AN – Lot of you going to be unhappy with the direction of this chapter. Before you send me an angry PM, please read the AN at the end.
Year 280 AC, four years after winter's end, Rickard Stark guided his horse through the newly forged gates of Moat Cailin. He could still feel the faint residue of damp in the air—the swamps of the Neck never truly vanished—but everything else was unrecognizable from his memories of the ruin that once stood here.
Rickard recalled the Moat Cailin of old: decayed towers, moss-choked stones, and a precarious fortress barely holding back the tides of time. Now, as he looked up from the King's Road, he saw the tall, broad curtain walls stretching around the castle grounds, standing guard like silent sentinels. The transformation was staggering.
From the saddle, Rickard surveyed the wide curtain walls—nearly fifty feet high—that wrapped the site. Their stone ramparts glowed in the afternoon sun, each segment fitted with arrow slits and topped by 100-foot towers at regular intervals. The walls themselves served myriad purposes: stables along one section, storage chambers built into another, accommodations for men-at-arms and servants in yet another.
It was both practical and cunning. A fortress that not only protects but accommodates its defenders with ease, Rickard mused. Harrold truly understands how to blend comfort and strategy.
The King's Road continued straight through the fortress, dividing it into two halves. On the left side, Rickard saw the main keep rising proudly—a graceful structure of modern design, reminiscent of the rumored wonders from Harrold's travels. Set around the keep were vital installations:
Rickard noticed the Armory by the glint of steel through an open archway, racks of weapons carefully arranged. Administrative Offices, a cluster of buildings that bustled with scribes and stewards. Healing Hall, A low, spacious structure, windows thrown wide to let in sunlight. Rickard imagined the wounded and sick finding solace within.
On the right side, the scene differed. A great hall, newly built and grander than any he'd seen outside of Winterfell, anchored the space. Surrounding it were neat rows of buildings meant for visiting lords or guests—a subtle gesture of hospitality amid formidable walls. The main kitchen and storerooms also lay on this side, sprawling in a well-planned arrangement that hinted at feasts to come.
Rickard's eyes lingered on a greenhouse shimmering under the sun, glass panels reflecting the light. How strange and wondrous that in the heart of the swamp, bright flowers and herbs from distant lands thrived.
As he rode further in, Rickard marveled at the gardens scattered around both halves of the castle, full of vibrant blossoms—orchids from the Summer Isles, golden lilies from Yi Ti, delicate flowers from Leng. Their colors formed a tapestry against the gray stone, and the air was lightly perfumed even here in the Neck. Who would have thought the Neck could smell like this? he wondered.
Men-at-arms stood politely aside as Rickard passed, bowing respectfully. Some wore House Gryffindor's silver griffin sigil, others bore the various banners of the north. Unity, Rickard thought with approval. This was more than a fortress; it was a place where the North and Harrold's world intertwined seamlessly.
At last, Rickard dismounted near the main keep, handing his reins to a waiting stablehand. He paused, casting his gaze over the entire castle. Four years since the winter ended, and look at what has been accomplished. A ruin revived into a wonder, a stronghold that might stand for centuries. A sense of gratitude welled in him—for Harrold's vision, for the clones and laborers who toiled in harsh conditions, for the new future it promised the North.
Harrold himself emerged from one of the keep's grand doors, wearing a pleased smile at the sight of the arriving guests. Behind him, servants bustled, preparing for the feast that was to celebrate Moat Cailin's rebirth and new era of strength.
Rickard thought back to the countless threats that once plagued the North—wildling raids, looming winters, the Neck's unrelenting decay—and realized how much had changed. Moat Cailin once was the North's shield, barely holding. Now it is a proud bulwark, more powerful than it ever was, with comfort and modern architecture that outshines anything south of the Neck.
Taking a final look at the curtain walls and the tall towers keeping eternal watch, Rickard felt a deep surge of pride. Let the lords of the North see what we have built here. Let them taste the future at tonight's feast. And let them know—Moat Cailin stands stronger than ever.
Lyanna wandered through the newly bloomed gardens of Moat Cailin, trailing her fingers over blossoms that should have been impossible in this swampy land. Yet here they were—vivid peonies and delicate orchids from distant continents—part of Harrold Gryffindor's ever-growing wonders. As she moved, the wide causeway loomed in the distance, a constant reminder that armies and visitors alike would cross through her future domain.
A shiver of anticipation and dread coursed through her. In a few years, I'll be the Lady of this castle. The thought simultaneously thrilled and unsettled her.
A Flashback: One Year Ago -
She recalled a memory from a year prior at Winterfell, where her father, Rickard Stark, summoned her to his solar. She had expected an ordinary conversation about her lessons or an upcoming feast. Instead, he regarded her with the weight of responsibility in his eyes.
