107 AC

Winterfell

The first rays of the rising Sun spread through the world, banishing the dark and the cold of the night.

Dawn had broken, coloring the sky orange and gold.

But flying over a thousand feet in the air on dragonback, the Sun's meagre heat wasn't much of a comfort to Aemon.

Despite the thick wool padding his armour, the thick fur coat he wore on top of it, and the heat emanating from Vermithor's scales, Aemon felt like his balls would freeze off.

Cold winds buffeted them, as Vermithor soared over the wolfswood.

They were flying south of Winterfell when Aemon spotted a lake. It's waters were blue and still, and a thin coat of ice had formed on the lake's surface. Reminiscent of a glass plane, the lake shimmered in the early morning sunlight.

With a thought he commanded Vermithor, who immediately fell into a dive, barreling towards the lake's surface. And just as they were about to slam into the lake, he gave a gentle tug on the saddle chains.

And that was all it took, for Vermithor to straighten his flight path and pull out of the dive, skimming the water surface.

Sprays of ice cold water drenched Aemon, washing away all of his morning grogginess, as Vermithor roared in joy letting out a plume of flames, skyward.

Dragonrides, really were the perfect way to start a day.

After flying a few more laps around the lake, they turned back the way they came, towards Winterfell.

This time instead of flying over the denser parts of the wolfswood, they followed the straight path back, along the kingsroad.

And soon, Winterfell's tall grey walls became visible in the distance.

Even this early in the morning things were busy in Winterfell.

Aemon could see the smoke rising from over a dozen cookfires, within the ancient Keep's walls.

Usually all the cooking took place in the castle's kitchens, but today wasn't a usual day.

The previous Lord of Winterfell Benjen Stark, his grandfather, had passed away a week ago from an infection of the gut.

After his funeral had been conducted, Aemon's uncle Rickon Stark, had assumed his role as the new Lord of Winterfell.

Today a great feast was to be held in his honour.

All the Lords of the North had assembled in Winterfell, to do do obeisance to their new Lord.

Aemon could see the chained giant of House Umber, the flayed man of the Boltons, and the Merman of House Manderly, among countless others, planted along the castle walls, below the huge direwolf banner of House Stark.

Vermithor circled the castle once, before finally coming down outside its walls, just by the East Gate.

Aemon wanted to land in the courtyard, but Vermithor's huge size made that unadvisable. It was also because of this, that Vermithor had to make his lair in the wolfswood.

After Aemon had unstrapped the leather cords, and untangled the steel chains, tying him to the saddle. He slid off Vermithor's back, landing on the ground beside his dragon.

Raynard Poole the steward of Winterfell, approached him cautiously, as Aemon soothed Vermithor by stroking his scales gently.

House Poole had been stewards of House Stark for generations.

Raynard himself was an old man, who had spent four decades in their service, having began his service during Lord Alaric's time, as a mere cupbearer.

"I hope you haven't been waiting long?" Aemon asked.

"Of course not, milord", he replied stiffly, as the servants rushed to help remove the saddle, just like how Aemon had taught them to.

Even though he had spent over a year living in the North, many of the servants still balked at the presence of a real fire-breathing dragon, just outside their walls.

"The young Lord demands your presence, milord." Raynard informed him, "He awaits you in the solar."

Aemon nodded in answer, to show his acceptance.

It seemed that, his uncle wanted to see him.

Aemon wondered what this could be about, as he started walking towards the Lord's solar.

Aemon had lived his whole life in the Red Keep. And although Winterfell lacked the luxury and grandeur of the royal palace, there was something about it that made it feel more homely.

These were the Halls where his mother grew up. Aemon had heard many tales of Lyarra Stark since he came to the North.

Unlike Daemon who had rarely spoken to him of his mother, the Starks had told him many stories of his mother. Of all the pranks she used to play as a child, of how she used to hate studying the numbers but loved reading the histories. Since he had come North Aemon felt far more connected to his mother. It was almost as if, if he closed his eyes he could picture her.

Lord Benjen had taken him down to the crypts one day to visit his mother. And even though, the crypts had been dank and dark, in the light of the torch for the first time, Aemon spoke to his mother that day, or whatever was left of her.

Although the family members of the Stark Lord could be entombed in the crypts, it was only the Lords themselves, that had stone effigies carved for them.

On that day, Aemon spent hours speaking to his mother's tomb, while his grandfather sat in a corner, his eyes lost in a faraway look, brooding silently.

Since then Aemon would often visit the crypts, bringing her flowers from the greenhouse.

