"If the Lords of the North have to rely on our House to feed themselves, then we will be able to assert more control over them."
Rickard patiently explained again.
"With more control over its Bannermen, Winterfell would be better equipped to stomp out the embers of any future rebellious vassals."
But no explanation seemed to convince his goodfather.
"You are treading on a dangerous path, Rickard." Came an angry roar. Rodrik Stark looked moments away from drawing his sword.
"House Stark rules through law, justice, and respect. Not through blackmail or fear. Or through humbling starving men!"
Rickard could have pointed to many a ruthless Stark King in ancient times. But there would be little point in arguing against Rodrik Stark.
The man had grown up in a much different time. In the time of men like Beron the Honorable and Artos the Implacable. Rickard grew up in a much different world, one filled with intrigue and reality. Both he and Rodrik now lived in a very dangerous world, no matter which one they grew up in.
"That is the old way, goodfather." Rickard replied, a hint of anger in his voice.
"The world has changed. And we must change with it. Or do you want the North to fall to upheaval? Look at what is happening in the South. War in the Riverlands, war in the west, war in Stormlands. How many ancient houses have already fallen to the changing times? I am only doing what is best for our house, you would see us descend into ruin!"
Rickard knew he had said too much. He should be trying to deescalate the tension and give his good father room to calm down. Getting angry helped no one.
Rodrik Stark loudly ground his teeth. Rickard watched his goodfather's swordhand inch closer to the blade on his hip. The guards behind him stiffened, the promise of violence was hanging in the air.
At the last moment, however, Rodrik Stark shook his head angrily. "You doom our House with your ambition, my lord."
It was Rickard's turn to grind his teeth. Ambition? Couldn't they see that he was doing what was best for everyone? What was best for their family? For the whole of the North?
Rickard's goodfather turned his horse and rode away from the group. The Lord of Winterfell watched him go warily. He released his held breath and began calming himself.
Rodrik Stark was more than a proven warrior, perhaps even on par with the Kingsguard. It wasn't that many years passed when Rodrik had fought Duncan the Tall in a melee in King's Landing. If things had gotten violent, Rickard's best chance would have been to flee back to the relative safety of Winterfell. Leaving his household guards to fend off the Wandering Wolf.
But with how angry he had just been, Rickard didn't know if he could have turned away from an unwinnable fight. This was the reason why no man should lose his calm even when provoked.
"My Lord…"
Torrhen Poole seemed out of place in between such a confrontation. The Steward of Winterfell did not even have any weapon on his person.
"My goodfather merely needs to cool his head, Torrhen." Rickard assured. "There is little need to be worried about him."
The Steward nodded at the words and seemed to be relived the confrontation had been resolved without bloodshed.
"There was a ship from the White Knife this morning, my lord. A letter from Lord Manderly for your eyes only."
The words picked at Rickard's mind. He had not been expecting to hear from Wyman anytime soon. Sending a ship meant that it was a matter not to be trusted to a bird and that it was too urgent for a rider. He was filled with dread at what the letter might contain.
"Give it here." He commanded.
Rickard watched as Poole took out a scroll container from a pouch before handing it over to the Lord of Winterfell. It was a simple leather container with three seals to be broken in order to access the message inside. Rickard inspected the Manderly seals carefully, checking for any sign of tearing or forgery.
"[Break Illusion]" Rickard cast the spell he had learned from one of the books in the crypts. His guards tensed, as they were wont to do when magic was used around them.
Rickard merely ignored them.A light green glow covered the leather container, indicating that there was no magical alteration done to it.
Satisfied that the message had not been opened or tampered with, Rickard broke the three seals and opened the container. He took out the parchment and read the scroll.
'Disorder on the Sisters. Famine and disease are widespread on the islands. Triston Sunderland is dead feuding with his lords, who blamed him for the famine. The same lords have now set upon Sunderland's castle. His only heir is a girl of five namedays. His retainers have shut the gates to and are now besieged. The Vale is going through just as much unrest. The Lord of the Eyrie cannot intervene. Awaiting orders.'
