And Now My Watch is Ended {A Game of Thrones Mod}

Chapter XVIII: The Ghosts of Winterfell

The crypts of Winterfell were full of ghosts, but Jon Stark would never be amongst them. Over the days and weeks that followed the death of my father, I stood vigil at night, sneaking from my chambers to stand before the empty alcove where his statue would stand when it was completed. His spirit, his earthly remains, should be interred with it. Just as his brother's, the King in the North, the Young Wolf, Robb Stark, should be resting beside him, and their father, my namesake, besides. But no. He was to carry on a new tradition of the last generation. That a Stark should never be allowed to rest beside his kin.

The ghosts of the old kings and lords of the North swirled and raged and bemoaned their fates. Others rested contently, in the knowledge that they had done their duties and had upheld the name of their ancestors. I watched and waited and came to know their names, their faces. The Kings of Winter were harsh men with harsh looks, and after Bran and Rickon's return they had been given new swords as well, in light of their borrowing the old iron. To steal from kings was unthinkable after all. But Winterfell was full of ghosts, and my father was not one of them. The thought was strange to me then, the idea that he did not belong. Worse yet was the growing feeling of dread that I did not belong either. Young lords were treated harshly in the North, and I was certain that my tests were soon to come.

Master Porther of the Winterwood was my tutor in those first days. The intricacies and mysteries of the Old Gods had become an obsession of mine. When asked, he told me that his nights ended with the peaceful darkness of sleep. Black. It was with more than a little pride that I replied that even in sleep I would not do as my father had done. Black had no place in my life. The Night's Watch had stolen him from me, and even if I understood why, it would never change that fact. He had sworn his life to the black, and had in the end gone off to uphold that vow. There were numerous tales of what had become of him when he had reached the Wall. Some said that the Lord Commander took him back with open arms, a wayward brother, and gave him his final sentry duty atop the wall, where he was found dead at his post, cold to the touch but devoid of frost, unblemished. Others said that the Lord Commander had found a length of rope six-hundred feet long with which to hang his once-predecessor, to show that not even the Lord of Winterfell was above their oath. I knew not the truth, and the Night's Watch was not about to tell me.

Regardless, I would never visit the Wall and I would never wear black. I would never so much as look into darkness without narrowed, suspicious eyes, and I would never so much as even forfeit my sleep to the void. No. when I dreamed, there was only green. Master Porther was excited at the prospect, prodding me for details of my dreams, of the signs. I was uneducated in the subject, though apparently my uncle Brandon had imparted a few choice observations of the gift unto my tutor. Green Dreams, he called them. Visions of the past, the present, the future, tied to the blessing of the Old Gods. A rare gift, and a source of insight greater than any other, unless one believed in the Lord of Light and the supposed gifts associated.



I wanted to spend the next year of my life learning of these dreams. Looking into what was and could be, perhaps even controlling it. But life gave me scant minutes each morning to contemplate what I saw each time sleep took me before I was thrust into the trials of each day. Education was the first task. Numbers, writing, history. Like most boys, I learned the great names and dates of the most renown battles of both my time, and times before. More so, I had to make a study of it. How to move men, how to feed them, how to inspire them, how to think and act and fight like a leader. When at last I had a respite from that, I had to learn how to fight men as well. While I was no longer under the Master-at-Arms, I had a duty to refine my skills further. At meals, I restrained myself from feasting as I was entitled. Robert Baratheon was another man I had learned of, and I would not allow gluttony to dull my form and mind.



Even still, hard work and temperance was not enough for the North. When my father was alive, none contested that Jon Stark was just that, the legitimized son of Eddard Stark, rightful eldest son, and rightful Lord of Winterfell. With his death though? Gifted or no, it was much easier to cast a critical light on the son of a bastard. A son of one-and-ten at least. Much as I expected their tune to change when I came into the blades that had been left in the house, with the skill and strength to use them with lethal force, the circumstances of my minority left much to be desired, and a few vultures picked their pawns amongst my family, hoping to draw support, and win a puppet Stark in my seat.



As regent, my mother was left to give the orders to curb the advances of these disloyal vassals. It was no-doubt wrenching for her to see her children used as pawns for ambitious lords, just as it was wrenching for me to see rival claims coming to light against the wishes of my father. My brother Robb, my heir, had been given the Sheepshead Hills, my old seat, and was thankfully loyal enough, at least his council was, considering he was younger than myself. His importance was assured, especially given his betrothed, a daughter of King Aegon Targeryen.



