The Riverlands were dying. Not in the fire and blood Arya Stark had seen consume them before, but in a slow, creeping silence, a chilling surrender to the unnatural frost that now seemed to coat every branch, every stone, every blade of withered grass. Winter had always been harsh here, but this was different. This was a cold that felt malevolent, purposeful. The air itself was thin, biting, carrying no birdsong, no animal calls, only the whisper of a wind that promised deeper ice to come.
Arya pulled her worn cloak tighter, her breath pluming before her, a fleeting white ghost in the grey afternoon. Beside her, Sandor Clegane trudged onward, his heavy boots crunching on the frost-covered ground, his gaze constantly scanning the skeletal trees lining the deserted track they followed. They hadn't seen another living soul since escaping the Wolfswood, only abandoned farmsteads and villages standing silent as tombs.
They rounded a bend where the track met a crossroads, marked by a weathered wooden signpost pointing towards settlements that likely no longer held any warmth. And there they were. Her first sight of them since Winterfell.
Five figures stood motionless by the signpost. Villagers, by their roughspun clothes and worn boots. A farmer, perhaps, his wife, a boy barely older than Arya had been when she first fled King's Landing. They weren't dead, not rotting wights clawing their way forward. They simply *stood*, perfectly still, facing the road, their eyes fixed on the distance with that same horrifying, vacant blue stare. Frost glittered on their eyelashes, on the rough fabric of their clothes. They were sentinels of the new order, guardians of silence.
Arya stopped dead, Needle suddenly heavy in her hand. A wave of nausea washed over her, cold and sharp. It wasn't just the memory of Jon, of Sansa, of the faces in Winterfell. It was the sheer *wrongness* of it. Life, stolen not by death, but by… this. This utter negation. They were puppets whose strings had been cut, left standing in their final pose.
"Keep moving," the Hound growled, not stopping, his hand briefly touching her shoulder, urging her forward. "Don't look. They ain't seen us."
He was right. The figures remained fixed, their gaze directed down the road, not towards the woods where Arya and the Hound skirted the edge. They weren't searching, merely… present. Occupying the space. A testament to the Night King's reach.
"What are they?" Arya whispered, forcing herself to move, to follow Clegane's path deeper into the trees, parallel to the road.
"Servants," the Hound grunted. "New ones. Quieter than the last lot. Keep your voice down and your feet light."
His pragmatism was a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. He saw them not as people stolen, but as obstacles, threats to be avoided. It was the only way to survive this.
***
The air in Pentos was thick with the scent of spices, salt, and unfamiliar blossoms, a world away from the encroaching ice of Westeros. Tyrion Lannister drew a deep breath, the warmth almost dizzying after the chill of the sea voyage and the deeper chill of memory. The city bustled around them, a vibrant chaos of merchants hawking wares, richly dressed Magisters carried in litters, and the general, oblivious hum of life carrying on.
They stood in the opulent receiving chamber of Magister Illyrio Mopatis, a man whose wealth was matched only by his girth and his appetite for intrigue. Varys had secured the audience through old connections, hoping Illyrio's influence might be a starting point.
"...and so, Magister," Tyrion concluded, swirling the sweet Pentoshi wine in his goblet, his voice carefully measured despite the urgency clawing at him, "the threat is not merely to Westeros. The Night King commands a power unlike anything seen in millennia. He doesn't just conquer; he transforms. He seeks not dominion, but silence. An unending winter for all mankind."
Illyrio Mopatis chuckled, a low rumble in his massive chest. He adjusted the silk cushions supporting his bulk. "My dear Lord Tyrion, your tales are… dramatic. Winter, yes, a harsh one by all accounts. And this Night King, a fearsome barbarian, no doubt. Westeros has always been a land of savage conflicts. But an army that raises the dead? A magic that freezes the will? Forgive me, but these sound like tavern stories, spun to frighten children."
Varys stepped forward, his expression smooth, betraying none of his frustration. "Magister, I assure you, we saw this with our own eyes. The greatest armies of Westeros, the dragons themselves, were overwhelmed. This is not hyperbole. It is the apocalypse arrived."
Illyrio waved a dismissive hand, adorned with heavy rings. "Apocalypse is bad for trade, my Lord Varys. Pentos thrives on stability. While I sympathize with the… turmoil… in the Seven Kingdoms, Essos has its own concerns. Perhaps," he added, his eyes gleaming shrewdly, "your Queen Daenerys, had she been wiser, might have secured her throne before engaging in northern myths."
Tyrion felt a surge of anger, quickly suppressed. Arguing was pointless. They were survivors of a shipwreck washing ashore, telling tales of a kraken to people who had never seen a storm. Disbelief was the shield of the untouched.
"We thank you for your hospitality, Magister," Varys said smoothly, bowing slightly. "We shall trouble you no further with our Westerosi woes."
Outside, under the warm Pentoshi sun, Tyrion drained his goblet. "Well, that was predictable."
"Indeed," Varys murmured, his eyes scanning the bustling street. "Ignorance is a comforting shroud, until the cold seeps through. But it confirms our course. We cannot rely on the powers of Essos. We must rely on ourselves. I have already begun reaching out, Lord Tyrion. Whispers travel faster than ships. We need reliable word from Westeros, news of the frost's advance, news of any other… survivors."
Tyrion nodded grimly. "Whispers. Secrets. Back to the game we know best, then. Only this time, the fate of the world truly is at stake."
***
Back at the desolate crossroads in the Riverlands, Arya forced her gaze away from the silent sentinels. They were nearly past them, hidden by the treeline. But then, something caught her eye. Dangling from the belt of the frozen farmer boy, tied with a crude leather thong, was a small, carved wooden wolf. It was clumsily made, but unmistakable. Just like the one she had carved for Lommy Greenhands, all that time ago, before Harrenhal, before everything.
Her breath hitched. Lommy. Had he somehow survived? Had he come back here? Or was it just… a coincidence? A random trinket on a boy transformed by the cold?
The image slammed into her: Lommy, terrified, clutching his leg after the fight at the lake. Yoren falling. Gendry. Hot Pie. Running. Always running.
She stopped, frozen as surely as the figures by the road, the past rising up like a physical blow. The cold wasn't just outside anymore; it was clawing its way inside her.
"Arya!" The Hound's harsh whisper cut through the fog. He grabbed her arm again, harder this time. "Move! Now! What in seven hells is wrong with you?"
He didn't wait for an answer, practically dragging her deeper into the woods, away from the crossroads, away from the silent figures and the ghost of a small wooden wolf dangling in the icy air.