Robb IV
295 - AC
Winterfell felt different.
It wasn't larger, nor grander than before — its towers stood the same, its stones were just as cold — but there was something new in the air, something alive. Smoke no longer rose only from the castle forges and hearths, but from beyond the outer walls, where the town had begun to grow.
Winter Town, once a place that only stirred to life when the chill drove smallfolk in from the holds, now thrummed with movement even in the quiet months. The clang of hammer on cask, the rumble of wagons bearing barrels, and the thick, sweet scent of brewing grain filled the air.
Robb Stark stood upon the battlements, gazing down at the sprawl of rooftops below.
What had begun as a single modest workshop, the Braavosi brewer Skario Tepes and his handful of men, had turned into something far greater.
The brewery had expanded into a maze of timber halls and smoking chimneys, with sheds for storage and rows of barrels stacked like soldiers ready for war.
The people of the North had come. Families from Barrowton, Deepwood Motte, the Rills, and even the stony shores of Bear Island had flocked to Winterfell seeking work.
The promise of steady coin was a rare thing in the cold lands, and the Winterfell brewery — now called The Wolf's Brew among the smallfolk — offered exactly that.
Children played among the half-frozen lanes, men rolled barrels to the wagons that carried them south, and Tepes himself walked among them like a general inspecting his ranks, his dark beard heavy with frost.
Robb could see him even now, shouting orders with that booming Braavosi laughter of his. The sight drew a faint smile to the young lord's lips.
He turned from the battlements and descended the stone steps toward the keep. The corridors were warm again — fuller. The smells of bread, boiled meat, and spiced ale drifted through the air. He passed servants with arms full of linens, guards with spears at the ready, and a handful of maids gossiping about the "Lordling's men," the Winter Sons, whose names had spread far beyond the North.
The Winter Sons had become more than a company of boys playing Lords. They were a symbol now — of unity, of the North stirring again.
In the past year, they had ridden from Karhold to Torrhen's Square, from Last Hearth to Barrowton.
They had put down raiders near the White Knife, broken up a clan war among the mountains of the Stony Shore, and even negotiated peace between the Norreys and the Wulls, even if it's for a short time before one of them decided the other's face was not to their liking.
Every hall they entered bore the same mark of pride and curiosity — the direwolf of Winterfell flying beside the banners of ancient houses that had once warred as often as they feasted.
Robb thought of Domeric Bolton's measured diplomacy with the Ryswells and Dustin riders. Of Theon Karstark's skill at hunting outlaws through the woods. Of Theon Greyjoy's sharp aim and sharper tongue. And of Jon — ever at his side, silent, watchful, his sword always ready.
It was strange, he thought, how quickly boyhood had burned away in the snows.
By the time he reached his father's solar, the sun was sinking beyond the walls. He knocked once, and the deep voice within bade him enter.
Eddard Stark sat by the hearth, quill in hand, the light from the flames casting lines across his weathered face. Scrolls and parchment littered the table — trade records, letters, reports from the holdfasts. Ghosts of the North written in ink and sealed in wax.
Robb closed the door softly behind him and bowed his head. "Father."
Ned looked up, setting the quill aside. "Robb. You're back from the yard early."
"I was walking the walls," Robb said, stepping closer. "Winter Town has changed much since I last saw it. The brewery has nearly doubled in size. Tepes says the first full shipment of casks has reached White Harbor. Lord Manderly sent word that half the inns in his port have already taken to serving Lady Frost."
Ned's brow lifted slightly. "Lady Frost?"
"That's what Tepes calls the rum," Robb said with a grin. "Said it needed a name worthy of the cold that makes it. The first barrels reached Barrowton last month — the merchants there claim the inns are demanding more already. Even some taverns in Gulltown have sent word through White Harbor, asking for casks."
Ned's brows drew together. "So far south?"
"Aye. Tepes swears he's sending no more than he can spare — a slow trickle, nothing more. But the coin comes quick, and the North grows rich for once." Robb smiled faintly.
"Ambitious," Ned murmured.
