hand over his chin, feeling the weight of her words pressing down on him, the responsibilities he'd never sought, the decisions he would have to make for thousands... perhaps millions of lives, and now this strange, unnerving child with the mind of a war councilor and the ambitions of a merchant prince. Her voice, calm and clinical moments ago, now felt as though it echoed in the chambers of Winterfell, bouncing off walls that seemed too small for what she envisioned.

"Write up a proposal," Ned muttered, feeling his resolve falter under the onslaught of her ideas. "As much detail as you can. I'll need to think on the matter."

"Of course, my lord," she said, and then, for the first time, her expression softened. The hard edges of that unsettling intelligence gave way to something resembling the innocence of a child. Her smile was broad and bright, the kind that could belong to any girl her age. It was almost enough to make him forget who he was speaking to. Almost.

Ned turned away, his gaze drifting over the wide, slow-moving river Delb. The water glistened under the late afternoon sun, shimmering like molten silver as the great flotilla of the Empire made its way downstream. The ships were grand and impressive, their sails billowing as they rode the current. Thirteen days it had taken to make the slow, laborious journey up the river to Delberz. A hard trek, but necessary. He had done his duty. And now, finally, they were headed back. With the current in their favor, they could make it to the Talabec in ten days, if the gods were kind.

From there, it would be a swift trip to Hergig, and then on to home, Ostermark, where his heart weighed heavy with unfinished duties. But there was a strange comfort in the idea of returning to the familiar, to the stone walls of Winterfell and the quiet of his halls.

Still, even as the thought of home tugged at him, Ned couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that Tanya's words had stirred. The picture she had painted of Winter Town, bursting at the seams with people, industry, coin, it was nothing like the place he knew, the place he had grown so accustomed to. Could he truly manage all of it? Could he steer Winter Town to become this sprawling hub of trade and power without losing the soul of the land he loved?

His brow furrowed as he stared into the river. He was no stranger to duty. Gods knew he had carried its burden all his life. But this… this was different, and he just wasn't sure how to handle it. He wondered if he ever would be.

Chapter Text

Kaldezeit 6th, 2522

They were making good time, Ned thought, gazing out over the broad river as it wound its way through the dark woods of Middenland. The river was placid now, the waters glinting beneath the midday sun, but that was due to the girl's handiwork. Tanya had been manipulating the winds for days. Whenever the winds came too strong or their sails drooped, her power calmed them down or called them up, and when the winds shifted and came from a poor angle she turned them back, transforming a sluggish journey into something swift and purposeful.

They would reach the Talabec soon enough, a day and a half, maybe less if the pace held. He felt the tension ease slightly from his shoulders at the thought of home, though the last week had been anything but restful.

Tanya had thrust a copy of her book, Architecture and Urban Planning, into his hands with the same insistence she seemed to bring to everything. "You'll find it useful, Lord Stark. It will help you understand what I'm going for when I present you my proposal for Winter Town." she had said. He had been reluctant, but what else was there to do, trapped on the river for days at a time? So he read it, if only to pass the hours.

He wasn't sure if it was the work of genius the Emperor had raved about, but the book was very sound, no doubt about that. Well-written and logical, every proposal supporting another in a web of careful design to make a city not just prosperous but secure, healthy, and efficient. How a girl of her age had come to such knowledge, civil engineering, of all things, while mastering magic at the same time was beyond him. But there it was, undeniable, like everything else about her.

Ned's thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice behind him. "There's a large village coming up around the next bend," Tanya said, her tone as calm and matter-of-fact as ever. "We'll want to stop there, my lord."

He frowned, turning slightly to look at her. "At Flussbiegung? What for?"

Tanya's gaze was flat, devoid of the usual politeness she feigned. "You got a young woman there with child, my lord. A stubborn one. If you don't take her on board and promise to support the babe, she'll show up at Winterfell seven months from now with a round belly and announce the pregnancy before the court and your lady wife. I think you'll want to avoid that."

Ned felt the blood drain from his face. His hand gripped the rail of the ship as if holding on to something solid could anchor him in the sudden storm of her words. He searched her eyes for some hint of mockery, some cruel joke, but found none. Only cold, hard truth. She spoke it like she was describing the weather, as though it had no more weight than the wind she bent to her will.

His mouth went dry. "How, how do you know this?"

She raised a golden eyebrow. "How do you think, my lord?"

He turned away, his mind spinning. He'd known about the visions she could see and things she inexplicably knew. Still, he had not expected this, not something so personal, so close to home.

Ashara had been years ago. He had told himself that it wouldn't happen again. But now... another burden had appeared that he would have to bear. Still, this wasn't nearly as bad as the situation with Ashara.

Ashara, may her soul rest in Morr's realm, had been a noblewoman. A beauty from a storied Tilean house, and with that had come the obligation of open support. And so the whispers of gossips had followed him across the land. Few from Ostermark had really cared, most had seen it as a positive, a man doing right by the woman he'd gotten in trouble. Ulricans just weren't concerned about such things unless a man abandoned his wife and trueborn children in favor of the new woman and her child.

But to the more puritanical strain of Sigmarites like his wife, Jon had been a living symbol of shame, a son born by a woman he wasn't married to, raised under the same roof as his trueborn children. His honor, tarnished, and no amount of silence or distance had ever washed that stain away. Truthfully, even most Sigmarites did not care that much about it, and he could care less about those that did. Except for Catelyn of course. He loved her deeply and didn't want to cause her any pain.

But unlike Ashara, Katniss was a backwoods peasant, nothing more. No ties to any house, no noble blood to entangle him in public scandal. She was a hunter, pretty enough to turn heads, but in the end, she could disappear as easily as she had come into his life. Catelyn would never need to know.

He would rent her a room in Winter Town, someplace clean but discreet, far enough from Winterfell to avoid notice. A few crowns sent her way each month, paid through someone else's hand. It wouldn't be hard. Soldiers passed through Winter Town often enough, and there were always those looking for a bride. A low-ranking officer, with some talent but no name or wealth of his own, could well see an opportunity in her, especially as it gave him a strong connection, however indirect to Lord Stark. She was a beauty too. That would help.

As for the child… there were options. If it was a girl, he could provide a dowry, something modest but enough to secure a good match when the time came. If it was a boy, perhaps provide him with a trade or an education. He could be sent to the Verenan school, if he showed a mind for scholarship or the law. Or the new Myrmidian school, should he want to learn the ways of an architect or an engineer. A commission with the pistoliers, a place in one of the priesthoods… there were many possibilities.

No life as a lord's child, not like Jon. Jon, with the weight of Ashara's blood and beauty in him, had been impossible to hide. But this child could have a good life, a far better one than Katniss had ever dreamed of for her children. A future shaped by quiet generosity, from a distance.

He could manage this. It would not be hard.

He glanced over the river, its dark waters slipping past the boat, the trees lining the banks like silent sentinels. There was a way to make this right, or at least something close to right. There would still be some whispers, soldiers or sailors gossiped after all. But, it would be unlikely to raise to a point that Catelyn would be forced to take notice of it. And if she did, well, he'd certainly taken care of this instance with far more discretion than he had with Jon, what more could she expect?

…

The crowded streets of Flussbiegung came into view as The Undying Faith drifted towards the docks, the village sprawling beyond. Ned took in the sight, surprised at the transformation into a small town. The last time they had passed through, this place had been little more than a squalid cluster of huts, barely holding together beneath the weight of refugees and despair. But now, it seemed something had taken root here, something more hopeful.

The fortified camp the Imperial army had set up had been stripped of its wood, but it hadn't been wasted. Houses, small but solid looking, stood in place of the collection of tents and shanties that hundreds of refugees had been reduced to. The structures looked sturdy and well-built, enough for all those who had once been huddled beneath canvas tents and makeshift shelters. Even many of the older buildings looked fresh, repaired with care.

A fine palisade rose around the village, its watchtowers standing guard, giving the place the look of a proper river port. That had been built by the army engineers and looked formidable as such wooden structures could get.

Ned's eyes narrowed as he scanned the docks, counting heads. The population had swelled, further, likely more refugees drawn by the promise of safety behind those wooden walls. Fifteen hundred souls at least, maybe more. That was enough to make Flussbiegung a place worth remembering, worth investing in. It could be a proper river port one day, feeding off trade from the river and the protection the army engineers had left behind.

Tanya stood beside him, gazing out at the village with an unreadable expression. "I'll go get the girl and her sister, my lord," she said, her voice cutting through the hum of the river and the clatter of dockhands. Before Ned could respond, the winds stirred around her, lifting her small frame into the air with effortless grace.

He took a step back, startled. "You can fly?" The words came out before he could stop them, his surprise plain in his voice. He had heard tales of Celestial Magisters doing such things, bending the very winds to carry them through the air, but never had he seen it with his own eyes. Not until now.

Tanya looked down at him from her perch in the air, a faint smirk playing on her lips. "How did you think I caught up with the army in Delberz, my lord?" Her tone was casual, almost mocking, as if the feat were as simple as walking.

Ned shook his head, watching as she rose higher, the swirl of winds around her barely disturbing the calm of the river. He had fought alongside wizards before, had seen their arcane powers up close, but this... this was something else entirely. There was something unsettling about it, a power that seemed too great for one so small, so young. Yet there she was, soaring above the village like a bird on the wind, a creature not quite of this world.

For a moment, Ned wondered if he should have brought her along at all, this strange, unnerving child with her plans and schemes and powers. But the thought passed as quickly as it came. She was here now, and whatever else she was, she had proven herself useful.

He turned his gaze back to the village, to the people moving about their lives behind those sturdy walls. He could see the promise here, the potential for something lasting. But he could also see the dangers, the risks that came with growth and change. The world beyond those walls was still dark, still filled with threats. Beastmen, forest goblins, and worse things lurked in the shadows of the woods and hills.

Flussbiegung was safe now, but for how long?

Ned sighed, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he waited for Tanya's return. There was always something lurking beyond the horizon, no matter how safe things seemed in the moment.

…

Katniss wiped the sweat from her brow as she stood behind the house, the smell of blood still thick in the air. The wildcat hung from the pole by its hind legs, its once powerful body now limp. It had been a good kill. The cat was strong and lean, a full six feet from nose to the base of its tail and a hundred fifty pounds of lithe muscle. The kind of predator that usually kept its distance from men. This one had been unlucky, though. Or perhaps she had been the lucky one. Its fine gray pelt would fetch a good price once skinned and cured, more than enough to see them through the next few months.

She had just taken the skinning knife to it when Primel's voice rang out from the front of the house. "Katniss, we have a visitor!"

There was fear in her sister's tone, the kind of alarm that made Katniss whip around. Without thinking, she gripped the hilt of her knife tight and rushed through the back door, moving swiftly through the house. Whoever it was, she'd face them down. Any man that thought they could threaten her sister was a fool.

When she stepped outside, she found something entirely unexpected. Not a drunk villager, nor a soldier from the wall's garrison, but a girl. A blonde slip of a thing, no older than Primel, dressed in strange, flowing robes of deep blue, adorned with symbols… stars, moons, comets.

Katniss's heart sank. The Celestial Order. She had heard the rumors, the whispers of their powers, the way they could bend the blue wind of magic to their will, summon storms, and see visions of things yet to come. Witchcraft! Powerful and accursed. Her hand tightened again around the hilt of her knife.

"She flew through the air like a bird," Primel whispered, her face pale and wide-eyed, still standing in the doorway.

Katniss cursed under her breath, feeling the weight of eyes upon them. The village was packed with people; news would spread like fire on dry tinder. Already, she could see faces peering from windows, shadowed figures standing in doorways. Neighbors were watching, they always were.

Magic so openly displayed without the Emperor's men at her side… this could whip up a riot in no time. One that aimed to rescue her and her sister, or to see them all burn under the taint of suspicion.

"Lord Stark is waiting at the docks," the girl said, her voice sharp and impatient. "Grab your things. It's time to go."

Katniss blinked, not quite understanding. "What?" The word fell from her lips, stupid and slow, as if she hadn't heard right.

The girl, no, the witch, looked her over with an appraising gaze before her eyes fell to Katniss's belly, her mouth curling into something like a smile. "You've noticed, haven't you?" she said softly, her voice almost pitying. "A visitor that hasn't come as expected... and won't, for another eight months."

Katniss froze. Her hand, the one not still clutching the knife, went to her stomach. She had noticed. Of course, she had. But she had pushed the thought away, hidden it deep down where she could pretend it wasn't real. Not yet. Not now.

She licked her dry lips, her voice low. "How did you know?"

The witch's eyes gleamed, cold and distant, like someone looking at a far-off storm. "I see things," she said, "things yet to come. I saw you, belly full and round, as clear as the white moon in the sky."

Katniss felt her heart pound in her chest, and then the world shifted beneath her as Primel's voice broke through. "You're pregnant?" her sister gasped, the shock plain on her face.

Katniss couldn't speak, couldn't move. She just stood there; her hand pressed to her stomach as if that could somehow make the truth go away.

The girl's voice snapped like a whip. "Lord Stark will support you. You and the child both. And your sister, too, if need be. But we leave now." Her tone left no room for argument.

Katniss swallowed hard. Lord Stark. Of course. It all made sense now, though it felt like a dream. One of those fevered dreams that left you breathless and confused when you woke. She hadn't seen him in a month, not since that night. And now, here was this girl, this witch, telling her that Lord Stark would take care of her.

But the truth was, she had no choice, did she? Not with the villagers watching, not with a child beginning to grow within, a secret she couldn't have kept from everyone much longer.

With a deep breath, Katniss nodded, feeling the weight of the decision settle on her shoulders. She turned to Primel, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her. "Pack what we need," she said quietly, "and quickly."

Katniss moved quickly through the house, her hands shaking as she threw what little they owned into a duffle bag made of coarse cloth. Her mind raced, but her body knew what to do, pack the essentials, leave the rest behind. Primel was silent as she packed her own bag, her wide eyes darting nervously toward the strange wizard girl who'd followed them in, her blue robes shimmering in the pale light.

The wizard peeked out the backdoor. "Let's not leave that behind," she said. "Hard work should be rewarded," and soon the wildcat's body floated into the room beside her, hovering unnaturally, as if the very air had become a thing of magic.

They were leaving, just like that. No time to think, no time to say goodbye.

When they stepped outside, the village seemed to hold its breath. Johanna was there, standing by their doorway, her young son in her arms. Her face was pale, stricken. "You're leaving, Katniss?" she asked, her voice trembling, though she already knew the answer.

Katniss hesitated, her throat tightening as the words formed. "I bear Lord Stark's child," she said softly, the weight of it heavy on her tongue. "It's better this way, Johanna. He can provide more for us than I ever could." Her eyes flicked to the house behind her, the home she and Primel had clung to, built with sweat and blood after the army had left their camp to be scavenged. "The house is yours now. Sell it to one of the new families."

Johanna blinked, her mouth parting in surprise, but she nodded slowly, her face filled with sorrow. She stepped forward and hugged Katniss tightly, the warmth of her embrace a sudden, painful reminder of what they were leaving behind. Little Finn pressed between them, his small arms wrapping around her waist. "Miss you," he murmured, his voice soft and sweet, so much like his late father's.

Katniss swallowed hard, tears burning in her eyes, but she blinked them away. She couldn't afford tears now. There was no room for them.

Then came the sound, footsteps, heavy and purposeful. Katniss turned, her heart sinking as she saw the crowd gathering at the end of the street. Men with weapons, their faces grim, led by two priests, one wearing the furs and iron of Ulric, the other clad in the green and brown of Taal. Their eyes, hard and suspicious, locked on the floating body of the wildcat, then on the young wizard standing beside Katniss.

"Hold, witch," the Ulrican priest said sharply, stepping forward. "What business do you have here?"

The girl turned slowly, her face cold and unreadable. Her voice, when she spoke, was crisp, almost condescending. "Surely you recognize the robes of a Magister of the Celestial Order," she said, her words clipped. "I understand my youth may be...unusual, but my credentials are in order."

Her eyes flicked toward the dock, where the Lord's great warship was moored. "I arrived on Lord Stark's vessel, the one tied up right now to your docks. I'm sure some of your folks saw me fly off it. It's part of the Emperor's flotilla, ships of which are still passing by. Surely you don't believe I could pass myself off as a wizard among such a host if I were a fraud. If you have any questions, I'm sure Lord Stark would be happy to discuss them with you."

The priests exchanged a look, the Ulrican's face tightening in frustration. But the Taalite nodded slowly. "That sounds acceptable," he said, his voice cautious. "But you'll walk slowly in front of us until we reach the docks. And no magic," he added, his eyes narrowing at the floating wildcat.

The wizard's mouth twisted in irritation. "The skin's worth a fine price," she muttered, her gaze sweeping back toward Johanna. "You there. Give your boy to Primel and carry the cat for me."

Johanna opened her mouth to protest, but Tanya cut her off. "I'll give you a shilling for it. Not bad for five minutes' work."

Katniss watched as Johanna hesitated, her face a mixture of anger and resignation. But after a moment, she passed Finn to Primel and bent down, hoisting the wildcat onto her back with a grunt. The weight of it sagged against her, but she held firm.

And then, they walked. The streets were silent but for the sound of their footsteps and the low murmur of villagers watching from windows and doorways, their eyes filled with fear and curiosity. The priests followed close behind, their presence a reminder of the ever-watchful gods, and the punishment that might await those who dabbled in powers beyond their understanding.

Katniss kept her gaze ahead, her heart pounding as the docks drew nearer. Each step felt heavier than the last, the burden of what she carried growing with every breath. She had never wanted this, never asked for it. But here she was, caught in the grip of fate, like a leaf pulled downstream by a current too strong to fight.

Ahead, the river glistened dark and wide, and Lord Stark's ship waited. Her new life, whatever it was, lay just beyond.

…

Katniss barely registered how quickly it all happened. One moment, they were trudging through the village streets, followed by priests and militiamen; the next, she found herself on the deck of a ship, the cold wind from the river biting her cheeks. The men who had been so intent on stopping the Wizard now stood silent and cowed, their eyes downcast in the presence of Lord Stark. He was just as she remembered; tall, broad-shouldered, his grey eyes cutting like steel under his dark hair. His handsome face was lean, angular, the high cheekbones giving him a noble, almost stern look.

It was hard to believe that this was the father of her child.

Around them, the ship was a flurry of movement. Sailors hurried to and fro, barking orders to one another as ropes were tied, sails adjusted. Veteran soldiers, Lord Stark's men, lounged on deck, their hardened eyes scanning the water and the shore, as though always prepared for the next battle. Cannons loomed on the deck, black and deadly, a reminder of the power that men like Lord Stark commanded. It all felt so foreign, so distant from the life she knew. A world of iron and blood, of men and war.

Katniss's eyes drifted to the wizard girl, whose name she still didn't know, for she hadn't introduced herself. The slim blonde stood over the body of the wildcat that she had killed this morning. With a flick of her wrist, the air around her shimmered, and before Katniss knew it, the beast's pelt was lifting away from the body in one clean, seamless motion. Blades of air sliced through the fur, peeling it back with a precision that left Katniss speechless. It would have taken her the better part of an hour, maybe more, to skin the cat like that. The wizard girl did it in moments, her face emotionless, as though it were nothing at all, despite the murmuring of the impressed crew.

"Here you go," Tanya said, handing the pelt to her as if it were a casual thing. The soft fur, thick and warm, felt strange in her hands. "I'll give the meat to the cook." She turned to leave, but Lord Stark's voice stopped her.

"Magister Degurechaff," he said, his tone commanding, though not unkind. "Take Kat's sister with you. She'll be rooming with you, after all. Teach her to read when you have the chance. That skill will always be helpful."

Katniss blinked, startled. "We can read some, my Lord," she said quickly, her voice trembling just slightly. "Our uncle… he taught us. Though we don't know how to write." She couldn't help but think of Uncle Haymitch, his rough hands showing her how to hold a bow, how to set a trap. He'd taught her much, more than anyone else, but he had never been the sort to sit down and write letters. There'd been little use for it in their world.

Lord Stark's gaze softened for a moment, a rare flicker of something human beneath his hard exterior. "That'll help," he said. "But there's still much to learn."

The wizard girl gave a small shrug, turning toward Primel. "Come along, then," she said. "I'm sure you'll catch up quickly."

Primel hesitated, looking at Katniss with wide, frightened eyes, but Katniss nodded to her, forcing a smile. "Go on," she said. "I'll be fine."

And then they were gone, leaving Katniss standing alone on the deck with Lord Stark. He stepped closer to her, his presence overwhelming in the narrow space. His scent, a mix of leather, fur and steel armor, filled her senses. She could feel the weight of his eyes on her, studying her, and she swallowed nervously.

"Let's head below," he said, his voice low, though there was no mistaking the command in it. "We have much to talk about."

Katniss nodded; her throat tight as she followed him down the narrow steps into the ship's bowels. The sound of the river and the bustle of the deck faded away as they descended into the darkened corridor. Her heart pounded in her chest, and for a moment, she wished she could be anywhere else, anywhere but here, standing on the edge of a world she didn't understand, a world that seemed to close in around her with every step she took.

She had thought that safeguarding the refugees of Walddorf and killing a dozen Beastmen during the wild flight to Flussbiegung had been the hardest thing she'd ever done. But now, with the weight of Lord Stark's gaze on her, she wasn't so sure.

The cabin was smaller than Katniss had imagined, though larger than the rooms of the house she'd left behind. For a moment, she hesitated at the threshold, her eyes sweeping over the space. A bed, just big enough for two if they were friendly, a large chest near the foot, and a writing desk folded against the wall. It smelled of wood and tar, and something else, something that reminded her of him.

Lord Stark moved first, seating himself on the edge of the bed, and then he looked at her, patting the spot beside him. She followed his lead, sitting stiffly, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. He inhabited a world far beyond her understanding, where men like him commanded fleets and armies, where their words carried the weight of life and death. She wasn't sure what he wanted from her, not really.

"Katniss," he began, his voice measured and calm, the tone of a man used to giving orders. "I'm sympathetic to your plight. But I dearly love my wife and do not wish to upset her. Therefore, it's imperative that we be discreet. Do you understand?"

His words were gentle, but there was a heaviness to them, a quiet demand beneath the sympathy. Katniss looked at him, unsure of what to say. "Not really, my lord," she said, her voice small but honest in her confusion. "I don't expect you to put aside your lady wife and her children for me and mine. Or even to take me into your castle as a mistress draped in silk. So, why should she care that I even exist?"

It wasn't defiance, not quite, but the bluntness in her words seemed to catch him off guard. His brows drew together for a moment, and then he sighed, rubbing a hand across his jaw as though he too struggled to find the answer.

"Frankly, it's hard for me to understand as well," he admitted, his voice softening. "Most Sigmarites view such matters no more seriously than Ulricans, but... there's a strain of them, particularly in the South, among noblewomen, that takes such things far more seriously. Unfortunately, my wife is one of them."

His words landed heavily in the small room, and for a moment, silence hung between them. Katniss thought of the rumors and the stories she'd heard whispered of southern noble women. Of pale, stern-faced ladies, their minds sharp and their heart's guarded. The kind of woman who would not tolerate competition in any form, not even from a shadow like Katniss.

"So," she said finally, her throat tightening as she spoke. "What would you have me do, my lord?

Stark's eyes met hers, steady and cold like the northern winds that howled down across the Upper Talabec from Kislev, to batter against Winterfell's walls. "I'll arrange for you to rent a room, a small place overhanging the second floor of a shop. It will only be temporary, but you'll be comfortable there. While you live there, I'll see to it that you're given three crowns a month. More than enough to keep you and your sister fed and clothed, to live well by any standard."

It sounded like a kindness, but beneath the surface, Katniss felt the weight of it. Three crowns. A golden leash, long enough to give her some freedom but tight enough that she would always remember who held it.

"It sounds good, my lord," she said slowly, measuring her words. "But if that's the temporary solution, what is the permanent one?"

His grey eyes darkened, something sharp flashing behind them. "I mean to have you married," he said, and the words hit her harder than she expected.

Marriage. Her mouth went dry at the thought of it. She had never imagined herself a wife, tied to some man with expectations she wasn't sure she could meet. Her life had been one of survival, of bowstrings and snared rabbits, not long dresses, apron strings and wedding vows.

"There are always young officers with talent," Lord Stark continued, his tone practical. "Men who lack the money or the name to rise as high as their skill should take them. A beautiful young wife, with a monthly stipend and a powerful connection, however indirect, to their liege lord would be very tempting for them."

Katniss could feel her heart pounding, a tightness in her chest. Marriage to a man she didn't know. A future shaped not by her own hands but by the choices of a lord she barely understood. Her voice trembled as she spoke, but she forced the words out. "Marriage?"

"There are several possibilities," he said, as though he hadn't heard the fear in her voice. "I'll tell you all about them. By the time we reach Winter Town, you'll have enough to make an informed decision."

"If I haven't made up my mind by then," she said carefully, "would it be possible to meet them?"

"Of course," Lord Stark nodded. "It's important that you feel comfortable with the man you'll marry."

Comfortable. The word seemed hollow in her ears. Could she ever truly be comfortable in a world where she was always someone's pawn, always the one who had to bend?

But what could she do? Katniss had grown up knowing that almost all marriages were arranged by one's parents, and they did not choose their child's partner for love. People were wed for land, for security, for survival. Love was a luxury that few could afford. And here was a great lord, offering her something more than most could dream of. Surely, it would be better than the cold, hard life she'd known. Wouldn't it?

"Alright," she said at last, her voice quieter than she intended. "Is that it then? You marry me off, and we never see each other again?"

Lord Stark's expression softened, almost kind. "You'll likely catch glimpses of me in the streets now and then, but no, we won't interact again," he said gently. "But that doesn't mean I'm washing my hands of you, or the babe. You'll have priority access to the Temple of Shallya for your care during the pregnancy, and afterward. And as for the child… a five hundred crown dowry if it's a girl. Any education you'd like if it's a boy. Law, engineering, the army, or the priesthood, whatever career he chooses, I'll see to it that he gets every opportunity."

Her heart skipped a beat, her eyes wide, tears threatening to spill over. Five hundred crowns. A future for her child, a way out of the shadows and into the light. The relief that washed over her was almost overwhelming. "Thank you, my lord," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "That's… more than generous." It was more than she'd ever hoped for when she'd complied with the Magister's summons, more than she dared dream.

Before she knew it, he pulled her into his arms, holding her close. "There, there," he murmured, his hand rubbing her back. "It'll be alright." His breath was warm against her skin, and then his mouth moved to her neck, his lips trailing down, leaving hot kisses in their wake.

"You've not been with anyone else, have you?" His voice had shifted, deeper now, tinged with something possessive.

"Of course not," she gasped, her body tensing under his touch. Men were such simple creatures, she thought bemused. Just moments ago, he had spoken so sincerely of his love for his wife, his devotion to her, but now… now he was eager, like any stag scenting a doe in heat. There was no mistaking the hunger in his eyes, the way his hands moved over her.

But what could she do? She was trapped in this, bound by more than just his promises of care and dowries. It was a game she had to play, for her own sake, for Primel's and the child's. Stark had power, and power was the only thing that mattered in this world.

Power had always been elusive to Katniss, something distant and unreachable, belonging to lords and kings. But now, she was in its grasp, entwined with it. The thrill of it made her pulse quicken, a strange, heady feeling that came from knowing that a man like Lord Stark, who commanded armies, who gave orders to wizards, wanted her, needed her. That alone sent a shiver down her spine, a whisper of temptation that was hard to ignore.

She barely had time to register it before his hands were on her, peeling off her shirt, his mouth descending on her bare skin. His lips feasted on her breasts, and she gasped as his touch sent jolts through her, teats more sensitive than ever now that her body was changing with the pregnancy. Her chest felt fuller, tender, every part of her attuned to his presence, to the hunger in his movements.

Then he turned her around, his hands rough but sure as they found the waistband of her buckskin trousers. She froze, her breath catching. "What are you doing?" she managed to whisper, her voice trembling with a mix of nervous anticipation and something darker, something needier. She felt the cool air on her skin as her trousers were pulled down to her knees, and then his hand dipped low, exploring her damp folds in ways no one else ever had.

"Lord Stark," she breathed, but her words were lost to the rush of sensation that followed. His touch was demanding, possessive, and soon she found herself quivering under it, her body betraying her as pleasure coursed through her like wildfire. It wasn't long before her control slipped entirely, and she came undone, her body shaking with the force of it. She collapsed forward, face and chest pressed into the sheets, her breath ragged, her heart pounding in her ears.

But he wasn't done. She felt his hands pull her hips back, positioning her as he wanted, and there was no more room for words, no more space for thought. Power was a dangerous thing, she realized, because it could make you surrender without even knowing you had done so.

And that, too, sent a thrill through her.

He pushed forward, and Katniss gasped, the force of him driving her deeper into the bed. The ship had begun to move, slowly pulling away from the docks, and as the river's current took hold, so too did she surrender to the rhythm of the moment. The creak of the wood beneath them, the gentle rock of the waves, it all blended into one sensation, one pulse, as if the ship itself was carrying them on this tide of desire.

Her hands clenched the sheets, fingers curling into the fabric as each thrust seemed to claim a part of her, leaving nothing behind. The intimacy of the moment was overwhelming, the weight of his body above her, the heat of his breath on the back of her neck. And yet, for all the rawness of it, there was something deeply, undeniably real about it, even more so than that first night in the Emperor's camp. She could feel his need, raw and possessive, and it stirred something in her, something she had never fully understood until now.

The world outside blurred. The river, the city, the life she had known, it all faded away, replaced by this moment, this motion, the steady rocking of the ship beneath them. Each push forward seemed to take her further from the life she had once known, further into the future he was offering her, a place in the shadows, yes, but a place nonetheless.

Her breath came in ragged bursts, her body moving with the waves and his rhythm, lost to the sensation of it all. The warmth of the sheets, the scent of river water in the air, the roughness of his hands on her hips and the heavy weight of his manhood driving deep, it was all too much, yet not enough.

As the ship cut through the river, leaving the familiar shore behind, she felt herself slip away into a swirling pool of ecstasy. Here, in the dim light of his cabin, with his body claiming hers, she realized that power and sex was not just something that could be taken or given. It was something that could consume you and swallow you whole.

And in that moment, she let it.

Chapter Text

Kaldezeit 16th, 2522

The city of Hergig stretched out before them, a maze of crowded streets, with smoke rising from chimneys, and banners fluttering in the cold wind. Ned Stark stood at the rail of the Undying Faith, his grey eyes scanning the horizon. The docks bustled with activity. Sailors were unloading supplies, soldiers were shouting orders, and refugees were huddled together in groups, but the city itself still stood, defiant and intact. It was a relief to see Hergig unbroken, though the weight of war hung over it like a storm cloud, and the huddled masses of displaced souls painted a grim picture of the months yet to come.

"Thank the gods for von Raukov and Ludenhof," Ned muttered under his breath. The Grand Prince of Ostland had delivered the city from the jaws of ruin, smashing the Beastmen host only days ago. Ludenhof's cavalry charge from the gates had broken the back of the enemy, striking them from behind with the kind of boldness that Ned could appreciate. But that was Hochland's fight. Ned's thoughts were elsewhere.

Ostermark. His home… Bechafen was still under siege and a few days past they'd received word that Winter Town had been laid siege to by the Brass Bull himself.

Even with Tanya's magic bending the winds to their favor, the voyage upstream had been slow. Over a week had passed, each day dragging out his anxiety, each night spent tossing and turning as thoughts of Robb gnawed at him. He knew his son would be in Winter Town by now, or at least close to it. The boy had taken to command as well as anyone could have hoped, clever, brave, and filled with the fire of youth. Yet still, Ned worried. A father's heart could not rest easy, not when his home was threatened by the likes of the Brass Bull.

He gripped the railing tightly, the chill of the wood seeping into his hands as he stared out at the city. "The Emperor's fleet will rest for the day," he said aloud, though more to himself than anyone nearby. "Supplies and fresh water, a moment's respite." Perhaps the Jade wizards with the flotilla would venture out to aid with healing the wounded. He nodded to himself, calculating how much time they could afford. Tomorrow, the fleet would sail again, and by Ulric and Sigmar's grace, they would reach Ostermark in time.

"The city is so big." A voice broke through his thoughts, soft and uncertain. Katniss, the girl, stood beside him, her eyes wide as she gazed at the sprawling cityscape. There was awe in her voice, but also a note of apprehension, as if the sheer size of it overwhelmed her.

Ned looked over at her. She was tall and fit, just an inch shorter than him. But the girl had changed since they had first met, her blonde hair growing out another inch, the crown of her head covered in gold, though the long locks falling to her shoulder blades remained henna brown. And though her face still bore the hardness of a hunter, there was a new softness in her, a vulnerability she tried to hide. He'd seen it before in young mothers thrust into a world that demanded more of them than they could have ever imagined. Catelyn had once worn a similar look long ago, though her insecurity had long since been replaced with something sharper, more experienced and pragmatic.

"Is Winter Town like this?" Katniss asked, her voice laced with curiosity and apprehension.

Ned shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Winter Town is roughly a third the size of Hergig," he replied. "Smaller, but it has strengths of its own. Tanya has plans, though. She intends to have it double in size within the next decade." He chuckled, pausing to picture Winter Town in his mind; the river, the walls, the people. He tried to picture it twice the size, but it was hard, the reality he was used to kept intruding.

He shook his head. "But Winterfell… Winterfell is an impressive stronghold by any measure. The castle is roughly the size of Hergig Keep." He nodded toward the distant silhouette of the Grand Baron's castle, a looming structure that dominated the skyline. "A fortress, like Winterfell, built to endure."

He glanced over at her, saw the way she clung to his words. The girl was out of place here, far from the forests and the river Delb that she knew, yet if one looked past the vulnerability on the surface, there was a spark deep within her, one that reminded him of Arya. Fierce, unyielding. She would need that in the days to come. Marriage and parenting had little mercy for those unprepared to work hard.

But his thoughts drifted once more, beyond Hergig, beyond this ship, back to Ostermark. Back to the image of Robb in his mind, Ice in hand, the weight of command heavy on his shoulders. He had been born for this, for leadership, but leadership was a lonely road. And gods, how he wished he could be there with him now, guiding him, watching over him. He had never been good at waiting. Not when the fate of his children was on the line.

Ned let out a slow breath, his gaze distant. "We'll reach Winter Town soon enough," he murmured, more to himself than Katniss. "Soon enough."

Kaldezeit 28th, 2522

Another dozen days on the river, the cold winds biting at his face as the Undying Faith cut its way upstream. Ned watched the trees blur past, half of them with stark, leafless branches reaching out like bony fingers, the rest still clinging to crinkly orange and brown leaves. It had been a long journey, and though every day seemed to stretch into the next, he knew they were making good time. Tanya's manipulation of the winds had been invaluable, pushing the ship along with uncanny speed.

They were matching the pace they'd made down river, maybe even exceeding it a bit. He still thought magic a strange and unnatural thing, but now he also found himself grateful for it. They were needed in Ostermark, and every day spent on the water, sails billowing with the wind, was a day closer to home, closer to giving the help that was needed and saving what could be saved, or so he hoped.

Eventually, Bechafen rose before them as the river bent, its walls standing tall and unbroken. Ned felt the tightness in his chest loosen at the sight. The siege seemed over, and the compact city still stood. He could see the sawmills and the boatyards buzzing with life as they pulled into the docks. There were no fires, no screams, no sounds of war echoing from the battlements. No enemy army rushing the walls or camping just outside the range of the cannons. Only the steady hum of a city in recovery.

For the first time in weeks, Ned allowed himself a sliver of hope. Perhaps Ortwin had won a decisive victory, perhaps the danger had passed. And maybe, just maybe, the burden of becoming Elector-Count would not fall upon him after all.

He stepped to the side of the ship, calling down to a dockworker who had caught one of the lines. "Ho there!" Ned shouted. "What news of the siege? And Prince Hertwig?"

The man, grinning wide as he steadied the line, looked up. "Victory, Lord Stark!" he called back, his voice brimming with pride. "The siege is lifted. After your son annihilated the army besieging Winter Town and slew the Brass Bull, he sent reinforcements downriver, four full regiments of infantry. The Prince put them on the walls here and filled the ships that brought them with cavalry. He landed upriver with them, then sent the ships back down to shell the Beastmen laying siege, forcing them to pull back in disarray. Then he hammered them from behind with the cavalry. He broke the siege, drove them into retreat, and crushed half of the bastards between the cavalry and the city's infantry when they sallied out. The cavalry's still out hunting down the survivors, but the Prince is in the Bastion now, my lord. All's well."

Ned rocked back on his heels, stunned. His mind spun. "Robb slew the Brass Bull?" he asked, barely able to believe it.

"Aye, with your family's runesword," the dockworker confirmed with a nod. "Saved the Slayer King's life, they say."

Ned blinked, his thoughts rushing to catch up. Robb. His son. Not just a boy anymore, but a renowned warrior, one who had faced Grimgor Ironhide on the field of battle and won. Who had fought the Brass Bull sword in hand and killed him! His heart swelled with pride, though tinged with disbelief. "Gods," he muttered under his breath. "I always thought he'd be great one day, but he's exceeded all my expectations."

"Any lord would be proud of a son like that," the dockworker agreed with a smile.

Ned nodded, the words barely sinking in. He had always known Robb would grow into a leader, but the boy was proving himself far faster than Ned had imagined. And the Slayer King? Gods above, saving the life of a Dwarfen monarch was no small thing. The weight of it all pressed against his chest, heavy but warm.

"And Prince Ortwin?" Ned asked, needing to focus, to ground himself in more practical matters. "Is he well?"

"No wounds of note," the dockworker assured him. "The Prince is in fine health."

Ned exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Tanya had been skeptical of Ortwin's chances, and now he understood why. His strategy had worked, though it had been a risky one. The Prince had gambled and won.

But before Ned could say more, the dockworker added with a grin, "Oh, and congratulations on your son's wedding, my lord."

Ned froze, blinking in confusion. "Marriage?" he asked, his voice thick with shock. "To whom?"

The dockworker's smile faltered, as if sensing the sudden tension. "Lady Merida of Dunbroch," he said carefully.

Ned stared down at the man, utterly dumbfounded. Robb had married? Without a word, without a message sent to him? And to Merida? The name wasn't unfamiliar to him, he remembered her, a gangly red-haired girl with a fierce spirit, that he'd last met four years back while on campaign. Still, the news struck him like a blow. His son, his firstborn, had gone off to war and returned not only a hero, but a husband.

A laugh escaped him then, rough and ragged, surprising even himself. He shook his head in disbelief. "Gods," he murmured, half to himself, half to the dockworker. "To think I could predict my son's actions from half the Empire away." He couldn't help but laugh again, this time more freely, as he recalled predicting just such a chain of the events to the Emperor and his son Luitpold at that last great banquet. A strange mix of exasperation and relief flooded through him. Robb had taken so much into his own hands, so much responsibility, and now… a wife.

"Well," Ned said, flipping a shilling down to the man. "Better her than many others I can name."

The dockworker caught the coin and smiled. "Aye, my lord. You'll have no complaints from me on that."

Ned turned back to the ship, his thoughts spinning again. Robb, married. It was one more thing to reckon with, one more sign that his boy was no longer just a boy. Time was moving faster than he had ever expected. The world was changing, and his children were changing with it. He could only hope that when he finally saw his son again, he would recognize the man who had grown in his place.

...

Ned rode through the streets of Bechafen close behind the Emperor on his griffin, his breath misting in the cold air. The city was alive with movement, the people spilling out of narrow alleyways to catch a glimpse of the procession. Beside him, that odd young wizard Tanya rode behind one his greatswords, clinging to the man with an unsettling stillness, her eyes scanning the crowd. She wore the face of a child, but Ned had long learned not to mistake her for one.

Bechafen was a grim city, walled in by stone and shadow. The buildings pressed together like overgrown trees in a dying forest, six and seven stories tall, crowding the streets. The air smelled of damp wood and coal smoke, and Ned couldn't help but think how quickly the whole place might go up in flames if a single spark caught the wrong roof. If ever there was a city in need of extending its walls and opening up more space to settlement, it was this one. Too many people, packed too tightly together, no room for escape if fire or war came calling.

Ahead, Prince Hertwig's castle loomed, small by the standards of an Elector-Count, but still formidable, covering perhaps fifteen acres in the center of the city. The single curtain wall was eighty feet high, solid and thick, ringed by a dry moat that looked more than deep enough to break a minotaur's legs if he fell in. The stout keep within rose high above the rest of the fortress, a hundred feet of pale stone clawing at the sky. It would hold against almost anything, Ned thought. Certainly it would stand if the Beastmen returned and somehow managed to breach the city wall. It had stood against far worse in the past.

They rode in silence through the iron plated gates, passing guards in the purple and gold of Ostermark, their faces hard and pale. These men had seen battle recently, no doubt about it. Ned wondered how many of them had lost brothers, fathers, or sons in the fighting. They reminded him of his own men back at Winterfell, the way they stood, the way they carried their halberds and handguns as if they were an extension of their very bones. War left its mark on every man.

The Great Hall was just as he remembered it from his first visit on this long journey, over two months ago, though it seemed somehow smaller now. Banners of the Empire, Ostermark, and the Hertwig dynasty hung high on the walls to each side of the hall, catching the steady light from oil lamps. The wall space around the banners was crowded with Sigmarite paintings, saints and martyrs locked in battle or gazing down from the heavens. Polished bronze mirrors reflected the firelight of lamps, candles and hearths, casting long, shifting shadows over the faces of those gathered.

The herald announced them one by one: the Emperor first, then the Amber Patriarch, then Duke Leopold of Carroburg, and finally, Lord Stark of Winterfell.

Ortwin Hertwig rose from his throne-like seat before the court, a young man of twenty-three, thin and wiry with an active look to him. He looked younger than Ned remembered, though perhaps it was the joy in his face, the relief after the lifting of the siege. "Thank you, Your Majesty, great lords and wizards," Ortwin said, his voice warm but a little too eager. "It is good to know that Ostermark is not forgotten, that you rode so swiftly to her aid. You must be tired from your journey. Sit, and let us break bread together."

Ned nodded in acknowledgment as a legion of servants hurried to clear the hall, setting long tables in rows, the set up capable of sitting hundreds. He followed the Emperor to the high table, where Karl Franz took his seat at the head, flanked by Ortwin Hertwig on his right, and Ned himself on his left. It was a sign of high respect, placing him there. In Ostermark, it was only right that the greatest of its lords should sit beside the Emperor, but still, the weight of the moment settled heavily on his shoulders.

To Ortwin's right sat Duke Leopold, a ruddy-faced man, his heavy cloak draped over broad shoulders, and beside him, the Amber Patriarch, his presence radiating boredom and a wish to be away from this crowded place for the wilds. On Ned's left was Lady Hertwig, younger sister to the Elector-Count of Stirland. Her pale blonde hair falling to her back, her eyes quick and sharp as she regarded him, and beside her, Tanya, whose small frame seemed almost swallowed by the grandeur of the hall.

As they sat, Ned couldn't shake the feeling of something being out of place, some thread pulled too tight. The siege had been lifted, the Beastmen driven off, and yet… he had lived long enough to know that victories, even great ones, left scars. Ortwin and his son had won the day, but at what cost?

He glanced around the hall, noting the faces of the lords and captains who had gathered here, their expressions guarded. They had fought and bled for this city, but the war wasn't over, not truly. It never was. Not in the world they lived in.

Ned took his seat beside the Emperor, the firelight flickering over the table. He hadn't wanted this, this place of honor. He had returned to Ostermark to aid his homeland and his family. His son was out there, a hero, a warrior, and now a husband. He dearly wished to continue on, to board his ship and set sail for Winter Town. And yet here he was, seated at the Emperor's side, a stranger in this hall of Sigmarite symbols and Hertwig family banners, feeling the weight of his name, the name of Stark, growing heavier with each passing moment.

He wasn't entirely sure why it bothered him so. He had sat at many such banquets in the past, among gatherings of Lords and Ladies just as exalted as this and more, and he'd done fine. 'It's not just my desire to return home,' he mussed to himself. 'Perhaps I'm still spooked by Tanya's prophecies,' he thought. 'Have Ortwin and I really escaped our fates?' he wondered.

As the food and drink were brought forth, and the murmur of conversation rose around him, Ned looked over to the Emperor. Karl Franz's face was set in stone, unreadable, as he spoke with Ortwin. Yes, there was a tension there too, a sense that all was not as settled as the banners and feasts would have him believe.

War was never truly over. Not while the winds of magic blew and the surviving Beastmen still lurked in the forests.

And as for Robb… Gods, his son had already accomplished so much. Too much, too quickly. The weight of it all gnawed at him, a quiet fear growing in his heart. Robb had slain the Brass Bull, saved the Slayer King, and lifted the siege of Winter Town. And now… now he was married. What was next for him? What if he tried to do too much, go too far?

Ned took a deep breath, steadying himself. This was the life that had been chosen for Robb by fate since the day he was born a Stark. The path the boy had dedicated himself to long ago. But Ned could not help but wonder how much fate had in store for him.

It was then that some of the dogs accompanying the castle guardsmen began to growl and bark. Ned felt a chill run down his spine. Even the youngest page was experienced enough to know that when the dogs grew uneasy, danger wasn't far behind, even in the heart of the greatest castles. The hall fell silent, the clatter of goblets and laughter dying like the last embers of a fire. Every face turned, searching, listening.

Then Tanya's voice rang out, sharp and clear: "They're on the ceiling!"

Ned's head snapped up. Above them, moving like shadows against the stone, were Skaven, filthy ratmen, their eyes gleaming in the dim light, murder in their hands. For a moment, everything slowed. He saw the daggers, saw the way they moved, silent as death, dropping down from the rafters onto the table like spiders descending on their prey.

Instinct took over. His chair crashed to the floor as he rose, dwarf-forged steel already in his hand. Lady Hertwig gasped as one of the hideous creatures came for her, its dagger dripping with something foul. Poison, Ned thought, as he stepped between her and the assassin, sword ringing as he caught the blow. The ratman hissed, its teeth bared, but before it could strike again, a bolt of lightning ripped through its body, leaving it twitching, toppling off the table to land smoking at his feet.

Tanya. He glanced at her, but she was already moving, her face as calm as it ever was, her small frame crackling with magic. Ned didn't wait for the creature to recover, he brought his sword down in a clean arc, and the rat's head rolled across the stone floor, dark red blood pooling where it fell.

The room exploded into chaos. Screams echoed from every corner as guards scrambled to draw their weapons, and the lords and ladies of the court scattered like leaves in the wind. But the battle was over almost as soon as it had begun. The Emperor was already on his feet, his blade wet with blood, the gutted body of his attacker lying at his feet. To the right, Duke Leopold stood over the crumpled form of another Skaven, his fists bloodied, the body of the assassin lying broken beneath them, beaten to death. But then, Ned's gaze landed on Prince Hertwig, and the blood froze in his veins.

The Duke tore at Ortwin's shirt, his hands slick with blood. "We need a Priestess or a Wizard," he shouted, his voice thick with panic. "Prince Hertwig is dying!"

Ned's stomach churned. The prince lay slumped in his seat, his face ashen, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Blood oozed from a small puncture in his chest, the wound looking narrow but deep. By itself it was not something that would kill a man with ready access to healing… but the poison of the Skaven, Ned had seen and heard enough to know what it meant. Whatever the vile ratman had used, it was working fast. Hertwig's skin had already taken on an unnatural pallor, his lips turning blue.

'Gods no!' Ned had seen death before, more than his share, but this… it was too sudden, too wrong. There had been no battle cry, no warning, just shadows on the ceiling and knives in the dark. And now the future of Ostermark hung by a thread.

"Tanya," Ned barked, his voice rough. "Do something!"

The girl was already moving, ducking under the table to move to the other side, but even her face had tightened, her usual cold detachment cracking ever so slightly. She knelt by the Prince, her fingers hovering over the wound, her eyes narrowing as she whispered words of blessing and power. The air around her seemed to hum with energy, the faint crackle of magic filling the hall. But as she worked, Ned could see the doubt creeping into her eyes.

It was too late.

Lord Magister Grunfeld forced her way through a circle of onlookers, "Give me space dearie," she told Tanya, laying her hands on the Prince. Her confident look, turning to a pensive frown as she did so.

The Emperor stepped closer; his face grim. "The Skaven," he said quietly, looking down at the dying Prince. "It was never the Beastmen, was it?"

Ned felt his heart sink. Tanya had spoken of this often on their trip up the Talabec. Her warnings of some dark fate of Prince Ortwin. That she was unsure it had anything to do with the Beastmen at all. That just because it seemed on the surface that they were the most likely culprit to be involved, didn't mean there wasn't some other enemy moving in the shadows against the Prince. He hadn't wanted to believe it, hadn't wanted to face the reality that their enemy was more than just beasts in the woods. But now the truth was laid bare before him, bleeding out in the heart of Hertwig's hall.

As Ortwin's breathing grew more ragged, Ned found himself gripping the hilt of his blade tighter. The Prince was a young man, barely into his prime and now… now he was dying, and for what? For what?

The Jade Wizard pulled back, her hands trembling for the first time since Ned had met the tall woman at Delberz where she had healed thousands in moments with that miraculous tree. "The poison," she said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "It's tainted with warpstone and dhar, it's far too foul, it's worked its way in too deep. I can't stop it. If I'd been sitting in The Wild Father's place… maybe"

Ned closed his eyes, the weight of it all settling on his shoulders. He had fought his entire life, against enemies seen and unseen, against men, beasts, and worse. But this… this was something darker, something that twisted in the shadows, striking when they least expected it. And now, Ostermark stood on the edge of a knife, its ruler gasping for breath as the Skaven's plot unfolded before their very eyes.

He looked down at the dying Prince, then to the Emperor, whose face was as cold and hard as steel. Ostermark's trouble were far from over.

This was only the beginning.
…

Tanya stood amidst the carnage, her heart a cold knot in her chest. The sharp coppery scent of blood filled the air, mingling with the salt of tears and the heavy silence that followed. Lady Hertwig had collapsed beside her husband's body, her wail cutting through the hall like a knife. The sound echoed, keening, a dirge born of pain too great to be held within. Her two older daughters, five and three years old, clung to her skirts, their faces buried against their mother's gown. Their sobs shook their tiny bodies, looking small and frail when just minutes ago they'd looked bright and vibrant.

Tanya watched it all, her face a mask. But inside, a storm raged. 'This was my fault,' she thought, bitter and sharp. 'I should have scryed my own future, rather than going over Prince Hertwig's future again and again.'

She had seen the signs, hadn't she? The twisting paths, the darkness lurking in the corners of her vision whenever she sought to glimpse what lay ahead. But it had never been clear, always murky and confused. No, it had been worse than that. It had been a trap. She hadn't foreseen Hertwig's death because he wasn't the true target.

'It was me!'

The realization hit her with the force of a hammer blow. 'That Gray Seer, that cursed rat bastard!' His malice reached farther than she'd expected. His grudge was sharper than she'd anticipated. This was revenge, carefully plotted, woven into the very fabric of her fate. Her prophecy, the one she thought she'd been close to unraveling, it had been a snare all along.

'He wasn't meant to die,' she thought, eyes narrowing, her jaw clenched tight. 'I was.'

She glanced down at her hands, still faintly trembling from the magic she'd tried to pour into the dying prince. Useless. It had all been useless. Azyr was not meant for healing like Ghyran was. It could curse as Thanquol had learned to his regret, and it could bless in turn… But the poison had been too deep, the venom of the Skaven far too vile for even the magic of Lord Magister Grunfeld. She would be the Matriarch of the Jade Order one day. If she couldn't heal him, no one could. And now Ortwin Hertwig lay cold and still, his future snuffed out like a candle. And all the while, the true blade had been aimed at her heart.

The hall was heavy with grief. Eyes stared at her, pleading for a miracle, for a cure that didn't exist. Tanya remained still, locking her emotions behind the iron wall she'd built for herself long ago. She could not afford to care, not now. Not when guilt threatened to tear her apart.

The young daughters whimpered, clutching their mother's dress. Tanya's gaze flicked over them for the briefest moment before she turned away, her thoughts dark. Hertwig's death had been senseless. She had seen enough of war, of loss, to know that this moment, this scene, would repeat itself again and again. She had tried to defy fate, but fate had twisted her every effort into its own cruel design.

'The rest of them were just targets of opportunity.' Hertwig, Leopold, even the Emperor. She could see it now, the way it had all been orchestrated. The Seer's revenge, the Skaven's hand behind the curtain. It was all part of the same dark pattern. 'If the dogs hadn't scented them… if I hadn't spotted them moving across the ceiling….'

She… she had been the one who set it in motion. Tanya's lips curled in a bitter smirk, a hollow, joyless thing. 'I'm a damn self-fulfilling prophecy,' she thought, the weight of it sinking in. 'All my attempts to avoid disaster have led me straight into it. If only I'd killed that Gray Seer when I'd had the chance!'

The hall felt smaller, the shadows deeper, as if the walls themselves were closing in on her. Tanya's breath was steady, controlled, but inside, a part of her raged. She had outsmarted every enemy she had ever faced, had turned the winds of magic to her will, had stood victorious time and time again. But this, this was different. The Gray Seer had played a longer game, and while he hadn't managed to get his revenge, he would no doubt be pleased with what his vermin had accomplished.

Her eyes flicked to the Emperor. He stood tall, his face a mask of stone, but even he could not hide the grim understanding that had settled over them all. The Skaven were not beaten. This war hadn't even just begun, it had raged in the shadows for untold centuries and she was now, however temporarily, at the center of it.

Tanya clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as the guilt gnawed at her, relentless. She would not let this stand. She would find that Seer, and she would make him pay for this, one way or another.

Chapter Text

Ned stood beside the Emperor; his heart heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. The hall still reeked of death, the echoes of the newmade widow's wails haunting the air. The oil lamps cast flickering shadows on the stone walls, reflecting off the polished sigils and banners that now felt like cold reminders of how swiftly power shifted in the world.

The Emperor's voice cut through the lingering silence. "Lord Stark," Karl Franz said, his tone measured. "Two days ago, Prince Ortwin summoned the League of Ostermark to convene. The members, or their representatives, are to gather here in the Great Hall on the twelfth of Ulriczeit. It was meant to officially elect him Chancellor of Ostermark." The Emperor's gaze fell on Ned, his blue eyes steady and knowing. "But I think you know who they're likely to elect in his place."

Ned felt the words land like stones in his gut. He already knew where this was going, had seen the path ahead as soon as Ortwin fell to the Skaven's blade. The League would need a new Chancellor, a new leader for the province. And now all eyes would turn to Winterfell.

He exhaled slowly, his breath a low sigh of resignation. "I suppose I'll send a message to Robb," he said quietly, "to bring the Crown of Winter with him."

The Emperor tilted his head, a spark of curiosity lighting his eyes. "Oh?" he said, intrigued. "Is this an artifact of your ancestors?"

Ned nodded, though his mind wandered back, sifting through the centuries of Stark history like turning the pages of an old book. "Yes," he said, his voice steady, though shadows of old memories and spilled blood darkened his words. "From when my ancestors were petty kings of the Last Crossing, sworn to the High King of the Ostagoths." He paused, letting the weight of those words settle between them. His eyes drifted to the flickering flames of the nearest hearth as if the past lay hidden within its embers. "It's a hammered circle of bronze," he continued, his voice lower now, "decorated with the shapes of snowflakes and wolves, set with thirteen spikes of gromril in the shape of swords."

The Emperor's brow furrowed as he listened, intrigued. "A crown of dwarfen make, then?"

"Aye," Ned confirmed, the old pride of his house mingling with the bitter taste of what was to come. "The dwarfen runes on the crown name the wearer a king and a devotee of Ulric. It bears the Rune of Preservation. That's why it looks as though it was just forged, though it's older than even Winterfell." His fingers flexed, as if he could feel the cold weight of the crown in his hands. "But once the Ostagoths swore fealty to Sigmar and joined the Empire, my ancestors swore never to wear it again... until we were Elector-Counts."

There was a silence then, heavy and thick between them. The words hung in the air like a promise unspoken, a legacy that had waited centuries for this moment. Ned could feel the weight of his forefathers pressing down on him, the old vows, the ancient grudges. His house had once ruled as kings, albeit minor ones, and though they had bent the knee, the blood of wolves still ran through their veins.

"Until now," the Emperor murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly, as though he could see the path ahead as clearly as Ned could. "It seems, Lord Stark, that that day has finally come."

Ned said nothing, though inside he could feel the cold winds of the past sweeping through him. The Crown of Winter was no mere artifact. It was a symbol of what his house had once been, and what they might become again. But with it came burdens, old oaths, and the knowledge that power, once claimed, came at a cost.

And the cost, Ned knew, was blood. Always blood.

"Unlike many of my ancestors," Ned said, his voice heavy with weariness, "it's not a day I especially hoped for."

The words hung in the air like frost on a winter's morning, the truth of them weighing heavier than the sword at his hip. Power, for all its allure, had never been his desire. But fate, like the Talabec river, had a way of dragging a man where he didn't wish to go.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what had to be done. With a slow, deliberate stride, Ned crossed the hall toward Lady Hertwig. Her weeping daughters had been carried off by their nanny and a helping maid, but she stood as if rooted in place, her face pale and gaunt, her eyes hollow, staring after the priests of Morr as they carried her husband's body away. The keening wail she had loosed earlier was now a quiet, broken sobbing, barely audible above the shuffle of boots and the hushed muttering of shaken courtiers.

"My lady…" Ned began, his voice soft but firm. "You have my most sincere condolences."

Lady Hertwig, Arda, her name was, though he'd hardly ever thought of her as anything but the wife of Wolfram's heir, blinked through the fog of her grief, tears brimming in her reddened eyes. She looked at him as though seeing him for the first time, lost in her sorrow.

"Thank you, Lord Stark," she managed to whisper, her voice barely above a murmur. "I know your house has oft had bad blood with mine, but you… you were always a good friend to Ortwin and his father."

Ned nodded slowly, feeling the weight of her words. Bad blood, how often had those words been whispered about the Starks and the Hertwigs, the long history of rivalry and grudges stretching back generations. But wars and feuds felt like shadows in the face of death, so unexpected and sudden. In the end, none of it mattered. Only the living mattered now.

"I would like to ensure that friendship continues," he said, his voice low but steady, "for Ostermark to thrive, Bechafen and its ruling house must be strong."

Lady Hertwig's eyes narrowed slightly as she tried to grasp his meaning, her grief momentarily pushed aside by the need to understand.

"Your daughter," Ned continued, choosing his words carefully, "Ostara is five, my son Rickon is six. Let us unite our houses in marriage."

There it was. The words were out in the open, as stark as the northern winds. A marriage proposal, not for love, not for joy, but for duty, for the future of their bloodlines and their people. It felt like cold steel on his tongue, but he knew it had to be said. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, heavier than any sword or crown.

"Rickon and Ostara," Ned said, his voice softening as he thought of his youngest son, wild and untamed like the Veldt. "They are young, but in time… their union could bind our houses together, for the good of Ostermark." He paused, letting the offer linger. "We can even hyphenate their name, Hertwig-Stark." Arda was originally a Haupt-Anderson, Ned hoped that idea might have some appeal to her.

Lady Hertwig stared at him, her grief-clouded eyes searching his face for some sign, some meaning beyond the words. For a long moment, she said nothing, her lips trembling as she glanced toward the door where her husband had been carried away, gone forever.

"I…" she began, her voice cracking. "I will think on it."

Ned nodded, understanding the weight of her grief. This was no time for decisions, no time for politics, but the seeds had to be planted now, while the soil was soft. The winds of power were shifting, and he had to ensure that Winter Town and Bechafen were bound together before the storm overtook them all.

"Take all the time you need," Ned said gently. "But know that I offer this in friendship, for the sake of your house and mine. For the sake of Ostermark and the Empire."

He could feel the cold creeping into the hall, a chill that came not from the stones or the air but from the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again. Not for him, not for her, not for their children.

…

Afternoon, Kaldezeit 29th, 2522

Lunch was over, and the Great Hall bustled with the steady work of clearing trestle tables away to make room for the court, servants moving like shadows around the edges of the room. Sansa sat back, hands folded neatly in her lap, watching as Robb took his place in the Lord's seat, a great stone chair, heavy and ancient, hewn from rock the color of storm clouds and shaped into snarling dire wolves, their stone tails entwined, their heads polished smooth from the more than a hundred generations of Starks who had ruled from it. Her brother's shoulders were broad and unyielding, though she could see the weariness in his eyes, hidden from all but her.

Beside him sat Merida, in what some called the Lady's chair, and others the Heir's, usually depending on who sat there most often in recent days. It was carved from dark oak, etched with scenes of fierce Ostagoth warriors, their shields round, their eyes wild and full of fire as they faced off against their ancient foes of the wood, Beastmen and Goblins with twisted faces that seemed to writhe as you looked at them. Merida's gaze was set and unwavering, a look Sansa had come to admire over these past two weeks. There was a time when Merida had looked almost out of place there. In those first few days, her hands had fidgeted in her lap, her mouth set in a thin line. But that was no longer true. The chair fit her now, as if the oak had softened, recognizing the strength that had grown within her.

Sansa's lessons had ended for the day, though her thoughts lingered on the lessons she could not continue. Father Anselm was gone, a tragic casualty of the recent siege, and with him had gone her lessons in Khazalid. The old Loremaster tried his best, teaching the meanings of dwarfen runes as best he could in Reikspiel, but it wasn't the same. She had loved the sound of Khazalid, the rough, heavy way it rolled off the tongue, as solid as stone, as enduring as iron. The language had felt powerful, and when she'd greeted the King of Karak Kadrin in his own tongue, his look of surprise, true surprise, not the polite kind nobles wore like masks, had her beaming for days after.

Sansa shifted in her seat, watching as Robb leaned forward, listening intently to a petition from a scarred old man in mud-stained leathers, one of the farmers whose lands had been ravaged by the Beastmen. The devastation had been vast, every report seeming graver than the last. Robb had taken on the burden of rebuilding, meeting with village leaders and merchants, overseeing the purchase of timber, stone, and food. All while stepping up the recruitment of men to replace the army's losses and preparing to leave for Bechafen and the League's meeting to formally elect Ortwin Chancellor. So much lay upon Robb's shoulders now, the weight of both their house and their lands.

But the Beastmen had taken more than buildings and fields. They'd left scars that would linger, memories of fire and blood. The weight of it seemed to sink into the stone of the hall, into the very walls themselves. And yet Robb bore it, and Merida bore it, and so would she.

Winterfell was their home, and they would hold it, come Beastmen, come Goblins, come storms, or worse.

Then the sound of voices, sharp and rising, reached Sansa from beyond the hall doors. She turned, catching a flash of blue as a girl, perhaps a year younger than herself, pressed past the guards, holding a license in one hand like a shield. The girl's voice was firm, commanding in a way that made Sansa sit up straighter. She wore the robes and pendants of a Celestial Magister, each one gleaming in the light of day that fell through the windows, but her face was younger than any mage Sansa had ever imagined, fair with a determined set to her mouth.

The guards hesitated, casting wary glances at Robb. One of them strode forward, quick steps echoing on the stone floor. "My lord," he said, "she flew over the city walls and landed in the town square. Her license looks genuine enough, but…"

"She's far too young," Robb murmured, brow creased. "Summon the Steward, have him fetch a magnifying glass and our imprints of the official College seals."

The girl didn't wait. "That won't be necessary, my lord," she said, holding up a leather-bound satchel. "I have letters from your father, your sister Arya, and the Emperor himself. Surely, you don't need a glass to recognize their seals?"

Her tone was confident, a faint challenge in her eyes as she looked at Robb. Sansa watched her brother's face, the way his jaw tightened, suspicion mingling with the slightest glint of intrigue. She could see him weighing the girl's words, could see the way Storm, his direwolf, shifted his weight on his haunches, watching too.

"Oh?" Robb said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Show me these so-called letters, then."

The girl mage reached into her satchel, drawing out a set of letters, each one with a heavy wax seal stamped onto the paper envelopes. She handed the first to a guard, who inspected it closely, "It looks right," he said as his hands brushed over it, checking for powders, poisons, anything amiss. He held it to one of the guard dogs, whose snout sniffed once, then turned away disinterested. Then Storm came forward, and for a moment the wolf's nose hovered above the seal, his golden eyes narrowing as if he too understood what was at stake. He sniffed, let out a small huff, and then backed away, satisfied.

The guard handed the letter to Robb, who held it in both hands, running his thumb over the seal as if trying to feel the truth of it beneath his skin. Sansa knew the look on his face, she'd seen it enough in her father, that stern, unbending way they had of judging things, men, and words. "If it's a forgery it's perfect. Every imperfection is there," he said.

Robb broke the seal and unfolded the letter within, eyes skimming the lines. His face softened, only slightly, his fingers brushing over the page.

"This is certainly my father's writing and seer or not, I can't imagine you knowing such an old pointless story. Even I'd half-forgotten it before reading this." he said, half to himself, a shadow of something distant in his voice. He read further, his mouth set, his eyes darkening, until he jerked back as if struck. "Ortwin's dead."

The hall exploded into concerned murmurs as the girl nodded, and her face held no triumph, only grim certainty. "Assassins, my lord," she said solemnly. "Dark cultists and mutants." The chattering of courtiers and guards alike redoubled, until silenced by a short, sharp howl. Storm looking over the crowd with displeasure.

Robb's scowl deepened, the flicker of anger lighting in his eyes. "Just like my grandfather," he said, voice low, cold as Winterfell's stones.

Sansa's stomach twisted as she listened, her mind drifting back to the stories she'd heard. Her grandfather Rickard and her uncle Brandon, burned alive by renegade pyromancers in the name of the Changer, that dark god of chaos. She remembered the sharp words her father used to describe it, how he'd hunted those cultists down with the Witch Hunters, a grim justice meted out with fire and iron. But it hadn't brought their family back. The pain in his eyes whenever her grandfather's name was mentioned made it all too clear; justice was a poor balm for the wounds such evils left behind.

Now here they all were, the Hertwig's caught up in the same twisted fate, and Robb looked weary with the burden of it all. "So this is how the Starks become Elector-Count?" he said, voice thick with disgust. He shook his head. "It's not how any of us would have wished it."

Sansa understood what he meant. Their rise, however rightful, would be clouded by suspicion, by the dark irony of chaos cultists clearing the way for their family. 'Our rise is tainted by association,' she thought, 'even though it's plain to anyone that we had no hand in this.'

"The vagary of fate, my lord," the young Magister murmured, her face pinched with something that looked like pity. Robb only nodded, though his jaw remained tight.

He turned back to the letter, frowning at some passage as he read. "He wishes to expand the city so much? I'll have to send word to the Dwarfs of Karak Kadrin, and see if they'll be free to take on the work come spring. If our army is not on campaign by then, that is. They'll be needed to secure the city and do much of the work."

Sansa glanced at the young wizard, but the girl was already nodding as if she'd seen the truth in the stars. "The next year should be calm, perhaps the one after that as well," she said, her voice steady, almost too certain for comfort. "But the third and fourth years will likely make this one seem easy."

Sansa's eyes widened, her breath catching. Quiet years were rare, one alone a blessing, but two in a row? She knew there'd be a cost. She recalled the battles of the last year, the horrors she'd heard whispered of in the halls, and the one's she'd witnessed herself from her window as she looked down at the city walls with a spyglass from her room in the Great Keep. Robb facing Grimgor Ironhide and the Brass Bull, the defeat of the Chancellor and the sieges of Winter Town and Bechafen, each tale more harrowing than the last. Her brother had returned victorious, but it had been a hard, bloody season.

'What could possibly make this year look easy?' Her mind wandered northward, an icy dread tightening her throat. It was no comfort to imagine Grimgor returning from the east with a great Waaagh out for revenge, to think of a green tide crashing upon their walls. But worse still was the thought of the Great Enemy stirring in the North and pouring down into Kislev. She shivered, catching herself, but the fear stayed with her, gnawing at her heart like winter's chill.

"If there's a second year of peace," Robb said thoughtfully, his eyes shifting to look through the Great Hall's windows at the high, grey walls of Winterfell, "we'll bring the dwarfs back and raise the city walls even higher. Fifty feet high to sixty, twenty-five feet thick to thirty. They'll need to be as strong as they can be to hold, if what's coming is half as bad as you say."

Beside him, Merida tilted her head, scrunching her nose in that thoughtful way she had. "Can we afford to expand the walls and then improve them again so soon?"

Robb gave a quiet nod. "It would drain much of our gold and silver reserves, true enough. But with all of Ostermark's taxes coming into our coffers now, we'll manage it. We'll have greater costs and responsibilities, sure, but it'll be worth it to further fortify and expand the city," he said as he gave Merida a loving smile.

"A wise investment," the young wizard put in, her voice steady and bright. "It will put the city in a position to grow rapidly and the income you gain from it will grow commensurately," the young wizard said. "As merchants often say, one has to spend money, to make money. The state is not a business, but financially, it often operates on similar principals."

Robb nodded, "You're Magister Degurechaff?

"Yes, my lord," the girl said as Robb addressed her. "I've come to replace Magister Eckhard. I aided your sister Arya in one of her escapades," she added, with a faint, amused smile, "and Lord Stark felt that was qualification enough."

Robb paused, absorbing that with a slight frown. "Father mentions it, does he?" he asked, eyes skimming further down the letter looking for it.

Magister Degurechaff gave a quick nod. "He does. But if you wish to know more of the details, I'm sure Arya's letter goes into more depth on the matter. If you have more questions after that, we can discuss the details in a more private setting. Some of them touch on state secrets."

Sansa observed her keenly, studying the girl's cornflower blue eyes. They seemed to hold far more wisdom than her young face betrayed. She claimed to be a Celestial Magister. And not just any Celestial wizard, it seemed, but one with the Stark family's trust. Arya's letter must have spoken well of her if Father had chosen her to replace the late Bright Magister Eckhard. Sansa let her gaze drift over the young mage's blue robes and amulets, noting the careful confidence in her every move.

Robb looked like he'd found the relevant passage in Father's letter and was about to speak when the Steward, Vayon Poole, sprinted into the Great Hall, red-faced and puffing, clutching a satchel full of seals against his chest. He looked like he'd run the whole way from his office in the First Keep. He gave Robb a hurried bow, struggling for breath as he moved to hand over the imprints. "My lord… the imprints from the Colleges…as requested."

"Well, I am convinced of your authenticity, but one can never be too careful," Robb told the young Magister. "Show me the one from the Celestial College, Steward."

The Steward quickly sorted through the eight imprints they had, one for each college, and picked out the one Robb had requested. Sansa could see the wariness in Robb's eyes, though he only nodded curtly and took up the magnifying glass. Holding it to the wax seal on Degurechaff's license, he inspected it carefully, taking his time, then handed it to Poole. The two compared the mark, inspecting for any flaw, any crack that did not match, yet it was perfect, the license was legitimate.

Satisfied, Robb glanced over the girl with a touch more ease, though he gave Sansa a look that spoke volumes. They were bringing outsiders into their halls, people with powers they'd never had to reckon with before, bound by seals and names but still not family. And Sansa knew well enough from her father's lessons that names and seals may hold power, but they couldn't command loyalty by themselves.

Robb folded the letter in his hand and glanced at the young Magister, giving her an appraising look. "I'll likely have questions once I finish Father's letter and Arya's as well. They're long enough to need a night to ponder," he said. "So, unless you have any pressing matters yourself, I think it's time Sansa escorted you to the Library Tower. Loremaster Luwin will be happy to meet you."

Magister Degurechaff inclined her head. "One thing, my lord." She hesitated, choosing her words with an apologetic smile. "I should've asked your father this, but it slipped my mind. As Elector-Count, won't your family need to employ more than a single wizard? I'd be happy to help draw up a request if you have any particular preferences."

Robb tapped his chin, considering. "House Stark has sometimes had two wizards in its employ, but that's been rare. As Elector-Counts, we could probably employ three or four easily enough." His voice took on a note of interest. "Is there anyone you'd recommend?"

The young Magister looked thoughtful. "Unfortunately, I only just graduated, advancing directly from apprentice to magister. So I don't know that many wizards from the other Orders…"

"What about the Gold Order Journeyman, Ludger Scherler?" Robb asked, leaning forward. "He was a godsend for King Ungrim Ironfist during the siege at Karak Kadrin, and his magic worked well for us in our battle against the Beastmen."

Degurechaff shook her head. "He signed on with Ortwin when he arrived with your reinforcements in Bechafen. After the Prince broke the siege, he left for Altdorf to seek promotion. Pass or fail, he'll return to serve House Hertwig," she explained. "For him to break the contract without bad faith treatment from House Hertwig would be unthinkable."

Robb nodded, disappointment flickering in his eyes. "That's a shame," he murmured. "I'm sure he'll make Magister. What kind of wizards should we look for then?"

Degurechaff shrugged, a gleam of something threatening and knowing in her gaze. "Every Order has a wide range of uses, but… given your lands' proximity to the Wastes, I'd suggest a Magister of the Lore of Light. The followers of Chaos tend to recoil from their arts. After that? A Jade Wizard or a Bright Wizard. The Jade Order saved thousands outside Delberz with their healing spells during the Emperor's last battle. The Bright Order… their utility to the army is self-explanatory."

Sansa watched the exchange, silently absorbing each word. Wizards were becoming as much a part of her family's life as halberds and handguns. Not merely tools, not quite friends, but something strange in between, with mysteries only they understood. She glanced at Degurechaff again, a small part of her unsure whether to be wary of, or grateful for the strange power now walking into her home. Perhaps she should be both.

Sansa watched as Robb, nodded, looking convinced as he leaned forward. "That makes sense. Write up a request to the Colleges for wizards from those three orders," he instructed the young Magister. "We'll go over it together tomorrow. And I'll have plenty of other questions too, not just about your adventures with Arya, but about the Emperor's campaigns, and on the war with the Beastmen more broadly." He paused, his eyes narrowing as something dawned on him. "On war…" he murmured, his gaze sharpening. "Wait… Your name, is it Tanya Degurechaff. Are you the author of On War?"

A glint of pride passed across the young woman's face. "Yes, that's my second book."

"You wrote that?" Robb's disbelief was palpable. "A slip of a girl wrote the greatest book on war I've ever read?" He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. "I read it on Sir Rodrik Cassel's recommendation this spring. I was so impressed, I ordered every officer, from Captain on up, to read it."

The Magister gave a gracious nod. "I appreciate your kindness, my lord. If I maybe so bold, I'd also recommend my third book, Architecture and Urban Planning. It may help you understand the purpose of some of my ideas regarding Winter Town's expansion."

Sansa could only look on, both startled and curious, as her brother regarded the young wizard with a renewed respect. Tanya Degurechaff, author, war tactician, and a Magister of the Celestial College. Robb chuckled, visibly impressed. "I'll do that, and see you at dinner later. Until then, make yourself at home in the Wizard's Turret."

With that, Robb turned to Sansa. "Sansa, would you mind escorting Magister Degurechaff to the Library Tower to meet Loremaster Luwin?"

Sansa rose gracefully, smoothing her skirts as she approached the wizard, a picture of composure. Lady padded beside her, her eyes flicking up at the strange young girl in her blue robes and pointy hat. "Of course," Sansa said softly, feeling the pressure of both curiosity and caution mingling in her chest. She glanced at Magister Degurechaff, and in that instant, Sansa felt the gulf between them, herself, a young girl on the edge of womanhood, and this strange, calculating wizard who was somehow both near her age, yet wise and powerful beyond her years.

As they moved toward the door, Sansa walked a step ahead of the Magister, though she found herself walking carefully and silently as if she were a shadow instead of the guide leading the way. It felt like she was walking with a sword at her back, sharp and gleaming, concealed in a pretty scabbard and ready to be drawn at any moment.

Once they left the Great Hall, Sansa slowed down a bit so that she was now walking beside the young wizard, her eyes darting occasionally to the girl, still wrestling with the mixture of reverence and hesitancy that clung to her heart. Eventually, curiosity got the better of her.

"Magister Degurechaff… forgive me, but how old are you?" she asked, her voice soft.

"Twelve," the young wizard replied without a pause. "My birthday was the 18th of Nachgeheim."

Sansa felt her mouth go dry. "You're eleven months younger than me, and you've already been promoted to Magister and written books praised as works of genius." Awe seeped into her words, tinged by the faintest trace of jealousy. She felt, for a moment, terribly small beside her, despite topping the other girl by a few inches.

The wizard tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "Don't judge yourself against me, Sansa. I'm sure you have your own strengths."

Sansa blinked, thrown by the unexpected kindness. "I… I am good at languages," she said, feeling a need to justify herself. "I'm fluent in Kislevarin and Tilean. I can read Classical, and I've been studying Khazalid for the last month and a half."

Tanya's eyes lit up with genuine interest. "Interesting," she said in fluent Kislevarin. "I speak Kislevarin as well, along with Bretonnian and Classical, and of course the College's tongue, which is commonly called 'Magic.' I've been studying Tar-Eltharin for the past year. It's been… challenging. I wonder how Khazalid compares?"

Sansa's pride stirred. In Kislevarin, she replied, "It's much more difficult than any human language I've learned. Father Anselm, our late Sigmarite priest, said most men take four to five years to become proficient, and far fewer ever attain fluency."

Tanya's sharp eyes softened slightly as she listened. "It seems I'm not the only one who enjoys challenges."

Sansa couldn't help but smile, feeling the spark of camaraderie, despite the girl's strange, formidable aura. Lady, her dire wolf, nudged her side, as if in approval, and Sansa felt her confidence swell.

"You can call me Tanya, you know," said the young wizard. Her voice was soft but edged, like fine steel. "I won't bite."

Sansa managed a small smile. "Yes, Tanya," she replied, tasting the name, letting it settle in her mind as they approached the gate to the library tower. It had a Kislivite flavor to it.

Tanya looked up, her sharp eyes inspecting every stone and timber as though searching for weaknesses. "That turret looks fairly small. Do I get access to the rest of that floor?"

"Of course," Sansa said quickly, eager to assure her. "And there are several floors above and below. They can be divided up among any other wizards who might join. The library really only takes up the first floor, it's relatively small, with only twenty-one hundred books."

Tanya came to an abrupt stop, looking at Sansa with undisguised horror. "That's it?" she demanded. "I wasn't expecting your family to match the Emperor private library of thirty thousand books, but five thousand volumes at the very least should be expected of House Stark."

Sansa felt the heat creep up her cheeks. "There have been… fires over the centuries," she explained, almost in a whisper. "The last was just under a hundred years ago. It gutted the tower and destroyed nearly everything. They said the last Celestial wizard who served us warded the tower to prevent that from happening again, maybe sixty years ago. But we usually employ Bright Wizards or Jade Wizards here."

The young wizard's face tilted to the side in surprise, her brows slightly arched. "I suppose that would work, but it sounds… dangerous for your Loremaster."

"What do you mean?" Sansa asked, blinking, caught between fascination and unease.

"Celestial Magisters understand that fires require an element in the air which people need to breathe. It would be easy to craft a ward that, upon detecting a fire of a certain size, simply pulls all of that element from the room," Tanya explained with clinical precision, "smothering the flames… and any unlucky guests, too."

Sansa blanched, shivering at the image. Loremaster Luwin, of course, would have known the risk, she thought. A Verenan priest, he'd likely value the survival of those two thousand books more than his own life.

Tanya's gaze shifted upward, her eyes narrowing as they fell on the highest part of the tower. She pointed to the opening that looked out over the battlements. "That open platform there, could I use it as an observatory?"

Sansa's brow furrowed. "The rookery?" she asked, biting her lip. "I think it's been used that way before… but pigeons are kept there for Winterfell's messages. Once Father is Chancellor of Ostermark, it will likely see even more use. I'm not sure how you'll keep the birds off your equipment."