Lyarra had loved flowers, or so his uncle Rickon said.

One of the Stark men standing guard outside the Lord's solar, let him in.

His uncle Rickon was a young man, in his early twenties. And with his dark hair, storm grey eyes, and infectious smile, the dashing youth could not be anymore different from his father, Benjen. Who by all accounts was a serious, brooding man.

"Aemon there you are", he said with a smile, inviting him in.

As Aemon took a seat at his table, Rickon said, "Would you like some apple cider, Aemon? Just had it delivered from the kitchens, it's still warm."

As Rickon poured him some of the steaming hot apple cider, the sharp scent of apples, cinnamon, and clove filled the air.

A sip of the hot drink sent warmth coursing through Aemon's body. Even the soreness that had build up in his muscles from riding on his Dragon for so long, felt somewhat lessened, as he let out a relieved sigh.

"So what did you wish to discuss Uncle?" He asked.

Rickon's entire demeanor shifted, no longer was he an uncle joking with his nephew, he was Lord Stark now.

"I am sure you have heard of the Pact of Ice and Fire", he said.

To which Aemon nodded, he had heard of it, from Daemon.

"As you know, Lord Ellard Stark and the Old King signed this Pact to bring our two Houses closer. Long had the North remained isolated from the rest of the Realm. And the Queen Alyssane's actions though good and noble, had only increased this rift between our Houses. This is all true. And they did sign this Pact to remedy this. But there is more to the story. The Pact was in truth conceived, because of my sister's dying wish. Some of us Starks are said to have dreams, prophetic dreams, some say. And although, I do not believe in such superstition, my father did. And thus moved by his daughter's dream of a silver haired Stark ruling the Gates to the North, he made Pact with Jaehaerys." He said.

"And what did this Pact entail?" Aemon asked.

Rickon took a few sips of his cider, before continuing,

"By this Pact, Lyarra's son, that is you Aemon, will inherit Moat Cailin and all its surrounding lands, once you come of age, or are knighted. You will be titled 'Lord of the Neck' and will hold the Gates to the North. But instead of swearing fealty to the Starks, your fealty will be to the Crown. The Neck will become part of the Crownlands. In exchange, the Crown will finance the reconstruction of the Moat, and raise a strong castle there to be your seat, thus safeguarding the Northern borders. Also, all lands gifted by Queen Alyssane to the Night's Watch will be returned to Stark control. House Stark will appoint new Lords to those lands, to better manage the lands that have been neglected by the Watch for decades. These new Lords will owe their allegiance to Winterfell and any taxes they pay will be split between the Watch and House Stark equally." He finished.

"So I am to be a Lord?" Aemon asked, surprised.

Aemon had always intended to win himself a Lordship in the Stepstones, but never had he thought, that it would fall in his lap, like this. He had expected to fight tooth and nail for it.

Maybe the Fates weren't completely unkind, after all.

"Yes, and it is this that we have to discuss. I have received several missives, that the Crown has sent builders and architects to the Moat. They seem to have begun their work. Lord Manderly also informs me, that large amounts of stone and other building materials are being shipped from King's Landing to White Harbour, regularly. It seems that the Crown intends to keep their end of the Pact." He said.

"What am I to do then?" Aemon asked.

"Nothing much", he said, "but once this feast is over, you and I will travel to the Moat. It is imperative that we see how things are going there." He said.

"Very well then, I'll be ready to leave, early tomorrow." He promised.

"Oh yes, before you go. Take these." Rickon said, thrusting a sheaf of parchment, towards Aemon. "These came for you from the Capital. You were flying on dragonback, so the Maester asked me to give it to you, if I saw you."

Saying, Rickon handed him several sealed letters. Sealing them, was only a secondary precaution, each of the letters were written in a special, which only those closest to him knew how to decode.

For anyone else, it would appear to be just a bunch of gibberish.

"Thank you Uncle", he said, "I'll see you at the feast, later."

--------------------

The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of fresh-baked bread. It's grey stone walls were draped with banners.

The grey direwolf of Stark perched proudly over the high table, and beside it hung, were the banners of the other northern houses. The flayed man of the Boltons, the chained giant of the Umbers, the White Sun of the Karstarks, among many others.

Aemon could even hear a singer playing the high harp, his ballads drowned out by the sound of a hundred drunken toasts.

The Feast was in full swing.

