The Isle of Faces
Kingdom of the Heartlands
Harald watched as Elsa lay beneath the heart tree in the Isle of Faces, her body still and peaceful while she skinchanged into her hawk, which was flying somewhere high above. A sheet of snow covered everything the island, the surrounding lake's frozen edges, the bare branches of the trees. Light snowfall drifted down in lazy spirals, but the skies were clearer than they should have been. That was due to his periodic use of Clear Skies, which kept the worst of the winter storms at bay.
It had taken considerable effort, some magic from Harald himself and considerable assistance from the Earthsingers, to awaken the latent ability in Elsa to skinchange. She had First Men blood in her, though it was diluted after generations of intermarriage with Andals. The gift was there, buried deep in her bloodline but dormant. They had used a ritual combination of Harald's own spells and the Earthsingers' ancient songs to jumpstart it, to wake what had been sleeping for perhaps generations.
The process had required weeks of preparation, meditation in the godswood, and drinking teas made from weirwood bark that the Earthsingers created. But it had worked. Elsa could now slip into the mind of her hawk and see through its eyes.
Harald looked at the sky. It had now been eight months since winter began, and it seemed like it would not end. This was also Harald's first true winter since he had come to this world. Snow year-round was something he was used to in the northernmost province of Tamriel, but here it seemed unnatural, wrong in a way he could not quite articulate. Winters in Skyrim were harsh but predictable. Here they varied wildly in length and severity. Some lasted a year, some a decade. It was something he wanted to investigate as soon as possible: the irregularity in the seasons that defied all natural law.
He looked back at Elsa to make sure she would not hurt herself. She had been doing this for only a month, and she was known to be reckless, pushing herself too hard and staying in the hawk's mind too long. Wren had warned him that beginners could lose themselves if they were not careful, forget they were human, and never come back.
Suddenly, Elsa's eyes snapped open and she sat up with a gasp, panting heavily. For a moment her gaze was wild, still seeing the world from hundreds of feet above.
Harald was beside her in an instant, kneeling and placing a hand on her shoulder. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice edged with concern. He looked her over quickly, checking for signs of distress: dilated pupils, trembling hands, the glassy stare that signaled someone who had gone too deep and was struggling to return.
Elsa laughed. "I'm fine. I'm fine, truly." Her smile was radiant. "I was able to do it for so long this time. I can see so clearly through Aria's eyes now."
"I told you not to push yourself," Harald said, his tone carrying gentle reproach. "A month is nothing. You need to build up slowly, or you risk—"
"I did not push myself," Elsa interrupted playfully, then added with exaggerated formality, "Your Grace."
Harald shook his head, but he was smiling. "Alright, it's time to leave. The sun is setting."
Elsa stood and brushed snow from her white fur cloak. "It's unfortunate that I have to come all the way here to do this. The Isle of Faces is beautiful, but it's so far from Cyrodiil."
"Soon you won't have to," Harald assured her, offering his arm to help her navigate the uneven snow-covered ground. "This is just to make sure your mind doesn't collapse while you're learning. The heart tree provides a safety net, so to speak. Once you're more experienced, you'll be able to skinchange anywhere."
"Fine, fine," Elsa said with mock resignation. "I suppose I can endure a few more trips to this… paradise."
They walked toward the ship. As they made their way through the snow, Harald greeted the Earthsingers who crossed their path. Three of them lived on the island now, tending the heart tree and maintaining the sacred ground.
"Greetings, Ash," Harald said in the Old Tongue to one of them, a female Earthsinger with golden eyes and skin like bark.
"Greetings, Harald," she replied. "The young one learns quickly."
"She does," Harald agreed. "Thank you for watching over her."
"I don't think I'll ever get used to seeing these beautiful beings," Elsa said softly once they were out of earshot, wonder in her voice.
Harald's expression grew slightly stern. "Calling them beings is fine, but calling them creatures makes them seem lesser. They are the same as you and me, people."
Elsa's eyes widened, and she quickly corrected herself. "Oh no, I meant no offense! I just... many of us still don't know how to act around them. They're so different, so ancient. It's intimidating."
Harald's expression softened. "Just treat them like everyone else. They appreciate directness and honesty. Don't condescend to them or treat them like children just because they're small. Don't stare at them like they're oddities. Just be yourself. They'll respect that more than any courtly manners."
