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Chapter Text

Author's Note

This work is my own except for the intellectual property for the mentioned . ASOIAF"and"StarGate"are the property of their respective creators, and all copyrights belong to them.

Hunter's Gate, Winterfell — The North, 296 AC

Jon Snow

My lord father, Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, has set his mind to ride the breadth of his realm. A raven came from one of the mountain clans, bearing word of a boundary dispute, a lost herd of goats, or both—here in the North, a single goat gone astray can draw more steel than an insult. So Robb and I ride with him. Robb because he is the trueborn heir, rightful son of Winterfell. And I, because Lady Catelyn cannot bear my shadow darkening her halls.
My father swears it is not so, that I must know the men who bend the knee to the direwolf. He says it will serve me well, someday. Perhaps it will. Perhaps it won't. Nothing is ever carved in stone.

They say beyond the Wall the stones speak when the wind howls through the ruins. Here I hear only silence.
Not all is misery on the road. There is a chance I might cross paths with my uncle Benjen, for our way winds past the Watch's castles before we turn for Last Hearth.
"Jon!" roars Ser Jory Cassel, captain of the guard. "Will you stand there brooding like a crow or lend a hand with the horses?"
I am quicker to obey than to speak. I throw my cloak over Greywind's back—no, not the wolf, but the horse Robb named in jest—and check my tent, my knife, my coil of rope, each in its place.

"Ser Jory," I say as he comes near. "All is ready."

"Check twice, boy. A Stark without a blade is a wolf without teeth."

I nod. Better to seem useful than to seem unneeded. I turn to Robb, striding toward me with that easy swagger of his.
"Jon, Father calls for us. He would speak before we ride."

"Then let's go."

Robb walks ahead, all copper hair and river-blue eyes—Tully eyes. I follow behind, snow in his wake, my father's son too: dark hair, long face, iron-grey eyes. Winter stamped into the bone.

"Robb. Jon." Our father's voice is a low thunder, old as the godswood. "Listen well."

The words are the same as always: remember who you are, remember who you serve, remember that a Stark's shame runs like frost through every hall that flies the direwolf. For Robb, it is a promise of power. For me, a reminder of what I am not.

He bids us farewell. Robb presses his lips to his mother's brow. I stand apart. Lady Catelyn offers neither warmth nor cold—only absence. Perhaps she is right.
We mount. Leather creaks, horses snort. We pass beneath the Hunter's Gate, stone teeth gnawing at our backs, and leave behind warmth—and indifference.
The Wolf's Wood, King's Road.

The forest swallows us whole. Oaks like towers older than kingdoms. Pines whisper secrets to the North wind. Above, a sky so full of stars I half believe they watch me in return. I wonder if someone up there asks the same question I do. Perhaps in another life, I'll know.

We make camp by the side of the King's Road. Ser Jory says three days more and we shall cross Brandon's Gift; beyond the hills, the Norrey lands wait for us.
"Jon," says Robb, gesturing at a man who rides up, cloak dusted with pine needles. "Come meet Owen."

Owen Norrey. A clansman of no great standing, but no lesser man for it. My bastardy does not trouble him. Other lords might take offense that Robb treats me as brother. Owen only nods, as if I were any other son of Winterfell.

The Mountains of the North

They rise first like ghosts. Then they become iron spines against the dying sun. Some say giants walked here, herding mammoths across fields now buried in moss and snow. Bran would laugh to see me stand still, eyes shut, breathing air so clean it cuts like a blade.

Silence.

And then—a sound. Stone scraping stone. A whisper hidden in the cold.

"Jon?" Robb's voice catches me like a snare. "Where do you think you're going?""I heard something. I need to see what it is."

Robb sighs—he knows better than to chain my feet once my mind is set loose. He orders Owen to follow. A Stark never sends a bastard alone.

The sound grows. We slip down a game trail, deer and goat tracks winding between brush and stone. A clearing. The sound thickens, like a river trying to claw its way through rock.

Then the world cracks. Dust and rubble rain down. I drag Owen to the earth before the mountain's breath buries us alive.

When the dust clears, a wound yawns open where the slope once lay. A cave, round as a coin. Inside—water, or something like water, hanging in the air, a blue light framed by stone or metal. Beside it, half-buried, a pedestal crowned by a jewel bigger than a man's fist.

Owen's breath catches like a dying fire.

"Gods be good, Jon…" he whispers.

I only step forward. What else would a son of the North do?

"Jon!" Owen's hand clamps on my shoulder. "We must fetch your father. This—this is no work of man."

I hold him fast. Breathe in, out. Rodrik's old lesson. He steadies. We edge closer.

Inside the cave stand three figures—dark skin, broad noses, eyes like shadows, copper and silver gleaming at wrist and throat. Summer Islanders, here, beneath a mountain's skin. Impossible.

Owen curses under his breath. I say what any son of Ned Stark would say at the sight of the impossible.
"Seven hells."

Owen Norrey Pov

My father filled my head with tales of the North's old blood—giants walking the frozen fields, children of the forest whispering secrets to the weirwoods, shadows dancing where the flames die out. But this… this is beyond even the oldest stories the old gods ever dreamed.

I glance at the boy beside me—Ned Stark's bastard, yet more Stark than some who wear the name. He gives me a look that says plain as day, Why are you asking me? But then he does what he told me to do not a moment ago—he steadies himself.

"Well then," he says, pointing toward that thing—rift, gate, gods know what it is—where those three Summer Islanders stand as bewildered as we are. "First we try to speak. Maybe they hold truths we don't."

I follow his gesture. The three men stand half-shrouded in the dust that's settled over the clearing like flour over fresh tracks. Stones lie scattered in a fan where the mountain cracked open. Jon starts forward, slow and sure.

"Jon—wait," I hiss. "How do you know they're not dangerous? They could be armed. One wrong step and steel's at our throats."

"Owen," he says, calm as a winter pond. "Look at them. They're as lost as we are—more so, maybe."

He's right. The three talk among themselves in low voices, uneasy but not hostile. The strange blue veil, like water hung in mid-air, has faded from the cave's mouth, leaving only bare stone and that ring—stone or steel, I can't tell.

"Fine," I say at last. "But I go first. You stay at my back. If this goes to the Stranger's hall, I'll raise hell enough for you to run—run like you'd seen a white shadow stalking through the snows. Deal, Jon?"

"But, Owen—"

I grab him by the shoulders before he can protest further. He's trying to carry a weight he can't name—any fool can see it. It's there in the way he hangs back from Robb's side, the way he watches his father when he thinks no one's looking. But a bastard or no, he's of the same blood. And the North remembers.

"Listen to me, Jon Snow. If anything happens to you, Seven save me, I'll be for the Wall or the block. And don't start that 'I'm only a bastard' nonsense—horse shit and ashes. I've watched Lord Stark's eyes on you this whole ride north. He sees you. So do I. Stark or Snow, you're winter's blood. And the North remembers."
His head bows for a heartbeat—then he lifts it, and in his eyes I see iron. He nods once. That's enough.

We pick our way across the rubble, boots crunching on stone shards sharp as broken vows. I raise one hand high, the other wrapped round the hilt at my belt.
"HO! You there!" I call out, voice ringing against the cave walls. "Are you hale? We come to parley!"

Three dark heads turn at once. Their eyes flash surprise, words passing silent among them like a river under ice. Then the eldest, taller than the rest, steps forward, the other two at his flanks like shadows that breathe.

"Step back," I mutter to Jon. "Give them room to stand beneath the sun."

We shuffle four paces backward, careful not to lose footing on the loose rock. Daylight spills across them now—no bright silks or coral beads as sailors from the Summer Isles wear in Oldtown tales, but clothes like ours: wool tunics, leather breeches, boots worn thin by travel, copper and silver trinkets at wrist and ear. Broad noses, eyes dark as a new moon, hair cropped short and tight to the scalp. In height they match us near enough.

Face to face, I realize this could be the start of a song or the end of my days. No swords that I can see—but a blade can hide behind any cloak. I mouth a silent prayer to the old gods who watch through leaf and stone.

Then I breathe in the cold air, and step forward to meet them.

Chapter Text

Planet Tatamis, Goa'uld Territory

Husil of Tatamis

It is a beautiful day in the heart of the village; sunlight spills its gold over fields bent heavy with the promise of harvest. Endless carpets of grain sway where my father once sowed seeds my grandfather gave him —and now I tend the soil for my son to inherit.

"Father! Father!"

As if conjured by my thoughts, there he is —my Rishy. He walks toward me with a straight back, head held high, the pride of our house stamped on every step. The village girls blush and titter when he passes; I see it all and keep a watchful eye so our name is never stained by careless desire.

"Rishy, my son," I say, my voice warm. "Is everything ready for our departure?"

He bows slightly —enough for respect, not enough for weakness.

"Yes, father. The guards are armed and armored —light mail, helm, spear, sword. Except for the four with staff weapons."

Ah. Forbidden weapons, wrapped in blankets like rags could hide them from Jaffa eyes. Fools they might be, but not blind.

"And our supplies?"

"Water and food for five days for each man —ten guards, the two of us. The cart is packed with gifts for the other envoys."

"Good." I nod, but one name sticks in my mind like a thorn. "And Caneba?"

A grimace flickers across his face. Rechel —how I wish you were here to tether that boy's reckless spirit.

"He went ahead to the Chappa'ai, father."

"That fool! By Ra's light, how many times must I say it? What if a patrol of Jaffa comes through while he plays with the gods' door?"

My son lifts his chin, stubbornness bristling in his curls and downy beard.

"Then we fight."

"Fight? Fight?" My voice echoes like thunder off stone. I draw breath, swallow my fury. "Listen to me well, boy —you do not fight the Jaffa. Not for lack of courage or iron, but because our iron is nothing against theirs. Our armor cracks, our spears snap, our blades dull against their shells. And these staff weapons? They are relics —older than our clan's oldest tale. By the next shot, they may turn to dust."

He sags under my words, but I see it —that fire still burns in him. Good. Better to teach him when to bank it, before it devours him and all he swears to protect.

"But father —should we live cowering in fear?"

Ah, my boy. If only you knew how the brave die —and how the cunning endure.

"No, my son. Not fear —wisdom. Cunning. You must learn when to draw steel and when to sheathe it. Never swing at a battle lost before it's begun."

I see understanding dawn behind his eyes. Still young, still half-formed. Good. I have lessons yet to give —and horrors to show him, so he knows what monsters wear the mask of gods. I still see it in dreams: the sky cracking open like an egg, spilling fire that devoured all it touched. One day he will see the truth of this galaxy —and we will thrive in spite of it. Perhaps it is time I found him a bride —nothing steels a man's heart like knowing another's life depends on it.
But that is for another dawn. The sun is bright, the road calls.

"Enough dark talk. Come —walk with me."

"Yes, father."

Husil takes his son by the shoulders and guides him back to the entrance of the villa, where the guards are waiting to depart with the supplies for the journey and the gifts for the other representatives of the planets connected through the gate network. Officially, only exchanges of goods and services are allowed with planets that belong to the territories controlled by each system lord — whether they are major, medium, or minor lords.

"Father, when do you think the pond will be ready?" Rishy asks.

The question snaps Husil out of his thoughts. He glances at the construction site in his garden where the artificial pond is taking shape. Well, "pond" is perhaps an exaggeration, but it will serve its purpose.

"Why do you want to know? I'll say this now — I won't tolerate any behavior that tarnishes our family's name, especially involving the maids," he says, his tone teasing.

The implication goes straight over his son's head at first, until his cheeks flush red.

"No, father! I'd never do something like that. I just wondered if it would be ready when we get back. Winter is only a few months away — I don't want to freeze to death."

Husil laughs at his son's flustered response. When Rishy realizes he's being teased, he puts on a show of mock indignation, but before he can protest, Husil cuts him off.

"Peace, peace, my son. As for your question — well, it depends. You see, this trip won't be like the usual ones."

"It won't? What will be different?"

They continue the conversation as they pass through the main gate of their estate — not a castle, but far from a simple hut. It is respectable enough for a man of Husil's reputation and wealth: a garden, a soon-to-be-finished medium-sized pond, barracks for the guards, stables, a training yard — all enclosed by a high wall to keep the more unsavory elements of the community at bay.

"Listen well. This will be one of many lessons you'll receive in the days ahead.

As you know, the gate network we use is strictly monitored by the minor lords, who report to the medium ones, who in turn answer to the system lord above them. The minor lords also collect payments for using the gates and the taxes for each planet."

"By 'gate' you mean the Chappa'ai?" Rishy asks.

"It's true you didn't know yet, but yes — I mean the Chappa'ai. The merchant circles use the word 'gate' as a code, so we can speak freely about it without drawing attention. And you may wonder: why do this? Well, the gate network is far bigger than it appears. Many worlds with gates are not under the lords' direct rule, or they are — but not under their real control. Those planets have much to offer — and so do we, for the right price, of course."

"But… isn't that completely illegal?"

"It is."

"How can you say that so calmly? Isn't it incredibly dangerous?"

So young. So innocent. I miss my own youth, Husil thinks, when I too needed my fears tamed, shaped into caution by age.

"Things are not as terrible as they seem. Look — to give you an example: planets like Chulak or Dakara are few. But worlds like ours or Avidos are many, and countless more lie scattered like stars across the firmament."

He lets his son digest this, wanting him to reach his own conclusions. The ability to think critically is essential in their line of work.

By now, they're approaching the main gate. Husil sees the group of guards chatting idly while others prepare the final details at the stone post, connected to the watchtower used to lower the outer gates at night; during the day, the inner gates remain open.

"It's not possible to be everywhere at once — at every gate, every hour."

"Exactly, my son."

Rishy's face lights up as he grasps a truth that has escaped so many others.

"So… their control is a lie?"

"Ah, there's the heart of it. Well, the simple answer is yes — but no."

Rishy gives his father a deadpan look, unimpressed with the cryptic reply, so Husil continues.

"You see, son — the control the lords exert over the worlds they truly care about is very real. Despite the bribes and the corruption that seep into every corner of power within the Goa'uld empire, their spy networks are quite effective — inside their sphere of influence. But beyond that sphere… they're practically blind. It's like night and day."

"But how can that be?"

"In one word, my son: logistics."

Husil watches the gears turn in his heir's mind. The understanding slowly dawns, then settles.

"I see now, father."

"One final lesson for today: there's only one exception to this problem — when a planet makes the ultimate mistake of drawing attention to itself, whether by design or by accident."

"The old Olaf."

Olaf von Bismarck — the only survivor of the attack on the planet Prudencia — remembers well what they once were, and what's left now: ghosts, echoes, ashes.
"What do you mean 'old'? That man is barely twice your age — or twenty years younger than me, at most."

"Well, he doesn't look it."

"His life hasn't been easy. He was a leader in his homeland once — forced to watch it crumble around him."

Rishy just shrugs as if to say, What do you want me to do? I'm just telling it like I see it. Husil can only shake his head with quiet exasperation.
"Chief, all is ready for departure," says the captain.

"Good, captain. If everything is ready, then let's depart."

With these words, the small column of twelve — ten guards, a merchant, and his son — passes through the villa's walls and sets off along the adobe road toward the gate to the stars.

The journey itself will take no more than a few hours, depending on the pace they keep through the seemingly endless fields. One could easily get lost in the horizon, if not for the distant mountain chains marking the edge of the world.

Hours pass. The march continues. Fields of wheat, barley, and oats stretch in all directions. Only here and there do small groves of fruit trees — orange, apple, lemon — break the golden sea.

All this bounty represents only a portion of Husil's wealth — not to mention the cattle that graze beyond the mountains in volcanic valleys, where the grass is rich and thick for cows, bulls, sheep, and goats.

"Rishy, my son — come here. We're almost there."

"Yes, father. How may I serve?"

"Walk with me. It's time for another lesson. Look at our little caravan — we have no horses for our cart, no mounted guards following behind. Despite our riches, we wear simple clothes, with only the jewelry that carries special meaning or serves a purpose. Why is that?"

On Rishy's face, Husil sees the boy's mind turning, wanting to find the answer that will make his father proud.

He sifts through what is unlikely and lands on the practical, setting aside the philosophical or the religious.

"It's more practical this way. We can move longer and faster without a full escort. Logistics are simpler. Less food and water needed."

"Yes, all that is true. A man can't outrun a horse, but he can march at a steady pace longer — and cover greater distances in the end. But tell me, son — what is the most important thing we project when we travel this way?"

"Humility."

A smile creases Husil's weathered face.

"Yes. Humility. Never forget this: in this galaxy, projecting humility is like a kind of magic. Those with power pay no mind to the humble. We pass unnoticed through gates, caravans, villages, cities. They may call themselves gods before the sky and the earth — but they cannot see everything. And there are always ways to hide from their gaze, unless you draw it directly to yourself."

"I understand, father. I will keep it in my heart and mind."

"Good, my son. And look — we're here."

Over the next hill, the Chappa'ai stands on its pedestal — and on it, the silhouette of young Caneba, tinkering with it. The boy is obsessed with all things Ancient.
"Caneba! By Ra — what in the hells are you doing?!"

"Ah — uncle! Rishy! You're already here!"

Husil's face sags with exasperation at the reality that has become routine every time they prepare to travel through the gate.
"Uncle, let me explain!"

And explain he does — how one of the many combinations he's tried is finally showing promise: first one symbol, then two, three, four — until he is on the verge of dialing a full address.

After a long debate, he manages to convince his uncle to let him try to connect.

"Well, Caneba — against my better judgment, I trust you know what you're doing. Go ahead."

The boy — tall for his age, lean but strong, no softness on him — steps up to the pedestal and enters the final symbol. He presses the jewel-like button that activates the mechanism.

The ring begins to turn. The chevrons lock, one after another — until the seventh engages. The wormhole forms — connecting them to a new address, a world unknown.

On the other side, through this same gate — long buried and never meant to open again — the vibrations of countless failed attempts and a twist of bad luck (or fate, depending on who tells the tale) have freed it enough to spin, connect — and for the plasma geyser to finish the work. On that distant world lie walls of ice, thrones of forged iron blades, frost elves — and places where the dead do not stay dead for long.

author note

Hi, I hope you liked what we've got of the story so far. This is an AU, so not everything will be the same, in fact, much will probably change by the canon date of the book or movie. In Westeros it is 296 AC. The supreme lord of the systems, the "god" RA, is alive. The Stargate is in the hands of the US Air Force. Constructive criticism is appreciated, or if you just want to express how bad or good my story is.

Chapter Text

Planet Tatamis, Goa'uld Territory

Captain Britay's POV

The chief was arguing with the heir and his young friend about the gate — whether we should explore the other side or not. He didn't want to risk it: the atmospheric or gravitational conditions on the other planet might be different from ours — a colder or hotter climate, forest, jungle, or desert. The gate usually ensures that each connected world is suitable for life and, I believe, also filters out any diseases trying to pass through.

"Chief, I think I might have a solution to your problem, if I may."

The three of them paused and turned as the chief approached me, weighing the situation and my proposal.

"Captain, I'm listening."

With a simple hand gesture, he signaled for me to speak freely. Despite having the education, wealth, and bearing to be called a lord — if such a title were allowed — he refuses to claim it, knowing the serpents and their jealousy, madness, and megalomania. Among the so-called gods, no one is allowed to be called lord unless they belong to that race. In my humble opinion, the chief embodies everything a true great lord should be.

"Two of my men and I can scout the other side, stay close to the gate, see if it's familiar ground or somewhere new — then return to report."

Husil of Tatamis narrowed his eyes, carefully considering my plan. This wasn't anything extraordinary; it's the most basic tactic among travelers to reduce risk. But that's exactly why he didn't like it — the volunteers must look as harmless as possible, so no armor, no swords or spears. If we run into Jaffa guards, they'll shoot first and ask questions never. Beggars can't be choosers, though.

"All right. I see no issue with this plan. But, Captain, at the first sign of danger, I want you to prioritize your safety — and your men's — in the best way possible."
I gave him a slight bow — barely noticeable but clear enough — to show I understood his orders. Then I called over the two guards I had in mind. Good lads; I trained them myself. I explained our mission. We stripped off our armor, helmets, swords, and spears, carrying only a medium knife sheathed at our belts.

"Chief, we're ready."

"May Ra's eternal light guide your way. Good luck, Captain."

With no further ceremony, I signaled my men to follow me up to the gate — and its shimmering event horizon. Without further ado, we stepped through. Some claim that passing through the gate is a kind of religious experience, that you cross a spiritual plane to travel between worlds. I regret to say that's nonsense. One moment you're at your departure point — the next, your destination. It's just a breath in the infinite river of time.

The Mountains, The North

Once on the other side, it was clear the gate had been buried. Dust hung in the still air of the artificial cave. The circular walls were smooth, and water vapor rose from the heat of the plasma geyser — it must have superheated the water between the stones, which then exploded from the sudden pressure spike, blasting out steam and debris.

"Jaxi, Bratt — come here. Here's what we're going to do. It's clear this gate was buried. This usually means two things: first, the locals rebelled and buried it on purpose. Or second, the gate is so ancient that natural forces buried it over time."

As I briefed them, I noticed the temperature dropping rapidly. The vapor condensed back into water, pooling on the stone floor, and a dim light shone at the far end of the cave — a possible exit. I saw my men frowning, not quite grasping my point, so I clarified:

"Volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, floods — these are the kinds of events that bury gates. Then, decades or centuries later, they get uncovered or reactivated by accident."

I saw the understanding dawn on their faces. Good.

"All right — find the pedestal."

It only took a few steps to spot it, half-buried to the left of the gate. Just in time, too — the gate shut down thirty-eight minutes after we crossed. The pedestal looked functional at first glance, though a few buttons were covered by dirt. Nothing a knife or small shovel couldn't fix. But before we could check further, a voice rang out, echoing through the cave.

"HEY! ARE YOU OKAY? CAN YOU UNDERSTAND US? WE WANT TO PARLEY!"