The greatest threat by far was my elder sister, Maege, the wife of Lord Paramount Jon of the Vale. Were she to attempt to wrest the North from me, her husband would move as soon as it seemed a safe choice. After all, it would ensure his children both the Vale and the North, and the dominance of the Arryns over the Starks, especially with the embarrassment my father had heaped upon the Arryn name in tearing apart the Vale for a mere sword.

Yet there was little I could do. The bannermen would not acknowledge my authority over that of my adult regent. Not yet. No matter how capable a child could not yet command their respect. Any attempts to lord over them with prowess would be doubly dangerous, in that I would be embarrassed, and widely mocked as a child should I fail to impress, and shame them should I succeed. No. My place was to wait, and learn. Their lord, the trueborn son of the rightful Lord of Winterfell, was at their mercy. And yet, as the weeks passed, I knew. A part of me grew to know at least, that there was a dishonor, a lie, at my core as well.

Winterfell is full of ghosts. The ghosts of my father, uncle, and grandfather were not there, no, but there were a thousand million tales waiting to be told, and in my dreams I saw each and every one of them. The stone faces came to life as they prayed and wept and and celebrated within the godswood, and indeed, within the sight of any weirwood. The statues were devoid of spirit, but there were others yet that were not. My great-grandfather, Rickard Stark, I dreamed of. Heard his prayers to the Old Gods as he begged for the safety of his daughter, and his son Brandon, who had ventured south to King's Landing to save her from the Crown Prince.

Lyanna I saw as well. Not my mother, no, though she had every bit of the passion and strength of a Mormont as I saw her practice swordplay with Benjen Stark beneath the ancient branches of the weirwood. The Eddard Stark I was named for and the stonemason who carved her statue had known her well. She was recognizable in whatever vision I saw. And what I saw was confusing, disturbing, and exhilarating. I wondered at first, the focus on the aunt of my father, a distant relation of little consequence but for the tragedy of her life, but young as I was, I understood soon enough. It was not just in the godswood of Winterfell that I saw her. The next time I dreamed of her, she was hanging armor from a weirwood lurking under the shadow of a ruined fortress that dwarfed even Winterfell. The air seemed to hum with celebration, a grand tournament, the greatest of living memory, with thousands of voices and faces and joys and sorrows.

It was then that he appeared. A silver prince with a ruined princess for a wife. She was frail and sickly and unable to stand by his side, so rather than stand by hers, he searched for the continuation of his destiny, and he followed the orders of his father in searching for the mysterious Knight of the Laughing Tree. And he found it beneath the weirwood. Found her. Words were spoken and sung and thought, and only the armor was left for the Mad King's men to find. But there were other consequences to such. A crown of blue winter roses on the wrong head caused a scandal, and a supposed abduction, a war. A dynasty had been overthrown in the end, Lyanna's father and brother were executed, and she met her own end upon the conclusion of the conflict, but a Stark had gone south and survived. The Lord of Winterfell returned home with a child he claimed as his bastard. Amidst the cold stare of his wife, and the grateful people of the North to see their lord return home victorious, he revealed his name to be Jon Snow, my father. A wolf with no mother. And a lie was born. A lie confessed with no one to hear but the gods, until I chanced upon it of course.

I could not reveal it. I would be labelled mad, a lunatic, if I did so. But royal decrees or no, those that supported Rickon Stark for Lord of Winterfell, whatever he had or had not condoned regarding the battle his wife had conducted that had led to the fatal wounding of my father, were right. He was the true heir to Winterfell. I would hide it, and wait, but I had seen it for a reason. The direwolf hung from all our banners, pins and sewn grey sigils were on every outfit I owned, but I would be more than a wolf. I would find a way to show Westeros that I was a dragon as well.

It was a strange thought, that there was fire in my blood to match the ice of the Kings of Winter, but it was comforting, empowering. It was with a sense of destiny that I unsealed the first letter of the day as I broke my fast, and a grin that took to my face as I realized that fate had chosen the perfect time to unveil my first challenge.

Interlude II:

With Eddard Stark coming to power, it's time for another overview. While it's been twenty-six years since the start of the scenario, the borders haven't changed too much, just the quickly-dwindling Iron Islands' empire holding out against King Aegon's rising star. With two crushed revolts, he has the opinion modifiers to keep hold of power through just about anything. Quite the obstacle for an ambitious Eddard to take on one day.

In any case, onto the current players!