Rickard, gently: "Lyanna, there's something I must tell you. I've arranged a betrothal for you—to Lord Harrold Gryffindor. It won't be announced until Moat Cailin's feast, but I wanted you to know."
Lyanna felt her heart hammer in her chest. "Marry? Me?"
Her father folded his hands, lines of concern etched on his face. "I know you have dreams of freedom, child. But this alliance is important for the North—and for our house. You wouldn't wed until you're of age. We'll make it clear. But... it must happen."
Anger and panic had flared in her then. Lyanna turned on her heel and stormed out of the solar, ignoring her father's calls.
She remembered how everyone assumed her fury was about losing her cherished independence—her longing to ride free, explore new lands, and refuse a life of polite sewing circles. Yet that wasn't the whole truth. In her moments alone, she admitted to herself an even deeper conflict: She felt no desire for any man. In her first wave of confusion, she had wondered if she were like a Dornish woman who preferred the company of women. But after thinking it through, she realized she had no desire for women either.
It felt as though there was no place for her in a realm so obsessed with lineage and marriage, she had thought bitterly. Until Lord Gryffindor himself approached her.
Harrold, speaking softly: "Lyanna, may I speak with you?"
She turned her head warily, crossing her arms defensively. "If it's about this marriage, I have nothing to say."
Harrold took a measured step forward and then settled on the ground beside her, leaving a respectful distance between them. He noticed how her fingers drummed nervously on her sleeve. "I sensed your distress, so I asked your father's permission to speak privately. I want you to know... I understand more than you think."
Lyanna huffed, her breath coming sharp. "Understand what, precisely?" Her eyes darted away, as though bracing herself for an unpleasant truth.
Harrold's expression was calm, his voice kind. "That you don't feel as others do. No longing for a husband or a wife, if that rumor crossed your mind. In my old world, we call it being asexual—it means you simply don't desire that aspect of marriage."
Lyanna's eyes widened, panic flashing in them. She scooted back slightly, her shoulders tense. "I—I don't know what you're talking about," she insisted, her tone suddenly defensive. "I—I could marry just fine if I wished. Why wouldn't I want a husband?"
Harrold inclined his head, reading the confusion and fear in her gaze. "Lyanna, it's all right. There's no shame in not wanting physical intimacy. Your family assumes your anger is about your freedom, about being caged by marriage. That might be part of it, but not all."
Lyanna gave a harsh laugh, eyes glistening with something akin to tears. "You—what do you know of it? You're just—some foreign lord turned Northman. Maybe you read people well, but you don't know me."
Harrold's voice was gentle but firm. "I'm not from here, it's true. I've traveled all over the world. I've met countless souls, Lyanna. Many with desires typical for men or women, and many who didn't fit those molds. People who prefer their own gender, or none at all."
He paused, drawing a careful breath. "I myself prefer men, not women. This world doesn't talk about it openly, but that's who I am. And that's how I recognized a kindred spirit, in a way—someone whose heart does not yearn for the usual marriage bed."
Lyanna jerked her head up, startled. "Y-you… prefer men? But you're to marry me?"
Harrold exhaled, a soft, rueful smile forming. "Yes, if your father's plans stand. But understand—this marriage needn't be like others. If there's no desire between us, there won't be any… forced closeness. No expectation for children unless you want them. We can find another way."
Her panic wavered, replaced by a flicker of curiosity. "Another way? My father… the North… they expect heirs."
Harrold nodded. "They do. But if you ever wish for children—truly wish—magic can help. There are rituals, potions, runic methods I've learned, enabling conception without the… traditional approach. If you desire a child with my blood, we can arrange it magically."
A stunned silence passed between them, the old gods' leaves rustling overhead as if sharing in their secret. Lyanna finally released a shaky breath, her voice low. "I've never heard of such a thing. But… I don't know if I'll ever want that. I just know… marriage bed or bearing children… it's never felt right to me."
Harrold reached out to gently place a hand on the root between them, leaving space for her comfort. "That's all right, Lyanna. You have time. No one, least of all me, will rush you. Your father said our betrothal wouldn't be formal until you're older, anyway. I suspect you'll have more than enough freedom to make your own decisions by then."
The tension in Lyanna's shoulders eased, and she turned fully to face him, vulnerability naked in her eyes. "Why would you agree to marry someone you can't—love in the usual way?"
Harrold's lips curved into a gentle smile. "Love can take many forms. Friendship is often stronger and more enduring than passion. If we become companions in this life—traveling, ruling, protecting the North—then perhaps we'll love each other in our own manner. Without forcing ourselves into roles that don't fit."
