"Winter is coming," Jasmine said, brushing the stray flakes of snow from her hair. She adjusted her beaver-pelt cloak, dyed a crimson as deep as fresh-spilled blood.

  "Winter is already here, and it shall shroud all of Essos in the Long Night," Lyana replied with a faint, knowing smile. She cast her gaze rearward to where the great Wall of ice loomed in the distance, a titan of frost standing sentinel between heaven and earth. It was a monument of the ages, raised by Brandon the Builder ten thousand years ago to hold the White Walkers at bay and shield the realms of men.

  They were daughters of the Red Temple, Jasmine and Lyana, handmaidens of the Lord of Light from the shadow-shrouded spires of Asshai.

  "Where must we seek her?" Jasmine asked, pulling her collar tight against the mounting chill. Her eyes wandered toward the horizon, a desolate wasteland where the world seemed to end in an eternity of white.

  "The Lord of Light shall show the path," Lyana said. She dug her heels into her mount’s flanks. The coal-black mare reared in sudden fright before plunging forward, hooves churning the thick powder into a white spray. Jasmine spurred her own horse to follow. Two black shadows against the blinding pale, they rode like direwolves on the scent of prey.

  It had been nearly a year since they departed the temples of Asshai. They had braved the Shivering Sea from Braavos, making landfall at Hardhome before striking northwest into the heart of the Frostfangs. Cloaked in shadows and sorcery, they had slipped past the watchful eyes of the Night’s Watch, venturing deep into the Lands of Always Winter—a realm where no southron foot, nor even a crow of the Wall, had stepped for a thousand years.

  "Fire ahead," Lyana said suddenly, drawing her reins taut. She pointed toward a dense thicket of gnarled trees. Jasmine halted beside her, her crystalline eyes searching the gloom for the light Lyana had seen.

  They dismounted in silence, tethering their horses to a frost-rimed pine. To any observer, Jasmine might have seemed a mere servant to Lyana, yet she was an acolyte, a seeker of the flame learning the ancient arts.

  Two red shadows drifted over the snow, silent as ghosts, toward the flickering orange glow that danced upon the frozen branches.

  "Wildlings," Lyana whispered. Jasmine nodded, her hand instinctively hovering near the rubies at her throat.

  A crude hovel stood before them, fashioned of beast-hides and scavenged boughs, barely large enough for two souls to crawl within. Before it, a small fire crackled, its rhythmic popping the only music in the frozen silence. A blackened pot, soot-stained and ancient, hung from a tripod of branches. Within, a foul-smelling pottage bubbled and hissed.

  They moved with the grace of squirrels, drawing closer to the warmth. Beside the hearth sat a woman of some fifty years, her hair matted and tangled like a bird's nest, wrapped in a heavy, moth-eaten fur. Beside her was a lad of five or six, clutching a roughly carved wooden spoon. He gulped the broth with hungry desperation, his breath huffing in the frigid air. The woman stared toward the North, her sigh heavy with a weight as old as the mountains.

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  "Tell me more, Nana," the boy said, licking his spoon.

  The woman stirred the pot with a stick, her eyes drifting back to the child. "And so, the dragon bore the Queen back to the White City. There she remains, to reign forever over the lands of frost, where no living man may set foot".

  "Why can the living not go to the White City?" the boy asked, his voice clear and innocent.

  "Because it is the city of the dead, little one. It has no place for those whose hearts still beat. When the ancestors call my name, I too shall go to the White City to serve our Queen".

  "Do we all go there when we die?" the boy asked, staring at his empty bowl.

  "Aye," the woman replied softly. "We Free Folk serve the Queen in death as we never did in life".

  "And if the living should find it?".

  "I know not," she said, her voice turning grim. "None who seek the White City ever return to the world of men".

  Darkness began to swallow the woods. The wind rose, a banshee’s wail that sent the snow spiraling into the sky. The fire buckled under the gale, a frail orange spark struggling against the encroaching night.

  "In which direction lies this White City?" Lyana asked, stepping from the brush.

  The woman bolted upright, pulling the boy into her shadow. In her other hand, she brandished an axe with a blade as black as the night. Dragonglass.

  "Be at ease. We mean you no harm," Lyana said, her voice like velvet. "We seek only the way to the White City".

  "You are no Free Folk," the woman spat, her eyes narrowing at their strange, crimson silks—garb far too fine for the savage North or even the lords of Westeros.

  "We are..." Jasmine began, but Lyana caught her arm, her eyes darting upward. In the frost-laden pines above, ravens had gathered in their hundreds, their obsidian eyes fixed upon the small group below.

  The woman followed Lyana's gaze, a primitive terror seizing her heart at the sight of the silent, watching birds.

  Lyana began to chant, the words of Old Valyria rolling from her tongue like molten gold. As the incantation reached its zenith, the pine tops erupted in a sudden roar of flame. The ravens took flight in a cacophony of shrieks. Those too slow were transformed into living torches, falling like black cinders onto the white snow, hissing as they died.

  The stench of burnt feathers filled the air, and the survivors, maddened by the slaughter, swirled in a murderous cloud before diving toward the women with talons bared.

  "Into the tent! Quickly!" Lyana commanded the wildlings.

  Jasmine stood beside the hearth, her eyes closed, her voice joining the Valyrian chorus.

  Crack! The dying fire exploded with a thunderous roar. From the heart of the flames, streaks of blinding light shot forth like arrows, striking the descending ravens mid-air. The birds fell in a rain of charred meat and broken wings. The few that remained fled southward, their cries echoing with a panicked desperation.

  "They will return," Lyana said, watching them vanish. She turned to the hovel where the woman and child peered out with terrified eyes. They had seen magic this day, and the sight of it had stolen their breath. "We have little time. Tell us, where is the White City?".

  "The... the legends say..." the woman stammered. "Ride northwest. Cross nine rivers of ice until you reach the Dragon's Gate. That is the threshold of the City of Ice".

  "To horse," Lyana said, pulling Jasmine toward their mounts.

  Behind them, the wind howled with a renewed fury, a savage gale that threatened to consume the world. Two sparks of blood-red silk rode into the teeth of the storm, heading for the White City, while in the distance, the ravens' cries tore at the sky.