ARC II: THE AGE OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 19: The Silver Rose
POV: Ros (292 AC)
As the heavy hooves of the merchant's horses beat against the packed stone road, making the old wooden carriage groan with every jolt, I watched the endless white expanse through a slit in the tattered canvas curtain. On the horizon, the North stretched out like an infinite sheet of ice and mist. If I had been in any other era of history—according to the whispers I used to hear from the old travelers who frequented my mother's sheets—this current winter would have been my death sentence. They used to tell stories, their eyes bloodshot with terror and nostalgia, of how the cold of yesteryear used to freeze men's toes until they snapped off like dry twigs, and how entire villages were found months later, turned into tombs of frozen flesh beneath the snow.
But this was no longer the North of the ancient kings. This was the North of **Arawyn Stark**. The North of pure magic and runes.
I looked up at the grey sky, watching the thick snowflakes fall in the dead of the northern winter. The wind howled outside, strong enough to rip the cloak off a careless man, but the truth was, the cold didn't bother me much. Even traveling out in the open like this on the back of the cargo wagon, all I felt was a brisk, almost invigorating breeze. I brought my hands to my lips, blowing a warm breath, and found myself looking at my runes.
The few that were visible, at least.
Unlike many girls in the winter town who covered their arms, chests, and faces with glowing mystical marks as if they were permanent jewelry, I never liked the idea of having my skin completely infested with those geometric carvings. I thought visual clutter took away from the value of the natural curves the gods had given me. Because of that, only the back of my right hand displayed a visible runic pattern; a subtle, elegant spiral, masterfully engraved, whose only practical function was to ensure I wouldn't be mistaken for a southern refugee or some Andal girl while walking the streets. The rest of my marks? Well, those were strategically hidden in places that only men willing to pay very well would have the privilege of seeing: grand and complex, tracing along my back and winding down my thighs.
In the North, children usually follow their parents' professions. Well, to be honest, I imagine that in the Andal South and even in the Free Cities, the world works the same monotonous way. The sons of blacksmiths inherit the anvil; the sons of farmers inherit the plow. And I, being the daughter of who I am, would be no different. My mother was a prostitute. One of the most sought-after in the brothel where I grew up, true, but still a woman who made her living opening her legs for wealthy men, ship captains, and passing merchants. Having grown up in that environment saturated with cheap perfume, sour wine, and moans echoing from behind silk curtains, I never had any moral issue with it.
Selling my body for silver and gold seemed to me a trade just as worthy as selling wolf pelts or barrels of runic ale. In truth, there was a certain vanity within me that fed on this: I could not deny that the idea of being ardently desired, coveted, and virtually worshipped by men gave me genuine pleasure. A beautiful woman's body was the most powerful weapon in the world, capable of making armored lords weep like children, and I was perfectly ready to use mine.
In the distance, breaking the monotony of the white snowy horizon, the colossal and ancient walls of Winterfell finally began to outline themselves against the grey sky. Around the dark stone fortress, the Winter Town sprawled like a growing monster, with smoking chimneys exhaling bluish smoke and roofs fortified with runic defenses against the weight of the ice.
I noticed immediately that the caravan of merchants around me cheered up. The men began shouting to one another, adjusting the reins and laughing with the relief of those about to find a warm tavern. After all, even with the advent of protective runes, traveling during the height of winter was never an enjoyable task for whoever had to guide the horses.
I, on the other hand, was suffering infinitely less than any of them. Since I had never planned to work in mining, blacksmithing, or any other heavy trade that required specific, expensive strength-enhancing runes, I had invested every coin I saved into something more subtle. I could afford the luxury of having only what the runeforgers pejoratively called "quality-of-life runes" in the markets. These were marks focused purely on bodily thermal regulation, dermal comfort, and skin softness. For a future courtesan, keeping her skin soft and her body as warm as a hearth even in the middle of a blizzard was the best business investment possible.
Then, without any warning, the world seemed to stop.
A violent, icy, paralyzing shiver shot up my spine like an electric shock. It wasn't a physical sensation of cold, but something spiritual, transcendental. In a fraction of a second, it felt as if the sky had ripped open and a colossal, invisible, omnipresent eye was looking directly into my soul, tearing away all my secrets and exposing my mind to absolute emptiness. The weight of that mystical attention was so overwhelming that the air vanished from my lungs.