Lyanna hesitated, then nodded slowly, relief mixing with a lingering uncertainty. "I… I want adventure, not a cage."
Harrold inclined his head. "Then you shall have it. I promise to take you with me when I journey—once you're of age to leave your father's protection, and once we formalize whatever arrangement we decide on. It can be as open or as discreet as we wish."
She sighed, the tension draining from her posture. "Then I'm not your typical betrothed, am I?"
Harrold chuckled softly. "No, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm not your typical lord, either."
They shared a mutual grin, the weight of an unspoken agreement forming between them. Whatever the future held—political alliances, familial expectations—they would navigate it together, on terms that respected both their identities.
A hush settled over the godswood as Lyanna finally found the courage to whisper, "Thank you."
Harrold rose, offering her a hand to help her stand. "No thanks necessary, Lady Lyanna. We'll learn to carve out our own path in a world that thinks it knows how things should be."
They walked side by side back toward Winterfell's keep, each step feeling lighter. Lyanna's heart still pounded with uncertainty, but for the first time, she saw a glimmer of hope—hope that marriage did not have to mean surrendering who she was.
Flashback Ends -
Lyanna inhaled the fresh scent of the exotic flowers, recalling Harrold's quiet assurance. That conversation changed everything. It alleviated her greatest fear—that she'd be condemned to an unwanted union she couldn't escape.
She traced the edges of a bright orange blossom, a flower from Orsus, so she'd been told. This castle—her future home—was a testament to Harrold's fusion of modern thought and Old World tradition. If he can bring wonders to the North, perhaps he can also grant me the freedom I need.
A faint voice reached her from beyond the garden wall—Benjen's laugh, maybe. She smiled wistfully. I'm still not thrilled about a political marriage, she admitted inwardly. But if marriage is inevitable, at least I have a future with a man who doesn't expect me to become something I'm not.
She looked to the newly built keep, proud turrets reaching skyward. The sign of a changing North. I might not desire the kind of union most girls do, but I do desire adventure—and Harrold might be the only lord in all of Westeros who truly respects that.
With a last glance at the flowers, Lyanna straightened her shoulders. She walked on, deeper into the blooming gardens of Moat Cailin, deciding that if she must become Lady of this castle one day, at least she'd do so on terms that reflected who she was—and who she was not.
A crisp, late-spring sun shone upon Moat Cailin, illuminating the new castle and its fortified curtain walls with a brilliance that made the old Neck swamps glow like emerald waters. Though just a few years had passed since these lands lay in ruin and overshadowed by gloom, that gloom was now dispelled by tall towers, wide ramparts, and proud flags flapping in the breeze. At long last, the day for a feast had arrived—a day to celebrate the castle's rebirth and to usher in a bright future for the North.
From dawn, the King's Road bustled with traffic. Lords, ladies, and knights arrived from every corner of the North, their banners bright against the pale sky. Clusters of men-at-arms accompanied them, each group carefully ushered through the formidable gates by Harrold's legionnaires. With every arrival, the gatewardens repeated the same instructions: the causeway led straight through the walls, and beyond stood the newly erected marvel that had replaced the ancient ruin of Moat Cailin.
Many who had seen Moat Cailin in its former state could scarcely believe their eyes. Where once the remains of crumbling towers stuck out of boggy land, tall curtain walls now rose—fifty feet high and twenty feet wide, designed with barracks, storerooms, and stables built directly into their massive stone. At the corners and the gates stood 100-foot-high towers, each bristling with arrow slits and topped with watch platforms. Even the swamp around them had been partially dredged and channeled into a deep, wide moat, augmented by cunning runic wards to keep the terrain stable.
Many approached with cautious awe, whispering among themselves. Lord Glover from Deepwood Motte gently urged his horse forward, muttering to his companion, "I thought the tales exaggerated. Yet here we stand, in a fortress more splendid than any I've seen south of the Neck."
Lord Manderly, having just arrived, let out a low chuckle: "Harrold Gryffindor's gold and cunning hand have done wonders. The Neck is no longer a place of ruin—rather, it's a bastion of strength."
Once inside the walls, the lords were guided to a wide open courtyard. Two roads split the complex, each side teeming with new buildings of stone, wood, and glass—evidence of unusual architecture and the luxurious touches Harrold insisted upon. It was a realm apart, reminiscent of White Harbor's sophistication blended with something foreign, something more advanced.
