Paul Atreides is reborn north of the Wall, amongst the wildlings with the Long Night hanging above his head like an executioner's blade. The Seven Kingdoms must be unified but with a mad man on the throne, squabbling ambitious nobles, and bad actors a rebellion is imminent. The only way to save the world is to find a way into the Kingdoms... and onto the Iron Throne itself.
A Golden Path (Asoiaf/Dune)
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"My lord, a man of the Night's Watch has arrived," Maester Wallys informed, stirring Rickard Stark as he gazed out upon the battlements of his home and castle, Winterfell. Cold winds made his dark brown hair whip at his cheeks, intermingling with the last winter snow. Winter itself had yet to yield its grip on the land, and the surrounding countryside was covered in a layer of undisturbed white. It made the message that was delivered all the more puzzling.
"A deserter?" Rickard questioned, unbothered by the cold. Maester Wallys was a man of his own age, in his late thirties, and struggled with the cold. A heavy chain hung from his neck, each link denoting a field of study -- black iron for raventry, silver for medicine, gold for sums, and a valyrian steel link for magic. The maester winced when a particularly cutting wind swept over the battlements, but he answered all the same.
"No, my lord. Not unless he intends to offer his head to the block," Maester Wallys replied, making Rickard frown. A rider in this weather was a risk. They would have spring snows for months more before the North woke from its slumber to break ground and toil again. The raven from the maesters announcing that it was spring had arrived half dead from the winter chill that still lingered. Travel was not yet safe, meaning that whatever message the man of the watch bared was bad news.
He offered a curt nod, turning away from the battlements and snow crunched underfoot. Though, he stilled when he heard a girlish squeal from his daughter, Lyanna. A glance over the battlement revealed that her brother, Benjen and the youngest of his children, had repaid the snowball she threw at him in full, striking her in the face. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips as he continued on, a silent hope in his chest that whatever ill tidings were delivered wouldn't ruin this time of joy.
Lyanna was twelve years old and flowered. It wouldn't be long before he was besieged by letters of offers for her hand. Already, she was as beautiful as her mother had been -- dark brown hair, steel gray eyes, and a long face with high cheekbones. They looked enough alike that his heart would sometimes ache when he looked upon his only daughter. The thought brought a scowl to his face as he descended into the warm halls of Winterfell, the gray walls warding off the chill by the spring water pumped through the stone.
"Has he said what he is here for?" Rickard questioned as they made their way into the main hall, misliking how the Maester shook his head.
"No, my lord. However, he has brought something," he replied, but Rickard did not ask. He would soon learn what exactly brought a man of the Night's Watch half way across his kingdom in winter.
The guards opened a door for him, taking him into his solar, as it had been his father's before him. There was a richly carved ironwood desk, a dyed tapestry hanging from the wall while natural light streamed into the office from a window that was half covered by a wood panel that was currently propped open. Rickard took a seat at his desk before gesturing for the messenger to be brought to him. He didn't have to wait long.
He was dressed in black, from his boots to his fur cloak, a scabbard at his hip and one for a dagger in his boot. He was young, Rickard noticed quickly.
Dark hair, dark eyes, comely in looks. Rickard would put him at the same age as his second son, Eddard, which put him around fifteen. He was short for his age yet he was still lanky, but not in the sense that he had gone hungry. He was of the stage between boy and man. It made it that much more interesting why he, of all people, would be entrusted with a message of such urgency. "Watchman. You've come a long way," he greeted the youth, "Your name?"
"Paul, Lord Stark," Paul answered, meeting his gaze easily. A rare thing. He was no smallfolk, Rickard reasoned at that moment. The smallfolk, even the greatest of them, were reserved in the presence of a lord, much less the lord of a kingdom. Yet, he didn't recognize the boy, nor did he know of any member of his noble houses sending one of their kin to the Wall that he could be. Meaning that he was likely from the South, though he seemed unbothered by winter.
"Speak then. What brings you here?" Rickard ordered. It didn't truly matter, but it did stand out to him. What he had to say, however, was far more important.
"I bring news of a wildling, my lord. One that goes by the name Muad'Dib," Paul began, making Rickard lean forward. The Night's Watch manned the Wall, an eight hundred foot tall wall that stretched the length of his kingdom to their uppermost border with the Lands of Always Winter. Their duty was to safeguard that border, and failing that, keeping him briefed on dangerous threats that lurked beyond it. Such as particularly dangerous wildlings.
"A King-Beyond-The-Wall?" Rickard growled, his jaw clenched. Poor timing. He could ill afford to deal with a would be king at the moment. Plans that had been long since put into place were going to begin moving this spring and summer, and a deviation from those plans was unwelcomed. Especially when in the eight thousand years since the wall was put up, there had only been seven, and the last one, Raymun Redbeard, was defeated by his grandfather.
Paul, thankfully, shook his head. "As of yet, no. His tribe numbers around three hundred, and he hasn't made any moves to unite the tribes. Or expressed intentions to march south." He spoke like a noble, Rickard idly noted, his lips thinning. The relief that he wasn't dealing with another would be King-on-the-Wall was muted by his confusion. There were tens of thousands of wildlings beyond the Wall, and they killed and raided each other as much as they raided and killed in his kingdom. Or more, seeing as they didn't have to surmount the Wall to raid and rape their neighbors. "Normally, the Lord Commander wouldn't bother to inform you of his existence, except for… this."
As the boy spoke, he took out a bronze cylinder. Paul passed it to a guard, who then in turn gave it to him. Rickard turned it over in his hands, noting the runes in the old tongue inscribed around it. It took him a moment to realize what it was. "A Myrish far eye?" He uttered, unfurling it to reveal three smaller tubes that were connected.
Expensive. As were all things from Essos. Merchants from Essos rarely ventured to the North, even up to Whiteharbor, and any goods imported from the south had an obscene mark up. His kingdom lacked a navy, so he had little use for such a thing, but… "Slavers from the east are known to venture beyond the Wall," he ventured with distaste.
He would shed no tears for wildling, and even if they were barely men at all, no one deserved to be enslaved.
"It is of the same styling, however… bring it to your eye and turn the outer-most cylinder," Paul instructed, making Rickard pause as he gaze leveled on the young man who seemed to realize his misstep. "My apologies, my lord, but it's something you need to see for yourself." He was used to giving orders, Rickard noticed, and his own curiosity grew. Bringing the far eye to his eye, he turned to the window, seeing the broken tower far closer than it was-
Rickard flinched back as the broken tower seemed to grow closer. That, he knew, was not normal. Instantly, he looked to Paul for an explanation, who seemed ready to give it. "It was produced by the wildlings. Bronze, glass, and it's finer than any found in Myr. That is not all, my lord -- there is one other thing," he said, pushing back his cloak and furs to reveal… something.
It was colored a grayish white and it vaguely appeared to be like armor. A plate that covered the chest, but it was strange and segmented. More than that, it was made out of an odd material. "It keeps the wearer warm, my lord. It won't keep out a winter's chill alone, but with it… I was half buried in snow every night, and I barely noticed in the morning."
"That's impossible," Maester Wallys gasped, and Rickard was grateful that he said it so he wouldn't have to. Rickard stood up, rounding the table to approach Paul. As he did, Paul responded.
"It's made out of a strange material. Something that was produced, rather than mined or harvested. If it didn't work, my lord, then I would be dead halfway between the Wall and Winterfell, if that far," Paul said and Rickard grunted as he stopped before him. The suit wasn't made out of metal at all. Taking off a glove, he poked it to find that it felt firm but strangely soft. "It seems to work by absorbing water. The suit absorbs it, then it warms it, which consumes water but when you're buried in snow…" He trailed off and Rickard's mind raced
That could change everything. To wear a simple suit, something that the wildlings could produce, and to not die of the cold? Winter, in the North, was always harsh. They just left a two year long one, and Rickard knew that there would be many villages that mourned lost loved ones. Grandfathers, fathers, uncles, brothers, and cousins that went out into the cold on a hunt, only to never return. All to spare their family an additional mouth to feed.
But, with this suit, his people could truly hunt. They could fish. Perhaps they could even venture south to buy more grain instead of waiting for the snow to thaw. The poorest of his kingdom wouldn't be able to afford it, but if villages pooled their resources together to purchase a single suit for a single hunter to be active in the winter…
His finger brushed over it, noting that was almost like armor. The substance, whatever it was, seemed like it could turn away a blade. Yet, he saw imperfection. It was not masterfully crafted, like one would expect from a set of armor.
"Muad'Dib," Rickard echoed the name, pulling back his hand. "Is that old tongue?" He asked, looking at Paul, whose expression betrayed little.
Maester Wallys shook his head slowly, "I can confer with my records, but the styling of the name doesn't quite match. I would sooner believe that it was an Essosian name." Of that, Rickard agreed.
"He could be an escaped slave as I don't see wildlings answering to a slaver," Rickard muttered, taking a step back. Wildlings, to his knowledge, were seen as exotic slaves. The blacksails of the Night's Watch, though few there were, did report the occasional ship that ventured beyond the Wall for slaves, furs, and ivory. They could trade for a pittance and avoid tariffs that would be found in Whiteharbor. It was still rare, simply because of the considerable distance in rough seas.
Then Rickard noticed something. Perhaps the man's furs covered it, but… "That suit. Did anyone die for it?"
Paul didn't seem surprised by the question, "No, my lord. The far eye and the suit were given as gifts to you."
The news did not put him at ease. A gift from a wildling? That put an end to his theory that it was an escaped slave trying to get back into civilization. "To what end." It wasn't a question.
"Trade," Paul answered evenly. That was what he feared. He would have preferred something far simpler like making war upon one of his rival clans. He could send the Umbers, Greatjon Umber in particular would relish the chance to return the favor and raid the wildlings. Trade, however, was far more dangerous because of the same people. His northernmost vassals would hate him for entertaining the thought of dealing with wildlings, no matter what could be gained.
After giving Rickard a moment to absorb that, Paul continued. "There are a number of things that he desires -- gold, copper, steel, wine, and dragonglass were the notable ones mentioned. Muad'Dib's tribe is located within the Frostfangs. Given the nature of the gifts, it is likely that the tribe is settled there." The information was useful. Puzzling, but useful.
"Raw ores?" Rickard questioned, with a deepening frown. He understood what was being offered. The wildlings, this Muad'Dib, had started to craft goods beyond harvesting furs or whittling bones. Their glasswork was beyond even what Myr had accomplished, and they had hundreds of years to perfect their craft. It would make sense that they would want materials that they couldn't easily gain access to beyond the Wall. Even if there was gold, silver, copper, and iron in the Frostfangs, they lacked the knowledge to properly mine it.
Dragonglass, however, did not easily fit on that list. Raw materials made sense. Produced goods, such as wine, soaps, or foodstuffs also made sense. Dragonglass, by any measure, was a useless material. Sharp, but brittle. Ill-suited for weapons and impractical for things such as buttons when there were more readily available options. It could be used to fashion jewelry, Rickard knew, as the mountain clans and the people of Skagos were wont to do.
"I believe so," Paul answered easily. "Amounts were not discussed. They do have some metal-smithing ability, so it might not be strictly necessary." Hm.
"Dragonglass?" Rickard questioned, his attention turning to the young man once more, seeing him offer a small shrug.
"The wildlings value it, my lord. I cannot tell you more than that," he offered. In any case, it would be worth exploring. Skagos had dragonglass, as did the mountain tribes, though to a lesser extent. Skagos was a wild and untamed place, a vassal in name but in practice, the Stark's grip over the northern islands had always been tenuous. It could be an opportunity to bind them tighter to the North as a whole. They would trade the dragonglass cheaply, as it had little value.
The issue there was that Rickard knew that they would be far less inclined to sell it once they learned it would go to wildlings.
Rickard mulled it over for a moment, "This Muad'Dib. Tell me what you know of him -- who his friends are. His enemies. I find it difficult to believe that wildlings suddenly produce fine goods without so much as a whisper beforehand." He ordered, debating on if it would be worth it. He wanted these things. But the timing was poor. Very poor.
"I'm sure there were whispers, but none made it to the Night's Watch. The clan is an isolated one that calls themselves the Fremen. They're said to be deadly warriors, but only in the sudden disappearances of their enemies amongst the other clans. The Night's Watch hasn't had any outstanding dealings or encounters with them, save for Qhorin Halfhand, who found himself wintering with them these past two years. He would likely be able to tell you more, my lord."
Wildlings that would harbor a man of the Night's Watch? The wildlings hated them as much as the Night's Watch and the northern lords hated the wildlings. No. No, it was increasingly clear that he wasn't dealing with normal wildlings. Paul continued, "There is little that I can say of Muad'Dib. Only that, by appearances, he can be reasoned with."
It would be best if he did away with the assumption that he was dealing with a wildling at all. Rickard made his way back to his seat, sitting heavily in it as his gaze once again turned to the far eye. "You have had a long journey through harsh winds. I will not send you back into them without that suit's protection. Until the first thaw, you shall be a guest." Meaning at least a month.
Time that he could prob the young man for further details or answers to any additional questions he might have. Paul bowed his head, taking the dismissal for what it was before turning around to the door. It was when he was halfway through it, Rickard spoke up, "What house are you from?" He decided to ask, knowing that the boy was not low-born.
Paul glanced over his shoulder, "House Atreides." He answered easily and Rickard fought off a frown.
"I don't know it," Rickard admitted, not quite apologetically. Paul, however, decided to not take offense and offered a wane smile.
"I would be surprised if you did," he admitted, bowing his head once more before walking away. Rickard frowned at the boy until he vanished as Maester Wallys closed the door behind him. Rickard tapped a finger on his desk for a moment before inclining his head to the maester.
"It's a compelling tale, if true," Maester Wallys said, his lips thinning. "Not that I believe his words to be false, but as of now, there is simply so much that we don't know. I have never heard of wildlings creating anything, except for trouble."
Rickard let out a grunt, faintly amused, but it quickly faded. "Fetch my son. Let this be a learning opportunity for him," he decided and the maester bowed, leaving his solar and giving Rickard a moment alone. He had more or less decided on a course of action, but Brandon was his heir. Despite how much he might wish otherwise, Brandon would need to develop the ability to think his problems through rather than cut through them with a blade.
The wolfsblood was strong in his son. Stronger than it was in himself, or even his grandfather. Brandon needed to learn how to temper his wild nature, and the best way to hone that skill was with problems that had no clear answer.
While he waited, he ran a finger over the runes on the far eye, his thoughts drifting to the one that delivered it. He had never heard of House Atreides, marking it as a southern house. Of them, it wouldn't be a major house as he knew those as well. A masterly house? A knight house? The boy spoke too confidently, holding himself with self assurance… and if he was tasked with making the trek through such harsh snows, then he must have been a volunteer. The Lord Commander wouldn't trust a criminal sent to the Wall to escape the noose with such gifts.
Another issue, Rickard thought as he rubbed his forehead. The Night's Watch was in a state of decline, and it had been for some time. Their numbers hadn't replenished since Raymun Redbeard overcame them, and they weren't likely to. He had plans for that, but they were dependent on other plans coming to fruition. Before he could think too deeply into it, the door opened, revealing Brandon.
If Lyanna looked like her mother, then Brandon looked like himself -- it was almost like looking in his reflection the better part of two decades ago. Brandon was tall, handsome, long dark hair pulled back, a cut-short beard, and a roguish smile pulling at his lips. "Father," Brandon greeted him, and from the smell, he had either practiced with his blade or with a maid.
"We have an opportunity," Rickard informed, placing the far eye on the other side of the desk. Brandon was immediately taken with it, bringing it up to his eye and gazing out of his solar. "Twist the first link," he instructed, and he heard a sharp intake of breath when his son did as bayed.
"It's a wonder, father. What made you commission a far eye from Myr?" Brandon asked, lowering it.
Rickard held up a hand and pointed at him, "There lies the opportunity. I didn't. That came from the north. From wildlings, made by wildlings, and given freely in hopes of fostering relations." Rickard watched his son closely, and it was something of a relief that he was able to guard his expression even if his surprise was evident.
Brandon rolled the far eye in his hands before taking a seat across from him. "They have glass," he noted and Rickard had to fight the smile off of his face. "That is a secret worth knowing. If we could bring them down, or learn it ourselves, then we wouldn't need to pay those fucking slavers a copper for another glasshouse."
Despite all his efforts to prove everyone otherwise, his son did have something between his ears. "The wildling wishes to open trade with House Stark. What he desires is raw materials -- metals and gemstones. What would you do?" He asked, and Brandon knew he was being tested. It wasn't a test that could be failed, in so many words, but if he failed to impress then Brandon knew he would be punished for it later. If one could call learning how to rule the North a punishment.
Brandon hesitated to answer for a moment before he offered a shrug. "I'd trade with him," he decided. "Preferably around the Wall. I doubt the Night's Watch would be perfectly understanding."
"Neither would the Umbers. The Karstarks. Nor the Glovers," Rickard reminded lightly, making Brandon scowl as he rolled the far eye in his hands once more.
"They'd complain less if they saw what they had to gain. Like a glasshouse. After we build another for ourselves, of course," he added. Good. A liege lord must stand above his vassals. It was a matter of perception -- if every house in the North had a glasshouse, then House Stark needed two. Or more. "But I suppose that would take time, and until then, they'd bitch and moan like a whore in Wintertown."
Rickard leveled a Look at his son, who seemed mildly repentant, and that was about as much as he learned to expect. "The trade has to happen. At least for a time…" he pursed his lips, his brow furrowing in thought. Then Rickard saw a calculating glint in his dark gray eyes, "I'd lie."
"How?" Rickard pressed, wanting to hear it in full.
"Depends on what would be easier, but to start I'd say we're getting the glass from somewhere else. Maybe claim that we're getting it from Skagos, down south, or we're getting it from Myr. That'll throw off suspicion of how we get it. As for actually getting the goods, I'd enlist either the Mormmonts or the Karstarks to help smuggle the glass from the wildlings. It'd come with a promise for being second in line for something like a glasshouse, though," Brandon ventured, and while it wasn't quite in line with Rickard's own thoughts, it wasn't a poor plan.
"Such a deception will not last. A secret can only remain a secret between two men, and only if one of them is dead," Rickard prompted, and Brandon nodded.
"Aye, but by that time we'd have a feel for the wildling. If he's not some cannibal savage, I'd say try to bring him south of the Wall on the condition he swears fealty. Failing that, we take the secret for ourselves. We attack and take the craftsmen, give them a choice between life and death. So long as one of them talks, we give 'em a few apprentices and the North can produce glass." It was a colder course of action to take, but the Long Night would come again before Rickard shed any tears for wildlings.
Rickard nodded in agreement, "This task will be overseen by you, my son. It is your responsibility to bring glass, and whatever else these wildlings produce, to our house and the North. Do you understand?" If he managed it, it would be a huge boon for his reputation. Brandon was already liked by the Lords of the North, but he would be loved if he brought glass to the North. His reign would be secure.
Brandon hesitated, but he nodded all the same. That was good. He understood how important this could be for their house. The deception would last for a year, perhaps two. Roose Bolton, the latest lord of the Dreadfort, was a cunning creature with ice in his veins. He would investigate the claims himself. To that end, it would be best to entrust the secret to those that were beyond reproach, or those difficult to reach.
"It will be done, father," Brandon said, though he made no move to stand. "Will this change anything? For your… plans," he said with a less than quiet distaste.
Rickard's gaze hardened, "No. You will marry the Tully girl," he commanded and a snarl briefly flickered across Brandon's face.
"I have no wish to marry a trout. Let that be Ned's burden -- he's spent enough time down south. He should be home, already," Bradon snapped, anger leaking into his voice. He had been angry since he learned of his betrothal, and it did pull at his heart. Rickard had been fond of his Lyarra even before they were wed, and it was… regrettable that his son already had a girl that he was sweet on.
Barbrey Ryswell would normally be a fine match. House Ryswell had not been married into for a number of generations, and they were due one such marriage. If it were not for Rickard's ambitions for the south, he would be content to let them wed. But those ambitions were there, and they would be realized in the coming years.
"Hoster Tully wants his blood on the seat of winter. A second son would not do," Rickard growled, his own temper flaring. It was an argument that had resurfaced a dozen times too many. "Ned will do his duty in the south, securing his friendship with the Lord of the Stormlands and, in time, he will wed inside of the North." In truth, Rickard would have preferred Ned to be home. He was fifteen, old enough to be called a man.
Robert Baratheon had influenced that plan. He was heir of the Stormlands, yet he remained in the Vale under the watchful eye of Jon Arryn, despite being of age to end his fosterage. It seemed the boy had little taste for rulership, under the impression that his father would live forever. A foolish notion, but a useful one. Rather than let the friendship risk cooling with distance and time, Rickard decided that it would be best to have Ned remain in the Vale until the Baratheon boy left for good.
Jon Arryn was a southerner, but he was a fine enough man who would help shape Ned into being a loyal right hand to Brandon. If all of his ambitions were realized, then perhaps he would have enough coin to send Ned to Moat Cailin to refurbish the ruin -- a long harbored dream by every Stark, only to be met with bitter disappointment because such a cost would be ruinous. The Greystarks were an example of the dangers of cadet branches, but the Karstarks were amongst his most loyal bannermen.
"Leave the South to the southerners! We've never needed them, and we never have! What do we gain by getting involved in their perfume courts?!" Brandon lost his grip on his temper but with a chilled look, the boy cowered away, biting his tongue.
"Before Jaehaerys Targaryen, aye, you would have been right. We could have closed Moat Cailin, rebuffed any messenger, and simply ignored the south to our delight," he admitted easily. "But that was more than a hundred years ago, boy. For better or worse, the North is part of the Seven Kingdoms and in the centuries since Torrhen bent the knee, we have yet to gain much from it beyond grain sent by the Reach for prices so damned high that we might as well starve." Brandon scowled but did not interrupt him.
It was galling. Torrhen Stark was unjustly condemned for yielding the North without battle, but Rickard saw the wisdom of the decision. Harrenhal was a fine example of what dragons could do and Brandon Snow may have killed a dragon. Perhaps even two. But if he failed to do anything but kill all three, that third dragon would have reduced the North to a wasteland in its rage. There was little to be done in the face of a dragon, such was their overwhelming power.
Yet the Targaryen kings acted as if they still possessed their mighty beasts that unified Westeros with fire and blood. Fools, imbeciles, and now a mad man. Rickard was all too aware how his letters to the throne about the high prices his kingdom paid for grain from the Reach was met with silence. Yet, when it increased the tariffs of timber, furs, and whale oil in return, the king suddenly remembered he had a seventh kingdom in the North, sending him nothing but threats and scorn.
The South had forgotten its promises. The Targaryens proved to have short memories -- the pact of ice and fire, promises of aid in winter, the theft of the New Gift… yet the North remembered and it harbored its grudges.
"It is long past time that the North benefits from our union with the South. Our voices will be heard," Rickard continued, making Brandon wilt under his gaze. "Four of the seven kingdoms, with fosterings and marriages will state clearly to the Targaryans that their rule continues at our sufferance. So, you shall wed Catelyn Tully. You will bed her. You will get her with child and continue our line. You will do your duty, my son. Your wants and desires are nothing before the needs of the kingdom. Do you understand?"
Brandon held his gaze for a long moment, and Rickard could see the willfulness well up in him. Yet, all the same, he offered a small curt nod. Rickard knew that he would hear the argument one again, but so long as he did his duty then Rickard could put up with the griping. Without another word, Brandon got up and went to the door, not quite storming off, but not far off from it either.
As soon as the door closed with a thud, Rickard let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face, idly realizing that Brandon took the far eye with him. And, just when Rickard hoped that he had enough headaches for the day, there was another frantic knock at the door, not ten minutes later. "My lord!"
"Enter," Rickard ordered, the door opening to reveal a pale Maester Wallys. "What is it? Has something happend?" He asked, starting to get up, a flash of worry gripping his heart.
"The member of the Night's Watch- he's vanished!" Maester Wallys informed and Rickard flinched back ever so slightly. Paul Atreides did not strike him as a deserter, but it was hardly as if he had never been wrong before. "He was told to take off the suit, for inspection, but when the doors closed… it is as if he vanished into thin air! The suit is the only thing he left behind!"
"Sound the guards and find him," Rickard barked, gritting his teeth. He would have the head of a deserter, even if he didn't commit a theft.
Maester Wallys nodded, rushing off and Rickard joined him, gathering up the guard to search Winterfell. When they failed to find him in the castle, they upended Wintertown, only to fail to find him there as well. Rickard even went as far as to search the surrounding countryside for any traces of him, yet it was as the maester said -- it was as if he vanished into thin air.
It was only three weeks later, after Rickard sent a raven to the Wall to inform the Lord Commander of the deserter, that he gained an inkling of what happened.
The Lord Commander had never sent a man to Winterfell in the first place.
…
Welcome to A Golden Path! This story will be sharing the Monday spot with Best of Intentions, so it'll be updated every other Monday. Asoiaf is one of those settings that I've been itching to write for years now, but I never found the right combination of plot and characters to actually write a story until I saw Dune 2. I've been a big fan of the books for some time, and while I don't completely agree with every change they made in the movies, I understand why they made the changes they did.
This story in particular is inspired by Thy Good Neighbor (ASOIAF/Bloodborne), which is a fantastic story. Only while Cyril is a cute cuttlefish boi, Paul very much is the hungry wolf outside your door looking for a way in. And if you see him, that's because he found a way.
Paul would fit pretty well in Asoiaf -- his precinct abilities run parallel to greenseers, he has experience with harsh climates, and working with brutal people that live there. He also has experience turning them into an extremely effective fighting force. I have some ideas on what direction I want to go with the story, but in general, Paul has all that he needs to start making waves.
There is going to be a degree of tech uplifting with the Free Folk. Paul is from an advanced civilization, but there are a lot of things that he can't build -- like superconductors. Or things that he doesn't know how to create, like gravity tech. Stillsuits and binoculars are easy enough because the Fremen, while having an industry, are more of a 'work with what you got' kind of culture. But, I don't plan on going wild with it. No gunpowder, for example.
The story takes place about four years before Robert's Rebellion, giving me a little wiggle room for the ball to get rolling before Paul does what he does best -- fucking shit up while desperately trying to avert the worst-case scenario while everyone else runs straight toward it at full tilt.
"A deserter?" Rickard questioned, unbothered by the cold. Maester Wallys was a man of his own age, in his late thirties, and struggled with the cold. A heavy chain hung from his neck, each link denoting a field of study -- black iron for raventry, silver for medicine, gold for sums, and a valyrian steel link for magic. The maester winced when a particularly cutting wind swept over the battlements, but he answered all the same.
"No, my lord. Not unless he intends to offer his head to the block," Maester Wallys replied, making Rickard frown. A rider in this weather was a risk. They would have spring snows for months more before the North woke from its slumber to break ground and toil again. The raven from the maesters announcing that it was spring had arrived half dead from the winter chill that still lingered. Travel was not yet safe, meaning that whatever message the man of the watch bared was bad news.
He offered a curt nod, turning away from the battlements and snow crunched underfoot. Though, he stilled when he heard a girlish squeal from his daughter, Lyanna. A glance over the battlement revealed that her brother, Benjen and the youngest of his children, had repaid the snowball she threw at him in full, striking her in the face. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips as he continued on, a silent hope in his chest that whatever ill tidings were delivered wouldn't ruin this time of joy.
Lyanna was twelve years old and flowered. It wouldn't be long before he was besieged by letters of offers for her hand. Already, she was as beautiful as her mother had been -- dark brown hair, steel gray eyes, and a long face with high cheekbones. They looked enough alike that his heart would sometimes ache when he looked upon his only daughter. The thought brought a scowl to his face as he descended into the warm halls of Winterfell, the gray walls warding off the chill by the spring water pumped through the stone.
"Has he said what he is here for?" Rickard questioned as they made their way into the main hall, misliking how the Maester shook his head.
"No, my lord. However, he has brought something," he replied, but Rickard did not ask. He would soon learn what exactly brought a man of the Night's Watch half way across his kingdom in winter.
The guards opened a door for him, taking him into his solar, as it had been his father's before him. There was a richly carved ironwood desk, a dyed tapestry hanging from the wall while natural light streamed into the office from a window that was half covered by a wood panel that was currently propped open. Rickard took a seat at his desk before gesturing for the messenger to be brought to him. He didn't have to wait long.
He was dressed in black, from his boots to his fur cloak, a scabbard at his hip and one for a dagger in his boot. He was young, Rickard noticed quickly.
Dark hair, dark eyes, comely in looks. Rickard would put him at the same age as his second son, Eddard, which put him around fifteen. He was short for his age yet he was still lanky, but not in the sense that he had gone hungry. He was of the stage between boy and man. It made it that much more interesting why he, of all people, would be entrusted with a message of such urgency. "Watchman. You've come a long way," he greeted the youth, "Your name?"
"Paul, Lord Stark," Paul answered, meeting his gaze easily. A rare thing. He was no smallfolk, Rickard reasoned at that moment. The smallfolk, even the greatest of them, were reserved in the presence of a lord, much less the lord of a kingdom. Yet, he didn't recognize the boy, nor did he know of any member of his noble houses sending one of their kin to the Wall that he could be. Meaning that he was likely from the South, though he seemed unbothered by winter.
"Speak then. What brings you here?" Rickard ordered. It didn't truly matter, but it did stand out to him. What he had to say, however, was far more important.
"I bring news of a wildling, my lord. One that goes by the name Muad'Dib," Paul began, making Rickard lean forward. The Night's Watch manned the Wall, an eight hundred foot tall wall that stretched the length of his kingdom to their uppermost border with the Lands of Always Winter. Their duty was to safeguard that border, and failing that, keeping him briefed on dangerous threats that lurked beyond it. Such as particularly dangerous wildlings.
"A King-Beyond-The-Wall?" Rickard growled, his jaw clenched. Poor timing. He could ill afford to deal with a would be king at the moment. Plans that had been long since put into place were going to begin moving this spring and summer, and a deviation from those plans was unwelcomed. Especially when in the eight thousand years since the wall was put up, there had only been seven, and the last one, Raymun Redbeard, was defeated by his grandfather.
Paul, thankfully, shook his head. "As of yet, no. His tribe numbers around three hundred, and he hasn't made any moves to unite the tribes. Or expressed intentions to march south." He spoke like a noble, Rickard idly noted, his lips thinning. The relief that he wasn't dealing with another would be King-on-the-Wall was muted by his confusion. There were tens of thousands of wildlings beyond the Wall, and they killed and raided each other as much as they raided and killed in his kingdom. Or more, seeing as they didn't have to surmount the Wall to raid and rape their neighbors. "Normally, the Lord Commander wouldn't bother to inform you of his existence, except for… this."
As the boy spoke, he took out a bronze cylinder. Paul passed it to a guard, who then in turn gave it to him. Rickard turned it over in his hands, noting the runes in the old tongue inscribed around it. It took him a moment to realize what it was. "A Myrish far eye?" He uttered, unfurling it to reveal three smaller tubes that were connected.
Expensive. As were all things from Essos. Merchants from Essos rarely ventured to the North, even up to Whiteharbor, and any goods imported from the south had an obscene mark up. His kingdom lacked a navy, so he had little use for such a thing, but… "Slavers from the east are known to venture beyond the Wall," he ventured with distaste.
He would shed no tears for wildling, and even if they were barely men at all, no one deserved to be enslaved.
"It is of the same styling, however… bring it to your eye and turn the outer-most cylinder," Paul instructed, making Rickard pause as he gaze leveled on the young man who seemed to realize his misstep. "My apologies, my lord, but it's something you need to see for yourself." He was used to giving orders, Rickard noticed, and his own curiosity grew. Bringing the far eye to his eye, he turned to the window, seeing the broken tower far closer than it was-
Rickard flinched back as the broken tower seemed to grow closer. That, he knew, was not normal. Instantly, he looked to Paul for an explanation, who seemed ready to give it. "It was produced by the wildlings. Bronze, glass, and it's finer than any found in Myr. That is not all, my lord -- there is one other thing," he said, pushing back his cloak and furs to reveal… something.
It was colored a grayish white and it vaguely appeared to be like armor. A plate that covered the chest, but it was strange and segmented. More than that, it was made out of an odd material. "It keeps the wearer warm, my lord. It won't keep out a winter's chill alone, but with it… I was half buried in snow every night, and I barely noticed in the morning."
"That's impossible," Maester Wallys gasped, and Rickard was grateful that he said it so he wouldn't have to. Rickard stood up, rounding the table to approach Paul. As he did, Paul responded.
"It's made out of a strange material. Something that was produced, rather than mined or harvested. If it didn't work, my lord, then I would be dead halfway between the Wall and Winterfell, if that far," Paul said and Rickard grunted as he stopped before him. The suit wasn't made out of metal at all. Taking off a glove, he poked it to find that it felt firm but strangely soft. "It seems to work by absorbing water. The suit absorbs it, then it warms it, which consumes water but when you're buried in snow…" He trailed off and Rickard's mind raced
That could change everything. To wear a simple suit, something that the wildlings could produce, and to not die of the cold? Winter, in the North, was always harsh. They just left a two year long one, and Rickard knew that there would be many villages that mourned lost loved ones. Grandfathers, fathers, uncles, brothers, and cousins that went out into the cold on a hunt, only to never return. All to spare their family an additional mouth to feed.
But, with this suit, his people could truly hunt. They could fish. Perhaps they could even venture south to buy more grain instead of waiting for the snow to thaw. The poorest of his kingdom wouldn't be able to afford it, but if villages pooled their resources together to purchase a single suit for a single hunter to be active in the winter…
His finger brushed over it, noting that was almost like armor. The substance, whatever it was, seemed like it could turn away a blade. Yet, he saw imperfection. It was not masterfully crafted, like one would expect from a set of armor.
"Muad'Dib," Rickard echoed the name, pulling back his hand. "Is that old tongue?" He asked, looking at Paul, whose expression betrayed little.
Maester Wallys shook his head slowly, "I can confer with my records, but the styling of the name doesn't quite match. I would sooner believe that it was an Essosian name." Of that, Rickard agreed.
"He could be an escaped slave as I don't see wildlings answering to a slaver," Rickard muttered, taking a step back. Wildlings, to his knowledge, were seen as exotic slaves. The blacksails of the Night's Watch, though few there were, did report the occasional ship that ventured beyond the Wall for slaves, furs, and ivory. They could trade for a pittance and avoid tariffs that would be found in Whiteharbor. It was still rare, simply because of the considerable distance in rough seas.
Then Rickard noticed something. Perhaps the man's furs covered it, but… "That suit. Did anyone die for it?"
Paul didn't seem surprised by the question, "No, my lord. The far eye and the suit were given as gifts to you."
The news did not put him at ease. A gift from a wildling? That put an end to his theory that it was an escaped slave trying to get back into civilization. "To what end." It wasn't a question.
"Trade," Paul answered evenly. That was what he feared. He would have preferred something far simpler like making war upon one of his rival clans. He could send the Umbers, Greatjon Umber in particular would relish the chance to return the favor and raid the wildlings. Trade, however, was far more dangerous because of the same people. His northernmost vassals would hate him for entertaining the thought of dealing with wildlings, no matter what could be gained.
After giving Rickard a moment to absorb that, Paul continued. "There are a number of things that he desires -- gold, copper, steel, wine, and dragonglass were the notable ones mentioned. Muad'Dib's tribe is located within the Frostfangs. Given the nature of the gifts, it is likely that the tribe is settled there." The information was useful. Puzzling, but useful.
