Cregan's POV
You know you're in for a wild night when Greatjon Umber starts turning the Great Hall into a tavern brawl. I mean, sure, there's always food, music, and ale at a Northern feast, but tonight, it was personal. I was halfway through my second helping of roast boar—don't judge, okay? It's a feast, and I'm a growing Stark—when that voice boomed across the hall, shaking the rafters like it was part of the Winterfell experience.
"Who among you has the guts to face me in a drinking contest?" Greatjon Umber bellowed, holding up a tankard that looked more like a barrel than a mug. "Come on! Let's see if any of you can outdrink a true son of the North!"
Now, let me tell you, no one outdrinks Greatjon. The man's a walking keg. A very large, very scary keg that you don't want to try and topple unless you're looking for a painful lesson in humility. But that didn't stop a few brave—or, frankly, insane—souls from lining up to face him.
The second Greatjon slammed his tankard on the table, half the hall went wild. I'm talking full-on chaos: people hooting, slamming mugs, diving into barrels to refill their cups. It was a spectacle—like gladiatorial combat, but with more burping and less blood.
"Cregan!" Jon called from the high table, his grin obnoxiously smug. Of course he was enjoying this. "Think you could take him?"
"Sure," I shot back, glancing at him. "Right after I decide I hate living."
Jon chuckled, and of course, Arya piped up, grinning like she had just discovered the meaning of life. "Come on, Demon Wolf," she teased. "Aren't wolves supposed to be able to hold their liquor?"
"Oh, I can hold my liquor," I retorted, leaning back in my chair. "I just don't see the point of dying over it."
Meanwhile, down at the center of the madness, Greatjon was already two tankards deep, and his opponent—a poor soldier who probably regretted his life choices—looked like he was about to pass out after one sip. I gave him five seconds before he collapsed. (Spoiler alert: I was being generous. It was more like three.)
Greatjon laughed so loud the whole hall seemed to tremble. "Is this the best the North has to offer?" he roared, slamming his tankard down on the table like it was a challenge to the heavens. "Come on, lads! Don't let me drink alone!"
And naturally, another fool stepped up. The crowd roared as if Winterfell had just discovered fire. Honestly, at this point, the whole thing was starting to feel like a weird, twisted sport. But hey, when in Winterfell, right?
I watched for a while, shaking my head. This was insane, but at the same time, it was kind of... beautiful? The way Northerners find joy in the most random things, like ale-fueled brawls and watching people pass out from too much drink. That's Winterfell for you—loud, chaotic, and always up for a laugh.
Greatjon, of course, remained undefeated. He was a giant of a man, and with each challenger that dropped out, his roar of laughter grew louder, filling the hall with the kind of noise that made you feel like you were in the belly of a beast. I think even Ned Stark—who, by the way, had been quietly sipping his wine at the high table, looking like he was almost disappointed in us—couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of it all.
Benjen, sitting beside him, was shaking his head with that smirk of his, clearly enjoying the show. "Those fools are going to learn the hard way," he muttered to no one in particular.
"Let them enjoy their folly," Ned said with a grin that could only be described as half-proud father, half-worried lord. "They'll be puking their guts out by dawn."
I glanced over at Dacey, who was sitting nearby, laughing like this was the most entertaining thing she'd ever seen. "What do you think?" I asked her. "Would I stand a chance?"
"Cregan, please," she said, rolling her eyes. "You wouldn't last a minute. You'd pass out after one sip. I'm betting on the big guy."
"I wasn't planning on embarrassing myself just yet," I muttered, taking another bite of roast boar.
But hey, the night wasn't over, and Greatjon had already taken on half the hall. By the time the seventh challenger dropped out (this one was an actual warrior, mind you, and he went down like a sack of potatoes), I started to wonder: Was this it? Was this really how the North spent its nights?
Apparently so.
It was then that I realized—despite all the chaos and stupidity—this was what family meant. People weren't here just to fight or drink or have a good time. We were here to laugh together, even if it meant someone would have to clean up the mess afterward.
