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Year 300 AC
White Harbor, The North
The scent of roasted boar filled the New Castle's great hall, mingling with the woodsmoke. Wyman Manderly shifted into his lord's chair, watching Larence Snow and his mud-splattered men file in. Thirty riders, lean as winter wolves, their eyes darting to every shadow and corner. Good. Paranoia meant survival in these times.
"Larence Snow!" Wyman's voice boomed across the hall, all jovial welcome. "Or should I say Lord Hornwood now? Come, come! Sit at my right hand, Lord Glover tells me great things about you!"
The young man approached with measured steps, still favoring his left leg—a souvenir from the ambush, no doubt. Behind him, his men found places at the lower tables, hands never straying far from sword hilts despite the promise of guest right.
"Lord Manderly." Larence's bow was stiff, formal. The boy had Stark coloring but none of their easy warmth. A bastard's caution, perhaps. Or simply the wariness of one who'd seen too much too young.
"None of that, boy. We're all friends here." Wyman gestured to the empty seat and whispered "Besides, you've brought me forty Bolton heads. That earns you more than courtesy."
As Larence sat, Wyman caught the precise moment his granddaughter Wylla entered through the side door. The boy's entire body shifted—spine straightening, shoulders squaring, that carefully neutral expression cracking just enough to reveal something raw beneath. Interesting.
Wylla moved through the hall with her usual purposeful stride, green hair catching the firelight. She'd inherited the Manderly coloring but none of their girth, all sharp angles and fierce pride. When her eyes found Larence, she paused mid-step.
"My lord grandfather." Her curtsey was perfunctory. "Lord Larence."
"Lady Wylla." The bastard's voice dropped half an octave.
Wyman hid his smile behind his wine cup. Oh, this was delicious. The way they avoided looking at each other while somehow remaining acutely aware of every movement. The careful distance Wylla maintained as she took her seat. The white-knuckled grip Larence had on his goblet.
The feast progressed with calculated excess. Wyman had ordered his best cooks to prepare a meal worthy of lords, not the careful rationing they'd maintained these past moons. Let any Bolton spy report back on Manderly prosperity. Let them think him fat and comfortable and stupid.
As the fourth course arrived—lamprey pie, because Wyman enjoyed his little jokes—he pushed back from the table with theatrical difficulty.
"My lords and ladies!" His voice cut through the din. "I have announcements that cannot wait!"
The hall quieted, that particular stillness that came when men sensed the wind shifting. Wyman let it build, savoring the moment like fine wine.
"First, I must address a stain upon my house's honor." He gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles white with apparent rage. "My son—my own blood—has betrayed everything House Manderly represents!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd. At the lower tables, Larence's men exchanged worried glances.
"Wylis Manderly, in his arrogance and stupidity, has fled to the Wall with those Baratheon pretenders!" Wyman's voice cracked with perfectly feigned emotion. "He acts without my knowledge, without my consent, bringing shame upon our ancient name!"
He struggled to his feet, every inch the grieving father. "Therefore, before gods and men, I disown him! Let it be known throughout the North—Wylis Manderly is no son of mine! His actions are his own, and House Manderly remains loyal to our rightful lords!"
The silence stretched taut as a bowstring. Then Wyman played his next card.
"Furthermore, to prove my continued faith in the peace of the realm, I offer my granddaughter Wylla as ward to the Dreadfort." He didn't look at Wylla, couldn't risk seeing their genuine shock. "Let Lord Bolton see that House Manderly values stability above all else."
This time the reaction was immediate. Wylla shot to her feet, face flushed with fury. "Grandfather, you cannot—"
"Silence!" Wyman's roar shook the rafters. "You will do your duty to your house, girl! Or would you follow your fool father's path?"
Wylla's mouth opened, closed, opened again. Then she spun on her heel and stormed from the hall, silk skirts whispering accusations with every step. Larence half-rose to follow before catching himself, sinking back with the expression of a man watching his world burn.
"We will do as you command, grandfather" Wynafryd demurely answered.
Perfect.
"Let ravens fly to every holdfast!" Wyman commanded. "Let the Dreadfort know of my son's betrayal and my granddaughter's coming fosterage! House Manderly stands with order! With peace! With the rightful rulers of the North!"
He collapsed back into his chair as if exhausted by emotion. Around him, the feast continued with the forced cheer of men who sensed deeper currents but dared not name them.
Hours late, when the shock is still registering throughout the keep, Wyman received his true council in the godswood. The heart tree's face wept red tears in the moonlight, an appropriate witness to their plotting.
