Epilogue-A Tale of Snow and Storm

After the Red Spring ended and uneasy peace returned, the powers dominating Essos and Westeros had shifted. With Braavos and Pentos reduced to a shadow of their former self, and Volantis busy contending against the rising expansion of New Ghis in Slavers’ Bay and beyond, only four forces contend for control of the Stepstones. The Myrish, who had devoured Tyrosh and a good chunk of the Disputed Lands. Lys, who struggled to deal with the encroaching Myrish advance on its own, the Stormlands under Edric Durrandon, and High King Andar Yronwood.

The Myrish were kept in check by a loose alliance among the other three for nearly two decades. But then the Yronwood king died of a burst heart, and his grandson began to lean towards neutrality—or perhaps even allying with Myr, for it was said that his Myrish wife was whispering in his ear.

Edric Durrandon, who had previously focused on solidifying his control over his previous fragmented realm, mostly the former Crownlands, had a token fleet—merely enough to defend his shores from pirates and reavers, but insufficient to wage war across the Narrow Sea. Yet now, he found himself faced with two choices: let Myr slowly but surely crush Lys, and then devour the Stepstones unopposed, or join the fray now.

It was a thankless war that promised to last many years for little tangible gain, and his alliance of words with Lys was too shaky for him to commit…

Excerpt from ‘The Scramble for the Stepstones’ by Maester Laryn

Year 20 After the Sundering

Jocelyn Durrandon, near the Gods’ Eye

‘A Durrandon must be bold,’ her father had told her and her siblings when they were young. ‘We are the line of Godsgrief, and the audacity to defy even gods runs in our blood.’ It was a memory of a better time, and advice Jocelyn never forgot… even if her kingly father probably rued it right now.

“I thought we’d be going to the Reach, Elyn?” Dyana asked, slender fingers worriedly tugging at her chestnut braids.

Her handmaiden, two years younger than Jocelyn at five and ten, was a sweet and leal little thing hailing from a cadet branch of House Morrigen. She was a loyal but skittish girl with a terrible sense of direction.

“No, my father would find me there,” the princess said. “I only gushed about the Reach and Oldtown to mislead my father—both Lord Bloodsmile and King Garlan would send me back to my father in a heartbeat if they saw me at their doorstep.”

“But… these are wild, dangerous lands.” Dyana worriedly gestured at the surrounding wilderness—a dense forest of trees dotted with thick shrubbery. They had seen a wild herd of shaggy horses and aurochs from afar yesterday. “The Green Scourge is said to kill all who trespass.”

The surrounding tangle was nothing like the kingswood, and most roads were lost in the verdant greenery.

“That is what many think. Yet I’ve heard from my royal father that the dragon only goes after larger groups of men. Any band bigger than half a dozen would be relentlessly hunted, but a handful could pass unmolested, so long as they didn’t approach Harrenhal. Braver smugglers make their way through Harrenhal’s forest to bypass paying tolls and customs. No search parties would dare come this way, methinks.”

And it was just them and their mares, Sara and Jeyne. The palfreys did have quite some trouble navigating through the greenery, but there were still deer trails that they stayed upon. Jocelyn had managed to cleverly run away during a rainy hunt in the kingswood—if the Seven were smiling upon her, her royal father would still be searching the royal forest.

But Jocelyn knew better than to harbour any hopes or rely on luck. Her father was known as the Rising Storm for a reason, and even nearing fifty name days, he was as relentless as his moniker. Unless Edric Durrandon saw her corpse, he’d continue his search, no matter what. After Jocelyn’s mother had passed away, the smiles had died in her family. Gone was the kind, jovial father, and the cold, stern king had taken his place.

Life on the run was a harsh thing, but Jocelyn was always a free spirit and oft went hawking or riding and wasn’t a stranger to forests, hills, and rivers. By her estimate, they had travelled more than five hundred miles, a gruelling endeavour that had slowly begun to take a toll on her body—especially her sore thighs—but it was preferable to the alternative. Sleeping under the starry sky for the first time had been a harrowing experience, but it wasn’t too bad once you got used to it. The morning stiffness would fade after some stretching, and there was no stuffy pageantry or the annoyance of the endless doves of tittering ladies. A good hedge or an abandoned cottage was always welcome, but they were not often found.

‘Princess of the Hedges,’ Dyana had called her, but Jocelyn felt more like a vagrant.

The worst was the buzzing of the flies and mosquitoes, hordes of which descended upon them as soon as they entered Harrenhal’s forest. Even that woe was alleviated by eating wild garlic, but Jocelyn had come to appreciate the taste after half a moon.

Thankfully, it was still summer, and the nights were short and warm; otherwise, their journey would have been far more gruelling.

The road was not without hiccups, but there were few dangers—she had her coin pouch to tide them through, and the few who dared to resort to brigandry in the Stormlands were long hunted down by the lords. They avoided villages and small towns lest their presence there alert the search parties her father had doubtlessly sent. Food was not an issue; Jocelyn was more than skilled with her trusty goldenheart bow, a small curved thing her grandfather Anders had gifted her for her tenth nameday.

