112 AC, Winterfell, The North
Laenor sat in Lord Stark's solar, with the man himself seated across from him behind an ironwood desk, his face masked in its customary cold, impassive look. Yet unlike before, Lord Stark's grey eyes betrayed more than his twitching finger or the constant tapping of his foot. They spoke of emotions—thrill and apprehension, but also the sting of foolishness—at the trade of ice that Laenor had just proposed.
Laenor leaned back in his chair, giving the Lord Paramount of the North a moment to think over the deal. He exhaled slowly, turning his gaze toward the window, where the Godswood stretched vast and ancient as part of the keep. He had yet to set foot beneath its boughs, though the thought tempted him. Another time, perhaps. For now, his eyes returned to the cold mask of Lord Stark, where emotions flickered and died as quickly as sparks in snow. The man opened his mouth to speak, only to let out a sigh and hold his silence.
If Laenor were honest with himself, he disliked this merchant's work—not because he thought it beneath him, but because haggling tested his patience. He did not enjoy watching men wrestle with themselves behind masks of dignity, nor the expression Stark wore now. But what choice did he have? His father would not have approved had he shown more generosity to the North than he already had, and insisted Laenor make this journey alone to learn this merchant's work. Lord Rickon Stark's specific request for his presence had sealed the matter.
Now, with the final deal laid upon the table, Laenor only wished Stark would speak, agree, and allow him the freedom to explore one of the oldest keeps in Westeros as he had done for the past week, whenever he had the free time in his hand.
"Lord Laenor…" Rickon Stark began at last, placing a hand on the desk and straightening as he spoke. "…you are no less than a blessing to House Stark—and to the whole North. The North has always prided itself on being a land of hard men and harder women. For centuries, we have sacrificed our own to endure. Never once did my ancestors reach to the South or to the Crown for aid, nor strike deals or alliances to ease our survival. Not that I blame them. Whenever a royal, a Targaryen, sets foot in the North, it seems we lose more than we gain. Politics never held appeal for my forebears—or for me.
"I cannot say what compelled me. Perhaps it was the whispers in the halls I heard of the Old Beards who have ventured into the woods with an excuse of hunting to give their life so the young in the house could be fed. Perhaps it was my bannermen, coming to me with downcast faces, speaking of the winter's bite and their unprepared halls. Or perhaps it was watching my four-year-old son, and thinking he too would grow beneath the same burden—that winter would steal more from him than any war ever could."
Laenor kept his silence, meeting the man's eyes and listening. That was all he could do—listen to a Stark, who must have buried these truths deep beneath the icy mask he learned from his father, just as his own son had learn it from him.
But soon Rickon reclaimed his composure. He stood, fetched two cups, and poured a dark Northern ale from a jug hidden beneath his desk. "My father used to say dragonlords are too beautiful and too charming for their own good. At first, I did not understand him. Now, I do." He smiled faintly before resuming his seat. "Anyhow, Lord Laenor, I accept the terms of your deal. I would happily trade with House Velaryon. If this venture prospers as you say it will, the North shall see a wealth and prosperity it has never known. All thanks to you. Though calming my bannermen, once they hear of it, will be no easy task."
He raised his cup in toast, smiling again before draining it.
Laenor's lips curved in mild amusement. "I would not say all the terms are favorable to the North, but I will say this: your people will no longer have to sacrifice themselves for their children's survival. The winter that once devoured them will become their salvation. The coffers of your house and your bannermen alike will swell with gold and silver. A little uproar seems a small price for such fortune."
"Aye, indeed." Rickon agreed, as both men savored the warmth of ale cascading down their throats. His gaze drifted absentmindedly toward the shelves along the wall, while Laenor looked once more at the snow that now fell heavier outside.
"I don't think it my place," Laenor said, "but I believe it's long past time House Stark had a fleet of its own—even if only for trade."
On his journey from White Harbor, he had visited villages and keeps, and the disparity struck him deeply. The smallfolk of White Harbor seemed almost coddled compared to the rest of the North. The difference was plain to see. House Manderly's harbor remained the only thriving port of trade, its wealth and power obvious.
"A fleet, eh?" Rickon said, exhaling slowly. "The thought has crossed my mind, I'll not deny it. But now? With winter nearly upon us, my ancestors would come out of their crypts to hunt me down if I even entertain the idea of building Harbor in Winter. Nye Lord Laenor, Winter is not the time to build; it is time to survive. Perhaps, when this winter breaks…"
Laenor hummed in understanding, refilling his cup.
Then Rickon's grey eyes sharpened, and the man asked. "Lord Laenor, if I may ask the question I am certain you have been asked a hundred times… what befell on your fleet, on your journey here?"
Laenor turned his gaze from the ale to Rickon Stark. He had been a guest in Winterfell for more than a week now, and not once had that question been asked—not by Lord Stark, nor by his family. The Manderlys had tried, and tried often. So it came as a slight surprise when Stark suddenly raised the matter, just after they sealed their alliance with a toast of ale. Neither man had worded it outright, but both knew what that toast meant.
Laenor noted the flicker of confusion and curiosity in Rickon Stark's grey eyes, which made him ask his next words. "What brought this on? I've been here a week, and you never asked. Why now?"
The confusion cleared from Stark's gaze as he gave his head a slight shake, his expression uncertain.
"I don't know…" Laenor arched a brow at the answer. "…curiosity, mayhaps, same as everyone else," Lord Stark said with a shrug, raising his cup to his lips.
Laenor considered whether he should tell Stark or not. He owed the man no explanation, yet a sudden urge struck him to reveal everything that had happened there—to let someone other than himself know that the Gods were real, and what had transpired at the Bite. His mouth opened, only for him to stop and shake his head, mirroring Stark's gesture from moments earlier.
What was that? He was certain he had decided never to speak of the Bite to anyone in the North. So why was he having second thoughts?
Laenor's thoughts tangled as his gaze returned to Rickon Stark. The Lord's expectant look rekindled that strange urge to recount the tale. He didn't need a God to come down to tell him something was wrong—something was meddling with his mind. And though drink rarely affects him, the Northern ale was stronger than the wines of Driftmark. He should not have had so much.
The urge persisted, and Laenor realized something or someone was compelling him to speak of that day. A battle raged within him, will against compulsion, his mind screaming to spill the words. Then a thought struck him: Stark knew nothing of magic. No mage in the known world could invade his thoughts—not here, not now. Which left only one answer, and it chilled him. Considering his past dealings with the divine, his gaze drifted toward the Godswood.
Why in the seven hells would the Gods not leave him be?
Breathing deep, Laenor pushed himself to his feet. The simple act cost him dearly, as his mind howled at him to sit and speak. He nearly collapsed back into the chair when he felt it—an intrusion, cold and alien, pressing into his thoughts, trying to command him. Horror seized him, for he had nothing to defend himself against it but his will alone, stubborn defiance holding the door shut against an unseen hand.
His teeth ground together as he clutched the desk, his grip so fierce that his knuckles blanched white. A sharp crack rang through the solar as the ironwood gave way beneath the pressure of his hands.
Then—knocking. A firm rap at the door. And in that instant, as sudden as a flame snuffed out, the intrusion was gone. It took a moment for Laenor to regain his composure before he lifted his head and looked at Lord Stark, who was gazing back at him with grey eyes that felt too unfamiliar on the familiar face he had gotten used to seeing over the past week.
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