The wizard's brow knit slightly as she considered this, her face a study of sharp angles and cold calculation. Sansa could only watch, feeling small and strangely vulnerable before this girl who seemed so young and yet so ancient in her manner, her thoughts drifting with trepidation to what this young Magister would demand of them all.

"I know a spell that lets me speak to birds," Tanya said, her tone casual, as if such magic were a mere parlor trick. "I'm sure I can convince them to leave my gear alone." She shrugged. "And if not, I know a spell to clean a telescope to spotlessness with a touch."

Sansa gaped, stunned by the ease with which this girl spoke of such things. She could talk to birds? She blinked, but hurried after Tanya, who had already set off again, moving with a purposeful stride. They reached the door to the library tower, and Sansa dashed forward, rapping on the wood quickly before opening it. "Loremaster Luwin!" she called.

Her voice echoed softly through the shelves, and the familiar, bespectacled head of Luwin appeared from behind a pile of tomes, his gray eyes blinking with mild surprise. He held a book in hand, a quill tucked behind his ear.

"Father has sent a new wizard to us," Sansa announced, unable to contain her words in a rush. "And she's brought letters with the most shocking news!"

The Loremaster looked up with growing interest as Tanya strode in beside her. "This is Tanya Degurechaff," Sansa introduced, a thrill of awe in her voice. "Despite her youth, she's a Magister of the Celestial Order."

The Loremaster's eyes widened as he regarded Tanya, his brows lifting in surprise. "Tanya Degurechaff? The author of The Wealth of Nations, On War, and Architecture and Urban Planning?" He looked at her as if seeing something rare and precious, and Sansa felt her own chest swell, as though Tanya's accomplishments reflected well upon Winterfell itself.

"Yes, Loremaster," Tanya answered, inclining her head. "I just published a fourth tome before leaving Altdorf, The Principles of Advanced Mathematics. I doubt it will be as popular as the others among the general reading public, but it should serve engineers and those who study the sciences very well indeed."

The Loremaster leaned forward, his eyes bright with interest. "A work on advanced mathematics… We must discuss this more when you're settled in," he said warmly, gesturing for them to follow him up the winding staircase. "But what news did you mean, Sansa?"

"Prince Ortwin has been assassinated by mutants and cultists of the Ruinous Powers!" Sansa said, her voice catching with a mix of horror and excitement. "Father now believes he'll be named Chancellor of Ostermark."

"Truly?" Loremaster Luwin paused, glancing at Tanya with concern.

Tanya gave a curt nod. "I saw it with my own eyes," she said, as she began to tell the sinister tale as they began to walk around the tower staircase heading up towards the Wizard's Turret she would claim as her own.

The girl's voice was steady as she recounted the dreadful events. Her words were measured, every detail placed carefully like a piece on a chessboard as they made their way up the stairs. The tale of the prince's violent end hung in the narrow tower stairwell, each step an echo of ominous footsteps.

As they reached the landing where the Wizard's Turret lay, Sansa couldn't help but keep her eyes locked on Tanya. The girl was younger than she, yet there she was, carrying stories of death and upheaval and speaking in a voice so calm it chilled her. Sansa felt the warmth drain from her, replaced with a shiver that went bone-deep as she realized just how vast the world was outside Winterfell, and how much darker. That she'd one day have to leave these protective walls to live with her husband, whoever he turned out to be, was even more intimidating.

She shook her head. Now was not the time for such worries. Such an event was years away. Time to focus on learning what she could and helping Tanya settle in. It's what a truly noble lady would do.

Chapter Text

Bechafen, Kaldezeit 29th, 2522

The dining room was small and intimate, at least by the standards of the great lords that ruled the Empire, though the weight of the company within made it feel anything but cozy. Eddard Stark sat around the table with the Emperor himself, his son Luitpold, and Lady Hertwig, the Lady and Regent of Bechafen, who wasted no time in broaching the question hanging unspoken between them.

"Before I give you an answer regarding the proposal you made yesterday," Lady Hertwig began, her tone pointed, "how do you mean to manage your Sigmarite subjects?"

She didn't soften the question, didn't even glance at the Emperor before posing it. The Emperor and Prince Luitpold both leaned forward, their interest plain as they awaited his answer. Eddard felt the heat of their attention, and the sensation left him more exposed than he liked. He'd known this issue would be raised sooner or later, but he would've preferred it in private rather than in full view of the Empire's sovereign and his heir.

He let a moment of silence settle before answering, steadying himself. "Just as the Hertwigs have left the Ulricans of Ostermark be in peace," he said evenly, "I mean to leave the Sigmarites of Bechafen alone." He inclined his head slightly toward Lady Hertwig. "That does not mean, however, that I'll be indifferent to religious matters. I intend to expand Winter Town into a proper capital, and several new temples will be built. To Myrmidia and Handrich, as you may have already heard, but also to Sigmar and Taal. Just because I, and my people, are Ulricans first, does not mean we don't honor the patron God of the Empire. A provincial capital without a temple to him…" He shook his head. "It wouldn't be proper."

He watched as the Emperor ran a thumb along his chin, appraising. Luitpold's face showed only polite interest, but Eddard knew well that the young prince was sharp, observing every word and gesture like a griffon sizing up prey.

"That will be seen as a powerful gesture of unity by the lords and folk of the South," he remarked, a hint of caution in his voice. "But I wonder… How will you preserve the balance? The peace between faiths is delicate, particularly when power follows in its wake. The people of Ostermark outside of Bechafen will be sensitive to any shift from Ulric's primacy to Sigmar's. We wish to avoid stirring up unrest from both sides of the divide."

Eddard folded his hands on the table, meeting the Emperor's gaze directly. "The Knights of Everlasting Light and the Knights of the White Wolf attached to the temples of Verena and Ulric both served admirably in the recent siege," he said. He'd only received partial reports and rumors of valor that had come from his officers who'd been sent by Robb with their regiments to reinforce Bechafen, but what he'd heard had impressed him. But even if he hadn't heard anything particularly impressive he would have claimed otherwise, Magister Degurechaff's advice on this matter was sound.

"The Cult of Verena will have leave to double their barracks and raise a grand library, to the benefit of all who wish to learn," he went on. "As for the Knights of the White Wolf, they shall be given leave to build a full chapterhouse in Winter Town, to stand as a reminder of Ulric's strength and the protection of the realm." A chapterhouse full of holy knights was worth far more than one temple, no matter how symbolic the latter would seem to the scions of the Sigmarite heartlands of the south.

A murmur of approval from Luitpold, and a slight nod from the Emperor. Lady Hertwig regarded him with something approaching satisfaction, though her expression remained guarded. Eddard could feel the weight of her judgment, the calculations in her mind. Would he be the right man to lead Ostermark as chancellor? Could a Ulrican be trusted with such authority over a city like Bechafen that was rooted in Sigmar's faith?

He kept his expression steady, meeting her gaze calmly, determined to show that he understood the depth of her concerns and that he would answer to them, not evade them. If he was to be chancellor, it would be as a man who could unite, not divide. The challenge ahead was clear, and he would meet it with all the strength of Winterfell's enduring stone.

Lady Hertwig gave a thoughtful nod, her gaze steady and unblinking as she measured his words. "That sounds like an acceptable compromise, Lord Stark," she replied at last, and Ned felt a small relief settle within him. "I will announce that I've consented to a betrothal between Ostara and Rickon at the election."

He smiled, a rare and genuine expression amid all this maneuvering. "That is wonderful news, Lady Hertwig. With this union, the foundation of Ostermark shall be strong indeed." He paused, softening his tone. "From now on, please call me Ned."

"Of course, Ned," she replied, her guarded formality loosening. "Then I ask you to call me Arda."

He inclined his head. "I will, Arda," he answered, a touch of warmth at last between them.

But it was the Emperor's voice, firm and sharp as an axe blade, that cut through. "And what of Sansa?" he asked, turning his gaze on Ned with an unmistakable intensity. "Robb's marriage to Merida placates your traditional vassals and grants you ties to a powerful Bretonnian house. Rickon's betrothal secures support from the next most influential house within Ostermark itself. So, what is your plan for Sansa? Surely her match lies beyond Ostermark's borders."

Ned frowned, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders as he considered his daughter's future. "There are powerful boyars in Kislev, men with sons who would make strong matches." He hesitated, casting his thoughts further afield. "With our rising fortunes, I suppose the Tzarina's own nephews are now within reach. And there are options within the Empire." He weighed his words carefully, knowing well the dangers of ambition. "One of Grand Prince von Raukov's younger sons, perhaps. Gausser's thirteenth son Hans… though, no, he's engaged to an Ice Witch that rules some northern port town if I recall. But the Grand Baron has many grandsons yet unwed, including the eldest son of his heir. And in Middenland, Heinrich Todbringer remains unmarried."

At that name, the Emperor's brow twitched, a trace of alarm shadowing his expression. Ned didn't need to guess why. Heinrich Todbringer, the son of the Graf of Middenheim, was an Ulrican in blood and faith, and a popular figure among the Elector Counts of the North. It wasn't hard to see why the Emperor would balk at the thought of such an alliance strengthening the hand of Middenheim, especially when it had ever stood as an Ulrican bastion and a counterweight to Altdorf's influence. And since Ned was replacing a Sigmarite Elector, a marriage between the two houses would be seen as an even greater shift in power and influence than it would otherwise be.

"But I'd rather keep her closer to home than Middenheim," Ned continued, noting the Emperor's reaction but not pressing further. He would have to tread carefully there, should the time come to pursue it. "Jon is already too far away in Delberz. If there's a way to arrange it, I'd like to see him transferred to the new chapterhouse I'm planning to build in Winter Town."

The Emperor gave a slow nod, his gaze shifting, a glimmer of something inscrutable in his eyes as he considered Ned's words. Whatever calculations lay behind them; Ned knew he'd have to match them measure for measure if he was to secure his family's future.

The knock at the door was quick, almost sharp. Ned's gaze flicked over, following the Emperor's own, and they both watched as a knight of the Reiksguard cracked the door open and leaned in. "A wood elf of the Eonir has arrived, your majesty."

The Emperor raised an eyebrow, curiosity coloring his features. "Send them in."

Through the doorway stepped an Elfin ranger, tall and slim, his bearing poised yet light-footed, as if he were only half present in the room, prepared to vanish into the shadows at a moment's notice. His hair was a tousled brown, and he wore a cloak and tunic of deep greens and browns that matched the earth itself. It looked so natural that Ned thought if they were out in the forest, it would blend into invisibility with one soft breath.

Ned knew enough of elves to sense when one was seasoned with human dealings. This one had that air; calm and practiced, with not a trace of the mocking disdain some elves let slip around men. Still, the guards who flanked him watched his every move with the suspicion elves always seemed to evoke. Lone elves were always more suspicious than groups. It was a lot easier for a Dark Elf to infiltrate his way to a target that way.

The elf gave a short, graceful bow, holding the Emperor's gaze with an even, unwavering stare. "Your majesty, greetings from Queen Marrisith of Laurelorn."

The Emperor gave a brief nod, as if deciding whether to address the elf as an equal or a simple messenger. "Well met, sir Elf," he said, settling on formality. "Do you bring news from the northern campaign?"

The elf touched a satchel at his side, fingers lightly grazing the worn leather. "Yes, your majesty. I bear a detailed account." His voice was steady, with the faintest edge of something, regret, perhaps, or simply the weariness of a long campaign. "In short, matters progressed as our seers foretold. Sharp skirmishes sparked like lightning over several days, then finally merged into one decisive clash. The hosts of Middenland, Nordland, and Laurelorn stood together against the Warherds of Malagor the Dark Omen and Khazrak One-Eye." He paused, his gaze flickering across the room, as if assessing who understood the weight of those names. "A decisive victory, hard-won by the free peoples of the Old World. Losses, however, were similar in scale to the losses suffered by your forces at Delberz."

Karl Franz's face tightened at the mention of losses, though a glint of satisfaction flashed in his eyes. "A fine outcome, even if a costly one," he replied. "I'd hoped for fewer dead, but that was always unlikely. Were there any casualties of note?"

The elf's eyes narrowed, and Ned could have sworn he saw a flicker of sorrow cross his face. "Yes, your majesty. The Graf of Middenland fell to his old One-Eyed foe. It was a bitter end, though his son, Heinrich, avenged him with a swift and righteous stroke. He slew the Beastlord amidst the battle's fury, a feat that greatly stirred the hearts of men. There, in the blood and mud, the lords of Middenland hailed him Graf and swore their fealty."

Ned looked at the Emperor, catching the subtle tightening of his lips, a fleeting flash of wariness. The old saying 'speak of the beast, and he shall appear,' seemed appropriate. They'd just been speaking of the young man. For the Emperor, the ascension of Heinrich Todbringer was both a blessing and a curse; Middenheim would be united in fierce loyalty, yet it would be under a lord whose valor and faith in Ulric might fan into something the Empire's ruler had little control over. Here was a new power in the north, bold, young, and blooded by vengeance.

Ned understood it all too well: a young man, shaped by the loss of his father, propelled by duty and by love of the people who looked to him now. Heinrich would not be easy to sway; nor would he be easily contained.

Ned watched the Emperor, his eyes betraying a trace of worry beneath his calm exterior. Karl Franz was a strong man, sure-handed in war and in ruling, but his mind was always on the future, on Luitpold's rise and the uncertain path that lay before his son. Ned had seen that look before, in families across the Empire and beyond, in fathers who hoped their sons might grow quickly enough to shoulder their burdens, yet feared the world would not give them enough time.

"I don't think there's much to worry about, Your Majesty," Ned said, hoping to steady the Emperor's thoughts. "So long as you and Luitpold survive the coming storm, nothing will change. Your son is shaping up well. Heinrich may have the advantage of a few more years and hard-won laurels, but as Luitpold comes into his own, the Empire will want the stability of a son following his father. That's the natural way of things."

Karl Franz exhaled, though it sounded more like a sigh than anything else. "And if I fall to the Everchosen? Luitpold will be twenty, perhaps twenty-one by then. Old enough in normal times." His voice grew quieter. "But in such a dark hour, they might choose a more experienced hand. A warrior seasoned by blood and shadow, one who has already faced down the monsters clawing at our gates."

Off to the sides, the boy in question, looked on awkwardly as the two discussed his fate, so cavalierly. He looked like he wanted to say something, but could not bring himself to. Lady Hertwig, looked at him from the corner of her eyes with sympathy and perhaps a bit of pity.

Ned held the Emperor's gaze, feeling the weight of his words. "And wouldn't they be right to do so?" he asked gently. "If the world's fate is hanging by a thread, would it not be wise to choose the man who has already stared death in the face? There's no shame in that for Luitpold, he cannot be blamed for being young and the lack of experience that comes with it," he shook his head. "The title of Emperor has passed between houses before, as it will again. Luitpold or his own son could easily win it back depending on what happens in the years after that. There's no need to be concerned. Do your best for the Empire, for Reikland and your house, and it will all come out well in the end. Let your son grow into the leader he was meant to be. Don't force his hand by sending him on some impossible quest for glory. Sigmar's will guides us all, the throne will find its way back to your house in time, if that's what he means to happen."

Karl Franz sat back, but his jaw was tight, his eyes sharp as he mulled over Ned's words. "You make it sound so simple, Eddard," he murmured, though there was a ghost of a smile, small but there. "But you don't wear the crown."

"No," Ned admitted, "and I wouldn't want to. But I know what it is to love a son, to worry that the world's trials will find him before he's ready." He looked down at his hands, hands that had once held Robb, Arya, Jon, and all the rest, hands that had wanted nothing more than to keep them safe yet knew that life rarely made good such promises. "All you can do is guide him, as best you can. The rest is in the hands of gods and fate."

The Emperor's eyes softened, and for a moment, the burden he carried seemed to ease, if only slightly. He inclined his head, almost imperceptibly, a small gesture of respect. "You're a good man, Eddard Stark. The Empire could use more like you."

And Ned, feeling the weight of his own words settle upon him, could only hope he was right.

…

Ulriczeit 9th, 2522

The boat bearing the dire wolf banner cut through the morning mist on the Talabec, and though Ned had waited long months to see his son again, he found himself striding forward to meet them as if he could will the ship to dock faster. He'd missed his boy, both his boys, and his eyes softened as he caught sight of them on the deck. Robb, broad-shouldered and tall, held little Rickon, who was waving with all the vigor of a wind-whipped banner. Beside them stood a flame-haired young woman with a bearing as proud as a hawk's. Merida, he thought, and couldn't help but marvel. She'd truly grown up since he'd last seen her, and seeing her by his son's side reminded him of all the years that had passed since then.

As the ship drew to a stop, the dockhands lashed it down, and the gangplank clattered into place. Rickon was the first off, wriggling free from Robb's hold and racing forward with a joyful cry. "Papa!" he yelled, launching himself into Ned's waiting arms. Ned caught him, spinning him around, laughing as he hugged him close. The boy smelled of mud and pinewood, a fresh, wild scent from days on the river and nights under open skies.

Then Robb was before him, steady as an oak, with Merida by his side. Storm and Shaggydog followed close behind, both dire wolves prowling with fierce golden eyes that watched every stranger who dared draw near. Robb looked a bit older, and not just in his face, Ned thought. There was a hardness to him now, the look of a man who'd led others into battle and come back carrying the weight of it. He was no taller than when Ned had left, but broader, stronger. More the army's son than Ned's now, and it made Ned proud and sorrowful all at once.

"You look well, Father," Robb greeted him with a grin, though his blue eyes held that keen, serious light they'd both worn during the campaign to purge the Grpyhon Wood last year. Jon had been with them then, and now he was far away in Delberz, learning the ways of the White Wolf. The Gods only knew when the three of them would meet again.

"And so do you, my boy," Ned replied, clapping a hand on Robb's shoulder. "Gods, the tales I've heard of you! I knew you'd do well, but it sounds like you've gone beyond even my highest hopes."

Robb's grin widened, but his gaze shifted to the young lady besides his son. "And you must be Merida, I wouldn't have recognized you without you standing next to my son. You've really grown up since I saw you four years ago."

She stepped forward with a curtsey, her wild hair tumbling over her shoulders. "Thank you, Lord Stark," she said, her voice softer than he remembered. She'd once been a spitfire, all stubborn pride and fierce defiance. Now she looked like a lady, though he was sure that fire was still there, banked perhaps, but not extinguished.

"No need for that," Ned said, waving her formality off. "Call me Ned, or Father. You're family now."

"Alright, Ned," she said with a quick, easy smile, and for the first time, he glimpsed the familiar spirit behind her graceful demeanor.

Robb glanced around, craning his neck to take in the whole of the docks. "Is the Emperor still here in the city?" he asked.

Ned shook his head. "No, he returned to Altdorf a few days ago. He means to start rebuilding his army, tend to his relations with the Electors, and reach out to Heinrich Todbringer. He wants to make sure things get off to a solid start with the new Graff." He studied Robb's expression as he spoke, noting the flicker of thoughtfulness there.

"Times are shifting," Robb murmured, glancing down the river, and Ned could see he was weighing those changes as a man might gauge a coming storm. "Nothing stays the same, does it?"

"Nothing," Ned agreed, resting a hand on Rickon's head. "But that's for the Emperor to worry over. You've done your duty well, Robb. Now come, there's feasting to be had and future family waiting to see you."

The river breeze was chill, biting through layers of wool and leather, but Ned scarcely noticed. As they turned toward Bechafen Bastion, Ned felt the weight of his words settle upon him. In a world full of uncertain alliances and shifting power, family was the one thing that remained.

"Mother wanted to come and meet Lady Hertwig and little Ostara," Robb said, looking out over the city, his voice steady yet holding a hint of regret.

"Aye, I wish she could be here too," Ned replied quietly. "I've missed her dearly, but there needs to be a Stark in Winterfell. She and Sansa had to stay behind. They both know that well enough, even if it doesn't make the waiting any easier."

Robb nodded. "They understand. But… I think they're restless without us." He shifted slightly. "Mother keeps herself busy, presiding over the court when I'm not there and managing the castle when I am. It gives the steward more time to see to Winter Town. And Sansa…" Robb hesitated, the way boys do when broaching a matter they're not sure is fit for their father's ears. "Sansa's grown. She flowered about a month after you left."

He looked away, awkward, but Ned gave him a reassuring nod, and Robb continued. "The Loremaster judged her fluent in Tilean about that same time, so she's since taken up Khazalid."

"Khazalid?" Ned's surprise flickered across his face. "I didn't know Luwin spoke it."

"He doesn't," Robb said with a wry grin. "He can translate Dwarf runes into Reikspiel, but the one teaching her the tongue was Father Anselem. Apparently, it's a common subject for the Sigmarite priests."

Ned lifted his brows. "I hadn't thought Anselem was so learned."

"Nor had I," Robb admitted, voice dropping to a somber note. "Sansa took it hard when he died. She watched him from her room, spyglass in hand. She saw him on the wall, his hammer raised against the Brass Bull. They say he smote the Beastlord with all the strength he had left in him, hurling it from the walls with a single blow… though it cost him his life."

Ned lowered his gaze, trying to picture the old priest facing down a hulking minotaur with skin of of shinning brass, amidst the roar and chaos of battle. Anselem had been a quiet old man, slow to speak and cautious in his ways, but he'd clearly had a warrior's heart. "A worthy death," he said, voice quiet. "Sigmar himself must have looked on him with pride."

Robb nodded, a glint of resolve in his eyes. "It gives us good cause to request a temple for the Cult of Sigmar in the new part of Winter Town you planned. We could dedicate it in Father Anselem's name and none could deny it was deserved."

"A fitting tribute," Ned agreed. He took a breath, glancing down at Rickon, who was rubbing his arms against the cold. "Come, lads. Let's head inside. The wind's only getting sharper, and we've plenty of tales to share around the hearth."

With that, he began to lead them back toward the warmth of Bechafen Bastion, his heart a little lighter in their company, as it beat with the knowledge that they would soon be celebrating a reunion that warmed the spirit even more than the castle fires would warm their bodies.

They'd scarcely set foot on the shore when Ned's eye caught a ship sliding into a berth further down the dock, its banners snapping in the wind, emblazoned with the arms of the Imperial College of Engineers and the Alchemist Guild of Altdorf.

"Hold up," he said, turning to Captain Weiss. "Take half the guard and see Merida and Rickon back to the castle. Make sure they get out of this chill."

"Yes, my lord." Weiss saluted, and as he led Merida and Rickon away, Ned caught the flicker of red on Merida's cheeks as Robb pressed a kiss to her lips, drawing a shy smile from her. 'Ah, young love,' he thought, though his own heart ached with the weight of duty. A lord's time was never his own.

As he and Robb moved down the dock, Robb cast a sidelong look. "Who are we meeting?"

"The engineers," Ned replied, watching as their ship drew close, sailors already haggling over supplies with the dockmaster. Their captain, a portly man with the rough look of one too used to handling rope and tar, was deep in negotiation but fell silent as Ned approached.

"Is this the College of Engineers' expedition to Winter Town?" Ned's tone brooked no delay, and he saw the flicker of confusion on the captain's face.

"My lord, such things are confidential," the captain's voice faltered, but Ned's patience wore thin.

"I am Lord Stark of Winterfell," he said, voice as cold as the river's edge.

The man's gaze dropped to Ned's surcoat and then to Robb's wolf at his side, and he blanched. "Forgive me, Lord Stark, I didn't expect to see you in Bechafen. Yes… yes, it is." His words stumbled over one another as he motioned for them to board. "Would you… would you prefer to speak with someone from the College or the Guild?"

"Both."

The man sputtered apologies to the dockmaster and hurried them onto the ship's deck, sending for the leaders of both groups. Within moments, an engineer of about thirty with wild, bright eyes and an alchemist of similar age in the modest robes of her craft approached. They both bowed with a flourish, but Ned had little patience for fanfare.

"I'm pleased to see the College is on schedule," he began. "Your ship carries the first two thousand wheellocks, I trust?"

The engineer nodded, almost bobbing with enthusiasm. "Yes, my lord! And a team of gunsmiths to assist in their upkeep and training for your men. I've the roster here if you'd like to see."

Ned waved him off, his attention shifting to the alchemist. "And you've brought the eighteen alchemists we requested?"

"We have, Lord Stark," she replied smoothly. "They'll work to improve your powder works and help establish two munitions factories."

"Good," he nodded. "We may need to make further arrangements, though. My election as Chancellor of Ostermark is all but assured. If I take the Electoral seat, we'll require a third factory at least. I'll be subsidizing new orders of wheellocks for the smaller lordships and independent towns under Ostermark's banner, and more ammunition will be needed. The defenses of this province will be secured."

He watched their expressions shift, impressed, perhaps even a little fearful, but he needed that. Ostermark had always demanded much of its people, and if he were to rule, he would need every ounce of loyalty and skill they had to give.

"Then we'll proceed with all due speed to Winter Town," the alchemist replied, her tone betraying none of the nerves Ned was sure she felt. "Though, what of Bechafen my lord? Will they be ordering new muskets as well?"

"Yes, I've already brought up the issue with Lady Hertwig and she has dispatched a negotiator to Altdorf to make her own order," Ned explained. "Unlike the rest of the members of the League she will need no assistance from me and intends to have a least one munition factory of her own constructed within the city."

"I'm sure the Grandmaster will be pleased to hear it," the Engineer said.

"As will the guild," the Alchemist put in.

"Then I'll leave you to your work," he said, bidding them farewell.

"Let's get a move on," he told Robb. "Lady Hertwig's castle is waiting for us."

Chapter Text

Shaggydog was as wild and black as the forests of Ostermark, a beast of nearly two hundred pounds who could've pulled a man apart if he wanted, yet here he was, padding around Lady Hertwig's parlor with Rickon and Ostara on his back. Rickon, grinning as always, held the reins, though with Shaggy, reins were metaphorical, the young boy's fists clutching the wolf's fur. Ostara, barely five and giggling with delight, clung to Rickon's back, her arms wrapped tight around him to keep herself from tumbling off. Storm sat beside Robb, tongue lolling out, tail thumping against the floor. For all their fearsome presence, the wolves were strangely tame. It was something even Lady Arda Hertwig seemed to marvel at.

"They're surprisingly well-mannered," Lady Hertwig said, gazing at the wolves with a mix of awe and fear. Robb could see her guards watching closely, hands near the pommels of their swords.

Robb shrugged. "They're far smarter than they look and well-trained. They won't bite unless there's a threat to their master. But don't mistake it; they're wary of anyone who isn't family." He gave a pointed look at the guards. "They see more than men give them credit for."

Arda nodded, her gaze never leaving the wolves. "We don't have dire wolves, but we do have a griffon, Bloodfeather. She fought the Brass Bull to defend Lord Wolfram and was nearly killed in the battle. Hardy creatures, griffons. She's finally recovered, though…" Her voice trailed off, and Robb noted the tremor in her voice, the way her fingers clenched and then released at her side.

"I've heard they take the loss of their riders harshly," his father said gently, his voice softening.

Arda's eyes flickered. "Yes. It's been hard on her… and on all of us. Even more so since the loss of Ortwin. I bring Ostara to visit her every day. Bloodfeather takes comfort in her company, I think." She steadied herself, taking a breath. "But mostly she spends her time tending to her eggs."

Father's eyes lit up at that. "She's laid eggs? Are they promised to anyone?"

"She laid two on the seventeenth of Brauzeit," Arda replied, a hint of pride creeping into her voice. "The father is Razortalon, the Grand Baron of Nordland's griffon. One egg has already been promised to the Grand Prince of Ostland. But the other…" She smiled, her eyes sweeping over them. "The second remains unpromised. Bloodfeather is young yet, only thirty. We expect she'll be laying eggs for another hundred twenty years, so we're not intending to keep the chick."

"They take two months to hatch, yes?" Merida, at Robb's side, asked, her eyes bright. "That means they'll be hatching any day now."

"Aye, in about a week," Lady Hertwig said, her smile tempered by a touch of worry. "My late father-in-law sent for an Amber Wizard from Altdorf as soon as the eggs were laid. Bloodfeather's been protective, and separating her from her chicks will be… difficult. Our Beastmaster knows his craft, but handling a mother griffon is no easy thing. It was extremely difficult to get her to leave the eggs and muster out with the army in Brauzeit, and that was very early on. Once they hatch it will be nearly impossible without an Amber wizard on hand."

Robb felt a surge of excitement. Griffons were rare beasts, fierce and proud, and worth more than fifty greatswords in battle. He exchanged a glance with his father, knowing his thoughts were likely running the same course. He could see the faint glimmer in his father's eyes, the same spark he'd have when presented with a worthy challenge.

"The wizard should be arriving any day now," his father said, hopeful.

"Yes," Lady Arda replied, her brow faintly creased with worry. "Though with the fighting downstream, I fear that they may be delayed."

Robb's father nodded thoughtfully, and Robb knew what was coming. "I'd intended to head back to Winter Town once the election was concluded," his father said slowly. "But for a griffon, well… I could delay a few days. What would it take for me to get that chick, Arda?"

Robb noted Lady Hertwig's slight smile, the kind of look someone wore when they knew they held all the cards. "The Grand Prince is paying six hundred gold crowns for his chick," she said, her tone steady.

Robb frowned. Six hundred crowns was no small amount, even for a Stark.

But his father didn't falter. "Is gold the only compensation you'd consider?" he asked. "As you know, I plan to expand Winter Town's size. We will have a tremendous need for lumber. Perhaps we could arrange some bulk orders from your sawmills?"

Arda raised an eyebrow. "But weren't you planning to order from us regardless? Our mills are by far the closest."

Father inclined his head, conceding the point, though Robb could tell he wasn't done yet. "How about a discount on horses and cattle?"

Arda's gaze sharpened. For a moment, Robb saw her eyes flicker with interest. His father controlled the vast plains of the Veldt, home to the richest grazing lands in the Empire outside of Averland. The horses of the Veldt were renowned for their strength; broad-chested with great endurance, perfect for war or travel, and highly prized among lords across the Empire and as far north as the Ungol hinterlands of Kislev.

The meat of their longhaired cattle was in high demand, and so too were their hides which were used to make magnificent rugs. In the spring when the weather thawed, their long coats were sheered and the wool sold on the market. It was a little coarse, but was prized for its warmth. Sales across the north of the Empire and with Kislev were always brisk.

Lady Hertwig considered his father's offer, her fingers tapping absently against the carved wood of her chair. "The specifics would have to be sorted out, of course," she replied, "but it sounds… promising."

They went back and forth, as negotiations always did, with Robb watching them like they were masters moving pieces on a chess board, each seeking to tip the game their way. But his father had a knack for these kinds of dealings, and soon enough, they shook hands, satisfied.

"Could we go visit the beast?" his father asked, his voice carrying a hint of excitement that Robb rarely heard.

Lady Hertwig smiled. "Of course. But I must ask that you leave the dire wolves behind. Bloodfeather would not take kindly to their presence near her nest."

Robb glanced down at Storm, who had been contentedly lying by his feet, but now perked his head up at the sound of wolves. He recognized that word as pertaining to himself. "That's alright," Robb assured her. "They'll stay back with our guards if I ask."

His father put a hand on Robb's shoulder, and they exchanged a nod, both knowing that this was no ordinary venture. It was the kind of opportunity that came only once in a lifetime.

…

Lady Hertwig led Ned and his family down past the kennels, where the black butcher dogs snarled and strained at their chains, their eyes glinting in the light of the wall lamps. State Troopers across the Empire used these beasts, their loyalty as fierce as their teeth, their ears and noses keen and quick to detect enemy infiltrators. Their low growls followed their party down the narrow stone passage. He could see the unease flicker in Rickon's face, but the boy kept his head up, imitating Robb's stoic resolve. Ned felt a quiet pride; his sons knew how to hold their ground.

Then they came to the room where the griffon lay. Bloodfeather's quarters were large, easily a dozen yards across in both directions, though the air was thick with the scents of hay and damp stone. The great creature rested in the far corner, curled within her nest of straw, her massive head lowered over her forelegs. At the sound of footsteps, she lifted her head, and Ned's breath caught.

He'd seen Bloodfeather before, while on campaign alongside the late Chancellor, but every encounter with the beast felt like the first. She was twice the size of any warhorse he'd ever ridden, with wings that could blot out the sun. Her head and wing feathers gleamed a deep crimson, the shade of fresh blood, stark against the dark, muscular frame of her feline body. Her coat was almost black, though faint spots marked her fur, hints of an Arabyan leopard's patterns just visible under the candle light. She was a creature of both grace and power, born from some ancient, wild magic.

The Bechafen Beastmaster and his assistants entered first, carrying a haunch of pork, and approached Bloodfeather slowly, eyes downcast. They knew better than to challenge her gaze. When she spotted the meat, she let out a low squawk, and her keepers tossed it forward. The griffon tore into the pork, her beak ripping through the flesh, sending strips of meat down her gullet with single-minded ferocity.

Lady Hertwig's voice cut through the squelching sounds. "Razortalon's coat is a tawny gold, like the lions of Ind and Araby. Their chicks might bear almost any color, a dark coat, gold, or even one dappled with spots or stripes." She glanced back at Ned, a flicker of pride and sadness in her eyes. She'd seen a great many things, Lady Hertwig had, but perhaps none besides her children brought her joy like the creature before her.

When Bloodfeather finished her meal, Lady Hertwig brought them closer. Little Ostara clung to her mother's hand, and Rickon walked alongside, his eyes never leaving the griffon. "Hello, Bloodfeather," Lady Hertwig cooed, using that high, lilting tone that Ned had heard mothers use on babes and lapdogs. He felt a smile tug at his mouth, though he kept it in check. Here was a creature fit to battle wyverns, and the lady greeted it as if it were a house cat.

"This is Lord Stark," Lady Hertwig continued, gesturing to him. "He is Lord of Ostermark now."

Not quite yet, Ned thought, but he'd keep that to himself. No sense in over-complicating things for a griffon. Who knows if it even understood that much. Griffons were renowned for their intelligence, but lordship was a rather abstract concept.

"This is Rickon," Lady Hertwig added, patting his son's head. "He's Lord Stark's son and will… be Ostara's mate." Her voice softened, carrying a touch of solemnity. "One day, he will ride you into battle."

Bloodfeather's great golden eyes flicked from Ned to Rickon, then to little Ostara, the griffon's head tilting this way and that. She let out a curious squawk, then a low chuff. The sound echoed in the stone room. Rickon, to his credit, stood his ground, staring up at her with wide, fascinated eyes, a mixture of awe and determination. The griffon seemed pleased by the boy's courage and settled her gaze back on him, studying him as if weighing his mettle.

Ned watched his son, feeling that mix of pride and dread a father knew well, hoping that courage would serve him, yet knowing what it cost. No matter how fearsome she was, if Rickon rode her into battle, one day he might fall to the same fate that Wolfram had.

The griffon's gaze drifted from Rickon to little Ostara, her golden eyes softening. Slowly, she lowered her head and stretched it toward the child, pointing her beak down in a gesture that seemed almost gentle. Lady Hertwig murmured encouragement, and Ostara, fearless as any noble child, stepped forward, placing her small hand atop the feathered crown. Bloodfeather let out a deep, rumbling purr that vibrated through the room like distant thunder. Then, as if her introduction had concluded, she curled back into her nest, eyes half-lidded in satisfaction.

Lady Hertwig took the cue and led them out, the clank of iron-shod boots and the muffled snarls of the butcher dogs marking their return up the stone passage. As they passed the kennels, Rickon's excitement bubbled over.

"That was amazing!" he burst out, his voice ringing through the hall.

"Yes, it was," Merida said, tousling his hair, only to be met with a squawk of outrage. Robb chuckled, watching his brother with amusement.

"Griffons take about two years to mature, don't they?" Robb asked, ever practical, his mind already on the logistics of raising one.

"That's right," Lady Hertwig replied.

"Convenient enough," Ned muttered, thinking ahead to what battles lay in wait. "Seems fast, all the same. A horse takes a full four years to grow, and they're smaller by a fair amount."

Lady Hertwig smiled, though a hint of caution tempered her words. "They reach their full size in two years, true enough. But their minds take longer. They're curious as a kitten those first few years, stubborn as any child." She gave a knowing nod. "By four or five, they settle down. Battle, though… that seems to come as natural to them as breathing."

The thought hung in the air, heavy with promise and peril alike. A creature like Bloodfeather under his saddle, grown and battle hardened, would be a formidable sight. One that would rally his men and strike fear in the hearts of the enemies. And in the dark times to come, that could make the difference between victory and defeat.

Ulriczeit 12th​, 2522

The hall was filled with tension, a taut, quiet sort that Ned recognized all too well. Lords and ladies gathered in clusters, their words guarded and their glances sharper than any sword. Since the ruin of Mordheim, the League of Ostermark had gathered here in Bechafen's Great Hall to elect one of their peers Chancellor of Ostermark and Elector-Count of the Empire. Here, amid stone walls thick with history and lit by the steady light of oil lamps, they would once more name a leader.

Here among the throng were the great Lords and Ladies of the Empire's East March. Princess Ostara of Bechafen and her regent Lady Hertwig. Lord Stark of Winterfell. Dukes, Counts and Barons mingled in the crowd, along with Lord Mayors of great market towns and the lesser mayors of smaller ones. There was the High Priest of Bechafen's Temple of Sigmar, the High Priest of Winter Town's Temple of Ulric and the High Priestess of Essen's Temple to Verena and the Grandmaster of the Knights of Everlasting Light.

Ned stood amongst the crowd, silent as the great clock chimed, marking the evening hour. Lady Hertwig walked before them, up onto the dais with her daughter and sat down in the Lord's chair, placing Ostara on her lap. All eyes followed the young girl, innocent and unknowing, thrust into a world of blood-oaths and power.

Her voice rang out loudly across the assembly, measured, clear and steady. "In the name of Sigmar, I declare this convocation assembled. We are here to elect a new Chancellor of Ostermark."

Her pause was heavy, and Ned felt the weight of it settle over the hall, as Lady Hertwig's gaze traveled slowly across the crowd, as if daring anyone to question what she was about to say.

"I will not lie. I wish more than anything that my husband were in this seat, nominating himself to follow in his father's footsteps." Her voice faltered just briefly, and Ned saw the depth of her grief, but she pressed on. "But fate has decreed otherwise. And though there have been warrior women and queens of old, I will not insult you by claiming that I, or my daughter, belong in their company. Ostermark is in need of a strong leader. One who can lead us in battle."

Lady Hertwig turned her gaze to him, and Ned felt a shift in the room as the words left her lips. "Lord Stark and his heir have both proven they can lead armies to victory. Lord Stark has ruled nearly a fourth of Ostermark for sixteen years, bringing prosperity and growth. Thus, I have no choice but to nominate Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell as our next Chancellor."

Murmurs spread through the hall like wildfire, murmurs that grew louder by the second, but Lady Hertwig held up a hand to silence them, and the room quieted. "Are you surprised?" she asked, her voice cold as winter's bite. "Did you think I would stubbornly vote for my daughter, even though she has no chance of winning? Only fools rail against fate. Better to embrace what we have been dealt and turn it to our advantage."

She took a breath, her gaze settling on Ned once more, her words weighted with intention. "As such, I have agreed to betroth Ostara to Rickon Stark. They will be wed on my daughter's sixteenth birthday."

The hall fell into a stunned silence, but Ned felt the eyes on him, the hungry, watchful stares of lords and ladies who saw the Stark name rising in Ostermark. Their envious eyes going to his boy Rickon as well, who with his wild spirit and his wolf's blood, was now destined to bind the Stark and Hertwig names together, sealing their power.

Ned took it all in with a calm face, but inside, he felt the familiar ache of choice, that heavy, endless weight that came with every decision, every alliance, every promise sworn and kept.

"The outcome is now all but ensured, yet that does not mean that the Lord in question should not speak to you before you vote. Please come here and give a few words Lord Stark," said Lady Hertwig.

The hall quieted as Lady Hertwig gestured for him to step forward, her hand sweeping in invitation. A sea of faces watched him, their stares like drawn blades, weighing and measuring, some with approval, some with doubt, and a few, like Werner Schütz, the High Priest of Bechafen's Temple of Sigmar, betraying outright displeasure.

Yet, he could sense the tide had already turned; Lady Hertwig's endorsement had secured his standing. Out of the hundred votes for Chancellor, House Hertwig had fourteen and a quarter, while House Stark had twenty-three and a half. Together they had the griffon's share of wealth, manpower and military power in the province. He doubted any would vote against him, even Werner, though the look on the face of the man made it clear that he wanted to.

Ned took a deep breath and climbed the dais, turning to face them. He met their eyes, one by one, lords and ladies, mayors and high priests, hardened warriors and rich burghers alike. These were the leaders of Ostermark, and they had gathered to judge him.

"Greetings to you all, and may the blessings of the gods be upon the people of Ostermark," he began, his voice carrying steady across the stone walls. "I think you all know who I am and what I stand for, so I'll spare you the introduction. Instead, I'll speak of what I mean to do as Chancellor, and for Ostermark's future."

He paused, the weight of his words settling upon the hall. "Our province has been scarred by war, but I intend to rebuild. All that has been torn down and despoiled will be restored the way it was. And I will prepare us for what may lie ahead," he paused for emphasis. "My handgunners, our state troops, are being outfitted with wheellock muskets. My intent is to see every regiment of infantry in Ostermark similarly equipped. For those of you who may find such costs difficult to bear, I pledge to subsidize this change, along with the supply of powder and ammunition. I am embarking on a substantial increase of my powder works and will have several munition factories built within Winter Town."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, heads nodding, eyes brightening. Ned held up a hand, and silence fell again. "In Winter Town, there will be much growth in the years to come. We'll extend the walls, doubling the area that lay within their protection. We will build a temple to Sigmar, in honor of Father Anselm, who gave his life on those walls to hold back the Brass Bull."

His gaze fell upon the High Priest, who looked back, surprised, guarded and unsure. If Sigmar's clergy doubted him, they would see his actions prove him true.

"There are threats to the Empire that will test all of us," he continued, his voice low but iron-forged. "We cannot know when they will strike, only that they will. But I promise you this; under my rule, Ostermark will stand ready. Our people will have the weapons, the walls, and the strength they need."

Ned looked out over the gathered, who seemed now less like strangers and more like a friendly congregation gathered together to aid one another. He could see glimmers of interest, intrigue, and most gratifying of all, approval sparking in their eyes as he laid his plan before them. A promise of growth and strength, not just for Winter Town but for all Ostermark.

"I intend to see Winter Town grow to rival any city in the northeast," he continued, voice steady, hands clasped loosely behind his back. "The next decade will see our population double, and with that growth, we will build more than homes and markets. We'll construct temples not only to Sigmar but to Taal, Myrmidia, and Handrich. For the Knights of the White Wolf, we will build a chapterhouse to match any in Middenland. For the Temple of Verena we will build a library equal to any in the northern provinces. The docks will be extended and mills will be built along the river's edge"

Across the hall, Ned caught Harald Reisszähne's face shifting from wary caution at the idea of building a temple to Sigmar, to something closer to elation at the mention of a chapterhouse for the Knights of the White Wolf. Nearby, Diethild Wissen, High Priestess of the Temple of Verena, looked radiant at the promise of a grand library, sure to be a mark of Ostermark's wisdom and learning. As for the mayors, wealthy burghers all, their eyes glistened with the prospects of profit when he mentioned extending the docks and building mills along the river.

"And lastly," Ned added, "I intend to build a Volkshalle, similar to the one in Altdorf." The words carried a ripple through the crowd, murmurs turning to surprised nods and some quiet whispers. "Future elections for the chancellorship will be held there, and should new laws be required, each of you or your chosen representatives will have a place to debate and approve them, just as the Diet does in Reikland when Karl Franz brings a decree before them."

The murmuring shifted, and Ned felt a flicker of satisfaction. It was a subtle play, this people's hall he planned for Winter Town, and he had come up with it himself, not Degurechaff. With a touch of pageantry he could proclaim the ancient tribal council of the Ostagoths revived, and yet it would help him consolidate his influence across Ostermark.

It seemingly gave the members of the League power over him, but that was only if you assumed he was an autocrat with the power of the Tzarina. The Chancellor of Ostermark and his vassals was more like the Emperor, with little direct power over the Electors. The Hertwigs had had tremendous difficulty in passing or enforcing laws, even if the Starks also approved of the one in question. They'd had to cajole and sway each lord and mayor with favors, one by one.

This Volkshalle would give the lords and mayors a sense of autonomy, yet laws passed by such a diet assembled in the shadow of Winterfell would be far easier to enforce across the province. Instead of bartering over each decree with one lord after another over the course of years, he could bring them all to this hall, shaping them to his vision.

Somehow, he felt his late Father would have approved. He had always thought himself so clever and that Eddard was too straightforward and honest. In the meantime, he watched them nod, one after another, feeling the weight of history shift as the electors of Ostermark seemed, at long last, ready to embrace his lead.

The speech finished; it was time to vote. The hall fell silent as votes were cast, a chorus of assent ringing through the chamber, sealing his fate. As the incumbent, House Hertwig voted first, then House Stark, then down the line from the largest remaining electors to the smallest. From dukes with multiple votes to small town mayors with just a quarter.

House Hertwig's support had broken any resistance before it could form, leaving no room for dissent. Such was the way of these votes, for whenever House Stark had deigned to vote for House Hertwig in past elections, the vote had always been unanimous. Yet, when House Stark voted for itself, there were always some who followed them, even if it was never enough. With House Hertwig supporting him, none of the others were brave enough to dissent.

When Bechafen's High Priest of Sigmar step forward to cast his vote, Ned could sense the hesitation in the man, a pause that stretched just a bit too long before he proclaimed Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. For a moment Ned had thought the man was about to abstain.

Lady Hertwig's voice broke the murmurs as she proclaimed, "The nomination of Lord Eddard Stark has been approved, unanimously. Let the High Priest of Sigmar in Bechafen invest him with the sword, and the High Priest of Ulric in Winter Town coronate him with the crown." And with that she got up from the Lord's seat and stepped down off the dais.

A ripple of confusion passed over the crowd. They understood the sword. The investiture was traditional, the handing over of the sacred runefang to the new Chancellor. Thus investing him with the divine authority of Sigmar who had handed each blade down to the tribal chieftains who had sworn fealty to him when he was mortal.

Yet no one had ever crowned the chancellor with anything other than authority itself. Ned felt a sudden weight settle over him; it was one thing to lead his family in the present, another to shoulder the weight of his family's history and the crown of Winter.

The Sigmarite priest climbed onto the dais, holding the runefang in its sheath. He knelt before him, and held the sword out, hilt first, for him to draw. Its pommel and crossguard gleamed in the lamplight, darkly luminous. The priest held the sword reverently, eyes lowered. "In the name of Sigmar, God and Eternal King of the Empire, you are sanctified and named his regent of the East March. Draw the sword and take up the burden and responsibility of being Chancellor of Ostermark and an Elector-Count of Sigmar's Holy Empire."

Ned reached out, his fingers brushing the hilt's dwarf forged star metal. With a swift motion, he drew the gromril blade, holding it upright before him as the crowd drew in a collective breath. Ice would always hold his love and loyalty, yet there was no denying Troll Cleaver's fierce beauty, the way its edge caught the light like a sliver of silver moonlight wrought into steel. Each rune etched into the blade seeming to dance in the light as though alive. Alaric the Mad was well named, Ned thought, one had to be insane to create something so dangerous and lovely at the same time.

Ned stepped back and sat down, settling himself in the Lord's chair and laying the sword across his lap. The chair hardly felt like a place of rest. The thing was heavy, carved from cold, unyielding stone and adorned with manticores that snarled and glared, all bristling menace. It was a poor echo of the seat of Winterfell, where dire wolves ran fierce and proud along the arms and up the back, creatures of strength and loyalty, not spite. Yet in this foreign hall, under the wary eyes of lords and priests alike, it was the closest he could come to home.

He watched as Harald, made his way up onto the dias and then besides the chair, the Crown of Winter in his hands. Robb had pressed the crown into Harald's hands the night before, Ned remembered, his son's young face set in fierce determination as he spoke his instructions, his vision for what this meant for House Stark and for all of Ostermark.

The Ulrican High Priest held the crown aloft, letting it gleam under the lamps' wavering light. "This is the Crown of Winter," he declared, his voice cutting through the hall like a blade. "Forged of bronze and gromril by the dwarfs of Karak Kadrin for Eldric Shadowchaser, the first Stark to style himself King of the Last Crossing, over twenty-seven hundred years ago."

The words settled over the crowd like a winter storm, first a chill, then a shudder. The claim that the Starks were older than the Empire itself, sent ripples of shock through the gathered electors. Older than Sigmar? Ned could feel the weight of those words as if they had been placed directly upon his shoulders. For centuries, the Starks had told such tales, old stories passed down in the stone halls of Winterfell. To speak of them openly, now, under Ulric's name, was a boldness the crowd had not expected.

"In the name of Ulric, God of Winter, War, and Wolves," Harald continued, voice low and unyielding, "I crown you King of the Ostagoths."

Gasps broke out, quickly hushed. It was one thing to call oneself Chancellor, another to claim a crown linked so deeply to the history of this land, one forged by dwarfs long before the birth Sigmar and the founding of the Empire. And the Starks had not whispered this in dark halls as fireside tales; no, they had laid it bare before them. They had entrusted the story to the Cult of Ulric itself and cited a Dwarf Hold that still stood strong. The dwarfs would remember. They would confirm or deny the story. If the crown was false, it would all fall to ruin. That alone told them how sure the Starks were that this was true.

Ned was as sure of it as he was sure of anything. He knew Robb had not gone to this length on a whim. He had spoken much with King Ungrim Ironfist of the Stark's history during their march to relieve Winter Town. He'd been intrigued with what the king had said of the Starks and their past when he'd named Robb dwarf friend. Over that long march he had drawn tale after tale from the irascible King, writing them down in his journal before going to sleep each night.

And so, Ned had trusted the strength of that crown with the weight of their legacy. He sat beneath it, praying that he would be worthy of its name.

Chapter Text

Morning, Ulriczeit 13th, 2522

Merida made her way to the bow, drawn by Maudie's beckoning wave. Her lady-in-waiting was always collecting scraps of news and whispers, things she knew would interest Merida, and today there was a gleam in her eye that hinted at something choice. Merida felt her curiosity spark, though it was hard to imagine anything more intriguing than the upheaval she'd witnessed last night. Her father-in-law's election as Chancellor of Ostermark, his coronation as King of the Ostagoths, Rickon's betrothal to Princess Ostara…Ostermark's nobility had been whipped into a frenzy. Every noble, priest, and mayor with half a sliver of power was angling for advantage in the new order, schemes hatching at that banquet like spring eggs.

"What is it, Maudie?" Merida asked, expecting a fresh tidbit from the night's plotting.

Maudie leaned closer, her voice pitched low with excitement. "I've heard some interesting news about Sir Phoebus."

Merida's lips quirked into a smile. The Questing Knight from Carcassonne, the one her husband Robb had met in the World's Edge Mountains. "He rode south after the wedding, didn't he?" she asked, thinking back to how the knight had departed with naught but his armor and vows to keep himself warm. "To join up with the reinforcements Robb sent by ship to Bechafen?" Though she'd wondered how he intended to get into the city past the Beastmen besieging it.

Maudie nodded, her face alight with the thrill of storytelling. "Aye, and just like a ballad, he arrived just in time to join Prince Ortwin's cavalry charge and break the siege."

Merida let out a breath, shaking her head in quiet wonder. "A knight straight from a story, that one. Always in the nick of time, isn't he?" To catch up with ships that had left that morning was incredible, though she supposed the griffon's share of credit should go to the good knight's steed. Bretonnian horses were even more renowned than the knights that rode them and for good reason.

Maudie's eyes narrowed, her lips curling with barely suppressed laughter. "Yes, but this might interest you even more," she continued. "Once inside the city, he met an old acquaintance of ours. The Strigany whore. She accompanied Lord Stark's reinforcements on their journey down river."

Merida rolled her eyes. "Maudie, really." That woman was a relic of a bygone campaign, no more. What did it matter, a tryst on the road or in some distant camp, when weighed against the weight of her marriage, the life and love she and Robb had built? A flicker in the fire, no more. "Let me guess. They 'hit it off,' and she went with Sir Phoebus when he left?"

"Exactly that," Maudie said, laughing.

Merida shook her head, a faint smile playing on her lips, "Maudie, I don't care about her anymore." She almost pitied the woman, tangled up in the arms of a wandering knight who'd likely leave her at the next port.

"Oh, who's this?" Maudie murmured, flicking her head toward the shore with an intrigued look.

Merida turned, her gaze following Maudie's, and took in the scene below. Lord Stark was introducing a young woman to her husband, a stranger, though clearly not just any stranger. She couldn't have been more than a year older than Merida herself, yet there was something ragged about her look. She was pretty enough, even beautiful in a raw, untamed way, though her clothes told another story. She was clearly a backwoods peasant, wearing plain wool and rough leather, with a scrap of fur that looked more useful than decorative. Her hair, worn down past her shoulders, was a strange two-toned mix, the top two or three inches a natural blonde, the rest dyed a warm, henna brown. And she wasn't alone. A girl, maybe twelve, with bright blond hair, stood at her side.

Merida's eyes drifted to Robb, who looked distinctly displeased. Whatever this introduction was, it had put him off, yet his father was standing there, rock-solid and unbothered, hands clasped behind him like he'd given Robb no choice in the matter. After a moment's hesitation, Robb nodded his reluctant acceptance and motioned for the two newcomers to follow him up the gangplank onto the ship. Once on board, he pointed a sailor toward them with a brisk word, sending the two girls below decks before making his way toward the bow and the two of them.

"Maudie, please go down and help Katniss and Primel set up. They'll be sharing your quarters with you," he said, voice low.

Maudie bobbed a quick, surprised curtsey and headed below, casting one last questioning glance at Merida, who felt her patience fray. Once they were alone, she crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.

Robb sighed, casting a quick look over his shoulder to make sure they were out of earshot of anyone. There were a few greatswords nearby screening them off from the rest of the crew, who pretended disinterest, though Merida thought they'd be talking of this among themselves later. Greatswords were supposed to be the kind of men you trusted with secrets and discretion and if it were a military matter she would. However, this was decidedly not that and men were the biggest gossips of all, no matter how they complained about chattering women.

"That wasn't something I'd expected to see today," Merida told him. Her gaze lingered on his face, which was still shadowed with whatever thoughts had been stirred by that meeting. "Who is that, Robb? Don't tell me your father is having you sneak a mistress into the city under your mother's nose."

Robb's jaw tightened. "Not a mistress," he replied, a bit sharply. "She's…well, she's a young woman Father encountered…"

"You mean he bent her over his bedroll for a few coins," she said, irritation sharpening her voice.

Robb looked off toward the horizon, rubbing the back of his neck. "…And she's carrying a child now," he said finally. "Father's seeing to her care, he's arranged for her to have a room, and once we're back in the city, he'll marry her off to a captain of the State Troops who can use the money and connections. She'll be set up well enough, and after that, he'll never see her again."

A flicker of surprise softened Merida's expression as she took that in. Ned Stark and his sense of honor, was always so rigid in his duties, in his promises to family and blood. This discretion wasn't what she'd expected. 'A rare mercy,' she thought, and she softened just slightly. She'd expected something much more blatant, like he'd done with Jon. This child would have a roof and a name, the woman a place and some measure of security. It was the sort of thing one might miss if they didn't stand close enough to see it.

"It's the way of men, isn't it?" she said at last, crossing her arms but allowing herself a sigh. "Planting their wild oats wherever they go. But I'll give him this, at least he's willing to reap what he's sown."

"So," Robb said, his voice a low murmur, "I can trust you and Maudie not to mention this to my mother?"

Merida glanced at him, arching a brow. "I don't know about that," she said, letting the hint of a smile play at her lips. "Us ladies ought to stick together, don't you think?" If she were in Catelyn Stark's shoes, she'd want to be informed, and she imagined her mother-in-law might see things the same way. But she watched Robb shift, clearly uneasy, and her own thoughts wavered.

"But this is how Mother would want it handled," he pressed, trying for reason. "Quietly, with discretion. Very differently than what Father did with Jon."

Merida sighed, folding her arms as she mulled it over. "Perhaps," she admitted. "But how much of that change is your father truly learning restraint, and how much of it is that this girl is a peasant? Not a noblewoman like the late Ashara Dayne?"

"Who can say?" Robb's mouth set in a line, his gaze shadowed. "But whatever Father's reasons, this is how Mother would want it handled. No need to upset her over a child who'll never come near the court."

Merida considered that, a heavy feeling settling in her chest. Catelyn Stark's heart would be saved from the burden of it, and it was likely a kindness. She thought, then, about herself, forcing herself to recall the occasional whispers and sideways glances of camp followers who remembered her husband's touch. 'If one of them came to him, belly swollen with his child…' She clenched her jaw. 'No, I wouldn't want to know either, not when the problem could be handled out of sight, out of mind. A simpler mercy, for everyone.'

"Fine," she breathed at last, loosening her arms, "I won't tell her. And I'll see to it Maudie keeps her silence as well." She watched him sigh in relief, but she wasn't about to let him off so easy. "But you'll owe me for this, Robb Stark."

He chuckled, but it was wary, a sound that told her he knew the gravity of what she was conceding. And maybe, Merida thought, he had the sense to know this kind of pact was best kept between them, like the secrets he might be wise to keep in his own heart.

…

Merida left Robb dozing, his breathing soft in the dark of their cabin. She paused, smiling to herself as she fastened her dress, letting her fingers trail over the slight flush on her neck. When they'd left Bechafen, she'd barely let him finish seeing to his duties before she dragged him down to their quarters, demanding that he start repaying what he owed her. He'd been all too eager to comply. The way he'd clutched her and gasped her name at the end still lingered in her ears, sending a thrill through her

She smoothed down her dress, checking her hair in a small pocket mirror until she looked properly presentable. She wasn't quite sure why she was doing this, why she felt so drawn to the new girl on board. But she found her hand lingering over her own belly, thinking of how she was over a week late herself. A spark of wondering. And so she found herself wanting to see this girl, this pregnant stranger her father-in-law had quietly ushered aboard. Katniss, she reminded herself, and her sister, Primel.

When she knocked and slipped inside, Maudie stood, immediately dipping into a formal curtsey. "Lady Stark," she said, sparing a glance at the other two.

Katniss hesitated before rising herself. Dressed plainly in a wool shirt and buckskin trousers, she seemed uncertain, glancing from Merida to Maudie before finally settling on an awkward bow, almost like a man. "Lady Stark."

The young one, Primel, was wearing a woolen dress and managed a shy and awkward curtsey, her cheeks flushed as she stared at Merida with something like awe or embarrassment. Merida smirked, realizing they must have overheard her and Robb in their cabin. But she brushed it off. 'A good, honest thing, between husband and wife,' she thought. It was nothing to shy from.

"What brings you here, Lady Stark?" Maudie asked, eyeing her with curiosity.

Merida took a step forward, gaze settling on Katniss. The older girl's hand had shifted instinctively, protectively toward her sister, her chin lifted just a touch, defiant even now. Merida knew that look well; it was the look of someone who'd fought hard and wasn't about to yield. She liked it. She'd come from fighting stock herself and admired the pride, even if it was tangled with caution.

"I was wondering how you ended up here," Merida said, folding her hands as she met Katniss's wary gaze. "Where are you from? What was your profession? And how did you meet Lord Stark?"

Katniss spoke in a tone as sharp as the edge of a blade. "My sister and I are from Walddorf, my Lady. A small forest village in Middenland, not much different from thousands like it scattered across the Empire." She crossed her arms, her gaze drifting somewhere far beyond the cramped quarters. "It lay half a day north of the first great bend on the Delb River. It was annihilated by Beastmen a couple of months back. I made sure most of the women and children made it to Flussbiegung, but the men stayed behind to give us time to escape. They fell with glory in Ulric's name, our uncle among them."

The words hung between them, heavy as lead. Merida shifted, feeling a wave of discomfort. She'd heard tales from villagers from all around Winter Town. All of them heavy with the loss inflicted by raids and destruction. But all their people had evacuated to the safety of Winter Town's walls before the Beastmen had swept down, warned by the riders Lady Stark had sent out. Aside from the soldiers who'd fallen in battle, her husband's lands had seen little true loss, except for a few stubborn elders too proud or crazed to leave their homes. It was different from what Katniss had no doubt endured, homes turned to cinders and countless lives snatched away by the foul creatures prowling the dark woods.

But something in the girl's words caught her ear. "What do you mean, you made sure?"

Katniss's gaze returned to her, sharp and unyielding. "I'm a hunter, my lady," she said, almost daring Merida to question it. "That was my job. Deer, moose, wildcat, whatever the woods had to offer. I've an exquisite pelt of the latter for sale, if you'd care to see it. I'm an expert marksman, good as any elf," she boasted. "But Beastmen are a different sort of hunt." Her voice was fierce, unflinching. "As we fled to Flussbiegung, I acted as our rear guard. I slew a dozen of the creatures myself. Great Gors with twisted faces and horns as long as my arm."

Merida felt a flicker of excitement ripple through her. The girl was no ordinary refugee; she'd faced down the worst the Empire had to offer and walked away with no scars and no sign of surrender. "That's impressive," she said, unable to hold back a grin. "I'm a hunter too, you know. I can shoot from horseback with the skill of an Ungol horse archer, though the most fearsome thing I've ever slain is a dire wolf." She chuckled, admitting, "The Veldt doesn't often see Beastmen."

Katniss tilted her head, her fierce expression softening, if only slightly. "Then you know what it's like, my lady. The thrill of the chase. The silence right before you strike."

A bond, unspoken but undeniable, sparked between them, warrior to warrior. Merida hadn't come expecting this, a sense of kinship, a shared understanding of blood spilled and battles fought in shadowed glades.

Merida leaned forward, grinning at the hunter's tale. "Yes, I do," she replied, catching the shared glint in Katniss's eye.

Katniss returned the grin, but her gaze shifted, drifting somewhere far away, as though she could see her forest home through the walls of the cramped cabin. The young woman's fingers rubbed absently at the back of her neck, her gaze drifting as she spoke. "When I got to Flussbiegung, I tried to keep hunting. But even with the Duke of Carroburg's victory near Kutenholz, the woods were still swarming with Beastmen. Every trip outside the walls was like courting death, but I didn't have a choice." She glanced over at the young girl, Primel, sitting quietly on the bunk. "Someone had to put food on the table."

Merida's heart thumped a little harder. She'd never known that kind of hardship; even the wild expanses of the Veldt seemed tamer than the life Katniss described.

"Then there was my friend Johana," Katniss went on, "she's a woods-woman who specializes in cutting lumber. She has a boy, just turned two. Most days, she'd leave him with Primel while I took my bow, she took her axe and we went out together."

Katniss paused, her voice dropping to a quieter tone as a faint flush spread across her cheeks. "When the Emperor's host came to camp near the town, Johana saw how many fine lords there were among the ranks… and she suggested a way we could make a bit of coin." She looked Merida in the eye, a wry look crossing her face. "Enough in one night to see us through a month, maybe more without having to risk our lives in the forest. And by then, either the Beastmen would be defeated, or we'd all be dead." She shrugged. "It made sense, couldn't argue her reasoning."

So this was what desperation looked like, a step over a line, Merida thought, a willing shrug at fate when survival was on the line. It wasn't the first tale she'd heard like it, but somehow it stung sharper, knowing Katniss's quiet pride. Merida's heart beat fast in sympathy, but she kept her face composed, nodding along. 'What hard lives they lead,' she thought, recalling how safe her own youth had been, cushioned by wealth and castle walls.

Katniss spoke on, a hint of amusement creeping into her tone. "I'd never lain with a man before, but Lord Stark…" She gave a sly smile, one that made her seemed far older and experienced than she really was. "He was kind and gentle. It went by easier than I thought. Much more enjoyable too."

Katniss's voice had an edge of pride, a strength that clung to survival despite the harshness of it all. But her casual mention of her virtue, or rather, her lack of attachment to it, sent a jolt through Merida, though she thought she managed to mask her reaction well enough with a blank expression. 'The common folk think little of such things, don't they? Merely a means to an end. And to hear such things of Lord Stark…'

"I didn't think much on the matter until I missed my courses a few weeks later. I planned to raise the child on my own, with the help of Johana and the others. But then Lord Stark's wizard showed up out of the blue." She shook her head in disbelief. "Said she'd seen me in a vision. And so here I am, like fate's had a hand in it all."

Merida could only sit there, stunned and more than a little in awe. It was a strange world indeed that could bring a girl like Katniss, battered by fate, but unbowed, into her life.

Merida licked her lips, feeling the weight of the coin pouch at her side. "I'd like to see that pelt," she said, her voice gently. If there was a way to ease this poor girl's burdens, she'd take it.

Katniss nodded, "of course, my lady," she replied, crossing to the corner, where a worn duffle bag lay slouched against the wall. She knelt, rummaging with careful hands before she pulled out a pelt, fine and gray, thick and lustrous, all of it in one clean piece. She spread it out, and the fur seemed to drink in the low candlelight, casting a soft gleam across its surface. Six feet long if it was an inch, it spoke of a beast both formidable and stealthy.

"This is exquisite," Merida murmured, fingers trailing over the silken fur. She could imagine it lined into a cloak, something that would turn heads even in the courts of Altdorf. "How much for it?"

Katniss cocked her head, her mouth curving into a calculating line. "Beaver pelts go for five, maybe six shillings," she said, shrugging one shoulder. "This one's the size of four beavers, easy, and it was a sight more dangerous. Let's call it a crown and four shillings."

Merida inclined her head, not flinching at the price. It was steep, true, but worth every penny. She slipped her pouch open and counted the silver carefully, letting the girl see each piece fall into her hand. "Here you go," she said, pressing the coins into Katniss's palm, her gaze earnest. "And if you need help, don't hesitate to send word. I'll do what I can."

Katniss took the money with a small nod, her eyes wary but grateful. "Thank you, my lady. But that won't be necessary. Lord Stark's already doing right by me."

'Is he, though?' Merida wondered, feeling a flash of doubt, though she only nodded, keeping her smile light and her voice steady. "Just remember it," she said, giving a small wave as she took her leave.

…

Noon, Ulriczeit 13th, 2522

Bran stood at the prow, hands gripping the cold, damp wood of the railing as the riverboat glided toward Bechafen's docks. Winter, his dire wolf, thumped his tail against the deck, sensing Bran's excitement. Bran could feel it too, that thrum of anticipation deep in his bones, a tingling that had nothing to do with the chill of the late autumn air.

Ahead lay Bechafen, Ostermark's heart. He could see the sawmills working along the river's edge, the boatyards crowded with men laboring over timbers. It was a different sort of life from Winter Town, harsher and raw with the smell of sawdust and pitch, but it was Ostermark all the same. Home felt close. Perhaps he'd hear word of Winterfell, learn if the tales of the siege were true.

The Emperor's fleet had drifted past them days before, sailing downriver toward Altdorf. That had to mean the worst was over, didn't it? He clung to that hope, pushing away the knot of worry that had twisted in his gut since they'd left Altdorf

Martak, his master, strode up beside him, sniffing the air with distaste. "Industry," he said with a snort. "Invaluable… yet, I just can't stand it."

Bran smirked, nodding in silent agreement. The Amber College had shown him the true splendor of the wilderness, where life pulsed in the soil, the trees, the wind. He'd grown to love the quiet of the forest, the shadowed glens, the thrill of wild places. Still, he couldn't help but marvel at the might of a city like this, built from blood, sweat and iron will.

"Do you think the eggs have hatched yet?" he asked, glancing up at Martak with boyish eagerness.

"Two to four days yet," Martak replied with his usual terseness, as their boat docked with a shudder.

'Baby griffons!' Bran could almost feel their small, fierce bodies, hear their cries. He could hardly wait to see them for himself.

As they walked down the gangplank, a man in the purple and gold of the Hertwig guard approached, bowing to Martak. "Hail, Magister. I take it you've come to see to Bloodfeather and her brood?"

"Aye," Martak replied with a nod. "Lord Magister Martak, and this is my apprentice…"

"Brandon Stark!" the captain interrupted, his face lighting up with surprise at the sight of him and his great wolf. "Your father, the Chancellor, will be overjoyed to see you."

Bran blinked. "Chancellor?" That couldn't be right. "What happened to Prince Ortwin?" he asked, feeling a sudden chill unrelated to the autumn air. They'd heard of Wolfram's death on the battlefield along with his two younger sons, but last they'd heard Prince Ortwin had been leading the resistance in Bechafen. Had he fallen in whatever battle had broken the siege?

"Assassinated," the captain replied, his voice rough with anger. "Mutants, the subterranean kind," he added darkly.

Bran exchanged a glance with Martak, who seemed to understand the implication, though it left Bran bewildered. But Martak pressed on.

"So, an Ulrican was chosen," Martak mused, his mouth quirking in a slight smile. "That must've ruffled some feathers."

The captain let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "Lady Hertwig promised Princess Ostara to Bran's brother Rickon. That cut the legs out from under any opposition before it could form. Lord Stark was elected yesterday at the convocation Prince Ortwin called, you just missed it."

"Rickon's engaged?" Bran said, his eyes wide. 'Rickon,' his little brother, betrothed to the late Elector Count's granddaughter. He could hardly believe it. For a moment, the bustling noise of the harbor faded as Bran stared, half-disbelieving, into the captain's steady gaze.

"You've missed a lot, little Lord," the captain said, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as they walked toward the Bastion, crowds parting at the sight of a wizard and a dire wolf. Bran looked up at the captain, feeling a rush of excitement and wonder as they strode through Bechafen's bustling streets, while he filled Bran's ears with tales that felt both thrilling and strange, like something out of Old Nan's fireside tales.

Robb, his strong and stubborn brother, had led their army against Grimgor Ironhide himself, defeating the infamous Warboss and even slaying the Brass Bull, a monstrous Beastlord Bran had heard spoken of in hushed whispers. And then there was the siege of Bechafen, how Prince Ortwin had fought tooth and nail to lift it, only to be slain foully in his own hall, his victory stolen as his blood soaked the banquet floor. And then, the most unbelievable tale of all, of how his father had himself crowned King of the Ostagoths.

"The Crown of Winter," Bran murmured, barely realizing he'd spoken aloud. He'd seen it once, just once, after pleading with his father to let him lay eyes on the relic after hearing its story from Old Nan. The sight had lodged itself in his memory like a dream, a crown of bronze and gomril, ancient, heavy with the weight of the past. He could hardly imagine it, could hardly picture that symbol of their history worn upon his father's brow. It had always been just that, a symbol, like the tales of the Ostagoths, and the Starks who had once reigned as kings over the Last Crossing.

The stories took them through the streets and up past the Bastion's shadowed, iron-plated gates faster than he'd expected and they soon found themselves waiting outside the Griffon's den. His mind spun with the weight of everything he'd heard, struggling to fit the old Bran, the boy from Winter Town, with all the tales of heroism and bloodshed, of kings and crowns. He felt both taller and smaller, like he'd outgrown himself, yet remained the same.

"Bran!"

He turned at the familiar voice, and there was his father, sweeping him up in strong arms before Bran could fully process it. The air left his lungs in a laugh as his father spun him around, holding him close in a fierce embrace. "I wasn't expecting you," his father said, his voice thick with surprise and warmth.

"I didn't think you'd be here either," Bran replied, still catching his breath, gazing up with wide eyes. And there it was, resting upon his father's brow, the Crown of Winter. It gleamed in the lamplight, a thing of weight, snow, wolves and history. The sight left him awestruck, words sticking to his throat. The crown seemed both foreign and familiar, like his father had stepped out of the legends he'd grown up with.

For a moment, Bran couldn't say anything. He simply looked up, the crown a silent, ancient reminder of who they were, and who, perhaps, his brother Robb was meant to become.

As his father put him down, Bran's fingers fumbled to straighten his clothes, and he gave his best bow, trying to recall the lessons on courtly manners that had felt so far away since he'd left Winterfell.

There was a woman standing by his father, Lady Hertwig, stately, blonde, with a little girl clutching her hand, eyes wide and wary. He hadn't noticed her at first, so wrapped up he'd been in his father's arms and the crown upon his head. But her nod and the sad, thin smile reminded him of her loss.

"Greetings, Lady Hertwig," he said, fumbling for the right words. "You have my most sincere condolences for your family's loss."

"Thank you, Brandon," she replied, her voice calm but a little distant, like someone speaking through a veil. "It's much appreciated."

Martak, his gruff voice cutting through the stillness, interrupted. "That you've remained here in Bechafen instead of returning to Winter Town after the election implies that you've made an agreement with Lady Hertwig to acquire one of the chicks, my lord."

His father turned to him, brows raised slightly, as if pleased by Martak's bluntness. "That's right, Lord Magister."

"So, how will this process unfold?" his father asked, a gleam of excitement and purpose in his eyes Bran rarely saw outside the field.

Martak cleared his throat, looking back at Bran as if wondering how much he'd already grasped of his plan. "We'll go in and introduce ourselves to Bloodfeather," he began, "just to get a feel for her. Starting tomorrow, Bran and I will stay in her den with her all day, every day until her eggs hatch. We should be able to tell when it's close, and when that moment approaches, we'll call for you."

His father's face tightened with focus. "And once I'm there?"

"Once you're there, you'll need to hover over the egg you've chosen. The idea is for the chick to see you the moment it hatches, so you'll be the first thing it sets its eyes on."

"It'll imprint on you, like a baby duckling," Bran whispered to himself, his heart hammering at the thought of such a wild and powerful creature seeing his father as its mother and no one else.

But his father's brow furrowed. "And von Raukov's chick? Won't it imprint on you then, Martak?"

Martak nodded, crossing his arms as if he'd already considered it. "Unavoidably, my lord. But as soon as it hatches, I'll leave with the chick on a ship to Wurzen, then travel from there by coach to Wolfenburg. It'll take a month to get there, keeping the young thing warm and safe, but it will still be young enough when we arrive for me to transfer that loyalty to the Grand Prince with a spell."

Lady Hertwig let out a sigh, nodding. "How convenient," she murmured. Bran couldn't tell if she meant it as praise or something closer to irony.

"And how long will you be staying in Wolfenburg?" his father asked, voice guarded.

"Only a day or two,' Martak replied. "As soon as the Grand Prince has his griffon, his Amber wizard can take it from there and we'll head back. We'll be able to fly as giant eagles and make quick work across the sky. We'll be back in four or five days."

"But… what about Winter?" Bran interjected, glancing down at his loyal dire wolf, who sat alert by his side, ears pricked as if he understood every word.

Martak scratched his beard. "Ah… hadn't accounted for him." He thought a moment, then shrugged. "Gray wolves can travel far, thirty miles in a day, and dire wolves can manage a fair bit farther than that, even when they're young. We'll travel alongside him, transformed into dire wolves ourselves."

The thought filled Bran with a sudden, wild thrill. Winter's loyalty was unwavering; Bran had felt it every moment since their journey began. And to think of running alongside him as dire wolves, like kin in the forest or snow… He couldn't quite keep the eager smile from his face. "Two weeks, then?" he asked, his voice betraying his excitement.

Martak snorted, half-amused. "Two weeks, little lord. And with luck, you'll have the chance to run with wolves across half of Ostland before we're through."

"Will you be staying on in Bechafen once you get back from Ostland?" Father asked.

Bran's heart pounded with hope at his father's question, though he kept his face steady as he waited for Martak's answer. He didn't want to seem too eager, even if the idea of staying close enough to visit home more than once in a blue moon filled him with relief. Martak stroked his beard thoughtfully, seeming to savor every word, as if weighing them with the same care he used to cast a spell.

"Northern Ostermark's thin on wizards these days," his father went on, looking between Martak and Lady Hertwig. "I've one Celestial Magister in Winter Town, but no others. Robb sent a call to Altdorf for three more, though that's no quick fix. But Bechafen, has none in residence now, though Lady Hertwig does have a Gold Order Journeyman on retainer that's gone to Altdorf to apply for promotion."

Lady Hertwig folded her hands, her gaze somber. "Three of your comrades gave their lives to slay the Bray Shamans of the Brass Bull's warherd, Lord Magister. Their sacrifice helped win us this peace, but the Gryphon Wood is still unsteady after that uprising." Her voice held a sorrow Bran hadn't heard before, a tone that carried the weight of duty.

"True enough," Martak replied, nodding. "It's a dangerous place. A forest that needs tending to."

"So, you'll stay?" Bran's father pressed, a glint of purpose in his eyes.

The Amber Magister tilted his head and gave a rare, thoughtful smile. "Bechafen is as fine a base as any to keep an eye on the Gryphon Wood. If the Emperor needs me farther afield, I'll go, but for now, yes, once I get back, I'll stay."

Bran held back a grin, though his heart was soaring. Bechafen wasn't Winter Town, but it was only four days away by ship. He might get to see his father and siblings a few times a year, more than he'd dared hope for.

The words felt like a fire crackling within him, one that made him ache to run around barking and howling so he could share the news with Winter. Just four days. He repeated the words to himself, letting them settle into something steady and warm.

"Well, let's get introduced," Martak grumped, pulling Bran from his daydream. "I'll go in first, you follow in after Bran. Make sure to stay in the back with Winter until I have a handle on Bloodfeather."

"Yes, sir," Bran replied, steadying his nerves even as his excitement bubbled up. This was what he'd been waiting for, the chance to see a griffon up close, to feel its fierce magic in the air. His fingers drifted to Winter's thick fur, feeling the warm, reassuring weight of his direwolf beside him. Winter gave a soft huff, as if sensing the importance of the moment, his golden eyes alert and watchful.

Martak glanced at him, his brows knitting together as if to remind him to stay sharp. "Just remember, keep to the back. Let Bloodfeather see me first, and once I've her trust, then you come forward. She'll be quick to spot the two of you, quicker still to react if you're not careful."

Bran nodded, swallowing his thrill and replacing it with focus. He took a breath and followed Martak, heart pounding as they crossed the threshold of the den. The air was thick with the scent of straw and feathers, a tang of iron, currents of the Brown Wind and something that felt alive with ancient magic.

Bloodfeather was there, crouched low in her nest, her piercing amber eyes trained on them as soon as they entered. Her feathers gleamed in the dim light, a fierce mantle of crimson, every inch of her brimming with power. Bran was spellbound, his gaze locked on the great griffon as Martak stepped forward.

He could feel Winter tense beside him, instinctively alert to the griffon's presence. But Bran felt no fear, only awe, and a strange, resonant hum in his chest, like the magic that had stirred in him when he first transformed into an eagle.

Martak held up a hand, speaking low and steady, words of power that Bran couldn't make out. Bloodfeather cocked her head, her sharp gaze unyielding, and then, with a flick of her feathered crest, she settled. The Magister turned and gave Bran a nod.

Stepping forward, Bran felt his pulse quicken, the thrill of standing before such a creature filling him to the brim. This was real. This was a moment he'd remember forever, he thought, as he looked into the eyes of a griffon for the very first time.

Chapter Text

Afternoon, Ulriczeit 13th, 2522

Fuu watched Altdorf grow in her view, her heart quickening at the sight of a true Imperial city. Talabheim, for all its towering crater walls and the impressive defenses of its massive gatehouse, had been closed off, its great buildings and winding paths hidden from the sight of those on the river. But Altdorf, this was clearly a city worth the name, a sprawling beauty that unfurled across the riverbanks with a majesty that took away her breath.

She leaned over the ship's railing, studying the sight as they drew closer, half-expecting the painted colors and terracotta-topped walls to fade into something less grand as they approached. Yet Altdorf held its splendor, the high white walls standing like a fortress hewn from the bones of mountains. Its temples soared skyward, reaching out like great fingers of stone, and the Emperor's palace dominated it all, a sprawling, iron-browed citadel of brownstone, strong as the will of their patron God. The place spoke of power, of old wealth and unbending strength, in its way, more reminiscent of home than anything she'd yet seen on this side of the Dark Lands.

