Fitz walked.
Not hurried. Not aimless.
Measured steps carried him along the inner paths of Frozen Gate, his gaze moving with quiet intent. Behind him, the aftermath of the breach lingered—not loud, not chaotic, but constant. Men hauled splintered wood from the ruined gate. Others moved the wounded, their voices low, efficient, stripped of anything unnecessary.
He had not meant to leave immediately.
But before he did—
There had been a moment.
"…Ser Wilbur."
The older knight had turned at once.
"My prince?"
Fitz had paused, as though the thought had only just settled into form.
"Assist them," he said, glancing briefly toward the broken gate. "The sorting of damage, the wounded—whatever is most needed."
A small pause.
"They will not ask. So do not wait for them to."
Ser Wilbur had watched him for a fraction longer than usual.
Then inclined his head.
"As you command."
Fitz had said nothing more.
And walked.
—
Now, as he moved deeper into the fortress, something became clear.
This—
Was normal.
Not the breach itself.
But everything after.
The pace of repair. The lack of alarm. The way soldiers moved without confusion, only adjustment. Even now, most footmen had shifted their attention toward the gate facing the Veiled Forest—what remained of it—while the rest of the fortress carried on as though this were simply another night to endure.
Of course, Fitz thought.
It is in pieces.
He continued.
Further.
The longer he walked, the more the structure of the place revealed itself—not in what stood, but in how it had come to stand at all.
Frozen Gate was not unmaintained.
Not exactly.
It was… accumulated.
Where there should have been stone, there was wood—thick beams hammered into place with iron nails, reinforcing sections that had long since failed. Walls did not flow into one another—they met abruptly, patched together at angles that suggested urgency over design.
Buildings leaned.
Not from neglect—
But from having been built when and where they could.
Fitz slowed slightly.
His eyes traced the outer wall.
It did not encircle with intention.
It connected.
Segments added over time, towers placed where they could be supported rather than where they should have been. It felt less like a fortress conceived—
And more like one assembled.
No plan, he thought quietly.
Only response.
Then his attention shifted inward.
To the castle itself.
That—
Was different.
Older.
The stone there held a kind of consistency the rest lacked. Weathered, yes—but not replaced. Not altered beyond recognition.
And more telling—
Fitz stilled.
Something aligned in his thoughts.
A memory surfaced.
Maester Ron, standing over a faded map, voice patient as ever—
"House Nivia's true seat was not Frozen Gate. It was Castle Winter—farther south, nearer the heart of the North. Built atop a plateau. Defensible. Sustainable."
Fitz's gaze sharpened slightly.
Castle Winter…
He could almost see it—ordered, intentional, placed with purpose.
Then he looked again at Frozen Gate.
At the uneven walls.
The strained expansions.
The way everything seemed built around something older.
"…This was never meant to be a castle," he realized.
A pause.
"…Only a barrier an outpost against savages...."
A fortification at the Giantspine path.
A line drawn against whatever came from the Veiled Forest.
And when House Nivia fell—
When they were pushed from their true seat—
This was what remained.
"…So they stayed," Fitz murmured under his breath.
"And made it… livable."
The word lingered.
Uncertain.
A group of soldiers passed him.
They slowed, offering what could loosely be called a bow—awkward, unrefined, but not disrespectful.
Fitz inclined his head in return.
They moved on quickly.
He watched them go—
And noticed something else.
"I did not see it before…"
They were tall.
Not just one or two—
Most of them.
Broad frames, long limbs, built for weight and endurance rather than speed.
"…Six feet, perhaps more," he thought.
A faint shift followed.
"…That would already be considered tall in the South."
Here—
It was simply expected.
Fitz continued toward the castle proper.
The pattern did not change.
Outer walls patched again and again. Houses showing the strain of years without proper rebuilding. Repairs layered over old damage until the original structure was almost lost beneath it.
He slowed.
Then stopped.
A thought surfaced.
Unwelcome.
"…Is this not a little unfair?"
The question came quietly.
Measured.
He looked out across Frozen Gate.
At the people who endured it.
"…It is unfair for them," he corrected first.
A pause.
Then—
"…But also for me."
His thoughts shifted.
"My brother," he murmured inwardly, "the third prince—Damon Vane Ekkehard."
House Everard.
The Windy Hills.
Tariffs from every road that moved north. Trade flowing through their lands. Stability.
