The End of the Red Kings

The North

Wintertfell

301 AC

"Jon!" Arya's excited voice calls out to Aemon as he unmounts his horse and hands the reins to the stable boy.

"Be careful, he can be a prickly one." warns Jon.

"Yes my Lord." answers the boy with a bow as he guides the horse towards the stables.

Turning to face his sister, Aemon is barely able to brace as she jumps into his arms.

"Did you get them?" asks Arya as she gives him a tight hug. "We've heard rumors, but you can never trust rumors. Is it true that a pack of wolves killed the entire army of the Reach when they tried to invade the Riverlands?" she asks.

"I will tell you soon. Let me get my men situated first." replies Aemon with a smile as he puts her down and turns to Sihtric and Cregan and drawing Arya's attention to them.

"Sihtric, follow Ghost. He will lead you to a man. Bring him to me as unharmed as possible, I would have words with him." commands Aemon he caresses the direwolf's fur before it takes off towards Wintertown with a silent snarl.

"What are your orders?" asks Cregan when Aemon turns to him.

"Divide the men into three groups, one shall live in the wilds around Winterfell practicing drills and formations, one shall live in Wintertown helping the people in any manner necessary, including construction, and the final group shall be in Winterfell helping repair and teach the guard everything they have learned for the past three moons. As we shall be here for three moons, the groups will rotate responsibilities at the end of each moonturn." instructs Aemon.

"What are we to do with the pack of wolves that followed us here?" Cregan asks uneasily.

For they had been followed by a growing pack of wolves, always following them and watching but never attacking. It had become somewhat unnerving to see them silently vanish into the wilds of the North only to silently return when none were expecting them. Many a time the men of the Wolf Pack had awoken to their camp encircled by the pack.

"Leave them be. They are Ghost's pack." replies Aemon, causing Cregan to raise an eyebrow at that. "I know not why he has made himself a pack. The little bastard had never been interested in having one before but he will not bother anyone so leave them be." says Aemon.

With a nod, Cregan turns to carry out the orders.

"Ghost made himself a pack?" asks Arya with wide eyes.

"Aye. He has never shown interest before so I am curious as to why." wonders Aemon as he pulls her into a hug.

"Maybe he's just jealous of Nymeria." comments Arya matter-of-factly. "I hear she has her own pack and no army has been able to invade the Riverlands without dying by her hands."

"Is that so?" asks an amused Aemon as he smiles wide when he notices Sansa approaching them with Brienne following a step behind.

He had found the female knight in King's Landing and convinced her to turn North to become Sansa's sworn sword. It had not been particularly hard to convince her considering her oath to Lady Stark.

"Hmm." answers Arya with a nod.

"You're back." says Sansa with a tentative smile and thin laughter.

"You have grown." observes Aemon as she gives him a hug. "You both have."

"It has been nearly a year since you've seen us." says Sansa as she takes a step back. "Come, I have your room ready."

"Where are Bran and Rickon?" asks Aemon as he nods in greeting to Brienne before following Sansa into the keep.

"Bran's not happy with you." says Arya. "He says that he was supposed to be beyond the Wall, but you sent your men to bring him."

"Aye, the lands beyond are no place for him nor his friends. If he wishes to learn greenseeing and warging I will teach him myself." says Aemon.

Left unsaid is his absolute distrust of Brynden Rivers and the spirit of the Three-Eyed Raven. That man's motives can never be properly ascertained and the ambiguous nature of the Three-Eyed Raven makes Aemon leery of letting Bran be anywhere near him. He would rather Bran be a less powerful greenseer but emotionally aware than that emotionless doll he was turned into.

"Can you teach me too? For when Nymeria returns." asks Arya.

Her words cause Sansa to slightly stiffen ahead of them before seamlessly resuming to walk. Her control over her physical reactions has greatly improved, had Aemon not been perceptive he would have missed it.

"You may not need Nymeria for that." says Aemon as he pointedly looks at Sansa. "How have your lessons been?" he asks, wanting to change the subject.

"The Hassans are so incredible, they know everything!" she exclaims with a grin.

"They do know quite a lot." acknowledges Aemon.

Hassan possesses a compartmentalized soul and multiple personalities that allows them to divide their spiritual potential to materialize up to one hundred different Servants. Though limited by their physical body during life, their thousand souls are now free of such limitations as a spiritual entity, and as each segment can materialize as an individual, they can all be materialized simultaneously in different shapes.