Within the castle grounds, a hush fell among the visitors as they beheld the main keep, a testament to Harrold's deep pockets and innovative mind. Rising taller than any structure in the Neck, the keep's spires pointed heavenward in a style reminiscent of faraway lands—a style none in the North had ever seen. Great glass windows, made from the clearest sheets, shimmered in the sunlight, offering glimpses of the wonders inside.
Lady Hornwood was among the first to note the glass, tapping gently on a nearby window. "Gods," she whispered to her steward, "it's like looking through the purest crystal. None of that wavy distortion you get from normal glass."
Her steward, equally impressed, responded, "They say it's from far East. Some new techniques. And they produce these sheets in staggering quantity."
Meanwhile, the southern half of the courtyard boasted a great hall for feasts, a greenhouse glowing with exotic blooms, and a kitchen complex that exhaled the aroma of spiced meats and baked breads. Lords like Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort moved quietly among the crowd, his eyes roving over every detail, noting the security that each arch, gate, and tower provided.
In hushed corners, visitors conversed about Harrold Gryffindor's achievements, from advanced runic wards that softened the cold to magical integration in the day-to-day tasks of the servants. For many, it was a revelation: that a castle in the Neck, of all places, could be comfortable, luxurious, and supremely defensible.
As midday approached, the lords were directed to the great hall on the southeastern side of the causeway, where long tables stretched beneath banners of House Stark and House Gryffindor. The scent of unfamiliar spices and cooked meats filled the air. Serving staff—many from Orsus, some from the North—glided between tables, offering dishes seldom seen even in the richest corners of Westeros.
Spiced Rice and Curries: Borrowed from eastern trade routes, these boasted flavors bursting with chili, turmeric, and the tang of tamarind.
Salted and Smoked Fish: Sourced from the new fishing initiatives along the coast, cured in the advanced methods Harrold had introduced.
Braised Bison and Venison: Enhanced by Eastern marinade methods.
Glass Jars of Preserved Fruit: Apricots, pomegranates, and peaches from Essos, each fruit as vibrant as if plucked that morning.
Many lords took cautious spoonfuls, eyes lighting up at the intensity of unfamiliar spices. Lord Glover coughed slightly at a mouthful of curry, though he quickly reached for more. Lady Barbrey Ryswell, sitting beside Brandon Stark, tried dried mango for the first time and nearly squealed with delight.
Benjen Stark, itching with excitement, roamed from table to table, grabbing bits of sweet pastries and explaining the lords and ladies of the delicacies. More than one young lord marveled at the canned fish that tasted fresh despite the winter having ended only a few months ago.
Ample casks of Essosi wines and local northern ales were provided. Wine-lovers were offered full-bodied reds from Myr, golden desert wines from the far East, and a variety of subtle whites. Lord Manderly, in particular, praised a Summer Island vintage that he claimed would fetch a fortune in White Harbor.
Meanwhile, the northern ales served in carved tankards kept the local men satisfied—no feast in the North would be complete without a stout drink to warm the belly.
As the feast reached its zenith, Rickard Stark rose from the high table, quieting the hall with a raised hand. The lords and ladies gave him their full attention, bread and meat forgotten for a moment. A hush descended, broken only by the crackle of torches.
Rickard, voice resonant and proud: "My friends, we gather to celebrate the completion of Moat Cailin's grand renewal—made possible by Lord Harrold Gryffindor, whose generosity and vision have secured the Neck like never before."
Applause and cheers echoed off the vaulted ceiling. Harrold offered a respectful nod, but his gaze flicked briefly to Lyanna Stark, who stood near the dais, her expression measured.
Rickard continued, "There is more to celebrate this day. I, Rickard Stark, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, declare the betrothal of my daughter, Lyanna Stark, to Lord Harrold Gryffindor."
A tremor of surprise rippled through the hall. Most had assumed alliances with southern houses or another northern family. Murmurs broke out among the guests, but many nodded in approval, recalling how Harrold's efforts had benefited the North so deeply.
Lyanna stood still, face set, though not defiant. She'd known this announcement was coming, yet the reality of it washed over her anew. She briefly caught Harrold's eye, and he offered a slight, reassuring smile.
Benjen, seated with Brandon, leaned in to his brother and whispered something unintelligible, but the grin they shared hinted at acceptance of the union.
Rickard: "Lyanna shall remain under my roof until she is of an age befitting a proper marriage. No formal union will occur before she is sixteen. But let all bear witness that the Starks and Gryffindors stand united from this day."
A roar of applause and toasts followed, though some older lords looked puzzled or uncertain. None could deny that this was the final step in cementing Harrold's place in the North.
When the applause subsided, Harrold stood, straightening the fine doublet he wore—a rich midnight-blue cloth with the silver griffin embroidered on the breast. His voice carried elegantly across the hush.
