Epilogue-The Prince of Winter

Into the swing of the war against the Reach, King Tommen Lannister and King Patrek Mallister slowly found themselves pushed back by the consolidated armies of the Reach. Even the Sundering barely gave pause to the war.

With the Iron Islands under the control of Hightower, iron and trade goods from the North flowed freely into the Reach more than into the Riverlands and the Westerlands. If the war had happened two decades earlier, the results might have been different, but the War of the Five Kings and the following winter had exhausted the Riverlands the most, with the Riverlands suffering the worst loss of manpower.

The small, barely fertile rocks in the Sunset Sea that nobody lusted for had suddenly turned into a powerful boon for whoever owned them. By the second year after the Three-Year-Truce, peace was already broken, and the alliance turned its sights to the Iron Islands, eager to build up their own fleets and contest the advantage the Reach enjoyed.

After Golden Grove fell, the war turned increasingly devastating as Red Lake was heavily fortified by the Kingdom of the Rock, and the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister, refused to commit to an open battle against the Reachmen, content to deny them forage and land, and raid their supply lines, turning the war into a bloody slog of skirmishes.

King Patrek Mallister called for a general call to arms, allowing the smallfolk to form their own militias and build wood-and-brick fortifications to defend their homes and resist the attacking Reachmen to compensate for the difference in number and equipment. Soon, the Northmarch had turned into one of the most heavily fortified and contested regions in Westeros, while the Gold Road became nearly inaccessible due to the constant raiding and skirmishes.

Lord Banefort, leading the allied Westerlands-Riverlands fleet, eventually managed to shatter the Hightower might at sea after six heavy battles. Still, the victory had been costly, and they lacked the strength to hold the Iron Islands. Instead, they turned to raiding along Ironman Bay and later down the Ocean Road, all the way to the Arbour.

Neither side dared to attack Northern trade ships lest they anger the Dragon of Winterfell, but they did not shy away from forcing Northern cogs to land and trade with whoever was in control of the Sunset Sea at the time or be denied further passage. Captains who refused to comply were invited as guests into some bare room, unharmed but only allowed bitter lemonwater, bread, and salt until they budged.

The back-and-forth continued. Neither the Reach, the Westerlands, nor the Riverlands lacked brave and capable men. By the fifth year, the Reach had rebuilt its fleet and managed to best Banefort, sack Fair Isle, and regain control of the majority of the Iron Islands.

After nine long and bloody years, countless slain warriors and smallfolk, and hundreds of sacked holdfasts and castles, the lines on the map had barely moved at all.

Ultimately, both sides were exhausted, and even the Reach, with its seemingly endless food and manpower, had to reconsider continuing the conflict to its north with the resurgence of Dornish raids across the Red Mountains and the budding drought that threatened to devastate the kingdoms.

Peace was agreed upon, but the Iron Islands remained the main point of contention. All three sides desired it to the point that it nearly sundered the alliance between Mallister and Lannister, but neither the Reachmen nor their foes had the strength to hold the dreary rocks on their own.

After four moons of fierce arguing, they turned to Winterfell for fair arbitration, only on the issue of the Iron Islands. This was the only time the Breaker agreed to participate as an arbiter and took an active stance on the event outside of his domain.

Such things were only possible due to the general offer agreed upon by the Three Kings, each considering it to make the most amount of gain with the least amount of fighting, each vowing to follow Jon Stark’s word regardless of the outcome.

Acknowledged by the other three kings, House Stark agreed to hold the Iron Islands in perpetuity, with all it entailed. At the same time, the ships from the Reach, the Riverlands, and the Westerlands were allowed fair passage at a flat toll rate of five parts out of a hundred but were barred from sailing warships into the Iron Islands or further north. Furthermore, the excavated iron ore was to be split into six equal parts. The North would receive three portions, while Tyrell, Lannister, and Mallister would receive a portion each.

According to rumour, the King of Winter would have almost declined this proposal if not for the vehement urging of all of his councillors. Some even say it was his wife who had convinced him.

And thus began the longest period of peace in the fifty-year war…

Excerpt from ‘The Fifty-Year War’ by Maester Gledyn

Samwell Flowers/Aemon Steelsong, Storrold’s Point 321 After the Conquest/8 After the Sundering

“Why?” He swallowed heavily. “Why hide it from me? I’m a man of nearly twenty! Were you ever going to tell me?”

Aunt Val looked at him with pity and regret shimmering in her silvery eyes. The grey sneaking into her honeyed locks suddenly made her look more like a tired old crone than the beautiful spearwife everyone claimed she had been in her youth.

“Everything was to protect you. The war—”

It was too much, too damn much, and he couldn’t bear to look at his aunt anymore. The chamber felt suffocating, the whole castle was stuffy, and he couldn’t stay any longer.

Before Sam, no, not Sam Flowers. It was Aemon now.

Aemon Steelsong, son of Mance Rayder and Dalla the woodswitch.

The kind, sweet Grandma Melessa wasn’t his grandmother anymore. Nor was the jolly Aunt Talla his aunt…

His legs already carried him through the blurry hallway into the open, pushing a few figures away, and he ran outside. The castle walls felt suffocating. There was no direction, no goal; he just wanted to get away. He didn’t care about the wedding feast of this new castellan-lord; he didn’t care about propriety.

After all, a bastard would not be missed, not truly. Nobody would bat an eye at his poor manners, either, for bastards were not known for their manners.

He ran and ran as time lost meaning. His eyes stung, his lungs were on fire, and every breath was a struggle; his legs felt like lead, but he kept moving.

In hindsight, running blindly into the forest during the night was not the brightest idea, not with tears clouding his vision. His foot inevitably caught a root, and Aemon’s face soon met the ground in a very painful manner.

It was not his first experience falling, so he managed to adjust himself, if only to avoid breaking a limb or his nose.

Rolling around the forest was not a pleasant experience, but the dirt and leaves softened his fall.

