In the year 51 BC (Before Compact), The Withering emerged from Valyria and ravaged Essos and Westeros. I would not find out that it had come from Valyria until many decades later, when my spies managed to steal some documents from a highly placed Dragonrider Family.

Apparently, a fire mage of a lower class family had been experimenting with a means of extracting more life energy from a living body than could normally be extracted using 'traditional' methods. These experiments had eventually resulted in the Withering, a Magical Plague that had never been seen before.

Of course, given their typical immunity to disease, the Valyrians were completely unaffected. Their servants and slaves, however, were not, and the Freehold's economy crashed in the aftermath, and for several decades afterwards, the highborn Valyrians were forced to do manual labor themselves to keep things running.

In the aftermath, further research in to such techniques was completely forbidden, and a few decades later the Valyrians were back at it, waging war and enslaving everyone they considered lesser. If anyone had had any hopes that the Valyrians might have learned a lesson from the Withering, they were dashed, and if anything, it seemed the Withering had re-enforced the Valyrians preconceptions and prejudices.

I suppose the only real good thing that came of it was that it delayed the Valyrians' invasion of Westeros just long enough for them to be destroyed by the Doom and thus ease any worries that Westeros might suffer the same fate as Essos.

- Memoirs of the High King, Volume 1. Written 17 AC (After Compact)

It was a rough jerking of my shoulder that brought me to awareness, awaking me from a deep sleep. My head was pounding, hot with fever. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. My arms and legs felt painfully thin, and my midsection felt like a coiled knot, painfully twisting in on itself.

I didn't even try to open my eyes, as my eyelids felt like they were glued shut. Slowly, I stuck out my tongue to try and wet my painfully chapped lips.

"My prince, you needed to drink," I heard a female voice say. "Sit up, I have a pot and a spoon for you."

The covers on the bed I was laying on were so thick that I doubt I could have moved, even if I wanted to, but a moment later I felt arms grasp around my shoulders and help me sit up. A moment later, I felt the tip of a spoon brush against my lips, and I parted them a bit to drink the water that poured from it. Some of it spilled onto my stomach.

As I swallowed, my midsection coiled painfully, and I felt a wave of nausea overcome me. A moment later a hand came over my face to force my mouth shut, and someone patted me on the back, bending it a bit, helping me force the urge to vomit back.

"Very good, My prince," the female voice said. "Here's another spoonful."

The spoon once again brushed my lips, and the people there helped me to swallow and keep down that bit of water as well.

Four more times, I drank water from a spoon and had to fight to keep it down, the very struggle making me feel exhausted.

"My Prince, we're going to try some light broth next, please do your best to keep it down," the female voice said after the sixth spoonful.

I nodded lightly, and when the spoon touched my lips again, the aroma of the broth caused my stomach to twist painfully. I fought back the urge to vomit, and slowly began to sip the broth, taking my time to swallow, and shuddering every time I felt the urge to vomit again.

Eventually, all the broth in the spoon was gone, and I made to lean back.

"My prince, can we try for another spoonful?" the female voice asked.

I shook my head no, and rather forcefully leaned back.

"My prince..." the female voice trailed off.

"Let it go, Maya, we've already taxed him to his limit," a male voice said from farther away.

"Alright, lets go, everyone," the female voice who was apparently called Maya, replied.

There was a great rustling as everyone else in the room made to get up and leave, while someone else replaced the hot towel on my head with a nice and cool one, and I was thankfully left to lie down and fall back asleep.

Time passed in this way, with long periods of sleep, occasional periods of wakefulness where I completely delirious, and times where I was woken up to be plied with water and broth by the servant folk of Winterfell.

Oh, did I not tell you? Yeah, I'm a prince of House Stark, who had been born and raised in the time period before the Doom of Valyria, but when House Stark already controlled all of the North.

Right now I was eight, and suffering from something called the Withering Sickness. It was a pandemic that had come from Essos, but had arrived on a boat in Old Town during the fall, and spread from there. It was winter now, and last I knew, it had arrived in White Harbor and Winter Town a few months ago, eventually causing a great many of the Royal family to get sick.

I had no idea how long I had been sick, as I spent most of my time either asleep, or delirious. I had no concept of the passage of time.

Eventually, however, I woke up and found that my stomach didn't feel quite as twisted as it had before, and my fever wasn't quite as bad. I didn't feel delirious at all.

I felt painfully thirsty, though, so I decided that I needed to open my eyes and see if there was any water nearby that I could drink. However, it seemed my eyes were glued shut, and would need help to open.

Which presented another problem, my painfully thin arms were pinned under the bedding. I wasn't sure I had the strength to free them, but I was so thirsty that I had to try.

