You stand at the edge of the training yard, watching the men drill. Your breath leaves you in slow white plumes. Your fingers, even inside lined leather gloves, feel the cold as an old friend.

A horn sounds from the gatehouse.

Not the long, mournful blast that signals an attack. A short call. Arrival.

You turn. Your brother Cregan is already striding across the yard, his cloak catching the weak light. He does not look surprised. He does not look to find you, either.

A murmur ripples through the men. Some stop mid-swing. The horses in the stables shift and stamp.

From beyond the walls, you hear it. A sound that does not belong to the North. A low, rhythmic noise. Deep-chested. Alive. Leathery wings beating the cold air.

The shadow falls first.

It slides across the bailey like a dark tide, swallowing the grey stone, the frozen mud, the faces of men who have never seen such a thing before. The dragon descends beyond the outer wall, out of sight, and the ground trembles when it lands.