With a pained groan, he lifted his sleeve and wiped his eyes. The clear night sky greeted him, peeking above the canopy—an endless expanse of twinkling stars strewn in every direction.

Everything hurt; his muscles, lungs, back, feet and side were probably bruised, possibly even cracked and broken from the fall and the rocks and roots his body had met during his tumble, but he didn’t care.

All those refusals and excuses to let him go and meet him now made all too much sense. So this was why his supposed father never agreed to meet him. That was why they denied his desire to join the Northern Expedition Force…

No, Grand Scholar Samwell was not his father, which was not the problem, not really. Mance Rayder being his sire was not the issue either, for the King Beyond the Wall had been defeated and forgotten decades ago; Aemon hadn’t met any of them. They… were just some names men had forgotten, no longer of import.

But, everything, everything felt like a lie, his time spent in Horn Hill, the smiles, the care, the warmth…

“If I were any slower, Dain would have skewered you,” a deep voice tore through the night.

Sam, no, his name was Aemon now, twisted his neck, wincing as his body pulsed with pain.

He froze. A pair of majestic purple eyes peeked underneath a plain crown of dark metal that every Northman could recognise. The dark curls marred by a single streak of white were unmistakable.

“Your Grace—”

“There’s no need for courtesies right now.” The king dismissively waved his hand. Aemon gaped as his body was flooded by warmth, and his aches were soothed as the pain receded. “Now, tell me what had you running like that. You almost ran over Ragnur Thenn, and if I didn’t stop my royalguard, they would have shortened you a head.”

Aemon gulped. Even in a plain black-and-white doublet, the king had an imposing presence and majesty that nobles dressed in gaudy silks could never match. Even here, amidst the forest, he felt like he belonged the way a shadowcat would belong.

Even with that friendly smile on his face, Jon Stark felt… dangerous. It was not someone you could deny or ignore.

This was the man who had cleaved Westeros in twain as if it were a piece of rotten wood. What was he doing here so far away from Winterfell?!

It took a few seconds for Aemon to realise that he had probably come to attend the wedding of Jeor Knott, a warrior awarded the stewardship of New Barrow for his contribution to the Northern Expedition. Heat crept up in Aemon’s cheeks as realisation sank in. Running into the king was a terrible slip of propriety, and he would have been a head shorter if Jon Stark had been slightly less forgiving.

Aemon stood up and bowed, “I apologise for—”

“Answer the question.” Jon Stark’s voice was icy. “Your liege commands it.”

A disbelieving rasp escaped from his lips. But could he truly decline the royal command?

“I… was raised in Horn Hill—” The words were slow to escape his stiff mouth, but as the minutes dragged on, the small spring turned into the raging river, and angry words flew out of Aemon’s tongue like arrows from a bowstring as he aired all of his desires, frustrations, and grievances at the lies that had dominated his life.

In the end, he felt somewhat lighter, as if a weight had gone off his shoulders when he finished his tale.

Aemon felt hollow too, as if a void had settled in his chest. He slumped down on the ground and gave the king a wan smile. “Was I living a lie?”

The king’s impassive face twisted, and… he guffawed. The booming laughter echoed through the forest, and it felt as if spears were stabbing into Aemon’s gut.

“I’m not laughing at you, boy,” Jon Stark wheezed between his chortles. “Just at the circumstance at hand. I forgot what it was to be young and plagued by simple silliness like that.”

“There’s nothing simple! My kin is not my kin…” The young man trailed desperately. “What do I do now?”

“Do you love Lady Melessa and her daughter?”

Talla and Melessa Tarly’s warm blue eyes were stuck in his mind. Even after his fostering, Aemon visited Horn Hill at least twice a year to see his grandmother and aunts whenever he could, and he was always warmly welcomed. But it was a fucking lie. They had never been his kin.

“I… do,” he decided, tasting the words in his mouth. They felt right, yet bitter at the same time. “But I’m not of their blood. Just a mummer’s ploy, an impostor!”

“Go back to Horn Hill.” The king’s voice softened. “Be the greater man. Tell them the truth.”

“But what—” The words choked in his dry throat, and he forced himself to swallow. “What if they kick me out?! They would be within their right!”

“They would,” Jon Stark agreed. “Maybe they would indeed kick you out. Maybe they won’t—sometimes kinship is more than just blood. But the only way to know is to go there and lay the truth out for them. You took no part in this deception, so you don’t truly bear any blame. Spare yourself the torment. A man with your skill with the blade won’t lack a roof over his head in the North. Should the Tarlys turn you away, come to Winterfell.”

The words were like a ray of sunshine in a cloudy sky. Yes, he had to go back and try to make things clear, no matter what. He owed House Tarly at least this much!

Even if that failed, serving directly under House Stark was a matter of prestige and honour for any man of the North. If he proved himself good enough with a sword, he could even join the royalguard.

“I am grateful for the advice, Your Grace.” Aemon bowed deeply, filled with renewed respect for the wise King of Winter. “But… why, why would my Aunt hide this?!”

“Did you run out before hearing her reasoning?” The young man could only nod and rub the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, I suppose I can tell you. I was there the day you were born. I thought I was walking to my death that day, you know? It was a dark, gloomy day dominated by cold and despair for me and the men I thought were my brothers-in-arms. Regardless—”

The eighth year after the Sundering was one of the hottest in recorded history, and combined with the lack of rain, made for a devastating drought. The Great Drought was one of the causes of the third and longest ceasefire in the Fifty-Year War. The lack of rain struck the whole of Southern Westeros the worst, followed by brutal fires and famine in many places across every kingdom. Many smaller rivers and lakes ran dry, while the larger ones shrank to a mere fraction of their former size.

This spurred the Dornish to finally look northwards and begin raiding the Marches again, though with the marriage alliance between Sunspear and Storm’s End, the vultures focused more on the Reach.

