Summer was just starting in Ironpine, and the change was easy to notice.
Spring's chill still persisted in the shadows, but now the sun warmed the ground and turned the pines bright green. Smoke rose from chimneys, smelling of bread and pine. Chickens pecked at the dirt. Barefoot children ran through the grass. Insects hummed around the forest… waking up for the season.
Ironpine was still a small village tucked among the trees, far from big castles or busy roads. But lately, things were starting to change.
More and more people were gathering there.
Every few weeks, the Weir-Grip healers came to Ironpine. They didn't treat people in Winterfell, Torrhen's Square, or other large towns. They traded in those places but offered healing only in villages like Ironpine, where people needed help but couldn't afford proper treatment.
The old barn in Ironpine… once used for hay and animals, was now known across much of the North as a place to get healed. It was crowded again, filled with people from far-off villages, lonely farms, and small forest clans. They slept on straw, leaned against the beams, and traded stories about the healers and their medicines. These were people who helped anyone and asked for little in return.
Five men stood among the crowd. They didn't quite fit in, but no one seemed to notice.
They showed up two weeks ago, acting like travelers in need of help. Their clothes looked old, their faces were dirty, and they moved like tired wanderers, but their eyes were alert, and their silence appeared forced.
This man worked for the Citadel, trained since childhood to erase knowledge, silence threats, and keep wisdom under the Citadel's control. Their order had no name. Every Archmaester denied they existed, but these men handled matters where the Citadel could not be involved.
Now they sat in a distant corner of the barn, partly hidden behind hay bales, blending in with the people waiting for healing.
They had picked up plenty from this spot.
The Weir-Grip healers stayed away from big towns. They only helped people in small villages like Ironpine, where no maester watched, and no lord got involved. They spent one night in the barn, then vanished back into the North.
The spies listened to every whisper, watched every traveler, and gathered every rumor, waiting for a chance to deal with this threat before it grew out of control.
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Corwyn was forty-seven, but he carried his age in a strange way. He was thin and narrow-shouldered, with soft brown hair turning silver at the sides. He looked like someone who preferred to stay unnoticed. His pale blue eyes hardly ever blinked, a habit from years of watching others.
He had a limp. He dragged his left foot a bit, a sign of an old injury from pretending to be a pirate among the Ironborn. He had spent time on their ships, drank their strong ale, listened to their stories, and quietly guided their plans toward his organization's goals.
He used to think he understood how things worked. Now he knew he was wrong.
With each mission, every secret found and erased, and every coded message, he saw more of the world and more of the truth. The group he worked for was only a small piece of something much larger, a shadow of a shadow. And the Citadel was somehow involved.
He figured this out slowly, like rot spreading under floorboards. A phrase here, a symbol there, a task that only made sense if you understood who really benefited.
And with that came another realization... he and his colleagues weren't trusted agents. They were just tools.
Tools meant to be used and discarded.
Corwyn believed he had survived this long only because his record was perfect... missions finished, targets eliminated. He was one of the few old agents who were still useful. But he wasn't naïve. He knew his name was already on a quiet list somewhere, a list of men who knew too much and would soon be removed. He could already picture his own end… killed in an alley, poisoned at supper, found floating in a canal, or simply not waking up. He was so cautious now that even going to relieve himself felt like a ritual.
And he knew, with a cold certainty, that his time was running out.
Corwyn watched the men on this mission with him, and the longer he observed them, the more uneasy he felt.
He knew two of them… Alester and Thelric, both in their late twenties, both with friendly faces that made strangers trust them right away. But it was all an act. Corwyn didn't know if those were their real names, and he didn't care. What he did know was enough to make him shudder.
They were psychopaths, not the loud, wild kind, but the quiet ones who smiled while they worked.
He had worked with them once before. The mission was simple... get information from a poor farmer who had invented a clever system of gears and levers. The man was harmless, just someone who tinkered in his free time. His only mistake was being too smart in a world where the wrong people noticed.
Corwyn still remembered the screams.
The farmer's family was tortured in front of him until he gave in. Even after they got what they wanted, there was no mercy. The family was kept alive for days while Alester and Thelric tormented them until their last breaths. The organization didn't care. It probably knew some agents were unstable, but as long as missions were finished, no one asked questions.
