A year had passed, and the children of Winterfell were growing—each in their own peculiar way. Mary, now a little over a year old, was a whirlwind of energy. Her hair, a striking cascade of white like freshly fallen snow, was always a tangled mess, and her piercing blue eyes sparkled with mischief. She crawled at lightning speed, climbed onto anything she could reach, and tore through whatever caught her attention. Tapestries, scrolls, and even the occasional piece of furniture fell victim to her tiny, determined hands. Her voice was rarely heard in words—only growls, yells, and the occasional sharp laugh that echoed through the halls.


    But there was something else about Mary, something that made the servants whisper and Catelyn’s lips tighten with disapproval. From the base of her spine, a small, furry tail had begun to grow. At first, it had been little more than a tuft, easily hidden beneath her clothes. But now, it was unmistakable—long and slender, like a cat’s tail, twitching and curling as she moved. It seemed to have a life of its own, flicking in excitement when she climbed or lashing in frustration when she was stopped.


    Jon, ever the calm counterbalance to Mary’s storm, followed her like a shadow. Though he was younger, he carried himself with a quiet stillness that made even the servants pause. His dark eyes were always watchful, his movements deliberate. He didn’t try to stop Mary’s antics; instead, he followed her, ready to catch her if she fell or to pick up the pieces of whatever she had destroyed. He rarely made a sound, but when he did, it was a soft coo or a gentle hum, as if he were soothing the chaos around him.


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    One afternoon, as the sun cast long shadows across the courtyard, Mary was scaling the low stone wall near the godswood. Her tiny hands gripped the rough surface, and her growls of determination filled the air. Her tail flicked behind her, balancing her as she climbed higher. Jon sat nearby, his dark eyes fixed on her, a small wooden toy clutched in his hands.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Shadow moved closer, his presence a comforting weight at the edge of their awareness. He tilted his head, his glowing eyes fixed on Mary. She paused, her wild eyes locking onto Shadow. For a moment, the chaos in her stilled, and she tilted her head, as if listening to something only she could understand.


    Then, with a sudden burst of energy, she leapt from the wall, landing in a heap at Jon’s feet. She scrambled up, her face smeared with dirt, and let out a triumphant yell before darting off toward the broken tower. Jon sighed, shaking his head, and followed after her, Shadow trailing silently behind.


    In the quiet solitude of Winterfell’s library, Shadow lingered among the towering shelves, his smoky form blending with the dim light. His glowing eyes scanned the ancient tomes and scrolls, their pages filled with tales of dragons, greenseers, and the long-lost magic of Westeros. Maester Luwin often spoke of magic as if it were a relic of the past, a force long extinguished from the world. But Shadow knew better, his own existence was proof enough.


    Magic, he thought, was not gone—it was merely waiting. It was like the tide, ebbing and flowing with the turning of ages. The maesters might believe it had vanished, but Shadow could feel it, faint and distant, like the hum of a song just beyond hearing. And if the oceans of magic had receded, it could only mean one thing: a tsunami was coming.


    He thought of Mary, her white hair and wild eyes, her tail flicking like a cat’s. He thought of Jon, quiet and watchful, his presence a steady counterbalance to her chaos. The children were connected to the magic, though they did not yet understand it. Shadow could feel the threads of power weaving around them, growing stronger with each passing day.


    The maesters might dismiss the signs, but Shadow knew the truth. Magic was returning to Westeros, and when it did, it would change everything.