Harrold, with a gracious bow toward Rickard: "I am honored by Lord Stark's trust. To stand betrothed to his daughter Lyanna is a privilege. I vow to keep her safe and respect her freedoms as we navigate the years to come."
Lyanna exhaled slowly, relief flickering across her face.
Continuing, Harrold allowed a slight smile to grace his features: "But I also have an announcement of my own. With Moat Cailin complete, my attention turns once more to the seas. I plan to undertake a long voyage—one that will surpass even the legendary journeys of the Sea Snake."
A murmur spread through the hall, curiosity burning bright in many eyes. The famed voyages of Corlys Velaryon had reached legends, and surpassing them sounded almost like a boast.
Harrold's tone softened, bridging ambition with humility. "I mean no disrespect to the Sea Snake. His explorations paved the way for many. Yet my route will lead me beyond the Shivering Sea, to lands seldom charted on our maps—lands rumored or half-forgotten."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "I do not do this for glory alone. There is knowledge to be gleaned, alliances to be forged, and resources that might benefit all Westeros, especially the North."
The crowd's reaction was mixed. Some lords whispered excitedly about the prospects of new trade routes and exotic goods. Others fretted quietly over the dangers lurking in unknown seas. Lord Manderly in particular seemed enthralled, already dreaming of expansions to White Harbor's shipping lines.
Lady Flint from the Widows Watch leaned over to her husband, muttering, "He's bridging the Neck with wonders, and now he wants to sail to the edge of the world? The man never rests."
Benjen, enthralled by the idea of further adventures, shot Harrold a bright grin—he, too, held illusions of joining such a journey.
Once the formal announcements ended, the feasting resumed with even greater fervor. Lords rushed to toast Harrold's name. A fiddler group struck up a lively tune, filling the great hall with music that made the newly built stone echo cheerily.
Lyanna found herself cornered by well-wishers, each offering congratulations on her betrothal. She responded politely, her heart pounding with a mixture of relief and trepidation, but comforted by Harrold's quiet promise of freedom.
Brandon moved through the crowd, discussing potential expansions of trade and the possibility of traveling with Harrold in the future. His eyes glowed with the same wanderlust that now defined many younger northern lords.
Rickard found a seat near the dais, sipping a strong wine. In his mind's eye, he saw the North's future stretching out, secure behind the walls of Moat Cailin and the alliances forged tonight.
A steady rhythm of conversation, laughter, and music carried the celebration well into the night, with plates refilled and cups overflowing. Even the quiet Bolton men were drawn into the liveliness, curious about the brand-new castle and Harrold's upcoming voyage.
Later, as the hall settled into a more comfortable lull, Harrold slipped away from the throng to catch his breath in a side corridor. Lyanna, having escaped her own cluster of well-wishers, unexpectedly crossed paths with him.
They regarded one another for a moment under a torch's glow, the tension of public scrutiny gone. Lyanna spoke first, her voice low: "So you're really sailing away, to surpass the Sea Snake's journeys?"
Harrold bowed his head. "Aye, I am. Soon as I ensure Moat Cailin's defenses are fully tested, and the North's immediate needs are met."
She bit her lip. "And you said… you'd take me on adventures someday."
A tender look crossed Harrold's face. "I did. But you must grow older first, with your father's permission. In a few years, if you still wish it, I promise there'll be a place for you on my ships."
She studied him, her expression unreadable. "You won't be here all the time, then. This place you've built, this fortress—it's your home, and yet you'll be half the world away."
Harrold shrugged gently. "Home isn't a cage, Lady Lyanna. I built it to stand on its own. The Neck, the North—they can endure without my constant presence. And I can endure only by following that urge to see what lies beyond our known seas. Understand?"
Lyanna gave a faint, ironic smile. "I think so."
Close to midnight, Rickard Stark stood again at the head of the great hall, calling for silence. The music quieted, and the guests halted their dancing.
Rickard, raising a silver goblet: "We've feasted in a castle newly born from ruin, feasted on dishes from across the seas, and witnessed alliances that bind the North more strongly than ever before. May Moat Cailin guard us well, and may Lord Harrold's voyages bring us fortune beyond imagining."
A rousing cheer rose as goblets clinked, echoing throughout the high rafters. Harrold, surrounded by lords of the North, lifted his own cup with a knowing smile. The air was alive with possibility.
Eventually, the feast wound down, the guests trickling away to their newly appointed rooms or returning to their encampments within the secure curtain walls. The warmth of the celebration lingered, a testament to the North's newfound prosperity. Yet, in the hush of night, shadows danced across the stone floors, hinting at the uncertainties of tomorrow.