The other two men on this mission were closer to Corwyn's age. He didn't know them or their names. Their dead, glassy eyes told him everything he needed to know. They were men who had killed too many times, who no longer felt anything, who would slit a throat as easily as tying a boot.
But this mission was different.
Usually, jobs like this only needed two men, maybe three. They rarely got special equipment, just a poison. It was always something subtle and quiet.
But this time was different.
Now, each man wore a wrist-scorpion.
Corwyn watched the others flex their hands, testing the hidden device under their sleeves. It was small and looked simple, but could fire a needle-thin dart with deadly accuracy. The needles were coated in a paralytic poison strong enough to bring down a trained knight in less than a minute.
This was preparation for a real fight. Corwyn swallowed, his throat dry. These weapons alone could take down ten trained men without much trouble.
Whoever they were after, whoever the organization feared enough to send five armed agents, they were not ordinary folk.
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Summer had reached the Iron Islands, too… but it seemed different from the green lands… the sun was high, making the sea shine like hammered silver, but the wind still carried salt and cold. Blacktyde Island was rugged and harsh in the sunlight, with dark cliffs, narrow black-sand beaches, and hills covered in coarse grass bent by the wind.
Blacktyde Island… Salt Mouth, the island's only real port, clung to the shoreline like a stubborn barnacle.
Weathered grey timber houses leaned together… their roofs patched with driftwood and tar. Nets hung drying between posts. The air brimmed with the smell of fish, brine, and seaweed. Seabirds circled overhead, calling as they dove for scraps near the docks.
The port was busy today.
Dozens of small fishing boats bobbed in the water as their crews unloaded the morning's catch. But everyone in the harbor watched two longships at the docks… lean, dark vessels with carved prows and oars still dripping seawater.
They were raiding ships, and it was clear they had come back empty. Still, the men on board were smiling.
Some laughed, some wept, and a group knelt on the shore, huddled together, praying and mumbling like men who had survived something terrible. A few cried openly, clutching the sand as if grateful just to feel it under their hands.
Baelor Blacktyde stood at the edge of the dock with two guards, watching the scene as anger and confusion churned inside him.
He was twenty-five, tall but not broad, with a lean build from spending more time on decks and cliffs than in training yards. His shoulders were narrow and his frame wiry. His deep brown hair was tied back with leather, though the sea breeze kept pulling strands loose. His skin was pale and wind-burned, like most Ironborn, and his sharp grey-blue eyes showed the careful intelligence of someone who knew the sea could kill him at any moment.
He wore a dark leather jerkin with iron studs, a salt-stained cloak fastened at his shoulder, and boots patched more times than he could count. He wasn't lord yet... his father, Alton Blacktyde, still held that title. But he had been sent to find out why two raiding ships had come back empty-handed.
House Blacktyde survived on fishing and trade. They weren't rich or powerful, and they didn't want to anger the North. But pressure from other Ironborn houses had forced Alton to send a raiding party to the northern shores.
And now this… men coming back with no plunder and no captives.
Baelor watched them, grown men and hardened raiders, shaking like children who had seen ghosts. He didn't know what to think.
Harald Blackwave and Rothar Fen saw Baelor waiting on the shore before they stepped onto the dock. The two captains exchanged a brief, heavy look, the kind men share when they know trouble is coming and have no choice but to face it.
Harald stepped down first.
He was thirty-four, tall but not imposing, with wiry strength from years spent on decks. His hair was a tangled mass of sun-bleached brown, and a thin scar ran from his jaw to his collarbone, a reminder of a boarding axe that had come too close years ago. His eyes were stormy grey, sharp and disciplined, always watching and calculating. Harald's reputation was built on order... the Dark Gull was run tighter than most warships twice its size, and every man aboard knew it.
Beside him, Goren, his left hand, walked beside him.broader and heavier, with shoulders like a bull's and a face carved from stone. His beard was thick and black, braided with bits of driftwood and bone. He rarely spoke, but when he did, men listened. His presence alone kept the Dark Gull's crew in line. Even now, as he walked toward Baelor, his expression was unreadable, but his eyes kept moving across the beach, always assessing and wary.
Rothar Fen followed a moment later… he was a few years older than Harald… sea had aged him in its own way. His skin was weathered, his hair a wild mane of wind-whipped copper streaked with early grey. His face was long and sharp, with a nose bent from an old break. Rothar was known across the Iron Islands for his deep knowledge of the northern shores. He could read a coastline as easily as a septon reads scripture. The Foam Loon was the fastest ship in Blacktyde's service because Rothar knew every current, hidden cove, and reef that could swallow a ship.
