The raven sat heavily on Rickon Stark's desk, its message unrolled beside a half-finished cup of mulled wine. He read the words once more.
A royal declaration: Volantis named as the hirers of the Faceless Man who had tried to kill Prince Aegon.
An alignment between Braavos and the Targaryens.
A strike on Volantene ships.
The words felt foreign here in the deep North, too full of distant places and southern tensions. Rickon exhaled slowly.
"A prince in my hall," he murmured to himself, "and half of Essos sharpening their knives." A familiar edge of foreboding settled in his gut, the sense of distant chaos creeping northward.
"Peace lasts too long," he added with a dry, self-mocking smile, "and a man starts to dread the war."
He folded the parchment and slipped it into a drawer. The feast would begin in an hour, and the bannermen had already arrived. Whatever dangers swirled across the Narrow Sea, the North still needed steady hands. He straightened his cloak and stepped out toward the hall.
The warmth of the Great Hall washed over Aegon as he entered. The smell of food mingled with woodsmoke. The gathered lords rose with the measured respect of Northerners.
Aegon nodded politely to each.
He took his seat near Lord Rickon and Lady Gilliane at the high table, with Bennard and his family seated beside them.
There was a slight tension in the room.
The news of the alliance had reached the North.
No one spoke of the raven openly yet, but the undercurrent of curiosity was unmistakable.
Rickon said quietly, "Word travels quickly. Our neighbors will expect some answers."
Aegon nodded as a maid poured wine into his cup.
Rickon looked relieved. "Good."
The lord of Winterfell stood and, in the plain, straightforward manner welcomed their royal guest and declared the feast begun.
Every house had brought a gift, and Aegon thanked each of them politely as they came forward.
Lord Cerwyn, a middle-aged man with a long beard and a brown coat, offered a carved weirwood-wood wolf figurine.
Lord Hornwood, old and white-bearded beneath his grey coat, gave a firm, assessing look as he presented a finely made hunting bow.
Lord Manderly, large and soft-voiced, smiled broadly as he brought fresh White Harbor silverwork.
And Lord Bolton pale-eyed, long-faced, bowed with perfect formality as a large white fur cloak was presented.
Most lords came accompanied by their wives, who were soon speaking with Lady Gilliane and Lady Margaret. Only Lord Bolton came with his daughter, a brown-haired little girl with an expressionless face much like her father's.
Bennard had mentioned that Lord Bolton's wife had suffered an "accident." Rumor held that he was quietly looking for a second match.
Aegon gave Bolton a simple glance and offered a polite smile when their eyes met.
Lord Bolton inclined his head in silent courtesy, before letting his face return to its usual neutrality the moment Aegon looked away.
His daughter sat to his right, a Cerwyn knight to his left. Bolton focused on his plate, eating sparingly, cutting each piece of meat with deliberate precision while his ears scraped for information. His pale eyes drifted across the hall, studying the gathered lords.
He had already heard the rumors about the Targaryen boy: the fiery descent, the direwolf, the dragon. He had seen the great blue beast from afar upon arriving. Dreamfyre, stretched across the snow half a mile from Winterfell. His heart had beat like a drum at the sight.
More importantly, his gaze returning to the prince, he noted that the dragon's rider carried no arrogance. Even the Starks seemed subtly protective of him, a detail Bolton quietly tucked away as a useful observation.
When Lord Manderly loudly mentioned ships trading out of Braavos, Bolton's attention shifted. New trade possibilities were always worth listening to.
Benjen sat slightly behind the prince, not quite at the high table but close enough to listen. He kept stealing glances at Aegon.
Aegon sat, eating bread like any other boy, shoulders relaxed, voice soft when he spoke to Rickon.
Benjen found himself oddly comforted.
He had thought powerful men were loud or boastful. But the prince… Aegon simply was. And that made it easier to breathe.
When Manderly leaned forward and asked, "Is it true, my prince, what they say in the raven? That your life was the target?" the hall went quiet. Although his voice was low it was loud enough to echo in other's ears. Rickon gave an annoyed look at Manderly. Conversation faltered. Benjen's breath caught.
Aegon set his cup aside before answering. Every eye on him.