Rickard was apprehensive about the letter. Magic was a destabilizing force. It had the power to bring bountiful prosperity but also untold ruin. He did not want the same chaos that has occurred in the South or Essos to spread to his own lands. And in order to bring long lasting stability to his kingdom, Rickard must consolidate House Stark's power over the North.
It was not like the idea of such a campaign had no merits at all. The Three Sisters had immense strategic importance to the North. Being a perfect launching base to attack White Harbor and the White Knife. That was the exact reason why so many of Rickard's ancestors had spent millennia trying to conquer them.
They would often go back and forth between the Eyrie and Winterfell. Like two children playing tug with their favorite toy. It more than not depended on which Kingdom had the coin and men to assert control over the islands.
But if Rickard could bring them under his control, the victory would enormously boost Rickard's own standing and prestige among his vassals. Such a victory would go a long way to stabilize Winterfell's control over the North. But there were also many cons to such a course.
Launching a military campaign, even on a relatively close target such as the Sisters, was risky. It would be on foreign and unknown soil, something that always carried risk. Rodrik Stark and Edric Cerwyn were tested, battle commanders. But dispatching them would mean surrendering any prestige won from victory to them as well. Defeating the whole purpose of the campaign.
No, Rickard would have to lead it himself. And if he were to be defeated… well best not think of that, his heir was barely five namedays.
Even if Rickard was to assume a victory would be easily attained over the Sistermen, the campaign would take him away from Winterfell. At a time when he is needed to rule.
Such an opportunity only came once every few generations and Rickard doubted, he will get another chance like this ever again.
"Bad news, my lord?" Torrhen asked.
"It's all bad news as of late." Rickard rolled the parchment, before placing the scroll back in its container. "Is that Manderly ship still here?"
Torrhen blinked at the question. "Yes, my lord. They seem to be waiting for an answer."
"How many arrows have we made so far?"
Torrhen again looked taken back. "A thousand perhaps, maybe more."
"Store them in bundles and send them on that Manderly ship to White Harbor," Rickard ordered.
"Lord Stark!" A rider shouted as they came up from the direction of Winterfell.
It didn't take long for Rickard to recognize the rider. "Tomard."
"My lord," he bowed his head.
Rickard had posted him outside of Lyarra's door. He supposed that now that he was done arguing with his goodfather, it was his wife's turn.
"Lady Stark has asked to see you," Tomard said.
Rickard only sighed. Already feeling the coming headache.
He turned to look at Torrhen. "You have your orders."
After dismissing Torrhen, Rickard had turned and rode back to Winterfell.
Arya Stark met him at the stables.
"Are perhaps the Lady Stark that called for me?" He asked, almost hopeful.
"I am afraid not, my lord." She gave him sly smile. "I am still very much a Flint. Mountain woman through and through."
"How did she take the news about Walys?" He asked.
"Pretty well," Arya said enthusiastically. "She seemed unmoved by his death."
"His death? Woman! I told you to tell her everything!"
Rickard's prophesized headache arrived with force.
"Is that any way to talk to your goodmother?" Arya mocked offence.
"I was going to tell her, but she got really angry about something else, and I backed down."
Old Gods! As if he didn't have enough trouble.
"What was she angry about?"
"I told her that Mara was nursing Lyanna."
"That again? Just get a wetnurse for the babe. I am sure there are plenty to hire in Wintertown. I have enough headaches as is!"
"Fine!" Arya huffed; arms crossed. "I will go find one right now."
Rickard watched her turn away and hesitated. After a moment passing, he stopped her.
"There is something else, goodmother."
She turned back; brow raised. "Well?"
"Rodrik and I were arguing earlier. We almost came to blows." He confessed.
"Ugh- you Men!" Arya rolled her eyes. "Nothing but egos and hissy fits, all of you. The two of you never aged passed ten."