Maelor, his left hand, walked beside him.
Maelor was a quiet man, lean and pale, with eyes like cold steel. He moved smoothly and almost silently, as if he had learned to walk without making a sound. His hair was cropped short, unusual for an Ironborn, and his hands always hovered near the knives at his belt. Maelor was the shadow to Rothar's knowledge, the one who handled the dirty work no one else could stomach.
The four men walked toward Baelor together… passing their own crews scattered across the black-sand beach. These were hardened Ironborn… men who had raided since they were old enough to hold an oar… now they sat laughing, crying, praying, or staring blankly at the sea. Some clutched sand as if grateful just to feel land beneath them. Others whispered to the Drowned God with trembling lips.
Harald's jaw tightened. Rothar looked away. Goren and Maelor shared a brief, grim look. They understood Baelor's anger, but they also understood their crews.
They were still a ways from Baelor when he finally snapped.
His voice cut across the beach, sharp enough to make even the seabirds scatter from the rocks.
He pointed, trembling and angry, at one of the raiders who was laughing and playing in the sand like a child.
"Who here can explain what in the Drowned God's name is happening!"
He wasn't speaking to anyone in particular… he wanted everyone to hear him. His voice carried over the black-sand shore, the fishing boats, and the two longships that had come back empty and shamed. But his eyes stayed fixed on the two captains walking toward him.
When they finally reached Baelor, both captains gave him a casual bow, the kind Ironborn gave only out of duty. Baelor stared at them, jaw tight, waiting for answers.
Harald spoke first, his voice steady but his eyes dark. "They're just happy to be back."
Baelor's expression darkened, but Harald went on. "Most of my men nearly went mad when we tried to go through that... thing."
"The mist? You're telling me you were afraid of something as simple as mist?"
His fists clenched. His jaw twitched. He looked ready to hit someone.
Rothar ignored the anger, treating Baelor like a child having a tantrum.
"It's not just mist. Both our crews went into the mist, but inside, there was no wind. So we rowed, but every time, we came out at the same place we entered. We tried to go around it, but the waves were too strong, too rough for our ships. We had to turn back and try again through the mist."
Harald's face tightened as he remembered the smell and his men's panic. Grown men had lost control, so scared they soiled themselves. If he didn't hold responsibility as the captain... he was sure to be one of them.
"And when you tried to go through the mist again?" Baelor scoffed. "What, were your men too weak to row?"
Harald swallowed, his voice quieter now. "I'm not sure what it was, but something lives in that mist." The beach went silent.
"Something was moving in the water… shapes, voices. They asked us to come to them. To join them."
Baelor Blacktyde already knew about the mist, and he knew his captains were capable... in truth, he didn't doubt them. Something was happening, and other Ironborn houses knew the truth about the mist but still pushed them to raid Bear Island. Someone was playing a game with House Blacktyde, and that made him angry.
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By the time the sun rose above the treetops… the wagon was loaded… and warm early summer light spread across Weir-Grip. The air carried the smell of fresh earth… settlement buzzed with people getting ready a wagon for another healing journey.
Strike, as usual, acted like he didn't want to go.
The big bronze-coated horse stamped his hooves, tossed his head, and snorted like he hated being just a way to get around. But everyone knew the truth. He loved traveling, loved the attention, and especially loved the snacks he got on the road.
In six months, he had grown another head taller, his frame thickening until he looked less like a horse and more like a creature from legend, a war mount from old stories.
This time, Erick wasn't meant to join the journey.
He had planned to sit this one out and let the others handle it. The people of Weir-Grip had become confident, skilled, and capable. They could travel and treat people without him now, and had already done so for a few moons.
The route had been planned a month ago, carefully mapped to avoid bandit settlements and patrols from northern lords. Erick always checked twice, just to be sure.
Today, he checked again, and that's when he saw them... five red dots in Ironpine. Red tags were only given to confirmed threats... bandits who had already decided to attack travelers, killers who stalked the roads, men who had spilled blood before and were ready to do it again.
But these five weren't on the road… they were in the middle of the settlement, mingling with the villagers.
