Situated at the intersection of the Narrow Sea and the Summer Sea, the city of Sunspear rises like a spear thrusting into the heavens. It symbolizes the enduring will of the Lords of Dorne: Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. Throughout its nearly thousand-year history, Sunspear has forced invaders—those who sought to enslave the children of the golden sands—to falter. House Targaryen likely knows this better than anyone; even with dragons at their command, Dorne remained beyond their grasp.

  Inside the Tower of the Sun, within the high hall where the important councils of House Martell are held, Nymeria stood in silence, gazing at a portrait of her ancestor: Princess Nymeria of the Rhoynar. Her father, Prince Oberyn Martell, had named his eldest daughter after this legendary figure, hoping that Dorne would grow as mighty as it was in the days of old.

  Nymeria Martell wore golden armor that curved elegantly, clinging to her exquisite silhouette. Behind her stood two elderly advisors from House Dalt and House Dayne, two of the eleven vassals of Dorne. In Nymeria’s hands was the book Ten Thousand Ships, which recorded the glorious past of Princess Nymeria as she led ten thousand warships across the Narrow Sea to conquer Dorne nearly a millennium ago.

  “Ten thousand ships,” Nymeria whispered with a faint smile, her eyes fixed on the portrait.

  “A staggering number. I fear even the Iron Islands could not muster such a fleet,” Lord Dayne said, shaking his head before looking toward Lord Dalt for support.

  “We have but one thousand warships. They sit off the coast of the Narrow Sea, merely awaiting the order,” Lord Dalt added.

  “Your father is still in the capital,” Lord Dalt continued, his voice laced with anxiety. He laced his fingers together, twisting and cracking his knuckles nervously. “If we deploy our forces, I fear his life will be forfeit.”

  “Dorne will not be held hostage by any dynasty. Those years are behind us, Lord Dalt. Do you remember the words of House Martell?” Nymeria asked, her response sharp and unwavering.

  “Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken,” Lord Dalt nodded.

  “Perhaps years of luxury have made you forget. I have not.” Nymeria turned and placed the book into Lord Dalt’s hands. For a fleeting second, the lord felt as though the literal weight of ten thousand ships had been thrust upon him.

  Nymeria smiled at him. “I entrust this book to you. Return home and read it carefully, so you may remember that Dorne kneels to no power.”

  Lord Dalt bowed, clutching the book to his chest, and quietly took his leave.

  “We have grown old,” Lord Dayne sighed with regret, watching his old friend depart.

  Nymeria did not reply. She turned toward the balcony. Aquatic plants reached for the sun, their vibrant colors standing out against the jade-green water of the pools. Outside, two guards stood ready. One held a finely crafted golden helm. The other leaned on a spear, its shaft carved with sand snakes coiling toward the tip. The blade was long and wickedly sharp, forged from Valyrian steel.

  Nymeria approached them. Her slender, pale hands reached out to take the helm, sliding it over her head before gripping the spear.

  “Let us go,” she commanded coldly. The guards fell into step behind her. Their rhythmic footsteps hammered against the marble floors, echoing through the corridors of the Tower of the Sun.

  Lord Dayne watched her silhouette vanish beneath the marble arches. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a letter Nymeria had handed him. He opened it cautiously. It was from Kenvin Stark, containing only three words:

  “Kill the crows.”

  The North

  Outside, the snow fell in thick sheets, and the wind howled with a maddening fury. The Wall stood firm, stoically enduring the angry slaps of the blizzard.

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  Tugging his pitch-black cloak tight and pulling his fur hood low, Zoey trudged heavily up the watchtower. He had been with the Night's Watch for twenty years. Zoey first arrived at Castle Black at the age of twenty, after stabbing his best friend to death upon finding him in bed with his beloved wife—a reformed prostitute. The judge had sentenced Zoey to death, and he had sold his entire estate in King’s Landing to buy a place in the Night's Watch to escape the noose.

  Twenty years in the Watch brought nothing but cold winds and ice, but it was a peaceful life. In all that time, Zoey had never stepped beyond the Wall; his duty was simply to guard the gate.

  “It's a cold one this year,” Zoey said as he reached the sentry post, clapping Willy on the shoulder and startling him awake.

  With a lethargic yawn, Willy pulled his sheepskin blanket up to his neck. He peered into the distance before slumped back down, pulling a flask of liquor from his pocket. He jerked his chin toward Zoey. “A drop?”

