Elara, the maid, led us through what seemed like an endless maze of stone corridors, each one impeccably clean and surprisingly warm, thanks to the hidden heating systems I was beginning to realize permeated every Northern building. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting the history of House Stark, ancient battles, and scenes of Northern life, starkly different from the vibrant, often scandalous, depictions found in the South.
Finally, she stopped before a heavy oak door, intricately carved with a wolf's head. "These are your chambers, Princess," she announced, pushing the door open to reveal a suite of rooms more comfortable and private than many I'd occupied in the Red Keep. A roaring fireplace cast a welcoming glow, and the ever-present light bulbs glowed softly from the ceiling. There was a large sleeping chamber for myself, and adjoining rooms for Elinda and Sarisa.
"Thank you, Elara," I said, genuinely appreciative. "You may take your leave."
"Just so you know, Princess," Elara added before departing, "the College of Winterhold will open its classes in three days. There will be a welcome reception for new students the day before. If you require anything at all, please do not hesitate to call upon me."
I nodded, and she curtsied before slipping out.
Once the door closed, Elinda let out a long breath. "Three days! Barely enough time to recover from the journey, Princess."
Sarisa was already peering out the large, clear window. "It truly is remarkable, isn't it? This castle, this city… it's not what the songs tell us about the North."
"No," I agreed, walking to the window myself. Below, the bustling Wintercity spread out, a testament to the advancements Lord Willas and Jorun had spoken of. The precise grid of concrete roads, the uniform stone houses, the glowing streetlights already coming to life as twilight deepened. "It's… organized. Efficient. And clean."
Elinda sank onto a plush armchair by the fire. "And warm. I daresay, my lady, I might not mind the winter as much if all of Asgard is like this."
"But a college," Sarisa mused, "for future lords and ladies. It's so strange. What will they teach us? How to herd sheep?" She giggled, but she was nervous.
I turned from the window. "Father said it was to learn statecraft, war strategies, the duties of governance. And to understand this 'Asgard' better." I thought of the light bulbs, the concrete roads, the train. They clearly had much to teach us. "And King Artor's granddaughter, she's meant to be starting her studies there too, isn't she?"
"That's what the whispers in King's Landing said," Elinda confirmed. "Princess… Mordred, I believe her name is. The same age as you, Princess."
"Mordred Stark," I repeated, tasting the name. The great-granddaughter of the King who had defeated my family. A strange prospect for a schoolmate.
"I still don't like the idea of no guards inside the college," Sarisa fretted. "Even if the Starks gave an 'oath'."
"My father seemed to believe it, fiercely," I reminded her. "He said we'd be safe here ." A part of me still doubted, but the evidence of the North's meticulous order and competence was mounting.
We spent the evening settling into our rooms, marveling at the running water in the washbasins and the constant warmth from the hearth, without the need for endless stoking. We spoke of the Manderlys, of Prince Antares and his quiet, formidable presence. And, of course, of the looming prospect of Winterhold College. Three days. Three days until my true education in Asgard began. I felt a knot of anxiety, but also a growing spark of curiosity. What else would this astonishing kingdom reveal?
Having refreshed ourselves, Elinda, Sarisa, and I were dressing for dinner when Elara, the maid, returned. "Princess," she announced, "the Stark family awaits your presence in the dining hall."
A nervous flutter stirred in my stomach. Dinner with the reigning King in the North and his entire family—a far more intimate setting than the grand, public feast at White Harbor. We made our way through the now familiar corridors, the light bulbs casting a soft, steady glow on the tapestries depicting fierce direwolves and ancient weirwoods.
As we entered the Great Hall, the warmth of the fire and the subtle scent of roasting game enveloped us. The hall, though smaller than the one in White Harbor, was still grand, well-lit by the Northern inventions. My eyes were immediately drawn to the high table.
Seated in the main chair, a figure of quiet authority, was King Artor Stark. To his right sat Prince Antares Stark, his stern but kind face illuminated by the flickering firelight, and beside him, his wife, Astrid Flint, her strong features softened by a gentle smile. To King Artor's left, a younger man, clearly Antares's son, sat with a serious demeanor—this must be Rickard Stark, the heir to Antares. Beside him, a slightly younger boy, perhaps his brother, Bennard Stark. And then, my gaze settled on the girl seated beside Astrid Stark, her eyes bright and observant as they met mine. This was Mordred Stark, the granddaughter of the King.
