Chapter One
Eddard I
Now Robert was king.
Or perhaps he should say His Grace Robert.
The words still felt strange. Even now, watching Robert laugh and boast as he prepared for his wedding—just two moons away—it all seemed like a dream made from blood and fire.
So much had happened in just a few years. His father, burned alive. His brother, strangled in a mad king's court. His sister… gone, her final words haunting his every quiet moment.
Winterfell had endured. More than that, it had grown. The keep had been reinforced, granaries rebuilt, roads repaired. The people, though still proud and stubborn, lived a little better now.
The North remained poor compared to the golden halls of the Reach or the merchant ships of the Vale, but that gap was shrinking. In time, Ned thought, the North might stand on equal footing with the Riverlands.
He could feel the change. More coin flowing, trade slowly returning. It was a start.
His friends had changed, too. Jon Arryn, once the steady rock of his youth, now Hand of the King. Robert, crowned and crowned again, had barely time to grieve before putting on a smile for lords and ladies alike.
And Lyanna…
Lyanna had left him Jon.
The babe stirred gently in his arms as Ned paced the Red Keep's garden. The wet nurse watched from a bench nearby, quiet and still. Jon had his mother's dark hair already. He barely made a sound.
Even with the peace of the garden, the place felt too silent. Too heavy. He needed air, movement—distance.
He left Jon in the nurse's care and walked the winding halls of the keep.
The city outside still reeled from Tywin Lannister's sack. Rubble was cleared from the streets, but the memory of fire lingered in every shadow.
Nobles filled the halls of the Red Keep—lords from the Westerlands, Vale, Reach, Riverlands, and Crownlands—clamoring for favor and position in Robert's new order.
Old furniture was being carted off. New banners were hung—black stags on gold replacing red dragons on black.
Even former Targaryen loyalists came, heads bowed, pledging their loyalty to the stag.
Ned wondered what such loyalty was worth. Many had spent decades fattened under dragon rule. Now they swore to Robert with the same breath they once used for Rhaegar.
How long before they forgot the Targaryens entirely? How long before they turned their cloaks again?
.................
He arrived at the office of the Hand of the King. The guards stood straighter when they saw him. One stepped forward and opened the door.
"Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell."
Inside, Jon Arryn looked up from a scroll.
Ned stepped in, gave a respectful nod, and took the seat opposite his foster father.
"Lord Hand," Ned began, his tone calm but firm, "it's good to see you again. I wanted to speak about a few matters before I leave. For Winterfell."
Jon offered a faint smile. "Ned, my boy. It's good to see you. It's been two days—I was beginning to wonder."
"I've been busy," Ned said. "Securing a good wet nurse for my nephew. Seeing that my men are cared for."
He accepted the wine offered to him but took only a sip. Too sweet. He much preferred the sharp, clean whiskey from the Bear Islands "Mormont's Cask" he'd tasted once during the war. This southern wine lacked bite.
Jon set aside his own cup. "No matter. I've spoken with the treasury. One million gold dragons are ready for you."
He paused, letting the weight of the number settle.
"Two hundred thousand were sent yesterday on four ships. They should reach White Harbor in a few days. Soldiers accompany the cargo. They'll wait for your men to escort the rest inland."
Ned nodded. "I've already sent word to Benjen. A raven should have reached Winterfell by now. Men will be waiting."
Jon nodded back. "The rest—eight hundred thousand—will travel with you in two days."
He hesitated before continuing. "I know Robert promised the North two million dragons for its part in the Rebellion, but I need more ti—"
Ned cut him off, voice steady. "The gold belongs to the North, Jon. My people bled for Robert. They died for him."
His eyes were hard now. The pain and pride of the North lay beneath his words.
Jon's lips thinned, and for a moment, he massaged his forehead.
"I know, Ned. Damn it, I know."
He took a breath, steadied himself, and tried again. "The city has suffered, Ned. Try to understa—"
"You mean suffered from Tywin Lannister," Ned said coldly. "I'm not the boy you raised in the Vale, Lord Hand."
He paused.
"He sacked the city. If there's a debt to be paid, ask him to rebuild it. The North will not pay twice."
Jon looked at him long, eyes unreadable. But in that moment, Ned saw something—something faint but familiar.
The look Jon had given him as a boy, back when he first arrived at the Eyrie. Like he still saw that same boy, quiet and northern and uncertain.