She hadn't expected to feel that. She thought of Fu-Chow with a pang of nostalgia, of the bustling streets lined with silk banners, the tall pagodas rising from busy markets, and the unbreakable discipline of the Terracotta Sentinels built into the very walls of the city. 'There's beauty here,' she allowed to herself, and for the first time, she felt a stir of something like belonging. The great castle of Robb's father had hinted at it, but this was different. This city felt closer to her world, a place made by hands that understood both art and war.

Her journey had stretched longer than she'd expected; they'd stopped first in Bechafen to unload Robb's soldiers, and then Prince Hertwig had commandeered the ships to ferry his cavalry upriver. Then they'd been used as floating artillery platforms to shell the enemy as she huddled below deck, her head tucked between her knees as the thunder shook the timbers. When it was over and her ship had finally sailed south and put Bechafen to its stern, her relief had felt like a release from a held breath.

Every port they passed had brought some new wonder, the clamor of Talagaad's bustling docks, and Hergig, with its strange mix of merchants and soldiers. Every day, on the river or at the docks, Fuu had spent all the time she could on learning the letters and writing of the Sunset Kingdoms. By now, her fingers had long grown accustomed to the strange strokes, and her tongue could shape whatever words she needed.

The captain's wife, an old woman with hands cracked like clay, had charged her dearly for each lesson. But it was worth it, each coin spent on letters she could use and phrases that rolled more easily from her lips each day. The knowledge would repay the cost a dozen times over, she was sure.

Now, at last, she felt she could stand before this city, ready for whatever awaited her here in the West. Fuu squared her shoulders, eyes tracing the city's sunlit towers, and readied herself to step into the heart of the Empire.

She paid one of the sailors she trusted, by the name of Diethard, to guide her to the Great Library of Verena. She followed the old boatswain closely, weaving her way through Altdorf's morning bustle, her eyes darting around the unfamiliar sprawl. She clutched her pack close as they crossed crowded market squares, the scents of spiced meats and river fish mingling with the smell of ink and paper from the stands where scribes sold books and young boys hawked newsletters celebrating the Emperor's victory at Delberz.

This was no narrow alley in Fu-Chow, no watchful pagoda towering above a familiar crowd. Here, strange peoples thronged and jostled, voices ringing out in a hundred guttural dialects, their words strange music to her ears.

The University loomed ahead, an imposing mass of stone and stained glass, its spires soaring into a gray autumn sky, clouds slowly crowding out the sun and growing heavier with the threat of rain, or perhaps sleet given the temperature. Well-dressed students hurried by, their noses buried in books or chattering excitedly. Most were youths with bright faces that shined with nobility and wealth, minds full of untamed ambition. They looked at her with curious eyes, likely wondering at the foreigner who wandered their city with a sailor as her guide.

Beyond the university walls, the great Temple of Verena rose up, all polished marble and archways, as grand and unfamiliar as the goddess it housed. Verena was Goddess of Knowledge and Justice, an odd pair of concepts for one goddess to cover in Fuu's view, but then again, being Cathayan she didn't really understand Gods.

Cathay was blessed with the direct guidance and rule of the Celestial Dragon Emperor and the Moon Empress. There was no need there to prostate oneself before great spirits of abstract concepts made manifest, in order to protect oneself from the depredations of Chaos. Still, it seemed to do the job here. Their blessings and magics obviously potent even to an outside observer like herself.

"Here you are Miss Fuu," the sailor drawled. "Do you need anything before I head back to the ship?"

"Yes," she replied, feeling the familiar thrum of nerves deep in her stomach. "Could you… point me to a librarian or a priest? I don't know how to tell them apart from the guests."

"Say no more, Miss." Diethard smirked, leading her through the doorway with easy familiarity, as if he had walked these halls a thousand times. He directed her toward a woman in her thirties, wearing flowing white robes with the calm assurance of someone who lived in a world of books and ideas. "That's the one you want," he said, and with a nod, he was gone, leaving her alone.

Gathering herself, Fuu walked up to the priestess, offering a slight bow. "Excuse me, Lorekeeper, might I have a moment?"

The priestess's eyes softened, and she inclined her head. "Of course, dear. Are you looking for a particular book?"

"Actually, I believe I can help you," Fuu replied, holding herself with the poise she'd learned in her travels away from home. "I come from Cathay. I can read and write in both Cathayan and in Reikspiel. Surely your library has books in my tongue that you'd wish translated?

The priestess looked her up and down, paying special attention to the angles of her face, her gaze sharp with curiosity but wary as well. "A rare skill," she murmured. "What price would you ask for such work?"

"Room and board," Fuu answered evenly, "a daily stipend, and lessons in Bretonnian. I have plans to journey to Lyonesse, and would speak well when I arrive there."

The priestess pressed her lips together, thoughtful. Fuu could almost feel the calculations running through her mind, the value of a translator from the East, the demands Fuu had made, and the books locked away in Cathayan script, waiting to be unlocked. At last, the priestess nodded, a spark of interest lighting her face.

"Room and board can be arranged," she said slowly, "as well as a stipend, though it might not be as grand as you hope. But the lessons? Yes, those I can promise." She extended a hand, and Fuu clasped it, feeling for the first time a thread of her plans fall into place.

Fuu studied the priestess's face, her expression measured. "How much is not as grand as I hope?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Half a shilling per page," the priestess answered. "That comes to five shillings for ten pages. Two hundred pages would earn you five crowns."

Relief washed over her, more than she'd let show. 'Easily enough to get to Lyonesse. Enough to find him.'

For years, she'd imagined that journey, rehearsing it over and over in her mind. She'd find her father, press him for the answers he'd denied her mother. 'Why had he left?' Why had he cast her and her mother aside to return to his lands, to a life that didn't have room for either of them? She'd thought, in darker moments, that she'd face him with a knife in hand if his answers didn't satisfy her. But things had changed and grown tangled since she'd left Cathay.

She thought of Robb Stark, and the memories came to her like shards of broken glass, of a rough coupling on a desk in a tiny backroom. Sordid, desperate, exhilarating… even now her feelings about it were complicated. And now, nearly two months later, she felt the signs, small and creeping, but unmistakable. A child. Robb's child.

The weight of it pressed against her, thick as stone. Altdorf, with its crowded streets and temples, felt even more foreign now, and so did her dreams of revenge. She wasn't even sure she could go through with it anymore, to stand before her father as she was and denounce him, let alone stab him, with Robb's child stirring within her. Perhaps she'd just go and gain the catharsis that came with the answers to her questions and return here, to Altdorf, to this temple and its library, to earn her keep by the page and make her life as a translator. It would be safe, at least, and there was something comforting in the idea of losing herself in pages and ink.

But for now, all she could do was bury those thoughts, let them sink into the quietest corners of her mind. She was only beginning this journey. She'd start the work, save what coin she could, and leave for Sunflower Hall before her belly grew too large to safely travel.

…

Evening, Ulriczeit 13th, 2522

Anne's hands shook, they still seemed sticky with blood no matter how many times she'd leaned over the side of the boat to wash them in the river. She didn't look down at them, didn't dare. The raw, red mess was etched into her mind, the blood pouring from Calvert's neck, his shocked, gurgling breath rattling up through her bones as she'd pressed the knife deeper, sawing back and forth until he was silent.

"Gregor," Dina's voice cut in, soft and steady, dragging her back from the horror she'd been reliving. "There, an inlet sheltered by the trees." Dina's finger pointed downstream, where shadows pooled thick under the drooping branches of a willow tree. "We can anchor there for the night. It'll be safe."

Safe. Anne almost laughed at the word, but her throat was too tight. 'Safe,' she thought. She'd long forgotten what that felt like. But she let Dina guide her back to the moment, feeling a chill as she nodded.

The young man with his shaggy blonde hair, guiding their small boat praised the young brunette, "Good eye, Dina," steering them toward the sheltered inlet with a steady hand on the tiller.

"How are you, Dina?" Anne's voice came out rough, cracking around the edges. She'd hardly been able to bring herself to look at the girl after what had happened back at The Underside.

Dina gave her a shaky smile, her face pale in the waning light. "I'm alright, Anne. The shakes haven't gotten worse." But there was a tightness around the girl's eyes that told Anne the truth; she was lying. Calvert had her kidnapped off the street in the chaotic early days of the siege. Just another pawn for him to use, this time, as his own private oracle. Drugs, threats, and the kind of cruelty only Calvert knew how to wield had kept Dina under his control, forcing her to speak her prophecies at his whim.

No one at the Underside had cared. Most of the other girls had whispered, sure he was keeping her for far more sordid reasons. Only Anne and Lisa had discovered why he'd really taken her, but only Anne had been willing to act.

Anne would have thought she was the last person anyone would expect to fight back, but for some reason Calvert hadn't trusted her from the start. He'd been wary of her from the first day she'd come to work at The Underside.

She was pretty enough, sure, long legged and slim, with lustrous dark curls and just enough curves to tempt a man. He'd wanted her, but he'd never let his guard down with her. Not until she'd learned to play the seductive games that were a whore's bread and butter, teasing and stringing him along just enough, with coquettish looks and lingering sultry touches, to keep him interested. And finally, the night before, he'd let his guard down.

Alone with her in that opulent room, curtains drawn, they'd been bare before the gods. And when he'd leaned back, she'd struck. The knife she'd hidden under the mattress felt like an extension of herself, cold and sharp, and she hadn't stopped until he was still.

She shivered, looking away, fixing her gaze on Gregor as he worked the tiller. She still couldn't believe he'd agreed to take them, to ferry them all the way to Altdorf and the Colleges of Magic. She didn't know him that well, just a shaggy-haired fisherman's son, one of those boys who were always hanging around the docks. One who pretended to be a knight on some epic quest rather than working, whenever the adults looked away.

As long as she could remember, he'd been one of those folks who'd always kept their mouth moving, dying to talk your ear off about the latest Beastmen attack or rumor of magic. Yet there he'd been, working on his little boat in the early hours before dawn, a streak of pitch on his cheek and an open, curious look in his eye when she'd asked him to help. And he'd said yes, just like that.

But now, in the silence, with Bechafen countless miles behind them, the weight of it all pressed in on her. She'd killed a man, a man she'd known, a bad man, but a man all the same. The blood was still under her nails, and the ghost of his voice lingered in her ears. 'Had it been worth it?' She looked at Dina, the girl's small face drawn and pinched, but alive and free. Anne took a breath, willing herself to feel the quiet satisfaction of victory.

Still, as the boat glided into the inlet's shade, she couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.

Gregor anchored the boat close enough to the bank to step ashore, just behind a curtain of willow branches. They hung low, their leaves pale gold in the fading light, some of the last in the forest to cling to life before winter claimed them. Anne was impressed with the way Gregor handled the boat, his hands rough but sure as he guided them through the murky waters of the inlet. For a fisherman, he moved with surprising caution, his eyes darting to the banks and beyond, as if expecting Beastmen to leap from the shadows.

He had caught a few fish on the way downriver, enough to cook for supper. Anne watched him kneel by the fire on the bank, flames kept small and low, and prepare the meal. Gregor didn't say much, he just handed over grilled fish with a healthy serving of watercress he'd foraged along the bank. She hadn't expected much, but the simple meal surprised her with its warmth and taste, a welcome break from the onions and winter apples they'd eaten that morning.

"This is good, Gregor," she said, her tone as close to praise as she could manage. It felt strange to say it, to mean it.

He looked up, and even in the firelight she could see him flush, the faintest pink on his weather-beaten face. "Just practice," he muttered, eyes shifting back to the fire. For a while, they sat in silence, the night closing in around them. Finally, Gregor broke it.

"We should put the fire out soon. We'll sleep on the boat tonight." His gaze drifted toward the shoreline. "I can push it a few yards off, still keep us hidden from the river, but far enough that anything trying to creep up on us would have to splash through the water. The river's deep all the way up to the bank. A wildcat might be able to jump across to the boat, but a Beastman would have to wade." He rested his hand on the falchion at his side, a weapon that looked too dangerous for him, but he handled it as if it lent him courage.

"Won't we freeze?" Anne asked. The damp chill of Ulriczeit clung to the night, creeping through her thin cloak. She'd had little choice of attire when she'd fled the Underside, just a heavy dress and boots she'd thrown on, better suited for hurried shopping in the market rather than huddling in the wilderness overnight.

Gregor nodded. "I have a brazier, a little one we can keep between us. And I've got two blankets." He looked up at her, shy but determined, as though trying to appear the protector he wished to be. "One for me and one for Sparks." He paused, and she knew he was thinking of his partner. She wondered what Axel would say when he found their boat gone and Gregor missing.

"Dina can have one blanket to herself, of course," Gregor continued, voice softer. "But...we'll have to share the other." His face went red again, voice cracking despite being her age and a man grown.

She rolled her eyes and sighed. "I'm a whore, Gregor." Her voice was gentle, but edged with the truth of it. "Sharing a blanket is nothing new."

To her surprise, he shook his head, face solemn. "You'll always be a lady to me."

The words caught her off guard, and for a moment, she couldn't look him in the eye. She'd been called many things in the last couple of months, most of them far from kind. But lady hadn't been one of them and the word struck her with a warmth she hadn't felt in years, sparking something she'd thought long snuffed out.

She forced herself to shrug away the feeling. "Stubborn fool," she muttered, but the words lacked their usual bite.

He grinned, looking more like the boy he still acted, and she pulled her arms tighter around herself.

Gregor moved with quiet efficiency, filling the small brazier with charcoal and hauling a bundle of wood onto the boat. Anne watched him work, admiring the simple purpose in his movements. When he wasn't glancing toward the shadows on the shore, he focused on the small tasks with a diligence she'd quickly come to expect from him. Gregor might not have been a warrior, but he was steady, and in this dark corner of the world, that counted for something.

She took Dina's hand, and together they slipped behind a tree where they did their business, with far more ease than had been afforded by a chamber pot and a moving boat. They washed their hands in the river and climbed aboard the 'Good Tide,' the happy name seeming out of character for such a normal looking fishing boat.

Dina managed a weak smile as she clambered aboard, but as soon as she lay down in the bow, curling up in the thick blanket wrapped around her, that mask of strength faded. Her face grew drawn, lines of discomfort creasing her brow, and Anne could hear her soft groans as she twisted beneath the blanket.

Anne's chest tightened, a hollow ache opening up as she watched Dina drift into the uneasy realm between sleep and pain. There was nothing they could do but make sure she kept warm and drank as much water as she was able, so that her body could wage its battle against Calvert's poisons. She reached out to touch Dina's hand, just a brush of her fingertips, as though her own warmth might soothe the girl's pain.

The brazier sat low between them, giving off a thin, uncertain heat as Anne pulled her blanket close and settled beside Gregor at the mast. She leaned into him, seeking his warmth, but felt him stiffen, as if every muscle in his body braced against the contact. She wondered if it was simply the shyness of a lad who'd never lain with a woman, though she didn't understand how a sailor of six and ten could have avoided it. However, something in the tension of his shoulders told her it was more than that.

'What are you afraid of, Gregor?' she thought, studying the dim light of the brazier flickering across his face. The way he'd called her a lady, as if she were something precious, something to be guarded and cherished. She'd heard that tone from men talking to their wives before, but other than her father to her mother, never with such earnestness, or such honesty. Certainly it had never been seen directed at her.

It sounded like he had feelings for her. But surely that couldn't be right. They hardly knew each other. Just childhood acquaintances who knew as much of each other as any kid did growing up on the same street. Yet here he was, risking his own neck for her, for Dina, and it struck her that maybe he did care for her in a way.

"Are you all right?" she asked softly.

Gregor glanced at her, his eyes wary but warm. "I'll manage. Just... wasn't expecting any of this."

Anne snorted. "Neither was I. Not in a hundred years."

He gave her a small, uncertain smile, and then, as if the effort exhausted him, he rested his head against the mast, staring out over the water. Anne leaned against him again, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek. For a moment, she let herself close her eyes, and in the silence, she almost believed they were safe.

Eventually, she looked up at him, unable to hold the question back any longer.

"Why?" she asked, and the single word seemed enough, yet something inside her made her add, "Why did you say yes?"

Gregor's face went red, but he didn't look away. "I... I always liked you, Anne. You weren't like the other girls. When your father was injured, and I saw what you did to support him…" His voice grew softer, as if confessing a secret he'd carried alone. "I thought, 'It's time to stop dreaming of adventures and start doing something useful.' So, I got this boat with the help of my family and took up fishing. Saved up every coin that I could get my hands on."

He scratched the back of his head, bashful and serious at once, staring down at his worn boots. "I figured, I'd pile up enough to rent my own room. Then I'd come for you and ask for your hand, prove I could support you and your father."

Anne felt her mouth go dry. She listened to him, wide-eyed and incredulous, barely believing that anyone would go through such lengths for her. She'd barely given him a second glance all those years growing up. Why would he do all that? What did he see in her?

"But then the siege hit, and the Temple of Shallya put out the call for veterans under the age of fifty. Your father answered," Gregor continued, his eyes dimming with old grief, "and when I heard he was healed, I thought I'd gotten one step closer to my goal. With him back on his feet, I wouldn't have to support the both of you."

"Then he died on the walls," Anne said, her voice catching. The words tasted bitter as they left her mouth.

Gregor nodded, his hand reaching up as if to touch her, but he let it fall. "Aye. My happiness turned to ash right then. All I could think of was how you must be hurting. But I redoubled my efforts. Just a few more weeks, I thought. Just a little more coin, and I'd come for you."

"And then I showed up on the docks with Dina." Anne's voice was a murmur. She could still see herself, the blood on her hands, Dina stumbling beside her, dazed and weak. She'd expected to have to beg or bargain, offer her body up, willing to do anything to get them on that boat and out of Bechafen.

Gregor's mouth quirked in a wry smile. "Your eyes were wild, and you had all that blood on your hands. But I looked at you, and I thought, 'There's no story that starts with a girl that young at The Underside that can end anywhere else but here, with you doing what was right.' So I said, 'Welcome aboard.'"

She stared at him, the brazier's soft glow casting shadows across his face. He'd had such faith in her, unshakable faith. He'd seen her, blood-soaked and frantic, yet he hadn't doubted for a second that she was good, that there was justice in what she'd done.

'Is this love?' she wondered. Her heart ached and raced at once, her mind reeling with the weight of what he'd just told her, the months he'd spent working toward a life together she hadn't even imagined.

She realized, suddenly, that it couldn't be anything else.

'Gregor loves me,' Anne thought, the realization landing with an odd weight, as though some lock she'd never noticed had just clicked open inside her chest. All the rules of the world she'd known, what men wanted, what they took, had been as clear to her as the stars on a cloudless night. But this? This love he'd quietly nourished, the way he'd rebuilt himself for her, steady and silent… she didn't know what to make of it.

For the first time, Anne felt the limits of what she'd learned at The Underside. Desire was easy, she'd handled it every day for months. But love? She barely knew where to start. So, she just went with what she knew.

She reached up and pressed her lips to the side of his neck, lingering there just a breath longer than she'd planned. Beneath her hand, she could feel his heartbeat racing, thudding faster than the hooves of a galloping horse.

Gregor froze, his lips parting in surprise. "Anne," he stammered, looking down at her with wide, uncertain eyes. "What… what are you doing?"

"Just showing a little appreciation for my hero," she purred, letting a touch of The Underside's practiced heat slide into her voice.

"You don't have to…" he began, his voice cracking on the words.

"I want to," she said firmly, reaching up to meet his gaze, something fiercer than gratitude kindling in her chest. Before he could protest again, she leaned in and kissed him full on the mouth, slipping her tongue past his lips as he gasped in shock.

Gregor's hands fluttered uncertainly at her sides, like he was afraid to touch her, afraid he might break her. But Anne wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him closer, and for a moment, she felt something like freedom in his embrace, warm and trembling, every bit as unsteady as she was.

In the flickering brazier light, their shadows melded against the mast, two figures clinging together in the dark, each as lost as the other, yet finding, if only for that moment, a fragile kind of solace.

Anne felt his arms pull her in, tentative but unmistakably wanting, his heart beating wildly beneath her hands. Settling into his lap, she sensed the familiar stir, that part of him that knew her only as a woman and not as the girl he'd cherished from a distance. She felt a pang of guilt for a moment, knowing Gregor's kindness, his unspoken promise. He had no understanding of the life she'd known since going to work, but his need was there all the same, raw and eager.

Her mind drifted to her time at The Underside. She had learned more than she wanted, often from Lisa, who'd had a knack for handling young, awkward lordlings and soldiers with no idea what they wanted. She'd seen the way Lisa moved, how she'd take control so smoothly that those young men hardly noticed. From her first day in that place, watching Lisa with Lord Stark's son, she had learned how to guide a man's hands, his heart, his cock, how to make them feel as if they were kings, even if just for a night.

Anne moved with practiced ease, slipping away from his hold, ignoring his low murmur of surprised disappointment as she slipped under the blanket. She felt the warmth of the small brazier close by, the dim light casting flickering shadows across the boat's planks. Her hands went to his breeches, fingers nimble in the dark, and she felt him stiffen under her touch, his breath hitching as she leaned in.

She ran her tongue along the length of him, and he made a sound, a mixture of awe and disbelief. His hands came down, almost instinctively, tangling in her long dark hair, holding her in place as if he feared this was some trick of his own imagination. He smelled of river water and fire smoke, a mix as honest as he was, and she felt a pang of affection for the gentleness in his touch, the way he gripped her as though he might hurt her with too much pressure.

Gregor's quiet awe pulled at her, a stark contrast to the jaded, demanding men who often visited The Underside. This moment was his first, and she could feel it in every shiver, in every soft sound that escaped him. And as her head bobbed in his lap and she guided him with a learned, steady rhythm, she felt something she hadn't expected, a strange warmth, a tenderness that cut deeper than she'd prepared for, wrapping itself around her in a way that the cold night and the river could not touch.

Her lips traced intricate patterns over the skin of his cockhead, each motion slow and deliberate, a practiced skill softened by something unspoken. Gregor gasped her name, the sound hoarse and unguarded, and it struck something deep within her, catching her off balance. She'd thought she was only practicing what she knew, doing what she'd learned to survive, yet his voice raw, filled with wonder, made her feel exposed in a way she hadn't anticipated.

Under the blanket's warmth, Anne focused on the steady rhythm of her movements, each touch calculated to draw a new sound from him, though now the intent felt different. There was a tenderness here, a softness she hadn't bargained for, slipping past the boundaries she'd set. She felt his fingers tighten in her hair, but there was no roughness, only that gentle, reverent hold as though he was half-afraid she'd vanish.

She could hear his breathing growing more ragged, and the realization of her power over him settled in, a strange thrill, but one mixed with a stirring warmth that went beyond any skill learned in Bechafen's hidden places.

Anne felt the sudden shift, the tension as Gregor's cock stiffened beneath her tongue, and she knew he'd reached his breaking point. His breath hitched, a strangled gasp escaping him as his hips jerked up, instinct overtaking restraint. She braced herself, steady and practiced, but couldn't ignore the flicker of surprise in her own heart.

In that moment, as he cried her name, she saw the boyish part of him, the dreamer who'd saved his coin and built his hopes in quiet, for her and no one else. The way he shuddered and sprayed his hot, thick seed across her tongue was physically no different from her customers back in Bechafen, men who had often had no patience or kindness. But Gregor wasn't one of them; he was something altogether different, a reminder of a life she'd once thought she'd never have. A man who loved her for more than what she could do in bed.

Finished, Gregor leaned back against the mast, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His hand found its way to her head, patting her gently, almost as if she were a child.

"Sorry," he managed, his voice rough and still tinged with wonder.

Anne met his gaze, surprised to find her own heart racing, a warmth blooming in her chest. "I don't mind it," she replied, her voice steady, though it felt like an unfamiliar truth spilling from her lips. "I wanted you to."

The admission surprised her, but in that dim light, wrapped in the cozy embrace of their shared blanket, she felt a flicker of something beyond desire. Perhaps it was more than the brief thrill of the moment; perhaps it was the connection they forged in the shadows of uncertainty, two souls adrift on a river that threatened to swallow them whole.

She nestled deeper into his arms, the warmth of their shared blanket enveloping them like a soft cocoon. The quiet of the river wrapped around them, punctuated only by the soft lapping of the water against the boat's hull. Anne let herself breathe in the moment, feeling the steady rhythm of Gregor's heartbeat beneath her cheek. For a time, it felt as if the world beyond the boat had faded away, leaving just the two of them in their fragile haven.

But soon, she felt him stir against her thigh, the tension in his body shifting as he began to wake from the daze of their earlier intimacy. Without thinking, she leaned up and pressed her lips to his again, a tender invitation. His eyes widened, surprise mingling with a hungry desire that sent a thrill coursing through her.

She took his left hand, guiding it gently between her legs as she showed him the way to please her. Fingers sliding betwen lower lips already slick with want. It was different this time, more real, more intimate, and she marveled at the way his touch elicited responses from her body that were more vivid than she ever remembered. Even that first encounter with Lord Stark felt distant now, eclipsed by the awakening sensations coursing through her.

With each subtle movement, each brush of his fingertips against the throbbing nub of flesh at the center of her desire, Anne found herself reacting, her breaths coming quicker, a melody of soft gasps escaping her lips. This was a dance, one she had learned in darkened corners, but here with Gregor, it felt like something more, a deepening bond forged in the shadow of uncertainty, a promise whispered in the flickering light of their brazier.

She came apart in his arms, like a fragile vessel shattered against the rocks of desire. The sensations washed over her, a tide of heat and urgency blossoming between her thighs that left her breathless. Each gentle caress sent ripples through her, a spark igniting her very core. Gregor's fingers, hesitant yet insistent, sank deep inside, as if he were memorizing the contours of her body, each touch a promise, a vow unspoken but understood.

The world outside the boat faded into insignificance; all that mattered was the warm cocoon of their embrace and the way their breaths intertwined. She could feel him there, sturdy and solid beneath her, yet there was a fragility in the way he held her, as if he feared that any misstep might send her slipping away into the night.

Her heart raced, pounding in rhythm with the surge of pleasure coursing through her veins. It was as if she were tasting a dreamed of delicacy, one she had longed for but had never dared to reach out and grasp. The memories of The Underside, the shadowy corners and dimly lit rooms, faded beneath the weight of this moment. Here, there were no coins exchanged, no fleeting encounters; here was something deeper, something real.

She gasped softly, the sound escaping her lips unbidden, and it seemed to embolden him. Gregor's hands cupped her bottom, lifting her up over him, and she could feel the heat radiating from his cock and then he pulled her down. He was hers in this moment, and she was his, his fat cock spreading her apart and driving deep. "Gregor," she groaned, as her hips rolled and she rose up and sank down, entwined in a dance that felt ancient and eternal.

With every heartbeat, every soft whisper, she surrendered to the tide, letting it pull her under, drowning in the warmth of his affection and the intoxicating promise of what lay ahead.

Chapter Text

Ulriczeit 14th, 2522

There was a knock at the door of the office Ned had commandeered and one of his greatswords poked their head through. "The Lord Magister sent a messenger," he said. "It's time."

Ned jumped up from the papers he'd been going over, excited as a boy waking up on his name day. His heart pounded as he hurried down the castle hall after the messenger, feeling a rare thrill in his bones. He hadn't felt this kind of anticipation since he was young and his family whole, back when the world was simpler, brighter, and full of wonder.

His steel gauntlets creaked as he pulled them on, rough leather interior molded by the wear of countless campaigns. They'd hardly provide any protection against the snapping beak of a full grown griffon like Bloodfeather, but against a curious infant, they should do the job. Still, if he had his way, those gauntlets would only ever brush soft feathers, not sharpened beaks or talons.

The path to the den was shorter than he remembered, his stride eating up the hallways of stone and lamplight until the heavy door swung open, and he was in the griffon's den. The musty scent of straw and feathers filled his lungs, mingling with a touch of raw, wild magic that seemed to cling to the very air.

Winter, Bran's dire wolf, was already there, watching with a strange intelligence in his eyes. The wolf seemed almost to understand the sacredness of this moment, keeping his place by the far wall, a respectful sentinel rather than a beast of war. Ned moved past him, feeling the weight of the dire wolf's stare, but his eyes were on the corner of the den where Bloodfeather guarded her nest.

Bloodfeather, that mighty griffon with feathers as crimson as a cardinal, tipped with blood-red like the first edge of dawn, was pacing nervously, her talons scratching marks in the solid stone floor. Lord Magister Martak crouched close, his voice a mimicry of a griffon's call so exact it was indistinguishable from the real thing, soothing the great creature with sounds that no human throat should've been able to make. Ned nodded his thanks to the wizard and moved carefully toward the nest.

White golden-streaked eggs gleamed, in a bed of fresh straw, rocking gently as life stirred within them. A strange reverence filled Ned as he looked at them. Griffons were creatures of sky and storm, not meant to be tamed or bent to a mortal's will. Yet here he was, kneeling before Bloodfeather's clutch like a petitioner in one of Taal's sacred groves.

Beside him, Bran leaned forward, his gaze fastened to the egg that his father had chosen. Ned hadn't known why he'd been drawn to it, only that it felt… right. It was as if the egg had called to him, a silent whisper promising something he couldn't yet name. He placed a hand on Bran's shoulder, squeezing gently.

"This one," he murmured. His voice felt thick in his throat, caught between pride and an unnamed fear. "This is the one, Bran."

Bran looked up at him, eyes bright with excitement, his hand reaching toward the egg as it shivered beneath his fingertips.

Ned turned and watched, breath held, as the egg before the wizard cracked. A small golden beak pierced through the shell, testing the world beyond with quick, determined jabs. The griffon chick clawed its way out bit by bit, chipping away at the shell with beak and talon until it tumbled free. It was a little creature, no larger than a small dog, ten pounds at most, but its presence filled the room. Tawny gold fur covered its feline body, a pelt worthy of the lion prides of Araby or Ind. But the feathers covering its head, chest and wings were something different, a steely gray that darkened at the ends, catching the candle light in bluish tones.

Martak had spoken of the father's dark brown plumage, yet this youngling, gazing up at the Lord Magister with fierce, unblinking eyes, was marked by a coat that seemed forged from iron and shadow.

"Steelwing," Martak named it softly, as if sealing a pact.

But Ned's attention was drawn back to the egg before him as it quivered, a hairline crack spreading like lightning across its surface. He leaned forward, heart pounding, as the golden tip of a beak broke through, followed by a burst of vigorous movement. The chick tore out of its shell with all the fervor of its sibling, clawing and pecking until it emerged, wet and fierce, its tiny chest rising and falling as it tasted the cool air of the den.

This one looked up at him, and Ned felt a pang in his chest he could hardly name. Its coat was tawny gold as well, but the flanks and hindquarters were dappled with the spots of a leopard, dark rosettes that gave the chick a wild, untamed look. The feathers on its head, chest, and forelimbs were pure white, stark against its golden fur, while its wings were as black as a raven's feathers, glossy and deep as midnight.

It was a girl, he could see, but that mattered little with griffons, whose size and strength defied the conventions of the natural world. Female eagles were much bigger than males, but in great cats it was the males who were much larger and in the strange mix that was the griffon it evened out so that neither sex was larger than the other. She was every inch as fierce and proud as her brother, watching him with amber eyes that gleamed with the spark of her own curiosity.

Ned felt the weight of the moment. He looked into her eyes, and for a moment, he glimpsed something ancient, something primal beyond his understanding. His previous thought bubbled to the surface of his mind... 'a creature born from storm and sky...'

"Skyshadow," he murmured, almost without thinking, the name slipping from his lips like a secret. She cocked her head, as if testing the sound, then let out a small, sharp call that echoed through the den.

Bran rejoined him at his side, though to be honest he'd been so entranced by the hatching he hadn't noticed he had left. The lad's face was beaming with awe and joy. He held a basket brimming with river trout, fresh and silvery, each nearly as long as Ned's forearm. Ned gave his son a nod of approval, then reached into the basket, feeling the cool scales under his hand as he pulled out a plump trout.

Griffons were hunters by nature, seeking out the high mountains and open plains where they could swoop down on herds of wild goats or cattle. They needed prey that could sustain their size and strength, fuel the fierce power bound within muscle and bone. But it was fish, rich, slick, and bursting with fresh scent, that made them wild with desire.

He held the trout out to Skyshadow, feeling the weight of her amber gaze settle on him as she lowered her head to sniff the fish. Then, without hesitation, she snapped her beak down, digging into it and tearing in with such hunger, that he could hear the bones crunch. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she devoured the trout, her feathers ruffling in pleasure as the last bite slid down her throat.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice low and steady. He reached out a hand, slowly, cautiously, toward her head. Her feathers were softer than he'd expected, and she leaned into his hand, purring with a deep, rumbling satisfaction that made his chest swell with something he couldn't quite name. She pressed against him, her touch warm, almost affectionate.

In that moment, Ned felt the bond between them settle like a promise, a wordless oath between man and beast, each bound to the other. It was everything he had hoped for, and perhaps more than he had ever expected to find in this wild, fierce creature.

…

Ulriczeit 15th, 2522

Ned spent the remainder of the day with Skyshadow, the hours slipping by unnoticed in the warmth of the den. He stayed until nightfall, leaving only when weariness crept over him and his mind grew heavy with the need for sleep. But as he turned to leave, he found himself casting a final glance back at her, his heart bound to the creature in ways he hadn't anticipated.

The next morning, he returned to the den, Bran and Martak by his side, to bid farewell to Bloodfeather and collect her brood. The great mother watched them with wary, piercing eyes, her head cocked, feathers ruffled with an anxious pride. She sensed the parting; some deep instinct warned her that her chicks were leaving. Martak stepped forward, letting out a peculiar, throaty squawk, a language only he and Bloodfeather seemed to understand, and she calmed, nudging her young ones toward them, her gaze lingering.

With the young griffons in their charge, Ned led Bran and Martak through Bechafen's bustling streets down to the city's docks. Martak and Bran's destination was the riverport of Wurzen, a town of modest trade, half the size of Winter Town but well situated on the Talabec's steady flow. There, they would disembark before pressing westward by coach.

Ned paused, catching his son's arm with a firm grip. "Remember, Bran," he said, pressing a thick letter into his hand. The seal bore the stark imprint of Winterfell's sigil. "Take this to the Grand Prince and see that he receives it immediately. Stress the need for communication and preparation. Those who face the darkness gathering in the Northern Wastes cannot afford to act alone."

Bran nodded, solemn as the man he was quickly becoming. "I will, Father."

Ned then turned to Martak, clasping the Lord Magister's forearm in a firm farewell. "Safe travels to you, Lord Magister," he said. "Though I still wonder, why stop at Wurzen? You could follow the Talabec down to the Wolf's Run, then travel up to Wolfenburg by water. It would be far quicker than taking the road from Wurzen."

The wizard nodded, but a smile, brief as dawn's first light, flitted across his face. "True enough, Lord Stark. But I prefer the land. A road winding through the woods has a charm no river can match, and a coach is better company than a ship."

Ned's own smile creased his face. "I should have guessed. Amber wizards, aye, you're all drawn to the roots and the soil." He clapped Martak on the shoulder and stepped back, watching as Bran and the magister made their way to the waiting barge. The sun glinted off the water, and as the boat began to drift from the dock, Ned's heart swelled with both pride and a father's quiet worry.

He remained on the docks, watching until the river carried them from view, then turned back to Bechafen, knowing his son was a little further from him and closer to the man he was meant to be.

It took longer for him to prepare for the journey to Winter Town than Ned had hoped. Martak and Bran had left swiftly, but they were just two travelers, while he had nearly a hundred soldiers under his command and a contingent of scribes and ministers still transitioning from Bechafen to his service. As such, his own departure was a far more lumbering process. Many of the bureaucrats' families had yet to settle their affairs, and though most would travel to Winter Town over the coming weeks, enough were ready to leave now that it had forced the hiring of an additional riverboat. Yet finally, in the dim light of a late autumn afternoon, the last ropes were loosed from the docks, and they drifted away from Bechafen's stone towers and toward the open river.

Ned turned to wave a final farewell to Lady Hertwig, who stood with her eldest daughter, Ostara, beside her. The girl's dark green eyes followed the ship as it drifted away, one hand clasped in her mother's. She was a sprightly child, her youthful cheer softened by a quiet wisdom. Perhaps it was early to judge such things, but Ned found himself thinking he'd made a good choice. Though the impetus for the match had been matters of state, he thought she'd make fine wife for young Rickon. A quiet satisfaction filled him as he looked at them, as if the threads of the future were beginning to weave into shape.

As the city finally faded from view, Ned headed below to his cabin, finding warmth from several well-tended braziers and comfort in the silence below deck. There, tucked into a deep wooden box lined with blankets, lay Skyshadow. She had burrowed into the nest, only the tip of her beak visible, her breathing soft and steady.

Two greatswords, Roger and Pate, stood watch in their armor by the cabin door, their helms tucked under their arms. At Ned's approach, Roger straightened, his usually stoic face breaking into a small grin.

"How's she been?" Ned asked, keeping his voice low.

Roger chuckled. "We batted a yarn ball about for her until she'd had her fill of it, then she found the sand box and did her business. She's a tidy one, like a housecat." He nodded toward Skyshadow, who hadn't stirred, lost in the deep sleep of the very young. "After that, she curled up and went right out. Didn't make a peep since."

Ned looked at the griffon chick, barely more than a bundle of white and black feathers and soft, golden fur. She'd been with him only a day, but already her presence was nearly as familiar to him as any of his children. Like a lion cub, she would spend much of her first year sleeping, conserving strength to grow into the fierce, swift creature she was meant to be.

"Good girl," he murmured, almost to himself. He reached out, resting a gentle hand on her back, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of her breath beneath his fingers.

This was the future he was building, one deliberate choice at a time. Skyshadow would grow strong and fierce, and his sons and daughters would find their own ways in the world. The Empire would know Winterfell as more than just a fortress on the border of Kislev to the north. And when the time came for him to pass on to Morr's realm, he would have laid down a foundation for them, a path they could follow, or break from, as they saw fit.

As he settled into the chair by her side, the quiet creaking of the ship became a lullaby of sorts, and he sat watching her sleep, warm and peaceful, as the river bore them ever onward.

…

Ulriczeit 19th, 2522

The wind favored them and the river was kind to them, the Talabec's currents unusually sluggish under a bright afternoon sun. Winter Town came into view with the shadow of Winterfell looming high above it, a comforting sight after the long months away. Ned took a deep breath of the northern air, cool and crisp, carrying the scents of pine and earth. He'd journeyed the length and breadth of the Talabec and beyond, seen cities grand and ancient, Altdorf with its towering walls and temple spires, the circular crater walls of Talabheim, even the distant reaches of Delberz deep in the Drakwald, but there was nothing to match home.

Three months gone. Over a hundred days since he'd left these familiar roads, his family, his people. He had met the Emperor, exchanged words with Lord Magisters and High Priests, fought creatures of dark magic and cursed blood, and bedded beautiful women to chase the loneliness from his bones. And yet, none of it held a candle to the thought of Winter Town waiting for him, or his family beyond it.

Catelyn would be waiting, flame-haired and fierce, doubtless watching from her window in the Great Keep for the first sight of his ship. Sansa too, his sweet girl, growing more womanly by the day, with that same fire in her as her mother. Rickon would be somewhere underfoot, bound to bolt out from his hiding place the moment he saw his father, wild as the woodland spirits themselves. And Robb… Robb, who'd earned his place among the men and lords of the Empire, who'd held his own in the World's Edge Mountains and Gryphon Wood against horrors, would be there too, bearing that quiet pride of a son who'd grown beyond his father's shadow.

The moment the ship docked; Ned wasted no time. He secured a coach for Skyshadow, her nest of blankets settled safely within, and mounted his horse, taking his place at the head of a small company of greatswords. As they moved through the streets, his armored guards flanking him, townsfolk stepped back in awe, their eyes going to the new crown upon his head.

"Lord Stark!" someone shouted from the crowd, the voice carrying above the murmur.

"Ulric bless you, my lord!"

"The Crown!" another cried. "He wears the Crown of Winter!"

"Chancellor!" "Elector-Count!" "King of the Ostagoths!"

The cheers followed them up the Talabec road, voices swelling in waves that surged through Winter Town. Children ran alongside his horse, pointing up at him with wide eyes, while shopkeepers leaned out of their stalls, murmuring and bowing as he passed. He returned nods and greetings, his eyes fixed ahead, though his heart felt lighter with each shout, each blessing sent his way. These were his people. He could feel their faith, their loyalty as much as he could feel the rough reins under his gloves, steady and unyielding.

They reached Winterfell, its bronze-plated gates glinting in the late afternoon sun. The figures of Ulric and Verena looked down upon him, regal and enduring, as though they themselves were welcoming him back. The old stone walls and iron-bound wood felt as familiar as his own skin. For all the grandeur he had seen, all the feasts and riches, none of it held the warmth of this place, of home.

Ned took a breath, a quiet smile softening the solemn line of his mouth. He'd traveled across the vast reaches of the Empire, stared into the shadows that lurked there, but he was home now. And nothing, he thought, could be finer.

Chapter Text

Ned rode through Winterfell's great gates, the outer, inner, and central archways towering above him, each one a familiar sentinel guarding his home. The clang of bronze and iron, the scrape of hardwood against stone... as each gate opened it felt like layers being peeled back, carrying him closer to his family and the heart of Winterfell. As he passed through the final archway, Ned felt a weight lift, as though he'd been unburdened, piece by piece, with each gate that had swung open. Here, at last, he was home.

In the main courtyard, he swung down from his horse with more flourish than he usually afforded himself, earning a chuckle from Hullen, the grizzled old Master of the Horse.

"Welcome back, Lord Stark," Hullen said, pride in his voice and warmth in his eyes.

"And it's damn fine to be back, Master Hullen," Ned replied, giving his horse a parting pat before nodding to the man. "Is Lady Catelyn in the Great Keep?"

"Aye, my lord, least she was. Soon as she saw 'The Undying Faith' comin' round the riverbend, she was off to the Great Hall," Hullen said, a knowing smile breaking through his stoic features.

"Well then, best not keep her waiting," Ned said with a grin, clapping Hullen on the shoulder before making his way across the courtyard to the Great Hall.

The hall was warm, oil lamps burning bright, casting shadows that danced along the familiar stone walls. And there, at the end of the blue carpet, stood his family, a sight that brought an ache to his chest he hadn't known was there. Robb sat in the lord's seat, his shoulders broad and posture proud, Merida seated beside him in the place of the lady. Catelyn stood by Robb's side, while Rickon clung to his mother's hand, his bright eyes fixed on Ned with a child's open joy. Sansa, taller and with a few more curves than when he had left, stood with quiet grace beside Merida, her red hair glinting in the lamplight like her mother's.

As Ned walked the length of the hall, each step on the blue carpet echoing off the stone walls, he let his gaze fall on each of them, feeling his heart swell with pride and relief. He had been to the heart of the Empire and back again, but here was his own heart, beating before him in the faces of his children and his wife.

"Welcome home, Father," Robb said, rising from the lord's seat with a warmth in his voice that spoke of a boy grown to manhood in Ned's absence. "The lord's seat awaits you."

Ned felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and for a moment, the hall felt filled with ghosts of memory, of his own father, now long gone, and Arya, who he'd left in Altdorf, Bran in Bechafen, and Jon, so far from home in the training yards of Delberz. He had seen much, endured more, but this, these faces, these voices, was his truest purpose.

"It's good to be home," he said, his voice rough with the truth of it, as he moved to take his place in the lord's seat. Catelyn's hand reached for his, her touch warm and grounding, and he clasped it with a grip that spoke of every mile traveled, every moment spent apart.

There was nowhere else he'd rather be.

Ned pulled Catelyn close and pressed a kiss to her lips, deep and full, the kind of kiss that stirred up whispers and laughter from the courtiers around them. When he finally released her, she drew back, cheeks flushed, and gave him a playful swat on the arm.

"Ned," she gasped, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of delight and reproach. "Not in front of the court."

"Nothing wrong with showing them that the lord loves his lady wife," he replied, grinning as he took his seat in the lord's chair, that great, solid throne of gray stone, carved into snarling dire wolves. He imagined it feeling empty in his absence, waiting to feel the weight of him again, and he felt its cool strength beneath him like an old friend.

Merida rose from the Lady's chair with a quiet nod, and Catelyn took her place beside him, her hand finding his once more as they settled into their rightful spots. He looked to Robb, standing beside them, pride as clear on his face as the auburn locks of his hair.

"Is there anything that needs handling now," Ned asked, "or can we let the servants start preparing the hall for a feast?"

Robb leaned close, his voice low. "The Kislevite consul has been asking for you," he murmured. "Apparently, he has standing orders from some ancient Tzar that if a Stark were ever to rise to Elector-Count, his consulate would be elevated to an embassy."

Ned gave a low hum of understanding. "Ambassador Dobrov in Bechafen said as much. Seemed crestfallen at his demotion, though he bore it well enough." It made sense though, he'd known Kazimir for decades. He'd grown up right across the river from them in Posledniy Port, youngest son of the town's Boyar.

"Consul Bishenko," Ned called out, his voice carrying easily through the hall, "step forward."

A ripple of whispers accompanied Kazimir Bishenko's approach. Dressed in the fine, dark blues and reds of the Bokha Court, a man in his prime stepped forward, his face solemn as he bowed low. "Lord Stark, the Tzarina sends her warmest congratulations on your ascension to Chancellor of Ostermark," he began, his accent bold and broad, the Kislevite drawl familiar in Ned's ears. "It is rare for such a deserving man to rise to such honors, and your name has long been whispered in our halls."

Bishenko reached into a satchel at his side and drew out a roll of aged vellum, bound with crimson ribbons. "House Stark rising to Elector-Count has been long anticipated, and provisions were made in the late Tzar Alexis's reign to ensure our relations would reflect this honor. As such, the consulate in Winter Town is to be raised to the level of an embassy, and I as its Consul, will be promoted to Ambassador to this hall." He held the scroll forward, eyes meeting Ned's with a mix of formality and pride.

Ned took the scroll, his thumb running over the worn ribbon, the crackle of parchment filling the silent hall. It was signed, as Bishenko had said, by Tzar Alexis himself, a relic of the alliance forged in the fires of the Great War Against Chaos. Tzar Alexis, who had fought beside Magnus the Pious himself, a name as honored in Ostermark as it was in Kislev.

He nodded, meeting Bishenko's gaze with a steady look. "We honor this alliance and the friendship between our people. You are welcome here as our ambassador, with all the honors due your station."

…

Sansa watched the ambassador bow to her father, pride swelling in her chest. "Kislev, the Tzarina, and I myself give their thanks for the warm welcome, Lord Stark," the man said. "We hope to build a long and fruitful relationship with the new Chancellor."

"Just as I wish for a long and fruitful relationship with Kislev and the Tzarina," her father replied. "And I'd like to begin that promptly. I extend an invitation to you to join me, my heir, and Sir Rodrik Cassel in my solar after breakfast tomorrow. We have much to discuss about the threats to the North and to the East." He paused, a slight edge in his voice. "The Great Enemy and Grimgor Ironhide."

Sansa's stomach twisted at the mention of the Chaos Gods and the monstrous Ork warlord. There were none so vile, nor so relentless as the Dark Gods; she could hardly bear to think of the horrors their followers wrought in Kislev and beyond.

Grimgor was a different kind of terror, a monster out of nightmare, with strength enough to threaten even her brother, Robb. Just two years ago, that brutish creature had rampaged across eastern Kislev, nearly making it to the capital. The beast doubtless bore a grudge against the Tzarina for that earlier defeat, and against Robb for his more recent one. Building up a great new Waaagh in the blighted depths of the Dark Lands would be easy for the creature. Her father's words haunted her thoughts; if Grimgor returned, they would all need to stand ready.

"It would be my pleasure to attend, Chancellor," Ambassador Bishenko replied smoothly, bowing again. "May I bring my military advisor, Captain Vadogar Denisov?"

"Of course," her father agreed.

The formalities wrapped up, and soon the great trestle tables were arranged, laid out for the evening's banquet. Sansa took her seat beside her mother, who sat at her father's left, with Robb on his right and Rickon beside him, chattering excitedly about something Shaggydog had done. The hall was filled with warmth and laughter as servants moved about, setting down steaming dishes and filling goblets to the brim.

It was so good to have them all here together, the family gathered again beneath Winterfell's high walls. But it only made her think of Arya, Bran, and even Jon, who would've never been allowed at this table if Mother had her way. She bit her lip, wondering if Arya was safe, so far away in Altdorf, a city of magic and strangers. And Bran in Bechafen, close enough to Winter Town, but still too far to see. And Jon, somewhere off in Delberz, training with the White Wolves, sharpening his blade and his will.

They were scattered like leaves across the Empire, yet here she sat, safe at home, within Winterfell's stout walls. But a strange, yearning ache tugged at her all the same, reaching out for each of her brothers and sister, wishing for their voices at her side. For tonight, she would be content, though, to sit by her mother and watch her father hold court, Lord of Winterfell once more.

"Are you alright?" Tanya asked, her cornflower blue eyes studying Sansa with that sharp, almost unsettling gaze of hers. The wizard girl always seemed to be watching, as if she saw things beyond the ordinary, things others couldn't. Sansa shifted in her seat, not quite meeting Tanya's eyes.

Beside Tanya, Jeyne Poole leaned in, her voice low but clear enough to turn heads at the table. "She's been a little moody lately," Jeyne said, with a casualness that stung. She then leaned toward Tanya, whispering with an almost conspiratorial tone. "I think it's all part of… becoming a woman."

Sansa felt her face go hot, her mouth falling open in shock. 'How could she say that?' Her hands curled into fists on her lap as she stammered, "I have not! It… it's not that…" Words tangled up in her throat, as flustered embarrassment fought with anger.

Jeyne only looked back at her with a little smirk, a teasing glint in her eye, as if she didn't even realize the words had struck so close to her heart. Across the table, she could see little Rickon grinning as he watched her splutter, and even Sir Rodrik's mustached face softened with the hint of a smile. For a moment, Sansa felt very young and foolish, as if her own feelings were a silly thing to be so riled up about.

But Tanya's expression softened, her hand reaching out to touch Sansa's wrist gently. "It's alright to feel… different," she murmured, her tone softer now, lacking its usual sharpness. There was a kind of knowing in Tanya's gaze, something Sansa couldn't quite name, and it made her feel oddly comforted.

Still, she wasn't sure she could forgive Jeyne for saying that out loud, at least, not until the heat in her cheeks had faded and the laughter in Rickon's eyes had dulled. But she nodded, letting Tanya's quiet assurance sink in, as she smoothed down her skirts and tried to look calm and collected, as a lady should.

Sansa watched Jeyne as they sat together; her friend seemed to have changed so quickly in the last month and a half, filling out in a way that made her look more grown-up. Soon enough, Jeyne would join her in the ranks of women. It was strange to think of it that way, to think that they were leaving childhood behind. Tanya, however, was a different story. Though as tall as Jeyne, despite being eight months younger than her, Tanya still had the slender look of a girl, not yet blossomed. For all her strange power and wisdom, she was still a child in many ways. But perhaps that made her all the more mysterious.

Her father's voice broke into her thoughts. "Magister Degurechaff," he said, with that formal tone he used for those with rank. "How have you been settling into Winterfell?"

Tanya turned, a small smile on her lips as she answered, "Wonderfully, Lord Stark. Your daughter and Loremaster Luwin have both been very helpful."

Sansa felt a flicker of pride at that, but she couldn't help wondering if it was just a polite answer. Tanya always seemed so hard to read.

"And what of the books and equipment you mentioned shipping from Volganof?" her father continued. "Are they on their way?"

A shadow of amusement crossed Tanya's face. "I sent a pigeon with a missive," she said. "Written by your son, so they'd know it was trustworthy. It might be wise to let them know I'll be arriving by air. Wouldn't want them to shoot me down." The dry humor in her voice made a few nearby courtiers chuckle.

Father nodded, looking thoughtful. "So you're waiting for their reply, then?"

"Yes," Tanya said with a brisk nod. "Once it arrives, I'll fly there myself to inspect everything and make arrangements for shipping. If there's anything dangerous among the late Magister Solmann's belongings, I'll bring it back myself. If I can't carry it all, I'll make two trips."

Sansa blinked, her thoughts swirling. Magister Solmann, the one who'd discovered Arya's and Bran's magic, was dead? Her breath caught. Had he fallen in that great battle her father had fought besides the Emperor near Delberz? She hadn't really thought about him in months, but the news felt like a stone dropping into her chest. Solmann had seemed almost mythical, someone who saw magic in her family, someone who'd changed their fates. And now he was gone?

She glanced at her father, who listened calmly to Tanya's plan, but her own mind was filled with unspoken questions. How had it happened? Had Arya and Bran known? Had they been there? No… Arya was in Altdorf, Bran was in Bechafen, each of them on their own path, touched by Solmann's magic, but each so far away.

But then Tanya's clear, steady voice brought her back to the present. This wizard girl who still looked like a child yet spoke of carrying dangerous magic across the sky seemed even stranger than Solmann had been. Sansa bit her lip, hoping that whatever magic Tanya carried would not bring more death with it.

Sansa lifted her head, trying to catch Tanya's reaction as Father spoke. "I'm glad Sansa's been of help. I do hope you get along," he said, warmth in his voice. "It's good for her and young Jeyne to have another girl their age in the keep."

It was something Father liked to say, to remind everyone that Sansa was still young, that she needed friends. But friendship was hardly so simple, not here in Winterfell, where the great stone walls seemed to keep people in their places, bound by titles and duties.

Obviously, there were other girls about her age in Winterfell, but they were all daughters of guards, washerwomen, bakers, and serving girls, who had their own ways and their own talk. They could smile and laugh together at times, true, but that was where it ended. Mother watched her like a hawk whenever she lingered too long near one of them, her look sharp and full of disapproval. A Stark girl, a great heiress, had no business making friends with the daughters of guards and stable hands. 'No matter how kind they were,' Sansa thought, her heart sinking.

The boys never had to worry about such things. Robb and Jon had their circle, bound together by sword practice in the yard, by riding and falling, and the shared sting of bruises, the humbling taste of dirt and sweat. They could befriend the sons of soldiers and guards without anyone raising an eyebrow. They had their own world, forged with steel, and no one thought twice about it.

But girls had other rules. Other limits. And her friends could only be those Mother found suitable. Jeyne, of course, her friend since they were toddlers, was just fine. But even Jeyne was not truly her equal; Jeyne's father served as steward, not a lord. And Sansa had always felt the difference, though she'd never dared voice it.

But Tanya, Tanya was different. She was mysterious and strange, her words and her eyes old beyond her years, as if she knew a thousand things Sansa couldn't even imagine. And for all her oddness, Tanya had rank, authority, a place of her own. In some ways, she was almost like a lady ruling in her own right, something Sansa herself would never be, not in truth. It felt strange to think of her as a friend, a playmate, like her father wished for, as if Tanya were just another girl. But perhaps that was what made it easier, too. Tanya was the one person in Winterfell who stood apart from all the rules and whispers, and that made Sansa feel like she could finally breathe a little freer around her.

As her father went on speaking, Sansa glanced over at Tanya, who was sitting straight-backed and calm, her small, fine hands folded in her lap. She had the look of someone who didn't care for all this talk of friendships and proper companions. But Sansa thought she saw the hint of a smile flicker on Tanya's lips, and for a moment, she felt a warm rush of relief. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could truly be friends.

…

Tanya observed the scene with the keen eye of a tactician assessing her battlefield. Winterfell was no mere holdfast on the Empire's northeastern frontier, nor was Lord Stark just another provincial lord. His house had deep roots and influence that had reached across Ostermark even before he'd been elected Chancellor. She had only begun her role here as court wizard, but already she could see how Winterfell would become a power center to be reckoned with, one she would shape in ways the cautious Lord Stark couldn't yet imagine.

She had taken well to Winterfell's strange rhythms. The Lord and his people here respected her abilities, though they cast wary glances when they thought she wasn't looking. It wasn't her magic, she thought. Lord Stark was accustomed to wizards; he would not have welcomed her otherwise. No, it was her age. They found her unsettling because they couldn't reconcile the sight of a young girl with the words of a seasoned scholar and strategist. In truth, she couldn't fault them; it was one of the stranger ironies of her life that she'd grown used to by now. The only thing she could do about it was grow older. If only patience were not such a tiresome virtue, she might've found it amusing. Tiresome or not, it was a necessary burden that would have to be borne.

The heir, young Robb Stark, was more accepting, a quality she found in his sister Sansa as well. Though young, Sansa was an ideal baseline, a typical girl of her age, intelligent, sweet, and obedient. She was lonely, isolated by her high status and predictably enchanted by the thought of friendship. It made her easy to work with, her soft spots easy to read. A useful pawn, then, but also someone Tanya could rely upon as a tether to the expectations of this world. She'd even begun to consider Sansa as the sort of friend people expected her to have. It was a convenient arrangement.

In a feudal society like this, who you knew mattered more than what you knew. Sansa was destined for a favorable match, likely into one of the other Electoral houses. Such a marriage would extend Tanya's influence into circles far beyond Winterfell. Perhaps Sansa saw her as a confidante or a sister. Tanya saw in Sansa a key to the wider game, one who, with time, would open doors to places Tanya would need to go.

For now, though, she would focus on Winterfell and Ostermark. Tanya waited, her eyes tracking the ebb and flow of conversation along the high table, gauging the perfect moment to interject. Timing was everything. Finally, as the chatter lulled, she cleared her throat and turned to Lord Stark with that practiced look of youthful earnestness.

"Lord Stark," she began, her voice light and respectful, "I was wondering if I might attend your meeting with the Kislevite ambassador tomorrow. When planning for the future, it would be wise to have someone by your side who can see into it."

She watched as the Chancellor's gaze shifted her way, considering. She could almost see the thoughts ticking behind his grey eyes, weighing her words as he weighed all things. At last, he nodded.

"I don't see why not," he replied. "You are a Magister, sworn to serve my family. You have every right to be there."

Tanya inclined her head. "Some men are uneasy in the presence of magic," she said, her tone smooth. "And Kislev's magical traditions differ greatly from ours."

Lord Stark's brow furrowed thoughtfully, but his answer was firm. "True enough, yet Kislev still accepts the Empire's assistance. When our armies march north to aid their defense, they allow our wizards to stand among their ranks. That may not be the same as a conversation in close quarters, but you are also a lady. That alone should put Ambassador Bishenko more at ease."

Tanya considered his words, a faint smile flickering on her lips. Yes, she thought, that was Kislev's way, only their Ice Witches, those enigmatic daughters of the Ancient Widow, were permitted to wield the winds of magic in their lands. Male wizards were subject of dire prophecy and any who attempted to learn there rather than prudently making the trip to the Colleges of Altdorf were killed. Perhaps, in that regard, her presence as a female Magister might indeed offer a modicum of comfort. Even if she was no wielder of icy wind and snow, the ambassador would find her far easier to abide than any male wizard from the Colleges.

And that, Tanya thought, was precisely what she needed. She might have little to add to their plans, yet. But one word, one vision, could shift the course of strategy, especially in matters as delicate as relations with Kislev and the threats encroaching from the north. Sometimes, one well-timed suggestion could mean the difference between victory and ruin. She would ensure that she was there to give that word.

Chapter Text

Vorhexen 8th, 2522

The river journey passed with little trouble, as Bran watched the land slipping by, curious eyes taking in each bend and town they passed. Wurzen was their first stop, a city by name, though it felt more like a sprawling town to him, busy but quiet, its docks filled with fishermen and traders rather than soldiers or warships. He'd expected more from one of the larger settlements along their path, but it was nothing like the bustling docks of Taalagad he'd visited with his father, or even his home of Winter Town. Still, the journey continued without delay, and soon they were past Wurzen and onto the shadowed roads leading through the great forests of Ostland.

The Forest of Shadows lived up to its name, ancient trees rising tall, their branches spreading wide overhead, as though they might swallow the road whole if given half a chance. The air was thick with mist, cold and damp, and every now and then a distant sound echoed from deeper in the wood, the call of deer, the snarl of a wildcat, and the rustling movements of unseen creatures. Bran couldn't help but glance around as they passed, expecting Beastmen or forest goblins at any moment, yet none came. Perhaps, he thought, the Warherds that had gathered to the south and west had drawn them away, leaving these woods still. Malagor's shadow still loomed heavy over the Empire, but it seemed the lands along their path were spared, at least for now.

Then, at last, they reached Wolfenburg. Bran had known it was a large city, but seeing it sprawled out before him, he still found himself surprised by it. It looked the size of Bechafen and Wurzen combined, roughly equal to Hergig. The walls rose up like cliffs, sixty feet high and half as thick, solid stone that would have daunted any who dared threaten it. And above it all, Wolfenburg Castle loomed, as mighty as Winterfell, its battlements jutting into the sky like the teeth of some old, slumbering beast. He'd heard stories of the Ostland stronghold, but he hadn't expected something so vast, so solid and unbreakable.

When they passed through the gates, it was as if the city swallowed them whole. Lord Magister Martak led the way, his credentials waved through with little fuss, and soon they were within the Grand Prince's keep, deep in the heart of the citadel. Bran's direwolf, Winter, padded at his side, glancing around as if judging the place himself, and Steelwing, the young griffon, bounded from place to place, casting curious looks all around, wings rustling like leaves in the wind. Bran was proud of the beast, not even a month since its hatching, and it had grown over twice its initial size and was curiously inspecting everything it came across. He couldn't wait to see it fly free one day. The thought of it soaring high over this city's walls made his heart thump with anticipation.

They were led to the Elector's Solar soon enough, and after a brief wait outside, they entered to find Grand Prince Valmir von Raukov waiting within, a man who looked every bit the warlord Bran had expected. He was broad-shouldered, a bear of a man with thick limbs and a heavy muscle, his dark mustache drooping in long, shaggy tufts that framed his hard mouth. His features bore the look of the Ungols, a reminder of the long ties between Ostland and Kislev.

Bran had seen many like him before with a golden tint to their skin and keen, slanted eyes. Such features were not uncommon in Ostermark and Ostland. He would guess a full fourth of the common folk bore at least some of them, but they were uncommon among the nobility, especially of someone of such exalted blood.

Among Imperial lords, such features were rare. It was not that the Imperial nobility had not intermarried with the Ungols during the great migration nine hundred years ago, they had. It was just that they'd married so much since then with Imperial nobility from provinces to the west and south that had never been influenced by the Ungols. And the Ungols these days were marginalized, pushed to the northern borderlands of Kislev. If an Imperial noble married a peer from Kislev these days, they were almost certain to be of Gospodar blood, whose pale features and blonde hair were much like that of the original tribes that had settled the Empire.

Yet here was von Raukov, bold and brash, a man who looked like he belonged in the saddle as much as in a castle. Bran wondered at his ancestry. Had the Prince's father taken the daughter of an Ungol chieftain as wife? Or were there common folk of Ostland with Ungol features in his line? He felt shamed at not knowing the answer. He felt sure that Robb and Sansa would know.

Bran felt the Grand Prince's eyes on him, sharp and considering, but he met them, steady as he could manage. He'd come here to learn, to serve his family and his lands, and though the journey had been long and strange, he wouldn't let himself shrink away from it.

The Grand Prince's voice boomed, a deep rumble that seemed to suit the cold, stone-walled keep. "Lord Magister, Brandon Stark, welcome to Wolfenburg." His eyes gleamed as he turned to Martak. "Thank you for conveying this griffon to me so swiftly." Then his gaze shifted, settling on Bran with a weight that felt like stone pressing down. "Congratulations on your father's election as Chancellor of Ostermark, young Stark. He's a good man and a capable lord; I look forward to working with him."

Bran felt the weight of the Grand Prince's words but kept his head steady, bowing respectfully. "Thank you, Grand Prince. My father likewise looks forward to working with you." He pulled the missive from his satchel, the seal of House Stark heavy on the thick paper, and handed it to the prince. "His new court wizard is of the Celestial Order, and she foretells great trouble coming from the north in two or three years. He would like to coordinate the Empire's initial response with you when the time comes."

The Grand Prince's fingers brushed the letter as he took it, and Bran noticed his gaze flicker to Martak, sharp as steel under his furrowed brows. "I've heard of these prophecies. Warnings from Altdorf have come, buzzing with talk of the north, Sigmarites, Ulricans, and the Orders of Magic alike. But what say the Amber Wizards, Lord Magister?"

Martak inclined his head, his face solemn. "My master, the Wild Father, knows these whispers well. There is no doubt, an Everchosen will march on Kislev. It will take the Empire's full might to meet him."

Bran watched the Grand Prince's reaction, half-expecting worry or doubt, but instead saw a joyful, dangerous glint in his eyes. The Grand Prince's mouth curled into a fierce smile, his mustache bristling with the movement. "Then so we shall," he said, his voice low and hungry. "It will be the campaign of a lifetime, with unmatched glory to be won."

The words hung heavy in the air, and Bran felt a chill, though the fire roared bright behind him. It was the sort of thing Robb might have said once, with the same fierce glint in his eyes. He knew what that glint meant, what it promised, the Grand Prince didn't fear the Everchosen's coming. If anything, he welcomed it, as a man welcomes a worthy foe.

Beside him, Martak was silent, but Bran thought he saw a flicker of something in the wizard's eyes, something wary. Bran's fingers brushed against Steelwing's feathers, feeling the pulse of the griffon's warmth under his hand. He knew his father would call it reckless, but there was a fire to the Grand Prince that was hard not to admire. He was a man unafraid of the storm, a man who'd meet it with steel in hand and fury in his heart.

In that moment, Bran felt a strange thrill stir within him. Kislev and the northern provinces may be cold and bitter, but the Empire was strong, and war was coming, he would have to be ready for it.

The Grand Prince's gaze drifted down to Steelwing, his eyes narrowing as he took in the griffon by Bran's side. There was a gleam of hunger there, a fierce curiosity that Bran recognized, the look of a man who saw a weapon and imagined the might it would bring.

"And how has the griffon been doing?" Valmir von Raukov asked, his voice rough but edged with interest.

"Well, my lord," Bran replied, resting a hand on Steelwing's back. The griffon stirred under his touch, gray feathers glinting like hammered steel under the flickering lamplight. "He's a male, hatched on the fifteenth, with a sister. Since then, he's more than doubled in size, and he's in fine health. I'm surprised at how calm he's been, especially with my wolf, Winter, around. Not a single quarrel between them, but then again me and my master have been on hand to guide him."

Martak inclined his head. "I named him Steelwing, for the sheen of his feathers. He's imprinted on me for now, but with a spell, I can transfer his loyalty to you, my lord. Best done in the quarters you've prepared for him, and in the presence of your own Amber wizard."

"Steelwing…" the Grand Prince murmured, his gaze lingering on the griffon as if weighing the name itself. "Yes, it suits him." His voice rose, and he beckoned to the guards. "Then let us go down to the griffon's den. It has sat empty since my father's day, but we've made it ready. I'll have one of the guards fetch Journeyman Hartmut."

And so they followed the Grand Prince through the winding stone corridors, shadowed by his greatswords, their armor gleaming in the lamplight. Bran felt the familiar weight of a great keep pressing down on him and the dry scent of old stone and firewood was thick in his nostrils. The chill of the northern air that seemed to cling even indoors was new to him though. In Winterfell the brass pipes made by the dwarfs of old heated the Great Keep.

Steelwing padded silently at his side, alert and watchful, his talons clicking softly against the floor.

They passed through a side door into the chill afternoon air, and the Grand Prince spoke, his voice low but brimming with satisfaction. "These beasts, it takes two years to reach their full strength, if I recall?" He glanced back at Martak.

"Physically, yes," the wizard replied. "Fighting comes naturally to them, but their minds are another matter. Their intelligence and character will still take time to ripen. A griffon at two years is fierce, but a griffon at five is a creature of cunning."

The Grand Prince's eyes glinted. "As long as he's ready to battle what's coming, I'll be satisfied." He paused, his gaze sharp on Bran. "And what of the other egg? You said it hatched a sister. Did your father lay claim to her, young Stark?"

Bran met the Elector's gaze steadily. "Yes, my lord. She's called Skyshadow."

The Grand Prince's smile widened, fierce and full of promise. "Then we shall meet in the skies above Kislev, when the time comes to ride against the Everchosen and his hordes."

There was a thrill to the words, a noble oath hanging in the clear winter air. Bran felt a stirring of something he hadn't quite expected, excitement, yes, but mingled with fear. Steelwing shifted beside him, his golden eyes gleaming as if he understood. It was a promise of blood and battle, of steel clashing in northern skies and of cold winds carrying the scent of war.

…

The ritual had passed without so much as a flicker of trouble, and Bran watched as Steelwing's golden eyes shifted their gaze, newly fixed onto the Grand Prince with eager obedience. Journeyman Hartmut had proved competent, enough at least to handle the young griffon's care and training once they left. They would see soon enough if the man could truly handle a creature like Steelwing, but for now, their work in Wolfenburg was done.

They spent that night in the castle, tucked in thick furs and stone walls, savoring roasted meats and crusty bread, washed down with the strong, frothy ale Ostland was known for. It felt strange to sleep in a bed again, softer than anything they'd had on the road, and to sit in a hall filled with laughter and music instead of being surrounded by wolves and dark trees. But as dawn broke, they slipped away from the castle gates, steel-gray shadows in the morning mist, and made for the long road back to Wurzen.

They walked from the edge of morning into evening, passing through Wolfenburg's surrounding farms and hamlets. Bran felt the walls and roofs fall away behind them like the shedding of armor after a battle, until finally, they passed the last fields and pastures, and the trees closed in again. Here was the Forest of Shadows, thick with old growth and mist, the smell of pine and loam rich on the air. As good a place as any to let the wolf take over.

Bran watched his master kneel, Martak's large form blurring, the shape of him shifting and flickering like a candle flame caught in the wind. For a moment, a brown, amber light surged, glowing around him as the Brown Wind took hold. Then, before Bran's eyes, the man became wolf, a beast of muscle and grizzled fur, thick and scarred from years of age and battle. He was larger than Bran had imagined, a creature bigger than a pony, though not quite the size of a warhorse, seven hundred pounds of strength and purpose. His muzzle was dusted with gray, his amber eyes fierce but wise with age.

Winter looked up at the massive dire wolf with something like awe, his own smaller frame dwarfed by the bulk of Martak. Only eight months old, Winter was a pup still, perhaps a third the other's size, and Bran could feel his companion's wonder in the look he gave the elder wolf.

It was Bran's turn. He knelt, letting his breath flow slow and deep, feeling the Brown Wind stir within him, wild and ancient. He closed his eyes, gave himself to it, and let his body shift into what he was, what he'd always been, something both primal and natural. A wolf, his fur rough and young, streaked gray with hints of red. He was a juvenile, not yet full-grown, only three hundred pounds, but fierce with the raw strength of youth. The world around him snapped into sharper focus, his night vision a gift, but it was nothing compared to what he could smell, what he could hear. Creatures in the trees, distant voices, movement rustling across the forest floor. It was as if he could sense the life of the forest for miles around, the rhythm of it thrumming in his blood.

Beside him, Martak let out a low, rumbling growl, a greeting, a reminder, a command. Bran answered in kind, his voice a raw echo of his master's, and together, they turned toward the path stretching out before them, deeper into the forest. Winter padded along at their heels, his steps soft and reverent. This was their world now, the woods and the night, the scents and sounds of the earth beneath them. Bran could feel the pulse of it, deep and ancient, as they slipped into the shadows and left the world of men behind.

Chapter Text

Nachexen 9th, 2523

Margaery Tyrell stood by the arched window of her chambers, high within the oldest and largest square tower of Highgarden. The Keep, they called it, though to Margaery it was more a home than a fortress. The tower was broad and solid, like the squat trunk of an ancient oak, but it stretched high enough to command a view over every other spire save one.

To her left rose a central tower, round, slim and proud, one of the newer additions to the castle's sprawl. Planted between the massive square towers that were the Keep and the Great Hall, its stone was pale and smooth, as if it had never known the touch of war. Its uppermost floor housed the rookery, and she often saw pigeons wheeling about the tower like knights at a joust. Lavish rooms for noble guests and foreign dignitaries lay beneath. At the base was the family library, a treasure trove of dusty tomes and aging scrolls.

Margaery had always preferred the living pulse of the gardens to the still air of old books, but her brothers found wisdom there. Willas, in particular, had spent half his youth at those shelves, reading about kings and knights, laws and commerce, and wars long past.

To her right, the morning sun lit the great Cathedral of the Lady, a testament to beauty and faith wrought in stone and glass. The soaring spires, the colorful stained glass windows alive with stories of the Grail, the lifelike statues of the lady, her damsels and virtuous knights, all spoke of Highgarden's devotion. Yet for all its splendor, the faithful who had visited in the past three centuries had rarely forgotten that no Tyrell lord had ever knelt before the Grail and risen as a true Grail Knight. That wound had lingered for over a dozen generations.

'Until Garlan.'

Her lips curved at the thought of her brother. Garlan had done what no Tyrell before him had managed; he had sipped from the Grail, proving himself in the eyes of the Lady and all of Bretonnia. No subtlety of her grandmother Olenna, no whispered promise nor chest of golden coin, nor even an advantageous marriage could ever rival that. Now knights errant from across the realm flocked to Garlan's banner. They called him 'the Gallant' for good reason. Come spring, they would march on Mousillon, and when they did, Margaery had no doubt they would cleanse that cursed land of the filth that ailed it.

She leaned out a little, her gaze drifting across the courtyard below. Servants and soldiers scurried to and fro like ants in the dirt, tending to the thousand small labors that kept Highgarden running. Beyond the colossal inner wall, a hundred feet tall and fifty feet thick, whitewashed and gleaming in the weak winter sunlight, she could see the middle wall, painted just as bright, seventy feet high and half as thick. And before that lay the famed briar labyrinth, stretching out like a green sea, dangerous as any rocky bay whipped with waves.

It had been grown, they said, by a Prophetess of the Lady in a time when Highgarden was little more than a watchtower on the Mander. Resistant to flame and bristling with great thorns as long as a man's hand and thicker than a man's thumb at the base, it was not something that could be easily brushed aside, even by armored men ahorse. Margaery had walked the maze often as a girl, and though she had oft lost her way, it held no mystery for her now.

Past the labyrinth loomed the outer wall, only forty feet tall and twenty thick, it was formidable enough to be the main curtain wall of many a lesser lord's castle. Each defense was formidable in its own right, and taken together, they made Highgarden a fortress that no army could breach without taking staggering losses.

Beyond the walls lay Lowgarden, a bustling little market town perched on the river Mander. The winter light made the water shimmer, and the fishing boats tied up at the docks looked well kept, sails patched and ropes strong.

Margaery wondered how many of the larger merchant ships at the docks would carry whispers of the Tyrells' growing power downriver. Garlan's triumph had lifted their name higher than it had ever soared, but with it came a weight. Power bred expectation. Grandmother had long taught her that ambition could take a family far, but if the steps were too bold, too swift, it could also bring them crashing down.

Still, Margaery found herself smiling. The Tyrells were not a family that faltered. Her brothers were strong and clever, each in their own way, and she had learned well at her grandmother's knee. Let the northern lords of Lyonesse squabble over their honor; in the south, the golden rose was in full bloom, and no one passing by could ignore a rose in bloom.

The call to break her fast drew Margaery from her thoughts. She draped her green cloak around her shoulders and descended the winding steps of the Keep, out into the brisk morning air of Highgarden's courtyard. Winter in southern Lyonesse was mild compared to the freezing gales of Kislev or the biting winds of the Empire, but the chill still nipped at her bare skin. Her samite gown, heavy with gold and silver embroidery, shimmered in the pale sunlight, but fashion came with its own burdens. Shoulders bared to the cold were but one of them.

She crossed the courtyard quickly, the hem of her gown brushing the cobblestones. Stable boys scurried about, their breaths misting in the air, while guards clad in mail and wraped up in wool surcoats on the walls stamped their boots to keep warm. The wind caught the faintest whiff of bread baking in the ovens, and her stomach growled faintly.

The Great Hall welcomed her with warmth and light. Fires roared in hearths set against the stone walls, their glow flickering over the banners hung from the rafters above. There was the golden rose of House Tyrell, bright against its field of green, and the red lion on white of their liege, the Duke of Lyonesse. Its roar seeming weaker to her eyes than it had ever been and Margaery allowed herself a brief, treasonous thought as she gazed upon it. Soon, perhaps, the lion would be replaced with the royal arms of Louen Leoncoeur, King of Bretonnia. Her family had earned the right to dream of dukedoms now. Nearest to the lord's seat hung the banner of the Lady of the Lake, a silken work of art that took one's breath away to look at it.

She approached the high table, her footfalls soft against the rushes scattered on the floor. Her father, Mace Tyrell, sat at its center, his golden brown beard catching the firelight. To his right was her mother, handsome and graceful as ever. On his left sat her grandmother, Olenna, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued. Willas, her eldest brother, sat beside their mother, speaking softly to his wife, Arianne, the princess of a minor Estallan kingdom. Beneath her wimple, the woman's dark hair gleamed like polished jet, her olive skin radiant as the child growing within her swelled her belly.

Margaery kissed her father on the cheek before taking the seat beside Olenna. "You're late," her grandmother muttered, though her tone held no real scorn.

"A lady is never late," Margaery replied with a small, knowing smile, "merely expected." Olenna snorted but said no more.

Her gaze shifted to Arianne, and then beyond her in her mind to the broader map of Estalia, where alliances and conflicts brewed like a pot left untended. The recent marriage between King Carlos IX and Juana la Roja was still the talk of many a court, their declaration of a unifed Kingdom of Estalia as they crowned each other High King and Queen, stirring as much laughter as intrigue. Many of the petty kings of the peninsula had ignored them, but others sharpened their blades and counted their spears.

Arianne's father, Margaery knew, was one of the latter. A minor king himself, he ruled over little more than a strip of the southern coast with a strong castle and a busy port, but Estellans were a proud and fractious people. Carlos and Juana might dream of unity, but the soil of Estelia had swallowed many such dreams before, and it would do so again unless they proved themselves stronger than the tides of history.

Maybe they would. It was a rare Estellan lord that could match even a Bretonnian count, but the Kingdoms of Magritta and Bilbali were more akin to dukedoms than counties. The two of them together had a better chance of unifying Estalia than any had in centuries.

"They'll need more than words to hold their thrones," Olenna murmured, as if plucking the thought from Margaery's mind.

The younger woman turned to her grandmother with a knowing smile. "As do we all."

The Queen of Thorns chuckled softly. "Then you'd best eat, child. Wars aren't won on empty stomachs."

Margaery rolled her eyes, though she managed to turn it into a graceful lowering of her gaze. "We're hardly at war, Grandmother. Garlan and Father won't ride forth until the spring."

"The court and life itself are struggles no different than any battle," Olenna replied, her tone sharp enough to cut steel.

Margaery smiled faintly, spearing a piece of her omelet with her fork. "You're not wrong," she admitted, "but I think the veterans at this table might disagree."

Olenna sniffed, a dismissive sound that hung in the air like a gauntlet tossed to the floor. Father and Willas wisely said nothing. They knew when to pick their battles, and neither man had ever been fool enough to cross the Queen of Thorns over breakfast. Far safer to face the Beastmen in the woods or the cursed dead rising from Mousillon's crypts.

As she savored the rich flavors of eggs and herbs, the sound of boots on stone drew her gaze. A messenger, a boy clad in the blue and gold of House Cuy, approached the table. The heraldry on his tunic, the six sunflowers on a field of azure, was unmistakable. With a deep bow, he produced a sealed letter from his satchel and placed it into her father's waiting hands. Mace Tyrell grunted his thanks, flicked the boy a bronze penny, and broke the wax seal.