Each one is its own separate entity, and the only shared characteristics are their skull masks, black cloaks and race. Their body sizes can be giant, slim, short as children, and some can even be women. They each have their own will, personality, strengths, and weaknesses, and although they are against unnecessary sacrifice, losing one without a specific strength does not directly affect the whole of the others more than losing a finger.

In the short of it, having Hassan of the Hundred Faces is akin to having every possible profession available. From spies and assassins, to generals and soldiers, politicians, clerks, teachers, scholars, stone masons, farmers, etc…

It is for this reason that Aemon assigned each of the Stark children with a Hassan other than protection.

In addition to their general education as heirs of House Stark, they also learn a specialty from their Hassan. Ironically Arya chose to learn spycraft and combat while Sansa chose politics, no doubt their experiences in King's Landing has permanently scarred them, but it did not break them. They are stronger now than when they left Winterfell.

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…

As they reach the room Aemon and Arya follow Sansa in while Brienne guards outside.

When he realizes who this room once belonged to, Aemon stops in his tracks.

"I felt that it was only right that you would sleep in the Lord's room." says Sansa.

"I cannot sleep here." says Aemon as he walks through the room, taking in the decorations and Stark motifs.

The last time he had been in the room he had just celebrated his tenth nameday and it had been a moon before the trip to White Harbour that would change the trajectory of his life forever.

Their father had sat on the seat before the hearth while he and Robb had laid down on the carpet made of fur to listen to their father speak of the Starks of old. Robb had fallen in love with Cregan Stark, the Old Man of the North, due to the Hour of the Wolf, and he had fallen in love with King Jon Stark simply due to his name. At the time he did not care that Jon Stark had driven sea raiders from the North, nor did he care that he built the Wolf's Den so as to be able to defend the mouth of the White Knife. They shared a name and that had been enough for little Jon Snow.

It is his most precious memory and he had held on to it during his time enslaved.

"Of course you can sleep here, you're Rickon's regent." argues Arya, wrenching him from his memories.

"I cannot. The lords may seem happy to be following House Stark into whatever hells come for us, but it will not remain so. Already Lord Manderly is wary of me. Once we have dealt with the Others the lords will wonder about the North's future and me hoarding power will make them uneasy." explains Aemon.

"It's just a room." says Arya with a frown.

"It is not just any room. It is the Lord of Winterfell's room and the bastard who forcibly made himself regent sleeping in that very room will make those who doubt House Stark whisper that I plan on taking the Winter Crown for myself." replies Aemon

"I'm sorry." says a dejected Sansa. "I wanted to do something nice to make up for how I treated you when we were younger." she adds, causing Arya to scoff.

"Arya." reprimands Aemon as he sends her a stern look.

"What? She should be sorry, no one told her to be mean." scoffs Arya from her position on the bed.

"And we were children, it is normal for a child to want to please." scolds Aemon. "Besides, we should not be fighting amongst ourselves, especially not with winter coming."

"What did father used to say?" asks Aemon

"When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives" they say as one.

"Aye, now tell me about the state of things?" asks Aemon as he and Sansa situate themselves on the two seats before the heart.

"The shipments of food looted from the Reach and the Westerlands have reached Winterfell and were documented before being distributed throughout any keep reporting shortages. Between that, the food coming from Essos, and all the animals migrating south due to the Others, we can comfortably survive a winter as long as this summer has been. Any longer however and we will need to ration." reports Sansa.

"How bad were the shortages?" asks Aemon with a frown.

"Not too bad. Enough to be noticed and reported but not enough to cause panic." answers Sansa.

"Good, how have the repairs come along?" he asks.

"Well enough, we should be done by winter. Though with the men you brought we will be finished much earlier." says Sansa.

"We got shipments of dragonglass." Arya says, causing Aemon to turn to her. "According to Lord Cerwyn, one of the Hassans took a shipload of dragonglass up the White Knife to his lands."

"How do you know that?" asks Sansa

"How can I not know, Mikken and the new blacksmith have been making daggers, arrowheads and spear tips with it for moons now, we probably have around tens of thousands of it." says Arya with a casual shrug.

"That's not possible. Mikken and Tobho Mott can have only made a few hundred considering the time frame." retorts Sansa.

"The Hassan who brought them carved the rest. He spends all day carving them up with that dagger of his." says Arya.

"Are you interested in blacksmithing?" asks Aemon.

