Brandon Stark - Eldest Son and Heir to House Stark

"That is easily the most average ship I've ever seen," grandfather Rodrik commented from the side.

Brandon smiled at the obvious, "Aye, seems to be his usual boat, grandpa."

"I've seen that ship almost every year for the past thirty years, you know." Old Lord Dustin spoke softly in his melodious voice.

It was quite funny, Brandon noted, how Corlyn Dustin - the Bullaxe, one of the most muscled men he'd ever laid his eyes upon, also had the prettiest voice he'd ever heard.

It was a pity he never sang anything save the Bear and the Maiden Fair.

He could imitate many a man's voices uncannily. Brandon remembered the time Corlyn had walked in on him and a whore. That was before Barbrey, and he'd been four and ten then. He'd been scared out of his wits, falling out of the bed, when he heard his Father's voice.

That was the last time he'd had a whore in his chambers in Barrow Hall.

He looked over to the small fleet of longships behind Quellon's ship that would be anchoring off the coast. There were six of them - more than enough to carry a decent amount of cargo and deter any pirates or slavers once they crossed the Stepstones.

He unhorsed when he saw the gangplank thrown over, and his eye caught a figure quickly descending the crow's nest on the mast. Whoever that was, they were tiny - not more than four and a half feet, if he guessed correctly. Yet the dexterity they'd shown in descending from the mast was quite impressive if he had to say.

Brandon still climbed - one could always need to climb up a tree to escape a bear or something. He was an avid hunter, and while only his closest friends knew it, he preferred the bow to a sword. His father had taught him the art - and he had put in ungodly amounts of practice in shooting his longbow from horseback.

Ser Mark Ryswell had called him a dimwit for even trying. Brandon knew he was very gifted with horses. He even had a bond with his thoroughbred, as odd as that might sound, and Valor responded to his thoughts as if the dark brown horse could read his mind.

It had taken them (Valor and Brandon) a while to get used to Brandon standing upright while Valor galloped at full speed, but they had crossed that level just before the last winter set in. Now, all he had to do was practice his accuracy, and he'd show Ser Mark why he was the best rider in the North.

No one challenged a Stark to anything, he mused. Mayhaps he'll uphold his end of the bet then. A full set of the best chain and plate barding would be a good investment for a hundred gold dragons. There'd be a lot left after that, too! Ha!

But no, now wasn't the time to think about Ser Mark Ryswell. Not when the much more fun Quellon Greyjoy was just crossing the gangplank, followed by his grandson (the very same small boy he'd seen scale down the crow's nest) and… Rodrik Harlaw, if the bejeweled hilt was anything to guess by.

"All this… just for me? I've been here a dozen times, Cory! Never have I seen a welcoming party quite like this!" Quellon hailed.

"Eh, all those times you were just another merchant, old man! This time - you're visiting as Lord Greyjoy - so a welcome befitting a Lord Paramount was in order. And for the last time, Greybeard - don't call me Cory!" Lord Dustin responded - though there was no heat in the voice.

"Alright, alright, Whitebeard," Quellon returned with a jovial smile before pulling out a golden stick, was it?

"What's the new trinket, Quellon?" Grandpa made himself known.

"Ah, Rodrik!" Quellon started, only to be interrupted by a pair of "Yes?" from behind him.

Brandon brought his fist to his smiling mouth, trying to contain the laughter, as two other Rodrik's responded to the greeting.

"Before I answer that - Stark, Bran and Whitebeard - meet my son's goodbrother, and my eldest grandson. Both, unfortunately, also called Rodrik."

The duo bowed simultaneously. If Brandon had to say, he'd wager they'd practiced this on the ship. He schooled his expression, though a smile still remained.

"Welcome to the North, Rodriks!" He spoke and then promptly bellowed in laughter, most of the men around him either joining in it or groaning at the poor jape.

"If I am to step on that ship, Quellon, I must insist on three different names to identify us. I will not have the crew all giggling like maidens every time someone calls my name." Grandpa said, glaring at everyone still laughing.

"Ha, ask me about it, man! I've been hearing those these past week, and I'm tired of it already! Thankfully, on the ship, this one," Quellon said, pointing at Rodrik Harlaw, "is the Quartermaster, and my grandson's the Crow's Eye."

There were nods all around, which Brandon found himself joining. He looked carefully at the three Ironborn nobles in front of him and found himself examining them. Quellon, still taller than him by a horseshoe's height and strong as ever. He had his twin axes on his back - looking more like a Dustin than Lord Dustin himself. He also had a knife sheathed on his waistbelt and probably another pair in his boots, as always.

Rodrik Harlaw looked elegant - six feet tall and dressed immaculately. His doublet was a stained midnight blue, which very much complimented his sword's sheath and handle. A trio of throwing knives was on a belt that went from shoulder to hip, and an arming sword was attached to his hip.

Then came the youngest of the party. Rodrik Greyjoy, dressed in black and gold, was the only one of them wearing armor - if he could call a gold enameled chainmail that. It certainly suited the golden boy that his reputation claimed him to be. A small bag was attached to his waist, and strapped to his thigh, on a belt, was a rather long dagger. It was just short enough not to cause him any discomfort walking… or climbing, as he thought back to the sight of him coming down the mast.