But he was not that boy anymore.
Jon finally nodded. "One year. The rest of the gold—one million—will reach Winterfell within the year. I give you my word."
Ned stood, stiff-backed. "Then we have an understanding."
Jon rang a small bell. A guard entered almost instantly.
"Find Lord Tywin," Jon said. "Tell him I wish to speak with him. At once."
The guard bowed and left.
Jon looked back at Ned, his voice softer now. "Go. Rest while you can. The city's no place for Stark blood."
"You've always known that," Ned replied.
He walked the familiar halls in silence, passing his chambers without pause.
Instead, he turned toward the raven tower. He had letters to send.
.................
Benjen I
The frost hadn't yet melted from the stones of Winterfell's courtyard. Benjen Stark walked with purpose, cloak flaring behind him, steam curling from his breath.
A raven had come.
He opened the scroll just outside the rookery, the chill forgotten as his eyes took in the words. Ned's seal. His brother's handwriting.
'Two hundred thousand gold dragons. Already sent. Four ships. Soldiers guarding them. Arriving at White Harbor within days.'
Benjen exhaled slowly. So it was true. The North's reward had begun.
And it would fall to him to make sure it was used wisely.
He didn't delay. Orders were given. Riders prepared. A message sent to Lord Manderly. Ser Rodrik tasked with selecting the escort.
Then came the tasks: reviewing food stores, confirming patrol routes, checking the granary, inspecting the repairs on the west wall and many more things.
He kept moving. Always moving. He didn't want to rest and think about the war. He shouldn't have to, for he was the stark in Winterfell. If he stopped his mind would just wander to things he should not be thinking. The memories that always tore him up.
Now Benjen stood in the same corridor, outside the same old door, just beside where his father's solar once was.
This wasn't some grand wing or tower suite. It was simple. Tucked away. Easily overlooked.
No plaque. No guards. No sigil.
But everyone in Winterfell knew who stayed there.
Some called him the Shadow Counselor. Others, the Shadow Merchant. A few whispered that he wasn't natural at all. Too quiet. Too still.
Benjen just knew him as Nhilux.
He raised a hand and knocked.
"Come in," came that voice—unbothered, almost casual.
Benjen opened the door.
The room was tidy and strange, just as he remembered it. Shelves of books—some bound in leather, others in odd smooth material he couldn't name. A table cluttered with maps and ledgers. And near the hearth, sitting in that same damned chair, was the man who hadn't aged a day since Benjen was a boy.
Pants. Shirt. Long black coat folded over the back of the chair.
He even sat like no one else did—half-slouched, one foot crossed over the other.
"Nhilux," Benjen said, stepping in. "You look well."
"Can't say the same for your fashion sense," Nhilux said with a slight grin, tossing a roasted chestnut into his mouth. "Still all furs and leather and 'I'm-a-serious-Northman' gruff."
Benjen blinked. He always forgot how the man spoke—blunt, easy, like a tavern rat who somehow wandered into a lord's council chamber.
"You haven't changed," Benjen said slowly.
"Nope," Nhilux replied. "Haven't for a while."
Benjen hesitated. "You know why I'm here."
Nhilux leaned forward, grabbing a sheet of parchment from the stack beside him. "Ned sent the gold."
Benjen paused, surprised. "You already knew?"
"I know a lot of things." Nhilux shrugged. "Ravens fly both ways. Plus, I have friends in White Harbor. Manderly's harbormaster has a tendency to talk too much after three cups of Arbor red."
Benjen sat across from him, arms folded. "You always have answers, don't you?"
"Only the ones that matter." Nhilux leaned back again. "So. What are you planning to do with two hundred thousand gold dragons? Besides panic."
Benjen didn't answer right away.
It was always like this. Nhilux didn't speak like a lord or a merchant. He didn't kneel, didn't flatter. He talked like a man who thought everyone around him was late to the point.
And yet… he had been right, time and again. About the roads. The mills. The food reserves. About so many things he gave to the North and its people. His strange drinks people loved in the cold, his contract be got with the free cities and medicine made close to the neck by house Reed, the mines he found, the timber trade. And the new crops and dishes and so much more.
And for all this his people of the north really respect him and loved him. Many a time when he was stuck on something in his duty he found the answer with him.