"I'll remember that," Elsa said seriously.
They continued walking in companionable silence for a moment before Elsa spoke again. "So, I've been wondering about something. Something I wanted to ask you."
"Ask away," Harald said easily.
"Why do you have no lovers?"
Harald stopped and looked at her, genuinely surprised by the question. "What? Have people been noticing?"
"Yes!" Elsa said, laughing at his expression. "Seriously, of course they have, Harald! You're the king. The chosen of the gods. You're young, handsome, powerful, and..." She gestured vaguely. "I mean, the last person who had your titles fucked everything that moved and created some of the oldest houses in Westeros!"
Harald actually laughed out loud. "What? You mean Garth Greenhand?"
"Yes!" Elsa said, grinning at having gotten such a reaction from him. "Garth the Green, Garth Greenhand, the First King of the Reach. The legends say he had hundreds of children, founded a dozen houses, and could make plants grow just by touching the ground. Sound familiar?"
Harald was still chuckling. "I suppose there are some similarities. Though I haven't fathered any children that I know of."
"But seriously," Elsa pressed. "You've been king for over a year. Lords keep throwing their daughters, nieces, sisters at you. Lady Vypren practically offered you her bed herself."
"She did not," Harald began.
"She absolutely did," Elsa interrupted. "I was there. Everyone saw it. And you just politely declined and changed the subject. So why? Do you... I mean, do you prefer men? Because that's fine, there are plenty of handsome lords who would—"
"No," Harald said quickly. "No, I'm not... it's not that."
Elsa tilted her head, studying him with those sharp blue eyes. "Or are you not interested in any of that at all? Some people are not, you know. It is nothing to be ashamed of."
Harald looked at her directly, a slight smile playing at his lips. "Oh, I'm interested. Trust me." The way he said it, and the intensity in his gaze for a moment, left no doubt about his meaning.
Elsa felt her cheeks flush despite the cold. "Well then, you truly are a man like any I have seen… able to control your manly needs," she teased.
"Well, I am the chosen of the gods," Harald said with exaggerated solemnity, then broke into a grin.
Elsa laughed, swatting his arm. "Truly though, Harald. No one? Ever?"
"Ever?" Harald's smile turned wry. "No, no, Elsa. That would be an understatement of monumental proportions."
"Oh?" Elsa's eyes lit with curiosity. "Tell me!"
Harald sighed, fondness in it. "I've had my fair share of women. Some were fleeting loves, brief passions that burned bright and faded. Some lasted much longer."
He remembered his many dalliances during his adventuring all over Tamriel: Nords, Redguards, Imperials, elves. There had been his very passionate relationship with Aela the Huntress, all fire and fury, and that time with Elisif that could have been scandalous if anyone had found out. He laughed at the memory, shaking his head.
"Well?" Elsa prompted, leaning closer. "Don't stop there!"
"Always the gossip monger, Elsa," Harald said with mock disapproval.
"You have known me for eight moons now," Elsa said, stepping closer with an impish grin. "You know me. Now come on."
Harald was quiet for a moment, then said something that made him sound slightly embarrassed. "I spent a year in a cult of Sanguine once. I was young and stupid."
He remembered those debauched days, the endless revelry, the madness of it all. The Daedric Prince of hedonism and dark indulgences had a way of drawing people in.
"What is a cult of Sanguine?" Elsa asked, confused.
Harald explained, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Sanguine is, or was, a god of sorts. He represents debauchery and hedonism, revelry taken to its absolute extreme. His followers believe that pleasure, in all its forms, is the highest calling: wine, song, flesh, the breaking of taboos." He shook his head. "It is a dark path disguised as a joyful one."
Elsa's eyes widened. "Ohhhh."
"Yes, 'ohhhh' indeed," Harald said dryly. "There was a time after I left that cult when I did not even go near a woman. I needed to fix my mind, let's say. Remember who I was without the influence of a Daedric Prince."
"What did you do that year?" Elsa asked, genuinely curious now rather than just gossiping.
Harald's expression darkened slightly. "I don't even want to talk about it. Let's just say I learned there are some things you can't unsee, some experiences you can't unfeel. And leave it at that."