As he read, Margaery watched his thick brows climb and settle, his expression placid but faintly amused. No alarm there, then.

"What news from Baron Cuy, Father?" she asked, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin.

"Familial drama," Mace replied, not looking up. "Apparently, his natural daughter from Cathay has tracked him down."

Margaery blinked, caught off guard. "To sail from Cathay to Bretonnia takes nearly a year, does it not?"

"Aye," Mace said, "but she didn't sail. She walked. Across Cathay, the Ogre Kingdoms, and the Dark Lands, all the way to Karak Kadrin, with only two swordsmen to escort her."

Willas let out a low whistle. "A journey worthy of a minstrel's song."

Margaery nodded, impressed despite herself. The tale sounded too fantastical to be true, but then, the Old World was a strange place, where the impossible often became reality. It was a shame that reality was so often horrifying.

"No doubt," Mace said, still scanning the letter. "At Karak Kadrin, she learned Reikspiel, then made her way to Winter Town and from there sailed down the Talabec after Grimgor Ironhide's siege was broken. She reached Altdorf, earned herself some coin translating Cathayan texts at the Great Library of Verena, and eventually found passage to Bretonnia."

"Well," Olenna said dryly, "that's convenient for Lord Cuy. I suppose he wants her legitimized so he can marry her off to whichever of his idiot cousins he prefers, in the hope it will stop them all from brawling over his lands once he's dead."

Mace shrugged, setting the letter down at last. "A damsel will have to confirm her bloodline, of course. But he seems certain that she is his." He paused, frowning slightly. "Of course, things are never so simple."

"What complication could there possibly be after all that?" Olenna asked, her voice laced with mockery.

Mace hesitated, as if reluctant to say the words aloud. "She claims to be carrying the child of Robb Stark."

Margaery's fork clattered against her plate. Robb Stark? She felt her breath catch, her mind spinning.

The Starks had been the talk of courts from Marienburg to Magritta in recent months. Lord Eddard's election as Chancellor of Ostermark and his bold claim to the title 'King of the Ostagoths' had set tongues wagging. His son, Robb, had made an even greater mark, carving his name into legend with victories over Grimgor's black orcs in the World's Edge Mountains and over the Beastmen in the Gryphon Wood. He had slain Taurox the Brass Bull himself, or so the bards sang.

But for Margaery, the most fascinating tale was the one closest to home; Robb's marriage to her cousin Merida. The match had elevated Merida from a baron's daughter to the wife of an heir to an Elector-Count. It was the sort of rise most women could only dream of, and Margaery's rare letters from her cousin painted a picture of a world she longed to see for herself.

And now this, an illegitimate child, by a woman who had walked across half the world or more to find her father. Margaery could almost hear the whispers spreading already. A thousand intrigues began spinning in her mind. She leaned back in her chair, her lips curving into a thoughtful smile.

"Well," Margaery said lightly, swirling her goblet of cider as though she hadn't a care in the world, "it seems the Stark wolf is not so different from the Tyrell rose, after all. Both scatter their pollen all over."

Her mother gasped, dropping her fork with a clatter that drew the attention of half the hall. "Margaery! Don't speak so vulgarly at the table. I taught you better than that."

Margaery looked on her mother with pity, her sad smile never wavering. She knew precisely what had her mother so ruffled, and it wasn't the words. It was the truth behind them. Her father... he loved his wife ardently, for all the world to see, but for all his bluster and florid speeches, he was a weak man when it came to the softer temptations of the flesh. A smile here, a curtsy there, and the peasant girls of Highgarden had all too readily opened their arms and their legs for the liege lord they hoped might pluck them from the dirt and muck of their lives.

Not that any had succeeded in rising above their station, of course. Father was too oblivious for that sort of ambition to even register on him, let alone take root. Even though he'd arranged for his bastards to be given apprenticeships with various guilds and craftsmen, their mothers remained as rooted in the fields and orchards as ever.

"The problem isn't that it's vulgar," Olenna interjected, her tone as sharp as a knife honed for slaughter. "The problem is that it's true. All men are wolves." She speared a piece of cheese with her knife and held it aloft as if to emphasize her point. "Rutting in the dirt is what they do best."

Margaery laughed softly, though she carefully set her goblet down. The tremor of tension running through her mother was plain to see, though no one else at the table dared to acknowledge it. Willas had fixed his eyes on his plate, and her father was suddenly very interested in the messenger's letter again.

"Perhaps," Margaery said, "but wolves are easily tamed. A strong leash and a firm hand can work wonders."

Her mother stiffened, her cheeks coloring, but Olenna let out a cackle that echoed across the hall. "Well said, my girl," she declared, her eyes gleaming with approval. "Just make sure you're the one holding the leash."

The words hung in the air, drawing sidelong glances from the servants moving about the hall. Margaery allowed herself a small smile, serene as ever. Her mother looked as if she might choke on her cider, but her grandmother was grinning, clearly in her element.

Margaery turned her thoughts back to the Cathayan girl who had crossed continents only to end up carrying a bastard child. If Robb Stark truly was the father, the wolf had been foolish indeed. The wolves of Winterfell were said to be many things, honorable, fierce, and proud, but cunning was not among their purported virtues.

"Shall I draft a reply for Lord Cuy, Father?" she asked sweetly, her gaze as soft and guileless as a doe's.

Her father grunted, still staring at the letter as though it might offer him some respite from the castle's ladies. "Best wait for a damsel to confirm the girl's blood," he muttered.

"Of course," Margaery said. She let her smile linger just a moment longer before turning her attention back to her plate. She didn't need to press. The truth would out, in time. And when it did, she would be ready.

Chapter Text

Afternoon, Nachexen 9th, 2523

Loras rode over the hills of northeastern Mousillon through dappled winter woods, his cloak of green and gold billowing behind him. The gray mare beneath him stepping lightly over fallen leaves and frost-kissed roots. Duchess was a spirited creature, as fine a horse as a mortal man could hope for, but Loras's thoughts wandered to nobler mounts. Pegasi, their wings shimmering like moonlight, soared in his dreams, a prize reserved for those who drank from the Grail.

Someday, perhaps. For now, he was a Questing Knight, and there was no glory in shortcuts.

The weight of his armor shifted with the mare's stride, the steel burnished but unembellished, crafted by the skilled smiths of Highgarden. No elven runes danced along an Ithilmar blade, no dwarfen sigils marked his shield. Such finery might win the admiration of men, but the Lady of the Lake was not so easily swayed. She cared for deeds, not for trinkets forged by the elder races. It was purity of the heart, courage in battle, and the chivalrous conduct that defined a knight which she judged. If he was to be found worthy, it would be through sweat and blood, not through the gleam of borrowed glory.

Loras had heard the stories from his boyhood, tales of those who had sipped from the Grail and became something more, knights blessed with the grace of the Lady herself and gifted strength enough to fight the evils of the world until the end of their days. But the cost was high, and the path treacherous. To falter was to fail utterly. Yet, to fall while striving was no failure at all. The shame lay only in abandoning the quest, and turning from the light of the Lady to the shadow of dishonor.

Should he succeed, his father would shower him with gifts as he had Garlan, a sword forged by the dwarfs of the Grey Mountains, a winged steed, swift as a summer storm. Yet desire for such things was a trap, the sin of avarice and envy and Loras did his best to purge them from his mind.

Ahead, a sound shattered his reverie; the clash of steel, the raw shouts of battle. Loras tightened his grip on Duchess's reins, urging her forward into a gallop. The cold air stung his face, her hooves pounding against the frozen earth in a steady drumbeat beneath him.

The trees broke suddenly, and Guerac Circle rose before him, its ancient stone pillars stark against the pale winter sky. This was a sacred place, consecrated to Taal and Rhya, gods of the earth and its bounty, wild and domestic. Long had it preserved against the corruption that had laid low the rest of Mousillon. But now it was on the verge of being defiled.

The air reeked of rot and decay. Zombies and Ghouls, the restless dead and the twisted cannibalistic remnants of men, lunged at the robed priests and priestesses who stood in a loose ring about the altar. Their chants were desperate, their staffs and daggers looked no match for the clawing dead.

Loras drew his sword, the steel flashing as it caught the weak winter sunlight. "For the Lady!" he roared, spurring Duchess onward.

The first of the undead turned, its pallid face smeared with filth, its mouth gaping in a snarl. Loras's sword sang through the air, cleaving through bone and sinew with a wet crunch. The zombie collapsed, and Duchess reared, her hooves striking down another that had lunged for her flank.

Loras pressed forward, his blade a whirlwind of cold justice. He did not fight for glory, nor for renown. This was the purpose of a Questing Knight; to protect the innocent and rid the world of such evil, to prove his worth not in the eyes of men, but in the gaze of the Lady.

Each stroke of his sword was a prayer, each enemy that fell a step closer to his destiny. The undead were many, but Loras had no thought of retreat. If this was to be his end, then let it be an end worthy of song. The Lady would judge him, as she judged all men, and if she deemed him unworthy, so be it.

But not today, he thought, driving his sword through the chest of a towering ghoul that had dared to raise its claws against a priestess. Not here. Not yet.

The priests and priestesses rallied around him, and Loras had to admit they were far fiercer than he'd expected. The men of Taal fought like the wild beasts they revered, their blows landing with bone-cracking force, their chants of fury echoing through the circle. The women of Rhya, sickles in hand, moved with practiced precision, severing limbs and heads with a grim efficiency, as though harvesting a crop of rot and ruin.

Still, it was clear to the undead who was their greatest threat. They crowded toward Loras, drawn by the bright steel of his blade and the force of his strikes. Zombies and ghouls snarled and snapped, clawing over one another in their mindless hunger, but they only succeeded in slowing themselves as they stumbled over each other. Loras cut them down one by one, his sword rising and falling in steady arcs, his focus unbroken. When the last of them lay crumpled and oozing black ichor on the frost-kissed ground, he straightened and took a moment to catch his breath.

He turned toward the keepers of the circle, meaning to speak, to offer some assurance and ask if any were wounded, but then the forest around them exploded with sound.

From the shadowed tree line burst scores more of the shambling dead, their flesh slack and reeking, their bodies snapping branches aside as they surged forward. Loras frowned and tightened his grip on Duchess's reins, his blood quickening for the fight to come. He steeled himself, whispering a prayer to the Lady, when a tremendous sound split the air, a piercing cry that froze him where he sat.

Even the dead paused.

From above came a shadow, broad wings blotting out the weak sunlight. The beast landed with a crash, talons rending earth and bone alike, its beak snapping through flesh and sinew. It was a hippogryph, its feathers as white as snow-capped mountain peaks, its flanks striped with streaks of gold and gray. Against such a creature, the shambling hordes were nothing more than kindling before an ax. The beast tore through them, scattering limbs and entrails, its savage cries reverberating off the ancient stones.

Loras felt Duchess shiver beneath him, and he pressed his knees into her sides, guiding her between the clergy and the rampaging beast. Hippogryphs were legendary for their bloodlust, as likely to tear into a mortal man as into a ghoul. A wild one, unbroken and untamed, was a deadly opponent, and Loras had no intention of letting the priests or priestesses come to harm.

But as the last of the undead fell and silence descended upon the circle, the hippogryph did not charge. Instead, it leaned back on its haunches, its fierce cries subsiding. Loras watched, tense and uncertain, as the creature began to shift. Its form shimmered, twisting and folding into itself, until where the great beast had stood, there was now a maiden.

She was surpassingly beautiful, or so most men would say, Loras thought, though her otherworldly air unsettled him as much as it entranced. Her hair fell in waves of gold, her eyes alight with the wisdom of ages. Her presence was no less commanding than the hippogryph's, though far less threatening.

"A damsel," Loras murmured, his breath catching.

His dreams had led him here. He had wondered, in the solitude of his journey, what the Lady might wish him to find in a circle consecrated to gods other than her. But this, this was her will. It must be.

"I am Jeneva, the Blessed Maid of Mousillon," the maiden said, her voice ringing clear as a temple bell. "You are Sir Loras of House Tyrell."

Loras inclined his head, unsure of what to say. She knew him already, then. Of course she would.

"I have much to tell you," Jeneva continued, her gaze sweeping over the circle, lingering on the wounded priests and priestesses. "But first, let me tend to these fine folk."

Loras dismounted, his sword still in hand, his heart thundering in his chest. He did not yet know what the Lady required of him, but he knew this; his quest had truly begun.

It did not take long for the damsel to tend to the clergy's wounds. Her hands, delicate yet strong, moved with practiced grace as she called upon the Lore of Life to knit flesh and seal blood, and the Lore of Beasts to lend the survivors strength and vigor. Loras watched in quiet awe, his sword resting tip-down in the earth before him. She worked with an ease that belied the enormity of what she did. When she finished her ministrations, not one of the priests or priestesses lay dead or turned.

Loras silently offered thanks to the Lady. He had arrived just in time, her guiding hand leading him here, as surely as the sun rose in the east and set in the west.

"Thank you, sir knight," one of the elder priests said, his voice hoarse but steady. He was a wiry man, his gray hair wild beneath a crown of holly. "Your coming and the damsel's were foreseen, yet welcome all the same."

Foreseen. The word caught Loras off guard. He blinked, gripping the pommel of his sword. "I have heard it said that all gods grant visions to their followers, but I thought such things more common among the Lady, Morr, and Myrmidia. Taal and Rhya are not known for their prophecies."

"That's true enough," replied one of the priestesses. She was younger, her cheeks still ruddy from exertion, her handheld sickle hanging loosely at her side. "Yet this circle is blessed with the Oak of Prophecy." She gestured toward a towering tree that stood just outside the ring of stones. Its bark was dark and knotted, its branches spread wide and heavy with leaves, though it was midwinter.

Loras frowned. He had taken it for an ordinary oak, albeit an ancient one.

"It gives acorns year-round," the priestess continued. "Eat one, and it will twist your belly for a night, but in return, you'll be granted a vision. Of some calamity that will affect you personally, and of what you must do to avoid or lessen it. The details are never clear, but they are enough. It is by the oak's blessing that we have held this circle through the long centuries since the fall of Mousillon."

The priests and priestesses murmured their assent, their gazes lingering on the oak with something that was both reverence and wariness.

Loras turned to the damsel, who had said nothing but stood watching the exchange with calm interest. The winter sunlight caught the fine features of her face, but her expression was unreadable. He had seen her wearing the form of a hippogryph as she tore apart the undead with fierce enthusiasm, but in this moment, she might as well have been carved from marble.

"Should I partake of the oak's bounty, my lady?" Loras asked. His tone was careful, deferential. "I will follow your guidance in this. I feel no need for visions myself, not with the Lady's dreams to guide me. But if I was brought here for this…" He trailed off, feeling suddenly foolish.

Jeneva's gaze flicked from the oak to him, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles. "If the Lady intended for you to take an acorn, sir knight, you would know it. She has never been one for subtlety."

A low chuckle rippled through the priests and priestesses, and Loras felt his face warm. He glanced at the oak once more. It loomed over the circle like an old sentinel, its gnarled branches stretching toward the pale winter sky. He'd had no dreams of oak trees, nor of acorns. Instead it had been of the lady, her oversized form rising above the crown of the stone circle beckoning him forward. He was meant to come her clearly, but for the oak… he thought not. He decided he was here to meet the damsel and would move forward with that understanding until he received a sign otherwise.

"Perhaps I'll leave the visions to those who have need of them," he said, looking away from the oak. "The Lady has brought me this far. I trust she'll show me what I must do when the time comes."

Jeneva inclined her head, but her eyes lingered on him as if weighing his words. Whether she approved or not, she did not say.

She brought her fingers to her lips and loosed a whistle, sharp and clear, like a falcon's cry cutting through the winter air. Loras watched her, puzzled, as the sound echoed off the ancient stones and faded into silence.

At first, nothing happened. Loras shifted, opening his mouth to ask her intent, when a faint whinny carried through the trees. A moment later, it emerged.

The creature stepped into view with a slow, deliberate grace, its hooves gliding over the frostbitten earth as if it walked on air. A unicorn, pure as the driven snow, its coat shimmering faintly in the pale light. It was not merely white, it was radiant, a living beacon of beauty and magic. Its long, spiraling horn seemed forged from moonlight, and even from a distance, Loras could feel its aura, a strange mix of reverence and purity.

He had thought Garlan's pegasus a wonder when first he laid eyes on it, a gift from the Lady herself, but next to this, the winged steed seemed a mere horse with feathers.

Before Loras could gather his wits, the damsel moved. With a fluid motion, she swung onto the unicorn's back. There was no saddle, no reins, nothing to tether her, yet she sat astride as if born to it. The creature did not buck or shy; it obeyed her as though her will was its own.

"Ride with me, Sir Loras," she called, her voice carrying above the wind. Then she turned, the unicorn wheeling beneath her as they plunged into the trees.

"Yes, my lady," Loras said, and his voice cracked, though he was quick to recover. He vaulted into Duchess's saddle, the gray mare snorting at the sudden command as he spurred her forward.

They followed, though it was no easy task. The unicorn's movements were unhurried, but there was an otherworldly swiftness to it, as if the trees bent to let it pass, the brambles parting and closing behind it. Duchess did her best to keep up, hooves crunching on frozen earth, but Loras knew they only gained ground because the damsel allowed it. A unicorn was a creature of magic, a thing beyond mortal reckoning. Duchess, fine horse though she was, could no more match it than a hound could outpace an eagle.

"Where are we bound, my lady?" he called, his voice rising over the drumbeat of hooves.

"To an abandoned hut," she replied, glancing back over her shoulder. Her hair streamed behind her, golden and loose, catching the light. "Not far. We'll stop there to talk, and to eat."

Loras frowned. A hut. He thought of the hovels he had passed on his journey, little more than piles of sticks and thatch, their inhabitants huddled within like mice in a burrow. Still, better a roof than the open sky and stars in winter. He had learned long ago not to balk at humble shelter. The damsel's tone gave him pause, though; she spoke of the place as if it were familiar.

Was she truly what she seemed? He shook the thought from his head. The Lady had sent her, just as surely as she had sent the vision that had guided him to Guerac Circle. It was not his place to question.

Ahead, the unicorn slowed, and Loras urged Duchess to do the same. Whatever awaited them at this hut, he would meet it, sword in hand if need be.

The hut was little more than a battered relic, a single-roomed shanty of wattle and daub, its thatch roof patched and sagging under the weight of years. Yet it was no ruin. Living branches had grown around the structure, thick and gnarled, weaving over walls and roof like the fingers of a protective hand. They had clearly been shaped by purpose and magic, not nature, reinforcing the crumbling edifice and sealing cracks to keep out the cold. The air of neglect was tempered by an undeniable sturdiness.

The damsel slid from the unicorn's back with effortless grace, her bare feet making no sound on the frozen earth. Loras followed suit, dismounting Duchess and securing her reins to a low-hanging branch. He hesitated for a moment, then trailed after her as she approached the thick oak door. It swung open with a groan, revealing a dim interior lit only by the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun.

Inside, a central hearth dominated the room. A few half-burnt logs lay atop a pile of charcoal, the faint smell of woodsmoke lingering in the air. Without a word, the damsel raised her hand, and a spark of lightning leapt from her fingertips, a single thread of glowing white hot fire that arced toward the logs. They caught instantly, flames springing to life with unnatural vigor, the room warming in moments.

Loras froze, his breath catching in his throat. He was the educated son of a great lord, raised on stories of the damsels and their gifts, and he knew well that most of the Lady's chosen wielded only the Lore of Beasts and the Lore of Life. But this… this was something else. That spark had not come from the earth or the wild; it had come from the heavens themselves.

He fell to one knee at once, his head bowed low. "Forgive me, my lady," he said, his voice steady despite the racing of his heart. "I did not know I stood in the presence of one so exalted. You are not merely a damsel, are you? You are a prophetess. One of the Lady's most favored."

Her laughter rang out, light and clear, like the peal of a silver bell. "Rise, Sir Loras," she said, her tone amused but kind. "You are far from the court of your noble father. Out here, exalted titles are worth little compared to the deeds that earn them."

Loras lifted his head, though he remained kneeling. Her smile was radiant, her golden hair catching the firelight like a crown. But there was something else in her gaze, a glimmer of sharpness, of understanding far beyond her years.

"I am but a servant of the Lady," she continued, turning back to the fire. "No more, no less. If you see greatness in me, then I hope you see it in yourself as well. The Lady does not choose lightly, Sir Loras. Remember that."

Loras rose slowly, her words stirring something deep in his chest. Whatever lay ahead, he knew one thing with certainty; his path, his quest, was inextricably bound to hers.

Chapter Text

Loras sat down in front of the hearth, took off his helmet, placed it besides himself and watched Jeneva work as he slowly divested himself of his armor. It was quite troublesome to do it without aid, yet all knights who aimed to quest for the Grail learned to do this and do it well. Only someone with the superhuman endurance of a Grail Knight could don their armor all day and night; even the mightiest Questing Knight must rest unburdened after battle or a long ride.

The vast majority of Questing Knights set out alone, their triumphs and failures theirs alone to bear, but ballads often told another story. The bards sang of knights who had caught the eye of a Grail Damsel, who were guided on their paths not only to the Grail but to renown and righteousness. In those tales, the Damsel was more than a helper, she was a companion, sometimes a lover, a figure of inspiration and devotion. Even after they sipped from the Grail, many knights remained by the side of the one who had shepherded them to glory, their adventures chronicled in song for generations.

To be chosen by a Prophetess, though, that was something rarer still. Loras could not help but feel the weight of it. It was a great blessing, surely, and he dared to hope it heralded great things for his quest. Yet as Jeneva moved about the room, kneeling by the fire and starting to work on supper, another thought gnawed at him.

Romance was not an option. That much was obvious for one such as him. He dearly hoped that the chaste affections of courtly love would content her. Still, with the way her golden hair spilled loose and unbound over her shoulders, gleaming in the firelight like a thing of living flame, and her gown clung to her curves with a tightness that seemed at odds with her sacred calling, he doubted it. She knelt by the fire, graceful even in that simple motion, and he found himself silently praying; Let her be satisfied with devotion from afar, my Lady. Anything else... He didn't dare finish the thought.

Jeneva worked in silence for a time, withdrawing dried meat, herbs and vegetables from a pack she'd left against the wall, tossing them into a pot hanging over the hearth. She added water from a leather skin, her hands moving with practiced efficiency, her wooden spoon stirring the mixture as though she had done this a thousand times before.

"This is your first time entering Mousillon, isn't it?" she asked, her voice soft, yet breaking the quiet like chimes swaying in the wind.

"It is," he replied, shaking himself from his thoughts. "I rode along the border until I reached the edge of the Forest of Arden, then crossed over."

She nodded, her spoon circling the pot. "And what did you think of the people you encountered on your journey?"

Loras paused, considering. "The forest isn't thickly settled, but I did come across a few villages and woodsmen. They were certainly poorer than my father's peasantry, but... normal enough. Hard-working, polite. It surprised me, I admit. I had expected something else entirely, given what's said of this land. Still, I didn't think much of it, this region is said to have resisted the corruption that has swallowed the rest of the duchy."

Jeneva smiled faintly, though it did not quite reach her eyes. "You see only what lies on the surface, Sir Loras. Mousillon does not give up its secrets so easily."

"My homeland is not the nightmarish land so often portrayed in song and tale," Jeneva said, her voice steady but tinged with sadness. "But that does not mean it is not dangerous. There are threats here that could swallow the whole of Bretonnia, given the chance. Tell me, Sir Loras, when you think of Mousillon, what comes to mind, aside from the tale of the False Grail?"

Loras hesitated. The truth might offend her, but she had asked for it. "I suppose… inbred, peasant villages full of mutants," he answered honestly. "The Red Pox. The undead. Knights and lords who've abandoned the Lady, who've cast aside chivalry and law for anarchy and tyranny so vile even the Border Princes would recoil."

Her nod was slow and solemn. "The Red Pox does still flare up from time to time. Without Priestesses of Shallya to tend to the afflicted, and with Damsels besides me and my sisters so rarely visiting this land, such things are inevitable."

'Sisters?' Loras wondered. It was rare enough for a family to give one daughter to the Lady's service, let alone three or more. A blessing, yes, but what a burden, too. Such families were left heartbroken to grieve children taken from their hearths to learn at the knee of the Fay Enchantress and the Lady herself.

"The land is lawless," Jeneva continued, "riven with blood feuds, warfare and betrayal. Yet not all its knights and nobles have forsaken the Lady. Perhaps a third of the nobility here still follow her."

"That is wonderful to hear," Loras said. "Once my father crosses the border, he can rally them to his banner. With your knowledge of this land and its people, your advice would be invaluable. Without a doubt, there will be dishonorable men seeking to twist his campaign to their own ends, attempting to turn him against their better neighbors."

She inclined her head, a faint smile touching her lips. "That will certainly be an issue," she said. "But let us return to your list. I agreed with your second and third points, but not the first. If the peasantry of Mousillon were as riddled with mutation as the songs claim, the land would have long since fallen to the Beastmen and the Ruinous Powers."

Her expression darkened as she spoke. "The people here are isolated. Travel between villages is rare because the roads are so dangerous, and so inbreeding happens. Sickly children are a thus a problem, and yes, mutants are a bit more common than in the rest of the land. But they are not the plague the outside world imagines. What the people here are, is desperately poor. Filthy. Scarred by the Pox, by injury, by years of toil and hunger. Many look monstrous, yes, but they were not born that way."

Loras frowned, the pieces clicking into place. Of course. Mutants were the first step toward Beastmen. If they were truly so common here, the Warherds would have long since overrun the duchy and invaded their neighbors. He glanced at her, the firelight flickering across her face as she stirred the pot. For the first time, he wondered if perhaps Mousillon was not the place of horrors the rest of Bretonnia made it out to be, but something stranger, and sadder, than the tales allowed.

"It was a mistake to cede the northern seven tenths of Mousillon to Lyonesse," Jeneva said, her tone carrying the weight of old grievances. "The King should have moved the capital there instead, to a stronghold like Highgarden. The north held not just the majority of the land but the richest soil, the strongest keeps, and the most people. A lord rooted there could have held the south in check and scourged it of its corruption. Instead…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "Your father may be a duke in all but name, Sir Loras, but even he cannot hope to clear Mousillon alone."

"He will not need to," Loras replied, his chin lifting. "Garlan has drawn many Knights Errant to his banner and is pressing the King to declare an Errantry War. Even should the King refuse, my brother will not lack for company. And the Duke of Bordeleaux, Alberic, has already pledged his aid. He wants the boil on his northern border lanced as much as anyone."

"And your grandmother," Jeneva said, her voice calm but pointed, "has been negotiating with the young Duke of Aquitaine. He, too, will soon have reason to join your collation. But even with all that, it will not be near enough. The King will call for an Errantry War and ride at their head before spring is out, and even then…"

Loras's thoughts snagged on a single name. 'Armand of Aquitaine? The Grail Knight? What reason…' The answer struck him like a lance. 'Margaery. Of course. So, she is to be a duchess after all. Perhaps even queen one day, if fate favors her husband.'

It was a clever match. But his mind was quick to push it aside for something weightier. "The might of nearly three full duchies, one lead by a Grail Knight…" he said. "And an Errantry War led by the King himself. What force could stand against that?"

Jeneva's lips curved into the faintest smile, though her eyes were heavy. "Did you think an undead attack of that magnitude on the Guerac Circle was by chance?" she asked. "No. That was guided. A powerful necromancer has risen in the northern reaches of Mousillon, somewhere in the lands of Lord Rachard."

Loras jerked at the name. "Lord Rachard? He is one of the finest men in Mousillon! My father has spoken with him often, and speaks well of his bravery and piety. His lands are where we mean to cross into the duchy."

"Then Count Tyrell must tread carefully," Jeneva warned. "If Lord Rachard still draws breath, the necromancer may have bent him to his will. Or worse."

Loras clenched his jaw. It was a bitter blow, but he forced himself to focus on the path ahead. "With your aid and Garlan at our side, we are sure to prevail," he said, with all the steel he could muster.

"Of course," Jeneva said, though the tone of her voice implied such a victory would matter little. "But this foe is cunning. The necromancer can retreat further into Mousillon, raising the dead as he goes. If he reaches the Charnel Hills…"

Loras's stomach turned. 'The Charnel Hills.' Untold tens of thousands had been buried there after a great plague of the Red Pox had killed nearly everyone in the city of Mousillon and much of the royal army besieging it.

"And those dead," Jeneva continued, her voice dropping to a grave whisper, "are not the worst the city holds."

"The Black Knight," Loras said, his frown deepening. "We've heard tales of him the last few years. A madman, some pretender who holds a mockery of a court and claims the title of Duke of Mousillon. He dreams of not only the duchy, but the throne, if the rumors are true."

"Mad he may be," Jeneva replied, "but madness does not make him weak. The worst of Mousillon's nobles have flocked to him, and more wicked things still. Necromancers, vampires, and cultists of the Dark Gods. And he… he is no longer a mortal man, Sir Loras. There is some vile power in him I do not yet understand. My visions remain unclear. But I know this, he will not fall to the force of a single duchy, or three. It will take all of Bretonnia to bring him down."

Her words hung in the air like a storm cloud, heavy and threatening. Loras said nothing, but in his heart, the weight of the quest settled deeper. Mousillon may not be the nightmare it was portrayed of in songs, but it seemed to harbor threats that were far more dangerous than anyone had imagined.

There was glory to be won here, glory that came but seldom even in a land of heroes. But with it came peril just as sharp, a blade poised to cut as deep as the rewards promised to shine. Loras felt the corner of his mouth curl into a smile, a spark of fire igniting in his chest. 'What true son of Bretonnia could feel otherwise?'

Danger and honor were brothers, twins bound together since the first knight swore his vows before the Lady's sacred pool. To chase one was to embrace the other, and Loras Tyrell had never been one to shy from the chase.

"I'm glad to see you so eager to right the wrongs plaguing my homeland," the damsel said with a soft smile. Her words were kind, her tone warm, but there was a shadow behind her eyes that gave Loras pause. "Yet men, however wicked, are not the only challenge we face. To the south, on the forest's edge, a tribe of Beastmen gathers under a cunning Bestigor called Ograh."

Beastmen. Of course. Loras suppressed a sigh. It was a lawless land, after all, where no duke kept the woods scoured. In truth, it surprised him more that the foul creatures hadn't spilled forth sooner, ripping and tearing their way through the villages of Mousillon and into the lands beyond.

"And worse," Jeneva continued, her voice dropping to a more ominous tone, "the loathsome Ratmen stir in their burrows. The Skaven grow bold. Just four months past, the Colleges of Magic foiled a plot to strike at Altdorf itself."

Loras frowned, his brow furrowing as he digested her words. Skaven bold enough to assault the Empire's heart? That did not bode well. The vermin only dared such brazen moves when their numbers swelled to truly monstrous proportions, or when some great warlord among them rose to unite their warring clans. Either way, it meant trouble.

"They're distractions," Loras said, confident in his pronouncement, yet aware of the danger these foes offered. "Ones we'll need to deal with, of course, but distractions all the same. The tide of chivalry shall wash them away. Our focus must remain on the Necromancer and this... Black Knight."

"Exactly so," Jeneva said, her smile returning as she ladled soup into two wooden bowls and handed one to him.

Loras accepted the bowl with a nod of thanks, the smell of the thick stew rising to meet him. Simple fare, but after days of salted beef and hardtack, it might as well have been a feast. He took a careful sip, the warmth of it chasing away the chill of the evening.

It was good, surprisingly so. There was no spice, no rich flavor like the dishes he'd known in Highgarden, but it tasted of care and steadiness. Somehow it tasted of her, he realized, and the thought brought a heat to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the fire. He'd never eaten anything made by her before, and now he felt like he'd recognize her cooking blindfolded and years down the road.

"Thank you," he said, his voice softer now.

Jeneva only smiled, and in the firelight, she looked almost otherworldly, like something out of the stories he'd read as a boy. It struck him then, as he drank her simple soup, just how much hung upon her slender shoulders. Mousillon, the Necromancer, the Black Knight, all the doom of a dying duchy, and yet she smiled still.

Loras resolved to match her courage. If she could bear the weight of it, then so could he. For his father, for his brothers, and for the Lady, he would see it through. Whatever came, whatever peril rose to meet them, Loras Tyrell would not falter.

Soon enough, the soup was finished, the fire crackling low in the hearth, and Jeneva came around to sit beside him. She moved so close that her knee nearly brushed his, and suddenly the little hut felt impossibly small. The air seemed thicker, the firelight casting her features in an almost ethereal glow.

"Sir Loras," she said softly, her voice like a summer breeze. "Why do you look so nervous? Surely the knight who stood so boldly against the undead is not afraid of a young maid like me?"

Was she young? Loras couldn't say. The tales claimed the Damsels of the Lady were ageless, that they lived in the bloom of youth until their time on this earth was done and they returned to Athel Loren, to pass into the Lady's eternal embrace. Her face looked as if she had lived but twenty summers, but for all he knew she could be closer to two hundred.

"It is… not the fear of the battlefield, my lady," he stammered, his voice sounding weak in his own ears. "I am simply… loathe to disappoint you."

"Then don't," she said, her voice low and breathy.

Loras swallowed, feeling the weight of her gaze. He turned his head to the fire, where the flames danced in frantic shapes, searching for courage among the embers. "I would if I could," he said at last, the words coming haltingly. "Yet I cannot change who I am. I… I do not appreciate the beauty of women in that way."

He had never spoken it so plainly before, not to anyone beyond the safe confines of family, or the occasional stable hand who had caught his eye and looked amenable to such advances. And yet, there it was, laid bare before this woman who seemed both as human as he and entirely beyond him.

Jeneva tilted her head, her expression unreadable. Then, to his surprise, she smiled, a kind and knowing thing. "Your appreciation for men does not trouble me," she said gently. "Though your lack of appreciation for women… that may be cause difficulties, in time. How will you fulfill your duties, if ever you are called to marry?"

Her words struck like a lance to the heart, yet before he could muster a response, she continued. "Do not worry. I am meant to guide you in all facets of life, Sir Loras. You are not the first young knight to face this challenge. There are spells I can cast, gentle enchantments, that would grant you the appreciation you lack."

Spells? The very thought chilled him, though the fire had long since warmed the small room. Spells to change him, to alter what had been a truth in his heart since boyhood? He opened his mouth to refuse, but Jeneva pressed on, her voice soft, persuasive.

"After all, you said you would, if you could," she murmured.

Had he said that? He had, hadn't he? The words rang back in his ears, a careless admission now come to haunt him.

"This would not take away what you already have," Jeneva added, her tone almost soothing. "It would merely… add. It would allow you to live a life that was much more… traditional."

Traditional. The word hung there, tempting, tantalizing. Was she not a servant of the Lady? Could he not trust her on this, this woman to whom he was already entrusting the fate of his family, of Bretonnia, of his very soul? No Damsel had ever strayed from the Lady's path. Those tales that spoke of their quirks, their earthy appetites, they were charming embellishments, nothing more.

And yet, the idea unsettled him. To be changed so deeply, even by one so holy, felt like a betrayal of himself. He glanced at Jeneva, whose eyes were steady, her smile unwavering. The fire flickered, and for a moment, she seemed almost otherworldly again, like something from a dream.

Still, he found himself nodding, though unease coiled in his gut. She was a Prophetess of the Lady. Surely she would not lead him astray. Surely.

She raised a hand, her palm hovering just before his face, her expression soft but solemn. "May I?" she asked.

Loras hesitated only a moment before nodding. Her hand came to rest gently against his temple, her touch cool despite the warmth of the room. A faint, emerald glow spread from her fingers, flowing over his skin and into him. It wasn't unpleasant, not exactly. It was like standing beneath a spring rain, refreshing and unsettling all at once.

He blinked, the light fading as her hand fell away. For a moment, nothing seemed different. Then he looked at her.

No, he saw her.

Jeneva hadn't changed. Her face still had the same delicate symmetry he'd noted before, her figure the same elegant curves beneath her simple, yet fashionable dress and the way it clung to her. But the way he perceived her, it was as if a door had opened within him, revealing something he hadn't known was missing.

Now, that detachment was gone. The sight of her filled him with something foreign, something familiar and not at the same time. Her jade-green eyes held him captive, and the curve of her lips, smiling, almost triumphant, sent a shiver down his spine. His breath quickened, and his heart beat harder, as though he'd just seen a stable hand toss a bale of hay with effortless strength, muscles flexing beneath sweat-dampened skin.

"Do you feel it?" she asked, her voice soft but laced with satisfaction.

He did. Too well. Looking at her now, he felt a weight settle in his chest, a longing of a sort that he had never known before. The realization frightened him as much as it thrilled him.

Her grin widened, the faintest blush on her cheeks. She was pleased, he realized. Pleased with him. And something in that sent another jolt through him, though whether it was pride or discomfort, he could not say.

"The path before you now is well-tread," Jeneva murmured, her breath warm against his lips. "Let me show you the way."

Then her mouth was on his.

It was a kiss unlike any Loras had known. Gentle, where others had been hungry. Soft, where others had been rough, yet no less passionate. It took him aback, left him fumbling in a way he hadn't fumbled since his first stolen embrace behind Highgarden's stables.

His hands hung at his sides, unsure of themselves. She felt so slight, so delicate compared to the hard lines and firm grips of the lovers he'd taken before. He feared to touch her, as though she might crumble beneath him like a beautiful, but brittle flower.

She broke the kiss, her green eyes shining with amusement. Wordlessly, she reached down and took his left hand, placing it on her shoulder, her skin warm beneath the fabric of her dress. Then she guided his other hand to her waist, her fingers lingering there for a heartbeat before letting go.

"I'm not made of porcelain," she said, her tone half-teasing, half-chiding. Then her lips dipped lower, tracing a line of heat along the curve of his neck.

Loras's breath caught, as he felt the stir of something new, something that both thrilled and unnerved him. The rush, the rising excitement, it was different, yet somehow the same. His body responded, even as his mind grappled with the strangeness of it all.

She pressed closer, her soft curves molding against the gambeson he'd worn beneath the mail and plate he'd shed earlier. Her warmth seeped into him, and his hands, uncertain no longer, moved of their own accord.

His right hand swept up her side, fingertips brushing over fabric and flesh alike. He found himself drawn to the soft, firm roundness of her breasts, a part of the body he'd never spared much thought for before. But now it was as though they called to him, demanded his attention.

Her breath hitched, and a faint, pleased sound escaped her lips. It spurred him on, his curiosity mingling with something deeper, more primal. Whatever spell she had woven over him, it had taken hold.

And in that moment, Loras Tyrell was no longer the knight who had come to Mousillon seeking glory. He was just a man, adrift in sensations he had never thought to feel.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the cramped space of the hut. Jeneva turned in his arms with a fluid grace that seemed almost otherworldly, the hem of her dress catching the dim light as she leaned forward, bracing herself on the dirt floor with one slender arm.

Loras froze, his breath hitching as her other hand moved to lift the fabric higher, baring her bottom to him in a way that left nothing to the imagination. Her form was taut but softened by curves unfamiliar to his hands, her skin pale and luminous in the firelight.

He swallowed hard, his thoughts warring with his instincts. She was unlike any partner he'd taken before, there was no sharpness of muscle, no roughness of calloused skin. Instead, there was a yielding softness, a warmth that seemed to beckon him closer even as his mind screamed its uncertainty.

Her hand moved down, her fingers brushing through slick pink petals, their sheen catching the light as they glided with practiced ease. She lingered on a nub of flesh that made her gasp softly, her flushed cheeks glowing brighter beneath the golden cascade of her hair.

Then she glanced back at him, her jade-green eyes heavy with an invitation that left no room for doubt. Her lips curved into a teasing smile, her voice low and breathy as she said, "This way is probably more familiar to you."

Loras felt his pulse quicken, heat rising to his face. She made it sound so simple, as though the chasm of difference between what he knew and what she offered could be bridged in an instant. Yet, for all his hesitation, he couldn't look away. The spell she had woven around him held firm, drawing him forward, closer, until he could feel the heat of her body against his own.

And still, he hesitated, the weight of his doubts pressing heavy on his shoulders, even as his hands moved of their own accord.

The fire sputtered in its hearth, a hiss of sap popping from the wood as Loras reached out, his hands gripping her slender waist. Her skin was warm beneath his touch, pliant but firm, and so lovely it was if she was shaped by immortal artisans.

He pushed forward, the hesitation in his heart drowned by the heady mix of the spell she had cast and the heat of the moment. Her body yielded to his length, slick and welcoming, and for a fleeting moment, the world narrowed to the press of flesh, the joining of two forms under the watchful eyes of the gods.

It was heat and tension, tight and unrelenting, drawing him deeper into a place he had never thought to tread. His breath came ragged, his pulse roaring in his ears like the charge of knights into battle.

Jeneva's head tipped back, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders like sunlight breaking through a storm. Her moans, a soft whisper of encouragement, cut through his haze, guiding him with an ease that made him feel clumsy in comparison.

This was not the path he'd imagined when he knelt before the altar of the Lady and swore his vows, but it was the one he walked now, guided by a force he could neither explain nor resist.

It was frantic, urgent, like the clash of steel in a battle's opening moments, before the rhythms of war settled into grim inevitability. Loras moved, driven by instinct, not thought, his body alive with a kind of desperate energy he hadn't felt since his first time, a clumsy, fevered tangle of limbs behind the stables at Highgarden, fumbling for something neither he nor his partner fully understood.

This was that moment all over again, the same breathless rush of discovery, only sharper, hotter, more consuming. The firelight flickered, shadows dancing across Jeneva's skin as she pressed back against him, her movements meeting his with a fluidity that left him gasping. She was guiding him, yes, but also matching him, as though she knew precisely what he needed before he did.

His hands gripped her hips, knuckles whitening with the intensity of his hold, his thoughts a blur of sensation and half-formed questions he dared not voice. Was this the path of the Lady's will? Or was it something altogether more profane?

For the moment, it didn't matter. The urgency of it all swept him away, drowning him in the raw, unrelenting tide of something he could neither control nor fully comprehend.

"Jeneva!" he groaned, the word torn from his lips like a prayer, though he wasn't sure if it was meant for her or the Lady herself. His hands clutched at her hips as if anchoring himself to something solid, something real, in a world that felt like it was spinning apart.

"Loras," she murmured in return, her voice a velvet thread that wound around him, pulling him closer, holding him fast. She turned her head to glance back at him, her dark green eyes heavy-lidded and shining in the flickering firelight. There was a knowing smile on her lips, not mocking, but something warmer, deeper, a satisfaction that made him feel, for a fleeting moment, like the knight he'd always wanted to be.

But then it was over, her silken folds clenching tight around him as he groaned and spasmed.

The intensity ebbed, leaving behind the soft sounds of their breathing, the crackle of the fire, and the faint scent of herbs mingling with the sweat on his skin. Loras loosened his grip and slumped back on his heels, unsteady, his mind already racing to catch up with what had just passed between them.

She shifted onto her side, graceful as ever, the hem of her dress still gathered high around her hips. Her hair spilled over her shoulder, a golden cascade that caught the light like spun honey. She looked at him with a calmness that unnerved him, as if what they had done were as natural as drawing breath, as inevitable as the sun rising over the hills of Lyonesse.

"You've taken the first step," she said softly, reaching out to trace her fingers along the inside of his wrist. "There is more to learn, but you're on the right path now."

Her words struck him like a blow, a reminder of the oath he had sworn before the altar of the Lady, his vow to seek her grace, her will. This felt a part of that calling, for after all, countless ballads sang of such love affairs, but at the same time it was something he'd never expected for himself.

"I…" He faltered, struggling to find words that wouldn't betray the conflict roiling inside him. "I don't know what to say."

"There's no need for words," Jeneva replied, her smile softening. "Not now. Rest, Sir Loras. Tomorrow brings new trials, and you'll need your strength."

She turned back to the fire, leaving him to his thoughts, her presence as commanding as it was comforting. Loras sank onto the pallet of straw she had laid out for him, his body still humming with the memory of her touch.

But as he stared into the darkened corners of the hut, questions rose like specters in his mind. What had just happened? What had she awakened in him? And what, by the grace of the Lady, would it mean for his Quest and what lay ahead?

…

Jeneva watched the young knight's chest rise and fall in the quiet of the hut, the firelight casting flickering shadows over the sharp lines of his face. Loras Tyrell was a beautiful man, too beautiful for his own good, some might say, but Jeneva had never placed much stock in the mutterings of old gossips. Beauty had its uses, and Loras, for all his grace and valor, was far more malleable than he appeared.

She ran her fingers lightly over the edge of his jaw, careful not to wake him. He murmured something, a half-formed word, then settled again. A smile tugged at her lips, soft at first, but it grew as her mind turned over the weight of her visions.

It had not been simple chance that brought him to her, nor mere coincidence that their paths had crossed in a land so forsaken by the grace of the Lady. Mousillon, her home, her burden, had been left to rot for too long. The Red Pox and the False Grail… they were shadows that had stretched over it for generations, a stain upon the soul of Bretonnia itself. Jeneva had seen it in her dreams; the desolation, the despair, the death. And she had seen the Lady provide the answer in those same dreams.

House Tyrell.

Loras was not perfect like his brother, far from it. Garlan had no need for her guidance, he would follow the Lady's will of his own volition and do much to make the coming campaign a success. Loras though, was too proud and far too conflicted in the depths of his heart. But he had what was needed; strength, skill, the blood of a rising house, and, most importantly, a willingness to follow where he was led. He was pious and obedient, yet she had tasted his doubts, his yearning for direction, his need for purpose as keenly as she had felt his touch.

Jeneva smiled again. Men were so easily swayed when their desires were woven into the tapestry of destiny. Loras would march for her, fight for her, bleed for her and for the Lady's will, after all, they were one and the same.

Her gaze drifted to the sword resting against the mud wall, its polished steel glinting in the firelight. Loras would not merely fight to redeem Mousillon; he would be a symbol, a rallying cry for all the knights who still carried the ideals of the Lady in their hearts. With her guidance, he would find the Grail, they would see Mousillon restored, the curse lifted, the duchy made whole again.

Loras stirred in his sleep, his brow furrowing for a moment before smoothing again. Jeneva leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "Sleep well, my knight," she whispered, her voice a silken thread in the still air. "For tomorrow, the real work begins."

She turned back to the fire, her thoughts already shifting to the trials ahead. Ograh, the Beastlord; the stirring Skaven; the foul Necromancer and the Black Knight himself. They would all fall in time. With the Lady's favor and Loras at her side, nothing could stand in her way.

Chapter Text

Nachexen 10th, 2523

"My lady, your father has summoned you to his solar," Collette informed her politely.

Margaery laid her embroidery hoop down lightly on her seat as she rose, smoothing her skirts. Winter stole her favored pastimes, riding through sun drenched fields full of flowers and hunting hares with falcons soaring high above, but she'd learned long ago to endure what could not be changed.

Her father's summons, though, gave her pause. Collette had delivered the message with her usual curtsy and unshaken demeanor, but Margaery had seen the quick flicker of curiosity in her maid's eyes. That flicker mirrored her own thoughts.

Her father had spent all morning cloistered with Grandmother. Voices low, glances sharp. They'd looked her way more than once, as if weighing her like a merchant weighing goods for sale on a scale. There was only one matter they would discuss so intently in such secrecy. A match. A husband.

The thought was no stranger to her; indeed, she had been preparing for it for as long as she could remember. Yet now, as she moved through the whitewashed halls of Highgarden, past richly decorated tapestries depicting scenes of the Lady, her chivalrous knights and radiant damsels, her heart felt oddly still.

Two knights stood at the door to her father's solar, their plate and mail polished to a mirror sheen. They had a Blue Hound with them, the large dog's mottled black and white coat giving it a slate blue look to its fur. It had a keen nose and a noble bearing. Packs of them could be used to hunt stag or wild boar, but within the castle they were used for one purpose, to detect infiltrators. The dog's dark eyes met hers, its tail thumping in acknowledgment

"My lady," the guards murmured as they stepped aside.

Margaery nodded her thanks and entered.

The solar was opulently adorned. Paintings lined the walls, some in the bold strokes of Tilean masters, others softer and more stylized in the traditional Bretonnian manner. Marble busts of ancestors long past stood on pedestals, their carved features stern and unyielding. The air smelled faintly of lemonwood and wax, a comforting scent.

Her father rose from his ornately carved desk with a smile, his hands folded behind his back, a figure of easy power. Though the years had softened him and added a few pounds to his gut, Lord Tyrell still carried himself like a warrior, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and with a sharpness in his pale green eyes that no amount of feasting could dull.

"Margaery," he said warmly, gesturing for her to sit beside him on the gilded sofa by the window overlooking the main courtyard.

Margaery stepped lightly across the thick carpets, her slippered feet silent. She sat down, smoothing her skirts once more as she perched on the edge of the sofa. The cushions were soft enough to sink into, but she kept her posture straight, her expression attentive despite her nerves. Her father's summons was no idle whim, she knew. The glances he shared with her grandmother earlier, the hushed tones that carried no further than to each other... this was about her. Her destiny.

He sat heavily beside her, the sofa creaking faintly under his weight, and gave her a long look. "You've grown into a fine woman," he said at last, his voice warm but measured. "As fine as any I've seen in the courts of the realm. A rose in full bloom."

Her cheeks dimpled with a smile. She knew when to feign modesty and when to embrace praise, and this was the latter. "You flatter me, Father."

"I do not," he said, his tone sharpening. "The truth needs no flattery. And the truth is, others have noticed your bloom as well."

Her heart quickened at that. She tilted her head, curious but careful to seem unassuming. "What others?"

He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, the picture of a lord in command of his hall and household. "The sort of men who understand the value of an alliance. The sort of men who know what a Tyrell bride brings to their house."

Her lips pressed together in thought. This was not the first time her father had spoken of marriage, she'd known for years that she was a coin to be spent wisely, that her beauty, her wit, and her lineage made her a prize worth vying for. But this felt different.

"Your grandmother has been speaking with Armand d'Aquitaine," he said at last, letting the words settle between them like a hawk landing on a gloved hand.

Her breath caught. Armand d'Aquitaine. A Duke. A Grail Knight. A man of high renown, no mere Baron or even a Count. And still young, just ten years her senior. Her heart raced, and she allowed herself a small, astonished gasp.

"A Duke?" she said, her voice soft but laden with just the right mix of awe and humility. "And a Grail Knight…"

Her father chuckled, his broad face breaking into a grin. "A match fit for the Rose of Highgarden; wouldn't you say?"

She nodded, though her mind was already racing far ahead. D'Aquitaine was a formidable prize, to be sure, but he was also a challenge. A Grail Knight would not be so easily swayed by a pretty face or a clever tongue. He would expect piety, grace, devotion to the Lady.

But Margaery Tyrell had learned from the best. Her grandmother had taught her that charm was not a weapon to wield bluntly, but a tapestry to weave, thread by careful thread. If the dashing Duke of Aquitaine expected a maiden of virtue and reverence, then that was precisely what she must be.

She was a maiden of course; girls of her status were oft married before a Damsel. The stories said they were said to be able to detect any impurity and inform the groom of such indiscretions, leaving it up to him to decide on whether to continue with the ceremony or not. Such rituals had long stood as Bretonnia's safeguard for chastity, though Margaery often wondered at the hypocrisy of it. The same men who demanded pure brides were the ones chasing servant girls through halls or visiting bawdy houses on their sojourns.

Still, she had nothing to fear. No foreign fingers had traced her flesh; none had seen her unclothed aside from her maids in the bath or the dressing room. She was a maid, her flower untouched as the white roses in Highgarden's courtyards. But to be reverent? Truly reverent? That was a role she had yet to master.

It wasn't that she lacked faith; no, she had prayed to the Lady often enough, knelt before her altar and statues, and walked barefoot to her shrines. The Lady had her place in Margaery's heart, as much as the goddess had in the heart of any noble girl raised on the ballads and tales of Bretonnia. Yet reverent was not a word she would use for herself. She had her grandmother's wit, sharp as a gardener's shears, and a tongue that, for all its polish, could not help but stray toward the impertinent. Polite, formal, charming when it suited her, yes. But reverent? She doubted it. Reverence did not win games. Reverence did not catch hawks or train hounds. Reverence did not keep men on leashes or kingdoms in hand.

Her thoughts drifted to her brother Garlan, who had sipped from the Grail itself. He had always seemed larger than life, even as a boy and he had grown into a man who trained with four swordsmen at once, carrying himself with the gallantry of a knight from some minstrel's song. But now… now he was something more. The Grail had remade him, body and soul. He radiated power and purity, a living testament to the Lady's blessing.

She had watched him spar against whole squads of knights, his movements fluid as a dancer's, untouchable. And when he spoke, his voice carried the gentle wisdom of an aged priest. He had always been a paragon to her, but now, he was beyond reach, a figure of myth walking among mortal men.

Armand d'Aquitaine would be no different. A Grail Knight. A Duke of Bretonnia. Margaery could feel the weight of his name, his station, pressing down on her shoulders even now. She had been raised to charm kings and courtiers, to hold her own amongst lords and ladies. She had never doubted her wit, her beauty, her ability to draw men into her orbit. But would it be enough for a man like him?

Could her wit, her cleverness, her playful tongue stand against the unyielding righteousness of a man touched by the Lady herself? Surely, he would see through any pretense she crafted, pierce any veil she might weave. A Grail Knight was not a man to be deceived. And yet… he had asked for her.

Her grandmother's letters had doubtlessly carried to him not only the truth of her lineage and beauty but the truth of her character. Olenna Tyrell was no woman to waste time with flowery platitudes; she spoke plainly, even in formal correspondences. If Armand had asked for Margaery, he had done so knowing full well what she was and what she wasn't.

So why did she feel so unsteady, her confidence trembling like the morning dew clinging to the petals of a rose? She had not felt this way in years, not since she was a girl learning to dance at court, fretting over whether her steps would falter. She was not that girl anymore. She was the Rose of Highgarden, a prize sought by lords and knights alike.

And yet, for the first time in a long while, Margaery was unsure.

Her father watched her closely, his grin fading into something more serious. "This is a rare opportunity, Margaery. A Duke of his stature does not extend his hand lightly. If we play this well, the Tyrells will gain an ally of great power, and you…"

"Will be a Duchess," she finished, forcing her smile to return.

"A Duchess," he echoed, pride clear in his voice.

Margaery clasped her hands in her lap, her thoughts swirling like the winter winds outside. A Duke and a Grail Knight... the dream of any maid in Bretonnia. But dreams were for fools and children. She had been raised to see the world as it was; a garden, ripe with blooms to be plucked, but only if one's hands were steady and sure.

"Tell me more of him," she said, her voice soft but eager. "What does he want? What does he need?"

"He is a great knight, of course," her father said, leaning forward in his seat, fingers steepled together as he considered his words. "But greatness on the field does not always translate to wisdom in the hall. Armand is still finding his footing as a ruler and administrator. That is where you would come in, my sweet girl."

Margaery inclined her head, her practiced smile softening the sharp glint of intelligence in her eyes. "That, I can do," she said. It was not empty boasting. Her grandmother had trained her well in the art of rule, not in the brash, overt way of men, but in the quiet, unyielding strength of a woman who saw everything. Margaery knew how to read ledgers, to spot the cracks in a steward's accounts, to weigh the words of a counselor for hidden motives. She understood the law of the land better than most, though she had no title to show for it.

But her smile took on a teasing edge as she continued, "Is that all he desires? A dutiful wife to balance his ledgers and keep his vassals in line?"

Her father chuckled, shaking his head. "No, my dear. He desires more than that. He seeks… a challenge. An enemy at the gates, a threat that will unify his vassals, keep their swords pointed outward instead of at each other, or worse, at him."

Margaery's brows lifted. "He means to support the campaign in Mousillon, then?" Her voice carried a note of genuine triumph. "That is joyous news. Though, the strength of his forces, combined with Duke Bordeleaux's and the support we've gathered here in Old Mousillon, could see this campaign won far sooner than he might expect."

But her father's expression darkened, his smile fading into something more pensive. "It may not be as simple as that," he said slowly. "Armand has received counsel from a Grail Damsel. She warns that the dangers within Mousillon run deeper than mere bandit lords and black-hearted knights. There are darker forces at work, secrets buried in the marshes, in the ruins, in the very bones of the land itself."

Margaery felt a shiver run through her, though she hid it behind a mask of serene confidence. The tales of Mousillon were nearly as old as the kingdom itself, stories of black magic, restless dead, and curses that whispered in the night. But those were just tales, weren't they? The sort of stories maids told to frighten children?

She straightened in her chair, her voice steady and resolute. "We will prevail, Father," she said firmly. "We have the favor of the Lady. Not just Garlan and Armand, but all the Grail Knights and Damsels who will rally to the Lady's cause. And there will be no shortage of Knights Errant seeking glory."

Her father nodded, though the crease in his brow remained. "Yes, I expect the King will declare an Errantry War come spring. That will bring aid from across the realm, particularly if that Damsel's warning proves true and the resistance in Mousillon is fiercer than we anticipated. A campaign such as that, with tales of great peril… it will draw men like Duke Bohemond. The Beastslayer is not the sort to ignore such a conflict brewing on his doorstep."

"An Errantry War would greatly strengthen our cause," Margaery agreed, though her mind was already racing ahead. She could see the pieces moving on the board, the banners unfurling, the knights swearing their oaths, the lords aligning their ambitions with her family's vision. And she saw herself at the center of it all, the dutiful bride, the cunning administrator, the rose that bent but never broke.

But somewhere, beneath her confidence, there was the faintest flicker of unease. The Damsel's warnings lingered in her mind. What dangers truly lay hidden in Mousillon's shadowed depths? Where that fell land was concerned, tales abounded of Dark Necromancers and Cultists of the Runious Powers hidden within its bogs and the ruined splendor of the capital. But, surely the favor of the Lady would be enough to see them through, even against such horrors...

Margaery pushed the thought aside, smoothing her skirts as she rose to her feet. "If Armand desires a challenge," she said with a small, knowing smile, "then I suppose he shall have one."

Chapter Text

Nachexen 10th, 2523

The winter morning broke pale and cold, the air thick with the scent of dew on grass and the faint promise of distant rain. Loras had risen early, his sleep restless with dreams of duty and danger, the ephemeral form of the Lady beckoning him on through a tangled wood.

After a hasty meal, his ablutions, and a murmured prayer to the Lady, he had donned his armor. The steel fit snugly over his thick gambeson of green and gold, and as the sun rose, he felt the weight of his vows settle over him once more. A Questing Knight did not shirk his burdens, nor did he flinch from the trials ahead. But even so, the road before him was not yet clear.

Loras turned to Jeneva, who sat astride her unicorn with all the grace of a saint in a tapestry. Her tight white robes caught the morning light, and her face was calm and serene, though her eyes, sharp and knowing, betrayed the calculating mind beneath her piety.

"What course do you suggest, my lady?" he asked, though his own thoughts had already begun to form their arguments. "Should we ride to the lands of Lord Rachard? If a necromancer has taken root so near to Highgarden, it cannot be ignored. Such a threat festers, and festering wounds grow worse by the day."

Jeneva inclined her head, her golden hair glinting like sunlight on water. "A danger, certainly," she agreed, her voice steady, soothing. "But not an imminent one. The necromancer will not make his move until your father's banners cross into Lord Rachard's domain, and that is still three months away. No, Sir Loras, we have time yet to deal with other matters."

"And you would have us ride south," he said, already guessing her answer.

She smiled faintly, as if pleased by his insight. "Ograh the Beastlord lurks in the forests near here. His warherd grows with every passing day. That is a foe you can face head-on, without the layers of sorcery and secrecy that shroud the necromancer. And defeating him will serve you well as you begin your quest, a challenge worthy of a knight such as yourself."

"Slaying a Beastlord would be a victory," Loras admitted, though his tone was cautious. "But what of the necromancer? His arts may be foul, but to stay hidden to this point takes cunning, and he may take notice of our delay. I'm sure he noticed our intervention at Guerac Circle. Is it wise to turn our back on him now?"

"The necromancer will not expect us to approach from the south," Jeneva said. "His defenses will be strongest along the northern border, where your father's forces will march. Likewise, it would be much easier for us to retrace your steps back across the border into Lyonesse and approach his territory from that direction than to delve deeper into Mousillon. Let us strike at Ograh now, and then circle back, catching the necromancer unawares. That is the path the Lady has laid before us."

Loras considered her words, his gaze drifting to the distant line of trees where the Beastlord's Warherd was said to gather. A necromancer was a more insidious threat, yes, but Jeneva was right, a Beastlord would not wait. Ograh's horde would not idle in the woods, growing restless and fractious. They would strike soon, and with terrible force.

He tightened his grip on the reins of his horse. "The Beastlord, then," he said, the decision settling on him like the weight of his armor. "If the Lady wills it, I will face him. And when he falls, we shall turn our gaze northwest, toward the necromancer."

Jeneva smiled again, that faint, knowing smile that always seemed to linger just beneath the surface. "The Lady's favor is with you, Sir Loras," she said softly. "You will not falter."

Loras nodded, banishing the doubt that still whispered at the edges of his mind. The path was clear now, but it was not without its shadows. It mattered not, he would bring the Lady's light and illuminate them.

They rode out from the hut where they'd stayed the night, easily weaving through the idyllic woods. However, the woods slowly turned against them the farther they rode from Guerac Circle. At first, they had been tranquil, almost inviting, with sunlight streaming through the canopy in golden shafts. The air had been alive with the sounds of the forest, birds singing, deer darting between the trees, and the occasional boar or even aurochs watching warily from the shadows. But by the end of the first day, the forest began to change. The oaks grew taller, their limbs gnarled and twisted, clawing toward the sky like the hands of some ancient, dying titan. The undergrowth thickened, choking the trails until every step forward became a battle. Patches of marshland appeared, the dark waters glistening with an oily sheen that seemed to swallow the light.

By the second day, the forest had gone silent. The birds were gone, their songs replaced by an oppressive stillness. Even Duchess, his faithful destrier, grew restless, her ears flicking nervously at shadows that shifted just beyond his sight. Loras felt it too, a prickle at the back of his neck, a sense that unseen eyes were watching, waiting.

He glanced toward Jeneva, her white unicorn stepping lightly through the brush as if unbothered by the creeping dread. She seemed calm, serene as ever, but Loras could not shake the feeling that she felt it too. The Lady's favor shielded them, but even the Lady's knights were not invincible.

When the silence was finally broken, it was by the low growl of a malformed throat.

They came upon the Beastmen without warning, the small clearing ahead revealing them as if the forest had conspired to set the scene. There were four, two ungors, their twisted horns uneven and pitiful, flanking a caprigor with curling horns and an ugly, goatlike snout. But it was the Bovigor who drew Loras's eye. The beast towered head and shoulders over the others, its massive frame wrapped in slabs of muscle. Its broad, rectangular face was disturbingly bovine, and its great horns seemed to glisten with some foul ichor.

The Beastmen froze as the pair emerged, their soulless eyes narrowing with suspicion. The color and shape of their eyes were varied and unsettling; one set was black, another blood-red, two of them a sickly yellow, but every one of them was disturbingly inhuman. Then Loras saw the realization of what was before them dawn on them, their postures straightening, their filthy weapons rising.

He did not hesitate. The time for deliberation had long since passed.

"For the Lady!" he bellowed, spurring Duchess forward. The destrier surged ahead, her hooves tearing at the forest floor as she carried him straight at the braying monstrosities.

The Beastmen roared their challenge in return. The ungors, pitiful though they were, gripped their rusted cleavers and moved to flank him. The caprigor stood firm, hefting a jagged axe, while the Bovigor lowered its massive head, its horns aimed at his horse's chest.

Loras felt the familiar rush of battle swell in his chest, his heart pounding against his ribs like the drums of war. He raised his sword, its fine castle-forged steel gleaming faintly even in the dim light of the darkening forest. These were abominations, enemies of the Lady and all good people, creatures born of chaos and hatred. He would not falter. Duchess thundered forward, her speed unrelenting, and Loras aimed his sword at the Caprigor's chest.

The Bovigor charged with the force of an avalanche, but its rage made it predictable. Loras sidestepped cleanly, Duchess responding to the slightest pressure of his knees. The caprigor swung its jagged axe, a clumsy, brutish strike that might have felled a lesser warrior. Loras leaned back in the saddle, his sword flashing like silver lightning. For the briefest moment, he saw his reflection in the creature's manic eyes, and then he struck. He felt the bite of steel through flesh, the crunch of bone as his blade carved through the caprigor's shoulder, cleaving downward into its chest and burying itself in the beast's black heart. It collapsed with a choking bray, its blood soaking the dark forest floor.

Duchess wheeled, swift and nimble, as the Bovigor came for him again, its head and curved sword raised high. The beast roared, its hot, fetid breath a rancid gust that filled the air. Loras met it head-on, knocking the oversized blade aside with a powerful stroke of his own. He saw his opening and took it, driving the tip of his sword forward with all the strength his arm could muster.

The blade pierced the monster's open maw, skewering through teeth and tongue, driving deep into its skull. For a heartbeat, it stood there, towering and terrible, its bloodshot eyes rolling madly as it gave one last, defiant bellow. Then it slumped forward, crashing to the earth in a thunderous heap. Halfway to a minotaur, the creature might have been, but even that abomination could not withstand cold steel in its brain.

Loras yanked his blade free, slick with gore, and cast his gaze around the clearing. The two Ungors had fled, or so he thought at first. Then he spotted them lying in the underbrush, twitching grotesquely, faint sparks of lightning crawling across their twisted bodies like fireflies.

Jeneva sat astride her unicorn, serene as ever, her delicate hands lowering from the spell she had just cast. "They thought to go after easier prey," she said, a faint smile curving her lips, "and found their judgment wanting."

"They did," Loras said, allowing himself a grin as he leaned down and wiped his blade clean on the Caprigor's filthy hide. "But we cannot linger here. Their trail will lead us back to their lair, and we should find it before the rest of their Warherd realizes what has happened here."

He glanced once more at the fallen beasts, their blood staining the ground. They were just the beginning, he knew. A Beastlord like Ograh would not gather a herd of such creatures to wander aimlessly. There was a purpose here, dark and deadly, and it was up to him to root it out.

He spurred Duchess onward, Jeneva riding close beside him. The forest seemed to close in tighter as they pressed on, the path ahead as dark and uncertain as the days to come. But Loras felt no fear. The Lady was with them, and her knight would not falter. Not now. Not ever.

The woods seemed alive with malice as they rode, shadows twisting into shapes that taunted the mind. The trees pressed in, their gnarled limbs clawing at the sky, and the air grew heavy, choked with the stench of blood and filth. It was a cursed place, no doubt, but Loras felt no fear. The Lady guided his path, and his blade would carve out the way, no matter what obstacles rose before him.

More Beastmen came crashing through the undergrowth in ones and twos, snarling and howling, no doubt alerted by the clash of steel and cries of battle.

A knight and a maiden, it was all they saw. Prey.

But they were wrong.

The first bray shrieked and fell, its head severed cleanly from its shoulders before it could swing its rusted blade. The next attempted to gore Duchess's flank with a crude spear, only to die screaming as Loras's sword opened its belly in a spray of red-black blood.

More followed, one after another, pouring from the woods in a relentless trickle. They never came in force, just scattered bands of three or four. No more than that. Against a host like his father's, they would've slunk away into the shadows, regrouping, waiting to ambush their foe with numbers. But a single knight? A woman on a unicorn? No pack of wolves could resist the scent of such easy prey.

Loras gave them the sharp edge of his sword. He struck true and clean, cutting down brays and ungors with the ease of plucking ripe fruit. Gors and centigors fell just as swiftly, their brutish strength no match for his skill and the Lady's blessing. Duchess surged forward through the chaos, unflagging despite her effort and a multitude of small wounds. Every stroke of Loras's blade seemed guided by the Lady's own hand, and the beasts' cries of rage turned to brays of anguish as heads rolled and limbs fell, their corrupt crimson blood steaming on the forest floor.

The ones who ignored him met an even swifter demise. The air cracked and sizzled as Jeneva unleashed her fury, bolts of lightning thick as his arm lancing from her outstretched hand. The smell of scorched fur and burnt flesh filled the air, and the beasts collapsed where they stood, twitching and smoking.

By the time they burst into a wide clearing, they had left a trail with scores of corpses behind them. It stank worse here, the air thick with smoke and rot and loud with depraved debauchery. Fire pits dotted the ground, some topped with huge cast iron cookpots, others with their flames licking at spits of roasting meat. Some of the meat was animal, but Loras's stomach turned at the sight of human bodies skewered on the spits, some still charred in the agonized shapes they had taken while roasted alive. The ghastly revelry stopped as dozens of eyes turned to him and Jeneva, yellow and bloodshot, narrowed with hate.

A bestigor stepped forward from the crowd, towering over the others. It was massive, well over seven feet tall, its thickly muscled frame covered in scars, its twisted goat-like face framed by enormous spiraling horns that curled back like a ram's. It held a thick, jagged-edged sword nearly four feet long, its blade slick with blackened blood.

Loras raised his own sword, the bright steel catching the light of the fire. His voice rang out, carrying over the braying and the snarls. "You," he said, pointing his blade at the beast. "I challenge you in the name of the Lady."

The beast shrieked back, a guttural roar of fury that silenced the clearing. It stepped forward, its hooves crunching on bones as the other Beastmen fell back, giving it space. Their leader. Their Beastlord.

Loras knew what this meant. Even if he felled the monster, they would not scatter like Orcs, fighting amongst themselves for dominance. They were too cunning, too disciplined in their savagery. They would swarm over him and attempt to take him down and wreak a grizzly vengeance upon him. Yet, like the Greenskins they only followed the strongest, they would never follow a Beastlord who turned away from such an open challenge.

He tightened his grip on his sword and whispered a prayer to the Lady. The fight ahead was his alone, and he would not falter. Not here. Not before these foul creatures. And not with the Lady and Jeneva watching, her power ready to strike if he failed.

The Beastlord roared again, raising its great blade, and Loras spurred Duchess forward to meet it.

The Beastlord came at him with a roar, its massive blade sweeping through the air with the force of a battering ram. The earth beneath its hooves seemed to shake with every blow, and each strike came faster than the last. But no matter how fierce or unrelenting the beast's attacks, Loras's sword was there, parrying, deflecting, angling the monster's strikes away with a precision honed in countless tourneys and battles. He fought not with brute strength but with the grace and speed of a knight touched by the Lady's hand.

It was not long before the tide turned. The creature's fury faltered as Loras pressed his attack, his blade striking with blinding speed. He drove the beast back step by step, its hooves slipping on the blood-soaked ground as it struggled to ward off his assault. The great horned monster snarled and swung wildly, but it was no match for a knight who fought not for himself, but for honor, for purity, and for the Lady's blessing.

Loras felt her presence, a soft, steady warmth in his chest. His sword was an extension of her will, his movements guided by her light. With a sudden twist, he caught the jagged, serrated edge of the beast's sword and wrenched it free from its hands with such ease, it felt as if he was sparing with a page boy. The weapon clattered to the ground, useless now, as the Beastlord stumbled back in shock. Its goat-like face twisted in disbelief, its maw gaping as it bleated a sound that might have been fear or surprise.

Whatever the sound signified, it never finished it. Loras's sword flashed once, clean and swift, and the monster's head fell from its shoulders. The body toppled with a sickening thud, and for a moment, there was silence.

Then the horde surged forward, their cries a cacophony of rage and madness. They came at him in waves, weapons raised, hooves pounding the earth. But the Lady was not done with them yet.

"For the Lady!" Loras shouted, his voice cutting through the din.

The Damsel raised her hands, her eyes glowing with a fierce light. The air cracked and hummed as lightning tore through the clearing, bolts as thick as spears striking down charging Beastmen. The creatures fell in heaps, their bodies smoking, but more came. Loras met them with steel, his sword rising and falling, cutting through fur and muscle, cleaving limbs and splitting heads.

He could not say for how long he fought, nor how many of the disgusting creatures he'd slain. Minutes felt like hours, and the world became a blur of blood and battle. Duchess reared and struck with her hooves, her coat slick with gore. Jeneva's magic filled the air with the acrid scent of lightning, and the ground beneath them was littered with the dead.

When it was done, Loras stood amidst the carnage, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The furred bodies of Beastmen lay in heaps around him, their vile den reduced to a charnel pit. His hands trembled, and his sword felt impossibly heavy. He could feel the exhaustion in every fiber of his body, though he did not know when the wounds had come.

"Let me heal you, Sir Loras," Jeneva said softly, stepping to his side. Her hands glowed with a soft, emerald light as she touched his face. Warmth spread through him, soothing the aches, mending the cuts and bruises. He closed his eyes as the haze of injury lifted from his mind.

When she turned her hands to Duchess, the mare shuddered, the bloody gashes on her flanks knitting together before Loras's eyes. The sight filled him with gratitude, but also shame, he had pushed his horse harder than he should have.

"You fought well," Jeneva said as she stepped back. Her voice was steady, but her face was pale. Even she could not emerge unscathed from such a battle. "They will not recover from this slaughter for some time. Let us leave this place and cleanse it of their filth."

Loras nodded, mounting Duchess with a weary groan. As they rode away, Jeneva raised her hands one last time. A wind swirled through the clearing, catching the embers of the fire pits and fanning them into an inferno. The flames spread quickly, roaring through the Beastmen's vile camp, consuming the carcasses and filth in a purifying blaze.

The smoke rose high into the sky as they disappeared into the woods, leaving behind only ashes and the silence of the dead.

Chapter Text

Beatriz clung to the railing of the riverboat, her fingers numb from the cold, her foot tapping out a nervous rhythm against the deck planks. The first towers of Winter Town rose out of the mist ahead, just as Arya Stark had described them; tall, grey, and austere, their dire wolf banners snapping in the frigid wind.

It was an impressive sight, she supposed. The fortified riverport sprawled along the Upper Talabec's banks like a sentinel, its walls sturdy enough to defy vast Beastmen Warherds or powerful Greenskin Waaaghs. Beyond it, the great castle loomed atop its hill, dominating the horizon with its jagged silhouette. Winterfell.

Beatriz squinted against the cold, her breath a thin wisp of steam. Winterfell was everything Arya had claimed and more, a vast and forbidding citadel of stone and iron. Even from this distance, she could sense its weight, its permanence. It was nothing like the patchwork forest villages of her Middenland childhood, nor the grand and monumental sprawl of Altdorf. No, Winterfell seemed to rise out of the earth itself, unyielding and ancient, as if it had always been there and always would be.

And yet... Beatriz could not summon the awe she knew she should feel. The truth was, she'd been spoiled. Altdorf, with its sprawling districts and towering temple spires, had reshaped her sense of wonder. The Bright College, with its ever-burning forges and endless chambers, had been her world for months. Winter Town, with all its stone walls and smoke-stained chimneys, felt... provincial.

Still, there was no denying the scale of Lord Stark's accomplishments. Chancellor of Ostermark. King of the Ostagoths. His name was now spoken alongside those of the greatest Electors like Graff Todbringer, Grand Prince von Raukov, and Grand Duke Feuerbach, and not without reason. He had won many wars, ridden by the Emperor's side, and most importantly to her, had saved her village from the Beastmen. If not for him, she might still be that frightened girl hurling down great balls of fire she could scarcely understand on the braying Beastmen battering at the palisade's gate and praying for a miracle.

Beatriz tightened her grip on the rail, the memory as sharp as the wind that bit her cheeks. She owed her life to Lord Stark, and now she owed him her service. The Colleges had wasted no time in complying with his summons. Three more wizards for his court, to stand alongside his infamous Celestial Magister, Tanya Degurechaff. And she was one of them.

She wasn't entirely sure why. Oh, she knew the official reasons, her unusually rapid promotion to Journeyman, her command of the Red Wind, her experience with the Starks themselves. But the truth was, she didn't feel ready for this. A court wizard, even a junior one, was a position of immense responsibility. She would live in Winterfell, answer to Lord Stark, and represent the Colleges in all things. No doubt she would be sent out with his armies to fight on the front lines. And Lord Stark...

Beatriz exhaled, her breath clouding the air before her. She remembered him well, the tall, stern man whose warship had spat lead and death, scything down the Beastmen and saving them all. He had seemed larger than life then, a hero out of the old songs, calm and commanding even as the fires raged around them. But now? Now he was an Elector-Count, a lord who would normally be called a king in all but name, but Lord Stark had gone beyond even that and claimed that title too!

The thought made her stomach churn. She was a wizard of the Empire, true enough, but only just. The ink on her journeyman's papers was barely dry, and already she was being sent to serve one of the most powerful men in the land. The gulf between them felt insurmountable. She might as well have been that frightened village girl again, staring up at a lord too far above her to ever reach.

But there was no turning back now. Winter Town drew closer with every breath, its towers standing strong and proud against the pale winter sky. Winterfell awaited, and with it, her future. Beatriz straightened, her fingers loosening on the rail. She would serve. She would learn. And if the fire in her veins burned bright enough, perhaps she would prove worthy of the man who had saved her life.

"So, we're nearly there," said Chestov Avostalt of the Jade Order, stepping up beside her. His fine leather boots thudded softly on the deck as he leaned on the rail, his pale blue eyes fixed on the approaching city. Chestov had a way about him, calm and deliberate, though he was not the stoic and grim sort that those of Kislevite blood were often portrayed as. He was someone who liked to think out loud and was free with advice, wanted or not.

Beatriz glanced at him, then back to Winter Town. "Nearly," she said, her voice quiet, carried away by the wind.

Chestov was young, not as young as her, but no more than twenty-two or twenty-three. A journeyman wizard, fresh to the orders, though his road had been rougher than hers. He was not of the Empire. The Green Wind had claimed him far to the north, in Erengrad, the great port city of Kislev, in a land where prophecy and prejudice had marked him for death. Male wizards were a curse in that country, or so they believed. The Ice Witches made certain of it, hunting them down with ruthless efficiency.

Chestov's father, a prosperous merchant, had packed him onto the next ship bound for Altdorf the moment his powers revealed themselves. It was exile, nothing less, but exile was better than a pyre. Beatriz could see traces of the far north in him even now, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the way his words became heavy and bold when he spoke Kislevite curses under his breath. He hadn't been a journeyman much longer than she had. Long enough, though, to march with the Emperor's army into Middenland and survive the great battle at Delberz.

He hadn't stayed in Altdorf long after returning. When the call came from Winterfell, Chestov volunteered eagerly. Perhaps it was the tales of a Kislevite district in Winter Town, with domed temples to the gods of his people. He couldn't return home, not truly, but maybe here he could carve out a piece of his homeland for himself.

"I can see the domes of the Kislevite quarter," he said now, his voice tinged with something close to excitement. His usual composure cracked, just for a moment, and his accent slipped through like a ghost.

Beatriz followed his gaze. There, amidst the smoky sprawl of Winter Town, she could make out the faint glimmer of onion-shaped domes, gilded by the pale sunlight. She hummed noncommittally, unwilling to share in his enthusiasm. Her own nerves left little room for it.

"Hmm," came a low, thoughtful voice behind them.

Beatriz turned to find Lord Magister Konrad Messner approaching, his white robes pristine despite the grime of the river journey. He cut an imposing figure, tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair streaked with gray. Clean-shaven and sharp-eyed, he looked at least ten years younger than his fifty-odd years. The symbols of the Light Order adorned his robes, embroidered in gold thread that caught the faint winter sunlight.

"Small for an electoral capital," Messner observed as he joined them at the rail. "But the walls look strong and well kept, the docks orderly despite being busy. And that castle…" His lips twitched in what might have been approval. "Indomitable."

