As the dream story unfolded night by night, Lyanna found herself dwelling on the visions of pale-eyed corpses. They clung to her like frost, long after she woke beneath Grandmother's boughs. She remembered Old Nan's tales of the Night King, but that was an age gone. The Others had been defeated, their king slain. How, then, could they walk again in this future she saw?
"Tell me about the dead men," Lyanna whispered. "I've seen them marching again."
Maple's leaf-hair rustled though no wind stirred. Her golden-green eyes flicked toward the dark trunks around them, as if wary of being overheard.
"They are not really men," Maple said. Her voice was soft, careful. "They are the scars of a war our people would rather forget. When your kind first crossed the sea, the singers argued among themselves. Some wished to treat with men, to seek peace before we were drowned in your numbers. Others spat on the very thought. They vowed to fight until every trace of humankind was ash."
Lyanna leaned closer. "And they made the dead?"
Maple nodded. "Through forbidden songs and blood-rites, they raised corpses from the soil and turned the children of men into beings of winter. Pale things, sharp and cruel, bound to the cold."
Her claws flexed nervously against her knees. "But the one they shaped to lead them… he grew too strong. He slipped the leash of his makers. His hunger turned against men, aye, but also against giants, even against the weirwoods themselves. He would have consumed us all."
Lyanna's mouth had gone dry. "So they were defeated?"
Maple nodded her head. "Defeated, but not destroyed. It took giants, men, and singers together to break his host. The Wall was raised to cage the remnants. That was the peace, the pact that kept us breathing."
Lyanna's hands curled into fists. "But in my visions I saw them again. The dead walked. They marched."
Maple tilted her head, her leaf-hair brushing her shoulders. "Dreams are not always futures. The Wall still stands, and it has stood for thousands of years. The dark ones remain penned so long as none are foolish enough to meddle with what was bound. They are trapped where they belong."
Her tone softened, almost chiding. "Do not carry fear that which is not yours to bear. The Wall is stronger than you think."
Lyanna looked away, unease still tugging at her chest. But Maple's certainty was like a stone dropped into water: steady, rippling outward. Perhaps the singers could still believe in barriers that never broke.
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Lyanna's progress in skinchanging came quicker than she had ever imagined. At first it had been fleeting, flashes of Winter's perspective when her guard dropped, the thunder of hooves beneath her ribs, the tang of grass crushed under iron shoes. But now, with practice, she could slip into her mare's mind almost at will. Winter's keen eyes showed her the world as shifting terrain. Every slope, every root became a path or an obstacle. It thrilled her, that merging of will and strength.
The bond made them sharper as steed and rider, more seamless than ever before. With Winter's instincts braced beneath her own, Lyanna could guide her without reins or spurs. Lyanna could sense Winter's nudges, hear her quiet urgings — a tug toward firmer ground, a warning when roots threatened to trip them. A shift of thought was all it took to change from trot to sprint.
Maple told her this talent was rare — to ride not only with but as her steed.
Dacey's raccoon was another matter entirely. The creature was mischievous, forever rooting through packs, stealing food, or slipping out of sight when discipline was expected. Dacey adored it.
Her skinchanging was less controlled than Lyanna's, but when she succeeded the raccoon's quick, clever instincts sharpened her own. She could guide its small paws to worry at knots until they yielded, or climb with it through the underbrush to scout unseen. When the bond was strong, she carried some of that nimble cunning back into herself — a surer step, quicker fingers, an almost playful boldness.
"Better than a thief in the night," she boasted, scratching the raccoon under its chin. Maple only muttered that Dacey would drive her mad before long.
Howland's bond with his lizard was subtler, but no less strange. The small creature perched often on his shoulder or head, its dull green scales almost blending seamlessly with his cloak. When he slipped into its mind, his movements slowed, his patience deepened. He would wait in utter stillness for long stretches, breathing so quietly it seemed he had vanished into the misty air.
Through the lizard's eyes he studied the ground in minute detail, seeing the world as a lattice of hiding places and careful paths. Its tongue flickered of his own mind, testing the air for danger. More than once, he startled Dacey by pointing out a bird nesting half-hidden in the brush, or by predicting a snake's strike before it showed.
"It teaches me to listen longer," he explained when she teased him. "To see more in what others ignore."
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They set out at dawn, the air still cool and silvered with mist rising off the God's Eye. Maple had pointed them toward a grove thick with game, and Lyanna felt Winter's eagerness thrumming through her even before they left the clearing. The mare's ears twitched at every sound, every shifting leaf, guiding Lyanna as if the forest itself were mapped beneath her hooves. She pranced with excitement at the chance to show Lyanna her value.
Howland crouched low as they advanced, the lizard clinging lazily to his head. Through its small, patient eyes he marked details others would have missed: broken grass stems, the faint glisten of dew disturbed where hooves had passed. He raised two fingers, pointing silently toward a thicket.
Dacey's raccoon, meanwhile, had scrambled into the branches ahead, chittering softly before slipping from sight. Her grin was wicked as she pressed a finger to her lips. "He's already seen them," she whispered. "Deer. A doe and a stag."
Lyanna drew in a breath, steadying herself. It wasn't war, it wasn't knights in plate, but her pulse raced as though it were. Winter's instincts pressed at her mind — not fear, but focus, the taut line of danger close by.
Then it happened.
She blinked, and the forest shifted. For a heartbeat, green outlines shimmered in the mist — the stag shifting forward, the doe bounding to the left, even Dacey lunging before she had truly moved. It was there and gone in an instant, like the flash of sunlight on water.
Startled, Lyanna almost missed her moment, but instinct carried her forward. She nocked an arrow on the weirwood bow Maple had given her and loosed. The arrow struck true, piercing the stag's flank just as it leapt — exactly where that flickering green trace had told her it would be.
The creature bolted, bleeding but not felled. Dacey gave chase, her raccoon's insight making her movements swift and sure, and Howland slipped through the undergrowth with uncanny silence. Together, they brought the stag down swiftly, and when the forest stilled again, it was Lyanna who stood over the kill with her bow still trembling in her hands.
She looked at her companions, heart hammering. "I… saw it," she said. "Where it would move. Before it happened."
Howland's eyes narrowed, thoughtful as always. "Greensight, maybe" he murmured. "Although I have never heard of someone using it in such a way. We should consult with Maple when we return. The forest may show you seconds ahead. A gift few would dare to waste."
Dacey clapped her on the back, laughing. "Trust you to turn hunting into sorcery, She-Wolf. Next time, warn me before I swing. Don't want you seeing me trip in advance."
Lyanna smiled faintly, but her chest was tight. Whatever the gods were making of her, it was growing sharper by the day.