The Seven Kingdoms

THE WHITE CASTLE

The tall, crumbling tower of the Crow House loomed against the sky, its gaping holes casting jagged shadows over the rocky expanse below. Inside, a figure cloaked in dark green robes stood at one of the broken windows, his long black hair swept back by the cold mountain winds. His keen eyes, like shards of flint, were fixed on the commotion among the guards gathered near the entrance of the ancient structure. Faint, dappled light from the setting sun seeped through the cracked stone walls, bathing the scene in an ethereal glow.

"Looks like we have a visitor," the robed figure muttered to himself, voice low and edged with curiosity.

Suddenly, the crows perched on the tower’s ledges took flight, filling the air with a cacophony of beating wings and harsh cries. The guards glanced up, momentarily distracted, and when they turned back, the figure from the top of the tower was no longer there.

"Master Raven!" one of the guards gasped, relief plain in his voice as the robed man now stood behind them, his presence as silent and unsettling as a shadow. "Thank the gods you’re here. This man—" The guard gestured to the stranger before them, a tall figure dressed in travel-worn leathers and carrying an aura of both weariness and defiance. "—he says he’s from the outside and demands an audience with the Queen."

The stranger’s eyes flashed defiantly. "I don’t care about the Queen or the King," he said coolly. "I’m here to see the Dragonborn."

The guards’ reaction was immediate. Spears and swords bristled, their tips glinting menacingly in the fading light as they all pointed towards the stranger’s throat.

"You insolent fool!" spat one of the guards, his face twisted with fury. "How dare you speak that name so casually? The Dragonborn are revered as gods in these lands!"

"Enough," Raven interjected, his voice sharp and commanding. "If he’s from the outside, he wouldn’t know how to behave accordingly. So, you—" He turned to the stranger, his dark eyes assessing him with a mixture of interest and caution. "If you truly wish to meet the Dragonborn, you will have to leave all your weapons here."

The stranger nodded without hesitation, stepping forward and unbuckling his belt. He handed over his sword, a gleaming blade with intricate runes carved into its hilt, followed by a small dagger and a pouch filled with curious, metallic objects.

"That’s fine," the stranger said, his voice steady. "I’m not here to fight."

Raven watched him carefully before gesturing for the guards to lower their weapons. He turned and began walking, the stranger following closely behind. The two descended the winding staircase of the Crow House, the stone steps echoing beneath their feet as they made their way towards the castle nestled at the heart of the mountain. The White Castle, its alabaster walls gleaming even in the dying light, stood like a beacon of purity amid the jagged peaks.

"You must be shocked by the guards' reaction," Raven said conversationally as they passed through an arched doorway leading to the castle’s inner courtyard. "Just by speaking the Dragonborn’s name so casually."

The stranger nodded. "Yes, a bit," he admitted. "But I didn’t come all this way to mince words."

Raven’s lips curved into a wry smile. "Well, that’s because the Dragonborn are not just rulers here—they are revered as gods themselves. To speak of them so casually is... dangerous."

The stranger paused, his gaze steady as he looked directly at Raven. "I have a question."

Raven raised a brow. "Go on, then."

The stranger’s next words, spoken softly but with unflinching conviction, seemed to hang in the air like a challenge. "Can you slay a god?"

Raven blinked, caught off guard by the audacity of the question. "What are you getting at?"

The stranger’s expression remained impassive. "How, then, was the previous Dragonborn slain? Killed, by all accounts, by nothing more than a wolf from the North."

Raven stopped in his tracks, shock flickering across his face. The guards who had followed them at a distance exchanged nervous glances.

"You know what that means, don’t you?" the stranger continued, his voice gaining an edge of intensity. "They aren’t gods. They can bleed. They can be killed."

Raven’s eyes narrowed, the intrigue and excitement barely concealed behind his dark gaze. A slow grin spread across his face as he took in the stranger’s calm defiance.

"Oh, this," he murmured, almost to himself, "is going to be fun."

With a sudden gesture, Raven turned, leading the stranger towards the entrance of the grand hall within the castle, where the Dragonborn awaited—where destiny, and perhaps death, beckoned. Raven turned to Light, his gaze stern. “Stay here,” he ordered. “I’ll have a word with the Queen.”

