The frost did not lift with the sun.
It lingered in the corners of Greyhaven—along the inner walls, beneath the eaves, in the narrow alleys where the light struggled to reach. Men stamped their boots in the yard, breath rising in pale clouds, hands stiff around spear shafts worn smooth by other winters.
Rowan Halwain stood apart from them.
He leaned against the stone parapet overlooking the lower town, cloak open despite the cold. Below, the river slid past Greyhaven's walls, slow and dark, carrying thin sheets of ice that broke and reformed without sound. He watched them drift, collide, separate again.
Like houses, he thought. Like promises.
Behind him, steel rang—practice blades striking shields. The rhythm was steady, almost comforting. He did not turn.
"You're going to crack your teeth if you keep grinding them like that."
Alina's voice came from the stairwell. Calm. Unhurried.
Rowan exhaled and straightened. "You always sneak up on people?"
"I use doors," she said, stepping beside him. "You just don't listen."
She followed his gaze to the river. For a moment, neither spoke.
"You didn't argue," Rowan said finally.
Alina folded her arms inside her sleeves. "With Father?"
"Yes."
"That wasn't the time."
Rowan scoffed. "There's never a time."
She glanced at him, eyes sharp. "You think shouting changes who holds the pen?"
Rowan turned on her then. "No. But silence lets them write whatever they want."
Alina studied him the way she always did—like a problem with no clean solution. "You're angry," she said.
"Of course I am."
"You always are."
That landed harder than he expected.
Below them, a cart rattled over frozen stones. A woman shouted at a child. Life continued, ignorant and stubborn.
"They want us to kneel," Rowan said. "To men who don't know our names."
"They know the name Halwain," Alina replied.
"That's worse."
She did not argue.
In the great hall, Tomas sat alone at the long table.
The servants had cleared the morning meal, but he had barely touched it. Bread lay torn beside a cooling cup of ale. He kept flexing his right hand, as if testing whether it still belonged to him.
We are to kneel.
The words returned again and again, heavy as armor.
Tomas had always known his place. Second son. Strong arm. A shield, not a voice. He had trained for orders, not decisions.
But kneeling was still a choice.
A choice that would be remembered.
He rose abruptly and paced the length of the hall. His boots echoed too loudly. The banners overhead—grey and blue, the river sigil stitched in fading thread—hung limp, unmoving.
Men who measure land by ink and paper, Father had said.
Tomas clenched his jaw. Ink bled. Paper burned.
The doors opened.
Maester Corvin entered quietly, hands folded within his sleeves. "You walk like a caged thing," he observed.
Tomas stopped. "Do you ever stop watching people?"
Corvin smiled thinly. "It's the only skill age improves."
Tomas gestured to the table. "Tell me what kneeling costs."
Corvin considered him. "That depends," he said, "on how long you remain on your knees."
Lord Edric Halwain sat alone in his solar as the light shifted.
The letter lay unopened this time—not the one from the capital, but another. Plain. Unmarked. It had arrived at dawn, passed hand to hand without comment.
He had not broken the seal.
Instead, he stared at the wall where a hairline crack ran from beam to stone. He had noticed it years ago. It had grown slowly, patiently, like all failures.
When he finally opened the letter, there was no greeting.
Only names.
Some he recognized. Others he did not.
At the bottom, written smaller than the rest, was one word:
Greyhaven
Edric closed his eyes.
He remembered his father kneeling once—briefly, begrudgingly—after a failed levy dispute. The humiliation had lingered longer than the punishment. Men remembered posture. They remembered who bent first.
A knock came.
"Enter."
Rowan did not wait.
"You knew," Rowan said. Not a question.
Edric did not look up. "I suspected."
"You knew this would happen."
"Yes."
"And still—"
"And still," Edric cut in, voice sharp for once, "I bought you time."
Rowan's hands curled into fists. "Time for what?"
Edric finally met his son's gaze. "For you to decide who you are when the choice stops being clean."
Rowan laughed, bitter. "You mean when there's no right answer."
"There never is," Edric said. "Only answers we survive."
Rowan turned away. "I won't kneel."
Edric said nothing.
That silence was answer enough.
That evening, the bells rang again.
Not for death. Not yet.
But across the river, a fire burned longer than it should have. In the lower town, two men argued in whispers and parted without agreement. A rider left Greyhaven by the eastern road, hood drawn low.
In the keep, Alina wrote letters she did not sign.
Tomas sharpened a blade he hoped he would never raise.
And Lord Edric Halwain stood where he had the night before, palm against cold stone, listening to the wind press against Greyhaven's walls.
The frost did not care.
But men would.