Bitterbridge
The sun beat down upon the pavilions of Bitterbridge, gilding the rows of colored silk and banners. Knights were practicing. Lords were planning the attack on Kingslanding and after that the remaining Lannister host. The Tyrell roses bloomed beside the stags of House Baratheon, and Renly Baratheon, crowned in gold, looked every inch a king as he presided over his court beneath a canopy of woven velvet.
He was laughing when the rider arrived.
A dust-streaked man in torn cloak and sweating leather armor pushed past the guards, his courser near collapse. Ser Loras Tyrell stood before the royal dais in a glittering breastplate, but stepped aside when the rider fell to one knee, breath ragged.
"Your Grace, I bring urgent news from the Stormlands," the man gasped. "Your brother, Stannis... he has entered Stormlands, and is moving towards Storm's End."
Silence fell like a sword through flesh.
Renly's smile faded away immediately. He rose from the carved chair of oak and antler, his voice too calm.
"Stannis lays siege to my seat?"
"I don't know," the man said, panting. "He has ships with him and thousands of men. And... his banner is strange."
Renly's lips pressed into a line. "Storm's End belongs to me. It was given to me by Robert."
Ser Loras spoke next, his tone sharp. "Then we must go and confront him. A King can't afford to loose his ancestral seat."
Renly said nothing at first. He turned his gaze toward the distant lands of his youth, toward the place he had once called home. Storm's End—his inheritance by Robert's decree, but more than that, his claim to the legacy of House Baratheon. And now his elder brother—grim, humorless Stannis—had taken it upon himself to usurp it.
"Does he still calls himself king?" Renly asked.
The rider nodded. "He does, Your Grace. King Stannis, he calls himself. He says the Iron Throne belongs to him, by right. That you are no true heir of late King Robert."
A low murmur passed through the gathered lords. The Reach lords, so smug on their victory against Lannister host and in their support of Renly, glanced at one another uneasily. A king at war with his brother was no small matter. Not in the eyes of gods or men.
Renly descended from the dais slowly.
"Let no man say I turned my back on family, I will try to reason with him," he said, voice carrying. "He attacked my lands and my people. He threatens my lords."
He turned to Ser Loras.
"Ready the host. We will march for Storm's End at first light."
Loras said. "Shall I ride ahead, Your Grace?"
"No," Renly said. "This is a family matter. And family, dear Loras, must be handled personally."
In the far reaches of his heart, Renly felt the shadow of dread stirring. Stannis was not clever, nor loved—but he was relentless.
Let Stannis come, Renly thought. I'll teach him what it means to wear a crown.
________________________________________________________________________
Winterfell, The North
The first thing Petyr Baelish noticed was the cold.
Not just cold in the way of a drafty room or a chilly breeze. No, this cold had weight. It sank into his bones. It hollowed his chest. It was the North's cold—the kind that reminded people that they were only ever guests in this land, and never welcomed here.
The second thing he noticed was that he was upright, standing. Bound.
Chains stretched from manacles at his wrists and ankles to hooks embedded in the stone behind him. The iron bit deep in his skin. His muscles ached from being held so long in one position. One of his knees trembled. His mouth was dry.
He remembers now how he was kidnapped from Kingslanding, by those strange men.
He lifted his head as best he could. The dungeon around him was made of black stone, with torches giving off weak, flickering light.
Someone was standing in the shadows.
A woman.
She was very still. Watching him.
Then, without a word, she moved forward.
Lady Ashara.
She has aged perfectly. But her eyes were what rooted him—cold, deep, unblinking. Last time when he had seen her, they weren't like this. Those eyes were full of joy last time.
Baelish froze. His lips parted.
"Why am I here?" he croaked.
Ashara stepped closer, hands clasped lightly before her.
"There is only one reason why you could be brought in Winterfell's dungeons," she said quietly. "And you know that reason."
Her voice has also changed. Last time it was like music playing, stirring something like longing in most of the men who heard it. Now it scraped at his nerves like a blade on stone.
Baelish forced a smile.
