Chapter 1

Location: Northern Kingdom, Winter City, Godswood Forest.

Year: 295 AD.

Jonothor Stark I

The heir prince leisurely walked through the Godswood forest. A gloomy, shadowy, and inhospitable place perfect for a secret meeting. The trees creaked in the wind, the leaves stirred on their own, and twigs snapped under his imposing figure.

After a few minutes of walking through the forest, he reached the deepest part where his siblings were already waiting for him. He looked at each of them attentively: Robb was sturdy like a true Northerner, with black crow hair, chestnut eyes, and slightly olive skin; his face was rough but unusually pleasant and delicate. Sansa was a beauty in every sense, with angular aristocratic features, jet-black hair with platinum highlights, indigo eyes, and despite her thirteen years, she already resembled a beauty with a body sculpted by the gods themselves. Arya, the wildest of them all, was a beauty like no other, although she herself was unaware of it ninety-nine percent of the time, with gray eyes the color of steel, a slender figure, silky brown hair, an angelic face, and elegant bones made for dancing. Finally, Brandon was a rogue; his eyes shone with both power and complicity in an intense dark indigo, despite his eight years, he was wiser than most elders, with strong features that promised a regal appearance in the future but softened by the ethereal Valyrian beauty.

"Brothers," Jonothor greeted his siblings. Robb was sitting on the roots of an elder, Sansa was facing him with her back to Jon, Arya positioned herself three steps behind Robb, functioning as a sworn shield, and Bran was playing with the weapons of one of the elders. They were all dressed in servant's clothes to slip away unnoticed.

"And here you are," Robb teased with a snort, his features hardened, and he made a grimace.

"The heir should always be under greater scrutiny," Sansa kindly reminded.

"And with Uncle Brandon's death, they're already looking at my future betrothed," Jonothor explained calmly.

"Who's the lucky one?" Arya grumbled annoyed. Jon formed a small smile towards his younger sister.

"Three proposals have been considered: the first is Alys Karstark, the other is Val Wolf, and the last one is Margaery Tyrell," the five siblings grimaced at the last name; it was well known about grandfather Rickard's southern ambitions, desperate for matrimonial alliances south of the Neck.

"And Uncle Brandon?" Arya asked, their faces controlled and emotionless.

"The healers believe he won't last the night," Jon explained calmly, "and it seems that Grandfather won't either."

"Well, their deaths were to be expected. They thought they could defeat the southerners without the mages, dragons, giants, and children of the forest, and while they were great fighters, they were not exempt from wounds," Sansa spoke with a practical tone.

Jon thought of his grandfather and uncle; the former received some wounds during the Battle of the Bells and for fourteen years has been agonizing in a slow death, the latter is the same but more serious since he received three arrows in his lungs and although he could heal, he was prohibited from engaging in strenuous activities.

Now grandfather was in the final curve of his life, and Uncle agonized for his reckless attempt to return to standard army training exercises.

"At least you were named the heir by Uncle; I wouldn't want another Stark feud in our history," Jon agreed, a second feud would not be pretty for anyone. Jon remembers the stories, during the reign of Ragnar the First two thousand years ago, all his children from relationships with various women tried to claim the throne when there was no clear heir (his only legitimate son was an eight-year-old boy); as a result, the North had its own succession war that ended with all the claimants killing each other in a great feud where 17 of the 18 participants died and the last one standing died a week later from his wounds. For Jon, that story is not as dramatic as the Dance of the Dragons, but in any case, it is bloodier than the fall of House Hightower.

"At least we can say that Grandfather's and Uncle's actions have served us well," Bran whispered from his branch; everyone turned to look at him, and the boy shrugged, "Having Rhaenys and Daenerys as hostages alone would keep Dorne at bay; the Riverlands won't do anything against us for fear of reprisals like those suffered during Robert's Rebellion; the Westerlands are drowning in debts they incurred in an attempt to mitigate the damage caused by the North during the Dance, and the Reach holds a strong resentment against us for looting their granaries and burning the Citadel when the Hightower lineage was completely wiped out."

"And yet, Grandfather wants to betroth Jon to a Tyrell?" Arya growled, annoyed.

"What do you know, Bran?" Sansa asked her brother.

"Baelish is preparing to kill Prince Tommen; that action will lead to accusations against the North... War is inevitable against the South," he replied with a pensive whisper, his voice barely audible.

"How much time do we have?" Robb asked.

