"You could see it from miles off, a pale blue line across the northern horizon, stretching away to the east and west and vanishing in the far distance, immense and unbroken. This is the end of the world, it seemed to say."
―thoughts of Jon Snow
…
The cold cut through the furs as if they were nought but summer linen, and the wind was howling like a chorus of lost souls. Cregan Stark tightened the scarf around his neck, his breath misting before him, and nudged his horse forward. The old grey mare picked her way across the icy trail, her breath steaming in the cold. Behind him, the men of Winterfell followed—Karl Tanner and Roderick Slate among them, both thickly wrapped in the grey cloaks of House Stark. None of them spoke, but Cregan could feel their shared thought as clearly as if they had shouted it to the heavens: what sort of madness brought princes of the realm to the Wall in the dead of winter?
The message had been vague, half-panicked and half-admiring, about dragons landing near Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. One was massive, bronze and ancient, the other smaller, blue as the winter sky. Vhagar and Tessarion, the ravens had said. And with them, Prince Aemond and Prince Daeron, both bound for the Wall, with no intention of stopping at the Nightfort or Castle Black. Straight into the Haunted Forest, of all the cursed places they could choose. It was that detail that spurred Cregan to saddle his horse and gather his men without delay.
"Young fools," he muttered under his breath, his voice muffled by the scarf. Roderick Slate gave a snort of agreement, his breath a cloud in the wind. "Dragons can only take them so far, beyond that it's all snow and death."
When they reached the Wall, it loomed above them, a sheer white face, monumental, timeless, and uncaring. And there, half-buried beneath a mound of fresh snow, lay Vhagar and Tessarion. They were coiled like cats by a hearth—great, terrible cats—their sides rising and falling with each breath. The dragons paid little mind to the approaching party, Vhagar's great eye sliding open for a heartbeat before closing once more, a rumbling sigh escaping her. Tessarion's tail flicked once, snow dusting up in its wake, but she remained at rest.
Cregan marvelled at them a moment longer before dismounting, handing his reins to Karl Tanner. "Stay here," he ordered. "If they stir, call to me." He eyed the dragons, and then the Wall. "I'll have a word with the old bear."
It took time for the winch to lift them up, the cage rattling as it climbed higher and higher. The wind was fierce this far above the world, biting, screaming in his ears. Castle Black lay below like a child's toy fortress. Finally, they reached the top, the wall of ice spreading before him, endless and barren. The Night's Watch were there, hooded in black, dark shapes against the white.
Derrin Stonehand, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, stood waiting at the edge of the Wall, as gruff and unmoving as the frozen Wall itself. He was grey-bearded, thick as an oak, and his eyes were sharp beneath the bushy brows that framed his stern face.
"Lord Stark," he rumbled in greeting, his breath misting as he spoke. "You come for the princes, I presume?"
"Aye," Cregan replied, stepping off the platform, his boots crunching against the snow-covered ice. "Where are they, Stonehand? The Night's Watch should have kept them here."
The old man grunted, his eyes narrowing. "They came, aye. But they went beyond the Wall, into the Haunted Forest. A fortnight-and-half now. The elder spoke of visiting the woods, whatever that means. Young men, thinking themselves invincible, dragon riders or no." He spat onto the ice, a dark stain on the frozen white.
Cregan felt his frown deepen, a weight of worry settling in his chest. Three weeks in the Haunted Forest—even as Targaryens, with fire in their blood—it was madness. He turned to Roderick, who stood at his shoulder. "We'll need to send a party after them, rangers, anyone who—"
Before he could finish, a shout echoed across the Wall, one of the watchmen raising his hand and pointing beyond the ice. "Movement!" the cry carried on the wind, followed by a sudden rush of figures to the edge of the Wall.
Cregan moved swiftly, his long legs eating up the distance. He squinted northward, shielding his eyes against the glare of the snow. There, emerging from the shadow of the Haunted Forest, he saw them—two figures, heads of white hair shining like beacon fires in the wilderness, making their way through the snow. They moved unhurriedly, confidently, despite the endless sea of ice before them.
And trailing behind them, black shapes, hulking and sleek, the size of ponies. Cregan felt his breath catch, the sight both strange and strangely beautiful. He knew what they were; tales told around the hearth of Winterfell had given them a name.
"Direwolves," he murmured, the word a whisper on the wind. His men exchanged uneasy glances, awe mixing with fear. The beasts moved with the princes like shadows, silent and watchful. An omen. The young lord of Winterfell felt something stir within him.
"Well, I'll be damned," Roderick Slate breathed beside him. "They found the wolves, or the wolves found them."
