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words, cried them.
The world was bathed in fire. Fire, not
darkness.
Motion between the trees snared her
attention.
The Lord of the North was frantic,
mindless with agony, as he galloped toward
her. As smoke streamed from his white coat,
as fire devoured his mighty antlers—not the
immortal flame held between them on her
own sigil, the immortal flame of the sacred
stags of Terrasen, and of Mala Fire-Bringer
before that. But true, vicious flames.
The Lord of the North thundered past,
burning, burning, burning.
She reached a hand toward him, invisible
and inconsequential, but the proud stag
plunged on, screams rising from his mouth.
Such horrible, relentless screams. As if the
heart of the world were being shredded.