Late at night, a hooded, cloaked figure emerged slowly from an inconspicuous hidden tunnel in the Red Keep. He looked around cautiously and moved through the empty streets toward the city, deftly avoiding the patrols of the gold cloaks.
The figure stopped in front of a stone house, glanced to the right and left, and gave a gentle knock on the door.
"Who is it?" came the voice of a small child.
"It's me… little Jack."
"Coming!" the child said in a jovial voice, slowly opening the door with a creak. A little boy, no more than five years old, stood there. The figure moved inside with a smile and closed the door behind him. He then removed his hood, letting his silver-gold hair fall freely.
"Have you been good to your mother?" he asked, giving the child a few copper pennies.
"You should stop giving him coins," a woman's voice chided softly. She entered from the kitchen, smiling, around twenty years old, with green eyes and brunette hair that fell over one shoulder. Her skin was fair and pale. She wore a simple, tightly-laced dress of dull-colored raw wool.
"Off to bed, Jack! It's already very late!" she scolded her son. The boy nodded and hurried into another room. She followed to make sure he was settled before returning. Daemon smiled, removed his cloak, and went to warm his hands by the fireplace.
"I thought you wouldn't come anymore," she said, closing the door to her son's room.
Daemon looked at her and stepped closer. "I was restricted… the guards have been watching me like hounds."
"I was afraid," she murmured, her voice breaking slightly. "I thought I would have to make a living like… the other widows on Silk Street."
"Didn't I tell you…" he whispered slowly, "…that this prince would personally take care of the widow of our gold-cloaked brother?"
The fire crackled, casting long shadows as they stood in the quiet room, the weight of his words and promise hanging in the air between them. Their conversation lowered into quiet, intimate tones, stretching deep into the night.
The morning light spilled through the shutters and fell across Beth's face. She stirred, groaning, and dragged a hand over her brow. "Seven… it's already morning."
Pushing herself up, she blinked blearily toward the other side of the room. Daemon was already half-dressed, tugging on his boots.
"Morning," he said, his familiar smirk curling his lips.
Beth's irritation melted into a shy smile. She swung her legs out of bed.
"I have a bout today with some thick-headed squire," Daemon went on, fastening his belt. "Got to leave now."
He strode closer, drawing a handful of coins from his pouch and setting them on the small table beside her bed. "Silver stags and a gold dragon," he said. His eyes flicked over her, amused. "Buy a few skirts. Something better than what you've been wearing. There are Lyseni merchants in the city this week."
"As you command, my prince," Beth replied with a coy tilt of her head.
Daemon chuckled, pleased, and turned for the door. The latch lifted, the door opened and shut, and he was gone.
Silence settled.
Beth sighed and stretched. Crossing the room, she sat at the table and began to count the coins. "One, two… this should do for a moon," she murmured. Relief softened her voice, though her brow furrowed soon after. Prices had been climbing since the curfew. Merchants hoarded stock, selling at higher than its worth, while the watch looked the other way. Without Daemon's coin, she and Jack would have been down to stale bread.
"Thank the gods…," she whispered.
She pulled a plain shift over her head, tying it tight at the waist. Then she leaned to the window, peering out. The street below was already alive with noise: fishmongers crying wares, children chasing each other through puddles, men hauling crates from wagons.
Beth sighed and turned back.
She padded barefoot across the room toward the small stove in the corner, stirring the coals back to life. Her hands moved by habit: setting the pan, pouring a little water, cutting what little bread she had left. Her eyes flicked once more to the coins on the table. After the morning meal, she could go and buy fresh groceries. She had to hurry before others claimed the better stock.
Still, worry lingered in her chest as she whispered to herself, "How long will this last?"
Her thoughts slid to the offer Marella, the old woman next door, had mentioned. Washerwoman's work. Long days, rough hands, red from lye and water. Beth had always looked down on such toil, priding herself on keeping softer hands, softer skin. She had hooked a prince, hadn't she? A boy of royal blood who whispered sweet things at night. But his absences these past week had stripped away her illusions. What she was to him was plain now; companionship in the dark, forgotten in the day.
