The Architect of Winter
"To walk with gods is to bleed for men."
— Inscription found in the Crypts of Winterfell
(Third POV)
The Great Council of 101 AC is a momentous occasion, gathering lords from across Westeros at Harrenhal. The atmosphere is thick with anticipation and thinly veiled ambition. Noble houses display their banners, their retinues bearing the weariness of long travel mixed with hopeful expectation. Rickon Stark, ever the stoic Warden of the North, finds himself at the heart of this political maelstrom.
Lord Rickon Stark had arrived at Harrenhal with the clear intention of supporting Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. For the North, the principle of succession is paramount, and Rhaenys is the elder claimant, bypassed only by male-preference primogeniture of the south. To Rickon's mind, Viserys is the weaker choice—less aligned with the traditional values he respects. As for the other claimants, the less said the better. He still cannot fathom how these men actually believe they have a winning chance.
He had been certain of his choice, but then some of his bannermen had the brilliant notion to ask his son's counsel on the matter. Now he finds himself torn between honour and pragmatism. If he follows his original instinct, he can keep his integrity intact—his house's honour unstained, his word unblemished. But if he heeds his son's counsel, he risks becoming what he has always despised: a man whose word shifts like sand. His own people might begin to question House Stark's honour.
Yet if Alaric's plan succeeds, it could mean unprecedented growth for the North.
He had been half a mind to choose honour when his son spoke words that changed everything.
(Flashback)
"Al, listen to me—what you're proposing cannot be done."
"And pray tell, Father, why can't it be done?" Alaric asked, his voice maddeningly calm.
"This plan of yours goes against everything our house stands for and don't make me speak of my own honour being dragged through the mud. This is not honourable—I won't stand for it." Rickon's voice carried the stern authority of generations of Stark lordship.
"Honor?" Alaric's composure cracked slightly. "If King Torrhen Stark had clung to his honour, there would be no House Stark left to speak of honour! And that honor you're preaching about—what good is it if it dooms our people? If a king can set aside his pride for his people, what is a mere lord compared to that?"
The words hit Rickon like a physical blow. His eyes widened, and for a moment, silence stretched between father and son.
"Father," Alaric continued, his voice softer now but no less intense, "I'm not asking you to do this for yourself, nor for me. I'm asking you to do this for the North. There are still people who whisper 'King in the North' in the safety of their hearths. Do this for them.
'For the North'."
Rickon felt something shift within his chest. Aye, he would do it. What was his personal honour weighed against the needs of his people?
"For the North," he whispered.
So he went forth to meet with Princess Rhaenys. During their meeting, the Princess offered him a seat on her small council, promises of seeking Northern counsel on important decisions, and various other courtesies. Prince Viserys offered little in comparison—no council seat, just vague promises and pleasant words.
It was then that Rickon truly understood what these southern lords thought of him and the entire North. So he cast aside his remaining hesitations and began playing the game according to Alaric's design.
The negotiations, which both claimants had assumed would be simple formalities, made them see Rickon Stark in an entirely new light. He extracted every concession he could, made deals, secured written promises from both sides, and pledged his support to each without the other being any the wiser.
No matter the outcome of the Great Council, the North would emerge as the true victor.
(Alaric Stark POV)
This castle seriously sucks.
We've been here for close to a month—or moon, if you prefer the local terminology—and I haven't had a decent night's sleep since we arrived. I think it's only my... enhanced constitution that's kept me from collapsing entirely. Well, it doesn't really matter. It won't be more than a week before we're heading back North. And then I'll sleep properly again.
I've been plagued by nightmares since our first night here. It feels like someone's been trying to peek inside my mind, and when they can't break through, they're attempting to weaken my defenses through sleep deprivation and psychological warfare. Knowing this place and its reputation, I'm pretty confident that's exactly what's happening.
Heh. They can try all they want, but nobody's getting inside my head.
Best not to dwell on it—the more I think about it, the more it'll gnaw at me. Just three more days and this Great Council business will be finished.
But this gathering has solved one mystery that's been bothering me: why Rhaegar Targaryen chose Harrenhal for his fateful tourney, where he crowned Lyanna Stark queen of love and beauty. The historical significance, the precedent set by this very council—it all makes sense now. I wonder if, years from now, people will remember us when they speak of momentous gatherings at Harrenhal. The thought makes me feel oddly jittery.