— Ah! — I couldn't help but let out a sharp cry of pure shock.
I lost my balance completely. The jolt of the wagon finished the job, and I fell clumsily from the wooden platform, tumbling straight onto the snow-and-mud-covered frozen ground, knocking over a couple of crates of dried apples in the process.
The shout and the crash immediately drew the attention of the caravan leader, a middle-aged northern merchant with a thick beard dusted with frost and eyes accustomed to dealing with the smallfolk. He pulled the reins of his horse hard, stopping the wagon, and quickly climbed down to come to me.
— What the blazes...? — he grumbled, extending a rough hand to help me up from the snow. — What was that, girl? Did some animal get into the wagon and scare you? A snow-rat? A weasel?
He was already turning around, beginning to search frantically among the pelts and goods, expecting to find some hidden creature that justified my tantrum. I leaned on his arm, feeling my legs tremble like jelly, my heart pounding so hard against my ribs I swore it would leap out of my mouth. I looked at the merchant with wide eyes and ragged breath.
— Did you... didn't you feel that? — I asked, my voice coming out in a trembling whisper.
The man stopped what he was doing. He slowly turned to me and stared. In that exact instant, I realized the way he looked at me had drastically changed. Throughout the entire three-day journey from the neighboring village, whenever he looked at me, I could see that familiar, predictable gleam of carnal desire in his eyes; he coveted my curves, glanced sideways at the shape of my lips, and clearly imagined what he would do if he had enough silver coins to pay me for a night.
But now? Now the desire was completely gone. In its place, the man's pupils held a thick layer of undisguised envy and, deep down, a sharp, disturbing spark of visceral fear. He swallowed hard, taking a subtle step back, as if standing before a dangerous creature that had just awakened.
— It's your first time coming to the Winter Town, isn't it, girl? — he asked, his voice losing all its prior informality and adopting a nearly formal, defensive tone.
I pulled my cloak tighter around my body, feeling suspicion grow in my chest. I couldn't help but be cautious in the face of that abrupt change in behavior, but deep down, I knew this merchant was a trustworthy man; after all, he held a royal license to sell his goods within the gates of Winterfell and wouldn't risk his head over a foolish whim.
— Yes... it's my first time — I replied, letting my curiosity speak louder than my fear. — But why are you asking me that with that look on your face? What was that thing that happened?
The merchant let out a heavy sigh, glancing sideways at the immense black towers of the Stark castle that rose like titans in the distance.
— Whenever a new face arrives around the city, the King's skinchangers and the few green seers left in the network of the Winter Throne register the newcomer's presence — he explained, his voice low, almost as if revealing a state secret. — It's like a magical census. Most ordinary people don't feel a single thing. At most, a slight itch on the back of the neck or a slightly sharper gust of wind. But you... you screamed and fell off the wagon as if you'd taken a punch to the soul.
I blinked, trying to process his words while the snow continued to fall on my red hair.
— So... that's what I felt? As if I were being watched by a thousand eyes at the same time?
— Exactly — the merchant nodded, crossing his arms and looking at me with that uncomfortable mix of resentment and forced respect. — And the fact that you felt that strike so powerfully is something extremely rare, girl. It indicates you have talent. Real talent for **greensight** and **skinchanging**... since, from what the maesters and runemages say in the taverns, every green seer is, by nature, a skinchanger first and foremost. You were born with the old blood active.
I was left completely speechless. The information echoed in my mind like the tolling of a sept bell being smashed by a runic cannon. Me? Ros, the daughter of a roadside harlot, the girl whose only planned future was to learn to move gracefully atop men to extract gold from their purses... I had the gift of the Old Gods? I possessed the magic that once belonged only to the legendary lords and heroes of the North?
The merchant continued to observe me for a few more seconds, taking in my cheaply dyed linen clothes and the neckline that was a bit more daring than the standard for working women in the region. He clicked his tongue.
— Well... I don't know what you came to do here in Winterfell. Actually, looking closely at your clothes and the way you carry yourself, I can very well guess your purpose — he said, with a hint of disdain that, for some reason I couldn't explain, made a novel prick of shame burn in my cheeks. He shook his head and continued: — But to have a capacity like that is something unique in this world, girl. It's a gift most southern lords would give all the gold in their hills to possess. You shouldn't waste it opening your legs in some fifth-rate inn.