And then, Arya, being her usual mischievous self, leaned over to me, her eyes twinkling with that deadly mix of humor and devilish charm. "So, Demon Wolf," she said, her voice loud enough for the whole hall to hear. "Are you going to howl at the moon later?"
I leaned in close, not missing a beat. "Only if you promise to stop embarrassing me in front of everyone," I said, smirking.
She gave me a dramatic gasp. "Oh, come on. You're the Demon Wolf—you're supposed to be terrifying."
I shook my head. "Terrifying is overrated. I'll take being alive over that any day."
And just like that, the laughter came again, rolling through the hall like a wave, because that's what Northerners do. They laugh in the face of danger, in the face of too much drink, and, apparently, in the face of the Demon Wolf himself.
So yeah. That's how Winterfell works. And honestly? I wouldn't change it for anything.
Except maybe a little more peace and quiet. Just a little.
—
Alright, so you know that feeling when you're surrounded by a feast so epic that you can practically hear the roast boar calling your name, but then some creepy guy starts lurking in the corner like a bad omen? Yeah, that was Roose Bolton. If there was ever a man who looked like he'd rather be at home sharpening knives than enjoying a warm meal, it was him. He was the kind of guy who could turn the most lively feast into a funeral procession with just one look. And trust me, Roose had perfected that look.
Now, I'm not saying I don't like a little drama at a feast—especially when it's courtesy of Greatjon Umber, who's currently treating the Great Hall like his personal gladiator arena, challenging anyone with the guts to face him in a drinking contest. Spoiler alert: No one has the guts, because Greatjon has the drinking capacity of a keg on legs. And somehow, everyone's still lining up to see how long they can last before they faceplant into a plate of mashed potatoes. Classic.
But back to Roose. The man was sitting there in his usual creepy, calculating way—like he'd just walked out of one of those weird libraries filled with books on betrayal and scheming. And I should know, because thanks to my fantastic mind-reading abilities (yep, Legilimency—totally a cheat code for life), I could practically hear every thought running through his twisted little mind.
You'd think with a feast like this, Roose would be thinking about maybe, I don't know, enjoying the wine or at least pretending he's having a good time. Nope. This guy's brain? It's like a dark cave of treachery. I could hear him plotting something about Bolton banners flying over Winterfell and—get this—having a secret meeting with Tywin Lannister at Pyke. Yeah. Tywin Lannister. The big dog himself. Because why wouldn't you involve a Lannister in your treacherous schemes when you can make your life extra complicated, right?
Now, I'm not a big fan of Roose Bolton. He's one of those guys who gives me the heebie-jeebies. But, what can I say? The North isn't going to protect itself. So instead of throwing him into the dungeon and calling it a day (which, trust me, was so tempting), I decided to play along. Why? Because sometimes, the best way to deal with a schemer like Roose is to make them think they're in control when, really, you've got them wrapped around your finger like a little puppet.
Oh, and remember those magical wards I set up along the Northern shores? The ones that are so good they practically whisper in my ear whenever someone's up to no good? Yeah, they started ringing off the charts the second Roose set sail for the North. Classic Roose—thinking he can sneak around and do his shady dealings without anyone noticing. Spoiler alert: I noticed. Like, immediately.
So, while Roose was busy thinking he was the puppet master, I was already ten steps ahead, feeding him misinformation, planting ideas in his head that would send him straight into a trap. And he didn't even know it. It was like playing chess with someone who only knew how to move their pieces one square at a time while I was planning checkmate with an army of knights. Beautiful.
And you know who didn't need to be in on my little mind game? Good old Greatjon Umber. Meanwhile, he was two tankards deep into his drinking contest with a poor lad who looked about as steady as a one-legged stool. I could already tell this guy was going to be face-first in his drink by the time he finished his first round. It's Greatjon's world; we're just living in it. But seriously, with Greatjon involved, it was like the rest of us were extras in some weird, Northern version of a gladiator movie. Mead of the Colosseum or whatever.