"Raw ores?" Rickard questioned, with a deepening frown. He understood what was being offered. The wildlings, this Muad'Dib, had started to craft goods beyond harvesting furs or whittling bones. Their glasswork was beyond even what Myr had accomplished, and they had hundreds of years to perfect their craft. It would make sense that they would want materials that they couldn't easily gain access to beyond the Wall. Even if there was gold, silver, copper, and iron in the Frostfangs, they lacked the knowledge to properly mine it.
Dragonglass, however, did not easily fit on that list. Raw materials made sense. Produced goods, such as wine, soaps, or foodstuffs also made sense. Dragonglass, by any measure, was a useless material. Sharp, but brittle. Ill-suited for weapons and impractical for things such as buttons when there were more readily available options. It could be used to fashion jewelry, Rickard knew, as the mountain clans and the people of Skagos were wont to do.
"I believe so," Paul answered easily. "Amounts were not discussed. They do have some metal-smithing ability, so it might not be strictly necessary." Hm.
"Dragonglass?" Rickard questioned, his attention turning to the young man once more, seeing him offer a small shrug.
"The wildlings value it, my lord. I cannot tell you more than that," he offered. In any case, it would be worth exploring. Skagos had dragonglass, as did the mountain tribes, though to a lesser extent. Skagos was a wild and untamed place, a vassal in name but in practice, the Stark's grip over the northern islands had always been tenuous. It could be an opportunity to bind them tighter to the North as a whole. They would trade the dragonglass cheaply, as it had little value.
The issue there was that Rickard knew that they would be far less inclined to sell it once they learned it would go to wildlings.
Rickard mulled it over for a moment, "This Muad'Dib. Tell me what you know of him -- who his friends are. His enemies. I find it difficult to believe that wildlings suddenly produce fine goods without so much as a whisper beforehand." He ordered, debating on if it would be worth it. He wanted these things. But the timing was poor. Very poor.
"I'm sure there were whispers, but none made it to the Night's Watch. The clan is an isolated one that calls themselves the Fremen. They're said to be deadly warriors, but only in the sudden disappearances of their enemies amongst the other clans. The Night's Watch hasn't had any outstanding dealings or encounters with them, save for Qhorin Halfhand, who found himself wintering with them these past two years. He would likely be able to tell you more, my lord."
Wildlings that would harbor a man of the Night's Watch? The wildlings hated them as much as the Night's Watch and the northern lords hated the wildlings. No. No, it was increasingly clear that he wasn't dealing with normal wildlings. Paul continued, "There is little that I can say of Muad'Dib. Only that, by appearances, he can be reasoned with."
It would be best if he did away with the assumption that he was dealing with a wildling at all. Rickard made his way back to his seat, sitting heavily in it as his gaze once again turned to the far eye. "You have had a long journey through harsh winds. I will not send you back into them without that suit's protection. Until the first thaw, you shall be a guest." Meaning at least a month.
Time that he could prob the young man for further details or answers to any additional questions he might have. Paul bowed his head, taking the dismissal for what it was before turning around to the door. It was when he was halfway through it, Rickard spoke up, "What house are you from?" He decided to ask, knowing that the boy was not low-born.
Paul glanced over his shoulder, "House Atreides." He answered easily and Rickard fought off a frown.
"I don't know it," Rickard admitted, not quite apologetically. Paul, however, decided to not take offense and offered a wane smile.
"I would be surprised if you did," he admitted, bowing his head once more before walking away. Rickard frowned at the boy until he vanished as Maester Wallys closed the door behind him. Rickard tapped a finger on his desk for a moment before inclining his head to the maester.
"It's a compelling tale, if true," Maester Wallys said, his lips thinning. "Not that I believe his words to be false, but as of now, there is simply so much that we don't know. I have never heard of wildlings creating anything, except for trouble."
Rickard let out a grunt, faintly amused, but it quickly faded. "Fetch my son. Let this be a learning opportunity for him," he decided and the maester bowed, leaving his solar and giving Rickard a moment alone. He had more or less decided on a course of action, but Brandon was his heir. Despite how much he might wish otherwise, Brandon would need to develop the ability to think his problems through rather than cut through them with a blade.
The wolfsblood was strong in his son. Stronger than it was in himself, or even his grandfather. Brandon needed to learn how to temper his wild nature, and the best way to hone that skill was with problems that had no clear answer.
While he waited, he ran a finger over the runes on the far eye, his thoughts drifting to the one that delivered it. He had never heard of House Atreides, marking it as a southern house. Of them, it wouldn't be a major house as he knew those as well. A masterly house? A knight house? The boy spoke too confidently, holding himself with self assurance… and if he was tasked with making the trek through such harsh snows, then he must have been a volunteer. The Lord Commander wouldn't trust a criminal sent to the Wall to escape the noose with such gifts.
Another issue, Rickard thought as he rubbed his forehead. The Night's Watch was in a state of decline, and it had been for some time. Their numbers hadn't replenished since Raymun Redbeard overcame them, and they weren't likely to. He had plans for that, but they were dependent on other plans coming to fruition. Before he could think too deeply into it, the door opened, revealing Brandon.
If Lyanna looked like her mother, then Brandon looked like himself -- it was almost like looking in his reflection the better part of two decades ago. Brandon was tall, handsome, long dark hair pulled back, a cut-short beard, and a roguish smile pulling at his lips. "Father," Brandon greeted him, and from the smell, he had either practiced with his blade or with a maid.
"We have an opportunity," Rickard informed, placing the far eye on the other side of the desk. Brandon was immediately taken with it, bringing it up to his eye and gazing out of his solar. "Twist the first link," he instructed, and he heard a sharp intake of breath when his son did as bayed.
"It's a wonder, father. What made you commission a far eye from Myr?" Brandon asked, lowering it.
Rickard held up a hand and pointed at him, "There lies the opportunity. I didn't. That came from the north. From wildlings, made by wildlings, and given freely in hopes of fostering relations." Rickard watched his son closely, and it was something of a relief that he was able to guard his expression even if his surprise was evident.
Brandon rolled the far eye in his hands before taking a seat across from him. "They have glass," he noted and Rickard had to fight the smile off of his face. "That is a secret worth knowing. If we could bring them down, or learn it ourselves, then we wouldn't need to pay those fucking slavers a copper for another glasshouse."
Despite all his efforts to prove everyone otherwise, his son did have something between his ears. "The wildling wishes to open trade with House Stark. What he desires is raw materials -- metals and gemstones. What would you do?" He asked, and Brandon knew he was being tested. It wasn't a test that could be failed, in so many words, but if he failed to impress then Brandon knew he would be punished for it later. If one could call learning how to rule the North a punishment.
Brandon hesitated to answer for a moment before he offered a shrug. "I'd trade with him," he decided. "Preferably around the Wall. I doubt the Night's Watch would be perfectly understanding."
"Neither would the Umbers. The Karstarks. Nor the Glovers," Rickard reminded lightly, making Brandon scowl as he rolled the far eye in his hands once more.
"They'd complain less if they saw what they had to gain. Like a glasshouse. After we build another for ourselves, of course," he added. Good. A liege lord must stand above his vassals. It was a matter of perception -- if every house in the North had a glasshouse, then House Stark needed two. Or more. "But I suppose that would take time, and until then, they'd bitch and moan like a whore in Wintertown."
Rickard leveled a Look at his son, who seemed mildly repentant, and that was about as much as he learned to expect. "The trade has to happen. At least for a time…" he pursed his lips, his brow furrowing in thought. Then Rickard saw a calculating glint in his dark gray eyes, "I'd lie."
"How?" Rickard pressed, wanting to hear it in full.
"Depends on what would be easier, but to start I'd say we're getting the glass from somewhere else. Maybe claim that we're getting it from Skagos, down south, or we're getting it from Myr. That'll throw off suspicion of how we get it. As for actually getting the goods, I'd enlist either the Mormmonts or the Karstarks to help smuggle the glass from the wildlings. It'd come with a promise for being second in line for something like a glasshouse, though," Brandon ventured, and while it wasn't quite in line with Rickard's own thoughts, it wasn't a poor plan.
"Such a deception will not last. A secret can only remain a secret between two men, and only if one of them is dead," Rickard prompted, and Brandon nodded.
"Aye, but by that time we'd have a feel for the wildling. If he's not some cannibal savage, I'd say try to bring him south of the Wall on the condition he swears fealty. Failing that, we take the secret for ourselves. We attack and take the craftsmen, give them a choice between life and death. So long as one of them talks, we give 'em a few apprentices and the North can produce glass." It was a colder course of action to take, but the Long Night would come again before Rickard shed any tears for wildlings.
Rickard nodded in agreement, "This task will be overseen by you, my son. It is your responsibility to bring glass, and whatever else these wildlings produce, to our house and the North. Do you understand?" If he managed it, it would be a huge boon for his reputation. Brandon was already liked by the Lords of the North, but he would be loved if he brought glass to the North. His reign would be secure.
Brandon hesitated, but he nodded all the same. That was good. He understood how important this could be for their house. The deception would last for a year, perhaps two. Roose Bolton, the latest lord of the Dreadfort, was a cunning creature with ice in his veins. He would investigate the claims himself. To that end, it would be best to entrust the secret to those that were beyond reproach, or those difficult to reach.
"It will be done, father," Brandon said, though he made no move to stand. "Will this change anything? For your… plans," he said with a less than quiet distaste.
Rickard's gaze hardened, "No. You will marry the Tully girl," he commanded and a snarl briefly flickered across Brandon's face.
"I have no wish to marry a trout. Let that be Ned's burden -- he's spent enough time down south. He should be home, already," Bradon snapped, anger leaking into his voice. He had been angry since he learned of his betrothal, and it did pull at his heart. Rickard had been fond of his Lyarra even before they were wed, and it was… regrettable that his son already had a girl that he was sweet on.
Barbrey Ryswell would normally be a fine match. House Ryswell had not been married into for a number of generations, and they were due one such marriage. If it were not for Rickard's ambitions for the south, he would be content to let them wed. But those ambitions were there, and they would be realized in the coming years.
"Hoster Tully wants his blood on the seat of winter. A second son would not do," Rickard growled, his own temper flaring. It was an argument that had resurfaced a dozen times too many. "Ned will do his duty in the south, securing his friendship with the Lord of the Stormlands and, in time, he will wed inside of the North." In truth, Rickard would have preferred Ned to be home. He was fifteen, old enough to be called a man.
Robert Baratheon had influenced that plan. He was heir of the Stormlands, yet he remained in the Vale under the watchful eye of Jon Arryn, despite being of age to end his fosterage. It seemed the boy had little taste for rulership, under the impression that his father would live forever. A foolish notion, but a useful one. Rather than let the friendship risk cooling with distance and time, Rickard decided that it would be best to have Ned remain in the Vale until the Baratheon boy left for good.
Jon Arryn was a southerner, but he was a fine enough man who would help shape Ned into being a loyal right hand to Brandon. If all of his ambitions were realized, then perhaps he would have enough coin to send Ned to Moat Cailin to refurbish the ruin -- a long harbored dream by every Stark, only to be met with bitter disappointment because such a cost would be ruinous. The Greystarks were an example of the dangers of cadet branches, but the Karstarks were amongst his most loyal bannermen.
"Leave the South to the southerners! We've never needed them, and we never have! What do we gain by getting involved in their perfume courts?!" Brandon lost his grip on his temper but with a chilled look, the boy cowered away, biting his tongue.
"Before Jaehaerys Targaryen, aye, you would have been right. We could have closed Moat Cailin, rebuffed any messenger, and simply ignored the south to our delight," he admitted easily. "But that was more than a hundred years ago, boy. For better or worse, the North is part of the Seven Kingdoms and in the centuries since Torrhen bent the knee, we have yet to gain much from it beyond grain sent by the Reach for prices so damned high that we might as well starve." Brandon scowled but did not interrupt him.
It was galling. Torrhen Stark was unjustly condemned for yielding the North without battle, but Rickard saw the wisdom of the decision. Harrenhal was a fine example of what dragons could do and Brandon Snow may have killed a dragon. Perhaps even two. But if he failed to do anything but kill all three, that third dragon would have reduced the North to a wasteland in its rage. There was little to be done in the face of a dragon, such was their overwhelming power.
Yet the Targaryen kings acted as if they still possessed their mighty beasts that unified Westeros with fire and blood. Fools, imbeciles, and now a mad man. Rickard was all too aware how his letters to the throne about the high prices his kingdom paid for grain from the Reach was met with silence. Yet, when it increased the tariffs of timber, furs, and whale oil in return, the king suddenly remembered he had a seventh kingdom in the North, sending him nothing but threats and scorn.
The South had forgotten its promises. The Targaryens proved to have short memories -- the pact of ice and fire, promises of aid in winter, the theft of the New Gift… yet the North remembered and it harbored its grudges.
"It is long past time that the North benefits from our union with the South. Our voices will be heard," Rickard continued, making Brandon wilt under his gaze. "Four of the seven kingdoms, with fosterings and marriages will state clearly to the Targaryans that their rule continues at our sufferance. So, you shall wed Catelyn Tully. You will bed her. You will get her with child and continue our line. You will do your duty, my son. Your wants and desires are nothing before the needs of the kingdom. Do you understand?"
Brandon held his gaze for a long moment, and Rickard could see the willfulness well up in him. Yet, all the same, he offered a small curt nod. Rickard knew that he would hear the argument one again, but so long as he did his duty then Rickard could put up with the griping. Without another word, Brandon got up and went to the door, not quite storming off, but not far off from it either.
As soon as the door closed with a thud, Rickard let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face, idly realizing that Brandon took the far eye with him. And, just when Rickard hoped that he had enough headaches for the day, there was another frantic knock at the door, not ten minutes later. "My lord!"
"Enter," Rickard ordered, the door opening to reveal a pale Maester Wallys. "What is it? Has something happend?" He asked, starting to get up, a flash of worry gripping his heart.
"The member of the Night's Watch- he's vanished!" Maester Wallys informed and Rickard flinched back ever so slightly. Paul Atreides did not strike him as a deserter, but it was hardly as if he had never been wrong before. "He was told to take off the suit, for inspection, but when the doors closed… it is as if he vanished into thin air! The suit is the only thing he left behind!"
"Sound the guards and find him," Rickard barked, gritting his teeth. He would have the head of a deserter, even if he didn't commit a theft.
Maester Wallys nodded, rushing off and Rickard joined him, gathering up the guard to search Winterfell. When they failed to find him in the castle, they upended Wintertown, only to fail to find him there as well. Rickard even went as far as to search the surrounding countryside for any traces of him, yet it was as the maester said -- it was as if he vanished into thin air.
It was only three weeks later, after Rickard sent a raven to the Wall to inform the Lord Commander of the deserter, that he gained an inkling of what happened.
The Lord Commander had never sent a man to Winterfell in the first place.
…
Welcome to A Golden Path! This story will be sharing the Monday spot with Best of Intentions, so it'll be updated every other Monday. Asoiaf is one of those settings that I've been itching to write for years now, but I never found the right combination of plot and characters to actually write a story until I saw Dune 2. I've been a big fan of the books for some time, and while I don't completely agree with every change they made in the movies, I understand why they made the changes they did.
This story in particular is inspired by Thy Good Neighbor (ASOIAF/Bloodborne), which is a fantastic story. Only while Cyril is a cute cuttlefish boi, Paul very much is the hungry wolf outside your door looking for a way in. And if you see him, that's because he found a way.
Paul would fit pretty well in Asoiaf -- his precinct abilities run parallel to greenseers, he has experience with harsh climates, and working with brutal people that live there. He also has experience turning them into an extremely effective fighting force. I have some ideas on what direction I want to go with the story, but in general, Paul has all that he needs to start making waves.
There is going to be a degree of tech uplifting with the Free Folk. Paul is from an advanced civilization, but there are a lot of things that he can't build -- like superconductors. Or things that he doesn't know how to create, like gravity tech. Stillsuits and binoculars are easy enough because the Fremen, while having an industry, are more of a 'work with what you got' kind of culture. But, I don't plan on going wild with it. No gunpowder, for example.
The story takes place about four years before Robert's Rebellion, giving me a little wiggle room for the ball to get rolling before Paul does what he does best -- fucking shit up while desperately trying to avert the worst-case scenario while everyone else runs straight toward it at full tilt.
Arimai
Curmudgeon
Love it. If Paul succeeded in creating Fremen Fedaykin trained in the Weirding Ways then the Others will only win through sheers numbers. The attack Brandon proposed would be crushed. Leaving them alive but broken, with no injuries to the Fedaykin. Prescience and super speed is a hell of a powerset @Ideas-Guy
First Steps 1.2
- Location
- USA
"I mislike this," Mance Rayder muttered, his breath coming out as a cloud of fog. The snows had receded, making it possible to travel beyond the Wall, but the cutting chill in the air was still there. He leaned against the cold stone of Castle Black, dressed in the dark cloth of the closest thing he ever had to a family. He was raised by the Watch, saved as a babe, and when he became a man he swore the oath.
Which always made it odd to him when he saw men wearing colors other than black.
"Aye, so you've said already," Qhorin Halfhand, as he had lost half a hand fighting wildlings a few years prior, replied gruffly. "You don't have to convince me of this folly. And you get to just ride with us with your mouth shut. I doubt Lord Stark would grant me the same privilege." As he spoke, he inclined his head to the approaching party. Castle Black lacked walls, beyond the massive one that faced the true north. Instead, it was a collection of buildings and towers, one of which gave them a decent view of the dozen men riding towards them.
"An inspection of the Wall," Mance muttered with a scoff and a shake of his head, though he knew one was likely in order. Three of nineteen castles were manned -- six hundred men in Castle Black, four hundred men at Eastwatch, and another four hundred men at Shadowtower. Less than fifteen hundred men. "The Lord Commander is going to go through with this?"
"Of course he will. Lord Commander Qorgyle is starving for supplies and men, and we sure as fuck won't be getting them from the Crown. He won't just turn a blind eye, he'll pluck 'em out of his head, and ours too if he feels the need," Qhorin grunted and Mance sighed. "Starks have always been good to the Watch. I won't begrudge them this much."
With that, Qhorin clapped Mance on the shoulder with his half hand before leading them both down the stairs. As soon as they received the raven, announcing that the heir to the North was heading up to the Wall with a small group of guards, most watchmen knew what was coming. The Rangers first and foremost, especially when Qhorin had come back to them after a winter ended with a long tale to share. Since then, they were getting ready to indulge the nobility.
As they reached the end of the stairs, the Stark party arrived, carrying their House's direwolf banner that flapped in the wind. The heir was a man in his late teens, maybe early twenties -- handsome and strong, with his expression one of focus. Mance always found himself curious about nobility. More often than not, the Wall only saw the dregs of them, though there were the occasional few that volunteered. And the Watch only had great things to say about the Starks, to the point you'd think spring followed them around and the sun shone out their arse.
But, the man on a large black horse just seemed like a man. No greater or worse than any other. Maybe these kings would be a different breed of men? The old maester didn't think so, and he was as learned a man as any Mance had ever known.
"Welcome to Castle Black, Lord Stark," Lord Commander Qorgyle greeted the party. He was an old man, Mance knew. His hair as white as snow and his face etched with winkles. His death would come soon, and Mance found that he hated the thought.
"My thanks for having us. We don't seek to disrupt your doings or interfere. I'm here to see with my own eyes what you need and make sure that you get it," Brandon Stark said, his tone affable. Friendly but regal. And Mance fought the urge to snort. Aye, that would do it. If the Stark was as good as his word, and all Mance heard painted that to be the case, then he could name himself King-Beyond-The-Wall, and no one would so much as utter a word of it.
"The honor is ours, milord," The Lord Commander said as Brandon got off his horse, joined by a few others.
"This is my companion, Martyn Cassel," Brandon introduced Martyn. "He is my father's master-at-arms and guard." The man was an older one, old enough to be the Stark's father. Large shoulders, thick arms, and a beard with traces of white in it. He gazed out at everyone with open suspicion, and that was fair enough. Half the Watch was made up by murderers, the other half rapers, with a few thieves and disgraced nobles sprinkled about.
With the introductions out of the way, Mance watched as the Lord Commander ushered them all into his office where they could have a private conversation. "Who do you think gets saddled with going beyond the Wall to deliver their message?"
"Knowing your luck, you will. Knowing my luck, me too," Qhorin answered with an amused snort. The two of them separated, both having things to take care of before they ventured beyond the Wall into wildling territory.
And, to Brandon Stark's credit, he spent a week at the Wall before he acted on his real intentions. He spoke at length with the Lord Commander, the Builders, the Stewards, and Rangers. He even spoke to the old maester Aemon. He supped with the men, and what Mance saw of him was a friendly fellow. The kind of man that others were drawn towards. It helped that he was taking the Watch seriously.
Then, a week later, Mance found himself summoned to the Lord Commander's office alongside Qhorin. There, Mance found Brandon Stark, and Mance knew it was finally time. "Lord Stark -- this is Qhorin and Mance, two of our finest rangers."
Brandon inclined his head to them, though his gaze was on Qhorin. "Well met, both of you. I've already heard a great deal about you both and all of it good. The Lord Commander tells me you spent a winter with these… Fremen," Brandon prompted and Qhorin nodded.
"I did, milord. I was part of a ranging with five others -- we had heard whispers about a new tribe. While their histories are hardly as storied as the Starks, some of the tribes in the North are every bit as ancient as your house." Qhorin started, reciting a story that he had been forced to tell a dozen times. Brandon frowned but said nothing, simply nodding for him to continue. "Most tribes are large families, though some in certain areas fall under the banner of a powerful warlord in control of a region. First, we heard that families were moving north to the Frostfangs."
"And that is worth investigating?" Brandon questioned, sounding genuinely curious.
Mance fought to repress a snort but answered for Qhorin. "The Frostfangs are as deadly as the bite of a direwolf. All the land beyond the Wall is harsh, but the Frostfangs… the only place where death is more certain is the Lands of Always Winter." Brandon seemed to chew on that for a moment before nodding, a frown starting to curl at his lips.
"As my friend said -- it was worth noting, but not worth a true investigation. However, it was little more than a year later, and we heard of a war between these Fremen and the Thegns -- a tribe far to the north. Of all the wildlings, they're the ones most like us. They fight with discipline, wear bronze armor, and fight with bronze weapons. By all accounts, the Thegns were thrashed soundly and defeated by a man calling himself Muad'Dib." Brandon leaned forward, his interest in the tale growing. "The Thegns boast a tribe of five thousand, milord. So, hearing that, we decided it was worth a ranging on the cusp of winter."
There was a bitter edge to Qhorin's voice. "We set out, spent the better part of a month just reaching the mountain range," Qhorin closed his eyes for a moment before he shook his head. "One moment we're trudging along, and the next Callum has an arrow in his throat. Wilhelm and I drew our blades, but by that time we already walked head first into an ambush."
"The Fremen?" Brandon prompted, but Qhorin shook his head.
"Worse. Ice River Clan," he answered and Mance fought a shiver. "The wildlings… most of them are just men. You have your honorable men, and you have dishonorable cunts… the Ice River Clans have never been south of the Wall, but they're what mothers tell their children about to scare them into behaving. Cannibals, kinslayers, sisters and motherfuckers… they're not men at all." Qhorin spat, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Willhelm took a spear to the gut, and I was about to slit my own throat. The River Clans prefer to extend their meals, you see. Taking bits over time so they always have fresh meat."
Brandon wasn't a man that cowered easily, Mance saw. Lesser boys paled and shivered when they realized that the tales about wildlings, at least some of them, were true. Brandon looked as if he were about to grab his sword and march beyond the Wall by himself, just to correct the mistake that were the Ice River Clans.
Qhorin continued, "The Fremen saved me. They were hunting the fuckers -- Ice River Clans always go on a final hunt before winter begins for fresh meat, and it seems like they found themselves hunted instead. There were a dozen of the River Clan, and before I even realized what was happening, six of them were dead. An arrow to the eye each. I only saw one Fremen that day… but he was fierce. Fought without fear of death, wielding two daggers, and killed another six men like he was carving a bloody cake. I passed out then, and when I woke up, I was bound and gagged. Figured I was going to my death, but I never managed to escape before I arrived at their Sieche, as they called it."
There was a hungry glint that appeared in the Stark's gray eyes, "You've been to their home?"
"Aye. It's deep in the Frostfangs, though I couldn't for the life of me tell you where. They have a natural spring, and there's a network of tunnels. I don't know how big, or how many people live there. I was blindfolded the entire time, and they pretty much tossed me in a cell for two years." Qhorin shrugged, not quite apologetically.
There was a creak of wood as Brandon leaned back in his seat, "You don't sound like you begrudge them for it."
"Worse ways to spend winter. Especially for a man of the Watch in the hands of wildlings. Figured the most I could hope for was a slow death. Instead, they fed me twice a day and when winter ended, they sent me on my way." Qhorin answered, and Mance knew that wasn't entirely true. He didn't know what the truth was exactly, but Qhorin was his friend and had a hand in raising him, so he knew that his friend always left something out of the story when he told it.
Brandon nodded, scratching at his short beard, accepting the answer for what it was. "This Muad'Dib came to Winterfell, posing as a man of the Watch. He came bearing fine goods with the claim that his tribe created them. Did you see anything that hinted to the truth?" Seems like they were finally getting to the heart of the matter.
Qhorin shook his head, "I didn't see much, milord. I heard things, though. Children curious to see a crow, saying things they shouldn't. I learned some things from the lass that brought me my meals too," He answered, scratching at his cheek. "I know they have a suit that lets them hunt in the height of winter beyond the Wall, because they always had meat. They have an odd contraption made of wheels that makes a noise at certain times of the day. I also know they smith with steel." Then he pursed his lips.
"They speak of Muad'Dib almost reverently, but they wouldn't tell me much about him. They're protective of him. Loyal too," Qhorin then frowned. "I also know that he takes children from defeated tribes, boys and girls as young as five and as old as ten. One of the boys let something slip -- he called himself Fedaykin. Or that he would one day become one. Muad'Dib seems to be training them personally… I convinced two of them to do a spar, milord."
"And?" Brandon prompted, sounding faintly uncertain.
"If they were any higher than my waist, they'd probably kill me in a fair fight. And I'm one of the deadliest men in the Night's Watch, halfhand or not," Qhorin admitted. "They were fast, coordinated, and they didn't hesitate to attack or defend. When they become men grown, they're going to be a terror in a fight. They'll cut through the Watch like a scythe through wheat, milord."
There was a long stretch of silence at the declaration. Mance hadn't seen it himself, but he trusted Qhorin's word.
Then Brandon spoke, "Then I have good news. I'm not here to make an enemy of this Muad'Dib. He came to my father to trade… and with the aid of the Night's Watch, I shall seek to make a deal with him." Dressed it up nicer than it was, but Mance figured that was part of being a noble.
Lord Commander Qorgyle nodded, "It's shameful to admit, but we do have men that trade with the wildlings -- furs, and the like. I know some of them. I can reposition them, send them over to Shadowtower, and they'll help smuggle the wildling goods into the North. It'll be an old hat for some of them that were sent here for smuggling." Brandon nodded, unsurprised by the news, nor their willingness to aid him in the endeavor.
"For a price, I imagine. That's fine. They'll get their due, as will the Night's Watch," Brandon promised. "Now it's just a matter of getting ahold of the-"
He was interrupted by a knock at the door. The Lord Commander glanced at Brandon, who nodded, before he called out, "Enter!"
Samson, a steward that had been caught raping a barmaid, stepped into the office. "My lords, there… there's a wildling outside of the gate. She says she's here t-to escort Lord Stark to the godswood," he stuttered ever so slightly at the intense looked that flashed over Brandon's face. A mix between surprised, displeasure, and curiosity.
"Muad'Dib wants me to come to him?" Brandon asked, sounding almost curious. Mance just felt relieved. He expected that he and Qhorin were going to be sent out to the Frostfangs to fetch the Fremen. A wolfish smile found its way onto his face, "Why not? I've always wanted to go beyond the Wall. Who knows when I'll get another chance?"
Lord Commander Qorgyle's face twisted like he had taken a sip of fermented goat's milk, "My lord, I must protest this- they're wildlings." He didn't speak of fear for fear of Brandon himself, but for Lord Rickard's wrath if they managed to let his heir die.
Brandon shook his head, "They won't gain anything if this is a trap, beyond the ire of the North. Muad'Dib said he wanted to foster relations and he's willing to meet before the Old Gods. I'll believe him," he said, and the Lord Commander paled.
"And if you're wrong?" He desperately tried, but everyone in the room saw that the young lord's mind was made up.
He confirmed as much when he threw his head back and laughed, "I imagine I'll do a lot of screaming as I die!" He said with the confidence of a man convinced he wouldn't die. And one ignorant of what his death would mean for others. Mance decided then that he didn't particularly like the young lord, though that was mostly because of the heart attack he seemed bent on giving the Lord Commander. "I'll gather my companions and set out."
With that, he left the room and Lord Commander Qorgyle looked at them both desperately. "Protect him. I'm sorry, but we can't afford to let him die from his own foolishness!"
Mance nodded easily, "Aye. We'll make sure the lordling gets back alive. Though can't promise it'll be in one piece," he said, flashing a smile when the Lord Commander glowered at him. Qhorin slapped him on the shoulder, offering a curt nod, and they left before they could drive him into an early grave. They were already prepared for a journey, so they ended up taking out some supplies from their packs before they headed down to the gate where Brandon and his companions were.
Brandon didn't seem surprised to see them either, "The Lord Commander sent you just in case?" He questioned, and Mance glanced at the sword at his belt. Fine steel that was, complete with a snarling wolf pommel.
"Aye, just in case," Qhorin agreed. "The weirwood tree is half a league beyond the Wall. And I wouldn't bother with horses -- unless they're trained for it… they'll get spooked and throw you off," he warned, making Brandon pause.
He nodded, "I'll take your word for it, ranger." He agreed easily enough. Seems like he was willing to be smart about being a fool. At least he wasn't making their job harder.
Mance took a breath as the five of them lined up before the gate that slowly creaked open with a squeal of cold iron. They walked through the tunnel of ice, hearing the gate close behind them. Then, a minute later, the gate before them began to squeal as well as it was lifted up, revealing… a woman. Early twenties, blonde hair, green eyes -- pretty. She wore an odd suit of a whitish gray material that did very little to hide her figure.
Mance felt a stirring the moment he saw her. He had seen women before. His brothers even took him to Moletown so he might know a woman before he took his vows. He swallowed it down, pushing the feeling aside. He was a man of the Night's Watch. He had been all of his life. And he would be until his dying day, pretty face be damned.
However, Mance wasn't the only one that the woman stirred a reaction in. Brandon, instantly, seemed interested, "You're our guide, I take it?"
"Aye. I'll take you to Muad'Dib. He waits for you at the heart tree," She answered, her gaze sliding over all of them before lingering on he and Qhorin. Her lips curled ever so slightly, but it wasn't in disgust how most wildlings looked upon Watchmen. She seemed amused and Mance got the feeling he was the butt of a joke.
"Lead the way then, lady…?" Brandon offered, a sly smile tugging up at one corner of his mouth as the wildling turned to start marching towards the weirwood. Instantly, Mance felt uneasy -- it was a very rare wildling that would willingly turn their back to a crow.
The wildling snorted, "Gertrud. You southerners are daft enough to remind a woman that she's a woman?" She didn't bother turning around as they began the trek. There was a path, an ancient one, that led to the weirwood from those that wished to say their vows to the Old Gods, as Mance did.
Brandon's smirk dropped, while Martyn bristled, "We're northerners-" He began to spit out, earning an unimpressed glance from Gertrud, but Brandon waved him off.
"We live south of her. Can't say I care for being called a southerner, though," he admitted. Gertrud shrugged her shoulders, indifferent and uncaring.
"I can call you kneelers, if that helps," she said in a tone delighted by knowing that it wouldn't. "I never understood that part. Why bow down to some cunt half a world away?"
Mance found himself agreeing with her, however silently. He swore an oath before the gods and gained a family of brothers. Answering to a Lord Stark, a man he had never seen in a castle that he had never seen, always felt…
"You serve Muad'Dib, just as I serve my father and he serves the king. Just with more pomp and pageantry," Brandon replied and it was obvious enough what he was doing. It was enough to make Mance start to worry -- how do you save a man from himself? "Speaking of which -- have you served him long?"
Gertrud scoffed, "I've known him since he was a boy," she answered with ease. "Watched him grow up from a boy to a man. That's the difference, between us free folk and you kneelers. I can understand kneeling for someone you know. Someone you see greatness in firsthand. But you lot bow down to a name and a fancy hat. For what?" She asked, her voice less scornful than Mance had heard from some wildlings, but not by much.
The remarks were getting to Martyn, yet Brandon, who they were directed at, was unbothered. It left Martyn to be offended on his behalf at the disrespect… If Brandon noticed Martyn's growing ire, he ignored it in favor of answering, "We make oaths and we keep them. In return, we're given privileges and rights."
Gertrud shook her head all the same, "And if the kneeler king decides to go back on those oaths?"
"Then we kill the king," Brandon replied darkly, an edge entering his voice and Mance regretted hearing that. Gertrud glanced back with a smile at that, genuinely approving and that was a dangerous sign if Mance ever saw one. Martyn favored him a look, but seemed content to say nothing.
The wildling hummed as she led them down the path, and Mance kept an eye on the trees with a hand on his blade. Even as he kept an ear open to the conversation that seemed to become more and more private.
"Suppose we have that in common. You southerners like to act like you're better because you stacked some bricks and you're arse sits in a throne, but at the end of the day, it's all the same. You're the same as any man. Like how I can feel your eyes on my arse," She remarked, not even glancing back.
Brandon didn't even seem ashamed, "It's a lovely arse. And for my people, you're dressed… immodestly," he offered, amused.
"Fancy silk dresses don't last long in the North- the true North," Gertrud replied drily. "But I'm surprised. I know the crows fuck goats and each other because they swore off women, but I figured a lord would want some gentle lady that smells of flowers, faints at the sight of blood, and weeps at every sad tale."
A complicated expression passed over Brandon's face. "In the south, aye. And if my father has his way, I'll be married to some soft lady," he spat on the ground like he tasted something foul. "I prefer a woman. The kind that'll smack me when I'm being an arse… and one who'll smack me on the arse when we fuck rather than lay there like a dead fish." It sounded like he had someone in mind when he spoke.
Gertrud heard it too, coming to a stop before turning around. There was a coy smile tugging at her lips, sauntering up to Brandon and he looked at her with the same longing as a dog to a bone. Martyn, however, tensed, his hand ready to draw steel.
Then she smacked him and the steel leaped from its scabbards.
Gertrud didn't seem alarmed before Brandon held out a hand to ward Martyn off. She stood before him, unrepentant, simply waiting for his reason and Mance felt his breath caught in his throat.
What he didn't expect was for Brandon to laugh, absolutely delighted. He seemed absolutely smitten with her, Mance concluded. "I deserved that one, my lady," he said, smiling broadly even as his cheek shone a bright red.
"Maybe if you're lucky, I'll smack you on the arse next," Gertrud teased, walking on as if nothing happened. Not that they had particularly far to go as Mance saw a hint of red that marked the weirwood tree. And, as they neared, Gertrud spoke, "If any of you try to break the peace, I'll cut you cunt to throat and feed your innards to the Old Gods."
Brandon just grinned as they continued to the grove and there, Mance saw the weirwood tree. The tree was ancient, as old as the wall itself, its large trunk was a pale white, and its many branches were heavy with blood red leaves. A face was carved into the trunk, a face that seemed to be caught in a silent scream as it wept tears of blood. A shiver raced down his spine at the sight, and the silence.
