Game of Thrones Iron Stark

Sevens Town's lord finished treating Ser Rodrik and personally escorted him north to Winterfell. They brought the dead assassin with them.

The old lord was older than Ned and knew the old stories. When they searched the corpse they found the pale mask, the poisons, and the tools of the trade. There was no doubt.

A Faceless Man from Braavos.

The ride north took half a day. When they reached Winterfell the gates opened, but the castle felt like a grave.

Black banners hung from every tower. People moved in silence, dressed in mourning.

The lord of Sevens Town leaned toward the guard captain as they rode through the gates.

"Who died?"

The man answered quietly. "Lord Eddard's youngest son. Little Rickon."

The old lord's face tightened. He remembered the boy. Eddard had always invited his bannermen to celebrate every new Stark birth.

Inside the great hall Robb sat in his father's chair, gray wolfskin cloak across his shoulders, Ice resting against the throne.

The lord of Sevens Town bowed his head. "My lord. I bring Ser Rodrik back to you… and the man who tried to kill him."

Robb's voice was steady but cold. "You have Winterfell's thanks. My father will hear of this debt."

He studied the dead man's mask and the pale, empty face beneath it.

"A Faceless Man," Robb said. "Someone paid the Many-Faced God to take my brother's life."

The old lord hesitated. "My lord… before you act, you should tell your father. Ravens fly south every day. This is not something the North should face alone."

Robb's jaw tightened. "Luwin already wrote the letter. The raven hasn't left yet."

---

Far to the south, the black brothers rode hard.

They had bypassed Winterfell and gone straight to White Harbor. From there they would take ship to King's Landing. The northern winds would push them south fast.

Jon rode beside Sam. For the first time in years he was seeing the North without snow choking every road.

Green fields. Clear streams. The Kingsroad running straight and wide. Even the wolfswood looked alive compared to the dead white world beyond the Wall.

Sam glanced at him. "You wanted to stop at Winterfell, didn't you? When we passed it you fell back. Looked like you were fighting yourself."

Jon kept his eyes on the road. "It's where I grew up. I wanted to see if Bran was still climbing everything in sight. If Robb's gotten any better with a sword. I even wanted to see Theon, gods help me."

He gave a short, bitter laugh. "But Lady Catelyn is in King's Landing. If I rode in while she was gone it would look like I was sneaking around behind her back. I won't give her that."

Sam was quiet for a moment. "She's not there now. You could have gone in."

"That's the problem," Jon said. "If I go in when she's not there, it proves I'm afraid of her. And I won't live like that."

He didn't know that four-year-old Rickon Stark was already ash, scattered in the wolfswood with the rest of the Stark dead who were not lords.

---

On the Dothraki sea Daenerys tried again.

She placed the three eggs in the hot coals and laid her hands on them until the tent filled with the smell of burning hair. Nothing happened. The eggs stayed cold and dead.

She sat alone afterward, staring at them.

Two handmaids entered with food and wine. Doreah and Irri helped her bathe, one scrubbing her back while the other worked the knots from her shoulders.

"The water isn't hot enough," Daenerys said. "But if it were any hotter you two would burn."

The girls smiled nervously.

"You are the Unburnt, Khaleesi. The last dragon. Stormborn."

Daenerys let them rinse her hair. "Where is Drogo?"

The handmaids exchanged a glance.

"He rode out with the bloodriders. They went south to raid the lamb men."

Daenerys frowned. "The Lhazareen?"

"Yes. The sheep people. They are peaceful. They raise goats and sheep. The Dothraki have always hunted them."

Daenerys felt a cold knot form in her stomach. She had learned to trust that feeling.

---

Far to the south, in the lands of Lhazar, the lamb men were no longer running.

They had built a village.

Thick iron walls surrounded it. Every man, woman, and child wore sheepskins and sheep-head hoods. Some carried bells around their necks. They looked like upright sheep that had learned to speak and fight.

An old Lhazareen man stood before the village elder, tears in his eyes.

"Village Chief… if not for you, the horse men would have killed us all."

The elder leaned on a wooden staff. A tuft of grass was tucked behind one ear of his sheep-head hood. Round spectacles sat on his nose.

"We are all sheep," the elder said calmly. "Sheep must help each other. The grass is wide enough for everyone. But the horse men will not leave us in peace. So we will no longer be easy meat."

He turned to a younger man in full sheep-leather armor, a bell hanging from his neck.

"Happy Sheep. Are the traps ready?"

"Ready, Village Chief. Enough to make them regret ever coming here. Boiling Sheep is waiting for them personally."

The elder nodded once, eyes sharp behind the glasses.

"Then let the horse men come. This time the lambs bite back."