Game of Thrones: Lord of the Flames

Sansa Stark left the room with a heavy heart.

In the gardens, snow had accumulated deeply, bending the branches of trees and cloaking the statues in pure white garments.

Winterfell in winter was breathtakingly beautiful. During this season, all the world's colors seemed to retreat, leaving only black, white, and gray.

White towers, white snowflakes, white statues, black shadows, black trees, and the ever-gray skies.

A monochrome world, a pure world—just like the temperament of the Stark's.

Sansa had once despised this monotony, dreaming of escaping to the warmth of the South, the splendor of courtly life, and the vibrant world of many colors.

But after wandering in such a world for years, she realized that Winterfell was where she truly belonged.

She was, after all, a Stark.

Yet now, she was being forced to leave again.

The ravens had brought news of the Wall—a nightmare of a message.

Sansa desperately wished it was just a dream.

The Wall, which had stood in the North for thousands of years, had collapsed?

The White Walkers, creatures from the stories of old nan, had truly returned to the world?

Her mind in turmoil, Sansa stepped into the snow. Her boots left ankle-deep prints in the smooth white surface, but made no sound.

She walked past frost-covered hedges, slender black trees, and crumbling towers, her gaze lingering on each with profound attachment, as if she were trying to imprint them forever in her memory.

The swirling snowflakes kissed her face softly, melting against her skin from the warmth of her body.

Sniffling, Sansa wiped the moisture from her cheeks and prepared to return inside to pack her things.

But just then, a shadow fell over Winterfell.

Startled, she looked up to see the white dragon descending slowly.

"His Majesty, King Caesar!"

Sansa's gloomy mood lifted almost instantly. In the midst of the encroaching winter, only a dragon could bring warmth and hope—and, of course, the man who rode it.

Lifting her skirts, Sansa ran from the Great Keep, panting as she reached the courtyard.

"Good morning, Lady Sansa."

"G-Good morning, Your Majesty," she replied, her cheeks flushed as she curtsied.

Then, with a look of boundless hope, she asked:

"Your Majesty, you've come to save Winterfell, haven't you?"

But the man before her slowly shook his head.

"Apologies, Lady Sansa. I cannot save Winterfell—at least not yet. The White Walkers are advancing too fiercely. Winterfell has neither the troops nor the provisions, and it lacks defensible terrain. It cannot withstand the tide of the dead. I've come to inform you that you must evacuate."

The light in Sansa's eyes visibly dimmed.

"Not even you can save us…"

Seeing the young woman on the verge of tears, Samwell sighed, stepping forward to gently pat her head.

"A fist pulled back is for a stronger strike forward. This retreat is to ensure a stronger counterattack in the future. Trust me, the day will come when we destroy the White Walkers and reclaim the North."

From the strength in his touch, Sansa seemed to draw some courage. Her expression softened as she nodded.

"Yes, I trust you, Your Majesty."

"Good. Now, take me to see Lady Catelyn."

"Of course. My mother is in the hall meeting with the family knights. Please follow me."

Samwell followed Sansa into the Great Keep. Even before they entered the hall, they could hear fierce arguments erupting inside.

"No! I will not leave Winterfell under any circumstances!"

"Exactly! This is our homeland, our domain, and our sworn duty to defend it."

"But the Wall has fallen, the White Walkers are marching south, and Eddard had no choice but to—"

"Apologies, my lady, but while I deeply respect Lord Eddard, he is no longer the Warden of the North. He has no authority to give us orders."

"What about my son, Rickon Stark? He is the Lord of Winterfell."

"Lord Rickon is still a child."

"And what about me?"

The hall fell silent as a powerful voice rang out from the doorway.

All turned to see the young king standing there.

Lady Catelyn Stark, visibly relieved, stepped forward and curtsied.

"Your Majesty, we had no idea you were coming to Winterfell. Please forgive us for not welcoming you properly."

"The situation is urgent; such formalities are unnecessary," Samwell said, waving her off as he walked through the crowd to the high platform.

Rickon Stark, seated on the Weirwood Throne, quickly rose to his feet.