Erick's stomach tightened... something was wrong.
He could change the route, could avoid Ironpine completely.
But the more he thought about it, the clearer it became… this wasn't random… wasn't a coincidence… it was targeted... deliberate placement… a waiting trap… aimed at Weir-Grip.
He stared at the map, and everything clicked into place... the timing, the location, the pattern of movement. Someone wanted them. Someone had sent men just for them.
That was why he made his decision. At the last moment, he stepped in and changed the team.
Elira was replaced by Mora, Galen by himself, and Dalla joined as the third.
No one questioned it. No one argued.
By now, everyone in Weir-Grip believed one thing... whatever Erick decided was the right call.
So, under the warm summer sun, with Strike pawing at the earth and the wagons ready to go, Erick climbed aboard. This time, he wasn't going as a healer, but as a guardian. Something waited in Ironpine, and he meant to face it head-on.
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Winter Town basked in a rare stretch of real warmth. The sun was high and bright, pouring golden light over the stone houses and packed earth streets… it was easily twenty degrees, warm enough for people to walk without cloaks, warm enough for the smell of baking bread to drift lazily through the air, and even warm enough for the guards to loosen their collars.
Ned Stark walked beside his wife… Catelyn… with their guards leading the way and Ser Rodrik Cassel at Ned's shoulder.
It was supposed to be a pleasant stroll… a small effort to ease the quiet strain that had grown between them.
But Ned's thoughts were far from light.
Long summers meant long winters. And this summer… this one felt like it would stretch on and on. The warmth on his skin only reminded him of the cold that would one day follow.
Ned glanced at Catelyn. She looked beautiful in the sunlight… her auburn hair glowing like copper and her blue eyes clear as a still lake.
But beneath that calm, Ned sensed some kind shift… she was changing… something he couldn't name.
When he first brought his nephew home, claiming him as his bastard… Catelyn had tried to accept it.
She truly tried… he remembered her sitting beside Jon's cradle… singing soft songs to soothe him… he remembered thinking that perhaps… in time… they would all find peace.
But lately, in just a few moons, she had changed.
She had grown colder toward Jon. More rigid. More… brittle. Ned felt it every time she looked at the boy.
And afterward came the moment he could not forget.
Half a moon ago, boys were playing with wooden toys in the main hall.
It was a harmless scuffle, the kind all children have.
But when Catelyn saw Jon pulling on Robb's toy, something broke loose in her. She struck the boy... not a quick correction or a mother's instinct, but a blow filled with a peculiar, frightening fury.
If Ned had not seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed his gentle wife capable of such a thing.
He had reprimanded her, and she had looked genuinely sorry. But the anxiety remained. Something was wrong. Something he could not yet understand.
Rodrik inched closer, lowering his voice.
"This is the place, my lord… where did I buy that skin salve. My wife swears it's the best thing I've ever bought her."
Ned blinked out of his thoughts and looked around. They had stopped in front of a small shop squeezed between a cooper's stall and a weaver's. Its windows were lined with jars... creams, salves, tinctures, and odd little pots sealed with wax. The warm air gave off the scent of herbs and oils.
The shopkeeper saw them and nearly stumbled in his rush to greet them. He bowed deeply.
"My lord Stark! My lady! An honor. Please... allow me to show you our finest goods."
He spoke quickly and eagerly, describing creams for dry skin, salves for cracked hands, ointments for burns, and medicines for aches. Ned had heard of these traveling healers, the Weir-Grip folk who wandered the North, selling their wares cheaply and healing wherever they could. His reports spoke well of them.
Catelyn stepped closer to the display, curiosity softening her expression.
"Give me your skin care salves," Ned interrupted her curiosity... "And the other body care products."
"Right away, my lord!"
Ned frowned slightly. "What of instructions?"
"Each jar has a paper attached to the bottom… my lord…"
The shopkeeper lifted one… peeling off a small folded note… "Simple instructions, easy to read, even those with little learning can follow them."
Ned unfolded the paper. The writing was clear, plain, and direct. No maester's flourishes. No cryptic terms. Just simple guidance meant for ordinary folk.
It struck him as… thoughtful.
The sort of thing healers would do if they truly cared for the people they treated.
He handed the jars to Catelyn, who accepted them with a small, genuine smile.
They continued their stroll through the warm, sunlit streets of Winter Town.