AUTHOR'S NOTE-
(Nervous laughter) it's been how long? A full year?!😅 um…. I wanna say sorry, but it would definitely not suffice.
But alas, I'm here. Never really left, but I am, in fact, still alive. Grad school is soul draining. But! The good news is that I'm exactly half way through my degree! I survived this latest semester and even with better grades then the semester before wguch totally kicked my ass. Y'all, the way I cried when I saw I passed had my mom panicking 😂 I even got a job!
All this to say that I've not quite got the AO3 curse but shuts been busy anyway. Please forgive me? Hopefully the next chapters come easier and with less effort cuz this was a doozy ngl.
Y'all know the drill by There are officially 8 parts to this series, so if you enjoy reading this soul's journey through the cycle of reincarnation across the multiverse, maybe check them out? Though, all fics can be read independently too!
As always, thank you guys for showing your love for my work, and for being so patient with me. I hope yall enjoy and leave your thoughts down below! Hearing from you guys is my favorite part.
Discord! I have started releasing chapter previews there, and it's chill. Some of you lovely readers even help me brainstorm!
https://discord.gg/XhqUDAnbsH
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Making it to Greywater Watch is… an adventure. We start on horse before going by foot and then by boat, something we are only able to do because the Reeds had them prepared for us in advance.
The crannog-boats are fascinating. They are wide, flat-bottomed things that navigate the shallow, vegetation-ridden swampland using a large propellor-like fan in the rear, operated through the use of a combination of pedals and hand cranks. Lord Reed's men operate the whole thing seamlessly, each guard working in conjunction with the others to keep us gliding forward at a surprisingly fast pace, and seemingly without much exertion.
The only real issue I'm seeing is that, it seems, we are floating aimlessly.
I side-eye Howie, who just grins at me. "We're not lost, little wolf, I promise. It's not far now."
"But how can you tell?" I ask genuinely. No ravens nor armies can find the giant manmade island that makes up Greywater Watch. Not because it is foggy here in the bog of the Neck, but because Greywater Watch is a fucking moving island.
Howie shrugs. "I can feel it. All crannogmen can."
I blink, tilting my head. "Magic?"
"Yes, indeed," Leaf pipes up from a nearby boat, and I turn to listen to the Singer with interest, "when our blood mixed with the First Men, they created this island, and we warded it against those seeking it to do the residents harm. It calls to those that have the blood and consider it home."
Marwyn nearly knocks over a guard in his haste to sit closer to the side of his boat nearest to Leaf. "Are the island's movements also directed by magic?"
Leaf hums, musical and oddly reminiscent of shifting tree branches. "Somewhat. The island goes where it feels it is needed."
Before Marwyn and I can even question that, some voices ahead of us begin to call out, a horn is blown, and those rowing the boats begin to move faster. "We've spotted the Watch up ahead!"
Out of the misty gloom comes a massive fortress, rising far higher than I would've imagined, sprawling far and wide. It should have looked morbid and dank, but the closer we get, the brighter it glows. Magic is coiled and threaded throughout the structure, a supernova against my senses. Pinpricks of light are speckled all across the place like stars in a dark sky, bright and guiding, a lighthouse to lost crannogmen trying to find their way home. Nothing about it should have been hard to find, and as we draw closer I begin to hear the bustle of people, laughter, and music despite the sun disappearing beyond the horizon some time ago.
My lips curl into a grin without my permission. Lord Reed guides us to the dock, guards rushing out to greet us jovially. With practiced ease, they work together to reel our boats in, anchoring them easily with ropes as they cheerfully greet their lord and his heir.
It's abundantly clear how loved House Reed is by its people.
As I am lifted from the boat, I find myself in a city of wood and stone. Weirwood and ironwood are interspersed with cobbled stone streets, magic thrumming below my feet distractingly.
So entranced am I by architecture that looks like an odd mix of the crowded, narrow blockiness of 18th century London and an enchanted forest that I don't notice Marwyn creeping up behind me, startling me into stumbling straight into a light pole, which is really just a tall wooden pole with a steel brazier at the top, the flames swaying merrily above us.
I glower at the snickering maester. "Lost in the magic, lass? I can't blame you. This place has almost as much magic as Winterfell and the Moat."
I tip my head in interest. "It does feel similar."
As we go about destroying siphons, passing through keeps and lands of various lords, we find all the oldest structures to be steeped in magic, every keep predating the Targaryens, many likely predating the Andals, who arrived somewhere between 6 and 2 thousand years ago. The fact that the structures are standing at all is simply because of how much magic they are steeped in, but it still boggles my mind just how old everything is around me.
I suppose the millennia of wars and conflicts have not lent themselves too much money for new infrastructure or renovation, but damn.
"You haven't been here before?" Bran asks curiously, wandering over with Ser Cregan, taking my hand in his. Behind him, Nahsa is helping coordinate the Blizzard Traders we brought along and the mages unload our goods off the boats and into carts for easy movement.
Marwyn growls, shooting a glare at Howie, who surprisingly reciprocates with smugness. "I tried, but was unable to find it."