The challenges of finding a dry place to sleep, clean running water, and food filled much of their day, but Jocelyn did not dislike it. Every small problem that she managed to overcome made her feel… better. It strengthened her conviction that escape had been the right choice, even if she sometimes slept on an empty belly.

“And where do we go next?” Dyana whined, glancing around fretfully.

Sometimes, Jocelyn almost regretted taking her handmaiden with her. But despite the incessant whinging and worrying, Dyanna was loyal, and her knowledge of herbs and cooking had proven helpful. Her mother was rumoured to be a woods witch, while her father was nothing more than a wandering, impoverished Morrigen knight far removed from the lord’s line. Most important of all, her presence kept the loneliness at bay.

“We’ll make our way to Saltpans from here and then to White Harbour, Southshore or Gulltown,” the princess said absentmindedly. “I’d rather be a no-name seamstress in some city than marry that fat old slob Lysaro Rogare.”

Just the thought of marrying some slavering whoremonger, First Magister of Lys or not, infuriated and disgusted her to no end. It was unacceptable, especially for a lady like her, anointed in the holy light of the Seven, and knowing the Seven-Pointed Star as well as any septa. The arrangement was supposed to be a secret, but she had overheard a council meeting by mistake: her hand was to be used as a bargaining chip for an alliance with Lys against the Myrish, who had just taken control of the Stepstones and the whole of the Disputed Lands bar a few coastal settlements.

Jocelyn always knew she was going to be sold off for a marriage alliance somewhere; she had thought it acceptable, for it was the fate of all princesses. But it was to be some young lord or heir near Storm’s End, not across the sea to a fat old man who peddled flesh for a living! He even had more than one wife and concubines!

So what if Rogare had helped her father as a child?

It was ungodly, it was sinful!

The magister’s eldest son was unwed—why couldn’t Jocelyn be offered to him instead? It was still a sin, but one she could bring herself to swallow. It wasn’t like the First Magister was short on daughters either. Her father could have wedded one of them, or even her eldest brother Robert could have been used to seal that alliance.

Did her own father loathe her to send her off in such a cruel manner?

‘You have my eyes and hair, but you look like Gwyneth the most out of all my children.’

Was it all a lie? Or was it because he loathed that Jocelyn reminded him of her mother that the king wanted her gone?

Jocelyn was unwilling. She loved her family, but she was unwilling. Perhaps it was boldness more than sense or anything else, but she was a Durrandon. And boldness and audacity ran in the line of the Godsgrief.

Crone above, Jocelyn had spent countless sleepless nights planning, and had almost given up on her escape more than a few times, but at last, it had been worth it—the feeling of freedom and having your fate within your grasp, not to the whims of others.

As soon as the late afternoon approached, they began searching for a place to camp for the night. They settled on a small clearing and tied their mares to a young elm nearby.

There was no need to hunt just yet, either; they still had the wild blueberries and the remains of the hare Jocelyn had killed yesterday. Her hands were busy setting the bedrolls while Dyana gathered dry wood for a night’s fire, but Jocelyn’s thoughts wandered towards her siblings. Would they miss her?

Robert probably wouldn’t. Her eldest brother had a spear up his arse and harped all day about duty this and duty that. On the other hand, Davos would definitely mourn her, but he would approve of her flight if he were sober. He was always in his cups, though. Cassandra, her petty cow of a sister, would hate her for escaping from her betrothed while she married the handsome young Dondarrion heir.

Jeyne and Sara began to whine nervously, and Jocelyn looked around warily. Did they sense some wolves or—

“Well, well, well. Look what we ‘ave here, Arle.” A craggy voice made Jocelyn whip her head and stiffen.

A tall, gaunt man stood next to their horses. Garbed in battered, rusty ringmail, the dark-haired man gazed at her with a lusty smile on his blotchy face. His dark, beady eyes reminded Jocelyn of a pig and made her skin crawl.

“Ah, two delicious birds.” It was another man’s voice, speaking with a rough Riverlander lilt. “Young, soft, and supple, just as I like ’em!”

Three more men emerged from the far end of the clearing, surrounding Jocelyn and her handmaid.

Dyana whimpered pitifully as she shrank away as if trying to disappear into the ground, and the princess gulped with apprehension as she felt naked under their greedy gazes.

All she had was a measly dagger, a dragonbone bow and a quiver—not even proper broadhead arrows, but merely ones for hunting small game. All of the brigands had either hauberks or some padded leather armour, along with bludgeons, spears, and an arming sword on their hips and shields in their left hands.

Dread pooled in her belly, her heart thundered like a drum, as realisation sank in—these were either deserters or outlaws from one of the many wars of the Riverlands. She needed help, but there was no help nearby, for her father’s knights were far away.

Jocelyn grimaced. Even her dragonbone bow was unstringed, and stringing it would take at least a few heartbeats, more than enough for these vile men to approach. There were five brigands, and she was alone, for Dyana couldn’t fight off a rabbit to save her life.

“Look at her; this one’s got teeth.” The mocking voice from the side only made Jocelyn hold her dagger tightly. It felt too small, too flimsy…

“It has been too long since we’ve had a warm cunny to ourselves, let alone two,” a third man, stout and wormy, chortled happily.