We froze and turned toward the voice. Two young men stood at the clearing now visible through the cave's mouth, no more than a few feet wide. The words weren't Goa'uld, but the language was familiar — close enough to Olaf's tongue, which I'd learned over many nights sharing mead by a campfire in cold Tatamis winters.
"All right, listen up. We're going to approach them slowly, no sudden moves, hands visible. Understood?"

"Yes, Captain."

We moved toward the exit. In the clearing, I got a better look: they were close in age, maybe two or three years apart. The younger one had hair black as the night, skin pale as milk, and piercing steel-colored eyes set in an elongated, delicate face. Handsome, in a contradictory way. Average height for his apparent age. His companion shielded him subtly — likely a master and sworn sword. The companion's skin and hair were similar, but his eyes were a dull, watchful brown. His face was more square, jaw strong, a young beard forming. Not ugly — not beautiful either. Just… solid.

At the cave's mouth, the older one stepped back, putting distance between us.

"Hello," he called out. "Can you understand us?"

The younger one — the protected — gave him a look that asked whether this was genius or folly.

"Yes, I can," I answered. "Your language is similar to High Gothic, which an ally of mine speaks as his native tongue. But where are my manners — I am Britay, Captain of Husil of Tatamis's guard. These are my men, Jaxi and Bratt. An honor to meet you."

"Your accent's strange," the younger one muttered. The older one elbowed him in the ribs, earning a glare that said he'd pay for that later.

"Likewise. Apologies for our rudeness. I am Owen — this is Jon."

They were holding back details — no surprise. If this was their first time seeing a gate, they'd want to reveal as little as possible.

"If it's not too much trouble," Owen said carefully, "could you tell us where you come from — and whatthatis?"

He kept his voice calm, but I saw it: tension in the shoulders, a predator ready to pounce. Admirable, really, that they hadn't shown any disrespect, given how strange this must seem.

"It's a long story, but I suppose we have time."

So we spoke. I told them about the gate, what it is, how it works. Some would call it foolish — sharing so much intel — but they need to know it's not dangerous, that someone expects us back, and that more will come if we don't return on time. We also spent far too long convincing Jon and Owen that we didn't come from Essos, the Summer Isles, or Yi Ti — and by Ra, we certainly weren't eunuch soldiers.

"That's… by the old gods… I don't know what to say," Jon muttered.

I understood. I still remember seeing it for the first time as a boy — the wonder never really fades.

The cold bit deeper by the minute. Unlike the boys, we were underdressed for this winter chill. They wore cloaks, wool tunics, leather trousers and boots lined with fur. I noted the steel, bronze, and iron at their belts — swords and knives. The chief would be interested. There might be gold in this.

"Help us clear the pedestal," I said. "We can show you."

"I don't know if that's a good idea—" Owen began.

"Owen, of course it's a good idea! I want to see it. We'll help, Britay," Jon interrupted.

Eager boy. He stepped forward to help my men dig out the pedestal, ignoring Owen's exasperated sigh — the sigh of a man who knows he's outmatched. Oathsworn Sword indeed. Jon was no peasant's son — the way he moved, carried himself — maybe a prince. Or a second son. Or a spare.

"Jon! JON!" Owen called out, trying to stop him.

"Young Owen," I said with a small smile, "sometimes it's better to go with the flow."

Owen sighed again and followed me back into the cave. We got to work preparing for the return trip.

Despite the years, the pedestal was in perfect working order. Naquadah — eternal stuff. After half an hour, we were almost ready when, in the distance along the trail down from the mountains, we heard them — maybe twenty or thirty men moving fast. Then a deep voice cut through the air:

"JON! JOOOON! ARE YOU THERE? ANSWER ME!"

The look on the boys' faces said it all — the same look I wore as a boy when my parents gave me a simple task and I failed spectacularly because I gotdistractedby somethingimportant.

"Ned, look at that cave — maybe he's in there," a second voice called.

A tall man stepped into the clearing — a warrior, clearly related to Jon. Sword in hand — if you could even call that thing a sword. By Ra, how does he swing that with one arm? And those veins — trinium-steel alloy. Maker protect us.

"My Lord Father, I can explain," Jon blurted.

Ah. Here it is. I'm not sure how this plays out — the man's expression says he's ready to use that blade, and Ra can sort out our souls later. So I did the only thing I could — the least threatening gesture possible: I bowed.

"My lord."

It seemed to work. The man's shoulders eased just enough. Let's see if we get out of this in one piece.

Chapter Text

The Mountains, the North

Jon Snow — POV

My lord father, once he had made certain we were unharmed — that no stranger had sought to bind us with rash oaths or whisper treason into our ears — listened to our tale in full. He questioned the good captain and his men, asking who they were, what they wanted, why they had come so far into lands that were not theirs to tread. Only when every shadow of doubt had been banished did he loose the frost of his anger upon us. It fell heaviest on me. Robb and Owen caught only the edge of it — Owen less still, for he had only obeyed Robb's word — but even so my father reminded him, with all the weight of Winterfell behind his voice, that an heir is no common boy, not yet a lord grown.

When his fury had blown itself out like a storm spent of snow, we gathered in council: my father, Lord Brandon, young Brandon, Owen, and I, seated with Captain Britay. Britay spoke of the door, of its design and purpose, and swore no harm was meant for the North. Once that truth was settled, the captain told us they had tarried longer than they should and must return to their own chief before he crossed the door with a company at his back. My father understood well enough, and gave leave for one of the strangers to pass back through.

I watched the door turn — a wheel of symbols spinning as if some hidden hand turned it. One after another the marks aligned, until the last fell into place and the gate bloomed open like a pool of living water. I can see it still when I close my eyes. The thing was not water, yet moved like it — the shimmer of it, the depth. Jaxi stepped forward, and in the space of a heartbeat he was gone. Britay warned us then: the door would only open one way. If you passed through to another world, you must open it again from the far side if you hoped to come home. Another world. I had never seen even another continent — and now I am asked to believe each star in the sky is a sun like ours, with lands and peoples beneath its light? Impossible… but the truth cares nothing for what I find impossible.

Not a quarter hour had passed when the wheel turned again. The symbols fell into place once more, the water of stars shivered into being — and Jaxi returned. He carried a message from his lord, Husil of House Tatamis, offering apology for not coming in person. This exploration, he said, had been no planned venture but a chance errand, and he could not break his other duties for so weighty a meeting. Still, he promised to send envoys within one moon.
My father and the lone other lord spoke with the captain, voices low and measured. In one moon's time we would host a council here in this wild valley. Arms were clasped, oaths exchanged, farewells spoken — and as swiftly as it began, it was done.

Yet for me it had only begun. My father turned his grey eyes on me and set my task plain: I was to see this place readied. Cleared, fortified, fitted for parley. A test, he named it.

"Do it well, and this will be yours to hold. It may seem little now, but we dare not leave this place unguarded — not from foes beyond, nor those within. And in all things, the first to stand claim takes the lion's share. You found it, Jon. It is only right you bear the burden — and the reward."
"But Father… I am no Stark. The other lords will hate you for raising me above them."

"It is not hate they hold, but envy — and envy bends the knee when profit beckons. It was your courage that found the Gate. Your blood opened it. No lord would wish to toil for spoils, only to have them snatched away in the end."

"And Owen?"

"A good right hand. No more. He has no name that sways the clans. You do. Or would you forget your blood?"
He laid a hand on my shoulder then — heavy as mail, warm as a hearth in deep winter.

"You may wear Snow instead of Stark, but the blood is the same. King of Winter's blood flows in your veins, same as mine. Never let the name blind you to the truth. I have long wondered where your road would run. It seems the old gods have shown me."

"I understand, Father. I will not fail you."

"I know."

So it was settled. My doubts gnaw at me still — sharper than any blade I've held — but I know this is the one chance left to carve a place for myself beyond the Wall or the black. Perhaps here I can earn a name of my own, or even forge a house where none yet stands. I shall never hold Winterfell — but perhaps, in time, I might raise a keep that is mine alone.

I asked that Owen remain my second, with three Stark men-at-arms beside him. My father and Robb rode for Clan Norrey's holdfast to summon timber, iron, stone, and men. Ravens flew to the far clans, calling for masons, guards, cooks, healers — any who would answer. Owen knows a bit of stonework, and the maester's lessons ring in my skull like hammer blows.

The first day we cleared the clearing of stones, piling them for hearths and firepits. We made a ring of tents, ringed again by fire to keep the wolves at bay. In the cave, the water welled up in the center — Owen reckons an underground spring feeds it, leaking through cracks to the east. We dug a ditch to lead it downhill, away from the mouth where we slept.

On the second day, the Norreys arrived — five men used to clearing paths buried by avalanche and stonefall. With them we were ten, our picks and shovels biting deep. We broke the rest of the debris loose, hauled it to a chosen pile for walls yet to come, then widened the trench to drain the cave. By dusk, the water ran clear and free.

On the third day we took the dry cave floor and made it anew — cut it level with the clearing, hauling dirt and stone until the ground lay flat and firm. By the time the sun dipped low, riders came from the south. We saw the Knots banners long before we saw the men: three wagons of timber, two more of food and water, twenty workers and ten riders on hardy northern mounts. At their head rode Teo Knots, second son of his house — now seventh in line, pushed aside by births and twins enough to make any lord's head ache. A bear clad in leather and furs, with an axe near big enough to fell giants.

I met him at the clearing's edge with Owen beside me. The place narrowed there — a natural choke point that begged for palisades, watchtowers, a gate strong enough to break siege. One of the Stark guards brought soft bread and salt on a tray — the guest rite, so none could claim this place was fleeting or forfeit.
While my mind roamed ahead — palisades, wells, fields ploughed where now only grass grew wild — Teo swung down from his destrier. His laugh thundered against the stones.

"Lord Jon, it is my honor to stand here and give aid to House Stark."

We clasped arms, strong and sure. Then he did the same with Owen. He tasted bread and salt, grinned at the hardness of the loaf, and asked where he might speak with me alone.

I led him to my tent, set apart enough for privacy but not so far as to shame the men. He gave orders for the wagons to be unloaded, then turned back to me.
"So, Jon — what mischief have you dragged us into, then?"

"Sit, Teo. I will tell you all."

I told him of the gate, the strangers, the promise of the moon's turning. He listened, disbelieving — until I showed him the door itself, the symbols carved like runes from some tongue older than the First Men.

"By the Seven Hells… and the old gods too."

We laughed then — the only thing left to do when your world splits open. I asked what help he'd brought.
His smile faded. He stood straighter, folding his arms like a wall of muscle and fur.

"Aside from myself? Timber, tools, buckets for hauling water. Five carts with draft horses to haul timber or whatever else you tear from these woods. Twenty men. A mason, a stonecutter, a carpenter. The riders are only escort — they'll turn back soon as they see all is well."

"A carpenter?" I asked. "Wouldn't a blacksmith serve us better?"
"If you fancy tables of iron, aye. Elsewise, wood will do."

"I'm an idiot."
His laugh rolled through the tent like thunder off the high peaks.
"Not an idiot — just young."

He clapped a hand on my shoulder, heavy and calloused as any smith's hammer.

"Listen well, boy. Experience will come, and wisdom after it. That is how a boy becomes a lord worth kneeling to. And you will not stand alone."
"'We?'"

"Aye, we. Do you think I'll miss what may be the greatest thing since Aegon crossed the sea? Unless those folk come back with an army and tear the Wall stone from stone — I stand with you. If your lord father does not bury that gate under half a mountain, I'll swear myself to you."

"And I will have you, Teo Knots, if you stand true."

So we planned twenty-five days of toil: three palisades, gates barred and braced, a hall hewn from the cave's mouth. The carpenter would shape table and chairs for the parley — rough work, yet sturdy. The mason would see the floor laid true, the walls buttressed so the rock would not come down upon us. We drew water from the river for mortar, stacked every stone we pulled from the earth for walls yet to rise.

On the twenty-seventh day, the truth of men's limits showed its teeth. Not all was done, yet enough to stand proud: the palisades rose, the gates swung on new-forged hinges, the cave's mouth was shaped and the floor laid level. The table and chairs were plain but fit to bear weight and argument alike. With the wood left over, we built a platform to lift the tent from the damp ground.

At sunset we laid our tools down, backs bent and bones weary. I gave the men two days' rest — they had earned it ten times over.

On the twenty-eighth day, they came. My father, Robb, Lord Brandon, young Brandon, and to my surprise, Lord Lothor Burley — a third son, perched too low in his line to matter in peacetime, yet hungry enough to ride north when word of opportunity came whispering. And with them my uncle Benjen, black-clad with his brothers of the Watch. He heard our tale with a frown that promised a lecture — yet beneath it all, I think he was proud, in his quiet way.

Now we stand before the door. The wheel turns. One by one, the symbols fall into place. The gate opens, and the stars come pouring through.

Chapter Text

The Mountains, the North

Jon Snow – POV

We gathered in my lord father's tent, the bitter winds of the mountains held at bay by heavy canvas and the glow of braziers. My father, Eddard Stark, sat at the head of our side, with Robb at his left, Lord Brandon Norrey and his son beyond him. I took my place at his right, though in my heart I still wondered if I truly belonged there at all.

Across from us sat our guests—Lord Husil of House Tamamis, his son Rishy beside him, his ward Caneba sharp-eyed at the edge. Captain Britay stood behind them like a silent shadow of steel, declining seat or comfort, a guardian more than an envoy.

When they had first come through the gate—twenty soldiers clad head to toe in steel plate, the servants with their heavy cart—it was a show of power no northern holdfast could mistake. Even their simple winter furs were so finely made they would not have been out of place at the high table of the Arryns or Lannisters.
Guest right was offered and taken—though Lord Husil had blinked in confusion until my father explained the old ways of bread and salt. Once he understood, he smiled like a man who'd learned something useful for later.

Inside the tent, our two delegations faced each other across the rough-hewn table we'd built with our own hands. Once the first cups of wine were poured, my father gave a small nod for Husil to speak.

"My good Lord Stark," Husil began, his words smooth as a river stone, "you must wonder why I go to such lengths for a simple meeting."

"I confess the thought crossed my mind," my father said, watching him the way a hawk watches a hare.

"Then let us speak plain. The stars above us brim with wonders—treasures and knowledge enough to make any lord's line flourish for a thousand years, if he is bold enough to reach for them."

My father's jaw tightened, his lord's face slipping into place like a mask of granite. "I have lived long enough to know that all treasures have their price, and every gift hides a hook. So tell me, Husil—what is the true cost of these wonders you promise?"

Lord Husil leaned forward then, and his voice dropped low, the way Old Nan's did when she spoke of the things that crawled beyond the Wall.

"There are creatures out there," he said, his words coiling like the serpents he described, "parasites that wear men like cloaks, ride them as a knight rides a destrier. They slip inside their hosts, hollow them out, and speak with their voices. And under their rule, whole empires rise and fall—kingdoms devoured in the dark, sectors of worlds smothered under the same endless night."

His eyes glinted as he spoke of it—serpent-kings hidden in men's flesh, carriages that flew through the sky like the dragons of Valyria's ancient brood, breathing fire enough to turn cities to cinder. And fortresses, vast as Winterfell itself, drifting through the void between the stars like wolves through drifting snow.

A shiver worked its way down my spine despite the brazier's warmth. I stole a glance at my father—his face was carved from ice and stone, but in his eyes I saw the same dread I felt.

"Of course," Husil said, spreading his hands in mock apology, "I know how this must sound. Some will say it is nothing but madness—an old man's tale for fools and children".

Aye, I thought. To say the least.

My father's fingers drummed once on the table. "If you expect us to believe such darkness lies hidden so close to home, you will need more than words, Lord Husil."
"And so you shall have it," Husil promised. "Proof enough to chill your blood—and proof enough to see the worth of what I offer. But first…" He snapped his fingers. One of his men brought forward the small cart laden with the sacks. Husil opened them, one by one—grains, roots, enough food to feed villages through the cruelest winter.

"My harvest," he said with quiet pride. "Wheat, corn, barley, rice—and these." He held up a squat, knotted root. "Earth apples. Potatoes, some call them. Food enough to fatten your people through lean years.

"
"And the price?" my father asked.

"There's the rub, Lord Eddard," Husil said, the smile flickering fox-sharp on his lips. "The price might not be what you expect—or even understand at first. My captain made but one request for this meeting: samples of the metals you can supply. Do you have them?"

My father gave a single nod. "You asked for iron, copper, zinc, and our castle steel. We brought them all. Strange request, but not so hard to grant."
"Then show me."

Robb rose and pulled open the small chest we'd brought—raw ingots laid out beside blades and tools.

"The most abundant metals of the North are iron, copper, and zinc," my father explained. "We have another, what we call 'false metal.' When smelted, it looks like steel, but it is brittle as dry twigs—good for nothing but trinkets and mountain clan baubles."

When I was a boy, I'd been fascinated by that dull grey powder—dreamed I'd find some hidden secret in it. In the end, it was worth no more than the soot on my fingers.

"Trinium," Husil murmured, eyes bright as he examined the false metal. "Forgive me. Go on."

"And this," my father said, lifting a short sword, "is our castle-forged steel—what arms our men, walls our gates, feeds our hearths. Armor, blades, tools."

Husil did not so much as glance at the sword's edge. "Your swords mean little to me. But your tools—your steel for hammers, picks, plows—these we need in droves."
My father's mouth twitched. "Then we have the seed of a bargain: food for iron and steel."

"A fair seed indeed," Husil agreed. "But let us not barter in shadows, Lord Eddard. Before we speak of ships and wagons, see the truth with your own eyes. Come. Through the gate."

He rose, and so did we, cloaks pulled tight as we stepped out into the night air. The gate shimmered before us, its runes spinning like snowflakes caught in a storm. Robb threw me a grin that dared me to hesitate.

"Come, Snow—will you stand here shivering, or step forward like a man?"

Before I could answer, he was gone through the swirl of light. I sucked in a breath, whispered a silent prayer to the old gods of the forest and stone, and stepped through after him—into warmth, and sunlight, and a sky haunted by two pale moons.

A step for a bastard of Winterfell—yet maybe, just maybe, the first of many more to come.

Planet Tatamis, Goa'uld Territory

Eddard Stark – POV

When I stepped through the shimmering gate, winter's bite gave way to a warmth I had not felt since my youth in the South. The air tasted rich and sweet—heavy with the scent of wheat, soil, and distant orchards.

Before me stretched an endless golden sea of grain, rolling in waves under the sun. Here and there, dark green islands of fruit trees broke the fields, bowing with harvest too heavy for their branches. And above it all, two pale moons lingered like ghosts in the daylight sky—a quiet reminder that I stood on no soil the old gods had ever touched.

Lord Husil stood beside me, his cloak thrown back, breathing deep as if he owned all this land—and perhaps, in truth, he did. A few steps away, Jon and Robb spoke with Husil's son and ward, voices low but eager, their faces turned skyward in wonder. Brandon lingered at my shoulder, quiet as the snowdrifts of the Wolfswood.

Lord Husil gestured toward the fields. "Lord Eddard—this is the fruit of what we offer. A taste of what your people could harvest for themselves, if we stand together."

I folded my hands behind my back, letting my eyes drink in the sight. I had seen good harvests in the Reach during Robert's rebellion—green valleys that fed ten kingdoms. But even Highgarden had never spread out like this—mile upon mile of tilled earth and orchard, tended with care no serf in Westeros would ever know.

"I will not lie, Lord Husil," I said at last, my voice steady. "This is a sight any lord would envy. But back home, our strength is not in fields of gold but in the iron beneath our hills and the will of our folk to stand and fight when winter comes for us all."

Husil smiled faintly. "And that is why you will endure longer than most. But iron and will alone will not fill empty bellies when the snows last years instead of one, or when the sea freezes and trade ships founder." He turned then, his tone sharpening like a smith's hammer on the anvil. "And you will need more than grain when the serpents come for your gates."

At that, Brandon shifted beside me, bristling like a young wolf.

Husil saw it, but pressed on. "I spoke of it in your tent—but perhaps it weighs heavier under this sun. There are creatures out there, Lord Stark—parasites that wear men's flesh like fine silk, that twist their voices and make them kings and lords, emperors and gods. They have built empires that stretch not across kingdoms but entire swathes of stars—worlds like yours and mine shackled under their reign. They fly sky-carriages with fire enough to burn Winterfell to ash, should it please them."

I held his gaze, my face the same granite my bannermen knew so well. "You say this, yet offer no sign. Words are wind, Lord Husil—proof is stone."
He inclined his head, unoffended. "And you shall have it. You will see with your own eyes what we fight and why. And then you will know the price you pay for standing alone in the dark."

I let the wind pass between us, stirring the wheat like a restless sea. My thoughts flickered to the Wall—to Benjen riding its windswept heights, to the stories Old Nan told of shadows in the snow. And now, shadows among the stars.

"So we trade iron for grain," I said slowly, weighing each word. "Our castle steel, our tools—hammers and plows, not swords and shields. You feed our folk through winter's bite, and in return we forge what your people lack."

Husil's grin was quick as a fox's. "Iron for bread, and bread for iron. A fair seed for the first harvest, Lord Stark. But when the serpents come, we will stand side by side—or you will fall one by one."

I gave him a nod—a vow in the North meant more than any parchment in the South. "Then let us see this proof you promise. If your words hold weight, we will talk of ships, of trade, and of what oath binds us both to stand when the cold comes again—whether from sky or snow."
Brandon glanced at me then, his grey eyes wide as he took in the vast fields and the twin moons above.
"Winter may come," I said softly, more to myself than to him, "but the North must stand ready—be it against wolves in the woods, or serpents among the stars."

Chapter Text

Planet Midgard

Eddard Stark POV

After a long and tedious negotiation in the shade of that tree on Tatamis, we came to an agreement, leaving only a few minor details to finalize. With that settled, Lord Husil, Brandon Norrey, and I, along with a dozen guards—five from each of our delegations—crossed through the gate once more, this time to a planet called Midgard, where we would witness proof of the Goa'uld race's power. With that thought, we stepped once again into the unknown.