I felt my pride get pricked, but the greed and ambition that had always run through my veins spoke louder. I took a step forward, grabbing the sleeve of the man's fur coat.
— And how... how do I find out if I truly have this talent? How do I prove it?
The man let out a short laugh, though without any real humor. He pointed with his leather whip toward the gates of the gigantic outer wall enclosing the base of the castle hill.
— Right there, just past the main gate of the winter town, there's a fortified barracks of the Runic Guard. That's where people who think they have some kind of gift or talent present themselves to the crown. If it's proven you have the spark, the King's officers take you to the apprentices' wing so you can learn to control the magic or something of the sort. What happens after that? Well, that's more than a simple apple merchant like me could know. Now climb back onto the wagon, let's get inside before the guards close the gate for the midday inspection.
I sat back down in my place at the rear of the wagon, but my mind, which had previously been focused on calculating how many silver coins I would need to charge to rent a decent room in the city, was now a complete and absolute blank. I looked down at my own hands. The runic spiral on my skin seemed to pulse with an energy I had never noticed before. A tense silence settled in my chest, followed by a realization so overwhelming it made me bite my lower lip until it nearly bled.
Suddenly, a low, hysterical chuckle escaped my throat.
— Hahaha... — I covered my mouth with my hand, but the laughter simply kept bubbling up, transforming into a dark, scornful laugh.
To hell with everything, I thought, and the gears in my brain shifted direction so violently it brought a nearly intoxicating rush of power. To hell with the brothel! Who in their right mind would want to make a living selling themselves for cheap gold coins and having to lay with a bunch of smelly men, fat merchants, and soldiers reeking of sweat and sour ale? I have real magic! Real magic in my veins! Hahaha!
A wave of monumental, petty arrogance, fueled by years of silent humiliations, took hold of me. The image of Lady Margareth, the owner of the decadent brothel where my mother worked, flashed through my mind. I remembered perfectly the day I announced I would take my savings and travel to the winter capital. The fat old hag, with her rotten teeth and foul breath of cheap wine, had laughed right in my face in front of all the other girls, wiping her greasy hands on her apron before spitting on the floor and saying: "Off with you then, you foolish little whore. The only thing you're good for in life, the only utility the gods gave you, is to open your legs and close your eyes. You'll come crawling back in less than a month with a bastard in your belly and empty pockets."
— Just wait until I learn to control this shit... — I whispered to myself, my eyes gleaming with a dangerous malice as the carriage finally crossed the colossal gates of the city. — Just you wait, you miserable old hag. As soon as I learn to master animals, the first thing I'll do is send a giant eagle straight to that dump of yours. I'll command it to tear your entire face apart with its talons until there isn't a single recognizable piece of flesh left on your disgusting face.
And my plan for revenge didn't stop with her. I kept sitting there, laughing almost insanely while drawing up the cruelest punishments in my mind for the other dumb, envious sluts who had laughed at me in the main hall. For one, I would send a flock of crows to gouge her eyes out while she slept; for another, I would have a direwolf hunt her through the woods until she died of pure exhaustion and terror. I would no longer be merchandise. I would be a winter witch. A master of beasts.
After climbing down from the wagon in the bustling market square of the Winter Town—which, despite growing by leaps and bounds in recent years due to the runic industries, I firmly believed had not yet reached the truly colossal size required to be considered a metropolis worthy of the Winter Throne—I adjusted my cloak and marched straight toward the guard barracks.
The building was an imposing structure of black granite, with iron doors reinforced by runes that glowed with a subtle bluish light. There were two northern guards on watch at the entrance, wearing dark plate armor and holding long spears whose tips seemed made of an unfamiliar grayish metal.
I took a deep breath and adopted my best posture. I decided that, even if I was about to become a powerful mage, it wouldn't hurt to use my natural charms to ease my way in. I approached the guard on the left, letting my cloak slip slightly to expose the curve of my shoulder, tilting my head with a sly smile and a look that used to melt the guards in my old town in a matter of seconds.
— Excuse me, good sir... — I began, modulating my voice to the softest, most melodious tone I could manage. — I have come from afar and was told this is the place where those who possess... special gifts should present themselves. Could you help me?