"No." says Arya with a pout before turning her back to them.

With confusion in his eyes Aemon turns back to Sansa who simply shrugs.

"How are the prisoners?" Aemon asks, causing a dark look to envelop Sansa's face.

"Theon has been largely silent, but Ramsay refuses to keep his mouth shut. When he isn't ranting or taunting the Hassan guarding them he makes threats about my person. It's frightfully graphic and almost impressive." says Sansa.

"Hmm, I will deal with Ramsay tonight when the moon is at its highest. I would ask you and Arya to attend, but it will be graphic." says Aemon.

"So?" asks Arya before Sansa can say anything.

"Ramsay's ribs will be severed from the spine with a sharp tool, and his lungs pulled through the opening to create a pair of "wings" before I sacrifice his heart to the heart tree." says Aemon.

"Is that a jape?" questions Arya, only to receive silence as an answer.

Despite the nausea she feels when she realizes that Aemon is being serious, Arya swallows it down as her stubbornness rears its head.

"I'm still coming." says Arya with a glare.

"And so am I." says Sansa.

"You do not have to." insists Aemon.

"Normally I wouldn't, but something is urging me to be there." says Sansa, causing Aemon to raise an eyebrow in wonder.

After mulling it over, Aemon decides to let it be. It would be good for them to begin learning what small ritualistic magic he was able to gleam from their ancestors through his greenseering through time.

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That night as Sansa and Arya make their way through Winterfell, they find the section leading to the godswoods devoid of all presence save for the Hassans who stand cloaked in the shadows.

The air in the godswood feels charged when they enter compared to its usual serene atmosphere, and despite the late hour the night is well illuminated by the moon and the cloudless sky.

They find a shirtless Aemon kneeling before the heart tree and Sansa almost vocalizes her horror when she sees the crisscrossing scars that crowd his back. Some seem to have been made by whips or blades, but others look to have been made by a woman's nails.

Before they can say anything, Aemon calls to them.

"Come. We must begin now if we wish to reach the climax as the moon rises to its peak." he tells him.

Swallowing their questions, Sansa and Arya stand next to him where they finally take notice of a gagged Ramsay Snow tied down on his stomach on a stump before the heart tree.

"Stand on either side of him." commands Aemon.

Arya quickly stands on the left while Sansa stands on the right, forming a triangle around him.

"When the Starks were Kings of Winter and magic could be found in every corner of the continent, our ancestors used to offer a little of their own blood before praying before the Old Gods, as was the ancient custom." says Aemon as he unsheathes the dragonglass dagger at his waist. "The last Stark to do so was not a King of Winter, but his bastard brother, Brandon Snow, before he exiled himself to Essos." he explains.

"I do not definitively know why the custom was stopped, but I believe it was possibly due to shame the Starks felt for no longer being able to carry the respected legacy of their ancestors and feeling themselves unworthy in front of the Old Gods for surrendering their last lands to a Valyrian. Regardless of their reason, all that matters is that once the custom is renewed, it is best for the bastard brother of the King of Winter to renew it. For when it comes to magic, symbolism is perhaps the most important aspect." says Aemon as he slashes his forearm with enough force to cause his blood to pour out onto the roots of the heart tree and into an empty bowl that is to the left of two other filled bowls. One with what seems to be steaming water, and the other that holds a stranger liquid.

As his blood pours forth, Aemon begins to speak, his words are unrecognizable to Sansa and Arya but they recognise it still as the old tongue, for they have begun to learn it at Aemon's behest.

"To you, Old Gods, and to you, o Starks of old, I offer a part of me and the blood and heart of our most ancient enemies, the Red Kings. Let this serve as a renewal of our pact. I swear it by earth and water, I swear it by bronze and iron, I swear it by ice and fire." says Aemon as he ignores Ramsay's struggling and muffled cries, and plunges the bloodsoaked dragonglass dagger into Ramsay's back.

As Aemon starts the process, he enters into a trance-like state and begins to speak in a dialect of the old tongue he had never heard before.

The words come unbidden by him and the process is excruciatingly slow for his words and actions must follow a specific cadence.

As the ritual continues, the previously charged air within the godswood seems to come alive as specters of light begin to appear from the weirwoods and heart tree and surround them. With the passing of time the specters become corporeal enough for their features to be made and Sansa and Arya quickly recognise the Lords of Winterfell who had been Kings of Winter.