I snort, tilting my head up to take in the surprisingly tall building. That the shallow water can support all the weight of this city, no matter how large the island is, is still an engineering and architectural masterpiece. I raise my voice, calling, "Lord Reed! Your home is both beautiful and awe-inspiring!"
Lord Reed makes his way over, smiling. "Thank you, lass. It's rare that any beyond the crannogmen see our home and even fewer admire its unique beauty."
He pats my head gently before beckoning Bran and me. "Come. Let's take your traders to the market."
Bran tilts his head, curious as he guides me along, our people following us with the carts rattling along the stone ground behind us. "A night market?"
"Aye," Howie agrees, walking backwards as he discusses with us. "The bards and dancers like to perform in the square, so the merchants set out goods and sell food."
I perk up with interest, quietly dropping back into step with Nahsa, instructing her to have the performers we brought with us take notes and exchange songs with the performers of the Watch. I had made sure to bring some to accompany our caravan so I could continue my propaganda campaign across the north, and while I doubted it would be needed here, there were other parts of the north where it would be helpful to further endear the Small Folk to House Stark and magic as a whole. Plus, traveling performers hear a lot of interesting things. It's why I made sure to educate my spy organization in performance along with magic and trade after all.
After a while, we arrived at the island center, lively music and laughter ringing out. I can't help my smile as I take in the bright area and the smell of food. Lord Reed takes my minions to set up a stall while Howie shows us around, buying us some lizard-lion skewers to munch on, making Bran cackle about Howie being a cannibal.
The Crannogmen of the Neck have not been nearly as affected by the siphons as the rest of the North. Our theory is that because they reside on islands hidden by magic and constantly moving, no one is able to plant siphons to drain their innate magic consistently. As such, while the Crannogmen still have a few Greenseers and Wargs, Howie seems to be the only Skinchanger left among them and these mages can wield very little magic beyond warging and greenseeing. In total, there are nine or ten Houses of Crannogmen under House Reed's vassalage and a population of a few thousand clansmen that they lord over, all of which live here on the migratory islands of the Neck, with Greywater Watch being the largest of the manmade islands and the trade hub.
Marwyn, predictably, is fascinated to know if any Crannog magic practices and traditions have survived until today, so he takes the first opportunity to escape to the weirwood forest on the north side of the island where the Crannog mages often commune with the heart trees there.
Bran and I are treated with warmth wherever we roam, our banner recognized on sight, and I soon find myself dancing freely among the exuberant children, my brother at my side. When we finally exhaust ourselves, Cregan escorts us to House Reed's residence, which is bigger than other houses on the island, taller too, but nowhere near the sheer size of Winterfell.
Cregan leaves me in my modest quarters with Nahsa to bathe and rest, dragging Bran off and leaving a guard at my door. The door swings shut behind him, revealing a silent Kurohiko behind it, making Nahsa choke out a squeak.
I stare. "How did you—no, never mind. Did you eat?"
I have gotten used to Kurohiko's weirdness as we travel. The boy is very much like a feral cat, for all intents and purposes. He comes and goes as he pleases, showing up in the most unexpected of places and leaving you wondering how the hell he even got there. He becomes uncomfortable if looked at too much and definitely doesn't appreciate it when anyone tries to touch him, but he isn't completely isolating. He usually draws near for food, curling up discreetly to eat somewhere he can still watch everyone around us. The former slave takes any orders we give him, completing chores with careful efficiency, and occasionally comes to simply sit near Nahsa, Bran, and I. He has even begun vanishing for odd hours before randomly returning with dead prey he somehow hunts down for us.
Still, Kurohiko has yet to speak more than a few words and it's difficult to restrain my worry for him even when I know that trauma requires a lot to begin healing. Somehow the silent, deadly boy has grown on me and I find myself carefully monitoring his progress.
Kuro shakes his head and I have a servant bring us some stew for him while Nahsa reads me a letter from my mother.
"Lady Stark says Lady Lyanna has taken to her water dancing lessons like a natural," Nahsa announces. "And Lord Stark has written that they have come to an agreement with the mountain clans regarding the mines you found. Bara has also sent a progress report regarding the mages for your inspection."
I nod, absentmindedly patting Frostbite's head, the dragons out hunting since they are getting too big to stay indoors these days. "I'm glad Lya is having fun. With Ned, Bran, and Lya all training already, I'm going to be left behind at this rate."
"Milady, you jest," Nahsa replies, affronted, Kuro cocking his head slightly even as he continues eating across the room. "Your magic is so powerful! Surely none can beat you!"
I huff, bemused. "I appreciate your faith, but a mage's weakness is close combat. If someone gets close enough, it will be difficult for me to keep my life. I suppose I could join Bran's training with Ser Cregan, but neither the Westerossi or Northern styles are suitable for me. I'd be better off waiting to take Water Dancing with my sister."
Nahsa frowns before she seems to square her shoulders and drops to kneel in front of me, taking my hands in hers and meeting my gaze with earnest, wide eyes beneath auburn strands. "Don't worry, milady. You can keep working to bring magic and prosperity to the North. So many of us admire and rely on you, and as your people. we will protect you."