Samwell smiled at the boy but did not take the seat, instead turning to address the gathered crowd.

"I've just returned from the Wall, and no one here knows its state better than I do. The Wall has fallen, and the White Walkers' advance is unstoppable. After thorough consideration, I have decided to establish a new defensive line at the Neck. This means that all lands north of the Neck must immediately prepare for evacuation."

For a moment, the hall was silent. Then it erupted in protest.

"Your Majesty, you're abandoning the entire North!"

"Your Majesty, why not establish the new line here in Winterfell?"

"Your Majesty, we could defend along the White Knife!"

"Silence!" Samwell shouted.

The hall fell quiet as the king's anger filled the air.

"This is not a discussion," Samwell said coldly. "It is an order. Whether you agree or not, you will obey. Anyone who defies this order will be treated as a traitor!"

The gathered lords shrank under his golden gaze, feeling the weight of his imposing presence.

After a brief silence, Lady Catelyn stepped forward with Rickon, both bowing to the king.

"Your Majesty, House Stark will unconditionally obey your orders."

With the Starks' declaration, the other lords had no choice but to suppress their dissent and pledge their compliance.

Satisfied, Samwell nodded.

"Go and make your preparations. Mobilize your people to move south as quickly as possible."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Samwell turned to Catelyn and said:

"Rickon must also issue a decree, as Lord of Winterfell, ordering all the North to evacuate. I will sign the proclamation myself."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Catelyn said.

She led the king to the study, where letters to the northern lords were prepared. Once finished, she hesitated before saying:

"Your Majesty, even with these orders, I fear some lords may refuse to abandon their lands."

"I have sent a special envoy," Samwell replied. "Jon Snow will carry my sword and personally ensure every northern lord complies. Those who defy him will face death."

At the mention of Jon's name, Catelyn's expression faltered slightly. But understanding the gravity of the situation, she said nothing.

Samwell asked:

"Lady Catelyn when I visited Winterfell last time, I visited the underground crypt and found that it had collapsed. I wonder if it has been excavated?"

"Not yet, Your Majesty," Lady Catelyn said, "The collapse under the crypt is more serious than expected. They have been cleaning the debris for half a month but still haven't been able to clear the tunnel."

Samwell asked again:

"Have you checked the tomb?"

"Your Majesty, why do you ask this? The tombs are where the previous kings of the North are buried. We will not disturb their rest for no reason."

Samwell smiled, and without dwelling on the issue, he said:

"Lady Catelyn," Samwell continued, "Lord Eddard has entrusted me with bringing you and your children to King's Landing. Prepare to leave with me as soon as possible."

Catelyn hesitated.

"Please, take Rickon, Sansa, and Arya. But I must remain here to wait for Eddard."

Samwell frowned.

"Your husband is leading the Night's Watch southward, pursued by wights. He may not pass through Winterfell—"

"He will," Catelyn said firmly. "And someone must stay to manage Winterfell until the last moment. Don't worry, Your Majesty. I will leave before the wights arrive."

"Very well," Samwell said. "Have the children ready. I'll wait for them outside."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

Before leaving, Samwell paused and asked:

"By the way, is the old nursemaid of House Stark still here?"

Catelyn looked puzzled by the question but answered:

"She passed away a week ago."

Samwell nodded and exited the room.

Outside, snow fell heavily, and the castle buzzed with hurried footsteps.

As the news of the southern evacuation spread, fear and sorrow swept through the castle like an unstoppable tide.

Samwell avoided the crowds and made his way once more to the crypt.

The spiral staircase leading underground was steeped in unshakable darkness, with a coldness that seemed to seep into the soul, emanating from the depths below.

This time, with no Stark member to accompany him, Samwell felt no need for ceremony. He approached one of the tombs and lifted the lid.

Through a swirl of disturbed dust, he saw a skeleton lying quietly within the stone grave.

Turning to look at the tombstone, he realized this must be Rickard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell two generations ago.

Samwell replaced the lid and continued forward, opening one tomb after another.