Although Aemon sat at the high table among all the other nobleborn, he had been placed far from the centre of the dais. Those were the real seats of honour, by the side of the new Lord of Winterfell. And even though Aemon was a dragonrider, he still remained a bastard, seating him any closer would offend the other northern Lords.

Not that he minded, in fact, he would rather be seated down on the benches with the squires, knights, and men-at-arms. At least the conservation there wouldn't be so dull, Aemon thought as he tried to concentrate on Lady Alys' words.

He didn't succeed, zoning out once again he assured himself that it wasn't his fault, Alys Hornwood just was a dreadfully boring girl.

All she asked him were questions of King's Landing and court life, while fawning over him. And to be honest, Aemon quite liked being fawned over, but the girl was being just too transparent.

Since Aemon had become a dragonrider, many Lords had wanted to bind him to them. But thinking of his bastardy, they never came out and stated their wish for a betrothal directly, instead choosing to play these silly games with him.

And frankly, he was quite tired of indulging them, Aemon thought, as he took a large gulp of sweet summerwine. He didn't wish to marry into a House, that thought asking for his hand in marriage was dishonorable.

Before Aemon could notice, he had already drained his wine cup. Aemon usually refrained from indulging himself too much. He ate and drank in measured quantities, in order to hone a strong warrior's physique.

But today was a festive day, and after all that he had learned he needed the wine, Aemon justified, as he refilled his cup for the third time that evening.

Aemon had received some missives from the Capital. And although Jahanara reported a steady growth in the business - in fact they had expanded their control to half a dozen more inns and taverns in the city - there were other pressing matters.

Mysaria had been living with Alyssa in Daemon's mansion in King's Landing, while Daemon was out fighting his War in the Stepstones. It was she who had been helping Jahanara manage Aemon's spy network in the City.

She sent that tensions were high in the Capital, since Alicent gave birth to her son Aegon, Otto had been busy lobbying the Small Council. He wanted to press the King to replace Rhaenyra as Heir and name Aegon instead.

And even though, Aemon already knew that it was unlikely that would happen, thinking about it still stressed him out. In the back of his mind always lurked the intruding thought, that he had changed too much, that his actions had derailed the course of future events beyond his control.

A loud cheer roused him from his thoughts, Lord Rickon led his wife the Lady Gilliane, in a dance.

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Lady Gilliane was Lord Glover's youngest daughter, only a year ago she had gotten married to Aemon's uncle. She was shy by nature, and with her mousy brown hair and pale blue eyes, she often tended to blend into the background.

Today wasn't one of those days, dancing with Rickon in the centre of the Great Hall, every eye in the Hall was on her. And soon seeing them, many other couples started drifting towards the dance floor.

"Would you like to dance?" Alys asked him.

"I'm sorry Lady Alys but I'll have to decline, dancing isn't something I'm good at." Aemon lied.

Being brought up in the Capital, attending the numerous Feasts that Viserys liked to throw, there was no way Aemon wouldn't have learned to dance.

He ignored the disappointed look that Alys threw his way, instead focusing on the other highborn guests at the Feast.

Aemon's grandmother Lady Lysa Locke sat to the right of the Lord's seat, where Rickon had been seated.

Although Lysa blamed Daemon for her daughter's death, to Aemon she was only a kind and doting grandmother. Strict but fair, she didn't view Aemon with prejudice for his bastard heritage.

But these days her regal mien was heavy with grief. And even though she hid it well, to someone like Aemon who had come to know her very well, it was readily apparent. The tightness in her eyes, the stiffness in her smiles, spoke volumes about how she still mourned her husband.

Seated to her right was Bennard Stark, Aemon's other uncle.

But unlike Rickon, Aemon held no respect for him. He was a man of large appetites - vain and greedy. And even though he hid his true nature behind his smiles and japes, Aemon could see the naked greed lurking within.

Bennard hated the fact that he was the second son and coveted his brother's position.

Something that sadly, Rickon was completely unaware of.

Even now Aemon could see him leering at the serving girls, in his half-drunk state.

Other than the Starks many prominent northern Lords had also been seated at the high table.

Foremost of them was Lord Roderick Dustin, otherwise known as "Roddy the Ruin".

Aemon saw him conversing with his grandmother.

A strong and capable warrior, the Lord of Barrowtown was huge. At over seven feet tall and weighing nearly twenty stone, he towered over most other men.

A veteran of many battles, he had fought against countless Wildling raiding parties, even having marched beyond the Wall on a few occasions.

He was without doubt one of the fiercest warriors in the North. Aemon watched him closely.

There were many other prominent northern Lords at the Feast.