"The coin we've earned from the lumber trade went into expanding the distilleries. The Wolfwood men have worked tirelessly felling pine and ash, and the Manderlys have sent ships to carry the barrels south. Even the Glovers have offered wagons and drivers in exchange for a cut of the profits. What began as a small idea is growing."
Ned leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "And what will it bring? Coin, yes. But coin brings envy. Envy brings trouble."
He gestured to the letters piled upon the table. "Already I've had ravens from Lord Cerwyn, Lord Tallhart, and old Lady Dustin — each asking about your 'ventures.' You're stirring waters that have lain frozen for too long, Son. The North remembers, aye, but it also watches."
He stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back. "I know, Father. There is risk in everything worth doing. But the North has too long depended on the South for its finery, its gold, its indulgence. It's time we made something of our own — something that reminds the rest of the realm that the wolf's bite is not dulled by distance."
Ned regarded him quietly. The fire crackled between them.
"You sound like your grandfather," he said at last. "Ambition and caution in equal measure. But remember, My boy — there's danger in success. Coin can bind men together, but it can also divide them faster than any sword."
"I understand."
Robb took a breath, steadying himself. "There's one more thing I wished to ask."
Ned tilted his head.
"I would have you send a raven to Sunspear," He said carefully. "To the Martells of Dorne. Ask for a shipment of sand steeds."
The Lord blinked, surprised. "Sand steeds? From Dorne?"
He nodded. "They're the finest horses in Westeros. Swift, tireless, made for endurance. The Dornish breed them for the heat, but Tepes tells me their bloodlines adapt well if trained young. If we could breed them with our Northern stock, we'd have mounts that could carry riders faster and farther than any in the Seven Kingdoms."
Ned's expression darkened with thought. "And why would the Martells grant such a request? The North and Dorne share no roads, no alliances."
Robb allowed a small smile. "That is true. But every alliance begins with a trade. A cask for a horse. A favor for a favor. The Martells may not need our rum, but they will want the goodwill of a rising trade in the North. And perhaps… in time… something more."
Ned regarded him a long moment, the silence stretching until the only sound was the fire's pop and hiss.
"You've learned much this past year," Ned said finally. "Too much, perhaps. It is both a comfort and a worry to see the man you're becoming."
"I learned from you," Robb said quietly.
Ned gave a faint smile at that, though it didn't reach his eyes. He looked once more at the letters before him, then to his son — the young lord who would one day inherit more than his lands, but his burdens.
"Very well," he said. "I will write to Dorne. But remember, Robb — every choice we make ripples beyond our sight. The South will look upon the North with new eyes soon, and not all will look kindly."
Robb inclined his head. "Let them look, Father. The wolf does not hide from the sun, we shall bury them in the Winter."
Ned chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Go on, then. Find your mother. She'll want to hear of your journeys before the night's out."
Robb bowed and turned for the door. As he reached the threshold, his father's voice called after him — low, thoughtful.
"Robb," Ned said, "remember this. The North is strong not because of its gold or its steel, but because of its people. Never forget whose blood keeps this keep alive."
Robb looked back once, his hand on the doorframe, and nodded.
"I won't, Father."
Outside, the cold air met him once more, but it felt different now — sharper, cleaner. Below, the lights of Winter Town glowed like embers in the snow, the hum of life rising from its streets.
—-------
Tywin I
295 - AC
The sun burned gold over Casterly Rock, and the banners of House Lannister rippled proud and crimson in the western wind. Below the towering walls, the tourney grounds gleamed — a spectacle of power and splendor few in the realm could match.
Trumpets sounded as knights clashed lances in the lists, steel ringing, hooves pounding over the hard-packed sand. Beyond the tilt, the stands overflowed with banners and brocade — lords, ladies, and lesser men all come to bear witness to the glory of the West.
Tywin Lannister sat upon the high dais, his face still and unmoved, though his mind was anything but.
He had thrown this tourney to mark the tenth name day of his grandson, the Crown Prince — a boy with his mother's beauty and his father's temper, though the former would fade faster than the latter. It was also, by design, a chance to remind the realm — and the king himself — that House Lannister remained the wealth and might behind the Iron Throne.