The guard didn't even blink. His cold, grey eyes remained fixed on the horizon, passing right over my head as if I were nothing more than a ghost or a dry bush in the landscape. For the first time in my entire life, my feminine charm failed utterly. There was no spark of interest, no awkward smile, absolutely nothing. The man seemed made of pure ice and stone.
— Enter through the right side door — the guard replied, his voice coming out so mechanical and devoid of emotion it gave me a chill. — Native talent screening room. Next.
I swallowed my pride raw, feeling a prick of irritation burn my stomach, and headed for the indicated door. Another one for the eagle's list, I muttered mentally.
The interior of the screening room was surprisingly clean and pragmatic. There were no mysterious altars, black candles, or human skulls like southern stories usually painted northern magic. There was only a solid oak table, behind which sat a scribal officer, and a strange stone pedestal in the center of the room, upon which rested a metal plate incrusted with dozens of complex, unlit runes.
— Name, origin, and age — the officer said without looking up from the parchment where he was writing with a quill.
— Ros. I come from the lands near White Harbor. Fifteen years old — I replied, trying to maintain my dignity.
— Reason for presenting yourself?
— I felt the... the skinchangers' registration. I fell off the wagon from the impact on my mind. The merchant said it indicates I have talent for green sight.
The officer finally raised his eyes, assessing me with a raised eyebrow. He didn't look impressed, but there was a professional seriousness to his face. He pointed to the stone pedestal.
— Step forward. Place both hands firmly upon the central runic plate. Focus on what you felt on the road and push your thoughts into the stone. Do not remove your hands until I command it.
I had absolutely no idea of the technical meaning of that test or how that contraption worked, but I obeyed. I took firm steps to the pedestal and pressed both my hands flat against the cold metal. The runes beneath my palms felt rough. I closed my eyes and, remembering that overwhelming sensation of being watched, tried to summon that same spark of panic and power from within my own chest.
The result was instantaneous.
A sharp humming sound echoed through the room, and beneath my hands, the unlit runes didn't just catch fire; they exploded into a bluish, icy luminosity so intense it lit up the granite walls of the room as if it were midday. The glare was so strong that the officer himself recoiled in his chair, dropping his quill onto the parchment while shielding his eyes with his forearm.
The runic inscriptions began to spin and pulse in a feverish rhythm, emitting waves of gentle warmth that contrasted with the cold light. The officer stood up abruptly, his eyes wide with pure shock as he looked at the glowing panel and then at me.
— By the Old Gods... — he whispered, his voice losing all its prior bureaucratic arrogance. — This isn't just a spark. Your auric density is... the testing panel almost collapsed.
He wasted no time with further questions. The man ran out of the room and, less than five minutes later, returned accompanied by two elite knights of the Stark Royal Guard—men who wore heavy cloaks of direwolf fur over ornate runic armor that emanated a palpable aura of danger.
— Come with us, girl — one of the knights said, his voice firm, but with a tone of respect that caused my ego to instantly inflate back to the size of a mountain. — You won't be staying in the common apprentices' quarters. Your directives have changed.
I was escorted out of the barracks and, to my absolute and utter surprise, the guards didn't take me to some mage tower or training dungeon. We crossed the drawbridge linking the town to the main castle of Winterfell, passed through the inner courtyards, and went straight to the royal wing of the fortress.
When the immense carved oak doors of the private audience chamber opened, my heart nearly stopped. Inside, seated in a massive high-backed chair near a runic hearth roaring with blue flames, sat the King of the North himself.
Arawyn Stark.
I won't lie to myself pretending I maintained my confident courtesan pose; the truth was, I was so terribly nervous that my stomach felt like it had been twisted into a blind knot. The king was only eighteen years old, but his physical presence was simply terrifying. He stood well over two meters tall, with broad shoulders that looked capable of carrying the weight of an entire wall, and dark hair framing a face of hard, sculpted lines. But what truly paralyzed me were his eyes. They were grey like a winter storm, deep and laden with an intelligence so sharp and pragmatic it seemed to read my innermost thoughts before I could even voice them.
The guard accompanying me took a step forward, striking the pommel of his spear against the stone floor.
— Your Grace, this is the girl who lit the third-district screening panel to a critical level. Her name is Ros.