"My brother will bring the rest within the year," Benjen said at last. "We'll have more coin than the North has ever seen. I want to make sure we use it right. No southern fools whispering in our ears. No wasted stone on statues or fountains. Like you always say Practical things."
"Like grain storage, road systems, upgraded forges, river port, maybe new ports on the west side a real naval feet..…maybe even finish the canal your father stopped me from building." Nhilux ticked each one off casually as if reading his mind. "Yeah. That's why I'm still here."
Benjen frowned. "Why are you still here?"
That grin again. "Because your father trusted me. And because your brother let me be before he went to fight. And maybe—just maybe—because I've got more skin in this game than you think."
Benjen leaned in slightly. "You never did say where you came from."
"And I'm not going to now," Nhilux replied. "Let's just say… I'm not from around here."
Benjen sat back in the chair, arms crossed as Nhilux leaned forward, sorting through a pile of notes with what looked like a small black rod.
Benjen squinted. "What in the seven hells is that?"
Nhilux didn't look up. "It's a pen."
"A what?"
"You know, writes ink without dipping the tip every three seconds. Modern convenience." He clicked it. Click. Click. "Shame you lot haven't figured this one out yet."
Benjen watched him scribble on the parchment—smooth black lines, no inkwell in sight. "You're mocking centuries of maester tradition."
"I'm mocking inefficiency," Nhilux replied casually. "Maesters have good intentions and terrible handwriting." He tapped the parchment once. "Now. About that thing you said earlier…"
Benjen frowned. "Which thing?"
"This one," Nhilux said, pointing the pen like a dagger. "'We'll have more coin than the North has ever seen.' Cute sentiment. Totally wrong."
Benjen straightened. "What do you mean?"
Nhilux flipped through a thin stack of ledgers and pulled one free. "Winterfell's coffers currently hold roughly 4.3 million gold dragons. Give or take a hundred thousand."
Benjen blinked. "I… I'm sorry—what?"
Nhilux grinned, kicked his boots up onto the side of the desk, and leaned back like a man reading a punchline.
"Four point three. Million. Dragons."
Benjen sat there, stunned. "That's… impossible. We don't have that kind of wealth. We've never had—"
"Oh, but you do," Nhilux cut in, spinning the ledger toward him. "Check the entries. I color-coded them."
"You what?"
"Never mind. Look here—land investments near the White Knife, long-term grain contracts with Ibbenese shippers, silver mining rights in the hills west of Last Hearth. Oh, and some very lucrative fur trades with Braavos this is just a few in the many new things I have done. You Starks have been rolling in gold for years now."
Benjen stared at the rows of neat, unfamiliar script. It was clear. Structured. Easier to read than any raven-scroll he'd ever received. But the numbers... the numbers.
"This isn't possible. How did we never know?"
"Oh, you could've known," Nhilux said with a smirk. "But you never read the ledgers."
Benjen narrowed his eyes. "I did read them."
"You read the summary sheets. And you skimmed."
Benjen scowled. "Those sheets were signed off by Maester Gormund."
(Who is this Maester right??. i decided to give Winterfell 3 maester 1 is the MVP Maester Luwin.
The other 2 are the ones Nhilux brought with him. will explain more in the coming chapters.)
"Gormund couldn't calculate tax returns on a tavern," Nhilux said, now leaning forward again. "Don't worry—he's good at herb poultices. Just… not numbers. You should totally fire him or just keep him away from the money area let the other maester handle it. What was he called again…. luwin yeah that one."
Benjen huffed. "Alright then, tell me this: how do you know? How do you know what's in the Stark coffers?"
That was the first time Nhilux's expression turned serious. He set the pen down, folding his hands in front of him.
"Your father gave me access. Before the Rebellion. Quietly, and with limits. But full permission to view the ledgers, monitor trade accounts, and redirect certain investments. It wasn't just roads and grain, Benjen. Lord Rickard wanted to lift the North up. Not just survive the winters—thrive in spite of them."
Benjen was silent.
"He trusted me," Nhilux continued. "Not because he liked me—I don't think he ever did. But he saw what I was offering. What I could build. I don't play politics. I build networks. Infrastructure. Systems that last longer than thrones."