“Surely it does not need to come to this, my good sers?” Jocelyn suppressed her fear and tried to negotiate as she slowly inched toward her bow and quiver. “There’s no need to come to—”

“And who will stop us, luv?” The bawdy bandit scoffed, more amused than offended. “This is no king’s land. Only the Green Scourge rules here, and our dragon overlord does not rule with pesky laws or edicts.”

“But it’s wrong,” Dyana whimpered out. “It’s not godly.”

“A pity. I see no gods here,” the biggest, meanest bandit said. “I tire of talking. Get ’em!”

Jocelyn tried to string her bow, but the string slipped from her sweaty fingers, and one of the bandits was upon her already. She abandoned the bow and lunged, swinging at his neck with her dagger. He simply caught the stab with his buckler, grabbed her wrist, and squeezed until the pain loosened her fingers and her dagger tumbled down. She tried to kick him between the legs, but a punch in her belly knocked the air out of her lungs, and Jocelyn fell backwards.

Two of them gripped her hands, and Jocelyn struggled madly, but no matter how defiant or rebellious she was, she wasn’t strong enough. To her terror, her struggles only seemed to excite the vile beasts more. She spat in the face of the third one, who was hiking her gown, and her head exploded in pain as she tasted iron in her mouth.

Next thing she knew, a dirty rag was stuffed in her mouth, and the dazed princess never felt as much weakness and despair as her gown was torn apart.

Jocelyn desperately looked around and couldn’t scream for help, but no help was arriving, even if she could. The two other brigands were already upon Dyana, the girl quivering in fear and sobbing while her mouth was also bound. They were in the middle of the wilderness, away from any who would care to heed their plight…

“Yes, yes, keep struggling, little dove.” The gaunt brigand was already excitedly unbuckling his worn leather belt.

Terror returned to her breast, mingling with the numbness and pain that pulsed in her head, and she didn’t notice that the forest had gone deathly quiet.

For a heartbeat, it was like the world had stopped.

In the next moment, everything exploded. A titanic axe, no, halberd, tore through the air. The princess watched with morbid fascination as the head of the vile outlaw disappeared, spraying warm blood everywhere, including all over her. The men holding her were cleaved in two the same way an apple was sliced, but far bloodier.

A bone-chilling growl followed by yells and cries, and the bandits were dead before she could blink.

Suddenly, her hands were no longer bound, and the disgusting, filthy rag was gently removed from her mouth. The princess numbly wiped away the stinging blood from her eyes, hacking and spitting to get rid of the sourness in her mouth.

The clearing had turned crimson, blood coloured the surrounding grass and stones, and Dyana was bawling her eyes out, sobbing like a little child. The stench of voided bowels stabbed at her senses, and the sight of guts and bones and flesh made her heave over and void her belly in turn.

Somehow, it made her feel a tad better. But once her stomach was empty, she became aware of her own circumstances and cautiously raised her head.

Jocelyn’s mind still couldn’t process the sight before her. A gigantic black hound, easily the size of a cave bear, was greedily crunching upon a torn hand; the ringmail, leather, and rusty iron were like straw under the hungry maw of the enormous barghest. The lowlife that had hovered over Dyana had a pair of arrows sticking out from his eyes and another from his groin. In front of her was the giant, looming over in a plain suit of pitch-black plate.

Jocelyn was tall for a maiden, but the warrior was taller, taller than even her father, who was famed for being well over seven feet.

Even the steel could not hide the mountain of rugged muscle that threatened to spill out. The titanic poleaxe in his grasp was the oddest weapon Jocelyn had ever seen. Not only was it enormous yet fitting in the man’s grasp, but the shaft was made from some dark bone littered with intricate runic script, and the wicked head was forged from… bronze?

The visored barbute helmet was then removed, and Jocelyn could only stare dumbly. Underneath was not an ugly giant but a rugged young man with a wild mane of brown hair, laughing blue eyes, and a kind smile.

With a flourish, he removed his dark cloak from his shoulders and gently placed it over her torn gown.

At that moment, a tall, older boy, perhaps a squire, approached and tried calming down the hysterical Dyana.

“I apologise for getting you splashed with blood, my lady.” The knight’s voice was softer than velvet, but couldn’t hide the Northern brogue. He looked like she imagined the Warrior would look in the flesh.

Jocelyn stared and stared at her saviour, unsure if she was dreaming. Her heart kept racing like a doe in the woods, but the terror was gone. All that escaped from her lips was a tongue-tied “Oh.”

“I am Rickon Snow,” he said, bowing politely and offering her a hand. “What should I call you, oh, fair maiden?”

If she introduced herself with her true name, the knight would be duty-bound to return her to Storm’s End, she knew. And she did not want that; despite what happened, she would not return. Jocelyn hated lying, but surely one time would not hurt.

“I’m Jocelyn Storm, Ser Rickon,” she said, voice still quivering from the earlier fright. Dyana made a surprised face, but the clever handmaiden held her tongue. “And I am most grateful for your assistance. I would curtsy, but I’m afraid—”

“There’s no need for such things,” Rickon offered as he helped her up, but her legs were still shaky and weak, so she ended up leaning on his armoured elbow. “Do you wish an escort until you reach your destination, Lady Jocelyn?”

