“To send a third of the North’s manpower beyond the Wall for the sake of a few heretics—who do these envoys think they are?” Prince Kenvin hurled his wine goblet against the wall in a rage, shattering it into pieces. The wine splattered, running in long, jagged streaks down the stone.

  “Do calm yourself, my prince,” the naked woman murmured. She lay sprawled on a pile of furs atop an ebony bed, her breasts arched like buffalo horns, casting a seductive glance toward Prince Kenvin.

  Kenvin was wrapped only in a thin, sheer linen cloth around his waist. Beneath the fabric, a bulge protruded like the hilt of a Valyrian steel sword. He plucked a cluster of grapes from a fruit platter on a wooden table, bit into one, and slowly chewed. The sweetness of the grapes from the Reach seeped into him, igniting a primal restlessness within his body, which was as lean and firm as a northern snow wolf.

  His eyes blazing with fire, Kenvin ripped off the linen cloth and lunged toward the oak bed, causing it to skid across the floor with a screech. The woman squealed with a provocative laugh, hurriedly pulling the furs to cover her horn-like breasts and her inviting, fertile triangle.

  Prince Kenvin howled like a wolf, pouncing to rip away the furs and grabbing at those soft, fragrant nipples, squeezing them hard. “Ah! You’re hurting me!” the woman cried. Kenvin opened his mouth and bit down on a nipple, suckling fiercely like a child starved for milk, his arm wrapping around her waist to pull his lover tight against his body. The woman whimpered like a heat-crazed cat, her pale thighs and lower body locking around him, rubbing against him until a patch of Kenvin’s skin was drenched.

  Kenvin grew frantic, biting down on her nipple again until the woman let out a sharp, painful scream. That cry only made the beast inside the prince surge further. Kenvin shoved her down, spreading her soft, velvet-like legs wide.

  Just as the prince was about to invade her most private sanctum, a sharp, rhythmic knocking sounded at the door.

  “What the hell is it?” Kenvin growled, releasing the woman and looking up.

  “The King summons you, my prince,” a servant’s voice echoed from outside.

  “Fine, I’m coming,” Kenvin hoisted himself up, leaving the woman exposed in her expectant pose.

  “You’re really leaving?” the woman pouted, sounding agitated.

  “Yes,” Kenvin spat, pulling on his trousers. The longsword hanging at his belt clattered against the bed frame.

  “Is it really that important? Just go, and don’t bother coming back here!” she sneered, her voice full of spite.

  “Shut your mouth, you whore.” Suddenly, Kenvin roared, his eyes bloodshot with malice. There was a sharp shing as steel left its scabbard, followed by a quick, wet thud. The woman’s throat had been pierced through. She rolled her eyes, let out a few garbled gasps, and collapsed onto the bed. Blood geysered like a fountain, staining the cushions and pillows red.

  Kenvin looked down at the woman who had been intimate with him only moments before. He wiped his blade on the bedding to clean the blood, adjusted his clothes, and walked out the door. Two guards standing outside waited for the prince to depart before stepping into the room. They looked at each other and shook their heads; without a word, they hoisted the body away and called for someone to clean up, as if this were a routine occurrence.

  Kenvin marched straight to the Great Hall, his attitude still simmering with fury. He shoved open the heavy wooden doors and strode in.

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  Inside, Tracy sat upon the Wolf Throne, surrounded by northern nobles, knights, and officials. When they saw Kenvin, they all bowed their heads.

  “Long live the King,” Kenvin looked toward the throne, offering a bow to the northern ruler. Tracy nodded slightly.

  “What is the meaning of this summons at such an hour?” Kenvin asked, his voice still edged with irritation.

  “I have just received a raven from the South…” Tracy said, her voice hesitant. She glanced at Kenvin briefly before turning her gaze away.

  “So? Is it anything important? Do the Southerners and the Cult of the Old Gods want more of Winterfell’s strength to hunt down more ‘heretics’ in their eyes?” Kenvin loudly scoffed.