It was always unnaturally silent near a heart tree, as if the animals themselves dared not to breathe in its presence.
However, before the tree, Mance saw a man. More of a boy, really. Small and thin, dark hair pushed out of his face that was growing out of its boyish looks to become a man. He wore the same odd suit that Gertrud wore, but over it was a ragged and frayed linen cloak that was draped over his body, half hiding his hands.
Then the boy moved and Mance instantly felt uneasy. The boy moved as if the ground would never dare to trip him, and even as he held out his hands, showing that he was unarmed, Mance didn't feel comforted in the slightest. There was absolutely no evidence to support it, but deep in his gut, Mance knew exactly who he stood before -- Muad'Dib.
Muad'Dib wasn't bothered by their numbers either, though his gaze was focused on Brandon, "Lord Stark." As he greeted the lord, Gertrud continued on, falling to the side of Muad'Dib with practiced ease, her hand resting on a dagger at her hip as she eyed them as if debating which one to kill first.
Brandon held Muad'Dib's gaze for a moment, "You have some balls lying to my father like that." He began, his voice gruff and less than friendly.
Muad'Dib offered a thin smile, "I never lied to your lord father. Not once. I merely claimed to have news from beyond the wall, and I happened to be wearing black." Mance frowned deeply, understanding what was being implied. Muad'Dib had gotten over the Wall. That made his guts tie themselves into knots -- wildlings being south of the Wall was a failing, but Muad'Dib being south of the Wall… that felt more like a disaster.
A huff escaped Martyn Cassel, a sour expression upon his face, "Your name, then? You introduced yourself as Paul Atreides, a noble scion. You're telling me that's not a bold fuckin' lie?" The older man growled, a hand falling to his sword.
Muad'Dib didn't seem bothered by the accusation. "Paul Atreides is my name. As is Usul Muad'Dib," he answered easily, making Brandon frown.
"You're house words?" He prompted, as if trying to catch Muad'Dib out in a lie. To that, Muad'Dib's gaze seemed almost sad as he answered.
"Here I Am, Here I Remain," Muad'Dib answered, sounding wistful. It wasn't an emotion that Mance expected from the boy. But he was far more interested on how this was supposed to make sense. Gertrud spoke as if Muad'Dib as if he had been a wildling all of his life. "A red hawk on black with a history stretching back ten thousand years…" That got a reaction out of the two lordlings. It got one from Mance and Qhorin as well -- he claimed his family was older than the Wall itself by two thousand years.
The information had but a moment to settle before Brandon spoke, "Yet, you are a wildling beyond the Wall." Mance looked to Gertrud for a hint, but her expression betrayed nothing. It was almost unnerving how emotionless her face was, listening to them speak… even her body was unnaturally still. He'd think her dead if it wasn't for her breathing.
"We prefer the term Free Folk, Lord Stark. My tribe in particular is called the Fremen as Qhorin has likely informed you," Muad'Dib said, his gaze flickering to Mance's friend for the first time. "It is nice to see you again. I hope you enjoyed your stay. The children miss you," Muad'Dib said and Mance found himself gripping his blade. He heard what went unsaid as easily as if Muad'Dib had spoken the words out loud.
Muad'Dib knew exactly what had made it to Qhorin's ears.
Qhorin licked his lips, "I've had worse winters." He allowed, inclining his head to Muad'Dib. With two meals a day, he likely ate better last winter than Mance did at the Wall.
It was then that Brandon crossed his arms over his chest, "I have searched for your house in the records at Winterfell. They made no mention of a House Atreides. Much less one with the history that you claim."
Muad'Dib nodded, "I did tell your father that I would be shocked if he knew of my House. However, my lord, I doubt that you came all this way to ask me about my family."
"I wouldn't be so sure. I prefer to know who I'm jumping in bed with beforehand," Brandon replied curtly. "I barely know a damned thing about you, and what I do know doesn't make a lick of sense. Are you an exile? Do the wildlings have some ancient empire that they've neglected to mention?" He pressed, setting his jaw and Mance saw that he was determined to get at least one straight answer from Muad'Dib.
Muad'Dib seemed to sense this as well because he spoke. "House Atreides was of the Great Houses of the Padishah Empire, who was ruled by the Corrino family for ten thousand years. My family was of status with your own, Lord Stark -- a large fief with numerous vassals sworn to us. Though we were called Dukes in the empire, and we were second only to the Emperor himself," he spoke and Mance saw Brandon growing tense the more he heard. "At least, we were until we were betrayed. My family- my father proved to be too popular and Emperor Shaddam Corrino the Fourth was a jealous man. Working with my family rivals, House Harkonnen, he arranged for my family to be slaughtered."
How he spoke of it… you'd think it happened to someone else. He spoke dispassionately, his voice steady. It was an old hurt for him, Mance reasoned, or he was too young to remember what he spoke of. Or, he could just be lying. He rather hoped that he might be, because otherwise that meant that there was some place called the Padishah Empire out there.
He'd have to pester Maester Aemon if they got back to Castle Black. He heard of far off lands, such as Essos, or even more distant lands such as Yi Ti. Could the world be even larger than what he heard? And he had seen only such a small portion of it.
"Do you seek revenge?" Brandon asked and, to that, Muad'Dib smiled. It should be charming, Mance knew. Yet, it turned Mance's blood to ice.
"What child doesn't want to avenge his father?" Muad'Dib questioned with a raised eyebrow, "But, given current circumstances, my vengeance shall have to wait." He replied, offering nothing more. That, more than anything else, convinced Mance that he was dangerous. He knew vengeance. He had seen it in the wildings when the Watch killed their fathers, brothers, and sons. He saw it in the Watch when the wildlings killed a brother. Vengeance was hot and angry and impulsive. Muad'Dib was as cold as winter itself. "Are you satisfied with your answers, Lord Stark?"
He half hoped that Brandon would say no, just so Mance could hear more, but the lord nodded his head. "I've heard enough, aye. Though, I feel like I've gained more questions than answers -- you are right, I didn't come all this way to interrogate you. I've come to make a deal with your tribe… Lord Atreides," he said after a pause, nodding at Muad'Dib. Acknowledging him as another noble.
"You speak with the authority of your father?" Muad'Dib questioned and Brandon offered a curt nod.
"My word is his own," Brandon confirmed. "As such, I have the authority to deny such a trade. I will not lie to you, you possess fine goods and we both know it. Yet, not so fine that I would risk the ire of my bannermen for trinkets and baubles." Ah, so the haggling had officially begun, has it?
Muad'Dib didn't so much as blink, perfectly poised and comfortable where he stood. "Then we shall not trade in trinkets nor baubles," he replied smoothly, making no opening offer.
Brandon scowled ever so slightly before speaking, "The suits that you wear. The one that you left behind does as you said -- we had a stable hand wear it, and he slept in the snow without issue." Mance glanced at the two of them, noting the odd clothing that they wore. Was that the suit that he mentioned?
"The suits are not easy to create. Think of each as a fine suit of armor, and you will have an idea of the process to make one." And the cost would be equal. A full suit of fine armor was expensive. The only times he saw any was when lords came to the Wall and he heard the whispers of how those lords bought them for amounts of money that were equal to what a hundred men could earn in a year. "However, I believe that we can create two suits for yourself and Lord Stark by the time of the first shipment, if you would be so kind as to forward your measurements."
"That can be arranged… at what cost?" Brandon questioned, and Mance noticed that he was too direct. Too… open. He heard haggling on occasion when an odd ship came up from the south for furs, amber, and what have you. He heard it between his brothers as well whenever they got new things such as boots or cloaks. You'd think someone had them at knife point, forcing them to buy something they had no interest in.
"Ten pounds of precious metals -- gold, or silver. Or two hundred pounds of iron, copper, tin, or unripened silver," Muad'Dib replied and Mance had no idea if that was a fair price. Martyn made a subtle gesture that Brandon caught, who shook his head at the price.
"Eight pounds of precious metals, or one hundred and fifty pounds of common metals," Brandon countered, his tone serious. Mance got the impression that he was new to haggling, but he was determined to get a good deal. Unfortunately for him, so was Muad'Dib. The two went back and forth a bit before settling on seven pounds of precious metals or two hundred and fifty pounds of common metals. From the sounds of it, it'd still be less costly to buy it with the common ores.
"I also understand that you can make glass. What would it cost to produce a pane of it?" Brandon questioned, and Muad'Dib expected the question.
"For a large pane, such as one to a glasshouse, I would accept five pounds of dragonglass," Muad'Dib answered and Brandon paused for a moment before nodding in acceptance.
"A full glasshouse would take two hundred panes of glass to build," he said, not bothering to hide his intentions. "Would you accept a compromise of ores and other goods?" He asked and Muad'Dib nodded easily.
"That is acceptable. It will take some time to fulfill the contract of two hundred panes. A year," the wildling said, and that didn't sound like a guess to Mance. "We shall ship them as we make them to stagger the delivery and the cost," he offered, earning a nod from Brandon. "We have a ship ready to use, but it will be a month before we could create the suits for you. It is ready to be used, however, and it has other things that may be of interest to you or Lord Stark." There was an offer there and Brandon heard it.
He seemed to ponder it for a moment before speaking, "The blacksails won't bother your ship, and you'll send it to the Mountain Clan Liddle, who will expect you. The goods will then be brought to Winterfell under their banner and protection, there we shall pay for the exchange. Your merchants will return, load up on their ship once more, and return beyond the Wall. The first of these exchanges can start next month, when the spring storms settle."
There was one issue with the plan, Mance decided. "What about the wildlings of the Frozen Shore? There aren't that many of them, true, but they're fine enough warriors that don't tend to welcome outsiders."
Mance couldn't say he liked it when Muad'Dib looked at him for the first time. His eyes were dark, but there was something in his eyes that made Mance's skin crawl. Something dangerous. It was as if Mance was stripped bare before him, and not even his own thoughts were private. And when Muad'Dib spoke, he couldn't say that it gave him any comfort. "The Free Folk clans of the Frozen Shore have been… subjugated. They now answer to me. Our ships shall pass."
Qhorin startled at that, "The fuck do you mean, they answer to you?" He blurted, feeling the same spike of panic that Mance felt. There was an estimated of five to ten thousand men along the Frozen Shore. If the defeat of the Thegns was under the same conditions, that was fifteen thousand wildlings that answered to Muad'Dib, a far cry from the believed couple of hundred.
"Your alarm is unnecessary. I have no intention of marching on the Wall, or becoming king beyond it," Muad'Dib replied blandly.
He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all. If Muad'Dib was some wildling off in the Frostfangs with a small tribe, then that wasn't his problem. He wasn't any more dangerous than the average wildling and he was a far off problem. Now he learned that he had an army at his back.
"Do I have your word?" Brandon asked while he and Qhorin bristled. Mance bit his lip to swallow some choice words.
"You do," Muad'Dib replied evenly. "I swear it upon my family name and my father, Leto Atreides." That wasn't enough for Mance. He didn't give a damn who his father was -- this whole deal just became more suspect. It felt like they were going to be giving the wildlings knives and swords that would be turned against his own brothers.
Brandon accepted the answer for what it was. "We'll test this arrangement for a year, until the glasshouse is completed. If there is any suspicion that you're uniting the clans…" he trailed off, clenching his jaw and staring hard into Muad'Dib's eyes. "I'll kill you myself."
Muad'Dib didn't react to the threat, though Gertrud openly glared at Brandon. Muad'Dib held up a hand, forestalling any action before he speaking, "I understand your hesitation. I accept these terms. It has been a pleasure, Lord Stark," Muad'Dib said, turning around and walking away. Mance watched him go, idly debating if it was worth being damned by the gods to plunge a blade into his back.
Not that he would have a chance, Mance soon learned when he heard the crunching of snow around him. His blade jumped out of its sheath before, much to his horror, a dozen men and women emerged from the snow in a plume of flurries. They must have laid on the ground for hours, long enough that any trace of their arrival was undone with the gentle snow falling. Another three emerged from behind the trees, and Mance saw that they each wielded a weirwood branch bow.
"Hold," Brandon growled, grabbing Mance by the shoulder when he got ready to defend himself. "They're not enemies," he added and, sure enough, the Fremen who all wore the odd suits that Muad'Dib was, were heading to follow their leader away from the heart tree. Any trace of moisture was gone from Mance's mouth.
They were surrounded. They had been surrounded since the moment they stepped beyond the Wall, and they hadn't been any the wiser. Their lives had been in Muad'Dib's hands.
And he let them know it.
Which always made it odd to him when he saw men wearing colors other than black.
"Aye, so you've said already," Qhorin Halfhand, as he had lost half a hand fighting wildlings a few years prior, replied gruffly. "You don't have to convince me of this folly. And you get to just ride with us with your mouth shut. I doubt Lord Stark would grant me the same privilege." As he spoke, he inclined his head to the approaching party. Castle Black lacked walls, beyond the massive one that faced the true north. Instead, it was a collection of buildings and towers, one of which gave them a decent view of the dozen men riding towards them.
"An inspection of the Wall," Mance muttered with a scoff and a shake of his head, though he knew one was likely in order. Three of nineteen castles were manned -- six hundred men in Castle Black, four hundred men at Eastwatch, and another four hundred men at Shadowtower. Less than fifteen hundred men. "The Lord Commander is going to go through with this?"
"Of course he will. Lord Commander Qorgyle is starving for supplies and men, and we sure as fuck won't be getting them from the Crown. He won't just turn a blind eye, he'll pluck 'em out of his head, and ours too if he feels the need," Qhorin grunted and Mance sighed. "Starks have always been good to the Watch. I won't begrudge them this much."
With that, Qhorin clapped Mance on the shoulder with his half hand before leading them both down the stairs. As soon as they received the raven, announcing that the heir to the North was heading up to the Wall with a small group of guards, most watchmen knew what was coming. The Rangers first and foremost, especially when Qhorin had come back to them after a winter ended with a long tale to share. Since then, they were getting ready to indulge the nobility.
As they reached the end of the stairs, the Stark party arrived, carrying their House's direwolf banner that flapped in the wind. The heir was a man in his late teens, maybe early twenties -- handsome and strong, with his expression one of focus. Mance always found himself curious about nobility. More often than not, the Wall only saw the dregs of them, though there were the occasional few that volunteered. And the Watch only had great things to say about the Starks, to the point you'd think spring followed them around and the sun shone out their arse.
But, the man on a large black horse just seemed like a man. No greater or worse than any other. Maybe these kings would be a different breed of men? The old maester didn't think so, and he was as learned a man as any Mance had ever known.
"Welcome to Castle Black, Lord Stark," Lord Commander Qorgyle greeted the party. He was an old man, Mance knew. His hair as white as snow and his face etched with winkles. His death would come soon, and Mance found that he hated the thought.
"My thanks for having us. We don't seek to disrupt your doings or interfere. I'm here to see with my own eyes what you need and make sure that you get it," Brandon Stark said, his tone affable. Friendly but regal. And Mance fought the urge to snort. Aye, that would do it. If the Stark was as good as his word, and all Mance heard painted that to be the case, then he could name himself King-Beyond-The-Wall, and no one would so much as utter a word of it.
"The honor is ours, milord," The Lord Commander said as Brandon got off his horse, joined by a few others.
"This is my companion, Martyn Cassel," Brandon introduced Martyn. "He is my father's master-at-arms and guard." The man was an older one, old enough to be the Stark's father. Large shoulders, thick arms, and a beard with traces of white in it. He gazed out at everyone with open suspicion, and that was fair enough. Half the Watch was made up by murderers, the other half rapers, with a few thieves and disgraced nobles sprinkled about.
With the introductions out of the way, Mance watched as the Lord Commander ushered them all into his office where they could have a private conversation. "Who do you think gets saddled with going beyond the Wall to deliver their message?"
"Knowing your luck, you will. Knowing my luck, me too," Qhorin answered with an amused snort. The two of them separated, both having things to take care of before they ventured beyond the Wall into wildling territory.
And, to Brandon Stark's credit, he spent a week at the Wall before he acted on his real intentions. He spoke at length with the Lord Commander, the Builders, the Stewards, and Rangers. He even spoke to the old maester Aemon. He supped with the men, and what Mance saw of him was a friendly fellow. The kind of man that others were drawn towards. It helped that he was taking the Watch seriously.
Then, a week later, Mance found himself summoned to the Lord Commander's office alongside Qhorin. There, Mance found Brandon Stark, and Mance knew it was finally time. "Lord Stark -- this is Qhorin and Mance, two of our finest rangers."
Brandon inclined his head to them, though his gaze was on Qhorin. "Well met, both of you. I've already heard a great deal about you both and all of it good. The Lord Commander tells me you spent a winter with these… Fremen," Brandon prompted and Qhorin nodded.
"I did, milord. I was part of a ranging with five others -- we had heard whispers about a new tribe. While their histories are hardly as storied as the Starks, some of the tribes in the North are every bit as ancient as your house." Qhorin started, reciting a story that he had been forced to tell a dozen times. Brandon frowned but said nothing, simply nodding for him to continue. "Most tribes are large families, though some in certain areas fall under the banner of a powerful warlord in control of a region. First, we heard that families were moving north to the Frostfangs."
"And that is worth investigating?" Brandon questioned, sounding genuinely curious.
Mance fought to repress a snort but answered for Qhorin. "The Frostfangs are as deadly as the bite of a direwolf. All the land beyond the Wall is harsh, but the Frostfangs… the only place where death is more certain is the Lands of Always Winter." Brandon seemed to chew on that for a moment before nodding, a frown starting to curl at his lips.
"As my friend said -- it was worth noting, but not worth a true investigation. However, it was little more than a year later, and we heard of a war between these Fremen and the Thegns -- a tribe far to the north. Of all the wildlings, they're the ones most like us. They fight with discipline, wear bronze armor, and fight with bronze weapons. By all accounts, the Thegns were thrashed soundly and defeated by a man calling himself Muad'Dib." Brandon leaned forward, his interest in the tale growing. "The Thegns boast a tribe of five thousand, milord. So, hearing that, we decided it was worth a ranging on the cusp of winter."
There was a bitter edge to Qhorin's voice. "We set out, spent the better part of a month just reaching the mountain range," Qhorin closed his eyes for a moment before he shook his head. "One moment we're trudging along, and the next Callum has an arrow in his throat. Wilhelm and I drew our blades, but by that time we already walked head first into an ambush."
"The Fremen?" Brandon prompted, but Qhorin shook his head.
"Worse. Ice River Clan," he answered and Mance fought a shiver. "The wildlings… most of them are just men. You have your honorable men, and you have dishonorable cunts… the Ice River Clans have never been south of the Wall, but they're what mothers tell their children about to scare them into behaving. Cannibals, kinslayers, sisters and motherfuckers… they're not men at all." Qhorin spat, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Willhelm took a spear to the gut, and I was about to slit my own throat. The River Clans prefer to extend their meals, you see. Taking bits over time so they always have fresh meat."
Brandon wasn't a man that cowered easily, Mance saw. Lesser boys paled and shivered when they realized that the tales about wildlings, at least some of them, were true. Brandon looked as if he were about to grab his sword and march beyond the Wall by himself, just to correct the mistake that were the Ice River Clans.
Qhorin continued, "The Fremen saved me. They were hunting the fuckers -- Ice River Clans always go on a final hunt before winter begins for fresh meat, and it seems like they found themselves hunted instead. There were a dozen of the River Clan, and before I even realized what was happening, six of them were dead. An arrow to the eye each. I only saw one Fremen that day… but he was fierce. Fought without fear of death, wielding two daggers, and killed another six men like he was carving a bloody cake. I passed out then, and when I woke up, I was bound and gagged. Figured I was going to my death, but I never managed to escape before I arrived at their Sieche, as they called it."
There was a hungry glint that appeared in the Stark's gray eyes, "You've been to their home?"
"Aye. It's deep in the Frostfangs, though I couldn't for the life of me tell you where. They have a natural spring, and there's a network of tunnels. I don't know how big, or how many people live there. I was blindfolded the entire time, and they pretty much tossed me in a cell for two years." Qhorin shrugged, not quite apologetically.
There was a creak of wood as Brandon leaned back in his seat, "You don't sound like you begrudge them for it."
"Worse ways to spend winter. Especially for a man of the Watch in the hands of wildlings. Figured the most I could hope for was a slow death. Instead, they fed me twice a day and when winter ended, they sent me on my way." Qhorin answered, and Mance knew that wasn't entirely true. He didn't know what the truth was exactly, but Qhorin was his friend and had a hand in raising him, so he knew that his friend always left something out of the story when he told it.
Brandon nodded, scratching at his short beard, accepting the answer for what it was. "This Muad'Dib came to Winterfell, posing as a man of the Watch. He came bearing fine goods with the claim that his tribe created them. Did you see anything that hinted to the truth?" Seems like they were finally getting to the heart of the matter.
Qhorin shook his head, "I didn't see much, milord. I heard things, though. Children curious to see a crow, saying things they shouldn't. I learned some things from the lass that brought me my meals too," He answered, scratching at his cheek. "I know they have a suit that lets them hunt in the height of winter beyond the Wall, because they always had meat. They have an odd contraption made of wheels that makes a noise at certain times of the day. I also know they smith with steel." Then he pursed his lips.
"They speak of Muad'Dib almost reverently, but they wouldn't tell me much about him. They're protective of him. Loyal too," Qhorin then frowned. "I also know that he takes children from defeated tribes, boys and girls as young as five and as old as ten. One of the boys let something slip -- he called himself Fedaykin. Or that he would one day become one. Muad'Dib seems to be training them personally… I convinced two of them to do a spar, milord."
"And?" Brandon prompted, sounding faintly uncertain.
"If they were any higher than my waist, they'd probably kill me in a fair fight. And I'm one of the deadliest men in the Night's Watch, halfhand or not," Qhorin admitted. "They were fast, coordinated, and they didn't hesitate to attack or defend. When they become men grown, they're going to be a terror in a fight. They'll cut through the Watch like a scythe through wheat, milord."
There was a long stretch of silence at the declaration. Mance hadn't seen it himself, but he trusted Qhorin's word.
Then Brandon spoke, "Then I have good news. I'm not here to make an enemy of this Muad'Dib. He came to my father to trade… and with the aid of the Night's Watch, I shall seek to make a deal with him." Dressed it up nicer than it was, but Mance figured that was part of being a noble.
Lord Commander Qorgyle nodded, "It's shameful to admit, but we do have men that trade with the wildlings -- furs, and the like. I know some of them. I can reposition them, send them over to Shadowtower, and they'll help smuggle the wildling goods into the North. It'll be an old hat for some of them that were sent here for smuggling." Brandon nodded, unsurprised by the news, nor their willingness to aid him in the endeavor.
"For a price, I imagine. That's fine. They'll get their due, as will the Night's Watch," Brandon promised. "Now it's just a matter of getting ahold of the-"
He was interrupted by a knock at the door. The Lord Commander glanced at Brandon, who nodded, before he called out, "Enter!"
Samson, a steward that had been caught raping a barmaid, stepped into the office. "My lords, there… there's a wildling outside of the gate. She says she's here t-to escort Lord Stark to the godswood," he stuttered ever so slightly at the intense looked that flashed over Brandon's face. A mix between surprised, displeasure, and curiosity.
"Muad'Dib wants me to come to him?" Brandon asked, sounding almost curious. Mance just felt relieved. He expected that he and Qhorin were going to be sent out to the Frostfangs to fetch the Fremen. A wolfish smile found its way onto his face, "Why not? I've always wanted to go beyond the Wall. Who knows when I'll get another chance?"
Lord Commander Qorgyle's face twisted like he had taken a sip of fermented goat's milk, "My lord, I must protest this- they're wildlings." He didn't speak of fear for fear of Brandon himself, but for Lord Rickard's wrath if they managed to let his heir die.
Brandon shook his head, "They won't gain anything if this is a trap, beyond the ire of the North. Muad'Dib said he wanted to foster relations and he's willing to meet before the Old Gods. I'll believe him," he said, and the Lord Commander paled.
"And if you're wrong?" He desperately tried, but everyone in the room saw that the young lord's mind was made up.
He confirmed as much when he threw his head back and laughed, "I imagine I'll do a lot of screaming as I die!" He said with the confidence of a man convinced he wouldn't die. And one ignorant of what his death would mean for others. Mance decided then that he didn't particularly like the young lord, though that was mostly because of the heart attack he seemed bent on giving the Lord Commander. "I'll gather my companions and set out."
With that, he left the room and Lord Commander Qorgyle looked at them both desperately. "Protect him. I'm sorry, but we can't afford to let him die from his own foolishness!"
Mance nodded easily, "Aye. We'll make sure the lordling gets back alive. Though can't promise it'll be in one piece," he said, flashing a smile when the Lord Commander glowered at him. Qhorin slapped him on the shoulder, offering a curt nod, and they left before they could drive him into an early grave. They were already prepared for a journey, so they ended up taking out some supplies from their packs before they headed down to the gate where Brandon and his companions were.
Brandon didn't seem surprised to see them either, "The Lord Commander sent you just in case?" He questioned, and Mance glanced at the sword at his belt. Fine steel that was, complete with a snarling wolf pommel.
"Aye, just in case," Qhorin agreed. "The weirwood tree is half a league beyond the Wall. And I wouldn't bother with horses -- unless they're trained for it… they'll get spooked and throw you off," he warned, making Brandon pause.
He nodded, "I'll take your word for it, ranger." He agreed easily enough. Seems like he was willing to be smart about being a fool. At least he wasn't making their job harder.
Mance took a breath as the five of them lined up before the gate that slowly creaked open with a squeal of cold iron. They walked through the tunnel of ice, hearing the gate close behind them. Then, a minute later, the gate before them began to squeal as well as it was lifted up, revealing… a woman. Early twenties, blonde hair, green eyes -- pretty. She wore an odd suit of a whitish gray material that did very little to hide her figure.
Mance felt a stirring the moment he saw her. He had seen women before. His brothers even took him to Moletown so he might know a woman before he took his vows. He swallowed it down, pushing the feeling aside. He was a man of the Night's Watch. He had been all of his life. And he would be until his dying day, pretty face be damned.
However, Mance wasn't the only one that the woman stirred a reaction in. Brandon, instantly, seemed interested, "You're our guide, I take it?"
"Aye. I'll take you to Muad'Dib. He waits for you at the heart tree," She answered, her gaze sliding over all of them before lingering on he and Qhorin. Her lips curled ever so slightly, but it wasn't in disgust how most wildlings looked upon Watchmen. She seemed amused and Mance got the feeling he was the butt of a joke.
"Lead the way then, lady…?" Brandon offered, a sly smile tugging up at one corner of his mouth as the wildling turned to start marching towards the weirwood. Instantly, Mance felt uneasy -- it was a very rare wildling that would willingly turn their back to a crow.
The wildling snorted, "Gertrud. You southerners are daft enough to remind a woman that she's a woman?" She didn't bother turning around as they began the trek. There was a path, an ancient one, that led to the weirwood from those that wished to say their vows to the Old Gods, as Mance did.
Brandon's smirk dropped, while Martyn bristled, "We're northerners-" He began to spit out, earning an unimpressed glance from Gertrud, but Brandon waved him off.
"We live south of her. Can't say I care for being called a southerner, though," he admitted. Gertrud shrugged her shoulders, indifferent and uncaring.
"I can call you kneelers, if that helps," she said in a tone delighted by knowing that it wouldn't. "I never understood that part. Why bow down to some cunt half a world away?"
Mance found himself agreeing with her, however silently. He swore an oath before the gods and gained a family of brothers. Answering to a Lord Stark, a man he had never seen in a castle that he had never seen, always felt…
"You serve Muad'Dib, just as I serve my father and he serves the king. Just with more pomp and pageantry," Brandon replied and it was obvious enough what he was doing. It was enough to make Mance start to worry -- how do you save a man from himself? "Speaking of which -- have you served him long?"
Gertrud scoffed, "I've known him since he was a boy," she answered with ease. "Watched him grow up from a boy to a man. That's the difference, between us free folk and you kneelers. I can understand kneeling for someone you know. Someone you see greatness in firsthand. But you lot bow down to a name and a fancy hat. For what?" She asked, her voice less scornful than Mance had heard from some wildlings, but not by much.
The remarks were getting to Martyn, yet Brandon, who they were directed at, was unbothered. It left Martyn to be offended on his behalf at the disrespect… If Brandon noticed Martyn's growing ire, he ignored it in favor of answering, "We make oaths and we keep them. In return, we're given privileges and rights."
Gertrud shook her head all the same, "And if the kneeler king decides to go back on those oaths?"
"Then we kill the king," Brandon replied darkly, an edge entering his voice and Mance regretted hearing that. Gertrud glanced back with a smile at that, genuinely approving and that was a dangerous sign if Mance ever saw one. Martyn favored him a look, but seemed content to say nothing.
The wildling hummed as she led them down the path, and Mance kept an eye on the trees with a hand on his blade. Even as he kept an ear open to the conversation that seemed to become more and more private.
"Suppose we have that in common. You southerners like to act like you're better because you stacked some bricks and you're arse sits in a throne, but at the end of the day, it's all the same. You're the same as any man. Like how I can feel your eyes on my arse," She remarked, not even glancing back.
Brandon didn't even seem ashamed, "It's a lovely arse. And for my people, you're dressed… immodestly," he offered, amused.
"Fancy silk dresses don't last long in the North- the true North," Gertrud replied drily. "But I'm surprised. I know the crows fuck goats and each other because they swore off women, but I figured a lord would want some gentle lady that smells of flowers, faints at the sight of blood, and weeps at every sad tale."
A complicated expression passed over Brandon's face. "In the south, aye. And if my father has his way, I'll be married to some soft lady," he spat on the ground like he tasted something foul. "I prefer a woman. The kind that'll smack me when I'm being an arse… and one who'll smack me on the arse when we fuck rather than lay there like a dead fish." It sounded like he had someone in mind when he spoke.
Gertrud heard it too, coming to a stop before turning around. There was a coy smile tugging at her lips, sauntering up to Brandon and he looked at her with the same longing as a dog to a bone. Martyn, however, tensed, his hand ready to draw steel.
Then she smacked him and the steel leaped from its scabbards.
Gertrud didn't seem alarmed before Brandon held out a hand to ward Martyn off. She stood before him, unrepentant, simply waiting for his reason and Mance felt his breath caught in his throat.
What he didn't expect was for Brandon to laugh, absolutely delighted. He seemed absolutely smitten with her, Mance concluded. "I deserved that one, my lady," he said, smiling broadly even as his cheek shone a bright red.
"Maybe if you're lucky, I'll smack you on the arse next," Gertrud teased, walking on as if nothing happened. Not that they had particularly far to go as Mance saw a hint of red that marked the weirwood tree. And, as they neared, Gertrud spoke, "If any of you try to break the peace, I'll cut you cunt to throat and feed your innards to the Old Gods."
Brandon just grinned as they continued to the grove and there, Mance saw the weirwood tree. The tree was ancient, as old as the wall itself, its large trunk was a pale white, and its many branches were heavy with blood red leaves. A face was carved into the trunk, a face that seemed to be caught in a silent scream as it wept tears of blood. A shiver raced down his spine at the sight, and the silence.
It was always unnaturally silent near a heart tree, as if the animals themselves dared not to breathe in its presence.
However, before the tree, Mance saw a man. More of a boy, really. Small and thin, dark hair pushed out of his face that was growing out of its boyish looks to become a man. He wore the same odd suit that Gertrud wore, but over it was a ragged and frayed linen cloak that was draped over his body, half hiding his hands.
Then the boy moved and Mance instantly felt uneasy. The boy moved as if the ground would never dare to trip him, and even as he held out his hands, showing that he was unarmed, Mance didn't feel comforted in the slightest. There was absolutely no evidence to support it, but deep in his gut, Mance knew exactly who he stood before -- Muad'Dib.
Muad'Dib wasn't bothered by their numbers either, though his gaze was focused on Brandon, "Lord Stark." As he greeted the lord, Gertrud continued on, falling to the side of Muad'Dib with practiced ease, her hand resting on a dagger at her hip as she eyed them as if debating which one to kill first.
Brandon held Muad'Dib's gaze for a moment, "You have some balls lying to my father like that." He began, his voice gruff and less than friendly.
Muad'Dib offered a thin smile, "I never lied to your lord father. Not once. I merely claimed to have news from beyond the wall, and I happened to be wearing black." Mance frowned deeply, understanding what was being implied. Muad'Dib had gotten over the Wall. That made his guts tie themselves into knots -- wildlings being south of the Wall was a failing, but Muad'Dib being south of the Wall… that felt more like a disaster.
A huff escaped Martyn Cassel, a sour expression upon his face, "Your name, then? You introduced yourself as Paul Atreides, a noble scion. You're telling me that's not a bold fuckin' lie?" The older man growled, a hand falling to his sword.
Muad'Dib didn't seem bothered by the accusation. "Paul Atreides is my name. As is Usul Muad'Dib," he answered easily, making Brandon frown.
"You're house words?" He prompted, as if trying to catch Muad'Dib out in a lie. To that, Muad'Dib's gaze seemed almost sad as he answered.
"Here I Am, Here I Remain," Muad'Dib answered, sounding wistful. It wasn't an emotion that Mance expected from the boy. But he was far more interested on how this was supposed to make sense. Gertrud spoke as if Muad'Dib as if he had been a wildling all of his life. "A red hawk on black with a history stretching back ten thousand years…" That got a reaction out of the two lordlings. It got one from Mance and Qhorin as well -- he claimed his family was older than the Wall itself by two thousand years.
The information had but a moment to settle before Brandon spoke, "Yet, you are a wildling beyond the Wall." Mance looked to Gertrud for a hint, but her expression betrayed nothing. It was almost unnerving how emotionless her face was, listening to them speak… even her body was unnaturally still. He'd think her dead if it wasn't for her breathing.
"We prefer the term Free Folk, Lord Stark. My tribe in particular is called the Fremen as Qhorin has likely informed you," Muad'Dib said, his gaze flickering to Mance's friend for the first time. "It is nice to see you again. I hope you enjoyed your stay. The children miss you," Muad'Dib said and Mance found himself gripping his blade. He heard what went unsaid as easily as if Muad'Dib had spoken the words out loud.
Muad'Dib knew exactly what had made it to Qhorin's ears.
Qhorin licked his lips, "I've had worse winters." He allowed, inclining his head to Muad'Dib. With two meals a day, he likely ate better last winter than Mance did at the Wall.
It was then that Brandon crossed his arms over his chest, "I have searched for your house in the records at Winterfell. They made no mention of a House Atreides. Much less one with the history that you claim."
Muad'Dib nodded, "I did tell your father that I would be shocked if he knew of my House. However, my lord, I doubt that you came all this way to ask me about my family."
"I wouldn't be so sure. I prefer to know who I'm jumping in bed with beforehand," Brandon replied curtly. "I barely know a damned thing about you, and what I do know doesn't make a lick of sense. Are you an exile? Do the wildlings have some ancient empire that they've neglected to mention?" He pressed, setting his jaw and Mance saw that he was determined to get at least one straight answer from Muad'Dib.
