Epilogue-The Builder’s Rise

The Grand Northern Expansion was a precursor to a slow reform in governance by the King of Winter. The newly acquired lands were not doled out to noble Houses who had proven their merit, but were directly ruled by the crown in a new system of stewardship that saw the North and the Far North enjoy unprecedented levels of trade, peace, and prosperity.

Governors and stewards were responsible for the new settlements and towns, positions appointed directly by the crown. Every three years, the North ran royal examinations, a series of written questions on trade, stewardship, politics, and law. Those who passed were selected to fill essential positions in the Far North at the king’s discretion, such posts neither for life nor hereditary. It gave a chance to those skilled to rise above their station, regardless of birth, but they had to compete with those noble second, third, and fourth sons, the distant cousins and the landless cadets who were eager for every scrap of power the king was willing to offer.

Neither governors nor stewards had the power to the Pits or Gallows or any lawful punishment, which was similarly done by the royal reeves and bailiffs, positions under the Justiciar, who were also filled by stellar examinees.

Regardless of birth, no man was allowed to hold office in the North without sufficient martial skill, a reason that gave rise to the Hall of Steel, a martial order that tutored those eager to learn any form of combat and warfare. The Hall of Steel was founded by Jacen Snow, a bold bastard of House Wells, and was generously backed by the crown.

Lastly, by royal decree, the warriors from the Northern Expedition who were willing to serve joined the newly formed royal order of the Black Wolves, a standing armed force akin to the Iron Legions of Old Ghis, if not as numerous.

Much of the Northern Lords watched with trepidation as all those reforms took form, but none dared to speak out, for the king had not infringed upon their rights….

Excerpt from ‘The Grand Northern Expansion’ by Scholar Artos

324 After the Conquest/11 After the Sundering, Winterfell

The King of Winter

He met Sansa on the bridge connecting the armoury and the Great Keep, looking upon his sons’ training with slight longing. His royalguard stood a respectful distance, shadowing his every step. Over a decade later, Jon finally got used to their presence, mostly because the vows of silence on the king’s secrets they had taken were magically binding.

Dame Brienne of Tarth was still in the service of Sansa, guarding by her side. But the tall woman-knight had grown slow with age. At four and forty, the dame would already be considered half a greymane if she were a knight, now grown too slow to score a victory against any of the royalguard.

Sansa heard his footsteps, turned around and gave him a hasty curtsy. “Brother.”

At eight and thirty, Sansa Stark easily looked a decade younger. It was not just a platitude on her beauty; Jon could feel that the wild magic of the funeral pyre had left its mark on the red-haired princess in more ways than one. By her side obediently stood Princess, a slim direwolf with a mane of russet fur, all combed and cleaned in a way that made her look like a horse-sized plush toy.

“Sister,” Jon returned with a nod. “You look a bit lost today. I would have thought you would have taken the time when my sons are too busy to pester their Aunt Sansa to undertake some leisurely activities.”

“Loitering, you mean,” she said sharply.

“The royal tailor keeps complaining you leave him with little to do,” Jon pointed out, amused.

His sister huffed. “You would wear torn linen and old leather if not for me, and nothing Dorren says would have changed your mind.”

“That might be true. But I can see that something else troubles you.”

“I…” Sansa’s gaze settled on the guards. Jon waved his hand, and the world grew silent as magic blocked all sound. “I envy her.”

“Envy who?”

His sister glanced at the small horde of his sons who were actively whacking each other with wooden swords in the training yard. Rickon, too, was barely holding his own against three of the royalguard after his movements were restricted to normal with magic.

“Shireen. Some days, I wish I had children of my own.” Sansa hastily raised her hands. “Don’t get me wrong, I love tutoring and minding them all, even the troublesome ones like James. But some days, I wish they were all my own. Some days, I wish I had taken your offer. But politics and dragons…”

“That doesn’t stop you from visiting Bloodfyre once a week.” Jon’s voice thickened with amusement. “She is more fond of you than anyone else, much to the frustration of all my sons who want to master a dragon.”

“I don’t have the blood for it,” his sister said, voice growing distant. “I imagined soaring into the skies, but I’m a direwolf first and foremost.”

“And you think the Valyrians had the blood for it when they were but lowly shepherds?” Jon shook his head with amusement. “House Stark is not without its own magic. It won’t be exactly the same, it won’t be easy, but it’s not impossible to make that bond. I’m not saying you ought to do so—it would bring me countless headaches as a king. But consider this a brother’s curiosity.”

“Don’t say it,” Sansa muttered unhappily. “Don’t say it, lest I regret more. I have missed my chance, and I would rather not make trouble out of my own selfishness. Shireen bears her duty and crown with grace and dignity I struggle to find in myself.”

“You can still find a man, sister,” he said. “A man, brave, gentle, and strong, worthy of you, who will give you sons and daughters. The world does not lack heroes, worthy of your hand.”

She stiffened for a second, then a drawn-out sigh left her lips, and her hand sought the comfort of Princess’s reddish fur. “You say that, but can any man compare to you? I see you, Jon, and each suitor that comes to beg my hand, and I find them sorely lacking.”

Jon sighed inwardly. There wasn’t much he could say to that. With a tug of his finger, the magic barring the sound broke, and he left, for his greatest project awaited.