"If this is about Elia—"
"Elia?" she echoed, calmly. "You can stop lying."
She took another step forward.
"Lysa Arryn is not dead," Ashara said. "In the Vale, they found a body that looked like hers with it's head crushed. Lysa is here, in Winterfell's dungeons. She lives in a cell right next to yours. I visit her regularly. The time I spend with her is… rewarding."
Baelish flinched. His smile slipped.
Ashara came even closer. She raised a gloved hand—and grabbed his jaw with surprising strength.
"My son made a promise to me," she said. "That he would not harm you or Lysa. No matter how much he wanted to. Both of your fates lies in my hands. Mine alone. Though, my son may come to see my handiwork."
Her grip tightened.
"You are responsible for my Brandon's death," she whispered. "And no, you will not receive death. There are fates worse than death. You and Lysa both will live a long life. Long enough to understand the weight of what you've done. Long enough to feel it."
She released him, slowly.
"I will visit you regularly, Petyr," she said. "I will savour every scream. Every shudder. Every attempt at pride you manage to muster. And whenever you are close to death, I will stop each time. A healer will come to heal you. You will recover fully. And then we will begin again."
Baelish's breath was uneven now. His knees shook.
How do they know? he thought. I was careful. No one knew what Lysa and I did. Not truly. No one else was there.
His lips moved.
"Torture?" he rasped. "Is that how highborn ladies amuse themselves now?"
Ashara simply raised an eyebrow.
"What can I say?" she said with a small smile. "Northerners and Dornish have always been different from the rest of Westeros."
Baelish gave a broken laugh. "You and your son… you're just like the rest. Pretending to be better."
Ashara looked at him as though she were examining a stain.
"Yes," she said. "Aryan and I wear masks for the wider world. We lie to it. We build stories and symbols and hope to make people kneel. That is politics. To maintain our power. But among family members we don't wear any mask."
She turned her head. Another figure stepped forward from the shadows. A young man, with the blank expression. He pushed a wheeled cart before him. On it lay an array of tools.
Pliers. Tongs. Skinning knives. A hammer. Thin iron rods. A brazier with coals, hissing in the cold. Hooks. Clamps. And others Petyr could not name.
He felt bile rise in his throat and terror grip his heart.
Ashara glanced down at the tray fondly.
"Qyburn taught me how to use all of these tools. Then I practiced all of these on a certain vile criminal," she said. "Then I used them all on Lysa. She screams and moans for hours. Nowadays she is recovering. You would be surprised to know what a human's body and mind can endure, and how much they can suffer, if you keep them just shy of breaking."
She lifted a thin, curved knife and turned it gently in her hands.
"Oh," she added, almost as an afterthought. "Before you woke up, I had a very strong urge to crush your balls. But that would've been too quick."
She smiled, faintly.
"So, I decided on something better. Tomorrow, Kinvara will come. She'll take your cock and balls. She was actually grateful, said that it would help her in a ritual. And then… we'll have even more fun."
Baelish's knees finally gave out. The chains held him up, barely. His eyes were wild.
Ashara stepped forward and slid the knife's edge gently across the side of his stomach. Not deep. Not fatal.
Just enough.
Baelish gasped.
She did it again, lower.
He screamed as the third slice dragged just beneath his ribs.
The torchlight flickered. Blood dripped slowly down his skin. The brazier hissed louder.
Ashara leaned close to his ear.
"You deserve worse than what I will do to you," she whispered.
Then she carved a symbol onto his chest. Slowly. Deliberately.
The sigil of House Stark.
She kept on going.
________________________________________________________________________
Moat Cailin, The North
The hall smelled of pine and alcohol, firelight flickering off the stone walls and dancing across long rows of Northern banners. Cushions and soft fur were over the benches—to keep everyone comfortable. Lords and ladies of the North—who went to war—filled the Great Hall of Moat Cailin.
At the head of the room, Aryan Stark stood up.
The murmuring fell away like snow off a roof. Tankards were lowered, eyes turned forward, and even the squires at the back stilled their whispering.
