The Weight of Ice and Stone
"To rule the North is to know it—not just its lands, but its silence, its hunger, and its pride." — Old Northern Saying
(Alaric Stark POV)
"Al, dear, you need to hurry up. The feast is about to begin."
"Yes, mother. Just a moment."
Three months. That's how long it's been since we came back from King's Landing. Three months of me thinking I could somehow fix the North with some clever plans.
What a fool I was.
I've been locked away with Maester Walys almost every day, reading everything about our lands, our people, our... problems. And gods help me, what I found nearly broke my heart.
Damn you, ROB. Couldn't you have tossed me into Hogwarts instead? Or maybe Narnia? Hell, I'd take Camp Half-Blood over this frozen nightmare.
I thought I could make the North strong. Not the strongest—I'm not that naive—but strong enough that southerners wouldn't snicker when they heard our name.
But I forgot one tiny detail. One massive, world-changing detail.
'Magic'.
The North doesn't just have magic—it IS magic. It seeps into the stone, the soil, the bones of men. And that magic—whatever its source—takes the shape of winter.
It snows when it wants to snow. Spring, summer, doesn't matter. One day you're planting seeds, the next morning they're buried under three feet of powder. That's why so few crops grow well here. That's why people here hunt what they can, trap what they're lucky enough to catch, and pray to whatever gods are listening.
Everyone says the North is huge. Maps show it, maesters write about it, but you don't really get it until you try to actually rule the damn place.
From Last Hearth's lonely towers to the Neck's stinking marshes, from Deepwood Motte's pine forests to the Wall's icy shadow—it's all empty space and scattered keeps. Distance here isn't miles, it's weeks of hard riding through country that wants to kill you.
The roads are shit. The rivers run wild. Half the time, lords send ravens instead of riders because it's safer than the journey.
I've been marking every hill, every valley, every crumbling bridge. But mostly I've been marking what isn't there.
Roads that were never built. Bridges that fell down and stayed down. Whole villages that just... disappeared one winter and never came back.
Winter is always coming, they say. But honestly? For most of the North, winter never really left.
The numbers make me sick.
We don't run on gold like the Reach or the Westerlands. We scrape by on trade—sacks of grain, smoked fish, wool bundles, and promises that when the banners are called, swords will answer.
What little coin actually makes it to Winterfell gets eaten alive. The Wall needs supplies. Ravens need feeding. Blacksmiths need paying. And we're supposed to keep all the lords happy while we're at it just so they will raise their swords when called.
But here's what really scares me—too many of our bannermen don't need us anymore.
The Karstarks are strong but they keep to themselves. The Manderlys have money but they only care about White Harbor. The Umbers are loyal, sure, but they're also completely insane.
The smaller houses like the Flints and Hornwoods? They remember the last bad winter when House Stark failed to help them completely. They don't trust anything that smells like southern ideas.
Even the Night's Watch feels like strangers now. We send them food, men, weapons—and they send back ghost stories.
But the food situation is what really keeps me up at night.
The North can't feed itself. Never could, not since the Conquest ended all the little wars that used to keep our population down. His peace brought growth. And growth brought hunger.
The ground is hard. Summers are short. Winters last forever. What we do manage to grow barely gets us through the good years. We live on salt meat, dried roots, and whatever grain we can buy from the south. Fish from the Shivering Sea helps, deer from the Wolfswood helps, but it's never enough.
One bad harvest near the White Knife can starve families three hundred miles away. If the Neck floods or snow blocks the roads?
People die. Quietly. Far from anyone who might help.
Three years back, winter killed a third of the children at Widow's Watch. People still whisper about it when they think no one's listening.
So trade isn't some luxury for us—it's life or death. And all of it flows through one chokepoint.
White Harbor. The Manderlys' port is the only place big enough to handle real ships from the south or across the Narrow Sea.
What comes in:
Grain from the Reach (because ours won't grow)Wine from the Arbor (for lords who can afford it)Spices from Dorne (ditto)Iron tools from the Crownlands (because ours break)Silk from the Free Cities (for people with more money than sense)
What goes out:
Furs (bear, shadowcat, if you're very lucky)Timber (tough as nails but slow-growing)Salted fish (from Bear Island mostly)Amber (from the coastal clans)Raw iron (we can't smelt it worth a damn but it's good ore)
Problem is, we don't have our own ships. We depend on Manderly vessels or southern merchants who think we're just some frozen backwater good for animal skins.
If White Harbor ever closed its gates, we'd starve before we could draw steel.
And then there's us. House Stark.
On paper, we're still Wardens of the North. Our banners still fly. Our bloodline goes back eight thousand years.
But power isn't just a name on a piece of parchment. It's being heard when you speak. It's having allies who matter.
Winterfell feels like a monument to something that's already dead.
The South sees us as noble savages. Useful in war, invisible in peace. No seat on the Small Council. No voice in the big decisions.
We have honor. But honor doesn't fill empty bellies or build trading fleets.
I get why they mock us now. It's not cruelty—it's ignorance. They don't know what it takes to survive here. And we've done nothing to show them we're more than just frozen barbarians.
Just thinking about it makes my head pound.
I thought I could fix this with better farming. Fertilizer. Crop rotation. Simple stuff.
But no. Magic had to be involved. Magic that turns everything to ice and makes the simplest plans impossible.
"Damn you, ROB! Why couldn't you drop me somewhere easy? Damn you!"
I was shouting now, red-faced and furious. So angry I didn't hear the door open.
"What are you yelling about?"
I spun around. Mother stood in the doorway, looking concerned.
"Al, this is the second time I've heard you screaming at... robes? Why are you yelling at clothes?"
Gods. How much did she hear?
"Sorry, Mother. I was just... frustrated. Won't happen again."
She raised an eyebrow. "Frustrated with what? What did these robes do to you?"
"Nothing important. Just these ledgers. The state of the North... it's worse than I thought."
She smiled softly. "Oh, my sweet boy. What you're seeing—that's just the North. You can't change it. It's always been this way. It'll be the same long after we're gone. Don't let it trouble you so much. Come now, you need to get ready. The harvest feast is starting."
That stopped me cold.
She turned to leave, but I couldn't let it go.
"I don't accept it."
She blinked. "What?"
"This... this isn't living. What I see in these books—it's just surviving. Barely. And if this is the world I'm supposed to accept, then I reject it."
She stared at me. "Al... what are you saying? This has been our way for thousands of years. How else would we live?"
I looked at her, words burning in my throat. But what was the point? For her or the whole North I am just a four name days old child.
"Forget I said anything, Mother. I've been staring at numbers too long. It's getting to me. Let's go before we're late for the feast."
I could see she wanted to push, but the mention of the feast made her drop it.
I saw it in her eyes though. No matter what I said, she wouldn't understand. Why would she? For her—for everyone here—this slow death is all they've ever known.
But is this really living?
No.
They're not living. They're enduring. Clinging to stone and snow, praying the next winter won't take their children. They survive because that's all they know how to do.
But I'll change it. I will fight the whole North if I have to bring these changes.
No one expects a Stark to fight the North itself.
But I will.
Not because I hate this place—but because I love it too much to watch it die this slow, bitter death.
I was born here, but I wasn't shaped by this place. I was shaped by knowledge of what could be. I know what we're capable of.
Let the South think we're simple. Let the lords whisper in their halls. Let the gods watch from their trees and flames.
I'll show them what the North really is.
Not just a land of snow and sorrow.
But a force. A storm. A legacy waiting to be written.
And the first name carved into that new age will be mine.
Alaric Stark.