Muad'Dib seemed to sense this as well because he spoke. "House Atreides was of the Great Houses of the Padishah Empire, who was ruled by the Corrino family for ten thousand years. My family was of status with your own, Lord Stark -- a large fief with numerous vassals sworn to us. Though we were called Dukes in the empire, and we were second only to the Emperor himself," he spoke and Mance saw Brandon growing tense the more he heard. "At least, we were until we were betrayed. My family- my father proved to be too popular and Emperor Shaddam Corrino the Fourth was a jealous man. Working with my family rivals, House Harkonnen, he arranged for my family to be slaughtered."
How he spoke of it… you'd think it happened to someone else. He spoke dispassionately, his voice steady. It was an old hurt for him, Mance reasoned, or he was too young to remember what he spoke of. Or, he could just be lying. He rather hoped that he might be, because otherwise that meant that there was some place called the Padishah Empire out there.
He'd have to pester Maester Aemon if they got back to Castle Black. He heard of far off lands, such as Essos, or even more distant lands such as Yi Ti. Could the world be even larger than what he heard? And he had seen only such a small portion of it.
"Do you seek revenge?" Brandon asked and, to that, Muad'Dib smiled. It should be charming, Mance knew. Yet, it turned Mance's blood to ice.
"What child doesn't want to avenge his father?" Muad'Dib questioned with a raised eyebrow, "But, given current circumstances, my vengeance shall have to wait." He replied, offering nothing more. That, more than anything else, convinced Mance that he was dangerous. He knew vengeance. He had seen it in the wildings when the Watch killed their fathers, brothers, and sons. He saw it in the Watch when the wildlings killed a brother. Vengeance was hot and angry and impulsive. Muad'Dib was as cold as winter itself. "Are you satisfied with your answers, Lord Stark?"
He half hoped that Brandon would say no, just so Mance could hear more, but the lord nodded his head. "I've heard enough, aye. Though, I feel like I've gained more questions than answers -- you are right, I didn't come all this way to interrogate you. I've come to make a deal with your tribe… Lord Atreides," he said after a pause, nodding at Muad'Dib. Acknowledging him as another noble.
"You speak with the authority of your father?" Muad'Dib questioned and Brandon offered a curt nod.
"My word is his own," Brandon confirmed. "As such, I have the authority to deny such a trade. I will not lie to you, you possess fine goods and we both know it. Yet, not so fine that I would risk the ire of my bannermen for trinkets and baubles." Ah, so the haggling had officially begun, has it?
Muad'Dib didn't so much as blink, perfectly poised and comfortable where he stood. "Then we shall not trade in trinkets nor baubles," he replied smoothly, making no opening offer.
Brandon scowled ever so slightly before speaking, "The suits that you wear. The one that you left behind does as you said -- we had a stable hand wear it, and he slept in the snow without issue." Mance glanced at the two of them, noting the odd clothing that they wore. Was that the suit that he mentioned?
"The suits are not easy to create. Think of each as a fine suit of armor, and you will have an idea of the process to make one." And the cost would be equal. A full suit of fine armor was expensive. The only times he saw any was when lords came to the Wall and he heard the whispers of how those lords bought them for amounts of money that were equal to what a hundred men could earn in a year. "However, I believe that we can create two suits for yourself and Lord Stark by the time of the first shipment, if you would be so kind as to forward your measurements."
"That can be arranged… at what cost?" Brandon questioned, and Mance noticed that he was too direct. Too… open. He heard haggling on occasion when an odd ship came up from the south for furs, amber, and what have you. He heard it between his brothers as well whenever they got new things such as boots or cloaks. You'd think someone had them at knife point, forcing them to buy something they had no interest in.
"Ten pounds of precious metals -- gold, or silver. Or two hundred pounds of iron, copper, tin, or unripened silver," Muad'Dib replied and Mance had no idea if that was a fair price. Martyn made a subtle gesture that Brandon caught, who shook his head at the price.
"Eight pounds of precious metals, or one hundred and fifty pounds of common metals," Brandon countered, his tone serious. Mance got the impression that he was new to haggling, but he was determined to get a good deal. Unfortunately for him, so was Muad'Dib. The two went back and forth a bit before settling on seven pounds of precious metals or two hundred and fifty pounds of common metals. From the sounds of it, it'd still be less costly to buy it with the common ores.
"I also understand that you can make glass. What would it cost to produce a pane of it?" Brandon questioned, and Muad'Dib expected the question.
"For a large pane, such as one to a glasshouse, I would accept five pounds of dragonglass," Muad'Dib answered and Brandon paused for a moment before nodding in acceptance.
"A full glasshouse would take two hundred panes of glass to build," he said, not bothering to hide his intentions. "Would you accept a compromise of ores and other goods?" He asked and Muad'Dib nodded easily.
"That is acceptable. It will take some time to fulfill the contract of two hundred panes. A year," the wildling said, and that didn't sound like a guess to Mance. "We shall ship them as we make them to stagger the delivery and the cost," he offered, earning a nod from Brandon. "We have a ship ready to use, but it will be a month before we could create the suits for you. It is ready to be used, however, and it has other things that may be of interest to you or Lord Stark." There was an offer there and Brandon heard it.
He seemed to ponder it for a moment before speaking, "The blacksails won't bother your ship, and you'll send it to the Mountain Clan Liddle, who will expect you. The goods will then be brought to Winterfell under their banner and protection, there we shall pay for the exchange. Your merchants will return, load up on their ship once more, and return beyond the Wall. The first of these exchanges can start next month, when the spring storms settle."
There was one issue with the plan, Mance decided. "What about the wildlings of the Frozen Shore? There aren't that many of them, true, but they're fine enough warriors that don't tend to welcome outsiders."
Mance couldn't say he liked it when Muad'Dib looked at him for the first time. His eyes were dark, but there was something in his eyes that made Mance's skin crawl. Something dangerous. It was as if Mance was stripped bare before him, and not even his own thoughts were private. And when Muad'Dib spoke, he couldn't say that it gave him any comfort. "The Free Folk clans of the Frozen Shore have been… subjugated. They now answer to me. Our ships shall pass."
Qhorin startled at that, "The fuck do you mean, they answer to you?" He blurted, feeling the same spike of panic that Mance felt. There was an estimated of five to ten thousand men along the Frozen Shore. If the defeat of the Thegns was under the same conditions, that was fifteen thousand wildlings that answered to Muad'Dib, a far cry from the believed couple of hundred.
"Your alarm is unnecessary. I have no intention of marching on the Wall, or becoming king beyond it," Muad'Dib replied blandly.
He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all. If Muad'Dib was some wildling off in the Frostfangs with a small tribe, then that wasn't his problem. He wasn't any more dangerous than the average wildling and he was a far off problem. Now he learned that he had an army at his back.
"Do I have your word?" Brandon asked while he and Qhorin bristled. Mance bit his lip to swallow some choice words.
"You do," Muad'Dib replied evenly. "I swear it upon my family name and my father, Leto Atreides." That wasn't enough for Mance. He didn't give a damn who his father was -- this whole deal just became more suspect. It felt like they were going to be giving the wildlings knives and swords that would be turned against his own brothers.
Brandon accepted the answer for what it was. "We'll test this arrangement for a year, until the glasshouse is completed. If there is any suspicion that you're uniting the clans…" he trailed off, clenching his jaw and staring hard into Muad'Dib's eyes. "I'll kill you myself."
Muad'Dib didn't react to the threat, though Gertrud openly glared at Brandon. Muad'Dib held up a hand, forestalling any action before he speaking, "I understand your hesitation. I accept these terms. It has been a pleasure, Lord Stark," Muad'Dib said, turning around and walking away. Mance watched him go, idly debating if it was worth being damned by the gods to plunge a blade into his back.
Not that he would have a chance, Mance soon learned when he heard the crunching of snow around him. His blade jumped out of its sheath before, much to his horror, a dozen men and women emerged from the snow in a plume of flurries. They must have laid on the ground for hours, long enough that any trace of their arrival was undone with the gentle snow falling. Another three emerged from behind the trees, and Mance saw that they each wielded a weirwood branch bow.
"Hold," Brandon growled, grabbing Mance by the shoulder when he got ready to defend himself. "They're not enemies," he added and, sure enough, the Fremen who all wore the odd suits that Muad'Dib was, were heading to follow their leader away from the heart tree. Any trace of moisture was gone from Mance's mouth.
They were surrounded. They had been surrounded since the moment they stepped beyond the Wall, and they hadn't been any the wiser. Their lives had been in Muad'Dib's hands.
And he let them know it.
williams1996
Alba gu bràth
- Location
- Scotland
They really have no idea what they are dealing with Paul is a different kind of monster than they are used to in westeros.
Great chapter, I can't wait to see where it goes.
Paul kinda backed down easily on not uniting the clans. I get promising not march toward the wall but being told what he can and can't do on what is basically his territory is weird.
But I didn't read/watch Dune so hopefully we'll get an explanation latter.
Paul kinda backed down easily on not uniting the clans. I get promising not march toward the wall but being told what he can and can't do on what is basically his territory is weird.
But I didn't read/watch Dune so hopefully we'll get an explanation latter.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- He/Him
He doesn't need them united now. He's got ~30ish years to do it, and he conquered a planet in less than 5.
Arimai
Curmudgeon
If he has the full training and abilities Paul has centuries, even without Spice. Reverend Mothers and Full Sisters can stop aging and accelerate healing; Spice just makes makes it easier and enhances the scope of their powers.
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I have no doubt Paul can find a way to become a Greenseer.
He has Weirwood Paste and can get access to Shade of the Evening.
On top of that, anyone can use Magic by spilling enough blood.
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First Steps 1.3
- Location
- USA
Jaehaerys Targaryen, for all of his considerable faults, did know how to bind the Seven Kingdoms together. Aegon the Conqueror knew how to take them, but Jaehaerys united them. Such as in the case of the North, where he stole the New Gift and made them more reliant on southern grain. However, not all of it had been the stick. Jaehaerys had also gifted fine maps to all of the Lords Paramount and Wardens, showing all of Westeros as a single unified whole. Which had also been a declaration of intent because Dorne was included in the Seven Kingdoms.
The Conciliator was not remembered fondly by the North, but Northerners used what they had.
"Elissa Farman sailed through the Sunset Sea and Corlys Velaryon once wrote in his journals that he suspected he found her ship, the Sun Chaser in Asshai. We know they found islands based on Ser Eustace Hightower when he came limping back," Brandon said, leaning forward to point toward the Sunset Sea. There was also Brandon the Shipwright, who had attempted to sail west of Westeros, only he had never returned. His son, Brandon the Shipburner, destroyed what was left of the North's fleet in a fit of rage.
As harshly as they may judge the South, Rickard could admit that the Starks had their fair share of fools with crowns.
Rickard, however, pointed to the Lands of Always Winter. "Beyond the Wall has never been explored in any length. The land is too harsh and unforgiving. But, with these suits, traversing them could be possible with enough food and time. On the other side of those desolate lands could be this Padishah Empire." The thought made his skin itch.
Part of him wished to muster the men and reinforce the Wall until all nineteen castles were fully manned. It would be a vast overreaction, Rickard knew. For eight thousand years, the Kings of Winter had never suspected that there could be anything beyond the Lands of Always Winter. There had been no invasion, beyond the wildlings. Still, he didn't at all care for the idea of having a neighbor to the north.
Brandon nodded, "After his family was attacked, kin and vassals fled through the winter lands and found themselves amongst the wildlings. The one I spoke to made it sound like Paul was raised amongst them, but he was raised as a noble." He voiced, and that was something of a relief to hear. Rickard's own measuring of the boy was that he was high nobility and now Paul claimed to be of a House that was older than even House Stark.
With that, even with the revelation that there was possibly an ancient empire they had never heard of to the north of them, the world made sense once more. The idea that wildlings could create such things had been almost too much to swallow. But an exiled noble hiding in such savage lands with his retinue? That made a great deal more sense.
"These strange goods are likely from his homeland. Perhaps his family brought skilled craftsmen with them when they fled," Brandon continued, gesturing to where the Padishah Empire could be. "We could venture the same way once we gain the suits. Send an expedition," he ventured but Rickard was shaking his head, misliking the idea immensely.
"We can control one exiled noble," Rickard decided, "We cannot control a foreign empire. I don't know if they are as ignorant of us as we were of them, but it is too great of a risk to inform them if they aren't." His lips thinned and his brow furrowed, "Bringing him into the North allows us to develop our own industries, so we gain more with less risk." Though, he was admittedly curious what else the empire could create.
Corlys Velaryon, before the Dance of the Dragons, had enriched his house to the point of rivaling the Targaryens within his own lifetime with his nine great voyages. House Stark could possibly gain as much in the same manner. Perhaps more so because the North would become a center of trade with this empire. However, that thought was a grasping one, and needlessly reckless.
"The lords would accept exiled nobility more than they would a clever wildling," Brandon said, accepting his reasoning. "But I don't know about control. Dealing with him felt like sticking my hand in the mouth of a wolf -- there was always this danger that he would decide to bite. He just didn't because it wasn't in his interest."
Rickard nodded slowly, deciding he would trust his son's measure of the man. Paul was certainly bold, if nothing else. "We have time to get his measure. A year, if he is to be believed." If it was true, then his ability to produce glass outstripped Myr's, and by a significant margin. "A masterly house, perhaps." It couldn't be under the Umbers, Karstarks, or Glovers. House Bolton was too dangerous. House Dustin or House Ryswell less so, but still a risk. House Manderly was a possibility, especially given that they were already a center of trade of the North, but while Wyman Manderly was as loyal of a vassal as he could wish for, that was a great deal of power and faith to put into his descendants.
"I think the challenge may be convincing him to bend the knee. After we met, I swung by Shadowtower to see if his words were true. They told me that there was a war on the Frozen Shore- a war, they called it. The Watchmen all gave the same tale -- Paul's Fremen swept through the area and crushed any resistance," Brandon said, circling a stretch of land beyond the wall. Walrus tribes, Rickard knew. They frequently raided Bear Island. "He took dozens of their children, to hold as hostage, I think."
Rickard saw the point that his son was getting at, "You think he truly does intend to become a King-Beyond-the-Wall?"
"I don't know. He could. Or he could be paving the way for an invasion. Why risk the men marching through the winter lands when you have tens of thousands of wildlings to march for you?" Brandon said, shaking his head. "I just don't trust him."
"Good," Rickard nodded, "You'd be a fool to. As a lord, there are precious few people that you can afford to hold any faith in, my son. Family, but not always, and never with everything." He informed grimly. "We don't trust him. We never trust him. But, we find what motivates him. His family was slaughtered? Then we know that vengeance is a lever to move him. And, for the next year, I want you to find what else moves him."
It was evident enough that Brandon wasn't entirely comfortable with it. It wasn't in his nature, Rickard knew. Scheming would never come easy to him. It was a strength and a weakness in equal measure. But, even if Brandon didn't scheme or plot, he would need to learn how his vassals might plot against him and his children.
Rickard had no intentions of dying anytime soon, but he one day would, and he was loath to leave behind an unprepared heir.
Brandon offered a nod, and Rickard accepted the answer for what it was. He would need to shadow his son in the endeavor, but it would hardly be Brandon's task if Rickard did everything for him. "Good. Now, in the coming weeks, we'll have the Spring Festival. That will be our opportunity to establish the framework of the deception. Have you given it any thought?"
"Aye -- I want to bring in the Mountain Clans and the Manderlys," Brandon said, and that caught Rickard's attention. "The Manderlys would be there mostly to explain how we have what we get. Something like we're getting shipments from Myr. I'm still workshopping that bit," he admitted easily. "But, the Mountain Clans are perfect. They know the terrain better than anyone, and they're connected to the coast. The Fremen sail down from beyond the Wall, sailing past the Blacksails, and land on the coast. The Mountain Clans are isolated, they lead the Fremen through the mountains, through the wolfswood, and directly to our door."
It wasn't a bad plan. Rickard dared to say it was a good one.
"And when someone eventually sees the Mountain Clansmen?" Rickard prodded, just to see if his son had an answer.
"Well, we need to mine more to pay for all of this. The Westerlands are mountains, and they have heaps of ore. We have mountains, so there is probably ore in them too," Brandon reasoned. He likely wasn't wrong, but it was less ironclad than Rickard had wanted.
Still, it was a workable plan. Three points of failure, including the Night's Watch. It was no small fit of irony that the Night's Watch was the most reliable cornerstone of the deception. Murderers, rapists, thieves, and smugglers -- yet their part was small, and they were isolated. Even when his lords suspected the fine goods and glass did not come from where Rickard claimed, it would be a leap in logic to assume that they came from wildlings of all people.
No. The cornerstone that would falter, he suspected, would be the Manderlys. Not necessarily through intention, but sooner or later, someone would notice that a ship from Essos didn't arrive when the goods were delivered. That interested lords and merchants could not find this trader who brought such goods. That would give way to doubt. Which would give way to suspicion. Suspicion would turn to action and, inevitably, the lie would be revealed even if it wasn't revealed exactly how Rickard had lied.
And, eventually, the South would learn of what they had. Either through the talk of trader's or spies. News moved slowly in the North, but once it reached the South, tales would spread like a pox. Sooner or later, the Crown would wonder why King's Landing was passed over from these supposed ships from Essos. When that happened, Rickard expected demands from the mad king, and he needed to have answers ready.
"Well done. One final question, my son -- how are you going to convince them to go along with this?"
Brandon worked his jaw for a moment, seemingly annoyed with the question because as much as he expected it, he didn't have an answer. "No idea. I don't know what to give the Mountain Clans to make them stomach the idea of helping wildlings."
To that, Rickard simply chuckled. "I do."
…
"Fuck. Fucking… fuck arse-" Brandon muttered under his breath, rolling his shoulders as he tried to break whatever wires seemed to be woven in his clothing. He knew it wasn't proper and lordly to wear riding leather and travel clothes, but why in the ever-loving fuck did feasting clothes have to feel like his clothing was trying to assassinate him?
"If you pop a thread, Wila is going to blacken your eye," Lyanna teased him with a cheeky smile, greeting him as he made his way into the hall. It was something of a comfort to see that she hated her dress every bit as much as he hated his restrictive clothing. Then that comfort quickly turned into annoyance when he realized he was comparing himself to a twelve year old girl.
He reached out to tussle her hair, making her squawk indignantly. "It'd be worth it," Brandon sighed. "Come on, let's hurry it up before we catch an earful from father." He said, leading Lyanna forward while she straightened her hair.
"Do you think we can go to Wintertown?" Lyanna asked, sounding hopeful. Fat chance, unfortunately. He'd rather spend the Spring Festival in the small village outside of Winterfell, competing in the games, feasting with people he liked, and whoring until he was spent. "I want to join the horse races. I'm old enough to race now!" She added, like he was the one she had to convince.
Brandon caught a glimpse out at the courtyard, seeing the pomp and pageantry on display. Lords from all over the North were coming to scratch each other's backs, kiss arse, and get into pissing contests. "Maybe after the feast," Brandon said, holding out hope for himself as much as Lyanna. And it was in moments like these that his heart ached for Ned.
Ned was the good child. And Father was always less wroth when he saw one of his kids had listened to him.
Lyanna smiled widely, taking that as good as a confirmation. Seems like that was going to be another negotiation with their father. Feeling a surge of brotherly affection, he went to tussle her hair again, only for his hand to be smacked away before she poked him in the ribs. "If you mess up my hair, I'll blacken your eye."
That got a laugh out of him, "Going to stand on Benjen's shoulders?" He asked, laughing harder at the thought of it. She poked him again in the ribs, pouting. The laughter promptly died when he saw the final set of doors that shielded him from an absolutely miserable afternoon. He tried to find the silver lining to the whole affair, and hoped that, maybe, Barbrey would be in attendance. Father wouldn't begrudge him a few dances with her.
A sigh escaped him as he reached the doors -- his marriage to the Trout hung over his head like a blade. It was his duty, he knew. And he would do it for the sake of the north, but he prayed to the Old Gods and the New Gods, and even that Essosian god R'hllor that Catelyn Tully had some fire in her. If he had to spend the next twenty, thirty, or forty years of his life tiptoeing through a tepid marriage with some southern flower that was perpetually offended by his very nature, but too much of a coward to call him on it, he was going to go mad.
"Ready little sister?" Brandon asked, offering his favorite sister a lopsided smile. Well, she was his only sister. But, if he happened to have another, Brandon was pretty sure she would still be his favorite because her scowl matched how he felt in that moment.
"I guess…" She said, nodding her head ever so slightly, careful to not disturb the blue rose that was woven into her hair. And, to Brandon's immense relief, her hair was still tied up. The day she attended one of these feasts with it down, meaning that she was on the marriage market… was probably the day that he killed one of his bannermen, if Brandon was being perfectly honest.
They shared a smile and mutual misery before Brandon opened the door, revealing the feasting hall. First, his attention went to the high table where his father sat. It was the same every spring, though Brandon still hadn't gotten used to not seeing his mother seated beside him. The nobles, as they entered the hall, first paid homage to his father as Lord of the North. They exchanged a few pleasantries, sometimes bearing gifts to show what they were up to during the winter, then they stepped to the side.
That's when the mingling started. And the arse kissing.
Things had yet to start, telling Brandon he had arrived just on time. He tossed a wink over at Benjen, who already looked bored despite his best efforts to seem otherwise. That got a small smile out of him, the eleven year old boy perking up ever so slightly. As annoying as it could be, it was an older brother's duty to shield his siblings from the tediousness of dealing with feasts. He'd run interference so they could slip away at some point and actually have some fun.
Taking his place by his father, who gestured for the door to the hall to be opened, Brandon watched as the first of the nobility was brought into the hall, walking by long tables that were richly decorated with platters awaiting food. By tapestries that depicted eight thousand years of uninterrupted rulership of the North. And up to his father, who was cold as winter itself at times, it felt like.
They were greeted by high nobility first -- the Flints, Dustins, Ryswells, Tallhart, Glover, Hornwood, Karstarks, Umbers, Manderlys, and the Boltons. The high lords went in whatever order they came, then their vassals came after the high nobility in whatever order they arrived in. But, given that most came in groups, it was frequent that you'd deal with the vassals of a lord in groups.
The first of what was going to be a long night was Greatjon Umber. Greatjon was a large man, easily standing head and shoulders above Brandon himself. Thick black hair, a long beard, dressed in an orangish brown tunic with a bear pelt hanging off his shoulders. It barely touched the floor as he walked.
"Lord Stark! Another winter come and gone, and we're still here!" He greeted them with a broad smile and a boisterous laugh.
His father offered a thin one in response, "Aye. Here we are. The snows were harsh this year, my lord. I hope your family fared well," he offered, the first of many pleasantries of the evening. Brandon settled in, but paid attention. He did like Greatjon, after all.
The lumbering man nodded, "We did. Was a longer winter than we were hoping for, but a shorter one than we prepared for." To that, Brandon nodded. His house words were always true, in the end. Winter is Coming. "We had some luck on a hunt -- a bear woke up early and hungry. My nephew, Jon, led the hunt to kill it before it could break into any homes of our smallfolk. It's pelt, I present to you, as a gift!" He offered, his attendant stepping forward and Greatjon unfurled the snow white pelt.
It was the size of a man grown. Brandon knew exactly what the gift was and he struggled to swallow a sour expression.
Espousing the merits of his kin to his lord in front of his unwed daughter. There was very little doubt what Greatjon intended.
"You have done your people, and us, a service. We take this gift and thank you for it, Greatjon Umber," his father intoned, not so much as twitching. Greatjon nodded, passing the pelt to one of the servants, where it would be the first in a pile. As he stepped to the side, Brandon stole a glance at his sister to see that she too seemed aware of what the pelt meant. Reaching out, he patted his hand on hers and she breathed a little easier.
The rest of the greetings went as they normally did. Sometimes Brandon spoke up, greeting the lords he was most familiar with, such as the Ryswells, and he kindled hope that he might see Barbrey. His father, however, handled the bulk of it as the hours went by before the proper celebration could begin. Brandon only truly paid attention to a few of them.
Wyman Manderly was a man in his forties with a round belly that strained against the fabrics of his richly decorated and embroidered clothing. The man was the richest lord in the North, second only to the Starks, because he possessed it's only port. It was something that Brandon was hoping to eventually fix when it was his time to rule. Still, that was not for some time, he hoped.
Wyman presented a carved narwhal horn that was inlaid with gold and silver, and Brandon could see that the other lords looked on with jealousy as he presented the gift. Both that House Stark was receiving it, and that the Manderlys could offer such a gift.
It made him a rather difficult nut to crack, Brandon had to admit. Different from the Mountain Clans, who were fiercely independent. There were precious few things that Brandon could offer that were actually within his ability to offer.
When the whole procession was done, his father raised up a tankard. "My lords!" he called out, and the loud hall, which had slowly filled up as time went one, quite down. "In the end, my House words always come true -- Winter is Coming. And it always shall be. But, the folk of the North are a hardy sort!" There were some cheers and toasts before his father continued. "With loyal service and hard work, while winter will always come, so shall it always recede to welcome spring. And so shall we remain, waiting for those brighter days. To the North!"
The cheer was met with thunderous cheer and Brandon felt a knot of tension ease out of him when the celebration began in earnest. Platters of food were brought out, sweet wines, mead, and ales and the lords rejoiced. Then his father sat down, and whispered lowly, "Find a moment alone with him. Phrase the offer as a reward, and the conditions as a necessary stipulation. For a year."
Brandon fought the urge to roll his eyes and instead nodded dutifully. He loved his father, he truly did, but he wouldn't be happy unless he held his hand through the entire process. Brandon needed to stand on his own two feet, and preferably without someone looking over his shoulder. "I'll get right on it," he said, stepping down from the high table and descending to the lords below. There, he was accosted by the nobles that had been waiting to pounce.
It wasn't that Brandon didn't like most of them. He did. There was always that gulf in their positions that made calling most of them friends difficult, but for the most part, he rather liked all of his future bannermen, frustrations included. It was just annoying to deal with them when he was trying to take care of something.
The only one Brandon would say he took exception to was Roose Bolton. Brandon felt his presence like a cold spot in a room, as if he simply absorbed all the joy around him, and left in its place a disquieted dread. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the new flayed lord speaking to Wyman. It would be best for that conversation to end before he broached the topic. The Boltons had been loyal for a thousand years, but it was hard to trust a family that wore a flayed man on their banner.
Wyman seemed uncomfortable speaking to the man, and just when Brandon was going to step forward to rescue him from it, Brandon felt a hand brush against his. Looking over-
His throat felt uncomfortably tight when saw Barbrey, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips and desire smoldering in her eyes. She was beautiful. The most beautiful woman in the world, he felt in that moment, clad in a form fitting dress of wool. She stood the same height as he did, and unlike most girls he met, she was utterly unashamed how she towered over most lords. Dark eyes and rich brown hair. She was a vision and, more than anything in the world, he wanted her.
"A dance, my lord?" She asked and Brandon found himself smiling despite himself. That's why he loved her -- she knew what she wanted and she took it.
"Just the one?" Brandon said, a smile in his voice even as he felt his father's eyes boring a hole in the side of his head.
"That depends on how well you dance, I would think," Barbrey replied smoothly and, gently, he led her to the dance floor where a handful of couples were already swaying to the music. He took her hand in his, going through the steps. But, even as he danced, he kept an eye out. Wyman had escaped the conversation with the Bolton. And his father, from the high table, was so distracted by Brandon that he failed to notice that both Lyanna and Benjen had slipped away.
Not how he had planned that going, but whatever worked.
"You seem distracted, Brandon," Barbrey muttered under her breath, her tone soft and sweet. His attention was dragged back to her, and he offered a half smile. "Have you… spoken to your father?" She asked, and dread gripped Brandon's heart.
He closed his eyes briefly, fighting off a grimace. "I have. Throughout the winter," he uttered bitterly. "I have… something in the works, I think, but his gaze is looking to the South for my match." The admission tasted bitter, but it was a harsh truth. He hated the brief flicker of disappointment that passed over her face. "There's still time to change his mind, but…"
The odds that they would be wed were abysmally small.
"There's a chance," Barbrey replied, and Brandon felt like a man out at sea, searching and grasping for a lifeline.
"There is a chance," Brandon agreed.
"What can I do?" Barbrey questioned, and he could have kissed her at that moment. Her gaze was focused and intense, knowing that their time together was slipping through their fingers.
He offered a small smile as the dance came to an end, "I could use some help speaking to Lord Wyman. Privately." With a small curt nod, Barbrey stepped back, curtsied, and went off to help arrange the meeting. His gaze lingered on her and he had to swallow the lump in his throat. Taking a steadying breath, Brandon continued on with the night.
The feast went on, and the games began -- the south had their tourneys, but the North had its games. Contests of strength, speed, agility, and wit. Wrestling, stone lifting, log throwing, riddles, foot races, and horse races. It was the latter that Brandon was concerned about when he headed into the stables, and he was greeted with low whispers.
"Wearing a helmet won't do anything. They'll still know it's you," Benjen pointed out. "It's got the face open anyway."
"I'll be riding. No one will be looking at my face…" Lyanna replied, distracted.
"Asking for forgiveness instead of permission, eh?" Brandon greeted his siblings, sniffling a laugh when they both nearly jumped out of their skins. Lyanna had traded out her fine dress for riding clothes, an odd match for her done up hair with the winter rose. "I like it. Father won't, though."
Lyanna seemed pensive, "Do you think he'd be really mad? I tried to ask him!" She protested ever so weakly, her lips thinning.
Brandon just chuckled, "A lesson, little sister. You too, Benjen," he added, dropping down to a knee to look his siblings in the eyes. "You've only done something wrong if you lose. If you win? Then you've honored the house, and father can't be mad at you, even if he might want to be."
That was an ironclad truth of the world. Winners don't get punished. Losers did.
He inclined his head to Lyanna, "Think you'd lose?" He asked her, knowing exactly what she was going to compete in.
Lyanna scoffed, "I'd win. I'd win blindfolded and backwards." Brandon believed her. Lyanna rode like she was half horse herself, and she had even beaten him in a few races, and Brandon didn't often lose in a horse race.
"So don't bother hiding who you are. Just get out there and win. Or prepare yourself to get chewed out if you lose," Brandon said, glancing at Benjen to see if he was planning to get up to some trouble himself. No such luck there. Benjen was cut of the same cloth that Ned was -- they both carried themselves with a quiet stillness, even when they were angry. Benjen was easier to make laugh, though. A pair to him and Lyanna, Brandon thought.
The advice didn't have the intended effect because Lyanna scowled, "They'd let me win." She protested, thoroughly annoyed with the idea. She was right on the mark too. It was half the reason why Brandon stopped competing in the races himself.
"I think they'd still figure it out when you're the only one wearing a helmet," Brandon pointed out, making her sulk. "Well, if you decide to compete or not, I'll be at the finish line. Good luck, little sister. And I'll cover for you both if Father starts asking."
Lyanna favored him with a smile, "Thanks Brandon."
Getting up, he left the stables and headed up to one of the outermost battlements to the walls of Winterfell. The race track was well known to Brandon, and he knew where it would end. A view from the battlements was much better than the view from the ground, and it was a perfect opportunity.
It didn't take Brandon that long to hear Wyman's approach. His labored breathing up the steps gave him away, and Brandon felt a twinge of regret for the mistake. It probably wouldn't help his cause if Wyman was exhausted from climbing up to reach him, as strange as it was to breathe so heavily because of some stairs. Brandon glanced over to see the large portly man when he arrived at the top of the battlement, taking some efforts to control his labored breathing.
"Lord Brandon," Wyman greeted him with a bow of his head. "Lady Ryswell alluded that you wished to speak to me of something of importance?" He asked, his tone respectful but cautious. After all, Brandon was the Heir to the North, not the Lord of it yet.
Brandon nodded, "I did, Lord Wyman. My father has placed me in charge of an endeavor and I believe that you could be of assistance." He began, and at his position, he saw that the race had begun. Brandon wasn't sure how she managed it, but some of the other boys and men were wearing helmets alongside her, helping disguise her identity.
"I live to serve, my lord," Wyman replied and Brandon nodded. Then he reached into a satchel to pull out the far-eye, handing it to the mermaid lord. He looked it over with a cynical eye before speaking. "This… is not Myrish make," he voiced.
"Try it," Brandon offered, pointing towards Lyanna as she led the pack of racers. And, to his surprise, without even turning the end, Brandon heard a sharp intake of breath. The man outright gasped when he discovered it. "In your opinion, my lord, what would such a thing be worth in your estimation?"
Wyman continued to use it, following along the racers as they made a long loop. "My lord… Myr produces the finest far-eyes, but their quality is not uniform. A lower quality far-eye could cost as little as fifty silvers, to as much as a golden dragon. Still expensive, but for captains and sailors, it's often a necessary expense. The higher quality ones could cost up to twenty gold dragons -- though, some of that expense stems from decorations."
He lowered the far-eye, looking at Brandon with almost concern. "In terms of quality, this outstrips the finest Myrish makes I've encountered. For that alone, I'd expect to pay no less than thirty gold dragons for it, but to look on closer? The craftsmanship and detail?" His lips pressed together, "The benefit of a far-eye is to look upon other ships before they can look upon you. This very well may be the finest far-eye in Westeros. Perhaps in Essos as well. Factoring that… It's worth fifty gold dragons, but if I could get the cost down to forty, I'd call it a bargain."
Fifty gold dragons. Maybe more.
There was no other good in the North that could be sold for such an amount. Fifty gold dragons was a stunning sum. Fifty gold dragons could feed a village through a two year winter without needing to ration. That was bushels of grain and hundreds of people fed for a bauble.
"And if you were selling it?" Brandon questioned, making Wyman's eyebrows rise.
"If I sold it to a Braavosi captain from a rich family? I'd like to think I could get seventy-five dragons for it," he answered and Brandon nodded slowly, looking out at the race that was making the loop towards them. Lyanna was in the lead and it wasn't even close. "My lord, may I ask where you got such a quality far-eye?"
This was where the negotiating happened, Brandon reasoned. "As far as anyone is going to know? We got it from Essos," Brandon said, looking at Wyman, who had an understanding expression. "And every once and a while, the Essosian traders visit Whiteharbor, carrying goods, which are then carried up to Winterfell."
"I understand, my lord," Wyman said so earnestly and without question that it genuinely caught Brandon off guard. It must have shown, because Wyman offered him a smile, "You're a good man that's acting with the approval of your lord father -- I might not need to know what in the seven hells is going on, even if I might want to."
His father underestimated his loyalty. He didn't even have to bargain.
That was surprisingly honest and Brandon found himself laughing. "I can tell you this, Lord Wyman -- my father and I are working to have such things, and others, be produced in the North. What we need is time to make it happen." There was a glimmer of greed in Wyman's dark blue eyes, but Brandon found that more trustworthy than not. If the North started exporting such goods then House Manderly would be greatly enriched by virtue of being the North's only port.
"I see. I can doctor the books and arrange for some of my men to spread tales. I could also send for a Braavosi ship to help sell the misdirection. Or send one of my ships if we are to sell them to Essos," Wyman offered. To that, Brandon nodded in agreement. That's what they would need when people started to ask questions. Then Wyman smiled, "I must confess, Lord Brandon, you did not strike me as someone interested in commerce."
To that, Brandon chuckled. Then smiled broadly when he saw that Lyanna won the race, even as she was quick to vanish to avoid their Father's watchful eye. "I don't have an easy time with it, but it's something that the North needs." That was an understatement on both counts. He'd rather pull teeth than do his sums, but the North needed commerce.
They were the largest kingdom six times over. Yet, they were the poorest. Brandon wasn't entirely sure why that was, but he did know that a portion of it was the fact that the North struggled with trade. Money was the cause of a great many woes.