On the other side, the atmosphere was a complete shift from the spring-like promise of Tatamis to the harsh reality of winter. A heavy sky blanketed the land in gray clouds while flakes of ash drifted in the air like dead snow, though there were no fires to be seen nearby or in the distance around the clearing where the gate stood. The white snow covering the ground and the pine trees surrounding the clearing was stained with soot. The pines clung to life like true Northmen: a few showed traces of green, but most were leaden gray, blackened, brown, or a sickly dark green.

In the middle of this frozen landscape lay an old cobblestone path, overrun by nature after what must have been countless winters. Lord Husil gestured for me to follow him, leading us down the path between the dying trees, where the only sign of life was the faint, distant song of some lone bird.

As we walked toward our destination, I couldn't help but think about my own foolishness. Many would call me reckless for exposing myself like this—crossing through a gate to another land, not once but twice, to worlds as different as night and day. One, bursting with life and the promise of abundance; the other, so dead it seemed to ache just to exist. But how could I refuse this chance? If this coming winter was to be as cruel as it threatened to be after a summer that lasted ten years, our people would not survive it alone. And if the rumors Hoster wrote to Catelyn were true, the South wouldn't fare much better.

"My Lord Eddard, look to the west. What do you see?" Lord Husil asked.

I turned to where he pointed and saw the forest open up along the path. I stepped closer for a better view and found myself standing at the edge of a cliff that seemed to have been ripped from the ground by some god's fury. It stretched out into the distance, revealing a deep valley dotted with lakes, connected by natural terraces shaped by the erosion of flowing water. Each waterfall was higher than the last, and at the valley's end, where it met a distant mountain range, lay an enormous lake that, if not for the broken valleys, could be mistaken for a small ocean. But the longer I looked, the more unnatural it felt—like the tantrum of a giant child had carved the land. The water was not clear, as mountain lakes should be, but dark and murky. It was hard to imagine it ever being a source of life; clearly, it was unfit for irrigation, animals, or drinking.

"My Lord, here once stood a fortress," Lord Husil said, pulling me from my thoughts. I could only look at him, confused.

"That is what used to be here. Not a valley, nor lakes, nor rivers—only a massive fortress at the foot of the mountain, with towers, moats, cannons, and walls stretching from end to end. And that was only the heart of it: five rings of fortifications, each larger than the last, each with its own army and families, protected by walls of stone, steel, and wood. No mortal force could have threatened it, but that strength was its downfall—because it wasn't a mortal force," Lord Husil continued, his face marked by a deep sadness and resignation. "A god, or someone claiming to be one, needed only half a day for the Hatak to destroy everything from the sky—land and people alike. Over five hundred thousand souls vanished in half a day."

I stared out in horror, realizing what lay before me was proof—proof of his story, the truth of Husil's words. The terror, the hopelessness… such power, such might. How could anyone think to resist it? What have we gotten ourselves into? Gods, how can I protect the North from this? How can I protect my family—Cat, Robb, Arya, Sansa, Bran, Rickon, and Jon?

"A bleak sight, but there is still hope," Lord Husil said.

I looked at him, my face betraying a mix of horror, fear, and the faintest flicker of hope.

"Hope?" I asked.

"Yes, my friend. You see, we were fortunate that my apprentice found you by chance. The horror you see here would only happen if you stepped into the universe ignorant and unprepared. We're here not only to show you the dangers but also the advantages—provided you make the right preparations."

Hope slowly stirred in my chest. Lord Husil was right. He and his people had been nothing but truthful, never once hiding the dangers behind pretty words fit for a snake instead of an honest man.

"How?" I asked.

"We are going to meet the man who, as a boy, watched his people discover the gate, revel in its splendor, and then suffer the tragedy that nearly destroyed them. He, if he's willing, will be your guide through this galaxy—so that you don't repeat his mistakes. Of course, at the agreed price." With that, Lord Husil gestured for us to keep moving down the road. We would reach our destination in a few more minutes.

With some of my calm returning, I nodded and signaled Brandon to walk closer beside me.

"What do you make of all this?" I asked him.

"I don't know, Ned. It's far more complicated than I thought. All I know is this food could see us through the winter, no matter how harsh or long it is—five, six years in peace, maybe ten if we ration it well."

I could hear the honesty in his voice, the uncertainty clear in his eyes, yet there was conviction too. The duty to guide our people down the best path possible weighed on us both.

"And the risks?" I asked.

Brandon ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

"They're worth it."

His words were short, clear, and plain—like any true man of the North would speak. But it was not so simple.

"And the South?" I asked.

He shrugged, as if to say, What does the South have to do with this? I let out a sigh as we walked toward whatever lay ahead. The shadows of the Seven Kingdoms are never far behind any choice.

"We buy grain from the Reach. That will stop. The same with the Riverlands, though to a lesser extent. That will draw eyes. We can try to cover it by increasing imports from Braavos through White Harbor, but that will only soften the blow."

I could see the wheels turning in Brandon's mind as he grasped the politics that would follow.

"Ned, the Reach bleeds us dry every time we open their granaries. I say let them rot," he said, looking almost satisfied.

"And when they complain to the Crown, then what?" I asked.

"Robert will tell them to go to hell. You know he will. He hates anything even close to dragons."

It was true. His hatred burned him hollow. He was no longer the man I knew, the man I fought beside to put him on the Iron Throne. Now he's only a ghost of that king. But it wasn't Robert I feared—it was Jon Arryn, wise and sharp as any blade. He would suspect something—and he'd be right.

"And the Riverlands? Maybe we can still buy from them. One can never have too much food," Brandon added.

"You're right about that, but it's too soon to plan. When we return, I'll gather everyone in Winterfell to draw up a proper plan."

"Everyone?" Brandon asked.

"Yes. It would look strange to call on some and not others. That would only draw more suspicion and more attention where we don't want it. Of course, not everyone will know everything—only those I choose to involve."

I saw understanding flicker in Brandon's eyes just as Lord Husil signaled that we had arrived. Before us stood a mansion built in a Braavosi style, though its age and neglect showed clearly. Parts of the roof had caved in, cracks marred the walls, and parts of the outer stonework had fallen away, exposing rough masonry beneath.
The outer walls were no better. In the center, two iron gates stood open, dark with rust.

We followed Lord Husil through them, crossing into the mansion's front courtyard, where a marble fountain—once a symbol of wealth—now stood as a ruin of its former self.

But the most striking sight was a bench beside the fountain, where a man sat in a light gray uniform, black boots, and carrying a strangely shaped weapon—too broad to be a Braavosi blade, yet not quite a sword. When he heard our steps, he turned, revealing his face. If not for the place, and for his black hair and pale blue eyes instead of blond and green, I would have sworn the man was a young Gerion Lannister. As we faced each other, I saw we were of similar height. Lord Husil spoke to him in his own tongue, exchanged a few words, then turned back to us.

"Allow me to introduce you: Sir Olaf von Bismarck, the last leader remaining on this planet," Lord Husil announced.

Chapter Text

Planetos, The North

Sir Olaf von Bismarck POV

(Three Moons After First Contact)

The light of dawn filters through the rustic roof of the log cabin, marking the start of another day in the North. As always, it feels like we're waking from the harshest winter in decades—only to be horrified by the truth: this planet is in the middle of one of its longest summers. By the ancient gods, seasons that last years instead of months… It's hard to accept. There's something deeply unnatural about it. It shouldn't be functional for life or the rise of civilizations—plants and their cycles should wither before restarting in spring. If the seasons reversed, flowers would rot on the stem and fruits would spoil under an endless sun. Most likely, the seasonal cycle is being artificially manipulated by external factors—and those same factors are what keep this planet alive. To my dismay, I suspect this is only the tip of the iceberg.

But this is neither the time nor place for speculation—at least not until we have the proper equipment to conduct real tests and experiments. That's exactly what the professors I assigned to this mystery keep reporting. I can't go to Lord Jon with mere suspicions and gut feelings; I need hard proof.

I get up and stoke the fire in the iron brazier in the cabin's center. After all, there are no butlers here, no attendants or maids—unlike the Keep in the Valley, carved deep into the mountain itself. There, the great hall and chambers open to the lord and his people. For the rest of us: cabins. Not the worst, compared to the deadly cold outside. Up to the central clearing, where we dug the well—that's what kills you every morning.

I open the door and the northern wind cuts into my face. But first, the latrine—to empty the night bucket. Once done, I grab my empty water buckets and head to the well. One by one, I lower them, pulling them back full. Not enough for a real bath, but enough for basic hygiene. I haul them back to my humble quarters.

Back inside, I set the buckets at my vanity—if that crude thing even deserves the name. I catch my reflection in the polished metal mirror I salvaged from the ruins of Prussia. It's hard to believe the only "mirror" here is just metal, polished to a shine. Once we have the right facilities, it will be one of the first things we export to the continent. But it will be the first of many—these lands will become the beating heart of industry, and they will hunger for generations. The southern forests and northern mountains will feed that hunger.

For now, I must heat the water—and I have just the tool. At the foot of my bed sits a small chest, unlocked. I must have forgotten to lock it last night. I retrieve the zaknitel. The device looks like a coiled serpent about to strike. I press a button on its side, and it comes alive, snapping into firing position. If a Jaffa ever saw me using one of their sacred weapons to heat water… A smile creeps onto my face as I fire an energy bolt into each bucket. It doesn't boil them instantly, but it warms the water enough for a wash.

I grab my towel and soap and clean myself. Once dressed, I pull my coat from the rack by the door and step out toward the Keep, where Lord Jon Snow holds his council. I vividly remember the conversation with his father in Midgard, in the ruins of what remains of the Prussian nation.

flashback

Lord Husil introduced me to the man who might be our salvation—or just another raven picking at the bones of my people.

The man, not much older than me—maybe a decade, maybe five years—approached and extended his arm, which I clasped at the forearm.

"Lord Eddard Stark, of the Kingdom of the North,"he said.

A sincere voice for a hard face—yet open. The lines not hidden by his beard show a man who knows what it means to fight through life's trials. His eyes reflect perseverance and unshakable resolve. A good first impression, at least.

"My Lord Stark, the honor is mine,"I replied.

"Please, Eddard is fine. Here, I'm just a man, no different than you. No need for pomp and titles,"he said calmly.

A Lord who doesn't let power feed a fragile ego—quick to take offense where there is none. Refreshing.

"As you wish, Lord Eddard. You may call me Olaf,"I said.

The man nodded. I gestured to a marble bench by the crumbling fountain. We sat while Husil and our guards stepped back, forming a discreet circle around us.
"Well, Olaf. Lord Husil tells me you can help us prevent this."Eddard gestured around him, making the message clear.

I could see genuine sympathy in that mostly stoic face as he looked at the ruins of my world.

"Let me start at the beginning, my Lord,"I said, my accent slow and formal.

"We were once a prosperous, proud nation. We thought ourselves the peak of civilization: music, art, mathematics, physics, natural sciences. We were on the cusp of mastering steam power to move our machines. Locomotives shortened the land, warships shortened the sea. The metric system standardized our measures, weights, distances—fueling mass production of food, medicine, clothing, goods of all kinds. One might think that's where it went wrong—but they'd be wrong."

I paused, gathering my thoughts.

"An expedition—made possible only by a coal-powered, state-of-the-art warship—reached a continent so far that sails and wind were useless. But our new engines got us there. And in the heart of that continent, we found the Stargate."

Lord Eddard's face remained stoic but intent. I could see confusion at certain concepts—his realm's technology nowhere near ours once was.
"For a few years, everything was wonderful. But we were fools."The bitterness was hard to hide. Eddard laid a strong hand on my shoulder, silent but solid.
"The gate opened a whole galaxy to us—opportunities and knowledge so vast we were like newborns seeing the world for the first time. Overwhelmed, we clumsily crawled through the stars. We carried our symbols proudly, for all to see."

I could see the flicker of understanding in Eddard's eyes—symbols easy to trace back to their source. His perception was sharp—a trait I respected in a Lord.
"That was our downfall. While we marveled at alien technology and cultures, we crossed paths with the Jaffa. Sacred warriors, they claimed, servants of gods. The truth? Slaves to a race of parasites who called themselves gods."

Even now, I can still see my father's face when I told the Kaiser.

"After that, everything spiraled. Incursions through the gate—first once a week, then every two days, for a year. Then silence, for a month. We thought we'd won—but it was a fool's hope. Thirty days is how long it took a Ha'tak to cross from our system's edge to its third planet. That day, the sky opened. A triangle of gold and metal rained fire from above."

I looked at him.

"And I believe you've seen what remains of that."

Lord Eddard nodded. Horror in his eyes, iron will behind it.

"Yes. I saw it."

"Now, all I have left is my duty to what remains of my nation."

"You say you have a duty, but here I see only ashes and ghosts of what was and will never be again,"he said, blunt and honest.

"Yes. There's nothing left for us here. But tell me, Lord Eddard—what is duty if not a burden we must bear? For better or worse, I must find a future for what's left of my people."

"And what do you seek?"he asked.

"A place with water safe to drink. Fresh food that will help our children grow strong, not wither away. But most of all—
a roof over our heads."

"Very well. And what do you offer me in return? Something worth my house's trouble?"
"Let me show you."

And I did. I led him through the ruins—chemical plants, factories, industrial forges. Streets paved in industrial concrete, buildings propped up by reinforced beams, the recycling plant still running under my command. We recycle everything that can be reused—for infrastructure, homes, schools, hospitals, and, above all, ways to fight the eternal winter the enemy left behind.

"Can you guarantee your people can provide this knowledge—and pass it on?"Eddard asked, visibly intrigued.
His companions leaned in, too.

"My Lord Eddard—this, and much more."

A smile spread across his guards' faces, but Eddard's reaction surprised me. Arms crossed, frowning.
"Why?"he asked.

It took me a moment to grasp his meaning: Why offer so much, for so little?

"I have no leverage. No water, no food, no shelter for ten million of us—once three hundred million at our peak. Half are too old or sick to work. Of the rest, half are children. Our only options are a slow, suffocating death on this dying world—or finding sanctuary among yours."

"We'll work out the details later. But for now, my friend—we have a deal,"he said, clasping my arm.

End of flashback

Three moons have passed. Time flies. The first thing we tried teaching was the concept of hours, days, weeks, and months. We're still calculating the precise numbers, but they swear they'll have them "any day now"—and have been saying so for over a moon.

Crossing the yard, I see the crews at the sites where the pig iron furnaces will rise—followed by steelworks and forges for the tools that will build more tools, and so on. It's not easy—blacksmiths and craftsmen thrown together with professors and engineers. If Professor Metallarbeiter doesn't lose his mind before we finish the first stage in three years, it will be a miracle from the old gods.

"My Lord."

The pair of guards at the makeshift gate of the future keep open one of its doors—soon to be replaced. Inside, builders labor tirelessly, reinforcing walls with stone and mortar instead of steel and concrete—something we'll fix in time. New hallways, chambers, and rooms carved out, supported by huge oak beams from the Wolf's Wood—turning the mountain into a fortress like the legends of the dwarves from Midgard's past. Not unlike the ice elves beyond the Wall—though whether to feel awe or dread about them is a question for another day.

I walk down the hall, guards at each door—mostly mountain clansmen, but also men of the Umbers, Glovers, Karstarks, and above all, Starks. You can tell by the colors and sigils on their clothes. From what I've heard, Winterfell has taken an unusual number of wards: second sons for heir Robb, and a flock of ladies-in-waiting for young Lady Sansa.

The council room is simple—a long rectangular table, seven equally plain chairs. One at the head, the others on each side. I see Lord Jon already seated—always first to arrive, last to leave. Painfully young for the burden he must carry—yet so full of life, despite the weight on his shoulders. I can't help but think of him—it was supposed to be me and the Kaiser: ruler and counselor. That will never be. But here, maybe, I have a second chance to fulfill what I was raised for all my life.

Chapter Text

The Fortress in the Valley — The North

Jon Snow — POV

Paper. Parchment. Broken seals. They sprawl across the oaken table like a battlefield beneath the pale light that slips through the narrow tower windows. With each day that dies, the whispers of my own inadequacy melt away like frost under the sun, only to be replaced by the weight that settles heavier on my shoulders. Six moons. That is all I have before the first grain wagons arrive — the lifeblood that will keep the North breathing through lean seasons.

An army without banners has begun its march: axes, hammers, wagons laden with timber, hands cracked and calloused by winter's bite. Men from House Umber, House Karstark, the mountain clans — and above them all, the direwolf of Stark. All drawn here, to this clearing where the plain breaks against the mountain's base like a wave on stone. Here we will raise walls where there was once only wind and rock. Here we will build a port of wagons to feed a frozen land.

At least I am not alone. Owen, Lothor, and Teo hold the chaos at bay, for now. My father — ever the cautious lord — had the sense to send Lord Mors Umber and Lord Cregan Karstark with me. To guide me, so they claim. Perhaps to watch me. It is all the same when snow falls. At least Ser Olaf stands at my side. He and his men have nowhere else to turn, though on the longest nights I whisper to myself that loyalty born of necessity can still be true, if it is tended well.

I cannot fail. I will not. There are more lives at stake here than I can rightly count — more mouths to feed than I dare imagine. Every nail, every sack of grain, every stone laid is more than mere labor: it bears my father's promise, my house's face, my own fragile claim to worth. And if I fall, I will not fall alone. The shame will drag the wolf down with me.

A knock at the door. A single, sharp rap of knuckles on oak. The door swings wide without waiting for my word. Ser Olaf fills the threshold, tall and weathered, his cloak draped from shoulders broad as a watchtower.

"My Lord Jon. May the gods grant you a good morning."

I blink, pulled from a tangle of numbers and names. I lift my head. There he stands, with that half-smile that never quite reaches his eyes.
"Ah… the council… I mean — good morning to you as well, Ser Olaf."

He nods, stepping inside, his boots echoing against the stone. He takes the seat at my right, folding into it like an old crow settling on a wall.
"Jon," he says, voice calm, words chosen with care, "it is a good and noble thing to guard the burden you have been given. No man could fault you for it. But do not let this duty devour you from the inside out. Six moons is time enough for stone and timber, so long as you do not waste your wits on fears that build no walls."
My fingers curl around a parchment smudged with wax. Gods, if only I had his certainty. His faith. But my fears do not vanish — they simply learn to hide better.
"Sometimes all this seems…" I begin, but the word dies on my tongue.

"Overwhelming?" Olaf finishes for me, a quiet edge of kindness beneath the iron. "Suffocating? As if you woke in the wrong skin and fear the gods might strip it away while you sleep?"

A breath escapes me, half laugh, half sigh. In these rare moments of honesty, I see the man beneath the steel — the soldier who has bent the knee to lords long buried and carried truths too heavy to share.

I straighten in the chair, carved from hard northern wood. My fingers push back the dark hair that falls like a raven's wing around my face. I meet his eyes.

"Sometimes I fear this is all a dream I'll wake from. That my father made a mistake. That I am not enough for what I've been given. I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to hear this."

His hand — rough, heavy as old leather — rests on my shoulder. It weighs more than a mailed gauntlet.

"My lord," he says, a trace of dry humor in his tone, "the maesters have a word for that: impostor. It's the lie that creeps into your head and whispers that you don't deserve what you carry, that all you've built is made of smoke. Do not listen."

I open my mouth, but he hushes me with a small squeeze.

"I have served many lords in my winters, Jon Snow. Heirs true and false, some brittle as dead branches, some hollow as summer reeds. But you — you carried each stone to the wall yourself. At dawn you walk the clearing, counting wagons and men. You stand with blacksmiths and listen to farmers grumble. You bear it all, and still you take up sword and shield when most boys your age would quail at the sight of cold steel. If Ser Ritter's tales hold any truth, your arm is twice what it should be."

"Ritter exaggerates," I say, almost smiling.

Olaf shrugs, a slow lift of shoulders beneath his cloak. "Perhaps. But he does not lie. And remember this — I did not swear my sword to a frightened boy. I gave it to a lord worth following."

And then it comes back — the memory, sharp as the northern wind.

Memory

I knelt on frozen earth, one knee biting through cloth and skin. Before me, Eddard Stark, my father and Lord of Winterfell, stood like a tower of frost and stone. Behind him, the Star Gate loomed between two mountains — a mouth of black rock waiting to swallow my doubt.

At first I thought he mocked me. A cruel jest from a father to his bastard son. But my father's voice knows no cruelty when it speaks of duty.

"Jon. Say the words."

I did not understand at first. My hand rested on my thigh, my head bowed. I had seen men kneel this way a hundred times in the great hall at Winterfell — when they bent the knee and bound their fates in words. But this time, the voice would be mine.

"To Winter's fall, I swear my fealty. I offer my hearth and harvests, my home and heart. I give my sword and arrow to guard the weak, to lift the helpless, to bring justice where none remains. I swear it by water and earth. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire. I swear it by the old gods and the new."
My father's face, carved from northern stone, did not waver.

"I, Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell, swear that you shall always have a place by my fire, meat and mead at my table, and that I shall never ask of you a service that would rob you of your honor. I swear it by water and earth. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire. I swear it by the old gods and the new. Rise."

And I rose. Bastard still. But a lord.

Behind me, the Gate stood as promise and burden both. Robb and Theon laughed when they called it my "wagon port" — this Fortress in the Valley, planted between stone and sky. Let them laugh. I had men. I had walls to raise. A dream too large to break with one cruel winter.

Owen, Theo, and Lothor came first. They bent the knee to a Snow and called him lord. Ser Olaf pledged his sword not to my father but to me. When I asked him why, he only said, "A lord needs his shadow near, not leagues away in Winterfell." And so we sealed it with wine and words spoken under a pale moon.

The South would get its letter, stamped and sealed — a courtesy to soothe the king's pride. But the North already knew what was true: a new lord beneath the snow.

End of Memory

I return to the hall. Olaf watches me, as if he can still see the boy who knelt and the man who rose.

