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Chapter Text

It starts with silence.

Not the quiet of peace. The silence of dead potential. Of a kingdom asleep in its furs, snoring through history while the world moves on without it.

I wake to the stink of pine smoke and sheepskin. A child's bed. A child's limbs. Five years old, and my hands are small, but my mind is as sharp as it was the day I died at my desk, clutching the armrest of my custom leather chair while my CFO begged me not to bleed on the quarterly reports.

My name was Nathan Graves. CEO of Apex Global. Master of spin, architect of influence. I built a billion dollar empire on nothing more than headlines and fear. Truth was my clay. Public opinion, my warhammer.

Now I'm Rickard Stark from that series I watched, Game of Thrones.

Son of Lord Edwyle Stark and Lady Marna Locke.

Heir to the coldest, dumbest part of Westeros.

The North is a frozen antique.

Edwyle Stark rules Winterfell with the weary decency of a man who wants nothing more than to die respected. He's gentle, kind-hearted, and stuck fifty years behind the curve. Mother is shrewder, a Locke by blood, and sharp as a raven's beak, but content to stitch lessons into cloaks and wisdom into lullabies.

They're good people.

Good people don't build empires.

—

I walk the halls like a ghost, listening more than I speak. I let them think I'm a curious boy with a sharp tongue and a quiet streak. The maester calls me bright. The stableboys say I stare too long. They're not wrong.

I see the truth.

The North doesn't need swords. It needs stories.

It needs a narrative.

Forget the old gods. The new god is media. Control what people read, what they hear, and you own their thoughts without ever drawing steel.

No one here knows it yet, but the real power in Westeros won't come from bannermen or marriage pacts. It'll come from print.

A newspaper.

Not some raven scroll passed from one drunk lord to another. A monthly. Or bi-monthly, if the scribes are slow. Ink and paper. Eye catching headlines. Tales of valor, scandal, betrayal. Controlled dissent. Carefully curated fear. Wolves howling about southern plots.

I'll give the North its voice, and make sure it sings the songs I write.

But for that, I need three things:

Gold.

Influence.

A Printing Press.

The first comes from marriage. The second from reach. The third, I'll manufacture.

The Lannisters.

Rich. Proud. Vain. And utterly unprepared for someone like me.

The Westerlands. The domain of lions who bathe in gold and bleed only when it profits them. Casterly Rock isn't just a fortress, it's a bank with banners.

And they have something I want.

Genna Lannister.

Third-born, only daughter, but with a bloodline as rich as the mines under her feet. No one expects a Stark to court a Lannister. No one sees it coming. That's why it will work.

If I can get her hand, I get her dowry. I get trade ties to Lannisport. I get prestige. And with that, I can do what my ancestors never dreamed of: pull the North out of the mud and make it powerful.

But this move requires finesse and manipulation.

Tytos is soft. Soft men are pliable. He wants to believe the world is kind and his daughter will be happy. I can work with that. Letters full of flattery, furs as gifts, a few nods to honor and unity between regions. Easy.

But Tywin?

Tywin's the problem.

Tywin Lannister is what I would've been if I'd been born with a sword instead of a boardroom. Cold. Calculating. Loyal to his legacy above all. He'll see through the pleasantries. He'll sniff out the ambition in every word I write.

So I won't hide it.

I'll sell the match as a power play.

Two strong houses. Wolves and lions, locked together against the chaos brewing in the South. I'll frame it as inevitable. Smart. Clean. I'll make rejecting it seem foolish.

That's the game.

Create the paper.

Own the narrative.

Then use it to bend the world.

Not through strength.

Not through steel.

But through ink.

—

The quill scratches softly, the fire pops once, and the ink stains like blood.

My letters used to move markets. I once tanked a rival's stock with a four-line internal memo that conveniently got "leaked." I watched a war in the East freeze in its tracks because I drafted a press release that made a dictator blink.

This is just a letter.

But it could change the North forever.

To His Lordship, Tytos Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West,

I begin with honey. You don't open a man's door with a battering ram, you do it with sugar.

My Lord, though our houses lie far apart, the bonds of the realm and the duties of nobility bind us all together, from snow-covered Winterfell to the golden gates of Lannisport. I write not merely as the heir of the North, but as a boy curious about the world and eager to understand it better, especially the great houses that uphold the peace and prosperity of Westeros.

I praise him. Not for what he is, but for what he wants to believe he is.

Your wisdom and fairness are well spoken of, even this far north. My own father, Lord Edwyle Stark, speaks of you as a man who balances duty with compassion. It is a quality not all lords possess.

Then the seed.

I wonder if there might be an opportunity, however distant, for our houses to grow closer. The North, with its forests and furs, and the West, rich with gold and trade, might yet walk in step toward a stronger realm. I say this not with presumption, but with hope.

I don't mention Genna.

Not yet.

This isn't the proposal. This is the introduction. The whisper in the hall before the formal pitch in the drawing room. I sign it in careful script:

With humble regards,

Rickard Stark, heir to Winterfell and son of Lord Edwyle Stark

I melt the wax. Press the direwolf seal. Then send it off.

—

My parents sit by the hearth. Father's sipping hot cider, calloused hands wrapped around the mug like he's gripping an old friend. Mother is mending gloves, a needle in her fingers, eyes sharp and quiet.

I approach them like a storm front.

"Mother. Father. I need to speak with you."

Edwyle looks up, blinking like I've grown six inches overnight. "Of course, son. What's on your mind?"

I stand tall. Or as tall as a five year old can manage. My voice is calm. Clear. Cold as glass.

"I intend to wed a Lannister. Lady Genna."

Silence.

The only sound is the fire, crackling like it just heard a good joke.

Edwyle sets down his mug. "Genna Lannister? She's… well, she's older than you by some years, lad. And her house is—"

"I know her age," I cut in. "I know her bloodline. I know her dowry, too. And what it could mean for our House."

Marna lowers the gloves into her lap. Her brow furrows. "Rickard… that's a bold ambition."

"Good." I walk closer. "Because boldness is the only thing that will save this kingdom from decay."

Edwyle leans forward, frowning like I've just spit in a prayer book. "This is sudden. Why her?"

"Because the Freys want her, and the Freys are vermin. Because Tywin Lannister is a future threat, and I'd rather tie his family to ours before he gets too strong. Because Tytos is soft and suggestible and I've just sent him a letter flattering him so well I expect he'll be blushing over breakfast."

They don't speak.

So I keep going.

"We are poor. Stubborn. Isolated. We trade in oaths and pelts while the South moves in gold and rumor. That ends with me. I don't intend to rule Winterfell like a shepherd with a crown. I intend to turn it into a force."

My mother speaks softly, but there's iron beneath the velvet.

"And how will you do that, my clever boy?"

I smile. A wolf's smile.

"Propaganda."

I lay it out.

The newspaper. The printing press. The scribes. The rumors I'll control and the stories I'll shape. A paper for the North, yes, but one that will be read across the realm. I will be the voice of winter, and all the realm will listen when I howl.

I tell them about the headlines. The "honest reporting." The manufactured threats. The carefully placed praise. I'll make House Stark not just feared, but beloved. Admired. Understood. Misunderstood. Whatever the situation demands.

By the time I stop talking, the fire's burning lower, and my father's cider is cold.

Edwyle stares at me like he doesn't recognize the boy in front of him.

Marna?

She studies me with narrowed eyes, then gives the smallest of nods.

—

The raven comes a few days later.

I already know who it's from.

To the young Lord Rickard Stark,

What a pleasure it is to receive such a thoughtful letter from the heir of the North. I am gladdened to see wisdom and courtesy blooming so early in Winterfell. The realm needs such voices, and I am heartened to know the future of House Stark lies in such fine hands.

It's worse than I thought.

Your kind words honor me more than you know. I have long admired the strength and endurance of the North, though it is rare we find time or cause to speak across such distances. Your father is known for his quiet dignity; I see that same dignity in you, paired with a thoughtful mind that reminds me of my own youth.

He's flattered. He's giddy. He's mine.

Tytos writes like a man who hasn't been praised in years. Probably hasn't. Tywin has no patience for weakness. Kevan too devoted to his elder brother, and the rest of the world laughs behind the gold. So when a five-year-old heir from the North sends him a honey-dipped letter full of respect?

He laps it up like cream.

As for your idea of unity between the North and West, I confess, it is an intriguing prospect. Too often, we are separated not by distance, but by habit. We think in terms of regions, when we should think of realms. Of partnerships.

I would be pleased to correspond further, if it pleases you. It is rare that I find such stimulating conversation, especially from one so young. My sons and daughter might even learn from your perspective.

He signs it with a flourish.

Lord Tytos Lannister
Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Shield of Lannisport, Keeper of the Golden Vein

So many titles. So little spine.

My reply takes all morning. I dictate it to a scribe with handwriting better than mine, slow and deliberate, polishing every phrase like a dagger before a duel.

To His Lordship Tytos Lannister,
Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock,

Your gracious words reached me like a warm hearth fire on a cold day, and I am honored that my simple letter brought you even a moment's pleasure. I agree, our houses have much to gain from dialogue and mutual understanding. The realm is too often divided by silence.