Lord Balon Blackmont, also known as the Black Vulture, was the most daring of the brigands and terrorised the smallfolk for moons. He even managed to slay Lord Corlon Peake and his sons, who attempted to fight off the incursion, and most of the Peake Lands were looted clean by the Black Vulture. It was said that not even squirrels remained after the Dornish had left. Lyle Peake, Corlon’s brother, turtled up in Starpike and refused to leave the formidable fortress, giving the Vulture free rein upon the lands.

The Vulture Lord decided against wasting his time in sieging Starpike and, after having his fill of pillaging and burning the Peake lands, turned his sights onto Tarly.

Ser Harlon Hunt, the consort of Lady Talla Tarly, was also slain in the battle of Pennyhill, and the Tarly forces were swiftly broken. Yet the Dornish brigands giving pursuit fared no better. Samwell Flowers, who had just returned from his fostering up North with a Valyrian steel sword, rumoured to be a gift from the Breaker himself, joined the battle many thought lost along with a dozen Northern companions. The infamous Bastard of Horn Hill rallied the routed Tarly forces and managed to slaughter his way to Balon Blackmont and lop off his head. The Dornish troops were routed, chased down and…

Excerpt from ‘History of the Marches’ by Maester Donnel

323 After the Conquest/10 After the Sundering (AS), Winterfell

Rickon Stark

“Go now, take a look at the North,” his father’s words would forever echo in his mind. “Feel the land beneath your feet as you scale the Northern Mountains. Feel the thrum of magic in the air across the Bay of Ice, the Haunted Forest and the Frostfangs. Taste everything the White Knife and the Barrow River have to offer, and see the Grey Cliffs and the rocky slopes of Skagos. Watch and learn, drink your eyes on everything the North has and open your heart to the good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly, for one day, all of it will be yours.”

And thus began the squiring of Rickon Stark.

The Crown Prince of the North was lonely. Since Lynera Knott tried to sneak into his bed and his Aunt Arya had taught him the Game of Faces, he was vividly aware that everyone yearned to curry favour with the Crown Prince. His ability to skinchange into Shadow properly and utilise his direwolf’s senses to his fullest made reading others easier.

Smiles, solemn promises, grand gestures, and generous gifts were all made with that very purpose in mind. None of those would be a problem if not for the fact that he could feel none of them cared about Rickon Stark, merely wanted to curry favour with the crown prince or advance their standing.

Desperate for a real connection, he even disguised himself and mingled amongst the smallfolk to make a friendship unburdened by his impossibly high status. But that had also ended poorly, as Elrik the Cobbler’s son lived a completely different life, and once he realised Rickon was highborn, he no longer dared to treat him as a friend but kept grovelling and bowing for forgiveness.

“Relationships built on deception do not last,” his mother’s words echoed in his head like a death knell. Rickon had not understood what she had meant half a decade ago, but now he knew.

His father had foreseen his trouble, too. Before he had left for his squiring with Torrhen Flint, his sire had pulled him aside for a talk. It had been a conversation filled with far too many burdens and grand words Rickon’s young mind had failed to understand, but now most of them made sense.

“A king has no friends, only subjects, subordinates, and, if you’re lucky, companions. Remember this, my son, etch it into your mind. You can try to befriend your fellow peers from the Stark bannermen, but the weight of hierarchy will forever linger upon you like a shadow.”

“It sounds lonely,” Rickon had said.

“Because it is. Ruling a kingdom is a lonely life, where friendships are a burden that would get in the way of your duty to your House and Kingdom more often than not. The crown is the ultimate dispenser of justice and purveyor of power, and a king ought to reward loyalty and meritorious service, not his friends. Should you do so, everyone will seek your friendship in pursuit of the royal boons you can offer instead of leal service.”

Five years had passed since he had laid his eyes on Winterfell. Half was spent in Breakstone Hill and the Northern Mountains, and the other half was spent travelling around the North with Chieftain Torrhen Flint.

Now, he was on his way back home. The roads were flush with warriors hungry to test their mettle in the Grand Tourney, peddlers and merchants leading a long procession of carts, donkeys, and mules, eager to sell their wares. Peasants seeking their fortune or merely having come to enjoy the spectacle were a common sight. Even the winter chill or the snow that went up the waist in places did not deter them.

With all distinctive heraldry hidden beneath their heavy cloaks, Rickon and his good-uncle mingled with the crowd, and Shadow was already roaming the wolfswood. He had found that it allowed him to see a far more honest attitude from the men and women of the North, lowborn and highborn alike. Many heirs and second sons eager to befriend the crown prince wouldn’t spare a traveller a second glance, no matter how skilled or knowledgeable. Some would even treat him with disdain, looking down on him. Pretty maidens who did everything to slip into his bed for the small chance they would become the future Queen of the North would shoo him away like some pest without the fine garments and the pomp the crown prince was supposed to carry.

Or worse, the more sordid ladies like Elayne Wells would still try to get him for a quick tryst by the stable to satisfy their scandalous preference before chasing him off like some homeless dog to play the blushing maiden in front of their kith and kin.

Just remembering his accidental glimpse into Elayne’s thoughts made him feel… filthy.

His father was right. Being a prince was a lonely affair, no matter how many fools and lickspittles he was surrounded with. Solitude was not necessarily terrible, Rickon had found. It allowed him ample time to contemplate and focus on his martial and magical pursuits, no matter how gruelling the training could turn.

The expectations of being the Breaker’s son weighed heavily on his shoulders, but Rickon had found his determination to carry the mantle, no matter how challenging. In fact, the challenge made it all the more worth it. Nothing worthwhile was ever easy.

“Happy to return home?” Torrhen asked as the sunset fast approached.

“Aye,” Rickon said honestly. “I miss my family. Even the more annoying of my brothers.”

Which was over half of them. Save for his sweet sisters, each and every brother was a significant challenge to his patience, considering he had fourteen of them. Thankfully, his father and mother had decided that seventeen children were enough—repopulating House Stark to heights above its former glory within a decade.

“There’s still about four hours of riding until Winterfell,” his good uncle observed. “We should stop for the night at an inn, lest you feel impatient enough to forge ahead on a cold winter night.”