Harrold, after ensuring everything was in order, strolled the ramparts of the castle. Torchlight revealed the wide moat and the dark swamp beyond, a stark reminder that tradition and danger would always persist in this land. But from these formidable walls, he looked skyward, imagining the seas he would soon chart.
Lyanna, unable to sleep, strolled the same gardens she had explored earlier that day. Now, however, they shimmered under moonlight, the foreign blooms reflecting a silver glow. She thought about her impending betrothal, her new role, and the curious promise that she might one day set sail far beyond the horizon.
Benjen found his way to the newly built tower library, where he pored over maps and arcane texts, waiting for the day he could truly test his magical gifts outside these walls. Eagerness warred with a gnawing impatience: Would the voyages come soon enough?
Despite differences in experience and ambition, all these thoughts converged on a single point: the new Moat Cailin. A fortress and a home, standing as an emblem of the North's potential and the bold changes Harrold Gryffindor had wrought. If the past winter had proven anything, it was that neither frigid cold nor ancient traditions could halt progress—and that the future beckoned with open seas.
The feast ended with a sense of communal triumph, the laughter and music fading into the corridors. But for Harrold, Rickard, Lyanna, and the rest, the night's quiet only illuminated the possibilities yet to come. Moat Cailin now stood magnificent and strong, a sentinel in the swamp. Soon enough, while it protected the Neck, Harrold would sail beyond the known waters, driven by the same thirst for knowledge and greatness that had rebuilt this castle from ruin.
In the hush of that final hour, the North slept content, and Moat Cailin loomed proud—the host of a feast that promised a dawn of innovation and alliances. And somewhere on the wind, carrying the last notes of celebration, was the hope that the next feast would celebrate not only the North's security but also the triumph of new discoveries Harrold would bring home from the far reaches of the Shivering Sea.
Tywin Lannister sat in his private chambers, high within the Red Keep. A warm brazier crackled in the corner, but no amount of heat dispelled the chill of his mood. He drummed his fingers on the polished table, his gaze dark with irritation. Beyond the walls, King's Landing teemed with noise and life, but none of that energy touched him now.
He had heard reports from the north—Moat Cailin, once a ruin, was being rebuilt into a formidable stronghold under Lord Harrold Gryffindor's direction. And not just a simple fortification. If rumors were correct, it was a veritable palace wrapped in imposing defenses. An extravagant design, a testament to that man's seemingly endless wealth.
Tywin exhaled, face set in its usual mask. The North is changing—and far too swiftly. If only the King saw it as I do. In the past year, he had tried more than once to alert King Aerys II Targaryen to the potential threat that Harrold Gryffindor posed. The man possessed uncanny resources, trade routes that spanned seas, and unknown magical skills. Surely, Tywin believed, he's planning something beyond mere extravagance.
But each time Tywin stoked the King's suspicions, Harrold appeared—calm, genteel, and full of deftly-placed praise that soothed Aerys's paranoia. It was maddening. The King would teeter on the brink of alarm, only for Harrold to arrive with gifts, with cunning words that twisted the King's attention. The next thing I know, Tywin reflected bitterly, Harrold is the King's dearest ally, and I'm left looking like a fool.
His thoughts turned to their last audience with Aerys. Tywin had carefully planted a seed of doubt regarding the North's sudden prosperity. "A fortress rising from the swamps, easily defensible, practically a city onto itself," he had warned the King. "Worrisome, is it not, Your Grace? A strong Moat Cailin could cut Westeros in two if held by the wrong hands." Aerys had begun to fret and rant, eyes gleaming with suspicion. Yes, Tywin thought then, we might finally corner Harrold into revealing what game he plays.
Yet within days, Harrold himself arrived at court with all the aplomb of an old friend. He placated the King, deflected every pointed question with measured politeness, and even charmed him into new conspiratorial beliefs. By the time Harrold left, Aerys was no longer ranting about northern rebellion. No, the King was ranting about something else, something more outrageous: that the order of the Maesters conspired in secret to extinguish dragons.
That development disturbed Tywin deeply. The King's suspicions shift like the wind, and each shift draws him further from my counsel. For the King to suspect the Maesters—an institution vital to the realm's stability—was dangerous. If Aerys turned on them, the entire realm could suffer chaos. This, in turn, undermined Tywin's carefully laid plans.
I cannot control the King as I once did, Tywin acknowledged with silent fury. And Harrold Gryffindor only fans these flames of madness, redirecting blame away from himself and his northern allies.
He ground his teeth, recalling the King's last outburst: "The Maesters are all crows in gray robes, feasting on the bones of dragons! They stole our birthright!" Tywin had no easy retort to such nonsense. The King was deaf to reason once Harrold had sown his own narrative.