“…I shan’t decline, ser,” Jocelyn declared. But first, she needed to find a stream and wash up—she was still covered in grime, vomit, and guts from the fight and felt like some unwashed wildling.

Then, her garments were still torn. Ser Rickon must have caught her worry, for he gave her a wry smile and said, “You can keep my cloak, my lady. I have spare travelling garments if you wish, but they would be a bit large for you.”

“You can’t, Father!” Jocelyn begged.

“I can’t?” Edric Durrandon’s voice was deceptively quiet, much like the quiet before the storm, for she could see a storm brewing beneath his face. Even now, he refused to look at her face directly, as if the sight of her pained him. “And will you be the one to stop me, daughter?”

Age had seen the black mane of the proud Stormking grow grey, but he was still as tall and muscled as a man in his prime. Her father had always been an imposing figure whom few dared to defy at their own peril. Jocelyn steeled herself and stood ramrod straight under her father’s harsh gaze, despite the fear and indignation that battled in her chest.

“He never touched me, but instead saved me and agreed to escort me here. Please, Father—”

Her father scoffed. “And how would I explain myself to Magister Lyseno? If this Rickon Snow were a knight of staunch character, he would have escorted you back to Storm’s End, not Maidenpool. I can see you’re still hiding something, so hold your tongue, Jocelyn, lest you want your punishment to grow worse. I should have had the insolent Northman flogged and gelded there and then, instead of agreeing to that ludicrous challenge.”

But he hadn’t because it was issued loudly and in the open, before half of Maidenpool as witnesses. Her father had grown cold and unscrupulous, but not to the point where he could ignore a challenge to the Trial of the Seven. It was a clever challenge, and one Jocelyn suspected Rickon had only issued to avoid precisely the fate that her father had desired.

Jocelyn held her tongue and stormed back to her tent. The four septas followed her like white shadows, as if her bedding would take away her chastity. As if a chivalrous man like Rickon would ever despoil her! The three stormguards with two hounds glued to her were not there for her protection, Jocelyn knew, but to prevent her from escaping.

It was over. Even if she wanted to run now, her father would not make the same mistake and leave her unattended.

She had been so happy when Rickon offered to escort her to her destination, no questions asked. His companions were quiet yet polite, and travelling with the small company of warriors was joyous and carefree. Rickon was never pushy, nor did he prod her with uncomfortable questions, but Jocelyn found herself sharing her situation. A maiden escaping an unbearable arrangement. It was not that she really hated the thought of marrying an old man, but the man in question was lacking in everything but wealth. Plump and old, lacking any virtue, with many concubines and children—an ungodly arrangement that Jocelyn wanted nothing to do with. Mother above, Jocelyn was younger than most of his daughters!

Rickon, in turn, did not shy away from speaking of his own woes.

His guardians were strict and demanding and wanted him to wed once he returned home so he could run the family trade and craft, but he had a bad impression of the maidens from his little town. Jocelyn struggled to imagine Rickon having problems with maidens, but his honest eyes and soft words convinced her. It seemed that Northern bastards were quite well off to be able to inherit a family trade, but the North was rumoured to experience unprecedented prosperity and endless opportunities for those skilled enough to grasp them.

Jocelyn had boldly proposed, “If you are in search of a wife, perhaps I can be of… assistance.”

Of course, she had only gathered her courage once Rickon’s companions had been away, foraging for supplies.

“I did not take you for a matchmaker,” Rickon replied, amused, but the interest was plain to read on his face.

“A lady is not supposed to boast, but I planned to become a seamstress in White Harbour,” she confessed, fighting down the flush that crept up her neck. “I know my way around a needle and sums and ledgers, and I will admit I have taken a liking to you. You have already draped a cloak over my shoulders, and in the olden ways, that is a declaration of courtship and even marriage.”

Rickon’s face coloured slightly. Who would have thought the dauntless warrior had some shyness left in him?

“I… I appreciate the offer, my lady,” he said, voice hesitant. “It’s not that I find you unpleasant or ugly, but being my wife shall not be easy, and you’ll need to earn my parents’ approval, at least.”

His parents had to be somewhat important, for their word to matter, she realised. Perhaps his mother was from a line of wealthy merchants or skilled craftsmen, and his father was a nobleman of at least some influence or some famed knight.

“I can learn,” Jocelyn declared. “I will learn if need be. I will be your most loyal aide, so long as I get to stay by your side.”

“It is an odd thing to be propositioned in such a way.” Rickon ran a shaky hand through his hair and sighed. “Gods, I can feel that you mean it, too. But let us not grow hasty, my lady. What if I were some crook, playing coy to just get under your skirts?”

“If you were a crook, I would have been despoiled and killed the day we met,” she countered. “Or worse. A knight might help a lady in need, but many knights prefer to close their eyes to matters not of their concern. I have seen it more than once. If you were a heartless man, you would have never offered to escort an unknown maiden to her destination. Regardless of your birth, I have not seen a truer knight than you, ser.”