"Is that a true blade you're carrying, or…" Brandon trailed off, gesturing to the sheath on Rodrik Greyjoy's thigh.

A mischievous smile bloomed on the face of the eight-year-old child. "It's sharp enough," was all he said, amused at the question.

Bran gave his own smirk in response, winking at him. Which reminded him, the boy's slightly mad uncle had also died in an accident just a few days ago.

"Lord Greyjoy, please accept my condolences, on behalf of my Father and the North, on the unfortunate and untimely death of your son." Brandon spoke, the practiced words rolling off his tongue with ease. Grandpa had had him memorize the words for the past three days.

Quellon, Bran could see, got a far-away look in his eyes for a moment, which he soon shook off. "Aye. Eight sons I seeded, lad," he started with a sigh, pulling himself up to the purebred horses that had been brought out for the guests. "And only four still draw breath - as far as I know. Whatever happened of my eldest, the Drowned One knows."

After a moment of silence, Quellon continued, "I thank you, Heir Stark for your kind words."

Finishing that, he mounted the horse; expression closed off. For obvious reasons, he wouldn't want to talk anymore on this topic.

Brandon took the dismissal in stride. He had done his part, and he'd done it well enough. Quellon mounting his horse might have been a breach in decorum - but one he could easily forgive. Neither Grandpa nor Corlyn would raise a fuss about such a minor offense as a guest mounting their horse before them.

Still, he hopped on Valor with practiced ease and looked towards Rodrik, the youngest. He had heard tales from Riverrun, where the Blackfish had lost a bet and found himself swimming in a trough. He'd taken it with a grain of salt, though. But he could see why the smallfolk would even tell such a tale in the first place.

If Brandon weren't equally gifted with horses, he would've been jealous of the ease Rodrik Greyjoy mounted his horse. It stood taller than the boy himself! And those skinny arms of his just pulled all of his weight to sit comfortably on top of the fully-grown horse with ease.

He shook his head, smiling. He reminded Bran of Lyanna - with the tales of his mischief and skill with horses. It was yet to be seen if he had any skill with the blade. His build should allow him to start with an arming sword soon enough - that is, if he chose the sword over the dozens of other options. It's not like the Greyjoys had an ancestral weapon to wield, so they could just try and find the weapon that suited them best.

He'd still probably go with a sword, though. Bran's instincts told him as much. The almost long enough blade on his thigh only added more weight to that belief. He would like to see it soon, mayhaps even compare it with the steel from Winterfell. Northern Steel was good enough, but the Islanders had been mining iron since the Age of Heroes. Surely they had some flair of their own in their Steel?

He almost pouted at the sheath on Rodrik's thigh, though. It was quite an ingenious design; he would give him that. A sheath that doubled up as a whetstone would be mighty useful in a fight. It was also likely heavy enough to crack a skull if he swung it at someone. He could see its uses in hunts as well - marking one's path on the trees blunted the hunting knives they carried - and if they fell into an animal's lair without having the chance to sharpen it, then they'd be fucked.

There was a reason he stayed on his horse and was so proficient at climbing trees. He'd had an encounter with a pack of wolves when that was his only option - climbing the old ash tree. Willam Dustin had been with him that time, along with three trackers from Lord Corlyn's staff.

One tracker had died, signaling them of the wolves, and the other two immediately grabbed Willam and scaled a maple tree. Brandon, who'd been trotting a few yards behind, was left on his own, with a longsword on his waist and a bow strapped to his back. He'd not cared about anything else and dashed to the nearest tree as his pony madly dashed away.

His quiver had emptied by the time he got high enough to feel comfortable, away from the pack of wolves under him. The arrows were not secured in the quiver and fell out as he scaled the tree. He remembered that night clearly - his heart racing as he painstakingly broke branch after branch and tried to craft an arrow long and straight enough to use with his bow.

It had taken him from dusk till midnight to get five usable arrows. Two arrows weren't strong enough to be used with a longbow and shattered as he released them. The remaining three were the ones that saved their hide that night.

One lodged itself into the hind leg of a wolf, and the other two found purchase through the back of the biggest one - leaving it disabled and bleeding out. The pack had made away at that - which could only mean that the one he felled was the alpha of the pack.

The party of five had returned a member and all horses short. But they'd come with two dead wolves - one skinned already, and the bigger one whole and blood still oozing out. Bran's longsword was blunt enough to not even be considered a tourney blade that morning. Who knew chopping a few dry branches of an old ash tree would be that difficult - even with a castle forged steel blade.

A sennight later, Grandpa Rodrik had handed him a long knife - sharp as a butcher's knife on one edge and serrated like a saw on the other - he'd then had lessons with fletchers on how not to destroy his blade while fashioning workable arrows. After all - one couldn't make a good arrow in the wild, not without pheasant feathers to fletch it, but workable ones, so that he could at least have a chance at his target.