Her eyes lowered to her hands, delicate still, the same ones her late husband had once held. He had sworn to keep her safe for life, only to fall to bandits on a lonely road in the Reach, leaving her and little Jack behind.
Now those same hands stirred the coals, counted another man's coin, and tried to hold together a life that, somehow, went on.
Winterfell
Spring had only just brushed the North with its touch. Snow still clung in stubborn patches along the walls, and the yards were a patchwork of thaw; old ice giving way to new mud. The air carried a damp chill, but there was warmth in it too, a promise that the worst had passed.
In the training yard, boots slapped slush, followed by the clash of wooden blades. Sunlight, pale but warm, spilled over the grey stones as three boys circled each other under the watchful eye of Kern Harst, Winterfell's master-at-arms.
Benjen Stark, tall for fourteen and showing the lean strength of his father, barked a command as if he were a knight already.
"Keep your shield higher, Brandon! A squire with his guard down is a dead squire." Brandon Stark, twelve, scowled and lifted his shield a fraction too late. Benjen's wooden sword smacked it aside and tapped his brother's shoulder with a sharp thwack.
"You're dead again," Benjen said with a grin.
Brandon's face flushed. "You hit before I was ready!"
"That's what an enemy will do," Benjen replied, stepping back into his stance. "No one waits for you to be ready."
From the steps, Elric Stark, ten years old and quick-tongued, cupped his hands around his mouth. "Benjen, you've killed Brandon so many times he'll haunt Winterfell before he's grown!"
The boys burst into laughter, save Brandon, who shot Elric a glare. "If you're so clever, come down and face me!"
Elric only smirked, swinging his legs. "Why should I? Ghosts don't fight with swords. They rattle chains and scream. You're halfway there already."
"Quiet, all of you," Kern rumbled, though the old soldier's lips twitched. His beard was grey, but his stance was still solid as a tower. "Benjen, less boasting. Brandon, mind your feet. And you…" he jabbed a finger at the lad standing stiffly to the side, "...Orren, step forward."
Orren Cerwyn, Lord Rickon's young ward, swallowed hard and obeyed. He was twelve, broad-shouldered, but he gripped his practice sword too tight, as if afraid it would fly away.
Brandon, seeing his chance, turned on Orren at once. "Come on, Cerwyn! Show us what you can do."
The two boys circled. Orren's brow furrowed as Brandon suddenly darted in, quick and reckless. Orren lifted his shield and managed a clumsy block, but Brandon twisted his wrist and smacked him hard in the ribs.
"Dead!" Brandon crowed.
Orren winced, clutching his side. "I— I slipped."
"Try again," Kern ordered. "And this time, remember your feet."
Benjen sighed, stepped between them, and showed Orren how to plant his stance. Elric leaned forward from his perch, calling, "Benjen, careful, if you keep teaching him, Brandon won't have anyone left to kill but himself."
That earned another round of laughter, even from Kern this time. Brandon muttered darkly, but Orren straightened his back, determined not to be the butt of the joke again.
Elsewhere in the castle, two women sat together, embroidery frames balanced on their laps. Lady Gilliane, wife of Lord Rickon Stark, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, worked in neat, precise stitches. Beside her, Lady Margaret, wife of Bennard Stark, hummed softly, her needle darting quicker though her pattern was far less tidy.
"You always make them so neat," Margaret said after a while, glancing sidelong. "Mine come out crooked no matter how I pull the thread."
Gilliane smiled faintly. "Crooked stitches still hold, sister."
Margaret gave a soft laugh. "Aye, but three children leave me little time for neatness. I've learned to be quick instead."
Her tone was light, but Gilliane felt the barb all the same. She lowered her gaze back to the fabric, her needle flashing carefully through the cloth. The hall was quiet but for the scrape of thread.