"The King shared only what was necessary," he said. "It is true an attempt was made. It failed. The rest belongs to His Grace."
It was a safe answer.
Northern lords respected boundaries, and Manderly nodded immediately.
Still, murmurs crept through the hall.
"Braavos at the King's side…"
"Volantis challenged…"
"A Faceless Man…"
Aegon kept his expression neutral. Silence had always served well.
Across from the Stark high seat, Lord Manderly's mind raced.
White Harbor depended on trade, and the idea of Targaryen ships sailing with Braavosi escorts filled him with quiet excitement. Fewer pirates. Steadier routes. New ventures.
He had already seen Lord Stark's warning look so he did not press further.
He lifted his cup.
"To Prince Aegon," he said. "And to fortunate winds, wherever he sails."
The toast was modest, fitting the room. A few lords echoed it. Even Bolton drank, though last, and with a flat gaze.
Lord Cerwyn spoke next, softly.
"The North asks only that winter stay far from our doors. If trouble comes, we stand with Winterfell first."
Aegon appreciated the simplicity. No probing questions. Just loyalty.
Rickon nodded in return.
But then, Lord Hornwood leaned in slightly.
"Is it true you killed a direwolf alone, my prince?"
Aegon hesitated. Benjen stiffened.
"Yes, but not alone," Aegon said. "Lord Bennard and his guards were there too."
Hornwood glanced at Bennard and, seeing his quiet nod, let out a low grunt.
"No need for modesty, my prince. A man should own his strength."
He chuckled and took another drink.
When conversation picked up again with songs of Minstrels in the background, Bolton walked directly to Aegon. His voice was low, calm.
"If Volantis seeks vengeance, I trust the Crown is prepared."
A question wrapped in an observation.
Aegon answered evenly:
"My grandfather does not act lightly. Whatever comes, I trust in his judgment."
"As should we," Bolton nodded his head, acknowledging the reply.
Once the plates were cleared and the hall's warmth thickened, Rickon rose.
"My lords," he said, voice steady, "Winter is always looking our way. Let us hope it finds us prepared, united, and with full bellies."
A ripple of quiet laughter followed.
The feast wound down in steady waves, lords departing in small groups. The Manderlys lingered, talking ships with Cerwyn. Hornwood examined a new axe one of his men had brought. Bolton gathered his cloak and left with a polite, wordless nod.
With the hall emptying and only embers glowing in the hearth, Aegon stood and made his way toward his chambers.
Essos, Myr
The night over the port of Myr was calm. A single small boat, black against the black water, moved silently toward the docks. Cloaked figures disembarked, their movements swift and sure. They found the first pair of patrolling guards leaning on their spears, half-asleep. There was a brief, wet sound of a slit throat, then another. The guards slumped to the ground without a cry. The figures moved on, a shadowy pestilence spreading along the waterfront. They reached the ships, great trading cogs and war galleys tied to the piers. Using pots of oil and quick-burning pitch, they set their work. The first flames caught, licking up tarred ropes and dry wooden hulls. Then another ship bloomed with fire, and another.
A frantic cry went up, then another. A bell began to clang in a watchtower, its alarm sharp and panicked in the stillness. Soon, other bells joined it, a chorus of terror ringing across the city. On the docks, chaos erupted. Guards who had been sleeping in barracks tumbled out, pulling on helmets. Slaves were driven from their quarters with buckets and axes, forced toward the inferno to try and save the burning fleet. The entire attention of the port was fixed on the water, on the dying ships.
From a rise in the land a mile away, Razdal watched the flames grow. He turned to the mass of sellswords behind him. Every man wore a tabard or a piece of cloth marked with the tiger-head sigil of Volantis. "The bait took," he said, his voice low. "Move fast. Kill anyone in your path. We are Volantene soldiers. Let them hear you roar."
The Bloodyteeth army began its march, a dark river flowing toward the distracted city.
In a luxurious bedchamber within the city, Magister Vohlar was pulled from a deep, wine-soaked sleep. The sound of the bells was a physical assault. He was naked, tangled in silken sheets with three equally naked slave girls. "What is that infernal noise?" he slurred, pushing a girl off his chest. He staggered from the bed, his head pounding, and pulled on a heavy robe of purple velvet. He stumbled out onto his balcony, which overlooked the port.