Carefully, bit by bit, I wigged my shoulders, and carefully moved my arms, each inch gained causing me to feel exhausted and having to take a break. It was only my thirst that compelled me to carry on.

Eventually, I managed to get my left arm out from under the bedding, causing it to flop over the side of the bed. I had to painfully exert myself to get it up over the bedding, after which I had to take a break before continuing.

The struggle had left me feeling very tired, but I knew I had to drink something before going back to sleep, or I might not wake up. I knew, deep down, that I was dangerously dehydrated.

After taking a deep breath and gathering my strength, I moved my left hand to my face, and used it to clear away the gunk in the crack of the eye-lids of my left eye, which was my dominant eye. After clearing away the gunk, I then used my fore finger and thumb to pry it open, and I saw my room for the first time in a while.

It was dark, and the only light to be found in the room was from some embers coming from the fire place, but that was enough. I looked around, and spotted a cup on a table near my bed. It was a pottery cup, though, so I couldn't tell if it had water in it. I was just gonna have to hope that it did.

Carefully, I reached over with my left hand, and weakly grasped it. It was heavy in my hand, so I could tell that it had some kind of liquid in it.

Sitting up as far as I could, I carefully brought the cup to my lips and tilted it, and to my relief it was very bland tasting water. I gulped it all down and set the cup back on the table, before leaning back. Thankfully it seemed that my stomach turning nausea was mostly gone.

With a sigh, I closed my left eye, and fell back asleep, assured that I wouldn't die of severe dehydration.

It was during the day when I woke up again, the light of day filtering in through the slits of the shutters in the window.

I opened my left eye, looking around my room. It was easier to see now, and I noticed that my room seemed to be much the same as it was when I first gotten sick: it mostly just had a bed, bedside table a dresser, and a chair next to the fireplace. The only real difference was the bedding I was in: it seemed that it had been changed many times while I was asleep.

I was thirsty again, but when I lifted the cup, it seemed that it had not been refilled. With a sigh I put it back down, and decided to use the time while waiting to clean out the gunk in my right eye and then force it open so I could see properly.

Then I settled down to wait, as I wasn't feeling sleepy at the moment, my eyes settling on the door.

Hours passed as I waited, and I tracked the time by watching the light move. I spent the time wondering what was happening in the house hold, as someone should have come by now. Hopefully it was just me that had gotten sick, but I knew that was unlikely.

From what I had heard, the Withering Sickness started with a mild fever and head-ache, and for many people it didn't progress much beyond that, but for those that it did, they got acute nausea and diarrhea, the nausea was so intense that most people who got it couldn't keep solid food down, only being able to drink liquids.

There had been some horror stories coming from the south before it had arrived in the Winterfell, saying that half the people in Old Town had died from the sickness, and the other half were well on their way towards death. Of course, I had dismissed this as hear-say, as most diseases weren't that lethal.

What was more worrying were the letters that Maester Gabrin had been getting from the Citadel: there were actually a significantly large number of victims and fatalities, and that most of the dead were young and middle-aged adults, with the disease mostly leaving children and the elderly alive.

I was eight years old, so it was no wonder that even after suffering the advanced stages of the disease, I had managed to survive, but it had left me painfully thin and weak. I doubted I would be able to get up and walk on my own anytime soon, not without help, anyway.

As day started to pass into night, I was starting to get worried; was anyone in Winterfell still alive?

I was starting to feel I was going to have to crawl my way out of here to get some water and food, when suddenly, thankfully, the door to my room opened, and in walked a youthful stranger in the robes of a maester, a maester chain around his neck, and a cloth mask on his face. He was carrying a roll of parchment, an ink pot, and a few quills.

"You're awake!" he said with startlement when he looked at me, suddenly rushing over to my bed and placing his hand on my head.

I nodded painfully. My throat felt too dry to speak.

"How long have you been awake?" the maester asked curiously.

In response I cleared my throat.

"Oh, you must be thirsty," He noted, turning to grab the cup, only to notice that it was empty. "Did you drink this on your own?"

I glared at him.

"Oh, sorry, I'll get some more water," he replied hurriedly, before straightening up and rushing out of the room, presumably to get some water.

A few minutes later, he was back, and had brought a maid with him, who was carrying a jug of water. I noted that she was also wearing a cloth mask. The maid immediately rushed to my side, pouring a cup of water and helping me sit up to drink it. I drank it as quickly as I could.

"More, my Prince?" the maid asked, and I nodded gratefully.

After drinking what felt like the whole jug, I felt enough strength return to my limbs to sit up more, and I held my hand out to grab the cup and drink from it.

With a sigh, I cleared my throat and passed the cup back to the maid, and said in a soft but clear voice: "I'd like something to eat now."

"Yes, my prince," the maid nodded. "I'll be back with a bowl of broth."

"Thank you," I nodded back.