He turned to face her fully. "So what is the court saying? About me, I mean."
Elsa bit her lip, then decided honesty was best. "Some say you like men. Some say your divine nature means you don't need mortal needs, that you're above such things. Some are worried they won't get a queen after all, that the kingdom will have no clear succession." She paused. "And a few of the more creative gossips say you'll divinely manifest an heir when the time is right, without need for a mother."
Harald shook his head, somewhere between amused and exasperated. "Fuck."
He muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Elsa to hear, "Well, time to find a lover, then."
Elsa grinned mischievously. "Oh? And who will be the lucky woman?"
Harald looked at her and said offhandedly, "What? Are you offering?"
There was a beat of silence. Then Elsa winked at him, her smile turning sly. "Sure, I don't mind," she said.
She laughed, the moment breaking, and walked ahead of him toward the ship.
Harald watched her go, shrugged with a slight smile, and followed.
.
.
.
The North
Winterfell
Wynn Manderly, steward of all the North, sat in his chamber, looking through reports and shuffling parchment after parchment.
Winter was ending after a year; it had been the shortest winter of his life and one in which the North emerged unscathed in ways he'd never seen before.
He read the reports in shock, reading and rereading the numbers as if they might change if he blinked. His fingers traced the neat columns of figures, the tallies of deaths, the inventories of remaining supplies.
The reports showed only a few deaths in Wintertown, mostly the elderly and infirm who would have died regardless of the season and similar numbers from the Cerwyns. Single digits. Single digits of winter deaths in communities that usually lost dozens, sometimes hundreds.
It was phenomenal. Unprecedented. Miraculous, even. He knew, however, that this was due to Prince Barthogan and Lord Brandon Snow and their trip south.
They had returned from the Kingdom of the Heartlands months before winter truly set in, bringing with them magical potions and arranging a steady supply of food that continued even through the deepest snows.
The potions, which they claimed could grow anything in a month even in the most fallow soil, proved truer than anyone had expected. Winterfell's glass gardens had always been productive, but with these potions they yielded three or four times their normal harvest. Even patches of soil in Wintertown that had never grown anything but weeds suddenly sprouted healthy crops.
The prince took the lead in food distribution personally, making sure that the supplies he had acquired, surprisingly cheaply, from the Heartlands were properly distributed throughout the North. Every family received its fair share based on size and need, with reserves set aside for emergencies that never came.
While Wynn did not yet have reports from all over the North, as ravens were still arriving from the more distant holdfasts, he was confident the entire region was very well off, better than it had been in living memory.
Whenever winter ended, there was always a bittersweet feeling in the North. They were glad it was over, yes, but there was also sorrow for the losses: families mourning those who had not survived, children growing up without grandparents, wives made widows by the cold. This time, however, would be different. This time it would be all happiness. Pure, uncomplicated joy at survival without significant sacrifice.
He heard the door open and looked up to see his son, Theomore, enter; his expression was troubled.
"Father," Theomore said in greeting, his tone cautious.
"Wynn," Wynn said warmly, then spotted a parchment in his son's hands. His smile faded. "What's this?" he asked, gesturing to the letter.
Theomore sighed heavily. "From Uncle."
Wynn's expression immediately soured, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Of course it is."
"Father, you know he won't stop—"
Wynn snapped, slamming his hand on the desk hard enough to make the inkwell jump. "What am I to do? I didn't urge my brother to marry off his daughter to the Prince! I warned him, by the gods! I told him Edric Stark sleeps with anything that moves serving girls, whores, wives, anyone who catches his eye! It was not my fault that the Lord of White Harbor was too entranced with the idea of having a prince for a son-in-law, wanting to make sure I knew my place as the younger brother!"
He stood and began to pace, his frustration boiling over. "He thought marrying his daughter to the King's brother would elevate House Manderly above me, would give him influence in Winterfell. Well, now his daughter is one mistress among many, her reputation ruined, and he blames me for not stopping it!"
"There is more," Theomore said quietly.
Wynn stopped pacing and turned to face his son. "What?" he asked, dreading the answer.
Theomore took a breath. "Uncle has converted to the Covenant."
Wynn's eyes widened, but after a moment of shock his expression settled into something more resigned. "Well," he said slowly, "I expected that, I suppose."