In the lamplight, Tywin's expression hardened. I will not be outmaneuvered forever. He still held resources, influence in the capital, and the cunning to weather this storm. But the seeds of tension were already sown. The North rose stronger each day, and the King's paranoia was turning in all the wrong directions. A subtle war of shadows was unfolding, and Tywin Lannister found himself disturbingly short of allies.
He stood, smoothing the front of his doublet, his mind set on the next steps. If the King insists on chasing illusions about Maesters and dragons, then so be it. But I will find a way to contain this Harrold Gryffindor—before the North grows so strong that even the Iron Throne cannot reign him in.
Hoster Tully sat in his private solar in Riverrun, fingers drumming restlessly on an old oak table. A pile of letters lay unopened beside him, each bearing the seals of various Riverland lords. Their contents, he suspected, echoed the same lament he had been hearing for months: the North was no longer buying their surplus grain.
He lifted the top letter, sighing before even breaking the seal. The lords all say the same thing, he thought. They're losing revenue that once came from feeding the North. Meanwhile, the Reach complains of equally diminishing trade. Hoster couldn't recall the last time the North had purchased grain or salted meats in great quantities. By now, every rumor out of Moat Cailin or White Harbor told of advanced preservation methods, wards that softened winters, and exotic goods from the East. They no longer need us, he reflected grimly, at least, not in the way they did for centuries.
Taking a seat by the narrow window that overlooked the Red Fork, Hoster turned his attention to a half-finished map pinned to the wall. He traced the route from the Riverlands up to White Harbor and beyond. In years past, House Tully had thrived on sending barges of grain and fish north, sustaining the hardy folk through winter. But after the North's recent "agricultural revolution"—or whatever Harrold Gryffindor had orchestrated—those shipments dwindled to a trickle.
Hoster's lips pressed into a thin line. It's not just the grain. They have a surplus of their own fish, their greenhouses, and those rumored glass jars storing all manner of produce. The implications reached beyond a mere change in supply and demand. It undercut the Riverlands' fundamental role in the realm's economy.
A knock on the door drew him from his thoughts. A steward poked his head in, offering more letters. Hoster waved him in. "Place them on the desk."
As the servant retreated, Hoster whispered to himself, "My lords write of lost coin and unsold harvests… how can I solve this if the North is now self-sufficient?"
His gaze drifted to the corner of the desk, where a small stash of parchments recorded the failed negotiations for betrothals linking the Riverlands to the North. I tried to secure a union with the Starks to ensure our trade remained strong, he thought dourly. But Rickard's plans went another way—some match with that Lord Gryffindor. Or perhaps with his sons or cousins, I heard conflicting rumors.
Exhaling slowly, Hoster recalled that scheme vividly. He'd aimed to marry one of his daughters—Catelyn or Lysa—to Brandon Stark or even Ned Stark. But the North no longer required the same alliances to bolster its economy or security. Moat Cailin's reconstruction, White Harbor's trade expansions, and those miraculous wards had simply diminished the Riverlands' leverage. No one weds for mere courtesy's sake, he mused, especially not with the North's new wealth.
He scowled at the memory of politely worded refusals from Winterfell. They thanked me for the offer but politely turned me away. Some nonsense about the North forging new alliances or having the matter already arranged.
Now, he had to reconsider his daughters' futures. If not the North's heirs, perhaps Robert Baratheon of the Stormlands? Or Jaime Lannister of the Westerlands? Prince Oberyn of Dorne even? Each potential match had pros and cons, but none promised the kind of influence the North once did.
A wry laugh escaped him. Robert Baratheon, they say, is fond of revelry and not the steadiest of men—yet he's heir to Storm's End. Jaime Lannister is young but his skills with sword already surpasses many knights. And Oberyn… well, the Dornish are tricky allies, though profitable if handled with caution.
Yet these marriage strategies only partially solved the overarching issue: the Riverlands' agriculture-based economy faced a slump now that the North's appetite for imports had waned. Lords across the Red Fork, Tumblestone, and Trident wrote to him daily, complaining about unsold harvests, about storehouses filled with grain that once went north by the barge-load.
Hoster rubbed his temple, frustration simmering. If I cannot find a market for their produce, how will I keep them loyal and prosperous? The Crown has no interest in helping, especially not while Tywin Lannister and the King are at odds with each other—and with every rumor pointing to the North's unstoppable progress.
He considered forging deals with the Vale or the Westerlands, but they were well-fed by their own lands or the bountiful trades from the south. The main question lingered: How do we replace the North's enormous demand?
