Brandon Snow watched with frustration as his nephew and crown prince, Brandon Stark, paced around the room like a caged wolf.
"This was a mistake," Brandon said for perhaps the tenth time that hour. His voice rose with each word. "Coming here, to the den of the beast! Nothing here is natural, Uncle! Nothing! That castle, the food, the very air feels wrong!"
He gestured wildly toward the window, toward the white marble towers visible beyond. "We will leave here with our minds addled by the damned sorcerer! Mark my words! This is all part of his plan to corrupt the North, to make us into puppets dancing on his strings!"
Snow sighed heavily. He did not know why his dearest brother and king had asked him to look after Bran like a child. Then again, the crown prince was acting like one, throwing tantrums and seeing conspiracies in every shadow.
The Heartlands, the Covenant, and Harald's very existence had caused problems Snow had not expected when he first heard of them. He had wanted his brother to ally with King Harald. Of course it would be quite a boon for the North to have an ally in the south, one who could magically grow crops, one who had shown genuine goodwill by sending food and potions during the winter.
Snow imagined a world where the North no longer starved in winter, where children did not die from cold and hunger, where the elderly could survive to see spring.
He had expected most of the Northern lords to favor the new king in the south. The smallfolk had greatly benefited from the help they received from King Harald. The North had come out of the winter perhaps stronger than it had been in living memory, with fewer deaths, fuller bellies, and more hope than Snow had seen in his forty years of life.
But Snow had been wrong. At least half the lords vehemently hated King Harald, mostly due to the Covenant, the new faith formed from the union of the Old and New Gods and also nine foreign ones that everyone seemed to forget.
It was naive of him to think the lords of the North would be so accepting. They were staunch traditionalists, after all. The great First Men, proud, stubborn, and resistant to change to a point where even the dreaded act of the First Night was still practiced in parts of the North, even though over the centuries the act had become anathema to many, seen as barbaric and wrong.
The old ways persisted, for good and ill.
Even Dew, a Child of the Forest, an earthsinger walking among them after thousands of years, had not helped matters. Some saw her as proof of the Covenant's truth, validation that the Old Gods had indeed blessed this union of faiths. Others saw her as a trick, a demon sent by the southern sorcerer to deceive them, an illusion created to manipulate the faithful.
When Snow had been called up to Winterfell to smooth things over between his two nephews, who had become figureheads of the two major factions forming in the North, Torrhen had been planning to meet King Harald at the border. A neutral location, a diplomatic meeting between two kings on equal footing.
But it seemed Harald had been able to convince his dear brother to come even further south, all the way to Cyrodiil itself, to take part in a tourney. Even King Loren of the Rock would be there as well. Three kings gathering in one place, an event that had not happened in living memory.
And now they were here.
Inside the castle Snow had seen having its foundations built when he was last here, now fully finished. The transformation was staggering. The castle could rival Highgarden in its beauty, Snow thought, perhaps even surpass it. Where Highgarden was all gardens and roses, soft beauty and ancient grace, Castle Cyrodiil was something else entirely. White marble that seemed to glow in the sunlight, towers that reached toward the sky with impossible elegance, windows of colored glass that turned sunlight into rainbows. There was a grandeur to it, a sense of permanence and power that declared this kingdom was here to stay.
Snow looked to his nephew. "Nephew, at least try and listen."
Brandon looked at his uncle, his grey eyes flashing with anger. "Don't lecture me, Uncle. I don't need it." He resumed his pacing. "I can't believe only Serena and I are the ones who see the threat. Father is blind, bewitched perhaps. And I believe he plans to arrange a marriage between Serena and the sorcerer."
"That sounds like a good idea," Snow said mildly.
"How could you, Uncle?!" Brandon's voice rose to a near shout. "Serena in the hands of that beast?! My sister, given to a man who traffics with dark powers, who corrupts the Old Gods with southern blasphemy?!"