"We spend too much on Reach grain. Our incomes are much lower than our rival families. I barely know the first thing about trade, but I know it makes money and money is what we need," Brandon continued. The restoration of Moat Cailin was the start.
The dragons were dead. If Moat Cailin was restored then the North only had one weakness -- its shores. The Ironborn raided up and down their western coast, wearing the thinnest veneer of disguise, and they raided with impunity. On their east coast, a trade fleet. To Essos. To the South. To the Padishah Empire, perhaps.
Under his rule, the North would be impenetrable once again. While he would never wear the Crown of Winter, Brandon suspected that one day, his descendants might. But, for that day to come, the North needed to be strong. Stronger than it had been in three hundred years.
"I see. In that case, it is my pleasure to serve, my lord," Wyman said, offering a bow and handing him back the far-eye. As soon as he did, Brandon heard a flurry of footsteps and coming up the stairs was a breathless Lyanna, who was wearing a beaming smile.
"You were right!" Lyanna cheered, throwing her arms around him in a joyful hug. Brandon patted her back, glancing up with some embarrassment to Wyman, but the older man was just smiling happily. He was a good man, Brandon decided. It was a good choice to approach him with this.
"I saw. You rode like a centaur," Brandon praised, making Lyanna take a step back and she was all smiles-
It was as Brandon looked up from her that he noticed someone else was making their way up the steps, and his heart went still in his chest. The man's attire was too distinct for him to be anything other than a Fremen. His beard was cut short, as was his hair, both were black while he had startling blue eyes.
He reached the top of the stairs before offering a bow of his head, "Lord Brandon. Lady Lyanna. Muad'Dib offers gifts to welcome the spring." The man said, presenting them with two boxes. Brandon's throat felt dry, but Lyanna was completely unaware of his sudden tension. Wyman seemed to detect it, though, subtly shifting to put himself between them. The Fremen noticed, but didn't respond.
Lyanna eagerly took the gift. It was a small chest, he thought at first. A richly engraved one with running direwolves through a forest, but when she undid the golden latch, Brandon saw a woman in a blue dress with a crown of blue flowers in the heart of the box. Lyanna gasped at the sight. It gave Brandon time to look at the other offered box, his… gift.
A puzzle box, Brandon recognized. He had seen them before, though none quite like this. The wood tiles were painted, and more than that, the entire box felt like it was made of moving parts. He couldn't quite tell what the picture would be once everything would be in place, but it looked like a painting of some mountains and a heart tree under a night sky. It'd probably take him months to figure the thing out-
A soft tune began to play from Lyanna's box after she twisted a key on it's side. It was music without lyrics, the pling and plongs of an instrument, but Brandon didn't know how what sounded like a harp could fit in such a small box. Lyanna was absolutely enraptured by it, "It's beautiful."
There was breathless wonder in her voice and Brandon found himself agreeing, even if the music sounded sinister to his own ears, his gaze meeting the man who delivered the gifts. It was as if the song was whispering to him a message…
'You do not need to invite me into your home. I've already found a way inside.'
...
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The Conciliator was not remembered fondly by the North, but Northerners used what they had.
"Elissa Farman sailed through the Sunset Sea and Corlys Velaryon once wrote in his journals that he suspected he found her ship, the Sun Chaser in Asshai. We know they found islands based on Ser Eustace Hightower when he came limping back," Brandon said, leaning forward to point toward the Sunset Sea. There was also Brandon the Shipwright, who had attempted to sail west of Westeros, only he had never returned. His son, Brandon the Shipburner, destroyed what was left of the North's fleet in a fit of rage.
As harshly as they may judge the South, Rickard could admit that the Starks had their fair share of fools with crowns.
Rickard, however, pointed to the Lands of Always Winter. "Beyond the Wall has never been explored in any length. The land is too harsh and unforgiving. But, with these suits, traversing them could be possible with enough food and time. On the other side of those desolate lands could be this Padishah Empire." The thought made his skin itch.
Part of him wished to muster the men and reinforce the Wall until all nineteen castles were fully manned. It would be a vast overreaction, Rickard knew. For eight thousand years, the Kings of Winter had never suspected that there could be anything beyond the Lands of Always Winter. There had been no invasion, beyond the wildlings. Still, he didn't at all care for the idea of having a neighbor to the north.
Brandon nodded, "After his family was attacked, kin and vassals fled through the winter lands and found themselves amongst the wildlings. The one I spoke to made it sound like Paul was raised amongst them, but he was raised as a noble." He voiced, and that was something of a relief to hear. Rickard's own measuring of the boy was that he was high nobility and now Paul claimed to be of a House that was older than even House Stark.
With that, even with the revelation that there was possibly an ancient empire they had never heard of to the north of them, the world made sense once more. The idea that wildlings could create such things had been almost too much to swallow. But an exiled noble hiding in such savage lands with his retinue? That made a great deal more sense.
"These strange goods are likely from his homeland. Perhaps his family brought skilled craftsmen with them when they fled," Brandon continued, gesturing to where the Padishah Empire could be. "We could venture the same way once we gain the suits. Send an expedition," he ventured but Rickard was shaking his head, misliking the idea immensely.
"We can control one exiled noble," Rickard decided, "We cannot control a foreign empire. I don't know if they are as ignorant of us as we were of them, but it is too great of a risk to inform them if they aren't." His lips thinned and his brow furrowed, "Bringing him into the North allows us to develop our own industries, so we gain more with less risk." Though, he was admittedly curious what else the empire could create.
Corlys Velaryon, before the Dance of the Dragons, had enriched his house to the point of rivaling the Targaryens within his own lifetime with his nine great voyages. House Stark could possibly gain as much in the same manner. Perhaps more so because the North would become a center of trade with this empire. However, that thought was a grasping one, and needlessly reckless.
"The lords would accept exiled nobility more than they would a clever wildling," Brandon said, accepting his reasoning. "But I don't know about control. Dealing with him felt like sticking my hand in the mouth of a wolf -- there was always this danger that he would decide to bite. He just didn't because it wasn't in his interest."
Rickard nodded slowly, deciding he would trust his son's measure of the man. Paul was certainly bold, if nothing else. "We have time to get his measure. A year, if he is to be believed." If it was true, then his ability to produce glass outstripped Myr's, and by a significant margin. "A masterly house, perhaps." It couldn't be under the Umbers, Karstarks, or Glovers. House Bolton was too dangerous. House Dustin or House Ryswell less so, but still a risk. House Manderly was a possibility, especially given that they were already a center of trade of the North, but while Wyman Manderly was as loyal of a vassal as he could wish for, that was a great deal of power and faith to put into his descendants.
"I think the challenge may be convincing him to bend the knee. After we met, I swung by Shadowtower to see if his words were true. They told me that there was a war on the Frozen Shore- a war, they called it. The Watchmen all gave the same tale -- Paul's Fremen swept through the area and crushed any resistance," Brandon said, circling a stretch of land beyond the wall. Walrus tribes, Rickard knew. They frequently raided Bear Island. "He took dozens of their children, to hold as hostage, I think."
Rickard saw the point that his son was getting at, "You think he truly does intend to become a King-Beyond-the-Wall?"
"I don't know. He could. Or he could be paving the way for an invasion. Why risk the men marching through the winter lands when you have tens of thousands of wildlings to march for you?" Brandon said, shaking his head. "I just don't trust him."
"Good," Rickard nodded, "You'd be a fool to. As a lord, there are precious few people that you can afford to hold any faith in, my son. Family, but not always, and never with everything." He informed grimly. "We don't trust him. We never trust him. But, we find what motivates him. His family was slaughtered? Then we know that vengeance is a lever to move him. And, for the next year, I want you to find what else moves him."
It was evident enough that Brandon wasn't entirely comfortable with it. It wasn't in his nature, Rickard knew. Scheming would never come easy to him. It was a strength and a weakness in equal measure. But, even if Brandon didn't scheme or plot, he would need to learn how his vassals might plot against him and his children.
Rickard had no intentions of dying anytime soon, but he one day would, and he was loath to leave behind an unprepared heir.
Brandon offered a nod, and Rickard accepted the answer for what it was. He would need to shadow his son in the endeavor, but it would hardly be Brandon's task if Rickard did everything for him. "Good. Now, in the coming weeks, we'll have the Spring Festival. That will be our opportunity to establish the framework of the deception. Have you given it any thought?"
"Aye -- I want to bring in the Mountain Clans and the Manderlys," Brandon said, and that caught Rickard's attention. "The Manderlys would be there mostly to explain how we have what we get. Something like we're getting shipments from Myr. I'm still workshopping that bit," he admitted easily. "But, the Mountain Clans are perfect. They know the terrain better than anyone, and they're connected to the coast. The Fremen sail down from beyond the Wall, sailing past the Blacksails, and land on the coast. The Mountain Clans are isolated, they lead the Fremen through the mountains, through the wolfswood, and directly to our door."
It wasn't a bad plan. Rickard dared to say it was a good one.
"And when someone eventually sees the Mountain Clansmen?" Rickard prodded, just to see if his son had an answer.
"Well, we need to mine more to pay for all of this. The Westerlands are mountains, and they have heaps of ore. We have mountains, so there is probably ore in them too," Brandon reasoned. He likely wasn't wrong, but it was less ironclad than Rickard had wanted.
Still, it was a workable plan. Three points of failure, including the Night's Watch. It was no small fit of irony that the Night's Watch was the most reliable cornerstone of the deception. Murderers, rapists, thieves, and smugglers -- yet their part was small, and they were isolated. Even when his lords suspected the fine goods and glass did not come from where Rickard claimed, it would be a leap in logic to assume that they came from wildlings of all people.
No. The cornerstone that would falter, he suspected, would be the Manderlys. Not necessarily through intention, but sooner or later, someone would notice that a ship from Essos didn't arrive when the goods were delivered. That interested lords and merchants could not find this trader who brought such goods. That would give way to doubt. Which would give way to suspicion. Suspicion would turn to action and, inevitably, the lie would be revealed even if it wasn't revealed exactly how Rickard had lied.
And, eventually, the South would learn of what they had. Either through the talk of trader's or spies. News moved slowly in the North, but once it reached the South, tales would spread like a pox. Sooner or later, the Crown would wonder why King's Landing was passed over from these supposed ships from Essos. When that happened, Rickard expected demands from the mad king, and he needed to have answers ready.
"Well done. One final question, my son -- how are you going to convince them to go along with this?"
Brandon worked his jaw for a moment, seemingly annoyed with the question because as much as he expected it, he didn't have an answer. "No idea. I don't know what to give the Mountain Clans to make them stomach the idea of helping wildlings."
To that, Rickard simply chuckled. "I do."
…
"Fuck. Fucking… fuck arse-" Brandon muttered under his breath, rolling his shoulders as he tried to break whatever wires seemed to be woven in his clothing. He knew it wasn't proper and lordly to wear riding leather and travel clothes, but why in the ever-loving fuck did feasting clothes have to feel like his clothing was trying to assassinate him?
"If you pop a thread, Wila is going to blacken your eye," Lyanna teased him with a cheeky smile, greeting him as he made his way into the hall. It was something of a comfort to see that she hated her dress every bit as much as he hated his restrictive clothing. Then that comfort quickly turned into annoyance when he realized he was comparing himself to a twelve year old girl.
He reached out to tussle her hair, making her squawk indignantly. "It'd be worth it," Brandon sighed. "Come on, let's hurry it up before we catch an earful from father." He said, leading Lyanna forward while she straightened her hair.
"Do you think we can go to Wintertown?" Lyanna asked, sounding hopeful. Fat chance, unfortunately. He'd rather spend the Spring Festival in the small village outside of Winterfell, competing in the games, feasting with people he liked, and whoring until he was spent. "I want to join the horse races. I'm old enough to race now!" She added, like he was the one she had to convince.
Brandon caught a glimpse out at the courtyard, seeing the pomp and pageantry on display. Lords from all over the North were coming to scratch each other's backs, kiss arse, and get into pissing contests. "Maybe after the feast," Brandon said, holding out hope for himself as much as Lyanna. And it was in moments like these that his heart ached for Ned.
Ned was the good child. And Father was always less wroth when he saw one of his kids had listened to him.
Lyanna smiled widely, taking that as good as a confirmation. Seems like that was going to be another negotiation with their father. Feeling a surge of brotherly affection, he went to tussle her hair again, only for his hand to be smacked away before she poked him in the ribs. "If you mess up my hair, I'll blacken your eye."
That got a laugh out of him, "Going to stand on Benjen's shoulders?" He asked, laughing harder at the thought of it. She poked him again in the ribs, pouting. The laughter promptly died when he saw the final set of doors that shielded him from an absolutely miserable afternoon. He tried to find the silver lining to the whole affair, and hoped that, maybe, Barbrey would be in attendance. Father wouldn't begrudge him a few dances with her.
A sigh escaped him as he reached the doors -- his marriage to the Trout hung over his head like a blade. It was his duty, he knew. And he would do it for the sake of the north, but he prayed to the Old Gods and the New Gods, and even that Essosian god R'hllor that Catelyn Tully had some fire in her. If he had to spend the next twenty, thirty, or forty years of his life tiptoeing through a tepid marriage with some southern flower that was perpetually offended by his very nature, but too much of a coward to call him on it, he was going to go mad.
"Ready little sister?" Brandon asked, offering his favorite sister a lopsided smile. Well, she was his only sister. But, if he happened to have another, Brandon was pretty sure she would still be his favorite because her scowl matched how he felt in that moment.
"I guess…" She said, nodding her head ever so slightly, careful to not disturb the blue rose that was woven into her hair. And, to Brandon's immense relief, her hair was still tied up. The day she attended one of these feasts with it down, meaning that she was on the marriage market… was probably the day that he killed one of his bannermen, if Brandon was being perfectly honest.
They shared a smile and mutual misery before Brandon opened the door, revealing the feasting hall. First, his attention went to the high table where his father sat. It was the same every spring, though Brandon still hadn't gotten used to not seeing his mother seated beside him. The nobles, as they entered the hall, first paid homage to his father as Lord of the North. They exchanged a few pleasantries, sometimes bearing gifts to show what they were up to during the winter, then they stepped to the side.
That's when the mingling started. And the arse kissing.
Things had yet to start, telling Brandon he had arrived just on time. He tossed a wink over at Benjen, who already looked bored despite his best efforts to seem otherwise. That got a small smile out of him, the eleven year old boy perking up ever so slightly. As annoying as it could be, it was an older brother's duty to shield his siblings from the tediousness of dealing with feasts. He'd run interference so they could slip away at some point and actually have some fun.
Taking his place by his father, who gestured for the door to the hall to be opened, Brandon watched as the first of the nobility was brought into the hall, walking by long tables that were richly decorated with platters awaiting food. By tapestries that depicted eight thousand years of uninterrupted rulership of the North. And up to his father, who was cold as winter itself at times, it felt like.
They were greeted by high nobility first -- the Flints, Dustins, Ryswells, Tallhart, Glover, Hornwood, Karstarks, Umbers, Manderlys, and the Boltons. The high lords went in whatever order they came, then their vassals came after the high nobility in whatever order they arrived in. But, given that most came in groups, it was frequent that you'd deal with the vassals of a lord in groups.
The first of what was going to be a long night was Greatjon Umber. Greatjon was a large man, easily standing head and shoulders above Brandon himself. Thick black hair, a long beard, dressed in an orangish brown tunic with a bear pelt hanging off his shoulders. It barely touched the floor as he walked.
"Lord Stark! Another winter come and gone, and we're still here!" He greeted them with a broad smile and a boisterous laugh.
His father offered a thin one in response, "Aye. Here we are. The snows were harsh this year, my lord. I hope your family fared well," he offered, the first of many pleasantries of the evening. Brandon settled in, but paid attention. He did like Greatjon, after all.
The lumbering man nodded, "We did. Was a longer winter than we were hoping for, but a shorter one than we prepared for." To that, Brandon nodded. His house words were always true, in the end. Winter is Coming. "We had some luck on a hunt -- a bear woke up early and hungry. My nephew, Jon, led the hunt to kill it before it could break into any homes of our smallfolk. It's pelt, I present to you, as a gift!" He offered, his attendant stepping forward and Greatjon unfurled the snow white pelt.
It was the size of a man grown. Brandon knew exactly what the gift was and he struggled to swallow a sour expression.
Espousing the merits of his kin to his lord in front of his unwed daughter. There was very little doubt what Greatjon intended.
"You have done your people, and us, a service. We take this gift and thank you for it, Greatjon Umber," his father intoned, not so much as twitching. Greatjon nodded, passing the pelt to one of the servants, where it would be the first in a pile. As he stepped to the side, Brandon stole a glance at his sister to see that she too seemed aware of what the pelt meant. Reaching out, he patted his hand on hers and she breathed a little easier.
The rest of the greetings went as they normally did. Sometimes Brandon spoke up, greeting the lords he was most familiar with, such as the Ryswells, and he kindled hope that he might see Barbrey. His father, however, handled the bulk of it as the hours went by before the proper celebration could begin. Brandon only truly paid attention to a few of them.
Wyman Manderly was a man in his forties with a round belly that strained against the fabrics of his richly decorated and embroidered clothing. The man was the richest lord in the North, second only to the Starks, because he possessed it's only port. It was something that Brandon was hoping to eventually fix when it was his time to rule. Still, that was not for some time, he hoped.
Wyman presented a carved narwhal horn that was inlaid with gold and silver, and Brandon could see that the other lords looked on with jealousy as he presented the gift. Both that House Stark was receiving it, and that the Manderlys could offer such a gift.
It made him a rather difficult nut to crack, Brandon had to admit. Different from the Mountain Clans, who were fiercely independent. There were precious few things that Brandon could offer that were actually within his ability to offer.
When the whole procession was done, his father raised up a tankard. "My lords!" he called out, and the loud hall, which had slowly filled up as time went one, quite down. "In the end, my House words always come true -- Winter is Coming. And it always shall be. But, the folk of the North are a hardy sort!" There were some cheers and toasts before his father continued. "With loyal service and hard work, while winter will always come, so shall it always recede to welcome spring. And so shall we remain, waiting for those brighter days. To the North!"
The cheer was met with thunderous cheer and Brandon felt a knot of tension ease out of him when the celebration began in earnest. Platters of food were brought out, sweet wines, mead, and ales and the lords rejoiced. Then his father sat down, and whispered lowly, "Find a moment alone with him. Phrase the offer as a reward, and the conditions as a necessary stipulation. For a year."
Brandon fought the urge to roll his eyes and instead nodded dutifully. He loved his father, he truly did, but he wouldn't be happy unless he held his hand through the entire process. Brandon needed to stand on his own two feet, and preferably without someone looking over his shoulder. "I'll get right on it," he said, stepping down from the high table and descending to the lords below. There, he was accosted by the nobles that had been waiting to pounce.
It wasn't that Brandon didn't like most of them. He did. There was always that gulf in their positions that made calling most of them friends difficult, but for the most part, he rather liked all of his future bannermen, frustrations included. It was just annoying to deal with them when he was trying to take care of something.
The only one Brandon would say he took exception to was Roose Bolton. Brandon felt his presence like a cold spot in a room, as if he simply absorbed all the joy around him, and left in its place a disquieted dread. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the new flayed lord speaking to Wyman. It would be best for that conversation to end before he broached the topic. The Boltons had been loyal for a thousand years, but it was hard to trust a family that wore a flayed man on their banner.
Wyman seemed uncomfortable speaking to the man, and just when Brandon was going to step forward to rescue him from it, Brandon felt a hand brush against his. Looking over-
His throat felt uncomfortably tight when saw Barbrey, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips and desire smoldering in her eyes. She was beautiful. The most beautiful woman in the world, he felt in that moment, clad in a form fitting dress of wool. She stood the same height as he did, and unlike most girls he met, she was utterly unashamed how she towered over most lords. Dark eyes and rich brown hair. She was a vision and, more than anything in the world, he wanted her.
"A dance, my lord?" She asked and Brandon found himself smiling despite himself. That's why he loved her -- she knew what she wanted and she took it.
"Just the one?" Brandon said, a smile in his voice even as he felt his father's eyes boring a hole in the side of his head.
"That depends on how well you dance, I would think," Barbrey replied smoothly and, gently, he led her to the dance floor where a handful of couples were already swaying to the music. He took her hand in his, going through the steps. But, even as he danced, he kept an eye out. Wyman had escaped the conversation with the Bolton. And his father, from the high table, was so distracted by Brandon that he failed to notice that both Lyanna and Benjen had slipped away.
Not how he had planned that going, but whatever worked.
"You seem distracted, Brandon," Barbrey muttered under her breath, her tone soft and sweet. His attention was dragged back to her, and he offered a half smile. "Have you… spoken to your father?" She asked, and dread gripped Brandon's heart.
He closed his eyes briefly, fighting off a grimace. "I have. Throughout the winter," he uttered bitterly. "I have… something in the works, I think, but his gaze is looking to the South for my match." The admission tasted bitter, but it was a harsh truth. He hated the brief flicker of disappointment that passed over her face. "There's still time to change his mind, but…"
The odds that they would be wed were abysmally small.
"There's a chance," Barbrey replied, and Brandon felt like a man out at sea, searching and grasping for a lifeline.
"There is a chance," Brandon agreed.
"What can I do?" Barbrey questioned, and he could have kissed her at that moment. Her gaze was focused and intense, knowing that their time together was slipping through their fingers.
He offered a small smile as the dance came to an end, "I could use some help speaking to Lord Wyman. Privately." With a small curt nod, Barbrey stepped back, curtsied, and went off to help arrange the meeting. His gaze lingered on her and he had to swallow the lump in his throat. Taking a steadying breath, Brandon continued on with the night.
The feast went on, and the games began -- the south had their tourneys, but the North had its games. Contests of strength, speed, agility, and wit. Wrestling, stone lifting, log throwing, riddles, foot races, and horse races. It was the latter that Brandon was concerned about when he headed into the stables, and he was greeted with low whispers.
"Wearing a helmet won't do anything. They'll still know it's you," Benjen pointed out. "It's got the face open anyway."
"I'll be riding. No one will be looking at my face…" Lyanna replied, distracted.
"Asking for forgiveness instead of permission, eh?" Brandon greeted his siblings, sniffling a laugh when they both nearly jumped out of their skins. Lyanna had traded out her fine dress for riding clothes, an odd match for her done up hair with the winter rose. "I like it. Father won't, though."
Lyanna seemed pensive, "Do you think he'd be really mad? I tried to ask him!" She protested ever so weakly, her lips thinning.
Brandon just chuckled, "A lesson, little sister. You too, Benjen," he added, dropping down to a knee to look his siblings in the eyes. "You've only done something wrong if you lose. If you win? Then you've honored the house, and father can't be mad at you, even if he might want to be."
That was an ironclad truth of the world. Winners don't get punished. Losers did.
He inclined his head to Lyanna, "Think you'd lose?" He asked her, knowing exactly what she was going to compete in.
Lyanna scoffed, "I'd win. I'd win blindfolded and backwards." Brandon believed her. Lyanna rode like she was half horse herself, and she had even beaten him in a few races, and Brandon didn't often lose in a horse race.
"So don't bother hiding who you are. Just get out there and win. Or prepare yourself to get chewed out if you lose," Brandon said, glancing at Benjen to see if he was planning to get up to some trouble himself. No such luck there. Benjen was cut of the same cloth that Ned was -- they both carried themselves with a quiet stillness, even when they were angry. Benjen was easier to make laugh, though. A pair to him and Lyanna, Brandon thought.
The advice didn't have the intended effect because Lyanna scowled, "They'd let me win." She protested, thoroughly annoyed with the idea. She was right on the mark too. It was half the reason why Brandon stopped competing in the races himself.
"I think they'd still figure it out when you're the only one wearing a helmet," Brandon pointed out, making her sulk. "Well, if you decide to compete or not, I'll be at the finish line. Good luck, little sister. And I'll cover for you both if Father starts asking."
Lyanna favored him with a smile, "Thanks Brandon."
Getting up, he left the stables and headed up to one of the outermost battlements to the walls of Winterfell. The race track was well known to Brandon, and he knew where it would end. A view from the battlements was much better than the view from the ground, and it was a perfect opportunity.
It didn't take Brandon that long to hear Wyman's approach. His labored breathing up the steps gave him away, and Brandon felt a twinge of regret for the mistake. It probably wouldn't help his cause if Wyman was exhausted from climbing up to reach him, as strange as it was to breathe so heavily because of some stairs. Brandon glanced over to see the large portly man when he arrived at the top of the battlement, taking some efforts to control his labored breathing.
"Lord Brandon," Wyman greeted him with a bow of his head. "Lady Ryswell alluded that you wished to speak to me of something of importance?" He asked, his tone respectful but cautious. After all, Brandon was the Heir to the North, not the Lord of it yet.
Brandon nodded, "I did, Lord Wyman. My father has placed me in charge of an endeavor and I believe that you could be of assistance." He began, and at his position, he saw that the race had begun. Brandon wasn't sure how she managed it, but some of the other boys and men were wearing helmets alongside her, helping disguise her identity.
"I live to serve, my lord," Wyman replied and Brandon nodded. Then he reached into a satchel to pull out the far-eye, handing it to the mermaid lord. He looked it over with a cynical eye before speaking. "This… is not Myrish make," he voiced.
"Try it," Brandon offered, pointing towards Lyanna as she led the pack of racers. And, to his surprise, without even turning the end, Brandon heard a sharp intake of breath. The man outright gasped when he discovered it. "In your opinion, my lord, what would such a thing be worth in your estimation?"
Wyman continued to use it, following along the racers as they made a long loop. "My lord… Myr produces the finest far-eyes, but their quality is not uniform. A lower quality far-eye could cost as little as fifty silvers, to as much as a golden dragon. Still expensive, but for captains and sailors, it's often a necessary expense. The higher quality ones could cost up to twenty gold dragons -- though, some of that expense stems from decorations."
He lowered the far-eye, looking at Brandon with almost concern. "In terms of quality, this outstrips the finest Myrish makes I've encountered. For that alone, I'd expect to pay no less than thirty gold dragons for it, but to look on closer? The craftsmanship and detail?" His lips pressed together, "The benefit of a far-eye is to look upon other ships before they can look upon you. This very well may be the finest far-eye in Westeros. Perhaps in Essos as well. Factoring that… It's worth fifty gold dragons, but if I could get the cost down to forty, I'd call it a bargain."
Fifty gold dragons. Maybe more.
There was no other good in the North that could be sold for such an amount. Fifty gold dragons was a stunning sum. Fifty gold dragons could feed a village through a two year winter without needing to ration. That was bushels of grain and hundreds of people fed for a bauble.
"And if you were selling it?" Brandon questioned, making Wyman's eyebrows rise.
"If I sold it to a Braavosi captain from a rich family? I'd like to think I could get seventy-five dragons for it," he answered and Brandon nodded slowly, looking out at the race that was making the loop towards them. Lyanna was in the lead and it wasn't even close. "My lord, may I ask where you got such a quality far-eye?"
This was where the negotiating happened, Brandon reasoned. "As far as anyone is going to know? We got it from Essos," Brandon said, looking at Wyman, who had an understanding expression. "And every once and a while, the Essosian traders visit Whiteharbor, carrying goods, which are then carried up to Winterfell."
"I understand, my lord," Wyman said so earnestly and without question that it genuinely caught Brandon off guard. It must have shown, because Wyman offered him a smile, "You're a good man that's acting with the approval of your lord father -- I might not need to know what in the seven hells is going on, even if I might want to."
His father underestimated his loyalty. He didn't even have to bargain.
That was surprisingly honest and Brandon found himself laughing. "I can tell you this, Lord Wyman -- my father and I are working to have such things, and others, be produced in the North. What we need is time to make it happen." There was a glimmer of greed in Wyman's dark blue eyes, but Brandon found that more trustworthy than not. If the North started exporting such goods then House Manderly would be greatly enriched by virtue of being the North's only port.
"I see. I can doctor the books and arrange for some of my men to spread tales. I could also send for a Braavosi ship to help sell the misdirection. Or send one of my ships if we are to sell them to Essos," Wyman offered. To that, Brandon nodded in agreement. That's what they would need when people started to ask questions. Then Wyman smiled, "I must confess, Lord Brandon, you did not strike me as someone interested in commerce."
To that, Brandon chuckled. Then smiled broadly when he saw that Lyanna won the race, even as she was quick to vanish to avoid their Father's watchful eye. "I don't have an easy time with it, but it's something that the North needs." That was an understatement on both counts. He'd rather pull teeth than do his sums, but the North needed commerce.
They were the largest kingdom six times over. Yet, they were the poorest. Brandon wasn't entirely sure why that was, but he did know that a portion of it was the fact that the North struggled with trade. Money was the cause of a great many woes.
"We spend too much on Reach grain. Our incomes are much lower than our rival families. I barely know the first thing about trade, but I know it makes money and money is what we need," Brandon continued. The restoration of Moat Cailin was the start.
The dragons were dead. If Moat Cailin was restored then the North only had one weakness -- its shores. The Ironborn raided up and down their western coast, wearing the thinnest veneer of disguise, and they raided with impunity. On their east coast, a trade fleet. To Essos. To the South. To the Padishah Empire, perhaps.
Under his rule, the North would be impenetrable once again. While he would never wear the Crown of Winter, Brandon suspected that one day, his descendants might. But, for that day to come, the North needed to be strong. Stronger than it had been in three hundred years.
"I see. In that case, it is my pleasure to serve, my lord," Wyman said, offering a bow and handing him back the far-eye. As soon as he did, Brandon heard a flurry of footsteps and coming up the stairs was a breathless Lyanna, who was wearing a beaming smile.
"You were right!" Lyanna cheered, throwing her arms around him in a joyful hug. Brandon patted her back, glancing up with some embarrassment to Wyman, but the older man was just smiling happily. He was a good man, Brandon decided. It was a good choice to approach him with this.
"I saw. You rode like a centaur," Brandon praised, making Lyanna take a step back and she was all smiles-
It was as Brandon looked up from her that he noticed someone else was making their way up the steps, and his heart went still in his chest. The man's attire was too distinct for him to be anything other than a Fremen. His beard was cut short, as was his hair, both were black while he had startling blue eyes.
He reached the top of the stairs before offering a bow of his head, "Lord Brandon. Lady Lyanna. Muad'Dib offers gifts to welcome the spring." The man said, presenting them with two boxes. Brandon's throat felt dry, but Lyanna was completely unaware of his sudden tension. Wyman seemed to detect it, though, subtly shifting to put himself between them. The Fremen noticed, but didn't respond.
Lyanna eagerly took the gift. It was a small chest, he thought at first. A richly engraved one with running direwolves through a forest, but when she undid the golden latch, Brandon saw a woman in a blue dress with a crown of blue flowers in the heart of the box. Lyanna gasped at the sight. It gave Brandon time to look at the other offered box, his… gift.
A puzzle box, Brandon recognized. He had seen them before, though none quite like this. The wood tiles were painted, and more than that, the entire box felt like it was made of moving parts. He couldn't quite tell what the picture would be once everything would be in place, but it looked like a painting of some mountains and a heart tree under a night sky. It'd probably take him months to figure the thing out-
A soft tune began to play from Lyanna's box after she twisted a key on it's side. It was music without lyrics, the pling and plongs of an instrument, but Brandon didn't know how what sounded like a harp could fit in such a small box. Lyanna was absolutely enraptured by it, "It's beautiful."
There was breathless wonder in her voice and Brandon found himself agreeing, even if the music sounded sinister to his own ears, his gaze meeting the man who delivered the gifts. It was as if the song was whispering to him a message…
'You do not need to invite me into your home. I've already found a way inside.'
...
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Paul was sympathetic when he told his story, but is terrifying when I see him from outside.
Really enjoying this in concept and execution. It's a great choice for a crossover. Many of the palace intrigue themes and background occultism are shared between settings, but the differences create a stark contrast.
Really enjoying this in concept and execution. It's a great choice for a crossover. Many of the palace intrigue themes and background occultism are shared between settings, but the differences create a stark contrast.
Arimai
Curmudgeon
As though a map is in any way equivalent to having 30% of your land and 70% of your agriculture seized by a tyrant. The North should've reclaimed those lands the moment the dragons died and the fat bastard broke the Pact of Ice and Fire.
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Those lands totally belong to the Night Watch, like for real.
They just like to use our commoners to farm it and then are generous enough to gift all that food to House Stark.
Believe it!
Arimai
Curmudgeon
His lifespan has nothing to do with Westeros and its magic system.
- Location
- Boston
Well damn, I'm looking forward to this!
As many have said, Paul is even more sinister from the outside perspective.
As many have said, Paul is even more sinister from the outside perspective.
First Steps 1.4
- Location
- USA
Things were progressing well, Rickard thought as he sat behind his desk, sorting through small piles of parchment ranging from letters to long lists. His overtures to the Mountain Clans progressed well. It had taken a month for his surveyors to report back on the stones, indicating what minerals and metals he could expect to find in the untapped mountain range.
The reports were promising -- primarily iron, copper, and unripened silver in terms of metals. Minerals were far more abundant -- dragonglass, graphite, gemstones such as sapphires, rubies, and amethyst, though the gemstones were far fewer in quantity. There was a great deal of granite and limestone to be found as well. It had taken another month for the various mines to get up and running, delivering their toils to Winterfell.
The North welcomed the uptick in mining wealth with smallfolk families sending their extra sons to them. And, for their part, they were ignorant of what the materials were being used for.
Every month, a ship sailed down from the Wall, landing in Mountain Clan territory. On the very first trip, Paul had sailed with the ship and it was then that he slew a rather large bear, earning him the respect of the Mountain Clans. Any issues that Rickard anticipated were side stepped before they could trouble him. That month, Paul came with more than just the 'stillsuits' as he called them.
Rickard's gaze went down to an engraved drinking glass -- one that he purchased outright. It was an even white with a gray direwolf. The sigil of his house. The direwolf stood out against the many intricate engravings. Ridges and looping designs that were painstakingly carved into the glass, making it one of the finest things that Rickard had ever seen.
There were twelve more of them in the shipment, each one colored a rich hue -- blue, red, green, violet, orange, yellow, silver, and gold. They lacked heraldry, but Rickard could foresee the desire to have one made custom for one's house. That month brought puzzle boxes, wool tapestries as large as Greatjon equal in finery to anything he had seen from Essos, along with a foodstuff called syrup that acted as a potent sweetener.
Those goods were purchased for ores and minerals. Some of which were added to the list when Paul saw value in sulphur, ollvine, and feldspar. The goods were then sent to Whiteharbor, on board a ship captained by one of Wyman's most trusted men, and then sent to Bravoss for sale. From Whiteharbor to Bravoss was a month and a half of sailing, and another month and a half to get back. Rickard gave two weeks to find buyers for the goods, so every three and a half months, Rickard saw a return on his investment.
There was a period of time that the goods would be languishing in a vault in Whiteharbor, and the initial plan called for them to be sold in Whiteharbor, to help establish the story that the goods were sourced in Essos. The excess would then be sold to Bravos.
At least, that was the initial plan.
"Two thousand, six hundred and thirty three golden dragons," Rickard mused out loud, reading out the total sum of the first return trip. It was only then that the others in the room began to stir. Brandon leaned in, his expression serious while the merchant, a man sworn to Lord Wyman named Arick, occupied one of his chairs. Standing to the right of Rickard was Maester Wyllas -- an unfortunate risk, but his golden link for sums and commerce was too valuable to ignore.
