They stayed in the cave longer than they meant to.
Three days passed, maybe four, and neither of them marked the time. Outside, the wind screamed across the cliffs like a thing in mourning, and inside, the fire crackled quietly—low and steady, its light dancing across stone walls stained with smoke and shadow.
Kieran slept more deeply than he had since arriving in this world. Not because the pain had faded—his arm still throbbed, the wound beneath the wrappings raw and slow to close—but because for the first time in weeks, his mind didn't run. It rested. There were no dreams. Just warmth.
And her.
Lysa remained close, never far, always within arm's reach. She cooked what little they had left—dry meat, bitter roots, a handful of charred mushrooms—and sat beside him when he couldn't stand. Her hands were rough, but her touch was careful. No ceremony. No awkward silence. Just instinct.
They didn't speak much during the days.
But the nights…
The nights changed.
The first kiss had been desperate. That night, it was something else.
She leaned into him by the fire, her hand resting lightly on his chest, fingertips tracing the edge of the pendant beneath his tunic. The air between them carried no words—only breath, only heat. When her lips brushed his jawline, slow and deliberate, he turned into the touch, his hand rising to the curve of her hip, fingers threading through the rough fur of her belt.
She straddled his lap without hesitation, her silver eyes half-lidded, half-lit by firelight. She kissed him again, slower this time, deeper, lips moving with a hunger that was quiet rather than wild. Her hands slid beneath his shirt, exploring the lean lines of his ribs, the faint scars along his flank. He breathed her name once, not as a plea, but as a vow.
The cloak fell behind her. The shift beneath came next.
The skin revealed wasn't soft or polished like southern nobility—it was wild, wind-burned, freckled with battle and survival. But to him, she was beautiful in a way that rewrote the word itself.
She took him slowly, reverently, every movement a quiet declaration that she was real, that they were both alive, and that here—if only here—there was still something worth feeling.
It wasn't fast. It wasn't brutal.
It was theirs.
And when they finished, bodies pressed together beneath the furs, breath mingling in the quiet, neither of them spoke of what it meant.
They didn't need to.
By the fifth morning, the snow eased.
Kieran could walk again. Slowly. Carefully. The pain still flared when he turned his arm, but the magic had begun healing what Lysa's careful stitching could not. The pendant glowed faintly once more, in harmony with his pulse. The system had stirred, though it still offered no words. Just numbers. Mana: 43%. Vitality: Stable. Spell memory: expanding.
The silence of their retreat broke with the cry of a raven.
It came in low, cutting through the cold like a shadow with wings, and landed at the mouth of the cave. Not wild—trained. Its leg bore a metal clasp, and from it, a tightly wound strip of parchment.
Lysa took it first, reading quickly, her expression tightening with each line. She handed it to him when she finished.
Kieran scanned the message, written in the sharp, ink-blotted strokes of a rushed hand.
"Winterfell fallen. The flayed banners rise. Lord Stark presumed dead. The Bastard rules now."
The seal at the bottom was cracked and stained, but the name was clear. A northern bannerman. Faint, dying words sent to whoever might be listening.
Lysa's voice was low when she finally spoke.
The Boltons were moving. South, north, east—it didn't matter. The wolf's head had been torn down, and in its place hung the flayed man, screaming silently against the cold wind.
She said they would move next. Into the villages. Into the roads. Into the homes of people who didn't kneel fast enough.
Kieran listened, but his eyes remained on the paper. On the ink. On the last line, barely legible.
"He tortures for pleasure."
There was no system prompt. No blinking notification or automated quest log. But he didn't need one.
Something in him—deeper than the magic, deeper than the pendant—snapped.
He stood, slowly, and began gathering what little they had. The cloak. The packs. Moonfang.
Lysa didn't stop him. She just strapped her bow across her back and followed.
No one asked if they were ready.
No one ever was.
*********
Hey everyone! I'll be dropping an extra 1 chapter once we hit 200, 400 power stones! If you're enjoying the story, don't forget to spend some power stones. I'd really appreciate the support. Thanks a bunch!