Title: The Wolf's Deliberation

Title: The Wolf's Deliberation

Year and Month: 106 AC, 11th Moon

The North in late autumn was a world of grey skies, hard ground, and the sharp, clean scent of pine and coming snow. It was a kingdom of immense, untamed beauty and unforgiving realities, a place that bred a people as stern and resilient as the ancient stones of their castles. Winterfell, the heart of this kingdom, was not a place of southern frivolity. It was a sprawling, practical fortress of grey granite, warmed by the steady heat of its geothermal springs and the fierce loyalty of its people. Life here was governed by seasons, not scandals; by the duties of survival, not the games of courtly intrigue.

It was into this world that the King's envoy, Ser Runcel Hightower, arrived, a splash of southern color and complexity in the stark northern landscape. His retinue was small but impeccably turned out, their banners bearing the three-headed dragon of the King, a sigil rarely seen so far north. Their arrival caused a stir not of excitement, but of deep, guarded curiosity. A Targaryen king had not shown such direct interest in the North since the days of Jaehaerys and Alysanne's famous progress fifty years prior.

Lord Rickon Stark received the envoy in the Great Hall of Winterfell. He was a man in his early forties, with the long, solemn face of his ancestors, a thick beard, and eyes the color of a winter sky. He was not a man given to easy smiles or idle pleasantries. He was the Warden of the North, and he carried the weight of that duty in his very bones. At his side sat his heir, Cregan, a strapping lad of ten who already possessed his father's serious demeanor, and his daughter, Lyanna, a young woman of eighteen whose beauty was as wild and untamed as the wolfswood, her long dark hair braided in the northern fashion, her grey eyes missing nothing.

Ser Runcel, ever the diplomat, presented his credentials with practiced grace, his southern courtesies a stark contrast to the gruff silence of the northern lords assembled to witness the audience. After the formal greetings were exchanged, he went straight to the heart of his mission.

"Lord Rickon," Ser Runcel began, his voice clear and steady. "I come bearing a message of the highest importance from my sovereign, King Aeryn of House Targaryen, First of His Name." He unrolled a heavy scroll, its seal the unbroken wax of the royal dragon. "I am here to convey a proposal, an offer of alliance and union between the Iron Throne and House Stark, the greatest of its kind ever extended to a noble house of the Seven Kingdoms."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the quiet, cavernous hall. The northern lords shifted, murmuring amongst themselves.

"The King, having secured the peace and prosperity of his realm," Ser Runcel continued, "now seeks to secure his line. He wishes to take a queen. He has considered all the great houses of the realm and has found none more ancient, more honorable, or more worthy of this union than the House of the Wolf." He looked directly at Lord Rickon, his gaze respectful but unwavering. "King Aeryn formally asks for the hand of your daughter, the Lady Lyanna Stark, in marriage."

If he had thrown a live scorpion onto the floor, the reaction could not have been more potent. A wave of stunned, absolute silence washed over the Great Hall, followed by a cacophony of whispers, gasps, and outright muttering. The lords of the North stared, mouths agape, first at the southern envoy, then at their liege lord, then at the pale, shocked face of Lyanna Stark herself.

The King of the Seven Kingdoms wanted to marry a Stark? A northern girl who prayed to trees and had the blood of the First Men in her veins? It was unthinkable. It was madness.

Lyanna felt a hot flush creep up her neck. She was the center of a hundred pairs of eyes, her life suddenly the subject of a king's decree. She felt a surge of defiant anger mixed with a terrifying, thrilling curiosity. She had expected to be married to a Manderly, a Karstark, perhaps even the heir of the Eyrie. But to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? To be wed to the cold, brilliant, and terrifyingly young Dragon King whose reputation was already legend?

Lord Rickon's face was a mask of stone, betraying nothing of the storm that must have been raging within him. He simply stared at Ser Runcel for a long, heavy moment. "This is… an unexpected honor, Ser," he said finally, his voice a low, rumbling baritone that carried the weight of centuries of northern pride. "You will be given chambers. You will be shown the hospitality of Winterfell. The King's proposal requires… deliberation."

"Of course, my lord," Ser Runcel said with a deep bow, understanding that he had just fired the opening salvo in a complex negotiation. He had delivered the offer. Now, he had to wait for the wolves to debate whether to accept it.

That night, the Great Hall buzzed with conversation. The northern lords argued, drank, and argued some more. Some were outraged. "An Andal king!" scoffed the Greatjon Umber. "A boy who worships the Seven! He wants to drag our Lady Lyanna south, make her one of them!" Others were more pragmatic. "The honor is undeniable," argued Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor. "A Stark queen on the Iron Throne would give the North a voice it has not had in a thousand years. Think of the trade, the influence!"

But the true deliberation took place not in the hall, but in the heart of Winterfell itself: the solar of the Lord, and later, the ancient godswood. Rickon Stark gathered his children, his most trusted bannermen, and Maester Wolkan.

"He wants to buy us," Rickon said flatly, once they were alone in his solar. Ser Runcel had presented not just a proposal of marriage, but a detailed prospectus, an outline of the King's vision for the North. It spoke of royal investments in a new northern fleet based out of White Harbor, of funds to develop mines, of the paving of the Kingsroad all the way to Winterfell.