Before Aryan could open his mouth, a chair scraped against the flagstones with a rude screech, and Greatjon Umber was on his feet, massive as a tower, grin like a bear that had just caught a deer.
"Lord Stark!" he boomed, his voice loud enough to make the rafters groan. "Before we talk of rebuilding and war and whatever else you want to—there's a matter that needs raising." He paused, then slapped a hand to his chest. "I speak for all good men and women here, when I offer congratulations—on your firstborn!"
For the briefest moment, silence held—then the dam burst.
Tankards slammed down like war drums. Horns were lifted high. Men stood, shouting toasts over each other. Even the ladies raised their goblets. The hall roared with blessings and praise.
"To the next Lord Stark!"
"Blessings on your line!"
"To the boy with a wolf's blood and a sun for a mother!"
Aryan smiled widely at the mention of his son and nodded in gratitude.
"Thank you," he said, raising his voice just enough to carry. "You shall all receive invitations soon. There will be a proper feast and celebration in Winterfell."
Laughter again, warm and hearty. Lord Wyman Manderly, sunk deep into his cushioned seat like a great bear in winter, lifted his goblet with a grin like a satisfied cat.
"And what name shall we drink to, Lord Stark?" he asked. "What shall we call the next wolf of Winterfell?"
Aryan's smile didn't falter a bit.
"Before I left for war, Arianne and I spoke of names. We agreed—if our firstborn was a son—he would be named Artos Stark, in honor of Artos the Implacable."
The response was thunderous. The tables shook from pounding fists. Tankards clanged like swords. A few of the younger lords stood, already calling out oaths of loyalty to a child who had not yet held a sword, nor spoken a word.
"Implacable he shall be!"
"Long live Lord Artos!"
When the noise quieted, Aryan lifted a hand again.
"There is one more matter," he said, and now his voice cooled, like a blade settling into a sheath. "As you all know—the archipelago that was once called the Iron Islands have gone through a thorough cleansing."
The mirth didn't fade entirely, but it shifted—dry chuckles from some, grim nods from others, especially the lords of the western coast. These were the ones whose people had buried sons in raids, whose daughters had been dragged screaming into the sea for centuries.
"As I promised—they belong to the North now. And they will always belong to the North. We've scoured those islands. No more drowned god. No more krakens. No more salt wives, no more thralls, no more reaving, none of their filth."
He let that hang in the air for a beat. Then:
"But names carry power. And the old names must go."
He reached to his side, took a scroll, and unrolled it slowly, the parchment crackling in the hush.
"I could not think of names before we left for war, so I asked Lady Barbrey for her suggestions. I've chosen to go with her suggesstion. And I've also chosen who shall hold these islands."
He read aloud, voice strong but not boastful—more decree than declaration.
"Great Wyk shall be known henceforth as Stonehart Isle. A new house shall be founded there by Jonrick Flint."
"Pyke shall be known henceforth as Seadrake Point. A new house shall be founded there by Harwin Forrester."
"Harlaw shall be known henceforth as Greyshield Haven. A new house shall be founded there by Lyra Mormont."
Then he looked up, a glimmer of amusement flashing in his otherwise calm expression.
"And before I continue," he said, turning his gaze to the end of one bench, "Lord William—your wife has a wicked sense of humor."
The room tensed with anticipation.
"Old Wyk shall be known henceforth as Naggon's End."
Laughter burst forth like a flood breaking a dam. Men slapped tables, women cackled into their cups. Maege Mormont let out a bark of laughter. "Aye, and it's no less than they deserve! A fitting name." she roared.
Aryan waited patiently for the noise to settle before continuing.
"A new house shall be founded there by Beron Glover."
He resumed reading, each name crisp, each appointment final.
"Blacktyde shall be known henceforth as Wolfsrest. A new house shall be founded there by Edran Tallhart."
"Orkmont shall be known henceforth as Shieldmere. A new house shall be founded there by Torren Reed."