The first to come is Torrhen who looks at them with impassive eyes, the second to come is Rickard Stark, The Laughing Wolf, who's eyes seem to be in perpetual laughter despite the blank state of his face, and not far behind him is Theon Stark, The Hungry Wolf himself. He looks at them with cold gray eyes before giving them all an approving nod. Like this hundreds of Kings of Winter appear throughout the godswood and join in the chant until finally the moon rises to its peak and the ritual reaches its climax as Aemon removes Ramsay's heart and the bastard of House Bolton breathes his last.

Whispering unheard words to the still beating heart, Aemon stabs it with the dragonglass dagger before tossing both into the mouth of the heart.

Kneeling before the heart tree, Aemon pours his blood from the bowl into the one with the blue liquid before whispering unheard words and repeating the process with the steaming water.

Taking a ball made of fallen red leaves of the heart tree, Aemon uses it to stir the contents of the bowl before pouring some into a fourth bowl on the ground and drinking from the one in his hands and passing it to a very pale Sansa.

Despite her skepticism, Sansa drinks from the bowl before passing it to Arya who finishes it without hesitating.

As the last drop is drunk by Arya, the Kings of Winter finish their chant and the three scions of House Stark fall to the ground into a dreamless sleep.

As they lie there unaware of the ongoings of the world around them, a Hassan exits their spiritual form, takes the bowl with the remaining mixture and makes their way into Winterfell intent on carrying out Aemon's orders in case such a situation occurs.

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…

The next morning his sibling's excited screams are what wakes Aemon from his slumber.

Despite his grogginess, Aemon opens his eyes to see what the fuss could possibly be about. As he turns his head towards their voices, Aemon sees Bran running around the godswood with Rickon on his back, bringing a relieved smile to his lips.

He had dreamed, but had not dared hope that the concoction with the super-soldier serum would be able to fix Bran's legs. The original concoction and ritual is meant to cleanse the spirit of weariness, clear the mind, and heal near fatal injuries; which is why it requires a sacrifice, powerful King's blood, and the water from the hot springs of Winterfell's godswood.

"Did you know?" asks Sansa as she kneels in front of Aemon, causing him to do a double take.

Sansa has always been beautiful, that is just a fact, but her beauty never had any supernatural qualities to it; not even when she had been fully grown.

Now, Aemon would not be surprised if someone were to call her a sidhe. Her Tully blue eyes are now as blue as the eyes of the Others, but with a warmth that the Others could never possess. Her copper red hair now resembles fire, giving new meaning to 'kissed-by-fire', and her every move exudes a supernatural grace.

"I had thought it possible, but dared not hope." says Aemon as he pushes himself up only to stumble as he underestimates his strength.

"We all reacted the same way." says Sansa with a giggle as Aemon regains his posture.

Before Aemon can answer he's lifted off the ground by an iron grip.

"Bran!" exclaims Sansa as Bran hoists him into a tight hug.

"Thank you!" screams Bran as he chooses to ignore Sansa.

"You're welcome." says Aemon as Bran puts him back down and a Hassan appears next to him with five fully packed bags.

"What are those for?" asks Arya as she approaches with a struggling Rickon in her arms.

"Since the serum worked, we are currently a danger to everyone in Winterfell. As such, until we have completely familiarized ourselves with our new found strength, we will spend the time in the Wolfswood." explains Aemon as he hands each of them a bag and they begin to change into the hunting clothes within. "For the duration of that time I will be teaching you warging, combat, and the little knowledge of magic I possess." he adds, causing Bran, Arya, and Rickon to grin.

"Must I go?" asks Sansa. "Who will run Winterfell?"

"The Hassans and Jeyne will do it." says Arya.

"Yes." replies Aemon without missing a beat. "I understand that you don't like combat, but from now on every subsequent generation of House Stark must know how to defend themselves at the least. The world is not a song, nor is it kind to the weak. The best way for one to protect themself is to empower oneself and their allies." says Aemon as he looks at his brothers and sisters.

Seeing the resolve on their face pride blooms within his heart.

With a reassuring nod to them, he leads them from the godswood to the Hunter's Gate and into the Wolfswood.

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Author's Note: And here is the newest chapter. I struggled a bit with this chapter since I didn't know how deep I wanted Aemon to go with the ritual blood magic thing. The original plan was just for him to bleed on the heart tree, but my beta said fuck it and go all in, so I decided to do that since Aemon's journey will be darker than the protagonists I usually write. I'd really like to hear what you guys think.