The heavy snow that had begun at dawn showed no signs of relenting by dusk. Outside the granite walls of Winterfell, the world was a howling white void, but inside the Great Hall, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of roasted meat, spilled ale, and the collective body heat of three hundred boisterous guests.
Dozens of torches flared in their iron sconces, emitting thin wisps of black smoke that coiled like serpents against the high stone rafters. The great fireplaces at either end of the hall roared with peat and pine, casting a flickering orange glow that turned the pale faces of the Northmen a vibrant, healthy red.
Eddard sat on the high platform, the silver-black sunburst on his breastplate catching the firelight. He turned to his side, clinking his silver goblet against Sansa's. His fiancée, now his wife in the eyes of gods and men, looked breathtaking in a gown of ivory silk trimmed with white fox fur. Her face was flushed, a mix of the hall's warmth and the many cups of sweet fruit wine she had been forced to sip.
Eddard offered her a small, reassuring smile before scanning the room. The celebration was hitting its peak.
Across the table, the Greatjon was a whirlwind of drunken energy. His face was a dark, bruised purple from exertion, and he was currently leaning over Lord Rickard Karstark, splashing wine onto the table as he roared, "Your son is getting married, Rickard! Stop sitting there like a stone gargoyle! Drink! Drink until the sun comes up or your horse dies, whichever comes first!"
Lord Rickard actually laughed, a rare sound and matched the Umber's pace. Nearby, Harrion Karstark had already succumbed to a "pincer attack" by three of the younger Manderlys. The Karhold heir lay face-down on the table, his snores lost in the din.
Seeing their success, the corpulent Manderly knights turned their predatory gazes toward Bran Stark. The young King sat by the fireplace in his modified chair, but before the fat men could close in, Dacey Mormont and Robert Glover stepped into their path like a shield wall. Bran caught Eddard's eye and smiled, raising his glass in a polite, kingly gesture toward the Manderlys, taking a sip that was barely more than a drop.
The boy is learning, Eddard thought. A King must be close enough to his lords to be loved, but far enough to be respected.
"Your Majesty," a voice interrupted.
Earl Jason Mallister approached the high table, his expression a mix of genuine congratulations and practiced political deference. "May your union be as brilliant as the stars and as enduring as the Wall itself."
"Thank you, My Lord," Sansa replied, her voice steady despite the noise.
Jason Mallister didn't leave immediately. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a register meant for Eddard's ears alone. "My Lord, I must ask... the 'greenhouse' technology you introduced at the Twins. Word of it has reached Seagard. My craftsmen say you've found a way to heat the very floors with stone and smoke."
Eddard nodded. He had introduced the concept of the "The Hearth-Bed", the heated brick bed common in his old world's Northeast during his time at the Crossing. It was a simple engineering trick: routing flue gases from a stove through a series of brick channels beneath a raised platform. To the scholars of Oldtown, it was a novelty; to the shivering smallfolk of the Riverlands, it was a miracle.
"It is a simple matter of stone and sand, Earl Jason," Eddard said. "I would be happy to send a team of Karstark masons to Seagard. There is no price for the safety of our people during the winter."
Jason Mallister beamed, his respect for Eddard climbing another notch. He offered a shallow bow and retreated to his seat.
Eddard knew that sharing these "cakes", small technological advantages like the The Hearth-Bed or better grain storage was more effective at binding the Riverlords to him than any oath of fealty. He had thought about introducing paper or printing, but those were long-term plays. Right now, he needed them warm and he needed them loyal.
"Lord Eddard!"
The next guest was impossible to miss. Lord Wyman Manderly squeezed his massive frame between the benches, his multiple chins wobbling with every step, his face slick with sweat. He looked like a man who had just finished a marathon.
"May your marriage be fruitful, My Lord! May you have a dozen chubby boys to guard the Trident!" Wyman roared, then leaned his heavy bulk against the dais, his voice turning into a conspiratorial whisper. "But we must talk of the sea, Eddard. Robb was murdered by a Kraken. My house cannot let that debt go unpaid. I have the lumber and the craftsmen in White Harbor. If you can persuade King Bran and Lady Catelyn to fund a new fleet... I guarantee we can break the Greyjoy's hold on our coasts within a year."