Eddard is shaping up to be all-around unstoppable, particularly when you figure he has some stat-growth room to go. Still, while his ambition helps him do what he wants to do, I'm going to be playing it straight. If the time comes to take a chance, he'll be taking it in the name of achieving more and more power. No playing favorites on traits. As for the swords, should he manage to get any children to the point of adulthood, he'll be willing them off. If not, I'm getting pretty tired of the ludicrous advantage that three Valyrian Steel swords confers, and will be splitting them up regardless even if it means cheating, should he not get the opportunity to do it himself.

His present betrothal is to Littlefinger's third daughter, Rhialta Baelish, a match mostly made due to the fact that any bloodline that lays its hands on Harrenhall is inherently -really lucky-, the political alliance associated, and last but definitely totally least *cough* her genius trait.



Littlefinger is still alive and kicking, with a brood of children now, the title 'Hand of the King', and most of his estates still completely intact, minus the De Jure war magnet that is that little spit of land on the Fingers where he was born. Not bad, considering he led a full-scale rebellion that ended in Jon's death.



Aegon Targeryen is still rocking as king, undiminished. Though his children look really, really, un-Targ-like, and his heir is a lunatic who is currently betrothed to his younger sister (also a lunatic). I fear it seems he's the last of his kind.



The current Iron King doesn't really hold a candle to his father, pretty useless both as a military leader, and as a political one. With Aegon's base solidified, it seems like it will take a small miracle to keep the Greyjoys from being reduced back to Lords Paramount.



Gawen Lannister is the son of Tommen, who miraculously survived the plot-riddled Westerlands, and managed to succeed in taking the Stormlands for himself as well. Though the most powerful lord under the King, and the most prestigious as well, thanks to the North, he's still come out the loser in both of the rebellions against Aegon, and his current support puts an insane amount of manpower (some eighty-thousand) in the hands of the Crown at a moment's notice.



We haven't really been seeing much of Arianne, mostly because Dorne is on the opposite end of the continent. Still, wow, an excommunicated lusty hedonist. Most of her children are 'Sands', and due to Dorne's habit of not going for matrilinial marriage, the Lord Paramouncy will be falling into the hands of the Yronwoods, for a generation anyway, considering the heir is female from there as well. Still, with the stigma around her, she's spending quite a bit of time putting down her own rebellions, Dorne having not properly re-assimilated into the Iron Throne's purview even a year after the last rebellion's conclusion.



Jon Arryn, Eddard's brother-in-law, is not really a fan. But thankfully he's still smarting from his loss in the rebellion, and (hopefully) won't be trying to stir things up. With Maege as the present contender for the North, he could throw a good twenty-thousand into any party that happens to start in the North.

Morrell8 said:

Why is Jon Arryn's maternal grandfather Robert Baratheon?

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Due to bastards not quite having the same horrible reputation in the Crusader Kings engine as they do in book-Westeros, Robert Arryn wound up marrying Mya Stone, Robert Baratheon's first (known) bastard child.

Chapter XIX: The Lonely Rebellion

The Great Hall erupted in outrage at the prospect of Lord Pate's decision to present the Lord of the North with an ultimatum. Even then though, it was with a smile that I settled the hall and told them with as loud and authoritative a voice as I could muster that I would be calling the banners and writing back to inform Lord Pate that my birthright would not be usurped by him, and that my sister was welcome to write to me herself if she wished to press her claim to Winterfell, and that he might hide behind her skirts when she did so.



The truth however, was slightly less glorious. At the moment, Lord Pate held a slight advantage. Winterfell's forces had been burned out by war, and his own were fresh. Thankfully, he stood alone in his ambition, the hope that others would turn against the boy lord and join him to sustaining his rebellion. It was a stupid hope, or so I could only pray at the time. The next few days thankfully vindicated my prayers. Although my own support was little and less compared to the grand hosts my father could raise from the lords of the North, no one else saw fit to join in the current treason. He might have had the numbers to beat us in the field before forces began to coalesce into a greater army, but he lacked the men to take even the smallest castle. Jon Arryn proved to be as uncooperative an ally as I had suspected he would be, but at the same time, he did not throw the forces of the Vale into the conflict either, a move that would certainly have ended in disaster for him, should they not have been able to make the long march before we captured Lord Pate and ended the rebellion.