The Sundering was a pivotal point for the North. The Lands Beyond the Wall had begun to thaw after the Battle of Westwatch by the Bridge, even more so after the Wall was shattered. The Lands of Always Winter retreated even further north, and the green wave of spring could even touch the formerly named Frozen Shore and even up the Ice River, which was no longer bound by frost. With the reforms and the lands cleaned by the Grand Northern Expeditions, many smallfolk flocked North to seek opportunities.

In the following decade, House Stark had doubled the territory under their rule, with more seemingly to come as the lands in the Far North seemed endless. The newly formed channel, called the Breaker’s Straits, or the Gates of the North, allowed a second route to reach the western coast of Westeros without sailing around Dorne, attracting many a seafarer along the way.

The Breaker’s Straits was one of the most lucrative places in Westeros. The southernmost tip of the North quickly transformed into a budding town now called Southwatch, which later grew into a heavily fortified harbour city.

Many call Jon Stark the Third a cruel tyrant or a brutal savage, but in the North, he would be forever remembered as the second coming of the Builder. His fateful trip to Valyria allowed him to delve into the lost secrets of the arcane, mastering the power to mould fused stone itself. With the aid of the Northern Fury, Jon Stark spent much of his rule expanding upon the Northern road networks. Much of the work was done with the old roads his previous reforms had built as a foundation.

Hundreds of thousands of men were mobilised for this grand undertaking, bringing crushed stones from distant quarries and digging crushed rock, gravel, obsidian, and sand both as layers of foundation and as materials for the fused stone itself. Some estimate that the cost of that great project in work and materials was in the tens of millions of taels of pure gold, showing the wealth House Stark could now effortlessly wield.

Similar to the famed dragonroads of the Freehold but hewn in a dull white colour, the Winter Roads of the North stretched to every domain of House Stark’s kingdom. The highways were broad enough for eight wagons to travel abreast without trouble and were elevated up to two feet above the ground to allow snowmelt and rain to run off to the sides. They never seemed to freeze, even in the coldest winters, and were unaffected by time, weather, or traffic.

From the Valley of Thenn to the Breaker’s Straits, from Widow’s Watch to Sea Dragon Point, the winter roads stretched to every corner of the North, with the heart of the enormous network being Winterfell and the surrounding city of Wintertown.

The Winter Roads were acknowledged as the tenth wonder made by the hands of man, not inferior to the other nine, due to their sheer scale. Aside from the main roads, which stretched to every major part of the Breaker’s Kingdom, slimmer roads leading to holdfasts and villages, quarries and mines were slowly hewn by the king in House Stark’s lands, be it around Winterfell or the Far North, a powerful boon for the smallfolk that was not granted to the Northern Lords or their territory.

But it seemed that Jon Stark had acquired a taste for grandness; the roads were not the only place he used his mastery over fused stone.

The Builder created a summer palace for House Stark at the southern crest of Sea Dragon Point to serve as a luxurious retreat for the royal family while being a formidable, if small, castle in its own right. Witnesses said he could control waves of molten stone with a motion of his hand, forming perfect shapes with the power of his mind alone. Arcs, lifelike statues of dragons, direwolves, stags, and complex geometric patterns were created with intricate detail present in every small part of the palace, inspiring countless sculptors.

All the fortifications of Winterfell were pulled down and remade anew—expanded, grander, sturdier, and infinitely more imposing. No wood, metal, or mortar was used in the construction; the Seat of House Stark was one giant interconnected complex of fused stone. Even the roofs were made of arched stone, unsupported by anything but their shape and the walls underneath. Unlike the rest of the fused dragonstone, which was murky white, the one in both seats of House Stark was pristine, like snow, a colour that seemed to repel dirt and dust.

Yet, the crowning achievement of the Builder is, without a doubt, the Dragon Spire that resided within the walls of Winterfell. Like a white spear piercing through the heavens, the magnificent structure could be seen from afar and is said to be taller than Casterly Rock, as its summit was oft hidden above the clouds. Little is known about the Eleventh Wonder besides that dragons slumber there. Everything about the Spire is shrouded in secrecy, although according to the rumours, only the northern king and his heir can enter—

Excerpt from ‘The Grand Northern Expansion’ by Scholar Artos

Shireen Stark, Winterfell, 332 AC/19 AS

Her bare feet ambled over the warm white marble flooring as she made her way to the mirror. The cold could find no purchase within Winterfell, even though the hot water from the hot springs no longer ran through the walls. The pale fused stone held its own strange warmth, not heat exactly, but an ever-present temperance that ignored both the summer heat and the winter cold. She halted then, before the great mirror of pristine glass hanging on one of the walls that held a perfect, flawless reflection that no polished silver could ever hope to match.

The king’s chambers were still cosy, but they had changed—there were no more rafters above, and the tall, flat ceiling with ornate carvings depicting some great victory or momentous occasion of House Stark’s history in the fused white stone. The First Long Night, the Battle of Nightfort, the Battle of the Weeping Water, the King who Knelt swearing fealty to Aegon, chieftains and lords kneeling to her husband after the Battle of Winterfell, the Battle of Westwatch, and many, many more.

The walls, panelled in goldenheart, were set with trophies, armaments or magical trinkets her husband had created that would amaze even the best of craftsmen and would make even the richest merchant salivate. The floor was strewn with rugs of direwolf, snow bear, and shadowcat, and above them loomed cabinets and chairs of cherrywood, inlaid with bronze and padded with blue and grey velvet.

Ghost slumbered in the corner, curled into a ball of great white fur on his velvet cushion. Though over thirty, the direwolf was still swift and dangerous as he had been decades ago.