I was standing before the ancient weirwood tree when someone approached and stood beside me. From her appearance, she seemed to be a woman in her late twenties, dressed in the common garb of Riverlands smallfolk. Strange—she looked lowborn, yet she stood beside me without the nervous deference a commoner should show a highborn lord. Looking more closely, she appeared... unhinged. As if she was gazing at the weirwood but seeing something entirely different.
I should leave. She looks half-mad.
"Leaving so soon, milord? Won't you stay a little longer?" she spoke up, startling me. I turned toward her.
"You have me at a disadvantage here. You seem to know me, yet I know nothing of you. Why don't you introduce yourself?" I kept my tone politely neutral—no need to be offensive to some unknown person.
"You speak remarkably well for someone of your... station, milord. I am honoured."
Please tell me she's not going to be some cryptic oracle here to give me vague quests about saving the world or some shit.
"It costs me nothing to speak politely, and you've done nothing to earn rudeness from me. Now, have a pleasant day." I turned to leave when she spoke again.
"I was waiting for you, milord. I've wanted to meet you for quite some time. I wished to see you with mine own eyes—it was quite difficult to approach with all your guards about."
"Meet me? And may I ask for what purpose? Wait—" My blood chilled. "Are you the one responsible for my nightmares?"
"Nay, milord, that was not my doing. I am but a simple messenger of the Old Gods. I go where they will it."
"You're a witch." It was more statement than question. She nodded and gave me the most unsettling smile I'd ever seen.
She really is unhinged. I should have trusted my instincts and left the moment I sensed something off about her. Now I'm fairly certain I'm going to regret this encounter for the rest of my life—however long that might be.
Let's just get out of here before some fantasy bullshit happens.
I turned to leave when air turned cold, her voice dropped and every word she spoke made my skin crawl:
"From realms unwoven, a soul descends,
In flesh of Winter's King, his journey transcends.
The wolf who walks with another's soul
Shall stir the snows and shake the coals.
A life once lived, now tied to frost—
A name remembered, a line once lost.
A spark of fire, from suns long drowned,
A will that bends where crowns are found.
A hand unseen, both swift and dire,
These gifts shall forge your North's pyre.
For destiny's loom, though hidden well,
Will bind your strength to magic's spell.
The Dragon's shadow, long and vast,
Upon your path, its fate is cast.
A silver queen, of flame and grace,
Shall seal your bond in time and space.
Through ash and blood, your paths shall twine,
A love and sorrow, truly divine.
From hearth shall come the deepest wound,
Kin's embrace shall prove your tomb.
Trust the howling not the tongue,
For envy coils where love once clung.
A flower of frost, beyond the Wall,
Shall bloom for you, before its fall.
But white winds keen, a final breath,
And love shall yield to chilling death.
A lament lost to ice and snow,
A pain that only you shall know.
No crown shall sit upon your brow,
Yet kings shall bow and queens shall vow.
A builder's hand, a stranger's mind—
The wolf who leads but walks behind.
The ancient cold, a distant fear,
Its true awakening, not for your year.
The dead shall wake, in ages hence,
Against their horde, no common fence.
Yet from your seed, where ice meets flame,
A champion rises, to know their name.
A builder's hope, on shifting sand,
To rise and fall, at fate's command.
The song of ice, the song of flame,
Shall know you by another name.
A life undone, a path unseen,
Between what is, and what has been.
The world remembers, though you forgot,
The future etched, in destiny's knot."
All I could do was stare, wide-eyed.
Did this bitch just doom me?
She gave me a prophecy, didn't she? Multiple prophecies, by the sound of it—as if different voices were speaking through her. Did she just dump multiple world-ending quests on me simultaneously? At least let me finish the tutorial village before throwing me into endgame content!
Her eyes had been glassy and unfocused while reciting those verses, but now she seemed to have returned to herself.
"I pray for your fortune in the trials to come, milord. May the Old Gods be with you."
She has some nerve, praying for me after potentially dooming me with her mystical bullshit. Let me just leave before she drops any more cryptic warnings on me.
I had been pretty confident my life would be smooth sailing from here, but now a prophecy has been made about me. A lesser man might be terrified of what the future holds. Hell, I'd be scared too—if I were a lesser man.
I smirked.
It doesn't matter what she says, or what her gods want.
My future is my own making, not something for them to decide.
After all—
I am Alaric Stark.
Before the weirwood tree, the witch knelt, whispering to herself: "Your path will not be easy, Alaric Stark, but knowing you, you would walk it regardless.
So I pray for you— Architect of Winter."