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The wind howled through the broken windows of Maegor's Holdfast, though the panes had been repaired a dozen times. Storms had a way of clawing at stone in King's Landing, tearing shutters from hinges, rattling the Red Keep's bones as if eager to find what secrets they hid. Bran Stark sat in a high chamber that had once been the council room of the smallfolk's king, the Painted Table spread before him now marred with scratches and ink-stains. His pale hands rested on the wood, though his eyes were far away.
The boy who had once been called cripple and crow stared into the flames of a brazier that hissed each time rain spat through the shutter-gaps. His face was thinner than the courtiers remembered, and his eyes darker. Those who dared whisper spoke of dreams that bled into waking, of ravens that came to his window without bell or chain, as if summoned by his will alone.
Samwell Tarly hovered near, clutching a sheaf of parchment close to his chest as though words might shield him from the weight of what was being said.
"You saw it again," Sam murmured. He did not ask. He had learned that Bran's silences were answers enough.
Bran nodded. "The same shadow. The same fire. The same voices." His words came slow, each one dragged like a stone across frozen ground. "Valyria remembers us, Sam. It is not dead."
Sam's mouth opened, then closed. He was a man of books, of ink and dusty vellum, yet even the Citadel had never spoken of Valyria's memory being anything more than ruins. "But… the Doom," he tried, weakly. "The earth swallowed it. Fire consumed—"
"Fire does not consume fire." Bran's eyes shifted toward him, and Sam felt for a moment as though he were naked before them, every cowardly thought and trembling fear laid bare.
The king's chamber was thick with silence. Rain beat the stones. Far below, the city muttered with the unrest that never truly left it: cries from the Mud Gate, the braying of mules, the clamor of sellswords drinking their coin.
Tyrion Lannister broke it at last. "What you saw, Your Grace, might be the remnants of bad wine and worse cheese. Dreams make liars of us all." He leaned back in his chair, cup in hand, though his mismatched eyes were sharp. "A shadow of Valyria? A child of dragons returned? Convenient words for those who wish to rattle a realm into war again."
Bran regarded him coolly. "You do not believe me."
"I have spent my life believing in many things that proved unwise." Tyrion drank, and the wine traced a red stain down his beard. "Gods, kings, women's promises. Dreams rank somewhere above prophecies but well below crossbows."
Sam fumbled the parchment he clutched. "But we must send word. At least to the North. Lord Jon must—"
"Lord Jon," Tyrion interrupted, dry as sand, "is Lord Commander of a ruined wall and a splintered order. What would you have him do, Tarly? Ride south with a hundred scarecrows in black and frighten the shadows back to the sea?"
Sam reddened but pressed on. "He is—he was—a Stark, and your brother, Your Grace. He will listen where lords may not."
Bran's gaze returned to the brazier, to the restless flames. The boy-king's voice was quiet. "Jon must know. He will believe. The rest may come in time."
Tyrion sighed. "So be it. But let us not fill the raven's wings with too much doom and fire. Men have little appetite for omens when winter still gnaws their bellies." He looked sharply at Sam. "Write it soft. Strange ships on the eastern seas, fishermen vanished, sails black as night. That will keep him awake without convincing him you've gone mad."
Bran's head tilted, as if listening to words spoken not in this room but some other, far away. "Madness… or truth." His voice was distant, almost not his own. "The fire watches, and the fire remembers."
A shiver ran down Sam's spine. He dipped quill into ink, though his hands shook.
The Raven Intercepted
The letter was written before nightfall, sealed with the direwolf's head of House Stark, though few recognized its authority now beyond Winterfell's loyal men. The raven took wing from the Red Keep's rookery as dusk set the city aflame with lanterns.
It did not fly far.
Across the city, beneath the shadow of Flea Bottom's crooked roofs, a boy with soot-stained hands loosed a hawk from his wrist. The bird struck swift, feathers exploding in the moonlight as the raven cried once and went limp.
The boy brought the corpse to his master before midnight.
