The skies over Eldrath darkened with a murder of crows, their wings casting flickering shadows over the citadel's high towers and jagged walls. They came in swarms—far more than natural—and their cries echoed like omens across the marble courtyards and rose gardens, waking superstitions long buried beneath layers of stone and pride. The old maids muttered prayers under their breath, and the kitchen boys drew signs of warding on the inside of their aprons. Even the guards on the southern wall turned their eyes upward more often than outward.
The crows knew. The crows always knew.
Within the Stone Keep, Prince Ned Stark stood in the Hall of Echoes, a place carved from mountain rock and draped in the tapestries of centuries. His father's blood still lingered there—in the grooves of the sacrifice stone, beneath the fresh layers of holy ash, inside the very scent of the air. Incense couldn't mask it. Time wouldn't erase it. His father's death lived here, and now, so did the crown.
The crown felt heavier each day. Not just its metal and gems, but its history—its ghosts, its expectations, its curse. His head ached with the weight of it, though he hadn't yet been officially crowned. The priests said the coronation must wait for the next lunar convergence, a holy sign from the gods. But the realm didn't wait for stars.
"The people fear what they do not understand," said Lord Eldric quietly beside him. The old knight stood with hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the throne at the end of the hall—a jagged seat carved from blackwood and rimmed with blades taken from fallen kings. "And they do not understand you, my prince."
Ned remained silent. He was seventeen, newly fatherless, and the gods had not spoken to him since the sacrifice. Their silence was as cold and deep as the crypts beneath Eldrath.
"The court needs to see strength," Eldric continued. "They whisper behind their sleeves. They question your blood, your resolve, your faith. They wonder if the gods favor you at all."
"Do you?" Ned asked, his voice barely audible.
Eldric turned toward him, his one eye narrowing. "I served your father as a boy. I watched him burn his hand in the fires of the pyre and thank the gods for it. I fought beside him at Grey Hollow when the Eastern Lords rebelled. I saw him weep once, for your mother. That is what made him strong—not his crown."
Ned nodded slowly. "Then strength must be proven. And quickly."
A loud knock shattered the silence.
A steward entered, bowing low. "Your Highness, the Queen requests your presence in the Observatory. A raven has arrived from the north."
The Observatory was a round tower of skyglass and copper, rising high above the rest of the keep like a watchful eye of the gods. Ned climbed its winding stairs with Eldric and found Queen Matilda standing in the middle of the chamber, holding a parchment in one hand and a goblet of mead in the other.
Her eyes flicked toward them but did not soften. She had changed since the sacrifice—more steel than woman now, more statue than mother. Her hair was bound in tight braids, her robes stitched with silver moons and woven blades. She held the same regal authority as always, but colder, as if some vital warmth had been lost in the fire that took her husband.
"From Lord Roderic of Frostmarch," she said, handing Ned the parchment. "Read it aloud."
Ned unfolded the parchment and read in a steady voice:
To the Crown of Eldrath,
The dead have risen from the Black Pines. At first, we thought them brigands wearing flesh-masks. But no blade stops them, no fire turns them back. They do not bleed. They do not speak. They simply come—night after night, in greater numbers. My son was taken. He returned three nights later, half-decayed, and tried to bite the hound before falling still.
We are holding the last gate at Raventhorn. If aid does not come within seven days, the North will fall.
—Lord Roderic of House Falebane.
The chamber was quiet but for the wind against the glass.
"Seven days," Queen Matilda repeated. "Seven days before the North is lost."
"And then the dead will march south," Eldric added grimly. "They'll come through the Low Pass, into Silverfield, then down into Eldrath. We have seen this before. Long ago. The Age of Ash is not just a name—it is a warning."
Ned folded the parchment and set it on the map table. "Summon the High Council. At once."
By midday, the Great Council had assembled in the Tower of Shields, a circular chamber where the banners of the Twelve Noble Houses hung in heavy folds. Lords and Ladies, some cloaked in velvet and gold, others in furs and leathers, filled the chamber with low murmurs and veiled glances. The scent of oils and ink, sweat and old parchment clung to the air.
Lord Hrothgar of the Iron Hills was the first to speak. A bear of a man with a voice like grinding stone, he slammed a fist against the table. "We send no men north. Let the Frostmarch fall. It has always been too cold and too wild to be worth saving."
"That's treason," barked Lady Elenya of House Wyrmshade, her violet cloak billowing. "The North guards the realm's edge. If we let it fall, the dead will come through unchallenged."
"They'll come for you first," growled Hrothgar. "Not us. The Iron Hills are sealed behind mountains. We have no stake in this war."
"You think the dead stop for mountains?" Eldric scoffed. "You think they care for stone or steel or flags? They come for the living, Hrothgar. For the warmth in your chest and the light in your eyes."
"And how many men do we even have?" asked Lord Cedric of House Vanlor, his hand trembling around a goblet. "Half our knights guard the southern coasts. The treasury bleeds coin daily. War will drain what little strength we have left."
"Then we must be strong now," Ned said suddenly, rising. The room fell silent. "We have no time for delay. No time for cowardice. Every day we hesitate is another gate lost, another soul consumed. The Age of Ash begins not with a battle, but with a choice. We must choose life."
The silence held for a long moment. Then Queen Matilda spoke. "The gods require sacrifice. Let us offer them one."
The council turned toward her.
"Choose a city," she said, her voice like frost. "Burn it. Offer the ashes to the gods, and ask for their favor."
Ned's breath caught. "A city?"
"The gods demand blood, do they not?" Matilda stepped forward, eyes locked on her son. "If they do not speak, we must shout louder."
"No," Ned said, the word escaping before he could weigh it. "I won't burn innocents to buy faith. That's not what Father would have wanted."
Her gaze didn't waver. "Then you are not yet your father."
Eldric broke the silence. "We'll muster what soldiers we can. Five thousand from the midlands, perhaps a few hundred from the Eastern reach. It won't be enough to turn the tide, but it may hold Raventhorn for now."
Ned's knuckles whitened. "And I'll go with them."
The room erupted.
"You cannot!" Matilda snapped.
"You're the heir!" shouted Lord Cedric. "You leave this city and we are leaderless—vulnerable."
"I am not yet crowned," Ned said. "And I will not sit in stone halls while others die for my inaction. I must become the king the gods expect. Not wait for it."
That night, beneath a moon wreathed in clouds, Ned stood in the temple crypts alone. The pyre had long turned to ash, but his father's sword remained there—Ashbringer, blade of the kings, forged in fire and cooled in godsblood. No one had touched it since the sacrifice.
He stepped forward and gripped the hilt.
It was warm.