  The gathered officials exchanged nervous glances, a sight that stirred a sudden sense of apprehension in Kenvin. His previous anger dissipated, replaced by burning curiosity.

  “The South wants… you to come to the capital,” said Weylis Manderly, the King’s right hand and Lord of White Harbor.

  “They want me in the capital? To be a hostage?” Kenvin’s eyes widened as he stared at Weylis, then at Tracy.

  His question went unanswered, and the Great Hall fell into a heavy silence. Kenvin Stark, Prince of the North, was a man of great ambition, regarded as the most brilliant young military genius among the Westerosi elite. Removing him to the capital was effectively the same as cutting off Tracy’s right hand, even if the role was currently held by the sixty-year-old Weylis Manderly.

  “And what if I refuse to go?” Kenvin demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

  “You know what will happen, my prince,” Weylis replied anxiously.

  “Death!” Kenvin gnashed his teeth.

  “Kenvin, be calm. You must remember, the capital is also the seat of House Stark,” Tracy tried to reassure her brother.

  “House Stark!” Kenvin laughed derisively, sweeping his gaze across the hall.

  “Is the blood of House Stark running in our veins even pure anymore? My King, do not forget that. Benelli Stark, Tracy Stark, and I, Kenvin Stark—even our names are filled with dilution. After hundreds of years, the Stark blood in us is like a single drop of wine in a river. Only he, the monster who has lived for hundreds of years, is the true Stark,” Kenvin laughed boisterously, his voice booming for all the court to hear.

  “Kenvin! Keep your tongue in check!” Tracy jumped up, shouting in anger.

  “My King! I am not wrong. The blood flowing in us is the blood of the North, of House Wull. Do you want to be a true monarch? Then be a true King of the North. Avenge our father!” Kenvin roared like a lion, his eyes bloodshot.

  Tracy was left nearly speechless. Her father, the War Lord Wull, had disappeared mysteriously beyond the Wall. Some claimed he had been killed by the wildlings, but neither she nor Kenvin believed this, as House Wull had always shared close ties with them. Recently, Kenvin had come to believe their father was murdered by the Night’s Watch, with none other than Brandon Stark as the mastermind. War Lord Wull had died because he uncovered a terrible secret of the High Priest. Tracy had tried to deny this theory, but the intelligence Kenvin brought back seemed chillingly accurate.

  “My Prince, please, calm yourself. You must remember that…” a diminutive official, built like a rabbit, timidly interjected.

  Kenvin reached out, grabbed the official, and lifted him into the air. Eye to eye, he whispered, “Do not tell me to remember your fears—the fears of the North, of all Westeros. The ravens hear everything, the ravens see everything, the Old Gods are everywhere. Am I not right?”

  “Caw!” The moment Kenvin finished his sentence, a raven’s cry tore through the air like a blade. The entire hall fell silent, turning toward the window. On the snow, a raven black as the robes of Death stood motionless as a statue. Its bead-like eye stared straight at those inside, making the blood in their veins run cold.

  Whoosh. A sudden gust of wind sliced through the silence. A dagger flashed from Kenvin’s hand like lightning, striking true and cleanly severing the raven’s neck. The head tumbled outside the window while the body collapsed onto the snow, blood blooming across the white surface.

  Kenvin’s eyes burned as he slowly scanned everyone in the hall. “Now,” he said, “the North can choose its own path.”

  Tracy looked at the carcass of the raven by the window, feeling calmer than she ever had before. She swept her gaze around the hall, stopped at Kenvin, and gave a slight nod. Tracy had made her choice. She chose family, and true independence for the North.

  At the capital, the High Priest’s white-pupiled eyes fluttered and then closed. Bran slowly opened his eyes, looking through the veil covering his sight. Outside, the council and the King were in a heated debate. Bran placed his hand on the armrest, tapping his fingers lightly, his face as cold as ice. He whispered, low enough for only himself to hear: “Kenvin.”