"The Bravvosi took well to the goods, my lord, especially when they learned they did not come from the Daughters. They hate slavery even more than we do, and they paid a premium not only to be the first to own such things, but because they now see us an alternative to a necessary evil in their eyes." Arick said, making Rickard nod slowly. "To that end, demand has sharply increased. The next shipment shall be worth even more, and perhaps the next one after that. But, I would expect the price to normalize some time after that."
Two thousand, six hundred and thirty three dragons. A truly astounding sum. "Merchants always struck me as ignoble. What kind of man profits off the work of others on lands he cannot call his own? Now I understand, it is a rich man indeed," Rickard admitted to a few dry chuckles. The loudest of them from Arick. A small jab to test his character- he was a point of failure in this venture, and he wanted to make sure that Lord Wyman was correct in choosing him.
"Is it that substantial?" Brandon asked, and Rickard was not surprised by his confusion.
"In a year, after taxes are paid to the crown, the North sees a profit between a hundred and fifty thousand to two hundred thousand gold dragons." Which made them the poorest kingdom by half. It was a lack luster number in comparison to the Westerlands, which could boast a surplus of two million gold dragons because of Lannister gold, or the Reach, which could see over a million due to being the Seven Kingdom's breadbasket. "However, on average, every fall sees fifty thousand to a hundred thousand gold dragons going to the Reach for grain."
A long summer saw the price decrease dramatically. Not even the worst of the Reach could justify charging ten times the price when everyone else's larders were full already. The North purchased grain on principle, even with full larders. However, a short summer could see the price increase exponentially when the North had to compete with other lords of the South.
Rickard held up the parchment that was given to him, "On the assumption that we don't suffer a loss of a ship, and each ship returns with a total of two thousand and five hundred dragons… in a year, the North will see an additional ten thousand gold dragons in revenue. Or, if Arick speaks true, closer to fifteen thousand gold dragons."
It was then that Maester Wyllas spoke up, "Some of the high lords would struggle to pay such a sum. The only one that comes to mind is Lord Manderly himself." They were the richest Stark vassal and for good reason.
Ideally, he could see an additional fifteen thousand dragons a year on the assumption that they continued to sell to Essos. During a three year summer, that was forty-five thousand dragons. It might not sound like a great deal in comparison to the other kingdoms, but as far as his finances were concerned, he gained another vassal. He was barely paying for the goods themselves, because any costs incurred during the mining would make up for themselves in taxes.
Rickard looked to Arick, "You have my thanks for the journey here. We possess more of the goods that you've sold. Rest for a few days before departing back to Whiteharbor with the shipment. From here on out, you can expect them to be in Whiteharbor upon your return from Bravoss. You shall be quite busy for at least a year."
Arick understood the dismissal for what it was, standing and bowing his head. "I'll never complain about being busy, Lord Stark! Lord Brandon," he added, bowing to his son before leaving the room.
A few seconds after the door closed, Rickard glanced at Maester Wyllas. "Have him approached while he's here -- guardsman, out of uniform. Prob at what he's doing here and try to get him drunk." Drunk men spoke from their hearts, especially when they suffered an insult. Expecting him to be perfect was foolhardy, but Rickard would be damned before he let this opportunity slip from his fingers because of a drunk with a loose tongue.
As Maester Wyllas nodded, Brandon spoke, "We could restore Moat Cailin." He was right. It would take a few years to pay off, but they could start reconstruction. They were already quarrying granite in the mountains -- it would be more of a trek, but it would be well worth it. The lands there had been neglected too long.
However, it was Maester Wyllas who spoke up, "I fear what message that might send to the crown, my lord. King Areys might question why you feel the need to secure your southernmost border." To that, Rickard grimaced, knowing that he was right. The reason Moat Cailin was a ruin was because there hadn't been a need to man it for three hundred years. Even in times of war, no one tried to invade the North.
No, it wouldn't do to tip the king off. Still, the money was a windfall and it sat ill with Rickard to let it gather dust. Especially after a lifetime of being a lord, having ideas that could never materialize simply because they were too costly.
"Before we get too excited over what we can do with the money, we should focus on the source of it," Brandon spoke up rather wisely, before his greed could get the better of him. "Are we any closer to locating his lands?"
"The Frostfangs don't really narrow it down much," Brandon replied. "I'm tapping into the Night Watch's contacts with the wildlings, but if anyone knows where exactly they are, then they aren't telling them. But, something to note is that the Fremen are hated and feared among the wildlings. Not Ice River Clans kind of hated, but not that far off. Paul isn't popular because of his habit of taking hostages." It was good information, Rickard decided, even if it wasn't what he wanted to know. "I'm testing the waters paying the wildlings to track them, but I have no idea if it'll work."
His son was working too close with the wildlings. Even with degrees of separation, the stink might wash off. "Be subtle about it. When people learn of this, we need the story to be that you got the information from the Night's Watch." To that, Brandon waved him off and Rickard fought a scowl. "This is for the sake of your reputation, Brandon. It's a great deal easier washing off a stain when you have a good reputation than washing out a stain when you have none to speak of."
"I'll be careful," Brandon replied placatingly, properly chastised.
Rickard grunted, his gaze turning to the glass on his desk. "Keep working at it. As it is, Paul has too much leverage. I want alternatives if we cannot convince him to come to us."
To that, Brandon leaned forward. "He's nobility. I'm not sure if I believe his house is really ten thousand years old, but I'd sooner believe that he's nobility than some wildling. Give him some land. It's not like we're lacking that in the North."
The idea had merit. "It puts us on more equal footing. If he becomes a vassal of House Stark, then the wealth that his lands generate would be his own. We would collect some of it in taxes, but nothing like we are seeing now." The deal that they had now was exceptionally in their favor and Rickard would prefer to keep it that way, even if it wasn't entirely feasible. "I would ask for the secret of making glass as part of his vassalage, but Paul would be a fool to accept that much to become a minor noble in small lands when he currently has the whole of beyond the Wall."
In short, Paul has little to gain by becoming a vassal, as strange as it was to think. He currently enjoyed all the benefits of being a lord without any of the negatives such as taxes or answering to a liege lord. And, even if he did become a vassal, it would leave Rickard and then Brandon and his grandchildren with a powerful and wealthy vassal. A possible boon. A possible danger.
The North was slow to accept change. When it was a strength, it was their greatest. Yet, when it was a weakness, it was also their greatest.
"It'd be best if we could force his hand," Brandon said, showing that he had given it some thought. "Incite the wildlings at him, and make him come to us." That would be ideal. Rickard wanted to be in a position of strength when it came time to negotiate with Paul settling south of the Wall. He wanted to be able to dictate terms -- favorable terms but not so much that it drove Paul further south.
"Do that through the Night's Watch. It won't be a breach of their neutrality- well, no more than they've already compromised it," Rickard amended. "If the wildlings start hunting for the Fremen on their own will, it should be easier to learn his location." It did risk the disruption of the shipments, but it was a calculated risk with a bigger reward at the end of the line.
Brandon nodded before standing up, "I'll get right on it then." With that, he dismissed himself, and Maester Wyllas followed him out to complete the order that Rickard had given. Once he was alone in his office once more, Rickard took the glass cup and rolled it in his hands so the direwolf stared back at him.
So many plans were in motion. So many carefully considered risks. If he won his gambles then the North would be stronger than it had ever been, even before the conquest. But the higher one reached, the further they had to fall.
And Rickard could not afford to fall.
…
As Arick predicted, the second delivery to Braavos was worth a great deal more. Three months was enough time for word to spread through the city, and Arick struck while the iron was hot. He emptied the cargo hold of the Lady Windchaser, and when he returned he came with three thousand eight hundred and fifty-six gold dragons. Near twice the first shipment's value. He also came with offers wishing for commissioned glasses, vases, and tapestries.
It was enough to convince him to alter the plan, ever so slightly. His original intention was to test the waters in Bravos, ascertaining a favorable price, before he started to sell the goods to the South. However, the Bravosi were rich in a way that was difficult to fathom, so he continued to sell to Essos. At least, for a time.
Soon the Bravosi would learn where the goods came from, and they would be the ones to set sail to the North. The prices would be lower, but it would be a more consistent stream of revenue rather than the harsh spikes every three months.
General buyers were paying a premium, but commissioned goods were ludicrously expensive. Enough so that Rickard felt… jealous that some merchant lord across the Narrow Sea could afford trinkets that would see the North beggared in a generation. But he swallowed it down, happy to accept the foreign gold and silver, and passed the requests along to the Fremen.
He expected it to take some time, but Rickard had apparently grossly underestimated the speed of their craftsmen. A month after he delivered the commissions, they arrived on the next shipment from beyond the Wall.
Nine months after the trade deals began, the third return of the Lady Windchaser saw an additional six thousand, three hundred and seventy-one gold dragons worth of gold and silver.
In less than a year, Rickard had gained twelve thousand eight hundred and sixty gold dragons. A near tenth of the North's yearly revenue.
It was becoming increasingly clear how he underestimated the power of trade. And his desire to bring Paul and his craftsmen down south grew with every delivery. Especially when each time they arrived, they brought pieces of what would become a glass garden -- large panes of glass that were three feet tall, half that wide, and half a finger thick. The glass itself was clear as water, narry an imperfection to be found.
However, even before the tenth month mark arrived, Rickard sensed that trouble was on the horizon. First, it came in the form of news that the wildlings attacked the Fremen in a coalition, only to be soundly defeated without so much as a disruption in trade. They were no closer to discovering their secrets than they were at the start of the venture.
But Rickard knew time was running out. In more ways than one.
…
Rhaegar knew he was dreaming, even if it felt every bit as real as the world. He trudged through waist high snow, feeling a bitter chill cutting him to the bone as the wind howled around him. Snow furries made it nearly impossible to see, but the little that he did was unmistakable. Even without ever laying eyes on it before, he knew exactly what he was walking to.
Eight hundred feet tall that stretched across the horizon for three hundred miles.
The Wall.
Rhaegar let out a shuddering breath, pulling his cloak over his shoulders tighter as he took another step, only for his foot to pass through the snow with finding purchase. He found himself falling forward, trying to correct his balance, but it was already too late. He fell face first into the snow and found himself in free fall hundreds of feet above the Wall itself.
No- he wasn't falling. He was gliding.
He flew beyond the Wall, towards the jagged caps of a mountain range. He flew over a vast untamed forest, before reaching the mountains. There, he saw little that he could make sense of. A mountain that acted as an ant hill, teaming with life.
He saw groves of weirwood trees that were screaming in agony -- their branches bound and shaped, their life's blood drained from them by a spout into glass jars filled with crimson. Each tree lined up in neat rows, starving even as men were dragged to them, sacrificed with their bodies desecrated to feed them.
Black clouds began to swirl above him. Or below. It was impossible to tell as he flew endlessly. The scent of rain and lightning overpowered the scent of blood that permeated the air. As the cloud formed, his gaze turned to who the vision wanted him to see. A boy. A man.
Impossibly blue eyes, armor made of black ice -- he marched south upon a sea of corpses, each step making the ground shudder as he carried the storm with him.
Rhaegar wasn't sure when it happened, but he found himself standing before the man who didn't even see him. Fear raced down his spine, pooling in his guts and he found himself reaching for a sword that wasn't there. "Who are you?" Rhaegar questioned, and it was only then that the impossible blue eyes turned to him.
Then he was flying again, Rhaegar thought at first. But, as he spun in the air, he saw his headless corpse beneath him. Rhaegar half expected to wake then, but he didn't. His head flopped into the snow, air refusing to enter lungs that were no longer there, forced to watch as the man pressed onward without pause. The Wall. He was carrying the storm to the Wall-
A bird landed on Rhaegar's severed head, a raven with three eyes bending down to look at him. His lips moved but words wouldn't form, so it was the raven that spoke.
"Wake up."
Rhaegar jolted in his bed, feeling like he had fallen from a great height. His breathing was harsh and he could feel damp sweat on the silk sheets of his feathered bed. His heart pounded in his chest and he found himself swinging his legs out from under the covers, feeling an urgency to just move. Only for that feeling to abruptly leave him the moment that his feet touched the stone floor of his quarters.
Dragging a hand down his face, he turned to the window that the first rays of the dun were starting to peer through. A moment later, there was a knock at the door. "Prince Rhaegar?" Ser Arthur Dayne's came through the heavy oak door and Rhaegar was tempted to wave him off.
Instead he took a steadying breath, "Enter." He commanded, pushing his pale silver hair out of his face. Arthur was a handsome man with violet eyes and black hair. He was dressed in the stark white armor of the kingsguard with his family sword, Dawn, sheathed over his shoulder.
His friend gave him a concerned look, "You were moaning in your sleep. How bad was it?" There was no mistaking what he was asking.
"The worst so far," Rhaegar admitted. There were precious few people in this world that Rhaegar could trust without reservation, and Arthur was one of them. "I was beyond the Wall, flying through the air where… I saw a grove of weirwood trees, like they were an orchard. There was a man there, or a boy on the cusp of manhood, and he was torturing them. Then he killed me," He half babbled, a hand reaching up to his neck where he felt a phantom pain that yet lingered. "It was the most vivid dream I've had so far."
Dragon dreams. It wasn't what they were called. At least, it wasn't before the true term for the prophetic dreams that those with the blood of Valyria sometimes had was lost, like so much else. His dynasty had been founded by Daenys the Dreamer, so they had always paid close attention to their dreams. Only, usually, it was impossible to tell what was simply a dream from what was a glimpse of the future.
"Someone beyond the Wall is torturing the Old Gods? Heresy, maybe?" Arthur prompted, knowing his role well on nights such as these. The unfortunate truth of prophecy was that they were very difficult to interpret. He had only managed to decrypt one in his lifetime, and with no small amount of help from his dreams.
"Do the Old Gods even have the concept of heresy?" Rhaegar sighed, his lips thinning before he reached for his dream journal. Opening it, he saw short hand and scrambled notes -- if anyone saw the journal, they'd think it belonged to a mad man, Rhaegar thought. And not for the first time. "He carried a storm with him. Darkness. Armor made of black ice… or was it ice? Shadows?" he muttered, making quick notes before the memories of the dream slipped through his fingers.
"The Wall is rather distinctive, I imagine. If nothing else makes sense, then we know something is happening at the Wall or beyond it." Arthur offered and Rhaegar nodded to himself, feeling a dagger of fear stab him in the heart.
The Others.
"I'll send a letter to Maester Aemon to see if there is anything unusual happening," he decided, even though he ached to jump on a horse and not stop riding until he reached the Wall. Impossible. Impractical. And, worse of all, stupid-- if the Long Night was coming once more, he would be of far greater use in the capital rallying the Seven Kingdoms than he would be at the edge of the world.
Closing his journal, he felt himself calming down even as he still vividly recalled the unnatural blue eyes that had peered right through him. His unease must have shown because Arthur spoke up, "Perhaps a spar would help the prince wake up?"
"Perhaps it would," Rhaegar agreed. He started late in his training. Almost too late. If it wasn't for the teachings from Arthur, Ser Barristen, and Ser Oswald, Rhaegar would be woefully unprepared for the battles to come. But, even with their tutelage, he had to put in twice the effort as anyone else to make up for the lost time.
It was after he washed his face and he dressed himself that Rhaegar found himself in the training yard with Arthur across from him, both wielding dulled blades. For Arthur's sake rather than Rhaegar's -- it wouldn't do to give his father any reason to target Arthur, and using live steel would. At the break of dawn, the training yard was thankfully empty as the two of them began.
Fortune would have it that Rhaegar did possess some talent with a blade and lance. Though, it was quite miniscule in comparison to the talent possessed by the Kingsguard. In the years since he first picked up the blade, the gap between him and Arthur was slowly diminishing.
The singing of steel echoed out in the courtyard as Rhaegar followed the steps that he was taught. Step - strike - step back - block - reposest -- it was easier to think of fighting like a game of cyvasse. To every move, there was a proper response. Do the right response enough times in a row, and you would win any fight.
It was just an issue of learning the proper responses, and not falling for any traps that your opponent might lay. Something far easier said than done, Rhaegar found when his thrust was not diverted but dodged and he felt a light tap on his neck. His throat had been slit.
Unlike cyvasse, one move chosen bad enough to lead to an instant defeat.
"You're still distracted, my prince," Arthur noted, withdrawing the blade and settling into a prepared stance.
Rhaegar worked his jaw for but a moment, mirroring the stance. "Rather than heresy… someone is abusing the faith of the Old Gods for their own ends?" He put forth, considering the possibility. His friend kept it off of his face, but Rhaegar knew Arthur was disappointed that he wasn't focused on the spar.
Dreams had to be interpreted. The grove, out of everything, even his own death, stood out to Rhaegar the most. The weirwood trees were being harvested. Fed, but controlled and starved. The orchard represented something. Cultivation? Abuse? Or were the weirwood trees merely a stand in for the faithful? Could he expect religious turmoil in the North?
Without warning, Arthur attacked and Rhaegar just barely managed to defend himself. He blocked the blade, retreating a half step, lunging when Arthur repositioned his blade, only to be greeted by a repotest when his blade arrived. They traded a score of attacks as Arthur forced him to focus on the spar and it was a welcome distraction. He felt a familiar burning in his arms and back, sweat upon his brow, and the vibrations running up his arm with every attack, parry, and block.
However, the distraction was all too short lived.
"My prince," greeted a voice belonging to Jon Connington, another one of the few friends that he could afford to have. Fiery red hair and a well groomed short beard, he stood in the colors of his house's heraldry -- red and white. His expression, to Rhaegar's concern, spoke of ill tidings. "We have received word from Lord Baratheon."
The words made Rhaegar's heart go still in his chest, "Has he found me a wife?" He asked, not certain he wanted to know the answer. A valyrian bride was his father's desire. It would have been a smart match if his family still possessed dragons, but keeping the bloodline pure meant little without them. As he had no sisters to marry, it would be best to marry within the Seven Kingdoms.
Jon's expression soured and Rhaegar feared the worst -- that Lord Steffon had found him an Essosian bride. "I am unaware. I merely happened to overhear that one of his ships made landing at the docks." Meaning that he likely found a possible bride. Rhaegar kept a grimace off of his face, nodding his gratitude to his friend.
"Then I would hear what this messenger has to say," Rhaegar decided. Setting his training sword down, he retreated to his quarters to wipe himself of sweat before dressing in proper clothes. By that time, the messenger that Lord Steffon sent made his way to the Red Keep, and Rhaegar was already walking towards the Small Council chambers.
Servants passed him by, bowing their heads as they performed their chores. They dusted and polished the stone floors, cleaning candle sticks and decorations. A pity they could do nothing about the smell coming from King's Landing -- the smell of refuse was always at its worst when summer arrived in earnest. The waste that had been frozen over joined the waste that was freshly added, creating a noxious air that was difficult to escape without dousing oneself in perfumes.
Outside of the chambers was Ser Harlan Grandison -- or, as he was better known as Ser Harlan the Old. Despite being of age to be Rhaegar's grandfather, he stood proudly outside of the door. He was an unwelcome sight. Not because Rhaegar particularly disliked him, though he wasn't fond of him either, but his presence meant that his father had decided to attend the Small Council meeting.
"Prince Rhaegar. Ser Arthur," Ser Harlan greeted them, stepping out of Rhaegar's way.
Rhaegar nodded his greeting, leaving Arthur to join his sworn brother outside of the chamber while he entered it. He was first greeted with the smell of incense to cover the smell of waste. Secondly, he was greeted by the sight of the Small Council. And his father.
If one was ignorant of who was king, it would be an easy mistake to make that Tywin Lannister was the king of the Seven Kingdoms. His head was shaven while he grew a golden beard. His clothing was a vibrant gold and red while a necklace of linked hands sat around his neck. He was everything that his father was not.
King Aerys Targaryen sat at the head of the table, appearing ill. His silver white hair was messy and unkempt, his skin had a pale waxy complexion to it while his violet eyes seemed to sink into his head. In the year since his rescue at Duskendale, he hadn't shaven or bathed or trimmed his nails, which now appeared to be yellowed talons as he gripped the arms of his chair. Even Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, appeared more of a king than the decrepit creature his father had become.
"You were not invited to this meeting," his father greeted him coldly, leaning into his chair as if to get further away from him while Ser Gerold stood behind Areys.
Rhaegar lowered his head, "Father. I thought there might be news about my marriage." He said, careful to not look at Tywin as he did so. It was but a few years ago that his father had refused a marriage to his daughter, Cersei Lannister. Rhaegar couldn't say he cared much for the girl, the little he knew of her, but she had the bloodline and she would help bind the Westerlands to him when it was his time to rule.
His father made a dismissive sound before gesturing to the end of the table, granting permission to stay. No one sat near his father -- there was space for at least two chairs between him and Tywin, who remained silent, simply watching them with emerald eyes flicked with gold.
The rest of the Small Council joined after that -- Grand Maester Pycelle. Master of Coin, Qarlton Chelsted. Master of Laws, Symond Staunton. Master of Ships, Lucerys Velaryon. The three of them were creatures of his father, with Lucerys in particular being a loyal dog that provoked and prodded his father's paranoia for his own gain.
The only ally he had in the Small Council was Ser Gerold, whose loyalty was split between the king and the heir and Rhaegar dared not test who he would choose if his hand was forced. The Master of Whispers was an empty position, which was a great shame. The last Master of Whispers had been an ally, keeping him informed of his father's growing paranoia.
Once everyone was seated, a man was allowed into the chambers, and Rhaegar recognized him as one of Lord Steffon's bannermen. Casper Wylde, if memory serves. The man bowed to the assembled lords and king, "Lord Baratheon regrets to inform his liege that there were no women of suitable stature to marry Prince Rhaegar in Lys," Casper began and Rhaegar felt a measure of relief.
His father's lips curled, revealing teeth that were starting to blacken with rot. "None?" He hissed, shifting in his seat much like a vulture.
"My Lord sends his regrets, but there are none. Any of valyrian stock have been tainted with slave blood or lowborn. It is an unfortunate occurrence in Essos because of their views on the stations of merchants." No one gave a reaction to the news, all waiting for Aerys to react. His expression betrayed an extreme displeasure. Casper saw this, so he continued. "However, with your permission, Lord Baratheon will continue to search for a suitable bride in Myr or Tyrosh. Or perhaps Volantis, as Valyrian blood runs strong there."
It was Rhaegar that spoke, "That would delay my marriage too long." He was already nineteen. If Lord Baratheon continued his search -- the three daughters or Volantis, then that could delay his marriage by another year at least. Most likely two.
"Prince Rhaegar speaks true, King Aerys," Tywin stated, his voice cold and clipped.
The Grand Maester nodded in agreement, "It would be prudent to settle the matter of marriage swiftly as Prince Rhaegar participates in tourneys. I would never dare accuse anyone of intentionally harming him but… they would not need to do so intentionally."
Aery's face twisted as if he had bitten into something sour. "Then he will not participate in any tourneys," she spat the order out, looking at Rhaegar with cloudy eyes filled with venom.
Rhaegar clenched his jaw, but gave no reaction beyond that. Thankfully, he did not need to speak as Casper stepped in.
"There was one other matter that Lord Baratheon wanted me to bring to his Grace's attention," he said, bringing the attention back to him and Rhaegar felt a rush of gratitude. With luck, his father would forget such a declaration. He often did. "It was during our stay in Lys that we overheard that some merchants are displeased with the Seven Kingdoms. While their concerns aren't worth much, why they're wroth was. According to them, the Seven Kingdoms are exporting glass and tapestries."
Attention shifted to Qarlton, who seemed uncertain. "The Seven Kingdoms has always exported some tapestries to Essos, but I have never heard of any house exporting glass. If they were, we wouldn't be paying such prices from Myr."
"How wroth are these merchants?" Rhaegar questioned and Casper inclined his head to them.
"Very, I fear. I don't expect it will be long before his grace hears a petition from the slaver cities. There were talks of increased tariffs, but I cannot say that is for certain. It could merely be the guesses of angry men deep in their cups," Casper answered and Rhaegar leaned forward. The Seven Kingdoms did not really compete with the free cities of Essos when it came to trade. There was little need to.
However, from the sounds of it, the free cities believed that the Seven Kingdoms was starting to compete with them. Meaning that whatever trade goods that were coming from the Seven Kingdoms was in such volume and quantity that they felt threatened.
And no one in this room had known until now.
Aerys had the most visible reaction, gripping his chair while his pale flesh reddened with anger. "They would insult me? I'll burn their petition. I'll burn their petitioners. I am the King of the Seven Kingdoms! How dare they threaten me," he hissed, his anger growing. The tension in the Council chambers swelled to the point you could choke on it. "They would have been rewarded with the greatest house in the world, and instead they accuse me of this filth?! Damn them!"
Lucerys Velaryon saw his opportunity to curry favor like the dog he was. "They have forfeited such an honor with these insults, your grace. They have proven themselves unworthy of them."
Aerys nodded his head, "Volantis. Steffon will sail to Volantis to find my son a bride." Rhaegar didn't react but he swallowed a curse. His father was fixated on the idea, no matter how foolhardy it was.
"It would be prudent to learn why, exactly, the Three Daughters believe that the Seven Kingdoms is selling glass," Tywin ventured and Aerys sneered so hard it was more of a snarl.
To some surprise, Qarlton was in agreement. "It would be prudent, your grace. If the rumors are merely rumors, then this is nothing more than a ploy from some jumped up merchants trying to squeeze silver and gold from the Iron Throne. If there is more substance to this rumor… then it could very well mean that someone discovered the secret to Myrish glass making and they kept it a secret from us. For what reason, I cannot fathom, but I suspect to shorten the crown what it is owed in taxes."
Aerys took the prospect as a personal insult based on how he glowered, "Find them. Find whoever is stealing from me."
"Find them and burn them."
...
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The reports were promising -- primarily iron, copper, and unripened silver in terms of metals. Minerals were far more abundant -- dragonglass, graphite, gemstones such as sapphires, rubies, and amethyst, though the gemstones were far fewer in quantity. There was a great deal of granite and limestone to be found as well. It had taken another month for the various mines to get up and running, delivering their toils to Winterfell.
The North welcomed the uptick in mining wealth with smallfolk families sending their extra sons to them. And, for their part, they were ignorant of what the materials were being used for.
Every month, a ship sailed down from the Wall, landing in Mountain Clan territory. On the very first trip, Paul had sailed with the ship and it was then that he slew a rather large bear, earning him the respect of the Mountain Clans. Any issues that Rickard anticipated were side stepped before they could trouble him. That month, Paul came with more than just the 'stillsuits' as he called them.
Rickard's gaze went down to an engraved drinking glass -- one that he purchased outright. It was an even white with a gray direwolf. The sigil of his house. The direwolf stood out against the many intricate engravings. Ridges and looping designs that were painstakingly carved into the glass, making it one of the finest things that Rickard had ever seen.
There were twelve more of them in the shipment, each one colored a rich hue -- blue, red, green, violet, orange, yellow, silver, and gold. They lacked heraldry, but Rickard could foresee the desire to have one made custom for one's house. That month brought puzzle boxes, wool tapestries as large as Greatjon equal in finery to anything he had seen from Essos, along with a foodstuff called syrup that acted as a potent sweetener.
Those goods were purchased for ores and minerals. Some of which were added to the list when Paul saw value in sulphur, ollvine, and feldspar. The goods were then sent to Whiteharbor, on board a ship captained by one of Wyman's most trusted men, and then sent to Bravoss for sale. From Whiteharbor to Bravoss was a month and a half of sailing, and another month and a half to get back. Rickard gave two weeks to find buyers for the goods, so every three and a half months, Rickard saw a return on his investment.
There was a period of time that the goods would be languishing in a vault in Whiteharbor, and the initial plan called for them to be sold in Whiteharbor, to help establish the story that the goods were sourced in Essos. The excess would then be sold to Bravos.
At least, that was the initial plan.
"Two thousand, six hundred and thirty three golden dragons," Rickard mused out loud, reading out the total sum of the first return trip. It was only then that the others in the room began to stir. Brandon leaned in, his expression serious while the merchant, a man sworn to Lord Wyman named Arick, occupied one of his chairs. Standing to the right of Rickard was Maester Wyllas -- an unfortunate risk, but his golden link for sums and commerce was too valuable to ignore.
"The Bravvosi took well to the goods, my lord, especially when they learned they did not come from the Daughters. They hate slavery even more than we do, and they paid a premium not only to be the first to own such things, but because they now see us an alternative to a necessary evil in their eyes." Arick said, making Rickard nod slowly. "To that end, demand has sharply increased. The next shipment shall be worth even more, and perhaps the next one after that. But, I would expect the price to normalize some time after that."
Two thousand, six hundred and thirty three dragons. A truly astounding sum. "Merchants always struck me as ignoble. What kind of man profits off the work of others on lands he cannot call his own? Now I understand, it is a rich man indeed," Rickard admitted to a few dry chuckles. The loudest of them from Arick. A small jab to test his character- he was a point of failure in this venture, and he wanted to make sure that Lord Wyman was correct in choosing him.
"Is it that substantial?" Brandon asked, and Rickard was not surprised by his confusion.
"In a year, after taxes are paid to the crown, the North sees a profit between a hundred and fifty thousand to two hundred thousand gold dragons." Which made them the poorest kingdom by half. It was a lack luster number in comparison to the Westerlands, which could boast a surplus of two million gold dragons because of Lannister gold, or the Reach, which could see over a million due to being the Seven Kingdom's breadbasket. "However, on average, every fall sees fifty thousand to a hundred thousand gold dragons going to the Reach for grain."
A long summer saw the price decrease dramatically. Not even the worst of the Reach could justify charging ten times the price when everyone else's larders were full already. The North purchased grain on principle, even with full larders. However, a short summer could see the price increase exponentially when the North had to compete with other lords of the South.
Rickard held up the parchment that was given to him, "On the assumption that we don't suffer a loss of a ship, and each ship returns with a total of two thousand and five hundred dragons… in a year, the North will see an additional ten thousand gold dragons in revenue. Or, if Arick speaks true, closer to fifteen thousand gold dragons."
It was then that Maester Wyllas spoke up, "Some of the high lords would struggle to pay such a sum. The only one that comes to mind is Lord Manderly himself." They were the richest Stark vassal and for good reason.
Ideally, he could see an additional fifteen thousand dragons a year on the assumption that they continued to sell to Essos. During a three year summer, that was forty-five thousand dragons. It might not sound like a great deal in comparison to the other kingdoms, but as far as his finances were concerned, he gained another vassal. He was barely paying for the goods themselves, because any costs incurred during the mining would make up for themselves in taxes.
Rickard looked to Arick, "You have my thanks for the journey here. We possess more of the goods that you've sold. Rest for a few days before departing back to Whiteharbor with the shipment. From here on out, you can expect them to be in Whiteharbor upon your return from Bravoss. You shall be quite busy for at least a year."
Arick understood the dismissal for what it was, standing and bowing his head. "I'll never complain about being busy, Lord Stark! Lord Brandon," he added, bowing to his son before leaving the room.
A few seconds after the door closed, Rickard glanced at Maester Wyllas. "Have him approached while he's here -- guardsman, out of uniform. Prob at what he's doing here and try to get him drunk." Drunk men spoke from their hearts, especially when they suffered an insult. Expecting him to be perfect was foolhardy, but Rickard would be damned before he let this opportunity slip from his fingers because of a drunk with a loose tongue.
As Maester Wyllas nodded, Brandon spoke, "We could restore Moat Cailin." He was right. It would take a few years to pay off, but they could start reconstruction. They were already quarrying granite in the mountains -- it would be more of a trek, but it would be well worth it. The lands there had been neglected too long.
However, it was Maester Wyllas who spoke up, "I fear what message that might send to the crown, my lord. King Areys might question why you feel the need to secure your southernmost border." To that, Rickard grimaced, knowing that he was right. The reason Moat Cailin was a ruin was because there hadn't been a need to man it for three hundred years. Even in times of war, no one tried to invade the North.
No, it wouldn't do to tip the king off. Still, the money was a windfall and it sat ill with Rickard to let it gather dust. Especially after a lifetime of being a lord, having ideas that could never materialize simply because they were too costly.
"Before we get too excited over what we can do with the money, we should focus on the source of it," Brandon spoke up rather wisely, before his greed could get the better of him. "Are we any closer to locating his lands?"
"The Frostfangs don't really narrow it down much," Brandon replied. "I'm tapping into the Night Watch's contacts with the wildlings, but if anyone knows where exactly they are, then they aren't telling them. But, something to note is that the Fremen are hated and feared among the wildlings. Not Ice River Clans kind of hated, but not that far off. Paul isn't popular because of his habit of taking hostages." It was good information, Rickard decided, even if it wasn't what he wanted to know. "I'm testing the waters paying the wildlings to track them, but I have no idea if it'll work."
His son was working too close with the wildlings. Even with degrees of separation, the stink might wash off. "Be subtle about it. When people learn of this, we need the story to be that you got the information from the Night's Watch." To that, Brandon waved him off and Rickard fought a scowl. "This is for the sake of your reputation, Brandon. It's a great deal easier washing off a stain when you have a good reputation than washing out a stain when you have none to speak of."
"I'll be careful," Brandon replied placatingly, properly chastised.
Rickard grunted, his gaze turning to the glass on his desk. "Keep working at it. As it is, Paul has too much leverage. I want alternatives if we cannot convince him to come to us."
To that, Brandon leaned forward. "He's nobility. I'm not sure if I believe his house is really ten thousand years old, but I'd sooner believe that he's nobility than some wildling. Give him some land. It's not like we're lacking that in the North."
The idea had merit. "It puts us on more equal footing. If he becomes a vassal of House Stark, then the wealth that his lands generate would be his own. We would collect some of it in taxes, but nothing like we are seeing now." The deal that they had now was exceptionally in their favor and Rickard would prefer to keep it that way, even if it wasn't entirely feasible. "I would ask for the secret of making glass as part of his vassalage, but Paul would be a fool to accept that much to become a minor noble in small lands when he currently has the whole of beyond the Wall."
In short, Paul has little to gain by becoming a vassal, as strange as it was to think. He currently enjoyed all the benefits of being a lord without any of the negatives such as taxes or answering to a liege lord. And, even if he did become a vassal, it would leave Rickard and then Brandon and his grandchildren with a powerful and wealthy vassal. A possible boon. A possible danger.
The North was slow to accept change. When it was a strength, it was their greatest. Yet, when it was a weakness, it was also their greatest.
"It'd be best if we could force his hand," Brandon said, showing that he had given it some thought. "Incite the wildlings at him, and make him come to us." That would be ideal. Rickard wanted to be in a position of strength when it came time to negotiate with Paul settling south of the Wall. He wanted to be able to dictate terms -- favorable terms but not so much that it drove Paul further south.
"Do that through the Night's Watch. It won't be a breach of their neutrality- well, no more than they've already compromised it," Rickard amended. "If the wildlings start hunting for the Fremen on their own will, it should be easier to learn his location." It did risk the disruption of the shipments, but it was a calculated risk with a bigger reward at the end of the line.
Brandon nodded before standing up, "I'll get right on it then." With that, he dismissed himself, and Maester Wyllas followed him out to complete the order that Rickard had given. Once he was alone in his office once more, Rickard took the glass cup and rolled it in his hands so the direwolf stared back at him.
So many plans were in motion. So many carefully considered risks. If he won his gambles then the North would be stronger than it had ever been, even before the conquest. But the higher one reached, the further they had to fall.
And Rickard could not afford to fall.
