Chapter 57

The heavy iron gates of the Dreadfort closed behind us with a loud, echoing thud.

Theon Greyjoy adjusted his fur-lined cloak, his face twisted in a bitter scowl as he guided his horse down the frost-covered road. "The Bastard sends his maester in his place?" he snorted. "A gracious host."

I was walking parallel to the vanguard, my paws silent on the frozen earth. Hearing the ironborn's complaints, I deliberately altered my path. I stepped out from the treeline, shifting effortlessly into his horse's left blindspot.

The intense, ambient wave of my heat washed over him before he even registered my presence. Theon gasped, violently jerking his reins as his horse whinnied and danced sideways, nearly tossing him straight into a snowdrift.

I walked past his panicked mount to take the lead.

Theon fought to steady his horse, his face flushing crimson with embarrassment and frustration. "I hate this beast," he spat under his breath, drawing a brief, tired smirk from Robb.

Days turned into weeks as the Kingsroad pushed us ever northward.

Then, the horizon changed into a solid, impossible line of white.

I came to a dead halt. The Wall. Seven hundred feet of solid, ancient ice stretching from the eastern sea to the western mountains. It blotted out the sky, a monolith of frozen magic that made the air itself taste brittle and sharp. For a creature composed of fire and heat, it was an offense to nature.

I stood perfectly still, my glowing amber eyes locked onto the colossal structure, feeling the sheer weight of the magic buried within the ice.

Behind me, the crunching of boots and hooves announced the arrival of the column. A grizzled Northern spearman pulled his horse to a stop beside me, his breath pluming in the freezing air as he stared up at the ice.

"Never gets smaller," the old spearman muttered.

"Not even after twenty years."

High atop the wooden walkways of Castle Black, the biting wind tore at the heavy black cloaks of the Night's Watch men.

"Riders!" the watcher called.

"South road!"

Another brother leaned over the wall.

"Stark banners!"

Jon Snow hurried up the wooden steps, his hands gripping the freezing timber of the railing. He squinted into the glaring white distance, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had feared wildlings, or worse, mutineers. But as the column drew closer, the wind caught the banners, unfurling the grey direwolf of House Stark.

Jon's breath hitched. "Robb?" he muttered.

He almost laughed.

"Gods..."

The southern gates of Castle Black swung open.

The courtyard, usually filled with the dreary drills of sullen recruits, came to a complete standstill. Two hundred hardened Northern men rode into the yard, their armor clinking in the frigid air. Robb Stark dismounted, his boots hitting the slushy ground.

Jon was already running across the yard. The two brothers collided in a fierce, desperate embrace, clapping each other on the back, their heavy furs doing nothing to muffle their joyous laughter.

Standing a few paces away, Ser Alliser Thorne watched the display. His mouth twisted into a bitter, resentful scoff. He despised the bastard Snow, but Thorne was a pragmatist. He kept his sharp tongue behind his teeth, carefully masking his disdain as his dark eyes tallied the two hundred armed men backing the young Lord of Winterfell.

At the base of the Lord Commander's tower, Jeor Mormont stood with his hands resting on his sword belt, his thick white beard blowing in the wind. He watched the Stark boys reunite with a solemn, weary relief, grateful for the sudden influx of Northern steel.

Robb pulled back from Jon, scanning the crowded courtyard, his brow furrowing.

Robb's smile faded.

"Where is he?"

Grey Wind lifted his head.

Robb turned toward the gate.

"Leave it open."

The black brothers paused, leaning against the heavy timber, exchanging confused glances.

A grey blur trotted through the entrance. Grey Wind stepped into the courtyard, shaking the snow from his coat and taking a seat near Robb.

"You brought Grey Wind."

Jon smiled.

"And Lady..."

The words died in Jon's throat.

From the snowy road outside, I swaggered into Castle Black, my six-foot frame towering over the guardsmen. My thick cream fur radiated a wave of intense, suffocating heat that instantly began melting the frost off the nearby weapon racks, turning the slush beneath my paws to water.

The men of the Night's Watch froze, their eyes wide with absolute, paralyzing dread. They stumbled backward, holding their breath to give me a wide berth.

I ignored them. I walked slowly across the courtyard, my heavy claws clicking deliberately against the wet stone, making a straight line for Robb and Jon.

Ser Alliser Thorne happened to be standing directly in my path.

The bitter Master at Arms stiffened, his hand instinctively dropping to his sword hilt. He lifted his chin, trying to hold his ground out of sheer, stubborn pride. But as I closed the distance, my glowing amber eyes locked onto his. The wave of heat hit him in the chest.

"Seven bloody hells..."

Thorne's arrogant sneer vanished. His face drained of all color, his survival overrode his pride. With his hand on his sword, and he took a quick, unsteady step aside, pressing himself back to let me pass.

Near the stairs, Lord Commander Mormont's eyes widened to the size of saucers, his jaw dropping slightly into his beard. Even his raven, perched on the balcony above, let out a startled squawk and flapped its wings wildly.

"...By all the gods."

The entire fortress was dead silent as I stopped directly in front of Jon Snow.

Jon stared.

"...Red?"

The name came out little more than a whisper.

He remembered a shaggy hound sleeping beneath Lord Eddard's table.

This...

This could not be that same beast.

Yet the amber eyes were unchanged.

When the great head settled gently against his chest, Jon let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"You've grown," he said softly.

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