"Or would you prefer the Bolton boy she's been longing over?" Snow said, his voice hardening. "You are so invested in this so called threat here that you don't see the one forming in Winterfell itself."
Brandon stopped pacing, confusion crossing his face. "Serena and the Bolton boy? I don't see any issues it would bring. It would bring the Boltons closer to our house, strengthen our hold on the North."
"You fool boy," Snow said, standing abruptly. "To give a Stark to a Bolton? Have you forgotten our history? Have you forgotten what they are?"
Brandon looked away, his jaw clenching.
Snow stood and walked toward his nephew. "The feast will begin soon. Your father expects you to act like the crown prince you are, not a petulant child."
He reached out and placed both hands on Brandon's head, forcing the young man to meet his eyes. "We don't want the North to tear itself apart because of this, nephew. I know of these factions already forming, lords choosing sides between you and Barthogan. This cannot continue."
"Bart would," Brandon tried to say.
"Would not turn against you," Snow interrupted firmly. "But if you continue to act like this, treating your own brother as an enemy, making him choose between family, you only make an enemy of a loyal brother. And when that happens, when the North is split between Stark and Stark, we all lose."
He released Brandon and stepped back. "Think on that while you dress for the feast. And for the gods' sake, try to be civil."
Snow walked out of the chamber, leaving his nephew alone with his thoughts and his anger.
He could only hope that Torrhen's gamble would pay off, that seeing the Heartlands firsthand would soften Brandon's stance, or at least prevent him from doing something foolish that would embarrass the North in front of three kingdoms' worth of nobility.
The feast began in the great hall of the castle.
It seemed King Harald had spared no expense.
Snow's eyes kept drifting upward to the lights floating near the ceiling. Not torches, not candles - spheres of pure radiance that cast steady, unwavering light across the hall. Dozens of them, making the white marble walls seem to glow from within.
Magic, clearly. He found himself staring despite his best efforts not to.
He sat on the North's side of the high table with the royal family: King Torrhen at the center and the three Stark children. Also seated with them were Lord Bolton, Lord Karstark, Lord Ryswell, and Lord Dustin, the most powerful lords who had accompanied them south.
King Loren and his family sat on the other side with their own retinue of Western lords. In the very center, between the two visiting kings, sat King Harald himself. Three kings at one table, talking and dining together, an unprecedented gathering.
Queen Argella was seated near them as well, positioned with careful diplomacy between the Heartlands nobles and the visiting royalty. Snow knew Torrhen planned to recognize her as the true Queen of the Stormlands, at least for now. It was good politics, and it cost the North nothing while potentially gaining them a grateful ally.
Torrhen seemed to be enjoying himself, Snow noted with relief. His brother was laughing at something Loren had said, raising his cup in a toast. The tension that had marked Torrhen's face for months was easing.
Snow watched his nephews and niece.
Barthogan and Serena seemed to be having a whispered argument, their heads bent close together, expressions tight. Meanwhile, Brandon glared at King Harald from across the table, his hand unconsciously rubbing a ring on his finger.
Harald stood up, and the hall gradually fell silent. Every eye turned toward the king.
"My lords, my ladies, honored guests," Harald began, his voice carrying easily through the vast chamber without needing to shout. Another touch of magic, perhaps. "I welcome you all to Castle Cyrodiil, to the Heartlands, and to what I hope will be a week of celebration, competition, and fellowship."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the assembled nobility.
"For years, this land suffered under the Ironborn yoke. Our people were enslaved, our wealth stolen, our very lives held in the hands of cruel masters who saw us as nothing more than chattel." His voice grew harder. "But we rose up. We fought back. And we drove them into the sea where they belong!"
The hall erupted in cheers, fists pounding on tables. Even some of the Northern and Western lords joined in, caught up in the moment.
Harald waited for the noise to die down before continuing. "I know many of our guests are understandably wary of me and the new kingdom we have built here. They have heard stories, some true, many exaggerated, about the Heartlands and its so called heretic king."
