The White Knife, The North
The ship sailed through the waters of the White Knife. Inside his small cabin, Eddard Cailstark sat at his desk, studying the papers spread before him. The past year had been a whirlwind of activity. The Spring Festival had been celebrated across the North, the Northern Games had been organized, and the Free Folk had finally been brought south of the Wall.
Much had changed. The North was no longer the same quiet, distant land it had been years ago. The latest population survey, conducted on Aryan's orders by 'University', placed their numbers at nearly six million.
And the University was finally complete. Unlike the Citadel, which hoarded knowledge and guarded its secrets, the University was meant for spreading knowledge. Under the leadership of Grandmaester Marwyn, who divided his time between Winterfell and the University, the first batch of teachers and healers was already undergoing training. The Citadel had, of course, objected fiercely, petitioning the King to put an end to what they saw as an affront to their authority. But Aryan had foreseen this long ago. Ned had no doubt his nephew would deal with it in time.
The Free Folk's settlement had been one of the most challenging tasks of the past year, but it had been completed. Most of them had been given lands along the Western Coast, where the rivers and forests provided enough resources for them. The Thenns had been granted lordship over the Old Gift, ruling as one of the bannermen of Winterfell.
Reclaiming the Gift had required a royal decree, everyone was against it in the small council—even Jon Arryn—but Robert Baratheon had overruled his council, laughing off their concerns and signing the decree without hesitation. The New Gift had been divided among the northern lords whose lands bordered it.
For now, a regiment of the Northern Army which consists thousand men, remained stationed there to prevent any kind of unexpected violence. The Free Folk were warriors by nature, and while most had settled in peace, a few small skirmishes had broken out. Aryan had put them down brutally. He treated them like he treats bandits, they were all crucified. Since then, there had been no further trouble.
With all these matters handled, now the focus was shifted on Aryan's wedding—a grand affair that had already become the most anticipated event in the North. Lords and their families from every corner of the realm would be in attendance.
Ned was concerned about his nephew taking a bride from outside the North. He had expected some resistance from the Northern houses, grumblings about southern influence. But surprisingly, there had been none. The betrothal to Arianne Martell had been accepted with no protest. Perhaps the northern lords saw the wisdom in the match—Dorne's aid would secure the North's holding in disputed lands. Regardless of the reasons, the alliance was sealed, and the Martells would arrive within the week.
And so, here he was, journeying back to Winterfell with his entire brood, preparing for what would surely be a wedding to remember.
_____________________________________________________________________
That did not mean all was peaceful. Trouble was brewing in the Bite.
The pirates of 'The Three Sisters' had grown bold again. They were harassing merchant ships that sailed through those waters. Repeated requests to the Vale and King's Landing for action had gone unanswered. The Northern fleets had escorted some convoys, but it was not a permanent solution.
Aryan had made his decision—if no one else would deal with the threat, the North would handle it themselves.
Ned knew this course of action would strain relations with the Vale, or outright destroy them. Lord Jon Arryn and the other lords of the Vale would not take kindly to the North attacking their lands. But Aryan had made up his mind, and nothing could now save those pirates now.
_____________________________________________________________________
The creaking of the cabin door interrupted his thoughts.
"Are you not finished yet, Ned?" Catelyn entered, dressed in her sleepwear.
"Almost," he replied, setting the parchment aside. "Are the children asleep?"
"All of them," she said, then sighed. "Except Arya."
Ned sighed "What is it now?"
Catelyn huffed "It's your fault. You brought that Braavosi water dancer and started training her. She's on the deck right now, waving that wooden stick around."
Ned chuckled. "First of all, I didn't bring him. Second, let her train. At least she listens to you and the septa now."
"Just barely," Catelyn muttered.
"That's more than enough," Ned said, rising from his chair. "You cannot always force her. Sometimes we must find other ways."
Catelyn shook her head.
"Come," he said, taking her hand. "Let's go to bed."
Winterfell, The North
Ashara had arrived two month ago. Even after so many years, she could not help but marvel at the transformation of Winterfell.
