Whine…!

  The massive stag had only enough time for a single cry before collapsing onto the white snow. Blood from a neck wound, pierced by an arrow, gushed out and stained a patch of snow a deep, visceral red.

  From the distance, a woman in her early twenties spurred her horse forward, gripping a large bow crafted from oak. Following her were ten knights clad in pitch-black armor, embossed with the snow wolf sigil. Tracy Stark, twenty-five years old, was tall with black hair, brown eyes, and skin as white and smooth as the snow of Winterfell. Upon her head rested a crown engraved with the Stark family crest: a snarling direwolf.

  Ser Antony, a warrior over fifty and commander of the Northern Queensguard, vaulted down from his saddle and paced slowly toward the stag’s carcass. He lifted its head, looking into the animal’s lingering eyes of terror, then turned to Tracy. Bowing his head, he remarked, "Your Majesty’s archery is no less formidable than that of a Dothraki rider."

  Tracy Stark, the newly crowned Queen in the North, had been on the throne for exactly two months. She was the fifth sovereign of the North. Since the era when Sansa Stark became the Queen in the North, there had been four reigns, all of them held by women.

  Tracy flashed a triumphant smile at Ser Antony and commanded, "Butcher the stag and bring it back to Winterfell. Tonight, we feast."

  The Queensguard dismounted in unison, drawing daggers from their hips to carve the meat into large slabs, loading them into leather pouches hung from their horses.

  Suddenly, Tracy looked toward the horizon. From the north, a massive flock of ravens swarmed in, their cries shrill and desperate as if fleeing a great calamity. They flew toward Winterfell, cawing in a way that sounded like both agony and rage.

  As the butchering of the ill-fated stag concluded, a rider from the direction of Winterfell approached at a frantic gallop.

  "My Queen, you must return to Winterfell at once. An envoy from the Church of the Old Gods awaits," the rider said, reining in his horse and bowing as he reached Tracy.

  Tracy frowned, glancing toward Winterfell. "An envoy of the Old Gods?" she murmured.

  Ser Antony mounted his horse and whispered, "It has been a long time since an envoy of the Church appeared at Winterfell. It must be a matter of grave importance. Please, we must return."

  "Let us move," Tracy ordered, spurring her horse toward Winterfell. The Queensguard quickly followed, forming a disciplined rank close behind her.

  The troop surged through the city gates. To the left, a five-meter-tall stone monument stood imposing against the sky. Rows of words were carved into the stone in a majestic script:

  Winterfell: Mankind’s final bastion against the invasion of the Army of the Dead. Honor to the fallen. Honor to Brandon Stark—Protector of Westeros, Pope of the Old Gods, He Who Knows Past, Present, and Future. Honor to Arya Stark—The Night King Slayer.

  The doors to the Great Hall were pushed open by two guards, clearing the path for Tracy and Ser Antony. High above, the Wolf Throne sat at the center. The throne—the symbol of power for the Northern monarch and House Stark—had been commissioned by Sansa Stark after securing Northern independence. Made of gleaming silver, it depicted a massive direwolf mid-pounce.

  Beside the throne stood a tall figure wearing a wooden mask, as still as a statue. The mask evoked the ancient faces carved into weirwood trees, representing the Old Gods—the ancestral religion of House Stark and the North. However, ever since the Starks took power over Westeros, this religion had grown in influence to become the official faith of the realm.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Tracy walked briskly toward the throne, sat down slowly, and turned her head toward the envoy. The envoy offered a slight bow; behind that mask, his expression was unreadable. Ser Antony stood close by, eyes fixed on the messenger, ready for any threat to Tracy's safety.

  "Your Majesty," the envoy greeted.

  "Welcome to Winterfell. It has been long since the North hosted an envoy of the Old Gods. What brings you to this land of ice?" Tracy spoke with a smile. Despite her youth, her voice carried a surprising weight of experience.

  "I come by order of the Pope. He requests that the Queen mobilize Northern forces to cross the Wall and coordinate with the Night’s Watch to hunt down two very dangerous heretics."

