The Feast of Flesh and Fire

The screams of the sacrificed still echoed across the Grand Temple as blood soaked into the earth. The flames had roared, hungry and bright, devouring the body of King Alphonse Stark as the priests chanted prayers to Odin, to the Old Gods, to the skies and bones beneath the realm. His ashes were swept into an urn of hammered gold, carried by twin priests and placed atop the altar—where kings would bow, and gods would listen.

But after sacrifice came celebration.

As tradition demanded, the Feast of Flesh and Fire commenced.

The Grand Hall, carved from storm-split stone and flanked by fire-braided banners of the Four Realms, was lit with over a thousand torches. The tables were packed with roasted boar, bear meat glazed in spiced honey, goose swimming in berry wine, mountains of bread and cheese, and horn after horn of dark ale and brewed mead. Smoke curled into the rafters, thick with the aroma of sweat, sex, and spices from the Eastern Isles.

It was not just a celebration—it was a release. A purge of sorrow. A descent into primal joy.

Women danced on tables, their skirts flaring, revealing inked thighs and skin kissed by firelight. Men cheered them on, beating goblets against wood. Flutes played. Drums pounded like the heartbeat of gods. Tankards clashed, and voices roared in toasts to kings long dead and battles not yet won.

Beneath furs and silk, bodies tangled in shadowed corners. Lovers—old and new—gave into desires stoked by fire and ale. Cloaks fell, belts loosened. A baroness gasped as a sailor hoisted her against a pillar. A sorceress with painted lips whispered ancient words as her fingers traced fire across a blacksmith's bare chest. Everywhere, skin met skin, and moans were buried beneath music. It was raw, fierce—but ritualized. There was no shame here, only the gods watching.

Yet not all joined in the revelry.

High on the raised dais, Queen Matilda Stark sat wrapped in wolf pelts, her golden hair dulled by grief. She did not eat. Her hands trembled. Her eyes, red-rimmed, stared into nothing. To her right, the new king—young Ned Stark, barely seventeen—clutched his goblet but did not drink. His mouth was a grim line. His father's sacrifice had been public, glorious, and necessary… but the cost was personal. The boy had not wept, but the silence in him screamed.

Behind them stood the guards of House Stark—cloaked in steel and solemn pride.

They alone did not drink. They did not cheer. They did not laugh.

As meat was torn and songs bellowed, masked witches wove through the crowd. Their veils shimmered with moonlight, their steps silent. Some kissed celebrants on the cheek. Others whispered secrets of fertility, death, and coming war. One paused by Ned's throne and murmured into the smoke:

"The fire has taken your blood… but the ash has chosen your path."

Ned turned sharply, but the witch was gone.

On the far side of the hall, a group of wargs—men and women whose spirits could inhabit beasts—sat with unblinking eyes. Their faces were tattooed with runes. One of them, a grey-eyed man named Skorn, watched Ned without blinking. His wolf, Ghostshade, lay beside him, ears flicking.

As the night stretched on, the feast grew wilder.

Ale spilled. Breasts were bared. Flesh slapped flesh in alcoves and atop tables. A song broke out about the Queen of the East and the Twelve Princes she bedded before war—sung in full, with lewd gestures and laughter. A drunken jarl climbed a statue of the Allfather and pissed from its crown. No one stopped him.

This was how the old gods were honored—through ecstasy, offering, and abandon.

Yet despite it all, the House of Stark remained still.

Near midnight, as the fires burned low and only the most shameless still danced, Queen Matilda rose from her seat.

She crossed the stone floor barefoot, her gown dragging behind her like mourning itself. The hall fell slowly quiet as she ascended the altar again. With a heavy heart, she lifted the circlet of silver and frost-crystal that had belonged to her husband. She looked to Ned.

"My son," she said. "He is gone. But you remain."

She stepped forward. The hall waited.

With trembling hands, Ned took the crown.

It was cold—colder than steel. As if his father's blood had not yet dried within it.

Matilda kissed his brow. "You are king now."

Then she turned and walked into the dark.

The next morning, the feast was over. The hall smelled of sweat and ash, the floor littered with broken goblets, wilted garlands, and the discarded garments of lovers. Witches swept incense through the space, purifying it for the gods. The priests sang hymns to the wind.

Outside, the snow began to fall.

The banners of the great houses were raised one by one: House Eldmere, House Halford, House Freyson, House Stark.

The new king prepared to depart.

Ned stood in his chambers, staring at the crown in his hand. Across the room, a raven perched on the window, watching.

His mother approached him. "There is no more time to mourn. We ride for the North."

"Will the gods forgive us?" Ned asked quietly.

"No," she answered. "They never do. But they watch."

Thus the kingdoms divided once more.

Each house returned to their lands. The war-torn West rebuilt its borders. The Southern marshes whispered of coming omens. The East—still distant—watched in silence. And far beyond the Wall of the Dead North, something ancient stirred.

But in the coldest reaches of the kingdom, deep beneath the ice and bone, a soul not fully gone stirred in the ash.

The sacrifice was made.

The gods had taken.

But they had not finished.

And in dreams that night, Ned saw his father again—burning in a field of frost, surrounded by four shadowy beasts with wings of fire.