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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The faintest light of dawn broke over the horizon, painting the snow-draped landscape in muted greys and silvers. The biting cold clung to every breath, visible in the thin plumes of vapour that escaped from the mouths of the weary marchers. Rhaenara stood near the front of the caravan, her gloved hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword, her eyes fixed southward. The Twins were within reach now—only a few hours of hard travel separated them from the ancient crossing. But the knowledge that the dead were closing in faster than anyone had anticipated spurred them onward.
Sansa moved among the civilians, speaking quietly to the children and their parents, offering small reassurances that seemed hollow in the vast emptiness of the north. Rhaenara caught her eye, nodding as they exchanged an unspoken agreement to keep morale high. The civilians, after all, needed hope, no matter how faint.
Lord Jordayne rode to the front of the line, his dark Dornish armour standing out against the white snow. "We'll need to keep a faster pace today," he said to Ryon, who nodded grimly. "The food situation is dire, and we've no idea how much longer the second army can hold."
"We'll push through," Ryon said, his voice steady despite the exhaustion lining his face. He glanced at Rhaenara, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "We don't have a choice."
The march began with the soft crunch of boots and hooves over snow, the sound a steady rhythm that matched the beating hearts of those who walked. Rhaenara positioned herself near the rear, her eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. She had sent Rhaegal ahead the previous evening, knowing the dragon needed rest but also hoping his presence at the Twins might deter any potential threat. Still, she felt uneasy without him nearby, as though a piece of herself had been left behind.
»--•--«
By mid-morning, the marchers came across patches of frozen river, the ice gleaming faintly in the weak sunlight. The air was filled with a quiet tension, broken occasionally by the sounds of murmured conversations or the crying of an infant. The civilians were struggling now, their steps dragging, their faces pale from hunger and cold.
Rhaenara slowed her pace, walking beside a woman carrying a small child on her hip. "How are you holding up?" she asked softly, her voice cutting through the silence.
The woman looked up, her eyes tired but grateful. "We're managing. Thank you, my lady."
"You're strong," Rhaenara said with a faint smile, though her heart ached for the woman and all the others who had lost everything to this endless war. "We'll get through this together."
Further up the line, Tyrion Lannister rode on a stout horse, his sharp eyes darting to and fro as he studied the landscape. He caught sight of Ryon riding beside Lord Jordayne and guided his horse closer. "If we keep this pace, we should reach the Twins before the worst of the weather sets in. But we'll need to start fortifying as soon as we arrive."
