A low fire crackled in the Sept of Baelor. Thoros of Myr knelt alone before the brazier, the heat a living thing against his skin, beading sweat on his bald head. The air was thick with the scent of ash and spiced oil, a familiar, clinging tang of smoke woven into his red robes.
The wine of the night before had long since soured in his belly, a cheap comfort that couldn't quiet the relentless fire in his dreams. It had followed him even into waking—the pull of something he can't comprehend, something that was demanding his attention with urgency. He had earned his priesthood but had never been overly pious due to his tastes for fighting, drinking, and women. And has never had much success with seeing visions in dreams or flames but seeing a half-dreams of fire in sleep pressured him into solace. Now, as he stared into the brazier of the Seven, the only place he could find both fire and peace as fast as possible, where flames writhed and shifted.
A face formed within the blaze. It was not clear, not full, but enough to remember. A shadow of a boy, his eyes haunted, his hair like raven wings. A great white wolf, its coat like snow, stalked at his side. In his hands, a blade gleamed, long and slender, burning red as if it was the forge by the dragon fire itself.
Thoros focused, detailing the sight into his brain to remember. "Lord of Light… who is he? Why do you show me this one?"
The reply was the roaring of fire, the shape of the man fading, then returning, again and again, as if demanding to be seen. As if commanding him something.
He bowed low, his forehead nearly touching the licking flames. "I obey."
By dawn, Thoros was gone from King's Landing, a wineskin and a sheathed sword his only companions as he rode north. Toward the Neck, toward the stranger his god had chosen.
Jon Snow rode the muddy roads south, Ghost padding silently at his side, his ears pricked for the subtlest sound. The Gift lay far behind now, and the land grew softer, the air damp and heavy with the smell of forests and stagnant pools. The Neck loomed far ahead, a land of reeds and bogs that he had heard of but never seen.
His mind was a blur of a single thought: how to pass unseen, how to gather the strength for what must come. But the quiet stillness of the swamp was suddenly and violently broken by a woman's scream.
Then came the barking.
Savage, baying hounds, their voices carrying over the rustling rushes. Jon spurred his horse at once, Ghost darting ahead. The cries grew louder, sharper, until at last he burst through a clutch of willow trees and into a small clearing.
What he saw struck him with a hammer-blow of memory.
Riders in the colors of House Bolton. Men in mail, some laughing, some shouting, their spears leveled as they pursued their target. And at their head—his bastard's sneer, his pale eyes alight with cruel, unholy delight—Ramsay Snow.
Jon had thought the Bastard of Bolton far behind him, a nightmare buried in the ashes of another life. Yet here he was, as real as the mud beneath his boots.
Ahead of them, a woman ran, stumbling, her skirts torn and her breath ragged. Three hounds snapped at her heels, slavering, their tongues lolling.
Jon did not think. He simply reacted.
"Ghost!" he roared.
The direwolf leapt, a white shadow streaking into the fray. His jaws closed on the throat of the nearest hound, dragging it screaming to the ground.
Jon slid from his saddle, his hands tearing at the oiled wrappings on his bundle. The cloth fell away, and for the first time since Aemon's chamber, Dark Sister gleamed in the light. Slender, ancient, its Valyrian steel caught the sun with a dark shimmer, as though hungry for blood after years of slumber.
The Bolton men wheeled toward him, curses rising on their lips.
Jon advanced, his breath steady, the weight of destiny settling in his grip. The first man charged, a roar in his throat. Dark Sister sang, swift as the wind and light as snowflake—Jon's cut slipped past the man's shield, across his throat, and the rider fell, spraying crimson on the rushes. Ghost tore another man from his saddle, his white fur streaked with gore.
Jon pressed forward, every stroke clean, merciless. He was no longer the man who hesitated towards enemies who begged for mercy. The words of the gods seemed to ring in his ears: Mercy without steel is weakness.
Another rider fell. Ans another hound shrieked as Ghost's fangs broke its bone.
Ramsay Snow reined in his horse, his pale eyes narrowing as he finally recognized his foe. The smirk on his face widened, a grotesque mockery of a smile.
"Snow," he drawled, his voice cutting through the din. "I remember you joining the night's watch, thought the Wall had swallowed you whole. What a gift, finding you here. The gods send me bastards to hunt."
Jon said nothing. His grip tightened on Dark Sister, its blade catching a red gleam as though the sword itself remembered the wars and horrors it had seen.
The woman stumbled to a halt behind him, clutching her torn skirts, her eyes wide with a terrifying mix of terror and hope.
Ghost growled, a low and savage sound, his eyes fixed on Ramsay.
Jon raised Dark Sister.
"Then let us see," he said coldly, his voice as sharp as the sword's edge, "which bastard the gods favor."