"Can you…"
"Yes, yes. I will bring him around. He is never angry for long anyway." She waved him off confidently.
Rickard was not so sure that Rodirk could be convinced to see reason.
Turning away, Rickard began heading towards the Great Keep. On the way, he stopped by the blacksmith.
"Mikken," he called out to Winterfell's smith.
"My Lord," the common man bowed, stopping his work on the bench. "I am at your command."
"Did you finish the sword?"
"Yes, my lord."
Mikken went inside his shop and came out holding a sword.
"I am afraid my work will disappoint you, my lord." Mikken handed the sword to Rickard with dejection.
He inspected the sword carefully. Runes were carefully carved into the length of the blade. The same runes Rickard had found on stone tablets in the crypts.
"I tested the blade, my lord," Mikken said. "The runes add nothing to the blade. Nothing magical occurred when I embedded them either."
"House Royce of Runestone is said to be making ruined weapons equivalent to Valyrian Steel."
Rickard had hoped for a similar result, but it seemed such a thing was asking far too much.
"Forgive me, my lord." Mikken bowed in shame.
"My words are not a mark against you Mikken," Rickard put a hand on the smith's shoulder. "The Royces were once known runesmiths of old. There must be some secret to it that we do not possess. It is no fault of yours."
Mikken only nodded at that.
"How are the arrowheads coming along?" Rickard inquired.
"My apprentices are hard at work. We have complete Lord Torrhen's order." The Blacksmith looked prideful at that.
"Good," Rickard nodded. "Keep at it."
The Lord of Winterfell continued towards the Great Keep. Rickard was pleased that his order to increase guard around his household had been heeded. He nodded at the guards he passed.
There were always armed sentries standing guard in front of the Lord's Solar. In the solar, Rickard would often read through reports and write up messages to his Lords and decrees to his subjects. This was why there was a necessity to keep the room safe from meddling or sabotage. The Lord of Winterfell had strictly forbidden anyone to go in without his leave to do so.
"She's inside, isn't she?" He asked the sentries.
"Forgive us, my lord," The senior sentry said. "We couldn't stop her."
Not for the first time either. Rickard sighed. He silently cursed his goodmother before he went inside.
Lyarra Stark sat in the Lord's seat. She had kicked her feet on Rickard's finely crafted desk. She had been cleaning her sword with a towel. If she had noticed his entry, she made no response to it.
"Can you take your boots off my desk?" He asked in annoyance.
"No."
Rickard pushed his lips together. Cold silence fell over them, as she continued her task mindlessly.
"You called me here," Rickard pointed out. "Well, what is it?"
Lyarra looked up at him. She carelessly threw her sword over a pile of parchments on the desk, much to Rickard's further annoyance.
"Where is Walys?" she asked.
Lyarra took her feet off the desk but stayed lounged lazily in Rickard's seat.
"Dead." He answered.
Lyarra rested her head in her hand in response. Seemingly bored. "How?"
Rickard didn't answer. He looked to the side of the room and found another chair. He went and picked it up before bringing it to the desk. Rickard set it directly in front of his wife before sitting down.
"I cut his head off in the Godswood."
That didn't seem to surprise her either.
"Did the ruler finally realize he was being ruled?"
The words stung more than he would have liked. At least she wasn't being smug about it.
"He tried killing our son," Rickard said.
"WHAT?!"
She sprung up from her seat in alarm.
"What happened?" she seethed, fury and death in her eyes.
This was precisely why he wanted Arya to tell her.
"He came to me, last night. Told me that he had 'killed the abomination', that he had put enough poison in his cup to kill a bear."
"Ned..." she said faintly, her eyes now filled with fear.
"He is fine," Rickard assured her. "Nothing has befallen him. He should be at practice with Rodrik Cassel."
Lyarra seemed to calm at the words. "Did Ned not drink the poison?"
"He drank it."
"Then how…"
"I don't know either," Rickard said truthfully. "He seemed only confused when I asked if he was alright this morning. Told me that he had 'only been sleeping'"
Lyarra sat back down, contemplating the words.
