77 AC
Winterfell
Third Person Pov
In the training yards of Winterfell, the crisp Northern air rang with the clang of steel. Artor Stark, lean and focused, moved with practiced ease, his longsword a blur of motion as he parried and riposted against his brother Harrion. Harrion, a man built like an oak, wielded his greatsword with brute strength, each swing a wide, powerful arc that forced Artor to give ground. The contrast in their styles was evident: Artor, agile and precise; Harrion, forceful and relentless. Their practice bout was intense, a dance of steel under the watchful eyes of a few Stark guards, each strike echoing the martial traditions of the North.
The clash of steel intensified, each parry and strike carrying the weight of years of training. Harrion pressed his attack, the sheer momentum of his greatsword forcing Artor onto the defensive. Yet, Artor's footwork was nimble, and his longsword moved with a deceptive speed. He anticipated Harrion's powerful overhead swing, sidestepping at the last moment and using the momentum of Harrion's strike against him. With a swift, precise movement, Artor's longsword swept low, catching Harrion's gauntleted hand just as he recovered. The impact jarred Harrion's grip, and the heavy greatsword clattered onto the packed earth of the training yard, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. Artor's longsword remained poised, its tip a hair's breadth from Harrion's chest, signaling the end of their bout.
Artor lowered his longsword slightly, his breath coming in steady puffs. He looked at his brother, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Yield, brother?" he asked, the question a formality after the decisive disarm.
Harrion, his chest heaving from the exertion, looked down at his fallen greatsword. A grudging respect flickered in his eyes as he met Artor's gaze. "Aye," he grunted, a hint of amusement in his voice despite the defeat. "I yield, Artor. You were quick today."
The clang of steel now silent, the two brothers made their way to a sturdy wooden bench that lined the edge of the training yard. They sat heavily, the exertion of their sparring still evident in their breathing. The cool Northern air provided a welcome respite. For a few moments, they simply sat in comfortable silence, the sounds of Winterfell carrying around them – the distant barking of hounds, the murmur of voices from within the castle walls, the rustling of leaves in the ancient godswood. Finally, Artor broke the quiet. "You were strong as always, Harrion," he said, turning to his brother. "Your overhead strikes nearly took my head off a few times."
Artor shifted on the bench, his gaze drifting towards the distant walls of Wintertown. "Harrion," he began, a note of curiosity in his voice, "are you planning to ride to Wintertown anytime soon? I recall Master Lucan mentioning that the initial designs for the new train line extension have been finalized, and construction has begun. I'm curious to see the progress and perhaps understand the proposed route."
"Aye, Artor," Harrion replied, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "I was planning to ride to Wintertown within the next day or two. Master Lucan sent word that the initial phase of construction is underway, and I want to see how the work progresses. Father is keen to ensure it's done properly."
Artor nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Father mentioned that the new engines and carriages they're building will be used for the railway line being laid from Barrowtown to Karhold."
The guard, a young man named Bran, seemed slightly out of breath. "My Lords," he repeated, adding with a touch of urgency, "Lord Stark requests your presence in his solar. He wishes to speak with both of you... my Lord."
Harrion, ever direct, turned to the guard, a questioning look in his eyes. "Did he say what this is about, Bran?" he asked, his brow slightly furrowed. "Why does Father need both of us in his solar?"
Bran shook his head. "No, my Lord. He simply said he wished to speak with both Lord Artor and you. He did not mention the reason." The young guard's earnest expression offered no further clues, leaving the brothers to speculate on the purpose of their father's summons as they made their way towards the Lord's solar within the ancient walls of Winterfell.
The two brothers exchanged a brief glance, a shared sense of unease settling upon them. They followed Bran as he led them through the familiar corridors of Winterfell, the stone walls echoing with their footsteps. As they approached the heavy oak door of their father's solar, a guard stationed outside nodded respectfully. "My Lords," he murmured, before tapping lightly on the door. After a moment, Lord Stark's voice, usually steady and calm, sounded from within. "Enter."
The guard pulled the door open, and Artor and Harrion stepped into the solar. The atmosphere within the room was immediately heavy. Lord Theon Stark sat behind his large wooden desk, his usual stern expression now etched with a deep grimness. Seated near the hearth, their mother, Lady Diana Stark, also wore a troubled look, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The familiar warmth of the fire did little to dispel the palpable tension in the room. Lord Theon gestured towards two chairs placed before his desk. "Artor, Harrion," he said, his voice low, "sit down. We need to talk."