At the high table, I noticed Jon, the little bugger, watching the chaos unfold with that smug little smirk he's always wearing. He caught my eye and gave me a raised brow, like, "Are you really not getting in on this?" And Arya, of course, had to pile on.
"Come on, Demon Wolf!" she teased, all playful and mischievous. "Aren't wolves supposed to drink like legends?"
I shot her a glance, my mouth full of roast boar (because, you know, priorities). "I can hold my liquor, Arya. But I don't see why I should try to outdrink a bear."
Jon barked out a laugh, and Arya looked positively delighted at my lack of enthusiasm. She wasn't wrong, though—I could drink with the best of them. But there were better ways to spend my time than fighting Greatjon for the crown of ale-drinking champion. Besides, I had bigger fish to fry. Namely, Roose Bolton.
Still, Greatjon was having the time of his life, slamming tankards down like they were going out of style. The whole hall was roaring with laughter and cheering as one after another, challengers fell like flies in the face of his unstoppable drinking prowess. And there was Roose, sipping his wine in the corner, as if he were the only one who truly understood the meaning of subtlety. The man was insufferable.
But hey, that was the North for you. A place where the wolves are loud, the bears are loud, and the schemers? Well, they're loud in their heads, at least.
So as the night wore on and I kept one eye on Roose, I couldn't help but feel a bit smug. The North was safe, after all. Roose could scheme all he wanted, but I'd already tied him into knots with lies, misdirection, and a touch of mind-reading magic. What was he going to do? Run to Tywin Lannister with a bunch of half-baked plans? Please.
Greatjon Umber may have been ruling the hall with his boisterous bellowing and constant challenges, but when it came to who was really in charge, that would always be me. And Roose Bolton? Well, let him think he was playing the game. Because, as far as I was concerned, I was already winning.
So, back to my roast boar, and another tankard of ale. This feast was just getting started.
—
First off, I've got to say it: maple syrup. Absolutely brilliant. Whoever came up with the idea to make the North's claim to fame something that pairs perfectly with pancakes deserves a crown—or at least a lifetime supply of pancakes. Forget the old "Winter is Coming" thing. If you ask me, we should be using "Pancakes are Coming" as our new slogan. And just to clarify—this whole syrup operation? Definitely not my idea. No, that honor belongs to my mother, Ashara, along with Rhaenys, Aunt Lyanna, and Princess Elia.
When I finally made my way over to Syrup HQ (a.k.a. the best-smelling corner of Winterfell), I was practically drooling before I even stepped inside. Picture this: massive cauldrons bubbling away over crackling fires, steam swirling around like some kind of secret potion was brewing. Except, instead of turning someone into a frog, the only thing happening here was turning sap into syrupy magic. And believe me, it was magic—the kind that made you want to stick your face in it and live there forever.
"Looking good, everyone!" I shouted, trying not to inhale too deeply and start salivating. "How's the syrup revolution coming along?"
Ashara—who looked like she just walked off a fancy sorceress runway—looked up from her cauldron with that smile of hers. You know the one. It could light up a whole room. "We're making excellent progress, Cregan. Sap collection went smoothly, and now we're boiling it down. Slowly, of course, but the flavor…" She paused, savoring the thought. "...worth every minute."
Meanwhile, Rhaenys—who was covered in syrup like some kind of rebellious, sugar-coated warrior—was standing with arms crossed, looking intensely at her concoction. "Slow is an understatement. You know how people say 'time flies when you're having fun'? Well, time crawls when you're waiting for syrup to finish." She was completely serious, though the look in her eyes was one of determination. No joke, I thought she was about to give an impassioned speech about syrup and freedom.
"Savages," I muttered under my breath. "Only savages don't love syrup."
Elia—who was standing a little too close to the fire, looking all graceful and composed, even with syrup dripping from her hands—nodded sagely, "We're still figuring out the boiling ratios, but this has been surprisingly fun." She shot a playful glance at Rhaenys. "It's not just about the syrup. It's about the art of syrup."
I couldn't help but laugh. "Art of syrup? That's a thing now? You guys are making history, one sticky drop at a time."