Shireen’s eyes wandered to the far wall, a thing of dark velvet curtains. Beyond it lay Jon’s most peculiar creation: a glass wall clear as still the waters of a mountain lake, yet impossible to see through from without. Only from within could the world be seen: Winterfell’s soaring spires, the white curtain walls, the bustle of Wintertown below, all laid bare to the queen’s gaze.

The balcony, too, was a marvel, ringed in spell-forged bronze. The air up here was thinner, the wind sharper, for the royal chambers stood atop the White Keep’s highest tower, higher than the Hightower by a hundred feet.

On the level below lay the royal bath, a masterpiece of porcelain and silver. Its tiles formed two grand mosaics, one of her wedding, the other of the House of Stark, with all the members of the current generations—dead or alive. Hot and cold water came at the turn of a valve, brought up by a clever system of pipes and drained the same way, and left no stench or dirt behind. Even in the Free Cities, no such baths were known, save perhaps in the palaces of Volantis, and even theirs were made on the ground floor.

It was not all her husband’s making. The tiles, the clever pipes, and the drainage were all made by craftsmen who had settled in the North, though Shireen suspected he wove magic into much of them. Trade had continued to flourish to a level unimaginable two decades before, bringing untold prosperity. Coupled with the milder weather, the Winterspring Academy, and the Winter Roads, many called this the Golden Age of the North. It was a flattering name, but not untrue.

The Queen of the North turned her gaze to her ring, a curious band of pale gold and blackened dragonbone, crowned by a blue diamond. Deep in the precious stone hid the heartstring of that gargantuan horror that had inflicted Winter with his scars. The focus, as Jon named it, helped her mould magic with ease. Shireen could never do what her husband could, for his very flesh was brimming with boundless power, and his bones and tendons themselves had become foci, but she had her own talents, meagre as they were. A little healing, a few basic household spells, clever charms and a little bit of lightning—a feat achieved by sheer stubbornness. But it was enough for her.

As wonderful as magic was, it was twice as challenging and exhausting. A handful of small spells was enough to feel Shireen drained, and that seemed to be her limit.

Her reflection peered back at her, pristine as ever.

Her raven hair reached her ankles, raven curls spilling in a black curtain to her ankles and almost kissing the floor below. A wave of her hand had her hair twist, weaving itself into the style of the northern mountains. Her skin was smooth and pale, her body as slender in the waist as she had been when she first took Jon to bed.

Her face was unblemished, save for the greyscale scar, and still looked no older than twenty. Two decades had passed, and it looked like she had barely aged a single year. Seventeen children had come from her womb, but they had not left a mark on her body, besides making her chest more impressive. When standing with her daughters, Argella and Lyarra, she looked like their sister rather than a mother, though they had not inherited only the good parts. She had been called a sorcereress for that, though always in whispers and never to her face.

Behind her, strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her into a hug. Her husband looked much the same as the day he wed her, bar the streak of white hair on the right that stood out like snow, but it only made him look more dashing than anything else. It was earned during the Sundering itself.

A mortal coil is not meant to control, let alone channel, such vast amounts of primordial power.

Those words had deeply chilled her then, but he was hale, hearty, and not exactly mortal…

“Edwyle tried to claim Bloodfyre yesterday,” the words were whispered in her ear, sending pleasant tingling down her neck.

She turned her head to chide him, but smiled instead. They had spent the morning locked in carnal joy. Their desire to get another daughter had resulted in fifteen sons instead, and after seventeen children, Shireen had given up on the notion altogether. Not that they stopped their pleasurable tumbling in bed, but now magic kept her womb sealed, rendering Jon’s seed harmless. Moon tea had failed her, though not for the lack of trying—that’s how her last triplets had come to be.

Her mind returned to Bloodfyre. Claiming the red dragon was a fool’s errand because, while amiable enough, she had grown too fat to fly for more than a minute and barely managed to lounge around atop Winterfell’s roofs and ramparts lazily. A little bit more, and Bloodfyre would be greater in thickness than length…

No matter which one of Shireen’s children attempted to become Bloodfyre’s rider, they were met with indifference. In fact, Shireen had witnessed one of the attempts, and it amused her to no end. Rickon heroically climbed atop Bloodfyre’s neck, only for the red dragon to continue sleeping soundly, no matter how her son had urged, blustered, or shouted.

“Well, you did refuse to give any of our children dragon eggs,” Shireen pointed out with a cough.

“It’s for the best.” Jon sighed. “Dragons made their riders overproud to the point of blind arrogance. They made them lazy and complacent, too, the worst thing that could happen to a prince.”

He wore his usual black shirt, stitched with pale direwolves across the collar. It was a loose one he used for sleeping, but it failed to hide the robust figure underneath.

“They have your fire, you know,” she said. “They all have the potential to be great.”

“Potential is worthless without the wisdom to guide it.”

Jon had refused to put dragon eggs in his children’s cribs. Then, the toddlers turned into young boys, then into young men, but were still denied the chance to master a dragon. Rickon, their eldest, was no different. It was not for the lack of dragon eggs—they were hundreds of them locked in the Dragon Spire, where only Jon and Shireen could enter—but because her husband believed the North could thrive without dragons. Because he thought the dragons were more of a curse than a boon.

And no matter how unhappy all the fifteen princes of Winterfell were, they failed to change their father’s mind. Petulance, whining, sophistry, and pleading simply did not work on Jon once his mind was set.