He still carried that knife on his left upper arm. Now, looking at Rodrik's sheath, he wondered if he could've just used it to preserve his blade and make his arrows better. Well, no use pondering on the past. He knew how to make arrows now, but a whetstone doubling up as a sheath for a knife could still be useful in many other situations. He would get one as soon as he could find someone who made them.

Alas, they were to leave on the voyage after just a day of rest. He doubted anyone would have a sheath like that ready, and it was unlikely he could get one made before they left. Maybe he would just ask Rodrik Greyjoy for one. He'd ask what he wanted in return - anything available in the North would be easy to provide - save for ironwood. Mayhaps a furred overcoat? The ones Rodrik was wearing currently were a good pair - but they were seal leather. Those don't last longer than half a year before stinking up everything in your trunk.

He'd come to that when the time came.

Now, though, a snort from Rodrik Harlaw drew his attention from his thoughts. He looked to see the man staring at Rodrik Greyjoy... who had an apple in his hands. He had to have brought it with himself since there wasn't any hawker to buy it from close to the docks.

"This reminds me of something I heard of quite recently. Tell me lad, is it true you offered Hoster Tully an apple in Riverrun?" Grandpa spoke, mightily amused at the image of a small boy eating an apple on horseback.

"That is true, my lord. Would you like one?" Rodrik Greyjoy asked, his eyes twinkling.

"How many do you even have?" Brandon asked him, slightly incredulous.

"Enough for all of you, Stark," Rodrik said, reaching for the small bag on his hip. He brought out an apple and tossed it to Grandpa, who caught it easily. Another came out, flying towards Bran, who instinctively caught it in his hands.

"Lord Dustin, fancy an apple? Still fresh as ever - the best produce of Seagard!" He called.

"I'll take one, lad, but don't throw it to me. My eyes aren't what they used to be. Would be a waste to ruin a perfectly good apple." Ah, of course. One could even say that for his teeth, but old Corlyn would call for a duel if anyone did that. For some reason, anyone even mentioning his teeth set him off.

Rodrik Greyjoy quickly trotted up ahead to join Corlyn, handing him another juicy red apple. A moment later, another apple flew off in the direction of Rodrik Harlaw, who fumbled with it, almost falling off his horse. He still caught it, though, and sent a glare Greyjoy's way, though the disheveled expression ruined the effect.

Brandon shrugged and smiled at that. Children like him always made things more enjoyable - unless they were targeting you, that is. Then everyone laughed at your expense.

Biting into the apple, Bran was pleasantly surprised at the crisp outer layer that gave way to a sweet juicy center. The apple truly was quite good. He wondered how they kept it fresh through the voyage.

That thought didn't matter, though. All he could hear was crunching and tapping - of the apples and the horseshoes as the group of six made their way towards Barrow Hall. It was midday, and the streets were empty. Men were at work in their fields, and women tending to the children or working on setting up the markets that would be filled at the end of the day. That was what life was in the North. The markets opened at dawn and stayed on for a few turns of the hour. Then, men went off to work, and women took to their own duties. The city would then remain mostly quiet until a few turns before dusk. The inns and alehouses would then open up for dinner, and the people would quietly go about their work or sit and eat with their friends and neighbors.

The only place in the Barrowlands where one could see activity during the day was the Hall. Barrow Hall wasn't a stone-walled castle. The towers were stone, aye, but the walls weren't. They didn't have any sources of stone for hundreds of leagues around them. The terrain near Barrowtown was mostly plains and grassland, unlike the Northern end of the Rills, where the Northern Mountains started. Yet, there were trees - old remnants of the Wolfswood that was once said to extend as far south as Barrowtown itself.

Hence, the trees were what the Barrow Lords had used to fashion their walls. They still grew some elm trees here and there, but the northern forests beyond the walls of Barrowtown were marked as a reserve. Hunters had the grounds between the Saltspear to the South, Barrowtown to the North, Torrhen's River to the West, and Roland's Sorrow to the East to hunt for game and pelts. Torrhen's River was quite self-explanatory, but maps making their way out of the North never named the two streams that merged into a river at Barrowtown.

They were named after the last Barrow King, King Roland the Faint-Hearted, who was said to have wept an endless stream of tears at the news of his father and brother's demise. Yet, a thousand years after the consolidation of the North by Eddard the Unifier, King Edmyn the Generous had mandated that the insult to his closest friend's house be struck from history.

It was somewhat unfortunate that the North remembered, sometimes. Yet, the King's word was law. What was also unfortunate was that the twin streams had been renamed sometime again in the past three thousand years - the Western fork being called the Greyiron's Tears and Uthor's Fears, and together called the Folly. All after the one attempt of an Andal warlord who tried to ally with the Ironborn to invade the North from the West. The Greyirons at that time had lent a hundred longships and five thousand men to Ulthor the Delusional. After three failed invasions from the East and one from the South, the Andals had tried invading once from the West. While the greatest tale was of Theon the Hungry Wolf, Bran always thought that Buggery of the Salted Spear was the best example of the Northern smallfolk's bravery.