But the king was doing his best to forget it.
Robert Baratheon sat two seats down, heavy and broad, his black beard flecked with wine, his crown slightly askew. He had long since abandoned dignity for indulgence; his great laughter rolled over the stands as freely as the ale from his cup.
His jaw tightened as he watched Robert's hand wander to the thigh of a servant girl passing with a tray of spiced wine. The poor child blanched, murmured something, and stumbled away, earning a bark of drunken laughter from her king.
Across from him, Cersei sat rigid, her smile perfectly painted but lifeless. Her green eyes flicked toward Robert once, then away, as if the sight burned. She kept her chin high — the queen still, no matter the humiliation.
But he heard the whispers all the same.
"They say the King's true love is his cup," murmured a lord from the Reach behind him, not quietly enough. "Or perhaps any woman but his queen."
"Pity," another snickered. "For such beauty to be so wasted. Perhaps she might find warmth elsewhere, like her brother does with his armor."
Tywin's eyes slid toward them without turning his head. Both men felt it, and the laughter died in their throats.
"Fools," he thought coldly. "The lot of them."
His gaze drifted to the royal box below, where Jaime stood in gleaming white plate, a lion among dull steel. His golden hair caught the light, and his face — his mother's beauty made sharper by pride — betrayed nothing. He stood at the king's side, silent and watchful, as Robert bellowed something to a passing knight.
He should have been at Casterly Rock, Tywin thought. He should have been my heir, not my shame.
It still stung — the memory of his son kneeling before Aerys Targaryen, taking his vows of celibacy and service to a mad king, robbing his house of its future. And now, years later, he guarded another king — one who stank of wine and wasted power.
Jaime's sword hand had never faltered, but his sense had. He wondered if it would ever return.
On the field, two armored knights thundered down the lists, lances leveled, banners streaming. The impact was thunderous — splinters flew, the crowd roared.
Robert cheered loudest of all, slamming his cup on the rail. "Ha! Well struck! Gods, I could watch this all day!"
Jon Arryn, sitting near Him, sighed quietly. The Hand of the King's pale eyes betrayed the weariness of years spent holding the realm together by threads of patience and parchment.
"Your Grace," Arryn said, his tone mild, "perhaps we might retire after the final tilt. The sun is—"
"The sun's fine where it is!" Robert barked. "You'd rather be counting coins than seeing real men fight, eh, Jon?"
He caught the faint twitch at the corner of the old falcon's mouth.
Varys sat a little apart, draped in silk and silence, his smile unreadable. He watched everything — the king, the queen, the crowd — with eyes that missed nothing and gave nothing away.
Robert turned suddenly toward him, his grin broad and reckless.
"Lannister!" he bellowed. "You've always an eye for strength — tell me, which of these brutes do you fancy? Ser Clegane or that green knight from the Crag?"
He looked to the lists, where the Mountain loomed — a massive shape of steel and fury, his black destrier stamping and snorting as if eager for blood. Opposite him, a younger knight — Ser Benfrey of the Crag — readied his lance, his armor gilded, his posture proud.
"I'll place my coin on Clegane," Tywin said evenly.
Robert's grin widened. "Ha! I'll take the other then. You'll see, Tywin — courage beats size any day."
The trumpets blew.
The horses charged, the ground shaking beneath their weight. The lances met with a deafening crack — and in an instant, Ser Benfrey was thrown from his saddle, crashing to the dirt.
The Mountain reined in, his lance snapping clean. He turned his helm toward the royal stands, as if seeking approval.
Robert scowled, then threw back his head and laughed anyway.
"Gods' balls, you Lannisters never lose, do you?" He drained his cup and waved for more wine, though his cheer was half-hearted now. "Enjoy your winnings, Tywin. Mayhaps I'll take my revenge in the melee."
He staggered to his feet, muttering to Jon Arryn about the heat, and stalked toward the pavilions, leaving a trail of spilled wine in his wake.
His gaze followed the King, cold and silent.
Below, the healers hurried to tend to the fallen knight. The Mountain sat still atop his monstrous horse, visor down, unmoving. And from the royal box came a shrill voice — high, imperious.