Aunt Lyanna—who was the picture of patience and deadly calm—was standing at another cauldron, stirring carefully with the focus of a wolf stalking a rabbit. "Another couple of batches, and we'll have something worthy of the Stark name," she said in that low, steady voice of hers.
I grinned. "If anyone can turn sap into gold, it's you guys. Honestly, I can't wait to taste it."
As they went back to work—each of them pouring all their energy into their little syrup kingdom—I took a moment to glance out the window. I was trying to wrap my head around the whole "syrup empire" thing when my mind drifted to the land south of the Wall—The Gift. It's basically a massive, untapped treasure trove of trees, timber, and potential maple syrup factories just waiting to happen. If there's one thing the North could use more of, it's stuff that doesn't involve fighting the undead, plotting with the Lannisters, or trying not to freeze to death.
Just imagine it: oak-smoked meats, pine-infused sauces, and maple-glazed everything. No, seriously, we could turn the whole north into the place for syrup. Forget gold mines—The Gift is where the real treasure lies.
But back to the syrup. "When do you think you'll be ready for production?" I asked, trying to channel my inner Lord Stark. "And how many people will we need to scale this up?"
Ashara looked at me like I was a kid asking for a pony on his birthday. "Two months, assuming everything goes well. But for manpower? We'll need at least twenty more workers. Oh, and we'll need better tools for the timber processing. It's all about efficiency."
I nodded, already making calculations in my head. Wintertown's population was growing like wildfire, and not the kind that burns down villages, but the kind that's drawing people to the North for all the right reasons—southern families wanting to escape corruption and find a better life. Who knew the North would be the new hotspot?
"We've got that covered," I assured her. "Two months from now, the North's gonna be swimming in syrup. And let me tell you, we'll be making history. Pancakes for everyone."
As I left Syrup HQ—feeling about 10 times cooler than when I walked in—I realized something: it wasn't just about the syrup. It was about the future of the North. Sure, we had our problems—Lannisters, the undead, and the whole "Winter is Coming" thing—but we were also making something new. Something sweet, something that could change the game. And if that future involved maple-glazed venison? Well, I was in.
But right now? Right now, I was just looking forward to trying that syrup. Because if I'm being honest, I'd take syrup over political scheming any day. Well, almost any day. But definitely today.
—
By the time I stumbled into my Solar, still riding high from the syrup-infused dreams of a maple-powered future for the North, the mood shifted faster than a direwolf catching a scent on the wind. My Uncle Ned was there, looking as serious as ever—seriously unhappy, if you ask me. Vayon Poole, my ever-efficient steward, was standing beside him with that "I've seen some things" look on his face, and Jory Cassel—my right-hand man for danger, diplomacy, and the occasional brawl—was holding a map like he'd just discovered the secret to immortality. Spoiler: it wasn't a treasure map, but it might as well have been.
"Cregan," Uncle Ned greeted, his voice a mix of fatherly warmth and "brace yourself for the inevitable doom." The guy had a sixth sense for these things, I swear. "Jory has returned with news about the Mountain Clans."
Mountain Clans. That sounded about as fun as a snowstorm in the middle of winter, but my curiosity kicked in. I mean, the Clans were tough customers—imagine a bunch of wild-eyed mountain folks who'd rather drink mead and fight than talk politics. Definitely not the crowd for syrup negotiations, but whatever.
I eyed Jory as he unrolled the map on the table with a practiced motion, like he was revealing a treasure chest of bad news. "My lord," he began, like he was about to drop a bomb, "the Clans have confirmed the presence of iron ore in the mountains, just as your namesake's journal suggested. They're willing to trade, but they're not exactly rolling out the welcome mat for outsiders."
Iron ore. In the North. My mind immediately exploded with possibilities, like fireworks on a stormy night. Weapons. Tools. A trading empire to rival anything the South could dream up. I leaned in close, fingers itching to grab the map and start planning. "How much do we know about these deposits?" I asked, half-expecting the map to suddenly light up with glowing arrows pointing straight to the treasure. Spoiler: it didn't.