After all, no other kingdom could boast of ending an invasion without knowing it was even happening. The only reason it was even known in the North that something had happened was when the tax collectors of three fishing and logging villages had brought Lord Dustin a thousand iron blades - a third of what the fishing villages had collected - as tax. Three hundred hunters, armed with homemade yew bows and flaming arrows, had ruined an invasion attempt of a hundred and fifty ships going upstream.

Those three hunting villages had then been consolidated. The headsmen of the three villages, Addam, Jast, and Bella (aye, a woman), had the three tributaries of Torrhen's River named after them!

The parents still told the northern smallfolk children the tales of the two men and the woman that led their small groups of hunters to serve the North. Bran even knew of a whore in Torrhen's Square who had three children named after the three smallfolk heroes.

It was that display of bravery that had resulted in House Dustin being awarded a city charter. One they had unable to realize to its full capacity for the lack of resources and trade. Bran had had this conversation with Grandpa and Lord Corlyn many a time in the past few years. Quellon Greyjoy's incursions North were a major boost to Barrowtown and House Dustin's growth. Already, with just two voyages a year, Barrowtown had collected near double the coin they did before the trading began.

The leather workers had been getting richer, and just in the past two years, four more tanneries had opened up. To mitigate the disaster that would happen if the hunters went all out in the designated areas, Lord Dustin had mandated that the hunters and foresters use only the Southern half of the designated hunting grounds for the next ten years. That had caused completely unexpected to happen.

A madman, for what else could one call him, had gone hunting, killed a mother bear by himself, and brought back seven pups on his cart. Seven bear pups that he then kept in a fenced-off area near the northern end of Barrowtown. Before Lord Corlyn had even heard of it, the man had partnered up with a tanner, who paid for a reinforced fence, the height of two men to completely prevent any chance of escape.

It had taken just a year for the bears to grow larger than any of their hunting hounds. Now, they were large enough to kill a man... or five. The Tanners would use the extra coin brought in with the trading to make a shelter for the bears now - somewhere they could be bred in a secluded area. Corlyn, Grandpa, and his own father discussed this during the previous harvest feast. At the end of it, an area had been marked - on the banks of the Saltspear before the Folly joined it.

Three streams went through that area - around thirty leagues long and ten leagues from the coast. They would make a wooden and mud fence around it - to prevent the bears from escaping. The streams would provide enough fish for the bears to feed on, and old and dying horses could be skinned and the meat fed to the bears when their population increased.

The Rills and the Barrowlands had no shortage of horses, after all. While the Winters were harsh, they were close enough to the sea that it wasn't as bad as Winterfell or further north. There were villages on the Stony Shore, along the coast, all the way till just short of the Fever river - where most of the smallfolk migrated to in the Winter. The Rills grew wheat and made enough ale for the entire region through the winter - as long as the people helped with digging away the snow.

The only reason they ever came back to the inland towns was that people could only eat so much fish, and there wasn't much grassland to graze their horses and sheep over. There also used to be the threat of Ironborn, and anyone who perished in the winter needed to be laid to rest in the First Men tradition.

Bran wasn't the first Stark to see the potential in the coastal settlements in the North. Three major problems arose with a lordship on the Western Shore.

Firstly, there wasn't a keep on the shore suitable for a lordship. One could be constructed on Sea Dragon's Point, no doubt. But while it would be an amazingly placed strategic stronghold, it would be a project spanning decades and multiple winters. When the Starks wore the Crown of Winter, such a project would not have been seen as nearly impossible. But being Lord Paramounts, they paid a third of their earnings as tax to the crown every year. They didn't have the income generated from taxes paid to Winterfell to commission such a project, and he was prideful enough not to take a loan from the Iron Bank - or any bank, for that matter.

The second issue that arose was the current political landscape of the North. House Ryswell had been the obvious castellan for the Stony Shore since the time House Fisher had died out some five hundred years ago. So, for the past five hundred years, House Ryswell held the most lands in the North - the most lands under the control of any single Noble House in Westeros, if one saw it that way. Hells, it was larger than the Crownlands! With the betrothal of Bethany Ryswell to Roose Bolton, House Ryswell had just recently made their play, trying in their own way to force father's hand in setting a marriage between Bran and Barbrey.

While he, as Brandon, wasn't against that match much, he was also Heir Stark. And it loathed him to have House Stark accept this blatant power play. He had had fun with Barbrey as it was, but he had had a long conversation with his father, in the presence of Ser Wyman Manderly of all people, about his position as Heir to House Stark and all the duties it entailed.

It wasn't the easiest conversation, and while he wanted just to follow his heart and make Barbrey his, he had allowed himself to be swayed by his father in this matter. That he would rejoice in seeing that cunt Mark Ryswell's reaction to House Stark refusing to play his elder brother's game might have played its part in swaying his mind.

There was also one point he would never speak out loud. But Barbrey had the tendency to talk his ear off. While the conversations usually had something that interested him, he didn't fancy himself being forced into a verbal battle every time they disagreed on something.

The third issue that came forth in making a stronghold on the West Coast was logistics. Sea Dragon Point, while the perfect spot to make a stronghold that could, in essence, even surpass Casterly Rock, was far from any vegetation. The terrain was rockier than the steps that led to the Eyrie, and no crops could be grown for at least twenty leagues in any direction. It would be a logistical nightmare even to start a construction project on Sea Dragon Point.