Rickon glanced at the inn Torrhen pointed out, called the Three Antlers. It had to be a new inn, for he did not remember any three-story buildings on this section of the road five years ago. Especially not one built from hewn stone, facade done in white plaster, and with freshly cut logs, a roof of russet clay tiles. It was far from the only new inn on the road; Rickon had seen nearly a dozen a day—even more often as they approached Winterfell.

“Let us see what they have to offer,” he decided. “It’s been a while since I’ve slept on a bed or tasted anything but hardtack, cheese, and dried jerky.”

Others would fear the cold, but not him. Rickon had inherited his father’s hardiness, and the chill of winter felt pleasantly cool on his skin. That, among other abilities that clearly crossed beyond what mere man was capable of, only made Torrhen push him all the harder in the last few years.

“Pah, look at all those weaklings—struggling at this pleasant cool,” Torrhen grumbled as another group of shivering travellers rushed into the inn before them. “It’s as warm as a woman’s kiss down here in the lowlands, yet they can’t endure even this little.”

The insides of the inn were warm and cosy, thanks to the crackling fireplace. A rich aroma of hare spiced by the scent of thyme, rosemary, and a touch of wild garlic greeted him upon entry.

“Two servings of your stew,” Torrhen ordered as soon as he sat on the only empty table. “And two tankards of your finest ale!”

They managed to get a better room for the night in exchange for two silver stags from the innkeeper. If he had revealed his presence here, taking the whole inn for the night for free would be simple. But it was not worth the hassle, and ‘each man had to be given their rightfully earned due’.

Soon enough, a thickset serving wench hastily brought a platter with two steaming bowls. Rickon grabbed the wooden stew and nodded with satisfaction as the chunks of hare inside fell apart at the slightest touch, probably being cooked over a slow fire in a broth of dark ale and marrow. Parsnips and carrots swam between the meat, and each spoonful melted in his mouth.

“The cooks are getting better,” Torrhen noted, face filled with approval as he hastily slurped the contents of his own bowl.

“Probably because Father added an actual cooking competition before the feast,” Rickon whispered loud enough only for his good uncle to hear. “Doubtlessly, every skilled cook and baker who could spare the coin to travel is headed to Winterfell to display their skills before my parents and the lords.”

The opportunity to catch the eye of the last dragonlords was probably irresistible, especially when with it came the chance to serve him. Even those who failed to enter royal service could find fruitful work with lords and ladies of the realm.

“A true feast for the tongue and belly,” his companion chortled. “I heard those who failed to qualify for the final round, where their meals would be sampled by the king himself, settle around Winterfell and try to improve their craft for next year’s competition.”

“All the better. Alas, alas—I’m going to miss travelling with you,” Rickon confessed.

“There’s not much I can teach you anymore, boy. You’re your father’s son, alright.” Torrhen’s voice thickened with fondness. “You’ll officially become a man in three days, and you are tall and big enough to pass for an Umber, so there’s no need to dwell on sentimentality. As for travelling together… there’ll be a chance later when you make your own progress across the North. I am a Stark’s man, and you’re a Stark.”

Unwilling to speak further on the topic in matter, they turned their attention to the dinner, wolfing it down with relish.

Rickon couldn’t help but listen on with the other patrons. It was easy for him to eavesdrop, for his senses were sharp enough to hear even the buzzing of a fly within twenty yards if he focused. While he disliked hearsay, he couldn’t dismiss its utility. Gossip was a good way to get an idea of what was happening in the surrounding lands(even if most of it was exaggerated or rather inaccurate), and he had not been around Winterfell for nearly half a decade. And tongues in inns never stopped wagging.

“Hah, yet another suitor for Princess Sansa’s hand has been rejected. They say he was from Lys, prettier than a maiden with his slender figure, silver-gold hair and purple eyes.”

“This is the seventy-sixth rejected suitor,” another said. “A pity they stopped asking for a duel after the first eleven lost their hands. Now, they no longer go to the king to ask for her hand, merely try to court the princess, who makes them wait for a moon or two before rejecting those who linger stubbornly.”

“Did you hear about Lady Manderly? Rumour has it she has a young boy toy lover from Tyrosh…”

“Alaric has managed to reproduce Norvoshi wool—”

“Pah, it’s not nearly as soft or smooth to the touch.”

“Still better than ours…”

“Wanna bet who’ll win the melee?”

“Do you take me for a fool? None can win against His Grace, and he’ll crown our Queen again. The two of them are a match of the songs, I tell you!”

“What’s so good about this Shireen Baratheon?” drawled a tipsy traveller with a Southron accent from one of the corners. The whole inn instantly quieted, but the man continued as he emptied a cup of what smelled like strongwine. “I’ve seen better-looking whores in brothels in destitute villages along the Mander—”

A fist slammed on the table, interrupting whatever the Southerner (probably a Reachman) wanted to say before Rickon could draw his sword to defend the honour of his mother.

“Nobody insults the Good Queen in my presence!” A bull of a man stood up, almost as tall as Rickon himself, pointing a wicked axe at the slanderer. But with his thick, veiny neck, angry red beard, and arms like tree trunks, there was no doubt the man was a warrior. “Pretty or not, her heart is made of gold, and the whole North knows of her kindness. She personally handed out food to me mum and sisters during the Red Winter. Take your words back!”

A dozen swords more were drawn, all pointed at the loose-tongued fool, who shrank in his seat, finally realising the direness of his situation. But thankfully, it had not come to bloodshed yet.

It was a thorny situation, Rickon recognised. Slandering the royal family was a punishable offence, but none of the men here had the right to dispense justice. None but himself. If blood were spilt, it would turn messy, and Rickon would have to mete out more punishments, no matter how reluctant.

Just as he sighed and prepared to stand up and deal with this mess, the Reachman stood up.

“I misspoke,” he eked out, waving his hands nervously. “Thousand pardons, my good men. Long live Queen Shireen.”