"Could his magic have protected him?" She asked uncertainly.
"That was my conclusion as well."
Rickard was glad she had reached the answer on her own. His wife had become openly opposed to magic ever since that incident in the forest. It was about time she came around to the idea.
"Is this it?" She asked. "Is this all you and mother were keeping?"
Rickard sighed. "It was."
"Was?"
He took out the scroll container and placed it on the desk.
"A letter arrived from White Harbor this morning." Rickard clarified.
Lyarra looked at the leather container with apprehension.
"I am not going to like what's inside, am I?"
It was her turn to sigh as she picked up the container. Rickard watched as she opened it and read the scroll inside.
"What does this mean?" She asked. "This has nothing to do with us."
"If the Eyrie won't intervene to quell their quarreling vassals," Rickard said pointedly. "Then it's left to us to restore order on the islands."
"Gods be good, Rickard Stark!" she screamed.
"Ride out from any of Winterfell's gates," Rage and fury returned to eyes.
"You can ride for weeks without end, and you would still be in the North! You rule half the continent, damn you! If that's not enough, then you will never be content with anything!"
"I am content," he said simply, not raising his voice. Rickard did not want to repeat the morning argument with Rodrik but it seemed he was forced to.
"This not a matter of ambition. This is a matter of keeping the North safe."
Lyarra snickered at that.
"You would keep the North safe by waging war on another land?"
"The Three Sisters are the gateway to the North," Rickard pointed out. "A hostile fleet could threaten to attack White Harbor with impunity just by holding them."
"Really? Well, forgive me for being unconvinced, my lord. Unconvinced that this is not just your latest ambition. Where do your plans end, Rickard Stark? Have you already picked out a suitable suitor for your newborn daughter?!"
Rickard felt his anger flare. He had not expected her to bring their children into this. But he quickly calmed himself.
Perhaps such a thing may have been true in the past. The Hightower bastard's whispering of southern alliances and the political power they would bring his family had sounded sweet to Rickard's ears. Plans of bringing the North out of centuries of poverty with southern gold had filled Rickard's mind until he could not distinguish the bastard's ideas from his own.
"I am content. That's not why I do this," Rickard said simply. "I do this all for our family."
His ambitions were before the return of magic. It was before King Aegon's war on the Stepstones, before the upheaval that shook the whole continent. Back when he was younger, more foolish, and felt the whole world was his to claim if only he would reach out to take it.
Such foolish things no longer concerned him. In this ever-changing and dangerous world he now found himself in, his only goal was to preserve his family. No matter how big and full of dangers the world seemed now, it was Rickard's duty to preserve House Stark. The eight-thousand-year-old dynasty he had inherited from his forefathers would not fall on his account. Never! He would not allow it.
"I am content," he repeated.
Lyarra ground her teeth before standing up.
"I fear for you, Rickard," her voice turned soft and genuine. "Your ambition will only end one way. With you burning of the pyre!"
It was a prophecy they had heard from a Woods Witch, some ten years past. Back before magic had returned. Back before he was even Lord of Winterfell. That his own ambitions would end up burning him alive.
"I was at the Stepstones," he responded. "And I saw that pyre myself."
"The King's dragon, Betharous, descended from the clouds and burned the whole of the Golden Company. Thousands lost their lives to the dragon flame. But when the fire died out, men rushed forward to cut out pieces of the golden armor that melted into the flesh of their wearers."
Rickard still had dreams of the battle. Such scenes would stick with Rickard his whole life.
"Footmen descended on the scorched corpses like rabid dogs," he continued. "It did not matter to them if it was melted into flesh, for gold it certainly was."
"Such madness has now filled the south," Rickard explained. "I am trying to protect the North from such chaos. This a matter of pragmatism, not ambition."
She had gone silent at Rickard's words, lost in thought.
"If this is true…then we will need to protect Moat Callin," she said.