"Father, the King—"
"I don't think the King will care, my son," Wynn interrupted, sitting back down heavily. "White Harbor has long been regarded as heretical by Oldtown and even by some of the more conservative Northern lords for trying to bring the Old and New Gods together in worship. Your uncle must see the Covenant as preferable to the Faith of the Seven for this sudden change."
"Prince Brandon already opposes it," Theomore said seriously. "As does half the North."
Wynn felt a headache coming on, the familiar pressure building behind his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.
When Prince Barthogan returned from the Heartlands, he did not come only with magical potions and caravans full of food. He also brought priests of the new faith of the Covenant and, to most of the North's shock, one of the children of the forest.
Her name was Dew, and in the year she had been here she became an adviser to King Torrhen. She made her home in the godswood of Winterfell and became a figure revered and loved by the people of Winterfell and Wintertown.
She preached that the Old Gods and the New had come together, and that King Harald was truly the chosen herald of this divine union. She also urged the King to invite the rest of her kin from beyond the Wall to Winterfell, to bring them south so they could teach the ways of the greenseers and skinchangers once more.
King Torrhen, along with Wynn, was skeptical of such radical changes. But they were hearing these things from a being they had thought long gone, a creature from the Age of Heroes made flesh before them. How could they simply dismiss her words?
Factions began to form in the wake of Dew's arrival and the Covenant priests' preaching.
Prince Brandon was the staunchest opponent and the leader of those who rejected the new faith entirely. He claimed the so-called child of the forest before them was a fake, a construct created by the sorcerer king of the south to deceive and manipulate the North. He, along with many fervent Old Gods worshippers, rejected the Covenant completely. Bolton, Umber, Ryswell, Mormont, and others put their support behind the crown prince, seeing the Covenant as southern corruption dressed in northern clothing.
The other faction rallied around Prince Barthogan, who called for the North to ally with King Harald for the good of all northmen. The Dustins, House Manderly, the Karstarks, and others saw the benefits of this alliance and believed the presence of the child of the forest to be proof of the Covenant's claims.
King Torrhen tried to keep the peace, ensuring these new factions would not undermine his rule or tear the North apart. But Wynn knew, felt it in his bones, that something was going to happen. The Vale was already embroiled in civil war, which Dew had said was due to the mountain clansmen misinterpreting the gods' words, seeing signs that were not there and warring with the Andal lords. Wynn did not want that to happen in the North, a war over petty differences that could easily be resolved through dialogue and compromise.
"Has the King gotten the reports?" Wynn asked his son.
Theomore nodded. "Yes, Father."
Wynn stood, adjusting his steward's chain of office. He needed to speak with the King to make sure his brother's sudden change of faith was handled with care.
"What about Uncle?" Theomore asked as his father moved toward the door.
"Leave it be for now," Wynn said over his shoulder. "And, Theomore make sure Prince Edric doesn't lie with any diseased whores. Last thing I need is for my niece to catch the pox from that degenerate."
Theomore's face flushed, but he nodded.
========
Wynn walked through the familiar corridors of Winterfell. Servants bowed as he passed, guards nodded respectfully.
As he rounded a corner near the library tower, he saw Princess Serena talking with Maester Morris. They stood close together, their heads bent in quiet conversation that stopped abruptly when they noticed his approach.
Wynn had never liked Morris. The man always put him off. Lately, Wynn had noticed the maester spending more and more time with Brandon and with Princess Serena . Private conversations, hushed words that ceased when others drew near. It troubled him, though he could not quite articulate why.
"Princess," Wynn said, stopping and offering a respectful bow. "Maester Morris," he added with a nod.
"Off to see Father, Uncle Wynn?" Serena asked. She was a beautiful young woman of sixteen, with the classic Stark features: a long face, grey eyes, dark hair. But there was something harder in her expression than there used to be, something that reminded Wynn uncomfortably of her elder brother.
"Aye, Princess," Wynn confirmed, straightening. "The reports are in from across the North. The gods have blessed us the North will come out of this winter stronger than we've been in generations."
Serena smiled. "I have noticed how prosperous Wintertown has been compared to last winter. The people seem... content. Well fed."