“You still taught them magic,” Shireen muttered as she ran her fingers through her husband’s prickly stubble. “Sorcery can be as powerful as dragons are. More powerful, even.”

“And that is why I only taught Rickon everything,” Jon said. “That is why only Rickon has a wand. The rest of our children are dwarfed in talent by our eldest and know little more than the basics. It might not be fair to them, but it is for the better.”

“This is not a perfect solution,” Shireen whispered. “Some might grow resentful in the future.”

“It might not be perfect, but it is the solution I have chosen,” the king said. “When Rickon comes to power, he can make a choice of his own will. All of the knowledge I have collected, all of the skills and spells and rituals I have mastered, all the dragon eggs are locked in the Dragon Spyre, and all of it will be his to wield as he deems fit.”

Shireen sauntered towards the balcony, slipping through the glass door. The marble rails reached her chest height and were inscribed with intricate runic script. That was beside the two pale stone gargoyles in the front corners—a shaggy direwolf and a snarling drakeling of similar size.

A single ring of white dragonstone replaced the double curtain walls and the old moat. It was slender and taller than them, reaching over three hundred feet. Beyond, the queen could see Wintertown with colourful roofs of slate and clay tiles and the cobbled streets and squares peeking in between. The city was clean, the cleanest one in the known world of this size. Drainage and sewage ran beneath the streets, channelling the city’s refuse far outside the walls to a distant field, where it would ripen into manure.

The castle’s untouched godswood and the reinforced crypts remained mostly untouched, but the rest of Winterfell was transformed. All the buildings had been remade in a more elegant style, hewn out of marble or fused stone. All yards and pathways were paved with sturdy dark-gold cobblestone tiles that a clever Essosi claymaster had invented.

No gold or silver was ever displayed outside, and no precious stones or jewels could be seen in Winterfell unless you entered the depths of the White Keep. This project was not a display of vanity and wealth, but a show of power and magical might. The queen had seen it grow from the snow-covered fortress of gloomy granite into this bustling hub that had become the heart of the North in more ways than one.

“Enjoying the view?” Jon moved to her right, a roguish smile resting upon his lips.

“I can’t get enough of it, even after all these years,” she softly admitted as she leaned into him. Jon’s embrace almost made her forget all the world’s woes. However, her life was not without troubles. “So, do you think you’ll have another challenger for Sansa’s hand?”

And wasn’t that an odd surprise?

Jon’s decree and brutality had stilted suitors quite quickly, but to Shireen’s chagrin, plenty of her sons lusted after their aunt. Even though she was technically a cousin once removed, the red-haired daughter of Eddard Stark was still a great beauty. Even though she was over forty, one could mistake her for a woman half her age instead, courtesy of that suicidal leap into Jon’s resurrection ritual. Shireen had been furious when Artos had challenged Jon over Sansa’s hand, and while her husband did not go easy on their son, Artos was not crippled, only bloodied and bruised and bedridden for a fortnight. At least her son had the wits to issue his foolish challenge behind closed doors and not in public.

Shireen still shuddered to imagine the scandal if the court got wind of it.

Worse, it seemed Artos wasn’t the only one who liked Aunt Sansa like that. It made Shireen want to tear out her hair.

“I hope not.” Jon grimaced. “I am grateful none set their eyes on their sisters. Honestly, I’ve grown weary of those challenges. As long as it’s not Rickon, if they intend to bed the aunt who raised them, they can go and try to court her instead. Gods, the dragon’s blood runs too hot in some of them.”

Courtesy, princely duties, and gallantry had been drilled into her children since they could walk, and they would never try anything untoward or underhanded. But this only meant they would be bold and upfront in their daring.

“I say you should let the challenges stand,” Shireen suggested, voice laced with reluctance. “I have never seen Edwyle, Artos, James, and Lyonel train with such dogged fervour. It is good to have a goal to strive for, even for something… like this.”

While not as quick or strong as their father, all of their sons outclassed ordinary men easily, at least those who bothered to apply themselves. Torrhen, Brandon, and Jonnel had all joined the Winterspring Academy, intent on becoming scholars. They didn’t lack talent in martial arts, but swords and steel didn’t arouse their interest at all.

“Perhaps they might defeat me with pure skill and technique soon.” Jon looked torn between pride and irritation. “They’ve certainly come far. This year, they managed to defeat everyone in our annual tourney, including the Umbers and the royalguard.”

“Everyone but Rickon and you,” she corrected with amusement. To this day, out of twenty-four tourneys, Shireen had always been crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty in front of the whole North, all twenty-four times.

Most of their sons participated in the games, though some avoided the melee in favour of other categories such as archery, boulder tossing, or wrestling. Though, to be fair, most of the Stark Princes had few duties and often spent their days in the training yard, sparring with each other and the royalguard. That or hunting or having a tour through the North. And by her husband’s words, most of their sons had greater talent at arms than he did. Still, aptitude and relentless effort were not yet enough to best their father, not yet.

As impartial as the queen tried to be for her children, she still couldn’t help but favour her eldest the most. Rickon was the apple of her eyes, not only because he was the strongest. He had his father’s strength and power, but his character was much like hers—all dutiful and just.

“I’m glad Rickon is not interested in Sansa; he could already beat me in pure skill at arms alone.” Jon sat down in one of the elegant chairs, lounging on the balcony and pulled her into his lap. “Even though I’m faster, stronger, and more experienced, I still have to work hard for each win in the yard.”