"You are right, Olaf," I say, letting the tension slip from my shoulders. "If I doubt, I fall. And if I fall, we all fall."

A rare smile ghosts across his weathered face. "Spoken like a true lord. Trust in your hands, Jon. And trust in ours. The Fortress will rise. And with you at its heart, it will stand through winters yet to come."

I nod. I gather my letters once more: urgent, later, someday. The council waits. The North waits. And for this moment — this one fleeting heartbeat — I feel worthy of the weight I bear.

Chapter Text

Valley Fortress — The North

Jon Snow — POV

The first to arrive is Owen, slipping through the council chamber's heavy door and taking the seat to my left without a word.
"Morning, Jon. Lord Olaf."

"How many times must I remind you, lad? It's just Olaf, or Ser, at least behind closed doors."

A faint smile tugs at Owen's lips. He knows well enough when courtesies are needed, and when they weigh more than they're worth.
"As you say, Ser Olaf."

Olaf pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperation etched in the lines of his weathered face. Before he can unleash a fresh lecture, I break in.

"Owen, I know old habits run deep. Since we were boys, they've been hammered into our skulls like iron into anvils. But you must remember — you are no longer merely your father's son, or your clan's loyal retainer. Here, you are a man in your own right. You have a name, a place, a voice. There is rank among us, aye — but here, at this table, you stand as an equal."

I see the hesitation in his shoulders — the stiffness of a man who still bows his head out of instinct. But slowly, it eases. He sits back, a little more at ease.
"I'm sorry, Jon. Ser Olaf. I'm still learning to wear this new skin."

Olaf waves him off with a flick of his thick hand. I know his mind well enough by now — for all his grumbling, he has drilled the same lessons into me a hundred times over: a lord's mask is never truly his own. Rank is armor, but armor binds as much as it protects. There is a time to stand rigid and a time to bend. A wise lord knows when to do each — and how to glimpse the truth in others when the masks slip.

"Come now, Owen. Sit easy. We're among friends — at least until we bury ourselves in the mountain of toil waiting to swallow us whole."
A short bark of laughter rumbles out of Olaf's chest. It draws our eyes.

"There are few truths in this life that care for rank or station," he says, eyes glinting under the torchlight. "All men must serve, and when that's done, there's nothing left but the grave."

"Gods help us, tell me there's something else," Owen mutters.

"Aye. The reward for a task well done — more tasks still waiting."

I suppose our dumbstruck faces encourage him to go on. He leans forward, folding his thick arms on the table as if to pass down some final law of the world.
"Jon. Owen. Life is a blade balanced between what we love and what we owe. If you're lucky, the edge is sharp on both sides. Most men find the steel jagged. Some bend so far to duty they break when they should have yielded. Some cling to pride so fiercely they drag their kin down with them, blind to the ruin they sow. Others chase legacy — real or conjured — heedless of the blood spilled in its name."

He pauses, studying us both.

"But the worst are those who wield honor and duty like a dagger — to show when it suits them and hide when it does not. Such men will greet you with one hand while the other hides behind their back. And you'll never see the blade until it's too late."
Olaf rises, crossing to the small side table where a jug of clear mountain water waits. He pours himself a measure into a plain tin cup, drinks deep, then returns, his boots heavy on the stone.

"Hold to this, both of you: do not slip into extremes. A man is torn always — between want and need, fear and duty. The space between is life. Keep your mind above your flesh, your reason above your hunger."

He sets the cup down with a quiet clink.

"You will meet trials. Some you will master. Some will break even the strongest of you. Some you will lose because the gods will it so. Your task is not to outrun fate — but to greet it prepared. And when luck smiles, you will find it's only your own readiness, waiting for its moment."

I let the words sink in, trying to carve them into the corners of my mind. Across from me, Owen's eyes are downcast, thoughtful. Before I can ask more, the door opens again.

Lothor and Teo slip inside, boots damp with snowmelt. They greet us in chorus.
"Lord Jon. Ser Olaf. Owen. Morning."

They sit to my left, the rough circle forming.

Not long after comes Professor Isak Metallarbeiter — the only soul left alive, he claims, who once wore the mantle of the Imperial University. A tall, spare man, with hair the color of snow left too long under an iron sky. He wears a mustache in the Braavosi fashion — sharp as his tongue. Call him a maester, and you will taste that tongue's venom soon enough.

"Lord Jon. Olaf," he greets, curt and formal as ever. I nod in return.

And then, as if the old gods themselves conspired to keep me from ever gathering my wits, Lords Mors Umber and Cregan Karstark thunder in together.
Mors is a bear — broad, towering, wrapped in a great white pelt, a single eye gleaming under his bristling brow. His patch is white leather, the same color as his beard — stark and wild. Beside him, Karstark seems like a Stark forged by a lesser smith: the same cold iron, but lacking the polish. He holds himself stiffly, as though afraid the world might see through his borrowed pride.

"Now that we are all here," I say, mustering what calm I can, "take your cups, gentlemen. There's drink enough for every tongue that wishes to wag."

They gather mugs from the sideboard — boiled water, watered wine, weak mead — each man claims his comfort. Our custom is simple: no marble balls or golden rods like the South. In the North, a man places his mug on the coaster when he wishes to speak. Simple enough for lords and laborers alike.

"To my right: Olaf, Mors, Karstark. To my left: Owen, Lothor, Teo. Myself at the head. Professor opposite. So we begin."

Olaf sets his mug down first. I incline my head, and he launches in.

"Thank you, my lord."

"You're welcome. Speak."

"Reports," he says, and half the room sighs in unison. I hide my smile — tedious, yes, but vital. Olaf's first lesson to me: a lord's strength is knowledge. Keep your eyes open, your ears sharper still.

"First — housing for laborers, skilled and unskilled, will be ready by dusk today, or midday tomorrow at the latest. Second — we are at our limit for guards, servants, and stewards given our present stores and lodgings. Once the day's work is done, we must decide: expand deeper, or push outward toward the valley mouth and the New Gift."

At this, Mors Umber thumps his mug down, the heavy wood striking stone like a hammer on an anvil.

"Has the old bear seen sense yet?"

Memory

Few men in the North are more bear than man than Mors Umber. The first time we spoke, he greeted me not with bow or nod but with a snarl that could have flayed bark from trees.

"You're so green, boy, you ought to be pissing grass."

I said nothing at first, stunned by the raw scorn in his voice — a rumble like stones grinding in a frozen river. Yet behind the bristling beard and the missing eye, I glimpsed something older than anger — a test.

The Training Yard

Cold wind. Breath and steam. Blade up, guard steady. One motion — step, turn, strike. Again. And again. Until the body forgets the mind.
"What are you playing at, pup? Digging your grave this late?"

Mors's voice crashed into the yard like a falling tree. The sun was gone. Only moonlight glinted off the steel in my hands.

"What does it look like, my lord?"

Mockery on my tongue. Foolish. He did not smile.

"Ha! Digging your grave indeed. Come on then, pup. Show me what you've got."

He plucked up a great shield from the rack — no sword, just iron and hide. He stepped before me, one-eyed and grinning.

"Come, Snow! Bite!"

I lunged — blade struck shield — he barely budged. The shield slammed back. I staggered, blocking just in time. He pressed — each blow a hammer. I was lighter, faster — had to be.

Block, slip, feint. Sweat in my eyes. He laughed — a sound like thunder rolling down a mountain. I circled, hunting breath.

"Tired already, pup? Ha!"

His guard dropped for a heartbeat — my chance. A feint to the head — he bit. My real strike swept low for the knee.

Surprise flickered in his good eye — then a grin. He stepped aside, swift as a bear in spring.

I caught a blur — then blackness.

I woke to cold water on my face, sputtering on the yard's hard ground. Mors stood over me, empty bucket in hand.

"Not bad, little wolf. Not bad at all."

He hauled me up with one massive paw.

"You showed teeth. You showed spine. You'll do."

End of Memory

I nod at Olaf to answer Mors's question.

"Aye," Olaf says, voice dry as old parchment. "The old bear sees reason now. The Watch is a shell of itself — more prison than brotherhood. So we pick the bones, see what use the New Gift can be. And if we're careful, we might nurse it back to worth again."

The room quiets — grief and hope, tangled together like roots under snow.

"Any more questions?" I ask.

None come. Olaf scans his notes, brisk and certain.

"Nothing more of urgency, my lord — save waiting on Ser Jagger's prospector's report."

"And he returns when?" I ask.

"Tomorrow, perhaps the day after. Word is the venture went well."

Nods all round. Good news is rare enough to cherish.

"Then we move on. Professor Isak, you have the floor."

The old scholar passes out papers, flicking them down the table like a croupier in Braavos.

"What you hold is the bones of this fortress — its shape in rough strokes," he begins. His voice is sharp iron, meant to cut through doubters. "Ten, perhaps eleven levels, perhaps sublevels beneath, depending on the rock. We build from the door inward, spine first — pillars, halls, armories, storage. Then the living quarters, the Lord's chambers — yours, Jon — and those who follow."

"Professor, we have only just laid the first stones," I say, half amused. "Let's not bury ourselves in castles yet."

"As you wish, my lord," he snaps, unbothered. He knows he'll have the last word someday.

He explains the rest — concrete and steel, maybe finer alloys if the prospectors find what we hope for. All hinges on Jagger's word. When Olaf confirms the scouts return soon, a rare warmth settles on my chest. Hope is a fragile flame, but it flickers strong tonight.

"Any final questions?" I ask.

They come, of course — about stone and steel, time and sweat. When they run dry, I raise my hand.

"Professor, the noon maneuver. Tell them."

"A simple thing," Isak says. "We open the valley entrance wider. We use explosives — not wildfire, no matter what fools say. They are safe, clean, precise. What little we have, we guard well. When they are gone, they are gone."

Some furrow brows, but none object. Isak has earned that much trust.

"Then it's done. This council is adjourned. We meet again at noon — for stone and thunder. And for the North."

They nod, rise, and drift from the chamber like crows to roost. I remain, alone but for the papers — the work waiting like winter itself.
And tomorrow, we build.

Chapter Text

The North — Clan Mountains

Ser Izak Jagger — POV

After near a moon and a half's march through mountain trails, abandoned mines, half-frozen streams, and steep passes, the four hundred men under my command — half Northerners, half Prussians — pressed on alongside their pack animals, hauling supplies and tools. I can say, thus far, the expedition has proven fruitful. We have found abundant limestone and all manner of ore: copper, iron, zinc, aluminum, and coal of various kinds throughout the range. But what has most astonished us is the trinium: wherever we drive our picks, we find it — as though these mountains were veined through and through with that strange metal.

Not all has gone as we hoped. We found no gold nor silver, though these peaks ought to belong to the same fault line that birthed the rich lands to the West. Nor did we strike oil anywhere. But one cannot claim every prize.

At last, our company of prospectors reached the crest of a pass. From there, the world unfolded before us: a valley cradled between twin mountain chains, its slopes brushed with crimson, amber, and ochre beneath the lowering sun, though dawn had barely slipped into morning. The locals claim we stand in high summer, yet the land wears autumn's face. Half-bare trees surrender leaves that drift in the wind like spent embers.

After a spell of silent watching, I signaled for the column to descend along the trail that wound down into the hollow. Without exception, we all went afoot; the ponies we use to bear our loads through these mountains are far too small to carry a man besides his burden, so each of us shoulders his own pack of personal gear. The veterans of the intelligence corps are accustomed to such labors; the Northerners who hail not from the clans of these highlands found it harder — the thin air, the endless climbs and drops, the treacherous footing caught them unawares, at least at first. By the second week they had begun, grudgingly, to adapt. Once Lord Jon grants leave to build a new academy, we shall mend this failing: he shall command the finest-trained, best-equipped militia on the continent — if not this world entire.
I confess, as we made our slow descent, the raw beauty of these wild lands stole my breath. It is a sight I had near forgotten was possible: to the north, ridges crowned in snow; to the south, the first glimpse of the Wolfwood, which shall be our next destination once we have rested a few nights in the village nestled at the valley's heart. Ringed by yellowed fields and hushed trees, the settlement lies spread along a clear stream, its banks littered with fallen leaves drifting on the current. The stone and timber houses, roofed in reddish tile or dark thatch, gather close by the water's edge. White smoke climbs straight into the cold air, steeping it in the clean scent of burning wood.

The fields have already been reaped: the furrows lie dark and damp, and here and there stand bundles of wheat bound tight, waiting to be carried away. A mill turns slow and steady by the stream, and a handful of figures — small folk, peasants most like — work without haste, swaddled in thick cloaks against the cutting wind. The breeze carries a distant peal of bells and the creak of bare branches. Migratory birds cross the sky in ordered flight, while the golden, slanting light lays a veil of quiet promise over the valley.

Though they call it summer, this is the coldest land I have known. In this village, winter reigns beneath its white cloak even now. The air is sharp as a blade's edge, and the pale smoke of hearth-fires drifts up to meet a grey sky. The village, home to perhaps five hundred souls, is guarded by a low palisade of timber braced with stone, and a frost-kissed oaken gate marks its chief entrance.

The dirt road, hardened by carts and hooves, winds among forested knolls and fields grown dull beneath the sun's pale eye. As we drew near, we glimpsed the main gate beyond a weather-blackened palisade and a crude watchtower of beams and hemp rope — and there stood the gate-guard.

I spied him before I reached the threshold: rooted firm, unhurried, spear resting on the frozen ground, his gaze fixed on me as I approached. He wore a rough brown tunic beneath a battered leather jerkin, stitched and stained with age. A short cloak fluttered about his shoulders, and a loose hood shadowed his face, though the glint in his eyes betrayed watchfulness, not weariness.

A broad belt circled his waist, hung with a dagger, a signal horn, and a small leather pouch. His boots were crude yet sturdy — the sort worn by a man who stands long hours upon stone, mud, or snow. Beside him, leaned against the palisade, rested a round wooden shield, cracked and weathered, bearing a hand-painted sigil — perhaps the mark of some local lord, or the seal of the community itself.

When I came within a few paces, he neither spoke nor moved, but his bearing made plain enough: this was his post, and none passed without his say.
"Good day, good man," I said, raising a hand slightly in courtesy. "We come from the lands of the new Lord, son of Lord Stark."

He regarded me a moment, then dipped his chin. His voice was hoarse, like one long used to nights beneath the open sky.

"The bastard." There was not a mote of scorn in the word; he spoke it as plain fact. "Aye — Lord Jon Snow."

He stepped aside and rapped the gate with the butt of his spear. A hollow echo. Within, the bolt scraped back, and after a heartbeat, the gate creaked open wide enough for men and beasts burdened with gear to pass through. Before stepping inside, I asked:

"My good man, I need a place to tend my beasts — and to buy and sell provisions."

"If you've trade to make, see the market before midday. And for your animals, ask for Garet at the stable. But mind you stay clear of the miller's girl," he added, the ghost of a smile touching his mouth. "She's chased off two strangers already, shovel in hand."

I inclined my head and stepped across the threshold. Behind me, the guard resumed his place, still as the stone wall he watched over.

Once inside, I summoned my two lieutenants: one a Northerner, the other my countryman — Brandon. The number of men named thus is absurd, but that is a thought for another time. Dietrich Crow, once of the intelligence corps, now stands second under my command. When only ten of those agents remain — half retired, the other half fledglings from an academy that no longer stands — rank becomes a matter of necessity.

"Yes, sir," they answered together, squaring their shoulders before me.

"Good. Hear me well. Gather the men and make it known: no conduct shall be tolerated that betrays the dignity and honor of our cause. The least crime will be punished with severity, and I care not who their father or brother might be. There will be no favorites. If any man wishes to keep his hand, his stones, and his neck from the rope, he will behave. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good. Now, with that settled, see that the men and beasts find roof and board — at fair price, paid properly." I unhooked the small leather pouch at my belt and handed it to Dietrich, along with the news from the gate-guard. "This should suffice for the cost," I added, dismissing them with a wave. They dipped their heads and set off to do their work.

Strange to think that just a few centuries ago, we lived like this… Knowing Metallarbeiter, I wonder how long it will take him to lift this place up to our current level — perhaps decades, at least within the fortress walls.

The houses, of stone and timber, stand beneath steep roofs to keep the snow from piling too deep. Most are small, their windows covered in animal hide against the chill. On a hill nearby rises the Godswood, its pale trunks and blood-red leaves a sight I have seen in many places. At a glance, they are but strange-colored trees — but step within their hush, and it is plain enough why folk revere them as temples. I cannot claim to be a pious man — not after all I have seen and done — yet I will not deny there is something near-divine in their presence.

At the village's heart lies the market square, a patch of cobbles where traders pitch their stalls beneath roofs of timber and canvas, sheltering against the drifting snow. Thick furs, smoked meats, fresh bread, spices brought up from the foothills and valleys below — all for sale beneath the keen eyes of weathered folk.
I move among them, feeling the wet chill seep through my boots. The wind from the peaks scours my cheeks raw, yet I do not hide my face more than need demands: let them see who I am. Let them know that behind this sword and breastplate stands not an arrogant lord, but a man of flesh and cold, sent by Jon Snow — Eddard Stark's bastard, now my liege, I suppose. Life remains a thing of endless turns.

Around me, my men do as they must. They need no word from me at every turn: they know what to seek, what to pay, when to hold their tongues. A pair inspect sacks of barley and oats, ask after fresh water, salt for the mules and for the meat that will soon be hard to keep. They pay in silver stamped with the direwolf of House Stark; even here, in this far-flung corner of the vast North, folk stare in wonder at men so distantly bound to Winterfell.

An old man eyes me from his cheese stall, lips working soundlessly — a prayer, perhaps, or a curse. Let him say it. None here shall take more than he pays for — yet none shall settle for less than he came to claim. Jon's word was clear: no pillaging, no blade drawn where a word will suffice.

I pass a girl clutching a pail of milk. She watches me as though she fears I'll snatch the bucket or the loaf in her other hand. I offer her a small, fleeting smile. When she sees I take nothing, her eyes widen, and she grants me the ghost of a smile in return — slight, yet enough.

Something pulled at me then. Amid the low of cattle and the hum of barter, I felt it: a tremor, like an old whisper beneath the earth. I found it in a corner — a wobbly table draped in coarse wool.

Upon it, the shapes: wolves, bears, ravens, a unicorn half-formed. The instant my fingers brushed one, I knew it was no common stone. It weighed too heavy for its size. The chill it gave off was different — almost alive.

The woman behind the table watched me like a stray cur scenting meat yet fearing the lash. Her calloused hands trembled as I bent over the carved wolf. My thumb traced its surface — half-rough, smooth and black beneath the dust. Within, I felt a prickle, as though the stone itself wished to speak.

"Where from?" I asked, eyes still on the carving.

She swallowed. I saw her reading my pale eyes, my light hair, my face that Northerners say recalls the men of the Vale — the Arryns. But I am no Arryn. Truth be told, I never set foot in the Vale — nor on this world, if the old stories hold true — until we crossed the gate. But such comparisons bloom like grass after rain.
"From the vein," she stammered, the lie thin as mist. "Stone from these mountains…"

"No." I cut her off, meeting her gaze. My voice did not rise, but it made her flinch all the same. "Not stone from here. Old stone. Rare."
She swallowed again, fingers knotted in the blanket.

"It's no theft," she whispered. "A man brings it… Free Folk, from beyond the Wall. Crosses with pelts, salt… Leaves this. I trade it for bread, for warmth. I do no harm."

I turned the wolf in my palm. I knew what it was, though no one here would name it so. Olaf spoke of rumors — black stones, minerals that gleam like wet coal yet hold within a weight heavier than iron.

Naquadah.

What runs in the veins of parasites — false gods whose ships, weapons, and marvels it feeds.

"You are no thief," I said, slowly. Her breath caught like a cornered thing. "I don't want your head. Or your tongue. I want the truth. I'll pay for the carvings — and for your word. I must know if there is more, how much more, and precisely where. I can already see the next expedition — caravans, escort, men."
I laid silver down. It struck the blanket louder than I thought — as though the stone beneath it claimed its due.

"Come back when the moon turns," she said, staring at the coins as if they burned her skin. "He comes down with the snow, brings this. He asks no gold. Wants warmth, meat. Says there's more — much more — up there."

I nodded, tucked the Naquadah wolf into my pouch. I took a raven and a bear besides. No villager dared question why. My men cast sidelong looks, knowing something had changed, but asked nothing. Well trained.

The woman's eyes followed me as I left. Her lips moved, words the wind carried away — perhaps a blessing, perhaps a curse. With Naquadah, who can say?
I gave the order to move. We left the market with grain, salt, water… and a secret heavier than all of it combined.

Chapter Text

The North — Clan Mountains

Ser Izak Jagger — POV

The day drags itself into dusk like a wounded stag, leaving behind a trail of fatigue and promises yet to weigh on my hands — but soon they will claim their due. All I came seeking has been secured without spilling more blood than what seeps from raw feet after the long march. A small comfort: not every man can say the same of these lands where even the wind bites deep.

Tonight we rest here, behind walls of old timber, beneath roofs that groan and hold back the frost just enough to pretend they care. Tomorrow, with the first raven of dawn, we ride for the Wolfwood, to dig up what those roots have hidden from lesser men. But though my men sleep, wrapped in wool and worn-out dreams, I find no sleep waiting for me. The figurine dances in my mind still — a small stone idol, promising the loyalty of men or the spark of wars that could devour kingdoms.

For now, deciding its fate is not my burden. That judgment belongs to others — men whose hands never touch a blade but drip with the same blood all the same. I need only wake tomorrow to see where this game leads next.

I gather the last reports, hear out my men down to their final murmurs. I grant them leave to spend their last coins on watered wine and weary women. Let them remember rest is borrowed, and debt comes due at dawn.

I leave the camp behind, crossing a muddy street where frost clings to puddles like a starving dog to bone. The inn rises ahead — two lanterns flicker against the chill, like dying fireflies. The door, old wood and rusted nails, groans when I shoulder it open. Inside, the hearth devours a log, spitting sparks that perfume the stale air with burning resin. It smells of sour ale, boiled beef, old smoke — a perfume good enough to call home in this wooden den.