Beatriz kept her silence. Lord Messner's presence intimidated her, though she couldn't quite say why. He was a hero of the Light Order, a man who had banished unthinkable evils and survived battles that would have crushed lesser wizards. But rumors clung to him like shadows. It was said he had recently destroyed a fell artifact with the aid of an Amethyst Magister, only to fall under suspicion himself.

The Witch Hunters had come for him after that, led by a lunatic with some mad vendetta. The Order of the Silver Hammer, the name alone made her shiver. He had been cleared, they said, though not before an 'extensive' investigation. What horrors that must have entailed, Beatriz could scarcely imagine. Perhaps that was why he had answered Lord Stark's call, to escape the terrible memories that doubtlessly clung to Altdorf, to start anew in a place where his past could not follow.

Or where the Order of the Silver Hammer would be reluctant to follow without ironclad proof. They were legally entitled to investigate everywhere in the Empire, but in an Ulrican province with an Ulrican Elector-Count they had to be far more cautious and circumspect. They had competition here after all, Ostermark law authorized the Order of the Silver Wolf and the Order of the Silver Scale to conduct their own investigations.

Or perhaps it was something else entirely. A borderland Elector-Count, standing guard over the Empire's northeastern march, would have need of a powerful Light Wizard's talents. Winterfell sat far too close to the Chaos Wastes for her comfort.

Beatriz looked back at the city as the boat drew closer, her thoughts swirling like the river's eddies. Winterfell loomed ahead, mighty and implacable. Whatever awaited her there, she would face it. She had no other choice.

…

The docks of Winter Town bustled with life, the air thick with the smells of tar, river water, and fish. Beatriz stepped off the gangplank, her boots meeting solid ground with a thud that felt strange after weeks on the water. Around her, sailors jostled to unload their trunks, their curses mingling with the cries of inland gulls and the laughter of dockhands.

At the foot of the gangplank, a girl waited. Despite hearing the stories about her, she still looked younger than the picture Beatriz had painted of her in her mind, perhaps twelve or thirteen though there was a sharpness in her posture and her gaze that made her seem older. She wore a fine blue robe, shimmering in the sunlight, festooned with pendants and brooches that marked her as a Celestial Magister. Golden twin-tailed comets, silver crescent moons, and stars made of electrum, all symbols of her order, gleamed in the midday light. Her hood was pushed back, exposing golden curls that framed her face in a careless tumble. She was pretty and would grow prettier still with age, Beatriz thought, though it wasn't the girl's face that drew her attention.

The Blue Wind surrounded her like a storm. It crackled with power at the edge of Beatriz's senses, bright and cold, though it did not chill the air. It was difficult to compare the two, but at minimum it seemed to match the might of the White Wind that cloaked Lord Magister Messner in a nimbus of power, though it carried a different flavor, like comparing a thunderstorm to a blinding dawn.

The girl stepped forward and bowed. "Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Magister Messner. I am Magister Tanya Degurechaff." Her voice was crisp, her tone formal, though there was an undercurrent of pride in it.

Messner nodded, his white robes catching the faint breeze. "Greetings, Magister Degurechaff," he said, studying her. "We've not met before, have we?"

"No," Tanya replied, straightening. "But I saw your arrival in the stars. That's how I knew to wait here for you."

Beatriz blinked at the assertion. Seeing the future in the stars was no mean feat, even for an accomplished Celestial Magister. That a girl of Tanya's age could manage it spoke volumes. Beatriz wasn't sure whether to feel impressed or unnerved.

"Good work," Messner said simply. "Lead us to the castle."

Tanya inclined her head, gesturing toward a gatehouse built into the river wall. "This way," she said. Her tone had shifted slightly, no longer formal but brisk, efficient. "The Starks should be starting on lunch around now, so once we arrive at the castle, I'll show you to the Library Tower, give you time to stow your belongings, and provide a brief tour. By the time we're finished, lunch should be over, and I'll bring you to the Great Hall to meet Lord Stark before afternoon court."

Beatriz followed as the group fell into step behind Tanya, the sailors trailing with their belongings. Winter Town loomed around them, its narrow streets bustling with merchants, dockhands, and townsfolk. Above it all, the castle rose like a granite sentinel, its towers climbing high into the pale winter sky.

She found herself studying Tanya as they walked, noting the ease with which she wove through the crowded streets, the way her pendants swung with her steps, catching the light. For all her youth, there was a confidence in her that Beatriz couldn't help but envy. Tanya Degurechaff might be young, but she bore herself like one who already knew her place in the world and knew it was a high one.

The gatehouse of the river wall towered over them, a fortress that looked like it could house half her village or more, its shadow casting a chill even in the midday sun. As they approached, Magister Degurechaff paused at its threshold, raising a slim hand. The air shifted sharply, and a sudden swirl of wind encircled them, muffling the noise of the bustling dock district behind. The spell was deftly cast, subtle yet powerful, and Beatriz felt a pang of envy at the ease with which Tanya conjured it.

"Let us speak privately," the young Magister said, her voice cutting through the silence left in the spell's wake. Her golden curls glinted in the light, but her expression was grave.

"The Celestial Order and the Cults believe it very likely that we will face another Great War Against Chaos in 2525." She delivered the words with the cool detachment of one used to reading calamity in the stars.

Beatriz's breath caught, her chest tightening at the thought of it. A Great War Against Chaos, an apocalyptic conflict, one that would engulf the Empire and likely all the world. The horrors she had read about as an apprentice in the Bright College came rushing to mind; daemons clawing their way into the mortal realm, towns and even cities falling beneath tides of Beastmen and marauders, entire provinces swallowed by fire and corruption.

Messner, though, gave only a grim nod. Of course he wouldn't flinch. The Lord Magister of the Light Order was a man forged in battle against darkness. If this news troubled him, he hid it well.

Chestov, by contrast, barely reacted at all. The Kislevite merely adjusted his grip on the staff he carried, as if Tanya had remarked on the weather. Beatriz supposed that made sense. Kislev stood on the Empire's northern flank, the first line of defense against the Wastes. Men like Chestov were born and bred under the shadow of Chaos.

"Thankfully," Tanya continued, her tone steady, "we have two years to prepare. I expect this year to be quiet for us. Likely the next one too. But there is much to be done." She turned toward the gates, gesturing. "As you can see, the bronze plating of the gates has been inlaid with Dwarfen runes of protection."

Beatriz followed her gaze. The gates were immense, towering two dozen feet high, their bronze surfaces gleaming with craftsmanship that was as much art as it was defense. Morr was depicted on the left panel, standing solemn with a scythe slung over his shoulder, ravens circling above him. Below, graves rested untouched, peaceful in his shadow. On the right, Manann rose from the waves, his trident held high as dolphins leapt and ships sailed in the background.

"They're beautiful," Beatriz murmured, though the glow of the runes in her witch-sight was what truly held her attention. The magic of the dwarfs hummed with ancient power, steady and unwavering.

"They are more than that," Messner said, stepping closer to inspect the gates. His brown eyes flicked over the runes; his hands clasped behind his back. "These protections are formidable."

"Indeed," Tanya agreed. "But you could strengthen them further, could you not, Lord Magister? Your magic could reinforce the wards already in place."

Messner's brow furrowed as he considered her words. After a moment, he gave a slow nod. "Yes, I could."

"Excellent," Tanya said, her tone brightening ever so slightly. "There are three main gates in the city wall, as well as the gates to Winterfell itself. Those should take priority. However," she paused, thoughtful, "the Starks are planning to extend the walls this year, doubling the area enclosed by them. The west wall and its gate will be pushed outward, and a new southern gate constructed. Those additions will have to wait. It would be best to focus on the other gates first."

Beatriz watched as Messner inclined his head in agreement, the light catching the golden threads woven into his white robes. Tanya spoke with the confidence of one far older than her years, and Messner treated her as an equal despite the decades between them. Beatriz couldn't help but marvel at it.

The conversation over and the spell of silence dismissed, the air still carried a faint chill as they passed beneath the towering gates, but Beatriz felt the weight of something heavier than winter settling on her shoulders. A Great War Against Chaos. Two years. If Tanya was right, and the stars seldom lied, then the peace of Winter Town would be as fleeting as the wind.

Beatriz was glad her mother had stayed behind in Altdorf. The woman had declared herself too weary to brave the winter roads, especially as she grew heavy with child, and Beatriz had not argued. A wise decision, she thought, given the treacherous ice and snow storms they had encountered on the journey. Yet even now, her mother's parting words haunted her; "I'll follow as soon as the babe is a few months old." Beatriz had little doubt that she meant it. The thought filled her with dread. Winter Town was no Altdorf. The walls here were sturdy enough, but nothing compared to the capital's mammoth fortifications. She wished her mother would be content to stay behind in safety.

But arguing with her mother had never borne fruit, and Beatriz could think of no way to dissuade her that wouldn't make matters worse. Instead, she forced her thoughts elsewhere, turning her attention to the sights around her as they walked through Winter Town.

The market streets bustled with life despite the biting cold. The main road from the docks was paved with finely cut stone, a mark of wealth and care, while the narrower side streets were cobbled and lined with tidy houses and shops. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the smell of baking bread and roasting meat mingled with the tang of cold iron and melting snow. Beatriz noted the condition of the people as much as their homes; well-fed, warmly dressed, and lively even in the depths of a northern winter. It was more than she had expected, given the tales of the recent siege.

When they reached the walls of Winterfell, she craned her neck to take in their full height. The outer wall was enormous, eighty feet if it was an inch, with a gatehouse that looked more like a fortress than a mere entrance. The gates themselves were bronze-plated marvels, depicting Ulric as the God of Winter, his wolfish visage fierce beneath a stormy winter sky, and Verena as the Goddess of Justice, the skull of a pauper and a king balancing evenly on her scales. The runes that adorned them shone with the telltale glow of Dwarfen craftsmanship. Beatriz couldn't help but admire the work, her witch-sight catching the faint but steady pulse of ancient magic woven into the metal.

The second wall made the first seem modest. A hundred feet high, its gatehouse somehow towered even greater, though its iron-bound gate lacked the same artistry as its outer counterpart. Messner paused here, his patient gaze lingering on the iron.

"I can lay different wards on this gate than I can on the others," he said, almost to himself. "On the others I'm constrained by what the dwarfs have already done. Not a bad thing of course, since their work is so high quality, but if the enemy ever manages to get this far, it would be wise to confront them with wards and enchantments they have not seen before."

Beatriz shivered, not from the cold, but from the thought of any foe making it this far. The outer defenses alone seemed insurmountable, yet Messner spoke of the possibility with grim certainty.

Inside the inner gates, Winterfell itself loomed ahead, a castle that could have been a formidable fortress in its own right. The central keep rose like a mountain of stone, flanked by towers and walls thick enough to defy any siege. They passed through yet another gate and into a courtyard so spacious it could have held an army.

The Great Hall stood to one side, its tall windows catching what little light the winter sun offered. Beatriz admired the intricate stained glass, though she had little time to take it in before Magister Degurechaff led them on. Their destination lay ahead; a tall, elegant tower connected to the central keep by an archway bridge.

As they entered the tower, Beatriz couldn't help but glance back at the keep's imposing walls. The thought of her mother making the journey here seemed more than foolish. Winter Town might have weathered many a siege, and Winterfell's walls might hold against even greater threats, but this far north, no place felt safe. Not with the specter of Chaos looming ever larger.

The library stretched out before them, shelves lined with leather-bound tomes, their spines catching the flickering light from candles enclosed in glass lamps. Beatriz took it all in, her gaze sweeping over the neatly arranged rows. It was a respectable collection, perhaps twenty-five hundred volumes strong, but she had expected more from a lord as storied as Eddard Stark. She had heard tales of great lords hoarding knowledge like treasure, their libraries veritable labyrinths of paper and parchment.

Magister Degurechaff gestured broadly at the room. "The first floor is the library," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "It's in the midst of expansion. Over four hundred books have been added in the last couple of months, but we intend to add many more. If there's a volume you'd recommend, speak with Loremaster Luwin."

Beatriz nodded politely, though her mind lingered on the thought of 'four hundred books in just a couple of months.' Even in the Empire, where printing presses worked tirelessly, that was an impressive effort.

"Who's that droning on in my library?" a voice called out from the shadows. An elderly man emerged from a doorway near the back of the room, his gray hair a thin halo around a balding pate. He squinted at the group, blinking in surprise when he saw the wizards. "Oh," he said after a pause, his tone softening. "Forgive me, Magisters. I wasn't expecting new visitors today."

"This is Lord Magister Messner, of the Order of Light," Tanya said, stepping aside to make way for the senior wizard.

The Loremaster bowed deeply. "Welcome to Winterfell and the Library Tower. We are honored to host you, Lord Magister."

Messner returned the bow with an easy grace. "The honor is mine," he said. "I read your book on the history of Ostermark since the damnation of Mordheim. Quite the engaging account. Though, I suspect you'll need to add another chapter soon, given what transpired last year."

Loremaster Luwin chuckled, the sound warm and dry. "That I shall," he said. "The history of the northern provinces is ever-changing, though some things, it seems, stay the same." His eyes drifted to the younger wizards. "And who are your companions?"

Messner gestured to Chestov first. "This is Chestov Avostalt, journeyman of the Jade Order, hailing from Erengrad."

Luwin's expression brightened, and he addressed the Kislevite in fluent Kislevarin. Beatriz caught only fragments of the exchange. She had been taking lessons from Chestov during their journey up the Talabec, but her grasp of the language was still clumsy at best. She made a mental note to practice more. Understanding one's allies was not merely courteous, it was vital.

Chestov responded in kind, his deep voice carrying a hint of pride. Then the Loremaster turned his attention to her, and Beatriz felt the weight of his scrutiny.

"And this is Beatriz," Messner said. "A journeyman of the Bright Order, from rural Middenland."

Luwin inclined his head. "Welcome to Winterfell, Journeyman Beatriz. Forgive me for saying so, but do take care with your flames. The library is warded to vent breathable air in case of fire."

"Yes, you can see them on the inside of the walls," Magister Degurechaff said, gesturing toward faintly glowing sigils etched into the stone walls.

Beatriz flushed, though she kept her voice steady. "You have nothing to fear, Loremaster. My training was rigorous, and I am in full command of my powers. They wouldn't have promoted me otherwise."

"The wards remain a precaution, nonetheless," Degurechaff added, her sharp tone carrying an edge of approval. "They've stood the test of time."

Beatriz offered a faint smile, though her thoughts raced. She didn't need wards to keep her in check, but it was clear that caution was a way of life here. Perhaps it was wise. Winterfell was a place of stone and history, but beneath its calm surface, an alert tension simmered. There was always the threat of attack from the Chaos Wastes or sabotage by the vile agents of the Ruinous Powers, and so they were constantly preparing for such.

Magister Degurechaff moved on, speaking with brisk efficiency, gesturing upward as she outlined the layout of the tower. "I've taken the floor with the wizard's turret," she said. "You're welcome to claim it if you'd like, Lord Magister, though of course there are other options. The floor directly above mine is open. The one above that is situated just below the rookery. It's mostly filled with records on the birds, their destinations, and messages, along with a telescope I keep there. On clear nights, I take it up to the top floor to study the stars from the rookery's entrance."

"No need for you to move," Messner replied, his tone calm but firm with the quiet authority of his station. "I'll take the floor above yours. Journeyman Avostalt can have the one below yours, and Journeyman Beatriz will take the floor beneath his." His words fell into place like the final pieces of a puzzle, arranging them by rank, as that was the natural order of things.

"Very good, Lord Magister," Degurechaff said, dipping her head. "I'll show you the way. There's an external staircase that winds around the tower up to my level, but the internal stairs are more convenient and provide access to all the floors." She stepped forward without hesitation, leading them with the poise of one who belonged in such halls.

Beatriz lingered at the rear of the procession, her eyes roving over every detail as they climbed. The thick stone walls, covered with soft, colorful tapestries, whispered of permanence, of centuries of lords and magisters walking these same steps. The tower stretched impossibly high above the castle grounds, and yet here she was, ascending, floor by floor, to claim a place among them.

'An entire floor of a tower all to myself,' she thought, almost disbelieving. 'Above a library, no less. Connected to the heart of Winterfell itself, the seat of a lord whose name commands loyalty across Ostermark.' She had grown up in a village where even the hint of magic stirred fearful whispers, her powers met with suspicion and, sometimes, outright hostility. Now she would live and work in a place where her talents were not only accepted but valued.

The realization filled her with a quiet, simmering pride. She had earned this. Every grueling trial at the Bright College, every sneering dismissal from her supposed betters, it had all brought her here.

Ahead, Degurechaff opened a narrow door, revealing another flight of stairs that spiraled upward into the tower's core. Beatriz inhaled the scent of aged paper and ink that wafted up from down below. 'This is my home now,' she told herself, as much a promise as a declaration. 'And I will make it worthy of the path and pain that brought me here.'

Chapter Text

Nachexen 12th, 2523

The morning was as it often was in Highgarden during winter, crisp and still, with frost limning the edges of the windows. Margaery stood by the casement, her gaze idly following the bustle of the courtyard below, stable hands leading warhorses to water, mailed guardsmen stamping their boots against the chill, and pages darting about with errands too urgent for the hour.

She had just begun to turn away when a shadow flickered at the edge of her vision. Her eyes darted upward, and there it was; a Great Eagle, soaring low and fast, its wings outstretched like banners of burnished gold. It was a magnificent beast, large as any she'd seen pictures of in tapestries or books, its wingspan spanning the breadth of thirty feet or more. It cut through the air with a speed that seemed almost unnatural for its size, a creature born of mountain crags and windswept peaks, utterly out of place here in the soft, low hills of Old Mousillon.

Margaery's breath caught as it banked sharply, angling toward the rookery, high up on the top floor of the slim central tower. 'What's it doing?' she wondered. An eagle that size would never fit in the entrance. 'Will it stop short and try to snap at the pigeons in their cages?' The small birds in their cages were hardly worth the trouble of such a predator, barely morsels to a creature so grand.

Yet it showed no sign of veering off. Instead, as it neared the tower, the eagle flared its massive wings, the motion impossibly graceful, and then… Margaery gasped aloud, as the great raptor transformed in the very moment before reaching the rookery's entrance.

The great bird became a young woman, her momentum carrying her effortlessly through the narrow archway. Margaery blinked, stunned. 'A girl?' She had seen Damsels of the Lady before, had watched them ride pale palfreys into Highgarden and give council to her father, and seen them mingle among mighty lords and knights alike at tourneys, their presence always a quiet promise of blessings and mysteries unseen. But never, never, had she witnessed such a display of power.

Not even the healing of Willis after he was so badly injured in his first joust could compare, and that was one of her most formative memories. She was only six at the time, but she could recall the scene like it was yesterday.

The strange maiden lingered a moment at the edge of the rookery, turning to lean casually against the archway, and then, impossibly, she looked down at her and waved. A jaunty, almost playful gesture. Margaery caught sight of her face, comely and youthful, no more than twenty summers at the most, her hair a golden cascade against the whitewashed stone of the tower. Then the girl disappeared inside, as though she had done nothing extraordinary at all.

Margaery stood frozen, her thoughts a tangle of wonder and alarm. "A Damsel," she whispered, the words tasting strange on her tongue. She had always thought of them as ethereal, distant figures, bound to their mysteries and their sacred pools. This one, though… this one had come from the skies like some herald of old, a creature out of song.

She shook her head, turned and bolted for the door.

Margaery's heart raced as she flew down the Central Keep's stairwell, her skirts gathered in one hand to keep from tripping. The castle seemed to stretch before her, its halls both too narrow and too long, though she knew every stone and corner by heart. She crossed the yard with haste, the frost-slicked flagstones biting through the soles of her slippers, her thoughts churning as wildly as her breath.

'She's come because of Father's spring campaign,' Margaery told herself, clinging to the thought as though it might still her racing mind. It was the only explanation that fit. Her father had spoken of a Damsel who had urged her betrothed, the Duke of Aquitaine, to join forces with him in his campaign to resurrect the Duchy of Mousillon. The dark threats of that benighted land loomed large, a shadow her father intended to banish with lance and steel. Surely, this was the same Damsel, come to Highgarden to warn him of the dangers in person.

The great oak doors of the Great Hall stood open, warmth and light spilling out onto the cold paving stones of the courtyard. Margaery dashed inside, heedless of the startled looks from servants and diners breaking their fast alike. Her breath came in gasps, a sharp ache in her chest, but she pressed on.

At the high table, her father rose abruptly, his broad face creased with concern. "Margaery, what is the meaning of this?" His booming voice stilled the murmur of the hall, the clatter of trenchers and goblets fading to silence.

Her grandmother, seated to his left, watched her with an arched brow, her expression a careful blend of curiosity and amusement. Olenna Tyrell's sharp eyes missed nothing, though her fingers drummed idly against the table. Beside her, Margaery's mother pressed a hand to her breast, her lips pursed in disapproval. No doubt, she was already composing a lecture about decorum and unladylike haste.

Margaery skidded to a halt before the dais, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her hands braced on her knees. "A Grail…" she began, struggling for air.

"A knight?" her father interrupted, his brow furrowing further. "Did you see one approaching the castle from your window?"

Margaery shook her head, too winded to answer. Before she could catch her breath, the hall's back door creaked open, and the figure of her urgency appeared at last.

The Damsel entered as if she owned the place, her steps light but sure, her bearing regal. She moved without hesitation, clad in flowing robes of pale blue and green, her golden hair falling in loose waves about her shoulders. Her face was serene, her green eyes calm as still pond water.

As everyone turned to look at the interloper, Margaery managed to speak at last, her voice breathless but steady. "She arrived as a Great Eagle, I saw her. She transformed in midair and leapt into the rookery, a hundred yards above the ground."

The hall was silent, the weight of her words hanging in the air like frost. The Damsel paused mid-step, her head inclining slightly toward Margaery, and then she smiled, a small, knowing smile that sent a shiver through Margaery's chest.

"Forgive my overly dramatic entrance," the Damsel said, her voice soft but clear, carrying to every corner of the hall. "The winds of winter are not always gentle, nor do they always obey the laws of men or the Lady."

Her father stood rooted, his face unreadable. Olenna's drumming fingers stilled, her sharp gaze fixed on the Damsel. The servants whispered among themselves, and Margaery felt a strange mix of pride and unease.

A Damsel of the Lady had come to Highgarden. Whatever her purpose, it was bound to change everything.

Margaery's pulse quickened. Such an arrival was no mere accident. The Lady's servants did not act without purpose. 'She meant to arrive in such a way. What does it mean for father's campaign?' she thought, her mind spinning with possibilities.

Margaery squared her shoulders, aware of every eye in the hall as she asked, "Are you the Damsel who's been counseling my betrothed?" Her voice carried through the chamber, firm and clear, though she could feel the heat of her mother's disapproval radiating like the midday summer sun. Lady Alerie twitched in her seat, a subtle but unmistakable sign of outrage at her boldness. Grandmother, by contrast, merely raised another arched brow, her expression a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Father frowned slightly, though he held his tongue.

The Damsel cocked her head to one side, her golden hair cascading over a shoulder like sunlight on silk. Her beauty was almost otherworldly, the serene confidence in her bearing marking her as something more than mortal.

"The Duke of Aquitaine?" the Damsel replied, her tone light but unwavering. "No, that would be my elder sister, Alisse the Haunted. My eldest, Jeneva, the Blessed Maid of Mousillon, is with your brother even now, offering him counsel on his Quest. I am Guerrite the Enchantress, and I come bearing a message for Count Tyrell from the King."

Margaery blinked, her mind racing. Three sisters, all Grail Damsels? Such a thing was unheard of, a legend in its own right. Damsels of the Lady were rare enough, their appearances sporadic and mysterious, and yet here were three, siblings no less, all turning their gaze toward House Tyrell and their allies. The implications were staggering. One Damsel alone could shift the course of a war; three focusing their efforts on her family was both a tremendous blessing and a quiet, gnawing terror.

Her father leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "My son fares well?" he asked, his voice tinged with a father's worry, though he strove to mask it behind a lord's composure.

The Damsel inclined her head. "Yes. He saved Guerac Circle and its holy keepers from a host of the undead. There, he met my sister, and together they journeyed south. On that path, he slew the Beastlord of a gathering Warherd."

A wide smile broke across her father's face, his chest swelling with pride. "An excellent start to his Quest," he declared, his voice booming. "A credit to House Tyrell and to the honor of Highgarden."

Margaery felt her heart swell at the news, a mixture of pride and relief filling her chest. She could picture Loras riding into battle, his blade flashing like sunlight on steel, his banner snapping in the wind. He had always been one of the best even at his young age, and to hear of his success was both expected and joyous.

The Damsel's serene expression remained unbroken as she gestured lightly toward the main doors of the hall and the Central Keep beyond them. "Now that the pleasantries are concluded, let us retreat to your solar, Count Tyrell. There are matters the King bids me share with you in privacy." Her gaze swept briefly to Olenna and Margaery, sharp and knowing. "If the Queen of Thorns and the Rose of Highgarden wish to attend, they may."

Margaery caught her grandmother's smirk, a sharp curl of the lips that spoke volumes. Olenna Tyrell was seldom left out of any conversation of import, and the Damsel clearly knew it. As for Margaery herself, the title of 'Rose' from such an exalted figure brought a faint blush to her cheeks, though she quickly masked it with a composed nod.

The weight of the moment pressed on her, heavy but exhilarating. The King's message. The Damsels' focus on her family. Loras's triumphs. It all felt like the prelude to something vast and unknowable, a tide sweeping them toward a future none could yet see. Margaery would not be swept away. Whatever came next, she would be ready.

...

The walk to her father's solar felt longer than usual, though Margaery knew it was not the halls that had stretched but her grandmother's pace that had slowed. At sixty-nine, Olenna Tyrell was still sharp as a thorn, but her steps had grown more deliberate, her movements measured. Margaery matched her stride to her grandmother's without a word. To rush would be to draw comment, and no one in Highgarden savored the art of commentary quite like Olenna.

When they reached the solar, its polished oak door swung open to reveal her father's sanctuary; walls lined with sumptuous paintings and fine maps, the heavy scent of paper, parchment and ink hanging in the air. Rich tapestries depicting past victories softened the stone, and the light from high windows bathed the room in a golden glow. They settled into finely carved chairs around a small table, the weight of their purpose lending gravity to the moment.

The Damsel, by contrast, remained standing, her movements fluid as she paced the room, her bare feet seeming to notice neither plush carpet, nor cold stone. Another lady, or even a lord, might have been thought rude for such restlessness, but the rules bent themselves for a Damsel. They always did. Her robes swayed as she walked, the soft murmur of fabric the only sound until she spoke.

"What have you heard of the King's intentions regarding your campaign?" Guerrite asked, her voice calm, her swamp accent lilting with the cadence of her voice.

Mace Tyrell leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders shifting beneath the fabric of his surcoat. "Directly? The King's messages have wished me well in my endeavor to cleanse Mousillon. Beyond that, he has been… noncommittal. Still, my son Garlan writes that the King strongly leans toward declaring an Errantry War to purge Mousillon of the undead and whatever other foulness festers there. Such a campaign wouldn't fall under my command of course, but it would bolster my efforts considerably."

"It will be more than that," the Damsel said, her voice carrying a quiet certainty that stilled the air. She paused in her pacing, her hands clasped lightly before her. "Not only does King Louen Leoncoeur intend to declare an Errantry War, but he also means to lead it himself. He will coordinate with you and your allies to achieve the best results."

Mace's mouth fell open slightly before he recovered himself. "That's… incredible news. If the King himself leads the charge, it will lend a legitimacy to my restoration of Mousillon that no one could challenge. Duke Adalhard wouldn't dare oppose me, not openly."

"Very unusual," Olenna interjected, her tone cool and assessing. "Bretonnian kings do not often interfere so directly in their vassals' affairs, much less in a way that carves off half a duke's domain. Such a move must weigh heavily on him. Normally, the other dukes wouldn't stand for it."

Margaery shifted in her seat, the words coming unbidden. "He must see no other choice. A crisis severe enough that the other dukes will deem this a unique exception, an act the King had no choice but to make."

Olenna nodded approvingly. "Indeed. But we still don't know what crisis would compel such boldness."

"The Duke of Aquitaine's letters were vague on the matter," Mace admitted, his brow furrowing, "just that there were dark, hidden forces at work that would emerge to oppose us."

Guerrite stopped beside the window, her hands brushing the sill as if she could feel something beyond it. Her voice grew darker, quieter, each word a weight. "Mousillon has become a den of necromancers and vampires. A breeding ground for forbidden cults, their twisted plots woven into the land itself."

The words hung in the air like a gathering thunder storm. Margaery felt a chill crawl up her spine, though the room was warm. 'A den of necromancers! A breeding ground for dark cults!' The Damsel's grim warning echoed through her mind, images straight out of her nightmares flashing before her eyes.

Her father frowned, his fingers drumming lightly on the arm of his chair. "Then we must tread carefully. Such dangers are as cunning as they are fierce. If the King acts, it will bring not just aid but scrutiny. Every move we make will be watched."

"And judged," Olenna added with a pointed look at her son.

Margaery sat in silence, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her mind churning. Whatever awaited them in Mousillon, it would not be simple. It never was.

"Many eyes will be upon Mousillon," said Guerrite, her tone low, almost conspiratorial. "And not just Bretonnian ones."

Margaery's father frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

The Damsel's gaze swept the room, her face calm but her words sharp. "We will be dealing with necromancers and vampires. Who do you think I'm talking about?"

"The Cult of Morr," her father replied, his voice steady, though his fingers tightened slightly around the arm of his chair.

Margaery shivered despite herself. Morr's name carried weight, even here in Bretonnia. He was respected, of course, how could he not be? His priests performed necessary rites, ensured souls passed on cleanly, and warded the living from the dead. But love Morr? That was another thing entirely. His Cult in the Southern Realms and the Empire loomed large, but here in Bretonnia, his shadow felt cold and distant.

"Have their augurs seen something?" Olenna Tyrell asked, her voice cutting through the tension with practiced ease.

Guerrite nodded. "Yes. He is a god of dreams, after all. They've seen a tide of the undead rising against us and have offered the King the services of the Knights of the Raven."

Dreams. The word lingered in Margaery's mind like a half-remembered nightmare. It was said that Morr's realm was a place of dreams, the space between life and death where shadows whispered. She felt a chill at the thought.

"Well," Olenna said briskly, "I suppose the knights would be available, given how thoroughly young Karl cleaned out Sylvania."

'Young!' the thought leaping to the forefront of her mind so loudly, Margaery nearly blurted it out. The Emperor was nearly as old as her father!

"They would be a great help," her father said, leaning forward slightly. "Some of the more… traditional lords might question their bloodlines or lack their of, but their expertise with the undead is second to none."

"That is not quite true, Lord Tyrell," Guerrite interrupted, her tone chiding but not unkind.

'Who else could you mean?' Margaery wondered, though she kept the thought to herself. She frowned, glancing between the Damsel and her father. Her father looked equally flummoxed, but her grandmother's sharp hazel eyes narrowed as though cutting through the riddle before speaking the answer aloud.

For once, there was a flicker of hesitation in Olenna's voice as if she was unsure. "The Amethyst Order?"

"Yes," Guerrite said, her tone softening. "The Imperial ambassador has offered the service of several of their female Magisters. The King consulted the Fey Enchantress herself on the matter, and it has been decided to accept their aid."

Margaery's stomach churned at the thought. She had heard tales of the Amethyst Order, how they bent the winds of death to their will, how their purple-robed figures moved like specters among men, their faces so pale they looked half undead themselves. Useful allies, perhaps, but also unnerving ones. Even in the Empire, it was said they lived half in Morr's shadow.

"And how will that sit with our lords, I wonder?" Olenna said dryly, her expression unreadable.

"They will accept it," Guerrite replied. "The King's word, coupled with the Fey Enchantress's blessing, will leave them no room to object."

Margaery wasn't so sure. Bretonnians, proud and stubborn as they were, rarely took to outsiders meddling in their affairs, especially those who wielded unnatural power. But as she glanced at the Damsel, calm and unyielding, she saw the decision was already made.

The Knights of the Raven, the Amethyst Order, even the Fey Enchantress, whatever crisis loomed over Mousillon must be dire indeed. The Damsel made it sound as if a conflict akin to the great Vampire Wars that had once ravaged the Empire was upon them.

Yet, Margaery knew this, the Von Carstein's had eventually been cast down. Sylvannia had been cleansed. If the Empire could do that with the aid of Morr and Sigmar, then Bretonnia could do the same in Mousillon with the aid of Morr and the Lady. Of this she had no doubt. No matter how dark things seemed, they would see victory and the dawn.

Chapter Text

Nachexen 17th, 2523

The lands of Lord Rachard were... ordinary. Unsettlingly so.

Fields of winter wheat slumbered beneath their frostbound blankets, waiting for spring's warm breath to stir them to life again. Peasant hovels stood neat and sturdy, if such places could ever be called that, their shutters drawn tight against the winter winds. Even the folk who walked the dirt packed streets, heads bowed, shoulders hunched, looked much like the peasants of Highgarden, though a little more ragged, a little more burdened by life's endless toil. By the standards of Bretonnia, this realm was no worse than most, and better than many. It had none of the destitution Loras had seen on their weeklong journey from the forests near Guerac Circle to here, with many of the villages they'd passed on the way smothered with crushing poverty, hopelessness clinging to the air like a sickness.

Before, Loras might have admired such modest prosperity. He would have credited the domain's fortune to Lord Rachard's proximity to the border, where trade with Highgarden brought wealth even to lesser lords, and to the man himself, a liege lord of fair reputation, whose faith in the Lady was as unshaken as his justice. His father had spoken well of him, and Mace Tyrell was not a man to praise lightly.

But that was before.

Now, the very normality of it all felt like a mask. A painted face stretched over something rotten, a sickly-sweet lie to hide the canker beneath. He looked again at the peasants trudging through the frost, at their huts and their neatly thatched roofs, and he wondered how many were unwitting thralls, how many had been hollowed out by the Necromancer's foul whispers. How much of what he saw was real?

The Lady preserve us, he prayed silently. If Lord Rachard himself had been ensnared, and had fallen to the Necromancer's enchantments…

The thought sat heavy in his chest, like a stone sunk deep into a cold river. Loras had heard the tales of what such sorcery could do to a man, how it broke the will, shattered the mind, turned a proud lord into little more than a puppet. He did not wish to think of Lord Rachard in such a state. The man had ruled well, by all accounts. To see him reduced to a slave, to see him turned against his own people…

Loras shifted uneasily in his saddle, the frost-dappled road crunching beneath his destrier's hooves. If he and Jeneva could find him, if the enchantment could be broken, if there was enough of Rachard left to save, then perhaps this land could yet be spared.

And if not?

Loras's jaw tightened. He would do what needed to be done. He was a Knight of the Lady, sworn to her service. Justice and mercy were her gifts, but when the hour called for it, so too was the sword.

The peasants who crossed their path knew their place. Men bowed low, their caps crumpled in calloused hands, while women offered rough curtseys, the hems of their skirts brushed with frost and dirt. None dared meet his eyes for long, though it was not fear he saw in their faces. It was awe.

Not for him, though. No, their reverence was for her.

Jeneva rode ahead on her unicorn, the beast's ivory horn gleaming in the pale winter sun. When the peasants saw her, they dropped to their knees, murmuring prayers to the Lady. Some wept openly, clutching at their children or holding out trembling hands to her as though she might deliver them from all their sorrows. And in some ways, she did.

The Damsel was generous with her blessings, pausing often to lay her hands on the sick and wounded. Wherever her touch fell, wounds closed, coughs ceased, and the pallor of illness faded like shadows fleeing the dawn. Mothers wept as their children were restored, and the men whispered of miracles. It was the kind of display that could inspire not just faith, but devotion, a devotion so fierce that it bordered on worship.

Loras kept close to her as they moved through the throng, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. A Prophetess of the Lady was a precious thing, and her light cast long shadows. He knew well enough what sort of creatures might lurk within those shadows. Yet no brigands leapt from the trees, no would-be assassin pressed through the crowd with a dagger hidden beneath their cloak. The peasants were simple folk, and their awe was as genuine as their faith.

Still, this land troubled him.

As they rode away from the village, Loras let his unease spill forth. "It's unsettling," he said, his voice low and tense with worry. "We've passed through three villages sworn to Lord Rachard now, and I've seen no sign of this Necromancer. Not a whisper, not a rumor. The common folk don't even seem to suspect he exists."

Jeneva inclined her head, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. "That is what makes him dangerous," she said softly. "Necromancers are rarely subtle. They crave power, and they want the world to know it. A Dark Tower on a barren hill, an army of the dead marching in broad daylight, these are the marks of their kind. But this one…" She trailed off, her expression darkening. "This one is different. He hides in the shadows, pulling strings, twisting lives in ways unseen. He fancies himself a puppet master."

The thought left a rancid taste in Loras's mouth. "If he's pulling strings, then he's already found his puppet," he said grimly. "And there's only one man in these lands with strings worth pulling."

"Lord Rachard," Jeneva said, her voice heavy with foreboding.

Loras nodded. "His castle is only a few miles down the road. If the Necromancer has ensnared him, we'll know soon enough."

The words hung between them like a frost-laden branch, ready to snap.

…

They reached Lord Rachard's castle in under an hour, its silhouette looming ever larger as they rode closer. It was a fortress that would have done a baron proud, built with a mind for war and a stomach for siege. The outer walls rose up like stone giants, forty feet high and twenty feet thick, anchored deep into the earth, their weight reinforced by the very hill they were built into. Impregnable, Loras thought. A battery of trebuchets or even Imperial cannon could pound on those walls until the end of days and still not crumble them. To bring down those walls, you'd need to tear apart the hill itself.

And beyond, still higher, the inner wall and keep reared up, harsh against the sky. The inner walls were twin to the outer, another forty feet of stone defiance, built on top of the broad rounded top, and the keep rose on its summit, squat and square and crowned with battlements. It was an unlovely thing, as Bretonnian castles went, lacking grace or grandeur. But what it lacked in beauty, it made up for in strength. The keep glared down at the world around it, daring any fool to test its defenses.

At the foot of the hill sprawled the town, surrounded by a sturdy wooden palisade. Small, to Loras's mind, with no more than two thousand souls, but more prosperous than he might have expected, with cobblestone streets winding through its heart and smoke rising in soft curls above slate-tiled roofs from brick chimneys. Their arrival turned heads, as it always did. The townsfolk stopped what they were doing to watch, their breath frosting in the cold morning air. Men bowed, women curtsied, and children gawked, wide-eyed at a Damsel on a unicorn and a Questing Knight in shining steel.

For the most part, the faces here were the same as those they had passed in the villages, faces of piety, faces of awe. But not all of them.

Loras saw it now, lurking in the crowd like a splinter buried beneath his skin. A few townsfolk regarded them warily, their eyes narrowing, suspicion hiding just behind politeness. Others, though... others stared with something far stronger. Hope, yes, but not the kind he was used to seeing, a mother begging for her babe to be healed, or a man praying for his crops. This was a different hope, one that burned like a wick nearing its end. It was the hope of drowning men who have seen a ship on the horizon. 'Deliverance was what they hoped for,' Loras thought grimly.

His hand tightened on Duchess's reins, leather creaking beneath his gauntlet. It was a small minority, to be sure. But it was enough.

He turned his gaze to Jeneva, who rode in serene silence, as if untouched by the weight of it all. "We're on the right track," he said quietly, his voice meant for her ears alone.

The Damsel's eyes, lush and green as a spring field, swept the crowd without expression. "Yes," she murmured. "The strings are here."

The words sent a chill skittering down his spine. He looked up at the castle once more, at the high walls and heavy gates, and wondered what waited for them within.

The iron-bound gates loomed tall and unyielding, flanked by a half-dozen guards in mail hauberks that draped down to their knees. Their open-faced helms caught the weak winter sun, and each man bore a finely wrought billhook, a deadly combination of spike, hook, and blade that gleamed sharp as a butcher's tools. At their hips hung arming swords, not the falchions typically favored by lowborn men-at-arms. These were no common foot soldiers, Loras noted. They were as well-equipped as the garrison of Highgarden itself, and their bearing spoke of rigorous training and steady discipline. These men knew their work, and it showed.

"Welcome, Sir Knight," said the sergeant in command, stepping forward with a bow that was respectful without being obsequious. His voice was steady, his tone professional. "Please give us your names."

Loras straightened in the saddle, his words as crisp as the winter air. "Loras of House Tyrell, Questing Knight and son of Mace Tyrell, the Count of Highgarden, accompanying Jeneva, the Blessed Maid of Mousillon and Prophetess of the Lady."

The sergeant's brows rose at that, the only hint of surprise that crossed his face, and he dipped into a deeper bow. "Welcome to Castle Rachard, my lady," he said solemnly, his words polished but sincere.

It was the other guards who betrayed more. Like the townsfolk below, they were split, some staring at Jeneva with desperate, burning hope, others with a wary caution that bordered on fear. But here, unlike in the town, there was no neutral middle ground that most occupied. Instead, every guard either clung to her presence as if it were a lifeline or watched her as though she might sprout claws and wings. All except the sergeant. His reaction was... too even, too composed. It felt practiced, and that set Loras on edge.

"We would like to speak with Lord Rachard," Jeneva said, her voice calm and commanding, cutting through the tension. "As soon as possible. The Black Knight and his minions have foul plans at work."

That much was true, Loras thought, though it was not the reason they had come.

The sergeant dipped his head again, his expression unreadable. "Right this way, my lady," he said, turning on his heel with military precision. "I will take you to him at once."

Loras nudged his destrier forward, keeping close to Jeneva's unicorn as they passed through the gates. The shadow of the castle walls swallowed them whole, the world outside fading to a memory as they passed beneath the portcullis.

Inside, the courtyard was wide but cold, a place built for war, not comfort. Soldiers drilled in blocks, their movements sharp and efficient, while stable boys scrambled to tend the horses. Up in the towers, archers stood guard while billmen walked along the wall.

Loras's hand drifted to the hilt of his sword as he surveyed the scene. The walls here felt too high, the gates too thick. The sergeant's perfect manners had unsettled him, and the guards' divided gazes lingered in his mind like a bad taste.

Castle Rachard was a place built to keep men out. But it felt, to Loras, like a trap designed to keep its guests from leaving.

There was something wrong here. Loras could feel it, prickling at the back of his neck like a chill breeze sneaking through his armor. He tried to shake it off, his eyes sweeping the castle courtyard, the guards at the inner gates, the keep looming ahead like a squat stone sentinel. Something was missing, but what?

And then it hit him. The dogs.

There were no dogs. Not a single Blue Hound sniffing at the visitors for the guards, no Estalian Mountain Dogs lounging in the sun, no stubby legged ratters slinking between the legs of stable boys. From the meanest backwoods hamlet to the greatest cities and citadels of the Old World, dogs were always there. Sharp-nosed and sharp-eared, their instincts a man's first line of defense against threats seen and unseen. To go without them was unthinkable. It set his teeth on edge, the absence more telling than any whispered warning.

The sergeant led them onward. The air grew colder as they passed beneath the shadow of the second gatehouse, the walls pressing in as if to smother them. They crossed the central courtyard and dismounted before the keep, Duchess and Jeneva's unicorn taken in hand by awed stable hands.

Loras declined to leave his shield with his horse. It was rude to bear it indoors, implying that he had something to fear from their hosts. If it turned out to be unnecessary, he would apologize sincerely and profusely, but he doubted he would have to do that.

The sergeant made no objection to him bringing it, simply looking at his shield with a slight arch of an eyebrow. Somehow Loras got the feeling that the sergeant was amused. But why? That he thought it was necessary? Or that he thought it would be effective?

Inside, the hall greeted them with an austere emptiness. Unlike the great castles of dukes and the king, where separate great halls took up entire buildings of their own and sprawled in grand opulence, Lord Rachard's hall was built into the ground floor of the keep, a practical arrangement with none of the grandeur one might expect. The space was clean, orderly. Too orderly, Loras thought.

And too empty. Aside from a dozen guards, there was no one here. No peasants or merchants petitioning their lord for justice or aid. None of the courtiers or hangers on that always flocked to centers of power like this stood by gossiping and waiting for a chance to grasp at wealth, power or revenge. Instead the hall seemed empty as a ruin on a hill.

Trestle tables lined the walls, ready to be dragged into place for a feast but pushed aside for now, leaving the hall bare but for a crimson carpet stretching toward the dais. Banners hung high above, their colors vivid in the dim light; House Rachard's emblem, a stylized castle on a hill; the black fleur-de-lis on gold of the long-dead Duchy of Mousillon; and the Lady's own sigil.

But banners meant nothing if the man beneath them believed in nothing.

Loras's gaze fell upon Lord Rachard, seated on his high-backed chair like a scholar holding court. He was an erudite looking man, his thinning hair swept back in careful waves, his clothing richly tailored and impeccably clean, all muted greens and dark golds. His hands rested lightly on the armrests, his fingers long and precise, the hands of a man accustomed to quills, not swords. His eyes, though… those eyes were sharp, a predator's gaze hiding behind a veneer of politeness.

Loras stiffened.

This man wore the trappings of faith, the sigils of honor, but they hung on him like a borrowed cloak. His was the face of a man who measured loyalty in coin and conviction in convenience. The air of the hall felt heavy, oppressive, though there was no sign of magic, no chanting cultists or shambling dead. The corruption here was deeper, subtler, and all the more insidious for it.

Jeneva inclined her head in greeting, but Loras did not move, his hand lingering near the hilt of his sword.

'We're too late,' he thought grimly, his stomach knotting. 'The necromancer has sunk his poison deep into this man's mind. He's not a lord; he's a puppet. And the strings are pulling tighter with every passing breath.'

The sergeant stepped forward to announce them, his voice echoing in the stark, somber hall. "Loras, Questing Knight of House Tyrell, and Jeneva, a prophetess of the Lady, to see you, my lord."

Lord Rachard inclined his head with a small, practiced smile. "Welcome, Prophetess. Welcome, Sir Loras. You are both most welcome. Servants of the Lady are far too rare in this benighted land. I dearly hope that changes when your father comes south with his host later this year, Sir Loras."

Loras nodded stiffly, his knightly decorum unbroken despite the tension coiling in his gut. "As do we all, Lord Rachard."

The lord's smile lingered as he leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling together. "And what brings you here, I wonder? There are many things in Mousillon to attract the attention of a Questing Knight and a Damsel of the Lady, but none of them exist within my domain, so far as I know."

Loras met his gaze evenly. "There is much to be done in Mousillon," he agreed, his tone measured. "I have been in the duchy but a week and have already slain a Beastlord and scattered a horde of undead attempting to assault Guerac Circle."

For just a moment, Lord Rachard's composure slipped. His eyes widened, ever so slightly, before he schooled his expression back to calm indifference. It was a subtle thing, a flicker, but Loras caught it. 'Odd… How strange for his master to keep him so well appraised of his foul plots.'

"Thank the gods you were there to stop them," Rachard said, his voice smooth, even gracious. "You have done the Lady proud, Sir Loras."

"He has," Jeneva interjected, her voice calm but edged with something sharp. "But you have not, Lord Rachard."

The words landed like a slap. Rachard's eyebrows rose, his expression darkening into something closer to affront. "Pardon me, Damsel? I may not be the most martial of Bretonnian lords, but I have led my men in purging my domain of Beastmen and Greenskins as well as any knight of the realm."

Jeneva inclined her head, though the gesture was more perfunctory than deferential. "That much is true," she admitted, her voice as cold as the grave. "But I was not speaking of Beastmen or Greenskins. I was speaking of the undead. I am surprised, Lord Rachard. I expected to find you a mere puppet of a dark master. But no… that is not what's going on here, is it?"

The words hit Loras harder than the blow of a mace. He turned to Jeneva, his mind racing. 'What is she saying?'

Lord Rachard stiffened in his chair, his polite mask cracking at last. His lips curled into a snarl, his voice low and venomous. "There are no strings on me."

"No," Jeneva agreed softly, her voice like a blade drawn from its sheath. "There are not. Because you are no one's puppet, Lord Rachard. You are the dark master yourself, a foul necromancer, committing heresy and blasphemy against Morr and the Lady alike."

The hall seemed to grow colder, the very air heavy with a stillness that made Loras's skin crawl. His hand went instinctively to his sword, his heart pounding like the drums of war. 'By the Lady… what have we walked into?'

"Foolish," Lord Rachard hissed as he rose from his seat, his voice sharp as steel on a whetstone. "Prophetess you may be, but to challenge me here, in my own hall?"

As he spoke, the heavy doors to the left and right of the dais in the back wall of the chamber began to creak open. Their weight was evident in the groaning hinges, their size suddenly clear in a way Loras should have noticed before. 'How did I miss how large they are?'

What emerged from those yawning doorways made Loras's stomach turn. Two towering monstrosities ducked under the frames, grotesque parodies of humanity, easily twice the height of a man. Their bodies were patchworks of rotting flesh and bone, stitched together with coarse black thread, their limbs a mismatched assortment of stolen parts from a dozen different corpses. These were no mere undead, they were abominations, sewn up with malice and animated by horrors Loras could only guess at.

"Tear them apart!" Lord Rachard's voice thundered through the hall as he pointed a trembling finger at the knight and the damsel.

Loras wasted no time. His voice rang out like a clarion call. "Guardsmen! I have seen the light of the Lady in you! Throw off the chains of this twisted wretch and fight as true sons of Bretonnia!"

For a moment, there was a flicker of hesitation among the guards. But the sergeant, the same man who had escorted them so politely into this hall, answered Loras with steel. He drew his arming sword and lunged, his movement quick and precise, a soldier trained for war.

Loras met the attack without flinching, his sword rising to parry even as he drew it. The clash of steel rang through the hall as Loras turned the sergeant's blade aside, stepping into the opening. His riposte was swift and final, the backswing of his sword severing the man's head in a single stroke. Crimson blood sprayed across the stone floor, and the sergeant crumpled where he stood.

Chaos erupted. Some of the guards broke at the sight of the towering undead, their nerve failing as they fled the hall. Others rallied to Lord Rachard's command, though their eyes betrayed a fear they dared not show on their face. But there were a few, a noble few, who answered Loras's call, turning their weapons against their traitorous comrades and the horrors unleashed in the hall.

Loras could feel the weight of the battle already pressing down on him. The abominations lumbered forward with a dreadful inevitability, their heavy, mismatched limbs thudding against the floor with each step. One of the monstrosities swung a massive arm, the arc wide enough to sweep away a man and half a dozen beside him.

Loras ducked under the blow, his shield coming up instinctively. The force of the swing struck the edge of his shield and sent him staggering back a step, his left arm numb from the impact. But there was no time to falter. He pressed forward, his blade biting into the patchwork flesh of the creature's leg.

Around him, the hall was a tempest of violence. Guards fought guards, steel clashing as brother turned on brother. Some died screaming, others in silence. The air was thick with the copper tang of blood, the acrid stench of fear, and the faint, nauseating rot that clung to the necromancer's creations.

And at the center of it all stood Lord Rachard and Jeneva, the two locked in a battle of wills, though no blades clashed between them. The air around them crackled with unseen power, an energy that prickled against the edge of Loras's senses. Rachard's eyes burned with hatred, his words sharp and guttural as he spat curses in some dark tongue. Jeneva stood firm, her arms glowing faintly, her face a mask of serene defiance.

"Loras!" she called, her voice slicing through the din. "Hold them back! I need time!"

Time. That was the one thing Loras knew they didn't have. Yet he raised his sword again, the light of the Lady burning in his heart. If this fell hall was to be his tomb, so be it. He would die as a knight should, with steel in hand and the Lady's name on his lips.

Loras struck at the monstrosity with relentless fury, his blade rising and falling in a whirlwind of steel. Each blow hacked away at the abomination's twisted flesh, each swing fueled by desperation and purpose. The thing was massive, its patchwork form stitched together like some cruel jest at the gods' expense. But it was slow, ponderous, its sheer size working against it in the confines of the hall.

The creature swayed under his onslaught, its monstrous limbs flailing about as it attempted to strike back, but Loras kept moving, darting in and out of reach. He saw the second monstrosity out of the corner of his eye, lumbering around to flank him. 'Not enough time,' Loras thought grimly, redoubling his efforts.

Finally, his blade struck true, cleaving through the thick bone and sinews of its leg. The brute gave a guttural groan, toppling like a felled tree, its weight shaking the floor as it hit the ground. It writhed, still animated by whatever foul magic had birthed it, but its ability to fight was greatly diminished. Loras spared it no further thought.

He turned just in time to meet the hammer blow of the second abomination. It swung with terrifying strength, the headless body of the sergeant clutched in one massive hand like a crude club. The strike smashed against his shield, splintering it into useless fragments. Loras staggered but held his ground.

This one was stronger, but strength alone did not win battles. It was no Orc with their crude cunning, no Beastman with their savage fury, no Ogre with the brutal instinct of a predator. It was strength without skill, and that would be its undoing.

Loras threw what remained of his shattered shield into the creature's face, the move surprising it just enough for him to slip to the side of it. His blade swept low, slicing through the back of its leg, and the monster toppled with a deafening crash.

The knight wasted no time. Its flailing limbs thudded against the stone floor, but the creature was helpless now. Loras circled it, dodging its desperate strikes, and brought his blade down on its neck with a clean, decisive stroke. Its head rolled free, and with another swing, he removed the head of the first monstrosity, ensuring neither would rise again.

He turned to the arcane duel, just in time to leap forward and cut down a guard rushing at Jeneva from behind. The clamor of battle was gone, the hall reduced to a grim silence. The guards who had fought for or against Lord Rachard lay dead or groaning on the floor, too wounded to rise. No reinforcements came, though the castle held more than enough men to flood the room.

'Has the fighting spread to the rest of the keep?' Loras wondered. 'Or has the garrison chosen to let events play out as they will? If he prevails, their lord will make them regret their apathy.'

His thoughts snapped back to the present. Jeneva stood locked in a duel with Lord Rachard. She glowed with a radiant light, and bolts of white lightning shot from her hand, crackling with power. Great gusts of wind buffeted the dark sorcerer, forcing him back step by step. But Rachard held his ground, a shimmering shield of spectral energy absorbing her strikes.

The sorcerer retaliated with green-black lightning, the foul magic splitting the air with a sound like tearing flesh. Jeneva countered with a dismissive wave, dispelling the spell as if brushing away a fly. Yet the power in the hall was palpable, thick as the stench of blood and death.

"No!" Lord Rachard's voice cracked, equal parts rage and despair. "I won't let you win. Not when I'm so close!"

Loras felt the shift in the air before he saw it. The sorcerer's body began to warp, his flesh twisting and contorting under the strain of the dark magic he channeled. Veins bulged, his skin splitting in places to reveal writhing shadows beneath. It was as if his humanity were being sloughed off, a shell discarded by the thing inside.

With an ear-splitting scream, Rachard's body erupted in a burst of spectral blue flames, the force of the explosion shaking the hall. Jeneva was thrown from her feet, bouncing with painful thuds across the stone floor.

But Loras held his ground. He planted his feet and gripped his sword tightly, his armor glinting faintly in the eerie light. He was a Knight of Bretonnia and the Lady was with him; he could feel her presence, a calm resolve in the storm of chaos.

Before him stood no man, no lord of Bretonnia. What remained of Rachard had become possessed by a daemon of the Ruinous Powers, a creature born of darkness and despair. Its eyes burned like molten iron, its form wreathed in flickering, multicolored flame.

Loras raised his sword, the light of the Lady gleaming along its edge. "For the Lady," he whispered, his voice steady. Then louder, a battle cry to echo through the ages; "For the Lady of the Lake!" And he dashed forward.

Chapter Text

Loras surged forward, his heart burning with righteous fury as he met the daemon head-on. It lashed out with a misshapen claw, and suddenly the air before him erupted in a swirling blaze of blue flame, unnatural and ever-shifting. The fire roared like a living thing, but the Lady's light enveloped him, pure and unwavering. The holy glow warded off the hellish heat, and he pressed on, unshaken.

His sword flashed in a deadly arc, striking at the abomination with all the strength and precision his years of training could muster. Yet the daemon moved with an otherworldly grace, its grotesque forearm sprouting a blade of hardened bone. It met his strikes effortlessly, parrying each blow with a languid ease that mocked his every effort.

"Is this all?" the creature drawled, tilting its malformed head as though bored. Its voice was low and smooth, a grotesque parody of casual conversation even as its hideous visage warped and mutated as it spoke. "Your strength is... tolerable, your skill passable. Perhaps, one day, you might stumble upon the Grail. And then, of course, die upon drinking it."

Loras gritted his teeth, refusing to be drawn into a discussion. He had heard of such creatures, of the poisonous lies they wove, the half-truths twisted into daggers meant to pierce the heart. The beast's words were meant to unsettle him, to break his focus. He would not give it the satisfaction.

"Ah, silent now, are we?" the daemon sneered, its warped features curling into a cruel smile as its voice shifted, becoming harsher and higher pitched. "But I see you, knight. You'll never be perfect. Not like gallant Garlan, oh no. Your flaws are small, but they're enough. Pride, envy... such minor sins, yet enough to keep the Lady from you."

"Keep the Lady's name out of your foul mouth!" Loras snarled, his voice a low growl of rage as he redoubled his strikes. His blade moved faster, stronger, each blow a testament to his devotion.

"Tsk, tsk." The daemon's tone was one of mockery, its voice dripping with disdain. "Anger can focus some warriors, but it doesn't suit you, little knight. It blinds you."

And then it struck. Its right hand, grotesquely swollen and blackened as though charred, shot forward with impossible speed. Its clawed fingers closed around the faceguard of his helm, and an unholy heat surged through the steel. The metal melted in an instant, fusing to his flesh. The smell of burned skin filled the air as Loras let out a scream of agony, his vision swimming as pain wracked his body.

The daemon laughed, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to echo through the very stones of the hall. "Ah, such delightful screams! Tell me, knight, where is your Lady now?"

Loras staggered but did not fall. His breath came in ragged gasps, and the left side of his face felt as though it were sloughing from the bone, the light in that eye dying, but he gripped his sword tighter. Pain clawed at his mind, but he forced it down. To stop was to die, and to die here, in this moment, was to fail.

He stepped forward, his footing sure despite the haze of agony. With a sudden burst of strength, he drove his blade upward, the steel biting deep into the daemon's throat. The creature's laughter ceased abruptly, its expression shifting to one of shock as the sword cleaved through its spine. Loras twisted the blade, tearing it free in a spray of black ichor, half-severing the beast's neck.

The backswing was swift and final, cleaving through what remained.

The daemon's corpse crumpled to the ground, its monstrous form dissolving into ash and dust. The foul remains swirled briefly in the air before the wind carried them away, as if the earth itself rejected the abomination. Loras staggered, his body heavy with pain, but his duty was not yet done. He turned, ready to render aid to Jeneva who lay groaning on the ground, but the hall around him began to shift.

The air thickened, shimmering with a light that was not of this world. The stone walls at the far end of the chamber melted away like wax beneath a flame, replaced by open skies and a field of verdant grass, bending gently in an unseen wind. In the center of this vision lay a pool, wide and still, its surface gleaming like polished silver.

Loras took a step forward, his legs trembling beneath him. He was no longer sure whether the trembling came from his wounds or the awe coursing through him. The helm fused to his face seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment, its searing heat unbearable, yet he paid it no mind. His gaze was fixed upon the pool. He stumbled forward, dropping to his knees before its edge, and for what could be the last time, he looked upon his reflection.

The sight was grotesque. His helm, melted and warped, clung to his face like the death mask of an ancient Tilean aristocrat that had crumbled and decayed with the passage of countless years. What little flesh was visible beneath it was red and raw, glistening with blood. With a trembling hand, he gripped the helm and tore it away. The pain was unimaginable, skin and muscle came away with the steel, but he did not flinch. He had endured this for her. For the Lady. And if he were to live on in her service, he would endure worse without hesitation.

He cast the ruined helm aside, letting it clatter uselessly to the ground, and turned his gaze back to the pool. His face was a raw, ruined, wreck, but it mattered not, he'd done his duty in the name of the lady. He would soon earn his reward, transformed into a Grail Knight in this world, or dying in the Lady's service and attending her in the one beyond.

The water rippled, though no wind disturbed its surface, and from its depths rose a vision that stole the breath from his lungs.

She emerged slowly, as if the water itself birthed her form. The maid was impossibly beautiful, radiant beyond mortal comprehension. Her hair shimmered like sunlight on water, and her eyes held the endless depths of the sea. Yet it was not her beauty that drew his gaze. In her hands, she held a golden goblet, simple and unadorned, yet shining with a light that seemed to pierce the very soul. The Grail.

"Drink, Sir Loras," she said, her voice as soft as the breeze, as commanding as a storm.

He reached for the goblet, his hands trembling as though unworthy to touch it. The metal was cool against his fingers, soothing the pain that still wracked his body. Lifting it to his lips, he drank.

The liquid was unlike anything he had ever tasted. Sweet and pure, it flowed over his tongue and down his throat, filling him with a warmth that spread to every corner of his being. It was as though the very essence of life, of power, poured into him. No sweet wine of the Elves, no stout Dwarven ale could compare to this. It was not mere drink; it was salvation.

The pain vanished. His ruined flesh began to knit itself together, the agony of his wounds replaced by a deep, abiding strength. His face, torn and ravaged, smoothed and healed. His left eye opened once more, clear and unclouded. He felt her power within him, coursing through his veins, reshaping him. He was no longer merely a man.

Loras Tyrell had been remade, body and soul, by the will of the Lady.

"See to my Damsel, Sir Loras," the Lady commanded. Her voice was soft yet unyielding, as if it carried the weight of an eternal ocean. "There is much left to do. The challenges facing Bretonnia, and the world, are far greater and darker than you can imagine."

Loras knelt, reverent as a supplicant, lowering his head until his brow brushed the cool, wet surface of the pool. "As you command, my Lady," he replied, his voice steady despite the awe thrumming through him. He extended the grail toward her with respect and veneration.

Her smile was like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. She accepted the cup, her form shimmering faintly, as though she belonged less to the world of men and more to ethereal realms beyond. The pool rippled, and then both it and the Lady began to fade, her radiance leaving only shadow and stone in her wake. The hall returned to itself, cold, stark, and brutal.

Loras rose slowly, his newfound strength surging through him. The once-majestic chamber lay in ruin. The bodies of guards, slain or broken, were strewn across the bloodstained floor. In the center of the hall, Jeneva was stirring, her slight frame crumpled where she had fallen. One hand clutched her head, her fingers slick with blood, and her hair clung damply to her brow. She had struck the stone floor hard.

"Jeneva," Loras called, crossing to her with purposeful strides.

She was conscious, barely. Her lips moved in a whispered incantation, and a faint glow began to emanate from her fingertips. The energies of the Lady coursed into her, knitting flesh and easing pain, though her movements remained sluggish.

He knelt beside her, his armored hands steadying her as she struggled upright. "Are you all right, my lady?"

Her eyes, dull with pain at first, sharpened as her spell took hold. She blinked up at him, the faintest smile gracing her lips. "Loras… You drank from the Grail?"

"I did." His words were simple, but the enormity of the moment echoed in them.

Jeneva's brows lifted, surprise cutting through her weariness. "I expected you to triumph," she murmured, "but not so soon. The grail is not easily won."

"Did I not face a daemon? Did I not strike it down in the Lady's name?"

"You did." She shook her head, still astonished. "Things escalated far beyond my foresight." Her gaze grew distant, her expression shadowed. The glow of prophecy flickered in her eyes, and she blinked, as though to clear a vision. "Yet… things have hardly changed. The future of Mousillon remains mired in war and the undead. The Necromancer that turned out to be Lord Rachard was not nearly as pivotal as I thought."

Loras frowned. "A powerful necromancer is dead, a daemon banished. Would you call that no victory at all?"

Jeneva's lips pressed into a thin line. "A victory, yes. But it is troubling to know how little Rachard's defeat matters. His schemes were but a thread in a far greater tapestry."

"All the more reason to press forward," Loras said, his voice firm. "What must we do?"

Jeneva drew a deep breath, steadying herself as she rose to her feet. "We must find where he kept his undead. Without him, they are mindless, feral things. If they have access to the outside world, they will wreak untold havoc."

Loras nodded. "Surely, some among his surviving men-at-arms know where they are stored."

"They will," Jeneva said grimly, her gaze falling to one of the fallen guards, a man who had answered the call to fight for what was right was groaning faintly, his hand clutching a wound at his side. She moved to him, her hands glowing once more with healing light. "Let us see what he can tell us."

Loras followed, his sword still in hand. The hall smelled of blood and fire, the air heavy with the echoes of battle. He had triumphed over death and darkness this day, yet the shadow that loomed over Bretonnia had only grown deeper.

Jeneva's hands glowed with soft light as the guardsman stirred, his wounds knitting together under her touch. Soon, he was on his feet, swaying slightly but otherwise hale.

"My lord!" the man exclaimed, his voice brimming with awe. His eyes roved over Loras's resplendent form, the sheen of his armor, the glow of divine power that clung to him like a mantle. "You have tasted the Grail!"

"I have," Loras said, his tone firm but restrained. "But I am no lord."

"You are now," Jeneva interjected, her voice sharper than the edge of a dagger. "Castle Rachard is vital to your father's campaign. With its fall, the Black Knight and whatever dark forces he serves will not stand idle. They will make their move to claim it."

Loras frowned, the weight of her words settling heavily on his shoulders. Castle Rachard was no mere outpost. Its stone walls and fortified towers rivaled those of a Baron's keep, though it had been held by a minor lord. The castle commanded a strategic pass, the easiest approach his father's forces could take into the accursed remnants of Mousillon. Should the enemy seize it, wresting it back would require months of siegework, and months were a luxury they might not have.

"Then we must act quickly," Loras said, his voice steady. "Hunt down Rachard's undead, secure the castle, and prepare for war. It will come sooner than we wish."

Jeneva nodded but added, "If the enemy comes in force, your father can raise his banners and march to our aid."

"That may be," Loras replied, though doubt lingered in his mind. Of late, snow had begun to fall thickly across Bretonnia, blanketing the fields and roads alike. Winter slowed men, dulled their senses, sapped their strength. But the undead knew no such burden. The cold would not stop them; if anything, it would aid them, for it was the living who would struggle to muster.

"Pardon me, my lord," the guardsman ventured hesitantly, his eyes darting between Loras and Jeneva. "If it's the undead you're hunting… they're locked away. A series of caverns beneath the castle, that's where Lord Rachard kept them."

"Locked away?" Jeneva tilted her head, her brow furrowing. "Then they cannot leave on their own?"

"No, my lady," the guard confirmed. "The caverns are sealed. Tight as a miser's purse."

Loras glanced toward the battered hall, its silence unnerving. "And the rest of the garrison? I hear no sounds of fighting. What have they been doing while their vile master was under attack?"

The guardsman shifted uncomfortably, his boots scuffing against the blood-slick floor. "Likely waiting, my lord. Watching to see who would prevail."

Loras's lips pressed into a thin line. Disgraceful, though not surprising. Loyalty was a scarce commodity in Mousillon, and courage scarcer still. "They will have their chance to redeem themselves," he said at last, his tone cold as steel. "The caverns must be cleared, and they will do it."

Jeneva gave him a sidelong glance, one corner of her mouth quirking upward in faint amusement. "I doubt they will enjoy the task."

"They are soldiers," Loras said, his voice as firm as the stones beneath his feet. "And soldiers do not live for comfort. They live to fight."

The guardsman blanched but said nothing. Loras turned back toward the ruined hall, his thoughts already racing. He had tasted the Grail and been reborn in the Lady's grace. But her gift was not a reward; it was a burden. A holy charge to shoulder the weight of Bretonnia's salvation.

And so, the work began.

…

The garrison knelt before him in the dim light of the courtyard, their faces grim and worn. Most bent the knee, swearing fealty to their new lord, though Loras did not yet feel like one. He had claimed the castle in the Lady's name, but what right did he have to the lands of a dead man, even one so wicked as this? Still, some of the soldiers recoiled from him, their eyes wide with terror, their breath coming fast. They had been touched by darkness, and the Lady's blessing that clung to him like a second skin burned them in ways that no mortal weapon could.

He gave them no chance to repent. They came at him like rabid dogs, and he put them down as such. It was quick and brutal, their corrupted cries echoing in the chill air as their blood darkened the stones. Loras felt no joy in it, but neither did he hesitate. The Lady's will was clear, there was no place for such men in her service.

Landor, the guardsman Jeneva had healed in the great hall, rose from the kneeling crowd and stepped forward. "My lord," he said, his voice steady despite the tension in his shoulders, "I will lead you to the caverns."

The entrance was a squat, unassuming door of thick oak, its frame reinforced with iron bands blackened by age and neglect. As they drew near, Loras could hear it, a dull, rhythmic thudding, the sound of something inside, trying to claw its way out.

"They must have started as soon as the late Lord fell," Landor muttered, his voice low.

The iron lock groaned as Landor turned the key, and when the door creaked open, the undead surged forward. Rotten, slack-jawed things, their eyes milky with death, their fingers outstretched to grasp and tear. The soldiers were ready, their billhooks flashing in the torchlight as they caught the creatures on their hooks and blades, pinning them in place. Another man stepped forward with a poleaxe, hacking their heads from their shoulders with grim efficiency.

It was over in moments, the reek of putrid flesh mingling with the metallic tang of blood in the cold air. "Only a few at the door," Landor said. "The rest are deeper in."

A hundred men followed Loras into the darkness, their torches guttering against the stale, oppressive air. Jeneva walked at his side, a staff she'd empowered glowing faintly with starlight, the magic within casting long shadows on the jagged walls and revealing all that was hidden.

The caves were a warren, twisting and turning with no rhyme or reason. The undead came in waves, bursting from the gloom with guttural groans and snapping jaws. They were unarmed, Lord Rachard had not been so foolish as to give them weapons unless he had them out on campaign, but their sheer numbers made up for it.

Loras fought at the vanguard, his sword flashing in wide arcs. Each swing severed limbs, cleaved torsos, sent heads rolling across the uneven ground. The undead did not die easily; their jaws snapped and their hands clawed even after they'd been hacked apart. The soldiers pressed on, their faces pale with exhaustion, their movements growing sluggish as the hours dragged on.

Jeneva was a blessing, her magic healing wounds, banishing fatigue, and lending strength to arms that faltered. Without her, they would have broken long before the caves were cleared. Even so, some were lost. A scream in the dark, the sound of bones snapping, and another soldier fell. Loras gritted his teeth and pressed forward. There was no time to mourn, not yet.

At last, they reached the final chamber. Massive iron bars sealed the entrance, thicker than any Loras had seen before, their edges engraved with strange, twisted runes. Whatever lay within, Lord Rachard had not wanted it to escape.

"What lies beyond?" Loras asked, his voice echoing faintly.

Landor hesitated, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "Some winged beast," he said. "The rumors say it feeds on blood and little else."

"A Vargheist," Loras murmured, astonished. He had heard of such creatures, fallen vampires, feral and mindless, consumed by their hunger. "How did he manage to find such a thing, let alone bring it here and bind it?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered. Loras's grip tightened on his sword. Whatever the answer, it mattered little now. The beast would not remain caged for long, not with the scent of blood so thick in the air.

The gates loomed before them, great iron bars half as thick as a man's arm, stained with rust and something darker. There was no lock, only a winch set off to the side, well beyond the reach of whatever horror lurked within. Landor, his new sergeant, barked orders, and a handful of men stepped forward reluctantly, their faces pale in the dim torchlight.

The winch groaned as they turned it, the chains clanking and rattling in protest. Slowly, inch by inch, the bars rose. The men tensed, gripping their weapons tighter, their eyes fixed on the black void beyond. But no beast came.

The seconds stretched long, each one a hammer blow against their nerves. Yet there was no sound, no motion, nothing but the faint, stale whisper of air escaping the cavern's depths.

Loras stepped forward, his sword drawn, its edge gleaming in the torchlight. He felt the weight of their eyes on him, the hope and fear mingled in equal measure. His blessing burned faintly within him, a steady, comforting warmth. The zombies they'd encountered earlier had recoiled from him before; perhaps this creature, if it truly was a Vargheist, sensed it too.

"They fear the light," Jeneva murmured beside him, her staff casting a soft glow over the stone. "And they fear what you carry within."

"Perhaps," Loras said, though his grip tightened on his sword. "Or perhaps it waits."

Still, no movement came. The men murmured uneasily, shifting on their feet, their nerves fraying with each moment of silence.

"If it won't come for me," Loras said, his voice firm, "then I will go to it."

He stepped beneath the raised gate, his steps echoing softly against the stone. The air beyond was thick and heavy, carrying the faint copper tang of blood and the fetid stench of decay. It clung to him, an oppressive weight that seemed to resist the light of Jeneva's magic.

Loras felt no fear, though. The Lady was with him, he could feel her presence, a faint warmth in his chest that steadied his hand and silenced the doubts that whispered in the dark.

"Stay back," he called to the others, his voice carrying authority. "This thing maybe a ravenous beast, but it is no mindless corpse. If it attacks, it will strike with speed and fury."

Jeneva hesitated, her eyes narrowing. "You don't need to do this alone," she said.

"I do," Loras replied. He glanced back, a faint smile playing on his lips. "The Lady will see me through."

And with that, he stepped deeper into the cavern, the darkness swallowing him whole.

The air within was heavy and damp, the faint stench of rot clinging to every breath. The dim glow of the soldier's torches and Jeneva's magic at his back faded as he advanced, but Loras did not falter. With the Lady's blessing upon him, his eyes pierced the gloom as though it were merely the last light of dusk, with Mannslieb high in the sky. Shadows played along jagged stalagmites and stalactites, forming twisted shapes that writhed and shifted.

And then one of them moved.

It peeled itself from the far wall, first a ripple, then a heaving mass of muscle and sinew, wings that spread like a cloak of nightmares. A towering abomination took shape, half-man, half-bat, its form grotesquely wrong. Yellowed eyes burned with hunger, and when it shrieked, the sound filled the cavern like the cry of a damned soul.

"The light burns," it hissed, its voice rasping like dry leaves over stone. It recoiled briefly, shielding its twisted visage with an arm too long, too gnarled to belong to any man. Then the growl came, low and guttural, and its distended maw split into a fanged grin, saliva dripping from its lolling tongue. "But the blood… I can smell the blood pumping within."

It was hunger that drove it forward. Hunger stronger than fear, stronger even than the purity radiating from Loras. The creature hesitated, trembling, as though the light seared its very soul. But then it lunged, propelled by raw need, its wings stretching wide and filling the space with the rush of wind.

Loras stood his ground.

The beast's talons came first, an unnaturally long arm slashing down in a blur. The strike was meant to rip him open, to scatter his blood across the stones. But Loras was faster. Where once he might have barely managed to dodge the blow in time, now he moved as if the world had slowed to a crawl. The power of the Grail surged through him, and he sidestepped, fluid and precise.

The monster's claws missed by inches, raking harmlessly against stone, and in that moment, Loras struck. His blade came up in a glittering arc, swift as sunlight flashing on water. The edge bit deep into the creature's arm, meeting hardened bone with a dull clang.

Black-red blood poured forth, thick and viscous, coating the blade and splattering the floor. The abomination shrieked again, but this time it was not rage, it was pain, raw and primal, that echoed through the cavern like a death knell.

"You'll have no feast today," Loras murmured, his grip steady on the hilt of his blade. The Lady's light burned brighter within him, and he pressed forward.

The beast came at him again, all claws and fury, driven by a hunger so unnatural it reeked in the air. Its movements were wild, frenetic, its blows delivered with terrifying strength and speed. Yet, for all its ferocity, there was no skill in its attack, no calculation, no measure. Whatever cunning it had possessed as a man, or even as a vampire, was long gone, devoured by the madness of its thirst.

Loras moved with the grace of a knight who had bested men, monsters, and worse. The Lady's light guided his every step, every swing of his sword. Where the beast lunged, he sidestepped; where it struck, he was already gone. It fought like a rabid animal, but to Loras, it was no more threatening than an untrained peasant armed with rage alone.

He punished it for its clumsiness. His blade sang as it cut through the stale air, striking again and again, each blow slicing deep into the beast's flesh. Black-red blood poured from its wounds, the cavern floor slick with its unnatural ichor. At first, the gashes bubbled and knit themselves together, the foul magic of undeath closing them as quickly as they were made. But the creature had been starved by its dark master for far too long.

Its strength began to wane. The healing slowed, and then ceased entirely. Blood that once spilled in torrents now dripped in pitiful trickles. The light of its glowing eyes dimmed, its movements became sluggish, desperate. Loras could see the fear creeping into the beast's unnatural gaze as it realized its end was near.

He pressed his advantage without mercy. A quick slash severed the tendons in one leg and bit deep into the bone. With its next step, a sharp, wet snap heralded its break and the abomination collapsed, roaring in pain as it fell to its knees. Loras raised his blade high, the light of the Lady gleaming along its edge, and brought it down in a savage arc.

Once. Twice. Thrice. He hewed at the beast with relentless, measured precision, each stroke cleaving deeper into its neck. On the final blow, the head came free, rolling across the stone floor, its maw frozen in a final snarl.

The cavern fell silent but for the drip of blood and the knight's steady breath. Loras stood over the fallen monster, his sword slick with gore, his armor splattered with the evidence of his victory. He made no boast, no cry of triumph. Instead, he lowered his blade and muttered a quiet prayer to the Lady, for strength, for guidance, and for deliverance.

The fallen creature, once a man, deserved no such mercy.

…

Loras emerged from the depths of the catacombs, the Vargheist's head clasped firmly in his gauntleted hand. Its grotesque, fanged visage caught the torchlight, hollow eyes staring into nothingness. The soldiers gathered outside drew back at first, muttering prayers and curses under their breath. Then, as they realized the beast was truly dead, a cheer went up, tentative at first but growing louder as relief spread through the crowd.

Loras raised the monstrous head high for all to see, letting the soldiers take in their victory before he cast it aside like so much refuse. "That seems to be the last of them, my lady," he said, turning to Jeneva.

The damsel stood poised as ever, though her face was weary from hours of channeling the Lady's power. She nodded, her golden hair gleaming in the torchlight. "I sense no other undead presence here. The corruption has been purged."

"Then let us return to the surface," Loras said, sheathing his sword with a practiced motion. "We've earned a moment's rest, at the least."

Her laugh rang out, soft and melodic, a balm to his ears after the horrors they'd faced below. "Rest? Oh, young Lord Tyrell, your trials are just beginning. The garrison must be reorganized, its loyalty assured. The late Lord Rachard's steward, staff, and servants must be examined for signs of corruption. A message to Highgarden must be drafted and delivered with haste. I will take care of the delivery, but you must write it first. The necromancer's correspondence must be scoured for any mention of plots or dealings with others of his ilk. The domain's accounts and treasury will need careful auditing. And that," she said, arching a delicate brow, "is only the beginning."

Loras frowned, the weight of her words settling upon him like a mailed glove. "Lord of Rachard," he murmured, tasting the title like bitter wine. It was not why he had come to this cursed keep. He had sought a test of his mettle, a chance to serve the Lady and prove himself. Yet here he stood, burdened with a lordship he had not asked for. The keep would be crucial to his father's campaign, a lynchpin in the Tyrells' efforts to secure the region. And the people of the domain, thousands of them, deserved better than they had endured under Rachard's rule.

Responsibility, it seemed, had found him all the same.

He turned to Jeneva, searching her serene face for guidance. "Rachard," he began, "the name, it isn't tied to some Grail Knight of old, is it?"

"No," she replied, shaking her head. Her blonde locks shimmered like sunlight through autumn leaves. "The keep and town take their name from the ruling family, nothing more. Why? Do you mean to rename them Tyrell?"

Loras shook his head. "There's no need for that," he said, glancing toward the darkened town below. "But I was thinking…" He hesitated, feeling a flush creep to his own cheeks. "Perhaps I might rename them Jeneva, after my spiritual guide."