The slow yet mighty sound of wings drumming against the wind heralded the arrival of Winter. His shadow blotted out the sun as his gargantuan form lazily circled above Winterfell and Wintertown, as he loved to do. Jon’s dragon guarded its territory almost as jealously as the king guarded his kingdom.

Her blue eyes stared at the heavens as the black-and-blue behemoth ploughed through the sky, his titanic form alone parting the clouds.

“If Winter grows any bigger, he might not fit in his lair in the Spire,” Shireen observed. “Even the Black Dread had not reached such size.”

Though most of the floors of the dragon tower had been magically expanded, the space inside still wasn’t infinite.

“Indeed, he surpassed the last recorded size of Balerion three years ago,” Jon said, but his voice was a tad strained. “Thankfully, Winter stopped growing last year, at least in size.”

Her husband’s dragon had always been a behemoth; in comparison, Stormstrider had barely reached Silverwing’s recorded wingspan during the Dance.

“I thought dragons never stopped growing?”

“Well, it’s hard to say for certain.” Jon shrugged nonchalantly. “The maesters who had penned the treatises on dragons were rarely allowed access to royal dragons. And it was merely based on observation and hearsay. As you know, no books survived the Doom, so not much is actually known about dragons, for the House of the Dragon guarded its secrets jealously. What they don’t know is that food is merely one part of their sustenance—dragons feed on magic, too. While it seems Winter will not grow bigger, his fire continues becoming hotter, his scales and spikes harder, and he somehow manages to fly faster than before. All of it is a form of growth.”

“Would he grow to match that thing you fought in the Freehold?” Shireen asked curiously.

“Easily,” her husband said with a smile. “It’s merely a matter of time now.”

The rest of the morning was spent in quiet leisure until it was time for the family to break their fast together. The moment the door cracked open, Ghost darted outside, doubtlessly headed for the vast freedom of the wolfswood.

Two royalguards, Alaric Snow and Bernard Bolle, were dutifully waiting outside the king’s chamber. Clad in smoky Valyrian steel, they were like a pair of silent shadows that trailed after the royal couple.

Thirteen strong were the royalguard, never more, never less. The grey direwolf emblazoned on their white cloaks showed that they belonged to House Stark and House Stark only, and that they answered only to the king. Jon had taken his pick from the North’s finest and most loyal, and the wolfcloaks were considered the most dangerous warriors in the land, besides her own husband. Thirteen was too few to protect the now vast royal family in full, but Jon had refused to expand the order. Each of his children had been granted a sworn sword and had a direwolf to see to their safety, supplemented by the household guard if the need arose.

Old age had caught up to Jyanna Snow, Shireen’s sworn sword, three years ago—the shieldmaiden had grown grey and become weaker and slower with every passing moon, so the Queen allowed her to retire to a gifted manse in Wintertown.

Shireen’s mind drifted off as they descended the marble-lined spiralling stairs. Climbing up and down was a significant challenge, but her body had become all the slimmer and leaner for it.

The tiring time sitting in the royal council had thankfully long passed, but other issues had hungrily gobbled up her time. No matter how much Jon and Shireen tried to delegate and create positions to smooth the running of Winterfell and the kingdom, the royal couple could never shed the burden of ruling, not fully.

Jon would attend the weekly council meeting and wrangle with the ever-growing courtiers, steward-magistrates, and petitioners over issues small and big. On the other hand, Shireen would spend some time with her youngest sons and some of her ladies-in-waiting, organise the royal household, see to the royal education of her children, and, if the remaining time permitted, visit the orphanages of Wintertown.

As the royal couple made their way towards the dining chambers, they were waylaid one floor before they reached their destination.

Rickon Stark, nearly a head taller than his father, flanked by the enormous Shadow on the right and the burly Svennar Thenn of the royalguard on the left. Not only was the direwolf slightly bigger than Ghost, but the coal-like shaggy fur and the savage green eyes made him a fearsome sight, just as imposing as his master. Yet, Shireen knew that he would melt when you scratched on a certain spot under his chin.

“Father. Mother. Might I steal a moment before we break our fast?” Rickon’s voice was steady, yet there was a sliver of concern behind the words and heaviness that did not go unnoticed.

Shireen studied her son.

There was much of her husband in Rickon’s broad shoulders and high cheekbones, but also her own in the inky-black hair that reached his shoulders and the mismatched eyes—one deep purple, the other blue as the summer sky. He wore the same simple style of garments his father did, but preferred grey to black, and the direwolf heads stitched across his collar were black in the likeness of Shadow.

He had once been a wild boy, quick to mischief, slow to apologise. At thirteen, he’d slipped away from his sworn shield in the Northern Mountains and returned days later, bloodied but triumphant, dragging behind him the carcass of a snow bear the size of a small giant. It was a reckless feat, but it had won him the respect of the men and the dread of his mother. That stubborn streak never truly disappeared, no matter how much tutoring and stern lessons Rickon endured, though it was tempered by time and duty.

Now, always courteous and handsome like sin, the crown prince of the North made many a maiden swoon with his presence alone.

“Very well,” Jon said at last, his voice low but not unkind. “But be quick. Your brothers and sisters are waiting.”

They stepped into a side chamber, a modest solar of stone and carved wood, and three members of the royal guard took post outside without being told. As the door shut, Rickon straightened and squared his shoulders like a man reading himself for battle.

“I would ask leave to travel.”

