"I cannot do this," the princess said, her voice trembling. "It is too much."
Maester Unwin Flowers looked at the girl before him, the Princess of Winterfell, and felt a flicker of irritation beneath his carefully maintained composure. Morris had assured him that the girl was equal to the task. He had promised the order that she would do as she was told, that her ambitions and fears had been properly leveraged to ensure her compliance.
And yet here she stood, wavering.
"I have been having dreams," Serena continued, her grey eyes wide with something that looked uncomfortably like terror. "When I put on the ring, a large white stag chases me through dark forests, calling me a defiler, a fake. He says he will take me and use me as game for his hunters."
"That is a trick, my dear," Flowers said smoothly, moving closer and placing what he hoped was a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "A trick of the sorcerer. He is afraid. He knows that his end is near, and the ring you carry is the instrument of his downfall. He reaches out with his dark magic, trying to frighten you, trying to make you doubt. You must be strong."
Serena looked down at the ring in her hands, a simple band of dark metal with an engraved wolf head.
"You know what is at stake," Flowers pressed, his voice taking on a more urgent tone. "One of your brothers has already fallen under the sorcerer's spell. Barthogan worships him like a god now, speaks of the Covenant as if it is salvation rather than damnation. Your father will soon follow if we do not act. And your elder brother, Brandon..." He shook his head sadly. "Brandon has the heart and the conviction, but he does not have the wits to truly stand against a sorcerer of this power. Only you, Princess."
He gripped her shoulder more firmly. "Only you have the proper Stark blood to help us, to save all our souls from the heretic, to preserve the North from corruption. The Old Gods themselves have chosen you for this task."
Maester Morris had used the girl's ambitions well. The princess had been plotting with her Bolton lover for some time, laying plans to become rulers in all but name once her father passed. She and her lover had planned to rule through her elder brother Brandon. The crown prince was far from what a king should be, and the princess had recognized that and planned to take advantage of it.
It had been a good plan, a clever plan. The kind of long term scheming that the order loved. Even Morris had recognized that if the order supported the princess, they could have more control in the North through her.
But then Harald Stormcrown had risen in the Riverlands, and everything had changed.
Barthogan's transformation after returning from his journey south had ruined everything. The youngest Stark son had become articulate, confident, a genuine leader rather than the overlooked third son he had been before. His public embrace of the Covenant had created a faction of lords who followed him rather than Brandon, splitting the North's nobility down the middle.
Brandon's faction versus Barthogan's faction. The Old Gods alone versus the Covenant's union.
And Serena, caught in the middle, had found herself suddenly powerless, her careful plans shattered by forces she could not control.
That was when Morris had approached her. He had revealed the existence of the secret order and told her that they sought only the death of evil magic and the preservation of proper order. He had asked for her help in defeating Harald Stormcrown, promising the order's full support for her plans to guide the North once the heretic was destroyed.
She had agreed, fear and ambition working together to overcome her better judgment.
Flowers had been told by the six elders of the order that the ring was an artifact of great power, one that would be able to kill the king. How exactly it would accomplish this, he did not know. He had not been told the specifics, only that he was to have the girl wear it on a specific day at a specific time.
That day was today. The time was fast approaching.
"Today is the day, Princess," Flowers said quietly. "We will not get another chance. The stars align, the artifact is prepared, and the sorcerer suspects nothing. If we wait, if we hesitate, the opportunity will pass and may never return."
Serena took a shuddering breath, her fingers closing around the ring. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes. I shall wear it tonight."
"Good," Flowers said, relief flooding through him. "Do it just as the joust is about to begin, when they all start to leave."
Serena nodded, her expression hardening into something more resolved. "I understand."
"You are doing a great service, Princess," Flowers said, his voice taking on the formal cadence of a man speaking for posterity. "You will be remembered among your great ancestors, like Brandon the Builder, like the Kings of Winter who held the North against all threats. Your name will be honored for generations."