"Saltcliffe shall be known henceforth as Northwatch. A new house shall be founded there by Beron Whitehill."
The scroll was rolled up again, slow and steady.
"These are the foundations of the new Northern isles," Aryan said, gaze sweeping over the gathered lords and ladies. "They will not be left to rot in the sea. I will send trained men to each islands—enough gold to start the rebuilding, and craftsmen to follow. Masons, shipwrights, farmers, builders. Miners, if the earth is rich enough."
He paused.
"They will teach the new houses how to tend to their lands. How to grow them. How to guard them."
He straightened slightly, voice rising once more.
"These isles will also serve as a naval base. The new Stark fleet is being built in Braavos even now. When they are ready, they will be stationed in those waters. And they shall be our first line of defense—against any fool from the South who forgets that the North remembers."
The cheers came again, fierce this time. There were men and women in this hall who once never dared to dream that the North would have its own large fleet, due to the actions of one his foolish ancestor—never dared to dream the sea could belong to them.
Aryan let the cheering, and congratulations to the new rulers run their course, then he spoke again.
"Now—onto more serious matters. It's time we start preparing for the war against our ancient enemy."
That quieted the hall.
Lord Styr Thenn rose slowly, his voice rough like gravel. "Just give the word, Lord Stark."
Aryan nodded, pleased.
I never expected the free folk to blend so easily into the North he thought. Yet many already have. They're learning. Changing. And still, they remain fierce.
He spoke again, eyes sharp.
"Begin training every person of fighting age—two hours a day. Archers, spearmen, shieldwalls, whatever they're best suited for. I'll start sending dragonglass to every keep and village. Have your blacksmiths ready. Half the funding will come from Winterfell."
"I want weapons," Aryan said, his voice final. "Blades, arrows, axes, spears, hammers, shields. Every one of them tipped in dragonstone. This time winter is coming for real."
This time, there were no cheers. Only the weight of men preparing for the long night.
________________________________________________________________________
Kingslanding, Crownland
The Small Council chamber was quieter than it had ever been.
Tyrion Lannister sat in the Hand's chair with his boots up on the table. The room smelled faintly of parchment, wine.
"Lord Varys," Tyrion said, his voice tight, "have your little birds found Baelish yet?"
Varys spread his hands in that apologetic, silken way of his. "Alas, no, my lord. My little birds have searched far and wide, but Lord Baelish seems to have vanished without a trace."
Tyrion leaned back with a grimace. "Men like him don't disappear into the wind, not without purpose. All of his records are gone. Ledgers, letters, correspondence—everything. It's like he planned this for months."
"Of course he did," Cersei snapped from her seat, arms crossed tightly over her bodice. "You think Littlefinger ever did anything without reason? You should have kept him on a leash, Tyrion."
"I'm paying for not doing it," Tyrion muttered. "I'm juggling half the kingdom's finances—or whatever is left of it, food stores, and defenses. There's no Master of Coin, no Master of Laws, no Master of Ships. It's just me, Varys, and Pycelle left."
Pycelle coughed into his sleeve, interrupting. "A message arrived this morning," he wheezed. "Copies of this has gone to every lord and lady in the realm."
He passed a scroll to Tyrion, who broke the seal and read it. His expression darkened.
"As you told Varys, Aryan Stark has wiped out every Ironborn. Now he has also declared the Iron Islands part of the North," Tyrion said. "He has renamed them. Appointed new lords and lady to each island. He has issued rebuilding orders for every island."
"He has no right to do it!" Cersei hissed. "After the massacre, those lands belong to the Iron Throne now."
Tyrion smirked. "Tell that to him. I doubt he'll care."
Varys interjected softly, "There are... other matters as well."
Tyrion arched a brow. "Let me guess. Whispers from the East?"
Varys inclined his head. "I have located the Targaryens. They are in a secured manse near Meereen."
That drew a scoff from Cersei. "So, what? They have gone even farther from Westeros. They are not our problem right now."
Varys was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "There are whispers. That they have gone there so that their dragons can grow before they attack Westeros."