Then the bait.

You spoke of your sons and daughter, and I find myself deeply curious. The legacy of House Lannister echoes far, even in the cold winds of the North. I would be eager to hear more of them. What are their strengths? Their tempers? Their hopes, if you would share them.

Your wisdom, my lord, seems to me a guiding star not only for your children, but for all of us who must learn to lead. I hope in time to become half the man my father is… and perhaps one day, a fraction as insightful as yourself.

Laying it on thick?

Yes.

But a man like Tytos doesn't hear praise. He drinks it like a dying man at a well.

Would you tell me what values you have passed to them? What challenges you have faced in raising them? I ask not out of idle interest, but from a desire to learn, for one day I too must raise sons and lead bannermen.

And forgive my forwardness, but how did you and your lady wife meet? I've read tales of the West, but few speak of such things with truth. Your wisdom and experience, I am sure, would be worth more than a maester's book.

One more hook.

I look forward to your reply with great anticipation. If ever the winds bring you North, know that Winterfell will receive you with all the honor due your name and station.

With deepest respect,
Rickard Stark, heir of Winterfell

The seal presses deep. The ink dries crisp.

The paper flies.

My father doesn't know what to make of it. My mother suspects, she watches me now the way a hawk watches a clever mouse and wonders who taught it to smile like a fox.

But they won't stop me.

They don't see the game yet.

They think I'm playing at diplomacy. A curious child stretching his mind.

But I'm not playing.

I'm setting the board.

Tytos wants to talk?

Then talk we shall.

And he'll tell me everything I need to know about Genna, about Tywin, about every crack in the Lannister pride.

—

Another raven. Another scroll. Another sugary mess of affection from Lord Tytos Lannister.

I open it slowly, deliberately, like peeling back the silk from a decaying fruit.

My dearest young Lord Rickard,
I cannot express how delighted I am to find such a sincere and curious soul in the North. Your last letter brought me joy unlike anything I've felt in many moons. It reminded me of simpler days, before the burdens of my station weighed so heavily upon me...

And on and on it goes.

More praise for my "thoughtful insights." More wistful rambling about his youth and how he met Jeyne Marbrand in a garden full of peacocks. Apparently, she laughed at his poems.

He speaks of his children: Tywin, quiet and solemn, "more lion than lamb." Kevan, steady as stone. Genna, bright and proud, "too clever for the suitors who chase her." Tygett the bold. Gerion the wild. He writes like he's afraid they'll all slip through his fingers like sand.

I don't care about the details.

I care about what they reveal.

Tytos is alone. Tytos is insecure. And Tytos is desperate to believe I admire him.

Which is good.

Because this dance is going to take time.

Time meant I needed to work on one of the pillars of this project's success, manufacturing a printing press.

The carpenters of Winterfell are good men. Strong. Practical. Not visionaries, but they follow directions when given with confidence.

I bring them sketches. Rough ones. Designs for gears, rollers, screw presses, levers.

The first printing press.

They frown. Ask what it does.

"It's for words," I tell them. "To multiply them."

They shrug and start working.

—

The letters from Tytos keep coming.

Once a week. Sometimes more.

Your last musings on leadership struck me deeply. You're wise beyond your years, young lord. My son Tywin never speaks of such things. He is dutiful, but distant…

Genna has asked to read some of your letters. I told her I would share your next, if you were willing. I think she would enjoy your perspective…

Kevan says I've become mirthful again. Perhaps I am. But it feels good to speak with someone who listens. Thank you.

The man is opening like a flower in the sun, and I am the sun.

I keep the tone warm, respectful, just a shade vulnerable.

I ask about Genna again. About the Lannister trade routes. About the history of the Rock. I sprinkle compliments like salt preserving our bond, keeping the rot of doubt away.

Three months pass.

The printing press is almost ready. The first batch of paper is drying. I've got scribes lined up. I've already begun dictating essays to a bored scribe who thinks he's helping a gifted child blossom. He'll realize the truth too late.

And then, finally, finally a raven flutters into the yard with a letter that matters.

Dearest Lord Rickard,
Your words have become a balm in my days. A flickering light through the gray. I believe the time has come for us to speak not just as friends on parchment, but face to face.

I would be honored if you and your lord father, should he permit, would visit Casterly Rock as my guests. I wish to show you the West, to share my home, and perhaps… to speak of more permanent ties between our great houses.

He doesn't name Genna.

He doesn't have to.

I set the letter down and stare at it for a long time.

This is it.

The door is open. The lion is purring. And the girl is waiting.

Now it's time to show them that the wolves of the North don't just endure the cold.

They shape it.

—

The journey west is long and bitter. Sleet lashes our caravan like a whip. The winds bite. My father mutters that this is no weather to travel in. But we go anyway.

We ride with a lean escort of men-at-arms, our best-dressed maester, and a chest of northern gifts: furs, smoked meats, carved weirwood tokens. Distractions. Stage props. The real gift is me.

Winterfell sends its heir. The West will remember that.

Edwyle Stark, my father, is a decent man but diplomacy isn't in his blood. He speaks plainly, listens well, and carries himself like the weight of the North is carved into his bones.

But here? In halls of marble and gold, where every word is a blade and every smile hides a wager?

He's a fish out of frozen water.

So he defers.

To her.

My mother.

Sharp eyes. Sharper tongue. She was raised in the hill country but learned early how to wear nobility like a knife beneath silk.

She coaches me each night of the trip.

"Speak like a lord, not a merchant. But never make a demand unless you already own the answer."

"If a Frey shows strength, turn it to noise. If he jokes, let the room forget it. If he boasts, ask for proof and make the silence do the rest."

She might not understand the press I'm building, or the world I came from.

But she gets people.

We make a good team.

—

Casterly Rock rises like a god's tomb carved into the cliffs.

Gold-veined stone. Endless towers. Lions everywhere on banners, on the gates, on the buttons of the men who open our carriage.

They greet my father as if they've only half-heard of him. Courteous but cold.

Then I step out.

Five years old. Wool cloak of gray and white. Embroidered direwolf clasp. Clean boots. Controlled eyes.

I bow.

"Lord Tytos. Thank you for the invitation. I've long dreamed of seeing the Rock."

"Seven bless me," he mutters, "you speak even better than you write."

I give him my best smile.

"You flatter me, my lord. But it's easier to be eloquent with a pen."

The week unfolds in layers.

Tytos dotes. He shows me the treasury vaults, the peacock gardens, the inner library. He listens when I speak, nods like I'm a maester, and introduces me to half the household with pride in his voice.

He laughs too loud at jokes I plant. Apologizes when Tywin glares. Keeps touching my shoulder when he tells stories, like he needs to be sure I'm still real.

I exploit all of it.

"Lord Tytos, may I speak at your supper?"

"Of course, my boy! Of course!"

I tell a short tale of the North half truth, half fable of a lone wolf who defeats a storm not by fighting it, but by building a den so strong the storm breaks first.

The hall claps.

Tytos is entertained.

Tywin watches.

And then there's Genna.

She appears on the third night, seated beside her mother and sandwiched between two older brothers. Her dress is Lannisport silk, her golden hair combed into precise curls, and her posture unnaturally perfect, taught by septas and expectations.

She's eight.

Smaller than I imagined.

But already… sharp.

Her eyes track the room like a bird of prey, even as she toys with a sugared fig. She doesn't speak unless spoken to. When she does, her voice is clean, clear, and dangerous in the way a young sword is dangerous, not sharp yet, but made of steel all the same.

She glances at me when we're introduced.

"You're the boy who writes to Father."

Her tone isn't dismissive.

It's evaluating.

I bow slightly. "And you're the lady who's read my letters."

She blinks. Then smirks, just a flicker.

"Some of them."

"Then I hope you liked the good ones."

"I liked the ones that weren't about my brother."

Tytos chuckles, beaming with pride.

"Isn't she clever?" he says. "Takes after her mother, gods help us all."

Genna turns back to her fig, and says nothing.

—

The Freys arrive the next day.

They come in numbers and noise. Three of them, all older than me and twice as greasy. Cousins or sons of Walder, I don't care which.

They bring a lute. They bring a banner. They bring intentions.

They call her "Lady Genna" like it's a joke.

One of them asks if she's learned her letters yet.

She replies, "I read better than you speak."

It kills.

She walks with me in the garden later. Alone, but under the gaze of septas and shadows.

"They're loud," she says.

"Freys usually are."

"And fake."

I nod. "The louder the talk, the weaker the plan."

She gives me a glance. "You're quiet."

"I'm patient."

She thinks on that.

Then offers me a grape from her small silver dish.

"Do you think we'll marry?" she asks, blunt as a blade.

I meet her gaze. "If you want to."

She tilts her head. "What if I don't?"

"Then I'll marry someone else."

She laughs, an unguarded laugh this time. Not sharp. Not defensive.

Just young.

But her eyes… still calculating.

That night, over roasted quail and honeyed turnips, Tytos leans toward my mother.

"Your son… he's remarkable. Have you considered…"

Marna sips her wine, graceful and cold.