Serena did not say a word. She simply pocketed the ring, turned, and left his chambers without looking back.
Flowers watched her go, then closed the door and sat down heavily in his chair, exhaling slowly.
Damn wolf bitch would have ruined everything if she had refused, he thought with a mixture of relief and contempt.
But she had not. She would wear the ring. Whatever magic it contained would do its work.
And while that happened, while chaos erupted in the castle itself, the Warrior's Sons would strike at the tourney grounds. Three hundred faithful warriors, enhanced by the potion he had provided, would fall upon the Anathema's forces and his most loyal converts. They would slaughter the Legionnaires, the keepers, the nobles, and the smallfolk who had embraced the sorcery.
The magic of the ring, as he had been promised, would end the Anathema himself, and it would all be over.
Though Flowers admitted he did not know precisely how the ring would accomplish its purpose. All he had been told was to ensure the girl wore it at the appointed time, then to lock himself in his chambers and wait until morning. To stay hidden, stay safe, and let the artifact do its work without interference.
And that was exactly what he planned to do.
The order always won. Always. For centuries they had guided the realm, removed obstacles, eliminated threats to proper order. This sorcerer king was just another obstacle, more powerful perhaps, but not invincible.
The Anathema would—
There was a knock at the door.
Then again.
And again.
Flowers looked toward it with a huff of annoyance. He had specifically told the servants not to disturb him this evening, that he needed privacy to prepare for tomorrow's ceremonies.
Incompetent fools, he thought, standing and crossing to the door.
He pulled it open, a sharp rebuke already forming on his lips.
And froze.
Harald Stormcrown stood before him, smiling pleasantly. Behind him stood Primarch Aerion in his purple tinted armor, Centurion Jonnel Blackwood with his hand on his sword hilt, and another man Flowers did not immediately recognize, younger, with fresh bruising on his face.
Flowers took an involuntary step backward, his mind racing.
Why was the Anathema here? Could their plans have been discovered? No, impossible. They could not know. There was no way.
"Ah, Maester Flowers," Harald said cheerfully, stepping into the room without waiting for an invitation. The others followed, and suddenly Flowers' modest chambers felt very small and very crowded.
"Your Grace," Flowers managed, his voice coming out higher than he intended. "This is... unexpected."
Harald did not reply. He simply looked at the bruised man beside him and asked quietly, "Bram, is this the man you saw in the forest?"
No, Flowers thought with dawning horror. No, no, no.
"Aye, Your Grace," Bram spoke clearly despite the obvious pain speaking caused him. "This is the very man. The one who plots with the septons. Who plans to slaughter innocent men and women."
"What do you—" Flowers began, but he was met with a fist to the face.
Harald's punch sent him sprawling to the ground, his vision exploding in stars of pain. He grabbed his face, screaming as he felt blood pour from his nose.
"You bastard!" he shrieked, his carefully maintained composure shattered entirely.
Harald crouched down beside him, his expression cold and utterly devoid of the pleasant smile he had worn moments before.
"A potion of rage," Harald said conversationally. "That is what you gave them, is it not? What you told those faithful septons would make their warriors strong enough to fight my Legionnaires."
He reached into his coat and withdrew a vial of pulsing red liquid, identical to the one Bram had seen in the forest camp.
"A potion that strips away their humanity, their reason, their very souls. Stronger yes it does make them stronger but It turns them into mindless killing machines. Berserkers who cannot distinguish friend from foe, who will slaughter anyone in their path until they collapse from exhaustion or are put down like rabid dogs."
He stood, looking down at Flowers with contempt.
"Aerion," Harald said without taking his eyes off the maester. "Go and bring Crown Prince Brandon Stark and Princess Serena Stark to the weirwood grove. Immediately. I will be meeting Kings Loren and Torrhen there."
"At once, Your Grace," Aerion said, striding from the room.