The first time she had set foot here with her son, it had been a desolate place. A mighty castle, yes, but surrounded by only a small town. It lacked the grandeur of other great houses. Perhaps the Northerners did not believe in vanity, and Winterfell reflected that.
Still, she had wished that Winterfell, as the heart of the North, could be more than just a simple castle.
It seemed that her son had shared that vision. And the result was breathtaking.
Winterfell was no longer just a simple castle. The castle itself had been expanded, reinforced, and beautified. Now, beyond its walls, there was a sprawling city—markets, workshops, guilds, and homes stretched far beyond what had once been a tiny settlement.
What set Aryan apart from other lords was not just his ambition—it was how he shared his prosperity.
Unlike the lords of other kingdoms, Aryan had helped his vassals flourish. He had assisted all northern houses in establishing their own industries, using the resources available to them.
And the people respected him for that. Dare she say, they loved him for it. He had achieved the perfect balance of fear and respect.
In the North, wherever she went, Ashara had heard the same words—Bless Lord Stark. She had not seen this kind of loyalty anywhere else. The kind of loyalty Aryan commanded. Even when his actions were brutal, the North did not question him. They supported him.
Now she stood at the docks of Wintercity, waiting for the arrival of the next Lady of Winterfell.
Ashara and Arianne had grown close over time. Spending time with her in Dorne had helped form a bond between them, and Ashara was now certain—Arianne was ready. Ready to be the next Lady of Winterfell.
She had taught her all she could. The rest would come with time and experience.
Her son's voice jolted her from her thoughts.
"There is the ship" Aryan said.
She turned to see him. He was standing with his hands clasped behind his back. To others, he might look calm, but she knew her son better than anyone. His fingers were twitching. He was never one to lose control, even in the worst of situations.
But now? Now he was restless.
Ashara smiled to herself.
The entire extended Stark family, along with her own family, had gathered at the docks for the occasion.
The ship had docked. Servants rushed forward, setting down the planks. And then, one by one, the Martell family began to disembark—Doran, Mellario, Oberyn, Ellaria, Quentyn, Trystane, the Sand Snakes, and finally Arianne.
She had to hammer it into everyone's head that they must never treat Ellaria and the Sand Snakes as lesser than the rest.
She had sent new warm clothes of the North to everyone in Dorne who was coming to attend the wedding, which meant every Lord and Lady, and their family. And it looked like it was the right decision. No one was shivering.
Her gaze swept over the crowd before landing on Aryan.
And in that moment, there was no restlessness in Aryan.
For the first time, Ashara saw something new in her son's expression for anyone who was not a Stark.
A hint of warmth.
Ashara smiled again.
It looked like he and Arianne would at least be good friends. But she had a feeling that they would grow closer than that in the future.
Now, the only thing she didn't like was that she would have to see Tywin Lannister and Robert Baratheon. They are coming to blacken her son's wedding.
That was the part of the wedding she did not look forward to.
She could stomach Robert—barely—but Tywin? The man responsible for Elia's and Rhaenys' gruesome murder? She hates him as much as she hates Aerys Targaryen. And yet, she would have to smile and be civil.
No, this was Aryan's wedding, and for him, she would do anything.
But that did not mean she had to like it.
______________________________________________________________________
(This is how the wedding for those who follow the old gods is mentioned in AWOIAF)
Unlike most nights, the godswood of Winterfell was filled with quiet murmurs. The King, all the Lords and Ladies of the North and Dorne, and nobles from the other great houses stood in the godswood, talking among themselves.
Aryan Stark stood before the heart tree, waiting for his future wife.
He wore a high collared, long sleeved tunic of the finest black northern wool, trimmed with grey Myrish laces. The intricate embroidery of direwolf woven with silver thread. Over it, he wore a tailored black leather doublet, embossed with the Stark sigil. His fitted black leather trousers were supple and made for ease of movement, and his ankle high boots completed his attire.
Then, Arianne arrived.
She walked through the godswood, escorted by her uncle, Prince Oberyn, as Prince Doran could not walk.