"The food has been plentiful," Wynn agreed. "We have King Harald to thank for that. Without his supplies and those remarkable growing potions, this winter could have been catastrophic."
He noticed how both Princess Serena 's and Maester Morris's faces soured at the mention of King Harald's name, as if they had tasted something bitter.
"It is unfortunate we have had to depend on the heretical southern king for this accomplishment," Serena said, her voice carrying an edge. "I am afraid of what the sorcerer plans for us, Uncle. Such generosity always comes with a price."
Maester Morris jumped in, his voice concerned. "I am of the same opinion. Magic is dangerous and unnatural. It corrupts everything it touches. This king wields powers that should not exist in the hands of mortal men. Who knows what bargains he has made with dark forces? What he might demand in payment for his gifts?"
Serena nodded in agreement, her expression grave.
Wynn felt his stomach tighten. This was worse than he had thought. "Your brother has nothing but good things to say of King Harald, Your Grace. Prince Barthogan spent time in his kingdom, broke bread with him, saw his character firsthand. He trusts him."
Serena 's eyes flashed, something ugly crossing her face for a moment. "I am not even sure that is my brother anymore."
Wynn's eyes widened in shock. "Princess—"
"The Barthogan who left was cautious, faithful to the Old Gods, loyal to his family," Serena continued, her voice tight. "The man who returned speaks like a southerner, defends a heretic sorcerer, brings creatures into our halls and expects us to accept them. He has been... changed. Who knows what magics were worked on him while he was there?"
"Princess, that is a serious accusation—" Wynn started, alarm ringing in his mind.
"It is merely an observation," Maester Morris interjected smoothly. "The Princess expresses what many in Winterfell have been thinking. Prince Barthogan's behavior since his return has been... irregular."
Serena straightened, her expression returning to formality. "If you'll excuse me, Uncle Wynn, I have some important matters to discuss with Maester Morris. Please give my regards to Father."
"Of course, Princess," Wynn said, bowing again, though his mind was racing.
He watched them walk away together, their heads bending close once more in whispered conversation.
Wynn continued his way to the king's solar, but his thoughts were in turmoil. Lines were being drawn in Winterfell, clearer and starker than he had realized. It was not just political factions anymore; it was becoming personal, poisonous. Brandon's faction was not merely opposing the Covenant; they were questioning Barthogan's very identity.
And Serena , who had once been so close to both her brothers, had clearly chosen Brandon's side. Worse, she seemed to be under the influence of Maester Morris.
Wynn reached the king's solar and heard raised voices from within even before he knocked. His heart sank.
The brothers were arguing again.
"This is treason!" Brandon's voice was sharp and angry. "Manderly converts to a foreign king's faith! He bows to southern sorcery!"
"Brother, he simply decided to follow another faith," Barthogan's voice came, more measured but no less firm. "One that is closer to ours than what he was following before. He worshipped the Seven. Now he worships the Old Gods alongside the Seven. How is that worse?"
"It is corruption!" Brandon snapped. "The Old Gods need no companions! They have watched over the North since before the First Men built their first holdfast! This Covenant is nothing but southern manipulation!"
"My sons," King Torrhen's voice cut through, tired and strained. "Please. We have discussed this—"
Wynn knocked firmly on the door.
"Enter," came the King's voice, relief evident in his tone.
Wynn pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the solar. King Torrhen sat behind his desk, looking older than his years, his crown resting on the table beside a stack of parchments. Crown Prince Brandon stood to the right, his face flushed with anger, his hand resting on his sword belt. Prince Barthogan stood to the left, his expression calmer.
"Your Grace," Wynn said, bowing to the King. "My princes," he added, nodding to each brother in turn.
"Steward Manderly," King Torrhen said, and there was gratitude in his voice for the interruption. "We were just discussing recent developments."
"What does the steward think of his lord brother's actions?" Brandon asked immediately, turning his intense gaze on Wynn. "Does he support this betrayal of the gods? This conversion to foreign heresy?"
Wynn kept his face carefully neutral. This was dangerous ground; whatever he said would be used by one faction or another.
"I have no opinion on what my brother does, my prince," Wynn said carefully. "It is his decision to make, as lord of his house and master of his own faith. I am steward of the North, not keeper of men's souls."
"A coward's answer," Brandon said flatly.