The loud and squeaky declaration didn’t seem to placate the gathered crowd, nor did it placate Rickon’s mounting anger, for he could sense the words lacked sincerity.

The greying innkeeper came from the kitchen, red-faced and swinging a ladle. “No fighting in my inn, damn you all!”

Then he looked at the man, surrounded by angry patrons who refused to budge. “And you, fool. If you’re here for the Grand Tourney, you can forget about it. Once the men in Wintertown catch wind of your words here, not even the hungriest whore would be willing to share your bed, no matter how much coin you throw at her. And that is if the bailiffs don’t catch you for slander first, in which case you’ll earn a good caning as you ought to. Turn away to whence you came from now, or I’ll report you myself.”

Swearing under his nose, the Reachman stood up. But the patrons had yet to budge, not moving to make way.

“There’s no need!” Torrhen growled, shrugging his cloak, the coat of arms of House Flint of Breakstone Hill in full display as he stood up. “As a Chieftain of the North, I can hardly close my eyes when someone infringes upon the royal majesty of House Stark or the dignity of Her Grace. I’ll cane this fool myself and take his tongue.”

Rickon snorted and stood at his full height, and the crowd quickly parted to allow them passage. It was easy to hold the Reachman down while his good-uncle enacted the punishment.

“I didn’t mean it!” the man squealed, trying to squirm out of his grasp. “I—”

“Then you shouldn’t have said it,” Rickon retorted darkly, pressing the man on the table as the other patrons eagerly held down his limbs.

“I was in my cups!”

“The wine only loosens the tongue; it doesn’t make it flap on its own,” one of the patrons countered mercilessly.

The cane fell, and shrill screams echoed across the inn, as if a pig was being slaughtered. Soon, the shrieks turned into wimpers.

The Crown Prince of the North did not flinch, no matter how pitiful the begging or the moans from the offender were. The only reason he didn’t step up to take the man’s tongue himself was that his squiring for Torrhen only officially ended when he arrived in Winterfell, and he was still to follow his good uncle’s lead.

Wintertown was even more bustling than Rickon remembered, and the houses had crept outside the new granite curtain walls, which seemed unable to contain the expanding city.

Even still, under the clever planning of his father and Lord Manderly, Wintertown’s streets were wide, straight, and white, pleasing to the eye and lacking in congestion. Any fallen snow had quickly been shovelled away, and the cobblestones were sprinkled with sand to prevent frosting.

Stormstrider and Winter’s enormous forms circled above Winterfell, glinting like a dark sapphire and amethyst under the winter sun. Rickon’s eyes couldn’t help but linger on their forms with longing.

How would soaring through the sky feel?

Unlike the Targaryen dragons, who spent most of their time chained down, his father had chosen to keep the Stark dragons free. The order of the dragonkeepers mostly existed to shovel dragon dung, bring food to the dragons when they grew too lazy to hunt, appraise and compensate any damages the dragons inflicted upon the folks’ livelihood, and protect the Dragon Yard.

His musings were interrupted by a procession led by Bernard Bole, the royalguard wearing a cuirass of reforged Valyrian steel and a white cloak emblazoned with the grey direwolf of House Stark. The wolfcloaks, many called them. The dozen Stark men-at-arms that accompanied him were no less imposing, all clad in heavy steel armour from head to toe.

Rickon knew the reason his arrival had been expected—Shadow was already inside Winterfell, lazily lying on the lap of his royal mother. Rickon suppressed the embarrassment as his mother sensed his presence within the direwolf and started relentlessly scratching underneath his chin.

The observant Bernard Bole noticed his distress.

“Anything wrong, Your Grace?”

“Merely a thought,” Rickon said, shaking the awkwardness off as he pulled away his mind from his direwolf.

Schooling himself, he nodded and gave a slight wave to the eager crowd quickly gathering along Brandon’s Street—the main street leading down the kingsroad.

Winterfell’s eastern gate was wide open, guarded by a dozen men-at-arms. Faces hidden underneath a bascinet, all clad in arming doublets and cuirasses emblazoned with the Stark livery, they all looked like statues in their unmoving posture, with halberds clasped in their fists.

The further inside Rickon went, the better armoured the guards were, all the way to wearing a full suit of lobstered plate in front of Winterfell’s Great Keep.

The other thing he could feel now was the thrum of power in the air. Magic. Before, he had not sensed any of it. Or was it perhaps because he was so used to living inside Winterfell?

All of his brothers could be seen in the training yard—fourteen of them under the stern guidance of Rickon Liddle, the new Master-at-Arms after Ser Brynden Tully passed away. From Edwyle, Artos, and Steffon, the oldest after Rickon at one and ten, to Beron, Beryl, and Jonnel, the youngest triplets, who were barely four but just as eager to swing a sword as their older brothers. Wrapped up in thick padded jackets and miniature training brigandines, they looked like bouncy balls as they clashed with wooden swords against each other or the training dummies with gusto.

The Mother reborn, they called Shireen for the seventeen children she had brought to this world in a single decade. His mother indeed was a fruitful woman, for she had spawned a small army from her womb. Rickon had even seen some women pray in his royal mother’s name, hoping for a bountiful pregnancy. Truthfully, Rickon had too many siblings, but he loved them all… even if they could sometimes be quite irritating. Most young children were too mischievous and rebellious, doubly so for the fourteen Princes of Winterfell, who had all inherited a degree of their father’s prowess. But if there was one thing their parents excelled at, it was discipline.

Rickon still remembered being forced to clean the kitchen by hand after shattering that cauldron of elk stew. In a way, his siblings were lucky. They were not the heirs, and Rickon knew all of his brothers were allowed to choose their calling in life—whether it would be the sword, the quill, the harp, coin, or even something like travel and adventure. The king and queen’s only requirements for their children were unity and excellence.

Not Rickon, though. Rickon was the only one who had to live up to being his father’s heir. At times, the burden felt crushing. The Demon of Winterfell. Slayer of Dragons. The Flame in the Darkness. Breaker of Kingdoms. Sunderer of Westeros. Each title was grander than the last, and Rickon felt so small and insignificant, regardless of how strong his body grew or how powerful his magic became.