I find them by the fire: Brandon and Crow, two faces I know better than my own reflection. They laugh, argue, drink as if the world owes them nothing more. When I enter, Crow straightens, Brandon follows — discipline lingering like an old scar. I wave them down: sit, you bastards. Let me be a man before I'm a commander again.

I slip the sword from my hip and lean it by the wall — an old wolf left to dream by the fire. I sit, take the plate they saved me, lift the mug of ale. The first swallow scrapes the road's ash from my throat, leaves a slow warmth that fools the bones for a moment. Just for a heartbeat, I'm not Ser Izak Jagger — just Izak, a boy among friends, pretending the world is simpler than it is.

But peace is a candle's wick — short, fragile, gone before you feel its heat. Crow watches me over his mug's rim, eyes sharp as ever.

—There's something you'll want to hear, Izak —he says, tossing a dry twig into the flames. Sparks burst like dying fireflies.

I could feign surprise, but why bother? I've known him since the academy: if Crow stays silent, the danger festers in the dark. If he speaks, at least you know where the blade will bite.

Memory

I still feel the cold marble under my boots, the damp corridors where mist crept like a ghost. The trumpet that tore us from sleep was a blade that carved boys into soldiers. There, I learned to fear and love the same edge. I learned to meet a superior's gaze without bending the spine. I learned that frost binds men tighter than any wine.

Crow would play his harmonica in shadowed corners. Richter fed crusts to half-starved rats. And I dreamed of wars that would never look like the stories in the old library — clean wars, sturdy walls, honor that didn't stink of rotting blood. I still keep that coat, insignias dulled like my faith. Sometimes I run my thumb over the frayed thread and swear I hear the trumpet again. For an instant, I almost believe.

End of Memory

—Fine, speak —I tell him.

—Not me. I brought him here. He won't be long.

And he isn't lying. A man steps from the shadows — clothes patched to rags, hair white as sea foam, hands cracked by salt and wind. His name is Jonnotor, a fisherman from the Stone Coast, last of a line that never knew a surname. Crow sits him down across from me, like an envoy of drowned hopes.

Jonnotor speaks. He speaks of night, fire, knives. He speaks of Ironborn — silent as water snakes — stealing ashore, burning homes, taking women, drowning children whose cries were too loud for the sea's liking. He tells of an old man hiding under his boat, breathing in the stench of his people turned to red mist. And he speaks of vengeance — he asks for no bread nor gold, only heads. Heads on pikes, he says, so the wind can lick them like it licked the tide that stole his life.

I promise nothing but the only thing I can: that I'll listen, that I'll speak for him, that his pain won't drown in silence. And it's enough. He rises, spine still straight despite the years, and vanishes among the mugs and shadows.

Brandon breaks the hush, speaking of the Stone Coast, of raids that come and go like the tides. Of Balon Greyjoy, old kraken swollen with pride. Of burnt ships and hanging bridges cut down while men screamed who never learned to swim. Of Theon, the hostage living under another roof to keep the iron asleep — but iron never sleeps. Iron only waits for the next tide.

I nod, listening, calculating. Behind every tragedy is a map. Behind every dead farmer, a lord sees land to claim, timber to shape, trade routes to carve. Olaf, sly as a fox in sheep's wool, will know how to whisper this to Jon Snow. And Jon… well, Jon still smells of duty and honor. If any of the old wolf remains in him, this coast won't drown in silence.

Brandon asks if there's hope.

—More than you think —I say.

And in the North, a whisper of hope is worth more than a legion of empty oaths.

—At dawn, we ride —I remind them. I finish the ale, lift the sword. The fire crackles behind me as I step out: tomorrow will be long, and the North forgives no man who forgets to sleep.

The North — Wolfwood

Ser Izak Jagger — POV

The camp sleeps under blankets of wool, circled by campfires that lick the dark like red jaws. Four centuries of men snore under tents stretched tight by ropes that tremble with every howl of the wind. Out there, beyond the fire's reach, wolves watch us like sentinels who've forgotten which pack they serve. But while our embers burn, they'll keep their distance — or so I tell myself.

—All right, Crow —I order—. Speak.

He tosses a dry branch into the fire. It pops and spits sparks into his grin.

—The forest's generous —more than we reckoned. Oak, pine straight as spears — good for masts, beams, palisades. And better still: maples. Tall, healthy. We'll tap them when the time's right, boil their sap into syrup. Up North they'll trade dearly for a taste of sweetness. Imagine it: barrels of wild honey and maple syrup — liquid gold without plow or seed.

I think on it — a winter funded by sweetness, if the gods don't betray us. If this capricious world, with seasons that refuse to stay tamed, obeys for once. But fortune always calls to greed — honey draws flies.

—Our healers packed sacks of herbs, roots, mushrooms. They swear they're worth more than any apothecary's balm. The traps yielded fresh game — young deer, boar, hare, fish leaping from a stream so clean some already call it holy water. We have water to drink, to wash, to boil stew. For now, no man drinks his own filth.

—See they use the latrines —I cut in, voice cold as the frost on our shields—. Anyone caught fouling the stream will taste ten lashes. Foul fresh water, and they'll take the black — and that will be their kinder sentence.

Crow nods, as dry as the bark he feeds the flame.

—There's more —he says—. We found a cave. Rock streaked with reddish veins — iron, maybe copper. And old walls, moss-eaten stones whispering of hands dead centuries ago. Some mutter druids. Others say older still. Out here, everything whispers. Even the wind carries secrets.

I see him burn with the tale — timber, sap, ruins, and under it all, unminted gold. Riches that call carrion birds with swords for beaks.

—Tomorrow I'll clear more trails —he says—. Scouts, traps for beasts, eyes for bandits. Nothing will catch us sleeping — not tonight. Wolves may circle, but men will sleep like pups under our watch.

—Remind them: seven days here. Then we return to the Wall. Lord Mormont will want word of the find — and he'll name the price for letting us keep it.

Crow only nods. He knows the true winter doesn't sleep among the trees — it walks on two legs, wearing a lord's cloak.

—Good night, Crow. —I turn for my tent—. May the old gods grant us dreams without nightmares.

The North — The Wall

Ser Izak Jagger — POV

The northern wind herds us like a flock of shadows toward the Wall. Through snow squalls howling like ghosts with no graves, the silhouette of Castle Black rises — black against a sky of hammered iron. From afar, it looks like a petrified beast, hunching beneath centuries of frost, cracks, and half-forgotten oaths.

My men, hunched in wagons or on tired mounts, stare with a mix of reverence and sour disappointment. Some dreamed of proud towers, clean battlements, fires that never die. What they find is patched ramparts, rotting planks, weary stone. But the Wall is not held up by stone — it is held up by men who refuse to break.

I ride at the head, frost clinging to my beard, cloak snapping like a ragged banner. I'm not here to take the black, nor to swear my blade as the Wall's. I come as the eyes and tongue of Jon Snow, Lord of the Vale, son of the wolf. His will is mine until my breath leaves me for the last cold sleep.

When we reach the gate, two brothers step forward — black cloaks, rough spears, hands blue with windburn.

—Who goes there? —asks one, his voice carried off by the gale like a dying whisper.

I dismount, boots crunching into old snow packed by a thousand feet.

—Ser Izak Jagger. Envoy of Lord Jon Snow. I seek audience with Lord Jeor Mormont and First Ranger Benjen Stark —if this wind hasn't stolen their breath yet.
The guards exchange a glance, surprise flickering under the soot of their hoods. One nods, raps the gate with the butt of his spear. Hinges protest, wood groans open with a sigh older than the men who guard it.

Inside the yard: frozen mud, snow, ravens croaking from splintered battlements. Black brothers unload damp firewood, check our wagons like wolves sniffing a meal. They know we bring more than supplies — we carry promises, plans, and trouble no parchment can bind.

They lead me through damp corridors, walls weeping frost. A half-cracked door spills a glow of dying embers. Inside sits Lord Jeor Mormont — an old bear who remembers how to tear flesh if need be. Beside him: Benjen Stark, wolf's shadow, eyes cold as the longest night.

—Ser Jagger —growls Mormont, drumming a knotted finger on parchment—. You bring words to warm these walls —or fresh trouble to freeze them shut?
Benjen says nothing — arms crossed, back stiff as an unrotted trunk.

I drop the hood. Frost flakes from my beard like old silver.

—I bring Jon Snow's word. And more —I say, locking eyes with the fire between us—. I bring a plan to keep this Wall more than stone and ghosts whispering promises to the snow.

The Old Bear leans back, weighing my words like arrows he must decide whether to loose. Benjen's stare could chip ice. Outside, the wind claws the ramparts like a hungry wolf. Inside, for a heartbeat, the North's voice still lives.

Chapter Text

The Wall — The North

Point of view: Ser Izak Jagger

The snow fell as if the sky itself had grown weary of winter's weight, shedding its cold upon the land once more. Beneath the perpetual gray, the Wall rose like a sentence of stone and ice—a reminder carved by vanished hands, born not of pride, but of fear.

The smoke from the hearth was barely enough to warm the great hall of Castle Black. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont stood beside the table, his figure seeming to blend into the shadows. His black cloak, heavy as the history he bore, trailed to the floor, soaked with melted snow and mud. There was more weight in his eyes than on his shoulders.

The makeshift table, built from uneven planks, was spread out before him, bearing an unfolded map of the Gift. Lands once granted by a generous queen centuries past—now forgotten by practical men, stolen by neglect and inertia.

To his left, First Ranger Benjen Stark watched in silence. His face, hidden beneath the shadow of a hood, was as inscrutable as the frozen lands he patrolled. His mere presence was enough to unsettle. He did not speak often, but when he did, each word fell heavy as iron.

Before them, Ser Izak Jagger stood tall, his dusty cloak still marked by the journey through paths half-buried by the storm. Beneath dull plate armor, his body ached from days on horseback, yet his bearing showed no weariness. He could not afford to seem weak. Not here.

"Lord Jon comes not to demand, but to offer," said Izak clearly, his voice sharpened by duty, not desire. "The lands of the Gift have gone untilled for generations. Meanwhile, your men freeze and starve guarding a void."

Mormont did not answer. The fire crackled, as if trying to fill the silence that followed. Izak went on.

"That is putting it mildly. This order, if I may speak freely, suffers from a deeper malady than mere scarcity. When good Queen Alysanne granted you these lands, she did so with a faith that has not been honored. She gave you a gift, yes... but also a burden. Without men, without will, without direction, even the most fertile fields yield no harvest."

Mormont's frown deepened, but still he said nothing. Silence was his shield.

"I have ridden through the western North in my lord's name. I've seen farms burned by neglect, villages reduced to muddy graveyards. What happens here is no exception. It is the rule."

Benjen Stark lowered his head slightly, as if he already knew that truth.

"My lord proposes something simple," Izak continued, feeling the chill deepen even inside Castle Black. "We will establish three protected villages along the southern edge of the Gift. Northern families will live there—loyal bannermen, hardened farmers, craftsmen, and builders. Each will have its own detachment of men. Not soldiers, but guardians. Enough to keep order, not to raise rebellion."

A lie, cloaked in good will, he thought. But all in the hall knew that fictions were necessary to keep the world turning.

What he didn't say—not aloud, at least—was that the true vision didn't end with three villages. The full plan was to take all of the New Gift, to rebuild Queen's Crown, and to extend the King's Road from west to east, linking the valley's stronghold with Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Before departing, the advisors had already spoken of opening a pass through the mountains to the Bay of Ice and building a secret port there, far from prying eyes.

"And under whose authority would these lands fall?" Benjen finally asked, his voice low, sharp as the wind over the frosted moors.

"Under the Watch's, as it has always been. But administered locally by stewards appointed by Lord Jon. It would be a partnership. You keep the land. We bring life back to it."

A partial truth. If he knew Olaf, his advisor, it wouldn't be long before he suggested making this arrangement something more permanent—more useful... for his lord, of course.

Mormont snorted, turning slightly toward the fire.

"And what's to stop those villages from growing beyond their purpose? What will we do when we can no longer control the grandchildren of those settlers?"
"That's why we're here before a single house is built," Izak replied. "To make terms clear. Lord Jon does not seek what isn't his. But the dangers in the North are not what they once were. Empty walls feed no one. It is time to rethink old customs."

Old customs that were crumbling with the stones of forgotten keeps, he thought. The Watch endured out of habit, out of honor and stubbornness—not out of strength.
Benjen crossed his arms.

"And what does your lord offer in return?"

"Food. Cut lumber. Stocked shelters for winter. Iron tools. Reinforcements for the patrols. And cleared roads to the ruined castles that still belong to you."
They knew. They knew they could not say no. The Old Bear, out of need. Benjen, out of blood. For, despite it all, it was his nephew offering them this way forward. And in Westeros, blood was thicker than ice.

The silence stretched, thick as fog. Mormont stared into the flames, perhaps seeking answers the maps no longer offered.
"We've turned down more generous offers," he murmured at last. "But we've also watched the Watch grow thinner with every winter. Perhaps your lord sees what others do not."

He turned to Benjen. The Stark gave a barely perceptible nod.

"We will agree to discuss it. On certain conditions. There will be no stag banners, nor wolves, flown over these lands. Only black. Only the Watch. Will Jon understand that?"

"He does. And he accepts it," said Izak, bowing his head.

For now. Who knew what the years would bring? If what he'd uncovered in the Valleys proved true, change was already in motion. Perhaps the Night's Watch would be irrelevant before the next Lord Commander drew his last breath.

"Then write your proposal. I'll place my seal. We'll take it to the Night's Council. And if they approve… you may begin when ready."
"It will be done," said Izak. Then added, "But I have not come with only my lord's will."

Both men looked at him with suspicion. And with reason. Izak was no Northman. He bore no blood of the First Men, and had sworn no vow. The only reason he had a voice in that hall was the name he represented.

"Out with it, then," Mormont growled.

Izak allowed himself the hint of a smile. He bent down, opened his satchel slowly, and drew from it three small figures carved in dark stone: a howling wolf, a crouched bear, and a falcon mid-flight. He placed them on the table.

"In a village near the Wolfwood, I found an old woman selling these at the market."

He passed one figure to Mormont, another to Benjen.

"I paid a fair price. But then I asked her where she got them. More than that—where the material they were made from came."
The men examined them closely.

"I suppose the material is special," said Mormont.

"It is. But not only for what it is," Izak replied, "but for where it came from."
"Where?" asked the Old Bear.

But it was Benjen who answered, his voice lower than before:
"Beyond the Wall."

A deeper silence fell then, heavier than the last. The fire still crackled—but now it sounded like a whisper from far away.

The Wall—Castle Black

Benjen Stark – POV

The figurine weighed little, but its meaning sank into my palm like a stone into a lake. Carved in the grey stone, worn by time and the hands that had held it before me. I frowned as I studied it, wondering how many winters it had endured, and what eyes had once gazed upon it beyond the Wall.

I knew where it came from. From beyond, from the lands of the wildling tribes—those who lived not far from the Wall, close enough to trade, but not close enough to be called neighbors. We were not allies. Nor enemies. A lukewarm relationship, like the winter sun that warms but does not melt the frost. Close enough that smuggling found its way through the cracks in the Wall, like water through poorly set stones.

"Near the village of White Tree," said Ser Izak, his voice rough as worn leather. "The Free Folk trade these trinkets for seeds, tools, nails, leather. Things they lack. Things they want."

The southern knight seemed strangely fascinated by the crude art of the far North. His face darkened, and in his frown I saw something more than curiosity—deep, unsettling contemplation.

I still didn't know what to make of it. I was glad for Jon, of course, that he had found a path different from mine. The Night's Watch was no longer what it once was. Not even when I took my vows, many winters ago. And now, it had become a shadow of its former self, held together by thieves, bastards, and the last scraps of honor. It was no life for a boy. Not for one like him.

The thought that the last piece of my sister's legacy now clung to this place filled me with a bitter sorrow. Here, among cracked stone and eternal vigils, where snow blanketed even memory. Something in me was breaking apart, like a cliff beaten endlessly by the tide. This was better, yes. But I still didn't fully trust those outsiders. Ned said we needed them—that we couldn't simply close the gate and forget what we'd seen.

And I still couldn't forget… that.

My thoughts shattered like ice beneath a heavy boot when the Old Bear spoke.

"How long has this been going on? How is it possible?"

"Decades," I answered, almost in a sigh. "Mostly through the Bay of Ice. We don't have enough men. Or resources. We can't patrol the entire northern side of the Wall. Smuggling comes through there. Also through Hardhome, Skagos... and the others—those mad enough to climb the Wall itself. Some make it."

Mormont nodded solemnly. No one understood the Watch's decline like he did. He lived it every day.

"Lord Benjen, is that material common beyond the Wall? Do you know where it comes from?"

"It is. They gather it near the Fist of the First Men, along the milky river that runs down from the Skirling Pass."

I saw a brief flicker of satisfaction cross the knight's face, gone as quickly as a spark. Then he returned to his usual calm. We said little after that—just enough to finalize the agreement. Ser Izak retired to the barracks prepared for him and his men, and I remained with the Old Bear.

"What do you make of all this, Benjen?"

"Nothing he said was false."

"But…?"

"It's as he said. The plans for the New Gift are greater than they appear. And I don't know whether we're part of them—or pieces already played."
The Old Bear gave a snort, clearing his throat like an old crow.

"That's true for every lord in the Seven Kingdoms. Your nephew will be no different. And that's a good thing. If a new lord isn't sharp and shrewd, he'll be eaten alive. The North is more direct than the South, aye—but it has its own labyrinths."

All I could do was nod. He had seen more winters than I, more deaths, more changes. And still, the unease lingered. Perhaps it was no longer my burden, but Ned's… yet the cold does not heed inherited duties.

I hope you know what you're doing, brother. The North stands at the edge of change, and it has never welcomed the new. Not its people, nor its lords.
Ser Izak did not linger. He sent a few ravens, dispatched a rider, and on the third day his company departed, lightened by their generous donation of provisions, weapons, and armor to the Watch. The boys would be grateful for the barrels of beer and cured meat. When there is nothing, even little feels like a feast.

And as they came, they went.

For now.

The New Gift—the North

Ser Izak Jaggers – POV

I could still see Castle Black receding in the distance with every marching step of my men—Northmen and Prussians alike. In the moons it took us to make this journey, I can say I fulfilled more than my duty. I return with my head held high and a successful mission behind me. I suppose, once we arrive, rest will be brief. There is too much yet to be done—more than establishing clans, than pacifying, bribing, and offering all manner of gifts just to be allowed to exploit the riches of the mountain range, the depths of the Wolfwood. At least the surprisingly fertile land of the Gift is now ready to be worked. I imagine it will be the first to receive the fruits of the planned forges and factories: men, metal, and progress.

"Izak."

"What is it, Crow?"

"At this pace, we'll be back within a week—barring any unforeseen mishap."

I stared at him.

"You realize you've just cursed us all, don't you?"

Crow only laughed and returned to his post. He was never one for superstition or old wives' tales. Always said they were nothing but stories to entertain children and fool the gullible. Still, I've always believed there's some truth in them.

The Northern Mountains—The Nort

It took more than a week, perhaps two and a couple days more, but we were nearly there. The sun hid behind a veil of grey clouds, casting a pale light over the open land. The caravan moved at a steady pace, leaving behind wind-swept plains and entering the first foothills of the Clanmounts—realm of stone, pine, and precipice. A land of narrow paths, ancient echoes, and eyes watching through the mist.

At the front rode Ser Izak Jaggers, cloaked in dark blue trimmed with silver. His armor bore the marks of travel: dust, dried blood, and a fresh notch on the left pauldron. Behind him marched half a hundred men: seasoned soldiers, appointed guards, and volunteers, a seamless mix of Northmen and Prussians. The first step in Olaf's grand design for full integration. He knows our only hope lies in a complete merging, state and civilian alike. Families bound by both bloods—northern wives and Prussian husbands, or vice versa, with children bearing the veins of both. All under the banner of a young Kaiser... but those are plans and dreams for another day.

Among the carts rode supplies—tools, grain, strong wine, sealed parchments—and a locked iron chest, bound with three heavy latches. Within lay the most precious items for an expedition such as ours: samples of every mineral discovered, maps marking where they were found, and hand-drawn charts of narrow mountain trails—every path to the valleys and through the forest and the Gift, whether official or paid in silver from the lips of littlefolk.

As the road began to climb and the trees closed in like the fingers of a sleeping giant, Izak moved ahead, recognizing the bend where the trail dipped into a rocky gorge. It came as no surprise—but it brought tension—to see the figures mounted atop the pass.

Seven riders, still as black statues against the mist. They bore no visible banners, but their long cloaks and rigid bearing spoke of Northern discipline. The one at their center began a slow descent. He wore dull grey plate, helm slung from the saddle, revealing a face framed by a short beard and eyes as cold as spring ice.

"Caravan under the command of Ser Izak Jaggers!" he called, clear and loud. "By order of Lord Jon Snow, halt your advance."

Izak raised a hand, and the steady march ceased. Even the mules tensed. Silence thickened. Only the creak of a wheel and the whisper of wind disturbed it.

"Speak, rider," said the knight. "Why do you block the path sworn to my lord?"

"By direct order from the Lord of Fortres-in-the-Vale." The rider dismounted and approached, lifting his helm like a chest. "A controlled demolition is underway on the eastern slope. A new outer wall is to be built there. The dynamite is already placed. The pass will be dangerous for the next few hours."

"Dynamite?" one of the guards muttered, as though the word were sorcery.

"A second access to the valley is being opened," the rider explained. "Wider. Easier to defend. Lord Snow means to control the throat of the valley before winter. He won't risk burying his own caravan beneath rock and fire."

Ser Izak looked to his men, then to the sky, where the sun vanished behind jagged peaks.

"How long must we wait?"