Rickard saw that she had yet to be fully convinced.
"I have already done that."
Her eyes widened slightly. "What?"
"I dispatched some eight hundred men to reinforce the garrison," Rickard said. "And have arranged for a supply for grain to sent to fill the castle's stocks."
"Since when?"
"Since before Lyanna was born."
That seemed to convince her even more.
"The castle has fallen into disrepair," She began carefully. "It will need to be rebuilt."
Rickard nodded at that; her thoughts had mirrored his own.
"I will begin the effort after the Harvest feast." The answer seemed to satisfy her.
"So, are you still planning for southron stocks to marry our children?"
Rickard shook his head. "That will hardly be wise now. With so much war in the south."
"Good." she sighed. "You're a grown man now, Rick. You shouldn't fill your head with boyhood fantasies anymore."
Lyarra was silent for a moment.
"Will my father command the campaign?" She asked, bringing the conversation back to the matter at hand.
Rickard shook his head again. "I will have to lead it myself."
She seemed to want to protest briefly but simply nodded. Rickard didn't blame her, Rodrik Stark was a far more experienced commander compared to the Lord of Winterfell.
"What exactly will you do there?" she asked instead. "Do you plan to just conquer the islands outright?"
Before Rickard could answer her quarry, a knock was heard at the door.
"May I enter, my lord?" Came the sentry's muffled voice from outside.
"Yes! And be quick about it." It was Lyarra who had spoken.
The door opened as the sentry shuffled awkwardly in.
"Well," Lyarra said. "I am listening."
Rickard might have pointed out that he was the Lord here, but he knew better.
"Master Glover has returned from the bandit hunt, my lord- uh- my lady."
"What about it?" Lyarra asked, brow raised.
"They brought back a prisoner, my lady." He explained. "But it was not a man. Dwarf tall, with green skin and fangs for teeth, they say. Master Glover thinks it might be one of the children of the forest."
Rickard almost smacked his face with his palm. As if he did not have enough headaches as is.
The sentry did not need to say his news twice. Both he and Lyarra had stood and quickly left the solar. They made their way through the winding halls and stairs to the hall. Glover men-at-arms dragged in the greenskined creature with chains, but it fought them back despite its small size. Eventually, they were able to push the creature to its knees in the center of the hall.
The scuffle had attracted quite the crowd. They filed in from the opened doors of the hall, spreading out to fill the hall but giving wide berth to creatures in the center.
Rickard was made to sit at the high table, his wife following his lead.
"Brandon, Eddard," Lyarra called out. Rickard had not even noticed them in his first scan through the crowd. "Come here, boys."
Lyarra sat to his right, the boys next to her. Walys would have normally sat to his other side, whispering in Rickard's ears.
"My lord," Galbert Glover bowed as he came before the Lord of Winterfell. "I have laid low the savage bandits who were raiding the villages of the Wolfswood."
That was part of the reason Winterfell had so much readily available labor for farming. For the last year, bandits have been attacking villages within the Wolfswood. Driving away from the survivors in Winterfell's direction, with tales of monsters in the night on their lips. Not just empty tales it seems.
"They were all like this creature," Glover continued. "These Children of the Forest were the ones behind the attacks!"
"I am not one of the Children! How ignorant can you be?!" The creature spoke for the first time. Although it was more in line with a scream than anything else.
Glover looked ready to yell back but he stopped him with a raised hand.
"Then what exactly are you?" Rickard asked.
The creature looked at him as if he had just asked it why the sky was blue.
"I am a goblin, of course!" It yelled again.
"A monster is what you are," Glover said. "Attacking and burning villages! No better than the Ironborn, you lot."
"You settle and build villages in our forest," The goblin said. "And you didn't expect to be attacked? You should be grateful that we let those who ran escape at all!"
The creature seemed genuinely furious. As if it was the offended party in this situation.
"Your forest?" Rickard repeated calmly. "The Wolfswood is hardly yours, goblin."