Benjen looked down at the ledger again. "So that's how we got the new mills… the road between Long Lake and Karhold…"
"And the new river barges. And Ibbenese crop rotations adapted for the Wolfswood." Nhilux leaned back again. "The North doesn't need southern favor. It just needs time and tools. And money."
Benjen shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around it. "So, all this time, you've been working… what, behind the curtain?"
"Think of me like… the engine room under the deck. You don't see it often, but the ship doesn't sail without it."
another strange word he didn't know, but when talking with Nhilux strange words were all too common
"And no one noticed?"
"Oh, plenty of people noticed something," Nhilux said. "But nobody ever thought the weird foreigner in the too-tight pants was the reason trade routes improved and local taxes stopped crushing farmers."
Benjen gave a short laugh. "You do wear strange clothes."
"And you wear a dead animal's fur like it's a fashion statement. Let's call it even."
They shared a rare chuckle. Benjen leaned forward and rubbed his face. "So what now? You're telling me the North has coin—real coin. And resources. And better roads. Why keep it quiet?"
"Because too much change too fast draws eyes. We improve steadily, carefully. Quiet power is safer. And besides," Nhilux added with a casual shrug, "helping the North helps its people. Helps me in the long run."
Benjen looked at him for a long moment. The same calm expression. The same clothes. The same unaging face.
"I don't know what you are," Benjen said at last. "But my father trusted you. And you've helped the North more than any noble south of the Neck."
"I'll take that as a compliment." Nhilux picked up his pen again and clicked it. Click. "So. You want to learn how to use the gold properly?"
Benjen nodded slowly. "Yes. Show me."
.................
Flashback – Years Earlier
The fire crackled low in the hearth of Lord Rickard Stark's solar. Snow tapped gently at the frosted windowpanes, and the scent of parchment and woodsmoke filled the air. Benjen, still a boy, just eight years old, sat stiffly on the bench by the wall, feet dangling above the floor., feet not quite touching the floor. He was supposed to be studying his letters, but his eyes kept drifting to the two men in the room.
His father, Lord Rickard Stark, sat at his great oaken desk, thick fingers steepled together, his brow furrowed. Opposite him was the stranger—the same man who, even now in Benjen's memory, looked no older than nineteen.
Nhilux.
He looked out of place in Winterfell's somber tones. His coat was long and black, but not wool—something sleeker. His shirt was crisp, his pants tailored, his boots spotless. He lounged in his chair like the room was his.
"What you're proposing," Rickard said slowly, "is ambitious. Roads, new mills, a major expansion of the shipping docks in White Harbor, new trade routes with Essos, and a survey of old and potential new mines throughout the North—"
"Not proposing," Nhilux interrupted, tapping a piece of parchment with that strange writing tool of his. "I'm offering. I'll fund eighty percent of the infrastructure. Your people provide labor and support. Simple division."
Rickard frowned. "Why?"
"Because a strong North is a profitable North," Nhilux said, leaning forward. "You have the land. You have the people. You just don't have systems. And if I help you build them, everyone wins."
Benjen remembered his father's face tightening. "We're not a coin-counting kingdom like the Reach or Lannisport."
"And that's why you're starving during long winters," Nhilux replied calmly. "Build roads, and you link strongholds faster. Build mills, and you get flour more efficiently. Add trade routes with Essos, and you stop depending on southern grain convoys that never show."
Rickard looked unconvinced. "And your profit?"
Nhilux grinned. "I like returns. But I like resilience more."
Then Nhilux leaned back, stretched a little too comfortably, and added with a chuckle, "Come on, Rick. You don't have to squint so hard. This is basic economic theory, not witchcraft."
Rickard's brows drew together sharply. "Rick?" he echoed, his tone suddenly like steel dragged across stone.
Nhilux blinked, then tilted his head. "Yeah. Short for Rickard, isn't it? Sorry. Habit."
Rickard's hands pressed harder into the desk. "Do you mock me in my own hall, boy?"
Nhilux's smirk faded. "No. Not at all."
Benjen sat up straighter, suddenly aware of the tension. Even at eight, he'd never heard anyone speak to his father that way.
"You speak strangely," Rickard said coldly. "Like a mummer playing a lord, but using words no man of the North would say. You speak like you've read books that haven't been written yet."
"That's... not inaccurate," Nhilux said after a pause, his tone less casual now. "But I'm not mocking you. It's just how I talk."