Her gown was of deep crimson colour, sculpting to her curves before flowing into a long, trailing skirt. It was embroidered with intricate golden thread. A wide belt of delicate golden chains draped over her hips. The inside of her gown was lined with the softest fur. Her dark curls were half pinned back with golden clips, the rest flowing freely over her shoulders.
As they reached the heart tree, Oberyn's dark eyes met Aryan's, studying him for a moment before he spoke.
"I bring my niece, Princess Arianne of House Nymeros Martell, to be wed. Who claims her?"
Aryan met Arianne's gaze.
"I am Lord Aryan of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."
Oberyn turned to Arianne. "Do you accept this man as your husband?"
Arianne smirked slightly.
"I take this man."
Aryan took her hands in his, his fingers wrapping around hers as they turned together to face the heart tree. They knelt before it, heads bowed, and spoke their silent prayers.
Arianne had never prayed to the Old Gods. In truth, she had never been devout to any gods. And Aryan—well, she knew his views better than most. But now, kneeling in front of the ancient heart tree, she felt as if something was watching her.
Aryan had told her that everyone felt this way when they stood before the heart tree, because of the faces carved into the trees.
She did not understand it, but for this moment, she accepted it.
After a long silence, they rose.
Aryan stepped forward, his fingers brushing against the clasp of the maiden's cloak draped over her shoulders—Dornish orange and red, the golden sun and spear emblazoned across the back.
He undid the clasp and let it slip from her shoulders.
Then, he reached for another cloak—the cloak of House Stark. Grey direwolf on a white field. He settled it over her shoulders and fastened the clasp.
Now, she was not only a Martell.
Now, she was also a Stark.
Without a word, Aryan stepped forward and lifted her into his arms. Arianne did not resist—he had told her about this part of the ceremony. She smirked slightly, looping her arms around his shoulders.
He carried her from the godswood, and behind them, their families and guests followed toward the great hall for the feast.
______________________________________________________________________
The celebrations that accompanied the wedding had been nothing short of spectacular, dazzling the guests with sheer opulence. Lords and Ladies from the South had attended—Mace, Alerie, Wilas, Loras, Garlan, Leonette, and Margaery Tyrell; Robert and Renly Baratheon; Tywin, Kevan, and Dorna Lannister; Hoster, Edmure, and Brynden Tully; Jon, Lysa, and Robyn Arryn—representing the great houses of Westeros, along with several other Lords and Ladies. All the Lords and Ladies of the North and Dorne had gathered with their families.
More than a week had passed since the grand wedding, and the guests had departed—except Arianne's two handmaidens, Mellario, Nymeria and Tyene who have decided to stay in Winterfell for foreseeable future. Rest of the Martells were the last to leave yesterday. The celebrations were already a happy memory, and Winterfell was returning to normal.
He had fulfilled his promise and sent his gift to Oberyn. Now, it's his turn to fulfill the promise he made to his mother.
_______________________________________________________________________
Aryan was sitting in his solar, surrounded by stacks of letters and missives. The sheer volume of work was staggering. There were trade agreements to finalize, troop movements to oversee, and responses to be drafted for lords both within and beyond the North.
He rubbed his temple. It was nearing noon, and he had been at it since morning. The headache had already begun.
The door to his solar opened without a knock. There were only two people who had the right to do that. And with his mother occupied with Mellario, that left only one.
"You seem tired, Aryan," Arianne said as she stepped inside.
Aryan looked up and smiled faintly. She crossed the room and sat in the chair across from him.
"So this is your hideout," she mused looking around "The place where you plot and scheme."
"Among other things," he admitted.
After sometime Arianne asked curiously "What keeps you going, Aryan?" She asked "I've never seen another lord work like you. I haven't met him, but from what I hear, perhaps only Tywin Lannister comes close."
Aryan set down the letter he had been reading and exhaled. "Arianne, aside from my mother, no one has ever asked me that question." He met her gaze. "I won't lie and say I did it for the people of the North. I started with the intent of benefiting myself—it just so happened that the people benefited as well. An added bonus you can say."