Not unless they had a shitload of gold to throw at it - but that would be doing things the Lannister way, and no Lord Stark would ever be caught doing that. He had thought of asking his father about a location further south, but storms frequently hit those areas, and House Fisher's stone keep had mostly eroded away without any repairs in the past five hundred years. It was terrible how the Fishers died, though. Freezing to death in their own keep, their fireplaces clogged with snow, and their roofs blown away by strong winds of the storm that caught them unawares.

There were horror stories about how their situation was discovered that gave Bran nightmares when Nan had told him. The men from the southern end of the Stony Shore came back to the town to find their homes, as well as the Fisherman's Keep in ruins. They'd gone in to investigate, only to find chalky white and bloated bodies of the Lady Fisher and her three daughters and son. Lord Fisher's body was nowhere to be found, and neither was their Valyrian Steel blade.

Well, none could say they hadn't tried - the Ryswells most of all. They hadn't taken well to the fact that the Mormonts got their Valyrian Blade before they could. They didn't want to pay the hundred thousand gold pieces for the blade, though, so they sent their men to search the lands for the blade. Yet, Lord Herrys Fisher's body was never found - nor his blade. His father had repeated the lesson a few years ago - even the best weapon could not protect a man from the wrath of the Gods.

And just like that, the North was no longer the kingdom that held the most Valyrian blades. It was surpassed by the Reach - with the Tarlys, the Hightowers, and the Roxtons owning a sword each. Bran sighed to himself, lost in thought, imagining himself wielding Ice in battle. He was good with swords - very good, in fact, yet he didn't like to get up close and personal with his blade. The smell of blood disturbed him, though he would never admit to it out loud.

Oh, he had already tested his blade on men. His longsword had tasted blood in battle when his group came across a band of brigands near the western part of the Wolfswood when they were making their way to Deepwood Motte. He'd expelled his meal right out in the middle of the fight and had to fight even after that, with his own waste tarnishing the pristine shine of his steel plate. Mark Ryswell had never let him forget that, and that was just another reason why he hated him.

He would much rather put himself on a treetop or horseback and pick his enemies off from a distance. Bran didn't have anything against killing - he knew it was a necessity. Just - the smell of blood and guts and shit in close battle was the bane of his stomach. It prevented him from concentrating on his surroundings. No, he would rather have his longbow and three quivers full of arrows than go into the midst of the fighting, wielding a sword. Valyrian Steel or not didn't matter. Ice would do its job taking the hands and heads of criminals, but sadly, in his hands, it wouldn't taste blood in battle. Not if he had any say in it. After all, the Gods might enjoy a jape and place him on the battlefield with a broken bowstring. No, there was no need to say these things out loud and invite the mirth, or wrath, of the Gods.

It was perfect bound to his father's back, for now.

Trotting through the wooden palisade and into the courtyard, he spotted Willam and Ethan waiting for them. Willam had a plate with bread and salt while Ethan stood next to him. The castellan and the maester stood behind them, and the stable boys stood to the side. He nodded to Willam and Ethan and smiled when they nodded back. Willam was a good man - almost his height, but of the stockier build. One would expect him to wield a terrifying battle ax or something of that sort, but he went against his Dustin roots and carried a bastard sword and an Ironwood shield.

Willam had once drunkenly boasted that if he could wield Ice, he would do it single-handed alongside the Ironwood shield and be invincible on the battlefield. Brandon had whacked him across the head with his mug of ale and reminded him that Ice was his father's blade, and unless he were planning treason, he wouldn't feel the touch of the blade. If he was planning treason, though, he could feel its cold touch on his neck. They'd laughed it off, and Brandon took it as the jape it was meant as. Willam was his closest friend, after all. He knew him better than almost everyone else, save his Grandpa.

Rodrik Stark was something else entirely.

Ethan Glover, on the other hand, was the Darling of Deepwood. Slim and standing just shy of six feet, the four-and-ten-year-old was still figuring his way out on the training yard. Unfortunately, neither Bran nor Willam had the heart to tell him he wasn't meant for the sword. His feet rebelled against him, no matter how much he trained. Bran had suggested he try a spear, but that had turned out disastrous.

Willam hadn't even bothered having him try the twin axes he had once had made for himself. Yet, give Ethan Glover a crossbow, and he'd slay a chicken from a hundred yards away - while the chicken was flying. It was absurd, really, watching him shoot that thing he'd bought off of Quellon Greyjoy. The only issue with that was that it took a bloody awful lot of time to reload. So, unless he had a team of squires just to wind the crossbows and at least half a dozen of those bloody things, he couldn't kill more than one man in combat.

Yet, whatever Ethan lacked in martial skill, he made up for in his sharp mind. He couldn't hold his ale well, and after a few embarrassing incidents, decided to keep to the Maester's tower while Bran and Will went out in the evenings. Bran had never even known how much it cost to make a ship. Apparently, every single one of those ragged longships operated by the ironborn cost upward of a mind-boggling six thousand gold dragons! Braavosi War Galleys cost north of twelve thousand dragons!

