Chapter 95 – Mad Girls and Messages
Frosthall
Jon Snow slumped in the high-backed chair of Frosthall's solar, the fire in the hearth spitting embers like accusations. The room smelled of old parchment, sealing wax, and the faint, ever-present tang of pine smoke from the Wolfswood beyond the walls. His quill hovered over a half-finished ledger, ink dripping slow as blood from a fresh cut. Gods, he was tired.
Cregan had been gone—what, three weeks now? Four? Time blurred in the endless grind of lordly shit. Jon was good at it, aye—the numbers, the contracts, the endless dance of coin and cargo that kept Frosthall breathing. White Harbor ships unloading Braavosi silks and Pentoshi spices; forges in the hills hammering blacksteel-tipped spears (Cregan's fancy); even those damned weirwood shipments to Essos, where Edwyle Snow peddled Northern mysticism to wide-eyed magisters. Business boomed. The North fattened under Stark gold.
But it grated. Bullshit work, Jon thought bitterly. Cleaning up after wolves who ran wild.
But that was not even the Worst .Worst were the women. Two furies haunting Frosthall's halls like ghosts like stories of Winterfell's old Nan used to tell.
Lady Myrcella Stark—Princess Myrcella Baratheon no more—paced the solar most days now, her golden hair unbound, green eyes flashing like summer lightning. She'd been sweet as Arbor gold when Cregan brought her north after marrying her, a southern flower blooming in snow. But after a year of spoiling her in his his way made Cregan a sweetheart in her eyes and They have a good relationship . Although Cregan stubborness and weird habits are a very big flaw regardless she accepts it but his sudden march to the Wall? That had cracked her shell.
"He didn't even say goodbye properly!" she'd hissed at Jon yesterday, slamming a silver goblet so hard wine splashed the maps. "Riding off like some wildling raider, leaving me to rattle around this frozen keep! What if he dies up there? What then, Jon Snow?"
Jon had murmured apologies, offered wine, listened to her curse Robb for summoning him, Jeor Mormont for begging aid, the bloody Wall for existing. To be fair, Cregan hadn't planned to vanish so long. Ravens flew both ways, but words were scant—Hold steady. Wall holds. Myrcella took it as neglect.
Her southern temper had hardened to northern steel; Jon half-feared she'd march to Castle Black herself, drag Cregan home by his ears.
But she was the kinder storm. The true terror was Lyanna Stark.
Jon chuckled despite himself, rubbing his temples. "Queen of Biscuits," she called herself—eight winters old, with the cunning of a shadowcat and the tantrums of a spoiled wolf. Cregan's absence had unleashed her fully. Frosthall's kitchens trembled under her demands; maids scattered like leaves when she stalked the halls, little fists clenched, demanding
"Uncle Cregan! Where is he? He promised to teach me swordplay!" Lyanna Stark said
It was worse in Winterfell. Robb, Acting Lord and Warden of the North, bore the brunt. Lyanna's rages shook the great hall—screaming fits that sent lords blanching, servants fleeing. Robb, patient as stone, endured it, but Jon saw the cracks. The only thing that bends Winterfell's spine, Jon mused.
Lyanna had changed this past year. No longer just a willful girl. She'd tamed Sandor Clegane—the Hound himself, that burnt monstrosity of a man. Jon had seen it: the scarred knight trailing her like a whipped dog, growling orders at guards who displeased her. "Move, you sluggard!" she'd snap, and the Hound would obey, his burned face twisting in something like fond exasperation.
And Torrhen? Poor lad, heir to Winterfell, danced to her tune like a puppet on strings. Lyanna whispered schemes in his ear—pranks on maesters, midnight raids on the kitchens—and Torrhen followed, grinning like a fool. Who held the real power in Winterfell's future? Jon laughed outright, imagining Robb's face in twenty years, gray-haired and His Hier harried by his sister's whims.
Enough woolgathering. Jon shoved the thought aside, turning to the ravens' cage in the corner. A maester's boy had dumped a fresh clutch that morning—scrolls from White Harbor, Moat Cailin, even one obviously looking Essosi. He cracked the first, blue rose seal glinting.
Edwyle Snow, Commander of the Blue Roses.
Jon Snow,
Cousin,
There is a good news , Our men who has gone to Old Valyria has come and they bring many things and stories.
Qotho the Exile rides north— former Dothraki horselord, khalasar-shatterer. Cast out by his own for defying the dosh khaleen. Brings word for the Wolf. He's pushing hard through the Stepstones, should reach the Neck in a fortnight. Tell Cregan to ready for the welcome. Mad man would want to meet him first thing. He is hoping he would get his reward of staying by Cregan side for completing this dangerous work.
Edwyle Snow,
Fellow Stark Bastard
Jon leaned back, brow furrowed. Qotho—an old blade from Cregan's mercenary days, bloodied in Dothraki sands.Finally he is back from the Doom. He'd flag it for Cregan.
Next scroll—thicker, direwolf stamped in grey wax, Hand of the King's mark faint beside it. Ned Stark.Thier father.
To Cregan Stark,
Lord of Frosthall,
Word from the capital grows dire. Our discussion proves truer than suspected. Things are getting more serious here in the capital.
Council also discussed about Daenerys situation once more . According to Lord Varys , Spies confirm Daenerys gathers strength; Essosi sellswords flock to her banner. Robert rages, but the realm frays. Be cautious. I have send letter to Winterfell aslo .
Robb holds Winterfell iron-fast. . Send word when able.
Winter is coming.
Eddard Stark,
Hand of the King
Jon's gut twisted. His Father wrote things like a crypt door creaking open— must be something important tonjust leaving hints of things . Cregan would have to understand it; well No time for puzzles for Jon.
Jon seized fresh parchment, quill flying.
Cregan,
Brother
Frosthall endures. Forges roar, trade swells—your coin-piles grow fat. But the girls make war. Myrcella rages at your silence—curses you, Robb, Mormont, the Wall itself. Southern fire in northern snow; she's a storm in skirts. Lyanna is worse. "Queen of Biscuits" torments Winterfell—tantrums shake the hall, Robb graying before thirty, puppets Torrhen for her schemes. Winterfell's true queen in a decade, mark me.
As for the important Ravens: Edwyle says Qotho the Exile rides north—Dothraki outcast, good word for you. Neck-bound, fortnight out Finally his journey open.
Father warns about a lot of things ." Some things he said You would understand as he talks about it with you in the past. Robb musters reinforcements for the Wall. Hold the Wall well Brother. Shadow and others are also hunting just be a bit prepared for Thier tantrums when you come home.
JonHe rolled it tight, dripped red wax—direwolf stamped firm . "To the Wall. Urgent."
Jon rose, stretching knotted muscles, gazing out the arrow-slit at Frosthall's yard. Men drilled below, steel clanging; wolves howled faint from the woods. Cregan was out there, bloodied by wildlings no doubt, staring into endless white.
Winter is coming, Father wrote. Aye. And Jon Snow would hold the fire till they returned.
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Drop the power Stones to keep me motivated and Comment also. keep cussing me till I became more consistent on this book.