He leaned back in his chair. "When I arrived here, the North was the second poorest kingdom. Only the Iron Islands were worse off. Despite our size, we had little influence in the realm's politics. Southern lords saw us as backward, and worse, they were right. We had no good infrastructure, no economy worth speaking of. We were strong martially, but what good is a strong arm when the rest of the body is starving? It disgusted me." His jaw clenched slightly "I swore that I would not die as the ruler of the second poorest kingdom. That I would not pass down the same legacy that I inherited. That, by whatever means necessary—by steel or by coin, by war or by trade—I would build something greater."
Aryan let out a dry chuckle. "The North I inherited was not as united as it is now. The old grudges between houses were festering. The Foresters and Whitehills resented each other, the Manderlys were looked down upon for their Southern ways, the mountain clans distrusted the lowlanders. The less I say about Bolton's the better. Even within my own family, there were cracks. My grandparents can't even raise their children properly. My father was impulsive. Before he met my mother, he was ruled by his vices rather than his duty. I doubt he learned the art of ruling. My uncle Ned is honorable to a fault—so much so that he would rather fall on his sword than compromise his morals, I have to literally order him. My Aunt Lyanna, for all her fire, was selfish enough to risk the fate of an entire kingdom for a love affair with a married man. Her brilliant plan was that her letter would reach grandfather in time. Irony is that she despised Robert because he already had a bastard. My uncle Benjen was so burdened by guilt due to his involvement in Aunt Lyanna's elopement, that he was ready to throw away his life at the Night's Watch, he was going to do this just after the rebellion was over." He exhaled slowly "If I had not worked, then the North would have still remained weak."
Arianne listened in silence as he continued. "Now, I can't stop working, because there are so few people I can trust. And some of those I do trust simply aren't suited for this work. They can't stomach the things that must be done. The number of people I trust who are also capable of handling this… I can count them on my fingers and still have some left over." His voice dropped slightly. "And then there's the burden of keeping my family safe."
Arianne watched him for a moment, then stood and circled the desk, coming to sit on his lap. She wrapped her arms around him, and hugged him.
"Now, you have me too, Aryan," she murmured. "I don't have much experience yet. But I will do my best to be there for you and share some of this burden. Give me something to do, and we'll move forward together." She pressed a soft kiss on his jaw.
Aryan let his hands rest on her waist, feeling the warmth of her body against his. Just as he was about to give her some letters to write...
A sudden knock at the door interrupted him.
"Duty calls, my lady," he said, voice laced with amusement.
Arianne pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, a smirk playing on her lips. "I will be eagerly waiting for you in our chambers." She stood up "You better not be late."
She turned, swaying her hips as she left the room. Aryan watched her go, a shiver running down his spine.
Aryan collected his wits as Ser Rodrik entered, followed closely by Marwyn. Both men looked grim, which immediately set him on edge.
"What happened?" Aryan asked "Why do I feel I'm not going to like this news?"
Marwyn stepped forward, placing several sealed letters on the desk. "Messages from White Harbor and Ramsgate, my lord. The pirates have grown bold. Not only did they manage to sink two of our ships, but they also attempted to raid Ramsgate."
Aryan asked "And?"
"We repelled them with ease," Marwyn continued, "but the fact that they dared to strike at our shores at all is troubling."
Ser Rodrik nodded. "They believe we will ignore this, as we have in the past. They think the Vale will protect them, that the North will not dare to act."
Aryan leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. "Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus."
Rodrik frowned. "Pardon me, my lord?"
Marwyn merely raised an eyebrow.
"A saying I heard in Essos," Aryan explained. "It means—never tickle a sleeping dragon. And that is precisely what they are doing." His expression darkened. "We cannot wait any longer. I've had enough."
He left no room for debate.
"Send word to White Harbor and Wolfbay. I want a hundred ships ready from each of them. Inform Lord William Dustin to prepare the troops for war. He and my uncle Ned will lead the attack."
Marwyn inclined his head and departed to see it done.