But that was a discussion for another time.

A stable boy came over as he hopped off his horse. The others quickly followed his lead. Quellon walked up to them once they were in their position. Lord Dustin motioned Willam forward with the plate of bread and salt, and once again, Bran's eyes fell on the device that looked like twin curved gold sticks stuck together.

"I meant to ask you about this, Greybeard." Grandpa voiced from beside him. "What is that thing?"

"Ah," Quellon looked back at his grandson, "Care to show the Beardless what you showed me, boy?"

"It will be my pleasure, Grandfather." Rodrik said as he walked up to Quellon and accepted the trinket.

Before Bran could comment, Rodrik moved his hands with a flourish, and the two sticks that appeared to be stuck together opened on a hinge. Hidden between them, a small blade, glinting in the setting sun, with the characteristic ripples of Valyrian Steel, was now on display.

Rodrik moved his hands in a complex, practiced motion, and the knife blade disappeared before reappearing again, and it went on like that for a few moments before he stopped, now holding the entwined golden sticks like a handle to the knife.

"Ah, a shiny, hidden blade!" Grandpa exclaimed, walking up to them before thinking again, and pausing.

Jokingly, he spoke, "Mind taking a bite off that, lad? I'd rather you accepted Guest Right before I ask to inspect it. Ha!" pointing to the plate of bread and salt.

Rodrik nodded graciously, displaying a mouthful of straight white teeth, except for two empty slots on the corners. Ah, Bran had forgotten he was only eight, a milk-drinker still by all standards. His milk teeth were still falling. Yet, with the way he handled the knife, he consoled himself - anyone would forget that Rodrik was just eight if he did that before them.

He walked up to Willam, who had to bend down slightly to give him access to the bread. A lightning-fast swipe of the Valyrian blade later, he picked up a small chunk of the bread, dipped it in the salt, and swallowed it whole.

"Welcome to Barrow Hall, men from the Isles. We feast tonight, on the morrow, we leave for Seagard," announced Grandpa, in his voice as a representative of House Stark.

Bran was excited, much more than he had been these past few days. Rodrik Greyjoy seemed to be a mightily interesting lad. Mayhaps his presence would make the long sea voyages less tedious. Smiling to himself, he eased into conversation with Willam and Ethan. Mark Ryswell wasn't joining them on the voyage, thankfully. Even more surprisingly, Ethan would be joining them as a squire to Bran.

Well, that would be tomorrow. Now, Bran had to prepare himself for another night with the lads and Quellon. The old man could still hold his ale almost as well as Bran and Willam. And tonight, he seemed like he needed that ale, what with his sadness over the loss of his son. He'd lend his ear to the man, just like he had two years ago. He was just repaying a debt, after all. It wasn't a gesture to a friend, no. Just a debt to be repaid.

Lord Tywin Lannister - Hand of the King, Warden of the West, and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands

Tywin Lannister sighed when he heard the feeble knocks on his door. One would think the person knocking had his fingers cut off - for the attempt barely made a sound. He pressed a pedal under his table - designed specifically so that he didn't have to move from his position or interrupt his work if someone knocked on the door.

Pressing the pedal instantly unlatched the door with a snap sound, which was audible from both sides. "Come in," Tywin added. He knew that if the person across from there were scared enough not to knock louder, he wouldn't enter until explicitly asked.

He sometimes pitied himself. The bane of strong and decisive people, for he definitely considered himself one, was the weak-willed. Except, for every person in his category, there were a thousand of the other. He was just thankful that the one sitting across from him already wasn't one of those people.

Lucerys Velaryon was what most would call a man of coin. He had a good head on his shoulders when it came to the economy of a kingdom, and they'd been having lengthy discussions for the past week on the topic of Denys Darklyn's request.

Three years ago, if he'd have asked, then Tywin Lannister might not have thought twice before signing one. The favor he could extract for swift processing of a city charter and reduced taxes compared to the economic boost to a smaller house made the decision easy. Now, though, Lucerys Velaryon was not completely supportive of him.

To be completely frank, a charter of expansion to Duskendale was exactly what he needed to ruin the firm hold Qarlton Chelsted and Symond Staunton had on their positions. With lower taxes, docking and all sorts of fees would be lowered in Duskendale, making traders want to go there over King's Landing. Over no more than a year, King's Landing would lose half its trade.

He didn't have to do anything, just watch as everything set itself up, then. Questions would be asked, of course. Even if the charter was granted to Duskendale, King's Landing should have lower prices and fees. So why were traders going to Duskendale instead? At that, he'd only need to point Hightower in the direction of the Masters of Coin and Laws. The City Watch was as corrupt as could be, and the keepers of the royal treasury, as far as he knew, kept a dragon after every five dragons they put inside, to themselves.

This was the game Tywin Lannister lived for. He wouldn't need to do anything until after heads flew and hands were relieved of their bodies. Power, in his opinion, was only good as long as one knew how to use it. Those who threw it around without anything to back it up tended to lose it soon. Next in line were the Masters of Coin and Laws, and he would enjoy them, having no clue about what fate awaited them.