Maege Mormont arrived first, stomping through the snow like a bear disturbed from hibernation. Howland Reed materialized from shadows Wyman hadn't known existed. Robett Glover entered with his usual grim efficiency, while Davos simply waited sitting on top of a stone.
Larence Snow came last, still vibrating with barely contained fury.
"That was quite a performance," Maege said without preamble. "Though I notice your granddaughter's reaction seemed genuine enough."
"Wylla knows nothing, but Wynafryd is aware" Wyman settled himself on a stone bench that groaned beneath his weight. "Better her anger be real. The Boltons have eyes everywhere."
"You're sending her to them?" Larence's voice carried an edge sharp enough to cut. "To that monster?"
"I'm sending a girl who looks remarkably like Wylla, gods rest her soul." Wyman studied the young man's face, noting the relief that flooded it. "My granddaughter will be sailing to Braavos within the week, ostensibly to negotiate loans. What the Boltons receive will be a distant cousin who's been well coached in her role."
"And if they discover the deception?"
"Then a girl—whose family will be cared for—dies for the cause." Wyman's voice hardened. "We all have our parts to play, Ser Larence. Some die with swords in hand. Others die in beds not their own. The dead are equally dead either way."
Howland Reed stepped forward, his quiet voice somehow carrying more weight than shouts. "The disowning of your son—that was masterful. Roose Bolton understands patricidal impulses. He'll believe a father's rage at a son's defiance."
"Precisely." Wyman allowed himself a satisfied smile. "Even if he suspects deception, he'll waste time trying to divine which part is false. Meanwhile, we move our true pieces into position."
"Speaking of which." Robett Glover unrolled a map on a flat stone. "What word from the Wall?"
"Ah." Wyman's smile widened. "That's where matters become truly interesting. I received a raven from my 'disowned' son three days ago. Coded, naturally. Young Wylis has made contact with Jon Snow."
"And?" Maege leaned forward, her mail coat catching moonlight.
"Lord Snow has raised an army. He marches for Last Hearth as we speak."
Silence greeted this pronouncement. Even the wind seemed to pause.
"How?" Davos spoke for them all. "The Watch has no men to spare. Even if the Baratheon remnants flocked to him..."
"My son's message was cryptic on that point." Wyman pulled the small scroll from his sleeve. "But he mentions Snow possesses a weapon of black and red. Those were his exact words. 'The bastard brings black and red to the North's aid.'"
Howland Reed went absolutely still. Not the stillness of surprise, but the careful immobility of a man trying desperately not to react. Wyman filed that away for later consideration.
"Whatever Snow has or hasn't done, we proceed with our plan." Wyman tapped the map with one thick finger. "Lord Reed, you and Ser Davos will take ship from the Sisters. I've had men training there in secret— fifteen hundred fighters who know every approach to the Dreadfort by water. Strike hard, strike fast. Make them think it's a major assault."
"While they're distracted..." Robett traced routes with practiced ease. "Lady Mormont and I divide their forces. I'll take Hornwood men, Manderly's and whatever Umbers we can trust, hit their supply lines. Every patrol that doesn't return, every raven that goes missing—death by a thousand cuts."
"I'll enjoy smashing some Bolton heads." Maege's grin was all teeth. "Let them think they're hunting us."
"And I?" Larence asked.
"You will join Lord Glover and Lady Mormont." Wyman met the young man's eyes. "Bring me Bolton blood."
The bastard nodded. "The Boltons won't expect coordination. They think us broken, scattered."
"Let them." Wyman struggled to his feet, joints protesting. "We've played dead long enough. Time to remind the North what happens to those who break guest right. What happens to turncloaks and kinslayers."
"The North remembers," Maege murmured.
"Aye." Wyman looked up at the heart tree's bleeding face. "And soon, very soon, the North brings payment due."
"Lord Manderly." Howland's soft voice cut through their satisfaction. "This weapon your son mentions. The black and red. Did he mention more? "
"Sadly he was even more cryptic with mention of this weapon but when I mentioned it…" Wyman studied the crannogman's impassive face. "You went still as stone. What aren't you telling us, my lord?"
Howland glanced at each of them in turn, then back to the heart tree. When he spoke, his words were careful as a man walking on thin ice. "If what I think is true than this secret isn't mine to reveal anymore. Truths that belong to Jon Snow alone. But I will say this—if the bastard of Winterfell marches with black and red at his command, then the game has changed in ways none of us expected."