Rodrik hesitated. "And you, my lord? Will you not lead the attack?"
Aryan shook his head. "No. I will sit this one out and prepare to face the consequences. No doubt the South will be in an uproar, demanding answers."
The master-at-arms gave a nod before taking his leave.
Aryan picked up a fresh parchment and dipped his quill into ink.
Jon Arryn
Lord of the Eyrie
Warden of the East
Hand of the King
I am afraid this letter brings you grave tidings. Despite of repeated requests and reminders about pirate activities from the Three Sisters you had taken no action to address this issue. We had waited patiently for your involvement but you did not do anything, neither as the Hand of the King nor as the Warden of the East, while we were attacked repeatedly again and again. We abstained from doing anything for all these years because of the good relation between our two Kingdoms, since the time our my grandfather Lord Rickard Stark. But no more. The pirates have now grown bold enough to attack our lands. So with deep regret I am informing you that the next attack will result in a very decisive response from us. Perhaps by the time this message reaches you we already would have made our move.
Aryan Stark
Lord of Winterfell
Warden of the North
Aryan sighed as he rolled the parchment and applied the seal. No doubt the relation between the two Kingdoms will deteriorate after this. But it had to be done.
Highgarden, Reach
She had just returned from a full court. The Lords of the Reach had concluded one of their rare assemblies—one where all lords, whether great or small, had gathered. As expected, the primary agenda had been the same tiresome issue: forcing the North to buy food at higher prices.
The deal she had made with Aryan Stark had upset them greatly. They had only managed to sell food grains at a marginal profit, far below their expectations, and had been forced to reduce the production of fruits and vegetables—the very produce that had made the Reach famous. With demand dwindling, vast tracts of land now lay unutilized, and unemployment among farmers was rising.
And then there was Starfall.
It looks like Lord Dayne took inspiration from his nephew, and developed a little port recently, and to her growing irritation, it had begun indulging in trade. Worse, a few Reach lords near the Dornish Marches had already started trading with them. Starfall was slowly gaining wealth and influence. Olenna Tyrell understood the dangers of that well enough—should war come, a powerful Starfall could pose serious problems for the Reach. And unlike the Reach, there was no discontentment in Dornish lords and ladies, that she could expoilt during the times of war.
She kept these thoughts to herself as she was escorted to her chambers. There, she waited for her grandchildren. Olenna had heard news from her sources in the North, but in recent years, she had learned not to trust them entirely. Not when the Lord Stark was proving to be so unpredictable.
Just as she finished the last sip of her wine, the doors opened, and Wilas and Margaery entered.
"Grandmother," Margaery greeted her warmly, stepping forward to kiss her cheeks, while Wilas offered a polite smile and took a seat nearby.
Olenna studied them both.
Margaery had blossomed over the years. No longer a little girl, she had grown into a beauty—soft curves, almond shaped eyes, and thick brown hair. Her teats and hips had developed well enough to hint at her ability to bear children—an essential trait for the wife of a king.
And then there was Wilas.
No longer was he a lame boy. As promised, he had been healed in Winterfell. His limp remained, but time would mend that. More importantly, he could walk without any difficulty. That was more than enough. Garlan had already begun training him in swordplay, and Olenna was pleased to see the bond between the brothers is strong. The Reach would need that unity.
Mace, of course, was already against the North—understandable, given that the prevailing conditions were harming the Reach's economy. Wilas, however, was different. He had a good relationship with the Starks. He might even oppose any action against them.
And that was Olenna's gamble.
To play both sides.
With Mace backing the current regime and Wilas maintaining strong ties with the North, the Tyrells would be positioned to align with whichever side emerged victorious. Grow Strong. That was their motto, and she intended to see it fulfilled. Tensions in Westeros were increasing. Conflict was inevitable. And she would be damned if the Tyrells found themselves on the losing end.
But for now, she kept those thoughts to herself.
Instead, she gave her grandchildren a rare, genuine smile and asked, "How was the wedding?"