Harald turned to Jonnel. "Jonnel, you will lead the First Legion. Protect the smallfolk. When the Warrior's Sons attack, contain them. Contain the onslaught until I arrive."
"It will be done," Jonnel said as he began to walk out of the chambers.
Bram moved to follow him when Harald's voice stopped him. "Bram. Get some rest, boy. You have done enough for the day."
"I am well, Your Grace," Bram protested. "I can fight. My squad needs me."
Harald looked at him for a long moment, then smiled. "Then go, Bram. Serve your kingdom."
Bram saluted and followed Jonnel out, leaving Harald alone with the terrified maester.
Flowers lay on the ground, unable to speak, his mind reeling. How had the Anathema found out about their plans? How had he known? The concealment, the careful preparations, the secrecy maintained for months. How?
Harald walked over and grabbed Flowers by the throat, lifting him effortlessly from the ground with one hand. The maester's feet dangled, his hands clawing uselessly at Harald's grip.
"Let us go have a chat with the others, shall we?"
.
.
.
Argella smiled as she watched the men kneeling before her.
They were representatives sent from the minor houses of the Stormlands, some there to pay ransom and bring their relatives home, others who had come under the pretense of negotiation but were truly there to see her. Houses Hasty, Wagstaff, Musgood, Wensington, Swyggert, Horpe, Herston, Tudbury, Gower, and Kellington. And of course House Martyn, whose knight had made his loyalty spectacularly public that day.
Ser Finnigan Martyn knelt at the front of them all, his dark head bowed.
"Rise, my lords," Argella said, keeping her voice warm yet regal. "You cannot know how much joy this brings me."
Cyril Musgood was the first to speak, a broad shouldered man with a grey streaked beard and honest eyes. "Many have forgotten their oaths in our kingdom, my Queen. The promises made to your father, to his father before him. But we have not. House Musgood remembers."
"Baldric, Lyonel, Ormund," Finnigan Martyn said, his voice carrying quiet contempt. "Usurpers, all three. Unworthy to sit the Storm's Throne. That seat belongs to the true blood of Durran Godsgrief, and that blood runs in your veins, Your Grace. Not theirs."
Argella smiled. Moons ago she had nothing. No kingdom, no army, barely six knights to her name and two handmaidens, fleeing in the night. She had arrived at Cyrodiil desperate, furious, and humiliated.
Ever since her arrival in the Heartlands, her fortunes had been shifting. Slowly at first, then with gathering momentum. Three kings had publicly recognized her claim. The hostages Harald held had paralyzed her cousins. And now these lords, men who had traveled north at considerable personal risk to stand before her and declare their loyalty.
It was making her believe that perhaps there was some truth to the Covenant after all. That Harald was truly chosen by the gods in some fashion, that his presence in her life was the cause of all this good fortune.
The thought of Harald made her pulse quicken, which she steadfastly refused to examine too closely. She had been learning magic from him for only a few days. The sessions were held in the weirwood grove in the early mornings, before the castle fully woke, just the two of them among the white barked trees.
She had not produced visible results yet. No glowing hands, no sparks of power like she had seen with Elsa Tully. But she could feel something. It was faint, like trying to hear a whisper in a crowded room, but it was there. A warmth deep in her chest, a sense of something vast and sleeping beginning to stir in her blood. Harald had told her it was there, had told her that her bloodline carried the power of Elenei within it, dormant through generations but still present.
Three moon turns, he had promised. In three moon turns she would be casting spells.
The thought filled her with a dark satisfaction. She imagined herself at the head of her loyal lords and men, riding back into the Stormlands. She imagined raising her hands and calling down the storms that were her birthright by blood and name, lightning splitting the sky above her enemies. She imagined her cousins, Ormund, Baldric, Lyonel, all their arrogance and ambition reduced to ash and rubble.
The thought of gaining power like this was intoxicating. She could rule the way she had watched Harald rule, his word absolute, his authority unquestioned. No lord daring to challenge him.