I attended the planning sessions, saw the ravens as they flew away, but could do nothing more really, than watch and wait. It was a sickening feeling, to have my fate controlled by others with no way of influencing the decisions. Mother was as competent as always, skillfully talking and playing up old loyalties, but things needed to change. I needed to find a way to take the reins for myself, even if just in minor aspects if I was going to survive to the point where I could swing a sword in my own name.

The first battle was no battle at all. Lord Pate's levies arrived at the Dreadfort and were greeted by closed gates and a hail of arrows by the defenders. The active levies had already withdrawn, gathering up with forces from Winterfell and other loyal vassals. They had a chance to flee then, to end the war, but Pate seemed to be as pig-headed as ever. Too proud to admit to a lost cause. He resolutely convinced his men to set camp and besiege the Dreadfort, despite lacking the means to even keep the castle isolated and control the surrounding area.



I could only see the battle in my dreams, and I was hardly sure as to whether it was the truth or fiction. But the raven that arrived in the morning contained the news that I suspected was the case. At the cost of most of his army, Lord Pate had been sent fleeing back to the Lonely Hills. The terrain would be on his side should the war continue, but fresh forces were arriving by the day. Even commanding a tenth of what my father could raise of the North, my forces still dwarfed the rebels considerably. Pate's vassals were deserting by the day, and his commanders and soldiers were surrendering in droves. The time had come to put an end to this madness, and I sent a raven demanding his immediate imprisonment and surrender, lest all his men suffer for his treason. It was immensely satisfying to press the direwolf stamp to the wax and seal the fate of the first rebellion to threaten me.



His household complied, and the Lord of the Lonely Hills was sent to Winterfell in chains. I wore no expensive garments when I met him, just my armor, adorned in Stark gray. To my shame, I was still too small to wield Longclaw or Ice proficiently, so it was with Oathkeeper, the longsword, at my hip, I stepped up to the bound lord. Before the entirety of the court, he repented of his treason, denied the right of my sister, and surrendered his dignity and prestige to me. In return, I would not take his head. There was a bit of uproar in the court at that. Treason had its price, but the truth was simple. If I killed him, his son would inherit and insist upon committing further treasons in the name of vengeance. Instead, I deprived him of his wealth in its entirety, demanding an exorbitant ransom in exchange for his release, more than decades of his lordship's income. If he threatened me again, it would be with vastly diminished financial and personal power, and I made it clear I would tolerate nothing but the strictest obedience. No plots, no words against me, there would be no third chances.



It had been a good week, I resolved. Unfortunately, the release of one prisoner had another lord in Winterfell's dungeons, a former lord rather, in mind to secure his own vindication. Ofgar Wull, who had been imprisoned for rebelling against my father in his last days, stepped boldly out from the dungeons, escorted by a pair of guards. He spat at my feet and demanded a trial by combat. My first instinct was to reach for my sword and grant the old man his wish then and there, but damnably I was still a boy, and while I was certain I could take him, a fair match really, a child and a greybeard, it was decided that champions would be the order of the day.



The champion of the accused would be his son, Vayon Wull, a lethal fighter striding through his prime. My own champion? Well, the court seemed very quiet that day. It was in those moments that I realized just how alone I was. My most loyal subject was my own mother, and while she could take up a sword in my defense, it would be vastly improper. Finally, a voice I could barely recognize spoke up from the back of the hall. To this day, I'll never know why he did it. Brennet of White Creek Castle was young, near a boy himself, ugly, gluttonous, and near-talentless with a blade. I had chanced upon him a few times, and liked his honesty and charitable and friendly nature, but he held an anger inside him as well. Perhaps he had snapped at the notion of no one coming forward to defend his lord, but defend my honor he would.



What can I say of it? It was a bloodbath. The trial took place in the courtyard of Winterfell, where I did my own daily training. Vayon Wull was larger, and infinitely more skilled. Brennet moved with the sort of clumsiness that I had outgrown at the age of eight. The blade in his hand was held more like a cudgel than a sword, and he charged forward with a vengeful cry. It was horrific to watch. He was picked apart by Vayon. The first cut to get through was in an arm joint, slowing his sword-hand. The second was from behind, severing tendons in his leg. The last was the end. After disarming him, Vayon gave him a hard shove, sending Brennet to his back. Then, discarding his own sword he drew his dagger from his side, straddled his opponent, lifted the boy's visor, and stabbed until there was nothing but red where his opponent's face had been. The crowd did not cheer, thankfully, though it had been a skillful display. My shame was palpable when I gave the order to let Ofgar Wull free, but there was no justification in holding him any longer. I cursed Vayon for winning, I cursed Brennet for being such a fool to volunteer on my behalf, and I cursed myself most of all, for not being old enough, or strong enough, to fight my own battles.