The Northern bastard sighed.

“There is much you do not know of me, Jocelyn,” he said, his voice low, measured. “You are fair, and I have come to cherish your company these past days, more than I care to admit. But a union such as marriage is no trifle—’tis a vow bound in life and sealed by death. It is not a thing to be entertained in the heat of passing fancy.”

“It is not a fancy, but something I have deeply considered.” Jocelyn’s tone was firm. “I hold no notions of love here, merely consider prudence. Being with you is not without joy, I can tell. Perhaps… affection can come with time.”

He studied her face then, eerily serious.

“I do not scorn the match, nor turn from it outright. Only… I ask you to give the matter time. Let your heart settle, and if, when the year passes, your thoughts have not shifted, then let us speak again of this.”

A part of Jocelyn was angry at the soft rejection, for it had been her first confession. But the bigger part of her was pleased. Rickon Snow was not only strong but also astute and mild-tempered. Firm when needed, but never to the point of stubbornness. The more they travelled, the more she wished the road lasted forever, for it would mean she would stay with the Northern knight forever.

For half a moon, she forgot her worries. There was just the road and the Northern companions, all chivalrous and polite, even if the one called Svenar was the worst gossip Jocelyn had ever seen. Even the Green Scourge remained unseen, despite Dyana’s fears that the dragon would swoop in and roast them alive.

Alas, they eventually reached Maidenpool, only to be waylaid by her father and his royal retinue. Her ruse had been broken, and her dream had cruelly been shattered. Rickon had found out about her identity in the worst way possible, and guilt threatened to shatter her heart.

Now it was no longer a question of Jocelyn’s escape, but if this kind Northman she had taken a liking to would even survive.

Her father had agreed to the Trial of the Seven with a purpose in mind. Rickon only had three companions, one of whom was young and still a squire. The king of the Stormlands had brought his Stormguard and a royal retinue of skilled knights, and doubtless planned to take down the Northern knight with the best warriors the Stormlands had to offer. Nobody would fight against Edric Durrandon for an outsider, Jocelyn knew, and no matter how good a warrior Rickon was, he couldn’t win four against seven with such odds.

As per the olden laws, the trial could not proceed unless both sides produced seven knights. And yet, the king’s word was law here, and her father was cruel in this, wishing to see her beloved die.

She spent the night cursing herself for dragging others into her mess. Jocelyn even pleaded for clemency in front of her father, promising she’ll go and marry the fat old Lyseni lecher so long as Rickon was spared, but he was not moved.

“You will wed as I bid, regardless. Each action has its consequence, Jocelyn.” His voice was cold, distant, as he refused to look at her. “It’s high time you learn you’re no longer a child who can do as she wishes. I have to appease Lyseno with the humiliating delay. He would have treated you kindly, foolish girl, but you’re too stubborn for your own good. You have put my own word in question when Myr is almost ready for war, and I have no time to waste on your childish outbursts!”

It burned, but Jocelyn could only crawl back and cry herself to sleep. Worse, even her sleep was short, uncomfortable, and fretful despite the feathered bed, and the septas accompanying her were as cold as stone and without any compassion. It was unfair. She had just gotten a taste of happiness, only for it all to be ripped away from her in the cruellest of ways.

The next morning, Ser Lyonel Fell, the commander of her father’s stormcloaks, came to escort her—more like drag her to the tourney ground outside Maidenpool, so she could witness Rickon’s end. Her father had grown as heartless as he was callous.

The crowd spilt from the gates of Maidenpool, and even the town’s lord, Buckwood, was in attendance. There were over a hundred knights, and many more outriders and men-at-arms, all faces she recognised from her father’s retinue. They had come to search for her. Jocelyn felt dread pool in her belly again. Surely amongst those knights, some would be a righteous man willing to fight for Rickon’s cause?

The plump septon who had come to officiate the trial looked uneasy, but after the king nodded with a stony face, he called out to Ser Rickon.

“You need three more men for the fight to be equal, Ser,” he said, motioning to the side where Ser Lyonel Fell stood with six of his fellow stormguard, all wrapped up in their dark armour and golden cloaks marked by a purple lightning bolt and a stag’s antlered head. Jocelyn despaired again—her father had picked the greatest warriors in his employ for the trial.

Rickon, however, stood undaunted, his spine as straight as a spear as he measured the gathered crowd and her father’s retinue with an impassive gaze.

“That might be true, but to me, it seems none of the vaunted knights here finds my cause just.” Rickon’s dismissive words rang through the tourney grounds, darkening the faces of many. But none of them moved. “Perhaps that’s how little justice is worth in the Storm King’s domain?”

The septon muttered a prayer and glanced uneasily at the king. “Then, do you agree to proceed as it is? Or perhaps you would prefer a trial by single battle?”

Her royal father leaned in, watching the exchange like a hawk. If Rickon truly agreed to a single combat, he would have a chance of victory. But even if he won, Jocelyn suspected Rickon would not be so easily spared her father’s wrath.

Rickon, however, raised his head proudly, and Jocelyn’s heart sank.

