THE INEVITABLE

NED

The Great Hall of Winterfell blazed with light and warmth, a defiant contrast to the chill creeping through the North. Hundreds of candles glowed against the stone walls, massive hearths roaring at either end of the hall. Laughter, clinking cups, and music filled the air—yet beneath it all, tension simmered like a pot left too long on the fire.

From the high table, Lord Eddard Stark watched his bannermen feast. Umbers drank noisily, the Karstarks whispered among themselves, Manderlys exchanged glances with their southern-leaning kin, and the Boltons, as ever, remained eerily composed. Lady Barbrey Dustin had refused the summons, and the Crannogmen of the Neck had sent no reply at all.

Despite the bounty—venison haunches, capons glistening with honey, and loaves warm from the ovens—the appetite in the room was uncertain. Many lords had brought daughters in silks and brocade, still hoping, despite the swirling rumors, that the heir of Winterfell remained unwed.

Beside Ned, Catelyn Stark sat stiff-backed and silent, her eyes scanning the hall with the cold assessment of a mother defending her own. Across from them, their children were scattered—Sansa radiant, Arya twitching in her seat, Bran wide-eyed with excitement, and little Rickon half-asleep against his nursemaid. Only Jon Snow, seated below with the guards and lesser kin, met his father's gaze with quiet understanding.

The music faded on Ned's signal. He stood, and the hall hushed as if a winter wind had blown through it.

"My lords. My ladies," he began, voice firm, steady, yet carrying the weight of something heavier than any harvest. "We gather in thanks—for bounty, for survival, and for the strength of our people."

A murmur of assent, and some raised cups.

"But I know many of you have questions," he continued. "Rumors have reached your halls—of strange ships in White Harbor, of foreign hands aiding in our construction, and of my son, Robb Stark, absent for two long years."

Now, the silence was absolute.

"Robb was sent on a diplomatic mission to Yi Ti," Ned said, his tone grave. "You know of the Yi Tish—scholars and medics who once stayed among us, whose knowledge saved Northern lives. When they returned home, my son went with them, to see what they might offer beyond rumor and myth."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"After extensive travel and negotiation," Ned continued, "my son secured an alliance unprecedented in the North's history. He is now wed to Princess Ruyan, daughter of the Emperor Tianlong of Yi Ti."

The hall erupted—outrage and disbelief as whispers crashed like a storm.

Chairs scraped. Lords surged to their feet, voices raised in disbelief and protest. A goblet shattered near the dais. Lady Cerwyn's daughter burst into tears. Catelyn's hand clenched white around her cup. Arya sat bolt upright, gaping at her father. Sansa went pale, her lips parted but silent.

Greatjon Umber's booming voice rose above the din. "A foreign princess? To sit at Winterfell? What madness is this, Ned?!"

Roose Bolton said nothing, but his eyes gleamed with calculation.

Ned raised a hand. "Enough!" His voice, still not loud, cut through the noise like Ice through bone.

"This alliance brings with it more than noble blood. Princess Ruyan's dowry includes engineers, physicians, and trade agreements that will elevate all our lands. The techniques they've introduced allowed White Harbor to be expanded in weeks, not months. Winterfell itself stands stronger thanks to their methods."

Lord Glover rose, frowning. "And what does Yi Ti gain, my lord? They're an empire—what need have they of us?"

Ned raised a hand for silence.

"This union is not without purpose," he said firmly. "Yi Ti seeks reliable access to the western seas, where trade routes are less entangled in southern rivalries. Their scholars, healers, and engineers have already proven their value here. The princess's dowry includes men and knowledge that will strengthen every holdfast in the North."

Murmurs continued, skeptical but quieter.

"Some may question why Yi Ti would look to us," Ned went on. "But their interest in Westeros is not new. Years ago, a Yi Tish prince—Princess Ruyan's uncle—traveled to Dorne in search of a bride among the Daynes of Starfall. They value bloodlines and strength—like we do."

A pause. Then: "And they know how to plan for long winters."

That line earned a few grudging nods. In the North, that mattered more than fine blood or foreign gold.

Lady Maege Mormont stood. "What proof do we have this princess won't vanish back to her empire and take our heir with her?"

"She has lived among us," Ned replied. "You have spoken with her, dined with her healers, dined with her at my table without knowing who she was. She does not hide. She acts."

More murmurs. Less outrage. More curiosity.

Lord Cerwyn's voice rang out, brittle with doubt. "And when will we see her?"

"By the next moon, they will arrive in White Harbor," Ned answered. "Thereafter, they will travel here. Three moons from now, they will be wed beneath the heart tree, by our customs. No southern sept, no foreign rites."

A collective shift rippled through the room. The North might tolerate foreign alliances—but not foreign gods.