Her cheeks turned a rosy hue, though she made a show of brushing his words aside. "Flattery ill becomes you, Sir Loras," she said, but her smile betrayed her pleasure at the thought.

Loras allowed himself a small, tired smile in return. For all the burdens he now carried, there was solace in knowing he did not bear them alone.

Chapter Text

Nachexen 18th, 2523

Margaery stood on the creaking wooden docks of Lowgarden, the cold breeze off the Mander tugging at the fox fur-lined cloak clasped at her throat with a solid gold blossom. Her breath puffed out in little clouds of steam and the river stretched wide and muddy before her, its sluggish waters a murky brown that swallowed the pale light of the overcast sky. Fishing boats bobbed on the currents, their sails patched so many times it was hard to see where the original canvas began, their hulls smeared with tar and grime. Men and women moved about them like ants on a hill, hauling nets heavy with fish, coiling rope, and bickering over their catch.

The Mander was vast here, broad and deep enough for the sea-going ships that anchored off the banks. Their masts towered above the small boats, swaying gently as sailors shouted orders in jargon Margaery found hard to understand. Further upstream, the river grew too shallow for ships of their size. Barges were all that could navigate the waters beyond this point, laden with goods for the smaller towns scattered further inland.

Lowgarden was no city. It lacked the bustling chaos of L'Anguille, or the royal grandeur of Couronne. The smell of fish and river mud hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid tang of woodsmoke from the hovels crowding the riverbank. Yet it was alive in its own way. There was a rhythm to the laborers, the dockhands, the fisherfolk calling to one another in thick, lilting accents. A hum of life that carried on whether the high lords and ladies in their grand halls noticed or not.

Margaery's eyes drifted across the scene, taking it all in, though she kept her expression serene. It would not do for the men and women of the docks to see their lord's daughter gaping like some country bumpkin. Her escorts loomed beside her, a pair of knights in polished plate, their house colors bright against the drab docks, and four men-at-arms draped in mail and armed with billhooks and fierce expressions. It felt absurd, this little procession trailing after her as if she were some maiden from a song, a prize to be guarded from dragons or bandits.

No one here would dare harm her. These were her father's people. They had lived the whole of their life in the shadow of Highgarden, paid their tithes to House Tyrell, and in return were protected by its knights. And yet her father would not hear of her coming with but a single escort or even two. He had fretted over pirates slipping past the Mander's watchtowers or some monstrous thing rising from the river's depths to drag her into the muddy abyss. She had laughed when he said it, but now she glanced at the water uneasily, wondering what lay beneath the swirling currents.

The knights shifted beside her, the faint clink of their armor breaking the stillness. Margaery folded her hands before her, the smooth fabric of her satin gloves soft against her skin. She could endure their watchfulness, their unnecessary presence, if it allowed her to stand here for a time. The river moved at its own pace, unhurried and constant. There was something soothing about it, even if her father's fears loomed in her mind.

Sir Bertrand raised a hand, the steel of his gauntlet glinting faintly in the pale light. He pointed downriver. "I believe that's them, my lady," he said, his voice calm but tinged with relief.

Margaery followed the line of his finger to the ship approaching through the muddy waters of the Mander. It was a modest cog, the sort of vessel built for journeys along the coast or upriver rather than daring voyages across the open sea. Its single mast bore the banner of House Cuy, six golden sunflowers bright against a field of deep blue.

She studied the ship as it drew near, her keen eyes taking in every detail. The hull was weathered, patched in places but sturdy, a ship of practical design rather than ostentation. It was no match for the great carracks and galleons that the merchant princes of Tilea or the navy of the Empire fielded. Even Bretonnia, with its ban on firearms on land, allowed its naval vessels to carry fearsome cannons, but this ship bore no such weapons. Its small size and lack of heavy armaments gave it speed and agility, a trait the crew made good use of as they guided it expertly toward the docks.

The sailors moved like monkeys from some southron jungle across the rigging, nimble and surefooted. They barked orders in clipped tones, their hands flying as they tacked the sails and tied off lines. It wasn't long before the cog slid into place against the dock, the hull bumping gently against the weathered wood as ropes were thrown to waiting dockhands.

Margaery's attention shifted as figures appeared on the gangplank. First came a young woman, her beauty striking enough to draw a murmur of interest from the men at the docks. She was slim, her movements graceful despite the slight swell of her belly, visible even through the folds of her simple, pink gown. It was an intriguing piece of foreign dress, like something out of a picture book she'd read as a child. Her features were unmistakably Eastern, her almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones marked her as half-Cathayan. Her skin was pale, almost porcelain, and her rich brown hair was swept up into an intricate high tail, held in place by a pair of gleaming pins that caught the light. That by itself was proof of her foreign nature and recent arrival, no Bretonnian woman who'd flowered would dare show her hair like that. Done up was better than hanging loose like some shameful harlot, but not by much.

Behind her came Lord Cuy himself, and Margaery's first thought was how much he had changed since last she saw him fresh on his arrival back from the east three and a half years ago. His once-sandy hair was now streaked with gray, and his face was lined and gaunt. Though still shy of fifty, he moved like a man of sixty or more, his steps careful and his hand gripping the rail for support. Whatever ailment gripped him, it had sunk its claws deep, leaving him frail and hollow-eyed.

Margaery tilted her head, watching him descend with a measured grace born more of dignity than strength. "The years have not been kind," she murmured to herself, the words soft enough to be carried away by the river breeze. She spared a glance at Sir Bertrand, who stood stoic as ever, though his eyes flicked to the young woman with a curiosity he tried to hide.

The girl was beautiful, yes, but her Cathayan heritage set her apart. Margaery wondered how her Cuy blood had shaped her. Her hair, brown rather than jet black, hinted at her father's influence, though little else about her did. Even from here, Margaery could see that the girl's delicate features owed far more to her mother's distant homeland.

As the two approached, Margaery's gaze lingered on Lord Cuy. 'Would the Damsel see to him?' she wondered. 'Could she?' The Damsels of Bretonnia were healers of great renown, blessed by the Lady herself, yet there were some wounds and some sicknesses that even their magic could not mend.

"Lady Tyrell," Lord Cuy greeted her with a stiff bow and a voice that was weary but still held a thread of strength, as though he refused to let his frailty claim the pride that had carried him through his years.

Margaery offered him a warm smile, one practiced and perfected over years of courtly life. "Lord Cuy," she replied. "It is good to see you safely arrived. The Mander has not grown any kinder since last you sailed its waters, I imagine."

The faintest shadow of a smile crossed his lips. "No, my lady," he said. "The river is as she ever was. Swift and treacherous, like the noble lords of the court."

Margaery allowed herself a small laugh at that. The Mander was broad and slow, but the forms had to be followed. After all, nothing in this world was safe or guaranteed, especially when travel was involved.

Her eyes flicked to the young woman who stood beside him, her hands folded over her belly. The girl lowered her gaze as Margaery's eyes met hers, but not quickly enough to hide the sharp intelligence in them. "This must be your daughter," Margaery said, her honeyed voice thick with sincerity. "And soon to be a mother herself, I see. May Shallya's blessings be upon her."

The girl dipped into a small curtsy, her movements fluid and graceful. "You honor me, my lady," she said, her voice soft, accented just enough to add an exotic cadence to her words.

Margaery smiled, though her mind was already spinning. A frail lord, a bastard heir carrying foreign blood, and a new life soon to be born. Pieces of a game she would have to play carefully.

"Would you do me the favor of escorting my daughter to the keep, Lady Tyrell?" Baron Cuy asked, his voice weary yet courteous. "I will remain here to oversee the crew as they unload our things and follow along after. Show her the town, the castle, its maze, and the cathedral. No need to be held back by a doddering old man like me."

"Father!" the girl gasped, scandalized by his self-deprecation. Margaery blinked at the sound, realizing she could not easily place her age. The shape and lines of her face were too different from the ones she was used to. She was young, certainly, but whether she was in her early twenties, closer to Margaery's own years or barely out of girlhood, it was impossible to say.

The baron chuckled, waving off her protest with a hand that trembled faintly. "Don't worry about me, Fuu," he said gently. "Go along with Lady Tyrell. Enjoy the sights. I'm not so fragile that I'll crumble to dust the moment you leave my side."

The girl, Fuu, as he called her, fussed over him regardless, hovering like a nervous sparrow as they exchanged soft words in voices too low for Margaery to hear. It was a sweet thing to watch, a daughter's care for her father, though it made the baron's frailty all the more stark.

At last, Fuu straightened and turned toward Margaery, her movements hesitant. She offered a shallow curtsey, her head bowed. "I am in your hands, Lady Tyrell."

"Oh, none of that, Fuu," Margaery said, her voice light and warm, her practiced charm slipping into place like a glove. "Look me in the eyes, please, and call me Lady Margaery. Lady Tyrell is my mother."

Fuu hesitated, then obeyed, lifting her gaze to meet Margaery's. Her brown eyes were dark, deep pools of thoughtfulness, and though her nod was small, it carried a surprising weight. "As you wish, Lady Margaery."

"Wonderful," Margaery said, slipping her arm through Fuu's with a cheerfulness that brooked no resistance. The girl gave a startled little squawk as Margaery began leading her away from the docks and onto the cobbled road that wound toward the castle. "Let's head up to Highgarden, then."

Fuu followed, her steps unsure at first, though she soon fell into stride beside Margaery. As they walked, Margaery gestured toward the bustling riverfront. "What do you think of Lowgarden?"

Fuu tilted her head, her gaze flitting over the town like a bird surveying the land for prey. "It's smaller than I expected," she said cautiously, though there was no malice in her tone. "Winterfell and Highgarden are castles of similar magnitude, but Winter Town…" She paused, her brow furrowing as she seemed to calculate. "Winter Town is a small city of thirty thousand people. Lowgarden has perhaps…" Her eyes roved the streets once more, quick and shrewd. "…an eighth as many?"

"About that," Margaery agreed with a nod, smiling faintly at Fuu's precise manner. "It has around four thousand people."

Fuu's lips pressed together as if in thought, though she said nothing more. Margaery glanced sideways at her, noting the tension in her shoulders and the guarded edge in her expression. She is careful with her words, Margaery thought. She does not wish to offend.

"Lowgarden has always been a humble little town," Margaery offered, her tone easy and conversational. "The river makes it useful, of course, but it's not a place for the grand finery you might find in Couronne or Altdorf. Highgarden has always cast a long shadow over it."

"And yet," Fuu said softly, almost as if to herself, "it may be an important capital someday soon."

Margaery smiled at that, a genuine warmth curling at the edges of her lips. 'Perhaps there's more to you than careful words and eastern manners, Fuu,' she thought. 'Let's see what else lies beneath.'

"Yes," Margaery replied, her tone bright, "if Father's plans for Mousillon come to fruition and the dukedom is restored, this town will become far more important." She cast her gaze across the quiet streets and modest docks. "One cannot administer a dukedom from a small riverside town like this. Father has dreams for Lowgarden, expanding it fivefold, paving the main road, renovating the docks, extending the outer walls all the way to the waterfront. He even speaks of building a great temple to Shallya at its heart, to show our devotion to the goddess and the common people, and to draw pilgrims from across the realm."

Fuu glanced toward the river, her dark eyes thoughtful. "I did wonder at the lack of defenses for the town," she noted. "Even the meanest Bretonnian villages I've seen had a palisade to ward off Beastmen and Greenskins."

"Given how close the town is to the castle, the folk here have always been able to flee behind its walls," Margaery said with a shrug. "But if Lowgarden grows as much as my father hopes, that won't be practical anymore. A city of twenty thousand can't flee behind Highgarden's walls in good order or time. Thousands would be caught crowded before the gates and cut down by any serious attacker."

"Twenty thousand..." Fuu hummed under her breath, a small frown creasing her brow. "I suppose you might call that a small city." Her tone was polite, but the doubt in her voice was clear. "Even then, will it truly serve well as a ducal capital? Winter Town is half again that size, yet Altdorf is abuzz with talk that Lord Stark plans to double it to sixty thousand within the decade, to make it a worthy seat for Ostermark."

Margaery's smile turned wry. 'So she's heard that news, she's well informed,' she thought. "Bretonnia is a vast land, and though we have a few cities of note, none would claim our kingdom is as urban as the Empire. Their lands are more crowded, thick with rich towns, their cities larger and grander. But Lowgarden need not rival an Electoral capital to serve its purpose. A ducal seat need only project the strength of its lord, and my father's plans will see it do just that."

Fuu gave a small nod, though her expression remained distant. "Still, it must grow," she said quietly. "A capital must be more than a shadow of the castle it serves."

Margaery chuckled softly, tightening her arm around Fuu's. "Then perhaps I'll have to bring you back here in ten years, Fuu, to see the city it becomes. Who knows? By then, you might even call it grand."

Fuu blinked at that, her lips quirking ever so slightly into an enigmatic smile. "Perhaps, Lady Margaery. Perhaps."

By the time they had crossed the breadth of Lowgarden, Margaery's feet ached faintly in her slippers, though she gave no sign. The cobbled streets were rough, lined with little shops whose shutters and signs swung in the gentle breeze. Bakers and butchers shouted their wares, their voices rising above the rhythmic clang of smiths at their forges and the chatter of masons working over stone. Common folk bustled about like ants in a hive, their arms laden with baskets of fish, bread, or bolts of coarse cloth. Some stopped to peruse the merchants' stalls, fingering finely forged knives or weighing a plump trout in hand.

Margaery smiled as they walked, inclining her head to those who called out greetings to her. This was her father's domain, and the people knew her face well. Fuu, however, regarded the scene with quiet detachment, her gaze flitting from shop to shop but betraying little emotion. 'A woman of masks,' Margaery thought, her curiosity piqued anew.

They crossed the open field that served as Highgarden's mustering ground, a swath of trampled grass that bore the scars of drills and parades. The field stretched wide and green, dotted with a few alert soldiers who watched them pass. Beyond it rose the long outer wall of Highgarden, the sun casting long shadows from its battlements.

The gatehouse loomed tall and sturdy, its iron portcullis raised in welcome, though Fuu barely spared it a glance. Margaery noted the slight arch of her companion's brow and wondered what walls this eastern girl had seen that made Highgarden's gates seem so unremarkable, before recalling that the girl had spent some time in Altdorf. Still, Fuu's indifference melted the moment they passed beneath the gate and into the bramble maze.

The path ahead was five yards wide, with enough room for three horsemen abreast, but the walls of tangled thorn rose high and close, twelve feet of shadowed green that felt like the embrace of some ancient forest. The maze's air was cooler, quieter, the sounds of the bustling town muffled behind its thorny curtain.

"How do you grow the walls so high?" Fuu asked, her voice soft but curious. "I thought brambles rarely reached more than half this height."

Margaery turned to her with a smile, pride glinting in her eyes. "A prophetess of the Lady of the Lake grew them," she said, her tone reverent. "It was not long after the unification of the realm, nearly fifteen hundred years past. Highgarden endured a brutal siege then, and when it was over, the prophetess wove this maze to stand as both a defense and a symbol of our enduring strength."

Fuu ran her fingers lightly along a rare cluster of thornless leaves, her dark eyes sharp with interest. "And it has endured all this time?"

"It does require tending," Margaery admitted, "but not as much as you might think. The brambles seem to grow of their own accord, as if the Lady's blessing still lingers. In the rare occurrences when they are damaged and need repairs, one of the Damsels renews the enchantments, but the gardeners do most of the work otherwise."

Fuu nodded, her hand withdrawing from the hedge. "It is impressive," she murmured. "More so than stone, perhaps. This has life in it."

"Yes," Margaery agreed, linking her arm with Fuu's again and leading her deeper into the maze. "It does." 'And life, like thorns, can be sharp and unyielding,' she thought, though she did not say it aloud. 'I wonder how sharp yours might be, Fuu.'

"A prophetess is a high-ranking Damsel, yes?" Fuu asked hesitantly, her voice soft but probing.

"Yes," Margaery replied, measuring her words as she always did when explaining Bretonnian traditions to an outsider. "A prophetess is one who has mastered the Lore of Heavens in addition to the Lores of Beasts and Life." She paused, wondering if Fuu's understanding of magic stretched far enough to grasp such distinctions. The girl seemed clever, but Cathay was a distant and mysterious land, and its ways were said to be strange. "What are the mages of Grand Cathay like?" Margaery asked, curiosity coloring her tone.

Fuu straightened, a glimmer of pride flickering in her dark eyes. "The Dragon-blooded can all trace their lineage to the Celestial Dragon Emperor or one of his progeny," she began. "Though many generations may separate them from their honored ancestor, they marry almost exclusively among their lines to keep their blood pure and strong. Because of this, they can channel far more magic than ordinary men. They master either the Lore of Yin, which encompasses what you would call the Lores of Beasts, Death, Metal, and Shadows, or the Lore of Yang, which includes the Lores of Fire, Heavens, Life, and Light. Of course," she added with a slight lift of her chin, "the Dragons themselves can master all eight Winds and wield true magic, as the High Elves do."

Margaery blinked, startled by the audacity of the claim. 'All eight winds?' Even the most gifted Damsels of the Lady, those personally tutored by the Fey Enchantress herself, could master no more than two or three Winds. To master them all… it seemed impossible.

"Wait," Margaery said, narrowing her eyes. "True magic?" She was no mage herself, but as the daughter of a powerful noble house, she had been tutored in the basics of such matters. A lady must know the threats her house might one day face. "No man can master true magic without being driven mad."

Fuu sighed, the sound carrying a faint trace of exasperation, as though this was a conversation she'd had too many times before. "The Dragon Emperor… that is not merely a title," she said, her tone deliberate, almost chiding. "It is a literal description."

Margaery stared, trying to mask her incredulity behind a polite expression. 'A dragon? A true dragon?' The very idea was as fantastical as it was unsettling. She had heard tales of the fire-breathing terrors that roamed the skies of the high mountains and deep forests, but to think such a creature might rule an empire… and sire descendants who walked among men…

She studied Fuu carefully. The girl's face was calm, but there was an edge to her words, a steel hidden beneath her delicate manners. Margaery felt her thoughts whirl, questions forming faster than she could voice them. If Fuu spoke the truth, and that was a large if, then Cathay was a land of wonders and dangers beyond imagining.

"And these dragons," Margaery said at last, her voice light and curious, though her thoughts were anything but, "are they as benevolent as they are powerful?"

Fuu met her gaze evenly, her lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. "That," she said, "depends entirely on who you ask."

"The dragons of the Old World are all malevolent," Margaery said, her voice measured, though a flicker of unease lingered beneath her calm exterior. "Or at best amoral, like wolves. They do not devour men out of hatred, but because they hunger, and we are prey to them. The only dragons I've heard of that seem different are those of Ulthuan, tamed by the High Elves."

"A dragon that can be tamed is no dragon at all," Fuu said with a huff, her tone sharp as a knife. "The dragons of the Old World and Ulthuan must be a lesser breed. The Celestial Dragon and his consort, the Moon Empress, are creatures of a different kind entirely. Far longer, more sinuous. Their bodies are adorned with antlers like a stag, and their scales shimmer like gemstones under starlight. Yet most of the time, they walk among us in the guise of men or women, though they are no less dangerous for it."

Margaery arched an elegant brow, her thoughts flickering between skepticism and intrigue. "And why is that? Are not dragons solitary by nature? What need have they for the company of men?"

"If they were ever solitary, Cathayan dragons have long since cast off that nature, if not by choice, then by necessity," Fuu replied. Her tone was quiet, but it carried the weight of an ancient tale, as if each word had been handed down from one generation to the next. "When the Ruinous Powers first unleashed their horrors upon the world, pouring their vile legions down from the far north, the Celestial Dragon and the Moon Dragon rose to oppose them. They united the fractious and primitive tribes of Cathay beneath their banner and forged an empire from the chaos. Together, they drove the daemons back into the wastes and raised the Great Bastion, a wall of magic and stone that stands unbroken to this day."

Margaery glanced at the girl as they walked the maze, the towering bramble walls casting dappled shadows over their path. 'A wall that has stood unbroken for four or five times as long as Bretonnia has existed,' she thought in wonder.

"An empire forged by dragons," Margaery said at last, her voice light, though her mind churned with questions. "It sounds like something from the old songs."

"It was no song," Fuu said, her voice firm. "It was war. Blood and fire and sacrifice. The Celestial Dragon Emperor and the Moon Empress are not beasts, Lady Margaery. They are rulers. Protectors. And, when the need arises, warriors."

Margaery studied her companion, her big, light brown eyes flicking over the girl's poised expression. There was no boastfulness in her tone, only quiet conviction. Margaery wondered if it was faith or certainty, or perhaps both, that lent Fuu her strength. 'The blood of dragons,' she thought. 'What would the world look like, I wonder, if such creatures ruled more than just Cathay?'

"Perhaps the tales of your homeland are true," Margaery said, her words cautious but not dismissive. "But if your dragons are rulers and protectors, as you say, what price do they demand of their subjects?"

Fuu met her gaze, her expression unreadable. "Every ruler demands a price," she said softly. "The only question is whether the people can bear to pay it."

Margaery fell silent, the soft rustle of the brambles filling the air as they walked. There was truth in Fuu's words, a truth that was heavier than any crown.

They passed through the maze in silence, the brambles casting twisting shadows as the late afternoon sun began its descent. Beyond the towering middle gate and the even larger inner gate, they entered Highgarden proper. Margaery saw the half-Cathayan girl's composure falter, if only for a heartbeat. Fuu's dark eyes widened, taking in the sprawling castle with its soaring towers, its verdant terraces overflowing with colorful winter flowers, and the stately buildings that surrounded the great courtyard like noble guardians.

"Have you ever set foot in a castle like this?" Margaery asked, her tone as light as a summer breeze.

"No," Fuu admitted, her gaze lingering on the intricate carvings of the stonework. "I have visited many a great city and seen castles and palaces from afar, some the equal to this, others even greater. But I have never gotten closer to them than the outer walls."

'Never crossed the threshold,' Margaery thought, studying the girl. For all her sharp tongue and guarded demeanor, there was something almost vulnerable about her in this moment. The faintest crack in an otherwise unyielding exterior.

"Would you like to see the Cathedral to the Lady?" Margaery offered, the suggestion slipping easily from her lips. It pleased her to play the gracious host, to extend the warmth and wonder of her home to a stranger.

Fuu nodded, her warm brown hair catching the sunlight as she inclined her head. "If I am to become a noblewoman of these lands, I must pay my respects to the Goddess who represents the nobility of these lands."

Margaery frowned slightly at the words, a gentle correction already forming on her tongue. "She is more than that," she said, her voice soft yet insistent, as though revealing a cherished secret. "The Lady is not merely a goddess of noble birth or station. She is the embodiment of chivalry and honor, of bravery and purity. She is the deliverer of dreams and the mage's muse, the rock upon which Bretonnia is built and its shield against all who would see it fall."

Fuu regarded her with a cool, thoughtful expression. For a moment, Margaery wondered if she had said too much, if her passion had come across as sermonizing. But the girl inclined her head again, a gesture of acknowledgment, if not agreement.

"You speak of her as one would a mother," Fuu said, her tone carefully neutral. "Or perhaps a queen."

"Perhaps she is both," Margaery replied with a small smile, leading the way across the courtyard toward the cathedral. 'If you are to live among us, you will come to understand,' she thought. 'The Lady is no mere idol, no distant deity. She is the heart of Bretonnia.'

They approached the grand cathedral, its slender spires piercing the heavens like spears raised in reverence. The stained glass windows shimmered in the afternoon sun, reflecting a riot of colors across the polished marble steps, and Margaery thought there was no finer place in all the world. Fluted columns stood as sentinels, while statues of the Lady's champions gazed down with solemn pride, each a testament to Bretonnia's storied past. It was a sight to stir the heart of any knight, even one who'd sipped from the Grail, yet Fuu seemed unfazed. Fuu's face held only quiet curiosity, her dark eyes moving over the grandeur as if assessing its worth.

"I read much about the gods of the Old World at the Library of Verena in Altdorf," Fuu said, her voice as calm as still water. "There is much to learn and still so much I do not yet understand. Grand Cathay does not have their like."

Margaery stopped short, her step faltering. "No gods?" she asked, bewildered. The words struck her like an unexpected blow. "How do you hold back the dark forces of the world? The north? How do the common folk manage their lives? Surely farmers must pray for rain, mothers for healthy babes, men for bravery in battle?"

Fuu met her gaze evenly, her composure unshaken. "The Dragon Emperor and his consort, the Moon Empress, are strong enough to contest the Dark Powers of the North and hold them at bay," she said, her tone firm, almost proud. "They are revered and respected, deeply so. In the countryside, this reverence edges into veneration that you might call worship, though they have no temples or priests. The Dragons do not tolerate such things. As for the common folk, they pray to the spirits of their ancestors at household shrines. It is hardly an organized faith, not as seen in the nations of the Old World, nor like in the kingdoms of Ind."

Margaery frowned, the explanation leaving a sour taste in her mouth. Ancestors in Morr's garden, or those trapped in this world as ghosts, seemed poor guardians to her. "But what of drought? Of famine? When the rains fail or the crops wither in the fields, where do your people turn? Surely, without true gods to pray to, darker things will take their place."

Fuu shook her head, a faint smile curling her lips as if she found Margaery's concern quaint. "The Dragon Emperor reigns above the magnificent capital of Wei-Jin in a floating palace of such majesty that it would make the Imperial Palace in Altdorf seem small and plain. There, he and the Moon Empress weave magic that would shame even the High Elves. Should the rains fail in one province or fall too heavily in another, rest assured the Dragons will bring balance, just as your Rhya and Taal might do in these lands."

The claim was bold, too bold. Margaery bit back a scoff. Magic to rival the High Elves and even the gods themselves? A palace to dwarf the Imperial Capital? She had heard such boasts before, from proud men and women who wished to elevate themselves, their homes, their gods. And yet, there was something in Fuu's calm assurance, her quiet certainty, that made Margaery hesitate. 'If it is not true, she believes it so,' she thought.

But belief alone would not sway Margaery. Not when it came to gods, to faith, to the Lady who stood watch over her people. "That is all well for the Emperor and his court," Margaery said gently, though her words carried an edge. "But even in Wei-Jin, there must be times when men are left to face the dark alone. And when that time comes, reverence and magic may not be enough."

For the first time, Fuu faltered, her lips pressing into a thin line. But whatever reply she might have given was swallowed by the tolling of the cathedral bells, their song rising like a prayer into the heavens.

When the bells fell silent, Fuu said nothing. Whatever words had been forming on her tongue died with the echoes, and Margaery had no intention of coaxing them back to life. 'Let her cling to her Cathayan notions if she likes,' she thought. 'So long as she learns to walk the paths of Bretonnia with the proper respect, what does it matter?'

She painted a smile on her lips and clasped her hands lightly before her. "Let me show you," she said brightly, leading Fuu toward the cathedral doors. "This began as a humble grail chapel, raised in honor of Garth Greenhand, the founder of his line. It was built not long after Gilles le Breton united the nation."

Inside, the cool shadows of the cathedral wrapped around them like a cloak, the air heavy with incense and candlewax. Margaery spun her tale with practiced ease, weaving history and legend together as she gestured to the painted frescoes, the carvings of Grail Knights and Damsels, and the relics gleaming in their jeweled cases. Each piece held a story; a knight's blade tempered in dragon's blood, a chalice said to have once held a damsel's tears.

Fuu followed, her steps light but deliberate, her dark eyes roaming over the sacred sights. She said little, but when she did speak, her questions were sharp and thoughtful, each one cutting to the heart of the matter. Margaery found herself begrudgingly impressed. 'A clever mind can be dangerous, but if it's shaped well, it can be useful.' Slowly, the tension between them softened, their earlier clash of words fading into the stillness of the holy space.

By the time Margaery finished her tale, a servant appeared in the doorway, bowing low. "Pardon me, my lady," he said, his voice hushed as if afraid to disturb the quiet reverence of the place. "But your father requests your presence in the Great Hall. He asks that you bring the Baron's daughter at once."

"Of course," Margaery replied with a gracious nod. She turned to Fuu, her smile warm and unruffled. "Come, then. Let us not keep my lord father waiting."

The two made their way back into the courtyard, the late afternoon sun spilling gold and shadow across the flagstones. They passed the Keep, its towering walls of pale stone catching the light like a crown. Fuu's head tilted back as she studied it, an inscrutable expression on her face.

They wound past the slender Library Tower, its narrow windows glinting like a line of watchful eyes, and finally approached the Great Hall. It rose before them, a fortress of stone, timber and iron, grand and imposing, second only to the Keep in size and majesty.

Margaery glanced at Fuu as they climbed the steps, the foreign girl's face still calm, though her gaze swept the hall with quiet curiosity. 'She'll learn soon enough,' Margaery thought, a flicker of amusement curling through her mind. 'Bretonnia has a way of teaching lessons no book in Cathay could ever prepare her for.'

The Great Hall was alive with murmurs and movement, courtiers pressed shoulder to shoulder, their colorful cloaks and silks a sea of restless hues. The tables had been cleared away, leaving the stone floor bare save for the long green carpet stretching toward the dais. At its end sat her father, Count Mace Tyrell, upon the lord's chair, his great muscle and bulk draped in finery. To his right, her eldest brother Willas sat in the heir's chair, his face as composed as ever, though his sharp eyes missed nothing.

Margaery felt a flicker of envy tighten her chest as she glanced at the seat beside her father's. She thought of Merida in Winterfell, seated proudly at Robb Stark's side as he presided over his father's hall. 'I wonder if the Duke of Aquitaine will ever let me sit beside him like that?'

The crowd parted as Margaery led Fuu down the carpet, their footsteps swallowed by the hum of speculation around them. All eyes were on the Cathayan girl, her rich brown hair framing a pale face that betrayed no fear, though Margaery suspected her heart must be hammering beneath her foreign silks. They reached the dais, and Margaery dipped into a deep curtsy, her voice smooth and practiced.

"We have arrived, Father. This is Fuu, the natural daughter of Baron Cuy."

Fuu followed suit, bending as deeply as she could manage in her condition. There was grace in her movements, even if the act lacked polish.

Her father leaned forward, squinting as he studied the girl. "Hmm. There are some aspects to her face that resemble Emmon's when he was young," he mused, stroking his chin. "Though she favors her mother far more, it seems." He shook his head, dismissing his own musings. "Enough guesswork. Let us be certain."

He turned to the young woman standing at his side, a Damsel clad in pale green robes, her gold blonde hair bound with silver thread. A beauty certainly, but Margaery could not help but remember her arrival in the form of a Great Eagle. "Damsel Guerrite, will you confirm the girl's lineage?"

"Certainly, Count Tyrell." The damsel's voice was calm and measured, as she stepped down from the dais.

From the corner of her eye, Margaery saw Baron Cuy emerge from the front of the crowd, his expression unreadable as he moved to stand beside his daughter. Guerrite took his hand in her left and Fuu's in her right, her gaze narrowing as she murmured words in a language older and far more foreign than any Margaery knew.

A soft, green glow began to swirl around their joined hands, snaking up their arms like tendrils of ivy. The air seemed to hum with quiet power. Margaery fought the urge to shiver, marveling at how still the Baron and his daughter stood. She wasn't sure she could have remained so composed with a damsel's magic coursing through her flesh.

In a matter of heartbeats, it was done. The light faded, and Guerrite released their hands. She turned back to the dais, her voice carrying clearly through the hall. "It is as they've claimed. She is the daughter of Baron Cuy."

Margaery let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Around her, the courtiers murmured anew, their whispers carrying a mixture of awe, approval, and the faintest thread of discontent.

"Then step forward, the both of you," her father proclaimed, his voice firm and resonant.

Baron Cuy and his daughter shuffled toward the dais, Fuu's steps steady despite the weight of so many eyes upon her.

"With the bloodline of this child confirmed by a Damsel of the Lady of the Lake," Mace Tyrell began, his tone carrying all the weight of his station, "and with the authority vested in me by my liege lord, Duke Adalhard of Lyonesse, I, Mace of House Tyrell, Count of Highgarden, do hereby declare Fuu of Cathay to be the legitimate daughter of Emmon Cuy, Baron of Cuy and Lord of Sunflower Hall."

The hall erupted into applause, though not all clapped with equal fervor. Margaery watched Fuu closely, noting the faint flicker of something… relief… or perhaps determination in the girl's dark eyes. 'You've won your name, but your battles are far from over,' Margaery thought. 'Welcome to the game, little flower. Let's see if you can bloom in the thorns.'

The applause had scarcely begun to fade when Fuu spoke, her voice soft yet steady. "My lady," she asked, turning her dark eyes to the damsel, "can you heal my father?"

Baron Cuy's face tightened. "That's not necessary," he said briskly, but there was a weariness in his tone that betrayed him.

The damsel glanced at him, her expression unreadable, then took his hand again. Margaery watched as that faint green glow flickered to life once more, casting the Baron's lined face in an eerie light. After a moment, the damsel's brow furrowed.

"I could," she said carefully, her voice measured, "but his ailment lies in his blood, deep and unyielding. It has aged with him, and while I can cleanse the symptoms, they will return. Faster this time, as his body as aged since it first came upon him." She looked up at him, her gaze steady. "It would give him a few healthy months, no more."

"No," the Baron said, his voice firm despite the tremor that ran through it. He pulled his hand away, shaking his head. "This is my fate. I will face it as I have faced all things. My only concern is whether my daughter shares this burden."

The damsel hesitated, then turned to Fuu, her expression softening. "Very unlikely," she said, taking the girl's hand in hers. The green glow flickered once more, running over Fuu's delicate fingers and slim wrist. After a moment, the damsel let go, her lips curving in what might have been approval.

"Such afflictions," she explained, her voice cool and clear, "are the price of too many cousins wed to cousins, generation upon generation. The noble and knightly houses of Bretonnia may number in the thousands, yet too often they marry only among a handful of families. It is good to see fresh blood now and then." Her gaze lingered on Fuu, sharp and searching, before softening again. "She is in good health, and so is the babe."

Margaery caught her breath at that. The murmurs rippling through the hall confirmed she wasn't alone. Fuu's face remained a mask, but Margaery could see the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her fingers clenched briefly before relaxing again.

'So, the child is acknowledged in more ways than one,' Margaery thought, her mind already spinning through the implications. 'Another foreign bastard carrying the blood of Cuy. It will raise eyebrows, but that could be turned to her advantage if played correctly.'

Her gaze flicked to the Baron, who stood straighter now, as if the weight of the hall's scrutiny had settled on him once more. 'If he had concerns about his daughter before, they'll be doubled now. But Fuu…' Margaery studied the girl's calm expression. 'She's stronger than she seems. She'll need to be.'

"Fresh blood indeed," her father rumbled from the dais, breaking the silence. "Let us hope it serves the House of Cuy well."

Margaery hid her thoughts behind a delicate tilt of her head. 'It remains to be seen if this blood will revive them or bleed them dry.'

Chapter Text

"Let us celebrate this ceremony with a feast," her father proclaimed, his voice booming across the hall, and at once, the servants sprang into motion. The long trestle tables were dragged back into place, the polished boards gleaming in the golden light of countless candelabras.

Father took his place at the head of the lord's table, his heir Willas at his right, his wife Lady Alerie at his left. Arianne sat beside Willas, her dark eyes glittering as she surveyed the hall, and Grandmother sat next to Mother, her sharp tongue surely ready to carve into anyone who displeased her. Margaery settled between Grandmother and Fuu, with the Baron seated across from her between Arianne and the Damsel. She cast a wary glance at her Grandmother, silently praying that the elder Tyrell might spare the poor girl the cutting side of her tongue. But she knew better than to hope too much.

The feast that followed was a marvel even by Highgarden's standards. Platters of roasted potatoes gleaming with butter, sweet jellied persimmons that quivered at the slightest touch, and the main course, a cockenthrice, an absurd yet glorious creation, its front half a rooster, its back half a pig, stitched together by the castle's cooks in a show of both skill and whimsy that would impress even the Halflings of the far-off Moot. The air was thick with the aromas of rosemary and garlic, mingling with the hum of conversation and the clatter of silverware.

Margaery took a delicate bite of the cockenthrice's front half, letting the flavors linger on her tongue before turning to Fuu. "Do you like the food, Lady Cuy?" she asked, her voice light and warm, as if they were old friends.

The girl hesitated, her hands resting lightly on the edge of the table. "It's a little rich for my tastes," Fuu admitted, her tone careful, "but it is certainly filling."

Margaery smiled, tilting her head just so. "It will be good for the babe," she said, her gaze flicking to Fuu's belly, the roundness of pregnancy just coming into view. She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Is it true what they say? About the father? Is it Robb Stark?"

Fuu's cheeks flamed, the color rushing to her face as her eyes dropped to her plate. She said nothing, but her silence spoke volumes.

Margaery pressed on, her curiosity too great to let the matter rest. "What was he like?" she asked, her voice soft and coaxing. She studied the girl's expression, eager to see how Fuu's words might match the vivid descriptions Merida had penned of her new husband in her letters.

Fuu hesitated, her fork trembling slightly in her hand. "He…" she began, her voice barely audible over the din of the hall. "He was friendly and kind."

Margaery raised a delicate brow. "Friendly and kind?" she echoed, leaning in further. "Those are not the first words one thinks of when imagining the Young Wolf, is it?"

Fuu swallowed hard, her voice steadier this time. "He was… strong, but not cruel. When he looked at me, it felt as though he saw me, not just a stranger from a far-off land. He treated me with respect."

'Had he really?' Margaery wondered at that, her mind painting a picture of the Stark heir based on Fuu's halting words and Merida's vivid letters. Welcoming and strong. Respectful. A wolf with a heart, then. But wolves are still wolves, no matter how tame they may seem. And Fuu had ended up with child, and in a rather short amount of time. She couldn't have known him long before she'd lain with him. How respectful could he have been? A soldier fresh from the battlefield of a brutal campaign.

Was she just saying that out of respect for his status as heir to Ostermark? To make herself feel better about what had happened? Or was she trying to convince herself that that was the way it had gone? She decided to prod at the young woman and see how she reacted. "And yet," Margaery said with a small, knowing smile, "here you are, carrying his child after a chance meeting, while he's since married my cousin. That, too, is the way of wolves, is it not?"

Fuu said nothing, her gaze fixed on her plate as if she could find answers among the scraps of her untouched food.

Margaery sat back, satisfied for now. The girl's story was only just beginning, and she intended to hear every chapter. After all, Highgarden was a garden of secrets, and Margaery Tyrell had always known how to make the most of what was planted before her.

"The past is immaterial," her grandmother said, her voice cool and sharp, cutting through the clatter of plates and the hum of conversation. It was a surprising thing to hear from Olenna Tyrell, who had spent a lifetime spinning webs of intrigue from the threads of history, grand and personal. "What of the future? Who does your father plan for you?"

A good question, though Margaery knew well enough that here the past was far from immaterial. A woman's history could weigh heavier than the finest dowry, especially one marked by an illegitimate child. For every man who might leap at the chance to gain a barony through Fuu's hand, there would be just as many who balked, clutching their precious honor like a shield. And of those willing, far too many would be the sort of husband a woman dreaded to have. The desperate and greedy, the hard-hearted, drunkards, gamblers and worse.

It was the Baron who answered. "My brother's sons fell before him without issue and he had no daughters. I have only second cousins and their sons to choose from, though given what the Damsel said, that may be for the best. I have sent an offer to Sir Phoebus de Gondelaurier of Carcassonne."

Margaery's goblet paused halfway to her lips, and Fuu all but jumped in her seat. "Sir Phoebus?" Margaery asked, her voice bright with surprise. "He has just returned from the Empire, has he not? Successful after a four-year quest for the Grail!" The tales of new Grail Knights traveled swiftly, each one more grandiose than the last. Sir Phoebus was said to have slain a Jabberslythe with a single blow, a feat as impossible as it was enthralling.

"He's your second cousin?" Fuu asked hesitantly, her brows knitting in confusion. "That means he shares a grandparent's parent with you?"

"He's the son of my second cousin Hugo," the Baron clarified with a solemn nod. "Hugo and I share a great-grandmother." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the table. "There are other cousins I share a great-grandfather with, and normally their line would take precedence, yet none will dare oppose a knight of the Grail."

To Margaery's surprise, Fuu didn't seem awed by the revelation of Sir Phoebus as her proposed match. Instead, the girl looked puzzled, her delicate brows knitting together as if she were working through some riddle.

"It's just that," Fuu began hesitantly, her voice soft but clear, "when I was staying at Karak Kadrin, I happened to meet Sir Phoebus there and asked him if he knew of a Bretonnian noble house that bore sunflowers on their coat." She glanced around the table nervously, as if unsure whether to continue. "He said he believed there was a family bearing that coat of arms sworn to the Count of Highgarden. But… as he hailed from Carcassonne, he wasn't entirely certain. Shouldn't he have been more certain than that if he's related to you?"

That was peculiar, Margaery thought, tilting her head as she considered Fuu's words. One might not think much of one's great-grandparents and their family in everyday life, but noble children were taught their lineages as if they were sacred texts. By the time a child could wield a practice sword, they could recite their ancestry back three or four generations, if not more, and list all their lines of descent. For a knight of the Grail, of all people, to falter on such a question was curious indeed.

The Baron frowned, his thick brows drawing down like storm clouds. "You spoke to him in Reikspiel at the time, did you not?" he asked, his tone patient but firm. "And you did not know the number of sunflowers on my coat, nor my family name at that time?"

Fuu nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. "Yes, that's right," she said. "I didn't know the details then."

"There are other houses with sunflowers upon their shields," Lord Cuy explained, his tone one of careful instruction, as if speaking to a novice at court. "The number of flowers, their arrangement, the colors of the field, all these vary between houses. And there are no shortage of noble families with flowers in general on their coats, as you surely know, Lady Margaery." He gave the Rose of Highgarden a small nod before turning back to Fuu. "If he hadn't heard of my trip to the east, and I see no reason why he should have, given he hails from Carcassonne, the man likely could not be certain which house you meant. And as you were both speaking in a foreign tongue, he would have answered cautiously, as any knight of honor would."

Margaery hummed softly, swirling the wine in her goblet as her gaze flicked between Fuu and her father. The explanation was reasonable enough, yet something about it still felt off. Caution was one thing, but uncertainty? From a knight who had sworn himself to the Lady of the Lake? A Grail Knight should know his kin as well as his own prayers. Still, he was but a Questing Knight at the time, still mortal and afflicted with the burdens all mortal men carried. He may have been exhausted or wounded from fighting in the siege when Fuu approached him, so Margaery kept her thoughts to herself, offering Fuu a warm, reassuring smile instead. "I'm sure it was nothing, my lady," she said gently. "Sir Phoebus is no ordinary man; you'll see for yourself soon enough."

"No Grail Knight is," the Damsel said at last, her voice soft yet commanding, like the murmur of a stream, slowly but surely cutting through stone. It was the first time she had spoken since seating herself at the table, and all eyes turned to her. She smiled faintly, the expression touched with a sense of knowing. "I suspect we'll hear tales of one soon." Her gaze shifted, drifting toward the hall's great doors.

Margaery followed the Damsel's eyes, frowning slightly in confusion. 'What does she mean?' she wondered. And then she saw it, a snowy owl swooping silently through the narrow gap of the doors, its wings wide and gliding with unnatural grace. Gasps rippled through the hall, and the bird descended, its form shifting even as it landed. Feathers melted away, giving way to golden hair and the figure of a gorgeous young woman, radiant, poised, and regal. Her steps were light yet deliberate, and an otherworldly air seemed to cling to her like mist on a morning field.

The guards at the door were too stunned to level their billhooks or draw their swords, and Margaery could hardly blame them. The hall had gone deathly quiet, the clatter of knives on plates, the hum of conversation, all fading to nothing.

"Sister!" the Damsel exclaimed, rising from her seat at the table and waving eagerly to the newcomer. The sudden burst of warmth in her voice was almost startling, given her usual serene composure.

The golden-haired woman moved toward the high table, her every step watched by more than a hundred pairs of wide eyes. Whispers stirred in her wake, like leaves rustling in a breeze, though no one dared to speak aloud.

"This," the Damsel said as her sister approached, her voice carrying across the hall with effortless authority, "is my eldest sister, Jeneva, the blessed maid of Mousillon, Prophetess of the Lady."

Margaery blinked, trying not to gape. 'Eldest?' If this Jeneva was older, was it by a day or a decade? It was impossible to tell. The two women were no mirrors of one another, but they both looked around twenty years of age and the kinship between them was plain in their shared grace, the shape of their face and their otherworldly beauty. 'Not all twins look wholly alike,' Margaery thought, though she could not shake the sense that there was something more to these sisters than mere blood. Something deeper. Something stranger.

Her grandmother's fingers drummed softly on the table beside her, a subtle but deliberate rhythm that made Margaery glance her way. The Queen of Thorns' sharp eyes gleamed with interest, her lips curving into a faint smile. "A Prophetess," Olenna murmured under her breath, though whether it was mere interest or true approval, Margaery could not tell.

Her father rose, his movements deliberate and measured, as if every inch of him wished to convey dignity in the presence of one of Bretonnia's spiritual leaders. "It has been many a year since a Prophetess has graced these halls, my Lady," he said with a formal bow. "Be welcome." A servant was summoned with a flick of his hand, and a chair fetched and brought to the head of the table for her. Without hesitation, he slid his own chair closer to his wife to make room. "Please, sit and enjoy the repast."

"I will indeed," the Prophetess said, a faint smile touching her lips, though her eyes glinted with purpose. "Though, of course, that is not why I have come."

A murmur stirred the hall, but it was silenced just as quickly as she reached into the folds of her flowing gown of Cathayan silk, and withdrew a rolled missive. Was it a trick of the light, or had the dress seemed to shimmer with faint traces of feathers, a reminder of what she had been mere moments ago. "I bring news of great import from your son, Sir Loras."

Margaery felt her breath hitch, her heart quickening. 'Loras...' She forced herself to remain still, though her hands clenched in her lap.

"Is he well?" her father asked, his voice calm, though Margaery knew him well enough to hear the faint tension beneath the surface.

"More than that," the Prophetess replied, her words edged with mystery. "We uncovered a great conspiracy in Rachard. Its lord was plotting against you, and worse, had fallen into necromancy and heresy. He contested me with foul magics while your son slew his corrupted followers, but the dark powers he called upon proved his undoing."

The hall hung on her every word. Margaery's heart was in her throat. 'Betrayal… by Lord Rachard?' Her father had dearly counted on Rachard's support for the campaign into Mousillon. Such treachery could have ruined their house. And yet, she thought not of the campaign or their house's future, but of her brother. 'Is Loras alive? Whole? Or has he already joined the Lady in her endless glades and pools?'

The Prophetess paused, letting the silence stretch as if savoring the weight of their fears. "The strain of his foul dealings overwhelmed him," she continued, her voice soft but unyielding. "He mutated uncontrollably, his body twisting under the Ruinous Powers' grasp, and a loathsome daemon took him as its vessel. I was struck unconscious in the battle, and Sir Loras faced the abomination alone."

Margaery gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white.

"The brave knight's face was brutally burned," the Prophetess proclaimed dramatically, "he was blinded in one eye. Yet he did not falter, nor did he waver. Alone, he faced the daemon, and alone, he struck it down. The Lady witnessed his valor and rewarded him with the Grail. One sip from that holy chalice, and all his injuries were healed, as though they had never been."

The words washed over Margaery like a wave, her body both tense and trembling. Relief flooded her, but still she struggled to breathe. 'A Grail Knight... my beloved brother...'

"He rose as Lord of Rachard," the Prophetess said, her gaze steady, her voice unflinching. "Though the castle and town is called Rachard no longer. He has renamed them Jeneva, in honor of my guidance and the Lady's grace."

Margaery could feel the eyes of the hall shifting toward her, excited whispers stirring like autumn leaves scattered across the forest floor. But she barely noticed. Her mind was with her brother, standing alone before a daemon, his sword flashing in the dark as its fire's consumed him. "Loras… a Grail Knight. And yet, at what cost?' How long would he wake screaming in the night at flames that had long since gone out?

"Well, that is not how I expected to gain control of Rachard and the pass it commands into Mousillon," her father said, his voice laced with amazement. He leaned against his chair, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

Yet Margaery's mind lingered on what her father left unsaid as her fingers idly traced the rim of her goblet. As a Grail Knight, Loras would owe his allegiance directly to the King, for a Grail Knight could only swear fealty to another Grail Knight. Of course, the King rarely meddled in the affairs of Grail Knights, especially those stationed far from him in the distant corners of Bretonnia. Loras would have free rein to rule Jeneva as he saw fit, but it was hard to imagine he would stray far from the Tyrell fold. Their family's roots ran deep, and her father would see to it that Loras remained tied to Highgarden, not just as a son but as an ally. 'Father, then Willas, then his sons and grandsons in turn... while Loras and Garlan, blessed by the Lady, could live on to see seven or eight generations pass.'

"How well my children have done," Lord Tyrell continued, his voice warm with pride. "My firstborn will rule as Lord of Highgarden and Duke of Mousillon. My second son, a Grail Knight and Baron of Brightwater Keep. My third, also a Grail Knight and Lord of Jeneva, and likely to eventually rule as a Baron in his own right, once the dust of battle settles. And my sweet daughter, Duchess of Aquitaine." He smiled at her, his chest puffed slightly. "Truly, we are blessed by the Lady."

Margaery felt her cheeks flush, her father's words leaving her both pleased and faintly embarrassed. But even as she basked in his praise, her thoughts drifted to Rachard… no, it was Jeneva now. She could see the wheels turning behind her father's calm exterior, already plotting how Loras's new domain might strengthen their house. No doubt there were neighbors near Jeneva's borders ripe for conquest or subjugation. There would certainly be lords among them determined to resist the Tyrell's campaign for Mousillon. 'Father will see them brought to heel, for Loras's sake and for ours.'

"That you are," the Prophetess, said, her serene voice carrying across the hall. "Garlan's quest was swift in its own right, but Loras's…" She shook her head, the faintest note of wonder in her tone. "I do not think any Grail Knight has been raised so swiftly in over two hundred years."

Olenna's sharp gaze fell on the Prophetess. "Worth aside, why do you think that is?" she asked, her voice dry but probing, as if she already suspected the answer.

Jeneva turned to the Queen of Thorns, her golden hair catching the light like a crown. "Because the Lady wills it so," she said simply. "The coming war in Mousillon demands it. Lord Rachard was but a prelude. His necromancy, powerful as it was, pales in comparison to what awaits. The Black Knight gathers his allies, vampires and necromancers capable of raising vast hordes of the undead. The scale of the coming conflict will rival the Von Carsteins' wars against the Empire."

A hush fell over the hall. Even Margaery's father, so often unshakable, seemed momentarily at a loss for words. Guerrite had spoken of the dark forces gathering in Mousillon, but while her warnings had been dire in their implications they had not been this blunt and explicit with regards to their scale. Nor had she announced it publicly for the entire court to hear.

"And should we prevail," Jeneva continued, her voice like a blade, "our victory will only bring new challenges. To the east, Kislev and the Empire will be fighting for their lives against untold horrors. An Everchosen stirs in the far North, and the Ruinous Powers will march with him."

The Prophetess's words settled over the room like a shroud. Margaery's chest tightened, and she struggled to draw breath. 'Vampires and Necromancers. An Everchosen. The Ruinous Powers.' These were no whispered tales told to frighten children but truths spoken by a Prophetess of the Lady herself.

Her hands clenched in her lap as dread threatened to overwhelm her. The great tapestry of power her father wove in his mind, the victories he planned to secure for their house, it all seemed so fragile in the face of such terrors. What good was a barony or a duchy gained, or even the glory of the Grail, if the world itself was about to fall to ruin?

"Much of western Bretonnia is already marshaling their forces, preparing for the spring campaign," her father said, walking away from his seat to mount the dais and address the court, his voice steady and resolute, as if the weight of the world could not bend him. "The King himself will lead an Errantry War against our foes, and the rest of Bretonnia will not stand idle once the magnitude of this threat is revealed. With the blessings of the Lady and her chosen champions, the Knights of the Grail and her Damsels, we shall prevail, no matter the opposition. We always have, and we always will."

His words rang with conviction, a declaration as firm as the stone walls of Highgarden. Yet, as Margaery sat watching her father, she wondered if his resolve masked the same doubt clawing at her heart. For all his confidence, the threat Jeneva had painted seemed vast and unyielding, a tide of darkness that could not be turned back by steel alone.

The room's silence gave way to cheers as vassals, knights and guards huzzahed at his confident words. All eyes were on Lord Tyrell, most gleaming with hope, others shadowed with uncertainty.

Her father was never one to show weakness, not even in the face of calamity. To the bannermen and courtiers gathered here, he was a pillar of strength, a lord whose faith in the Lady and her champions could not be shaken. But Margaery knew him better than most. She had seen the moments when his mask slipped, late at night, in the privacy of his solar, when the weight of duty bore down on him.

'Do you truly believe we will prevail, Father?' she wondered. 'Or is this just another mask you wear for us, to keep the fear at bay?'

Margaery's gaze flicked to her grandmother, who sat beside her father, her expression unreadable. Olenna Tyrell was no stranger to war, nor to the weight of ruling in turbulent times. But even she seemed pensive, her sharp tongue held in check for the moment.

The Prophetess inclined her head slightly, the faintest smile playing on her lips. "The Lady's favor has seen Bretonnia through trials of similar magnitude before. But this war will demand much of you, of all of us. Faith alone will not suffice. Courage, wisdom, and unity will be needed as well, if we are to see the spring give way to summer."

Her words were gentle, yet they carried an undercurrent of warning, a reminder that even the Lady's blessings were no guarantee against the horrors to come.

Margaery's fingers tightened around her goblet. Her father's faith seemed unshakable, and Jeneva's words offered hope, but she could not banish the unease gnawing at her heart. 'The spring campaign... what will it bring? Glory for our house? Or ruin for all of Bretonnia?'

"Then let us act with haste," Willas said as he rose from his chair, his voice firm with purpose. "The enemy will not stand idle while Loras has gained us such an advantage. And given the weather, they hold the upper hand. The undead can march unhindered through the cold and snow, while we cannot hope to move the whole of our forces in these conditions. But we can send enough to make a difference. The walls of Jeneva are strong and stout, built to withstand a serious siege. Let me depart at first light with a hundred horse and four hundred foot. That will be more than sufficient to hold a castle like Jeneva, even against fifty times their number."

"Will the castle have the provisions to feed those men, in addition to its garrison and the townsfolk?" Grandmother asked sharply, ever the pragmatist.

"We've stockpiled copious amounts of supplies here at Highgarden over the last few years, preparing for the coming campaign," Willas replied smoothly. "I'll ride ahead with the cavalry while the foot escort the wagon train. Once the relief column arrives, the castle will be well-provisioned, and we'll have enough to endure deep into spring, giving Father's main force ample time to march to our aid."

Father nodded, his expression thoughtful. "A wise plan. Begin preparations for your departure at once."

Willas turned to his wife, leaning down to kiss her softly. She looked up at him with tears glistening in her eyes, pride and worry etched across her face. Margaery's heart ached for her sister by marriage; for a woman who loved a knight must keep her peace whatever her feelings. Willas would do his duty, as he always had, but the path he walked was one of risk, and Margaery could feel the shadow of danger looming over him.

He called out the names of several lords and knights to join him in the solar, his voice steady and commanding. The men rose from their seats, striding away with purpose, trailed by a gaggle of servants bearing plates piled high with food so their lords would not go hungry by leaving the feast early.

Father descended from the dais, returning to his chair with the weight of the evening's decisions settling visibly on his shoulders to Margaery's eyes. She did not think that those who did not know him intimately would notice, but it was a rare moment when he allowed himself to show such, even if only to family.

However, when the Prophetess finally deigned to sit by him and spoke, her words seemed to ease him, if only slightly. "Worry not, Count Tyrell," Jeneva said, her voice as calm and unyielding as a mountain stream. "I will fly ahead of your heir's column and ensure they do not ride into trouble."

Father inclined his head, though Margaery caught the flicker of relief that crossed his face. He masked it well, but she knew him too well to be fooled. He trusted Willas implicitly, loved him dearly, but even he could not ignore the dangers that awaited. The undead were no mere bandits or quarrelsome lords; they were a force of pure malice, tireless and unrelenting.

"Thank you, my lady," he said evenly, though Margaery heard the gratitude in his tone.

The hall began to stir once more, servants hurrying to and fro, knights discussing preparations, and the clink of goblets as wine continued to flow. But Margaery found herself distracted, her thoughts racing ahead to the battles to come. The Lady's blessings and her champions would carry the day, but how much would they be asked to sacrifice? How many would never return?

'Please, Lady,' she prayed silently, her fingers tightening around her goblet. 'Let him come back to us whole. Let them all return.'

"I shall not be the only one to take flight with the dawn," said the Prophetess, her voice calm yet filled with a weight that pressed upon the hall. Her words carried a sense of inevitability, as though they were not commands but truths long written.

"Where am I bound, sister?" asked the young Damsel, her tone humble. To see her so subdued before another was strange indeed. Until now, Guerrite had been a figure of poise and quiet authority, a woman whose every word seemed carved from stone. Yet before her elder sibling, she bent like a sapling before the wind, her deference natural, even graceful. Still, it unsettled Margaery, who had thought Guerrite beyond the reach of such mortal emotions.

"To Bastonne," Jeneva replied simply, her words a hammer striking an anvil. "The Beastslayer hungers for foes worthy of his blade. In Mousillon, he shall find enemies beyond his reckoning, creatures vile as any that have ever crept forth from the shadows, and as strong as any Bretonnia has yet faced."

Guerrite inclined her head, her golden hair glinting in the firelight. "You may count on me, Jeneva," she said with quiet conviction. "I shall bring him to our cause. Duke Bohemond will ride against the Black Knight and the fiends who gather beneath his banner."

"That would be a boon beyond measure," said Margaery's father, clearly heartened by the prospect. Confidence flowed back into his voice, "The Beastslayer is among the greatest Grail Knights alive and a commander as formidable as he is unyielding. With a third host under his command, entering Mousillon from the east, while the King and I march from the north and the Dukes of Bordeleaux and Aquitaine press up from the south, the enemy will be caught between us like an aurochs harried by wolves. They shall be stretched thin, unable to defend against so many swords."

Margaery watched and listened, her hands resting lightly on the table before her. The words of her father and the Prophetess painted a vast tapestry of war; hosts of shining knights clashing with shadows darker than night, banners fluttering against the azure skies of spring, the clash of steel upon steel mingling with the unholy cries of the damned. Yet beneath the soaring words and bold declarations, her heart remained heavy. War was never so simple, nor so clean.

Still, she could not deny the swell of hope that flickered in the hall, like the first light of dawn breaking through the long night. Her father spoke with the confidence of a man who had weathered many storms, and the Prophetess, for all her otherworldly airs, seemed certain of their course. Even Guerrite, who had once seemed invincible, now shone brighter for her humility.

'If the Lady wills it,' Margaery thought, 'we shall prevail.' Yet even as the thought took shape, she could not shake the foreboding that lingered like a shadow at the edge of her mind. Victory, if it came, would not come without cost.

Chapter Text

Nachexen 19th, 2523

Warm porridge, thick with cream and spiced with the sweetness of winter apples, mingled with the crackle of the great hearths and the heat emanating from the dwarf forged pipes in the walls, banishing the bite of winds howling down from Kislev. It was a morning like any other in the Great Hall of Winterfell. The tables groaned under the weight of trenchers and flagons, and everyone sat in their usual places, the soft murmur of voices mixing with the clatter of silverware. Sansa savored the moment, the familiar rhythm of home and family. It was a normal winter morning, or so it seemed, until Tanya spoke.

"Lord Stark," she said, her tone clipped and direct, "might I request an escort to the Griffon's Den?"

Sansa looked up, startled, and found herself staring at her peculiar companion. Tanya had been restless of late, as though she carried some hidden fire that refused to let her be still. The Magister had thrown herself into every corner of Winterfell's affairs, her presence felt everywhere, pouring over books in the library one moment, discussing troop movements with Father and Robb the next. She had even begun holding court with the other wizards who had come from Altdorf, gathering them in secretive discussions that left them looking wary and more than a little awed.

Sansa had watched Tanya in Winter Town, too, striding purposefully through the frost-covered streets, her slender frame at odds with the force of her will. Wherever builders and workmen gathered, wherever plans were being made for the great works set to begin when spring came and the ground thawed, there Tanya was, questioning, inspecting, and offering advice with the cool certainty of someone thrice her age.

The docks, too, bore her scrutiny. Day by day, the river carried stone and timber to Winter Town in quantities that astonished even the most seasoned dock hands. Piles of materials grew like winter snow drifts, men and dwarfs alike working in tandem to prepare for the grand designs she and Father had devised.

Everywhere she went, she left a trail of startled builders and flustered masons in her wake. The dwarf engineers from Karak Kadrin, grim and taciturn as they were, seemed especially put out by her questions. But Tanya never cared for their scowls or the grumbling. She would stride into the midst of their work, dressed in her strange blue robes and pointy hat, and demand answers about the extension of the walls, the munitions factories, the new temples, and the mills. It didn't matter if they were men or dwarfs; none were spared the sharpness of her tongue or the weight of her scrutiny.

At first, they had tried to brush her off, treating her like some precocious child with too much time on her hands. But Tanya wasn't so easily dismissed. She had the air of a storm about her, and her words were like blades, cutting swiftly and without mercy. Even the master builders, men and dwarfs both, had learned to tread carefully when she was near. To dodge the question or cross Tanya in argument was to invite humiliation, a lesson that all learned swiftly and to their great regret.

Sansa studied her friend now, her auburn brows knitting together in quiet curiosity. What was she up to this time? Tanya's blue eyes glinted like shards of ice, her expression unreadable but intense. She rarely spoke without purpose, and when she did, it often set things in motion.

Her father studied Tanya with his usual calm, though Sansa caught the faintest furrow in his brow, a sign that he was weighing her words carefully. "What business do you have with Skyshadow, Magister?" he asked evenly, his voice as steady as the winter winds outside.

Tanya folded her hands before her on the table, looking unbothered by the quiet scrutiny of the hall. "I had a thought while tending to the pigeons the other day," she replied, her tone brisk, almost lecturing. "I can speak to them, you know. Birdspeak, it's a spell commonly taught among the Celestial Order."

Sansa glanced at her father, wondering if he was as surprised as she had been when Tanya first mentioned the ability. She remembered the day they'd met well. Tanya had spoken of it as though it were the simplest thing in the world, and from that moment on, she had taken over much of Loremaster Luwin's duties with the rookery. It was just as well. The volume of messages pouring into Winterfell had swelled since Father's election as Chancellor, and the number of pigeons in the rookery had more than doubled. Poor Luwin was far too old to be climbing the tower stairs so often, and Tanya seemed to relish the task, spending an inordinate amount of time amongst the cooing birds, murmuring to them in that strange, almost musical tongue of hers.

"And what does that have to do…" Father paused mid-sentence, his brow lifting slightly as understanding dawned. "You think it might work on a griffon?"

Tanya gave a shrug, as casual as if they were discussing the weather. "They've the heads of birds, haven't they? They certainly vocalize like them. They're hardly natural creatures, so it might fail. At worst, the spell simply won't take. But I see no harm in trying."

Her father leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in thought. Sansa could tell he was intrigued. Few things truly surprised him anymore, but Tanya had a way of catching even him off guard. After a moment, he nodded. "Robb and I will be busy this morning, but Sansa could escort you. I'll send word to Loremaster Luwin to reschedule her lessons for the evening."

Sansa's stomach fluttered at his words. Escort Tanya to the Griffon's Den? It wasn't a task she had expected, and though she wasn't sure how she felt about it, the thought of seeing Skyshadow up close again sent a nervous thrill through her. Tanya, as usual, didn't seem fazed by the prospect in the slightest.

Sansa had only visited Skyshadow once before, on the day after Father brought the beast to Winterfell. The baby griffon was breathtaking, a creature of legend made flesh, with ebony wings dark as night and head, neck and chest plumage white as snow. Skyshadow was a beautiful little beast, but it was a rambunctious one, restless and fierce. Her brothers had taken to it eagerly, donning armor to wrestle and play rough games that left them bruised but grinning. Even Father wore steel gauntlets when he approached Skyshadow, his every movement cautious yet firm, the way one might handle a wild horse.

It had been adorable, she had to admit, to see Rickon kitted out in custom-made plate, his tiny frame swallowed up by the gleaming steel. He had laughed with delight as the griffon pounced on him, though the jump had nearly sent him tumbling. For all the charm of it, Sansa wanted no part in such rough games. Necessary for father and the boys of course, for he and Robb would one day ride Skyshadow into battle, and Rickon was destined to do the same with Bloodfeather once he married Ostara Hertwig ten years hence.

Sansa preferred to keep her distance; she was content with Lady. Her direwolf was growing into a magnificent creature, far more to her taste than any unruly griffon. Lady was the very picture of grace, her light-grey coat as soft as the finest velvet, her movements as fluid as a dancer's. At more than two hundred and fifty pounds, she had an imposing presence, yet her demeanor was as calm and obedient as any lapdog. Lady never needed to be commanded twice, never caused a scene, and never threatened to send her sprawling with an overenthusiastic nudge. No, Lady was hers in every way, a creature of beauty and loyalty, a reflection of the lady Sansa aspired to be.

Still, she found herself nodding, her words more dutiful than eager. "Yes, Father. I'll take her right after breakfast."

It didn't take long to finish the meal. The hall grew quieter as plates were cleared, and servants scurried to and fro. Soon enough, Sansa was bundling herself against the cold, her thick cloak and fur-lined boots doing little to make her feel prepared. She cast a glance at Lady, padding silently beside her, and couldn't help but feel envious of the dire wolf's luxurious winter coat. If only she could wrap herself in such warmth.

The moment they stepped outside, the northern wind cut through her layers as if they were paper. It howled through the courtyard, carrying with it a sharpness that stung her cheeks and numbed her fingers even through fine calfskin gloves lined with wool. Sansa shivered, clutching her cloak tighter. How the Kislevites could endure even worse winters, she could not fathom. The cold here in Ostermark was bad enough, she could hardly imagine the unrelenting, frozen hellscape that lay beyond the border.

Thankfully, the kennels weren't too far from the Great Hall. She hurried her steps, keeping close to Lady's side. Tanya as always, seemed completely inured to the cold. She was similarly wrapped up of course, but she walked besides them as if taking a stroll on a warm spring day.

They entered the entry hall of the kennel and the garrison's black butcher dogs barked as they approached, their deep, guttural voices echoing off the stone walls. The sound made her flinch, though Lady only flicked an ear in irritation, her calm demeanor unshaken.

The kennels smelled of wet straw and old meat, and she wrinkled her nose as they passed the rows of pens where the hounds were kept behind thick wooden doors. At the very end of the building stood the chamber, a wide, vaulted space with high stone walls and oaken doors reinforced with iron bars. It had a strange, almost ominous air about it, the sort of place that seemed to remember the beasts it had once housed.

Her grandfather had left the chamber empty in his day, though Sansa had heard stories of the monsters it had contained over the centuries. Strange, exotic pets brought back from campaigns or gifted by nobles of far-off lands. A Kislevite war bear with fur white as snow, a young mammoth brought back from Norsca by daring traders, pegasi from the Grey Mountains on the border of Bretonnia and more. Dire wolves, griffons and even a rare hippogryph had all been housed there at one time or another.

Father had briefly considered housing the dire wolves he'd found here when they were still pups, but in the end, he'd decided against it. No guard dog could compare to a dire wolf. They belonged at the sides of their masters as a last line of defense, not locked away in stone pens where they could do no good.

Now the chamber belonged to Skyshadow. The griffon had ample space to stretch its wings and play, though the thought of such a creature confined indoors still seemed strange to Sansa. A creature of the skies, kept grounded. She wondered if it dreamed of flight, of open skies and endless horizons.

Farlen the kennel master greeted them with a warm smile, his face ruddy from the cold. "A chill day to be about, isn't it, young ladies? Don't worry, the kennel walls are thick enough to keep the wind at bay."

"That's good to hear," Sansa replied, her breath misting in the icy air. The entry hall was much warmer than the outside, but it was still cold. "How is Skyshadow, Master Farlen?"

"Growing like a weed, m'lady," Farlen said, his tone cheerful but edged with the weariness of a man who'd spent hours chasing after something too quick for its own good. "Sleeps most of the day, but when she's awake, there's no end to her energy. Boundless vitality, that one. And clever, too. Already knows to come when called, to stay put, and to stop whatever mischief she's up to, at least when she's in the mood to listen."

Tanya cocked her head, curious as ever. "That's impressive for a two-month-old animal. Does it really know the difference between 'stay' and 'stop,' or does it just guess?"

"She knows, all right," Farlen said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "'Stay' means she's to wait where she is, while 'stop' means to quit whatever she's doing. Simple enough, but cleverer than some soldiers I've met." He chuckled, though his eyes twinkled with pride. "Of course, being young, it doesn't always obey me or Siegfried. But it's not malicious, not like them hippogryphs folk talk about."

Sansa frowned at that. It had always struck her as odd, the idea that a creature part eagle and part horse could be more dangerous than one that was part eagle and part lion. Surely a lion was far fiercer than a horse. Still, she kept her thoughts to herself, for she had learned long ago that most men had little patience for a young girl's musings.

"Siegfried is the trainer Father brought in from Bechafen, isn't he?" she asked instead.

"Aye," Farlen said, nodding. "He's the one who trained Bloodfeather for years. That bird's as sharp as they come, but with Lady Hertwig taking on an Amber Magister, Siegfried figured he'd try his hand here. Said working with Skyshadow would be more interesting than keeping Bloodfeather company in her dotage."

"Excellent," Tanya said, her eyes lighting up. "I've so many questions about griffons. It'll be good to have an expert on hand with practical experience."

Farlen chuckled again, though this time there was a weight to it. "He's had plenty of that, with all sorts of beasts. Just… don't bring up manticores. His partner was mauled to death by one, long time back. Must be a good twenty years now."

Tanya blinked, caught off guard. "Manticores? Chaos-warped murder machines, the lot of them. What possessed him to go near one?"

Farlen sighed, his gaze growing distant. "Some boyar up in Kislev caught a young one while hunting in the World's Edge Mountains close to the Wastes. Thought it'd make a fine prize and offered a fortune to anyone who could tame it. Siegfried's one of the best there is, and since the Dark Elves have managed to ride them into battle, he reckoned he had a chance. Turns out, even the best trainer's no match for a manticore's temper. His partner paid the price."

The kennelmaster shook his head, his voice dropping to a murmur. "The poor lad never stood a chance. Siegfried doesn't speak of it much, but you can see the weight of it in his eyes. He's a hard man, but not without his scars."

Sansa shivered, and not just from the cold. The tales of manticores and their like always left her uneasy. It was one thing to hear the stories in the safety of Winterfell's hall, quite another to think of the monsters prowling beyond its walls. She glanced at Tanya, whose expression was unreadable, and wondered how anyone could face such creatures without fear.

"The Druchii probably break them to their will with dark sorcery," Tanya said, her tone sharp and sure, before turning her keen eyes on Sansa. "Speaking of manticores, I've been meaning to ask Loremaster Luwin, but why does the standard of Ostermark bear a manticore wielding a sword? I understand it's a fierce beast, but surely an evil one. Why not a griffon? No other province uses one, and that seems… peculiar."

Sansa hesitated a moment, tucking her cloak tighter against the chill, the kennel wasn't cold, but it certainly wasn't warm. It wasn't a question she'd ever thought much about, but she had an answer nonetheless. "You should read the Loremaster's History of Ostermark," she said, her voice careful but confident. "The manticore was chosen for its ferocity, yes, but also for what it represented in the years after Mordheim's damnation. The League of Ostermark wanted a symbol of strength, of survival, something terrible enough to remind their enemies and perhaps themselves that they were still standing. The banner was voted on by the founding members of the League, though…" Sansa allowed herself a faint smile. "The story goes the assembly was roaring drunk when they made the decision. It's said not a sober man was left in the hall by the time the vote was called."

"Griffons are used often by the Cult of Sigmar," Farlen interjected, scratching his jaw. "After the twin-tailed comet and the hammer, it's one of their most sacred symbols. Considering what happened to Mordheim, the assembly probably weren't keen on adopting something tied so closely to Sigmar and his priests."

"Perhaps they should have," Sansa said thoughtfully. "When a god is angered, does it not make sense to appease them?"

Farlen gave a rough chuckle. "Mayhap. But upset drunks aren't known for their sense, m'lady. Besides, Reikland, Talabecland, and Nordland already use great eagles on their banners. Wissenland has a lion. Maybe the League was worried they'd just blend in."

"Easy recognition on the battlefield is a boon," Tanya said, nodding. "A soldier needs to know their banner in the thick of the fray."

Sansa thought on that as the chill nipped at her cheeks. It made sense, she supposed. The manticore on the banner had some leonine features, but the batlike wings and snake tail made it very distinct. Well, the manticore was Ostermark's now, for better or worse, a beast as fierce and untamed as the province it represented.

Still, she couldn't help but feel a chill that had little to do with the northern wind. A symbol of survival, yes, but one born of chaos and cruelty. Was that truly what Ostermark wanted to remind itself of?

"Let's send you girls on into the griffon's den," Farlen said with a wry grin. "It's warmer in there than out here in this blasted hall."

"Sounds good," Sansa agreed, and she and Tanya followed him eagerly, drafts of icy air biting at their heels. Lady padded after them, her paws silent on the stone floor, her presence a steady comfort.

The griffon's den was just as Sansa remembered it, high-ceilinged, faintly smelling of musk, the stone floor piled with straw in one corner where the beast nested. She was surprised at how warm it was. Only the buildings of the central castle were serviced by the pipes connected to Rhya's hot springs and so alternate methods of heating were necessary here. Great bronze braziers in the other three corners warmed the room and made it comfortable.

But Skyshadow… Skyshadow was nothing like she had been before. The last time Sansa had seen her, the griffon had been a downy creature no larger than a puppy, barely ten pounds soaking wet. Now she was the size of a young wolfhound, her weight easily sixty pounds, if not more.

Skyshadow stirred as they entered, stretching her sleek form in a way that reminded Sansa of the servants' cats. The castle kept quite a number of them in order to suppress vermin.

The griffon's ebony wings unfolded, stark against the brilliant white feathers of her head and chest, while the tawny fur of her body shimmered with rosettes, like the pelt of an Arabyan leopard. Her golden eyes fixed on them, curious and sharp, as though measuring who or what they were. Sansa wondered if it remembered her, she'd only met it once, unlike the boys and father who visited nearly every day.

"Welcome, Lady Stark, Magister Degurechaff," came Siegfried's deep voice from across the room. The animal trainer was a grizzled man of sixty, his leather jerkin well-worn from years of work. "Here to visit the griffon, I see. She's grown, hasn't she? But mind yourselves, don't get too close unless you're wearing armor. She doesn't mean harm, but she doesn't yet understand how fragile folk are compared to her."

Skyshadow rose to her feet, moving toward them with a curious saunter. Her talons clicked lightly on the stone floor, her eyes bright with interest.

"Skyshadow, stay," Siegfried commanded, his voice firm but calm. The griffon halted a dozen feet away, her head tilting as though considering whether to obey. She placed one great clawed foot forward, testing.

"Stay," Siegfried said again, sharper now.

Before Sansa could wonder whether the beast would listen, Lady growled. It wasn't the kind of playful growl Sansa had heard when her dire wolf wrestled with her brother's wolves, nor the warning growl she gave to strangers she didn't trust. This was something deeper, more primal, a low, rumbling threat that filled the room like thunder rolling in the distance.

Sansa stared at her wolf, her mouth slightly agape. She had never heard Lady sound like that before.

Skyshadow stopped short, her talons withdrawing as she took a step back, her feathers ruffling in uncertainty. The growl ceased the moment the griffon retreated.

"A wise choice," Tanya said, her tone crisp and dry. "From what I've read, a hippogryph wouldn't have backed down, even with the size difference."

"Most have more courage than sense," Siegfried agreed, his tone tinged with approval as he glanced at Lady.

Tanya stepped closer, her sharp eyes narrowing as if studying both man and beast. "Have you worked with wizards before in your line of work?"

"Of course," Siegfried said. "Many an Amber wizard, in fact. Someone who can use beast-tongue is a wonderful boon to what I do."

"I imagine it is," Tanya replied, her voice thoughtful. "But have you ever worked with a Celestial Magister, like myself?"

Siegfried furrowed his brow. "Not that I recall. Why do you ask?"

"I was wondering if I could communicate with the griffon using Birdspeak," Tanya explained, her tone as if she were discussing the weather. "I've never heard of it being done, but neither have I heard of anyone trying and failing."

Siegfried tilted his head, intrigued. "I've heard it said that Blue wizards can speak to birds, aye, but I've never heard tell of it being done with a griffon or a hippogryph, for that matter. You think it might work?"

Tanya shrugged, her expression cool and calculating. "Only one way to find out."

Sansa wasn't sure what to make of it all. Skyshadow was so beautiful, so fierce, yet dangerous, too. Watching Tanya study the young griffon with those sharp, inquisitive eyes made Sansa wonder if the girl saw the creature as a beast to be admired or a problem to be solved. And for the first time, Sansa felt a flicker of unease.

The young wizard opened the satchel at her side, her movements precise, almost ritualistic. From it, she drew a small wooden box, its polished surface catching the light of the braziers. Tanya flipped it open with a flick of her wrist and withdrew something small, wrapped in a scrap of fine cloth. Sansa squinted, trying to make out what it was. The shape beneath the cloth was strange, fleshy. A piece of meat, perhaps?

"What's that?" The question slipped from her lips before she could stop herself, her voice betraying her unease.

Tanya didn't look up. "A bird's tongue," she said matter-of-factly, as if discussing a bit of bread and cheese. "This one's from a duck, though the breed hardly matters, so long as it can fly well. It needs to be a creature of the air and sky."

A shiver ran down Sansa's spine. 'A bird's raw tongue?' Her stomach churned at the thought, but Tanya acted as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

The young wizard held the small bundle with reverence, murmuring a string of words in a lilting, foreign tongue that sounded like Elvish, or what Sansa imagined Elvish to sound like. The bird's tongue began to glow, a faint blue light sparkling across it like a distant thunderbolt. Then, to Sansa's horror, Tanya opened her mouth, placed the glowing thing on her tongue, and after a few perfunctory chews, swallowed it whole.

Sansa took an involuntary step back, her hand brushing against Lady's fur. The dire wolf tilted her head, ears pricked, sensing her unease.

Tanya's eyes fluttered closed, and for a moment, she was perfectly still. Then she opened her mouth, and a sound like nothing Sansa had ever heard poured forth, a rich, rolling trill, deep and musical, like the song of some great unknown bird soaring high above the treetops of Taal's Wood. It filled the room, powerful and alien, and Sansa felt it in her chest, like the rumble of a storm.

Skyshadow startled at the noise, her wings flaring as she squawked in confusion. Tanya answered her, her sounds shifting to a rapid series of chirps, screeches, and caws. The two voices went back and forth, faster than Sansa could follow. The griffon's cries filled the room, sharp and questioning, while Tanya's replies seemed coaxing, almost teasing.

Sansa stood rooted to the spot, staring in disbelief. She had heard that Amber wizards of the Empire could speak to animals and she had walked in on Tanya speaking to the pigeons once before, but this… this was something else entirely. That was something far softer, gentler. The cooing of the birds and the young wizard's musical responses were like something out of Jeyne's girlish fantasies. What she was watching now seemed like the magic myths were made of.