I blink, surprised, but smile, deeply touched, squeezing the older girl's hand in mine as I tug her up. "Thank you, Nahsa. Truly."
She smiles shyly at me before ushering me to rest, gently coaxing Kuro to follow her out.
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Without siphons to hunt, our time in the Neck is rather quick. While there might have been some of the cursed objects buried in the swamp, getting them out would be difficult and tedious, especially because we would not be able to use magic to extract them. In the end, we decided to leave it to the Crannog mages to find themselves whenever they managed to float across one.
Since it is my goal to enrich the North as a whole, not just Winterfell, I make sure to leave House Reed with something they can grow and sell to boost their economy without directly competing with other Northern Houses, like I have been doing for most houses along our journey. So, before we leave, I help them set up some blessed fields and provide them with seeds for certain very important crops that can be grown in the swamps around them, such as rice and cranberries, and instructions on the care, hoping it will not only boost their trade and economy, but become a cornerstone for feeding the north. After all, rice alone will be a game changer for how much we will need to import.
So excited is Lord Reed to be trusted with this task that Howie is ordered to accompany us on our tour of the North, much to our delight, a few of the crannogmen mages joining us to exchange magic knowledge as we travel.
From there, we depart from Greywater Watch to Flint's Finger and on, creating blessed fields to grow garlic, elderberries, celery, water spinach, and mint, as we journey to cross the Saltspear and trek our way across Barrowlands to Barrowton.
Surprisingly, we found several more siphons than we expected. Marwyn theorized that there were extra siphons placed in the Barrowlands to combat the magic left behind by the Barrow Kings who predated even the Kings of Winter that my own family descended from.
After that, we set up even more Blessed Fields, encouraging House Dustin and the other nearby Houses to cultivate corn, canola, squash, cucumber, melon, radish and alfalfa in addition to the hay, wheat, and barley they already grow. The Barrowlands have some of the most fertile agriculture of the North, not to mention one of the highest populations and biggest trade hubs, something I fully plan to exploit. I also make sure to leave the recipes for creating whiskey to House Dustin in thanks for letting me borrow their Valyrian steel dagger.
Before we left Barrowton, Bran and I spend a few days attempting to determine if the First King of the First Men was really buried here, and while we find several ancient crypts that have been forgotten here over time by tracking and destroying siphons, we weren't able to confirm who was lashed to rest there, the writing of the First Men worn away to illegibility from age.
Marwyn nearly decided to stay behind to study them, so taken by the tombs as he was, but he ultimately decided he is more likely to miss something interesting if he isn't at my side. I couldn't decide if I should be offended or flattered by that.
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At over four months since our journey began, we reached Torrhen Square, where I taught more alcohol recipes to House Tallhart to cultivate. The homesickness hits us quite hard this close to Winterfell. However, as much as I missed my family, I know that should we stop home for a visit, we would likely not complete our trip. So instead, I merely had a resupply for our caravan meet us at the Square where I sent the traders and mages that had been with us so far back home in place of a new group of minions. It was the only way for more people to get first-hand experience with Siphons on our journey.
Additionally, I sent all the Singers except Leaf back to Winterfell to be settled in the nearby Wolfswood where they can be protected but comfortable. Internally, I had lamented that I wouldn't be able to see the bewildered looks on everyone's faces when the returning Blizzard caravan shows up with a bunch of Children of the Forest in tow. While I had already seen many such faces on our journey so far, it honestly never got any less hilarious.
The air grew colder and sharper, biting and latching on before sinking into my bones, as we made our way north and west to Deepwood Motte. There the land is rocky and barren, and while I do create some Blessed Fields for the people, investing in large scale agriculture here isn't worth the magic and energy due to the uneven and rocky topography. Instead, I convinced my father to help me negotiate something particularly profitable between House Glover, Mormont, and Umber, three of our most loyal bannermen and their neighboring Houses.
House Glover will become a sanctuary for more whores and orphans across the north since I can't exactly keep all of them in Wintertown. Their seat of Deepwood Motte is a highly defensible fortress that is used to fending off Ironborn or Wildlings raids and will be able to protect my vulnerable and disenfranchised smallfolk while they learn trades as part of Blizzard.
Our next destination after that had been House Mormont, which is being entrusted with the heart of Blizzard Trading Company's future business directive. After some explanation, they happily agreed to raising the strange, fluffy, goat-like unicorns I acquired from Skagos as well as the sheep, goats, and other cattle they already breed. Bear Island, while not entirely barren, is another location not well suited for agriculture, so this will allow House Mormont who has always been rather poor, to finally earn some wealth for themselves, something very important to me considering their endless loyalty to House Stark,
The wool and pelts taken from Bear Island will be sent to Deepwood Motte where my workers will operate as a sort of a production outpost for Blizzard, particularly focused on woven, crocheted, and knitted fabrics as well as lace work targeting the wealthy. Since clothing in this world is usually homemade or tailor made, I intend to take the chance to exploit this market gap and make a fortune by providing ready made clothes to the public. I even took care to send some designs to help industrialize and speed up the process of producing the clothing and fabric for mass production.