Shireen blinked. “You only returned from your last progress three moons past,” she pointed out, bemused. “You spent two years crossing the North from end to end, meeting every lord and chieftain, great and small. You met every steward at the Far North, visited every holdfast and small town.”

“Aye, I did. And I am glad for it.” Rickon’s voice was earnest. “But I have never seen the Reach, nor Dorne, nor Oldtown, nor the Vale or the Stormlands. The North is in my blood, but I would see the rest of Westeros with my own eyes, to know what it is like for my own, not through tales and whispers of others. And I can do this only before duty binds me too tightly to leave.”

His words were spoken plainly, but his eyes held something deeper—something she could no longer decipher. The king’s gaze was colder, more appraising, as if weighing the idea in his mind.

“I might find a temporary steward to sit in the master of laws’ chair again,” the king said slowly, stroking the dark stubble along his jaw. “But your sisters are to be wed in eight moons, and you gave your word you would take up the Hand’s seat, so Lord Dustin can finally return to rule Barrowton in person.”

“Aye, I did. And I will be back by then.” Rickon inclined his head solemnly. “On that, you have my word. I would never miss Argella and Lyarra’s wedding.”

“I suppose I shall grant you leave to travel,” Jon said at last, albeit reluctantly. “But mark my words, Rickon. If you’re late, I’ll find you and drag you back to the ceremony by the scruff myself. Mind yourself in the south, too. The dangers there come not from bold warriors, but cunning lords and scheming ladies that would do anything and everything to advance their standing.”

Rickon grinned, the shadows lifting from his face. “You need not fear, Father. I shall travel quietly, with no banners and a small company, avoiding the royal courts. A hedge knight from the North.”

Shireen said nothing for a moment. In truth, she feared little for Rickon’s safety. Her son was as fearsome with a sword as with sorcery, and fools who sought to harm the Prince of Winter would find themselves quickly outmatched. He could never defeat an army like her husband could, but an escape would be no issue. No, what troubled her was something else entirely. Rickon Stark, for all his strength and stature, turned to stone in the presence of maidens.

It was not shyness or stiffness, but outright reluctance to entertain the fairer sex and play the game of courtship and seduction. Shireen would have feared her son had turned into a sword-swallower if she did not know better.

“And what of a bride?” she prodded, arching a brow. “We have given you leave to choose freely among the daughters of the North. That does not mean you must tarry forever. You are going to be five and twenty this year, and it’s high time to find yourself a wife and give me some grandchildren.”

“I will take a woman to wife once I see one worthy of it,” Rickon promised, though his tone suggested he thought that moment would never come. “There is no rush, mother. You gave me plenty of brothers to serve as my heirs.”

They could have arranged a marriage, a match fitting for her dear son. Perhaps they needed to do so, but truth be told, her husband had been the one to halt such talk. ‘House Stark does not need marriage alliances. Let my son make his own choice, so long as the woman has the make of queens.’

Rickon knew of this and, to Shireen’s regret, used it as an excuse. ‘Lyanna Manderly is not fit for a queen, mother. Alyssa Dustin is too petty, mother. Jeyne Dustin’s temper runs too hot…’

Princess Arya Stark had four children with Torrhen Flint—two sons, Eddard and Jon, and two daughters, Catelyn and Serena.

In the twentieth year after the Sundering, Prince James Stark scandalously married his aunt, Princess Sansa Stark, who was a good three decades his senior. Various rumours had swirled through the court about how a few of the Princes lusted after the king’s eldest sister. Supposedly, Prince James not only managed to defeat his father, the Breaker, in a duel behind closed doors but also to win his aunt’s affections after another six moons. Any attempts to pry details from the royal family were met with failure, as all those present at the duel turned out notoriously tight-lipped about the affair.

Despite nearing fifty, Sansa Stark did give birth to two healthy daughters—

Excerpt from the ‘Genealogy of House Stark’

Rickon Stark, the Riverlands, 332 AC/19 After the Sundering (AS)

His face twisted into a grimace at the thought of his future marriage.

How could he trust women when they didn’t even see the forest for the trees? He could feel that the Northern maidens only saw the Crown Prince and the Breaker’s heir, not Rickon Stark. All the lords and chieftains subtly and not-so-subtly pushing their daughters and nieces onto him during his progress helped even less.

Rickon wanted a genuine, happy marriage like his parents had, but he needed to find a woman who was more dutiful and skilled than she was proud and ambitious, which proved to be a tall order.

Harpies in disguise, the lot of them!

He squashed that line of thought; if it came to it, he’d pick a maiden who was easy on the eyes and reserved in character, if nothing else. Or perhaps he would let one of his brothers inherit. That too was a choice as fine as any other, for his brothers did not lack wits, skill, or talent.

At moments like this, Rickon envied the carefree lives of his brothers—it was rarely a day that he did not go to bed feeling bone-tired. His Royal Father and Torrhen Flint were demons who would squeeze you out for everything you were worth and then some more.

But he understood and accepted the burden of duty. It was the cost of all the privileges and power he had been granted. Whereas a common man had to take care of his children and fields, a crown prince’s duties lay with the whole realm.

He shook his head and focused on the dirt road ahead. Pitiful, small, uneven, covered with dried weeds and packed dirt, the track was no better than the goat trails in the Frostfangs.

Rickon couldn’t help but snort dismissively. This was considered one of the finest roads of the South? There was no crushed gravel, let alone basic paving, that the Stark bannermen used for their lesser roads. It made sense, though; the South was poor, and the art of stone melding was something only his Father knew and passed down to him and penned into the family grimoire, which sat securely in the deepest vault of the Spire. Even if it was widespread, Rickon doubted anyone but him and his Father would have the power to use it on their own without human sacrifices.