Eddard rubbed his temple, a silent groan echoing in his mind. It's my wedding night, Wyman. Can we not talk about shipyards for ten minutes?
He looked behind Bran, where Lady Catelyn sat. Her face was a mask of forced politeness, her eyes cold as she watched the lords cluster around Eddard. She clearly resented that her daughter's title, King of the Trident carried with it a crown that would eventually pass to a Karstark heir, further diminishing the Stark core.
Eddard had no intention of becoming a pawn in the internal Stark-Tully-Manderly power struggle. He wanted to head south, secure Harrenhal, and perhaps use his [Animal Friend] magic to see if the rumors of Daenerys's dragons were true.
"I will speak with the King, Lord Wyman," Eddard promised smoothly. "The North needs lungs as well as legs. A fleet is a sound investment."
Satisfied, the Great Walrus waddled away.
As the sun fully set outside the narrow windows, the atmosphere reached a fever pitch. The bards, sensing the change in mood, transitioned from cheerful jigs to the crude, rhythmic notes of "The Bear and the Maiden Fair."
The Greatjon stood up on a bench, swaying dangerously as he bellowed the lyrics. The entire hall joined in, hundreds of fists pounding the tables in a deafening, synchronized rhythm.
"THE BEDDING! THE BEDDING!" a voice screamed from the back.
The cry was taken up instantly. "TEASE THE BRIDAL CHAMBER! STRIP THEM! CARRY THEM!"
Eddard felt Sansa stiffen beside him. He saw the flicker of genuine terror in her eyes, the memory of the South's cruelties still fresh, the prospect of being handled by a hundred drunken, sweaty men was more than she could bear.
Eddard stood up, his height and the glint of his armor commanding immediate attention. He clapped his hands, a sound like a crack of thunder that cut through the chanting.
"Gentlemen!" Eddard's voice boomed, silencing the room. "The North follows tradition, yes. But today is a day of victory. We have a new King, a new Queen, and a new alliance! To celebrate, I find the Bedding Ceremony... a bit too quiet."
The lords looked at him, confused.
"I intend to hold a wrestling competition!" Eddard declared, his eyes flashing with a playful but firm light. "Right here! Right now! First place wins ten thousand gold dragons! Second place, five thousand! Third place, one thousand!"
The silence in the hall was absolute for a heartbeat, then it exploded into a riot of noise. In the impoverished North, ten thousand gold dragons was a legendary sum, the kind of wealth that could build a castle or buy a thousand warhorses. Even the Manderlys looked interested.
"TEN THOUSAND?!" the Greatjon roared, already ripping off his fur-lined tunic to reveal a barrel chest covered in old battle scars. "FORGET THE GIRL! I WANT THE GOLD! WHO WANTS TO TASTE THE DIRT FIRST?!"
Robin Flint from Widow's Watch leaped over a table, shedding his surcoat. "I'll take that bet, Umber! Come here and see if you can still lift more than a cup!"
Maester Luwin scrambled to the center with a tin megaphone, trying to establish rules before the entire hall turned into a brawl.
While the lords were busy pushing back tables and cheering for the first match, Eddard reached down and took Sansa's hand. Her fingers were trembling, but she looked at him with a profound, sobbing gratitude.
He leaned in close to her ear. "The back door. Now."
They slipped through the heavy velvet curtains behind the high table, exiting through a small service door that led into the cold, quiet stone corridors of the Great Keep. Eddard had left his most loyal guards, Abel, Dita, and the Wolfguards to manage the "prizes" and ensure the wrestling lasted until dawn.
As they walked toward their chambers, the muffled roar of the Great Hall faded into the distance. Eddard looked at his wife, the silence of the North wrapping around them like a cloak.
[System Notification: Dominion Stability Increased.]
[Reputation with Sansa Stark: +500 (Devotion).]
[Soul Power Gained (Cultural Manipulation): 100 SP.]
"Thank you, Ned," Sansa whispered, the first time she had used his name without a title.
"It's your home, Sansa," Eddard replied, opening the door to their room where a warm fire already burned. "No one is going to hurt you here."
[System Notification: Year 300 AC - The Moon of the Wolf begins.]
Drop Some Power Stones Plz.
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