The sight that met his eyes made his drunken blood run cold. A dozen of Myr's ships were pillars of fire, lighting the entire harbor in a hellish orange glow. "By the gods of Myr..." he cursed, his voice trembling with rage and fear. He turned and bellowed back into his mansion. "Guards! Slaves! Everyone to the docks! Put out those fires! Save the ships!"
His orders were unnecessary. The city was already pouring its defenders toward the water. It was precisely what Razdal had counted on.
The first sign of the real attack was not at the port, but at the landward gate. The guards there were few, most having run toward the fire. They died quickly, overwhelmed by a tide of sellswords who poured through the open gate. Razdal's men flooded into the streets, their cries echoing the bells. They did not form ranks or march on a fortress. They broke into small groups and streamed into homes, workshops, and taverns.
In a modest stone house near the main thoroughfare, a maid named Nala was jolted awake by the bells and the sudden shouts. She peeked through the shutters and saw armed men with strange sigils running through the street. Her heart hammered in her chest. She rushed to the room of her master, a glass merchant, and his family. She found them already awake, huddled together in fear.
"We must hide!" the merchant hissed, his voice trembling with urgency. His wife nodded, her eyes wide with panic.
The merchant made a quick, desperate decision. He grabbed his wife's hand. "The hidden room behind the wall panel," he said to her. Then turned to Nala, his eyes pleading. He pushed his son toward her. The child was shaking, his hands clutching at Nala's nightdress. "Nala, please. Take him to the wine cellar. Hide. Now!"
Nala nodded, her own fear momentarily buried under a wave of duty. Her masters had always been kind. It was a debt.
"I will protect him," she promised, the words feeling hollow even as she said them.
She half-dragged, half-carried the child toward the kitchen and the small, hidden trapdoor to the cellar. They scrambled down the rough ladder into the absolute blackness, pulling the door shut above them. The darkness was thick and suffocating.
Then the sounds began. The front door splintered inward with a sickening crack. Heavy boots pounded through their home. They heard gruff voices, the crash of pottery shattering, the splintering of fine furniture. Then, a different sound from above: a thin, high scream from the mistress, cut off with brutal suddenness. A man's laughter echoed through the house, a sound of pure, ugly delight. Then, silence. A terrible, final silence that was worse than all the noise. Nala held the boy tightly, her hand over his mouth to stifle his sobs. They waited in the pitch black, listening to the thuds of boots and the crash of breaking furniture above.
Then the trapdoor was flung open. A shaft of firelight illuminated a hulking sellsword with a Volantene tiger on his chest. He grinned down at them. "Found the rats." He descended, and Nala threw herself in front of the boy. A quick shove sent her sprawling against a rack of wine bottles. Her head connected with a sickening thud, and the world exploded into blinding white pain before fading to black. The last thing she heard was the boy's terrified cry…abruptly cut short. Then the man turned to her. She did not see the next blow coming.
In the taverns, men who had been drinking late were slow to react. Some stumbled into the streets, curious, only to be cut down where they stood. Others were killed at their tables, their drinks spilling across the wood, mixing with their blood. The sellswords showed no distinction. They killed guards in Myrish armor, slaves in rough-spun tunics, and wealthy traders in fine robes. The city was not being conquered; it was being gutted.
For hours, the nightmare continued. The smell of smoke from the port was now joined by the smell of smoke from burning homes. The sounds of alarm bells were replaced by the sounds of screaming and laughter. Razdal moved through the chaos, his own work done. He saw his men laden with loot: rolls of fine Myrish lace, silver plate, bags of coin.
As the first hint of grey touched the eastern sky, Razdal gave a signal. A horn blew, a sharp, repeating note. His men, well-drilled, began to disengage. They fled back through the gate they had entered, melting from the city as quickly as they had come, disappearing onto the plains.
When the sun rose, it illuminated a scene of utter devastation. The port was a wreck of charred ship hulls. Half the city was smoldering. The streets were littered with the dead. The sigil of the tiger was everywhere, a message written in blood and ash.
***
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