I had won the war, I had defeated the enemy, I had brought their riches to Winterfell, but I had done nothing. Even in the wake of this defeat the people still sung my praises in the city surrounding the castle, a footnote against the prosperity and further improvements they would enjoy as a result of Pate's ransom, but I could not celebrate. I would not celebrate. If I was too young yet to fail, I would not allow myself to bask in success.

guillec87 said:

He is a very serious boy, might come the case he would be a fine King in the North... anyways, what has happened to Ghost?

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Jon warged him on death, and went off beyond the Wall to fight the good fight (I hinted at it on the Jon chapter, but I really should have specified that Ghost never came back! Thanks for the reminder). Eddard is naturally hoping that he'll come back, as having Ghost would definitely be a sure sign of his succession, but it's not happening (should he get a wolf, it'll be a different one).

As for King in the North? He may have his eyes on greater prizes than just that. He does believe he's a hybrid wolf-dragon after all.

Chapter XX: The Green

“You're embarking on a dangerous journey young Eddard. Fire consumes, and sorcery is a sword without a hilt. There is no safe way to grasp it.”

It was in a dream of course, the words. Spoken by a familiar voice. Familiar? Odd. I could not recall so much as hearing the man once in my entire life. Still, it was familiar nonetheless. Was it a green dream? A portent of what was to come? I did not know at the time, though I suspected. In truth I suspected quite a bit of my dreams. It had become a morning ritual to hold from opening letters for an hour after breaking my fast for the simple purpose of giving me time to sort it all out. Were there clues? Tricks to be wary of? Conspiracies to be alert for? I did not know, and not knowing was quickly becoming my greatest fear.

Was it greatness? Or madness? It always seemed to come down to those two sides of the coin. Perhaps my dreams were lies. Lies sent by the gods to lead me astray. Lies sent by my worries and anxieties. Childhood was not a fine time to be a lord. I had precious little influence at court. It seemed I had even less so after the rebellion. My mother never confided her fears to me, but I knew them nonetheless. I knew them because I heard them. I saw her. I saw her cry for her husband and vow never to take another. I saw her cry for me, for the darkness was closing in all around us, and even the line of Starks could fall prey to the chaos and madness that had taken the Seven Kingdoms over the last three decades. She cried for her children, for her own family back on Bear Island, and she prayed with all her heart that we would survive intact. Winterfell could be damned and burned, but she wanted us to survive as a family. She prayed and prayed before the Heart Tree, and I could do naught to reassure her. Was it false? It was certainly torture. But I could see it in her eyes when she returned from prayer.

My dreams were true. Wheels within wheels, hidden away in the Green. The past would reveal itself to me, the past up to the present, and then the future, and I would arrive at that future soon enough, a new present to start the cycle anew from.

It was an exhilarating process. Surety. The day's letters were inconsequential. I was not yet allowed to decide matters of 'consequence'. I meant to change that, but the motions must be observed. There were five boys on the training yard, six would come the next day. I knew their moves before they made them, knew the rhythm of battle that I would dance to. My dreams were the music, tinged in green. It was not enough of course. Not yet. I could weave my way through boys in training, but it was not boys I was preparing to fight. No. The men of the Seven Kingdoms were beasts, and I saw them in my dreams. Eagles and lions and krakens and great stone titans, black dragons soaring above them. Yet I stood taller than them. Stood taller than the Titan of Braavos and pressed my hand upon it, watching it fall back and crumble. In their hundreds and their thousands they fell upon me then, but I was faster, leaner, stronger. A wolf.

Master Porther was an impediment to that goal of course. Though kindly, and the one to put me on the path to utilize my gifts, he was no fighter, and a fighter I needed to be. The first instinct of my mother was to send for Lord Paul Badics of Moonsong, one of the most famous and skilled warriors of the land, to put his prowess mildly, but I shook my head. He was indisposed with two young wards already, and besides, I would not be made a hostage of the Vale. It was to Moat Calin that I had word sent, in preparation for my coming. I knew not the name when I made the inquiries, but the candidate I knew was waiting was quickly revealed. Master Hosten of the Drunkard's Tower. Unremarkable in rank, but unparalleled in martial prowess throughout the North. He would accept, both because it was an honor for him and his family to have a part in the Lord of the North's training, and because I knew he would.