"Two and a half years; Baelish wants to fuel Prince Joffrey's violence and make the people fond of Prince Tommen..."

"Making them more willing to go to war," Sansa finished for him. Bran nodded.

Jon thought for a few seconds; as furious as the southern kingdoms may be, none of them would dare to go against the defenses of the North. They may see them as mere savages, but they knew that in a defensive war, the North is invincible; therefore, Baelish requires the North to descend south once again. As if reading his mind, Bran responded immediately.

"Littlefinger wants to cause a war against the Free Cities, Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor," Bran sighed annoyed, "he believes that if our armies are outside the North, an amphibious invasion is possible."

"That would indeed be troublesome, and not entirely a bad thing," Arya grumbled, only to suddenly smile, "it's a pity we don't have dragons, giants, children of the forest, and Valyrian and Winter sorcerers to protect our coasts."

Everyone laughed; anyway, the North would win a war on two fronts. Sansa spun her gears and found a solution to their problems.

"We can turn a two-front war into a single front," the girl's siblings shuddered; nothing good augured from Sansa's sharp look, "if Lady Margaery marries King Jonothor Stark, the Southern kingdoms will be forced to invade the Reach because it is the homeland of the Queen of the North."

"And a kingdom easy to attack due to its lack of natural defenses," Arya had a manic gleam in her eyes.

"The possibility of seizing the wealth of the second richest family in Westeros is too good for Tywin to pass up," Robb followed her line of thought.

"And so, the North is forced to descend south, ravaging the Riverlands and the Westerlands, which will undoubtedly try to stop our advance," Jon finished that train of thought; although it was a preliminary outline of the war, the siblings knew that the time had come to subdue the southern kingdoms that had long acted as dogs without a leash.

"For over eight thousand years, we have prospered in the North, we have prepared for this moment," Sansa raised five cups filled with sap from the heart trees and handed them to her siblings to toast, "today, we will unite Westeros... Tomorrow, we will deal with the Others."

The siblings toasted, thinking of their hundred lives in service to the North and the hundred more lives they would live.

Location: Reach Kingdom, Highgarden.

Year: 295 AD.

Margaery Tyrell I

As Lady Margaery embroidered a golden rose on her newest handkerchief, she hummed one of her favorite songs. Her ladies-in-waiting fluttered around the beautifully decorated room, searching for thread, needles, or sharing the latest gossip.

"My lady?" Margaery looked up at her lady-in-waiting, Rylla Oakheart. She was a sweet fifteen-year-old who had her head in the clouds with thoughts of honor, knights in shining armor, and gallant princes.

"Yes, Rylla?" Margaery gave her a charming smile.

"I fear my father has written to me this morning," Rylla sighed, her almond-shaped eyes filled with deep sorrow, "he summons me back to Old Oak; my betrothed awaits my arrival."

Margaery looked at her in shock, not expecting this bombshell. In their three years together, Rylla had been a great friend of hers.

"Lord Mace has arranged a marriage with Ser Donnel Fossoway, the heir of New Barrel," Margaery noticed the older girl's sadness at being forced to leave Highgarden. On the other hand, the only Tyrell daughter narrowed her eyes slightly upon realizing that her father did not inform her that one of her ladies-in-waiting was getting married; something in her expression must have unsettled Lady Rylla, who quickly added, "I just wanted to inform you personally, my lady."

"No problem, Rylla. I'm happy for you. I'll make sure to be at your wedding, my friend," Margaery gave her a tearful smile and squeezed her hands tenderly.

Unfortunately, the moment ended when all the other women present screamed with excitement and surrounded Lady Rylla, fainting around her. In this state, a servant found them, wearing the Tyrell house uniform: a simple doublet over a white shirt with sleeves shaped like roses, khaki-colored pants, and slightly quick leather shoes. Margaery knew he was a high-ranking servant of the house, but his name was indifferent to her.

"My lady, Lord Tyrell summons you to his solar," he bowed before her and did the same for her ladies-in-waiting, who smiled delightedly and cooed over his manners. Margaery had to give it to the servant for maintaining his professionalism even with so many annoying maids fluttering around him like harvest mosquitoes.

"Of course," she stood up with a smile and walked towards her father's solar. She was vaguely aware that the servant was following her, but she didn't let that bother her; the guy probably received orders from her father to escort her or more likely from her grandmother.

On the way, she admired the decorations of Highgarden, from paintings that belonged to the Gardeners to gifts from other Reach houses or paintings created by Tyrells in the past. Each painting was flanked by a finely crafted vase with the best roses from the castle gardens.