Vayon, the spreadsheet wizard of Winterfell, swooped in with a stack of papers that looked like they belonged in a Maester's library. "We've compiled reports from traders and scouts, my lord," he said, flipping through them like a man on a mission. "The deposits are substantial—enough to meet Winterfell's needs and potentially revitalize the entire smithing industry in the North."
Now we were talking. Iron wasn't exactly gold, but it was close enough. More iron meant more weapons. More weapons meant we could stand up to anyone who tried to take what was ours—and no one was better at protecting what was theirs than a Stark.
"We'll need to strike a deal with the Clans," I said, already in full-on mastermind mode. "But they won't give this up for free, and we don't want to just take it. Let's offer them something. Defense against raiders, maybe. Or resources they don't have. A partnership, not a Stark takeover."
Uncle Ned, the voice of reason (and usually the one with the better ideas), raised an eyebrow. "Cregan, you're right—but we must tread carefully. The Mountain Clans value their independence above all else. If we come on too strong, we risk losing their trust before we even set foot in their territory."
I nodded, absorbing the wisdom. If there was anyone who understood the fine line between diplomacy and throwing fists, it was Ned Stark. "Fair point. No strong-arming or ancestor insults, got it," I said. "We'll go ourselves. No emissaries, no middlemen. Face-to-face. They'll respect us more that way."
Jory, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, shot me a grin like he'd already read the room. "I've already spoken to some of their leaders. They're cautious, but open to negotiation—as long as we don't start spouting off about how they're 'living in the past' or anything like that."
"Noted," I said, filing that under Things Not To Say To Angry Clansmen. "Vayon, get a delegation together. We'll need supplies, gifts for the Clans, and a team that looks impressive but not too intimidating. Oh, and let's aim to leave at first light. The sooner we get this done, the better."
Vayon, always the overachiever, was already scribbling like a madman, his quill practically smoking. "Yes, my lord. I'll make the arrangements immediately."
As my uncle, Vayon, and Jory filed out, I stayed behind, staring at the map Jory had left on the table. Iron ore, syrup, a population that seemed to multiply like rabbits, and a growing economy—it was like the North was finally coming into its own. We weren't just surviving anymore. We were thriving.
And then, of course, there was the looming task of negotiating with the Mountain Clans. A bunch of grizzled mountain folk, with their beards and axes, over a legendary iron deposit. Honestly, I wasn't sure whether this would be an epic win or an epic disaster—but hey, that's what made life interesting, right?
With a grin, I muttered to myself, "Just another day in the life of Cregan Stark: Lord of Winterfell, syrup enthusiast, and definitely not the future punching bag of a bunch of angry clansmen. Let's see how this goes."
—
Riding into the mountains with my crew was like stepping into one of Old Nan's tall tales, minus the dragons and heroic feats. Instead, I had Uncle Ned giving me his "please don't die" speeches, a future goodmother who could probably outfight half the castle, and a mountain range that looked like it was made of cold, jagged rocks and bad decisions. Oh, and I was freezing. But hey, what else is new in the life of Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and, apparently, professional idiot?
"Have you ever seen anything like this, Rhaenys?" I asked, trying my best to look like I was braving the cold for the sheer adventure of it, even though my fingers were so frozen, I was worried they might snap off at any moment.
Rhaenys, who was looking way too comfortable in the snow for someone who'd only recently made her debut as a Targaryen, didn't even flinch at the icy wind. She looked around, her violet eyes practically glowing like a dragon staring into the sun. "Never," she said, her voice like she was talking about stepping into some enchanted dreamland. "The North is truly magnificent."
Magnificent? Sure, if by "magnificent" you mean a land where your nose freezes and your feet feel like they might drop off at any moment. But I wasn't about to ruin her vibe.
Uncle Benjen, who'd been riding behind us like the mysterious older uncle who knows all the secrets, grinned like he knew something I didn't. "Wait until you see the view from the top," he said, urging his horse forward. "It'll take your breath away."