"Three hours. Four, perhaps. Ravens have been sent to the stronghold. The watchman will blow the horn when the pass is clear. Until then, you may make camp in the clearing by the ravine."

Izak nodded curtly.

"Very well. But if that dynamite breaks a wheel, your lord will pay for it."

The rider offered a dry smile.

"He'll pay. Or have it fixed. That's his way."

The caravan was turned downhill, toward a small widening between old pines and moss-covered rocks. They raised tents, tied the beasts, and lit low fires. Some men slept. Others sharpened their blades. No one spoke loud. Now and then, a distant sound rose with the wind—chains dragging, metallic strikes, a shout lost among cliffs.

Then, far off, like a slumbering dragon waking in rage, the mountain trembled. A roar shook the trees, and the birds fled like a black cloud. The earth rumbled again... and then fell still.

The horn did not delay.

Once.

Twice.

The mouth of the valley was open.

And the road to the White Wolf's Keep lay clear.

When the mountain horn fell silent, Ser Izak Jaggers stepped away from the main fire and walked into the shadow of a great stone, where Dietrich Crow, his second, was honing his dagger with a black whetstone. The man looked up, his dark hair tied in a low braid, face etched with deep lines.

"How long do you think before they make us move again?" Dietrich asked, not pausing in his work.

"Not long," Izak replied. "As soon as the path is cleared, they'll want us at the keep before the next snowfall. Jon doesn't let the ground cool beneath his feet."
Dietrich nodded. He'd fought in more than one war but never spoke of them. That, more than anything, was why Izak trusted him.

"Once we're settled in the stronghold and taken our well-earned rest," the knight said after a pause, "I'll likely need you to ride to Winterfell. You'll carry a sealed report to Lord Stark. There are things he should know before the ravens start shouting it."

Dietrich raised a brow.

"You don't expect a quiet life."

"No," Izak sighed. "Not really."

Crow sheathed the dagger, stood, and brushed the dust from his boots.

"I suppose that's why I'm here. After all, I'm the best agent you've got left."

Ser Izak looked at him for a moment, then clapped his shoulder.

"Being the best by lack of competition isn't much of a compliment."

They shared a long look, until faint smiles touched their faces.

"Let's hope Lord Stark's intelligence network isn't too primitive... or, gods forbid, nonexistent. Then your job will only be a little harder."

Dietrich didn't reply. He just nodded and walked away, his silhouette vanishing into the mist.

Chapter Text

The Valley Fortress — The North

POV: Jon Snow

It was mid-afternoon, and the heavy air hung thick over the northern hills, like a gray shroud settling across the land, laden with dampness and suspended ash. I made my way steadily toward the demolition operation underway on the slope guarding the valley's entrance. A necessary enterprise, no doubt, yet tinged with unease: they were opening the pass to widen the throat, to make room for the future walls that would protect the fortress, and to dig a deep moat between its defenses. All had to be done with precision and no margin for error, for this was the threshold of a new age for the North.

The wind cut through the air like a wet blade, chilling to the bone. The light, dim and filtered through thick clouds of dark dust, barely managed to hint at its presence upon the ground. From the gray crags above, the workers toiled: clad in canvas jackets and worn leather helmets, they drove stakes to mark the limits and stretched cables with hands steady and accustomed to hard labor. The murmur of their voices blended with the creak of wood and the scrape of tools—a laborious chorus that stretched across the slope.

It was no small task they undertook. This was no simple work of engineering; they were opening a path to the New Gift, a passage long closed and narrow since time immemorial. At the same time, they traced the beginnings of a line of fortifications to defend the south. The future rose before them—fragile and full of promise—held up by calloused hands and keen minds.

Since dawn, the labor had not ceased. The men dug into the earth, carving long, narrow trenches that seemed to wind without purpose. Yet the purpose was clear: they were not preparing trenches for war, but shelters, hiding places to protect their own from the devastation of controlled explosions they called death under strict command. To me, the idea of such control was hard to grasp—how could one wield the power of destruction with such precision, without fury breaking loose?
The trenches unfolded like a twisted, dark labyrinth, propped with rough wooden beams and bound by urgency. Each passage had its function: some were entrances and exits for the workers, others led to shelters where the ground was covered by crude wooden and earth roofs, holding provisions and tools essential to the task.

Beyond, lay the most dangerous stores: rods of fire, or whatever they were called, watched without rest by guards who had no other task but to keep those deadly charges safe. Not one could be lost, neither by mistake nor neglect. Nor could men be allowed to die in a premature blast. Such a disaster would be unrecoverable.

At the heart of this tangle of earth and timber stood the command post, a low and sober building shielded from wind and weather. Within were sturdy tables and heavy chairs for those directing the operation, and among them were the so-called detonators—delicate, strange devices which, according to Professor Isak Metallarbeiter, were living proof of the mind's power and science, a testament to what man can achieve when devoted to knowledge and the mastery of nature's forces.

From that post stretched an endless tangle of cables—dozens, perhaps hundreds—that snaked among the rocks and soil, reaching out along the slope to the points where the charges would be set deep within the mountain. Despite what my eyes beheld, this was no traditional battle. It was something else, a game of patience and calculation, where precision mattered more than brute force.

As I approached the post, I found Professor Isak in his element, focused and methodical. He was an older man, his pepper and sal hair contrasting with the soot that stained his hands and clothing. He adjusted his pocket chronometer with a nervous skill, while Olaf, the lest old man with an intense gaze, leaned over a map spread upon the wooden table. The professor traced lines and points on the parchment with his finger, speaking softly as though each word was part of a spell that must be spoken without error. Olaf looked up at me and motioned for me to come closer.

The Valley Fortress — The North

Professor Isak Metallarbeiter – POV

Olaf stepped away to speak with the young princ… no, with the young Lord. The past is a weight best left behind. Now only the future matters, harsh and unknown though it may be. Yes, there will be time yet for cloaks, daggers, and old grudges, but now we must build. Create. Make something new from these broken lands.

I turned my gaze back to the map spread across the table. Each charge, carefully placed at a precise point along the gorge, was a promise of change. The dynamite, meticulously laid with care and method, awaited its moment. Some Northerners bore mistrust toward the use of this device; I would call them fools, not out of willful ignorance, but for lack of access to science. Many can barely count on their fingers, and few can read the letters describing such wonders. There is much to do, much to teach and build.

"Professor, Lord Jon wishes to hear the details of the operation," Olaf interrupted, voice firm but respectful.

"Of course. Lord Jon, what would you like to know?" I answered.

The youth was surprisingly capable for his age and circumstance. He possessed the noble virtues of his line, yet seemed free of its vices—perhaps through luck or the heavy shadow that had surrounded his birth. Rumors spoke of a wet nurse, of a daughter of a southern house lost to time. Little more was known in these frozen lands.

"How exactly do the detonators work?" Jon asked.

"A good question," I replied, lifting a small copper cylinder between my soot-stained fingers. This is the heart of the modern miracle: an electric detonator made with platinum resistance. It converts the current into heat—just enough to ignite the main charge: stabilized gelignite. It makes no sound nor sputters… until it decides to kill.

As for the slope, the charges are staggered, carving out enough space to raise fortifications atop the highest plain. The rest will serve to store arms, provisions, and build quarters where guards may rest between shifts.

Jon furrowed his brow, leaning in slightly.

"Why not use simply gunpowder or fulminate, as in the old Wall?"

"Because this," I said, pointing at the web of wires snaking between the crags, "is not the inner Wall of the Cave. There, making noise and dropping stones was enough. Here, we seek control. Surgical precision. If the charge goes off a finger's breadth too soon or late, the slope might collapse inward into the pass, not outward. We are not razing; we are sculpting.

The goal is to open this valley's mouth wider, so that carts and columns may pass without being boxed in. And up there," I said, indicating the ledge where red stakes were lined up, "we will raise observation bastions, firing angles, casemates."

Jon was silent for a moment before asking:

"And what if something fails?"

I nodded gravely.

"If something fails, milord, half a year's work will fall into the abyss. That is why we use electric detonators: each connected to a master circuit allowing us to ignite them all at once, from here." I showed him a wooden box with brass cranks, a coil, and softly flickering gas lamps. "All powered by lead-acid batteries coated in gutta-percha, brought from beyond the Gate of Prussia. A scarce but invaluable resource. Even if it rains, the current will pass. Using chemicals would kill us all before our time at the slightest stray spark."

Jon rubbed the pommel of his dagger with his thumb.

"And the gelignite? Is it stable?"

"Like a septa at prayer, if treated with respect," I replied with a slight smile. "I have used it in mines, bridges, even beneath ice. But it must be initiated properly. That is why we use platinum resistance. No flares or doubtful fuses."

"What do we hope to achieve?" he asked.

"Well, my lord," I said, pointing to the map, "here you can see every point along the slope and narrow valley neck. The main goal is to open enough space to build a wall and gate wide enough for two carts to pass side by side with ease. This will allow a constant flow of traffic, both in and out, if needed.

All will connect internally with the fortress. Thus, the wall will rise from the mountain itself, gaining height from the rock beneath.

I saw understanding dawn in the young Lord's eyes, or at least the effort to grasp these concepts. It is important for a leader of men to know the why and how of what is done. Not all do, but it is a relief when those in charge involve themselves—even tangentially—in the projects they approve. I cannot count the times plans years in the making were scrapped or redone because of whim or misinformation from high command.

But that is past.

Meanwhile, the final details were being set. Messengers came and went. Olaf and Jon chose to remain at the command post instead of going to the bunker prepared for council members.

Suddenly, a voice shouted from below:

"Last charge placed, Professor Metallarbeiter!"

I raised a hand in greeting and, without haste, opened the ignition box.

"Ready, Lord Jon?"

Jon swallowed hard. His face was a mask of steel. He nodded.

"When you say the word."

I turned the crank. A faint hum filled the air. The lamps flickered… then the silence was broken by a series of muffled rumbles, like thunder beneath the earth. The slope trembled, and after a moment suspended in tension, a large section of the cliff gave way, sliding eastward in a cloud of white dust. The rocks fell like dominoes—ordered, obedient.

When the roar ceased, the gorge had changed forever.

Jon drew a deep breath, and something very much like wonder showed on his face.

"You've brought down a mountain, Professor."

I shrugged and let out a small chuckle.

"No, my lord. I have done what you commanded. With enough science, even mountains will kneel before you. This is only the beginning."

Jon watched the smoke rise in slow spirals from the slope. Each column of dust was like the warm breath of a sleeping giant, now roused by men and science. At his side, the professor kept silent. Only the wind whispered among the crags, breaking the moment.

Jon breathed deep.

"Sometimes I think we build on broken bones. That every stone we move wakes something old, something sleeping beneath this earth."
I looked at him a moment, then lowered my gaze to the dust covering my boots.

"Perhaps. But if we do not wake it, someone else will. Better to do so with purpose than by accident."

Cheers rose from below. Some workers, soot-covered, raised their arms as if they had won a battle. Others kept watchful eyes, waiting orders. A horn sounded, long and deep, marking the end of the operation.

Jon spoke again:

"Do you think this will be enough? That the mountain will not fight back?"

"Oh, milord," I said, twisting a crooked smile, "the mountains always fight back. It's only a question of when—and being ready for it."

The Valley Fortress — Council Hall, The North

POV: Jon Snow

The morning broke white and sharp, like a blade sheathed in frost. From the high window of the council chamber, Jon Snow watched the freshly blasted crags that now crowned the valley's mouth. The detonations of days past had laid bare the mountain's innards, and now the workers — black ants upon gray marble — picked their way through the rubble with picks, cranes, and sweat.

By every measure that mattered, the operation had been a success. The charges had roared like a sleeping giant roused, and now the valley's throat could swallow more than a single wall. A double bastion could rise there: one to resist, and one to breathe. In the first would stand armorers, engineers, and blacksmiths. In the second — beyond the inner wall — the forges and factories to feed the engines of war the North would soon require.

But the foundations of human endeavor are built not on stone, but on things more fragile: resolve, word, vision. And that was the matter of this morning's council.
Jon set down the report he had just sealed, its red wax hardening upon the parchment. Then he looked to the sentry by the door.

"Guard."

"My lord."

"Send in Ser Izak Jagger. Tell him we are ready."

"As you command, my lord."

The door closed behind the sentry with a faint creak, and silence followed. Jon rested his elbows on the oaken table and laced his fingers together.

Much had been done. Yet more would be asked.

Antechamber to the Council — The Valley Fortress

POV: Ser Izak Jagger

The stone walls smelled of chill and damp, as though the mountain breathed through them. The chamber was small, austere, softened only by the glow of a few candles that wept wax like congealed blood down iron sconces. The brazier's fire crackled faintly, no match for the drafts that slipped through poorly sealed stone.

Cold never troubled Ser Izak Jagger. He had embraced it many years ago. His dark plate armor still bore the dust of the newly blasted paths, and the Prussian blue cloak upon his shoulders lent him a distant nobility. At his belt hung his striated steel saber. And in his satchel... a small figurine he had yet to decide was a symbol of hope or a warning.

A sentry stepped through the door and halted before him.

"Ser Izak. Lord Jon will see you now."

"Very well, lad. Let's go."

The corridor leading to the council hall was long and bare. Their steps rang with the metallic echo of discipline. Izak's hands did not tremble. They had not since the Battle of the Midnight Gates. But something — something deep in those mountains, something in the eyes of the northerners — had knotted itself beneath his skin.
The great door swung open before him. And he entered.

The Council Hall

Lord Jon Snow presided over the council like a statue hewn from ash. He wore black and grey, the colors of the North, and in his long face there was something of the wolf. Flanking him sat the men who now formed the backbone of the Valley.

Lord Mors Umber, massive as a snowbound mountain, with his black eye patch and thunderous temper.

Lord Cregan Karstark, young still, but sharp as the daggers of his house.

Owen Norrey, silent, strong, his cheekbones carved by winter winds.

Teo Knots, wrapped in furs as coarse as his tongue.

Professor Isak Metallarbeiter, an engineer from the know extinct Imperial University, eyes fixed on a scroll, ink-stained fingers twitching.

And finally, Olaf von Bismarck, spectral and upright, last of his line, more symbol than man.

Jon nodded, without rising.

"Ser Izak. What news from the mountains?"

Jagger stepped forward and bowed.

"My lord. I bring a full report on the expedition to the ridges of the Wolfwood and the lands beyond the western pass. We departed with four centuries: two companies of Northmen hardened by frost, and two of Prussian soldiers and prospector under my command. Resistance was light — brigands, unpledged clans. Twenty-seven minor encounters. Five skirmishes. No permanent losses."

There were murmurs of approval. Lord Mors grunted — which might have meant the same.

"The paths are secured. We opened three new routes. One wide enough to fit an armored cart. In the cliffs we found veins of red iron, copper, aluminum, limestone... but the most significant was trinium. Enough of it to feed the forges for generations."

Metallarbeiter looked up at the word. Jon straightened slightly.

"Trinium?"

"At multiple sites. The locations are marked on the maps. I also bring samples. Here." He drew a small leather pouch, from which he removed vials, polished stones, and—

—a figurine.

It was small, carved from a black stone that gleamed with an inner light. It resembled a winged wolf, or a beast akin to it, with no real-world proportions but a ritual force that prickled the skin.

All eyes turned to it with growing focus.

The professor rose. He approached with bronze tongs, lifting the relic to the light. His pupils widened.
"Naquadah," he whispered.

"So it is," said Jagger. "A substance that should not exist on this side of the Wall. Not in such purity."
"How do you know this?" asked Jon.

"I analyzed it myself. Confirmed it in Prussian archives. And when I showed the piece to Benjen Stark, he recognized it at once. Said he'd seen others like it , years ago, beyond the Wall."

The silence thickened, wet and heavy as snow.

"This is no superstitious trinket," the professor interjected. "It is legacy. Material culture of a civilization that understood what it possessed. And revered it."
"And what does that imply?" asked Lord Karstark.

"That we've discovered not just a mineral vein," said Jagger, "but a cultural line. A frontier. This object is not merely wealth. It is a symbol."
Olaf von Bismarck stepped forward.

"Where there are relics, there is history. And where there is history… there may be claims."

The words hung in the air, weaving tension through stone.

Jon raised a hand. The council quieted.

"Continue, Ser Izak."

"We've established a watchtower over the pass that leads to the rocky coast. Twenty archers. Provisions for eight weeks. If the weather holds, we could build a second defensive enclave there. The views…" he paused. "From there, one can see the Sunset Sea. A sight few have beheld. And now it shall be ours."

"And the clans?" asked Owen Norrey.

"They saw us. They did not attack. The Wull sent smoke signals. Not hostile. Not loyal. I recommend sending envoys. Words of market, promise of barter. Not iron. Not blood."

Teo Knots let out a laugh.

"Those bastards love a good trade more than breath."

"My captains," Jagger continued, "Brandon and Dietrich, showed sound judgment. I elevated Brandon as second officer. I punished two cases of looting with lash and pay suspension. No further incidents. Morale is steady. Discipline holds."

Jon nodded slowly.

"Can the Valley sustain this line?" asked Lord Mors.

"Yes. If reinforced. If given men and timber. Yes. The land is not barren. It is wild. But it can be tamed."

A pause, then Karstark spoke.

"With trinium and geothermal springs, we could install permanent foundries. Not waystations, but true settlements. Strategic production."
"Do we have the engineers for such a task?" asked Owen.

Metallarbeiter nodded, but slowly.

"Not yet. But if apprentices are assigned and supplies secured, within three years we'd have a workforce able to support an autonomous community."
"Then let them begin," growled Teo Knots.

Jon said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the map, where new paths, enclaves, routes, and towers were marked in black and red — as though the Valley was taking shape not only in the land, but also upon the parchment.

At last, he looked up.

"So it is written. The routes are now part of our domain. Ser Izak Jagger is granted authority to fortify the enclaves. The Council approves reinforcements and supplies."

A murmur of assent swept the chamber.

Jagger bowed, never turning his back — as the old customs dictated. When he rose, his eyes met Jon Snow's.

And in them, for an instant, he saw a winter less cruel.

Hours Later — Eastern Wall

POV: Ser Izak Jagger

The stars peered out, timid and distant, between shreds of black cloud. The wind cut like a dagger, carrying with it the scent of ancient snow.

Below, the sentries' torches flickered like stubborn fireflies. From atop the wall, Jagger watched the horizon. He clenched his fist around the pommel of his saber.
"I serve the lord who can save what remains of my nation," he had told the council.

And he would. To his last breath. For what they had found in the mountains was not mere stone, nor vein, nor symbol. It was a new frontier — forged between what they had once been… and what they might yet become.

In the North. At the edge of the world.

Where, perhaps, everything was beginning again.

Chapter Text

Six moons since the opening of the gate. Six days until the first delivery.

The Valley Fortress — The North

Jon Snow — POV

The fortress rose upon the flank of the mountains like a wound of stone carved against the grey sky. Its walls were newly blackened by the soot of the forges and the damp of melting snows, which ran down like frozen veins until they were lost in the valley below. That day, the northern wind came down with knives of frost, carrying the scent of old snow and pine, an air that bit the skin and filled the stone corridors with an expectant silence.

In the solar chamber, Jon Snow sat upon a long bench draped in bearskin. Before him, the oak table was drowned in parchment, sealed letters, tally boards and rolls of reports written in the harsh hand of the fortress scribes. A thick candle burned upon a wrought-iron stand, its uncertain light falling across the young lord's face.

He wore a black fur cloak fastened by a brooch in the shape of a wolf's head, a gift from his father years ago. His dark hair fell untamed across his eyes—those grey eyes that seemed to peer beyond ink and parchment, as if every mark and seal concealed a secret fate. From his father he had inherited that iron stillness that commanded respect and sometimes fear, though inside him doubts churned like a storming sea.

There is still so much to be done, yet after all these moons we are nearly there. The reports had been read, the work crews—half men of the North, half from Prussia, though the lines between them had begun to blur—had been dispatched to mines, quarries, and outposts where strongholds must be founded, raised and secured with the help of the clans. Mineral wealth now flowed, slow but steady, and with it the works quickened. The chamber of the Gate of Stars was broadened, linked to a road beyond the fortress and a new causeway. Nothing grand, but enough to serve its purpose until something greater, more lasting, could be wrought. For the moment, flattened earth and gravel would suffice.

The coming of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, did little to soothe his nerves. His father would arrive within days, with retainers, knights, stewards, and guards, to inspect the works of the valley and judge whether the great endeavor might thrive beneath Stark law. The mere thought of his father within these walls tied Jon's chest in a knot—half pride, half dread.

But they were ready: a wooden contrivance of gears, chains, and—more than all—men. It had been built to draw wagons laden with wheat, barley, potatoes, and strange fruits Jon had never tasted before—banana, pineapple.

Upon the table lay a report written by Professor Isak Metallarbeiter, master of the works. In a cold, exacting hand it listed what was needed: towering furnaces to turn ore into pig iron, diverted streams to feed the mills, storerooms for lime, kilns for glass, presses for pulp and paper. Jon's fingers traced the dry script, seeking not only to read the numbers but to weigh the futures hidden within them.

Paper. That word alone had been a revelation. The promise was plain enough for any man to see, noble-born or not: a river of gold dragons could flow from it. The Citadel by itself might make him rich beyond measure. But such wealth was a beacon, and with light came danger.

A knocking at the door drew his eyes upward.

"Enter," Jon said, his voice steady.

The oak swung open without noise, and Olaf von Bismarck stepped into the chamber.

He wore a pale-grey uniform, immaculate to the last fold, his black boots gleaming though the yard outside was mud. His dark hair lay straight across his brow, and his eyes—light blue, almost translucent—fell on Jon with a look that blended respect and unspoken authority. There was something of the great lords of Westeros in him, though he bore neither their blood nor their heraldry. His presence alone carried the weight of a banner raised high above a battlefield.

"Good day, my lord."

Olaf was a man of few words; Jon had learned his silences were never empty, but judgment unvoiced. He was one who had survived the ruin of a people and bore upon his shoulders the memory of Midgard's dead.