The exchange went on for what felt like an eternity, though Sansa guessed it might have been around ten minutes. It was a shame clocks were so expensive; she would have liked to see if her hunch was right. But a kennel room, even one for so magnificent a beast as this was no place for a timepiece. They were limited to the important buildings like the Great Keep, Great Hall, First Keep, and Library Tower.

She glanced at Skyshadow, wondering what such a young beast could have to say. Could it even have thoughts worth sharing, clever though it seemed? Or was it like a small child, parroting back what it heard without truly understanding?

Finally, Tanya coughed, her throat rasping like dry parchment. She doubled over slightly, her hands braced on her knees as she spluttered. When she straightened, her voice was hoarse but laced with amusement. "That was interesting," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Like arguing with a toddler. A 'very' stubborn toddler."

Sansa didn't know what to say. The sight of Tanya swallowing that tongue was burned into her mind, as strange and unsettling as the sound of her trilling voice. She glanced at Skyshadow, who now sat preening her feathers as if nothing unusual had happened.

Lady pressed against her side; her golden eyes watchful. Sansa placed a hand on her wolf's head, her fingers curling into the soft fur for comfort. If this was the sort of power a wizard commanded, she wasn't sure she wanted to see more.

"Ha, that sounds about right," Siegfried said with a chuckle, his laughter echoing faintly in the stone chamber.

"What were you arguing about?" Sansa asked, curious despite herself.

Tanya straightened, brushing at the sleeves of her coat as if to shake off the lingering strain of the conversation. "Oh, the usual things children dislike. She needs to pay more attention to her keepers, learn more human words, play less rough, be more careful." She turned to Siegfried, her tone brisk and commanding. "Whenever you need to teach her something new, something important, send me a message beforehand. I'll make time to come down and assist."

"Of course, Magister," Siegfried replied, bowing his head slightly. "Your help would be greatly appreciated."

"You already have so much to do," Sansa ventured, her voice soft but tinged with concern.

Tanya gave a short nod, her cornflower blue eyes sharp as ever. "Yes, but training her is crucial. If she understands human commands well, it could save Lord Stark's life someday or tip the scales in a battle."

Sansa's mouth went dry at the thought. She swallowed hard, trying to banish the unease that had crept into her chest. The image of her father on the battlefield, relying on a creature like Skyshadow to save him, was not a comforting one. But she forced herself to push the thought aside, steadying her voice as she asked, "What's next?"

"That's all for now," Tanya replied, brushing a strand of blond hair from her face. "Let's head to the Library Tower. I'll write up a short paper on what I accomplished here and send it off to the Colleges for publishing. In the meantime, you can see if the Loremaster is available to start your studies early. Your father suggested waiting until evening, but perhaps he's free now. Unless you've something else planned?"

Sansa shook her head. "Loremaster Luwin's lessons are after breakfast, in the early morning. Father Ewald teaches Khazalid in the late morning, and I think his lesson should be starting soon." The new priest for the small Sigmarite chapel was young and full of fire, but knowledgeable though he was, Sansa doubted he'd ever match the late Father Anselm in her regards.

"Good," Tanya said with a nod of approval. "Khazalid may be thorny to learn, and dwarfs irritable folk, but building strong ties with them is important. Good luck with your studies." She turned back to the griffon, raising a hand in parting. "Goodbye, little one. Farewell, Master Siegfried. I look forward to meeting you again, I've many questions on griffons and the various creatures you've worked with over the years."

Skyshadow let out a sharp squawk, already turning back to her nest of straw, her sleek form blending into the shadows of the den. Siegfried gave them a formal farewell, his manner gruff but respectful. Then Sansa and Tanya were back in the outer corridor, the chill biting at their faces and seeping through their layers of wool and fur.

When they stepped outside, the full force of winter hit them like a blow. The wind howled through the trees of Taal's Wood, carrying with it a cold so sharp it seemed to slice through Sansa's cloak and gown as if they were no more than cobwebs. She pulled her hood tighter around her face, her cheeks stinging, her breath a pale mist against the stark grey sky.

Tanya, as always, seemed unfazed, her slim form cutting through the snow-dusted courtyard with brisk, purposeful steps. Sansa hurried to keep up, her thoughts still lingering on the griffon's sharp eyes and the strange, haunting sound of Tanya's voice speaking in a tongue not meant for men.

Chapter Text

Noon, Nachexen 21st, 2523

The walls of the town were stout for its size, Loras had to admit that much. The palisade stood firm atop its stone foundation, the granite base as high and thick as he was tall and just as unyielding. Above that rose a timber wall, a dozen feet high and well-maintained, every log and plank fitted tight as a jeweler’s work. Every sixty yards or so, a watchtower jutted up like a wooden fang, rising thirty feet into the air, giving the sentries a clear view of frostbitten fields filled with winter wheat. Lord Rachard, for all his cruelty, had spent freely to protect what he claimed as his. The wall wouldn’t stop a full-fledged Waaagh or a Warherd, no, but it would slow them, long enough for the townsfolk to flee to the castle. Against lesser foes, it would hold fast. Even a shuffling horde of the walking dead would break themselves upon it.

But there were fell creatures among the armies of the undead, great, hulking things, abominations that laughed at walls such as this. They would batter through, as inexorable as the tide. Loras had seen their like before. He prayed to the Lady that he would not see them again here.

"Lord Tyrell!" a shout rang out from the nearest watchtower, breaking his thoughts. One of the sentries leaned out over the edge of the battlement, his face red from the cold. "A hippogryph approaches from the north!"

Loras stiffened at once, his hand dropping instinctively to the hilt of his sword. But he caught himself and raised a hand in command. "Hold your arrows!" His voice carried over the cold, crisp air, sharp as steel. The men obeyed and relayed his command down the wall with their own shouts.

He turned, his gaze lifting to the northern skies. It did not take long to spot the creature. It was unmistakable, its wings outstretched in a great arc as it descended from the clouds, its plumage white as snow, its gray equine hindquarters striped with gold. He had seen it before, tearing into the undead at Guerac Circle with a fury that even now set his heart racing at the memory. And as it circled lower, its talons grazing the frozen earth, he knew what to expect.

The transformation was seamless, as the winds of magic bent to the creature’s will. The mass of the beast folded inward, shrinking, shifting, until the proud, fierce hippogryph was gone. In its place stood a young woman, clad in the flowing robes of her order, her hair a cascade of sunlit gold. Jeneva, the Prophetess of the Lady, comely and commanding all at once, her bearing as regal as any Duchess that Loras had ever knelt to.

"Lady Jeneva," Loras said, inclining his head as she approached. He felt the strange mix of awe and attraction that always came when he stood before this servant of the Lady. "You honor us with your presence."

Jeneva smiled faintly, her jade green eyes sharp as the cold. "Sir Loras," she said, her voice smooth as a stone in a mountain stream. "It is good to see you again."

"And you," he replied, though he felt as if her gaze saw far more than just the man standing before her. Something about her presence always unsettled him upon her appearance, despite her holy aura and allure, though he dared not show it. The Lady’s chosen was not like other women she was something more, something otherworldly. In a few minutes his sentiments would settle and he would be at ease with her, but the next time he saw her after an absence, however brief, he would feel the same again.

She looked past him, toward the palisade and the watchtowers beyond. "Your defenses are strong," she said. "But are they strong enough for what’s coming?"

Loras’s jaw tightened. "They’ll hold as long as they can," he said. "But if it’s against the Black Knight and his minions, we’ll need more than walls to see it through."

Jeneva nodded, her expression unreadable. "Then let us hope the Lady’s favor remains with us."

A brisk winter breeze blew through the town and buffeted against the wall, the Damsel's blonde hair billowing in the wind while Loras's shorter curls ruffled.

“She has favored us so far,” the Prophetess said with a faint smile after a pause, her tone serene but firm, as if the Lady’s will were as certain as the rising sun. “I’ve spent the last two and a half days flying overwatch on your elder brother.”

Loras turned to her sharply, hope blooming in his chest like a rose in spring. “Willas approaches?” he asked, the words eager on his tongue. “How many men are with him?”

“A hundred knights and heavy cavalry,” the Damsel replied. “They’ll be here within the half-hour. Behind them, your father’s men-at-arms, four hundred strong, escorting a wagon train heavy with supplies. They’ll arrive in another three days, weather permitting.”

Loras exhaled, a rare smile breaking across his face. “Wonderful news,” he said, his voice lighter than it had been in days. His father’s knights were as fine as any in Bretonnia, resplendent in their steel and sworn to honor. And the men-at-arms, though they lacked the glory of the knights, were invaluable. Most nobles might sneer at the common soldier, but Loras knew the truth; it was the billmen who held the line during a siege and the archers who sent their enemies to their graves.

“Did you have any trouble along the way?” he asked, his mind already leaping ahead, calculating how best to deploy the reinforcements.

“None,” Jeneva said, her words calm as a still lake. “I ranged for miles around the road to Highgarden in every direction. The eyes of a hippogryph are sharper than a Tilean spyglass. There was nothing amiss. The only thing delaying the foot soldiers is the wagons and the winter roads.”

“Understandable,” Loras said, nodding. Country roads could be treacherous this time of year, thick with mud where they weren’t slick with ice and frozen solid. “What’s the composition of the foot?”

“Three hundred billmen and a hundred archers,” she answered, her tone brisk and matter of fact.

Loras frowned thoughtfully. It was a typical ratio, but he couldn’t help wondering how effective the archers would be against the undead. Zombies didn’t bleed, didn’t feel pain. You had to put an arrow through their skull to stop them for good. Still, the way they shambled mindlessly into walls during an assault should make them easy targets. A company of skilled bowman should thin their numbers quickly enough, even if it took more effort than it would against Beastmen or Orcs.

“Let us walk to the gate and wait for my brother,” he said, gesturing for her to follow. “He won’t be long now.”

Jeneva inclined her head, her golden hair catching the pale winter light. Together, they strode through the chill air toward the gate. The prospect of Willas’s arrival brought a warmth to Loras’s chest, but beneath it lay a steely resolve. Reinforcements would bolster their position, but the undead cared nothing for numbers or fine armor. They would come, shambling and relentless, and when they did, Loras vowed he would meet them blade in hand, the Lady’s grace guiding his strikes.

As they neared the gate, he caught sight of the watchmen stirring above, their heads turning northward. A distant sound reached his ears, the thunder of hooves on frozen ground, the familiar cadence of cavalry on the march. Loras felt his heart quicken. Willas was coming, and with him, the seeds of victory.

The thick oaken gates groaned open as Loras and Jeneva stepped through, their iron bands glinting in the cold light of the winter sun. The Highgarden road stretched out before them, hard-packed and rimed with frost, and down it came the knights of House Tyrell.

A hundred horsemen rode in tight formation, their chargers’ breath misting in the chill air. Three or four remounts per rider trailed behind them on strings. Hooves beat against the frozen ground in a rhythm like a war drum, each strike resonating with the promise of vengeance. The flower of Bretonnian chivalry, they seemed unstoppable. Their plate shone bright as the dawn, lances standing tall, and banners fluttering in the wind; greens and golds, reds and blues, all the colors of their houses. Even the yeomen, in their brigandine and mail, carried themselves with pride. These men were the embodiment of the Lady’s will. The Black Knight, wherever he hid, would rue the day he dared challenge Bretonnia and the Lady’s chosen.

At their head rode Willas, his armor as fine as any knight’s in the realm. Painted green as the meadows of early spring, with a great golden rose on the center of his breastplate, he looked every inch a lord. As they neared the gates, Willas raised his hand, and the column slowed to a halt with practiced precision. Swinging down from his charger, he removed his helm, revealing a face Loras had not seen in more than a month. His dark hair was combed back neatly, his goatee impeccably trimmed, and his smile was as warm as summer rain.

“By the Lady, Loras, I can scarce believe it!” Willas exclaimed, striding forward. He clasped Loras in a brother’s embrace, his gauntleted hand thumping hard against the back of Loras’s armor. “To finish your quest in so short a time, it’s beyond words!”

“I simply did what needed doing,” Loras replied, his tone humble, though he could not help the flicker of pride that warmed him. “The Lady willed it, and so it was done.”

Willas stepped back, his eyes roving over the town and up to the keep that loomed above it. “The Lady’s favor is plain to see,” he said, his voice quieter but no less reverent. “That castle, it’s more formidable than Brightwater Keep. How have your new subjects received their lord?”

Loras allowed himself a faint smile. “The townsfolk took the change in stride for the most part. Many welcomed it, even celebrated it. As for those who were too close to Rachard...” He shrugged, his hand brushing the pommel of his sword. “A few revealed themselves as the rabid dogs they were. I summoned the town before me, and they showed their true colors in the sight of all. Justice was done.”

Willas’s expression grew thoughtful, his brow furrowing. “And the landed knights sworn to him? Rachard’s bannermen, what of them?”

“They came when summoned,” Loras said evenly, though the memory of some faces still lingered like a sour taste. “All professed ignorance at Rachard’s true nature and swore their fealty, though a few less eagerly than others. Still, I believe them more cowardly than wicked. My status as a Grail Knight and our family’s strength should keep them in line.”

Willas’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Cowardice and ambition make a dangerous pairing. We’ll need to keep watch all the same.”

“Of course,” Loras agreed. “I’ve no intention of letting my guard down.”

Willas nodded, and for a moment, the brothers stood together in silence. The men behind them stirred, knights dismounting, squires seeing to their mounts, the sound of armor and voices filling the cold air. Loras let himself feel a flicker of relief. Willas had come, bringing strength and order with him.

The Black Knight’s shadow still loomed, and the undead would come, sooner or later. But for now, Loras felt the weight on his shoulders lighten. With Willas and their father’s men beside him, they would hold. The Lady had not brought him this far to abandon him now.

…

The castle of Jeneva was solid, if plain, its strong walls and thick towers more practical than beautiful. It lacked the grace of Highgarden or the charm of Brightwater Keep, but it would serve its purpose well enough. Loras led the way through the outer gatehouse and into the lower courtyard, the winter wind tugging at his cloak. As they walked, he sent stable boys and servants scurrying to see to father’s men, ensuring horses were stabled and bellies filled.

His brother seemed a different man from the youth who’d ridden off on his Grail quest six weeks past. He’d always been striking, his hair a mess of brown curls, his body lean and graceful, the very image of a knight from the old songs, but now he had something else about him. Something harder, sharper, yet somehow radiant. A quiet power clung to him, an aura of the divine. He looked the same as ever, no taller or broader, yet he seemed larger. Standing near him, one felt the weight of him, for the Lady herself had touched him.

They climbed up to the top of the inner gatehouse, where they gazed out together. The town spread below, snug within its palisade, smoke curling from chimneys. Beyond the walls, the fields stretched away into the distance, broken only by the dark line of the woods. Villages dotted the horizon, their houses and the smoke rising from their cookfires mere smudges against the line where winter sky met the land.

“It’s a fine fief,” Willas said, leaning on the parapet. “And like to grow finer in time. What of your neighbors? Have you sent word to them?”

“I have,” Loras replied, his tone as measured as a diplomat. “Pigeons carried my introductions to each. Some answered with courtesy, others less so. A few were outright defiant, vowing they would never submit to our father’s rule.”

Willas raised an eyebrow at that. “Bold of them to think they'll have a choice. They'll soon find themselves bloodied in battle and shorn of some of their borderlands. They’ll bend the knee quickly enough to the new Baron of Jeneva.”

“Baron,” Loras said, as though tasting the word. He turned his gaze back to the horizon, his expression distant. “I still find it strange every time I’m reminded that I’m a lord. Power was not what I sought when I began my quest.”

“Yet power has found you,” Willas said, watching him closely. “It’s the Lady’s will, and you must honor it. This is her design for you, Loras. And for us. You are not alone in this. Father, Garlan, myself, our family will do all it can to help you bear this burden.”

Willas let the corner of his mouth curl into a wry smile. “Though I suspect some matters will be easier to help with than others. Father is already fretting over who to choose for your wife.” Given his brother's proclivities, he wondered if he would manage to do his duty and sire an heir or if like many knights of his ilk he would end up childless.

At that, Loras turned his head, and there was a flicker of something amused in his eyes. “He need not trouble himself,” he said smoothly. “The Prophetess broadened my horizons. I appreciate women now as much as I do men.”

For a moment, Willas could only blink at him, unsure if I’d heard correctly. Then he followed his gaze down to the courtyard. A serving girl passed below; her arms laden with a tray piled high with steaming buns to serve to the new arrivals. Her hips swayed as she moved, and he did not need a veteran’s intuition to know his brother’s eyes were fixed on her bottom.

“Well,” Willas said at last, trying to keep the amusement from his tone. “The townsfolk will be distressed. They’ll have to lock up both their sons and their daughters.”

Loras’s answering smile was faint, almost imperceptible, but it lingered just long enough to remind him of the boy he’d once been. Whatever else Loras had become, he was still his brother.

“Has father mentioned any names in particular?” Loras asked, his voice steady as he leaned against the parapet, the wind tugging at his chestnut brown curls.

Willas allowed himself a small, mischievous smile. “The first name he mentioned was Brienne of Lyonesse.”

Loras blinked, clearly caught off guard. “How does he expect that to work?” he asked, his tone perplexed.

“Well,” Willas said lightly, enjoying the moment, “she is very strong. And a bit androgynous, wouldn’t you say? Father was merely exploring options that might… appeal to your particular preferences.”

Loras rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I mean a marriage with the Duke’s daughter? Has he forgotten that he’s planning to seize half the man’s duchy when he declares himself Duke of Mousillon?”

Willas shrugged; the gesture as casual as a breeze. “It’s as good as done. The King has sent word; he’ll lend us his support come spring, leading the Errantry War into Mousillon himself. Duke Adalhard has done well enough keeping his northern nobles in line, but he couldn’t stand against us, even if the King stayed neutral. He’s made too many enemies in the north keeping the peace. Meanwhile, the nobles of Old Mousillon are united behind father. If the Duke must lose the southern half of Lyonesse, why not tie himself to our house and wring some benefit from it?”

“I’m not sure the Duke will see it that way,” Loras said, frowning. “He’s a clever man, but a proud one.”

“Still,” Willas countered, “a Grail Knight and Lord for a husband? One with a good chance at becoming a Baron? Even for a duke’s daughter, I’d be surprised if she has any better prospects. Especially if the rumors are true.”

“Rumors?” Loras arched a brow.

Willas’s smile widened just slightly. “That she disguises herself as a knight and ventures out on little adventures. Hunting down Beastmen and such.”

Loras’s mouth dropped open. “Surely not.”

Willas shrugged again. “She’s certainly looks big and strong enough. And it’s well known she learned to wield a sword along aide her elder brother from her father’s master of arms.”

“To learn the sword is one thing and already unladylike in the extreme, but to go forth falsely as a knight…” Loras trailed off, shaking his head.

“It happens more often than you’d think,” Willas said, turning to gaze out at the horizon. The fields of Jeneva stretched into the distance, pale and still beneath the winter sky. “Seems every other year some knight dead on the battlefield turns out to be a woman. One wonders how many survive, their secret kept.”

“Surely they’d be noticed,” Loras said, his tone incredulous.

“People see what they expect to see,” Willas replied. “And even if they suspect… how can one reveal it? If you’re wrong, you’ve humiliated the accused and yourself and will likely be challenged to a duel. And if you’re right? You’ve shamed a lady and her house. Either way, the cost is too high for most to chance it.”

Loras said nothing for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the fields below. Willas studied him in silence, wondering how much his brother’s world had truly changed since the Grail had touched his lips. Loras had always seen things in stark shades of light and dark. With the pure power of the Lady running through him it seemed unlikely he would start seeing the grays in between. But to be a successful lord, one had to recognize them, to work around them and through them. He wondered how the great lords that were Grail Knights managed it.

Chapter Text

Nachexen 24th, 2523

The wind bit sharp atop the gatehouse, but Loras Tyrell hardly noticed. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, where a black smudge marred the pale expanse of the winter sky. It grew darker and fuller with each passing moment. What had been a distant smear an hour ago was now unmistakably a horde.

"There are a lot of them," Willas said quietly, lowering a fine Tilean spyglass from his eye. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of concern.

Loras straightened his shoulders, his voice steady and deliberate. "These walls can hold off ten thousand zombies with ease." He spoke louder than necessary, the words meant as much for the men on the battlements as for his brother. They needed the confidence.

A rush of wings drew his attention as a falcon descended, its feathers catching the pale afternoon light. It landed lightly on the merlon beside him, and in a heartbeat, shifted. Where the bird had perched now sat Jeneva, her white robes fluttering in the cold wind, her gorgeous face framed by a golden mane of unbound hair.

She raised a slender hand, twirling it in a deliberate motion. The air around them thickened, swirling visibly in a circle of whispering wind.

"What is this?" Willas asked sharply, his gaze flicking from the wind to the Prophetess.

"Merely ensuring we are not overheard," Jeneva said. Her voice was serene, but her expression grave. "There is no need to spread panic among the garrison."

"Is there reason for panic?" Loras asked, arching a brow.

"No," she admitted, though her tone carried a seriousness to it that belied the word. "But there is reason for concern. The dead march in great numbers, zombies, skeletons, and crypt ghouls. But there are other things as well. Varghulfs and Mournguls, a surprising number of them. More than I would expect from mere chance. I suspect the Black Knight, or one of his lieutenants, is creating them artificially."

Loras frowned, the name stirring a bitter taste in his mouth. "A Varghulf… that's a vampire that has devolved into some savage beast, like a Vargheist, isn't it? I've never been sure of the difference."

Jeneva's lips curled faintly, though it was not quite a smile. "A Vargheist goes mad, buried deep underground, lapping at warpstone-tainted waters in its thirst. A Varghulf, on the other hand, is a vampire that surrenders utterly to its bloodlust. They gorge on red meat and blood until they lose all restraint. The end result is similar; they transform into mutant, monstrous creatures, part bat, part vampire. But where a Vargheist is near mindless, driven by madness, a Varghulf retains its cunning and rage."

"I dealt with the Vargheist beneath the keep that Rachard locked away before his death," Loras said, his voice confident. "I'll handle these beasts just the same."

"Impressive as it was, that creature had been starved of blood for years," Jeneva said, her tone sharp enough to pierce through his bravado. "The ones you face now will be well-fed and full of endurance. They will not go down so easily."

Loras met her gaze, his amber eyes as sharp and cold as the wind that whipped around them. "Nothing worth killing ever does," he said simply.

Willas sighed beside him, running a hand through his hair. "I suppose it's too late to convince you to let someone else take the field, isn't it?"

"Much too late," Loras said, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint smile. Below, the black smudge on the horizon grew darker still, the horde pressing closer.

Beside him, Willas shifted uneasily, his face pale beneath the hood of his thick cloak.

"What of the Mournguls?" Willas asked, breaking a long silence. His voice was low, hesitant, as if speaking the word aloud might summon the creature it described. "I've only heard of them in passing."

Jeneva's expression darkened, her lips tightening. "Undead horrors," she said. "They are born from the cruelest of deaths, some poor soul, dying alone in the cold, starving, after resorting to cannibalism. The fear, despair, and self-loathing in their final moments attracts currents of dark magic. It traps their spirit within their corpse, twisting it into a monster neither living nor truly dead. A half-spectral, half-corporeal creature consumed by an unending hunger for human flesh."

Willas swallowed, his unease plain on his face. Loras felt it too, a weight in his chest, a revulsion that churned his stomach. "And you believe someone is creating them deliberately?" Willas asked, his voice rising in outrage.

Jeneva nodded, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "It is a vile thing, but not beyond the reach of the enemies we face. Chain a man outside alone in the freezing cold, starve him until his desperation drives him to eat scraps of human flesh. Then, when he has crossed that line, withhold all sustenance until he succumbs. The dark magic does the rest."

She shook her head, "Worry not, even a mortal men can still strike them down with a blade, though it takes a fair bit more work than a more physical creature like a ghoul. They're immune to arrows and other projectiles though."

Loras clenched his fists, the leather lining of his gauntlets creaking. "And the Varghulfs?" Willas asked, though his voice trembled.

Jeneva's face softened, though her eyes remained grave. "A more deliberate abomination," she said. "Turn someone forcibly into a vampire, then imprison them. Force them to feed to excess, until they gorge themselves on blood and meat. Beat them, torture them, stoke their rage and break their mind. It is only a matter of time before they lose themselves to the hunger, mutating, devolving into something monstrous."

"Their vile works know no bounds," Loras said, his voice hard as steel.

"Will their creator be with them?" Willas asked, his gaze flicking nervously toward the distant horizon. "They don't seem like creatures that could march to war on their own. They'd run amok without pursuing their master's objective."

Jeneva tilted her head back, her eyes unfocusing as a faint blue glow overtook them, the light of Azyr swirling in their depths. "The Black Knight himself is not here," she said, her voice distant, as though she spoke from some other place. "But someone of importance is. A necromancer, perhaps. Or a vampire. Perhaps both."

Willas furrowed his brow, the lines of worry deepening on his face. "If vampires follow this Black Knight, he must be a Blood Knight of great power. Could he be the Red Duke himself?"

Jeneva's lips curled faintly, though it was not quite a smile. "The Red Duke would not skulk behind a disguise," she said. "If it were him, we would know it. No, this one… Perhaps he is one of the Red Duke's more fearsome progeny. Or a necromancer of unspeakable power. Perhaps even a dark sorcerer in service to the Changer of Ways or the Plague Lord. Whatever he is, he is vile enough to command such a host."

Loras gripped the cold stone of the battlements, his knuckles white beneath his gauntlets. "Whoever he is," he said, his voice as steady as it was grim, "he will answer for the horrors he has wrought. By my sword and by the Lady's grace, he will answer."

Willas cast him a sidelong glance, his concern plain. "You can't kill them all, Loras."

"No," Loras admitted. "But I can kill enough. Garlan, Duke Armand, the King and the army will do the rest."

Below them, the black tide crept ever closer, its shapes growing distinct; bone, claw, and shadow, moving in grotesque unison. The storm was coming, and Loras Tyrell would not face it without steel in hand.

Loras turned his gaze on the lower courtyard, and beheld a sea of misery. He had set the yeomen cavalry Willas had brought with him to ride the outskirts of his domain and keep watch. They had ridden back last evening sounding their horns and crying the alarm. The results was a bleak sight; townsfolk and refugees from the outlying villagers huddled together beneath makeshift tents, wrapped in blankets and clinging to what little warmth they could muster around small fires.

Children cried, their voices thin as the wind as their Mothers clutched them to their breasts, shielding them from the cold. The air below was thick with the smell of woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, and the faint acrid tang of human waste. The sobs of confused children and the murmurs of frightened villagers rose like a low tide, pressing against his ears.

The elderly and mothers with infants and very young children had been given shelter within the keep and the various other buildings, but that still left both courtyards full to the brim. The garrison and the men Willas had brought were forced to move along a small number of pathways that had been kept clear of the crowd.

Willas stood beside him, his gaze fixed on the scene below, his face lined with guilt. "The foot and the wagon train arrived just in time," he said, breaking the silence. "A few hours later, and…" He shook his head, his words trailing off into a sigh. "Still, will it be enough? We brought more than enough to support our forces, yours, mine, and the townsfolk. But we didn't think to add the villagers into the calculation." His lips pressed into a thin line, his shame plain to see.

"If you had thought of it, the wagons might not have reached us in time," Loras said, his tone steady but firm. "It will be enough for some months to come." He gestured toward the keep. "The late Lord Rachard, wretched as he was, had the sense to stockpile provisions. The granary is full and there are caverns below, dry ones, where stores are packed tight."

Willas turned to him, hope flickering in his expression. "Could we move some of the villagers down there? It would ease the crowding."

Loras shook his head, his frown deepening. "The other caverns are damp, Willas. The air reeks of rot. They've held the undead too recently." He paused, recalling the stench that had clung to the tunnels, the hacked-up corpses dragged out in grisly procession, and the hours Jeneva had spent purging the lingering taint of necromancy. "As for the dry ones, they're packed wall to wall with arrows, grain and salted meat. We'd have to clear them out to fit anyone inside."

Willas frowned. "Better that than leaving folks out in the open."

"Perhaps," Loras admitted. "But if we move those provisions, they'll sit exposed here in the courtyards. Vulnerable to spells. A lucky fireball could turn our rations to ash, or worse."

"A dark spell could curse them, lacing them with foul poison, sowing them with disease or even a mutagen," the Prophetess warned.

Willas nodded, though his shoulders slumped. "A fair point," he muttered, his tone heavy with reluctance.

Loras turned his gaze back to the refugees. A woman rocked a crying five year old near the gate, her face hollowed by stress and fear. "The villagers aren't soldiers," Loras said, quieter now. "They have no arms, no training. Their presence is a blessing and a burden both. For their sakes, we must hold."

"We will hold," Willas said, with more conviction than Loras thought his brother truly felt.

Loras said nothing. The sight of so many innocent souls crammed together like livestock filled him with unease. Hunger and fear could break a man's will or twist it into something darker. If the tide of undead didn't break them, he feared their own desperation might.

He turned to Jeneva, his voice low but firm, the hint of a grin playing at his lips. "We must inspire them," he said. "Show them that the Lady has not forsaken Mousillon. Let them see that we stand as her chosen, unyielding against the darkness."

Jeneva's eyes glimmered like starlight, and with a wave of her hand, the swirling winds around her dissipated. She tilted her head, curious but knowing, as Loras stepped forward to the very edge of the battlement.

"What do you mean to do?" Willas asked, his brow furrowing.

"You'll see," Loras replied with a grin.

"Hey!" Willas exclaimed, his voice rising in alarm as Loras climbed onto the parapet.
The knight turned to the masses below, his voice ringing clear and strong over the courtyard, like a bell tolling in the stillness of dawn. "People of Mousillon, fear not!" he called, and the murmurs ceased, every face lifting to him in sudden attention. "The heirs of Landuin stand with you! A Knight of the Grail and a Prophetess of the Lady are here, and we shall not falter. Whatever darkness rises against us, we shall endure, for the Lady's light is with us!"

And with those words, he leapt from the parapet.

The crowd gasped and shrieked as Loras plunged through the air, their cries mingling with the wind that whipped past him. Yet he fell with the grace of a falcon stooping upon its prey, his form steady, his faith unwavering. The earth rose to meet him, but the Grail's blessing burned within his veins, and he landed with a lightness that defied the natural laws of the world, his knees bending only slightly, as if he were a boy jumping down the last couple of steps as he ran down the stairs. He rose to his full height, unshaken, his green and gold tabard gleaming in the sun as the people stared in awed silence.

Then came a sound like the cracking of thunder. The crowd turned their eyes back to the battlements of the inner gatehouse, where Jeneva now stood sixty feet above them. A storm of raw power surrounded her, lightning coiling around her form like living serpents, each bolt as thick as a man's arm and brighter than the noonday sun. Without a word, she stepped forward into the void, her feet leaving the stone, and began to descend.

She did not fall as Loras had, but floated with the grace of a leaf borne upon an unseen wind. The lightning did not abandon her but danced in her wake, trailing sparks that shimmered and sang in the air. The crowd parted as she alighted beside Loras, her landing soft as snowfall, the storm dissipating as she placed a hand lightly on his arm.

The silence stretched for a moment, heavy and expectant. Then a cry rose from the crowd, a cheer born of wonder and relief, swelling into a roar that echoed against the walls. Faces that had been pale with fear now shone with a light of their own, a light rekindled by the sight of a Grail Knight and the Prophetess standing tall against the gathering shadows.

Loras raised his sword high, the steel glinting like a shard of the sun. "For the Lady!" he cried.

"For the Lady!" the people shouted in reply, their voices rising as one, and for the first time, Loras felt that the darkness pressing upon Mousillon was not so impenetrable after all.

Willas, still standing atop the parapet, pinched the bridge of his nose. "A little less drama next time, perhaps?" he muttered to himself, but no one was listening.

…

Dusk fell heavy and grim upon the fields outside the castle of Jeneva, the waning light painting the land in hues of blood and shadow. Across the plains, the dead had risen against all that was good, an unholy host that stretched to the horizon, their forms a grotesque mockery of life. Zombies and skeletons shuffled in mindless unity, their rusted weapons clanking dully against brittle bone and rotting flesh. Among them loomed darker shapes; creatures born of nightmare, towering and twisted, exuding an aura of malevolence that curdled the air itself.

Loras Tyrell, Grail Knight of Bretonnia, stood upon the battlements of the castle's gatehouse, his gaze steady as he beheld the tide of undeath. He had ordered the palisade abandoned; the wooden defenses would have been as a straw hut before a tempest. To contest the enemy there would have spread his forces too thin, and the monstrous creatures would have shattered the walls in too many places for him and Jeneva to contest. The dead would have poured through, encircling and cutting off the defenders. No, the true defense lay here, behind the castle's thick stone ramparts, where the gate could be barred and the walls manned by determined hearts.

They'd simply left the palisade gate open and awaited the enemy from the battlements. There would be no battering through these walls. They'd have to breach the gate or go over the walls with countless ladders. With so many men defending the walls neither was likely, especially with a Grail Knight and Prophetess of the Lady to lead them, no matter how many of the tireless undead marched against them.

The undead bided their time, their advance slow and deliberate as the sun dipped lower. It was no surprise to Loras. "Dark creatures wait for dark skies," Jeneva said beside him, her voice soft but firm, like the chimes of a temple bell. She stood tall, her hair the color of the sun, her staff crackling with barely contained power. "They know men fear the night and yearn for the light. And so, we must shine for them."

Even as she spoke, Jeneva set her staff aside and raised her arms, and the air around her hummed with energy. Above her hands, a ball of lightning took form, its brilliance casting the battlements in stark, white light. With a commanding gesture, she sent it hurtling down into the square before the gatehouse, where the vanguard of the undead had begun to gather.

The detonation lit the dusk like a second sun. Lightning burst forth in a web of deadly precision, striking through rusted swords, archaic helms and armor, leaping from one undead form to the next. Scores of zombies and skeletons collapsed in ruin, their skulls shattered or the foul sorceries binding them undone. Near a hundred fell in an instant, leaving a charred ruin in their place.

Willas, ever quick with his tongue, quipped, "If she can do that unopposed, this siege will be over sooner than I expected."

Loras, however, did not smile. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, and his voice was heavy with foreboding. "She won't be unopposed," he said.

Even as the words left his lips, the enemy's reply came. From the depths of their ranks, a baleful orb of light arced into the sky, its glow sickly and unnatural, shimmering with hues of violet and dark green. It burst into cursed, purple flames and within its heart writhed, tortured spectral faces, their mouths agape in eternal screams. As it rose, an icy chill swept over the castle, and Willas and the soldiers on the battlements recoiled, their faces pale with dread.

The orb's trajectory brought it higher still, and Loras felt its malevolence, though it did not touch him. The Grail's blessing burned within his soul, shielding him from the fell magic. Jeneva, too, stood unyielding, her face calm, her emerald eyes fixed upon the dark missile.

As the orb began its descent, the screams of its spectral faces growing louder, Jeneva raised her staff. With a flick of her wrist, the orb was undone, snuffed out as one might extinguish a candle. It vanished with a soundless implosion, leaving only silence in its wake.

The men sagged against the parapets, their breath returning in ragged gasps. For a moment, no one spoke, until Jeneva broke the silence. Her voice was low, her words laden with grim certainty. "There is one among them who has mastered Shyish, the Wind of Death."

Loras nodded, his expression grim but resolute. He rested one gauntleted hand on the pommel of his sword, it and the hilt wrought in the image of the Lady's grail. "Then we shall meet them and introduce them to the fate they are so fond of meddling with," he said, his voice steady as the stone beneath their feet.

The battle had just begun, but Loras knew that the light of the Lady would not falter, even in the darkest of nights.

The night deepened as the battle raged, the heavens alight with great flashes of power, both sacred and profane. Jeneva, her staff held aloft, contended with the sorceries of the warlock, her face aglow with the radiance of the Lady's blessing. Each clash of magic sundered the darkness, illuminating the battlements and the grim host that lay beyond. Yet the war of spell and counterspell was hers to fight, and Loras turned his attention to the more immediate foe.

Below the walls, a company of ghouls emerged from the massed ranks of the enemy, their hunched forms laboring with twisted purpose. They bore forth a great ram, mounted within a wooden frame, its bulk clad in wet leather to defy flame. The ram creaked and groaned as it was rolled forward, its grotesque bearers snarling and slavering with feral hunger.

"Aim for the ghouls," Loras commanded, his voice carrying over the din. Around him, the archers obeyed, drawing back their longbows and loosing a volley of bodkin-tipped arrows. The shafts fell among the ghouls, piercing through pallid flesh and striking deep. Unlike the mindless dead, these creatures were not truly undead but monstrous mockeries of life, driven by an endless hunger. Their shrieks echoed as they fell, clawing at the shafts embedded in their twisted forms.

The ram juddered to a halt as too many of its carriers were slain, their limp bodies sprawled across the cobblestones. Zombies shuffled forward from the ranks of the undead, dragging aside the corpses with sluggish determination. With their mindless persistence, they took up the burden, and the ram creaked forward once more, its progress slow but unrelenting.

"Why did they not send the zombies to begin with?" asked Willas, standing at Loras's side. He loosed an arrow of his own, striking down one of the shambling dead straight through a gaping eye-socket.

The Grail Knight glanced at his brother; his expression grim. The use of a bow in battle was unbecoming for a knight of a realm. A knight was meant to battle his enemy eye to eye, sword or lance in hand. Still, the undead hardly had any honor to offend and so on that matter he held his tongue.

"The ghouls are stronger," Loras said, his tone measured. "They are faster and hardier. It was easier for them to bring the ram this far with ghouls to carry it, even knowing they would fall before our arrows."

"And now the zombies take their place," Willas muttered, shaking his head as the archers turned their aim to the slower-moving undead. It was harder work, for only a strike to the skull would lay them low. One by one, they fell, but each was replaced by another shambling corpse, and the ram rolled ever closer to the gate.

Loras's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, wishing to leap down among and strike them down in the name of Lady. He would cut down hundreds he was certain, but even a Grail Knight could not last alone against such endless numbers forever and so he held his place.

"Prepare the tar!" Willas commanded, his voice rising above the din. "That ram will take too long to burn otherwise."

From behind the lines of the defenders, the boilers sprang into action. They heaved a great iron cauldron, blackened with soot and steaming with its deadly contents, toward the parapets. The ram drew into position, its wet leather sheath glistening in the light of the torches that now lined the battlements, and the men above poured forth their boiling cargo through the machicolations.

The tar cascaded down, a viscous tide of black death. Where it struck the ram's protective frame, it clung and seeped, soaking through the leather that would have turned aside mere oil or flame. Smoke began to rise as the searing heat found purchase, the leather hissing and bubbling.

The ram halted, its advance arrested as the undead paused, the mindless brutes unsure of what to do, but somehow aware that things were not going to plan. Zombies faltered, their rotting hands scalding and sticking to the viscous, tar-slick beams, and the ram's momentum stalled. Loras allowed himself a brief nod of approval but did not look away from the enemy.

"Their master will not relent," he said quietly, his gaze fixed upon the dark mass beyond the boiling tar. "We must be ready for their next ploy."

Even as he spoke, a fresh cheer arose from the ranks of the defenders at the sight of flames spreading across the frame. The night would hold no peace, for the dead knew neither fatigue nor fear. Yet Loras's heart was steadfast, the light of the Lady burning within him, and he stood unyielding, sword in hand, as the siege pressed on.

The undead were not without their crude cunning. At some unseen signal, the shambling corpses dropped the ram, releasing their grip on its handholds and took to shoveling earth, heaving dirt upon the smoldering, tar splattered frame of the ram. The flames, which had begun to lick greedily at the soaked leather, sputtered and dimmed under the clotted heaps of soil.

Loras cursed under his breath. For a moment, it seemed their victory was undone, their efforts wasted. But then he saw it, a flash of light in the corner of his eye. The warlock's attention must have faltered to give that order to his thralls.

The enchantress seized the opening. Jeneva's voice rose above the chaos, a cry that thrummed with power. From the air itself, she summoned a great spear of amber light, its shaft glinting as if made of polished gold, its tip sharp enough to pierce the heavens. With a sweep of her arm, she cast it down, a comet streaking through the night. It struck true. The ram's leather shroud and wooden frame ripped open like brittle paper, and the great beam beneath cracked and splintered, its halves falling to the bloodied earth.

A deafening cheer erupted from the defenders, a cry of hope and victory. Loras did not join them. His eyes were already scanning the field, seeking the enemy's next move. He did not have to look long.

Out of the milling throng of undead, the true horror emerged. A half-dozen hulking shapes loped forward, their forms grotesque against the flickering light of the battlefield. Varghulfs. Monsters of sinew and fury, neither fully man nor beast, their bat-like wings folded against their bloated frames, their claws long and sharp as scythes.

"They're coming for the gates," Loras muttered. His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword.

And they were not alone. The horde surged forward behind them in a line that would engulf half the castle, a tide of bone and rot, thousands strong. Zombies and skeletons dragged makeshift ladders cobbled together from bones, branches, and bits of broken planks, each just long enough to reach the top of the forty-foot walls. Ghouls slunk among the crowd, their black eyes gleaming with malevolent hunger, claws dripping with poison, and here and there Loras glimpsed the pale, half spectral forms of Mournguls, dreadful shades that seemed to waver between this world and the next.

"Cast the ladders down!" Loras shouted, his voice sharp as steel. "Break them, burn them if you can! Strike the Mournguls with bill, stone and blade. Arrows have no effect on them."

The defenders scrambled to obey, hurling stones, chopping at the ladders and climbing dead with axes, and pouring boiling oil to set the wooden ladders aflame. It was chaos on the walls, over a dozen battles breaking out at once as the undead reached for their prey.

But Loras's eyes were on the gates. Carved from foot thick oak, banded with iron, they were sturdy, built to withstand brutal sieges. Yet even gates like these would not hold for long under the assault of Varghulfs. Already the monsters were closing in, their clawed hands flexing in anticipation, their beady red eyes fixed on the prize.

"They'll batter through," Willas said beside him, his voice tight.

"Not if I stop them," Loras said grimly. The Grail Knight turned, his emerald cloak catching the torchlight, the golden rose crest on his tabard gleaming. Around him, the men stared, their fear written plainly on their faces.

"Hold the walls!" Loras commanded. "Keep the ladders down and the hordes back. The gates are mine."

There was still the problem of being overwhelmed even if he slew the Varghulfs, the press of the undead might still drag him down, bury him beneath their weight. So, he looped a rope around his waist, the coarse fibers biting into his tabard, and knotted the other end around the nearest merlon.

"Be ready to pull me up when I call," he commanded the men-at-arms around him. "If the line is cut, have men ready to open the sally port."

The men-at-arms glanced at one another, uneasy, but none argued. A knight of the Grail spoke with the Lady's authority.

Loras did not wait for their courage to falter. He stepped to the edge, drew his sword and without a word he descended, his blade glinting in the firelit gloom, his heart steady. The beasts would come and he would meet them. Whether the gates held or fell, the Lady would know her knight had stood firm.

He landed atop one Vargulf, sword driving straight through its skull and brain and out the underside of its jaw, dropping it instantly. Death came so suddenly to it that it did not make a sound.

Adled with rage as they were, even the five remaining Varghulfs paused momentarily in surprise at that. They hesitated, their glowing eyes flickering with something that might have been recognition of the danger they were in.

Good, Loras thought. Let them fear.

He did not wait for them to recover. As the first beast crumpled beneath him, he launched himself at the next with all the speed and force he could muster. His muscles burned with the effort, but his will was unshakable.

The second Varghulf reared back, its claws flashing through the air to ward him off. It was quick, but not quick enough. Rage and shock dulled its instincts, and Loras's blade was swifter still. The sword came down in a shining arc, cleaving the creature's head in two.
Red-black blood sprayed across his armor, steaming in the cold night air. The beast let out a strangled howl as it fell, its wings flailing uselessly before going limp.

Two down.

Loras stood amid the carnage, his chest rising and falling, his sword slick with gore. The remaining Varghulfs snarled, their hesitation giving way to fury. They moved as one, circling him like wolves around wounded prey.

Above him, the men on the walls called out, their voices faint over the din of battle. There were prayers to the Lady and cheers for his exploits, but Loras heard none of it. His focus was on the beasts, the rope lying loose against his waist as he tightened his grip on his sword hilt.

"Come, then," he muttered, his voice low and steady. "Come and die."

And they did.

The beasts came at him like a storm, wings beating, claws raking the air, fangs bared in twisted Chiropteran faces that were unholy mockeries of men. They towered over him, each as tall as a knight astride his warhorse or more, their bodies grotesquely broad and corded with muscle. In their rage and bloodlust, they stumbled over one another, snarling and snapping as they jostled to be the first to rip him apart.

Loras darted forward, his steps sure and swift, even in the shadow of such monstrous foes. One of the Varghulfs lurched forward onto its clawed hands and knees, momentarily off-balance, and that was all the opening he needed. His blade flashed, catching the firelight as it arced down and bit deep into the beast's neck. Red-black ichor sprayed across the stone, and the hideous head tumbled free, rolling like a child's ball before coming to rest. The headless corpse twitched once, then collapsed in a heap.

Three left.

The others hesitated, pulling back just far enough for their rage to cool and some measure of cunning to creep back into their eyes. Their movements slowed, became deliberate. They began fanning out to encircle their prey.

Loras turned with them, his sword steady in his hands. His breath came in steady gusts, his chest rising and falling beneath the gore-soaked tabard sticking to his breastplate. Above, the archers on the gatehouse battlements were not idle. The ladders of the foe could not reach them, and so they had been shooting down into the horde assaulting the walls besides them and waiting for an opportunity to aid him.

Arrows rained down on the Varghulfs now, black-fletched shafts tipped with sharp bodkin points driving deep. The beasts screeched and recoiled as the missiles struck home, puncturing their leathery wings and burying themselves in the dense muscle of their backs and flanks. None of the arrows found an eye or heart, but they did their work all the same, forcing the beasts to falter for a moment at the unexpected attack.

That moment was all Loras needed.

He surged to the right, his sword slicing through the air in a blur of steel and holy light. The blade hummed with the Lady's power, a song of purity that was the bane of all undead. The Varghulf he rushed towards lunged forward to intercept him, but Loras was quicker. His sword swept low, shearing through the beast's left leg at the knee.

It let out a keening, unnatural shriek as it toppled forward, clawing at the ground for balance. Loras stepped in, his movements as fluid as water, and his blade swept back and up, the strike taking the creature's jaw and most of its face off, cleaving through bone and brain alike.

The beast spasmed once, twice, then stilled.

Loras did not wait to savor the kill. There were still two more.

The last two came at him together, heedless of the arrows that still rained down upon them. Shafts jutted from their thick hides, but they did not slow, did not falter. Their hunger was too great, their fury too deep. One came from his left, the other from behind, their monstrous claws poised to rip him apart.
Loras turned with them, his sword flashing, warding off blows that came as fast as an Estalian duelist's thrusts but with the force to rend steel and shatter stone. For the first time in the fight, he felt himself truly pressed. The beasts moved with uncanny speed, their strength beyond reckoning, and though he had slain four of them already, these two showed no fear.

Yet for all their monstrous power, they were no pack mates. They did not fight as comrades, but as rivals, each seeking the kill for itself. They got in each other's way, their movements uncoordinated, their attacks just hesitant enough to keep them from overwhelming him.

Still, they forced him back, step by step, until he felt the iron-bound gate at his back. There was nowhere left to go.
An impasse. He could not strike at one without leaving himself open to the other, but neither could they encircle him now, not with the gatehouse at his rear.

Then a shout from above.
A billhook came down from the battlements, hurled by strong hands, its sharp blade flashing in the light of torches and Jeneva's otherworldly clashes with the Warlock. The Varghulf to his left saw it and sprang back, avoiding the strike. The weapon struck the cobbled ground at Loras' feet, sending up a shower of sparks as its metal tip clattered against the stone. The shaft toppled in his direction.

'A gift from the Lady,' Loras thought.

He seized it with his left hand and, without hesitation, turned and hurled it with all the might in his body. The great polearm flew true, its weight and momentum lending it the force of a ballista shot. It struck the beast on his right square in the chest, the broad blade driving deep, shearing through flesh and bone, tearing apart its heart, lungs, and spine.

The creature let out a ghastly wet, rattling cry. It staggered back, its clawed hands twitching, its wings convulsing uselessly at its sides. He darted forwarded and drove his blade through an eye, deep into its brain. A shudder passed through its body, and then it collapsed in a heap, unmoving.

One left.

The remaining Varghulf came at him in a frenzy, its claws flashing, its fanged maw twisted in a snarl of fury. It raked at him with wild, sweeping blows, but Loras met each strike with the surety of a master, his blade dancing in his hands, parrying, deflecting, turning aside every claw and fang. It was a dizzying display of skill that he doubted even Garlan could have matched before he drank from the Grail.

The creature lunged forward, but he stepped inside its reach, his sword carving a deep, merciless line from hip to sternum, splitting it open like a Grail Day goose. Thick red-black blood poured from the wound, but the Varghulf fought on, staggering, lashing out with undying rage. Too slow.

Loras sidestepped, his blade flashing again, severing one clawed hand at the wrist. The monster shrieked, whirling on him, but he took the other hand just as easily, sending it spinning through the air. Its eyes burned with mindless hate, its ruined body still thrashing, jaws snapping at him, still straining to kill.

'Enough,' Loras thought with contempt.

The final stroke took its head from its shoulders, sending it rolling across the blood-slicked stones. Its glowing eyes faded to black and stared up at him, lifeless at last, its face twisted in one last hate filled rictus.

Loras yanked hard on the rope. "Pull me up!"

The men above obeyed, but he hardly needed their help. He leapt, catching a foothold against the stone gate frame, then another against the lintel above. He sprang higher, pulling himself up with effortless grace, his hands finding every slight protrusion in the stone as if the Lady herself guided him.

Then he was atop the battlements, vaulting the parapet in a single bound. He landed before Willas and their men-at-arms, breath steady, sword in hand, the tainted blood of his foes still dripping from the blade.

A hush fell. Even the Prophetess looked at him with something like awe.

Loras raised his sword, black with undead filth but still gleaming beneath. "Such is the fate of any who dares defy the Lady of the Lake!"

A roar of triumph erupted from the men, their voices rising into the night. They cheered his name, they called to the heavens, they bellowed their war cry to the world.

"For the Lady!"

And in the background the undead horde fell back, dragging their ladders with them into the night. Their dark master no doubt needing time to rethink his strategy. After all, he had all the time in the world. His enemies were going nowhere and his minions had no need for food or drink or warmth.

Chapter Text

Nachexen 21st, 2523

The docks of Lowgarden were a din of shouting sailors and creaking timbers, the scent of mud and river water thick in the morning air. The Leaping Stag rocked gently at anchor, its hull broad and heavy, its decks swarming with men loading the last of the supplies. It was the largest merchantman at the docks. Margaery supposed she should be grateful for that, though she would have preferred something swifter and more elegant.

At the base of the gangplank, Lord Mace Tyrell clung to her, his powerful frame shaking with each sob. "Oh, how I wish I could go with you," he blubbered. "Never did I imagine I'd miss my own daughter's wedding."

Margaery smiled wistfully, stroking his broad back, letting him have his moment. "You have to stay, Father. The campaign must be planned for. That's why I sail for Bordeleaux instead of Aquitaine."

Duke Armand had gone ahead there to confer with Duke Alberic in his capital. Mousillon loomed to their north like a festering wound, and soon enough, they would march on it, but the river Grismerie that separated Bordeleaux from Mousillon would be a significant barrier to any invasion. A great fleet would need to be marshaled to transport their armies and landings needed to be planned. Bordeleaux with its eponymous port would be key to that.

"I know, I know," her father sniffled, dabbing at his eyes with a silk handkerchief. "Just be safe, my little rose, and have a wonderful time. You only get married once, you know."

She rolled her eyes, praying that was true. She did not want to end up a widow at the end of this war, in need of a new husband. "You've hired the largest ship in the docks, Father. They've carronades that will shred any reavers foolish enough to come near, and you've given me twenty men-at-arms and four knights besides. We'll be fine."

Her lordly father kissed her forehead, his mustache tickling her skin. "I love you."

"And I love you." She kissed his bearded cheek, then turned to ascend the gangplank. "The next time you see me, I'll be a married woman and the Duchess of Aquitaine."

Her father straightened, puffing out his chest. "And the next time you see me, I'll be the Duke of Mousillon."

The wind tugged at her skirts as she stepped onto the deck. She turned back to give him a wave and continued to do so as the ship slipped the docks and headed down the Mander, the charming town of Lowgarden and then the massive walls and towers of Highgarden slowly receding out of sight. She wondered how long it would be before she saw them again.

Nachexen 22nd, 2523

The sea rolled beneath The Leaping Stag with a restless, ceaseless motion, the deck pitching just enough to make the unaccustomed queasy. Margaery braced herself against the rail, watching the dark waters churn below. She had sailed on open seas before, once to Castle Lyonesse six years ago, another time to Bordeleaux four years past, but those had been summer journeys, warm and gentle, with clear skies and soft breezes. This was different. The winter winds gnawed at the rigging, and the sailors moved with wary steps, muttering to one another about the season's tempers and offering up prayers to Manann.

She forced herself to ignore the cold and the unease in her stomach, letting her mind drift instead to memories of brighter days. The tourneys they'd traveled to see, those had been grand. The thunder of hooves on packed earth, the flash of steel on steel, the great banners streaming in the wind. She had sat beneath a silken canopy, embroidered with the coat of arms of their host, and watched knights clash like the heroes of old.

That first tourney in Lyonesse, Garlan had been magnificent. It had been his first true test in the lists, and he had not disappointed. He had won the melee, outlasted seasoned champions in the crush of that mock battle, and in the joust, he had lost only at the very last to the champion. Duke Adalhard had not been pleased. His own son had fared poorly, and he had expected his southern rivals to be outshone, not to shine themselves. But he could not object. Garlan had followed every rule, fought with honor, and left the field with glory. So the Duke had done what men like him always did, he had swallowed his displeasure and stewed in his own bitterness.

Though the rolling waves did their best to empty her stomach of food and thoughts from her head, Margaery had not forgotten. Nor had she forgotten that that tourney had been meant as a celebration of Lyonesse's return to strength. Fourteen years it had taken to rebuild, fourteen years since the Norscans had come howling through the gates, spilling over the walls like a black tide. The outer defenses had crumbled beneath their axes and dark sorcery, the city sacked and burned, until only the central keep and armory had held. Her father had been there, fighting beside Adalhard, standing firm when so many others had fallen, even the legendary Grail Knight Reolus.

One would not have known it from how the Duke had treated House Tyrell afterward.

Yet when its broken walls and melted towers had been raised once more and the banners flown again, the heralds had gone out, summoning vassals from every corner of the land to celebrate. To prove that Lyonesse still stood.

Aye, it stood. But memories were long, and Margaery knew better than most that the past was never truly buried.

She only hoped the past would not drive Duke Adalhard to folly.

Pride, she could understand. But pride was not stupidity, and whatever ambitions her father might have, House Tyrell had not declared against Lyonesse. Not yet. They would not, not until the reconquest of Mousillon was done, the dead put back in their graves, and the Black Knight cast down. To move against a vassal in good standing, one fighting against necromancers and vampires with the blessing of the king and half the kingdom at his side? That would be suicidal madness. The Fay Enchantress herself would see him cast down for it.

No, Adalhard would not move against them. But would he listen? Would he entertain her father's offer, and betroth Loras to his daughter, Brienne?

It was no secret that the Duke favored the girl over his drunken son, nor that he had grieved for her being born a daughter instead of another son. In his grief, he had done what no other lord would dare, he'd let her train with arms in the yard and badgered his son over the fact that she was better than him.

No doubt this had made her dream of deeds and glory. There were whispers, of course, rumors categorically denied by the Duke, that Brienne of Lyonesse had ridden in the lists in disguise, that she had adventured across northern Bretonnia, that she had fought Beastmen and Greenskins, won battles in places where no noble lady should have ever set foot.

Margaery did not doubt the stories. Nor did she doubt that such a life was possible. The world was crueler to women than it was to men, she had known that since she was old enough to understand how power was won and lost. A peasant woman whose husband or father had died might well choose to pass as a man, to wield a smith's hammer instead of a spindle, to own the family bakery rather than give it over to some distant male relative.

But Brienne was no peasant. She was a noblewoman, the daughter of a great house, with lands and wealth and blood to command. What need had she to take up arms like some hedge knight? To kill and struggle in the blood and muck of the battlefield? Power was not won with a blade alone, Olenna Tyrell had never wielded a sword, yet who in Lyonesse would dare call her powerless?

No, Margaery did not understand Brienne's choice. And she was not certain that she ever would.

"Margaery, come back inside. It's cold out there," her mother called from the cabin doorway.

She lingered a moment longer, watching the wine dark waves churn against the ship's hull. The sea was restless, heaving beneath them like some slumbering beast stirred to wakefulness. Then she pushed off the railing and made her way across the tilting deck, one hand catching at the ropes to steady herself. The boards were slick with spray, and she staggered as she reached the cabin door.

"Are you well, dear?" her mother asked, taking her arm as she led her inside.

"Just a little seasick," Margaery confessed.

Her mother hummed knowingly. "That's to be expected, with the sea so rough. It will pass."

Their cabin was large, as such things went on a ship, though far smaller than Margaery was used to. The walls were bare save for a few modest carvings in the wood, and the furniture, though finely made, was plain. She had never known discomfort, but she had known luxury, and this was not it. Still, it was clean, and the bed was soft enough.

"Let's brush our hair," her mother said. "Just you and me."

Margaery hesitated. "The servants can see to that." They were in a smaller room, just down the hall.

"This trip, the wedding… and then I'll be gone, sailing back home," her mother said softly. "Let us have this time together."

She unpinned her wimple, unwinding the great braid of hair coiled beneath. Once, it had been the same warm brown as Margaery's, but time had streaked it with shinning silver. Her mother had adorned it with jeweled rings, as was the fashion these days, the gems winking in the dim cabin light.

Margaery sighed, then reached up and untied her own veil. Her light brown hair tumbled free, falling in soft waves about her shoulders. It had been years since anyone but her maids had seen it unbound. Soon enough, a man would see it for the first time since she was a child. Her husband.

The thought made her stomach turn, though whether from nerves or from the sea, she could not say.

She wanted to ask her mother about it, to say 'How did you feel, when it was your turn? Were you frightened? Did you love him yet, or did that only come in time?' But the words caught in her throat. Somehow, it felt easier to speak of such things with Grandmother. Lady Olenna had never blushed in her life, Margaery suspected.

Instead, she sat beside her mother on the bed, taking up a comb of polished mammoth bone. It would have to be enough.

Nachexen 27th, 2523

Bordeleaux rose before them, sprawling along the northern bank of the Morceaux river like a great jeweled necklace, hemmed in by the sheer cliffs that loomed over its streets. It was a city of sailors and merchants, knights and craftsmen, richer and grander than any other place Margaery had ever been. Fifteen times the size of Lowgarden, and even that paled beside L'Anguille, which was said to be twice as large still. It was difficult to imagine so many souls crammed together, breathing the same air, treading the same streets.

The cliffs made Bordeleaux all but unassailable from the landward side. Even if an army somehow stormed the great ducal castle at the summit of the cliffs, they would have to fight their way down the winding road that snaked along the rock face to reach the city proper. The road was broad, as such things went, wide enough for wagons to pass one another without too much trouble, paved and well-maintained at no small expense, but it was a killing ground all the same. Holdouts in the castle above could rain arrows and stones upon any who dared descend, and the city below had its own walls, its own archers that could rake the length and breadth of the enemy formation. A handful of men with axes could throw up wooden barricades and turn the road into a slaughterhouse.

But it was the harbor that held Margaery's eye. From her place on the deck, she could see the forest of masts rising before the city walls, banners and pennants snapping in the breeze. The port of Bordeleaux traded with every corner of the Old World, its ships sailing as far as Estalia and Tilea, even to Araby and the fabled lands of Ind and Cathay. The wealth of those voyages was plain to see. The streets gleamed beneath the early morning sun, paved all in cobblestone, and the burghers' houses were tall and fine, built of brick, with tiled roofs in shades of deep blue and green. Wooden columns, carved with vines and beasts, framed their doorways. Even the air smelled different here, salt and tar, fish and roasting chestnuts, the mingled scents of a hundred different lives pressed close together.

A far cry from the low, timbered halls of Lowgarden.

The city was alive with movement. Sailors hauled crates from the docks, merchants bickered in at least half a dozen tongues, fishwives called out the morning's catch. She had always imagined herself at home in such places, amidst the pulse of trade and luxury, in the swirl of wealth and power. And yet, as Bordeleaux swallowed their ship in its vast embrace, Margaery could not shake the feeling that she had stepped into the belly of some great beast, one that was too large to be tamed.

"Do you see them, my lady?" Sir Bertrand gestured toward the castle looming high above the city, its towers like spears against the pale blue sky. "The trebuchets up on the towers of the castle?"

Margaery saw them well enough. Even at this distance, the great siege engines stood stark against the stone, their long wooden arms waiting, patient as hunting hawks on a perch.

"They say the engineers of Bordeleaux are so skilled they can put a five-hundred-pound stone through the hull of a rowboat," Bertrand went on, "without so much as splintering the ships moored to either side of it."

Margaery arched a brow. "Impressive. But what of their range?"

"The castle sits atop the cliffs, my lady. From those heights, the trebuchets can rain death across the entire harbor and most of the river beyond." Bertrand smiled grimly. "Oh, a fleet of Norscans might take the sea wall, might even sack the city and put it to the torch, but it would be the last thing they did. Their longboats would be kindling by the time they turned to flee with their loot."

She let her gaze sweep over the harbor, taking in the towering stone bulwark that separated the dockyards and warehouses from the heart of the city. The sea wall stood fifty feet tall, thirty feet thick and unyielding, a barrier of cold blue-grey stone that cut Bordeleaux's lifeblood off from the reach of reavers and pirates. Even without the trebuchets on the cliffs above, it was a formidable bastion.

The Norscans were bold, she did not doubt that. But boldness alone would not breach these walls. Not without a far greater host than most raiding parties could hope to muster. Bordeleaux was no timid rabbit for a wolf on the hunt, it was a boar with tusks that could do fearsome damage to its tormentors.

A dozen knights awaited them on the docks, their armor gleaming in the midday sun. Half bore the livery of Bordeleaux, a golden trident on a field of blue, while the other half wore the sigil of Aquitaine, a blue hippogryph's arm against gold. Their banners snapped in the chill winter breeze, their silk rich and well-kept, the men beneath them standing tall and proud.

As Margaery and her mother descended the gangplank, the most senior of the Bordeleaux knights stepped forward. He was an older man, broad and thickly built, his breastplate polished to a mirror's sheen. He bowed deeply.

"Welcome to Bordeleaux, Lady Tyrell, Lady Margaery," he said, his voice smooth and practiced. "Duke Alberic eagerly awaits your arrival and bids us escort you to the Great Hall at once."

No sooner had he finished than the foremost of the Aquitanian knights strode forward. He was younger, more rakish, his cloak trimmed with fine sable. He swept into a courtly bow, the gesture fluid and theatrical.

"As does Duke Armand," he declared, with all the flourish of a bard spinning some grand romance. "He longs to meet his beloved betrothed."

Margaery stilled, schooling her expression. 'Beloved?' The word was absurd. Duke Armand had never met her, never even written to her. He had exchanged letters with Grandmother and Father, but not with her. Yet the sheer audacity of the statement sent heat creeping into her cheeks, despite her better judgment.

"Of course, sir knights," her mother said smoothly, as if the whole exchange was nothing more than everyday conversation. She turned to their own escort. "Sir Bertrand, Sir Claudin, take half the men-at-arms and come with us. Sir Almaric, Sir Guillain, take the other half and see to our luggage and follow once you've unloaded it."

The knights inclined their heads, already moving to their tasks. Margaery took one last glance at the ship, at the river stretching long behind them to the choppy sea that lay beyond the horizon, before turning toward the waiting knights and the city beyond.

'No turning back now.'

Their escort led them through the streets of Bordeleaux beneath banners bearing golden tridents and blue hypogriffs that rippled in the harbor wind. Margaery had visited the city once before, when she was twelve, but then she had seen it through a child's eyes, awed by its size, its bustle, its endless noise. Now, she looked with sharper scrutiny, her thoughts turning to Fuu and their deep discussions of Lowgarden, of her father's dream to build it into something greater.

His ambitions were modest compared to the grandeur before her, but even so, he envisioned a city a third the size of Bordeleaux, though just as wealthy, just as thriving. It was hard to picture. Lowgarden's squat wooden houses and thatched roofs seemed a world away from the soaring gabled buildings here, their tiled roofs bright with greens, blues and reds, their brick facades decorated with intricate flourishes. The main avenue was paved in fine-cut flagstone, and every side street was cobbled. There was none of the mire, dust, or churned-up mud that clung to most of Lowgarden's streets after a heavy rain. Only a handful of its widest roads were cobbled.

The peasants she saw were much the same as those back home, rough spun tunics, simple cloaks, the weathered faces of men and women who had lived their whole lives in toil. But here and there moved others, men in rich doublets of silk and brocade, women in gowns edged with fox fur, their sleeves hanging long and heavy. Burghers, merchants, and guildmasters, all dressed finer than the most successful traders in Lowgarden, near indistinguishable from the nobility if one did not look too closely.

Margaery did look closely. She noted the calluses on a jeweler's fingers as he bartered with a vendor, the ink stains on a scribe's cuff, the careful deference they showed to their betters. These were men who had chests full of silver, but not blood. Power in some ways, but not names.

She wondered if her father's dream would ever come to pass. Would Lowgarden and its people ever look like this?

They made their way to the back of the city where the road wound up the cliffside in long, looping curves, climbing ever higher above the city and the harbor beyond. From this height, Bordeleaux spread out beneath them like a tapestry with rows of colorful tiled roofs, the masts of ships bristling in the docks, and the Morceaux River cutting a silver path toward the sea. It was a sight to take the breath away, yet Margaery's gaze did not linger. Ahead loomed the castle, and that was what held her attention now.

It was a fortress of brutal simplicity, a great concentric castle that crouched at the cliff's edge, more than three hundred feet above the city. There was no artifice here, no flourishes of delicate stonework, no gardens or terraces. Highgarden was a fortress, yes, but it was also a place of beauty, of soft pleasures amidst its whitewashed walls, garlanded with flowers. Bordeleaux's ducal seat was stark by comparison, gargantuan in scale, its defenses raised not for show but for war. The outer walls stood seventy-five feet high and forty thick, punctuated by towering bastions where the trebuchets sat poised, watching over the harbor like silent sentinels. Beyond them, the inner walls rose still higher, a hundred feet of unyielding stone, anchoring an immense round keep and a dozen other fortified buildings.

Yet within that shell of stone, the inner courtyard surprised her even though she'd seen it all before. The contrast was just too provocative not too. The yard was vast, holding not only the usual fortified barracks, stables and armories but also halls of uncommon beauty, hidden from the outside world. There was the long, marbled great hall where Duke Alberic held court, its high rafters adorned with the banners of his vassal lords, its broad floors worn smooth by centuries of feasts and dances. More wondrous still was the First Chapel, not quite as large as Highgarden's cathedral but even richer in its adornments and far holier.

It had been founded by Marcus of Bordeleaux, a companion of Gilles the Uniter himself, and was said to be attended at all times by a Prophetess, three Damsels, and two Grail Knights. Even in Highgarden, where Grail Knights and Damsels passed through from time to time, such a gathering was unheard of. Margaery had spoken with those travelers before, respectfully as a child should. But of late she'd been far more bold, as was her way.

She remembered the quiet reverence in her brother Garlan's voice when he had returned from his quest after sipping from the Grail, how she'd made him laugh when she'd shaken off the awe of seeing him so transformed and teased him as she'd always had. She recalled the measured wisdom of the Damsel Guerrite, and the solemn presence of her sister Jeneva, a true Prophetess; and how they'd treated her with the same respect they'd treated her father and grandmother, taking her questions seriously and answering them.

How would these knights and priestesses differ from those she had known? Would they look upon her with disapproval, rebuke her for her curiosity, her impudence? Or would they treat her as those in Highgarden had, with guarded respect and veiled amusement?

She would know soon enough.

The senior knight, Sir Jaquin was his name, escorted them into the great hall of Bordeleaux. It was cleared of tables, its high-beamed ceiling echoing with the murmur of assembled courtiers. They packed the chamber in their finest velvets and brocades, craning their necks for a glimpse of the bride-to-be. Margaery could feel their eyes on her as she and her mother moved across the stone floor, their escort leading them toward the dais.

Duke Alberic sat upon a high seat carved with icons of the Lady and Manann, a powerfully built man in his late forties, with the air of one who had spent a lifetime in command. Beside him stood Duke Armand, the man who would be her husband. Margaery had seen portraits, but the reality of him made her breath catch. He was dashingly handsome, taller than she had expected, with dark brown hair, piercing green eyes, and the effortless grace of a Grail Knight. He did not merely stand, he commanded the space around him. Just looking at him had some strange warmth bubbling up through her chest.

"Welcome, Lady Tyrell," Duke Alberic intoned, rising with a nod of respect for her mother before turning his gaze to Margaery. "And the Lady of the hour. Welcome, Lady Margaery."

Duke Armand stepped down from the dais in a flourish of deep blue and gold, his cape billowing behind him. He sank to one knee before her, a theatrical gesture meant for the watching crowd. Behind her, a few of the younger ladies of the court let out sighs of admiration.

Margaery barely heard them.

He took her hand in his, warm and firm, and brushed his lips lightly across her knuckles. A flush crept up her neck, unbidden, and she was grateful for the veil of decorum that kept her from looking too much like a lovestruck girl.

"Welcome, my beloved," he said, voice rich as summer wine. "I cannot tell you how long I have waited for this."

Margaery swallowed. "Duke Armand," she managed, keeping her voice smooth. "It is wonderful to finally meet you in person."

"Quite," said Duke Alberic, his tone leaving no room for sentiment. "There will be a banquet in your honor tonight, and on the morrow, you will be wed in the First Chapel at the afternoon hour. I know it gives you little time to prepare, but time marches ever onward, and dark days approach. Your houses must be united as soon as possible."

Duke Armand rose smoothly from where he had knelt. Margaery realized he was a bit taller than Willas and Loras, though not quite so tall as Garlan.

"That," he said, flashing her a smile that could have melted steel, "is music to my ears."

Things moved quickly after that. Margaery and her mother were whisked away to a luxurious guest chamber, where maids fussed over their hair and gowns in preparation for the feast. Before long, they found themselves seated at the high table, bathed in the glow of a hundred candles hanging from golden chandeliers and the expectant gazes of the assembled nobility.

Duke Alberic sat at the head, broad-shouldered and imposing, as much a warlord as a ruler. To his right sat Duke Armand, his fine features illuminated in the golden light, and to his left, a knight she did not know. He had the bearing of a Grail Knight, his every movement touched with the otherworldly grace that set them apart. Beside him sat a Damsel, her distinctive golden hair and striking green eyes making Margaery near certain this was the third sister of Guerrite and Jeneva.

Margaery found herself at Armand's side and her mother to her right. Across from mother sat Duke Alberic's wife. The Duchess was the only member of her husband's family in residence. His eldest son had gone questing for the Grail, his youngest was off on his Errantry Tour, and his daughters had all been wed to distant lords.

"Let me introduce you to one of the newest members of the Brotherhood of the Grail," Duke Armand said, gesturing toward the unfamiliar knight.

Margaery considered him for a moment before speaking. "Sir Phoebus de Gondelaurier of Carcassonne?"

The knight's brow lifted in surprise. "Forgive me, Lady Margaery, but I am quite certain we have never met. Is that not so?"

"We have not," she admitted, allowing herself a small, knowing smile. "But there has been much talk of you at Highgarden. Baron Cuy of Sunflower Hall has offered you the hand of his newly legitimized daughter, Fuu Cuy."

Recognition flickered in his gaze, followed by something amused. "So the Tyrell's have ears in Carcassonne, do they?"

Margaery merely sipped her wine, eyes glinting over the rim of her goblet.

The half-Cathayan girl was a lucky one. Sir Phoebus was a Grail Knight, and that alone set him apart from other men. But he was also strikingly handsome, strong as he was noble, with blue eyes dark and deep as the sea.

"When she learned you were a relation of her father, albeit a distant one, Lady Cuy was rather puzzled that you could not offer her more certain guidance when she sought directions from you at the Slayer Keep," Margaery said, watching the knight carefully. It had been more than a passing remark from Fuu, and it lingered in her mind, a curiosity left unanswered.

Sir Phoebus exhaled, shaking his head ruefully. "Understandable," he admitted. "Yet she gave little enough to work with. Her description of his coat of arms was vague, and I was greatly exhausted from the siege. The Black Orcs of Grimgor Ironhide do not relent, my lady, not by day nor by night. We fought them until our arms grew numb and our blades dulled with the weight of their bodies. When she questioned me, I answered as best I could and set her on the road to Highgarden."

Margaery studied him. He spoke plainly, but the shadows in his eyes told of the battle he did not describe, the ceaseless tide of green flesh, the roars and war cries, the bitter stench of blood and steel. Even a Grail Knight could be worn thin, especially since he'd only been a mortal man at the time, questing for the Grail.

"I am sure she was grateful nonetheless," Margaery said smoothly, tilting her head. "After all, without your aid, she might never have reached her father's halls."

"Aye," Sir Phoebus agreed, his lips quirking into a wry smile. "And for that, I suppose I shall count it a deed worth remembering."

"Have you heard of your brother's exploits, my lady?" the Damsel inquired, her voice smooth as still water.
Margaery turned toward her, brow furrowing. "Loras attaining the Grail?" she ventured, uncertain.

"You were at sea, so it's no surprise you have not heard," the Damsel said. "We received word of the battle only this morning via messenger pigeon."

Margaery felt a chill trace her spine. "Are my brothers well?"

"No wounds on either of them," Duke Armand assured her. "Which is impressive, given the foe they faced. A great host of the undead fell upon them three days past. Loras leapt from the battlements to take on half a dozen Varghulfs at once before the gates. He slew them all, every last one, before retreating back into the keep unscathed."

Varghulfs. The word alone made her uneasy. She did not know much of them, only that they were horrors of the night, twisted beasts of hunger and death. Before the Emperor, Karl Franz, had scoured Sylvania clean, they had lurked in its hills and blackened ruins, preying upon the foolish and the unwary.
Her sweet Loras had fought six at once, and lived? No, more than that. He had slain them, alone, and escaped without a scratch. Truly, the power of the Grail was beyond compare.

Margaery swallowed, glancing back at the Damsel. "Thank you for the news, Lady… Alisse." She answered, having searched her memory and found the name at last. Alisse the Haunted, if she recalled correctly. A peculiar epithet, though Margaery did not know what haunted her. She looked as hale as her sisters, with the same golden hair and unearthly beauty, seeming no older than twenty.

But to ask would be rude, Damsels were allowed their mysteries, and those who pried too deep often found more than they wished to know. If Alisse wanted her secrets known, she would tell them.

The conversation fell away as the first course was brought forth, and what a feast it was. Stuffed clams, steamed blue crabs, grilled seabream glistening with oil and herbs. The scent of butter and brine filled the hall, mingling with the salt-crisp air drifting in from the harbor. They might be twenty-five miles upriver, but the ocean breeze traveled up the wide river without obstruction.

The cooks had outdone themselves. Margaery took her fill, savoring each bite, but ate lightly all the same. A bride was meant to be graceful, poised, untouched by gluttony. Dessert followed, custards, tarts glazed with honey, and sugared figs so soft they melted on the tongue. But there were no dances that night. It was ill luck to dance the evening before a wedding, or so the Bordelais swore.

After that, Margaery and her mother withdrew to their chambers, leaving the lords to drink themselves foolish. Within the quiet of their rooms, they passed the time as they had on The Leaping Stag, combing each other's hair, speaking of little things. Memories of her childhood, of sunlit gardens and laughter, of Loras falling into a creek after trying to leap from rock to rock, of Willas with his nose always buried in books.

Her mother had been right, it was soothing, the simple intimacy of it. Something she would miss.

Tomorrow at this hour, she would be a married woman, a duchess. By nightfall, she would be in her husband's bed, beneath him, fulfilling her wifely duty. Would it hurt? Would she find pleasure in it, as many women whispered of when they thought no men were listening? Would she quicken with child before Armand marched for Mousillon?

The thoughts flitted through her mind, but she did not voice them. Instead, she laughed with her mother, let the hours slip by in the warmth of familiarity, and waited for the next day's dawn to come.

Nachexen 28th, 2523

The day dawned bright and clear, the sky a boundless stretch of blue above the towers of the castle. The river murmured in the distance, the wind coming in off the coast carrying the scent of salt and promise, but Margaery had little thought for anything beyond the weight of the gown that clung to her skin and the eyes that followed her every step as she entered the Chapel.

They had dressed her in silk from distant Cathay, so fine it whispered at the slightest movement, overlaid with Tilean lace delicate as spider's silk. An Estalian veil covered her hair, the lace heavy with embroidery, the golden threads glinting in the light of a hundred oil lamps. She was a vision, or so they told her, a bride worthy of a Duke and a Grail Knight.

In her hands, she held an empty chalice, gold and heavy, its surface polished so bright she could see her reflection. The chalice had been handed to her by one of the Damsels that attended the chapel, allowing her to discretely lay a hand on her arm. A shiver had run up her arm as Margaery did all she could to avoid reacting as a faint nimbus of magic washed over her along with a queer, indescribable sensation. It was the Damsel confirming her chastity. She seemed to find nothing amiss and went on her way, anyone in the crowd noticing the exchange diverting their eyes and pretending they had not.
Duke Armand held the chalice's golden twin, though his brimmed with deep red wine, the color of fine cut garnets. Peasant couples might leap over a jug before some country priestess of Shallya or Rhya and call it a wedding, but such simplicity had no place here. This was a marriage worthy of song, fit for the halls of lords and kings.

The First Chapel was full to bursting, the air thick with incense and expectation. There were knights in shining plate, their surcoats bright with heraldry, ladies adorned in silk and jewels, lords in doublet and hose. Three Grail Knights stood witness, their presence alone a blessing, and four Damsels of the Lady as well, their unearthly beauty casting an ethereal glow over the sacred space. Duke Alberic himself was there, flanked by all his counts and barons, while a few of Duke Armand's most important lords had come as well, traveling with him to confer with Duke Alberic for the coming campaign and being blessed with this fleeting moment of peace before war. But most of his vassals remained in Aquitaine, marshalling their forces and stockpiling supplies.

At the altar, the Prophetess awaited them, standing tall beneath a carved effigy of the Lady. Her dark hair fell in waves about her shoulders, framing a face kissed by the sun, more of an Estalian look than Bretonnian. Margaery thought she must hail from the Irrana Mountains of Carcassonne. Yet for all that, she had the same ageless grace as every other servant of the Goddess Margaery had seen, looking no older than twenty. Power clung to her like a mantle, an aura of purity and purpose, and when she spoke, her voice was smooth as silk, each word ringing clear through the high-vaulted chapel.

"Who comes before the Lady of the Lake, the Goddess of Chivalry, Honor, and Purity?"

Duke Armand stepped forward, broad-shouldered and undaunted, his voice ringing with pride. "Armand d'Aquitaine, bearer of the banner of the Lady of the Lake."

'How gallant of him to put the emphasis on that sacred task rather than his temporal power, carrying the holy banner which Giles himself had borne into battle, ever victorious,' thought Margaery.

She followed him forward, lifting her chin, letting her voice carry. "Margaery of House Tyrell of Highgarden."

She raised the empty chalice, meeting his gaze as the edge of her goblet touched his. Slowly, steadily, he poured, the deep red wine flowing from his cup into hers, filling it halfway.