"Or your footing," Aunt Dacey called out from behind us, her voice filled with the same enthusiasm she usually reserved for battle. The woman was made for adventure. "I can't wait to explore these mountains. Who knows? Maybe we'll find hidden treasure, secret tunnels, or—dare I say it—an ancient scroll that explains why southerners think they're better than us."
"You think that scroll would help with my constant battle against the weather?" I asked, half-joking, rubbing my frozen fingers together.
"No, but it might give you something to read while we're freezing to death," she shot back, adjusting her reins with a grin.
Uncle Arthur, who was riding slightly ahead, gave a glance over his shoulder. He had that look—the one that said "I've seen every battle, every hardship, and I'm still the most serious person here." "The only treasure we'll find up here is trouble if we're not careful," he said, voice stern, like he was lecturing a bunch of knights on their first hunt. "These mountains are treacherous."
I nodded along, holding my hands up like I was taking notes in some very boring lecture. "Got it, no treasure hunts today," I said, half-smiling, though the cold was biting so hard it nearly wiped the grin off my face.
Uncle Ned, who had been riding silently next to Arthur, gave me a look—the "you're going to make me lecture you for six hours if you don't shut up" look. "Arthur's right," he said, voice low but firm, like he was reminding us all that our lives were worth more than any shiny rocks in the mountains. "Stick together. Safety in numbers."
"Don't worry, my lord," Jory Cassel said, riding up alongside me. Jory had been through more of my bad decisions than anyone, and somehow, he was still alive. "We've got your back." Translation: Please don't do anything stupid, for the love of the Old Gods.
As we pushed deeper into the mountains, the wind picking up and the air growing colder with every step, I couldn't help but feel that rush of excitement. Yes, my fingers were starting to go numb. Yes, Aunt Dacey had just mentioned how we might all die from a slip on the ice. And yes, Uncle Arthur looked like he was ready to pull out his sword if anyone so much as joked about treasure. But still, the thrill of it all? Man, I was living for it.
This wasn't just about iron ore or trade deals, although that was definitely a huge part of it. It was about the unknown. It was about the challenge. It was about proving that the North wasn't just a frozen wasteland—it was a place of opportunity, if you were brave enough to take it.
And, okay, maybe I was trying to impress Rhaenys. Maybe. Don't judge me. She was standing there, her Targaryen blood giving her that edge of mystery and grace that made me feel like I was either about to be smacked in the face with a snowball or fall head over heels for someone who could burn me alive on a whim. Seriously, who could blame me? Rhaenys wasn't just any Targaryen. She was the Targaryen. And I was Cregan Stark. Sometimes it felt like we were two magnets that kept pulling toward each other—and I couldn't quite decide whether it was destiny or just the cold wind blowing me in her direction.
"Ready to find some adventure?" I asked her, grinning, trying to hide my sudden nervousness behind a stupid joke.
She shot me a smile that made the cold feel like a joke. "Always, Lord Stark."
And just like that, I was reminded that I had more to prove than just iron ore and trade routes. I was Cregan Stark, and this was my time to shine—or, you know, freeze to death trying.
"Let's just get to the top before Uncle Arthur finds a way to turn this into a lesson on the importance of cautious climbing," I said, nudging my horse forward.
Rhaenys laughed, and it sounded like the start of something far more dangerous than I was prepared for.
But hey, at least it wasn't boring. And honestly, in the North? That's pretty much the best you can hope for.
—
Let me start with a confession: negotiating with the Northern Mountain Clans feels a lot like trying to convince a pack of wolves not to eat you—except they're less interested in a peaceful resolution and more in whether you taste like goat or man. Trust me, these clans make Old Nan seem like the life of the party. They're tough, proud, and about as welcoming as a winter storm. Riding up to their meeting place felt like marching into a battlefield—except instead of swords, they had a whole lot of centuries of distrust staring at us like we were the next meal.