Pycelle went pale.
Tyrion slowly lowered his cup. "Real dragons?"
"They say there are three," Varys replied, voice low. "Hatched from stone eggs in the fire. One black, one green, one cream."
Cersei's laughter was sharp and scornful. "Dragons? You believe this? Next you'll say the Others walk again."
"You forget," Tyrion said gently, "dragons once flew in the skies of Westeros."
Cersei stood, jaw clenched. "Then let her come. Let the silver bitch fly her monsters over Westeros. We have scorpions—"
"Our finances are in ruins. We don't have the Reach, the Stormlands, the Vale, the Riverlands. And we certainly don't have the North and Dorne," Tyrion said coldly.
"We have a king," Cersei snarled. "And we still have the Iron Throne."
Tyrion thought If things go this way then not for long.
______________________________________________________________________
Winterfell, The North
Aryan Stark had ordered the rowers to push harder when the wind faltered, their muscles straining as the ship cut through the waters of the White Knife. He spared not a thought for their exhaustion. Nothing mattered now except the land before him. Winterfell.
As soon as they docked, horses were already waiting for him. He mounted in a fluid motion, spurring the beast hard. The castle gates loomed ahead—already open.
He didn't slow down.
He rode straight through, barely reining in before leaping from the saddle.
Those present in the courtyard wisely stepped aside. They bowed low, offering silent greetings, knowing well that the Lord of Winterfell had returned, and that he would not be delayed. Aryan barely acknowledged them. His stride was relentless. He had missed too much.
Then he saw her.
Arianne.
Even beneath Winterfell's grey sky, she seemed to shine. Her dark curls were unbound and loose, her cheeks flushed with warmth and joy. She was blushing already, her lips parted in surprise and something deeper—relief. Love.
She didn't wait. She ran to him.
Aryan caught her and pulled her into his arms, kissing her deeply before she could speak. He didn't care who watched them. Let them see. The months had been long. Too long. And the scent of her, hit him like a memory.
"I missed you," she whispered against his cheek, breath trembling.
"I missed you too," he replied, holding her tighter. "I've missed so much."
When they parted, another figure stood behind her. Ashara. His mother.
His mother's eyes shimmered with pride, smiling warmly at her son. Aryan stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug without hesitation, resting his forehead against her shoulder, a son returning from war.
"I'm home," he murmured.
"You are," she said softly, and kissed his temple.
Then came the others—Arya, Sansa, Mellario, Nymeria, Tyene, Oberyn, Ellaria. He embraced each in turn. But his eyes were now searching someone else.
Arianne had already taken his hand. "Come," she said, almost breathless. "Our son is waiting for you."
He said nothing. He let her lead him.
They moved through halls he knew as well as his own thoughts, until they reached the nursery. It was decorated just as they had planned it. Fire was crackling gently in the hearth, golden candlelight were present. The nurse rose and left the room quietly.
And there, in beautifully carved cradle of dark wood and pale fur, was his two months old son.
Swaddled in pale yellow, his tiny chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. A tuft of dark hair curled. His skin was light olive, warm against the linen. He slept soundly, unaware of the world, unaware of the man who now stood before him.
Aryan said nothing. He simply stared, his was filled with awe.
He stepped forward, slowly, like a man approaching a sacred thing. Then knelt.
"Hello," he whispered in a low voice, reverent. "You may not understand this now, Artos... I'm your father. Aryan."
He reached out and touched the child's hand.
The baby stirred. Tiny fingers curled around his.
Then the boy blinked, eyes fluttering open—and they were violet.
Just like Artos' grandmother.
Just like his father's.
Aryan looked up, and Arianne was already kneeling beside him, her hand on his.
"He is perfect," Aryan said softly.
Arianne smiled, radiant and proud. "He is our son."
And in that quiet moment, with the fire crackling behind them, Aryan Stark felt even happier than before.