King Artor called respectfully as we approached, "Princess Rhaenyra," he said, his voice deep and welcoming, "and your ladies. Welcome. Please, take your seats." He gestured to the chairs laid out for us near the high table, but still at a respectful distance from the immediate family.
We settled in, and a comfortable silence fell as servants began to bring forth platters of food. "Are your chambers comfortable, Princess?" King Artor inquired, his grey eyes assessing.
"Exceedingly so, Your Grace," I replied, a genuine smile touching my lips. "The castle is magnificent, and the warmth is... most welcome after the long journey."
"Our aim is always to provide comfort to our guests," Prince Antares added. "Especially those who travel so far."
Mordred, who had been watching me intently with an almost challenging curiosity, gave a brisk nod. She seemed far more interested in the conversation than the usual simpering girls of court. Bennard, on the other hand, seemed more interested in the roasted boar being placed before him. The initial formality gradually softened into small talk about our journey, the wonders of White Harbor, and the crisp Northern air. Despite the solemnity that sometimes clung to the Starks, there was an underlying current of genuine warmth and an almost tangible sense of family unity at their table. It was a different kind of court than King's Landing, less glittering, perhaps, but undeniably grounded and real.
The next morning, the air in Winterfell was crisp and invigorating. After a hearty breaking of the fast with the Stark family – a meal less about delicate pastries and more about robust meats and dark, wholesome bread – King Artor Stark turned to his granddaughter, Mordred.
"Mordred," he said, his voice carrying the quiet authority I was beginning to associate with the Starks, "I trust you remember your duties. Princess Rhaenyra and her ladies are our guests. I would like you to show them around Winterfell and then Wintercity. They are eager to tour the places."
Mordred, who had been listening intently, pushed back her chair with a confident scrape. "Of course, Grandfather," she replied, her voice clear and without a hint of shyness. She looked at me, a direct, assessing gaze in her grey eyes. "Are you ready, Princess?"
"As I'll ever be," I answered, intrigued by her forthright manner.
With Elinda and Sarisa trailing slightly behind, we set out with Mordred as our guide. She moved with an easy, unburdened gait, her practical attire and sturdy boots clearly suited for traversing the castle's vastness. She didn't offer flowery descriptions, but rather concise, factual information, pointing out the ancient godswood, the bustling barracks, the great hall where we had dined, and the formidable kitchens. She answered our questions directly, her knowledge of the castle seemingly encyclopedic.
"The castle's heating system is quite ingenious, isn't it?" she observed, gesturing to a cleverly concealed vent in a stone wall. "Pipes carrying hot spring water from the deepest parts of the castle keep us warm, even in the harshest winters. These were present since times of old Stark's, improved upon by the College's engineers."
After exploring the castle, we ventured into Wintercity itself. The sheer scale and meticulous planning of the city continued to astound me. Mordred led us along the wide, paved roads, explaining the purpose of various public buildings: a massive granary, designed to feed the city through the longest winters; a sprawling public library, its windows glinting with glass, filled with Northmen of all stations; and grand guildhalls, each bearing the emblem of its respective trade.
"This is the Blacksmiths' Guild," Mordred explained, gesturing to a large, smoke-wreathed building from which the clang of hammers echoed. "They not only train all the smiths in the city but also contribute to the castle's defenses, forging the steel for our soldiers." She spoke with a quiet pride that was infectious.
As we walked, Mordred began to turn her questions to me. "What is King's Landing truly like, Princess? Is it as chaotic as the merchants who visit us describe? Many merchants speaks of a smell... like refuse and unwashed bodies." Her gaze was direct, unfiltered.
I blinked, taken aback by her bluntness. "It can be... spirited," I admitted, choosing my words carefully. "And yes, sometimes the smells are quite potent. The roads are not as clean or as wide as yours."
"And the castles?" she pressed. "Are they all so... decorative? With gilded statues and painted ceilings? We hear that the Red Keep is quite garish."
"It is certainly grand," I said, trying to find a polite word for what I often found overwhelming. "Filled with treasures and art from all over the world. But it can be rather dark inside, even with many torches. Not like the light bulbs here."
Mordred nodded, absorbing my answers. "And the Small Council meetings? Are they as dull as my grandfather sometimes complains his own are?" She grinned, a flash of genuine, mischievous humor.