"Kill him!" the Crown Prince screamed, pointing toward the injured knight. "Kill him, Clegane! I said kill him!"
Gasps rippled through the stands. The boy's small hand gripped the rail, his face twisted in something ugly and familiar.
"That's enough, my boy, the man is down already." Cersei said, seizing his wrist.
The boy yanked against her hold, eyes blazing, but the moment passed. Jaime stepped closer, murmuring something low and sharp, and the prince turned away with a scowl.
Tywin's mouth was a hard line.
"Too much his father in that one," he thought grimly. "And not enough sense to know it."
When the noise of the crowd began to swell again, Jon Arryn leaned slightly toward him. "It seems the tourney was well chosen, my lord. The realm has need of laughter."
"Laughter is cheap," He said quietly. "Coin and order are not."
Arryn nodded faintly, though his eyes were weary.
He rose from his seat. The sun had dipped lower now, gilding the Rock in a soft orange glow. As the crowds turned their attention to the next tilt, a smooth voice cut through the din.
"My lord."
Petyr Baelish, The Littlefinger and the current Master of Coins stood beside the platform rail, his fine cloak clasped with silver mockingbird pins. He smiled — the sort of smile that promised nothing good.
"Lord Baelish," Tywin said. "The coffers still hold, I trust?"
"Hold, and sing," Littlefinger replied. "The gold flows as it always does — out faster than it comes in, but we find ways to fill it again."
"Through honest means, I hope."
Littlefinger's grin widened. "As honest as the realm allows, my lord. Between the Crown's debts to the Iron Bank, the Master of Ships' new fleet, and His Grace's personal expenses, I've had to be… creative."
Tywin's eyes narrowed slightly. "Creative?"
"A coin here, a favor there," Baelish said lightly. "Some from the Vale, a good deal from the Reach, and of late, rather interesting sums from the North."
His eyes flicked toward him. "The North?"
"Yes," Baelish said lightly, as if mentioning the weather. "It's curious. The flow of tax from Winterfell has increased these past months — small amounts, true, but steady. Trade ledgers from White Harbor show more coins moving south than in prior years. A modest surplus, but from the North, my lord. The wolves are stirring, it seems."
Tywin's fingers drummed once against the arm of his chair. "The North does not trade,"
He said slowly. "They fish, they hunt, they freeze. That has ever been their way. Why would it change now?"
"I cannot say," Baelish said, feigning a thoughtful frown. "Perhaps Lord Stark has found a new way to warm his halls. Or perhaps he's found something in those endless woods worth selling. Whatever it is, gold trickles down from Winterfell — to White Harbor, then to the capital. A quiet current, but growing."
Tywin's eyes lingered on the field, where a new pair of knights were readying for the next charge.
'The North breeds fighters, not merchants. And yet…' He let the thought trail off.
"Even wolves grow hungry when the snows come," Baelish murmured. "They hunt where the scent is strongest. I've merely noticed they've begun to circle the Crown's coffers more than before. That is all."
Tywin turned his head slowly, studying him. "You take too much pleasure in your riddles."
Baelish spread his hands. "It is how one stays alive in King's Landing, my lord."
"Then perhaps you should remember," Tywin said, voice low and sharp, "This is not King's landing."
Littlefinger chuckled softly, rising to his feet.
"Of course, my lord. I only meant to inform, not to concern." He straightened his cloak, the mockingbirds catching the sunlight. "I shall see that your scribes receive the ledgers by week's end. You may find their sums... enlightening."
Tywin said nothing. His gaze drifted past Baelish, out toward the western horizon where the sea met the sky.
The North — cold, barren, stubborn. A land that produced empty stomachs and loose pockets, not merchants.
And yet gold, it seemed, had begun to move there.
When Baelish slipped away into the crowd, he remained seated, staring out across the field.
The banners of the lion still fluttered high, but for the first time in years, Tywin's mind wandered north — to snow and stone and wolves.
The North was stirring, ever slowly as it may but he would keep an eye over it for now.
For the Game may shift anyway and The North is a piece too important to lose sight of.