House Umber, who will likely be our last stop on the way home, is located at the Last Hearth. They have a surprisingly large bit of land with decent farming prospects due to its proximity to the Gift. They will focus on agriculture, growing some very hardy crops like potatoes, beets, onions, sweet potatoes, zucchini, leafy greens and the like as well as as much fruit as the mages can manage to produce in Blessed Fields. This will be crucial considering how busy the region is going to get and the influx in population there that I'm expecting in the next few years.
The other houses of the region, of which there are many, are assigned appropriate crops to grow, but will mainly provide labor and protection for these three Houses and industries, vital to the future of our people as they are. The Northern mountain clans, or Hillsmen, with their semi-nomadic lifestyle makes it easier for them to go where needed. In return, the profits made by Blizzard are split among them all according to contribution and operation costs.
By the time we reached Bear Island, we had basically sold out of stock again. The preservation boxes and scented soaps and perfumes were especially popular with the various mountain clans we ended up meeting on our journey, most of which had traded beautiful pelts to us instead of gold. We were even outright gifted several as the clansmen competed with one another in generosity, as was their custom.
Taking the opportunity to once more send our mages home and replace them with a fresh batch to accompany yet another restock of goods from Winterfell to meet us, I also requested the order be expanded to five times the size of the original caravan we left home with.
Still, Blizzard won't be making much money yet. Instead, all the coin that has not gone to recouping the material costs and paying our workers is left with the houses of the region as starting capital.
This had been a hard sell with my parents, especially my mother and Maester Luwin who did not like the idea of spending money as fast as we could mow it, but I managed to convince them after a while. If I wanted to build something that will last, something that will ensure long term wealth for the North, I needed to invest heavily in the bones of the operation. House Stark will make very little money from Blizzard in the next few years, but the North will change little by little until it is filled with more wealth than ever before. Such was the renaissance I was aiming for.
"Are you sure, Lord Joer? Lady Cena?" I ask, curious, standing on the shores of the Bay of Ice.
The heads of House Mormont merely smile, hugging both Jorah and Maege goodbye, having escorted us from the island to the shore.
"Take our cubs with you, little priestess," Lord Joer rumbles, smiling. "It is an honor for us Mormons to serve a Stark, especially one blessed by the gods. I ask that you teach them magic and allow them to aid you."
I glance at Bran who technically has the authority here as the primary heir, but my brother just shrugs. "Father has agreed to let them accompany us like Howie. They have been granted permission to foster at Winterfell for a while so that they can study magic."
Lips pursed, I examine Maege, who grins fiercely, the older girl's spiked mace rearing over her shoulder. When I do the same with the heir to House Mormont, Jorah straightens under my gaze, emanating a strong sense of duty about him as he takes his place by my brother. Both bears have a talent for skinchanging from what I can tell, with Maege also seeming to be better with elemental magic than her nephew. While I am definitely willing to have them along and teach them magic, I am growing more concerned for the safety of those following me.
"I fear there will be danger ahead," I admit. "I cannot promise their safety, only that I will do my best to protect them."
The Lord and Lady exchange looks before turning back to me and kneeling, something quickly followed by their men, and mine, the air growing heavy around us. Even Howie has joined them, kneeling by Merwyn and the other mages, something oddly smug about curmudgeony maester. "Lady Magic Bringer, we are loyal Northerners. We are prepared to defend House Stark, even to our last breath. Those of the line of Winter hold our vows of fealty and the North remembers."
I gripp my brother's hand, noting the tight way he grips back, clearly as overwhelmed by the sudden display himself. "Of course, but—"
"My lady," Cena interrupts gently. "You are working to create a better future for us all. You pay with your own blood and magic for it. It is a worthy cause and our duty to aid you however we can."
My protests die behind my teeth. I do not like the idea that they see me as more important than themselves, but I can see the logic behind it. While my hypothetical death would not be enough to stop the ripples in reality created by my existence here, the plans already in place are not enough to male the North thrive nor for the Night King to be defeated.
The mission the gods gave me is too important for me to prioritize others, no matter how I dislike it. So, until I finished it and ensured balance was restored and the souls of the passed free to return to Death, I could not die.
Even if that meant letting others die for me.
"…If you are sure," I acquiesce reluctantly.
I motion everyone up, trying not to show my unease. Lord Joer, burly and bearded with light brown hair and Northern grey eyes, steps closer, setting a gentle hand on Bran's head. "Where do you plan to go next? Home perhaps?"
I smile grimly, taking in the icy, rocky shore of the Bay of Ice where a boat is waiting to take the remaining Mormont men back to Bear Island. "No, my Lord. We go North to the Wall, and beyond."
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Ser Cregan was not pleased.
He snitched on us to our father immediately via raven, but unfortunately for him, while he might be able to physically drag Bran and I back home, the mages are my minions and would not let him, partially out of loyalty to me, but some, like Merwyn, are just interested in the magic to be found.
