I've run out of prewritten chapters but oh well.
Winterfell 282 AC:
pov Torrhen Snow
Torrhen found his brother alone in the godswood, as he often was these days, pacing before the heart tree with that familiar weight on his shoulders. The same one Torrhen remembered seeing in the future—though now, it seemed heavier, less numb.
"Eddard," Torrhen called softly.
His brother turned, brow furrowed. His eyes—Torrhen had never realized how haunted they looked until he'd seen worse in photographs. The North aged its sons quickly.
"Torrhen," Ned said, voice calm but weary. "What are you doing out here? You should be resting."
"I need to speak with you. It's important."
Ned studied him for a moment, then gave a nod. "Go on."
Torrhen hesitated, if only to make what came next more believable. "I've… been having dreams."
Ned tilted his head. "Dreams?"
"Not normal ones," Torrhen said, stepping closer to the weirwood. "They feel… real. Like I'm watching things that haven't happened yet. But they will." He looked up at the carved face in the tree, feeling the weight of his own words. "I think they're greendreams."
Eddard's expression changed subtly—disbelief, concern, and something else. Curiosity. He didn't dismiss Torrhen, which was a good start.
"What kind of dreams?"
"Of war," Torrhen said honestly. "Of fire and blood and cities burning. I saw you riding south, to war. I saw Lyanna… in a bed of blood. I saw a tower by a lake. She was screaming, and no one came." He met Eddard's eyes. "She died."
Eddard paled slightly, a flicker of pain flashing across his face.
"And the child," Torrhen continued, carefully. "The one she carries… He's important. I don't know how or why, only that he matters. He must be protected. But she'll die if no one is there to help her. And the child will be lost to those who would see him dead."
Eddard turned fully, now visibly tense. "How do you know she's with child?"
Torrhen didn't blink. "The dreams. I don't know how to explain it. I just… know."
A long silence followed.
"I want to go with you," Torrhen said. "As your squire. You'll need one, and I can help. And… I need to be there, with Lyanna."
"Torrhen—"
"I know I'm young. But you know I'm better with a blade than most boys my age, and I won't slow you down. I'll follow orders. Just—please. If these dreams mean anything at all, then I have to be there."
Ned looked away, staring into the snow-dusted branches. "Dreams are a risky thing to put your faith in."
Torrhen nodded. "But they've been right before. Ask Meera Reed's father. Ask old Nan. The green sight is real."
His brother didn't answer for a time. Finally, he said, "If what you say is true, then I cannot ignore it. But I'll speak to Benjen and Lord Manderly before making a decision. I won't take you into a war lightly."
"Fair," Torrhen said. "But don't wait too long. We may not have much time."
Ned stared at him again—longer this time. Searching. Weighing.
"You're not the same boy you were last year," he said quietly.
"No," Torrhen said. "I'm not."
**Scene Break**
pov Maester Walys
The ravens came before dawn, black wings slicing through the pale morning sky. One bore a message sealed with green wax. No sigil. No sender. Only a single, deliberate mark pressed into the wax: the broken link.
Walys recognized it instantly.
He waited until the rookery emptied—waited until the cook's boy left with his grain scraps and the stablehands were off to salt the paths—before he slit the ribbon and unfolded the thin vellum sheet. The handwriting was spare. Cold. Without embellishment.
To Maester Walys, in service at Winterfell.
The disruption has been confirmed. Two anomalies. Unknown mechanism.
Rumours are spreading fast and are threatening our plans.
Contain or eliminate the threat. Use discretion.
The balance must not be disturbed.
He read it twice. Then a third time. And sat.
The fire in the brazier crackled quietly, but the chill seemed to deepen despite it. He stared at the page, his old fingers trembling slightly—not from age, but from memory.
He folded the letter and slipped it into the false bottom of his writing desk.
It explained much.
The girl—Lyarra—had changed. He had seen it plainly. The flush of health that refused to fade. The sudden height. The way her pupils almost shimmered in torchlight. No signs of fever, growth disorder, or imbalance in her humors. Her body had simply… adapted. Beyond what nature allowed.
She should have been week... atleast for some time but no of course she immediately becomes as healthy as any human ever could be.
At first he had dismissed it as a growth spurt, a consequence of grief and adolescence. But then he saw her lift a fully laden grain sack—one that should have required two grown men—and toss it onto the back of a wagon without a wince.
She did not complain of aches, or coughs, or chill. Her appetite had increased slightly, but her energy was boundless. Even the servants had begun to whisper.
And if the girl was changed… what of the boy?
Torrhen had always been observant, clever in ways too sharp for his age. But Walys had seen him in the yard in the months before they left. He had sparred with Eddard—Eddard—and left the older boy panting while he stood unharmed.
"The bastards who lived," they called them now. Word traveled quickly through ravens and rumor alike.