Upon entering the solar, she saw double oak doors carved, decorated with light brown color, and many silver inlays forming the Tyrell rose. They were guarded by two guards on each side, wearing traditional armor and a green cloak hanging from their backs. The servant stepped forward, and the guards allowed them both to pass.

Inside the solar, Lord Mace Tyrell sat leafing through a letter with bright and greedy eyes. Margaery felt a twist in her stomach at the sight; when her father had that expression, it meant nothing good. The fat lord wore fine garments, a thick gray mustache, and an almost permanent blush on his face.

"Lady Tyrell, Lord Tyrell," the servant bowed before Mace, and a woman whom Margaery hadn't noticed until the servant bowed before her. Lady Olenna wore a traditional Lyssene silk dress in green and gold, her eyes gleamed with intelligence twenty steps ahead of other players, her wrinkles gave her an indulgent air that made people underestimate her, and her features spoke of a beauty that time had withered.

"Margaery, how nice of you to arrive, my daughter," Mace Tyrell dismissed the servant with a gesture, and he stepped away with a quick "my Lord, my Ladies." The Lord of Highgarden left his desk and embraced his daughter as the doors closed.

"It's good to see you, father," she played along.

"Oh, for the love of the gods, Mace you oaf, give her the news," it seemed that grandmother was not inclined to formalities. Margaery smiled politely, and her father blushed embarrassedly.

"Of course, of course," the man nodded frantically, and the fat on his face wobbled, "a letter arrived a few moments ago."

He handed Margaery the parchment, and she quickly glanced at it:

To Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South

I hope this letter finds you in favorable conditions.

It is my privilege to approach you with a request of utmost importance for our houses. I humbly request the hand of your daughter Lady Margaery Tyrell in marriage.

Without expecting this letter to displease you, I await your response.

Sincerely,

Jonothor Stark, Great Magnar of Winter and King in the North.

Margaery looked at the letter in astonishment, her hands trembling with excitement, and her mind wandered in the clouds completely bewildered.

'I... Queen in the North' her mind barely connected coherent thoughts.

"Yes, yes, very nice," Lady Olenna grumbled annoyed at her granddaughter's expression, "now we must discuss with the whole family the best course of action."

"There's not much to discuss," Margaery murmured dismayed once she regained her wit, "if we reject this offer, we will humiliate ourselves before all the nobles; our relationship with the North is already unstable at best, and the current king has made no attempt to maintain good relations with his northern counterparts. Nowadays, only Dorne has a connection with the empire through Princesses Rhaenys and Daenerys Targaryen... King Robert only wants war, and unfortunately, we are the only ones currently bearing the brunt of his hatred for remaining loyal to the Targaryens during his Rebellion."

"I will accept it..."

"I will draft the letter," Olenna grunted annoyed, she reached the same conclusion as her granddaughter. The Starks put them between a rock and a hard place.

Quickly, Olenna sat in her father's chair and began to draft the letter in question; without revealing its contents, she sealed it with the Lord's seal and called one of the guards.

"Have it sent to Winterfell, and make sure it is sent," she turned back to her granddaughter with wearyness, "I have opened negotiations for a deal. We won't get much out of it, but we must haggle as much as possible, or we will humiliate ourselves anyway."

The old lady glared at her son and quickly left, dragging her granddaughter along with her.

"This is bad; our bannermen won't take the news well," Olenna lamented once in the old lady's personal garden, a beautiful place where flowers of all colors and shapes grew so beautifully and varied that they caused sighs in those who could see it. "Not that they'll verbalize their complaints; they may hate the North, but they fear it much more."

Margaery nodded, letting her speak. According to the older guards' accounts, during Robert's Rebellion, the Reach armies surrounded Storm's End; however, when news spread that the northern army was traveling to break the siege, the Reach couldn't pack fast enough.

"And that's the other issue," Olenna now paced through the garden, which terrified Margaery; her grandmother never walked around. "When we accept, you'll be behind the most powerful army on the continent and possibly the whole world."

"Anyway, I must start preparing," Margaery smiled encouragingly, "I'll ask the maester for all the books about the North."

"Oh, my sweet girl," Olenna sighed, "a Tyrell as queen in the North? I can certainly die in peace."

"Don't be silly, grandmother," Margaery giggled nervously.

"Grow strong, dear. Grow strong," was all her response.