The diplomatic envoy passed in stately formation before the manor gates, their banners fluttering in the wind. Perched atop the weathered stone lion statues fnking the entrance, Bran and Huahua sat cross-legged, eyes bright with curiosity as they observed the procession.

  The young knights of the envoy, resplendent in polished armor and proud on their handsome steeds, carried themselves with the easy arrogance of southern chivalry. Their horses, though sleek and fine-bred, cked the hardy stature of the northern warhorses. Bran curled his lip in disdain—a subtle expression, yet one sharp-eyed knight took offense.

  Breaking rank, the young rider spurred his mount toward the gate, nce lowered in mock threat, as if to startle the seemingly unimpressive boy.

  But before the hooves could thunder too close, a piercing cry split the sky—a hawk’s cry, clear and commanding. At once, two white wolves stirred atop the third-floor ptform of the manor. One threw back its head and howled; the other bounded from ledge to gate in mere heartbeats, pcing itself firmly between Bran and the would-be assaint.

  Then came the chorus—nickering, braying, bellowing. From within the manor, an entire menagerie surged forth in a chaotic yet strangely disciplined stampede. First came Dany’s towering warhorses, graceful and swift. Then the rest: white wolves close behind, a pair of muscur oxen barging forward with brute strength, and a crowd of smaller ponies and indignant goats bleating from behind the gate, blocked from joining the charge.

  The knight faltered, his bravado draining as fast as his color. The eyes of dozens of animals stared him down, unblinking and intense. Only the sharp bark of a senior knight spared him further shame.

  "Return to your pce!" the voice commanded.

  The youth obeyed, sheepishly rejoining the column. The older knight nodded briefly to Bran—a gesture of recognition and apology. Bran remembered him from a previous envoy: Ser Laen, seasoned and polite, even when dealing with the infamous "idiot Bran."

  Yet the spectacle didn’t end there. The animals, instead of retreating, arrayed themselves like curious spectators—sitting, lying down, or standing sentinel along the manor’s gate. They watched with their master, as though they too were here to enjoy the show.

  And just as Bran and his creatures observed the envoy, so too did the envoy observe him. Whispers passed from rider to rider. Who was this peculiar boy seated atop a statue, calm amid a sea of beasts?

  In no time at all, every member of the entourage had heard the name whispered like a campfire ghost tale: Bran the Simpleton.

  But the column didn’t end with the diplomats. Trailing behind, as was custom, came the vagabond nobility—ndless lords, idle squires, would-be warriors in search of excitement or glory. Most were fools. Some, however, were merely ambitious. This year, Bran noticed, there seemed to be more of them than usual, and far more curious youths than was typical. Something was different. Something odd.

  Then, at the very rear, came a peculiar group—twelve riders, purposefully distant from the rest. Their mounts were not horses at all but sleek, two-legged creatures that moved with reptilian grace—raptor-beasts, the kind Bran had only heard of in whispered tales.

  These were the Dragon Knights.

  They gleamed like polished bdes in the sun, adorned in gilded armor and engraved weapons. Feathers curled from the nostrils of their scaled mounts, fierce creatures that hissed with restrained menace.

  Bran’s eyes narrowed. His spine straightened. Huahua stirred in sync beside him, and the wolves tensed once again. Within seconds, the manor’s animals had resumed formation—subtle, deliberate, as though preparing to ambush a royal caravan. Even a recently weaned mb pawed at the dirt, eager to prove its valor.

  Seasoned warriors sense hostility instinctively. The Dragon Knights, though unfamiliar with this manor, were not fools. As they approached, they felt it—a rising, almost predatory pressure. A prickling at the neck. A quiet hunger in the air.

  Most held their ground, too disciplined to flinch. But as always, youthful pride was the weakest link.

  From among their ranks, a pair of teenage riders broke free—a boy and a girl, brash and beautiful, galloping straight toward Bran.

  “What are you staring at!?” the boy shouted.

  Bran blinked, unimpressed. “Fresh meat,” he muttered to himself, recalling an old line from a tale.

  In his mind, he had expected Dragon Knights to be hulking warriors with more muscle than sense. These two were lean and lovely, with faces unscarred by real battle. Bran squinted, comparing them to the rest of the squadron. Again and again, he looked between the teens and their likely parents, as if trying to prove some theory of adoption. No such luck—they were clearly blood.

  They were nothing like the Northerners. Where the North was stone, these southerners were steel—slender, gleaming, and sharp.

  The two teens slowed as they approached. Bran's unflinching gaze disarmed them. His posture was rexed, almost careless, but the way he looked at them—measuring, detached—was unmistakably northern. A gaze honed by years of being overlooked. The gaze of someone who had stared at disdain for so long it had become second nature.

  It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t challenge. It was apathy. And that was worse.

  The two riders flushed red with frustration. Their momentum faltered. They shifted uneasily in their saddles, unsure what to do now that their charge had fizzled into awkward silence.

  Then they noticed it—the animals had moved.

  While they had hesitated, a quiet siege had begun. Wolves, oxen, goats, and ponies had encircled them in a slow, methodical ring. Above, the sky darkened momentarily as four massive snow hawks cast their shadows across the earth.

  The riders gnced around, uncertain.

  And then, as if on cue, the mb charged.

  It was absurd.

  The tiny creature sprinted with all its might, clumsy and bold, weaving through the legs of rger beasts. Every creature stepped aside to let the little warrior pass. Its target: the velociraptor-mounts. It reached them, hesitated, then… gently bumped one on the toe with its head. A nudge. A kiss. A blessing.

  The girl squealed in delight.

  She leapt from her saddle, scooped up the mb, and with practiced grace swung back atop her beast. With a triumphant call, she spurred her raptor and bolted, dragging her stunned companion with her. Their ughter echoed behind them like silver bells in a winter field.

  Bran sat frozen.

  Someone had stolen a Northern mb.

  Someone had stolen his mb.

  He could hardly believe it.