[Winterfell — Rickard Stark — 278 AC]
The solar at Winterfell was warm, but the hearth was not enough to drive away the weight on Rickard Stark's shoulders. Seated behind the heavy oak table, he looked over the pile of missives. Across from him, Maester Luwin kept his hands folded inside the sleeves of his grey robes.
"The works at Sea Dragon Point are progressing quickly, my lord," said Luwin. He uncrossed his thin hands only to adjust the chain of many metals at his neck, his mild voice echoing softly against the warm stone. "The reports indicate the shipyard has completed yet another vessel for the new fleet." Luwin allowed himself a small smile of admiration. "And I must admit, my lord, the engineering plans and schematics young Arthur left before his departure have been vital. The foundations and drainage systems are more advanced than anything I studied at the Citadel."
The maester inclined his head slightly. "The same holds for Moat Cailin. The reconstruction was an absolute success and the works are entirely complete. Arnolf Karstark has settled in perfectly as castellan. He keeps the fortress and the new garrison running with remarkable efficiency, operating everything according to the exact and rigorous directives your son laid out."
"Excellent." Rickard nodded, a brief spark of satisfaction crossing his eyes, before picking up the next parchment from the pile.
The wax seal bore the horse head of House Ryswell. He already knew something about Brandon was coming.
He broke the seal and read. Rodrik Ryswell wrote of his daughter Barbrey's relationship with Brandon, which was growing quickly in intensity. Between the lines and in the plainer words, Rodrik openly suggested a marriage between the two.
Rickard finished reading, set the letter aside on the table and raised his heavy hand to his face. He massaged his temple and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply and exhaling through his mouth with clear irritation.
"Damned wolf's blood..." Rickard muttered, his voice coming out rough and tired. He rubbed his eyelids, feeling a headache beginning to form. "How many headaches are my children going to cause me."
He lowered his hand and looked at the maester, the hard grey implacability of Winterfell returning to his eyes.
"Please, Maester Luwin." Rickard set his elbows on the table and laced his thick fingers together. "Reply to Rodrik Ryswell and tell him we will give the matter thought. And send a letter to Brandon." He knocked his knuckles against the wood, punctuating the order with a dry tap. "Tell him to stop causing me problems. However unofficial things may be, he is already promised to Hoster Tully's daughter."
Luwin nodded slowly in understanding, asked leave with a polite bow and left the solar, his soft steps fading down the corridor.
Alone, Rickard leaned back in the oak chair. He exhaled deeply, watching the crackle of the fire, and thought:
'Come back soon, Arthur. I need you to keep your brothers in line, or I will go mad.'
Suddenly, a sharp sound of claws scratching at the window's wood pulled him from his thoughts. Rickard rose, the chair scraping loudly against the stone, and walked to the window ledge.
Outside, perched on the sill beneath a thin layer of snow, sat a raven. But it was no common bird, not one of those raised in a maester's rookery. Its eyes were entirely white, like two pools of murky milk, staring at the Lord of Winterfell with an unnatural intelligence that bordered on human. In its dark, sharp beak, the bird held a small black scroll, firmly sealed.
The moment Rickard extended his calloused hand and took the letter from the raven's beak, the bird let out a low, guttural croak. It beat its dark wings, scattering the snow from the ledge, and took flight, disappearing quickly into the grey and clouded winter sky.
Rickard closed the heavy wooden shutters against the biting wind, latched the iron clasp and turned the letter over in his hands, examining the wax seal.
It was a black hand, with an open eye pressed into the center of the palm.
He did not need to open it immediately to know what it contained. These were Eldric's messages. Arthur's silent and lethal spymaster kept him relentlessly informed of every whisper, troop movement or conspiracy that stirred in the North. And by the recent reports, Eldric's network was no longer confined to the Northern lords; it had already begun to expand south through the Neck, infiltrating the other kingdoms with a frightening speed and a ghostly efficiency.