"Riddles and mist," Maege spat. "Speak plain, Reed."
"I cannot." Howland's voice carried finality. "But when you see what comes south from the Wall, you'll understand. The dragons are not all dead. And winter is coming for our enemies with fire and blood."
The silence that followed was profound.
"Dragons," Davos said slowly. "You're speaking of dragons. The dragons are east."
"I'm speaking of nothing." Howland pulled his cloak tighter. "But I suggest we move quickly. Whatever Jon Snow has gained, he won't wait for us to position our pieces. The board is moving, my lords and ladies. Best we move with it."
Wyman found himself thinking of his son's coded words. Black and red. The colors of House Targaryen. But Jon Snow was Ned's bastard, wasn't he? Unless...
He shook his massive head. Time enough for such puzzles later. For now, they had a war to win and a North to reclaim.
"We move at week's end," he declared. "May the old gods and the new have mercy on our enemies, for we won't."
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Last Hearth, The North
Last Hearth rose before them through the white curtain, its ancient towers broken-toothed against the grey sky. Ghost padded through the drifts beside his horse, the direwolf's red eyes scanning the treeline while his breath steamed in the bitter air.
"You kneelers and your bloody stone walls," Val murmured, her voice barely audible above the wind. She rode close enough that Jon caught the scent of the pine needles she chewed to keep her breath sweet. "Still, I won't lie—a warm bed's a fine thing on a cold night."
Jon's enhanced senses had already catalogued it all—the acrid tang of cold campfires, the sour reek of unwashed bodies huddled too close for too long, and beneath it all, the copper-rust smell of old blood frozen into the earth. His skin prickled with wrongness, the purple fire stirring restlessly in his chest.
The gates hung open, one twisted on its hinges. No horn announced their arrival. No guards challenged their approach.
"Should we—" one of the Baratheon men began.
"We go in." Jon's voice carried that new edge, the one that made men step back without knowing why. He dismounted in a single fluid motion that felt too smooth, too predatory. His boots crunched through the frozen mud as he approached the gates.
Toregg emerged from the Eastwatch contingent, ice crystals clinging to his beard. The wildling's eyes tracked Jon with the wariness of a man who'd seen him kill a goliath ice dragon. "Lord Crow."
Glendon Hewett stood rigid beside Toregg, hand hovering near his sword hilt. The man's jaw worked as if chewing words he couldn't quite spit out. Behind them, Pyp pushed through the crowd, that familiar grin faltering as he took in Jon's appearance.
"Seven hells," Pyp breathed. "You look..."
Different. Jon knew what his friend couldn't say. The way shadows bent strangely around him now. The occasional flicker of red in his eyes. The way he moved—too quick, too sure, like a predator wearing human skin.
"Pyp." Jon's lips quirked in what might have been a smile. "Still alive, I see."
"No thanks to you, dragging us to fight ice monsters." Pyp's attempt at levity died as he stepped closer. "Jon, what's the plan?"
Before Jon could answer, movement in the courtyard caught his eye. Mors Umber waited by the well, his one good eye glittering with suspicion. The grizzled lord looked like a piece of the North itself—all scarred leather and grey beard and barely contained violence. The Liddle brothers flanked him, hands drifting toward sword hilts with practiced ease.
"Strange tales from Eastwatch, Snow." Artos Flint spat into the snow, the gesture deliberate. "Dragons and fire. The Lord Commander has no business in the wars of the realm."
The fire surged, hot and eager. Jon's jaw clenched as he fought it down, keeping his face carved from stone. He could smell their fear—sharp and acrid beneath the bravado. Could hear their hearts beating too fast, see the minute trembles in hands that gripped weapons.
"You want to know why I'm here?" Jon's voice cut through the rising murmurs. He didn't wait for an answer, simply gestured to his men.
The wooden crate scraped across frozen ground as they dragged it forward. It shook violently, thumping against its bonds. The sound drew every eye, and Jon tasted the spike of fear in the air—metallic and sharp.
"The Lord Commander has no business in the wars of the realm," Jon repeated, his voice carrying that inhuman edge. "But what about the war that's coming for all of us?"
The crate's hinges shrieked as they opened it. Bowen Marsh lurched out like a broken puppet, his dead flesh grey-black with frostbite, eyes blazing blue as winter stars. The thing that had been Lord Steward of the Night's Watch reached toward Jon with fingers turned to blackened claws, its mouth opening in a soundless scream.