"It was grand, I must say," Wilas replied. "Something unexpected from the North. From what we had heard, I assumed it would be a simple affair. But what we witnessed, looked like a royal wedding."
Olenna arched an eyebrow. "Is that so?" then she added, "The Starks are no longer poor, dear. They can afford extravagance now, without the fear of going hungry."
"Perhaps you are right," Wilas admitted. "But it was a good wedding. It was interesting to witness a ceremony of the Old Gods. While the rite itself was very simple, the celebrations were enormous. The entire North and Dorne had come to attend, along with the King and other nobles of the realm."
"Of course they would," Olenna mused. "Everyone would wish to witness the Lord and new Lady of Winterfell." She turned to Margaery. "And what of the new Lady Stark? Is she as beautiful as they say?"
"Oh, Grandmother," Margaery gushed "Lady Arianne is breathtaking. She carries herself with such confidence. A woman grown."
Wilas nodded in agreement. "She is an exotic beauty, Grandmother. The Dornish lords were not exaggerating when they sang her praises."
Olenna smiled at that.
"Now, Wilas," she said smoothly, "why don't you go to your brother and resume your lessons?"
Wilas understood the polite dismissal and did not protest. Rising, he gave his grandmother a respectful nod and left the room.
Once they were alone, Olenna turned her attention to Margaery.
Her granddaughter was born to be queen.
Much like Tywin Lannister, it was Olenna's ambition to see her bloodline upon the Iron Throne. And she would do whatever it took to make that happen.
"It is time you learned the finer points of the game of thrones, my dear," Olenna said.
Tower of the Hand, Kingslanding
Jon Arryn sighed as he finished signing yet another royal decree. The weight of ruling the realm had long since fallen on his shoulders. As the years passed, Robert had all but abandoned his duties as king. Unless it involved war or the Targaryens in Essos, he rarely attended Small Council meetings, leaving Jon to manage the realm in his stead.
The kingdom was already drowning in debt. Each member of the Small Council had their own agendas, pulling in different directions. And then, of course, there was Cersei—a constant source of irritation. The Seven Kingdoms were riddled with problems, each growing worse with time.
And the North...
The rise of the North as a powerful, rich, and self sufficient kingdom was affecting the rest of Westeros in many ways. The economy was shifting, and not in a way favorable to the Crown. While the realm had once relied on the gold of the Lannisters, the newfound economic power of the North had thrown everything into imbalance. The Reach and the Riverlands were struggling with unutilized land, their once-thriving agricultural dominance was weakening.
Then there was the issue of migration. Word had spread of better living conditions in the North, leading to a slow but steady trickle of people abandoning their homes for a chance at a better life under the Starks. This had alarmed many lords, who were now facing a shortage of skilled craftsmen and essential workers.
And, of course, there was the Faith.
Not a week passed without a meeting with the High Septon, who constantly urged him to act. The massacre at the Sept of Baelor had caused an uproar. Robert had been furious upon hearing of the event, and Jon had been forced to intervene before the king's rage led to the High Septon meeting the wrong end of a warhammer.
But these were not the only concerns weighing on him.
His heir, Robyn, was another matter of deep concern. The boy was sickly, frail even at seven name days, and still clung to his mother's teats. Jon had tried—several times—to arrange for his fostering, believing it crucial for his son's development, but each time Lysa had thrown a tantrum, and he had been forced to relent. He feared for the future of House Arryn.
And then there was the Vale.
His prolonged absence from the region had not gone unnoticed. Discontentment was growing among his vassals. His control over the Three Sisters had always been tenuous at best, and now he was beginning to feel its full effect. The North had sent repeated messages regarding the increasing piracy operations from the islands, but he had not acted. Instead, he had assigned the matter to Petyr Baelish, who had later assured him that it was merely exaggerated Northern complaints—nothing more than opportunistic raiders, easily contained by the Northern navy.
Petyr had his misgivings, but he had heeded Jon trust him.
Even reports of a pirate attack on Ramsgate had been ignored. There were simply too many pressing matters demanding his attention—especially now, with the unsettling information he had uncovered about Robert's children.