Upon hearing my name, I realized I needed to make a bow worthy of a future noblewoman of magic. I tried to kneel with the greatest grace I could muster, but my legs decided to fail at that exact millisecond of pure tension. The fabric of my skirt caught on the buckle of my boot, I tripped completely over my own feet, and I lost my balance humiliatingly.
— Oh, no! — I exclaimed, letting out a yelp as I pitched forward.
To keep my face from colliding directly with the hard stone floor, I threw my hands out desperately and grabbed the first solid thing I found: the armored legs of the royal guard standing beside me. I clung to the man's metal thighs so hard that the sound of my nails scraping against the armor echoed through the silent hall. The result of my tumble was that I ended up sprawled on my knees, with my face planted in an extremely suggestive position, pressed directly against the buckle of the guard's weapon belt, right at groin height.
The hall fell into a dead silence for three seconds that felt like three centuries.
I raised my eyes slowly, my face burning a shade of red that would make a tomato look pale. I looked at the guard. The armored man didn't even flinch, but he looked down at me with an expression of absolute and deep disdain, staring at me exactly as if I were some kind of filthy vermin smudging the pristine polish of his runic metal armor. He let out an audible sigh of disgust.
Oh, you son of a bitch, I thought, my mind quickly writing his face down at the very top of my mental ledger of grudges. Definitely another one for the list. I won't just send an eagle to you, you armored bastard. I'll send a whole flock of starved falcons to tear that proud pose right out of you.
A loud, deep, and genuinely amused laugh echoed from the other side of the hall, breaking the ice of the situation. I looked ahead and saw that King Arawyn was practically leaning back in his chair, laughing openly at my public humiliation. He seemed to think the scene was the funniest thing he had witnessed all week.
— Very well, Ser Jory — the king said, wiping an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye as he controlled his laughter. — You may leave us. I think our young guest has caused enough damage to your dignity and your armor for today.
The royal guard gave a microscopic bow of his head, pried himself from my grip with a firm tug that nearly made me fall face-first again, and marched out of the hall, closing the heavy wooden doors behind him.
I stayed there, sitting on my knees on the bear-fur rug, alone before the most powerful man in Westeros.
King Arawyn leaned forward, resting his elbows on his massive knees and watching me with an amused glint in his stormy eyes. He picked up a sheet of parchment resting on the side table—the screening form the barracks officer had filled out with my basic details based on my answers.
— Well... — Arawyn began, his voice echoing through the hall with a natural authority that made me swallow hard. — At least you didn't lie on your initial registration. Many smallfolk and refugees try to invent fake lineages or tragic stories of fallen nobility when they discover they possess the magical spark, hoping to wring a few extra gold coins out of my treasurers. But here it says you listed your previous occupation and your mother's as... workers of an adult entertainment house in White Harbor. A rather polished definition for a roadside brothel, I must admit.
I pressed my hands against the fabric of my skirt, trying to salvage what little dignity I had left.
— I would have no reason to lie to my king — I replied, trying to keep my voice steady, though my heart was racing like a wild horse.
— And it also says here that you know how to read, write, and do sums with surprising accuracy for someone of your social standing — the king continued, running his long fingers over the lines of the runic parchment. — How did a girl raised in a peripheral brothel manage such an education?
— A merchant of spices and fabrics who sold goods to the brothel's mistress took an interest in me when I was younger, my king — I explained, lifting my chin subtly. — He taught me letters and numbers in exchange for a few minor favors on my part. And over time, I ended up becoming the one responsible for taking care of all the finances and bookkeeping of the establishment. I managed the flow of gold coins coming in and out of there better than anyone.
Arawyn raised his eyes from the parchment, narrowing them slightly as he absorbed my words. A thoughtful silence settled over the hall. He tapped his fingers on the oak table, the clicking sound echoing like small clock beats. I could feel the magical energy around him pulse, an invisible force that seemed to test the air around me.
— So you have actual experience managing resources, handling tax ledgers, and cash flow... along with possessing a raw talent for skinchanging that nearly blew out my third-level runic testing panel — he remarked, speaking more to himself than to me.
The king rose from his chair. The scale of his height became even more breathtaking as he approached, walking with calm, predatory steps until he stopped just inches from where I remained kneeling. I looked up, feeling minuscule before that mountain of muscle, fur, and royal power.