Cregan did not answer. He watched as Aemond and Daeron strode towards the Wall, the direwolves in their wake, and in that moment he wondered if perhaps, just perhaps, these princes might know something the rest of them did not.
***
Two weeks later.
The hearth fire blazed, its light dancing on the walls of the Great Hall, casting flickering shadows over the rough-hewn stone and polished iron sconces. The scent of roasted venison mingled with the saltiness of the lingering ocean air, the rich, smoky aroma of pine logs, and the faint tang of fresh snow wafting in through the narrow windows. Winterfell was at feast, and Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sat opposite Prince Aemond Targaryen, listening as the younger man spoke in a measured tone. Beside Aemond, Prince Daeron attacked his trencher with the appetite of a boy who had known hard travel, barely sparing a glance for the conversation. Cregan, however, found himself distracted more by the direwolf gnawing lazily on a thigh bone behind the princes, similarly content to ignore the rest of the room.
"Trade is blood, Lord Stark. If it flows well, the body thrives," Aemond was saying, his voice calm and deliberate as he drew Cregan's attention back to their conversation. "A Guild here, in Winterfell, would be the keystone to seeing the North progress. I have already spoken to Tyland Lannister, Ormund Hightower and representatives from other relevant parties. The guild would facilitate a trade route connecting your lands directly to the Vale, the Westerlands, and the southern cities. Imagine a steady stream of grain and wine from the Reach, olives and spice from Dorne, and precious metal from the Westerlands flowing northward. In exchange, the North's natural bounty, resources the South has slowly come to covet, flowing south. Peat, ice, wool, and blubber. Timber, dragonglass, amber, and jet even."
Cregan leaned back in his high-backed chair, fingers tapping thoughtfully against the armrest. His gaze travelled over Aemond's face—the hard lines, the proud, sharp features—searching for any sign of deceit or overreach. He found none and proceeded to express what little doubt had begun to form in his mind.
"It seems, from your words, you mean to bypass the port towns, at least to some extent? How do you intend to move trade of the volume you speak overland? The North is not like the South, my prince. We have harsh winters, roads that vanish under snowdrifts, and vast leagues of empty land where travellers can easily meet their doom. Such a grand venture… these merchants you speak of would need more than good intentions to make it through these parts. What have you planned for that?"
Aemond inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the question. "Your points are valid, my lord. Hence why, of all places, I came to Winterfell last despite her great importance. The North's isolation has been a challenge for centuries… one which I hope to resolve before my tenure as Master of Coin expires. The six great roads of the realm," the prince continued, fully pausing from his meal, "the Roseroad, the Goldroad, the Oceanroad, the Riverroad, the Highroad, and the Kingsroad—must be remade and expanded, properly paved, I'm afraid—not just paths beaten by the march of travellers. And more than that, the construction of a seventh road, cutting through from Riverrun to Highgarden, must be arranged, as well as garrisons and guardposts to watch them. The planning for these undertakings is already well underway, and preparations will begin in earnest in a few months. Soon, we will see men and materials flowing to bring these roads to a new standard, an undertaking worthy of the realm's ambition."
Cregan blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, though he quickly masked it. "The expense alone…" he began, but Aemond interrupted with a raised hand.
"The expense will be borne by more than just the Crown. The Merchant Guild made obscenely wealthy by my policies, as well as a few members of the nobility—those who stand to benefit from a more interconnected realm. And with those revenues from taxation and tariffs, the same coffers will grow. My plan is to lay the foundation so that commerce is encouraged to move freely across the entire continent. Each region will benefit—goods that are scarce will become accessible. In times of plenty, surpluses will move where they are most needed. The North, in particular, will gain… sustenance during the leaner years. With these roads, Winterfell will no longer be a distant fortress but a crucial artery for the flow of trade across Westeros."
Cregan ran his fingers across his beard, mulling over Aemond's words. "You make grand promises, but your ambitions seem even grander… I fear you mean to bring more than grain to the North."
Aemond did not react to the challenge in Cregan's tone. Instead, he nodded after a moment of prolonged silence, his demeanour mellowing into something far sombre. "I see a dark future ahead, Lord Stark—portentous dreams that keep me up late at night. The true threats to Westeros lie beyond the Wall, as you must know. Death festers in those lands, and when it finally chooses to move, it will be the North that stands first in its path. Strengthening these lands, fortifying them, ensuring their prosperity—that is not just wise, it is essential. A strong North is a shield for all of Westeros. And it is only by recognizing that truth now that we can hope to face what may come."
