The Rookery of Blackiron Keep smelled of dry parchment, droppings, and the metallic tang of freezing rain. It was the highest point in the castle, a lonely spire that caught the full force of the winter gales.
Elyana pulled her fur cloak tighter as Maester Thorne attached the tiny canister to the raven's leg. The bird croaked, its black eyes fixed on Elyana with an intelligence that made her shiver.
"This bird flies for Highgarden," Thorne grunted, his arthritic fingers working the leather strap. He was a man of few words and fewer smiles, his loyalty to House Blackiron absolute, though he viewed Elyana with the same suspicion as the rest of the North. "A long flight. Dangerous in this weather."
"It must reach Lady Alerie," Elyana said, her voice steady despite the cold. "If it falls, or if it is intercepted..."
"Then the cipher you wrote will look like a jagged mess of nonsense," Thorne finished. He cast a sideways glance at her. "You are certain the Lord approved this? Sending word to the Reach... some would call it treason."
"The Lord seeks to feed his people, Maester," Elyana replied. "Treason is starving them."
Thorne grunted again, accepting the logic if not the method. He carried the bird to the window and tossed it into the grey sky. Elyana watched it beat its wings against the wind, a tiny speck of hope disappearing into the storm. That bird carried the request for grain—a plea to her aunt, a woman who understood power better than she understood mercy. If Alerie agreed, ships could be at White Harbor in a fortnight. If she refused, or if her father found out...
"Send the others," Elyana commanded.
Thorne nodded and moved to the other cages. These ravens were for the Northern Bannermen—the Umbers, the Boltons, the Glovers. The summons to the Council. The trap for Karst.
Elyana left him to his work and began the long descent. The stone steps were slick with condensation. As she reached the lower levels, the silence of the tower was replaced by a low, rumbling sound. It sounded like the castle itself was groaning.
She reached the courtyard archway and stopped.
A crowd had gathered at the inner gates. Not an army, but something more volatile—the castle servants, the blacksmiths, the families who lived within the outer walls. There were perhaps fifty of them, huddled against the cold, their breath rising in a collective cloud of steam.
Facing them stood Kyle, flanked by six of his guards. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, not drawing it, but ready.
"There is no more for today!" the Quartermaster shouted, standing behind the line of guards. "The rations are set!"
"The rations are dust!" a woman screamed from the front. She held up a child, wrapped in rags. "My boy hasn't eaten a full meal in three days!"
"We know about the poison!" a man shouted. "We know she did it!"
Elyana froze in the shadows of the archway. Karst's poison had spread faster than she thought.
"Lies!" Kyle's voice boomed, cutting through the wind. "Lord Karst seeks to divide us. The Lady Elyana found the traitor. She saved the reserves we have left!"
"She's a Southern witch!" another voice cried out, and a murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. "She brings the cold! She brings the rot!"
A stone flew from the back of the crowd. It clattered against Kyle's breastplate.
The guards tensed, spears lowering.
"Hold!" Kyle roared, holding up a hand to his men. But his eyes were dark with fury. "The next man who throws a stone loses the hand that threw it!"
The crowd surged forward, desperation overcoming fear. They were going to rush the guards. Blood would be spilled—Northern blood, spilled by Northern blades. Karst would win without firing an arrow.
Elyana stepped out of the shadows.
"Let them through," she said, her voice clear and high.
The crowd faltered. Heads turned. Kyle whipped around, his eyes widening. "Elyana, get back inside."
She ignored him. She walked past the line of spears, stepping onto the slushy cobblestones until she stood between the guards and the mob. She wore no armor, only her velvet gown and the heavy wolf-fur cloak Kyle had given her.
"You call me a witch," she said, looking directly at the man who had shouted. "You say I brought the rot."
"My brother died foaming at the mouth after eating bread from your kitchens!" the man spat.
"And the man who poisoned that bread hangs from a pike above your heads," Elyana said, pointing a finger at the gatehouse where Jory's head was displayed. "A Northman. A man you knew. A man bought by Lord Karst's gold."
The crowd quieted, unsure.
"You are hungry," Elyana continued, her voice hard. She did not offer pity; pity was weak. She offered strength. "And you are right to be angry. But direct your anger where it belongs. Lord Karst has blocked the trade roads. Lord Karst pays men to burn your fields and poison your stores. He wants you to starve so that you will kill me for him."
She took a step closer to the woman with the child. The woman flinched, but didn't retreat.
"I have sent ravens this very hour," Elyana announced, raising her voice so all could hear. "I have called upon the South. Not for armies, but for grain. Ships are being prepared. Food is coming."
It was a gamble—a partial lie—but she needed to buy time.
"Why would the South feed us?" someone muttered.
"Because I command it," Elyana lied smoothly. "I am the Lady of Blackiron. My gold pays for the ships. My name opens the ports. If you kill me now, those ships turn back. If you hand me to Karst, you starve."
She let the words hang in the freezing air. It was a cold calculation: she was making herself more valuable alive than dead.
The woman lowered the child slowly. The man who had thrown the stone looked at his feet.
"Go to your homes," Elyana said. "The Quartermaster will issue a double ration of dried meat tonight from the Lord's personal stores. We will eat what you eat. We will starve with you, or we will survive with you."
She turned her back on them—a display of supreme confidence—and walked back toward Kyle. She could feel the eyes of the mob on her spine, waiting for a knife, a stone. None came.
As she reached Kyle, she saw the mixture of awe and terror in his face.
"Double rations?" the Quartermaster hissed as she passed. "My Lady, we don't have—"
"Kill the horses if you have to," Elyana whispered, her face pale as the adrenaline faded. "But feed them tonight. If you don't, they will burn this castle down before the sun rises."
Kyle took her arm, guiding her quickly back into the keep. Once the heavy oak doors slammed shut, sealing out the wind and the whispers, he exhaled a breath he seemed to have been holding for minutes.
"You have a dangerous tongue, Elyana," he said.
"I spoke their language," she replied, leaning against the cold stone wall. Her hands were trembling now. "Fear and hunger. It's the only language that matters when winter comes."
"You promised ships," Kyle said. "Will your aunt answer?"
Elyana looked up at him. "She has to. Because if she doesn't, I just bought us a week of peace before they come for my head again."