…
As Arick predicted, the second delivery to Braavos was worth a great deal more. Three months was enough time for word to spread through the city, and Arick struck while the iron was hot. He emptied the cargo hold of the Lady Windchaser, and when he returned he came with three thousand eight hundred and fifty-six gold dragons. Near twice the first shipment's value. He also came with offers wishing for commissioned glasses, vases, and tapestries.
It was enough to convince him to alter the plan, ever so slightly. His original intention was to test the waters in Bravos, ascertaining a favorable price, before he started to sell the goods to the South. However, the Bravosi were rich in a way that was difficult to fathom, so he continued to sell to Essos. At least, for a time.
Soon the Bravosi would learn where the goods came from, and they would be the ones to set sail to the North. The prices would be lower, but it would be a more consistent stream of revenue rather than the harsh spikes every three months.
General buyers were paying a premium, but commissioned goods were ludicrously expensive. Enough so that Rickard felt… jealous that some merchant lord across the Narrow Sea could afford trinkets that would see the North beggared in a generation. But he swallowed it down, happy to accept the foreign gold and silver, and passed the requests along to the Fremen.
He expected it to take some time, but Rickard had apparently grossly underestimated the speed of their craftsmen. A month after he delivered the commissions, they arrived on the next shipment from beyond the Wall.
Nine months after the trade deals began, the third return of the Lady Windchaser saw an additional six thousand, three hundred and seventy-one gold dragons worth of gold and silver.
In less than a year, Rickard had gained twelve thousand eight hundred and sixty gold dragons. A near tenth of the North's yearly revenue.
It was becoming increasingly clear how he underestimated the power of trade. And his desire to bring Paul and his craftsmen down south grew with every delivery. Especially when each time they arrived, they brought pieces of what would become a glass garden -- large panes of glass that were three feet tall, half that wide, and half a finger thick. The glass itself was clear as water, narry an imperfection to be found.
However, even before the tenth month mark arrived, Rickard sensed that trouble was on the horizon. First, it came in the form of news that the wildlings attacked the Fremen in a coalition, only to be soundly defeated without so much as a disruption in trade. They were no closer to discovering their secrets than they were at the start of the venture.
But Rickard knew time was running out. In more ways than one.
…
Rhaegar knew he was dreaming, even if it felt every bit as real as the world. He trudged through waist high snow, feeling a bitter chill cutting him to the bone as the wind howled around him. Snow furries made it nearly impossible to see, but the little that he did was unmistakable. Even without ever laying eyes on it before, he knew exactly what he was walking to.
Eight hundred feet tall that stretched across the horizon for three hundred miles.
The Wall.
Rhaegar let out a shuddering breath, pulling his cloak over his shoulders tighter as he took another step, only for his foot to pass through the snow with finding purchase. He found himself falling forward, trying to correct his balance, but it was already too late. He fell face first into the snow and found himself in free fall hundreds of feet above the Wall itself.
No- he wasn't falling. He was gliding.
He flew beyond the Wall, towards the jagged caps of a mountain range. He flew over a vast untamed forest, before reaching the mountains. There, he saw little that he could make sense of. A mountain that acted as an ant hill, teaming with life.
He saw groves of weirwood trees that were screaming in agony -- their branches bound and shaped, their life's blood drained from them by a spout into glass jars filled with crimson. Each tree lined up in neat rows, starving even as men were dragged to them, sacrificed with their bodies desecrated to feed them.
Black clouds began to swirl above him. Or below. It was impossible to tell as he flew endlessly. The scent of rain and lightning overpowered the scent of blood that permeated the air. As the cloud formed, his gaze turned to who the vision wanted him to see. A boy. A man.
Impossibly blue eyes, armor made of black ice -- he marched south upon a sea of corpses, each step making the ground shudder as he carried the storm with him.
Rhaegar wasn't sure when it happened, but he found himself standing before the man who didn't even see him. Fear raced down his spine, pooling in his guts and he found himself reaching for a sword that wasn't there. "Who are you?" Rhaegar questioned, and it was only then that the impossible blue eyes turned to him.
Then he was flying again, Rhaegar thought at first. But, as he spun in the air, he saw his headless corpse beneath him. Rhaegar half expected to wake then, but he didn't. His head flopped into the snow, air refusing to enter lungs that were no longer there, forced to watch as the man pressed onward without pause. The Wall. He was carrying the storm to the Wall-
A bird landed on Rhaegar's severed head, a raven with three eyes bending down to look at him. His lips moved but words wouldn't form, so it was the raven that spoke.
"Wake up."
Rhaegar jolted in his bed, feeling like he had fallen from a great height. His breathing was harsh and he could feel damp sweat on the silk sheets of his feathered bed. His heart pounded in his chest and he found himself swinging his legs out from under the covers, feeling an urgency to just move. Only for that feeling to abruptly leave him the moment that his feet touched the stone floor of his quarters.
Dragging a hand down his face, he turned to the window that the first rays of the dun were starting to peer through. A moment later, there was a knock at the door. "Prince Rhaegar?" Ser Arthur Dayne's came through the heavy oak door and Rhaegar was tempted to wave him off.
Instead he took a steadying breath, "Enter." He commanded, pushing his pale silver hair out of his face. Arthur was a handsome man with violet eyes and black hair. He was dressed in the stark white armor of the kingsguard with his family sword, Dawn, sheathed over his shoulder.
His friend gave him a concerned look, "You were moaning in your sleep. How bad was it?" There was no mistaking what he was asking.
"The worst so far," Rhaegar admitted. There were precious few people in this world that Rhaegar could trust without reservation, and Arthur was one of them. "I was beyond the Wall, flying through the air where… I saw a grove of weirwood trees, like they were an orchard. There was a man there, or a boy on the cusp of manhood, and he was torturing them. Then he killed me," He half babbled, a hand reaching up to his neck where he felt a phantom pain that yet lingered. "It was the most vivid dream I've had so far."
Dragon dreams. It wasn't what they were called. At least, it wasn't before the true term for the prophetic dreams that those with the blood of Valyria sometimes had was lost, like so much else. His dynasty had been founded by Daenys the Dreamer, so they had always paid close attention to their dreams. Only, usually, it was impossible to tell what was simply a dream from what was a glimpse of the future.
"Someone beyond the Wall is torturing the Old Gods? Heresy, maybe?" Arthur prompted, knowing his role well on nights such as these. The unfortunate truth of prophecy was that they were very difficult to interpret. He had only managed to decrypt one in his lifetime, and with no small amount of help from his dreams.
"Do the Old Gods even have the concept of heresy?" Rhaegar sighed, his lips thinning before he reached for his dream journal. Opening it, he saw short hand and scrambled notes -- if anyone saw the journal, they'd think it belonged to a mad man, Rhaegar thought. And not for the first time. "He carried a storm with him. Darkness. Armor made of black ice… or was it ice? Shadows?" he muttered, making quick notes before the memories of the dream slipped through his fingers.
"The Wall is rather distinctive, I imagine. If nothing else makes sense, then we know something is happening at the Wall or beyond it." Arthur offered and Rhaegar nodded to himself, feeling a dagger of fear stab him in the heart.
The Others.
"I'll send a letter to Maester Aemon to see if there is anything unusual happening," he decided, even though he ached to jump on a horse and not stop riding until he reached the Wall. Impossible. Impractical. And, worse of all, stupid-- if the Long Night was coming once more, he would be of far greater use in the capital rallying the Seven Kingdoms than he would be at the edge of the world.
Closing his journal, he felt himself calming down even as he still vividly recalled the unnatural blue eyes that had peered right through him. His unease must have shown because Arthur spoke up, "Perhaps a spar would help the prince wake up?"
"Perhaps it would," Rhaegar agreed. He started late in his training. Almost too late. If it wasn't for the teachings from Arthur, Ser Barristen, and Ser Oswald, Rhaegar would be woefully unprepared for the battles to come. But, even with their tutelage, he had to put in twice the effort as anyone else to make up for the lost time.
It was after he washed his face and he dressed himself that Rhaegar found himself in the training yard with Arthur across from him, both wielding dulled blades. For Arthur's sake rather than Rhaegar's -- it wouldn't do to give his father any reason to target Arthur, and using live steel would. At the break of dawn, the training yard was thankfully empty as the two of them began.
Fortune would have it that Rhaegar did possess some talent with a blade and lance. Though, it was quite miniscule in comparison to the talent possessed by the Kingsguard. In the years since he first picked up the blade, the gap between him and Arthur was slowly diminishing.
The singing of steel echoed out in the courtyard as Rhaegar followed the steps that he was taught. Step - strike - step back - block - reposest -- it was easier to think of fighting like a game of cyvasse. To every move, there was a proper response. Do the right response enough times in a row, and you would win any fight.
It was just an issue of learning the proper responses, and not falling for any traps that your opponent might lay. Something far easier said than done, Rhaegar found when his thrust was not diverted but dodged and he felt a light tap on his neck. His throat had been slit.
Unlike cyvasse, one move chosen bad enough to lead to an instant defeat.
"You're still distracted, my prince," Arthur noted, withdrawing the blade and settling into a prepared stance.
Rhaegar worked his jaw for but a moment, mirroring the stance. "Rather than heresy… someone is abusing the faith of the Old Gods for their own ends?" He put forth, considering the possibility. His friend kept it off of his face, but Rhaegar knew Arthur was disappointed that he wasn't focused on the spar.
Dreams had to be interpreted. The grove, out of everything, even his own death, stood out to Rhaegar the most. The weirwood trees were being harvested. Fed, but controlled and starved. The orchard represented something. Cultivation? Abuse? Or were the weirwood trees merely a stand in for the faithful? Could he expect religious turmoil in the North?
Without warning, Arthur attacked and Rhaegar just barely managed to defend himself. He blocked the blade, retreating a half step, lunging when Arthur repositioned his blade, only to be greeted by a repotest when his blade arrived. They traded a score of attacks as Arthur forced him to focus on the spar and it was a welcome distraction. He felt a familiar burning in his arms and back, sweat upon his brow, and the vibrations running up his arm with every attack, parry, and block.
However, the distraction was all too short lived.
"My prince," greeted a voice belonging to Jon Connington, another one of the few friends that he could afford to have. Fiery red hair and a well groomed short beard, he stood in the colors of his house's heraldry -- red and white. His expression, to Rhaegar's concern, spoke of ill tidings. "We have received word from Lord Baratheon."
The words made Rhaegar's heart go still in his chest, "Has he found me a wife?" He asked, not certain he wanted to know the answer. A valyrian bride was his father's desire. It would have been a smart match if his family still possessed dragons, but keeping the bloodline pure meant little without them. As he had no sisters to marry, it would be best to marry within the Seven Kingdoms.
Jon's expression soured and Rhaegar feared the worst -- that Lord Steffon had found him an Essosian bride. "I am unaware. I merely happened to overhear that one of his ships made landing at the docks." Meaning that he likely found a possible bride. Rhaegar kept a grimace off of his face, nodding his gratitude to his friend.
"Then I would hear what this messenger has to say," Rhaegar decided. Setting his training sword down, he retreated to his quarters to wipe himself of sweat before dressing in proper clothes. By that time, the messenger that Lord Steffon sent made his way to the Red Keep, and Rhaegar was already walking towards the Small Council chambers.
Servants passed him by, bowing their heads as they performed their chores. They dusted and polished the stone floors, cleaning candle sticks and decorations. A pity they could do nothing about the smell coming from King's Landing -- the smell of refuse was always at its worst when summer arrived in earnest. The waste that had been frozen over joined the waste that was freshly added, creating a noxious air that was difficult to escape without dousing oneself in perfumes.
Outside of the chambers was Ser Harlan Grandison -- or, as he was better known as Ser Harlan the Old. Despite being of age to be Rhaegar's grandfather, he stood proudly outside of the door. He was an unwelcome sight. Not because Rhaegar particularly disliked him, though he wasn't fond of him either, but his presence meant that his father had decided to attend the Small Council meeting.
"Prince Rhaegar. Ser Arthur," Ser Harlan greeted them, stepping out of Rhaegar's way.
Rhaegar nodded his greeting, leaving Arthur to join his sworn brother outside of the chamber while he entered it. He was first greeted with the smell of incense to cover the smell of waste. Secondly, he was greeted by the sight of the Small Council. And his father.
If one was ignorant of who was king, it would be an easy mistake to make that Tywin Lannister was the king of the Seven Kingdoms. His head was shaven while he grew a golden beard. His clothing was a vibrant gold and red while a necklace of linked hands sat around his neck. He was everything that his father was not.
King Aerys Targaryen sat at the head of the table, appearing ill. His silver white hair was messy and unkempt, his skin had a pale waxy complexion to it while his violet eyes seemed to sink into his head. In the year since his rescue at Duskendale, he hadn't shaven or bathed or trimmed his nails, which now appeared to be yellowed talons as he gripped the arms of his chair. Even Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, appeared more of a king than the decrepit creature his father had become.
"You were not invited to this meeting," his father greeted him coldly, leaning into his chair as if to get further away from him while Ser Gerold stood behind Areys.
Rhaegar lowered his head, "Father. I thought there might be news about my marriage." He said, careful to not look at Tywin as he did so. It was but a few years ago that his father had refused a marriage to his daughter, Cersei Lannister. Rhaegar couldn't say he cared much for the girl, the little he knew of her, but she had the bloodline and she would help bind the Westerlands to him when it was his time to rule.
His father made a dismissive sound before gesturing to the end of the table, granting permission to stay. No one sat near his father -- there was space for at least two chairs between him and Tywin, who remained silent, simply watching them with emerald eyes flicked with gold.
The rest of the Small Council joined after that -- Grand Maester Pycelle. Master of Coin, Qarlton Chelsted. Master of Laws, Symond Staunton. Master of Ships, Lucerys Velaryon. The three of them were creatures of his father, with Lucerys in particular being a loyal dog that provoked and prodded his father's paranoia for his own gain.
The only ally he had in the Small Council was Ser Gerold, whose loyalty was split between the king and the heir and Rhaegar dared not test who he would choose if his hand was forced. The Master of Whispers was an empty position, which was a great shame. The last Master of Whispers had been an ally, keeping him informed of his father's growing paranoia.
Once everyone was seated, a man was allowed into the chambers, and Rhaegar recognized him as one of Lord Steffon's bannermen. Casper Wylde, if memory serves. The man bowed to the assembled lords and king, "Lord Baratheon regrets to inform his liege that there were no women of suitable stature to marry Prince Rhaegar in Lys," Casper began and Rhaegar felt a measure of relief.
His father's lips curled, revealing teeth that were starting to blacken with rot. "None?" He hissed, shifting in his seat much like a vulture.
"My Lord sends his regrets, but there are none. Any of valyrian stock have been tainted with slave blood or lowborn. It is an unfortunate occurrence in Essos because of their views on the stations of merchants." No one gave a reaction to the news, all waiting for Aerys to react. His expression betrayed an extreme displeasure. Casper saw this, so he continued. "However, with your permission, Lord Baratheon will continue to search for a suitable bride in Myr or Tyrosh. Or perhaps Volantis, as Valyrian blood runs strong there."
It was Rhaegar that spoke, "That would delay my marriage too long." He was already nineteen. If Lord Baratheon continued his search -- the three daughters or Volantis, then that could delay his marriage by another year at least. Most likely two.
"Prince Rhaegar speaks true, King Aerys," Tywin stated, his voice cold and clipped.
The Grand Maester nodded in agreement, "It would be prudent to settle the matter of marriage swiftly as Prince Rhaegar participates in tourneys. I would never dare accuse anyone of intentionally harming him but… they would not need to do so intentionally."
Aery's face twisted as if he had bitten into something sour. "Then he will not participate in any tourneys," she spat the order out, looking at Rhaegar with cloudy eyes filled with venom.
Rhaegar clenched his jaw, but gave no reaction beyond that. Thankfully, he did not need to speak as Casper stepped in.
"There was one other matter that Lord Baratheon wanted me to bring to his Grace's attention," he said, bringing the attention back to him and Rhaegar felt a rush of gratitude. With luck, his father would forget such a declaration. He often did. "It was during our stay in Lys that we overheard that some merchants are displeased with the Seven Kingdoms. While their concerns aren't worth much, why they're wroth was. According to them, the Seven Kingdoms are exporting glass and tapestries."
Attention shifted to Qarlton, who seemed uncertain. "The Seven Kingdoms has always exported some tapestries to Essos, but I have never heard of any house exporting glass. If they were, we wouldn't be paying such prices from Myr."
"How wroth are these merchants?" Rhaegar questioned and Casper inclined his head to them.
"Very, I fear. I don't expect it will be long before his grace hears a petition from the slaver cities. There were talks of increased tariffs, but I cannot say that is for certain. It could merely be the guesses of angry men deep in their cups," Casper answered and Rhaegar leaned forward. The Seven Kingdoms did not really compete with the free cities of Essos when it came to trade. There was little need to.
However, from the sounds of it, the free cities believed that the Seven Kingdoms was starting to compete with them. Meaning that whatever trade goods that were coming from the Seven Kingdoms was in such volume and quantity that they felt threatened.
And no one in this room had known until now.
Aerys had the most visible reaction, gripping his chair while his pale flesh reddened with anger. "They would insult me? I'll burn their petition. I'll burn their petitioners. I am the King of the Seven Kingdoms! How dare they threaten me," he hissed, his anger growing. The tension in the Council chambers swelled to the point you could choke on it. "They would have been rewarded with the greatest house in the world, and instead they accuse me of this filth?! Damn them!"
Lucerys Velaryon saw his opportunity to curry favor like the dog he was. "They have forfeited such an honor with these insults, your grace. They have proven themselves unworthy of them."
Aerys nodded his head, "Volantis. Steffon will sail to Volantis to find my son a bride." Rhaegar didn't react but he swallowed a curse. His father was fixated on the idea, no matter how foolhardy it was.
"It would be prudent to learn why, exactly, the Three Daughters believe that the Seven Kingdoms is selling glass," Tywin ventured and Aerys sneered so hard it was more of a snarl.
To some surprise, Qarlton was in agreement. "It would be prudent, your grace. If the rumors are merely rumors, then this is nothing more than a ploy from some jumped up merchants trying to squeeze silver and gold from the Iron Throne. If there is more substance to this rumor… then it could very well mean that someone discovered the secret to Myrish glass making and they kept it a secret from us. For what reason, I cannot fathom, but I suspect to shorten the crown what it is owed in taxes."
Aerys took the prospect as a personal insult based on how he glowered, "Find them. Find whoever is stealing from me."
"Find them and burn them."
...
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You'd be hard pressed to find a land more vulnerable and ill-suited to fending off Paul than this one. Rhaegar's dream was fascinating, and makes me curious about what the other prophetic powers of the world are seeing.
Rickard's politics and efforts are entertaining, and I find him very sympathetic, the North are easy to like as underdogs and author's favorites. He's doing his best, but so much is new and changing, and the kingdom is not in a good way. I do feel a delightful apprehension at what Paul is going to do.
Another entertaining chapter! I look forward to when the boot drops.
Rickard's politics and efforts are entertaining, and I find him very sympathetic, the North are easy to like as underdogs and author's favorites. He's doing his best, but so much is new and changing, and the kingdom is not in a good way. I do feel a delightful apprehension at what Paul is going to do.
Another entertaining chapter! I look forward to when the boot drops.
First Steps 1.5
- Location
- USA
"It was only a matter of time," Rickard muttered as he looked down at the slip of parchment, reading the message but it had some difficulty sinking in. A shipment of goods had been attacked on the way to Whiteharbor. Despite the value of the shipment, Rickard had decided to use a light guard to avoid suspicion and now wondered if that was a mistake. The guards, all slaughtered to a man. The goods were gone like smoke in the wind. The perpetrators? Unknown.
However, Rickard felt the carrion feeders circling. First with the Crown starting to take notice of the trade goods coming out of the North as well as the Bravosi ships that were sailing to Whiteharbor. It was something of a concern, but not a real issue. Taxes would be paid in full, and the Targaryen's could not decree who the Great Houses could trade with.
At most, he would receive more veil threats from King Aerys, but no more than that. It simply wasn't worth the effort -- not just to chastise House Stark, but it would show that the crown is taking an interest in the financial matters of its vassals. Of which, he suspected that there were a great many much closer Houses that had far more reason to fear scrutiny from the Crown.
They would have far more reason and a much easier time convincing the King that it wasn't worth it.
He set the letter down on his desk, a hand going for what was now his favorite drinking glass. He brushed a thumb over the direwolf etched into the cup before dragging a hand down his face, considering the loss. The loss of a single shipment posed some problems for him -- the loss of gold was troublesome. It would complicate things with Bravos, people who were expecting their orders. But, the merchant city would understand that sometimes ships go missing at sea. Sudden storms, pirates, sheer bad luck… a letter would smooth over any ruffled feathers and a token discount for the wait would go a long way.
That wasn't his issue, even if the loss of what could have been three thousand dragons stung more than he thought it might. His issue was how the caravan was attacked and how the goods went missing.
"This was an attack," Rickard muttered to himself, taking a long swig from his cup before setting it down on his desk. He didn't know by who, but he did know how and why. Someone had been keeping an eye on Whiteharbor. Someone had noticed the trade caravan coming and going between Winterfell and Whiteharbor. They decided to attack it, and a light guard or not, a trade caravan still could boast a guard of fifty men. The fact that they were slaughtered told Rickard that this was no mere bandit group.
There were always bandits on the road after a winter. The smallfolk who had a lean winter always faced a harsh spring, so they took from those that had more. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. It wasn't just. It was, however, the way of things. When the first harvests were reaped, things would settle once more. A trade caravan would be a tempting prize, and Rickard could see a band of particularly desperate villagers working together to attack. But the men were slaughtered.
That spoke of training.
The attack wasn't committed by half starved smallfolk wielding scythes and pitchforks. Trained Men-At-Arms carried out the attack. It was only a question of whose Men-At-Arms.
As for why? That entirely depended on who did it. It could be a house that was desperate for riches. Northerners were a hardy folk, but not immune to finery. In that case, he would need to keep a close eye on his vassals and any with glass cups or fine tapestries were his culprit.
If it wasn't riches that they sought, then they attacked for a simple reason.
They wanted to hurt House Stark. And that… That was a troubling thought.
Rickard left his solar, his thoughts heavy as he walked the castle grounds with no true destination in mind. In moments like these, he liked to move. His vassals were largely loyal. Naturally, there were a handful that had some degree of ire for him because he denied them this or that. A ruling their way or a privilege or a marriage. But no immediate suspects came to mind that would do something like this because this…
This was an attack on their liege lord. It was sedition of the highest order. If Rickard discovered the culprit, and he would, then the least they could hope to lose was their heads.
Rickard found himself walking on the ramparts, offering a single nod to the guards on duty before his gaze drifted to the courtyard below. Despite his concerns, a smile threatened to tug at his lips as he saw Brandon sparring with Benjen. The younger of the two wore an expression of immense concentration while the elder wore a cocky grin. Benjen lunged with a dull blade, only for it to be smacked away. Brandon thrusted lightly, only for it to be a feint, and when Benjen went to block, Brandon instead went low.
A chuckle escaped Rickard when instead of retreating, Benjen swung wide, forcing Brandon to take a step back and abandon the attack. His heir looked as pleased as Rickard felt. It was a relief that his youngest had a talent for the blade. Brandon would inherit the North, and if all went well, Ned would become Lord of the Neck. Benjen, a third son, had fewer prospects. Rickard hoped he may one day become a castellan. Or House Starks Master of Arms. Failing that, he could join the Night's Watch, but only as a last resort.
That chuckle turned into a sigh as the starting continued. Because he knew the truth of the matter.
It would be an exceptionally foolish thing to do -- attacking their liege lord. Attacking House Stark. The only possible reason Rickard could see that would explain such foolishness was that the culprit believed that the attack could not be traced back to him… and that Rickard would be in no position to do anything about it.
He rested a hand on the ancient granite walls of Winterfell, watching his family. Including Lyanna, who was less than subtly mimicking what she saw Brandon do with a training sword of her own in the stables. They were the ones that he had to protect.
"We almost managed to last a year," Rickard muttered under his breath, knowing what the attack meant. Possibly, it was someone working with the Crown. Possibly, it was a vassal that felt alighted. Perhaps it was a Bravosi merchant and this was simply greed. But none of it changed what he knew deep in his gut.
Whoever attacked him knew about the deal with Paul Atreides… and if he wasn't careful, that deal would be the knife that was driven into his heart.
…
Everything moved slowly in the North. In a way, it was the North's greatest strength. The sheer vastness of the kingdom made it difficult for the southern plotting to take root, but the North had its own share of plotting. Like the thaw, it happened slowly, incrementally, and almost impossible to measure when you were actively paying attention to it. Yet, Rickard felt a slow change in the months after the caravan attack.
It was entirely possible that it was nothing more than his imagination. The shift in tone of letters. The length that it took to respond. The resistance he encountered when investigating the missing contents of the caravan, which had yet to be found. His position as Warden of the North was secure enough that few would dare to openly challenge him, but Rickard felt the wind turn against him. A silent opposition.
It came to a tipping point when he caught word of a deserter.
"Brandon, fetch your brother. It's time that he witnesses Justice in the North," Rickard instructed, making his eldest pause his practice against a straw dummy. Working through his anger, more like it, Rickard corrected himself.
Brandon lowered his training sword, "There's been a deserter?" He questioned and Rickard grunted an answer while servants went to fetch their horses. The deserter had been captured days ago and he was being brought to the ancestral execution grounds outside of Winterfell. If the place had any significant beyond where members of the Night's Watch were executed for thousands of years, the reason had been lost to time.
For that matter, deserters were even forbidden from gracing Winterfell's dungeons for holding. It was an odd tradition, but one Rickard would follow and instruct his sons to follow even if he didn't understand why.
"Do you think he's ready? He's never seen a man die before," Brandon said, planting the tip of his training blade in the dirt. "Or seen you kill," he added.
A fair question and concern. "He's eleven," Rickard replied. Still a boy.
"You forbade me from joining you until I was thirteen. You only made an exception for Ned just before he left to be fostered," Brandon pointed out, sounding concerned. It would follow that his son only used his wits when it was inconvenient for his father. "What's wrong?"
Considering for a moment how to answer, he decided on honesty. "I'm uncertain," he admitted. "But to be safe, Benjen will join us. If there are trying times to come… he will need to be prepared for them." With that, Brandon accepted his answer with a curt nod before he left to find his brother.
Rickard was already on his horses but the time his sons joined him. Benjen looked like he was riding to his execution based on how pale he was. He was a kind hearted boy, Rickard reminded himself as Benjen got on his horse and gripped the reins with white knuckles. He urged his horse closer and placed a reassuring hand on his youngest shoulder. "Breathe, Ben. Your horse can sense your fear," he urged.
"Twilight," Benjen corrected before flushing when Rickard raised an eyebrow. "His name is Twilight. Lyanna named him," he elaborated and despite it all, Rickard found himself chuckling.
"I'm fairly certain his name was Frost, but Twilight is as fine of a name as any. So long as you don't confuse him," he said and Benjen relaxed some at the idle chatter. He would grow out of his shyness, Rickard hoped. He was a quick witted child that laughed easily when he felt comfortable, but Rickard found that he frequently felt uncomfortable and turtled up.
This would help change that, Rickard thought as he led his sons forward. Lyanna was watching from a balcony, waving goodbye. They were joined by fifty guards -- more than his usual retinue, but it felt like a necessary precaution. They rode in the center of the formation, with Bradon at his right while Benjen was to his left. It was after they left Winterfell behind them and they were well on their way to the execution site that Brandon spoke up in a low voice.
"Should we be concerned about this deserter?" Brandon questioned and Rickard fought off a frown. That was a very prudent question.
"I mislike the timing," Rickard admitted easily. Deserters weren't particularly common, but that was in large part because of the difficulties of deserting. The North was the largest kingdom by far and all knew what it meant to be dressed in black. To escape one's oaths, one must travel the length of the kingdom unseen with whatever food that could be foraged while being hunted by the Night's Watch.
It was a hopeless endeavor for most. Some had managed to escape justice over the thousands of years, but not many. It didn't stop some from trying, of course, but most didn't bother because it was a foregone conclusion.
Making a deserter, now, after a deal had been made with the Wildlings and Paul in particular… Rickard had his suspicions the moment that he heard of this deserter.
"I think it's time we had a talk with Paul. That we get ahead of this before we find it beyond our control," Brandon urged and Rickard found himself agreeing.
"Before we react, we must know what we're reacting to… But, yes, I think it's time we had a conversation with Paul directly. Have you had any developments on your end?" Rickard questioned, expecting nothing but hoping to be surprised.
Brandon's scowl was answer enough. "We've narrowed it down a bit, we think. Usually by wildling scouting parties that don't return from a location in particular," He answered and Rickard grunted. Paul Atreides was good at what he did, Rickard would give him that much. He wanted some kind of leverage when it came to negotiations, or at the very least, an alternative strategy.
However, at the rate things were going… when it came to talks of bringing Paul into the kingdom, the boy would possess all of the cards. He would be negotiating from a position of strength and Rickard didn't like the thought of it, especially if Paul was aware how close they were to a disaster.
"We're running out of time. After this, do what you must to find him, but we must know where his tribe is," Rickard urged, earning a nod from his eldest. Benjen listened in, saying nothing. He was like Ned in that regard, more so than Brandon -- he knew when to close his mouth and open his ears.
Not long after, they arrived at the execution spot. It was an old grove out in the open, located in the depths of a valley between rolling hills. It was sparse, only truly marked by an ancient petrified log that deserters had been beheaded at for thousands of years. The deserter in question was a ratish looking man -- a pinched face, narrowed jaw, with large eyes that were filled with fear. A scruffy graying beard covered up some pox scars that ran up one of his cheeks.
The man was bound and gagged, two men belonging to a mountain clan stood vigil over him. Based on their scowls and glares, and the few injuries the deserter had, his capture had not been kind. Rickard drank it all in, taking only a moment to do so as he dismounted his horse and lifted the sword of House Stark from where it rested.
Ice was an executioner blade, but it was near weightless. A typical executioner blade would weigh around five pounds, the blade thicker than normal to give it extra weight to help make a clean cut. Ice, a blade of valyrian steel, weighed closer to a pound, that of a longsword. There were a few Starks that had chosen to wield the greatsword as a weapon in battle, but Rickard found the odd combination of its length and weight too off putting.
Presenting the blade to Brandon, he grabbed hold of its sheath and allowed Rickard to smoothly pull the blade free. The smoky rippled surface marked the blade what it was and the deserter flinched at the sight, struggling as he was carried to the executioner block. Coming to a stop over him, Rickard rested the tip of the blade into the ground and rested his hands on the pommel. "Ungag him," he instructed and a foul rag was freed from the man's mouth, leaving him free to dry heave but his stomach was empty.
"In violation of your oaths, I, Rickard Stark of House Stark, Warden of the North, sentence you to die. If you have any final words, now is the time," he said, and he could feel Benjen's eyes on him while his brother whispered to him lowly. Instructing him not to look away. Just as he did for Ned when it was time for him to see justice being done.
The man licked his lips and Rickard had him pegged as a coward. So, it was an unpleasant surprise when the man spat in his direction, "Liar! You have the others convinced, but I see through you! You're working with the Wildlings. You're making a King Beyond the Wall!" He accused and that was exactly what Rickard feared.
The secret wasn't a secret anymore. He was right in thinking that the Night's Watch would be the weak link in the conspiracy. If they were good and honorable men, then odds were they wouldn't be at the Wall in the first place.
"Speak plainly and explain your accusation. It won't save you from my blade, but I would hear your reasons in full," Rickard said, fishing for information. How many others felt this way at the Wall? How many people had he spoken to? Who did he share these suspicions and accusations with?
Not all of his vassals kept such a close eye on the Wall, but his northernmost vassals had every reason to. The Night's Watch couldn't exist as a completely independent structure, not here, nor in the North. So his vassals sent men to keep an eye on their interests, usually making sure that no wildlings came their way. Or they paid men for information.
"I know. I know," the man insisted, but Rickard got the impression he was half mad. Hysterical. "I know all about your secret deals with the King Beyond the Wall. You've turned the Night's Watch against its sworn enemy! You're building an army of wildlings, using my brothers to smuggle them here!"
Hm. "I'm smuggling wildlings. Into my kingdom. To build an army to use on… whom, exactly? Myself?" Rickard questioned, and he heard the men laugh at the thought. With that, the man had been discredited. Those that overheard his ramblings would dismiss them as the last words of a coward and a mad man.
He was right enough to give Rickard concern, but wrong enough that he was convinced that the man didn't have the whole conspiracy. If he did, he would have lashed out at Brandon.
No. What he knew was that the blacksails were allowing Paul's ship through. But not much else in all likelihood. That, however, was still entirely too much for comfort. Especially when he felt so strongly about it that he decided to leave. Rickard could only imagine that this same resentment was building up at the Wall -- half muttered whispers in the dark, seeing glimpses of a conspiracy but not enough to understand, yet enough to make assumptions. The Lord Commander hadn't informed him of this development, covering his own ends rather than warning him of incoming problems.
The deserter glared up at him, his lips pressed into a thin line. He knew he was right, and he hated that he was being made a fool. "I'll die here, at your hand. But don't you lie to yourself that this is justice. You're murdering me. You're murdering me to keep your secrets. My only regret is that I didn't get to see you strung up by your treasonous neck like you deserve." The laughter abruptly stopped, shifting into a cold anger. The deserter paid it no mind in favored of laying his head down on the block.
It was a poor development. Rickard wished to learn more about his motivations and the general sentiment at the Wall. Did he have like minded fellows? How exactly did he learn about the shipments? It was prudent information, but he couldn't extract it from the man without giving his words validity.
Making his final words more right than he realized.
So, with little other choice, Rickard raised Ice up and in a single smooth action, he beheaded the deserter. His head rolled away, blood spurting from the stump of the neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Benjen flinch, a sharp breath the only sound in the grove. He didn't look away from the corpse, much to Rickard's approval. Handing Ice to one of his guards, who wiped the blade clean, he approached Benjen.
"You did well, my son," he said, cupping his cheek so the boy would look away from the corpse and to him. "I shall tell you the same words that my father told me. And his father told him. It is an easy thing to order men to die. As lords, a handful of words could seal the fate of someone half a kingdom away. The weight of the decision completely removed because you don't see it. It is why we don't employ a headsmen. If you can't look a man in the eye as you sentence him to death… then perhaps he doesn't deserve to die."
Benjen looked at the corpse once more, "Did he deserve to die?" He questioned without any innocence. A boy he was, but he was no fool.
"He did. He broke his oaths to the Night's Watch, no matter his intentions," Rickard told him in a low voice. "His fate was sealed the moment he abandoned his post. But… more than that, he was acting against our family. He didn't understand anything and in his own mind, he was doing what he believed to be right. In doing so, he would have invited disaster for us -- for me, your brothers and sister. For yourself as well. What have I always told you?"
Benjen seemed uncertain, jolted by the sudden question before speaking, "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives?"
"Good. Remember that, my son. Always. There is no right and wrong when it comes to protecting your family." Rickard said, and in that moment, he saw Benjen understand the truth.
The deserter was right.
He had been murdered before half a hundred witnesses and it was called justice.
For justice was always on the side of the powerful.
…
It was days later that another development occurred. Slowly, Rickard could feel the noose of his intrigue closing in around him and he searched and plotted away out of it. Time was slipping away like grains in an hour glass, and very soon, unless something changed, time would run out.
That change wasn't one of his own design. In truth, it was just shy of the worst case scenario.