Another prolonged moment of silence followed. Then Cregan spoke once more, "...Do you truly believe these words you speak or are they empty gestures solely to ensure my compliance?"
Aemond crooked a brow, a wry smile creasing the corner of his lips. "What do you think, Lord Stark? What else do I, a Targaryen prince, stand to gain this far North besides some peat and timber?"
Cregan held the prince's gaze for another long moment. Taking his silence as a sign to continue, the prince brought the conversation back to the matter of trade. "The North is a great power, but one that has been dormant for too long," Aemond spoke, bringing a chunk of meat to his lips as he did. "What is needed to actualize her awakening is a gateway for exchange, a solid bridge connecting your house to the wealth of the realm. A Merchant's Guild could be that bridge." He paused, then spoke in a tone that was firm, regal, even between bites of venison. "The guild, as always, would remain under the purview of the Dragon's bank, and the garrison that would guard it will be controlled jointly by the crown and House Stark, with each having its representative and men-at-arms upholding their interests there."
Cregan let the words hang between them. He could feel the weight of eyes from across the hall—his closest bannermen, his family—all watching, waiting. "Aye," Cregan finally replied, nodding slowly. "And the cost?" he asked. "Who will bear the cost of this bridge you're building between North and South? The guild, I mean."
Aemond allowed a thin smile, the barest curve of his lips. "I will. Personally. Consider it an investment in what will be… a fruitful future for the realm." He gestured lightly with his hand, his fingers briefly brushing the rim of his goblet. "On the other hand, the garrison would be a joint effort between your house and the crown given the nature of its conception. However, to fully realize this endeavour, the industries to support this trade must be developed with great haste. Mines, timber yards, and other resource sites. I am willing to finance their development as well—under a lease agreement that grants me a majority stake in their output as well as full control over their usage."
Cregan's frown deepened, his gaze hardening at that. "No, Prince Aemond," he said firmly. "I will not lease away control over any part of the North—not our forests, nor our mines, nor any swath of land. These belong to House Stark and to the people of the North. I will not hand them to another, even if only temporarily."
Aemond studied him, and then he nodded, conceding the point. "Very well. The resources remain under your control. The guild will still stand, and the trade will still flow nonetheless. However," he continued, leaning forward slightly, "such a grand endeavour will inevitably be costly. Your Northerners are great, but not exactly renowned for your wealth. The realm cannot afford delays due to a scarcity of funding, and to ensure the North is capable of upholding its end, I am prepared to offer loans from the Dragon's Bank at favourable interest rates."
Cregan nodded, his gaze still wary but now considering. "Aye, Prince Aemond. I see the wisdom in your words. Very well, should we need it, we will accept the assistance of the Dragon's Bank—so long as the terms remain as fair as you promise. As for the rest, Winterfell will hear more details of your proposal. I will speak to the other lords, and together we may judge how such an arrangement could be sustained."
"That is well understood," the prince nodded. "On the matter of speaking to the other lords," he continued, "there is one more proposal I wish to make."
Cregan cocked his head, one dark brow arching in cautious interest. "And what might that be, Prince Aemond?"
"I would ask that you host my Direwolf friends within the Wolfswood for a year," Aemond said, his tone almost casual, yet there was nothing casual about the request. Another one of the Direwolves in question lay by the door, sleeping, indifferent to the men and their deliberations. Why the beasts had followed the prince south, why they walked at his heel and lingered on his command, were mysteries that had nagged at Cregan like the chill gnaw of frost beneath his skin. Mysteries, it seemed, that Prince Aemond was in no rush to unravel.
Cregan's gaze shifted from the slumbering beast to the prince—to that one blue eye that gleamed like a shard of ice, and the faint smile carved like a scar upon his lips. Aemond Targaryen, with his riches, his ambitions, who offered gold for the inconvenience of a wolf-haunted wood.
A deal, then. A gamble, perhaps, but the Lord of Winterfell had gambled before, and he would again. "I imagine," Cregan spoke slowly, saying what they both knew would follow, "that Winterfell might accommodate your... friends, provided we are compensated for the wood, for the inconvenience." His lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile, a hint of shrewdness flashing beneath the brooding. "The Wolfswood is vast, but nothing in the North is given freely, and I daresay your coffers might manage the expense."
"Of course," Aemond answered, seemingly amused at the attempt to fleece him. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
Silence fell between them then. For a moment, there was only the crackle of the hearth. "Then it is settled," Cregan said at last, with a final nod. "The lords shall hear your words, and your beasts shall have their wood. May the Gods watch over what comes of it."
"May they indeed," Aemond echoed, his attention turning fully then to the meal he was offered.