His thoughts were interrupted as Grand Maester Pycelle entered the chamber.
Jon frowned. Pycelle rarely left his chambers these days, choosing instead to conduct his duties from the confines of his quarters in the Red Keep. For the old man to come in person meant the matter must be urgent.
"How may I help you, Grand Maester?" Jon asked, setting down his quill.
"Lord Hand, a letter for you" Pycelle said, handing him a sealed message.
Jon immediately recognized the direwolf sigil pressed into the wax.
A message from Winterfell.
Breaking the seal, he read its contents.
His breath hitched.
A headache flared instantly, followed by a sinking feeling of dread.
"Summon the Small Council, Grand Maester," Jon said "These are grave tidings."
The Three Sisters, Vale
The Three Sisters were within the dominion of the Vale of Arryn and ruled by House Sunderland. Houses Borrell of Sweetsister, Longthorpe of Longsister, and Torrent of Littlesister were sworn to the Sunderlands. In turn, the Three Sisters owed their fealty to House Arryn of the Vale—but the Eyrie's grasp on the islands had always been tenuous at best.
The Sistermen had long been known for their dubious reputation. Some were infamous for using false lights to lure ships into wrecks and pillaging the cargo. Two thousand years ago, the North had conquered the islands in a brutal invasion known as the 'Rape of the Three Sisters'. Eventually, the Sistermen bent the knee to the Eyrie to rid themselves of the North's control.
For a thousand years, Kings of House Arryn and Kings of House Stark had fought over the Three Sisters in what became known as the War Across the Water.
Greed was a powerful motivator. It made men do foolish things. Kingdoms had fallen because of one man's greed—what more could be said when a group of greedy men worked together?
Donald Sunderland was barely twenty when he met a stranger over drinks. He was the son of Lord Sunderland's younger brother, a man with no real future prospects. His uncle had three healthy sons to secure the lineage, leaving Donald little more than a name. But the stranger had made him an offer—an enticing one.
He would make Donald the next Lord Sunderland.
In return, Donald had to fulfill certain… endeavors.
At first, Donald brushed off the man's words, but the more he thought about it, the more it consumed him. Days later, he sought out the stranger at the inn where they first met and agreed to the deal.
Within a moon's turn, Lord Sunderland, his brother, and his three sons all perished when their boat sank en route to Littlesister. Donald found himself Lord of the Three Sisters within the week.
Then the stranger returned.
He instructed Donald to create trouble in the Bite, to disrupt the trade flowing into the North. Surprisingly, Lords Borrell, Longthorpe, and Torrent shared a similar mindset. The stranger supplied them with funds, and over the years, they harassed merchant ships, striking under the cover of night. The Northern navy patrolled the waters, but they could not be everywhere at once. And the stranger had assured them—there would be no retaliation. The North and the Vale were on good terms, after all.
But then, a month ago, drunk on wine and arrogance, they had decided it was time for something bigger.
And so, they attacked Ramsgate.
It had been a mistake.
The assault was repelled, but as weeks passed with no retaliation, they began making plans for another strike.
____________________________________________________________________
The attack came silent and swift.
No war cries. No battle horns.
Highly trained Northern forces moved like shadows, cutting down everything in their path as they advanced toward the keeps on all three islands. The rest of the troops followed, methodically taking control of key positions while infiltrators slipped through the walls, eliminating guards with quiet efficiency.
The keeps of Houses Sunderland, Longthorpe, and Torrent fell without resistance. But the Borrells' men were more vigilant. They raised the alarm—but in the end, it did not matter.
The Northerners had already positioned themselves strategically. Reinforcements were cut down before they could rally. Once they saw the sheer size of the enemy force, the rest of the Sistermen surrendered without a fight.
Donald Sunderland was oblivious to it all.
He was deep in slumber, his head heavy from a night of drink and debauchery. As Lord Sunderland, he indulged in whatever pleasures he desired.
He barely stirred when he felt someone shaking him.
"Go away," he mumbled, half asleep.
"I don't think so."
The voice was unfamiliar.