That did not make the difference less jarring.

It didn’t help that the northern side of the Riverlands had suffered greatly. Just like the Neck, it had risen up after the Sundering. With the source of the Green Fork sitting on the other side of the Channel, the land had turned hilly, dry, and barren. The coast prospered due to trade, but the moment the Breaker’s Straits were out of sight, things grew sparse as if the land itself decided to turn desolate. Even the surrounding forest and shrubbery were thinning, and most had gone half-rotten or dry from the severe lack of water. Even smallfolk were a rare sight—this was their second day in the Riverlands, and they had not met more than a handful of impoverished peasants who were making their way southward towards the lusher parts of the Riverlands or moving towards the trading ports.

Abandoned hamlets and villages taken over by the forest and shrubbery were a common sight.

Sighing, he veered course off the lauded kingsroad, turning southwest. The Pendric Hills of the Westerlands would make for a fine first stop. There was no need to detour all the way to the Trident.

Rickon was not alone, of course. But anonymity had restricted his choice of companions to Lucas Blackwood, Svenar Thenn, and Ser Denys Dustin. They wore no distinctive coat of arms upon their persons, and they looked like a group of hedge knights, albeit wealthy ones—their arms were plain but of the finest quality, which could be easily chalked off to the prosperity of the North. Even Rickon’s own brigandine was spellforged by his father, but the dull black paint made it unrecognisable from blackened steel and iron.

To any who asked, he was Ser Rickon Snow of the Red Antlers, coming south to test his mettle against the Andals with his small retinue. He had even mastered the glamour to change his hair and eye colour—now turned into a mane of chestnut, and his eyes had both gone blue. Much to the direwolf’s chagrin, even Shadow was glamoured to look like an enormous black hound as he sulkily trailed after their party from the side. Lord Dustin also penned a letter, as proof of their supposed royal task to the Isle of Faces, to hopefully deflect any overly curious lords or knights. And his father’s royal token hung heavy in his magical pouch as proof, should Rickon’s identity be exposed.

“Ser, is it true that you squired to the Blackfish?” It was the excited voice of Lucas Blackwood, a tall, wiry boy of five and ten and Rickon’s new squire.

Despite his broad back and stout figure, the boy was useless in a fight with a sword, axe, or spear. But what the gods took with one hand, they gave with the other—if you placed a bow into his grasp, the Blackwood heir could nail you in the eye without fail from a hundred and fifty paces.

“That I did,” Ser Denys said. The barrow knight was almost two heads shorter than Rickon, and many would call him an amiable man. But short did not mean weak or unskilled. “The old curmudgeon was a menace until the very end, but a beast with any weapon and one of the finest instructors I’ve had the pleasure to study under.”

Ser Brynden Tully, who had trained at arms almost the entirety of the Stark Household for a whole generation, had turned into one of the knights of legend and respect in the North even before his death in the second winter after the Sundering.

“And he left a handful of Snows for the Princesses to raise,” Svenar Thenn chortled. “They say the old Blackfish was responsible for a quarter of all the whorehouse earnings in Wintertown until his death.”

A cousin of the Thenn Chieftain, the royalguard had been one of the first winter knights and was one of the most dangerous men in the North with his bearded axe. Like all the others in his clan, he had black First Men runes covering the right side of his face, which made for a fearsome sight, together with his fiery beard and locks woven in war braids. Yet, Svenar was one of the jolliest of the royalguards, a smile was ever plastered on his face, and a jest resting upon his tongue. And he was an incorrigible gossip who would put any noble lady, and even the scullery maids, to shame.

“Your Gr—”

“Ser Rickon or Snow here,” the crown prince reminded sharply. Just imagining the number of lickspittles and pageantry he would have to endure if his identity were revealed made him feel dizzy.

“Yo—” his squire coughed under his sharp glare. “Ser, if I might be so bold as to ask, do we have any destination in mind?”

“Perhaps,” Rickon deflected. “For now, there is no rush. And by the gods, Lucas, don’t speak like you have a spear up your arse. Ease up, we’re just a bunch of men of the hedges here.”

His squire nodded sheepishly, and they continued onwards.

“Hey, Thenn, did you hear about Lady Dacey?” Denys idly asked.

“Was I supposed to hear something?” Svenar scratched his beard.

“Well, according to my sister, she got knocked up by a passing bard—”

Rickon tuned away the incoming wave of scandalous hearsay and gazed into the cloudy sky with longing. Greyhoof, his steed, was smart enough to follow the road and the lead of the others, so he eventually closed his eyes and enjoyed the pleasant breeze caressing his neck. Shadow would tug on his mind if there were any danger or trouble. The direwolf would sense it far before any of them could, so Rickon had no worries. Now, he had the one thing he had always longed for.

Freedom.

There were no expectations here, no responsibilities, no silly pageantry, petitions, or scheming lords and ambitious ladies, just the road before them, the wind in their hair, and the swords upon their hips. Though the arming sword was a simple sidearm hewn from castle-forged steel—more than enough to defend himself on any occasion—the crown prince preferred the halberd that his father had gifted him upon his eighteenth name day. Rickon slowly lost track of time as he drifted deep into his thoughts.