As I parted ways with Master Porther, the priest was kindly yet to me. He was a follower of the Old Gods as well, and knew my visions for what they were, gifts. As he took back to the Winterwood and his prayers, he offered me a bemused smile, saying he had a surprise yet for me. It could have been any number of things, such an unspecified promise, but I would wait. I was not patient, but I would have the teacher needed to impart the final lessons I would need for the battle that would be my life, and one did not need to be patient when they spent the day fighting, the night entertaining, and sleep dreaming with the Old Gods. It was easy for me, learning the names, likes, and dislikes of my subjects. When I was not beating them or their children in the yard, I was laughing with them, asking questions about their families. It was not enough to be skilled and strong, my people needed to love me as well, and I was happy to earn their respect.

The dreams the night before I left for Moat Calin were the worst I'd ever had. There was suffering, pain that felt so real I could not stand it. My legs shattered out from under me, a spike of unfathomable pain surging through my back. My neck burned, the feel of my body vanishing under me as my mind seemed to fall. My body shuddered with impacts, one below my shoulder, another from my leg, pain oozing from the wounds before an icy spear slammed through my heart. Steel points struck me in the chest, the wounds flooded with cold, but then it all seemed distant. The Green was still there, teasing me with what is and was and could be, but it was soon done with that. I woke with blood in my mouth, a rare occurrence, but a disturbing one nonetheless.

The night was still dark, and sleep overtook me once again. This time I sat on the back of a dragon, mounted and slaying my enemies left and right. The scales under me were red, and another dragon, black in color, stood ahead. There was no threat though, Oathkeeper flashing red in my hand as I stabbed the sword through armored hide that slid away like cloth. Then I was looking from the perspective of my dragon, watching out over a burning Westeros, fire spreading from Dorne to the Wall, great sheets of ice crashing down as the fire demanded its due. It demanded the seas, the deserts, even the icy wastes that lay beyond any map made by men, and I furiously obliged, boiling the oceans, burning snow-covered forests, and melting tundra to grass then ash.

It was ludicrous, insanity. I awoke bruised and sore, restrained by my mother and a handful of guards. I had spent the night thrashing and twisting and biting at myself, I was only lucky I was heard and restrained, or I may have died. That was enough, I resolved. I would ignore the dreams. I would ignore prophecy and foretelling and I would ignore the Green. I would be the Lord of Winterfell and nothing more. I would write to Master Hosten, and tell him I was returning to the tutelage of priests and maesters, that my current skills would be sufficient to be Lord of the North.

I promised and thought all sorts of things to myself as I shook off the night before. I was allowed to walk the walls and look out at the city around us. A rider was approaching the gates, allowed entry. There was something... off about him, and my instincts told me to meet him in the courtyard. The saddle was the first detail I noticed, a strange design, partially a harness to help secure a rider. His legs were the next detail, thin and unused compared to the rest of him. As though he... The recognition was there in an instant. A man I had never met, but was blood nonetheless, who had gone to the Citadel to be trained in scholarly pursuits, and had returned to his rightful home. The wolf that stepped through the gates next, as though stalking him, confirmed it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

“You're embarking on a dangerous journey young Eddard. Fire consumes, and sorcery is a sword without a hilt. There is no safe way to grasp it.”

The first words that came out of his mouth when I approached him. I could only smile. Another turn of the wheel, another future made present, another possibility presented in the Green that had come to pass. I would listen to every word, take every piece of advice he had to offer, but it would have to take place on the Kingsroad as we made our way to Moat Calin. There were things I needed to do, and motions that needed to be observed to get to where I would go.

Neoteros said:

Bran!

His stats are average at best though...

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It's one of those unfortunate things. Waited too long to pick them back up, so only Rickon ever wound up with an actual guardian. Still, he made for a great replacement Maester. Last one only had a learning skill of seven or so. As well, it got a potential claimant to the Riverlands over to my side.

The Night's Watch has been keeping to themselves mostly so far. No big Wildling incursions, just the usual pattern of the Night's Watch making a ranging now and then, and accomplishing little for it while the Wildlings fight among themselves. A King Beyond the Wall uniting even most of them is a rare thing. Heck, rebels tend to wipe them out most of the time from the inside, keeping internal politics pretty heated.

Was actually thinking of playing a Wildling game sometime. With the castle improvement additions, you could (technically) over a ludicrously long period of time, make them a real force to be reckoned with.