Blinking, Donald opened his eyes and squinted at the figure standing over him.
A young man, no older than maybe sixteen, with red brown hair and blue eyes, gazed at him with an amused smirk.
"Who the fuck are you?" Donald slurred.
"Language, my lord. You'd do well to lower your voice—for your own sake."
"Bastard!" Donald roared, lunging at him.
The boy moved swiftly, delivering a sharp kick to Donald's chest, sending him sprawling back onto the bed.
Before he could react, two soldiers entered the room, grabbing him roughly and hauling him to his feet. It was only then that he noticed the bloodstains. The corpses of his own guards lay strewn across the floor.
His gaze flickered to the soldiers restraining him. His stomach dropped when he saw the direwolf sigil on their armor.
The Northerners.
They weren't supposed to retaliate. He had been assured.
The words slipped from his lips before he could stop them. "The Northerners… you weren't supposed to attack… He assured us—"
The young man with blue eyes asked "What did you say?"
Donald clamped his mouth shut, realizing his mistake.
Another group of soldiers entered, led by a man who carried himself like a lord. He addressed the younger man. "How did it go, Robb?"
Robb smirked. "As expected. There wasn't much resistance, Lord Dustin. Do we have news from the other islands?"
Lord Dustin nodded. "Other than a feeble attempt from the Borrells, everything is under control." His eyes settled on Donald. "And this is Lord Donald Sunderland?"
"Yes, my lord," Robb confirmed. "And I believe he has some important information—if asked the right way."
Donald paled.
Lord Dustin raised a brow. "If you're willing to do the honors yourself, I see no reason to stop you. Take him to the ship and get everything out of him. I will secure the rest of the island."
Robb grinned as he turned, the guards dragging a struggling Donald behind him.
Wintercity, The North
(The day the rest of the Martells left Winterfell)
As soon as Prince Oberyn Martell opened the doors to his cabin, he saw a woman with dark hair sitting calmly on his bed, watching him.
"Prince Oberyn Martell," she said.
Oberyn tensed. "Who are you?"
She smiled. "No one."
"No one?" he echoed. "You must be someone. And what are you doing here? How did you get in?"
"This one has no name. So this one is no one," she said simply. "The Bloody Wolf has fulfilled his promise. Now, it's your turn to fulfill yours." She gestured toward two large metal boxes he hadn't noticed before.
He hesitated for only a moment before stepping toward the boxes. He felt an urge to open them but forced himself to look back at the woman first. "Are you a Faceless one?"
She only pointed again. "Open it."
Slowly, Oberyn unlatched the boxes. The first contained a bound and gagged Amory Lorch, his eyes bulging with terror as he recognized the Red Viper. The second held Gregor Clegane—unconscious, but his limbs had been severed below the elbows and knees. He would have preferred him whole, but this was also enough. A potion sat beside him. The antidote, Oberyn presumed.
For a moment, he simply stared, unable to believe what he was seeing. He had dreamed of it for years, but this? This was a gift beyond his expectations.
He turned back to the woman—only to find the cabin door shut and her gone, as if she had never been there at all.
"Where did she go?" Ellaria murmured, glancing around.
Oberyn exhaled sharply. "Leave it." She spoke like a Faceless one. But they only deliver the gift. He dismissed the thought, more focused on the men before him.
"How long have I been waiting for this." Oberyn said. "My brother and the gods did not listen to me. But somebody did."
He knelt beside Amory and ripped the gag from his mouth. The man coughed and gasped before pleading, "Please—please spare me! Lord Tywin will reward you, I swear it! Gold, as much as you want!"
Oberyn laughed, low and cold. "I am not going to kill you, Amory. Not yet. But you will wish I had." He leaned in, his voice turning to a whisper. "As for Tywin's gold—they say he shits it. Let him eat his own gold so that he can shit it again."
He shoved the gag back into Amory's mouth, ignoring the muffled cries.
For the first time in years, he felt the weight of his sister's murder begin to lift. He only had to wait a few weeks more. After that, he will have his revenge.