She would be the all powerful Storm Queen, rightful heir of Elenei herself.
She caught herself and pulled back from the fantasy, returning her attention to the men before her.
"As you saw, my lords," she said, keeping her voice measured, "Kings Harald, Loren, and Torrhen have now publicly supported my rightful rule of the Stormlands."
Baric Horpe frowned, a lean and weathered knight. "I am unsure of King Harald, Your Grace. Whatever support he offers, the man is a heretic. The septons preach—"
"The septons preach that the Heartlands is the Seven Hells made real," Argella interrupted, letting a hint of her true feelings enter her voice. "And yet it is now the most powerful and prosperous kingdom in all of Westeros. The smallfolk do not starve. The roads are safe. The lords are content. If this is the Seven Hells, I wonder what the Seven Heavens look like."
Several lords suppressed smiles. Even Baric Horpe had the grace to look slightly abashed.
"I confess I am quite intrigued by the Covenant, Your Grace. The sermons I have heard described sound not entirely unlike what the septons preach themselves, only broader," said Cyril Musgood.
"I would very much like to attend one of the services," Musgood continued. "If Your Grace has no objection." He looked around and found agreement. "Lords Herston, Tudbury, Gower, and Kellington have expressed similar interest."
"I would encourage it," Argella said, and found that she meant it. "I have attended several myself since arriving here. I did not see anything heretical. They preach the same values as the Seven, but with respect for the Old Gods, united rather than divided. The keepers speak of kindness and duty and honor. Whatever the High Septon claims about it, I did not see darkness in those services."
The uncertain lords seemed somewhat reassured.
Her thoughts on the Covenant had indeed changed since arriving in the Heartlands, and the magic lessons had accelerated that change considerably. Harald had explained it to her carefully during their sessions, how he was a wellspring of holy magic in this world, how the power he wielded came from the gods themselves, how he would need the Old Gods' help to awaken the magical bloodline of Elenei sleeping within her. The Covenant's teaching that the gods had made a pact, that they were united rather than separate, rang truer to her with each passing day.
And yet she held back from fully embracing it. The fear of losing what little support she still had among her people kept her at arm's length from complete commitment.
Why does it matter? a small voice whispered in her mind, quiet and insistent. You are learning magic. They already think you are a heretic. Why not embrace it fully? No one will challenge you when you ascend, when Harald's gift of magic makes you untouchable. Why hold back out of fear of people who are already calling you a heretic witch?
She pushed the voice away and focused on her lords.
After the meeting concluded, the lords departing with arrangements made to meet again on the morrow, Argella found herself walking through the castle corridors and out into the gardens.
Cassandra spoke up, her tone teasing. "When do you and the king have your next secret lesson, Ella?"
"After the tourney," Argella said, keeping her voice neutral.
Maria grinned. "Is that why our queen has been so radiant lately?"
Argella glared at them both. "He is simply giving me the means to take back my kingdom. Nothing more."
"Of course, Your Grace," Cassandra said with a knowing smile that made Argella want to throw something at her.
Maria suddenly straightened, her expression shifting to mischief. "Look, here comes our queen's great rival."
Argella sighed at Maria's words, but her lips tightened involuntarily when she saw Elsa Tully heading their way across the garden path.
The king's mistress, Argella thought with an unexpectedly heavy pang in her chest. She found herself glaring at the Tully woman before she could school her features properly.
The Tully woman was also acting as personal spymaster for the king. That much Argella had discovered during her conversations with Harald. The woman managed networks of informants across the Heartlands and beyond, and was also learning magic.
"Your Grace," Elsa said as she approached, offering a respectful curtsy.
"Lady Tully," Argella replied, her tone cooler than she intended.
There was something about Elsa that made Argella feel perpetually off balance. The woman was beautiful, confident, favored by Harald. She acted as the lady of the castle.
Until Harald marries, that is, Argella thought.