Walys closed his eyes, pressing two fingers against his temple. He had sworn to serve Winterfell. To advise. To heal. But also to watch.
If what the Citadel feared was true, then the twins—reborn or returned or remade—posed a danger to the fragile order of the world. To the old stories that had been carefully trimmed and shaped.
But he would not act in haste.
Torrhen was far to the south, too public now to disappear easily. And Lyarra? She had become cautious. Guarded. He had caught her watching him—studying him, as though trying to guess what he knew.
He would wait.
Winterfell was full of eyes, and he needed more time to understand. If they were monsters, they were well-hidden behind familiar faces. If they were miracles…
Well. The Citadel had no use for miracles especially not now, right when centuries of work were finally coming to fruition. The dragons were long dead and those that had presumed to control them were now at their weakest.
It would need a miracle for the Crownlanders to defeat the alliance of Northerners, Valemen, Rivermen and Stormlanders when Robert eventually caught up with them.
Maester Walys dipped his quill into ink and began to pen his reply.
**Scene Break**
pov Benjen Stark
The courtyard was quieter than it should have been for a noble lady's arrival, but the war had bled many of Winterfell's men south. Still, Catelyn Tully did not lack for dignity as she rode through the gate, her cloak Tully blue, followed by a retinue of servants and guards, her chin high despite the dust of travel. A Tully to her bones.
Benjen Stark stepped forward and bowed as deeply as was proper. "Lady Catelyn," he said, offering a faint smile. "Winterfell welcomes you."
Her eyes softened just slightly. "Lord Benjen. It's good to see a Stark face again." Her voice was even, but he heard the weight of it—worry, grief, perhaps even weariness. Who wouldn't carry such things now?
"Come," he said. "You must be tired. The guest chambers have been readied, and a bath drawn."
She nodded her thanks, dismounted with grace, and took his offered arm as they walked toward the Great Keep. Her guards peeled off toward the stables, and her handmaid whispered off behind them. For a while, they spoke only of mundane things—the weather, the state of the roads, how well her escort had ridden.
But as they reached the high steps leading to the keep, she hesitated.
"Benjen…" Her voice was softer now, and uncertain. He turned to face her, brow slightly raised. "I've… heard things. Since I passed through White Harbor."
He didn't speak. He waited. He'd been raised by his father long enough to know when a silence could speak more than a challenge.
She looked away for a moment, then met his eyes again. "They spoke of… Torrhen and Lyarra. That they died in the winter, and then… didn't. That they live now. Changed."
Benjen's jaw flexed. "Aye. That much is true."
Catelyn was quiet a moment, searching his face. "How?"
"No one knows. We buried them. In the crypts. Or atleast we were doing so..." He looked off toward the godswood, the shadow of the trees just visible through the western window. "But then... they suddenly just.. well I guess you could say they woke up like they had merely been sleeping. Not cold. Not pale. Breathing. And different."
"Different how?"
He smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Lyarra speaks more carefully now, as though measuring her words with a mason's eye and some of the words she uses have changed. She recently said something along the lines of not wanting us to keep all our eggs in one basket whatever that means. And from Ned's letter yesterday her increased height, strength and stamina are mirrored in Torrhen. They call them the bastards who lived you know?"
Catelyn's lips thinned. She looked down, then away. "And what do you call them?"
Benjen was quiet a long moment. "Brother. Sister."
That made her blink. "You speak of them as if they're blessed."
Benjen turned to her now. "What would you call a boy who died of fever, and lived again? Or a girl who fell into her brother's grave weeping and walked out days later stronger than before?"
Her voice turned cold despite itself. "Heathens. I would call them heathens. The Seven do not raise bastards from the dead."
Benjen flinched at the sharpness, but didn't look away. "Perhaps not. But the godswood is older than your Sept. And the Old Gods do not speak in words. They act."
Catelyn drew in a long breath and turned away from him, eyes falling on the distant walls.
They stood in silence. The sun had just begun to dip low in the sky, casting the grey walls of Winterfell in gold.
At last, Catelyn's voice softened. "They frighten me. Those children. What they are. What they mean."
Benjen gave a slow nod. "Me too, sometimes. But they're still my kin. And if they were sent back to life for a reason..." He looked down toward the courtyard, as though seeing ghosts. "Then we'd best hope they choose to stand with us, not against..."
Catelyn folded her arms across her chest. "And if the day comes they must be stopped?"
Benjen's answer came without hesitation. "Then I'll do what must be done. But not a moment before. Besides Torrhen apparently has had a greendream that showed him Lyanna is about to die if we don't hurry south and bastard he may be, he is seemingly very anxious to reach his ailing sister in the south."
They stood together in silence, old gods and new, honor and doubt, two souls standing on a wall between worlds.
**Scene Break**