"Oh, thank the Seven," the Maester said happily a moment later. "This is the best news I've had all week!"

I turned to regard him. "Who are you? Last I knew, Winterfell was served by Maester Gabrin?"

That sobered the Maester up quick. "I'm sorry to say this, but he died 4 days ago. I was sent by Hoster Cerwyn to serve as replacement until the citadel gets around to sending their own replacement. I only just arrived yesterday morning."

I stared at him. "How long have I been sick?"

His face turned grim. "According to Maester Gabrin's notes… four weeks."

I felt a weight form in the pit of my stomach. Four weeks? I'd been sick for four weeks? From what I recalled, I woken up one morning with a fever and head-ache. When Maester Gabrin had found out, I had been sent to bed with strict orders not to leave my bedroom, and had mostly spent about four days just lying around, hoping the fever and head-ache would abate, but then the disease had progressed to it's acute stage, and I had lost track of time.

To wake up and find that three and a half weeks had passed during my delirium was a shock, to say the least.

I turned to look back at the Maester. "What about the rest of my family, how are they doing?"

The Maester frowned. "I've spent the past two days here checking over everyone who is sick, or has been sick. I didn't have the time to ask names."

I frowned in turn. "But surely you prioritized the Royal Family?"

"That's what I'm saying," the Maester replied hastily as he made to sit in the sole chair in the room, turning it to face me. "Everyone in the Royal Family caught the sickness. You're the only one of them to have recovered so far, at least, of those who had the acute sickness. Only a few children younger than you escaped the acute sickness."

Chills crawled over my skins. "Everyone?"

"Everyone," The Maester confirmed. "I'm afraid to say, some of them have died, though I haven't had time to check who has."

I considered that fact. Some of my family members were dead, but I didn't know who. I was prevented from replying by the return of the maid, who walked in with a bowl of broth on a tray. The smell of the broth was enough to make me salivate.

The maid set the tray down on the side of my bed, and I greedily slurped down as much as I could, until my stomach did an odd little flip and I had to stop.

After shooing the maid away with a thanks, she left and shut the door behind her, and I turned my attention back to the Maester, who had been observing me.

"Well, it seems that you've regained a measure of your appetite, My Prince," The Maester nodded, before giving me a serious look. "But it will still be a long road to a full recovery. It will be a few days before you can eat solid food again, and you'll need to start putting on some weight before you can get out of bed and start walking again. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable? No doubt your bedding needs changing."

I nodded seriously. "Yes, tell me… is there any member of my family who is awake and alert enough to lead Winterfell and perform their duties? Someone with seniority, that is."

The maester looked blankly at me for a long moment. "As far as I know, My Prince, you're the senior-most person in the royal family who is awake and aware, though I wouldn't consider you ready to lead Winterfell, or ready to perform any duties..."

I stared at him. "So you mean to tell me that there's no one leading Winterfell right now? What about House Cassel, or House Cerwyn?"

"House Cassel has been confined to the livery keep," The Maester explained. "They arn't faring much better than the Royal Family, I'm afraid to say, though Orwyk Cassel only suffered mild symptoms and is looking after his family. As for House Cerwyn, they've sealed Castle Cerwyn, and as far I know I'm the only one to leave the place since the Withering reached the North. They arn't letting anyone in or out. They probably won't let me come back until winter is over."

I continued to stare at him, with mute shock. According to this maester, Winterfell was leaderless, and there was no one to look after the family's affairs, which meant that someone was going to have to step up and attend to them, and I was afraid that someone would have to be me.

Decision made, I looked away from the Maester and took a deep breath, before looking back at him. "Very well then. Maester… uh..."

"Harwin," The Maester pointed out.

I nodded. "Maester Harwin. As the senior-most member of the Royal family, you will now report directly to me. You will obey my orders as if they come from the King, and you will assist me with managing the family's affairs, until the situation changes. Is that understood, Maester Harwin?"

Maester Harwin stiffed slightly, and looked at me with an incredulous expression. "But… you're just a child!"

I rolled my eyes, "I'm well aware of that, Maester Harwin, but as you've so recently informed me, the rest of the Royal Family is either dead or indisposed, so someone has to step up."

Maester Harwin remained indecisive though. "But… you've only just recovered! Surely that can wait-"

"I'm afraid I must insist, Maester Harwin" I replied with a hard tone and bared teeth. "Unfortunately, the Starks can not afford to leave the affairs of the North unattended to for too long, even in Winter. Either someone steps up, or we risk being eaten alive by our enemies. And that risk is especially significant, during this vulnerable time."

"What enemies could you possibly be referring to?" Maester Harwin protested. "The North is loyal to House Stark, is it not?"