The bastard lord rose, gathering some scrolls.

"You come in time, Olaf. I was reading the latest reports from Professor Isak." He passed him the roll, though he knew Olaf would have read every line before the ink had dried.

Olaf accepted it without haste, setting it aside. His gloved fingers traced the other letters, broken seals, and scribbled margins.

"Today we must review the itinerary," Jon said, weighing each word as if the weight of his father's judgment already pressed upon him. "My father will arrive in four days, if the roads grant him passage. We must show him order and purpose, not hesitation nor chaos."

"Are you nervous?" Olaf asked.

"How could I not be? All rests upon this operation… upon these operations, rather. One such delivery cannot be made in a day. Lord Husil made that clear—the work is vast, a thousand gates each bearing their small share of the burden. These in turn are gathered into ten, then five, and at last into ours. All this to draw as little notice as may be. Husil was adamant: our greatest weapon is obscurity. And you tell me the same—it is not merely true, but utterly needful."

"Remember, you do not stand alone in this. Husil knows his craft. This is not, as they say, his first dance."

A weary sigh slipped from Jon.

"I only want it to succeed… I need it."

Olaf's nod was slight, yet enough.

Jon unrolled a map upon the table. A fresh drawing, the work of Isak's apprentices, it spread the valley in ink and line: the northern gorge with its frozen river, the southern slopes thick with firs, and at the center the fortress, a black square. Red ink marked the sites for new works: the smelting grounds beneath the cliffs, the lime kilns beside the quarry, the pulp presses on the riverbank, the glassworks yet to come. But the black sands of the Bay of Ice lacked the purity needed; they would need to be fetched from the Reach, from Dorne, or farther east.

"This will be the path of the visit," Jon continued. "First, the smelting grounds, where Isak will show how ore becomes pig iron, then refined, forged, and at last steel. Then the quarry and the lime kilns. After, the river mills for pulp and paper. And finally the site of the glassworks, though the matter of sand remains."

"It is simple enough—import it," Olaf said with the faintest smirk, which only pricked at Jon's temper.

"Simple, is it? Aye. Merely choose between a man who schemed to make his daughter a queen, a lord who is but a puppet of his mother, or a house whose enmity toward the Crown and its friends is both ancient and just. Jagger's little web of whispers, in scarcely three moons, has given me a glimpse of the lay of things."

"One problem at a time, Jon. Deliver a triumph here, and perhaps your father may bring his weight to bear in the South. The Hand, after all, is known for cunning and craft in his seat."

"You are right."

Olaf bent over the map, his cold eyes studying every line.

"My father will expect clarity," Jon murmured, as if to himself. "He will expect I have learned to rule, to command men, to oversee works that may change the North's fate. And I… I must not fail."

Olaf's silence was a wall, unyielding, but Jon knew it was also a form of support. He needed no words to remind him he was not alone.

Another knock, harsher, came at the door.

"Come," Jon commanded.

It was Professor Isak Metallarbeiter who entered. Tall, lean, his hair streaked with grey, a narrow mustache giving him a Braavosi air, he wore a tunic smudged with chalk and coal, as though he had left his designs in haste. In his hand he bore a leather roll of maps and figures.

"My lord. Sir Olaf," he greeted, with a short nod, no bow wasted. His voice was clipped, practical, stripped of ornament. "I have come to review the details of the tour. There are matters of craft that cannot be left vague."

Jon beckoned him forward.

"We were just speaking of it."

The professor spread his parchments beside the map. There were drawings of furnaces, watercourses, sluices, gears, mills, presses. He explained each mark with sharp precision, pausing on the brittleness of pig iron, the need for secondary forges, the refining steps toward steel.

"My lord," he said firmly, "your father will wish to see not only our intent, but how each piece binds into the whole. Without steel, no fortress will withstand winter nor foes. Without lime, no walls will endure for centuries. Without paper, no laws nor memory will pass. Without glass, no light will burn in towers, nor lenses be crafted to read the world. All is bound together."

Jon listened, brows knit. Those words bore more weight than any number.

Olaf watched in silence, ever the judge unseen.

The candle hissed and spat, dripping wax across the table. Outside, the wind beat the walls like a war drum.

The Valley Fortress — The North

Isak Metallarbeiter – PoV

I walked through the corridors of the fortress with firm steps, each strike of my boots on the stone echoing like hammers on an anvil. Behind me followed Olaf von Bismarck, the last of Midgard, and young Lord Jon Snow, walking with the seriousness of someone bearing more weight than he should at his age. The meeting in his lordship's hall had ended, but I could not conceive of words without the work that gave them life. So, I led them to the courtyard, where construction work sprawled like a swarm of iron and smoke.

On the way, we passed the hall where the Stargate stood, a black stone and steel arch that would soon serve as the throat through which ore wagons would enter and exit. Dozens of workers labored tirelessly. The hammering and the creaking of the pulleys filled the air as if the place itself were breathing. Technicians, holding tablets and plumb lines, gave brief orders, and the crews executed them with the precision of an army.

The inverted rails—still without a proper name beyond that crude description—were being secured to the ground. At the end of the wooden and steel ramp, stretching directly before the arch, guides were being assembled for the descending wagons. The iron wheels squeaked as they were tested, adjusting to the grooves, while hooks and chains prepared to hold them. The gear system waited like a sleeping beast, ready to drag each load outward, toward the vast and frozen North.

We paused for a moment. Jon, his gray eyes wide, asked a few questions revealing more cleverness than ignorance. He inquired about the force needed to move a loaded wagon, the durability of the chains, and what would happen if ice corroded the gears. I answered calmly, knowing each question was legitimate. Olaf remained silent, observing the men as if seeking in them the shadows of a lost people.

Once we left the Stargate hall behind, it took only a few minutes to reach the courtyard. There, the lords waited, their cloaks whipped by the cold wind descending from the mountains. One could call it an assembly, but in truth, we all knew this day was something more: a demonstration of capability, a glimpse of the future yet to be born.

The East wind blew cold, carrying with it the raw scent of ore freshly torn from the earth. There was also a constant, metallic, grave rumble of hammers striking anvils in the distance. Gray hills stretched toward the plains, punished by ice and the low sun, and upon that harsh land rose foundations of dark stone and wooden structures yet roofless. Everything was precarious, yet within it lay the seed of a new power.

It was here that the first metallurgical center of the North would rise. And at the head of this enterprise, like an architect from forgotten ages in the land of sleeping gods, stood I, Isak Metallarbeiter.

I wore my long leather coat, sleeves and edges blackened by the soot of countless furnaces. My boots, covered in coal dust, sank into the frost. My mustache, cut with Braavosi discipline, hung over my lips in perfect symmetry. Behind me, a blackboard rested against a post driven into the frozen ground, and on it I had drawn, in white chalk, schematics of furnaces, crucibles, and channels. The retinue of the young wolf of the North gathered in a semicircle, waiting.

Jon Snow observed in silence, with the intensity of a hawk fixed on its prey. Owen Norrey frowned, as if trying to pierce the soul of each drawing with his gaze. Teo Knots chewed absentmindedly on a dry twig while scratching his thick beard. Lord Mors Umber, immense, stood motionless as if the cold did not touch him. Olaf von Bismarck crossed his arms, attentive, while Lothor Burley and Cregan Karstark exchanged looks oscillating between incomprehension and obligatory respect.

"My lords," I said, raising my voice without preamble or ceremony. "What you are about to see is not a simple foundry. It is an entire cycle. A symphony of fire, stone, and will. God willing, from this place will come the metals that will forge the new frontier of the North."

No one replied at first. The wind whipped the cloaks and lifted a gray dust of frost and ash. Jon barely nodded, and I pointed with my wooden staff to the first drawing on the blackboard: a tall tower with open mouths at the base.

"Everything begins here: the blast furnace. A name almost poetic, but a function brutal. It is fed with three things: iron ore, coke, and limestone. The ore will be extracted from the quarry south of the valley, already open. We will produce coke by carbonizing logs in enclosed chambers, using wood from the Wolfwood. And the limestone…" I turned to Olaf. "Your people have found a vein near the valley, have they not?"

The young von Bismarck nodded silently, solemn.

"Good," I continued. "In this furnace, the ore, coke, and limestone are layered. From the base, hot air is injected without pause. The coke burns fiercely, melting the mixture, and there the transformation occurs: iron oxide gives up its oxygen, and what remains is liquid iron. Pig iron."

"And what use is it?" growled Lord Mors Umber, spitting to the ground. "I've heard pig iron breaks at the first blow."

"True," I replied unfazed. "Pig iron is the furnace's first child, but also the roughest. It contains too much carbon, between three and five percent. It is hard but brittle. Useless for a sword, and even less for a bridge or armor."

I struck the next drawing: a lower furnace, with an open channel.

"Here begins the second stage: the refining furnace. There, the pig iron is heated and air is blown to oxidize the excess carbon. Impurities rise as slag, leaving behind purer iron: refined cast iron."

"Cleaner, but still weak?" asked Cregan Karstark, frowning.

I shook my head.

"More ductile. It can be molded into large pieces: wheels, chains, structures. Still not fit for the true art of metal, but a necessary step."

I struck the third figure: men hammering red-hot metal on anvils, smaller furnaces to one side.

"From here comes wrought iron. By heating the metal in puddling furnaces and hammering it again and again, we remove the slag. The result is a flexible and strong metal, with less than one percent carbon. Ideal for tools, nails, load-bearing pieces… and even some blades."

Then Jon spoke, in a low, firm voice that cut the air like knives.

"And steel?"

I held his gaze.

"Steel is balance, my lord. Neither as hard as pig iron nor as soft as wrought iron. It is an exact mixture of iron and carbon, between 0.2 and 2 percent. It can be achieved through cementation—adding carbon to iron in closed furnaces for days—or by carefully refining pig iron. With steel, we can forge swords that do not break, armor that resists arrows, tools that do not dull."

Lothor Burley, incredulous, raised his eyebrows.

"And all of that will come from here?"

"If the clans provide hands and the young lord maintains the course, yes," I replied.

I pointed to the horizon, where scaffolds and wooden platforms marked future walls.

"There will rise the smelting area, with two blast furnaces and channels for liquid pig iron. Beyond, refining furnaces with slag deposits. To the right, the forging workshops, where hydraulic hammers will set the rhythm. And in the center, the steel laboratory, where the will of this people will be measured and tempered."

Teo Knots let out a low whistle.

"What you plan is a monster."

"No, Lord Knots," I replied dryly. "It is a heart. The first beating in the chest of the North."

Silence fell over the assembly. Jon Snow broke it with his gaze, not words. Then he finally spoke:

"How long do you need?"

"A year, maybe two. The foundations are already dug. If the weather allows, the furnaces will fire at the first thaw. And when steel flows like hot blood… this fortress will be more than walls and men. It will be will made flesh."

Lord Umber scratched his beard with his huge hand.

"You speak as if metal thinks."

I took a step forward.

"Metal remembers. Every strike, every degree of heat. And if forged well, it endures beyond the man who made it."

Olaf spoke for the first time, in a low voice.

"And what seal will it bear?"

"None. Or the direwolf. That belongs to our lord."

All eyes turned to Jon. The wind whipped his black cloak, and for a moment he seemed more statue than flesh. Finally, he nodded.

"Then forge it. Let the North rise, not only with swords, but with fire and steel."
I bowed my head, but did not end there.

"So it shall be, my lord. But this is not all I wish to show you. If you follow me to the experimental forge, you will understand that what we have drawn today is not an end, but only a beginning."

And with that vow, I led them into the heart of the workshop, where, among smoke and sparks, we walked through a narrow passage, the stone still showing fresh marks from picks, and the underground dampness seeping to the bone. The echo of our steps merged with a metallic murmur that grew with each stride: the tapping of hammers, the sighing of bellows, the roar of furnaces that seemed chained dragons. The air smelled of molten iron and men's sweat, thick as fog clinging to the skin.

When the door opened, the lords of the North found a spectacle that drew murmurs of awe even from the sternest. The experimental forge was more modest than the workshops planned for the future, but within its smallness lay the precision of the select. There, a handful of hand-picked smiths—men and boys whose skill at the anvil far surpassed most—worked with the devotion of priests. Each hammer strike a prayer, each spark a supplication.

In the center, on an anvil blackened by countless days, rested a strange ingot. It was not iron, not entirely. It had a bluish sheen that caught the firelight and returned it with green reflections. A distinct vein, a guest brought from the valley's very depths: trinium, as the miners called it, without fully understanding what made it different. I had studied it, melted it, compared it, until I had found an alloy bordering on wonder.

"My lords," I announced, "what you see is not common steel. It is a humble attempt to approach the secrets of Valyrian steel. It does not match its lightness or eternal edge, but far surpasses the iron and steel we wield today."

The smiths, as if awaiting my signal, raised their creations. A long double-edged sword with bluish reflections; a plate armor that seemed to drink fire without deforming; a battle axe whose edge gleamed like ice under the moon. Silence thickened.

Lord Umber snorted, incredulous.

"Bah. A sword is a sword. The North is not fooled by colors."

I nodded and snapped my fingers. Two assistants brought a common sword, of ordinary steel, and placed it before him.

"Try it yourself, my lord."

Umber took the new blade, heavy in his hands like a natural extension of his own arm. He lifted it, and without ceremony, delivered a brutal cut to the ordinary sword. A roar shook the hall. When the dust and sparks cleared, all could see the result: the ordinary blade split in two, while the blue edge of the new steel remained intact, neither chipped nor nicked.

A murmur ran through the onlookers. Owen Norrey made the superstitious sign of the cross of the mountain folk. Teo Knots spat out the twig he had been chewing, wide-eyed. Burley and Karstark exchanged looks, unsure if they were witnessing a miracle or heresy.

Jon Snow, without taking his eyes off the sword, spoke in a grave voice:

"How many of these can you forge?"

"Few, at first," I answered frankly. "Trinium is hard to work, and the process demands time and precision. Each piece takes weeks, and we are still learning its limits. It is not Valyrian steel, my lord, but it could be the beginning of something that brings the North closer to that lost glory."

Lord Umber struck the floor with the sword, making the stones tremble.

"To hell with glory! If it cuts as I've seen, that's enough. Give me a thousand of these, and I swear even the sons of iron will think twice before crossing our coasts."
Olaf von Bismarck intervened, in a low, calculating voice.

"A thousand would be a feat. But even a hundred would suffice to sow fear. Imagine an elite guard, armed with this metal. Men wielding blades no enemy can break."
Jon did not answer immediately. He walked to the anvil and ran his fingers over the cold surface of the bluish metal, as if listening for a secret held in the alloy. His black cloak fluttered with every draft entering through the roof slits, and in that instant he seemed more a king than a raised bastard.

"The North," he said at last, "does not rise with empty promises or maesters' tales. It rises with blood, with sacrifice… and with weapons that can change the course of a war."

He looked up at me.

"Isak Metallarbeiter, you will have your year, your furnaces, and your men. But I also want swords. For my brothers, for my men, for my people. Let the first edge born of this steel-trinium bear the mark of the direwolf."

The words hung like a vow. I bowed my head, aware that this moment was not just the birth of a metal, but of an era.

"So it shall be, my lord. The North will have fire and steel… and a heart that beats in this forge."

The smiths resumed their work, striking with more fervor than ever, as if understanding that their hammering now echoed not only through the fortress walls but through the very future of all the North.

Chapter Text

Maester Luwig – Point of View

Winterfell, the North — Ten days after Eddark Stark departure to the Valley Fortress

Winterfell feels emptier now than it did in the deepest snows of my youth. Yet the weight of his absence lingers in every hall, every shadowed corridor, every frozen draught that slips past the stone walls. A part of me thought that once he left, the tensions would ease, that the castle could breathe again. I was wrong. The echoes of his presence remain, carried in the anxious looks of guards, the nervous tread of servants, and the silent glances of those who love him and fear him all at once.

To say that Winterfell had changed would scarcely capture the truth. The air itself seemed heavier, carrying an undercurrent of unease that clung to the corridors and halls, twisting in the restless movements of its people and in the taut lines of the guards' faces. Even the dogs in the yards seemed unsettled, their ears pricked, noses sniffing an unseen wind. Everything had begun with young Jon Snow, who, in an act that would haunt the annals of time, discovered a door capable of opening tunnels to other worlds. Had I not witnessed it with my own eyes, I would have sworn the boy—now a lord in his own right—was lost to madness.

The halls seem longer, the windows colder. The hearths burn as before, yet the warmth does not reach the hearts of those who remain. Lord Eddard, as steady as the snow on the battlements, carries a shadow across his broad shoulders. He has always been a man of duty, of unbending honor, yet even he cannot hide the strain that follows a secret kept and a son sent away.

Despite whispers of doubt and open murmurs of discontent, Lord Eddard Stark had quelled every voice of dissent with a single, unassailable argument:

"He is my blood. Perhaps it is my own bias, but tell me, my lords, who among you, if offered the chance to benefit one of your children or kin, would refuse it?"

Afterward, only the usual complaints of northern lords remained: grumbling, muttering, a sound more akin to wind rattling through the battlements than any true opposition. I have learned, in all the years I have served House Stark, that the lords of the North are among the most loyal men in existence. Perhaps it is their faith, or the relentless geography of the North, or simply the harsh hand of winter, but loyalty courses through them as surely as the frozen rivers flow in winter.

It is Dietrich Crow who unsettles the quiet the most. I have watched him move through Winterfell with the silence of a shadow and the precision of a scholar, though his work is far less benign than that title suggests. He came first three moons past, and now he remains as a link between the boy in the valley and the keep, a vigilant eye ensuring that the young lord's fledgling dominion is attended.

Lord Eddard has not spoken of Jon's departure much, not in public, nor even in private to those of us who serve him. Yet his sorrow is visible in subtle ways. He watches the courtyard with an intensity that would have once seemed unwarranted, inspecting the drills of the guard with a careful eye, noting absences and slights with the precision of a man used to keeping the North in his grip. I see him pause at times, gazing toward the horizon where the Valley Fortress lies beyond sight. Perhaps he dreams of the boy as he was, as he is, and as he might become.

Robb has changed in subtle ways, though fewer see it. He moves with the assuredness of youth but now tempered by absence. His brother gone, Robb bears more of the responsibility for the household than before. He trains daily with Ser Jory Cassel, perfecting sword and shield, mastering the discipline of command. His hair gleams copper in the torchlight, his eyes a river steady with thought. I watch him with both pride and concern. He is a young lord in all but name, and the burden of seeing the boy safely sent away has sharpened him.

Lady Catelyn is perhaps the most altered of all. The chill she once reserved for Jon has not vanished, yet I sense in her a certain calm, even a faint relief, that he has left Winterfell. She no longer wears the tension of fear across her shoulders as she moves through the halls. Her attention is focused on Robb, the household, the supplies for the journey—not on the boy she cannot bear fully to embrace. In her own quiet way, she has accepted that he must forge his own path far from the keep, and that path brings with it the chance for a man's destiny to be made. Once, in the library, she confided in me:

"Better this way, Maester Luwig. Far from here, far from the whispers of those who will never see him as he is."

Her words carried no malice, only a mixture of relief and the sense of a wound beginning to close. She had given him freedom she would never grant, in her own mind, within the walls of Winterfell. I bowed, as a maester must, though my heart ached to see the boy gone.

The servants speak less of him now, though the whispers have not ceased. "Lord Snow," they say softly, almost as if speaking aloud the truth would summon trouble.
Ser Jory Cassel moves about Winterfell with a sharper eye than ever. He is not unkind, nor unjust, but his patience is tested more now. The absence of Jon Snow leaves a gap in the household, a place in the rhythm of duty that must be filled. He watches Robb closely, guiding him as he would a young wolf, ready to correct him, ready to guard him, yet ever mindful of the silent shadow cast by a brother far away.

Winterfell itself seems to respond to Jon's absence. The halls echo more with each footstep. The kitchens are quieter; the dogs in the kennels lie longer without play. Even the wind through the broken battlements sounds different, sharper, carrying the scent of distant frost and snowfields yet untouched. Life continues, as it must, but the rhythm has altered. Those of us who remain feel it in our bones, and I, perhaps more than most, am compelled to record it.

I receive reports detailed accounts of the Valley Fortress, its surrounding ridges, streams, and forests. Every tree cut, every stone laid, every footstep of a laborer recorded. Dietrich Crow writes not merely as a scribe, but as a sentinel. He is not content with simple observation; he seeks understanding, anticipation, and control. I have watched him study maps of the valley as if the lines themselves might speak, whispering secrets of the mountains and the paths between them.
As I considered all this in the quiet of my chambers, a knock came at the door, sharp yet measured.

"Enter," I called.

The door swung open, revealing Ser Dietrich Crow—a man whose very presence might be described as a persistent headache. He had arrived at Winterfell three moons ago, at sunset, with a retinue of men who called themselves his intelligence corps. In truth, they were spies, plain and simple.

Crow himself is difficult to read. He speaks with the measured cadence of one accustomed to command and secrecy. A half-smile lingers on his lips often, though I have seen him frown in private when alone with a ledger or map. He regards Jon with a kind of professional devotion, tempered by an intelligence that is sometimes unnerving. I have learned to measure my words around him, to give only what is necessary. Even I, a maester sworn to knowledge and guidance, feel the weight of his scrutiny.

"Maester Luwig, good morning," he said, voice formal but threaded with a subtle edge of familiarity, one that unsettled more than it reassured.
"Ser Crow," I replied. "I presume you have come regarding the matter you entrusted to me."

At first, I suspected nothing. But as days turned into weeks, the truth became evident. Lord Eddard was deeply troubled, and a shadow seemed to settle over his broad shoulders, pressing him into the Lord Solar as though the walls themselves weighed upon him. Meetings were held each morning, nearly every day, and when they were not in the Lord Solar, Crow's men moved to and fro endlessly, their boots echoing on the stone floors, carrying messages, reports, and secrets.