Lord Desmond Manderly a corpulent but clever man, was seated beside his wife the Lady Wylla.

Shrewd and knowledgeable, it was said that in his younger days he had many long years at Oldtown, forging links.

Then there was Lord Domeric Bolton. The Lord of the Dreadfort seemed like a frail old man, in truth he was anything but.

He was a cruel and cunning man, who if rumors could be believed flayed his enemies, and continued the abolished practice of the first night.

His wife was the Lady Bethany Ryswell, a young auburn haired girl a third his age.

There were also Lord Ethan Glover, Rickon's father-in-law, Lord Osric Umber the Lord of Last Hearth, and Lord Torrhen Karstark of Karhold, among many others.

But not all was bad Aemon mused, from what Mysaria had wrote to him, Alyssa's hatchling was growing stronger everyday.

It had been quite a welcome surprise for him, when earlier in the year he had recieved word of Alyssa's egg hatching.

The hatchling was a beautiful she-dragon, Mysaria wrote to him. She had dark purple wings and scales that gleamed like a thousand amethysts. It's claws, crest and belly scales were like plates of beaten gold. And it's eyes were like pools of molten gold.

The dragon needed a name. And since Alyssa was still too young to name her, Mysaria had named it in her stead.

She had named it Tessarion, after one of the gods of Old Valyria.

Aemon called for more wine. By the time he got it, another course had been served, ribs of spiced wild boar to go with the warm oat-bread baked with bits of apple and dates.

Aemon had some of the bread with the grilled trout that had been served earlier. The singers had launched into a spirited rendition of the 'Bear and Maiden Fair', the guests taking to dancing to its merry tune

Aemon's meal was suddenly interrupted when a flagon of ale was slammed onto the table before him. Drops of the drink flew everywhere, some of it stinging his eyes.

"Bastard!" Bennard roared, "I heard that you're going to be a Lord, now."

His face was flushed red from the alcohol, his words were slurred, and spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke.

"And of Moat Cailin nonetheless." He shouted, "That was to be my seat."

"A bastard like you has no right to it." Bennard growled.

Aemon drew himself up straight, "I may be a bastard uncle, but I am also a dragonrider. What have you done in your pitiful life?"

"Hmph, you wouldn't have a dragon if your mother hadn't betrayed us, laying with that southern prince." He sneered.

Before Aemon could reply, his grandmother cut in.

"Watch what you say, son." She said in an icy tone, "She was your sister."

"So what, mother? So what? If not for that reckless bitch, we would be free of that ridiculous Pact. The North would remain in the North, as it has for eight thousand years. But now, because of her stupid mistake her southern son, will hold the doors to the North." Bennard sneered.

Instantly Aemon had unsheathed Nightbringer. It's dark blade glowed in the torchlight Great Hall, as he roared in fury.

"The next time you speak of my mother in that ill tone, I'll kill you."

"You dare threaten me, bastard!" He shouted, fumbling for his dagger.

"What is going on here." Rickon demanded, his Lord's voice cutting through the noise in the Great Hall, as he walked up to them.

"What's the cause of all this commotion?" He asked, "And sheathe your blades. Both of you. I'll not have any bloodshed beneath my roof."

Aemon hurriedly sheathed Nightbinder, as Bennard tried to justify himself.

"It was nothing brother, the drink had stirred my wolfsblood. After all it's not everyday, that you learn, your birthright is to be handed off to an outsider."

"This again?" Rickon said in annoyance, "Moat Cailin was never to be yours, brother. It was in shambles, a long abandoned holdfast."

"For generations when the Kings of Winter ruled the North. It was the younger brother that held Moat Cailin, protecting the North from foreign invaders." Bennard argued.

"But the Kings of Winter don't rule the North, now. The Lords of Winter do." Aemon interjected.

"Enough! Both of you. This matter has long been settled between House Targaryen and House Stark. And we Starks are no oathbreakers. The Pact will be upheld. I do not wish to hear another word about this, again." Rickon said, turning his cold gaze upon his younger brother.

"But this isn't - " Bennard sputtered.

"Fair?" Rickon said, "Don't worry little brother. Though you may not have Moat Cailin, I intend to raise you a castle, on the lands House Targaryen has so graciously returned to us."

"Moat Cailin holds the Neck. It's worth far more than the paltry prize you offer me, brother." Bennard answered.

"It's all you'll get." Rickon growled, losing his patience.

"Now get out of my sight before I say something, that I'll later regret."