________________________________________________________________________
The sitting room in Winterfell's east tower was warm with firelight and quiet laughter. Aryan, Ashara, Arianne, Mellario, Oberyn, Ellaria, Nymeria, and Tyene sat in a loose circle, lounging comfortably. The air was light, the kind of ease that came only in the presence of friends or loved ones.
Nymeria had just finished telling a story about a untrained raven in Sunspear that kept delivering letters to the stables instead of the rookery.
Aryan turned towards his mother and his wife. "Mother. Arianne. Arrange for a feast."
Ellaria arched a brow, intrigued. "A feast?"
"A celebration," Aryan said with a genuine smile. "In honor of Artos' birth. Every house in the North will be invited. And I also sent a ship from Moat Cailin to bring Aunt Allyria and her twins."
Ashara exchanged a knowing look with Arianne and gave a small smirk. "We knew you would want to do something like this."
"Of course we'll handle it," Arianne said, already thinking about the arrangement.
Then, unexpectedly, Oberyn began to laugh. A low, rich sound that made Ellaria burst into laughter beside him. Their mirth rippled through the room, drawing glances from the rest.
Aryan raised an eyebrow. "What is it, Oberyn? Ellaria?"
Ellaria wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, still smiling. "Oh, nothing. Only... the realm is burning. They're calling it the War of the Four Kings—though with the Greyjoys gone, I suppose it's back to three. The two Baratheon brothers and the Lannisters."
Oberyn added, "And here we are. Enjoying ourselves. Sharing stories. Sipping drinks. Planning feasts. Cooing over a babe."
Mellario's voice was thoughtful. "To be honest... it didn't even feel like war here when Aryan left. Some people were tense, yes, but the general populace remained calm. I saw no fear—only a little restlessness. Like Arianne, daily watching the skies for ravens."
Nymeria and Tyene nodded in agreement.
Arianne smiled faintly, her hand resting on Aryan's. "That's because Aryan knew where and when the Ironborn would strike. The North was prepared for that. Northern retaliation was also swift and overwhelming. He never let fear take root. There were losses, yes, but far far fewer than what might've been."
Aryan leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression sharpening. "Everywhere between the Neck and the Red Mountains is burning—or will be soon, because they all jumped headfirst into war without any proper plans, without foresight. This was bound to happen."
He glanced at Tyene. "You've been quiet. It looks like you want to ask me something. If the answer to your question doesn't go against the North's interests, I'll answer it."
Tyene hesitated for a moment, then said carefully, "Umm... it's just that, well, it's a common knowledge in Westeros that you ordered complete massacres—on Skagos, the Iron Islands, and The Three Sisters. That everything there was destroyed and was rebuilt in case of Skagos and is now being rebuilt on the other two. I can understand the Ironborn—they were rotten to the core, their culture needed to be torn out. I can even understand Skagos... the cannibals were there. But the Three Sisters? Why them? You had defeated them already."
All eyes except Ashara and Arianne turned toward Aryan now.
Aryan's voice was steady. "After the Greyjoy Rebellion, I became a firm believer in one simple truth: Never leave a foe wounded if you have the power to kill them. A dead foe claims no vengeance."
Tyene said. "But their descendants can. Friends. Allies. Other loved ones."
Aryan nodded. "Yes. So, I wiped them out too."
There was a silence at that.
He continued, voice calm and measured. "Now no Skagosi, Ironborn, or Sistermen will ever rise against House Stark. I ordered the purge of the Three Sisters because they were already planning rebellion. They would have never forgotten the Northern retaliation. They would have waited—festered. Better to end it all now."
He looked at Tyene. "Take my ancestor, for example. If they had wiped out the Boltons when they rebelled for the second time, we would've been spared centuries of treachery. But they kept giving them chances. And the Boltons kept revolting—until the last one died, stabbed by his own bastard while plotting against us."
Aryan finished quietly while looking at the ceiling, "Of course, if your enemy survives because you didn't have the power to finish them, and you still win the war... you must end the hostilities, by helping them back onto their feet. Not because they deserve it—but because peace must be made real. It's a delicate balance of ruthlessness and reason."
No one spoke for a long moment.