"We've considered many things, my lord," she replies. "But it would depend on the girl. And the family she's bound to."

Tytos beams, and dabs his mouth with a golden-trimmed cloth. He's drunk on his own hope.

Across the table, Genna watches me while pretending not to.

And I sit there, five years old, cloaked in wool and ambition, already laying claim to the Rock from the inside out.

—

I find him alone, just as I planned.

Mid-morning. Marble hall. A gallery of faded lion banners hanging above and dusty busts of dead Lannisters lined like sentinels. He's standing by a window, overlooking the inner courtyard where Gerion and Tygett are chasing each other with wooden swords.

He doesn't turn when I enter.

Doesn't need to.

He knows it's me.

"Come to recite poetry, Stark?"

His voice is iron being filed.

"No, Lord Tywin," I say. "I came to talk about your sister."

He turns then. Slow and deliberate. Tywin Lannister, eleven years old, but already forged from something colder than winter. His green eyes are flecked with gold and suspicion. His tunic is red velvet, plain but perfect. Not a crease out of place.

He looks me over.

Five years old. Short. Northern. A curiosity.

He doesn't smile.

"Does Genna know you're scheming for her hand?"

"Does she need to?" I shrug. "She'll have plenty of time to fall in love with me after the ink's dry."

Tywin narrows his eyes.

Most boys my age would fold under that look.

I hold it.

"You've fooled my father," he says, "but I'm not him."

"Good. I'd be worried if you were."

The silence stretches. But I'm ready. I like silence. It gives your words more weight when you drop them like anvils.

"I don't expect you to like me, Tywin. Frankly, I'd be concerned if you did. But let's not insult each other by pretending I'm here for love or honor."

He doesn't blink.

So I keep going.

"I'm here because your father is on the verge of marrying your sister to a Frey. And that would be a disaster."

His jaw tenses.

Just a flicker.

Got him.

"House Frey is a minor river family," I continue, walking toward the nearest bust, a snarling lion, chipped at the fang. "No prestige. No armies of note. No name worth whispering in the courts."

I turn to face him.

"Genna Lannister. Wed to a glorified toll-collector. That's what your family becomes. A jest. A punchline. The lions traded a golden cub for a muddy tollbooth.

Still no expression.

But his fingers twitch at his side.

"You're clever," he says.

"I'm right."

He crosses the chamber in two quiet steps. Now we're nearly eye to eye, though I have to crane my neck slightly. He studies me like I'm a riddle. Or a trap he didn't set.

"You think marrying into our family will elevate the North."

"No. I know it will."

"And you think flattering my father makes you a Lannister."

"No. It makes me his favorite."

That lands.

He flinches, not visibly, but I feel it. Like a tremor in the stone.

"My lord father is a good man," Tywin says tightly. "He believes in people."

"Then he'll be thrilled to believe in me. But you—" I lower my voice, cold and cutting. "You're the one who'll have to explain it, years from now, when Genna is Lady Frey and the realm snickers behind closed doors. 'What happened to the lions?' they'll say. 'Did they forget how to hunt?'"

He doesn't answer.

He just stares.

I press the advantage.

"You can't stop your father. Not directly. But you can guide him. And this match? It buys your house influence in the North, respect in the court, a legacy stronger than gold."

I pause. Let it hang.

"And you get to keep your sister away from the mud."

Another long silence.

Finally, Tywin exhales through his nose. Not a sigh. More like steam leaving a pressure valve.

"I'll advise him," he says. "But I'll be watching."

"Of course."

"If you stumble, I'll be the first to strike."

"I'd be disappointed if you weren't."

—

That night, after the feast and flattery and one more "accidental" jab at the Freys, Lord Tytos takes my father aside and beaming like a groom on his wedding night, says the words I've been sharpening into his heart for months.

"A betrothal," he says, voice cracking slightly, "between Rickard and Genna. With the blessing of both our houses."

My father looks stunned.

My mother doesn't.

She just nods once.

Across the room, Tywin Lannister watches me.

His arms are crossed.

His expression unreadable.

But his eyes?

They promise war if I slip.

And I smile.

Because I won't.

Chapter Text

A year has passed since I bled honey into a letter and baited Tytos Lannister with flattery he’d die to hear again. A year since I stepped through the golden halls of Casterly Rock and left with a promise sharper than any sword.

Betrothed.

To Genna Lannister, full of fire and instincts. A lion raised in velvet, already learning to read smiles like battle maps.

The court toasted. My father stammered. My mother smiled like she’d carved the match herself.

The Rock would send a dowry, eventually. When Genna comes of age. When the match is sealed in more than ink. But that’s years away.

I don’t have years.

So I went to work.

Below the great hall, down through the winding stairwells and narrow doors, I’ve been building something new.

The carpenters said I was mad.

A machine to copy words? What use is that when ravens already fly and maesters already scribble?

I didn’t argue. I just kept coming back with better diagrams. More tools. New wood.

I burned through six prototypes in ten months. The first press crushed every letterblock into splinters. The second jammed so tight we had to tear it apart with a chisel. The third exploded ink splattered across the wall like blood at a wedding.

The fourth one worked.

Barely.

The fifth one whispered.

The sixth one sang.

Now, when I step into the press chamber, it greets me like an old friend. The gears creak. The rollers spin. The wooden crank groans as it pulls each plate into place. It’s still slow, still fragile, but it works.

We started with test runs, fake news. Short articles about distant wars. Bandit sightings. Gossip I fed the scribes just to hear it echo back on paper.

Then I started designing the real thing.

A monthly. One page, double sided, paper. A name scrawled across the top in bold black letters:

THE NORTHERN HERALD

Printed in bold, thick letters across the top of the page. A name simple enough to sound ancient. Reliable. Authoritative.

The headlines will be subtle. A little fear. A little hope. A few scandals. A few heroes. Most of it true. Some of it true enough. Just enough to generate small amounts of rage.

They’ll read it by torchlight. In village halls and brothel lobbies and castle kitchens. Lords will read it out loud while pretending they’re not angry. Septons will quote it in sermons. Maesters will scoff, then steal lines from it when they write their own reports.

And every time they turn the page, they’ll be hearing my voice.

A Stark voice.

A northern voice.

—---

The fire crackled low in the solar. It was just the three of us. No guards. No maester. No one to interrupt. Just me, my father, and my mother; seated in high-backed chairs beneath a banner of the direwolf, stitched in silver and gray.

Snow fell softly outside the arrow-slit windows. A storm was coming in from the east, but the real storm? It was already here.

“Father. Mother. I want to talk to you both about money.”

That got their attention.

Edwyle Stark lowered his cup of mulled wine and leaned forward, his brow already furrowing. Marna Locke didn’t move, she just raised one eyebrow and folded her hands in her lap.

“I've heard all about your press, Rickard,” my father said. “Your project. Your… newspaper.”

He said the word like it was something between a novelty and a cough.

I nodded.

“It’s more than a project now. It’s a business. And I’m going to show you how it makes us rich.”

I stood up, paced slowly across the floor, and tapped the edge of the carved oak table.

“Right now, lords across Westeros rely on ravens, gossips, and the godsdamned maesters to tell them what’s happening in the world. That’s slow. Fragmented. Controlled by men with their own interests.”

I looked between them.

“But if we give them The Northern Herald, regular, reliable, and well-written. We become their source. The first to report victories, defeats, marriages, movements, disputes. They’ll hang on every edition. Not just for news, but to know what others know.”

Father exhaled slowly.

“You want to make it essential.”

“Yes,” I said. “But that’s only the beginning.”

I stepped to the hearth, where the fire lit my shadow against the stone.

“There’s more to a paper than news. That’s just the bait. The real gold is in the sections. The Herald won’t just inform. It will define taste.”

Mother’s eyes flickered.

“You mean fashion.”

“I mean control,” I said. “A fashion section, every issue. Detailed sketches of what’s worn in court. At Casterly Rock. In King’s Landing. At feasts, weddings, tourneys. We report the trends before anyone else does. We create desire and then monetize it.”

Father grunted. “What does that buy us? Silks and lace in the snow?”

“It buys us a head start,” I said, voice hard. “We export wool. We raise sheep. We’re surrounded by herders and weavers. Right now, the North is a sleeping giant in the textile market. But if we know what’s in style, before the other regions do, we can start producing copies. I’ll have tailors in Winter Town making southern cuts before the southern lords even think to order them.

Marna leaned forward now.

“And then?”

“Then,” I said, “we name the brands.”

“Every garment line, every design worth selling we give it a name. ‘Snowstitch.’ ‘King’s Cut by Northloom.’ ‘The South Face.’ Make it sound noble. Foreign. Elite. Then we mention them in the paper.”

I started walking again, circling the table like a wolf around prey.

‘Lady Manderly was seen in a Snowstitch cloak this week at White Harbor’s harvest festival.’
‘Reports from court claim Lord Tyrell complimented a King’s Cut surcoat worn by a Braavosi envoy.’

“We control the story. We control the taste. And by the time the masses want to buy in? We already own the supply chain.”

Father rubbed his beard. He was still stuck on the leap from ink to coin.