"Then learn to speak with respect," Rickard growled. "You wish to be treated seriously, act like a man, not a jester from the Free Cities."
Nhilux took a breath, nodded once. "Understood."
Silence returned, thick and brittle.
Benjen's eyes flicked between them, his chest tight. But Nhilux didn't back down. He sat forward again, tapping the parchment once more.
"Let me show you something," he said. "These are ledgers. Not full ones—projections. If we build what I suggest—roads, docks, canal segments, mills—we could raise the North's productivity by thirty to forty percent within ten years. Add to that expanded harbor customs revenue, land leasing around new mills, toll points along the King's Road and the new canal path, long-term timber contracts with the Free Cities, grain surpluses traded eastward, and reopened mines at Grey Cliffs and the Wolfswood. That's how you grow one million into four."
Rickard didn't flinch, but his brow lifted ever so slightly. The number Nhilux quoted was exact—too exact. The treasury had been counted just days ago. How could this man know? He masked his surprise with a sip of wine, eyes unreadable as he said nothing.
Rickard grunted, still watching him warily. "You speak of the future as if it's already happened."
"I've studied the world long enough to know patterns," Nhilux said. "What works. What fails. The North is hard land, yes—but not poor. You've been surviving. I want to help you thrive."
Rickard's gaze didn't soften, but he didn't interrupt.
"You speak like a man twice your age," Rickard said at last.
"Try five times," Nhilux muttered. Benjen wasn't sure if it was a joke.
Rickard leaned back again. "You'll get no title. No land."
"Never asked for it."
"You'll be watched."
"I expect nothing less."
Benjen remembered watching his father nod slowly. "If even half of what you claim is true, then it's worth the risk."
"It is," Nhilux said simply.
Benjen saw something strange then—something he didn't understand until years later. His father, always so firm and guarded, looked… intrigued. Not entirely trusting, but no longer suspicious. Curious.
"I'll grant you a room beside the solar," Rickard said at last. "No titles. No name on the rolls. You operate quietly. You answer to me alone."
Nhilux stood and extended a hand. "Deal."
Rickard didn't shake it. He simply nodded again.
Benjen, still on the bench, stared as the man turned and caught his eye. Nhilux gave him the smallest of nods. Like he knew something. Like he was already thinking ten years ahead.
Benjen never forgot that look.
Two Years Later
The solar was warmer that morning, a late spring sun glowing faintly behind the high window. Lord Rickard Stark sat in his usual seat, a sealed letter opened in his hand, his expression unreadable. Benjen, now ten, stood by the hearth, reciting tales of his training in the yard—how he had finally bested one of the older boys in sparring.
"I didn't drop my guard this time," Benjen said proudly, though he bore a fading bruise on his cheek. "Ser Rodrik says I've gotten quicker."
Rickard nodded, half-listening, his eyes returning to the parchment. "Your brother writes of the Vale. He trains well. Lord Arryn speaks highly of him."
Benjen smiled faintly. "Do you miss him?"
Before Rickard could answer, the door creaked open without announcement. Nhilux stepped inside, the dark coat familiar, a rolled parchment under one arm.
"Apologies for the interruption," he said casually, "but we've got an issue with the river stone shipment. Thought you'd want to weigh in."
Rickard looked up slowly. "You walk into a lord's solar without waiting to be summoned, still."
Nhilux shrugged. "It's either that or let your masons carve foundations out of soft mud."
Benjen bit back a grin. The man hadn't changed. Not in appearance, not in manner.
Rickard set the letter down. "Fine. Speak."
Nhilux dropped the parchment onto the table and unrolled it with one hand. "The quarry in the west is oads tdelivering smaller lhan promised. Either they're skimming, or they've hit a fault line. Either way, we reroute through the Karhold ridge for the next phase—adds a week, but saves the stone quality."
Rickard examined the map. "And cost?"
"Minimal, if we pull timber trade funds for the adjustment. I'll have it balanced by moon's turn."
Rickard grunted, then nodded. "Do it."
Benjen stepped forward. "You always know where to shift coin like it's nothing."
Nhilux smiled at him. "Money's only useful when it moves. Like water. Let it sit too long, it turns foul."
Rickard gave him a long look. "You speak like no man I've ever known."
"Wouldn't be the first time someone said that," Nhilux replied, already rolling up the parchment.