He smiled, and there was warmth in it. "But you do not need to be wary. I am not the monster some in the Faith and elsewhere make me out to be. I am simply a man who wishes good for everyone, who wants to see people prosper rather than suffer, who believes that we can build something better than what came before."
Snow saw several lords shifting in their seats, some nodding thoughtfully.
"King Torrhen," Harald said, turning to the King in the North. "The North and the Heartlands could be great allies. We already share much in common. We worship the Old Gods, we value honor and strength, we understand what it means to endure hardship and emerge stronger. Together, we could prosper. The Heartlands could help ensure the North never starves again, and the North's strength could help protect the peace we all desire."
Torrhen raised his cup in acknowledgment, and cheers went up from the Northern lords.
"King Loren," Harald continued, turning to the King of the Rock. "We share a faith as well. We worship the Seven alongside the Old Gods, united in the Covenant. And I am sure King Loren knows how much an alliance and peace between our kingdoms could benefit both our peoples. Trade, prosperity, security, all of these things we could build together."
Loren smiled and raised his own cup, his Western lords following suit.
Harald's expression grew more serious. "Peace. That is what I want above all else. Peace for the Heartlands, peace for our neighbors, peace for all the Seven Kingdoms. But..." His voice hardened. "If my people's safety is threatened, if those I have sworn to protect are endangered, then I will bring force to bear. The same force I used against the Ironborn, the same force that liberated the Riverlands and the Blackwater. I do not seek war, but neither will I shy from it if war is brought to my doorstep."
He let that sink in for a moment, the implicit warning clear.
"But tonight is not for talk of war," Harald said, his tone lightening again. "Tonight is for celebration. For fellowship. For showing that despite our differences, despite our separate kingdoms and faiths and traditions, we can come together in friendship and mutual respect."
He raised his cup high. "To peace. To prosperity. To the future we will build together."
"TO PEACE!" the hall thundered back, cups raised throughout the chamber.
Snow listened as the cheers went up, genuine enthusiasm filling the great hall. Even Brandon seemed mildly impressed, his glare softening slightly as he watched Harald command the room with such ease.
"The night is only beginning," Harald said with a grin. "And the week of festivities even more so. But before we truly begin the feast, I have gifts for our honored guests."
Two men in purple tinted armor, Spectres as Harald called them, came forward. They carried something covered with a cloth of deep purple silk in their hands.
Snow leaned forward with interest.
"King Loren, King Torrhen," Harald said, his voice warm. "I wish to gift you what I believe could be the start of a lasting friendship between our kingdoms."
He grasped the purple cloth and pulled it away with a flourish.
Gasps echoed through the hall.
Two swords lay on the tray, each magnificent in its own way.
Snow sat up, craning his head to see them properly.
Harald lifted the first sword. It appeared to be made of solid gold.
"A golden sword for the Golden Lion," Harald said, presenting it to Loren with both hands.
Loren stood and accepted the blade, his eyes wide with wonder. He tested its weight, gave it a few experimental swings, and a large grin spread across his face.
"Do not let its appearance fool you," Harald continued. "It is made of ebony, the strongest metal there is. Even Valyrian steel looks like mere rusted metal compared to it. It will never dull, never break, and will cut through lesser steel like parchment."
That got gasps and expressions of awe throughout the hall. Valyrian steel was legendary, irreplaceable since the Doom. For Harald to claim this metal was superior...
"Oh yes, Harald," Loren said, still grinning as he examined the blade. "This will serve me well. Very well indeed."
The Westerlands lords cheered, and others in the hall joined in, applauding the magnificent gift.
Harald then turned to the second sword, and what he revealed made Snow's breath catch in his throat.
The blade appeared to be made entirely of ice. Not steel painted or decorated to look like ice, but actual ice, crystalline and translucent, glowing with an inner blue white light.