"Are you not going to see the joust?" Elsa asked, falling into step beside Argella as they walked. "I believe it starts once the hour of the bat has passed. The betting among the lords has been quite entertaining."
"We were on our way to rest a bit before leaving," Argella said, gesturing to her handmaidens Cassandra and Maria, who walked a respectful distance behind them. "The meeting with my lords went longer than expected."
"Then we should leave together," Elsa said with a warm smile. "I confess I have been wanting to speak with you more. We practitioners of magic should stick together, yes?"
Argella was about to respond, forming some polite deflection, when she saw something near the large fountain at the garden's center.
"Is that Princess Stark?" Argella asked, her voice uncertain. A woman was on the ground near the fountain's edge, on her knees, both hands clutching at her head.
Elsa turned and looked. "Yes," she said, her tone shifting to concern.
Then the princess began to scream.
It was a sound of pure agony.
"Come!" Elsa said, already running.
All four of them ran toward the princess.Had she fallen? Was she hurt? Other ladies emerged from nearby paths, drawn by the screaming. Knights appeared from the castle entrance. Several Spectres in their distinctive purple tinted armor came running from different directions.
But they all stopped.
They stopped because Princess Serena Stark began to change.
"By the gods!" Argella heard Cassandra yell.
Maria began to scream, a sound that matched the princess's own cries.
Argella and Elsa could only look on in silent terror.
Serena's clothes were ripping away, the fabric tearing as her body began to contort. Her back arched at an impossible angle, bones cracking with sounds that carried across the garden like breaking branches. Her flesh tore, splitting along her arms and legs, and something dark and wet emerged from beneath.
Her entire body contracted and expanded simultaneously, muscles bulging grotesquely, bones reshaping themselves with sickening snaps. Her scream changed pitch, becoming deeper, more guttural, less human with each passing second.
Fur sprouted across her skin, but it was wrong, matted and diseased looking, growing in patches that left raw flesh exposed between them. Her spine curved and lengthened, vertebrae pushing out through her back like knives.
Her limbs elongated, the bones stretching with horrible wet sounds. Her hands became claws, fingers extending into talons as long as daggers, while her elbows sprouted additional claws that jutted out at grotesque angles.
Her face was the worst. Her jaw split, not merely opening but dividing, breaking into four separate sections like a hideous flower made of teeth.
The thing that had been Princess Serena Stark stood fully upright now, nine feet tall.
All around the garden, people were screaming. Ladies collapsed, some knights ran, servants fled in blind panic. The sound of terror was everywhere, a chorus of horror at what they were witnessing.
Argella could not move. She was frozen in place, her legs refusing to obey her, her entire body locked in fear. This was beyond anything she had ever seen, beyond anything she had ever imagined could exist in the world.
Then she heard running footsteps.
A dozen Spectres ran into the garden from multiple directions, swords already drawn, forming a protective line between the creature and the fleeing civilians.
Behind them came three figures, running at full speed.
Harald, Loren, and Torrhen, his face a mask of absolute horror.
"SERENA!" the King in the North screamed, his voice breaking on his daughter's name. "SERENA! SERENA!"
The creature that had been Serena turned toward the sound of her father's voice.
And it let out a roar.
"SKREEEEEE-RAAAAAAAAAAGH-HRRRRRRRRR!"
Its mouth opened to its fullest extent as the roar tore through the garden.
Argella's ears rang with the aftermath of that terrible sound. She heard Elsa beside her, urgent and desperate. "Run! RUN!"
And she did.
She ran, her legs finally obeying her, her handmaidens running with her.
Behind her, she heard Loren's voice commanding his men, heard Torrhen still screaming his daughter's name.
She heard Harald unleash one of his shouts.
"FUS ROH!"
But she did not look back.
She just ran.
.
.
This is not Hircine's werewolf, but Hermaeus Mora's corrupted version of the curse, an imperfect and more dangerous form.