“But how do you sell enough cloth from stories? Lords don’t shop from parchment.”

“No,” I said, “but merchants do. Tailors. Traders. Once they see the names in print, they’ll ask. And when they ask, we’re the only ones holding the pattern.

Marna was nodding slowly now.

“You’ll drive the trends from the top. Filter them to the bottom. Use the elite to seduce the masses.”

I grinned.

“Exactly. And the more issues we print, the more weight our word carries. Eventually, if we say brown wool coats with bronze trim are back in style then they are.”

My father looked stunned.

Not angry.

Just… disoriented.

Like he was watching his son shift shape in front of him.

“Is this why you wanted the betrothal to Genna?”

“In part,” I said. “It gives us eyes in the West. Lannisport’s court will tell us what silks are rising. What colors are dying. She’ll see things before we hear them and having a daughter of one of the most powerful houses wear our designs will generate interest. And I’ll use that.”

I took a breath.

“You gave me a name, Father. Stark. That name has weight. But weight isn’t enough anymore. We need reach. The Herald gives us that. And fashion… control gives us profit.”

The fire popped behind me.

Marna looked at Edwyle, then back to me.

Her voice was quiet.

“Print the first issue.”

—---

The door shut behind me softly. The sound of crackling fire and fatherly hesitation vanished like a breath in cold wind. The hallway outside the solar was quiet, torchlit, and empty, except for her.

She stood with her hands clasped behind her back. Her cloak was pressed smooth. Not a hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in her gloves. She was the image of discipline in a world that still confused courtesy for professionalism.

Sera.

She was my assistant now. Hand-picked. Personally tested. And the only person in the castle who ever looked me straight in the eye without blinking or bending.

“Report,” she said, voice like polished glass.

“It went well,” I replied. “They’re on board.”

She didn’t smile.

She never does.

But I caught the faintest narrowing of her eyes. Approval. Or calculation. Or both.

“Authorization for the initial issue, then,” she said. “You’ll want final proofing by week’s end.”

I nodded.

We began walking down the stone corridor toward the press chamber, our footsteps a metronome of intent.

After a pause, she asked, “Will the Herald be divided only into news and fashion, then?”

I could hear the edge in her voice. Not doubt. Just logistics.

“No,” I said. “There’s going to be a third section.”

“What kind?”

I turned to look at her, and for the first time that day, I let a smile touch my face.

“Comics.”

That made her stop.

Just for a second.

“Comics,” she repeated flatly. Confused.

“Yes,” I said. “Short strips. Two or three panels. Illustrated humor. Exaggerated characters. Simple dialogue.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

I turned, facing her fully now.

“Because not every reader is a lord or a merchant,” I said. “Some are cooks. Stable boys. Millers’ sons. Daughters of shepherds. And children. The Herald has to grow with the next generation. Get them early, and you own their eyes for life.”

She studied me. Silent.

I kept going.

“They’ll beg their fathers to buy the next issue. They’ll learn to read just to follow the stories. Laugh at the same characters every month. And when they’re older?”

I shrugged.

“They’ll keep reading. For the news. For the fashion. For the comfort. And by then, I’ll be printing what they wear, what they eat, and what they believe.”

Sera’s expression didn’t change, but her voice softened half a note.

“Do you have a title?”

“One,” I said. “Snowy the Pup, a clever wolf cub who always outsmarts the bigger, dumber animals.”

She gave a nod. “Will it be… popular?”

“They’ll be addictive,” I said. “Catchy. Familiar. They’ll read them once, then want to read them again. And they’ll remember the name that brought it to them.”

She looked forward again.

“The Northern Herald.”

“Exactly.”

We walked the rest of the corridor without speaking.

The press room waited ahead, lit by lanterns and oil.

Sera stepped aside and let me enter first.

Ink. Timber. Cold iron. It all smelled like the future.

I glanced back at her, one last time.

“Let the scribes know,” I said. “We start laying out Section Three tomorrow.”

She nodded once.

No praise. No smile.

Just execution.

That’s why I picked her.

—---

The stench of feathers hits before I even reach the tower.

Burnt droppings. Oil. Warm blood. Pine tar. Ink. It all mixes in the rookery air like a potion left too long on the fire.

A boy walks out past me carrying a crate with tiny beaked heads poking through the slats, each one marked with color-coded ribbons tied to their feet.

The birds are tagged, numbered, trained. Not for short messages. Not for warnings. Not for war.

These ravens are for distribution.

Maester Walys stood waiting by a wall of flight logs, scrolls pinned across a canvas map of Westeros. His chain clinked softly as he turned to greet me, robes ink-stained, sleeves rolled up. A book of names was cradled in one arm, a quill tucked behind his ear like a dagger.

“Lord Rickard,” he said with a faint bow. “Here to inspect your fleet of messengers?”

“I’m here to see if they are ready,” I replied.

“The first flock is prepared. Thirty-seven birds, trained and conditioned for distance delivery. Routes are staggered across the North, with relays into the Riverlands, the West, and the Crownlands. Once the Herald starts, they’ll carry the first issue to every major lordship north of the Mander.”

He moved to the cage nearest the wall, pulling back a bolt.

A raven hopped forward, eyes black as tar.

“Most of these birds can carry half a folded broadsheet,” he continued. “We’re trimming the weight. Using thinner parchment. That gives us speed.”

“Reliability?”

“We lose one in ten on storm routes,” he admitted. “Less if we give them more training, they’re getting used to the chaos.”

“Good,” I said, watching the bird twitch. “They’ll need it.”

I turned to the large desk near the back of the chamber, the real reason I came.

Walys followed, his tone shifting from factual to something quieter. Not deferent. Calculated.

“You’ll want an update on the men stationed in King’s Landing.”

I nodded.

Walys’s thin smile widened by a degree. “Already in place. No sellswords, no spies. Reporters. They conduct interviews in the capital openly, without suspicion. Courteous, polite, ink before daggers. Just as you instructed.”

“Targets?”

He spread a scroll across the table and began to speak names that even my father would lean in to hear.

“Prince Duncan Targaryen. The romantic prince who gave up his crown for love. Still a legend in King’s Landing, still at the center of whispered scandals. Lady Jenny of Oldstones at his side, their story writes itself.

“Prince Jaehaerys. A dutiful but reclusive brother, overshadowed, but rumored to be brilliant. Unseen. Mysterious. The kind of figure the realm would devour if given the right spotlight.

“Princess Shaera Targaryen. The rebel princess. Defied her parents to marry her brother. Perfect for gossip and appeals to the younger generation."

Walys tapped each name in turn. “Our men have been gathering details. Attending feasts. Listening at court. Observing who they meet, what they wear, how the crowd reacts. Drafting profiles. Enough to feature them as… personalities.”

I looked at the names and felt the weight of the play.

“We’ll make them people in the minds of my readers,” I said softly. “Not just dragons in a castle. Living, breathing figures. Scandals, virtues, rivalries. Humanized.”

“Yes,” he said. “We’ll build them up as legends in your pages. By the time the court wakes up to what’s happening, it’ll be too late.”

“Good,” I said at last. “Sera will want the profiles by week’s end. Make sure the sketches are flattering. We’ll use their images as anchors.”

Walys bowed. “And the comic section?”

“Completely separate,” I said. “The comics are for the children. The profiles are for the lords and ladies. Two different hooks. Same net.”

He gave a nod of respect. “Understood.”

I turned toward the window where the birds hopped and fluttered, their black eyes gleaming like ink drops.

Soon they’d carry my paper across the realm.

—---

Two weeks later, the press had cooled.

The ravens had been fed. The ink pots sealed. The workmen gone, their boots still tracked in streaks across the floor.

But I was still there.

Alone in the printing chamber, the oil lamps burning low, the smell of hot iron and wool pulp lingering in the air. I held it in my gloved hands, Issue One of The Northern Herald.

It was heavy, but not with weight. With possibility.

I spread the broadsheet across the long table and let my eyes devour it, column by column.

Front Page: 

"STORM BEYOND THE NARROW SEA” 

“Free Cities Stir While Braavos Holds Its Breath"

The headline was sharp. The font large and authoritative. Below it, the opening paragraph I’d approved just three nights ago:

“Volantis arms her Black Walls. Lys bleeds merchants into the Stepstones. Myr and Tyrosh sharpen old grievances into new blades. Only Braavos remains silent and that silence roars louder each moon.”

It wasn’t pure fact. Not quite. But it felt true. It made the realm turn eastward. It made them worry.

And that’s all I needed.

A spark of tension. A whisper of war.

Nothing sells papers like fear and distance.

I flipped it backwards.

Back Page: 

Fashion:

“THE ROSE AND THE ROOT”

This was my real gamble, the section Westeros didn’t know it needed yet. Fashion. Personality. Style.

“At a recent feast in Summerhall, Prince Duncan Targaryen once again defied courtly conventions. Clad in a moss-colored woolen cloak, not silk, fastened with a single bronze clasp shaped like a tree root, he stood beside his lady, Jenny of Oldstones. One whose gown of sun-faded gold was stitched with weathered threads and wildflowers. Their clothes, much like their love, seem unconcerned with courtly approval… and all the more memorable for it.”