"My lord, the delivery is here… as is Paul Atreides," Maester Wyllas informed and Rickard went still. The timing was awful. Truly dreadful. He was growing desperate and he had yet to gain any meaningful leverage over the exiled noble.
Yet, he could hardly turn him away. "Did he give a reason why?" Paul didn't accompany the trade ship often. Only once before where he fine tuned the deal.
"The last panes of glass for the glass garden have been completed, my lord." Maester Wyllas informed and that should be excellent news. When it came to convincing his vassals the worth of Paul, it would go a long way. It would be a large boon to Brandon's reputation -- the Stark that brought glass to the North.
The timing of it was the issue. "Ahead of schedule," Rickard growled from behind his desk, clenching his jaw. He could see the confusion on Maester Wyllas' face. He didn't understand. A deadline was just moved up without any notice and he was caught off guard.
Because, as per the agreement made, upon the completion of the glass garden, their deal would be open for renegotiation.
And Rickard had nothing to negotiate with. Worse, as the North was steadily putting the pieces together, he was in a position where he had to bring Paul into the fold.
"I shall meet him in the crypts, send him there once he arrives," Rickard decided, standing up and walking by the Maester as he bowed to him he thought furiously as he made his way through the castle, a heavy frown on his face that had the servants scurrying away. Yet, by the time he cut across the courtyard and pushed open the ancient heavy door that led into the Stark family crypt, he was grasping at smoke in the wind.
Desperation wasn't something that Rickard often felt. He only felt it a handful of times in his life -- first, when his father died. Then his mother. And, lastly, his wife. For all of his power and influence in the North, he could do nothing to bring back the dead. It was his wife's tomb that he stopped before, the dark shadows of the crypt chased away by torch in his hand. Her statue couldn't do her justice, he thought, and not for the first time.
He had loved Lyarra in a way that he hadn't thought possible. He hadn't thought he could survive without her, but he had to for the sake of their children.
It was before her tomb that the planes of glass were piled up, separated by thin sheets of fabric. The crypts were the perfect hiding place -- they were a vast complex series of tunnels that went down several floors. Even with the tunnels collapsed to the deepest and oldest parts of the crypt, it was still easily large enough to get lost in. So few would venture this far in without knowing where they were going.
He stood in silence, mulling over the issue at hand as he gazed upon the statue of his wife. He wished she had any advice to offer in a time like this. Because, for all of his southern ambitions, she was always the better player at the Game.
His time truly ran out when he heard the sound of footsteps. No hesitation in his gait. He walked the crypts like he knew them as well as he knew his own home. More anything else about the boy, that unnerved him. Rickard looked over to see Paul Atreides walk around the corner, torch in hand.
The past year had been kind to him. He was growing into himself. While he was taller, he was no longer lanky. His comely looks of a boy shifted into a handsome face of a man. Yet, his eyes were the most striking of all -- they almost seemed to glow in the low light of the crypt.
"Lord Stark," Paul greeted him, bowing his head in respect but he didn't bend the knee.
In that moment, Rickard almost hated the boy. He hated how dependent he had become on him. How the future and all of his plans now hinged on convincing this boy to become his vassal. Something he had no true motivation in doing because he would gain so little by bending the knee.
"Lord Atreides," Rickard decided. "You finished ahead of schedule," he noted and Paul nodded, his expression betraying nothing. Now, when he walked, closing the distance between them, Rickard didn't hear a thing. He announced himself with his footsteps and now he was silent as a ghost.
"We have been increasing our means of production for the past year with the resources you have provided," he admitted easily, coming to a stop. "Until recently, our bottleneck was trained craftsmen to oversee the process. With them now fully trained, in theory, we could produce a full glass house in as little as six months."
Rickard closed his eyes and imagined it for a moment. Years in the future, likely when his son or grandson was the Lord of the North, where no one starved. A glass garden for every keep, every town… every village. He wanted it. He craved it. It was almost a need, he desired that future so desperately. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
He was desperate. Paul could ask nearly anything of him, and Rickard knew that he would agree simply because it would be worth it. And, for that, Rickard hated him.
"Then you desire this partnership to continue," Rickard said, opening his eyes to the reality before him. Paul hadn't said it in so many words, but the fact he was increasing his means of production meant that he intended this partnership to last more than a year since the very start. That, at least, was something. It meant he was gaining something tangible from their dealings.
Paul nodded easily, "I do, Lord Stark. But, as I understand it, that could prove… difficult for you." He said and Rickard swallowed a scowl.
He knew about the leaks in the Night's Watch. He knew that the North would soon put together enough parts of the conspiracy to come to a conclusion. That meant Paul knew he had all of the leverage.
Did he admit it? Lie? Obscure? Deflect? "The lie was never going to last forever," Rickard admitted, "it would have been better if it lasted a while longer, but the situation is in hand." To that end, he couldn't let Paul control the conversation. "As things are, the reveal my family has been working with wildlings is not worth the political headache your goods provide." He said, and he wasn't sure the words were true.
There was another option, loathe as he was to use it. He could taint his own reputation -- accept the blame for working with wildlings, sparing Brandon the damage, while his family reaped the reward of a second glass garden. If Paul was brought into the fold on his watch, then Brandon would benefit from his presence without suffering the loss of reputation for allowing a 'wildling' to become a vassal.
"I understand, Lord Stark. To that, I believe I may have a solution," Paul offered and Rickard wasn't surprised. The boy was clever. He wouldn't have gotten this far if he couldn't seize an opportunity like this. "As it stands, to my knowledge, Paul Atreides and Maud'Dib are completely separate people to all but a select few. Maud'Dib is a wildling beyond the Wall while Paul can be anyone. A wandering merchant. Or, perhaps, a noble in exile in search of a new home with the retinue that escaped with him."
As he spoke, his gaze was unflinching, burning a hole into Rickard as he heard everything that wasn't said.
It was perfect. Almost too perfect. They could present a story that would connect the pieces of the truth floating amongst his vassals, leading them to a conclusion that served their agenda.
However, there was one issue. "My vassals are not fools. One way or another, even if I were to claim that all the goods came from you, they would know that the wildlings were involved in this deal."
Paul offered a humorless smile, "Let them be involved, Lord Stark. I say we give your vassals a version of the truth. I am a noble of a far off land that was caught North of the Wall. My origins matter little if you wish to hide the existence of the Padishah Empire. Claim that I am from Essos. Or beyond it."
Rickard started to put the pieces together, "You made contact with Brandon during his inspection of the Wall," he ventured. It would be best to hide the existence of another ancient empire. It would only complicate things and the story that he wished to tell. The Padishah empire could be a silent concern, but given that their existence had been unknown for thousands of years, he didn't expect that to change in his lifetime
Paul inclined his head, "From there, I made a deal with him for my eventual immigration south of the Wall. In exchange for knowledge of certain crafts, my nobility would be acknowledged by his father, the Lord of the North."
Rickard swallowed his surprise at that. Paul wanted to come south. That made things vastly easier, and that was the leverage he had been looking for. It was a gift horse, he decided, so he was wary of checking its teeth but he couldn't help but to wonder why exactly Paul wanted to come south. What did he gain from it?
"Naturally," Rickard replied drily. "But I requested proof, which you gave in the form of a glass garden. The deliveries were made through the Night's Watch, who dealt not with a wildling but a noble beyond the Wall. For such a gift, I wonder what lands I would bequeath onto such an ancient house?" Rickard questioned, curious what Paul would ask for. Because he would accept it.
They needed this. Paul was giving him everything he wanted on a silver platter and the cost would be well worth the gain.
He was prepared to give him the Stony Shore. He was prepared to give him lands that had belonged to the Starks for thousands of years.
Yet, Paul's answer surprised him.
"Lands in Skagos, in particular, taken from House Crowl." Paul decided and that was… strangely perfect. Skagos was barely under the authority of the North. The nobility naturally wouldn't like it if he were to repossess lands to bequeath to a newer house, but they would care a great deal less that he did it to the nobility if Skagos than they would if he did it to the Karstarks or Boltons.
The reason why those lands were chosen was evident enough. "You wish to continue to harvest the land beyond the Wall."
"During my time beyond the Wall, I encountered a wildling of the name Maud'Dib. We established a relationship of mutual benefit. He aids in procuring resources for me, and the knowledge I possess helped solidify his tribe in the Frostfangs." Paul finished, and that, Rickard thought, was very dangerous.
The words of the deserter rang out in his ears. That Rickard was working with a King Beyond the Wall. The lands beyond the Wall were vast, untamed, and untapped. Each time a King Beyond the Wall marched South, he did so with an army of tens of thousands at his back.
He could very well be opening the door to let one inside, Rickard thought as he offered a hand to Paul.
Yet, as Paul clasped his hand and the deal was struck… Rickard accepted a cold truth.
Desperation made fools of everyone.
...
This was the chapter that helped inspire the entire story. It's why Paul is so scary as a character -- If you manage to figure out his goals, it means that you've already lost and you lost before the game even started.
Advanced chapters are currently available on my Patreon and Subscribe Star!
However, Rickard felt the carrion feeders circling. First with the Crown starting to take notice of the trade goods coming out of the North as well as the Bravosi ships that were sailing to Whiteharbor. It was something of a concern, but not a real issue. Taxes would be paid in full, and the Targaryen's could not decree who the Great Houses could trade with.
At most, he would receive more veil threats from King Aerys, but no more than that. It simply wasn't worth the effort -- not just to chastise House Stark, but it would show that the crown is taking an interest in the financial matters of its vassals. Of which, he suspected that there were a great many much closer Houses that had far more reason to fear scrutiny from the Crown.
They would have far more reason and a much easier time convincing the King that it wasn't worth it.
He set the letter down on his desk, a hand going for what was now his favorite drinking glass. He brushed a thumb over the direwolf etched into the cup before dragging a hand down his face, considering the loss. The loss of a single shipment posed some problems for him -- the loss of gold was troublesome. It would complicate things with Bravos, people who were expecting their orders. But, the merchant city would understand that sometimes ships go missing at sea. Sudden storms, pirates, sheer bad luck… a letter would smooth over any ruffled feathers and a token discount for the wait would go a long way.
That wasn't his issue, even if the loss of what could have been three thousand dragons stung more than he thought it might. His issue was how the caravan was attacked and how the goods went missing.
"This was an attack," Rickard muttered to himself, taking a long swig from his cup before setting it down on his desk. He didn't know by who, but he did know how and why. Someone had been keeping an eye on Whiteharbor. Someone had noticed the trade caravan coming and going between Winterfell and Whiteharbor. They decided to attack it, and a light guard or not, a trade caravan still could boast a guard of fifty men. The fact that they were slaughtered told Rickard that this was no mere bandit group.
There were always bandits on the road after a winter. The smallfolk who had a lean winter always faced a harsh spring, so they took from those that had more. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. It wasn't just. It was, however, the way of things. When the first harvests were reaped, things would settle once more. A trade caravan would be a tempting prize, and Rickard could see a band of particularly desperate villagers working together to attack. But the men were slaughtered.
That spoke of training.
The attack wasn't committed by half starved smallfolk wielding scythes and pitchforks. Trained Men-At-Arms carried out the attack. It was only a question of whose Men-At-Arms.
As for why? That entirely depended on who did it. It could be a house that was desperate for riches. Northerners were a hardy folk, but not immune to finery. In that case, he would need to keep a close eye on his vassals and any with glass cups or fine tapestries were his culprit.
If it wasn't riches that they sought, then they attacked for a simple reason.
They wanted to hurt House Stark. And that… That was a troubling thought.
Rickard left his solar, his thoughts heavy as he walked the castle grounds with no true destination in mind. In moments like these, he liked to move. His vassals were largely loyal. Naturally, there were a handful that had some degree of ire for him because he denied them this or that. A ruling their way or a privilege or a marriage. But no immediate suspects came to mind that would do something like this because this…
This was an attack on their liege lord. It was sedition of the highest order. If Rickard discovered the culprit, and he would, then the least they could hope to lose was their heads.
Rickard found himself walking on the ramparts, offering a single nod to the guards on duty before his gaze drifted to the courtyard below. Despite his concerns, a smile threatened to tug at his lips as he saw Brandon sparring with Benjen. The younger of the two wore an expression of immense concentration while the elder wore a cocky grin. Benjen lunged with a dull blade, only for it to be smacked away. Brandon thrusted lightly, only for it to be a feint, and when Benjen went to block, Brandon instead went low.
A chuckle escaped Rickard when instead of retreating, Benjen swung wide, forcing Brandon to take a step back and abandon the attack. His heir looked as pleased as Rickard felt. It was a relief that his youngest had a talent for the blade. Brandon would inherit the North, and if all went well, Ned would become Lord of the Neck. Benjen, a third son, had fewer prospects. Rickard hoped he may one day become a castellan. Or House Starks Master of Arms. Failing that, he could join the Night's Watch, but only as a last resort.
That chuckle turned into a sigh as the starting continued. Because he knew the truth of the matter.
It would be an exceptionally foolish thing to do -- attacking their liege lord. Attacking House Stark. The only possible reason Rickard could see that would explain such foolishness was that the culprit believed that the attack could not be traced back to him… and that Rickard would be in no position to do anything about it.
He rested a hand on the ancient granite walls of Winterfell, watching his family. Including Lyanna, who was less than subtly mimicking what she saw Brandon do with a training sword of her own in the stables. They were the ones that he had to protect.
"We almost managed to last a year," Rickard muttered under his breath, knowing what the attack meant. Possibly, it was someone working with the Crown. Possibly, it was a vassal that felt alighted. Perhaps it was a Bravosi merchant and this was simply greed. But none of it changed what he knew deep in his gut.
Whoever attacked him knew about the deal with Paul Atreides… and if he wasn't careful, that deal would be the knife that was driven into his heart.
…
Everything moved slowly in the North. In a way, it was the North's greatest strength. The sheer vastness of the kingdom made it difficult for the southern plotting to take root, but the North had its own share of plotting. Like the thaw, it happened slowly, incrementally, and almost impossible to measure when you were actively paying attention to it. Yet, Rickard felt a slow change in the months after the caravan attack.
It was entirely possible that it was nothing more than his imagination. The shift in tone of letters. The length that it took to respond. The resistance he encountered when investigating the missing contents of the caravan, which had yet to be found. His position as Warden of the North was secure enough that few would dare to openly challenge him, but Rickard felt the wind turn against him. A silent opposition.
It came to a tipping point when he caught word of a deserter.
"Brandon, fetch your brother. It's time that he witnesses Justice in the North," Rickard instructed, making his eldest pause his practice against a straw dummy. Working through his anger, more like it, Rickard corrected himself.
Brandon lowered his training sword, "There's been a deserter?" He questioned and Rickard grunted an answer while servants went to fetch their horses. The deserter had been captured days ago and he was being brought to the ancestral execution grounds outside of Winterfell. If the place had any significant beyond where members of the Night's Watch were executed for thousands of years, the reason had been lost to time.
For that matter, deserters were even forbidden from gracing Winterfell's dungeons for holding. It was an odd tradition, but one Rickard would follow and instruct his sons to follow even if he didn't understand why.
"Do you think he's ready? He's never seen a man die before," Brandon said, planting the tip of his training blade in the dirt. "Or seen you kill," he added.
A fair question and concern. "He's eleven," Rickard replied. Still a boy.
"You forbade me from joining you until I was thirteen. You only made an exception for Ned just before he left to be fostered," Brandon pointed out, sounding concerned. It would follow that his son only used his wits when it was inconvenient for his father. "What's wrong?"
Considering for a moment how to answer, he decided on honesty. "I'm uncertain," he admitted. "But to be safe, Benjen will join us. If there are trying times to come… he will need to be prepared for them." With that, Brandon accepted his answer with a curt nod before he left to find his brother.
Rickard was already on his horses but the time his sons joined him. Benjen looked like he was riding to his execution based on how pale he was. He was a kind hearted boy, Rickard reminded himself as Benjen got on his horse and gripped the reins with white knuckles. He urged his horse closer and placed a reassuring hand on his youngest shoulder. "Breathe, Ben. Your horse can sense your fear," he urged.
"Twilight," Benjen corrected before flushing when Rickard raised an eyebrow. "His name is Twilight. Lyanna named him," he elaborated and despite it all, Rickard found himself chuckling.
"I'm fairly certain his name was Frost, but Twilight is as fine of a name as any. So long as you don't confuse him," he said and Benjen relaxed some at the idle chatter. He would grow out of his shyness, Rickard hoped. He was a quick witted child that laughed easily when he felt comfortable, but Rickard found that he frequently felt uncomfortable and turtled up.
This would help change that, Rickard thought as he led his sons forward. Lyanna was watching from a balcony, waving goodbye. They were joined by fifty guards -- more than his usual retinue, but it felt like a necessary precaution. They rode in the center of the formation, with Bradon at his right while Benjen was to his left. It was after they left Winterfell behind them and they were well on their way to the execution site that Brandon spoke up in a low voice.
"Should we be concerned about this deserter?" Brandon questioned and Rickard fought off a frown. That was a very prudent question.
"I mislike the timing," Rickard admitted easily. Deserters weren't particularly common, but that was in large part because of the difficulties of deserting. The North was the largest kingdom by far and all knew what it meant to be dressed in black. To escape one's oaths, one must travel the length of the kingdom unseen with whatever food that could be foraged while being hunted by the Night's Watch.
It was a hopeless endeavor for most. Some had managed to escape justice over the thousands of years, but not many. It didn't stop some from trying, of course, but most didn't bother because it was a foregone conclusion.
Making a deserter, now, after a deal had been made with the Wildlings and Paul in particular… Rickard had his suspicions the moment that he heard of this deserter.
"I think it's time we had a talk with Paul. That we get ahead of this before we find it beyond our control," Brandon urged and Rickard found himself agreeing.
"Before we react, we must know what we're reacting to… But, yes, I think it's time we had a conversation with Paul directly. Have you had any developments on your end?" Rickard questioned, expecting nothing but hoping to be surprised.
Brandon's scowl was answer enough. "We've narrowed it down a bit, we think. Usually by wildling scouting parties that don't return from a location in particular," He answered and Rickard grunted. Paul Atreides was good at what he did, Rickard would give him that much. He wanted some kind of leverage when it came to negotiations, or at the very least, an alternative strategy.
However, at the rate things were going… when it came to talks of bringing Paul into the kingdom, the boy would possess all of the cards. He would be negotiating from a position of strength and Rickard didn't like the thought of it, especially if Paul was aware how close they were to a disaster.
"We're running out of time. After this, do what you must to find him, but we must know where his tribe is," Rickard urged, earning a nod from his eldest. Benjen listened in, saying nothing. He was like Ned in that regard, more so than Brandon -- he knew when to close his mouth and open his ears.
Not long after, they arrived at the execution spot. It was an old grove out in the open, located in the depths of a valley between rolling hills. It was sparse, only truly marked by an ancient petrified log that deserters had been beheaded at for thousands of years. The deserter in question was a ratish looking man -- a pinched face, narrowed jaw, with large eyes that were filled with fear. A scruffy graying beard covered up some pox scars that ran up one of his cheeks.
The man was bound and gagged, two men belonging to a mountain clan stood vigil over him. Based on their scowls and glares, and the few injuries the deserter had, his capture had not been kind. Rickard drank it all in, taking only a moment to do so as he dismounted his horse and lifted the sword of House Stark from where it rested.
Ice was an executioner blade, but it was near weightless. A typical executioner blade would weigh around five pounds, the blade thicker than normal to give it extra weight to help make a clean cut. Ice, a blade of valyrian steel, weighed closer to a pound, that of a longsword. There were a few Starks that had chosen to wield the greatsword as a weapon in battle, but Rickard found the odd combination of its length and weight too off putting.
Presenting the blade to Brandon, he grabbed hold of its sheath and allowed Rickard to smoothly pull the blade free. The smoky rippled surface marked the blade what it was and the deserter flinched at the sight, struggling as he was carried to the executioner block. Coming to a stop over him, Rickard rested the tip of the blade into the ground and rested his hands on the pommel. "Ungag him," he instructed and a foul rag was freed from the man's mouth, leaving him free to dry heave but his stomach was empty.
"In violation of your oaths, I, Rickard Stark of House Stark, Warden of the North, sentence you to die. If you have any final words, now is the time," he said, and he could feel Benjen's eyes on him while his brother whispered to him lowly. Instructing him not to look away. Just as he did for Ned when it was time for him to see justice being done.
The man licked his lips and Rickard had him pegged as a coward. So, it was an unpleasant surprise when the man spat in his direction, "Liar! You have the others convinced, but I see through you! You're working with the Wildlings. You're making a King Beyond the Wall!" He accused and that was exactly what Rickard feared.
The secret wasn't a secret anymore. He was right in thinking that the Night's Watch would be the weak link in the conspiracy. If they were good and honorable men, then odds were they wouldn't be at the Wall in the first place.
"Speak plainly and explain your accusation. It won't save you from my blade, but I would hear your reasons in full," Rickard said, fishing for information. How many others felt this way at the Wall? How many people had he spoken to? Who did he share these suspicions and accusations with?
Not all of his vassals kept such a close eye on the Wall, but his northernmost vassals had every reason to. The Night's Watch couldn't exist as a completely independent structure, not here, nor in the North. So his vassals sent men to keep an eye on their interests, usually making sure that no wildlings came their way. Or they paid men for information.
"I know. I know," the man insisted, but Rickard got the impression he was half mad. Hysterical. "I know all about your secret deals with the King Beyond the Wall. You've turned the Night's Watch against its sworn enemy! You're building an army of wildlings, using my brothers to smuggle them here!"
Hm. "I'm smuggling wildlings. Into my kingdom. To build an army to use on… whom, exactly? Myself?" Rickard questioned, and he heard the men laugh at the thought. With that, the man had been discredited. Those that overheard his ramblings would dismiss them as the last words of a coward and a mad man.
He was right enough to give Rickard concern, but wrong enough that he was convinced that the man didn't have the whole conspiracy. If he did, he would have lashed out at Brandon.
No. What he knew was that the blacksails were allowing Paul's ship through. But not much else in all likelihood. That, however, was still entirely too much for comfort. Especially when he felt so strongly about it that he decided to leave. Rickard could only imagine that this same resentment was building up at the Wall -- half muttered whispers in the dark, seeing glimpses of a conspiracy but not enough to understand, yet enough to make assumptions. The Lord Commander hadn't informed him of this development, covering his own ends rather than warning him of incoming problems.
The deserter glared up at him, his lips pressed into a thin line. He knew he was right, and he hated that he was being made a fool. "I'll die here, at your hand. But don't you lie to yourself that this is justice. You're murdering me. You're murdering me to keep your secrets. My only regret is that I didn't get to see you strung up by your treasonous neck like you deserve." The laughter abruptly stopped, shifting into a cold anger. The deserter paid it no mind in favored of laying his head down on the block.
It was a poor development. Rickard wished to learn more about his motivations and the general sentiment at the Wall. Did he have like minded fellows? How exactly did he learn about the shipments? It was prudent information, but he couldn't extract it from the man without giving his words validity.
Making his final words more right than he realized.
So, with little other choice, Rickard raised Ice up and in a single smooth action, he beheaded the deserter. His head rolled away, blood spurting from the stump of the neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Benjen flinch, a sharp breath the only sound in the grove. He didn't look away from the corpse, much to Rickard's approval. Handing Ice to one of his guards, who wiped the blade clean, he approached Benjen.
"You did well, my son," he said, cupping his cheek so the boy would look away from the corpse and to him. "I shall tell you the same words that my father told me. And his father told him. It is an easy thing to order men to die. As lords, a handful of words could seal the fate of someone half a kingdom away. The weight of the decision completely removed because you don't see it. It is why we don't employ a headsmen. If you can't look a man in the eye as you sentence him to death… then perhaps he doesn't deserve to die."
Benjen looked at the corpse once more, "Did he deserve to die?" He questioned without any innocence. A boy he was, but he was no fool.
"He did. He broke his oaths to the Night's Watch, no matter his intentions," Rickard told him in a low voice. "His fate was sealed the moment he abandoned his post. But… more than that, he was acting against our family. He didn't understand anything and in his own mind, he was doing what he believed to be right. In doing so, he would have invited disaster for us -- for me, your brothers and sister. For yourself as well. What have I always told you?"
Benjen seemed uncertain, jolted by the sudden question before speaking, "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives?"
"Good. Remember that, my son. Always. There is no right and wrong when it comes to protecting your family." Rickard said, and in that moment, he saw Benjen understand the truth.
The deserter was right.
He had been murdered before half a hundred witnesses and it was called justice.
For justice was always on the side of the powerful.
…
It was days later that another development occurred. Slowly, Rickard could feel the noose of his intrigue closing in around him and he searched and plotted away out of it. Time was slipping away like grains in an hour glass, and very soon, unless something changed, time would run out.
That change wasn't one of his own design. In truth, it was just shy of the worst case scenario.
"My lord, the delivery is here… as is Paul Atreides," Maester Wyllas informed and Rickard went still. The timing was awful. Truly dreadful. He was growing desperate and he had yet to gain any meaningful leverage over the exiled noble.
Yet, he could hardly turn him away. "Did he give a reason why?" Paul didn't accompany the trade ship often. Only once before where he fine tuned the deal.
"The last panes of glass for the glass garden have been completed, my lord." Maester Wyllas informed and that should be excellent news. When it came to convincing his vassals the worth of Paul, it would go a long way. It would be a large boon to Brandon's reputation -- the Stark that brought glass to the North.
The timing of it was the issue. "Ahead of schedule," Rickard growled from behind his desk, clenching his jaw. He could see the confusion on Maester Wyllas' face. He didn't understand. A deadline was just moved up without any notice and he was caught off guard.
Because, as per the agreement made, upon the completion of the glass garden, their deal would be open for renegotiation.
And Rickard had nothing to negotiate with. Worse, as the North was steadily putting the pieces together, he was in a position where he had to bring Paul into the fold.
"I shall meet him in the crypts, send him there once he arrives," Rickard decided, standing up and walking by the Maester as he bowed to him he thought furiously as he made his way through the castle, a heavy frown on his face that had the servants scurrying away. Yet, by the time he cut across the courtyard and pushed open the ancient heavy door that led into the Stark family crypt, he was grasping at smoke in the wind.
Desperation wasn't something that Rickard often felt. He only felt it a handful of times in his life -- first, when his father died. Then his mother. And, lastly, his wife. For all of his power and influence in the North, he could do nothing to bring back the dead. It was his wife's tomb that he stopped before, the dark shadows of the crypt chased away by torch in his hand. Her statue couldn't do her justice, he thought, and not for the first time.
He had loved Lyarra in a way that he hadn't thought possible. He hadn't thought he could survive without her, but he had to for the sake of their children.
It was before her tomb that the planes of glass were piled up, separated by thin sheets of fabric. The crypts were the perfect hiding place -- they were a vast complex series of tunnels that went down several floors. Even with the tunnels collapsed to the deepest and oldest parts of the crypt, it was still easily large enough to get lost in. So few would venture this far in without knowing where they were going.
He stood in silence, mulling over the issue at hand as he gazed upon the statue of his wife. He wished she had any advice to offer in a time like this. Because, for all of his southern ambitions, she was always the better player at the Game.
His time truly ran out when he heard the sound of footsteps. No hesitation in his gait. He walked the crypts like he knew them as well as he knew his own home. More anything else about the boy, that unnerved him. Rickard looked over to see Paul Atreides walk around the corner, torch in hand.
The past year had been kind to him. He was growing into himself. While he was taller, he was no longer lanky. His comely looks of a boy shifted into a handsome face of a man. Yet, his eyes were the most striking of all -- they almost seemed to glow in the low light of the crypt.
"Lord Stark," Paul greeted him, bowing his head in respect but he didn't bend the knee.
In that moment, Rickard almost hated the boy. He hated how dependent he had become on him. How the future and all of his plans now hinged on convincing this boy to become his vassal. Something he had no true motivation in doing because he would gain so little by bending the knee.
"Lord Atreides," Rickard decided. "You finished ahead of schedule," he noted and Paul nodded, his expression betraying nothing. Now, when he walked, closing the distance between them, Rickard didn't hear a thing. He announced himself with his footsteps and now he was silent as a ghost.
"We have been increasing our means of production for the past year with the resources you have provided," he admitted easily, coming to a stop. "Until recently, our bottleneck was trained craftsmen to oversee the process. With them now fully trained, in theory, we could produce a full glass house in as little as six months."
Rickard closed his eyes and imagined it for a moment. Years in the future, likely when his son or grandson was the Lord of the North, where no one starved. A glass garden for every keep, every town… every village. He wanted it. He craved it. It was almost a need, he desired that future so desperately. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
He was desperate. Paul could ask nearly anything of him, and Rickard knew that he would agree simply because it would be worth it. And, for that, Rickard hated him.
"Then you desire this partnership to continue," Rickard said, opening his eyes to the reality before him. Paul hadn't said it in so many words, but the fact he was increasing his means of production meant that he intended this partnership to last more than a year since the very start. That, at least, was something. It meant he was gaining something tangible from their dealings.
Paul nodded easily, "I do, Lord Stark. But, as I understand it, that could prove… difficult for you." He said and Rickard swallowed a scowl.
He knew about the leaks in the Night's Watch. He knew that the North would soon put together enough parts of the conspiracy to come to a conclusion. That meant Paul knew he had all of the leverage.
Did he admit it? Lie? Obscure? Deflect? "The lie was never going to last forever," Rickard admitted, "it would have been better if it lasted a while longer, but the situation is in hand." To that end, he couldn't let Paul control the conversation. "As things are, the reveal my family has been working with wildlings is not worth the political headache your goods provide." He said, and he wasn't sure the words were true.
There was another option, loathe as he was to use it. He could taint his own reputation -- accept the blame for working with wildlings, sparing Brandon the damage, while his family reaped the reward of a second glass garden. If Paul was brought into the fold on his watch, then Brandon would benefit from his presence without suffering the loss of reputation for allowing a 'wildling' to become a vassal.
"I understand, Lord Stark. To that, I believe I may have a solution," Paul offered and Rickard wasn't surprised. The boy was clever. He wouldn't have gotten this far if he couldn't seize an opportunity like this. "As it stands, to my knowledge, Paul Atreides and Maud'Dib are completely separate people to all but a select few. Maud'Dib is a wildling beyond the Wall while Paul can be anyone. A wandering merchant. Or, perhaps, a noble in exile in search of a new home with the retinue that escaped with him."
As he spoke, his gaze was unflinching, burning a hole into Rickard as he heard everything that wasn't said.
It was perfect. Almost too perfect. They could present a story that would connect the pieces of the truth floating amongst his vassals, leading them to a conclusion that served their agenda.
However, there was one issue. "My vassals are not fools. One way or another, even if I were to claim that all the goods came from you, they would know that the wildlings were involved in this deal."
Paul offered a humorless smile, "Let them be involved, Lord Stark. I say we give your vassals a version of the truth. I am a noble of a far off land that was caught North of the Wall. My origins matter little if you wish to hide the existence of the Padishah Empire. Claim that I am from Essos. Or beyond it."
Rickard started to put the pieces together, "You made contact with Brandon during his inspection of the Wall," he ventured. It would be best to hide the existence of another ancient empire. It would only complicate things and the story that he wished to tell. The Padishah empire could be a silent concern, but given that their existence had been unknown for thousands of years, he didn't expect that to change in his lifetime
Paul inclined his head, "From there, I made a deal with him for my eventual immigration south of the Wall. In exchange for knowledge of certain crafts, my nobility would be acknowledged by his father, the Lord of the North."
Rickard swallowed his surprise at that. Paul wanted to come south. That made things vastly easier, and that was the leverage he had been looking for. It was a gift horse, he decided, so he was wary of checking its teeth but he couldn't help but to wonder why exactly Paul wanted to come south. What did he gain from it?
"Naturally," Rickard replied drily. "But I requested proof, which you gave in the form of a glass garden. The deliveries were made through the Night's Watch, who dealt not with a wildling but a noble beyond the Wall. For such a gift, I wonder what lands I would bequeath onto such an ancient house?" Rickard questioned, curious what Paul would ask for. Because he would accept it.
They needed this. Paul was giving him everything he wanted on a silver platter and the cost would be well worth the gain.
He was prepared to give him the Stony Shore. He was prepared to give him lands that had belonged to the Starks for thousands of years.
Yet, Paul's answer surprised him.
"Lands in Skagos, in particular, taken from House Crowl." Paul decided and that was… strangely perfect. Skagos was barely under the authority of the North. The nobility naturally wouldn't like it if he were to repossess lands to bequeath to a newer house, but they would care a great deal less that he did it to the nobility if Skagos than they would if he did it to the Karstarks or Boltons.
The reason why those lands were chosen was evident enough. "You wish to continue to harvest the land beyond the Wall."
"During my time beyond the Wall, I encountered a wildling of the name Maud'Dib. We established a relationship of mutual benefit. He aids in procuring resources for me, and the knowledge I possess helped solidify his tribe in the Frostfangs." Paul finished, and that, Rickard thought, was very dangerous.
The words of the deserter rang out in his ears. That Rickard was working with a King Beyond the Wall. The lands beyond the Wall were vast, untamed, and untapped. Each time a King Beyond the Wall marched South, he did so with an army of tens of thousands at his back.
He could very well be opening the door to let one inside, Rickard thought as he offered a hand to Paul.
Yet, as Paul clasped his hand and the deal was struck… Rickard accepted a cold truth.
Desperation made fools of everyone.
...
This was the chapter that helped inspire the entire story. It's why Paul is so scary as a character -- If you manage to figure out his goals, it means that you've already lost and you lost before the game even started.
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feauxen
I know everything and nothing. I'm very confused.
- Location
- Yes.
- Pronouns
- Human/Person/Thing
This is a particularly interesting angle to write from. I don't actually know much about Dune, aside from the basics, so this is a very interesting way to find out about the main character's methods, means, and talents: through the eyes of others. He's almost like some kind of political horror movie villain. A regular Lelouche Vi Britannia, except possibly more dangerous because he's never had the luxury of being able to just cheat with magic and nevertheless managed to (if summaries I've seen are accurate) survive and even thrive well after his ultimate victory.
- Location
- State of Confusion
The question that has been at the back of my head since I started reading this story has, of course, been, "Does Paul have his prescience?" However, by this point, I realize it hardly matters. With his far future noble's education, plus his Mentat and Bene Gesserit training, he's already well equipped to run proverbial circles around Westeros' nobility. Being able to see the future, on top of all that, would just be overkill.
That...is more accurate than you probably realize.
Oh no, Paul cheats outrageously. How much he's doing so will be up to the author. At his worst, Paul can perfectly see the future. So perfectly, that he can walk around and function normally while utterly blind. However, even without that, due to the training mentioned above, he's a human computer who also has perfect people-reading skills and training in martial arts and politics from an order that has spent more than ten thousand years perfecting them.
- Location
- Canada
In the books he does have his own form (or forms) of magic he has a very strong past and future sight, as well as a method to force people to take an immediate action through speech and almost total self body control. Not sure if he has the past/future sight, but I would not be surprised if he has the *voice* to force people to do stuff, and very likely has self body control
- Location
- Madness realms
The scariest part of this was how reasonable it all was, Paul WANTS to come south but not TOO far from his existing power base.
Hey Ricky Stark, how about I extend my power nearby the wall and solve all your problems? I can also start more directly selling glass gardens for the north like this.
Hey Ricky Stark, how about I extend my power nearby the wall and solve all your problems? I can also start more directly selling glass gardens for the north like this.