The morning after victory tasted like ash.
The fires had been extinguished, the blood scrubbed from the courtyard, but the weight of the previous night's battle lingered like smoke in the halls. Althea stood over the war table, maps spread before her lines drawn, alliances marked, betrayals quietly noted.
To most, it looked like a plan for defense.
To her, it was a map of trust and treachery.
Nelly entered quietly, her crimson hair unbound, eyes sharp with sleepless clarity. "The men whisper your name," she said. "Some out of loyalty. Some out of fear."
Althea didn't look up. "Good. Both can be useful."
Nelly crossed her arms. "Fear doesn't last. Not with men like the Black Stag."
Althea finally raised her gaze. "Then I'll give them something stronger inevitability."
The Silent Betrayal
A sealed raven arrived before noon. Its sigil a broken antler.
The message was short a report of movement among the minor houses sworn to the Black Stag. But what caught Althea's eye wasn't the handwriting, it was the ink. Slightly smudged, the mark of a hand unused to writing deceit.
"Lord Harrow," she murmured, recognizing the tremor in the signature.
Peter approached behind her, reading over her shoulder. "A confession or a trap?"
"Both," Althea replied coldly. "He's trying to play both sides."
"Shall I make him choose?" Petyr asked, with that faint smile of a man who thrived on manipulation.
"No," she said. "I'll let him expose himself. Quietly."
By nightfall, her orders were given a small retinue of spies disguised as merchants would accompany Harrow's next trade caravan. If he betrayed her, his treachery would be caught in the act.
But beneath the political precision, unease stirred.
Her dreams had warned her a friend will cast the first shadow.
And now, she wondered which friend it would be.
Nelly's Revelation
That evening, Althea found Nelly on the battlements, looking out toward the misted woods.
"They're calling you the Raven Queen," Nelly said softly. "Half whisper, half prophecy."
Althea smirked. "And what do you call me?"
Nelly hesitated, then answered truthfully. "A woman the realm should fear and follow."
Their eyes met not as rivals, but as reflections.
Nelly had learned to survive monsters. Althea had learned to become one when needed.
"I see what you're doing," Nelly said. "You're testing everyone. Building your own game within my father's."
"I'm perfecting it," Althea replied. "Littlefinger plays with whispers. I build empires from them."
Nelly turned back toward the mist. "And what if the gods decide to move against you?"
"The gods?" Althea said softly, eyes darkening. "They already have."
A shiver of wind passed through the air the faint sound of branches whispering from the distant godswood. For a heartbeat, Althea heard them again the Old Gods murmuring through roots and blood.
"Beware the crown woven from lies. Its thorns draw deeper than truth."
She exhaled slowly, grounding herself in the present. "If the gods wish to stop me, they'll need to play the game better."
The Council Divided
By the next morning, word reached Harrenhal Harrow's men had been ambushed on the road.
By whom? The Black Stag's banners.
It was confirmation enough.
In the council chamber, Althea addressed her inner circle Nelly, Peter, and Lord Corbett among them. The air was sharp with tension.
"Lord Harrow's betrayal was anticipated," she began calmly. "What wasn't anticipated was the Black Stag's swiftness in response. He's learning."
Corbett frowned. "You mean?"
"I mean he's beginning to think like me."
A murmur swept through the chamber. Peter leaned forward, studying her with curiosity. "And that frightens you?"
Althea's expression was unreadable. "No. It excites me."
The council fell silent. Even Peter didn't smile.
Shadows of War
At dusk, the castle's sentries reported movement near the eastern woods.
Small groups, quick, precise. Scouts.
Althea's orders came instantly
"Don't engage. Track. Observe. Feed them false routes. Make them believe we're preparing for retreat."
Nelly raised an eyebrow. "Retreat?"
"A trap," Althea said simply.
By nightfall, the Black Stag's scouts had fallen for it. A small contingent rode forward, expecting a fleeing garrison instead, they met a silent wall of archers hidden in the trees. The ambush lasted less than ten minutes.
When dawn came, the message was clear Harrenhal does not yield.
But even as victory banners rose again, Althea's expression remained distant.
"The web tightens," she whispered to herself. "And with it, the chance to hang."
The Weight of Power
Later, as the hall emptied and quiet returned, Althea sat before the old weirwood branch that hung in her chamber. Its bark was bone white, its veins red as dried blood.
Her fingers brushed the wood, and whispers crawled through her mind a thousand voices murmuring of thrones, betrayals, and endings.
"When roots bleed, crowns fall."
The words lingered long after the whispers faded.
She looked toward the window, where the moonlight reflected on her map of the realm. Every banner, every name, every alliance was hers to control or destroy.
And in the faint reflection, she saw herself not as her father's daughter, not as a mere player but as something older, darker, destined.
A woman born from shadow, crowned by consequence.