When we finally made it to the plateau—a windswept, desolate rock that looked like it was auditioning for the role of "Place You'll Die" in a grim epic—there they were. The Wulls, the Norreys, the Harclays, the Burleys, the First Flints, the Knotts, the Liddles… You get the idea. These were not the kind of people who offered you tea and a bed to warm up. They were eyeing us like we were some inconveniently placed boulders in their path.
I took a deep breath, straightened my cloak, and tried to look like I belonged here—like the future Warden of the North, not an 11-year-old boy freezing my fingers off. Spoiler: I didn't look like I belonged. But hey, fake it till you make it, right?
"Greetings, noble clans of the Northern Mountains," I called out, doing my best impression of a Stark who knew what he was doing. (Which, for the record, I didn't.) "We come to you with an opportunity that could benefit us all."
I'm pretty sure I said "opportunity" in the most convincing way possible, but I could've sworn one of the Wulls was too busy inspecting his axe to even look at me. Which, you know, isn't the best sign when you're trying to convince people not to kill you.
Uncle Ned, always the steady presence, stepped up next, as if he'd been born with the ability to radiate responsibility and honor. I swear, he should've been wearing a crown made of integrity. "We understand the importance of your autonomy and respect your way of life," he said, his voice as calm as if we were discussing the weather at Winterfell. "But we believe that by working together, we can ensure a better future for all of us."
I tried not to roll my eyes, because really, I was only eleven, but Uncle Ned sounded like he was about to give them an hour-long speech on why honor was important in every situation. I was about to interrupt when Uncle Benjen came to the rescue.
"Now, if you don't like Cregan's plan," he grinned, "you can always feed him to the mountain bears. Fair trade, right?"
I shot him a look. "Not helping, Uncle Benjen."
Dacey, who was always up for some chaos, raised an eyebrow and gave Benjen an almost sinister grin. "Mountain bears, you say?" she asked. "Sounds… interesting."
"Oh, it's a great idea," I muttered, "right up there with 'Let's start a fire and hope the wind doesn't blow it out.'"
Rhaenys, the girl who somehow made everything sound like it was destined to succeed, stepped forward. Honestly, I'm pretty sure she could convince a dragon to share its treasure if she tried hard enough. "This isn't just about iron ore or trade," she said, her voice smooth and perfect, like a fine blade being drawn from a scabbard. "It's about building something together—a legacy that benefits all of our people."
I felt a little awkward, staring at the snow-covered ground. Meanwhile, Rhaenys was making political speeches like she was born for it.
Uncle Arthur, standing to the side with his typical "I'd rather be anywhere else" look, finally spoke. "The North grows stronger together," he said simply, his voice carrying weight, not just because of his stature but because Arthur Dayne doesn't waste words. He's the guy who can make a simple phrase sound like it came from the gods themselves. No pressure, right?
As if on cue, the Wull clan leader—the man I was pretty sure was made entirely of granite—stepped forward. His face looked like it had been carved by someone who'd had way too much practice with a chisel, and when he spoke, his voice was as gruff as a bear with a sore throat. "We are not easily swayed, Stark," he growled, which honestly felt like a polite way of saying, "Thanks, but no thanks."
But then, he surprised me. "We will consider your proposal," he said, his voice still as sharp as ice. "If it benefits our people and does not compromise our way of life, we may be willing to forge an alliance."
Okay, not exactly a "yes," but it wasn't a "no" either. I'd take that. In this world, that's practically a win.
"Thank you for your consideration," I said, trying to sound as dignified as Uncle Ned. I managed a half-bow—half because I wasn't sure my legs were going to hold up in the snow. "We're hopeful we can find a solution that benefits us all."
No pressure. Just, you know, the future of the North hanging in the balance.
As we made our way back to camp, I couldn't help but feel a little optimistic. Sure, the clans were more skeptical than a raven flying over a battle, and sure, if I'd said the wrong thing, they'd probably have fed us all to wolves and called it a day. But they listened. They didn't throw us off the mountain. So, I figured that was progress.
Now, all I had to do was not mess it up. No pressure, right?
Also, just in case anyone was wondering, I definitely didn't freeze my fingers off during that whole thing. Definitely.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!