Title: The Northern Prospectus

Title: The Northern Prospectus

Year and Month: 106 AC, 9th Moon

The third year of my reign was marked by a period of aggressive, systemic consolidation. The Dragon's Clause, though it had chilled my relations with House Velaryon, had achieved its primary objective: the absolute re-centralization of our dynasty's most critical asset. Lord Corlys, ever the pragmatist, had accepted the new reality. His ambition, while still vast, was now channeled into the projects I had given him—the Dragon Fleet and the new fortress in the Stepstones—and he was profiting handsomely from them. The gears of the state turned with a quiet, predictable hum, each department head on my Small Council aware of their targets, their budgets, and the consequences of failure. The realm was orderly, the treasury was growing, and my authority was absolute.

But a successful corporation cannot merely focus on its present operations. It must plan for its future. The most critical item on my long-term agenda was the matter of succession. I was twenty-four years old, the last of my father's legitimate line. I was the King. I needed an heir. And to have an heir, I needed a Queen.

This was not a matter of romance or personal preference. It was the most important merger and acquisition of my career. The choice of a Queen would not be based on beauty, dowry, or even traditional political alliance. It would be a cold, hard, strategic calculation designed to maximize long-term value and mitigate future risk for the Targaryen enterprise.

The lords of the council, of course, saw it differently. They assumed I would choose a bride from one of the great southern houses. Lord Beesbury hinted at the beauty of his nieces. Lord Corlys, ever hopeful, might have dreamed of a Velaryon match to mend the rift between us, though the Dragon's Clause made that politically untenable. The Tyrells of Highgarden could offer the wealth of the Reach, the Lannisters the gold of the Westerlands. These were the expected, traditional choices.

I summoned the Small Council to my solar to inform them of my decision. The mood was one of expectant curiosity. They believed they were about to witness a debate over which great lady would receive the ultimate prize.

"My lords," I began, taking my seat at the head of the table, the Conqueror's crown resting on my brow. "I have been King for three years. The realm is stable. The time has come for me to take a wife and secure the succession."

A murmur of approval went through the room. Lord Beesbury positively beamed.

"I have considered the great houses of the south," I continued, letting their hopes rise for a moment. "The Tyrells, the Lannisters, the Arryns. All are noble houses, all would provide a suitable match in the eyes of the world." I paused, letting my gaze travel over each of them. "But my sights are set elsewhere. My choice is made."

I looked directly at Lord Corlys, whose face held a flicker of hope that I was about to extend an olive branch. I then extinguished it.

"I shall marry a daughter of House Stark."

The silence that descended upon the room was more profound, more absolute, than any I had ever witnessed. It was a silence of pure, unadulterated shock. My council stared at me as if I had just announced my intention to marry a horse. Grand Maester Allar's mouth hung open. Lord Beesbury looked as if he might faint. Lord Boremund Baratheon, who had been expecting a southern alliance to further strengthen the anti-Dornish bloc, simply gaped.

It was Corlys Velaryon, his mind always the quickest to recover, who spoke first. His voice was a careful mixture of disbelief and cautious inquiry. "Your Grace… a Stark? Of Winterfell?"

"The very same," I confirmed, my tone level.

"But… they are a northern house!" Lord Beesbury stammered, finding his voice. "They are… forgive me, Your Grace… provincial. They keep the Old Gods. They do not follow the Seven. The Faith would be outraged! The High Septon would…"

"The High Septon," I interrupted, my voice turning to ice, "will offer his blessing to whomever I choose. His opinion on the matter is an irrelevant operational detail that I will manage. Do not trouble yourself with it, my lord."

Beesbury flinched and fell silent.

Lord Baratheon then found his voice, a low rumble of protest. "The North keeps to itself, Your Grace! They are a cold, grim people. What alliance do they offer? They have no great fleets, no vast armies of knights. What do they bring to the table?"

This was the heart of the matter. They saw the world in terms of feudal alliances and knightly strength. I saw it in terms of untapped resources and long-term strategic assets.

"You ask what the North brings to the table, my lords?" I rose and walked to the great map of Westeros. I placed my hand over the vast, green-and-white expanse that represented the North. "It brings this. It brings nearly a third of the entire landmass of this continent. It brings vast, uncut forests that can provide timber for a thousand fleets. It brings mountains that my Grand Maester's geological survey suggests are filled with iron, silver, and other precious metals, resources that are entirely untapped. It brings a hardy, loyal, and underutilized populace."