I smiled.

The copy was good. Measured. Romantic. It painted Duncan as a rebel, Jenny as a mystery and both as icons. And best of all?

They were wearing wool.

Northern wool. Practical. Symbolic. Unexpected.

Let the lords scoff. The mothers would notice.

And the merchants would beg to know where to get root-clasps.

Section Three:

Finally, I reached the last section.

The paper folded naturally into thirds, and at the bottom right, framed in a thick-lined box, was the first installment of my silent assassin.

Snowy the Pup.

The drawings were simple but clever. Snowy, a bright-eyed white-furred wolf cub, too small to be taken seriously, had wandered into a feast at Winterfell, mistaking a knight’s cloak for a blanket.

Panel One:
Snowy dragging the heavy cloak across a hall, unaware a pompous Frey knight stands half-naked and humiliated in the background.

Panel Two:
Lady Stark staring in amused confusion as Snowy proudly deposits the cloak at her feet, tail wagging, tongue out.

Panel Three:
The knight blushing in the corner. Caption reads:
“Snowy always knows who deserves the cloak.”

It was cute.

It was funny.

And it hit the Frey.

I could already hear the laughter in the kitchens. The groans in the barracks. The children giggling in the longhouse corners.

Let the lords argue about politics.

The people would remember Snowy.

I stood there in the silence for a long time, hands on the Herald like a man clutching prophecy.

This wasn’t just a newspaper.

This was an opportunity.

One I will take advantage of.

The Free Cities would worry them.

Duncan and Jenny would charm them.

And Snowy would keep them coming back.

The first issue was done.

The ravens would carry it.

The ink would dry.

And the North, and beyond, would start to change.

One story at a time.

Chapter Text

High above the Kingswood, just as the mist burned off the treetops and the crows began their morning songs, a raven carved its black path through the sky.

Its wings snapped with precision, a scroll lashed tight to its leg. But this was no dull letter sealed with wax and boredom.

This was The Northern Herald.

Folded neat. Marked with a wax-stamped sigil a direwolf's head.

The bird didn’t slow. Didn’t veer.

It had its mark.

Stokeworth Castle.

Nestled atop a forested hill south of Duskendale, the small castle of beige stone and ivy-cloaked towers looked like it had been designed by a drunken mason uneven, but somehow still standing.

The raven swooped once. Twice. Then landed on the outer rookery perch with a flap of feathered confidence.

Maester Harwyn, bald, gray, and halfway through a honeycake, looked up.

“From Winterfell?” he muttered, and plucked the bundle loose.

The parchment was warm from flight. Smelled like pine and ink.

Harwyn grunted and shuffled down a narrow spiral staircase. He passed a servant carrying apples. A guard scratching himself. No one noticed him. No one ever did.

He walked the western corridor and entered Lord Stokeworth’s study. The door creaked like it always did. The desk was cluttered with maps, dull reports, and two old letters that Lord Stokeworth was too lazy to answer.

Harwyn dropped the Herald unceremoniously on the stack.

He left without a word.

It sat there for hours. Then days.

Lord Lyle Stokeworth found it two days later. Pompous in his own slow way, with a mustache too long for his face and hands always stained with summer wine, he pawed over his desk looking for a dull inventory list about grain.

“What's this?” he muttered, flipping the Herald over.

He squinted at the direwolf. Grunted.

Then tossed it aside with the same care he gave to most Northern mail.

The boy found it next.

Tomas Stokeworth. Seven years old and already more clever than his father, tugged it from the pile one afternoon while looking for blank parchment to doodle on.

He unfolded it.

And there it was Snowy the Pup.

Three crisp panels.

A direwolf cub sneaking off with a cloak. Running from a knight. Earning a kiss on the snout from a Lady.

Tomas laughed. Then laughed again.

He read it twice. Then again. Then showed it to his cat, who didn’t get the joke.

He read it every morning after that, propped up near the hearth, mouthing the lines to himself like a secret spell.

Three days later, Lady Falena Stokeworth noticed the strange parchment while cleaning up Tomas’ scattered toys.

She meant to scold him. But then she saw the fashion column.

"At a recent feast in Summerhall, Prince Duncan Targaryen once again defied courtly conventions. Clad in a moss-colored woolen cloak, not silk, fastened with a single bronze clasp shaped like a tree root, he stood beside his lady, Jenny of Oldstones. One whose gown of sun-faded gold was stitched with weathered threads and wildflowers. Their clothes, much like their love, seem unconcerned with courtly approval… and all the more memorable for it."

Falena blinked.

Her gown looked like that. Almost.

She read the paragraph again.

Then flipped the page.

And kept reading.

By dusk, her handmaid was instructed to find the nearest merchant who had anything resembling "a gown of sun-faded gold stitched with weathered threads and wildflowers."

A week passed.

And one quiet evening, as the wind clawed against the castle walls and the fire in the hearth died low, Lord Lyle Stokeworth wandered back to the Herald. His wife and heir had been talking about it frequently.

He meant to toss it out.

But saw it folded to a section on rumors of the court.

“Sources whisper that the Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks wears imported Northern wool on patrol stitched with black thread, lined with fur. If true, he may be setting a bold new precedent in Crownlands fashion.”

Lyle stroked his mustache. Hadn’t he heard of something like that? He didn’t want to be looked down upon by the other Lords and be late to a new fashion trend.

He sat down.

He flipped another page.

He didn’t realize he was hooked until it was too late.

—---

The sun was already pouring through the high windows of the Red Keep by the time Tywin Lannister sat down to tighten the final gold clasp on his crimson doublet.

He dressed without ceremony. Without help. One gesture at a time. Each buckle and strap laid flat, precise. There was no vanity in it. Vanity was for fools. For singers and scented lords playing at dignity. This was armor. And the court was a battlefield.

His cloak settled on his shoulders. Red, lined with golden thread and lion sigils today. The fools needed reminding.

Tywin stared at his own reflection in the polished steel of his armor stand. The eyes that stared back were hard. Empty of sentiment. Empty of sleep. A boy once looked back from that reflection. A boy who once believed duty could be taught. That strength was something his father might remember how to carry.

That boy was dead.

All that remained was this.

His jaw tightened as the memory bled back in.

Tytos. Weak. Slumped behind his desk like he had melted into it. The wine stained parchment trembling in his hands. The seal broken. The Stark seal. That damned wolf’s head.

“You went behind my back,” Tywin had said, voice like steel dragged across granite.

His father looked up, eyes wide and useless. “He wrote to me like a gentleman, Tywin. Respectful. You could learn from that.”

“He’s five years old.”

“He’s brilliant. Polite. Ambitious in all the right ways. Gods, why can’t you be more like Rickard?”

That sentence. That cursed, cowardly sentence. Still echoing in Tywin’s skull like a hammer hitting bone.

Why can’t you be more like Rickard?

His fingers curled at his sides, even now. A year later. In another city. In another life. That phrase still lived inside him like a rot that never slept.

Rickard Stark.

He wasn’t a boy. He was a creature. A wolf cub wrapped in silver tongue and strategy. A pair of calculating eyes hiding behind the soft frame of childhood.

Tywin had watched him smile like he owned the Rock. Watched him make his father blush with compliments he didn’t mean. Watched him charm Genna without blinking.

No child should be that sharp.

No child should see that much.

And now? Now that wolf was howling from the treetops, the red keep was listening.

The Northern Herald.

Tywin had read it in silence. Every column. Every line. The writing was clean, the ideas pedestrian. A public report out of Winterfell. At first, it had seemed laughable.

But then the changes started.

Minor lords from the Crownlands were spotted wearing wool cloaks. Not Essosi silk. Not Dornish linen. Wool. Dyed in soft greys and earthen greens. The kind Duncan wore. The kind Jenny wore.

And now the paper was quoting them. Romanticizing them. Turning them into icons for the realm to follow. Turning fashion into weaponry.

Even worse were the reporters.

They had begun appearing at feasts. Attractive, polite, quiet men and women with smiles and study. Asking questions. Recording habits. Compiling something.

And the fools here, the nobles of King’s Landing drunk on their own names, were giving them their time.

Tywin had watched Lord Stokeworth delay his entrance to court because he was being interviewed. He had seen Lady Swann adjust her hair when a man in a brown wool coat entered the hall with a satchel with the Herald emblem. It had become a game. A popularity contest.

And the boy from the North was the hand in the shadow guiding it.

Tywin closed the button at his wrists with deliberate force and stepped away from the mirror. He did not sigh. He did not mutter.

But as he reached for his gloves and stepped into the hall, his mind turned sharply.

This wasn’t a paper. It was a net. A quiet, elegant trap for the realm’s attention.

And someone who held the realm’s attention was dangerous.

The boy was dangerous.

Because others believed whatever he printed.

Tywin narrowed his eyes as he descended the marble stairs.

There would be no more underestimating Rickard Stark.

—---

Sera arrived like she always did.

No knock. No rustle. Just the click of boots on stone. Straight back. Tight braid. A face carved out of winter, not a smile in sight.