As the drunk Bennard Stark was led out by one of Winterfell's guardsmen, the Feast resumed.

The earlier drama was forgotten, as the festive mood resurged.

Aemon stood up from his seat, "Excuse me, please." He said to no one in particular as he left.

The booze was clouding his thoughts, he needed some fresh air he decided, walking out of the Great Hall.

The yard was quiet and empty. A few men in Stark colors stood guard on the battlements of the inner wall. They were playing dice to pass the time, it seemed.

Aemon was in no mood for companionship. His mother's ghost haunted him tonight.

Even Winterfell's dark and deserted hallways, seemed to reflect this melancholy of his. As Aemon drifted down its long corridors, away from the music and merriment spilling through the open windows of the Great Hall behind him.

"Young Lord", a voice called out to him, Aemon turned.

A young man stood leaning against the wall that he had just walked past.

The lack of strong light and Aemon's own haste had caused him to not notice his presence. A clear oversight on his part, if the man had been an assassin he'd already be dead.

As the man came closer the torchlight caught his golden curls. He was a handsome man with bright blue eyes and a cocky smile. The only thing marring his beauty was an ugly scar running down the side of his face.

"Who are you?" Aemon demanded.

The man grinned at him. "They call me Sylas the Grim, milord. And I'm but a humble bard."

"You must be one of the singers from the Feast, then. But 'Sylas the Grim', isn't that quite a peculiar name for a bard?" He asked.

"I thought you lot preferred to take more flowery names."

"Well it is quite the unusual title for a bard." He agreed.

"But its mostly because, all my songs are tragic ballads. I quite prefer them, they somehow feel more real. The way tragedy mirrors real life, I find that quite surreal." Sylas sighed. "I'm quite the dull man I'm afraid", he laughed.

"So what are doing here, outside? You do realise the Feast is still going on." Aemon said.

"I am aware", he smiled, "And it is quite a wonderful Feast that your uncle has arranged. But I think I've had enough of drunken Lords and hysterical Ladies for the evening."

Aemon scrutinized him closely, "You don't speak like any bard I have ever known. They are always too busy groveling to stitch two words together."

Sylas burst into laughter, his mirth echoing down the deserted corridor.

"Well, that is an accurate description of us. I must agree." He said, once he had gathered himself.

"I guess I am just more different, than most bards you'll meet. Must be the result of growing up in a place with more freedom."

"Where are you from?" Aemon asked, "You don't seem to be from around these parts."

"I was raised in the lands you'll know of as the Gift. Not the new one, that the Good Queen gave the Night's Watch. But the old one, Brandon's original Gift. With all its stony shores and frozen earth."

"There are no Lords there. We live freely. And as long as we pay our taxes the Watch leaves us alone, as well." He said.

"Of course, beyond the Wall they say things are even more free. A land without any Lords or taxes or laws. Many call that barbaric, I find it to be liberating." Sylas finished, with a faraway look in his eye.

"You speak as if you've been there." Aemon said.

"I have" He said, surprising Aemon.

"There's nothing to be so surprised about, milord" He smiled. "Although the Watch is quite vocal in its hate of the Free Folk, they trade with them often. This trade is not carried out by the men of the Watch, but by traders and merchants who cross the Wall at Eastwatch every year. I once went with them, and eventually ended up spending a few years there. It was quite the novel experience." Sylas said.

"Are the stories to? Are there wargs and skinchangers North of the Wall?" Aemon asked.

Sylas' face darkened, "Beyond the Wall the old magic is strong. Wargs, skinchangers, and even darker things...."

He trailed off abruptly. And Aemon noticed that Sylas had gotten more solemn, he had even lost the lively glint in his eye.

"Anyways young Lord," He said, "forgive me, but the hour grows late and it seems that I've spent too long chatting out here. I must return now, a good Feast always needs a sad song or two to make the drunk men weep. And I think that I can perform a soulful rendition of 'Brave Dany Flint ' that will see many a tear shed tonight."

Sylas smiled stiffly at him, before he turned and sauntered back into the Great Hall.

That night, Aemon dreamt that he was a dragon, flying high in the sky.

And below him was spread out a vast white ocean - ice and snow as far as the eyes could see.

--------------------

They had set off from Winterfell ten days past.

And if Rickon hadn't set such a leisurely pace nor stopped at Castle Cerwyn on the way, they would have reached Moat Cailin much sooner.

Aemon's had expanded his guard greatly when he came to the North. Now instead of the mere handful men that he once commanded, his guard was twenty strong.

