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A Golden Path: First Steps 1.3 (ch. 3)
🕑 Added 2024-07-22 14:51:33 +0000 UTCJaehaerys 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.’
Comments
Pearl of the Orient
What tune is it playing?
Tharsax
Man, I wish this story won the update poll, it's so good