  “Naturally,” Zoey shrugged. He rested his sword on the floor and took the flask. The cork popped satisfyingly. He tilted his head back, took a long swig, and let out a refreshed exhale. The heat of the Tarth malt liquor surged through him, sending his mind into a pleasant haze he wished would last forever.

  “So, what exactly happened to the men who went beyond the Wall? And the Stark army?” Zoey asked, sitting down on the floor. At Castle Black, Willy was known as the man who knew everything.

  “Information is locked tight. Word is, no one came back,” Willy whispered, as if terrified of being overheard.

  “All dead? Ten thousand men?” Zoey exclaimed in horror.

  Willy jumped, quickly covering Zoey’s mouth and gritting his teeth. “Keep it down! Don't scream like that.”

  Zoey’s eyes bulged. He nodded frantically. When Willy let go, Zoey gasped for air like a man who had been strangled.

  Willy took a drink, wiped his mouth, and looked pensive. “Could the Wildlings really be that strong? To wipe out ten thousand men from House Stark and the Vale?”

  “Don't be ridiculous. We’ve been hunting Wildlings for years. The survivors hide like rabbits,” Zoey argued, adjusting his cloak to trap the warmth.

  “Or maybe... the White... Walkers...” Willy stuttered, the thought suddenly hitting him.

  Zoey shivered, goosebumps erupting across his skin. His complexion turned a sickly pale. Though no White Walker had been seen beyond the Wall for nearly 300 years, the history remained burned into their minds. Even the eastern section of the Wall had been recently repaired—a physical scar from the Night King’s assault three centuries ago, a fact every citizen of Westeros was taught.

  “What is that over there?” Willy pointed toward the distant treeline, making Zoey jump.

  In the distance, blurred by the violent snow, black dots appeared. They grew in number, becoming clearer as they approached.

  “An army!” Zoey yelled into Willy’s ear.

  “Look, the Stark banners!” Willy snapped, rubbing his ear in irritation.

  Zoey squinted. Indeed, the banners bore the direwolf of House Stark.

  “Must be reinforcements,” Willy guessed. He quickly hid the liquor, straightened his clothes, and stood tall on the tower, waiting.

  The army approaching Castle Black was massive—perhaps six or seven thousand strong, all Stark cavalry.

  “Open the gates! We are passing through!” the lead rider shouted as they reached the entrance.

  Willy looked down, trying to identify the commander. Suddenly, a sycophantic smile broke across his face. He looked at Zoey. “It’s Prince Kenvin. Open the gates, quickly!”

  Zoey hesitated. “Shouldn't we notify the Commander first?”

  Willy brushed him off. “You don’t keep Prince Kenvin waiting. He’s a nasty one to cross.”

  Zoey and Willy scrambled down. The heavy oak gates slowly groaned open.

  The column filed in, led by Kenvin. He wore jet-black armor and rode a horse as dark as the night. The stallion entered arrogantly, its head tossing from side to side. Zoey and Willy stood on either side of the path, looking up at Kenvin with bright, welcoming smiles for the infamous Prince of the North.

  From his saddle, Kenvin leaned down languidly, examining their faces. The smiles on the two Watchmen's faces began to wither. They felt an inexplicable sense of unease.

  “What are your names?” Kenvin asked curtly.

  “Zoey, your Highness.”

  “And I am Willy.”

  Kenvin nodded, muttering to himself, “Zoey and Willy. Good. I shall remember.”

  Before Willy could say another word, his head was rolling on the ground. It hit a wagon wheel and bounced before coming to a rest. His eyes remained fixed on the figure standing next to Kenvin’s horse—a headless body. His own body. In Kenvin’s hand, a sword had appeared as if by magic.

  Zoey, standing on the other side of the horse, saw only a flash of silver followed by a dull thud. He saw Willy’s head bounce like a ball. The head looked as though it wanted to speak, but no sound came.

  Terrified, Zoey tried to leap backward. But before he could move, he felt as though he were flying through the air, landing in a hay trough behind him. From Zoey’s perspective, the sky above was vast and grey. His mouth tried to stammer something, but the darkness rushed in too fast. He sank into the void—no feeling, no pain. Just weightlessness. Beside Kenvin, Zoey’s headless corpse collapsed heavily into the dirt.

  “Kill every last one of them. Kill Bran’s hounds!” Kenvin ordered, wiping his blade clean.

  Thousands of cavalrymen surged into Castle Black, and a horrific slaughter began.

  The bells of Castle Black began to toll, their chime swallowed by the savage northern wind. The snow fell, turning the paths white, desperately trying to cover the red blood spreading across the fortress.