I pursed my lips. "You must be a southron that hasn't lived here for very long if you truly believe that. Truthfully, that's just an image we like to present to the South, that the North is United. The real truth is much more complicated.

"Now, to be quite frank, I've quite had enough of your obstinance, Maester Harwin. You will acknowledge me as the acting head of the royal family until told otherwise, or I'll have you sent back to Castle Cerwyn, even if that means you have to sit outside it's doors until spring. Is that understood, Maester Harwin?"

We stared unblinkingly at each other in the eye for a long moment, in a battle of authority. Then Harwin blinked and sighed. "Very well. I will obey your orders and assist you."

"Thank you," I replied, sighing myself. "Now, I want a table brought in here, that is tall enough to stand over the bed. Also, more pillows for me to sit up against. When that's done, bring in the accounting books, as well as any messages that arrived in the past two months, that you can find, as well as the King's journal, which you'll find in his solar. Finally, see if you can get one of those chairs with wheels made, as I'll need to inspect our defenses and holdings at some point, preferably before the month is out."

"Very well, My Prince," Maester Harwin replied, before pausing. "Or would you prefer to be referred to as Your Grace?"

"'My Prince' will do for now," I replied softly, looking toward the fireplace. "Besides, we don't call the King 'your Grace' in the North. We address him as 'My King', or 'My Queen' if they're a woman."

"Ah, I see," Maester Harwin replied shortly, before making to leave. "I'll send the Maid in with some new bedding, and see about locating a proper table."

"Please do,"I muttered, as he left.

A few minutes later, a small party of maids came in with fresh bedding, and after they peeled back the top layer of bedding, I saw the affect the Withering had had on my body for the first time: If you had ever seen pictures of Jews being rescued from Nazi camps, it was sort of like that.

It was amazing I had survived as long as I had, and I was glad that I would be able to start putting on weight again, for no one should have to see their own skeleton so clearly defined under their skin like that. I shuddered to think of what the rest of my family could look like.

In fact, as the desk was brought in and I started reviewing the account books (with Maester Harwin's help), reading the raven messages of the past two months (which I read on my own), and absorbing my grandfather's journal (he had been King in the North when the Withering struck), I did my best to put the idea of what was going on with my family out of my mind, only instructing Maester Harwin to inform me if someone of greater seniority had recovered enough to take over.

The most concerning business I had been confronted with after my rise to acting head of the family, was the most recent ravens coming from House Flint of Widow's Watch, House Karstark, House Hornwood, and, surprisingly, House Bolton.

It seem that since they were the closest Houses to White Harbor, which was where the Withering had first emerged in the North, they too had been heavily affected by the Withering, and were now requesting whatever aid Winterfell had to offer, as they themselves did not have maesters, and only had Raven Masters to manage their ravens.

With this in mind, I instructed Maester Harwin to write up several copies of a list of techniques they could use to minimize the impact of the sickness on their Houses, and I also wrote a personal letter to each house, with more or less had the same contents:

To the Lord of (house),

I regret to inform you the House Stark has also been suffering from the Sickness, and thus can not offer much more aid than the list of instructions enclosed with this letter.

Fortunately, it seems that only the eastern Houses have been significantly affected by the Sickness, so as Head of House Stark, I must ask that you close any trade routes that you have open to the West, and prohibit any trade or aid you might give to other Houses.

The only way we in the East can hope to contain this disease is by not spreading it, so anything you can do to aid in this will be greatly appreciated.

We will survive, we will defeat this sickness, and we will see each other again.

Long live the North.

Eddard Stark, Head of House Stark in the absence of the King.

I had written four copies of that letter, the day after I had woken up, and had started to roll them up with the copies of instructions, only to realize that I didn't have the signet ring needed to seal them with wax.

I turned to look at Master Harwin, who was sitting at his own desk in my room that had been set up after my desk had been brought in.

He gave me an expectant look. "Are you ready to send them?"

"Not quite yet," I replied with a sigh, sitting up on my bed straighter. "I need the signet ring of the King to send these letters with any kind of official capacity. Could you go get it for me?"

"Where would I find it?" He asked with a frown.

I rolled my eyes. "On the finger of the King, or on his bedstand. His name is Brandon, ask one of the servants where his room is."

Master Harwin nodded and got up, leaving the room, and I settled in to wait. Hopefully it wouldn't take too long.

It ended up taking a long time and as the minutes passed into hours, my impatience began to turn into worry. Had something happened to my grandfather? I hoped not, he was in his 60s, surely that was old enough to avoid the worst of the Withering.

It was late in the afternoon when Maester Harwin returned, and there was a grim expression on his face when he entered my bedroom.

"Maester Harwin, is something wrong?" I asked worriedly.

If anything, his face turned grimmer, and he took a deep breath before he pronounced:

"The King is Dead… Thrice over."