"A wise one," Barthogan countered. "Not everything requires us to draw swords and choose sides, brother."
"When our gods are being replaced by southern corruption," Brandon began, his voice rising.
"The Old Gods are not being replaced!" Barthogan interrupted. "They are being honored alongside the Seven. The Covenant unites them!"
"It mocks them!" Brandon shot back. "Look around, brother. The North is splitting between those who hold to the true faith and those who follow your sorcerer friend's heresies!"
"My friend?" Barthogan's voice rose for the first time. "He saved the North from starvation this winter. His food, his miraculous potions kept our people alive. And for that you call him a sorcerer and an enemy?"
"Enough!" King Torrhen stood, his voice cracking. "Both of you, enough!"
The brothers fell silent, though they continued to glare at one another.
Torrhen turned to Wynn. "Wynn," he said, "have you confirmed the reports?"
"I have, Your Grace," Wynn replied.
"The lowest death toll in recorded history, Your Grace. The food supplies King Harald provided and the growing potions saved thousands of lives—perhaps tens of thousands across the entire North."
"So we are in debt to the Heartlands," Brandon said bitterly.
"We are allied with the Heartlands," Barthogan corrected. "There is a difference."
"Is there?" Brandon challenged, his voice rising. "When they ask for payment? When they demand we convert to their faith? When the sorcerer decides he would have us as his servants?" He turned to face his brother fully. "The power of the Starks in the North was once due, in part, to the gods' favor. Tell me, brother: this new king claims the gods favor him now. Should we all bow to him? Should we bend the knee and become vassals to him?"
"They have asked for nothing!" Barthogan protested, his hands clenching into fists. "Not one demand, not one expectation of repayment. Harald sent those supplies as a gift, brother, to honor our shared reverence for the Old Gods." He stepped closer. "You're making everything up in your mind. Harald is not an enemy—he is an ally with whom we can grow strong. The North has been isolated for too long, and now we have a friend in the south."
"Enough!" Torrhen's voice rose, silencing both his sons. The room fell into tense quiet.
Torrhen took a breath, then looked directly at his eldest son. "Brandon, I am not going to persecute anyone who wishes to convert to the Covenant. That is final."
"But Father—" Brandon started.
"Dew has assured me—" Torrhen began.
"The creature made by the sorcerer—" Brandon interrupted.
"ENOUGH, BRANDON!" Torrhen's hand slammed down on his desk. "You will not insult her! She is older than all of us combined! She has only given me proper guidance since she arrived!" His voice was steel now, the voice of a king, not a father. "You will make sure this clique of lords around you stops this fearmongering. I agree with Bart on this. King Harald has shown no ill will towards us. None. Only generosity and respect."
Torrhen's gaze softened slightly as he looked at Barthogan, then to Wynn. "I want to send King Harald an invitation, a meeting between kings on neutral ground."
Brandon's face went red. "Are you going to whore out my sister to him? Is that the plan? Marry Serena to the sorcerer…"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Torrhen's eyes went cold, colder than Wynn had ever seen them.
"Leave," Torrhen said quietly, dangerously. "Leave, Brandon, and think very carefully about your words. You are my heir, and it is time you started acting like one instead of like a spoiled boy throwing a tantrum."
Brandon stood frozen for a moment, shock and anger warring across his face. Then he turned on his heel and stalked out, slamming the door hard.
Torrhen turned to Barthogan, his voice weary now. "Write to King Harald. Tell him I wish to meet, to speak king to king. We can meet on the border between our kingdoms."
Barthogan nodded, relief evident on his face. "Yes, Father."
"Go then," Torrhen said, waving his hand in dismissal.
Barthogan bowed and left.
Now alone with the King, Wynn stepped closer to his old friend. "How are you feeling, Torr?" he asked quietly, dropping the formality they usually maintained even in private.
Torrhen slumped back into his chair. "I am tired, Wynn. Tired of all this. Tired of my sons fighting. Tired of the lords scheming." He looked up at his steward. "Am I doing the right thing? Tell me honestly, old friend."