She stopped across the table, arms folded behind her like a soldier awaiting orders.

I didn’t look up right away.

I was staring at the map. My eyes on Lannisport. My mind already two moves ahead.

“Report,” I said, voice level.

She answered without ceremony.

“The launch was effective. Circulation is strongest in the North and Crownlands. The latter is reacting… favorably.”

I smiled.

“How favorably?”

“Merchant requests for wool have risen. The cloaks mentioned in the Herald are becoming a trend among Crownland Lords and merchants. Prince Duncan’s moss-green cloak is also becoming a common request among minor and hedge knights.”

I let that sink in.

The North would feel the coin soon. The looms would run until their frames cracked.

“Good. And the nobles?” I asked.

Sera nodded. “They’re playing along. More than a few have started courting the Herald’s attention. Some offer coin for coverage. Others are writing their own quotes and planting them with our men.”

“Desperate for the spotlight,” I muttered. “Perfect.”

She paused. Then:

“What’s the next phase?”

I tapped the map. My nail clicked on Lannisport.

“We expand the web. Train more reporters. Attractive men and women, smart enough to listen without looking like they’re listening. Charming ones. They’ll be posted in Lannisport. We embed Stark men with each of them like in King’s Landing.”

She nodded once. “And your betrothed?”

“I’ll write to Genna,” I said. “Ask her to wear the cloaks. And have her ladies do the same. Doesn’t need to be loud, just visible.”

She tilted her head. “The Stark men you mentioned, will they number the same as the ones you posted in King’s Landing?”

“Yes. Silent. Sharp. Loyal only to the North.”

“That will mean involving your father,” she said carefully. “If you want more men.”

I looked up.

Met her gaze.

“That’s exactly what I plan to do.”

Sera stood beside the long table, arms crossed, eyes on me like I was a report she hadn’t decided to approve yet.

Good. Let her wonder.

The moment demanded patience.

“There’s no real path to strengthening the North militarily anytime soon” I finally said.

She raised a brow. Just slightly.

I kept going. “Not truthfully. Not with our budget. The lords bark about more swords, more steel, more walls. But all that costs coin we don’t have. And won’t have if we don’t improve our economy.”

I stepped closer to the table. Dragged my finger across the carved wolf’s head etched into the wood.

“So,” I said, voice low, “I asked myself a different question.”

I looked up.

“How do you improve Northern security… without building a larger army?”

Sera didn’t answer.

I smiled.

“You don’t need more swords if you stop the threat before it starts.”

I gestured to the northern map pinned above the fireplace, already crisscrossed with twine, pins, and handwritten notes.

“We don’t need more soldiers. We need eyes. We need whispers. We need to know more than anyone else and know it before they do. I want a department. Quiet and Sharp.”

Her voice came like a knife through cloth. “Spies?”

“Intelligence. Real intelligence work. I want information turned into strategy. And I want to use that to the benefit of the North.” I said.

“The Office of Northern Intelligence.”

I paused. Let the words settle between us like smoke.

“ONI,” I said. “It’ll live in the shadow of the Herald. Not visible, but never far. You’ll help coordinate it. Reporters will double as field agents. Some will gather quotes. Others will gather secrets. ONI directs and the Herald sells smiles.”

She was still quiet, but I saw it in her eyes. The gears turning. Cold, perfect.

“You’ll need more men. More resources,” she said.

“I’ll need more from my father,” I replied. “More permissions he doesn’t realize he’s giving.”

“And you think he’ll say yes?”

“If he believes it will benefit Northern security, he will.” I said.

I turned back to her.

“The North can’t afford another ten thousand swords. But it can afford a hundred truths. And they’ll cut deeper than steel.”

—---

The fire was already going when I entered the solar. I made sure of it.

A room should never be colder than the person speaking in it.

One long table. Five chairs. One for me, centered at the head. The others staggered to face me

Sera arrived first, as always punctuality is a blade in her hand. She took her place silently, eyes sharp, posture sharper. No need for greetings. We had work.

Next came Maester Walys. Southron affectations clung to him like perfume. He gave a polite nod.

Father and Mother arrived last.

Edwyle Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North… and a man who’d never asked to lead a kingdom of snow and stone. His boots tracked in slush. His shoulders carried the weight of a dozen banners and a century of tradition. And beside him, Marna my mother, always watching, always reading.

“Rickard,” Father said. “What is all this?”

I gestured to the table. “A meeting. An executive meeting.”

Father blinked. “A what?”

“A formal council,” I said. “One that will set direction. Strategy. Finances. We cannot build a stronger North with tradition alone. It requires structure.”

I paused then continued. “The Herald has succeeded. The first wave has reached the Crownlands and parts of the Riverlands. Influences are shifting. Fashion trends are changing. We have a foothold. But we need to consolidate it.”

Father nodded slowly. “I heard rumors from White Harbor. Some lords were amused. Some impressed. This is good work, Rickard. But newspapers do not hold swords.”

“No,” I said. “But they decide where swords are pointed.”

That made him still.

I placed both hands on the table.

“To strengthen the North, we do not need more men. We do not need more steel. We need to know more than our enemies. Before they act. Before they plan.”

“I want to create a new department,” I said. “One that works in tandem with the Herald. Not just to spread information… but to gather it. To analyze. To act.”

“Another department?” Father said slowly. “How much coin does this one cost?”

“Less than an army,” I replied. “And far more effective.”

I stood. Moved to the hearth. Let the flames paint my face in shadow.

“There’s no future in raising more swords, Father. We can’t compete with the South or the Reach in numbers. We can’t outspend Oldtown or outbreed the Riverlands. But we can outthink them. That’s the war we can win.”

Father exhaled, long and slow. “Spying through the Herald.”

“Through conversations, correspondences, court attendance, merchant records, guard rotations, feast invitations, private letters, and rumor networks,” I said. “We will not simply spy. We will listen. And when listening is not enough, we will ask questions with steel that makes men reveal what they intended to hide.”

I paused then continued. “I want to establish The Office of Northern Intelligence. ONI. Its purpose is simple: gather, interpret, and weaponize knowledge for the benefit of the North.”

Mother’s lips twitched. Amusement, maybe. Approval, perhaps.

“And you’d run this yourself?” Father asked. “While running the Herald, and your studies, and gods know what else?”

I smiled. “No. I want you to run it. Both of you.”

That silenced the room for a beat too long.

I pushed through.

“Who better? The Lord and Lady of Winterfell, overseeing the most discreet, most precise machine in the North. Sera and I will handle operations. You two handle oversight, appointments, and plausible deniability.”

Father stared at me like I’d sprouted a second head. “You want me to lead… your spy ring?”

“I want you to protect the North,” I said. “This is how we do it now. Not with swords, but with knowing more than our enemies.”

Mother was the one to break the silence.

“This would mean… what, exactly? Spies in King’s Landing? Reporters that work both ends of the quill?”

“Yes,” I said. “And more.”

I returned to my seat. Steepled my fingers.

“The Herald will act as a facilitator and catalyst. ONI turns that into action. Anything clandestine that needs to be done, ONI will handle.”

I let the words hang.

“…no one will even realize we’ve done it.”

Father looked down at the table. His fingers tapped the wood.

After a long pause, he spoke gingerly.

“I’m not sure I understand all of it. But if it protects the North… if it keeps us stronger, then I’ll back it.”

His eyes met mine.

“But no lies to your own blood, Rickard. If you ask for resources, ask them honestly. Don’t run shadow games on your own parents.”

I gave him a nod.

A small one.

The fire popped.

Walys cleared his throat.

“There is another matter.”

We all turned.

He reached into his sleeve and set a sealed parchment on the table. The wax was deep red, marked with a three-headed dragon.

A royal summons.

“A raven arrived from King’s Landing an hour before this meeting. A summons. Lord Stark is requested to appear at the Red Keep.”

Father blinked. “Why?”

Walys opened the letter. Read aloud:

“To Lord Edwyle Stark of Winterfell,” Walys read. “His presence is requested at the Red Keep to discuss matters pertaining to the recent publication known as The Northern Herald.”

Mother stiffened.

Walys murmured, “It may be nothing. But it may be everything. There are those in court who do not enjoy being spoken of without their permission.”

Arguments began.

Accusations.

Suggestions.

Panic in polite language.

I said nothing.

I stared into the fire.

And when the moment was right, I stood.

“Sera,” I said. “Prep the second issue.”

She looked at me, waiting.

“The focus is Aegon the Fifth’s reforms. Smallfolk rights. His efforts to lift the common man. We’ll frame it as noble. Necessary. Reverent.”

She nodded once, already turning.

I looked to my father.

“I will go with you to King’s Landing.”

Father hesitated.

“I began this,” I said. “I will hear what the king thinks of it.”

The fire cracked behind us.

The North had spoken.

And now, the South would answer.

Chapter Text

Three Weeks Later

The sea has a rhythm to it.

Not a song. Not a lullaby. A drumbeat. Soft. Repetitive. Maddening if you let it get too far into your skull. I listen to the waves, feel the pitch of the deck beneath my feet, and wait. Brings back old memories of yachting in my old life.

One more day to King’s Landing.