I laughed, a genuine laugh that felt lighter than any I'd had in weeks. "Sometimes, yes. More often, they are quite heated. My father struggles to get them to agree on anything. Lord Corlys always wants to fight, and Ser Otto always wants to talk."
"Ah, Ser Otto Hightower," Mordred mused, a knowing glint in her eyes that was unsettling for a girl her age. "We hear he is quite the schemer. And your uncle, Prince Daemon, is he truly as reckless as the bards sing?"
I hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. My father's warning about not discussing southern politics echoed in my mind. "Prince Daemon has... a fiery spirit," I chose carefully. "And he is certainly a formidable warrior."
Mordred seemed to accept this, her gaze sweeping over the organized bustle of Wintercity. "It is curious," she said, almost to herself, "how much of the South's news revolves around squabbles and feasts, Why do you think that is, Princess?"
Her question was simple, but I had no immediate answer. The North, Asgard, clearly valued order, progress, and pragmatic construction above all else. In the South, our concerns often seemed petty by comparison, overshadowed by power struggles and grievances. Mordred, was frank, keen-eyed, and was making me see my own world with new eyes. This was going to be a very different education indeed.
Our tour of Wintercity continued, with Mordred providing a running commentary that was both informative and refreshingly candid. She led us to the bustling heart of the city, the Grand Market. Unlike the often chaotic, muddy markets of King's Landing, this one was paved, clean, and remarkably orderly, with specialized sections for different goods. The air here was alive with the scents of spices, fresh bread, and something uniquely savory.
"We should try some of the market fare," Mordred declared, her eyes gleaming with genuine enthusiasm. "It's far better than anything they serve in the castle, sometimes."
She led us to a stall where a cheerful, rosy-cheeked woman was handing out what looked like golden-brown fritters, sizzling in oil. "These are 'snow cakes'," Mordred explained, holding one out to me. "Made from ground nuts and winter fruits, fried crisp."
Hesitantly, I took one. It was warm, sweet, and surprisingly delicious, a burst of flavor unlike any dessert I knew from the South. Elinda and Sarisa, initially wary, tried them and quickly devoured theirs with murmurs of approval. We also sampled 'wolf's teeth,' savory skewers of spiced meat, and warm, frothy 'moon milk' which had a delicate, sweet flavor.
"Do you have anything like this in King's Landing?" Mordred asked between bites of a snow cake.
"Our markets are… louder," I admitted, savoring the richness of the wolf's teeth. "And often smell of fish and refuse. We have pasties, of course, and roasted meats, but nothing quite like this. These are truly unique."
"That's because many of our ingredients are unique to the North," Mordred said, "And our guilds ensure the quality of all ingredients. My great-grandfather insisted on it."
As midday approached, and with our stomachs pleasantly full, Mordred led us out of the city gates, to a large, open field on the outskirts of Wintercity. My Kingsguard, Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk, exchanged glances, their hands never far from their swords. What could possibly be out here?
Then I saw it. A colossal, brightly colored fabric sphere, tethered to a wicker basket by thick ropes. Flames roared from a burner beneath the opening of the sphere, slowly inflating it, making it sway gently in the crisp air. It was enormous, dwarfing the men who meticulously worked around it.
"What in the Seven Hells is that?" Elinda whispered, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination.
"This, Princess," Mordred announced, a hint of excitement in her voice, "is a hot air balloon. Another invention from the College of Winterhold. We're going for a ride."
"But… how?" I ask, intrigued.
"The fire heats the air inside the balloon," Mordred explained, pointing to the roaring burner. "Hot air rises. It's quite simple, really, but it took our engineers many years to perfect the fabric and the burners. It's safe. I go up often." She looked at me, a challenge in her gaze. "Unless you prefer to keep your feet on solid ground, Princess?"
My pride, more than anything, pushed me forward. "I am a Targaryen," I declared, wanting to experience flying without a dragon. "I do not fear heights."
We climbed into the sturdy wicker basket, which felt remarkably secure. The ground crew released the ropes, and with a gentle sway, we began to ascend. The world beneath us shrank with astonishing speed. The houses of Wintercity became miniature blocks, the wide concrete roads thin ribbons.