Lord Theon's gaze was serious as he held a sealed scroll in his hand. "There has been a message from King's Landing," he began, his voice somber. "There is some… adjustment to the taxes levied upon the North. The King has decreed a twenty percent reduction."
A flicker of relief crossed Harrion's face. "Finally," he murmured, leaning back in his chair. "Some good news from the South, for once."
Lady Diana's expression remained troubled. "Don't be so quick to celebrate, Harrion," she cautioned, her voice soft but firm. "Hear the full message before you draw any conclusions."
A knot of unease tightened in Artor's stomach. He exchanged a worried glance with Harrion. "What else is it, Father?" he asked, his voice low. "What else did the King's message contain?"
Lord Theon's grip tightened on the scroll. "The King also intends to grant the Night's Watch an additional twenty-five leagues of land south of the Wall."
Harrion's eyes widened in surprise and disbelief. "What?" he exclaimed, his earlier relief vanishing instantly. He leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "Twenty-five leagues? That's a significant amount of land. Why would the King do that?"
Artor, his unease solidifying into a grim certainty, simply nodded, his gaze distant as he considered the implications. "The Umbers," he said, his voice low and grave, "and the mountain clans… they will not be silent about this. That land likely borders their own territories. This will be seen as an encroachment."
Lady Diana's expression was grave, her gaze sweeping between her sons. "We have been discussing this since the raven arrived," she confirmed, her voice laced with worry. "Many of the Northern lords were already deeply disgruntled by the repeated tax increases over the past decades. Now, to be told that a significant portion of land, land that likely holds strategic or economic value to them, is to be ceded to the Night's Watch… this is a different matter entirely."
She shook her head slowly. "They might have grumbled about taxes, but this… this touches upon their ancestral holdings, their power, their very identity. They will not view this as a generous gift to the Night's Watch. They will see it as the Crown, influenced by the South, demanding they relinquish their own territories. They will not let this one slide without a fight, Theon. Mark my words."
Lord Theon sighed heavily, running a weary hand over his face. "Aye," he agreed, his voice grim. "They will have more than words for what is happening right now. The reduction in taxes will be seen as a pittance, a crumb thrown to appease them while a significant chunk of their land is being given away. This could very well undo any goodwill Alyssane's visit might have fostered. This decision from King's Landing… it is dangerously ill-conceived."
A heavy silence descended upon the solar, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. The weight of the King's decree hung in the air, the implications for the North stark and unsettling. Finally, Lord Theon broke the silence, his voice low and thoughtful. "Someone," he said slowly, his gaze distant as if piecing together a puzzle, "someone in King's Landing… or perhaps even closer… is either profoundly ignorant of the North or is deliberately trying to incite the North against the Crown."
"It has to be the maesters and Septon Barth," Artor said, his voice firm. "They have always looked down upon the North, our traditions, our gods. The establishment of the College of Winterhold, with its emphasis on learning beyond the Citadel's control and its implicit acceptance of our ways, must have rankled them. This land grant, cloaked in piety towards the Night's Watch, feels like a direct attempt to undermine our authority and reassert the dominance of the Faith and the Citadel's influence."
Harrion nodded in agreement, his jaw tight. "Aye. They see the North as backward, clinging to old ways. The College is a challenge to their monopoly on knowledge. This land grab is likely their way of striking back, of reminding us of our place in their eyes."
Lady Diana's gaze was sharp. "It fits their pattern. Septon Barth's veiled disapproval of our faith during the Queen's visit, the Grand Maester's condescending remarks about Northern learning… they see us as heathens who need to be brought into the light. Weakening the Northern lords through this land grant would serve their agenda perfectly, making us more reliant on the Crown and, by extension, their doctrines."
Lord Theon's expression was grim. "It seems you are right. Their prejudice against the North, against our gods and our growing independence in matters of learning, likely fuels this decision. They see the College as a threat, and this land grant as a means to diminish our power and reassert their control. This is not merely about supporting the Night's Watch; it is about undermining the North."