Rickard ran his rough thumb over the wax seal. The weight of responsibility and Brandon's headaches seemed to ease for a moment. Looking at the scale of the invisible empire his son had built in the shadows, the always severe and stony face of the Lord of Winterfell softened.
A rare smile, proud and dangerous, curved the corners of his lips beneath his beard. The North was finally ceasing to be blind.
[The Red Keep — Rhaegar Targaryen — 278 AC]
Rhaegar walked the corridors of the Red Keep with Arthur Dayne at his side. The two were talking about the training session they had just finished in the yard.
"Your skills are progressing quickly, my prince," said Arthur, rolling his slightly aching shoulder beneath the white armour. A proud, sidelong smile came to his face as he looked at Rhaegar. "In a few years, you might even manage to defeat me."
Rhaegar let out a quiet laugh and shook his head. He knew his friend was joking, but he appreciated the sincere compliment. They reached the heavy door of the Small Council chamber. Arthur stopped, assuming the rigid posture of a guard with his hand near his sword, and Rhaegar entered.
When Rhaegar stepped through the door, all the Council members were already seated at the table. Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King. Varys, the Master of Whisperers. Grand Maester Pycelle. Lucerys Velaryon, Master of Ships. Qarlton Chelsted, Master of Coin. Steffon Baratheon, Master of Laws. And Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
At the head of the table, King Aerys II Targaryen watched them. The monarch slumped in his chair like a spectre. The platinum hair, once the pride of his lineage, now fell in thin, long, filthy strands over his bony shoulders, tangled in knots that had not seen a brush in months. The unkempt beard hid a skeletal, sunken face.
When they saw the prince enter, the Council members bowed their heads, all except Aerys.
"My prince," they said in unison.
Rhaegar acknowledged them with a polite nod and apologised for the delay, explaining he had been training.
"You have finally arrived, Rhaegar." Aerys scratched his pale neck with yellowed, twisted nails, long as dirty claws, picking at the crust of a small wound. His purple eyes, deep-set and protruding, burned with a feverish impatience. "Do not keep me waiting again. Come." He gestured with a trembling hand toward the empty chair, the grime beneath his nails plain in the candlelight. "We were discussing candidates for your future bride."
Rhaegar nodded and took his seat. The meeting continued, and various names were put forward by the lords. But all were dismissed by Aerys with contempt, waving his hand through the air and huffing as though these people were worth no more than the dust beneath his boots.
It was then that Tywin Lannister straightened in his chair, his face carved in inflexible stone. He fixed his green eyes directly on the king, his voice perfectly controlled and precise.
"Then do not make him wait any longer. My daughter, Cersei Lannister, is of suitable age. Of ancient lineage." Tywin paused slightly, weighing each word without blinking. "Beautiful. Educated for court."
Aerys's eyes moved slowly toward the Hand of the King, narrowing.
"Ah, yes. Your daughter." Aerys pulled back his cracked lips, the word leaving his mouth as though it had a taste of gall. He tilted his head, his dirty hair falling over his sickly face, watching Tywin with a mixture of revulsion and paranoia. "They say she is… impressive."
Tywin did not answer, holding his gaze steady. The king reclined.
"You have always been an ambitious man, Tywin."
"I am a man who serves the realm," the Hand replied, unmoved.
"You serve yourself," Aerys corrected, almost in an accusatory whisper. His gaze moved through the room, unstable, gauging who might stand beside the lion. "Lions want to sit atop everything."
Tywin remained motionless, only his measured breathing indicating he was alive. "My daughter would bring honour to the crown."
Aerys let out a low, rasping laugh. "Honour?" His hand gripped the arm of the chair with force, the knuckles of his thin fingers going white beneath the mottled skin. "I have honour enough." He leaned forward, his fragile body tensing. "No. My son will wed someone superior. Not the daughter of a servant."