"Still within the Central region," Fitz noted. "Still… within reach of the Crown."
Another thought followed.
"My brother—the second prince, Conrad Faux Ekkehard."
A faint exhale.
"The home territory of House Ekkehard."
Practically the second richest land in the realm.
Secure.
Familiar.
Safe.
Fitz's gaze drifted back toward the broken gate in the distance.
Then to the patched walls.
The strained fortress.
"And I…"
A pause.
"…am here."
The wind answered.
Cold.
Indifferent.
"…That is a little unfair," he concluded.
No bitterness.
Not openly.
But the thought remained.
He exhaled.
A quiet sound.
Then—
He straightened.
His posture corrected itself, as it always did. Shoulders aligned. Chin level.
The thought folded inward.
Set aside.
"…It changes nothing."
A breath.
Then, softer—
"I will have to make do."
And with that—
Fitz Rolf Ekkehard continued forward.
Into a fortress that was never meant to be a home—
And might yet become one.
——
By the time Fitz reached the inner keep, the noise of labor had thinned into something more distant—muted beneath stone and narrow corridors.
The castle interior held together better than the outer wards.
Older.
Stronger.
But not untouched.
Cracks traced the edges of the walls. Drafts slipped through seams that had long since lost their seal. Even here, the cold remained.
Fitz slowed near a crossing of corridors.
A servant stood nearby—still, attentive, as though waiting to be needed rather than hoping not to be seen.
Fitz turned slightly toward him.
"Servant," he said, his tone even, "I have a question."
The man bowed quickly, though not deeply.
"My lord."
Fitz's gaze lingered on him—not unkind, but assessing.
"Why have I not seen a maester within this castle?" he asked. "Is he… away on duty?"
The servant hesitated.
Only for a moment.
Then answered, careful with every word.
"My lord… Frozen Gate does not maintain a maester."
A pause.
Fitz's eyes narrowed slightly.
The servant continued, more precise now.
"Most northern houses, my lord, do not rely on them as the southern courts do. In their place, some houses keep a rune lord… though ours is currently away."
Fitz said nothing for a moment.
No maester.
No formal keeper of knowledge. No controlled line of communication.
"…I see," he said at last.
A small pause.
"Then who tends to your ravens?" he asked. "Or whatever messenger birds you maintain?"
"The head servant, my lord," the man replied. "Lan oversees such matters."
Fitz's gaze sharpened slightly.
"Call her."
"At once, my lord."
The servant bowed again and departed quickly.
—
It did not take long.
Measured footsteps approached—not hurried, but efficient.
Fitz turned.
She stopped at a proper distance and bowed.
Not overly deep.
Not shallow.
Correct.
"My lord," she said.
Her voice was steady—clear, controlled.
Fitz observed her briefly.
Short black hair, cut cleanly for practicality rather than fashion. Golden eyes—sharp, attentive. Her posture was straight, unyielding in its own quiet way.
Her appearance did not match the ruin around her.
Nor did her composure.
"You are Lan?" Fitz asked.
"Yes, my lord. Head servant of Frozen Gate."
He inclined his head slightly.
"I am told you oversee the messenger birds."
"I do."
Direct.
No embellishment.
Fitz considered her for a moment longer.
Efficient, he thought.
Not easily shaken.
"Good," he said.
"I will require writing materials."
A brief pause.
"Including wax for sealing."
Lan nodded once.
"At once, my lord."
—
The materials were brought quickly.
A small writing table was prepared near a narrow window, its glass rimmed faintly with frost. Ink. Quill. Parchment. A stick of sealing wax, dark and unadorned.
Fitz removed his gloves.
Sat.
For a moment—
He did not write.
His gaze rested on the blank parchment.
This will be read carefully, he thought.
And judged accordingly.
Then—
He began.
The quill moved steadily. No hesitation in the strokes, though his thoughts worked faster than the ink could follow.
> To the Crown, under the authority of His Majesty, King Xiphos Eckbert Ekkehard,
I write from Frozen Gate upon my arrival. The condition of the fortress and its surrounding settlement is… below prior reports. Structural degradation is extensive. Defensive capability remains, but only through continued strain upon limited personnel and resources.
Recent hostilities confirm that the threat from the Veiled Forest is neither diminished nor disorganized. Immediate reinforcement is not required—but sustained neglect will render this position untenable.