The candle by the bunk flickers low, casting sharp shadows across my notes, outlines of King Aegon’s children, House allegiances they shattered, alliances left to rot. I tap a quill against the wood, slow and steady, until the door creaks open.

The door creaked open. I didn’t look.

I could tell it was Father from the weight of the sigh before he even stepped in.

He grumbled as he sat on the cot across from mine, pulled off his gloves with the slow stiffness of a man older than he should be.

“Gods,” Edwyle muttered, running a hand through his beard. “Two weeks of nothing but dried salted meat, stale bread, and seagull shit. I don’t know how sailors keep their minds.”

I smirked. “They don’t. That’s why they keep flasks.”

He chuckled. Just once. Then he went quiet. I could hear the waves slapping the sides again.

After a while, he looked at me.

“You’ve been quiet all day.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“About what we’re walking into?”

“Yes.”

He shifted, eyes narrowing. “So tell me, Rickard. What exactly are we walking into?”

I leaned back, let the wood groan behind me.

“Aegon the Fifth,” I began, “is a man teetering on the edge of his own legacy. Aegon the Unlikely. A man who rose from fourth son of a fourth son to wear a crown he was never supposed to touch. And when he became King, he wanted to change everything.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Edwyle said.

“No,” I said. “It sounds righteous. And that’s the problem.”

I stood and walked to the door. Looked out at the black mirror of the sea.

“His reforms have rattled every Lord from Dorne to the North. Land grants to smallfolk. Law changes. The end of the worst traditions. A noble idea, but noblemen don’t like being made less noble.”

Father was quiet.

“And worse,” I continued, “he let his children marry for love. No alliances. No coin-swapping. No binding oaths between rival Houses. Just love. That makes the Lords nervous.”

I turned, folded my arms.

“He’s given the people too much. And the Lords too little. That makes him vulnerable. And vulnerability…”

I paused, let it land.

“…is leverage.”

Father stared at me. “Leverage for what?”

I smiled.

“I didn’t come because we’re in trouble, Father. I came because I smell an opportunity in the air. And it smells like a government contract.”

Father leans back, rubs his temples.

“Seven hells,” he mutters. “I thought you were going to say we’d apologize. Maybe grovel a little. But you…”

He chuckles, weary and impressed.

“You’re not going to the capital to beg. You’re going to negotiate.”

I offer him a shrug and a smile.

That got a bark of a laugh out of him.

“Gods help me,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re the strangest boy I’ve ever met.”

I grinned and sat down across from him.

“I’m a new kind of Stark, Father. One that deals in ink instead of iron. One who sees opportunity where others see nothing.”

“And what happens when the King doesn’t like what he reads?”

“Then we give him something better to read,” I said. “We use the Herald to tell his story in a way he never could. We make him beloved. Revered. Remembered.”

“You’d spin his mistakes into legacy?”

“Not spin,” I said. “Frame. And in return, he gives us legitimacy, access, and coin.”

Father rubbed his temples.

“You’re six,” he said.

“And I’ll be using that to my full advantage once we’ve arrived, just follow my lead.” I said.

He sighed again, but I saw the twitch of a smile.

Outside, the bell tolled twice.

“One day to harbor,” I said, standing again. “You ready to shake the capital, Father?”

He grunted. “I just hope they have better wine.”

—---

Red Keep

The chamber smelled of old parchment and burning pinewood. Tall candles leaned like tired soldiers, their wax pooling in quiet surrender.

Aegon the Fifth stood by the arched window, arms clasped behind his back. His silver-blond hair was touched by gray at the temples, his shoulders heavy with the weight of a crown that never sat quite right.

Behind him loomed Ser Duncan the Tall, taller than any knight had a right to be, arms folded across his chest like stone columns.

The voice that broke the stillness belonged to Prince Duncan, Aegon’s firstborn.

“They wrote about us,” Prince Duncan spat, voice hot with fury. “Not just wrote, printed, bound, sent out by raven. To Lords. To smallfolk. They’re making jests of us!”

He paced like a lion behind bars, fists clenched at his sides.

“‘Prince Duncan and his lady muse, cloaked in wool and scandal,’” he quoted bitterly. “That’s what the damned thing said. As if I’m trying to stir up trouble”

Aegon sighed. Slowly. Like he’d been holding it in for a week.

“Sit down, Duncan.”

“No. No, I won’t. The Starks are trying to make a name for themselves by dragging mine through the mud!”

Jenny sat quietly in the corner. Small. Pale. Still. She watched her prince rage with wide, soft eyes. Her hands folded in her lap, unmoving.

“They’re using us,” Prince Duncan snapped. “Turning our love into a headline, parading it like a bard’s song in every tavern. And you...”

He turned on his father.

“...you invited them here. Summoned Edwyle Stark to the Red Keep like it was a bloody garden party.”

Aegon turned then. Slowly. The light from the window made him look older than he was. Maybe he felt older.

“Because I want to hear what they have to say,” Aegon said.

Ser Duncan finally spoke, his voice like gravel sliding over stone.

“He wrote this?” Ser Duncan asked, raising an eyebrow. “I thought him quieter.”

Aegon shook his head slowly. “Perhaps we underestimated him.”

“He’s not known for cunning,” Prince Duncan muttered.

“He’s known for being dutiful. Which, in Westeros, is more dangerous than cleverness. A dutiful man with ambition will build slowly. Silently. Until he has something like this.” Aegon said.

He gestured toward The Northern Herald. “This is more than a vanity project. It’s a tool. A signal.”

“A weapon,” Prince Duncan muttered.

“It may be. If they’re clever enough to keep using it right.” Said Aegon.

“I want to hear from Edwyle himself,” Aegon said. “I want to know how far he means to take this. What his intention is.”

“Should we be worried?” Duncan asked.

Aegon didn’t answer for a moment. He looked at the smudged paper again.

Jenny, who had sat in the corner the whole time like a wisp of fog, finally spoke. Her voice was soft, melodic, but firm.

“The North remembers,” she said.

The room fell silent at that.

Aegon’s eyes flicked toward her, thoughtful. Then back to the fire.

“Send word to the harbor,” Aegon said quietly. “When Lord Stark arrives, I want to see him in court.”

“And if he brings some excuse?” Prince Duncan asked.

“Then we smile. We pour him wine. And we wait.” Said Aegon

Ser Duncan tilted his head. “And if it’s more than just him behind it?”

Aegon didn’t smile.

“Then we find out how deep this wolf pack runs.”

—---

The Iron Throne

The throne room was colder than usual, despite the heat of the sun bleeding through the high, stained-glass windows. Dust danced in the light like motes of ash. King Aegon the Fifth sat atop the Iron Throne, thirty feet of melted judgment, forged from the blades of the conquered. It cut at the weak. Scarred the proud. It watched all.

Courtiers lined the chamber in thick brocades and finery, fanning themselves with wool and whispers. The air smelled of tension, excitement, and curiosity.

Near the foot of the throne, Prince Aerys stood with eyes narrowed like a hawk, fingers fidgeting inside velvet sleeves. Tywin Lannister stood beside him, gold and crimson, a statue carved from contempt.

The herald stepped forward, voice ringing through the hall.

“Presenting Lord Edwyle Stark, Warden of the North, and his son, Lord Rickard Stark.”

A pause. Murmurs rippled through the court like tossed stones into still water.

“His son?”

“A child?”

“Why bring the boy?”

The doors swung open.

Boots on stone.

Edwyle Stark entered, tall and somber in dark wool and fur trim, the wolf’s head of House Stark emblazoned on his breast. At his side, holding his hand with exaggerated innocence, walked a small boy.

Rickard Stark.

Six years old.

His hair was dark, combed neatly. His cheeks round and flushed like he’d spent the morning in the snow. He blinked big gray eyes at the gathered lords with the same look a butcher’s son might wear.

He smiled. A child’s smile.

Edwyle and Rickard came to the foot of the Iron Throne. As the court watched, they knelt. The boy’s head bowed low.

Aegon V leaned forward slightly on the jagged seat, peering down at them through the iron teeth of conquest.

“Lord Stark,” the king said, voice even. “And young Rickard. We welcome you to the Red Keep.”

Edwyle rose first. Rickard followed, a step behind, still holding to his father’s cloak like a boy would.

“Your Grace,” Edwyle said with a shallow bow. “We are honored to stand before the Iron Throne.”

“We thank you for answering our summons,” Aegon continued. “There are… matters of interest the Small Council wishes to speak with you about. Concerning your recent endeavors.”

Behind the king, Ser Duncan the Tall stood motionless.

“If it pleases Your Grace,” Edwyle said, “we would be happy to attend a private session.”

“It does please me” Aegon said, rising from the throne.

As the king descended the steps, the court buzzed again, one voice at the edge whispering, “Why bring the boy?” Another hissing, “Perhaps he's being groomed early.”

Aerys muttered something to Tywin, but Tywin did not respond. His gaze never left the child. His expression unreadable.

Rickard looked back at him once.

Then he smirked.

—---

The Small Council Room

The small council chamber was cloaked in candlelight and quiet tension.