The only hurdle to that plan was sitting across from him.

The door opened, and the acolyte working as the assistant to Pycelle walked in.

"Raven from Winterfell, my lord, addressed to the Lord of Casterly Rock." He spoke, leaving the sealed scroll on his desk, before shuffling out just as fast as he came.

Interesting. Tywin never held any correspondence with Rickard Stark directly, but he'd known that Steffon's son and Stark's second fostered in the Vale under the falcon lord.

"Is it any news about the future of House Lannister, Lord Tywin?" Lucerys asked with a sly smile.

The Lord of Tides wasn't as smart as he fashioned himself to be.

"Unlikely. While I'd be willing to consider Stark's daughter for Jaime, it's too soon to say anything yet. Cersei's hand is off the table, as I'm sure you know, Lucerys." He responded curtly. Tywin didn't wait for Lucerys to respond, though. He slid his thumb under the seal, and in a practiced motion, broke it open.

Unfolding the scroll, he read through its contents; one eyebrow slowly arched as he read further.

"It seems that Lord Stark and a Northern party has decided to grace the South with their presence. Brandon Stark, Rodrik Stark, Willam Dustin, and Ethan Glover will be arriving separately, on a ship with Quellon Greyjoy and his party. What do you make of this, Lucerys?" Tywin humored him and read aloud.

He smiled inwardly as he saw a frown make its way on Velaryon's face. "Quellon has been building more ships every year. No piracy or raiding yet, at least, not where his ships could be identified. He's been a thorn in Velaryon trading these past few years. Westeros needed Iron from Andalos, and House Velaryon has been buying and bringing it back for as long as we've had Driftmark. Quellon's overhauling of his mines has ensured that they supply most of what is needed here locally and at cheaper prices. We've had to look towards spices to counter that. Leyton isn't happy with that, as you could guess."

Tywin smiled. He'd known that all along, and he'd even allowed that to happen after a long talk with Quellon Greyjoy. Now that was one man he could respect. Shame that his eldest son had disappeared after a stormy voyage across the Stepstones. Harlon took after his father as much as Balon did not.

The plan was to introduce some strife between the Eastern naval houses and the Southern ones to boost the trading opportunities for Lannisters and Greyjoys. Oldtown was the biggest hurdle, along with Redwynes, but the Redwynes mainly traded for food and wine, so there wasn't much profit to be made competing with them in that sector. This automatically pointed the target at Oldtown.

Quellon had agreed to flood the market with Iron for as long as he could sustain it. This would introduce a disturbance between the Velaryons and the Hightowers, introducing some uncertainty into the spice and the artisan trade. Once Quellon's thralls died or grew old, the Iron supply would dwindle, forcing the Velaryons back to their older trading routes. Except, House Lannister would sweep in when it came to filling the void with spice ships, taking that away from Oldtown.

It wasn't the simplest of plans, but Lannister resources weren't hedged onto this yet. So, he would wait and see how well Quellon did his part. He hoped it would happen in Quellon's lifetime, though, for he knew from sources that Balon was the complete opposite. The plan would certainly be off if Quellon died before its realization.

"What would you like me to do. Please, if you have any plans on how to deal with this, then let's hear it." Tywin paused for a moment, sipping water from his goblet. "I would only ask for one thing in return, Lucerys. Your signature on this parchment."

He'd heard promising tales of Quellon's eldest grandson, though. The prodigal boy managed to earn the Mallister's almost double the profit from trades without hurting the traders. This could only mean he removed the element of corruption from their docking systems. He could see the usefulness of this strategy, but the boy was eight, and his plans for the master of Coin and Laws would have to be enacted soon. He wouldn't be nearly old enough to take up a position as the Master of Coin.

Speaking of the boy, Tywin had also received a raven from Hoster Tully a few days ago, talking about a visit to King's Landing and their intention to join the King's party to Lannisport for Prince Viserys' nameday celebrations. He'd mentioned something along the lines of requesting a meeting with the High Septon and himself. That was something that had raised alarms in his mind. He hadn't predicted Hoster Tully being so active in the politics of the kingdoms so soon. After all, his wife had very recently departed off birthing complications, quite like his own Joanna. Yet, he also knew that not every husband loved his wife as much as he did. Else they would be mourning and not scheming in this time of relative peace.

In some ways, Tywin very much liked war. At least war was less tedious on his mind than peacetime politics. In war, all that mattered was survival and riches. Of course, others might think differently, but being a Lannister with access to the amount of gold he had at his disposal made things quite a bit easier for him in wartime politics. His decision to end the Reyne and Tarbeck lines also had a somewhat desirable effect on his House's reputation.

There were complications, of course. Rickard Stark had turned out to be much more influential than he had thought him to be. For a house very recently struggling with a succession crisis, the Starks managed it well enough with just the presence of Rodrik Stark.

Rodrik Stark was one player he had no information on. Other than the information publicly known, Rodrik Stark was a ghost. One only saw him when he wanted to be seen - like a lone wolf stalking his prey. He had a terrifying reputation in the North - the Hunter they called him in fear when they'd once praised his name as the Wandering Wolf during the time he was in Essos.