Then, as he turned to leave, he paused. "Oh. One more thing—your son in the Vale? He's going to be a fine lord. But he's going to hate politics."
Rickard's expression flickered. "And how would you know that?"
Nhilux just winked. "Call it an educated guess."
And with that, he stepped out, leaving the two Starks in silence.
.................
Flashback – Two Years After Their First Meeting
The wind was brisk that afternoon, carrying the scent of timber and stone dust across Winterfell's outer courtyard. Lord Rickard Stark and Benjen stood on a stone walkway overlooking the main gate, watching as masons repaired a long section of the wall. Below, scaffolding creaked and ropes pulled stone blocks into place.
Benjen leaned on the railing, eyes wide. "They say that section's older than Aegon's Conquest."
Rickard grunted. "And they say snow never melts. Listen less to tales, lad. Stones don't speak. But men lie through their teeth."
Benjen grinned.
Footsteps echoed behind them, soft and even. Nhilux.
"I see the wall still stands. Good news," Nhilux said, striding up beside them with that same unreadable calm. "But the west-facing slope is sinking. I warned the architect—bad basework."
Rickard didn't turn. "You always have something to say."
"That's what makes me charming," Nhilux quipped. He pulled a small slate board from under his coat, covered in numbers and notes.
Before he could speak further, another figure approached from the stairwell.
"Father," Brandon Stark called as he climbed up the walkway. "Thought I might find you brooding over walls again."
Rickard gave a dry nod. "Brandon."
Brandon leaned against the parapet, tossing a small pebble between his hands. "I was thinking we should host a tournament before the harvest. Something for the smallfolk. And maybe the knights get to show off their bravado."
Nhilux gave him a sidelong glance, then yawned dramatically. "Ah yes, nothing like steel and bruised ribs to lift spirits."
Brandon frowned. "And who in seven hells are you again?"
"Just the man who paid for that wall you're leaning on," Nhilux said, deadpan.
Benjen stiffened. Brandon's eyes narrowed, but before he could snap back, Rickard raised a hand.
"Enough. You two don't need to like each other, but you'll speak with civility."
Brandon scoffed, gave Nhilux a long glare, and stepped back. "I'll leave you to your numbers and bricks." He walked away without another word.
Benjen blinked. "You didn't even flinch."
Nhilux shrugged. "Takes more than a wild wolf to rattle me. Besides, he's not wrong about the tournament. Just wrong about everything else."
Rickard gave him a sidelong glance. "Come. We'll talk inside."
Back in the solar, Rickard poured himself a cup of dark ale while Nhilux laid several fresh scrolls across the desk.
"These are returns from the last two years," he said, tapping various figures. "We've expanded timber contracts with Braavos, doubled grain yields thanks to the new mills, and barge traffic through White Harbor is up 140%. We also had ships from Astapor and Meereen dock here this moon—first time ever. That alone will turn heads in Essos."
Rickard raised an eyebrow as he reviewed the numbers. "You're telling me we brought in over seven hundred thousand dragons in two years?"
Nhilux nodded. "And reinvested over half of it. That's how wealth builds: foundation first, then scale."
Rickard leaned back, visibly impressed. "You've done more for Northern coin than half the southern lords put together."
"I'm not here for titles or praise," Nhilux replied, already packing his satchel. "But I do need to leave soon. White Bear Island's new port project is ahead of schedule, and I want to inspect the docks personally."
Rickard nodded. "You travel more than half my bannermen."
Nhilux grinned. "Someone has to make sure the ships don't sink."
He turned to go, but paused by Benjen. "Keep practicing your footwork. And don't trust anyone who says they 'fight better drunk.' They don't." He smirked. "Unless you're Brandon. Then it just means he swings louder."
Benjen laughed, covering his mouth with a hand, eyes shining with mischief.
Benjen nodded, then paused. "Can you bring something back from Bear Island? A gift?"
Nhilux arched a brow. "Sure. What are we thinking? Whiskey? Snow pelts? A mystery fish with too many teeth?"
Benjen grinned. "Something for me. And for my sister."
"Two gifts. Alright." Nhilux turned toward the door, then added over his shoulder, "Maybe I'll bring you back a direwolf pup. You know, something subtle."
Benjen burst out laughing.
And with a final nod to Rickard, Nhilux slipped out.