Bernard Bole led him towards the Godswood. Nearby, Bloodfyre’s plump form was lazily sprawled over the roof of the Guest House, which looked to be reinforced and quite sturdy—a new development after the previous one had buckled under the weight of the crimson drake seven years prior. But Bloodfyre was bigger and rounder than Rickon remembered, and this roof looked even newer than the one in his memories.

Six royalguards were standing vigil at the arched stone door like silent shadows.

“His Grace is waiting for you by the Heart Tree, Prince Rickon,” Dain said, bowing his head.

“Then I shall not make him wait any further.”

The godswood was one of his father’s favourite places, aside from his workshop, a room where nobody but Mother was allowed to enter. When he was young, Rickon thought his father was a pious man, as many others claimed, but now he wasn’t certain that was all there was to it.

The snowy grove was different to his senses. The magic here felt older than anything else he had felt before, thicker. As a child, Rickon knew the sacred grove was ancient, older than the Kingdom of the North itself, but feeling it was different. Ancient power permeated through the ash, chestnut, elm, hawthorn, oak, and even the steaming mist that rose from the hot springs, and it was not merely magic. There was something else. Something more.

The accord between men and the old gods was made without pomp or ceremony in the solemn quiet before a heart tree, and that gave it power ordinary weirwood trees did not have.

Rickon could feel his father at the centre of the grove where the weirwood was, even before he could lay his eyes on him. Jon Stark was like a miniature sun of power, more magic than man to his senses, overshadowing even the mighty heart tree and the power of the grove.

Within another minute, Rickon reached the Heart Tree and saw his father on one of its particularly large roots with a ball of molten… something in his hand. Like usual, he was dressed in a plain black doublet with silver rimmings around the collar and loose trousers—garments completely unsuitable for the winter chill that failed to hide the lean, muscled body that would make a shadowcat green with envy. Despite being taller now, his father still managed to make him feel small, and the heaviness in his gaze had only grown since then.

Then there was the crown of ugly dark metal halfway between black steel and bronze on his head; the crude colour contrasted with the intricacy and power of the engraved swords and runes. It was more a circlet than a ceremonial royal ornament, one that his father had carried since he had first assumed the mantle of king.

But Rickon could feel it now. There was something more to the band of dark metal. While it felt completely bereft of magic, it had a presence. The crown then thrummed, and Rickon felt as if a mountain was pressing down on his very being. It felt like a thousand searing hot spears slammed into his mind. His soul itself screamed in pain, and it felt like the air solidified, and a mountain fell on his shoulders. Within a moment, he crumbled, his knees slamming into the snow.

Rickon could feel his heart thunder like a drum as his mind buckled under the ever-increasing pressure. The Crown atop his father’s head blotted out the world and pressed more onto his very being as if trying to squash him. But he was unwilling. Rickon’s magic was like an angry river of molten lava as it raged through his veins, reinforcing his bones, muscles, and sinew that all roared in defiance, refusing to surrender.

A raspy groan escaped his throat as he forced his body to move. The pressure intensified even further; blood started to leak from his eyes and ears as he tried to push his knees off the snow.

It was not enough—his magic was not enough. His joints screamed in pain, and his muscles all protested, but that didn’t really stop Rickon Stark. Limbs shivering, he forced himself up from his knees, and the pressure immediately disappeared. His father’s crown again looked like an unassuming band of dark metal.

“W-What was that?” he spat out a mouthful of blood in the snow.

His father simply made a complex motion with his hand, and the slivers of agony from his body melted away as he felt thick magic flood into his flesh, mending what was broken. In half a minute, all the pain was gone. In fact, he felt better than before, stronger, and the magic thrumming through his flesh had a new, elusive quality to it.

The endeavour had somehow… strengthened him?

“The true weight of my crown,” his father said simply. “I’m surprised you managed to see it, let alone withstand some of it.”

But there was a sliver of pride in his words, and Rickon’s earlier indignation instantly disappeared. Be it as a King of the North or a father, Jon Stark’s praise and approval were rarer than a blue moon, and just now, Rickon felt like he received the approval of both.

“It didn’t seem like any sorcery I know,” the crown prince said hesitantly.

“It’s an old, primal form of magic that cannot be easily replicated, for it’s born from authority, faith, fate, and symbolism. One day, I’ll teach you how to forge a crown of your own.” His father patted the empty place on the pale weirwood root beside him with his free hand. “Sit.”

Rickon, feeling like a young child again, hastily joined his father.

“You’ve grown,” he praised. “More than merely just size. I heard how you dealt with those slavers at Widow’s Watch.”

“It was merely fighting against fools who never crossed blades with real warriors,” Rickon muttered, trying to ignore the heat rushing to his ears.

“Fighting is easy, and while you did splendidly in it, I meant the way you dealt with the aftermath, including the freed slaves, most of whom were from across the Narrow Sea.” His sire sighed.

The memory of the fear in the eyes of children, men, and women was still fresh in his mind. Rootless folk who had lost their home and kin were not so easy to settle in the North as he had thought. Most without skills in craftsmanship would probably end up being farmhands, washerwomen, and maids. Those with no skills would doubtlessly become whores and even vagrants. Still, it was a better fate than a life in chains.

Rickon grimaced. “I thought you’d be angry that I threatened war on Myr in front of the Myrish envoy at Flint’s Watch. I thought you’d fly over and scold me for moons, yet you didn’t even show a word.”

“I saw no need to.” His father regarded him with his purple eyes. “And were you prepared to go through your threat?”

“…Yes. Their privateers landed on Northern land to track some of their recently escaped slaves who had fled to our shores, so I was in the right to put them to the sword. But you always said the North shouldn’t involve itself in war with others.”

“And such peace is achieved through strength of arms and power. After all, it’s very dangerous to pick a fight with someone bigger and stronger than you are, and this is just as true where kingdoms and cities are concerned. You were right not to bow your head or buckle under Myrish threats.”