Brynden Tully had stuck to his hip in the Ninepenny war, and his reputation had shot through the roof with the smallfolk. He would wager a third of the Lannister gold that out of a hundred Riverlander smallfolk, more than seventy would follow the Blackfish's order over Hoster's if they ever gave conflicting commands. Then again, the brothers had a bond strong as ever - even considering their frequent spats over Brynden Tully's unmarried status.

Even if he based his understanding of Rodrik Stark upon his understanding of Brynden Tully, he still wasn't comfortable with having a person of such reputation in his lands without him having the time to prepare for it. Alas, it would be just another challenge for him to face as the Hand of the King.

After all, he didn't expect much, if any, political trouble in Lannisport. The Starks were also known to be very stringent about honor, and so he could trust them to an extent to not cause any problems during their stay in Lannisport. No, he was more worried about Oberyn Martell and the Hightowers. Leyton had become a recluse as of late, yet he had responded positively to his attendance during the Tourney.

This was quickly becoming the biggest event of the decade. Every single Lord Paramount would be present in this tourney, something that had happened just once since Aegon the Conqueror's coronation. That was the time Cregan Stark had descended from the North in all his terrible glory - the largest known Valyrian Steel blade in the world on his back. If there was any role model that Tywin Lannister based his politics on, it was Cregan Stark.

Yet, there was something that set the Starks apart from the usual heroes. Brandon the Builder was a name known by every single creature who could pour themselves a mug of water. The Septons spoke more of the Hungry Wolf than any other man, save for Argos Sevenstar and Hugor of the Hill. The people of King's Landing still feared the wolves' wrath more than that of the Dragon or the Lion. Cregan Stark had cut such a fearsome image, in all his six and a half feet of terrible glory, with a sword almost as tall as him.

The Traitor's Walk still ended with the imperious sculpture of Cregan Stark beheading Larys Strong and Gyles Belgrave, side by side, in one single swing of Ice. While Tywin had always known that the tales often exaggerated history, he sometimes thought of what went on in Cregan Stark's head when he decided to behead two people in one swing of the sword.

Most men didn't have the strength to behead one man, much less two. The spine wasn't an easy thing to cleave through, even with Valyrian Steel. There was a reason the King's Justice was appointed for every king, for they had the strength and the accuracy required to behead a person with a clean swing.

Cregan Stark doing two simultaneously - as depicted in the mural, with ravens and pigeons all flying away, was most certainly a terrifying image. Not too long after, Cregan Stark - aged two and fifty, had drawn Ice and dueled Aemon the Dragonknight in his prime. The fact that neither had won the fight that lasted more than an hour if the Blackwoods were to be believed kept adding to the image of Cregan Stark as a man unbound by mortal limits.

There was a reason the Blackwoods would rather take orders from a Stark than from a Tully. The First Men houses - including the Royces and the Daynes still held the word of a Stark in high regard. If history was believed, these three houses were the oldest noble houses whose lines remained unbroken in Westeros, other than the Hightowers and the Dustins - two of the houses that claimed to once hold the title of the High Kings of the First Men.

While the Royces had their runic armor and the now lost Lamentation and the Daynes Dawn, the Starks were more storied than any other house in Westeros. The Throne of Winter - carved out of ice and cooled with the blood of the Others, the most storied Crown of all time - the bronze and iron circlet with nine swords, and the direwolves.

Yet, history was not what amazed him, no. It was the respect they commanded while being one of the poorest Lord Paramounts that baffled him. The loyalty they commanded from their vassal houses, even though they had dealt with their enemies in ways much worse than Tywin had done to the Reynes and Tarbecks.

The silence in his chamber was broken by Velaryon then, who spoke with a scornful smile on his face.

"I can see why you're of the mind to allow the Darklyns this, Lord Tywin. Their trade is with Myr the most, thanks to his lady wife. They won't disrupt much of the trade in King's Landing, at least not the ones any of us have invested in."

Lucerys paused then as if trying to decide how to say his words.

"I have a… proposal for you, Lord Hand. I will sign this parchment and pledge my support for awarding the Darklyns their charter. In return, I would ask for one thing only."

Tywin smiled. The Starks could take their time to come to Lannisport. In the meantime, he would hear what Lucerys Velaryon would sell his loyalty for.

Tywin smiled as politely as he could. He had given plenty of time in silence for Velaryon to think on this. Now, and his smile grew only a smidge wider, now was the time to see how Quellon Greyjoy reacted to the first move. It felt good, not playing an active part in the game. Velaryon would pit himself against a very smart opponent. One who had more experience than Tywin himself when it came to cutting favorable deals.

Your time to shine, Velaryon. We'll see if you're as sharp as you claim to be. The battle for the domination of the oceans had just begun - the biggest players just didn't know it yet.

A/N

Hey guys! Late chapter here, but it needed more context and I thought to include some more lore and tried my hand at worldbuilding here. This is my first story, so any thoughts on how it sounds to you wonderful people would be highly appreciated. Please let me know what parts you liked, and what parts could be improved. Point out my mistakes and only then can I learn!

That's it for today, folks. NF out.