Ten men-at-arms and ten archers, with Rowan as the Captain of his guard.

They were all men he had carefully selected himself. And to ensure that no spies lurked in his ranks, he paid them much higher stipends than most other Lords.

And as for their skill Rowan trained the archers personally. And at Aemon's request, the master of arms at Winterfell Ser Larence Cassel trained the men-at-arms himself.

Ser Larence had also accompanied them on their journey, riding at the head of a hundred men who were to serve as Rickon's guard.

Aemon could see Moat Cailin's crumbling towers rising in the distance, as they rode down the Kingsroad.

The builders had raised their tents at the foot of the Children's tower, where hundreds of men had gathered in search of labour.

The crowd parted at their approach, the people looking on apprehensively as a hundred armed men dismounted from their horses.

"Who is in charge here? Show yourself", Aemon called.

"For now, I am in charge", a voice called out.

As Aemon turned he saw that it was Lord Lyman Beesbury, the King's Master of Coin.

"The builders have just finished setting up. I would have given them the go ahead to begin work, but when I heard you would be coming, I thought it prudent to wait." The old man said.

"Lord Beesbury it's a surprise to see you here, I thought you'd be busy in King's Landing." Aemon replied.

"I was, but when the King sanctioned funds for this project, it was my duty as Lord Treasurer to see that everything was in order. Don't worry though I'll be out of your hair soon."

"Of course not Lord Beesbury, stay as long as you wish. The North welcomes any servant of the Crown." Rickon answered.

Beesbury nodded, "Very well, now that the pleasantries are done with, let's get down to business. Before we can begin construction, we need you to overview the building plans, and see if there are to be any changes." He said to Aemon.

Lord Beesbury led them into the Children's tower. And even though the derelict castle was literally falling apart, they managed to find a room that was mostly intact.

There waiting for them, was a short pudgy man, in his forties. From the look of him, he looked to be a man of the Reach.

"This is Olyvar, he's an Engineer from Oldtown. It is he who'll be in charge of this project once I'm gone. Do not worry I've been thorough in selecting him. Before joining this profession he spent several years at the Citadel learning architecture." He informed Aemon.

Aemon nodded, "Nice to meet you Olyvar. But before we begin reviewing the plans, first thing first."

"How much gold has been allocated to this project?" He asked.

"Exact sums are difficult to estimate", Beesbury said.

"But if I had to, I would say that besides the hundred thousand gold dragons that King Viserys has offered for the castle. Your father, Prince Daemon has sent another eighty thousand gold dragons that he won as plunder from his battles in the Stepstones. Even House Stark has offered forty thousand gold dragons." He finished.

Aemon turned to look at Rickon, who only answered with a shrug. It seemed, the Starks really were open-handed to their own.

That was a total of two hundred and twenty thousand gold dragons. With the thirty thousand gold dragons that Aemon intended to invest on his own, it brought the grand total to a whopping quarter million gold dragons.

A good strong castle, usually cost around forty to fifty thousand gold dragons to build. This much gold could raise a seat comparable to that of one of the Great Houses.

Alas with what Aemon had in mind, this wouldn't be nearly enough.

After Olyvar had showed them his building plans, Aemon proposed his own ideas.

Although, Olyvar's plan would raise a magnificent stronghold, powerful enough to guard the North, it wasn't enough fir his purposes.

Aemon intended to create an impregnable stronghold, unassailable from North, South, East or West. And top of that he wanted lands that would make his newborn House rich and powerful.

He couldn't afford to spend his gold on unprofitable ventures.

Over the next few days they stayed at Moat Cailin working in the plan for his future seat.

Olyvar brought in other experienced engineers and masons, and even Rickon and Lord Beesbury provided their own insights as they worked.

Finally after much deliberation a plan was finalized.

It was decided that instead of building a single large and sprawling stronghold they would build multiple smaller ones.

First of all Aemon decided that a canal must be dug, joining Moat Cailin to the Narrow Sea on one hand and the Sunset Sea on the other.

There was much argument over the feasibility of such a canal, and the costs involved in carrying out such a grand project.

But Aemon was adamant, if such a canal could be built it would bypass the need of ships to navigate around Dorne to traverse between Westeros' eastern and western shores.

This canal would become one of the most important shipping lanes in the known world, connecting trade from Lannisport and Oldtown to King's Landing, White Harbour and Gulltown. Not to mention the trade from the Free Cities.

And if Daemon was successful in gaining control of the Stepstones they would control almost all trade between Westeros and Essos.

