“I Never Loved You. I Only Needed Your Grave.” — She Pressed Her Bleeding Hand Against the Storm King’s Tomb as the Earth Began to Scream

The coronation of the new northern rulers was not celebrated with lavish feasts or arrogant nobles, but with the gathering of all the scattered outcasts, wolfless orphans, and refugees whom the Haltorn Pack had cast aside over the decades.

They came from the valleys, the forests, and the frozen wastes, finding sanctuary beneath the shadow of the newly risen Citadel of the Gales.

In the center of the great courtyard, beneath a sky clear of all tempests, Jorah and Dawn stood before their people. There were no golden crowns or jeweled scepters; instead, the ancient spirits of the northern wilderness bestowed upon them something far more enduring—a circlet of woven silver and starlight resting gently upon Jorah's brow, and a matching band of dark iron and amber stone worn by the Storm King.

As Dawn stepped forward to take her hand before the assembly, a collective cheer rose from the crowd, shaking the mountain peaks with a joyful roar.

Jorah looked out over the sea of faces—people who, like her, had once known only cruelty and neglect, now standing tall, proud, and free. She felt the magnificent direwolf resting peacefully inside her soul, its golden eyes shining in harmony with her own.

She turned her gaze to Dawn, whose amber eyes burned not with the wild fury of a trapped beast, but with the steady, unwavering devotion of a king who had found his true anchor.