The bastard Frey examined the letter by guttering candlelight in a chamber heavy with mildew. He was not handsome, nor noble in bearing, though he bore the wide mouth and pale eyes of his bloodline. His knife flicked open the seal with care.
Jon Snow… Valyria stirs… blood will burn.
The bastard smiled.
"So the cripple dreams of fire," he said. "Good. Let him dream. Dreams will not save them when the river runs red again."
The Weirwood's Warning
That night, Bran dreamed again.
He stood before a weirwood tree, though its face was half-burned, its eyes leaking smoke instead of sap. Around it, the land was ash.
A voice rose from the smoke: The sea is not the sea. The dragon is not the dragon. Blood is not blood.
He turned, and saw the Wall crumble stone by stone into black water. Upon the waves sailed ships with sails like wings, glowing faint with fire, and from their prows came shadows that walked as men.
"Jon," Bran whispered into the dream. "Jon, hear me."
The shadows turned their heads. They had no faces, yet Bran felt them seeing him, seeing through him, as though his gaze were not his alone but a door left ajar.
He woke gasping, sweat freezing on his brow, the brazier's coals burned cold.
Sam was gone. Tyrion snored in the adjoining chamber, dreaming of wine.
Bran alone sat with the knowledge that his raven had never reached the Wall.
And far below, in the gutters of King's Landing, the bastard Frey sent a rider west with the stolen letter.
The sea mist never left Eastwatch. It clung to stone and steel alike, beading in the beards of the watchmen until their faces shone with ghostly dew. The chill there was different than atop the Wall — not the dry bite of endless snow, but the damp gnaw of salt air that sank deep into bone. Jon Snow stood upon the outer battlements, cloak snapping about him, eyes fixed on a horizon that refused to be empty.
Ghost padded at his side, silent as the mist itself. The direwolf's fur was ruffled, pale against the black stones. His red eyes flicked ceaselessly east, ears pricking at sounds Jon could not hear.
"They will not come tonight," Cotter Pyke said behind him, his voice a rasp like gravel dragged across iron. The commander of Eastwatch spat into the sea. "Not unless they fancy their sails burned again."
Jon's jaw tightened. He had seen the wrecks hauled ashore, timbers blackened and warped as though they had burned beneath the sea. No tar, no pitch, no torch. The sailors who had found them spoke of fire beneath the waves.
"They are not ours," Jon said at last.
"No," Pyke agreed, hawking into the mist. "Nor are they Braavosi. Nor Pentoshi. Nor any damned Free City I've ever traded coin with. Sails black as midnight, stitched with sigils I do not know." He glanced at Jon with eyes hard as flint. "Tell me plain, Lord Snow — are these the dead come again, or something worse?"
Jon had no answer. Ghost growled low, the sound carrying across the stones like a warning drum.
The Letter Not Received
That night, Jon sat by the fire in Eastwatch's hall, quill in hand, ink bleeding slowly into parchment. He wrote to Winterfell, to Sansa, to Bran — letters heavy with questions and fears. He paused often, staring into the flames.
Something stirs in the sea. Not the dead, not as we have known them. But ships with sails of black. Men who do not burn yet leave fire in their wake. Ghost will not rest. Nor can I.
He did not know that a raven had already flown south from King's Landing, its wings clipped before it ever reached him. He did not know that his brother's warning had been stolen, folded into a Frey bastard's pouch.
All he knew was that Ghost stared ever eastward, teeth bared at shadows in the mist.
The Burned Ship
At dawn, a cry went up from the shore. Jon rode with Pyke and a clutch of brothers down to the surf, Ghost loping at his stirrup. There, half-sunk upon the strand, lay a ship unlike any Jon had seen.
Its hull was scorched black, as though forged in fire and dragged smoking across the sea. The sails hung in tatters, charred at the edges, but he could still make out the faint stitching of wings — dragon wings — spread wide across the canvas.
A smell clung to it: not pitch, not salt, but something acrid and metallic, like blood left too long in the sun.