Lord Theon's voice dropped, his tone heavy with grim realization. "And with this," he said slowly, his gaze dark, "they are likely hoping for a rebellion. They believe that by provoking the Northern lords with this blatant land grab, they can incite us to rise against the Iron Throne. Once that happens, in their eyes, we will be branded as traitors. They envision a scenario where the great houses of the North, like the extinct Gardeners and Hoares of old, are crushed. They would then install new lords, ones more amenable to their influence, more willing to bend to the will of the South and, yes, slowly but surely, to embrace their faith."
He clenched his fist on the table. "They see this as an opportunity to break the strength and the spirit of the North once and for all. They underestimate our resilience, our unity, and our long memory. But their arrogance is dangerous. We must not give them the satisfaction of seeing the North descend into chaos. We must be shrewd, deliberate, and united in our response."
Lord Theon leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant, a hint of grim satisfaction in his eyes. "I knew," he said, his voice low and steady, "I always knew that a day like this would come. The South has always viewed the North with suspicion, with a desire to control us. That is why, from a young age, I began to subtly shift things here in the North, little by little. From introducing new agricultural techniques to strengthen our yields and lessen our reliance on southern grain, to fostering our own trade routes, building our own ships, and investing in the railways… all of it was done with this eventuality in mind."
He gestured around the solar, encompassing the entirety of the North in his mind. "I knew that eventually, the venom of southern politics, their intrigues and their desire for dominance, would inevitably spread its tendrils north. I sought to make the North as self-sufficient and resilient as possible, to build our own strength so that when this day arrived, we would not be easily broken. We have made progress, but this land grant… this is a significant challenge, one that will test the foundations we have laid."
"And that is why," Lord Theon continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, a hint of ancient power underlying his words, "I chose to keep certain… truths hidden from the South. The existence of the ice dragons, slumbering in the Long Lake. The continued presence of the Children of the Forest in the deepest parts of our woods. The strength of the giants. These are secrets, powerful secrets, that offer the North a strength the South cannot comprehend. They are secrets we hold close to our chest, to be played only when absolutely necessary."
He looked at his sons, his gaze intense. "The South believes they hold all the power, that they can dictate terms and provoke us with impunity. They do not know the true depth of the North's resilience, the allies we have, the ancient forces that still stir within our lands. Let them underestimate us. Let them believe they can extinguish the wolf with a single blow. They will learn, perhaps too late, that the North holds secrets that can shatter their southern arrogance."
Artor looked at his father, his expression a mixture of concern and determination. "What now, Father?" he asked, the weight of the unfolding situation heavy in the air. "How do we respond to this?"
Lord Theon's jaw was set, his eyes hard. "We will not react rashly," he declared. "Our first move will be to send a formal request to King's Landing. We will demand that the decree granting twenty-five leagues of Northern land to the Night's Watch be rescinded immediately. We will make it unequivocally clear that our bannermen will not tolerate the removal of land from their control. We will emphasize the deep unrest and potential for conflict this ill-conceived decision has already sown."
Harrion's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his non-existent sword. "And if they refuse, Father? If King's Landing ignores our request and insists on this land grant?"
Lord Theon's gaze hardened, his voice leaving no room for doubt. "Then," he stated firmly, "we will convene a Great Council here in Winterfell. We will summon all the lords of the North, from the Stony Shore to the Last Hearth. We will lay out the situation before them, explain the Crown's actions and their implications, and together, the North will decide how we shall respond. We will stand united."
The Stark family continued to discuss the gravity of the news from King's Landing, exploring potential strategies and the likely reactions of the Northern lords. They considered the wording of their letter to the Iron Throne, ensuring it conveyed their displeasure and the potential consequences without being overtly hostile. The need for unity amongst the Northern houses was paramount, and they spoke of the importance of presenting a strong, unified front. After a time, the weight of the unfolding crisis settled upon them, and the discussion began to wind down. Lord Theon, with a heavy sigh, finally rose from his desk. "There is much to be done," he said, his gaze sweeping over his sons and his wife. "We must begin preparing our response and summoning the lords. Let us each attend to our own tidings, and reconvene later to coordinate our efforts." With nods of understanding, Artor and Harrion followed their mother from the solar, each now burdened with the responsibility of the looming conflict and the need to protect the North from the perceived encroachment of the South.