Stone walls, thick as vault doors. A long table with a painted map of Westeros etched into oak. Dragonbone chairbacks. Scrolls and empty goblets. The only sounds were boots on stone and the hush of fabric as men took their seats.

King Aegon the Fifth entered first, flanked by Ser Duncan the Tall and Prince Duncan Targaryen, who stormed ahead like he owned the room. Lady Jenny floated behind, a half-step removed, silent and strange, folding herself at a side table with a little sigh. Her presence was tolerated, but never allowed to take part.

Then came the North.

Edwyle Stark stepped inside with the weight of Winterfell in his shoulders. And beside him, small and slow, was Rickard Stark. Just six. Eyes wide. Hands neatly tucked behind his back like a page at his first lesson.

The North bowed.

“Your Grace.” Edwyle said with formality. “We are here at your summons.”

“We thank you.” Aegon replied from his seat at the table, nodding once.

Everyone sat, except Rickard, who stood quietly behind his father’s chair, a ghost with good manners. He opened his mouth to speak.

“Your Gr—”

“What were you thinking, Lord Stark?!” Prince Duncan’s chair scraped violently as he stood. His voice thundered.

“Circulating gossip about my person to the Lords of the realm? Turning the royal family into a sideshow for everyone’s amusement!?” yelled the Prince.

A flash of red burned in Edwyle’s neck, and he stood his ground. “You summoned us to speak, Prince Duncan. Not to shout.”

“We summoned you to answer for what you’ve done. You’ve involved us in this trash!”

“I’ll stand here and answer for my house. But don’t mistake the North for your lackey to screamed at.” Edwyle snapped back.

“You’ve stepped far out of bounds…”

The tension was thick enough to choke on.

Aegon raised both hands.

“Enough.”

The king’s voice was not loud. It was tired.

“We are not in a melee. This is the Small Council. We will speak in turn or we will not speak at all.”

Ser Duncan said nothing, but his eyes shifted between the men and the boy.

The boy, however, was no longer behind his father.

He’d wandered off, boots pattering softly across the chamber floor, until he came to the little table where Lady Jenny sat with her tea and her strange little smile.

She looked at him, curious.

“Do you like songs?” she asked.

Rickard smiled.

“I like stories.”

“And mischief?”

“That too.”

He climbed into her lap like a kitten learning to purr. She wrapped her arms around him and tickled his ribs with her long, dancer’s fingers. He squealed with laughter.

Everyone turned.

Even Aegon.

Even Duncan.

Even the Prince, blinking at the sudden absurdity of giggles cutting through the powder keg.

Lady Jenny giggled too, nose against Rickard’s head.

“He’s a little fox,” she said. “I like him.”

Rickard wriggled free and walked back to the table, straightening his tunic like a courtier after a long feast. He placed his small hands on the table’s edge and tilted his head toward Aegon V.

“Your Grace,” Rickard said, “did you like the Herald?”

A long silence followed.

Aegon looked at him, blinking as though trying to map the creature before him.

“You helped write it?” the king asked gently.

“I created it,” Rickard said, blinking wide eyes. “I admire you very much, Your Grace. When I read about what you tried to do for the smallfolk, and how your children married for love, I thought that was so brave.”

He swallowed.

“So I made a project to help people… understand you better. And your family. The Herald makes jobs for the smallfolk too. We even train them to write.”

The silence grew colder.

Even Prince Duncan was speechless. Edwyle blinked once, visibly unsure whether he should interrupt or let it ride.

Lady Jenny spoke up from her corner.

“He meant no harm. Just hope. And none of you know what to do with that, do you?”

Aegon rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“I… see.”

He sighed.

“Well, Lord Stark. Young Rickard. You must be tired from travel. And this day has given us more questions than answers. Go clean up, rest. We will speak further… tomorrow.”

Edwyle bowed his head. Rickard mimicked the motion, perfectly.

As they turned to leave, Rickard glanced back just once, eyes sweeping the table of power like a general surveying a battlefield.

Then the door closed behind them.

And the room fell into a hush that no one dared break.

Chapter Text

I sit alone in the guest chamber the Targaryens call modest. Marble underfoot, velvet everywhere else, a window that pretends the stink of the city is salt and roses.

The door is barred. The candle is low. I can still hear the voices in the stone if I let the quiet stretch long enough. The echo of it. The heat of it. The laugh of a boy who should still be losing teeth, not winning battles no one can see.

My boy.

Rickard.

Six namedays old and walking through a room of kings like he owns the hour.

I have seen children charming when they want sweet cakes, clever when they want to dodge a switch, bold when they have not yet learned the price of a broken bone.

I have not seen a child look a crown in the eye and make it blink. Not until tonight.

He did it with a smile. With the soft weight of a small body in a strange lady’s lap. With laughter that made a king pause and a prince remember their courtesy.

And I am afraid.

Not of him. Not of loving him. Of what the world will do when it understands what he is becoming. 

Or what I would do to keep the world from trying.

Rickard was a miracle. That is the word I used when he finally cried in our hall. Marna’s hand crushed mine and the midwife said words I do not remember because all I could hear was the boy drawing breath.

We had counted moons like misers count coins. We had buried hope and dug it up again with bloody fingers and foolish hearts.

I went to the godswood in the dark and I begged. I begged the old gods like a small man with nothing to trade. I promised the best of me. I promised to be better than I am. I promised to be a father worthy of a son.

The heart tree did not answer. The ravens did not speak. But the snow fell softer, and in time there he was. Small and perfect and loud.

What was the cost, I wonder now. Not because I would return him. Never. Let the gods take my name and all my namedays before I give him back.

But sometimes gifts arrive with teeth. He is too sharp. Too quick.

He listens like a hunter and talks like a maester and moves pieces I cannot see. I did not teach him that. Marna did not teach him that. The North did. The cold did.

Or something older, something we stopped naming when we built hearths and forgot the woods can hear.

I thank the gods he was born in Winterfell.

The South would have called him cursed. They make a habit of decorating fear with statues and setting it on altars. The Seven smile from their gilded niches and their priests count sins like tradesmen count bolts of cloth.

 A boy like mine, with a spirit like a blade wrapped in wool, would have been measured, weighed, and found convenient for a pyre.

Here in the North we remember.

The North remembers the seven hundred feet of winter cut and stacked against the sky. Three hundred miles of ice and warning.

Giants built it, they say. Or men who learned to be giants when the dark pressed close. In the North we do not burn what we do not understand. We watch it. We feed it. We teach it to stand on our side.

Rickard was born to the right house. That is luck I do not deserve. If some perfumed lordling with lemon oil in his beard and soft hands decides my son should break to fit inside his idea of a world, he will learn what it costs to push a Stark.

He will weigh his banners against our snows, his gold against our resilience, his resolve against our memories. He will remember that Winter does not frighten easily and does not forgive at all.

Yet I am not only lord. I am father. And fathers are made of fear. Not the kind that ever sleeps. The kind that calculates. The kind that counts knives in the dark.

This last year has taught me how quickly the world can change under a boy who refuses to walk where there is already a path carved out for him. 

He found carpenters and turned timber into voices. He found birds and turned sky into roads. He found words and turned them into wages. He found me and turned me into something I am still learning to be.

I would be lying if I said I have kept up.

Marna has. She sees him the way you see a storm cresting the pines. Beautiful. Terrible. Inevitable. She steadies me when I start to lean toward the past like an old tower.

She reminds me the North survives because we bend where we must and break where we choose. When I doubt the shape of the path, she draws it in my palm with a finger and I can feel the North under my feet again.

Tonight she will sleep. I will not. I will listen to the city breathe and try to decide whether it is sleeping or waiting to bite. The king looked tired. His son looked angry. The Tall Knight looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but there and Lady Jenny looked at Rickard like he was a normal child.

None of them saw me. That is fine. I have worn the shape of a quiet man my whole life. It keeps them from suspecting of what a quiet man can do.

If Rickard says this is the path, I will walk it at his side. If Marna says the snow can hold, I will trust the snow. If the cost of his future is the last comfort I have, I will pay it. If the cost is my name, I will sign.

 If the cost is my blood, I will bleed it so slowly the realm will forget it ever belonged to me.

I am Edwyle Stark. 

I am not the cleverest man in the keep. I am not the loudest. I do not need to be. I have a wife who sees in the dark and a son who can make kings listen by laughing at the right time. I have a godswood that remembers me and a people who will stand when I tell them to stand.

Tomorrow I will be lord again.

I will sit where they tell me to sit and speak when it is wise to speak. I will ask for what my son needs and pretend it is only what the North deserves. 

I will keep the wolf pup between me and the iron until he is large enough to bare his own teeth.

Tonight I will pray, not for miracles, but for spine. The old gods have given me enough wonder. What they need from me now is a man of Winter.

Whatever this boy is, he is mine. Whatever the world thinks he should be, the world can learn to think again.

I begged the trees for a child. They gave me a winter. I will build a house that does not fall under it. And if the South knocks, I will answer with every cold truth I carry.

For the North. For Marna. For Rickard.

At any cost.

—

AN: Shorter chapter as I was recently inspired by something and needed to spell things out.