I formally request the following: additional food provisions sufficient for both garrison and civilian population, construction materials suitable for northern conditions, and logistical support for structural repair—particularly of the main gate and outer defensive walls.
Furthermore, as my union with Lady Saskia Nivia approaches, it would be… appropriate for the Crown to acknowledge the alliance with a gesture befitting its standing. Supplies delivered under such context would serve both function and appearance, regardless of delay.
Lastly, I request the reassignment of one knight from my personal guard—Ser Marco—to Frozen Gate. Additional capable hands are required. His presence will assist in both defense and internal stability.
I remain, as always, in service to the Crown.
Fitz Rolf Ekkehard
He paused.
Read it once.
Then again.
His expression did not change—but something beneath it tightened.
Will this be enough?
A quieter thought followed—
Will it even be answered?
Fitz set the quill down.
Reached for the wax.
He lit it, letting it melt slowly onto the folded parchment. Then, from within his coat, he retrieved his signet—simple, but unmistakable.
He pressed it firmly into the wax.
Held it there.
A moment longer than necessary.
Then released.
The seal remained.
Unbroken.
—
"Lan."
She stepped forward immediately.
"My lord."
Fitz handed her the letter.
"This is to be sent to the Crown Palace."
Her eyes flicked briefly to the seal—recognition passing silently.
"It will be done."
"A fast bird," Fitz added. "If you have one."
"We do," she replied.
No hesitation.
He studied her for a fraction longer.
"Ensure it reaches them."
"It will."
There was no reassurance in her tone.
Only certainty.
Fitz inclined his head slightly.
"Good."
Lan turned to leave—
Then paused.
Just slightly.
"My lord," she said, not turning back fully, "if I may—"
Fitz waited.
"The Crown does not often answer quickly," she said. "Not… for places like this."
A small silence followed.
Honest.
Not defiant.
Fitz's gaze remained steady.
"I am aware."
A pause.
Then—
"Send it anyway."
Lan inclined her head.
"Yes, my lord."
And she left.
—
Fitz remained where he stood.
The cold pressed faintly against the glass.
The room was quiet again.
Too quiet.
"…Ser Marco," he murmured under his breath.
A faint image came to mind—
A man too lively for court.
Too sharp-eyed for comfort.
Too charming to fully trust at first glance.
He will complain, Fitz thought.
A small, almost invisible shift followed.
But he will come.
Fitz turned from the window.
The fortress waited.
And now—
So did he.
——
"My lord."
Fitz turned at the voice.
Ser Jared stood a short distance away, helm tucked beneath one arm, the other resting lightly at his side. Even now, there was no stiffness in him—only readiness, as though the battle had not truly ended, only paused.
"Lady Saskia requests your presence," he said. "Dinner has been prepared."
A brief pause.
"…As best as it could be."
Fitz inclined his head slightly.
"Lead the way, Ser."
—
They walked in silence.
Not an uncomfortable one.
But not a relaxed one either.
The corridors seemed quieter now. The earlier urgency had settled into routine—low voices, distant movement, the faint clatter of work continuing where it must.
Fitz's gaze shifted once, briefly, to Ser Jared.
"You fought well," he said.
It was not praise.
Not quite.
An observation.
Ser Jared did not look at him.
"We held," he replied simply.
A beat.
Then, after a moment—
"My lady saw to that."
Fitz said nothing more.
—
The doors to the hall opened.
Warmth greeted him first—or what passed for it here. Torches burned brighter than before, their light flickering across stone still touched by frost. A table had been set—not grand, not excessive, but deliberate.
And at its head—
She stood.
Lady Saskia Nivia.
She turned the moment he entered.
And smiled.
It was not wide.
Not soft.
But present.
Intentional.
Fitz paused—
Only for a fraction—
Then returned it.
Small.
Controlled.
But real.
"My lord Fitz," she greeted, her voice carrying easily across the hall. "Welcome."
"Lady Saskia," he replied, inclining his head.
There was a brief moment—
A quiet recognition.
Then—
She gestured lightly toward the table.
"Come. Sit. Before the wind finds its way inside as well."
Fitz exhaled—just slightly.
"My lady," he said, taking his place, "if the wind is to be a guest, I would ask that it not be the only one we speak of tonight."
A pause.
Then—
Saskia let out a soft laugh.