Light nodded, standing still as Raven approached the grand entrance to the hall. Two guards flanked the enormous doorway, their hands resting warily on the hilts of their swords. After a tense silence, the massive gates swung open, and Raven stepped inside.

The grand hall was immense, its towering walls adorned with intricate carvings and shimmering banners. A faint glow emanated from the massive chandelier above, casting flickering shadows that danced across the room. At the far end of the hall, seated atop a throne forged from dragonite—a rare and mystical glass formed from the scales of dragons—was the Queen.

She was a vision of icy beauty, with long, flowing white hair that cascaded down her shoulders like a waterfall of snow. Her dress, the color of a pristine winter’s day, shimmered with an ethereal light. Her eyes, a startling shade of blue, were as cold and piercing as frost itself.

Raven stopped a respectful distance away and bowed slightly. “May I present to you,” he announced in a clear, firm voice, “Emily Victorian White Dragneal—the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms, Queen of Frost, and the last of the Dragonborn.”

Light, who had quietly slipped into the hall behind him, scanned the room quickly. He noted the placement of the guards: two outside the gates, two within the hall, and two standing at attention beside the Queen’s throne. His mind raced as he assessed the situation, cataloging potential exits and the positions of every threat.

The Queen’s eyes shifted to him, her expression imperious and unreadable. “I am Light,” he said simply.

“Is that your full name?” the Queen asked, her voice a melody of authority and curiosity.

“I am Light... Snow.”

“Snow?” The Queen tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. “What sort of name is that?”

Light’s gaze was steady. “I was raised by the mountains... and snow was all I knew.”

The Queen’s smile faded, replaced by a look of interest tinged with suspicion. “You’re from the outside, then?” she inquired, her gaze shifting to Raven. “How is that possible?”

Before Raven could respond, Light stepped forward. “I am from the North.”

At those words, the Queen’s demeanor changed in an instant. She shot to her feet, her eyes blazing with sudden fury. “Did you say... from the North?” Her voice echoed through the hall, reverberating with anger and something darker—fear.

“Yes,” Light replied calmly.

The Queen’s hands clenched the arms of her throne. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice sharp.

“I’m here to protect you,” Light answered, his voice steady.

The Queen’s laughter rang out, cold and mocking. “Protect me? Do you know who I am?” She gestured sharply to the guards. “Take this man and throw him in the dungeons. I have no time for games.”

Raven’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze flicking to Light. **Well, it was fun while it lasted**, he thought wryly.

The guards moved towards Light cautiously, their swords drawn. Light seemed to take a step back, as if readying himself to comply, but just as he reached the threshold of the door, he spun around.

In a blur of motion, he surged forward, his fist connecting with the stomach of the nearest guard. The force of the blow crumpled the man’s armor, sending him sprawling to the ground, gasping for breath. Light moved like a wraith, a blur of speed and precision. Before the second guard could react, Light leapt, his heel colliding with the man’s face. The guard’s head snapped back, and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

The remaining two guards by the Queen’s side stepped forward, one taking a defensive stance in front of her while the other rushed at Light. But Light was ready. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small vial and hurling it to the ground. A thick cloud of black smoke erupted from it, enveloping the charging guard.

There was a strangled cry, then silence. Moments later, the guard came flying out of the smoke, crashing into his comrade, knocking both of them to the floor in a tangled heap of limbs and armor.

The Queen’s eyes widened in shock. **How—**?

But before she could even form a coherent thought, the smoke swirled towards her, and as it cleared, she found herself staring at the gleaming edge of a sword pressed lightly against her throat. Holding it, with a grip as steady as stone, was Light.

“You asked me a question earlier,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “You asked if I knew who you were.”

The Queen’s heart pounded in her chest, fear and confusion battling for dominance. **How did he move so fast?** She stared at the blade, its surface so polished she could see her own stunned reflection in it.

“I know exactly who you are,” Light continued softly. His eyes, glowing with an unsettling calm, locked onto hers. “You are already dead.”