"Seven save us," muttered Yarwyck, crossing himself.
"Not seven," Pyke spat. "Not any god I know."
Jon dismounted, boots sinking into wet sand. He touched the wood of the hull. It was warm. Too warm.
Ghost whined low, hackles bristling. His nose pressed against the boards, then snapped back with a snarl.
"Something lives here," Jon murmured.
As if in answer, a sound rose from the shattered cabin. Not quite a groan, not quite a whisper, but something between — words choked in a tongue Jon did not know.
They dragged the figure from the wreckage before nightfall.
The Stranger
He was no man Jon had seen before. His skin bore a strange sheen, pale as moonstone, yet marred by black streaks that seemed burned into the flesh. His hair was silver-white, though matted with blood and salt. His eyes flickered open only once, and in them Jon thought he glimpsed not madness, but memory — as though the man had lived a hundred deaths and still was dying.
When they questioned him, he spoke in gasps of Valyrian, words broken and stuttering. Samwell might have made sense of them, but Sam was not here. Jon only caught fragments:
"Dream… flame… return…"
Then the man coughed black water, and was still.
They burned his body before the tide rose. The flames hissed on his flesh, spitting sparks into the sea. Ghost howled, the sound long and mournful, carrying eastward into the mist.
Jon watched until the last ember died. His hand rested on Longclaw's pommel, though the steel gave no comfort.
Dreams of the Sea
That night, Jon dreamed.
He walked the halls of Winterfell, though the stones dripped with saltwater. Torches sputtered and hissed, drowned flames casting shadows across walls slick with barnacle and weed.
From the great hall came a sound like wings beating, though no bird had ever flown there. He pushed open the doors.
On the dais sat not Sansa, not Bran, but a throne of black stone, slick with brine. Upon it sat a figure cloaked in flame, face hidden, eyes burning like coals.
"You left the Wall," it said in a voice that was not a voice. "You left the gate. The sea remembers."
Jon woke with a start, hand clutching Longclaw, Ghost's muzzle pressed cold against his cheek.
Outside, the waves beat relentless against Eastwatch's walls.
The First Emissary
Two days later, the horns sounded.
A ship drifted out of the morning mist, sails furled, prow carved in the likeness of a dragon's head. It made no sound but the slap of waves against its hull. No oars moved it, no wind drove it, yet it came on steady, unhurried, certain.
Jon and Pyke stood upon the shore as it grounded itself in the sand, timbers creaking like bones.
A single figure stepped down.
He was tall, pale, silver-haired, cloaked in a fabric that shimmered like fire seen through smoke. His eyes, when he lifted them, were the color of molten gold.
He bowed low, a gesture more courtly than martial.
"In the tongue of old Valyria," he said, voice smooth as silk drawn across steel, "I come as envoy. The sea rises. The fire remembers. And the blood of dragons calls its kin."
Jon said nothing. Ghost bared his teeth.
The stranger smiled.
And with that smile, Jon felt the weight of doom heavier than any winter.
The Twins had never smelled sweet. Even in high summer, the stench of stagnant water clung to the stones, mingled with the rank of horses, grease, and too many men breathing the same air. But on this night, beneath banners stitched with twin towers, the stench was richer still — roasted boar fat dripping into fire, spiced wine flowing thick, and the musk of ambition sweating through silks.
Ryman Rivers, called the Bastard of the Crossing, sat at the high table though no true lordship had ever crowned him. He wore Frey blue with a silver chain about his throat, though his smile was meaner than any Frey smile had right to be. His eyes glittered as he fingered the letter tucked into his doublet, its wax seal broken, its words still stinking of raven's ink.
Winter is stirring. The sea burns. Come south.
Bran Stark's words. Words meant for Jon Snow. Words that would never see him.
The Poison Quill
"Read it again," muttered Edwyn Frey beside him, already red-faced from drink. "I like how it sounds."