Father replies with a very angry letter demanding we return that Bran and I pretend not to have read. Instead, we continue on, even as the air grows colder and colder until even Bran, the most cold-tolerant of us all, found it uncomfortable enough to begin using his magic to light fires at every opportunity. Thankfully, though, pain is an excellent motivator, and it only takes Merwyn, Leaf, the mages, and I two weeks to figure out how to rune bits of weirwood to act like space heaters through reverse engineering our freezer boxes and modifying the runes used by Bran the Builder on some northern keeps. I, however, still take to sleeping with Bran, buried under wolves and dragons and furs.
"Alright, deep breath," I coax lowly, and with a ripple, two bears stand hulking before me, one white and the other black. "Huh. A grizzly and a polar bear."
Frostbite snarls, pressing against the front of my body, pushing me back protectively. I grab his ruff, carding my fingers through the stiff fur there. "Easy, boy. They're still friends. Calm."
My direwolf paws at the snow with a lingering growl before stalking forward carefully. The brown grizzly shies away, while the polar bear freezes. "Calm yourselves. He won't hurt you if you don't hurt him."
The bears settle in peace, and Frostbite carefully sniffs at them, circling them in confused curiosity. I grin when he licks the white bear's snout.
Maege, the polar bear, licks him back before lumbering forward to nudge me with her snout, the playful act accidentally laying me out in the snow with an oof. Frostbite growls, but does nothing more than nudge her away from me, only to collapse on top of me heavily. Jorah, the grizzly, makes a huffy growl sound that I distinctly suspect is a laugh at me. I flick him off. Sensing a shadow lurking in the treeline, I tilt my head back as far as it will go against the ground before I push the wolf away, hopping up and dusting myself off, Frostbite coming to haunt my steps now that he is done inspecting the new furballs. I nod to the mages, waving Cregan away when he moves toward me from where he is training with Bran with a sword.
Instead, I duck right behind the treeline where Kurohiko sits curled up tightly, where he has been watching us all training, his body twitching with the inky betrayal of his surprise.
"Hello," I drawl, stuck somewhere between wary and amused by the child's tendency to stalk from afar.
"…Hello, milady," he replies after a full thirty seconds.
I lower myself to lean on the tree next to him, casting my eyes to the sky to keep my gaze from pressuring him, satisfied with his improvement when it comes to talking, even if it comes little by little. These days he can usually reply to things within a minute of being asked, a much better result than the several minutes of silence it took for him to respond when he first appeared. "What are you doing?"
"…Watching."
I tilt my head. "Are you interested in magic?"
This time he takes longer, the boy always struggling with questions that require opinion. "…I…know magic."
"Yes," I agree, eyes flicking to him before I remember myself and avert them again. "I figured."
After all, I had felt the magic he held before I had even seen him. And that collar had been one hell of an enchanted item, forcing a person under the control of another and requiring another's magic beyond that of the wearer to unbind itself. It had been obvious that whoever had enslaved him had specifically guarded against him using magic to free himself.
Honestly, I have been a bit foolish when it comes to this boy. I have taken him in as my own without knowing his story, without being able to see his past. I have felt the danger he poses and ignored it in favor of the emptiness and pain borne by the lost soul in a child's body that looks back at me. It is a decision I made without the usual caution and calculation I strive for, a purely emotional and impulsive act.
But while he is undoubtedly dangerous, I have yet to feel it aimed at me and mine. Instead, I get the feeling that as long as no one tries to harm him first, he is safe enough to be around.
We eat quietly for a while as I consider how to coax him into joining us in the clearing. To my shock, however, Kurohiko decides to voluntarily offer up information about himself for the first time since we met months ago.
"Master taught me magic."
I blink. "What kind?"
"All kinds," he replies simply. "I know magic."
"I see…" I murmur, brows furrowed. "Is magic something you want to keep using?"
"… Want?" he asks slowly, shifting an inch to bore holes in the side of my face more efficiently.
"Yes," I reply patiently. "Whether you use magic from now on or not is your choice. No one has the right to force you to use it or not, or what to use it for. And I will not let anyone try."
"What do you use your magic for?" he asks, abruptly flinching as he realizes he spoke his question aloud, stilling like he is bracing for an attack he dares not dodge.
I breathe out slowly, carefully controlling the grief this child's trauma always gives me.
"…My magic? I guess… I use it to protect my people, to help them prosper."
I shrug. It sounds a more grand and noble reason than it is. I am no saint trying to save all. If anything, I am a possessive, spiteful gremlin that has a quest to complete and the ruthlessness to destroy anything that gets in the way, but I take care of what is mine.
Always.
"Should I use magic to protect?" Kurohiko asks, soft rolling words as careful and hesitant as ever, but not quite as empty as before.
"That depends," I answer, scratching Frostbite's ears, "on if you have something you want to protect."
Dark eyes stare from beneath dark hair for a long moment before the shadows suddenly well up around him, an abyss of nothingness spilling like ink across the world.
