Winterfell.
The sky was a heavy, leaden gray, pressing down on everything below.
Suddenly, an enormous shadow fell over Winterfell's main courtyard. It expanded in an instant, accompanied by a deep, thunderous rush of air.
Soldiers and smallfolk alike looked up, their work coming to an abrupt halt. A vast pair of wings blotted out the sky, casting the courtyard into darkness.
The red dragon Blooddancer drew in its wings as its thick hind legs slammed onto Winterfell's towering walls. Stone battlements cracked beneath its claws, chunks of masonry breaking loose and clattering down.
"By the Seven!"
A stablehand cried out in terror, his pitchfork slipping from his grasp and clanging onto the ground.
On the dragon's back, Lo Quen sat steady in the saddle, gazing down at the chaos below. Blooddancer surveyed the castle's inhabitants and let out a series of low, rumbling growls that made hearts tremble.
Waymar Royce shoved past the dumbstruck soldiers before him and strode forward. Unrestrained joy shone across his face as he spoke excitedly,
"Your Grace, you've finally arrived!"
Lo Quen's gaze slowly swept across the courtyard, passing over the shaken faces before settling on Ser Waymar. With quick, practiced movements, he undid the straps of the dragon saddle and leapt down from Blooddancer's back.
"Ser Waymar, what happened in the North?" he asked, frowning slightly. "You've already taken Winterfell?"
His main army had only just landed near White Harbor and was still advancing toward Winterfell. He had flown ahead alone to scout the situation, never expecting that Waymar would already be in control of the castle.
Ser Waymar straightened, his bearing as respectful as ever.
"Your Grace, it's a long story."
He turned and gestured.
"Ser Marlon, come and report to His Grace."
Ser Marlon Manderly stepped forward at once. The White Harbor knight looked noticeably thinner than before, his face marked by exhaustion, yet his eyes were strikingly bright.
He bowed deeply and explained everything in one breath: how Jon had been resurrected by Lady Catelyn, how he had helped Jon defeat the Boltons and reclaim Winterfell, and how Jon had then departed for Beyond the Wall with Thoros and the Brotherhood Without Banners.
Beyond the Wall?
Lo Quen's brow tightened. Would Jon be killed by the Others out there?
He had already died once, and now the armies of the Others and their wights were gathering beyond the Wall. If he died again, could he really expect that red priest, Thoros, to kiss him back to life once more? Was the Lord of Light's favor truly without limit?
The thought passed quickly.
No matter what, Jon had already completed his most important task: clearing out the last stubborn noble resistance in the North on Lo Quen's behalf. House Bolton and its allies had been nearly wiped out, leaving behind nothing but insignificant remnants.
As for Jon's talk of a prophesied prince who would end the Long Night, Lo Quen dismissed it outright. He had never placed his hopes in vague prophecies.
As long as his dragons continued to grow and his bloodline became ever purer, what did it matter if the Long Night came? What did it matter if the Others marched south? He had the power to face them himself.
"I understand," Lo Quen said at last.
He nodded in approval.
"Well done, Ser Waymar. Well done, Ser Marlon. You've cleared the road for me."
After a brief pause, his gaze shifted south.
"Now that the North is settled, Ser Waymar, I will have ships sent to take you to the Vale. In addition, I'll assign five thousand slave soldiers to you to help you seize the Eyrie."
The twenty thousand slave soldiers he had brought were originally meant to pacify the North. With most of the defiant nobles already worn down by Jon and the infighting among the Boltons, there was no need to keep such a large force here.
Having Roro lead the remaining fifteen thousand to mop up the scattered strongholds would be more than enough.
Waymar's face lit up with delight as he bowed deeply to accept the command. He had been eager to head for the Vale for a long time.
Just then, Ser Marlon stepped forward again. His expression was conflicted, as though he were struggling to hide the turmoil in his heart. On one hand, he felt deep awe toward this king from the East, tinged with a faint, instinctive resistance. Questions kept surfacing in his mind. Was Westeros's future truly meant to rest in this man's hands? Yet he could not deny that without the power this man commanded, the North would likely still be mired in Bolton tyranny and chaos.
"Your Grace," Marlon said quietly, "Lord Wyman requests an audience with you. He… his condition isn't very good."
Lo Quen gave a slight nod. "Lead the way."
They crossed the courtyard, still bearing the scars of war, and climbed the stone steps toward the main keep. Inside the castle hall, the light was dim, with only a handful of torches flickering along the walls.
Lord Wyman Manderly lay slumped in a high-backed armchair, his enormous bulk nearly filling it entirely. After the fall of White Harbor, Lord Lamprey had been captured and dragged to Winterfell as a prisoner, only recently being released. The once plump, ruddy face of Lord Wyman was now marred by savage bloodstains. One eye was so swollen it could barely open, and beneath his ornate robes, his thick legs were exposed, wrapped in filthy, grimy bandages.
Hearing footsteps, he tried to struggle upright in greeting, but the moment he exerted himself, a cry of pain burst from his throat.
"Ah…!"
His bloated face twisted as he clutched his thigh with both hands, his entire body shaking violently while cold sweat seeped from his brow. During those dark days imprisoned by House Bolton, he had endured torments scarcely fit for a human being.
Lord Wyman panted heavily and forced a bitter smile. "Your Grace, please forgive me for being unable to rise and greet you. These legs of mine… I fear they're useless for the time being."
Lo Quen walked up to him, a faint smile on his face. "Lord Wyman, there's no need for formalities. I imagine you already know my purpose and my terms. Tell me, will White Harbor and House Manderly submit to me?"
Lord Wyman lifted his head and looked at the young monarch before him, with his black hair and dark eyes. He was silent for a long moment before letting out a heavy sigh.
"Your Grace, as you wish. House Manderly and White Harbor will swear loyalty to you. After all, your Queen, Lady Sansa, carries Stark blood. Before Lord Jon departed, he said that you promised Winterfell would one day be inherited by Lady Sansa's child."
"Very good."
Lo Quen's smile deepened slightly. "Lord Wyman, you are a wise man. Just as you said, Sansa's child will become the Lord of Winterfell. That will mark the return of Stark blood and secure the future of the North. Moreover, I've seen the wounds White Harbor has suffered in the war. I will do my best to help you rebuild the town and restore House Manderly's port and trade routes."
At his words, Lord Wyman's eyes filled with disbelief and joy. Tears streamed down his aged face as he said hoarsely, "Your Grace, thank you… truly, thank you! White Harbor and House Manderly are in desperate need of your mercy and assistance!"
As he looked at Lo Quen, his heart churned with emotion.
A benevolent ruler.
He could not help but think that if even one of the Seven Kingdoms' past kings had possessed such overwhelming strength along with the willingness to bestow grace, how could Westeros have fallen into such division and bloodshed?
Even so, he understood all too clearly that such grace came at the price of absolute submission.
After leaving the stifling hall, Ser Marlon approached once more and lowered his voice. "Your Grace, while clearing out the castle, we found several attendants Ramsay left behind. One of them is… unusual. He strongly resembles the long-missing Theon Greyjoy."