The March of the Wolf

The army broke camp at first light, leaving the ruined Frey whore tied and leaking behind them as a warning. By midday, the host was on the move again, larger than before. More riverlords had bent the knee after hearing what happened at the Twins and the Gods Eye. Your banners - the direwolf of Stark now entwined with a flaming red heart - flew over thousands.

You rode at the head on a massive black destrier, Longclaw at your side. Melisandre rode beside you in a specially built litter that allowed her enormous belly to rest comfortably, her crimson robes glowing faintly even in daylight. Sansa rode on your other side, quiet and thoughtful, wrapped in thick furs. She had barely spoken since watching Lotha’s punishment, but you caught her stealing glances at you - a mix of fear, awe, and something darker she wasn’t ready to name yet.

Scouts returned by late afternoon.

“King’s Landing is in chaos, my king,” one reported. “Cersei has blown up the Sept of Baelor. Thousands dead. The Tyrell army is shattered. Margaery is rumored dead or imprisoned. Euron Greyjoy raids the coasts, and there are whispers from across the Narrow Sea - Daenerys Targaryen has taken Meereen and is gathering ships.”

Melisandre smiled serenely, one hand stroking her belly where your son kicked vigorously. “The false queen sits on a throne of skulls. The time draws near.”

You pressed the march hard over the next fortnight. Minor strongholds fell without resistance. You claimed two more daughters of rebellious lords along the way - quick, rough fucks in their fathers’ halls to remind everyone of the price of disloyalty - but nothing on the scale of the Frey spectacle.

Near the headwaters of the Blackwater, you finally met meaningful resistance.

A Lannister host under Ser Daven Lannister tried to block your crossing. The battle was short but vicious. Your wildlings tore through their flanks while Melisandre unleashed pillars of flame that turned swathes of golden lions into screaming torches. You led the center charge yourself, cutting down knights with Longclaw until the river ran red.

Daven surrendered after you beheaded his second-in-command. You accepted his fealty on the condition that House Lannister would yield all claims to the North and Riverlands. In private, you took his younger cousin - a pretty, golden-haired girl named Joy Hill - as a salt wife in the old way. You bent her over a captured Lannister banner in full view of the defeated army and fucked her until she screamed your name loud enough for both hosts to hear. Another public display. Another message.

Sansa watched that one too. Afterward, she came to your tent unbidden.

“You’ve changed,” she said softly, standing before you in the firelight. “The boy I knew would never—”

“I died, Sansa,” you interrupted, pulling her close. “The man who came back takes what he needs to protect what’s his. Including you.”

She didn’t pull away when you kissed her. Not this time.

-----

One week later, outside the ruins of Stoney Sept, your host now numbered nearly twenty thousand. Supplies flowed in from frightened lords eager to avoid the fate of the Freys. Melisandre’s time was drawing very near - the maesters and midwives you’d gathered all said the child would come within days.

That night, as you planned the final push toward King’s Landing, a new raven arrived.

Daenerys Targaryen had landed in the Stormlands with Unsullied, Dothraki, and three dragons.

Melisandre burned the message dramatically in her palm, smiling.

“Fire and Ice must meet, my king. Whether as lovers or enemies… that is for the gods to decide. But your seed is strong enough to tame even dragons.”

You looked out over the camp - thousands of fires stretching into the darkness, your women moving through the shadows, your army growing restless for the capital.

The game was reaching its endgame.

Winter was no longer coming.

It had arrived, and it intended to fuck, conquer, and rule the Seven Kingdoms.