"Indeed, my good maester. I even brought a gift," said the knight, placing a bottle of fine crystal upon the table. Inside was a translucent liquid: Prussian wine, a reminder of the world he had left behind, of the life that had been negotiated and lost to the North.

"Do you take me for a drunkard?" I asked, setting the bottle into a drawer with care. The stuff was potent enough to fell an Umber in a single swallow.
"Never," he replied with a faint smile, a rare crack in his otherwise stern demeanor. "But it has uses beyond mere indulgence."

A half-smile tugged at the corners of his severe face. And indeed, he was correct: wounds cleansed with that liquid healed faster, the flesh knitting more tightly, the fever easing as though the alcohol purged not only infection but the very humors that bred misfortune.

"You are correct," I said. "And yes, I have found what you sought: records of this metal, from deposits beyond the Wall."

It was a discovery worthy of attention: a small eagle statuette, familiar to the North, yet forged from a mineral wholly alien.

"May I examine them?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, pride tinged with caution. "They are copies of the library records. Winterfell's library is the largest collection on this side of the continent. There are tomes here the Citadel itself does not even know exist."

"Thank you, maester," he said, rising as if to depart. But I stopped him.

"Wait," I said, and he returned to his seat.

"Is there something you wish to tell me?"

He studied me closely, his dark eyes probing, as if attempting to discern some secret buried deep within my mind.
"If you have discovered more than what we discussed the other night…"

"That would be a dangerous conversation," He replied, choosing his words carefully.

And indeed it was. Throughout the North, it was known that Jon Snow was the illegitimate son of Eddard Stark. That much was beyond question. As for his mother, theories abounded—from camp followers to matrons—but the most widely held, and the one I found most convincing, named Lady Ashara Dayne. Rumor held that they met at the accursed Tourney of Harrenhal, and that a forbidden love had blossomed between them.

But this was where Dietrich Crow—the man seated across from me—began, in his own words, "to poke holes in the cheese." Observing Lord Eddard's mannerisms and actions, one could dismiss the first two theories easily. And regarding the accepted tale, the dates simply did not align. Young Robb and Jon were nearly of the same age, raising the troubling question: when could Lord Eddard have fathered Jon with Lady Ashara, if he was wed in Riverrun at that same time?
"I know, I know. Forget I asked," i said, letting out a long, weary sigh.

"Look," he said cautiously, "I will only tell you that, at present, my lord's priorities lie elsewhere."

I narrowed my eyes, studying him intently. When he says "my lord," he does not mean the one I serve. The man is subtle, yet his loyalty is clearly pledged to Jon. Dietrich Crow is his instrument, his spy… and what to make of this, I cannot yet determine.

"What might those priorities be?" I asked.

"First," he said, "the imminent delivery and exchange scheduled for ten days hence. Second, the Ironborn along the eastern coast. Their black-sailed ships come and go unchecked, and something must be done."

A tight knot formed in my stomach. Lord Eddard was, to speak mildly, deeply troubled by reports of raids—of timber, of livestock, of people—along the eastern shores.
"So the proposal was approved?" I asked.

"In part," he replied. "He must still meet with the mountain clans and forge an agreement—be it vassalage or alliance."

And by "meet," of course, he meant young Jon.

"Vassalage?" I asked, raising a brow.

The knight's expression remained impassive, as though discussing little more than the weather or the passing of an heir.

"Unlikely," he said evenly, "but the option remains."

I inclined my head for him to continue.

"And finally," he added, "though not least: the lands beyond the Wall, the Free Folk, and the Night's Watch."

I was about to ask more when soft knocks echoed at the door. Ser Crow raised a hand to halt me. Moments passed, and then another series of knocks came, similar yet distinct.

"Enter," intoned the knight.

The door opened just enough for the head of one of his men to appear.

"Sir, Ser Manderly has returned, and Lord Stark summons your presence."

The knight rose and approached me.

"It seems this is all the time we have, Maester Luwig."

He handed the copies of the records to his assistant, who tucked them into his tunic. With a subtle nod, Ser Crow took his leave, vanishing from my study as swiftly as he had entered.

I remain uncertain what to make of all this. I can only hope that, in the end, all of this serves the good of the North… and of the House to which I have sworn my life and loyalty.

And so it is that Winterfell lives on without him. Life continues in careful increments: meals are prepared, the halls swept, fires kept alight, letters written and dispatched. Yet every corner, every echo, every creak of the stone reminds us that the boy who once walked these halls is now a lord of another place. The North will not forget him, and neither will I.

For all that has changed, for all that has been lost, and for all that lies ahead, I remain steadfast. I serve the house that raised me, the Stark family, and through my records, my counsel, and my vigilance, I ensure that their legacy will endure. And in the quiet of Winterfell, I allow myself one thought: may the boy find what he seeks, may he survive the cold and the shadow, and may the North remember him as he deserves.

The wind rises outside the towers. Snow begins to drift against the battlements. I close my parchment, set my quill aside, and watch the flames dance in the hearth. Jon Snow is gone, yet his absence fills Winterfell more completely than his presence ever did. And I, Maester Luwig, am left to witness, to record, and to wait.

Chapter Text

Dietrich Crow — POV

The King's Road

The column slid down the King's Road like a serpent of steel and leather. Armor glimmered faintly beneath the pale northern sun, and the dust rose in ochre clouds that stained the air. Whole houses marched together, banners snapping in the wind — the grey direwolf of Stark, the silver trident of Manderly, the black sun of Karstark, the roaring giant of Umber.

It was a river of men, horses, and iron, flowing toward a single destiny — the valley where the fortress of the Star Gates rose. There the mountain clans awaited, along with the stern eyes of the Mormonts and the Glovers.

At the head rode Lord Eddard Stark and his heir, Robb, flanked by Ser Jory Cassel and a chosen few.

Lord Stark's face was carved from stone, his eyes of steel fixed upon the horizon. Beside him, Robb wore the bright confidence of youth — red hair catching the light, grey eyes like the river, unbroken and proud.

The Warden of the North was speaking with Ser Izak Jagger — my commander. I saw them from afar. Izak wore his usual half-smile, not one of joy but of calculation. He had always been that way, since our days at the academy. He thought. I watched. He drew the plans. I saw what the plans could not show.

The pace of the march was slow, deliberate — and that suited me. Slowness gives you time to watch… and time to speak to those who must hear, without being overheard.

I rode a few paces behind the main line, among my men. To my right was a faceless rider, an old agent they called the Grey Crow — a ghost from my academy years, one of the few survivors left among the ashes. He had traded the snow and ruin of winter for the promise — and the iron — of the valley. His gaze was hard, stripped of wonder.

"The objectives are clear," I murmured.

He did not look at me. Only nodded once.

"Yes, sir. Find the mad dog in the land of the flayed… and put him down."

Ramsay Snow. Bastard of Bolton. Son of cruelty and hunger.

They say he hunts maidens for sport, that he lines the walls of Moat Cailin with human skin. Half of that is true. The rest — tragedy, twisted into choice. Somewhere along the road, the boy decided he would no longer be the prey. He would be the hunter.

It's not personal. Only duty. The kind of duty that stinks of blood and dishonor. The kind that comes with a dagger and a cloak.
"And the secondary target?" I asked.

"To comb the land for leeches," the agent said. "And burn them all."

Leech. That's what we called Lord Roose Bolton. No name fit him better. Cold eyes, pale hands, always waiting to seize something — and drain it dry.

"That will do," I said. "The column halts before dusk. When the fires die and the tents rise, you'll slip away. Quietly. You have one moon to report."

The Grey Crow nodded. His horse snorted. For a heartbeat, I could almost see the blood steaming on snow when he found the Bastard of the Dreadfort.

I leaned closer, lowering my voice until it cut like a blade between his ears.

"If the dog bites harder than expected… the Company authorizes scorched earth."

He turned his head slowly, face unreadable, only the faint flicker of blue eyes.

"Confirmed by the Snow Prince himself?"

"Confirmed," I said. "Last resort only."

He gave a single nod. Pulled on his reins. Then vanished into the ranks, swallowed by men and dust, like a shadow returning to the woods.

If anyone could carry out that order, it was him.

Night came without ceremony.

The fires burned low in the camp circle. An iron pot hung above the flames, the stew thick with onions, dried meat, and bitter greens. I stirred it slowly, listening to the wind move across the spears.

Izak and Brandon joined me, settling onto folding stools around the fire.

"How fares the valley?" I asked as they warmed their hands.

"Calling it a valley is generous," Izak said with a crooked smile. "It's a fortress that happens to be shaped like one."
Brandon chuckled softly.

"The Professor's been busy," he added.

"If by busy you mean blasting open a new pass and raising two walls almost as high as Winterfell's… then yes," Izak said, dryly, as though explaining something obvious to a child.

"Stone?" I asked, raising a brow.

They both shook their heads.

"Not just stone," Brandon said. "Concrete, brick, and steel. The furnaces and foundries are lit as fast as they're built. Inside the valley it's like a dwarven city — alive, burning, hammering day and night. A heart of fire beating for the mountains."

"And the fortress itself?" I asked.

"The main road, the gates, and the Gate Hall are finished," Brandon replied. "The rest grows out of the rock, at the pace the work demands."
"And the Black Sails?" I asked, keeping my tone casual.

"Strong as ever," said Izak.

Brandon opened his satchel and spread a rough map across the ground — the western coast, scrawled with marks in red, blue, yellow, and black. We bent over it.

"Red marks for mines and quarries," he explained. "Blue for new settlements. Yellow lines are the trails we use. Black marks — those are places where we think roads, maybe even railways, could be built."

"Railways?" I echoed.

"Aye. We have coal, steel, timber, and trinium in plenty. The experimental wing's running full steam. Stronger rails, ironwood sleepers, tougher boilers. Engines faster, heavier, built to outlast our sons and theirs."

Izak smiled — that same infuriating, secretive smile.

"Of course, it may take years. A decade, perhaps. But nothing stops us from bringing ours across the sea."

"The White Old One," I said flatly.

"Precisely. The army's working night and day to receive it. The tracks to the Gate — their final mission before the last whistle." His tone softened, touched by memory.
For a moment I was a child again, standing between my parents on the platform at Neo-Berlin, staring wide-eyed at the great engines. Now… only ghosts. The price of progress.

"And those marks near the coast?" I asked.

"The most important," said Brandon. "Signal towers and small forts, save for these three." He pointed to the map. "Decoys. Empty fishing hamlets — bait for pirates."
I smiled faintly. The wolf in a sheep's skin.

"Do they work?"

Brandon raised his fist and opened his fingers, one by one, until four stood in the firelight.

"Three slavers," he said, "and one Ironborn. After a few nights without sleep and a few days of labor… they sang us the sweetest songs."

The fire crackled low, spitting sparks into the cold northern air. Shadows danced across the tents, long and shivering, while the smell of iron and smoke clung to everything like a second skin. Izak sat by the flame, his pale eyes glinting in the light as he studied a worn map spread over a plank of wood.

"If it weren't for Lord Jon calling me south to serve as your escort," he said with a faint smile, "we'd have nine, maybe ten ships by now."

His voice carried that sharp edge of confidence that had followed him since our academy days. It wasn't arrogance—just certainty, forged and tempered like the blades he loved so much.

I leaned forward, letting the warmth of the fire touch my hands. "And what's the final objective then?"

"On parchment?" Izak raised an eyebrow. "To end the raids across our cost. In practice, we hope to gather enough proof for Lord Jon to bring before his father—so Lord Stark may grant us leave to perform… a reconnaissance in force, let's say."

I let out a dry chuckle. "And the king?"

"Fait accompli."

"That might work," I said, stirring the ashes with a stick. "At least long enough to build a convincing case."

The fire popped. Somewhere beyond the circle of light, one of the sentries coughed. Brandon sat sharpening his sword on a whetstone, the slow rasping filling the silence between us.

"Speaking of the Crown," Izak said, breaking the quiet, "how many royal envoys did you have to entertain during your stay in Winterfell?"
"Fewer than you'd think," I replied. "But enough to be a nuisance."

"How so?"

"The North's as large as all the southern kingdoms combined," I said, "but its people are scattered thin across the wilds. Hard to pass unnoticed here if you weren't born to the snow. The Crown's pet agents can't do much in a land they don't understand—save perhaps the Night's Watch, and they've their own problems. Most of what the Crown knows comes secondhand from White Harbor. The rest who try their luck through the Neck usually end up dead… or in the belly of something that walks on four legs."

Izak's smile deepened, though his eyes stayed on the map. "That's more or less what we've heard."

"I've got the reports from beyond the Wall," I told him, reaching for the leather case by my side.

"Good. Jon's expecting them," he said. "But the expedition's still in its gestation. Before we march, we must first make sense of the politics. With the right negotiations, perhaps we can wrest a little administrative autonomy."

I smirked. "That sounds like Olaf's hand in it."

"It is," Izak admitted. "And I can't say I don't understand. It's a land without rule or recognition—ripe for the taking."

The fire burned lower as the wind rose, carrying the bitter scent of pine and frost. For a moment, the flame wavered, and Izak's face became all angles and shadows—a soldier carved from ice and iron.

Brandon tossed another branch into the pit. Sparks leapt up like fireflies. "We move at dawn," Izak said, rolling up the map.
"The march to the New Gift will be long," I reminded him.

"And cold," Brandon added.

"The cold doesn't kill," I said, standing. "Standing still does."

No one answered. The forest beyond the tents was black and vast, the kind of darkness that swallows sound. I looked north, past the unseen line of trees, toward the realm of snow and secrets where Lord Jon waited.

Jon Snow—bastard of Winterfell, shadow of his father, with the storm of the North in his bones. There was something in him that men like Izak respected: that quiet resolve, the kind that doesn't need to speak to command.

The fire hissed as the wind shifted again. Izak turned in his seat, the light outlining the faint scar along his jaw. For a heartbeat, he looked like one of the old kings of the Vale he so often denied descending from.

Tomorrow, we would march.

Tonight, there was only the fire, the cold, and the thought of what lay ahead in the wild lands where men vanished, and names meant little more than the snow that buried them.

Robb Stark Pov

The King's Road

The camp stirred like a beast at dawn, slow at first, with groans and heavy breaths, then with the clatter of a hundred men preparing for the day. The smell of damp smoke and cold iron hung over the tents. Dew clung to ropes and blankets, and the wind descending from the hills smelled of pine and old frost. Robb Stark lifted his gaze eastward, where the sun was beginning to break over the forest, and he thought he could not recall a dawn so still in a long while.

Guards, knights, squires, blacksmiths, cooks, and mule drivers moved in every direction, each with a task, each with a purpose. All were heading to the same destination: the fortress his brother had been sent to build, the price of his own name and his home.

Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, his father's son but not his mother's.

His brother.

Robb did not know how to feel. Pride sat in his chest, certainly, but there was also a strange emptiness, like a wound that refused to close. Jon had left with his men to build something new, something of his own, and that left a silence in the great hall, in the corridors, in the training yard. A silence that neither laughter nor the voice of his mother could fill.

Arya had cried for him more than she would admit. Sansa had remained quiet. Bran asked too many questions. Even his father seemed more melancholy, though Robb suspected that deep down, Eddard Stark had also felt a certain relief: an answer where there had only been doubt.

Jon had purpose now.

And the Starks had duty.

"Robb, are you ready? We are about to set out," Jory Cassel's voice broke his thoughts.

Robb nodded, tightening the riding gloves. He approached his horse, a dark chestnut with steady eyes. He mounted without difficulty, draped his cloak over his shoulders, and rode toward the front of the column, where his father waited with the lords of the North and Ser Izak Jagger.

The knight stood out even among hardened men.

Jagger wore polished steel armor, with plates shining blue beneath the morning light. Legs, waist, chest, neck, and arms protected by plate and chainmail, so bright that they reflected the face of anyone daring enough to look. On his chest hung a banner: a direwolf, but with inverted colors, white where gray should be, black where snow should lie. It was the emblem of Jon Snow's men.

"Do you think yourself a great man for that gleaming armor, Jagger?" Smalljon Umber shouted from his mount, laughter rattling the nearby firs.
The knight exhaled softly, barely shrugging.

"My lord, if you wish me to plant your noble backside on the ground again, you must wait until we reach the fortress."

The men laughed. Robb smiled as well. It was rare to see someone answer an Umber so calmly.

The northerners, however, were quick to test the strangers. Jagger's men, disciplined and trained, seemed more of the Vale of Arryn than the North. Their spears were straight, their helms closed, their mounts clean… everything about them spoke of order and precision, something strange in these lands where steel was tempered as much in the forge as in the storm.

It was only a matter of time before challenges arose. Friendly duels, pushes, bets.

The results were inevitable.

When you face a force trained to move and strike as one, bruised eyes and broken bones appear swiftly. Yet by nightfall, all were eating together around the fire. The northerners sang; Jagger's men listened. Some even kept rhythm, pounding the ground with the butts of their swords.

That morning, the air smelled of farewell. Robb felt the weight of the journey on his shoulders before his horse had taken a single step.

"Jon, I don't think now is the time," he remembered saying the night before.

"But Robb, that arrogant—" Smalljon had growled.

"I think my son is right," Father interrupted them with only a look.

Robb watched him, as he did now, with respect and the distance he never dared to shorten. His father bore the mantle of Winterfell with the gravity of one who carries more than a name: the responsibility of a lineage and a frozen realm.

"Is everything ready to depart?" Father asked, turning his head toward him.

"Yes, father. Jory is seeing to the final preparations."

"Good." His voice was a stone in the wind. "Ser Jagger, I could not help but notice a considerable number of Ser Crow's men are no longer with us."
Jagger inclined his head slightly.

"You are correct, my lord. They fulfill the task we discussed yesterday, as agreed."

"I see." The Lord of Invernalia nodded slowly. "Ensure your men are ready."

"Of course, my lord. It shall be done."

The knight turned and departed, his escort following silently. Not a word out of place.

Robb watched him go, wondering if that man ever allowed himself rest. There was something in him, something in his gaze, that reminded Robb of his father: the same rigidness, the same serenity amidst the ice.

Only Jagger carried no melancholy.

Only determination.

"Robb, we leave in ten minutes," Father said.

"We will be ready, father."

"See that it is so."

Robb nodded lightly. The wind whipped across his face; the dawn had lost its sweetness. He gestured to Smalljon to follow and moved toward the flank where the rear riders gathered. In the distance, men struck tents, secured loads, and extinguished fires. The murmur of animals mingled with the squeal of iron.

All in order.

All ready.

Yet Robb's mind was elsewhere. Back in Invernalia, the night Ser Dietrich Crow had first spoken to him came to mind.

He could still hear the knight's voice.

Crow had asked to use the broken tower as a base of operations. His father had seen no reason to deny it. Crow and his men cleaned, repaired, and occupied it in silence. Since then, the place had seemed to breathe, with lights burning even in the darkest hours.

Robb had sought him one day, curious, perhaps suspicious. He wished to understand why this man, one of Jagger's lieutenants, preferred isolation.

He found him alone, seated over a table of maps, a candle burning beside a bowl of water. When Robb asked why he separated himself from the rest, the man lifted his eyes and offered a faint, half-smile.

"I am no man of your father," he said. "My loyalty and oath do not lie with him, nor with you."

"Then with whom?" Robb asked, more surprised than offended.

"With your brother. With Lord Jon Snow." His eyes were like old ice. "To him I owe my loyalty and my oath. To him I answer and obey. Never forget, young Stark:

today I am your ally, but tomorrow I may be a dagger in the shadows. All depends on the orders of my master, who is neither your lord father nor anyone of your line. Only him. Only your lord brother."

The words had taken his breath away.

"That is… dishonest," he had said, testing the man's reaction.

Crow chuckled softly.

"Perhaps. Lacking honor, perhaps. But hear this, boy: a knight, a man-at-arms, a guard, a blacksmith, an archer… all are tools. Tools that serve the will of their lord. We are means to project power, maintain order, and build realms. Our loyalty is to him, and our honor is what he decides it to be. Remember: in life as in politics, there are always lights and shadows. Nothing is absolute. Everything corrupts the mind and soul of men. From the moment we are born, hatred, love, honor, loyalty, treachery, and power touch us all. Any one of them can corrupt. And the absolute… corrupts absolutely."

Robb had known not what to say. He only nodded.

Even now, he heard those words when the night grew too long.

Now, as the sun climbed higher and men tightened their ranks, he thought perhaps he began to understand what Crow had meant. Not all of the North was ice and truth. Shadows existed even under the snow.

The sound of horns broke his thoughts. Three short, one long.

The column prepared to depart.

Robb looked to his father, already mounted. Jory Cassel barked final orders, adjusting mounts and securing lines. Beside him, Ser Izak Jagger moved among his knights, inspecting every shield, every spear, every stirrup. The men straightened under his gaze, as if the mere fact he looked at them made them more upright.
He was a commander, and more still: a symbol of something Robb did not yet fully understand.

Smalljon approached, a broad grin beneath his scruffy beard.

"Fine day for riding, eh, Robb?"

"Fine or not, we are late." Robb returned the smile with effort.

"Bah, your brother will wait."

"Jon always waits," Robb said without thinking. And for a moment, the words hurt more than he wished to admit.

The wind shifted. It carried the scent of the nearby river and the murmur of pines. Robb lifted his eyes. The direwolf banner rippled above the column. At his side, Jagger's banner turned with the breeze, the inverted colors dancing together under the same wind.

The symbol of two brothers, as different as the ice and fire that shaped them.

"Lord Stark," Jory's voice rang through the ranks, "all is ready, my lord!"

Father nodded.

Robb tightened his reins.

The sound of hooves began to fill the valley, first softly, then deafeningly. The ground trembled beneath them, as if the earth itself acknowledged the march of the Starks and their allies.

The dawn became day.

The column moved.

Robb glanced one last time at the camp they left behind, then forward, along the road that would take them to his brother's fortress.
The north wind blew, cold and clean.

And for a moment, he thought he heard a voice within him, Jon's voice, calm and distant, like the echo of winter itself.
He rode on.

He did not look back.