The solar was quiet for a long moment.
Benjen looked up at his father. "How does he do all this?"
Rickard sipped his ale. "I've asked myself that more than once." He took another slow sip, then added with a smirk, "Though I admit, I've grown fond of that Bear Island whiskey—Mormont's Cask, they call it. A strong drink for a strong people. Suits the North just fine. It's not just drink—it's something Northern folk can be proud of, a product of their land and grit.
"Then why not tie him to the North? Make him a lord. That way he stays."
Rickard sighed. "I tried. I offered him any land he wanted, a title, even a keep if he wanted it."
"And?"
"The bastard laughed," Rickard said. "Said he had no interest in castles or politics. Only in systems. Order. He called titles 'gold-plated shackles.'"
Benjen frowned. "But we need him."
"Aye," Rickard said, staring into the fire. "And he knows it. But he's still here. That's what matters. Whatever he is… he's done more for our people than a dozen lords with banners."
Rickard let the silence settle before speaking again, his tone quieter now.
"There's something else I must tell you, Benjen."
Benjen straightened, sensing the weight behind his father's words.
"You'll be traveling with me to the Wall. Tomorrow."
Benjen blinked. "To the Wall? Why, Father?"
He hesitated, then frowned. "Why not send Brandon?"
Rickard didn't immediately answer. "Your brother has other duties. He's meeting with our bannermen—House Dustin, House Manderly, and House Reed. They'll be planning future construction, grain routes, reviewing the new mills, and that waterwheel system near Moat Cailin. He's also traveling there with a survey team. We'll begin real work within the next few years."
Benjen made a face. "Brandon will probably just drink, fight, yell about being the strongest, and boss the poor surveyors around."
Rickard didn't deny it, but he gave a faint smile. "He'll do his part, in his own way. And so will you."
Rickard turned his gaze to the fire. "When Nhilux refused my offer of lordship, he didn't ask for wealth or favor. He asked me to send more men and supplies to the Night's Watch. To strengthen them quietly. He said the North couldn't just look inward. That we must be strong not just for ourselves—but to keep watch, to stand ready for what others ignore. I gave him my word."
Benjen's eyes widened. "So the criminals that arrived a few days ago…"
Rickard nodded. "Aye. They were sentenced, and they'll be delivered with us. Supplies as well. You'll travel with me. The journey should take no more than a moon. We'll be back before Nhilux returns from Bear Island."
Benjen hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll go see my sister then, spend some time before we leave."
Rickard gave a faint smile. "She'll be glad for it."
As Benjen turned to leave, he paused at the threshold. A man with dark hair and Essosi features was just entering, bowing his head respectfully to Rickard. His clothes were clean but foreign, and his words clipped and precise.
"My lord. Regarding the reconstruction plans for the old fort near the New Gift—"
Rickard motioned him inside. "Go on."
Benjen lingered for a moment, just long enough to catch part of the exchange.
"The foundation will need reinforcement before the main hall is restored. But the team is ready to begin. Nhilux left instructions, and I have his notes on the dock expansion as well—particularly at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. He believes the eastern docks will be vital in future trade and patrol routes."
Rickard nodded. "Good. You have the supplies?"
"Yes, my lord. I've coordinated them with the northern stewards. All according to the ledger."
Benjen squinted. "Who is he?"
Rickard looked over. "One of Nhilux's men. He oversees construction throughout Winterfell and Winter Town. Calls himself a 'construction manager.' Nhilux likes that term."
Benjen grinned faintly, but truth be told, most of it bored him. Numbers, stone plans, docks—he didn't really understand what Nhilux did or said half the time. But everyone listened to him, even Father. It was like having a strange, clever ghost who made things happen and somehow made the adults argue less.
Authore Notes-
Ok so first chapter, i will be honest i did not Proof read this.
so if there is a mistake pls tell me. its almost 1 am and I need some dinner then sleep next time i will proof read before posting. also if someone wants to be my proof reader pls message me.
update schedule??--idk i started this cause i was watching a asoiaf video on the moat catlin and what a wierd place to build a castle in a swamp. i am think update at least once per week.
so far i have planned the next 2 chapters and not much more, so pls give me ideas on what to add. i also need to read up of asoiaf world again since i don't remember many of the less knowen names.
you may have notiched 2 maester??. i will explain that in the upcoming days.