At last she said, "Quick work often needs doing twice."
Margaret's lips curved in a proud little smile. "And yet my children wear what I've made, and they wear it well."
Gilliane's hand stilled for a breath, then moved again, her stitches tighter than before. She did not answer.
The silence stretched, heavy with the unspoken things between them: Gilliane, Lady of Winterfell, yet still without a child; Margaret, the younger, already a mother thrice over.
It was Gilliane who broke it, her tone cold. "The stores will need careful tending this spring."
Margaret waved the thought away with a flick of her needle. "The men will hunt. The larders will last."
"I prefer not to leave such things to chance," Gilliane said evenly.
Margaret only hummed again, as if the matter were too small for worry.
The sound of hooves soon echoed through the yard. Lord Rickon Stark rode in at the head of a small patrol, his brother Bennard beside him. Both men were clad in mail, their cloaks dusted with the grey of the road.
The boys broke from their training to watch, wooden swords lowering. Rickon swung down from his horse, his face stern. His gaze fixed on Orren, who stood stiff with his shield too high.
"Kern," Rickon said evenly, "if the lad holds his shield like that, he'll be cut in half before he sees his foe."
"They'll learn," Kern replied with a dry smile.
"Or die," Bennard added as he dismounted, his tone gruffer.
The boys flushed, though Benjen straightened his stance at once. Elric piped up from the steps, "I wasn't fighting, Uncle. I'm clever enough to stay alive."
Rickon's gaze flicked to him, a small smile. He laid a heavy hand on Elric's shoulder. "Cleverness will carry you only so far, boy. Steel, discipline…those keep men alive."
Elric nodded quickly, while Rickon turned away, already striding toward the keep.
That evening, the family gathered in the great hall as usual. The long tables were set with roasted meats, dark bread, and thick ale. The boys, still flushed from training, sat together in the middle of the hall, their voices echoing. At the high table, sat Lord Rickon and Bennard, watching.
"The raven said Prince Aegon comes next week," Brandon blurted between mouthfuls of venison. "Is it true he's a pyromancer?"
Elric leaned in, eyes wide. "Do you think he'll show us? Set fire dancing in his hand?"
"He's a dragonrider too," Orren said with awe. "I've never even seen a dragon up close."
Brandon's eyes shone. "I'd spar with him, if he'd let me. Just once."
Benjen rolled his eyes. "He'd burn the hair off your head before you swung."
Their laughter rippled, but it fell quiet when Rickon's voice cut through.
"Enough."
The boys stilled, glancing toward him. His expression was plain as he set down his cup. "You'll show him respect when he comes. Whatever tales you've heard, he's still a prince of the realm. You'll remember that."
"Yes, Uncle," the boys mumbled together, subdued.
Lady Gilliane gave Rickon a brief, approving look before the meal carried on in quieter tones.
When the children were finally excused, Rickon leaned closer to his brother. "The first raven said the boy comes north to see it. Then another arrives, saying there was an attempt on his life…and that we are to secure him all the more once he sets foot here."
Bennard tore a piece of bread in silence before answering. "If that's so, why not keep him on Dragonstone? He'd be safer there, behind walls and dragons."
Rickon's face darkened, the firelight carving the lines of care deeper into his features. "Safer, perhaps. But the King has chosen otherwise, and it falls to us. A Targaryen prince under my roof. If more knives come for him, they may find Winterfell instead."
Bennard gave a grim nod, but after a pause, he spoke lower. "Or perhaps that is the very reason he is sent here. Let the North be the shield, should another blade be sent. Better a knife lost in Winterfell's snows than in the Red Keep's halls."
Rickon's mouth tightened. His eyes lingered on the hall, the banners hanging from the rafters, and the old walls that had withstood more than any king's command. At last, he said, low and certain, "Shield or not, the boy is coming. And if more knives follow, Winterfell will answer them."
The crackle of the fire filled the silence between them. Outside, the wind shifted, carrying the smell of slow-melting snow.
***
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