A new letter from Ser Robin Ryger outlined the dire state of the Red Fork's trade. Hoster read it twice, each word pricking him with the sense of failure. The North had been a stable client for generations, and now they didn't even request barley or wheat. "They import from the east, they produce year-round in greenhouses, and they've got fish from their coasts," the letter bemoaned. "We need solutions, my lord."
Hoster cast the letter aside. "Solutions indeed," he muttered, glancing at the other letters. Each told a similar tale—excess grain, no buyers, rising tensions. With a long sigh, he stood and paced the room, hands clasped behind his back. If only the North's new horticulture had come to the Riverlands. We could share in the prosperity instead of being cast aside.
Eventually, his pacing drew him to a half-finished map pinned beside a tapestry showing the Trident. He traced lines with his finger, from Riverrun southward to the Stormlands, from there to King's Landing, then to Lannisport and across to Dorne. Perhaps he could broker alliances with these regions to absorb the surplus. Or he might try to approach the Reach—but the Reach itself was wealthy in food production; they hardly needed more wheat or barley from the Riverlands.
His mind drifted back to possible matrimonial alliances. If one of my daughters marries into the Stormlands or Casterly Rock, we might secure new markets. Or if the crown invests in expanding trade from the Riverlands to the Essos…
Still, none of these solutions felt certain or swift. The real blow lay in how quickly the North had pivoted. If they can do that, others might follow. Then who will buy from us?
A fleeting thought recalled the rumors of runic wards, greenhouses, and freezers storing fish and produce. All born of Harrold Gryffindor's cunning, they say. Hoster frowned. He had once considered pushing for Catelyn's betrothal to this mysterious lord, but that plan never took flight. Now, Harrold was set to wed Lyanna Stark—a far stronger alliance that locked the North even more tightly under a single sphere of influence.
And so Hoster Tully found himself on the outside, looking in, with only vestiges of influence over the bountiful crops of the Riverlands that no one seemed to need. The emptiness of that realization weighed on him.
Finally, the sun dipped low, and Hoster realized he'd spent the entire day lost in thought. He sank back into his chair, rummaging for a fresh quill. Perhaps he would pen letters to the Stormlands and the Lannisters tonight, suggesting potential betrothals. If the North is no longer viable for us, we must find other avenues.
He pictured his daughters: Catelyn with her deep sense of duty, Lysa with her romantic ideals. I had wished to see them in the North. But it seems fate leads us elsewhere. He tapped his quill, pressing the nib to parchment and beginning to draft a polite inquiry—one that would hopefully salvage the Riverlands' position.
Even as he wrote, the sense of loss lingered. The Riverlands had grown to rely on northern trade like a comfortable old cloak. Now that cloak was pulled away, leaving them exposed to the cold reality of changing economics. But Tullys endure. We adapt or we fade, he reminded himself, setting words to page: "To the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands…"
He paused, thinking of Robert Baratheon's rowdy reputation. Then an idea: Prince Oberyn of Dorne, known for his fiery spirit, might welcome a Tully bride. Or Jaime Lannister, if such a match could be arranged before someone else's claim took root. So many uncertain roads.
And yet, as Hoster Tully gazed at the star-dappled sky beyond his window, a final thought sprang to mind: No matter what, the Riverlands must secure new alliances. The North's prosperity is a tale told by ravens. Ours will be one of resilience. It would take cunning, patience, and fortuitous marriages to fill the gap left by the North's independence, but he vowed to see it done. As the night wore on, he penned letters late into the darkness, forging the next steps for House Tully's survival.
AN – First of all, I am not going to focus on anyone's sex life except for few mentions of who is doing do. So don't bite my head off about it being slash. I have a different take on why Lyanna is who she is. I know in cannon, she was not kidnapped. I think she agreed to the prince's schemes because of teenage rebellion mostly and between being the wife of Robert or the second wife of the crown prince I know what I will choose. Maybe she thought, since the prince already having 2 children, she will not be pressured to have any.
Also there is a reason why Harrold doesn't want kids. Imagine working all this time to build what he did and having to give up in few decades because he is supposed to die. He need to be lord of Moat Cailin for longer, having a kid will not help it. I have few ideas how he can continue to be the lord but that's for the future.
I am sending Harrold on a long voyage because I need the tuney at Harrenhall happen for the story to continue.
AN – If you recognize anything, they don't belong to me. Please note that I am using AI to help me write the story. If the words, dialogue feel little off, that's the reason. I simply do not have the time, energy or the talent to write without AI. If I did, I would publish my own book. I am writing because it makes me happy and hope you will find it interesting. If not, there are plenty of other talented writers and many amazing stories to read.