“I have been itching for a good fight since yesterday!” His booming voice echoed like a thunderclap. “One or seven, it makes no difference to me. I will fight them all. Show me the mettle of the famous stormcloaks. Let us dance, sers.”

The crowd erupted in boos and jeers, and Jocelyn could even see the vein on her father’s temple pulse in anger. Gods, he was furious.

The septon slammed the gilded butt of his staff on the ceremonial gong brought by junior clergymen, and the commotion slowly quieted.

“If Ser Rickon Snow is killed, it is considered that the gods have judged him guilty, and the contest is over,” he said, his clear voice echoing through the crowd. “If his accuser’s champions are slain or the accusations withdrawn, the same is true. Elsewise, all of one side or the other must perish or yield for the trial to end. Now, let us first begin with a prayer to the Seven…”

The septon began his prayer, and the crowd fell silent. Jocelyn stole a glance at the stone-faced king. He would not change his mind, no matter what. Fury coiled in her belly like a serpent—she too was a Durrandon. She would not forget this, nor would she ever forgive it.

A part of her wanted to threaten her father that she would bite her own tongue here and now, but she knew it would not work. Her father would dispassionately watch her choke on her own blood and would later announce that she had been enchanted by the Northern rogue. Neither pleas nor threats would work, Jocelyn knew to her despair.

“Hey, you,” a whisper came with the breeze, startling Jocelyn. She looked around warily, but it seemed nobody had noticed it. Was she hearing things now? Then, the voice echoed louder, above the priest’s chant, “Yes, you. The young maiden by the king’s side.”

Jocelyn blinked in confusion.

“Hey, did you hear something?” she cautiously asked Ser Lyonel.

That gathered the eyes of all the noblemen and knights on the royal dais, and even her Father gave her a stern, warning look.

“Do not interrupt the sermon, princess,” came the curt whisper from Ser Lyonel. “You’re already in enough trouble as it is.”

“They can’t hear me,” the voice fluttered over. It was a woman’s voice, full of power and dignity, like someone used to commanding others. Jocelyn felt that she was going mad. “You’re not going mad. Look to the north.”

Jocelyn craned her neck and met a pair of stormy blue eyes. They weren’t much different from the blue of Durrandon, but it was as if arcs of lightning danced across them.

At the northern edge of the royal dais was a woman sitting on a comfortable-looking tapered chair, with a swan-sized black bird with purple wings lazily perched on her shoulder. The most striking features were the pale, silvery scars on the left side of her face and her long black hair, woven into a braid that rested in her lap. She was neither homely nor comely, but Jocelyn’s gaze couldn’t move from the full chest that would make many others green with envy. The regal bird looked like nothing Jocelyn had seen before and could have been mistaken for a statue, if not for the occasional shuffling of its feathery head.

Nobody seemed to notice the woman who had just appeared. Even the septon who was still chanting his sermon as his acolytes lit up sticks of incense around the duelling ring seemed completely oblivious to her, despite gazing straight at the royal platform.

“Come here,” the voice echoed in her ears again, making Jocelyn’s veins turn to ice. “Fret not about the rest. They cannot see me. They will not see you either, for now.”

A witch? Swallowing, Jocelyn pushed down her apprehension, threw her father and the nearby stormguards a glance, and cautiously stepped towards the witch. Nobody even looked her way.

Baffled and anxious, the princess trotted to the witch’s side. Her eyes skittishly roamed the surroundings, but even the gazes that looked at her seemed to slide away from her body. This was magic, Jocelyn knew.

“Can… can they hear us?” she whispered as she arrived by the witch’s side, awkwardly shifting her weight from one leg to the other.

“No,” was the calm reply. The bird jumped into the woman’s lap and lazily nestled there as if it had found the most comfortable place in the world. “There’s no need to whisper.”

There was a presence to the witch, a tangible sense of danger that prickled at Jocelyn’s skin. And the odd bird in her lap looked pretty, but Jocelyn felt it was the most deadly thing here. Magic was dangerous, the princess knew, and those who practised it even more so. She had seen those wandering daoists of Yi Ti and the wind-singers from Asshai in her father’s court once; the first could command the elements like a general commanding an army, and the other could summon sharp winds by chanting, powerful enough to split wood and cut flesh. Jocelyn somehow felt that they were nothing before the witch.

“I have a request, lady…”

“Call me Argella,” the witch replied, the corners of her lips curling. “For that poor woman who was betrayed and humiliated by her father’s men, just like I was. I see you have a question, child. Ask.”

Jocelyn somehow knew it was not her real name, but it didn’t matter. Argella looked no older than twenty, but her eyes held the wisdom and weight she had only seen in her Blackmont grandmother.

Witches were dangerous, Jocelyn knew. Magic just as much, if not more. But they had powers… unnatural powers that could be of help.

“Lady Argella, could you aid Ser Rickon Snow?” Jocelyn asked boldly. “He is in this predicament because of helping me.”

“Help him?” The witch tilted her head, looking at the Northern knight. “You could ask so many things from me, yet you choose to ask for help for this stranger?”

“Yes,” Jocelyn said.

