Rhaenara Storm, the bastard daughter of Robert Baratheon, is thrust into leadership as the Lord of Storm's End, wielding her unparalleled blacksmithing skills and the ancient Valyrian sword Stormbringer.
Meanwhile, Ryon Sand, the secret son of Ober...
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By the time midnight passed, the column had reached the edge of a small northern village. A sense of urgency spurred them on; their breaths clouded the air, mingling with the faint sounds of distant howling winds. The village lay quiet, almost too quiet, with only a handful of figures seen huddling together in the shadows, likely the last of the town's inhabitants, desperately clinging to whatever safety they could find.
But then, out of the cold, they appeared.
Rhaenara saw them first: a group of ragged figures, their faces hollow and gaunt, their clothes torn and caked in snow. They were survivors, drifting from one town to another, with no place to call home, nowhere to go but south. Some had families, others were alone, but all had the same hollowed look in their eyes—a look of fear, of loss, of a battle that had already been fought, and lost.
She caught Ryon’s eye from the head of the column, and he signaled for them to slow. Word spread quickly, and before long, the refugees had joined their ranks, adding their own burdens to the growing number of souls traveling south. Rhaenara could feel the weight of it, the collective fear of the group that grew heavier with each step they took, but there was little they could do. They had no choice but to continue onward.
The new arrivals—more northerners, farmers, hunters, and their families—shuffled into the column, moving with a strange mixture of hope and uncertainty. They weren’t used to being refugees, used to the warmth of hearth and home, but the dead had left them no choice. There was only the cold now, only the long march south.
Rhaenara walked alongside them, keeping her eyes peeled for anything out of place. Her sword felt heavier at her side, and she constantly adjusted her cloak, the wind tugging at the edges, threatening to pull her away from her thoughts. Her steps felt mechanical, as though her body was on autopilot, carrying her forward while her mind remained rooted in the deep fear of what was still ahead.
A soft murmur passed through the group as they adjusted to the new arrivals, but the march never slowed. They pressed on, Rhaenara keeping her thoughts focused on the task ahead. There was no time to dwell on the faces of those who had joined them. They had a mission: to get as far south as possible, to outrun the dead, and to ensure the civilians had a chance to survive. They could not afford to be distracted.
The cold had already crept under Rhaenara’s skin, leaving a dull ache in her limbs as the group pressed on through the night. The moon, hidden behind thick clouds, provided little light as the marching column cut through the snow-covered landscape. The wind was biting, sharp as a dagger, and it howled relentlessly between the trees that lined the path ahead. Even in the dim light, Rhaenara could make out the shapes of soldiers, refugees, and the occasional glimpse of Rhaegal overhead, his wings a dark silhouette against the oppressive sky.
The march had become routine at this point: a steady, slow-moving progression that seemed to stretch on endlessly. Each footfall in the snow felt like a weight added to an already heavy burden. Yet there was no time for rest. They couldn’t afford to stop, not until they were safely past the Twins and farther south where the threat of the dead would be a distant shadow.
As the hours dragged on and the chill deepened, Rhaenara found herself lost in thought, a quiet unease gnawing at the edges of her mind. The air felt different tonight—heavier somehow, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on them, urging them forward and yet leaving no room for them to escape.
By the time the first hint of dawn colored the sky, Rhaenara felt the first stirrings of exhaustion settling deep in her bones. The group had been marching for hours, and fatigue weighed heavily on everyone. The sound of footsteps crunching in the snow became the only rhythm of life.
Ryon had taken his place at the front once more, his eyes ever watchful as the new refugees settled into the formation. He hadn’t spoken much since the night had begun, but Rhaenara could sense the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw. They both knew how close they were to the edge. They couldn’t afford to stop. Not until they reached the Twins, and not until they were sure the second army had caught up with them.
As they continued through the morning, the cold air starting to bite deeper into their skin, Rhaenara found herself walking beside Sansa, who had fallen in line with the rest of the civilians. The sight of her, with her pale skin drawn tight with exhaustion, made Rhaenara wonder how much of a toll this journey was taking on the northern lady. Sansa’s eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, seemed dulled by the lack of rest, by the constant weight of responsibility that hung on her shoulders.
“Rhaenara,” Sansa said, her voice soft but steady despite the fatigue. “How long do you think it will take to reach the Twins? We’ve been walking for days, and I can’t help but feel we’re already too close to them. To the dead.”
Rhaenara glanced up at the sky, her thoughts drifting toward the horizon. “We’ll make it,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “We have to. It’s just a few more days.”
Sansa studied her for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as though weighing her words. “You’ve been through so much already,” she said softly. “But I can’t help but worry for everyone. How long before we can stop running?”
Rhaenara’s breath caught in her throat. Sansa’s words resonated more deeply than she let on. How long before they were all too exhausted to fight? How long before the weight of the journey crushed them all?
“I don’t know,” Rhaenara said quietly, her voice thick with the weight of uncertainty. “But we keep moving. It’s the only choice we have.”
Sansa nodded, as if finding some small comfort in the simplicity of the response. They walked in silence for a time, the crackle of the snow underfoot the only sound between them. The air seemed to grow heavier as the march continued, the weight of the journey pressing down on their shoulders.
As the day stretched on, the landscape around them began to change. The trees thinned out, and the ground began to slope gently upwards toward the hills. The quiet town they had passed earlier gave way to rolling hills and fields of snow. The wind grew more biting, and the civilians wrapped their cloaks tighter around them.
It was midday when Ryon called for a rest. The march had taken its toll, and the weight of the refugees was slowing them down. The group settled into the temporary camp that had been established, with small fires started to warm the weary travelers. The soldiers and knights stood guard, their eyes constantly scanning the horizon for any sign of the dead.
Rhaenara found herself standing near one of the fires, her hands wrapped tightly around a mug of warm broth. She glanced up at Ryon, who was speaking to the commanders of the Baratheon and Dornish forces, discussing the route ahead and the necessary preparations for their arrival at The Twins. His face was set, his brow furrowed in concentration.
She watched him for a moment, as he moved with a quiet, commanding grace, before turning away to continue her duties. They had little time to rest, and every moment counted.
Later, as the group continued their march through the afternoon, the number of refugees continued to grow. Every village they passed seemed to offer more and more souls in need of safety. It was impossible to turn them away—no one had the heart to say no.
Rhaenara found herself constantly looking over her shoulder, wondering when, if ever, the dead would catch up to them. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the army of the dead was never far behind, always lingering just beyond the horizon.
