The North, Frosthold Keep, 289 AC, Third Moon
Six years had passed since the end of Robert's Rebellion, and the landscape of Westeros had shifted in ways both subtle and profound. House Aurelius, once a respected but relatively minor Northern house, had risen to become one of the most powerful forces in the North, rivaling even the ancient prestige of House Stark in wealth and military might.
Aerian Aurelius, now thirteen years old, stood atop the battlements of Frosthold Keep, his dark eyes surveying the transformed lands below. The keep itself had expanded significantly, new barracks housed over three thousand trained soldiers, and the forges never stopped their work, producing the superior steel weapons and armor that had become the hallmark of Aurelius' forces. Beside him, Kael had grown into a magnificent beast, nearly the size of a horse, his white fur gleaming like fresh snow and his ice-blue eyes reflecting an intelligence that sometimes unnerved even Aerian's own men.
"The merchant caravan from White Harbor has arrived, young lord," came the voice of Sir Lancelot, who approached from behind. The knight had aged gracefully, his face bearing new scars from the rebellion, but his skill remaining undiminished.
Aerian nodded without turning. "Good. Have them bring the ledgers to my father's solar. I want to see this quarter's profits before the day is done."
The trade business had exceeded even Aerian's optimistic projections. The soap, available in multiple fragrances: lavender, rose, mint, and the exotic spices imported from Dorne, had become a sensation among the nobility of Westeros. Lords and ladies from the Reach to the Vale paid premium prices for the luxury goods, and even some wealthy merchants from the Free Cities had begun placing orders. The alcohol: vodka, whiskey, rum, and gin, had similarly revolutionized the drinking culture of the realm, with King Robert himself reportedly favoring the strong northern spirits at his feasts.
"The ships in Sunspear?" Aerian asked.
"Captain Daveth reports twelve vessels now fly our colors in Dornish waters. Prince Oberyn has been true to his word, the shipyards have worked efficiently, and our trade with Essos grows each moon."
A small smile crossed Aerian's face. The alliance with Dorne had proven invaluable, not just economically but politically. House Martell's support had given House Aurelius legitimacy in the eyes of the other great houses, and the whispered rumors of a potential marriage alliance between himself and Princess Arianne had only strengthened that bond.
"And the mountain passage?"
"Master Builder Torrhen believes another two years before we can safely route ships through. The work is slow, but steady."
Aerian finally turned to face his knight. "Two years. By then, I'll be of age to squire, though I doubt I'll need it." His hand instinctively went to the sword at his hip, a beautiful blade forged from the new steel, lighter and sharper than castle-forged weapons. His mastery of combat had progressed far beyond what any thirteen-year-old should possess, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by the other Northern lords.
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Later that afternoon, Aerian found himself in the great hall for the weekly council meeting. His father, Lord Tharren, sat at the head of the table, looking every bit the powerful lord he had become. Lady Lilliana sat beside him, and young Loreth, now eight years old, sat quietly nearby, already learning the ways of courtly politics. Around the table sat the maester, the captain of the guard, Sir Lancelot representing the Round Table knights, and several other key advisors.
"The ledgers show remarkable growth," Maester Thalric began, adjusting his chain. "Our trade agreements with White Harbor, Sunspear, and even some houses in the Reach have brought in over two hundred thousand gold dragons this year alone. Our coffers are fuller than they've ever been."
Tharren nodded approvingly. "Good. We'll need those resources. I've received troubling reports from the Ironborn. Balon Greyjoy grows restless, scouts report of new ships being built on the coast in the Iron Islands."
Aerian's eyes narrowed. 'The Greyjoy Rebellion,' he thought to himself. 'It should begin within the year if things proceed as they did in the original timeline.' Aloud, he said, "Father, if I may, we should begin preparing for potential conflict. The Ironborn have always been raiders at heart. A decade of peace under Robert's rule may have made them bold."
"You think they'll rebel?" asked the captain of the guard skeptically.
"I think it's possible," Aerian replied carefully. "And if they do, we should be ready to demonstrate House Aurelius's strength once more. Our reputation from the rebellion has faded somewhat in the past six years. A decisive victory against the Ironborn would remind the realm why we're not to be trifled with."