His father gave him a rare smile. “If push had come to shove, I would have called the banners and razed Myr and everything it stood for to the ground myself. It is precisely because the Myrish knew this that they stopped with their pointless bluster. Hmm, enough of those dull matters. I see you have plenty of questions weighing on your mind. Ask away.”

It was true. Rickon had a thousand things he wanted to ask his father after experiencing a thousand and one things in his travels across the North. Despite what many claimed, Jon Stark was not merely a man of power and magic but of deep wisdom and knowledge.

The time of a king who loved his solitude was priceless, so Rickon couldn’t afford to saddle his father with meaningless trivialities or tedium. Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to ask the question that gnawed at his thoughts.

Instead, he motioned at the molten orb swirling in his father’s hand.

“What’s that, father?”

“Dragonstone,” was the amused reply. “Or at least my version of it.”

“The unbreakable rock that the Valyrian Roads were built with?”

“The very same.” His royal father nodded with approval. “Tell me, Rickon. Why do even the most powerful cities and kingdoms seldom build many roads?”

“Because even a hundred miles of roads are expensive to maintain, let alone thousands,” Rickon instantly replied. “Unless it’s between two trade hubs or an important quarry nearby, the cost of maintenance outweighs the profit of the increased ease of travel. The problem is even worse in the North, where the cycle of cold, sleet, and snow can prove devastating, and paved roads deteriorate faster, making them far more expensive to upkeep.”

His father nodded. “I am glad you have not neglected the other aspects of your studies. But scholars often miss the fact that roads can be used as lanes where food can flow and armies can move swiftly from one point to another.”

“But such needs could be amended with strong and well-garrisoned border fortifications,” the prince murmured. “Most of the Free Cities dabble with trade and seafaring instead, keeping their hinterlands close and tight, removing the necessity of such roads. Furthermore, dragons make the swift movement of armies obsolete, both for us and for the House of the Dragon back when the Seven Kingdoms had been one.”

“That is true,” his father acknowledged. Then the molten orb wiggled, transforming into a rectangular block and swiftly cooling into an unassuming slab of smooth white stone, which was handed to Rickon. “Here. Try breaking it.”

It was warm to the touch, a tad rougher than the texture suggested.

Rickon gripped it with both hands and pushed it upward with his thumbs in the middle. It did not budge. Which was particularly odd, considering Rickon was strong enough to bend a slab of castle-forged steel as thick as his forearm.

Huffing, he stood up and shuffled into a stance to put all of his strength into breaking the block of stone. Grunting and gritting his teeth, he roared, but it refused to budge. After half a minute, he had yet to succeed.

“It’s unbreakable, isn’t it?” Rickon groused, tossing the stone block back to his father. “You’ve managed to make it as good as Valyria’s fused stone.”

Contrary to what others believed, enchanting something unbreakable didn’t make it indestructible. Most such enchantments were tied to magic itself, but the limitation of the material could only hold so much magic at a time. If one exerted a sufficient measure of force enough to exhaust the enchantment and shatter the material in a single moment, it was possible to break the unbreakable. But what that sufficient measure of force was impossible to determine.

“Not quite the same,” was the dry reply. “For one, this one was not made with the sacrifice of slaves, merely out of magic. And it’s a nice white colour, not a grim shade of black. I’ve added a certain texture to it because polished roads are just as dangerous as they could be useful. It should be possible to add a further soft heat enchantment that will always melt snow off.”

“This…” Rickon’s mind was stunned at the possibilities. “This… this can change a lot.”

“Like?” His father asked encouragingly, like a scholar trying to guide his pupil.

“We can have roads,” the prince swept out a hand. “House Stark can make lasting roads and fortifications that never break or require maintenance. After the initial cost, the boon can be enjoyed in perpetuity! Is it easy to mould this fused stone, Father?”

“It requires a certain mastery of magic and fire,” the king explained. “It will take some time, but I will teach you.”

Rickon’s mind kept racing. “How far are you willing to go? How will this dragonstone be used?”

“I will connect the whole of the North, from the further reaches of the icy tundra to the Neck, with a singular road network centred around Winterfell.” His father’s eyes glowed with power. “These roads will become the lifeblood of my kingdom, throughout which trade will smoothly flow across to even the most remote corners of the North regardless of the weather.”

The king stood up, clenching his hand in a fist. “Believe me, son. In time, men shall say all roads lead to Winterfell. And Winterfell too, shall be remade from the ground up into a seat worthy of House Stark, the most powerful House in the world!”

His father… His father had ambition?!

The crown prince of the North just stood there stunned, with his mouth gaping open. His father had never shown any enthusiasm for matters of governance or ruling before. This was not to say Jon Stark was a neglectful king—he strictly adhered to his duties but did nothing further and oft delegated as many matters that irritated him to others.

“Of course, the endeavour would be a significant strain on House Stark’s wealth and require hundreds of thousands of workers to procure and transport the mixture of rock required,” his father continued solemnly. “It’s a project that will take decades to accomplish. Perhaps faster with your assistance, of course.”

“I will aid you, Father,” Rickon vowed earnestly, inspecting the block of fused stone in his hand closely. He could faintly feel the presence of magic inside, but the specifics evaded him.

“Are you certain? It will take countless hours and test the limits of your magic and patience.”

Was this another test or a genuine question? Did it even matter?

Rickon chuckled. “It is only proper. This kingdom will be mine in due time.”

“That it will,” his father agreed, his voice thick with amusement. “But I see there is something on your mind, and it is not knowledge of moulding dragonstone.”

“Am I so predictable?”

“A father can tell.”

Rickon felt equally frustrated and heartened by the attention, but as usual, his father was right. Shaking his head, he focused on the question that had left him many sleepless nights.

“Tomorrow I turn six and ten,” he began. “Tomorrow, I become a man grown in my own right in the eyes of gods and men. I want a dragon egg, Father. I want to be a dragonrider, just like you and Mother. It is my right as a Stark—”

“Is it?” His father interrupted, face unreadable. “Who gives you the right?”