— You know, Ros... you arrived in Winterfell at an absolutely perfect time, my fair lady — Arawyn said, a sly, purely calculating smile crossing his well-shaped lips. — The fact is, the Winter Throne is expanding faster than my bureaucracy can keep up with. I am urgently in need of someone intelligent, literate, and unafraid to handle the more practical, mundane side of life to serve as my personal assistant. The castellan of Winterfell already has too many feudal duties supervising harvests and defenses, and my runemages are always too busy by my side with my scientific experiments and conquest journeys. Having a traditional Southern bureaucrat here wouldn't work for my needs.
He leaned down slightly, the warmth of the runic hearth seeming to emanate from his very body.
— Coupled with that... — the king's voice dropped to a lower, velvety tone, heavy with a mystical intent that caused my lower belly to stir with a sudden heat. — I am also a young king of eighteen, with monumental responsibilities and an immense amount of surplus magical energy that needs to be regularly dissipated. I need someone of utmost trust to warm my bed on the coldest nights of winter. Someone who doesn't come with the political strings or marriage demands of the daughters of the great lords of the Southern dynasties.
Arawyn reached out, touching the tip of my chin with his index finger and tilting my face up so I looked directly into the depths of his grey pupils.
— You can perfectly unite the useful with the pleasant in this court, Ros. A skilled administrative assistant by day, and my official concubine and personal mistress by night. In exchange, you will have royal quarters in this fortress, clothing of the finest runic silk money can buy, jewelry that would make Andal queens weep with envy, and guaranteed learning to control your magical gift directly under my supervision. So... what do you think of your king's proposal?
The moment his words floated through the air, the house of cards of my recent magical arrogance collapsed in my mind, giving way to the purest, most practical, and refined instinct for survival and greed that my mother had taught me to cultivate from the cradle.
Wait a moment... I thought, the gears of my brain spinning at high speed as my old perspective returned in full force. What the hell was I thinking on the road? That laying with men was a humiliation? That I should be ashamed of my trade? What utter foolishness! There is absolutely nothing wrong with a woman selling her own body! In fact, it is a dignified, ancient, and extremely lucrative activity when the right buyer is involved!
A wave of deep gratitude and almost sisterly affection for Lady Margareth flooded my chest. Oh, thank you so much for all your valuable lessons, Lady Margareth! I thought, an internal smile of pure satisfaction opening in my soul. The fat old hag was right, after all! I really was born to open my legs, but what she didn't know was that I would open them for the King of the Winter himself! The man who can wipe out kingdoms with the raising of a hand!
You know what? I've changed my mind about revenge. I won't bother sending that giant eagle to tear the old hag's face off anymore.
Now that I am to be the official mistress of the Winter Throne, I'll just send a raven... A beautifully trained raven, carrying an elegant letter sealed with royal wax, containing a nice, fat sack of gold coins to pay for my mother's retirement and a polite note telling all those envious sluts to go straight to the seven hells!
Royal power was the best lubricant for a woman's dignity, and I was about to sit right on top of it. I looked into Arawyn Stark's eyes, letting the most genuine, seductive, and completely submissive smile open on my lips. I knew exactly how to play this game.
— I am entirely at your command, my beloved king... — I replied, my voice coming out as a melodious whisper as I began to lean forward, sliding my hands down his dark leather boots. — Allow me to begin demonstrating my total submission to your will right now.
Arawyn let out a short laugh, a raspy sound laden with purely masculine and predatory amusement as he realized how quickly my mind had operated that transition of interests. He pulled his hand away from my chin, crossing his arms and looking down.
— You are quick to understand your market value, girl, I appreciate pragmatism — the king said, his eyes gleaming with the promise of what was to come. — But you are kneeling in the wrong place to make that kind of declaration, Ros.
I blinked, surprised for a brief second, but I understood the command immediately.
With a slow, fluid movement full of the natural grace I had spent years refining before the brothel's mirrors, I rose from the rug. I brushed the invisible dust from my cheap linen skirt, keeping my eyes locked on his, and took a firm step forward, closing the remaining distance between our bodies.
Without hesitation, I guided my body into the exact space that existed between his long legs, feeling the colossal warmth emanating from his royal presence envelop me completely. The North might be cold and unforgiving outside those walls, but here, under the shadow of the Stark Wolf, I knew I would be the warmest rose in the entire continent.