Trading galleys from Braavos, Pentos, Norvos and Qohor would have to pass through the Neck Passage to reach Oldtown and Lannisport. And ships from Lys, Myr, Tyrosh and Volantis would have to pass through the Stepstones to reach the Westerosi cities.

Controlling both of these shipping lanes would propel them into wealth and power. Wealth that Aemon could then reinvest in other ventures, reaping further rewards.

So on his insistence, plans for the 'Grand Neck Passageway' were drawn up.

As Moat Cailin was located only twenty miles from the mouth of the Fever river, a small canal would be dug up connecting the headwaters of the Fever river to Moat Cailin.

Similarly, the marshland would be dug up, and the swamps drained, thus allowing the sea to rush in from the Bite and flood the waterway.

Not only would this make the land around the Neck fertile and arable allowing farming to be done. But it would also result in a single waterway connecting Saltspear on one end and the Bite on the other, with Moat Cailin located right in the middle.

The canal itself would be fifty feet wide and fifteen feet deep.

On the side of the Fever river twenty miles of swampland would be dug up. While from the Bite the work would be far more extensive, requiring the excavation of nearly a hundred miles of marshy ground.

Both Olyvar and Lord Beesbury warned Aemon, that this would be a long endeavor and cost him an obscene amount of money. And although Aemon agreed, he knew this had to be done.

As for the castle itself, the main fortress would be constructed on the Northern shore of the canal, on the site of the original Moat Cailin.

The Keep would be built using the same red stone that was used in the construction of the Red Keep. And would have its own Sept and a godswood, it's weirwood planted from a sapling of Winterfell's own ancient weirwood tree.

The Keep would be surrounded by double curtain walls, with a deep moat lined with iron spikes in between. The outer curtain wall would be forty feet high with twelve tall towers, where archers could be stationed. And the fifty feet tall inner wall would have eight squat towers ringing it. The fort would have a total of twenty tall towers, just like Moat Cailin used to have in the old days of the Kings of Winter.

Since this project would raise a strong fortress at the Neck, Aemon decided to rename his seat. From now on 'Moat Cailin' would be known as 'Fort Cailin', as was suitable.

Another third outer wall would also have to be built, to defend any future settlement that would rise around the castle. This thirty feet high outer wall would be built using limestone. And ringing it would be six granite gatehouses - north, northeast, northwest, south, southeast and southwest.

Both the North and South gatehouses would be a hundred feet tall, with two seventy feet towers on their either side, where a contingent of archers could be placed.

The Northern gatehouse would defend the approach to the Kingsroad coming down from the North. As for the Southern gatehouse, it would have a bridge built halfway up, at a height of fifty feet above the canal.

This bridge would be connected to a hundred feet tall tower parallel to it on the South bank of the canal. And to defend this overbridge another smaller castle would be constructed on the South bank.

This smaller castle called the King's Gate would also be made from red stone, and would have double curtain walls with a moat in between. Built on the Kingsroad this castle will control all the traffic South of the Neck.

Any merchant travelling from the south would have to cross the King's Gate castle. Then enter the gatehouse tower with the overbridge on the south bank.

Although, this tower had stairs for the use of the garrison. It wouldn't be possible to move heavy cargo and horses by these stairs.

And so based on the lifts at Castle Black, Aemon had asked the engineers to design similar lifts using pulleys and counterweights. Two such lifts would be constructed, one at the southern and the other at the northern gatehouse.

Using these lifts heavy cargo and even draft animals could be raised to the level of the overbridge above the canal. And from there the merchant could just cross the bridge to reach the other side, where they'd be lowered via a similar lift.

Aemon knew the need to protect the approach by the sea, and Lord Beesbury suggested the construction of two additional strongholds, to do so.

One at the mouth of the Fever river, where the river drained into the canal named 'Blackgate'. And the other where the canal drained into the sea, at the Bite, named Whitegate.

These two strongholds, Blackgate made of granite and Whitegate built from grey stone, would be constructed on the North bank of the canal. They would be built in the same layout as King's Gate - double curtain walls separated by a moat.

And on the south bank parallel to each stronghold a great tower would be raised. With a fortified bridge fifty feet above the canal connecting the towers on the southern bank to the strongholds on the northern bank.

Also a chain boom made of thick and heavy steel, would be strung across the canal between stronghold and tower. This chain could then be raised to block access to the canal, or lowered to allow access to ships.

These two strongholds would then act as tolling booths, where tolls would be collected from any trading vessel using the Neck Passage.