“My lineage,” Rickon said, grimacing.

The King of the North snorted. “And who enforces that right, my son? Rights exist as far as your power to grasp or defend them with your own two hands. I am not opposed to giving you a dragon egg and telling you how to hatch it. But what happens when your brothers come to me once they come of age, asking for the same boon? Should I give Argella and Lyarra a dragon of their own when they come requesting their right as a Stark, too? Do you know why the Targaryens wed brother to sister?”

Rickon’s shoulders sagged.

“To keep dragons in the family, lest another House grows powerful enough to challenge them,” he said, the words burning on his tongue.

“Are you prepared to wed your sisters, boy? Are you prepared for your sons and daughters to sleep together and spit on the most basic sense of decency?” His father’s voice grew cold. “I can see in your eyes that such thoughts have never reached your mind. Even ignoring that, even if I decide to give all of my sons a dragon and deprive my daughters of the privilege to avoid a second house gaining dragons, are you sure your brothers will remain forever loyal to you?”

“They will,” Rickon retorted angrily. “They’re my brothers, my flesh and blood. Your sons.”

His father remained undaunted. “And what of their sons? Your nephews? Grandnephews? Will all of them remain loyal to the Stark name after mastering a dragon? What happens when there are dozens of dragonriders and only one crown, only one throne? What happens when an overproud king slights his dragonrider cousins one time too many? What caused the Dance of Dragons, my son?”

Rickon rubbed his face tiredly. “Two political factions with a claim to the throne, both having a dragon and a precedent on their side.”

“That’s right. As any father, I do not want my descendants to fight and kill each other,” the king said softly. “I know I cannot prevent the ambition that lives in the hearts of men or foresee the paths it will take. I know that nothing lasts forever, but I can try to avoid fostering that very clash for as long as possible.”

“That’s admirable, Father, but you’re obfuscating. You have yet to answer my question,” the prince said, feeling as bold as he was irritated, only to shrink under his father’s stern gaze.

“Because I have not yet come to a decision.” Jon Stark snorted coldly. “Why should I explain myself?”

“Because I would never be satisfied otherwise,” Rickon bit back heatedly. “I am no longer a boy that can be cowed with a glare or a stern word.”

His father merely glanced at him, and Rickon felt shivers run down his spine as he felt as if he was looking down Winter up close. Then, the tension suddenly bled away as the prince hastily bowed his head in apology. He had just been cowed with a single glare, much to his shame.

“I suppose you’re as stubborn as your father,” the king acknowledged lightly, as a hoarse, disbelieving chuckle rolled off Rickon’s lips.

“Listen well, my son, for I shall not repeat myself. House Stark has ruled the North unopposed for nearly six thousand years and has done so without any dragons. There had been years of struggle, weak kings and strong invaders, but House Stark has endured through it all, just like it has endured through the coldest of winters. Dragons make men weak and lazy. Arrogant and overproud, drunk on their self-importance and lacking in ambition and excellence. The dragonlords were disjointed from the very duty of the crown they so greedily claimed, and their dynasty broke within three short centuries.”

“So…no dragons?” Rickon asked numbly.

His father regarded him with amusement. “You look like a boy eager for his first hunt. Calm down, Rickon. The more I contemplate the matter, the more convinced I am that dragons are a poisoned gift to the lineage that has mastered them. I have not decided yet how to proceed, for this is a decision that cannot be taken back.”

“But father, you yourself have said that the power of the magic I wield has the potential to be greater than that of dragons!”

“And because of that, I have taught you far more than I have taught your brothers,” the king whispered, face pained. “It is the way of this world, where the eldest son receives everything. At least everything that would help him sit easily in his seat; this is true for the lowest of lords to even a royal house like us. If you’re truly that eager for a dragon, it would be for the better that only you, the next king, ought to master one—unless you’re daring enough to walk the crooked way of the Freehold. The same Freehold that had to heed the voice of each dragonlord, nearly crippling its ability to do anything beyond fall deeper and deeper into depravity.”

His face was pensive as he continued, “Perhaps… perhaps you can do it better, learn from their mistakes while taking only the very things that made the Valyrians so great.” A dark shadow passed through his face. “But to do so, you must shatter the crown of the North and share the secrets of magic I taught you and give your brothers a dragon egg each. Can you do that, my son? Can you let absolute power slip through your grasp, ending in the hands of those who were always your second?”

The prince felt ashamed at his own short-sightedness, then. While Rickon was lamenting his woes, his father peered far into the future.

“Did you and Mother have to give me so many siblings?” Rickon despaired at the challenges that awaited him. “This wouldn’t have been a problem if I had a single brother—”

“What is done is done,” his father barked out with more amusement than heat. Then, he stood up, stepping away, with one open palm forward in naked challenge. “Enough talking. Come at me with everything you have. Only the strong have the right to be insolent before the king.”

The crown prince stood up, his blood singing with joy at the challenge and arcs of lightning cracked from his fingers.

Rickon Stark left the godswood with far more questions than answers, a bruised ego and an equally bruised body. His father had manhandled him like an errant child without even drawing his sword or using his magic.

None can say for certain what gains the Breaker had gained in his venture into the Doom itself, but the resurgence of Valyrian steel jewellery and arms suggests he had reaped a significant harvest. His ability to replicate the unbreakable fused stone the dragonlords used only gave credence to these suspicions.

Many were eager to know what had happened, what he had seen or found in the smoking ruins of the Freehold, but the Dragon of the North was not a man who could be questioned or pressured. There’s only a single record of Jon Stark speaking of his exploration of the Doom, and the words were as grim as they were chilling.

“The Forty were burned by the fires of their own ambitions. The shadows cast by the Freehold are as long as they are dangerous even today, and those who venture into the Doom may do so at their own peril.”

Excerpt from ‘Cursed Places of the Known World’ by Maester Laryn