The Frey ship rocked gently as it pulled away from the docks, its sails unfurling with the twin towers of House Frey stitched in bold relief. The river breeze carried the scent of wet reeds and mud, but also the faint perfume that clung to Roslin Frey, who stood at Jon's side.Old Walder had not pressed further about marriage after Jon's outburst in the hall. The bastard of Winterfell, raging at the news of Eddard Stark's death, had not been in any state to discuss alliances. Yet Walder Frey was never one to waste an opportunity. Instead, he had wrapped his schemes in gifts—an ornate suit of plate armor, polished to a mirror sheen, and two longswords of fine steel. One hilt was adorned with a ruby that glowed like firelight, the other with a sapphire, cold as a shard of ice.The gifts were generous, too generous, and Jon knew the price was hidden, not forgotten. And to ensure the memory lingered, Walder had sent Roslin herself to help him don the armor before departure.Her hands, slender and pale, moved carefully over the clasps and buckles. When she draped a black cloak about his shoulders, she leaned close, her breath warm against his cheek. Lilac and soap drifted faintly from her hair."My lord Jon," Roslin whispered, her voice barely louder than the river lapping at the hull, "do not let grief consume you. Take care of yourself. Only then can you avenge Lord Eddard. I… I shall wait for your safe return at the Twins."Her eyes, large and soft, lifted to his. For a heartbeat, Jon faltered. She was no great beauty compared to southern ladies, but in this cold, scheming hall, her kindness struck him with unusual force. He recalled what he knew of her fate: Robb's broken betrothal, Edmure's marriage, her weeping at the Red Wedding. A pawn, yet a gentle one.Still, Jon kept to his rule: never underestimate the enemy, never overestimate your own charm. Her words were likely rehearsed, put in her mouth by Walder to soften him. Yet some part of her plea had been true."Thank you, Lady Roslin," Jon said quietly.She fastened the cloak's clasp at his throat. Their faces were scarcely a handspan apart. Her lashes trembled. Jon's heart stirred—not with love, but with the raw awareness of youth, the recognition of closeness.Walder Frey had struck at him twice already with schemes of marriage. Now it was Jon's turn to answer. Only defending was not his way.He remembered, half idly, that Roslin was said to play the harp with skill. And so, when the others turned away, Jon leaned close and sang softly, the tune a scrap from another world:"I've already fallen in love with you, longing to be together…"Roslin froze, her hands still at his cloak. Color flamed across her cheeks."But the gap between us is a distance too wide…"His breath brushed her face as he sang, and she shivered as though struck by a sudden wind."I deceive myself, deceive myself into letting you go…"He stopped there, for he could not recall the rest, but it was enough. For a maiden who had never known courtship, whose days were filled with whispers of duty and obedience, it was as if the ground had shifted beneath her feet. Her pulse beat visibly at her throat, and her lips parted in silence."Lady Roslin," Jon said, stepping back, "I hope we meet again."He bowed, then turned and strode for the gangplank, leaving her behind with her hand still lifted as though to catch him.From the dock, Roslin stood rooted in her blue gown, her chestnut hair stirring in the breeze. She looked like a statue carved in longing.In the ship's cabin, one of Walder's plump, sour-faced sons leaned close to Jon with a smirk. "It seems my sister is reluctant to part with you."Jon glanced back at Roslin. He said nothing, but his expression shifted—affection, regret, decision—all in a moment, before he turned away. His song had not been for romance alone. If Roslin believed herself cherished, perhaps she would pass him messages, small scraps of knowledge from inside the Twins. In this game, even a Frey maiden's sighs could become a weapon.The plump man introduced himself with no small pride. "My name is Rhaegar."Jon almost choked. Rhaegar? To share a name with his father's true blood, with the lost prince of dragon's song? The man before him was no prince. His belly bulged like a sack of flour, his legs were spindly, and his head tapered to a point like a candle stub. His breath smelled faintly of sour milk."This is my son, Robert," Rhaegar Frey went on, pointing to a pale boy of thirteen standing shyly on deck. "The lad is frail, but clever. He will serve you as squire. See that he learns."Jon inclined his head. "I will do my best."So the Freys bound him tighter still—gift, bride, squire. The net closed strand by strand.The ship cut swiftly down the river. Within Frey lands the fields still grew, peasants tending crops with cautious normalcy. But once they passed into the Riverlands, the scars of war appeared like burns upon flesh. Charred farmsteads dotted the hills, blackened ruins where houses had stood. Orchards lay hacked apart, their stumps jutting like broken teeth. The smell of ash lingered on the wind.Jon's jaw tightened. Lords and knights waged war with banners flying, yet it was the common folk who bled. Kings taxed them, armies trampled them, and no one cared so long as gold and grain still flowed.This realm has no true monarch, Jon thought bitterly. Only petty kings fattened on suffering. A king should guard his people, not devour them.But then he checked himself. Dreams of uniting the Seven Kingdoms were dangerous. First things first: Robb must be dissuaded from donning a crown too soon. For once he was King in the North, no alliance could save them, and the North would stand against the world.That night, as the ship sailed under a sky of countless stars, a shout came from above."Lord Jon! Come see!"Robert Frey's thin voice cracked with excitement. Jon and his father emerged from the cabin. Sailors crowded the deck, pointing skyward with trembling hands.Across the heavens stretched a wound of fire. A blazing red line cut from east to west, bright enough to stain the river with its reflection. It was as though some god had clawed open the firmament, leaving a trail of blood.Gasps filled the air."Disaster," whispered one sailor, dropping to his knees. "The gods send disaster.""The Seven preserve us!" cried another. Soon half the crew was kneeling, hands clasped, voices rising in frantic prayer.Robert clung to his father's sleeve, eyes wide. "What is it, Father? What is that?"Rhaegar Frey licked his lips. "A comet. That's what the maesters call it. I've seen drawings of them in the books—white, sometimes blue. But red…" He shook his head, unease plain on his face.He turned to Jon. "And you, my lord? What do you think?"Jon's gaze never wavered from the streak of crimson fire. His heart beat heavy. He knew. He knew too much.A beggar king across the sea had already died with molten gold poured over his head. A khal of the Dothraki lay dead by his wife's hand. And that same wife—Daenerys Stormborn—had walked into fire and emerged with three living dragons, the first hatched in nearly two hundred years.The red comet was her herald. The world had shifted. Magic stirred again.But Jon only said, his voice steady, "It is… astonishing."Rhaegar nodded, half relieved, half confused. The sailors wailed their prayers louder.Jon remained silent, his thoughts burning like the comet itself.The captive woman's words echoed in him: the whole world has disappeared.Dragons. Magic. Fire and blood.The world was waking, and nothing would be the same again.Jon clenched his hands upon the railing. When he returned from Riverrun, he would seek the Mountains of the Moon. Whatever secrets the tribes hinted at, whatever treasures they guarded, he would uncover them. For if dragons truly flew again, and magic returned to the world, then the wars of lords and kings were but shadows compared to what was coming.
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