Mole forts and watchtowers would have to be raised on the northern bank of the canal. Along both sides of the Fort, from Blackgate in the West as well as from Whitegate in the East.

They would serve as a secondary defence and could be used as staging grounds to retake control of the canal, if the strongholds themselves fell.

Moreover they would relay warning to the Fort, if either Blackgate or Whitegate were to be ever breached.

This gargantuan project would be both extensive and expensive. So Aemon had asked Olyvar to gather up estimates on these plans that they had drawn up.

Three days later Olyvar returned to them with the estimates. Aemon had expected the project to be expensive but the numbers still left him reeling.

The canal itself would require twenty thousand gold dragons a year for ten straight years, to be built, and would employ a workforce of two to three thousand people.

And along with the two hundred thousand gold dragons spent on the canal, the Fort would cost him another hundred fifty thousand gold dragons.

Over three times the cost of building an average Lord's castle.

The three smaller castles of King's Gate, Blackgate and Whitegate would cost him fifty thousand gold dragons each. For a total of a hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons.

The entire project would cost him half a million gold dragons, twice of what he could currently afford, and would take over a decade to complete.

Not even the seats of the Great Houses cost this much, with only Highgarden and Lord Corlys' High Tide being the exceptions, having cost more.

Aemon knew that his current business ventures weren't enough to cover the surplus two hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons he needed.

That left him with only two options - either borrow the sum from the Iron Bank of Braavos or the Rogare Bank of Lys, or find a new profitable business venture to invest in.

It was times like these that Aemon wished that he could sell one of the Dragon Eggs Vermithor had laid.

But he doubted that would sit well with the Small Council, in fact they may even name him a traitor and try to execute him for it.

So instead, he took Lord Rickon Stark aside for a talk.

"Uncle, did you hear the cost this project will incur?"

"I did. And although your ideas were incredibly ingenious and would in fact raise a mighty stronghold at the Neck. Sometimes we just have to compromise. Don't worry we'll think of another plan, it might not be as good, but it will serve you well enough." Rickon replied.

"No Uncle, I intend to stick with this plan." He said.

"Aemon you do realise that you're short a quarter million gold dragons? Where will you get that kind of money?"

"Fir this, I need your help, Uncle." He said.

Rickon had a pitying look on his face, as he answered, "I wish that I could help you boy, but House Stark doesn't have that kind of gold. I'm sorry."

"I don't need gold from you Uncle, I need you to take me to meet the mountain clans."

"Why, may I ask?" His uncle said, intrigued.

"Right now the Gold we have in hand is sufficient to begin construction of the main Keep and the digging of the canal. I can even hire some workers and laborers out of King's Landing, if needed. I have ten years to cobble together the rest of the sum. And although, I have some profitable business ventures they won't be enough." He said.

"Long ago before I came to the North, I had suspected that the northern mountains could be mined for valuable metals. And recently my suspicion of this has been confirmed. From what my people inform me, in the northern mountains there are large deposits of iron, copper and silver. It is just that the mountain clans lack the labour, drive and business acumen to mine and sell these precious ores."

"If you can just get them to let me mine the mountains for the ores and arrange for their trade, I believe I can make up the difference over the intervening decade. This would also be in the best interests of Winterfell, uncle. You'll have a strong, nigh impregnable castle guarding the Gates to the North. And if that isn't enough I am not averse to giving you a cut of the trade, either." Aemon finished.

"How much? How much would be my cut?" His uncle asked.

"To keep this sufficiently profitable, I propose that I retain two-thirds of the profits with the rest one-third being split evenly between Winterfell and the mountain clans." Aemon said.

"Half and half", Rickon replied, "You retain half the profits, with the rest half being split evenly between Winterfell and the mountain clans."

Even though Aemon was a little dissatisfied, he knew he couldn't ask his uncle to accept the first price that he offered.

That would just be bad business.

"Very well then, those are our terms. You convince them, and I'll set up both the mining and the trade." He said.

"We are in agreement. Once the workers begin construction here, we will leave Olyvar in charge. And instead of returning to Winterfell straight away, we will travel to the territory of the mountains clans. I'll convince them to allow you to mine on their land, provided you do not destroy the natural wildlife in the region, nor fell trees in large numbers." Rickon warned.

"I know the northern customs. I won't." Aemon assured him.

With this settled, Aemon expected that he would be getting extremely busy over the next few years. He needed to write to both Mysaria and Jahanara in the Capital, to set up the trade.

There was work to be done. And a quarter million gold dragons to be made.

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