"Armand d'Aquitaine, do you swear to unite your houses, until your blood runs dry and your life in this world has come to an end? To love, cherish, and support Margaery Tyrell and the sons and daughters you have together?"

The Prophetess's voice was steady and clear, carrying through the great chapel like the toll of a bell. The gathered lords and ladies leaned forward, waiting for the Duke's reply.

Armand did not hesitate. "I do," he said, his voice full and strong. "From this day until my end, whether that's a hundred years from now or more, she will be beloved."

The words struck her like a blow. Margaery felt the heat rush to her cheeks, a flush creeping up her throat. It was that word again. 'Beloved?' They had met for the first time yesterday. He had been courteous, charming even, but they were little more than strangers. And yet here he stood, swearing love and devotion to her before every noble of note from Bordeleaux, as if they had been childhood sweethearts, as if he had adored her for years.

She could feel the weight of a hundred gazes upon her. Some approving, some amused. She dared not glance at her mother, who had always warned her that men, even the noble and chivalrous ones, would say whatever was required to win a lady's favor.

The Prophetess turned her gaze to her, brown eyes looking deep inside. "And you, Margaery Tyrell, do you swear to unite your houses, until your blood runs dry and your life in this world has come to an end? To love, cherish, and obey your husband in all things?"

"Obey.' The word caught like a fishbone in her throat, but she smiled as if it didn't trouble her at all. Obedience was expected, yes, but it was a pliable thing, as much a matter of interpretation as of duty.

"I do," she said smoothly, dipping her chin in solemn agreement. "From this day until my end."

Was that true? She had no idea. But after Armand's grand declaration, she could hardly say anything less. It would be taken as a slight, a cold rejection in front of all their peers.

The Prophetess inclined her head, a knowing smile touching her lips. There was something almost amused in the tilt of her mouth, as if she understood the careful dance playing out before her.

"Then cross your arms, drink from your cup, and kiss," she declared. "Let the Lady's will be done."

They locked arms and drank, the wine dark and rich, sliding down Margaery's throat like liquid velvet. It pooled warm in her belly, a pleasant heat, though whether it came from the wine or the weight of the moment, she could not say. She lowered her empty goblet, and the Prophetess took it from her hands with the solemn grace of one performing a sacred rite.

Then Armand's arms came around her, strong and sure, drawing her close. She barely had time to breathe before his lips found hers. Before all these lords and ladies, before the knights and Damsels, before the very altar of the Lady herself. It was strange, the feel of his mouth against hers, the press of his body, the heat of his breath. Strange, and yet not unpleasant. No, not unpleasant at all.

When he pulled away, she opened her eyes to find him smiling. Not the practiced smile of a courtier, nor the stiff, dutiful smile of a man fulfilling an obligation. It was something else, pleased, perhaps. Or eager.

"In the name of the Lady, you are declared husband and wife before gods and men," the Prophetess proclaimed, her voice ringing through the chapel. "Let no one attempt to sunder what has been ordained, lest they suffer the wrath of the Lady."

The hall erupted in cheers. Stately lords and elegant ladies, so refined in manner, so careful in word and deed, abandoned all decorum, shouting like common peasants at a harvest festival. Margaery glimpsed her mother laughing among them, her sharp eyes alight with mirth.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of motion and sound. Another grand supper, tables groaning under the weight of roasted meats and spiced pastries, sweetmeats and fine wines. Then came the dancing, a whirlwind of color and music, Armand's hands steady on her waist as he spun her through the steps of the latest fashions from Marienburg and Bilbali. He moved with the effortless grace of a Grail Knight, guiding her across the floor as if they had danced together a hundred times before.

It was a dream of chivalry, the kind young maidens whispered of at night, the kind sung of in ballads. And yet, dreams always ended.

At last, the night fell, and they took their leave of the Great Hall. Courtiers, drunk on wine and revelry, called out ribald jests, some bold enough to speak where all could hear. Even her mother, ever proper and composed, staggered over to her with a tipsy smirk, leaned on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, "he's eager, eyes on your bust and bottom all night. Milk him of every drop of seed with that sweet heat of yours and you'll be swelling with child before the winter ends."

Margaery could do nothing but splutter agreement, push her off and pray to all the good Gods in the world that Armand had not heard that. She dared not even look him in the face, but the barely restrained mirth emanating from him made her fear that her pleas had not been answered. Then the doors to the Great Hall closed behind them, shutting out the laughter and music. It was just the two of them now. Husband and wife. And they were bound for Armand's chambers in the Central Keep.

The walk from the hall to her husband's chambers was long enough for Margaery to gather herself. This was nothing to fear. Women the world over did this every day, highborn and low alike. A wife's duty, a husband's right. But duty need not be unpleasant. Armand was a Grail Knight, handsome, honorable, kind; yet for all his solemn vows and chivalrous airs, he was still a man with a man's needs.

Still, he would be gentle with her, as any true knight should, treating her right and guiding her into this new part of life. And in time, she would learn what pleased him. That was the way of it. A man might rule in the hall, command on the field, but in the bedchamber, a clever wife could wield her own sort of power. "Men are simple creatures, little rose," Grandmother had always said, her shrewd eyes full of wisdom. "Give them what they crave, and they will crawl on their knees to give you what you desire. Love is a leash, softer than steel, but no less strong."

Obedience was for vows and public words, for ceremony and show. The real trick was to make them never wish to command you at all, while they themselves became susceptible to suggestion. For them to sink so deep in love and desire, that they mistook your will for their own. That was the game. And Margaery played to win.

The Duke opened the door and led her inside, his hand firm at her waist, perilously close to her hip. The door shut behind them with a kick of his boot. In the flickering candlelight, he looked down at her, eyes warm, full of something she dared not name. Desire, perhaps. Affection, even. That made something low in her belly twist, a flutter of nerves, or was it anticipation?

'How much of this is real?' Margaery wondered. 'How much is courtesy, the manners of a Grail Knight playing the role of dutiful husband? And how much is simply a man looking at a woman he can do whatever he pleases with?'

"Do you wish to undress yourself," Armand asked, his voice low, steady, "or would you like me to do it for you?"

She wet her lips. "Which would you like?"

He chuckled, the sound rich as the wine they'd shared. "For tonight, let's say you disrobe, and then you'll do the same for me."

Margaery nodded, willing her hands to be steady. Confidence was a lady's armor, Grandmother had always said so. She reached behind her, fingers working at the laces of her gown, silk and lace worth more than a farm village's harvest slipping free. The priceless fabric pooled at her feet and her chemise followed soon after, leaving her bare before him

Armand's green eyes followed the fall of dress and underdress, lingering on the curves they had hidden. Chest, waist, and hips, along with the dark tangle of hair between her thighs. He was staring, drinking her in like a man parched.

That was unnerving enough, but the veil remained. Her fingers hesitated for a moment, then found the edge of the fine Estalian lace, pulling it free. Her brown locks tumbled down about her shoulders, loosed for the first time before a man's eyes.

Foreigners laughed that a Bretonnian lady, caught in her bath, would lunge for a towel to cover her hair rather than her body. But there was no jest in it, only truth. This was sacred, secret. For him alone.

Armand took a slow breath, his gaze reverent, as though he had just glimpsed something holy.

Margaery lowered her gaze, letting her lashes veil her eyes as she stepped forward, fingers deftly finding the laces of his doublet. She had heard that in the Empire, men favored short-waisted, buttoned doublets, 'how ridiculous that must look.' She clung to the idle thought; let it anchor and distract her from what she was doing. But then the last lace came undone, and she pushed the garment from his shoulders, its fine fabric whispering as it slid to the floor.

Beneath, his linen shirt clung to the hard planes of his body. She reached for it, her hands steady, though her breath was not. Up and over, the shirt was cast aside, leaving him bare before her.

For a moment, she simply stared.

He was carved, like some sculptor's mad attempt to capture the very essence of chivalry and war. His shoulders were broad enough to carry a fortress gate, his chest a testament to strength honed through steel and hardship. Muscles rippled beneath sunkissed skin that nearly glowed, each one sharp and defined, like the chiseled form of a Tilean marble statue, but more. So much more.

The Grail's blessing surrounded him, an aura of power and purity that made the air thick, humming with something greater than mortal men. She had spent the better part of the day in his presence, grown accustomed to the blessing upon him, to the weight of his gaze and the warmth of his touch. But now, here, in the candlelight, there was no ignoring what he was, a demigod made flesh.

Margaery swallowed; her mouth gone dry. Heat bloomed within her, pooling low in her belly.

She had thought she understood the shape of this night. She had been wrong.

Armand chuckled, laugh low and amused. "Are you just going to look, love?"

Margaery blinked, heat rising to her cheeks. She shook her head, more to clear it than anything else, and let her hands move of their own accord. Her fingers found the ties of his hose, tugging them loose, then dipped beneath the waistband of his braies. She hesitated for only a breath before pulling both down past his hips.

And then she stopped.

He sprang free, hard and proud, and Margaery could do nothing but stare.

'Surely that was too much for a woman to bear. Surely...' she thought.

Her lips parted, her tongue flicking out to wet them without thought. A quiet, foolish part of her had assumed that the poets and whispering handmaidens exaggerated such things. But they had not. If anything, they had understated it.

Armand stood watching her, his green eyes gleaming with something between amusement and hunger. Heat rolled through her, hot as summer, thick as honey.

This was it. No turning back now.

Armand stepped out of his hose, leaving him as bare as she was. He moved forward with the easy confidence of a man who had never known hesitation, never known doubt.

His hands found her hips, then slid lower, cupping her bottom with a possessive strength that sent a shiver down her spine. Before she could so much as catch her breath, he lifted her, as effortlessly as a knight errant might lift his sword.

Margaery gasped, her arms flying to his shoulders, fingers digging into hard muscle as her legs wrapped around his waist. She could feel him, hot and heavy against her, pressing insistently against the soft mound of her sex.

Another rush of warmth spread through her, spreading low and deep in her loins. She had spent years preparing for this, hearing lectures from priestesses, reading between the lines of scandalous poetry. But none of that had left her ready for this. For the solid weight of him pressed up against her, the heat of his skin against hers, the way his breath was just a little uneven as he held her close.

"Easy, love," Armand murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her right ear. "We've all night."

Armand carried her to the bed, settling himself on its edge with her still in his arms. Margaery clung to him, head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, her legs splayed on either side of his lap. She could feel the hard press of him beneath her, and when she stole a glance downward, her breath hitched. He was big and thick, the bell end swollen and trickling fluid. 'His seed?' she wondered.

"There'll be time enough for that soon," Armand murmured, tilting her chin up. He kissed her then, nothing like the chaste press of lips they had shared in the chapel. This was deeper, hotter, a claiming. His mouth was insistent, his tongue tasting hers, drinking her in as if she were the sweetest of wines.

She felt as though she were drowning in him, lost in heat and breath and need. When he pulled away, she was gasping, her skin flushed, her lips tingling.

He did not stop. His mouth moved lower, trailing a path of fire along her throat, lingering at the hollow of her collarbone. Then lower still to feast on her breasts. When he took one aching peak into his mouth, she shuddered, fingers tangling in his hair. He suckled deep, teasing with his tongue, while his hands roamed, exploring, learning her shape. Strong fingers traced the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, slipping beneath her to cup her wet heat.

Margaery had heard the stories. She had smiled demurely when the older ladies whispered, had feigned innocence when the maids giggled behind their hands. But none of that had prepared her for this throbbing heat begging to be filled, for the slow, deliberate way her husband set about worshipping her. A Grail Knight was sworn to serve, she thought dazedly, arching into his touch. And Duke Armand had always been a dutiful man.

She was trembling. Not from fear, no, not fear, but from something else, something deeper. Something hot coiled low in her crotch, winding tighter and tighter with every brush of his fingers as he explored the dripping petals of the Rose of Highgarden.

Margaery gasped, her back arching as he found her bud. A bolt of sensation lanced through her, bright and shocking, and for a moment she wasn't sure if it was pleasure or pain. Maybe both.

This was real. Too real. It was overwhelming.

Her breath came in short, desperate gasps, her body taut as a drawn bowstring. Armand's fingers were relentless, coaxing, teasing, pressing, until something inside her snapped.

She fell apart, her body shaking in ecstasy, her voice breaking on his name. It was torn from her throat like a prayer, like a plea, like something ancient and holy and altogether outside of her control.

He was watching her, green eyes gleaming in the dim candlelight, his lips curving in something close to satisfaction. No, not satisfaction. Triumph.

Margaery sprawled limp atop him, chest rising and falling in ragged pants, her pulse still hammering in her ears.

Outside, the wind howled against the stone walls of the keep, a lonely sound. Inside, the world had narrowed to this room, this bed, this man.

Margaery's hand fumbled beneath herself and her breath hitched with hunger as her fingers curled around him, slick with sweat and something sticky. Her husband or not, it felt forbidden, almost surreal, yet here she was, hand shaking, loins burning with need, guiding him to where she knew he was meant to be.

Armand inhaled sharply through his teeth, a low sound, more animal than man. His fingers dug into her hips, tight, possessive, like he was afraid she might vanish if he let go.

Then she sank down.

A sharp, stretching pressure, thick and insistent, like being filled too full, like she was being unraveled and remade at the same time. She gasped, half in pain, half in wonder, as her body gave way, inch by inch, breath by breath.

His hands clenched at her backside, rough palms skimming over her skin, guiding her, steadying her.

She tried to move, tentative, awkward, but the moment she did, the tension inside her shifted, something tight and hot and impossible to ignore coiling low in her groin.

A shudder ran through her.

Armand felt it. Heard it. And then he moved, hips bucking up, lance driving deep.

A slow, unsteady rhythm built between them, halting at first, then stronger, more urgent. Their bodies finding a rhythm older than language, older than gods, older than the world itself.

Her breath hitched, coming in ragged, desperate gasps, each one escaping like something dragged up from deep inside her. There was no grace left, no courtly composure, no Highgarden charm. Just lust. Just sensation. Just the unladylike sounds spilling from her throat, raw and unguarded with each roll of her hips.

"Uh, ugh, ugh."

She was so close.

Armand's hands gripped desperately at her buttocks, fingertips pressing deep enough that she'd likely find bruises in the morning. His body was iron beneath her, unyielding yet straining all the same, his breath hot against her neck. He growled something, low, approving, but her mind barely caught it.

"Finish yourself," he said, and then, more insistently, "Touch yourself."

She barely registered her own hand moving, as he guided it from his shoulder to where they met down below. Her fingers found the spot, slick and swollen; the little bud of nerves that he'd discovered earlier, and the moment she pressed down… Lightning.

A raw, shaking jolt shot through her, curling her toes, making her spine arch like a bowstring drawn tight. Heat flooded through her veins, something molten, uncontrollable. She shattered around him, pulsing, clenching, drowning in the moment as the world spun away from her.

Somewhere, dimly, she felt him groan, felt his body tense beneath her, felt his own release claim him in turn as he held her body tight to his and her spasming heat milked him dry.

She sagged against his chest, limbs boneless, breath shallow. Somewhere outside, the wind howled through the castle eaves, rattling the shutters like applause. Or whispers. Or prayers.

Gods, she hoped she got with child before he marched off to war.

Chapter Text

Jahrdrung 2nd, 2523

The morning was crisp, the air sharp with the promise of a northern winter, but the sun shone bright over Winterfell as Merida made ready to leave for the city below. She had barely pulled on her ermine gloves when a slender figure stepped into her path, blocking the way with a small roll of paper in hand.

"A message for you, Lady Stark," said Tanya, the peculiar young Magister, sharp-eyed and serious as always. "From Highgarden. Dated the nineteenth of Nachexen."

Merida blinked. "Oh, that's unusual," she murmured, taking the roll. "Margaery has always sent her letters by ship."

Such a trip took over a month to go round the west and north coasts of Bretonnia, then up the Reik to Altdorf, then up the length of the of Talabec to Winter Town. And when she'd lived at home it had been carried from there to the Last Keep by a Roadwarden, adding another couple of weeks to the journey. "What could be so urgent to send a message by pigeon across half the Old World?"

"A bit of a risk," Tanya said, matter-of-fact as ever. "A single bird is near certain to reach its destination, but this message must have stopped and been transferred to another bird at nearly two dozen keeps and towns along the way. The chance of loss, by hawks, thieves, or simple misfortune is not insignificant."

Merida barely heard her. She unrolled the paper, her cousin's delicate hand scrawled in tight, precise letters.

              Fuu of Cathay, legitimized by Father's decree as heir to Baron Cuy,
             engaged to the Grail Knight, Sir Phoebus de Gondelaurier of Carcassonne.
            Claims to be carrying the child of Robb Stark. Has given no reason to doubt this.
            I have been betrothed to the Duke of Aquitaine.
           Letter on the way with more detail.
                  Love, Margaery Tyrell

The words seemed to shift on the page, dancing, blurring.

Her stomach turned, not the baby, not yet, she was only three months along, a week or two at most past that, but something in her gut flipped over all the same.

She had always known. Robb was not a faithless man, but he was a soldier, and soldiers took what comfort they could in the field. A camp follower here, a tavern girl there, nameless, faceless, easy to pretend they had never existed. 'It is the way of things,' and she had made her peace with it before she ever spoke her vows.

But this…

A noblewoman. Bastard she might be, but she was a legitimized heir, carrying Robb's child, declared openly before the courts of Bretonnia and the Empire.

Merida pressed her lips together, tasting bile.

She was being foolish. Foolish and small and weak. Robb was hers. Her husband. Her love. He had exchanged bracelets and flame with her, sworn to her, pledged himself to her in the sight of gods and men. He had proved his love to her countless times every day in their private interactions. Kisses, sweet words, thoughtful gifts and that warm look in his eyes whenever he looked at her.

And Fuu of Cathay was in Sunflower Hall, a good three thousand miles away from Winter Town. Across the length and breadth of the Empire, past the Reik and the Grey Mountains and the great cities of men, past the Grail Chapels and the courts of Bretonnia, so far away that she might as well have been a ghost.

She clenched the paper tight, exhaled slow.

Let her keep her bastard. Let her keep her Grail Knight.

Robb was hers.

And that would not change.

"Are you well, Lady Stark?" Tanya asked softly. "Shall I fetch Chestov to look you over?"

Merida drew a slow breath, steadying herself. "No," she said. "I'm fine. I just… received some surprising news. My cousin is engaged to the Duke of Aquitaine."

Tanya raised a pale brow. "He is a Grail Knight as well, is he not?" she asked. "Your reaction did not seem to match that news."

A Grail Knight.

Merida blinked, her mind pulling at old lessons, memories of her mother's voice weaving through stories of the great and holy warriors of Bretonnia. Knights who had drunk from that sacred chalice, men who had seen the Lady of the Lake with their own eyes. They were more than mortal, or so everyone claimed. The Duke of Aquitaine was among them.

"Yes," Merida said at last, forcing her voice even. "Yes, he is." And now Sir Phoebus was one of them as well. That brave Questing Knight who had ridden at Robb's side against Grimgor and the Brass Bull had finally found what he sought.

Still, it hardly mattered. His engagement, his Grail or the Duke's, none of it changed the words on Margaery's paper. She shook her head. "There's other news as well, of course, but I must speak of it with my husband before I discuss it with anyone else."

Tanya studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she inclined her head. "Of course, my lady," she said. "I will return to my errands, then."

She turned to go, but Merida found herself speaking before she had time to think better of it.

"Wait."

Tanya paused, glancing back over her shoulder.

"I'm going into town," Merida said. "Would you care to accompany me?"

The girl's head tilted slightly, puzzled. "I am yours to command, Lady Stark," she said. "And I do have business in town myself. But if you're looking for companionship, I fear I am a poor choice. Would not your handmaiden or one of the other ladies of the court suit you better?"

Merida flushed. 'Would that they did,' she thought. "I sent Maudie into the city to find some Bretonnian delicacies my mother introduced me to," she admitted. "I never much cared for them before, but I've been craving them of late."

Tanya's gaze flicked downward, to where the swell of her belly was just beginning to show.

"And the other ladies?" Tanya asked, sounding skeptical.

Merida sighed. "Too sycophantic, or they treat me like I'm made of glass just because I'm with child." She exhaled sharply. "I don't think I'll have that problem with you." The girl was unnaturally level headed from what she'd seen, although she did not know the young wizard well. This would be a good opportunity for her to get to know someone who had become very influential in court. Was she really the genius she seemed? Did she always wear the mask of an adult, or did it sometimes slip to show the twelve year old she really was.

Tanya studied her a moment longer, weighing the words. Then, at last, she gave the smallest of nods.

"As you wish, my lady."

Merida turned toward the door, pulling her cloak tight around her shoulders.
Perhaps, for once, she would have company worth keeping.

"Captain Weiss, with a Celestial Magister at my side, a full squad of greatswords escorting me seems a bit much," Merida stopped at the threshold, her breath misting in the cold morning air coming through the opened door.

The blonde captain frowned, his blue eyes flicking from her to Tanya. He was young for his station, no older than five-and-twenty, but had earned his rank on campaign beside her father-in-law. He had the look of a soldier who took his duty seriously.

"Magister," he addressed Tanya, "are you accompanying Lady Stark the whole way there and back? Or will you be splitting off to tend to your own affairs?"

Tanya hesitated, then sighed. "I do have my own business to see to," she admitted. "I won't be returning with her."

The captain nodded, as if that settled the matter. "Then I'm sorry, Lady Stark, but the whole squad will go with you."

Merida frowned, but there was no use arguing. Weiss was like the rest of them, loyal, overcautious, unyielding. Even her husband would not overrule a captain charged with her safety.

She swept from the keep in a flounce, her skirts swishing behind her, Tanya keeping pace at her side. Around them, the greatswords fell into position, a ring of steel and discipline.

Merida held her chin high. She was no prisoner. It only felt that way sometimes.

"What business do you have in the city?" Merida asked as they crossed the courtyard, her boots crunching lightly against the frost-covered stones.

"I need to stop by the offices of the Winter Town Gazette," Tanya replied.

Merida arched a brow. "Why? Have they printed something they shouldn't have?"

"No," Tanya said, shaking her head. "I mean to hire their printing presses. They only put out two editions a week, one on Marktag and the other on Angestag. On the other six days they're free for anyone to hire so long as they're not printing a special edition."

Merida frowned. "And what exactly do you need a printing press for? Have the bookshops run out of copies of your books?"

Tanya gave her a thin smile. "No, I suggested to Lord Stark that we print up leaflets advertising the city. He approved it."

"Advertising the city?" Merida repeated, perplexed, as they passed through the central gatehouse.

"The extension of the walls will double the space within them," Tanya explained. "If we want that space filled in the short term, instead of waiting decades for the birthrate to do it naturally, we'll need to entice people to move here."

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"Emphasize prosperity and security," the young magister said. "A city on the rise, the new heart of a great power, with dirt cheap property, an expanding port, thriving industry, and mighty walls. I'll plaster Ostland, Hochland, northern Talabecland, southern Kislev, and the rest of Ostermark with them."

Merida pursed her lips. A great power was a stretch, but as a sales pitch, it had a certain grandeur. "And the Tzarina? Will she tolerate such leaflets?" Katarin Bokha was a known autocrat who ruled with an iron first.

"I consulted Chestov and Loremaster Luwin on my translation and on the possible… political ramifications," Tanya said as they passed through the inner gatehouse. "Both agreed it should be fine. The Empire and Kislev are allies, and the Tzarina will want good relations with the new Elector-Count. So long as we're not wildly over successful, she'll dismiss any emigrants as dissidents Kislev is better off without."

"And what qualifies as wildly over successful?"

"The Loremaster advised halting advertisements after receiving fifteen-hundred immigrants, and to stop accepting them after three thousand," the wizard explained. "That should be reasonable, five and ten percent of the new thirty thousand residents, respectively."

Merida nodded slowly. "It's an ambitious plan. If it works, Winter Town will be changed forever."

"That's the idea," Tanya said. "I'll also be sending advertisements to the Moot and to the scattered Dwarf settlements across the land."

Merida gave her a doubtful look. "Halflings? Why? The small folk are good farmers, I'll grant you, but they live in a soft, southern land. I don't know if they'd fare well this far north."

Tanya waved a hand dismissively. "They're excellent cooks. Every city should have a Little Moot bustling with restaurants, bakeries, taverns and more. Everyone likes them, so long as they keep their fingers out of your purse. And besides, they're highly resistant to the Ruinous Powers."

"Hmm." Merida made a skeptical noise as they walked through the outer gatehouse. "Even so, I doubt you'll get many of them to leave their warm burrows and settle in the north of Ostermark. Dwarfs, on the other hand… that seems more likely to occur, and far more likely to be welcomed."

Tanya tilted her head. "Oh?"

"The Starks have long been friends to the Dwarfs," Merida said. "My husband was named dwarf-friend for breaking the siege of Karak Kadrin, and he saved Ungrim Ironfist's life when they fought the Brass Bull. The Dwarfs put great stock in such things."

"And I'll be sure to emphasize that in the leaflets I send to Dwarf settlements," Tanya said. "People always think of the great Dwarf quarters in Altdorf and Middenheim, but just as many live in small market towns and scattered settlements along the foothills of the mountains. The later aren't holdfasts like the Mountain Dwarfs have either. Those are human mining towns for the most part and while the Dwarfs there usually have strong ties with their neighbors, sometimes disputes happen. And dwarfen grudges can be hard things, as you well know.

They both smiled at the understatement and then Tanya continued on, "Recruiting a family here or there, perhaps even an entire clan if we get lucky, would be a great boon. This city has only a few hundred Dwarfs, and that is nowhere near enough."

Merida smirked. "Careful, Tanya. Say that within earshot of a Dwarf, and he'll tell you there are never enough Dwarfs."

"It's their own fault," Tanya grumbled, sounding, for the first time, like the girl she truly was beneath the robes and airs of a Magister. "What do they expect when there's only one woman for every two male Dwarfs?"

Merida laughed. "You definitely shouldn't say that in front of a Dwarf. They can't help it."

"No, but perhaps a Jade Wizard could," Tanya mused, half to herself. "Shame they're too stubborn to ever go for it."

She glanced at Merida then, sharp-eyed. "You're heading to the Temple of Shallya, aren't you?"

Merida blinked. "Aye. How did you know?"

"When I went looking for you to deliver your message, I asked the staff where you were, and they said you were heading to the temple."

Ah. That made sense. "I visit once a week to check on the babe."

"They're very good at what they do," Tanya said, nodding. "But wouldn't it be easier to call on Chestov rather than trudging all this way through the cold?" She gestured toward the street, slick with frost and ice, the breath of townsfolk hanging in the air like ghostly mist.

Merida shook her head. "It's only three-fifths of a mile. I need the exercise." She hesitated, then added, "And while I'd call on Chestov in an emergency, I'd rather be seen to by a woman."

Tanya arched a brow.

"Being with child is a sacred thing," Merida explained, her voice firm. "One I don't want any man involved in, save my husband."

Tanya considered that for a moment before shrugging. "Fair enough."

Their talk drifted after that, the way conversations did when there was little left to say. They spoke of the weather, of how the snows had come often this year and lay thick upon the roads outside the city. Of news from the south; rumors that the Knights of the Raven had quit their chapterhouse and boarded ships upon the Stir, bound for some unknown war. Of tales that Carlos IX of Magritta and his new queen, Juana la Roja of Bilbali, had led their armies into the field, marching to stake their claim to all of Estalia.

Before long, the temple came into view, rising from the street like a beacon of quiet mercy. The Shallyans made no display of wealth, yet the building was kept clean and ordered, its modest decorations chosen with care. All that could, gave generously, knowing well that one day, sooner or later, they or their kin would find themselves in need of Shallya's mercy. The money was never wasted, spent on medicines, bandages, and food for the hungry and cold rather than golden altars or jeweled icons.

Merida stepped toward the temple doors, but Tanya lingered, her gaze fixed across the square. The Temple of Morr loomed opposite, stark and solemn, its black iron gates decorated with black roses and ravens, a statue of the god to each side, in hood and cloak, scythe over his shoulder, beckoning passersby in.

"Something on your mind, Tanya?" Merida asked.

The wizard tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "I was just thinking how the Dooming rituals in Ostermark seem rather… excessive from what I've read."

Merida frowned. "Excessive?"

Tanya's lips quirked in dry amusement. "What with all the candles, the strange, pointy hats covered in bird skulls, the sacrificial offerings of horse milk and meat carried in by pale, frightened children. Not to mention the blood-soaked priests swinging those skull-shaped censers."

Merida shrugged. "That's just how it's done."

"In Altdorf," Tanya said, "most folk bring their children to the temple of Morr on their tenth birthday. A priest looks them in the eye, mutters their fate, and that's it. Simple. The Shallyans didn't even bother with that. A Morrite priest would just come to the orphanage on the morning of Geheimnistag and rattle off the Dooms for all the children who turn ten that year. No theatrics, no blood, no skulls."

"That sounds dull," Merida said, unimpressed. "What brought this to mind?"

Tanya smirked. "Hodor's boy, Meinolf, was crowing in the yard about his Doom this morning, bragging to his friends."

Merida snorted. "And I suppose he was sobbing like a babe when he got it?"

"I'd wager a crown on it," Tanya said. "Time heals all wounds and it's been over half a year since Geheimnistag."

"That it does," Merida said as she turned their conversation over in her mind. "Hodor… He's that great brute with the sword near as long as he is? Near seven feet tall, bearded like a bear?"

"That's the one," said Tanya. "Old Nan's eldest great-grandchild. His boy, Meinolf's supposedly going to get split in twain by a great black orc."

"Supposedly?" Merida arched a brow. "You don't believe in Morr's auguries?"

Tanya gave a noncommittal shrug. "The priests of Morr do receive prophetic dreams, I'll grant you that, and sometimes they even get visions from their god. But a vision for every child alive?" She scoffed. "Morr's time seems better spent elsewhere."

Merida hummed, thinking back to her own Dooming. "Mine was to die in bed, choking on fluid in my lungs, surrounded by grandchildren."

Tanya's lips curled in amusement. "That sounds pleasant enough, as deaths go."

Merida smirked. "Better than being hacked apart by an orc, certainly. What about you?"

Tanya's grin was sharp as a knife. "I wouldn't know."

Merida frowned. "How's that?"

"The priest who gave my Doom screamed in terror, had a heart attack, and dropped dead on the spot."

Merida gaped in horror.

"You're joking."

"Not at all," Tanya said, her tone light, almost playful. "We were in a great Shallyan temple, though, so the priestesses managed to save him. After all, there's usually a window of a few minutes where a wizard or priest can intervene in those situations before one becomes truly dead." She paused for effect, "when the priest came to, he swore he had no memory of my Doom."

Tanya's grin widened. "I don't believe that for a moment. Not with the way he looked at me afterward. And the Colleges came for me the next day. I doubt that was a coincidence."

A chill brushed over Merida's skin, though she could not have said why. The priest couldn't have seen anything that bad if he'd fetched the Colleges rather than the Witch Hunters, but still...

She cast about for a new subject. "I didn't realize Hodor had children. Is he married?" Maudie had been batting her lashes at him of late.

"A widower," Tanya said. "Though I don't know what happened to his late wife."

Merida filed Hodor away for later. She'd have to look into him, make sure he was right for Maudie. A man could be strong as a bull and twice as loyal, but that didn't mean he'd make a good husband.

For now, though, she had somewhere to be. She glanced up at the pale winter sun, making a show of marking the time. "Well, I need to be on my way. It was nice talking to you, Tanya. Don't be shy, I'd like to get to know you better."

The young Magister gave a bow, all sharp lines and smirking amusement. "As you wish, my lady." Then, with the poise of a cat, she turned and strode off toward the Temple of Verena. The Gazette's office was on Printer Street, just past it.

Merida turned as well, picking her way carefully across the rime-slicked stones toward the temple doors. Captain Weiss stepped in close, ready to catch her if she slipped, but she found her footing well enough. She was pregnant, not an invalid.

Inside, the warmth wrapped around her like a thick wool cloak. A novice in soft white robes directed her to the room for expectant mothers, where she took in the familiar carved icons along the walls, doves in flight with keys in their beaks, bleeding hearts, babes smiling in their swaddling clothes. The scent of dried lavender and candle wax hung in the air.

The chamber was crowded, with her guards and dozens of women waiting their turn filling the room, the ladies murmuring quietly amongst themselves. Merida scanned the room, hoping for a glimpse of Katniss, but the former woodswoman was nowhere to be found.

Instead, she found herself seated beside Alda Schilling, a priestess of Handrich. The high priests of the God of Commerce had chosen her to oversee the temple they planned to build here, not for piety or wisdom but for a simpler reason, she carried the bastard grandchild of Lord Stark, by his own bastard son, Jon.

And she wasn't the only one. Down in Talabheim, the bastard daughter of the Grand Duke of Talabecland was making waves of her own, revealing to the court that she was carrying the grandchild of the new Elector Count.

Merida folded her hands in her lap, schooling her face into careful neutrality. The room was warm, but the company, she thought, was colder than the streets outside.

It wasn't the fact that Alda was carrying a natural-born babe that put Merida off. She liked Katniss well enough, the little she'd seen of her, despite the woman expecting Lord Stark's own illegitimate child.

No, what made Alda Schilling so unpleasant was that she was everything one expected of a priestess of Handrich in the worst ways, shallow, ambitious, avaricious. She cared more for appearances than for character, for wealth more than wisdom.

"Lady Stark," Alda exclaimed, flashing a bright, polished smile. "How fortuitous to see you here."

Merida inclined her head politely. "High Priestess." A necessary courtesy. The woman wouldn't technically hold that title until spring, when the builders broke ground for Handrich's temple, but flattery was a burden highborn ladies had to bear.

Alda was dressed to the nines, her gown of blue silk and brocade cut in the latest Altdorf fashion. A griffon's feather curled over the brim of her hat, a declaration of wealth as much as taste.

"Are you and the babe in good health?" she asked, her voice honeyed with concern.

"We are," Merida answered, polite but cool. "And you and yours?"

"We're well," Alda said, resting a manicured hand against the swell of her belly. "He or she's been very active, moving about."

Not surprising. She was near five months along, about the time babes began kicking hard enough to be felt.

Merida studied her, wondering not for the first time how much the woman truly cared for the child she carried. Alda was climbing, and fast. First, Jon's bed. Now, the high priesthood of Handrich in a city poised to become a power in the east.

A woman like that didn't need love to bind her to a child. Gold and ambition would do just fine.

"My other children are doing very well too," Alda went on, her voice warm with pride. "Olver's starting to read simple words, and he's only four."

Merida felt a pang of guilt. 'What a terrible thing to think of a mother,' she chided herself. Alda spoke often of her three children by her late husband, and always with clear love and affection.

"Have you picked out a name?" the priestess asked her.

"Ah, not myself," Merida admitted. "But Lord Stark has asked that a girl be named after his late sister Lyanna, and a boy after his younger brother Benjen."

Alda tapped a manicured finger against her lips. "They both joined holy orders, did they not?"

"Aye," Merida said. "Lyanna joined the Sudfast Temple of Ulric in Nordland. She fell a year later in her first battle, aiding the Grand Baron's state troops against a cult of the Prince of Excess." She whispered the Dark God's name, uncomfortable even with the euphemism. She continued on hurriedly, to put it behind her. "They stormed a house of ill repute called the Tower of Joy."

The priestess blinked, impressed. "Truly a god-fearing family."

"Benjen Stark is a Longshank, a Taalite ranger of some renown," Merida went on. "He last visited Winterfell three summers past, when Robb was fourteen. Given the rampage the Beastmen went on last year, Lord Stark feared him lost, but he was relieved to get word from him last Vorhexen. If things go well, he may visit again this summer."

"A ranger and warrior-priest," Alda mused. "And now, uncle to the heir of Winterfell and Ostermark." Her smile was sly. "You must have strong blood, Lady Stark, to marry into such a line."

Merida held her gaze, offering only a small smile in return. She had been raised to recognize a merchant's flattery. And Alda Schilling, for all her silks and titles, was still a merchant at heart.

"Are there any here in illness or distress?" a priestess called out; her voice tranquil as a pool of calm water.

A young woman, pale-faced and round with child, hesitated before raising a trembling hand. She was ushered away at once, disappearing behind a carved wooden door.

At once, the room erupted into whispers. A sickness? Early birthing pangs? Or something worse? The women leaned in, trading quiet words, but speculation soon died when the girl reemerged, looking healthy and hale, color returned to her cheeks and a relieved smile on her lips.

The priestess raised her hands for quiet. "Any others?"
No one spoke.

"Very well. We will see Lady Stark first, then the priestess. After them, in order of arrival."

Merida let out a quiet breath. 'Thank the gods.' She had endured Alda Schilling's presence long enough. With a polite nod, she murmured her farewells and made her way to the back.

The room was small but warm, the air thick with the scent of dried herbs. An older priestess waited within, her white robes simple, her feet bare upon the cold stone floor. Even knowing it was custom, Merida shivered to look at her. Still, she was glad to get an older priestess, they always had the most experience and skill.

The woman studied her with sharp, knowing eyes. "Any pain, dear? Any odd sensations? Trouble passing water or earth? Any changes in color for either?"

"No, mother," Merida answered respectfully. "Only an increase in passing water, but I was told to expect that."

The priestess nodded, kneeling before her. One hand pressed gently against Merida's belly, while the other hovered in the air, fingers poised as if plucking at invisible strings. Her lips moved in soft prayer, the words flowing in a musical tongue Merida did not know.

A warmth spread through her, deep and comforting, like sinking into a hot bath after a cold ride.

At last, the priestess opened her eyes. "The babe is healthy, as are you."

Relief loosened Merida's shoulders. She hadn't known how much she'd been holding her breath.

She wasn't sure why she'd been so anxious. The last time she came, she had felt nothing but quiet certainty. Was it the strain of enduring Alda Schilling's company? The sight of the pale, trembling woman who had gone before her?

'Doesn't matter now,' she thought. The relief settled in her bones, warm and steady. The babe was well. She was well.

"Thank you," she said, dipping her head. "Is there anything your temple needs? Does the soup kitchen require more support?"

The priestess smiled, kind and knowing. "No, dear. Lord Stark has been very generous this year, as he always has been, despite all the ruin left in the wake of the recent war."

Merida nodded. That sounded like Robb. Even with the Beastmen rampaging through the province last year, with roads torn up, villages razed, and farmers forced to flee to Winter Town for shelter, he had still seen to it that no one went hungry. He had done more than most other lords would have. And when his father had arrived wearing the Crown of Winter, Lord Stark had made sure the same could be said for all of Ostermark.

It made her heart swell with pride.

"Thank you for your family's patronage, dear," the priestess said, gentle but firm. "But there are many more ladies waiting to be seen."

"Oh, of course." Merida felt heat creep up her neck. Just because she was highborn didn't mean she had the right to linger and keep the priestess from tending to others. These were their people, after all, the women who worked her husband's lands, who bore his soldiers, who would suffer first if war came again.

She murmured her farewells and stepped back out into the cold, guards trailing her like goslings following their mother. The streets were still dusted with frost, the air crisp with the bite of winter. But there was warmth inside her now, a lightness in her step.

The day was young, and as she pulled her cloak tighter against the wind, she thought, 'Today is going to be a good day.'

Chapter Text

Jahrdrung 3rd, 2523

The cold bit through the wolf fur pelt over his shoulders, through his plate and the thick wool gambeson beneath, the wind howling like some beast prowling the darkened woods. Jon pressed his knees to his destrier's flanks, guiding the heavy warhorse through the snow-laden path, and tried to shake the unease curling in his gut. It was not his first patrol as a Knight of the White Wolf, yet still, the truth of it caught him unawares from time to time. A knight. 'A sworn brother of Ulric's own.'

He had thought it would take longer. Almost all initiates spent at least a year, and the majority spent two, before they were judged worthy. He had expected the same, had steeled himself for it. But then came last Hochwinter, when they had taken him miles deep into the Drakwald, stripped him down to his robes, and left him with nothing but the breath in his lungs and the fire in his heart. Not even Frost had been allowed to follow. The dire wolf had howled as Jon was led away from Delberz, his red eyes glowing with accusation in the torchlight.

That had been the hardest part, not the cold, not the hunger, not even the weight of the makeshift club in his hands when the wolves came slinking through the trees. It was the absence of his closest companion, the silence where Frost should have been.

But he had made it. He had walked alone through snowdrifts that reached his thighs, over frozen creeks and into shadowed hollows where the eyes of the forest watched him from the dark. And when he had returned to Delberz, wrapped in the pelt of a wolf he had skinned with the sharp edge of a rock, gaunt and half-frozen but unbowed, the High Priest had pressed a hammer to his shoulder and called him brother.

That had been two months past. Some still grumbled at the speed of his rise. The Order had lost a fair number of men in the war against the Beastmen, and they needed knights to replace them. His father was raising a new chapterhouse in Winter Town, and word had begun to spread, whispers of dark omens, of war on a scale unseen since the days of Magnus the Pious. No one dared say it aloud, but they all knew what it meant. An Everchosen of the Ruinous Powers.

So they had knighted him and dozens more, for better or worse. Some said he was chosen only because of who his father was, but Jon had settled those doubts in the training yards, with practice sword and fists. He had no patience for men who thought to test him with jests and taunts. He was no babe in arms. He had fought before, bled before. The old wolf of Middenheim, Sir Tannhäuser, had seen it in him, had known he would not shame the White Wolves.

The wind howled again, carrying the distant cry of something unnatural through the trees. Jon tightened his grip on his lance. The day was fading fast and cold, the woods dark and deep, but the fire of Ulric burned in his blood. Whatever lay ahead, he would not flinch.

Not now. Not ever.

That distant cry aside, the forest was too quiet. Snow weighed heavy on ancient oaks and pines, muffling sound, but Jon had spent enough time in the wilds to know the difference between true silence and the stillness that came before bloodshed.

Frost felt it too. The dire wolf's hackles bristled, his breath misting in the cold air, ears twitching at every unseen movement in the trees. Jon readied his lance, shifting his grip as his destrier stamped the ground. Around him, the other knights of the White Wolf sat their horses in grim formation, the cold wind tugging at their wolfskin cloaks.

Then the cry rang out from the front of their formation.

"Spider riders!"

A shrill chittering answered, rising in pitch until it became a chorus of clicking madness. In the gloom of the treeline, Jon saw them moving, great spindly shapes scuttling through the snow, too fast, too many. The goblins came on like a tide, their gnarled bodies clinging to monstrous spiders the size of oxen, each one covered in bristling hairs that caught the afternoon light. Behind them, a hundred or more goblins on foot, scuttling like insects through the drifts, their rusted weapons glinting in the winter sun.

The beasts had been bold since the leaves had fallen. With the Beastmen crushed by the Emperor and the new Graff, the forest goblins had grown restless, first striking at their old foes like scavengers drawn to fresh carrion. That had been no concern of men, let the monsters slaughter each other. But when winter's bite deepened and food grew scarce, the goblins had turned their hungry eyes to human lands. They raided villages, stole livestock, and picked off lone travelers when they could. Minor troubles, turned back time and again by militia and palisade, but too many small raids could become something greater. The goblins weren't orcs, but a goblin Waaagh was still something to fear.

Jon had no time to think further. The enemy was upon them.

Frost's howl split the air, raw and wild, and Jon spurred his mount forward, his lance coming up as the White Wolves bellowed their own war cries. They were fifty men against three dozen riders and thrice that on foot.

It did not matter. For Ulric was with them.

The first clash came with the crunch of steel and chitin. He couched his lance beneath his arm, driving it deep into the chitinous body of a nightmarish spider. It shrieked in agony, curling in on itself as it died like the filthy bug it was, cracking his lance in half.

Jon threw the broken lance aside and went for his sidearm as the rider of the dying arachnid lunged from his saddle, screaming for vengeance.

His war hammer caved the goblin's skull in, syrupy green-black blood steaming as it splattered across his furs. Another shrieked as Frost took it by the throat, shaking the wretched thing like a broken doll before casting it aside.

All around him was chaos, men and monsters locked in battle; the stink of goblins thick in his nose. A spider lunged at him, fangs dripping venom, but Jon twisted in the saddle, bringing his hammer down in a brutal arc on its head, right between its many eyes. Chitin cracked open, black ichor spilling across the snow as the beast collapsed, sending its rider tumbling.

More were coming, swarming, screeching, but Jon did not waver. The White Wolves did not break.

The goblins were a sight out of nightmare, their sallow green flesh painted in crude smears of red and yellow, bone armor strung about their wiry frames like trophies from some dark ritual. Bright feathers jutted from stolen helms or jabbed into their very flesh, grotesque masks carved from animal and human skulls leered through the whirling snow, and their eyes, mad, wide, rolling in their sockets, gleamed with a feverish light.

The air reeked of them, of sweat and filth and the acrid stink of the hallucinogenic venom they smeared upon their lips and gums. The goblins shrieked their war cries in high-pitched ululations, their voices rising and falling like a howling gale. Fearless, unnatural. The venom made them brave, if madness could be called bravery.

But they were still just goblins.

Small, scrawny things, twisted mockeries of men. They came at the White Wolves like a pack of rabid children, all gnashing teeth and flashing blades. But for every knight that fell, five or more of the wretches were crushed beneath hammers, hacked apart by swords, or trampled into the snow by steel-shod hooves.

Their mounts were the true danger.

The spiders moved in great, lurching bounds, their long, hairy legs knocking knights from their saddles, splintering lances, and battering against breastplates with the force of a battering ram. Fanged mandibles clashed against steel, venom dripping from barbed tips that could punch through a breastplate as if it were no more than boiled leather.

Yet the goblins rode them poorly, barely clinging to the great beasts as they skittered across the field, their crude harnesses more suggestion than control. And they fought as goblins always fought, a writhing, undisciplined mass, more akin to a feeding frenzy than a proper battle line.

Jon pressed forward, his hammer crashing down with the force of a thunderbolt, caving in skulls, shattering ribs, snapping spindly limbs like twigs. One of the spiders lunged for him, its rider howling in triumph as it cast a javelin. Jon twisted in the saddle, the projectile flashing by his face, the head of his hammer catching the goblin full in the chest, crushing its ribs inward as if they were made of paper and pulping the vital organs beneath. The body tumbled from the saddle, lifeless before it hit the ground.

Frost was a blur of white death beside him. The direwolf leapt onto a spider's back, sinking his fangs into one of its thick, chitinous legs and tearing it free with a savage wrench. The beast shrieked, flailing wildly, nearly sending its rider flying before Frost turned and sank his teeth into the goblin's throat, silencing its panicked wail in a spray of green-black blood.

The tide turned swiftly. The goblins fought like madmen, but they were no match for the fury of the White Wolves.

Then, they broke.

One moment, they fought and raved, the next, their courage shattered like an icy pond beneath a wayward cannonball. The shrieks of rage turned to screams of terror, the riders wrenching their spiders away, the foot soldiers scrambling back into the forest, shoving one another aside in their desperation to flee.

"Cut them down!"

The wolves of Ulric did not hesitate.

The knights gave chase, plunging after the shattered remnants of the goblin warband, their blades flashing, their hammers and swords rising and falling. Jon rode with them, his blood hot, his breath ragged. The slaughter did not last long.

By the time it was done, only a handful of the creatures had vanished into the trees, their broken wails fading into the gloom of the Drakwald.

Jon exhaled, steam curling from his lips. He looked down at the hammer in his grip, its steel head caked in dark gore, at Frost beside him, his muzzle slick with green-black blood.

It was done.

The goblins were dead or dying, the last of them scattered into the trees, shrieking their fear into the night. The knights rode among the corpses, finishing the wounded, prying weapons from stiffening fingers so that they could be burned, catching their breath in the bitter cold. It was done.

Or it should have been.

Jon swayed in the saddle.

The world spun. The trees, the snow, the dead, all of it blurring together, shifting and tilting like a ship caught in a storm. He blinked, tried to steady himself, but his hands felt sluggish, his fingers numb against the reins. He could hear shouting, voices coming from all around him, muffled, distant.

"Steady him!" someone barked. A voice he knew, though he could not place it. "His face is nicked; he must be poisoned. Cowardly bastards!"

That didn't sound good.

Jon tried to say something, to tell them he was fine, but the words wouldn't come. Had he been cut? He didn't remember being cut. The battle had been a whirlwind of steel and blood, hammer and fang, the clash of men and beasts. He had felt nothing but the fury of Ulric in his veins.

Now he felt… cold.

A rough, calloused hand grabbed his face, tilting his head to the side. "Hold him steady," came another voice, older, gruffer. The Wolf Priest.

Jon's head lolled against the man's palm. He forced his eyes to focus, caught a glimpse of the priest's weathered face, the thick grey of his beard, the ice-blue gleam of his eyes. Then something was shoved between his lips, bitter, sharp, the taste of crushed leaves and winter frost.

Holly.

The priest's voice rose, low and guttural, words thick with ancient power. It was a wolf's growl if a wolf could speak, a deep, rumbling chant that sent shivers down Jon's spine. The sound was primal, something old, something wild. The sort of prayer that had been spoken long before men ever built temples of stone.

Heat spread through his face, burning, stinging, racing through his blood like fire melting ice. The swirling slowed. The world settled. The nausea passed, but his limbs still felt heavy, his breath still came slow.

The priest let go of him with a grunt. "The cut's healed," he said, "but the poison's still in him."

Jon heard a few curses muttered under breath. Someone laid a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Not a big dose," the priest went on. "He'll live. Tie him to the saddle, just in case."

Jon tried to protest, but the words slurred in his mouth.

The priest ignored him. "If he's still bad when we reach Delberz, we'll send him to the Shallyans. But be assured, either way, he'll live."

Jon felt the ropes loop around him, heard the murmured reassurances, but his eyelids were heavy now, and the world was slipping away again, pulling him down into blackness.

…

Jon drifted in and out of darkness.

The world came to him in pieces, sounds, sensations, flashes of light and movement. The steady sway of his horse beneath him. The murmur of voices. The wet heat of Frost's nose against his leg, the wolf's low whine of concern.

Then, words.

"Boy fought like one of Ulric's own," someone said, rough and tired. "Shame to lose him."

'What?' Jon wanted to say, but his tongue felt thick, his lips wouldn't move. 'I'm not dying. The priest said so.'

"So, it's true?" another voice asked, quieter. "His father asked him to be sent to the new Chapterhouse in Winter Town?"

"Aye."

"Well, that's that," a third voice chimed in, deeper than the others. Gephard? Maybe. It was hard to tell. The voices blurred together like melting snow.

"A new Elector beholden to Ulric, building up the White Wolves, expanding the Order in Ostermark, there's no way the Chapter Master will refuse. If he does, the Grandmaster or the Ar-Ulric will overrule him."

Jon's fingers twitched.

Winter Town. Home. Just when he was making a name for himself here, proving himself by his own merit, they wanted to send him back. Back to be swallowed up by his father's shadow, to be compared to Robb, to have Lady Stark's disapproving gaze on him at every turn.

He didn't want that, no matter how many fond memories resided there.

Damn, he'd just been making progress with that pretty red wizard, too. Guinevere…

The darkness took him again.

…

When he woke, it was to soft sunlight streaming through a window and the scent of lavender. A white robe hovered in his vision, the face above it young and round, the color of her blonde hair lost in the glow of a nearby brazier.

"You're awake," the priestess said, pleased.

Jon pushed himself up, wincing as his muscles ached. He was in a small, clean room, the bed softer than he was used to. His throat was dry as dust. "Where am I?"

"The temple of Shallya in Delberz, of course," the girl said. "Your brothers brought you here last night, insistent, they were. You would have woken on your own, eventually, but it would have taken weeks to purge the poison from your system. With the Goddess's mercy and a good night's sleep, you just need a hearty breakfast and you'll be fine."

Jon barely heard her. His mind was still on what he had overheard on the ride back.

Was it real? If it was, he didn't think he'd be fine after all. Perhaps it was some fevered dream brought on by the poison?

No, he knew better than that. He knew the way of things. His father was an Elector-Count now, his hand stretched across Ostermark, his influence felt anywhere in the Empire. There was no question of what would happen. The Chapter Master could object all he liked, but in the end, Jon would go where the Order sent him.

It didn't matter what he wanted.

He was a knight of the White Wolf. And a man did his duty.

…

The docks of Altdorf stank of tar and river muck, the air thick with the scent of wet wood and horseflesh. The great flat-bottomed barges that had carried the Knights of the Raven down the River Stir loomed over the wharf, their hulls creaking as hundreds of men disembarked, leading their horses in long, disciplined columns toward the waiting merchant ships. The Sea of Claws awaited them, then the Great Ocean beyond.

Kriemhild watched from the pier, arms folded beneath the heavy folds of her amethyst robes. The knights did not wear their signature black plate, not on the river, where the weight would surely drown them in an instant if they had the ill fortune to fall in, but they moved with the surety of men who lived and breathed war. They carried swords and wheellock pistols, their faces hard beneath the light of the morning sun, their eyes scanning the docks with quiet menace. Even unarmored, they carried death with them.

"How many?" asked Ashamira beside her, her Arabyan accent thick but precise.

Kriemhild glanced over at her. The White Mage was still new to the Empire, but not to war. She had battled the Tomb Kings and their foul minions in the foothills of the Atlan mountains on the borders of the burning sands of Nehekhara before she had ever set foot in Altdorf. As soon as her Reikspiel had been judged acceptable she was promoted to Journeyman and though she was little older than Kriemhild herself, she would be raised to Magister soon enough. The Colleges moved quickly when they saw worth in someone.

"Twelve hundred," Kriemhild said. "Four-fifths of their order."

Ashamira's dark eyes narrowed as she studied the warriors. "They are different from the knights I have seen before."

"They are different," Kriemhild agreed. "Noble blood or lack of it does not matter to them. They recruit only from those who have hunted vampires, crypt ghouls and the undead. Veterans of Sylvania. Witch hunters. Men who have fought things that should not walk and lived to tell of it."

Who they were, more than their numbers, was what mattered. There were knights enough in Bretonnia, great lords sworn to the Lady, but these were men of the Empire, men who spoke Reikspiel, who understood how to treat with wizards of the Colleges. And there was no question of their purpose. They had come to wage war on the dead.

Not that she distrusted the Bretonnians or their dedication to the cause, but with the language barrier and cultural differences she wanted to make every effort to avoid any possible conflicts with the natives. Being able to make camp with the Knights of the Raven would go far in insulating them from any protentional problems.

Kriemhild pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, watching as the first of the knights reached the waiting ships. 'May Morr take their souls if they fail,' she thought. 'May he take us all to his realm of peace and dreams.'

A cold wind rolled off the Reik, biting even through the thick wool of Kriemhild's robes. She pulled them closer around her shoulders, watching the last of the knights make their way up the gangplanks. Even without their black plate, they looked grim and unshakable, men who had seen the worst the world had to offer and survived.

Ashamira stood beside her, arms crossed, her deep hood pushed back to let the winter sun warm her dark curls. Her light reddish-brown skin caught the sunlight, giving her an almost ethereal glow against the blue-grey of the river and the dull wood of the docks.

"Will it be enough?" she murmured, watching the knights board. "The Bretonnians will have tens of thousands of men in the field, many Grail Knights and Damsels among them. What we're sending doesn't seem like it compares."

Kriemhild let out a breath, watching it curl into the air like a wraith. "What they lack in numbers, they make up in quality and experience," she said. "And then there's us." She glanced at Ashamira, giving her a small, knowing smile. "Six wizards of the Empire. Against our foe, we're worth thrice our number of Bretonnian Damsels, if not more."

She spoke the truth. There was herself and Magdalena, both Amethyst Journeymen, still learning, but strong enough to stand against the winds of death. There was Gabrielle Marsner, barely past twenty and already a Magister, her name spoken in hushed tones even among their order. She had devised the well named 'Cleansing of the Corrupted Vessel', a powerful ritual that had already destroyed more than one foul daemon bound to some eldritch trinket. Kriemhild would watch her closely on this journey. There was much to be learned.

And then there was Lady Elspeth von Draken. Lord Magister. A woman who many whispered was more powerful than the Patriarch of their order. They had set aside an entire ship just for her and the great Carmine Dragon she rode. Against the walking dead, against the Great Enemy, she was worth a dozen other wizards, perhaps more.

Then there were the two hierophants of the Light Order, Ashamira, with her foreign grace and sharp mind, and Magister Gertrude Langstrosser, a woman whose reputation for dispelling dark magic and banishing necromantic filth shone as bright as the magic she wielded. Against the magic of undeath, they would be invaluable.

Kriemhild let her gaze drift back to the ships, the knights, the steel and black powder and banners of the Empire. She thought of Bretonnia, of the tens of thousands of knights and men-at-arms, of the Damsels with their sweet songs to their Lady. They were fine warriors. Devoted.

But the Empire had faced the dead before. And the Empire had always endured and in the end it had triumphed, casting down the von Carsteins and purging Sylvania once and for all. They would do the same with Mousillon, of that she was sure.

Chapter Text

Jahrdrung 19th​, 2523

Fuu had been in Highgarden for a month, and still, she did not know what to make of it. Without question, it was a more enchanting sight than her father's castle, everything about it grander than anything in Sunflower Hall by far, and though it might compare to what she had glimpsed of Winterfell, the town that sprawled beneath its walls certainly did not. Lowgarden was little more than a collection of shabby houses and sun-baked streets, poor and ragged beside Winter Town.

She had seen wealth in Bretonnia. The ship that had brought her had docked in L'Anguille, a fairly large city with paved streets and fine houses of brick, but such places were rare. Lowgarden, for all that it lay beneath the seat of the most powerful lord in southern Lyonesse, was what passed for normal here. And the Count's domains were said to be richer than most. If this was how the Tyrells kept their smallfolk, what of the rest of the realm?

She saw it in the way people dressed, their clothes rougher and more ragged than most Imperial folk. She saw it in their lack of education, the literacy rate in Lowgarden equal to that of a backwater Drakwald village, rather than that of a thriving market town. Its craftsmen were skilled, but in general people did the things the old-fashioned way here. Machines to aid their work were fewer and more primitive than she'd seen in the Empire.

She saw it in the arms that men carried. The knights were magnificent, that much was clear. Their suits of full plate more formidable than that of the Jade Lancers of Grand Cathay, and they rode great destriers, as tall as the top of her head at their shoulder. But that only made the condition of their infantry more appalling. The State Troops of the Empire wore half-plate as a matter of course, while even the militias of small towns wore brigandine. Here, a man in a mail hauberk down to his knees was considered well-equipped. Many went to war in little more than a short shirt of mail or scale, and among the lesser lords, some of their foot made do with nothing more than a padded gambeson.

Their weapons were no better. The billhooks they favored looked feeble beside the halberds of the Empire and her homeland, and it was sheer madness that they disdained both gun and crossbow. Instead, they trusted in their great longbows, bows as tall as a man that a warrior had to train with from childhood to master. It was foolishness. Skilled crossbowmen were trained over the course of a few months, not decades.

Bretonnia had its splendor, that was certain. The gardens of Highgarden bloomed with flowers even in the depths of winter, and the knights of the realm were a splendid sight in their painted armor and shining lances. But when she thought of the hosts that fought beyond their borders, the pike squares of Estalia and the roaring cannons of the Empire, the disciplined mercenaries of the Tileans and the berserk rage and dark arts of the Norscans, the foul Beastmen that infested the woods, and the monstrous Orcs in the mountains, she could not help but wonder.

How long could Bretonnia truly last?

Of course, the Bretonnians had their goddess and her blessings. Their Damsels wielded powerful magics, and their Grail Knights... well, the tales spoke of them as if they were demigods, cutting through lesser foes like wheat before the scythe. It was said that one could stand against a great Orc Warboss or an elder vampire and triumph. She had never seen such a thing herself, but the way men spoke of them made her believe it.

Garlan Tyrell had arrived not long ago, his retinue swelling with eager young Knights Errant hungry for glory. He had an aura about him that was awesome to behold and he moved with a grace that was unnatural, as if the air itself bent to his will. A man touched by the Lady, the Bretonnians said. Fuu did not doubt it, but it made her unsure and ill at ease about her own future. Was she truly meant to marry a man like that?

Sir Phoebus had written at last. The letter had come with Lady Tyrell's return from her daughter's wedding, plain and to the point. He had consented to wed her after the war in Mousillon. He would ride with the armies of Aquitaine and Bordeleaux, marching up from the south into the heart of that accursed land, where the resistance would be fiercest nearest the wretched ruins of the capital city. The hosts of Count Tyrell and the King would descend from the north, the Duke of Bastonne from the east, but Sir Phoebus had chosen the most perilous path.

And her wedding would wait.

Perhaps that had been his intent all along. By the time he returned, she would have born her child. She wondered if he feared wedding a woman round with another man's babe or if he wished to be certain she'd survive the experience before he gave her his name.

She wondered if he would ever give her more than that.

Would he look upon her child and see a son or daughter of his own? Or would he be cold and dutiful, distant but never cruel, as step-fathers so often were? The honor of a Grail Knight bound him to support his wife's children, but honor did not demand love.

She laid a hand on her growing belly, feeling the roundness beneath her dress, the babe moving within.

Would it be enough?

…

Jahrdrung 32nd​, 2523

The snow had begun to thaw, and the deep bite of winter softened into a lingering chill. The fields beyond Highgarden lay wet and muddy, but that did little to deter the host that gathered there. White tents sprang up like blossoms in the fields, spreading further each day. Lord Tyrell's bannermen and allies had come first, his sworn vassals and household knights, but they were not alone. Knights Errant rode in from across the kingdom, eager to test their valor in the great crusade to come, their banners bright and hopeful. Pious Lords and Knights of the Realm followed soon after, bringing their retinues and men-at-arms, their great warhorses and supply wagons, their pride and their prayers.

Over ten thousand had already come, and more would follow. By the time Lord Tyrell set out, his strength would be at least thrice that.

It was the same in Bordeleaux, so men whispered. Duke Alberic had called his banners, and the Duke of Aquitaine and his vassals marched north to join him. Their armada would be vast, they said, the greatest fleet to leave Bretonnia's docks since the war against Araby a thousand years ago. In the east, Duke Bohemond had crossed the Upper Grismerie with his vanguard into southern Gisoreux, drawing the lords of that land to him like eager hounds, sent to join him by their master Duke Hagen.

And the king himself was coming with his household knights and most elite men-at-arms. He rode now with Duke Hagen, a Grail Knight storied and revered, one who regularly stayed by his side and counseled him in fair Couronne, and together they would reach Highgarden within the month.

Brienne had arrived but two days past, yet already she could see the shape of what was to come. The camp sprawled across the fields, disciplined and orderly, well-provisioned and well-armed. As grand as any army in the world, great in number, the men strong and eager. The riverport bustled, the market town rich and lively despite its small size.

And then there was Highgarden.

The great castle city of Lyonesse was home, but Highgarden was different. Perhaps a hair less formidable since it did not have the advantage of being on an island, but grander, fairer, a place of whitewashed stone, blooming flowers and colorful banners. The Tyrells built with beauty in mind, but beneath the flowers lay stone, thick and unyielding.

This would be a war worth singing of, she thought. But when the songs were sung, would they tell the whole of it? Would they speak of what was won and what was lost? Would they remember those who fell, or only those who returned in glory? Should their plans succeed, would the Tyrell's deserve what they had gained? Were their sons truly worthy of the Grail they were said to have found and sipped from?

Brienne tightened her grip on her reins. Soon, she would have her answer.

She might have skulked in the shadows, kept her distance, watched and listened from afar. Many a lady passing for a knight had done the same, preferring whispers to steel, secrets to strength. But that was not her way. A knight did not cower in the dark. If she wanted to learn, she would learn with her own eyes, not through the mouths of flatterers and liars.

So she went straight to Count Tyrell and addressed him before the court.

He took the letter from her hand, reading it with careful, deliberate curiosity. After a moment, his green eyes flicked up to her. "Duke Adalhard sent you as an observer, Sir Éomer?"

"Yes, my lord," she said, keeping her voice even. It was deep enough to pass, though not by much. She thanked the gods that the fashion for young knights was to go clean-shaven. Her face could be called comely for a man, though her great height, thick muscled arms and rough hands, calloused from the sword, lent her some believability. It was too bad Damsels visited Castle Lyonesse so frequently. Her nose had been broken many a time, her face scarred and teeth made crooked, but they always healed it back the way it was.

Thankfully, men always saw what they expected to see. The last time Lord Tyrell had laid eyes on her, she had been a lass of fourteen, dressed in silks for a feast. Now, she was just another handsome young knight in plate and mail, another sword in service to a lord.

The count studied her with idle curiosity. "And what relation are you to the duke?"

"The second son of his second cousin, Theodardin." She spoke the lie with confidence. Her father's cousin had indeed sired a son by that name, a lad who had ridden out on his errantry four years past and never returned. Likely dead, though not yet declared so. The Duke of Lyonesse had made certain that any inquiries sent to Castle Lyonesse or to Theodardin's kin would return the expected answer.

Count Tyrell leaned back, thoughtful. "And what does he wish you to observe?"

Brienne hesitated. "Permission to speak freely, my lord?"

He smiled at that, though it did not reach his eyes. "Granted."

She squared her shoulders. "Your machinations are not unknown in Duke Adalhard's court. He is a man who values his domain and wishes to keep it whole, but he is not blind to the blessings the Lady has granted your house. Nor does he ignore how her servants have steered the realm into supporting this crusade against Mousillon. Like any good knight, he would never stand against the Lady's will." She met Tyrell's gaze then, unwavering. "So he bade me come here and learn the truth. Does Count Tyrell truly have the support of the Lady? Is the reestablishment of the Duchy of Mousillon under your rule her will? Is Sir Loras a knight worthy of the Grail… and his daughter's hand in marriage?"

The last words left a sour taste on her tongue. The thought of marriage turned her stomach, but worse still was the thought of marriage to him.

Gossip was unchivalrous, a thing for washerwomen and schemers, not knights. And yet, even Grail Knights and Damsels spoke in whispers of things half-seen and unproven. If even the most pious among them indulged in rumor, how could mortal men and women be blamed for doing the same?

No doubt the Queen of Thorns had caught wind of the tales spun about her, perhaps even helped them along. That old woman had a tongue as sharp as her wits, and a taste for mischief besides. Thankfully, nothing had ever been proven. If there had been even a shred of proof, her father would have had no choice but to see her married at once, and that was not a fate Brienne was ready to stomach.

But scandal flowed both ways. Her father had ears as sharp as old Olenna's, and his informants had brought him many a tale about Sir Loras Tyrell. Brienne had heard them, too. The Knight of Flowers was beautiful, as fair as any maiden, and it was said he favored company to match.

He could do as he pleased. It was no crime to seek pleasure where one wished, especially in secret, where it did no harm. But a lord's duty was greater than his desire. A man who would never wed, or wed but never sired an heir, weakened his house, and Brienne would not be bound to such a man, not even if he was mighty and chivalrous enough to sip from the Grail.

She had been rejected enough for things beyond her control; too tall, too strong and too fierce, with a face that was manly in some respects and womanly in others. If she had to wed, if she was to be bound by duty and expectation, she would not countenance a false marriage, in which her husband chased after stable boys rather than providing her the heirs she was due.

Perhaps the stories were naught but slander, the petty jabs of jealous rivals and scheming foes. But if they were true, if Sir Loras Tyrell expected her to be his wife and shield for his secrets, she would demand his oath before the Lady, in a Grail Chapel, that he would do his husbandly duty by her.

He could love whom he pleased, but he would not dishonor her. He would act the doting husband before the world and provide her children. She would not consent to a marriage otherwise, even if it meant she was to be banished to a Shallyan temple for the rest of her days.

"Worthy of the Grail?" Lord Tyrell's voice turned cold; his gaze sharp as a drawn blade. "Do you mean to question the word of a Prophetess of the Lady? Do you accuse my son of an offense akin to the Affair of the False Grail?"

Brienne met his eyes steadily, keeping her voice smooth. "Not I, my lord, nor do I believe Duke Adalhard truly harbors such suspicions. It was said in a moment of pique, nothing more." She paused, letting the words settle, before pressing on. "But his concern regarding Sir Loras as a husband to his daughter is genuine. Rumors have reached Lyonesse, whispers of his... proclivities. I have no doubt they are false, but they have spread widely enough that they must be addressed."

The Count stiffened, his broad chest rising with a sharp breath. For a long moment, his face was a mask of stone, but then, little by little, his anger drained away. He did not deny the rumors.

Brienne felt a cold weight settle in her stomach. 'So, there's truth to them,' she thought with dismay, sure the realization was clear on her face.

A voice, light as a songbird's, cut through the tension. "Oh, I wouldn't trouble yourself over that."

Brienne turned, startled. A Damsel stood there, the crowd having silently made way for her. She was golden-haired and luminous, garbed in flowing silks of green and blue. She was young, or seemed so, Damsels always did, untouched by time as ordinary women were. There was power in her, a radiance that shimmered just beneath her skin, and when she smiled, everyone in the chamber seemed to hum with anticipation.

Mace Tyrell seized on her words, almost desperate. "What do you mean, my lady?"

The Damsel stepped closer; her eyes alight with mischief. "When my sister came to us with news of his victory over Lord Rachard, she mentioned to me that she had... broadened his horizons, so to speak." She gave a knowing, sultry smirk. "That is well within reach of a master of the Lore of Life." Then, turning to Brienne, she held her gaze, her voice softer but no less rich with meaning. "You need not fret, Sir Éomer. Sir Loras will be able to satisfy his lady wife, whoever she may be."

Heat flared across Brienne's face.

She had grown used to Damsels, with their cryptic smiles and sidelong glances. To their subtle remarks that went over the head of every man in the room. The way they just 'knew' and saw past her armor, past the deception, past the mask that fooled even the keenest-eyed men. But never had one spoken so plainly.

Her heart pounded. She could only pray that none of the others in the room truly understood what had just passed between them.

"Truly?" Count Tyrell breathed, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling beneath the Damsel's words. "Thank the Lady!"

Around them, courtiers erupted into delighted murmurs, voices rising like sparrows startled from a branch. A miracle, they called it. Proof of the Lady's grace. The talk turned swiftly to what this meant for Sir Loras's marriage prospects, for House Tyrell's standing, for the future of the campaign and Mousillon itself.

But not everyone was swept up in the excitement.

Seated in the first row before the dais, slightly to the side and apart from the throng, the Queen of Thorns had gone still. Her needle, half-plunged into a swatch of rich emerald fabric, lay motionless between her fingers. Slowly, Olenna Tyrell lifted her sharp hazle eyes, fixing them on Brienne.

She studied her with the quiet intensity of a falcon sighting prey, her head tilting first one way, then the other, as if seeing something no one else could.

Brienne felt the weight of that gaze settle on her like a wool coat left out too long in the rain. 'She suspects me.'

She willed herself still, keeping her shoulders squared, her chin level. Olenna's stare was sharp, but she had faced sharper. No one else seemed to notice the old woman's scrutiny, nor did they catch the faint curl of her lips, a smirk half-hidden behind the guise of grandmotherly amusement.

Brienne swallowed.

If the Queen of Thorns did know, she would say nothing… at least, not yet. But that did not mean she would not make use of such knowledge, should the moment demand it.

The hall fell silent as a man-at-arms strode in, his boots ringing sharp against the marble floor. He made straight for the dais, bending low to whisper in Lord Tyrell's ear.

Brienne watched, noting the way the courtiers leaned ever so slightly forward, the way the ripple of hushed murmurs stilled, all ears straining. 'Bad news?' she wondered.

But instead of frowning, Mace Tyrell smiled. Slowly, grandly, he rose from his seat, a throne of age dark oak, that looked to be made of woven vines and carved blossoms, said to have been shaped in a single moment by a Prophetess of the Lady, the same woman who had conjured the bramble maze beyond the second wall over a millennium ago.

"Good news," he announced, his voice carrying over the chamber. "The lookouts have spied the ships of our Imperial allies coming up the Mander."

A stir went through the gathered lords and ladies. The Empire. Some were uneasy at the thought, others expectant.

"They bring twelve hundred Knights of the Raven," Mace continued. "Veterans all, seasoned in battle against the vile undead. Honored servants of Morr. You will treat them as such. Any man who dares harass them, or question their bloodlines, will answer to me." He paused, then added, "And to Morr."

That silenced even the most prideful knights in the chamber.

Brienne studied him. A moment ago, this was the same man who had deflated before her, shaken by whispered rumors of his son. Yet now he stood tall, his voice steady, his presence commanding.

'Which is the true Mace Tyrell?' she wondered. The uncertain lord, rattled by courtly scandal? Or this one, a count who could bend an entire hall to his will with a single word?

Perhaps both could live within the same man.

"All of you, I think, were aware that the Knights of the Raven were on their way," Lord Tyrell continued, his voice steady, measured. "What most of you did not know, is that they bring allies from the Colleges of Magic with them."

That set the hall stirring. Murmurs swept through the crowd like dry leaves in the wind. Magic. In Bretonnia, no sorcery was permitted save for that of the Damsels, the chosen of the Lady. Brienne felt her own unease twist in her gut.

'Foreign mages? What need have we of them?' The Damsels were surely capable of breaking whatever fell sorcery the Black Knight's necromancers wove against them.

Mace Tyrell raised a hand, fingers splayed out, and the murmurs died as swiftly as they had begun.

"Be assured, only women are among them, and both the King and the Fay Enchantress have given their assent for them to be here." His gaze swept the room, brooking no argument. "They number only six. Two journeymen of the Amethyst Order and one of the Light Order. One magister of both the above Orders. And their leader…" He let the silence draw long before delivering the name that made the chamber still. "Lord Magister of the Amethyst Order, Lady Elspeth von Draken of Nuln."

The hall gasped as one.

Brienne herself stiffened. She had heard that name before. Everyone from Kislev to Araby had heard that name before. Elspeth von Draken, the Pale Queen of Nuln, the veiled shadow who walked where Morr's breath lingered thickest. It was whispered that she had stood alone against a daemon host of the Plague Lord and sent it screaming back into the void. That she had played an instrumental role in crushing the von Carsteins in Sylvania with Karl Franz.

Lord Tyrell let the reaction settle before adding, almost as an afterthought, "She has brought her dragon with her. Any man who values his life will give it a wide berth."

A second wave of gasps, this one sharper, edged with unease.

Brienne swallowed. 'A dragon.'

There would be no objections now. Not even the proudest of Bretonnia's knights would speak against Elspeth von Draken's presence.

She clenched her jaw. 'Perhaps that is for the best given what we're up against.'

…

Kriemhild looked out over Lowgarden and frowned.

The journey had been longer than she had expected, the storms off Marienburg forcing them to linger in that wretched hive of merchants and cutthroats for the worst of winter. She had thought it an inconvenience at the time, but after weeks spent stopping for water or supplies at a succession of squalid hamlets and half-built towns that Bretonnia called civilization, she almost longed for Marienburg's filth laden canals.

L'Anguille had been a city. A proper city, where stone walls stood high and proud, where knights rode in polished plate and merchant princes dined in halls of gilded oak. Every stop since had been a disappointment. And now Lowgarden.

This place? This was an overgrown village, no matter how many thousands of peasants huddled within its half-rotted huts. A handful of its broadest streets were cobbled, at least, and some of the merchants who walked the docks had the look of respectable burghers, though not a one would have lasted a week in Altdorf or Nuln. And yet, overlooking it all, atop the hill where the river curved to the west, stood a castle fit for a king, a great, three-tiered monstrosity of pale stone and ivy-clad towers. A castle fit to rule a realm, and a town fit only for pigs and beggars.

"The camp looks well organized, at least," murmured Magister Gabrielle Marsner beside her. She stood wrapped in her heavy purple robes, her face lost in the deep shadows of her hood, gloved hands clasped at her waist.

Kriemhild knew what the sailors whispered about her. That she was some ghastly thing, too scarred by magic to show her face, her flesh rotted by the wind of death until she looked little better than a walking corpse.

Let them whisper.

Kriemhild herself bore the mark of her Order. The unnatural pallor of the grave had settled into her skin, draining the warmth of life from her complexion, leaving her looking cold and bloodless. There were others who fared far worse. Some took on the hollowed, skull-like aspect of the dead, their skin stretched tight over bone. Some bore a corpse's stench no matter how much they washed or slathered themselves in perfume, while others saw the world through milky, lifeless eyes.

Magister Marsner had none of those marks.

She was haunted instead.

The dead clung to her, whispering from the corners of empty rooms, drifting unseen through the candlelight, plucking at her robes with fingers no longer of flesh and bone. Ghostly voices followed her wherever she walked, a chorus only she could hear, in tongues long buried. It was why she spoke so little, why her silence was so heavy and somber.

As for why she wore those voluminous robes and hood, it was not to hide a monstrous visage like the common folk who caught a glimpse of her liked to speculate. No, Gabrielle Marsner wore her robes to hide her youth and beauty. She was only twenty-two, three years younger than Kriemhild, and she feared that none would take her seriously as a Magister.

Kriemhild understood.

The world of men was slow to bow to wisdom, and slower still when it came in the guise of a girl. Of course, that freak Tanya Degurechaff had somehow managed to command respect from an Elector-Count and his court at half Gabrielle's age, but that girl had never been anything close to normal.

"It does," Kriemhild said, sweeping her gaze over the sea of white tents, planted in perfect rows like the bones of some vast monster poking up from beneath the earth where it had been buried long ago. Banners snapped in the wind, heraldic beasts roaring their defiance against the clear late winter sky. "The chivalry of Bretonnia is on the march. It will make our work easier, but in the end, this war will be decided by us and the Damsels."

"Do not underestimate the Knights of the Grail."

Magister Gertrude Langstrosser stepped up beside them, her white robes stark against the dull brown planks of the ship, embroidered with symbols that evoked the sun-scorched glyphs of ancient Khemri far across the sea.

Kriemhild had seen Ashamira eyeing them more than once, her dark eyed gaze lingering on their shapes, as if trying to unravel some puzzle written in gold and silk. Surely her compatriots among the Light Order had explained their meaning to her, but still she seemed to search for more.

Langstrosser folded her hands before her. "They radiate purity and power like no other. If we are facing Blood Knights, or worse, some elder thing that has endured since the days of Lahmia, we will need them."

Kriemhild did not scoff. She had seen a Grail Knight fight before in Axe Bite Pass, near Helmgart and the border between Bretonnia and the Empire. Seen the Questing Knight who'd helped them uncover a Khornate Cult be brought back from the brink of death by sipping from it. Seen him ride through a tide of lessor daemons and cultists as if they were paper dolls, his blade wreathed in holy fire, armor shining with a radiance no mortal man should bear.

And yet… She had also seen him die.

The knight had stood his ground as a Bloodthirster loomed over him, a towering shadow of rage and ruin. With a cry to his goddess, he had driven his blade home, light bursting forth in a final, blinding brilliance. The daemon's roar had split the heavens, and both had fallen; one to a fiery wasteland ruled over by its dark master, the other to the Lady's hallowed glades and pools.

Piety alone could not turn back the grave.

That was Bretonnia in all its glory and contradiction. A land of bright banners and cold steel, where noble lords rode forth in gleaming plate while those who toiled in the fields bore their burdens in silence. A realm where miracles were as common as misery, where their goddess blessed her chosen warriors, while the rest of her people bled beneath the weight of hunger and oppression.

Kriemhild looked out over Lowgarden. The town lay huddled beneath the castle's shadow, its streets crooked and worn, its houses clustered together as if for warmth. Smoke curled from chimneys, and voices rose from narrow windows, speaking the tongue of folk long accustomed to hardship. And above it all, upon the hill, the great keep stood proud and unyielding, a monument to a land where sword and stone were the only law.

Yes, this was Bretonnia, both splendid and sorrowful, radiant and ruined. A land poised ever between the light and the darkness.