"It is so." The goblin insisted. "It was granted to me and my kin by royal decree."
That gave Rickard pause. Royal Decree? Had the Targaryens sent these creatures north? No that couldn't be it. He would have certainly heard about such a thing by now. The goblin was clearly lying.
"You are spouting nonsense, goblin," Rickard spoke calmly. "No such Royal Declaration was ever issued."
"It was!" the goblin yelled. "I have the decree with me. Read it for yourself."
Rickard turned to Galbert Glover. The Master of Deepwood Motte only nodded and walked towards the goblin. He retrieved a scroll hanging from the goblin's belt and brought it back to Rickard's waiting hand.
Rickard quickly unfurled the scroll but came to a complete stop upon seeing what was written on it.
"See?" The goblin gloated.
"This is written in runes." He stated.
Rickard looked to the crowd. His eyes met those of his goodmother. Arya and Rodrik Stark were standing with everyone else, just as curious as the rest of Winterfell.
"Goodmother," he called. "Come and read it to us."
His goodmother made her way to the high table, her husband following behind her. She took the scroll out of Rickard's hand and turned back to look curiously at the chained goblin. Rodrik Stark placed himself between his wife and the goblin, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword firmly.
"By Order Of The First King," Arya Stark spoke loudly, so the whole court could hear.
"All of the forestland south of the mountains- the mountains at the northernmost end of my realm- and north of the coastal plains -coastal plains that lie northeast of the neck- is hereby granted to my loyal Goblin Army. All those lands are herby to be considered forbidden for any man to claim or settle. All who disobey this declaration will be subject to disciplinary action of the highest magnitude, be they the highest king or the lowest surf. All of my loyal vassal kings north of the Neck are hereby ordered to enforce this decree in accordance with precedent and law."
It was as if everything had come to a halt. Complete and utter silence had settled over everyone. Many were staring wide-eyed at the goblin.
"Issued in Highgarden in the Year 983 after the crossing." Arya Stark finished.
"See!" the goblin looked even smugger. "Just wait until the First King hears of this. He will leave no stone unturned and no head on its shoulders! Just you wait!"
The stunned silence continued. Even Rickard did not know what to say to that.
"Year 983 after the crossing?" Arya Stark spoke again, looking at the goblin. "What crossing would that be?"
"HA," the goblin gave a sinker. "The Crossing of the Great Bridge? The invasion of Westeros? Do you humans not even know your own history?"
That did more to add to the questions on Rickard's mind than answer them. The silence stretched as the goblin looked even more glowing.
"The Wolfwoods does not belong to you, goblin."
The goblin seemed to want to explode at the words, but Rickard stopped him with raised a raised hand.
"It does not belong to you because your kind have not been seen around here for millennia," Rickard said calmly, watching as the words sunk in for the goblin.
"And they do not belong to you because the First King has been dead for over 9,000 years."
It was the goblin's turn to be stunned. "What nonsense! No. Your words are heresy! The First King is living God! A Supreme Being!"
"What you hear is only the truth, goblin," Rickard assured. "The truth will not change. Whether you chose to believe it or not."
"It's a lie! It can't be true!" The goblin began struggling against his chain as the men-at-arms tried to keep him down.
"Take him down to the dungeons," Rickard ordered.
The guards began dragging the struggling goblin away.
"Wait!"
The whole room came to stop at the voice. Rickard turned and saw that it was his second son who had spoken. Ned's voice was still that of a child. Yet his voice was filled with a power that no one could readily ignore. Even the goblin had stopped struggling after merely hearing it.
"Your king," Ned asked. "What is the name of you king?"
The goblin stared at Eddard for a long moment.
"He is the First King," the goblin said. "The one who led the tribes during the Great Crossing. The one who conquered the whole of this continent. The High King ruling from his seat in the High Garden."
"His name is Punitto Moe."
The Goblin speaks!
The next chapter will take place outside of Winterfell. An interlude to show us what is happening in the rest of the world.