Wynn was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "Yes," he said finally. "But you must be careful. This situation could spiral out of control quickly. The factions are forming and hardening. If you're not cautious…"
"I know," Torrhen said, rubbing his temples. "Believe me, I know. But what choice do I have?" He looked at Wynn with tired eyes. "You know, my father chose his second son to be king for a reason. He saw that Benjen was not fit to rule. He saw that I could bend without breaking, that I could adapt to changing times."
He paused, then continued more quietly. "I might have to do what my father did for my own sons as well."
Wynn's eyes widened slightly. "Torrhen—"
"Brandon is too inflexible," Torrhen said. "He sees the world in black and white: old ways and new ways, friend and enemy. There is no middle ground with him. Edric…" He grimaced. "Edric is inside more cunts than he is inside council chambers. The boy thinks with his cock and nothing else. And Bart…" He paused. "Bart was always too quiet, too unassertive. I worried he'd be walked over, used by stronger men. But he's surprising me these days, showing a spine I did not know he had."
Wynn leaned against the desk, his voice gentle but firm. "You cannot do what your father did, Torrhen."
"Brandon is not going to take the black," Wynn said flatly. "Neither is Edric. Your father convinced your brother to join the Night's Watch willingly."
Torrhen was silent for a long moment, then he sighed deeply. "Don't worry, my friend. I was not planning on it. I was only telling my woes to the one person I can trust to hear them without judgment or scheming."
He looked up at Wynn. "Now tell me, why has your brother made such a decision to convert to the Covenant? This seems impulsive for him."
Wynn sighed, dreading the question. Honestly, he did not know how to answer it.
"I do not know the full truth of it," Wynn admitted slowly. "But I feel like White Harbor has already been accused of heresy before, Torrhen. You know of it...two hundred years ago we tried to honor both faiths. The Faith called it blasphemy. The North called it southern corruption." He paused. "Perhaps the Covenant has truly captured Desmond's heart because it offers what White Harbor has always wanted: a way to be both Andal and First Men, both southern and northern, without apology."
Torrhen nodded slowly, understanding the logic even if he did not fully agree with it.
"I have also had some reports from the south," Wynn continued, his voice becoming more serious. "Unconfirmed as yet, but from multiple sources."
"What?" Torrhen leaned forward, his attention sharpening.
"The Heartlands have grown, Torrhen. They have taken the Blackwater Bay."
Torrhen's eyes went wide with shock. "Did he do it during winter? That's madness."
"Just as it began," Wynn confirmed. "As you know, Agrillac had begun a campaign to reconquer the Blackwater. It looks like King Harald attacked just as the Stormlanders were finishing their conquest. He drove them back into their own kingdom, scattered their armies, liberated the Blackwater lords, and brought them all under his banner."
"Argilac... did King Harald—" Torrhen started slowly.
"No. I am told Argilac's injury happened before King Harald entered the war," Wynn said.
"You look like you have more to tell me, my friend," Torrhen observed, reading his steward's expression.
Wynn was quiet for a moment, then spoke. "There are rumors. No, we cannot even call them rumors anymore. Too many sources, too consistent." He took a breath. "King Harald called forth a storm itself to destroy the Stormlander army, rain and wind and lightning from the heavens, striking down thousands of men at once."
"Even if that is false, this is not—" Wynn began, then faltered.
"He faced ten thousand Stormlanders with only a thousand of his own forces, Torr," Wynn finished, meeting Torrhen's eyes. "He won. Decisively. His army is said to be blessed by the gods themselves." Wynn shook his head. "The reports describe an army unlike any other each man possessing the strength of ten...."
"Gods," Torrhen breathed, his face pale. He stood and moved to the window, looking out over Winterfell's yards.
"You are right to want peace with King Harald, my friend," Wynn said quietly but firmly. "We must make sure the lords follow this path as well. Your dissenting children too, Torrhen. Because if it comes to war..." He let the implication hang.
Torrhen nodded slowly, his mind clearly racing through possibilities and strategies. Finally, he turned back to Wynn.
"Write to my brother," he commanded. "Have him come to Winterfell at once. We have much to discuss."
Wynn nodded. That was good. Snow... Brandon Snow, Torrhen's bastard brother, had always been a calming presence at Winterfell. He was levelheaded, pragmatic, respected by both factions. If anyone could help bridge the growing divide, it was him.
They needed that. Very much so.
.
.
Elsa is not the final pairing.
And no it's not a harem.