My eyes go wide and I jerk back in surprise as reality quivers. Before I can even call out a warning, a cry of alarm for the boy now in my care, he merely turns and takes a deliberate step into the shadow and vanishes, his presence disappearing from the clearing.
I gape. I mean, logically I knew he was a shadow under. He had escaped that way the first time we met, but I had not actually processed it. And since when could they use shadows to travel?
I have so many questions now, like whether my ward comes from Asshai and if I could learn how to do that because it is cool as fuck.
My mind races, but the shriek of dragons up ahead rouses me from my thoughts as my other two bonds arrive in a tangle of wings, tails, and snow. I snicker, amused as Saiya does her best to escape her rambunctious nestmate, Sahaar shrieking in glee as he tries to use his wings to fling lumps of snow at the irritated female who resorts to scrambling behind Frostbite to use the direwolf as a shield.
Sahaar, the ditsy, lovable thing that he is, merely takes the opportunity to bowl both the wolf and the other dragon over. I shake my head and leave them to play, knowing that soon, the dragons will be too big for Frostbite to keep up with.
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"Young Lord and Lady Stark," Lord Commander Meziel Qorgyle greets, a mischievous smile curling his mouth as he bows almost theatrically, his dark eyes glittering beneath the dim torchlight.
Surprisingly, I find myself pleasantly inclined towards liking the Dornishman. The playful aura hiding a streak of ruthless cunning is endearing, and his dark skin and eyes send an almost painful spike of nostalgia through me. I had not realized I had been missing seeing people who looked like those of my own ethnicity from my past lives here in the North, where my own lightly olive skin is already strange against the pale, frostbitten and rosy complexions around me.
"Lord Commander," Bran greets, the two of us giving the man a slight bow and curtsy in return. "We seek a private audience and a bargain."
The man's eyes twinkle like dark tourmalines in interest, his head tilting slightly as he looks at the direwolves padding at our heels, both getting dangerously close to being taller than us, their breath misting faintly in the cold air. "Oh? You've made me most curious!"
Nahsa, Cregan, and the Wall's maester join us in the nearest sitting room of Castle Black, the Dornishman throwing himself into an armchair with lazy confidence, offering us the plush settee opposite him. I remain silent, breathing in the magic-saturated air, my mind barely tethered to the here and now, the ancient magic of the Wall pulsing all the way to the marrow of my bones, distracting me quite thoroughly like a distant, insistent song.
My brother glances at me, but I merely blink slowly at him, burying my fingers in my wolf's thick, coarse scruff. Bran is only twelve, but he is the heir of Winterfell, and a male, both of which carry weight in these negotiations (although I think the Dornishman likely cares less about gender in such matters than anyone else here).
This is as good a time as any for Bran to get some experience, especially with me here coaching him through it, even if only silently.
I manage to pull myself mentally away from examining the runes swirling below and inside the Wall long enough to pay attention to the conversation we came here for.
I grab my brother's clenched hand in one of my own, silently encouraging him. Bran grips back, visibly gathering himself as he sits straighter, clearing his throat. "Have you perhaps heard some things about magic returning to the North?"
Lord Meziel stills briefly and shares a look with his maester before turning back to Bran, seemingly hiding his surprise with a lazy one-armed shrug, though his fingers tap once against the armrest. "We have heard some rumors, but thought nothing of them."
Bran hesitates but steels himself. "They are true. Magic has returned. My sister has received a mission from the gods to return magic to the world."
Lord Meziel doesn't immediately say anything, his aura pulsing with bemused condescension and vague disappointment, his posture loosening as if settling in for a tedious conversation. Clearly, he thinks we're wasting his time, but the maester at his flank has a different reaction—doubt and what feels like the barest speck of hope causing him to shuffle closer, the sounds of his chains faintly clinking betraying him.
Impatience roils within me. Our father will no doubt send men to retrieve us the moment Cregan the Snitch's letter reaches him, so I decide to cut through the bullshit and speed things along. Grasping hold of that second pulse beneath my skin, that silent rhythm echoing the one belonging to the Wall, I raise my hand and spin the icy magic through my veins, ignoring the way the Lord Commander jerks to his feet when my palm begins to glow, pale blue light spilling between my fingers. Ser Cregan lurches forward defensively at the action, hand on sword, but Meziel is too mesmerized to take note, his maester's sharp gasp the only thing to break the resounding silence.
Shadows seem to pool darkly in the tense atmosphere, stretching long along the stone walls, but I ignore the spectacle the watchmen are making of themselves in their shock, weaving the ice into a scorpion sculpture, letting the light of my magic refract and glitter off it like fractured crystal. I raise the symbol of House Qorgyle out to the Lord Commander, third son of his
House, quickly losing patience and growing tired of holding my hand up when I receive only wide eyes in return.
I huff and pass the ice sculpture to Bran instead, my attention drifting to the thrumming aether of the Wall against my senses once more, a drumming heartbeat that carries me off in its ancient music.
"How interesting," Lord Meziel states after a moment, slipping back into his playful mask, the darkness of the room receding with the easing tension as our guardian knight releases his sword hilt warily. Bran gives the scorpion to the Dornishman, who takes it this time and inspects it with a smile like the bared fangs of a predator, turning it slightly so it catches the light. "What bargain do you have for me, young lord?"