"Mother's mercy!" someone cried.
Men stumbled backward, prayers and curses mixing in the frozen air. One of the Baratheon knights retched. Even Mors Umber took an involuntary step back, his scarred face going pale.
The wight fixed on Jon with single-minded hunger, lurching forward on legs that moved wrong, joints bending in directions they shouldn't. Its claws raked across Jon's chest—and shattered like ice on stone. The creature reeled back, confused, then attacked again. This time Jon caught its wrist, feeling the bones creak beneath his grip.
Movement in the crowd—a figure shrinking back into shadows. Jon's enhanced vision caught the furtive motion instantly. Theon Greyjoy, more corpse than man, trying to disappear behind a knot of Umber men. The flames roared to life again, and this time Jon didn't fight it.
He walked straight through the wight's flailing attacks, feeling its claws scrape harmlessly against skin that wouldn't yield. Men gasped as the creature's fingers broke against him, as Jon moved with that terrible fluid grace toward his target.
Theon's eyes—those broken, haunted eyes—widened as Jon approached. The reek of his terror filled Jon's nostrils: piss and sweat and something deeper, something fundamentally broken. Jon's hand closed around Theon's throat, lifting him as easily as he might lift a child.
"You betrayed Robb." The words tasted like ash and iron, like the memory of his brother's laughter and the knowledge of his headless corpse. Theon's feet kicked uselessly, his remaining fingers scrabbling at Jon's grip. The man weighed nothing, felt like nothing, was nothing but—
"Please!"
The voice cut through the rage. Jeyne Poole stumbled forward from behind Alysane Mormont's protective bulk. Her face still bore fading bruises—purple-green smudges against pale skin—but her voice carried desperate strength.
"He saved me." She moved closer, trembling but determined. "Whatever else he's done, he saved me from... from him."
Jon's grip didn't loosen, but his eyes shifted to her. For a moment he saw Sansa in the curve of her cheek, heard Arya in the stubborn set of her jaw. The fire dimmed, just enough for thought to penetrate the rage.
Behind him, the wight continued its mindless assault, clawing at men who scrambled away in terror. Someone was praying to the old gods. Someone else had pissed themselves—Jon could smell it, sharp and shameful in the cold air.
"Your fate waits until Winterfell is ours again." Jon released Theon, who collapsed gasping into the mud. The broken man wheezed something that might have been gratitude or might have been disappointment—with Theon, it was impossible to tell anymore.
Jon turned to the assembled lords, noting how they looked at him now—that mixture of fear and awe that sat like acid in his stomach. "Send ravens to every house that remembers their oaths."
The maester, a thin man with trembling hands, nodded rapidly.
"Tell them the Boltons' time is ending." Jon's voice carried across the courtyard, each word falling like a hammer blow. "Tell them winter is coming for House Bolton."
The wight lurched toward a group of Flint men, who scattered like leaves. Its mindless hunger, its relentless assault—this was the future if they failed. This was what waited beyond the Wall in numbers beyond counting.
"This is why I fight." Jon gestured to the creature. "Because the real war is coming, and we need the North united when it does and House Stark will have it's due."
The lords exchanged glances—calculation mixing with fear, ambition warring with terror. Mors Umber was the first to nod, his scarred face grim as old stone. "Aye. The Umbers remember their oaths."
One by one, the others followed. The Liddles, the Flints, even the Baratheon men who'd looked ready to flee moments before. They nodded and murmured agreement, though Jon could smell the fear-sweat on them, could hear hearts still racing.
"Secure that thing." Jon gestured to the wight. "We'll need it again before this is done."
Men scrambled to obey, giving the creature a wide berth as they maneuvered it back toward the crate. Jon caught Val watching him from across the courtyard, the intensity in her pale eyes stirring part of him he forgot existed.
The fire in his veins settled back to embers, but Jon knew it was only sleeping. Waiting. Growing stronger with each passing day. Ghost pressed against his leg, the direwolf's warmth the only thing that still felt entirely real, entirely his.
"My lord," the maester ventured, voice quavering. "The ravens—what message exactly should—"
"Tell them Jon Snow has returned from the dead." The words fell into sudden silence. "Tell them the bastard of Winterfell comes to reclaim his father's seat. Tell them to choose—Bolton or Stark. There will be no neutrality in what's coming."
The wind picked up, driving snow between them like a curtain. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—or perhaps it was just the wind. These days, Jon couldn't always tell the difference.