"Gods above!" Elinda gasped, clutching the basket's edge. Sarisa, surprisingly, looked more awestruck than fearful, her eyes gleaming.
The silence up here was profound, broken only by the occasional roar of the burner and the gentle rush of the wind. Below us, Wintercity spread out like a meticulously crafted map, its organized layout and thriving appearance more apparent than ever. I could clearly see the distinct outline of Winterfell Castle, the sprawling neighborhoods, the central market, and even the train tracks snaking away into the distance.
"From here, Princess," Mordred said, her voice soft with reverence, "you can see the full city. And beyond it, to the east, you can even glimpse Winterhold." She pointed to a cluster of impressive, built structures, which are far larger than I had imagined for a college.
"It's… It's magnificent," I whispered, the words heartfelt. This was a perspective I had never imagined. It was utterly different from riding Syrax, the roar of dragon wings, the wind tearing at my face. This was a gentle, almost meditative ascent, allowing for careful observation. "Why is White Harbor the largest city, if Wintercity and Winterhold are so grand?"
Mordred turned to me, her practical nature coming to the fore. "Well, if you combine the population and sheer size of Wintercity and Winterhold, Princess, they are larger than White Harbor. But my great-grandfather, King Theon Stark, said that Wintercity and Winterhold should remain distinct entities. White Harbor is our main port, our gateway to the world by sea, built for trade and commerce. Wintercity is the heart of our governance and our martial strength, and Winterhold is our center of knowledge. Each has its own purpose, its own identity, and it allows for more focused development."
We continued to talk, the conversation flowing easily between us as we drifted over the Northern landscape. She told me more about King Theon's vision, his emphasis on efficiency and long-term planning. She spoke of the importance of the guilds in every town, ensuring quality and standards across all crafts. She even touched on the concept of 'thermal energy capture,' explaining how the heat from the hot springs beneath Winterfell was harnessed not just for warmth, but for other applications she couldn't quite articulate in simple terms.
As the sun began its long, slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and violet, Mordred signaled to the crew below. We descended gently, touching down in the same field we had departed from. The carriage awaited, and the journey back to Winterfell was filled with a contented silence, our minds still reeling from the day's revelations. The North, Asgard, was not merely different; it was a testament to what a kingdom could achieve when freed from the petty squabbles of lords and the stifling weight of tradition. My education, I realized, had only just begun.
The carriage deposited us at the inner courtyard of Winterfell, the evening air now carrying the sharp bite of true Northern cold. My head was still light from the breathtaking flight, and my mind buzzed with all I had seen and learned. Wintercity and the hot air balloon were not just marvels; they were a profound challenge to everything I thought I knew about the world.
"That was… incredible, Princess," Elinda breathed, her eyes still wide with wonder as we disembarked.
"Truly, Princess," Sarisa added, her usual timidity replaced by awe. "I never thought I'd see the sky from so high, like a bird."
"It was certainly an experience," I agreed, a genuine smile still lingering on my face. My earlier apprehension about the North had been largely replaced by a sense of fascination.
Mordred, who had been an excellent guide, gave a nod of satisfaction. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, Princess. Winterfell is just as interesting, in its own way. We'll speak more tomorrow, perhaps." She gave a quick, almost military nod of farewell and strode off towards another part of the castle, no doubt eager to recount her day's adventure.
We made our way towards our chambers, the familiar corridors offering a comforting sense of routine after the day's extraordinary events. Just as we reached our door, Elara, the maid, appeared from around a corner, her expression serious.
"Princess," she said, her voice soft but clear, "King Regent Theon Stark requests a meeting with you. He is in his solar."
My steps faltered. King Regent. Theon Stark. The man who had defeated my family, the architect of Asgard's independence. I hadn't met him yet. To be summoned by him, alone, without the buffer of his family or my father's presence... it was an unexpected twist to the day.
"Now?" I asked, a sliver of my old anxiety returning.
"Yes, Princess," Elara confirmed. "He awaits you now."
I exchanged a glance with Elinda and Sarisa. Their faces reflected my own surprise, perhaps a touch of concern. This was not part of the plan. But a royal summons, especially from such a figure, could not be refused.
"Very well," I said, composing myself. "Lead the way, Elara."
The exhilaration of the hot air balloon faded, replaced by a nervous anticipation. What could the old king, the Wolf Who Walked Away from the Iron Throne, possibly want with me?