The knuckles of Tywin's hands went white beneath the table, his jaw locking for a fraction of a second, but his expression betrayed nothing. He inclined his head slowly. The Council chamber sank into absolute silence. Rhaegar sat rigid; he knew that humiliating Tywin Lannister in that way, before everyone, would bring nothing good. After the Defiance of Duskendale, Aerys's relationship with his Hand had been crumbling into suspicion, and the king's refusal to allow any blade near him made his madness visible even in his own neglected body.
It was Aerys who broke the silence, his voice tearing through the room.
"I want someone with true Valyrian blood," the king demanded, striking the table.
Varys inclined his head slightly, a bland and perfumed smile on his face, his soft hands hidden inside his wide silk sleeves.
"If I may, Your Grace…" The tone was gentle, sweet as poisoned honey. "At this moment, there is no young woman of Valyrian lineage in Westeros who could be considered suitable for such a union. Even among House Velaryon, whose blood still carries traces of ancient Valyria, there has been no recent birth of a maiden of appropriate age." Varys raised his gaze, his dark eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "If Your Grace wishes to preserve the purity of the dragon's blood… then I fear the answer does not lie on this side of the Narrow Sea."
The eunuch's head inclined a little further, as though in a small prayer.
"In Essos, however… there are still ancient lineages, forgotten or dispersed, that may better meet Your Grace's elevated standards. If Your Grace seeks blood truly close to that of Valyria… then I would suggest we turn our eyes toward Volantis." Varys joined his hands before his chest. "The Old Families of Volantis still take pride in their descent from the dragonlords. Among them, it is possible to find maidens of more… fitting lineage than any available in Westeros."
Aerys did not respond immediately. His thin fingers with their grotesque nails continued to tap the arm of his chair in a rhythmic pattern. His gaze became distant, glassy.
"Volantis…" he repeated, almost to himself.
He tilted his head slightly to one side, a thin and unsettling smile forming slowly, revealing teeth stained with rot.
"Yes… there are still those who remember what we were." The voice returned stronger, bordering on fanaticism. "Better than these pale imitations that infest Westeros." The king raised a trembling finger toward the ceiling. "If there is worthy blood… we will bring it here. We need someone who represents the crown. Someone of name… someone who will not shame my son."
Aerys's bulging, bloodshot eyes settled on Steffon Baratheon. A faint, sickly smile appeared.
"My cousin." The word came out laden with false warmth. "You will go." The order came simple, without room for refusal. "You will cross the Narrow Sea, go to Volantis…" Aerys pointed at Steffon, his enormous dirty fingernail trembling in the air toward him. "And you will find a bride worthy of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen." Aerys's hand seized the arm of the chair with sudden fury. "Do not bring me failure, Steffon."
Steffon Baratheon did not hesitate. He rose from his chair in a fluid motion, his broad chest filling, his posture firm and his voice direct.
"As you wish, Your Grace." Steffon inclined his head, keeping his eyes respectfully on the king. "I will cross the Narrow Sea and do whatever is necessary to honour your trust… and find a bride worthy of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. I will return with what Your Grace seeks."
[The Eyrie — Eddard Stark — 278 AC]
The Eyrie rose like a lance of white marble driven into the sky of the Vale, a monument to the arrogance and security that only height could provide. In the High Hall of the Arryns, the world below seemed nothing more than a poorly woven tapestry, distant and irrelevant.
Robert Baratheon leaned against the low wall of a balcony that opened directly onto the abyss, a metal cup in his hand and the wind lashing at his yellow velvet cloak. He looked at Ned and let out a loud laugh that the wind seemed to carry away before it had finished, spilling a little ale on the floor.
"The North must be a desolate place, Ned!" Robert exclaimed, pointing his cup at the thin air. "If here the air already burns in the lungs like frozen fire," he beat his broad chest with a fist, "I can only imagine how you lot don't turn into ice statues the moment you get out of bed in Winterfell."
Ned moved to the edge with the calm of someone born with winter in their veins. For any other man, that cold would have been a punishment, but for a Stark, the air of the Vale was almost tepid, without the weight and force of the snowstorms of home.