Ryman smirked, drawing the letter half an inch from his breast before tucking it back. "It sounds like a boy's fear, nursed in his tower. A cripple dreaming storms. But words can be sharper than swords, cousin. In the right ears, they cut."
He raised his goblet, signaling for more wine. A serving girl hurried to pour. Ryman caught her wrist before she withdrew, pinching hard enough to make her wince. "Leave the jug," he said, not unkindly but with the weight of command. She left it, curtsied, fled.
Edwyn belched. "And whose ears will you cut with that cripple's scratching?"
Ryman leaned close, his whisper lost in the din of fiddlers and the stamping of boots. "A Stark boy whimpering of doom? That is coin. To Lannisters, to Tyrells, to any who fear the North will rise again. A letter like this could put the Bastard of the Crossing at tables where kings sup."
Edwyn stared, half-drunk and half-afraid. "You'd sell a boy's warning for bread and wine?"
"I'd sell my own father's bones for a lordship," Ryman said with a smile. "Why not a cripple's dream?"
The Feast Turns Bitter
The hall grew louder as cups drained and trenchers emptied. Minstrels sang of love and loss, though none here listened. The Freys laughed too hard, drank too deep, quarreled too quick.
Ryman slipped from the dais and made his way among the tables, pausing to clap shoulders, murmur promises, plant whispers. His bastard's birth had barred him from much, but not from the games of tongues and secrets. He had learned long ago that power came not from swords, but from knowing which words to let fly and which to cage.
A hedge knight leaned in close, voice slurred with ale. "They say the boy Bran Stark dreams true. That he saw the Kingslayer dead before he fell."
Ryman feigned surprise. "Do you believe such fancies?"
The knight shrugged, nervous. "I believe gold. And if others believe, there's coin to be made."
"Aye," Ryman murmured, slipping a hand over the letter in his breast. "Coin indeed."
By the time the moon stood high, the hall was thick with rumor. Some swore the crippled Stark saw dragons in the east. Others whispered of fire upon the sea, of a snow-king marching south, of ravens bleeding ink. The letter had not been read aloud, yet somehow its words already crawled from tongue to tongue.
The Debate of Lords
Far south in King's Landing, Bran's warning reached not Jon, but a council chamber heavy with smoke.
The letter had been copied — clumsily, for Ryman's quill scratched more greedily than carefully — and sent beneath false seals to lords eager for advantage. Now it lay upon a table where Tyrion Lannister sat, one hand cupped around his wine, the other drumming upon oak.
"Another Stark dream," he said dryly, "and we are to tremble like children in the dark?"
Lord Gyles Rosby wheezed through his cough. "If it be true—"
"If." Tyrion cut him off. "If dragons rise from the sea. If dead men sail ships. If crippled boys can see the morrow as clear as the morn. If, if, if. Westeros has bled enough for other men's ifs."
But Lord Manderly, white-haired and broad as a bear, rumbled low. "Dream or no, the sea does stir. My ships found wreckage, black and burned, with markings no man knew. My men mutter of fire beneath the waves."
"A sailor's tale," sneered Ser Hobber Redwyne.
"Perhaps," Manderly said, eyes steady. "But I would sooner heed a tale than choke on its truth unready."
The chamber muttered, some scoffing, others frowning. In the shadows, a raven shifted in its cage, feathers black as ink.
Tyrion sipped his wine, but his thoughts raced faster than his tongue. If the boy dreams true, if Valyria stirs, if Snow marches south… He glanced at the letter again, unease coiling cold in his gut.
The Bastard's Smile
Back at the Twins, Ryman Rivers sat alone in his chamber, candle guttering low. The hall below still echoed with drunken song, but here was quiet.
He spread Bran's letter upon the table, tracing the words with a calloused finger. "Dreams, boy," he murmured. "Dreams are for cripples. But power… power is for bastards."
He dipped his quill in ink, and began to copy again.
Not for truth. Not for warning.
But for poison.
For rumor sharpened was deadlier than any blade.
And Ryman meant to cut deep.