Winterfell, The North
"When did we start involving ourselves in what happens south of the Neck?" scoffed Bennard. "Let those Southeron pompous fools scheme and backstab to gain favor with whoever sits the Iron Throne. We Starks do not concern ourselves with such matters."
His brother's dismissiveness carried an arrogance Rickon had noticed growing ever since Bennard's marriage to the Karstark girl. And more troubling was her brother—the Karstark boy—who now followed Bennard like a shadow, whispering into his ear day and night.
"Since it concerns the whole realm," Rickon replied calmly. "And what happens in the realm does affect the North—only the waves of consequence are gentler here than they are for the Southerners. You might believe that doing nothing, as our ancestors once did, will be tolerated by the Iron Throne, but the successor to the Conciliator may not be as forgiving. The North is strong, and its people are hardy, but I've seen the beasts the Targaryens ride. Believe me, brother, you do not want to stand at the receiving end of their ire."
Rickon's voice was calm and composed, but inside, he was weary. His younger brother was both naïve and arrogant—a dangerous combination. People like Bennard believed themselves invulnerable within the safety of their home until someone powerful intruded and shattered their illusions. Rickon blamed himself—and perhaps even his wife—for fostering this arrogance. They had denied Bennard nothing in his youth. Then again, Bennard had few desires to begin with.
But that was beside the point. The matter at hand was Laenor Velaryon.
Even in the cold North, whispers of the Velaryon boy had begun to take root. At first, few gave them credence, but that changed quickly when even the Septons of the Seven—men who considered the North a land of savages—began traveling northward, preaching fire and brimstone about the blasphemy of magic and the evil embodied by the Velaryon heir. Only then did Rickon begin to believe the rumors were true—that the boy controlled the seas. And that was years ago. Since then, much time has passed, and many words of the growing abilities of Velaryon's heir have reached Rickon's ears.
"Even then," Bennard said, brow furrowed, "I fail to see how that affects us in the immediate future. Let's assume Laenor Velaryon is as powerful as the rumors claim. So what? Life in the North would go on just as before. Perhaps we'd simply know that a powerful sorcerer lives in the South under the Velaryon banner. Even that will be forgotten in time."
"You forget one crucial detail," Rickon said. "One of the rumored abilities of Laenor is the power to make glass. If the Velaryons were to offer it at a reasonable price, it would make us less dependent on the south for food. In turn, we could provide them with wood—strong northern timber for their shipbuilding. A trade that would benefit both sides."
"And I've received a raven from White Harbor," he added, "telling me that Laenor has asked a few northern merchants about the state of the North and about House Stark itself. There may be a chance—however slim—of an alliance. Perhaps only one of trade."
Bennard raised an eyebrow. "And you trust the words of merchants? Why would a Velaryon care about the North, when none from the South ever have?"
"I trust the word of my bannermen until they give me reason not to," Rickon replied firmly. "And I trust Lord Manderly would have confirmed such claims before sending word. I do not yet know what interest Laenor has in our land—but if that interest can be made to serve the good of our house, our people, and our future, then I will welcome it with open arms."
He paused, and something shifted in his voice.
"So many of our people die—not in battle, not for honor or for land—but simply because of the cold. The snow lasts for years, and when the food runs short, it is the elders who offer themselves to the dark so that the young may see spring again. Every Lord of Winterfell has struggled with that reality. Our father used to tell me…"
Rickon's cold mask cracked for a moment.
"When one ascends to Stark lordship, they finally understand why our forebears always wore expressions carved from ice. What is there to smile about, to laugh about, to celebrate, when your people die not because of war or misfortune or passage of time, but because they must—because that is the cost of survival in this land?"
He turned to Bennard, his voice low and steady now.
"They call it the land of snow and frost, but it is truly the land of hardship and sacrifice. Millions have died to keep others alive, and that number will only grow… unless a miracle comes from the Old Gods themselves. And I believe—perhaps madly, but I believe—they've sent that miracle in the form of the Velaryon boy. Now, it is our duty to reach out to him."
He stood and walked to the hearth. "Go to the maester," he ordered. "Tell him I need a raven. It must fly to Driftmark. Tonight."
A week later,
Driftmak Forge
Rob Storm was meticulously hammering the side of the steel shaft of a trident when he glanced at the three apprentices he had taken under his wing—Angor, Orys, and Hugh. All three bore the silver hair of the Lords and Princes they served. Robb himself, though a blacksmith, knew the weight of bloodlines.
Contrary to what Prince Daemon might have assumed, Robb hadn't taken Angor and Orys as apprentices merely because the prince said so. Both were cousins—dragonseeds, yes—but they shared a genuine passion for forging deadly beauty from crude iron, something Robb deeply respected.
His third and final apprentice, Hugh, was the son of a blacksmith and, in Robb's view, one of the most talented he'd ever seen. More importantly, the boy was hardworking. And that alone was enough for Robb to take him in. Today, Hugh was merely observing, as Robb forged yet another trident. All three had long since learned enough to become renowned blacksmiths in their own right, but Robb had recently noticed small but telling mistakes in their work. Mistakes he wouldn't tolerate—not before he presents them to his lord and prince as full-fledged Blacksmith with his name behind them.
They had learned from him—the Blacksmith of Westeros. The Black Storm. The only Smith who forged dragonsteel. Titles whispered across the Known World. And now, with so many powerful eyes aware of his apprentices' ties to him, their success—or failure—would reflect on his own reputation.
Not that they were going anywhere. The Velaryons and the Targaryens would never simply let them walk. Not even after none of the three had yet been taught the secrets of forging dragonsteel. Still, they were fine smiths, held in place by the bonds of family—families firmly under the control of the two great houses. Hugh's loyalty was to Laenor, who had plucked him from the streets and given him not just work and coin, but a wife—daughter to a knight loyal to House Velaryon. A fair maiden, too, if Robb's eyes didn't deceive him.
The knight and his daughter lived in the servants' quarters at High Tide, devoted to their Velaryon lords. As for Angor and Orys, their kin lived under Prince Daemon's ever-watchful gaze on Dragonstone. Robb might have pitied them—and himself—if not for the truth of his situation: he was treated better than any blacksmith in the realm, even those in service to Lords Paramount. He had gold enough to rival some minor lordlings, and his family lived in safety behind castle walls, eating well and treated well. And all he had to do was stay loyal—which he fully intended to, given the pay and privileges.
"Master Robb, you're daydreaming again," Orys scoffed, pointing at the shaft. A small dent marred one side.
Robb smirked. "I get to daydream and make mistakes," he said, turning back to his work. "Do you know why, my underlings?"
The three looked at each other in confusion, then shook their heads.
Robb didn't answer with words. He showed them. With expert precision, he corrected the dent so flawlessly it was as if the mistake had never happened. Oh, how he loved the Baratheon blood in his veins.
Once, he had made tools for farmers. Now, his skills far outpaced men twice his age. And it was all thanks to the same blood he had once hated for the stigma it brought—bastard. He had been a follower of the Seven once. Not anymore. Magic is too wonderful to be evil—had shown him otherwise. Was it not Baratheon magic in his veins that had made him what he was? Was it not that blood's magic that brought him—and his family—every good fortune they now enjoyed? How could a power that only made his and his family's lives this good be evil? Robb does not believe it; he refused to believe it. Both in magic being evil and in the Seven.
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