A beat of silence. Then Ned nodded solemnly. "She already learned our ways."

That moment, small as it was, shifted something.

Lady Manderly leaned toward her husband and whispered. Lord Tallhart rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Even the Greatjon grumbled but sat, muttering into his ale.

Ned raised his goblet.

"To the North," he said. "To harvest, to peace, and to the future."

Slowly, cautiously, cups were raised.

"To the future," came the echo—not from the boldest, but from the pragmatists.

Beside him, Catelyn murmured, "A battle won. But the war is yet to come."

Ned's hand found hers under the table.

"Then we'll fight it together."

Far across the hall, unnoticed by most, Domeric Bolton watched in silence.

 The music had resumed—but what he'd heard tonight would echo far longer than any lute string.

DOMERIC

In the quiet of their chambers, Domeric Bolton studied his father. Roose Bolton had remained unreadable through Lord Stark's announcement—placid, silent, detached. But Domeric had learned to read the silences. The press of a finger against the chair. The tilt of a head when Ned Stark mentioned the Daynes.

Their guest quarters were modest but warm, the hearth crackling between them. The flayed man banner loomed behind Roose, a bloody inheritance that had never quite faded, no matter how Domeric tried to temper it with courtesy and learning.

Lord Karstark had been seething. Cerwyn's daughter left in tears. Greatjon's protests shook the rafters. But others, like Manderly and Mormont, had stayed quiet—calculating. White Harbor, after all, stood to gain.

"What do you make of it?" Roose asked at last, soft as ever. A voice meant to unsettle, not invite.

Domeric didn't rush to answer. "The official story is trade," he said. "Access to the western seas. Shared knowledge. Nothing Lord Stark said was untrue."

"But?"

"But it was incomplete," Domeric replied. "Why mention the Daynes? Yi Ti has gold, ships, scholars. What they don't have are names that carry the weight of myth. Starfall does. So does Winterfell."

Roose's pale eyes flickered. "So they collect names."

"They collect legacies," Domeric said. "And Ruyan is no mere daughter. She's the Empress's blood. This wasn't barter. It was investment. And that name—Dayne—Stark chose it with purpose. A mythic house, one the South still whispers about. It makes the match more palatable. Legendary blood marrying legendary blood."

"A careful signal," Roose murmured. "Enough for fools to cling to, and the clever to dissect."

He steepled his fingers. "And what of your own match, then? With Stark tied east, others will look elsewhere."

Domeric felt his father's gaze shift before the words even came.

"Sansa Stark," Roose murmured. "The girl in bronze and ice-blue."

He had already seen her.

She sat flanked by her mother and the Karstark daughters, hair braided in the Northern style, auburn catching the firelight like tempered copper. Still young—twelve, perhaps—but already poised. She held herself with the practiced stillness of a girl trained to be watched. Her face was not yet a woman's, but the lines of it promised beauty, and something colder: restraint.

She smiled when spoken to, but the smile never lingered. She blinked slowly, kept her hands folded. A girl of discipline. Groomed for something. Not told what.

He did not speak at first. That, too, would be an answer. He knew his father was not only watching her—but watching him.

"She's too young," Domeric said at last.

"For now," Roose replied.

Domeric didn't look away from the girl. "She's been taught to please."

"As have you," Roose said. "But watch how she moves. That girl will be cloaked in promises before the year is out. If you want her—want what she brings—be sharper than those who only see her face."

Roose shifted slightly, the flicker of movement sharp. "You danced with the older daughters. Not her. Intentional?"

Domeric met his father's gaze. "It would've drawn attention. Too much notice, too soon. Lady Stark was watching. So was the girl."

Roose's lips curved—barely. "Good. Let them wonder. Let them ask what we're withholding."

The fire hissed.

"The Manderlys will rise," Domeric said. "Best we rise with them."

Roose gave the barest nod. "Manderly will reach high. If he stumbles, we'll be there to catch the pieces."

"And we might be left behind. Unless the Starks feel more loyalty to the old names."

Roose's expression didn't change, but something in the firelight made him seem older, more distant.

"We have our strengths," Domeric added. "Discipline. Coin. And I have what few other Northern heirs can offer—Vale ties, southern manners, a reputation marred by... ancestral cruelty."

Roose's lips twitched faintly. "You also play the harp."

Domeric inclined his head. "We all rebel; in our own way."

The fire crackled between them. Neither moved for a long time.

Finally, Domeric said, "The Dayne reference was deliberate. They're not just trading. They're choosing legends."

Roose nodded. "Then let them speak our name in the same breath. If not by blood, then by fear."

Domeric said nothing. But in the silence, he saw clearly: the game had shifted. And House Bolton would not be content to play from the shadows forever.