I turned back to them. "You see a cold and empty land. I see the single largest underdeveloped asset in my entire portfolio. For a century, my ancestors have treated the North as a sullen, distant vassal to be left alone so long as they paid their token taxes. This has been a century of mismanagement. I will not repeat that mistake. By marrying a daughter of House Stark, I am not just making an alliance. I am initiating a full-scale economic integration. I will build roads. I will invest in their mines. I will develop their ports. I will bring the North into the fold, not as a vassal, but as a full, productive partner in the enterprise of the realm. Their prosperity will be our prosperity."

I had framed it in the only language I believed in: the language of profit. I could see Corlys Velaryon beginning to understand, the gears of his own avaricious mind turning.

But I had not yet revealed my primary reason.

"There is another asset," I said, my voice dropping slightly. "One that cannot be measured in gold or timber. The Starks are a house of the First Men. They have a lineage that stretches back before the coming of the Andals. And in their blood… in their blood runs the magic of the old world."

The Grand Maester shifted uncomfortably. "Your Grace, these are matters of legend, of superstition…"

"Are they?" I countered, fixing him with a stare. "Is the beast of living fire I ride a superstition, Grand Maester? Is the magic that flows in my veins, the blood of Old Valyria, a legend? No. It is a fact. And facts are assets. The blood of the Starks carries its own unique properties. The skinchanging, the greenseeing… these are a different flavor of magic, but magic nonetheless. The Targaryen line has grown powerful by wedding brother to sister, by keeping the blood pure, by concentrating the magic of the dragon. But to concentrate a single asset too much is to risk fragility. A wise portfolio is a diversified one."

I let the stunning, almost heretical, statement settle. "By wedding a daughter of House Stark, I will be merging two of the oldest and most powerful magical bloodlines in the world. The fire of Valyria and the ice of the First Men. The children I produce with my Stark queen will not just be Targaryens. They will be something more. Something stronger. Their connection to the esoteric assets of this continent will be unparalleled. This is not just a marriage. It is a genetic engineering project designed to strengthen the core product line for a thousand years."

The council was utterly silenced. I had taken their feudal notions of marriage and recast them in the cold, brutal, and terrifyingly logical language of corporate strategy, eugenics, and resource exploitation. They were looking at their King, but they were seeing a creature from another world, a mind whose calculations were so far beyond their own they could barely comprehend them.

"Which daughter, Your Grace?" Lord Corlys finally asked, his voice now quiet, respectful, the voice of a man who understands he is in the presence of a superior predator.

"Lord Rickon Stark currently rules Winterfell," I replied, my knowledge flawless. "He has two children. A son, his heir, Cregan. And a daughter. A girl of eighteen, said to be fierce, proud, and possessed of a wolf's spirit. Her name is Lyanna."

I did not care about her spirit or her pride. I cared about her age, her health, and her bloodline. She was the ideal candidate.

"I will dispatch an envoy to Winterfell immediately," I announced. "Ser Runcel Hightower, whose success in the opening stages of the Dornish initiative has proven his skill, will be my representative. He will carry my proposal to Lord Rickon."

"And what if they refuse?" Lord Baratheon asked, still struggling to grasp the situation. "The Starks are a proud house. They may not wish to send a daughter so far south, to marry a king who follows different gods."

A thin, cold smile touched my lips for the first time in the meeting. "Lord Baratheon, I am the King of the Seven Kingdoms. I command the largest army, the largest navy, and the only living dragons in the world, one of whom is the Black Dread himself. My treasury is full, and I am offering to make the North richer than they have ever dreamed. This is not a proposal my Lord of Winterfell can afford to refuse. It is the single greatest deal in the history of his house. He is a Stark. He is a practical man. He will accept."

I rose, signaling the end of the meeting. "See to it," I commanded, and swept from the room.

I left behind a council reeling from the sheer scale and strangeness of my ambition. They had expected me to choose a southern bride, to play the game of thrones as it had always been played. Instead, I had redrawn the entire board, declared a new game, and made a move so audacious it bordered on madness.

But it was not madness. It was a calculated investment in the future. I would bind the vast, untapped North to my throne with chains of commerce and blood. I would merge the magic of ice with the magic of fire. I would create a new dynasty, stronger and more resilient than any that had come before. The prospectus for the North was written. The offer was being dispatched. And I had no doubt that the proud wolves of Winterfell, faced with the undeniable logic of overwhelming strategic advantage, would accept the terms of the merger.