"The cold of Winterfell smells of earth and ancient stone, Robert." Ned clasped his hands behind his back, his melancholy gaze fixed on the distant snowy peaks. "Here the air is too clean," he breathed in slowly, "almost sterile."
'It is a place of isolation, not of life,' Ned thought, watching the marble columns gleam like bone beneath the pale light.
"Patience and hot springs." Robert drained the rest of his cup in one long swallow and wiped the foam from his beard with the back of his thick hand, letting out a satisfied sigh. "That is why you are so calm. You need more blood in your veins, Ned!" He leaned toward his friend, a hungry gleam taking over his face. "But tell me again about that sister of yours. The one who rides as though she was born on the back of a stallion."
Ned felt a pang of homesickness, a small smile coming to him at the memory of Lyanna's laughter. "Lyanna does not merely ride, Robert. She runs like the wind. My father says she has more of the wolf's blood than any of us. She prefers the feel of a training sword's steel to the touch of silk." He looked at Robert. "If a septa tries to teach her embroidery, she finds a way to turn the needle into a weapon."
Robert struck the low wall with a heavy fist, the stone trembling under the impact, his blue eyes blazing with an intensity Ned knew well. "A she-wolf! That is exactly what I need, Ned. I hate these Southern court ladies." He made a face of disgust. "They are made of sugar and etiquette, they shatter if a man speaks too loudly and they smell of dried flowers. But this Lyanna... she sounds like she is made of iron and frost."
"She is not a creature that accepts reins, Robert," Ned warned, frowning, his voice carrying a caution his friend rarely heard from him.
"All the better! I do not want a porcelain wife to decorate my hall at Storm's End." Robert gestured broadly in the air. "I want a companion who knows what a hunt is." He turned to Ned suddenly, seizing his shoulder with a force that nearly knocked him off balance. "Ned, I have had a thought. If I were to marry her, we would be true brothers. Not only because we were raised together by old Jon, but by blood. The Lord of Storm's End and the Wolf of Winterfell, joined by lineage."
Ned forced a smile, dropping his gaze to the abyss, the idea of Lyanna bound to Robert's tempestuous whims leaving him uneasy. "You would have a great deal of work keeping up with her. But if you think Lyanna is the untamed side of my house, it is because you have not paid attention to the true North." Ned turned back to meet his friend's eyes. "You have never met Arthur."
Robert arched an eyebrow and let out a dismissive laugh that sent drops of ale onto the marble. "Your bastard brother?" The Baratheon crossed his arms, his chest puffed in mockery. "That silver-haired Snow who stays hidden away in Winterfell? What does a bastard have to do with your she-wolf of a sister?"
Ned stopped.
The silence that followed made the howl of the wind seem mild. Ned's expression hardened, his grey eyes turning to frozen stone.
"My brother," Ned began. He took a step toward Robert, his voice dangerously low and absolutely firm, the relaxed posture gone entirely. "However much he does not carry my name, he is of my blood, Robert. He is the embodiment of the ancient Kings of Winter. I would be very careful about the way you speak of him."
Robert blinked, uncrossing his arms, surprised by the sudden severity of the friend who had always been so contained. "Easy, Ned, I only meant..."
"He does not care about titles," Ned cut in, implacable, his chin raised, the loyalty of a pack overflowing in every word. "He does not care whether you are a commoner, a crowned prince or the Supreme Lord of the Stormlands. If you cross his path while disrespecting what is ours, he will not see your crown or your war hammer." Ned pointed a finger at Robert's chest. "He is winter itself, Robert. And winter spares no one."
Robert was silent for a long moment, absorbing the warning. The mockery drained from his eyes, replaced slowly by a gleam of wild fascination. A predatory smile split his face beneath his thick beard.
"A bastard with the fury of the First Men," Robert murmured, licking his lips. "By the gods, Ned. I can hardly wait to meet the whole of the North."