Each of the former Lords of Winterfell lay in their tombs undisturbed, until he reached the grave of Torrhen Stark—the "King Who Knelt," the last King in the North.

Torrhen's tomb was empty.

Samwell's eyes narrowed in thought. He pressed on, opening more tombs from earlier generations, only to find that they too were empty.

"So, only the Starks who were Kings would transform after death?" Samwell murmured, stroking his chin.

After everything he had experienced, Samwell was now certain that the House Stark had a mysterious connection to the White Walkers.

But what that connection was remained an enigma.

This secret likely reached back to the Age of Heroes, to the ancient wars between the First Men and the Andals.

Unfortunately, there were no reliable historical records from that time, only vague and often misleading legends.

All Samwell could do was piece together fragments of evidence and speculation, trying to construct a faint outline of the truth.

Lost in thought, he followed the winding passage further into the crypt.

As he walked, he randomly chose more tombs to open.

As he had suspected, the tombs of older Starks who had once been kings were invariably empty, with no remains left behind.

It was as if these figures had long departed, wandering the living world.

After a while, his progress was halted by a section of the passageway that had collapsed, leaving large boulders blocking his path.

Clearing such obstructions in an underground tunnel was an incredibly difficult task. The craftsmen of Winterfell had been slowly chiseling the stones into smaller pieces and removing them bit by bit, but progress was painstakingly slow.

Samwell studied the massive stones in front of him, hesitating for a moment before placing his hands on the rock and pushing with all his strength.

Crack, crack—

The stone began to shift slightly.

Even with strength far surpassing that of an ordinary man, moving such a boulder was almost impossible.

Though only part of the stone was visible, it was likely the edge of a larger formation embedded deep in the earth. Moving it would be like challenging the very ground itself.

But Samwell was not one to give up easily.

His eyes began to glow a faint gold, and his body expanded as exaggerated muscles bulged against the fabric of his clothing.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

As Samwell's mental energy converted into raw physical power, his heart pounded violently, and his blood surged like roaring tides.

Crack!

A network of cracks spread across the surface of the boulder like a spiderweb.

Boom!

With an earth-shaking crash, the stone shattered under Samwell's overwhelming force.

Without pausing, he pressed onward.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

One by one, the massive stones in his path were smashed to pieces, sending tremors through the ground with each step he took.

As Samwell ventured deeper into the crypt, the bone-chilling cold gradually receded. A peculiar warmth began to fill the air, carrying a faint sense of spring.

He walked for what felt like an eternity before finally stopping.

Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a horn adorned with strange bronze engravings—the fabled Winterhorn that had brought down the Wall.

As he delved deeper into the crypt, the horn had begun to emit a faint, mystical energy.

For the first time, Samwell could sense something unusual about it.

He ran his fingers over the bronze etchings, his golden eyes flickering with an inner fire.

In that moment, he felt an almost irresistible temptation emanating from the horn—a beckoning for him to blow it.

But Samwell had no intention of yielding.

Whether it was the Horn of Dragons or the Horn of Winter, both seemed to require sacrifices to be used.

He had no desire to become one of those sacrifices.

As time passed, the mystical aura radiating from the Horn of Winter grew stronger, and the temperature in the crypt continued to rise.

Eventually, it felt as though Samwell had stepped into the heart of summer.

Realizing that the heat was becoming unbearable, he decided to turn back before he was roasted alive.

But just as he turned to leave, the Horn of Winter suddenly flared with a crimson light.

The world around Samwell blurred, and his vision pierced through countless layers of stone, diving deeper and deeper into the earth.

At the bottom of what seemed to be an endless subterranean abyss, he saw a giant.

Not the so-called "giants" beyond the Wall, who stood only three or four times the height of a man, but a true giant.

In its presence, Samwell was as insignificant as an insect.

If it were to awaken and climb out of the depths, Winterfell itself might crumble into rubble from the ensuing earthquake.

But fortunately, the giant lay still, its eyes closed, utterly silent.

Samwell couldn't tell if it was dead—or merely asleep.

(End of Chapter)