“I could help you escape, you know.” The words echoed like a thunderclap in her mind, and Jocelyn’s heart started beating faster. “I could spirit you away to a place where your father would never look. I can do it right now—I’ll even send that little Morrigan handmaiden with you.”

Freedom. The very thing that had gotten her in the first place. It sounded sweeter than any song in her ears, but her excitement quickly receded. It sounded too good to be true.

“And what will the price be?” Jocelyn asked cautiously.

“It seems there are some wits in that pretty head of yours. As for the price, you will give me your eldest child,” the witch said, and Jocelyn felt dread pool in her belly. Cruel. The witch was as cruel as she was dangerous. “I will need a servant in my old age to take care of my old bones, you see. Nothing malicious, I promise—the child will even be allowed to return to you every now and then.”

It was a cruel thing. A firstborn child had a special place in the heart of any mother, yet the witch knew this and demanded it anyway. Doubly so for a child from the line of Durran Godsgrief.

“…What if I find no man and bear no child?”

“Confident to eke out your way in this cruel world without a man’s strength to aid you?” For the first time, Argella’s voice thickened with amusement. “In such a case, I suppose it will be my loss, Jocelyn Durrandon.”

Gods, it would be a lie if Jocelyn said she was not tempted. But then, she looked at the septon praying and Ser Rickon’s dauntless figure leaning on his halberd, ready to meet the seven finest knights the Stormlands had to offer in a trial by battle. He was fighting there, just for the sin of helping her, of being closer to her.

“Can you help Ser Rickon escape?” Jocelyn asked instead.

Argella looked at the Northern knight and hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps I could, but the price will be the same. You must choose—either I help Ser Rickon, or I help you escape.”

“Can’t you do both?”

“I can, Jocelyn Durrandon. But the price for doing both is not something your father can afford, let alone you.” The air grew heavier, and the princess somehow knew that no matter what she said, the witch would never do both. “Choose—do I help you escape, or should I help this Northern knight instead in return for your firstborn child?”

Jocelyn swallowed hard. Freedom… it was sweet. It was in her grasp, even.

A Durrandon must be bold.

“Help Rickon,” she whispered.

A pair of eyebrows jumped so high that they disappeared in the black locks above.

“Hooh? So eager to give up on your freedom and accept that marriage you tried so hard to run away from?”

“Ser Rickon would not be in this predicament if not for helping me, Lady Argella,” Jocelyn said. The words were bitter on her tongue, but they were right. “I know my father will not let him go even if he wins. It is not right that he suffers for my selfishness.”

“How admirable.” The witch chuckled with amusement. Even now, the princess struggled to get a read on the woman’s emotions and thoughts. “But tens of thousands would suffer for the escape of your duty. You did not care about them then, but did you suddenly change your mind?”

The guilt struck her like a hammer, and she lowered her head.

“I know… But just this once, I wanted to be selfish. The war would happen even with or without me.” Jocelyn looked at her palms. They were white, but no longer dainty, for the time in the wild and archery had long since left its mark. “Even if I escaped, my Father had three marriages available to mend that alliance; he merely chose me because he couldn’t bear to look at me. With or without the alliance, too many would die, and many more would suffer regardless. Just this once, I wanted to be selfish. Seven forgive me, but just this once, I wanted to do something for myself.”

“Some might say that a father is to be obeyed,” Argella said, gaze growing distant. “After all, which father would not have his children’s best interest in mind? Yet I will not fault you, for I know otherwise, for not all parents are so kind. If I had obeyed my sire, I would have been burned alive. But let us not speak of this dreary old matter any further. So you decide that you would rather save Ser Rickon Snow, even at the cost of your firstborn? At the cost of your own freedom?”

“Yes.” Jocelyn bobbed her head. “You do not seem a cruel woman who would harm a child, and you don’t intend to use my child to some nefarious purpose. Help Rickon, I plead only this of you!”

“Is it compassion that drives you towards aiding this nameless knight, I wonder?” Argella tilted her head. “Or perhaps lust? Love? No, not only that. Somehow, he managed to gain your loyalty in a fortnight. Oh gods, no bard will go hungry for the next year—a runaway princess who had fallen in love with a destitute Northern knight and gave him her heart. A pity he was too courteous to take your virtue, too.”

“So what of it?” Jocelyn gave her a wet chuckle. “My loyalty is worthless, just like my love. I’m doomed to become the tenth concubine of some old flesh peddler across the Narrow Sea.”

“Oh, you foolish Princess.” Argella gave her an amused smile as she stroked the pretty plumage of the bird. The bird’s unblinking eyes were like two bottomless pools of liquid amethyst, and Jocelyn hastily looked away lest she get lost in them. “You will find that loyalty placed in the right person makes all the difference in the world. Your faith, perhaps stubborn and unfilial, is not displaced.”

“If you say so, Lady Argella,” Jocelyn said, feeling more resigned than anything else. “Will you help Ser Rickon?”

The septon had just finished his overlong prayer, and the combatants had taken position in the fighting ring against each other. Rickon against seven, alone.

“He doesn’t look like he needs much help,” was the amused reply. “Besides, I came here to watch this fight.”