Eventually, a low rumbling forced him to open his weary eyes. The conversation had died off, and the sun was crawling towards the west; it was already late afternoon, and the crown prince estimated his nap had lasted a few hours. Suppressing a yawn, Rickon looked around.

“We’ve reached the Green Fork,” Denys noted. “Or what’s left of it.”

They soon arrived at a wide, deep riverbed, at least a hundred feet wide and more than thirty feet deep in places. Yet it was little more than stones, all round and smoothed by the relentless flow of water that the Sundering had halted. Twisted weeds peeked shyly between the rocks, and the dull rumbling of water could be heard underneath, but it was weak.

The Green Fork was but a shadow of its former glory. According to merchants, it fared better towards the Trident as numerous small rivers and creaks from the Mountains of the Moon flowed into it on the way.

They followed the riverbed south, and just as the sun began to set, a desolate grey fortress appeared in the distance. It was an ugly thing—a bridge hanging uselessly over the rocky riverbed and two towers that threw a twisted shadow under the sunset, looking like a snail without its shell, with its foundations bared underneath.

The Crossing.

Rickon could feel the magic pulse and twist all the way from here with the faint scent of death, rust, and decay—it was indeed a cursed place. Abandoned for over two decades, the battlements already looked dilapidated under the onslaught of the sun, wind, and rain.

It stood there like a foul reminder of the biggest fall of House Stark.

Visiting it had not been his plan, but now that he was already here, Rickon could not ignore it. A desire to crush the accursed seat of House Frey swelled within his breast, raging like an angered dragon. Rickon took a deep breath and decisively suppressed all the turmoil inside him.

No, the Twins had to remain. Rickon could smash it with laughable ease now if he wanted to, but it would expose his presence here for all to see, and his travel as a nameless hedge knight would be cut short before it even began. Such qualms would be moot once he had to return so the Crossing could remain standing for another seven moons. But leaving it as a warning of what happened to those who crossed House Stark would be more prudent.

“Where exactly are we headed, Ser Rickon?” Svenar’s amused voice brought him back from his rumination.

“I’ve heard Fairmarket is a good place to visit, and we’ll do well to hear what the local merchants and travellers gossip about.”

Rickon had six moons to take his joyous fill of freedom and feast his eyes on all the sights the South had to offer. Travel was not his only goal here, though. His burning desire that had taken root in his heart had not been smothered by time, but he dared not voice it aloud even now, even here.

Once the time to attend Argella and Lyarra’s weddings neared, the crown prince would claim the Green Scourge as his mount and fly back home, a dragonlord just like his mother and father before him.

Shireen Stark, also known as the Good Queen or the Spring Queen, was one of the most beloved rulers in history. At four and ten, she flew on Stormstrider northwards, preventing the Northern Forces at Westwatch from being routed by the relentless onslaught of the wights and their icy masters. The unexpected valour earned her the respect and loyalty of the Northern lords forever.

It was her justice and generosity that won her the smallfolk’s adoration. Her love for the Builder was legendary, according to an old yet persistent rumour; her kind heart kept his harshness at bay. Yet her greatest feat was as a mother—she had borne the Breaker fifteen sons and two daughters in ten years. None could deny that the Spring Queen was blessed by the gods; some even went to call her the Mother reborn.

Born in 307 AC, Rickon the Great, known as the Winter Prince in his youth, led the North into an even grander era of peace and prosperity than his father.

Argella and Lyarra Stark, the twin darlings of the North, were born in 309 AC. Many a lord lusted after their hands, some even from distant kingdoms, but the Breaker did not entertain any of their suitors in Winterfell. Known for their unrivalled beauty, they eventually married into Houses Manderly and Reed of their own volition.

In 311 AC, Shireen gave birth to triplets. Edwyn Stark, the Merchant Prince, had a mind for sums and trade and later became one of the world’s richest and most powerful merchants. Artos Stark joined the royalguard and rose to become the lord commander, while Steffon Stark found his calling in the Winterspring Academy and became a Grand Scholar of the Arcane, later to join the royal council as a master of magic.

The Queen gave birth to twins in the year of the Sundering. Robb Stark would rise to the position of Winterfell’s Master of Arms while his brother, James, managed to marry his Aunt, Princess Sansa Stark. That became an enormous scandal and nearly divided House Stark. Eventually, the Breaker sent away his son to become a Castellan at the Dragon’s Rest—the summer palace built upon Sea Dragon Point.

Shireen Stark was already pregnant again the following year. In 314 AC, three more Princes joined the royal family. Lyonel Stark later proved himself as Lord Commander of Wintertown’s City Watch, his brothers, Brandon and Torrhen, became scholars, and Torrhen would later become his eldest brother’s Hand, also known as the Golden Hand by the smallfolk. Brandon, the youngest triplet, was also known as Brandon the Drunken. The Prince had an incredibly sharp wit but was rarely sober and could oft be seen in the embrace of a whore, much to his parents’ chagrin.

In 316 AC, the Queen gave birth to triplets again. Sirius, Aemon, and Cregan were inseparable, restless and had a relentless streak of mischief. Also known as the Wandering Wolves, they all turned into ardent explorers, or as they liked to call themselves, adventurers who had even dared to venture deep into Sothoryos and the Shadow Lands and lived to tell the tale.

317 AC was the last time Shireen Stark gave birth, again to triplets. Boryl Stark joined the royalguard, Beron, the Northern Expedition, and Jonnel Stark became the governor of Southwatch…

Excerpt from the ‘Genealogy of House Stark’