Light.
Unrestrained—
Just for a moment.
"I suppose I have overused it," she admitted, a faint glimmer of amusement in her red eyes.
Her gaze flickered briefly—
Almost unconsciously—
Toward nothing in particular.
A memory.
Then back to him.
"I will try to restrain myself."
"I would be grateful."
"…No, you wouldn't."she smiled
A beat.
Then—
"…No?" Fitz admitted.
For the briefest moment—
The air softened.
—
They sat.
The meal was modest.
Simple cuts of meat, coarse bread, a thin broth—warm, if not rich. It was arranged with care, though the effort showed more in precision than abundance.
Saskia folded her hands lightly before her.
"Our marriage is approaching," she said, without preamble.
Direct.
As always.
Fitz nodded once.
"It is."
No embellishment.
No hesitation.
A pause lingered between them—not awkward, but weighted.
Then—
"We must consider who will attend our wedding," she continued. "Despite… our circumstances, appearances remain necessary."
Fitz leaned back slightly.
"Of course."
Saskia's gaze remained steady.
"The three houses of the Tri-City will attend," she said. "They cannot afford not to."
A small pause.
"Our vassal house as House Spine."
Fitz's brow shifted, just slightly.
"The lords of Giant's Edge,I pass by them" he said.
She nodded.
"At the end of the Giantspine path. They serve as… our forward hold."
Our.
Fitz noticed it.
The way she said it.
Naturally.
Easily.
As though it had always been so.
He did not comment.
"…They will come," Saskia added. "If only to see what becomes of us."
Fitz allowed the faintest breath of amusement.
"I imagine many will."
Saskia's lips curved—just a little.
"Yes," she said. "That is the nature of such events."
She continued, counting without looking.
"House Hailar may attend. House Awtry as well, if the roads allow."
A pause.
"House Mican…" she tilted her head slightly, "…likely will not."
Fitz nodded once.
"Distance?"
"Convenience," she corrected lightly.
A small pause.
Then—
"The other northern houses will be unable to attend," she went on. "House Murphy and House Vierdarmos remain in a standoff. Most land routes are… blocked."
"Leaving only the river."
"Yes."
Another pause.
"Our river."
There it was again.
Fitz's gaze lingered on her for a fraction longer this time.
Our.
Almost deliberate now.
Almost—
Teasing.
He said nothing.
But something in his expression shifted.
Just slightly.
Saskia noticed.
Of course she did.
Her smile returned.
Small.
Knowing.
—
"And your side?" she asked. "Will the Crown send more than formality?"
Fitz considered.
"They will send what is necessary," he said.
A careful answer.
A royal one.
Saskia tilted her head.
"And what is necessary?"
A beat.
Fitz met her gaze.
"That remains to be seen."
For a moment—
Neither looked away.
Then—
She leaned back slightly.
Satisfied enough.
—
"Ser Jared has seen to your knight," she said after a moment.
Fitz's attention shifted.
"Ser Wilbur?"
"Yes."
A faint pause.
"I believe he has taken him to an inn," she added, almost idly. "Or somewhere that serves something stronger than discipline."
Fitz blinked once.
"…I see."
Saskia's lips curved again.
"He insisted."
"I do not doubt it."
A small silence followed.
Then—
"…You are adapting," Saskia said, quieter now.
Not a question.
An observation.
Fitz glanced at her.
"Am I?"
"You did not complain about the food."
A pause.
"…I am choosing my battles carefully."
That earned another brief laugh.
Soft.
Genuine.
Then—
She leaned forward slightly.
"Elaborate," she said, her tone lighter now. "I would very much like to know which ones you intend to lose."
Fitz met her gaze.
Straight-faced.
"As few as possible."
A beat.
Then—
"…Unfortunate," Saskia murmured, almost to herself.
His brow shifted.
"Why?"
She smiled.
"Because I was hoping to win some of them."
For a moment—
Fitz held his expression.
Calm.
Controlled.
Then—
"…You may find I am more generous than I appear."
Saskia's eyes flickered.
Something there—
Interested.
Amused.
"Then perhaps," she said, "this will be more entertaining than expected."
—
The torches flickered.
The cold pressed faintly at the edges of the hall.
And for a moment—
Amid duty, ruin, and expectation—
Two children pretending to be rulers
sat across from one another—
and almost enjoyed it.