  "Two heretics?" Tracy frowned, turning to Ser Antony, who looked visibly uneasy. The safety of the Queen and the North rested on the shoulders of this seasoned warrior. To hear from a capital envoy that two heretics had slipped into the North made Antony feel a sense of failure.

  "Ser Antony is not to blame, Your Majesty. These two are highly intelligent and possess magic. It is understandable that Northern soldiers were deceived," the envoy added.

  "Heretics... magic... could it be Red Priests?" Tracy’s face turned deathly pale, making her snow-white skin look even more ghostly. Her brown eyes trembled as her hands gripped the wolf-paw armrests of her throne.

  Ser Antony looked as though he might collapse. Red Priests—or "Red Witches"—were figures of absolute terror to the people of Westeros. Legend told of them worshipping dark gods in Asshai, across the Narrow Sea, draining the life force of the living to survive. For hundreds of years, the Church of the Old Gods had waged war against them until they had vanished from Westeros entirely.

  Tracy took a breath to steady herself, then turned to Ser Antony. "Summon the armies of the Great Houses immediately. We hunt these heretics. Also, send ravens to Castle Black; tell the Night’s Watch to scour the lands with every man they have."

  "As you command, Your Majesty," Ser Antony bowed and hurried out to prepare the march.

  Once he was gone, Tracy looked back at the envoy. "Why would Red Priests appear in the North now?"

  "I am not permitted to know all, Majesty. But I believe their presence may be linked to a plot to resurrect the Night King and bring the Long Night back to Westeros. Your responsibility to the realm—and especially to the Church—is heavy," the envoy said carefully.

  "Glory to the Old Gods," Tracy whispered, bowing her head slightly.

  "I ask leave to depart. May Your Majesty remain in good health," the envoy said, stepping down the dais toward the exit.

  "You return to the capital immediately?" Tracy called out.

  The envoy stopped and turned his head slightly. "No. I shall cross the Wall with the soldiers. I must see these heretics captured or killed with my own eyes."

  With that, he walked out.

  Tracy sat in silence on the Wolf Throne, her eyes full of questions as she watched the snowflakes drift past the door.

  "What worries you, sister? My Queen?"

  From the right wing, a young man of eighteen or nineteen appeared. He was tall, clad in a heavy grey bear-skin cloak with a longsword at his hip. His hair was black, long, and curly; a thick beard covered a rugged yet still somewhat boyish face. His dark brown eyes shone brightly as he looked at Tracy.

  Tracy started, then exhaled slowly. "The Pope's envoy coming all this way... this is no small matter, Kenvin. Those two heretics must be extraordinary."

  "And that troubles you?" the boy smiled.

  "I am the Queen, Kenvin! Whatever affects the North affects me," Tracy snapped at her younger brother.

  "Long live the Queen! Forgive me, Your Grace," Kenvin said with a mock-theatrical bow.

  "Stop playing," Tracy rolled her eyes and sighed.

  "You're worried about your throne, aren't you?" Kenvin smiled, stroking the polished silver wolf head of the throne.

  Tracy remained silent. Though she was the Queen in the North, she lacked the true power of a sovereign. She remembered her coronation: she had to travel to the capital, kneel, and receive her title from Pope Brandon. Furthermore, she had to swear fealty to Benelli Stark—the "Rightful King of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the North." It was a bitter pill for Tracy and the North to swallow.

  Sensing his sister’s mood, Kenvin offered a cold comfort: "Since the time of Great-Grandmother Sansa, the North hasn't truly been a kingdom—it's just a vassal with a fancy title. Why let it bother you? We live like monarchs. What matters is that House Stark holds all of Westeros."

  House Stark? Tracy thought of Benelli Stark, the King of Westeros. He bore the name, but they shared no blood. His ancestor, hundreds of years ago, was an adopted son of Brandon Stark who inherited the crown. Since then, that line had ruled as Kings of Westeros. The only thing they shared was the name.

  "But I want to be a King—a true King," Tracy said, her gaze hardening as she looked at Kenvin.

  Kenvin showed no fear at her intensity. On the contrary, his eyes sparked with a strange excitement. A smile spread across his lips as he gently patted the silver direwolf.

  "You are the King," he whispered. "The King in the North."