And into the trap they stumble, I note internally as I force my attention to the maester, the bigger obstacle for us today.
"House Stark will help the Watchmen of the Wall gain access to magic. In return, you shall make sure to keep your men from spreading word of it south and allow us to go beyond the Wall and bring whatever we want back," Bran says bluntly, and I flick my eyes over my brother, wondering if I should work on his negotiation skills with him further before deciding that, as a Northerner, it is probably fine if he is straightforward in his dealings. My brother tilts his head to the maester trying to sink inconspicuously into the background, the faint clink of his chain betraying him. "That silence includes you, Maester Aemond Targaryen."
Eh, instead I should work on his subtle threats, I decide, watching the way the maester stiffens almost imperceptibly.
The Dornish lord hums, reminding me of a large cat that has spotted prey, his voice turning silky as he leans forward slightly in his chair.
"You don't really have the power to be demanding our silence, little lordling. In fact, it seems like you need our cooperation far more than we need yours."
I kick my legs back and forth a bit as I glance at my stiff brother, curious to see how Bran will handle someone counterattacking. To my pride and delight, he only falters for a moment before he straightens his spine, shoulders squaring, his body language firm and defiant.
"No. We want your silence because it's convenient. But you need our magic to keep your people alive," Bran announces sharply as he wraps a hand around mine, gripping tightly to ground himself rather than trying to comfort me despite what it may look like from the outside. I squeeze his hand back encouragingly, a fierce pride for him making my eyes burn for a moment.
Meziel scoffs, the sound sharp in the enclosed space. "We Crows have guarded the Wall from wildlings for millennia without magic. We did not need it before and we do not need it now."
It's my turn to scoff, unable to refrain from interceding with the conversation for the first time, my voice cutting cleanly through the room. "The Wall was not meant to guard against mere wildlings. If you have forgotten the original duty of those that guard the Wall, ask your maester."
The former prince startles, his hands that had been wringing themselves in contemplation pausing mid-motion. "Surely, my lady, you don't mean—"
I give him a look so pointed that the maester's jaw shuts instantly, the sound of his teeth clicking together harsh enough for me to hear it in the quiet room. Meziel narrows his eyes at the jab, his gregarious mask cracking for just a second before snapping back into place. "Do you mean to tell me that White Walkers are real? That these monsters of myth and legend from millennia ago pose a threat to my men?"
I raise my eyebrows, smiling mockingly. Ordinarily, convincing people of impossible things, bringing chaos as I turn people's perceptions of the world upside down, is something that I would revel in. But with the magic tugging at my every stray thought, the sensation of power calling me in silent whispers, beckoning me to some place far beyond here, I find myself lacking my typical patience.
"Myth and legend, like direwolves, magic, and hmmm… dragons?" I snark, saccharine sweet, grasping my warg bond, feeling it snap taut like a drawn bowstring. The roaring shriek from outside is accompanied by a wild howl from the black beast at my feet, the sound reverberating through the stone. It is soon followed by Bran's wolf's song and panicked yells of alarm from men beyond the door.
The Lord Commander jerks, striding hurriedly to the door and out into the wall-walk, open to the sky, his cloak snapping behind him in the wind. "Mother Rhoyne!"
I saunter out behind the two Crows, snorting when I catch sight of Sahara and Saiya circling above us, their wings cutting broad arcs through the pale sky.
Aemond makes a soft, almost wounded sound, swaying dangerously for a second, and the sheer joy and awe tinged with grief softens my heart to him as he stares upward. I whistle sharply and my dragons dive, their descent a blur of motion, scrambling over the castle rampart and sending the nearby patrolling watchmen scattering in alarm, including Meziel. Only Asmond remains still and uptight as they skid to a stop at my feet, perhaps his Targaryen blood showing itself. My bonded creatures settled in place between Bloodbringer and Frostbite, the two direwolves nudging the dragons in greeting, tails flicking, as they stand at attention.
To his credit, Meziel recovers after only seconds, rising from his defensive crouch and sauntering over like he hadn't just been literally knocked on his ass, examining the dragons, who are the size of large sheets now with interest but at a healthy distance, his eyes sharp and calculating. "…Alright, but this does not mean White Walkers are real, or a threat."
I huff, but a wicked grin begins to curl my mouth. I catch my brother's eyes and instantly, he mirrors it, the expression perhaps the only feature we both share inherited from our mother. "A bet then, Lord Commander Meziel Qorgyle."
"A bet?" The Lord Crow asks in barely concealed curiosity, his gaze fixed on me, sharp and searching, but I remain silent, nudging Bran lightly to retake control of the conversation.
"Come with us on our trip beyond the Wall," Bran demands with all the feral energy of someone willing to defy gravity, fate, or the gods themselves, his voice ringing clear in the cold air. "We will prove the threat is not the wildlings. If we do, you must agree to our terms."
