Sleep would not come anymore, I knew. My breathing was heavy, my mind restless. In my chamber, I shed my shoes, pulled my cloak tighter, and slipped away again, my bare feet quiet on the stone. Down the stairs, through the courtyard, past the silent towers, I found myself in the godswood for the second time that day.
The heart tree loomed pale in the moonlight, its carved face, always solemn, seeming tonight to frown in anger, its red sap weeping to match my own tears. Beneath its boughs, I let myself breathe, though the words I had overheard still echoed, stubborn and sharp.
Kneeling before the heart tree, I pressed my palms into the cold earth, the dampness seeping through my skirts. The carved face loomed above, its red eyes glistening in the moonlight.
"Please, Old Gods," I whispered, my voice shaking despite myself. "Help me escape from this prison fate has planned for me. Freedom for my body and my future. I'll do anything you ask of me. Just… please."
The godswood was still. Even the owl had fallen silent. Then a shiver of air, soft but insistent, stirred the leaves overhead. The weirwood's branches groaned faintly as if something old and heavy were waking.
"Fate…" The word slid through the darkness, not carried by wind, nor quite in my ears. It was a voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once, deep and strange, the kind of sound that lingered in the bones.
My breath caught. "What must I do?" I asked, barely daring to move my lips.
The leaves whispered something else, a sigh, or a promise, and the cool night pressed closer. My eyelids grew heavy, as though weighted by unseen hands.
I sank to my knees in the moss, my back against the trunk. The carved face stared down at me, its red tears glistening. Sleep took me without warning, swift and deep.
And then I saw.
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Dead men walking. Shadows with pale blue eyes moved across a wasteland of snow, their footsteps soundless.
Familiar names… unfamiliar faces. A man wearing her brother Ned's voice, but not his face, stood on a grassy hill, Ice in his hands, the great blade falling in a clean, merciless arc.
Wolf pups in the snow. Tiny bodies pressed against the arms of laughing children, their eyes bright with futures I could not yet name.
I then became a girl with hair like spun silver, fragile in silks too fine for my thin frame. A bride, little more than a child, trembling as I was led to a towering man with braids heavy with bells. His dark eyes burned with fire and strangeness, his people circling like predators. I was sold into marriage by the brother who whispered poison into my ears and raised his hand when I displeased him.
Robert Baratheon — but older, heavier, crowned in gold and wine, a queen at his side with hair like beaten gold and eyes like sharpened emeralds. Cersei Lannister. A match of venom and steel.
The vision darkened. A cold stone slab stretched before me, chill air seeping into my bones. I saw her own name carved into the stone, stark and final. Whispers of my death coiled around me, tangled with the shadows of Targaryens. My song unfinished, my doom eternal. Was this a warning? Or inevitability?
The vision shifted, no, it dragged me. A boy's small hands, my gaze fixed on golden-haired twins, their closeness wrong in a way that prickled my skin into gooseflesh. I could not move, could not breathe. The man — Jaime? — smiled, and with a sudden push, the world fell away.
Darkness swallowed me.
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I woke with a gasp, heart pounding, the echo of that endless fall still tumbling in my chest.
A sudden splash of icy water stole the rest of my breath. I sputtered, blinking against the pale light of daybreak through the leaves overhead.
"Howland said I might find you here," came a voice — familiar, solid, and far too cheerful. "Get up, sleepyhead. We've barely an hour until the joust. If I miss the fighting, I'll never forgive you."
I shoved wet hair from my face, scowling as water dripped down my nose. "Dacey…" I groaned.
My lady-in-waiting only grinned down at me, one hand on her hip, the other still clutching the empty bucket like a weapon. In the half-light, her wild dark curls framed a face that was all mischief and stubbornness.
"You can thank me later," she said, offering me a hand. "Or you can sit here in your soaked shift and explain to your brothers why you slept under a tree all night. Your choice."
The scramble that followed was a blur — wet clothes tossed over a chair by the fire, hair dragged into some semblance of order, a fresh gown yanked on while Dacey muttered about stubborn wolves and lazy mornings. The dream still clung to me, but I shoved it down beneath the press of buckles, braid ties, and hurried laces.
By the time we reached the tourney grounds, the stands were already filling. Colors rippled in the sunlight, banners snapped in the breeze, silks and satins gleamed, and the air felt alive with the scent of trampled grass and spiced wine.
We found Howland seated with Benjen, the crannogman's small frame half-hidden beneath his green cloak. He looked up and smiled faintly, though his sharp eyes missed nothing. Benjen smirked at my damp hair.
"You smell like pond water — I would know," Howland teased.
Jeor Mormont sat at the row's end, massive and bear-shouldered, surveying the lists with the patience of a soldier. Dacey slid in beside him with the ease of someone who had never cared for protocol, patting his arm before leaning forward to catch sight of the knights assembling.
I sat between Howland and Benjen, smoothing my skirts more to keep my hands busy than out of any care for appearances. The roar of the crowd swelled as the first knights trotted onto the field, but shadows of the dream still lingered in the back of my mind — the dead men walking, a false Ned, my own tomb.
I forced myself to focus on the sunlight and the banners instead. The day's games were about to begin.
The herald's voice rang out: "Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, champion of the North!"
The crowd murmured with polite applause from the Riverlords, but louder cheers from the Northmen along the rail. I glanced at Dacey; her grin was wide with pride.
Jorah looked every inch the knight in his polished mail and dark bear-sigil surcoat, his hair brushed back from a weathered, honest face. But his gaze wasn't for the northern benches. He drifted southward, to where the Reach's bright colors fluttered.
"Lady Lynesse Hightower," the herald announced, as Jorah bowed before a young woman in pale green and silver. She was fair and luminous, her smile delicate as spun sugar as she tied her favor to his lance. The crowd gave an approving ripple of sound.
Jeor Mormont snorted, the sound carrying even over the cheering. "The boy's a fine fighter," he rumbled, "but he ought to be looking north for a wife, not chasing soft-handed southerners with eyes full of gold. A shame."
Dacey rolled her eyes but said nothing, gaze fixed proudly on her cousin.
Then the herald called the next name.
"Facing him — Ser Barristan Selmy, the Bold, of the Kingsguard!"
The stands erupted. Barristan guided his white destrier forward with the calm of a man who had nothing left to prove. He slowed before a tall woman near the Dornish party, dark hair falling loose over lilac silk.
"Lady Ashara Dayne," the herald cried. "Will you grant your favor to Ser Barristan?"
I followed Ashara's gaze straight to Ned, seated a few rows away. My brother froze, his eyes locking with hers. Something unspoken passed between them in that taut heartbeat, and then Ashara inclined her head in refusal.
Barristan masked his disappointment with chivalry, but I saw the tight set of his jaw as he turned toward the lists.
Dacey leaned close, whispering, "That's going to sour his morning."
The trumpets blared. The two knights lowered their lances.
I leaned forward as they thundered down the tilt, the splintering crash of impact rattling my bones. Barristan's lance struck true; Jorah tumbled hard into the dirt. Gasps rose around me. I winced. Dacey's breath caught beside me.
The marshals rushed to Jorah's side, but Barristan was already dismounting, kneeling with surprising urgency. "My apologies, Ser Jorah," he said, steady but regretful. "I let my temper ride with me."
Jorah managed a dazed smile. "If that's your poor form, Seven help the rest of us."
Laughter rippled through the stands, easing the tension. But Jeor Mormont's jaw was tight as he watched his son limp away.