"It is more than that, Father," Cregan, his son, said. The boy was young, but his mind was sharp. "He is not buying us. He is investing. He sees the North as you do—as strong, but poor. He is offering to make us rich, to make us powerful."

"And what is the price?" Lord Karstark growled. "Our daughter. Our princess of winter, sent south to be a stranger in a strange land, to warm a dragon's bed. Our gods are not their gods. Our ways are not their ways."

"The King has sworn she will be free to keep the Old Gods," Maester Wolkan interjected softly, reading from the proposal. "He has even offered to have a heart tree planted in the godswood of the Red Keep. It is an unprecedented concession to our faith."

This gave them pause. For a southern king to make such a gesture was a sign of immense, almost shocking respect for their traditions.

Lyanna, who had been silent throughout the debate, finally spoke, her voice clear and strong. "What is he like? This Dragon King?" she asked, her question directed at Ser Runcel, who had been summoned to answer their questions.

The Hightower envoy chose his words with care. "His Grace is… unlike any other man I have known, my lady. He is not given to easy smiles or frivolous pursuits. He is the most intelligent man in the Seven Kingdoms. His mind is a fortress of logic and reason. He rebuilt the city's finances, saved the people from the plague, and has brought a new level of order and prosperity to the realm in three short years. He is a hard man, but he is a just man. And he is utterly dedicated to the strength and success of his kingdom."

"And he believes a Stark bride will strengthen his kingdom?" Rickon asked, getting to the heart of the matter.

"He believes, my lord," Ser Runcel said, "that the North has been a sleeping giant. He wishes to wake it. He believes the union of the fire of Valyria and the ice of the First Men will create a dynasty of unparalleled strength. He does not seek a southern rose for his queen. He seeks a she-wolf."

The words resonated with Lyanna. A she-wolf. He did not want a meek, pliable southern lady. He wanted someone like her. The idea was both daunting and strangely appealing. To be a partner, not just a prize.

Later that night, Lyanna sought out her father in the godswood. The air was cold, her breath misting before her. She found him sitting before the heart tree, its ancient, white bark glowing in the moonlight, the carved face with its red, weeping eyes seeming to watch them with a timeless wisdom.

"You are quiet, daughter," Rickon said, not turning.

"I am thinking," she replied, coming to sit beside him on the frozen roots. "Lord Umber speaks of me being a prisoner. Lord Manderly speaks of me being a queen. What do you say, Father?"

Rickon Stark was silent for a long time, his gaze fixed on the solemn face in the tree. "I say that the world is changing," he said at last, his voice heavy. "For centuries, we have prided ourselves on our independence, on our solitude. But the dragons came. They unified the south. And now we have a new dragon, a different kind of dragon. This King Aeryn… he does not think like his father. He does not think of honor and glory. The envoy's words… he speaks of assets, of investments, of prosperity. He sees us as an opportunity. It is the way a merchant from the Free Cities thinks, not a Westerosi king."

"Is that a bad thing?" Lyanna asked.

"It is a dangerous thing," her father corrected her. "A man who thinks only of profit can be ruthless. But he can also be a powerful ally. He is offering us a seat at the high table of the realm. More than that, he is offering to help us build a table of our own here in the North. The things he promises… a fleet, mines, roads… these could make the North stronger than it has been since the Age of Heroes." He finally turned to look at her, his grey eyes serious. "But the cost is you, Lyanna. Your life. Your happiness. I will not force you. The King may be the King, but you are a Stark of Winterfell. I will not sell my daughter, not for all the gold in Casterly Rock."

Lyanna looked at the heart tree, at the ancient, knowing face. She thought of her future, a future she had always imagined would be here, in the cold, familiar lands of her birth. Marriage to some northern lord. A life of duty, of honor, of children who would grow up under the grey skies she loved.

Then she thought of the alternative. A journey south. To a city of a million people. To a court of intrigue and danger. To a husband who was a king, a genius, a creature of fire and logic who commanded the last great dragon in the world. A man who did not want a rose, but a she-wolf.

It was a terrifying prospect. But it was not a boring one. It was a challenge. It was a chance to be part of something vast, something that would change the history of the world. Her ancestor, Torrhen Stark, had knelt to the dragon to save his people from fire. This new dragon was not offering fire. He was offering a partnership. He was offering to help them reforge the North into a new, stronger kingdom.

"The pack survives, Father," she said softly, quoting the old words of her house. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."

Rickon looked at her, understanding her meaning.

"The North has been alone for too long," she continued, a new resolve hardening her voice. "Perhaps it is time the wolf joined a new pack. A pack of dragons." She stood up, her silhouette stark against the white bark of the heart tree. "I am a Stark of Winterfell. I am not afraid of a cold king, or his southern court. Tell the envoy I accept the King's proposal."

Her father rose and placed a hand on her shoulder. He did not smile, but the look in his eyes was one of immense, heartbreaking pride. "The dragons are getting a wolf, then," he said. "Let's hope their halls are strong enough to hold her."

The next morning, Lord Rickon Stark gave his official reply to Ser Runcel Hightower. The King's proposal was accepted. A formal betrothal was agreed upon. The North would have a queen. A raven flew south, carrying the news that would bind the two most ancient and powerful houses in Westeros together. The merger had been accepted. The groundbreaking was over. The real work was about to begin.