Tharren studied his son with pride and a hint of concern. The boy—no, the young man—had a mind for strategy that belied his age. "We'll keep watch. Double the patrols along our western borders and send word to our bannermen to be ready."
"There's another matter," Maester Thalric interjected. "Princess Elia has sent word from her chambers. She wishes to speak with you both about her future."
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After the council meeting, Aerian and Tharren made their way to the guest wing, where Elia Martell had made her home for the past six years. The Dornish princess had healed much in that time, both physically and mentally, though the shadows of King's Landing never fully left her eyes. Her children, Rhaenys and Aegon, had grown into bright, curious children who had adapted remarkably well to life in the North.
Elia greeted them warmly, though there was a nervous energy about her. "Lord Tharren, Aerian, thank you for coming."
"Of course, Princess," Tharren said kindly. "What troubles you?"
Elia took a deep breath. "I have been thinking... it has been six years since you saved my children and me. Six years of safety, warmth, and kindness that I can never fully repay. But I think... I think it's time for us to return to Dorne."
Aerian had been expecting this. He exchanged a glance with his father before speaking. "Princess Elia, you are welcome to stay here as long as you wish. You and your children have become part of our household."
"I know," Elia said, her voice thick with emotion. "And I will forever be grateful. But my brothers write to me constantly, begging for our return. Doran's health fails, and he wishes to see his niece and nephew grow up in the sun of Dorne. Oberyn has already offered to come escort us personally."
Tharren nodded slowly. "We will not keep you prisoner, Princess. If you wish to return to Dorne, we will arrange safe passage. But know that you will always have friends in the North."
"There is one more thing," Elia said, a small smile crossing her face. "Doran has formally proposed a betrothal between Aerian and Arianne. He believes it would cement our alliance and ensure that our houses remain bound together for generations."
Aerian felt his heart skip slightly. He had known this was coming—it was part of his plan, after all—but hearing it spoken aloud made it real. "What do you think, Princess?"
"I think," Elia said carefully, "that you saved my life and the lives of my children when you had no obligation to do so. I think you are a remarkable young man with a bright future ahead of you. And I think my niece could do far worse than to marry someone of your character and intelligence."
Tharren placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "This is a decision we don't need to make today. But it's worth considering. An alliance with Dorne through marriage would be powerful indeed."
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That evening, Aerian found himself once again on the battlements, Kael at his side. The great white tiger's presence was comforting, and through their bond, Aerian could feel the beast's contentment.
"What do you think, old friend?" Aerian murmured, scratching behind Kael's ears. "A Dornish princess for a wife. It would be good for the house, good for our plans."
Kael rumbled deep in his chest, a sound that Aerian had learned meant agreement.
"The Greyjoy Rebellion will come soon," Aerian continued, speaking his thoughts aloud. "We'll crush them, gain more glory, more reputation. The trade business continues to grow. In a few more years, we'll have the resources and influence to truly shape the realm's future."
He thought of the long night to come, of the White Walkers that would eventually threaten everything. That was the real threat, the one he needed to prepare for. But first, he needed power—military, economic, and political power.
"One step at a time," he whispered to the wind. "Build the foundation first. The rest will follow."
Below, in the courtyard, he could see the knights training, the forges glowing, and the merchants preparing for tomorrow's departure. Frosthold Keep had become a center of power and prosperity, and this was only the beginning.
Somewhere in the south, in the halls of Winterfell, a young Jon Snow was learning to be a Stark, unaware of his true heritage. In King's Landing, Robert Baratheon sat on a throne he never wanted, growing fatter and more miserable with each passing day. In Essos, the last Targaryens plotted their return. And beyond the Wall, in the frozen wastes, ancient evil stirred in its slumber.
But here, in the North, House Aurelius stood ready. The white tigers would have their day, and when winter came, they would be prepared.
Aerian smiled to himself as he watched the sun set over his father's lands. "In Winter's Darkness, Fear Becomes Our Weapon," he recited the house words quietly.
And the realm would learn to fear the tigers of the North.