“But you promised!” Jocelyn all but roared as indignation and fury erupted from her chest. “I know Rickon is good, but these are the Stormland’s finest warriors. Do you think you can toy with me—”

“Oh my, what a fiery temper,” the witch let out a low, tinkling laugh. “Don’t worry. I will hold my word and help Ser Rickon get out of this mess… should he fail to deal with it himself. Now let’s watch—it’s starting.”

As if waiting for her, the septon yelled, “May the trial begin!”

Rickon was the first to move. He charged into the rightmost stormguard, and the halberd smashed through his greatsword as the hammer part struck the knight’s helmet, and he dropped to the ground, never to rise again. The butt of his halberd parried Ser Moran’s morning star, and Rickon moved, sweeping out, hooking the nook of the knee of the knight with the axehead, and felled him to the ground.

Jocelyn didn’t dare blink as her full attention was on Rickon. He was like a whirlwind, as no matter how much they poked him with their swords and poleaxes at his black plate, he didn’t fall, nor did he falter. His armour had no rondels, but no matter how much they poked at his side, protected only by chainmail, he never halted.

He was swifter than the stormcloaks despite his size and clad in just as heavy armour. His poleaxe strikes were devastating like an auroch’s charge, shattering shields in a single strike, and none who got struck by it got up again.

The stormcloaks were not the Stormland’s finest warriors for nothing; the remaining five quickly tried to flank Ser Rickon, spread out and attack him from the back and the sides, but he was simply swifter. Each time they moved, he repositioned, placing one stormcloak in the path of the others.

In two minutes, Ser Rickon was the only one standing.

“The gods proclaim Ser Rickon innocent,” the Septon announced, wiping the sweat off his face. Jocelyn turned to look at her father, and her heart leapt in her throat from fright. His face was cool, but Edric Durrandon’s eyes had grown stormy, and the vein on his temple pulsed like an angry red blotch.

“Seize the bastard for insulting the royal dignity of the crown!”

The crowd erupted in outrage, drowning out the septon’s protests, but the knights and lords all drew their weapons and moved to surround Ser Rickon.

“Lady Argella—” Jocelyn turned to the witch, only to find her gone. No, no, not like this!

She had promised—

A roar deafened the world, and Jocelyn’s ears rang as she could feel the terrible noise all the way down her belly. A giant green shadow descended from above, and there was no mistake. It was the Green Scourge.

The outraged crowd turned to panic, but Jocelyn’s eyes did not move from Rickon. She could feel his gaze even from underneath his visored helmet, which looked straight her way.

“Do you still want to wed me, Princess?” his voice echoed over the clamour. “As I said, it won’t be easy.”

“Yes!” Jocelyn yelled with all of her lungs as gusts of wind started to batter at the clearing as the dragon was near enough that she could see some of the bronze scales on its crested belly. The entire crowd had already fled, and even her father had retreated with his royal retinue.

Yet the dragon did not roast them all in a torrent of dragonfire, as Jocelyn had expected, but merely hovered above, the rhythmic drumming of his wings almost hypnotic. Jade green scales were like gems from so close, and the dragon’s bronze eyes scrutinised the surroundings. Jocelyn could see that one of his great horns crowning his head had been chopped off halfway, and the cut looked recent.

Her heart raced like a frightened doe, but she did not run. She could not run, nor could she tear her gaze away from the Northern knight, who had raised his poleaxe to the sky, undaunted by the dragon’s presence…

As far as marriage proposals go, Prince Rickon Stark’s proposal was the most fiery. After single-handedly slaying seven of the best stormcloaks within three minutes, he proposed to Jocelyn Durrandon in front of the panicked crowd, then he took up Jocelyn Durrandon in his hands, mounted the dragon, and flew away.

For all his pride and scheming, the Rising Storm saw his youngest daughter marry the most powerful unwed man in the known world, but had nothing to show for it, for House Stark had been slighted in the process and when he wrote a raven demanding an explanation from Winterfell, Queen Shireen Stark sent a messenger to Storm’s End, bearing a biting message.

‘You tried to kill my son, cousin. Despite your faltering skill and judgement, I shall forgive it just this once for old times’ sake, at the price of your daughter. You would do well to remember that it was Northern steel that made you king, and that Northern steel can unmake you…’

Excerpt from ‘The Life of Rickon the Great’ by Grand Scholar Joer

The Breaker begrudgingly gave his blessings for his son’s choice of bride, though many speculated he was irked by the presence of Rhaegal, the fourth dragon of Winterfell. Still, a triple wedding was held, where the crown prince and his twin sisters were all wed in one grand ceremony in Winterfell’s godswood.

The same year, 333 AC or 20 AS, the Winter Prince ascended to the position of Hand, relieving Lord Roderick Dustin of the office.

Aside from a few scandals within the royal family, the rest of Jon Stark’s reign passed peacefully and prosperously.

Twenty-eight years after the Sundering, however, the Builder did something unprecedented. He passed the crown to his heir, Rickon Stark, and retired from the public eye together with his wife. The last time either of them or their dragons was seen was in 30 AS in Southshore, but many rumours…

Excerpt from ‘The Life of Jon Stark III—Breaker and Builder’ by Grand Scholar Edwyle