I nod, thoroughly pleased. My eldest brother has cleverly seen the same opportunity I had and seized it without hesitation. On top of that, the wording he'd used was broad enough to exploit in our favor, though I am unsure if Bran intended it to be so.
Lord Meziel examines us for a long moment, the wind tugging at his dark hair and cloak, before his playful smirk reappears, slow and deliberate. "I have never turned down a gamble, but what do I get out of this should I prove you wrong?"
"What do you want?" Bran asks, crossing his arms, chin lifting slightly.
The Lord Commander crosses his own arms in a mocking mirror, smirking sharply as he stares down at us, just condescendingly enough to spark my annoyance. "If you can't prove to me that there is a threat beyond the Wall far more dangerous than wildlings, then you will teach me your magic free of cost," he begins, and I tilt my head in hidden pleasure because having the Black Brothers at the Wall learn magic to defend against the Others was in my plans regardless, but what he says next is enough to make my annoyance spike once more. "—and this little priestess will marry into a House of my choice."
Bran explodes, enraged, his maturity and self-control abruptly running out, and it's only Cregan literally lifting him off his feet that keeps him from charging right at the Lord Commander, but the knight's jaw is clenched in his own indignant fury, muscles taut beneath his armor. Nahsa, who had been at my flank, slides carefully in front of me, arm curled around my shoulders in a protective half-embrace, her eyes already flicking about to categorize our exits and threats, but I only sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
I had—no, to say I had forgotten would be inaccurate—but perhaps not quite registered the implications of Meziel Qorgyle being the man we were dealing with. House Qorgyle is a strong, influential House, Meziel having come to the Wall seeking his own path because the third son was highly unlikely to inherit anything. However, despite the vow taken by the men who join the Night's Watch, which essentially renounces any titles and allegiances beyond that of the order, this man was still, no doubt, loyal to his House as much as he could be in his capacity as Lord Commander.
I contemplate his specific wording. He asked to determine which House I marry into, not that I marry into House Qorgyle. House Qorgyle had just begun fostering Prince Oberon Martell. Handing me over to House Martell would likely secure their favor in a particularly spectacular way.
Honestly, I am rather impressed by the man's quick and brilliant political maneuvering.
"The lady cannot decide her own marriage—" Ser Cregan begins, voice icy and tight with barely suppressed anger, readjusting his hold on my cursing, squirming brother.
"—But I most likely have the influence to convince my father," I interrupt, even and honest, my tone cutting cleanly through his protest.
"Wha—Luna!" Bran yelps, finally escaping Cregan only to grasp my arm, his fingers digging in, eyes blazing with a mix of anger and disbelief. "You—"
"I do not lose bets, brother," I reply with a tone that is part boredom, part amusement, lifting a brow slightly. "Did you forget who I am?"
Bran stills, searching my face. "Are you sure?"
I hum, nodding once, calm and unbothered. I pat his arms, and when he reluctantly steps away, I turn to Ser Cregan, silencing his incoming protest with only a look so devastatingly heavy I'm sure he can feel it in his bones.
When I look to the Lord Commander, he's watching the byplay with a level of fascination that says he's clearly reevaluating just what manner of creature disguised as a little girl has paid him a visit.
I think he might actually be growing on me.
I smirk, letting the heat of dragon scales and wolf fur ground me to the present as my bonds press to my sides, solid and reassuring. W "Should we fail to show you the danger we speak of, I will ensure your men with the gift are taught magic and do my best to enter whatever marriage you decide. If we do manage to convince you, you will keep your silence, allow us to do and bring whatever we want from beyond the Wall, and you will comply with our demands regarding the threat of White Walkers. Are these terms satisfactory to you? Do you swear to comply with them?"
"They are, and I do," Meziel purrs, the words rolling smoothly off his tongue, though his eyes remain sharp. This, however, is where he makes his first mistake of the negotiation thus far by missing the trepidation and caution in his maester's face as Aemond goes to grip his arm, too late to stop him.
"As do I," I announce, words dripping in magic, glee curling my mouth into something that no doubt comes off mildly sinister, if the way the Lord Commander falters is any indication. Raw magic flares, near blinding in its invisible intensity. When a boom of thunder follows the moment after my agreement, the sound deafening enough that several people scream and flinch, ducking and covering their heads like they feel the sky itself is falling, I can't help but laugh.
Meziel, frozen with his hands involuntarily shielding his head, stares. I just grin wider. "The gods have borne witness. I'd be very, very careful about reneging on this oath, if I were you. Come. Something calls from beyond the Wall."
With a sharp whistle, my dragons leap and dive off the edge of the Wall, wings snapping open as they catch the air, and I saunter past the stunned still Aemond and Meziel, my people at my back, the cold wind rushing up to meet us.
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AN: This chapter took me forever! So much research, but I do enjoy it. And, we finally got to the damn wall where I'll be able to write the scene that has lived rent feee in my head since I started this fic.
Meziel is an icon who I will def enjoy writing and we see many of Luna's long term companions show up.
What are your thoughts, my dear readers? What would you like to see? Let me know with a comment! Thank you guys so much for your patience and for reading! 💙