A sword of ice. That was what it looked like, impossible and beautiful and terrifying all at once.
Harald lifted the greatsword. It was massive, and he presented it to Torrhen.
"I know House Stark already has a sword named Ice," Harald said. "But I believe this would be a more fitting bearer of that name."
Torrhen stood slowly, his eyes fixed on the impossible blade. "What… what is it made of?"
"Enchanted ice," Harald replied. "Called Stalhrim. It has the same strength as ebony, and do not worry, Your Grace, it will not melt even under dragon's breath."
He held it out, and Torrhen took it with something like reverence. The King in the North lifted the blade, testing its balance, and Snow could see wonder written across his brother's face.
"Both of these swords are enchanted so that only your bloodline may wield them. A Lannister may lift the golden blade, and a Stark may lift the ice blade. But any other who tries will find them as immovable as mountains. Your enemies cannot turn your own weapons against you."
"From what you are saying," Loren said slowly, looking at his golden sword with new appreciation, "we now hold probably the most powerful weapons in the world?"
"Other than what I wield myself, yes," Harald confirmed with a slight smile. "Consider them symbols of the friendship I hope to build between our kingdoms."
The hall erupted in cheers once more, louder than before.
Snow smiled, watching both kings. His brother especially, Torrhen, now looked as if he had no reservations about Harald anymore. The wariness that had colored his expressions since arriving had vanished entirely, replaced by awe and gratitude.
He then looked to his nephew Brandon, who was staring at the new Ice with hungry eyes, his earlier hostility forgotten. Even he seemed caught up in the moment, in the magnificence of the gift.
His eyes landed on Serena, his niece. She was the opposite of everyone else in the hall. Where others smiled and cheered, she was frowning, almost glaring. Her hands were clenched in her lap, her expression dark.
What troubles you, girl?, making a mental note to speak with her.
The feast continued well into the night. Course after course of magnificent food appeared, each more delicious than the last. Wine flowed freely, stronger than anything Snow had tasted before, sweet and smooth and warming.
Loren and Torrhen, after too many cups, even had a light spar with their new swords in the cleared space before the high table. The hall roared with laughter and cheers as the two kings, both slightly unsteady on their feet, crossed blades. The golden sword rang against the ice blade.
It was a good night, Snow thought hazily. A very good night.
=====
Snow woke the next day with his head pounding like a smith's hammer against an anvil.
He groaned and sat up slowly, every movement sending spikes of pain through his skull. Sunlight streamed through the window of his guest chambers, far too bright, far too cheerful.
"Damn that drink," he muttered, pressing his palms against his temples. Harald's wine had tasted great, smooth and sweet going down, but it was far too strong. He had only had three cups, maybe four, and yet he felt like he had been trampled by horses.
After several minutes of recovery, he managed to stand and make his way to the window, needing fresh air to clear his head.
He looked out at the view, his eyes focusing on the distant shape of the Isle of Faces beyond the Gods Eye. The sacred island where the Pact had been made between the First Men and the children of the forest, where weirwood trees grew in their hundreds.
Perhaps he should visit after the tourney neared its end, he thought. Pay his respects to the Old Gods in their ancient sanctum.
It had all started well enough last night. Better than well, actually. Torrhen was warming to Harald. That was good. Even Loren and Torrhen were talking of an alliance. Torrhen had wanted to build a navy in the west, and the Lannisters could help fund it.
He hoped they would leave with an alliance of three kings. An alliance that could reshape the entire political landscape of Westeros, that could bring peace and prosperity to millions.
Yes, he could hope.
But Snow had lived long enough to know that hope was a fragile thing, especially when dealing with kings and their ambitions.
He turned from the window and began preparing for the day ahead.
The tourney would begin soon, and with it, whatever fate the gods had planned for them all.
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The factions of the north
Red ---- Anti Heartlands
Green --- Pro Heartlands
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